by the million book project. the three black pennys the three black pennys a novel joseph hergesheimer grosset & dunlap publishers _by arrangement with alfred a. knopf_ copyright, , by alfred a. knopf printed in the united states of america _a dedication_ _dear john hemphill_ _this is a record and act of memory of you at dower house--of june nights on the porch, with the foliage of the willow tree powdered against the stars; the white-panelled hearth of the yellow room in smouldering winter dusks; dinner with the candles wavering in tepid april airs; and the blue envelopment of late september noons. a quiet reach like the old grey house and green fields, the little valleys filled with trees and placid town beyond the hill, where the calendar of our days and companionship is set._ _joseph hergesheimer_ contents i the furnace ii the forge iii the metal i the furnace i a twilight like blue dust sifted into the shallow fold of the thickly wooded hills. it was early october, but a crisping frost had already stamped the maple trees with gold, the spanish oaks were hung with patches of wine red, the sumach was brilliant in the darkening underbrush. a pattern of wild geese, flying low and unconcerned above the hills, wavered against the serene, ashen evening. howat penny, standing in the comparative clearing of a road, decided that the shifting, regular flight would not come close enough for a shot. he dropped the butt of his gun to the ground. then he raised it again, examining the hammer; the flint was loose, unsatisfactory. there was a probability that it would miss firing. he had no intention of hunting the geese. with the drooping of day his keenness had evaporated; an habitual indifference strengthened, permeating him. he turned his dark, young face toward the transparent, green afterglow; the firm eyebrows drawn up at the temples, sombre eyes set, too, at a slight angle, a straight nose, impatient mouth and projecting chin. below him, and to the left, a heavy, dark flame and silvery smoke were rolling from the stack of shadrach furnace. figures were moving obscurely over the way that led from the coal house, set on the hill, to the top and opening of the furnace; finishing, howat penny knew, the charge of charcoal, limestone and iron ore. shadrach furnace had been freshly set in blast; it was on that account he was there, to represent, in a way, his father, who owned a half interest in the furnace. however, he had paid little attention to the formality; his indifference was especially centred on the tedious processes of iron making, which had, at the same time, made his family. he had gone far out from the furnace tract into an utterly uninhabited and virginal region, where he had shot at, and missed, an impressive buck and killed a small bear. now, that he had returned, his apathy once more flooded him; but he had eaten nothing since morning, and he was hungry. he could go home, over the nine miles of road that bound the furnace to myrtle forge and the penny dwelling; there certain of whatever supper he would elect. but, he decided, he preferred something now, less formal. there were visitors at myrtle forge, abner forsythe, who owned the other half of shadrach, his son david, newly back from england and the study of metallurgy, and a mr. winscombe, come out to the provinces in connection with the maryland boundary dispute, accompanied by his wife. all this howat penny regarded with profound distaste; necessary social and conversational forms repelled him. and it annoyed his father when he sat, apparently morose, against the wall, or retired solitary to his room. he would get supper here; they would be glad to have him at the house of peter heydrick, the manager of the furnace. half turning, he could see the dwelling at his back--a small, grey stone rectangle with a narrow portico on its solid face and a pale glimmer of candles in the lower windows. the ground immediately about it was cleared of brush and little trees, affording peter heydrick a necessary, unobstructed view of the furnace stack while sitting in his house or when aroused at night. the dwelling was inviting, at once slipping into the dusk and emerging by reason of the warm glow within. mrs. heydrick, too, was an excellent cook; there would be plenty of venison, roast partridge, okra soup. afterwards, under a late moon, he could go back to myrtle forge; or he might stay at the heydricks all night, and to-morrow kill such a buck as he had lost. the twilight darkened beneath the trees, the surrounding hills lost their forms, in the east the distance merged into the oncoming night, but the west was still translucent, green. there was a faint movement in the leaves by the roadside, and a grey fox crossed, flattened on the ground, and disappeared. howat penny could see the liquid gleam of its eyes as it watched him. from the hill by the coal house came the heavy beating of wild turkeys' wings. he could go to peter heydrick's, where the venison would be excellent, and mrs. heydrick was celebrated for her guinea pickle with cucumbers; but ... the heydricks had no daughter, and the gilkans had. thomas gilkan was only a founderman; his house had one room below and a partition above; and mrs. gilkan's casual fare could not be compared to mrs. heydrick's inviting amplitude. yet there was fanny gilkan, erect and flaming haired, who could walk as far as he could himself, and carry her father's clumsy gun all the way. his thoughts, deflected by fanny gilkan, left the immediate present of supper, and rested upon the fact that his--his appreciation of her was becoming known at the furnace; while dan hesa must be circulating it, with biting comments, among the charcoal burners. dan hesa, although younger than howat, was already contracting for charcoal, a forward young german; and, fanny had said with a giggle, he was paying her serious attention. howat penny had lately seen a new moroseness among the charcoal burners that could only have come from the association of the son of gilbert penny and the potential owner of myrtle forge with the founderman's daughter. charcoal burners were lawless men, fugitive in character, often escaped from terms of indenture; dan hesa was, he knew, well liked by them; and the hazard created by his attraction to fanny gilkan drew howat penny irresistibly away from the superior merits of the heydrick table. that was his character: denial as a child had filled him with slow-accumulating rage; later discipline at school had found him utterly intractable. something deep and instinctive within him resisted every effort to make him a part of any social organization, however admirable; he never formed any personal bonds with humanity in particular. he had grown into a solitary being within whom were immovably locked all the confidences, the spontaneous expressions of self, that bind men into a solidarity of common failings and hopes. he never offered, nor, apparently, required, any marks of sympathy; as a fact, he rarely expressed anything except an occasional irrepressible scorn lashing out at individuals or acts that conspicuously displeased him. this had occurred more than once at myrtle forge, when assemblymen or members of the provincial council had been seated at dinner. it was after such a scene that his mother had witnessed perhaps his only attempt at self-explanation. "i am sorry you were disturbed," he had pronounced, after standing and regarding her for a silent, frowning space; "but for me there is something unendurable in men herding like cattle, protecting their fat with warning boards and fences. i can't manage the fiddling lies that keep up the whole silly pretence of the stuffy show. if it gets much thicker," he had threatened, waving vaguely toward the west, "i'll go out to the ohio, or the french forts." that this was not merely a passive but an active state of mind was amply expressed by his resolute movement toward thomas gilkan's house. he had, ordinarily, an unusual liking for the charcoal burners, and had spent many nights in their huts, built, like the charring stacks, of mud and branches. but, organized by dan hesa into an opposition, a criticism of his choice of way, they offered an epitome of the conditions he derided and assailed. his feeling for fanny gilkan was in the greater part understood, measured; there was a certain amount of inchoate, youthful response to her sheer physical well being, a vague blur of pleasant sensation at her proximity; but beyond that he felt no attraction except a careless admiration for her endurance and dexterity in the woods, a certain relief in the freedom of her companionship. he had never considered her concretely as a possible source of physical pleasure. he was not easily excited sexually, and had had few adventures with women; something of his contempt, his indifference, removed him from that, too. his emotions were deep, vital; and hid beneath a shyness of habit that had grown into a suspicious reserve. all bonds were irksome to him, and instinctively he avoided the greater with the lesser; instinctively he realized that the admission of cloying influences, of the entanglements of sex, would more definitely bind him than any generality of society. it had, he thought, grown dark with amazing rapidity. he could now see a feeble light at the gilkans, ahead and on the right. at the same moment a brighter, flickering radiance fell upon the road, the thick foliage of the trees. the blast was gathering at shadrach furnace. a clear, almost smokeless flame rose from the stack against the night-blue sky. it illuminated the rectangular, stone structure of the coal-house on the hill, and showed the wet and blackened roof of the casting shed below. the flame dwindled and then mounted, hanging like a fabulous oriflamme on a stillness in which howat penny could hear the blast forced through the furnace by the great leather bellows. he turned in, over the littered ground before the gilkan house. fanny was standing in the doorway, her straight, vigorous body sharp against the glow inside. "here's mr. howat penny," she called over her shoulder. "is everything off the table? there's not much," she turned to him, "but the end of the pork barrel." a meagre fire was burning in the large, untidy hearth; battered tin ovens had been drawn aside, and a pair of wood-soled shoes were drying. the rough slab of the table, pushed back against a long seat made of a partly hewed and pegged log, was empty but for some dull scarred pewter and scraps of salt meat. on the narrow stair that led above, a small, touselled form was sleeping--one of the cast boys at the furnace. a thin, peering woman in a hickory-dyed wool dress moved forward obsequiously. "mr. penny!" she echoed the girl's announcement; "and here i haven't got a thing fit for you. thomas gilkan has been too busy to get out, and fanny she'll fetch nothing unless the mood's on her. if i only had a fish i could turn over." she brushed the end of the table with a frayed sleeve. "you might just take a seat, and i'll look around." fanny gilkan listened to her mother with a comprehending smile. fanny's face was gaunt, but her grey eyes were wide and compelling, her mouth was firm and bright; and her hair, her father often said, resembled the fire at the top of shadrach. howat knew that she was as impersonal, as essentially unstirred, as himself; but he had a clear doubt of mrs. gilkan. the latter was too anxious to welcome him to their unpretending home; she obviously moved to throw fanny and himself together, and to disparage such suits as honest dan hesa's. he wondered if the older woman thought he might marry her daughter. and wondering he came to the conclusion that the other thing would please the mother almost as well. she had given him to understand that at fanny's age she would know how to please any mr. howat penny that chance fortune might bring her. that some such worldly advice had been poured into fanny's ears he could not doubt; and he admired the girl's obvious scorn of such wiles and surrenders. she sat frankly beside him now, as he finished a wretched supper, and asked about the country in regions to which she had not penetrated. "it's a three days' trip," he finished a recital of an excursion of his own. "i'd like to go," she returned; "but i suppose i couldn't find it alone." he was considering the possibility of such a journey with her--it would be pleasant in the extreme--when her mother interrupted them from the foot of the stair. "a sensible girl," she declared, "would think about seeing the sights of a city, and of a cherry-derry dress with ribbons, instead of all this about tramping off through the woods with a ragged skirt about your naked knees." fanny gilkan's face darkened, and she glanced swiftly at howat penny. he was filling a pipe, unmoved. such a trip as he had outlined, with fanny, was fastening upon his thoughts. it would at once express his entire attitude toward the world, opinion, and the resentful charcoal burners. "you wouldn't really go," he said aloud, half consciously. the girl frowned in an effort of concentration, gazing into the thin light of the dying fire and two watery tallow dips. her coarsely spun dress, coloured with sassafras bark and darker than the yellow hickory stain, drew about her fine shoulders and full, plastic breast. "i'd like it," she repeated; "but afterward. there is father--" she had said father, but howat penny determined that she was thinking of dan hesa; dan was as strong as himself, if heavier; a personable young man. he would make a good husband. but that, he added, was in the future; dan hesa apparently didn't want to marry fanny to-morrow, that week. meanwhile a trip with him to the headwaters of a creek would not injure her in the least. his contempt of a world petty and iron-bound in endless pretence, fanning his smouldering and sullen resentment in general, flamed out in a determination to take her with him if possible. it would conclusively define, state, his attitude toward "men herding like cattle." he did not stop to consider what it might define for fanny gilkan. in the stir of his rebellious self there was no pause for vicarious approximations. if he thought of her at all it was in the indirect opinion that she was better without such a noodle as dan hesa threatened to become. "i'd get two horses from the forge," he continued, apparently to his mildly speculative self; "a few things, not much would be necessary. that gun you carry," he addressed fanny indirectly, "is too heavy. i'll get you a lighter, bound in brass." she repeated sombrely, leaning with elbows on the table, her chin in her hands, "and afterwards--" "i thought you were free of that," he observed; "it sounds like the town women, the barnyard crowd. i thought you were an independent person. certainly," he went on coldly, "you can't mistake my attitude. i like you, but i am not in the least interested in any way that--that jour mother might appreciate. i am neither a seducer nor the type that marries." "i understand that, howat," she assured him; "and i think, i'm not sure but i think, that what you mean wouldn't bother me either. anyhow it shouldn't spoil the fun of our trip. but no one else in the world would believe that simple truth. if you could stay there, in those splendid woods or a world like them, why, it would be heaven. but you have to come back, you have to live on, perhaps for a great while, in the world of shadrach and myrtle forge. i'm not sure that i'd refuse if you asked me to go, howat. i just don't know if a woman can stand alone, for that's what it would come to afterward, against a whole lifeful of misjudgment. it might be better in the end, for everybody, if she continued home, made the best of things with the others." "you may possibly be right," he told her with a sudden resumption of indifference. after all, it was unimportant whether or not fanny gilkan went with him to the source of the stream he had discovered. every one, it became more and more evident, was alike, monotonous. he wondered again, lounging back against the wall, about the french forts, outposts in a vast wilderness. there was an increasing friction between the province and france, the legacy of king george's war, but howat penny's allegiance to place was as conspicuous by its absence as the other communal traits. beside that, beyond kaskaskia, at st. navier and the north, there was little thought of french or english; the sheer problem of existence there drowned other considerations. he would, he thought, go out in the spring ... leave myrtle forge with its droning anvil, the endless, unvaried turning of water wheel, and the facile, trivial chatter in and about the house. david forsythe, back from england in the capacity of master of fluxing metals, might acquire his, howat's, interest in the penny iron. fanny gilkan said, "you'll burn a hole in your coat with that pipe." he roused himself, and she moved across the room and pinched the smoking wicks. the embers on the hearth had expired, and the fireplace was a sooty, black cavern. fanny, at the candles, was the only thing clearly visible; the thin radiance slid over the turn of her cheek; her hovering hand was like a cut-paper silhouette. it was growing late; thomas gilkan would soon be back from the furnace; he must go. howat had no will to avoid gilkan, but the thought of the necessary conversational exchange wearied him. the sound of footsteps approached the house from without; it was, he thought, slightly annoyed, the founderman; but the progress deflected by the door, circled to a window at the side. a voice called low and urgent, "seemy! seemy!" it was repeated, and there was an answering mutter from the stair, a thick murmur and a deep sigh. the cast boy slipped crumpled and silent in bare feet across the floor. "yes," he called back, rapidly waking. the voice from without continued, "they're going to start up the oley." "what is it?" fanny demanded. "the raccoon dogs," the boy paused at the door. "a lot of the furnacemen and woodcutters from round about are hunting." fanny gilkan leaned across the table to howat, her face glowing with interest. "come ahead," she urged; "we can do this anyhow. i like to hear the dogs yelping, and follow them through the night. you can bring your gun, i'll leave mine back, and perhaps we'll get something really big." howat himself responded thoroughly to such an expedition; to the mystery of the primitive woods, doubly withdrawn in the dark; the calls of the others, near or far, or completely lost in a silence of stars; the still immensity of a land unguessed, mythical--endless trees, endless mountains, endless rivers with their headwaters buried in arctic countries beyond human experience, and emptying into the miraculous blue and gilded seas of the tropics. fanny gilkan would follow the dogs closely, too, with infinite swing and zest. she knew the country better than himself, better almost than any one else at the furnace. he stirred at her urgency, and she caught his arm, dragging him from behind the table. she tied a linsey-woolsey jacket by its arms about her waist, and put out the candles. outside the blast was steadily in progress at the stack; the clear glow of the flame shifted over the nearby walls, glinted on the new yellow of more distant foliage, fell in sharp or blurred traceries against the surrounding night. they could hear the short, impatient yelps of the dogs; but, before they reached them, the hunt was away. a lantern flickered far ahead, a minute blur vanishing through files of trees. fanny turned to the right, mounting an abrupt slope thickly wooded toward the crown. a late moon, past full, shed an unsteady light through interlaced boughs, matted grape vines, creepers flung from tree to tree; it shone on a hurrying rill, a bright thread drawn through the brush. fanny gilkan jumped lightly from bank to bank. she made her way with lithe ease through apparently unbroken tangles. it was fanny who went ahead, who waited for howat to follow across a fallen trunk higher than his waist. she even mocked him gaily, declared that, through his slowness, they were hopelessly losing the hunt. however, the persistent barking of the dogs contrived to draw them on. they easily passed the stragglers, left a group gathered about a lantern and a black bottle. they caught up to the body of men, but preferred to follow a little outside of the breathless comments and main, stumbling progress. they stirred great areas of pigeons and countless indifferent coveys of partridges barely moved to avoid the swiftly falling feet. but no deer crossed near them, and the crashing of a heavy animal through the bushes diminished into such a steep gulley that they relinquished thought of pursuit. the chase continued for an unusual distance; the moon sank into the far, unbroken forest; the stars brightened through the darkest hour of the night. fanny gilkan and howat proceeded more slowly now, but still they went directly, without hesitation, in the direction they chose. they crossed a log felled over a shallow, hurrying creek; the course grew steeper, more densely wooded. "ruscomb manor," fanny pronounced over her shoulder. "since a long way back," he agreed. finally a sharper, stationary clamour announced that the object of the hunt had been achieved, and a raccoon treed. they made their way to the dim illumination cast on moving forms and a ring of dogs throwing themselves upward at the trunk of a tree. there was a concerted cry for "ebo," and a wizened, grey negro in a threadbare drugget coat with a scarlet handkerchief about his throat came forward and, kicking aside the dogs, commenced the ascent of the smooth trunk that swept up to the obscure foliage above. there was a short delay, then a violent agitation of branches. a clawing shape shot to the ground, struggled to its feet, but the raccoon was instantly smothered in a snarling pyramid of dogs. howat penny was overwhelmingly weary. he had tramped all day, since before morning; while now another dawn was approaching, and the hunters were at least ten miles from the furnace. he would have liked to stay, sleep, where he was; but the labour of preparing a proper resting place would be as great as returning to shadrach. besides, fanny gilkan was with him, with her new, cautious regard for the world's opinion. they stood silent for a moment, under a fleet dejection born of the hour and a cold, seeping mist of which he became suddenly conscious. the barrel of his gun was wet, and instinctively he wiped off the lock. two men passing brushed heavily against him and stopped. "who is it," one demanded, "john rajennas? by god, it's a long way back to old shadrach with splintering shoes." a face drew near howat, and then retreated. "oh, mr. penny! i didn't know you were up on the hunt." it was, he recognized, one of the coaling men who worked for dan hesa. the other discovered fanny gilkan. "and fanny, too," the voice grew inimical. the men drew away, and a sharp whispering fluctuated out of the darkness. "come," howat penny said sharply; "we must get back or stay out here for the rest of the night. i don't mind admitting i'd like to be where i could sleep." she moved forward, now tacitly taking a place behind him, and he led the return, tramping doggedly in the shortest direction possible. the hollows and stream beds were filled with the ghostly mist, and bitterly chill; the night paled slightly, diluted with grey; there was a distant clamour of crows. they entered the furnace tract by a path at the base of the rise from where they had started. on the left, at a crossing of roads, one leading to myrtle forge, the other a track for the charcoal sleds, a blacksmith's open shed held a faint smoulder on the hearth. the blast from shadrach furnace rose perpendicular in the still air. fanny gilkan slipped away with a murmur. howat abandoned all thought of returning to myrtle forge that night. but it was, he corrected the conclusion, morning. the light was palpable; he could see individual trees, the bulk of the cast-house, built directly against the furnace; in the illusive radiance the coal house on the hill seemed poised on top of the other structures. a lantern made a reddish blur in the cast-house; it was warm in there when a blast was in progress, and he determined to sleep at once. thomas gilkan, with a fitful light, was testing the sealing clay on the face of the furnace hearth; two men were rolling out the sand for the cast over the floor of the single, high interior, and another was hammering on a wood form used for stamping the pig moulds. the interior was soothing; the lights, blurred voices, the hammering, seemed to retreat, to mingle with the subdued, smooth clatter of the turning wheel without, the rhythmic collapse of the bellows. howat penny was losing consciousness when an apparently endless, stuttering blast arose close by. he cursed splenetically. it was the horn, calling the furnace hands for the day; and he knew that it would continue for five minutes. others had entered; a little group gathered about thomas gilkan's waning lantern. far above them a window glimmered against the sooty wall. howat saw that dan hesa was talking to gilkan, driving in his words by a fist smiting a broad, hard palm. the group shifted, and the countenance of the man who had recognized howat penny in the woods swam into the pale radiance. his lassitude swiftly deserted him, receding before the instant resentment always lying at the back of his sullen intolerance--they were discussing him, mouthing some foul imputation about the past night. hesa left the cast-house abruptly, followed by the charcoal burner; and howat rose, the length of his rifle thrust forward under his arm, and walked deliberately forward. the daylight was increasing rapidly; and, as he approached, thomas gilkan extinguished the flame of the lantern. he was a small man, with a face parched by the heat of the furnace, and a narrowed, reddened vision without eyebrows or lashes. he was, howat had heard, an unexcelled founder, a position of the greatest importance to the quality of metal run. there was a perceptible consciousness of this in the manner in which gilkan moved forward to meet gilbert penny's son. "i don't want to give offence," the founderman said, "but, mr. penny, sir--" he stopped, commenced again without the involuntary mark of respect. "mr. penny, stay away from my house. there is more that i could say but i won't. that is all--keep out of my place. no names, please." howat penny's resentment swelled in a fiery anger at the stupidity that had driven thomas gilkan into making his request. a sense of humiliation contributed to an actual fury, the bitterer for the reason that he could make no satisfactory reply. gilkan was a freedman; while he was occupying a dwelling at shadrach furnace it was his to conduct as he liked. howat's face darkened--the meagre fool! he would see that there was another head founder here within a week. but there were many positions in the province for a man of gilkan's ability, there were few workmen of his sensitive skill with the charge and blast. not only howat's father, but abner forsythe as well, would search to the end all cause for the founderman's leaving. and, in consequence of that, any detestable misunderstanding must increase. he determined, with an effort unaccustomed and arduous, to ignore the other; after all gilkan was but an insignificant mouthpiece for the familiar ineptitude of the world at large. thomas gilkan might continue at the furnace without interference from him; fanny marry her stupid labourer. howat had seen symptoms of that last night. he would no longer complicate her existence with avenues of escape from a monotony which she patently elected. "very well, gilkan," he agreed shortly, choking on his wrath. he turned and tramped shortly from the interior. a sudden, lengthening sunlight bathed the open and a sullen group of charcoal burners about dan hesa. their faces seemed ebonized by the grinding in of particles of blackened wood. some women, even, in gay, primitive clothes, stood back of the men. as howat passed, a low, hostile murmur rose. he halted, and met them with a dark, contemptuous countenance, and the murmur died in a shuffling of feet in the dry grass. he turned again, and walked slowly away, when a broken piece of rough casting hurtled by his head. in an overpowering rage he whirled about, throwing his rifle to his shoulder. a man detached from the group was lowering his arm; and, holding the sights hard on the other's metal-buttoned, twill jacket, howat pulled the trigger. there was only an answering dull, ineffectual click. the rifle slid to the ground, and howat stared, fascinated, at the man he had attempted to kill. the charcoal burners were stationary before the momentary abandon of howat penny's temper. "right at me," the man articulated who had been so nearly shot into oblivion. "--saw the hammer fall." a tremendous desire to escape possessed howat; a violent chill overtook him; his knees threatened the loss of all power to hold him up. he stepped backward, his gun stock trailing over the inequalities of the ground; then he swung about, and, in an unbroken silence, stumbled away. he was not running from anything the charcoal burner might say, do, but from a terrifying spectacle of himself; from the vision of a body shot through the breast, huddled in the sere underbrush. he was aghast at the unsuspected possibility revealed, as it were, out of a profound dark by the searing flash of his anger, cold at the thought of such absolute self-betrayal. howat saw in fancy the bald triumph of a society to which his act consummated would have delivered him; a society that, as his peer, would have judged, condemned, him. hundreds of faces--faces mean, insignificant, or pock-marked--merged into one huge, dominant countenance; hundreds of bodies, unwashed or foul with disease, or meticulously clean, joined in one body, clothed in the black robe of delegated authority, and loomed above him, gigantic and absurd and powerful, and brought him to death. deeper than his horror, than any fear of physical consequences, lay the instinctive shrinking from the obliteration of his individual being, the loss of personal freedom. ii he was possessed by an unaccustomed desire to be at myrtle forge; usually it was the contrary case, and he was escaping from the complicated civilisation of his home; but now the well-ordered house, the serenity of his room, appeared astonishingly inviting. howat progressed rapidly past the smithy, and turned to the right, about the furnace dam, a placid and irregular reach of water holding the reflection of the trees on a mirror still dulled by a vanishing trace of mist, above which the leaves hung in the motionless air, in the aureate wash of the early sun, as if they had been pressed from gold foil. beyond the dam the path--he had left the road that connected forge and furnace for a more direct way--followed the broad, rippling course of the canary, the stream that supplied the life of myrtle forge. he automatically avoided the breaks in the rough trail; his mind, a dark and confused chamber, still lighted by appalling flashes of memory. a thing as slight, as incalculable, as a loose flint had been all that prevented.... he wondered if fanny and thomas gilkan were right in their shared conviction; fanny half persuaded, but the elder with a finality stamped with an accent of the heroic. whether or not they were right didn't concern him, he decided; his only problem was to keep outside all such entanglements. and at present he wanted to sleep. the path left the creek and joined the road that swept about the face of the dwelling at myrtle forge. the lawn, squarely raised from the public way by a low brick terrace, showed the length of house behind the dipping, horizontal branches, the beginning, pale gold, of a widespread beech. it was a long structure of but two stories, built solidly out of a dark, flinty stone with an indefinite pinkish glow against the lush sod and sombre, flat greenery of a young english ivy about a narrow, stiff portico. howat crossed the lawn above the house, where a low wing, holding the kitchen and pantries, extended at right angles from the dwelling's length. a shed with a flagging of broad stones lay inside the angle, where a robust girl with an ozenbrigs skirt caught up on bare legs and feet thrust into wooden clogs was scrubbing a steaming line of iron pots. he quickly entered the centre hall from a rear door, and mounted, as he hoped, without interruption to his room. that interior was singularly restful, pleasant, after the confused and dishevelling night. the sanded floor, patterned with a broom, held no carpet, nor were the walls covered, but white and bare save for a number of small, framed engravings--a view of boston harbour, queene anne's tomb, and some black line satirical portrait prints. a stone fireplace, ready for lighting, had iron dogs and fender, and a screen lacquered in flowery wreaths on a slender black stem. at one side stood a hinge-bound chest, its oak panels glassy with age; on the other, an english set of drawers held a mirror stand and scattered trifles--razors and gold sleeve-buttons, a barcelona handkerchief, candlesticks and flint, a twist of common, pig-tail tobacco; while from a drawer knob hung a banian of bright orange chinese silk with a dark blue cord. by the side of his curled black walnut bed, without drapery, and set, like a french couch, low on three pairs of spiral legs, was a deep cushioned chair into which he sank and dragged off his sodden buckskin breeches. the room wavered and blurred in his weary vision--squat, rush-bottomed dutch chairs seemed to revolve about a table with apparently a hundred legs, a bearskin floated across the floor.... he secured the banian; and, swathing himself in its cool, sibilant folds, he fell, his face hid in an angle of his arm, into an immediate profound slumber. the shadows of late afternoon were once more gathering when he woke. he lay, with hands clasped behind his head, watching a roseate glow disperse from the room. from without came the faint, clear voice of marta appletofft, across the road at the farm, calling the chickens; and he could hear the querulous whistling of the partridges that invariably deserted the fringes of forest to join the domesticated flocks at feed time. a sense of well-being flooded him; the project of st. xavier, the french forts, drew far away; never before had he found myrtle forge so desirable. he was, he thought, growing definitely older. he was twenty-five. a light knock fell on his door, and he answered comfortably, thinking that it was his mother. but it was caroline, his oldest sister. "how you have slept," she observed, closing the door at her back; "it was hardly nine when you came in, and here it is five. mother heard you." caroline penny was a warm, unbeautiful girl with a fine, slender body, two years younger than himself. her colouring was far lighter than howat's; she had sympathetic hazel eyes, an inviting mouth, an illusive depression in one cheek that alone saved her from positive ugliness, and tobacco brown hair worn low with a long, turned strand. she had on a pewter-coloured, informal wrap over a black silk petticoat, lacking hoops, with a cut border of violet and silver brocade; and above low, green kid stays with coral tulip blossoms worked on the dark velvet of foliage were glimpses of webby linen and frank, young flesh. she came to the edge of the bed, where she sat with a yellow morocco slipper swinging from a silk clocked, narrow foot. he liked caroline, howat lazily thought. although she did not in the least resemble their mother in appearance--she could not pretend to such distinction of being--caroline unmistakably possessed something of the other's personality, far more than did myrtle. she said generally, patently only delaying for the moment communications of much greater interest than himself, "where were you last night?" he told her, and she plunged at once into a rich store of information. "did you know that mr. and mrs. winscombe are staying on? it's so, because of the fever in the city. david and his father stopped all night, too, and only left after breakfast. he's insane about london, but i could see that he's glad to get back to the province. mr. forsythe is very abrupt, but ridiculously proud of him--" "these winscombes," howat interrupted, "what about them? the forsythes are a common occurrence." "david's been gone more than three years," she replied. "and you should hear him talk; he's got a coat with wired tails in his box he's dying to wear, but is afraid of his father. oh, the winscombes! well, he's rather sweet, sixty or sixty-five years old; very straight up the back, and wears the loveliest wigs. his servant fixes them on a stand--he turns the curls about little rolls of clay, ties them with paper, and then bakes it in the oven like a pudding. the servant is an italian with a long duck's bill of a nose and quick little black eyes. he makes our negro women giggle like anything. it's evident he is fearfully impertinent. and, what do you think?--he hooks mrs. winscombe into her stays! mother says that that isn't anything, really; mrs. winscombe is a lady of the court, and the most extraordinary happenings go on there. you see, mother knows a lot about her family, and it's very good; she's part polish and part english, and her name's ludowika. she's ages younger than her husband. "myrtle doesn't like her,--" she stopped midway in her torrent of information. "i came in to talk to you about myrtle," she went on in a different voice; "that is, partly about myrtle, but more of myself and of--" "how long are the others going to stay?" he cut in heedlessly. "i don't know," she again repressed her own desire; "perhaps they will have to go back to annapolis--don't ask me why--but they hope to sail from philadelphia in a week or so. she has marvellous clothes, and i asked her if she would send me some babies from london. you know what they are, howat--little wooden dolls to show off the fashion; but she made a harrowing joke, right in front of father and mrs. forsythe. the things she says are just beyond description; it seems that it's all right to talk anyway now if you call it classic. and she has fans with pictures and rhymes on, honestly--" words apparently failed her. howat laughed. "little innocence," he said. he fell silent, thinking of their mother. the court, he knew, had been her right, too, by birth; and he wondered if, with the reminder of mrs. winscombe and her reflections of st. james, she regretted her marriage and removal to the province. she was essentially lady, while gilbert penny had been the son of a small country squire. he had seen a profile of his father as a young man, at the time he had first met isabel kingsfrere howat. it was a handsome profile, perhaps a shade heavy, but admirably balanced and stamped with decisive power. he had characteristically invested almost his last shilling in a tract of eight hundred acres in pennsylvania and the passage of himself and his bride to the province. it was natural for men so to adventure, but howat thought of isabel penny with, perhaps, the only marked admiration he felt for any being. there had been a period, short but strenuous, of material difficulties, in which the girl--she had been hardly a woman in years--entirely unprepared for such a different activity, had been finely competent and courageous. this had not endured long because gilbert penny had been successful almost from the first day of his landing in a new world. chance letters had enlisted the confidence of david forsythe, a quaker merchant of property and increasing importance; the latter became a part owner of an iron furnace situated not far from the penny holding; he assisted gilbert in the erection of a forge; and in less than twenty years gilbert penny had grown to be a half proprietor in the furnace, with-- "howat," caroline broke in on his thoughts sharply, "i came in, as i said, to talk about something very important to me, and i intend to do it." even after that decided announcement she hesitated, a deeper colour stained her dear cheeks. "you mustn't laugh at me," she warned him; "or think i'm horrid. i can talk to you like this because you seem a--a little outside of things, as if you were looking on at a rather poorly done play; and you are entirely honest yourself." he nodded condescendingly, his interest at last retrieved from the contemplation of his mother as a young woman. "it's about david," caroline stated almost defiantly. "howat, i think i'm very fond of david. no, you mustn't interrupt me. when he went away i liked him a lot; but now that he is back, and quite grown up, it's more than liking ... howat. his father brought him out here right away he returned, and for a special reason. he was very direct about it; he wants david to marry--myrtle. i heard father--yes, i listened--and him talking it over, and our old darling was pleased to death. it's natural, mr. forsythe is one of the most influential men in the city; and father adores myrtle more than anything else in the world." she paused, and he studied her in a growing wonder; suddenly she seemed older, her mouth was drawn in a hard line: a new caroline. "you know myrtle," she added. he did, and considered the youngest penny with a new objectivity. myrtle was an extremely pretty, even a beautiful girl. "you know myrtle," she repeated; "and why father is so blind is more than i can understand. she doesn't care a ribbon for truth, she never thinks of anything but her own comfort and clothes, and--and she'd make david miserable. myrtle simply can't fancy anybody but herself. that's very different from me, howat; or yourself. you would be a burning lover." he laughed incredulously. "and i, well, i know what i feel. "it's practically made up for david to marry myrtle, that is, to urge it all that's possible; and she will never care for him, while all he thinks of now is how good looking she is. i want david, terribly," she said, sitting erect with shut hands; "and i will be expected to step aside, to keep out of the way while myrtle poses at him. oh, i know all about it. i see her rehearsing before the glass. or i will be expected to act as a contrast, a plain background, for myrtle's beauty. "you see, there is no one i can talk to but yourself. even mother wouldn't understand, completely; and she couldn't be honest about myrtle. the best of mothers, after all, are women; and, howat, there is always a curious formality between women, a little stiffness." "well," he demanded, "what do you want me to say, or what did you think i might do?" "i don't know," she admitted, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "i suppose i just wanted a little support, or even some encouragement. i don't propose to let myrtle walk off with david and not turn my hand. of course i am not a beauty, but then i'm not a ninny, either. and i have a prettier figure; that is, it will still be pretty in ten or fifteen years; myrtle's soft." "good heavens," he exclaimed, half serious, "what indians you all are!" "i'm quite shameless," she admitted, "and this is really what i thought--you can, perhaps, help me sometimes, i don't know how, but he will be out here a lot, men talk together--" "and i can tell him that myrtle is an utterly untrustworthy person who would make him ultimately miserable. i'll remind him that her beauty is no deeper than he sees it. but that caroline there, admirable girl, seething with affection in a figure warranted against time or accident--" her expression brought his banter to an end. he studied her seriously, revolved what she had said. she was right about myrtle, who was undoubtedly a vain and silly little fish. his father's immoderate admiration for her had puzzled him as well as the elder sister. he remembered that never had he heard their mother express a direct opinion of myrtle; but neither had isabel penny shown the slightest question of her husband's high regard for their youngest child. she was, he realized with a warming of his admiration, beautifully cultivated in the wisdom of the world. caroline was vastly preferable to myrtle, he felt that instinctively; and he was inclined to give her whatever assistance he could. but this would be negligible, and he said so. "you will have to do the trick by yourself," he advised her. "i wouldn't pretend to tell you how. as you said, you're not a ninny. and myrtle's none too clever, although she will manage to seem so. it's wonderful how she'll pick up a hint or two and make a show. you see--she will be talking iron to david as if she had been raised in a furnace." "men are so senseless!" caroline exclaimed viciously. she rose. "it's been a help only to talk to you, howat. i knew you'd understand. supper will be along soon. make yourself into a charmer for mrs. winscombe. i'm certain she thinks the men out here are frightful hobs." the light had dimmed rapidly in the room, and he moved over to the chest of drawers, where he lit the candles, settling over them their tall, carved glass cylinders. iii he dressed slowly, all that caroline had said, and he thought, tangling and disentangling deliberately in his mind. mrs. winscombe ... thinking there were no presentable men in the provinces. his hand strayed in the direction of a quince-coloured satin coat; but he chose instead a commonplace, dun affair with pewter buttons, and carelessly settled his shoulders in an unremarkable waistcoat. then, although he could hear a concerted stir of voices below that announced impending supper, he slipped into a chair for half a pipe. he was indifferent, not diffident, and there was no hesitation in the manner in which he finally approached the company seated at supper. his place was, as usual, at his mother's side; but opposite him where myrtle usually sat was a rigid, high shouldered man in mulberry and silver, jewelled buckles, and a full, powdered wig. he had thin, dark cheeks, a heavy nose above a firm mouth with a satirical droop, and small, unpleasantly penetrating eyes. an expression of general malice was, however, corrected by a high and serene brow. "mr. winscombe," howat penny's mother said, "my son." the former bowed with formal civility, but gave a baffling effect of mockery which, howat discovered, enveloped practically every movement and speech. he was, he said, enchanted to meet mr. penny; and that extravagant expression, delivered in a slightly harsh, negligent voice, heightened the impression of a personality strong and cold; a being as obdurate as an iron bar masquerading in coloured satin and formulating pretty phrases like the sheen on the surface of a deep november pool. gilbert penny echoed the introduction at the other end of the table. howat saw, in the yellow candlelight, a woman not, he decided, any better looking than caroline, in an extremely low cut gown of scarlet, with a rigid girdle of saffron brocade, a fluted tulle ruff tied with a scarlet string about a long, slim neck, and a cap of sheer cambric with a knot of black ribbons. her eyes were widely opened and dark, her nose short, and her mouth full and petulant. she, too, was conventionally adequate; but her insincerity was clearer than her husband's, it was pronounced quickly, in an impertinent and musical voice, without the slightest pretence of the injection of any interest. howat penny felt, in a manner which he was unable to place, that she vaguely resembled himself; perhaps it lay in her eyebrows slanting slightly toward the temples; but it was vaguer, more elusive, than that. he considered it idly, through the course of supper. at intervals he heard her voice, a little, high-pitched laugh with a curious, underlying flatness: not of tone, her modulations were delicate and exact; but deeper. again he was dimly conscious of an aspect of her which eluded every effort to fix and define. he could not even comprehend his dwelling upon the immaterial traits of a strange and indifferent woman; he was at a loss to understand how such inquiries assailed him. he grew, finally, annoyed, and shut his mind to any further consideration of her. mrs. penny was talking with charming earnestness to the man on her other hand. the amber radiance flickered over the beautiful curves of her shoulders and cast a warm shadow at the base of her throat. she smiled at her son; and her face, in spite of its present gaiety, held a definite reminder of her years, almost fifty; but when she turned again her profile, with slightly tilted nose and delightfully fresh lips and chin, was that of a girl no older than caroline. howat had often noticed this. it was amazing--with that slight movement she would seem to lose at once all the years that had accumulated since she was newly married. in a second she would appear to leave them all, her mature children, the heavy, palpably aging presence of gilbert penny, the house and obligations that had grown about her, and be remotely young, a stranger to the irrefutable proof that her youth had gone. at such moments he was almost reluctant to claim her attention, to bring her again, as it were, into the present, with so much spent, lapsed: at times he almost thought, in that connection, wasted. she had, in addition to her profile, a spirit of youth that had remained undimmed; as if there were within her a reserve warmth, a priceless gift, which life had never claimed; and it was the contemplation of that which gave howat the impression that isabel penny's life had not fully flowered. he had never known her to express a regret of the way she had taken; he had never even surprised her in a perceptible retrospective dejection; but the conviction remained. gilbert penny had been an almost faultless husband, tender and firm and successful; but his wife had come from other blood and necessities than domestic felicities; she had been a part of a super-cultivation, a world of such niceties as the flawless courtesy of mr. winscombe discussing with her the unhappy passion of the princess caroline for lord hervey. howat penny thought sombrely of love, of the emotion that had brought--or betrayed?--isabel howat so far away from her birthright. it had gripped his sister no less tyrannically; stripping them, he considered, of their essential liberty. the thing was clear enough in his mind--nothing more than an animal instinct, humiliating to the human individual, to breed. it was the mere repetition of nature through the working of an automatic law. no such obscure fate, he determined, should overtake, obliterate, him. yet it had involved his mother, a person of the first superiority. a slight chill, as if a breath of imminent winter had touched him, communicated itself to his heart. a trivial conversation was in progress across the table between mrs. winscombe and myrtle. the latter was an embodiment of the familiar saxon type of beauty; her hair was fair, infinitely pale gold, her complexion a delicately mingled crimson and white, her eyes as candidly blue as flowers. her features were finely moulded, and her shoulders, slipping out from azure lutestring, were like smooth handfuls of meringue. her voice was always formal, and it sounded stilted, forced, in comparison with mrs. winscombe's easy periods. the supper ended, and the company trailed into a drawing room at the opposite end of the house from the kitchen wing. howat delayed, and caroline, urged forward by mr. winscombe's sardonically ubiquitous bow, half lingered to cast back a glance of private understanding at her brother. when he decided reluctantly to follow he was kept back by the sound of a familiar explanation in his father's decisive, full tones. "howat," he pronounced, obviously addressing the elder winscombe, "is a black penny. that is what we call them in our family. you see, the pennys, some hundreds of years back, acquired a strong welsh strain. i take it you are familiar with the welsh--a solitary-living, dark lot. unamenable to influence, reflect their country, i suppose; but lovers of music. i have a touch of that. now any one would think that such a blood, so long ago, would have spread out, been diluted, in a thick english stock like the pennys; or at least that we would all have had a little, here and there. but nothing of the sort; it sinks entirely out of sight for two or three and sometimes four generations; and then appears solid, in one individual, as unslacked as the pure, original thing. the last one was burned as a heretic in mary's day; although i believe he would have equally stayed catholic if the affair had been the other way around. opposition's their breath. this boy--" "you must not figure to yourself, mr. winscombe," mrs. penny's even voice admirably cut in, "that the black is a word of reproach. i think we are both at times at a loss with howat, he is so different from us, from the girls; but he is truly remarkable. i have an unusual affection for him; really, his honesty is extraordinary." he ought, he knew, either follow the others into the drawing room or move farther away. his father's explanation repelled him; but his mother's capital defence--it amounted to that--made it evident to him that he should, by his presence, give her what support he could. at the fireplace gilbert penny was lost in conversational depths with mr. winscombe. about the opening, now closed for the introduction of a hearth stove, were tiles picturing in gay glazes the pastoral history of ruth, and above the mantel a long, clear mirror held a similitude of brilliant colour--the scarlet of mrs. winscombe's gown, myrtle's azure lutestring on a petticoat of ruffled citron spreading over her hoops and little white kid slippers with gilt heels, caroline's flowered chinese silk. the room was large and square, with a turkey floor carpet, and walls hung with paper printed in lavender and black perspectives from copper plates. a great many candles had been lighted, on tables and mantel, and in lacquer stands. one of the latter, at mrs. winscombe's side, showed her features clearly. howat penny saw that while she was actually no prettier than caroline she was infinitely more vivid and compelling. her face held an extraordinary potency; her bare arms and shoulders were more insistent than his sister's; there was about her a consciousness of the allurement of body, frankness in its employment. she made no effort to mask her feeling, which at present was one of complete indifference to her surroundings; and, not talking, a shadow had settled on her vision. caroline was seated on a little sofa across from the fireplace, and she moved her voluminous skirt aside, made a place for him. "almost nothing of annapolis," mrs. winscombe replied to a query of what she had seen in maryland. "we were there hardly two weeks, and i hadn't recovered from the trip across the sea. when i think of returning god knows i'd almost stay here. you wouldn't suppose one person could vent so much. i believe felix went to a jockey club, there were balls and farces; but i kept in bed." mrs. penny asked, "and london--how are you amused there now?" the other retied the bow of a garter. "fireworks, roman candles to mr. handel's music, and italian parties, villeggiatura. covent garden with paper lanterns among the trees, seductions--" gilbert penny smote his hands on the chair arms. "this hectoring of our commerce will have to rest somewhere!" he declared; "taking the duty from pig iron, and then restricting its market to london, is no conspicuous improvement. it is those enactments that provide our currency with spanish pieces instead of english pounds. the west indies are too convenient to be overlooked." mr. winscombe replied stiffly, "the government is prepared to meet infractions of its law." mr. penny muttered a period about germany in england, with a more distant echo of hanoverian whores and deformed firebrands. his guest sat with a harsh, implacable countenance framed in the long shadows of his elaborate wig, his ornate coat tails falling stiffly on either side of his chair. howat, bred in the comparative simplicity of the province, found the foppery of the aging man slightly ridiculous; yet he was aware that mr. winscombe's essential character had no expression in his satin and powder; his will was as rugged and virile as that of any adventuring frontiersman clad in untanned hides. he was, howat decided, at little disadvantage with his young wife. he wondered if any deep bond bound the two. their personal feelings were carefully concealed, and in this they resembled isabel howat, rather than gilbert, her husband. the latter had a habit of expressing publicly his affectionate domestic relations. and howat penny decided that he vastly preferred the others' reserve. an awkward silence had developed on top of the brief political acerbities. there was no sound but the singing of the wood in the open stove. myrtle had an absent, speculative gaze; caroline was biting her lip; mrs. winscombe yawned in the face of the assembly. gilbert penny suggested cards, but there was no reply. howat left the room by a door that opened on a rock threshold set in the lawn. the night was immaculate, still and cold, with stars brightening in the advance of winter. he walked about the house. the counting room of the forge was a separate stone structure back of the kitchen; and to the right, and farther away, was a second small building. the ground fell rapidly down to the forge on the water power below. he could barely discern the towering bulk of the water wheel and roofs of the sheds. he felt uneasy, obscurely and emotionally disturbed. already fanny gilkan seemed far away, to have dropped out of his life. he would give some gold to the charcoal burner he had attempted to shoot. mrs. winscombe annoyed him by her attitude toward myrtle forge, her unvarnished air of condescension. how old was she? a few years more than himself, he decided. the italian hooked her into her stays. a picture of this formed in his thoughts and dissolved, leaving behind a faint stinging of his nerves. he recalled her bare--naked--arms ... the old man, her husband. she had spoken of italian parties; he had seen a picture on a fan labelled villeggiatura--a simpering exquisite in a lascivious embrace with a frail beauty on the bank of a stream, and a garland of stripped loves reeling about a slim, diapered harlequin. it was a different scene, a different world, from the province; and its intrusion in the person of mrs. winscombe was like an orris-scented air moving across the face of great trees sweeping their virginal foliage into the region of strong and pure winds. he was dimly conscious of the awakening in him of undivined pressures, the stirring of attenuated yet persisting influences. he was saturated in the space, the sheer, immense simplicity of the wild, hardly touched by the narrow strip of inhabited coast. he had given his existence to the woods, to hunting cunning beasts, the stoical endurance of blinding fatigue; he had scorned the, to him, sophistications of bricks and civilization. but now, in the length of an evening, something invidious and far different had become sentient in his being. italian parties, and covent garden with lanterns among the trees ... trees clipped and pruned, and gravel walks; seductions. a falling meteor flashed a brilliant arc across the black horizon, dropping into what illimitable wilderness? fireworks set to the shrill scraping of violins. one mingled with the other in his blood, fretting him, spoiling the serene and sure vigour of youth, binding his feet to the obscure past. yet colouring all was the other, the black welsh blood of the pennys. ever since his boyhood he had heard the fact of his peculiar inheritance explained, accepted. in the past he had been what he was without thought, self-appraisal. but now he recognized an essential difference from his family; it came over him in a feeling of loneliness, of removal from the facile business of living in general. for the first time he wondered about his future. it was unguarded by the placid and safe engagements of the majority of lives. he would, he knew, ultimately possess myrtle forge, a part of shadrach, and a considerable fortune. that was his obvious inheritance. but, suddenly, the material thing, the actual, grew immaterial, and the visionary assumed a dark and enigmatic reality. howat abruptly quitted the night of the lawn, his sombre questioning, for the house. the candles had been extinguished in the drawing room. a square, glass lamp hung at the foot of the stairs; and there he encountered a man in a scratch wig, with a long nose flattened at the end. he bowed obsequiously--a posturing figure in shirtsleeves with a green cloth waistcoat and black legs. the italian servant, howat concluded. he passed noiselessly, leaving a reek of pomatum and the memory of a servile smile. howat penny experienced a strong sense of distaste, almost depression, at the other's silent proximity. it followed him to his room, contaminated his sleep with unintelligible whispering, oily and disturbing gestures, and fled only at the widening glimmer of dawn. iv the sun had almost reached the zenith before mrs. winscombe appeared from her room. and at the same moment david forsythe arrived on a spent grey mare. he had come over the forty rough miles which separated myrtle forge from the city in less than five hours. he was a year older than howat, but he appeared actually younger--a candid youth with high colour and light, simply tied hair. he had, he told howat, important messages from his father to mr. winscombe. the latter and gilbert penny were conversing amicably in the lower room at the right of the stairway--a chamber with a bed that, nevertheless, was used for informal assemblage. mr. winscombe wore an enveloping banian of russet brocade with deep furred cuffs, and a turban of vermilion silk comfortably replacing a wigged formality. under that brilliant colour his face was as yellow as an orange. the written messages were delivered, and david returned to the lawn. the day was superb--a crystal cold through which the sun's rays filtered with a faintly perceptible glow. caroline was standing at howat's side, and she gave his hand a rapid pressure as david forsythe approached. "where's myrtle?" the latter asked apparently negligently. howat replied, "still in the agony of fixing her hair--for dinner; she'll be at it again before supper." david whistled a vague tune. caroline added, "you've got fearfully dressy yourself, since london." he replied appropriately, and then became more serious. "i wish," he told them, "that we belonged to the church of england; you know the penns have gone back. it's pretty heavy at home after--after some other things. the quakers didn't use to be so infernally solemn. you should see the swells about the court; the greatest fun. and old george with a face like a plum--" "don't you find anything here that pleases you?" caroline demanded with asperity. "myrtle's all right," he admitted; "not many of them are as pretty." "i'll tell her you've come," caroline promptly volunteered; "she won't keep you waiting. there she is! no, it's mrs. winscombe." she was swathed in a ruffled lilac cloak quilted with a dull gold embroidery; satin slippers were buckled into high pattens of black polished wood; and her head, relatively small with tight-drawn hair, was uncovered. she was not as compelling under the sun as in candle light, he observed. her face, unpainted, was pale, an expression of petulance discernible. yet she was more potent than any other woman he had encountered. "isn't that the garden?" she asked, waving beyond the end of the house. "i like gardens." she moved off in the direction indicated; and--as he felt she expected, demanded--he followed slightly behind. a short, steep terrace descended to a formally planted plot, now flowerless, enclosed by low privet hedges. there were walks of rolled bark, and, against a lower, denser barrier, a long, white bench. the ground still fell away beyond; and there was a sturdy orchard, cleared of underbrush, with crimson apples among the grey limbs. beyond, across a low, tangled wild, an amphitheatre of hills rose against the sky, drawn from the extreme right about the façade of the dwelling. they seemed to enclose myrtle forge in a natural domain of its own; and, actually, gilbert penny owned most of the acreage within that immediate circle. mrs. winscombe sank on the garden bench, where she sat with a hand resting on either side of her. above them a column of smoke rose from the kitchen against the blue. a second, heavier cloud rolled up from the forge below. "they have been repairing the forebay," howat explained; "the forge has been closed. i'm supposed to be in the counting house." "you work?" she demanded surprised. "at the ledger, put things down--what the men are paid, mostly in tobacco and shoes, ozenbrigs and molasses and rum; or garters and handkerchiefs for the women. then i enter the pig hauled from shadrach, and the carriage of the blooms." "i don't understand any of that," she announced. "it probably wouldn't interest you; the pig's the iron cast at the furnace. it's worked in the forges, and hammered into blooms and anconies, chunks or stout bars of wrought iron. we do better than two tons a week." the sound of a short, jarring blow rose from the forge, it was repeated, became a continuous part of the serene noon. "that's the hammer now," he explained. "it goes usually all day and most nights. we're used to it, don't hear it; but strangers complain." "mr. forsythe said your father was an ironmaster, one of the biggest in the province, and i suppose you'll become that too." she gazed about at the hills, sheeted in scarlet and yellow, at the wide sunny hollow that held myrtle forge. "here," she added in a totally unexpected accent of feeling, "it is very beautiful, very big. i thought all the world was like st. james or versailles. i've never been to poland, my mother's family came from there to paris, but i'm told they have forests and such things, too. this is different from annapolis, that is only an echo of london, but here--" she gazed far beyond him into the profound noon. he recovered slowly from the surprise of her unlooked for speech, attitude. howat studied her frankly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. her discontent was paramount. it was deeper than he had supposed; like his there were disturbing qualities in her blood, qualities at a variance with the obvious part of her being. a sense of profound intimacy with her pervaded him. "this," she continued, "is like a cure at a bath, a great bath of air and light. i should like to stay, i think.... are you content?" "it always seemed crowded to me," he admitted. "usually i get as far away as possible, into the woods, the real wilderness. but you heard my father last night--i'm a black penny, a solitary, dark lot. you couldn't judge from what i might feel." "your father and you are not sympathetic," she judged acutely. "he is practical, solid; but it isn't easy to say, even with an explanation, what you are. in london--but i'm sick of london. myrtle forge. it's appalling at night. i'd like to go into the real wilderness, leave off my hoops and stays, and bathe in a stream; a water nymph and you ... but that's only watteau again, with a cicisbeo holding my shift and stockings. in london you'd be that, a lady's servant of love; but, in the province, i wonder?" he sat half comprehending her words mingling in his brain with the pounding of the trip hammer at the forge, one familiar and one unfamiliar yet not strange sound. above them, on the lawn, he could see myrtle--through the middle of the day the sun had increased its warmth--with skirts like the petals of a fabulous tea rose. the sun glinted on the living gold of her hair and bathed an arm white as snow. david was there no doubt. his thoughts dwelt for a moment on caroline, then returned to mrs. winscombe, to himself. his entire attitude toward her, his observations, had been upset, disarmed, by her unexpected air of soft melancholy. in her lavender wrap she resembled a drooping branch of flowering lilac. she seemed very young; her air of sophistication, her sensuality of being, had vanished. traces of her illness on shipboard still lingered darkly under her eyes. asleep, he suddenly thought, her face would be very innocent, purified. this came to him involuntarily; there was none of the stinging of the senses she had evoked in him the night before. his instinct for preservation from any entanglements with life lay dormant before her surrender to influences that left her crumpled, without the slightest interest in any exterior fact. a sententious black servant in maroon livery and a bright worsted waistcoat announced dinner from the foot of the terrace, and they moved slowly toward the house. there was a concerted interest in the faces they found already about the table. howat took his seat at his mother's side, gilbert penny assisted mrs. winscombe. david was placed between caroline and myrtle. mr. winscombe, again formally wigged and coated, was absorbed in thought. he said to his hostess, "it's the uncertainty that puts me in doubt. ogle thought the thing thoroughly reviewed, when now hamilton comes out with his damned indians and maryland rum. forsythe suggests my presence in council to-morrow, and it's barely possible that there will be a return to annapolis. while ludowika--" "i can't travel another ell over the atrocities they call roads here," mrs. winscombe declared. "i expect to die returning to england as it is, and i won't put up with any more preliminary torment. you'll have to leave me." "at myrtle forge," gilbert penny added at once; "at myrtle forge as long as you like. unless," he added with a smile, "you prefer the gaiety at abner forsythe's." a hot colour suffused david's cheeks. mr. winscombe bowed over the table, "i am inclined to take advantage of that. ludowika would be the better without even quaker gaiety for a little." he stopped, turned toward her. "i'd like it immensely," she replied simply. "i am sure it would give me back all that i've lost in passage. perhaps," she leaned forward, smiling at howat, "i could see something of what's behind those hills, go into the real arcadia." "out there," said mr. penny, "are the endless mountains." the faint, involuntary chill again invaded howat; suddenly an unfamiliar imagery attached to the commonplace phrase uttered by his father--the endless mountains! it brought back his doubt, his questioning, of life. it was the inconceivable term endless, without any finality of ultimate rest, without even the arbitrary peace of death, that appalled him. he thought of life going on and on, with nothing consummated, nothing achieved nor final. he thought of the black penny who had been burned as a heretic to ashes years before; yet howat was conscious of the martyr's bitter stubbornness of soul, alive, still alive and unquenched, in himself. he wondered about the heritage to come. there was a further belief that it followed exclusively the male line. the pennys, like many another comparatively obscure name, went far back into the primeval soil of civilization. if he had no issue the endlessness might be confounded; a fatality in his long, dangerous excursions would have vanquished the ineradicable welsh blood. he might have no children; yesterday he would have made such a decision; but now he was less sure of himself, of his power to will. he was dimly conscious of vast exterior forces and traitorous factors within. it was as if momentarily he had been lifted to a cloud beyond time, from which he saw the entire, stumbling progress of humanity, its beginning hid in humid mist, moving into a nocturnal shadow like a thunder bank. he sat with chin on breast and sombre eyes until his mother laid her hand on his shoulder. "howat," she protested, "you are too glum for the comfort of any one near you. i think you must make a pose of being black. i'd almost called one of the servants to fiddle in your ear." howat smiled at her; he returned slowly to the actual, the particular. mr. winscombe had pushed back his chair, excusing himself in the pressure of necessary preparations. his wife disappeared with him, leaving behind the echo of a discussion about cecco, the italian servant. the women followed, with david at myrtle's shoulder, leaving howat and gilbert penny. the latter was still a handsome man, with his own hair silvered on a ruddy countenance, and a careful taste in clothes. his nose was predominant, with a wide-cleft mouth above a square chin. "i had thought," he said deliberately, "that you were employed in the counting house, but schwar tells me that it has been a week since you were seen there." he raised a broad hand to silence howat's reply. "while i can afford to keep you merely at hunting, the result to the table is so meagre that i'm not justified. there is no st. james here, in pennsylvania, no gentlemen supported by the crown for the purpose of amusement. you will have to sail for england if you expect that sort of thing." he rose, "you owe an intelligent interest in myrtle forge, to your sisters and mother, toward all that i have accomplished. it's a rich property, and it's growing bigger. already young forsythe has a list of improvements to be instituted at the furnace--clerks and a manager and new system for carrying on the blast." "i'm not an iron man," howat penny told him, "i'm not a clerk. david can take all that over for you, particularly if he marries one of the girls." "what are you?" the elder demanded sharply. "you ought to know. you explained it fully enough to the winscombes." "if it wasn't for that you'd have been dumping slag five years ago. what i hoped was that with maturity some sense of obligation would be born into you. what is this pretended affection for your mother worth if you are unwilling to conserve, make safe, her future, in case i die?" all that his father said was logical, just; but it only brought him a renewed sense of his impotence before very old and implacable inner forces. "i'll try again," he briefly agreed. "but i warn you, it will do little good. there is no pretence in the affection you spoke of, but--but something stronger--" he gave up as hopeless the effort to explain all that had swept through his mind. gilbert penny abruptly left the room. it transpired that the italian servant was to be left at myrtle forge; he was now assisting the servants in strapping a box behind the chaise that was to carry mr. winscombe and david to the city. howat pictured the long, supple hands of the italian hooking mrs. winscombe into her clothes, and a sudden, hot revulsion clouded his brain. when the carriage had gone, and he stood in the contracted space of the counting room, before a long, narrow forge book open on a high desk, he was still conscious of a strong repulsion. it was idiotic to let such an insignificant fact as the winscombes' man persistently annoy him. but, in a manner entirely unaccountable, this cecco had become a symbol of much that was dark, potentially threatening, in his conjectures. the hammer fell with a full reiteration through the afternoon; the sun, at a small window, shifted a dusty bar across inkpots and quills and desk to a higher corner. he could hear the dull turning of the wheel and the thin, irregular splash of falling water. other sounds rose at intervals--the tramping of mules dragging pig iron from shadrach, the rumble of its deposit by the forge. emanuel schwar entered with a piece of paper in his hand. "eleven hundred weight of number two," he read; "at six pounds, and a load of charcoal. jonas hupp charged with three pairs of woollen stockings, and shoes for minnie, four shillings more." howat mechanically entered the enumerated items, his distaste for such a petty occupation mounting until it resembled a concrete power forcing him outside into the mellow end of the day. a figure darkened the doorway; it was caroline. "i hardly saw him," she declared hotly. "myrtle hung like a sickly flower in his buttonhole." her hoops flattened as she made her way through the narrow entrance. "there's one thing about myrtle," she continued, "she's frightfully proper in her narrow little ideas. myrtle's a prude. and i promise you i won't be if i get a chance at david." she stood with vivid, parted lips, bright eyes; almost, howat thought, charming. such a spirit in caroline amazed him; he hadn't conceived of its presence. he recognized a phase of his own contempt for customary paths, accepted limitations and proprieties. "remember david's quaker training," he told her in his habitual air of jest. "david's been to london," she replied. "i saw him pinch the appletofft girl at the farm." again in his room, he changed into more formal clothes than on the evening previous; he did this without a definite, conscious purpose; it was as if his attitude of mind required a greater suavity of exterior. he wore a london waistcoat, a gift from his mother, of magenta worked with black petals and black stone buttons; his breeches were without a wrinkle, and the tails of his coat, even if they were not wired like those david was said to have brought from england, had a not unsatisfactory swing. at supper mrs. winscombe sat at his left, caroline and myrtle had taken their customary places opposite, the elders had not been disturbed. mrs. winscombe had resumed the animation vanished at noon. she wore green and white, with plum-coloured ribbons, and a flat shirred cap tied under her chin. the fluted, clear lawn of her elbow sleeves was like a scented mist. he was again conscious of the warm seduction, the rare finish, of her body, like a flushed marble under wide hoops and dyed silk. she was talking to myrtle about the court. "i am in waiting with the princess amelia sophia," she explained; "i have her stockings. there is a frightful racket of music and parrots and german, with old handel bellowing and the king eternally clinking one piece of gold on another." gilbert penny listened with a tightening of his well shaped lips. "it's into that chamber pot we pour our sweat and iron," he asserted. ludowika winscombe studied him. "in england," she said, "the american provinces are supposed to lie hardly beyond the channel, but here england seems to be at the other end of the world." myrtle added, "i'd like it immensely." and howat thought of ludowika--he thought of her tentatively as ludowika--in the brilliant setting of tropical silks and birds. he considered the change that had overtaken his father, english born, in the quarter century he had lived in america; the strong allegiance formed to ideas fundamentally different from those held at st. james; and he wondered if such a transformation would operate in ludowika if she could remain in the province. it was a fantastic query, and he impatiently dismissed it, returning to the contemplation of his mother's problematic happiness. he determined to question the latter if a permissible occasion arose; suddenly his interest had sharpened toward her mental situation. he compared the two women, what he could conjecture about isabel howat and ludowika winscombe; but something within him, automatic and certain, whispered that no comparison was possible. his mother possessed a quality of spirit that he had never found elsewhere; he could see, in spite of their resemblance of blood and position, that the elder could never have been merely provocative. such distinctions, he divined, were the result of qualities mysterious and deeply concealed. love, that he had once dismissed as the principle of blind procreation, became more complex, enigmatic. he had no increased desire to experience it, with the inevitable loss of personal liberty; but he began to be conscious of new depths, unexpected complications, in human relationship. he was not so sure of himself. they had moved to the less formal of the rooms used as places of gathering. the bed in a corner was hung in blue shalloon over ruffled white muslin, and there was blue at the windows. against the wall a clavichord, set aside as obsolete, raised its dusky red ebony box on grooved legs. myrtle was seated at it picking out an air from belshazzar. she held each note in a silvery vibration that had the fragility of old age. ludowika was by the fire, quartered across a corner; there was no stove, and the wood burning in the opening sent out frequent, pungent waves of smoke. she coughed and cursed. "positively," she declared, "i'll turn salt like a smoked herring." she rose, her gaze resting on howat. "i must go out," she continued; "breathe." he was strangely reluctant to accompany her, his feet were leaden. nevertheless, in a few moments he found himself at her side on the lawn. her sophistication had again disappeared, beneath the stars drawn across the hills, over myrtle forge. there was a pause in the hammering below. "take me down there," she commanded. he led the way on a beaten path that dropped sharply to a bridge of hewn logs crossing the spent water. the forge, a long shed following the stream, was open on the opposite side; an enclosure of ruddy, vaporous gloom with pools of molten colour, clangorous sounds. the bubbling, white cores of three raised and hooded hearths were incessantly agitated with long rods by blackened and glistening shapes. at intervals a flushing rod was withdrawn from a fire and plunged in a trough of water; a cloud of ghostly steam arose, a forgeman's visage momentarily illuminated like a copper mask. a grimy lantern was hung above the anvil, its thin light falling on the ponderous head of the trip hammer suspended at right angles from a turning cogged shaft projection through the wall. the hearths, set in a row beyond the anvil, had at their back an obscure, mechanical stir, accompanied by the audible suction of squat, drum bellows. the labour was halted at a fire; half naked anatomies, herculean shoulders and incredible arms, gathered about its mouth with hooked bars. an incandescent mass was lifted, born, rayed in an intolerable white heat, into the air. a hammer was swung upon it; and, as if the metal were sentient, a violet radiance scintillated where the blow had fallen. the pasty iron was carried to the anvil, the hooks dropped for wide-jawed tongs; the trip hammer moved up and fell. the hardening metal darkened to a carnation from which chips scattered like gorgeous petals. the carnation faded under ringing blows; the petals, heaping in the penumbra under foot, were as vividly blue as gentians. the colour vanished from the solidifying bloom ... it was ashen, black. the hammering continued. a sense of the vast and antique simplicity of the forging, a feeling of hammering the earth itself into the superior purposes of man, enveloped howat. he forgot for the moment his companion, lost in a swelling pride of myrtle forge, of his father's fibre--the iron of his character like the iron he successfully wrought. he could grasp gilbert penny's accomplishment here, take fire at its heroic quality; a thing he found impossible in the counting room above, recording such trivial details as wool stockings for jonas rupp. he could be a forgeman, he thought, but never a clerk; and in that limitation he realized that he was inferior to his father. there were aspects of himself beyond such discipline and control. ludowika winscombe grasped his arm. "come away," she begged; "it's--it's savage, like vulcan and dreadful, early legends." she hurried him, clinging to his arm, over the ascent to the orderly lawn, the tranquil shine of candle-lit windows. there, with her hood fallen from her head, she sat on a stone step. "you frighten me, a little," she confessed. "are you at all like--like that below inside of you? i have a feeling that you might be. if you were one of the men about vauxhall you'd be kissing me now ... if i liked you. but, although i do like you, i wouldn't kiss you for an emerald buckle." he recognized that she spoke seriously; her voice bore no connective suggestion. kisses, it appeared, were no more to her than little flowers which she dealt out casually where she pleased. yet the idea, with its intimate sensual implications, stayed in his thoughts. he considered kissing her, holding her mouth against his; and he was conscious of a sharp return of his stinging sense of her bodily seductiveness. at the same time an obscure uneasiness, rebellion, possessed him; it was the old, familiar feeling of revolt, of distaste for imprisoning circumstance. it came to him acutely, almost as if a voice had whispered in his ear, warning him, urging him into the wild, to escape threatening catastrophe. he determined to leave myrtle forge in the morning, to return to the stream he had followed into the serene heart of the woods. there he would stay until--until ludowika winscombe had gone. howat had no especial sense of danger from her; only for the moment she typified the entire world of trivial artifice. he gazed at her with a conscious detachment possible because of the rarity in his existence of such figures as hers. she had risen, and her cloak fallen upon the grass. howat could see her face beneath hair faintly powdered with silver dust and the ruffled patch of white tied pertly under her chin. her smoothly turning shoulders, filmed in lawn, and low bodice crowned an extravagant circumference of ruffled silk and rosettes. against the night of the province, the invisible but felt presence of immutable hills, she was like a puppet, a grotesque figure of comedy. he regarded her sombrely from the step, his chin cupped in a hand. but, again, she surprised him, speaking entirely out of the character he had assigned her, in a spirit that seemed utterly incongruous, but which was yet warm with conviction. "i want to explain a great deal to you," she said, "that really isn't explainable. it isn't sensible, and yet it is the strongest feeling i remember. it's about here and you and me. you can't picture my life, and so you don't know how strange this is, how different from all i've ever lived. "i think i told you i was born in paris--you see some of us came to france when louis took a polish princess, and there my mother married an english gentleman. well, it was always the court, in france and in england. always the court--do you know what that means? it's a place where women are pretty pink and white candies that men are always picking over. it's a great bed with a rose silk counterpane and closed draperies. champagne and music and scent and masques. little plays with the intrigue in the audience; favours behind green hedges. i was in it when i was fourteen, and i had a lover the first year. he showed me how to make pleasure. don't think that i was indifferent to this," she added directly; "that i wanted to escape it. i wasn't; i didn't. only beneath everything i had a feeling of not being completely satisfied; i wanted--oh, not very strongly--something else, for an hour. at times the air seemed choking; and inside of me, but not in my body, i seemed choking too. i used to think about the polish forests, and that would help a little." she resumed the place at his side, with her silk billowing against his knee. "this is it," she declared, her face set against the illimitable, still dark. "i recognized it only a little while ago. i think unconsciously i came to america hoping to find it; there was nothing at annapolis, but here--" she drew a breath as deep, he noted, as her stays would permit. "it includes you, somehow," she continued; "as if you were the voice. what i said coming away from the forge, about dreading you, was only momentary. i have another feeling, premonition--" she broke off, her manner changed. "all the court believes in signs: protestantism and vampires. "it seems unreal here; i mean st. james and all that was so tremendously important; incredibly stupid--the princess amelia's stockings. but you can't imagine the jealousy. every bit of it shall go out of my thoughts. you'll help me, a harmless magic. i'll be as simple as that girl across the road, with the red cheeks, in a single slip. you must call me ludowika; ludowika and howat. i'm not so terribly old, only twenty-nine." "i am going away to-morrow," he informed her; "i won't be back before you leave." a slight frown gathered about her eyes. her face was very close to his. "but i don't like that either," she replied. "you were to be a part of it, its voice; excursions in the woods. is it necessary, your absence?" he knew that it was not; and suddenly he was seized with the conviction that he would not go. it was as if, again, a voice outside him had informed him of the fact. but if there were no reason for his going there was as little for his remaining at myrtle forge; that was, so far as ludowika winscombe was concerned. he had been untouched by all that she had said; untouched except for a faint involuntary shiver as she had spoken of premonition. and that had vanished instantaneously. there was his duty in the counting house. but he was forced to admit to himself the insufficiency of that reason; it was too palpably false. he had not been moved by the intent of what she had said, but his imagination had been stirred, as if by the touch of delicate, pointed fingers, at her description of court--a bed with a silk counterpane ... behind clipped greenery. he recalled the fan with its painted villeggiatura, the naked, wanton loves. "something different," she half repeated, with a sigh, an accent, of longing. howat heard her with impatience; it was absurd to try to picture her tramping in the wilderness, breaking her way hour after hour through thorned underbrush, like fanny gilkan. she wouldn't progress a hundred yards in her unsteady pattens and fragile clothes. suddenly the italian servant appeared absolutely noiselessly at her side, speaking a ridiculous, oily gibberish. "at once," she replied. she turned to howat. "my bed has been prepared. are you going to-morrow?" "no," he answered awkwardly. she turned and left without further words. the servant walked behind her, resembling an unnatural shadow. the metallic clamour at the anvil rose and fell, diminished by the interposed bulk of the dwellings, ceaselessly forging the penny iron, the penny gold. he thought of himself as metal under the hammer; or rather ore at the furnace: he hadn't run clear in the casting; there were bubbles, bubbles and slag. endless refinements--first the furnace and then the forge and then the metal. a contempt for the lesser degrees possessed him, for a flawed or clumsy forging, for weakness of the flesh, the fatality of easy surrender. an overwhelming, passionate emotion swept him to his feet, clenched his hands, filled him with a numbing desire to reach the last purification. the mood sank into an inexplicable nostalgia; he dragged the back of a hand impatiently across his vision. his persistent indifference, the inhibition that held him in a contemptuous isolation, again possessed him, howat, a black penny. a last trace of his emotion, caught in the flood of his paramount disdain, vanished like a breath of warm mist. he entered the house and mounted to his room; the stairs creaked but that was the only sound audible within. his candles burned without their protecting glasses in smooth, unwavering flames. when they were extinguished the darkness flowed in and blotted out familiar objects, folded him in a cloak of invisibility, obliterated him in sleep. as he lost consciousness he heard the trip hammer dully beating out penny iron, penny gold; beating out, too, the penny men ... slag and metal and ruffled muslin, roman candles and stars. v there came to him in the counting house, the following afternoon, rumours and echoes of the day's happenings. david forsythe had arrived after dinner, and there had been word from mr. winscombe; he would be obliged to return to maryland, and trusted that ludowika would not be an onerous charge. david was to take myrtle and caroline back with him to the city, for an exemplary quaker party. "there's no good asking you," he told howat, lounging in the door of the counting room. david was flushed, his sleeve coated with dust. "caroline," he exclaimed, "is as strong as a forgeman; she upset me on the grass as quickly as you please, hooked her knee behind me, and there i was. she picked me up, too, and laughed at me," he stopped, lost in thought. "myrtle's really beautiful," he said again; "caroline's not a thing to look at, and yet, do you know, a--a man looks at her. she is wonderfully graceful." howat gave caroline the vigorous stamp of his brotherly approval. "she understands a lot, for a girl," he admitted. "of course myrtle's a particular peach, but i'd never go to her if a buckle--" he stopped abruptly as myrtle appeared at david's side. "isn't he industrious?" she said indifferently. "you'd never guess how father's at him. have you heard, howat--mrs. winscombe will be here perhaps a month. it's a wonder you haven't gone away, you are so frightfully annoyed by people. last night you were with her over an hour on the lawn. i could see that father thought it queer; but i explained to him that court women never thought of little things like, well, husbands." howat gazed at her coldly, for the first time conscious that he actually disliked myrtle. he made up his mind, definitely, to assist caroline as far as possible. she was absurd, criticizing mrs. winscombe. "where," he demanded, "did you get all that about courts? and your sudden, tender interest in husbands? that's new, too. you're not thinking of one for yourself, are you? he'd never see you down in the morning." a bright, angry colour flooded her cheeks. "you are as coarse as possible," she declared. "i'm sure i wish you'd stay away altogether from myrtle forge; you've never been anything but a bother." she left abruptly. "sweet disposition." howat grinned. "you are seeing family life as it's actually lived." later his thoughts returned to what she had said about ludowika winscombe; he recalled the latter's speech, seated on the doorstep; some stuff about a premonition. myrtle had suggested that he was interested in her. what ridiculous nonsense! if his father said anything on that score the other would discover that he was no longer a boy. besides, such insinuations were a breach of hospitality. how mrs. winscombe would laugh at them if she suspected myrtle's cheap folly. she had asked him to call her ludowika. he decided that he would; really he couldn't get out of it now. it would do no harm. ludowika! it was a nice name; undoubtedly polish. he thought again about what she had said of polish forests, the dissatisfaction that had followed her for so many years. a lover at fourteen. a surprising sentence formed of itself in his brain.--she had never had a chance. that pasty court life had spoiled her. it had no significance for himself; he was simply revolving a slightly melancholy fact. felix winscombe was a sere figure, yet he was extraordinarily full of a polished virility, rapier-like. howat could see the dark, satirical face shadowed by the elaborate wig, the rigid figure in precise, foppish dress. he heard winscombe's slightly harsh, dominant voice. his position in england was, he knew, secure, high. ludowika had been very sensible in marrying him. that was the way, howat penny told himself, that marriage should be consummated. he would never marry. david schwar appeared with a sheaf of papers, which he himself proceeded to docket, and howat left the counting room. he met ludowika almost immediately; she advanced more simply dressed than he had ever seen her before. she pointed downward to the water flashing over the great, turning wheel. "couldn't we walk along the rill? there's a path, and it's beautiful in the shadow." the stream poured solid and green through the narrow, masoned course of the forebay, sweeping in a lucent arc over the lip of the fall. an earthen path followed the artificial channel through a dense grove of young maples, seeming to hold the sun in their flame-coloured foliage. myrtle forge was lost, the leaves shut out the sky; underfoot some were already dead. the wilderness marched up to the edges of the meagre clearings. ludowika walked ahead, without speech; irregular patches of ruddy light slid over her flared skirt. suddenly she stopped with an exclamation; the trees opened before them on the broad canary sweeping between flat rocks, banks bluely green. above, the course was broken, swift; but where they stood it was tranquil again, and crystal clear. yellow rays plunging through the unwrinkled surface gilded the pebbles on the shallower bottom. a rock, broad and flat, extended into the stream by the partial, diagonal dam that turned the water into myrtle forge; and ludowika found a seat with her slippers just above the current. howat penny sat beside her, then dropped back on the rocks, his hands clasped behind his head. a silence intensified by the whispering stream enveloped them. he watched a hawk, diminutive on the pale immensity above. "heavens," ludowika finally spoke, "how wonderful ... just to sit, not to be bothered by--by things. just to hear the water. far away," she said dreamily; "girl." from where he lay he could see her arms, beautiful and bare, lost in soft holland above the elbows; he could see the roundness of her body above the lowest of stays. suddenly she fascinated him; he visualized her sharply, as though for the first time--a warm, intoxicating entity. he was profoundly disturbed, and sat erect; the stream, the woods, blurred in his vision. he felt as if his heart had been turned completely over in his body; the palms of his hands were wet. he had a momentary, absurd impulse to run, beyond shadrach furnace, beyond any distance he had yet explored, farther even than st. xavier. ludowika winscombe gazed in serene, unconscious happiness before her. he felt that his face was crimson, and he rose, moved to the water's edge, his back toward her. he was infuriated at a trembling that passed over him, damned it in a savage and inaudible whisper. what particularly appalled him was the fact that his overmastering sensation came without the slightest volition of his own. he had had nothing to do with it, his will was powerless. he was betrayed like a fortified city whose gate had been thrown open by an unsuspected, a concealed, traitor inside. in an instant he had been invaded, his being levelled, his peculiar pride overthrown. he thought even that he heard a dull crash, as if something paramount had irremediably fallen, something that should have been maintained at any cost, until the end of life. howat felt a sudden hatred of his companion; but that quickly evaporated; he discovered that she had spread, like a drop of carmine in a goblet of water, through his every nerve. by god, but she had become himself! in the space of a breath she was in his blood, in his brain; calling his hands about her, toward her smooth, beautiful arms. she was the scent in his nostrils, the sound a breeze newly sprung up stirred out of the leaves. a profound melancholy spread over him, a deep sadness, a conviction of loss. ludowika was singing softly: "last sunday at st. james's prayers --dressed in all my whalebone airs." he had come on disaster. the realization flashed through his consciousness and was engulfed in the submerging of his being in the overwhelming, stinging blood that had swept him from his old security. yet he had been so detached from the merging influences about him, his organization had been so complete in its isolation, his egotism so developed, that a last trace of his entity lingered sentient, viewing as if from a careened but still tenable deck the general submergence. his thoughts returned to the automatic operation of the consummation obliterating his person, the inexorable blind movement of the thing in which he had been caught, dragged into the maw of a supreme purpose. it was, of course, the law of mere procreation which he had before contemptuously recognized and dismissed; a law for animals; but he was no longer entirely an animal. already he had considered the possibility of an additional force in the directing of human passion, founded on something beyond the thirst of flesh, founded perhaps on soaring companionships, on--on--the condition, the term, he was searching for evaded him. he thought of the word love; and he was struck by the vast inaccuracy of that large phrase. it meant, howat told himself, literally nothing: what complex feeling isabel penny might have for her husband, caroline's frank desire for david forsythe, myrtle's meagre emotion, fanny gilkan's sense of hesa and life's necessary compromises, his own collapse--all were alike called love. it was not only a useless word but a dangerous falsity. it had without question cloaked immense harm, pretence; it had perpetuated old lies, brought them plausibly, as if in a distinguished and reputable company, out of past superstitions and credulity; the real and the meaningless, the good and the evil, hopelessly confused. they were seated at supper, four of them only; isabel and gilbert penny, and, opposite him, ludowika. occasionally he would glance at her, surreptitiously; his wrists would pound with an irregular, sultry circulation; longing would harass him like the beating of a club. she, it seemed to him, grew gayer, younger, more simple, every hour. happiness, peace, radiated in her gaze, the gestures of her hands. howat wondered at what moment he would destroy it. reprehensible. a moment must come--soon--when emotion would level his failing reserve, his falling defences. he thrilled at the thought of the inevitable disclosure. would she fight against it, deny, satirize his tumult; or surrender? he couldn't see clearly into that; he didn't care. then he wondered about the premonition of which she had spoken, deciding to ask her to be more explicit. an opportunity occurred later. gilbert penny had gone down to the forge store, his wife had disappeared. ludowika winscombe and howat were seated in the drawing room. only a stand of candles was lit at her elbow; her face floated like a pale and lovely wafer against the billowing shadows of the chamber. the wood on the iron hearth was charring without flame. he questioned her bluntly, suddenly, out of a protracted silence. she regarded him speculatively, delaying answer. then, "i couldn't tell you like this, now; it would be too silly; you would laugh at me. i hadn't meant to say even what i did. i'd prefer to ignore it." "what did you mean, what premonition came to you?" he insisted crudely. she seemed to draw away from him, increase in years and an attitude of tolerant amusement. only an immediate reply would save them, he realized. he leaned forward unsteadily, with clenched hands. "i warned you," she proceeded lightly; "and if you do laugh my pride will suffer." in spite of her obvious determination to speak indifferently her voice grew serious, "i had a feeling that you mustn't kiss me, that this--america, the province, myrtle forge, you, were for something different. you see, i had always longed for a peculiar experience, release, and when it came, miraculously, i thought, it must not be spoiled, turned into the old, old thing. that was all. it was in my spirit," she added almost defiantly, as if that claim might too be susceptible of derision. he settled back into his chair, turning upon her a gloomy vision. whatever penalty threatened them, he knew, must fall. nothing existing could keep him from it. he felt a fleet sorrow for her in the inevitable destruction of the release for which she had so long searched, her new peace, so soon to be smashed. all sorrow for himself had gone under. isabel penny returned to the drawing room, and moved about, her flowered silk at once gay and obscure in the semidarkness. "the fire, howat," she directed; "it's all but out." he stirred the logs into a renewed blaze. a warm gilding flickered over ludowika; she smiled at him, relaxed, content. he was surprised that she could not see the tumultuous feeling overpowering him. he had heard that women were immediately aware of such emotion. but he realized that she had been lulled into a false sense of security, of present immunity from "the old, old thing," by her own placidity. he did not know when his mother left the room. he wondered continuously when it would happen, when the bolt would fall, what she would do. howat was hot and cold, and possessed by a subtle sense of improbity, a feeling resembling that of a doubtful advance through the dark, for a questionable end. this was the least part of him, insignificant; his passion grew constantly stronger, more brutal. in a last, vanishing trace of his superior consciousness he recognized that the thing must have happened to him as it did; it was the price of his more erect pride, his greater contempt, his solitary and unspent state. she rose suddenly and announced that she was about to retire. it saved them for the moment, for that day; he muttered something incomprehensible and she was gone. isabel penny returned and took mrs. winscombe's place before the fire. she spoke trivially, at random intervals. a great longing swept over him to tell his mother everything, try to find an escape in her wise counsel; but his emotion seemed so ugly that he could not lay it before her. besides, he had a conviction that it would be hopeless: he was gone. she was discussing ludowika now. "really," she said, "they seem very well matched, a good arrangement." she was referring, he realized, to the winscombes' experience. he never thought of felix winscombe as married, ludowika's husband; he had ceased to think of him at all. the present moment banished everything else. "she has a quality usually destroyed by life about a court," the leisurely voice went on; "she seems quite happy here, for a little, in a way simple. but, curiously enough, she disturbs your father. he can't laugh with her as he usually does with attractive women." it was natural, howat thought, that gilbert penny should be uneasy before such a direct reminder of the setting from which he had taken isabel howat. it was a life, memories, in which the elder had no part; that consciousness dictated a part of his father's bitterness toward st. james, the royal government. but gilbert penny had never had serious reason to dread it. his wife had left it all behind, permanently, without, apparently, a regret. he had a sudden, astonishing community of feeling with the older man; a momentary dislike of st. james, versailles, the entire, treacherous, silk mob. a lover at fourteen! howat damned such a betrayal with a bitterness whose base lay deeply buried in sex jealousy. "i am glad," the other continued, "that you are not susceptible; i suppose you'll be off hunting in a day or more; mrs. winscombe is bright wine for a young man. women like her play at sensation, like eating figs." he thought contemptuously what nonsense was talked in connection with feminine intuition; it was nothing more than a polite chimera, like all the other famous morals and inhibitions supposed to serve and direct mankind. he wondered once more about his mother, what the course of her life had been--happily occupied, filled, or merely self-contained, hiding much in a deep, even flow? her head was turned away from him, and he could see the girlish profile, the astonishing illusion of youth renewed. howat wanted to ask her how she had experienced, well--love, since there was no other word. it had come to her quickly, he knew; her affair with gilbert penny had been headlong, or else it would not have been at all; yet he felt she had not been the victim of such a tyranny as mastered himself. but, perhaps, after all, secretly, every one was--just animal-like. he repudiated this firmly, at once. he himself had felt that he was not entirely animal. "the girls," isabel penny said, "will be gallopading now. myrtle has a new dress, her father gave it to her, an apricot mantua." "he's really idiotic about myrtle," howat declared irritably. his mother glanced swiftly at him. she made no comment. "now caroline! it's caroline who ought to marry david forsythe." "such things must fall out as they will." god, that was true enough, terribly true! he rose and strode into the farther darkness of the drawing room, returning to the fireplace, marching away again. he saw the white glimmer of ludowika's arms; he had a vision of her tying the broad ribbon about her rounded, silken knee. "... a man now," his mother's voice was distant, blurred. "responsibilities; your father--" he had heard this before without being moved; but suddenly the words had a new actuality; he was a man now, that was to say he stood finally, irrevocably, alone, beyond assistance, advice. he had never heeded them; he had gone a high-handed, independent way, but the others had been there; unconsciously he had been aware of them, even counted on them. now they had vanished. caroline and myrtle, bringing david with them again, returned on the following morning. it seemed to howat that the former was almost lovely; she had a gayer sparkle, a clearer colour, than he had ever seen her possess before. on the other hand, myrtle was dull; the dress, it seemed, had not been the unqualified success she had hoped for. something newer had arrived in the meantime from london. ludowika, it developed, had one of the later sacques in her boxes; but that, she said indifferently, must be quite dead now. it seemed to howat that she too regarded myrtle without enthusiasm. ludowika and myrtle had had very little to say to each other; myrtle studied mrs. winscombe's apparel with a keen, even belligerent, eye; the other patronized the girl in a species of half absent instruction. the sky was flawless, leaden blue; the sunlight fell in an enveloping flood over the countryside, but it was pale, without warmth. there was no wind, not a leaf turned on the trees--a sinuous sheeting of the country-side like red-gold armour. but howat knew that at the first stir of air the leaves would be in stricken flight, the autumn accomplished. caroline dragged him impetuously down into the garden, among the brown, varnished stems of the withered roses, the sere, dead ranks of scarlet sage. "he hugged me," she told him; "i was quite breathless. it was in a hall, dark; but he didn't say anything. what do you think?" there was nothing definite that he might express; and he patted her shoulder. he had a new kinship with caroline; howat now understood her tempest of feeling, concealed beneath her commonplace daily aspect. myrtle and david joined them, and he left, resumed his place at the high desk in the counting house. strangely his energy of being communicated itself to the prosaic work before him. it was, he suddenly felt, important for him to master the processes of myrtle forge; it would not do for him to remain merely irresponsible, a juvenile appendage to the penny iron. he would need all the position, the weight, he could assume; and money of his own. he found a savage pleasure in recording every detail put before him. he compared the value of pig metal, the cost of charcoal, wages, with the return of the blooms and anconies they shipped to england. howat experienced his father's indignation at the manner in which london limited the province's industries. for the first time he was conscious of an actual interest in the success of myrtle forge, a personal concern in its output. he had always visualized it as automatically prosperous, a cause of large, inexact pride; but now it was all near to him; he considered the competition rapidly increasing here, and the jealous menace over seas. his final trace of careless youth had gone; he felt the advent of the constant apprehension that underlies all maturity, a sense of the proximity of blind accident, evil chance, disaster. at last he was opposed to life itself, with an immense stake to gain, to hold; in the midst of a seething, treacherous conflict arbitrarily ended by death. there was no cringing, absolutely no cowardice, in him. he was glad that it was all immediately about him; he was arrogant in pressing forward to take what he wanted from existence. he forgot all premonitions, doubt was behind him; he no longer gauged the value of his desire for ludowika winscombe. she was something he would, had to, have. david forsythe sat across the back of a chair in howat's room as the latter dressed in the rapidly failing light. david had smuggled his london coat with the wired tails out to myrtle forge, and had the stiffened portion now spread smoothly out on either side. his cheerful, freshly-coloured face was troubled; he seemed constantly on the point of breaking into speech without actually becoming audible. howat was thinking of ludowika. it would happen to-night, he knew. he was at once apprehensive and glad. "you knew," david ventured finally, "that i'm supposed to ask myrtle to marry me. that is, your father and mine hoped i would. well," he drew a deep breath, "i don't think i shall. of course, she is one of the prettiest girls any one ever saw, and she's quite bright--it's wonderful what she has picked up about the furnace, but yet--" his speech suddenly ran out. with an effort howat brought himself back from his own vastly more important concern. "yes?" he queried, pausing with his fingers in the buttonholes of a mulberry damask coat. "i have decided to choose, to act, for myself," david announced; "this is a thing where every man must be absolutely free.--caroline can have me if she likes." howat could not avoid a momentary, inward flicker of amusement at david forsythe's absolute freedom of choice. he felt infinitely older than the other, wiser in the circuitous mysteries of being. he pounded david on the back, exclaimed, "good!" "i don't know whether to speak to abner," the other proceeded unfilially, "or the great penny first. i don't care too much for either job. it would be pleasanter to go to caroline. i have an idea she doesn't exactly dislike me." "perhaps i oughtn't to tell you," howat replied gravely; "but caroline thinks a lot of you. she has admitted it to me--" david forsythe danced agilely about the more serious figure; he kicked howat gaily from behind, ironically patted his cheek. "hell's buttons!" he cried. "why didn't you tell me that before? you cast iron ass! i'll marry caroline if i have to take her to a charcoal burner's hut. she would go, too." howat penny gripped the other's shoulder, faced him with grim determination. "do you fully realize that myrtle forge, shadrach, will be us? they will be ours and our wives' and childrens'. we must stand together, david, whatever happens, whatever we may, personally, think. the iron is big now, but it is going to be great. we mustn't fail, fall apart. we'll need each other; there's going to be trouble, i think." david put out his hand. "i didn't know you felt like that, howat," he replied, the effervescent youth vanished from him too. "it's splendid. we'll hammer out some good blooms together. and for the other, nothing shall ever make a breach between us." vi they went down to the supper table silently, absorbed in thought. david was placed where mr. winscombe had been seated, on mrs. penny's right, and next to myrtle. gilbert penny maintained a flow of high spirits; he rallied every one at the table with the exception of, howat noted, ludowika. her hair was simply arranged and undecorated, she wore primrose with gauze like smoke, an apparently guileless bodice with blurred, warm suggestions of her fragrant body. howat was conscious of every detail of her appearance; she was stamped, as she was that evening, indelibly on his inner being. he turned toward her but little, addressed to her only the most perfunctory remarks; he was absorbed in the realization that the most fateful moment he had met was fast approaching. his father's cheerful voice continued seemingly interminably; now it was a london beauty to which he affected to believe david had given his heart. the latter replied stoutly: "i brought that back safely enough; it's here the danger lies. humiliating to cross the ocean and then be lost in canary creek." gilbert penny shot an obvious, humorous glance at myrtle. she did not meet it, but sat with lowered gaze. caroline made a daring "nose" at howat; but he too failed to acknowledge her message. david's affair had sunk from his thoughts. the drawing room was brilliantly lighted: there was a constant stir of peacock silk, of yellow and apple green and coral lutestring, of white shoulders, in the gold radiance of candles like stiff rows of narcissi. caroline drifted finally into the chamber back of the dining room, and they could hear the tenuous vibrations of the clavichord. soon david had disappeared. the elder penny discovered myrtle seated sullenly at her mother's side; and, taking her arm, he escorted her in the direction of the suddenly silenced music. ludowika sat on a small couch away from the fireplace. she smiled at howat as he moved closer to her. she never did things with her hands, he noticed, like the women of his family, embroidery or work on little heaps of white. she sat motionless, her arms at rest. his mother seemed far away. the pounding recommenced unsteadily at his wrists, the room wavered in his vision. ludowika permeated him like a deep draught of intoxicating, yellow wine. he had a curious sensation of floating in air, of tea roses. it was clear that, folded in happy contentment, she still realized nothing.... she must know now, any minute. howat saw that his mother had gone. he rose and stood before ludowika, leaning slightly over her. she raised her gaze to his; her interrogation deepened. then her expression changed, clouded, her lips parted; she half raised a hand. her breast rose and fell, sharply, once. howat picked her up by the shoulders and crushed her, silk and cool gauze and mouth, against him. ludowika's skirts billowed about, half hid, him; a long silence, a long kiss. her head fell back with a sigh, she drooped again upon the sofa. she hadn't struggled, exclaimed; even now there was no revolt in her countenance, only a deep trouble. "howat," she said softly, "you shouldn't have done that. it was brutal, selfish. you--you knew, after all that i told you; the premonition--" she broke off, anger shone brighter in her eyes. "how detestable men are!" she turned away from him, her profile against the brocade of the sofa. unexpectedly he was almost cold, and self-contained; he saw the gilded angle of a frame on the wall, heard the hickory disintegrating on the hearth. he had kissed her as a formal declaration; what must come would come. "i was an imbecile," she spoke in a voice at once listless and touched with bitterness; "arcadia," she laughed. "i thought it was different here, that you were different; that feeling in my heart--but it's gone now, dead. i suppose i should thank you. but, do you know, i regret it; i would rather have stayed at st. james all my life and kept that single little delusion, longing. the premonition was nonsense, too; nothing new, unexpected, can happen. kisses are almost the oldest things in the world, kisses and their results. what is there to be afraid of? you see, i learned it all quite young. "i am an imbecile; only it came so suddenly. you would laugh at me if you knew what i was thinking. i can even manage a smile at myself." she appeared older, the mrs. winscombe who had first come to myrtle forge; her mouth was flippant. "the eternal suzanna," she remarked, "the monotonous elders or younger." he paid little heed to her words; the coldness, the indifference, were fast leaving him. his heart was like the trip hammer at the forge. yellow wine. he was still standing above her, and he took her hands in his. she put up her face with a movement of bravado, of mockery, which he ignored. "i didn't choose it," he told her; "it's ruined all that i was. now, i don't care; there is nothing else. one thing you are wrong about--if there had been another in your life like myself you wouldn't be here with--as you are. i'm certain of that. it's the only thing i do know. my feeling may be a terrible misfortune; i didn't make it; i can't see the end. there isn't any, i think." he pressed her hands to his throat with a gesture that half dragged her from the sofa. a deeper colour stained her cheeks, and her breath caught. "endless," he repeated, losing the word on her lips. she wilted into a corner of the sofa, and he strode over to the fire, stood gazing blindly at the pulsating embers. howat returned to her almost immediately, but she made no sign of his nearness. the bitterness had left her face, she appeared weary, pallid; she sat heedlessly crumpling her flounces, a hand bent back on its wrist. "i think it is something in myself," she said presently; "something a little wrong that i'm dreadfully tired of. always men. out here a howat penny, just like any fribble about the court. god, i'd like to be that girl across the road, in the barnyard." he was back at the fire again when gilbert penny entered the room. the latter dropped a palm on howat's shoulder. "schwar says the last sow metal was faulty," he declared; "the furnace'll need some attention with abner forsythe deeper in the provincial affairs. splendid thing david's back. look for a lot from david." howat hoped desperately that ludowika would not leave, go to her room, while his father was talking. "david says you have an understanding, will do great things. i hope so. i hope so. i won't damn him as an example but he will do you no harm. that is, if he touches your confounded person at all. a black penny, mrs. winscombe," he said, turning to the figure spread in pale silk on the sofa. "fortunate for you to have no such confounded, stubborn lot on your hands. although," he added laughingly, "felix winscombe's no broken reed. but this boy of mine--you might think he had been run out of shadrach," he tapped a finger on howat's back. "not like those fellows about the court, anyway. they tell me he'll go fifty miles through the woods in a day. now if we could only keep that at the iron trade--" his father went on insufferably, without end. howat withdrew stiffly from the other's touch. irresistibly he drifted back, back to ludowika. she had not moved; her bent hand seemed dislocated. an immense tenderness for her overwhelmed him; his sheer passion vapourized into a poignant sweetness of solicitous feeling. he was protective; his jaw set rigidly, he enveloped her in an angry barrier from all the world. he had a sensation of standing at bay; in his mulberry damask, in brocade and silver buttons, he had an impression of himself stooped and savage, confronting a menacing dark with ludowika flung behind him. inexplicable tremors assailed him, vast fears. his father's deliberate voice destroyed the illusion; he saw the candles about him like white and yellow flowers, the suave interior. the others had returned. he heard ludowika speaking; she laughed. his tension relaxed. suddenly he was flooded with happiness, as if he had been drenched in sparkling, delightful water. he joined in the gay, trivial clamour that arose. isabel penny gazed at him speculatively. there would, it appeared, be no other opportunity that evening for him to declare himself to ludowika. he was vaguely conscious of his mother's scrutiny; he must avoid exposing ludowika to any uncomfortable surmising. his thoughts leaped forward to a revelation that he began to feel was inevitable; he got even now a tangible pleasure from the consideration of an announcement of his passion for ludowika winscombe, a sheer insistence upon it in the face of an antagonistic world. but for the present he must be careful. this, the greatest event that had befallen him, summed up all that he innately was; it expressed him, a black penny, absolutely; howat felt the distance between himself, his convictions, and the convictions of the world, immeasurably widening. his feeling for ludowika symbolized his isolation from the interwoven fabric of the plane of society; it gave at last a tangible bulk to his scorn. as he had feared, presently she rose and went to her room. myrtle took her place on the sofa. gilbert penny vanished with a broad witticism at the well known preference of youth, in certain situations, for its own council. david forsythe made a wry face at howat. caroline gaily laid her arm across her mother's shoulder and propelled her from the room. david stood awkwardly in the middle of the floor; and howat, hardly less clumsy, took his departure. he found caroline awaiting him in the shadow of his door; she followed him and stood silent while he made a light. her face was serious, and her hands clasped tightly. "howat," she said in a small voice, "it's--it's, that is, david loves me. whatever do you suppose father and myrtle will say?" "what do you think david is saying to myrtle now?" he asked drily. "i am glad, caroline; everything worked out straight for you. david is a damned good quaker. for some others life isn't so easy." she laid a warm hand on his shoulder. "i wish you were happy, howat." a slight irritation seized him at the facile manner in which she radiated her satisfaction, and he moved away. "david's going back to-night. i wish he wouldn't," she said troubled. "that long, dark way. anything might happen. but he has simply got to be at his father's office in the morning. he is going to speak to him first, see what will be given us at the furnace." "it should be quite a family party at breakfast," howat predicted. vii he was entirely right. ludowika rarely appeared so early; myrtle's face seemed wan and pinched, and her father rallied her on her indisposition after what should have been an entrancing evening. she declared suddenly, "i hate david forsythe!" gilbert penny was obviously startled. caroline half rose, as if she had finished breakfast; but she sat down again with an expression of determination. howat looted about from his removed place of being. "i do!" myrtle repeated. "at first he seemed to like--i mean i liked him, and then everything changed, got horrid. some one interfered." resentment, suspicion, dominated her, she grew shrill with anger. "i saw him making faces at howat, as if he and howat, as if howat had, well--" "don't generalize," said howat coolly; "be particular." "as if you had deliberately spoiled any chance, yes," she declared defiantly, "any chance i had." "that's ridiculous," gilbert penny declared. "what," he asked his wife, "are they all driving at?" she professed herself equally puzzled. "howat would say nothing disadvantageous to young forsythe. he knows what we all hope." caroline suddenly leaned forward, speaking in a level voice: "this has nothing to do with howat, but with me. i am going to tell you at once, so that you can all say what you wish, get as angry as you like, and then accept what--what had to be. david and i love each other; we are going to be married." gilbert penny's surprise slowly gave place to a dark tide suffusing his countenance. "you and david," he half stuttered, "getting married--like that." myrtle was rigid in an indignation that left her momentarily without speech. mrs. penny, howat saw, drew into the slight remoteness from which she watched the conflicts of her family. "i know i'm fearfully bold, yes, indecent," caroline went on, "and undutiful, impertinent. i'm sorry, truly, for that. perhaps you'll forgive me, later. but i won't apologize for loving david." "incredible," her father pronounced. "a girl announcing, without the slightest warrant or authority, that she intends to marry. and trampling on her sister's heart in the bargain." howat expostulated, "what does it matter which he marries? the main affair is to consolidate the families." the elder glared at him. "be silent!" he commanded. howat penny's ever present resentment rose to the surface. "i am not a girl," he stated; "nor yet a nigger. and, personally, i think david was extremely wise." "i was sure of it," myrtle cried; "he--he has talked against me, helped caroline behind my back." she sobbed thinly, with her arm across her eyes. "if i thought anything like that had occurred," their father asserted, "howat would--" he paused, gazing heavily about at his family. howat's ill temper arose. "yes--?" he demanded with a sharp inflection. "be still, howat," his mother said unexpectedly. "this is all very regrettable, gilbert," she told her husband; "but it is an impossible subject of discussion." gilbert penny continued hotly, "he wouldn't stay about here." she replied equably, "on the contrary, howat shall be at myrtle forge until he himself chooses to leave." howat was conscious of a surprise almost as moving as that pictured on his father's countenance. he had never heard isabel penny speak in that manner before; perhaps at last she would reveal what he had long speculated over--her true, inner situation. but he saw at once that he was to be again disappointed; the speaker was immediately enveloped in her detachment, the air that seemed almost one of a spectator in the penny household. she smiled deprecatingly. how fine she was, howat thought. gilbert penny did not readily recover from his consternation; his surprise had notably increased to that. his mouth was open, his face red and agitated. "before the children, isabel," he complained. "don't know what to think. surely, surely, you don't uphold howat? outrageous conduct if it's true. and myrtle so gentle, never hurt any one in her life." myrtle circled the table, and found a place in his arms. "if they had only told me," she protested. "if caroline--" he patted her flushed cheeks. "don't give it another thought," he directed; "a girl as pretty as you! i'll take you to london, where you'll have a string of men, not quakers, fine as peacocks." he bent his gaze on his son. "didn't i tell you last evening that the cast metal has been light?" he demanded. "must i beg you to go to the furnace? or perhaps that too conflicts with your mother's fears for you. there are stumps in the road." there was a whisper of skirts at the door, and ludowika winscombe stood smiling at them. myrtle turned her tear-swollen face upon her father's shoulder. howat wondered if ludowika had slept. he endeavoured in vain to discover from her serene countenance something of her thoughts of what had occurred. he had a sudden inspiration. "i can go to shadrach as soon as adam saddles a horse," he told his father. "you were curious about the furnace," he added to ludowika, masking the keen anxiety he felt at what was to follow; "it's a sunny day, a pleasant ride." she answered without a trace of feeling other than a casual politeness. "thank you, since it will be my only opportunity. i'll have to change." she was gazing, howat discovered, lightly at isabel penny. "i must get the figures from schwar," his father said. before he left the room he moved to his wife's side, rested his hand on her shoulder. she looked up at him with a reassuring nod. howat saw that, whatever it might be, the bond between them was secure, stronger than any differences of prejudices or blood, more potent than time itself. the group, the strain, about the table, broke up. the horses footed abreast over the road that crossed the hills and forded the watered swales between myrtle forge and the furnace. ludowika, riding astride, enveloped and hooded in bottle green, had her face muffled in a linen riding mask. he wondered vainly what expression she bore. speech he found unexpectedly difficult. his passion mounted and mounted within him, all his being swept unresistingly in its tide. howat said at last: "are you still so angry at life, at yourself?" "no," she replied; "i slept that foolishness away. i must have sounded like a character in _the lying valet._" her present mood obscurely troubled him; he infinitely preferred her in the pale crumpled silk and candle light of the evening before. "i wish i could tell you what i feel," he said moodily. "why not?" she replied. "it's the most amusing thing possible. you advance and i seem to retreat; you reach forward and grasp--my fan, a handful of petticoat; you protest and sulk--" "perhaps in vauxhall," he interrupted her savagely, "but not here, not like that, not with me. this is not a gavotte. i didn't want it; i tried to get away; but it, you, had me in a breath. at once it was all over. god knows what it is. call it love. it isn't a thing under a hedge, i tell you that, for an hour. it's stronger than anything else that will ever touch me, it will last longer.... like falling into a river. perhaps i'm different, a black penny, but what other men take like water, a woman, is brandy for me. i'm--i'm not used to it. i haven't wanted kate here and mary there; but only you. i've got to have you," he said with a marked simplicity. "i've got to, or there will be a bad smash." ludowika rode silently, hid in her mask. he urged his horse closer to her, and laid a hand on her swaying shoulder. "i didn't choose this," he repeated; "the blame's somewhere else." he felt a tremor run through her. "why say blame?" she finally answered. "i hate moralities and excuses and tears. if you are set on being gloomy, and talking to heaven about damnation, take it all away from me." a shadow moved across the countryside, and he saw clouds rising out of the north. a sudden wind swept through the still forest, and immediately the air was aflame with rushing autumn leaves. they fell across howat's face and eddied about the horses' legs. the grey bank deepened in space, the sun vanished; the wind was bleak. it seemed to howat penny that the world had changed, its gold stricken to dun and gaunt branches, in an instant. the road descended to the clustered stone houses about shadrach furnace. the horses were left under the shed of the smithy at the primitive cross roads. thomas gilkan had gone to the river about a purchase of casting sand, but expected to be back for the evening run of metal. fanny was away, howat learned, visiting dan hesa's family. they would, of course, have dinner at the heydricks; and the latter sent a boy home to prepare his wife. ludowika and howat aimlessly followed the turning road that mounted to the coal house. a levelled and beaten path, built up with stone, led out to the top of the stack, where a group of sooty figures were gathered about the clear, almost smokeless flame of the blast. below they lingered on the grassy edge of the stream banked against the hillside and flooding smoothly to the clamorous fall and revolving wheel by the wood shed that covered the bellows. pointed downward the latter spasmodically discharged a rush of air with a vast creasing of their dusty leather. a procession of men were wheeling and dumping slag into a dreary area beyond. there was a stir of constant life about the furnace, voices calling, the ringing of metal on metal, the creak of barrows, dogs barking. the plaintive melody of a german song rose on the air. behind a blood red screen of sumach howat again kissed ludowika. her arms tightened about his neck; she raised her face to him with an abandon that blinded him to the world about, and his entire being was drawn in an agony of desire to his lips. she sank limply into his rigid embrace, a warm sensuous burden with parted lips. at the heydricks he ate senselessly whatever was placed before him. the house, solidly built of grey stone traced with iron, had two rooms on the lower floor. the table was set before a fireplace that filled the length of the wall, its mantel a great, roughly squared log mortared into the stones on either side. small windows opened through deep embrasures, a door bound with flowering, wrought hinges faced the road, and a narrow flight of stairs, with a polished rail and white post, led above. mrs. heydrick, a large woman in a capacious holland apron and worsted shoes, moved about the table with steaming pewter trenchards while heydrick and their guests dined. howat penny's face burned as if from a violent fever; his veins, it seemed, were channels through which ran burning wine. he was deafened by the tumult within him. heydrick's voice sounded flat and blurred. they were conscious at shadrach of the thin quality of the last metal. the charge had been poorly made up; he, heydrick, had said at once, when the cinders had come out black, that the lime had been short. his words fled through howat's brain like racing birds; the latter's motions were unsteady, inexact. the clouds had now widened in a sagging plain across the sky, some scattered rain pattered coldly on the fallen leaves. it was pleasant before the hickory burning in the deep fireplace; the heydricks had taken for granted that they would wait there for thomas gilkan, and they protested when howat and ludowika moved toward the door. but howat was restless beyond any possibility of patiently hearing mrs. heydrick's cheerful, trivial talk. he was so clumsy with ludowika's cloak that she took it from him, and, with a careless, feminine scorn in common with mrs. heydrick, got into it without assistance. they stood for a while in the cast house, watching a keeper rolling and preparing the pig bed for the evening flow. they were pressed close together in a profound gloom of damp warmth rising from the wet sand and furnace. an obscure figure moved a heavy and faintly clanging pile of tamping bars. the sound of rain on the roof grew louder, continuous. a poignant and then strangling emotion clutched at howat penny's throat. silently they turned from the murky interior. a grey rain was plastering the leaves on the soggy ground; puddles accumulated in the scarred road; the smoke from the smithy hung low on the roof. at the left a small, stone house had a half opened door. ludowika looked within. "for storing," howat told her. inside were piled sledges and cinder hooks, bars and moulds, and bales of tanned hides. ludowika explored in the shadows. a sudden eddy of wind slammed to the door through which they had entered. they drew together irresistibly, and stood for a long while, crushed in each other's arms; then ludowika stepped back with her cloak sliding from her shoulders. she rested against precarious steps leading aloft through a square opening in the ceiling. "for storage," he said again. he thought his throat had closed, and that he must suffocate. a mechanical impulse to show her what was above set his foot upon the lower step, and he caught her waist. "you see," he muttered; "things for the store ... the men, wool stockings, handkerchiefs ... against their pay." the drumming rain was scarcely a foot above their heads; an acrid and musty odour rose from the boxes and canvas-sewed bales about the walls. "ludowika," howat said. he stopped--she had shut her eyes. all that was howat penny, that was individually sentient, left him with a pounding rush. a faint sound, infinitely far removed, but insistent, penetrated his blurred senses. it grew louder; rain, rain beating on the roof. voices, somewhere, outside. ringing blows on an anvil, a blacksmith, and horses waiting. myrtle forge. ludowika. ludowika winscombe. no, by god, never that last again! he stood outside with his head bare and his face lifted to the cool shock of the rain. ludowika was muffled in her cloak. howat could see a renewed activity in the cast house; a group of men were gathered about the furnace hearth, in which he saw thomas gilkan. he moved forward to call the latter; but a tapping was in progress, and he was forced to wait. gilkan swung a long bar against a low, clay face, and instantly the murky interior was ablaze with a crackling radiance against which the tense figures wavered in magnified silhouettes. the metal poured out of the furnace in a continuous, blinding white explosion hung with fans of sparkling gold; the channels of the pig bed rapidly filled with the fluid iron. finally howat penny lifted ludowika to her saddle and swung himself up at her side. the rain had stopped; below the eastern rim of cloud an expanse showed serenely clear. their horses soberly took the rise beyond shadrach furnace and merged into the gathering dusk of the forest road. a deep tranquillity had succeeded the tempest of howat's emotions; it would not continue, he knew; already the pressure of immense, new difficulties gathered about him; but momentarily he ignored them. he searched his feelings curiously. the fact that struck him most sharply was that he was utterly without remorse for what had occurred; it had been inevitable. he experienced none of the fears against which ludowika had exclaimed. he lingered over no self-accusations, the reproach of adultery. he was absolutely unable then to think of felix winscombe except as a person generally unconcerned. if he repeated silently the term husband it was without any sense of actuality; the satirical individual in the full bottomed wig, now absent in maryland, had no importance in the passionate situation that had arisen between ludowika and himself. felix winscombe would of course have to be met, dealt with; but so would a great many other exterior conditions. ludowika, in her linen mask, was enigmatic, a figure of mystery. a complete silence continued between them; at times they ambled with his hand on her body; then the inequalities of the road forced them apart. the clouds dissolved, the sky was immaculate, green, with dawning stars like dim white flowers. a faint odour of the already mouldering year rose from the wet earth. suddenly ludowika dragged the mask from her face. quivering with intense feeling she cried: "i'm glad, howat! howat, i'm glad!" he contrived to put an arm about her, crush her to him for a precarious moment. "we have had an unforgettable day out of life," she continued rapidly; "that is something. it has been different, strangely apart, from all the rest. the rain and that musty little store house and the wonderful iron; a memory to hold, carry away--" "to carry where?" he interrupted. "you must realize that i'll never let you go now. i will keep you if we have to go beyond the endless mountains. i will keep you in the face of any man or opposition created." a wistfulness settled upon her out of which grew a slight hope. "i am afraid of myself, howat," she told him; "all that i have been, my life--against me. but, perhaps, here, with you, it might be different. perhaps i would be constant. perhaps all the while i have needed this. howat, do you think so? do you think i could forget so much, drop the past from me, be all new and happy?" he reassured her, only half intent upon the burden of her words. he utterly disregarded anything provisional in their position; happiness or unhappiness were unconsidered in the overwhelming determination that she should never leave him. no remote question of that entered his brain. the difficulties were many, but he dismissed them with an impatient gesture of his unoccupied hand. gilbert penny would be heavily censorious; he had, howat recognized, the moral prejudices of a solid, unimaginative blood. but, lately, his father had sunk to a place comparatively insignificant in his thoughts. this was partly due to the complete manner in which isabel penny had silenced the elder at breakfast. his mother, howat gladly felt, would give him the sympathy of a wise, broad understanding. david and caroline would interpose no serious objection. felix winscombe remained; a virile figure in spite of his years; a man of assured position and a bitter will. he determined to speak on the day that felix winscombe returned from annapolis; there would be no concealment of what had occurred, and no hypocrisy. a decent regret at winscombe's supreme loss. the other would not relinquish ludowika without a struggle. who would? it was conceivable that he would summon the assistance of the law, conceivable but not probable; the situation had its centre in a purely personal pride. nothing essential could be won legally. a physical encounter was far more likely. howat thought of that coldly. he had no chivalrous instinct to offer himself as a sop to conventional honour. in any struggle, exchange of shots, he intended to be victorious.... he would have the naming of the conditions. "it's beautiful here," ludowika broke into his speculations; "the great forests and myrtle forge. i can almost picture myself directing servants like your mother, getting supplies out of the store, and watching the charcoal and iron brought down to the forge. the sound of the hammer has become a part of my dreams. and you, howat--i have never before had a feeling like this for a man. there's a little fear in it even. it must be stronger than the other, than europe; i want it to be." they could see below them the lighted windows at myrtle forge. the horses turned unguided into the curving way across the lawn. a figure stood obsequiously at the door; it was, howat saw with deep automatic revulsion, the italian servant. he wondered again impatiently at the persistently unpleasant impression the other made on him. gilbert penny was waiting in the hall, and howat told him fully the result of his investigation. his father nodded, satisfied. "you are taking hold a great bit better," he was obviously pleased. "we must go over the whole iron situation with the forsythes. it's time you and david stepped forward. i am getting bothered by new complications; the thing is spreading out so rapidly--steel and a thousand new methods and refinements. and the english opposition; i'm afraid you'll come into that." ludowika did not again appear that evening, and howat sat informally before a blazing hearth with his mother, gilbert penny and caroline. myrtle had retired with a headache. howat felt pleasantly settled, almost middle-aged; he smoked a pipe with the deliberate gestures of his father. he wondered at the loss of his old restlessness, his revolt from just such placid scenes as the present. never, he had thought, would he be caught, bound, with invidious affections, desires. howat, a black penny! he had been subjugated by a force stronger than his rebellious spirit. suddenly, recalling ludowika's doubt, he wondered if he would be a subject to it always. all the elements of his captivity lay so entirely outside of him, beyond his power to measure or comprehend, that a feeling of helplessness came over him. he again had the sense of being swept twisting in an irresistible flood. but his confusion was dominated by one great assurance--nothing should deprive him of ludowika. an intoxicating memory invaded him, touched every nerve with delight and a tyrannical hunger. his fibre seemed to crumble, his knees turn to dust. years ago he had been poisoned by berries, and limpness almost like this had gone softly, treacherously, through him. viii they entered into a period of secret contentment and understanding. ludowika displayed a grave interest in the details of the house and iron at myrtle forge; he explained the processes that resulted in the wrought blooms despatched by tons in the lumbering, mule-drawn wagons. they explored the farm, where she listened approvingly to the changes he proposed making, kitchen gardens to be planted, the hedges of roses and gravelled paths to be laid--for her. she suggested an italian walk, latticed above, with a stone seat, and was indicating a corner that might be transformed into a semblance of an angle of versailles, when, suddenly, she stopped, and clasped his wrist. "no! no!" she exclaimed, with surprising energy. "we'll have no france, no court, here, but only america; only you and myself, with no past, no memories, but just the future." how that was to be realized neither of them considered; they avoided all practical issues, difficulties. they never mentioned felix winscombe's name. however, a long communication came from him for his wife. she read it thoughtfully, in the drawing room, awaiting dinner. no one else but howat was present, and he was standing with his hand on her shoulder. "felix hasn't been well," she remarked presently. "for the first time he has spoken to me of his age. the maryland affair drags, and that has wearied him." "what does he say about returning?" howat bluntly asked. "shortly, he hopes; that is, in another ten days. he says there is a good ship, the _lindamira_, by the middle of november." howat said, "excellent." ludowika gazed at him swiftly. "it will be difficult." his face became grim, but he made no direct reply. a silence fell on the room through which vibrated the blows of the trip hammer at the forge. the day was grey and definitely cold; a small cannon stove glowed in the counting house; but ludowika kept mostly to her room. she sent him a note by the italian, and howat eyed the fellow bowing in the doorway. a flexibility that seemed entirely without bones. his eyes were jet slits, his lips shaven and mobile; a wig was repulsively saturated with scented grease. yet it was not in actual details that he oppressed howat; but by the vague suggestion of debasing commendations, of surreptitious understanding, insinuations. he seemed, absurdly, unreal, a symbol the intent of which howat missed; he suppressed an insane movement to touch the italian, discover if he was actually before him. he reread ludowika's note whenever he was not actually employed in recording, until he was obliged to conceal it in the forge book. later abner forsythe arrived with david, and there was a stir of preparing rooms and communication with the farm. david's mother was dead, and abner conducted the wedding negotiations with the pennys. "i thought it would be the pretty little one," he said at the table, with a quaker disregard of small niceties of feeling; "but, gilbert, any girl of yours would be more than the young men of the present deserve." it was a difficult conversation for every one but ludowika and abner forsythe. a greater ease appeared after supper. david and caroline disappeared in the direction of the clavichord, from which sounded some scattered, perfunctory measures. the two elder men returned, over a decanter of french spirits, to the inevitable and engrossing subject of iron and the crown regulations; myrtle sat stiffly before the fireplace with isabel penny; and howat moved up and across the room, his gaze lying on ludowika, spread in an expanse of orange chiffon and bold silver tracery on the small sofa. she smiled at him once, but, for the most part, she was lost in revery. ludowika had a fan, to hold against the fire; and her white fingers were playing with its polished black sticks and glazed paper printed with an ornamental bar of music. a faint colour stained her cheeks as he watched her, and set his heart tumultuously beating. he told himself over and over, with an unabated sense of wonder, that she was his. he longed for the moment when they could discard all pretence and be frankly, completely, together. that must happen after felix winscombe arrived. meanwhile he was forced to content himself with a look, a quick or lingering contact of fingers, the crush of her body against his momentarily in a passage. they had returned once to the rock where he had first been intoxicated by her; in a strangling wave of emotion he had taken her into his arms; but she had broken away. the width of the stream and screen of trees had apparently disconcerted ludowika, and she contrived to make him feel inexcusably young, awkward. but usually he dominated her; there was a depth to his passion that achieved patience, the calmness of unassailable fortitude. she gazed at him often with a surprise that bordered on fear; again she would delight in his mastery, beg him to hold her forever safe against the past. he reassured her of his ability and determination to accomplish that; there was not the shadow of a doubt in his own mind. he was more troubled now than formerly; but he was eager for the climax to pass, impatient to claim his own. as if a dam had been again thrown across the flood of his emotions he felt them mounting, growing more and more irrepressible. he slept in feverish snatches, with gaps in which he stared wide-eyed into the dark, trying to realize his coming joy, visualizing ludowika, a brilliant apparition of flowing silk, on the night. he thought of the store house at the furnace, of the rain beating on the roof, and ludowika ... god, if that old man would only return, go, leave them! the clouds vanished and left the nights emerald clear, the constellations glittered in frosty immensities of silence. he stood at the open window with his shoulders bare, revelling in the cold air that flowed over him, defying winter, death itself. the moon waned immutably. david was now at shadrach furnace, living with the heydricks, and the necessities that brought him to myrtle forge were endless. he was absolutely happy, and howat watched him with mingled longing and envy. his affair, darker, more tragic in spite of a consummation that must be joyous, seemed infinitely more mature. caroline was a nice enough girl, but ludowika was supremely fascinating. david amused him: "caroline is a miracle. of course there are prettier, and mrs. winscombe has more air; but none has caroline's charming manner. of course, you have noticed it. even a thick-headed brother couldn't miss that. we have plans for you, too. and it's no good your looking glum; we'll glum you." the amusement faded from howat's countenance, and he listened sullenly to the end of the raillery. his temper was growing daily more uneven, the delight had largely left his reflections. his passion had become too insistent for happy conjecturing; the visions of ludowika now only tormented him. her eyes were like burning sapphires, her warm palms caressed his face; he was increasingly gaunt and shadowed. once he gave a note for her to the italian servant, loathing the hand that adroitly covered the folded sheet, the other's oblique smile; but she sent back word that she was suffering from a headache. he began to plan so that he would intercept her in unexpected places. she, too, was passionate in her admissions; but, somehow, some one always stumbled toward them, or they were summoned from beyond. he began to feel that this was not mere chance, but desired, deliberately courted, by ludowika. very well, he would end it all, as it were, with a shout when felix winscombe came back. when felix winscombe came back! he was, too, increasingly aware of his mother's scrutiny. howat was certain that isabel penny had surmised a part of his feeling for ludowika. he didn't greatly care; any one might know, he thought contemptuously. it had destroyed his sympathetic feeling for his mother, the only considerate bond that had existed with his family. unconsciously he placed her on one side of a line, the other held only ludowika and himself. he explained this to her in a sere reach of the garden. it was afternoon, the sun low and a haze on the hills. ludowika had on a scarlet wrap, curiously vivid against the withered, brown aspect of the faded flower stems. "you and me," he repeated. she gazed, without answering, at the barrier of hills that closed in myrtle forge. from the thickets came the clear whistling of partridges, intensifying the unbroken tranquillity that surrounded the habitations. howat was suddenly conscious of the pressure of vast, unguessed regions, primitive forces, illimitable wildernesses. it brought uppermost in him a corresponding zest in the sheer spaciousness of the land, a feeling always intensified by the thought of england. "the province," he said disjointedly, "a place for men. did you see those that followed the road this morning? perhaps five with their women, some pack horses, kitchen tins and hide tents. the men wore buckskin, and furred caps, and the women's skirts were sewed leather. one was tramping along with a feeding baby. well, god knows where they have been, how many days they have walked; their shoes were in shreds. and their faces, thin and serious, have looked steadily over rifles at death. the women, too. you'll only get them here, in a big country, a new--" "they were terrible," ludowika declared; "savage. i was glad when they were by. the baby at the woman's great breast!" she shuddered at the memory. "like animals." he gazed at her with a slight surprise; he had never heard her speak so bitterly. he saw her more clearly than ever before; as if her words had illuminated her extraordinary delicacy of being, had made visible all the infinite refinements of which she was the result. he had a recurrence of his sense of her incongruity here, balanced on polished black pattens, against the darkening hills. the sun disappeared, there was a cool flare of yellow light, and a feeling of impending evening. the hills were indigo, the forest a dimmer gold, a wind moved audible in the dry leaves. ludowika gasped. "it's so--so huge," she said, "all the lonely miles. at times i can't bear to think of it." a faint dread invaded him. "last night, when i couldn't sleep, a thing howled in the woods. and i got thinking of those naked men at the forge, with their eyes rimmed in black, and--and--" he disregarded the publicity of their position and put an arm about her shoulders, in an overwhelming impulse to calm and reassure her; but she slipped away. "i'll be all right again," she promised; "but i think it's more cheerful with the candles. we'll get your sister to play belshazzar and pretend we're across the green from st. james." a mood darker than any he had lately known settled over him. it was natural for ludowika to be lonely, at first; but in a little she would grow to love the wild like himself. she must. the province was to be her life. he was standing before the fire in the informal chamber beyond the dining room, watching his mother's vigorous hands deftly engaged in embroidery. there was no one present, and a sudden, totally desperate recklessness possessed him. isabel penny said: "mr. winscombe will be here shortly." "i wish it would be to-night," he declared. she raised her calm gaze with brows arched in inquiry. "there is something--" he broke off. "she belongs to me," he said in a low, harsh voice, "and not to that old man." mrs. penny secured her needle, and put the colourful web aside. she was, as he had been sure she would be, entirely composed, admirable. her questioning look grew keener. "i was afraid of that," she admitted simply; "after the first. it is very unpleasant and difficult. this is not london, and your father will make no allowances. you are not any easier to bend, howat. with mrs. winscombe--" she paused, "i am not certain. but there is no doubt about the husband." "she belongs to me," he reiterated sullenly. "there is no need for you to make yourself offensively clear. i know something of details of that kind. i told you once that they might mean only a very little to--to certain women. i am not prepared to judge about that. but i know you, what bitter feeling you are capable of. you are a very pure man, howat; and for that reason such an occurrence would tear you up and across. there is no use in begging you to be cautious, diplomatic. mr. winscombe, too, is very determined; he has many advantages--maturity, coldness, experience. he won't spare you, either. it's excessively unfortunate." "i'll get it over as quickly as possible. i didn't want the thing to happen, it wasn't from any choice; it hit me like a bullet. nothing else is of the slightest importance. i've gone over this again and again; i'll tell him and let him try what he can. ludowika's gone from--from the fireworks and fiddles and stinking courts; i've got her, and, by god, i'll keep her!" "talk quietly; you can't shout yourself into this. are you certain that mrs. winscombe really finds the courts--stinking? i remember, at first," she stopped. even in the midst of his passion he listened for what revelation she might make; but none followed. she was silent for a minute. "they become a habit," she said finally; "love, loves, become a habit. only men brought up in the same atmosphere can understand. at first felix winscombe will be infuriated with you for speaking, then he will realize more, and the trouble will follow. are you certain that you have comprehended? it would be stupid to mistake an episode, you would succeed only in making yourself ridiculous." he lifted up both his hands and closed them with a quivering, relentless force. "truly," isabel penny remarked, "truly i begin to be sorry for her. there is something she has yet to learn about men. nothing can be said; and that is what your father will not penetrate. howat, i am even a little afraid ... now. that, i believe, is unusual for me. it's your blackness, like powder. the explosion can kill. nothing may be said. life drags us along by the hair." her questions about ludowika joined to the memory of the latter's revulsion from the primitive conditions of the province and added to the heaviness of his heart. he mentally denied his mother's suggestions, drove them from him, but they left a faint enduring sting, a vague unrest. his passion for ludowika swelled, dominated, him; he forgot everything but his own, supreme desire. nothing else stood before its flood; all thought of ludowika's final happiness was lost with the other detritus. the tense closing of his hands had symbolized his feeling, his intent. he held her in a manner as nakedly primitive as the inchoate sexuality of the emotion that had engulfed him. ludowika did not appear for supper, and he was possessed by a misery of vague apprehensions. he must know something of her thoughts, have a token from her of some feeling like his own; and, waiting, he stopped the italian on the stairs. the latter knew his purpose immediately, without a spoken word; and he followed howat's brusque gesture to his room. he hastily wrote a note; and the latter brought him back a reply, only partly satisfactory, with an air of relish. for the first time the affair had the hateful appearance of an intrigue, like a court adventure. it was the italian servant, howat decided; and immediately he recognized why he disliked the other--it was because he expressed an aspect of slyness that lay over ludowika and himself. he put that from him, too; but it was like brushing away cobwebs. his hunger for ludowika increased all the while; it became more burningly material, insatiable and concrete. on the day following she clung to him, when opportunity offered, with a desperate energy of emotion. "you must hold me tighter," she told him. her mood rapidly changed, and she complained of the eternal, pervasive fall of the forge hammer. "it will drive me mad," she declared almost wildly. "i can't bear to think of its going on and on, year after year; listening to it--" he heard her with sombre eyes. she had come to the counting house, empty for the moment but for themselves, and stood with her countenance shadowed by a frown. "if the hammer stops," he replied, waving his hand largely, "all this, the pennys, stop, too. i'm afraid that sound of beating out iron will be always wrought through our lives. you will get accustomed to it--" her expression grew petulant, resentful. "do you mean that we couldn't, perhaps, go to england, if--if i wanted?" he moved closer to her, brushing the circumference of her skirt. "you asked me to hold you, to keep you from the past; and i am going to do it. london is all that you wish to forget; it must go completely out of your life ... never finger you again." a faint dread that deepened almost to antagonism was visible on her countenance. "i suppose to men talk like that seems a sign of strength, of possession; but it doesn't impress women, really. you see, women give, or else--there is nothing." "i had no thought of impressing you," he said simply; "i only repeated what came into my mind, what i mean. it would be a mistake for me to take you to england, and make both of us miserable. beside, there is more to tend here than i'll ever accomplish." she objected, "but other people, workmen, will do the actual labour. surely you are not going to keep on with anything so vulgar--" she indicated the office and desks. her features sharpened with contempt. "i'll not be a clerk," he told her gravely. "but i am responsible for a great deal. you should understand that for you showed it to me. most of what i am now has been you." he reached out his hands to her in a wave of tenderness, but she evaded him. she stood irresolute for a moment and then abruptly turned and disappeared. a white rim of new moon grew visible at the edge of dusk, and he stood gazing at it before he entered the dwelling. a dull unrest had become part of his inner tumult, a premonition falling over him like an advancing shadow. but above all his vague fears rose the knowledge that he would never let ludowika go from him; that was the root of his being. now she could never leave him. it was natural, he assured himself again, that she should feel doubts at first; everything here was so different from the life she had known; and women were variable. he would have to understand that, learn to accommodate himself to changing, surface moods, immovable underneath. she had put on for supper, he saw, a daring dress; and her expression was that which he had first noted, indifferent, slightly scoffing. her shoulders and arms gleamed under fragile gauze, her bodice was hardly more than a caress of silk. he watched her every movement, and got a sort of satisfaction from the knowledge that she grew increasingly disturbed at his unwavering scrutiny. his mother's attitude toward mrs. winscombe had not changed by a shade, an inflection; she was correctly cordial in her slightly distant manner. in the ebb and flow of the evening howat was left with ludowika for a little, and he bent over her, kissing her sharply. she was coldly unresponsive; and he kissed her again, trying vainly to bring some warmth to her lips. she did not avoid him actually, but he felt that something in her, essential, slipped aside from his caress. his emotion changed to a mounting anger. "you will have to get over this now or later," he asserted. she said surprisingly, "felix will be home this week." he stood with an arm half raised, his head turned, as he had been arrested by her period. "well?" he demanded stupidly. her tone had been beyond his comprehension. "felix," she went on, apparently at random, "is very satisfactory." something of her intent penetrated his stunned faculties. he advanced toward her dark with rage. "and if he is," he replied, "it will do him no good. it will do you no good, if you think--" he broke off from an accession of emotion. "what damned thing are you thinking of?" "the princess amelia's stockings," she answered pertly. "you'll never put them on her again, like any dirty chamber maid." "felix, the end of this week," she repeated. "i'll kill him," howat whispered; "if he lifts a hand i'll shoot him through the head. this was forced on me; some one else, responsible, can pay." her chin was up, her expression mocking. "ridiculous, like any cloddish countryman." she walked deliberately away, seated herself in a graceful eddy of panniered silk. a cold torment succeeded his rage; he had the feeling of being hopelessly trapped, stifling in his passion. he followed her. "ludowika, this is horrible, so soon. i am willing to think that i am to blame; stupid; no experience. you will have to be patient with me. naturally everything, now--" he broke off and wandered to a window, holding aside the draperies, gazing out into the night. the sky was so luminous that the barriers of surrounding hills were printed clearly against starry space. the forest swept about in a dark veil; nowhere could be seen a glimpse of habitation. he heard the wavering cry of an owl. the province, immense, secretive! paper lanterns strung in parks, hid music, provocative smiles only playing with the heart! it was tremendously unfortunate. why must they suffer so unreasonably? something, he was certain, had gone wrong; it lay both within them and outside; a force diverted, a purpose unaccomplished. it bent, broke, them like two twigs; they were no more than two bubbles, momentarily reflecting the sky, on a profound depth. a wind stirred, oppressed them, and they were gone. a great pity for ludowika took its place in his feelings. he was sorry for himself. suddenly the rustle of her skirts approached. an infinitely seductive, warm arm crept about his neck; she abandoned herself to a ruthless embrace. "it's been wonderful, howat; and--and it isn't over, yet. nothing lasts, it's a mistake to demand too much. we must take what we may. perhaps, even, later--in london. no, don't interrupt me. after all, i'm wiser than you are. i was swept away for a little. impossibilities. i am what i am. i was always that, inside of me. if the longing i told you about had been stronger, it, and not the court, would have made me; but it was no more than a glimpse seen from a window, a thing far away. i'd never reach it. this, now, has been the best of me, all." he had a mingled sense of the truth and futility of her words. it was as if his passion stood apart from them, dominating them, lashing him with desire. nothing she might say, no necessity nor effort, could free them. the uselessness of words smote him. she spoke again, an urgent flow of dulcet sound against his ear; but it was without meaning, lost in the drumming of his blood. the stir of feet approached, and he released her, moving to the fireplace. it was caroline. she stopped awkwardly, advancing a needless explanation of a trivial errand from the doorway, and vanished. his position at myrtle forge was fast becoming impossible. there would be an explosion now at any moment. he took the fire tongs and idly rearranged the wood on the hearth. the flames blazed more brightly, their reflection squirmed over the lacquer frames on the walls, gleamed richly on polished black walnut, and fell across the turkey floor carpet. it even reached through the pale candle light and flickered on ludowika's dull red gown, flowered and clouded with blue. she was turned away from him, against the window; her shoulders drooped in an attitude of dejection. the flames died away again. ix ludowika's manner toward him became self-possessed, even animated; and, howat thought, preoccupied. she was expectant, with a slightly impatient air, as if she were looking beyond his shoulder. the cause occurred to him in a flash that ignited his anger like a ready-charged explosive. she was waiting, desiring, the return of her husband. felix winscombe, she thought, would mean--escape. he used the word deliberately, realizing that that now expressed her attitude toward the province, toward him. it made no difference in his feeling for her, his determination that nothing should take her from him. his power of detachment vanished; he became utterly the instrument of his passion. he didn't press upon her small expressions of his emotion; somehow, without struggle, she had made them seem foolish; beyond that they were inadequate. he was conscious of the approach of a great climax; his feeling was above the satisfaction of trivial caresses. soon, he told himself, soon he would absolutely possess her, for as long as they lived. ultimately she must be happy with him. he thought the same things in a ceaseless round; he walked almost without sight, discharging mechanically the routine of daily existence; answering inevitable queries in a perfunctory, dull voice. myrtle forge made a distant background of immaterial colours and sounds for the slightly mocking figure of ludowika. in mid-afternoon david arrived with a face stung scarlet by beating wind, and a clatter of hoofs. he immediately found gilbert penny, and the two men sat together with grave faces, lowered voices. howat, who had left the counting house at the sound of the hurried approach, caught a few words as he drew near the others: "... a bad attack, crumpled him up. coming out from the city now." they were talking about felix winscombe, who, it appeared, had been assaulted by a knife-like pain; and was returning to myrtle forge. "watlow saw no reason why it should be dangerous," david continued; "he thinks perhaps it came from unusual exertions, entertaining. a little rest, he says. he thinks the winscombes will be able to sail on the _lindamira_ as they planned." ludowika listened seriously to gilbert penny's few, temperate words of preparation. "he has had a pain like that before," she told them. "it always passes away. felix is really very strong, in spite of his age. he won't ordinarily go to bed, but i'll insist on that now, simply for rest." felix winscombe appeared at the supper hour. he was helped out of abner forsythe's leather-hung chaise, and assisted into the house. howat saw him under the hanging lamp in the hall; with a painful surprise he realized that he was gazing at the haggard face of an old man. before he had never connected the thought of definite age with mr. winscombe. the man's satirical virility had forbidden any of the patronage unconsciously extended to the aged. a trace of his familiar, mocking smile remained, but it was tremulous; it required, howat saw, great effort. an involuntary admiration possessed him for the other's unquenchable courage. the latter protested vehemently against being led to his room by ludowika; but she ignored his determination to go into supper, swept him away with a firm arm about his waist. the house took on the slightly strange and disordered aspect of illness; voices were grave, low; in the morning howat learned that felix winscombe had had another vicious attack in the night. dr. watlow arrived, and demanded assistance. howat penny, in the room where ludowika's husband lay exhausted in a bed canopied and draped in gay india silk, followed watlow's actions with a healthy feeling of revulsion. the doctor bared winscombe's spare chest, then filled a shallow, thick glass with spirits; emptying the latter, he set fire to the interior of the glass; and, when the blue flame had expired, clapped the cupped interior over the prostrate man's heart. there was, it seemed, little else that could be done; bleeding was judged for the once unexpeditious. an effort at commonplace conversation was maintained at dinner. ludowika openly discussed the arrangements for their return to london. felix winscombe had rallied from the night; his wife said that it was difficult to restrain him. the most comfortable provisions, she continued, had been made for their passage on the _lindamira_. howat heard her without resentment. he had no wish to contradict her needlessly even in thought; he was immovably fixed. mr. winscombe's debilitated return had completely upset his intentions. an entirely different proceeding would now be demanded, but with an identical end. what pity he felt for the elder had no power to reach or alter his passion. he returned to the counting house, and worked methodically through the afternoon, with an increasing sense of being involved in an irresistible movement. this gave him a feeling almost of tranquillity; from the beginning he had not been responsible. in the face of illness the italian servant proved utterly undependable; he cringed, stricken with dread, from the spectacle of suffering. and when late in the day mr. winscombe, partially drugged with opium, grew consciously weaker, howat's assistance was required. ludowika now remained in the room with her husband, and there was a discreet movement in and out by various members of the household. isabel penny remained for an hour, caroline took her place, myrtle fluttered uncertainly in the doorway. through the evening felix winscombe lay propped on pillows, his head covered by a black gros de naples cap. his keen personality waned and revived on his long, yellow countenance. at one side wigs stood in a row on blocks, a brilliant, magenta coat lay in a huddle on a chair. at intervals he spoke, in a thinner, higher voice than customary, petulantly uneasy, or with a familiar, sardonic inflection. at the latter ludowika would grow immensely cheered. she entirely ignored howat on the occasions when he was in the room. he saw her mostly bent over leather boxes, into which disappeared her rich store of silk and gold brocades, shoes of purple morocco, soft white shifts. howat watched her without an emotion visible on his sombre countenance. occasionally mr. winscombe's tenuous fingers dipped into a snuff box of black enamel and brilliants, and he lifted his hand languidly. the man's vitality, his sheer determination, were extraordinary. even now he was far from impotence. he had, howat had learned, completely dominated the provincial councils, forced a mutual compromise and agreement on them. he spoke of still more complicated affairs awaiting him in england. he damned the italian's "white liver," and threatened to leave him in america. dr. watlow had been forced to return to the city. through the unaccustomed stir howat was ceaselessly aware of his feeling for ludowika; he thought of it with a sense of shame; but it easily drowned all other considerations. he continued to speculate about their future together. whatever his father might conclude about his personal arrangements, the elder would see that he was necessary to the future of the penny iron. they might live in one of the outlying stone dwellings at the forge ... for the present. he was glad that gilbert penny, that he, was rich. ludowika could continue to dress in rare fabrics, to step in elaborate pattens over the common earth. that could not help but influence, assuage, her in the end. the pennys' position in the province, too, was high; the most exclusive assemblies were open to them. he regarded his satisfaction in these details with something of mr. winscombe's bitter humour. in the past he had repudiated them with the utmost scorn. in the past--dim shapes, scenes, that appeared to have occurred years before, but which in reality reached to last month, trooped through his mind. youth had vanished like a form dropping behind a hill. he looked back; it was gone; his feet hurried forward into the unguessed future; anxiety joined him; the scent that was ludowika accompanied him, an illusive figure. he reached toward it. he was standing at the foot of the bed where felix winscombe lay. the latter was restless, and complained of pains in his arms, reaching down to his fingers. ludowika bent over him, her face stamped with concern. she regarded howat with a new expression--narrowed eyes and a glimmer of flawless teeth: a look he had never foreseen there; but it was impotent before the thing that was. it had, however, the effect of intensifying his desire, his passion for her fragility of silk and flesh. he would kiss her hate on her mouth. she sat by the bedside, and howat took a place opposite her. candles burned on a highboy, on a table at his back; and their auriferous light flowed in about the bedstead. the latter was draped from the canopy to the bases of the posts in a bright printing of pheasants and conventional thickets--cobalt and ruby and orange; and across a heavy counterpane half drawn up stalked a row of panoplied indians in clipped zephyr. it was a nebulous enclosure with the shadows of the hangings wavering on the coloured wool and cold linen, on the long, seamed countenance of the prostrate man. a clock in the hall struck slowly--it needed winding--ten blurred notes. felix winscombe took a sip of water. a minute snapping sounded from the hearth. a window stirred, and there was a dry turning of leaves without; wind. one of the indians, howat saw, had his arm raised, flourishing a blade; a stupid effigy of savage spleen. beyond the drapery ludowika's face was dim and white. it was like an ineffable may moon. ludowika ... penny. for the first time howat thought of her endowed with his name, and it gave him a deep thrill of delight. he repeated it with moving but soundless lips--ludowika penny. her husband lay with his eyes closed, his head bowed forward on his chest, as if in sleep. at irregular intervals small, involuntary contractions of pain twitched at his mouth. at times, too, he muttered noiselessly. extraordinary. ludowika and felix winscombe and himself, howat penny. a world peopled only by them; the silence of the room dropped into infinite space, bottomless time. a sudden dread of such vast emptiness seized howat; he felt that he must say something, recreate about them the illusion of safe and familiar spaces and walls. it seemed that he was unable to speak; a leaden inhibition lay on his power of utterance. he made a harsh sound in his throat, loud and startling. felix winscombe raised his head, and ludowika cried faintly. then silence again folded them. howat fastened his thoughts on trivial and practical affairs--the furnishing of the house where he would take ludowika, what david and himself intended to do with the iron, and then his last, long talk with his mother. she was astonishingly wise; she had seen far into ludowika and himself, but even her vision had stopped short of encompassing the magnitude of his passion; she had not realized his new patience and determination. he found himself counting the gorgeous birds in the bed-hangings--twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, and stopped abruptly. it had grown chilly in the room, and ludowika had an india cashmere shawl about her shoulders. the sombre garnets and blues hid the tinsel gaiety of her gown and her bare shoulders. she appeared older than he had ever seen her before. her face, carefully studied, showed no trace of beauty; her eyes were heavy, her lips dark; any efforts of animation were suspended. she showed completely the effect of her life in courts and a careless prodigality of hours and emotions. howat, seeing all this, felt only a fresh accession of his hunger for her; she was far more compelling than when romantically viewed as a moon. he sat with his chin propped on a palm; she was rigidly upright with her arms at her sides; felix winscombe moved higher on the pillows. his eyes glittered in a head like a modelling in clay; his arms stirred ceaselessly with weaving fingers. howat could almost feel ludowika's hatred striking at him across the bed. he smiled at her, and she faced him with an expression of stony unresponse. he thought luxuriantly of her in his arms, with the rain beating on the store house roof; he caught the odours of the damp, heaped merchandise, the distant clamour in the casting shed. he had a brutal impulse to lean forward and remind her of what had occurred, of the fact that she was his; he wanted to fling it against her present detachment, to mock her with it. then he would crush her against his heart. felix winscombe raised up on an elbow, distorting the row of sanguinary indians. ludowika moved to the edge of the bed, and put a firm, graceful arm about him. a grey shadow of pain fell on mr. winscombe's features. the silence was absolute. he seemed to be waiting in an attitude of mingled dread and resolution. he whispered an unintelligible period, the pain on his face sharpened, and he released himself from ludowika's support. she sank back on her chair, gazing at her husband with wide, concerned eyes. slowly the lines in his face deepened, and a fine, gleaming sweat started out on his brow. his face contorted in a spasm of voiceless suffering, and he drew a stiff hand down either arm. howat watched him in a species of strained curiosity, with a suspension of breath. something, he felt, should be done to relieve the oppression of agony gathering on felix winscombe's countenance, but a corresponding sense of complete helplessness settled like a leaden coffin about him. the other became unrecognizable; his face seemed to be set in an unnatural grin. his head drew back on a thin, corded neck, and a faint gasping for air stirred in the shadows. even howat felt the pain to be unendurable, and ludowika, white as milk, had risen to her feet. she stood with a hand half raised beneath a fringed corner of the india shawl. it was incredible that the sufferer's agony should increase, but it was apparent that it did remorselessly. all humanity was obliterated in an excruciating spasm over which streamed some meagre tears. mr. winscombe's arms raised and dropped; and, suddenly relaxed, he slipped down upon the pillows. immediately the torment vanished from his countenance; it became peaceful, released. the familiar mockery of the mouth came back. the head, slightly turned, seemed to regard ludowika with contentment and interrogation. howat was conscious of a relief almost as marked as that on the face before him. he had gripped his hands until they ached. the tension in the room, too, seemed spent. he was about to address a reassuring period to ludowika, when, at a glimpse of her expression, the words died on his lips. he bent over the bed, with his hand on a ridged, still chest; he gazed down at flaccid eyes, a dropped chin. felix winscombe was dead. howat raised up slowly, facing the woman through the draperies. she was gazing in an incredulous, shocked surprise at the limp, prostrate body capped in black gros de naples. a shuddering fear passed over her, and then her eyes met those of howat penny. even separated from him by the bed she drew away as if from his touch. he saw that she had forgotten the dead man in a sharp realization of the portent of the living. she glanced about the room in the panic of a trapped lark, an abject fright, searching for an escape. he realized that there was none; ludowika now belonged to him absolutely; he was as remorseless as the pain that had killed felix winscombe. below the automatic sensations of the moment howat was conscious of utter satisfaction. a miracle had given ludowika to him; in the passing of a breath all his difficulty had been ended. she was alone with him in a province of forests and iron and stars. he would make her forget the gardens of fireworks and scraping violins; but forget or not she was his ... ludowika penny. ii the forge x jasper penny stood at a window of his bed room, his left arm carried in a black silk handkerchief, gazing down at the long, low roof of myrtle forge, built by his great, great grandfather gilbert over a hundred and ten years before. it was february, and he could hear the ringing blows of axes, cutting the ice out of the forebay to liberate the water power for the completion of a forging of iron destined to be rolled into tracks for the slowly lengthening columbia steam railway system. it was midday, a grey sky held a brighter, diffused radiance where the veiled sun hung without warmth, and the earth was everywhere frozen granite-like. he could see beyond the forge shed heaped charcoal, and the black mass seemed no more dead than the ground or bare, brittle trees sweeping down and up to where, on encircling hills, they were lifted sharply against the cloudy monotony. he was ordinarily impervious to the influence of weather, the more depressing aspects of nature; but now he was conscious of a dejection communicated, in part at least, he felt, by the bleak prospect without. another, and infinitely more arresting, reason for this feeling had just stirred his thoughts--for the first time he was conscious of the invidious, beginning weariness of accumulating years. he was hardly past forty, and he impatiently repudiated the possibility that he was actually declining; in fact he had not yet reached the zenith of his capabilities, physical or mental; yet his broken arm, slow in mending, the pain, had unquestionably depleted him more than a similar accident ten years ago. not only this, but, during the forced inaction, his mind had definitely taken a different cast; considerations that had seemed to constitute the main business of existence had lately faded before preoccupations and feelings ignored until now. jasper penny saw, objectively, not so much the surrounding circumstance as his own former acts and emotions; detached from his habitual being by hardly more than a month his past was posed before his critical judgment. looked at in this manner his life appeared crowded with surprisingly meaningless gestures and words, his sheer youth an incomprehensible revolt. a greater part of that had been lately expressed by his mother, when he had returned to myrtle forge with an arm broken by a fall in a railroad coach travelling to philadelphia. she had said, shaking her head with tightened lips: "i warned you plenty against those train brigades. it isn't safe nor sensible with a good horse service convenient. but then you have always been a knowing, head-strong boy and man.... a black penny." how she would get along without that last phrase he was at a loss to conjecture, from his first consciousness he recalled it, now a term of reproach and now extenuation. only a few weeks before she had repeated it in precisely the same tone of mingled admonition and complaint that had greeted his most boyish mishaps. he had grown so accustomed to it, not only from gilda penny but from every one familiar with the pennys and their history, that it had become part of his automatic entity. jasper--a black penny. the course of his thoughts turned back to the earliest episodes remembered in that connection, to a time in which the especial quality had necessarily freest play. now he characterized it as mere uninformed wildness; but he still recalled the tremendous impatience with which he had met the convenient enclosure of a practicable, organized society. even at myrtle forge, where--in contrast to dwelling in the confines of a city--he had had a rare amount of actual freedom, a feeling of constriction had sent him day after day into the woods, hunting or merely idle along the upper reaches of still unsullied streams. yet it had been an especial kind of wildness; he owed that recognition to his vanished youth. the term generally included champagne parties and the companionship of various but similar ladies of the circus or opera house. but nothing of that had then entered into his deep-rooted rebellion. he had had merely a curious passion for complete independence, an innate turning from street-bound affairs and men to the isolation and physical accomplishment of arduous excursions on horses or foot. he had, then, avoided, even dreaded, women. and that instinct, he told himself, shifting his injured arm to a more comfortable position, had been admirably founded. the ax blows ceased; from his position he could just see the top of the great wheel that drove the forge trip hammer; and slowly the rim blurred, commencing to turn. the forebay was open. a pennant of black smoke, lurid with flaming cinders, twisted up in the motionless air. the hammer fell once, experimentally, with a faint jar, and a grimy figure shovelled charcoal into a barrow. his mind soon returned to the point where it had been deflected by the movement at the forge; he could even visualize his mature boyhood--a straight, arrogant figure, black certainly, with up-sloping brows and an outthrust chin. and that, he thought, not without complacency, was not very far from a description of himself at present. there were, of course, the whiskers, severely trimmed on his spare face, and showing, in certain lights, a glimmer of silver; but he was as upright, as comfortably lean, now as then. he was still capable of prolonged physical exertion.... it was ridiculous to think of himself as definitely aging. yet he was past forty, and the years seemed to go far more swiftly than at twenty-one. women! the silent pronouncement included the smallest plural possible--only two; but it seemed to jasper penny that they comprised all the variations, the faults and virtues, of their entire sex. with a certain, characteristic formality, propriety, he considered his wife first, now a year dead. he wondered if she had found the orthodox and concrete heaven in the frequent ecstatic contemplation of which so much of her life had been spent. it had been that fine superiority to the material that had first attracted him to her, a quality of shining enthusiasm, of reflected inspiration from a vision, however trite, of eternal hymning; and it had been that same essence which finally held them apart through the greater number of their married years. phebe's health, slowly ebbing, had drawn her farther and farther from the known world in general and the affairs and being of her husband in particular; her last strength had gone in the hysteria of protracted religious emotion, during which she had become scarcely more to jasper penny than an attenuated, rapt invalid lingering in his house. her pale, still presence was usurped by a far different, animated and colourful, figure. he thought of essie scofield, of all that she paramountly held and expressed, with a reluctance that had lately, almost within the past week, grown to resemble resentment, if not actual irritation. yet, however, casting back through the years, in his present remoteness, he was able to recreate her and his emotions as they had first, irresistibly moved together. the absolute opposite of phebe, already withdrawing into her religious, incorporeal region, essie scofield had immediately swept him into the whirlpool of her vivid, physical personality. before her the memory of his wife faded into insignificance. but there was no mere retrospect in the considering of essie; very much alive she presented, outside the penny iron, the one serious preoccupation, complication, of his future. at the time when he had first admitted, welcomed, her claim on him, he had felt a sudden energy in which he had recognized a play of the traits of a black penny. here was a satisfactory, if necessarily private, exercise of his inborn contempt for the evident hypocrisy, the cowardice, of perfunctory inhibitions and safe morals. that, however, had been speedily lost in his rocketing passion, flaring out of a quiet continence into giddy spaces of unrestraint. essie, after a momentary surrender, had attempted retreat, expressing a doubt of the durability of their feeling; she had, in fact, made it painfully clear that she wished to escape from the uncomfortable volume of his fervour; but he had overborne her caution--her wisdom, he now expressed it. that, more than anything else, brought before him the undeniable passage of time, the fact that he was rapidly accomplishing middle age--the total extinguishing of an emotion which he had felt must outlast life. it had gone, and with it his youth. of course, he had recognized that he was no longer thirty; he had been well aware of his years, but only during the last few weeks had there been the slight, perceptible dragging down.... on the black walnut dressing stand past the window lay a letter he had received from essie that morning; it contained her usual appeal for an additional sum of money--he gave her, formally, six thousand dollars a year; and the manner of the demand, for the necessities of their daughter, showed his sharpened perceptions that she had never really experienced the blindness of a generous emotion. eunice, the child, was incontrovertible proof of that--no more than an additional lever for her to swing. his face darkened, and he moved his shoulder impatiently, as if to throw off a burden grown unendurable. but it was fastened immovably--his responsibility was as baldly apparent as the february noon, its greyness now blotted by a wind-driven, metallic shift of snow. he had been criminally negligent of eunice. this realization was accompanied by no corresponding warmth of parenthood; there was no quickening of blood at the thought of his daughter, but only a newborn condemnation of his neglected, proper pride. he had, thoughtlessly, descended to a singularly low level of conduct. and it must abruptly terminate. jasper penny had not seen eunice for seven, nine, months; he would remedy this at once, supervise advantages, a proper place, for her. afterward essie and himself could make a mutually satisfactory agreement. xi throughout an excellent dinner, terrapin and bass, wild turkey with oysters and fruit preserved in white brandy, he maintained a sombre silence. his mother, on the right, her sister opposite--phebe's place seemed scarcely emptier than when she had actually occupied it--held an intermittent verbal exchange patently keyed to jasper penny's mood. they were women with yellow-white, lace-capped hair, blanched eyebrows and lashes, and small, quick eyes on hardy, reddened faces. gilda penny was slightly the larger, more definite; amity merken had a timid, almost furtive, expression in the opulence of the penny establishment, while gilda was complacent; but otherwise the two women were identical. their dresses were largely similar--amity's a dun, gilda penny's grey, moire silk, high with a tight lace collar, and bands of jet trimming from shoulder to waist, there spreading over crinoline to the floor. lace fell about their square, capable hands, and gilda wore broad, locked bracelets checked in black and gold. sherry, in blue cut decanters stoppered with gilt, gave place to port. an épergne of glass and burnished ormolu, in the form of supporting oak leaves, with numerous sockets for candles, was set, filled with fruit, in the centre of the table; silver lustre plates were laid; but jasper penny heedlessly fingered the stem of a wine glass. he said suddenly, "i'm going to the city this afternoon." "is it safe yet?" his mother queried doubtfully. "hadn't you better wait till to-morrow, when you can drive easily, or without stopping at a tavern?" he looked up impatiently. "i shall go by the railroad," he stated decisively. "can't you understand that, with the future of iron almost dependent on steam, it is the commonest foresight for me to patronize such customers as the columbia railway! i have no intention of adding to the ignorant prejudice against improved methods of travelling." "there's your arm," she insisted with spirit. "an untried engine. the hecla works along smoothly at twenty miles an hour." amity cast a glance of swift appeal at her sister, but gilda penny persisted. "ungodly," was the term she selected. jasper ignored her. he had decided to straighten the tangled affair of eunice at once; he would see essie that evening, arrive at an understanding about the child's future. it would be even more difficult to terminate his connection with essie herself. that, he now recognised, was his main desire. the affair had actually died before phebe; but its onerous consequences remained, blighting the future. the future! it was that, he now discovered, which occupied him, rather than the past. a new need had become apparent, a restless desire analogous to the urge of seeking youth. jasper penny was aware of a great dissatisfaction, a vast emptiness, in his existence; he had a feeling of waste growing out of the sense of hurrying years. somehow, obscurely, he had been cheated. he almost envied the commonality of men, not, like himself, black pennys, impatient of assuaging relationships and beliefs. yet this, too, turned into another phase of his inheritance--his need was not material, concrete, it had no worldly, graspable implications, and his general contempt was not less but greater. he wished to bring a final justification to his isolation rather than lose himself in the wide, undistinguished surge of living. "you'll stop at the jannans?" his mother queried. "i think not, probably sanderson's hotel, stephen is giving a ball to-night for graham and his wife. i have some important transactions." not an echo of his affair with essie scofield had, he knew, penetrated to myrtle forge. it was a most fortunate accident. the vulgarity consequent upon discovery would have been unbearable. stephen jannan, his cousin, a lawyer of wide city connections, must have learned something of the truth; but stephen, properly, had said nothing; a comfortable obscurity had hid him from gabbled scandal. now, soon, it would all be over. unconsciously he drew a deeper breath of relief, of prospective freedom. the hecla, a wooden barrelled engine with a tall, hinged stack, drew its brigade of canary-coloured chariot cars forward with a rapid bumping over inequal rails. jasper penny's seat, number nineteen, was fortunately in the centre, close by the stove, where a warmth hung that failed to reach to the doors. lost in speculation the journey was both long and vague. twilight deepened within the car, and two flickering candles were lit at either end, their pallid light serving only to cast thin, climbing shadows over the rocking, box-like interior. at irregular intervals the train stopped with a succession of subsiding crashes, and started again at the blowing of a horn; passengers would leave or enter; or it would prove to be merely a halt to take on cut and piled wood fuel for the engine. finally the train brigade reached the inclined plane leading to the river and city; the engine was detached, and the cars, fastened to a hemp cable, were lowered spasmodically to where a team of mules drew them through a gloomy, covered bridge echoing to the slow hoof falls and creaking of loose planks. jasper penny fastened the elaborate frogs of his heavily furred overcoat over his injured arm, and with a florid bandanna wiped the cinders from his silk hat. the coaches rolled into the station shed, where he changed, taking a swaying mulberry street omnibus to fourth, and sanderson's hotel. it was a towering, square structure of five stories, with a columned white portico, and high, divided steps. the clerk, greeting him with a precise familiar deference, directed him to a select suite with a private parlour, a sombre chamber of red plush, dark walls and thickly draped, long windows. there he sat grimly contemplating a distasteful prospect. he knew the casual, ill-prepared dinners presided over by essie, the covertly insolent man servant; and an overpowering reluctance came upon him to sit again at her table. but the confusion of the hotel ordinary repelled him too: he had seen in passing a number of men who would endeavour to force his opinion on the specie situation or speculation in canals. he rose and pulled sharply at the tasselled bell rope, ordering grilled pheasant, anchovy toast and champagne to be served where he sat. jasper penny ate slowly, partly distracted by the market reports in the _u.s. gazette_. ninety-two and a half had been offered for schuylkill navigation, only fifteen for the west chester railroad, but philadelphia and trenton had gone to ninety-eight; while a three and a half dividend had been declared on the french town turnpike and railway company. he was annoyed afresh by the persistent refusal of the government to award the mail to the reading steam system. his thoughts returned to eunice, his daughter, the coming scene--it would at least be that--with essie scofield. it was but a short distance from the hotel to where essie lived, over fourth street to cherry; and almost immediately he turned by the three story brick dwelling at the corner and was at her door. the servant, in an untidy white jacket, stood stupidly blocking the narrow hall, until jasper penny with an angry impatience waved him aside. there were other silk hats and coats, and a woman's fringed wrap, on the stand where he left his stick and outer garments; and from above came a peal of mingled laughter. the presence of others, now, was singularly inopportune; it would be no good waiting for their departure--here such gatherings almost invariably drew out until dawn; and he abruptly decided that, after a short interval, he would give essie to understand that he wished to talk to her privately. a young woman with a chalk-white face and oleaginous bandeaux of dead black hair, in scarlet and green tartan over an extravagant crinoline, was seated on a sofa between two men, each with an arm about her waist and wine glasses elevated in their free hands. essie was facing them from a circular floor hassock, in a blue satin, informal robe over mussed cambric ruffles, heelless nonchalants, and her hair elaborately dressed with roses, white ribbons and a short ostrich feather. her body, at once slim and full, was consciously seductive, and her face, slightly swollen and pasty in the shadows, bore the same, heedless unrestraint. her dark, widely-opened eyes, an insignificant nose and shortly curved, scarlet lips, held almost the fixed, painted impudence of a cynically debased doll. she turned and surveyed jasper penny with a petulant, silent inquiry, and whatever gaiety was in progress abruptly terminated as he advanced into the room. "you never let me know you'd be here," essie complained; "but i suppose i ought to be glad to see you anyway--after four months without a line. jasper, mr. daniel culser." the younger of the men on the sofa, a stolidly handsome individual with hard, blue eyes, rose with an over-emphasized composure. "mr. penny, extremely pleased." jasper penny was irritated by the other's instant identification, and he nodded bluntly. "lambert babb and myrtilla lewis," essie continued indifferently. babb, an individual of inscrutable age, with ashen whiskers and a blinking, weak vision in a silvery face, was audibly delighted. myrtilla lewis smiled professionally over her expanse of bewildering silk plaid. "wine in the cooler," essie added, and daniel culser moved to where a silver bucket reposed by a tray of glasses and broken, sugared rusks. jasper penny refused the offered drink, and found a chair apart from the others. a moody silence enveloped him which he found impossible to break, and an increasing uneasiness spread over the room. "well," essie scofield commanded, "say something. you look as black as an egyptian. what'll my friends think of you? i suppose it doesn't matter any more what it is to me; but you might play at being polite." "don't chip at a man like that," myrtilla advised. "mr. penny has a right to talk or not." she smiled more warmly at him, and he saw that she had had too much champagne. the room reeked with the thin, acrid odour of the wine, and a sickly perfume of vanilla essence. essie, as usual, had a glass of her favourite drink--orange juice and french brandy--on the floor beside her, the brandy bottle and fresh oranges conveniently near. his repulsion for her deepened until it seemed as if actual fingers were compressing his throat, stopping his breath. he wondered suddenly how far he was responsible for her possible degeneration. but he had not been the first; her admission of that fact had in the beginning attracted him to an uncommon frankness in her peculiar make-up. he was willing to assume his fault, to pay for it, whatever payment was possible, and escape.... not only from her, but from all that she embodied, from himself--what he had been--as much as anything else. "you are an ironmaster," mr. babb finally announced; "in fact, one of our greatest manufacturers. now, mr. penny, what is your personal opinion of engine as against the public coach? will the railroad survive the experimental stage, and are such gentlemen as yourself behind it?" "i saw in the _ledger_ some days back," daniel culser added, "that your arm had been broken travelling by steam." "one had nothing to do with the other," jasper stated tersely, ignoring babb's query, "but was entirely my own fault." the conversation lagged painfully again, during which essie skilfully compounded another mixture of spirits and thick, yellow juice. she grew sullen with resentment at jasper penny's attitude, and exchanged enigmatic glances with culser. the liquor brought a quick flush to her slightly pendulous cheeks, and she was enveloped in an increasing bravado. "penny's a solemn old boy," she announced generally. lambert babb attempted to embrace myrtilla, but, her gaze on the newcomer, she pushed him away. "you got to be a gentleman with me," she proclaimed with a patently unsteady dignity. "my grandfather was a french noble." "what i'd like to know," essie remarked, "is what's his granddaughter?" "better'n you!" myrtilla heatedly asserted; "one who'd appreciate a real man, and not be playing about private with a tailor's dummy." daniel culser's face grew noticeably pinker. "i'm going," myrtilla continued, rising. "mr. penny, i'd be happy to meet you under more social conditions. here i cannot remain for--for reasons. i might be tempted to--" mr. babb caught her arm under his, and, at an imperious gesture from essie, piloted her from the room. culser rose. "don't go, dan," essie scofield told him defiantly. but jasper penny maintained a silence that forced the younger man to make a stiff exit. "well," essie demanded, flinging herself on the deserted sofa, "now you've spoiled my evening. why did you come at all if you couldn't behave genteel?" "where, exactly, is eunice?" he asked abruptly. she glanced at him with an instant masking of her resentment. "i've told you a hundred times--in the house of a very respectable clergyman. my letter was clear enough; she's had bronchitis, and there's the doctor, and--" "just where is eunice?" he repeated, interrupting her aggrieved recital. "where i put her," her voice grew shrill. "you haven't asked to see her for near a year, you haven't even pretended an interest in--in your own daughter. i've done the best i could; you know i don't like children around; but i have attended to as much of my duty as you. now you come out and insist on being unpleasant all in an hour. why didn't you write? i'd had her here for you. come back in two or three days." "to-morrow," he replied. "i am going to see her in the morning." "you just ain't. i did the best i knew, but, if it isn't all roses, you'll blame everything on me. i will have eunice fetched--" "where is she?" he asked still again, wearily. every instinct revolted against the degradation into which he had blindly walked. his youth had betrayed him, involving him, practically a different man, in a payment which he realized had but commenced.... to escape. he had first thought of that with the unconscious conviction that the mere wish carried its fulfilment. in fact, it would be immensely difficult; a man, he saw, could not sever himself so casually from the past; it reached without visible demarcation into the present, the future. all was a piece, one with another; and essie scofield was drawn in a vivid thread through the entire fabric of his being. yet the need, the longing forward, so newly come into his consciousness, persisted, grew--it had become the predominate design of his weaving. through this he recognized a reassertion of his pride, the rigid pride of a black penny, which, in the years immediately past, had been overwhelmed by a temporary inner confusion. beyond forty men returned to their inheritance, their blood; this fact echoed vaguely among his memories of things heard; and he felt in himself its measure of truth. his distaste for a largely muddled, pandering society, for men huddled, he thought, like domestic animals, returned in choking waves. in the maculate atmosphere of flat wine and stale cologne he had a sharp recurrence of the scent of pines, lifting warmly in sunny space. he produced a morocco bound note book, a gold pencil; and, with the latter poised, directed a close interrogation at essie. her face flushed with an ungovernable anger, and she pressed a hand over her labouring heart. "get her then; out fourth street, camden; the reverend mr. needles. but afterwards don't come complaining to me. you ought to have seen to her; you've got the money, the influence. and you have done nothing, beyond some stinking dollars ... wouldn't even name her. eunice scofield, a child without--" all that she had said was absolutely true, just. "i suppose you'll even think i didn't give her the sums you sent; that damned needles has been bleeding me, suspects something." she stopped from a lack of breath; her darkened face was purplish, in the shadows. "i haven't been well, either--a fierce pain here, in my heart." it was the brandy, he told her; she should leave the city, late wine parties, go back into the country. "go back," she echoed bitterly. "where? how?" he winced--the past reaching inexorably into the future. jasper penny made no attempt to ignore, forget, his responsibility; he admitted it to her; but at the same time the tyrannical hunger increased within him--the mingled desire for fresh paths and the nostalgia of the old freedom of spirit. but life, that had made him, had in the same degree created essie; neither had been the result of the other; they had been swept together, descended blindly in company, submerged in the passion that he had thought must last forever, but which had burned to ashes, to nothing more than a vague sense of putrefaction in life. "thank you," he said formally, putting away the note book. "something, of course, must be done; but what, i can only say after i have seen eunice. i am, undoubtedly, more to blame than yourself." "i suppose, in this holy strain, you'll end by giving her all and me nothing." "... what you are getting as long as you live?" "that's little enough, when i hear how much you have, what all that iron is bringing you. why, you could let me have twenty, thirty thousand, and never know it." "if you are unable to get on, that too will be rectified." "you are really not a bad old thing, jasper," she pronounced, mollified. "at one time--do you remember?--you said if ever the chance came you would marry me. ah, you needn't fear, i wouldn't have you with all your iron, gold. i--" she stopped abruptly, uneasily. "not a bad old thing," she repeated, moving to secure a half-full glass. "why do you call me old?" he asked curiously. "i hadn't thought of it before," she admitted; "but, this evening, you looked so solemn, and there is grey in your hair, that all at once you seemed like an old gentleman. now dan culser," she hesitated, and then swept on, "he's what you'd name young." at daniel culser's age, he told himself, he, jasper penny, could have walked the other blind; and now essie scofield was calling him old; she had noticed the grey in his hair. he rose to go, and she came close to him, a clinging, soft thing of flesh faintly reeking with brandy. "i have a great deal to pay, where money goes i don't know, even a little would be a help." he left some gold in her hand, thankful to purchase, at that slight price, a momentary release. outside cherry street was blackly cold, a gas lamp at the corner shed a watery, contracted illumination. he made his way back toward the hotel, but a sudden reluctance to mount to his lonely chambers possessed him. before the glimmering marble façade he took out his watch, a pale gold efflorescence in the gloom, and rang the hour in minute, clear notes. the third quarter past ten. he recalled the ball, but then commencing, at stephen jannan's; there it would be indescribably gay, a house flooded with the music of quadrilles, light, polite-chatter; and he determined to proceed and have a cigar with stephen. he walked briskly up mulberry street to sixth and there turned to the left. jasper penny soon passed the shrouded silence of independence square, with the new corinthian doorway of the state house showing vaguely through the irregularly grouped ailanthus trees. beyond, the brick wall with its marble coping and high iron fence reached, on the opposite side, to the jannan corner. the length of the brick dwelling, with white arched windows and coursings faced the vague emptiness of washington square, closed for the winter. inside the hall was bright and filled with the pungent warmth of fat hearth coal. a servant, with a phrase of recognition, directed him above, to a room burdened with masculine greatcoats and silk hats. there an attendant told him that mr. jannan was below. jasper penny had no intention of becoming a participant in the hall, but neither did he propose to linger among wraps, listening to the supercilious chatter of young men in the extreme mode of bright blue coats, painfully tight black trousers with varnished pumps and expanses of ankle in grey silk. one, inspecting him through an eyeglass on a woven hair guard, expressed a pointed surprise at jasper penny's informal garb. "christoval!" he ejaculated. "it approaches an insult to the da-da-darlings." another commenced to sing a popular minstrel air: "blink--a--ho--dink! ah! ho! "roley boley--good morning ladies all!" jasper penny abruptly descended to a small room used for smoking. young men, he thought impatiently, could no longer even curse respectably. they lisped like females at an embroidery frame. when he was young, younger, he corrected himself, he could have outdrunk, outridden.... his train of thought was abruptly terminated by a group unexpectedly occupying the smoking room. he saw stephen jannan, his wife liza, the newly married young jannans, and a strange woman in glacé muslin and a black spanish lace shawl about her shoulders. stephen greeted him cordially. "jasper, just at the moment for a waltz with--with susan." the stranger blushed painfully, made an involuntary movement backward, and liza jannan admonished her husband. "do you know miss brundon, jasper?" she asked. jasper penny bowed, and miss brundon, with an evident effort, smiled, her shy, blue eyes held resolutely on his countenance. she at once slipped into the background, talking in a low, clear voice to graham jannan's wife; while the older men enveloped themselves in a fragrant veil of cigars. "come, mary, susan," mrs. jannan directed, "out of this horrid, masculine odour." accompanied by her son the women left, and stephen turned to his cousin. "thought, of course, you knew susan brundon," he remarked. "a school mistress, but superior, and a lady. has a place on spruce street, by raspberry alley, for select younger girls; unique idea, and very successful, i believe." jasper penny said comfortably, "humm!" the other continued, "i want graham to get out to shadrach furnace as soon as may be. that old stone house the foremen have occupied is nearly fixed for him. i am very well content, jasper, to have him in the iron trade, with you practically at its head. no deliberate favours, remember, and i have told him to look for nothing. but, at the same time--you comprehend: folly not to push the boy on fast as possible. no reason for us all to go through with the hardships of the first gilbert and his times. must have been fatiguing, the wilderness and english troubles and all that." "splendid, i should say," jasper penny replied. he repeated satirically the conversation he had heard above. "makes me ill. you will remember there was a howat, son of our original settler--now he must have been a lad! married some widow or other; wild at first, but made iron in the end." "a black penny, jasper; resembled you. personally, i like it better now." jasper penny surveyed with approbation stephen's full, handsome presence. jannan was a successful, a big, man. well, so was he too. but he thought with keen longing of the time when he was twenty-one, and free, free to roam self-sufficient. he thought of that howat penny of which they had spoken, black as he was black in the family tradition; he had seen hesselius's portrait of the other; and, but for the tied hair and continental buff, it might have been a replica of himself. it was curious--that dark strain of welsh blood, cropping out undiminished, concrete, after generations. the one to hold it before howat had been burned in mary's time, in the sixteenth century, dead almost three hundred years. jasper had a sudden, vivid sense of familiarity with the howat who had married some widow or other. his mind returned to his own, peculiar problem, to essie scofield, to the burden with which he had encumbered himself, the payment that faced him for--for his sheer youth. he said abruptly, belated: "you fit the present formal ease of society, stephen; you like it and it likes you. in a superficial way i have done well enough, but underneath--" his voice sank into silence. a profound, familiar dejection seized him; incongruously he thought of miss brundon's delicate shrinking from the mere contact of the amenities of speech. super-sensitive. "i must go," he announced, and refused stephen jannan's invitation for the night. "stay for some supper, anyhow," the other insisted, and, a hand on his arm, led him past the doors open upon the dancing. chandeliers, great coruscating pendants of glass prisms and candles, glittered above the expanse of whirling crinoline and blue coats, vermilion turbans, gilt feathers and flowered hair. the light fell on shoulders as white and elegantly sloping as alabaster vases, draped in rose and citron, in blanched illusion frosted and looped with silver; on bouquets of camellias swinging from jewelled chains against ruffled and belled skirts swaying about the revealed symmetry of lacy silk stockings and fragile slippers. "ah, jasper," stephen jannan said; "in our time, what! do you remember your first wellington boots? the gambling room and veranda at saratoga? tender eyes, old boy, and little tapering hands." jasper penny replied, "it seems my hair is grey." silence fell on them as they entered the dining room. a long table was burdened with elaborate pagodas of spun barley sugar topped with sprigs of orange blossom, the moulded creams of a charlotte polonaise, champagne jelly valanced with lemon peel, pyramids of glazed fruits on lacquered plates; with faintly iridescent belleek and fluted glass and ormolu; and, everywhere, the pale multitudinous flames of candles and the fuller radiance of astral lamps hung with lustres. jasper penny idly tore open a bon bon wrapped in a verse on fringed paper, "viens! viens! ange du ciel, je t'aime! je t'aime! et te le dire ici, c'est le bonheur supreme." love and the great hour of life! he had missed both; one, perhaps, with the other. his marriage to phebe, except for a brief flare at the beginning, had been as empty as the affair with essie scofield. god, how hollow living seemed! he had missed something; or else existence was an ugly deception, the false lure of an incomprehensible jest. the music beat in faint, mocking waves on his hearing, the lights of the supper shone in the gold bubbles of his wine glass. he drained it hurriedly. outside the night, lying cold on deserted squares, blurred with gas lamps, was like a vain death after the idle frivolity of stephen jannan's ball. in an instant, in the shutting of a door, the blackness had claimed him; the gaiety of warm flesh and laughter vanished. death ... and he had literally nothing in his hands, nothing in his heart. a duty, eunice, remained. the sound of his footfalls on the bricks, thrown back from blank walls, resembled the embodied, stealthy following of the injustice he had wrought. xii the following morning he made his way past the continuous produce arcade that held the centre of market street to the camden ferry. at the river the fish stall, with its circular green roof and cornucopias, reached almost to the gloomy ferry-house with its heavy odour of wet wood. the boat clattered through broken ice, by a trim packet ship, the _susquehanna_, and into the narrow canal through windmill island. camden was a depressing region of low, marshy land, its streets unpaved and without gas, the gutters full of frozen, stagnant water. he inquired the way to the reverend mr. needles', passed a brick meeting house, and, turning into fourth street, isolated frame dwellings, coming at last to a dingy wooden house with broken panes in the upper windows and a collapsing veranda at the edge of a blackened, skeleton wood. a tall, gaunt woman in a ravelled worsted shawl answered his summons, and informed him, interrupted by a prolonged coughing, that mr. needles was away on circuit. "i came for a child staying with you," jasper penny explained shortly, suppressing an involuntary repulsion at the degraded surroundings. "she's not well," the woman replied, with instant suspicion. "i don't just like to let a chancy person see her." he discarded all subterfuge. "i am her father," he stated. the other shifted to a whining self-defence. "and her in this sink!" she exclaimed, gazing at jasper penny's furred coat, his glossy hat and gloves and ebony cane. "i did all for her i could, considering the small money i was promised, and then half the time i didn't get that, neither. the lady owes for three weeks right now. i suppose you'll have to come in," she concluded grudgingly. they entered a dark hall, clay cold. beyond, in a slovenly kitchen hardly warmer, he found eunice, his daughter; a curiously sluggish child with a pinched, hueless face and a meagre body in a man's worn flannel shirt and ragged skirt and stockings. "here's your father," mrs. needles ejaculated. eunice stood in the middle of the bare floor, staring with pallid, open mouth at the imposing figure of the man. she said nothing; and jasper penny found her silence more accusing than a shrill torrent of reproach. "she's kind of heavy like," mrs. needles explained. "i have come to take you away," jasper penny said. then, turning to the woman: "are those all the clothes she has?" she grew duskily red. "there are some others about, but i don't just know where, and then she spoils them so fast." "that's a lie," the child announced, with a faint patch of colour on either thin cheek. "mr. needles sold them." the man decided to ignore such issues; his sole wish now was to take eunice away as speedily as possible. "well," he directed impatiently, "get a shawl, something to wrap her in." he regretted vainly that he had not come for the child in a carriage. he paid without a question what the woman said was owing; and, with eunice folded in a ragged plaid, prepared to depart. "i guess," the child decided, in a strangely mature voice, "we'd better take my medicine." she turned toward a mantel, mrs. needles made a quick movement in the same direction, but the small shape was before her. jasper penny took a bottle from the diminutive, cold hand. the label had been obliterated; but, impelled by a distrustful curiosity, he took out the cork. laudanum! he was at the point of an indignant condemnation when the words perished without utterance--not the haggard woman before him, but himself, jasper penny, was entirely guilty. he, in reality, had given the drug to his daughter, placed her in this sorry and bitter poverty. "come, eunice," he said, taking her by the hand, his face grey and stony. once more in the city he walked with the child to the ferry and foot of chestnut street, where they found places in the reaper, a stage brightly painted with snowy ships and drawn by four sorrel horses. his first concern was to purchase proper clothes for his daughter; then he would face the problem of her happier disposal. they passed the columned façade of the philadelphia bank, the custom house with its wide steps set back from the street, hedged dwellings, and the united states hotel to independence square and sixth street, where he lifted the child from the stage. they stopped before an entrance between bowed windows which had above it the sign, the misses dunlop, millinery. jasper penny had had no idea that it would be so difficult to procure clothes for a girl of seven. at first he was told that the necessary garments could not be furnished, when discussion revealed the fact that a nearly complete, diminutive wardrobe, especially ordered from paris and neglected by the customer, was to be had. in a surprisingly short while a sentimental saleswoman had apparelled eunice in black velvet with rows of small bows and gold buckles and a lace collar, cambric pantaloon ruffles swinging about her ankles, a quilted pink satin bonnet tied, like those of her elders', with a bow under her right cheek, and a muff and tippet of ermine. other articles--a frock of rose gros de chine, with a flounced skirt, a drab velvet bonnet turned in green smocked silk, and sheer underthings--he ordered delivered at sanderson's hotel. the effect of what laudanum eunice had taken faded, and her lethargy was replaced by an equally still, incredulous amazement. she followed jasper penny about with the mechanical rigidity of a minute sleepwalker. they went into a jewelry store beyond, with a square low bow window and white trimming, where he purchased a ring with a ruby, and small gold bracelets with locks and chains. his restless desire was to clothe eunice in money, to overwhelm her with gifts; yet, although an evident delight struggled through her stupefaction, he failed to get from the expenditure the release he sought. a leaden sense of blood guiltiness persisted in him. at parkinson's, the confectioner opposite the state house, he bought her syllabubs, a frozen rose cordial and black cake. on leaving, he paused at the marble steps with a lantern on either side and awning drawn out over the pavement, considering the next move. it should be toys--a german doll, slate and coloured crayons and jumping-figures. then he took her back to his rooms at the hotel. sitting in a stiff crimson chair opposite him, the doll clasped in straining fingers, and a flush of excitement on her sharp features, she presented an enormous difficulty. what, justly, was he to do with her? how could he provide for a reasonable happiness, a healthy, normal existence? he decided coldly that he would prevent essie scofield's influence from ever touching the child again. essie, he knew, was utterly without any warmth of motherhood. she had solely and callously used their daughter to extort money from him. but, he admitted to himself, neither had he any feeling of parentage for the small, lonely figure before him; nothing but a burning self-accusation, a lacerated pride. his act proceeded entirely from his head in place of his heart. for that very reason, jasper penny thought, he could give his daughter a greater measure of security. he would see stephen jannan to-morrow and with the lawyer's assistance get complete control of eunice's future. he must alter his will. none of this, however, assisted in solving the actual immediate necessity. there was, certainly, myrtle forge; his mother, however she might silently suffer, protest, would ultimately accede in his wishes. but it was a dreary place for a child, with only the companionship of old women. he was, for the greater part, away in the interest of his widely scattered activities, forges, furnaces, nail factories and rolling mills. he felt in anticipation the censure of the penny connections that would rise like a wall and shut eunice from the companionship of the other children, of the family, embittering her at what he had somewhere heard described as the formative period of growth. his home, he decided, for the present at least, was an undesirable place for his daughter. it was, he discovered, past two, and he remorsefully summoned a servant. he gazed with bewilderment at the list of dinner dishes tended him; bear's meat, he felt, canvas back duck or terrapin, was not a diet proper to seven; but he solved the perplexity by ordering snipe, rolled and sugared cakes filled with whipped cream and preserved strawberries, and a deep apple pandowdy. after this, and a block of nougat, eunice discovered herself to be sleepy. as she lay with tossed arms and pale streaming hair under the feather coverlet of a great hotel bed he saw with a sharp uneasiness that, in a subtle but unmistakable accent, she resembled her mother, essie scofield. xiii his thoughts darkened with the falling day; he supposed them to be solely addressed to the problem of eunice; but, in reality, they constantly evaded his will, following countless trivialities, and returned to his own, peculiar need. he made some small changes of dress for the evening, replacing brown with glazed black boots, and struggled, with one hand, through the ordeal of tying a formal neckcloth. he had purposely left behind his negro servant as a possible source of unguarded chatter. when jasper penny had finished he went in to eunice and found her awake. the new clothes lay in their open boxes; and, lighting candles, he wondered if he had better have some one in to assist her. "can you fix yourself up in these?" he asked, indicating the purchases. "oh, yes," she assured him gravely; "that is except the very backest buttons." she stood by the folded piles of shirred muslin, the elaborate velvets and silks and ribbons, obviously at a loss before such an unparalleled choice; and he was once more disturbed by the attenuation of her small body. but that could be soon remedied; she had suffered other, far greater, irremedial, oppressions; her very birth had confronted her, in the puritanical self-righteousness of his world, with an almost insuperable barrier to happiness. still back of that, even before the birth of himself and essie scofield, back, back in the unguessed past, eunice had been shaped, condemned. her fate had only culminated in his own unbalanced passion, in a desire that had blinded him like a flash of ignited powder, leaving him with a sense of utter void, of inexplicable need. "for what?" he demanded unconsciously and bitterly aloud. eunice, startled, dropped the garment in her hands. she gazed at him with a shrinking dread. "come," he told her gently, "that will be very pretty; and, don't you think, the velvet bonnet with green?" after supper he questioned her. "what time do you usually go to bed?" she answered promptly, "when it got too cold to stay up, at mr. needles', but i wouldn't know here." "we might go to the circus," he suggested, half doubtful of the propriety of such a course. however, they went. she clung tightly to his sleeve before the illuminated, high-pillared façade of welches' circus, where jasper took seats in a box. eunice was breathless before the gleaming white and gold of the interior, the fabulous, glittering chandelier, the crimson draperies and great curtain with its equestrienne on a curvetting steed. the orchestra, with a blare of trombones, announced the raising of the curtain and appearance of mr. john mays, the celebrated clown. he was followed by chinese sports, the vision of cupid and zephyr, and the songs, the programme stated, of lowrie and williams. these gentlemen, in superb yellow satin, emphasized harmoniously the fact that "and joy is but a flower, the heart with sorrow meeting will wither 'neath its power." jasper penny wondered abstractedly what was to be done with the tense, excitable child at his side? a voice from the wings announced: "mouse and harebell, the lilliputian ponies, with infant jockies, the smallest schooled racers in existence." and the word "schooled" recalled to him the diffident woman he had met at stephen jannan's, the night before. miss ... brundon. a place for the education of younger girls. he could send eunice there, for the present at any rate; and decide later upon her ultimate situation. miss brundon had a sensitive, yes, distinctly, a fine face. her school, he remembered, was at raspberry alley, far out spruce street, close to tenth. he drew a deep breath of relief at this bridging of the immediate complications the child presented. the next morning, again in the reaper coach, they rolled west over chestnut street, past a theatre with elevated statues of comedy and tragedy, the arcade with its outside stairs mounting across the front, stone mansions set back in gardens with gravelled paths, and the moorish bulk of masonic hall half hid by stores. beyond the circus they proceeded on foot to a four square brick dwelling with weeping willows and an arched wood sign above the entrance painted with the designation, "miss brundon's select academy." jasper penny found miss brundon in a small, bare, immaculate office. she was sitting at a table; and, as he entered, with eunice dragging desperately at his hand, she half rose, with a quick, faint blush. "mr. penny," she exclaimed, in a low, charming surprise. "i didn't expect, so soon, to have the pleasure ... here, at my school." he firmly moved eunice from her position at his back. "an unexpected pleasure for me," he replied. "i came to consult with you about this little girl--the daughter of a friend of mine. a friend, i may add, in difficult circumstances, and for whom i am prepared to do a great deal. i had hoped--stephen jannan told me about your exceptional establishment--that you could take her. she needs just the supervision that i am certain you offer." "of course," she replied immediately, "i'd be glad to have any one recommended by you. i do think my school is unusual. you see, there is almost no provision for the supervision of such young ladies. and i have been very fortunate in my girls; i try not to be snobbish, mr. penny; but, indeed, if a place like this is to be useful, some care is required. probably you would like an assurance of their studies and deportment." "no," he stopped her hastily; "it is quite enough to have seen you." a deeper, painful colour suffused her cheeks. he had, he thought, been inexcusably clumsy. he had unconsciously given voice to the conviction that miss brundon, like her establishment, was exceptional. she was, ordinarily, too pale for beauty; her countenance, with high, cheek bones, was irregular; yet her eyes, tranquil blue, held a steady quality almost the radiance of an inward light. her diffidence, it was clear, co-existed with a firm, inviolable spirit. he said, later: "you will discover that there are many things eunice requires, and i would be obliged if you would procure them without stint, and send the accounts to my philadelphia office. the child has been in circumstances of considerable poverty; but i wish to give her whatever advantages money can bring. yes--eunice scofield. and--" he hesitated, "in view of this...." "i understand, oh, completely," susan brundon interrupted him warmly. "you don't wish your charity exposed; and not only on your own account, but from consideration for the susceptibilities of the parents, parent--a mother, i gather." it had been, he thought, leaving, ridiculously simple. his meeting with miss brundon was a fortunate chance. a fine, delicate, unworldly woman; a fineness different from phebe's, submerged in the pursuit of her own salvation. the former, he realized, was close to forty. if she had been sympathetic with a strange child such as eunice how admirably she would attend any of her own. unmarried. the blindness of men, their fatuous choice, suddenly surprised him. he determined to proceed directly to stephen jannan, and put into motion at once the solving of his daughter's future. never, he repeated, should eunice fall again into the lax hands of essie scofield. stephen would advise him shrewdly, taking advantage of the law, or skilfully overcoming its obstacles. he had unbounded faith in the power of money where essie was concerned; at the same time he had no intention of laying himself open to endless extortion, threats, almost inevitable, ultimate scandal. what a bog he had strayed into, a quagmire reaching about him in every direction. he must discover firmer ground ahead, release from the act of that other man, his youth. the memory of the serene purity of miss brundon's office recurred to him like a breath from the open spaces where he had first known the deep pleasure of an utter freedom of spirit. jasper penny, revolving the complications of his position, made his way directly over the uneven sidewalk of spruce street to fourth; there, passing the high, narrow residences of society hill, he proceeded to stephen's office, beyond chestnut. it was in a square brick edifice of an earlier period, with a broad marble step and door and wide windows coped in scoured white stone. the lawyer's private chamber was bare, with snowy panelling and mahogany, the high sombre shelves of a calf-bound law library, a ponderous cabriolet table, sturdy, rush-seated dutch chairs, and a franklin stove with slender brass capitols and shining hod. "a chair, jasper," stephen jannan directed. "you ought to know them, they came out of myrtle forge--some of old gilbert's. your mother gave them to me when she did over the house in this new french fancy." jasper penny was momentarily at a loss for an adequate opening of the subject that had brought him there. finally he plunged directly into his purpose. "you must know, stephen," he said, "that i am decidedly obligated to a mrs. scofield." jannan nodded shortly. "the thing dragged on for a number of years, but is quite dead now; in fact, it has been for a considerable number of months. that, in itself, doesn't bother me; it is comparatively simple; but there is a child, a girl, stephen." "i didn't know that," the other acknowledged. "it is an ugly difficulty. do you wish to legitimatize your--the child? there is marriage of course." "i have no intention of marrying essie scofield," jasper penny said coldly. "and i am almost certain she wouldn't consent if i had. i am quite willing to assume a proper responsibility; but there is a limit to my conception of that. there was never any serious question of marriage; there is none now. i simply wish to get complete control of eunice; by adoption, perhaps; she is seven years old." "there are no laws of adoption, as such, in pennsylvania," jannan told him. "the only state with that provision is louisiana; there, by an act of legislature, the thing can be legalized. i could arrange it through correspondence, a certain residence within the state. it would be cumbersome and expensive, but possible." he paused, frowning. "devilish awkward," he muttered; "make a stench in a family such as ours. however," he added, "a contract practically to the same effect can be drawn. this, with her consent, would be entirely binding on mrs. scofield. if the child can write it would be well to have her signature on the deed. bring them here; she should have counsel." "after that, i suppose, the name could be arranged." "exactly. the child, of course, would have no legal status as your heir. anything she got would have to be willed direct." the other nodded. it was all far more simple than he had hoped. he almost saw a definite lightening of the future. "is the girl with her mother now?" jannan queried. "i took her away yesterday," jasper penny replied negligently. "we went to the circus, and at present she is at miss brandon's academy." he was surprised by the sudden concern on his cousin's handsome, florid countenance. "by heaven, jasper," the lawyer exclaimed, "am i to understand that you took a--well, an illegitimate child, to miss brundon, left her in the school? it's--it's incredible." "why not?" "if such a thing were known it would ruin susan brundon over night. haven't you a conception of how this is regarded? she would be stripped of pupils as if the place reeked of malignant fever. a most beastly egotistical and selfish act." "never thought of that," jasper penny admitted. he saw again the fine, sensitive face of miss brundon, presiding over the establishment that was like an emanation of her diffident and courageous spirit; the last person alive he would harm. and people were exactly as stephen had said, particularly women. they would destroy susan brundon ruthlessly, without a moment's hesitation. he thought of her as suffering incalculably, betrayed by his implied lie; he saw her eyes stricken with pain, her hands twisting together.... he rose sharply. "a blind, infernal fool!" he ejaculated, grasping his hat. "i'm glad i saw you when i did. put it right at once. obliged, stephen; come to you later about changing my will and the rest." he was in such haste to remove the danger of eunice from susan brundon that not until he again stood at the door of the academy did he realize what a difficult explanation lay before him. unconsciously he had reached a point where he would do his utmost to avoid hurting her. already she occupied an unusual elevation in his thoughts, an unworldly plane bathed in a white radiance. she was not in the office, but soon appeared, with a questioning gaze; and, he felt, an appealing lessening of her reserve. he hesitated, casting vainly about for an acceptable expression of his errand. another lie, he thought, acutely distressed, must be necessary. "i am extremely sorry, miss brandon," he told her, "but unexpected developments in the last hour make it necessary for me to remove eunice from your school." a slow flush invaded her countenance lifted to meet his troubled gaze. "mr. penny!" she exclaimed, in a faint dismay. "oh, i hope it is because of nothing--nothing derogatory you have heard. please tell me directly--" "absolutely no," he replied, his voice carrying a vibrating reassurance. "you are entirely without the need of recommendation, far beyond any unfavourable report. i am profoundly disturbed by causing you inconvenience, and i only hope to offer you sufficient apology; but i shall have to take eunice away with me, at once." "perhaps her mother can't bear separation." "it is not that," he said grimly, a tangible hurt sharpening within; "but something that cannot be gone into, with you." she turned away immediately. "i will send for her," she replied. they stood facing but mutually avoiding each other's gaze while eunice was being fetched. "her things have already come from the hotel," miss brundon proceeded. "where shall i send them?" eunice broke in with a shrill protest. "do i have to go? i don't want to." her face was scarlet with revolt. "i can walk up and down the room with a book on my head, while another little girl had to be all done with a board to her back." jasper penny wondered if he would see miss brundon again soon. the last was an afterthought bred by the realization that he could not permit her to depart absolutely from his life. there was a great deal that he, a rich and influential man of practical affairs, might do for her. he was certain that susan brundon needed exactly the assistance he could give; probably people robbed her, traded callously on her unsuspicious nature. yet, when the moment came to leave, he could think of nothing to say beyond the banality of looking for her at the jannans'. "i go out very little," she told him; "the work here absorbs me; and, unfortunately, my eyes are not strong. they require constant rest." he expressed regret once more for any disturbance he might have caused; and, after hesitating awkwardly, left with eunice hanging fretfully at his hand. what, in god's name, was he to do with the child? he walked slowly, his face half lost in the fur of his overcoat, oblivious, in his concentration on the difficulties of her situation, of eunice progressing discontentedly at his side. a petulant complaint rose at intervals to an audible sob. looking down, as the sobs threatened to become a continuous crying, he saw the top of the velvet bonnet and her diminutive hands in scarlet knitted mitts. he would have to stop dragging her from place to place; a suitable position for the present was all he hoped for now. there must be other institutions, larger and farther away, to which eunice could be sent. he had a vague memory of such a place somewhere on the delaware, was it at burlington? but he could not continue living with his daughter at sanderson's hotel. jasper penny decided that he would take her that afternoon to the house of the head machinist of his nail works at jaffa, the town that, its beginning growing largely out of the penny industries, lay a scant mile from myrtle forge. speever was a superior man; his wife, a robust cornish woman in a crisp apron, would give eunice an energetic and proper care. a thin, flexible mantle of snow lay over the drab earth, sweeping up to a grecian marble edifice, making more dreary the bulk of the eastern penitentiary and foundation of girard college, and emphasizing the winter desertion of the reaches of the fairmount water works. she soon grew absorbed in the various aspects of their transportation--the echo of the whip cracking over the mules that drew the coaches across the covered viaduct, the labouring stationary engine and their slow ascent beyond. they saw, lining the river, a cemetery elevated starkly against the sky; and followed a canal by a broken, black flood between snowy banks. past a town with impressive residences and manufactories with low spreading veils of smoke, they came on a confusion of canals and canal boats, lock dams and bridges, mules and raffish crews with tanned faces and brightly coloured jackets and boots. again crossing the river and a shallow, tranquil valley, the train brigade rolled into the main street of jaffa. it was a town of small brick dwellings, spaced in orderly yards, echoing to the diminished clamour of the penny rolling mills on the outskirts. beyond the walls, starkly red against the snow, the blackened main street, the river was spotted with ice. edgar speever's wife accepted eunice with an immediate and unquestioning capability, and jasper penny turned away with a momentary but immense relief. in a few days, after the deed for the possession of the child had been executed, he could place her more permanently. he walked out to the miscellaneous group of buildings and cluttered yards that held his inherited activity; and in the small single-roomed building of the main office discussed with his superintendent the changes, improvements of process, then under way. the old nail machines, propelled by the feet and hands of an operator, and producing but one nail at a time, had been replaced by a high power engine, self-heading machinery. the superintendent complained of the pig from the new hot blast furnaces. "impure," he declared. "and this new stone coal firing, too, makes but poor stuff. it'll never touch the old charcoal forging. hammered bar's at ninety, and i'm glad to get it then. the puddling furnaces will do something with the grey pig; we have eight in blast now, turning out the railroad and heavier bars. this year will see forty-five hundred tons of iron worked, and close to four thousand kegs of nails." jasper penny listened attentively; it was his intention soon to dispense entirely with all the time-honoured methods of iron manufacture. water power, with its unequal flow, any large employment of charcoal, growing increasingly expensive with the rapid diminishment of the forests, must give place to the steam blast machine and anthracite. if his manager was unable to change, develop, with the changing times he would find another, more scientific. outside the early twilight made more grey the dingy sheds and buildings, the heaped slag; the long brick rectangle of the rolling mill, with its triple imposed, ventilated roof and the high, smoking stacks of the puddling furnaces, rising four from either length, gave out an undiminished, deafening uproar, the clamour of the bars falling out from the rollers, the spatter of hammers and dull dragging of heavy weights. the engine of the nail works rent all other sound with an unaccustomed, harsh blast.... jasper penny was conscious of a deep, involuntary relief when he reached the comparative tranquillity, the secession of vexatious problems, accomplished by myrtle forge. xiv there was, as always, an elaborate, steaming supper, with his mother, in a pelisse of black silk ruching, and amity merken at their places. he noted that an empty chair had been put, as customary, at the opposite end of the table, and with a trace of impatience ordered its removal. he wondered momentarily at his petty act; and then his thoughts returned to susan brundon. jasper penny saw her blue gaze lifted to his face, the hesitating smile; he felt again the pervading influence of her delicate yet essentially unshrinking spirit. she would possess an enormous steadfastness of purpose, he decided; a potentiality of immovable self-sacrifice. yet she was the gentlest person alive. an unusual and resplendent combination of traits, rare possibilities. she had told him that she seldom went about--her school absorbed her, and her eyes needed care, rest. he must ask stephen jannan further about her. they were sitting, jasper penny, his mother and her sister, in the parlour; a large, square chamber hung with dark maroon paper and long, many tasselled and corniced window curtains in sombre green plush. a white wedgewood mantel with ornaments in olive and blue, above a brass-fretted closed stove, supported a high mirror, against which were ranged a pair of tall astral lamps shining in green and red spars of light through their pendants, a french clock--a crystal ball in a miniature ionic pavilion of gilt--and artificial bouquets of coloured wax under glass domes. a thick carpet of purplish black velvet pile covered the floor from wall to wall; stiff adam chairs and settee with wheelbacks of black and gold were upholstered in dusky ruby and indigo. ebony tables of framed, inlaid onyx held tortoise shell and lacquer ornaments, an inlaid tulip-wood music-box, volumes in elaborately tooled morocco, and a globe where, apparently, metallic fish were suspended in a translucent, green gloom. the light from the multiple candelabras of ormolu and cut lustres streamed from the walls over jasper penny, sunk forward in profound absorption, and his mother's busy, fat hands working with gay worsteds. at her side a low stand of rubbed chinese vermilion held her spilling yarns. her face was placid, dryly pinkish and full. an irreproachable, domestic female. herself the daughter of a successful pennsylvania german ironmaster, her wealth had doubled the penny successes. there had been other children; jasper could only faintly remember two, mostly in the form of infantile whimpering. the inevitable termination of the evening was readied by the appearance of a pitcher of steaming, spiced mulled wine. a cupful was formally presented to amity merken; gilda penny sipped hers with an audible satisfaction, and jasper penny absently drank the fragrant compound of cinnamon bark and lemon, cloves, sugar and claret. a measure of that, before retiring, could not but be beneficial to susan brundon, fatigued by the duties of her academy. he thought of the sharper breath of the brandy and oranges compounded by essie scofield. a thin odour of foxglove clung to the memory of his wife. xv jasper penny supplemented jannan's letter to essie scofield, asking for an appointment with his client at the law office, with a short communication laying before her the condition in which he had found eunice, his knowledge of her neglect to provide their daughter with the funds he had sent for that purpose, and definite plans for his complete control of the child. at the despatch of this he felt that his duty, where essie as a formal parent resided, was ended. it was now only a question of an agreement on terms. he got no reply, other than a notification from stephen jannan that a meeting had been arranged for the following week. and, at eleven o'clock, on a clear, thin blue winter morning, he mounted, with eunice, to the entrance of jannan's offices on fourth street. essie scofield, in widespread mulberry silk with tight sleeves and broad steel buttons, a close brimmed blue bonnet filled with lilacs and tied with an old rose ribbon, was more compelling than jasper penny had remembered her for, actually, years. a coffee-coloured india shawl, with a deep fringe and trace of a lining checkered in cherry and black slipping from her shoulders, toned her appearance to a potential dignity. "eunice," she exclaimed, as the child entered, "do come here at my side!" a small, cold mouth was silently raised for a straining embrace. stephen jannan proceeded at once, addressing essie scofield. "mr. penny informs me that he has written you explaining our purpose. i have already instructed you of the law in such a connexion, and there remains only your signatures to these papers. i begged you, if you will remember, to come with counsel, but since you have not done that it will be best for you to read this deed, which is quite clear in its intent." essie gazed dramatically at the paper the lawyer tended her. "it means," she said, "that i am to lose eunice, and because i cannot offer her any advantages beyond those of a slim purse. i am a most unfortunate creature." jasper penny scraped his chair back impatiently, but stephen enforced his silence with a gesture. "while my client understands that no monetary consideration can compensate for the breaking of ties of affection," stephen jannan went on smoothly, "and while he offers none in payment to that end, still we feel that some material recognition should be due you. have you anything to say, suggest, at this point?" essie scofield's arm was about eunice's waist. "i am to be parted from my little daughter," she exclaimed; "and my tears are to be stopped with gold--an affectionate breast, a heart-wrung appeal, stilled by a bribe. that is the price paid by a trusting, an unsuspicious, female. long ago, when a mere girl, dazzled by--" "we won't go into that," jannan interrupted, "but confine ourselves to the immediate development. by signing the paper in question, and accepting a sum of money, you surrender all claim to this child, known as eunice scofield." "how will that affect my--my position in other ways?" she demanded, in a suddenly shrewd, suspicious tone. "not at all," the lawyer assured her. she sobbed once, emotionally; and eunice regarded her with a wide, unsparing curiosity. "a stranger to me," she gasped, with a paper white face and fluttering eyelids. jasper penny ejaculated sharply, "how much, essie?" in a moment, he judged, familiar with a potential hysteria, she might faint, scream; there were clerks, people, in the next rooms. on the brink of collapse she hesitated, twisting her purple kid gloves. "ten thousand dollars," she said. stephen jannan glanced swiftly at his cousin, and the latter nodded. "that is satisfactory," jannan announced. "a mere formality--witnesses." essie scofield traced her signature in round, unformed characters; jasper penny followed with a hasty, small script; and eunice, seated at the impressive table, printed her name slowly, blotting it with a trailing sleeve. the lawyer swung back the door of a heavy safe, and took out a package of white bills of exchange on the bank of pennsylvania. essie counted the notes independently, thrust the money into a steel-beaded reticule with silk cords, and rose, gathering together her cashmere shawl. she ignored eunice totally in the veiled gaze she directed at jasper penny. "it is better," she told him, "if you write first when you expect to visit me. really, the last time, with some friends there, you were impossible." he bowed stiffly. "don't let a sense of duty bring you," she concluded boldly. "i get on surprisingly well as it is, as it is," she reiterated, and, he thought, her voice bore almost a threat. when she had gone the two men sat gazing in a common perplexity at the child. stephen jannan's lips were compressed, jasper penny's face was slightly drawn as if by pain. eunice was investigating a thick stick of vermilion sealing wax and a steel die. "well?" jannan queried, nodding toward the table. "i thought something of burlington," penny replied, "but decided to place her in new york. want to give her all the chance possible. i intend, at what seems the proper time, to secure her my own name." he stopped the objection clouding his cousin's countenance. "we won't argue that, please. now about the will; the provision must be explicit and generous. there, at least, i am able to meet a just requirement." jasper penny's will was produced, a codicil projected, appended, and witnesses recalled. "i wanted to inquire about miss brundon," jasper said finally, the business despatched. "she seems to me very fragile for the conducting of an academy. is there no family, men, to support her? and her institution--does it continue to progress well?" "very." jannan replied to the last question first. "her children come from the best families in the city; and, under my advice, her charges are high. she has a brother, i believe, a cotton merchant of new orleans, and quite prosperous. but he has a large family, and susan will not permit him to deprive it of a dollar for her benefit. as you say, she is not strong; but in spite of that she needs no man's patronage. the finest qualities, jasper, the most elevated spirit. a little too conscientious, perhaps; and, although she is thirty-nine, curiously ignorant of the world; but rare ... rare. it almost seems as if there were a conspiracy to keep ugly truths away from her." truths, jasper penny thought bitterly, such as had just been revealed in stephen's office. there was, it seemed, nothing he could do for susan brundon. he envied the lawyer his position of familiar adviser, the ease with which the other spoke her name: susan. he rose, fumbling with a jade seal. "come, eunice," he said, the lines deepening about his mouth and eyes. stephen jannan assisted him into the heavy, furred coat. "well, jasper," he remarked sympathetically, "if we could but look ahead, if we were older in our youth, yes, and younger in our increasing age, the world would be a different place." he held out to eunice a newly minted brazilian goldpiece. "good-bye," he addressed her; "command me if i can be of any use." she clutched the gold tightly, and jasper penny led her out into the winter street. "we must have dinner," he said gravely. "with some yellow rock candy," she added, "and syllabubs." xvi he returned to myrtle forge from new york with a mingled sense of pleasure and the feeling that his place was unsupportably empty. the loneliness of which he had been increasingly conscious seemed to have its focus in his house. the following morning he walked restlessly down the short, steep descent to the forge, lying on its swift water diverted from canary creek. unlike a great many iron families of increasing prosperity, the pennys had not erected the unsightly buildings of their manufacturing about the scene of their initial activity and mansion. jasper's father, daniel barnes penny, under whose hand their success had largely multiplied, had grouped their first rolling mill and small nail works by the canal at jaffa, preserving the pastoral aspect of myrtle forge, with its farmland and small, ancient, stone buildings. jasper had only made some unimportant changes at the forge itself--the pigs were subjected to the working of two hearths now, the chafery, where the greater part of the sulphur was burned out, and the finery. the old system of bellows had been replaced by a wood cylinder, compressing air by piston into a chamber from which the blast was regulated. a blacksmith's shed had been added in the course of time, and a brick coke oven. he stopped at the forge shed, filled with ruddy light and shadow, the ringing of hammers, and silently watched the malleable metal on the anvil. flakes of glowing iron fell, changing from ruby to blue and black. the penny iron! the forge had been operated continuously since seventeen twenty-seven, hammering out the foundation of his, jasper's, position. he had taken a not inconsiderable place in the succession of the men of his family; in him the pennys had reached their greatest importance, wealth. but after him ... what? he was, now, the last penny man. the foothold gilbert had cut out of the wild, which howat and casimir--an outlandish name obviously traceable to his mother, the foreign widow--had, in turn, increased for daniel and jasper, would be dissipated. his great, great aunt, caroline, marrying a solid quaker, had contributed, too, to the family stamina; while her granddaughter, wedding a jannan, had increased the social prestige and connections of the family. the jannans, bankers and lawyers, had already converted the greater part of their iron inheritance into more speculative finance; and the burden of the industry rested on jasper penny's shoulders. at his death the name, the long and faithful labour, the tangible monument of their endurance and rectitude, except for the tenuous, momentary fact of eunice, would be overthrown, forgot. he was conscious of a strong inner protest against such oblivion. he had, of course, often before lamented the fact that he had no son; but suddenly his loss became a hundred times more poignant, regrettable. jasper penny caught again the remembered, oppressive odour of foxglove, the aromatic reek of brandy and oranges; one, in its implications, as sterile as the other. he was possessed by an overwhelming sense of essential failure, a recurrence of the dark mood that had enveloped him in leaving the jannans' ball. yet, he thought again, he was still in the midstride of his life, his powers. his health was unimpaired; his presence bore none of the slackening aspect of increasing years. these feelings occupied him, speeding in a single cutter sleigh over the crisp snow of the road leading from his home to shadrach furnace, where graham jannan and his young wife had been newly installed in the foremens' dwelling. there was a slight uneasiness about graham's lungs, in consequence of which he had been taken out of the banking house of an uncle, jannan and provost, and set at the more robust task of picking up the management of an iron furnace. it was early afternoon; the sky was as dryly powdered with unbroken blue as was the earth with white. the silver bells and scarlet pompons of the harness crackled in the still, intense cold; and a blanched vapour hung about the horse's head. jasper penny, enveloped in voluminous buffalo robes and fur, gazed with an increased interest at the familiar, flowing scene; nearby the forest had been cut, and suave, rolling fields stretched to a far mauve haze of trees; the ultramarine smoke of farmhouse chimneys everywhere climbed into the pale wash of sunlight; orderly fence succeeded fence. how rapidly, and prosperous, the country was growing! even he could remember wide reaches of wild that were now cultivated. the game, quail and wild turkey and deer, was fast disappearing. the country was growing amazingly, too, extending through the louisiana purchase, state by state, to mexico and the texan border. the era of the greatness of the united states had hardly begun, while it was more than probable that the greatness, the power, of the penny family faced an imminent destruction. his revolt at this, joining the more personal sense of the emptiness of his existence, filled him with a bitter energy, a determination to conquer, somehow, the obdurate facts hemming him in. the sleigh dropped over a rise into a shallow fold of hills, with a collection of structures on a slope, and a number of solid, small grey stone dwellings. he glanced subconsciously at the stack of shadrach furnace, and saw that it was in blast--a colourless, lively flame, with a thin, white smoke like crumpled muslin, playing about its base. the metallic ring of a smithy rose at a crossing of roads, and, from the cast house, drifted the refrain of a german song. he turned in by the comparatively long, low façade of the house where the jannans were living. a negro led the horse and sleigh back to a stable; and, briskly sounding the polished iron doorknocker, he let himself into the dining room, a chamber with a wide, pot-hung fireplace and plain mahogany consul tables with wood chairs brightly painted with archaic flowers and scrolls in gold. standing at the far side of the room, delicately outlined against a low, deeply embrasured window, was susan brundon. a slow tide of colour rose to her ordinarily pale cheeks, corresponding with a formless gladness permeating his own being. she wore ruffled lavender with a clear lace pelerine caught at her breast by a knot of straw-coloured ribbon and sprig of rose geranium. "mr. penny," she said, with a little gasp of surprise; but her gaze was unwavering, candid. "why not?" he replied lightly. "i have a small interest in shadrach. you are surprising--so far from that absorbing academy." "it's my eyes again," she explained. "i am obliged to rest. there is a very good assistant at the school; and mary sweetly thought the country would do me good." "it is really miraculous," mary jannan stated, entering from the kitchen; "she'll almost never. weren't we lucky?" she was a small woman with smooth brown hair and an air of quiet capability. "and it's splendid to see you," she continued to jasper penny. "don't for a minute think you'll get off before to-morrow, perhaps not then. graham is out, chop-chopping wood. actually--the suave graham." she indicated a high row of pegs for jasper penny's furs. "everything is terribly primitive. most of the furniture was so sound that we couldn't bring ourselves to discard it all, however old-fashioned. little by little." graham jannan entered, a tall, thin young man with crisp, pale yellow hair and a clean shaven, sanguine countenance with challenging light blue eyes. he greeted the older man with a firm, cold hand clasp. "i suppose you've come out to discover what i have learned about iron. well, i know now that a sow is not necessarily a lady, and that some blooms have no bouquet. good rum has, though, after sleighing." upon alternately burning his fingers and throat with a steaming glass of st. croix, jasper penny and graham jannan proceeded to the furnace where, in the cast house, they watched the preparations for a flow of metal. the head founder, mcquatty, bearded to the eyes and swathed in a hide apron, stood at the ironmaster's side. "the charcoal you'd get's not worth a bawbee," he complained; "soft stuff would hardly run lead. and where they'd cut six thousand cords of wood will no longer show more than four. shadrach ought to put out twenty-eight tons of pig in a week; and you see the statements." "stone coal," jasper penny replied; "and a hot blast." he turned to describe the latter to jannan. "it'll come," the founder agreed, "and the quality will go." he went forward to tap the clay-sealed hearth. the liquid iron poured into the channels of its sand bed, sputtering and slowly fading to dingy grey. "i'd like you to take hold of this," jasper penny told the younger man; "great changes, improvements, are just over the hill. i'll miss them--a link between the old and the new. but you would see it all. the railroad will bring about an iron age; and then, perhaps, steel. i look for trouble, too--this damned states rights. the south has been uneasy since the carolina nullification act. it will be a time for action." he gazed keenly at graham jannan. a promising young man, he thought, with a considerable asset in his wife. a woman, the right woman, could make a tremendous difference in a man's capabilities. he elaborated this thought fantastically at dinner, sitting opposite susan brundon. mary jannan wore orange crêpe, with black loops of ball fringe and purple silk dahlias; and, beside her, miss brundon's dress was noticeably simple. she volunteered little, but, when directly addressed, answered in a gentle, hesitating voice that veiled the directness, the conviction, of her replies. the right woman, jasper penny repeated silently. ten, fifteen, years ago, when he had been free, he would have acted immediately on the feeling that susan brundon was exactly the wife he wanted. but no such person had appeared at that momentous period in his life. however, then he had been a totally different being; perhaps the appreciation of miss brundon, her actual reality, lay for him entirely in his own perceptions. but if she would not have been the woman for him then, by heaven, she was now! he expressed this unaware of its wide implications, unconscious of the effect it would instantly have. the thing silently uttered bred an enormously increased need, the absolute determination that she was necessary to his most perfunctory being. the thought of her alone, he discovered, had been sufficient to give him a new energy, a sense of rare satisfaction. shortly expressed, he wanted to marry her; he had not, he told himself oddly, ever been married. the word had a significance which heretofore he had completely missed. a strange emotion stirred into being, a longing thrown out from his new desire, the late-born feeling of dissatisfaction; it was a wish for something in susan brundon which he experienced but could not name. roughly stated it was a hunger to surround her with security, comfort, to fortify the, at best, doubtful position of life in death for her. yet he acknowledged to himself that this regard for her safety was mostly the result of his own inner, blind striving. her happiness had magically become his. beyond that he was unable to penetrate. after supper they gathered in the chamber beyond the dining room. here jasper penny found an incongruous mingling of old and new furniture. there was a high, waxed walnut desk and cabinet, severely simple, and before it a chair with a back of elaborately carved and gilded tulips tufted in plum-coloured velvet. the thick carpet was a deep rose, and the drapery of the mantel and windows garnet. a painted hood of brilliant chinese colours had been fastened before what was evidently an open hearth, for which a coal stove was substituted. on the middle of the floor was an oriental hassock in silver brocade; while a corner held a spinet-piano decorated in roseate cupids, flower sprays and gold leaf. again, an old clock in spanish mahogany, with a rudely painted glass door, had been left on the wall. mary jannan, at the piano, wove a delicate succession of arpeggios. she sang, in a small and graceful voice, a cavatina, _tanti palpiti_. then, "ah, que les amours ... de beaux heurs." jasper penny listened with an unconscious, approving pretence of understanding. but when, in the course of her repertoire, she reached _sweet sister fay_, and _the horn of my loved one i hear_, his pleasure became active. susan brundon, on the hassock, lifted her sensitive face to the mild candle light, and its still pallor gave him a shock of delight. her hands were folded in the voluminous sweep of her crinoline; the ribbons at her breast rose and fell softly. jasper penny and graham were smoking long, fragrant cigars that the former had produced from a lacquered case, and jannan had the ingredients of the hot punch at his elbow. it amused the young man to persuade susan brandon to take a sip from his glass; and they all laughed at her subsequent gasping. jasper penny was astoundingly happy; his being radiated a warmth and contentment more potent than that of the st. croix rum. it was accompanied by an extraordinary lightness of spirit, a feeling of the desirability of life. the memory of his greying hair had left him; not, it was true, to be replaced by the surging emotions of youth, but by a deep satisfaction. susan brundon, susan ... the right woman. he marvelled again at the brightness of spirit that shone in her--like a flame through a fine paper lantern. susan, at myrtle forge. his thought became concrete; he knew now, definitely, that he had determined to marry her. his peace of mind increased. there was no need for hurry, the mere idea was irradiating; yet there must be no unnecessary delay. incontrovertibly he had passed forty. the best period in a man's life. they would go to the west indies, he decided. a ring with a square emerald, and roses of pearls. it was, almost immediately, time to retire. his room, narrow with a sloping wall, had a small window giving on a flawless rectangle of snow like the purity of susan brundon. as he lay in bed, staring wakefully against the dark, another memory crept into his thoughts--the echo of a small, querulous voice, "yellow rock candy and syllabubs." eunice! a sudden consternation seized him as he realized the necessity of telling susan fully about his daughter. no escape, evasion, was possible. if she discovered the existence, the history, of the child afterward--he lingered over the happiness that term implied--it would destroy her. this, he told himself, was not merely melodrama; he was thinking of her delicate spirituality, so completely shielded from the bald fatality of facts. an increasing dread seized him at the thought of the hurt his revelation would inflict on her. the interweaving of life in life, consequence on consequence, the unbroken intricacy of the whole fabric of existence, realized anew, filled him with bitter rebellion. the blind commitment of a vanished youth, potent after years, still hung in a dark cloud over susan brundon. he was conscious of the past like an insuperable lead weight dragging at his attempted progress. the secret errors of all the pasts that had made him rose in a haggard, shadowy troop about his bed, perpetuated, multiplied, against his aspirations of tranquil release. yet, he told himself, dressing in the bright flood of morning, if nothing perished but the mere, shredding flesh, one quality persisted equally with the other--the symbol of essie scofield was no more actual than susan. he had breakfast early, with graham jannan; and, in a reviving optimism, arranged for the jannans to bring miss brundon to myrtle forge for a night before her departure. he whirled away, in a sparkling veil of flung snow crystals, before the women appeared. susan brundon would, naturally, shrink from what he must tell her; but he was suddenly confident of his ability to convince her of the superior importance of the actuality of what they together might make of the future. he was accustomed to the bending of circumstance to his will; in the end he would prove stronger than any hesitancy she might, perhaps, reveal. his desire to have her had grown to such proportions that he could not, for an instant, think of existence without her as an intimate part. he even mentally determined when he should go to the city, the jeweller's, for the square emerald and flowered pearls. he would do over the rooms where he had lived in the thin formality of his marriage with phebe, settle an amount on essie ... shredding flesh. it would do the living woman no more injury than the dead. oranges and brandy, satin and gold and ease. he wrote, through stephen jannan, to essie scofield that afternoon, stating the generous terms of his final arrangement with her, making it plain that all personal contact between them had reached an end. hereafter she must exclusively address any unavoidable communications to mr. jannan. she disregarded this in a direct, inevitably complaining, laborious scrawl. however, he could read through it her obvious relief at complete independence. she would, she thought, stay where she was for a little ... a period of perfunctory sentimentality followed. he destroyed the letter, turning with deep pleasure to the message from graham jannan that he would bring susan brundon and mary to myrtle forge the following day. his mother, with amity merken like a timid and reduced replica at her back, greeted the jannans and miss brundon at the door. jasper penny came forward from the smoking room, to the right of the main entrance; where the men retired for an appetizer of gin and bitters. the older man was garbed with exact care. his whiskers were closely trimmed on either side of his severe mouth and shapely, dominant chin; and his sombre eyes, under their brows drawn up toward the temples, held an unusual raillery. amity merken, he learned, had desired to stay away from the supper table; but, to her distress, he forced her into a chair set by himself. susan sat at the other end of the table, in the place that had been phebe's. he gazed at her with a satisfaction without surprise; for it seemed to him that the woman beyond him had always occupied the fore of his existence. she wore pale grey, the opening at her neck filled with soft lace and pinned with a garnet brooch, and a deep-fringed, white silk shawl. the conversation was ambling, but, to jasper penny, pitched in a key of utter delight. he said little through supper; and, at its end, with graham jannan, immediately followed the others into the parlour. there mary jannan repeated her songs, french, english and italian; and jasper penny listened with a poignant, emotional response. graham and his wife had arranged to sleigh back to shadrach furnace that evening; but susan brundon was to stay at myrtle forge, and take the train from jaffa to-morrow. the jannans, finally, departed; and jasper penny, showing susan through the chambers of the lower floor, succeeded in delaying her, seated, in the smoking room. xvii now that the moment which he had so carefully planned had arrived he was curiously reluctant to precipitate susan and himself into the future. the lamps on a mantel, hooded in alabaster, cast a diffused radiance over susan's silvery dress, on her countenance faintly flushed above the white folds of the shawl. "what is that sound?" she suddenly queried. "i heard it all through supper and before. it seems to live in the walls, the very air, here." "the trip hammer of myrtle forge," he replied gravely. "i suppose it might, fancifully, be called the beating of the penny heart; it does pound through every associated stone; and i have a notion that when it stops we shall stop too. the penny men have all been faithful to it, and it has been faithful to us, given us a hold in a new country, a hold of wrought iron." "how beautiful," she murmured; "how strong and safe!" "it pleases me that you feel that," he plunged directly into his purpose; "for i intend to offer you all the strength and safety it contains." her hands fluttered to her cheeks; a sudden fear touched her, yet her eyes found his unwaveringly. "if that were all," he continued, standing above her, "if i had only to tell you of the iron, if the metal were flawless, i'd be overwhelmed with gladness. but almost no iron is perfect, the longest refining leaves bubbles, faults. men are like that, too ... susan." she grew troubled, sensitively following his mood; her hands were now pressed to her breast, her lips parted. she was so bewilderingly pure, in her dim-lit, pearly haze of silk, that he paused with an involuntary contraction of pain at what must follow. "the child, eunice," he struggled on; "i couldn't leave her at the academy because it might injure you. i had brought her in a most blind egotism; and so i took her away. she is my daughter." he saw that at first she totally missed the implication of his words. "but," she stammered, "i was told you had no ... how would that--?" then she stopped as sharply as if a hand had compressed her throat. a vivid mantle of colour rose in her face; she made a motion of rising, of flight, but sank back weakly. "it is criminally indelicate to speak to you of this," he said, "but it was absolutely necessary. i want to marry you; in that circumstance a lie would be fatal, later or sooner." she attempted to speak, her lips quivered, but only a low gasp was audible. it was worse, even, than he had feared. now, however, that he had told her, he felt happier, more confident. surely, after a little, she would forgive, forget, "i want to marry you," he repeated, torn with pity at her fragility, her visible suffering. "all that might hurt you has been put out of my life, out of our future. the way is open before us, the refining. i would do anything to spare you, believe that; but the truth, now, best." "always," she said in a faint voice. "i am trying to--to realize. oh! i suppose such things do occur; but the child herself, you--don't see how that, so near--" she broke off, gazing wide-eyed out of her misery. he was conscious of the dull, regular beat of the forge hammer. god, how the imperfections persisted! but, he told himself savagely, in the end the metal was steadfast. he would, certainly, overcome her natural revulsion from what she had just heard. the colour had left her cheeks, violet shadows gathered about her eyes; she seemed more unsubstantial than ever. he would repay again and again the suffering he had brought her. having declared himself he was almost tranquil; there was a total absence of the impetuous emotionalism of youth, the blind tyranny of desire. his feeling was deeper, and accompanied by a far more involved philosophy of self-recognition. at the same time, while acutely conscious of his absolute need of susan brundon, he was at a loss to discover its essence, shape. before he had known her he had been obsessed by a distaste for his existence; he had desperately wanted something without definition ... and susan was that desire, delicate, clear-eyed susan. yet, still, the heart of her escaped him. jasper penny had told himself that his new dissatisfaction was merely the result of his accumulating years; but, beyond the fact that such an increase might have brought him different and keener perceptions, that explanation was entirely inadequate. he wanted a quality beyond his experience, beyond, he realized, any material condition--susan brundon, yes; but it was no comparatively simple urge of sex, the natural selection of the general animal creation. there was no question of passionate importunities; those, here, would be worse than futile; all that he desired was beyond words, moving in obedience to a principle of which he had not caught the slightest glimpse. yet, confident of his ultimate victory, he maintained the dominating presence of a black penny. susan brundon had sunk back into the depths of her capacious chair; she seemed utterly exhausted, as if she had been subjected to a prolonged brutal strain. but still her eyes sought him steady in their hurt regard. "there is so much that i can give you," he blundered, immediately conscious of the sterility of his phrase. "i mean better things--peace and attention and--and understanding. i won't attempt any of the terms usual, commonplace, at such moments, you must take them, where they are worthy, for granted. i only tell you a lamentable fact, and ask you to marry me, promise you the tenderest care--" "i know that," she replied, with obvious difficulty, hesitation. "i'll not thank you. it is terribly difficult for me. i'd like to answer you as you wish, i mean reply to--to your request. but the other, the child, dragged about; there was such a distrust, a wariness, in her face." "there is no good in thinking of that alone," he stated, with a return of his customary decision. "no one can walk backwards into the future. try to consider only the immediate question, what i have asked you--will you marry me?" "is that all you have to explain?" she asked. "is there, now, no one else that counts?" the edge of a cold dread entered his hopes. "if you refer to the child's mother," he said stiffly, "she is amply well taken care of, you need waste no sentimental thoughts on her." "ah!" susan exclaimed, shrinking. her hands closed tightly on the wide silk of her skirt. the fear deepened within him; it would be impossible to explain essie to the woman before him. essie, falsely draped in conventional attributes, defied him to utter the simple truth. he raged silently at his impotence, the inhibition that prevented the expression of what might be said for himself. essie scofield had, like every one else, lived in the terms of her being, attracting to herself what essentially she was; it was neither bad nor good, but inevitable. his contact with her had been the result of mutual qualities, qualities that were no longer valid. yet to say that would place him in a damnable light, give him the aspect of the meanest opportunist. susan breathed, "that poor woman." it was precisely what he had expected, feared--the adventitious illusion! he had an impulse to describe to her, even at the price of his own condemnation, the condition in which he had found eunice; but that too perished silently. jasper penny grew restive under the unusual restraint of his position. "do you mind--no more at present." susan brundon said. "i am upset; please, another time; if it is necessary. i feel that i couldn't answer anything now, i must go up; no, your mother will show me." she rose, and he realized that she would listen no further. there was an astonishing strength of purpose behind her deprecating presence. she was more determined than himself. he watched her walk evenly from the room, heard the low stir of voices beyond, with a feeling that he had been perhaps fatally clumsy. all that he had said had been wrong, brutally selfish. he had deliberately invited failure; he should have been patient, waited; given her a chance to know and, if possible, value him, come to depend on him, on his judgment, his ability in her welfare. but, in place of making himself a necessity, he had launched at once into facts which she must find hideous. she had said, "another time, if necessary." his mouth drew into a set line--there would be another and another, until he had persuaded, gained, her. he lit a cigar, and walked discontentedly up and across the room. the sound of the forge hammer again crept into his consciousness: the penny iron--the fibre, the actuality, of the penny men! he repeated this arrogantly; but the declaration no longer brought reassurance; the certainty even of the iron faded from him; he had failed there, too, digging a pit of oblivion for all that their generations of toil had accomplished. the past inexorably woven into the pattern of the future! eunice, so soon wary, distrustful, susan had seen that immediately, would perpetuate all that he wished dead--essie and himself bound together, projected in an undesirable immortality through endless lives striving, like himself, to escape from old chains. if he failed with susan his existence would have been an unmitigated evil; the iron, his petty, material triumphs, would rust, but the other go on and on. his thoughts became a maze of pity for eunice, infinite regret of the past, a bitter energy of hope for what might follow. he turned with pride to his forging--long-wrought charcoal iron; the world would know no better. still, with his penetration of the future, he realized that the old, careful processes were doomed. he had difficulty in assembling enough adequate workmen to fill the increasing contracts for bar iron and rails now; and the demand, with the extension of steam railways, would grow resistlessly. more wholesale methods of production were being utilized daily; he was one of the foremost adherents of "improvement"; but suddenly he felt a poignant regret at the inevitable passing of the old order of great ironmasters, the principalities of furnaces and forges. he was still, he felt, such a master of his men and miles of forests and clearings, lime pits and ore banks, coal holes, mills, coke ovens, hearths and manufactories. he might still drive to virginia through a continuous line of his interests; his domination over his labourers, in all their personal and industrial implications, was patriarchal; he commanded, through their allegiance and his entire grasp on every iota of their living, their day's journey; but, he told himself, he was practically the last of his kind. new and different industrial combinations were locking together in great agglomerations of widely-separated activities; the human was superseded by the industrial machine, where men were efficient, subservient cogs in a cold and successful automaton of business. a system of general credit was springing up; the old, old payments in kind, in iron or even meal and apparel, or gold, had given place to reciprocal understandings of deferred indebtedness. the actual thousands of earlier commerce were replaced by theoretical millions. his own realty, his personal property, because of such understandings, were outside computation. they were, he knew, reckoned in surprising figures; but in a wide-spread panic, forced liquidation, the greater part of his wealth would break like straw. it was the same with the entire country. his thoughts returned to susan, to the longing for the peace, the inviolable security, she would bring to the centre, the heart, of his life. no material catastrophe could shape, deplete, her richness of spirit. fragile as she was, with her need of rest, her diffidence and pallor, she yet seemed to jasper penny the most--the only--secure thing in the world. she defied, he murmured, death itself. wonderful. he moved slowly to his sombre bed room, with its dark velour hangings and ponderous black walnut furniture, precisely scrolled with gilt. the interior absorbed the light of a single lamp, robbing it of radiance. a clock deliberately struck the hour with an audible whirring of the spring. jasper penny took out from a drawer a tall, narrow ledger, its calf binding powdering in a yellow dust, with a blurring label, "forgebook. myrtle forge, ." he sat, opening it on the arm of an old windsor reading chair he had insisted on retaining among the recent upholstery, and studied the entries, some written in a small script with ornamental capitals and red lined day headings, others in an abrupt manner with heavy down strokes. the latter, he knew, had been made by his great grandfather, howat. "jonas rupp charged with three pair of woollen stockings ... shoes for minnie." howat had been young when minnie's shoes were new; twenty something--five or six. he must have married not long after. howat--like himself--a black penny. the special interest jasper penny felt for this particular ancestor grew so vivid that he almost felt the other's presence in the room at his shoulder. he consciously repressed the desire to turn suddenly and surprise the shadowy and yet clear figure in the gloom. the features of the youth so long gone, and yet, too, he felt, the replica of his own young years, were plain; the dark eyes, slanted brows, the impatient mouth. his community of sympathy with the other, who was still, in a measure, himself, was inexplicable; for obviously howat had escaped jasper's blundering--an early marriage, a son, the son whose name, like his mother's, made such an exotic note in a long, sound succession of isabels and carolines and gilberts, was a far different tale from his own. yet it persisted. it seemed to him that the silence of the room grew strained, there was the peculiar tension of a muteness desperately striving for utterance. he waited, listened, in a rigidity of which he was suddenly ashamed; ridiculous. he relaxed; the memory of his own youth flooded back, rapt him in visions, scents, sounds. the premonitory whirring of the clock spring sounded once more, followed by the slow, increasing strokes ... again. his body wavered, on the verge of sleep, and he straightened himself sharply; then he rose and, putting back the forgebook, undressed. susan, at breakfast, her shoulders wrapped in a serious-toned pelerine, said little. jasper penny instinctively excluded her from a trivial conversation. she was, he decided, paler than usual, the shadows under her eyes were indigo. he was filled with self-condemnation. mrs. penny, gazing at her with a beady discernment, asked if her rest had been interrupted. "i am always an indifferent sleeper," susan brundon replied evasively. he followed her into the carriage that was to take her to the station at jaffa; and, ignoring her slight gasp of protest, grasped the reins held by the negro coachman. however, they proceeded over the short distance to the town without speech. he was torn between a wish to spare her and the desire to urge his own purpose. but more immediately he wanted to make secure the near hour of his seeing her again. he asked, finally, "will you be at the jannans' this week, or are visitors received at the academy?" "no," she replied to the first; "and i have very little time between classes. you see, they fill the whole day, tasks and pleasures. it is difficult for me to--to talk on a generality of themes with callers." "i have no intention of being diffuse," he replied pointedly. "i could confine my entire conversation to one request--" "please," she interrupted pitiably. "i am utterly wretched now. the simplest gentility--" she paused, but her wish was clear. he restrained himself with difficulty. drifting slowly across the scattered roofs of the town was the leaden smoke of his mills and fires; as they drove into the main street the thin crash of his iron was audible. men everywhere bowed to him with marked respect. but the woman at his side sat erect, drawn away from him, unmoved by all that, to the world, he was. there was an appalling quality in her aloofness from what, materially, he might advance in extenuation; the things so generally potent here were no more than slag. he searched within for what might bend, influence, her, for whatever he might have of value in her eyes. he found nothing. it was a novel and painful experience; and it bred in him a certain anger; he became merely stubborn. he declared to himself, with an oath, that he would gain her; and he pulled up his horses viciously at the station rack. this, too, hurt her; she exclaimed faintly at the brutally drawn bits. a man hurried forward to take her bag, and then, in a blowing of horn, a harsh exhaust of steam, she was gone. a last, hurried impression of her delicate profile on a small pane of glass accompanied him back to myrtle forge. there his mother regarded him with an open concern. "something's on your mind," she declared. "i passed your door at midnight, and there was light under it. i've often told you about sitting up late." "i'm getting along," he replied lightly. "you fail to do justice to the weight of my increasing majority. but, in a little, you'll be astonished at my renewed youth." he became serious in speaking, conscious of the new life susan would, must, bring into his existence. xviii since he had declared himself so decidedly and at once, no hesitation was possible; he must, he was aware, move remorselessly forward in assault. to sweep susan brundon into his desire, overwhelm her defences--he called them prejudices but immediately after withdrew that term--offered the greatest, the only promise of success. an obliterating snow fell for the following thirty hours, and a week went by in the readjustment to ordinary conditions of living and travel. but at the end of that period jasper penny left myrtle forge for the city, with a determined, an almost confident, mouth, and a bright, hard gaze. late afternoon, he decided, would be the best time for his appearance at the academy. and the western sky was a luminous, bright red when he passed under the stripped, uneasy branches of the willow trees to the school door. miss brundon's office, rigorous as the corridor of a hospital, had a table and uncompromising wooden chairs on a rectangle of bluish-pink carpet; a glowing, round stove held a place on a square of gleaming, embossed zinc, while the remaining surfaces were scrubbed oak flooring and white calcimine. a large geographer's globe, a sphere of pale, glazed yellow traced in violet and thin vermilion and cobalt, rested on an involuted mahogany stand; and a pile of text books covered in gay muslin made a single, decisive note of colour. she kept him waiting, he felt uneasily, a long while; perhaps she had a class; but he felt that that was not the reason for her delay. when she finally appeared in soft brown merino, with a deep fichu of old, dark lace, and black ribbons, she courageously held out a delightfully cool, smooth hand. "at first," she said directly, "i thought it would be better not to see you at all. yet that wasn't genteel; and i felt, too, that i must speak to you. even at the danger, perhaps, of trespassing into your privacy." "i have given you the absolute right to do that," he told her. "it will only bring me pleasure, to--to suppose i interest you enough--" "ah, but you do," she cried with clasping fingers. "it has made my work here very difficult; the quiet has gone before echoes that i think every child must hear, echoes from spaces and things that appall me. here, you see, i have lived so apart from others, perhaps selfishly, that i had grown accustomed to a false sense of peace. only lessons and little questions, little hands. it seems now that i have been outside of life itself, in a cowardly seclusion. yet it had always been that way; i didn't know." her face was deeply troubled, the clear depths of her eyes held a new questioning doubt. "it's because of that, mainly, i ask you to marry me," he replied, standing before the table at which, unconsciously, she had taken her place; "it is because of your astonishing purity. you are so beautiful; and this quiet, peace--you must have it all your life; it is the air, the garden air, for you to flower in. i can give it to you, miles of it, farther than you can see. all that you care for heaped about you. but not that only," he insisted, "for i realized that no one lives to whom such things are less; i can give you something more, not to be talked about; whatever my life has been it has at least brought me to your feet. i have learned, for you, that there is a thing men must have, god knows exactly what--a craving to be satisfied, a--a reaching. and that itself, the knowledge of such need, is not without value. because of it i again, and shall again, if necessary, ask you to marry me." she replied in a low voice. "you must marry the child's mother." for the first time she avoided him; bright blood burned in her cheeks; a hand on the edge of the table was straining, white. a sudden feeling of helplessness came over him, with, behind it, the ever-present edge of anger, of impatience. he took a step forward, as if to crush, by sheer insistence, her opposition; but he stopped. he lost entirely the sense of her fragile physical being; she seemed only a spirit, shining and high, and insuperably lovely. then all feeling was lost but the realization that he could not--in any true sense--live without her. "susan," he said, leaning forward, "you must marry me. do you care for me at all?" her breast rose and fell under the delicate contour of her wool gown. "the child's mother," she repeated, "you should marry her. how can you do differently? what can it matter if i care about you?" she raised a miserable face. "how can i?" she asked. he could think of no other answer than to repeat his supreme necessity for her. he struggled to tell her that this was an altogether different man from essie scofield's companion; but his words were unconvincing, limited by the inhibition of custom. a transparent dusk deepened in the room accompanied by a pause only broken by the faint explosions of the soft coal. the power of persuasion, of speech, appeared to have left him. there must be some convincing thing to say, some last, all-powerful, argument. it eluded him. the exasperation returned, spreading through his being. "surely," she said laboriously, "there is only one course for you, for us all." "i'll never marry essie scofield!" he declared bluntly. his voice was unexpectedly loud, unpleasant; and it surprised him only less than susan brundon. she drew back, and the colour sank from her cheeks; an increasing fear of him was visible. "in the first place," he continued, "essie probably wouldn't hear of it. and if i managed that it would be only to make a private hell for us both. it would not, it couldn't, last a month. there is nothing magical in marriage itself, there's no general salvation in it, nothing to change a man or woman. why, by heaven, that's what you have taught me, that is the heart of my wanting you. you must feel it to understand." he circled the table and laid a hand on the back of her chair. "susan." her head was bowed, and he could see only her smooth, dark bands of hair and the whiteness of her neck. "susan," he said again. "a second wrong will not cure the first. if one was inexcusable the other would be fatal. married--to some one else, with yourself always before me--surely you must see the impossibility of that. and am i to come to nothing, eternally fail, because of the past? isn't there any escape, any hope, any possibility? you don't realize how very much will go down with me. i am a man in the middle of life, and haven't the time, the elasticity, of youth. a few more years to the descent. but, with you, they could be splendidly useful, happy; happy, i think, for us both. i know that a great many people would say as you have, but it is wrong in every aspect, absolutely hopeless. essie's values are totally different from yours; she has her own necessities; one measure will not do for all women." she rose and stood facing him, very near, her crinoline swaying against him, and said blindly, "you shall marry her." "i'll be damned if i do," jasper penny asserted. "i will marry you, you," he whispered, with his lips against the fineness of her ear. her hands were on his shoulders; but she neither drew herself into his embrace nor repulsed him. he wanted to crush her softness in his arms, to kiss her still face into acquiescence. the quality, the kind, of his need made it impossible. she slipped back without a sound into her chair, drooping forward over the table. a sharp pity invaded him, holding him back from her, silencing the flow of his reasoning and appeal. it defeated, in the stirring tenderness of its consideration, his purpose. he could not continue tormenting her, racking her delicate, taut sensibilities by a hard insistence. he withdrew quietly, to where his hat and stick rested on a chair, and gathered them up. still she didn't move, raise her head, break the low fumbling of the soft coal. he could no longer distinguish her clearly, she was blurring in a dusk deeping so imperceptibly that it seemed a gradual failing of his vision. the geographer's globe appeared to sway slightly, like a balloon tied to a string; the gay muslin of the piled text books had lost their designs. suddenly the room without motion, the approaching night, the desirable presence of the woman growing more immaterial, more shadow-like to elude his reaching hands, presented a symbol, an epitome, of himself. day fading swiftly into dark; dissolving the realities of table and flesh and floor; leaving only the hunger, the insuperable inner necessity and sense of loss. "good-bye," he breathed. jasper penny saw that she raised her head, he caught the glimmering pallor of her face. but she said nothing, and sank back into the crumpled position on the table. he went out, closing the door of the office, shutting her into the loneliness of her resolve, her insistence. in the familiar rooms at sanderson's hotel he revolved again and again all that she had said. for a little he even endeavoured to inspect calmly the possibility of a marriage with essie scofield. steeped in susan's spirit he thought of it as a reparation, to eunice, perhaps to essie, but more certainly to an essence within himself. but immediately he saw the futility of such a course; the inexorable logic of existence could not be so easily placated, its rhyming of cause and effect defeated. all that he had told susan brundon recurred strengthened to an immovable conviction. the thought of marrying essie was intolerable, farcical; to the woman herself it would mean utter boredom. such a thing must lead inevitably to a greater misfortune than any of the past. susan, in her resplendent ignorance of facts, failed to realize the impossibility of what she upheld. no, no, it was out of the question. he wondered if he had progressed in the other, his supreme, wish. and he felt, with a stirring of blood, that he had. susan cared for him; her action had made that plain. that was a tremendous advantage; with another he would have thought it conclusive; but not--not quite with susan brundon. he had a deep regard for her determination, so surprising in the midst of her fragility. yet, if pity had not prevented him, this afternoon, in her office, he might have forced her to a sharper realization of a more earthly need, the ache for sympathy, consolation, the imperative cry of self. that was his greatest difficulty, to overcome her lifelong habit of thinking of others before herself. such, he knew, was the root of her appeal for essie, rather than a cold, dogmatic conception. self-effacement. at this a restive state followed; personally he had no confidence in the sacrifice of individual aims and happiness. any course of that sort, he told himself, in the management of his practical affairs, would have resulted in his failure. there were a hundred men in the country plotting for his overthrow, anxious to take his position, scheming to undersell him, to discover the secret of the quality of his iron rails. others he had deliberately, necessarily, ruined. no good would have been served by his stepping aside, allowing smaller men to flourish and annoy him, cut down his production by inconsiderable sales. he, and his family, had built a great, yes, and beneficial, industry by ruthlessly beating out a broad and broader way for their progress. it was needful to gaze fixedly at the end desirable and move in the straightest line possible. susan stopped by the way. a thousand little acts of alleviation, at best temporary, interrupted her living. children, not hers, dragged at her skirt. how much better for her to have a child of her own. their child! a great deal that had been vague in his thoughts became concrete at that last period; not only the possible succession of the iron, but the comprehension that a child now, before the increasing sterility of multiplying years, would be an image of all his inmost craving and which must else be lost. eunice was different. pity, mingled with a rigid sense of his duty and a faint accent of parenthood, comprehended his feeling for her. he stated this to himself clearly, admitting what delinquency it carried. it was, simply, an incontrovertible fact; and it was his habit to meet such things squarely. a black penny, he had no impulse to see existence in imposed sentimental or formally moral conceptions. from all this he returned with a feeling of delight to his personal longing for susan brundon; he saw her bowed over the table in an exhaustion almost an attitude of surrender. a slender, pliable figure in soft merino and lace. he saw her beyond the candles of graham jannan's supper table, a rose geranium at her breast. the motto of the bon bon partially returned: "... ange du ciel ... je t'aime! ... le bon heur supreme!" xix in the morning he walked over to stephen jannan's office on fourth street. the day was unexpectedly warm, and a mist rose about the wet bricks of the city. he proceeded directly into stephen's private enclosure. "i was about to write you," the latter stated. "it's well enough for you to direct mrs. scofield to confine her pleas to me, and comparatively simple to picture her drawing a quarterly sum in an orderly manner; but how you are going to realize that happy conception is increasingly beyond me. i have to point out to her daily--a great nuisance it is--that she cannot have her income before it is due. heaven knows what she has done with the other money in so short a while. she hasn't moved, apparently increased her establishment; at your direction the bills were settled, and heaven knows she had no reluctance in presenting all that were permissible and a number doubtful. there is, of course, one probability." jasper penny's thoughts returned to the stony, handsome youth he had seen in the company of essie's friends, to the insinuations of the woman who had been removed protesting her superiority and warning him against a "tailor's dummy." well, it was no longer his affair what essie did with her money, what in her affections remained unimpaired. rather it was reassuring that she had so promptly found solace; it enlarged his own feeling of freedom. "it got worse, yesterday," stephen jannan continued; "she came to the office, insisted on seeing me. luckily i was busy with a mastership that kept me over three hours. but she left, i was told, with the air of one soon to return. she was brandied with purpose. there is no end, jasper, to what i am prepared to do for you; but, my dear fellow, neither of us can have this. she wept. my young gentlemen were pierced with sympathetic curiosity. you must realize, jasper, that you are not a sparrow, to float unnoticed from ledge to ledge." an angry impotence seized jasper penny. he was tempted to have stephen jannan turn over to essie, at once, a conclusive sum of money. that would put an end to any communication between them, provide her with the power of self-gratification which for essie scofield spelled forgetfulness.... for a little, he was obliged, wearily, to add. together with such a young man as he had seen in her house her capacity for expenditure would be limitless. she would come back to him with fresh demands, perhaps at an inconceivably awkward time, in a calculated hysteria--he had cause to know--surprisingly loud and convincing. susan must be absolutely secured against that possibility. he could not help but think of the latter as yielding in the end, married to him. he gazed at stephen jannan in a sombre perplexity. "a nuisance," the other nodded. "only time, i suppose, and the most rigid adherence to your statements will convince the lady of what she may expect. in the meanwhile, frankly, we had better put it in some other hands; not so much on my account as your own--the sympathetic young gentlemen, you see. that can be easily arranged." jasper penny was not thinking of the material essie, the present, concrete problem; but he was once more absorbed in the manner in which her influence followed, apparently shaped, his existence. he was again appalled by the vitality of the past; the phrase itself was an error, there was no past. all that had gone, that was to come, met ceaselessly in the present, a confusion of hope and regret. it was evident that he would have to see essie again, and explain that what she had from him depended entirely on her reciprocal attitude. this could only be satisfactory in person. he would go to her at once, to-day. an enormous reluctance to enter her house again possessed him. the mere act had the aspect of an acknowledgment of her continued potency, her influence over him. he put it off as long as possible, and it was past five when he finally walked slowly toward her door. she was in; and he saw, on the hall stand, a silk hat and overcoat cut in an extreme of current fashion. the servant preceded him above, toward the room usual for casual gatherings; and he heard a sudden low murmur, expostulation, follow the announcement of his name. essie scofield appeared at the top of the stairs. "come up," she said in a hesitating, sullen voice. he mounted without reply. as he had expected daniel culser was present, and rose to greet him negligently, from a lounging attitude on the sofa. his coat, cut back to the knees, was relentlessly tapered, the collar enormously rolled and revered, and a white marseilles waistcoat bore black spots as large as a bolivian half dollar; while a black scarf, it was called the du casses, fell in an avalanche of ruffles. he moved toward the door, fitting his coat carefully about his slim waist, "i'm away, essie," he proclaimed. "when will you come again, daniel?" she asked with an oppressive humility. she gazed at jasper penny with a momentary delay; then, with an utter disregard of his presence, laid her hands on the younger man's shoulders. "soon," she begged. obviously ill at ease he abruptly released himself. "i don't care," she cried defiantly; "i'll tell the whole world you are the sweetest man in it. jasper's nothing to me nor i to him. and i'm not afraid of him, of what he might threaten, either. stay, daniel, and you'll see. i will look out for us, dan." her unexpected frankness was inevitably followed by an awkward silence. daniel culser finally cursed below his breath, avoiding jasper's cold inquiring gaze. "i'm glad i said it," essie proceeded; "now he knows how things are." she went up again to the younger, and laid a clinging arm about his shoulders. "i'm mad about you, daniel, you know it; there's nothing i wouldn't do for you, give you if i could. isn't he beautiful?" she fatulously demanded of jasper penny. "you are making a fool of yourself and me," the subject of her adulation roughly declared. he removed her arm so forcibly that the scarlet print of his fingers was visible on her soft, dead white skin. "probably you have gone and spoiled everything. and remember what i said. i am a man of my word." jasper penny dryly thought that the term man was singularly inappropriate in any connection with the meticulously garbed figure before him. essie would have a difficult time with that stony youth. she regarded him with eyes of idolatry, drawing her fingers over the sleeve impatiently held aside from her touch. "i'm going," he stated once more, impolitely; but she barred him at the door. "i want you to stay," she cried excitedly; "hear what i am going to say, what i am going to do for you." she advanced toward jasper penny. "i asked that jannan for more money because i had given daniel all i had, and i wanted still more, to give him. i'll demand things all my life for him; everything i have is his." she gasped, at the verge of an emotional outburst. her heart pounded unsteadily beneath an adventitious lace covering; her face was leaden with startling daubs of vermilion paint. "give me a great deal of money, now, at once ... so that i can go to daniel with my hands full." "that is why i came here," jasper penny replied; "to tell you that you must not use up your income at once, on the first week, almost, of its payment; because you will be able to get no more until another instalment is due. i haven't the slightest interest in where your money goes, it is absolutely your own; but i cannot have you after it every second day. the administration will be put in a different quarter, rigidly dispensed; and any continued inopportunities will only result in difficulties for yourself." she cursed him in a gasping, spent breath. essie looked ill, he thought. daniel culser, listening at the door, made a movement to leave, but the woman prevented him, hanging about his neck. "no! no!" she exclaimed. "it will be all right, i can get it ... more. be patient." jasper penny walked stiffly to the exit, where he paused at the point of repeating his warning. essie scofield was lifting a quivering, tear-drenched face to the vexation of the fashionable youth. he was attempting to repulse her, but she held him with a desperation of feeling. the elder descended the stairs without further speech. outside, the warmth of the day had continued into dusk. the mist had thickened, above which, in a momentary rift, he could see the stars swimming in removed constellations. he was wrapped in an utter loathing of the scene through which he had passed, his undeniable part in it. it was all hideous beyond words. his late need, his sense of void and illimitable longing, tormented him ceaselessly. he was sick with rebellion against life, an affair of cunning traps and mud and fog. above the obscured and huddled odium of the city the distances were clear, serene. above the degradation ... susan. a tyrannical desire to see her possessed him, an absolute necessity for the purification of her mere presence. unconsciously he quickened his step, charged with purpose; but he couldn't go to the academy now; it was six o'clock. he must delay an hour at least. habit prompted him to a supper which he left untried on its plates, the lighting of a cigar, quickly cold, forgot. at seven he hurried resolutely over the dark streets with the dim luminosity of occasional gas lamps floating on the unstirring white gloom. the bricks under foot were soggy, and the curved sign above her entrance, the bare willows, dropped a pattering moisture. she saw him immediately, not in the familiar office, but in a hall laid with cold matting and nearly filled by a stairway, lit with a lamp at the further end. "i am sorry," she told him; "i have no place to take you. the rhetoric mistress is correcting papers there," she indicated the shut door. he made no immediate answer, content to gaze at her sensitive, appealing countenance. "it is so warm," she said finally, colouring at his intentness, "and i have been indoors all day. i might get my things. we could, perhaps ... a walk," she spoke rapidly, her head bent from him. she drew back, then hesitated. "very well," he replied. susan disappeared, but she quickly returned, in a little violet bonnet bound and tied with black, and a dark azure velvet cloak furred at her wrists and throat. she held a muff doubtfully; but, in the end, took it with her. outside, the mist and night enveloped them in a close, damp veil. they turned silently to the right, passing the narrow mouth of currant alley, and quince street beyond. the bricks became precarious, and gave place to a walk of boards; the corners about a broad, muddy way were built up; but farther on the dwellings were scattered--lighted windows showed dimly behind bare catalpas, iron fences enclosed orderly patches between sodden flats, gas lamps grew fewer. a deep, all-pervading contentment surrounded jasper penny, an unreasoning, happy warmth. he said nothing, his stick now striking on the boards, now sinking into earth, and gazed down at susan, her face hid by the rim of her bonnet. this companionship was the best, all, that life had to offer. he felt no need to importune her about the future, their marriage; curiously it seemed as though they had been married, and were walking in the security, the peace, of a valid and enduring bond. there was no necessity for talk, laborious explanation, periods infinitely more empty than this silence. they walked as close to each other as her skirt would permit; and at times her muff, swinging on a wrist, would brush softly against him. how strangely different the actual values of existence were from the emphasized, trite moments and emotions. in the middle of his life, at the point of his greatest capability for experience, his most transcendent happiness came from the present, the deliberate, unquestioning walk with susan, the aimless progress through an invisible city and under a masked clear heaven of stars. no remembered thrill compared with it, reached the same height, achieved a similar dignity of consummation. the way became more uneven; low clustered sheds rose out of the darkness against a deeper black beyond, and they came to the river. the bank was marshy, but a track of pounded oyster shells, visible against the mud, led to a wharf extending into the solid, voiceless flow of the water. jasper penny stood with susan gazing into the blanketing gloom. a wan, disintegrated radiance shone from a riding light in the rigging of a vessel, and a passing warm blur flattened over the wet deck as a lantern was carried forward. no other lights, and no movement, rose from the river; no sound was audible at their back. the city, from the evidence of jasper penny's sensibilities, did not exist; it had fallen out of his consciousness; suddenly its bricked miles, its involved life stilled or hectic, stealthy in the dark, seemed a thing temporary, adventitious; he had an extraordinary feeling of sharing in a permanence, a continuity, outlasting stone, iron, human tradition. he had been swept, he thought, into a movement where centuries were but the fretful ticking of seconds. "outside death," he said fantastically, unconsciously aloud. a remarkable sentence recurred to him, the most profound, he told himself, ever written: "before he was i am." its vast implications easily evaded his finite mind, just as the essence of his present rapture--it was no less--lay beyond his grasp. he lingered over it; gave it up ... returned to susan. "wonderful," she said gravely, with a comprehensive wave of her muff. and her simplicity thrilled him the more with the knowledge that she shared his feeling. she drew up the fur collar of her cloak, shivered; and, in the wordless harmony that pervaded them, they turned and retraced their way. the rhetoric mistress had left the office with a low turned lamp, and jasper penny stopped, taking the furred wrap from susan's shoulders. she slowly untied the velvet strings of her bonnet, and laid it on the table. she extended her hands toward him, and, taking their cool slightness, he drew her to him. she rested with the fragrance of her cheek against his face, with her hands pressed to his breast. they stood motionless; he closed his eyes, and she was gone. he was confused in the dimness empty except for himself, and fumbled with, his gloves. susan's wrap lay limply over a chair; the damp bonnet ribbons trailed toward the floor. he looked slowly about, noting every object--a pile of folded yellow papers, the stove, the globe bearing a quiver of light on its varnished surface. the willow trees and board above the entrance were dripping ceaselessly; the lights of the city, increasing at its centre, like the discs of floating sunflowers. if he slept he was unaware of it, the magic joy so equally penetrated his waking and subconscious hours, the feeling of an elevation higher than years and mountains was so strong. the morning, he found, was again cold, and clear. he must go out to jaffa, where new blast machines demanded attention; but, the day after-- his thoughts were broken by a sharp rap on the outer door. mr. stephen jannan was below, and demanded to see him immediately. stephen's appearance at the hotel at that early hour, he recognized, was unusual. but a glance at his cousin's serious aspect showed him at once that the reason was urgent. stephen jannan, as customary, was particularly garbed; and yet he had an expression of haste, disturbance. he said at once, in the bedroom where jasper penny was folding his scarf. "that young waster, culser, daniel culser, was shot and killed in mrs. scofield's house last evening." the ends of the scarf fell neglected over the soft, cambric frills of his shirt. jasper penny swallowed dryly. "at what time?" he asked. "he was seen in the old white bear tavern at about seven, then apparently he went back to the woman's. the servant said he found the body at something past nine, and that there had been no other caller but yourself." his hearer expressed a deep, involuntary relief. "i was there late in the afternoon," he acknowledged; "but i left around six." stephen jannan, too, showed a sudden relaxation. "i have already sent a message to the mayor," he continued; "confident that you would clear yourself without delay. mrs. scofield's history is, of course, known to the police. you have only to establish your alibi; she, essie scofield, can't be found for the moment. she may have taken an early stage out of the city; but it is probable that she has only moved into another police district. just where were you, jasper?" the latter said stupidly, "walking with susan brundon." a swiftly augmented concern gathered on stephen jannan's countenance. "you were walking with susan," he repeated increduously. "yes," jasper asserted, with a sharp inner dread. "you don't know, but i want to marry her." stephen jannan faced him with an exclamation of anger. "you want to marry her, and, in consequence, drag her, susan, into the dirtiest affair the city is like to know for years. susan brundon, with her academy; all she has, all her labour, destroyed, ruined, pulled to pieces by slanderous tongues! by god, jasper, what a beast you look! the most delicate woman, alive, the one farthest from just this sort of muck, being sworn in the mayor's office, testifying in an obscene murder case, before the sheriff and constable, and heaven knows what police and vilely curious!" a sickening feeling of utter destruction seized on jasper penny, a dropping of his entire being from the heights of yesterday to the last degradation. he felt the blood leave his heart and pound dizzily in his brain, and then recede, followed by an icy coldness, a wavering of the commonplace objects of the room. he raised his fingers to his collar, stared with burning eyes at stephen jannan. "everything spoiled," the latter said again; "her pupils will positively be taken from her at once by all the nice females. her name will be pronounced, smiled over, in every despicable quarter of the city, printed in the daily sheets. i--i can't forgive you for this. susan, our especial joy!" jasper penny saw in a flash, as vivid and remorseless as a stab of lightning, that this was all true. the fatality of the past, sweeping forward in a black, strangling tide, had overtaken not only himself but susan, too; susan, in soft merino, in an azure velvet cloak; her face against his. "i shall go away at once," he said hoarsely. "i'll never appear, and they can think what they will. then there will be no necessity for her to come forward. she shall be spared that, no matter what it costs." "romantic and youthful folly," jannan declared; "loud-sounding and useless. how little you understand susan--immediately it is known culser was killed between seven and nine, whether you stay or go, she will come forward with the truth, free you from any suspicion. i tell you every detail will be canvassed, familiar to the boys on the street. a man important as yourself, with all your industries and money, and such salacity, together with susan brundon, will make a pretty story. if i had a chance, jasper, i'm almost certain i'd sacrifice you without a quiver. how could you? susan brundon! never telling her--" "on the contrary, she knew everything. i am not so low as you seem to think." "that has no importance now!" stephen jannan exclaimed impatiently. "all that matters is to make it as easy as possible for her, i have, i think, enough position, influence, to keep the dregs out. but there will be enough present, even then. damnable insinuations, winks, cross-questioning." his excitement faded before the exigencies of the unavoidable situation; he became cold, logical, legal. jasper penny listened, standing, to his instructions, the exact forecasting of every move probable at the hearing in the mayor's chamber. "after that," stephen added, "we can face the problem of susan's future. she thinks tremendously of her school. it will fall to pieces in her hands. there can be no question of material assistance; refused her own brother. "now, understand--stay in these rooms until i send for you. see no one. i'll get on, go to susan. the thing itself should be short; her character will assist you there. what a mess you have made of living, jasper." xx in the silence of the sitting room jasper penny heard diverse and yet mingled inner voices: essie's younger, exuberant periods, her joy at presents of gold and jewelled trifles; changing, rising shrilly, to her last imploring sobs, her frantic embrace of the man that, beyond any doubt, she had herself killed. running through this were the strains of a quadrille, the light sliding of dancing feet, and the sound of a low, diffident voice, susan brundon at the jannans' ball. the voice continued, in a different surrounding, and woven about it was the thin complaint of a child, of eunice, taken against her will from the academy. these three, essie and susan and eunice, combined, now one rising above the other, yet inexplicably, always, the same. back of them were other, less poignant, echoes, flashes of place, impressions of associated heat or cold, darkness or light: he saw the features of howat penny, in the canvas by gustavus hesselius, regarding him out of a lost youth; he recalled, and again experienced, the sense of howat's nearness; integral with himself; merging into his own youth, no less surely lost, yet enduring. his mother joined the immaterial company, accents, rigid with pride in him. and penetrating, binding, all was the dull beat of the trip hammer at myrtle forge. he had mechanically finished dressing, and stood absently twisting the drapery at a window. a fine tracery of lines had suddenly appeared about his eyes; the cold rays of the winter sun, streaming over his erect figure, accentuated the patches of grey plentiful in his hair. he saw, on the street below, a parade of firemen, in scarlet tunics and brass helmets, dragging a glittering engine. the men walked evenly abreast, at cross ropes. a leader blew a brilliant fanfare on an embossed, silver horn. women passed, foreshortened into circular bells of colour, draped with gay pelerines and rich india shawls. he saw all and nothing. the horn of the firemen sounded without meaning on his distracted hearing. the flood of his suffering rose darkly, oppressing his heart, choking his breath. perhaps if, as he had desired, he had gone away, susan would be spared. but stephen was right; nothing could keep her from the pronouncement of the words that would free him and bind herself in intolerable ill. her uprightness was terrible. it would take her fearful but determined into the pits of any hell. his hands slowly clenched, his muscles tightened, in a spasm of anguish. god, why hadn't he recognized the desperation in essie's quivering face! it would have been already too late, he added in thought; it went back, back-- a knock sounded discreetly on the door: and, opening it, he saw a young man, remembered as a law student in stephen's office. "they are ready for you, sir, at the city hall," he stated, in an over-emphasized, professional calm. xxi the restrained curiosity and inaudible comments which greeted his passage through the lower floor of the hotel gave place to a livelier interest when he was readily recognized on the street. the news of the murder had, evidently, already become city property. he was indicated to individuals unaware of his identity, with a rapid sketch of the crime, of fabulous ascribed possessions, and hinted oriental indulgence. he strode on rapidly, his shoulders squared, his expression contemptuous, challenging; but within he was possessed by an apprehension increasing at every step. it was not, fortunately, far from sanderson's hotel to the city hall; west on chestnut street they reached their destination at the following corner. the loungers from the trees before the state house had gathered, with an increasing mob aware of the hearing within, at the entrance to the municipal offices. the windows on either side of the marble steps were crowded with faces, ribald or blank or censorious, and jasper penny had to force his way into the building. he tried to recall if there was another, more private, ingress, through which susan might be taken; but his thoughts evaded every discipline; they whirled in a feverish course about the sole fact of the public degradation he had brought on susan brundon. they passed the doors of civic departments, he saw their signs--water, city treasurer, and then entered the mayor's chamber. the latter was seated at a table facing the room with his back to a wide window, opening on the blank brick wall of the philosophical society building; and at one side the high constable of the district in which the murder had been committed was conversing with the sheriff. beside them, jasper penny saw, there were only some clerks present and three policemen. the mayor spoke equably to the ironmaster, directed a chair placed for his convenience, and resumed the inspection of a number of reports. he had a gaunt, tight-lipped face framed in luxuriant whiskers, a severely moral aspect oddly contradicted by trousers of tremendous sporting plaid, a waistcoat of green buckskin cassimere, while his silk hat held a rakish, forward angle. the constable and sheriff punctuated their converse by prodigious and dexterous spitting into a dangerously far receptacle, and the clerks and police murmured together. the mayor, finally glancing at a watch enamelled, jasper penny saw, with a fay of the ballet, spoke to the room in general. "ten and past. well! well! where are the others? who is to come still, hoffernan?" "mr. jannan, sir; and a witness," a clerk answered. the other gazed at the paper before him. "susan brundon," he read in a loud, uncompromising tone. jasper penny's eyes narrowed belligerently; he would see that these pothouse politicians gave susan every consideration possible. he was, with stephen, a far from negligible force in the city elections. "school mistress," the mayor read on. "never heard of her or her school. ah--" stephen jannan had entered with susan. jasper rose as she came forward, and the mayor had the grace to remove his hat. she wore, he saw, the familiar dress of wool, with a sober, fringed black silk mantle, black gloves and an inconspicuous bonnet. she met his harried gaze, and smiled; but beneath her greeting he was aware of a supreme tension. there was, however, no perceptible nervousness in the manner of her accepting an indicated place; she sat with her hands quietly folded in her lap, the mantle drooping back over the chair. stephen jannan, facing the mayor, made a concise statement in a cold, deliberate voice. "i now propose to show your honour," he finished, "that, between the hours in which daniel culser is said to have been shot to death, my client was peacefully in the company of miss brundon, strolling in an opposite quarter of the city." "hoffernan," the mayor pronounced, waving toward the seated woman. the clerk advanced with a bible; and, rising, susan followed the words of the oath in a low, clear voice. to jasper penny the occasion seemed intolerably prolonged, filled with needless detail. never had susan brundon appeared more utterly desirable, never had his need to protect, shield, her been stronger. he--protect her, he added bitterly; rather he had betrayed her, dragged her immaculate sweetness down into the foul atmosphere of a criminal hearing. his attention, fastening on the trivialities of the interior, removed him in a species of self-hypnotism from the actualities of the scene. he heard, as if from a distance, the questioning of the mayor, "at what time, exactly, did you say? how did you know that?" susan said, "i saw the clock at the back of the hall. i noticed it because i wondered if the younger children had retired." "you say you walked with mr. penny--where?... how long did you remain at the river? no way of knowing. seemed surprisingly short, i'll venture." why didn't stephen put an end to such ill-timed jocularity? "and mr. penny had spoken to you of his--his relations with mrs. scofield, the woman in whose house culser was killed. did he refer to her on this particular evening, standing by the river's brink?" susan replied in the negative. "did he seem ill at ease, worried about anything? was he hurried in manner?" to all of this susan brundon answered no, in a voice that constantly grew lower, but which never faltered, hesitated. the mayor turned aside for a whispered consultation with the high constable. the former nodded. "have you any--shall we say--proprietary interest in mr. penny's affairs?" her reply was hardly audible in the room stilled for what might be revealed. "no," she breathed, her gloved fingers interlacing. jasper penny's lips were drawn in a hard line; stephen gazed fixedly at the floor. the mayor gesticulated affably toward the lawyer. "that'll do," he declared. "pleasure, mr. penny, to have you so completely cleared. i shall have to demand your assistance further, though--knowledge of mrs. scofield. and, in the case of her apprehension and trial, you will, of course, be called. communication will be made through mr. jannan. no doubt in our mind now of the facts." a policeman opened the door and a surge of the curious pressed in. "take her away," jasper penny whispered to jannan; "this is damnable." susan rose, gathering up her mantle, and moved to stephen jannan's side. he offered his arm with a formal courtesy, and together they made their way out through the corridor. jasper, lost in a moody abstraction, waited until they had vanished; and then, with a lowered head, walked rapidly over chestnut street in the direction of the terminus of the railroad for jaffa. a brigade of cars was made up; he took a place and was immediately dragged on and over the viaduct to the plane and waiting engine beyond. he could see, from the demeanour of the loungers on the jaffa platform, that the news of the murder, his connection with it, had preceded him. to-morrow's papers would provide them with full accounts, the name of susan brundon among the maculate details.... the meanest cast boy in his works would regard him, the knowledge of essie, with a leer. his mother was at the main door of myrtle forge, pale but composed. "take mr. penny's overcoat," she brusquely directed a servant. he had never seen a more delectable supper than the one awaiting him; and he tasted most of what found its way to his plate--he owed that to the maternal solicitude secretly regarding him, hastily masked as he met his mother's gaze. sitting later in accustomed formality the dulness of a species of relief folded him. the minor sounds of his home, the deliberate loudness of an old clock, the minute warring of his mother's bone needles, her sister's fits of coughing, painfully restrained, soothed his harried being; subjected to an intolerable strain his overwrought nerves had suddenly relaxed; he sank back in a loose, almost somnolent, state. a mental indolence possessed him; the keen incentives of life appeared far, unimportant, his late rebellions and desires inexplicable. even the iron was a heavy load; the necessity of constantly meeting new conditions with new processes, of uprooting month by month most with which the years had made him familiar, seemed beyond his power. a faint dread crept into his consciousness; he roused himself sharply, straightened his shoulders, glanced about to see if his tacit surrender had been noticed--this lassitude creeping over him, the indifference, was, at last, the edge of the authentic shadow of age, of decay; it was the deadening of the sensibilities preceding death. he banished it immediately, and all his desire, his need, his sense of the horror of the past day, surged back, reanimated him, sent the blood strongly to its furthest confines. but, none the less, a vague, disturbing memory of the other lingered at the back of his perceptions; he had a fresh realization of the necessity for him to make haste, to take at once--before the hateful anodyne of time had betrayed his vigour--what life still, and so fully, held. his desire for susan increased to an intensity robbing it of a greater part of the early joy; it had, now, a fretful aspect drawing him into long and painfully minute rehearsals of his every contact with her, and of the disgraceful publicity brought upon her by his past. at the usual hour the hot wine appeared; the glassful was pressed on amity merken; his mother drank hers with the familiar, audible satisfaction. an old custom, an old compound, brought from germany many years ago, binding, in its petty immortality, distant times, places, beings. he saw that his mother was noticeably less able than she had been the week before; her hands fumbled at her knitting, shook holding the glass. her lined face quivered as she said good night. he bent and kissed a hot, dry brow, conscious of the blanched skull under her fading colour, her ebbing warmth. he had done this, too--hastened her death; she must have suffered inordinately in her prideful affection. she said nothing, beyond the repeated admonition that he must not sit up into the night. the next day he forced himself to read to the end the report of the murder in the _gazette_. the references to susan brundon were as scant as, evidently, stephen jannan could arrange; but her name, her academy, were invested with an odious publicity. jasper penny saw again that he was a person of moment; his part in the affair gave it a greatly augmented importance. yet now the worst, he told himself, was at an end; the publicity would recede; after a decent interval he could see susan. this mood was interrupted by an imperative communication from stephen--he must be in the other's office at eleven o'clock to-morrow. nothing more definite was said; but jasper penny was not wholly surprised to see essie scofield huddled in a chair at the lawyer's table. she had made an attempt at the bravado of apparel, but it had evidently failed midway; her hair hung loosely about a damp brow, the strings of her bonnet were in disarray, a shawl partially hid a bodice wrongly fastened. her face was apathetic, with leaden shadows and dark lips ceaselessly twisting, now drawn into a petulant line, now drooping in childish impotence. she glanced at him fleetly as he entered, but said nothing. robbed of the pretensions of pride, stripped of feminine subterfuge, she was appalling. he involuntarily recalled the essie who had swept him into a riot of emotion--a vivid and palpitating creature radiating the exuberance of careless health and youth. she could not, he calculated, be beyond thirty-seven now. he abruptly ceased his speculation, turned from her, with a feeling of impropriety. stephen jannan said shortly: "al schimpf will be here. it seemed to me he was the best man to retain. it's obvious that i can't defend her. you will, of course, require everything possible done." essie scofield shivered. "i don't want to go into court," she articulated, "and answer all the dreadful questions." there was a stir without, and a hugely fat man in a black cape fastened with a silver chain and velvet collar entered. al schimpf's face was so burdened with rolling chins that he disregarded the customary fashion of whiskers, but a grizzled moustache lay above his well-formed lips, and an imperial divided his heavy, aggressive chin. he was, evidently, fully informed of the case before him; for, after saluting jannan and jasper penny, he, seated himself directly before essie scofield, fastening upon her an unwavering, glacial gaze. "now, pay attention," he proceeded at once. "i'll go over a few facts--this daniel culser, you were in love with him; no length you wouldn't go, lost your senses completely; and he--all he cared about was the money he could wring out of you. as soon as you were paid the sums that mr. penny allowed you, this culser got it from you; he took every cent and wanted more. said he would leave you unless you got hold of something really worth while. then, of course, you carried on, promised to get him more and more; said you could force a fortune from mr. penny, anything to keep the young man. hey?" he demanded suddenly. the woman looked up with a haggard wonder, an irrepressible shudder; her hands raised and fell, and she nodded dumbly. "then, while culser was in the house, mr. penny unexpectedly turned up and said--perhaps before daniel himself--that you could expect nothing more, and made it plain that he was not to be intimidated. daniel culser was for leaving you, didn't intend to hang around for a bloody little quarterly; and, when you realized that he meant, or you thought he meant, what he said, you went crazy and shot him.... what!" he got no response from her now; she cowered away from him, hiding behind an updrawn shoulder, a fold of the shawl. "but listen to this," al schimpf shot at her, leaning forward, "here's what happened, and you must remember every fact: "the fellow had been around the house day after day. you had encouraged him at first; but then you got frightened; he beat you--hear that?--struck you with his fist, and threatened worse if you didn't go through old penny's pocket for him. he even hinted at something you might do together, and then get away with a mint. culser was at it when mr. penny called, and took it up when he left, at about six o'clock. he said he wanted money bad, debts were hounding him; and he was going to get it out of penny, out of you. there's where you said you would warn jasper penny; and remember how he struck you, in the back, because you turned, and it hurts yet--there up by the left shoulder, the left shoulder, the left! then, he had been drinking in your house and at a tavern, he threatened to kill you if you didn't do what he wanted. you honestly thought he'd do it, and snatched a pistol out of a table drawer, and.... do you understand? that's what happened, and it's all you know. said he would kill you, apparently commenced then, and you acted in self-protection. now, repeat that." she gazed at him in a trembling confusion. "but," she objected, "he was only--he said. oh! i was afraid i'd lose him." the lawyer moved closer to her, his unwinking, grey-green eyes like slate. "he said he'd kill you," he reiterated; "remember that, if you don't want to hang. he struck you; where?" after a long pause she replied haltingly, "in the back." al schimpf nodded, "good. and he said you both were to get away with a mint. he told you it would be easy; the old man would gladly buy silence; and, by heaven, if he didn't--" jasper penny stonily watched the intolerable degradation of the woman bullied into the safety of a lie. this was worse than anything that had gone before; he fell deeper and deeper into a strangling, humiliating self-loathing. stephen jannan's handsome countenance was fixed and pale; one hand lay on the table, empty and still. in the silence between schimpf's insistent periods jasper penny could hear essie's sobbing inspirations; he was unable to keep his gaze from her countenance, jelly-like and robbed of every trace of human dignity. he wondered vaguely at an absence of any sense of responsibility for what essie scofield had become; he felt that an attitude of self-accusation, of profound regret for the way they had taken together, should rest upon him; but the thought, the effort, were perfunctory, obviously insincere. if now he had a different, perhaps deeper, sense of responsibility, he had known nothing of it in the first months of his contact with her.... a different man, he reiterated; and one as faithfully representative as he was to-day. but totally another; men changed, evolved, progressed. jasper penny was convinced that it was a progression; but in a broad manner beyond all hope of his comprehension, and entirely outside dogmatic good and evil. the germ of it must have been in him from the first; his burning necessity for susan, he told himself, had been born in him, laid dormant until, yes--it had been stirred into activity by essie scofield, by the revulsion which had followed that natural development. he was suddenly conscious that al schimpf had ceased domineering essie. the lawyer swung about, facing them with an expression of commonplace satisfaction. "it's all in fine order," he declared. "i want, if possible, to study our jury through a preliminary case or so. we shall, of course, surrender our client at once, without making any difficulty about moving her from one police district to another. i can produce a witness to the fact that this culser openly said that he expected shortly to come into more money. and he had dishonoured debts all about. you will have to appear, mr. penny; no way out of that, but our defence should go like a song. now, mrs. scofield, i have a carriage outside." when they had gone jasper penny and jannan sat in a lengthening silence. stephen's hand moved among the papers on the table; the other drew a deep breath. "i regret this tremendously for you," stephen jannan said at last. he spoke with feeling; his momentary anger at the entanglement of susan vanished. "but it will pass, jasper. you are too solid a man to be hurt permanently by private scandal. and you have no concrete political position to invite mud slinging. yes, it will drop out of mind, and your iron will continue to support enterprise, extension." "but susan," jasper penny demanded, "what about her? where is she?" "with graham at shadrach. she was badly torn, and i insisted on her retreating for a week or more. there is a very capable assistant at the academy. it's too early to speak conclusively, but i am afraid that susan's usefulness is ended there. have you seen the cheaper sheets? every one, of course, is buying them. rotten! the assistant, i understand, is anxious to procure the school, and i am considering allowing her the capital. something might be arranged paying susan an income.... if she would accept; confoundly difficult to come about." "i am going to marry her," jasper penny asserted once more. "what was the initial trouble?" the other asked, tersely. "essie." stephen frowned. "she would hit on that," he agreed; "stand until the last gasp of some fantastic conception of right." jasper explained: "she thinks i ought to marry essie, mostly on account of the child. she likes me, too, stephen; i think i may tell you that. well, i'll keep at her and at her. in the end she will get tired of refusal." the other shook his head doubtfully. "i've known susan a good many years, and i have never seen her lose an ideal, or even an idea, yet." jasper penny rose. "meanwhile i'll have to go through with this trial. thank god, susan has no part in it." he warmly gripped stephen's palm. "you're worth something in a life, immovable. thank you, stephen." xxii it was early in april, an insidiously warm morning with the ailanthus trees in bud before the state house, when jasper penny left the court room where essie had been freed. provision had been made for her--she had had a severe collapse during the trial--and a feeling almost of renewed liberty of spirit permeated jasper, as, with his overcoat on an arm, he turned to the left and walked over the street in the blandly expanding mildness. a train left shortly for jaffa, and he was bound directly home, to myrtle forge, anxious to steep himself in the echo of the trip hammer mingled with the poignant harmony of spring sounds drifting from the farm and woods. he was possessed by a sharpened hunger for all the--now recognized--beauty of the place of his allegiance and birth, the serenity of the acres gilbert penny had beaten out of the wild of the province. he was astonishingly conscious of himself as a part of the whole penny succession, proud of gilbert, of howat, who had always so engaged his fancy, of casimir, and daniel, his own father. theirs was a good heritage; their part of the earth, the ring of their iron, his particular characteristic of a black penny, formed a really splendid entity. the low, horizontal branches of the beech tree on the lawn, older than the dwelling, opposed a pleasant variety on the long façade, built of stone with an appearance of dark pinkish malleability masking its obduracy. his mother was awaiting him on the narrow portico, and he at once told her of essie's release. they stood together, gazing out across the turf, faintly emerald, over the public road, at the grey, solid group of farm buildings beyond. the farmer's daughter, in a white slip, emerged against the barnyard, and called the chickens in a high, musical note, scattering grain to a hysterical feathery mob. the air was still with approaching twilight; the sun slipped below the western trees and shadows gathered under the lilac bushes; the sky was april green. "your father has been dead twelve years," gilda penny said unexpectedly. he looked down and saw that she was decrepit, an old woman. her mouth had sunken, her ears projected in dry folds from her scant strands of hair. he recalled daniel barnes penny; the earliest memories of his mother, a vigorous, brown-faced woman with alert, black eyes, quick-stepping, dictatorial in the sphere of her house and dependents. one after the other, like the sun, they were slipping out of the sight of myrtle forge; vanished and remained; passed from falling hand to hand the unextinguished flame of life. gilda penny was merging fast into the formless dark. she clung with pathetically tense fingers to his arm as they turned into the house. he had ordered a carriage immediately after an early supper; and, informing his coachman of his wish to proceed alone, drove quickly away through the dusk. he was going to shadrach furnace, to meet susan for the first time since the unhappy occasion in the mayor's chamber. he had decided, stifling his increasing impatience, not to see her until essie's trial was over. susan had been at graham jannan's house for nine weeks. her sight, he had learned, had almost completely failed in a general exhaustion; but, with rigorous care, she had nearly recovered. the academy had been sold to the assistant mistress; and there was an expressed uncertainty about susan's near future. it had, however, no existence in jasper penny's thoughts, plans--she must marry him; any other course would now be absurd. the track from myrtle forge to the furnace was bound into his every thought and association; its familiarity, he mused, had been born in him; his horses, too, took correctly, without pressure, every turning of the way. the road mounted, and then dropped between rounded hills to the clustering buildings, where lighted, pale yellow windows floated on the dusk, crowned by the wide-flung radiance of the furnace stack. the air was potent in the valley with the indeterminate scent of budding earth--the premonitory fragrance of blossoms; and, hardly less delicate, stars flowered whitely in blue space. he paused for a moment before entering graham jannan's house, saturated with the pastoral tranquillity, listening to the flutter of wings under the eaves. then he went in. they had finished supper, but were lingering at the table, with the candles guttering in an air from the open door. his greeting was simple and glad, and without restraint. susan wore a dress like a white vapour, sprigged with pale buds, her throat and arms bare. she smiled the familiar, hesitating smile, met his questioning gaze with her undeviating courage. jasper penny took a chair opposite her. little was said. peace deepened about his spirit. graham, he saw, had a new ruddiness of health; he laid a shawl tenderly about his wife's shoulders; and jasper remembered that a birth was imminent. later he drifted with susan to the door, and they passed out into the obscurity beyond. even now he was reluctant to speak, to break with importunities the serene mood. "all the iron making," she spoke at last, "lovely. i have stood night after night in the cast house watching the metal pour out in its glorious colours. and, when i wake, i go to my window and see the reflections of the blast on the trees, on the first leaves. the charcoal burners come down like giants out of the mythology of the forest. and, when i first came, there was a raccoon hunt, with a great stirring of lanterns and barking dogs in the dark ... all lovely." "it is yours," he said, bending over her. "you can come here at your will. a house built. and myrtle forge, too; whatever i have, am." he paused; but, without reply, continued more rapidly. "it's over, the--the misery of the past weeks; the mistakes are dead; they are paid, susan. now we may take what is left and make it as beautiful as possible. after suffering, reparation, happiness, is every one's due. and i am certain i can make you happy." a longer pause followed, in which he regarded her with an increasing anxiety. her face was turned away, her progress grew slower until they stood by the shadowy bulk of a small stone structure. the door was open, and it seemed to him that she looked within. "a store house," he explained. nothing was visible in the interior gloom but some obscure shapes, bales, piled against the walls, and the scant tracery of a rude stair leading up to a greater blackness above. she stopped, as if arrested by his period, laying a hand on the door frame. "why don't you answer me, susan?" he proceeded. "you know that i want to marry you; surely it is all right now. everything possible has been done. a great deal of life remains." her answer was so low that it almost escaped him; the faintest breath of pain, of longing and regret. "i can't," she whispered; "not with her, the child. i can't." "that," he replied gently, "is a mistaken idea of responsibility, a needless sacrifice. i could never urge you into an injustice, a wrong; at last i have got above that; what i want is the most reasonable thing imaginable, the best, in every conceivable way, for yourself and--any other. you are harming, depriving, no one. you are taking nothing but your own, what has been yours, and only yours, from the first moment i saw, no--from my birth. what has happened brought me in a straight road to you, the long road i have never, really, left." "i can't," she said still again. "i want to, jasper. oh, with a heart full of longing; i am so tired that i would almost give the rest of my life for another secure hour with you. and i would pay that to give you what you want, what you should have. but something stronger than i am, more than all this, holds me; i can't forget that miserable woman, nor her child and yours, so thin and suspicious. i am not good enough to be her mother myself, even if i felt i had the right. inside of me i am quite wicked, selfish. i want my own. but not with the other woman outside. she'd be looking in at the windows, jasper, looking in at my heart. i would hear her." she leaned against her arm, her face hid, her shoulders trembling. the musty odour of the stores floated out and enveloped him. he was suddenly annoyed. susan herself lost some of her beauty, her radiance. he muttered that she was merely stubborn, blind to reality, to necessity. his attitude hardened, and he commenced to argue in a low, insistent voice. she made no reply, but remained supported in the doorway, a vague form against the inner dark. "you must change your mind," he asserted; "you can't be eternally so foolish. there is absolutely no question of my marrying essie scofield." "i don't want you to, really," she admitted in an agonized whisper. "i shall never again ask you to do that. ah, god, how low i am." he saw, in an unsparing flash of comprehension, that it was useless. she would never marry him as long as the past stayed embodied, actual, to peer into their beings. a return of his familiar irritability, spleen, possessed him. "you are too pure for this world," he said brutally. she turned and stood facing him, meeting his scorn with an uplifted countenance. a shifting reflection from the furnace stack fell over her in a wan veil, over the vaporous, sprigged white of her dress, her bare throat and arms, her cheeks wet with tears. out of it her eyes, wide with pain, steadily met his angry scrutiny. out of it she smiled at him before the reflection died. iii the metal xxiii in the warm, subdued light of a double lamp with apricot glass shades howat penny was turning over the pages, stiff with dry paste, of an album filled with opera programmes. the date of the brief, precisely penned label on the black cover was - ; it was the first of a number of such thick, recording volumes he had gathered; and the operas, the casts, were of absorbing interest. at once a memento of the heroic period of american music and of his first manhood, the faded crudely embellished strips of paper, bearing names, lyric tenors and sopranos of limpid, bird-like song long ago lost in rosy and nebulous clouds of fable and cherished affection, roused remembered pleasures sharper than any calm actuality of to-day. he paused with a quiet exclamation, the single glass adroitly held in his left, astigmatic, eye fastened on the announcement of a famous evening, a famous name. his sense of the leaf before him blurred in the vivid memory of patti, singing martha in the campaign brought by mapleson in the old academy of music against the forces of the new metropolitan opera house. he had been one of a conservative number that had supported the established opera, declaring heatedly that the diva and mapleson were an unapproachable musical combination, before which the shoddier magnificence of its rival, erected practically in a few summer months, would speedily fade. nevertheless, he recalled, the widely heralded performance had been coolly received. patti, although she had not perceptibly failed in voice, had been unable to inspire the customary enthusiasm; and the scene at the evening's end, planned to express her overwhelming triumph and superiority, when the horses had been taken from her carriage and it had been dragged by hand to the portal of the windsor hotel, had been no better than perfunctory. the wily mapleson had arranged that beforehand, howat penny realized, with a faint, reminiscent smile on his severe lips--the "enthusiastic mob" had been coldly recruited, at a price, from the choristers. another memory of patti, and of that same performance, flooded back--the dinner given her in the brunswick. he saw again the room where, on a divan, she had received her hosts, the seventy or more men of fashion grouped in irreproachable black and white, with her suave manager, the inevitable tea rose in his lapel, on a knee before adelina, kissing her hand. the dinner had been laid in the ball room, lit with a multitude of wax candles. the features, appearance, of the more prominent men, of mahun stetson and daly and william steinway, were clear still. the original plan had been to include ladies at the dinner, but the latter, affecting outrage at the diva's affair with the marquis de caux, had refused to lend their countenance to the singer's occasion. his smile broadened--this was so characteristic of new york in the eighties. how different it had been; but it was no better, he added silently, now. it was mid-august, and the air floating in through an open door was ladened with the richness of ultra-luxuriant vegetation, the persistent, metallic whirring of locusts, the mechanical repetition of katydids. one of the owls that inhabited the old willow tree before the house cried softly.... how different! he straightened up from the book open on his knees, and the glass fell with a small clatter over his formal, starched linen, swinging for an instant on its narrow ribbon. the unwavering lamp light was deflected in green points through the emeralds of his studs. the thought of bygone, gala nights of opera fastened on him with a peculiar significance--suddenly they seemed symbolic of his lost youth. such tides of impassioned song, such poignant, lyric passion, such tragic sacrifice and death, were all in the extravagant key of youth. the very convention of opera, the glorified unreality of its language, the romantic impossibility of its colour, the sparkling dress like the sparkling voices and blue gardens and gilded halls, were the authentic expression of the resplendent vagaries of early years. the winter of eighty three and four; his first season of new york music. the autumn before he had returned from the five years spent in europe, in paris practically, with bundy provost, related to him by a marriage in the past generation, through the jannans. he had gone abroad immediately after his graduation as a lawyer; and in the indolent culture of the five parisian years, he now realized, he had permanently lost all hold on his profession. at his return he had drifted imperceptibly into an existence of polite pleasure. it had been different with bundy; he had gone into the banking house of provost, lately established in new york; and, with the extraordinary pertinacity and acumen sometimes developed by worldly and rich young men, he had steadily risen to a place of financial importance. an opening had, of course, been offered to howat penny when he had definitely decided not to settle in philadelphia, where the pennys had always been associated, and pursue the law. and, at first, he had occupied a desk in the provost counting rooms. but he had soon grown discontented, he disliked routine and a clerk's condition; and, after two years of annoyed effort, withdrew to lead a more congenial existence on a secure, adequate income. "it was a mistake," he said aloud, in a decided, clearly modulated voice, gazing blankly into the warm stillness of the room. it had come partly from his innate impatience with any inferior state whatever, and part from the old inability to identify himself with the practicalities of existence. he had always viewed with distaste the apparently necessary compromises of successful living; the struggle for money, commercial supremacy, seemed unendurably ugly; the jargon and subterfuges of financial competition beneath his exacting standard of personal dignity. that had been his expression at the time--permeated by an impatient sense of superiority; but now he felt that there was something essential lacking in himself. an absence of proper balance. solely concerned with the appearance, the insignificant surface, of such efforts as bundy provost's, their moving, masculine spirit had evaded him. yes, it had been a mistake. he had missed the greatest pleasure of all, that of accumulating power and influence, of virile achievement. well, it was over now; he was old; his life, his chance, had gone; and all that remained were memories of patti smiling disdainfully in the flare of oil torches about her carriage; the only concrete record of so many years the scrap books such as that on his knees. it had been an error; yet there had been, within him, no choice, no intimation of a different, more desirable, consummation. bundy had gone one way and himself another in obedience to forces beyond their understanding or control. they had done, briefly, what they were. there was no individual blame to attach, no applause; spare moralizing to append. he returned to the pages before him, to the memories of the radiant ambre and marimon, the sylvan echoes of campanini singing elvino. now his recovered glass was intent on a programme of the rapidly successful metropolitan forces, of the new german opera, with seidl-krauss singing elizabeth, and brandt in _fidelio_. even here, after so long, he vibrated again to the exquisite beauty of lenore's constancy and love. then dr. damrosch dead, the sonorous funeral in the opera house ... that had been changed with the rest; the baignoires were gone, the tiers of boxes newly curved; gone the chandeliers and turkey red carpet and gold threaded brocade that had seemed the final expression of luxury. lehmann in the premier of _tristan und isolde_, with the vast restrained enthusiasm and tensity when, at the end of the third act, niemann bared his wounded breast. eames' rise; but that, and what followed, were in successive books. he closed the one under his hand. as the years drew nearer the present their features became larger, more indistinct, their music grew louder, dissonant. he had retired further and further from an opera, a life, with which he was increasingly out of harmony. or rather, he added, life moved away from the aging. it was as if the surrounding affair became objective; as if, once a participant in a cast--a production, however, less than grand--he had been conducted to a seat somewhere in the midst of a great, shadowy audience, from which he looked out of the gloom at the brilliant, removed spectacle. the final fact that had taken him from the setting of so many of his years had been the increasing expense of a discriminating existence in new york. again his distaste for anything short of absolute nicety had dictated the form and conditions of his living. when the situation of his rooms had definitely declined, and the cost of possible locations--he could not endure a club--became prohibitive; when his once adequate, unaugmented income assumed the limitations of a mere sufficiency; and when, too, the old, familiar figures, the swells of his own period and acquaintance had vanished one by one with their vanishing halls of assembly--he had retreated to the traditional place of his family. he had gone back to the home of the pennys in america. not, however, to myrtle forge itself, the true centre of his inheritance. the house there had been uninhabited since his father's early years; it was a closed and melancholy memento; he had reanimated a comfortable stone dwelling at shadrach furnace; its solid grey façade drawn out by two happy additions to the original, small square. it had been, traditionally, at first, the house of the head furnacemen; sometime after that, perhaps a hundred years, graham jannan, newly married, had lived there while occupied with the active manufacture of iron; and three summers back he, howat penny, the last penny now, had returned to the vicinity of jaffa. xxiv the room in which he sat had two windows, set in the deep recesses of heavy stone walls, and three doors, two leading into opposite rooms and the third opening without. the double lamp stood on a low, gate-legged table of fibrous, time-blackened oak, together with an orderly array of periodicals--the white, typographical page of the _saturday review_ under the dull rose of _the living age_ and chocolate-coloured bulk of the _unpopular, gil blas_, the mid-week _boston transcript_ and yesterday's _new york evening post_. the table bore, in addition, a green morocco case of dominoes; a mahogany box that, in a recess, mysteriously maintained a visible cigarette; a study of beethoven, in french; an outspread volume by anatole france, _jacques tournebroche_, in a handsome paper cover; a set of copper ash trays; and a dull red figurine, holding within its few inches the deathless spirit of a heroic age. an angle of the wall before him was filled by a white panelled fireplace, the mantel close against the ceiling; and on the other side of a doorway, through which he could see rudolph noiselessly preparing the dinner table, was a swan-like sofa, in olive wood and pale yellow satin, from the venice of the _ottocento_. at his right, beyond a window, mounted a tall, austere secretary in waxed walnut; and behind him, under the white chair rail, bookcases extended across the width of the room. gustavus hesselius' portrait of the first howat penny hung on a yellow painted wall, his gilt-braided major's facings still vivid, his dark, perceptible scorn undimmed. there were, too, framed in oak, a large photograph of tamagno, as othello, with a scrawled, cordial message; another of a graceful woman in the page's costume of _les huguenots_, signed "sempre ... scalchi"; a water colour drawing by jan beers; and a victorian lithograph in powdery foliage and brick of _the penny rolling mills. jaffa_. a black-blue rug, from myrtle forge, partly covered the broad, oak boards of the floor; and there was a comfortable variety of chairs--sturdy, painted dutch, winged windsors and a slatted hunterstown rocker. howat penny's gaze wandered over the familiar furnishing, come to him surviving the generations of his family, or carefully procured for his individual dictates. a sense of tranquillity, of haven, deepened about him. "rudolph," he inquired, "has honduras gone for miss jannan?" the man stopped in the doorway, answering in the affirmative. he was slight, almost fragile, with close, dark hair that stood up across his forehead, and dry, high-coloured cheeks. rudolph hesitated, with a handful of silver; and then returned to his task. mariana would be along immediately, howat penny thought. he put the album aside and rose, moving toward the door that led without. he was a slender, erect figure, with little to indicate his age except the almost complete silvering of his hair--it had, evidently, been black--and a rigidity of body only apparent to a sharp scrutiny. a porch followed that length of the house, and doubled the end, where he stood peering into the gathering dusk. the old willow tree, inhabited by the owls, spread a delicate, blurred silhouette across a darkened vista of shorn wheat fields, filled, in the hollows, with woods; and a lamp glimmered from a farm house on a hill to the left. his lawn dropped to the public road, the hedged enclosure swimming with fireflies; and beyond he saw the wavering light shafts of his small motor returning from the insignificant flag station on the railroad, a mile distant. the noise of the engine increased, sliding into a lower gear on the short curve of the driveway; and he met mariana jannan at the entrance directly into the dining room. she insisted, to his renewed discomfort, on kissing him. "it's wonderful here, after the city," she proclaimed; "and i've had to be in town three sweltering days. i'll dress right away." honduras, his coloured man, as indispensable outside as rudolph was in, followed with her bag up the narrow flight of steps to the floor above. he waited through, he thought, a reasonable interval, and then called. an indistinguishable reply floated down, mingled with the filling of a tub; and another half hour passed before mariana appeared in white chiffon, securing a broad girdle of silver oak leaves, about her slight waist. "do you mind?" she turned before him; and, with an impatience half assumed and half actual, he fastened the last hooks of her dress. "as you know," he reminded her, "i don't attempt cocktails. will you have a gin and bitters?" she wouldn't, frankly; and they embarked on dinner in a pleasant, unstrained silence. mariana was, he realized, the only person alive for whom he had a genuine warmth of affection. she was a first cousin; her aunt elizabeth had married james penny, his father; but his fondness for her had no root in that fact. it didn't, for example, extend to her brother kingsfrere. he speculated again on the reason for her marked effect. mariana was not lovely, as had been the charmers of his own day; her features, with the exception of her eyes, were unremarkable. and her eyes, variably blue, were only arresting because of their extraordinary intensity of vision, their unquenchable and impertinent curiosity. a girl absolutely different from all his cherished mental images; but, for howat penny, always potent, always arousing a response from his supercritical being, stirring his aesthetic heart. everything he possessed--his pictures, the albums, the moderate income, although she had little need of that--had been willed to her. it would be hers then just as it was, practically, now. and he was aware that her feeling generously equalled his own. his speculation, penetrating deeper than customary, rewarded him with the thought that she was unusual in the courage of her emotions. that was it--the courage of her emotions! there was a total lack of any penurious trait, any ulterior thought of appraising herself against a possible advantageous barter. she was never concerned with a conscious prudery in the arrangement of her skirt. mariana was aristocratic in the correct sense of the term; a sense, he realized, now almost lost. and he rated aristocracy of bearing higher than any other condition or fact. he wondered a little at her patent pleasure in visiting him, an old man, so frequently. hardly a month passed but that, announced by telegram, she did not appear and stay over night, or for a part of the week. she would recount minutely the current gaiety of her polite existence. he knew the names of her associates, a number of them had been exhibited to him at shadrach; the location of their country places; and what men temporarily monopolized her interest. none of the latter had been serious. he was, selfishly, glad of that; and waited uneasily through her every visit until she assured him that her affections had not been possessed. however, this condition, he knew, must soon come to an end; mariana was instinct with sex; and a short while before he had sent his acknowledgment of her twenty-sixth birthday. she sat occupied with salad against the cavernous depths of a fireplace that, between the kitchen door and a built-in cupboard, filled the side of the dining room. the long mantel above her head was ladened with the grey sheen of pewter, and two uncommonly large, fluted bowls of blue stiegel glass. in the centre of the table linen, the sheffield and crystal and pictorial staffordshire, was a vivid expanse of rose geraniums. she broke off a flower and pinned it with the diamond bar on her breast. "howat," she said, "to-morrow's saturday, and i've asked two people out until sunday night. eliza provost and a young man. do you mind?" "tell rudolph," he replied. it was not until after dinner, when they were playing sniff, that he realized that she omitted the young man's name. he intended to ask it, but, his mind and hand hovering over an ivory domino, he forgot. "twenty," he announced, reaching for the scoring pad. "oh, hell, howat!" she protested. "that's the game, almost." she emptied her coffee cup, and speculatively fingered one of the thin cigars in the box at his hand. "it's the customary thing in peru," she observed, pinching the end from the cigar and lighting it. he watched her absently, veiled in the fragrant, bluish smoke. automatically his thoughts returned to the women that, at a breath of scandal, had refused to attend the dinner to patti. so much changed; the years fled like birds in a mist. "i feel like a politician," she told him. "eliza provost would pat me on the back. she's talking from a soap box on the street corners now, winging men for such trifles as forced birth. i'm fond of eliza; she's got a splendid crust. i wish you'd get excited about my rights; but your interest really goes no further than a hat from camille marchais. you are deleterious, howat. isn't that a lovely word! which was the first double?" he blocked and won the game. "fifty-five," she announced; "and ninety-five before. i owe you a dollar and a half." she paid the debt promptly from a flexible gold mesh bag on the table; then stooped and wandered among his books. howat penny turned to yesterday's _evening post_, and mariana settled beyond the lamp. outside the locusts were desperately shrill, and the heavy ticking of an old clock grew audible. "i don't like george moore!" she exclaimed. he raised surprised, inquiring eyebrows. "he is such a taster," she added, but particularized no more. she sat, with the scarlet bound book clouded in the white chiffon of her lap, gazing at the wall. her lips were parted, and a brighter colour rose in her cheeks. her attitude, her expression, vaguely disturbed him; he had never seen her more warmly, dangerously, alive. a new reluctance stopped the question forming in his mind; she seemed to have retreated from him. "moore is a very great artist," he said instead. "that's little to me," she replied flippantly, rising. "i think i'll go up; and i almost think i will kiss you again." he grumbled a protest, and watched her trail from the room, the silver girdle and chiffon emphasizing her thin, vigorous body, the lamplight falling on her bare, sharp shoulders. howat penny had early acquired a habit of long hours, and it was past one when he put aside his papers, stood for a moment on the porch. the fireflies were gone, the locusts seemed farther away, and the soft, heavy flight of an owl rose from the warm grass. below, on the right, he could vaguely see the broken bulk of what had been shadrach furnace, the ruined shape of the past. the pennys no longer made iron. his father had marked the last casting. they no longer listened to the beat of the trip hammer, but to the light rhythm of a conductor's baton; they heard, in place of ringing metal, a tenor's grace notes. soon they would hear nothing. they went out, for all time, with himself. it was fitting that the last, true to their peculiar inheritance, should be a black penny. he, howat, was that--the ancient welsh blood finally gathered in a cup of life before it was spilled. old influences quickened within him; but, attenuated, they were no more than regrets. they came late to trouble his remnant of living. he was like the furnace, a sign of what had been; yet, he thought in self-extenuation, he had brought no dishonour, no dragging of the tradition through the muck of a public scandal. not that ... nor anything else. now, when it was absurd, he was resentful of the part he had played in life; like a minor, cracked voice, he extended a former figure with a saving touch of humour, importuning the director because he had not been cast in the great rôles. the night mist came up and brushed him; he was conscious of a sudden chill, an aching of the wrists. "cracked," he repeated, aloud, and retreated into the house; where, rudolph gone up, he put out the lights and stiffly retired. xxv they accomplished little the following morning. mariana, in a scant brown linen skirt, a sheer waist through which were visible precarious incidentals and narrow black ribbon, and the confoundedest green stockings he had ever seen, lounged indolently in a canvas swing. the heat increased in a reddish haze through which the sun poured like molten copper. "you'd better come inside," he said from the doorway; "the house, shut up, is quite comfortable." within the damp of the old, stone walls made a comparative coolness. the shades were drawn down, and they sat in an untimely twilight. "when i think of how energetic eliza will be," mariana asserted, "i am already overwhelmed. but you never look hot, howat; you are always beautiful." his flannels and straw-coloured silk coat were crisply ironed; his hair, his scarf and lustrous yellow shoes, precise. "howat," she continued almost anxiously, "you put a lot on, well--good form. you think that the way a man knots his tie is tremendously significant--" "perhaps," he returned cautiously. "a good many years have shown me that the right man usually wears the right things." "couldn't that be just the smallest bit unfair? aren't there, after all, droves of the right men in rubber collars? i don't know any," she added hastily; "that is, not exactly the same. but it seems to me that you have lived so exclusively in a certain atmosphere that you might have got blinded to--to other things." "perhaps," he said again, complacently. "i can only judge by my own feeling and experience. now mapleson, never was a finer conductor of opera--you didn't catch him in a pink tie in the evening. and some of those others, who failed in a couple of weeks, i give you my word, dress shirts with forgetmenots." she regarded him with a frowning, half closed vision. "it sounds wrong," she commented. "it's been your life, of course." he grew resentful under her scrutiny, the implied criticism. a sudden suspicion entered his mind, connected with her expression last evening, the young man whose name he had omitted to ask. his reluctance to question her returned. but if mariana had attached herself to some rowdy, by heaven, he would.... he fixed the glass in his eye, and, pretending to be occupied with a periodical, studied her. he realized that he would, could, do nothing. she was a woman of determination, and, her father dead, a very adequate income of her own. his fondness for mariana resided principally in a wish to see her free from the multitudinous snares that he designated in a group as common. he was fearful of her entanglement in the cheap implications of the undistinguished democracy more prevalent every year. all that was notable, charming, in her, he felt, would be obliterated by trite connection; he had no more patience for the conventional fulfilment of her life than he had for the thought of women voting. howat penny saw mariana complete, fine, in herself, as the _orpheo_ of christopher gluck was fine and complete. he preferred the contained artistry of such music to the cruder, more popular and moral, sounds. early in the afternoon she went to her room, although honduras had no occasion to go to the station for considerably more than an hour, explaining that she must dress. howat penny sat with his palms on his white flannelled knees, revolving, now, himself in the light of his aspirations for mariana. he wondered if, in the absence of any sympathy for the mass of sentiment and living, he was blind, too, to her greatest possibilities; if, in short, he was a vicious influence. perhaps, as the old were said to do, he had hardened into a narrow and erroneous conception of values. such doubts were both disturbing and unusual; ordinarily he never hesitated in the exact expression of his vigorously held opinions and prejudices; he seldom relaxed the critical elevation of his standards. he was, he thought contemptuously, growing soft; senility was diluting his fibre, blurring his inner vision. nothing of this was visible as he rose on mariana's reappearance; there was not a line relaxed; his handsome, dark profile was as pridefully clear as if it had been stamped on a bronze coin. mariana wore, simply, blue, with an amber veiling of tulle about her shoulders, and a short skirt that gave her a marked youthful aspect. she seemed ill at ease; and avoided his gaze, hurrying out to meet the motor as it noisily turned sharply in at the door. howat penny heard eliza provost's short, impatient enunciation, and a rapid, masculine utterance. eliza entered, a girl with a decided, evenly pale face and brown eyes, in a severe black linen suit and a small hat, and extended a direct hand, a slightly smiling greeting. mariana followed, for a moment filling the doorway. "we'll go up, eliza," she said, moving with the other to the stair, a few feet distant. a man followed into the house, and mariana half turned on the bottom step. "howat," she proceeded hurriedly, "this is james polder." then she ascended with eliza provost. an expression of amazement, deepening almost to dismay, was momentarily visible on howat penny's countenance. his face felt hot, and there was an uncomfortable pressure in his throat, such as might come from shock. surely mariana wouldn't ... without warning him--! he was conscious of the necessity, facing a tall, spare young man with an intent expression, of a polite phrase; and he articulated an adequate something in a noticeably disturbed tone. but, of course, he had made a mistake. james polder's intensity increased, concentrated in a gaze at once belligerent and eager. he said: "then miss jannan didn't tell you. it was a mistake. it may be i am not exactly desirable here," his voice sharpened, and he retreated a step toward the door. "no," howat penny replied; "she didn't." he found himself studying a face at once youthful and lined, a good jaw contradicted by a mouth already traced with discontent, and yellow-brown eyes kindling with a surprising energy of resentment. "you are byron polder's son?" he said in a manner that carried its own affirmation. "eunice scofield's grandson." "eunice penny's," the other interjected. "your own grandfather saw to that." his hand rested in the doorway, and he stopped honduras, carrying in the guests' bags. howat penny's poise rapidly returned. "go right up, honduras," he directed; "the windmill room, i think. i had never seen you," he said to james polder, as if in apology. "but your father has been pointed out to me." he waved the younger man into the room beyond, and moved forward the cigarettes. james polder took one with an evident relief in the commonplace act. he struck a match and lit the cigarette with elaborate care. "will you sit for a little?" the elder proceeded. "or perhaps you'd rather change at once. i've no doubt it was sticky in the city." "thank you; perhaps i'd better--the last." rudolph appeared, and conducted the young man above. howat penny sat suddenly, his lips folded in a stubborn line. mariana had behaved outrageously; she must be familiar with the whole, miserable, past episode; she had given him some very bad moments. he had a personal bitterness toward that old, unhappy affair, the dereliction of his dead grandfather--it had been, he had always felt, largely responsible for his own course in life; it had, before his birth even, formed his limitations, as it had those of his father. the latter had been the child of a dangerously late marriage, a marriage from which time and delay had stripped both material potency and sustaining illusion. jasper penny had been nearing fifty when his son was born; and that act of deliberate sacrifice on the part of his wife, entering middle age, had imposed an inordinate amount of suffering on her last years. their child, it was true, had been of normal stature, and lived to within a short space of a half century. but then he had utterly collapsed, died in three days from what had first appeared a slight cold; and, throughout his maturity, he had been a man of feverish mind. his disastrous, blind struggle against the great, newly discovered iron deposits of the middle west was characteristic of his ill balance. and, in his own, howat penny's, successive turn, the latter told himself again, he had paid part of the price of his grandfather's indulgence. it was incorporated in the penny knowledge that susan brundon had refused to marry jasper while the other woman was alive. the latter had died, some years after the disgraceful publicity of the murder and trial; the wedding had then taken place; but it seemed to howat penny to have been almost perfunctory. yes, he had paid too, in the negative philosophy, the critical sterility, of his existence. he recognized this in one of the disconcerting flashes of perception that lately illuminated him as if from without. some essential proportion had been disturbed. he looked up, at a slight sound, and saw mariana standing before him. his expression, he knew, was severe; he had been quite upset. "i can see," she proceeded slowly, "that i have been very wicked. i didn't realize, howat, that it might affect you; how real all that old stir might be. i am tremendously sorry; you must know that i am awfully fond of you. it was pure, young selfishness. i was afraid that if i spoke first you wouldn't let him come. and it was important--i must see him and talk to him and think about it. you can realize mother and kingsfrere!" "where did you meet him?" he demanded shortly. "with eliza, at a meeting," she went on more rapidly. "he's terribly brilliant, and a steel man. isn't it funny? the pennys were steel, too; or iron, and that's the same. i wish you could be nice to him or just decent, until--until i know." "mariana!" he exclaimed, rising. "you don't mean that you are really--. that you--" "perhaps, howat," she answered gravely. "i have only seen him twice; and he has said nothing; but, you see, i am an experienced young woman. no other man has made the same impression." "that," he declared coldly, "is unthinkable. you can't know all the facts." "i do; but, somehow, i don't care." "everything about him is impossible--his history, family ... why, eunice scofield, well, penny, married a man from behind a counter, a fellow who sold womens' gloves; yes, and more than half jew. and this man's mother was delia mullen, a daughter of the dirty ward leader. all this aside from--from his bad blood." "it's partly yours, you know," she said quietly. "after all, there are other places i can see him." she turned away. "eliza provost is insane," he muttered. "no," mariana returned, "only superior to narrow little prejudices. she can see life, people, as they are. jim polder is one of the most promising men in the steel mills. he is going up and up. that is enough for eliza, it is enough for me; and if it won't do for my family--" she made an opening gesture with her fingers. her expression had hardened; she gazed at him with bright, contemptuous eyes. in a moment the affectionate bonds between them seemed to have dissolved. his feeling was one of mingled anger and concern; but he endeavoured to regain his self-control, conscious that a hasty word more might do irreparable harm. "of course, i can't have you meeting him about the streets," he stated. "it is better here, if necessary. i am very much displeased," a note of complaint appeared, and she immediately returned to him, laid a hand on his shoulder. "nothing is certain," she assured him. "i wanted to be sure, that is all. i don't want to make a mess out of things." it was a part of the very quality of emotional courage he had so lately defined, extolled; a part of her disdain for ordinary prudence and conventional approbation. a direct dislike for this james polder invaded him, a determined attitude of hyper-criticism. when the younger man reappeared howat penny found justification for this attitude. the details of polder's apparel, although acceptable in the main, were without nicety. his shoes were a crude tan, and his necktie from the outer limbo. his hands, too, had a grimy surface and the nails were broken, unkempt. but it was evident that all the criticism was not to be limited to his own. james polder regarded the single glass with a scoffing lip, as if it were the appendage of a ludicrous anglomania. he glanced with indifference at howat penny's pictures, books, the collected emblems of his cultivated years. his brows raised at the photograph of scalchi in the page's trunks--as if, the elder thought, she had been a "pony" in the _black crook_--and was visibly amused at the great mapleson, posed in a dignified attitude by a broken column. an irrepressible and biting scorn, howat penny saw, was, perhaps, the young man's strongest attribute. he had violent opinions expressed in sudden, sharp movements, gestures with his shoulders, swift frowns and fragmentary sentences. howat penny had never seen a more ill-ordered youth, and he experienced an increasing difficulty in keeping a marked asperity from his speech and conduct. eliza provost shortly came down, and the three strolled out into the ruddy light of late afternoon. howat penny consumed a long time dressing for the evening; and, in the end, irritably summoned rudolph. "i can't get these damned studs in," he complained; "whatever do you suppose women use for starch now?" rudolph dexterously fixed the emeralds, then held the black silk waistcoat. "and coats won't hang for a bawbee," he went on. "gentlemen like gary dilkes used to go regularly to london, spring and fall, for their things. no doubt then about a man of breeding. you didn't see the other kind around. wouldn't have 'em." rudolph murmured consolingly. "sat in the pit but never got into the boxes," his voice grew thin, querulous. "i'm moving along, rudolph," he admitted suddenly; "the manners, and, by thunder, the music too, don't suit me any more. give me the old academy days in irving place." he hummed a bar from _ernani_. through dinner he maintained a severe silence, listening with a frowning disapproval to eliza provost's tranquil, subversive utterances. howat penny couldn't think what her father was about, permitting her to harangue loafers by the streets and saloons. she was, in a cold way--she had peter jannan provost's curious grey colouring--a handsome piece of a girl, too. "a fine figger," he told himself. later, mariana and james polder had gone out on the porch, he faced with reluctance the task of furnishing her with entertainment; but, to his extreme relief, she procured a leather portfolio, and addressed herself to a sheaf of papers. but that, in itself, was a peculiar way for a young woman to spend an evening. she would have done it, he felt, if he had been half his actual age. god help the man with a fancy for her! charming visions were woven on his memory from the fading skeins of the past--a ride in a dilapidated, public fiacre after a masked ball in paris ... at dawn. confetti tangled in coppery hair, a wilful mouth, fragrantly painted, and phantomlike swans on a black lake. his silk hat had been telescoped in the process of smacking a frenchman's eye. perhaps, they had told each other, there would be cards later in the day, an affair of honour. he forgot what, exactly, had happened; but there had been no duel. he looked up with a sudden concern, as if his thoughts might have been clear to eliza provost, in irreproachable evening dress and shell rimmed glasses, intent on statistical pages. mariana and james polder appeared; the former, howat penny thought, disturbed. polder's intense countenance was sombre, his brow corrugated. mariana, accompanied by eliza, soon after went up; and left the two men facing each other across a neutral silence. "you manufacture steel, i believe," the elder finally stated. "the company does," polder replied more exactly. "i've been in the open hearth since i left school," he went on; "it was born in me, i've never thought of anything else." his tone grew sharp, as if it might occur to the other to contradict the legitimacy of his pursuit. "i have done well enough, too," he said pridefully. "most of them come on from college. i went from shovelling slag in the pit, the crane, to second helper and melter; they gave me the furnace after a year and now i am foreman. it will be better still if a reorganization goes through. not many men have a chance at the superintendent's office under thirty-five." "that is very admirable," howat penny said formally. he wondered, privately, at the far channel into which the original penny ability had flowed. there could be no doubt, however objectionable, that james polder was the present repository of the family tradition. he had had it from the source; and the iron had not, apparently, been corroded by tainted blood. he was forced to admit that a coarser strain had, perhaps, lent it endurance. all this failed to detract from his initial dislike of young polder. there was a lack of breeding in the manner in which he sat in his chair, thrust forward on its edge, in his arrogant proclamation of ability, success. james polder was anxious, he realized, to impress him, howat penny, with the fact that he was not negligible. such things were utterly unimportant to him. he was unable to justify, or even explain to himself, his standards of judgment. they were not founded on admirable conduct, on achievement, what was known as solid worth; but on vague accents, intuitive attitudes of mind visible in a hundred trivial, even absurd, signs. the "right things" were more indispensable to him than the sublimest attributes. on the following morning mariana, eliza and polder disappeared in his car--it seemed that the latter was an accomplished mechanic in addition to his other qualities--and howat penny faced the disagreeable possibilities of the near future. mariana would, he knew, meet this fellow promiscuously if necessary. as she had indicated, it was impossible to conceive of him in charlotte jannan's house. the latter was a rigidly correct woman. she would, too, and properly, be nasty if she learned that such meetings had taken place at shadrach. the only thing to do was to bring mariana to what he designated as her senses. and, at the start, he had a conviction that he might fail. she did not accompany eliza provost and polder, when, late sunday afternoon, they departed; but sat absorbed in thought through the evening meal. he found his affection for her increasing to an annoying degree; he was almost humble in his anxiety not to wound her. "life is so messy," she said with sudden violence. "you can't think, howat, how i hate myself; the horridest things go round and round through my mind. we're all wrong--i'm more like you than i admitted--born snobs. i mean the kind who look down on people different from themselves. i can't help being on--on edge. i can tell you this, though, i care more for jim polder than for any other man i've ever met. i'm mad about him; and yet, somehow, i can't quite think of marrying him. he's asked me already. but i knew he would." "you must wait," he temporized; "such things clear up after a little." "and if they don't?" she demanded. "what if they are choked by a hundred cowardly or selfish thoughts? it can be too late so terribly soon, howat. you must know that. you see, i can't decide what really is the most valuable, what should be held tight on to, or let go. there are two me's, it seems--one what i want and the other what i am. i want jim and i'm mariana jannan. all that about eunice or essie, or whatever her name was, doesn't matter a bawbee, as you say. i hate it because i think at times it makes him unhappy. really, i believe i am fonder of him because of it. we owe him something--the superior jannans and pennys. why, howat, he's your own blood, and you looked at him as if he were a grocer's assistant. and i watched hatefully for the little expressions that seemed common. of course, out in those mills, he would pick up a lot that wouldn't touch us; and, after all, he could drop them." "if you have any thought of reforming him," he commented dryly, "you might as well see a wedding stationer." "i could influence him," she insisted; "i'd at least count for as much as those shovellers and furnace men." "but not," he proceeded relentlessly, "against the essie scofield you dismissed so easily. i don't doubt for a minute the unhappiness you spoke of; it would he a part of his inheritance; and you'd never charm it out of him. damn it, mariana," he burst out, "he's inferior! that's all, inferior." anger and resentment destroyed his caution, his planned logic, restraint. "i can see what your life would be, if you can't. you would live in a no-man's land; and all the clergymen in the world couldn't make you one." "it wouldn't be the clergymen, howat," she said simply. "and you mustn't think i am only a silly with her first young man. i have kissed them before, howat; yes, and liked it. i am not happy with jim; it's something else, like tearing silk. he is so confident and so helpless; he's drinking now, too." "i suppose that is an added attraction," he commented. she chose to ignore this. "i half promised him," she continued, "to take dinner with his family. he will be in the city next week. i said i thought you'd bring me." "well, i won't," he replied in a startled energy. "mariana, you're out of your head. go to byron polder's house! me!" in his excitement he dropped a lighted cigarette on the chinese rug. "i have no one else," she told him. "perhaps i'll marry jim, and go away ... i thought you might want to be with me, at the last." he fumbled for his glass, fixed it in his eye, and then dropped it out, clearing his throat sharply. he rose and crossed the room, and looked out through the open door at the night. the stars were hazy, and there was a constant reflection of lightning on the horizon. howat penny swore silently at his increasing softness, his betrayal by his years. yet it might be a good thing for her to see the polder family assembled, byron--he was a pretentious looking fool--at one end of the table and delia mullen polder at the other. there were more children, too. but if it became necessary, heaven knew how he would explain all this to charlotte. "i believe," he said, apparently innocently, "that they live in the north end of the city." "it won't damage you," she replied indirectly. already, he thought with poignant regret, a part of the old mariana had gone; her voice was older, darker with maturity. xxvi howat penny arrived in town late on the day when he was to dine with mariana at the polders. he entered a taxicab, and was carried smoothly through the thick, hot air; open electric cars, ladened with damp, pallid salespeople, passed with a harsh ringing; and the foliage in rittenhouse square hung dusty and limp and still. the houses beyond, on nineteenth street, where the jannans' winter dwelling stood, were closed and blankly boarded. the small, provisional entrance before which he stopped opened, and a servant, out of livery, appeared. "shall i tell the driver to return, sir?" he queried; "the telephone is disconnected." he issued instructions, and, with howat penny's bag, followed him into the darkened house. the windows of a general chamber on the second floor had been thrown open; and there he found mariana's brother. kingsfrere jannan was a young man with a broad white face, shadowed in pasty green, and leaden eyes. his countenance, howat knew, masked a keen and avaricious temperament. he did uncommonly well at auction bridge in the clubs. kingsfrere, in a grey morning coat with white linen gaiters and a relentless collar, nodded and lounged from the room; and mariana soon appeared. "perhaps, howat," she said, "it would be better if you didn't dress. i have an idea the polder men don't." at the stubborn expression which possessed him she exclaimed sharply, "if you tell me that the colonel or gary dilkes were always formally dressed at dinner i think i'll scream." nevertheless, he had no intention of relinquishing a habit of years for the polders, or the north end of the city; and when, later, he came down into the hall, where the man stood with his silk hat and cape, mariana put an arm about his shoulders. "i wish every one could he as beautiful as yourself," she told him. they passed the square, bathed in dusk and the beginning shimmer of arc lights, went through the flattened and faintly thunderous arch of a railway, and turned into a broad asphalt street, on which wide, glistening bulk windows gave place to sombre shops with lurid, flame-streaked vistas, and continuous residences beyond. howat penny gazed curiously at the tall, narrow dwellings, often a continuous, similar façade from street corner to corner, then diversified in elaborate, individual design. all, however, had deep stone steps leading to the sidewalk, thronged with figures in airy white dresses, coatless men smoking contentedly; there was a constant light vibration of laughing voices and subdued calling, and the fainter strains of mechanical music, the beat of popular marches and attenuated voices of celebrated singers. the motor turned suddenly in to the curb, and they got out. the house before them, like its fellows, was entered from a high flight of red sandstone steps, and was built of a smooth, soapy green stone, with red coursings, an elaborate cornice and tiled italian roof. no one was sitting outside, although there was a pile of circular, grass-woven cushions; and howat sharply rang the bell. a maid in aproned black admitted them into a narrow hall, from which stairs mounted with a carved rail terminating in a newel post supporting an almost life-sized bronze nymph, whose flowing hair was encircled by a wreath of electrically lit flowers, and who held a dully shining sheaf of jonquils. there was no other illumination, and howat penny discovered in the obscurity a high mirror bristling with elk horns, on which hung various hats and outer garments. he stood helpless, apparently, in an attitude he found impossible to deny himself, waiting to be relieved of his coverings, when mariana whispered angrily, "don't be so rotten, howat." finally the maid secured his cape, and he was conscious of a stir at the head of the stairs. immediately after, a shrill, subdued voice carried to where he stood. "i told you," it said violently, "... dress suit." there was an answering murmur, in which he could distinguish, james polder's impatient tones. the latter descended, and flooded the hall with, light from a globe in the ceiling. he was garbed in blue serge and flannels. "isabella," he stated directly, belligerently even, "thinks we ought to change our clothes; but we never do, and i wouldn't hear of--of lying for effect." howat penny's dislike for him pleasantly increased. mariana, in rose crêpe with a soft, dull gold girdle and long, trumpet-like sleeves of flowered gauze, smiled at him warmly. "it is a harmless pose of howat's," she explained: "a concession to the ghosts of the past." she patted the elder on the shoulder. above, james polder ushered them into a room hung with crimson and gilt stamped paper, an elaborately fretted cherry mantel about the asbestos rectangle of an artificial hearth, and a multitude of chairs and divans shrouded in linen. there was an upright, ebonized piano draped in a fringed, roman scarf and holding a towering jar of roses, a great, carved easel with a painstaking, smooth oil painting of a dark man in an attitude of fixed dignity, and an expensively cased talking machine. the original, evidently, of the portrait, and a small, rotund woman in mauve brocade, advanced to meet them. young polder said, "my mother and father. this is miss jannan and mr. howat penny." the latter saw that mrs. byron polder was distinctly nervous; she twisted the diamonds that occupied a not inconsiderable portion of her short fingers, and smiled rigidly. "i am very pleased to meet you, miss jannan," she proceeded; "and mr. penny too." she held out a hand, then half withdrew it; but mariana captured it in her direct palm. "thank you," she replied. byron polder had a more confident poise; in reality there was a perceptible chill in his manner. he was a handsome man, with a cleanly-shaven face, introspective brown eyes and a petulant, drooping mouth. "you have succeeded in finding your way to my house," he pronounced enigmatically, gazing at howat penny. it was, howat thought, just such an ill-bred utterance as he had looked for from byron polder; and he made no effort to mitigate it. he was conscious of, and resolutely ignored, mariana's veiled entreaty. "you don't know my girls," mrs. polder continued rapidly. "here is isabella, and kate will be along for dinner." a tall, bony woman of, perhaps, thirty-five, in an appalling complication of ribbons and silk, moved forward with a conventional sentence. in her, howat's appraisements went on, virginity had been perpetuated in a captious obsession. they stood awkwardly silent until james polder exclaimed, "good heavens, this isn't a wax works! why don't we sit down?" the older woman glanced with a consuming anxiety at isabella, and nodded violently toward an exit, "it's a quarter after seven," she said in a swift aside. isabella, correctly disposed on a chair of muffled and mysterious line, resolutely ignored the appeal. "i didn't suppose you'd be in the city," she addressed mariana; "i read in the paper that you had gone to watch hill with mrs. ledyard b. starr." "you can see that i'm back," mariana smiled. "the family, of course, are at andalusia, but we have all been in town the past days. i am really staying with howat at shadrach." "the former location of shadrach furnace, i believe," byron polder stated. "now in ruins." howat penny accurately gathered that the other inferred the collapse not only of the furnace. he secured the single glass in his eye and looked deliberately around. isabella watched him with a tense interest. mrs. polder gave a short, perturbed giggle. "just like george arliss," she told her son. james polder, on the edge of a chair, was twitching with repressed uneasiness; he frowned antagonistically and then gazed appealingly at mariana. "i have been introduced to your cousin, miss provost," isabella again took up her social thread. "a dear friend of mine, a talented actress, gave a recitation at miss provost's request, for suffrage." "eliza's splendid," mariana pronounced. "peter jannan provost's daughter," byron polder added fully. but his voice indicated that even more, darkly unfavourable, might be revealed. "miss provost has been under arrest." damn the solemn ass, howat penny thought. "she's been in the jug twice now," mariana went on cheerfully; "kingsfrere had to put up a bond the last time." mrs. polder was rapidly regaining her ease. "wasn't her mamma scared?" she inquired. "i'd go on if isabella was taken up." "imagine isabella!" jim polder exploded. "it's quite the thing," that individual asserted. "isabella," her mother declared, "it is twenty-five past seven. i wish you'd go out and see where dinner is." she rose with an expression of mingled surprise and pain. "really, mother," she said, "that is an extraordinary request." her brother snorted. there was a sudden muffled clamour of chimes from below, and mrs. polder gave a sigh of relief. "i didn't want it spoiled," she explained, descending; "jim would be wild after all his eagerness to have things nice." the dining room, resembling all the interior, was long and narrow, and had a high ceiling in varnished light wood. byron polder faced his wife at the opposite end of the table. howat penny sat beside mariana, with jim polder across; isabella was on her mother's right; and a waiting place was filled by a dark, surprisingly beautiful girl. "this is kate," mrs. polder said proudly. howat thought he had not seen such a handsome female for years. she wore a ruffled, transparent crêpe de chine waist that clung in frank curves to full, graceful shoulders; her hair was a lustrous, black coil, and she had sultry, topaz eyes and a mouth drooping like her father's, but more warmly bowed. kate polder met the direct pleasure of his inspection with a privately conveyed admission that she understood and subscribed to it. here, at last, was a girl up to the standard of old days, the divinity of scalchi herself. she would have created a sensation in delmonico's, the real delmonico's. gary and the colonel-- "we think they're elegant," mrs. polder's voice broke in on his revery. he looked up and saw a great fish on a huge platter before his host, a fish in surprising semblance to life, had it not been for the rosettes of lemon, the green bed, which surrounded it. "gracious, no," she answered mariana's query; "we don't do it home. mr. polder has them sent from a rathskeller down town. he'll make a meal off one." the latter was plainly chagrined at this light thrown on his petty appetites. he assumed an air of complete detachment in the portioning of the dish; but, at the same time, managed to supply himself liberally. the conversation was sporadic. howat penny found the dinner lavish, and divided his attention between it and kate polder. james and mariana addressed general remarks to the table at succeeding intervals. mr. polder gloomed, and isabella went through the gestures, the accents, of the occasion with utter correctness. howat studied mariana, but he was unable to discover her thoughts; she was smiling and cordial; and apologized for losing her slipper. "i always do," she explained. james polder hastily rose, and came around to assist her. the dinner was at an end, and she stood with a slim, silken foot outheld for him to replace the fragile object of search. they reassembled above, and mrs. polder suggested music. "my son says you are very fond of good music," she addressed howat penny. "i can tell you it is a lovely taste. we have the prettiest records that come. isabella, put on _hark, hark, the lark_." she obediently rose, and, revolving the handle of the talking machine, fixed the grooved, rubber disk and needle. howat listened with a stony countenance to the ensuing strains. such instruments were his particular detestation. mrs. polder waved her hand dreamily. "now," she said, "the _sextette_, and _the end of a perfect day_. no, mr. penny would like to hear _salome_, i'm sure, with all those cymbals and creepy eastern tunes." an orgy of sound followed, applauded--perversely, he was certain--by mariana. james, he saw, was as uneasy as himself; but for a totally different reason. he gazed at mariana with a fierce devotion patent to the most casual eye; his expression was tormented with concern and longing. "when do you return to harrisburg?" byron polder inquired. "my son," he went on to howat penny, "is a practical iron man. i say iron, although that is no longer the phrase, because of natural associations. the present system of the manufacture of steel, as you doubtless know, evolved from the old ironmasters, of whose blood james has a generous share. we look to him to re-establish, er--a departed importance. i need say no more." his women's anxiety at this trend of speech became painful. "play a right lively piece," mrs. polder interjected, and an intolerable cacophony of banjoes followed, making conversation futile. the evening, howat penny felt, was a considerable success; by heaven, mariana would never get herself into this! byron polder's innuendoes must have annoyed her nicely. when the mechanical disturbance ceased, mrs. polder said, "i believe that's the bell." evidently she had been correct, for, immediately after, a young woman with bright gold hair, and a mobile, pink countenance unceremoniously entered the room. "oh!" she exclaimed, in an instinctively statuesque surprise; "i didn't know you were entertaining company." "come right in, harriet," mrs. polder heartily proclaimed. "miss jannan, mr. penny, this is isabella's friend, harriet de barry, a near neighbour and a sweet girl. she's an actress, too; understudies vivian blane; and is better, lots say, than the lead." harriet de barry made a comprehensive gesture. "i wanted to say good-bye to you all," she announced. "i am going on tour. leave at midnight. just had a wire from mrs. blane." there were polite polder exclamations, regret, congratulations; through which the son of the house moodily gazed at the carpet. "haven't you anything to say to hatty?" his mother demanded. "and after all the passes she sent you." howat penny saw mariana's gaze rest swiftly on the latest comer's obvious good looks; and the scrutiny, he was certain, held a cold feminine appraisal. as they descended to leave mariana lingered on the stairs with jim. the latter closed the door of the public motor with a low, intense mutter; and, moving away, howat penny lit a cigarette with a breath of audible relief. "i don't know which i detest most," mariana declared viciously, "you or myself." "you might include that fish," he added plaintively. she gazed at him in cold contempt, with an ugly, protruding lip. nothing else was said until they were in the opened room at the jannans. mariana flung herself on a broad divan, with her narrowed gaze fixed on the points of her slippers. "comfortable, isn't it," she addressed him; "this feeling of superiority?" he placidly nodded, inwardly highly pleased. "i wish i'd married jim the first week i knew him, without trying to be so dam' admirable. howat, what is it that makes people what they are, and aren't?" it was, he told her, difficult to express; but it had to do with inherited associations. "mrs. polder is as kind as possible," she asserted; "and i could see that you were absorbed in kate." "really, mariana," he protested, "at times you are a little rough. she is a very fine girl; in fact, reminds me of scalchi. old byron, though, what--a regular catafalque!" a blundering step mounted to the stair; kingsfrere entered and stood wavering and concerned, the collar wilted and a gaiter missing. "ought to do something about the front door," he asserted; "frightful condition, no paint; and full of splinters. very plump splinters," he specified, examining a hand. mariana surveyed him coolly, thoroughly. "sweet, isn't he?" she remarked. "kingsfrere gilbert todd jannan." "that's absolutely all," that individual assured her. "except if you want to add sturgeon; some do. hullow, howat! grand old boy, howat," he told her. "but if he says i'm drunk, i will tell you one of bundy's stories about him. this--this elegant deception tremendous noise with the song birds." he sat abruptly on a providentially convenient chair. there, limply, he hiccoughed. "sweet," mariana repeated. kingsfrere finally rose, and, with a friendly wave, wandered from the room. "it was good of you to take me, howat," she told him wearily. "although, now, i can see that you went willingly enough. you thought it would cure me. but of what, howat--of love? of a feeling that, perhaps, i'd found a reason for living?" a decidedly uncomfortable feeling, doubt, invaded him. he had an unjustified sense of meddling, of blundering into a paramount situation to which he lacked the key. he had done nothing debatable, he assured himself; mariana's inherent, well--prejudices, couldn't be charged to him. in the room where he was to sleep the uneasiness followed him. she was his greatest, his only concern. howat penny reviewed his desire for her, his preference for a mariana untouched by the common surge of living. he recalled the discontent, the feeling of sterility, that had lately possessed him; the suspicion that his life had been in vain. all his philosophy, his accumulated convictions, were involved; and, tie in hand, he sat endeavouring to pierce the confusion of his ideas. he was conscious of a slow change gathering within him; and, in itself, that consciousness was disturbing. it had a vaguely dark, chill aspect. he shivered, in the room super-heated by summer; his blood ran thinner and cold. howat penny had a sudden, startling sense of his utter loneliness; there was absolutely no one, now, to whom he could turn for the understanding born of long and intimately affectionate association. mariana was lost to him in her own poignant affair ... no children. so many, so much, dead. his countenance, however, grew firm with the determination that age should not find him a coward. he had always been bitterly contemptuous of the men that, surfeiting their appetites, showed at the impotent last a cheap repentance. but he had done nothing pointedly wrong; he had--the inversion repeated itself--done nothing. xxvii at shadrach his customary decision returned; he went about, or sat reading, well-ordered, cool-appearing, dogmatic. he learned from the _evening post_ that mariana was at warrenton. she had carefully described to him the virginia country life, the gaiety and hard riding of the transplanted english colonies; and he pictured her at the successive horse shows, in the brilliant groups under the doric columns of the porticoes. then, he saw, she had gone north; he found her picture in a realistic egyptian costume with bare, painted legs at an extravagant ball. he studied her countenance, magnifying it with a reading glass; but he saw nothing beyond a surface enjoyment of the moment. then, to his utter surprise, on an evening after dinner, when he was seated in the settling dusk of the porch, intent on the grey movements of his familiar owls, a quick step mounted the path, and james polder appeared. "i wanted to ask about miss jannan," the latter stated frankly and at once. howat penny cleared his throat sharply. "i believe she is well," he stated formally. "you will find it cooler here." it struck him that the young man was not deficient in that particular. more, of still greater directness, followed. "i suppose you know," polder stated, "that i want to marry her ... and she won't." "i had gathered something of the sort," the other admitted. "it's natural, in a way." polder proceeded gloomily: "i'd take her away from so much. and, yet, look here--you can shut me up if you like--what's it all about? can you tell me that?" howat penny couldn't. "i'm not to blame for that old mess any more than you. and it's not my fault if something of--of which you think so much came to me by the back door. i've always wanted what mariana is," he burst out, "and i have never been satisfied with what i could get. and when i saw her, hell--what's the use! "any one in harrisburg will tell you i am a good man," he reiterated, at a slightly different angle. "when you kick through out of that racket of hunkies and steel you've done something. soon i'll be getting five or six thousand." he paused, and the other said dryly, "admirable." the phrase seemed to him inadequate; it sounded in his ear as unpleasantly as a false note. yet he was powerless to alter it, change its brusque accent. the personal tone of polder's revelations was inherently distasteful to him. he said, rising, "if you will excuse me i'll tell rudolph you will be here." "but i won't," polder replied; "there's a train back at eleven. i have to be at the mills for the day shift to-morrow. i came out because i had to talk a little about mariana." he had deserted the more formal address. "and i wanted to tell some one connected with her that i have gimp of my own. i know why she won't marry me, and it's a small reason; it would be small in--" "hold up," howat penny interrupted, incensed. "am i to understand that you came here to complain about miss jannan's conduct? that won't do, you know." "it's a small reason," the other insisted hotly. "hardly more than the idiotic fact that i'm not in the social register. i am ashamed of her, and i said so. it was so little that i told her i wouldn't argue. she could go to the devil." "really," the other observed, "really, i shall have to ask you to control your language or leave." "i wonder if she will?" the surprising james polder sombrely speculated. "i wonder if i am? but there are other women, with better hearts." "are we to construe this as a threat?" howat asked in a delicately balanced tone. "for god's sake," he begged, "can't you be human!" the other suddenly recalled mariana's imploring anger at the polders. "don't be so rotten, howat." the confusion of his valuations, his habitual attitudes of thought, returned. his gaze strayed to the obscured ruin of shadrach furnace, at once a monument of departed vigour and present disintegration. perhaps, just as the energy had expired in the furnace, it had seeped from him. it might be that he was only a sere husk, a dry bundle of inhibitions, insensible to the green humanity of life. "i couldn't go on my knees to anything," the younger took up his burden. "wrong or not it is the way i'm made. i'd not hang about where i wasn't wanted. although you mightn't think it. and i am sorry i came here. i do things like that all the time; i mean i do, say, exactly the opposite of what i plan. you'll think i am a braying ass, of course." "stop for a breath," howat penny recommended; "a breath, and a cigarette." he extended his case; and, in place of taking a cigarette, polder examined the case resentfully. "there is it," he declared; "correct, like all the rest of you. and it's only old leather. but mine would be different. i could sink and mariana wouldn't put out a hand just on account of that. it's wrong," he insisted. expressed in that manner it did seem to howat penny a small reason for the withholding of any paramount salvation. yet, he told himself, he had no intention, desire, to undertake the weight of any reformation. a futile effort, he added, with his vague consciousness of implacable destiny, his dim sense of man moved from without, in locked progression. polder was young, rebellious; but he could grow older; he would grow older and comprehend; or else beat himself to death on obdurate circumstance. what concerned howat was the hope that mariana would be no further involved in either process. she too had this to learn--that, in the end, blood was stronger than will; the dead were terribly potent. he had, even, no inclination to say any of this to the man frowning in the dusk at his side. it would be useless, a mere preaching. an expression, too, of a slight but actual sympathy for james polder would be misleading. in the main howat was entirely careless of what might happen to the other; it was only where, unfortunately, he touched mariana that he entered into the elder's world. he would sacrifice him for mariana in an instant. polder rose. "i must leave," he announced. howat penny expressed no regret, and the other hesitated awkwardly. "it's no use!" he finally exclaimed. "i can't reach you; as if one of us spoke patagonian. hellish, it seems to me." he turned and disappeared, as violently as he had come, over the obscurity of the lawn. a reddish, misshapen moon hung low in the sky, and gave the aging man an extraordinarily vivid impression of dead planets, unthinkable wastes of time, illimitable systems and spaces. james polder's passionate resentment, his own emotion, were no more articulate than the thin whirring of the locusts. he went quickly into the house, to the warm glow of his lamp, the memories of his pictures, the figurine in baked clay with hermes' wand of victory. xxviii the heat dragged through the remainder of august and filled september with steaming days and heavy nights, followed by driving grey storms and premonitory, chill dawns. a period of sunny tranquillity succeeded, but crimson blots of sumach, the warmer tone of maples, made it evident that summer had lapsed. honduras mulched the strawberries, and set new teeth in his lawn rakes. the days passed without feature, or word from mariana, and howat penny fell into an almost slumberous monotony of existence. it was not unpleasant; occupied with small duties, intent on his papers, or wandering in a past that seemed to grow clearer, rather than fade, as time multiplied, he maintained his erect, carefully ordered existence. then, among his mail, he found a large, formal-appearing envelope which he opened with a mild curiosity. his attitude of detachment was soon dispelled. mrs. corinne de barry desired the pleasure of his attendance at the wedding of her daughter, harriet, to james polder. details, a church and hour, were appended. the headlong young man, he thought, with a smile, mariana was well out of that. he had been wise in saying nothing to charlotte; the thing had expired naturally. but, irrationally, he thought of polder with a trace of contempt--a man who had, unquestionably, possessed mariana jannan's regard marrying the pink-faced understudy to a second-rate emotional actress! in a way it made him cross; the fellow should have shown a--a greater appreciation, delicacy. "commonplace," he said decisively, aloud. the following day mariana herself appeared, with a touch of sable and a small, wickedly becoming hat. he was at lunch; and, without delay, she took the place smilingly laid for her by rudolph. it was characteristic that she made no pretence of concealing the reason that had brought her to shadrach. "jim's going to marry that harriet de barry," she said at once, nicely casual. "i had a card," he informed her. "it's to be on the thirtieth," mariana proceeded, "at eight o'clock and in church. of course you are going." "not at all of course," he replied energetically. "and you'll stay away for the plainest decency." "we will go together," she proceeded calmly. "i want to see jim married, happy." she gazed at him with narrowed eyes. "mariana," he told her, "that's a shameful lie. it is cold, feminine curiosity. it's worse--the only vulgar thing i can remember your considering. i won't hear of it." he debated the wisdom of recounting james polder's last visit to shadrach and decided in the negative. "let the young man depart with his harriet in peace." "it's sickening, isn't it?" she queried. "and yet it is so like jim. he had a very objectional idea of his dignity; he was sensitive in a way that made me impatient. he couldn't forget himself, you see. that helped to make it difficult for me; i wasn't used to it; his feelings were always being damaged." howat penny nodded. "you'll recall i emphasized that." mariana looked worn by her gaiety, he decided, white; for the first time in his memory she seemed older than her actual years. her friends, he knew, her existence, bore the general appellation, fast; howat had no share in the condemnatory aspect of the term, but he realized that it had a literal application. their pace was feverish, and mariana plainly showed its effects. her voice, already noted as more mature, had, he was sure, hardened. she dabbled her lips thickly with a rouge stick. "mariana," he said querulously, "i wish, you'd stop this puppet dance you're leading. i wish you would marry." "i tried to," she coolly replied, "but you spoiled my young dream of happiness." "that isn't true," he asserted sharply, perturbed. "anything that happened, or didn't happen, was only the result of yourself, of what you are. i am extremely anxious to have you settled, and your legs out of the sunday papers. i--i am opposed to your present existence; it's gone on too long. i believe i'd rather see you orating on the streets, like eliza provost. and, by thunder, i never thought i should come to that! champagne and those damnable syncopated tunes played by hysterical niggers make a poor jig." he spoke impetuously, unconscious of any reversal of previous judgments, opinions. "you are so difficult to please, howat," she said wearily; "you were aghast at the thought of my marrying james, and now you are complaining of the natural alternative. the truth is," she added brutally, "you are old-fashioned; you think life goes on just as it did when the academy of music was the centre of your world. and nothing is the same." she rose, and, with a lighted cigarette and half-shut eyes, fell into a rhythmic step of sensuous abandon. "you see," she remarked, pausing. an increasing dread for her filled his heart. he felt, in response to her challenge, a sudden bewilderment in the world of to-day. things, howat penny told himself, were marching to the devil. he said this irritably, loud, and she laughed. "i'm going in by an early train," she proceeded. "we have left the country. will you stop for me on the thirtieth? early, howat, so we can be sure of a good place." his helplessness included the subject of her remarks; he would, he realized, be at james polder's wedding, but he persisted in his opinion. "a low piece of business," howat declared. when she had gone he felt that he had not penetrated her actual attitude toward polder's deflection. he had not for a moment got beneath her casual manner, her lightness, pretended or actual. he wished vehemently that he were back again in the past he comprehended, among the familiar figures that had thronged the notable dinner to patti, the women who had floated so graciously through the poetry of departed waltzes. he got out his albums once more, scrutinized through his polished glass the programmes of evenings famous in song. but he went to bed a full two hours earlier than customary; his feet positively dragged up the stairs; above he sat strangely exhausted, breathing heavily for, apparently, no reason whatever. he retraced, with mariana, the course over the broad, asphalt way into the north end of the city early on the evening of the thirtieth. they found the church easily, by reason of a striped canvas tunnel stretched out to the curb; and a young man with plastered hair and a gardenia led them, mariana on his arm, to a place on the centre aisle. the church had a high nave newly vaulted in maple, and stained glass windows draped with smilax, garish in colour against electric lights. above the altar a great illuminated cross maintained an unsteady flickering; and--it was unseasonably cold--heating steam pipes gave out an expanding racket. the pews through the centre filled rapidly; there was a low, excited chatter of voices, and a spreading tropical expanse of the dyed feathers and iridescent foliage of womens' hats. an overpowering scent of mingled perfumes rose and filled the interior. the strains of an organ grew audible, contesting with the rattle of the steam pipes. howat penny was detached, critical. mariana, in a dull, black satin wrap of innumerable soft folds and wide paisley collar slipping from a sheath-like bodice of gleaming, cut steel beading, was silent, incurious. he turned to her, to point out an extravagant figure, but he said nothing. she was, evidently, in no mood for the enjoyment of the ridiculous. this disturbed him; he had not thought that she would be so--so concerned. he suppressed an impatient exclamation, and returned to the scrutiny of the culminating ceremony. here was a sphere, vastly larger than his own, to the habits and prejudices of which he was complete stranger. it was as james polder had said--as if one or the other spoke patagonian. he had no wish to acquire the language about him; a positive antagonism to his surrounding possessed him, beyond reason. he thought--how different mariana is from all this, and was annoyed again at her serious bearing. then he was surprised by his presence there at all; confound the girl, why didn't she play with her own kind! yet only the other day the glimpse she had given him of her natural associates had filled him with dread. his mind, striving to encompass the problem of mariana's existence, failed to overcome the walls built about him by time, by habit. he gave it up. the louder pealing of the organ announced immediate developments. there was a stir in the front of the church, a clergyman in white vestment advanced; and, at a sudden murmurous interest, a twisting of heads, the wedding procession moved slowly up the aisle. the ushers, painstakingly adopting various lengths of stride to the requirements of the organ, passed in pairs; then followed an equal number of young women, among whom he instantly recognized the handsome presence of kate polder, in drooping blue bonnets, with prodigious panniers of celestial-hued silk, carrying white enamelled shepherd's crooks from which depended loops of artificial buttercups. an open space ensued, in the centre of which advanced a child with starched white skirts springing out in a lacy wheel about spare, bare knees, her pale yellow hair tied in an overwhelming blue bow; and holding outstretched, in a species of intense and quivering agony, a white velvet cushion to which were pinned two gold wedding bands. after that, howat penny thought, the prospective bride could furnish only the diminished spectacle of an anti-climax. led by the virginal presence of isabella polder she floated forward in a foam of white tulle and dragging satin attached below her bare, full shoulders. a floating veil, pinned with a wreath of orange blossoms, manifestly wax, covered the metallic gold of her hair. her countenance was unperturbed, statuesque, and pink. as the sentimental clamour of the organ died the steam pipes took up, with renewed vigour, their utilitarian noise. "why don't they turn them off?" mariana exclaimed in his ear. personally he enjoyed such an accompaniment to what he designated as the performance. he cast the participants in their inevitable rôles--the bride as prima donna, james polder the heroic tenor. mrs. corinne de barry, a thin, concerned figure in glistening lavender, supported a lamenting mezzo, the bulky, masculine figure at her side, with an imposing diamond on a hand like two bricks, was beautifully basso-- his train of thought was abruptly upset by james polder's familiar, staccato utterance. the precipitant young man! it stamped out all howat penny's humorous condescension; his sensitive ear was conscious of a note, almost, of desperation. he avoided looking at mariana. damn it, the thing unexpectedly cut at him like a knife. james polder said, "i will." the clear, studied tones of harriet de barry, understudy to vivian blane, were spoiled by the crackling of steam. howat moved uneasily; he had an absurd sense of guilt; he hated the whole proceeding. what was that polder, whose voice persisted so darkly in his hearing, about, getting himself into such a snarl? he recalled what the younger had said on his porch--"women with better hearts." he had implored him, howat penny, to be "more human." the memory, too, of the shaken tone of that request bothered him. now it appeared that he might have been, well, more human. he composed himself, facing such sentimental illusions, into a savage indifference to what remained of the ceremony; he ignored the passage of polder, with harriet polder on his arm; the relief of the unspeakable child carrying the white velvet cushion no longer in the manner of a hot plate; the united bridesmaids and ushers. "thank heaven, that's over!" he ejaculated in the deeply-comfortable space of the jannan's motor laundalet. "but it isn't," mariana said briefly. she sat silent, with her head turned from him, through the remainder of the short drive about rittenhouse square. then she went abruptly to her room. charlotte jannan and her oldest child, sophie lewis, were above in the living room. the former was handsome in a rigid way; her countenance, squarely and harshly formed, with grey hair exactly waved and pinned, had an expression of cold firmness; her voice was assertive and final. sophie, apparently midway in appearance between kingsfrere and mariana, was gracefully proportioned, and gave an impression of illusive beauty by means of a mystery of veils, such as were caught up on her hat now. they were discussing, he discovered, the family. "it's an outrage, howat," charlotte told him, "you never married, and that the name will go. here's mariana at twenty-seven, almost, and nothing in sight; and sophie flatly refuses, after only one, to have another child. i wish now i'd had a dozen. it is really the duty of the proper people. and eliza provost won't hear of a man! i tell sophie it's their own fault when they complain about society to-day. it's the fault of this charity work and athletics, too; both extremely levelling. hundreds of women wind bandages or go to the hunt races and gabble about votes for no reason under heaven but superior associates." "howat will feelingly curse the present with you," sophie said rising. "i must go. borrow the motor, if you don't mind. i saw in the paper a polder was married." howat penny lit a cigarette, admirably stolid. "a name i never repeat," charlotte jannan said when her daughter had left. he heard again the echo of james polder's intense voice, "i will." something of his dislike for him, he discovered, had evaporated. howat thought of mariana, in her room--alone with what feelings? he realized that charlotte would never have forgiven her for any excursion in that direction. he himself had been, was, entirely opposed to such a connection. however, he could now dismiss it into the past that held a multitude of similarly futile imaginings. charlotte, he inferred, had no elasticity; it was a quality the absence of which he had not before noted. she was a little narrow in her complacency. her patent satisfaction in sophie was a shade too--too worldly. sam lewis was, of course, irreproachably situated; but he was, at the same time, thick-witted, an indolent appendage for his name. suddenly he felt poignantly sorry for mariana; in a way she seemed to have been trapped by life. james polder resembled her in that he had been caught in an ugly net of circumstance. a great deal had been upset since his day, when the boxes and pit had been so conveniently separated; old boundaries no longer defined, limited, their content; social demarcations were being obliterated by a growing disaffection. it was very unfortunate, for, as he was seeing, unhappiness ensued. it was bound to. an irritability seized him at being dragged into such useless conjecturing; into, at his age, confusing complications; and he greeted with relief the long, low front of his dwelling at shadrach, its old grey stone a seeming outcropping of the old green turf, the aged, surrounding trees. xxix mariana, however, followed him almost immediately. she stood before him in an informal, belted black wool sweater, a ridiculously inadequate skirt, and the solid shoes he detested on women. but he soon forgot her garb. "howat," she told him, "i have made a cowardly and terrible mistake. i was meant to marry jimmy, and i didn't. perhaps i have ruined his life. mine will be nothing without him." they were in the middle room, and a fire of hickory was burning in the panelled hearth. she dropped on a chair, and sat gazing into the singing flames. here it's all to do over, he thought, with a feeling of weariness. "he may get along very well with his harriet," he remarked, resentful of his dissipated contentment. "you know he won't," she replied sharply. "he loves me; and i love him, howat. i never knew how much, or how little anything else mattered, until i was in my room, after his wedding. it wasn't a wedding, really," she declared. "all that doesn't make one. he'll find it out, too. jimmy will be desperate, and i'm afraid he will drink harder. he told me they were getting frightfully strict about that at the works. and there's that reorganization; it will embitter him if he isn't made superintendent. he has worked splendidly for it. that woman he--he went off with is a squash," she said vindictively. "she will be in bed when he goes away in the morning, and in crêpe de chine negligee when he gets back. perhaps it won't last," she added thoughtfully. the sense of future security generated in howat penny by the marriage abruptly departed. he fumbled with his glass, directed it at mariana. "what do you mean by that?" he demanded. "i would go to him like a shot, if he needed me," she coolly returned. the dreadful part of it was that he was sure she would. "nonsense," he asserted, hiding his concern; "there will be no fence climbing." all this came from the letting down of conversational bars, the confounded books he found about on tables. words, like everything else, had lost their meanings. in his day a bad woman was bad, a good, likewise, good; but the lord couldn't tell them apart now. it was the dancing, too. might as well be married to a man, he thought. mariana was haggard, the paint on her face crudely--paint. he saw that there were tears in her eyes, and he turned away confused, rose. the slot in his cigarette box refused to open, and he shook it violently, then put it back with a clatter. "tell rudolph you're here," he said disjointedly; and, miserable, left the room. dressing he stood at a window; the west held a narrow strip of crimson light under a windy mass of cloud. the ruin of shadrach furnace was sombre. within, the room was almost bare. there was a large, high-posted bed without drapings, a vermilion lacquered table, dark with age, supporting a glass lamp at its side; a set of drawers with old brass handles; a pair of stiff adam chairs with wheel backs; and a modern mahogany dressing case, variously and conveniently divided, a clear mirror in the door. the day failed rapidly, and he lit a pair of small lamps on the set of drawers. the sun sank in no time at all. mariana, crying. the girl ought to go to her mother, and not come out to him, an old man, with her intimate troubles. "a name i never repeat," charlotte had said. that was just like her. small sympathy there, and no more understanding. he knotted his tie hurriedly, askew; and gathered the ends once more. it tired him a little to dress in the evening; often he longed to stay relaxed, pondering, until rudolph called him to dinner. but every day something automatic, tyrannical, dragged him up to his room, encased him in rigid linen, formal black. mariana, against the fireplace, ate listlessly; and, later, he beat her with shameful ease at sniff. "you can't do that," he pointed out with asperity, when she thoughtlessly joined unequal numbers. "why not?" she asked. she must be addled. "it's against the rule." mariana said, "i'm tired of rules." she always had put away the dominoes, but to-night she ignored them, and he returned the pieces to their morocco case. she relapsed into silence and a chair; and he sat with gaze fixed on the hickory in the fireplace, burning to impalpable, white ash. what a procession of logs had been there reduced to dust, warming generations of men now cold. the thought of all those lapsed winters and lives soothed him; the clamour of living seemed to retreat, to leave him in a grey tranquillity. his head sank forward, and his narrow, dark hands rested in absolute immobility on the arms of his chair. he roused suddenly to discover that mariana had gone up, and that there were only some fitful, rosy embers of fire left. in november it had been his custom to go into town for the winter; and it was time for him to make such arrangement; but, all at once, he was overwhelmingly reluctant to face the change, the stir, of moving. the city seemed intolerably noisy, oppressive; the thought of the hurrying, indifferent crowds disconcerted him. at shadrach it was quiet, familiar, spacious. he had had enough of excursions, strange faces, problems.... he would speak to rudolph. stay. xxx the countryside, it appeared to howat penny, flamed with autumn and faded in a day. throughout the night he heard the crisp sliding of dead leaves over the roof, the lash of the wind swung impotently about the rectangular, stone block of his dwelling. at the closing of shutters the december gales only penetrated to him in a thin, distant complaint. the burning hickory curtained the middle room with a ruddy warmth. it was a period of extreme peace; he slept for long hours in a deep chair, or sat lost in a simulation of sleep, living again in the past. the present was increasingly immaterial, unimportant; old controversies occupied him, long since stilled; and among the memories of opera, of eames as a splendid girl, forgotten rôles, were other, vaguer associations, impressions which seemed to linger from actual happenings, but persistently evaded definition. at times, his eyes closed, the glow of his fireplace burned hotter, more lurid, and was filled with faintly clamorous sounds; at times there was, woven through his half-wakeful dreaming, a monotonous beat ... such as the fall of a hammer. he saw, too, strange and yet familiar faces--a girl in silk like an extravagant tea rose; a countenance seamed and glistening with pain floated in shadow; and then another mocked and mocked him. once he heard the drumming of rain, close above; and the illusion was so strong that he made his way to the door; a black void was glistening with cold and relentless stars.... now he was standing by a dark, hurrying river, nothing else was visible; and yet he was thrilled by a sense of utter rapture. he developed a feeling of the impermanence of life, his hold upon it no stronger than the tenuous cord of a balloon straining impatiently in great, unknown currents. the future lost all significance, reality; there were only memories; the vista behind was long and clear, but the door to to-morrow was shut. looking into his mirror the reflection was far removed; it was hollow-cheeked and silvered, unfamiliar. he half expected to see a different face, not less lean, but more arrogant, with a sharply defined chin. the actual, blurred visage accorded ill with his trains of thought; it was out of place among the troops of gala youth. a wired letter, a customary present of cigarettes, came from mariana on christmas, gifts from charlotte and bundy provost. there was champagne at his place for dinner; and he sealed crisp money in envelopes inscribed rudolph, honduras, and the names of the cook and maid. he drank the wine solemnly; the visions were gone; and he saw himself as an old man lingering out of his time, alone. there was, however, little sentimental melancholy in the realization; he held an upright pride, the inextinguishable accent of a black penny. his disdain for the commonality of life still dictated his prejudices. he informed rudolph again that the present opera was without song; and again rudolph gravely echoed the faith that melody was the heart of music. the winds grew even higher, shriller; the falls of snow vanished before drenching, brown rains, and the afternoons perceptibly lengthened. there was arbutus on the slopes, robins, before he recognized that april was accomplished. a farmer ploughed the vegetable garden behind the house; and honduras dragged the cedar bean poles from their resting place. mariana soon appeared. "i wouldn't miss the spring at shadrach for a hundred years of hibiscus," she told him. he gathered that she had been south. she brought him great pleasure, beat him with annoying frequency at sniff, and was more companionable than ever before. she had, he thought, forgot james polder; and he was careful to avoid the least reference to the latter. mariana was a sensible girl; birth once more had told. she was better looking than he had remembered her, more tranquil; a distinguished woman. it was incredible that a man approximately her equal had not appeared. then, without warning--they were seated on the porch gazing through the tender green foliage of the willow at the vivid young wheat beyond--she said: "howat, i am certain that things are going badly with jimmy. he wrote to me willingly in the winter, but twice since then he hasn't answered a letter." he suppressed a sharp, recurrent concern. "it's that harriet," he told her, capitally diffident. "you are stupid to keep it up. what chance would he have had answering her letters married to you?" "this is different," she replied confidently. he saw that he had been wrong--nothing had changed, lessened. howat swore silently. that damnable episode might well spoil her entire existence. but he wisely avoided argument, comment. a warm current of air, fragrant with apple blossoms, caught the ribbon-like smoke of his cigarette and dissipated it. she smiled with half-closed eyes at the new flowering of earth. her expression grew serious, firm. "i think we'd better go out to harrisburg," she remarked, elaborately casual, "and see jimmy for ourselves." he protested vehemently, but--from experience in that quarter--with a conviction of futility. "she'll laugh at you," he told mariana. "haven't you any proper pride?" she shook her head. "not a scrap. it's just that quality in jim that annoyed me, and spoiled everything. i'd cook for them if it would do any good." irritation mastered him. "this is shameful, mariana," he declared. "don't your position, your antecedents, stand for anything? if i had jasper penny here i would tell him what i thought of his confounded behaviour!" he rose, and walked the length of the porch and back. "the first part of next week?" she queried. "i won't go a mile," he stated, in sheer bravado. "then," said mariana, "i must do it alone." he muttered a period in which the term hussy was solely audible. "which of us?" she asked, calmly. "actually," he exploded, "i feel sorry for that harriet. i sympathize with her. she got the precious james fair enough, and the decent thing for you is to keep away." "but i'm not decent either," mariana continued. "if you could know what is in my head you'd recognize that. i seem to have no good qualities. i don't want them, howat," her voice intensified; "i want jim." he was completely silenced by this desire persisting in spite of every established obstacle. it summoned an increasing response at the core of his being. such an attitude was, more remotely, his own; but in him it had been purely negative, an inhibition rather than a challenge; he had kept out of life instead of actively defying it. in him the family inheritance of blackness was subsiding with the rest. howat maintained until the moment of their departure his protest, his perverse community with harriet polder. "you'll find a happy house," he predicted, "and come home like a fool. i hope you do. it ought to help make you more reasonable. she will tell james to give you a comfortable chair, and apologize for not asking you to dinner." she gazed through the car window without replying. he realized that he had never seen mariana more becomingly dressed--she wore a rough, silver-coloured suit with a short jacket, a pale green straw hat, like the new willow leaves, across the blueness of her eyes, and an innumerably ruffled and flounced waist of thinnest batiste. a square, deep emerald hung from a platinum chain about her neck; and a hand, stripped of its thick white glove, showed an oppressive, prismatic glitter of diamonds. the morning was filled with dense, low, grey cloud, under which the river on their left flowed without a glimmer of brightness. howat was aware of an increasing sulphurous pall, and suddenly the train was passing an apparently endless confusion of great, corrugated iron sheds, rows of towering, smoking stacks, enormous, black cylinders, systems of tracks over which shrilling locomotives hauled carloads of broken slag, or bumped strings of trucks, with reckless energy, in and out of the grimy interiors. the overpowering magnitude of the steel works--howat penny needed no assurance of its purpose--exceeded every preconception. shut between the river and an abrupt hillside, where scattered dwellings and sparse trees and ground were coated with a soft monotony of rose-brown dust, the mills were jumbled in mile-long perspectives. above the immediate noise of the train he could hear the sullen, blended roar of an infinity of strident sounds--the screaming of whistles, a choked, drumming thunder, rushing blasts of air, the shattering impact of steel rails, raw steam, and a multitudinous clangour of metal and jolting wheels and connective power. he passed rusting mountains straddled by giant gantries, the towering lifts of mammoth cranes, banks of chalk-white stone, dizzy super-structures mounted by spasmodic skips. as the train proceeded with scarcely abated speed, and the vast operation continued without a break, mill on mill, file after file of stacks, howat penny's senses were crushed by the spectacle of such incredible labour. suddenly a column of fire, deep orange at the core, raying through paler yellow to a palpitating white brilliancy, shot up through the torn vapours, the massed and shuddering smoke, to the clouds, and was sharply withdrawn in a coppery smother pierced by a rapid, lance-like thrust of steel-blue flame. these stupendous miles were, to-day, the furnaces and forges that gilbert penny had built and operated in the pastoral clearings of the province. howat recalled the single, diminutive shed of myrtle forge, the slender stream, the wheel, its sole power; the solitary stack of shadrach furnace, recreated in his vision, opposed its insignificant bulk against the living greenery of overwhelming forests. now the forests were gone, obliterated by the mills that had grown out of gilbert's energy and determination, his pioneer courage. his spirit, the indomitable will of a handful of men, a small, isolated colony, had swept forward in a resistless tide, multiplying invention, improvement, with success until, as howat had seen, their flares reached to the clouds, their industry spread in iron cities. james polder had a part in this. here, under the ringing walls of the steel mills, he got a fresh comprehension of the bitter, restless virility of the younger man. out of the station mariana furnished the driver of a public motor with james polder's address, and they twisted through congested streets, past the domed capitol, rising from intense green sod, flanked by involved groups of sculpture, to a quieter reach lying parallel with the river. they discovered polder's house occupying a corner, one of a short row of yellow brick with a scrap of lawn bound by a low wall, and a porch continuous across the face of the dwellings. the door opened after a long interval, and a woman with bare arms and a spotted kitchen apron admitted them to an interior faintly permeated with the odours of cooking. there were redly varnished chairs, upright piano, a heavily framed saccharine print of loves and a flushed, sleeping divinity; a table scarred by burning cigarettes, holding cerise knitting on needles one of which was broken, glasses with dregs of beer, a photograph in a tarnished silver frame of harriet de barry polder with undraped shoulders and an exploited dimple, and a copy of a technical journal. a fretful, shrill barking rose at their heels; and howat penny swung his stick at a diminutive, silky white dog with matted, pinkish eyes, obsessed by an impotent fury. an indolent voice drifted from above. "cherette!" and a low, masculine protest was audible. mariana jannan's face was inscrutable. the woman continued audibly, "how can i--like this? you will have to see what it is." a moment later james polder, drawing on a coat, descended the stairs. he saw mariana at once, and stood arrested with one foot on the floor, and a hand clutching the rail. a sudden pallor invaded his countenance and howat turned away, inspecting the print. but he could not close his hearing to the suppressed eagerness, the stammering joy, of polder's surprise. "and you, too," he said to the elder, with a crushing grip. howat immediately recognized that the other was marked by an obvious ill health; his eyes were hung with shadows, like smudges of the iron dust, and his palm was hot and wet. "harriet," he called up the stair, "here's miss jannan and mr. howat penny to see us." a complete silence above, then a sharp rustle, replied to his announcement. "harriet will be right down," he continued; "fixing herself up a little first. have trouble finding us? second street is high for a foreman, but we're moving out against the future." the dog maintained a stridulous barking; and james polder carried her, in an ecstasy of snarling ill-temper, out. "cherette doesn't appreciate callers," he stated, with an expression that contradicted the mildness of his words. his gaze, howat thought, rested on mariana with the intensity of a fanatic arab at the apparition of mohammed. and mariana smiled back with a penetrating comprehension and sympathy. the proceeding made howat penny extremely uncomfortable; it was--was barefaced. he hoped desperately that something more appropriately casual would meet the appearance of harriet. mariana said: "you haven't been well." polder replied that it was nothing. "i get a night shift," he explained, "and i've never learned to sleep through the day. we're working under unusual pressure, too; inhuman contracts, success." he smiled without gaiety. "you didn't answer my letter," the outrageous mariana proceeded. howat withered mentally at her cool daring, and polder, now flushed, avoided her gaze. the necessity of answer was bridged by the descent of his wife. her face, as always, brightly coloured, was framed in an instinctively effective twist of gold hair; and she wore an elaborately braided, white cloth skirt, a magenta georgette crêpe waist, with a deep, boyish collar, drawn tightly across her full, soft body. "isn't it fierce," she demanded cheerfully, "with jim out as many nights as he's in bed?" she produced a pasteboard package of popular cigarettes and offered them to howat penny and mariana. "sorry, i can't smoke any others," she explained, striking a match. "i heard you saying he doesn't look right," she addressed mariana. "and it's certainly the truth. who would with what he does? i tell him our life is all broke up. one night stands used to get me, but they're a metropolitan run compared with this. honest to god," she told them good naturedly, "i've threatened to leave him already. i'd rather see him a property man with me on the road." "it must be a little wearing," mariana agreed; "but then, you know, your husband is a steel man. this is his life." howat penny could see the cordiality ebbing from the other woman's countenance. positively, mariana ought to be ... "i can get that," harriet polder informed her. "we are only hanging on till jim's made superintendent. then we'll be regular inhabitants. any other small thing?" at the sharpening note of her voice james polder hurriedly proceeded with general facts. "you'll want to see the works, as much as i can show you. hardly any of the public are let through now. it will interest you, sir, to see what the penny iron trade has become. i can take you down this afternoon. harriet will find us some lunch." the latter moved in a sensuous deliberation, followed by a thin, acidulous trail of smoke, into inner rooms. "when do you have to go back?" polder asked. "this evening," howat told him; "we just stopped to--" "to see how you were," mariana interrupted him baldly, studying the younger man with a concerned frown. "you ought to rest, you know," she decided. "that's possible," he returned. "i thought of asking for a couple of weeks. i hurried back right after i was married. they are coming to me." she enigmatically regarded howat penny; he saw that she was about to speak impetuously; but, to his great relief, she stopped. "it's been pretty hard on harriet," he said instead. "after the stage and audiences, and all that." mariana's expression was cold. confound her, why didn't she help the fellow! howat penny fidgeted with his stick. what a stew polder had gotten himself into. this was worse, even, than the marriage threatened. lunch was a spasmodic affair of cutlets hardening in grease, blue boiled potatoes, sandy spinach and blanched ragged bread. there was more beer; but jim, his wife proceeded, liked whiskey and water with his meals. the former glanced uneasily at mariana, tranquilly cutting up her cutlet. the diamonds on her narrow, delicate hand flashed, the emerald at her throat was superb. their surroundings were doubly depressing contrasted with her fastidious dress and person. before her composure harriet polder seemed over-florid; a woman of trite phrases, commonplace, theatrical attitudes and emotions. as lunch progressed the latter relapsed into a sulky silence; she glanced surreptitiously at mariana's apparel; and consumed cigarettes with a straining assumption of easy indifference. howat penny was acutely uncomfortable, and polder scowled at his plate. the whiskey and water shook in a tense, unsteady hand. he rose from the table with a violent relief. he proposed almost immediately that they go over to the works, and mariana turned pleasantly to his wife. "shall you get a hat?" the other hesitated, then asserted defiantly, "i've always said i wouldn't go into that rackety place, and i won't now. it's bad enough to have it tramped back over things." mariana extended a hand. "then good-bye," she proceeded. "i think we won't get back here. we're tremendously obliged for the lunch. it has been interesting to see where jim lives." harriet polder's cheeks were darker than pink as they moved out to the sidewalk. "jim," she called, with an unmistakably proprietary sounding of the familiar diminution; "don't forget my cigarettes, and a half pound of liver for cherette." xxxi james polder conducted them to the river, sweeping away in a wide curve beneath solid grey stone bridges into a region of towering hills. they turned to the left, and, walking on a high embankment, passed blocks of individually pretentious dwellings, edifices of carved granite, alternating with the simpler brick faces of an older period. a narrow, whitely dusty sweep of green park was followed by a speedy degeneration of the riverside; the houses shrunk to rows of wood marked by the grime of steel mills. soon after they reached a forbidding fence; and, passing a watchman's inspection, entered into a clamorous region of sheds, tracks and confusing levels such as howat penny had viewed from the train. "i'm in the open hearth," polder told them, leading the way over a narrow boardwalk, still skirting the broad expanse of the river. "it's a process, really, but the whole mill is called after it. we make steel from iron scrap; that's our specialty in the medial works; and our stuff's as good as the best. the bigger concerns mostly use pig. turn in here." they were facing the towering end of an iron shed, and mounted a steep ascent to gain the upper entrance. the multiplication of noises beat in an increasing volume about howat penny. below him a locomotive screeched with a freight of slag; beyond was a heap of massive, broken moulds; and a train of small trucks held empty iron boxes beside an enormous bank of iron scrap dominated by a huge crane swinging a circular magnet that dispassionately picked up ton loads and bore them to the waiting cars. inside he gazed through a long vista under a roof lost in tenebrious shadow. on one side were ranged the furnaces, a continuous bank of brick bound in iron; each furnace with five doors, closed with black slides in which a round opening emitted an intolerable, dazzling white glare. but few men, howat thought, were visible in proportion to the magnitude of the work; deliberately engaged, with leather shields hanging from their wrists and blue spectacles pushed up on their grimy brows. a crane advanced with the shrill racket of an electric gong, its operator caged in midair, and herculean grappling chains swinging. a grinding truck, filling the width of floor, moved forward to where howat stood. it was, polder told him, the charging machine. an iron beam projected opposite the furnace doors, and it was locked into one of the charging boxes, filled with scrap metal, standing on the rails against the furnaces. a man behind him dragged forward a lever, the slide which covered a door rose ponderously on a blinding, incandescent core, and the beam thrust forward into the blaze, turning round and round in the emptying of the box. it was withdrawn, the slide dropped, and the machine retreated, its complex movements controlled by a single engineer at crackling switches where the power leaped in points of light like violets. at another furnace, an opened door, where the heat poured out in a constricting blast, workmen were shovelling in powdery white stone; moving up with their heads averted, and quickly retreating with shielding arms. "that's dolomite," james polder's explanations went rapidly forward. "they are banking up the furnace. the other, in the bins, is ferro manganese." he procured a pair of spectacles; and, with a protected gaze, howat looked into a furnace, an appalling space of apparently bubbling milk over which played sheets of ignited gases. the skin on his forehead shrivelled like scorching paper. "i particularly wanted you to see a heat tapped," polder told mariana. "and they're making a test at number four." they followed him to where a small ladle of metal had been dipped out of a furnace. it was poured, with a red-gold shower of sparks, into a mould, then dropped in a trough of water. the miniature ingot, broken under the wide sweep of a sledge, was examined by a lean, grizzled workman--"the melter"--who nodded. "we must get back of the furnace," polder continued, indicating a narrow opening between brick walls through the unstopped chinks of which seethed the scorifying blaze. howat penny stood at a railing, looking down into an apparent confusion of slag and cars, pits and gigantic ladles and upright moulds set upon circular bases. a crane rumbled forward, grappled a hundred-ton ladle, a fabulous iron pot, and petulantly deposited it under a channel extending out from the base of the furnace where they had been stationed. a workman steadied himself below their level and picked with a long iron bar at a plugged opening. it was, james polder went on, the most dangerous moment of the process--"sometimes the furnace blows out." the labour of tapping was prolonged until howat was conscious of an oppressive tension. workmen had gathered, waiting, in the pit. more appeared along the railing above. this was, he felt, the supreme, the dramatic, height of steel making. the men suddenly seemed puny, insignificant, before the stupendous, volcanic energy they had evoked. the tapping stopped. polder commenced, "it will be rammed out from the front--" a stunning white flare filled the far roof with a dazzling illumination; and, in a dull explosion, a terrific billowing of heat, a cataract of liquid steel burst out through lambent orange and blue flames. it poured, searing the vision, into the ladle, over which rosy clouds accumulated in a bank drifting through the great space of the shed. nothing, howat thought, could contain, control, the appalling expansion, the furious volume, of seething white metal. he was obliged to turn away, blinded by sheets of complementary green hanging before his eyes. the uproar subsided, the flooding steel became bluer, a solid stream curving into the black depths of the ladle. vapours of green and sulphur and lilac shivered into the denser ruby smoke and rising silver spray. polder called a warning into mariana's ear, they drew back as a lump of coal was heaved up from the pit, into the ladle. a dull vermilion blaze followed, and howat penny partly heard an explanation--"recarburizing." he could now see the steel bubbling up to the rim of the container. men, polder said shortly, had fallen in.... utterly unthinkable. with a sudorific heat that drove them still farther back the slag boiling on the steel flowed in a gold cascade over a great lip into a second receptacle below. that was soon filled, and gorgeous streams and pools widened across the riven ground. the steel itself escaped in a milky incandescence. "a wild heat," james polder told them, pleased. "the bottom of a furnace may drop out. i was almost caught in the pit at cambria." the crane chains swung forward, picked up the ladle of molten metal, and shifted it through the air to a position over a circular group of moulds. there, a valve opened, the steel poured into a central pipe. "bottom-filled," polder concluded, assisting mariana over the precarious flooring; "the metal rises into the ingot forms." they descended again, by the blackened brick, box-like office of the superintendent, to the level of the pit, retraced the way over the boardwalk. they passed a cavernous interior, filled with a continuous crashing, where a great sheet of flushing steel was propelled over a system of rollers through a black, dripping compression. "i can take you to the senate," james polder told them, once more outside; "or the engineers' society. dinner will be ready at the club." he conducted them into the serious interior of a large, solidly constructed dwelling that had been transformed into a club. the dining room was already filling but they secured a small table against the wall. across the floor ten or twelve men were gathered in a circle. some, howat thought, were surprisingly young for the evident authority in their manner, pronouncements; others were grey, weatherworn, men with immobile faces often lost, in the middle of a gay period, in a sudden gravity of thought, silent calculation. he saw the smooth, deft hands of draughtsmen, and scarred, powerful hands that, like james polder's, had laboured through apprenticeship in pit and mill shop. he recognized that polder was more drawn than he had first observed. he was sapped by the crushing entity of the steel works, the enormous heat and energy and strain of the open hearth. if the younger did not lay off he would, unquestionably, break. nevertheless, howat was totally unprepared for the amazing suggestion quietly advanced by mariana. "jimmy," she said, "couldn't you come to shadrach for those two weeks? you'd find the quiet there wonderful. and any doctor will advise you to leave your family for a proper rest. i'm certain howat would be as nice as possible." a sudden, patent longing leaped to james polder's countenance. actually he stuttered with a surprised delight. damn it, there was nothing for him, howat, to do but stare like a helpless idiot. he ought to say something, second mariana's impudent invitation, at once. she ignored him, gazing intently at the younger man. he, too, meeting mariana's eyes, had apparently totally forgot the unimportant presence of howat penny. and he had been married to his harriet for a scant half year! howat penny thought mechanically of the polders' depressing house, the odours of old cooking and cheap cigarettes, the feverish yapping of the silky animal, cherette, with matted, pinkish eyes. the precipitant, prideful, young fool! why hadn't he held onto the merest memory, the most distant chance in the world, of mariana, rather than fling himself, his injured self-opinion, into this stew? "don't say it can't be managed," she persisted. "anything may. it's absolutely necessary; you can get a prescription--two weeks of green valley and robins and country eggs. howat will take your money from you at penny sniff, and i'll--i'll come out for dinner." "harriet thought of going back to the family," he replied; "but it might--" he turned at last to howat penny. "would you have me?" he asked directly. what, in thunder, choice of reply did he have? howat couldn't point out the shamelessness of such an arrangement. harriet, it seemed, was not to be considered; just as if she were a merely disinterested connection. he issued a belated period to the effect that shadrach was spacious and rudolph a capable attendant. it was, he saw, sufficient. "we can write," said mariana. she endeavoured to caress howat's hand, but he indignantly frustrated her. "i'll have to get back to the hearth," james polder announced regretfully. "it's been wonderful," he told mariana jannan. howat scraped his chair at the baldness of polder's pleasure. "your work is tremendous, jim," she replied; "the only stirring thing i have ever known in a particularly silly world. but you mustn't let it run you, too, into steel rails. president polder," she smiled brilliantly at him. "why not?" queried james, the sanguine, at once defiant, haggard and intense. xxxii the following day howat penny was both weary and irritable. mariana declared, remorsefully, that she had selfishly dragged him away from shadrach; and proposed countless trivial amends, which he fretfully blocked. he had no intention of affording her such a ready escape from a sense, he hoped, of error and responsibility. before dinner, however, he found himself walking with her over the deep green sod that reached to the public road below. a mock orange hedge enclosed his lawn, bounding the cross roads, the upper course leading to myrtle forge; and beyond they passed, on the left, the collapsed stone walls and fallen shingles of what, evidently, had been a small blacksmith's shed. farther along they came to the sturdy shell of an old, single-room building, erected, perhaps, when shadrach furnace was new, with weeds climbing through the rotten floor, and a fragment of steps, rising to the mouldering peak of a loft, still clinging to a wall. without definite purpose they turned from the public way into an overgrown path, banked with matted blackberry bushes, and were soon facing the remains of the furnace. it had been solidly constructed of unmasoned stone, bound by iron rods, and its bulk was largely unaffected by time. the hearth had fallen in, choked by luxuriant greenery; but the blank sides mounted to meet the walled path reaching out to its top from the abrupt hill against which it had been placed. before it foundations could still be traced; and above, a rectangle of windowless stone walls survived, roofless and desolate. an abandoned road turned up the hill, and they followed it to where they could gaze into the upper ruin and the furnace top below. everywhere nature had marked or twisted aside cut stone and wood with its living greenery. farther down a pathlike level followed the side of the hill, ending abruptly in a walled fall, and a confusion of broken beams, iron braces, and section of a large, wheel-like circumference. out beyond were other crumbling remains of old activity--a stone span across the dried course of a water way, and a wide bank, showing through a hardy vegetation the grey-brown inequalities of slag. the stillness, broken only by the querulous melody of a robin, and a beginning, faint piping of frogs, was amazingly profound after the roaring energy of the medial works. the decay of shadrach furnace showed absolute against the crashing miles of industry on the broad river. a breath of honeysuckle lifted to howat penny; the sky was primrose. mariana moved closer to him and took his arm. they said nothing. a warm light was spilling across the darkening grass from the lower windows of his dwelling, blurring in a dusk under the high leafage of aged maples. the white roses were already in bud on the vine climbing the lattices at his door, and mariana fixed one in his buttonhole. "howat," she said, "it isn't as if you were doing it just for jim, but for a man, any man, really sick. i'll not even ask you to think of it for me. he can sit on the porch and converse with your owls, and poke about over the hills." howat considered the advisability of attempting to extract a promise from her that she would stay away from shadrach if james polder was there. he considered it--very momentarily. the possibility, he asserted to himself, was without any alleviating circumstance. what, in heaven's name, would charlotte think if, as it well might, the knowledge came to her that mariana and a polder--that name she never repeated--a married polder without his wife, were poking over the hills together at shadrach? she would have him, howat, examined for lunacy. mariana demanded too much. he told her this with the dessert. "it's only the commonest charity," she repeated. her attack rapidly veered. "howat," she asked, "do you really dislike jimmy?" certainly, he asserted, he--he disapproved of him ... altogether. a headstrong young donkey who had made a shocking mess of his life. he would have to make the best of a bad affair for which no one was to blame but himself. "it is terrific," she agreed, almost cheerfully; and he had a vague sense of having, somehow, delivered himself into her hands. "perhaps something can still be done," she said, frowning, increasing the dangers of his position. he managed, by a stubborn silence, to check further conversation in that direction; hoping, vainly, that james polder couldn't come, that harriet, sensibly, would insist on his accompanying her, or that byron would solemnly intervene. mariana, later displaying a letter, dispelled his wishes. "it's been arranged quite easily," she told him. "harriet will go home. i'd like to be here when he arrives, but i can't. you'll be a dear, howat, won't you?" she begged. "i'm certain james will give you no trouble. and do send him to bed early." at this he grew satirical, and she laughed in an unaccustomed, nervous manner that upset him surprisingly. honduras drove her to the station the next morning; and, three days later, deposited james polder on the worn stone threshold under the climbing rose. after dinner the younger man faced him squarely across the apricot glow of the lamp in the middle room. "this is the third time i've come here without an invitation from you," he said directly. "it was mariana this last. i shut my mouth on what i'd once have crammed down your throat, and came like any puppy. it wasn't on account of my health, there are miles of quiet country; it wasn't--" he hesitated, then went on--"altogether because of mariana. i wanted to watch you closer; i want to find out what you are like inside, so i might understand some--some other things better. i can get out if it's a rank failure." howat issued a polite, general dissent. "now, right there," polder stated; "you don't want me; you'd rather i was a thousand miles away, dead. well--why don't you say so?" he had not the least conception of a decent reticence of address, howat penny thought, resentfully, at the discomfort aroused by the young man's sharp attack. "certain amenities," he observed coldly, "have been accepted as desirable, as obligations for--" he hesitated, casting about for a phrase that would not too conspicuously exclude james polder. "say it," the latter burst out rudely, "gentlemen. and you all stand about with one thing to say and another in your head." "a degree of perception is always admirable," howat penny instructed him. "that's a nasty one," polder acknowledged; "but i got into it myself. i can see that." his hand, seared with labour, was pressed on the table; and the elder realized that, since he had witnessed a heat tapped, he was not so censorious of the broken nails, the lines of indelible black. he caught james polder's gaze, and turned from its intense questioning. young cheeks had no business to be so gaunt. polder picked up the figurine in red clay, studied it with a troubled brow, and replaced it with a gesture of hopelessness. "possibly," howat penny unexpectedly remarked, "possibly you find beauty in a piece of open hearth steel." "it's useful," polder declared; "it has a tensile strength. i know what it will do. this," he indicated the fragment of a grace razed over twenty-three hundred years before, "is good for nothing that i see." now, howat told himself, it was merely a question of tensile strength. his old enthusiasms, his passionate admiration for the operas of christopher gluck, the enthusiasms and admirations of his kind, were being pushed aside for things of more obvious practicality. the very term that had distinguished his world, men of breeding, had been discarded. individuals like james polder, blunt of speech, contemptuous, labour scarred, were paramount to-day. his thoughts, he realized, were a part of the questioning thrust on him by the intrusion of mariana's unfortunate affair into his old age. she was always dragging him to a perplexing spectacle for which he had neither energy nor inclination. but he'd be damned if he would allow the importunities of the young man beyond the table to complicate further his difficulties, and he retired abruptly behind the _saturday review_. "you'd better get along up," he said brusquely, after a little. breakfast at an end, they settled into a not uncomfortable, mutual silence. they smoked; james polder unfolded newspapers which he neglected to read; howat went through the periodicals with audible expressions of displeasure. he wondered when mariana would appear. mariana made a fool of him, that was evident; however, he would put his foot on any philandering about shadrach. he could be as blunt as james polder when the occasion demanded. after lunch the latter fell asleep in his chair on the porch, pallidly insensible of the sparkling flood of afternoon. howat rose and went into the house. it was indecent to see a countenance so wearily unguarded, shorn of all protective aggression. mariana walked in unannounced. "why didn't you telephone for honduras?" he complained. "always some infernal difference in what you do." she frowned. "suddenly," she admitted, "i wasn't in a hurry to get here. i almost went back. idiotic." "sensible, it seems to me," he commented. "that polder is asleep on the porch." she nodded, "splendid. and you needn't try to look fierce. i can see through you and out the back." he lit a cigarette angrily. "going to stay for the night?" he demanded. "several," she replied coolly. "three can play sniff." "look here, mariana," he proclaimed, "i won't have any nonsense, do you understand?" "we can keep a photograph of harriet on the table." james polder entered, and put a temporary end to his determined speech. when the former saw mariana his shameless pleasure, howat thought, was beyond credence. positively neither of them paid any more attention to him than they did to rudolph. his irritation gave place to a deeper realization that an impossible situation threatened. there was nothing, obviously, that he could do to-day; but he would speak seriously to mariana to-morrow; one or both of them would have to leave shadrach. this determination took the present weight from his conscience; and, pottering about small concerns of his own, he ignored them comfortably. they appeared late, dirty and hot, for dinner; and it was eight o'clock before mariana came down in a gown like a white-petalled flower. she wore no rings, but about her throat was a necklace of old-fashioned seed pearls in loops and rosettes. "it's family," she told them; "it belonged to caroline penny. and she married a quaker, too; a david forsythe." she stopped suddenly, and howat penny recalled the tradition that caroline penny, gilbert's daughter, had appropriated her sister myrtle's suitor. mariana favoured him with a fleet glance, the quiver of a reprehensible wink. he glared back at her choking with suppressed wrath. "i have a wonderful idea for to-morrow," she proceeded tranquilly; "we'll take lunch, and leave honduras, and go to myrtle forge for the day." her design was unfolded so rapidly, her directions to rudolph so explicit, that he had no opportunity to oppose his plan of sending her away in the morning; and his impotence committed him to her suggestion. she could go in the evening almost as well. after dinner he rattled the dominoes significantly, but mariana, smiling at him absently, went through the room and out upon the porch. polder, with an obscure sentence, followed her. a soft rain sounded on the porch roof; but there was no wind; the night was warm. howat glanced at his watch, after a period of restful ease, and saw that it was past ten. he moved resolutely outside. mariana was banked with cushions in the canvas swing, and polder sat with his body extended, his hands clasped behind his head, in a gloomy revery. the night, apparently, had robbed her countenance of any bloom; more than once in the past year howat had seen her stamped with the premonitory scarring of time. polder rose as he approached, and mariana struggled upright. "good night," she said ungraciously, to them both, and flickered away through the dark. james polder was savagely biting his lips; his hands, the elder saw, were clenched. "your wife," howat proceeded, "how is she?" polder gazed at him stonily, without reply. "i asked after your wife," howat repeated irritably. "no," the other at last said, "you reminded me of her. i suppose you are right." he turned and walked abruptly from the porch, into the slowly dropping rain. xxxiii the road to myrtle forge mounted between rolling cultivated fields, the scattered, stone ruins of walls erected in the earliest iron days; and, after a pastoral course, came to the forge dwelling, its shuttered bulk set in a tangle of bushes and rank grass. an ancient beech tree swept the ground with smooth, grey limbs, surrounded by long-accumulated dead leaves. james polder shut off the motor by the low, stone wall that supported the lawn from the roadway; he crossed to the farm, where the house keys were kept, and howat and mariana moved slowly forward. a porch, added, the former said, in jasper penny's time, extended at the left; and they stood on the broken flooring and gazed down at a featureless tangle once a garden and the gnarled remainder of a small apple orchard beyond. polder soon returned, and they proceeded to a door on the further side, where the kitchen angle partly enclosed a flagging of broad stones. inside, the house, empty of furnishing, was a place of echoes muffled in dust; the insidious, dank odours of corrupting wood and plaster; walls with melancholy, superimposed, stripping papers; older, sombrely blistered paint and panelled wainscoting varnished in an imitation, yellow graining. it was without a relic of past dignity. mariana was unable to discover a souvenir of the generations of pennys that had filled the rooms with the stir of their living. once more outside they sat on the stone threshold of an office-like structure back of the main dwelling and indulged in cigarettes. the disturbing tension of last night, howat thought comfortably, had vanished. mariana was flippant, james polder enveloped in indolent ease. "the forge," howat penny told them, "was below." a path descended across a steep face of sparse grass; and, at the bottom, polder's interest revived. "it stood there," he indicated a fallen shed beyond a masoned channel, choked with the broken stones of its walls and tangled shrubbery. "you don't suppose a joke that size was the great gilbert's plant. here's the drop for the water power; yes, and the iron pinions of the overshot wheel." he climbed down a precarious wall, and stood perhaps twelve feet below them. securing a rough bolt, he brought it up for their inspection. "look at that forging," he cried; "after it has lain around for a century and a half. like silk. charcoal iron, and it was hammered, too. metal isn't half worked any more. we could turn that into steel at almost nothing a ton." he showed them in the mouldering shed the foundation of the anvil, traced the probable shafting of the trip hammer, marked the location of the hearths. "three," he decided; "and a cold trickle of air. a nigger pumping a bellows, probably. no, they could get that from the wheel," he drew an explanatory diagram in the blackened dust. with the lunch basket on the running board of the motor they ate sitting on the low boundary wall of the lawn. the heat increased through the late may noon, and howat remained while mariana and james polder wandered in the direction of the orchard. finally the sun forced the former to move; and he, too, proceeded in a desultory manner, entering the shade of a grove of old maples. the trees, their earliest red leafage already emerald, followed the dry channel cut back from canary creek to the forge, and he soon emerged at the broad, flashing course of the stream. a flat rock jutted into the hurrying water by an overthrown dam, its sun-heated expanse now in shadow; and he stayed, listening to the gurgling flow. far above him a hawk wheeled in ambient space; a mill whistle sounded remotely from jaffa. the thought of mariana hovered at the back of his lulled being; all he desired, he told himself, was her complete happiness. he might even have become reconciled to james polder. his first, unfavourable opinion of the latter, he realized, had been modified by--by time. he had judged polder solely in the light of an old standard. the fellow was painfully honest; good stuff there, iron ... the iron of the pennys. but the other strain had betrayed him. a cursed shame. the material of the present, moulded, perhaps, into seemingly new forms, was always that of the past. this polder was essie scofield and jasper ... byron. he, howat penny, was penny and jannan and penny--daniel, james, casimir, and howat once more, the older howat who had married the widow of felix winscombe. black again. he wondered what the blackness, not spent like his own, had brought the other. a headstrong, dark youth with the characteristic sloping eyebrows and slender, vigorous, carriage. the traditional rebellious spirit had involved jasper in disgrace; it had thinned his own blood. footfalls approached through the trees, and the others joined him. james polder extended himself on the rock, and mariana sat with her hands clasped about her slim knees. a silence intensified by the whispering stream enveloped them. the hawk circled above, and howat had an extraordinary sense of the familiarity of the bird hanging in limitless space, of the warm stone and water choking in a smooth eddy. he had, as a boy, fished there. but his brain momentarily swam with a poignant, unrecognizable emotion, different from the sensation of childhood. he rose, confused and giddy. with old age, he muttered. mariana followed. "it's all over," she announced, decisively. "we'll drive back and leave to-day." she sighed. "that's gone already," james polder showed her the sun slipping toward the western hills. she moved up to him, laid her hand on his arm. howat penny went ahead. he must speak to her after dinner. as the motor slowly gathered momentum he turned and looked back at the dark, pinkish dwelling in its tangle of grass and bushes run wild. dusk appeared to have already gathered over it, although the sun still shone elsewhere in lengthening dusty gold bars; the wide-spread beech was sombre against blank shutters, the chimneys broken and cold. xxxiv a letter for james polder was at shadrach, and he opened it immediately, glancing over its scrawled sheet. howat saw a curious expression overspread the other's countenance. he called, "mariana!" in a sharp tone. she appeared from the foot of the steps. "harriet never went home," he told her; "this is from pittsburgh. she's back on the stage." a premonitory dread filled howat penny. mariana stood quietly, her gaze lifted to polder. "she never went home," he repeated; "but writes that suddenly she--she didn't want to, and couldn't stand harrisburg another week. she saw some one and had a part, that ought to be good, offered to her; and, so--" "is that all, jim?" "no," he replied; "there is more, absolutely unjustified. i think i'd like you to read it. it would be best." mariana took the letter, and followed its irregular course. "it's true enough," she said quietly, at the end. "but i don't in the least mind, jim. she had a perfect right to something of the sort. that is--i'm not annoyed about what she says of me, but it will upset you terribly. and it has been my fault, from the first." he protested vehemently, but she stopped him with a gesture; then walked to the door opening on the porch; where, her head up, she stood gazing out into the serene, failing light. james polder followed her, and howat heard the screen softly close. he was about to light a cigarette, but, his hand shaking, he laid it on the table. he put up his glass, without purpose, and then let it drop. rudolph was placing the silver for dinner; old forks faintly marked with a crest that isabel howat had brought to her husband. a recurrence of the afternoon's sense of the continuity of all living flowed over him, whispering with old voices, old longing and sorrow and regret, mingled dim features, and the broken clasping of hands. he saw mariana sweeping in a pale current--a remote, eternal passion winding through the transient body of life. she smiled, her subdued, mocking gaiety infinitely appealing, and vanished. they came in to dinner without changing the informal garb of the day. james polder was silent, disturbed, but mariana was serenely commonplace. her voice, clear and high, went unimportantly on; until, turning to howat penny, she said without the changing of a tone. "i want james to take me back to harrisburg with him, but he won't." howat endeavoured to meet this insanity with the silence usually opposed to mariana's frequent wildness of statement. his knife scraped sharply against a plate; but, in the main, he successfully preserved an unmoved countenance. "now that harriet has surrendered mm," she persisted, "i don't see why i can't be considered. it is the commonest sense--jim can't live alone, properly, in that house; i can't exist properly without him. you see, howat, how reasonable it seems." what he did perceive was that his attitude of inattention must be sharply deserted. "your words, mariana," he said coldly, "'proper' and 'reasonable,' in the connection you have used them, would be ridiculous if they weren't disgraceful. i have been patient with a certain amount of rash talk, yes--and conduct, but this must be the end. i had intended to have you leave shadrach this morning, then later. either that or i'll be forced to make my excuses to james polder." he glanced with a veiled anxiety at the latter but could read nothing from the lowered, pinched countenance. "we could leave together if you are tired of us," mariana continued. "it's james, really, who is making all the trouble. he has some stupid idea about nobility of conduct and my best good. but the real truth is that he's afraid, for me, of course, and so he won't listen." "won't you show her that it is impossible?" the younger man cried at howat penny. "i can't take advantage of her heavenly courage. she doesn't realize the weight of opinion. it would make--" "stuff," she interrupted. "you'd make steel, and i would make an occasional dessert. you must be told, jimmy, that the afternoon calling you have confused with life really isn't done any more. you have been brought up in rather a deadly way. you ought to be saved from yourself. i am a very mature person, and i am advising you calmly." the dinner had come to an end; a decanter, in old-fashioned blue and gold cutting, of brandy, a silver basket of oranges, the coffee cups and glasses, were all that remained; and james polder played with the cut fruit, the half-full cordial glass before him. "i am going to be brutally frank, jimmy," she said again. "you know that is a habit of mine, too. you are a very brilliant young man, but you are not omnipotent--you require stiffening, like a collar. and i would be a splendid laundress for you. harriet is a long shot too lenient. i might not be so comfortable to live with, but i'd be bracing. i'd have you in that dirty little superintendent's box in no time." he made no reply; and, obviously tormented, automatically squeezed a half orange into his goblet. then he took a sip of brandy. "together, james," mariana asserted, "we would go up like a kite. by yourself--forgive me--you haven't enough patience, enough balance; you wouldn't fly steadily. you might break all your sticks on the ground." he moodily emptied what remained of his brandy into the goblet and orange juice, and pushed it impatiently away. "i'd rather do that," he answered, "than try to carry you with me on such a flight." howat penny was conscious of a diminution of his fears. he had entirely underrated james polder; the latter was an immense sight steadier than mariana. his thoughts strayed momentarily to harriet, back again in her public orbit. he could imagine that she had found harrisburg insuperably dull, the hours with only cherette empty after the emotional debauches of the plays elected by vivian blane. yes, this young polder would stand admirably firm. mariana frowned at the cobalt smoke of her cigarette. "i am in a very bad temper," she told them. "no one for a minute thinks of what my feeling may be. you are both entirely concerned with your own nice sense of virtue." "not at all, but of your future," howat penny asserted. her lower lip assumed the contempt of which it was pre-eminently capable. she made no immediate reply. james polder's fingers absently clasped the goblet before him; he drew it toward his plate, tipped the thick liquid it contained. "just what do you recommend me to do?" mariana challenged howat. "go through with a lifeful of winters like the last! marry another sam lewis! i am not celebrated for reliability; it is only with jimmy--" she broke off. howat penny recalled her callous expression, photographed in egyptian dress at a period ball, her description of the hard riding and reckless parties of the transplanted english colonies in the south. polder lifted the goblet to his lips, but set it back untasted. howat looked away from mariana's scornful interrogation, unable to reply. finally, "i am old, as you once reminded me," he stated; "i'm out of my time, don't understand, i can only remember, and remembering isn't any longer of use. the men i knew, the kind, i hope, i was, would ruin themselves a hundred times before compromising a woman. polder appears to understand that. and women i had the privilege of meeting sacrificed themselves with a smile for what you dismiss as mere stupidity. god knows which is right. they looked the loveliest of creatures then. there was a standard, we thought high.... things a man couldn't do. but i don't know--it seems so long ago." he stopped to watch james polder take a sip of the mixture in his hand. the latter tasted it slowly, and then emptied the goblet. his face was blank, with eyes nearly closed. "i could carry jimmy up in my hands," mariana said. "don't," she added vaguely, as he squeezed out the remaining half of his orange and poured fresh brandy into it. "it's curious," he told her; "not at all bad." they moved out of the dining room, and mariana and polder continued to the porch. howat stood with a hand resting on the mahogany cigarette box; he had the feeling of a man unexpectedly left by a train thundering into the distance. it would not stop, back, for him now; he was dropped. he sank relaxed into an accustomed chair; his brain surrendered its troubling; the waking somnolence settled over him. he was conscious of his surrounding, recognized its actuality; yet, at the same time, it seemed immaterial, like the setting of a dream. he roused himself after a little and smoked, nodding his head to emphasize the points of his thought. this polder had shown the instinct of breeding; while mariana was--just what she was he couldn't for the life of him determine. a hussy, he decided temporarily. after all, his own time, when black and white had been distinguishable, was best. howat penny relinquished, with a sigh, the effort to penetrate to-day; he was content to be left behind; out of the grinding rush, the dizzy speed, of progression. his day, when black had been black, was immeasurably superior; the women had been more charming, the men erect, clothed in proper garb and pride. where, now, could be seen such an audience as dr. damrosch had gathered for his first season of german opera? not, certainly, at the performance he had heard with mariana two, no--three, winters ago. a vulgarized performance in the spirit of a boulevard café. the whole present air, he told himself, was wrong. he looked at his watch, and was surprised to see that it was past ten. not a sound came from the porch; and he determined to go outside, exercise the discretion which mariana had cast to the winds. however, he didn't stir; he could not summon the energy necessary for the combating of their impetuous youth. he unfolded a paper, but it drooped on his knees, slid, finally, to the floor. then mariana appeared, walked swiftly, without a word, through the room, and vanished upstairs. not even a civil period at the end of the evening. after another, long wait james polder entered. the latter stood uneasily by the table, with a furrowed brow, a ridiculous, twitching mouth. polder went out into the dining room; where, through the doorway, howat penny could see him hovering over the silver basket of oranges, placed upon the sideboard. "if you don't mind," he called back, and there were a rattle of knives, a thin ring of glass. the light was dim beyond, and he stood in the doorway with the brandy decanter and orange juice. he drained the mixture and leaned, absorbed, against the woodwork. "this is a hell of a world!" he exclaimed suddenly. "everything worth having is fenced off. a woman won't understand. does any one suppose that i don't want mariana! it's the responsibility. she's right--i am afraid of it. and she laughed at me. nothing cowardly in her," his voice deepened. "it is ignorance," howat stated. "i thought so, for a minute; you are wrong. she's had more experience than we'd get in a thousand years. the life she knows would fix that. she talked me into a tangled foolishness in five minutes; made me look like a whiskered hypocrite. nothing i said sounded real, and yet i must be right. suppose harriet should turn nasty, suppose--oh, a thousand things." "it isn't arguable," howat penny agreed. this afforded the other no consolation. "what is she to do?" he demanded. "mariana won't settle quietly against a wall. she told you that. she's full of--of a sort of energy that must be at something. mariana hasn't the anchor of most women--respectability." "am i to gather that that is no longer considered admirable?" the elder inquired. "if you gather anything you are lucky," polder replied gloomily. "i'm not sure about my own name. good-night," he disappeared abruptly. above, howat slowly made his preparations for retiring, infinitely weary. waking problems fell from him like a leaden weight into the sea of unconsciousness. he was relieved, at breakfast, to see mariana come down in a hat, with the jacket of her suit on an arm. he waited for her to indicate the train by which she was leaving, so that he could tell honduras to have the motor ready; but she sat around in a dragging silence. polder walked up and down the room in which they were gathered. howat wished he would stop his clattering movement. an expression of ill-nature deepened in mariana; she looked her ugliest; and james polder was perceptibly fogged from a lack of sleep. finally he said: "look here, we can't go on like this." he stopped in front of mariana, with a quivering face. she raised her eyebrows. "come outside," he begged. "what's the use?" she replied; but, at the same time, she rose. "don't get desperate, howat," she said over her shoulder. "even i can't do any more; i can only take my shamelessness back to andalusia." polder held open the screen door; and as, without her jacket, she went out, howat penny had a final glimpse of the man bending at her side. like two fish in a net, he thought ungraciously. he was worn out by their infernal flopping. with a determined movement of his shoulders, a fixing of his glass, he turned to the accumulation of his papers. later he heard the changing gears of a motor. he thought for a moment that it was honduras at his own car; then he recognized the stroke of a far heavier engine. the powerful, ungraceful bulk of an english machine was stopping at his door. immediately after he distinguished the slightly harsh, dominating voice of peter provost. the latter entered, followed by kingsfrere jannan. peter provost, a member of the new york family and connection of the jannans, had, since the elder jannan's death, charge of the family's interest in the banking firm of provost, jannan and provost. he occupied, howat knew, a position of general advisor to charlotte and her children. he was a large man who had never lost the hardness of a famous university career in the football field, with a handsome, cold countenance and spiked, grey moustache. he shook hands with howat penny, and plunged directly into his present purpose. "kingsfrere," he said, "has heard some cheap stuff in the city, principally about that young polder married last fall. personally, i laughed at it, but charlotte seemed upset. this polder's wife, an actress, has left her husband, and gone back to the stage because--so byron asserted; you know byron--mariana had broken up their home." "old polder said just that," kingsfrere affirmed. "and that wasn't all--he added that mariana was out here with the fellow." provost laughed. "well," howat penny replied, "james polder is staying at shadrach. he was asked here because his health was threatening. he had two weeks leave; and, although i wasn't really anxious, i said he might recuperate with me." "and mariana?" provost inquired. "came out day before yesterday, late; leaving this morning." howat penny was conscious of a growing anger. there was no reason for his submitting to an interrogation by peter provost; he didn't have to justify his actions, the selection of his guests; and he had no intention of explaining his attitude toward mariana. but provost, it became evident, had no inclination to be intrusive. it was, he made that clear, wholly charlotte. but kingsfrere jannan was increasingly impatient. "where is polder?" he demanded. howat surveyed him with neither favour nor reply. suddenly he understood the feeling of both men--they considered that he was too old to have any grip or comprehension of life. they were quietly but obviously relegating him to the back of the scene. his anger mounted; he was about to make a sharp reply, when he paused. there was a possibility that they were right; he was, undoubtedly, old; and he had been unable to influence, turn, mariana, in the slightest degree. he didn't approve of her present, head-strong course ... only a few hours ago he had voluntarily, gladly, relinquished all effort to comprehend it. "perhaps," provost suggested, "since we are here we'd better talk to him. i suppose they're out about the place. you could send rudolph." howat replied that he would find them himself. he wanted, now, to prepare james polder for any incidental unpleasantness. the latter, he knew, had a hasty temper, a short store of patience. after all, he had acted very well in a difficult situation. it had been mariana. howat penny was aware of a growing sympathy for young polder. his was a more engaging person than kingsfrere's pasty presence and sharp reputation at cards. he got his hat, and went out over the thick, smooth sod, into the slumberous, blue radiance of the early summer noon. he found mariana and james polder sitting on a bank by the furnace. "peter provost's here with kingsfrere," he told them quietly. "they want to see.... james, about some nonsense bantered around town." polder rose quickly, instantly antagonistic. "at the house?" he demanded, already moving away. mariana stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "don't pay any attention to what they may say, jimmy," she commanded. "it isn't peter provost's affair, and kingsfrere in a fatherly pose is a scream." they moved forward together. "i'll see them," she added cuttingly. "i will attend to this," james polder told her. "i don't want any woman explaining my actions. they haven't a whisper on me. i'm glad enough of an opportunity to talk to a man." "if you lose your temper--" howat commenced, but mariana impatiently interrupted him. "why shouldn't jim lose his temper?" she demanded. "i would. personally, i'd be glad if he did, although it mightn't be fortunate for kingsfrere. he's a good deal of a dumpling. but i will be furious if you look guilty. tell them we're mad about each other and that i am waiting for the smallest encouragement to go with you." howat penny left mariana at the door, and went in with polder. provost was seated, with an open paper; kingsfrere studying the photograph of scalchi. "this," said howat generally, "is my guest, james polder." peter provost extended his square, powerful hand; but the other, jannan, made no movement. "well?" polder demanded aggressively. howat penny proceeded through the room to the porch, where he met mariana. they walked to the further end and found chairs. "what makes me sick," mariana proceeded, "is the way men calmly take everything into their own hands; as if women were still tied up, naughty bundles. jim will have all the fun, and he has only said 'no' in horrified tones." again he could think of no adequate reply. he listened in vain for the sound of raised voices within. "what, in heaven's name, brought them?" howat told her what he had heard. "i'm glad i did break up that mess they called a home," she asserted. "it was rotten with stale beer and half pounds of liver for that disgusting animal!" the heat increased in waves; a wagon passing on the road below was enveloped in a cloud of dust. "i wish they'd hurry," mariana said sharply. howat penny thought he heard kingsfrere speaking in abrupt periods. then a chair scraped, and peter provost's deliberate voice became audible. it was, however, impossible to distinguish his words; but suddenly polder exclaimed, "say something i can pound into you." mariana rose, her hands clenched. "go back to your mouldy little life!" james polder continued. "i'm not surprised miss jannan wants to get out of it. i am sorry i hesitated. it seemed to me i couldn't offer her anything good enough; but that was before i'd listened to you.... and if you in particular come worming about me again i'll smash your flat face." the screen door was wrenched violently open, and james polder strode up to mariana. "suppose we get out of this slag pit," he said, his chest labouring; "i can't breathe here." "i am ready, jimmy," she replied quietly; "perhaps howat will look up a train and let honduras drive us to the station." she laid her hand on his arm. "now we can forget them," she said. they turned, and, together, vanished into the house. howat penny followed them slowly. he found peter provost apparently undisturbed. "nothing to be done," the latter commented. "i saw that immediately he turned up. kingsfrere made a short effort, but it wasn't conspicuously successful; i imagine it rather worse than failed. god knows what's getting into these young women, howat--eliza and the rest of 'em--it's a gamble they don't. all right, kingsfrere." jannan lingered with a dark mutter, but the other unceremoniously drove him into the waiting car. mariana soon descended, with polder carrying two bags. "one seven," howat told them. in the extraordinary situation he found nothing adequate to say. mariana might have been going unremarkably to charlotte and her home; she was absolutely contained. james polder had a dazed expression; without his companion, howat thought, he would blunder into the walls. he stood, holding the bags until told to put them down. honduras was soon at the door. mariana moved forward, and mechanically howat penny made his customary pretence of avoiding her kiss. the warm fragrance of her lips remained long after she had gone. a pervasive stillness settled upon shadrach; outside the sunlight lay on the hills in a thick, yellow veil; the cool interior held only the familiar crepitation of the old clock above. now, he told himself, he could read the papers peacefully; but he sat with empty hands. mariana had gone. "outrageous conduct," he said aloud, without conviction. his voice sounded thin, unfamiliar. his dreams of her continued superiority to the commonplace, of her fine aloofness like the elevation of the strains of _orfeo_, had been utterly destroyed. he could not imagine a greater descent than the one which had overtaken her. as he rehearsed its details they seemed increasingly disgraceful. he could not forgive james polder for his relapse, his shocking failure to maintain the standards, the obligations, bred into himself, howat penny, by so many years, and by blood. it was that miserable old business of jasper's once more, blighting the present, betraying mariana. this wheeled in his brain throughout summer. he had, as he expected, no word from her. charlotte, too, sent no line; he was isolated in the increasing and waning heat, in a sea of greenery growing heavy and grey with dust, then swept by rain, and touched with the scarlet finality of frost. rudolph lit again the hickory fires in the middle hearth; the days shortened rapidly; sitting before the glow of the logs he could see, through a western window, the afternoon expiring in a sullen red flame. the leaves streamed sibilantly by the eaves and accumulated in dry, russet heaps in angles and hollows; they burned in crackling fires, filling the air with a drifting haze rich with suggestion and memories. he saw the first snow on a leaden morning when the flexible and bald white covering, devoid of charm, held the significance of barrenness, death. all day this chilling similitude lingered in his mind. he walked about the house slowly, unpleasantly conscious of the striking of his feet on the wood floors. at christmas a revival of spirit overtook him; a long letter came from mariana, bundy provost sent him a tall silver tankard, with a lid, for his night table. howat, polishing his glass with a maroon bandanna, read mariana's letter in the yellow light of the lamp and burning logs. "i have been to see a new steel process," she wrote; "the duplex, with immense tilting furnaces and the bessemer blast. i know a great deal about iron now; far more than a howat penny who should be an authority. jim is frightfully busy, but lately he has been able to sleep after the night shift, which makes it better for every one. he is one of the best men here, and that comes from the works, and the reorganization is slowly but surely progressing, and we are progressing with it. i am not a particle lonely, with only one servant; really don't want another, and make a great deal more than desserts. you have no idea how absorbing it is to have a lot of things that must be done. the days simply fade. you mustn't worry about me, howat; i always hated polite affairs and parties and people; even when i was young as possible i was more than anything else a hell in the corner." he smiled, recognizing an old flippant phrase, and let his hand drop while he recalled mariana--turning to him to hook her gown, constructing annoying towers with the dominoes, reprehensible and amusing. he resumed reading: "it would be wonderful if--no, it is wonderful! but howat, i can tell only you this, i wish oranges had never been invented." he drew his mouth into a compressed line. james was drinking. he remembered when the other first made the concoction of orange juice and brandy; he saw him clearly, leaning in the doorway to the dining room, with the emptied goblet, and a curious, introspective expression on his mobile countenance. "he ought to be hung!" he exclaimed sharply. the fellow should see himself as a mat for mariana's feet. but that wasn't life, he realized; existence seemed to become more and more heedless of the proprieties, of the simplest concessions to duty. he saw the world as a ship which, admirably navigated a score or more years ago, had jammed its rudder. no one could predict what rocks the unmanageable sphere might be driving for. the significance born by that sentence robbed the remainder of the letter of pleasure. he read that mariana had ordered the customary gift of cigarettes, and hoped they would last him longer than everybody knew they would. the implied affection of all the paragraphs was visible in the last words. he put the letter carefully away. the cigarettes were sufficient for a considerable time beyond customary. something of his appetite had gone; the periods of half wakeful slumber in his chair drew out through whole evenings. the actual world retreated; his memories, as bright as ever, became a little confused; the years, figures, mingled incongruously; famous arias were transposed to operas in which they had not been sung. winter retreated, but the latter part of march and april were bitterly cold; no leaves appeared; the ground remained barren; he seldom got out. the albums of programmes were brought from their place on the low shelves, but now, more than often, they were barely opened, scanned. then, on an evening when belated snow was sifting through the cracks of the solid shutters, he came on an oblong package, wrapped in strong paper. he opened it, in a momentary revival of interest, of life. it was a tall ledger, bound in crumbling calf, with stained and wrinkled leaves. howat had not seen it for twenty years, but he recalled immediately that it was a forge book kept in gilbert penny's day; then myrtle forge had been new, that other howat alive. he opened it carefully, powdered his knees with leather dust, and studied the faded entries; what flourishing, pale violet initials, what rubicund lines and endings! there were two handwritings, listing commonplace transactions now invested by time with an accumulated, poignant significance, one smooth and clerkly, the other abrupt, with heavy, impatient strokes. youth, probably, held at an unwelcome task; and, more than likely, howat ... october, in seventeen fifty. years of virility, of struggle and conquest, of iron--iron, james polder had shown him, still uncorrupted, better than the metal of to-day--and iron-like men. the ledger slipped to the floor, tearing the spongy leather and crumbling the sere leaves. he recovered it, dismayed at the damage wrought. a sheet apparently had come loose, and he bent forward with difficulty, a swimming head. howat made an attempt to find its place, when he discovered that it was not a part of the volume. it was, he saw, a note, obliterated by creases but with some lines still legible, hurriedly scrawled, by a woman: "you must be more careful ... your mother. so hot-headed, howat. i can't do what you ask. i have a headache now thinking about felix and you and myself. no one must find out." what followed was lost, then came a signature that, with the aid of a reading glass, he barely deciphered--"ludowika." that was the name of the woman, a widow, gilbert's son had married. her first husband, felix winscombe, had died at myrtle forge during a diplomatic mission from england.... an old man with a young wife! his confusion, slowly resolving into a comprehension of what the note implied, filled him with an increasing revolt. the earlier howat, too, like jasper, in the tangle of an intrigue--not a public scandal and shame, as had been the later, but no less offensive. in a flare of anger howat penny crumpled the paper and flung it into the fire. there it instantly blackened, burst into flame and wavered, a shuddering cinder, up the chimney. he put the ledger, loosely wrapped in its covering, on the table, and sat breathing rapidly, curiously disturbed. the old fault, projected so unexpectedly out of the faithless burial of the past, struck at him with the weight of a personal affront. the heat subsided in the hearth, with the nightly ebbing of steam in the radiator; the hickory, disintegrating into blocks, faded from cherry red to pulsating, and finally dead, ash. lost in the bitterness of his thoughts he made no movement to replenish the fire. he wondered if the explored histories of other families would show such scarring records as his own. were there everywhere, back of each heart, puddles, sloughs, masked in the deceiving probity maintained for public view? and now--mariana! yet, somehow, her affair did not appear as ugly as these others. stated coldly, in conventional terms, it was little different. why, in plain words she had ... but mariana evaded plain words, her challenging courage forbade them. here was more than could be arraigned, convicted, by a stereotyped judgment. or perhaps this was only his affection for her, blinding him to the truth. the first howat and jasper, striking contemptuously across the barriers of social morals, lived in mariana, alone with james polder in illegitimate circumstance, and in himself--an old man without family, without the supporting memory of actual achievement; the negative decay of a negative existence. his mind, confronted by a painful complexity of unanswerable problems, failed utterly. he was conscious of his impotence chilling his blood, deadening his nerves. thin tears fell over his hollow cheeks; and he rose shakily, fiercely dragging at his bandanna. but he discovered that his hand was numb with cold. the fire lay black and dead. the shrilling wind, ladened with snow, wrenched at the shutters. the room was bitter. he must get up to bed ... warm blankets. a chill touched him with an icy breath. it overtook him midway on the stair, and he clung to the railing, appalled at its violence in his fragile being. he got, finally, to his room, to the edge of his bed, where he sat waiting for the assault to subside. he wanted rudolph, but the effort to move to the door, call, appeared insuperable. the chill left him; and blundering, hideously delayed, he wrapped himself in the bed covering. not all the wool in the world, he thought, would be sufficient to drive the cold from his body. he fell into a temporary exhaustion of sleep; but was waked later by sharp and oppressive pains in his chest, deepening when he breathed. the suffering must be mastered, and he lay with gripping hands, striving by force of will to overcome what he thought of as the brutal play of small, sharp knives. he conquered, it seemed; the pain grew less; but it had left an increasing difficulty in his breathing; it was a labour to absorb sufficient air even for his small, aged demands. sleep deserted him; and he waited through seeming years for the delayed appearance of dawn. he had hoped that the new day would be sunny, warm; it was overcast, he could see the snow drifted in the lower window panes. rudolph usually knocked at the door at half past eight; but, apparently, to-day he had forgot. howat penny's watch lay on the table, at his hand, yet it was far distant; he couldn't face the heavy effort of its inspection. at last the man came in with his even morning greeting. howat was so exhausted that he could make no reply; and rudolph moved silently to the bedside. his expression, for an instant, was deeply concerned. "i have a cold, or something of the sort," the other said. he raised his head, but sank back, with a thin, audible inspiration. "it would be best, sir, to have the doctor from jaffa," the servant suggested. howat, in the midst of protest, closed his eyes; the pain had returned. when he had again defeated it rudolph was gone. the room blurred, lost its walls, became formless space; out of which, to his pleasurable surprise, he saw the carefully garbed figure of colonel mapleson walking toward him. he never forgot that tea rose! confound him--probably another benefit for one of his indigent song birds. as howat was about to speak the colonel disappeared. it was scalchi, in street dress, a yellow fur about her throat, warm, seductive. he had sent the divine page the bouquet in paper lace. but she too vanished. he heard the strains of an orchestra; lingering he had missed the overture, and it might be the first duet--with geister in superb voice. he was waiting for mariana, that was it ... always late. then her hand was under his arm. but it was the doctor from jaffa. rudolph was at the foot of the bed, and the two men moved aside, conversed impolitely in hushed tones. i'm sick, he thought lucidly. one word reached him--oxygen. it all melted away again, into a black lake with ghostly swans, a painted mouth and showering confetti; one of the supreme waltzes that johann strauss alone could compose. later a woman in a folded linen cap was seated beside him, a chimera. but she laid cool fingers on his wrist, held a brownish, distasteful mixture to his lips. a draught of egg nog was better, although it wasn't as persuasive as some he had had: bundy provost's, for example. bundy was a galliard youth, but he was clear as ice underneath. he wouldn't have let them put that thing over his, howat's, face. he tried to turn aside, but a cap of darkness descended upon him. afterward his breathing was easier. a blue iron tank was standing nearby, and the nurse was removing a rubber mask attached to a flexible tube. the latter led from a glass bottle, with a crystal pipe into the tank; the bottle held water; and the water was troubled with subsiding, clear bubbles. more of the dark, unpleasant mixture, more egg nog. why did they trouble and trouble him--already he was late getting to irving place. the opera, as he had feared, had commenced; and it was at once strange and familiar. the chorus and orchestra were singing in a deep ground tone; the stage was set with a row of great, seething furnaces; glaring white bars of light cut through vaporous, yellow gases and showered steel sparks where coppery figures were labouring obscurely in a flaming heat that rolled out over the audience. there was a shrilling of violins, and then a deafening blare of brass, an appalling volume of sound pouring out like boiling metal.... but here was rudolph; the performance was at an end; it was time to go home. "i took the liberty of searching for--for miss jannan's address," the other told him. well, and why not! "mr. provost and mrs. jannan are away for a week." howat hoped that kingsfrere would not turn up with his flat face. he was conscious of smiling at a memory the exact shape of which escaped him--something humorous that had happened to the pasty youth. a refreshing air came in at the open windows, and he struggled for a full, satisfying breath. the relief of what he dimly recognized as oxygen followed. the nurse moved to the door and mariana entered. "howat," she exclaimed, sitting beside him, "how silly of you! a cold now with winter done. the snow is running away. and these soda-watery tanks." he felt a warmth communicated by her actual presence. "it's just my breathing," he told her; "it gets stopped up. a damned nuisance! did honduras meet you?" she assured him that she had been correctly received, and vanished to remove her hat. mariana must not sit in here, with the windows open, he told the nurse; but then, he added, it was no good giving mariana advice. she wouldn't listen to it, except to do the opposite. she came back, in one of her eternal knitted things, this one like a ripe banana, and sat in the nurse's place. there was a great deal he wanted to know, in a few minutes, when he felt less oppressed. the night came swiftly, lit by his familiar lamps; rudolph moved about in the orderly disposition of fresh white laundry. a coat needed pressing. it would do to-morrow. the doctor hurt him with a little scraping stab at the bottom of his ear. "mariana," he at last made the effort of speech, questioning: "i have been bothered about your--your temporary arrangement. that harriet, you know ... make trouble." "why, howat," she replied, admirably detached; "you don't read the important sheets of the papers! harriet has made a tremendous success with what was supposed to be a small part. a new york manager has engaged her in letters of fire, for an unthinkable amount. james and i sent her our obscure compliments, but we were virtuously rebuked by a legal gentleman. harriet, it seems, is going to cast us off." of all that she had said only the word obscure remained in his mind; and it roused in him an echo of his old, dogmatic pride. "mariana," he demanded, "didn't the reorganization come about; isn't james polder superintendent?" she hesitated, then replied in a low, steady voice. "yes, howat, it did; but they didn't move jim up. an older, they said steadier, man was chosen." it was the oranges, he told himself, the oranges and brandy; the cursed young fool. "you must come away, mariana," he continued more faintly; "fair trial, failure--something to yourself, our family." "leave jimmy because he wasn't made superintendent!" she replied in an abstracted impatience. then, "i wonder about a smaller plant? won't you understand, howat," she leaned softly over him; "i need jim as badly as he needs me; perhaps more. if i had any superior illusions they have all gone. i can't tell us apart. of course, i'd like him to get on, but principally for himself. jim, every bit of him, the drinking and tempers, and tenderness you would never suspect, is my--oxygen. i can see that you want to know if i am happy; but i can't tell you, howat. perhaps that's the answer, and i am--i have a feeling of being a part of something outside personal happiness, something that has tied jim and me together and gone on about a larger affair. you see, howat, i wasn't consulted," she added in a more familiar impudence; "whether i was pleased or not didn't appear to matter. in a position like that it's silly to talk about happiness as if it were like the thrill at your first ball." he drifted away from her through the nebulous haze deepening about him. an occasional, objective buzzing penetrated to his removed place; but all the while he realized that he was getting farther and farther from such interruptions of an effort to distinguish a vaguely familiar, veiled shape. he saw, at last, that it was howat, a black penny. it was at once himself and that other howat, yes, and jasper. all three unremarkably merged into one. and the acts of the first, a dark young man with an erect, impatient carriage, a countenance and gaze of vigorous scorn, accumulated in a later figure, hardly less upright, slender, but touched with grey--a man in the middle of life. he paid with an anguished spirit for what had taken place; and at last an old man lingered with empty hands, the husk of a passion that had burned out all vitality. mariana, too, had been drawn into the wide implications of this mingled past and present. but now, clearly, he recognized in her the meeting of spirit and flesh that had been denied to him. that was life, he thought, that was happiness. in the absence of such consummation he had come to nothing. in jasper, in susan brundon who had married him over late, the two had warred. life took the spirit to itself, mysteriously; wove the gold thread into its design of scarlet and earth and green, or else ... a hearth soon cold, the walls of a furnace crumbled and broken, a ruin covered from memory by growing leafage and grass throbbing with the song of robins, the shrilling of frogs in the meadow. the doctor and nurse, rudolph and mariana, moved about him in a far, low stir. at times they approached on a lighter flood of oxygen. mariana wiped his lips--an immaterial red stain. but what was that confounded opera the name of which he had forgot? it would be in his albums; in the first, probably. downstairs. he had a sudden view of mariana's face as she returned with the volume. an expression of piercing concern overwhelmed the reassuring smile she had for him. howat understood at last, he was dying. an instinctive shuddering seized him; not in fear of the obliterating fact; but from a physical revulsion bred by his long years of delicate habit. yet it wouldn't do to expose mariana to the terrors; and, after a sharp, inward struggle, he said almost fretfully, "further on." she turned the pages slowly; but no one could read without a decent light. he moved his head, in an infinity of labour, toward the clear, grey opening of the window, and saw a pattern of flying geese wavering across the tranquil sky. the end note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) the soldier of the valley by nelson lloyd illustrated by a. b. frost [frontispiece: they called to me as a boy.] charles scribner's sons new york ------------ copyright, , by charles scribner's sons published, september, list of illustrations they called to me as a boy . . . . . . _frontispiece_ "welcome home--thrice welcome!" tim and i had stopped our ploughs to draw lots and he had lost "well, old chap!" josiah nummler he did not stop to hear my answer swearing terrible oaths that he will never return no answer came from the floor above the tiger story he had a last look at black log "he pumped me dry" "nanny is likely to get one of her religious spells and quit work" i was back in my prison "'at my sover-sover-yne's will'" perry thomas stands confronting the english warrior "you'll begin to think you ain't there at all" i saw a girl on the store porch aaron kallaberger leander "her name was pinky binn, a dotter of the house of binn, the binns of turkey walley" william had felt the hand of "doogulus" "aren't you coming?" young colonel seemed to say sat little colonel, wailing the main thing was proper nursing well, ain't he tasty "but there are no ghosts," i argued "of course it hurts me a bit here" "an seein' a light in the room, i looked in" tip pulsifer leaned on my gate the horse went down "and i'm his widder" then tim came old captain when we three sit by the fire the soldier of the valley i i was a soldier. i was a hero. you notice my tenses are past. i am a simple school-teacher now, a prisoner in black log. there are no bars to my keep, only the wall of mountains that make the valley; and look at them on a clear day, when sunshine and shadow play over their green slopes, when the clouds all white and gold swing lazily in the blue above them, and they speak of freedom and of life immeasurable. there are no chains to my prison, no steel cuffs to gall the limbs, no guards to threaten and cow me. yet here i stay year after year. here i was born and here i shall die. i am a traveller. in my mind i have gone the world over, and those wanderings have been unhampered by the limitations of mere time, for i know my india of the first century as well as that of the twentieth, and the china of confucius is as real to me as that of kwang su. without stirring from my little porch down here in the valley i have pierced the african jungles and surveyed the arctic ice-floes. often the mountains call me to come again, to climb them, to see the real world beyond, to live in it, to be of it, but i am a prisoner. they called to me as a boy, when wandering over the hills, i looked away to them, and over them, into the mysterious blue, picturing my india and my china, my england and my russia in a geographical jumble that began just beyond the horizon. then i was a prisoner in the dungeons of youth and my mother was my jailer. the day came when i was free, and forth i went full of hope, twenty-three years old by the family bible, with a strong, agile body and a homely face. i went as a soldier. for months i saw what is called the world; i had glimpses of cities; i slept beneath the palms; i crossed a sea and touched the tropics. marching beneath a blazing sun, huddling from the storm in the scant shelter of the tent, my spirits were always keyed to the highest by the thought that i was seeing life and that these adventures were but a fore-taste of those to come. but one day when we marched beneath the blazing sun, we met a storm and found no shelter. we charged through a hail of steel. they took me to the sea on a stretcher, and by and by they shipped me home. then it was that i was a hero--when i came again to black log--what was left of me. my people were very kind. they sent henry holmes's double phaeton to the county town to meet my train, and as i stumbled from the car, being new to my crutches, i fell into the arms of a reception committee. tim was there. and my little brother fought the others off and picked me up and carried me, as i had carried him in the old days when he was a toddling youngster and i a sturdy boy. but he was six feet two now and i had wasted to a shadow. perry thomas had a speech prepared. he is our orator, our prize debater, our township statesman, and his frock-coat tightly buttoned across his chest, his unusually high and stiffly starched collar, his repeated coughing as he hovered on the outskirts of the crowd, told me plainly that he had an address to make. henry holmes, indeed, asked me to stand still just one minute, and i divined instantly that he was working in the interest of oratory; but tim spoiled it all by running off with me and tossing me into the phaeton. so in the state-coach of black log, drawn by isaac bolum's lemon-colored mules, with the committee rattling along behind in a spring wagon, politely taking our dust, i came home once more, over the mountains, into the valley. sometimes i wonder if i shall ever make another journey as long as that one. sometimes i have ventured as far as the gap, and peeped into the broad open country, and caught the rumble of the trains down by the river. there is one of the world's highways, but the toll is great, and a crippled soldier with a scanty pension and a pittance from his school is wiser to keep to the ways he knows. and how i know the ways of the valley! that day when we rode into it every tree seemed to be waving its green arms in salute. as we swung through the gap, around the bend at the saw-mill and into the open country, checkered brown and yellow by fields new-ploughed and fields of stubble, a flock of killdeer arose on the air and screamed a welcome. in their greeting there seemed a taunting note as though they knew they had no more to fear from me and could be generous. i saw every crook in the fence, every rut in the road, every bush and tree long before we came to it. but six months had i been away, yet in that time i had lived half my life, and now i was so changed that it seemed strange to find the valley as fat and full as ever, stretched out there in the sunshine in a quiet, smiling slumber. "things are just the same, mark, you'll notice," said tim, pointing to a hole in the flooring of the bridge over which we were passing. the valley had been driving around that same danger spot these ten years. there was a world of meaning to the returning wanderer in that broken plank, and it was not hard to catch the glance of my brother's eye and to know his mind. henry holmes on the front seat, driving, caught the inflection of tim's voice and cried testily: "you are allus runnin' the walley down. why don't you tell him about the improvements instead of pintin' out the bad spots in the road?" "improvements?" said i, in a tone of inquiry. "theop jones has bought him a new side-bar buggy," replied the old man. "then the kallabergers has moved in from the country and is fixin' up the harmon house at the end of the town." "and a be-yutiful place they're makin' of it," cried isaac bolum; "be-yutiful!" "they've added a fancy porch," henry explained, "and are gittin' blue glass panes for the front door." "we've three spring-beds in town now," put in isaac in his slow, dreamy way. "if i mind right the spikers bought theirs before war was declared, so you've seen that one. well, piney martin he has got him one--let me see--when did he git it, henery?" old holmes furrowed his brow and closed one eye, seeking with the other the inspiration of the sky. "july sixth," he answered. "don't you mind, ike, it come the same day and on the wery same stage as the news of the sinkin' of the spaynish fleet?" "nonsense," retorted isaac. "you're allus mixin' dates, henery. you're thinkin' of tip pulsifer's last baby. he come july six, for don't you mind how they called him cevery out of pity and generosity for the spayniards? piney's spring-bed arrived the same day and on the same stage as brung us the news of mark here havin' his left leg shot off." "mebbe--mebbe--mebbe," muttered henry, shaking his head dubiously. "it certainly do beat all how things happens all at once in this world. come to think of it, the wery next day six of my sheep was killed by dogs." "it's good you're gittin' your dates cleared," snapped old bolum. "on history, henery holmes, you are the worst." henry retorted with an angry protest against the indictment, declaring that he was studying history when bolum was being nourished on "soft food." that was true. isaac admitted it frankly. he wasn't his mother's keeper, that he could regulate his own birthday. had that been in his power he would certainly have set it a half century earlier or later to avoid being constantly annoyed by the "onreasonablest argeyments" six stars had ever heard. this made old holmes smile softly, and he turned and winked at me. the one thing he had ever been thankful for, he said, was that his life had fallen with that of isaac bolum. whenever he done wrong; whenever the consciousness of sin was upon him and he needed the chastisin' rod, he just went to the store and set and listened to ike. to this isaac retorted that it was a wonder the rod had not worn out long ago; it was pleasing to know, at least, that he was made of tough old hickory. henry admitted this to be a "good 'un" on him--an unusual one, considering the source--but that did not settle the exact date of the arrival of piney martin's spring-bed. it was time for me to protest that it mattered little whether the event occurred on july sixth or a week later, since what really interested me was the question as to who was the owner of the third of these luxuries. isaac's serious, self-conscious look answered me, but i pressed the inquiry to give him an opportunity to sing the praises of this newest of his household gods. mr. bolum's pleasure was evident. once launched into an account of the comfort of springs as compared to a straw-tick on ropes, he would have monopolized our attention to the end of the journey, but the sagacious henry blocked him rudely by a tug at the reins which almost threw the lemon-colored mules on their haunches. we were at the foot of the slope where the road to buzzards glory branches from the pike. the arkers had spied us coming, and ran down from the tannery to greet us. arnold, after he had a dozen times expressed his delight at my return, asked if i had seen any shooting. his son sam's wife nudged him and whispered in his ear, upon which he apologized abruptly, explaining that he had dropped his spectacles in the tanning vat. sam sought to extricate his father from these imaginary difficulties by demanding that i go coon-hunting with him on the next night. this set sam's wife's elbow going again very vigorously, and the further embarrassment of the whole family was saved by henry holmes swinging the whip across the backs of the mules. on went the state-coach of black log. we clattered quickly over the last level stretch. we dragged up the last long hill, and from its brow i looked on the roofs of six stars rising here and there from the green bed of trees. i heard the sonorous rumble of the mill, and above it a shrill and solitary crow. on the state-coach went, down the steep, driving the mules madly before it. their hoofs made music on the bridge, and my journey was ended. home again! even tip pulsifer was dear to me then. he was between the wheels when we stopped, and i planted a crutch on one of his bare feet and embraced him. he grinned and cried, "mighty souls!" that embrace, that grin and that heart-born exclamation marked the entrance of the pulsifer family into my life. theretofore i had regarded them with a suspicion born of a pile of feathers at the door of their shanty on the ridge, for they kept no chickens. now the six little pulsifers, all with the lower halves of their faces washed and their hair soaped down, were climbing around me, and the latest comer, that same cevery who arrived with piney martin's spring-bed, was hoisted into kissing distance by his mother, who was thinner and more wan than ever, but still smiling. but this was home and these were home people. my heart was open then and warm, and i took the seven little pulsifers to it. i took old mrs. bolum to it, too, for she tumbled the clamoring infants aside and in her joy forgot the ruffles in the sleeves of her wonderful purple silk. at her elbow hovered the tall, spare figure of aaron kallaberger. mindful of the military nature of the occasion he appeared in his old army overcoat, in spite of the heat. rare honor, this! and better still, he hailed me as "comrade," and enfolding my hand in his long horny fingers, cried "all's well, mark!" the mill ceased its rumbling. already the valley was rocking itself to sleep. out of the darkening sky rang the twanging call of a night-hawk, and the cluck of a dozing hen sounded from the foliage overhead. a flock of weary sheep pattered along the road, barnward bound, heavy eyed and bleating softly. the blue gate was opened wide. my hand was on tim's shoulder and tim's arm was my support. "all's well!" i cried. for i was hobbling home. ii perry thomas still had his speech to deliver. he hovered around the rocking-chair in which they had enthroned me, and with one hand he kept clutching violently at his throat as though he were suppressing his eloquence by muscular effort. his repeated coughing seemed a constant warning that at any moment he might be vanquished in the struggle for becoming silence. there was a longing light in his eyes and a look of appeal whenever our glances met. my position was embarrassing. he knew that i realized his predicament, but how could i interrupt the kindly demonstrations of the old friends who pressed about me, to announce that the local orator had a formal address of welcome that was as yet unspoken? and an opportunity like this might never again occur in perry's life! here were gathered not only the people of the village, but of the valley. his words would fall not alone on the ears of a few choice spirits of the store forum, or the scoffing pedants of the literary society, for crowded into that little room were old men whose years would give weight to the declaration that it was the greatest talking they had ever heard; were young children, who in after years, when a neglected gravestone was toppling over all that was left of the orator, would still speak of the wonders of his eloquence; were comely women to whom the household was the world and the household task the life's work, but who could now for the moment lift their bent forms and have their dulled eyes turned to higher and better things. moreover, there were in that room a score of deep eyes that could not but quicken at the sight of a slender, manly figure, clad in scholastic black, of a thin, earnest face, with beetled brows and a classic forehead from which swept waves of black hair. little wonder perry was restless under restraint! little wonder he grew more melancholy and coughed louder and louder, as the light without faded away, and the faces within were dimmed in the shadow! from the kitchen came the clatter of dishes and pans and a babel of women's voices, the shrill commands of old mrs. bolum rising above them. the feast was preparing. its hour was at hand. apollo never was a match for bacchus, and perry thomas could not command attention once mrs. bolum appeared on the scene. he realized this. her cries came as an inspiration to action. in the twilight i lost him, but the lamp-light disclosed him standing over henry holmes, who had been driven into a corner and was held prisoner there by a threatening finger. there was a whispered parley that ended only when the old man surrendered and, stepping to the centre of the room, rapped long and loud on the floor with his cane. henry is always blunt. he has a way of getting right at the heart of things with everyone except bolum. for isaac, he regards circumlocution as necessary, taking the ground that with him the quantity and not the quality of the words counts. so when he had silenced the company, and with a sweep of his cane had driven them into close order about the walls, he said: "mr. thomas is anxious to make an address." at this moment mr. thomas was about to step into the zone of fire of a hundred eyes. there was a very audible titter in the corner where three thoughtless young girls had squeezed themselves into one rocking-chair. the orator heard it and brought his heels together with a click. "mind what i told you, henery," he whispered very loud, glaring at mr. holmes. "oh, yes," henry returned in a casual tone. he thumped the floor again, and when the tittering had subsided, and only the snuffling of cevery pulsifer broke the silence, he said: "in jestice to mr. thomas, i am requested to explain that the address was originally intended to be got off at the railroad. it was forgot by accident, and him not havin' time to change it, he asks us to make believe we are standin' alongside of the track at pleasantville just as the train comes in." isaac bolum had fixed himself comfortably on two legs of his chair, with the projecting soles of his boots caught behind the rung. feet and chair-legs came to the floor with a crash, and half rising from the seat, one hand extended in appeal, the other at his right ear, forming a trumpet, he shouted: "mr. chairman! mr. chairman!" "this ain't a liter'ry meetin', mr. bolum. the floor is mr. thomas's, i believe," said henry with dignity. "but i didn't catch the name of the station you said we was to imagine." "i said pleasantville," cried henry angrily. "i apologize," returned isaac. "i thought you said meadowville, and never havin' been there, i didn't see how i could imagine the station." "it seems to me, isaac bolum," retorted henry with dignified asperity, "that with your imagination you could conjure up a whole railroad system, includin' the freight-yard. but mr. thomas has the floor." "see here, henery holmes," cried isaac, "it's all right for us old folks, but there's the children. how can they imagine pleasantville station when some of 'em ain't yet seen a train?" this routed even henry holmes. at the store he would never have given in, but he was not accustomed to hearing so loud a murmur of approval greet the opposition. he realized that he had been placed in a false position by the importunities of mr. thomas, and to him he now left the brunt of the trouble by stepping out of the illumined circle and losing himself in the company. the fire-swept zone had no terrors for perry. with one hand thrust between the first and second buttons of his coat, and the other raised in that gesture with which the orator stills the sea of discontent, he stepped forward, and turning slowly about, brought his eyes to bear on the contumacious bolum. he indicated the target. every optic gun in the room was levelled at it. the upraised hand, the potent silence, the solemn gaze of a hundred eyes was too much for the old man to bear. slowly he swung back on two legs of his chair, caught the rungs again with the projecting soles, turned his eyes to the ceiling, closed them, and set himself to imagining the station at pleasantville. the rout was complete. perry wheeled and faced me. the hand was lowered slowly; four fingers disappeared and one long one, one quivering one, remained, a whip with which to chastise the prisoner at the bar. "mark hope," he began, in a deep, rich, resonant voice, "we welcome you home. we have come down from the valley, fourteen mile through the blazin' noonday sun, fourteen mile over wind-swept roads, that you, when agin you step on the soil of our beloved county, may step into lovin' hands, outstretched to meet you and bid you welcome. welcome home--thrice welcome--agin i say, welcome!" [illustration: "welcome home--thrice welcome!"] both of the orator's hands swung upward and outward, and he looked intently at the ceiling. he seemed prepared to catch me as i leaped from a second-story window. the pause as he stood there braced to receive the body of the returning soldier as it hurtled at him, gave isaac bolum an opportunity to be magnanimous. he clapped his hands and cheered. in an instant his shrill cry was drowned in a burst of applause full of spirit and heart, closing with a flourish of wails from cevery pulsifer and the latest of the kallabergers. perry's arms fell gracefully to his side and he inclined his head and half closed his eyes in acknowledgment. then turning to isaac, measuring every word, in a voice clear and cutting, his long forefinger shaking, he cried: "from the bloody battlefields of cuby, from her tropic camps where you suffered and bled, you come home to us to-day. you have fought in the cause of liberty. to your country you have give a limb--you----" poor bolum! awakened from the gentle doze into which he had fallen the instant cevery pulsifer relieved him of the duty of leading the applause, he brought his chair down on all four legs, and slapped both knees violently. satisfied that they were still there, he looked up at the orator. "you have give a limb," repeated perry, emphasizing the announcement by shaking his finger at the old man. isaac's mouth was half open for a protest, when he remembered, and leaning over seized the toe of each boot in a hand and wriggled his feet. when we saw his face again he was smiling gently, and swinging back, he nestled his head against the wall and closed his eyes once more. "you would have give your life," cried perry. but the only sign old bolum made was to twirl the thumbs of his clasped hands. "six months ago, six short, stirrin' months ago you left us, just a plain man, at your country's call." perry was thundering his rolling periods at us. "to-day, a moment since, standin' here by the track, we heard the rumblin' of the train and the engyne's whistle, and we says a he-ro comes--a he-ro in blue!" had perry looked my way, he might have noticed that i was clad in khaki, but he was addressing henry holmes, whose worthy head was nodding in continual acquiescence. the old man stood, with eyes downcast and hands clasped before him, a picture of humility. the orator, carried away by his own eloquence, seemed to forget its real purpose, and in a moment, sitting unnoticed in my chair with tim at my side, i became a minor figure, while half a hundred were gathered there to do honor to henry holmes. once i even forgot and started to applaud when perry raised his hand over the gray head as though in blessing and said solemnly: "he-ro in blue--agin we bid you welcome!" a little laugh behind me recalled me to my real place, and with a burning face i turned. i have in my mind a thousand pictures of one woman. but of them all the one i love most, the one on which i dwell most as i sit of an evening with my pipe and my unopened book, is that which i first saw when i sought the chit who noticed my ill-timed applause and laughed at me. i found her. i saw that she laughed with me and for me, and i laughed too. we laughed together. an instant, and her face became grave. the orator, now swelling into his peroration, was forgotten. the people of the valley--tim--even tim--all of them were forgotten. i had found the woman of my firelight, the woman of my cloudland, the woman of my sunset country down in the mountains to the west. she, had always been a vague, undefined creature to me--just a woman, and so elusive as never to get within the grasp of my mind's eye; just a woman whom i had endowed with every grace; whose kindly spirit shone through eyes, now brown, now blue, now black, according to my latest whim; who ofttimes worn, or perhaps feigning weariness, rested on my shoulder a little head, crowned with a glory of hair sometimes black, and sometimes golden or auburn, and not infrequently red, a dashing, daring red. sometimes she was slender and elf-like, a chic and clinging creature. again she was tall and stately, like the women of the romances. again she was buxom and blooming, one whose hand you would take instead of offering an arm. she had been an elusive, ever-changing creature, but now that i had looked into those grave, gray eyes, i fixed the form of my picture, and fixed its colors and fired them in to last for all my time. now she is just the woman that every woman ought to be. her hair is soft brown and sweeps back from a low white forehead. she has tried to make it straight and simple, as every woman should, but the angels seem to have curled it here and mussed it there, so that all her care cannot hide its wanton waves. her face is full of life and health, so open, so candid, that there you read her heart, and you know that it is as good as she is fair. she stood before me in a sombre gown, almost ugly in its gray color and severe lines, but to me she was a quaint figure such as might have stepped out of the old world and the old time when men lived with a vengeance, and godliness and ugliness went arm in arm, for satan had preempted the beautiful. against her a homely garb failed. she was beautiful in spite of her clothes and not because of them. but this is generally true with women. this one, instead of sharing our admiration with her gown, claimed it all for herself. her face had no rival. i did not turn away. i could not. the gray eyes, once flashing with the light of kindly humor, now softened with sympathy, now glowed with pity. pity! the thought of it stirred me with anger. the justice of it made me rage. she saw in the chair a thin, broken figure, a drawn brown face, a wreck of a man. yesterday--a soldier. to-day--a hero. to-morrow--a crippled veteran, and after that a pensioner drifting fast into a garrulous dotage. she, too, was looking into the future. she knew what i had lost. she saw what i dreaded. her eyes told me that. she did not know what i had gained, for she came of a silly people whose blood quickened only to the swing of a german hymn and who were stirred more by the groans of a penitent sinner than the martial call of the bugle. so it came that i struggled to my crutches and broke rudely in on perry thomas's peroration. i had gathered all my strength for a protest against the future. the people of the valley were to know that their kindness had cheered me, but of their pity i wanted none. i had played a small part in a great game and in the playing was the reward. i had come forth a bit bruised and battered, but there were other battles to be fought in this world, where one could have the same fierce joy of the conflict; and he was a poor soldier who lived only to be toted out on decoration days. i was glad to be home, but gladder still that i had gone. that was what i told them. i looked right at the girl when i said it, and she lifted her head and smiled. they heard how in the early spring in the meadow by the mill-dam tim and i had stopped our ploughs to draw lots and he had lost. he had to stay at home, while i went out and saw the world at its best, when it was awake to war and strife, and the mask that hid its emotion was lifted. they heard a very simple story and a very short one, for now that i came to recount it all my great adventure dwindled to a few dreary facts. but as best i knew i told them of the routine of the camp and of the endless drills in the long spring days down there at tampa before the army took to sea. i spoke of the sea and the strange things we saw there as we steamed along--of the sharks that lolled in our wake, of the great turtles that seemed to sun themselves on the wave-crests, of the pelicans and the schools of flying fishes. elmer spiker interrupted to inquire whether the turtles i had seen were "black-legs, red-legs, or yaller-legs." i had not the remotest idea, and said that i could not see how the question was relevant. he replied that it was not, except that it would be of interest to some of those present to learn that there were three distinct kinds of "tortles"--red-legs, black-legs, and "yaller-legs." they were shipped to the city and all became "tarripine." this annoyed me. elmer is a great scholar, and it was evident that he was simply airing his wisdom, and rather than give him a second opportunity i tried to hurry to land; but isaac bolum awoke and wanted to know if he had been dreaming. "i thot i heard some one speakin' of flyin' fishes," he said. [illustration: tim and i had stopped our ploughs to draw lots and he had lost.] it was reckless in me to mention these sea wonders, for now in defence of my reputation for truthfulness, i had to prove their existence. the fabric of my story seemed to hang on them. elmer spiker declared that he had heard his grandfather tell of a flying sucker that inhabited the deep hole below the bridge when he was a boy, but this was the same grandfather who had strung six squirrels and a pigeon on one bullet in the woods above the mill in his early manhood. there elmer winked. isaac bolum allowed that they might be trout that had trained themselves in the use of wings, but he did not believe that any ordinary fish such as a chub or a pike or a sunny would care to leave its natural element to take up with the birds. perry thomas began to cough. that cough is always like a snake's warning rattle. before he had time to strike, i blocked the discussion by promising that if the company suspended judgment i would in the near future prove the accuracy of my statements on flying fishes by the encyclopaedia. this promise met with general approval, so i hurried over the sea to the dry land where i knew the ways better and was less likely to arouse higher criticism. i told them of the stirring times in cuba, till the day came when we stormed the hill, and they had to carry me back to the sea. i told them how lucky i was to get to the sea at all, for often i had closed my eyes, worn out by the pain and the struggle for life, little caring whether ever again i opened them to the light. then strength came, and hope, and i turned my face to the north, toward the valley and home. it was hard to come back on crutches, but it was better than not to come at all. it was best, to have gone away, else i had never known the joy of the return, and i was pretty sure to stay, now that i was home, but if they fancied me dozing away my life at the store stove they were mistaken; not that i scorned the learned discussion there, but the frosts were coming soon to stir up sluggish blood, and when the guns were barking in the woods, and the hounds were baying along the ridges, i would be with them. i looked right at the girl when i said it. i was boasting. she knew it. she must see, too, what a woful figure i should make with strong-limbed fellows like tim there, and strong-limbed hounds like old captain, who was lying at my side. but somehow she liked my vaunting speech. i knew it when our eyes met. iii the gate latch clicked. from the road henry holmes called a last good-night, and tim and i were alone. we sat in silence, watching through the window the old man's lantern as he swung away toward home. then the light disappeared and without all was black. the village was asleep. by the stove lay my hound, captain, snoring gently. he had tried to keep awake, poor beast! for a time he had even struggled to hold one eye open and on his master, but at last, overcome by weariness, his head snuggled farther and farther down into his fore paws, and the tired tail ceased its rhythmic beating on the floor. what is home without a dog! captain is happy. he smiles gently as he sleeps, and it seems that in that strange dog-dreamland he and i are racing over the ridges again, through the nipping winds, on the trail of a fox or a rabbit. his master is home. he has wandered far to other hunting grounds, but now that the tang is in the air that foretells the frost and snow, he has come again to the dog that never misses a trail, the dog that never fails him. the hound raised his head and half opened one eye. he was sure that i was really there, and the gleam of white teeth showed a broadening dog-smile. and once more we were away on the dreamland trail--captain and i. "he's been counting the days till you got home, mark," said tim, holding a burning match over my pipe. "it was a bit lonely here, while you were gone, so captain and i used to discuss your doings a good deal after the rest of the place had gone to bed. and as for young colonel, why he's heard so much of you from captain there, i'm afraid he'll swallow you when he gets at you in the morning." young colonel was the puppy the returning soldier had never seen. he had come long after i had gone away, and as yet i knew him only by his voice, for i had heard his dismal wails down in the barn. in the excitement of the evening i had forgotten him, but now i raised a warning finger and listened, thinking that i might catch the appealing cry. and is there any cry more appealing than that of a lonely puppy? there was not a sound outside, and i turned to tim. my brother lighted his pipe, and leaned back in his chair, and looked at me. i looked at him very, very hard. then we both began to blow clouds of smoke in each other's faces. hardly a word had tim and i passed since that day in the field when i drew the long twig that sent me away and left him behind to keep our home. what a blessing a pipe is at a time like this! tim says more by the vigor of his smoking than perry thomas could express in a year's oration. so we enshrouded our emotions in the gray cloud; but if he did not speak, i knew well what he would be saying, and the harder i puffed the easier did he divine what was uppermost in my mind. for we were brothers! this was the same room that for years had been our world; this the same carpet over which we had tumbled together at our mother's feet. there was the same cupboard that had been our mountain; here the same chairs that formed our ridges and our valleys. at the table by my side, by the light of this very lamp, we sat together not so very long ago, boys, spelling out with our father, letter by letter, word by word, the stories of the bible. here we had lived our little lives; here we were to live what was to come; and where life is as simple as it is with us we grow a bit like the animals about us. we sit together and smoke; we purr, as it were, and know each other's mind. tim and i purred. incident by incident, year by year, we travelled down the course of our lives again, over the rough ways, over the smooth ways, smoking and smoking, until at last we brought up together at the present. not a word had either of us spoken, but at last when our reminiscent wanderings were over and we paused on the threshold of the future, tim spoke. "attractive?" he said in a tone of inquiry. he was looking at me with eyebrows arched, curiously, and there was a faint suggestion of hostility in the set of his mouth. poor tim! he has seen so little of women! we have them in our valley, of course. but he and i lived much in the great book-land beyond the hills. we had read together of all the heroines of the romances, and we knew their little ways and their pretty speeches as well as if we had ourselves walked with them through a few hundred pages and lived happily ever after. they had been the women of our world as distinct from the women of our valley. the last we knew as kindly, honest persons with a faculty for twisting their english and a woful ignorance of well-turned speeches. they never said "fair sir" nor "master." but i had gone from that book-world and had seen the women of the real world. here i had the advantage of my brother. into his life a single woman had come from the real world. she was different from the women of our valley. i had known that the moment our eyes met, and by the way tim smoked now, and by the tone of his terse inquiry, i knew that he had met a woman who had said "fair sir" to him, and i feared for him. it was disturbing. i felt a twinge of jealousy, but whether for the tall, strong young fellow before me, to whom i had been all, or for the fair-faced girl, i could not for the life of me tell. it seemed to be a bit of both. "i remarked that she was attractive," said tim aggressively, for i had kept on smoking in silence. "rather," i answered carelessly. "but who is she--a stranger here?" "rather," repeated tim hotly. "well, you are blind. i suppose you judged her by that ugly gray gown. you thought she was some pious dunkard." "i am no enemy of piety," i retorted. "in fact, i hardly noticed her clothes at all, except to think that their simplicity gave her a sort of priscilla air that was fetching." tim softened. "that's it exactly," he said. "but, mark, you should have seen mary warden when she came here." "from where?" i asked. "from kansas. she lived in some big town out west, and when her mother died there was no one left to her but luther warden, her uncle. he sent for her, and now she is living with him. the old man sets a great store by her." luther warden is rich. he has accumulated a fine lot of property above six stars--several good farms, a mill and a tannery; but even the chance of inheriting all these did not seem fair compensation for being his niece and having to live with him. he was good to a fault. he exuded piety. six days of the week he worked, piling up the passing treasures of this world. one whole day he preached, striving for the treasures in that to come. you could not lay a finger on a weak spot in his moral armor, but tip pulsifer protected from the assaults of satan only by a shield of human skin, always seemed to me the better of the two. tip wore leaky boots all last winter, but when spring came he bought mrs. pulsifer a sewing machine. have you ever worn leaky boots when the snow was banked fence high? luther warden's boots never leak. they are always tight and well tallowed. his horses and his cows waddle in their fat, and the wool of his flocks is the longest in the valley. luther gets up with the sun and goes to bed with it. some in our valley think his heavy crops come from his six days of labor, and some from his one day of preaching. he says that the one day does it all; but he keeps on getting out with the sun on the other six. i knew that the poor girl from kansas must get up with the sun, too, for her uncle was not the man to brook any dawdling. i knew, further, that sunday could not be a day of rest for her, for of all his people she would have to listen to his preaching. that was why i murmured in a commiserative tone, "luther's niece--poor girl!" "you needn't pity her," tim snapped. "she knows a heap more about the world than you or i do. she--" "she is not a dunkard, then?" i interrupted. "not a bit," tim answered. "i don't know what she was in kansas, but luther has preached so much on worldliness and the vanity of fine clothes that it wouldn't look right for his niece to go flaunting frills and furbelows about the valley. that plain gray gown is a concession to the old man. he'd like her to wear a prayer-cap and a poke bonnet, i guess, but she has a mind of her own. i think she drew the line there." she had not given up so much, i thought. perhaps in her self-denial there was method, and her simple garb became her best. even a prayer-cap might frame her face the fairest; but she must know. and i had seen that in the flash of her eye and the toss of her head that told me that a hundred luther wardens, a hundred dunkard preacher uncles, could not abate her beauty one jot. "she's rich," said tim. he blurted it out. as long as i had seen her and found her beautiful, this announcement seemed uncalled for. had she been plain of face and figure it might have served a purpose, were my brother endeavoring to excuse the sentimental state of mind he had disclosed to me. he knew that the place he held in my heart was first. this had always been true, and in our lonely innocence we had promised it should be true to the end. there was to be a fair return. he had promised it, and now he was learning how hard it was to keep faith. his attitude was one of half penitence, half defiance. had i not seen the girl, had he told me that she was beautiful, and even rich and good, all our boyish pledges would have been swept aside, and i should have cheered him on. but i had seen her. she had laughed with me. somehow we had understood each other. and now i cared not so much what he felt for her as how she looked on him. for once in our lives tim and i were fencing. "she's pretty, tim," said i, "and rich, you say?" "mary has several thousand dollars," he answered. "besides that, she'll get all old man warden has to leave, and that's a pretty pile." "little wonder she wears that dunkard gown," said i with the faintest sneer. it angered tim. "that's not fair," he cried. "she's not that kind. luther warden is all she has of kin, and if it makes him any happier to see her togged out in that gawky dunkard gown-----" "gawky?" said i. "why, man, on a woman like that a plain dress is simply quaint. she looks like an old dutch picture. you must not let her change it." the insinuation of his authority made tim pound the table with his pipe. he was striving to be angry, but i knew what that furious flush of his face meant. he tried to conceal it by smoking again, but ended in a laugh. "oh, nonsense!" he said. then he laughed again. "tell me," i went on, following up my advantage, "when is she coming here, or when are you going to move up there?" my brother recovered his composure. "it's all silly, mark. there is no chance of a girl like that settling down here with a clumsy fellow like me--a fellow who doesn't know anything, who's never been anywhere, who's never seen anything. why, she's travelled; she's from kansas; she's lived in big cities. this is nothing but a lark for her. she'll go away some day, and she'll leave us here, grubbing away on our bit of a farm and spending our savings on powder and shot--until we get to the happy hunting grounds." tim laughed mournfully. "i've been just a little foolish," he went on, "but i couldn't help it, mark. it doesn't amount to anything; it never did and never will, and now that you're here and the rabbit season will soon be in, we'll have other things to think of. but you must remember i'm not the only man in the world who's been a bit of a fool in his time." "no," said i. "may i be spared myself, but see here, tim, how does it feel?" "how does what feel?" snapped tim. "to be in love the way you are," i answered. "oh!" he exclaimed. he had been taken back, and hesitated between anger and amusement. when tim hesitates he loses his temper as a sensible man should lose it--he buries it, and his indomitable good humor wins. "tip pulsifer says it's like religion," he answered. "at first it makes you feel all low-down like, and miserable, and you don't care. then you either get over it entirely or become so used to it you don't feel it at all." "may i be spared!" i cried, "and may you get over it." but the youngster refused to commit himself. he just smiled and smoked, and it seemed as though in his suffering he was half happy. i smoked, too. we smoked together. the silence startled captain, for the clock struck, and yawning, he arose, trotted to my side, and with one leap he brought his ponderous paws into my lap. you can trust your dog. he never fails you. "well, old chap," i said, as i scratched his nose ever so gently, "you at least have no one to think of but me and tim there, eh?" [illustration: "well, old chap!"] "no," cried captain heartily. that was not the exact word that he used, but he expressed it by beating his tail against the table and giving a long howl. "and if tim, there, goes dawdling after a woman, we shall stick to the ridges, and the foxes, and the rabbits. we can't go as fast as we used to, captain, but we can go together, eh?" "the same as ever and the same forever," cried captain. those were not his exact words, but i saw his answer in his eyes, for he had climbed higher and they were close to mine. he seemed ready to swallow me. "and when he brings her home, captain," said i, "and fills the whole house with young ones who'll pull your tail and tickle your ears and play horse with my crutches, we shall sit outside and smoke our pipes alone, in peace and quiet, eh, captain?" "oho!" cried captain. "that we will, and you never need want, mark, for i've many a fine bone buried away against old age and rainy weather." "spoken like a man," said i, slapping the hound on the back. tim had lighted a candle. now he blew out the lamp and stood over me in the half-light, holding out a hand. "come," he said. "that's right, put your hand on my shoulder, for the stairs are steep and will trouble you. that's the way. come along, captain; to-night we'll all go up together. and when she comes--that woman--we'll go to your house--all three of us--the same as now--eh, captain?" iv "i love soldiers--just love 'em," she said. "the sentiment is an old one with women," said i. "were it not so, there would be no soldiers." "and for that reason you went to war?" she said. "in part, yes," i answered. "how i should like to see the woman!" she cried. "how proud she must be of you!" "of me?" i laughed. "the woman? why, she doesn't exist." "then why did you turn soldier?" "i feared that some day there might be a woman, and when that day came i wished to be prepared. i thought that the men who fought would be the men of the future. but i have learned a great deal. they will be the men of the past in a few months. the memory of a battle's heroes fades away almost with the smoke. in a little while, to receive our just recognition we old soldiers will have to parade before the public with a brass band, and the band will get most attention. would you know that aaron kallaberger was a hero of gettysburg if he didn't wear an army overcoat?" "oh, yes," she said. "i have heard about it so often. he has told me a hundred times." "i suppose you have told a hundred other persons of aaron's prowess?" said i. "no-o-o," she answered. "and so," said i, "when perry thomas finished his oration last night, i had to catch it up; and if my soldiering is to result in any material good to me i must keep that oration moving to the end." "but will you?" she asked. how i liked the way she put it! it was flattering--subtly so. she seemed to imply that i was a modest soldier, and if there is a way to flatter a man it is to call him modest. modesty is one of the best of policies. to call a man honest is no more than to call him healthy or handsome. these are attributes of nearly everyone at some time in his life. but to do a great deed or a good deed, and to rejoice that it has been done and the world is better for it, and not because you did it and the world knows it, that is different. so often our modesty consists in using as much effort to walk with hanging head and sloping shoulders as we should need for a majestic strut. she called me modest. yet there i sat in my old khaki uniform. it was ragged and dirty, and i was proud of it. it was a bit thin for a chilly autumn day, but in spite of tim's expostulation i had worn it, refusing his offers of a warmer garb. i was clinging to my glory. while i had on that old uniform, i was a soldier. when i laid it aside, i should become as aaron kallaberger and arnold arker. a year hence people would ask me if i had been a railroad man in my time. she called me modest. that very morning tim told me she was coming. she had made some jellies, so she said, for the soldier of the valley. they were her offering to the valley's idol. she thought the idol would consume them, for bachelor cooking was never intended for bachelor invalids. tim had mentioned this casually. i suspected that he believed that the visit to me was simply a pretence and that she knew he was to be working in the field by the house. but i took no chances. in the seclusion of my room i brushed every speck off the uniform and made sure that every inch of it fitted snugly and without an unnecessary wrinkle. then when my hair had been parted and smoothed down, i crowned myself with my campaign hat at the dashingest possible tilt. thus arrayed i fixed myself on the porch, to be smoking my pipe in a careless, indifferent way when she came. an egotist, you say--a vain man. no--just a man. for who when she comes would not look his best? we prate a lot about the fair sex and its sweet vanities. yet it takes us less time to do our hair simply because it is shorter. when mary comes! the gate latch clicked and i whistled the sprightliest air i knew. down in the field tim appeared from the maze of corn-stalks and looked my way beneath a shading hand. there were foot-falls on the porch. had they been light i should have kept on whistling in that careless way; but now i looked up, startled. before me stood not mary, but josiah nummler. [illustration: josia nummler.] it was kind of josiah to come, for he is an old man and lives a full mile above the village, half way up the ridge-side. he is very fat, too, from much meditation, and to aid his thin legs in moving his bulky body he carries a very long stick, which he uses like a paddle to propel him; so when you see him in the distance he seems to be standing in a canoe, sweeping it along. really he is only navigating the road. he had a clothes-prop with him that day, and pausing at the end of the porch, he leaned on it and gasped. i ought to have been pleased to see josiah. "well, mark," he said, "i am glad you're home. mighty! but you look improved." he gasped again and smiled through his bushy beard. "thank you," said i, icily, waving him toward a chair. josiah sat down and smiled again. "it just does me good to see you," he said, having completely recovered his power of speech. "i should have come down last night, mark. i 'pologize for not doin' it, but it's mighty troublesome gittin' 'round in the dark. the last time i tried it, i caught the end of my stick between two rocks and it broke. there i was, left settin' on the red hill with no way of gittin' home. i was in for comin' down here to receive you--really i was--but my missus says she ain't a-goin' to have me rovin' 'round the country that 'ay agin. 'gimme an extry oar,' i says. and she says: 'does you 'spose i'll let you run 'round lookin' like a load of wood?' and i says----" the gate latch clicked. again tim appeared from the maze of corn and stood shading his eyes and gazing toward the house. now the footfalls were light. and mary came! but how could i look careless and dashing, with josiah nummler in the chair i had fixed so close to mine? rising, i bowed as awkwardly as possible. i insisted on her taking my own rocker, while i fixed myself on the floor with a pillar for a back-rest. not a word did the girl say, but she sat there clutching the little basket she held in her lap. "eggs?" inquired josiah. she shook her head, but did not enlighten him. "i should judge your hens ain't layin' well, figurin' on the size of the basket," said the old man, ignoring her denial. "there's a peculiarity about the hens in this walley--it's somethin' i've noticed ever since i was a boy. i've spoke to my missus about it and she has noticed the same thing since she was a girl--so it must be a peculiarity. the hens in this walley allus lays most when the price of eggs is lowest." this was a serious problem. it is not usual for josiah to be serious, either, for he is generally out of breath or laughing. now he was wagging his head solemnly, pulling his beard, and over and over repeating, "but hens is contrary--hens is contrary." mary contrived to drop the basket to her side, out of the old man's sight. "speakin' of hens," he went on. "my missus was sayin' just yesterday how as----" tim was shouting. he was calling something to me. i could not make out what it was, for the wind-was rustling the corn-shocks, but i arose and feigned to listen. "it's tim," said i. "he's calling to you, josiah. it's something about your red heifer." "red heifer--i haven't no red heifer," returned the old man. "did i say heifer? i should have said hog--excuse me," said i, blandly. "but i have killed all my hogs," josiah replied, undisturbed. tim shouted again, making a trumpet of his hands. to this day i don't know what he was calling to us, but when this second message reached josiah's ears, it concerned some cider we had, that tim was anxious to know if he would care for. at the suggestion josiah's face became very earnest, and a minute later he was hurrying down the field to the spot where tim's hat and tip pulsifer's shaggy hair showed above the wreck of a corn-shock. "how could you hear what tim was saying?" mary asked. it was almost the first word she had spoken to me, and i was in my chair again, and she was where i had planned so cunningly to have her. "i know my brother's voice," i answered gravely. "i couldn't make out a word," said she, "but it isn't like him to let an old man go tottering over fields to see him. he would have come up here." "i guess he would." there was a twinkle in her eyes and i knew it was useless to dissemble. "tim and i are different. i never hesitate to use strategy to get my chair, even at the expense of a feeble old man." "how gallant you are," she said with a touch of scorn. "you must not scold," i cried. "remember i had reason, after all. you did not come to see josiah nummler." she was taken by surprise. it was brutal of me. but somehow the old reckless spirit had come back. i was speaking as a soldier should to a fair woman, bold and free. that's what a woman likes. she hates a man who stutters love. and while i did not own to myself the least passion for the girl, i had seen just enough of her on the evening before and i had smoked just enough over her that morning to be in a sentimental turn of mind that was amusing. and i gained my point. she turned her head so as almost to hide her face from me, and i heard a gentle laugh. "all's fair in love and war," i said, "and were josiah twice as old, i should be justified in using those means to this end." then i rocked. there is something so sociable about rocking. and i smoked. there is something so sociable about smoking. for a moment the girl sat quietly, screening her face from me. then she began rocking too, and i caught a sidelong glance of her eye, and the color mounted to her cheeks, and we laughed together. so it came that she suddenly stopped her rocking, and dropping the little basket at my feet, exclaimed: "i love soldiers--just love them!" then i told her that i must keep perry thomas's oration going to the end, and she leaned toward me, her hands clasped, her eyes fixed on mine and asked: "but will you?" "i can make no promises," i answered. "they say our bodies change entirely every seven years. mark hope, age fifty, will be a different man from mark hope, age twenty-three. he may have nothing to boast about himself, and his distorted mind may magnify the deeds of the younger man. now the younger man refuses to commit himself. he will not be in any way responsible for his successors." "how wise you are!" she cried. "wise?" i exclaimed, searching her face for a sign of mockery. but there was none. "i mean you talk so differently from the others in the valley. either they talk of crops or weather, or they sit in silence and just look wise. i suppose you have travelled?" "as compared to most folks in black log i am a regular gulliver," i answered. "my father was a much-travelled man. he was an englishman and came to the valley by chance and settled here, and to his dying day he was a puzzle to the people. that an englishman should come to six stars was a phenomenon. that isaac bolum and henry holmes should be born here was no mere chance--it was a law of nature." "and this english father?" "he married, and then tim and i came to black log." "like isaac bolum and henry holmes?" "exactly; and we should have grown like them, but our father was a bookish man, and with him we travelled; we went with dickens and thackeray and those fellows, and as we came to different places in the books, he told us all about them. he'd seen them all, so we got to know his country pretty well. once he took us to harrisburg, and by multiplying everything we saw there, tim and i were able to picture all the great cities of the world--for instance, london is five hundred times harrisburg." "but why didn't you go to see the places yourself?" "why doesn't everybody in black log go to florida in winter or take the waters at carlsbad? we did plan a great trip--father and mother and tim and i--we were going to england together when the farm showed a surplus. we never saw that surplus. i went to philadelphia once. it's a grand place, but i had just enough of money to keep me there two days and bring me home. then the war came. and now tim thinks i've been around the world. he's jealous, for he has never been past harrisburg; but i've really gone around a little circle. i've seen just enough of flying fishes to hanker after mandalay, just enough of spaniards to long for a sight of spain. but they've shipped me home and here i am anchored. here i shall stay until that surplus materializes; and you know in our country we have neither coal nor oil nor iron." "but they tell me that you are to teach the school," she said. "for which i am grateful," i answered. "twenty dollars a month is the salary, and school keeps for six months, so i shall earn the large sum of $ a year." "but your pension?" "with my pension i shall be a nabob in six stars. anywhere else i should cut a very poor figure. but after all, this is the best place, for is there any place where the skies are bluer; is there any place where the grass is greener; is there any place where the storms are wilder than over our mountains?" "sometimes i would say in kansas," the girl answered. "here the world seems to end at the top of the mountain. it is hard to picture anything beyond that. out there you raise yourself on tiptoe, and you see the world rolling away for miles and miles, and it seems to have no ending." "i suppose you will not be able to endure your imprisonment. some day you will go back to kansas." "some day--perhaps," she laughed. "but now i am a true black logger. look at my gown." it was the gray dunkard dress--the concession to her uncle's beliefs on worldliness. it was the first time i had noticed it. "that is not the garb of black log," i said. "it was designed long ago in germany, after patterns from heaven." "and designed by men," said mary, laughing; "forced by them on a sex which wears ribbons as naturally as a bird does feathers." "in other words, when you came to live with your pious uncle, he picked you?" "exactly," she said; "but i submitted humbly. i came here, as i supposed, a fairly good christian, with an average amount of piety and an average number of faults. my worldliness shocked my uncle, and being a peaceful person, i let him pick me. but i rebelled at the bonnet--spare me from one of those coal-scuttles--i'll go to the stake first." in her defiance she swung her own straw hat wildly around on the string. pausing, she smoothed out the gray gown and eyed it critically. "was such a thing ever intended for a woman to wear!" she exclaimed. "for most women, surely not," said i. "few could carry that handicap and win. but after all, your uncle means it kindly. he acts from interest in your soul's welfare." mary's face became serious. "yes," she said, "he has paid me the highest compliment a man can pay to a woman--he wants to meet me in heaven." how could i blame luther warden? i had forgotten my uniform and my glory, my hair and my hat, and was leaning forward with my eyes on the girl. and she was leaning toward me and our heads were very close. the rebellious brown hair was almost in the shade of my own dashing hat-brim. then i said to myself in answer to the poet, "here's the cheek that doth not fade, too much gazed at." for its color was ever changing. and again i said to myself and to the poet, when my glance had met hers, and the color was mounting higher: "here's the maid whose lip mature is ever new; here's the eye that doth not weary." and now aloud, forgetfully, leaning back in my chair and gazing at her from afar off--"here's the face one would meet in every place." mary's chair flew back, and it was for her to gaze at me from afar off. "what were you saying?" she demanded in a voice not "so very soft." "was i saying anything?" i answered, feigning surprise. "i thought i was only thinking. but you were speaking of luther warden." "was i?" she said, more quietly, but in an absent tone. "you said he had paid you a great compliment, but do you know----" i paused, being a bit nervous, and flushed, for she was looking right at me. not till she turned away did i finish. "do you know," i went on, "last night when i saw you, i thought we must have met before, and i thought if i had met you anywhere before, it must have been in heaven." i had expected that at a time like this josiah nummler would appear. in that i was disappointed. in his place, with a bark and a bound, came a lithe setter, a perfect stranger to me, and mary seized the long head in her hands and cried: "why, flash--good flash." she completely ignored my last remark, and patted the dog and talked to him. "isn't he a beauty?" she cried. "he is mr. weston's." "whose?" i asked, concealing my irritation. "mr. weston--and who is mr. weston?" mary held up a warning finger. there were footfalls on the gravel walk around the house. "sh," she whispered, "here he comes--no one knows who he is." to this day robert weston's age is a mystery to me; i might venture to guess that it is between thirty and fifty. past thirty all men begin to dry up or fatten, and he was certainly a lean person. his face was hidden beneath a beard of bristling, bushy red, and he had a sharp hook nose and small, bright eyes. from his appearance you could not tell whether he was a good man or a bad one, wise or stupid, kind-hearted or a brute. he seemed of a neutral tone. his clothes marked him as a man of the city, for we do not wear shooting jackets, and breeches and leather leggings in our valley. in the way he wore them there was something that spoke the man of the world, for in such a costume we of black log should feel dressed up and ill at ease; but his clothes seemed a part of him. they looked perfectly comfortable and he was unconscious of them. this is where the city men have an advantage over us country-breds. i can carry off my old clothes without being awkward. i could enter a fine drawing-room in the patched blouse i wear a-hunting with more ease than in that solemn-looking frock-coat i bought at the county town five years ago. in that garment i feel that "i am." no one could ever convince me that i am a mere thought, a dream, a shadow. every pull in the shoulders, every hitch in the back, every kink in the sleeves makes me a profound materialist. but i don't suppose weston would bother spreading the tails out when he sat down. i doubt if he would know he had it on. he is so easy in his ways. i saw that as he came swinging around the house, and i envied him for it. "well, i am in luck!" he cried cheerfully. "here i came to see the valley's soldier and i find him holding the valley's flower." this to me was rather an astounding thing to say, and if he intended to disable me in the first skirmish he succeeded admirably, for my only answer was a laugh; and the more i laughed the more foolish and slow-witted i felt. i wanted to run to mary's aid, but i did not know how, and while i was rummaging my brain for some way to meet him, she was answering him valiantly. "almost, but not quite," she said. "but he has earned the right to hold the valley's flower entirely--whoever she may he. it's a pity, mr. weston, you have not been doing so, too, instead of loafing around the valley all summer long." she did not speak sharply to him, and that angered me. she was smiling as she spoke, and he did not seem to mind it at all. "i came to see the veteran," he said, "and not to be scolded." "you may have my chair then." mary was rising. "i shall leave you to the veteran--if he does not object." she was moving away. "then i shall have to go with you," said the stranger calmly, "if the veteran doesn't object. he knows a woman should not go unattended around the valley. he'd rather see me doing my duty than having a sociable pipe with him and hearing about the war. how about it, hope?" he did not stop to hear my answer. had he waited a moment instead of striding after the girl, with his dog at his heels, he might have seen my reply. [illustration: he did not stop to hear my answer.] i raised my pipe above my head and hurled it against the fence, where it crashed into a score of pieces. v "who is robert weston?" i asked of tim. "if you can answer that question theophilus jones will give you a cigar," replied my brother. "he has tried to find out; he has cross-questioned every man, woman, and child that comes to his store, and he admits that he is beaten." "when theop can't find out, the mystery is impenetrable." i recalled our suave storekeeper and his gentle way of drawing from his customers their life secrets as he leaned blandly over the counter with his sole thought apparently to do their commands. theophilus had known that i was going to enlist long before i had made up my own mind. he had told tim that i was coming home before he had handed him the postal card on which i had scrawled a few lines announcing my return. so when i heard that weston was still a puzzle to him i knew that six stars had a mystery. for six stars to have a mystery is unusual. occasionally we are troubled with ghosts and such supernatural demonstrations, which cause us to keep at home at night, but we soon forget these things if we do not solve them. but for our village to number among its people a man whose whole history and whose family history was not known was unheard of. for such a man to be here six weeks and not enlighten us was hardly to be dreamed of. robert weston had dared it. even tim regarded the matter as serious. "it is suspicious," he said, shaking his head gravely. he was cleaning up the supper dishes at the end of the table opposite me. by virtue of my recent return i had not fallen altogether into our household ways as yet, and sat smoking and watching him. "it's mighty odd," he went on. "at noon one day, about six weeks ago, weston rode up to the tavern on a bicycle and told elmer spiker he was going to stay to dinner. he loafed about all that afternoon, and stayed that day and the next, and ever since. first there came a trunk for him, and then a dog. you see him about all the time, for when he isn't walking, he's loafing around the tavern, or is over at the store, arguing with henry holmes or isaac bolum. yet all we know about him is that he's undecided how long he'll stay and that he has lived in new york." "has no one asked him point-blank what he is doing here?" "no. isaac bolum declares every day that he is going to, but when the time comes he breaks down. every other means of finding out has been taken." "josiah nummler told me to-day he believed weston was a detective." "that was elmer spiker's theory. but, as theop says, who is he detecting?" theophilus settled that theory conclusively, in my mind, at least, for i knew every man, woman, and child in the valley; and taking a mental census, i could find no one who seemed to require watching by a hawkshaw. "perry thomas guessed he was an embezzler," said tim, putting the last dish in the cupboard and sitting down to his pipe. "perry says weston is the best-learned man he ever met, and that embezzlers are naturally educated or they would not be in places where they could embezzle." "a truly perryan argument," said i; "and after all, a reasonable one, for no one would think of looking here for a fugitive." "that's just what perry says," rejoined tim. "but theop has read every line in the papers for weeks, and he swears that no embezzlers are missing now." "perhaps his crime is still concealed," i ventured. "that was just what isaac bolum thought," tim answered. "but henry holmes says no missing criminal is likely to have a setter dog shipped to him. he says such a man might send for his clothes, but he would draw the line on dogs." "perhaps he has deserted his wife," i said, seeing at last a possible solution of the mystery. "that's what arnold arker suggested just a few days ago," returned tim; "but tip pulsifer allowed that no fellow would have to come so far to desert his wife." "tip ought to know," said i, "for he deserts his once a year, regularly." "he always comes back the next day," retorted tim stoutly. my brother has always been tip's champion in his matrimonial disagreements, and whenever pulsifer flees across the mountain, swearing terrible oaths that he will never return, tim goes straight to the clearing on the ridge and talks long and seriously to the deserted wife about her duty. [illustration: swearing terrible oaths that he will never return.] but there was reason in tip's contention regarding weston. indeed, from tim's account of events, i could see that the store had very thoroughly threshed out the whole case and that the problem was not one that could be solved by abstract reasoning. there was only one person to solve it, and that was robert weston himself. i knew enough of the world to know that it was not an unheard-of thing for a man to settle for a time in an out-of-the-way village. i knew enough of men to understand that he might consider it nobody's business why he cared to live among us. i had enough sense of humor to see that he might find amusement in enveloping himself in mystery and sparring with the sly sages of the store and tavern. by right i should have stood by and watched the little game; i should have encouraged isaac bolum and henry holmes to apply the interrogating probe; i should have warned weston of the plotting at the store to lay bare the secret of his life; i should have brought the contending parties together and enjoyed the duello. instead, i had to admit to myself a curiosity as to the stranger's identity that equalled, if it did not surpass, that of theophilus jones. his was curiosity pure and simple; mine was something more. weston had come quietly into my own castle, had taken complete possession of it for a moment, and then calmly walked away with the fairest thing it held--and all so quietly and with an air that in a thousand years of practice, i or none other in the valley could have simulated. the picture was still sharp in my mind as i sat there smoking and drawing tim out; for when i had vented my anger on my pipe that morning i had hurried to the gate to watch my departing visitors as they swung down the village street. weston, lanky and erect, moved with a masterful stride, not unlike the lean and keen-witted setter that flashed to and fro over the road before him. at his side was the girl, a slender body in drab, tossing her hat gayly about at the end of its long string. they passed the store and the mill, and at the bend were lost to my view. they seemed to find themselves such good company! even tim, so fine and big, had in this homely, lanky man a rival well worth watching. and who was the quiet, lanky man? over and over i asked myself the question, and when i touched its every phase i found that henry holmes or isaac bolum, some one of the store worthies, had met defeat there before me. at last i gave up, and by a sudden thought arose and pulled on my overcoat, and got my hat. tim was surprised. "you are not going out?" he said. "i think i'll stroll down to the tavern and see this stranger," i replied carelessly. "no, you needn't come. i can find my way alone all right, for the moon will be up and it's only a step." it did seem to me that tim might insist on bearing me company, knowing as he did that i was still a bit rickety; but he saw fit to take my one refusal as final, and muttered something about reading. then, i left him. it has been years since they have had a license at our tavern, so there was a solitary man in the bar-room when i entered. elmer spiker, mine host of the inn, was huddled close to the stove, and was reading by the light of a lamp. pausing at the threshold before opening the door, the sonorous mumble sounding through the deal panels misled me. believing the spiker family at prayers, i stood reverently without until the service seemed to last too long to be one of devotion. then i opened a crack and peeked in. seeing a lone man at the distant end of the room, i entered. elmer's back was toward me and my presence was unnoticed. his eyes were on the paper before him. "w. j. mandelberger, of martins mills, was among us last friday," he read, slowly, distinctly, measuring every word. "he paid his subscription for the year and informed us that mrs. mandelberger had just presented him with a bouncing baby boy. congratulations, w. j." i coughed apologetically, but elmer rattled the paper just then, and did not notice me. he went rumbling on: "william arker, of popolomus, and miss myrtle mcgee, of turkey valley, were united in the holy bonds of matrimony on the sixth ultimo." "elmer," i said sharply, thumping the floor with a crutch. spiker turned slowly. "oh," he exclaimed, "is that you? excuse me; i was reading the news. everybody ought to keep up with what's happenin'. the higher up we gits on the ladder of human intelligence, the more news we have--we can see furder." having evolved this sage remark, elmer twisted back to his old position and raised the paper. "now mind this," he said. "jonas parker and his wife and four of his children were----" "see here," i cried, pounding the floor again. "i don't care for jonas parker and all of his children. where is mr. weston?" "oh," said elmer, "excuse me. i thought you had come to see me. it's weston, eh? well, his room's just there at the head of the stairs." he pointed to the door which gave an entrance to the rear hall, but as i wished to be a bit formal in my call on the stranger, i suggested that mr. spiker might oblige me by seeing if the gentleman was at home. this seemed entirely unnecessary to mine host, and he wanted to argue the point. but i insisted, and he arose with a sigh, and taking the lamp in his hand, disappeared, leaving me in utter darkness. the door banged shut behind him and i heard him at the foot of the stairs roaring "ho-ho-there-ho!" no answer came from the floor above. again sounded the stentorian tones. "mark says as if you are there, you're to come down; he wants to see you." a last "ho-there-ho"; a long silence; the door opened. there was light again and elmer was before me. "he ain't there, i guess," he said. "still, if you want me to make sure, i'll go up." [illustration: no answer came from the floor above.] inasmuch as mine host's cries must still be echoing in the uttermost parts of the house, it seemed needless to compel him to take the climb. spiker agreed with me. it was not surprising that weston was out, for he was an odd one, always spooking around somewhere, investigating everything, and asking questions. his room was full of books in various languages, and when he wasn't wandering about the valley, he would be sitting reading far into the night--sometimes as late as half-past ten. there was a fellow named goth, who seemed to be weston's favorite writer. this goth was a pennsylvania dutchman, and as elmer's own ancestors were from allentown, he thought he'd like to take up the language, so he'd borrowed from his guest a book called "the sorrows of werther." of all the rubbish that was ever wrote, them "sorrows" were the poorest. elmer had only figured out a page and a half, but that gave him enough insight into their character to convince him that a man who could set reading them till half-past ten was--here mine host tapped his forehead and winked. curious chap, weston. elmer had seen a heap of men in his time and never met the like. there's no way to get to see men and understand them like keeping a hotel. when you've "kept" for about forty years, there's hardly a man comes along that you can't set right down in his particular class before he's even registered. but weston had blocked him at every turn. elmer knew no more of the man now than on the day he came. in fact, he was getting more and more tangled up about him all the time. for instance, why should one who could read goth and understand the "sorrows," want to set around the store and argue with such-like ignoramuses as ike bolum and hen holmes? spiker was willing to bet that right now weston was over the way trying to prove to them that two and two was four. the suggestion seemed a likely one, so i interrupted the flow of elmer's troubled thoughts to say good-night, and went out. i paused a moment on the porch. a lamp was blazing in the store and i could plainly see everyone gathered along the counter. henry holmes was standing with his back to the stove, one hand wagging up and down at the solemn line of figures on the bench. but weston was not there. and in our valley, when a man is not at home o'night he should be at the store, else there is a mystery to be solved. to solve this one i stopped on the tavern steps, leaned against a pillar, and gazed through the dozing village. at the head of the street where our house stood a bright light burned. there tim was and there i should be also. a hundred times down south on my post at night, with my back on the rows and rows of white tents, i had sought to pierce the black gloom before me as if there i could see that same light--the home light. often i fancied i saw it, and in its bright circle tim was bending over his book. here it was in truth, calling me, but i turned from it and looked away over the flats, where another light was winking on the hillside. behind that hill, on the eastward ridge, a great ball is glowing, fiery red. higher and higher it rises, into the tree-tops, then over them; higher and higher, bathing the valley in soft, white light, uncovering the gray road that climbs the ridge-side; higher and higher, until the pines on the ridge-top stand out boldly, fringing into the sky; higher and higher, casting mysterious shadows over the meadows, touching with light the hillside, new-ploughed and naked; clear and white lies the road over the flats to the hill there--clear and white and smooth. on the hillside the light is burning. it is only a short half mile, and the way is easy. in the old house at the end of the street another light is blinking solemnly. beneath it tim is waiting. he misses me. he wonders why i am so long. soon he will be coming. base deserter, truly! but for once--this once--for the white road over the flat and up the hillside leads to the light! vi "why, mark, but you did give me a start!" cried luther warden, laying down his book and hurrying forward to greet me. it was not surprising that the good man should be taken back, for in all the years we had lived together in the valley this was my first evening visit. so unusual an occurrence required an explanation, so i said that i just happened to be taking a stroll and dropped in for a minute. i glanced at mary to see if she understood my feeble subterfuge, but i met only a frank smile, as though, like her uncle, she believed that i was likely to go hobbling about on moonlight nights this way. luther never doubted me. "it's good of you to drop in," he said, after he had fixed me in his own comfortable chair and drawn up the settee for himself. "when i was livin' alone up here i often used to wish some of you young folks would come in of an evenin' and keep me company and join me in readin' the good book. it used to be lonely sometimes, but since i've got mary it ain't so bad. but i hope her bein' here won't make no difference, and now as you've started you'll come just the same as if i was alone." i assured him that i would come just the same. that made mary laugh. she had been sitting in the lamp-lit circle, and now she rocked back into the shade, so, craning my neck, i could just see the dark outline of her face. she made some commonplace but kindly speech of welcome, and i was about to engage her, seeking to draw her from the shadow, when her uncle suddenly interposed himself between us and took a book from the table. drawing the settee closer to the light, he opened the great volume across his knees and adjusted his spectacles. throwing back his head and looking at me benignly from under his glasses, he said: "it's peculiarly fortunate you come to-night, mark. when you knocked i was readin' aloud to mary. we read together every night now, her and me, and most instructin' we find it." i told luther that it was too much for me to allow him to wear out his eyes reading to me; much as i should enjoy it, i could not hear of it, but i would ask him to let me have the volume when he had finished with it. it did seem that this should bring mary into the light again, and that she would support my protests; but calmly and quietly she spoke from the darkness, like a voice from another world, "go on, uncle luther; i want mr. hope to hear this." now had mary warden called me by my christian name she would have followed the custom of our valley and it would have passed unnoticed; but when she used that uncalled-for "mister" her uncle looked around sharply. first he tried to pierce the shadows and see her, but she drew farther and farther into the darkness. so he gazed at me. he was beginning to suspect that after all i had not come to see him. had mark hope become proud? was mary falling again into the ways of the wicked world from which he was striving so hard to wean her, that she should thus address one of the humblest of god's creatures, a mere man? old luther rubbed his spectacles very carefully and slowly; blowing on them and rubbing them again; finally adjusting them, he leaned forward and tried to study the girl's face, to find there some solution of the puzzle. "read to mr. hope," she said clearly, and with just a touch of defiance. had she used some endearing term the old man could not have frowned harder than when he turned on me then, and eyed me through his great spectacles. "yes, read to us, luther," said i calmly; "miss warden and i will listen." "god has been very good to me," said the old man solemnly, "and i've not yet heard him call me mister luther warden. i s'pose with you and your kind, when he comes to you, he calls you mister mark hope." this rather took me back, and i stammered a feeble protest, but he did not heed me. turning to mary, he went on: "and you, mary warden, i s'pose at such times you are 'miss.' what wanity! what wanity! politeness, they calls it. politeness? well, in the great eternity, up above, where they speaks from the heart, you'll be just mark and just mary. but down yander--yander, mind ye--the folks will probably set more store by titles." the old preacher was pointing solemnly in the direction of the cellar. there was a long pause, an interval of heavy silence. then from mary in the darkness came, "well, uncle, let us hope that when we reach that great eternity, mark and i will be good enough friends to lay aside such vanities." "right!" cried luther, smiling again, and speaking real heartily. "right," said i; "and we'll begin eternity to-day, won't we, mary?" "we will," said she. and in my heart i blessed luther warden. guilelessly, the old man, in a few words, had swept away the barrier mary and i had raised between us. he had added years to our friendship. so had he stopped there it would have been wonderfully well; but he had to go floundering innocently on. he was laughing softly. "do you know, mark," he said, rubbing his spectacles nervously, "she made me jealous of you when she talked that way. i thought she'd set her cap for you, i did. whenever a man and woman gits polite, whenever they has to bow and scrape that way, a-misterin' and a-missin' one another, they're hiding somethin'; they ain't actin' open. so i was beginnin' to think mebbe she wanted to marry you and----" "go on reading--please read to us," pleaded mary. "yes, do read to us," i echoed, for the position was a new one to me, and at best i am awkward and slow-witted where women are concerned. i could not adroitly turn the old man's wandering speculation into a general laugh as weston would have done. my best was to break in rudely. "well--if i must," luther said, opening the great book across his knees. a long silence followed. i heard the solemn ticking of the clock on the mantel behind me; i heard mary laughing softly in her retreat beyond the table; i heard luther, now bending over his book, mumbling to himself a few words of the text. "it is about the faymine in injy," he said at last, holding his place on the page with a long, thin forefinger, and looking up at me. "there are three volumes, and this is the second. the third is yit to come. i pay a dollar a year and every year i gits a new volume. it's a grand book, too, mark. it was wrote by one of our brethren, brother matthias pennel, who went to injy in charge of a shipload of grain gathered by our people for the sufferin' heathen. the first volume tells all about the gittin' up of the subscription and the sailin' of the wessel. brother matthias is a grand writer, and he tells all about injy and the heathen, and how the wessel reached the main place there--what's the place, mary?--you're allus good on geography!" "calcutta," prompted mary. "yes, i mind now--calcutty. well, from there brother matthias went up into the country called--i can't just mind the exact name--oh, here it is--b-a-l-l-e-r-r-a-d ballerrad--e-r-a-d--ballerraderad." luther paused and sighed. "them names--them names!" he exclaimed. "if there is one thing that convinces me that the story of the tower of babel is true, it is the names of the towns in injy." it seemed to me that perhaps from the viewpoint of the east indian, the same thing might be said of our "villes" and "burgs," and i was about to raise my voice in behalf of the maligned heathen, when my host resumed his discourse. "when you come in, i was readin' about a poor missionary woman in baller--baller--ballerraderad--whose sunday-school had been largely eat up by taggers. her name was flora martin, brother matthias says, and she was one of the saintliest women he ever seen. he tells how the month before he come to baller--baller--baller-daddad--an extry large tagger had been sneakin' around the mission-house, a-watchin' for scholars, and how one day, when, according to brother matthias, this here flora martin, armed only with a rifle and girded about with the heavenly sperrit--how this here flora----" there was a ponderous knock on the door, and then the knob began to rattle violently. the bolt had been shot, so luther had to rise in haste to admit the new-comer, leaving flora martin with nothing but the rifle and the heavenly spirit. perry thomas stepped in. "i just happened to be passin' and thought i'd drop in for a spell," he said, with a profound bow to mary, who arose to greet him. this apology of perry's was as absurd as mine had been, for he lived a mile on the other side of the village; and as the next house was over the ridge, a good three miles away, it was odd that he should be wandering aimlessly about thus. besides, he had on his new prince albert, and there was a suspicion of a formal call in the smoothly oiled hair and tallowed boots. he carried his fiddle, too. there was to my mind every evidence that the visit had been preconceived, and to this point had been carried out with an eye on every detail. had the contrary been true, there would have been no cause for perry to glare at me as he did. the he-ro in blue was anything but welcome now. indeed, it seemed that could perry's wish have been complied with, i should be back on the "lead-strewn fields of cuby." mary was most cordial. she seized his fiddle and his hat and stowed them carefully away together, while luther, pushing the latest visitor to a place at his side on the settee, told him how fortunate he was to drop in just at that time, as he would hear a few interesting things about the famine in india. perry was positively ungrateful. he declared that he could only stay a minute at the most, and that it was really not worth luther's while to begin reading. mary said that she would not hear of him leaving. she had hidden his hat and would insist on his playing; that was, if i did not mind and her uncle gave his permission. perry smiled. there was less fire in his eyes when i vowed that not till i had listened again to the song of his beloved violin would i stir from my chair. so he settled back to pay the price and hear the story of flora martin and the tiger. luther repeated his account of the book and the story of brother matthias pennel. he told perry of sister flora and her saintly character, and of the devastation by the fierce king of the bengal jungle. he brought us again to where the frail little woman determined to fight death with death. and here, in low, rumbling tones, letter by letter, word by word, we took up the narrative of the adventurous dunker brother. "thus armed with only a heavy elephant rifle, the property of the foreign missionary society, and clad only in grace, flora martin began her lonely vigil on the roof of the mission-house, which is used both as a dwelling and sunday-school by those who are carrying light to the heathen in ballerraderad, which, we must remember, is one of the most populous provinces in all injy. this combined dwelling and church edifice stands at the far end of the little village, and as the lonely indian moon was just rising above the horizon, sister flora heard a series of catlike footsteps along the veranda beneath her--for we must remember that in this part of our globe the nights are strangely still and the sounds therefore carry for a great distance. breathlessly flora martin, mindful of the slumbering innocent charges sleeping below her, and over whom she was watching, leaned out over the roof, rifle in hand. the footsteps came nearer and nearer and----" there was a gentle rat-tat-tat on the door. it was so gentle that luther thought his ears were deceiving him, for while he stopped reading, he made no motion to rise, but sat listening. again they came, three polite taps, seeming to say, "i should like to get in, but pray don't disturb yourself." "come in," shouted the old preacher, not even looking around, for he still seemed to doubt his sense of hearing. the door opened quietly and mr. robert weston appeared before us. mary had slipped from her place to meet him, and in weston's greeting to her i had my first lesson in what the world calls manner. how clumsy seemed my own excuses for coming at all, compared to his pleasure at finding her at home! he had been looking forward all afternoon to seeing her again. as he shook hands with luther, he was so hearty that the old man took his guest by the shoulders and declared fervidly that he was rejoiced that he had come. weston did not glare at perry thomas, nor at me either. we but added to his pleasure. truly his cup of joy was overflowing! and the famine in india--indeed--indeed! the subject was one which interested him deeply, and if mr. warden cared for it, he would send him several books on the far east which he had in his library at home. he hoped that in return he might some time have the pleasure of reading carefully, cover to cover, the fat volume that luther had spread across his knees. meantime, he would insist on not interrupting. but mary must be comfortably seated before he could take the place on the settee that luther had arranged for him, and he must hear all over again the story of the book, of brother matthias pennel and sister flora martin. how i envied him! what must perry and i seem beside this lanky man with his kindly, easy ways! perry, of course, did not see it. he was smiling, for weston was telling him that he had stood at the thomas gate for a half hour the very evening before, listening to the strains of a violin. he hoped to hear that melody again, when mr. warden had finished the story of the brave missionary of ballerraderad. the dunker preacher was beaming. he forgot the great doctrine of humility, and declared that "mister" weston should have the volume that very night. there was nothing better to give a clear view of the character of the work than brother matthias pennel's account of the heroism of sister flora. so we composed ourselves again to hear of the battle to the death between the noble missionary woman and the mighty bengal. "nearer and nearer came the footsteps," read luther, pausing at each word to make sure of it. "furder and furder out over the top of the mission-house leaned sister flora, and as she leaned she thought how much depended on her that night; for she must remember that there were sleeping within the walls of the mission-house forty-seven children, thirty of which were females under the age of eleven years, and seventeen males, of whom not one-half had reached the age of nine years. next she saw a dark object crouching below her. she saw two fiery eyes; she saw the tiger gather himself preparatory to springing. she----" perry thomas's knock had been ponderous, thunderous, and clumsy. weston's had been self-assured, but polite. now came a series of raps, now loud, now low, now quick, now slow, keeping time to a martial air. evidently there was a rollicking fellow outside. no one moved. we sat there, all five of us, eyes wide open in surprise, trying to guess, who this could be playing tunes on the door, and never seeking to solve the simple problem by turning the knob. it was tim. there was a sudden oppressive silence. then he entered, gravely bowing. "good evening, mr. warden," he said mockingly. "you have a delightful way here of greeting the stranger at your gate, closing your ears to his appeals and letting him break in. and miss warden too--why, this is a surprise. i had supposed you'd be at a ball. and mr. weston--delighted--i'm sure----" "what, mark?" there was genuine surprise in tim's voice as he saw me sitting quietly in the shadow. his mock elegance disappeared, and he stood gaping at me. "i thought you'd gone to see mr. weston," he blurted out. "he came to see me instead," said mary laughing. "and so did mr. weston and mr. thomas, and so i hope you did. and if you sit down there by uncle luther and be quiet, you shall hear about the famine in india." tim just filled the settee. in my dark corner, in my comfortable chair, i could smile to myself as i watched his plight and that of his companions. i could not see mary well, for the lamp and the long table separated us, but i fancied that in her retreat she, too, was laughing. poor tim had the end of the bench. he sat very erect, with his head up, his eyes on the wall before him, his folded hands resting on his knees, after the company manner of black log. mr. perry thomas, at the other end, was his counterpart, only the orator drew his chin into his collar, furrowed his brow, and gazed wisely at the floor. he was where mary could see him! weston had none of our stiff, formal ways, but was making himself as much at home as possible in such trying circumstances. he spread out all over the narrow space allotted him between luther and my brother. but curiously enough, he really seemed interested. it was he who told, in greatest detail, to tim the story of brother matthias pennel and of the trials of the saintly flora martin. when he had recounted her adventures to the very instant she caught the gleam of the tiger's eyes, he calmly swung one lank leg over the knee of the other, slid down in his seat so he could hook his head on the hard back, and said, cheerily, "now, mr. warden, go on reading and let no one interrupt." perry was coughing feebly, as he always does when he is plotting to speak. "no, no," cried weston in protest; "i insist, mr. thomas, that you stay and play the violin to us when we have heard the end of this interesting story." it was with mingled feelings that i regarded brother matthias pennel. as i had stood on the tavern porch that night, looking up the white road that led to mary's home, i had dared to picture to myself a different scene from the one before me. from that scene luther warden had been removed entirely. of robert weston, of perry thomas, of tim, i had taken no account. they had not even been dreamed of, for mary and i were to sit alone in the quiet of the evening. the flash of her eyes was to be for me--for me their softer glowing. at my calling the rich flames would blaze on her cheeks. i was to light those flames. i was to fan them this way and that way. i was to smother them, kindle them, quench them. playing with the fire of a woman's face! dangerous work, that! and up the white road i had hobbled to the fire, as a simple child crawls to it. but luther warden was there to guard me with brother matthias pennel, and in my inmost heart i hated them both for it. then perry thomas blundered in, and compared to him, old luther and his learned brother were endurable. as to robert weston, i knew that beside him matthias pennel was my dearest friend. then tim came! and as i looked at the long settee where luther was droning on and on through the story of sister flora, where perry thomas seemed to sit beneath the judgment seat, where weston shifted wearily to and fro, where tim was suffering the tortures of the thumb-screw, i cried to my inmost self, "verily, brother matthias, thou art a mighty joker!" it took a long time to kill that tiger. there was so much recalling to be done, so much remembering needed, and reviewing of statistics concerning the flora and the fauna of the far east, that when at last the rifle's cry rang out on the still night air, which, as we had learned, in india carries sound to a much greater distance than in our cold, northern climes; when the mighty bengal reeled and fell dying, and sister flora sprang from her hiding place on the roof to sing a hymn of praise; when all this had been told, luther warden banged the book shut, arose, and looked at the clock. [illustration: the tiger story.] "mighty souls!" he cried. "it's long past bed-time. it's half-past nine." back over the white road we went, weston and perry, tim and i. "good-night, boys!" called the strange man cheerily from the gloom of the tavern porch. it was the first word he had spoken on our walk home. "is it two million five hundred and sixty thousand, or two hundred and fifty-six thousand persons that are bitten annually by snakes in india?" cried tim, suddenly awaking from his moody silence. "you can go back to-morrow and find out," came from the porch. "good-night, mr. weston," returned my brother sharply. perry thomas parted from us at the gate, and we stood watching his retreating figure till we lost it at the bend. then we went in. standing at the foot of the stairs, with a lighted candle in his hand, tim turned suddenly to me and said, "i thought you were going to see weston." "i thought you were sitting at home waiting for me to get back," i retorted. "can i help you upstairs?" he said. "no, i'm going to sit awhile and smoke," i answered jauntily, "and talk--to captain." vii tim was leaving the valley. we tied his tin trunk on the back of the buggy and he climbed to the seat beside me. tip pulsifer handed him a great cylindrical parcel, bound in a newspaper, and my brother held it reverently in his lap; for it was a chocolate cake, six layers high, that mrs. tip had baked from the scanty contents of the pulsifer flour barrel. tim was going to the city, and all the city people mrs. tip had ever seen were lean, quick-moving and nervous, a condition which she concluded was induced by starvation. so she had done her best to provide tim against want. her mind was the mind of six stars. all the village was about the buggy. josiah nummler had rowed down from his hill-top, and the bulge in tim's pocket was caused by the half dozen fine pippins which the old man had brought as his farewell gift. even theophilus jones left the store unguarded, and hurried over when the moment arrived that the village was to see the last of its favorite son. mrs. tip pulsifer is always red about the eyes, and no way was left her to show her emotion but to toss her apron convulsively over her face and swing cevery wildly to and fro, so that the infant's cries arose above the chorus of "good-bys" as we drove away. "farewell, comrade." we heard aaron kallaberger's stentorian tones as we clattered around the bend. "head up--eyes front--for'a'd!" tim turned and waved his hat to the little company at the gate, to all the friends he had ever known, to the best he ever was to know; to mrs. bolum and her isaac, feebly waving the hands that had so often helped him in time of boyish trouble; to nanny pulsifer and tip; to all the worthies of the store. tim was off to war. he was going to take part in a greater battle than i had ever seen, for i had been one of thousands who had marched together on a common enemy. he was going forth as did launcelot and galahad, alone, to meet his enemies at every turn, to be sore pressed, and bruised and wounded; not to be as i was, a part of a machine, but to be the machine and the god in it, too. how i envied him! he was going forth to encounter many strange adventures, and while he was in the press, laying about him in all the glory of his strength, fighting his way against a mob, to fame and fortune, i should be dozing life away with captain. "did it feel that way when you left?" said tim. he spoke for the first time when we passed the tannery lane, and his voice was a wee bit husky. "i suppose it's the same with everybody when they turn the bend," i answered. "that's it exactly--at the turn in the road--when you can't see home any more--when you'd give all the world to turn back, but dare not." tim had faced about and was looking over the valley as we climbed the long slope of the ridge. "it's just like being torn in two, isn't it?" he said. "naturally," said i. "home and home people are as much a part of you as head and limbs. when i dragged you away, binding you here in the buggy with your tin trunk and your ambition, something had to snap." "and it snapped at the bend," tim said grimly; "when i saw the last of the house and the rambo tree at the end of the orchard." my brother took to whistling. he started away bravely with a rollicking air, keeping time to the creaking of the buggy and the slow crunching of the horse's feet on the gravel road. even that failed him. we were at the crest of the hill; we were turning another bend; we were in the woods, and through the trees he had a last look at black log. and it's such a little valley, too, that it would hardly seem worth looking back on when the rich fields of kishikoquillas roll away before one! the lone pine on the stone cap of gander knob waved its farewell, and we clattered down the long slope into the great world. [illustration: he had a last look back at black log.] "it's all over at last," said tim, smiling, "and now i am glad i've come; for black log is a good place, but it's so little, after all." "i'm afraid you will find it bigger than a desk in western's office, and a tiny room on a cramped city street," said i. my brother recovered his old spirit and refused to be discouraged by my pessimistic view of his expedition. he laughed gayly and pointed across the country where half a dozen spires of smoke were rising. there was the railroad. there was the great highway where his real journey was to start. there was the beginning of his great adventure. i was the last outpost of the friendly land, and he was going into the unknown. there we were to part! it was my turn to whistle and to watch the wheels as, mile by mile, they measured off the road to that last bend, where i should see no more of tim. * * * * * * there was something strange in my brother's resolve to leave six stars and try his fortunes in the city. just as i had settled down to the old easy ways which my absence had made doubly dear to me, when we should have been drawn closer to each other than ever, and my dependence on him was greatest, he announced his purpose. it was only yesterday. i returned from my accustomed afternoon visit to the wardens to find him rummaging the house for a few of his more personal belongings and stowing them away in a small, blue tin trunk that a little while before had adorned the counter in the store. "i am going to new york," he said, not giving me time to inquire into his strange proceeding. i laughed. tim was joking. this was some odd prank. he had borrowed the tin trunk and was giving me a travesty on tip pulsifer fleeing over the mountain from his petulant spouse: for last night tim and i had had a little tiff. for the first time i had forgotten the post-prandial pipe, and undismayed by the horrors of the famine in india or the tribulations of sister flora martin, journeyed up the road to sit at mary's side. "over the mountain, eh, tim?" i laughed. "and is tip going?" my brother caught my meaning, but he did not smile. "honest," he said. "i am going to new york." "to new york!" i cried. my crutches clattered to the floor as i sank into my chair. "yes," said tim, speaking so quietly that i knew it was the truth. "mr. weston has given me a position in his store. it's a tea importing concern, and he owns it, though he doesn't spend much time at his business." "i didn't think you'd leave me alone." the words were hardly spoken till i regretted them. i had spoken in spite of my better self, for what right had i to stand between my brother and a broader life? when i had gone away to see the world, he had plodded on patiently in the narrow valley to keep a home for me. now that i was back, it was justly his turn to go beyond the mountains and learn something more than the dull routine of the farm and the sleepy village. "i hate to leave you, mark," he said. "but you have felt as i feel about getting away and seeing something. still, if you really want me to stay, i'll give it up. but you are a good deal to blame. you have told me of what you saw when you were in the army. you have showed me that there are bigger things in this world than plodding after a plough, and more exciting chases than those after foxes. i want to do more than sit on a nail-keg in the store and discuss big events. i want to have a little part in them myself--you understand." "yes, tim," said i, "you are right, and i'll get along first rate." "that's the way to talk," he cried cheerfully, slapping me on the shoulder. "you won't be half as lonely here as i shall down there in a strange city; and when you clean away the supper dishes and light your pipe and think of me, i'll be lighting mine and thinking of you and----" he stopped. captain had trotted in, and was sitting close by, looking first at one and then at the other of us quizzically. "you'll have captain," added tim, laughing, "and then by and by, when i am making money, you and captain will come down to the city and we'll all smoke our pipes together--eh, captain?" the hound leaped up and tim caught his forepaws and the two went dancing around the room until a long-drawn howl warned us that such bipedic capers were not to the dog's liking. "captain isn't going to leave home, tim," i cried. "you mustn't expect him to take so active a part in your demonstrations of joy." "it wasn't the delight of leaving home made me dance," returned the boy. "it was the contemplation of the time we'll have when we get together again." "then why go away at all?" "there you are. a minute ago you agreed with me; you were right with me in my plan to do something in this world. now you are using your cunning arguments to dissuade me. but you can't stop me, mark. i've accepted the place. mr. weston has sent word that i am coming, and there you are. i must keep to my bargain." "when did weston arrange all this for you?" "this morning. we were on blue gum ridge hunting squirrels, and we got to talking over one thing and another. i guess i kind of opened up--for he's a clever man, mark. why, he pumped me dry. we hadn't sat there on a log very long till he knew the whole family history and about everything i had ever learned or thought of. he asked me if i intended to spend all my life here, and i said it looked that way, and then i told him how i wanted to go and do something and be somebody." [illustration: "he pumped me dry."] tim stopped suddenly, and winked at captain. "i told him i wanted to go away and see something as you had done, for i was weary of listening to your accounts of things you'd seen. it's awful to have to listen to another's travels. it must be fine to tell about your own." "well, is it my talking that's driving you away, or is it weston's alluring offers?" "alluring?" tim laughed. "i'll say for weston, he is frank. he told me that to his mind business was worse than death. he was born to it. his father left it to him and he has to keep it going to live; but he lets his partner look after it mostly, and he is always worrying lest his partner should die and leave him with the whole thing on his hands. he told me i'd have to drudge in a dark office over books for ten hours a day, and that it would be years before i began to see any rewards. by that time i would probably decide that the old-fashioned scheme of having kings born to order was more sensible than making men wear their lives out trying to become rulers. a cow was contented, he said, because it was satisfied to stand under a tree and breathe the free air, and look up into the blue skies and over the green fields, and chew the cud. as long as the cow was satisfied with one cud it would be contented; but once the idea got abroad in the pasture that two cuds were required for a respectable cow, peace and happiness were gone forever." "our lanky stranger seems a wise man," said i. "in the face of all that, what did you say?" "i told him i wasn't a cow," tim answered. there was no controverting such a reply, and though my sympathies were with the pessimistic weston, i dared not raise my voice in defence of his logic as against this young brother. tim seemed to think that the fact that he was not a cow turned from him all the force of weston's philosophy, and insisted on going blindly on in search of another cud. "he laughed when i said that," tim continued, "and he said he guessed there was no sense in using figures of speech to me, but he was willing to bet that some time i would come to his way of thinking. i told him that perhaps i would when i had seen as much of men and things as he had; but now i looked about me with the mind and the eye of a yokel. that was just what i wanted to escape. he was himself talking to me from a vantage-point of superior knowledge, and the consciousness of my own inferiority was one of the main things to spur me on." "at that he gave you up?" said i. "he gave me up," tim answered; "and after all, mark, old weston is a fine fellow. he said that there was just one thing for me to do, and that was to see and learn for myself. so he wrote to his partner to-day, and i go in the morning." "but must you go on a day's notice?" "the quicker the better, mark; and you see i haven't been letting any grass grow under my feet. when weston and i reached our conclusion, i went to the store and got the trunk. in the interval of packing, i've gone over to pulsifer's and arranged for tip to work regularly for you this winter, looking after the farm. he wanted to go up to snyder county and dig for gold. he knows where there's gold in snyder county and you may have trouble there; but when you see any signs of a break you are to tell mrs. tip. she says she'll head him off all right. nanny pulsifer, by the way, will come every day and straighten up the house. i saw mrs. bolum, and she said she would keep an eye on nanny pulsifer, for nanny is likely to get one of her religious spells and quit work. when you hear her singing hymns around the house, you are to tell mrs. bolum." [illustration: "nanny is likely to get one of her religious spells and quit work."] "who will look after mrs. bolum? to whom must i appeal when i see signs there?" "when mrs. bolum fails you, mark, write to me," tim answered. "when you see signs of her neglecting you, drop me a line and i'll be home in three days." "i may have to appeal to you to save me from my friends," i said, "if tip pulsifer goes digging gold and nanny pulsifer gets religion and old mrs. bolum belies her nature and forgets me. but anyway, if captain and i sit here at night knee-deep in dust and cobwebs, at least we can swell our chests and talk about our brother in the city, who is making--how much?" "seven dollars a week!" cried tim. "think of it, mark, seven dollars a week. that's more than you made as a soldier." * * * * * * "we are near the last bend, tim. yes--i'll say good-by to mary for you. i'll tell her that in the hurry you forgot her. and she will believe me! why didn't you go up the hill last night, instead of sneaking off this way?--for you know you didn't forget her. that last smoke--that's right--you and captain and i, and our pipes. i fear she did pass from our minds, but we had many things to talk over in those last hours. i promise you i will go up to-night and explain. tell weston about that fox on gander knob--of course i shall. school starts tomorrow, else i'd be after him myself; but on saturday we'll hie to the mountain, weston and captain and i. you, tim, shall have the skin, a memento of the valley. i'll say good-by to captain again, and i'll keep the guns oiled, and piney carter shall have the rifle whenever he wants it--provided he cleans it every hunting night. and i'll tell old mrs. bolum--but the train is going to start. are you sure you have your ticket, and your check, and your lunch? yes, i'll say good-by to mary for you.--good-by, tim!" and tim went around the bend. viii books! books! eternal, infernal books! the sun was printing over the floor the shadow skeleton of the juniper-tree by the westerly window. that always told me it was one o'clock. and one o'clock meant books again--three long hours of wrangling with dull wits, of fencing with sharper ones; three long hours of a-b-abs, of two-times-twos and three-times-threes; hours of spelling and of parsing, hours of bounding and describing. with it all, woven through it, now swelling, now dying away, now broken by a shrill cry of pain or anger, was the ceaseless buzzing of the school. there was no rest for the eye, even. the walls were white, their glare was baneful, and through the chalk-dust mist the rustling field of young heads suggested anything but peace and repose to one of my calling. that was the field i worked in. i had been with tim. his letter from new york was in my hands, and over and over i had read it, until i knew every twist in the writing. in the reading i had been carried away from myself, and seemed to be beside him in his battle in the world, laying about with him right lustily. then by force of habit i had looked up and had seen the shadow of the juniper-tree. i was back in my prison. and it was books! [illustration: i was back in my prison.] "brace up there, daniel arker, and quit your blubbering!" i cried. daniel was a snuffler. whenever i had a companion in the schoolhouse at the noon recess, it was generally this lad, and when he was there he was nursing a wound and snuffling. if there was any trouble to be got into, if there was a flying ball to come in contact with, ice to break through or a limb to snap, daniel never failed to be on hand. then he would burst rudely into my solitude and while i sopped cold water over his injured members, he would blubber. when i turned from him to my own corner by the window, the blubber would die away into a snuffle, and there he would sit, his head buried in his hands, snuffling and snuffling until books. now i spoke sharply to the boy. he raised his head and fixed one red eye on me, for the other was hidden by his hand. "i guesst you was never hit on the eye by a ball, was ye?" he stuttered. "i guess i have been," was my reply. "i was a good round-town player, and you never saw me crying like that, either." "i was playin' sock-ball," snuffled the boy, and a solitary tear rolled down his snub nose. he flicked it away with his right hand, and this act disclosed to me a great bluish swelling, from under which a bit of eye was twinkling mournfully at me. the boy was hurt; my heart went out to him, for the memory of my own sock-ball and tickley-bender days came back to me. "come, come," i said more kindly, laying a hand on the black head. "brace up, daniel, for i must call the others in, and you don't want them to see you crying. dare to be like the great daniel, who wasn't even afraid of the wild beasts." "but dan'el in the lion's den never played sock-ball," whimpered the boy, covering each eye with a chubby fist as he rubbed away the traces of his tears. beware, daniel arker! form not in my mind such a picture as that of the mighty prophet in his robes being "it." over the mantel in our parlor we have a picture of the lion's den, and it is one of the choicest of our family treasures. whence it came, we do not know. even my mother, familiar as she was with the minutest detail of our family history as far back as my grandfather's time, could not tell me that; but we always believed it to be one of the world's great pictures that by some strange chance had come into our possession. how well i remember my keen disappointment on learning that it was not a photograph. it took years to convince tim of that, and we consoled ourselves that at least it had been drawn by one who was there. else how could he have done it so accurately? for the likeness of daniel was splendid. the great prophet of babylon must have looked just like that. he must have sat on a boulder in the middle of the rocky chamber, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, one hand resting languidly on the head of a mighty lion, a sandalled foot using another hoary mane as a footstool. there were lions all around him, and how they loved him! you could see it in their eyes. tip pulsifer once told me that daniel had them charmed, and that he was looking so intently at the ceiling because he was repeating over and over again the mystic words--probably dutch--that his grandfather had taught him. one slip--and i should see the fiery flash return to the eyes of the beasts! one slip--and they would be upon him! to tip i replied that this was preposterous, as babylon lived before there was any dutch, and there being no dutch, how could there be effective charms? daniel was saved by a miracle. but tip is slow-witted. charms were originally called miracles, he said. the miracle was the father of the charm. folks would say there were no charms to-day, yet they would believe in charms that were worked a few thousand years ago, only they called them miracles. it was useless to argue with a thick fellow like tip. i had always preferred to think of daniel stilling the wild beasts by the grandeur of his soul, and the suggestion that i drag him from his throne, king of men and king of beasts, and picture him playing sock-ball, doing a double shuffle with his sandalled feet, tossing his long robe wildly about, now leaping, now dodging, to avoid the flying sphere--it was too much. it angered me. "you should be ashamed of yourself, daniel arker!" i cried. "the idea of a boy that comes of good church folks like yours talking that way about one of the prophets! i'll dally with you no more. the boys shall see you as you are. it's books!" i threw the window open and shouted, "books!" i pounded on the ledge with my ruler and shouted, "books!" for a minute the boys feigned not to see me, and played the harder, trying to drown my cries in their yells to the runners on the bases. but the girls took up my call and came trooping schoolward. the little boys began to break away, and soon the school resounded with the shuffle of feet, the clatter of empty dinner pails, and the banging of desk tops. "it's books, william; hurry," i cried to the last laggard. i knew this boy well. he was the biggest in the school, and to hold his position among his fellows he had to defy me. as long as i watched him, he must lag. the louder i called, the deafer he must seem to be. his post was hemmed around by tradition. it was his by divine right, and it involved on its holder duties sometimes onerous, often dangerous; but for him to abate one iota of his privileges would be a reflection on his predecessors, an injustice to his heirs. it would mean scholastic revolution. he knew that i must yell at him. my position also was hemmed about by tradition. to appear not to fear the biggest boy was one of the chief duties of a successful pedagogue. we understood each other. so i yelled once more and closed the window. the moment my back was turned he ran for the door. "it is," daniel arker was shouting. "it ain't," samuel carter retorted, sticking out his tongue. "boys, be quiet!" i commanded. "he said his eye was swole worse 'an mine oncet," cried daniel. his good eye was blazing, his shoulders were squared back, and his fists were clenched. there was no sign of a snuffle about him now. heaven, but he looked fine! all this time i had wronged daniel. i had only known him as he crawled to me broken and bruised after the conflict. i had never known the odds he had encountered, for when i questioned him he just snuffled. now i saw him before the battle, ready to defend his honor against a lad of more than his years and size, and the wickedest fighter in the school. i believed that had i let him loose there he would have whipped. but one in my position is hemmed in by tradition, so in my private capacity i was patting the boy's head with the same motion that i used in my public capacity to push him into his seat, while with a crutch i made a feint at samuel that sent him scurrying to his place. the biggest boy in the school sauntered in. he carefully upset three dinner pails from the shelves in the rear as he hung up his hat. i reprimanded him most severely, but i finished my lecture before he had replaced the cans. then he shuffled to his place and got out a book as a sign that school might begin. now, i always liked that biggest boy. he knew his position so well. he knew just how far it was proper for him to go, and never once did he overstep those bounds. he held the respect and fear of his juniors without making any open breach with the teacher. but in one way william bellus had been peculiarly favored. his predecessors had to deal with perry thomas, and in spite of his gentle ways and intellectual cast, perry is active and wiry. he is a blacksmith by trade, and is the leading tenor in the methodist choir. this makes a combination that for staying powers has few equals. my biggest boy's predecessor had been utterly broken. even the girls jeered at him until he quit school entirely. but william had another problem. it was the disappointment of his life that perry thomas retired just as he came into power. he had declared at a mass-meeting behind the woodshed that it was a gross injustice on the part of the directors to put a crippled teacher in charge of the school. where now was glory to be gained? they would have a school-ma'am next, like they done up to popolomus, and none but little boys, and girls not yet out of plaits, would be so servile as to suffer such domination. mark hope, the soldier, he honored! mark hope, the veteran, he revered! mark hope, the teacher, he despised; for his crutches made him a safe barricade against which no biggest boy with a spark of honor would dare to hurl himself. there might be in the school boys base enough to charge that he lacked spirit in his attitude of armed neutrality. let those traducers step forward, whether they be two or a dozen. what would follow, the biggest boy did not say; but he had pulled off his coat, and there was none to dispute him. his position was established. thereafter he assumed toward me a calm indifference. he was never openly offensive. he always kept within certain carefully laid bounds of supercilious politeness. at first he was exasperating, and i longed to have him forget himself and overstep those bounds, that i might make up for his disappointment in being cheated out of perry thomas. but he never did. to-day william bellus really opened the school, for not till he had buried his face in his book did the general buzz begin. that buzz was maddening. for three long hours i had to sit there and listen to the children as they droned over and over their lessons. yet this was my life's work. to my care six stars had intrusted her young, and i should be proud of that trust and earnest in its fulfilment. but tim's letter was in my pocket. it was full of the big things of this life. it told of great struggles for great prizes, and the chalk dust choked me when i thought of him, and then turned to myself as i stood there, trying to demonstrate to half a dozen girls and boys that the total sum of a single column of six figures was twenty-four. tim had been promoted and was a full-fledged clerk now. there were many steps ahead for him, but he was going to climb them rung by rung; and what joy there is in drawing one's self up by one's own strength! i was at the top of my ladder--at the very pinnacle of learning in black log. even now i was unfolding to the marvelling eyes of the children of the valley the mysteries of that great science, physical geography. i was explaining to them the trend of the rockies and the himalayas, and of other mountains i should never see; i was telling them why it snowed, and unfolding the phenomena of the aurora borealis. alexander with no more worlds to conquer was a sorry spectacle. we pedagogues who have mastered physical geography are alexanders. but if i was bound to the pinnacle of learning so that i could neither fly nor fall, i could at least watch tim as he struggled higher and higher. and mary was watching with me! that was what made my work that day seem doubly irksome and the hours trebly long; for she was waiting to hear from him, and when the sun seemed to rest on the mill gable i should be free to go to her. so the minutes dragged. it made me angry. ordinarily i speak quietly to the scholars, but now i fairly bellowed at chester holmes, who was reading in such a loud tone that he disturbed me and called me to the real business of the moment. "don't say dooglas!" i cried. "that's the way teacher thomas used to say it," retorted chester, sitting down on the long bench where the fifth reader class was posted. "d-o-u-g--dug--douglas," i snapped. "'douglas round him drew his cloak.' now, ira snarkle, you may read five lines, beginning with the second stanza." ira was very tall for his sixteen years. his clothes had never caught up to him, for his trousers always failed by two inches to grasp his shoe-tops, and his coat had a terrible struggle to touch the top of his trousers. for the shortness of the sleeves he partly compensated with a pair of bright red worsted wristers. when he bent his elbows the sleeves flew up his arms, and these wristers became the most conspicuous thing in his whole attire. ira was holding his book in the correct position now, so i saw a length of bare arms embraced at the wrists by brilliant bands of red. "'my manors, halls, and bowers shall still be open at my soveryne's will,'" chanted the boy. he paused, and to illustrate the imperious humor of the scot, he waved his fingers and a red wrister at me. the gesture unnerved him for a moment, and he had to go thumbing over the page to find his place. he caught it again and chanted on--"'at my sover-sover-yne's will. to each one whom he lists, however unmeet to be the owner's peer.'" again the boy waved the fingers and the red wrister at me. again he paused, gathering himself for the climax. that gesture was abominable, but at such a time i dared not interrupt. "'my castles are my king's alone from turret to foundation stone,'" he cried. the red wrister flashed beneath my eye. ira had even forgotten his book and let it fall to his side. he took a step forward; paused with one knee bent and the other stiff; extended his right arm and shouted, "'the hand of dooglas is his own, and never shall in friendly grasp the hand of sech as marmyyon clasp.'" [illustration: "'at my sover-sover-yne's will.'"] well done, ira! the proud marmion must indeed have trembled until his armor rattled if the scot bellowed at him in that way and shook a red wrister so violently under his very nose. excellent, ira; you put spirit in your reading. one can almost picture you beneath tantallion's towers, drawing your cloak around you and giving cold respect to the stranger guest. but why say "dooglas"? "s-o-u-p spells soup," answered ira loftily to my question. "then d-o-u-g must spell doog." "i tell you it's douglas. 'the hand of douglas is his own,'" i cried. at the mention of the doughty scot i pounded the floor with my crutch and repeated "dug--dug--dug." "but teacher thomas allus said doog," exclaimed chester holmes. "i don't care what teacher thomas said," i retorted. "you must say dug--dug--douglas." "but teacher thomas is the best speaker they is," piped in lulu ann nummler from the end of the bench. "i don't care if teacher thomas can recite better than demosthenes himself," i snapped. "in this school we say douglas." my crutch emphasized this mandate, but i could not see how it was received, for every scholar's face was hidden from me by a book. "now, abraham, six lines." abraham lincoln spiker was two years younger than ira snarkle, but he seemed much taller and correspondingly thinner. in our valley the boys have a fashion of being born long, and getting shorter and fatter as they grow older. abraham's mother in making his clothes had provided against the day when he would weigh two hundred pounds, and consequently his garments hung all around him, giving him an exceedingly dispirited look. his hair relieved this somewhat, for it was white and always stood gaily on end, defying brush and comb. daniel arker, a sturdy black-haired lad, would have done fuller justice to the passage that fell to abraham, for the spiker boy with his gentle lisp never shone in elocution; but our reading class is a lottery, as we go from scholar to scholar down the line. the lot falling to him, abraham pushed himself up from the bench, grasped his book fiercely with both hands, and fixed his eyes intently on the ceiling. "go on," i commanded kindly. "'fierth broke he forth,'" lisped the boy. "louder. put some spirit in it," i cried. "'fierce broke he forth!'" and my crutch beat the floor. "'fierth broke he forth, and durtht thou then to bared----" "to beard," i corrected. "'bared the lion in hith den--the doog-dug-lath----'" abraham stopped and took a long breath. i just gazed at him. "'in hith hall,'" he shouted. "'and h-o-p-hop-e-s-t-hopest thou then unthscathed to go?'" the boy's knees began to bend under him, and he was reaching a long, thin arm out behind hunting for the bench. he was fleeing. i knew it. i warned him. "no--go on--read on." abraham sighed and drew his sleeve across his mouth from the elbow to the tips of his fingers. then he sang: "'noby--thent bride--ofboth--wellno--updraw--bridgegrooms--whatward--erho --lettheportculluthfall!'" young spiker collapsed. "'lord marmion turned; well was his need,'" i cried, "if douglas ever addressed him in that fashion." "now watch me, boys," i added. and with as much fire as i could kindle in so short a time and under conditions so dampening, i thundered the resounding lines: "'no, by st. bride of bothwell, no! up drawbridge, grooms--what, warder, ho!'" "'let the portcullis fall!'" this last command rang from the back of the room. perry thomas stood there smiling. "i couldn't have done it better myself, mark," he said. "it's a splendid piece--that manny-yon--ain't it--grand--noble. i love to say it." "teacher thomas, teacher thomas," came in the shrill voice of chester holmes, "ain't it dooglas?" perry was at my side, smiling benignly on the school. he really seemed to love the scholars; but perry is a pious man, and seeks to follow the letter of the scriptures, and the command is to love our enemies. "doogulus--doogulus," he said. "of course, boys, it's doogulus." the word seemed to taste good, he rolled it over and over so in his mouth. "teacher hope says you ain't such a fine speaker after all," cried lulu ann nummler from the distant end of the bench. she is fifteen and should have known better, but the people of our valley are dreadfully frank sometimes, and this girl spoke in the clear, sharp voice of truth that cut through one. perry turned quick as a flash and eyed me. for a moment all i could do was to thump the floor and cry "order! silence! lulu ann nummler, when you want to speak, you must hold up three fingers." the three fingers shot up at once and waved at me, but i pretended not to see them and turned to my guest. "i said, perry, that you were not quite so great a speaker as demosthenes," i stammered. chester holmes had three fingers up and ira snarkle was waving both hands, but i went calmly on: "they were telling me how beautifully you recited, and i was trying to instil into the piece a little of your spirit. but now that we have you here, i insist on your showing me and the school just how it is done." perry frowned fiercely on lulu ann nummler, and the three fingers disappeared. on me he smiled. "it's a great pleasure to me to be able to recite," he said. "to be able to repeat great po-ems at will, is to have a treasure you can allus carry with you while your voice lasts." all this was to the scholars. "there are three great arts in this world--singin', hand-paintin', and last but not least, speakin'. i try my hand at all of them except hand-paintin', and i wish to impress on all you scholars what a joy it is to oneself and one's friends to have mastered one of these muses. singin' and speakin' are closely allied, startin' from the same source. and hand-painting it allus seemed to me, is really elocution in oils; for a be-yutiful picture is a silent talker. what suggestions it brings to us as we look upon a paintin' of a wreath of flowers, or fruit, or a handsome lady! this art is lastin'. speakin' and singin' is over as soon as they is done. so i have often thought that had i only time i'd hand-paint; but bein' a busy man i've had to content myself with but two of the muses." perry paused a moment to rub his hands and smile. i did not miss this opportunity to break in, for i had no intention of listening to a dissertation on art as well as to a recitation. "now let us have your 'marmion,'" i said. he had forgotten all about "marmion," and came back to the knight with a start and a cough. then he gazed long at the floor. the school buzz died away, and you could hear the ticking of my little clock. perry coughed again and i knew that he was started, so i settled down in my chair and gazed out of the window. "'but doogulus round him drew his cloak,'" perry was buttoning the two top buttons of his prince albert as his voice rang out. "'folded his arms and thus he spoke.'" annagretta holmes is only three years old. they send her to school to keep her warm and out of mischief. she sat on the very front row, right under perry's eye. the poor child didn't understand why teacher thomas should stare so at her, and she let out one long, unending bleat. this gave me a chance to send lulu ann nummler out of the room in charge of the infant, and i rested easier when perry drew his prince albert around him once more and spoke. a grand figure perry would have made in tantallion's towers. i forgot the school, and the village and the valley, as i sat there looking out of the window into the sky. i am in those towers when marmion stops to bid adieu, but in place of the proud scottish noble, perry thomas stands confronting the english warrior. what a pair they make--the knight armed cap-a-pie, at his charger's side, and perry in that close-fitting, shiny coat that has seen so many great occasions in the valley. there is a gracious bigness about the englishman forgetting the cold respect with which he has been treated and offering a mailed hand in farewell. but perry buttons his prince albert, waves his brown derby under the very vizor of the departing guest, rests easily on his right leg, bends the left knee slightly, folds his arms and speaks. "burned marmion's swarthy cheek like fire." little wonder! if perry thomas spoke to me like that i'd cleave his head. but marmion spares proud angus. he beards the doogulus in his hall. he dashes the rowels in his steed, dodges the portcullis, and gallops over the draw. and perry thomas is left standing with folded arms, gazing through the chalk-dust haze into the solemn, wide open eyes of the children of six stars. [illustration: perry thomas stands confronting the english warrior.] ix perry's head was close to mine, over my table. the school was studying louder than ever, and our voices could not have gone beyond the platform; but my friend was cautious. the scholars might well have thought that the whispered conference boded them ill; that the new teacher and the old teacher were hatching some conspiracy against them. it must have looked like it. perry's elbows were on the table, and my elbows were on the table. my chin rested in my hands, but his hands were waving beneath my chin as he unfolded to me the plot he had just discovered against his hopes and his happiness. but the school was good. the second grammar class had been relieved from a recitation by this confab, and somehow perry had a subduing influence. even the biggest boy opened his desk quietly and never once looked up from his geography except for a cautious glance out of the corner of his left eye. "there was a pile of 'em that high, mark," said perry, waving his hands about a foot above the table. "there was some books of po-ems and novels and such. he'd sent them all to her in one batch--all new, mind ye, too--and it pleased her most to death. well, it made me feel flat, i tell you--so flat that when she asked me if i didn't think it was lovely of him, i burst right out and said it was really. what i should 'a' done was kind of pass it off as if it didn't amount to much." "who is the young woman?" i asked. "i ain't mentionin' names," perry replied, "and i ain't givin' the name of the other man; but i have an idee you could guess if you kep' at it." our valley does not bloom with beautiful young women. we always have a few, but those few can be counted on one's fingers. our valley does not number among its men many who can supplement their sentimental attentions with gifts of books. i knew of one. so it did not require much guessing on my part to divine the cause of perry's heart-sickness; but as long as the other persons in his drama were anonymities, he would speak freely, so i relieved him by declaring solemnly that never in the world could i guess. i had always supposed him a lover of all women, a slave of none. perry smiled. "i have kep' a good deal of company," he said. "on account of my fiddlin', and singin', and recitin' i've always had things pretty much my own way. it's opposition that's ruination. that's what shatters a man's heart and takes all his sperrit. as long as the game's between just a man and a girl there's nothin' very serious. one or the other loses, and you can begin a new game somewheres else. but when two men and one girl get a playin' three handed, then it is serious; then it's desperate. a man has to th'ow his whole heart and mind into it, if he'd whip, and he gets so worked up he thinks his whole happiness to the end of time depends on his drivin' the other fellow to drownin' himself in the mill-dam." "in other words, if you had not found another laying piles of books and such gifts at the feet of this fair one, whose name i can never guess, you would have fiddled to her and sung to her and recited to her until she said 'i love you.' then you would have sought new heavens to conquer." "that's about it," said perry, smiling feebly. his face brightened. "you know how it is yourself, mark. mind how you kep' company once with emily holmes and nothin' come of it. she went off to normal school in desperation--you mind that, don't ye?--and she married a school-teacher from snyder county--you mind that, don't ye? now supposin' you and that snyder county chap had been opposin' one another instead of you and emily holmes--i allow her name would have been changed to emily hope long ago, or you'd 'a' drownded yourself." "but i never had any intention of marrying emily holmes," i protested. "i know you didn't," perry replied, thumping the table in triumph. "that's just the pint. if the world was popilated by one man and one woman, they'd be a bachelor and an old maid. if there was two men and one woman, then one of the men would marry the old maid sure." "your meaning is more clear," i said. though perry did not know it, i was meeting the same opposition that so aroused his ire. in part there was truth in what he said, for while opposition does not increase one's love, it surely quickens it. i doubt if i should have been making a journey nightly up the hill if i had not expected to find weston there. of perry i had no fear, and it was not egotism in me to be indifferent to him. he lives so far down the valley. it's a long walk from buzzards glory to six stars, and the road has many chuck-holes. perry is our man-about-the-valley _par excellence_, but he is discreet, so it had chanced we met but once at warden's, and that was on the night when we heard the story of flora martin and the famine in india. he knew me still as a friend, and not regarding him as a rival, i treated him as a companion in arms. to be sure, i could not see where he could be of much assistance; but we had a common aim and a common foe. that made a bond between us. with that common foe disposed of, the bond might snap. till then i was perry's friend. "i agree with you partly," i said. "still, it seems to me a man should love a woman for herself--wholly, entirely for herself, and not because some other fellow has set his heart on her." "you are right there, in part," perry answered. "i have set my heart on a particular young lady, but the fact that another--a lean, cadaverous fellow with red whiskers and no particular looks or brains--is slowly pushing himself between us makes it worse. it aggravates me; it affects my appetite." perry smiled grimly. "it drives away sleep. you know how it 'ud have been if that snyder county teacher had been livin' in six stars when you was keepin' company with emily holmes." "i don't know how it would have been at all," i retorted hotly. "well, s'posin' when you'd walked four miles to set up with her, and thought you had her all to yourself, s'pose this snyder county teacher with red whiskers, and little twinklin' eyes, and new clothes, come strollin' in, and stretched out in a chair like he owned her, and begin tellin' about all the countries he'd seen--about england and rome, injy and africa--and she leaned for'a'd and looked up into his eyes and just listened to him talk, drank it all in like--s'pose all that, and then s'pose----" "i'll suppose anything you like," said i, "except that i am in love with emily holmes and that the snyder county teacher is cutting me out. for example, let us put me in your place. i am enamored of this fair unknown--of course i can't guess her name--and this second man, also unknown--he of the red whiskers, is my rival. let us suppose it that way." "if you insist," perry replied. "well then, you are settin' up with her. you've invited her to be your lady at the next spellin' bee between six stars and turkey walley, and she has said she'll think about it. then you've told her that there is something wrong with you. you don't know what it is, 'ceptin' you feel all peekit like for no special reason; you can't eat no more, and sleep poorly and has sighin' spells. then she kind of peeks at you outen the corner of her eye and smiles. s'posin' just then in comes this man and bows most polite, and tells you he is so delighted to see you, and makes her move from the settee where you are, to a rocker close to him; and leans over her and asks about the health of all the family as if they was his nearest and dearest; inquires about her dog; tells her she looks just like the portrates of his great-grandma. s'posin' she just kind of looks at the floor quiet-like or else up to him--you'll begin to think you ain't there at all, won't you? then you'll concide that you are there but you oughtn't to be, and kind of slide out without your hat and forget your fiddle. i tell you, mark, it's then love becomes a consumin' fire." [illustration: "you'll begin to think you ain't there at all."] perry looked at me appealingly. men hesitate to speak of love--except to women. he had already shown a frankness that was surprising, but then with a certain deftness he had placed me in the position of the sentimental one with a problem to solve. he was seeking for himself a solution of that problem, and was appealing to me to help him. "suppose again," said i, "that going another day to see the girl, i found her poring over a pile of books--all new books--just given her by this same arrogant interloper." perry was silent, but when i paused and looked at him, i saw in his face that i was arguing along the right line. "then the question arises, what shall i do?" perry nodded. "what would you do?" he said. "that's it exact." "i'd meet him at his own game," i answered. "with what?" he asked. "with what?" i repeated. there was the rub! with what? i sat with my head clasped between my hands trying to answer him. "with what?" i repeated, after a long silence. "s'posin' i got her a wreath." perry offered the suggestion, and in his enthusiasm he forgot that in our premise i was the person concerned; but i was not loath to let him take on himself the burden of our perplexity. "is she dead?" i asked. "i needn't get one of that kind," he solemnly replied. "somethin' in autumn leaves ought to be nice." "you might do better." "a hand-paintin', then," he ventured timidly. i smiled on this with more approval. "they have some be-yutiful ones at hopedale," he said with more heart. "the last time i was down i was lookin' at 'em. they've fine gold frames and----" "why send her a picture of a tree when the finest oak in the valley is at her door?" i protested. "why send her a picture of a slate-colored cow when a herd of durhams pastures every day right under her eye?" "that's true," perry answered. "hand-paintin's is meant for city folks. but what can a fellow get? a statue!" his eyes brightened. "that's just the thing--a statue of washington or lincoln or general grant--how's that for an idee, mark?" "excellent, if you are trying to make an impression on her uncle," i answered. perry shook his hands despairingly. "you have come to a poor person at such business, perry," said i. "what little i know of courting i have from books, and it seems to me that the usual thing is flowers--violets--roses." my friend straightened up in his chair and gazed at me very long and hard. from me his eyes wandered to the calendar that hung behind my desk. "november--november," he muttered. "a touch of snow too--and violets and roses." he leaned toward me fiercely. "violets come in may," he said. "this here is a matter of weeks." "i'm serious, perry," said i. "books are the thing, and flowers; not wreaths and statues and paintings. you must send something that carries some sentiment with it." he saw that i was in earnest, and his countenance became brighter. "geraniums," he muttered; thumping the table. "i'll get mrs. arker to let me have one of them window-plants of hers, and i'll put it in a new tomato-can and paint it. how's that for a starter?" "i've never read about men sending geraniums," i replied. "it's odd, but i never have. i suppose the can makes them seem a little unwieldly. still----" "i had thought of forty-graph album." perry spoke timidly again. i had no mind to let him venture any more suggestions. his was too fickle a fancy, and i had settled on an easy solution of the problem. he was to send her a geranium. somehow, i knew deep down in my own heart, ill versed as i was in such things, that i should never send her such a gift myself. i would climb to the top of gander knob for a wild rose or rhododendron; i would stir the leaves from the gap to the river in search of a simple spray of arbutus for her. but step before her with my arms clasping a tin can with a geranium plant r heaven forbid! perry was different. the suggestion pleased him. he was rubbing his hands and smiling in great contentment. "i might send a po-em with it," he said. "i've allus found that poetry kind of catches ahold of a girl when you are away. it keeps you in her mind. it must be sing-song, though, kind of gettin' into her head like quinine. it must keep time with the splashin' of the churn and the howlin' of the wind. i mind when i was keepin' company with rhoda spiker--she afterward married ulysses g. harmon, of hopedale--i sent her a po-em that run somethin' like this: 'i live, i love, my life, my light; long love i thou, sweetheart so bright'----" perry's po-em never got into my brain, for as he repeated the captivating lines, i was gazing over his shoulder, out of the window, down the road to the village. i saw a girl on the store porch, standing by the door a moment as if undecided which way to go. then she turned her head into the november gale and came rapidly up the road. in a minute more she would be passing the school-house door. tim's letter was in my pocket and the sun was still high over the gable of the mill. [illustration: i saw a girl on the store porch.] "rhoda sent me a postal asking me to write her a po-em full of ks or xs or ws, just so as she could get the ls out of her head, and----" "perry!" i broke right into his story and seized the lapel of his waistcoat as though he were my dearest friend. "my girl is going by the school-house door this very minute. now you help me. take the school for the rest of the afternoon." "your girl?" cried perry. his voice broke from the smothered conference tone and the school heard it and tittered. he recovered himself and poked me in the chest. "oh!" he said, "widow spoonholler--i seen you last sunday singin' often the same book--i seen you. hurry, mark, hurry; and luck to you! you've done me most a mighty good turn." x mary sat knitting. beware of a woman who knits. the keenest lawyer in our county is not so clever a cross-examiner as his sister when she sits with her needles and yarn. questions directed at one can be parried. you expect them and dodge. the woman knits and knits, and lulls you half to sleep, and then in a far-away voice asks questions. they come as a boon, a gracious acknowledgment that you exist, and though in her mind your place is secondary to the flying needles and the tangled worsted, still you are there and she is half listening to what you have to say. so you tell her twice as much as is wise. you have no interest for her. her eyes are fixed on her work. she asks you the secret of your life, and then bends farther over, seeming to forget your existence. desperate, you shout it at her, and she looks up and smiles, a wondering, distraught smile; then goes on knitting. there were some things in tim's letter that i did not intend to tell mary. he had written to me in confidence. a man does not mind letting one of his fellows know that he is in love with a woman, but to let a woman know it is different. she will think him a fool, unless she is his inspiration. i knew tim. i knew that he was no fool, and i did not wish her to get such an impression. i loved a pretty woman. so did tim. but mary would not understand it in tim's case. that was why i folded the letter when i had read the first four pages. but mary was knitting. "it is fine to think he is getting along so well," she said. she looked up, but not at me. her face was turned to the window; her eyes were over the valley which was growing gray, for the sun was down. what she saw there i could not tell. a drearier sight is hard to find than our valley when the chill of the november evening is creeping over it as the fire in the west goes out. night covers it, and it sleeps. but the winter twilight raises up its shadows. in the darkness all is hidden. in the half-light there is utter loneliness. i turned from the window to the letter, and mary looked at me for the first time in many minutes. "are you going to read the rest of the letter?" she demanded. "you have heard 'most all of it," i replied evasively. "and the rest?" she said. "is of no interest," i answered. "it's just a few personal, confidential things. perhaps some time i can tell you." "oh," she exclaimed carelessly, and went on knitting, drawing closer to the lamplight. "how long is it since he left?" she asked at last, reaching down to untangle the worsted from the end of the rocker. "six weeks," said i. "it's just six weeks coming to-morrow since tim and i parted at pleasantville. to think he has been promoted already! at that rate he should be head of the firm in a year or two." "mr. weston has been very kind," said she. "of course he has seen that tim had every chance. he is the most thoughtful man i ever knew. he----" weston's excellent qualities were well known to me. i had discovered them long ago, and i did not care to hear mary descant on them at length. he had done much for tim, but it was what tim had done for himself that i was proud of, so i interrupted her rather rudely. "yes, he got tim his place; but you must remember mr. weston has hardly been in new york a day since the boy left. he doesn't bother much about business, so, after all, tim is working his way alone." "yes," said mary. she had missed a stitch somewhere, and it irritated her greatly. that was evident by the way she picked at it. she remedied the trouble somehow, recovered her composure, and went on knitting. "is it eight dollars he is making, did you say?" she asked. "yes, eight," i replied, verifying the figure with a glance at the letter. "a week or a month?" "a week. just think of it--that is more than i got in the army." but mary was not a bit impressed. i remembered that she came from kansas, and in kansas a dollar is not so big as in our valley. "living is so expensive in the city," she said absently. "with eight dollars a week here tim would be a millionaire. but in new york--" a shrug of the shoulder expressed her meaning. "true," said i, a bit ruefully. i had expected her to clasp her hands, to look up at me and listen to my stories of tim's success, and hear my dreams for his future. instead, she went on knitting, never once raising her eyes to me. it exasperated me. in sheer chagrin i took to silence and smoking. but she would not let me rest long this way, though i was slowly lulling myself into a state of semi-coma, of indifference to her and calm disdain. "of course tim has made some friends," she said, glancing up from her work very casually. "of course he has," i snapped. "that's nice," she murmured--knitting, knitting, knitting. i expected her to ask who his friends were, and how he had made them. that was all in the letter. moreover, it was in the part i had not read to her. but she abruptly abandoned this line of inquiry. she did not care. she let me smoke on. suddenly she dropped her work and asked, "is that a footstep on the porch?" "footsteps! no--why, who did you think was coming?" i said. "mr. weston promised to drop in on his way home from hunting--but i guess he'll disappoint me. i hoped it was he." she fell to her task again, only now she began to hum softly, thus shutting me off entirely. for a very long while i endured it, but the time came when action of some kind was called for. we were not married, that i could sit forever smoking while she hummed. even in black log, etiquette requires that a man talk to a woman when in her company; and when the woman ceases to listen, the wise man departs. that was just what i did not want to do, and only one alternative was left me. i got out the letter and held it under the light. "you were asking about tim's friends, mary," said i. "was i?" she returned. "i had forgotten. what did i say?" "you asked if he had made any friends," i replied, as calmly as i could. "i was going to read you what he said." "oh!" she cried. and at last she dropped her knitting, and resting her elbows on her knees, clasping her chin in her hands, she looked up at me from her low chair. "i thought it was forbidden," she said. "tim didn't say anything about not reading it," i answered. "at first, though, it seemed best not to; but you'll understand, mary. of course, we mustn't take him too seriously, but it does sound foolish. poor tim!" "poor tim!" repeated the girl. "he must be in love." "he is," said i. "then don't read it!" she cried. "surely he never intended you to read it to me." "of course he did," i laughed, for at last i had aroused her, and now her infernal knitting was forgotten; she no longer strained her ears for weston's footfalls. her eyes were fixed on me. "poor old tim! well, let's wish him luck, mary. now listen." so i read her the forbidden pages. "'you should see edith parker, mark. she is so different from the girls of black log. her father is head book-keeper in the store, and he has been very good to me. last week he took me home to dinner with him. he has a nice house in brooklyn. his wife is dead, and he has just his daughter. we have no women in black log that compare to her. she is tall and slender and has fair hair and blue eyes.'" "i hate fair-haired women," broke in mary with some asperity. "they are so vain." "i agree with you," said i. "that is invariably the case, and dark hair is so much more beautiful; but we must make allowance for tim. let us see--'fair hair and blue eyes and the sweetest face'--i do believe that brother of mine is out of his head to write such stuff." "he certainly is," said mary, very quietly. "poor tim! but go on." "'we played cards together for a while, till old mr. parker went asleep in his chair, and then edith and i had a chance to talk. you know, mark, i've always been a bit afraid of women, and awkward and ill at ease around them. but edith is different from the girls of black log. we were friends in a minute. you don't know what it is to talk to these girls who have been everywhere, and seen everything, and know everything. they are so much above you, they inspire you. for a girl like that no sacrifice a man can make is too great. to win a girl like that a man must do something and be something. now up in black log----'" "yes, up in black log the women are different," said mary in a quiet voice. "they have to work in black log, and it's the men they work for. if they sat on thrones and talked wisdom and looked beautiful, the kitchen-fires would die out and the children go naked." "tim doesn't say anything disparaging to the people of our valley," i protested. "he says, 'in black log the girls don't understand how to dress. they deck themselves out in gaudy finery. now edith wears the simplest things. you never notice her gown. you only see her figure and her face.'" "do i deck myself out in gaudy finery, mark?" mary's appeal was direct and simple. a shake of the head was my only answer. i wanted to tell her that tim was blind. i wanted to tell her the boy was a fool; that edith, the tall, thin, pale creature, was not to be compared to one woman in our valley; that i know who that woman was; that i loved her. i would have told her this. with a sudden impulse i leaned toward her. as suddenly i fell back. my crutches had clattered to the floor! a battered veteran! a pensioner! a back-woods pedagogue! that i was. that i must be to the end. my place was in the school-house. my place was on the store bench, set away there with a lot of other broken antiquities. that i should ask a woman to link her life with mine, was absurd. a fair ship on a fair sea soon parts company with a derelict--unless it tows it. a score of times i had fought this out, and as often i had found but one course and had set myself to follow it, but there was that in mary's quiet eyes that shook my resolution. there was an appeal there, and trust. "i am glad, anyway, i am not so much above you, mark," she said, now laughing. i gathered up my crutches and the letter. i gathered up my wits again. "there's where i feel like tim, indeed," i said. "i don't think i should like this lofty edith," the girl exclaimed. "what a pompous word it is--edith! tim is ambitious. i suppose he rolls that name over and over in his mind." it seemed that mary was unnecessarily sharp toward a young woman she had never seen and of whom she had as yet heard nothing but good. while for myself i felt a certain resentment at tim for his praise of this girl and the condescending references to my misfortune in never having seen her like, i had for him a certain keen sympathy and hope for his success. i had a certain sympathy for edith, too, for a man in love, if unrestrained in his praise, will make a plain, sensible, motherly girl look like a frivolous fool. perhaps in this case edith was the victim. i suggested this to mary, and she laughed softly. "perhaps so," she said. "but i must admit it irritates me to see our tim lose his head over a stranger. i can only picture her as he does--a superior being, who lives in brooklyn, whose name is edith, and who wears her hair in a small knot on top of her head. can you conceive her smile, mark, if she saw us now--if this fine brooklyn girl with her city ways dropped down here in black log?" "that's all in tim's letter," i cried. "listen. 'she asked all about my home and you. i told her of the place and of all the people, of mary and captain. last night i took over that picture of you in your uniform, and i won't tell you all the nice things she said about you, and----'" "she's a flatterer," cried mary. "i am beginning to love her myself," said i. "but listen to tim. 'she told me she hoped to see black log some day, and to meet the soldier of the valley. i said that i hoped she would, too, but i didn't tell her that a hundred times a day, as i worked over the books in the office, i vowed that soon i'd take her there myself.'" "as mrs. tim," mary added, for i was folding up the letter. "as mrs. tim, evidently," said i. "poor old tim! it's a very bad case." "poor old tim!" said mary. she took up her needles and her work, and fell to knitting. "i suppose they must be very rich--the parkers, i mean." this was offered as a wedge to break the silence, for the needles were going very rapidly now, and the stitches seemed to call for the closest watching. "yes," said mary. i lighted my pipe again. "what a grand man tim will be when he comes back home." i suggested this after a long silence. "he'll look fine in his city clothes, for somehow those city men do dress differently from us country chaps. now just picture tim in a--in a----" mary was humming softly to herself. xi the county paper always comes on thursday. this was thursday. elmer spiker sat behind the stove, in a secluded corner, the light of the lamp on the counter falling over his left shoulder on the leading column of locals. elmer was reading. there was a store rule forbidding him to read aloud, which caused him much hardship, for as he worked his way slowly down the column, his right eye and left ear kept twitching and twitching as though trying to keep time with his lips. josiah nummler's long pole rested on the counter at his side, and his great red hands were spread out to drink in the heat from the glowing bowl of the stove. "it's a-blowin' up most a-mighty, ain't it?" he said, cheerfully. "any news, elmer?" "oh now, go home," grunted mr. spiker, rolling his pipe around so the burning tobacco scattered over his knees. "see what you've done!" he snapped angrily, brushing away the sparks. "i didn't notice you was in the middle of a word, elmer, really i didn't," pleaded old mr. nummler. "i wasn't in the middle of a word," retorted elmer, as he drove his little finger into his pipe in an effort to save some of the tobacco. "i was just beginnin' a new piece. things is gittin' so there ain't a place left in this town for a man to read in peace and comfort. here i am, tryin' to post up on the local doin's, on polytics and religion, and ringin' in my ears all the time is 'lickin' the teacher, lickin' the teacher, lickin' the teacher.' s'pose every man here did lick the teacher in his time--what of it, i says, what of it?" "yes, what of it?" said i, closing the door with a bang. i was plodding home from mary's. she had hummed me out at last, and i had tucked tim's letter in my pocket and hobbled back to the village. the light in the store had drawn me aside and i stopped a moment just to look in. the store is always a fascinating place. there is always something doing there, and i opened the door a crack to hear what was under discussion. catching the same refrain that troubled elmer spiker, i entered. "what of it?" i demanded, facing the company. "i don't believe there is a man here who ever thrashed the teacher." theophilus jones raised himself from the counter on which he was leaning, and waved a lighted candle above his head. "here comes the teacher--make way for the teacher!" josiah nummler pounded the floor with his long pole. "see the conquerin' hero comes," he cried. "a place for him--a place for him!" and with the point of his stick he drove the six men on the bench so close together as to give me an excellent seat. "thrice welcome, noble he-ro, as perry thomas says!" shouted aaron kallaberger, thrusting his hand into his bosom in excellent imitation of the orator. "he's lookin' pretty spry yet, ain't he, boys?" said isaac bolum. he stood before me, leaning over till his hands clasped his knees, and peered into my face, smiling. "the teacher ain't changed a bit." "thank you for the reception," said i. "but explain. what's this all about?" elmer spiker folded the county paper and came around to our side of the stove. there he struck his favorite attitude, which was always made most effective by the endless operation of putting his spectacles in their case--pulling them out--waving them--_ad infinitum_. for in our valley spectacles are the sceptre of the sovereign intellect. "they was talkin' about lickin' the teacher," elmer said, "and sech talkin' i never heard. it was the nonsensicalest yet. the way them boys was tellin' about the teachers they had knowed made me feel for your life when i seen you come in. i thought they'd fall on you like so many wolves." "now see here, elmer spiker," shouted henry holmes, "that's an injestice. i never said i'd licked the teacher when i was a boy. i only said i'd tried it." "you give me to understand that the teacher was dead now," returned elmer severely. "he is," cried henry. "and you claim you done it." "i done it," shouted mr. holmes, pounding the floor with his cane. "i done it! you think i'm a murderer? why, old gilbert spoonholler was ninety-seven year old when he went away. he was only forty when him and me had it out." "that's different," said elmer calmly. "i understood from your original account that he died in battle." "i tho't so too, henery," put in isaac bolum. "you misled me, complete. 'here,' says i, 'at last i have met a man who has licked the teacher.' and all the time you was tellin' about it, we was admirin' you--joe nummler and me--and now we finds gil spoonholler lived fifty-seven year after that terrible struggle." "i can't just fetch my memory back to that particular incident, henery," said josiah, "but my recollection is that gil spoonholler held the school-house agin all comers, and that's sayin' a good deal, for we was tough as hickory when we was young." "the modern boys is soft," aaron kallaberger declared. "they regards the teacher in a friendlier light than they used to. they are weakenin'. the military sperrit's dyin' out. the spectacle is conquerin' the sword." [illustration: aaron kallaberger.] this was too direct a slap at elmer spiker to pass unnoticed; elmer was too old an arguer to use any ponderous weapon in return. he even smiled as he punctuated his sentences with his battered spectacle-case. "you never said a truer word, aaron. it allus was true. it allus will be true. it's just as true to-day as when henery holmes tackled old gilbert spoonholler, as when isaac bolum yander argyed with luke lampson that five times eleven was forty-five; as when you refused to admit to the same kind teacher that harrisburg was the capital of pennsylwany." "and as to-day when william belkis--" theophilus jones was acting strangely. he was bowing politely at me. i was mystified. why at a time like this i should be treated as a subject of so much distinction was a puzzle, and i was about to demand an explanation, when josiah nummler interrupted. "it's true," he said. "teachers ain't changed and the boys ain't changed. i'm eighty year old within a week, and all my life i've heard boys blowin' about how they was goin' to lick the teacher, and i've heard old men tell how they done it years and years before--but i've never seen an eye-witness--what i wants is an eye-witness." "you've been talkin' to elmer spiker," said henry holmes, plaintively. "he's convinced you. he'd convince anybody of anything. he's got me so dad-twisted i can't mind no more whether i went to school even." "you never showed no signs, henery." isaac bolum spoke very quietly. "i guess you otter know it as well as anybody," henry retorted angrily. "your ma was allus askin' me to take care of you, and you was a nuisance, too, you was, isaac. you was allus a-blubberin' and a-swallerin' somethin'. you mind the time you swallered my copper cent, don't you? you mind the fuss your ma made to my ma about it, don't you? why, she formulated regular charges that i 'tempted to pizon you--she did, and----" "don't rake up them old, old sores," said josiah nummler soothingly, "ike'll give you back your copper cent, henery." "all ike's property to-day ain't as val'able to me now as that cent was then," mr. holmes answered solemnly. "it was the val'ablest cent i ever owned. i never expect to have another i'd hate so to see palpitatin' in isaac bolum's th'oat between his adam's apple and his collar-band." "we're gittin' away from the subject," said josiah. "you're draggin' up a personal quarrel between you and isaac bolum, when we was discussin' the great problem that confronts every scholar in his day--that of thrashin' the teacher." "it's a problem no scholar ever solved in the history of this walley, anyway," declared elmer spiker. "it ain't on the records," said kallaberger. "there are le-gends," isaac bolum said. he pointed at henry holmes with his thumb. "sech as his." "yes," said josiah nummler, "we have sech le-gends, comin' mostly from the indians and henery holmes. but there's one i got from my pap when i was a boy, and i allus thought it one of the most be-yutiful fairy stories i ever heard--of course exceptin' them in the bible. it was about six stars school, here, and the boy's name was ernest, and the teacher's leander. it was told to my pap by his pap, so you can see that as a le-gend it was older than them of henery holmes." "it certainly sounds more interestin'," exclaimed isaac bolum. old mr. holmes started to protest, but aaron kallaberger quieted him with an offering of tobacco. by the time his pipe was going, josiah was well into his story. "of all the teachers that ever tot in six stars this here leander was the most fe-rocious. he was six foot two inches tall in his stockin's, and weighed no more than one hundred and thirty pound, stripped, but he was wiry. his arms was like long bands of iron. his legs was like hickory saplin's, and when he wasn't usin' them he allus kept them wound round the chair, so as to unspring 'em at a moment's notice and send himself flyin' at the darin' scholar. his face was white and all hung with hanks of black hair; his eyes was one minute like still intellectual pools and the next like burnin' coals of fire--that was my pap's way of puttin' it. ernest was just his opposite. he was a chunky boy with white hair and pale eyes. he was a nice boy when let alone, but in the whole fifteen years of his life he'd never had no call to bound kansas or tell the capital of californy outside of school hours, so he regarded leander with a fierce and childlike hatred. but ernest had a noble streak in him, too. for himself he would 'a' suffered in silence. it was the constant oppression of the helpless little ones that saddened him. it was maddenin' to have to sit silent every day while tiny girls, no older than ten, was being hounded from one end of the g'ography to the other. he seen small boys, shavers under eight, scratchin' holes in their heads with slate-pencils, tryin' to make out why two and two was four; he seen girls, be-yutiful young girls of his own age, drove almost to distraction by black-boards full of diagrams from the grammar-book. and allus before him, the inspirin' note of the whole systematic system of torturin' the young, was the rod; broodin' over it all, like a black cloud, was leander's repytation, was the memory of the boys as had gone before. for years ernest bore all this. then come a time when he was called to a position of responsibility in the school. one after another, the biggest boys had fallen. a few had gradyeated. others had argyed with the teacher and become as broken reeds, was stedyin' regular and bein' polite like. in them years, whether he wanted it or not, ernest had rose up. his repytation was spotless. his age entitled him to the fifth reader class, but he was still spellin' out words in the third; fractions was only a dream to him, and he couldn't 'a' told you the difference between a noun and a wild carrot. but through it all he'd been so humble and polite that leander looked on him as a kind of half-witted lamb." [illustration: leander.] "this here is the longest fairy story i ever heard tell of," said elmer spiker, "we haven't even had a sign of the prin-cess." "and there is a prin-cess in this here le-gend," returned josiah. "she was a be-yutiful one, too. her name was pinky binn, a dotter of the house of binn, the binns of turkey walley. she had the reddish hair of the binns and the pearl-blue eyes of the rummelsbergers from over the mountains. her ma was a rummelsberger. she wasn't too spare, nor was she too fleshy; she was just rounded right; and when she smiled--ah, boys, when pinky binn smiled at ernest from behind her g'ography his heart went like its spring had broke. yet he never showed it. it would have been ruination for him to let it be known by sign or act that pinky binn was other than the general class of weemen; for is there anything worse than weemen in general? it's the exceptions, allus the exceptions, raises trouble with a man. pinky binn was ernest's exception. but the time of his great trial come, and he was true. he stepped forth in his right light before all the school; he showed himself what he was--the gentle lover, the masterful fighter, the heroic-est scholar six stars school had ever seen." [illustration: "her name was pinky binn, a dotter of the house of binn, the binns of turkey walley."] "he whipped the teacher, i know," cried henry holmes. "i told you, ike--he licked the teacher." "this here is a fairy story, henery," returned isaac reprovingly. "even in a fairy story it 'ud be ridiculous to let a boy of fifteen beat a trained teacher," said josiah nummler. "he didn't quite, and it come this way. leander asked pinky binn if he had eleven apples and multiplied them by five how many was they left. she says sixty-five. 'figure it out agin,' he says, wery stern. so she works her fingers and her lips a-while, like she was deef and dumb. 'five-timsone is five,' she says, 'and five-timsone agin is five and one to carry is six--sixty-five,' she says. 'well, i'll be scotch-irished,' says leander gittin' wery angry. 'sech obtusety' (leander allus used fancy words) 'is worthy of ernest yander.' he pinted his long finger at ernest and says, 'how much is five times eleven apples? ernest gits up and faces the teacher, wery ca'am and wery quiet. 'sixty-five,' says he. 'it's fifty-five,' leander shouts. then says ernest, wery cool, 'pinky binn says it's sixty-five, and pinky binn ain't no storyteller, and you hadn't otter call her one.' that takes all the talk out of the teacher. he just sets there wrappin' his legs round the chair and glarin'. ernest's voice rings clear above the school now, like the declaration of independence. 'in turkey walley, teacher,' he says, 'five times eleven apples is sixty-five. they raises bigger apples there.' "leander's legs unsprung. he ketched ernest by the hair and lifted him to the platform. boys, you otter 'a' seen it. it was david and goliath all over agin, only fightin' fair. havin' leander holdin' his hair give the boy an advantage--it was two hands agin one. leander had but the one to operate his stick with, while ernest was drivin' both fists right into the darkness in front of him. the stick was making no impression, and some of the small boys that didn't know no better begin to cheer. boys, you otter 'a' been there. you'd have enjoyed it, henery. leander seen what he needed was tactics, and his regular tactics was to hold the scholar at arm's length by the hair. he tried it and it didn't work. ernest was usin' tactics too. he wasn't wastin' strength and beatin' his arms around. he just smiled. that smile aroused the teacher in leander agin. he couldn't stand it. he had never had a boy do that before; he forgot himself and sailed in. boys, that was fightin' then. you'd have enjoyed it, henery. still, i guess it couldn't have been much to watch, for there was nothin' to see but dust--a rollin', roarin' cloud of it, backward and forward over the platform. i don't know just what happened. pap couldn't tell. leander couldn't 'a' told you. ernest couldn't 'a' told you. there was war--real war, and after it come peace." "ernest whipped, i know," cried henry holmes. "the teacher was licked--good--good!" shouted isaac bolum. "no, boys," said josiah solemnly, "that couldn't have been. even in fairy stories sech things couldn't happen. but when the dust cleared away, leander's body lay along the floor, and towerin' over him, one foot on his boosom, stood the darin' scholar. i guess the teacher had been took ill." "mebbe it was appleplexy," suggested elmer spiker. "mebbe it was," said josiah. "it must have been somethin' like that; but whatever it was, there stood the boy. 'you is free,' he says, addressin' the scholars. and the children broke from the seats and started for'a'd to worship him. and pinky binn was almost on her knees at his feet, when a strange thing happened. "there was music. it come soft first, and hushed the school, and froze the scholars like statutes. louder it come and louder--a heavenly choir--the melodium, the cordine, and the fiddle. then a great white light flooded the school-room. it blinded the boys, and it blinded the girls. the music played softer and softer--the melodium, the cordine, and the fiddle--and with it, keepin' time with it, the light come softer, too; so lookin' up the scholars seen there in the celestial glow, a solemn company gethered round the boy--the he-roes of old--hercules and general grant, joshuay and washington--all the mighty fighters of history. just one glimpse the scholars had, for the music struck up louder, and the light glowed brighter and brighter till it blinded them. softer and softer the music come--the melodium, the cordine, and the fiddle. it sounded like marchin', they said, and they heard the tramp, tramp, tramp of the sperrit soldiers. then there was quiet--only the roarin' of the stove and the snuffin' of the little ones. and when they looked up leander was alone--settin' there on the platform, kind of rubbin' his eyes--alone." there was silence in the store. josiah nummler's pipe was going full blast, and while the white cloud hid him from the others, i could see a gentle smile on his fat face. "mighty son's!" cried henry holmes, "that there's unpossible." josiah planted his pole on the floor and lifted himself to his feet. "it's only a fairy story, henery," he said. "what does it illustrate?" cried aaron kallaberger. "nothin', i says. we was talkin' about mark and william bellus, and you switches off on leander and ernest. to a certain pint your story agrees with what my boy told me of the doin's in the school this afternoon." "what doing's?" i exclaimed. this talk puzzled me, and i was determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. "why, wasn't you there?" cried isaac bolum. "wasn't it you and william?" "no," i fairly shouted. "perry thomas had the school." josiah nummler's pole clattered to the floor, and he sank into a chair. "i see--i see," he gasped. "poor william!" "i see--i see," said i. "poor william!" for william had felt the hand of "doogulus!" [illustration: william had felt the hand of "doogulus."] xii it was young colonel's first day of life. he had been born six months before, but for him that had been simply the beginning of existence. now he was to live. he was to go with captain, and with betsy his mother, with arnold arker's mike and major, the best of his breed, to learn to take the trail and follow it, singing as he ran. it was young colonel's first day of life. he was out in the great dog world, and about him were the mighty hunters of the valley. arnold arker was there with his father's rifle, once a flint-lock, always a piece of marvellous accuracy, and a hero as guns go, and the old man patted the puppy and pulled his silky ears. tip pulsifer approved of him. tip shut one eye and gazed at him long and earnestly; he ran his bony fingers down the slender back to the very end of the agitated tail. one by one he took the heavy paws in his hands and stroked them. then tip smiled. murphy kallaberger smiled too, and declared that the young un took after his pa; clarifying this explanation he pointed his fat thumb over his shoulder to old captain, beating around the underbrush. it was young colonel's first day of life. and what a day to live, i thought, as i stroked his head and wished him luck! he could not get it into his puppy brain that i was to wait there while the others went racing down the slope into the wooded basin below, so he lingered, to sit before me on his haunches, his head cocked to one side, eyeing me inquisitively. there was a tang in the air. the wind was sweeping along the ridge-top and the woods were shivering. all about us rattled nature's bones, in the stirring leaves, in the falling pig-nuts, in the crash of the belated birds through the leafless branches. the sun was over us, and as i looked up to drink with my eyes of the warm light, i was taking a draught of god's best wine from off yonder in the north, of the wine that quickens the blood and drives away the brain-clouds. a day of days this was to race over the ridges while the music of the hounds rang through them; a day of days to dash from thicket to thicket, over the hills and through the hollows, leaping logs and vaulting fences, with every sense keyed to the highest; for the fox is a clever general. so young colonel was puzzled, for there i was on a log, at the crest of the ridge, with my crutches at one side and my gun at the other, when i should be away after old captain, the real leader of the sport, after arnold and tip and betsy. this was the best i could do, to sit here and listen and hope--listen as the chase went swinging along the ridges; hope that a kind fate and an unwise reynard would bring them where i could add the bark of my rifle to the song of the hounds. you can't explain everything to a dog. with a puppy it is still harder. so colonel was restless. he looked anxiously down the hill; then he lifted those soft, slantwise eyes to mine very wistfully. "go, colonel," i commanded, pointing to the hollow. instead, he came to me and lifted to my knee one of those ponderous feet of his, and tried to pull me from my log. "aren't you coming?" he seemed to say. "no, old chap," i answered, pulling the long ears gently till he smiled. "i prefer it here where i can look over the valley, and from here i can see where mary lives--down yonder on the hillside; that's the house by the clump of oaks, where the smoke is curling up so thick." the slantwise eyes became grave, and the long tail paused. the second ponderous paw came crashing on my knee. "aren't you coming?" young colonel seemed to say. [illustration: "aren't you coming?" young colonel seemed to say.] i was flattering myself that the puppy was choosing my company to the hunt, for i always value the approval of a dog. now i found myself hoping that with a little coddling the young hound would forget the great doings down in the hollow and would stay with me on the ridge-top. but i should have known better. there is an end even to a dog's patience. the place for the strong-limbed is in the thick of the chase. you can't interest a puppy in scenery when his fellows are running a fox. "look, colonel," said i, pointing over the valley, "yonder's where mary lives, and i suspect that at this very minute she is looking out of the window to this very spot, and----" the call of a hound floated up from the hollow. old captain was on a trail. with a shrill cry young colonel answered. this was no time to loaf with a crippled soldier. with a long-drawn yelp, a childish imitation of his father's bay, he was off through the bushes. young colonel was living. and i was left alone on my log. but this was my first day of life, too. some twenty-four years before i had been born, but those years were simply existence. now i was living. i had a secret. i had hinted at it to young colonel. had he stayed, i would have told him more, but like a fool he had gone jabbering off through the bushes, cutting a ludicrous figure, too, i thought, for his body had not yet grown up to his feet and ears, and he carried them off a bit clumsily. had he stayed i might have told him all, and there never was a bit of news quite so important as that the foolish puppy missed; never a story so romantic as that he might have heard; never in the valley's history an event of such interest. he had scorned it. now he was with the dog mob down there in the gulch. i could hear them giving tongue, and i knew they were on an old trail. soon they would be in full cry, but i did not care. it was fine to be in full cry, of course, but from my post on the ridge-top, i could at least keep in sight of the house by the clump of oaks on the hillside. last week i should have moped and fumed here, and cursed my luck in being bound to a log on a day like this. now i turned my face to the sunlight and drank in the keen air. now i whistled as merry a tune as i knew. "you seem to take well with solitude," came a voice behind me. looking about, i saw robert weston fighting his way through the thicket. "i take better to company," i said. "why have you deserted the others?" weston sat down at my side with his gun across his knees. "arnold arker says there is a fox in that hollow," he answered. "you can hear the dogs now, and he thinks if they start him, this is as good a place as any, as he is likely to run over on buzzard ridge, and double back this way, or he'll give us a sight of him as he breaks from the gully. then as we went away, i looked back and saw you sitting here and i envied you, for yours is the most comfortable post in all the ridges." "when you could be somewhere else, yes," said i. "having to sit here, i should prefer running closer to the dogs." "as you have to stay here, i'd rather sit with you, and after all what could be better?" weston laughed. "you know, mark, in all the valley you are the man i get along with best." "because i've never tried to find out why you were here." "for that reason i told you," said he. "how simple it was, too. there was no cause for mystery." "it would still be a mystery to elmer spiker, say. he can't conceive a man living in the country by choice." "to elmer spiker--indeed, to most of the folks around here, the city is man's natural environment. it's just bad luck to be country-born." "exactly," said i. weston is a keen fellow. there was a quiet, cynical smile on his face as he sat there beating a tattoo on his leggings with a hickory twig. "look at your brother," he exclaimed after a while. "i always told tim that if he knew what was best he'd stay right here and----" "if you told him that now, he would laugh at you," i interrupted. weston looked surprised. "does he like work?" he exclaimed. "the boy is in love," i answered. weston dropped the hickory twig, and turning, gazed at me. "i knew that," he said. "i knew that long ago." "with edith parker," i hastened to explain. "you know her?" "oh--oh," he muttered. he pulled out a cigar-case and a box of matches and spent a long time getting a light. then with a glance of inquiry, he said, "edith parker?" "why, don't you know her?" i asked. "i know a half a hundred parkers," he replied. "i may know edith parker, but i can't recall her." "this one is your book-keeper's daughter," i said with considerable heat. "indeed," said he calmly. "parker--parker--i thought our book-keeper's name was smyth. yes--i'm quite sure it's smyth." "but tim says it's parker," said i. "tim ought to know." "tim should know," laughed weston. "i guess he does know better than i. a minute ago i would have sworn it was smyth; but to tell the truth, i never gave any attention to such details of business. well, edith is my book-keeper's daughter." "she lives in brooklyn," said i, "and she is very beautiful. every letter i get from tim, the more beautiful she becomes, for in all my life i never heard of a fellow as frank as he is. usually men hide what sentiment they have except from a few women, but his letters make me blush when i read them." "they are so full of gush," said weston, calmly smoking. he seemed very indifferent, and to be more listening to the cries of the dogs working around the hollow than to the affairs of the hope family. "gush is the word for it," i answered. "tim never gives me a line about himself. it's all edith--edith--edith." "and he is engaged to miss smyth?" weston struck his legging a sharp blow with his stick. "confound it!" he cried, "i can't get it out of my head that our book-keeper's name is smyth." "but tim knows, surely," said i. "yes--he must," answered weston. "of course i'm wrong. but this miss parker--are they engaged?" "i can't tell from his last letter," i replied. "it seems that they must be pretty near it--that's what mary says, too." weston started. then he rose to his feet very slowly, and wheeling about looked down on me and smoked. "mary says so too," he repeated. "how in the world does mary know?" "i read her the letter," said i, apologetically. it did seem wrong to read tim's letter that way. from my standpoint it was all right now, but weston did not know that, so he whistled softly to himself. from the hollow came the long-drawn cry of the hound. it was old captain. betsy joined in, then mike; and now the ridges rang with the music of the chase. they were on a fresh trail; they were away over hill and hollow, singing full-throated as they ran. "they've found him," i cried, rising to hear the song of the hounds. weston sat down on the log. "they are making for the other ridge," said i, pointing over the narrow gully. "hark! there's young colonel." but weston went on smoking. "poor tim!" i heard him say. full and strong rang the music of the dogs, as they swung out of the hollow, up the ridge-side. for a moment, in the clearing, i had a glimpse of them, captain leading, with betsy at his haunches, and mike and major nose and nose behind them. far in the rear, but in the chase, was little colonel. a grand puppy, he! all ears and feet. but he runs bravely through the tangled brush. many a stouter dog comes from it with flanks all torn and bloody. i waved my hat wildly, cheering him on. i called to him loudly, in the vain hope he might look back, as though at a time like this a hound would turn from the trail. on he went into the woods--nose to the ground and body low--all feet and ears--and a stout heart! "now we must wait," i said, "and watch, and hope." already they had turned the crest of the hill, and fainter and fainter came the sound of the chase. "mark," weston began, "i hope this affair of tim's turns out all right. what little i can do shall be done, and to-night i'm going to write to the office that they must help him along. he deserves it." "but the poorer men are, the greater their love," i laughed. "with money to marry, tim might think that after all he'd better look around more--take a choice." "but tim is the most serious person that ever was," returned weston. "i have found that out. once he makes up his mind, there is no changing it. he is full of ideas. he actually thinks that a man who is in business is doing something praiseworthy; that a man who has bought and sold merchandise at a profit all his life can fold his hands when he dies and say; 'i have not lived in vain.' he does not know yet that the larger estate a man leaves to his relatives the more useful his life has been. now i suppose he hopes some day to be a tea-king. perhaps he will. i hope so. i don't want the job. but once he has picked out his queen, you can't change him by making marriage a financial impossibility." "well, i'm certainly not protesting against your raising his salary," said i. "you needn't. to tell the truth, it's too late. i wrote to the office about that yesterday." it was of no use to thank weston for anything. i tried to, but he brushed it aside airily and told me to attend to my own affairs and light one of his cigars. when we were smoking together, his mood became more serious, and as he spoke of tim and tim's ambition, and of his interest in the boy, he was carried back to his own earlier life. so for the first time i came to understand his prolonged stay in the valley. like elmer spiker, in my heart weston's conduct puzzled me. when he told me that he had come here simply because he liked the country i believed him that far, but i suspected some deeper reason to keep a man of his stamp dawdling in a remote valley. now it was so simple. the foundation of weston's fortunes had been laid in one small saloon; its bulk had been built on a chain stretching from end to end of the city. its founder had been a coarse, uneducated man, but his success in the liquor trade had been too great to be forgotten, even years after he had abandoned it and built up the great commercial house that bore his name. his ambition for his son had been boundless. he had spared nothing to make him a better man in the world's eye than his father. he had succeeded. but the world had persisted in remembering the parental bar. robert weston had never seen that bar, for he had entered on the scene when there was a chain of them, and his father had brought him up almost in ignorance of their very existence. even at the university he had little reason to be ashamed of them. it was after he had spent years in rounding out his education abroad, and had returned to take his place in those circles which he believed he was entitled to enter, that he found that the world persisted in pointing to the large revenue stamp that seemed to cling to him. a stronger man would have fought against odds like those and won for himself a place that would suffer no denial. but weston was physically a delicate man. by nature he was retiring, rather than aggressive. if those who were his equals would have none of him because of his father's faults, then he would not seek them. equally distasteful were those who equalled him in wealth alone, for by a strange contradiction, the very fact that the rumshop did not jar on their sensibilities, marked them for him as coarse and uncongenial. weston had turned to himself. it is the study of oneself that makes cynics. the study of others makes egotists. then a woman had come. of her weston did not say much, except that she had made him turn from himself for a time to study her. he had become an egotist and so had dared to love her. she had loved him, he thought, for she said so, and promised to become his wife. things were growing brighter. but they met an officious friend. they were in venice at the time, he having joined her there with her family. the officious friend joined the family too, and he held up his hands in horror when he heard of it. didn't the family know? oh, yes, bob was himself a fine fellow; but he was whiskey weston! "of course, no good woman wants to be mrs. whiskey weston," said my friend grimly. "still, i think she did care a bit for me; but it was all up. back i came, and here i am, mark, just kind of stopping to stretch my legs and rest a little and breathe. i came on a wheel, for i had ridden for miles and miles trying to get my mind back on myself the way it used to be." then he smoked. "is that the dogs again?" i said, to break the oppressive silence. weston did not heed me, but pointed down the valley to the house by the clump of oaks. "do you know sometimes i think that mary there, with all her bringing up, would edge away from me if she knew that my father had kept saloons and gambling places and all that." weston spoke carelessly, puffing at his cigar, for he had recovered his easy demeanor. "i think a world of mary, mark. she is beautiful, and good, and honest. sometimes i suspect that i've stayed here just for her. sometimes i think i will not leave till she goes--" weston sprang to his feet. "it's the dogs! hear them!" he cried. i was up too. away down the ridge we heard the bay of the hounds again. "i want to tell you something," i said, pointing to the house by the clump of oaks. "i wish for your sake that there were two marys, weston. but there is only one, and she is good and beautiful, and for some reason--heaven only knows why--she is going to be my wife." weston stepped hack and gazed at me. i did not blame him. he seemed to study me from head to foot, and i knew that he was trying to find some reason why the girl should care for me. it was natural. i had puzzled over the same problem and i had not solved it. now i did not care. "stare on," i cried, laughing. "you can't think it queerer than i do. it's hard for me to convince myself that it is true." "i am glad," he said, taking my hand in a warm grasp. "it isn't strange at all, mark, for mary is a wise woman." "there are the dogs," said i; "they are getting nearer." "they are coming our way at last," he returned quietly. "but what's that to us when you are to be married? i wish you joy and i shall be at the wedding, and it must be soon, too, and tim shall be here." he was speaking very rapidly; his face was pale and his hand trembled in mine. "i'll send for him. tim must have a holiday, and perhaps he'll bring miss--miss smyth." weston laughed. "parker," he corrected. "he'll bring miss parker or mrs. tim." full and strong the bay of the hounds was ringing along the ridges. nearer and nearer they were coming. now i could hear old captain's deep tones, and the shorter, sharper tongue of betsy, mike, and major. the fox was keeping to the ridge-top and in a few moments he would be sweeping by us. i pointed through the woods to a bit of clearing made by a charcoal burner. if he kept his course the fox would cross it, and that meant a clear shot. weston knew the place, and without a word he picked up his gun and hurried through the woods. nearer and nearer came the hounds. the woods were ringing with their music, and the sound of the chase swung to and fro, from ridge to ridge. now i could hear the crashing of the underbrush. weston fired. the report rattled from hill to hill. my own gun sprang to the shoulder, but it was too late. the fox, seeing me, veered down the slope, and swept on to safety or to death, for six more anxious hunters were watching for him somewhere in those woods. the dogs swept by, old captain as ever leading, with betsy at his haunches and mike and major neck and neck behind. i watched for little colonel. a minute passed and he did not come. poor puppy! he had learned that to live was to suffer. somewhere in these woods he must be lying, resting those ponderous paws and licking his bloody flanks. the hollow was alive with the bay of dogs; the ridges were ringing with the echoes of a gunshot; but above them all i heard a plaintive wail over there in the charcoal clearing. i called for weston and i got no answer, only the cry of the little hound. i called again and i got no answer. through the hushes i tore as fast as my crutches would take me, calling as i ran and hearing only the wail of the puppy, till i broke from the cover into the open. on his haunches, his slantwise eyes half closed, his head lifted high in the bright sunlight, sat little colonel, wailing. he heard me call. he saw me. and when i reached him he was licking the white face of whiskey weston. [illustration: sat little colonel, wailing.] xiii hindsight is better than foresight. a foolish saying. by foresight we do god's will. by hindsight we would seek to better his handiwork. things are right as they are, i say, as i sit quietly of an evening smoking my pipe on my porch, watching the mountains in the west bathe in the gold and purple of the descending sun. what might have been, might also have been all wrong. a foolish saying, says tim, for if what might have been should actually be, then we should have the realization of our fondest dreams. and with that realization might come a dreadful awakening from our dreams, say i. you might have become a tea-king, tim, and measure your fortune in millions. i might have turned lawyer instead of soldier; i might have made a great name for myself in congress by long speeches full of dry facts and figures, or short ones puffed up with pompous phrases. the fact that six stars existed might have gone beyond our valley because here you and i were born, and for a time we honored the place with our presence. suppose all that had been, and you the tea-king and i the great lawyer sat here together as we sit now, smoking, could you add one note to the evening peace; would the night-hawk pay us homage by a single added ring as he circles among the clouds; would the bull-frogs in the creek sing louder to our glory; would the bleating of the sheep swing in sweeter to the music of the valley? and look at god's fireplace, i cry, pointing to the west, where the sun is heaping the glowing cloud coals among the mountains. god's fireplace? says tim, with a queer look in his eyes. yes, say i, and the valley is the hearthstone. the mountains are the andirons. over them, piled sky high, the cloud-logs are glowing, and never logs burned like those, all gold and red. night after night i can sit here and warm my heart at that fireside. could you, tea-king, buy for my eyes a picture more wonderful? the fire is dying. the cloud coals grow fainter--now purple; and now in ashes they float away into the chill blue. but they will come again. could your millions, tea-king, buy for me a sweeter music than the valley's heart throb as it rocks itself to sleep? "no," tim answers, "but suppose----" "and could i have better company to watch and listen with?" i exclaim. "for with you a tea-king, tim, and i a lawyer, it would be just the same, would it not?" "that's just what i was trying to get at," says tim. "suppose that day of the fox-hunt you had not carried weston----" i hold up my hand to check him. "were it to happen a hundred times over, i would take him to mary's," i cry. "else he would have died." "you are right, mark," tim says. * * * * * * i took weston to mary's house that day when i found him lying in the charcoal clearing, with little colonel standing over him wailing. tearing open his coat and shirt, i stanched his wound as best i could. then i called the others to me. tip and arnold picked him up and carried him, while murphy kallaberger and i broke a path through the bushes, and aaron ran on to warden's to tell them of the accident and have them prepare for the wounded man. warden's was the nearest house, but that was a mile from the clearing, and in the woods our progress was slow. once free of the ridges and in the open fields the way was easy, and murphy could lend a hand to the others. "he's monstrous light," tip said. "he doesn't seem no more than skin and bones in fancy rags." it is strange how even our clothes go back on us when we are down. weston i had always known as a lanky man, but about his loosely fitting garments there had been an air of careless distinction. now that he was broken, they hung with such an odd perversion as to bring from its hiding-place every sharp angle in the thin frame. the best nine tailors living could not have clothed him better for that little journey, nor lessened a whit the pathos of the thin arms that lay limply across the shoulders of tip and arnold. "he's a livin' skelington," old arker whispered, as i plodded along at his side. "poor devil!" "poor devil!" said i. for looking at the almost lifeless man i thought of my own good fortune. this morning i had envied him. now he had nothing but his wealth, and his hold on that was weakening fast. i had everything--life and health, home and friends--i had mary. as we parted a few minutes before, up there in the woods, i had pitied him. he had seemed so lonely, so bitter in his loneliness, and yet at heart so good. now his eyes half opened as they carried him on, his glance met mine in recognition, and it seemed to me that he smiled faintly. but it was the same bitter smile. "poor devil!" i said to myself. and we carried him into mary's house. she was waiting for us, and without a word led us upstairs to a room where we laid him on a bed. "i stumbled, mark, i stumbled," he whispered, as i leaned over him. "the fox came and i ran for it--then i fell--and then the little hound came, and then----" mary was bathing his forehead, and for the first time he saw her. "i stumbled, mary," he whispered. "i swear it." * * * * * * it was nearly ten o'clock when i left weston's room. the doctor was with him and was preparing to bivouac at the patient's side. he was a young man from the big valley. luther warden had driven to the county town and brought him back to us. the first misgivings i had when i caught sight of his youthful, beardless face were dispelled by the business-like way in which he went about his work. he had been in a volunteer regiment, he told me, as an assistant surgeon, but had never gone past the fever camps, as this was his first case of a gunshot wound. he had made a study of gunshot wounds, and deemed himself fortunate to be in when mr. warden called. truly, said i to myself, one man's death is another man's practice. but it was best that he was so confident, and i found my faith in him growing as he worked. the wound was a bad one, he said, and the ball had narrowly missed the heart, but with care the man would come around all right. the main thing was proper nursing. the young doctor smiled as he spoke, for standing before him in a solemn row were half the women of six stars. mrs. bolum was there with a tumbler of jelly; mrs. tip pulsifer had brought her "paytent gradeated medicent glass," hoping it would be useful; mrs. henry holmes had no idea what was needed, but just grabbed a hot-water bottle as she ran. elmer spiker's better half was there to demand her injured boarder at once; he paid for his room at the tavern; it was but right that he should occupy it and that she should care for him. when she found that she could not have him entirely, she compromised on the promise that she would be allowed to watch over him the whole of the next day. in spite of the jar of jelly, the doctor chose mrs. bolum to help him that night, and when i left them the old woman was sitting in a rocker at the bedside, her eyes watching every movement of the sleeping patient's drawn face. [illustration: the main thing was proper nursing.] outside, the wind was whistling. the steady heating of an oak branch on the porch roof told me it was blowing hard. it sounded cold. mary stood tiptoe to reach my collar and turn it up. then she buttoned me snug around the neck. it was the first time a woman had ever done that for me. how good it was! i absently turned the collar down again and tore my coat open. then i smiled. again she raised herself tiptoe before me, and with a hand on each shoulder, she stood looking from her eyes into mine. "you fraud!" she cried. then i laughed. lord, how i laughed! twenty-four years i had lived, and until now i had never known a real joke, one that made the heart beat quicker, and sent the blood singing through the veins; that made the fingers tingle, the ears burn, and brought tears to the eyes. i don't suppose that other people would have thought this one so amusing. the young doctor upstairs might not have feigned a smile, for instance. that was what made it all the better for me, for it was my own joke and mary's, and in all the world i was the only man who could see the fun of it. "when you turn that collar up again i am going," said i. so she sprang away from me, laughing, and quick as i reached out to seize her, she avoided me. "you know i can't catch you," i cried, taunting her, "so i must wait." as she stood there before me quietly, her hands clasped, her eyes looking up into mine, i saw how fair she was, and i wondered. the picture of weston in the woods, standing off there gazing at me, came back then, and with it a vague feeling of fear and distrust. i saw myself as weston saw me, and i marvelled. "mary," i said, "this morning up there in the woods i told robert weston everything, and he stood off just as you are standing now. it seemed to me he wondered how it could be true, and now i wonder too. maybe it's all a mistake." "it's not a mistake, mark," the girl said, and she came to me again and put a hand on each shoulder and looked up. "if i did not care for you i'd never have given you the promise i did last night. but i do care for you, mark, more than for anyone else in the world. you are big and strong and good--that's why--it's all any woman can ask. you are true, mark--and that's more than most men----" "but, mary, there's tim," i protested, for i did not care to usurp to myself the sum of all the virtues allotted to my sex. "tim?" said she lightly, as though she had never heard of him. "yes, tim," i said shortly. "why did you choose me instead of a lad like tim?" "mark, i care for you more than anyone else in the world," said mary. "but do you love me?" i asked quickly. "i think i do," she said. but reaching up, she turned my collar again and buttoned my coat against the storm. xiv tim was home in three days. his few months of town life had wrought many changes in him, and they were for the better. i was forced to admit that, but i could not help being just a little in awe of him. he was not as heavy as of old, but there was more firmness in his face and figure. perhaps it was his clothes that had given him a strange new grace, for in the old days he was a ponderous, slow-moving fellow. now there was a lightness in his step and quickness in his every motion. had i not known him, i should have seen in the scrupulous part in his hair a suggestion of the foppish. but i knew him, and while i liked him best with his old tousled head, and tanned face, and homely hickory shirt, i felt a certain pride that he had taken so well with the world and was learning the ways of the town as well as those of the field and wood. his gloves did seem foolish, for it was a bitter december day when the blood had best had full swing in the veins, but he held out to me a hand pinched in a few square inches of yellow kid. the grasp was just as warm though, and i forgave that. when he threw aside his silly little overcoat and stood before me, so tall and strong, so clean-cut and faultless, from the part in his hair to the shine on his boot-tips, i cried, "heigh-ho, my fine gentleman!" then he blushed. i suspected that it pleased him vastly. "do you think it an improvement?" he faltered, standing with his back to the fireplace and lifting himself to his full height. before i could reply, the door flew open without the formality of a knock, and old mrs. bolum ran in. when she saw him, she stopped and stared. "well, ain't he tasty!" she cried. [illustration: well, ain't he tasty.] then she courtesied most formally. "how do you do, mr. hope?" she said. "and how is mrs. bolum?" returned tim gravely, advancing toward her with his hand outstretched. the old woman rubbed her own hand on her apron, an honor usually accorded only to the preacher, and held it out. tim seized it, but he brought his other arm around her waist and lifted her from the floor in one mighty embrace. "you'll spoil your sunday clothes," panted mrs. bolum, when she reached the floor again. stepping back, she eyed him critically. "you look handsomer than a drummer," she cried admiringly. "thank you, ma'am," said tim very meekly. "i'm so sorry i left my spectacles at home," she went on. "my eyes ain't as good as they used to be and i can't see you plain as i'd like. mebbe it's my sight as is the trouble, but it seems to me, as i see you now without my glasses, you're just about the prettiest man that ever come to six stars." "lord, ma'am," protested tim. "and how is mr. bolum?" "and such a lovely suit," continued the old woman, cautiously approaching and moving her hand across my brother's chest. "why, tim, you must have on complete store clothes--dear, oh, dear--to think of tim hope gittin' so fine and dressy! now had it 'a' been mark i wouldn't 'a' been so took back, for he allus was uppy and big feelin'. but tim!" mrs. bolum shook her head and held her hands up in astonishment. "and how is mr. bolum?" shouted tim. "never was better, 'ceptin' for his rheumatism and asphmy," was the answer, but the good woman was not to be turned aside that way. "and a cady," she cried, for her eyes had caught tim's hat and the silly yellow overcoat on the chair where i had thrown them. "a cady, too! now just put it on and let me see how you look." tim obeyed. mrs. bolum stepped hack to get a better effect. "it ain't as pretty as your coon-skin," she said critically; "you'd look lovely in that suit with your coon-skin cap--but hold on--don't take it off--i want bolum to see you." she ran from the room and we heard her calling from the porch: "bo-lum--bo-lum--isaac bo-oh-lum." isaac was at the store. it seemed to me that his wife should have known that without much research. the little pile of sticks by the kitchen-door showed that his day's work was done, for when he had split the wood for the morrow it was the old man's custom to put aside all worldly care and start on a tour of the village, which generally ended on the bench at henry holmes's side. it was almost dusk. tim had come on a mission to robert weston. i had sent word to him of the accident, that weston's friends might know, and the first thought of the injured man's partner was to hurry to six stars, but my second despatch, announcing that our friend was well on the road to recovery, led to the change in plans that brought tim to us. mrs. bolum did not succeed in alarming the village before he and i were well up the road, past the school-house and climbing the hill to warden's. tim had a great deal to tell me in that short walk. i had much to tell him, but i was silent and let him chatter on, giving but little attention to what he said, for i was planning a great surprise. the simplest thing would have been to tell him my secret then, but i had pictured something more dramatic. i wanted mary to witness his dumfounding when he heard the news. i wanted her to be there when its full import broke upon him; then the three of us, mary and tim and i, would do a wild jig. what boon companions we should be--we three--to go through life together! and edith? four of us--so much the better! i had never seen this edith, but tim is a wonderful judge of women. so i let him talk, on and on about the city and his life there, until we reached the house. we found that mrs. spiker had secured her rights, and was on duty that day as nurse. the young doctor was there, too, as were mrs. tip pulsifer and a half dozen others, a goodly company to greet us. "hello, mary!" tim cried, breaking through the others, when he caught sight of her, standing at the foot of the stairs with a lighted candle in her hand. "hello, tim!" cried mary. "and where is edith?" "edith?" tim exclaimed, stopping as if to collect the thoughts her sudden taunting question had scattered. "i left her behind this time, but when i come again you shall see her." tim, with arms akimbo, stood there laughing. "we country girls, i understand, cannot compare with her," said mary, tilting her chin. she had started up the stairs, and now paused, looking down on us. and i looked up at her face showing out of the darkness in the half light, and i laughed, wondering what tim thought, wondering if he was blind, or was this edith really bewildering. "did i say that?" cried tim. "then i must have meant it when i said it. to-night i have learned better, mary, but you know i never saw you standing that way before--on the stairs above me--kind of like an angel with a halo----" "indeed!" retorted mary; "but we women of black log deck ourselves out in gaudy finery, mr. tim, i believe. we women of black log do not inspire a man, like your edith." "confound my edith!" tim exclaimed hotly. "why, mary, can't you see i was joking? the idea of comparing edith with you--why, mary----" tim in his protest started to mount the stairs, and there was an earnestness in his tone that made me think it high time he knew our secret, for his own sake and for edith's. it seemed to me unfair of him to desert her so basely in the presence of an enemy. he should have stood by her to the very end, and had he boldly declared that as compared to her mary was a mummy i should have admired him the more; i should have understood; i should have known he was mistaken, but endured it. now i seized him by the coat and pulled him back. "tim," i said solemnly, "i have something to tell you." my brother turned and gave me a startled look. "mary and i have something to tell you," i went on. that should have given him a clew. i had expected that at this point he would embrace me. but he didn't. "i suppose you think i've been a fool about edith?" he muttered ruefully. "no, it isn't that," i laughed. "mary, will you tell him?" but we were in darkness! she had dropped the candle, and down the stairs the stick came clattering. it landed on the floor and went rolling across the room. tim made a dive for it. he groped his way to the corner where its career had ended. then he lighted it again. behind us stood the doctor, and mrs. tip pulsifer, and elmer spiker's much better half. mary was at the head of the stairs. "come, tim," she called. "mr. weston wants to see you." "weston does want to see you very much, tim," the wounded man said smiling, lifting a thin hand from the bed for my brother; "i heard you chattering downstairs, and i thought you were never coming." "it was mary's fault," tim said. "i came back as soon as i could, sir. mr. mills sent me up on the night train--out this afternoon in a livery rig--here afoot just as fast as mark would let me--then mary blocked the way. mark was going to tell me something when she dropped the candle." "why, don't you know--" began weston. but over my brother's shoulders i shook my head sternly at him and he stopped and broke into a laugh. mrs. elmer spiker was standing by him; the young doctor was moving about the room, apparently very busy; mrs. tip pulsifer was peeping in at the door. "didn't you know," said weston, "how i'd shot myself all to pieces, and how there's a live fox in the hollows across the ridge?" "mark told me of it," answered the innocent tim, "and i'm glad to find it is not serious. they were worried at the store. mr. mills was for coming right away, but we got word you were better, and he thought i should run up anyway for a day to see if we could do anything. i'm to go back to-morrow." "it was good of you to come," weston said, "but there is nothing to be done. just tell mills the whole valley is nursing me; tell him that i've one nurse alone who is worth a score." mrs. spiker looked very conscious, but weston smiled at mary. then he quickly added: "tell him that mrs. bolum and mrs. spiker and mrs. pulsifer--" he paused to make sure that none was missed--"and mark here are a hospital corps, taken singly or in a body." "i've told him that already," said tim. "he knows everybody in six stars, i guess, and he says as soon as you get well and come back to the office, he will take a holiday himself, fox hunting." "poor little colonel!" murmured weston. "he'll have a melancholy career. and mary, too, she'll----" "but it was when i told him about mary that he made up his mind to come," tim said. "indeed." the girl spoke very quietly. "and, perhaps, tim, you'll send edith along to help us. we women of black log are so clumsy." "a good idea," said weston. "capital. you must bring miss smyth up, too, tim." "parker," i corrected, "edith parker." "but is it parker?" weston appealed to my brother. "mark tells me she's the book-keeper's daughter. has old smyth gone?" "no," tim stammered, very much confused. "i guess you don't know parker. he's come lately." "that explains it, then," said weston. but he turned and looked away from us, his brow knitted. something seemed to puzzle him, for he was frowning, but by and by the old cynical smile came back. he said suddenly: "tim, i wish you luck. i'm glad anyway it isn't smyth's daughter. that was what i couldn't understand. ever see smyth's daughter? no. well, you needn't bemoan it. i dare say miss parker is all you picture her, and i hope you'll win." "don't you think you'd better rest now?" asked tim, with sudden solicitation. though he addressed himself to weston, his eyes were appealing to the doctor. "i think i had," weston answered, not waiting for the physician to interpose any order. "i get tuckered out pretty easily these days, with this confounded bullet-hole in me--but stay a moment, tim. they've got a letter from me at the office by this time. it may surprise them; it may surprise you, but i wanted you to know i'd fixed it all right for you, my boy. i did it for edith's sake." tim, with face flushed and hands outstretched in protest, arose from his chair and went to the bedside. "but don't you see it's all a joke," he cried. "i can't take it. won't you believe me this time? there isn't any edith!" "i knew that long ago, tim," weston answered quietly. "but there may be some day." he turned his back to us. "please go," he said brusquely. "i want to rest. don't stand over me that way, tim. why, you look like little colonel!" * * * * * * at the school-house door tim halted suddenly. "i'm going back, mark," he whispered, "just for a minute. weston will think i'm a fraud and i want to tell him something. now that the others have left i may have a chance. confound these kind-hearted women that overrun the house! why, a fellow couldn't say a word without a dozen ears to hear it." "i'll go back with you," said i. we had fallen a few steps behind the others, but somehow they divined our purpose and stopped, too. "you needn't," said tim. "i'll only be a minute." "but i've something to tell you--a secret--and mary----" he was gone. "i'll be back in a minute," he called. "go on home." he was lost in the darkness, and i started after him. "ain't you comin'?" cried nanny pulsifer. "i must go back to warden's," i answered. "then we'll go with you," said mrs. spiker firmly. "can't you go on home?" i said testily. "there's no use of your troubling yourself further." "does you think we'll walk by that graveyard alone?" demanded the tavern-keeper's wife. "but there are no ghosts," i argued. [illustration: "but there are no ghosts," i argued.] "we know that," returned mrs. pulsifer. "everybody knows that, but it's never made any difference." "a graveyard is a graveyard even if there is no bodies in it," said mrs. spiker, planting herself behind me so as to cut off further retreat. tim must have caught some echoes of the argument on the spirit world, for down the hill, through the darkness, came his call. "go on home, mark--i'll be back in a minute." i believed him, and i obeyed. xv tim's minute? god keep me from another as long! i had my pipe in my chair by the fire, and knocking the ashes out, i went to the door, and with a hand to my ear listened for his footsteps. tim's minutes are long! another pipe, and the clock on the mantel marked nine. still i smoked on. he had had a long talk with weston, perhaps, and had stopped downstairs for a minute with mary. she had told him all. how astounded the boy must be! why, it would take her a half hour at least to convince him that she spoke the truth when she told him she was to marry his wreck of a brother; then when he believed it, another half hour would hardly be enough for him to welcome her into the family of hope, and to talk over the wonderful fortunes of its sons. doubtless he had felt it incumbent on himself to sing my praises, for he had always been blind to my faults. in this possibility of his tarrying to display my virtues there was some compensation for my sitting alone, with old captain and young colonel, both sleeping, and only my pipe for company. of course, i should really be there with tim, but nanny pulsifer and mrs. spiker had decreed otherwise. who knows how great may be my reward for bringing them safely past the graveyard! the third pipe snuffled out. i opened the door and listened. tim's minutes are long, for the last light in the village is out now. i went to the gate and stood there till i caught the sound of foot-falls. then i whistled softly. there was no reply, but in a moment perry thomas stepped into the light of our window. "good-evening," he said cheerfully. "it's rather chilly to be swinging on the gate." "i was waiting for tim," i answered. perry gave a little dry cackle. "let's go in," he said. "it's too cold out here to discuss these great events." i did not know what he meant, neither did i much care, for perry always treated the most trivial affairs in the most elegant language he knew. but now that he stood there with his back to the fire, warming his hands, he made himself more clear. "well, mark," he said, "i congratulate you most heartily." i divined his meaning. it did not seem odd that he had learned my secret, for i was lost in admiration of his having once weighed an event at its proper value. so i thanked him and returned to my chair and my pipe. "of course it hurts me a bit here," said he, laying his hand on his watch-pocket. "i had hopes at one time myself, but i fear i depended too much on music and elocution. do you know i'm beginnin' to think that a man shouldn't depend so much on art with weemen. i notice them gets along best who doesn't keep their arms entirely occupied with gestures and workin' the fiddle." [illustration: "of course it hurts me a bit here."] perry winked sagely at this and cackled. he rocked violently to and fro on his feet, from heel to toe and toe to heel. "yet it ain't a bit onreasonable," he went on. "the artist thinks he is amusin' others, when, as a matter of fact, he is gettin' about ninety per cent. of the fun himself. we allus enjoys our own singin' best. i see that now. i thought it up as i was comin' down the road and i concided that the next time i seen a likely lookin' mrs. perry thomas, she could do the singin' and the fiddlin' and the elocution, and i'd set by and look on and say, 'ain't it lovely?'" "you bear your disappointments bravely," said i. "not at all," perry responded. "i'm used to 'em. why, i don't know what i'd do if i wasn't disappointed. some day a girl will happen along who won't disappoint me, and then i'll be so set back, i allow i won't have courage to get outen the walley. had i knowd yesterday how as all the courtin' i've done since the first of last june was to come tumblin' down on my head to-night like ceilin' plaster, not a wink of sleep would i 'a' had. now i know it. does i look like i was goin' to jump down the well? no, sir. 'perry,' i says, 'you've had a nice time settin' a-dreamin' of her; you've sung love-songs to her as you followed the plough; you've pictured her at your side as you've strayed th'oo fields of daisies and looked at the moon. now in the natural course of events she's goin' to marry another. when she's gettin' peekit like trying to keep the house goin' and at the same time prevent her seven little ones from steppin' into the cistern or fallin' down the hay-hole, you can make up another pretty pickter with one of the nine hundred million other weemen on this globe as the central figger!'" at the conclusion of this philosophic speech my visitor adjusted his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, brought himself to rest with a click of his heels and smiled his defiance. "but i congratulate you truly, heartily," he added. "thank you, perry," i answered. "in spite of your trifling way of regarding women, i hope that some day you may find another as good as mary warden." "the same to you, mark," said he. "the same to me?" i cried, with a touch of resentment. "of course," he replied. "i says to myself to-night, 'i hope mark is as fortunate,' i says, when i saw them two a----" "what two?" i exclaimed, lifting myself half out of my chair in my eagerness. "why, tim and her," perry answered. "ain't you heard it yet, mark? am i the first to know?" "tim and her," i cried. "tim and mary?" "yes," said perry. he saw now that he was imparting strange news to me. in my sudden agitation he divined that that news had struck hard home, and that i was not blessed with his own philosophic nature. the smile left his face. he stepped to me, as i sat there in the chair staring vacantly into the fire, and laid a hand on my shoulder. "i thought of course you knowd it," he said gently. "i thought of course you knowd all about it, and when i seen them up there to-night, her a-holdin' to him so lovin', says i to myself, 'how pleased mark will be--he thinks so much of tim and mary.'" tim's minute! i knew now why it was so long. i should have known it long ago. i feared to ask perry what he had seen. i divined it. i had debated with myself too much the strangeness of mary's promise, and often in the last few days there had come over me a vague fear that i was treading in the clouds. she had told me again and again that she cared for me more than for anyone else in the world. but that night when i had asked her if she loved me, she had turned my collar up. i believed that when she spoke then it was what she thought the truth. she had pledged herself to me and i had not demanded more. i had been selfish enough to ask that she link herself to my narrow life, and she had looked at me clear in the eye. "you are strong, mark, and good, and true," she had said, "and in all the world there is none i trust more. i'll love you, too. i promise." on that promise i had built all my hopes and happiness, and it had failed me. it was not strange. i had been a fool, a silly dreamer, and now i had found it out. a soldier? paugh! away back somewhere in the past, i had gone mad at a bugle-call. a hero? for a day. for a day i had puffed myself up with pride at my deeds. and now those deeds were forgotten. i was a veteran, a crippled pensioner, an humble pedagogue, a petty farmer. this was the lot i had asked her to share. she had made her promise, and that promise made and broken was more than i deserved. from a heaven she had smiled down on me, and i had climbed to the clouds, reaching out for her. then her face was turned from me, and down i had come, clattering to common earth, cursing because i had hurt myself. i turned to my pipe and lighted it again. old captain came and rested his head on my knee and looked up at me, as i stroked it slowly. "poor dog," i said. it was such a relief, and perry misunderstood. "has he been hurt?" he asked sympathetically. "yes," i answered, still stroking the old hound's head. "very badly. but he'll be all right in a few days--and we'll go on watching the mountains--and thinking--and chasing foxes--to the end--the end that comes to all poor dogs." "it's curious how attached one gets to a dog," said perry sagely, resuming his rocking from heel to toe and toe to heel. "it is curious," i said, smoking calmly. i even forced a grim smile. now that i could smile, i was prepared to hear what perry had to tell me, for after all i had been drawing conclusions from what might prove to be but inferences of his. but he had been so positive that in my inmost heart i knew the import of all he had to say. "well, perry," i said, "you did give me a surprise. i didn't know it, and, to tell the truth, was taken back a bit, for it hurt me here." i imitated his effective waistcoat-pocket gesture, which caused him much amusement. "i had hopes myself--you know that, and as i neither fiddled nor recited poetry your own conclusions may be wrong." "but tim didn't do nothin'," perry cackled. "he just goes away and lets her pine. when he comes back she falls right into his arms and gazes up into his eyes, and--" perry stopped rocking and looked into the fire. "you know, mark," he said after a pause, "it must be nice not to be disappointed." "it must be very nice," said i, smoking harder than ever. "that's what i said to myself as i looked in the window and seen them." "you looked in the window--you peeped!" i fairly shouted, making a hostile demonstration with a crutch. "why, yes" said perry, looking hurt that i should question his action in the least. "i didn't mean to. comin' from over the ridge i passed warden's and thought i'd stop in and warm up and see how weston was. so i stepped light along the porch, not wantin' to disturb him, and seein' a light in the room, i looked in before i knocked. but i never knocked, for i says to myself, 'i'll hurry down and tell mark; it'll please him.'" [illustration: "and seein' a light in the room, i looked in."] "and you saw tim and mary," said i. "i should say i did," said perry, "till i slipped away. but says i to myself, 'it must be nice not to be disappointed.'" "you said you saw tim and mary," said i, a trifle angrily. "i should say i did," perry answered, chuckling and rocking again on his feet. "the two of 'em, standin' there in the lamplight by the table, him a-lookin' down like he was dyin', her a-lookin' up like she was dyin' and holdin' on to him like he was all there was left for her in the world. it made me swaller, mark, it made me swaller." there was a lump in perry's throat at that moment, and he stopped his rocking and turned to the fire, so his back was toward me. "of course you knocked," said i, after a silence. "of course i didn't," he snapped. "do you suppose i was wanted then? 'no, sir,' i says, 'for them there is only two people in all the world--there's tim and there's mary.'" perry was putting on his overcoat, winding his long comforter about his neck and drawing on his mittens. "to tell the truth," he said, with a forced laugh, "i don't feel as chipper as i usually do under such like circumstances. it seems to me you ain't so chipper as you might be, either, mark." "good-night, perry," i said, smoking very hard. "good-night," he answered. at the door he paused and gazed at me. "say, mark," he said, "them two was just intended for one another--you know it--i see you know it. god picked 'em out for one another. i know it. you know it, too. but it's hard not to be picked yourself--ain't it?" tim's minute! god keep me from such another! * * * * * * it was all so plain now. the fire was dying away. the hands of the clock were crawling off another hour, and still he did not come. but what did i care? all in the world that i loved i had lost--mary and my brother--and tim had taken both. he who had so much had come in his strength and robbed me, left me to sit alone night after night, with my pipe and my dogs and my crutches. had he told me that night when i came back to the valley that he loved the girl in all truth, i should have stood aside and cheered him on in his struggle against her, but i had not measured the depth of his mind nor given him credit for cunning. perry thomas saw it. he had gone away from her and wounded her by his neglect. in the fabrication of the other girl, the beautiful edith, whose charms so outshone all other women, he had hit at the heart of her vanity; and now he had come back so gayly and easily to take from me what i might not have won in a lifetime. losing her, i cared little that what he had done had been in ignorance that i loved her and that she was plighted to me. losing her, i had no thought of blame for the girl, for when she told me that in all the world she cared for none so much as me, she meant it, for she believed that he had passed out of her life. by the fireplace, so close that i could put my hand upon the arm, was the rocking-chair i had placed for her, and many a night had i sat there watching it and smiling, and picturing it as it was to be when she came. there would mary be, sewing beneath the lamplight; there the fire burning, with old captain and young colonel, snuggling along the hearthstone; here i should be with my pipe and my book, unread, in my lap, for we should have many things to talk of, mary and i. we should have tim. as he played the great game, we should be watching his every move. and when he won, how she and i would smile over it and say "i told you so!" when he lost--tim was never to lose, for tim was invincible! tim was a man of brain and brawn. his arm was the strongest in the valley; in all our country there was no face so fine as his; in all the world few men so good and true. now he had come! the chair there was empty. so it would always be. but here i should always be with my pipe and my crutches, and the dogs snuggling by the fire. tim had come! the clock hands were crawling on and on. his minute had better end. i hurled my pipe into the smouldering coals; i tossed a crutch at little colonel, and the dog ran howling from the room. old captain sat up on his haunches, his slantwise eyes wide open with wonder. aye, captain, men are strange creatures. their moods will change with every clock-tick. one moment your master sits smoking and watching the flames--the next he is tearing hatless from the house; and it is cold outside and the wind in the chimney is tumbling down the soot. when the wind sings like that in the chimney, it is sweeping full and sharp down the village street, and across the flats by the graveyard, whither he goes hobbling. little colonel comes cautiously into the room, hugging the wall till he is back at the fireside. with his head between his fore-paws and one eye closed, he watches the tiny tongue of flame licking up the last coal. there are worse lives than a dog's. xvi tim came whistling down the road. he whistled full and clear, and while he was still at the turn of the hill the wind brought me a bit of his rollicking tune as i huddled on the school-house steps, waiting. the world was going well with him. he had all that the wise count good; he was winning what the foolish count better. with head high and swinging arms he came on, the beat of his feet on the hard road keeping time to his gay whistling. tim was winning in the game. while his brother was droning over the reader and the spelling-book with two-score leather-headed children, he was fighting his way upward in the world of commerce. while his brother was wringing a living from a few acres of niggardly soil and a little school, he was on the road to riches; while his brother was wrangling with the worthies of the store over the momentous problems of the day, he was where those problems were being worked out and standing by the men who were solving them. all in this world worth having was tim's, and now even what was his brother's he had taken. to him that hath! from him that hath not! he had all. i had nothing. now as he came swinging on so carelessly, i knew that i had lost even him. never once had there come to my mind the thought of doing my brother any bodily harm. my emotions were too conflicting for me to know just why i had come at all into the night to meet him. now it was against him that the violence of my anger would vent itself. now it was against myself, and i cursed myself for an idle, dreaming fool. then came over me, overwhelming me, a sense of my own utter loneliness, and against it tim stood out so bold and clear-cut and strong; that i felt myself crying out to him not to desert me and let a woman take him from me. i thought of the old days when he and i had been all in all to each other, and i hated the woman who had come between us, who had lured me from him, who had lured him from me. then as against my misery, she stood out so bold and good, so wholly fair, that i cursed tim for taking her from me. i wanted to see him in the full heat of my anger to tell him to his face how he had served me; to stand before him an accuser till he slunk from me and left me alone, as i would be alone from now to the end. so i had quickened my pace, hobbling up the starlit road to the school-house. there i was driven by sheer exhaustion to the shelter of the doorway, and in the narrow refuge i huddled, waiting and listening. the keen wind found me out and seemed to take joy in rushing in on me in biting gusts and then whirling away over the flat. by and by it brought me the rollicking air my brother whistled, and then came the sound of foot-falls. in a moment he would be passing, and i arose, intending to hail him. it was easy enough when i heard only his whistling to picture myself confrating him in anger, but now that in the starlight i could see his dark form coming nearer and nearer; now that he had broken into a snatch of a song we had often sung together, my courage failed me and i slunk farther into my retreat. so tim passed me. he went on toward the village, singing cheerfully for company's sake, and i stood alone, in the shadow of the school-house woods, listening. his song died away. i fancied i heard the beat of his stick on the bridge; then there was silence. i turned. through the pines on the eastward ridge the moon was climbing, and now the white road stretched away before me. it was the road to her house. the light that gleamed at the head of the hill was her light, and many a night in this same spot i had stopped to take a last look at it. it used to wink so softly to me as i waved a hand in good-night. now it seemed to leer. the friendly beacon on the hill had become a wrecker's lantern. a battered hulk of a man, here i was, stranded by the school-house. as the ship on the beach pounds helplessly to and fro, now trying to drive itself farther into its prison, now struggling to break the chains that hold it, so tossed about my love and anger, i turned my face now toward the hill, now toward the village. the same impulse that caused me to draw into the darkness of the doorway instead of facing tim made it impossible for me to follow him home. angry though i was, i wanted no quarrel, yet i feared to meet him lest my temper should burst its bounds. but i had a bitter wind to deal with, too, and if i could not go home, neither could i stand longer in the road, turning in my quandary from the beacon on the hill, where she was, to the light that gleamed in our window in the village, where he was. the school-house gave me shelter. i groped my way to my desk and there sank into my chair, leaned my head on my hands, and closed my eyes. i wanted to shut out all the world. here in the friendly darkness, in the quiet of the night, i could think it all out. i could place myself on trial, and starting at the beginning, retracing my life step by step, i would find again the course my best self had laid down for me to follow. for the moment i had lost that clear way. blinded by my seeming woes, i had been groping for it, and i had searched in vain. but now the dizziness was going, and as i sat there in the darkness, my eyes closed to shut out even the blackness about me, the light came. after a long while i looked up to see the moon high over the pines on the eastward ridge, and its yellow light poured into the room, casting dim shadows over the white walls, and bringing up before me row on row of spectre desks. the chair i sat in, the table on which i leaned were real enough. they were part of my to-day, but that dim-lighted room was the school-house of my boyhood. the fourth of those spectre desks measuring back from the stove, was where tim and i sat day after day together, with heads bowed over open books and eyes aslant. that was not the same tim who had passed me a while before, swaggering and singing in the joy of his conquest; that was not the same tim who had stood before me that very afternoon in all the pomp of well-cut clothes, drawing on his whitened hands a pair of woman's gloves; that was not the same tim who by his artful lies had won what had been denied my stupid, blundering devotion. my tim was a sturdy little fellow whose booted legs scarce touched the floor, whose tousled black head hardly showed above the desk-top. his cheeks would turn crimson at the thought of woman's gloves on those brown hands. his tongue would cleave to his mouth in a woman's presence, let alone his lying to her. that was the real tim--the rare tim. to my eyes he was but a small boy; to my mind he was a mighty man. the first reader that presented such knotty problems to his intellectual side was but part of the impedimenta of his youth, and was no fair measure of his real size. that very day he had fought with me and for me; not because i was in the right, but because i was his brother. a lean, cadaverous boy from along the mountain, a born enemy of the lads of the village, had dared me. i endured his insults until the time came when further forbearance would have been a disgrace, and then i closed with him. in the front of the little circle drawn about us, right outside there in the school-yard, tim stood. as we pitched to and fro, the cadaverous boy and i, tim's shrill cry came to me, and time and again i caught sight of his white face and small clinched hands waving wildly. i believe i should have whipped the cadaverous boy. i had suffered his foul kicks and borne him to the ground; in a second i should have planted him fairly on his back, but his brother, like him a lank, wiry lad and singly more than my match, ran at me. my head swam beneath his blows, and i released my almost vanquished enemy to face the new foe with upraised fists. then tim came. a black head shot between me and my towering assailant. it caught him full in the middle; he doubled like a staple and with a cry of pain toppled into the snow. this gave me a brief respite to compel my fallen enemy to capitulate, and when i turned from him, his brother was still staggering about in drunken fashion, gasping and crying, "foul!" tim did not know what he meant, but was standing alert, with head lowered, ready to charge again at the first sign of renewed attack. he knew neither "fight foul" nor "fight fair"; he knew only a brother in trouble, and he had come to him in his best might. that was the real tim! "i guess me and you can whip most anybody, mark," he said, as he looked up at me from his silly spelling-book that day. "as long as we stick together, tim," i whispered in return. he laughed. of course we would always stand together. that was long ago. life is an everlasting waking up. we leave behind us an endless trail of dreams. the real life is but a waking moment. after all, it was the real tim who had gone singing by as i crouched in the shadow of the school-house. the comrade of my school-days, who had fought for me with eyes closed and with the fury of a child, the companion of the hunt, racing with me over the ridges with captain singing on before us, the brother at the fireside at night, poring over some rare novel--he was only a phantom. between me and the real man there was no bond. he had grown above the valley; i was becoming more and more a part of it, like the lone pine on gander knob, or the piebald horse that drew the stage. his clothes alone had made wider the breach between us. at first i had admired him. i was proud of my brother. but solomon in all his glory was dressed in his best; from dives to lazarus is largely a matter of garments. tim had made himself just a bit better than i, when he donned his well-fitting suit and pulled on his silly gloves. beside him i was a coarse fellow, and to me he was not the old tim. this fine man had come back to the valley to take from me all that made life good. he had struck me over the heart and stunned me and then gone singing by. in mary's eyes he was the better man of the two. to my eyes he was, and i hated him for it. he could go his way and i should go mine, for we must stand alone. in the morning he would go away and leave me with the tim i loved, with the boy who sat with me at yonder desk, who raced with me over the ridges, who read with me at the fireside. the shadows deepened in the school-room, for a curtain of clouds was sweeping across the moon. peering through the window, over the flats, i saw a light gleaming steadily at the head of the village street. it was my light burning in the window, and i knew that tim was there, waiting for me. all the past rose up to tell me that he was still the comrade of my school-days, my companion of the hunt, my brother of the fireside. my head sank to the table and my hands clasped my eyes to shut out the blackness. but the blackness came again. xvii tip pulsifer leaned on my gate. crowning the post at his side was his travelling bandanna, into which he had securely clasped by one great knot all his portable possessions. it was very early in the morning, in that half-dark and half-dawn time, when the muffled crowing begins to sound from the village barns and the dogs crawl forth from their barrels and survey the deserted street and yawn. tip was not usually abroad so early, but in his travelling bandanna and solemn face, as he leaned on his elbows and smoked and smoked, i saw his reason for getting out with the sun. he was taking flight. the annual pulsifer tragedy had occurred; the head of the house had tied together his few goods, and, vowing never to trouble his wife again, had set his face toward the mountain. but on my part i had every reason to believe that tip would show surprise when i hobbled forth from the misty gloom. [illustration: tip pulsifer leaned on my gate.] just a few minutes before i had awakened. i had lifted my head from my desk, half-dazed, and gazed around the school-room. i had rubbed my eyes to drive away the veils that hid my scholars from me. i had pounded the floor with a crutch and cried: "it's books." the silence answered me. i had not been napping in school, nor was i dreaming. the long, miserable night flashed back to me, and i stamped into the misty morning. weary and dishevelled, i was crawling home, purposeless as ever, now vowing i would break with my brother, now quickening my steps that i might sooner wish him all the joy a brother should. a few dogs greeted me and then tip, calmly smoking as though it were my usual time to be about of a morning. "you are going over the mountain, tip?" said i. "yes," he answered, throwing open the gate. "this is the last six stars will see of me. i'm done. the missus was a-yammerin' and a-yammerin' all day yesterday. if it wasn't this, it was that she was yammerin' about. says i, 'i'm done. i'm sorry,' says i, 'but i'm done.' at the first peek of day i starts over the mountain. this is as fur as i've got. you've kep' me waitin'." "me--i've kept you waiting?" i cried. "do you think i'm going over the mountain, too?" "no," said tip, with a grim chuckle. "you ain't married. you've nothin' to run from, 'less you've been yammerin' at yourself; then the mountain won't do you no good. i didn't figure on your company, but tim kep' me." "is tim out at this hour?" i asked. "at this hour?" tip retorted. "you'll have to get up earlier to catch him. he's gone--up and gone--he is." i sat down very abruptly on the door-step. "tim gone?" i said. "gone--and he told me to wait and say good-by to you--to tell you he'd set late last night for you, till he fell asleep. he was sleepin' when i come, mark. i peeped in the window and there he was, in that chair of yours, fast asleep. i rapped on the window and he woke up with a jump. he was off on the early train, he said, and had just time to cover the twelve mile with that three-legged livery horse that brought him out. he was awful put out at not findin' you. he thought you was in bed, but you wasn't, and i told him mebbe you'd gone up to the warden's to lend a hand with weston." for the first time tip eyed me inquisitively. "i was up the road," i said evasively. "but tell me about tim--did he leave no word?" "he left me," said tip, grinning. "he hadn't time to leave nothin' else. we figgered he'd just cover that twelve mile and make the train. that's why i'm here. as we was hitchin' he told me particular to wait till you come; to tell you good-by; to tell you he'd watched all night--waited and waited till he fell asleep." "and overslept in the morning so he had no time to drop me even a line--i understand," said i. "and now, tip, having performed your duty, you are going over the mountain?" "to happy walley," tip cried, lifting the stick he always carried in these nights and pointing away toward thunder knob. "i'm done with black log. i'm goin' where there is peace and quiet." "you lead the life of a hermit?" i suggested. "a what?" tip exclaimed. "you live in a cave in the woods and eat roots and nuts and meditate," i explained. "you think i'm a squirrel," snapped the fugitive. "no, sir, i live with my cousin john shadrack's widder." "ah!" i cried. "it's plain now, tip, you deceiver. so there's the attraction." "the attraction?" tip's brow was furrowed. "mrs. john shadrack," i said. the fugitive broke into a loud guffaw. he leaned over the gate and let his pipe fall on the other side and beat the post violently with his hands. "i allow you've never seen john shadrack's widder," said he. "i'd like to, tip. will you take me with you to happy valley?" the smile left tip's face, and he gazed at me, open-mouthed with astonishment. "you would go over the mountain?" he said, drawling every word. over the mountain there is peace! it is cold and gray there in the early morning, and the hills are bleak and black, but i remember days when from this same spot i've watched the deep, soft blue and green; i've sat here as the hills were glowing in the changing evening lights and our valley grew dark and cold. what a fair country that must be where the sun sets! and we stay here in our dim light, in our dull monotones, when, to the westward, there's a land all capped with clouds of red and gold. there is tip's valley of peace. john shadrack's widow may not be a celestial being, but that is my sunset country. in journeying to it, i shall leave myself behind; in the joy of the road, in the changing landscape and skyscape, in the swing of the buggy and the rattle of the wheels, i shall forget myself and mary and tim for a time, and when i come back it will be with wound unhealed, but the throbbing pain will have passed, and i can face them with eyes clear and speech unfaltering. "i'll go with you to happy valley, tip," i said, rising and turning to the door. "you hitch the gray colt in the buggy and----" "we are goin' to ride," cried tip. he had always made his flights afoot before that, and the prospect of an easy journey caused him to smile. "do you think i'll walk?" i growled. "get the gray colt and i'll give you a lift over the mountain, but i'll bring you back on monday, too." tip shook his head sullenly at this threat. "while you hitch, i'll drop a line to perry thomas to take the school. now hurry." tip shuffled away to the barn, and i went into the house, and, after making a hasty breakfast and getting together a few clothes, sat down at the table, where tim had rested his drowsy head all night. i wrote two notes. one was to perry and was very brief. the other was brief, but it was to mary. when i took up the pen it was to tell her all i knew and felt. when at last i sealed the envelope it was on a single sheet of paper, bearing a few formal words, while the scuttle by the fireplace held all my fine sentiments in the torn slips of paper i had tossed there. i told mary that i knew that she did not care for me and had found herself out. if it was her wish, we would begin again where we were that night when i saw her first, and i would guide myself into the future all alone, half happy anyway in the knowledge that it was best for her and best for tim. was i wrong, a single word would bring me back. i was to be away for three days, and when i returned i should look by the door-sill for her answer. if none was there, it was all i had a right to expect. if one was there--i quit writing then--it seemed so hopeless. * * * * * * tip and i crossed thunder knob at noon. as we turned the crest of the hill and began the descent into the wooded gut, my companion looked back and waved his hand. "good-by to black log," he cried. "it's the last i'll ever see of you." he turned to me and tried to smile, but a deep-set frown took possession of his face, and he hung his head in silence, watching the wheels as we jolted on and on. we wound down the steep way into the gut, following a road that at times seemed to disappear altogether, and leave us to break our way through the underbrush. then it reappeared in a broken corduroy that bridged a bog for a mile, and lifted itself plainly into view again with a stony back where we began to climb the second mountain. the sun was ahead of us when we reached the crest of that long hill. behind us, thunder knob lifted its rocky head, hiding from us the valley of our troubles. before us, miles away, all capped with clouds of gold and red was the sunset country, but still beyond the mountains. the gray colt halted to catch his breath, and with the whip i pointed to the west, glowing with the warm evening fires. "yonder's happy valley, tip," i said, "miles away still. it will take us another day to reach it." "it will take you forever to reach it," was the half-growled retort. "i ain't chasin' sunsets. here's happy walley--my happy walley, right below us, and the smoke you see curlin' up th'oo the trees is from the john shadrack clearin'." a great wall, hardly a mile away, as the crow flies, the third mountain rose, bare and forbidding. below us, a narrow strip of evergreen wound away to the south as far as our eyes could reach, and at wide intervals thin columns of smoke sifting through the trees marked the abodes of the dwellers of tip's elysium. peace must be there, if peace dwells in a land where all that breaks the stillness seems the drifting of the smoke through the pine boughs. the mountain's shadow was over it and deepening fast, warning us to hurry before the road was lost in blackness. but away off there in the west, where a half score of peaks lifted their summits above the nearer ranges, all purple and gold and red, a heap of cloud coals glowed warm and beautiful over the sunset land. my heart yearned for that land, but i had to turn from the contemplation of its distant joys to the cold, gloomy reality below me. the whip fell sharply across the gray colt's back, and he jumped ahead. down the steep slope, over rocks and ruts we clattered, the buggy swinging to and fro, and tip holding fast with both hands, muttering warnings. the gray colt broke into a run. all my strength failed to check him. faster and faster we went, and now tip was swearing. i prayed for a level stretch or a bit of a hill, for the wagon had run away too, and where the wagon and the horse join in a mad flight there must come a sudden ending to their career. the mountain-road offered me no hope. steeper and steeper it was as we dashed on. tip became very quiet. once i glanced from the fleeing horse to him, and i saw that his face was white and set. "get out, tip," i cried. "jump back, over the seat." "not me," said he, grimly. "we come to happy walley together, me and you, and together we'll finish the trip." he lent a hand on the reins, but it was useless, for the wagon and the horse were running away together, and there was nothing to do but to try to guide them. "pull closer to the bank at the bend ahead," tip cried. almost before the warning passed his lips we had shot around the projecting rock, where the road had been cut from the mountain-side. we were near our journey's end then, for at the foot of the embankment that sheered down at our left we heard the swish of a mountain-stream. the horse went down. there was a cry from tip--a sound of splintering wood--something seemed to strike me a brutal blow. then i lay back, careless, fearless, and was rocked to sleep. [illustration: the horse went down.] xviii she sat smoking. had i never heard of her before, had i opened my eyes as i did that day to see her sitting before me, i should have exclaimed, "it's john shadrack's widder!" so, with the crayon portrait, gilt-framed, that hung on the wall behind her, i should have cried, "and that is john shadrack!" this crayon "enlargement" presented john with very black skin and spotless white hair. his head was tilted back in a manner that made the great bushy beard seem to stick right out from the frame, and gave the impression that the old man was choking down a fit of uproarious laughter. i knew, of course, that he had been posed that way to better show his collar and cravat. though tip had described him to me as a rather gloomy, taciturn person, the impression gained in the long contemplation of his picture as i lay helpless on the bed never changed. to me he was the ideal citizen of happy valley, and the acquaintance i formed then and there with his wife served only to endear him to me. she sat smoking. i contemplated her a very long while and she gazed calmly back. a score of times i tried to speak, but something failed me, and when i attempted to wave my hand in greeting to her i could not lift it from the bed. at last strength came. "this is john shadrack's house?" i said. "yes," said she, "and i'm his widder." [illustration: "and i'm his widder."] she came to my side and stood looking down at me very hard. i saw a woman in the indefinable seasons past fifty. in my vague mental condition, the impression of her came slowly. first it was as though i saw three cubes, one above the other, the largest in the middle. then these took on clothing, blue calico with large polka dots, and the topmost one crowned itself with thin wisps of hair, parted in the middle and plastered down at the side. so, little by little, john shadrack's widow grew on me, till i saw her a square little old woman, with a wrinkled, brown face, a perpetual smile and a pipe that snuffled in a homely, comfortable way. i smiled. you couldn't help smiling when mrs. john shadrack looked down at you. "it's been such a treat to have you," she cried. "i've been enjoyin' every minute of your visit." this was puzzling. how long mrs. john shadrack had been entertaining me, or i had been entertaining her, i had not the remotest idea. a very long while ago i had seen a spire of smoke curling through the trees in happy valley, and i had been told that it was from her hearth. then we had gone plunging madly down the hill to it, tip, the gray colt and i. we had turned a sharp bend, we had heard the swish of a mountain-stream. there my memory failed me. i had awakened to find myself helpless on a bed, strangely hard, but, oh, so restful! then she had appeared, sitting there smoking. "you are the first stranger as has been here since the tax collector last month," she said, beginning to clear away the mystery. "i love strangers." "how long have i been here?" i asked. "since last wednesday," she answered. "and this is what?" "the next saturday. i've had you three days. you was a bit wrong here sometimes." she tapped her head solemnly. "but i powwowed." "you powwowed me," i cried with all the spirit i could muster, for such treatment was not to my liking. i never had any faith in charms. "of course," she replied. "does you think i'd let you die? why, when me and tip pulled you out of the creek you was a sight, you was, and you was wrong here." again she tapped her head. "you needn't complain. ain't you gittin' well agin? didn't the powwow do it?" hardly, i thought. i must have recovered in spite of it. but the old woman spoke with pride of her skill, and if she had not saved me by her occult powers, she had at least helped to drag me from the creek. for that i was grateful, so i smiled to show my thanks. "what did you powwow for?" i asked, after a long while. she had seated herself on the edge of the bed and was contemplating me gravely. "everything," she answered. "i never had a case like yours. i never had a patient who was run away with, and kicked on the head, and drownded. so i says to tip, i says, 'i'll do everything. i'll treat for asthmy, erysipelas and pneumony, rheumatism and snake-bite, for the yallers and----'" "hold on," i pleaded. "i haven't had all that." "you mought have had any one of 'em," she said firmly. "you should 'a' seen yourself when we found you down there in the creek. can't you feel that bandage?" she lifted my hand to my head gently. i seemed to have a great turban crowning me. "that's where you was kicked," she went on. "you otter 'a' seen that spot. i used my modern miracle salve there. it's worked wonderful, it has. i was sorry you had no bones broken so i could 'a' tried it for them, too." "i'm satisfied with what i have," said i quietly. "it was pretty lucky i got off as well as i did after a runaway, and the creek and the kick." then, to myself, i added, "and the powwowing and the salve." i tried to lift my head, but could not. at first i thought it was the turban, but a sharp pain told me that there was a spot there that might be well worth seeing. for a long time i lay with my eyes closed, trying not to care, and when i opened them again, john shadrack's widow was still on the edge of the bed, smoking. "feel better now?" she asked calmly. "yes," i answered. "the ache has gone some." "i was powwowin' agin!" she said. "couldn't you hear me saying dutch words? them was the charm." "i guess i was sleeping," i returned a bit irritably. how the store would have smiled could it have seen me there on the bed, in that bare little room in john shadrack's widow's clutches! many a night, around the stove, isaac bolum, and henry holmes and i had had it tooth and nail over the power of the powwow. in the store there was not always an outspoken belief in the efficacy of the charm, but there was an undercurrent of sentiment in favor of the supernatural. against this i had fought. perhaps it was merely for the joy of the argument that so often i had turned a fire of ridicule on the dearest traditions of the valley. time and again, when some credulous one had lifted his voice in honest support of a silly superstition, i had jeered him into a grumbled, shamefaced disavowal. once i sat in the graveyard at midnight, in the full of the moon, just to convince ira spoonholler that his grandfather was keeping close to his proper plot. and here i was, prone and helpless, being powwowed not for one ailment, but for all the diseases known in happy valley. how i blessed tip! when we started he should have told me of the powers of our hostess. i would rather have undergone a hundred runaways than one week with that old woman muttering her dutch over my senseless form. but i liked the good soul. her intentions were so excellent. she was so cheery. even now she was offering me a piece of gingerbread. i ate it ravenously. then i asked, "where is tip?" "he's gone down the walley to my brother-in-law, harmon shadrack's. he's tryin' to borry a me-yule." "a what?" "a me-yule. the colt was dead beside you in the creek. him and me fixed up the buggy agin, and he's gone to borry harmon's me-yule so as you uns can git back to black log." "tip's left black log forever," i said firmly. then john shadrack's widow laughed. she laughed so hard that she blew the ashes out of her pipe, and they showered down over my face, and made me wink and sputter. "there--there," she said solicitously, dusting them away with her hand. "but it tickled me so to hear you say tip wasn't goin' back. why, he's been most crazy since you come. he's afraid his wife'll marry agin before he gits home. i've been tellin' him how nice it was to have you both, and that jest makes him roar. he's never been away so long before." "he thinks maybe nanny will give him up this time?" "exact." the old woman smoked in silence a long while. then she said suddenly, "she must be a lovely woman." "who?" i asked. "tip's wife." "who told you?" i demanded. "tip." this was strange in a fugitive husband, one who had fled across the mountains to escape a perpetual yammering. "tip!" i said. "yes, tip," she answered. "him and me was settin' there in the kitchen last night, and you was sleepin' away in here, and he told me all about black log. it must be a lovely place--black log--so different from happy walley. there's no folks here, that's the trouble. there's harmonses a mile down the walley, and below him there's the spinks a mile, and up the walley across the run there's my brother, joe smith, and his family--but we don't often have strangers here. the tax collector, he was up last month, and then you come. you have been a treat. i ain't enjoyed anything so much for a long time. there's nothin' like company." "even when it can't talk?" i said. "but i could powwow," she answered cheerily. "between fixin' up the buggy, and cookin' and makin' you and tip comfortable and powwowin' you, i ain't had a minute's time to think--it's lovely." "what has tip been doing all this while?" "talkin' about his wife. she _must_ be nice. did you ever hear her sing?" "i should say i had," i answered. the whining strains of "jordan's strand" came wandering out of the past, out of the kitchen, joining with the sizzle of the cooking and the clatter of the pans. "i should say i had," i said again. "she must be a splendid singer," john shadrack's widow exclaimed with much enthusiasm. "tip says she has one of the best tenor voices they is. he says sometimes he can hear her clean from his clearin' down to your barn." "farther," said i. "all the way to the school-house." "indeed! now that's nice. i allow she must be very handsome." "handsome?" said i, a bit incredulous. "why, tip says she's the best-lookin' woman in the walley, and that she's a terrible tasty dresser." "terrible," i muttered. "indeed! now that's nice. and is she spare or fleshy?" "medium," i said. "just right." "that's nice. but what'll she run to? it makes a heap of difference to a woman what she runs to. now i naterally take on." "i should say nanny pulsifer would naturally lose weight," i answered. "that's nice. it's so much better to run to that--it's easier gittin' around. tip says she has a be-yutiful figger. there's nothin' like figger. if there's anythin' i hate to see it's a first-class gingham fittin' a woman like it was hung there to air. but about tip's wife agin--she must have a lovely disposition?" "splendid," i said. "that's what tip says. he told me that oncet in a while when he was kind of low-down she'd git het-up and spited like, but ordinarily, he says, she's jest a-singin' and a-singin' and makin' him comf'table and helpin' the children. and them children! i'm jest longin' to see 'em. they must be lovely." "from what tip says," i interjected. "from what tip says," she went on. "he was tellin' me about earl and alice eliza, and pearl and cevery and the rest of 'em. he says it's jest a pickter to see 'em all in bed together--a perfect pickter." "a perfect picture," said i sleepily. "tip must have a lovely home. why, he tells me they have a sewin'-machine." "lovely," said i. "and a spring-bed." "and a double-heater stove," said she. "and an accordion," said i. "and a washin'-machine," said she. "and two hogs." "and he tells me he's going to git her a melodium." "indeed," said i. "why, i thought he was never going back." "to sech a lovely home?" the old woman held up her hands. "he's goin' jest as soon as he gets that me-yule and you're able." she laid her hand on my forehead. "there," she cried, "it's painin' you again, poor thing--that terrible spot." it was hurting, despite the modern miracle, and i closed my eyes to bear it better. over me, away off, as if from the heavens, i heard a sonorous rumble of mystery words. i felt a hand softly stroking my brow. but i didn't care. it was only dutch, a foolish charm, a heritage of barbarity and ignorance, but i was too weary to protest. it entertained john shadrack's widow, and i was going to sleep. tip was waiting for me to awake. "i've got the mule," he said, when i opened my eyes, "and i thought you was never goin' to quit sleepin'; i thought the widder was joshin' me when she said you was all right; i thought mebbe she had drumpt it, she sees so much in dreams." "what day is this?" i asked. "sunday," tip answered. "i 'low we'll start at daybreak to-morrow, and by sundown we'll be in six stars." "in six stars!" said i. "i thought you'd left six stars forever." "that ain't here nor there," he snapped. "i've got to git you back." "then you won't go to-morrow," said i. "look here--i can just lift my hands to my head--that's all. it'll take a whole week's powwowing to get me to sit up even." "what did i tell you, tip?" cried john shadrack's widow. she handed me a piece of gingerbread just to chew on till she got some breakfast for me, and while i munched it, tip and i argued it out. "nanny'll think i've left her," tip said. "you did, tip," said i. "you ran away forever." "she'll be gittin' married agin," pleaded tip. "serves you right," said i. then, to myself, "not unless the other man's an utter stranger." "she hasn't enough wood chopped to last a week," said tip. "she chopped the last wood-pile herself," said i. "there's cevery," pleaded tip. "cevery never done me no harm, and who'll dandle him?" "the same good soul that dandled him the day you rode over the mountain," i answered. "but it's a good half mile from our house to the spring," tip said, "and who'll carry the water?" "earl and pearl and alice eliza," i replied. "they've always done it; why worry now?" "well, i don't care nohow," tip cried, stamping the floor. "i want to go back to black log." "so do i, tip," i said; "but--there's that bad spot on my head again." "now see what you've done with your argyin', tip pulsifer," cried the old woman, running to me. "poor thing--ain't the miracle workin'?" "i guess it is, but that's an awful bad spot--that's right, widow, powwow it." * * * * * * for ten long days more mrs. tip pulsifer chopped her own wood, cevery went undandled, and earl and pearl and alice eliza carried the water that half mile from the spring. for nine long days more john shadrack's widow entertained the two strangers who had sought a refuge in happy valley, and found it. rare pleasure did john shadrack's widow have from our visit. there seemed no way she could repay us. it did her old heart good to have someone to whom she could recount the manifold virtues of her john--and a wonderful man john was, i judge. had i not come, she might have lost the heaven-given gift of powwowing, for there is no sickness in happy valley--the people die without it. it was a pleasure to have mark settin' around the kitchen; it was elevatin' to hear tip tell of his home and his wife and children; and as for cooking, it was no pleasure to cook for just one. "you must come agin," she cried, on the morning of that ninth day, as she stood in the doorway of her little log-house and waved her apron at us. "it's been a treat to have you." so we went away, tip and i, with harmon shadrack's mule and the battered buggy. our backs were turned to the sunset land. our faces were toward the east and the red glow of the early morning. when we saw thunder knob again, happy valley was far below us, and only the thin spire of smoke drifting through the pines marked the shadrack clearing. i kissed my hand in farewell salute to it. perhaps john's widow saw me--she sees so much in her dreams. "there's no place like black log," said tip, as we turned the crest of thunder knob. "mind how pretty it is--mind the shadders on the ridge yon--and them white barns. mind the big creek--there by the kivered bridge--ain't it gleamin' cheerful? there's no place like our walley." xix it was dark when i reached home. opening the door, i groped my way across the room till i found the lamp and lighted it. then i sat down a minute to think. two weeks is a very short time, but when you have been over the mountains and back, when you have hovered for days close to the banks of the styx, when you have huddled for days close to the shadrack stove, listening to the widow's stories of her john and tip's praise of his wife, then a fortnight seems an age. but everything was as i had left it. even the pen leaned against the inkwell and the scraps of paper littered the floor where i had tossed them that morning, when tip and i started over the mountain. those scraps were part of the letter i did not send to mary. they flashed to me the thought of the one i had sent, and of the answer i never expected. it was foolish to look, but i had told her to slip her note under the door, if she did send it, and i was taking no chances. seizing the lamp, i hobbled to the kitchen, and laughing to myself at the whole absurd proceeding, leaned over and swept the floor with the light. right on the sill it lay, a small white envelope! i did not waste time hobbling back to my chair and the table. i sat right down on the floor with the lamp at my side, and tore open the note and read it. "dear mark. please come to me." that was all she said. it was enough. it was all i wanted in the world. once i had been disappointed, but now there was no mistaking it. upside down, backward and forward i read it, right side up and criss-cross, rubbing my eyes a half a hundred times, but there was her appeal--no question of it. after all, all was well. and when mary calls i must go, even if i have crossed two mountains and am supperless. all the bitterness had gone. all those days of brooding were forgotten, for i could go again up the road, my white road, to the hill, and the light there would burn for me. then tim came! [illustration: then tim came.] i was still sitting on the floor when he came, reading the note over and over, with the lamp beside me. with captain and colonel at his heels he burst in upon me. "well, mark, you scoundrel," he cried, laughing, as he caught me by the arm and lifted me up. "where have you been?" "travelling," i answered grimly. "and you--what are you doing here?" "i came to find you," he said. "do you suppose you can disappear off the face of the earth for two weeks and that i will not be worried? why, i came from new york to hunt you up--just got here this afternoon and was over at bolum's when we saw the light. now give an account of yourself." "it isn't necessary," said i, smiling complacently. i put the lamp on the table and picked up my hat. "i'll be back in a while," i said. "i'm going up to see mary." "to see mary?" tim cried. "yes, to see mary," i answered. then, with a little flourish of triumph, i handed him her note. tim read it. his face became very grave, and he looked from it to me, and then turned and, with an elbow resting on the mantel, stood gazing down into the empty fireplace. "well?" i exclaimed, angered by his mood. "this is two weeks old, mark," he said, handing me the paper. "what of it?" i cried querulously, putting on my hat and moving to the door. my hand was on the knob turning it, when tim said, "mary has left the valley." it did not bother me much when he said that. i was getting so used to being knocked about that a blow or two more made little difference. the knob was not turned though. it shot back with a click, and i leaned against the door, staring at my brother. "and when did she go?" i asked. "and where--back to kansas?" "to new york," tim answered, "and with weston--she has married weston." i was glad the door was there, for that trip over the mountain, with the creek, and the powwowing and all that, had left me still a little wobbly. tim's announcement was not adding to my spirit. long i gazed at his quiet face; and i knew well enough that he was speaking the truth. and, perhaps, after all, the truth was best. it was all over, anyway, and we were just where we started before she came to the valley. i was just where i was before i found that note lying on the door-sill. i had been foolish, sitting there on the floor reading that message of hers that she had belied. but that was only for a minute, and i would never be foolish again. trust me for that. "she has married weston," i said. "well, the little flirt!" tim got down on the hearth and began piling paper and kindling and logs in the fireplace. he started the blaze, and when it was going cheerily he looked up to find me in my old chair by the table, with captain beside me, his head on my knee as i stroked it. "the little flirt!" i said again, bound that he should hear me. he heard. he took his old chair, and resting his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hands, a favorite attitude of his, he sat there eying me quietly. "the little what, mark?" he said at last. "flirt," i snapped. it was simply a braggart's way. i knew it. tim knew it, too. he seemed to look right through me. i was angry with him, i was jealous of him, because she had cared for him. i knew she had. i knew why she had. tim and i were far apart. but he had made the breach. all the wrong wrought was his, and yet he sat there, calmly eying me, as though he were a righteous judge and i the culprit. "why did you say flirt?" he asked quietly. "she promised to marry me," i said. "yes." "she loved you, tim." "yes--and how did you know it?" "perry thomas saw you that night when you went to stay a minute." the color left tim's face and he leaned back in his chair, away from the light into the shadow, and whistled softly. "you knew it, then," he said, after a long while. "i didn't intend you should, mark. i didn't intend you ever should." "naturally," said i in an icy tone. "naturally," said he. his face came into the light again, and he leaned there on the table, watching me as earnestly as ever. "naturally," he said again. "i was going away, mark, never to bother you nor her. did i know then that you loved her? had you ever told me? was i to blame for that moment when i knew i loved the girl and that she loved me?" "no. i never told you--that's true," i said. "and yet i knew you cared for her, mark. i could see that. i saw it all those nights when you would leave me to go plodding up the hill. that's why i went away." "why did you go away?" i cried. "you went to see the world and make money----" "i went because i loved the girl and you did, too," said tim. and looking into those quiet eyes, i knew that he spoke the truth and i had been blind all this time. "weston knew it," he went on. "he saw it from the first. that's why he helped me." "you are not at all an egotist," i sneered, trying to bear up against him. "entirely so," he said calmly. "i even thought that i might win, mark. but then i had so much and you so little chance, i went away to forget. weston knew that. he knew, too, that there was no edith parker." "and what has edith parker to do with all this?" i asked more gently, for he was breaking down my barriers. "she might have done much for you had i not come back when weston was shot. couldn't you see, mark, how angry mary was with me for forgetting her? but weston knew it. and that night--that minute--i only wanted to explain to mary, and she saw it all, mark, and i saw it all--and we forgot. then she told me of you." "she told you rather late," said i. "but she would have kept her promise. couldn't you forgive her, mark, for that one moment of forgetting? it was just one moment, and i left her then forever. we thought you'd never know." "and thinking that, you came whistling down the road that night," i sneered. "you came whistling like a man mightily pleased with his conquest--or, perhaps you sang so gayly from sheer joy in your own goodness. it seems to me at times like that a man would----" "a man would whistle a bit for courage," tim interrupted. "couldn't he do that, mark? couldn't he go away with his head up and face set, or must he totter along and wail simply because he is doing a fair thing that any man would do?" "why, in heaven's name, couldn't you keep her for yourself?" i cried, pounding the floor with my crutch. then, in my anger i arose and went stamping up and down the room, while tim sat there staring at me blankly. at last i halted by the fireplace and stood there looking down at him very hard. i looked right into his heart and read it. he winced and turned his face from me. i was the righteous judge now and he the culprit. "you left her, tim," i said hotly. "you might have known the girl could never marry me after that minute. you might have known she was not the girl to deceive me--she would have told me; and then, tim, do you think that i would have kept her to her promise? why didn't you come to me and tell me?" "for your sake, mark, i didn't," tim answered, looking up. "and for my sake you left the girl there--you turned your back on her and went away. then in her perplexity she looked to me again, and i had gone. i didn't know. i went away for her sake, and when she sent for me i had forsaken her, too. that's a shabby way to treat a woman. do you wonder she turned to weston?" "no," tim said, "for weston is a man of men, he is--and he cared for her--that's why he stayed in the valley." "i knew that," said i, "for i saw it that day when he went away from me to the charcoal clearing." "then think of the lonely girl up there on the hill, mark," tim said. he joined me at the fireplace, and we stood side by side, as often we had stood in the old days, warming our hands, and watching the crackling flames. "do you blame her? i had gone, vowing never to come back again till she kept her promise to you; you had fled from her--she wrote, and no word came. and weston is a wise man and a kind man, and when she turned to him she found comfort. do you blame her?" "no," i said, half hesitating. "after all, it's better, too," tim went on. "what could you have given her, mark--or i, compared to what his wealth means to a woman like mary?" wealth was not happiness. money was not peace. etches were a delusion. now she had them. that was what weston would give her, and i wished her joy. true, he loved the girl. true, he offered her just what i did, and with it he gave those fleeting joys that wealth brings. she should be happy--just as much so as if she had made herself a fellow-prisoner with me here in the little valley. for what had i to offer her? the love of a crippled veteran; the wealth of a petty farmer; the companionship of a crotchety pedagogue. what joy it would give her ambitious soul as the years went on to watch her husband develop; to see him growing in the learning of the store; to have him ranking first among the worthies of the bench; to greet him as he hobbled home at night after a busy day at nothing! it was better as it was--aye--a thousand times. but there was tim. what a man tim was, and how blind i had been and selfish! he stood before me tall and strong, watching me with his quiet eyes, and as i looked at him i thought of weston, the lanky cynic, with his thin, homely face and loose-jointed, shambling walk. then i wondered at it all. then i said to myself, "is it best?" "what makes you so quiet, mark?" asked tim. "i was wishing, tim," i answered, laying a hand on each of his broad shoulders, "i was wishing you had kept her when you had her." tim laughed. it was his clear, honest laugh. "it is best as it is," he said. "it's best for her and best for us, for she'll be happy. but supposing one of us had won--would it have been the same--the same as it was before she came--the same as it is now?" "no," i answered. "no," he cried. "now for supper--then our pipes--all of us together--you in your chair and i in mine--and captain and colonel--just as it used to be." xx tim has gone back to the city after his first long vacation and here i am alone again. he wants me to be with him and live down there in a brick and mortar gulch where the sun rises from a maze of tall chimneys and sets on oil refineries. i said no. some day i may, but that day is a long way off. in the fall i am to go for a week and we are to have a fine time, tim and i, but captain and colonel will have to be content to hear about it when i get back. surely it will give us much to talk of in the winter nights, when we three sit by the fire again--captain and colonel and i. [illustration: old captain.] tim says it is lonely for me here. lonely? pshaw! i know the ways of the valley, and there is not a lonely spot in it from the bald top of thunder knob to the tall pine on the gander's head. i would have tim stay here with me, but he says no. he wants to win a marble mausoleum. i shall be content to lie beneath a tree. tim is ambitious. just a few nights ago, we sat smoking in the evening, warming our hearts at the great hearth-stone. thunder knob was all aglow, and the cloud coals were piled heaven-high above it, burning gold and red. down in the meadow captain and colonel raced from shock to shock on the trail of a rabbit, and a flock of sheep, barnward bound, came bleating along the road. [illustration: when we three sit by the fire.] tim began to suppose. he was supposing me a great lawyer and himself a great merchant and all that. i lost all patience with him. suppose it all, tim, i said. suppose that you, the great tea-king, and i, the statesman, sat here smoking. would the cloud coals over there on thunder knob blaze up higher in our honor? and the quail, perched on the fence-stake, would she address herself to us or to mr. robert white down in the meadow? would the night-hawk, circling in the clouds, strike one note to our glory? could the bleating of the sheep swing in sweeter to the music of the valley as she is rocked to sleep? transcriber's note the punctuation and spelling from the original text have been faithfully preserved. only obvious typographical errors have been corrected. dedication. to the surviving sufferers of the appalling calamity at johnstown and neighboring villages this work which relates the thrilling story of the great disaster is dedicated. the johnstown horror!!! or valley of death, being a complete and thrilling account of the awful floods and their appalling ruin, containing graphic descriptions of the terrible rush of waters; the great destruction of houses, factories, churches, towns, and thousands of human lives; heartrending scenes of agony, separation of loved ones, panic-stricken multitudes and their frantic efforts to escape a horrible fate. comprising thrilling tales of heroic deeds; narrow escapes from the jaws of death; frightful havoc by fire; dreadful sufferings of survivors; plundering bodies of victims, etc. together with magnificent exhibitions of popular sympathy; quick aid from every city and state; millions of dollars sent for the relief of the stricken sufferers. by james herbert walker, the well known author. fully illustrated with scenes of the great calamity. h.j. smith & co., south sixth st., philadelphia chicago, ill.: nos. - dearborn st. kansas city, mo.: no. east sixth st. oakland, cal. no. telegraph ave. copyrighted, . preface the whole country has been profoundly startled at the terrible calamity which has swept thousands of human beings to instant death at johnstown and neighboring villages. the news came with the suddenness of a lightning bolt falling from the sky. a romantic valley, filled with busy factories, flourishing places of business, multitudes of happy homes and families, has been suddenly transformed into a scene of awful desolation. frightful ravages of flood and fire have produced in one short hour a destruction which surpasses the records of all modern disasters. no calamity in recent times has so appalled the civilized world. what was a peaceful, prosperous valley a little time ago is to-day a huge sepulchre, filled with the shattered ruins of houses, factories, banks, churches, and the ghastly corpses of the dead. this book contains a thrilling description of this awful catastrophe, which has shocked both hemispheres. it depicts with graphic power the terrible scenes of the great disaster, and relates the fearful story with masterly effect. the work treats of the great storm which devastated the country, deluging large sections, sweeping away bridges, swelling rivulets to rivers, prostrating forests, and producing incalculable damage to life and property; of the sudden rise in the conemaugh river and tributary streams, weakening the dam thrown across the fated valley, and endangering the lives of , people; of the heroic efforts of a little band of men to stay the flood and avert the direful calamity; of the swift ride down the valley to warn the inhabitants of their impending fate, and save them from instant death; of the breaking away of the imprisoned waters after all efforts had failed to hold them back; of the rush and roar of the mighty torrent, plunging down the valley with sounds like advancing thunder, reverberating like the booming of cannon among the hills; of the frightful havoc attending the mad flood descending with incredible velocity, and a force which nothing could resist; of the rapid rise of the waters, flooding buildings, driving the terrified inhabitants to the upper stories and roofs in the desperate effort to escape their doom; of hundreds of houses crashing down the surging river, carrying men, women and children beyond the hope of rescue; of a night of horrors, multitudes dying amid the awful terrors of flood and fire, plunged under the wild torrent, buried in mire, or consumed in devouring flames; of helpless creatures rending the air with pitiful screams crying aloud in their agony, imploring help with outstretched hands, and finally sinking with no one to save them. whole families were lost and obliterated, perishing together in a watery tomb, or ground to atoms by floating timbers and wreck; households were suddenly bereft--some of fathers, others of mothers, others of children, neighbors and friends; frantic efforts were made to rescue the victims of the flood, render aid to those who were struggling against death, and mitigate the terrors of the horrible disaster. there were noble acts of heroism, strong men and frail women and children putting their own lives in peril to save those of their loved ones. the terrible scene at johnstown bridge, where thousands were consumed was the greatest funeral pyre known in the history of the world. it was ghastly work--that of recovering the bodies of the dead; dragging them from the mire in which they were imbedded, from the ruins in which they were crushed, or from the burning wreck which was consuming them. hundreds of bodies were mutilated and disfigured beyond the possibility of identifying them, all traces of individual form and features utterly destroyed. there were multitudes of corpses awaiting coffins for their burial, putrefying under the sun, and filling the air with the sickening stench of death. there were ghouls who robbed the bodies of the victims, stripping off their jewels--even cutting off fingers to obtain rings, and plundering pockets of their money. summary vengeance was inflicted upon prowling thieves; some of whom were driven into the merciless waters to perish, while others were shot or hanged by the neck until they were dead. the burial of hundreds of the known and unknown, without minister or obsequies, without friend or mourner, without surviving relatives to take a last look or shed a tear, was one of the appalling spectacles. there was the breathless suspense and anxiety of those who feared the worst, who waited in vain for news of the safety of their friends, and at last were compelled to believe that their loved ones had perished. the terrible shock attending the horrible accounts of the great calamity, was followed by the sudden outburst and exhibition of universal grief and sympathy. despatches from the president, governors of states, and mayors of cities, announced that speedy aid would be furnished. the magnificent charity that came to the rescue with millions of dollars, immense contributions of food and clothing, personal services and heroic efforts, is one impressive part of this graphic story. rich and poor alike gave freely, many persons dividing their last dollar to aid those who had lost their all. these thrilling scenes are depicted, and these wonderful facts are related, in the johnstown horror, by eye-witnesses who saw the fatal flood and its direful effects. no book so intensely exciting has ever been issued. the graphic story has an awful fascination, and will be read throughout the land. contents. page chapter i. the appalling news, chapter ii. death and desolation, chapter iii. the horrors increase, chapter iv. multiplication of terrors, chapter v. the awful work of death, chapter vi. shadows of despair, chapter vii. burial of the victims, chapter viii. johnstown and its industries, chapter ix. a view of the wreck, chapter x. thrilling experiences, chapter xi. new tales of horror, chapter xii. pathetic scenes, chapter xiii. digging for the dead, chapter xiv. hairbreadth escapes, chapter xv. terrible pictures of woe, chapter xvi. stories of the flood, chapter xvii. one week after the great disaster, chapter xviii. a walk through the valley of death, chapter xix. a day of work and worship, chapter xx. millions of money for johnstown, [illustration: recovering the bodies of victims.] [illustration: the break in the south forks dam.] [illustration: in the pack-saddle, on the conemaugh, pennsylvania railroad.] [illustration: ruins in main street, johnstown.] [illustration: a gravel-train runs away from the advancing flood.] [illustration: immense gap in the broken dam, as seen from the inside.] [illustration: frightful struggles for life.] [illustration: the flood strikes the cambria iron works.] [illustration: houses and human beings lost in the flood.] [illustration: tearing down houses in johnstown.] [illustration: soldiers guarding a hungarian thief.] [illustration: distributing relief at the pennsylvania railroad station.] [illustration: identifying the dead.] [illustration: relief corps crossing the rope bridge.] [illustration: searching for lost relatives.] [illustration: main street, johnstown, in front of merchant's hotel.] the johnstown horror or valley of death. chapter i. the appalling news. on the advent of summer, june st, the country was horror-stricken by the announcement that a terrible calamity had overtaken the inhabitants of johnstown, and the neighboring villages. instantly the whole land was stirred by the startling news of this great disaster. its appalling magnitude, its dreadful suddenness, its scenes of terror and agony, the fate of thousands swept to instant death by a flood as frightful as that of the cataract of niagara, awakened the profoundest horror. no calamity in the history of modern times has so appalled the civilized world. the following graphic pen-picture will give the reader an accurate idea of the picturesque scene of the disaster: away up in the misty crags of the alleghanies some tiny rills trickle and gurgle from a cleft in the mossy rocks. the drippling waters, timid perhaps in the bleak and lonely fastness of the heights, hug and coddle one another until they flash into a limpid pool. a score of rivulets from all the mountain side babble hither over rocky beds to join their companions. thence in rippling current they purl and tinkle down the gentle slopes, through bosky nooks sweet with the odors of fir tree and pine, over meads dappled with the scarlet snap-dragon and purple heath buds, now pausing for a moment to idle with a wood encircled lake, now tumbling in opalescent cascade over a mossy lurch, and then on again in cheerful, hurried course down the appalachian valley. none stays their way. here and there perhaps some thrifty pennsylvania dutchman coaxes the saucy stream to turn his mill-wheel and every league or so it fumes and frets a bit against some rustic bridge. from these trifling tourneys though, it emerges only the more eager and impetuous in its path toward the towns below. the fatal river. coming nearer, step by step, to the busy haunts of men, the dashing brook takes on a more ambitious air. little by little it edges its narrow banks aside, drinks in the waters of tributaries, swells with the copious rainfall of the lower valley. from its ladder in the alleghanies it catches a glimpse of the steeples of johnstown, red with the glow of the setting sun. again it spurts and spreads as if conscious of its new importance, and the once tiny rill expands into the dignity of a river, a veritable river, with a name of its own. big with this sounding symbol of prowess it rushes on as if to sweep by the teeming town in a flood of majesty. to its vast surprise the way is barred. the hand of man has dared to check the will of one that up to now has known no curb save those the forest gods imposed. for an instant the waters, taken aback by this strange audacity, hold themselves in leash. then, like erl-king in the german legends, they broaden out to engulf their opponent. in vain they surge with crescent surface against the barrier of stone. by day, by night, they beat and breast in angry impotence against the ponderous wall of masonry that man has reared, for pleasure and profit, to stem the mountain stream. the awful rush of waters. suddenly, maddened by the stubborn hindrance, the river grows black and turgid. it rumbles and threatens as if confident of an access of strength that laughs at resistance. from far up the hillside comes a sound, at first soft and soothing as the fountains of lindaraxa, then rolling onward it takes the voluminous quaver of a distant waterfall. louder and louder, deeper and deeper, nearer and nearer comes an awful crashing and roaring, till its echoes rebound from the crags of the alleghanies like peals of thunder and boom of cannon. on, on, down the steep valley trumpets the torrent into the river at jamestown. joined to the waters from the cloud kissed summits of its source, the exultant conemaugh, with a deafening din, dashes its way through the barricade of stone and starts like a demon on its path of destruction. into its maw it sucks a town. a town with all its hundreds of men and women and children, with its marts of business, its homes, its factories and houses of worship. then, insatiate still, with a blast like the chaos of worlds dissolved, it rushes out to new desolation, until nature herself, awe stricken at the sight of such ineffable woe, blinds her eyes to the uncanny scene of death, and drops the pall of night upon the earth. destruction descended as a bolt of jove. a fair town in a western valley of pennsylvania, happy in the arts of peace and prospering by its busy manufactures, suddenly swept out of existence by a gigantic flood and thousands of lives extinguished as by one fell stroke--such has been the fate of johnstown. never before in this country has there happened a disaster of such appalling proportions. it is necessary to refer to those which have occurred in the valleys of the great european rivers, where there is a densely crowded population, to find a parallel. the horrors unestimated. at first the horror was not all known. it could only be imperfectly surmised. until a late hour on the following night there was no communication with the hapless city. all that was positively known of its fate was seen from afar. it was said that out of all the habitations, which had sheltered about twelve thousand people before this awful doom had befallen, only two were visible above the water. all the rest, if this be true, had been swallowed up or else shattered into pieces and hurled downward into the flood-vexed valley below. what has become of those twelve thousand inhabitants? who can tell until after the waters have wholly subsided? of course it is possible that many of them escaped. much hope is to be built upon the natural exaggeration of first reports from the sorely distressed surrounding region and the lack of actual knowledge, in the absence of direct communication. but what suspense must there be between now and the moment when direct communication shall be opened! heedless of fate. the valley of the conemaugh in which johnstown stood lies between the steep walls of lofty hills. the gathering of the rain into torrents in that region is quick and precipitate. the river on one side roared out its warning, but the people would not take heed of the danger impending over them on the other side--the great south fork dam, two and a half miles up the valley and looming one hundred feet in height from base to top. behind it were piled the waters, a great, ponderous mass, like the treasured wrath of fate. their surface was about three hundred feet above the deserted town. if noah's neighbors thought it would be only a little shower the people of johnstown were yet more foolish. the railroad officials had repeatedly told them that the dam threatened destruction. they still perversely lulled themselves into a false security. the blow came, when it did, like a flash. it was as if the heavens had fallen in liquid fury upon the earth. it was as if ocean itself had been precipitated into an abyss. the slow but inexorable march of the mightiest glacier of the alps, though comparable, was not equal to this in force. the whole of a pyramid, shot from a colossal catapult, would not have been the petty charge of a pea shooter to it. imagine niagara, or a greater even than niagara, falling upon an ordinary collection of brick and wooden houses. an inconceivable force. the south fork reservoir was the largest in the united states, and it contained millions of tons of water. when its fetters were loosened, crumbling before it like sand, a building or even a rock that stood in its path presented as much resistance as a card house. the dread execution was little more than the work of an instant. the flood passed over the town as it would over a pile of shingles, covering over or carrying with it everything that stood in its way. it bounded down the valley, wreaking destruction and death on each hand and in its fore. torrents that poured down out of the wilds of the mountains swelled its volume. all along from the point of its release it bore débris and corpses as its hideous trophies. in a very brief time it displayed some of both, as if in hellish glee, to the horrified eyes of pittsburg, seventy-eight miles west of the town of johnstown that had been, having danced them along on its exultant billows or rolled them over and over in the depths of its dark current all the way through the conemaugh, the kiskiminitas and the allegheny river. it was like a fearful monster, gnashing its dripping jaws in the scared face of the multitude, in the flesh of its victims. one eye-witness of the effects of the deluge declares that he saw five hundred dead bodies. hundreds were counted by others. it will take many a day to make up the death roll. it will take many a day to make up the reckoning of the material loss. if any pen could describe the scenes of terror, anguish and destruction which have taken place in conemaugh valley it could write an epic greater than the "iliad." the accounts that come tell of hairbreadth escapes, heartrending tragedies and deeds of heroism almost without number. a climax of horror. as if to add a lurid touch of horror to the picture that might surpass all the rest a conflagration came to mock those who were in fear of drowning with a death yet more terrible. where the ruins of johnstown, composed mainly of timber, had been piled up forty feet high against a railroad bridge below the town a fire was started and raged with eager fury. it is said that scores of persons were burned alive, their piercing cries appealing for aid to hundreds of spectators who stood on the banks of the river, but could do nothing. western pennsylvania is in mourning. business in the cities is virtually suspended and all minds are bent upon this great horror, all hearts convulsed with the common sorrow. heartrending scenes and heroic struggles for life. another eye-witness describes the calamity as follows: a flood of death swept down the alleghany mountains yesterday afternoon and last night. almost the entire city of johnstown is swimming about in the rushing, angry tide. dead bodies are floating about in every direction, and almost every piece of movable timber is carrying from the doomed city a corpse of humanity, drifting with the raging waters. the disaster overtook johnstown about six o'clock last evening. as the train bearing the writer sped eastward, the reports at each stop grew more appalling. at derry a group of railway officials were gathered who had come from bolivar, the end of the passable portion of the road westward. they had seen but a small portion of the awful flood, but enough to allow them to imagine the rest. down through the packsaddle came the rushing waters. the wooded heights of the alleghanies looked down in wonder at the scene of the most terrible destruction that ever struck the romantic valley of the conemaugh. the water was rising when the men left at six o'clock at the rate of five feet an hour. clinging to improvised rafts, constructed in the death battle from floating boards and timbers, were agonized men, women and children, their heartrending shrieks for help striking horror to the breasts of the onlookers. their cries were of no avail. carried along at railway speed on the breast of this rushing torrent, no human ingenuity could devise a means of rescue. with pallid face and hair clinging wet and damp to her cheek, a mother was seen grasping a floating timber, while on her other arm she held her babe, already drowned. with a death-grip on a plank a strong man just giving up hope cast an imploring look to those on the bank, and an instant later he had sunk into the waves. prayers to god and cries to those in safety rang above the roaring waves. the special train pulled into bolivar at half-past eleven last night, and the trainmen were there notified that further progress was impossible. the greatest excitement prevailed at this place, and parties of citizens are out all the time endeavoring to save the poor unfortunates that are being hurled to eternity on the rushing torrent. attempts at rescue. the tidal wave struck bolivar just after dark, and in five minutes the conemaugh rose from six to forty feet and the waters spread out over the whole country. soon houses began floating down, and clinging to the débris were men, women and children shrieking for aid. a large number of citizens at once gathered on the county bridge, and they were reinforced by a number from garfield, a town on the opposite side of the river. they brought a number of ropes and these were thrown over into the boiling waters as persons drifted by in efforts to save some poor beings. for half an hour all efforts were fruitless, until at last, when the rescuers were about giving up all hope, a little boy, astride a shingle roof, managed to catch hold of one of the ropes. he caught it under his left arm and was thrown violently against an abutment, but managed to keep hold, and was successfully pulled on to the bridge amid the cheers of the onlookers. his name was hessler and his rescuer was a trainman named carney. the lad was at once taken to the town of garfield and was cared for. the boy was aged about sixteen. his story of the frightful calamity is as follows: the alarm. "with my father i was spending the day at my grandfather's house in cambria city. in the house at the time were theodore, edward and john kintz, and john kintz, jr.; miss mary kintz, mrs. mary kintz, wife of john kintz, jr.; miss treacy kintz, mrs. rica smith, john hirsch and four children, my father and myself. shortly after five o'clock there was a noise of roaring waters and screams of people. we looked out the door and saw persons running. my father told us to never mind, as the waters would not rise further. "but soon we saw houses being swept away, and then we ran up to the floor above. the house was three stories, and we were at last forced to the top one. in my fright i jumped on the bed. it was an old fashioned one, with heavy posts. the water kept rising and my bed was soon afloat. gradually it was lifted up. the air in the room grew close and the house was moving. still the bed kept rising and pressed the ceiling. at last the posts pushed against the plaster. it yielded and a section of the roof gave way. then suddenly i found myself on the roof, and was being carried down stream. saved. "after a little this roof began to part, and i was afraid i was going to be drowned, but just then another house with a shingle roof floated by, and i managed to crawl on it, and floated down until nearly dead with cold, when i was saved. after i was freed from the house i did not see my father. my grandfather was on a tree, but he must have been drowned, as the waters were rising fast. john kintz, jr., was also on a tree. miss mary kintz and mrs. mary kintz i saw drown. miss smith was also drowned. john hirsch was in a tree, but the four children were drowned. the scenes were terrible. live bodies and corpses were floating down with me and away from me. i would see persons, hear them shriek, and then they would disappear. all along the line were people who were trying to save us, but they could do nothing, and only a few were caught." this boy's story is but one incident, and shows what happened to one family. no one knows what has happened to the hundreds who were in the path of the rushing water. it is impossible to get anything in the way of news save meagre details. an eye-witness at bolivar block station tells a story of unparalleled heroism that occurred at the lower bridge which crosses the conemaugh at this point. a. young, with two women was seen coming down the river on a part of the floor. at the upper bridge a rope was thrown down to them. this they all failed to catch. between the two bridges he was noticed to point towards the elder woman, who, it is supposed, was his mother. he was then seen to instruct the women how to catch the rope that was lowered from the other bridge. down came the raft with a rush. the brave man stood with his arms around the two women. unavailing courage. as they swept under the bridge he seized the rope. he was jerked violently away from the two women, who failed to get a hold on the rope. seeing that they would not be rescued, he dropped the rope and fell back on the raft, which floated on down the river. the current washed their frail craft in toward the bank. the young man was enabled to seize hold of a branch of a tree. he aided the two women to get up into the tree. he held on with his hands and rested his feet on a pile of driftwood. a piece of floating débris struck the drift, sweeping it away. the man hung with his body immersed in the water. a pile of drift soon collected and he was enabled to get another insecure footing. up the river there was a sudden crash, and a section of the bridge was swept away and floated down the stream, striking the tree and washing it away. all three were thrown into the water and were drowned before the eyes of the horrified spectators just opposite the town of bolivar. early in the evening a woman with her two children was seen to pass under the bridge at bolivar clinging to the roof of a coal house. a rope was lowered to her, but she shook her head and refused to desert the children. it was rumored that all three were saved at cokeville, a few miles below bolivar. a later report from lockport says that the residents succeeded in rescuing five people from the flood, two women and three men. one man succeeded in getting out of the water unaided. they were taken care of by the people of the town. a child's faith. a little girl passed under the bridge just before dark. she was kneeling on a part of a floor and had her hands clasped as if in prayer. every effort was made to save her, but they all proved futile. a railroader who was standing by remarked that the piteous appearance of the little waif brought tears to his eyes. all night long the crowd stood about the ruins of the bridge which had been swept away at bolivar. the water rushed past with a roar, carrying with it parts of houses, furniture and trees. the flood had evidently spent its force up the valley. no more living persons were being carried past. watchers with lanterns remained along the banks until daybreak, when the first view of the awful devastation of the flood was witnessed. along the bank lay remnants of what had once been dwelling houses and stores; here and there was an uprooted tree. piles of drift lay about, in some of which bodies of the victims of the flood will be found. rescuing parties are being formed in all towns along the railroad. houses have been thrown open to refugees, and every possible means is being used to protect the homeless. wrecking trains to the rescue. the wrecking trains of the pennsylvania railroad are slowly making their way east to the unfortunate city. no effort was being made to repair the wrecks, and the crews of the trains were organized into rescuing parties, and an effort will be made to send out a mail train this morning. the chances are that they will go no further east than florence. there is absolutely no news from johnstown. the little city is entirely cut off from communication with the outside world. the damage done is inestimable. no one can tell its extent. the little telegraph stations along the road are filled with anxious groups of men who have friends and relatives in johnstown. the smallest item of news is eagerly seized upon and circulated. if favorable they have a moment of relief, if not their faces become more gloomy. harry fisher, a young telegraph operator who was at bolivar when the first rush began, says:--"we knew nothing of the disaster until we noticed the river slowly rising and then more rapidly. news then reached us from johnstown that the dam at south fork had burst. within three hours the water in the river rose at least twenty feet. shortly before six o'clock ruins of houses, beds, household utensils, barrels and kegs came floating past the bridges. at eight o'clock the water was within six feet of the road-bed of the bridge. the wreckage floated past without stopping for at least two hours. then it began to lessen, and night coming suddenly upon us we could see no more. the wreckage was floating by for a long time before the first living persons passed. fifteen people that i saw were carried down by the river. one of these, a boy, was saved, and three of them were drowned just directly below the town. it was an awful sight and one that i will not soon forget." hundreds of animals lost their lives. the bodies of horses, dogs and chickens floated past. the little boy who was rescued at bolivar had two dogs as companions during his fearful ride. the dogs were drowned just before reaching the bridge. one old mule swam past. its shoulders were torn, but it was alive when swept past the town. saved from a watery grave to perish by flames. after a long, weary ride of eight or nine miles over the worst of country roads new florence, fourteen miles from johnstown, was reached. the road bed between this place and bolivar was washed out in many places. the trackmen and the wreck crews were all night in the most dangerous portions of the road. the last man from johnstown brought the information that scarcely a house remained in the city. the upper portion above the railroad bridge had been completely submerged. the water dammed up against the viaduct, the wreckage and débris finishing the work that the torrent had failed to accomplish. the bridge at johnstown proved too stanch for the fury of the water. it is a heavy piece of masonry, and was used as a viaduct by the old pennsylvania canal. some of the top stones were displaced. the story reached here a short time ago that a family consisting of father and mother and nine children were washed away in a creek at lockport. the mother managed to reach the shore, but the husband and children were carried out into the conemaugh to drown. the woman is crazed over the terrible event. a night of horror. after night settled down upon the mountains the horror of the scenes was enhanced. above the roar of the water could be heard the piteous appeals from the unfortunate as they were carried by. to add also to the terror of the night, a brilliant illumination lit up the sky. this illumination could be plainly seen from this place. a message received from sang hollow stated that this light came from a hundred burning wrecks of houses that were piled upon the johnstown bridge. a supervisor from up the road brought the information that the wreckage at johnstown was piled up forty feet above the bridge. the startling news came in that more than a thousand lives had been lost. this cannot be substantiated. by actual count one hundred and ten people had been seen floating past sang hollow before dark. forty-seven were counted passing new florence and the number had diminished to eight at bolivar. the darkness coming on stopped any further count, and it was only by the agonizing cries that rang out above the waters that it was known that a human being was being carried to death. an irresistible torrent. the scenes along the river were wild in the extreme. although the water was subsiding, still as it dashed against the rocks that filled the narrow channel of the conemaugh its spray was carried high up on the shore. the towns all along the line of the railroad from johnstown west had received visitations. many of the houses in new florence were partially under water. at bolivar the whole lower part of the town was submerged. the ride over the mountain road gave one a good idea of the cause of this disaster. every creek was a rushing river and every rivulet a raging torrent. the ground was water soaked, and when the immense mountain district that drains into the conemaugh above south fork is taken into consideration the terrible volume of water that must have accumulated can be realized. gathering, as it did, within a few minutes, it came against the breast of the south fork dam with irresistible force. the frightened inhabitants along the conemaugh describe the flood as something awful. the first rise came almost without warning, and the torrent came roaring down the mountain passes in one huge wave, several feet in height. after the first swell the water continued to rise at a fearful rate. daylight brings no relief. the gray morning light does not seem to show either hope or mitigation of the awful fears of the night. it has been a hard night to everybody. the overworked newspaper men, who have been without rest and food since yesterday afternoon, and the operators who have handled the messages are already preparing for the work of the day. there has been a long wrangle over the possession of a special train for the press between rival newspaper men, and it has delayed the work of others who are anxious to get further east. even here, so far from the washed-out towns, seven bodies have been found. two were in a tree, a man and a woman, where the flood had carried them. the country people are coming into the town in large numbers telling stories of disaster along the river banks in sequestered places. floating houses. john mccarthey, a carpenter, who lives in johnstown, reached here about four o'clock. he left johnstown at half-past four yesterday afternoon and says the scene then was indescribable. the people had been warned early in the morning to move to the highlands, but they did not heed the warning, although it was repeated a number of times up to one o'clock, when the water poured into cinder street several feet deep. then the houses began rocking to and fro, and finally the force of the current carried buildings across streets and vacant lots and dashed them against each other, breaking them into fragments. these buildings were full of the people who had laughed at the cry of danger. mccarthey says that in some cases he counted as many as fifteen persons clinging to buildings. mccarthey's wife was with him. she had three sisters, who lived near her. they saw the house in which these girls lived carried away, and then they could endure the situation no longer and hurried away. the husband feared his wife would go crazy. they went inland along country roads until they reached here. it is said to be next to impossible to get to johnstown proper to-day in any manner except by rowboat. the roads are cut up so that even the countrymen refuse to travel over them in their roughest vehicles. the only hope is to get within about three miles by a special train or by hand car. the dead cast up. nine dead bodies have been picked up within the limits of this borough since daylight. none of them has yet been recognized. five are women. one woman, probably twenty-five years old, had clasped in her arms a babe about six months old. the body of a young man was discovered in the branches of a huge tree which had been carried down the stream. all the orchard crops and shrubbery along the banks of the river have been destroyed. the body of another woman has just been discovered in the river here. her foot was seen above the surface of the water and a rope was fastened about it. a roof as a raft. john weber and his wife, an old couple, michael metzgar and john forney were rescued near here early this morning. they had been carried from their home in cambria city on the roof of the house. there were seven others on the roof when it was carried off, all of whom were drowned. they were unknown to weber, having drifted on to the roof from floating débris. weber and wife were thoroughly drenched and were almost helpless from exposure. they were unable to walk when taken off the roof at this place. they are now at the hotel here. hundreds of people from johnstown and up river towns are hurrying here in search of friends and relatives who were swept away in last night's flood. the most intense excitement prevails. the street corners are crowded with pale and anxious people who tell of the calamity with bated breath. squire bennett has charge of the dead bodies, and he is having them properly cared for. they are being prepared for burial, but will be held here for identification. four boys have just come from the river bank above here. they say that on the opposite side a number of bodies can be seen lying in the mud. they found the body of a woman on this side badly bruised. r.b. rodgers, justice of the peace at nineveh, has wired the coroner at greensburg that one hundred dead bodies have been found at that place, and he asks what is to be done with them. from this one can estimate that the loss of life will reach over one thousand. a report has just been received that twenty persons are on an island near nineveh and that men and women are on a partly submerged tree. a report has just reached here that at least one hundred people were consumed in the flames at johnstown last night, but it cannot be verified here. the air is filled with thrilling and most incredible stories, but none of them have as yet been confirmed. it is certain, however, that even the worst cannot be imagined. warnings remembered too late. it is very evident that more lives have been lost because of foolish incredulity than from ignorance of the danger. for more than a year there have been fears of an accident of just such a character. the foundations of the dam were considered to be shaky early last spring and many increasing leakages were reported from time to time. according to people who live in johnstown and other towns on the line of the river, ample time was given to the johnstown folks by the railroad officials and by other gentlemen of standing and reputation. in dozens, yes, hundreds of cases, this warning was utterly disregarded, and those who heeded it early in the day were looked upon as cowards, and many jeers were uttered by lips that now are cold among the rank grass beside the river. there has grown up a bitter feeling among the surviving sufferers against those who owned the lake and dam, and damage suits will be plentiful by and by. the dam in stony creek, above johnstown, broke about noon yesterday and thousands of feet of lumber passed down the stream. it is impossible to tell what the loss of life will be, but at nine o'clock the coroner of westmoreland county sent a message out saying that bodies had been recovered at nineveh, halfway from here to johnstown. sober minded people do not hesitate to say that , is moderate. fire's awful work. "how can anybody tell how many are dead?" said a railroad engineer this morning. "i have been at long hollow with my train since eleven o'clock yesterday, and i have seen fully five hundred persons lost in the flood." j.w. esch, a brave railroad employee, saved sixteen lives at nineveh. the most awful culmination of the awful night was the roasting of a hundred or more persons in mid-flood. the ruins of houses, old buildings and other structures swept against the new railroad bridge at johnstown, and from an overturned stove or some such cause the upper part of the wreckage caught fire. there were crowds of men, women and children on the wreck, and their screams were soon heard. they were literally roasted on the flood. soon after the fire burned itself out other persons were thrown against the mass. there were some fifty people in sight when the ruins suddenly broke up and were swept under the bridge into the darkness. the latest news from johnstown is that but two houses could be seen in the town. it is also said that only three houses remain in cambria city. the first authentic news was from w.n. hays, of the pennsylvania railroad company, who reached new florence at nine o'clock. he says the valley towns are annihilated. destruction at blairsville. the flood in the conemaugh river at this point is the heaviest ever known here. at this hour the railroad bridge between here and blairsville intersection has been swept away, and also the new bridge at coketon, half a mile below. it is now feared that the iron bridge at the lower end of this town will go. a living woman and dead man, supposed to be her husband, were seen going under the railroad bridge. they were seen to come from under the bridge safely, but shortly disappeared and were seen no more. a great many families lose their household goods. the river is running full of timber, houses, goods, etc. the loss will be heavy. the excitement here is very great. the river is still rising. there are some families below the town in the second story of their houses who cannot get out. it is feared that if the water goes much higher the loss of life will be very great. the railroad company had fourteen cars of coal on their bridge when it went down, and all were swept down the river. the town bridge has just succumbed to the seething floods, whose roar can be heard a long distance. the water is still rising and it is thought that the west pennsylvania railroad will be without a single bridge. it is reported that a man went down with the blairsville bridge while he was adjusting a headlight. havoc about altoona. the highest and most destructive flood that has visited this place for fifty years occurred yesterday. it has been raining continuously for the past twenty-four hours. the juniata river is ten feet above low water mark and is still rising. the lower streets of gaysport bordering on the river bank are submerged, and the water is two feet deep on the first floors of the houses there. the water rose so rapidly that the people had to be removed from the houses in boats and wagons. three railroad trestles and a number of bridges over the streams have been carried away, and railroad travel between this place and the surrounding towns has been interrupted. property of all kinds was carried off. the truck gardens and grain fields along the river were utterly destroyed, and the fences carried away. the iron furnaces and rolling mills at this place and duncanville were compelled to shut down on account of the high water. keene & babcock lost , brick in the kiln ready to burn, g.w. rhodes , , and joseph hart , . it is estimated that the flood has done over $ , damage in this vicinity. the fences of the blair county agricultural society were destroyed. alarm at york. last night was one of great alarm here. it rained steadily all day, some of the showers being severe. the great flood of is forcibly recalled. many families are moving out. at half-past one a.m. a general alarm was sounded on the bells of the city. the flood in the susquehanna river here reached its greatest height about six o'clock this morning, when all bridges save one were under water. business places and residences in the low section were flooded to a great extent, and the damage in this city alone amounts to $ , so far. the injury to the spring grove paper mills near this city is heavy. by noon the water had fallen sufficiently to restore travel over nearly all the bridges. a number of bridges in the county have been swept away, and the loss in the county exclusive of the city is estimated at $ , . in attempting to catch some driftwood james mcilvaine lost his balance and fell into the raging current and was drowned. seven bodies have been taken from the water and débris on the river banks at new florence. one body has also been taken from the river at this point, that of a young girl. none of them have been identified. the whole face of the country between here and new florence is under water, and houses, bridges and buildings fill the fields and even perch upon the hillside all the way to johnstown. great flocks of crows are already filling the valley, while buzzards are almost as frequently seen. the banks of the river are lined with people who are looking as well for booty as for bodies. much valuable property was carried away in the houses as well as from houses not washed away. the river has fallen again into its channel, and nothing in the stream itself except its red, angry color shows the wild horror of last night. it has fallen fully twenty feet since midnight, and by to-night it will have attained its normal depth. painful scenes. at all points from greensburg to long hollow, the limit of the present trouble, scores of people throng the stations begging and beseeching railroad men on the repair trains to take them aboard, as they are almost frenzied with anxiety and apprehension in regard to their friends who live at or near johnstown. strong men are as tearful as the women who join in the request. pitiable sights and scenes multiply more and more rapidly. the conemaugh is one great valley of mourning. those who have not lost friends have lost their house or their substance, and apparently the grief for the one is as poignant as for the other. they were warned. the great volume of water struck johnstown about half-past five in the afternoon. it did not find the people unprepared, as they had had notice from south fork that the dam was threatening to go. many, however, disregarded the notice and remained in their houses in the lower part of the city and were caught before they could get out. superintendent pitcairn, of the pennsylvania railroad, who has spent the entire day in assisting not only those who were afflicted by the flood, but also in an attempt to reopen his road, went home this morning. before he left he issued an order to all pennsylvania railroad employees to keep a sharp lookout for bodies, both in the river and in the bushes, and to return them to their friends. assistant superintendent trump is still on the ground near lone hollow directing the movements of gravel and construction trains, which are arriving as fast as they can be fitted up and started out. the roadbeds of both the pennsylvania and the west pennsylvania railroads are badly damaged, and it will cost the latter, especially from the bolivar junction to saltsburg, many thousands of dollars to repair injuries to embankments alone. in pittsburg there was but one topic of conversation, and that was the johnstown deluge. crowds of eager watchers all day long besieged the newspaper bulletin boards and rendered streets impassable in their vicinity. many of them had friends or relatives in the stricken district, and "names!" "names!" was their cry. but there were no names. the storm which had perhaps swept away their loved ones had also carried away all means of communication and their vigil was unrewarded. it is not yet known whether the telegraph operator at johnstown is dead or alive. the nearest point to that city which can be reached to-night is new florence, and the one wire there is used almost constantly by orders for coffins, embalming fluid and preparing special cars to carry the recovered dead to their homes. along the banks of the now turbulent allegheny were placed watchers for dead bodies, and all wreckage was carefully scanned for the dead. the result of this vigilance was the recovery of one body, that of a woman floating down on a pile of débris. seven other bodies were seen, but could not be reached owing to the swift moving wreckage by which they were surrounded. a heartrending sight. a railroad conductor who arrived in the city this morning said:--"there is no telling how many lives are lost. we got as far as bolivar, and i tell you it is a terrible sight. the body of a boy was picked up by some of us there, and there were eleven bodies recovered altogether. i do not think that anyone got into johnstown, and it is my opinion that they will not get in very soon. no one who is not on the grounds has any idea of the damage done. it will be at least a week before the extent of this flood is known, and then i think many bodies will never be recovered." assistant superintendent wilson, of the west pennsylvania railroad, received the following despatch from nineveh to-day:-- "there appears to be a large number of people lodged in the trees and rubbish along the line. many are alive. rescuing parties should be advised at every station." another telegram from nineveh said that up to noon bodies had been taken from the river at that point. the stage of water in the allegheny this afternoon became so alarming that residents living in the low-lying districts began to remove their household effects to a higher grade. the tracks of the pittsburgh and western railroad are under water in several places, and great inconvenience is felt in moving trains. criminal negligence. it was stated at the office of the pennsylvania railroad early this morning that the deaths would run up into the thousands rather than hundreds, as was at first supposed. despatches received state that the stream of human beings that was swept before the floods was pitiful to behold. men, women and children were carried along frantically shrieking for help. rescue was impossible. husbands were swept past their wives, and children were borne along at a terrible speed to certain death before the eyes of their terrorized and frantic parents. it was said at the depot that it was impossible to estimate the number whose lives were lost in the flood. it will simply be a matter of conjecture for several days as to who was lost and who escaped. the people of johnstown were warned of the possibility of the bursting of the dam during the morning, but very few if any of the inhabitants took the warning seriously. shortly after noon it gave way about five miles above johnstown, and sweeping everything before it burst upon the town with terrible force. everything was carried before it, and not an instant's time was given to seek safety. houses were demolished, swept from their foundations and carried in the flood to a culvert near the town. here a mass of all manner of débris soon lodged, and by evening it had dammed the water back into the city over the tops of many of the still remaining chimneys. the dam always a menace. assistant superintendent trump, of the pennsylvania, is at conemaugh, but the officials at the depot had not been able to receive a line from him until as late as half-past two o'clock this morning. it was said also that it will be impossible to get a train through either one way or the other for at least two or three days. this applies also to the mails, as there is absolutely no way of getting mails through. "we were afraid of that lake," said a gentleman who had lived in johnstown for years, "we were afraid of that lake seven years ago. no one could see the immense height to which that artificial dam had been built without fearing the tremendous power of the water behind it. i doubt if there was a man or woman in johnstown who at some time or other had not feared and spoken of the terrible disaster that has now come. "people wondered and asked why the dam was not strengthened, as it certainly had become weak, but nothing was done, and by and by they talked less and less about it as nothing happened, though now and then some would shake their heads as though conscious that the fearful day would come some time when their worst fears would be transcended by the horror of the actual occurrence. converted into a lake. "johnstown is in a hollow between two rivers, and that lake must have swept over the city at a depth of forty feet. it cannot be, it is impossible that such an awful thing could happen to a city of ten thousand inhabitants, and if it has, thousands have lost their lives, and men are to blame for it, for warnings have been uttered a thousand times and have received no attention." the body of a welsh woman, sixty years of age, was taken from the river near the suspension bridge, at ten o'clock this morning. four other bodies were seen, but owing to the mass of wreckage which is coming down they could not be recovered, and passed down the ohio river. a citizens' meeting has been called to devise means to aid the sufferers. the pennsylvania railroad officials have already placed cars on liberty street for the purpose of receiving provisions and clothing, and up to this hour many prominent merchants have made heavy donations. anxiety of the people. the difficulty of obtaining definite information added tremendously to the excitement and apprehension of the people in pittsburgh who had relatives and friends at the scene of the disaster. members of the south fork club, and among them some of the most eminent men in the pittsburgh financial and mercantile world, were in or near johnstown, and several of them were accompanied by their wives and families. there happened to be also quite a number of residents of johnstown in pittsburgh, and when the news of the horror was confirmed and the railroads bulletined the fact that no trains would go east last night the scene at union depot was profoundly pathetic and exciting. but two trains were sent out by the pennsylvania road from the union station at pittsburgh. a despatch states that the cambria iron company's plant on the north side of the conemaugh river at johnstown is a complete wreck. until this despatch was received it was not thought that this portion of the plant had been seriously injured. it was known that the portion of the plant located on the south bank of the river was washed away, and this was thought to be the extent of the damage to the property of that immense corporation. the plant is said to be valued at $ , , . [illustration] chapter ii. death and desolation. the terrible situation on the second day after the great disaster only intensifies the horror. as information becomes more full and accurate, it does not abate one tittle of the awful havoc. rather it adds to it, and gives a thousand-fold terror to the dreadful calamity. not only do the scenes which are described appear all the more dreadful, as is natural, the nearer they are brought to the imagination, but it seems only too probable that the final reckoning in loss of life and material wealth will prove far more stupendous than has even yet been supposed. the very greatness of the destruction prevents the possibility of an accurate estimate. beneath the ghastly ruins of the once happy towns and villages along the pathway of the deluge, who shall say how many victims lie buried? amid the rocks and woods that border the broad track of the waters, who shall say how many lie bruised and mangled and unrecognizable, wedged between boulders or massed amid débris and rubbish, or hidden beneath the heaped-up deposits of earth, and whether all of them shall ever be found and given the last touching rites? already the air of the little valley, which four days ago was smiling with all the health of nature and the contentment of industrious man, is waxing pestiferous with the awful odor of decaying human bodies. buzzards, invited by their disgusting instinct, gather for a promised feast, and sit and glower on neighboring perches or else circle round and round in the blue empyrean over the location of unfriended corpses, known only to their keen sense of smell or vision. but another kind of buzzard, more disgusting, more hideous, more vile, has hastened to this scene of woe and anguish and desolation to exult over it to his profit. thugs and thieves in unclean hordes have mysteriously turned up at johnstown and its vicinity, as hyenas in the desert seem to spring bodily out of the deadly sand whenever the corpse of a gallant warrior, abandoned by his kind, lies putrefying in the night. there is a cry from the afflicted community for the policing of the devastated region, and there is no doubt it is greatly needed. happily, nemesis does not sleep this time in the face of such provocation as is given her by these atrociously inhuman human beings. it is a satisfaction to record that something more than a half dozen of them have been dealt with as promptly and as mercilessly as they deserve. for such as they there should be no code of pity. there is an inexhaustible store of pathos and heroism in the tale of this disaster. of course, in all of its awful details it never can be fitly written. one reason is that too many of the witnesses of its more fearful phases "sleep the sleep that knows not waking." but there is a greater reason, and that is that there is a point in the intenser actuality of things at which all human language fails to do justice to it. yet--as simply told as possible--there are many incidents of this great tragedy which nothing has ever surpassed or ever can surpass in impressiveness. it is a consolation, too, that human nature at such times does betray here and there a gleam of that side of it which gives forth a reflection of the ideal manhood or womanhood. bits of heroism and of tender devotedness scattered throughout this dark, dismal picture of destruction and despair light it up with wonderful beauty, and while they bring tears to the eyes of the sternest reader, will serve as a grateful relief from the pervading hue of horror and blackness. there is the very gravest need of vigorous relief measures in favor of the survivors of the flood. a spontaneous movement in that direction has been begun, but as yet lacks the efficiency only to be derived from a general and organized co-operation. complete annihilation. when superintendent pitcairn telegraphed from johnstown to pittsburgh friday night that the town was annihilated he came very close to the facts of the case, although he had not seen the ill-fated city. to say that johnstown is a wreck is but stating the facts of the case. nothing like it was ever seen in this country. where long rows of dwelling houses and business blocks stood forty-eight hours ago, ruin and desolation now reign supreme. the losses, however, are as nothing compared to the frightful sacrifices of precious human lives. during sunday johnstown has been drenched with the tears of stricken mortals, and the air is filled with sobs that come from breaking hearts. there are scenes enacted here every hour and every minute that affect all beholders profoundly. when brave men die in battle, for country or for principle, their loss can be reconciled to the stern destinies of life. when homes are torn asunder in an instant, and the loved ones hurled from the arms of loving and devoted mothers, there is an element of sadness connected with the tragedy that touches every heart. _the loss of life is simply dreadful. the most conservative people declare that the number will reach , while others confidently assert that or , have perished._ how johnstown looks after flood and fire have done their worst. an eye-witness writing from pittsburgh says:--we have just returned from a trip through what is left of johnstown. the view from beyond is almost impossible to describe. to look upon it is a sight that neither war nor catastrophe can equal. house is piled upon house, not as we have seen in occasional floods of the the western rivers, but the remains of two and four storied buildings piled upon the top of one another. the ruins of what is known as the club house are in perhaps the best condition of any in that portion of the town, but it is certainly damaged beyond possibility of repair. _on the upper floor five bodies are lying unidentified._ one of them, a woman of genteel birth, judging by her dress, is locked in one of the small rooms to prevent a possibility of spoliation by wreckers, who are flocking to the spot from all directions and taking possession of everything they can get hold of. here and there bodies can be seen sticking in the ruins. some of the most prominent citizens are to be seen working with might and main to get at the remains of relatives whom they have located. _there is no doubt that, wild as the estimates of the loss of life and damage to property have been, it is even larger than there is any idea of._ close on to , residences lie in kindling wood at the lower end of the town. freaks of the flood. an idea of the eccentricity of the flood may be gathered from the fact that houses that were situated at woodvale and points above johnstown are piled at the lower end of the town, while some massive houses have been lifted and carried from the lower end as far as the cemetery at the extreme upper portion of the town. all through the ruins are scattered the most costly furniture and store goods of all kinds. thieves are busy. i stood on the keyboard and strings of a piano while i watched a number of thieves break into the remnants of houses and pilfer them, while others again had got at a supply of fine groceries and had broken into a barrel of fine brandy, and were fairly steeping themselves in it. i met quite a number of pittsburghers in the ruins looking for friends and relatives. if the skiffs which were expected from pittsburgh were there they would be of vast assistance in reaching the ruins, which are separated by the stream of water descending from the hills. a great fear is felt that there will be some difficulty in restoring the stream to its proper channel. its course now lies right along main street, and it is about two hundred yards wide. something should be done to get the bodies of the dead decently taken care of. the ruins are reeking with the smell of decaying bodies. right at the edge of the ruins the decaying body of a stout colored woman is lying like the remains of an animal, without any one to identify and take care of it. lynching the ghouls. a number of hungarians collected about a number of bodies at cambria which had been washed up and began rifling the trunks. after they had secured all the contents they turned their attention to the dead. the ghastly spectacle presented by the distorted features of those who had lost their lives during the flood had no influence upon the ghouls, who acted more like wild beasts than human beings. they took every article from the clothing on the dead bodies, not leaving anything of value or anything that would serve to identify the remains. after the miscreants had removed all their plunder to dry ground a dispute arose over a division of the spoils. a pitched battle followed and for a time the situation was alarming. knives and clubs were used freely. as a result several of the combatants were seriously wounded and left on the ground, their fellow countrymen not making any attempt to remove them from the field of strife. johnstown, pa., june , a.m. _they have just hung a man over near the railroad to the telegraph pole for cutting the finger off of a dead woman in order to get a ring._ vengeance, swift and sure. the way of the transgressor in the desolated valley of the conemaugh is hard indeed. each hour reveals some new and horrible story of suffering and outrage, and every succeeding hour brings news of swift and merited punishment meted out to the fiends who have dared to desecrate the stiff and mangled corpses in the city of the dead, and torture the already half crazed victims of the cruelest of modern catastrophes. as the roads to the lands round about are opened tales of almost indescribable horror come to light, and deeds of the vilest nature, perpetrated in the darkness of the night, are brought to light. followed by avenging farmers. just as the shadows began to fall upon the earth last evening a party of thirteen hungarians were noticed stealthily picking their way along the banks of the conemaugh toward sang hollow. suspicious of their purpose, several farmers armed themselves and started in pursuit. soon their most horrible fears were realized. the hungarians were out for plunder. lying upon the shore they came upon the dead and mangled body of a woman upon whose person there were a number of trinkets and jewelry and two diamond rings. in their eagerness to secure the plunder, the hungarians got into a squabble, during which one of the number severed the finger upon which were the rings, and started on a run with his fearful prize. the revolting nature of the deed so wrought upon the pursuing farmers, who by this time were close at hand, that they gave immediate chase. some of the hungarians showed fight, but being outnumbered were compelled to flee for their lives. nine of the brutes escaped, but four were literally driven into the surging river and to their death. the inhuman monster whose atrocious act has been described was among the number of the involuntary suicides. another incident of even greater moment has just been brought to notice. anxious to be a murderer. at half-past eight this morning an old railroader who had walked from sang hollow stepped up to a number of men who were congregated on the platform stations at curranville and said:--"gentlemen, had i a shotgun with me half an hour ago i would now be a murderer, yet with no fear of ever having to suffer for my crime. "two miles below here i watched three men going along the banks _stealing the jewels from the bodies of the dead wives and daughters of men who have been robbed of all they held dear on earth._" he had no sooner finished the last sentence than five burly men, with looks of terrible determination written on their faces, were on their way to the scene of plunder, one with a coil of rope over his shoulder and another with a revolver in his hand. in twenty minutes, so it is stated, they had overtaken two of the wretches, who were then in the act of cutting pieces from the ears and fingers from the hands of the bodies of two dead women. brutes at bay. with revolver leveled at the scoundrels the leader of the posse shouted, "throw up your hands or i'll blow your heads off!" with blanched faces and trembling forms they obeyed the order and begged for mercy. they were searched, and as their pockets were emptied of their ghastly finds the indignation of the crowd intensified, and when _a bloody finger of an infant, encircled with two tiny gold rings_, was found among the plunder in the leader's pocket, a cry went up "_lynch them! lynch them!_" _without a moment's delay ropes were thrown around their necks and they were dangling to the limbs of a tree, in the branches of which an hour before were entangled the bodies of a dead father and son._ after the expiration of a half hour the ropes were cut, and the bodies lowered and carried to a pile of rocks in the forest on the hill above. it is hinted that an allegheny county official was one of the most prominent actors in this justifiable homicide. another case of attempted lynching was witnessed this evening near kernville. the man was observed stealing valuable articles from the houses. he was seized by a mob, a rope was placed around his neck and he was jerked up into the air. the rope was tied to the tree and his would-be lynchers left him. bystanders cut him down before he was dead. the other men did not interfere and he was allowed to go. the man was so badly scared that he could not give his name if he wanted to do so. two colored men were shot while robbing the dead bodies, by the pittsburgh police, who are doing guard about the town. fiends in human form. to one who saw bright, bustling johnstown a week ago the sight of its present condition must cause a thrill of horror, no matter how callous he might be. i doubt if any incident of war or flood ever caused a more sickening sight. wretchedness of the most pathetic kind met the gaze on every side. _unlawfulness runs riot._ if ever military aid was needed now is the time. _the town is perfectly overrun with thieves_, many of them from pittsburgh. the hungarians are the worst. they seem to operate in regular organized bands. in cambria city this morning they entered a house, drove out the occupants at the point of revolvers and took possession. they can be constantly seen carrying large quantities of plunder to the hills. the number of drunken men is remarkable. whiskey seems marvelously plenty. men are actually carrying it around in pails. barrels of the stuff are constantly located among the drifts, and men are scrambling over each other and fighting like wild beasts in their mad search for it. at the cemetery, at the upper end of the town, i saw a sight that rivals the inferno. a number of ghouls had found a lot of fine groceries, among them a barrel of brandy, with which they were fairly stuffing themselves. one huge fellow was standing on the strings of an upright piano singing a profane song, every little while breaking into a wild dance. a half dozen others were engaged in a hand-to-hand fight over the possession of some treasure stolen from a ruined house, and the crowd around the barrel were yelling like wild men. the cry for help increases every hour. something must be done to get the bodies decently taken care of. the ruins are reeking with the smell of decaying bodies. at the very edge of the ruins the body of a large colored woman, in an advanced state of decomposition, is lying like the body of an animal. watched their friends die. the fire in the drift above the bridge is still burning fiercely and will continue to do so for several days. the skulls of six people can be seen sticking up out of the ruins just above the east end of the bridge. nothing but the blackened skulls can be seen. they are all together. the sad scenes will never all be written. one lady told me this morning of seeing her mother crushed to pieces just before her eyes and the mangled body carried off down the stream. william yarner lost six children and saved a baby about eighteen months old. his wife died just three weeks ago. an aged german, his wife and five daughters floated down on their house to a point below nineveh, where the house was wrecked. the five daughters were drowned, but the old man and his wife stuck in a tree and hung there for twenty-four hours before they could be taken off. died kissing her babe. one of the most pitiful sights of this terrible disaster came to my notice this afternoon, when the body of a young lady was taken out of the conemaugh river. the woman was apparently quite young, though her features were terribly disfigured. nearly all the clothing except the shoes was torn off the body. the corpse was that of a mother, for although cold in death the woman clasped a young male babe apparently not more than a year old tightly in her arms. the little one was huddled close up to its mother's face, who when she realized their terrible fate, had evidently raised the babe to her lips to imprint upon its little lips the last motherly kiss it was to receive in this world. the sight was a pathetic one and turned many a stout heart to tears. among the miraculous escapes to be recorded in connection with the great disaster is that of george j. leas and his family. he resided on iron street. when the rush of water came there were eight people on the roof. the little house swung around off its moorings and floated about for nearly half an hour before it came up against the bank of drift above the stone bridge. a three-year-old girl with sunny golden hair and dimpled cheeks prayed all the while that god would save them, and it seemed that god really answered the prayer of this innocent little girl and directed the house against the drift, enabling every one of the eight to get off. mrs. leas carried the little girl in her arms, and how she got off she doesn't know. every house around them, she said, was crushed, and the people either killed or drowned. thugs at their work. one of the most dreadful features of this catastrophe has been the miserable weakness displayed by the authorities of johnstown and the surrounding boroughs. johnstown needed them sadly for forty-eight hours. there is supposed to be a burgess, but like most burgesses he is a shadowy and mythical personage. if there had been concerted and intelligent action the fire in the débris at the dam could have been extinguished within a short time after it started. too many cooks spoiled this ghastly broth. even now if dynamite or some other explosive was intelligently applied the huge mass of wreckage which has up to the present time escaped the flame, and no doubt contains a number of bodies, could be saved from fire. this, however, is a matter of small import compared with the immunity granted the outrageous and open graveyard robbery and disgusting thievery which have thriven bravely since friday morning. foreigners and natives carrying huge sacks, and in some instances even being assisted by horses and carts, have been busily engaged hunting corpses and stealing such valuables as were to be found in the wreckage. dozens of barrels of strong liquor have been rescued by the hungarian and polish laborers from among the ruins of saloons and hotels and the contents of the same have been freely indulged in. this has led to an alarming debauchery, which is on the increase. all day the numbers of the drunken crowd have been augmented from time to time by fresh arrivals from the surrounding districts. those who have suffered from the tidal wave have become much embittered against the law breakers. there have been many small fights and several small riots in consequence. this has been regarded with apprehension by the state authorities, and adjutant general hastings has arrived at johnstown to examine into the condition of affairs and to guard the desolated district with troops. the eighteenth regiment, of pittsburgh, has tendered its services to this work, but has received no reply to its tender. general hastings estimates that the loss of life is at least eight thousand. an employee of j.l. gill, of latrobe, says he and thirty-five other men were in a three-story building in johnstown last night. they had been getting out logs for the johnstown lumber company. the man says that the building was swept away and all the men were drowned except gill and his family. handling the dead. the recovery of bodies has taken up the time of thousands all day. the theory now is that most of those killed by the torrent were buried beneath the débris. to-day's work in the ruins in a large degree justifies this assumption. i saw six bodies taken out of one pile of rubbish not eight feet square. the truth is that bodies are almost as plentiful as logs. the whirl of the waters puts the bodies under and the logs and boards on top. the rigidity of arms standing out at right angles to the bloated and bruised bodies show that death in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases took place amid the ruins--that is after the wreck of houses had closed over them. dr. d.g. foster, who has been here all day, is of the opinion that most of the victims were killed by coming into violent contact with objects in the river and not by drowning. he found many fractured skulls and on most heads blows that would have rendered those receiving them instantly unconscious, and the water did the rest. _not fewer than three hundred bodies have been taken from the river and rubbish to-day._ it has been the labor of all classes of citizens, and marvellous work has been accomplished. the eastern end of main street, through which the waters tore most madly and destructively, and in which they left their legacy of wrecked houses, fallen trees and dead bodies in a greater degree than in any other portion of the city, has been cleared and the remains of over fifty have been taken out. all over town the searchers have been equally successful. as soon as a body is found it is placed on a litter and sent to the morgue, where it is washed and placed on a board for several hours to await identification. [illustration: interior of the morgue.] the morgue is the fourth-ward school house, and it has been surrounded all day by a crowd of several thousand people. at first the crowd were disposed to stop those bearing the stretchers, uncover the remains and view them, but this was found to be prolific not only of great delay, also scenes of agony that not even the bearers could endure. now a litter is guarded by a file of soldiers with fixed bayonets, and the people are forced aside until the morgue is reached. it is astonishing to find how small a number of injured are in the city. few survived. it was death or nothing with the demon of the flood. now that an adequate idea of what has befallen them has been reached, and the fact that a living has still to be made, that plants must be taken care of, that contracts must be filled, the business people of the city are giving their attention to the future. vice president and director james mcmillan, of the cambria iron company, says their loss has been well nigh incalculable. they are not daunted, but will to-morrow begin the work of clearing up the ruins of their mills preparatory to rebuilding and repairing their works. they will also immediately rebuild the gautier iron works. this is the disposition of all. "our pockets are light," they say, "but if nothing happens all of us will be in business again." the central portion of johnstown is as completely obliterated as if it had never had foundation. the river has made its bed upon the sites of hundreds of dwellings, and a vast area of sand, mud and gravel marks the old channel. it is doubtful whether it will be possible even to reclaim what was once the business portion of the city. the river will have to be returned to its old bed in order to do this. among the lost is h.g. rose, the district attorney of cambria county, whose body was among the first discovered. governor foraker, of ohio, this afternoon sent five hundred tents to this city. they will be pitched on the hillside to-morrow. they are sadly needed, as the buildings that are left are either too damp or too unsafe for occupancy. burying the dead. the work of burying the dead began this morning and has been kept up till late this evening. the bruising of the bodies by logs and trees and other débris and other exposure in the water have tended to hasten decomposition, which has set in in scores of cases, making interment instantly necessary. bodies are being buried as rapidly as they are identified. the work of pittsburgh undertakers in examining the dead has rendered it possible to keep all those embalmed two or three days longer, but this is desirable only in cases where identification is dubious and no claimants appear at all. to-day the cars sent out from pittsburgh with provisions for the living were hastily cleared in order to contain the bodies of the dead intended for interment in suburban cemeteries and in graveyards handy to the city. formality is dispensed with. in some instances only the undertaker and his assistants are present, and in others only one or two members of the family of the dead. the dead are more plentiful than the mourners. death has certainly dealt briefly with the stricken city. "let the dead bury the dead" has been more nearly exemplified in this instance than in any other in this country's history. the magnitude of the horror increases with the hours. it is believed that not less than two thousand of the drowned found lodgment beneath the _omnium gatherum_ in the triangle of ground that the conemaugh cut out of the bank between the river and the pennsylvania railroad bridge. the greatest funeral pyre in history. the victims were not upon it, but were parts of it. whole houses were washed into the apex of the triangle. hen coops, pigstys and stables were added to the mass. then a stove ignited the mass and the work of cremation began. it was a literal breast of fire. the smoke arose in a huge funnel-shaped cloud, and at times it changed to the form of an hour glass. at night the flames united would light up this misty remnant of mortality. the effect upon the living, both ignorant and intelligent, was the same. that volume of smoke with its dual form, produced a feeling of awe in many that was superior in most cases to that felt in the awful moment of the storm's wrath on friday. hundreds stood for hours regarding the smoke and wondering whether it foreboded another visitation more dire than its predecessor. the people hereabouts this morning awoke to find that nothing was left but a mass of ashes, calcined human bones, stoves, old iron and other approximately indestructible matter, from which only a light blue vapor was arising. general hastings took precautions to prevent the extension of the fire to another huge pile, a short distance away, and this will be rummaged to-day for bodies of flood victims. the pittsburgh undertakers have contributed more to facilitate the preparation of the dead for the graves than all others besides. there was a disposition on the part of many foreigners and negroes to raid the houses, and do an all around thieving business, but the measures adopted by the police had a tendency to frighten them off in nearly every case. one man was caught in the act of robbing the body of an old woman, but he protested that he had got nothing and was released. he immediately disappeared, and it was found afterward that he had taken $ from the pocket of the corpse. a half-breed negro yesterday and this morning was doing a thriving business in collecting hams, shoulders, chickens and even furniture. he had thieves in his employ, and while to some of them he was paying regular salaries, others were doing the work for a drink of whiskey. the authorities stopped this thing very suddenly, but not until a number of the people threatened to lynch the half breed. in one or two instance very narrow escapes from the rope were made. thousands of coffins and rough boxes have already arrived, and still the supply is short. they are brought in marked to some undertaker, who has a list of his dead, and as fast as the coffins come he writes the name of its intended tenant and tells the friends (when there are any) where to find it. how a funeral takes place. two of them go after it, and, carrying it between them to the morgue or to their homes, place the body in it and take it to the burial grounds. one unfortunate feature of the destruction is the fact that some one has been drowned from nearly every house in the city, and teams are procurable only with the greatest difficulty. dead horses are seen everywhere. in one stable two horses, fully harnessed, bridled and ready to be taken out, stand dead in their stable, stiff and upright. in a sand pile near the pennsylvania railroad depot a horse's hind feet, rump and tail are all that can be seen of him. he was caught in the rapidly running waters and had been driven into the sand. the following telegram from johnstown has been received at pittsburg: "for god's sake tell the sight-seers to keep away from johnstown for the present. what we want is people to work, not to look on. citizen's committee." three trains have already been sent out with crowded cargoes of sight-seers. at every station along the road excited crowds are waiting for an opportunity to get aboard. that's what would have happened to the owners of south fork if they had put in an appearance. there is great indignation among the people of johnstown at the wealthy pittsburghers who own south fork. they blame them severely for having maintained such a frightfully dangerous institution there. the feeling among the people was intense. if any of the owners of the dam had put in an appearance in johnstown they would have been lynched. the dam has been a constant menace to this valley ever since it has been in existence, and the feeling, which has been bitter enough on the occasion of every flood hitherto, after this horrible disaster is now at fever heat. without seeing the havoc created no idea can be given of the area of the desolation or the extent of the damage. only one left to mourn. an utterly wretched woman stood by a muddy pool of water, trying to find some trace of a once happy home. she was half crazed with grief, and her eyes were red and swollen. as i stepped to her side she raised her pale and haggard face, crying: "they are all gone. oh god be merciful to them. my husband and my seven dear little children have been swept down with the flood and i am left alone. we were driven by the raging flood into the garret, but the waters followed us there. inch by inch it kept rising until our heads were crushing against the roof. it was death to remain. so i raised a window and one by one placed my darlings on some drift wood, trusting to the great creator. as i liberated the last one, my sweet little boy, he looked at me and said: 'mamma, you always told me that the lord would care for me; will he look after me now?' "i saw him drift away with his loving face turned toward me, and with a prayer on my lips for his deliverance he passed from sight forever. the next moment the roof crashed in and i floated outside to be rescued fifteen hours later from the roof of a house in kernville. if i could only find one of my darlings, i could bow to the will of god, but they all are gone. i have lost everything on earth now but my life, and i will return to my old virginia home and lay me down for my last great sleep." a handsome woman, with hair as black as a raven's wing, walked through the depot, where a dozen or more bodies were awaiting burial. passing from one to another, she finally lifted the paper covering from the face of a woman, young and with traces of beauty showing through the stains of muddy water. with a cry of anguish she reeled backward, to be caught by a rugged man who chanced to be passing. in a moment or so she had calmed herself sufficiently to take one more look at the features of her dead. she stood gazing at the unfortunate as if dumb. finally turning away with another wild burst of grief she said:-- "and her beautiful hair all matted and her sweet face bruised and stained with mud and water." the dead woman was the sister of the mourner. the body was placed in a coffin a few minutes later and sent away to its narrow house. these incidents are but fair samples of the scenes familiar to every turn in this stricken city. [illustration: the awful rush of waters.] chapter iii. the horror increases. during the night thirty-three bodies were brought to one house. as yet the relief force is not perfectly organized and bodies are lying around on boards and doors. within twenty feet of where this was written the dead body of a colored woman lies. provision has been made by the relief committee for the sufferers to send despatches to all parts of the country. the railroad company has a track through to the bridge. the first train arrived about half-past nine o'clock this morning. a man in a frail craft got caught in the rapids at the railroad bridge, and it looked as if he would increase the already terrible list of dead, but fortunately he caught on a rock, where he now is and is liable to remain all day. the question on every person's lips is--will the cambria iron company rebuild? the wire mill is completely wrecked, but the walls of the rolling mill are still standing. if they do not resume it is a question whether the town will be rebuilt. the hungarians were beginning to pillage the houses, and the arrival of police was most timely. word had just been received that all the men employed by peabody, the pittsburgh contractor, have been saved. the worst part of this disaster has not been told. indeed, the most graphic description that can be written will not tell half the tale. no pen can describe nor tongue tell the vastness of this devastation. i walked over the greater part of the wrecked town this morning, and one could not have pictured such a wreck, nor could one have imagined that an entire town of this size could be so completely swept away. a.j. haws, one of the prominent men of the town, was standing on the hillside this morning, taking a view of the wreck. he said: "i never saw anything like this, nor do i believe any one else ever did. no idea can be had of the tremendous loss of property here. it amounts up into the millions. i am going to leave the place. i never will build here." i heard the superintendents and managers of the cambria iron works saying they doubted if the works will be rebuilt. this would mean the death blow to the place. mr. stackhouse, first vice-president of the iron works, is expected here to-day. nothing can be done until a meeting of the company is held. preparations for burial. adjutant general hastings, who is in charge of the relief corps at the railroad station, has a force of carpenters at work making rough boxes in which to bury the dead. they will be buried on the hill, just above the town, on ground belonging to the cambria iron company. the graves will be numbered. no one will be buried that has not been identified without a careful description being taken. general hastings drove fifty-eight miles across the country in order to get here, and as soon as he came took charge. he has the whole town organized, and in connection with l.s. smith has commenced the building of bridges and clearing away the wrecks to get out the dead bodies. [illustration: preparations for burial.] general hastings has a large force of men clearing private tracks of the cambria iron company in order that the small engines can be put to work bringing up the dead that have been dragged out of the river at points below. the bodies are being brought up and laid out in freight cars. mr. kittle, of ebensburg, has been deputized to take charge of the valuables taken from the bodies and keep a registry of them, and also to note any marks of identification that may be found. a number of the bodies have been stripped of rings or bracelets and other valuables. over six hundred corpses have now been taken out on the south side of stony creek, the greater portion of which have been identified. send us coffins. preparations for their burial are being carried on as rapidly as possible, and "coffins, coffins," is the cry. no word has been received anywhere of any being shipped. even rough boxes will be gladly received. those that are being made, and in which many of the bodies are being buried, are of rough unplaned boards. one hundred dead bodies are laid out at the soap factory, while two hundred or more people are gathered there that are in great distress. boats are wanted. people have the greatest difficulty in getting to the town. struggling for order. another account from johnstown on the second day after the disaster says: the situation here has not changed, and yesterday's estimates of the loss of life do not seem to be exaggerated. six hundred bodies are now lying in johnstown, and a large number have already been buried. four immense relief trains arrived last night, and the survivors are being well cared for. adjutant general hastings, assisted by mayor sanger, has taken command at johnstown and vicinity. nothing is legal unless it bears the signature of the former. the town itself is guarded by company h, sixth regiment, lieutenant leggett in command. new members were sworn in by him, and they are making excellent soldiers. special police are numerous, and the regulations are so strict that even the smoking of a cigar is prohibited. general hastings expresses the opinion that more troops are necessary. mr. alex. hart is in charge of the special police. he has lost his wife and family. notwithstanding his great misfortune he is doing the work of a hercules in his own way. firemen and soldiers arriving. chief evans, of the pittsburgh fire department, arrived this evening with engines and several hose carts, with a full complement of men. a large number of pittsburgh physicians came on the same train. a squad of battery b, under command of lieutenant brown, the forerunners of the whole battery, arrived at the improvised telegraph office at half-past six o'clock. lieutenant brown went at once to adjutant general hastings and reported for duty. a portion of the police force of pittsburgh and alleghany are on duty, and better order is maintained than prevailed yesterday. communication has been restored between cambria city and johnstown by a foot bridge. the work of repairing the tracks between sang hollow and johnstown is going on rapidly, and trains will probably be running by to-morrow morning. not less than fifteen thousand strangers are here. the unruly element has been put down and order is now perfect. the citizen's committee are in charge and have matters well organized. a proclamation has just been issued that all men who are able to work must report for work or leave the place. "we have too much to do to support idlers," says the citizen's committee, "and will not abuse the generous help that is being sent by doing so." from to-morrow all will be at work. money now is greatly needed to meet the heavy pay rolls that will be incurred for the next two weeks. w. c. lewis, chairman of the finance committee, is ready to receive the same. fall of the wall of water. mr. crouse, proprietor of the south fork fishing club hotel, came to johnstown this afternoon. he says:-- "when the dam of conemaugh lake broke the water seemed to leap, scarcely touching the ground. it bounded down the valley, crashing and roaring, carrying everything before it. for a mile its front seemed like a solid wall twenty feet high." freight agent dechert, when the great wall that held the body of water began to crumble at the top sent a message begging the people of johnstown for god's sake to take to the hills. he reports no serious accidents at south fork. richard davis ran to prospect hill when the water raised. as to mr. dechert's message, he says just such have been sent down at each flood since the lake was made. the warning so often proved useless that little attention was paid to it this time. "i cannot describe the mad rush," he said. "at first it looked like dust. that must have been the spray. i could see houses going down before it like a child's play blocks set on edge in a row. as it came nearer i could see houses totter for a moment, then rise and the next moment be crushed like egg shells against each other." to rise phoenix-like. james mcmillin, vice-president of the cambria iron works, was met this afternoon. in a conversation he said: "i do not know what our loss is. i cannot even estimate, as i have not the faintest idea what it may be. the upper mill is totally wrecked--damaged beyond all possibility of repairs. the lower mill is damaged to such an extent that all machinery and buildings are useless. "the mills will be rebuilt immediately. i have sent out orders that all men that can must report at the mill to-morrow to commence cleaning up. i do not think the building was insured against a flood. the great thing we want is to get the mill in operation again." [illustration: the bridge, where a thousand houses, jambed together, caught fire.] [illustration: in the valley of death.] [illustration: a mother and child perish together.] [illustration: swept away by the torrent.] [illustration: lynching and drowning thieves.] [illustration: distributing supplies to the destitute.] [illustration: a crazed soldier commits suicide.] [illustration: made orphans by the flood.] [illustration: a father's despair at the loss of his family.] [illustration: valley of the conemaugh near johnstown.] [illustration: meeting of friends and relatives after the flood.] [illustration: mother and babe cast up by the waters.] [illustration: relief for johnstown-pennsylvania railroad station, philadelphia.] [illustration: the militia at rest.] the gautier wire works was completely destroyed. the buildings will be immediately rebuilt and put in operation as soon as possible. the loss at this point is complete. the land on which it stood is to-day as barren and desolate as if it were in the midst of the sahara desert. the cambria iron company loses its great supply stores. the damage to the stock alone will amount to $ , . the building was valued at $ , , and is a total loss. the company offices which adjoins the store was a handsome structure. it was protected by the first building, but nevertheless is almost totally destroyed. the dartmouth club, at which employees of the works boarded, was carried away in the flood. it contained many occupants at the time. none were saved. estimates of the losses of the cambria iron company given are from $ , , to $ , , . but little of this can be recovered. history of the works. the cambria iron works at johnstown were built in . it was the second largest plant of its kind in the country, and was completely swept away. its capacity of finished steel per annum was , net tons of steel rails and , net tons of steel in other shapes. the mill turned out steel rails, spike bars, angles, flats, rounds, axles, billets and wire rods. there were nine siemens and forty-two reverbatory heating furnaces, one seven ton and two , pound hammers and three trains of rolls. the bessemer steel works made their first blow july , , and they contained nine gross ton converters, with an annual capacity of , net tons of ingots. in two fifteen gross tons siemens open-hearth steel furnaces were built, with an annual capacity of , net tons of ingots. the cambria iron company also owns the gautier steel works at johnstown, which were erected in . the rolling mill produced annually , net tons of merchant bar steel of every size and for every purpose. the wire mill had a capacity alone of , tons of fence wire. there are numerous bituminous coal mines near johnstown, operated by the cambria iron company, the euclid coal company and private persons. there were three woolen mills, employing over three hundred hands and producing an annual product valued at $ , . awful work of the flames. fifty acres of town swept clean. one thousand two hundred buildings destroyed. eight thousand to ten thousand lives lost. that is the record of the johnstown calamity as it looked to me just before dark last night. acres of the town were turned into cemeteries, and miles of the river bank were involuntary storage rooms for household goods. from the half ruined parapet at the end of the stone railroad bridge, in johnstown proper, one sees sights so gruesome that none but the soulless hungarian and italian laborers can command his emotions. _at my right is a fiery pit that is now believed to have been the funeral pyre of almost a thousand persons._ streets obliterated. the fiercest rush of the current was straight across the lower, level part of johnstown, where it entirely obliterated cinder, washington, market, main and walnut streets. these streets were from a half to three-quarters of a mile in length, and were closely crowded along their entire course with dwellings and other buildings, and there is now no more trace of streets or houses than there is at low tide on the beach at far rockaway. in the once well populated boroughs of conemaugh and woodvale there are to-night literally but two buildings left, one the shell of the woodvale woolen mill and the other a sturdy brick dwelling. the buildings which were swept from twenty out of the thirty acres of devastated johnstown were crowded against the lower end of the big stone bridge in a mass yards wide, yards broad and from to feet deep. they were crushed and split out of shape and packed together like playing cards. when you realize that in nearly every one of these buildings there were at least one human being, while in some there were as many as seventy-five, it is easy to comprehend how awful it was when this mass began to burn fiercely last night. it was known that a large number of persons were imprisoned in the débris, for they could be plainly seen by those on shore, but it was not until people stopped to think and to ask themselves questions, which startled them in a ghastly way, that the fact became plain that instead of a pitiful hundred or two of victims at least a thousand were in that roaring, crackling, loathsome, blazing mass upon the surface of the water and in the huge, inaccessible arches of the big bridge. charred bodies. charred bodies could be seen here and there all through the glowing embers. there was no attempt to check the fire by the authorities, nor for that matter did they try to stop the robbing of the dead, nor any other glaring violation of law. the fire is spreading toward a large block of crushed buildings further up the stream. there is a broad stretch of angry water above and below, while over there, just opposite the end of the bridge, is the ruin of the great cambria iron works, which have been damaged to the extent of over $ , , . the gautier steel works have been wiped away, and are represented by a loss of $ , , and a big hole. the holbert house, owned by renford brothers, has entirely disappeared. it was a five story building, was the leading hotel of johnstown, and contained a hundred rooms. of the seventy-five guests who were in it when the flood came, only eight have been saved. most of them were crushed by the fall of the walls and flooring. hundreds of searching parties are looking in the muddy ponds and among the wreckage for bodies and they are being gathered in ghastly heaps. in one building among the bloated victims, i saw a young and well-dressed man and woman, still locked in each other's arms, a young mother with her babe pressed with delirious tenacity to her breast, and on a small pillow was a tiny babe a few hours old, which the doctors said must have been born in the water. it is said that bodies have so far been recovered, or have been located. the coroner of westmoreland county is ordering coffins by the carload. in the raging waters. a dispatch from derry says: in this city the poor people in the raging waters cried out for aid that never came. more than one brave man risked his life in trying to save those in the flood. every hour details of some heroic action are brought to light. in many instances the victims displayed remarkable courage and gave their chances for rescue to friends with them. sons stood back for mothers, and were lost while their parents were taken out. many a son went down to a watery grave that a sister or a father might be saved. such instances of sacrifice in the face of fearful danger are numerous. the force of the waters. one can estimate the force of the water when it is known that it carried locomotives down the mountain side and turned them upside down where they are now lying. long trains of cars have been derailed and carried great distances from the railroads. the first sight that greeted the men at nine this morning was the body of a beautiful woman lying crushed and mangled under the ponderous wheels of a gondola car. the clothing was torn to shreds. dr. berry said that he never saw such intense pain pictured on a face before. terrible stories. at this time of writing it is impossible to secure the names of any of the lost. every person one meets along the road has some horrible tale of drowned and dead bodies recovered. one thousand people or more were buried and crushed in the great fire. the flats below conemaugh are full of cars with many dead bodies lying under them. at sang hollow a man named duncan sat on the roof of a house and saw his father and mother die in the attic below him. the poor fellow was powerless to help them, and he stood there wringing his hands and tearing his hair. a man was seen clinging to a tree, covered with blood. he was lost with the others. long after dark the flames of fire shot high above the burning mass of timber, lighting the vast flood of rushing waters on all sides. the dead. dead bodies are being picked up. the train master, e. pitcairn, has been working manfully directing the rescuing of dead bodies at nineveh. in a ten acre field seventy-five bodies were taken out within a half mile of each other. of this number only five were men, the rest being women and children. many beautiful young girls, refined in features and handsomely dressed, were found, and women and young mothers with their hair matted with roots and leaves are constantly being removed. the wrecking crew which took out these bodies are confident that bodies are lying buried in the sand and under the débris on those low-lying bottom lands. some of the bodies were horribly mangled, and the features were twisted and contorted as if they had died in the most excrutiating agony. others are found lying stretched out with calm faces. many a tear was dropped by the men as they worked away removing the bodies. an old lady with fine gray hair was picked up alive, although every bone in her body was broken. judging from the number of women and children found in the swamps of nineveh, the female portion of the population suffered the most. a fatal tree. mr. o'conner was at sang hollow when the flood began. he remained there through the afternoon and night, and he states that there was a fatal tree on the island against which a number of people were dashed and instantly killed. their bodies were almost tied in a knot doubled over the tree by the force of the current. mr. o'conner says that the first man who came down had his brains knocked out against this obstruction. in fact, those who hit the tree met the same fate and were instantly killed under the pile of driftwood collected there. he could give no estimate of the number lost at this point, but says that it is certainly large. braves death for his family. one of the most thrilling incidents of the disaster was the performance of a.j. leonard, whose family reside in morrellville, a short distance below this point. he was at work here, and hearing that his house had been swept away determined at all hazards to ascertain the fate of his family. the bridges having been carried away he constructed a temporary raft, and clinging to it as close as a cat to the side of a fence, he pushed his frail craft out in the raging torrent and started on a chase which, to all who were watching, seemed to mean an embrace in death. heedless of cries "for god's sake go back, you will be drowned," and "don't attempt it," he persevered. as the raft struck the current he threw off his coat and in his shirt sleeves braved the stream. down plunged the boards and down went leonard, but as it rose he was seen still clinging. a mighty shout arose from the throats of the hundreds on the banks, who were now deeply interested, earnestly hoping he would successfully ford the stream. down again went his bark, but nothing, it seemed, could shake leonard off. the craft shot up in the air apparently ten or twelve feet, and leonard stuck to it tenaciously. slowly but surely he worked his boat to the other side of the stream, and after what seemed an awful suspense he finally landed amid ringing cheers of men, women and children. the last seen of him he was making his way down a mountain road in the direction of the spot where his house had lately stood. his family consisted of his wife and three children. an angel in the mud. the pennsylvania railroad company's operators at switch corner, which is near sang hollow, tell thrilling stories of the scenes witnessed by them on friday afternoon and evening. said one of them: "in order to give you an idea of how the tidal wave rose and fell, let me say that i kept a measure and timed the rise and fall of the water, and in forty-eight minutes it fell four and a half feet. "i believe that when the water goes down about seventy-five children and fifty grown persons will be found among the weeds and bushes in the bend of the river just below the tower. "there the current was very strong, and we saw dozens of people swept under the trees, and i don't believe that more than one in twenty came out on the other side." "they found a little girl in white just now," said one of the other operators. "good god!" said the chief operator, "she isn't dead, is she!" "yes; they found her in a clump of willow bushes, kneeling on a board, just about the way we saw her when she went down the river." turning to me he said:-- "that was the saddest thing we saw all day yesterday. two men came down on a little raft, with a little girl kneeling between them, and her hands raised and praying. she came so close to us we could see her face, and that she was crying. she had on a white dress and looked like a little angel. she went under that cursed shoot in the willow bushes at the bend like all the rest, but we did hope she would get through alive." "and so she was still kneeling," he said to his companion, who had brought the unwelcome news. "she sat there," was the reply, "as if she were still praying, and there was a smile on her poor little face, though her mouth was full of mud." all agreed in saying that at least one hundred people were drowned below nineveh. direful incidents. the situation at johnstown grows worse as fuller particulars are being received in pittsburgh. this morning it was reported that three thousand people were lost in the flood. in the afternoon this number was increased to six thousand, and at this writing despatches place the number at ten thousand. it is the most frightful destruction of life that has ever been known in the united states. vampires at hand. it is stated that already a large gang of thieves and vampires have descended on and near the place. their presumed purpose is to rob the dead and ransack the demolished buildings. the tenth regiment of the pennsylvania national guard has been ordered out to protect property. a telegram from bolivar says lockport did not suffer much, but that sixty-five families were turned out of their homes. the school at that place is filled with mothers, fathers, daughters and children. noble acts of heroism. edward dick, a young railroader living in the place, saw an old man floating down the river on a tree trunk whose agonized face and streaming gray hair excited his compassion. he plunged into the torrent, clothes and all, and brought the old man safely ashore. scarcely had he done this when the upper story of a house floated by on which mrs. adams, of cambria, and her two children were borne. he plunged in again, and while breaking through the tin roof of the house cut an artery in his left wrist, but, although weakened with loss of blood, succeeded in saving both mother and children. george shore, another lockport swimmer, pulled out william jones, of cambria, who was almost exhausted and could not possibly have survived another twenty minutes in the water. john decker, who has some celebrity as a local pugilist, was also successful in saving a woman and boy, but was nearly killed in a third attempt to reach the middle of the river by being struck by a huge log. the most miraculous fact about the people who reached bolivar alive was how they passed through the falls halfway between lockport and bolivar. the seething waters rushed through that barrier of rock with a noise which drowned that of all the passing trains. heavy trees were whirled high in the air out of the water, and houses which reached there whole were dashed to splinters against the rocks. a tale of horror. on the floor of william mancarro's house, groaning with pain and grief, lay patrick madden, a furnace man of the cambria iron company. he told of his terrible experience in a voice broken with emotion. he said: "when the cambria iron company's bridge gave way i was in the house of a neighbor, edward garvey. we were caught through our own neglect, like a great many others, and a few minutes before the houses were struck garvey remarked that he was a good swimmer, and could get away no matter how high the water rose. ten minutes later i saw him and his son-in-law drowned. "no human being could swim in that terrible torrent of débris. after the south fork reservoir broke i was flung out of the building and saw, when i rose to the surface of the water, my wife hanging upon a piece of scantling. she let it go and was drowned almost within reach of my arm and i could not help or save her. i caught a log and floated with it five or six miles, but it was knocked from under me when i went over the dam. i then caught a bale of hay and was taken out by mr. morenrow." a despatch from greensburg says the day express, which left pittsburgh at eight o'clock on friday morning was lying at johnstown in the evening at the time the awful rush of waters came down the mountains. we have been informed by one who was there that the coach next to the baggage car was struck by the raging flood, and with its human freight cut loose from the rest of the train and carried down the stream. all on board, it is feared, perished. of the passengers who were left on the track, fifteen or more who endeavored to flee to the mountains were caught, it is thought, by the flood, and likewise carried to destruction. samuel bell, of latrobe, was conductor on the train, and he describes the scene as the most appalling and heartrending he ever witnessed. a special despatch from latrobe says:--"the special train which left the union station, pittsburgh, at half-past one arrived at nineveh station, nine miles from johnstown, last evening at five o'clock. the train was composed of four coaches and locomotive, and carried, at the lowest calculation, over nine hundred persons, including the members of the press. the passengers were packed in like sardines and many were compelled to hang out upon the platform. a large proportion of the passengers were curiosity seekers, while there was a large sprinkling of suspicious looking characters, who had every appearance of being crooks and wreckers, such as visit all like disasters for the sole purpose of plundering and committing kindred depredations." when the train reached nineveh the report spread through it that a number of bodies had been fished out of the water and were awaiting identification at a neighboring planing mill. i stopped off to investigate the rumor, while the balance of the party journeyed on toward sang hollow, the nearest approach to johnstown by rail. i visited mumaker's planing mills and found that the report was true. [illustration: taking dead bodies from a roof.] all day long the rescuers had been at work, and at this writing (six o'clock) they have taken out seventy-eight dead bodies, the majority of whom are women and children. the bodies are horribly mutilated and covered with mud and blood. fifteen of them are those of men. their terribly mutilated condition makes identification for the present almost impossible. one of the bodies found was that of a woman, apparently about thirty-five years of age. every conveyance that could be used has been pressed into service. latrobe is all agog with excitement over the great disaster. almost every train takes out a load of roughs and thugs who are bent on mischief. they resemble the mob that came to pittsburgh during the riots. measures of relief. pittsburgh is in a wild state of excitement. a large mass meeting was held yesterday afternoon and in a short space of time $ , was subscribed for the sufferers. the pennsylvania company has been running trains every hour to the scene of the disaster or as near it as they can get. provisions and a large volunteer relief corps have been sent up. the physicians have had an enthusiastic meeting at which one and all freely offered their services. the latest project is to have the wounded and the survivors who fled to the hillsides from the angry rush of waters brought to pittsburgh. the exposition society has offered the use of its splendid new building as a temporary hospital. all the hospitals in the city have also offered to care for the sufferers free of charge to the full limit of their capacity. word has been received at allegheny junction, twenty-two miles above pittsburgh, from leechburg that a woman and two children were seen floating past there at five o'clock yesterday morning on top of some wreckage. they were alive, and their pitiful cries for help drew the attention of the people on the shore. some men got a boat and endeavored to reach the sufferers. as they rowed out in the stream the woman could be heard calling to them to save the children first. the men made a gallant effort. it was all without avail, as the strong current and floating masses of débris prevented them from reaching the victims, and the latter floated on down the stream until their despairing cries could no longer be heard. mrs. chambers, of apollo, was swept away when her house was wrecked during the night. she had gone to bed when the flood came and she had not time to dress. fortunately she managed to secure a hold on some wreckage which was being carried past her. she kept her hold until her cries were heard by some men a short distance above leechburg. they got out a boat and succeeded in reaching her, and took her to a house near the bank of the river. when they got her there it was found that she was badly bruised and all her clothing had been torn off by the débris with which she had come in contact, leaving her entirely naked. she was also rescued at natrona. a lucky change of residence. mr. f.j. moore, of the western union office in this city, is giving thanks to-day for the fortunate escape of his wife and two children from the devastated city. as if by some foreknowledge of the impending disaster, mr. moore had arranged to have his family move yesterday from johnstown and join him in this city. their household goods were shipped on thursday, and yesterday just in time to save themselves, the little party departed in the single train which made the trip between johnstown and pittsburgh. i called on mrs. moore at her husband's apartments, no. webster avenue, and found her completely prostrated by the news of the final catastrophe, coupled with the dangerous experience through which she and her little ones had passed. "oh, it was terrible," she said. "the reservoir had broken, and before we got out of the house the water filled the cellar, and on the way to the depot it was up to the carriage bed. our train left at a quarter to two p.m., and at that hour the flood had commenced to rise with terrible rapidity. houses and sheds were carried away, and two men were drowned almost under our very eyes. people gathered on the roofs to take refuge from the water which poured into the lower rooms of their dwellings, and many families took fright and became scattered beyond hope of being reunited. just as the train pulled out i saw a woman crying bitterly. her house had been flooded and she had escaped, leaving her husband behind, and her fears for his safety made her almost crazy. our house was in the lower part of the town, and it makes me shudder to think what would have happened had we remained in it an hour longer. so far as i know we were the only passengers from johnstown on the train, and therefore i suppose we are the only persons who got away in time to escape the culminating disaster." mrs. moore's little son told me how he had seen the rats driven out of their holes by the flood and running along the tops of the fences. mr. moore endeavored to get to johnstown yesterday, but was prevented by the suspension of traffic and says he is very glad of it. what the eye hath seen. the scenes at heanemyer's planing mill at nineveh, where the dead bodies are lying, are never to be forgotten. the torn, bruised and mutilated bodies of the victims are lying in a row on the floor of the planing mill which looks more like the field of bull run after that disasterous battle than a work shop. the majority of the bodies are nude, their clothing having been torn off. all along the river bits of clothing--a tiny shoe, a baby dress, a mother's evening wrapper, a father's coat, and in fact every article of wearing apparel imaginable may be seen hanging to stumps of trees and scattered on the bank. one of the most pitiful sights of this terrible disaster came to my notice this afternoon when the body of a young lady was taken out of the conemaugh river. the woman was apparently quite young, though her features were terribly disfigured. nearly all the clothing excepting the shoes was torn off the body. the corpse was that of a mother, for although cold in death she clasped a young male babe, apparently not more than a year old, tightly in her arms. the little one was huddled close up to the face of the mother, who when she realized their terrible fate had evidently raised it to her lips to imprint upon its lips the last kiss it was to receive in this world. the sight forced many a stout heart to shed tears. the limp bodies, with matted hair, some with holes in their heads, eyes knocked out and all bespattered with blood were a ghastly spectacle. story of the first fugitives. the first survivors of the johnstown wreck who arrived in the city last night were joseph and henry lauffer and lew dalmeyer, three well known pittsburghers. they endured considerable hardship and had several narrow escapes with their lives. their story of the disaster can best be told in their own language. joe, the youngest of the lauffer brothers, said:-- "my brother and i left on thursday for johnstown. the night we arrived there it rained continually, and on friday morning it began to flood. i started for the cambria store at a quarter past eight on friday, and in fifteen minutes afterward i had to get out of the store in a wagon, the water was running so rapidly. we then arrived at the station and took the day express and went as far as conemaugh, where we had to stop. the limited, however got through, and just as we were about to start the bridge at south fork gave way with a terrific crash, and we had to stay there. we then went to johnstown. this was at a quarter to ten in the morning, when the flood was just beginning. the whole city of johnstown was inundated and the people all moved up to the second floor. mountains of water. "now this is where the trouble occurred. these poor unfortunates did not know the reservoir would burst, and there are no skiffs in johnstown to escape in. when the south fork basin gave way mountains of water twenty feet high came rushing down the conemaugh river, carrying before them death and destruction. i shall never forget the harrowing scene. just think of it! thousands of people, men, women and children, struggling and weeping and wailing as they were being carried suddenly away in the raging current. houses were picked up as if they were but a feather, and their inmates were all carried away with them, while cries of 'god help me!' 'save me!' 'i am drowning!' 'my child!' and the like were heard on all sides. those who were lucky enough to escape went to the mountains, and there they beheld the poor unfortunates being crushed among the débris to death without any chance of being rescued. here and there a body was seen to make a wild leap into the air and then sink to the bottom. "at the stone bridge of the pennsylvania company people were dashed to death against the piers. when the fire started there hundreds of bodies were burned. many lookers-on up on the mountains, especially the women, fainted." mr. lauffer's brother, harry, then told his part of the tale, which was not less interesting. he said:--"we had the most narrow escapes of anybody, and i tell you we don't want to be around when anything of that kind occurs again. "the scenes at johnstown have not in the least been exaggerated, and indeed the worst is to be heard. when we got to conemaugh and just as we were about to start the bridge gave way. this left the day express, the accommodation, a special train and a freight train at the station. above was the south fork water basin, and all of the trains were well filled. we were discussing the situation when suddenly, without any warning, the whistles of every engine began to shriek, and in the noise could be heard the warning of the first engineer, 'my god! rush to the mountains, the reservoir has burst.' then, with a thundering like peal came the mad rush of waters. no sooner had the cry been heard than those who could with a wild leap rushed from the train and up the mountains. to tell this story takes some time, but the moments in which the horrible scene was enacted were few. then came the tornado of water, leaping and rushing with tremendous force. the waves had angry crests of white and their roar was something deafening. in one terrible swath they caught the four trains and lifted three of them right off the track, as if they were only a cork. there they floated in the river. think of it, three large locomotives and finely varnished pullmans floating around, and above all the hundreds of poor unfortunates who were unable to escape from the car swiftly drifting toward death. just as we were about to leap from the car i saw a mother, with a smiling, blue eyed baby in her arms. i snatched it from her and leaped from the train just as it was lifted off of the track. the mother and child were saved, but if one more minute had elapsed we all would have perished." beyond the power of words. during all of this time the waters kept rushing down the conemaugh and through the beautiful town of johnstown, picking up everything and sparing nothing. the mountains by this time were black with people, and the moans and sighs from those below brought tears to the eyes of the most stony hearted. there in that terrible rampage were brothers, sisters, wives and husbands, and from the mountain could be seen the panic stricken marks in the faces of those who were struggling between life and death. i really am unable to do justice to the scene, and its details are almost beyond my power to relate. then came the burning of the débris near the pennsylvania railroad bridge. the scene was too sickening to endure. we left the spot and journeyed across country and delivered many notes, letters, etc., that were intrusted to us. we rode thirty-one miles in a buckboard, then walked six miles, reached blairsville and journeyed again on foot to what is called the "bow," and from thence we arrived home. on our way we met mr. f. thompson, a friend of ours, who resides in nineveh, and he stated that rescuing parties were busy all day at annom. one hundred and seventy-five bodies were recovered at that place. an old couple about sixty years of age were rescued from a tree, on which they came floating down the stream. they were clasped in each other's arms. president harrison's private secretary, elijah halford, and wife, were on the train which was swept away, but escaped and were in the mountains when i left. among the lost are colonel john p. linton and his wife and children. colonel linton was prominent in the grand army of the republic and in the knights of pythias and other orders. he was formerly auditor general of pennsylvania. [illustration: nineveh station, where two hundred bodies were found.] chapter iv. multiplication of terrors. the handsome brick high school building is damaged to such an extent that it will have to be rebuilt. the water attained the height of the window sills of the second floor. its upper stories formed a refuge for many persons. all saturday afternoon two little girls could be seen at the windows frantically calling for aid. they had spent all night and the day in the building, cut off from all aid. without food and drinking water their condition was lamentable. late in the evening the children were removed to higher ground and properly cared for. a number of persons had been taken from this building earlier in the day, but in the excitement the children were forgotten. their names could not be obtained. death in many forms. morrell institute, a beautiful building and the old homestead of the morrell family, is totally ruined. the water has weakened the walls and foundations to such an extent that there is danger of its collapsing. many families took refuge in this building and were saved. now that the waters have receded there is danger from falling walls. all day long the crashing of walls could be heard across the river. before daybreak this morning the sounds could not but make one shudder at the very thought of the horrible deaths that awaited many who had escaped the devastating flood. library hall was another of the fine buildings of the many in the city that is destroyed. of the episcopal church not a vestige remains. where it once stood, there is now a placid lake. the parsonage is swept away, and the rector of the church, rev. mr. diller, was drowned. buried under falling buildings. the church was one of the first buildings to fall. it carried with it several of the surrounding houses. many of them were occupied. the victims were swept into the comparatively still waters at the bridge, and there met death either by fire or water. james m. walters, an attorney, spent the night in alma hall and relates a thrilling story. one of the most curious occurrences of the whole disaster was how mr. walters got to the hall. he has his office on the second floor. his home is at no. walnut street. he says he was in the house with his family when the waters struck it. all was carried away. mr. walters' family drifted on a roof in another direction. he passed down several streets and alleys until he came to the hall. his dwelling struck that edifice and he was thrown into his own office. long, dark night of terror. about two hundred persons had taken refuge in the hall, and were on the second, third and fourth stories. the men held a meeting and drew up some rules, which all were bound to respect. mr. walters was chosen president. rev. mr. beale was put in charge of the first floor, a.m. hart of the second floor, doctor matthews of the fourth floor. no lights were allowed, and the whole night was spent in darkness. the sick were cared for. the weaker women and children had the best accommodations that could be had, while the others had to wait. the scenes were most agonizing. heartrending shrieks, sobs and moans pierced the gloomy darkness. the crying of children mingled with the suppressed sobs of the women. under the guardianship of the men all took more hope. no one slept during all the long dark night. many knelt for hours in prayer, their supplications mingling with the roar of the waters and the shrieks of the dying in the surrounding houses. in all this misery two women gave premature birth to children. here is a hero. dr. matthews is a hero. several of his ribs were crushed by a falling timber and his pains were most severe, yet through all he attended the sick. when two women in a house across the street shouted for help he with two other brave young men climbed across the drift and ministered to their wants. no one died during the night, but women and children surrendered their lives on the succeeding day as a result of terror and fatigue. miss rose young, one of the young ladies in the hall, was frightfully cut and bruised. mrs. young had a leg broken. all of mr. walters' family were saved. while the loss of property about brookville, the lumber centre of pennsylvania, by the great flood has been enormous, variously estimated at from $ , to $ , , not a single life has been lost. at least there have been none reported so far, and i have travelled over the line from red bank, on the valley road, to dubois, on the low grade division. every creek is swollen to many times its natural size. a great deal of the low-lying farm lands and roads in places have water enough over them to float an ordinary steamboat. leaving pittsburgh saturday morning on the valley road, we ran past millions and millions of feet of lumber. from the city to the junction opposite freeport the river was almost choked with débris of broken and shattered houses. in places the river was fairly black with floating masses of lath, shingles, roofs, floors and other lumber that had formerly been houses. the sight was appalling and spoke louder than any pen can describe. at red bank the river was filled with a different kind of lumber, including huge saw logs ready for cutting. from the estimates of an old lumber man who was on the train i was told that between the stations named we passed at least ten million feet of lumber, which means a loss of fully $ , to the owners. a big portion of this came out of the clarion river, the estimated money loss from that section alone being anywhere from $ , to $ , . all along the allegheny river were gathered people trying to catch the logs, risking their lives, for the logs swept down the river in a current that was running fully ten miles an hour. the work was very hazardous. the catchers are allowed by law six and a quarter cents for each log captured, and the river was almost lined with people trying to save the property. at red bank, which we left at noon, there were at least six feet of water expected from oil city, and with it, according to the reports from up the river, was an immense amount of lumber. leaving the valley road at red bank we went up the low grade division to bryant, where immense sawmills, the largest in the vicinity are located. the current was rushing along at a rate anywhere from twelve to fifteen miles an hour, tossing the huge logs around like so many toothpicks and carrying everything before them. so great was the current and mass of logs that the big iron bridge at reynoldsville, sixteen miles above brookville, was swept away, as were two wagon bridges and several small foot bridges. hundreds homeless and suffering. many houses here and there along red bank creek were turned upside down, some of them floating clear away, while the more secure ones were flooded with water clear into the second floors. many of the smaller cottages and shanties were covered, leaving only the peaks of the roofs sticking out to show the spots that families had but a few hours before called home. all along the railroad track was piled the few household effects, furniture, bedding, tables and clothes which the poor owners had saved before they were forced out on the high ground. these same people had gone to bed last evening thinking themselves safe from the high water, only to be wakened about midnight by the noise of the rushing floods and the huge saw logs bumping against their homes. the very narrow escapes that some of them made while getting their families into places of safety would fill many pages of this book. floating to safety on saw logs. one man had to mount the different members of his family on logs. the mother and children alike sat astride of them, and then, with the father on the other end, were poled across to the high ground. another man, whose house was in a worse place, swam ashore and, throwing a rope back to the mother, who was surrounded on the porch of the house by the children, yelled for her to tie one end to the little ones so he could pull them over the fast running water. this operation was continued until the entire family was rescued. willing workers from the neighborhood were not long in getting huge bonfires started, and with the aid of these and dry clothing brought in haste by people whose homes stood on higher ground the family were soon warmed. the same willing hands hastily constructed sheds, and with immense bonfires the people were kept warm till daylight. others, more fortunate, were able to save enough from their houses to make themselves comfortable for a short season of camping. one poor family i noticed had saved enough carpet to make a tent out of, and under this temporary shelter the mother was doing her best to prepare a meal and attend to her other household duties. sheltered by friendly neighbors. in brookville a great many houses were submerged, but no lives were lost. while the people were driven from their homes, they were more fortunate than the people of bryants, because they could at once find shelter under the roofs of the neighbors' houses. all of the saw mills, the chief industry of the town, were closed down. some because the water was over the first floor, and others because their entire working force were on the creek trying to construct temporary booms, by which they expected to save at least a portion of the property from being swept away. one man rigged a boom with the aid of a cable , feet long and thick enough to hold the heaviest steamer. about fifty logs were chained together for further protection. this arrangement for a time checked the mass of logs, but just when everybody was thinking it would stop the output a small dam gave way, bringing down with it another half million feet of lumber. when this struck the temporary boom it parted, as if the huge cable was a piece of thread, and the logs shot past. just at bryants, however, a gorge formed shortly after two o'clock friday afternoon, and within a remarkably short time there was a pile of logs wedged in that stretched back fully a quarter of a mile and the top of which was more than ten feet high. this of course changed the course of the stream a little, but the natural gorge had saved enough logs to amount to more than $ , in money. the following comments by one of our journals sum up the situation after receiving the dreadful news of the three preceding days: the great calamity. the appalling catastrophy which has spread such awful havoc through the teeming valley of the conemaugh almost surpasses belief and fairly staggers imagination. without yet measuring its dire extent, enough is known to rank it as the greatest calamity of the natural elements which this country has ever witnessed. nothing in our history short of the deadly blight of battle has approached this frightful cataclysm, and no battle, though destroying more life, has ever left such a ghastly trail of horror and devastation. it seems more like one of those terrible convulsions of nature from which we have hitherto been happily spared, but which at rare intervals have swallowed up whole communities in remote south american or oriental lands. ingenious and masterful as the human intellect is in guiding and controlling the ordinary forces of nature, how impotent and insignificant it appears in the presence of such a transcendent disaster! it is well nigh inconceivable that a great section throbbing with populous towns, and resonant with the hum of industry, should be wiped out in the twinkling of an eye by a mighty, raging torrent, more consuming than fire and more violent than the earthquake. the suddenness of the blow and the impossibility of communicating with the scene add to the terror of the event. the sickening spectacle of ruin and death which will be revealed when the veil of darkness is lifted is left to conjecture. the imagination can scarcely picture the dread realities, and it would be difficult to overdraw the awful features of a calamity which has every element of horror. the river and lake. nature is so framed at the fated point for such a disaster that man was called upon for unceasing vigilance. the conemaugh makes its channel through a narrow valley between high ranges. numerous streams drain the surrounding mountains into its current. along its course swarm frequent hamlets busy with the wealth dug from the seams of the earth. the chief of these towns, the seat of an immense industry, lies in a little basin where the gap broadens to take in a converging stream and then immediately narrows again, no outlet save the constricted waterway. high above stands a great lake which is held in check only by an artificial barrier, and which, if once unchained, must pour its resistless torrent through this narrow gorge like a besom of destruction overwhelming everything before it. there were all the elements of an unparalleled disaster. years of immunity had given a feeling of security for all time without some extraordinary and unexpected occasion. but the occasion appeared when in unforseen force the rains descended and the floods came, and to-day desolation reigns. a direful calamity. it is impossible yet to measure the extent of the calamity. but the destruction of life and property must be something that it is appalling to think of, and the sorrow and suffering to follow are incalculable. a solemn obligation devolves upon the people of the whole country. we can not remedy the past but we can alleviate the present and the future. thousands of families are homeless and destitute; thousands are without means of support; perchance, thousands are bereft of the strong arms upon which they have relied. there is an instant, earnest demand for help. let there be immediate, energetic, generous action. let us do our part to relieve the anguish and mitigate the suffering of a community upon whom has fallen the most terrible visitation in all our history. an historic catastrophe. when an american charles reade wishes in the future to weave into the woof of his novel the account of some great public calamity he will portray the misfortune which overwhelmed the towns and villages lying in the valley of the conemaugh river. the bursting of a reservoir, and the ensuing scenes of death and destruction, which are so vividly described in "put yourself in his place," were not the creatures of mr. reade's imagination, but actual occurrences. the novelist obtained facts and incidents for one of the most striking chapters in all of his works from the events which followed the breaking of the dale dyke embankment at sheffield, england, in march, , when lives were lost and property valued at millions was destroyed. it will need even more vivid and vigorous descriptive powers than mr. reade possessed to adequately delineate the scene of destruction and death now presented in johnstown and the adjacent villages. the sheffield calamity, disastrous as it proved to be, was a small affair when compared with this latest reservoir accident. the mill river reservoir disaster of may, , with its lives lost and $ , , of property destroyed, almost sinks into insignificance beside it. the only recorded calamity of the kind which anywhere approaches it occurred in estrecho de rientes, in spain, in april, , when a dam burst and drowned persons and swept $ , , worth of property away. but above all these calamities in sad pre-eminence will stand the conemaugh disaster. but dark as the picture is, it will doubtless be relieved by many acts of heroism. the world will wait to learn if there was not present at conemaugh some myron day, whose ride on his bareback steed before the advancing wall of water that burst from mill river dam in , shouting to the unsuspecting people as he rode: "the reservoir is breaking! the flood is coming! fly! fly for your lives," was the one mitigating circumstance in that scene of woe and destruction. when the full story of the conemaugh calamity is told it will, doubtless, be found that there were many deeds of heroism performed, many noble sacrifices made and many an act as brave as any performed on the field of battle. already we are told of husbands and mothers who preferred to share a watery grave with their wives and children sooner than accept safety alone. such a calamity, while it makes the heart sick with its story of death and suffering, always serves to bring out the better and higher qualities in men and women, and to illustrate how closely all mankind are bound together by ties of sympathy and compassion. this fact will be made evident now by the open-handed liberality which will quickly flow in to relieve the suffering, and, as far as possible, to repair the loss caused by this historic calamity. chapter v. the awful work of death. the record of june rd continues as follows: the horror of the situation does not lessen. the latest estimate of the number of dead is an official one by adjutant general hastings, and it places the number between , and , . the uncovering of hundreds of bodies by the recession of the waters has already filled the air with pestilential odors. the worst is feared for the surviving population, who must breathe this poisoned atmosphere. sharp measures prompted by sheer necessity have resulted in an almost complete subsidence of cowardly efforts to profit by the results of the disaster. thieves have slunk into places of darkness and are no longer to be seen at their unholy work. all thoughts are now fixed upon the hideous revelation that awaits the light of day, when the waters shall have entirely quitted the ruins that now lie beneath them, and shall have exposed the thousands upon thousands of corpses that are massed there. a sad and gloomy sky, almost as sad and gloomy as the human faces under it, shrouded johnstown to-day. rain fell all day and added to the miseries of the wretched people. the great plain where the best part of johnstown used to stand was half covered with water. the few sidewalks in the part that escaped the flood were inches thick with black, sticky mud, through which tramped a steady procession of poor women who are left utterly destitute. the tents where the people are housed who cannot find other shelter were cold and cheerless. a great tomb. the town seemed like a great tomb. the people of johnstown have supped so full of horrors that they go about in a sort of a daze and only half conscious of their griefs. every hour, as one goes through the streets, he hears neighbors greeting each other and then inquiring without show of feeling how many each had lost in his family. to-day i heard a gray haired man hail another across the street with this question. "i lost five; all are gone but mary and i," was the reply. "i am worse off than that," said the first old gentleman. "i have only my grandson left. seven of us gone." and so they passed on without apparent excitement. they and everyone else had heard so much of these melancholy conversations that somehow the calamity had lost its significance to them. they treat it exactly as if the dead persons had gone away and were coming back in a week. the ghastly search. the melancholy task of searching the ruins for more bodies went on to-day in the soaking rain. there were little crowds of morbid curiosity hunters around each knot of workingmen, but they were not residents of johnstown. all their curiosity in that direction was satiated long ago. even those who come in from neighboring towns with the idea of a day's strange and ghastly experiences did not care to be near after they had seen one body exhumed. there were hundreds and thousands of these visitors from the country to-day. the effect of the dreadful things they saw and heard was to drive most of them to drink. by noon the streets were beginning to be full of boisterous and noisy countrymen, who were trying to counteract the strain on their nerves with unnatural excitement. then the chief of police, foreseeing the unseemly sights that were likely to disgrace the streets, drove out and kept out all the visitors who had not some good reason for their presence. after that and far into the evening all the country roads were filled with drunken stragglers, who were trying to forget what they had seen. one thing that makes the work of searching for the bodies very slow is the strange way that great masses of objects were rolled into intricate masses of rubbish. horrible masses. as the flood came down the valley of the south fork it obliterated the suburb of woodvale, where not a house was left, nor a trace of one. the material they had contained rolled on down the valley, over and over, grinding it up to pulp and finally leaving it against an unusually firm foundation or in the bed of an eddy. the masses contain human bodies, but it is slow work to pick them to pieces. in the side of one of them i saw the remnants of a carriage, the body of a harnessed horse, a baby cradle and a doll, a tress of woman's hair, a rocking horse, and a piece of beefsteak still hanging on a hook. [illustration: the remains of cambria city.] the city is now very much better patrolled than it has been at any time since the flood occurred. many members of the police force of pittsburgh came in and offered their services. one of them showed his spirit during the first hour by striking a man, whom he saw opening a trunk among the rubbish, a tremendous blow over the head which knocked him senseless. several big trunks and safes lie in full sight on the desolate plain in the lower part of the town, but no one dared to touch them after that. the german catholic church at cambria city, a short distance west of johnstown, is almost a complete wreck. rather a singular coincidence in connection with the destruction of the above is that the immaculate conception, that stood in the northwest corner of the lecture rooms, stands just as it was when last seen. the figure, which is wax, was not even scratched, and the clothes, which are made of white silk and deep duchess lace, were spotless. this seems strange, when the raging water destroyed everything else in the building. hundreds of persons visited the place during the day. ten bodies an hour. bodies are now being brought in at lower cambria at the rate of ten per hour. a man named dougherty tells a thrilling story of a ride down the river on a log. when the waters struck the roof of the house on which he had taken shelter he jumped astride a telegraph pole, riding a distance of some twenty-three miles, from johnstown to bolivar, before he was rescued. many inquiries have been made as to why the militia did not respond when ordered out by adjutant general hastings. "in the first place it is beyond the general's authority to order troops to a scene of this kind unless the governor first issues a proclamation, then it becomes his duty to issue orders." the general said he was notified that the pittsburgh troops, consisting of the fourteenth and eighteenth regiments, had tendered their services, and no doubt would have been of great service. the general consulted with the chief burgess of johnstown and sheriff of cambria county in regard to calling the troops to the scene, but both officials strenuously objected, as they claimed the people would object to anything of this kind. as a proof of this not a breach of peace was committed last night in johnstown and vicinity. it has not been generally believed that the district in the neighborhood of kernville would be so extremely prolific of corpses as it has proven to be. i visited that part of the town where both the river and stony creek have done their worst. i found that within the past twenty-four hours almost one thousand bodies had been recovered or were in sight. the place is one great repository of the dead. the total may never be known. the developments of every hour make it more and more apparent that the exact number of lives lost in the johnstown horror will never be known. all estimates made to this time are conservative, and when all is known will doubtless be found to have been too small. over one thousand bodies have been found since sunrise to-day, and the most skeptical concede that the remains of thousands more rest beneath the débris above the johnstown bridge. the population of johnstown, the surrounding towns and the portion of the valley affected by the flood is, or was, from , to , . numerous leading citizens of johnstown, who survived the flood, have been interviewed, and the concensus of opinion was that fully thirty per cent of the residents of johnstown and cambria had been victims of the continued disasters of fire and water. if this be true, the total loss of life in the entire valley cannot be less than seven or eight thousand and possibly much greater. of the thousands who were devoured by the flames and whose ashes rest beneath the smoking débris above johnstown bridge, no definite information can ever be obtained. hundreds carried miles away. as little will be learned of hundreds that sank beneath the current and were borne swiftly down the conemaugh only to be deposited hundreds of miles below on the banks and in the driftwood of the raging ohio. probably one-third of the dead will never be recovered, and it will take a list of the missing weeks hence to enable even a close estimate to be made of the number of lives that were lost. that this estimate can never be accurate will be understood when it is remembered that in many instances whole families and their relatives were swept away, and found a common grave beneath the wild waste of waters. the total destruction of the city leaves no data to even demonstrate that the names of these unfortunates ever found place on the pages of eternity's history. "all indications point to the fact that the death list will reach over five thousand names, and in my opinion the missing will reach eight thousand in number," declared general d.h. hastings to-night. at present there are said to have been twenty-two hundred bodies recovered. the great difficulties experienced in getting a correct list is the great number of morgues. there is no central bureau of information, and to communicate with the different dead houses is the work of hours. the journey from the pennsylvania railroad morgue to the one in the fourth ward school house in johnstown occupies at least one hour. this renders it impossible to reach all of them in one day, particularly as some of the morgues are situated at points inaccessible from johnstown. at six o'clock in the evening the th body had been recovered at the cambria depository for corpses. none left to care for the dead. kernville is in a deplorable condition. the living are unable to take care of the dead. the majority of the inhabitants of the town were drowned. a lean-to of boards has been erected on the only street remaining in the town. this is the headquarters for the committee that controls the dead. as quickly as the dead are brought to this point they are placed in boxes and then taken to the cemetery and buried. a supply store has opened in the town. a milkman who was overcharging for milk narrowly escaped lynching. the infuriated men appropriated all his milk and distributed it among the poor and then drove him out of the town. the body of the hungarian who was lynched in an orchard was removed by his friends during the night. there is but one street left in the town. about one hundred and fifty-five houses are standing where once there stood a thousand. none of the large buildings in what was once a thriving little borough have escaped. one thousand people is a low estimate of the number of lives lost from this town, but few of the bodies have been recovered. it is directly above the ruins and the bodies have floated down into them, where they burned. a walk through the town revealed a desolate sight. only about twenty-five able-bodied men have survived and are able to render any assistance. men and women can be seen with black eyes, bruised faces and cut heads. useless calls for help. the appearance of some of the ladies is heartrending. they were injured in the flood, and since that have not slept. their faces have turned a sickly yellow and dark rings surround the eyes. many have succumbed to nervous prostration. for two days but little assistance could be rendered them. the wounded remained uncared for in some of the houses cut off by the water, and died from their injuries alone. some were alive on sunday, and their shouts could be heard by the people on the shore. a man is now in a temporary jail in what is left of the town. he was caught stealing a gold watch. a shot was fired at him but he was not wounded. the only thing that saved him from lynching was the smallness of the crowd. his sentence will be the heaviest that can be given him. services in the chapel from which the bodies were buried consisted merely of a prayer by one of the survivors. no minister was present. each coffin had a descriptive card on it, and on the graves a similar card was placed, so that bodies can be removed later by friends. there are about thirty catholic priests and nuns here. the sisters are devoting themselves to the cure of the sick and injured in the hospitals, while the priests are doing anything and everything and making themselves generally useful. bishop phelan, who reached here on sunday evening, returned to pittsburgh on the three o'clock train yesterday afternoon. he has organized the catholic forces in this neighborhood, and all are devoting themselves to hard work assiduously. mr. derlin, who heeded the warning as to the danger of the dam, had hurried his wife and two children to the hills, but returned himself to save some things from his house. while in the building the flood struck it and swept it away, jamming it among a lot of other houses and hurling them all around with a regular churning motion. mr. derlin was in a fix, but went to his top story, clambered to the roof and escaped from there to solid structures and then to the ground. his property was entirely ruined, but he thinks himself fortunate in saving his family. where woodvale once stood there is now a sea of mud, broken but rarely by a pile of wreckage. i waded through mud and water up the valley to-day over the site of the former village. as has been often stated, nothing is standing but the old woollen mills. the place is swept bare of all other buildings but the ruins of the gautier wire mill. the boilers of this great works were carried one hundred yards from their foundations. pieces of engines, rolls and other machinery were swept far away from where they once stood. the wreck of a hose carriage is sticking up out of the mud. it belonged to the crack company of johnstown. the engine house is swept away and the cellar is filled with mud, so that the site is obliterated. a german watchman was on guard at the mill when the waters came. he ran for the hillside and succeeded in escaping. he tells a graphic story of the appearance of the water as it swept down the valley. he declares that the first wave was as high as the third story of a house. the place is deserted. no effort is being made to clean off the streets. the mire has formed the grave for many a poor victim. arms and legs are protruding from the mud and it makes the most sickening of pictures. general hastings' report. in answer to questions from governor beaver, adjutant-general hastings has telegraphed the following: "good order prevailed throughout the city and vicinity last night. police arrangements are excellent. not one arrest made. no need of sending troops. the mayor of johnstown and the sheriff of cambria county, with whom i am in constant communication, request that no troops be sent. i concur in their judgment. there is a great outside clamor for troops. do not send tents. have nine hundred here, which are sufficient. i advise you to make a call on the general public for money and other assistance. "about two thousand bodies have been rescued and the work of embalming and burying the dead is going on with regularity. there is plenty of medical assistance. we have a bountiful supply of food and clothing to-day, and the fullest telegraphic facilities are afforded and all inquiries are promptly answered. "have you any instructions or inquiries? the most conservative estimates here place the number of lives lost at fully , . the prevailing impression is that the loss will reach from , to , . there are many widows and orphans and a great many wounded--impossible to give an estimate. property destroyed will reach $ , , . the popular estimate will reach $ , , to $ , , . "i will issue a proclamation to-night to the people of the country and to all who sympathize with suffering to give aid to our deeply afflicted people. tell them to be of good cheer, that the sympathies of all our people, irrespective of section, are with them, and wherever the news of their calamity has been carried responses of sympathy and aid are coming in. a single subscription from england just received is for $ , ." grand view cemetery has three hundred buried in it. all met death in the flood. they have thirty-five men digging graves. seven hundred dead bodies in the hospital on bedford street, conneaut. one hundred dead bodies in the school-house hospital, adam street, conneaut. three hundred bodies found to-day in the sand banks along stony creek, vicinity of the baltimore and ohio; bodies at nineveh. [illustration: on a mission of mercy.] chapter vi. shadows of despair. another graphic account of the fearful calamity is furnished by an eye-witness: the dark disaster of the day with its attendant terrors thrilled the world and drew two continents closer together in the bonds of sympathy that bind humanity to man. the midnight terrors of ashtabula and chatsworth evoked tears of pity from every fireside in christendom, but the true story of johnstown, when all is known, will stand solitary and alone as the acme of man's affliction by the potent forces to which humanity is ever subject. the menacing clouds still hover darkly over the valley of death, and the muttering thunder that ever and anon reverberates faintly in the distance seems the sardonic chuckle of the demon of destruction as he pursues his way to other lands and other homes. the waters receding. but the modern deluge has done its worst for johnstown. the waters are rapidly subsiding, but the angry torrents still eddy around ararat, and the winged messenger of peace has not yet appeared to tell the pathetic tale of those who escaped the devastation. it is not a hackneyed utterance to say that no pen can adequately depict the horrors of this twin disaster--holocaust and deluge. the deep emotions that well from the heart of every spectator find most eloquent expression in silence--the silence that bespeaks recognition of man's subserviency to the elements and impotence to avert catastrophe. the insignificance of human life is only fully realized by those who witness such scenes as johnstown, chatsworth and ashtabula, and to those whose memory retains the picture of horror the dread experience cannot fail to be a fitting lesson. a dreary morning. this morning opened dark and dreary. great drops of rain fell occasionally and another storm seems imminent. every one feels thankful though that the weather still remains cold, and that the gradual putrefaction of the hundreds of bodies that still line the streams and lie hidden under the miles of driftwood and débris is not unduly hastened. the peculiar stench of decaying human flesh is plainly perceptible to the senses as one ascends the bank of stony creek for a half mile along the smouldering ruins of the wreck, and the most skeptical now conceive the worst and realize that hundreds--aye, perhaps thousands--of bodies lie charred and blackened beneath this great funeral pyre. searchers wander wearily over this smoking mass, and as occasionally a sudden shout comes over the waters, the patient watchers on the hill realize that another ghastly discovery has been added to that long list of revelations that chill every heart and draw tears to the eyes of pessimists. from the banks many charred remains of victims of flames and flood are plainly visible to the naked eye, as the retreating waters reluctantly give up their dead. beneath almost every log or blackened beam a glistening skull or the blanched remnants of ribs or limbs mark all that remains of life's hopes and dreams. since ten o'clock last night the fire engines have been busy. water has been constantly playing on the burning ruins. at times the fire seems almost extinguished, but fitful flames suddenly break out afresh in some new quarter, and again the water and flames wage fierce combat. the count is still lacking. as yet there is no telling how many lives have been lost. adjutant general hastings, who has charge of everything, stated this morning that he supposed there were at least two thousand people under the burning débris, but the only way to find out how many lives were lost was to take a census of the people now living and subtract that from the census before the flood. said he, "in my opinion there are any way from twelve thousand to fifteen thousand lost." up to this morning people living here who lost whole families or parts of families hardly seemed to realize what a dreadful calamity had befallen them. to-day, however, they are beginning to understand the situation. agony is stamped on the faces of every one, and it is truly a city of mourning. the point of observation is on the hillside, midway between the woolen mills of woodvale and johnstown proper, which i reached to-day after a journey through the portions of the city from which the waters, receding fast, are revealing scenes of unparalleled horror. from the point on the hillside referred to an excellent view of the site of the town can be obtained. here it can be seen that from the line of the pennsylvania railroad, which winds along the base of prospect hill, to a point at which st. john's catholic church formerly stood, and from the stone bridge to conemaugh, on the conemaugh river, but twelve houses by actual count remain, and they are in such a condition as to be practically useless. to any one familiar with the geography of the iron city of cambria county this will convey a vivid idea of a swarth averaging one-half mile in width and three miles in length. in all the length and breadth of the most peaceful and costly portion of johnstown not a shingle remains except those adhering to the buildings mentioned. houses upside down. but do not think for an instant that this comprehends in full the awfulness of the scene. what has just been mentioned is a large waste of territory swept as clean as if by a gigantic broom. in the other direction some few of the houses still remain, but they are upside down, piled on top of each other, and in many ways so torn asunder that not a single one of them is available for any purpose whatever. it is in this district that the loss of life has been heartrending. bodies are being dug up in every direction. on the main street, from which the waters have receded sufficiently to render access and work possible, bodies are being exhumed. they are as thick as potatoes in a field. those in charge seem to have the utmost difficulty in securing the removal of bodies after they have been found. the bodies are lying among the mass of wrecked buildings as thick as flies. the fire in the drift above the bridge is under control and is being rapidly smothered by the pittsburgh firemen in charge of the work. about seven o'clock this morning a crowd of battery b boys discovered a family of five people in the smoking and burned ruins above the bridge. they took out father, mother and three children, all terribly burned and mutilated. the little girl had an arm torn off. finding the dead. the work of rescuing the bodies from the mud and débris has only fairly begun, and yet each move in that direction reveals more fully the horrible extent of the calamity. it is estimated that already , corpses have been found in all parts of the valley and given some little attention. many of them were so mangled as to be beyond identification. a regularly organized force of men has been at work most of the day upon the mass of débris about the stone bridge. early in the forenoon ten bodies were found close together. there was nothing to identify them, as they were burnt almost to a crisp. several of them must have belonged to one household, as they were taken from under the blackened timbers of a single roof. [illustration: the village of johnstown before the flood.] soon after a man, woman and child were taken from the ruins. the child was clasped in the arms of the woman, and the trio were evidently husband, wife and child. it is a most distressing sight to see the relatives of people supposed to be lost standing around and watching every body as it is pulled out, and acting more like maniacs than sensible people. as the work progressed the number of the ghastly finds increased. the various parties of workmen turned out from ten to fifteen bodies and fragments of bodies an hour all day long. many of the corpses found had valuables still clasped in their hands. one woman taken from the mill this morning had several diamond rings and earrings, a roll of government bonds and some money clasped in her hands. she was a widow, and was very wealthy. her body has been embalmed and is at the house of relatives. suicide brought relief. from under the large brick school-house bodies were taken last night and to-day, and in every corner and place the bodies are being found and buried as fast as possible. the necessity for speedy burial is becoming manifest, and the stench is sickening. a number of bodies have been found with a bullet hole in them, showing conclusively that in their maddening fright suicide was resorted to by many. work was commenced during the day on the south side of the town. it is supposed that five hundred or six hundred bodies will be found in that locality. about twelve o'clock ten bodies were taken out of the wreck near the cambria library. on account of the bruised and mangled condition, some having faces crushed in, it was impossible to identify them. it is supposed they were guests at the hurlbert house, which is completely demolished. eight bodies were recovered near the methodist church at eleven o'clock. it is said that fully one hundred and fifty bodies were found last evening in a sort of pocket below the pennsylvania railroad signal tower at sang hollow, where it was expected there would be a big find. kernville one vast morgue. over one thousand bodies have been taken from the river, dragged from the sluggish pools of mud or dug out of the sand about kernville during the day. three hundred of them were spread out upon the dry sand along the river's bank at one time this afternoon. the sight is one that cannot be described, and is one of the most distressing ever witnessed. a crowd of at least five hundred were gathered around, endeavoring to find the bodies of some friends or relatives. there were no coffins there at the time and the bodies had to be laid on the ground. however, five hundred coffins are on the way here, and the undertakers have sent for five hundred additional ones. kernville from now on will be the place where most of the bodies will be found. the water has fallen so much that it is possible to get at the bodies. however, all the bodies have to be dug out of the sand, and it causes no end of work. it is thought that most of the bodies that will be found at kernville are under a large pile of débris, about an acre in length. this is where most of the buildings drifted, and it is natural to suppose that the bodies floated with them. a rain is now falling, but this does not interfere with the work. most of the rescuing party have been up for two days, yet they work with a determination that is wonderful. nineveh, the city of the dead. nineveh is literally a city of the dead. the entire place is filled with corpses. at the depot eighty-seven coffins were piled up and boxed. on the streets coffin boxes covered the sidewalks. improvised undertaking shops have embalmed and placed in their shrouds persons. the dead were strewn about the town in all conceivable places where their bodies would be protected from the thoughtless feet of the living. most of the bodies embalmed last night had been taken out of the river in the morning by the people at nineveh, who worked incessantly night and day searching the river. the bodies when found were placed in a four-horse wagon, frequently twelve at a time, and driven away. of the bodies taken out near moorhead fully three-fourths are women and the rest children. but few men are found there. in one row at the planing mill to-day were eighteen children's bodies awaiting embalming. next to them was a woman whose head had been crushed in so as to destroy her features. on her hand were three diamond rings. dr. graff, of the state board of health, stationed at nineveh, states that up till ten o'clock this morning they had embalmed about two hundred bodies, and by noon to-day would about double that number, as they were fishing bodies out of the river at this point at the rate of one every five minutes. in the driftwood and débris bodies are being exhumed, and an additional force of undertakers has been despatched to this place. in a charnel house. at the public school-house the scene beggars description. boards have been laid from desk to desk, and as fast as the hands of a large body of men and women can put the remains in recognizable shape they are laid out for possible identification and removed as quickly as possible. seventy-five still remain, although many have been taken away, and they are being brought in every moment. it is something horrifying to see one portion of the huge school taken up by corpses, each with a clean white sheet covering it, and on the other side of the room a promiscuous heap of bodies in all sorts of shapes and conditions, looking for all the world like decaying tree trunks. among the number identified are two beautiful young ladies named respectively mrs. richardson, who was a teacher in the kindergarten school, and miss lottie yost, whose sister i afterwards noticed at one of the corners near by, weeping as if her very heart was broken. not a single acquaintance did she count in all of the great throng who passed her by, although many tendered sincere sympathy, which was accentuated by their own losses. lost and found. at the station of johnstown proper this morning the following names were added to the list of bodies found and identified: charles marshall, one of the engineers cambria company. a touching incident in connection with his death is that he had been married but a short time and his widow is heartbroken. order at any cost. ex-sheriff c.l. dick, who was at one time burgess of johnstown, has charge of a large number of special deputies guarding the river at various points. he and a posse of his men caught seven hungarians robbing dead bodies in kernville early this morning, and threw them all into the river and drowned them. he says he has made up his mind to stand no more nonsense with this class of persons, and he has given orders to his men to drown, shoot or hang any man caught stealing from the dead. he said the dead bodies of the huns can be found in the creek. sheriff dick, or "chall" as he is familiarly called, is a tall, slim man, and is well known in pittsburgh, principally to sportsmen. he is a first-class wing shot, and during the past year he has won several live bird matches. he is slow to anger, but when forced into a fight his courage is unfailing. shooting looters on the wing. dick wears corduroy breeches, a large hat, a cartridge belt, and is armed with a winchester rifle. he is a crack shot and has taken charge of the deputies in the wrecked portion of the city. yesterday afternoon he discovered two men and a woman cutting the finger from a dead woman to get her rings. the winchester rifle cracked twice in quick succession, and the right arm of each man dropped, helplessly shattered by a bullet. the woman was not harmed, but she was so badly frightened that she will not rob corpses again. some five robbers altogether were shot during the afternoon, and two of them were killed. the lynchings in the johnstown district so far number from sixteen to twenty. treasure lying loose. notwithstanding this, and the way that the town is most thoroughly under martial law, the pilfering still goes on. the wreck is a gold mine for pilferers. a hungarian woman fished out a trunk down in cambria city yesterday, and on breaking it open found $ , in it. another woman found a jewel box containing several rings and a gold watch. in one house in johnstown there is $ , in money, but it is impossible to get at it. hanged and riddled with bullets. quite an exciting scene took place in the borough of johnstown last night. a hungarian was discovered by two men in the act of blowing up the safe in the first national bank building with dynamite. a cry was raised, and in a few minutes a crowd had collected and the cry of "lynch him!" was raised, and in less time than it takes to tell it the man was strung up to a tree in what was once about the central portion of johnstown. not content with this the vigilance committee riddled the man's body full of bullets. he remained hanging to the tree for several hours, when some person cut him down and buried him with the other dead. the stealing by hungarians at cambria city and points along the railroad has almost ceased. the report of several lynchings and the drowning of two italians while being pursued by citizens yesterday, put an end to the pilfering for a time. while deputy sheriff rose was patrolling the river bank he found two hungarians attempting to rob several bodies, and at once gave chase. the men started for the woods when he pulled out a pistol and shot twice, wounding both men badly. from the latest reports the men are still living, but they are in a critical condition. cutting off a head for a necklace. it is reported that two hungarians found the body of a lady between woodvale and conemaugh who had a valuable necklace on. the devils dragged her out of the water and severed her head from her body to get the necklace. at eleven o'clock to-day the woods were being scoured for the men who are supposed to be guilty of the crime. pickets set, strangers excluded. up till noon to-day general hastings has had his headquarters on the east side of the river, but this morning he came over to the burning débris, followed by about one hundred and twenty-five men carrying coffins. he started to work immediately, and has ordered men from philadelphia, harrisburg, and all eastern towns to do laboring work. the citizen's committee are making desperate efforts to preserve peace, and the hungarians at cambria city are being kept in their houses by men with clubs, who will not permit them to go outside. there seems considerable race prejudice at cambria city, and trouble may follow, as both the english and hungarians are getting worked up to a considerable extent. the sheriff has taken charge of johnstown and armed men are this morning patrolling the city. the people who have been properly in the limits are permitted to enter the city if they are known, but otherwise it is impossible to get into the town. the regulation seems harsh, but it is a necessity. troops sent home. battery b, of pittsburgh, arrived in the city this morning under command of lieutenant sheppard, who went to the quarters of adjutant-general hastings in the railroad watch tower. the general had just got up, and as the officer approached the general said:-- "who sent you here?" "i was sent here by the chamber of commerce," replied the lieutenant. "well, i want to state that there are only four people who can order you out, viz.:--the governor, adjutant-general, major general and the commander of the second brigade. you have committed a serious breach of discipline, and my advice to you is to get back to pittsburgh as soon as possible, or you may be mustered out of service. i am surprised that you should attempt such an act without any authority whatever." this seemed to settle the matter, and the battery started back to pittsburgh. in justice to lieutenant sheppard it might be stated that he was told that an order was issued by the governor. general hastings stated afterwards that the sending down of the soldiers was like waving a red flag, and it would only tend to create trouble. he said everything was quiet here, and it was an insult to the citizens of johnstown to send soldiers here at present. extortioners held in check. a riot was almost caused by the exorbitant prices that were charged for food. one storekeeper in millville borough was charging $ a sack for flour and seventy-five cents for sandwiches on sunday. this caused considerable complaint and the citizens grew desperate. they promptly took by force all the contents of the store. as a result this morning all the stores have been put under charge of the police. an inventory was taken and the proprietor was paid the market price for his stock. a strong guard is kept at the office of the cambria iron company. saturday was pay day at the works, and $ , is in the safe. this became known, and the officials are afraid that an attempt would be made to rob the place. sheriff dick and a posse of his men got into a riot this afternoon with a crowd of hungarians at cambria city. the hungarians got the better of him, and he called on a squad of battery b boys, who charged with drawn sabres, and soon had the crowd on the run. men hard at work. order is slowly arising out of chaos. the survivors are slowly realizing what is the best course to pursue. the great cry is for men. men who will work and not stand idly by and do nothing but gaze at the ruins. the following order was posted on a telegraph pole in johnstown to-day:-- "notice--during the day men who have been idle have been begged to aid us in clearing the town, and many have not refused to work. we are now so organized that employment can be found for every man who wants to work, and men offered work who refuse to take the same and who are able to work must leave johnstown for the present. we cannot afford to feed men who will not work. all work will be paid for. strangers and idlers who refuse to work will be ejected from johnstown. "by order of citizens' committee." turning away the idlers. officers were stationed at every avenue and railroad that enters the town. all suspicious looking characters are stopped. but one question is asked. it is, "will you work?" if an affirmative answer is given a man escorts him to the employment bureau, where he is put to work. if not, he is turned back. the committee has driven one or two men out of the town. there is a lot of idle vagabond negroes in johnstown who will not work. it is likely that a committee will escort them out of town. they have caused the most trouble during the past terrible days. it is a fact, although a disagreeable one to say, that not a few of the relief committees who came to this city, came only out of curiosity and positively refused to do any work, but would hang around the cars eating food. the leaders of the committee then had to do all the work. they deserve much credit. begging for help. an old man sat on a chair placed on a box at the intersection of two streets in johnstown and begged for men. "for god's sake," he said, "can we not find men. will not some of you men help? look at these men who have not slept for three days and are dropping with fatigue. we will pay well. for god's sake help us." tears rolled down his cheeks as he spoke. then he would threaten the group of idlers standing by and again plead with them. every man it seems wants to be a policeman. chapter vii. burial of the victims. hundreds have been laid away in shallow trenches without forms, ceremonies or mourners. all day long the work of burial has been going on. there was no time for religious ceremonies or mourning and many a mangled form was coffined with no sign of mourning save the honest sympathy of the brave men who handled them. as fast as the wagons that are gathering up the corpses along the stream arrive with their ghastly loads they are emptied and return again to the banks of the merciless conemaugh to find other victims among the driftwood in the underbrush, or half buried in the mud. the coffins are now beginning to arrive, and on many streets on the hillside they are stacked as high as the second and third story windows. at kernville the people are not so fortunate. it would seem that every man is his own coffin maker, and many a man can be seen here and there claiming the boards of what remains of his house in which perhaps he has found the remains of a loved one, and busily patching them together with nails and hoops or any available thing to hold the body. when the corpses are found they are taken to the nearest dead house and are carefully washed. they are then laid out in rows to await identification. cards are pinned to their breasts as soon as they are identified, and their names will be marked on the headboards at the graves. wholesale funerals. there were many rude funerals in the upper part of the town. the coffins were conveyed to the cemeteries in wagons, each one carrying two, three or more. at long view cemetery and at one or two other points long trenches have been dug to receive the coffins. the trenches are only about three feet deep, it being thought unnecessary to bury deeper, as almost all the bodies will be removed by friends. nearly three hundred bodies were buried thus to-day. there will be no public ceremony, no funeral dirge, and but few weeping mourners. the people are too much impressed with the necessity of immediate and constant work to think of personal grief. the twenty-six bodies taken to the hose house in minersville were buried shortly after ten o'clock yesterday morning. of the twenty-six, thirteen were identified. eight women, a baby and four men were buried without having been identified. all day yesterday men were engaged in burying the dead. they ran short of coffins, and in order to dispose of the rapidly decomposing bodies they built rough boxes out of the floating lumber that was caught. in this way they buried temporarily over fifty bodies in the cemetery just above the town. putrefaction of dead bodies threatens the health of the whole region. now that the waters are fast shrinking back from the horrid work of their own doing and are uncovering thousands of putrid and ill-smelling corpses the fearful danger of pestilence is espied, stalking in the wake of more violent destruction. the air is already reeking with infectious filth, and the alarm is widespread among the desolated and overwrought population. cremation best. incident to this phase of the situation the chief sensation of the morning was the united remonstrance of the physicians against the extinguishment of the burning wreck of the demolished town which is piled up against the bridge. they maintain, with a philosophy that to anxious searchers seems heartless, that hundreds, if not thousands, of lifeless and decaying bodies lie beneath this mass of burning ruins. "it would be better," they say, "to permit nature's greatest scavenger--the flames--to pursue his work unmolested than to expose to further decay the horde of putrefying bodies that lie beneath this débris. there can be but one result. days will elapse before the rubbish can be sufficiently removed to permit the recovery of these bodies, and long before that every corpse will be a putrid mass, giving forth those frightful emanations of decaying human flesh that in a crowded community like this can have but one result--the dreadful typhus. every battlefield has demonstrated the necessity of the hasty interment of decaying bodies, and the stench that already arises is a forerunner of impending danger. burn the wreck, burn the wreck." sorrow rejects safety. a loud cry of indignation arose from the lips of the vast multitude and the warnings of science were lost in the eager demands of those that sought the remains of the near and dear. the hose was again turned upon the hissing mass, and rapidly the flames yielded to the supremacy of water. it is almost impossible to conceive the extent of these smoking ruins. an area of eight or ten acres above the dam is covered to a depth of forty feet with shattered houses, borne from the resident centre of johnstown. in each of these houses, it is estimated, there were from one to twenty or twenty-five people. this is accepted as data upon which to estimate the number that perished on this spot, and if the data be correct the bodies that lie beneath these ruins must run well up into the thousands. members of the state board of health arrived in nineveh this morning and determined to proceed at once to dredge the river, to clean it of the dead and prevent the spreading of disease. to this end they have wired the state department to furnish them with the proper appliances. drinking poisoned water. from other points in this and connecting valleys the same fear of pestilence is expressed. the cities of pittsburgh and allegheny, which have a population of three hundred and fifty thousand and drink the waters of the allegheny river, down which corpses and débris from johnstown must flow unless stopped above, are in danger of an epidemic. the water is to-day thick with mud, and bodies have been found as far south of here as beaver, a distance of thirty miles below pittsburgh. to go this distance the bodies followed the conemaugh from johnstown to the kiskiminetas, at blairsville, joining the allegheny at freeport, and the ohio here, the entire distance from this point being about one hundred and fifty miles. "this is a very serious matter," said a prominent pittsburgh physician who is here to me to-day, "and one that demands the immediate attention of the board of health officials. the flood of water that swept through johnstown has cleaned out hundreds of cesspools. these and the barnyards' manure and the dirt from henneries and swamps that were swept by the waters have all been carried down into the allegheny river. in addition to this there are the bodies of persons drowned. some of these will, in all likelihood, be secreted among the débris and never be found. hundreds of carcasses of animals of various kinds are also in the river. typhus dreaded. "these will decay, throwing out an animal poison. this filth and poisonous matter is being carried into the allegheny, and will be pumped up into the reservoir and distributed throughout the city. the result is a cause for serious apprehension. take, for example, the town of hazleton, pa. there the filth from some outhouse was carried into the reservoir and distributed through the town. the result was a typhoid fever epidemic and hundreds of people lost their lives. the water that we are drinking to-day is something fearful to behold." the municipal authorities of pittsburgh have issued a notice embodying the above facts. sanitary work. a message was received by the relief committee this morning confirming the report that for the health of the cities of pittsburgh and allegheny it is absolutely necessary that steps be taken immediately to remove the bodies and drift from the river, and begging the committee to take early action. the contract for clearing the river was awarded to captain jutte, and he will start up the allegheny this afternoon as far as freeport, and then work down. his instructions are to clear the river thoroughly of anything that might in any way affect the water supply. helping hands. the work of relief at the scene of the great disaster is going on rapidly. the alliance (ohio) relief committee arrived here this morning on a special train with five carloads of provisions. the party is composed of the most prominent iron and steel merchants of alliance. they have just returned from a tour of the ruined town. they have been up to stony creek, a distance of five miles and up the conemaugh river toward south fork, a distance of two miles. [illustration: distributing supplies from the relief train.] in describing their trip, one of their number said:--"i tell you the half has never been told. it is impossible to tell the terrible tale. i thought i had seen horrible sights, and i served five years in the war of the rebellion, but in all my life it has never been my lot to look upon such ghastly sights as i have witnessed to-day. "while making the circuit of the ruined places we saw bodies taken out of the débris along the bank of the river and stony creek. of this number, we identified six of the victims as our friends." [illustration: scene on south clinton street.] chapter viii. johnstown and its industries. at this point of our narrative a sketch of johnstown, where the most frightful havoc of the flood occurred, will interest the reader. the following description and history of the cambria iron company's works, at johnstown, is taken from a report prepared by the state bureau of industrial statistics: the great works operated by the cambria iron company originated in a few widely separated charcoal furnaces, which were built by pioneer iron workers in the early years of this century. it was chartered under the general law authorizing the incorporation of iron manufacturing companies, in the year . the purpose was to operate four old-fashioned charcoal furnaces, located in and about johnstown, some of which had been erected many years before. johnstown was then a village of inhabitants. the pennsylvania railroad had only been extended thus far in , and the early iron manufacturers rightly foresaw a great future for the industry at this point. immense furnaces. coal, iron and limestone were abundant, and the new railroad would enable them to find ready markets for their products. in the construction of four coke furnaces was commenced, and it was two years before the first was completed, while some progress was made on the other three. england was then shipping rails into this country under a low duty, and the iron industry, then in its infancy, was struggling for existence. the furnaces at johnstown labored under greater difficulties in the years between and than can be appreciated at this late day. had it not been for a few patriotic citizens in philadelphia, who loaned their credit and means to the failing company, the city of johnstown would possibly never have been built. notwithstanding the protecting care of the philadelphia merchants, the company in johnstown was unable to continue in business, and suspended in . among its heaviest creditors in philadelphia were oliver martin and martin, morrell & co. more money was subscribed, but the establishment failed again in . d. j. morrell, however, formed a new company with new credit. recovery from a great fire. the year of , the first after the lease was made, was one of great financial depression, and the following year was worse. to render the situation still more gloomy a fire broke out in june, , and in three hours the large mill was a mass of ruins. men stood in double ranks passing water from the conemaugh river, yards distant, with which to fight the flames. so great was the energy, determination and financial ability of the new company that in one week after the fire the furnaces and rolls were once more in operation under a temporary structure. at this early stage in the manufacturing the management found it advisable to abandon the original and widely separated charcoal furnaces and depend on newly constructed coke furnaces. as soon as practicable after the fire a permanent brick mill was erected, and the company was once more fully equipped. when the war came and with it the morrill tariff of a broader field was opened up. industry and activity in business became general; new life was infused into every enterprise. in the lease by which the company had been successfully operated for seven years expired, and by a reorganization the present company was formed. advent of steel rails. a new era in the manufacture of iron and steel was now about to dawn upon the american people. in this year there were , tons of steel produced in the united states, while in the production was , , tons. open hearth steel, crucible steel and blister steel, prior to this, had been the principal products, but were manufactured by processes too slow and too expensive to take the place of iron. the durability of steel over iron, particularly for rails, had long been known, but its cost of production prevented its use. in one steel rail was sent to derby, england, and laid down on the midland railroad, at a place where the travel was so great that iron rails then in use had to be renewed sometimes as often as once in three months. in june, , after sixteen years of use, the rail, being well worn, was taken out. during its time , , trains, not to speak of the detached engines, etc., had passed over it. this was the first steel rail, now called bessemer rail, ever used. [illustration: map of the conemaugh valley.] about ten years ago the cambria iron company arranged with dr. j.h. gautier & sons, of jersey city, to organize a limited partnership association under the name of "the gautier steel company, limited," to manufacture, at johnstown, wire and various other forms of merchant steel. within less than a mile from the main works extensive mills were erected and the business soon grew to great proportions. in a few years so much additional capital was required, owing to the rapidly increasing business, that dr. gautier, then far advanced in life, wished to be relieved of the cares and duties incident to the growing trade, and the cambria iron company became the purchaser of his works. "the gautier steel company, limited," went out of existence and the works are now known as the "gautier steel department of cambria iron company." description of the works. the blast furnaces, steel works and rolling mills of the company are situated upon what was originally a river flat, where the valley of the conemaugh expanded somewhat just below the borough of johnstown, and now forming part of millville borough. the arrangement of the works has been necessarily governed by the fact that they have gradually expanded from the original rolling-mill and four old style blast furnaces to their present character and capacity of which some idea may be obtained by the condensed description given below. the johnstown furnaces, nos. , , and , form one complete plant, with stacks seventy-five feet high, sixteen feet diameter of bosh. steam is generated in forty boilers, fired by furnace gas, for eight vertical direct-acting blowing engines. nos. and blast furnaces form together a second plant with stacks seventy-five feet high, nineteen feet diameter of bosh. no. has iron hot blast stoves and no. has four whitwell fire-brick hot blast stoves. the furnaces have together six blowing engines exactly like those at nos. , , and furnaces. the engines are supplied with steam by thirty-two cylinder boilers. marvelous machinery. the bessemer plant was the sixth started in the united states (july, ). the main building is feet in width by feet in length. the cupolas are six in number. blast is supplied from eight baker rotary pressure blowers driven by engines sixteen inches by twenty-four inches, at revolutions per minute. the cupolas are located on either side of the main trough, into which they are tapped, and down which the melted metal is directed into a ten-ton ladle set on a hydraulic weighing platform, where it is stored until the converters are ready to receive it. there are two vessels of eight and a half tons capacity each, the products being distributed by a hydraulic ladle crane. the vessels are blown by three engines. the bessemer works are supplied with steam by a battery of twenty-one tubular boilers. the best average, although not the very highest work done in the bessemer department is heats of eight and a half tons each for twenty-four hours. the best weekly record reached , tons of ingots, the best monthly record of , tons, and the best daily output, tons ingots. all grades of steel are made in the converters from the softest wire and bridge stock to spring steel. all the special stock, that is other than rails, is carefully analyzed by heats, and the physical properties are determined by a tension test. ponderous steam-hammers. the open hearth building, feet in width by feet in length, contains three pernot revolving hearth furnaces of fifteen tons capacity each, supplied with natural gas. a separate pit with a hydraulic ladle crane of twenty tons capacity is located in front of each pan. in a portion of the mill building, originally used as a puddle mill, is located the bolt and nut works, wherein are made track bolts and machine bolts. this department is equipped with bolt-heading and nut making machines, cutting, tapping and facing machines, and produces about one thousand kegs of finished track bolts, of pounds each, per month, besides machine bolts. near this, also, are located the axle and forging shops, in the old puddle mill building. the axle shop has three steam hammers to forge and ten machines to cut off, centre and turn axles. the capacity of this shop is finished steel axles per day. all axles are toughened and annealed by a patented process, giving the strongest axle possible. in the forging plant, located in the same building, there is an , pound bement hammer, and a ten-ton traveling crane to convey forgings from the furnaces to the hammer. there are two furnaces for heating large ingots and blooms for forgings. a ventilating fan supplies fresh air to the mills through pipes located overhead, and having outlets near the heating furnaces. one hundred thousand cubic feet of fresh air per minute is distributed throughout the mills. the mill has in addition to its boilers, over the heating-furnaces, a brick and iron building, located near the rail mill, feet long and feet wide, containing twenty-four tubular boilers, aggregating about horse-power. tons of barbed wire. the "gautier steel department" consists of a brick building feet by feet, where the wire is annealed, drawn and finished; a brick warehouse feet by feet; many shops, offices, etc.; the barb wire mill, feet by feet, where the celebrated cambria link barb wire is made; and the main merchant mill, feet by feet. these mills produce wire, shafting, springs, plowshare, rake and harrow teeth and other kinds of agricultural implement steel. in they produced , tons of this material, which was marketed mainly in the western states. grouped with the principal mills are the foundries, pattern and other shops, drafting offices, time offices, etc., all structures being of a firm and substantial character. the company operates about thirty-five miles of railroad tracks, employing in this service twenty-four locomotives, and it owns cars. in the fall of natural gas was introduced into the works. building up johnstown. anxious to secure employment for the daughters and widows of the employees of the company who were willing to work, its management erected a woolen mill which now employs about persons. amusements were not neglected, and the people of johnstown are indebted to the company for the erection of an opera house, where dramatic entertainments are given. the company owns houses, which are rented exclusively to employees. the handsome library erected by the company and presented to the town was stocked with nearly volumes. the cambria hospital is also under the control of the beneficial association of the works. the cambria clubhouse is a very neat pressed brick building on the corner of main and federal streets. it was first operated in , and is used exclusively for the entertainment of the guests of the company and such of their employees as can be accommodated. the store building occupied by wood, morrell & co., limited, is a four-story brick structure on washington street, with three large store rooms on the first floor, the remainder of the building being used for various forms of merchandise. including the surrounding boroughs, kernville, morrellville and cambria city, all of which are built up solidly to johnstown proper, the population is about , . the cambria iron company employs, in johnstown, about people, which would certainly indicate a population of not less than , depending upon the company for a livelihood. a large proportion of the population of johnstown are citizens of foreign birth, or their immediate descendants. those of german, irish, welsh and english birth or extraction predominate, with a few swedes and frenchmen. as a rule the working people and their families are well dressed and orderly; in this they are above the average. most of the older workmen of the company, owing largely to its liberal policy, own their houses, and many of them have houses for rent. chapter ix. view of the wreck. each visitor to the scene of the great disaster witnessed sights and received impressions different from all others. the following graphic account will thrill every reader: the most exaggerative imagination cannot too strongly picture the awful harvest of death, the wreck which accompanied that terrible deluge last friday afternoon. i succeeded in crossing from the north side of the little conemaugh, a short distance above the point, to the sandy muddy desert strewn with remnants of the buildings and personal property of those who know not their loss. it is almost an impossibility to gain access to the region, and it was accomplished only after much difficulty in crossing the swiftly running stream. standing at a point in this abode of thousands of dead the work of the great flood can be more adequately measured than from any one place in the devastated region. here i first realized the appalling loss of life and the terrible destruction of property. it was about ten o'clock when the waters of stony creek rose, overflowed their banks and what is known as the "flats," which includes the entire business portion of the city of johnstown. the little conemaugh was running high at the same time, and it had also overreached the limit of its banks. the water of both streams soon submerged the lower portion of the town. up to this time there was no intimation that a terrible disaster was imminent. the water poured into the cellars of the houses in the lower districts and rose several inches in the streets, but as that had occurred before the people took no alarm. shortly after twelve o'clock the first drowning occurred. this was not because of the deluge, it was simply the carelessness of the victim, who was a driver for the cambria iron company, in stepping into a cellar which had been filled with water. the water continued to rise, and at twelve o'clock had reached that part of the city about a block from the point between stony creek and the little conemaugh. topography of the place. the topography of johnstown is almost precisely like that of pittsburgh, only in a diminished degree. stony creek comes in from the mountains on the northeast, and the little conemaugh comes in from the northwest, forming the conemaugh at johnstown, precisely as the allegheny and monongahela form the ohio at pittsburgh. on the west side of stony creek are mountains rising to a great height, and almost perpendicularly from the water. on the north side of the conemaugh river mountains equally as high as those on stony creek confine that river to its course. the hills in johnstown start nearly a half mile from the business section of the city. this leaves a territory between the two rivers of about four hundred acres. this was covered by costly buildings, factories and other important manufactories. when the waters of south fork and little conemaugh broke over their banks into that portion of the city known as the "flats," the business community turned its attention to putting endangered merchandise in a place of safety. first alarm. in the homes of the people the women began gathering household articles of any kind that may have been in the cellar. little attention was paid to the water beyond this. looking from the "flats" at johnstown toward and following the pennsylvania railroad tracks, which wind along the little conemaugh, the village of woodville stands, or did stand, within sight of the "flats," and is really a continuation of the city at this point. the mountains on the south side of the little conemaugh rise here and form a narrow valley where woodville was located. next joining this, without any perceptible break in the houses, was the town of east conemaugh. the extreme eastern limit of east conemaugh is about a mile and a half from johnstown "flats." a narrow chasm. the valley narrows as it reaches eastward, and in a narrow chasm three miles from johnstown "flats" is the little settlement of mineral point. a few of the houses have found a place on the mountain side out of harm's way, and so they still stand. at east conemaugh there is located a roundhouse of the pennsylvania railroad, for the housing of locomotives used to assist trains over the mountains. the inhabitants of this place were all employees of the pennsylvania and the gautier steel works, of the cambria iron company. the inhabitants numbered about , people. like east conemaugh, , or , people, who lived at woodville, were employees of the same corporation and the woolen mills located there. just below woodville the mountains upon the south bank of the conemaugh disappear and form the commencement of the johnstown "flats." the gautier steel works of the cambria iron company are located at this point, on the south bank. the pennsylvania railroad traverses the opposite bank, and makes a long curve from this point up to east conemaugh. timely warning to escape. at what is known as the point where stony creek and the little conemaugh form the conemaugh the mountains followed by stony creek take an abrupt turn northward, and the waters of the little conemaugh flow into the conemaugh at right angles with these mountains. a few hundred feet below this point the pennsylvania railroad bridge crosses the conemaugh river. the bridge is a massive stone structure. from the east end of the bridge there is a heavy fill of from thirty to forty feet high to johnstown station, a distance of a quarter of a mile. within a few feet of the station a wagon bridge crosses the little conemaugh, five hundred feet above the point connecting the "flats" and the country upon the north side of the river. the cambria iron company's bessemer department lies along the north bank of the conemaugh, commencing at the fill, and extends for over two miles down the conemaugh river upon its northern bank. below the cambria iron company's property is millville borough, and on the hill back of millville borough is minersville properly--the second ward of millville borough. the first ward of millville was washed away completely. while the damage from a pecuniary sense was large, the loss of life was quite small, inasmuch as the people had timely warning to escape. below the pennsylvania railroad bridge at johnstown, upon the south bank of the conemaugh, was the large settlement of cambria. it had a population of some five thousand people. at cambria the mountain retreats for several hundred feet, leaving a level of two or three hundred acres in extent. just below the bridge the conemaugh river makes a wide curve around this level. about eight or nine hundred houses stood upon this level. below cambria stands morrellville, a place about equal in size to cambria. from this description of the location of johnstown and neighboring settlements the course of the waters may be better understood when described. it was about ten minutes to three o'clock friday afternoon when mr. west, of the local office of the pennsylvania railroad at johnstown, received a dispatch from the south fork station, advising him to notify the inhabitants that the big dam in the south fork, above the city, was about to break. he at once despatched couriers to various parts of the city, and a small section was notified of the impending danger. the messenger was answered with, "we will wait until we see the water." others called "chestnuts!" and not one in fifty of the people who received the warning gave heed to it. the débris of three towns. with the waters standing several inches deep in the streets of the "flats" of the city the deluge from south fork lake, burst the dam and rushed full upon johnstown shortly after five o'clock on friday afternoon the last day of may. first it swept the houses from mineral point down into east conemaugh. when the flood reached east conemaugh the town was wiped out. this mass of débris was borne on to johnstown, reinforced by the material of three towns. the gautier steel department of the cambria iron company was the first property attacked in the city proper. huge rolls, furnaces and all the machinery in the great mills, costing $ , , , were swept away in a moment, and to-day there is not the slightest evidence that the mill ever stood there. swept from the roofs. westward from this point the flood swept over the flats. the houses, as soon as the water reached them, were lifted from their foundation and hurled against their neighbors'. the people who at the first crash of their property managed to reach the roof or some other floating material were carried on until their frail support was driven against the next obstruction, when they went down in the crash together. the portion of the "flats" submerged is bounded by clinton street to the little conemaugh river, to the point at stony creek, then back to clinton street by way of bedford. this region has an area of one mile square, shaped like a heart, and in this district there are not more than a dozen buildings that are not total wrecks. ten per cent. of this district is so covered with mud, stones, rocks and other material, where costly buildings once stood, that it will require excavating from eight to twenty feet to reach the streets of the city. remnants of the city. of the houses standing there is the methodist church, the club house, james mcmillen's residence, the morrell mansion, dr. lohman's house and the first ward school building. the fourth ward school house and the cambria iron works' general office building are the only buildings standing on the north side of the river from the pennsylvania railroad bridge to the limits of the "flats." the pennsylvania railroad, from its station in johnstown city nearly to wilmore, a distance of seven miles, had a magnificent road bed of solid rock. from east conemaugh to the point in johnstown opposite the gautier steel works, this road bed, ballast and all are gone. only a few rails may occasionally be seen in the river below. freaks of the flood. when the crash came in johnstown the houses were crushed as easily by the huge mass as so many buildings of sand, making much the same sound as if a pencil were drawn over the slats of a shutter. houses were torn from their foundations and torn to pieces before their occupants realized their danger. hundreds of these people were crushed to death, while others were rescued by heroic men; but the lives of the majority were prolonged a few minutes, when they met a more horrible death further down the stream. there is a narrow strip extending from the club house to the point which, in some singular manner, escaped the mass of filling that was distributed on the flats. this strip is about feet wide, long and from to feet deep. what queer turn the flood took to thus spare this section, when the surrounding territory was covered with mud, stones and other material, is a mystery. it is, however, one of the remarkable turns of the flood. the german catholic church is standing, but is in an exceedingly shaky condition and may fall at any minute. this and dr. lohman's residence are the only buildings on the plot standing between main street, clinton street, railroad street and the little conemaugh. the destruction of life in this district was too awful to contemplate. it is estimated that not more than one thousand people escaped with their lives, and it is believed that there were fully five thousand persons remaining in the district when the flood came down. the flood wiped out the "flat" with the exception of the buildings noted. the water was twenty feet high here and hurled acres upon acres of houses against the pennsylvania railroad bridge which held it and dammed the water up until it was forty feet high. the mass accumulated until the weight became so great that it broke through the fill east of the bridge and the débris started out of the temporary reservoir with an awful rush. it was something near five o'clock when the fill broke. the water rushed across the cambria flats and swept every house away with the exception of a portion of a brewery. there is nothing else standing in this district which resembles a house. the johnstown post office building, with all the office money and stamps, was carried away in the flood. the postmaster himself escaped with great difficulty. the dam broke in the centre at three o'clock on friday afternoon, and at four o'clock it was dry. that great body of water passed out in one hour. park & van buren, who are building a new draining system at the lake, tried to avert the disaster by digging a sluiceway on one side to ease the pressure on the dam. they had about forty men at work and did all they could, but without avail. the water passed over the dam about a foot above its top, beginning at about half-past two. whatever happened in the way of a cloud burst took place during the night. there had been but little rain up to dark. when the workmen woke in the morning the lake was very full and was rising at the rate of a foot an hour. it kept on rising until at two o'clock it first began breaking over the dam and undermining it. men were sent three or four times during the day to warn people below of their danger. the break two hundred feet wide. when the final break came, at three o'clock, there was a sound like tremendous and continued peals of thunder; rocks, trees and earth were shot up into mid-air in great columns, and then the wave started down the ravine. a farmer, who escaped, said that the water did not come down like a wave, but jumped on his house and beat it to fragments in an instant. he was safe upon the hillside, but his wife and two children were killed. at the present time the lake looks like a cross between the crater of a volcano and a huge mud puddle with stumps of trees and rocks scattered over it. there is a small stream of muddy water running through the centre of the lake site. the dam was seventy feet high and the break is about two hundred feet wide, and there is but a small portion of the dam left on either side. no damage was done to any of the buildings belonging to the club. the whole south fork is swept, with not a tree standing. there are but one or two small streams showing here and there in the lake. a great many of the workmen carried off baskets full of fish caught in the mud. three millions indemnity. it is reported that the sportsman's association, which owned the south fork dam, was required to file an indemnity bond of $ , , before their charter was issued. when the bill granting them these privileges was before the legislature the representatives from cambria and blair counties vigorously opposed its passage and only gave way, it is said, upon condition that such an indemnifying bond was filed. this bond was to be filed with the prothonotary of cambria county. father boyle, of ebensburg, said the records at the county seat had no trace of such a bond. he found the record of the charter, but nothing about the bond. as the association is known to be composed of very wealthy people, there is much talk here of their being compelled to pay at least a part of the damages. the rain did it. it begins to dawn on us that the catastrophe was brought about not merely by the bursting of the dam of the old canal reservoir, but by a rainfall exceeding in depth and area all previously recorded phenomena of the kind. the whole drainage basin of the kiskiminetas, and more particularly that of the conemaugh, was affected. an area of probably more than square miles poured its precipitation through the narrow valley in which johnstown and associate villages are located. it is easy to see how, with a rainfall similar to that which caused the butcher run disaster of a few years ago, fully from thirty to fifty times as much water became destructive. the whole of the water of the lake would pass suspension bridge at pittsburgh inside of from seven to ten minutes, while the gorge at johnstown, narrowed by the activity of mines for generations past, was clearly insufficient to allow a free course for stony creek alone, which is a stream heading away up in somerset county, twenty-five or thirty miles south of johnstown. that the rainfall of the entire allegheny mountain system was unprecedented is clearly demonstrated to any one who has watched the allegheny and monongahela rivers for the past three days, and this view may serve to correct the impression in the public mind that would localize the causes of the widespread disaster to the bursting of any single dam. danger was anticipated. charles parke, of philadelphia, the civil engineer in the employ of the south fork fishing club, in company with george c. wilson, ex-united states district attorney, and several other members of the club, reached johnstown and brought with them the first batch of authoritative news from conemaugh lake, the bursting of which, it is universally conceded, caused the disaster. mr. parke was at first averse to talking, and seemed more interested in informing his friends in the quaker city that he was still in the land of the living. on being pressed he denied most emphatically that the dam had burst, and proceeded to explain that he first commenced to anticipate danger on friday morning, when the water in the lake commenced to rise at a rapid rate. immediately he turned his force of twenty-five italians to opening an extra waste sluiceway in addition to the one that had always answered before. the five members of the club on hand all worked like horses, but their efforts were in vain, and at three o'clock the supporting wall gave way with a sound that seemed like distant thunder and the work was done. the governor's appeal. harrisburg, pa., june , .--the governor issued the following:-- "commonwealth of pennsylvania, } "executive chamber, } "harrisburg, pa., june , . } "to the people of the united states:-- "the executive of the commonwealth of pennsylvania has refrained hitherto from making any appeal to the people for their benefactions, in order that he might receive definite and reliable information from the centres of disaster during the late floods, which have been unprecedented in the history of the state or nation. communication by wire has been established with johnstown to-day. the civil authorities are in control, the adjutant general of the state cooperating with them; order has been restored and is likely to continue. newspaper reports as to the loss of life and property have not been exaggerated. "the valley of the conemaugh, which is peculiar, has been swept from one end to the other as with the besom of destruction. it contained a population of forty thousand to fifty thousand people, living for the most part along the banks of a small river confined within narrow limits. the most conservative estimates place the loss of life at , human beings, and of property at twenty-five millions. [the reader will understand that this and previous estimates were the first and were far too small.] whole towns have been utterly destroyed. not a vestige remains. in the more substantial towns the better buildings, to a certain extent, remain, but in a damaged condition. those who are least able to bear it have suffered the loss of everything. "the most pressing needs, so far as food is concerned, have been supplied. shoes and clothing of all sorts for men, women and children are greatly needed. money is also urgently required to remove the débris, bury the dead, and care temporarily for the widows and orphans and for the homeless generally. other localities have suffered to some extent in the same way, but not in the same degree. "late advices seem to indicate that there is great loss of life and destruction of property along the west branch of the susquehanna and in localities from which we can get no definite information. what does come, however, is of the most appalling character, and it is expected that the details will add new horrors to the situation. generous responses. "the responses from within and without the state have been most generous and cheering. north and south, east and west, from the united states and from england, there comes the same hearty, generous response of sympathy and help. the president, governors of states, mayors of cities, and individuals and communities, private and municipal corporations, seem to vie with each other in their expressions of sympathy and in their contributions of substantial aid. but, gratifying as these responses are, there is no danger of their exceeding the necessities of the situation. organized distribution. "a careful organization has been made upon the ground for the distribution of whatever assistance is furnished. the adjutant general of the state is there as the representative of the state authorities and giving personal attention, in connection with the chief burgess of johnstown and a committee of relief to the distribution of the help which is furnished. "a large force will be employed at once to remove the débris and bury the dead, so as to avoid disease and epidemic. "the people of the commonwealth and others whose unselfish generosity is hereby heartily appreciated and acknowledged may be assured that their contributions will be made to bring their benefactions to the immediate and direct relief of those for whose benefit they are intended. "james a. beaver. "by the governor, charles w. stone, secretary of the commonwealth." alive to the situation. the masonic relief committee which went from pittsburgh to johnstown telegraphed president harrison, urging the appointment of a national commission to take charge of sanitary affairs at the scene of the disaster. it was urged that the presence of so many decaying corpses would breed a pestilence there, besides polluting the water of the streams affecting all the country between pittsburgh and new orleans. the disasters in pennsylvania were the subject of a conference at the white house between the president, general noble, the secretary of the interior, and surgeon general hamilton. the particular topic which engaged their attention was the possibility of the pollution of the water-supply of towns along the conemaugh river by the many dead bodies floating down the stream. the president was desirous that this new source of danger should be cut off, if any measures which could be taken by the government could accomplish it. it was suggested that the decomposition of so much human flesh and the settling of the decomposing fragments into the bed of the stream might make the water so foul as to breed disease and scatter death in a new form among the surviving dwellers in the valley. not afraid of a plague. surgeon general hamilton expressed the opinion that the danger was not so great as might be supposed. there would be no pollution from those bodies taken from the river before decomposition set in, and the force of the freshet would tend to clear the river bed of any impurities in it rather than make new deposits. the argument which had the most weight, however, with the president was the efficiency of the local authorities. pennsylvania has a state board of health and is a state with ample means at her disposal, both in money and men, and if there is any danger of this sort her local officials were able to deal with it. this was practically the decision of the conference. the gentlemen will meet again, if necessary, and stand ready to render every assistance which the situation calls for, but they will leave the control of the matter with the commonwealth of pennsylvania until it appears that she is unable to cope with it. governor beaver to the president. the following telegram was received by president harrison from governor beaver, who made his way from york to harrisburg:-- "harrisburg, pa., june , . "to the president, washington:-- "the sheriff of cambria county says everything is quiet and that he can control the situation without the aid of troops. the people are fairly housed and good order prevails. the supply of food so far is equal to the demand, but supplies of food and clothing are still greatly needed. "conservative estimates place the loss of life at from five thousand to ten thousand, and loss of property at from $ , , to $ , , . the people are at work heroically, and will have a large force to-morrow clearing away the débris. "the sympathies of the world are freely expressed. one telegram from england gives $ , . i will issue a general appeal to the public to-night. help comes from all quarters. its universality greatly encourages our people. i will communicate with you promptly if anything unusual occurs. "james a. beaver." chapter x. thrilling experiences. johnstown, pa., june , .--innumerable tales of thrilling individual experiences, each one more horrible than the others, are told. frank mcdonald, a conductor on the somerset branch of the baltimore and ohio, was at the pennsylvania railroad depot in this place when the flood came. he says that when he first saw the flood it was thirty feet high and gradually rose to at least forty feet. "there is no doubt that the south fork dam was the cause of the disaster," said mr. mcdonald. "fifteen minutes before the flood came decker, the pennsylvania railroad agent read me a telegram that he had just received saying that the south fork dam had broken. as soon as he heard this the people in station, numbering six hundred, made a rush for a hill. i certainly think i saw one thousand bodies go over the bridge. the first house that came down struck the bridge and at once took fire, and as fast as the others came down they were consumed. saw a thousand persons burn. "i believe i am safe in saying that i saw one thousand bodies burn. it reminded me of a lot of flies on fly paper struggling to get away, with no hope and no chance to save them. [illustration: the wrecked houses burning at the pennsylvania railroad bridge.] "i have no idea that had the bridge been blown up the loss of life would have been any less. they would have floated a little further with the same certain death. then, again, it was impossible for any one to have reached the bridge in order to blow it out, for the waters came so fast that no one could have done it. "i saw fifteen to eighteen bodies go over the bridge at the same time. "i offered a man $ to row me across the river, but could get no one to go, and finally had to build a boat and get across that way." it required some exercise of acrobatic agility to get into or out of the town. a slide, a series of frightful tosses from side to side, a run and you had crossed the narrow rope bridge which spanned the chasm dug by the waters between the stone bridge and johnstown. crossing the bridge was an exciting task. yet many women accomplished it rather than remain in johnstown. the bridge pitched like a ship in a storm. within two inches of your feet rushed the muddy waters of the conemaugh. there were no ropes to guide one and creeping was more convenient than walking. one had to cross the conemaugh at a second point in order to reach johnstown proper. this was accomplished by a skiff ferry. the ferryman clung to a rope and pulled the load over. confusion worse confounded. it is impossible to describe the appearance of main street. whole houses have been swept down this one street and become lodged. the wreck is piled as high as the second story windows. the reporter could step from the wreck into the auditorium of the opera house. the ruins consists of parts of houses, trees, saw logs, reels from the wire factory. many houses have their side walls and roofs torn up, and you can walk directly into what had been second story bedrooms, or go in by way of the top. further up town a raft of logs lodged in the street and did great damage. the best way to get an idea of the wreck is to take a number of children's blocks, place them closely together and draw your hand through them. at the commencement of the wreckage, which is at the opening of the valley of the conemaugh, one can look up the valley for miles and not see a house. nothing stands but an old woolen mill. as seen by an eye-witness. charles luther is the name of the boy who stood on an adjacent elevation and saw the whole flood. he said he heard a grinding noise far up the valley, and looking up he could see a dark line moving slowly toward him. he saw that it was made up of houses. on they came like the hand of a giant clearing off his tables. high in the air would be tossed a log or beam, which fell back with a crash. down the valley it moved sedately and across the little mountain city. for ten minutes nothing but moving houses were seen, and then the waters came with a roar and a rush. this lasted for two hours, and then it began to flow more steadily. the pillaging of the houses in johnstown is something awful to contemplate and describe. it makes one feel almost ashamed to call himself a man and know that others who bear the same name have converted themselves into human vultures, preying on the dead. men are carrying shotguns and revolvers, and woe betide the stranger who looks even suspiciously at any article. goods of great value were being sold in town to-day for a drink of whiskey. a supply store has been established in the fourth ward in johnstown. a line of men, women and children, extending for a square, waited patiently to have their wants supplied. an improvised morgue. the school house has been converted into a morgue, and the dead are being buried from this place. a hospital has been opened near by and is full of patients. one of the victims was removed from a piece of wreckage in which he had been imprisoned three days. his leg was broken and his face badly bruised. he was delirious when rescued. in some places it is said the railroad tracks were scooped out to a depth of twenty feet. a train of cars, all loaded, were run on the conemaugh bridge. they, with the bridge, now lie in the wreckage at this point. the pennsylvania railroad loses thirty-five engines and many cars. fire still raging. the cling-cling-clang of the engines has a homelike sound. the fire has spread steadily all day and the upper part of the drift is burning to-night. the fire engine is stationed on the river bank and a line of hose laid far up the track to the coal mine. the flames to-night are higher than ever before, and by its light long lines of the curious can be seen along the banks. [illustration: firemen on duty at the bridge.] the natural gas has been shut off, owing to the many leaks in johnstown. no fire is allowed in the city. the walls of many houses are falling. their crash can be heard across the river, where the newspaper men are located. in the walk through the town to-day the word "danger," could be noticed, painted by the rescuers on the walls. cremated. one of the catholic churches in the town was burned on saturday. a house drifted down against it and set it on fire. a funeral was being held at the church at the time of the flood. the congregation deserted the church and the body was burned with the building. two large trees passed entirely through a brick catholic church located near the centre of the town. the building still stands, but is a total wreck. colonel norman m. smith, of pittsburgh, while returning from johnstown after a visit to adjutant general hastings, was knocked from the temporary bridge into the river and carried down stream a couple of hundred yards before he was able to swim ashore. he was not hurt. a lucky escape. o.j. palmer, travelling salesman for a pittsburgh meat house, was on the ill-fated day express, one car of which was washed away. he narrowly escaped drowning, and tells a horrible tale of his experience on that occasion. the engineer, the fireman and himself, when they saw the flood coming, got upon the top of the car, and when the coach was carried away they caught the driftwood, and fortunately it was carried near the shore and they escaped to the hills. mr. palmer walked a distance of twenty miles around the flooded district to a nearby railroad station on this side. freaks of the disaster. a novel scene was witnessed yesterday near johnstown borough. some women who managed to escape from the town proper had to wear men's clothes, as their own had been torn off by the flood. the force of the flood can be estimated by the fact that it carried three cars a mile and a half and the tender of an engine weighing twelve tons was carried fourteen miles down the river. a team of horses which was standing on main street just before the flood was found a mile and a quarter below the town yesterday. the damage to the cambria iron works was not so great as at first reported. the ends of the blooming mill and open hearth furnace buildings were crushed in by the force of the flood. the water rushed through the mill and tore a great pile of machinery from its fastenings and caused other damage. the bessemer steel mill is almost a ruin. the rolling and wire mills and the six blast furnaces were not much damaged. this morning the company put a large force of men at work and are making strenuous efforts to have at least a portion of the plant in operation within a few weeks. this has given encouragement to the stricken people of johnstown, and they now seem to have some hope, although so many of their loved ones have met their death. the mill yard, with its numerous railroad tracks, is nothing but a waste. large piles of pig metal were scattered in every direction. all the loose débris is being gathered into heaps and burned. hurled to a place of safety. a pitiful sight was that of an old, gray haired man named norn. he was walking around among the mass of débris, looking for his family. he had just sat down to eat his supper when the crash came, and the whole family, consisting of wife and eight children, were buried beneath the collapsed house. he was carried down the river to the railroad bridge on a plank. just at the bridge a cross-tie struck him with such force that he was shot clear upon the pier and was safe. but he is a mass of bruises and cuts from head to foot. he refused to go to the hospital until he found the bodies of his loved ones. heroism in bright relief. a paul revere lies somewhere among the dead. who he is is now known, and his ride will be famous in history. mounted on a grand, big bay horse, he came riding down the pike which passes through conemaugh to johnstown, like some angel of wrath of old, shouting his warning: "run for your lives to the hills! run to the hills!" a cloud of ruin. the people crowded out of their houses along the thickly settled streets awe-struck and wondering. no one knew the man, and some thought he was a maniac and laughed. on and on, at a deadly pace, he rode, and shrilly rang out his awful cry. in a few moments, however, there came a cloud of ruin down the broad streets, down the narrow alleys, grinding, twisting, hurling, overturning, crashing--annihilating the weak and the strong. it was the charge of the flood, wearing its coronet of ruin and devastation, which grew at every instant of its progress. forty feet high, some say, thirty according to others, was this sea, and it travelled with a swiftness like that which lay in the heels of mercury. on and on raced the rider, on and on rushed the wave. dozens of people took heed of the warning and ran up to the hills. poor, faithful rider, it was an unequal contest. just as he turned to cross the railroad bridge the mighty wall fell upon him, and horse, rider and bridge all went out into chaos together. a few feet further on several cars of the pennsylvania railroad train from pittsburgh were caught up and hurried into the caldron, and the heart of the town was reached. the hero had turned neither to right nor left for himself, but rode on to death for his townsmen. he was overwhelmed by the current at the bridge and drowned. a party of searchers found the body of this man and his horse. he was still in the saddle. in a short time the man was identified as daniel periton, son of a merchant of johnstown, a young man of remarkable courage. he is no longer the unknown hero, for the name of daniel periton will live in fame as long as the history of this calamity is remembered by the people of this country. a devoted operator. mrs. ogle, the manager of the western union, who died at her post, will go down in history as a heroine of the highest order. notwithstanding the repeated notifications which she received to get out of reach of the approaching danger, she stood by the instruments with unflinching loyalty and undaunted courage, sending words of warning to those in danger in the valley below. when every station in the path of the coming torrent had been warned she wired her companion at south fork, "this is my last message," and as such it shall always be remembered as her last words on earth, for at that very moment the torrent engulfed her and bore her from her post on earth to her post of honor in the great beyond. another hero. a telegraph operator at the railroad station above mineral point, which is just in the gorge a short distance below the dam, and the last telegraph station above conemaugh, had seen the waters rising, and had heard of the first break in the dam. two hours before the final break came he sent a message to his wife at mineral point to prepare for the flood. it read: "dress the three children in their best sunday clothes. gather together what valuables you can easily carry and leave the house. go to the stable on the hillside. stay there until the water reaches it; then run to the mountain. the dam is breaking. the flood is coming. lose no time." his wife showed the message to her friends, but they laughed at her. they even persuaded her to not heed her husband's command. the wife went home and about her work. meanwhile the telegraph operator was busy with his ticker. down to conemaugh he wired the warning. he also sent it on to johnstown, then he ticked on, giving each minute bulletins of the break. as the water came down he sent message after message, telling its progress. finally came the flood. he saw houses and bodies swept past him. his last message was: "the water is all around me; i cannot stay longer, and, for god's sake, all fly." then he jumped out of his tower window and ran up the mountain just in time to save himself. a whole town came past as he turned and looked. great masses of houses plunged up. he saw people on roofs yelling and crying, and then saw collisions of houses, which caused the buildings to crush and crumble like paper. racing with death. all the time he felt that his family were safe. but it was not so with them. when the roar of approaching water came the people of mineral point thought of their warning. the wife gathered her children and started to run. as she went she forgot her husband's advice to go to the mountain and fled down the street to the lowlands. suddenly she remembered she had left the key of her home in the door. she took the children and ran back. as she neared the house the water came and forced them up between the two houses. the only outlet was toward the mountain, and she ran that way with her children. the water chased her, but she and the children managed to clamber up far enough to escape. thus it was that an accident saved their lives. only three houses and a school-house were saved at mineral point. a dangerous venture. one of the most thrilling incidents of the disaster was the performance of a.j. leonard, whose family reside in morrellville. he was at work, and hearing that his house had been swept away determined at all hazards to ascertain the fate of his family. the bridges having been carried away he constructed a temporary raft, and clinging to it as close as a cat to the side of a fence, he pushed his frail craft out into the raging torrent and started on a chase which, to all who were watching, seemed to mean an embrace in death. heedless of cries "for god's sake go back, you will be drowned." "don't attempt it," he persevered. as the raft struck the current he pulled off his coat and in his shirt sleeves braved the stream. down plunged the boards and down went leonard, but as it arose he was seen still clinging. a mighty shout arose from the throats of the hundreds on the banks, who were now deeply interested, earnestly hoping he would successfully ford the stream. down again went his bark, but nothing, it seemed, could shake leonard off. the craft shot up in the air apparently ten or twelve feet, and leonard stuck to it tenaciously. slowly but surely he worked his boat to the other side of the stream, and after what seemed an awful suspense he finally landed amid ringing cheers of men, women and children. the last seen of him he was making his way down a mountain road in the direction of the spot where his house had lately stood. his family consisted of his wife and three children. a thrilling escape. henry d. thomas, a well-known dry goods merchant, tells the following story: "i was caught right between a plank and a stone wall and was held in that position for a long time. the water came rushing down and forced the plank against my chest. i felt as if it were going through me, when suddenly the plank gave way, and i fell into the water. i grabbed the plank quickly and in some unaccountable way managed to get the forepart of my body on it, and in that way i was carried down the stream. all around me were people struggling and drowning, while bodies floated like corks on the water. some were crying for help, others were praying aloud for mercy and a few were singing as if to keep up their courage. a large raft which went by bore a whole family, and they were singing, 'nearer my god to thee.' in the midst of their song the raft struck a large tree and went to splinters. there were one or two wild cries and then silence. the horror of that time is with me day and night. it would have driven a weak-minded person crazy. "the true condition of things that night can never be adequately described in words. the water came down through a narrow gorge, which in places was hardly two hundred feet wide. the broken dam was at an elevation of about five hundred feet above johnstown. the railroad bridge across the conemaugh river is at the lower side of johnstown, and the river is joined there by another mountain stream from the northeast. it was here that the débris collected and caught fire, and i doubt if it will ever be known how many perished there. the water came down with the speed of a locomotive. the people there are absolutely paralyzed--so much so that they speak of their losses in a most indifferent way. i heard two men in conversation. one said: 'well, i lost a wife and three children.' 'that's nothing,' said the other; 'i lost a wife and six children.'" the sudden break. a man named maguire was met on his way from south fork to johnstown. he said he was standing on the edge of the lake when the walls burst. the waters were rising all day and were on a level with a pile of dirt which he said was above the walls of the dam. all of a sudden it burst with a report like a cannon and the water started down the mountain side, sweeping before it the trees as if they were chips. bowlders were rolled down as if they were marbles. the roar was deafening. the lake was emptied in an hour. at the time there were about forty men at work up there, building a new draining system at the lake for messrs. parke and van buren. they did all they could to try and avert the disaster by digging a sluiceway on one side to ease the pressure on the dam, but their efforts were fruitless. "it was about half-past two o'clock when the water reached the top of the dam. at first it was just a narrow white stream trickling down the face of the dam, soon its proportions began to grow with alarming rapidity, and in an extremely short space of time a volume of water a foot in thickness was passing over the top of the dam. "there had been little rain up to dark. whatever happened in the way of a cloud burst took place during the night. when the workmen woke in the morning the lake was very full and was rising at the rate of a foot an hour. "when at two o'clock the water began to flow over the dam, the work of undermining began. men were sent three or four times during the day to warn the people below of their danger. at three o'clock there was a sound like tremendous and continued peals of thunder. the earth seemed to shake and vibrate beneath our feet. "there was a rush of wind, the trees swayed to and fro, the air was full of fine spray or mist: then looking down just in front of the dam we saw trees, rocks and earth shot up into mid-air in great columns. it seemed as though some great unseen force was at work wantonly destroying everything; then the great wave, foaming, boiling and hissing, dashing clouds of spray hundreds of feet in height as it came against some obstruction in the way of its mad rush, clearing everything away before it, started on its terrible death-dealing mission down the fatal valley." engineer henry's awful race. engineer henry, of the second section of the express train, no. , which was caught at conemaugh, tells a thrilling story. his train was caught in the midst of the wave and were the only cars that were not destroyed. "it was an awful sight," he said. "i have often seen pictures of flood scenes, and i thought they were exaggerations, but what i witnessed last friday changes my former belief. to see that immense volume of water, fully fifty feet high, rushing madly down the valley, sweeping everything before it, was a thrilling sight. it is engraved indelibly on my memory. even now i can see that mad torrent carrying death and destruction before it. "the second section of no. , on which i was, was due at johnstown about . in the morning. we arrived there safely, and were told to follow the first section. when we arrived at conemaugh the first section and the mail were there. washouts further up the mountain prevented our going, so we could do nothing but sit around and discuss the situation. the creek at conemaugh was swollen high, almost overflowing. the heavens were pouring rain, but this did not prevent nearly all the inhabitants of the town from gathering along its banks. they watched the waters go dashing by and wondered whether the creek could get much higher. but a few inches more and it would overflow its banks. there seemed to be a feeling of uneasiness among the people. they seemed to fear that something awful was going to happen. their suspicions were strengthened by the fact that warning had come down the valley for the people to be on the lookout. the rains had swelled everything to the bursting point. the day passed slowly, however. "noon came and went, and still nothing happened. we could not proceed, nor could we go back, as the tracks about a mile below conemaugh had been washed away, so there was nothing for us to do but to wait and see what would come next. "some time after o'clock friday afternoon i went into the train despatcher's office to learn the latest news. i had not been there long when i heard a fierce whistling from an engine away up the mountain. rushing out i found dozens of men standing around. fear had blanched every cheek. the loud and continued whistling had made every one feel that something serious was going to happen. in a few moments i could hear a train rattling down the mountain. about five hundred yards above conemaugh the tracks make a slight curve and we could not see beyond this. the suspense was something awful. we did not know what was coming, but no one could get rid of the thought that something was wrong at the dam. "our suspense was not very long, however. nearer and nearer the train came, the thundering sound still accompanying it. there seemed to be something behind the train, as there was a dull, rumbling sound which i knew did not come from the train. nearer and nearer it came; a moment more and it would reach the curve. the next instant there burst upon our eyes a sight that made every heart stand still. rushing around the curve, snorting and tearing, came an engine and several gravel cars. the train appeared to be putting forth every effort to go faster. nearer it came, belching forth smoke and whistling long and loud. but the most terrible sight was to follow. twenty feet behind came surging along a mad rush of water fully fifty feet high. like the train, it seemed to be putting forth every effort to push along faster. such an awful race we never before witnessed. for an instant the people seemed paralyzed with horror. they knew not what to do, but in a moment they realized that a second's delay meant death to them. with one accord they rushed to the high lands a few hundred feet away. most of them succeeded in reaching that place and were safe. [illustration: an engineer's terrific race in the valley of death.] "i thought of the passengers in my train. the second section of no. had three sleepers. in these three cars were about thirty people, who rushed through the train crying to the others 'save yourselves!' then came a scene of the wildest confusion. ladies and children shrieked and the men seemed terror-stricken. i succeeded in helping some ladies and children off the train and up to the highlands. running back, i caught up two children and ran for my life to a higher place. thank god, i was quicker than the flood! i deposited my load in safety on the high land just as it swept past us. "for nearly an hour we stood watching the mad flood go rushing by. the water was full of débris. when the flood caught conemaugh it dashed against the little town with a mighty crash. the water did not lift the houses up and carry them off, but crushed them one against the other and broke them up like so many egg shells. before the flood came there was a pretty little town. when the waters passed on there was nothing but few broken boards to mark the central portion of the city. it was swept as clean as a newly brushed floor. when the flood passed onward down the valley i went over to my train. it had been moved back about twenty yards, but it was not damaged. about fifty persons had remained in the train and they were safe. of the three trains ours was the luckiest. the engines of both the others had been swept off the track and one or two cars in each train had met the same fate. "what saved our train was the fact that just at the curve which i mentioned the valley spread out. the valley is six or seven hundred yards broad where our train was standing. this, of course, let the floods pass out. it was only twenty feet high when it struck our train, which was about in the middle of the valley. "this fact, together with the elevation of the track, was all that saved us. we stayed that night in the houses in conemaugh that had not been destroyed. the next morning i started down the valley and by o'clock in the afternoon had reached conemaugh furnace, eight miles west of johnstown. then i got a team and came home. "in my tramp down the valley i saw some awful sights. on the tree branches hung shreds of clothing torn from the unfortunates as they were whirled along in the terrible rush of the torrent. dead bodies were lying by scores along the banks of the creeks. one woman i helped drag from the mud had tightly clutched in her hand a paper. we tore it out of her hand and found it to be a badly water-soaked photograph. it was probably a picture of the drowned woman." over the bridge. frank mcdonald, a railroad conductor, says: "i certainly think i saw , bodies go over the bridge. the first house that came down struck the bridge and at once took fire, and as fast as they came down they were consumed. i believe i am safe in saying i saw , bodies burn. it reminded me of a lot of flies on fly-paper struggling to get away, with no hope and no chance to save them. i have no idea that had the bridge been blown up the loss of life would have been any less. they would have floated a little further with the same certain death. then, again, it was impossible for any one to have reached the bridge in order to blow it up, for the waters came so fast that no one could have done it. i saw fifteen to eighteen bodies go over the bridge. at the same time i offered a man twenty dollars to row me across the river, but could get no one to go, and i finally had to build a boat and get across that way." nothing seems to have withstood the merciless sweep of the mighty on-rush of pent-up conemaugh. as for the houses of the town a thousand of them lie piled up in a smouldering mass to the right of conemaugh bridge. at the present moment, away down in its terrible depths, this mass of torn and twisted timbers and dead humanity is slowly burning, and the light curling smoke that rises as high almost as the mountain, and the sickening smell that comes from the centre of this fearful funeral pile tell that the unseen fire is feeding on other fuel than the rafters and roofs that once sheltered the population of johnstown. a ghastly scene. the mind is filled with horror at the supreme desolation that pervades the whole scene. it is small wonder that the pen cannot in the hands of the most skillful even pretend to convey one-hundredth part of what is seen and heard every hour in the day in this fearful place. at the present moment firemen and others are out on that ghastly aggregation of woodwork and human kind jammed against the unyielding mass of arched masonry. round them curls the white smoke from the smouldering interior of the heaped up houses of johnstown. every now and then the gleam of an axe and a group of stooping forms tell that another ghastly find has been made, and a whisper goes round among the hundreds of watchers that other bodies are being brought to light. how many hundreds or thousands there are who found death by fire at this awful spot will never be known, and the people are already giving up hopes of ever reaching the knowledge of how their loved and lost ones met their doom, whether in the fierce, angry embrace of the waters of conemaugh, or in the deadly grip of the fire fiend, who claimed the homes of johnstown for his own above the fatal bridge. every hour it becomes more and more apparent that the exact number of lives lost will never be known. up to the present time the disposition has been to under rather than overestimate the number of lives sacrificed. a mother rescued by her daughter. a daughter of john duncan, superintendent of the johnstown street car company, had an awful struggle in rescuing her mother and baby sister. mrs. duncan and family had taken refuge on a roof, when a large log came floating down the river, striking the house with immense force, knocking mrs. duncan and daughter into the fast running river. seeing what had happened, alvania, her fifteen-year-old daughter, leaped into the water, and after a hard struggle landed both on the roof of the house. the members of the cambria club tell of their battle for life in the following manner: they were about to sit down to dinner when they heard the crash, and knowing what had occurred they started for the attic just as the flood was upon them. when the members were assured of their safety they at once commenced saving others by grasping them as they floated by on tree tops, houses, etc. in this manner they saved seventy persons from death. the clock stopped at . . one of the queerest sights in the centre of the town is a three-story brick residence standing with one wall, the others having disappeared completely, leaving the floors supported by the partitions. in one of the upper rooms can be seen a mantel with a lambrequin on it and a clock stopped at twenty minutes after five. in front of the clock is a lady's fan, though from the marks on the wall-paper the water has been over all these things. in the upper part of the town, where the back water from the flood went into the valley with diminished force, there are many strange scenes. there the houses were toppled over one after another in a row, and left where they lay. one of them was turned completely over and stands with its roof on the foundations of another house and its base in the air. the owner came back, and getting into his house through the windows walked about on his ceiling. out of this house a woman and her two children escaped safely and were but little hurt, although they were stood on their heads in the whirl. every house has its own story. from one a woman shut up in her garret escaped by chopping a hole in the roof. from another a hungarian named grevins leaped to the shore as it went whirling past and fell twenty-five feet upon a pile of metal and escaped with a broken leg. another is said to have come all the way from very near the start of the flood and to have circled around with the back water and finally landed on the flats at the city site, where it is still pointed out. chapter xi. new tales of horror. the accounts contained in the foregoing chapters bring this appalling story of death down to june th. we continue the narrative as given from day to day by eye-witnesses, as this is the only method by which a full and accurate description of johnstown's unspeakable horror can be obtained. on the morning of june th one of the leading journals contained the following announcements, printed in large type, and preceding its vivid account of the terrible situation at johnstown. death, ruin, plague! threatened outbreak of disease in the fate stricken valley. awful effluvia from corpses! swift and decisive means must be taken to clear away the masses of putrefying matter that underlie the wreck of what was once a town. proposed use of explosives. crowds of refugees are already attacked by pneumonia and the germs of typhus pervade both air and water. victims yet unnumbered. dreadful discoveries hourly made! heaps of the drowned, the mangled and the burned are found in pockets between rocks and under packed accumulations of sand! pennsylvania regiments ordered to the scene to keep ward over an afflicted and heartbroken people. blame where it belongs. the ears of the inhabitants were dulled to fear by warnings many times repeated--forty-two years ago the dam broke--vivid stories of witnesses of the great tragedy--the owners of the lake must bear a gigantic burden of remorse--sufferings of survivors! these were the terrible headings in a single issue of a newspaper. a registry of the living who were residents of johnstown prior to the flood was begun to-day. out of a total population of , the names of only , have been recorded. this may give an approximate idea of the number of those who lost their lives. gaunt menace of pestilence. the most important near fact of to-day is the increasing danger of pestilence. as the work of disengaging the bodies of the dead progresses the horrible peril becomes more and more apparent. there is need of the speediest possible measures to offset the gravity of the sanitary situation. from every part of the stricken valley the same cry of alarm arises, for at every point where the dead are being discovered, as the waters continue to abate, the same peril exists. the use of explosives, especially dynamite, has been discussed. there is some opposition to it, but it may yet be resorted to. the great mass of ruins at the pennsylvania railroad bridge, which is still smoking and smouldering, is a ghastly mine of human flesh and bones in all sorts of hideous shapes, and unless desperate means are employed, cannot be cleared away in weeks to come. [illustration: reading the horrible news.] still, vigorous work in that direction is being performed, and explosives will be used in a limited degree to further it. this great work may be divided into two parts--the clearing away of the mass of débris lodged against the pennsylvania railroad bridge, and the examination and removal of the many wrecked buildings which mark the site of johnstown. order out of chaos. slowly something like order is beginning to appear in the chaos of destruction. enough militia came to-day to put the town under strict martial law. four hundred men of the fourteenth regiment, of pittsburgh, are here. there will be no more tramping over the ruins by ungoverned mobs. there will be no more fears of rioting. the supplies of food are constantly growing. the much needed money is beginning to come in, though not at all needless relief committees are beginning to go out. better quarters for the sufferers are being provided. better arrangements for systematic relief are made. something of the deep gloom has been dispelled, though johnstown is still the saddest spot on earth. the systematic attempt to clear up the ruins at the gorge and get out the bodies imprisoned there began to-day. the expectations of ghastly discoveries were more than realized. scores of burned and mangled bodies were removed. freaks of the torrent. the great waste where the city stood looked a little different to-day. some attempt was made to clear up the rubbish, and fires were burning in a dozen places to get rid of it. tents for the soldiers and some of the sufferers were put up in the smooth stretch of sand where a great, five story hardware store used to stand. the dead animals that were here and there in the débris were removed, to the benefit of the towns-people's health. curious things come to light where the rubbish was cleared away. the solid cobblestone pavement had been scooped up by the force of the water and in some places swept so far away that there was not a sign of it. behind a house that was resting on one corner was found a wickerwork baby carriage full of mud, but not injured or scratched in the least nor yet buried in the mud, but looking as if it had been rolled there and left. very close to it was a piece of railroad iron that must have been carried half a mile, bent as it it were but common wire. exactly on the site of a large grocery store was a box of soap and a bundle of clothespins, while of all the brick and stone, of which the store was built, and all the heavy furniture it contained there was not the slightest trace. many articles of wearing apparel were found here, but no bodies could be discovered in the whole stretch of the plain, from which it is inferred that most of the deaths occurred at the gorge or else the flood swept them far away. reminders of a broken home. one of the few buildings that are left in this part of town is the fine house of mr. geranheiser, of the cambria iron company. it presents a queer spectacle--that is common here but has not often been seen before. the flood reached almost to the second floor and was strong enough to cut away about half the house, leaving the rest standing. the whole interior of the place can be seen just as the frightened inmates left it. the carpets are torn up from the first floor, but the pictures are still hanging on the walls and an open piano stands against the wall full of mud; a brussels carpet being halfway out of the second story on the side where the wreck was and showing exactly how high the water came. there was a centre table in the room and an open book on it. chairs stood about the room and the pictures were on the walls, and half of the room was gone miles away. seven acres of wreckage. just below the bare plain where the business block of johnstown stood, and above the stone arch bridge on which the pennsylvania railroad crossed the river, are seven acres of the wreckage of the flood. the horrors that have been enacted in that spot, the horrors that are seen there every hour, who can attempt to describe? under and amid that mass of conglomerate rubbish are the remains of at least one thousand persons who died the most frightful of deaths. this is the place where the fire broke out within twenty minutes after the flood. it has burned ever since. the stone arch bridge acted as a dam to the flood, and five towns were crushing each other against it. a thousand houses came down on the great wave of water, and were held there a solid mass in the jaws of a cyclopean vise. a kitchen stove upset. the mass took fire. a thousand people were imprisoned in these houses. a thousand more were on the roofs. for most of them there was no escape. the fire swept on from house to house. the prisoners saw it coming and shrieked and screamed with terror, and ran up and down their narrow quarters in an agony of fear. sights to freeze their blood. thousands of people stood upon the river bank and saw and heard it all and still were powerless to help. they saw people kneeling in the flames and praying. they saw families gathered together with their arms around each other and waiting for death. they saw people going mad and tearing their hair and laughing. they saw men plunge into the narrow crevices between the houses and seek death in the water rather than wait its coming in the flames. some saw their friends and some their wives and children perishing before them, and some in the awful agony of the hour went mad themselves and ran shrieking to the hillsides, and stronger men laid down on the ground and wept. all that night and all the next day, and far into the morning of monday, these dreadful shrieks resounded from that place of doom. the fire burned on, aided by the fire underneath, added to by fresh fuel coming down the river. all that time the people stood helpless on the bank and heard those heartrending sounds. what could they do? they could not fight the fire. every fire engine in the town lay in that mass of rubbish smashed to bits. for hours they had to wait until they could get telegraph word to surrounding towns, and hours more until the fire engines arrived at noon on monday. wrecks of five iron bridges. the shrieks ceased early in the morning. men had began to search the ruins and had taken out the few that still lived. the fire engines began to play on the still smouldering fire. other workmen began to remove the bodies. the fire had swept over the whole mass from shore to shore and burned it to the water. a great field of crushed and charred timbers was all that was left. the flood had gorged this in so tightly that it made a solid bridge above the water. a tremendous, irresistible force had ground and churned and macerated the débris until it was a confused, solid, almost welded, conglomerate, stretching from shore to shore, jammed high up against the stone bridge and extending up the river a quarter of a mile, perhaps half as wide. in this tangled heap and crush of matter were the twisted wrecks of five iron bridges, smashed locomotives, splintered dwellings and all their contents; human beings and domestic animals, hay and factory machinery; the rich contents of stores and brick walls ground to powder--all the products of human industry, all the elements of human interests, twisted, turned, broken in a mighty mill and all thrown together. a sickening spectacle. i walked over this extraordinary mass this morning and saw the fragments of thousands of articles. in one place the roofs of forty frame houses were packed in together just as you would place forty bended cards one on top of another. the iron rods of a bridge were twisted into a perfect spiral six times around one of the girders. just beneath it was a woman's trunk, broken up and half filled with sand, with silk dresses and a veil streaming out of it. from under the trunk men were lifting the body of its owner, perhaps, so burned, so horribly mutilated, so torn from limb to limb, that even the workmen, who have seen so many of these frightful sights that they have begun to get used to them, turned away sick at heart. i saw in one place a wrecked grocery store--bins of coffee and tea, flour, spices and nuts, parts of the counter and safe mingled together. near it was the pantry of the house, still partly intact, the plates and saucers regularly piled up, a waiter and a teapot, but not a sign of the woodwork, not a recognizable outline of a house. in another place a halter, with a part of a horse's head tied to a bit of a manger, and a mass of hay and straw about, but no other signs of the stable in which the horse was burned. two cindered towels, a cake of soap in a dish, and a bit of carpet were taken to indicate the location of a hotel. i saw a child's skull in a bed of ashes, but no sign of a body. recognized by fragments. in another place was a human foot and crumbling indications of a boot, but no signs of a body. a hay rick, half ashes, stood near the centre of the gorge. workmen who dug about it to-day found a chicken coop, and in it two chickens, not only alive but clucking happily when they were released. a woman's hat, half burned; a reticule, with a part of a hand still clinging to it; two shoes and part of a dress told the story of one unfortunate's death. close at hand a commercial traveller had perished. there was his broken valise, still full of samples, fragments of his shoes and some pieces of his clothing. scenes like these were occurring all over the charred field where men were working with pick and axe and lifting out the poor, shattered remains of human beings, nearly always past recognition or identification, except by guesswork, or the locality where they were found. articles of domestic use scattered through the rubbish helped to tell who some of the bodies were. part of a set of dinner plates told one man where in the intangible mass his house was. in one place was a photograph album with one picture recognizable. from this the body of a child near by was identified. a man who had spent a day and all night looking for the body of his wife, was directed to her remains by part of a trunk lid. dead bodies caressed. poor old john jordan, of conemaugh! many a tear ran over swarthy cheeks for him to-day. all his family, his wife and children, had been swept from his sight in the flood. he wandered over the gorge yesterday looking for them, and last night the police could not bring him away. at daylight he found his wife's sewing machine and called the workmen to help him. first they found a little boy's jacket that he recognized and then they came upon the rest of them all buried together, the mother's burned arms still clinging to the little children. then the white headed old man sat down in the ashes and caressed the dead bodies and talked to them just as if they were alive until some one came and led him quietly away. without a protest he went to the shore and sat down on a rock and talked to himself, and then got up and disappeared on the hills. to blow up the gorge. was this the only such scene the day saw? there were scores like it. people worked in ruins all day to find their relatives and then went home with horrible uncertainty. people found what they were looking for and fainted at the sight. people looked and cried aloud and came and stood on the banks all day, afraid to look and still afraid to go away. the burned bodies are not the only ones in the gorge. under the timbers and held down in the water there must be hundreds that escaped the fire, but were drowned. to get at these the gorge is to be blown up with dynamite. the sanitary reasons for such a step are becoming hourly more apparent. it is the belief of the physicians that a pestilence will be added to the other horrors of the place if such a thing is not done. all day the bodies have been brought to shore. those that were not recognized were carried on stretchers to the morgue. one hundred and twenty of the identified bodies were carried over the bridge in one procession. relief work for the suffering goes on at the headquarters of the relief committee on that little, muddy, rubbish-filled street which escaped destruction at the edge of the flood. the building is a wretched shanty, once a hungarian boarding-house, and a long line of miserable women stretches out in front of it all day waiting for relief. they are the unfortunate who have lost everything in the flood. quarters for five thousand of these people are provided in tents on the hillside. for provisions they are dependent on the charity of the country. bread and meat are served out to them on the committee's order. they are the most mournful and pitiable sight. there was not one in the line who had not lost some one dear to her. most of them were the wives of merchants or laborers who went down in the disaster. they were the sole survivors of their families. very few had any more clothes than they wore when their houses were washed away. they stood there for hours in the rain yesterday without any protection, soaked with the drizzle, squalid and utterly forlorn--a sight to move a heart of stone. silent sufferers. they did not talk to one another as women generally do even when they are not acquainted. they got no words of sympathy from any one, and they gave none. not a word was spoken along the whole line. they simply stood and waited. in truth there is nothing about the survivors of the disaster that strikes one so forcibly as their evident inability to comprehend their misfortune and the absence of sympathetic expressions among them. it is not because they are naturally stolid, but the whole thing is so vast and bears upon them so heavily they cannot grasp it. people in california know much more about the disaster than any resident of johnstown knows; more information about it can be gotten from towns-people forty miles away than from those who saw it. the people here are not at all lacking in sympathy or kindliness of heart, but what words of sympathy would have any meaning in such a tremendous catastrophe? every person of johnstown has lost a relative or a friend, and so has every other resident he meets. they seem to see instinctively that condolence would be meaningless. famine happily averted. on the west side of the lower town one or two little streets are left from the flood. they are crowded all the time with the survivors. as i have gone among them i have heard nothing but such conversations as this, which is literally reproduced:-- "hello, will! where's jim?" "he's lost." "is that so! goodby." another was:-- "good morning, mr. holden; did you save mrs. holden?" "no; she went with the house. you lost your two boys, didn't you?" "yes. good morning." two women met on the narrow rope bridge which spans the creek. as they passed one said:-- "how about aunt mary?" "oh, she's lost; so is cousin hattie." it gives an outside listener a strange sensation to hear people talk thus with about as little emotion as they would talk about the weather. but the people of johnstown had so much to do with death that they think about nothing else. i will undertake to say that half the people have not the slightest idea what day of the week or month this is. a rope bridge of sighs. to get from one part of the town to another it is necessary to cross the river or creek which is now flowing over the sites of business blocks. of course every vestige of a bridge was swept far away, and to take their places two ropes have been hung from high timbers built upon the sandy island that was the city's site. on these ropes narrow boards are tied. the whole structure is not more than four feet wide, and it hangs trembling over the water in a way that makes nervous people shudder. over this frail thing hundreds of people crowd every hour, and why there has not been another disaster is something no one can understand. the river is rising steadily, and all the afternoon the middle of the bridge sagged down into the water, but the people kept on struggling across. many of them carried coffins containing bodies from the morgue. there are no express wagons, no hearses--scarcely any vehicles of any kind in the town--and all the coffins have to be carried on the shoulders of the men. coffins are a dreadfully common sight. it is impossible to move a dozen steps in any direction without meeting one or very likely a procession of of them. one hundred of them were piled up in front of the morgue this morning. twice as many more were on the platform of the pennsylvania station. carloads of coffins were being unloaded from freight cars below town and carried along the roads. almost every house has a coffin in it. every boat that crosses the river carries one, and rows of them stood by the bank to receive the bodies. merely a mud plain. there is a narrow fringe of houses on each side of the empty plain, which escaped because they were built on higher ground. fine brick blocks and paved streets filled the business part of the town, which was about a mile long and half a mile wide. where these blocks stood mud is in some places six feet deep. over and through it all is scattered an extraordinary collection of rubbish--boilers, car wheels, fragments of locomotives, household furniture, dead animals, clothing, sewing machines, goods from stores, safes, passenger and street cars, some half buried in the sand, some all exposed, helter-skelter. it is simply impossible to realize the tremendous force exercised by the flood, though the imagination is assisted by the presence of heavy iron beams twisted and bent, railroad locomotives swept miles away, rails torn up, the rocks and banks slashed away, and brick walls carried away, leaving no traces of their foundations. the few stone houses that resisted the shock were completely stripped of all their contents and filled four feet deep with sand and powdered débris. a glimpse from a window. as i write this, seated within a curious circular affair, which was once a mould for sewer pipe, are two operators busy with clicking instruments. the floor is a foot deep with clay. there are no doors. there are no windows which boast of glass or covering of any kind. the lookout embraces the bulk of the devastated districts. just below the windows are the steep river banks, covered with a miscellaneous mass thrown up by the flood. the big stone bridge is crowded with freight cars loaded with material for repairing the structure and with people who are eager to see something horrible. that funeral pyre. the further half of the bridge which was swept away has been replaced by a trembling wooden affair, wide enough only for two persons to walk abreast. to the left of the bridge and across the river are the great brick mills of the cambria iron and steel company, crushed and torn out of a semblance to workshops. just in front of the office is what has been called the "funeral pyre," and which threatens to become a veritable breeding spot of pestilence. just before me a group of red-capped firemen are directing a stream of water upon such portions of the mass as can be reached from the shore. where death was busiest. over to the right, at the edge of a muddy lagoon which marks the limit of the levelling rush of the mad torrent, there are dozens and dozens of buildings leaning against each other in the oddest sort of jumble. the spectacle would be ludicrous if it were not so awfully suggestive of the tragic fate of the inmates. behind this border land are the regions where death was wofully busy. in some streets a mile from any railroad track locomotives and cars are scattered among the smouldering ruins. in the river the rescuers are busy, and so are the hungarians and native born thieves. men take queer souvenirs away sometimes. one came up the bank a short time ago with a skull and two leg bones, all blackened and burned by the fire. there is, of course, no business done, and those who have been spared have little to do save watch for a new phase of the greatest tragedy of the kind in modern history. on prospect hill is a town of tents where the homeless are housed and fed, and where also a formidable city of the dead has been just prepared. such are some of the scenes visible from the window. the skeleton of its former self. the water has receded in the night almost as rapidly as it came, and behind it remains the sorriest sight imaginable. the dove that has come has no green leaf of promise, for its wings are draped with the hue of mourning and desolation. there now lies the great skeleton of dead johnstown. the great ribs of rocky sand stretch across the chest scarred and covered with abrasions. acres of mud, acres of wreckage, acres of unsteady, tottering buildings, acres of unknown dead, of ghastly objects which have been eagerly sought for since friday; acres of smoky, streaming ruin, of sorrow for somebody, lie out there in the sunshine. like unto arcadia after the fire. the awful desolation of the scene has been described often enough already to render a repetition of the attempt here unnecessary. these descriptions have been as truthful and graphic as it is possible for man to make them; but none have been adequate--none could be. where once stood solid unbroken blocks for squares and squares, with basements and subcellars, there is now a level plain as free from obstruction or excavation as the fair fields of arcadia after they had been swept by the british flames. the major and prettier portion of the beautiful city has literally been blotted from the face of the earth. disease succeeds to calamity. up the ragged surface of prospect hill, whither hundreds of terrified people fled for safety friday night, i scrambled this afternoon. i came upon a pneumonia scourge which bids fair to do for a number of the escaped victims what the flood could not. death has pursued them to their highest places, and terror will not die. every little house on the hill--and there are a hundred or two of them--had thrown its doors open to receive the bruised, half-clad fugitives on the dark day of the deluge, and every one was now a crude hospital. half the women who had scaled the height were so overcome with fright that they have been bedridden ever since. there had been pneumonia on the hill, but only a few cases. to-day, however, several fresh cases developed among the the flood fugitives, and a local physician said the prospects for a scourge are all too promising. the enfeebled condition of the patients, the unhealthy atmosphere pervading the valley and the necessarily close quarters in which the people are crowded render the spread of the disease almost certain. the military called out. at the request of the sheriff, adjutant general hastings called out the fourteenth regiment of pittsburgh, who are to be stationed at johnstown proper, to guard the buildings and against emergencies. other reasons are known to exist for this precaution. bodies were recovered to-day that have been robbed by the ghouls. it is known that one lady had several hundred dollars in her possession just before the disaster, but when the body was recovered there was not a cent in her pocket. the hungarians attacked a supply wagon between morrellville and cambria city to-day. the drivers of the wagon repulsed them, but they again returned. a second fight ensued, but after lively scrambling the hungarians were again driven away. after that drivers and guards of supply wagons were permitted to go armed. general hastings was seen later in the day, and when asked what caused him to order the militia said: "there is no need of troops to quell another disturbance, but now there are at least two thousand men at work in johnstown clearing up the débris, and i think that it will not hurt to have the fourteenth regiment here, as they can guard the banks and all valuables. the sheriff consulted me in the matter. he stated that his men were about worn out, and he thought that we had better have some soldiers. so i ordered them." the people, aroused by repeated outrages, are bitterly hounding the hungarians, and a military force is essential to see that both sides preserve order. indignant battery b. a number of the members of battery b and the washington infantry, who were ordered back from johnstown, are very indignant at adjutant general hastings, who gave the order. they claim that general hastings not only acted without a particle of judgment, but when they offered to act as picket, do police duty or anything else that might be required of them, they state that they were treated like dogs. they also insist that their services are badly needed for the reason that the hills surrounding johnstown are swarming with tramps, who are availing themselves of every opportunity to secure plunder from the numerous wrecks or dead bodies. they told the general that they came more as private citizens than as soldiers, and were willing to do what they could. the general abruptly ordered them back to pittsburgh. lieutenant gammel, who had charge of the men, said: "we would like to have stayed but we had to obey orders and we took the first train for home. even the short time we were there the fifty-five men had pulled out thirty-five bodies." members of the battery said: "this is a fine governor we have, and as for hastings, the least said about his actions the better." the adjutant general's order calling out the fourteenth regiment and ordering them to this place is not looked upon as being altogether a wise move by many citizens. narrow escape from lynching. about eleven o'clock this morning, captain w.r. jones, of braddock, and his men discovered a man struggling in the hands of an angry crowd on main street. the crowd were belaboring the man with sticks and fists, and captain jones entered the house where the disturbance occurred, and the man shouted: "i have a right here, and am getting what belongs to my folks!" the crowd then demanded that he show what he had in his possession. he reluctantly produced a handful of jewelry from his pocket, among which was a gold watch, which was no sooner shown than a gentleman who was standing nearby claimed it as his own, saying that the house where they were standing was the residence of his family. he then proceeded to identify clearly the property. the crowd, convinced of the thief's guilt, wanted to lynch him, but after an exciting scene captain jones pacified them. the man was escorted out of town by officers, released and ordered not to return. johnstown succored. there will be no more charity except for the helpless. the lengthening of the death roll has fearfully shortened the list to be provided for. there is now an abundance of food and clothing to satisfy the present necessities of all who are in need. beginning to-morrow morning, june th, aid will not be extended to any who are able to work except in payment for work. all the destitute who are able and willing will be put to work clearing up the wreck in the river and the wastes where the streets stood. they will be paid $ . and $ . per day for ordinary laboring work, and thus obtain money with which to buy provisions, which will be sold to them at reduced prices. those who will not work will be driven off. the money collected will be paid out in wages, in defraying funeral expenses and in relieving those whose bread providers have been taken away. dainties not wanted. the supplies of food and clothing are far in excess of the demand to-day. the mistake of sending large quantities of dainties has been made by some of the relief committees. bishop phelan has been on the ground all day in company with a number of catholic priests from pittsburgh. he has ordered provisions for all the sufferers who have taken shelter in the buildings over which he has placed the little sisters of the poor. there are several hundred people now being cared for by the relief corps, and as the work of rescue goes on the number increases. bent on charity. mrs. campbell, president of the allegheny woman's christian temperance union, arrived this morning, and with miss kate foster, of johnstown, organized a temporary home for destitute children on bedford street. on the same train came a delegation from the smithfield methodist episcopal church. they began relieving the wants of the suffering methodists. committees from the masonic and odd fellows from pittsburgh are looking after their brethren. mr. moxham, the iron manufacturer, is mayor pro. tem. of johnstown to-day. he is probably the busiest man in the united states; although for days without sleep, he still sticks nobly to his task. hundreds of others are like him. men fall to the earth from sheer fatigue. there are many who have not closed an eye in sleep since they awoke on friday morning; they are hollow-eyed and pitiful looking creatures. many have lost near relatives and all friends. shylocks. men and horses are what are most needed to-day. some of the unfortunates who could not go to the relief trains endeavored to obtain flour from the wrecked stores in johnstown. one dealer was charging $ a sack for flour, and was getting it in one or two cases. suddenly the crowd heard of the occurrence. several desperate men went to the store and doled the flour gratuitously to the homeless and stricken. another dealer was selling flour at $ . a sack. he refused to give any away, but would sell it to any one who had the money. otherwise he would not allow any one to go near it, guarding his store with a shotgun. masons on the field. the special train of the masonic relief association which left pittsburgh at one o'clock yesterday afternoon on the baltimore and ohio railroad did not reach here until just before midnight, at which time it was impossible to do anything. under the circumstances, the party concluded to pass the night in the cars, making themselves as comfortable as possible with packing boxes for beds and candle boxes for pillows. they spent the morning distributing the food and clothing among the masonic sufferers. in addition to a large quantity of cooked food, sandwiches, etc., as well as flour and provisions of every description, the relief committee brought up outfits of clothing for women and a similar number for girls, and a miscellaneous lot for men and boys. the women's outfits are complete, and include underwear, stockings, shoes, dresses, wraps and hats. they are most acceptable in the present crisis, and much suffering has already been relieved by them. the knights of pythias have received a large donation of money from pittsburgh lodges. appeal to president harrison. adjutant general hastings yesterday afternoon telegraphed to president harrison requesting that government pontoons be furnished to enable a safe passageway to be made across the field of charred ruins above johnstown bridge for the purpose of prosecuting search for the dead. late last night an answer was received from the president stating that the pontoons would be at once forwarded by the secretary of war. a despatch of sympathy has been received by adjutant general hastings from the mayor of kansas city, who states that the little giant of the west will do her duty in this time of need. fraternities uniting. the various fraternities, whose work has been referred to in various despatches, have established headquarters and called meetings of surviving local members. these meetings are held in alma hall, belonging to the odd fellows, which, owing to its solid construction, withstood the pressure of the flood. from the headquarters at alma hall most of the committees representing the various secret societies are distributing relief. the first hopeful view of the situation taken by the odd fellows' committee has been clouded by the dismal result of further investigations. at last night's meeting at the old school-house on prospect hill definite tidings were received from but thirty members out of a total of . cambria lodge, with a membership of eighty-five, mostly germans, seems to have been entirely wiped out, not a single survivor having yet reported. call for workers. last night robert bridgard, a letter carrier of johnstown, marched at the head of three hundred men to the corner of morrell avenue and columbia street, where he mounted a wagon and made a speech on the needs of the hour. chiefest of these, he considered, was good workmen to clear away the débris and extract the bodies from the wreckage. he closed with a bitter attack on the lazy huns and poles, who refused to aid in the work of relief and yet are begging and even stealing the provisions that are sent here to feed the sufferers. the crowd numbered nearly one thousand, and greeted bridgard's words with cheers. another resident of the city then mounted a barrel and made a ringing speech condemning the slothful foreigners, who have proven themselves a menace to the valley and its inhabitants. the feelings of the crowd were aroused to such an alarming extent that it was feared it would culminate in an attack on the worthless poles and hungarians. the following resolution was adopted with a wild shout of approval, and the meeting adjourned:-- "_resolved_, that we, the citizens of johnstown, in public meeting assembled, do most earnestly beg the relief corps of the johnstown sufferers to furnish no further provisions to the hungarians and poles of this city and vicinity except in payment of services rendered by them for the relief of their unfortunate neighbors. "_resolved_, further, that in case of their refusal to render such service they be driven from the doors of the relief trains and warned to vacate the premises." hospitals and morgues. those who doubt that many thousands lost their lives in this disaster have not visited the morgues. there are three of these dreadful places crowded so full of the unidentified dead that there is scarcely room to move between the bodies. to the largest morgue, which i visited this morning, one hundred and sixty bodies have been brought for identification. when it is remembered that most of the bodies were swept below the limits of johnstown, that many more found here have been identified at once by their friends and that it is certain that many bodies were consumed entirely in the fire at the gorge, the fact gives some idea of the extent of the calamity. the largest morgue is at the fourth ward school-house, a two-story brick building which stands just at the edge of the high mark of the flood. the bodies were laid across the school children's desks until they got to be so numerous that there was not room for them, excepting on the floor. soldiers with crossed bayonets keep out the crowd of curious people who have morbid appetites to gratify. none of these people are of johnstown. people of johnstown do not have time to come to look for friends, and they give the morgue a wide berth. those who do come have that dazed, miserable look that has fallen to all the residents of the unhappy town. they walk through slowly and look at the bodies and go away looking no sadder nor any less perplexed than when they came in. one of the doctors in charge at the morgue told me that many of these people had come in and looked at the bodies of their own fathers and brothers and gone away without recognizing them, though not at all disfigured. "that's jim." in some instances it had been necessary for other persons, who knew the people, to point out the dead to the living and assure them positively of the identification before they could be aroused. i saw a railroad laborer who had come in to look for a friend. he walked up and down the aisles like a man in a trance. he looked at the bodies, and took no apparent interest in any of them. at last he stopped before one of them which he had passed twice before, muttered, "that's jim," and went out just as he had come in. two other identifications i saw during the hour i was there were just like this. there was no shedding of tears nor other showing of emotion. they gazed upon the features of their dead as if they were totally unable to comprehend it all, and reported their identification to the attendants and watched the body as it was put into a coffin and went away. many came to look for their loved ones, but i did not see one show more grief or realization of the dreadful character of their errand than this. arrangements with the morgues are complete and efficient. the bodies are properly prepared and embalmed and a description of the clothing is placed upon each. hospital arrangements. the same praise cannot be given the hospital arrangements. the only hospital is a small wooden church, in which apartments have been roughly improvised, with blankets for partitions. only twenty patients can be cared for here, and the list of wounded is more than two hundred. the rest have been taken to the private houses that were not overcrowded with the homeless survivors, to farmers in the country and to outlying towns. two have died. it did not occur to any one until lately to get any nurses from other places to take care of the patients, and even now most of the nurses are johnstown people who have lost relatives and have their own cares. these persons sought out the hospital and volunteered for the work. a procession of coffins. a sight most painful to behold was presented to view about noon to-day, when a procession of fifty unidentified coffined bodies started up the hill above the railroad to be buried in the improvised cemetery there. not a relation, not a mourner was present. in fact, it is doubtful if these dead have any surviving relatives. the different graveyards are now so crowded that it will take several days to bury all the bodies that have been deposited in them. this was the day appointed by the citizens' committee for burying all the unidentified dead that have been laying in the different morgues since sunday morning, and about three hundred bodies were taken to the cemeteries to-day. it was not an unusual sight to see two or three coffins going along, one after another. it is impossible to secure wagons or conveyances of any kind, consequently all funeral processions are on foot. several yellow flags were noticed sticking up from the black wreckage above the stone bridge. this was a new plan adopted by the sanitary corps to indicate at what points bodies had been located. as it grows dark the flags are still up, and another day will dawn upon the imprisoned remains. people who had lost friends, and supposed they had drifted into this fatal place, peered down into the charred mass in a vain endeavor to recognize beloved features. unrecognizable victims of fire. there are now nearly two thousand men employed in different parts of the valley clearing up the ruins and prosecuting diligent search for the undiscovered dead, and bodies are discovered with undiminished frequency. it becomes hourly more and more apparent that not a single vestige will ever be recognized of hundreds that were roasted in the flames above the bridge. a party of searchers have just unearthed a charred and unsightly mass from the smouldering débris. the leader of the gang pronounced the remains to be a blackened leg, and it required the authoritative verdict of a physician to demonstrate that the ghastly discovery was the charred remains of a human being. only the trunk remained, and that was roasted beyond all semblance to flesh. five minutes' search revealed fragments of a skull that at once disintegrated of its own weight when exposed to air, no single piece being larger than a half dollar, and the whole resembling the remnants of shattered charcoal. within the last hour a half dozen discoveries in no way less horrifying than this ghastly find have been made by searchers as they rake with sticks and hooks in the smouldering ruins. so difficult is it at times to determine whether the remains are those of human beings that it is apparent that hundreds must be burned to ashes. the number that have found a last resting place beneath these ruins can at the best never be more than approximated. a vast charnel house. every moment now the body of some poor victim is taken from the débris, and the town, or rather the remnants of it, is one vast charnel house. the scenes at the extemporized morgue are beyond powers of description in their ghastliness, while the moans and groans of the suffering survivors, tossing in agony, with bruised and mangled bodies, or screaming in a delirium of fever as they issue from the numerous temporary hospitals, make even the stoutest hearted quail with terror. nearly two thousand bodies have already been recovered, and as the work of examining the wreckage progresses the conviction grows that the magnitude of the calamity has not yet been approximated. the pile of débris still burning. the débris wedged against the big pennsylvania railroad stone bridge is still burning, and the efforts of the firemen to quench or stay the progress of the flames are as futile as were those of gulliver's lilliputian firemen. the mass, which unquestionably forms a funeral pyre for thousands of victims who lie buried beneath it, is likely to burn for weeks to come. the flames are not active, but burn away in a sullen, determined fashion. there are twenty-six firemen here now--all level-headed fellows--who keep their unwieldy and almost exhausted forces under masterful control. although they were scattered all over the waste places to-day, the heavy work was done in the point district, where a couple hundred mansions lie in solid heaps of brick, stone and timbers. one corpse every five minutes. here the labors of the searchers were rewarded by the discovery of a corpse about every five minutes. as a general thing the bodies were mangled and unrecognizable unless by marks or letters on their persons. in every case decomposition has set in and the work of the searchers is becoming one that will test their stomachs as well as their hearts. wherever one turns pittsburghers of prominence are encountered. they are busy, determined men, rendering valuable service. chief evans, of the pittsburgh fire department, was hustling around with a force of twenty-four more firemen, just brought up to relieve those who have been working so heroically since saturday. morris m. mead, superintendent of the bureau of electricity, headed a force of sixteen sanitary inspectors from pittsburgh, who are doing great work among the dead. how bodies are treated. there are six improvised morgues now in johnstown. they are in churches and school-houses, the largest one being in the fourth ward school-house, where planks have been laid over the tops of desks, on which the remains are placed. a corpse is dug from the bank. it is covered with mud. it is taken to the anteroom of the school, where it is placed under a hydrant and the muck and slime washed off. with the slash of a knife the clothes are ripped open and an attendant searches the pockets for valuables or papers that would lead to identification. four men lift the corpse on a rude table, and there it is thoroughly washed and an embalming fluid injected in the arm. with other grim bodies the corpse lies in a larger room until it is identified or becomes offensive. in the latter case it is hurried to the large grave, a grave that will hereafter have a monument over it bearing the inscription "unknown dead." the number of the latter is growing hourly, because pestilence stalks in johnstown, and the bloated, disfigured masses of flesh cannot be held much longer. levelled by death. bodies of stalwart workmen lie beside the remains of refined ladies, many of whom are still decked with costly earrings and have jewels glittering on the fingers. rich and poor throng these quarters and gaze with awe-struck faces at the masses of mutilations in the hope of recognizing a missing one, so as to accord the body a decent burial. from death's gaping jaws. we give here the awful narrative of george irwin's experience. irwin is a resident of hillside, westmoreland county, and was discovered in a dying condition in a clump of bushes just above the tracks of the pennsylvania railroad, about a mile below johnstown. when stretched upon two railroad ties near the track his tongue protruded from his mouth and he gasped as if death was at hand. with the assistance of brandy and other stimulants he was in a degree revived. he then told the following story: "i was visiting friends in johnstown on friday when the flood came up. we were submerged without a moment's warning. i was taken from the window of the house in which i was then a prisoner by mr. hay, the druggist at johnstown, but lost my footing and was not rescued. i clung to a saw log until i struck the works of the cambria iron company, when i caught on the roof of the building. i remained there for nearly an hour, when i was knocked again from my position by a piece of a raft. i floated on top of this until i got down here and i stuck in an apple tree. preferred death to such sights. "i saw and heard a number of other unfortunate victims when swept by me appealing for some one to save them. one woman and two children were floating along in apparent safety; then they struck the corner of a building and all went down together. "i would rather have died than have been compelled to witness that sight. "i have not had a bit to eat since friday night, but i don't feel hungry. i am afraid my stomach is gone and i am about done for." he was taken to a hospital by several soldiers and railroad men who rescued him. a young lady's experiences. miss sue caddick, of indiana, who was stopping at the brunswick hotel, on washington street, and was rescued late friday evening, returned home to-day. she said she had a premonition of danger all day and had tried to get mrs. murphy to take her children and leave the house, but the lady had laughed at her fears and partially dissipated them. miss caddick was standing at the head of the second flight of stairs when the flood burst upon the house. she screamed to the murphys--father, mother and seven children--to save themselves. she ran up stairs and got into a higher room, in which the little children, the oldest of whom was fourteen years, also ran. the mother and father were caught and whirled into the flood and drowned in an instant. the waters came up and the children clung to the young lady, who saw that she must save herself, and she was compelled to push the little ones aside and cling to pieces of the building, which by this time had collapsed and was disintegrating. all of the children were drowned save the oldest boy, who caught a tree and was taken out almost unhurt near blairsville. miss caddick clung to her fraction of the building, which was pushed into the water out of the swirl, and in an hour she was taken out safe. she said her agony in having to cut away from the children was greater than her fear after she got into the water. an old lady's great peril. mrs. ramsey, mother of william ramsey and aunt of lawyer cassidy, of pittsburgh, was alone in her house when the flood came. she ran to the third story, and although the house was twisted off its foundation, it remained intact, and the old lady was rescued after being tossed about for twenty-four hours. james hines, jr., of indiana, one of the survivors, to-day said that he and twelve of the other guests took refuge on the top of the merchants' hotel. they were swept off and were carried a mile down the stream, then thrown on the shore. one of the party, james ziegler, he said, was drowned while trying to get to the top of the building. one hundred and seventy-five of the corpses brought to nineveh by the flood were buried this afternoon and to-night on the crest of a hill behind the town. three trenches were dug two hundred feet long, seven feet wide and four feet deep. the coffins were packed in very much as grocers' boxes are stored in a warehouse. of the two hundred bodies picked up in the fields after the waters subsided were unidentified and were buried marked "unknown." twenty-five were shipped to relatives at outside points. in many cases friends of those who were recognized were unable to do anything to prevent their consignment to the trenches. altogether twenty-seven were identified to-day. the bodies as fast as they were found were taken to the storehouse of theodore f. nimawaker, the station agent here, and laid out on boards. it was impossible on account of their condition to keep them any longer. the county commissioners bought an acre of ground for $ , out of which they made a cemetery. by locomotive headlights. it was sad to see the coffins going up the steep hill on farm wagons, two or three on each wagon. no tender mourners followed the mud-covered hearses. enough laborers sat on each load to handle it when it reached its destination. the commissioners of cumberland county have certainly behaved very handsomely. the coffins ordered were of the best. some economical citizens suggested that they buy an acre of marsh land by the river, which could be had for a few dollars, but they declared that the remains should be placed in dry ground. the lifeless clay reposes now far out of the reach of the deadly waters which go suddenly down the conemaugh valley. it is a pretty spot, this cemetery, and one that a poet would choose for a resting place. mountains well wooded are on every hand; no black factory smoke defaces the sky line. two locomotive headlights shed their rays over the cemetery to-night and gave enough light for the men to work by. they rapidly shoveled in the dirt. no priests were there to consecrate the ground or say a prayer over the cold limbs of the unknown. upon the coffins i noticed such inscriptions as these: "no. , unknown girl, aged eight years, supposed to be sarah windser." "no. , unknown man, black hair, aged about thirty-five years, smooth face." some of the bodies were more specifically described as "fat," "lean," and to one i saw the term "lusty" applied. chapter xii. pathetic scenes. some of the really pathetic scenes of the flood are just coming to the public ear. john henderson, his wife, his three children, and the mother of mrs. henderson remained in their house until they were carried out by the flood, when they succeeded in getting upon some drift. mr. henderson took the babe from his wife, but the little thing soon succumbed to the cold and the child died in its father's arms. he clung to it until it grew cold and stiff and then, kissing it, let it drop into the water. his mother-in-law, an aged lady, was almost as fragile as the babe, and in a few minutes mr. henderson, who had managed to get near to the board upon which she was floating saw that she, too, was dying. he did what little he could to help her, but the cold and the shock combined were too much. assuring himself that the old lady was dead, mr. henderson turned his attention to his own safety and allowed the body to float down the stream. in the meantime mrs. henderson, who had become separated from her husband, had continued to keep her other two children for some time, but finally a great wave dashed them from her arms and out of her sight. they were clinging to some driftwood, however, and providentially were driven into the very arms of their father, who was some distance down the stream quite unconscious of the proximity of his loved ones. another whirl of the flood and all were driven over into some eddying water in stony creek and carried by backing water to kernville, where all were rescued. mrs. henderson had nearly the same experience. dr. holland's awful plunge. dr. holland, a physician who lived on vine street, saw both of his children drown before his eyes, but they were not washed out of the building. he took both of them in his arms and bore them to the roof, caring nothing for the moment for the rising water. finally composing himself, he kissed them both and watched them float away. his father arrived here to-day to assist his son and take home with him the bodies of the children, which have been recovered. dr. holland, after the death of his children, was carried out into the flood and finally to a building, in the window of which a man was standing. the doctor held up his hands; the man seized them and dextrously slipping a valuable ring from the finger of one hand, brutally threw him out into the current again. the physician was saved, however, and has been looking for the thief and would-be murderer ever since. crushed in his own house. david dixon, an engineer in the employ of the cambria iron works, was with his family in his house on cinder street, when the flood struck the city. the shock overturned his house against that of his neighbor, evans, and he, with his infant daughter, edith, was pinned between the houses as a result of the upturning. both houses were carried down against the viaduct of the pennsylvania railroad and there, in sight of his wife and children, excepting a -year-old lad, he was drowned, the water rising and smothering him because of his inability to get from between the buildings. his wife was badly crushed and it is thought will be an invalid the remainder of her days. the children, including the babe in its father's arms, were all saved, and the other boy, joe, one of the brightest, bravest, handsomest little fellows in the world, was in his news-stand near the pennsylvania passenger station, and was rescued with difficulty by edward decker, another boy, just as the driftwood struck the little store and lifted it high off its foundation. babies who died together. this morning two little children apparently not over three and four years old, were taken from the water clasped in each other's arms so tightly that they could not be separated, and they were coffined and buried together. a bright girl, in a gingham sun-bonnet and a faded calico dress came out of the ruins of a fine old brick house next the catholic church on jackson street this afternoon. she had a big platter under her arm and announced to a bevy of other girls that the china was all right in the cupboard, but there was so much water in there that she didn't dare go in. she chatted away quite volubly about the fire in the catholic church, which also destroyed the house of her own mother, mrs. foster. "i know the church took fire after the flood," she said, "for mother looked out of the window and said: 'my god! not only flood, but fire!'" it was a burning house from conemaugh that struck the house the other side of the church and set it on fire. aunt tabby's trunk. "i didn't think last tuesday i'd be begging to-day, emma," interrupted a young man from across the stream of water which ran down the centre of main street. "i'm sitting on your aunt tabby's trunk." the girl gave a cry, half of pained remembrance, half of pleasure. "oh, my dear aunt tabby!" she cried, and, rushing across the rivulet, she threw herself across the battered leather trunk--sole surviving relic of aunt tabby; but aunt tabby and the finding thereof was a light among other shadows of the day. nothing but a baby. gruesome incidents came oftener than pathetic ones or serio-comic. general axline, the adjutant general of ohio, was walking down the station platform this afternoon, when a boy came sauntering up from the viaduct with a bundle in a handkerchief. the handkerchief dripped water. "what have you there, my boy?" asked the general. the boy cowered a minute, though the general's tone was kindly, for the boy, like every one else in johnstown, was prepared for a gruff accostal every five minutes from some official, from adjutant general to constable. finally he answered: "nothing but a baby, sir," and began to open his bundle in proof of the truth of his statement. but the big soldier did not put him to the proof. he turned away sick at heart. he did not even ask the boy if he knew whose baby it was. how the coffins were carried. a strangely utilitarian device was that of a pittsburgh sergeant of battery b. with one train from the west came several hundred of the morbidly curious, bent upon all the horrors which they could stomach. a crowd of them crossed the viaduct and stopped to gaze round-eyed upon a pile of empty coffins meant for the bodies of the identified dead found up and across the river in the ruins of johnstown proper. as they gazed the sergeant, seeking transportation for the coffins, came along. a somewhat malicious inspiration of military genius lighted his eye. with the best imitation possible of a regular army man, he shouted to the idlers, "each of you men take a coffin." the idlers eyed him. "what for?" one asked. "you want to go into town, don't you?" replied the sergeant. "well, not one of you goes unless he takes a coffin with him." in ten minutes time way was made at the ticklish rope bridge for a file of sixteen coffins, each borne by two of the sergeant's unwilling conscripts, while the sergeant closed up the rear. some of the scenes witnessed here were heartrending in the extreme. in one case a beautiful girl came down on the roof of a building which was swung in near the tower. she screamed to the operator to save her and one big, brave fellow walked as far into the river as he could and shouted to her to try to guide herself into the shore with a bit of plank. she was a plucky girl, full of nerve and energy, and stood upon her frail support in evident obedience to the command of the operator. she made two or three bold strokes and actually stopped the course of the raft for an instant. then it swerved and went out from under her. she tried to swim ashore, but in a few seconds she was lost. something hit her, for she lay quietly on her back, with face pallid and expressionless. men and women in dozens, in pairs and singly; children, boys, big and little, and wee babies were there in among the awful confusion of water, drowning, gasping, struggling and fighting desperately for life. two men on a tiny raft shot into the swiftest part of the current. they crouched stolidly, looking at the shores, while between them, dressed in white and kneeling with her face turned heavenward was a girl seven years old. she seemed stricken with paralysis until she came opposite the tower and then she turned her face to the operator. she was so close they could see big tears on her cheeks and her pallor was as death. the helpless men on shore shouted to her to keep up courage, and she resumed her devout attitude and disappeared under the trees of a projection a short distance below. "we could not see her come out again," said the operator, "and that was all of it." "do you see that fringe of trees?" said the operator, pointing to the place where the little girl had gone out of sight. "well, we saw scores of children swept in there. i believe that when the time comes they will find almost a hundred bodies of children in there among those bushes." floated to their death. a bit of heroism is related by one of the telegraph operators at bolivar. he says: "i was standing on the river bank about . last evening when a raft swept into view. it must have been the floor of a dismantled house. upon it were grouped two women and a man. they were evidently his mother and sister, for both clung to him as though stupefied with fear as they were whirled under the bridge here. the man could save himself if he had wished by simply reaching up his hand and catching the timber of the structure. he apparently saw this himself, and the temptation must have been strong for him to do so, but in one second more he was seen to resolutely shake his head and clasp the women tighter around the waist. "on they sped. ropes were thrown out from the tree tops, but they were unable to catch them, though they grasped for the lines eagerly enough. then a tree caught in their raft and dragged after them. in this way they swept out of view." still finding bodies by scores in the burning débris; still burying the dead and caring for the wounded; still feeding the famishing and housing the homeless, and this on the fourth day following the one on which johnstown was swept away. the situation of horror has not changed; there are hundreds, and it is feared thousands, still buried beneath the scattered ruins that disfigure the v-shaped valley in which johnstown stood. a perfect stream of wagons bearing the dead as fast as they are discovered is constantly filing to the improvised morgues, where the bodies are taken for identification. hundreds of people are constantly crowding to these temporary houses, one of which is located in each of the suburban boroughs that surround johnstown. men armed with muskets, uniformed sentinels, constituting the force that guard the city while it is practically under martial law, stand at the doors and admit the crowd by tens. in the central dead house. in the central dead house in johnstown proper, as early as o'clock to-day there lay two rows of ghastly dead. to the right were twenty bodies that had been identified. they were mostly women and children and they were entirely covered with white sheets, and a piece of paper bearing the name was pinned at the feet. to the left were eighteen bodies of the unknown dead. as the people passed they were hurried along by an attendant and gazed at the uncovered faces seeking to identify them. all applicants for admission if it is thought they are prompted by idle curiosity, are not allowed to enter. the central morgue was formerly a school-house, and the desks are used as biers for the dead bodies. three of the former pupils yesterday lay on the desks dead, with white pieces of paper pinned on to the white sheets that covered them, giving their names. looking for their loved ones. but what touching scenes are enacted every hour about this mournful building. outside the sharp voices of the sentinels are constantly shouting: "move on." inside, weeping women and sad-faced, hollow-eyed men are bending over loved and familiar faces. back on the steep grassy hill which rises abruptly on the other side of the street are crowds of curious people who come in from the country round about to look at the wreckage strewn around where johnstown was. "oh, mr. jones," a pale-faced woman asks, walking up, sobbing, "can't you tell me where we can get a coffin to bury johnnie's body?" "do you know," asks a tottering old man, as the pale-faced woman turns away, "whether they have found jennie and the children?" "jennie's body has just been found at the bridge," is the answer, "but the children can't be found." jennie is the old man's married daughter, and she was drowned, with her two children, while her husband was at work over at the cambria mills. they ran for their lives. miss jennie paulson, who was on the chicago day express, is dead. she was seen to go back with a companion into the doomed section of the day express in the conemaugh valley, and is swept away in the flood. last evening, after the evening train had just left johnstown for pittsburgh, it was learned that quite a number of the survivors of the wrecked train, who have been at altoona since last saturday, were on board. after a short search they were located, and quite an interesting talk was the result. probably the most interesting interview, at least to pittsburghers, was that had with mrs. montgomery wilcox, of philadelphia, who was on one of the pullman sleepers attached to the lost express train. she tells a most exciting tale and confirms beyond the shadow of a doubt the story of miss jennie paulson's tragic death. a fatal pair of rubbers. she says: "we had been making but slow progress all the day. our train laid at johnstown nearly the whole day of friday. we then proceeded as far as conemaugh, and had stopped for some cause or other, probably on account of the flood. miss paulson and a miss bryan were seated in front of me. miss paulson had on a plaid dress with shirred waist of red cloth goods. her companion was dressed in black. both had lovely corsage bouquets of roses. i had heard that they had been attending a wedding before they left pittsburgh. the pittsburgh lady was reading a novel. miss bryan was looking out of the window. when the alarm came we all sprang toward the door, leaving everything behind us. i had just reached the door when poor miss paulson and her friend, who were behind me, decided to return for their rubbers, which they did. chased as by a serpent. "i sprang from the car into a ditch next the hillside in which the water was already a foot and a half deep and with the others climbed up the mountainside for our very lives. we had to do so as the water glided up after us like a huge serpent. any one ten feet behind us would have been lost beyond a doubt. i glanced back at the train when i had reached a place of safety, but the water already covered it and the pullman car in which the ladies were was already rolling down the valley in the grasp of the angry waters. quite a number of us reached the house of a mr. swenzel, or some such name, one of the railroad men, whom we afterward learned had lost two daughters at johnstown. we made ourselves as comfortable as possible until the next day, when we proceeded by conveyances as far as altoona, having no doubt but what we could certainly proceed east from that point. we found the middle division of the pennsylvania railroad was, if anything, in a worse condition than the western, so we determined to go as far as ebensburg by train, whence we reached johnstown to-day by wagon." mrs. g.w. childs' escape. mrs. george w. childs, of philadelphia, was also a member of the party. she was on her way west, and reached altoona on friday, after untold difficulties. she is almost prostrated by the severe ordeal through which she and many others have passed, and therefore had but little to say, only averring that mrs. wilcox and her friends, who were on the lost train, had passed through perils beside which her own sank into insignificance. [illustration: swept away on the train.] assistant superintendent crump telegraphs from blairsville junction that the day express, eastbound from chicago to new york, and the mail train from pittsburgh bound east, were put on the back tracks in the yard at conemaugh when the flooded condition of the main tracks made it apparently unsafe to proceed further. when the continued rise of the water made their danger apparent, the frightened passengers fled from the two trains to the hills near by. many in their wild excitement threw themselves into the raging current and were drowned. it is supposed that about fifteen persons lost their lives in this way. after the people had deserted the cars, the railroad officials state, the two pullman cars attached to the day express were set on fire and entirely consumed. a car of lime was standing near the train. when the water reached the lime it set fire to the car and the flames reaching the sleepers they were entirely consumed. exhuming the dead. three hundred bodies were exhumed to-day. in one spot at main and market streets the workmen came upon thirty, among whom were nine members of the fitzparis family--the father, mother, seven children and the grandfather. only one child, a little girl of nine years, is left out of a family of ten. she is now being cared for by the citizens' committee. the body of a beautiful young girl was found at the office of the cambria iron company. when the corpse was conveyed to the morgue a man entered in search of some relatives. the first body he came to he exclaimed: "that's my wife," and a few feet further off he recognized in the young girl found at the cambria iron company's office his daughter, theresa downs. both bodies had been found within a hundred yards of each other. a dozen instances have occurred where people have claimed bodies and were mistaken. this is due to the over-zeal of people to get their relatives and bury them. nine children walked into one of the relief stations this morning, led by a girl of sixteen years. they said that their father, mother and two other children had been swallowed up by the flood, the family having originally comprised thirteen persons in all. their story was investigated by officer fowler, of pittsburgh, and it was found to be true. near main street the body of a woman was taken out with three children lying on her. she was about to become a mother. nursing their sorrows. the afflicted people quietly bear their crosses. the calamity has been so general that the sufferers feel that everybody has been treated alike. grouped together, the sorrows of each other assist in keeping up the strength and courage of all. in the excitement and hurry of the present, loss of friends is forgotten, but the time will come when it is all over and the world gradually drifts back to business, forgetful that such a town as johnstown ever existed. then it is that sufferers will realize what they have lost. hearts will then be full of grief and despair and the time for sympathy will be at hand. michael martin was one of those on the hillside when the water was rushing through the town. the spectacle was appalling. women on the hills were shrieking and ringing their hands--in fact, people beyond reach of the flood made more noise than those unfortunate creatures struggling in the water. the latter in trying to save themselves hadn't time to shriek. michael martin said: "i was on the hillside and watched the flood. you ask me what it looked like. i can't tell. i never saw such a scene before and never expect to again. on one of the first houses that struck the bridge there was standing a woman wearing a white shawl. when the house struck the bridge she threw up her hands and fell back into the water. a little boy and girl came floating down on a raft from south fork. the water turned the raft toward the kernville hill and as soon as it struck the bank he jumped on the hill, dragging his little sister with him. both were saved. "i saw three men and three women on the roof of a house. when they were passing the cambria iron works the men jumped off and the women were lost. mr. overbeck left his family in mcm. row and swam to the club house, then he tried to swim to morrell's residence and was drowned. his family was saved. at the corner of the company's store a man called for help for two days, but no one could reach him. the voice finally ceased and i suppose he died. a brave girl. "rose clark was fastened in the débris at the bridge. her coolness was remarkable and she was more calm than the people trying to get her out. she begged the men to cut her leg off. one man worked six hours before she was released. she had an arm and leg broken. i saw three men strike the bridge and go down. william walter was saved. he was anchored on main street and he saw about two hundred people in the water. he believes two-thirds of them were drowned. a frightened woman clung to a bush near him and her long hair stood straight out. about twenty people were holding to those in the neighborhood, but most of them were lost. "john reese, a policeman, got out on the roof of his house. in a second afterward the building fell in on his wife and drowned her. she waved a kiss to her husband and then died. two servant girls were burned in the catholic priest's house. the church was also consumed." along the valley of death. fifteen miles by raft and on foot along the banks of the raging conemaugh and in the refugee trains between johnstown and pittsburgh. such was the trip, fraught with great danger, but prolific of results, which the writer has just completed. all along the line events of thrilling interest mingled with those of heartrending sadness transpired, demonstrating more than ever the magnitude of the horrible tragedy of last friday. just as the day was dawning i left the desolate city of johnstown, and, wending my way along the shore of the winding conemaugh to sheridan, i succeeded in persuading a number of brave and stout-hearted men, who had constructed a raft and were about to start on an extended search for the lost who are known to be strewn all along this fated stream, to take me with them. the river is still very high, and while the current is not remarkably swift, the still flowing débris made the expedition one of peril. between the starting point and nineveh several bodies were recovered. they were mostly imbedded in the sand close to the shore, which had to be hugged for safety all the way. indeed the greater part of the trip was made on foot, the raft being towed along from the water's edge by the tireless rescuers. just above sang hollow the party stopped to assist a little knot of men who were engaged in searching amid the ruins of a hut which lay wedged between a mass of trees on the higher ground. a man's hat and coat were fished out, but there was no trace of the human being to whom they once belonged. perhaps he is alive; perhaps his remains are among the hundreds of unidentified dead, and perhaps he sleeps beneath the waters between here and the gulf. who can tell? died in harness. a little farther down we came across two horses and a wagon lying in the middle of the river. the dumb animals had literally died in harness. of their driver nothing is known. at this point an old wooden rocker was fished out of the water and taken on shore. here three women were working in the ruins of what had once been their happy home. when one of them spied the chair it brought back to her a wealth of memory and for the first time, probably, since the flood occurred she gave way to a flood of tears, tears as welcome as sunshine from heaven, for they opened up her whole soul and allowed pent-up grief within to flow freely out and away. one touch of nature. "where in the name of god," she sobbed, "did you get that chair? it was mine--no, i don't want it. keep it and find for me, if you can, my album; in it are the faces of my dead husband and little girl." when the rough men who have worked days in the valley of death turned away from this scene there was not a dry eye in the crowd. one touch of nature, and the thought of little ones at home, welded them in heart and sympathy to this niobe of the valley. at sang hollow we came up with a train-load of refugees en route for pittsburgh. as i entered the car i was struck by two things. the first was an old man, whose silvered locks betokened his four-score years, and the second was a little clump of children, three in number, playing on a seat in the upper end of the coach. judge potts' escape. the white-haired patriarch was judge james potts, aged , one of the best known residents of johnstown, who escaped the flood's ravages in a most remarkable manner. beside him was his daughter, while opposite sat his son. there was one missing to complete the family party, jennie, the youngest daughter, who went down with the tide and whose remains have not yet been found. the thrilling yet pathetic story of the escape of the old judge is best told in his own language. said he: "you ask me how i was saved. i answer, god alone knows. with my little family i lived on walnut street, next door to the residence of president mcmillan, of the cambria iron company. when the waters surrounded us we made our way to the third floor, and huddled together in one room, determined, if die we must, to perish together. encircled by water. "higher and higher rose the flood, while our house was almost knocked from its foundations by the ever-increasing mountain of débris floating along. at last the bridge at woodvale, which had given way a short time before, struck the house and split it asunder, as a knife might have split a piece of paper. "the force of the shock carried us out upon the débris, and we floated around upon it for hours, finally landing near the bridge. when we looked about for jennie (here the old man broke down and sobbed bitterly) she was nowhere to be seen. she had obeyed the master's summons." a miraculous escape. the three little girls, to whom i have referred, were the children of austin lountz, a plasterer, living back of water street. they were as happy as happy could be and cut up in childish fashion all the way down. their good spirits were easily accounted for when it was learned that father, mother, children and all had a miraculous escape, when it looked as if all would be lost. the entire family floated about for hours on the roof of a house, finally landing high upon the hillside. elmer g. speck, traveling salesman of pittsburgh, was at the merchants' hotel when the flood occurred, having left the hurlburt house but a few hours before. he said: "with a number of others i got from the hotel to the hill in a wagon. the sight from our eminence was one that i shall never forget--that i can never fully describe. the whole world appeared to be topsy-turvy and at the mercy of an angry and destroying demon of the elements. people were floating about on housetops and in wagons, and hundreds were clinging to tree-trunks, logs and furniture of every imaginable description. "my sister, miss nina, together with my step-brother and his wife, whom she was visiting, drifted with the tide on the roof of a house a distance of two blocks, where they were rescued. with a number of others i built a raft and in a short time had pulled eleven persons from the very jaws of death. continuing, mr. speck related how a number of folks from woodvale had all come down upon their housetops. mr. curtis williams and his family picked their way from house to house, finally being pulled in the catholic church window by ropes." three of a family drowned. william hinchman, with his wife and two children, reached the stone bridge in safety. here one of the babies was swept away through the arches. the others were also swept with the current, and when they came out on the other side the remaining child was missing, while below mrs. hinchman disappeared, leaving her husband the sole survivor of a family of four. "did your folks all escape alive?" i asked of george w. hamilton, late assistant superintendent of the cambria iron company, whom i met on the road near new florence. "oh, no" was his reply. "out of a family of sixteen seven are lost. my brother, his wife, two children, my sister, her husband and one child, all are gone; that tells the tale. i escaped with my wife by jumping from a second story window onto the moving débris. we landed back of the morrell institute safe and sound." hairbreadth escapes. the stories of hairbreadth escapes and the annihilation of families continue to be told. here is one of them. j. paul kirchmann, a young man, boarded with george schroeder's family in the heart of the town, and when the flood came the house toppled over and went rushing away in the swirling current. there were seven in all in the party and kirchmann found himself wedged in between two houses, with his head under water. he dived down, and when he again came to the surface succeeded in getting on the roof of one of them. the others had preceded him there, and the house floated to the cemetery, over a mile and a half away, where all of them were rescued. kirchmann, however, had fainted, and for seven or eight hours was supposed to be dead. he recovered, and is now assisting to get at the bodies buried in the ruins. saloon-keeper fitzharris and his family of six had the lives crushed out of them when their house collapsed, and early this morning all of them, the father, mother and five children were taken from the wreck, and are now at the morgue. emil young, a jeweler, lived with mother, wife, three sons and daughter over his store on clinton street, near main. they were all in the house when the wild rush of water surrounded their home, lifted it from its foundation and carried it away. young and his daughter were drowned and it was then that his mother and wife showed their heroism and saved the life of the other members of the family. the mother is years of age, but her orders were so promptly given and so ably executed by the younger mrs. young that when the house floated near another in which was a family of nine all were taken off and eventually saved. even after this trying ordeal the younger woman washed the bodies of her husband and nineteen others and prepared them for burial. the whole family escaped. another remarkable escape of a whole family was that of william h. rosensteel, a tanner, of woodvale, a suburb of johnstown. his house was in the track of the storm, and, with his two daughters, tillie and mamie, his granddaughter and a dog, he was carried down on the kitchen roof. they floated into the bon ton clothing house, a mile and a half away, on main street. here they remained all night, but were taken off by mrs. emil young and went to pittsburgh. jacob i. horner and his family of eight had their house in hornerstown thrown down by the water and took refuge in a tree. after awhile they returned to their overturned house, but again got into the tree, from which they were rescued after an enforced stay of a number of hours. charles barnes, a real estate dealer on main street, was worth $ , last friday and had around him a family of four. to-day all his loved ones are dead and he has only $ in his pockets. the family of john higson, consisting of himself, wife, and young son, lived at walnut street. miss sarah thomas, of cumberland, was a visitor, and a hired man, a swede, also lived in the house. the water had backed up to the rear second-story windows before the great wave came, and about o'clock they heard the screaching of a number of whistles on the conemaugh. rushing to the windows they saw what they thought to be a big cloud approaching them. before they could reach a place of safety the building was lifted up and carried up stony creek for about one-quarter of a mile. as the water rushed they turned into the river and were carried about three-quarters of a mile further on. all the people were in the attic and as the house was hurled with terrific force against the wreckage piled up against the pennsylvania railroad bridge higson called to them to jump. they failed to do so, but at the second command miss thomas leaped through the window, the others followed, and after a dangerous walk over fifty yards of broken houses safely reached the shore. [illustration: child found thumping on a wrecked piano.] chapter xiii. digging for the dead. a party started in early exploring the huge mass of débris banked against the pennsylvania railroad bridge. this collection, consisting of trees, sides of houses, timber and innumerable articles, varies in thickness from three or four feet to twenty feet. it is about four hundred yards long, and as wide as the river. there are thousands of tons in this vast pile. how many bodies are buried there it is impossible to say, but conservative estimates place it at one thousand at least. the corps of workmen who were searching the ruins near the methodist church late this evening were horrified by unearthing one hundred additional bodies. the great number at this spot shows what may be expected when all have been recovered. when the mass which blazed several days was extinguished it was simple to recover the bodies on the surface. it is now a question, however, of delving into the almost impenetrable collection to get at those lodged within. the grinding tree trunks doubtless crushed those beneath into mere unrecognizable masses of flesh. those on the surface were nearly all so much burned as to resemble nothing human. meanwhile the searchers after bodies, armed with spikes, hooks and crowbars, pry up the débris and unearth what they can. bodies, or rather fractions of them, are found in abundance near the surface. tracing bodies by the smell. i was here when the gang came across one of the upper stories of a house. it was merely a pile of boards apparently, but small pieces of a bureau and a bed spring from which the clothes had been burned showed the nature of the find. a faint odor of burned flesh prevailed exactly at this spot. "dig here," said the physician to the men. "there is one body at least quite close to the surface." the men started in with a will. a large pile of underclothes and household linen was brought up first. it was of fine quality and evidently such as would be stored in the bedroom of a house occupied by people quite well to do. shovels full of jumbled rubbish were thrown up, and the odor of flesh became more pronounced. presently one of the men exposed a charred lump of flesh and lifted it up on the end of a pitchfork. it was all that remained of some poor creature who had met an awful death between water and fire. the trunk was put on a cloth, the ends were looped up making a bag of it, and the thing was taken to the river bank. it weighed probably thirty pounds. a stake was driven in the ground to which a tag was attached giving a description of the remains. this is done in many cases to the burned bodies, and they lay covered with cloths upon the bank until men came with coffins to remove them. then the tag was taken from the stakes and tacked on the coffin lid, which was immediately closed up, as identification was of course out of the question. there is a stack of coffins by the railroad bridge. sometimes a coffin is carried to the spot on the charred débris where the find is made. prodding corpses with canes. the searchers by thrusting down a stick or fork are pretty sure to find a corpse. i saw a man run a cane in the débris down to the hilt and it came up with human flesh sticking to it. another ran a stick into the thoroughly cooked skull of a little boy two feet below the surface. there are bodies probably as far down as seventy feet in some cases, and it does not seem plain now how they are to be recovered. one plan would be to take away the top layers of wood with derricks, and of course the mass beneath will rise closer to the surface. the weather is cold to-day, and the offensive smell that was so troublesome on the warm days is not noticeable at a distance. saved from disfiguration. the workers began on the wreck on main street just opposite the first national bank, one of the busiest parts of the city. a large number of people were lost here, the houses being crushed on one side of the street and being almost untouched on the other, a most remarkable thing considering the terrific force of the flood. twenty-one bodies were taken out in the early morning and removed to the morgue. they were not very much injured, considering the weight of lumber above them. in many instances they were wedged in crevices. they were all in a good state of preservation, and when they were embalmed they looked almost lifelike. in this central part of the city examination is sure to result in the unearthing of bodies in every corner. cottages which are still standing are banked up with lumber and driftwood, and it is like mining to make any kind of a clear space. i have seen relations of people who are missing, and who are supposed to be in the ruins of their homes, waiting patiently by the hour for men to come and take away the débris. when bodies are found, the location of which was known, there are frequently two or three friends on the spot to see them dug up. four and five of the same family have been taken from a space of ten feet square. in one part of the river gorge this afternoon were found the bodies of a woman and a child. they were close together and they were probably mother and infant. not far away was the corpse of a man looking like a gnarled and mis-shapen section of a root of a tree. the bodies from the fire often seem to have been twisted up, as if the victims died in great agony. rapidly burying the dead. the order that was issued last night that all unidentified dead be buried to-day is being rapidly carried out. the rev. mr. beall, who has charge of the morgue at the fourth ward school-house, which is the chief place, says that a large force of men has been put at work digging graves, and at the close of the afternoon the remains will be laid away as rapidly as it can be done. in the midst of this scene of death and desolation, a relenting providence seems to be exerting a subduing influence. six days have elapsed since the great disaster, and the temperature still remains low and chilly in the conemaugh valley. when it is remembered that in the ordinary june weather of this locality from two to three days are sufficient to bring an unattended body to a state of decay and putrefaction that would render it almost impossible to prevent the spread of disease throughout the valley, the inestimable benefits of this cool weather are almost beyond appreciation. the emanations from the half mile of débris above the bridge are but little more offensive than yesterday, and should this cool weather continue a few days longer it is possible hundreds of bodies may yet be recovered from the wreck in such a state of preservation as to render identification possible. many hundreds of victims, however, will be roasted and charred into such shapeless masses as to preclude a hope of recognition by their nearest relative. getting down to systematic work. the work of clearing up the wreck and recovering the bodies is now being done most systematically. over six thousand men are at work in the various portions of the valley, and each little gang of twenty men is directed by a foreman, who is under orders from the general headquarters. as the rubbish is gone over and the bodies and scattered articles of value are recovered, the débris is piled up in one high mass and the torch applied. in this way the valley is assuming a less devastated condition. in twenty-four hours more every mass of rubbish will probably have been searched, and the investigations will be confined to the smoking wreck above johnstown bridge. the westmoreland relief committee complained of the indiana county authorities for not having a committee to search the shores on that side for bodies. they say that all that is being done is by parties who are hunting for anything valuable they can find. up to two o'clock this afternoon only eight bodies had been taken out of the drift above the bridge. none of them was recognized. the work of pulling it out goes on very slowly. it has been suggested that a stationary engine should be planted on the east side of the pile and a rope and pulley worked on it. the keystone hotel, a huge frame structure, was rapidly being pulled to pieces this morning, and when this has been done the work of taking out the bodies will be begun at this point. the immense wreck will most undoubtedly yield up many bodies. the bodies of a woman and three children were taken from the débris in front of the first national bank at ten o'clock this morning. the woman was the mother of the three children, ranging in age from one to five years, and she had them all clasped in her arms. booth & flinn, the pittsburgh contractors, have just put to work another large force of men. they have divided the town into districts, and the work is being conducted in a systematic manner. main street is being rapidly opened up, and scores of bodies have been taken out this morning from under the hurlburt house. only found one of her family. the first body taken from the ruins was that of a boy named davis, who was found in the débris near the bridge. he was badly bruised and burned. the remains were taken to the undertaking rooms at the pennsylvania railroad station, where they were identified as those of william davis. the boy's mother has been making a tour of the different morgues for the past few days, and was just going through the undertaking rooms when she saw the remains of her boy being brought in. she ran up to the remains and demanded the child. she seemed to have lost her mind, and caused quite a scene by her actions. she stated that she had lost her husband and six children in the flood, and that this was the first one of the family that had been recovered. at the first presbyterian church, which is being used as a morgue, seventeen bodies taken from the débris and river have been brought in. the relief corps from altoona found a body near stony bridge this morning. on his person was found a gold watch and chain, and $ in money, which was turned over to the proper authorities. this corps took out some thirty-two bodies or more from the ruins yesterday. a.j. hayes, whose wife's body was taken out of the river last night, had the body taken up into the mountains where he dug her grave and said:--"i buried all that is dear to me. as for myself i don't care how soon death overtakes me." at quarter past one this afternoon, fifty bodies had been taken from the débris in front of the catholic church in johnstown borough. about forty of the bodies were those of women. they were immediately removed to the morgue for identification. dr. beall, who has the supervision of the morgues in johnstown, said that so far , bodies had been recovered in johnstown proper, most of which had been identified and buried. dynamite and derricks used. at one o'clock this afternoon the use of dynamite was resumed to burst the logs so that the débris in the dam at the bridge can be loosened and floated down the river. the dynamite is placed in holes bored into the massive timbers. when the log has been broken a chain is attached to its parts and it is then hoisted by a machine on the bridge and dropped into the current of the river. contractor kirk has abandoned the idea of constructing a dam to overflow the mass of ruins at the bridge. the water has fallen and cannot be raised to a serviceable height. a powerful windlass has been constructed at a point about one hundred feet below the bridge, and a rope attached to it is fastened to logs at the edge of the débris. in this way the course between one of the six spans of the railroad bridge has been cleared out. where dynamite has been used to burst the logs another span has been freed of the débris, a space of about twenty by forty feet being cleared. the men are now well supplied with tools, but the force is not large enough to make rapid headway. it is believed that many more bodies will be found when the débris is loosened and started down the river. dynamite tears the bodies. thirteen bodies were taken from the burning débris at the stone bridge at one time this afternoon. none of the bodies were recognizable, and they were put in coffins and buried immediately. they were so badly decomposed that it was impossible to keep them until they could be identified. during a blast at the bridge this afternoon two bodies were almost blown to pieces. the blasting has had the effect of opening the channel under the central portion of the bridge. in unwholesome company. i came up here from nineveh last night with the most disreputable crowd i ever traveled with. they were human buzzards flocking to the scene of horrors. there was danger of a fight every moment, and if one had been started there is little doubt that it would have been short and bloody, for the conduct of the rowdy portion of the travellers had enraged the decent persons, to whom the thought of drunkenness and ribaldry at such a time was abhorrent, and they were quite ready to undertake the work of pitching the demoralized beings off the cars. wedged in here and there between intoxicated ruffians, who were indulging in the foulest jests about the corpses on which they were about to feast their eyes, were pale faced women, sad and red eyed, who looked as if they had had little sleep since the horrible collapse of the dam. some of them were bound for johnstown to claim and bring back bodies already identified, while others were on a trip for the ruins to commence a long and perhaps fruitless search for whatever might be left of their relatives. some of those who misbehaved were friends of the lost, who, worn out with loss of sleep, had taken to drink and become madmen, but the greater part were merely sight-seers or robbers of the dead. avaricious tramps. there were many tramps whose avarice had been stimulated by hearing of diamond rings and watches found on the dead. there was one little drunken hunchback who told those in the car who listened to him that years ago he had quarrelled with his parents in johnstown and had not seen them since. he was on the way now to see if anything was left of them. one moment he was in maudlin tears and the next he was cracking some miserable joke about the disaster. he went about the car shaking dice with other inebriated passengers, and in the course of half an hour had won $ . over this he exhibited almost the glee of a maniac, and the fate of his people was lost sight of. then he would presently forget his gains and go sobbing up the aisle looking for listeners to his pitiful story. there were two sinister looking hungarians in the smoking car and their presence excited the anger of a handful of drunken maniacs. they made loud speeches, denouncing the conduct of hungarians who robbed the johnstown dead, levelling their remarks at the particular two. as they grew more excited they demanded that the passengers make a move and lynch the fellows. a great deal of trouble would have ensued, doubtless, if the train had not at that moment stopped at sang hollow, four miles from johnstown. the conductor shouted out that the passengers must leave the car and walk along the track the remainder of the distance. a strange procession. we started out in the fast gathering darkness and the loiterers who held back made a long string. the drunken ruffians staggered along the tracks, howling with glee and talking about corpses, showing what their object was in coming. the tired out and disheartened women crowded under the shelter of the more respectable men. there was one member of the pennsylvania national guard in the troop with his bayonet, and he seemed to be the rallying point for the timid. [illustration: map of the district swept by the flood.] when the mob reached the outskirts of johnstown they came across a little camp of military with outposts. i had been told that soldiers were keeping people who had no business there out of the lost city, and to insure my passage through the lines i had procured an order from mr. mccreery, chairman of the chamber of commerce committee at pittsburgh, stating that i was entitled to go through. i knew that the drunken lunatics behind me could have no such documents, and i imagined the soldiers would stop them. nothing of the kind happened. whole troops surged through the line. no passes were asked from them and they showed none. they only quieted down for a moment when they saw the uniforms of the national guard. reinforcing disorder. the mob merely helped to swell the host of thieves, cutthroats and pickpockets with which the region is infested. the trains which had passed us, going from johnstown to pittsburgh looked as if they might be made up of joyous excursionists. the cars were crowded to the platforms, and for some reason or other dozens of the inebriated passengers thought it appropriate to cheer and yell, though god knows the whole surroundings were calculated to make a human being shed tears of anguish. the sight of the coffins in the baggage cars, some of them containing the dead, had no dampening effect upon the spirit of these roysterers. the reaction from debauches and excitement is terrible, and there can be little doubt that many minds will give way under the strain. one of the wonders of the disaster is the absence of suicide and the apparently calm way in which the most wofully bereaved support themselves under their terrible loss. it must be an unnatural calm. men have quietly told me that they have lost their entire families and then have suddenly changed the subject and talked of some absurdly trivial matter with an air of great interest, but it was easy to see that there was some numbing influence over the mechanism of the mind. it is unnatural and awful. it is almost impossible to realize that the troops of workmen leisurely digging in the ruins as if engaged in everyday employment are really digging for the dead, and it is only in the actual sight of death and its emblems that one can persuade one's self that it is all true. the want of sleep conduces to an unnatural condition of the mind, under which these awful facts are bearable to the bereaved. picketing the ruins. it was like a military camp here last night. so many citizens have been knocked down and robbed that the soldiers had special instructions to see that no queer characters got through to the centre of the town. i had an excellent chance of seeing how impossible it was for an unauthorized person to move about the town easily, although he could get into the interior. i had been kindly invited to sleep on a wisp of hay in a neighboring barn, but being detained late in the valley reached the press headquarters after my host had left. it was a question of hunting shelter or sleeping on the ground. a gentleman whom i met told me that he was living in a baltimore and ohio day passenger coach about a mile out, and that if we could find our way there i was welcome to a soft place on the floor. we spoke to the nearest picket. he told us that it would be madness to try to cross one part of the ground unless we had revolvers, because a gang of huns were in hiding ready to knock down passengers and hold up any one who seemed defenceless. however, after a little cogitating, he said that he would escort us to general hastings' headquarters, and we started, picking our way over the remains of streets and passing over great obstructions that had been left by the torrent. ruin and wreck were on every hand. you could not tell where one street began and another left off, and in some places there was only soft mud, as devoid of evidence of the former presence of buildings as a meadow is, though they had been the sites of business blocks. it was washed clean. a weird journey. our guide told us the details of the capture of five marauders who had been robbing the dead. they had cut off the head of a woman found in the débris to get her earrings. he said that a number of deputy sheriffs had declared that at dawn they would march to the place where the prisoners were and take them out and hang them. my military friend said that he and his comrades would not be particularly anxious to interfere. the scene as we picked our way was lighted up by camp fires, around which sat groups of deputy sheriffs in slouch hats. they were a grim looking set, armed with clubs and guns. a few had rifles and some wore revolvers in their belts in regular leather cowboy pockets. the camp fires were about two hundred yards apart and to pass them without being challenged was impossible. at the adjutant general's office we got a pass entitling us to pass the pickets, and bidding our guardsman good-night we started off escorted by a deputy sheriff. there were long lines of camp fires and every few rods we had to produce credentials. it was a pretty effect that was produced by the blazing logs. they lighted up the valley for some distance, throwing in relief the windowless ruins of what were once fine residences, bank buildings or factories. embedded in the mud were packages of merchandise, such as sugar in barrels, etc., and over these we stumbled continually. a muddy desert. streams were running through the principal streets of the city. in some parts all that was left of the thoroughfares were the cobble stones--by which it was possible to trace streets for a short distance--and the street railway tracks remaining in places for spaces of a hundred feet or so. there were some buildings outside of the track of the full force of the torrent, the roofs of which seemed not to have been reached. others had been on fire and had lost parts of their walls. it was a dismal sight, this desolation, as shown up by the fitful camp fires. it was only after climbing over perilous places, crossing streams and narrowly escaping with our necks, that we came within sight of the car at two o'clock this morning. we passed by a school house used as a morgue. several people were inside gazing by lamp light at the silent bodies in a hunt for lost ones. piles of coffins, brown and white, were in the school playground, which resounded not many days ago with the shouts of children, some of whom lie there now. there are heaps of coffins everywhere throughout the city. conversation with the deputy sheriffs showed a deep-rooted hatred against the huns, and a determination to shoot them down like dogs if they were caught prowling about near the exposed property. while we were toiling over débris we heard three shots about a quarter of a mile off. we could learn nothing of their report. the service done by the deputy sheriffs was excellent. mistaken identification. at st. columba's catholic church the scenes were striking in their individual peculiarities. one woman came in and identified a body as that of katie frank. the undertakers labeled it accordingly, but in a few moments another woman entered the church, raised the lid of the coffin, scanned the face of the corpse, and then tore the label from the casket. the undertakers were then warned by the woman to be more careful in labelling coffins in the future. she then began to weep, and left the church in despair. she was katie's mother, and katie is yet among the wreck in the river below. the lot of bodies held and coffined at morrellville presented a different feature. the mud was six inches deep, and the drizzling rain added gloom to the scene. here and there could be seen, kneeling in the mud, broken hearted wives and mothers who sobbed and prayed. the incidents here were heartrending. at the fourth ward school-house morgue a woman from erie, whose name could not be learned, went to the morgue in search of some one, but fainted on seeing the long line of coffins. at the kernville morgue one little boy named elrod, on finding his father and mother both dead, seized a hatchet, and for some time would let no one enter the place, claiming that the people were lying to him and wanted to rob him of his father and mother. one sad incident was the sight of two coffins lying in the gautier graveyard with nobody to bury them. a solitary woman was gazing at them in a dazed manner, while the rain beat on her unprotected head. chapter xiv. hairbreadth escapes. so vast is the field of destruction that to get an adequate idea from any point level with the town is simply impossible. it must be viewed from a height. from the top of kernville mountain just at the east of the town the whole strange panorama can be seen. looking down from that height many strange things about the flood that appear inexplicable from below are perfectly plain. how so many houses happened to be so queerly twisted, for instance, as if the water had a whirling instead of a straight motion, was made perfectly clear. the town was built in an almost equilateral triangle, with one angle pointed squarely up the conemaugh valley to the east, from which the flood came. at the northerly angle was the junction of the conemaugh and stony creeks. the southern angle pointed up the stony creek valley. now about one-half of the triangle, formerly densely covered with buildings, is swept as clean as a platter, except for three or four big brick buildings that stand near the angle which points up the conemaugh. course of the flood. the course of the flood from the exact point where it issued from the conemaugh valley to where it disappeared below in a turn in the river and above by spreading itself over the flat district of five or six miles, is clearly defined. the whole body of water issued straight from the valley in a solid wave and tore across the village of woodvale and so on to the business part of johnstown at the lower part of the triangle. here a cluster of solid brick blocks, aided by the conformation of the land, evidently divided the stream. the greater part turned to the north, swept up the brick block and then mixed with the ruins of the villages above down to the stone arch bridge. the other stream shot across the triangle, was turned southward by the bluffs and went up the valley of stony creek. the stone arch bridge in the meantime acted as a dam and turned part of the current back toward the south, where it finished the work of the triangle, turning again to the northward and back to the stone arch bridge. the stream that went up stony creek was turned back by the rising ground and then was reinforced by the back water from the bridge again and started south, where it reached a mile and a half and spent its force on a little settlement called grubbtown. work of the water. the frequent turning of this stream, forced against the buildings and then the bluffs, gave it a regular whirling motion from right to left and made a tremendous eddy, whose centrifugal force twisted everything it touched. this accounts for the comparatively narrow path of the flood through the southern part of the town, where its course through the thickly clustered frame dwelling houses is as plain as a highway. the force of the stream diminished gradually as it went south, for at the place where the currents separated every building is ground to pieces and carried away, and at the end the houses were only turned a little on their foundations. in the middle of the course they are turned over on their sides or upside down. further down they are not single, but great heaps of ground lumber that look like nothing so much as enormous pith balls. to the north the work of the waters is of a different sort. it picked up everything except the big buildings that divided the current and piled the fragments down about the stone bridge or swept them over and soon down the river for miles. this left the great yellow, sandy and barren plain so often spoken of in the despatches where stood the best buildings in johnstown--the opera house, the big hotel, many wholesale warehouses, shops and the finest residences. in this plain there are now only the baltimore and ohio railroad train, a school-house, the morrell company's stores and an adjoining warehouse and the few buildings at the point of the triangle. one big residence, badly shattered, is also standing. houses changed base. these structures do not relieve the shocking picture of ruin spread out below the mountain, but by contrast making it more striking. that part of the town to the south where the flood tore the narrow path there used to be a separate village which was called kernville. it is now known as the south side. some of the queerest sights of the wreck are there, though few persons have gone to see them. many of the houses that are there, scattered helter skelter, thrown on their sides and standing on their roofs, were never in that neighborhood nor anywhere near it before. they came down on the breast of the wave from as far up as franklin, were carried safely by the factories and the bridges, by the big buildings at the dividing line, up and down on the flood and finally settled in their new resting places little injured. a row of them, packed closely together and every one tipped over at about the same angle, is only one of the queer freaks the water played. i got into one of these houses in my walk through the town to-day. the lower story had been filled with water, and everything in it had been torn out. the carpet had been split into strips on the floor by the sheer force of the rushing tide. heaps of mud stood in the corners. there was not a vestige of furniture. the walls dripped with moisture. the ceiling was gone, the windows were out, and the cold rain blew in and the only thing that was left intact was one of those worked worsted mottoes that you always expect to find in the homes of working people. it still hung to the wall, and though much awry the glass and frame were unbroken. the motto looked grimly and sadly sarcastic. it was:-- "there is no place like home." a melancholy wreck of a home that motto looked down upon. a tree in a house. i saw a wagon in the middle of a side street sticking tongue, and all, straight up into the air, resting on its tail board, with the hind wheels almost completely buried in the mud. i saw a house standing exactly in the middle of napoleon street, the side stove in by crashing against some other house and in the hole the coffin of its owner was placed. some scholar's library had been strewn over the street in the last stage of the flood, for there was a trail of good books left half sticking in the mud and reaching for over a block. one house had been lifted over two others in some mysterious way and then had settled down between them and there it stuck, high up in the air, so its former occupants might have got into it again with ladders. down at the lower end of the course of the stream, where its force was greater, there was a house lying on one corner and held there by being fastened in the deep mud. through its side the trunk of a tree had been driven like a lance, and there it stayed sticking out straight in the air. in the muck was the case and key board of a square piano, and far down the river, near the débris about the stone bridge, were its legs. an upright piano, with all its inside apparatus cleanly taken out, stood straight up a little way off. what was once a set of costly furniture was strewn all about it, and the house that contained it was nowhere. the remarkable stories that have been told about people floating a mile up the river and then back two or three times are easily credible after seeing the evidences of the strange course the flood took in this part of the town. people who stood near the ruins of poplar bridge saw four women on a roof float up on the stream, turn a short distance above and come back and go past again and once more return. then they went far down on the current to the lower part of the town and were rescued as they passed the second story window of a school house. a man who was imprisoned in the attic of his house put his wife and two children on a roof that was eddying past and stayed behind to die alone. they floated up the stream and then back and got upon the roof of the very house they had left, and the whole family was saved. at grubbtown there is a house that came all the way from woodvale. on it was a man who lived near grubbtown, but was working at woodvale when the flood came. he was carried right past his own house and coolly told the people at the bridge to bid his wife good-bye for him. the house passed the bridge three times, the man carrying on a conversation with the people on shore and giving directions for his burial if his body should be found. the third time the house went up it grounded at grubbtown, and in an hour or two the man was safe at home. three girls who went by on a roof crawled into the branches of a tree and had to stay there all night before they could make any one understand where they were. at one time scores of floating houses were wedged in together near the ruins of poplar street bridge. four brave men went out from the shore, and, stepping from house roof to house roof, brought in twelve women and children. starvation overcomes modesty. some women crawled from roofs into the attics of houses. in their struggles with the flood most of their clothes had been torn from them, and rather than appear on the streets they stayed where they were until hunger forced them to shout out of the windows for help. at this stage of the flood more persons were lost by being crushed to death than by drowning. as they floated by on roofs or doors the toppling houses fell over upon them and killed them. nineveh was spared. the valley of death, twenty-three miles long, practically ends at nineveh. it begins at woodvale, where the dam broke, and for the entire distance to this point the mountains make a canyon--a water trap, from which escape was impossible. the first intimation this city had of the impending destruction was at noon on friday, when station agent nunamaker got this despatch:-- "we just received word from south fork that water is coming over dam at conemaugh lake, and is liable to burst at any moment. notify people to look out." "j.c. waukemshaw, despatcher at conemaugh." nunamaker started on a dead run to the water front, along which most of the houses are situated, crying:-- "the dam is breaking. run for your lives!" every spring, the station agent tells me, there have been a score of such alarms, and when the people heard nunamaker they laughed and called him an old fogy for his pains. they had run too often to the mountains to escape some imaginary flood to be scared by anything less than the actual din of the torrent in their ears. two hours and a half later a despatch came saying that the dam had indeed broken. again the station agent went on a trot to the residential part of the town. that same despatch had gone thundering down the whole valley. johnstown heard the news and so did conemaugh. no one believed it. it was what they called "a chestnut." but the cry had put the people a little on the alert. one hour after the despatch came the first warning note of the disaster. mr. nunamaker tells me that it took really more than that time for the head of the leaping cataract to travel the twenty-three miles. if that is so the people of johnstown must have had half an hour's warning at least, for johnstown is half way between here and the fatal dam. awful scenes. nineveh is very flat on the river side where the people live, though, fortunately, the main force of the current was not directed on this side of the stream. in a second the river rose two feet at a jump. it then reared up like a thing of life, then it steadily rose inches at a time, flooding the whole town. but the people had had warning and saved themselves. pitiful cries were heard soon from the river. people were floating down on barrels, roofs, beds, anything that was handy. there were pitiful shrieks from despairing women. the people of nineveh could do nothing. no boat could have stemmed the cataract. during the night there were shrieks heard from the flooded meadows. next morning at nine o'clock the flood had fallen three feet. bodies could be seen on the trees by the nineveh people, who stayed up all night in the hope of being able to do some act of humanity. the living and the dead. only twenty-five were taken alive from the trees and drift on this side. across the stream a score were secured and forty-seven corpses taken out. this, with the corpses here, makes a total of people who are known to have come down to this point. there are perhaps a hundred and fifty bodies within a mile. only a few were actually taken from the river bed. they sank in deep water. it is only when they have swollen by the effect of the water that they rise to the surface. most of those recovered were found almost on dry land or buried in drift. there are tons of wood, furniture, trees, trunks, and everything that is ever likely to float in a river, that must be "dug over." it will be work of the hardest kind to get at the remaining corpses. i went over the whole ground along the river bank between here and johnstown to-day. the force of the flood. the trees on the banks were levelled as if by battering rams, telegraph poles were snapped off as a boy breaks a sugar stick, and parts of the pennsylvania railroad track were wrenched, torn and destroyed. jerry mcneilly, of this place, says he was at the johnstown station when the flood came down, preceded by a sort of cloud or fog. he saw people smoking at their windows up to the last moment, and even when the water flooded their floors they laughed and seemed to think that the river had risen a few feet and that was all. jerry, however, ran to the hills and saved himself while the water rose and did its awful work. some houses were bowled over like ninepins. some floated to the surface and started with the flood; others stood their ground and were submerged inch by inch, the occupants climbing from story to story, from the top story to the roof, only to be swept away from their foothold sooner or later. the dam's history. i asked a gathering of men here in what light they had been accustomed to look upon the dam. they say that from the time it was built, somewhere about , by the commonwealth of pennsylvania to collect water for the canals, it has been the "bogie" of the district. babies were frightened when naughty by being told the dam would break. time and time again the people of nineveh have risen from their beds in the night and perched upon the mountains through fear. a body of water seven miles or more long, from eighty to one hundred and twenty feet deep, and about a mile wide, was indeed something to be dreaded. this lake had a circumference of about eighteen miles, which gives some idea of the volume of water that menaced the population. the dam was thick enough for two carriages to drive abreast on its top, but the people always doubted the stability of that pile of masonry and earth. morrellville was for a few days in a state of starvation, but sheridan, sang hollow and this town are in no distress. nineveh has lost no life, although wild rumors said it had. though the damage to property is very great, the huns have been kept away, and robbers and marauders find nothing to tempt them. what "chal" dick saw. "i'll kill the first man that dares to cross the bridge." "chal" dick, lawyer, burgess and deputy sheriff and sportsman, sat upon his horse with a winchester rifle across his saddle and a thousand or two of fiends dancing a war dance in his eyes. down in johnstown proper they think "chal" dick is either drunk or crazy. two newspaper men bunked with him last night and found he was not afflicted in either sense. he is the only recognized head in the borough of kernville, where every man, woman and child know him as "chal," and greet him as he passes by. "yes," he said to me last night, "i saw it all. my house was on somerset street. on thursday night it rained very hard. my wife woke me and called my attention to the way the water was coming down. i said nothing, but i got up about five o'clock and took a look around. in a little while stony creek had risen three feet. i then knew that we were going to have a flood, but i did not apprehend any danger. the water soon flooded the streets, and boards and logs began coming down. sport before sorrow. "a lot of us turned in to have some sport. i gave my watch and what money i had to a neighbor and began riding logs down the stream. i had lots of company. old men acted like boys, and shouted and shouted and splashed about in the water like mad. finally the water began to rise so rapidly that i became alarmed. i went home and told my wife that it was full time to get out. she was somewhat incredulous, but i made her get ready, and we took the children and we went to the house of mr. bergman, on napoleon street, just on the rise of kernville. i got wet from head to foot fooling in the water, and when i got to bergman's i took a chill. i undressed and went to bed and fell asleep. the first thing i knew i was pulled out of bed on to the floor, by mr. bergman, who yelled, 'the dam has burst.' i got up, pulled on my pantaloons and rushed down stairs. i got my youngest child and told my wife to follow with the two others. this time the water was three feet in the house and rising rapidly. we waded up to our waists out through it, up the hill, far beyond the reach of danger. a stupendous sight. "from the time i left bergman's till i stopped is a blank. i remember nothing. i turned and looked, and may my eyes never rest on another such sight. the water was above the houses from the direction of the railroad bridge. there came a wave that appeared to be about twelve feet high. it was perpendicular in its face and moved in a mist. i have heard them speak of the death mist, but i then first appreciated what the phrase meant. it came on up stony creek carrying on its surface house after house and moving along faster than any horse could go. in the water there bobbed up and down and twisted and twirled the heads of people making ripples after the manner of shot dropped into the water. the wave struck houses not yet submerged and cut them down. the frames rose to the surface, but the bricks, of course, were lost to sight. when the force of the water spent itself and began retracing its course, then the awfulness of the scene increased in intensity. i have a little nerve, but my heart broke at the sight. houses, going and coming, crashed up against each other and began grinding each other to pieces. the buildings creaked and groaned as they let go their fastenings and fairly melted. "at the windows of the dwellings there appeared the faces of people equally as ill-fated as the rest. god forbid that i should ever again look upon such intensity of anguish. oh, how white and horror-stricken those faces were, and such appeals for help that could not come. the woman wrung their hands in their despair and prayed aloud for deliverance. down stream went houses and people at the rate of twenty-five miles an hour and stopped, a conglomerate mass, at the stone abutment of the railroad bridge. the first buildings that struck the bridge took fire, and those that came after were swept into a sea of flame. i thought i had already witnessed the greatest possible climax of anguish, but the scene that followed exceeded in awfulness anything i had before looked upon. the flames grew, hundreds of people were wedged in the driftwood and imprisoned in the houses. rapidly the fire approached them, and then they began to cry for aid, and hundreds of others stood on the bank, powerless to extend a single comfort. judgment day. "as the fire licked up house after house and pile after pile, i could see men and women bid each other good-by, and fathers and mothers kiss their children. the flames swallowed them up and hid them from my view, but i could hear their shrieks as they roasted alive. the shrieks mellowed into groans, and the groans into silence, only to be followed by more shrieks, more groans and more silence, as the fire caught up and destroyed its victims. heavens! but i was glad when the end came. my only anxiety was to have it come quickly, and i prayed that it might come, oh! so quick! it was a splendid realization of the judgment day. it was a magnificent realization of the impotency of man in a battle with such a combination of fire and flood." some have cause for joy. in the midst of the confusion of the disaster and the strain of excitement which followed it was but natural that every one who could not readily be found was reported dead. amid the throng of mourners now an occasional soul is made happy by finding that some loved one has escaped death. to-day a few of the living had time to notify their friends throughout the country of their safety. general lew wallace, now at west point, telegraphed president harrison, in response to an inquiry last night, that his wife was "coming out of the great calamity at johnstown safe." several reports have been sent out from johnstown, one as late as last night, to the effect that mrs. wallace was believed to be among the victims of the disaster. private secretary halford received a telegram this afternoon from his wife at altoona, announcing that mrs. lew wallace was with her and safe. did not lose their presence of mind. a dispatch from carthage, ill., says:--"mrs. m.j. smith, a traveling saleslady for a book concern in new york city, was at johnstown at the time of the flood and was swept away with others. her brothers, lieutenant p. and james mckee, received the following telegram at carthage yesterday from johnstown: "escaped with my life on housetop; am all right. "m.j. smith. "the lady is well known in this county." rich made poor. john kelly, the prominent odd fellow of conemaugh, who was supposed to be lost, escaped with his entire family, though his house and store were swept down the river. john rowley, who stands high among the masons and odd fellows, tells me that out of $ , worth of property which he could call his own on friday last he found just two bricks on the site of his residence this morning. he counts himself wealthy, however, in the possession of his wife and children who were all saved. his wife, who was very ill, was dragged through the water in her nightclothes. she is now in a critical condition, but has the best of medical attendance and may pull through. in a frame house which stood at no. union street, johnstown, were mrs. o.w. byrose, her daughters elsie, bessie and emma, and sons samuel and ray. when the flood struck the house they ran to the attic. the house was washed from its foundation and carried with the rushing waters. mrs. byrose and her children then clung to each other, expecting every minute to meet death. as the house was borne along the chimney fell and crashed through the floors, and the bricks were strewn along the course of the river. the house was caught in the jam and held about two hundred feet above the bridge and one hundred and fifty feet from the shore. the terrified inmates did not lose all presence of mind, and they made their escape to the hole made by the fallen chimney. they were seen by those on shore, and after much difficulty each was rescued. a few minutes later the house caught fire from the burning buildings, and was soon consumed. swept from his side. at ten o'clock this morning an old gray bearded man stood amid the blackened logs and ashes through which the polluted water of the conemaugh made its way, wringing his hands and moaning in a way that brought tears to the eyes of all about him. he was w.j. gilmore, whose residence had stood at the corner of conemaugh and main streets. being on low ground the house was flooded by the first rush of water and the family, consisting of mr. gilmore, his brother abraham, his wife, four children and mother-in-law, ran to the second story, where they were joined by frances, the little daughter of samuel fields, and grandmother maria prosser. when the torrent from south fork rushed through the town the side of the house was torn out and the water poured into the second floor. mr. gilmore scrambled upon some floating débris, and his brother attempted to pass the women and children out to him. before he could do so, however, the building sank and mr. gilmore's family was swept from his side. his brother disappeared for a moment under the water, but came to the surface and was hauled upon the roof. the brothers then strove frantically to tear a hole in the roof of the house with their bare hands, but their efforts were, of course, unavailing, and they were soon struggling for their own lives in the wreck at the viaduct. both finally reached the shore. the body of mrs. gilmore, when taken from the ruins this morning, was but little mutilated, although her body was bloated by the water. two of the children had been almost burned to cinders, their arms and legs alone being something like their original shape. statue of the virgin. st. mary's german catholic church, which is badly wrecked, was temporarily used as a morgue, but a singular circumstance connected with the wrecking having been noticed, the duty of becoming a receptacle for the dead is transferred to the church of st. columba. the windows of st. mary's are all destroyed. the floor for one-third of its extent on st. mary's side is torn up to the chancel rail in one piece by the water and raised toward the wall. one-half the chancel rail is gone, the mud is eighteen inches deep on the floor, st. joseph's altar is displaced and the statue gone. the main altar, with its furniture for easter, is covered with mud, and some fine potted flowers are destroyed. nearly all the other ornaments are in place, even to the candlesticks. strange to relate, the statue of the virgin in her attire is unsoiled; the white vestments with silken embroidery are untarnished. this discovery led to the change of morgue. the matter being bruited abroad the desolated women of cambria and johnstown, as well as those who had not been sufferers from the flood, visited the church, and with most affecting devoutness adored the shrine. some men also were among the devout, and not one of those who offered their prayers but did it in tears. for several hours this continued to be the wonder of the parishioners of the catholic churches. the entire family of mr. howe, the wealthiest man in cambria, with some visitors from pittsburgh and ohio, were hurried to death by the collapse of their residence on that fatal friday night. in the rubbish heaped high on the shore near the stone arch bridge is a flat freight car banged and shattered and with a hole stove in its side. one of the workmen who were examining the débris to-day got into the car and found a framed and glazed picture of the saviour. it was resting against the side of the car, right side up. neither frame nor glass were injured. when this incident got noised about among the workmen they dropped their pickaxes and ran to look at the wonderful sight with their hats off. saved his mother and sister. a man who came up from lockport to-day told this:--"on the roof of a house were a young man, his mother and a young girl apparently his sister. as they passed the lockport bridge, where the youth hung in an eddy for a moment, the men on the bridge threw them a rope. the young man on the house caught and tried to make it fast around his mother and then around his sister. they were afraid to use it or they were unwilling to leave him, for they would not take the rope. they tried to make him take it, but he threw it away and stayed on the roof with them. the house was swept onward and in another moment was lodged against a tree. the youth seized his mother and sister and placed them in safety among the branches. the next instant the house started again. the young man's foot slipped. he fell into the water and was not seen again." where death lay in wait. a great deal has been written and published about the terrible disaster, but in all the accounts nothing has been said about south fork, where in proportion to its size as much damage has been done as at any other point. for the purpose of ascertaining how the place looked which in the annals of history will always be referred to as the starting point of this great calamity, i came here from johnstown. i left on monday morning at half-past six, and being unable to secure a conveyance of any character was compelled to walk the entire distance. thinking the people of johnstown knew whereof they spoke, i started over the edensburg turnpike, and tramped, as a result, six more miles than was absolutely necessary. after i left johnstown it began raining and continued until i reached south fork. two miles out from johnstown i passed the altoona relief committee in carriages, with their supply train following, and from that until i reached fair view, where i turned off toward the conemaugh river, it was a continuous line of vehicles of all kinds, some containing supplies, others passengers, many of whom were ladies. i followed a cow-path along the mountain until i reached mineral point. here is where the flood did its first bad work after leaving south fork. there had been thirty-three dwelling houses, a store and a large sawmill in the village, and in less than one minute after the flood struck the head of the place there were twenty-nine of these buildings wiped out; and so sudden had been the coming of the water that but a few of the residents succeeded in getting away. as a boy would marbles. jacob kohler, one of the residents of the place, said he had received a telegram stating that the flood was coming, but paid no attention to it as they did not understand its significance. "i saw it coming," he said, "with the water reaching a height of at least twenty-five feet, tearing trees up by the roots and dashing big rocks about as a boy would marbles. i hardly had time to grab a child and run for the hills when it was upon us, and in less time than it takes for me to tell it our village was entirely wiped out and the inhabitants were struggling in the water and were soon out of sight. i never want to see such a sight again." from mineral point another cow-path was taken over the mountains. i came just below the viaduct within about one mile of south fork, and here the work of destruction had been as complete as it was possible for it to be. the entire road-bed of the pennsylvania railroad had been washed away. at this point a freight train had been caught and all the men on it perished, but the names could not be learned. the engine was turned completely upside down and the box cars were lifted off the track and carried two hundred feet to the side of the hill. fifteen of them are there with the trucks, about one hundred feet from the old road-bed, and turned completely upside down. another freight train just ahead of it was also swept away in the same manner, all excepting two cars and the engine. one of the cars was loaded with two heavy boilers from the works of james witherow, newcastle. rails twisted double. coming in to south fork the work of destruction on the railroad was found to be even greater, the rails being almost bent double. the large iron bridge over the river at this point is gone, as is also one of the piers. the lower portion of this place is completely wiped out, and two men were lost. this is all the loss of life here, excepting two italians who were working at the lake proper. the loss in individual property to the people of this place will reach $ , , and at mineral point $ , . for the purpose of seeing how the lake looked after all the water was out of it, a trip was taken to it, fully three miles distant. the driveway around it is fully thirty-five feet wide, and that was the width at the point of the dam where the break occurred. like a thunderbolt. imagine, if you can, a solid piece of ground, thirty-five feet wide and over one hundred feet high, and then, again, that a space of two hundred feet is cut out of it, through which is rushing over seven hundred acres of water, and you can have only a faint conception of the terrible force of the blow that came upon the people of this vicinity like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky. it was irresistible in its power and carried everything before it. after seeing the lake and the opening through the dam it can be readily understood how that outbreak came to be so destructive in its character. the lake had been leaking, and a couple of italians were at work just over the point where the break occurred, and in an instant, without warning, it gave way, and they were down in the whirling mass of water and were swept into eternity. the people of this place had been told by some of those who had been to the lake that it was leaking, but paid no attention any more than to send telegrams to johnstown and mineral point. here's another paul revere. the first intimation the people had of the approach of the water was from the seventeen-year-old son of john baker. he was on the road on horseback and noticed the water coming out of a cavity about five feet in diameter, and not waiting to see any more he put spurs to his horse and dashed for the town at breakneck speed. some of the people of this place saw him coming at great speed, waving his hat, and knowing something was wrong at once gave the alarm, and grabbing their children started for the high parts. when he arrived almost at railroad street, his own home, the water was already in the roadway, and in less than one minute its whole bulk was coming, twisting trees and rolling rocks before it. [illustration: rescues at the signal tower.] in just eight minutes from the time he first saw it the water had carried away the bridge and was on its career of death and destruction. a train of pullman cars for the east, due at south fork at . , was standing on the track on the west side of the bridge waiting to pull into the station. at first the engineer paid no attention to the wild gesticulations of the station agent, but finally started out, pulling slowly into the station, and not one moment too soon, for had he remained where he was a minute longer all would have been swept away. thrilling escapes. a local freight train with a passenger coach attached, standing on the east side of the track, was compelled to run into the rear end of the passenger train so as to get out of the way of the flood. a young man who was on the rear end of the train grabbed a young lady who was floating by and thus saved her life. the house of an old man, eighty-two years of age, was caught in the whirlpool, and he and his aged wife climbed on the roof for safety. they were floating down the railroad track to certain death, when their son-in-law, from the roof of the pennsylvania railroad station-house, pulled them off and saved their lives as the house was dashed to pieces. mr. brown, a resident of this place, said: "i was just about opposite the mouth of the lake when it broke. when i first saw it the water was dashing over the top of the road just where it broke about a foot high, and not eight or ten feet, as has been stated, and i told mr. fisher, who lived there, that he had better get his family out at once, which he did, going to the hillside, and it was lucky for him that he did, because in a half minute after it broke his home was wiped away." no safety outlet. mr. burnett, who was born and raised a mile from the lake, and is now a resident of hazelwood, and who was at south fork, said: "when the state owned this lake they had a tower over the portion that gave way and a number of pipes by which they were enabled to drive off the surplus water, and had the present owners had an arrangement of that kind this accident would not have occurred. the only outlet there was for the water was a small waterway around to the right of the lake, which is totally inadequate. the people of this valley have always been afraid of this thing, and now that it is here it shows that they had every reason for their fears." in company with mr. burnett i walked all over the place, and am free to confess that it looks strong, but experience shows the contrary. mr. moore, who has done nearly all the hauling for the people who lived at the lake in summer, said:--"about eight years ago this dam broke, but there was not as much water in it as now, and when it broke they were working at it and hauled cart load after cart load of dirt, stone and logs, and finally about ten tons of hay, and by that means any further damage was prevented. that was the time when they should have put forth strenuous efforts to have that part strengthened where the break occurred. this lake is about three miles long and about a mile wide and fully ninety feet deep, and of course when an opening of any kind was forced it was impossible to stop it. thirsting for vengeance. "the indignation here against the people who owned that place is intense. i was afraid that if the people here were to hear that you were from pittsburgh they would jump to the conclusion that you were connected with the association, and i was afraid they would pull you from the carriage and kill you. that is the feeling that predominates here, and we all believe justly." mr. ferguson, of the firm of j.p. stevenson & co., said: "it is a terrible affair, and shows the absolute necessity of people not fooling with matters of that kind. we sent telegrams to mineral point, johnstown and conemaugh, notifying them that the lake was leaking and the water rising and we were liable to have trouble, and two minutes before the flood reached here a telegram was sent to mineral point that the dam had broken. but you see for the past five years so many alarms of that kind have been sent that the people have not believed them." broke forty-one years ago. mrs. mcdonald, who lives between johnstown and south fork, said: "i am an old woman and lived in johnstown forty-two year ago, when there but two or three houses here. i have always contended, ever since this club of dudes took charge of this place, that it would end in a terrible loss of life. it broke about forty-one years ago, and i was in my house washing and it actually took my tub away and i only saved myself after a desperate struggle. at that time there were no lives lost. on friday night, when it was raining so hard, i told my son not to go near johnstown, as it was sure, from the telegrams i heard of, which had come in the afternoon, that there would be a terrible disaster. "i was told that when the viaduct went a loud report was heard just as a couple of freight cars were dashing against it, and the people say that they were loaded with dynamite." the pennsylvania railroad officials are rushing in all the men at this point possible to repair the road and are working day and night, having electric lights all along the road; but with all of that it looks as though it will be utterly impossible to have even a single track ready for business before ten days or two weeks, as there is not the slightest vestige of a railroad track to be seen. the railroad people around here are of the opinion that it will take as long as that. the railroad men say that it is the most complete destruction of the kind that they have ever witnessed. wealth borne away. i had an interview to-night with colonel james a. mcmillan, the consulting director and principal owner of the cambria iron works. he said:-- "what will be the total loss sustained by the cambria company is rather hard to state with perfect accuracy just yet, but from the examinations already made of our works i would place our loss at from $ , , to $ , , . that includes, of course, the loss of our gautier steel department, above johnstown, which is completely swept away. "day before yesterday i took the liberty of determining the action which the company will pursue in the matter of reconstruction and repairs. i accordingly telegraphed for mr. lockhart, the secretary of the company. he arrived here to-day and said to me: 'mcmillan, i'm glad to see you intend to stand by the company and push the work of repairs at once.' "i think his words voice the sentiment of all the stockholders of the company. reconstruction begun. "all day we have had at least eight hundred men cleaning away the débris about our works, and we have made so much progress that you can say we will have our entire clerical force at work to-morrow evening. our large pieces of machinery are uninjured, and we will have to send away for only the smaller pieces of our machines and smaller pipes, which compose an enormous system of pipe connections through the works. in from ten to twelve days we will have our works in operation, and i feel confident that we will be making rails at our works inside of fifty days. as we employ about five thousand men, i think our renewal of operations will give the people more encouragement than can be imagined. besides, we have half the amount of cash needed on deposit in our local bank here, which was brought over by the adams express company on monday to pay our men. this will be paid them as soon as we can get access to the bank. "our immediate work of reconstruction and repair will, of course, be confined to the company's cambria iron works proper, and not extended to the gautier steel works above." twelve millions more. the colonel was then asked his estimate of the total loss sustained by the towns of mineral point, franklin borough, woodvale, conemaugh, johnstown, cambria city, coopersdale and morrellville. he said: "i should place it at nothing lower than $ , , , besides the loss sustained by our company. that is only an estimate, but when you take the different towns as they were before the flood, and knowing them as i do, you could not fail to see that this is a very reasonable estimate of the loss." as to the south fork dam, he said: "for the present i don't care to be interviewed on that question as representing any one but myself. personally, i have always considered it a dangerous trap, which was likely at any time to wipe us out. for the last ten years i have not hesitated to express this opinion in regard to the dam, and i guess it is pretty well understood that all of our leading citizens held similar views. there is not a man in johnstown who will deny that he has lived for years in constant dread of its bursting down on us." fifteen years to recover. "what do you think will be the time required for the conemaugh valley to recover from the shock of the flood?" "at least fifteen years, and vigilant efforts will be required at that. i speak now from a financial stand-point. of course we will never recover fully from the terrible loss of life which is now being revealed in its dreadful entirety." survivors in camp. there are two camps on the hillside to the north of johnstown, and they are almost side by side. one is a camp for the living, for the most woebegone and unfortunate of the refugees from the conemaugh valley of the shadow of death, and the other is for the dead. the camp of the living is camp hastings and the ministering spirits are members of the americus republican club of pittsburgh. the camp for the dead is the new potters' field that was laid out on monday for the bodies of unknown victims. the former is populous and stirring, but the latter has more mounds already than the other has living souls. the refugees are widely scattered; some are in the hospital, some are packed as closely as the logs and dead bodies at the stone bridge in the houses yet tenable, and the rest are at camp hastings. in the despairing panic and confusion of saturday the first thought that presented itself to those who were hurried in to give relief was to prepare shelter for the survivors. the camp has been in operation ever since, and will be for days and may be weeks to come. gloomy pictures of despair. it looked desolate enough to-day after the soaking downpour of last night, and groups of shivering mothers, with their little ones, stood around a smoky fire at either end of the streets. the members of the americus committee, for the time being cooks, waiters, grocery dealers and dry goods men, were in striking contrast to their usual appearance at home. major w. coffey, one of the refugees, who was washed seven miles down the conemaugh, was acting as officer of the guard, and limped up and down on his wooden leg, which had been badly damaged by the flood. palefaced women looked out through the flaps of tents on the scene, and the only object that seemed to be taking things easy was a lean, black dog, asleep in front of one of the fires. in one of the tents a baby was born last night. the mother, whose husband was lost in the flood, was herself rescued by being drawn up on the roof of the union schoolhouse. one of the doctors of the altoona relief corps at the cambria hospital attended her, and mother and babe are doing better than thousands of the flood sufferers who are elsewhere. there are other babies in camp hastings, but none of them receive half of the attention from the people in the camp that is bestowed upon this little tot, whose life began just as so many lives were ended. the baby will probably be named johnstown camp o'connor. the refugees who are living along the road get their supplies from the camp. they pour into the wretched city of tents in a steady stream, bearing baskets and buckets of food. he wanted tobacco or nothing. an old irishman walked up to the tent early in the day. "well, what can we do for you?" was asked. "have yez any tobaccy?" "no, tobacco don't go here." "i want tobaccy or nothin'. this is no relief to a mon at all, at all." the aged refugee walked away in high dudgeon. just down the row from the clothing tent are located two little girls, named johnson, who lost both father and mother. they had a terrible experience in the flood, and were two of the forty-three people pulled in on the roof of the house of the late general campbell and his two sons, james and curt. "how do you fare?" one of the little girls was asked. "oh, very well, sir; only we are afraid of catching the measles," she answered; and with a grimace she tossed her head toward a tent on the other side and further up. a baby in the tent indicated has a slight attack of the measles, but is getting better, and is next door to a tent in which is a young woman shaking with the ague. a multitude to be fed. in the houses along the road above the camp are several hundreds of refugees. in one of them are thirty or forty people rendered homeless by the flood. these are all supplied with food from the camp. some idea of the number of people who have to be fed can be gathered from the fact that pounds of coffee have been given out since yesterday. in the hills back of cambria there are many hundreds of survivors. dr. findley, of the altoona relief corps, went there to-day and found that they were without a physician. one from baltimore had been there, but had gone away. he found many people needing medical care, and they will be looked after from day to day. "wherever we go," said one of the doctors yesterday, "we find that there is an alarming spread of pneumonia." of the refugees at the cambria hospital but two have died. bayonets in control. the ruined city lies to-night within a girdle of steel--the bayonets of the th regiment. the militia has captured johnstown and to-night over the desolate plain where the city proper stood, through the towering wrecks and by the river passes, marches the patrol, crying "halt" and challenging vagabonds, vandals and ghouls, who cross their path. general hastings, being the highest officer in rank, is in command, and when the survivors of the flood awake to-morrow morning, when the weary pickets are relieved at sunrise a brigade headquarters will be fully established on the slope of prospect hill overlooking the hundreds of white tents of the regiments that will lie down below by the german catholic church. [illustration: encampment of relief parties.] first this afternoon arrived governor beaver's staff, mostly by way of harper's ferry on the baltimore and ohio. all the officers in brilliant uniform and trappings reported to general hastings. they found their commander in a slouch hat, a rough-looking cutaway and rubber boots. the th regiment, reinforced this morning until it is now strong, is still camped in freight cars beyond the depot, opposite the late city proper. space is being rapidly cleared for its tents, however, over by the german catholic church, and near the ruins of the irish catholic church, which was on fire when the deluge came. early this morning the th regiment went into service, but it was a volunteer service of two young officers and three privates when at noon they dragged gently from the rushing conemaugh the body of a beautiful young girl. she was tenderly borne through the lines by regimental headquarters to the church house morgue, while the sentinels stood aside with their bayonets and the corporal ordered "halt!" guards were placed at the johnstown stations and all the morgues. marched out of camp. during the day many people of questionable character, indeed all who were challenged and could not satisfactorily explain their business here, had a military escort to the city limits, where they were ordered not to return. every now and then two of the national guard could be seen marching along with a rough fellow between them to the post where such beings are made exiles from the scene of desolation. to-night the picket lines stretch from brigade headquarters down prospect hill past general hastings' quarters even to the river. the patrol across the river is keeping sharp vigilance in town. at the eastern end of the pennsylvania railroad's stone bridge you must stop and give the countersign. if you don't no man can answer for your safety. a lieutenant's disgrace. down the cambria road, past which the dead of the river conemaugh swept into nineveh in awful numbers, was another scene to-day--that of a young officer of the national guard in full uniform and a poor deputy sheriff, who had lost home, wife, children and all, clinched like madmen and struggling for the former's revolver. if the officer of the guard had won, there might have been a tragedy, for he was drunk. the homeless deputy sheriff with his wife and babies swept to death past the place where they struggled was sober and in the right. the officer of the national guard came with his regiment into this valley of distress to protect survivors from ruffianism and maintain the peace and dignity of the state. the man with whom he fought for the weapon was peter fitzpatrick, almost crazy in his own woe, but singularly cool and self-possessed regarding the safety of those left living. a man who had suffered. it was one o'clock this afternoon when i noticed on the cambria road the young officer with his long military coat cut open leaning heavily for support upon two privates of company g, hawthorn and stewart (boys). he was crying in a maudlin way, "you just take me to a place and i'll drink soft stuff." they entreated him to return at once to the regimental quarters, even begged him, but he cast them aside and went staggering down the road to the line, where he met the grave-faced deputy face to face. the latter looked in the white of his eyes and said: "you can't pass here, sir." "can't pass here?" he cried, waving his arms. "you challenge an officer? stand aside!" "you can't pass here," this time quietly, but firmly; "not while you're drunk." "stand aside," yelled the lieutenant. "do you you know who i am? you talk to an officer of the national guard." "yes; and listen," said the man in front of him so impatiently that it hushed his antagonist's tirade; "i talk to an 'officer' of the national guard--i, who have lost my wife, my children and all in this flood no man has yet described; we, who have seen our dead with their bodies mutilated and their fingers cut from their hands by dirty foreigners for a little gold, are not afraid to talk for what is right, even to an officer of the national guard." a big man's honest rage. while he spoke another great, dark, stout man, who looked as if he had suffered, came up, and upon taking in the situation every vein in his forehead swelled purple with rage. "you dirty cur," he cried to the officer; "you dirty, drunken cur, if it was not for the sake of peace i'd lay you out where you stand." "come on," yelled the lieutenant, with an oath. the big man sent out a terrible blow that would have left the lieutenant senseless had not one of the privates dashed in between, receiving part of it and warding it off. the lieutenant got out of his military coat. the privates seized the big man and with another, who ran to the scene, held him back. the lieutenant put his hand to his pistol pocket, the deputy fitzpatrick seized him and the struggle for the weapon began. for a moment it was fierce and desperate, then another private came to the deputy's assistance. the revolver was wrested from the drunken officer and he himself was pushed back panting to the ground. the victor was magnanimous. deputy fitzpatrick seized the military coat he had thrown on the ground, and with it and the weapon started to the regimental headquarters. then the privates got around him and begged him, one of them with tears in his eyes, not to report their officer, saying that he was a good man when he was sober. he studied a long while, standing in the road, while the officer slunk away over the hill. then he threw the disgraced uniform to them, and said: "here, give them to him; and, mind you, if he does not go at once to his quarters, i'll take him there, dead or alive." sanitarians at work. dr. benjamin lee, secretary of the state board of health, has taken hold with a grip upon the handle. when he surveyed the ground to-day he found that there were no disinfectants in town, and no utensils in which to distribute them had there been any disinfectants, so he sent a squad across the river to the supply train, below the viaduct, and had all the copperas and chloride of lime to be had carried across the bridges in buckets. he sent another squad hunting the ruins for utensils, and in the wreck of a general store on main street they discovered pails, sprinkling pots and kettles. the copperas and chloride were promptly set heating in the kettles over the streets and in a short time a squad was out sprinkling the débris which chokes main street almost to the housetops for three squares. the reason of this was that a brief inspection had satisfied dr. lee that under the wreckage were piled the bodies of scores of dead horses. meantime other men were at work collecting the bodies of other dead horses, which were hauled to the fire and with the aid of rosin burned to the number of sixty. a large number of dead horses were buried yesterday, but this course did not meet the state board's approval and dr. lee has ordered their exhumation for burning. dr. r. lowrie sibbett, of carlisle, was made medical inspector and sent up through the boroughs up the river. to-morrow a house-to-house inspection will be made of the remaining and inhabited portion of the cities and boroughs. the overcrowding makes this necessary. "it will take weeks of unremitting labor and thousands of men," said dr. lee, "to remove the sources of danger to the public health which now exist. the principal danger to people living here is, of course, from the contamination of putrifying flesh. they have an excellent water-supply from the hills, but there is a very grave danger to the health of all the people who use the allegheny river as a water-supply. it is in the débris above the viaduct, which is full of decomposing animal matter. every ripple of water that passes through or under it carries the germs of possible disease with it." at the schoolhouse morgue. away from the devastation in the valley and the gloomy scenes along the river, on prospect hill, stands the school-house, the morgue of the unidentified dead. people do not go there unless they are hunting for a friend or relative. they treat it as a pest house. they have seen enough white faces in the valley and the living feel like fleeing from the dead. this afternoon at sunset every desk in every classroom supported a coffin. each coffin was numbered and each lid turned to show the face within. on the blackboard in one of the rooms, between the pretty drawing and neat writing of the school children, was scrawled the bulletin "hold no. ' ' as long as possible; supposed to be mrs. paulson, of pittsburgh." "but ' ' wasn't mrs. paulson," said a little white-faced woman. "it is miss frances wagner, of market street, johnstown." her brother found her here. "fifty-nine" has gone--one of the few identified to-day, and others had come to take its place. strongly appealing to the sympathies of even those looking for friends and relatives was the difference in the size of the coffins. there were some no larger than a violin case hidden below large boxes, telling of the unknown babies perished, and there were coffins of children of all years. on the blackboards were written such sentences as "home sweet home;" "peace on earth, good will toward men." for all the people who looked at their young faces knew, they might have stood by the coffin of the child who helped to write them. the bodies found each day are kept as long as possible and then are sent away for burial with their numbers, where their names should be, on rough boards, their only tombstones. just as a black storm-cloud was driving hard from the west over the slope of the hills yesterday the body of young henry g. rose, the district attorney of cambria county, was lowered into a temporary grave beside unknown victims. three people attended his burial--his father-in-law, james a. lane, who saw him lost while he himself was struggling for life in their floating house; the rev. dr. h.l. chapman, of the methodist episcopal church, and the rev. l. maguire. dr. chapman read the funeral services, and while he prayed the thunder rumbled and the cloud darkened the scene. the coffins are taken there in wagonloads, lowered quickly and hidden from sight. miss nina speck, daughter of rev. david speck, pastor of the first united brethren church of chambersburg, was in johnstown visiting her brother last week and narrowly escaped death in the flood. she arrived to-day clad in nondescript clothing, which had been furnished by an old colored washer-woman and told the following story of the flood: "our house was in kernville, a part of johnstown, through which stony creek ran. although we were a square from the creek, the backwater from the stream had flooded the streets in the morning and was up to our front porch. at o'clock on friday afternoon we were sitting on the front porch watching the flood, when we heard a roar as of a tornado or mighty conflagration. "we rushed upstairs and got out upon the bay-window. there an awful sight met our eyes. down the conemaugh valley was advancing a mighty wall of flame and mist with a terrible roar. before it were rolling houses and buildings of all kinds, tossing over and over. we thought it was a cyclone, the roar sounding like a tempest among forest trees. at first we could see no water at all, but back of the mist and flames came a mighty wall of water. we started downstairs and through the rear of the house to escape to the hillside nearby. but before we could get there the water was up to our necks and we could make no progress. we turned back and were literally dashed by the current into the house, which began to move off as soon as we were in it again. from the second-story window i saw a young man drifting toward us. i broke the glass from the frames with my hands and helped him in, and in a few moments more i pulled in an old man, a neighbor, who had been sick. miraculous escape. "our house moved rapidly down the stream and fortunately lodged against a strong building. the water forced us out of the second story up into the attic. then we heard a lot of people on our roof begging us for god's sake to let them in. i broke through the roof with a bed slat and pulled them in. soon we had thirteen in all crouched in the attic. "our house was rocking, and every now and then a building would crash against us. every moment we thought we would go down. the roofs of all the houses drifting by us were covered with people, nearly all praying and some singing hymns, and now and then a house would break apart and all would go down. on saturday at noon we were rescued, making our way from one building to the next by crawling on narrow planks. i counted hundreds of bodies lying in the débris, most of them covered over with earth and showing only the outlines of the form." a sad hospital story. on a cot in the hospital on prospect hill there lies at present a man injured almost to death, but whose mental sufferings are far keener than his bodily pains. his name is vering. he has lost in the flood his whole family--wife and five children. in an interview he said: "i was at home with my wife and children when the alarm came. we hurried from the house, leaving everything behind us. as we reached the door a gentleman friend was running by. he grasped the two smaller children, one under each arm, and hurried on ahead of us. i had my arm around my wife, supporting her. behind us we could hear the flood rushing upon us. in one hurried glance, as i passed a corner, i could see the fearful crunching and hear the crackling of the houses in its fearful grasp. i then could see that there was no possibility of our escape, as we were too far away from the hillside. in a few moments it was upon us. in a flash i saw the three dear children licked up by it and they disappeared from sight as i and my wife were thrown into the air by the vanguard of the rushing ruins. we found ourselves in a lot of drift, driving along with the speed of a race-horse. in a moment or two we were thrown with a crash against a frame building whose walls gave way before the flood as easily as if they were made of pie-crust, and the timbers began to fall about us in all directions. "up to this time i had retained a firm hold upon my wife, but as i found myself pinned between two heavy timbers the agony caused my senses to leave me momentarily. i recovered instantly in time to see my wife's head just disappearing under the water. like lightning i grasped her by the hair and as best i could, pinioned as i was above the water by the timber, i raised her above it. the weight proved too much and she sank again. again i pulled her to the surface and again she sank. this i did again and again with no avail. she drowned in my very grasp, and at last she dropped from my nerveless hands to leave my sight forever. as if i had not suffered enough, a few moments after i saw some objects whirling around in an eddy which circled around, until, reaching the current again, they floated past me. my god, man, would you believe me? it was three of my children, dead. their dear little faces are before me now, distorted in a look of agony that, no matter what i do, haunts me. o, if i could only have released myself at that time i would have willingly died with them. i was rescued some time after, and have been here ever since. i have since learned that my friend who so bravely endeavored to save two of the children was lost with them." chapter xv. terrible pictures of woe. the proportion of the living registered since the flood as against the previous number of inhabitants is even less than was reported yesterday. it was ascertained to-day that many of the names on the list were entered more than once and that the total number of persons registered is not more than , out of a former population of between , and , . a new and more exact method of determining the number of the lost was inaugurated this morning. men are sent out by the relief committee, who will go to every abode and obtain the names of the survivors, and if possible those of the dead. the lack of identification of hundreds of bodies strengthens the inference that the proportion of the dead to the living is appalling. it is argued that the friends who might identify these unclaimed bodies are themselves all gone. another significant fact is that so large a number of those whom one meets in the streets or where the streets used to be are non-residents, strangers who have come here out of humane or less creditable motives. the question that is heard very often is, "where are the inhabitants?" the town does not appear to have at present a population of more than , . it is believed that many of the bodies of the dead have been borne down into the ohio, and perhaps into the mississippi as well, and hence may finally be deposited by the waters hundreds of miles apart, perhaps never to be recovered or seen by man again. the general situation. under the blue haze of smoke that for a week has hung over this valley of the shadow of death the work which is to resurrect this stricken city has gone steadily forward. here and there over the waste where johnstown stood in its pride black smoke arises from the bonfires on which shattered house-walls, rafters, doors, broken furniture and all the flotsam and jetsam of the great flood is cast. adjutant general hastings, who believes in heroic measures, has been quietly trying to persuade the "dictator"--that is, the would-be "dictator"--to allow him to burn up the wrecked houses wholesale without the tedious bother of pulling them down and handling the débris. the timorous committees would not countenance such an idea. nothing but piecemeal tearing down of the wrecked houses tossed together by the mighty force of the water and destruction by never-dying bonfires would satisfy them. yet all of them must come down. most of the buildings reached by the flood have been examined, found unsafe and condemned. can the job be done safely and successfully wholesale or not? that is the real question for the powers that be to answer, and no sentiment should enter into it. four thousand workmen are busy to-day with ropes and axe, pick and shovel. but the task is vast, it is herculean, like unto the cleaning of the augean stables. "to clean up this town properly," said general hastings to-day, "we shall need twenty thousand workmen for three months." the force of the swollen river upturned the town in a half hour. these same timorous managers weakened to-day, after having the facts before their eyes brought home to their understanding by constant iteration. they have found out that they have, vulgarly speaking, bitten off more than they can chew. poisons of the foulest kind pollute the water which flows down the turgid conemaugh into the allegheny river, whence is pittsburgh's water-supply, and thence into the ohio, the water-supply of many cities and towns. fears of a pestilence are not to be pooh-poohed into the background. it is very serious, so long as the river flows through the clogged and matted mass of the bridge so long it will threaten the people along its course with pestilence. the committee confess their inability to do this needed work, and to-day voted to ask the governors of the several states to co-operate in the establishment of a national relief committee to grapple with the situation. action cannot and must not be delayed. hope out of despair. the fears of an outbreak of fever or other zymotic diseases appear to be based on the alleged presence of decomposed animal matter, human and of lower type, concealed amid the débris. the alleged odor of burnt flesh coming from the enormous mass of conglomerated timber and iron lodged in the cul-de-sac formed by the pennsylvania railroad bridge is extremely mythical. there is an unmistakable scent of burnt wood. it would not be strange if the carcasses of domestic animals, which must be hidden in the enormous mass, were finally to be realized by the olfactory organs of the bystanders. [illustration: general hastings directing the police.] blasting continues. all day long the blast of dynamite resounded among the hills. cartridges were let off in the débris, and a cloud of dust and flying spray marked the result of the mining operation. the interlaced timbers in the cul-de-sac yielded very slowly even to the mighty force of dynamite. there were no finds of especial import. at the present rate of clearing, the cul-de-sac will not be free from the wreckage in two months. there was a sad spectacle presented this morning when the laborers were engaged in pulling over a vast pile of timber and miscellaneous matter on main street. a young woman and a little puny baby girl were found beneath the mass, which was as high as the second story windows of the houses near by. together in death. the girl must have been handsome when in the flush of youth and health. she had seized the helpless infant and endeavored to find safety by flight. her closely cut brown hair was filled with sand, and a piece of brass wire was wound around the head and neck. a loose cashmere house-gown was partially torn from her form, and one slipper, a little bead embroidered affair, covered a silk-stockinged foot. each arm was tightly clasped around the baby. the rigidity of death should have passed away, but the arms were fixed in their position as if composed of an unbendable material instead of muscle and bone. the fingers were imbedded in the sides of the little baby as if its protector had made a final effort not to be separated and to save if possible the fragile life. the faces of both were scarred and disfigured from contact with floating débris. the single garment of the baby--a thin white slip--was rent and frayed. the body of the young woman was identified, but the babe remained unknown. probably its father and mother were lost in the flood, and it will never be claimed by friendly hands. a strange discovery. this is only one among the many pathetic incidents of the terrible disaster. there were only nine unidentified bodies at the adams street morgue this afternoon, and three additions to the number were made after ten o'clock. two hundred and eight bodies have been received by the embalmers in charge. the yard of the school house, which was converted into a temporary abode of death, contains large piles of coffins of the cheaper sort. they come from different cities within two or three hundred miles of johnstown, and after being stacked up they are pulled out as needed. coffins are to be seen everywhere about the valley, ready for use when a body is found. a trio of bodies was found near the hurlburt house under peculiar circumstances. they were hidden beneath a pile of wreckage at least twenty-five feet in height. they were a father, a mother and son. around the waist of each a quarter inch rope was tied so that the three were bound together tightly. the hands of the boy were clasped by those of the mother, and the father's arms were extended as if to ward off danger. the father probably knotted the rope during the awful moments of suspense intervening between the coming of the flood and the final destruction of the house they occupied. the united strength of the three could not resist the mighty force of the inundation, and like so many straws they were swept on the boiling surge until life was crushed out. child and doll in one coffin. i beheld a touching spectacle when the corpse of a little girl was extricated and placed on a stretcher for transportation to the morgue. clasped to her breast by her two waxen hands was a rag doll. it was a cheap affair, evidently of domestic manufacture. to the child of poverty the rag baby was a favorite toy. the little mother held fast to her treasure and met her end without separating from it. the two, child and doll, were not parted when the white coffin received them, and they will moulder together. i saw an old-fashioned cupboard dug out of a pile of rubbish. the top shelf contained a quantity of jelly of domestic manufacture. not a glass jar was broken. indeed there have been some remarkable instances of the escape of fragile articles from destruction. in the débris near the railroad bridge you may come upon all manner of things. the water-tanks of three locomotives which were borne from the roundhouse at conemaugh, two miles away, are conspicuous. amid the general wreck, beneath one of these heavy iron tanks, a looking glass, two feet by one foot in dimensions, was discovered intact, without even a scratch on the quicksilver. johnstown people surviving the destruction appear to bewail the death of the fisher family. "squire" fisher was one of the old time public functionaries of the borough. he and his six children were swept away. one of the fisher girls was at home under peculiar circumstances. she had been away at school, and returned home to be married to her betrothed. then she was to return to school and take part in the graduating exercises. her body has not yet been recovered. something to be thankful for. there is much destitution felt by people whose pride prevents them from asking for supplies from the relief committees. i saw a sad little procession wending up the hill to the camp of the americus club. there was a father, an honest, simple german, who had been employed at the cambria works during the past twelve years. behind him trooped eight children, from a girl of fourteen to a babe in the arms of the mother, who brought up the rear. the woman and children were hatless, and possessed only the calico garments worn at the moment of flight. forlorn and weary, they ranged in front of the relieving stand and implored succor. "we lost one only, thank god!" exclaimed the mother. "our second daughter is gone. we had a comfortable house which we owned. it was paid for by our savings. now all is gone." then the unhappy woman sat down on the wet ground and sobbed hysterically. the children crowded around their mother and joined in her grief. you will behold many of these scenes of domestic distress about the ruins of johnstown in these dolorous days. saw a flood of helpless humanity. mr. l.d. woodruff, the editor and proprietor of the johnstown _democrat_, tells his experiences during the night of horrors. he was at the office of the paper, which is in the upper portion of the baltimore and ohio railway station. this brick edifice stands almost in the centre of the course of the flood, and its preservation from ruin is one of the remarkable features of the occasion. a pile of freight cars lodged at the corner of the building and the breakwater thus formed checked the onslaught of floating battering rams. mr. woodruff, with his two sons, remained in the building until the following day. the water came up to the floor of the second story. all night long he witnessed people floating past on the roofs of houses or on various kinds of wreckage. a number of persons were rescued through the windows. a man and his wife with three children were pulled in. after a while the mother for the first time remembered that her baby of fifteen months was left behind. her grief was violent, and her cries were mingled with the groans of her husband, who lay on the floor with a broken leg. the next day the baby was found, when the waters subsided, on a pile of débris outside and it was alive and uninjured. during the first few hours mr. woodruff momentarily expected that the building would go. as the night wore away it became evident the water was going down. not a vestige of mr. woodruff's dwelling has been found. the newspapers of johnstown came out of the flood fairly well. the _democrat_ lost only a job press, which was swept out of one corner of the building. the flood's awful spoil. in the broad field of débris at the pennsylvania railroad viaduct, where the huge playthings of the flood were tossed only to be burned and beaten to a solid, intricate mass, are seen the peculiar metal works of two trains of cars. the wreck of the day express east, running in two sections that fatal friday, lie there about thirty yards above the bridge. one mass of wreckage is unmistakably that of the pullman car section, made up of two baggage cars and six pullman coaches, and the other shows the irons of five day coaches and one pullman car. these trains were running in the same block at johnstown and were struck by the flood two miles above, torn from their tracks and carried tumbling down the mighty torrents to their resting place in the big eddy. railroad men suppressing information. the train crew, who saw the waters coming, warned the passengers, escaped, and went home on foot. conductor bell duly made his report, yet for some unknown reasons one of superintendent pitcairn's sub-ordinates has been doing his best to give out and prove by witnesses, to whom he takes newspaper men, that only one car of that express was lost and with it "two or three ladies who went back for overshoes and a very few others not lively enough to escape after the warnings." that story went well until the smoke rolled away from the wreckage and the bones of the two sections of the day express east were disclosed. another very singular feature was the apparent inability of the conductor of the express to tell how many passengers they had on board and just how many were saved. it had been learned that the first section of the train carried passengers and the second . it may be stated as undoubtedly true that of the number fifty, at least, swell the horrible tale of the dead. from the wreck where the trains burned there have been taken out fifty-eight charred bodies, the features being unrecognizable. of these seven found together were the gilmore family, whose house had floated there. the others, all adults, which, with two or three exceptions, swell the list of the unidentified dead, are undoubted corpses of the ill-fated passengers of the east express. the church loses a missionary. to-day another corpse was found in the ruins of a pullman car badly burned. it was fully identified as that of miss anna clara chrisman, of beauregard, miss., a well-developed lady of about twenty-five years, who was on her way to new york to fill a mission station in brazil. between the leaves of her greek testament was a telegram she had written, expecting to send it at the first stop, addressed to the methodist mission headquarters, no. east twelfth street, new york, saying that she would arrive on "train " of the pennsylvania railroad, the day express east. in her satchel were found photographs of friends and her bible, and from her neck hung a $ gold piece, carefully sewn in a bag. is it possible that the pennsylvania railroad is keeping back the knowledge in order simply to avoid a list of "passengers killed" in its annual report, solely to keep its record as little stained as possible? it can hardly be that they fear suits for damages, for the responsibility of the wreck does not rest on them. two hundred bodies were recovered from the ruins yesterday. some were identified, but the great majority were not. this number includes all the morgues--the one at the pennsylvania railroad station, the fourth ward school, cambria city, morrellville, kernville and the presbyterian church. at the latter place a remarkable state of affairs exists. the first floor has been washed out completely and the second, while submerged, was badly damaged, but not ruined. the walls, floors and pews were drenched, and the mud has collected on the matting and carpets an inch deep. walking is attended with much difficulty, and the undertakers and attendants, with arms bared, slide about the slippery surface at a tremendous rate. the chancel is filled with coffins, strips of muslin, boards, and all undertaking accessories. lying across the tops of the pews are a dozen pine boxes, each containing a victim of the flood. printed cards are tacked on each. upon them the sex and full description of the enclosed body is written with the name, if known. the nameless dead. the great number of bodies not identified seems incredulous and impossible. some of these bodies have lain in the different morgues for four days. thousands of people from different sections of the state have seen them, yet they remain unidentified. at nineveh they are burying all the unidentified dead, but in the morgues in this vicinity no bodies have been buried unless they were identified. the first presbyterian church contains nine "unknown." burials will have to be made to-morrow. this morning workmen found three members of benjamin hoffman's family, which occupied a large residence in the rear of lincoln street. benjamin hoffman, the head of the family, was found seated on the edge of the bedstead. he was evidently preparing to retire when the flood struck the building. he had his socks in his pocket. his twenty-year-old daughter was found close by attired in a night-dress. the youngest member of the family, a three-year-old infant, was also found beside the bed. [illustration: carrying children to burial.] where the dead are laid. i made a tour of the cemeteries to-day to see how the dead were disposed in their last resting place. there are six burying grounds--two to the south of this place, one to the north, and three on morrellsville to the west. the principal one is grand view, on the summit of kernville hill. but the most remarkable, through the damage done by the flood, is sandy vale cemetery, at hornersville, on stony creek, and about half a mile from the city of johnstown. it is a private institution in which most of the people of the city buried their dead until two years ago, when the public corporation of grand view was established. its grounds are level, laid out in lots, and were quite picturesque, its dense foliage and numerous monuments attracting the eyes of every passenger entering the city by the baltimore and ohio railroad, which passes along one side the creek forming its other boundary. the banks of the creek are twenty feet high, and there was a nice sandy beach through its entire length. a sorry scene. when the floods came the first of the wreckage and the backwater sent hundreds of houses, immense quantities of logs and cut lumber over it and into the borough of hornersville. as the angry waters subsided the pretty cemetery was wrecked as badly as was the city, a portion of the débris of which has destroyed its symmetry. to make way for the burial of the numerous bodies sent there by the town committees it became necessary to burn some of the débris. this was commenced at the nearest or southern end, and at the time of my visit i had, like the corpses, to pass through an avenue of fire and over live ashes to make my inspection. there were no unknown dead sent here, consequently they were interred in lots, and here and there, as the cleared spots would allow, a body was deposited and the grave made to look as decently as four or five inches of mud on the surface and the clay soil would allow. masses of débris. scarcely a monument was left standing. tall columns were broken like pipe-stems, and fences and evergreen bowers were almost a thing of the past. whole houses on their sides, with their roofs on the ground, covered the lots, the beach, or blocked up the pathways, while other houses in fragments strewed the surface of the ground from one end to the other of the cemetery, once the pride of johnstown. i found that some of the trees which were standing had feather beds or articles of furniture up in their boughs. here and there a dead cow or a horse, two or three wagons, a railroad baggage car. add to this several thousand logs, heaps of lumber, piled just as they left the yards, and still other single planks by the hundred thousand of feet, and some idea of the surroundings of the victims of the flood placed at rest here can be obtained. on kernville hill. grand view cemetery, a beautiful spot, was started as a citizens' cemetery and incorporated two years ago, and is now the finest burying place in this section of pennsylvania. it is situated on the summit of kernville hill, between six hundred and seven hundred feet above the town. it is approached by a zigzag roadway about one mile and a half in length, and a magnificent view of the valley is obtained from the grounds, making it well worth a visit under any circumstances. here those whose relatives did not hold lots are to be buried in trenches four feet deep, sixty bodies to a trench. at present the trenches are not complete, and their encoffined bodies are stored in the beautiful stone chapel at the entrance. of the other bodies they are entombed in the lots, where more than one were buried together. a wide grave was dug to hold them side by side. a single grave was made for squire fisher's family, one grave and one mound holding eight of them. snatched from the flood. one of the most thrilling incidents of narrow escapes is that told by miss minnie chambers. she had been to see a friend in the morning and was returning to her home on main street, when the suddenly rising waters caused her to quicken her steps. before she could reach her home or seek shelter at any point, the water had risen so high and the current became so strong that she was swept from her feet and carried along in the flood. fortunately her skirts served to support her on the surface for a time, but at last as they became soaked she gave up all hope of being saved. just as she was going under a box car that had been torn from its trucks floated past her and she managed by a desperate effort to get hold of it and crawled inside the open doorway. here she remained, expecting every moment her shelter would be dashed to pieces by the buildings and other obstructions that it struck. through the door she could see the mass of angry, swirling waters, filled with all manner of things that could be well imagined. an ark of refuge. men, women and children, many of them dead and dying, were being whirled along. several of them tried to get refuge in the car with her, but were torn away by the rushing waters before they could secure an entrance. finally a man did make his way into the car. on went the strange boat, while all about it seemed to be a perfect pandemonium. shrieks and cries from the thousands outside who were being driven to their death filled the air. miss chambers says it was a scene that will haunt her as long as she lives. many who floated by her could be seen kneeling on the wreckage that bore them, with clasped hands and upturned faces as though in prayer. others wore a look of awful despair on their faces. suddenly, as the car was turned around, the stone bridge could be seen just ahead of them. the man that was in the car called to her to jump out in the flood or she would be dashed to pieces. she refused to go. he seized a plank and sprang into the water. in an instant the eddying current had torn the plank from him, and as it twisted around struck him on the head, causing him to throw out his arms and sink beneath the water never to reappear again. miss chambers covered her face to avoid seeing any more of the horrible sight, when with an awful crash the car struck one of the stone piers. the entire side of it was knocked out. as the car lodged against the pier the water rushed through it and carried miss chambers away. again she gave herself up as lost, when she felt herself knocked against an obstruction, and instinctively threw out her hand and clutched it. here she remained until the water subsided, when she found that she was on the roof of one of the cambria mills, and had been saved by holding on to a pipe that came through the roof. a night of agony. all through that awful night she remained there, almost freezing to death, and enveloped in a dense mass of smoke from the burning drift on the other side of the bridge. the cries of those being roasted to death were heard plainly by her. on saturday some men succeeded in getting her from the perilous position she occupied and took her to the house of friends on prospect hill. strange to say that with the exception of a few bruises she escaped without any other injuries. another survivor who told a pathetic story was john c. peterson. he is a small man but he was wearing clothes large enough for a giant. he lost his own and secured those he had on from friends. "i'm the only one left," he said in a voice trembling with emotion. "my poor old mother, my sister, mrs. ann walker, and her son david, aged fourteen, of bedford county, who were visiting us, were swept away before my eyes and i was powerless to aid them. "the water had been rising all day, and along in the afternoon flooded the first story of our house, at the corner of twenty-eighth and walnut streets. i was employed by charles mun as a cigarmaker, and early on friday afternoon went home to move furniture and carpets to the second story of the house. "as near as i can tell it was about four o'clock when the whistle at the gautier steel mill blew. about the same time the catholic church bell rang. i knew what that meant and i turned to mother and sister and said, 'my god, we are lost!' here's a hero. "i looked out of the window and saw the flood, a wall of water thirty feet high, strike the steel works, and it melted quicker than i tell it. the man who stopped to blow the warning whistle must have been crushed to death by the falling roof and chimneys. he might have saved himself, but stopped to give the warning. he died a hero. four minutes after the whistle blew the water was in our second story. "we started to carry mother to the attic, but the water rose faster than we could climb the stairs. there was no window in our attic, and we were bidding each other good-by when a tall chimney on the house adjoining fell on our roof and broke a hole through it. we then climbed out on the roof, and in another moment our house floated away. it started down with the other stuff, crashing, twisting and quivering. i thought every minute it would go to pieces. "finally it was shoved over into water less swift and near another house. "i found that less drift was forced against it than against ours, and decided to get on it. i climbed up on the roof, and in looking up saw a big house coming down directly toward ours, i called to sister to be quick. she was lifting mother up to me. i could barely reach the tips of her fingers when her arms were raised up while i lay on my stomach reaching down. at that moment the house struck ours and my loved ones were carried away and crushed by the big house. it was useless for me to follow, for they sank out of sight. i floated down to the bridge, then back with the current and landed at vine street. "i saw hundreds of people crushed and drowned. it is my opinion that fully fifteen thousand people perished." when the whistles of the gautier steel mill of the cambria iron company blew for the shutting down of the works at o'clock last friday morning nearly men walked out of the establishment and went to their homes, which were a few hours later wiped off the face of the earth. when the men to-day answered the notice that all should present themselves ready for work only reported. that shows more clearly than anything else that has yet been known the terrible nature of the fatality of the conemaugh. the mortality wrought among these men in a few hours is thus shown to have been greater than that in either of the armies that contended for three days at gettysburg. "report at o'clock to-morrow morning ready for work," the notice posted read. it did not say where, but everybody knew it was not at the great gautier mill that covered half a dozen acres, for the reason that no mill is there. by a natural impulse the survivors of the working force of the steel plant began to move from all directions, before the hour named, toward the general office of the company. what the superintendent saw. this office is located in johnstown proper and is the only building in that section of the town left standing uninjured. it is a large brick building, three stories high, with massive brick walls. l.l. smith, the commercial agent of the company, arrived at eight o'clock to await the gathering of the men, pausing a minute in the doorway to look at two things. one was an enormous pile of débris, bricks, iron girders and timbers almost in front of the office door which swarmed with men engaged in clearing it away. this is the ruins of the johnstown free library, presented to the town by the cambria iron company, the late i.v. williamson and others, and beneath it mr. smith knew many of his most intimate friends were buried. the other thing he looked at was his handsome residence partly in ruins, a few hundred yards away. when he entered the office he found that the men who had been shoveling the mud out of the office had finished their work and the floor was dark and sticky. a fire blazed in the open grate. a table was quickly rigged up and with three clerks to assist him, mr. smith prepared to make up the roster of the gautier forces. the survivor's advance corps. soon they began to come like the first reformed platoon of an army after fleeing from disaster. the leader of the platoon was a small boy. his hat was pulled down over his eyes and he looked as if he were sorely afraid. after him came half a dozen men with shambling gait. one was an irishman, two were english, one was a german and one a colored man. two of them carried pickaxes in their hands, which they had been using to clear away the wreckage across the street. "say, mister," stammered the abashed small boy, "is this the place?" "are you a gautier man?" asked mr. smith kindly. "yes, sir, me and me father, but he's gone." "give us your name, my boy, and report at the lower works at o'clock. now, my men, we want to get to work and pull each other out of the hole, this dreadful calamity has put us in. it's no use having vain regrets. it's all over and we must put a good face to the front. at first it was intended that we should go up to the former site of the gautier mill and clean up and get out all the steel we could. mr. stackhouse now wants us to get to work and clear the way from the lower mills right up the valley. we will rebuild the bridge back of the office here and push the railroad clear up to where it was before." not anxious to turn in. the men listened attentively, and then one of them asked: "but, mr. smith, if we don't feel just like turning in to-day we don't have to, do we?" "nobody will have to work at all," was the answer, "but we do want all the men to lend a hand to help us out as soon as they can." while mr. smith was speaking several other workmen came in. they, too, were gautier employees, and they had pickaxes on their shoulders. they heard the agent's last remark, and one of them, stepping forward, said: "a good many of us are working cleaning up the town. do you want us to leave that?" "it isn't necessary for you to work cleaning up the town," was the reply. "there are plenty of people from the outside to do that who came here for that purpose. now, boys, just give your names so we can find out how many of our men are left, and all of you that can, go down and report at the lower office." all the time the members of the decimated gautier army were filing into the muddy-floored office. they came in twos and threes and dozens, and some bore out the idea of an army reforming after disaster, because they bore grievous wounds. one man had a deep cut in the back of his head, another limped along on a heavy stick, one had lost a finger and had an ugly bruise on his cheek. j.n. short, who was the foreman of the cold-rolled steel shafting department, sat in the office, and many of the men who filed past had been under him in the works. mutual congratulations. there were handshakes all the more hearty and congratulations all the more sincere because of what all had passed through. when the wall of water seventy-five feet high struck the mill and whipped it away like shot mr. short was safe on higher ground, but many of the men had feared he was lost. "i tell you, mr. short," said j.t. miller, "i'm glad to see you're safe." "and how did you make out, old man?" "all right, thank god." then came another man bolder than all and apparently a general favorite. he rushed forward and shook mr. smith's hand. "mr. smith," he exclaimed, "good morning, good morning." "so you got out of it, did you, after all?" asked mr. smith. "indeed i did, but lord bless my soul, i thought the wife and babies were gone." the man gave his name and hurried away, brushing a tear from his eye. mr. shellenberger, one of the foremen, brought up the rear of the next platoon to enter. he caught sight of mr. smith and shouted: "oh, mr. smith: good for you. i'm glad to see you safe." "here to you, my hearty," was the answer. "did you all get off?" "every blessed one of us," with a bright smile. "we were too high on the hill." he was tired of johnstown. a little bit later another man came in. he looked as if he had been weeping. he hesitated in front of the desk. "i am a gautier employee," he said, speaking slowly, "and i have reported according to orders." "well, give us your name and go to work down at the lower works," suggested mr. smith. "no, sir, i think not," he muttered, after a pause. "i am not staying in this town any longer than i can help, i guess. i've lost two children and they will be buried to-day." "all right, my man, but if you want work we have plenty of it for you." the reporting of names and these quiet mutual congratulations of the men went on rapidly, but expected faces did not appear. this led mr. smith to ask, "how about george thompson? is he alive?" "i do not know," answered the man addressed. "i do not think so." "who do you know are alive?" asked mr. smith, turning to another man. mr. smith never once asked who was dead. "well," answered the man speaking reflectively, "i'm pretty sure frank smith is alive. john dagdale is alive. tom sweet is alive, and i don't know any more, for i've been away--at nineveh." the speaker had been at nineveh looking for the body of his son. not another word was said to him. "say, boys," exclaimed mr. smith suddenly, a few minutes after he had looked over the list, "pullman hasn't reported yet." "but pullman's all right," said a man quickly, "i was up at his sister's house last night and he was there. that's more than i can say of the other men in pullman's shift though," added the speaker in a low tone. mr. short took this man aside, "that is a fact," said he, "yesterday i knew of a family in which five out of six were lost. to-day i find out there were twenty people in the house mostly our men and only three escaped." each thought the other dead. just then two men met at the door and fairly fell on each other's necks. one wore a grand army badge and the other was a young fellow of twenty-three or thereabouts. they had been fast friends in the same department, and each thought the other dead. they knew no better till they met at the office door. "well, i heard your body had been found at nineveh," said the old man. "and i was told you had been burned to death at the bridge," answered the other. then the two men solemnly shook hands and walked away together. a pale-faced woman with a shawl over her shoulders entered and stood at the table. "my husband cannot report," she said simply, in almost a whisper. "he worked for the gautier mill?" she was asked. she nodded, bent forward and murmured something. the man at the desk said: "make a note of that; so-and-so's wife reports him as gone, and his wages due are to be paid to her." the work of recording the men went on until nearly one o'clock. then, after waiting for a long time, mr. smith said, "out of men we now have . it may be there are who either did not see the notice or who are too busy to come. anyway, i hope so--my god, i hope so." all afternoon the greater part of the men were swinging pickaxes and shovels, clearing the way for the railroad leading up to the gautier steel works of the future. the morbidly curious. to-day the order "halt!" rang out in earnest at the footbridge over the rushing river into johnstown. it was the result of a cry as early as the reveille, that came from among the ruins and from the hoarse throats of the contractors--"for god's sake, keep the morbid people out of here; they're in the way!" general hastings ordered the picket out on the high embankment east of the freight depot, where every man, woman and child must pass to reach the bridge. colonel perchment detailed captain hamilton, of g company, there with an ample guard, and all who came without general hastings' pass in the morning were turned aside. this afternoon a new difficulty was encountered. when you flashed your military pass on the sentinel who cried "halt!" he would throw his gun slantwise across your body, so that the butt grazed your right hip and the bayonet your left ear and say: "no good unless signed by the sheriff." the civil authorities had taken the bridge out of the hands of the militia, and the sheriff sat on a camp stool overlooking the desolate city all the forenoon making out passes and approving the general's. no conflict of authority. the military men say there was no conflict of authority, and it was deemed proper that the civil authorities should still control the pass there. the sheriff came near getting shot in cambria city this morning during a clash with one of his deputies over a buggy. yet he looked calm and serene. some beg him for passes to hunt for their dead. one man cried: "i've just gotten here, and my wife and children are in that town;" another said, "i belong in conemaugh and was carried off by the flood," while an aged, trembling man behind him whispered, "sheriff, i just wanted to look where the old home stood." when four peaceful faced sisters in convent garb, on their mission of mercy, came that way the sentinels stood back a pace and no voice ordered "halt!" at noon the crane belonging to the pennsylvania railroad was taken away from the débris at the bridge, and mr. kirk had to depend on dynamite alone. later it was ordered back, and after that the work went on rapidly. an opening feet long, which runs back in some places fifty feet, was made during the afternoon. a relief party yesterday found a ladies' hand satchel containing $ in cash, deeds for $ , in property and about $ , in insurance policies. mrs. lizzie dignom was the owner, and both she and her husband perished in the flood. remembering the orphans. miss h.w. hinckley and miss e. hanover, agent of the children's aid society and bureau of information of philadelphia, arrived here this morning, and in twenty minutes had established a transfer agency. miss hinckley said: "there are hundreds of children here who are apparently without parents. we want all of them given to us, and we will send them to the various homes and orphanages of the state, where they shall be maintained for several months to await the possibility of the reappearance of their parents when they will be returned to them. if after the lapse of a month they do not reclaim their little ones, we shall do more than we ordinarily do in the way of providing good homes for children in their cases. think of it, in the house adjoining us are seven orphans, all of one family. we have been here only a half hour, but we have already found scores. we shall stay right here till every child has been provided for." there is no denying that a great deal of ill-feeling is breeding here between the survivors of the flood over the distribution of the relief supplies. the supplies are spread along the railroad track down as far as morrellville in great stacks; provisions, clothing, shoes, and everything else. the people come for them in swarms with baskets and other means of conveyance. lines are drawn, which are kept in trim by the pickets, and in this way they pass along in turn to the point where the stock is distributed. it was not unusual yesterday to hear women's tongues lashing each other and complaining that the real sufferers were being robbed and turned away, while those who had not fared badly by flood or fire were getting lots of everything from the committee. one woman made this complaint to a corporal. "prove it; prove it," he said, and walked away. she cried after him, "the pretty women are getting more than they can carry." twice the line of basket-carriers was broken by the guard to put out wranglers, and all through the streets of cambria city could be heard murmurs of dissension. there is no doubt but that a strong guard will be kept in the town day and night, for in their deplorable condition the husbands may take up the quarrel of their wives. danger of insanity. the _medical news_, of philadelphia, with rare enterprise, despatched a member of its staff to johnstown, and he telegraphed as follows for the next issue of that paper: "the mental condition of almost every former resident of johnstown is one of the gravest character, and the reaction which will set in when the reality of the whole affair is fully comprehended can scarcely fail to produce many cases of permanent or temporary insanity. most of the faces that one meets, both male and female, are those of the most profound melancholia, associated with an almost absolute disregard of the future. the nervous system shows the strain it has borne by a tremulousness of the hand and of the lip, in man as well as in woman. this nervous state is further evidenced by a peculiar intonation of words, the persons speaking mechanically, while the voices of many rough-looking men are changed into such tremulous notes of so high a pitch, as to make one imagine that a child, on the verge of tears, is speaking. crying is so rare that your correspondent saw not a tear on any face in johnstown, but the women that are left are haggard, with pinched features and heavy, dark lines under their eyes. "the state board of health should warn the people of the portions of the country supplied by the conemaugh of the danger of drinking its waters for weeks to come." the women and children. new johnstown will be largely a city of childless widowers. one of the peculiar things a stranger notices is the comparatively small number of women seen in the streets. of the throngs who walked about the place searching for dear friends there is not one woman to ten men. occasionally a little group of two or three women with sad faces will pick their way about looking for the morgues. there are a few sisters of charity--their black robes the only instance in which the conventional badge of mourning is seen upon the streets--and in the parts of the town not totally destroyed the usual number of women are seen in the houses and yards. but, as a rule, women are a rarety in johnstown now. this is not a natural peculiarity of johnstown nor a mere coincidence, but a fact with a terrible reason behind it. there are so many more men than women among the living in johnstown now because there are so many more women than men among the dead. of the bodies recovered there are at least two women to every one man. besides the fact that their natural weakness made them an easier prey to the flood, the hour at which the disaster came was one when the women would most likely be in their homes and the men at work in the open air or in factory yards, from which escape was easy. an almost childless city. children also are rarely seen about the town and for a similar reason. they are all dead. there is never a group of the dead discovered that does not contain from one to three or four children for every grown person. generally the children are in the arms of the grown persons, and often little toys and trinkets clasped in their hands indicate that the children were caught up while at play and carried as far as possible toward safety. johnstown, when rebuilt, will be a city of many widowers and few children. in turning a school-house into a morgue, the authorities probably did a wiser thing than they thought. it will be a long time before the school-house will be needed for its original purpose. the flood on the flat. the flood, with a front of twenty feet high, bristling with all manner of débris, struck straight across the flat, as though the river's course had always been that way. it cut off the outer two-thirds of the city with a line as true and straight as could have been drawn by a survey. on the part over which it swept there remains standing but one building, the brewery. with this exception, not only the houses and stores, but the pavements, sidewalks and curbstones, and the earth beneath for several feet are washed away. the pavements were of cinders from the iron works; a bed six inches thick and as hard as stone and with a surface like macadam. over west of the washed-out portion of the city not even the broken fragments of these pavements are left. aside from the few logs and timbers left by the afterwash of the flood, there is nothing remaining upon the outer edge of the flat, including two of the four long streets of the city, except the brewery mentioned before and a grand piano. the water-marks on the brewery walls show the flood reached twenty feet up its sides and it stood on a little higher ground than buildings around it at that. thieves had rifled his safe. mr. steires, who on last friday was the wealthiest man in town, on sunday was compelled to borrow the dress which clothed his wife. when the flood began to threaten he removed some of the most valuable papers from his safe and moved them to the upper story of the building to keep them from getting wet. when the dam burst and conemaugh lake came down these, of course, went with the building. he got his safe monday, but found that thieves had been before him, they having chiseled it open and taken everything but $ in a drawer which they overlooked. mr. steires said to-day: "i am terribly crippled financially, but my family were all saved and i am ready to begin over again." rebuilding going on apace. oklahoma is not rising more quickly than the temporary buildings of the workmen's city, which includes , men at least, and who are mingling the sounds of hammers on the buildings they are putting up for their temporary accommodation, with the crash of the buildings they are tearing down. it seemed almost a waste of energy two days ago, but the different gangs are already eating their way towards the heart of the great masses of wreckage that block the streets in every direction. a dummy engine has already been placed in position on what was the main street, and all the large logs and rafters that the men can not move are fastened with ropes and chains, and drawn out by the engine into a clear space, where they are surrounded by smaller pieces of wood and burned. carloads of pickaxes, shovels and barrows are arriving from baltimore for the workmen. first store opened. the first store was opened to-day by a grocer named w.a. kramer, whose stock, though covered with mud and still wet from the flood, has been preserved intact. so far the greater part of his things have been bought for relics. the other storekeepers are dragging out the débris in their shops and shoveling the mud from the upper stories upon inclined boards that shoot it into the street, but with all this energy it will be weeks before the streets are brought to sight again. as a proof of this, there was found this morning a passenger car fully half a mile from its depot, completely buried beneath the floor and roofs of other houses. all that could be seen of it by peering through intercepting rafters was one of the end windows over which was painted the impotent warning of "any person injuring this car will be dealt with according to law." curious finds of workmen. the workmen find many curious things among the ruins, and are, it should be said to their credit, particularly punctilious about leaving them alone. one man picked up a baseball catcher's mask under a great pile of machinery, and the decorated front of the balcony circle of the opera house was found with the chairs still immediately about its semi-circle, a quarter of a mile from the theatre's site. the mahogany bar of a saloon, with its nickel-plated rail, lies under another heap in the city park, and thousands of cigars from a manufactory are piled high in vine street, and are used as the only dry part of the roadway. those of the people who can locate their homes have gathered what furniture and ornaments they can find together, and sit beside them looking like evicted tenants. the grand army of the republic, represented by department commander thomas j. stewart, have placed a couple of tents at the head of main street for the distribution of food and clothing. a census of the people will be taken and the city divided into districts, each worthy applicant will be furnished with a ticket giving his or her number and the number of the district. the post-office uniforms. across the street from the grand army tents is the temporary post-office, which is now in fairly good working order. one of the distributing clerks hunted up a newspaper correspondent to tell him that the post-office uniforms sent from philadelphia by the employees of that city's office have arrived safely and that the men want to return thanks through this paper. the red cross army people from philadelphia have decided to remain, notwithstanding general hastings' cool reception, and they have taken up their quarters in kernville, where they say the destitution is as great as in what was the city proper. the tale the clocks tell. the clocks of the city in both public and private houses tell different tales of the torrent that stopped them. some of them ceased to tick the moment the water reached them. in dibert's banking-house the marble time-piece on the mantel stopped at seven minutes after o'clock. in the house of the hon. john m. rose, on the bank of stony creek, was a clock in every room of the mansion from the cellar to the attic. mr. rose is a fine machinist, and the mechanism of clocks has a fascination for him that is simply irresistible. he has bronze, marble, cuckoo, corner or "grandfather" clocks--all in his house. one of them was stopped exactly at o'clock; still another at . ; another at . , and one was not stopped till p.m. the "grandfather" clock did not stop at all, and is still going. the town clocks, that is the clocks in church towers, are all going and were not injured by the water. the mantel piece clocks in nearly every house show a "no tick" at times ranging from . to . . dead in the jail. this morning a man, in wandering through the skirts of the city, came upon the city jail, and finding the outer door open, went into the gloomy structure. hanging against the wall he found a bunch of keys and fitting them in the doors opened them one after another. in one cell he found a man lying on the floor in the mud in a condition of partial decomposition. he looked more closely at the dead body and recognized it as that of john mckee, son of squire mckee, of this city, who had been committed for a short term on decoration day for drunkenness. the condition of the cell showed that the man had been overpowered and smothered by the water, but not till he had made every effort that the limits of his cell would allow to save himself. there were no other prisoners in the jail. heroes of the night. thomas magee, the cashier of the cambria iron company's general stores, tells a thrilling story of the manner in which he and his fellow clerks escaped from the waters themselves, saved the money drawers and rescued the lives of nineteen other people during the progress of the flood. he says: it was . o'clock when the flood struck our building with a crash. it seemed to pour in from every door and window on all sides, as well as from the floors above us. i was standing by the safe, which was open at the time, and snatched the tin box which contained over $ , in cash, and with other clerks at my heels flew up the stairs to the second floor. in about three minutes we were up to our waists in water, and started to climb to the third floor of the building. here we remained with the money until saturday morning, when we were taken out in boats. besides myself there were in the building michael maley, frank balsinger, chris mintzmeyer, joseph berlin and frank burger, all of whom escaped. all friday night and saturday morning we divided our time between guarding the money, providing for our own safety and rescuing the poor people floating by. we threw out ropes and gathered logs and timbers together until we had enough to make a raft, which we bound together with ropes and used in rescuing people. during the night we rescued henry weaver, his wife and two children; captain carswell, wife and three children, and three servant girls; patrick ravel, wife and one child; a.m. dobbins and two others whose names i have forgotten. besides this we cut large pieces of canvas and oilcloth and wrapped it around bread and meat and other eatables and threw it or floated it out to those who went by on housetops, rafts, etc., whom we could not rescue without getting our raft in the drift and capsizing. we must have fed people in this way alone. when we were rescued ourselves we took the money over to prospect hill, and sent to the justice of the peace, who swore us all in to keep guard over our own money and that taken by paymaster barry from the cambria iron company's general offices, amounting to $ , under precisely the same circumstances that marked our escape. we remained on guard until monday night, when the soldiers came over and escorted us back to the office of the cambria iron company, where we placed the money in the company's vault. so far as known at this hour only eighteen bodies have been this morning recovered in the conemaugh valley. one of these was a poor remnant of humanity that was suddenly discovered by a teamster in the centre of the road over which his wagons had been passing for the past forty-eight hours. the heavy vehicles had sunk deeply in the sand and broken nearly every bone in the putrefying body. it was quite impossible to identify the corpse, and it was taken to the morgue and orders issued for its burial after a few hours' exposure to the gaze of those who still eagerly search for missing friends. only the hardiest can bear to enter the morgue this morning, so overwhelming is the dreadful stench. the undertakers even, after hurriedly performing their task of washing a dead body and preparing it for burial, retreat to the yard to await the arrival of the next ghastly find. a strict order is now in force that all bodies should be interred only when it becomes impossible to longer preserve them from absolute putrefaction. there is no iron-clad rule. in some instances it is necessary to inter some putrid body within a few hours, while others can safely be preserved for several days. every possible opportunity is afforded for identification. four bodies were taken from the ruins at the cambria club house and the company's store this morning. the first body was that of a girl about seventeen years of age. she was found in the pantry and it is supposed that she was one of the servants in the house. she was terribly bruised and her face was crushed into a jelly. a boy about seven years of age was taken from the same place. two men and a woman were taken from in front of a store on main street. the remains were all bruised and in a terrible condition. they had to be embalmed and buried immediately, and it was impossible to have any one identify them. only fifty saved at woodville. the number of people missing from woodville is almost incredible, and from present indications it looks as if only about fifty people in the borough were saved. mrs. h.l. peterson, who has been a resident at woodville for a number of years, is one of the survivors. while looking for miss paulsen, of pittsburg, of the drowned, she came to a coffin which was marked "mrs. h.l. peterson, woodville borough, pa., age about forty, size five feet one inch, complexion dark, weight about two hundred pounds." this was quite an accurate description of mrs. peterson. she tore the card from the coffin and one of the officers was about to arrest her. her explanations were satisfactory and she was released. in speaking of the calamity afterward she said: "the people of woodville had plenty of time to get out of the town if they were so minded. we received word shortly before two o'clock that the flood was coming, and a pennsylvania railroad conductor went through the town notifying the people. i stayed until half-past three o'clock, when the water commenced to rise very rapidly, and i thought it was best to get out of town. i told a number of women that they had better go to the hills, but they refused, and the cause of this refusal was that their husbands would not go with them and they refused to leave alone." terrific experience of a pullman conductor. mr. john barr, the conductor of the pullman car on the day express train that left pittsburgh at eight o'clock, may , gave an account of his experience in the conemaugh valley flood: "i was the last one saved on the train," he said. "when the train arrived at johnstown last friday, the water was up to the second story of the houses and people were going about in boats. we went on to conemaugh and had to halt there, as the water had submerged the tracks and a part of the bridge had been washed away. two sections of the day express were run up to the most elevated point. "about four o'clock i was standing at the buffet when the whistle began blowing a continuous blast--the relief signal. i went out and saw what appeared to be a huge moving mountain rushing rapidly toward us. it seemed to be surmounted by a tall cloud of foam. sounding the alarm. "i ran into the car and shouted to the passengers, 'for god's sake follow me! stop for nothing!' "they all dashed out except two. miss paulsen and miss bryan left the car, but returned for their overshoes. they put them on, and as they again stepped from the car they were caught by the mighty wave and swept away. had they remained in the car they would have been saved, as two passengers who stayed there escaped. [illustration: wreck of the day express.] "one was miss virginia maloney, a courageous, self-possessed young woman. she tied securely about her neck a plush bag, so that her identity could be established if she perished. imprisoned in the car with her was a maid employed by mrs. mccullough. they attempted to leave the car, but the water drove them back. they remained there until john waugh, the porter, and i waded through the water and rescued them. "the only passengers i lost were the two unfortunate young ladies i have named. i looked at the corpses of the luckless victims brought in during the two days i remained in johnstown, but the bodies of the two passengers were not among them. "at conemaugh the people were extremely kind and hospitable. they threw open their doors and provided us with a share of what little food they had and gave us shelter. stripped of her clothing. "while at conemaugh, miss wayne, of altoona, who had a miraculous escape, was brought in. she was nude, every article of her clothing having been torn from her by the furious flood. there was no female apparel at hand, and she had to don trousers, coat, vest and hat. "we had a severe task in reaching ebensburg, eighteen miles from conemaugh. we started on sunday and were nine hours in reaching our destination. at ebensburg we boarded the train which conveyed us to altoona, where we were cared for at the expense of the pennsylvania railroad company. "i had a rough siege. i was in the water twelve hours. the force of the flood can be imagined by the fact that seven or eight locomotives were carried away and floated on the top of the angry stream as if they were tiny chips." chapter xvi. stories of the flood. war, death, cataclysm like this, america, take deep to thy proud, prosperous heart. e'en as i chant, lo! out of death, and out of ooze and slime, the blossoms rapidly blooming, sympathy, help, love, from west and east, from south and north and over sea, its hot spurr'd hearts and hands humanity to human aid moves on; and from within a thought and lesson yet. thou ever-darting globe! thou earth and air! thou waters that encompass us! thou that in all the life and death of us, in action or in sleep. thou laws invisible that permeate them and all! thou that in all and over all, and through and under all, incessant! thou! thou! the vital, universal, giant force resistless, sleepless, calm, holding humanity as in the open hand, as some ephemeral toy, how ill to e'er forget thee! _walt whitman._ "are the horrors of the flood to give way to the terrors of the plague?" is the question that is now agitating the valley of the conemaugh. to-day opened warm and almost sultry, and the stench that assails one's senses as he wanders through johnstown is almost overpowering. sickness, in spite of the precautions and herculean labors of the sanitary authorities, is on the increase and the fears of an epidemic grow with every hour. "it is our impression," said dr. t.l. white, assistant to the state board of health, this morning, "that there is going to be great sickness here within the next week. five cases of malignant diphtheria were located this morning on bedford street, and as they were in different houses they mean five starting points for disease. all this talk about the dangers of epidemic is not exaggerated, as many suppose, but is founded upon all experience. there will be plenty of typhoid fever and kindred diseases here within a week or ten days in my opinion. the only thing that has saved us thus far has been the cool weather. that has now given place to summer weather, and no one knows what the next few days may bring forth." fresh meat and vegetables wanted. even among the workmen there is already discernible a tendency to diarrhoea and dysentery. the men are living principally upon salt meat, and there is a lack of vegetables. i have been here since sunday and have tasted fresh meat but once since that time. i am only one of the many. of course the worst has passed for the physicians, as our arrangements are now perfected and each corps will be relieved from time to time. twenty more physicians arrived from pittsburgh this morning and many of us will be relieved to-day. but the opinion is general among the medical men that there will be more need for doctors in a week hence than there is now. sanitary work. dr. r.l. sibbel, of the state board of health, is in charge of sanitary headquarters. "we are using every precaution known to science," said he this morning, "to prevent the possibility of epidemic. our labors here have not been confined to any particular channel, but have been extended in various directions. disinfectants, of course, are first in importance, and they have been used with no sparing hand. the prompt cremation of dead animals as fast as discovered is another thing we have insisted upon. the immediate erection of water-closets throughout the ruins for the workmen was another work of the greatest sanitary importance that has been attended to. they, too, are being disinfected at frequent intervals. we have a committee, too, that superintends the burial of the victims at the cemeteries. it is of the utmost importance in this wholesale interment that the corpses should be interred a safe distance beneath the surface in order that their poisonous emanations may not find exit through the crevices of the earth. "another committee is making a house-to-house inspection throughout the stricken city to ascertain the number of inhabitants in each standing house, the number of the sick, and to order the latter to the hospital whenever necessary. one great danger is the overcrowding of houses and hovels, and that is being prevented as much as possible by the free use of tents upon the mountain side. so far there is but little contagious disease, and we hope by diligent and systematic efforts to prevent any dangerous outbreak." dodging responsibility. it is now rumored that the south fork hunting and fishing club is a thing of the past. no one admits his membership and it is doubtful if outside the cottage owners one could find more than half a dozen members in the city. even some of the cottage owners will repudiate their ownership until it is known whether or not legal action will be taken against them. if it were not for the publicity which might follow one could secure a transfer of a large number of shares of the club's stock to himself, accompanied by a good sized roll of money. it is certain that the cottage owners cannot repudiate their ownership. none of them, however, will occupy the houses this summer. the club found guilty. coroner hammer, of westmoreland county, who has been sitting on the dead found down the river at nineveh, concluded his inquests to-day. his trip to south fork dam on wednesday has convinced him that the burden of this great disaster rests on the shoulders of the south fork hunting and fishing club of pittsburgh. the verdict was written to-night, but not all the jury were ready to sign it. it finds the south fork hunting and fishing club responsible for the loss of life because of gross, if not criminal negligence, and of carelessness in making repairs from time to time. this would let the pennsylvania railroad company out from all blame for allowing the dam to fall so badly out of repair when they got control of the pennsylvania canal and abandoned it. the verdict is what might have been expected after wednesday's testimony. mr. a.m. wellington, with p. burt, associate editor of the _engineering news_, of new york, has just completed an examination of the dam which caused the great disaster here. mr. wellington states that the dam was in every respect of very inferior construction, and of a kind wholly unwarranted by good engineering practices of thirty years ago. both the original and reconstructed dams were of earth only, with no heart wall, but only riprapped on the slopes. the original dam, however, was made in dammed and watered layers, which still show distinctly in the wrecked dam. the new end greatly added to its stability, but it was to all appearances simply dumped in like an ordinary railroad fill, or if rammed, the wreck shows no evidence of the good effect of such work. much of the old part is standing intact, while the adjacent parts of the new work are wholly carried off. there was no central wall of puddle or masonry either in the new or old dam. it has been the invariable practice of engineers for thirty or forty years to use one or the other in building high dams of earth. it is doubtful if there is a single dam or reservoir in any other part of the united states of over fifty feet in height which lacks this central wall. ignorance or carelessness. the reconstructed dam also bears the mark of great ignorance or carelessness in having been made nearly two feet lower in the middle than at the ends. it should rather have crowned in the middle, which would have concentrated the overflow, if it should occur, at the ends instead of in the centre. had the break begun at the ends the cut of the water would have been so gradual that little or no harm might have resulted. had the dam been cut at the ends when the water began running over the centre the sudden breaking would have been at least greatly diminished, possibly prolonged, so that little harm would have resulted. the crest of the old dam had not been raised in the reconstruction of . the old overflow channel through the rock still remains, but owing to the sag of the crest in the middle of the dam only five and a half feet of water in it, instead of seven feet, was necessary to run the water over the crest. and the rock spillway, narrow at best, had been further contracted by a close grating to prevent the escape of fish, capped by a good-sized timber, and in some slight degree also as a trestle footbridge. the original discharge pipe indicates that it was made about half earth and half rock, but if so there was little evidence of it in the broken dam. the riprapping was merely a skin on each face with more or less loose spauls mixed with the earth. the dam was seventy-two feet above water, two to one inside slope, one and a half to one outside slope and twenty feet wide on top. the rock throughout was about one foot below the surface. the earth was pretty good material for such a dam, if it was to be built at all, being of a clayey nature, making good puddle. to this the fact of it standing intact since must be ascribed, as no engineer of standing would have ever tried to so construct it. the fact that the dam was a reconstructed one after twenty years' abandonment made it especially hard on the older part of the dam to withstand the pressure of the water. elder thought it was safe. cyrus elder, general counsel for the cambria iron company and a wealthy and prominent citizen of johnstown, lost a wife and daughter in the recent disaster and narrowly escaped with his own life. "when the rebuilding of the dam was begun some years ago," he said, "the president of the cambria iron company was very seriously concerned about it, and wished, if possible, to prevent its construction, referring the matter to the solicitor of the company. a gentleman of high scientific reputation, who was then one of the general engineers, inspected the dam. he condemned several matters in the way of construction and reported that this had been changed and that the dam was perfectly safe. my son, george r. elder, was at that time a student in the troy polytechnic university. "his professor submitted a problem to the class which he immediately recognized as being the question of the safety of the south fork dam. he sent it to me at the time in a letter, which, of course, is lost, with everything else i possessed, in which he stated that the verdict of the class was that the dam was safe. the president of the cambria iron company being still anxious, thought it might be good policy to have some one inside of the fishing and hunting corporation owning the dam. the funds of the company were therefore used to purchase two shares of its stock, which were placed in the name of d.j. morrell. after his death these shares were transferred to and are still held by me, although they are the property of the cambria iron company. they have not been sold because there was no market for them." untold volumes of water. so far as the signal service is concerned, the amount of rainfall in the region drained by the conemaugh river cannot be ascertained. the signal service authorities here, to whom the official there reported, received only partial reports last friday. there had been a succession of rains nearly all of last week. the last rain commenced thursday evening and was unusually severe. mrs. h.m. ogle, who had been the signal service representative in johnstown for several years and also manager of the western union office there, telegraphed at eight o'clock friday morning that the river marked feet, rising; a rise of feet in twenty-four hours. at eleven o'clock she wired: "river feet and rising, higher than ever before; water in first floor. have moved to second. river gauges carried away. rainfall, - inches." at twenty-seven minutes to one p.m., mrs. ogle wired: "at this hour north wind; very cloudy; water still rising." nothing more was heard from her by the bureau, but at the western union office here later in the afternoon she commenced to tell an operator that the dam had broken, that a flood was coming, and before she had finished the conversation a singular click of the instrument announced the breaking of the current. a moment afterward the current of her life was broken forever. sergeant stewart, in charge of the bureau, says that the fall of water on the conemaugh shed at johnstown up to the time of the flood was probably - inches. he believes it was much heavier in the mountains. the country drained by the little conemaugh and stony creek covers an area of about one hundred square miles. the bureau, figuring on this basis and - inches of rainfall, finds that , , cubic feet of water was precipitated toward johnstown in its last hours. this is independent of the great volume of water in the lake, which was not less than , , cubic feet. water enough to cover the valley. it is therefore easily seen that there was ample water to cover the conemaugh valley to the depth of from ten to twenty-five feet. such a volume of water was never known to fall in that country in the same time. colonel t.p. roberts, a leading engineer, estimates that the lake drained twenty-five square miles, and gives some interesting data on the probable amount of water it contained. he says:--"the dam, as i understand, was from hill to hill about one thousand feet long and about eighty-five feet high at the highest point. the pond covered above seven hundred acres, at least for the present i will assume that to be the case. we are told also that there was a waste weir at one end seventy-five feet wide and ten feet below the comb or top of the dam. now we are told that with this weir open and discharging freely to the utmost of its capacity, nevertheless the pond or lake rose ten inches per hour until finally it overflowed the top, and, as i understand, the dam broke by being eaten away at the top. calculating the amount of water. "thus we have the elements for very simple calculation as to the amount of water precipitated by the flood, provided these premises are accurate. to raise acres of water to a height of ten feet would require about , , cubic feet of water, and while this was rising the waste dam would discharge an enormous volume--it would be difficult to say just how much without a full knowledge of the shape of its side walls, approaches and outlets--but if the rise required ten hours the waste river might have discharged perhaps , , cubic feet. we would then have a total of flood-water of , , cubic feet. this would indicate a rainfall of about eight inches over the twenty-five square miles. as that much does not appear to have fallen at the hotel and dam it is more than likely that even more than eight inches were precipitated in the places further up. these figures i hold tentatively, but i am much inclined to believe that there was a cloud burst." six thousand men were at work on the ruins to-day. they are paid two dollars a day, and have to earn it. the work seems to tell very little, however, for the mass of débris is simply enormous. the gangs have cleaned up the streets pretty thoroughly in the main part of the city, from which the brick blocks were swept like card houses before a breeze. the houses are pulled apart and burned in bonfires. nowhere is anything found worth saving. it is not probable that the mass of débris at the bridge, by which the water is tainted, can be removed in less than thirty days with the greatest force possible to work on it. that particular job is under the control of the state board of health. every day adds to its seriousness. the mass is being cleared by dynamite at the bridge where the current is strongest, and the open place slowly grows larger. not infrequently a body is found after an explosion has loosened the wreckage. so-called relief corps are still moving to and fro in the city, but the most serious labor of many of the members is to carry a bright yellow badge to aid them in passing the guards while sight-seeing. the militia men are little better than ornamental. the guards do a good deal of changing, to the annoyance of workers who want to get into the lines, but they rarely stop any one. the soldiers do a vast deal of loafing. a photographer who had his camera ready to take a view among the ruins was arrested to-day and made to work for an hour by general hastings' order. when his stint was done he did not linger, but went at once. signs of improvement. "what is the condition of the valley now?" i asked colonel scott. "it is improving with every hour. the perfect organization which has been effected within the past day or two has gradually resolved all the chaos and confusion into a semblance of order and regulation." "are many bodies being discovered now?" "very few; that is to say, comparatively few. of course, as the waters recede more and more between the banks, we have come upon bodies here and there, as they were exposed to sight. the probabilities are that there will be a great many bodies yet discovered under the rubbish that covers the streets, and our hope and expectation is that the majority of all the dead may be recovered and disposed of in a christian manner." "how about the movement to burn the rubbish, bodies and all?" "i do not think that will be done--at least only as a last extremity. while there is great anxiety in regard to the sanitary condition, all possible precautions are being taken, and we hope to prevent any disease until we shall have time to thoroughly overhaul the wreck. consideration for the dead. "the greatest consideration is being given to this matter of the recovery of the dead and treatment of the bodies after discovery. i think an impression has gone abroad that the dead are being handled here very much as one would handle cord wood, but this is a great mistake. as soon as possible after discovery they are borne from public gaze and taken to the morgue, where only persons who have lost relatives or friends are admitted. of course the general exclusion is not applied to attendants, physicians and representatives of the press, but it is righteously applied to careless sight-seers. we have no room for sight-seers in johnstown now. it is earnest workers and laborers we want, and of these we can hardly have too many." speculating in disaster. some long headed men are trying to make a neat little stake quietly out of the disaster. a syndicate has been formed to buy up as much real estate as possible in johnstown, trusting to get a big block as they got one to-day, for one-third of the valuation placed on it a week ago. the members of the syndicate are keeping very much in the background and conducting their business through a local agent. i asked adjutant general hastings to-day what he thought of the situation. "it is very good so far as reported," was the reply. "bodies are being gradually recovered all the time, but of course not in the large number of the first few days. last night we arrested several ghouls that were wandering amid the wreck on evil intent, and they were promptly taken to the guard house. this morning they were given the choice of imprisonment or going to work at two dollars a day, and they promptly chose the latter. we are getting along very well in our work, and very little tendency to lawlessness, i am happy to say, is observed." succor for the living. the red cross flag now flies over the society's own camp beside the baltimore and ohio tracks, near the bridge to kernville. the tents were pitched this morning and the camp includes a large supply tent, mess tent and offices. miss clara barton, of washington, is, of course, in charge, and the work is being rapidly gotten into shape. i found miss barton at the camp this morning. "the red cross society will remain here," she said, "so long as there is any work to do. there is hardly any limit to what we will do. much of the present assistance that has been extended is, of course, impulsive and ephemeral. when that is over there will still be work to do, and the red cross society will be here to do it. we are always the last to leave the field. "we need and can use to the greatest advantage all kinds of supplies, and shall be glad to receive them. money is practically useless here as there is no place to buy what we need." dr. j. wilkes o'neill, of philadelphia, surgeon of the first regiment, is here in charge of the philadelphia division of the red cross society. he is assisted by a corps of physicians, nurses and attendants. within two hours after establishing the camp this morning about forty cases, both surgical and medical, were treated. diphtheria broke out in kernville to-day. eleven cases were reported, eight of which were reported to be malignant. the epidemic is sure to extend. there are also cases of ulcerated tonsilitis. the patients are mostly those left homeless by the flood and are fairly well situated in frame houses. the doctors do not fear an epidemic of pneumonia. the red cross society has established a hospital camp in grubbtown for the treatment of contagious diseases. an epidemic of typhoid fever is feared, two cases having appeared. the camp is well located in a pleasant spot near fine water. it is supplied with cots, ambulances and some stores. they have an ample supply of surgical stores, but need medical stores badly. serving out the rations. at the commissary station at the pennsylvania railroad depot there was considerable activity. a crowd of about one thousand people had gathered about the place after the day's rations. the crowd became so great that the soldiers had to be called up to guard the place until the relief committee was ready to give out the provisions. several carloads of clothing arrived this morning and was to be disposed of as soon as possible. the people were badly in need of clothing, as the weather had been very chilly since saturday. b.f. minnimun, a wealthy contractor of springfield, ohio, arrived this forenoon with a despatch from governor foraker offering , trained laborers for johnstown, to be sent at once if needed. the despatch further stated that if anything else was needed ohio stood ready to respond promptly to the call. what clara barton said. "it is like a blow on the head; there are no tears, they are stunned; but, ah, sir, i tell you they will awake after awhile and then the tears will flow down the hills of this valley from thousands of bleeding hearts, and there will be weeping and wailing such as never before." that is what clara barton, president of the national red cross, said this afternoon as she stood in a plain black gown on the bank of stony creek directing the construction of the red cross tents, and she looked motherly and matronly, while her voice was trembling with sympathy. "you see nothing but that dazed, sickly smile that calamity leaves," she went on, "like the crazy man wears when you ask him, 'how came you here?' something happened, he says, that he alone knows; all the rest is blank to him. here they give you that smile, that look and say 'i lost my father, my mother, my sisters,' but they do not realize it yet. the red cross intends to be here in the conemaugh valley when the pestilence comes to them, and we are making ready with all our heart, with all our soul, with all our strength. the militia, the railroad, the relief committees and everybody is working for us. the railroad has completely barricaded us so that none of our cars can be taken away by mistake." when the great wave of death swept through johnstown the people who had any chance of escape ran hither and thither in every direction. they did not have any definite idea where they were going, only that a crest of foaming waters as high as the housetops was roaring down upon them through the conemaugh and that they must get out of the way of that. some in their terror dived into the cellars of their houses and clambered over the adjoining roofs to places of safety. but the majority made for the hills, which girt the town like giants. of the people who went to the hills, the water caught some in its whirl. [illustration: a woman's body lodged in a tree.] the others clung to trees and roots and pieces of débris which had temporarily lodged near the banks, and managed to save themselves. these people either stayed out on the hills wet, and in many instances walked all night, or they managed to find farmhouses which sheltered them. there was a fear of going back to the vicinity of the town. even the people whose houses the water did not reach abandoned their homes and began to think of all of johnstown as a city buried beneath the water. but in the houses which were thus able to afford shelter there was not food enough for all. many survivors of the flood went hungry until the first relief supplies arrived from pittsburgh. struggling to live again. from all this fright, destitution and exposure is coming a nervous shock, culminating in insanity, pneumonia, fever and all the other forms of disease. when these people came back to johnstown on the day after the wreck of the town they had to live in sheds, barns and in houses which had been but partially ruined. they had to sleep without any covering, in their wet clothes, and it took the liveliest kind of skirmishing to get anything to eat. pretty soon a citizen's committee was established, and nearly all the male survivors of the flood were immediately sworn in as deputy sheriffs. they adorned themselves with tin stars, which they cut out of pieces of the sheets of metal in the ruins, and pieces of tin with stars cut out of them are now turning up continually, to the surprise of the pittsburgh workmen who are endeavoring to get the town in shape. the women and children were housed, so far as possible, in the few houses still standing, and some idea of the extent of the wreck of the town may be gathered from the fact that of prominent buildings only are uninjured. for the first day or so people were dazed by what had happened, and for that matter they are dazed still. they went about helpless, making vague inquiries for their friends, and hardly feeling the desire to eat anything. finally the need of creature comforts overpowered them and they woke up to the fact that they were faint and sick. refugees in their own city. now this is to some extent changed by the arrival of tents and by the systematic military care for the suffering. but the daily life of a johnstown man who is a refugee in his own city is still aimless and wandering. his property, his home, in nine cases out of ten, his wife and children, are gone. the chances are that he has hard work to find the spot where he and his family once lived and were happy. he meditates suicide, and even looks on the strangers who have flocked in to help him and to put him and his town on their feet again with a kind of sullen anger. he has frequent conflicts with the soldiers and with the sight-seers, and he is crazy enough to do almost anything. the first thing that johnstown people do in the morning is to go to the relief stations and get something to eat. they go carrying big baskets, and their endeavor is to get all they can. there has been a new system every day about the manner of dispensing the food and clothing to the sufferers. at first the supplies were placed where people could help themselves. then they were placed in yards and handed to people over the fences. then people had to get orders for what they wanted from the citizens' committee and their orders were filled at the different relief stations. now the matter has been arranged this way, and probably finally. the whole matter of receiving and dispensing the relief supplies has been placed in the hands of the grand army of the republic men. women too proud to beg. the grand army men have made the adams street relief station a central relief station and all the others at kernville, the pennsylvania depot, cambria city and jackson and somerset streets, sub-stations. the idea is to distribute supplies to the sub-stations from the central station and thus avoid the jam of crying and excited people at the committee's headquarters. the grand army men have appointed a committee of women to assist in their work. the women go from house to house ascertaining the number of people lost from there in the flood and the exact needs of the people. it was found necessary to have some such committee as this, for there were women actually starving who were too proud to take their places in lines with the other women with bags and baskets. some of these people were rich before the flood. now they are not worth a dollar. one man who was reported to be worth $ , before the flood now is penniless and has to take his place in the line along with others seeking the necessaries of life. though the adams street station is now the central relief station, the most imposing display of supplies is made at the pennsylvania railroad freight and passenger depots. here on the platform and in the yards are piled up barrels of flour in long rows three and four barrels high. biscuits in cans and boxes by the carload, crackers under the railroad sheds in bins, hams by the hundred strung on poles, boxes of soap and candles, barrels of kerosene oil, stacks of canned goods and things to eat of all sorts and kinds are here to be seen. no fear of a food famine. the same sight is visible at the baltimore and ohio road and there is now no fear of a food famine in johnstown, though of course everybody will have to rough it for weeks. what is needed most in this line are cooking utensils. johnstown people want stoves, kettles, pans, knives and forks. all the things that have been sent so far have been sent with the evident idea of supplying an instant need, and that is right and proper. but it would be well now if instead of some of the provisions that are sent, cooking utensils should arrive. fifty stoves arrived from pittsburgh this morning, and it is said more are coming. at both the depots where the supplies are received and stored a big rope line encloses them in an impromptu yard so as to give room to those having the supplies in charge to walk around and see what they have got. on the inside of this line, too, stalk back and forth the soldiers with their rifles on their shoulders, and by the side of the lines pressing against the ropes there stands every day from daylight until dawn a crowd of women with big baskets who make piteous appeals to the soldiers to give them food for their children at once before the order of the relief committee. where death rules. the following letters from a young woman to her mother, written immediately after the disaster at johnstown from her home in new florence, a few miles west of that place, though not intended for publication, picture in graphic manner the agony of suspense sustained by those who escaped the flood, and give side pictures of the scenes following the disaster. they were received in philadelphia: hours of suspense. new florence, pa.--my darling mother: i am nearly crazed, and thought i would try and be quiet and write to you, as it always comforts me to feel you are near your child, though many miles are now between us. i have said my prayers over and over again all day long, and to-night i am going to spend in the watch-tower, and am trying to be quiet and brave, although my heart is just wrung with anguish. andrew sent me word from johnstown this afternoon about half-past three he was safe and would be home shortly. well, he has never come, and i have had many reports of the work train, but no one seems to know anything definite about him. i have telegraphed and telegraphed, but no news yet, and all i can find out is he was seen on the bridge just before it went down. i am trying to be brave. good news at last. sunday morning. you see, dearest mother, i could not write, and now i am happy, though tired, for andrew is home and safe, and i thank god for the great mercy he has shown his child. i won't dwell on my anxiety, it can better be imagined than described. from the letter i had from him at johnstown, written at a.m. friday, until . last evening, i never knew whether he was living or dead. thomas, our man, brought the news. god bless him, and it nearly cost him his life to do it, poor man. andrew got separated from the party, and was close to the bridge when it was carried away, but escaped by going up the mountain. he tried to signal to his men he was safe, but could not make them see him, nor could those men that were with him; all communication was impossible. thomas left him at nine o'clock friday night on the mountain and tried to get home. he got a man to ferry him across the river above johnstown, and the boat was upset, but all managed to get ashore, and thomas walked all night and all yesterday, and came straight to me and told me my husband was safe, and an hour later i had a telegram from andrew. he had walked from the conemaugh side to bolivar. the bridge at nineveh was the only bridge left standing. he took the first train home from bolivar and got home about . . i telegraphed you in the morning, or rather uncle clem, that i was safe and andrew reported safe, though now they tell me every one here thought he was lost and thomas with him. thomas's wife was met at the station and informed of his death by some of the men, and six hours afterwards thomas came home, yet more dead than alive, poor man. it is very hard to write, as all the country people and men have been here to tell me how glad they are "i got my husband safely back, and that i am a powerful sight lucky young woman." well, mother darling, make your mind easy about your children now. andrew is safe and well, though pretty well exhausted, and his feet are so sore and swollen he can hardly stand, and can't wear anything but rubbers, as his mountain shoes he cut to pieces. he left early this morning, but will be back to-night. i cannot begin to tell you of the horrors, as the papers do not half picture the distress. new florence was not flooded, though some of the people left the place on friday night and went up on squirrel hill. scenes at the river. i went down to the river once, and that was enough, as i knew andrew would not like me to see the sorrow, for which there was no help. i went just after the bridge fell, saw centreville flooded and the people make a dash for the mountain. yesterday two hundred and three bodies were taken from the river near here, and yet every train takes away more. the freight cars have taken nothing but human freight, and wagon load after wagon load of dead bodies have been right in front of the house. there was a child about nellie's age, with light hair, dead in the wagon, with her hands clasped, saying her prayers, and her blue eyes staring wide open. by her side lay a man with a pipe in his mouth, naked children, and a woman with a baby at her breast. oh, the terror on their faces. two women and three men were rescued here, and a german family of mother, four children and father. i had them all on my hands to look after; no one could make them understand, and how i ever managed it i don't know, but i did. they lost two children and their home, but had a little money and were going to his brother's, at hazleton. they got here in the night and left at noon, and it would have done your heart good to see them eat. one was a baby five weeks old. help needed. now, mother, i want you to go around among the family and get me everything in the way of clothes you possibly can, and get uncle clem to express them to me. i should also like money, and as much as you can get can be used. i am pretty well cleaned out of everything, as all the cattle and stock have been lost and nothing can be bought here, and all i have in the way of provisions is some preserves, chocolate, coffee, olives and crackers. we can't starve, as we have the chickens. i got the last meat from the butcher's yesterday, and he said he didn't expect to have any more for a week, so i told uncle clem i would not mind having two hams from pittsburgh, and was very grateful for his telegram. i telegraphed him in the morning; also, uncle white at germantown, so that they might know i was all right, but from auntie's telegram i judge uncle clem's telegrams were the only ones that got through. if i find i need provisions i will let you know, but do not think i will need anything for myself, and the poor are being fed by the relief supplies, and what is needed now is money and clothes. helpers. there's not a house in the place that is not in trouble from the loss of some dear one, nor one that does not hold or shelter some one or more of the sufferers. tell everybody anything you can get can be used, and by the time you get this letter i will know of more cases to provide for, so take everything you can get, and don't worry about me, for i am all right now that andrew is safe. this letter has been written by instalments, as i have been interrupted so many times, so pardon the abruptness of it, and please send it to germantown, as i have too much to do now. my hands and heart are both full. milk is as scarce as wine, as the pasturage was all on the other side, and cows were lost, and bread is as scarce as can be, and, instead of a dozen eggs, we only get one a day. i am proud of new florence, as all it has done to help the sufferers no one knows, and as for mr. bennett, he is one in a thousand. mr. hay's son has worked like a trojan. tell cousin hannah that the new tracks will be sure to be straight, as andrew will superintend the whole business. with heart full of love to one and all and a kiss to the children. lovingly, bett. the awful after scenes. new florence, sunday night. my darling mother: this is my second letter to you to-day. it is after o'clock, and one of the men has just brought me word that andrew will be home, he thought, by o'clock; so i am waiting up for him, so as to give him his dinner, and i have been through so much i cannot go to bed until i know he is safe home again. i put him up a good lunch, and know he cannot starve. oh the horrors of to-day! i have only had one pleasant sunday here, and that was the one after we were married. i have had a very busy day, as i have been through our clothes, and routing out everything possible for the sufferers and the dead, and the cry to-day for linen sheets, etc., was something awful. i have given away all my underclothes, excepting my very best things--and all my old ones i made into face-cloths for the dead. to-day they took five little children out of the water; they were playing "ring around a rosy," and their hands were clasped in a clasp which even death did not loosen, and their faces were still smiling. one man identified his wife among those who came ashore here, and rose said that he was nearly crazy, and that her face was the most beautiful thing she ever saw, and that she had very handsome pearls in her ears and was so young looking. the dead are all taken from here to johnstown and nineveh and other places, where they will be most likely to be identified; about thirty have been identified here and taken away. i feel hardened to a great deal, and feel god has been so merciful to me i must do all i can for the unfortunate ones. i hope soon to have some help from you all, for i have given willingly of my little and my means are exhausted. i expect we will have to live on ham and eggs next week, but we are thankful to have that, as i would rather live low and give all i can, than not to give. all i care about is that andrew gets enough to eat, as he needs a great deal to keep his strength up, working as hard as he does. now i will close as it is nearly time for him to be home. lovingly, bett. feeding the hungry. there are over , people at johnstown who must be fed from the outside world. of these , are natives of the town that a week ago had , inhabitants; all the others are dead or have gone away. over , people are here clearing the streets, burying the dead, attending the sick, and feeding and sheltering the homeless; all these people have to be fed at least three times a day, for days are very long in johnstown just now. they begin at five o'clock in the morning, two hours before the whistles in the half-mired cambria iron company's building blow, and end just about the time the sun is going down. if the people who are on the outside and who are engaged in the labor of love of sending the food that is keeping strength in johnstown's tired arms and the clothing that is covering her nakedness could understand the situation as it is they would redouble their efforts. johnstown cannot draw on the country immediately around about her, for that was drained days ago. to be safe, there should be a week's supply of food ahead. at no time has there been a day's supply or anything like it. a crisis in the commissary. twice within the last forty-eight hours the commissary department at the pennsylvania railroad depot, where nearly , people are furnished with food, have been in a state of mind bordering on panic. they had run out of food; people who had trudged down the hill with expectant faces and empty baskets had to trudge back again with hearts heavy and baskets still empty. that was the case on wednesday night. then the citizens' committee had to send to the refugee camp, the smallest food station in the city, and take away loaves of bread. the bread supply in the central portion of the town had suddenly given out and there was a clamoring crowd demanding to be fed. the same thing happened again last night. it was not so bad as on the night before, but there were anxious faces enough among the men under the direction of major spangler, who realized the awful responsibility of providing the mouths of the thousands with food. the supply had given out, but fortunately not until almost everybody had been supplied. telegrams announced that eight carloads of provisions had been shipped from the west and were somewhere in the line between pittsburgh and johnstown. at midnight nothing could be heard of them. the delay was maddening. if the food did not arrive it meant fully , breakfastless and possibly dinnerless people in johnstown to-day, with consequent suffering and possible disorder among the rough and rowdy element. the danger tided over. before daylight the expected cars came in from ohio and pittsburgh and the danger was over for the time being. this serves, however, to show the perilous condition the town is in, living as it is in a hand-to-mouth fashion. it should be remembered that the only direct access to johnstown from the west is by way of the pennsylvania, which is handicapped as she has never been before, and from the east and south, of the baltimore and ohio. if the pennsylvania were opened through to the east a steady stream of cars already loaded for the sufferers would pour over the alleghenies, but the pennsylvania does not see light ahead much more clearly than yesterday. the terrible breaks and washouts will require days yet to repair, and supplies that come from the interior of the state must come by means of wagons. crowding in the supplies. the baltimore and ohio is piling the supplies in to-day faster than the men can unload them. in the neighborhood of carloads were received. the pennsylvania during to-day has handled something like twenty-eight carloads all told. in the way of food the articles most needed are fresh, salt meats, sugar, rice, coffee, tea, and dried and canned fruits. the supply of sugar gave out entirely to-day. twenty thousand pounds of cincinnati hams arrived to-day and they melted like , pounds of ice beneath the scorching heat of this afternoon's sun. much of the clothing that is received here is new and serviceable, but thousands of pieces are so badly worn that, to use the words of general axline, of ohio, who is doing noble service here with the thousands of other self-sacrificing men, "it is unfit to be worn by tramps." many old shoes with the soles half torn off have been received. shoes are badly needed at once or all johnstown will be barefooted. eighteen carloads of relief. even in the rush of distribution the officials who have it in charge can find time to say a hearty word of praise for those towns which have contributed to the sufferers. philadelphia's first installment was the first to arrive from the east, and more goods have been coming in steadily ever since. w.h. tumblestone, the president of the retail grocers' association of pennsylvania, who was appointed first lieutenant of the philadelphia relief by the mayor, arrived here first. he set at work handling coffins, but as soon as the first freight car of goods arrived he was put in charge of their distribution and has been working like threemen ever since. the eight freight cars from philadelphia which arrived with the relief party on monday, at o'clock, were distributed from a great storehouse at the terminus of the baltimore and ohio railroad. the goods are carried in bulk from the cars to the warehouse by a gang of twenty-eight men, who are identified by red flannel hat-bands. when they fail to enthuse over their work mr. tumblestone gets off his coat and shoves boxes himself. [illustration: distributing clothing and other supplies.] distributing supplies. inside the warehouse a score of volunteers and pittsburgh policemen break open the boxes and pile the goods in separate heaps; the women's clothing, the men's, the children's and the different sizes being placed in regular order. then the barriers are opened and the crowd surges in like depositors making a run on a savings bank. the police keep good order and the ubiquitous tumblestone and his assistants dole out the goods to all who have orders. special orders call for stoves, mattrasses and blankets. if the philadelphians could see the faces of the people they are helping before and after they have passed the distribution windows they would feel well repaid for their visible sympathy. chairman scott says the class of goods from philadelphia have been of the highest quality. "we have been delighted with the thought and excellence of the selections and amiable nature of the contributions. the two miles of track lying between here and morrellville are still blocked with cars stretched from one end to the other, and fresh arrivals are coming in daily over the baltimore and ohio." although it is impossible to say how much has been received from philadelphia, mr. tumblestone says that so far as many as eighteen freight cars, each filled from the sides to the roof, have arrived from the quaker city, and their contents have been distributed. how rival hotels were crushed together. the principal hotels of the town were bunched in a group about the corner of main and clinton streets. they were the merchants', a large old-fashioned, three-story tavern, with a stable yard behind, a relic of staging days; the hurlburt house, the leading hotel of the place, a fine four-story brick structure with a mansard roof and all the latest wrinkles in furnishing inside and out; the fritz house, a narrow, four-story structure, with an ornate front, and the keystone, a smaller hotel than any of the others. these few inns stood in the path of the flood. the hurlburt, the largest and handsomest, was absolutely obliterated. the keystone's ruin was next in completion. it stood across clinton street from fritz's, and landlord charles west has not yet recovered from the surprise of seeing the rival establishment thrown bodily across the street against his second story front, tearing it completely out. after the water subsided it fell back upon the pavement in front of its still towering rival, and in the meantime landlord west had saved mine host of the keystone and his family from the roof which was thrust in his windows. back of fritz's there was a little alley, which made a course for a part of the torrent. fully half a dozen houses were sent swimming in here. they crushed their way through the small hotel's outhouses straight to the rear of the merchants', and sliced the walls off the old inn as a hungry survivor to-day cut a philadelphia cheese. you can see the interior of the rooms. the beds were swept out into the flood, but a lonesome wardrobe fell face downward on the floor and somehow escaped. there are bodies under the rear wall. how many is not known, but landlord west, of fritz's, says he is certain there were people on the rear porch of the merchants'. the story of landlord west's rival being thrown into his front windows has its parallels. colonel higgins, the manager of the cambria club house, was in the third story of the building with his family. suddenly a man was hurled by the torrent rapidly through the window. he was rescued, then fainted, and upon inspection was found to have a broken leg. the leg was bandaged and the man resuscitated, and when this last act of kindness was accomplished he said faintly: "this ain't so bad. i've been in a blow-up." a cool request. this remark showed the greatest sang-froid known to be exhibited during the flood, but the most irreverent was that of an old man who was saved by e.b. entworth, of the johnson works. on saturday morning mr. entworth rowed to a house near the flowing débris at the bridge, and found a woman, with a broken arm, and a baby. after she had got into the boat she cried: "come along, grandpap." whereupon an old man, chilled but chipper, jumped up from the other side of the roof, slid down into the boat, and ejaculated: "gentlemen, can any of you give me a chew of tobacco?" scenes amid the ruins. one of the curious finds in the débris yesterday was two proofs from cabinet-size negatives of two persons--a man and a woman. the prints were found within two feet of each other in the ruins near the merchants' hotel. they were immediately recognized as portraits of mamie patton, formerly a johnstown girl, and charles deknight, once a pullman palace car conductor. the two were found dying together in a room in a pittsburgh hotel several months ago, the woman having shot the man and then herself. she claimed that he was her husband. the dress in which the picture showed her was the same that she wore when she killed deknight. tracks that were laid in a hurry. if pennsylvania railroad trains ever ran over tougher-looking tracks than those used now through johnstown it must have been before people began to ride on it. the section from the north end of the bridge to the railroad station has a grade that wabbles between and feet to the mile and jerks back and forth sideways as though laid by a gang of intoxicated men on a dark night. when the first engine went over it everybody held his breath and watched to see it tumble. these eccentricities are being straightened out, however, as fast as men and broken stones can do it. the railroad bridge at johnstown deserves attention beyond that which it is receiving on account of the way it held back the flood. it is one of the most massive pieces of masonry ever set up in this country. in a general way it is solid masonry of cut sandstone blocks of unusual size, the whole nearly feet long, forty wide, and averaging about forty deep. seven arches of about fifty feet span are pierced through it, rising to within a few feet of the top and leaving massive piers down to the rock beneath. as the bridge crosses the stream diagonally, the arches pierce the mass in a slanting direction, and this greatly adds to the heavy appearance of the bridge. there has been some disposition to find fault with the bridge for being so strong, the idea being that if it had gone out there would have been no heaping up of buildings behind it, no fire, and fewer deaths. this is probably unfair, as there were hundreds of persons saved when their houses were stopped against the bridge by climbing out or being helped out upon the structure. if the bridge had gone, too, the flood would have taken the whole instead of only half of cambria city. photographers forced to work. the camera fiend has about ceased his wanderings. an order was issued yesterday from headquarters to arrest and put to work the swarms of amateur photographers who are to be found everywhere about the ruins. those who will not work are to be taken uptown under guard. this order is issued to keep down the number of useless people and thus save the fast diminishing provisions for the workers. a man who stood on the bluff and saw the first wave of the flood come down the valley tried to describe it. "i looked up," he said, "and saw something that looked like a wall of houses and trees up the valley. the next moment johnstown seemed coming toward me. it was lifted right up and in a minute was smashing against the bridge and the houses were flying in splinters across the top and into the water beyond." a -year-old girl, pretty and with golden hair, wanders about from morgue to morgue looking for ten of a family of eleven, she being the sole survivor. there were half a dozen bulldogs in one house that was heaped up in the wreck some distance above the bridge. they were loose among the débris, and it is said by those who claim to have seen it that after fighting among themselves they turned upon the people near them and were tearing and biting them until the flames swept over the place. slow time to pittsburgh. irregular is a weak word for the manner in which passenger trains run between this place and pittsburgh. the distance is seventy miles and the ordinary time is two hours. the train that left here at . yesterday afternoon reached there at midnight. this is ordinarily good time nowadays. a passage in five hours is an exceptional one. engine , the one that faced the flood below conemaugh and stood practically unharmed, backed down to the station as soon as the tracks were laid up to where it stood and worked all right. only the oil cups and other small fittings, with the headlight, were broken. the superintendent of the woodvale woolen mills, one of the cambria iron company's concerns, was one of the very few fortunate ones in that little place. he and all his family got into the flouring mill just below the woolen mill and upon the roof. the woolen mill was totally wrecked, though not carried away, and the flouring mill was badly damaged, but the roof held and all were saved. these two parts of the mill were the only buildings left standing in woodvale. a man in kernville, on friday last, had jet black hair, moustache and beard. that night he had a battle with the waters. on saturday morning his hair and beard began to turn gray, and they are now well streaked with white. he attributes the change to his awful friday night's experience. wounds of the dead. it is the impression of the medical corps and military surgeons who arrived here early in the week that hundreds, maybe thousands of men, women and children were insensible to all horror on that awful afternoon, just a week ago, before the waters of the valley closed in over them. their opinion is based on the fact that hundreds and hundreds of the bodies already brought to light are terribly wounded somewhere, generally on the head. in many instances the wounds are sufficient in themselves to have caused death. the crashing of houses together in the first mad rush of the flood with a force greater than the collision of railroad trains making fast time, and the hurling of timbers, poles, towers and boulders through the air is believed to have caused a legion of deaths in an instant, before the lost knew what was coming. even the survivors bear testimony to this. surgeon foster, of the th regiment, who was first to have charge of the hospital, tells how he treated long lines of men, women and children for wounds too terrible to mention and they themselves know not how it happened only that they fell in a moment. in connection with his experience he speaks of the tender, yet heroic, work of four sisters of mercy, two from pittsburgh and two here, who went ahead of him down the ranks of the wounded with sponges, chloroforming the suffering, before his scalpel aid reached them. sometimes there were a dozen victims ahead of his knives. once these sisters stopped, for the first time showing horror, by a great pile of dead children and infants on the river bank laid one on top of the other. by one man each little body was seized and the clothing quickly cut from it. then he passed it to another, who washed it in the river. then a third man took it in the line of the dead. but the sisters of mercy saw they were too late there, and passed on among the living. most of the pennsylvania railroad passengers who left pittsburgh for the east last friday and were caught in the flood in the conemaugh valley reached philadelphia in a long special train at o'clock friday morning, june th, after a week of adventure, peril and narrow escapes which none of them will ever forget. a few of their number who lost presence of mind when the flood struck the train were drowned. the survivors are unanimous in their appreciation of the kindness shown them by pennsylvania officials, and in their praise of the hospitality and generosity of the country folk, among whom they found homes for three days. the escapes in some instances seem miraculous. an hour before the flood the first section of the day express stopped at conemaugh city, about ten miles below the dam at south fork, on account of a washout farther up the valley. the second section of the express and another passenger train soon overtook the first and half an hour before the dam broke all these trains stood abreast on the four-track road. the positions now occupied seems providential. if the railroad men had foreseen the disaster they could not have shown greater prudence, for the engine of the first section of the express, on the track nearest the mountain side, stood about a car's length ahead of the second. the engine of the third train came to a stop a car's length behind the second and on the outer track, which was within a few feet of the swollen conemaugh river, stood a heavily laden freight train. when the flood came it struck the slanting front of the four locomotives. most of the passengers had, in the meantime, escaped up the mountain side. three of the locomotives were carried down by the irresistible torrent, but the fourth turned on its side and was soon buried under sand, tree trunks and other débris. this served as a breakwater for the flood and accounts for the fact that the trains of cars were not reduced to kindling wood while the railroad roundhouse and its twelve locomotives, a little farther down the valley, was taken up bodily, broken into fragments and its mighty inmates carried like chips for miles down the valley. weary passengers. from end to end of the train, upon its arrival at philadelphia, there was an aspect of absolute exhaustion, varied in its expression according to the individual. phlegmatic men lay upon their backs, across the seats, with their legs dangling in the aisles. one might send them spinning round or toss their feet out of the passage, and their worn faces showed no more sign than if they were lifeless. women lay swathed in veils and wraps, sometimes alone, sometimes huddled together, and sometimes guarded by the arms of their husbands--husbands who themselves had given way and slept as heavily as if dosed with narcotics. but here and there is the typical american girl, full of nerve. she is worn out, too, but sleeps only fitfully, starting up at every sound and dropping uneasily off again. now and then one encountered the man and woman of restless temperament, whose sleepless eyes looked out thinking, thinking--thinking on the trees and grass and bushes, faintly showing form now in the gray light of the very earliest dawn. childhood's peaceful sleep. in the midst of it all a girl of six or seven, with a light shawl thrown over her figure, slept as peacefully as if she lay in the comfortable embrace of her own crib at home. she was little bertha reed, who had been sent out from chicago in the care of the conductor on a trip to brooklyn, where she was to meet her aunt. at pittsburgh she was taken in charge by a miss harvey, a relative. she was a passenger on the chicago limited, the last train to get safely across the bridge at south fork. she was a model of patience and cheerfulness through all the discomforts and drawbacks of the voyage, and her innocent prattle made every man and woman love her. it might have been supposed that if one were to waken any of these sleeping passengers to obtain their names and ask them of the disaster they might surlily have resented it. but they didn't. now and then one of them would half-sleepily hand out his ticket under the mistaken notion that the reporter was the conductor. another shake brought them round and they answered everything as kindly as if the unavoidable breaking in upon their comfort were a matter of no concern whatever. sometimes it would seem that great sorrow must have a chastening effect upon everyone. from all parts of the world. it was a strange gathering altogether, and made one think again of the remark so often repeated in "no thoroughfare," "how small the world is." all the ends of the earth had sent their people to meet at the disaster, and the tide of human life flows on as recklessly as the current of any sea or river. here weary, sleepy and sad, was jacob schmidt, of aspen, col. he had been a passenger on the pittsburgh day express. he was standing on the platform when the flood came and by a lurching of the car he was thrown into the boiling torrent. he managed to seize a floating plank and was saved, but all his money and other valuables were lost. that was a particularly hard loss to him, because he was on his way to south africa to seek his fortune. behind him was r.b. jones, who had come from the other side of the globe; in particular from sydney, australia, and met the others at altoona. he was on the way for a visit to his parents in york county. he was on the chicago limited and just escaped the danger. in a front car was peter sherman, of pawtucket, r.i. he was tall and broad shouldered and his sun-browned face was shaded by a big soft hat. he was on his way from texarkana, way down in texas, and he too was at conemaugh. he was a passenger on the first section of the day express. he had not slept a wink on the way down from altoona, and he told his story spiritedly. he said: "i heard a voice in the car crying the reservoir is burst; run for your lives! i got up and made a rush for the door. a poor little cripple with two crutches sat in front of me and screamed to me to save him or he would be drowned. i grabbed him up under one arm and took his crutches with my free hand. as we stepped from the car the water was coming. i made my way up the hill toward a church. the water swooped down on us and was soon up to my knees. i told the cripple i could not carry him further; that we should both be lost. he screamed to me again to save him, but the water was gaining rapidly on us. he had a grip of my arm, but finally let go, and i laid him, hopefully, on the wooden steps of a house. i managed to reach the high land just in time. i never saw the cripple afterwards, but i learned that he was drowned." a great loss. a tall, heavily built man, with tattered garments, walked along the platform with the help of a cane. his face was covered with a beard, and his head was bowed so that his chin almost touched his breast. one foot was partially covered by a cut shoe, while on the other foot he wore a boot from which the heel was missing. this was stephen johns, a foreman at the johnson steel rail works at woodvale. he was a big, strong man, but his whole frame trembled as he said: "yes, i am from johnstown. i lost my wife and three children there, so i thought i would leave." it was only by the greatest effort that mr. johns kept the tears back. he then told his experience in this way: "i was all through the war. i was at fair oaks, at chancellorsville, in the wilderness, and many other battles, but never in my life was i in such a hot place as i was on friday night. i don't know how i escaped, but here am i alone, wife and children gone. i was at the office of the company on friday. we had been receiving telephonic messages all morning that the dam was unsafe. no one heeded them. i did not know anything about the dam. the bookkeeper said there was not enough water up there to flood the first floor of the office. i thought he knew, so i didn't send my family to the hills. "i don't know what time it was in the afternoon that i saw the flood coming down the valley. i was standing at the gate. looking up the valley i saw a great white crowd moving down upon us. i made a dash for home to try to get my wife and children to the hills. i saw them at the windows as i ran up to the house. that is the last time i ever saw their faces. no sooner had i got into the house than the flood struck the building. i was forced into the attic. it was a brick house with a slate roof. i had intended to keep very cool, but i suppose i forgot all about that. swept down the stream. "it seemed a long time, but i suppose it was not more than a second before the house gave way and went tumbling down the stream. it turned over and over as it was washed along. i was under the water as often as i was above it. i could hear my wife and children praying, although i could not see them. i did not pray. they were taken and i was left for some purpose, i suppose. my house finally landed up against the stone railway bridge. i was then pinned down to the floor by a heavy rafter or something. somehow or other i was lifted from the floor and thrown almost out upon the bridge. then some people got hold of me and pulled me out and took me over to a brickyard. my eyes and nose were full of cinders. after i reached the brickyard i vomited fully a pint of cinders which i had swallowed while coming through that awful stream of water. i can't tell you what it was like. no one can understand it unless he or she passed through it." "did you find your wife and children?" "no. i searched for them all of saturday, sunday and monday, but could find no trace of them. i think they must have been among those who perished in the fire at the bridge. i would have staid there and worked had it not been the place was so near my old home that i could not stand it. i thought i would be better off away from there where i could not see anything to recall that horrible sight." how the survivors live. with a view of showing the character of living in and about johnstown, how the people pass each day and what the conveniences and deprivations of domestic life experienced under the new order of things so suddenly introduced by the flood are, an investigation of a house-to-house nature was made to-day. as a result, it was noted that the degrees of comfort varied with the people as the types of human nature. as remarked by a visitor: "the calamity has served to bring to the surface every phase of character in man, and to bring into development traits that had before been but dormant. generally speaking all are on the same footing so far as need can be concerned. whether houses remain to them or not, all the people have to be fed, for even should they have money, cash is of no account, provisions cannot be bought; people who still have homes nearly all of them furnish quarters for some of the visitors. militia officers, committeemen, workmen, &c., must depend upon the supply stations for food." at prospect. the best preserved borough adjoining johnstown is prospect, with its uniformly built gray houses, rising tier upon tier against the side of the mountain, at the north of johnstown. there are in the neighborhood of homes here, and all look as if but one architect designed them. they are large, broad gabled, two-story affairs, with comfortable porches, extending all the way across the front, each being divided by an interior partition, so as to accommodate two families. the situation overlooked the entire shoe-shaped district, heretofore described. nearly every householder in prospect is feeding not only his own family, but from two to ten others, whom he has welcomed to share what he has. said one of these "we are all obliged to go to the general department for supplies, for we could not live otherwise. our houses have not been touched, but we have given away nearly everything in the way of clothing, except what we have on. there were two little stores up here, but we purchased all they had long ago. it does not matter whether the people are rich or poor, they are all compelled to take their chances. in prospect are the quarters of the americus club, of pittsburgh, an organization which is widely spoken of as having distinguished itself by furnishing meals to any and every hungry person who applied." an incident. as two newspaper men were about to descend the hill, after visiting a number of points, a little woman approached and made an inquiry about the running of trains. she was one of the survivors and wished to reach clearfield, where her grown-up sons were. "i'd walk it if i could," she said, "but it's too far, and i'm too old now." she was living with her friends, who have taken care of her since her home was swept away. a distributing point. at the base of the long flight of wooden steps that lead to prospect is the path extending across to the pennsylvania railroad station. here is one of the principal distributing points. three times each day a remarkable sight is here to be witnessed. along the track at the eastern end, from the station platform back as far as the freight house, standing upon railroad ties, resting upon piles of lumber, and trying to hold their places in the line of succession in any position possible, crowds of people wait to be served. aged, decrepit men and women and little girls and boys hold baskets, boxes, tin cans, wooden buckets, or any receptacle handy in which they may carry off provisons for the day. sad sights. the women have, many of them, tattered or ill-fitting clothing, taken at random when the first supply of this character arrived, their heads covered with thin shawls or calico sun shades. they stand there in the chilly morning wind that blows through the valley along the mountains, patiently waiting their turn at the provision table, making no complaint of cold feet and chilled bodies. in the line are people who, ten days ago, had sufficient of this world's goods to enable them to live comfortably the remainder of their lives. they are massed in solidly. guards of soldiers stand at short intervals to keep them back and preserve the lines, and sentries march up and down the entire length of the station challenging the approach of any one who desires to pass along the platform. for a distance of about one hundred feet to the railroad signal tower are piled barrels of flour, boxes of provisions, and supplies of all descriptions. under the shed of the station an incongruous collection of clothing is being arranged to allow of convenient distribution. while they waited for the signal to commence operations, a guard entered into conversation with a woman in the line. she was evidently telling a story of distress, for the guard looked about hastily to a spot where canned meats and bread were located and made a movement as if to obtain a supply for the woman, but the eyes of brother soldiers and a superior officer were upon him and he again assumed his position. it is said to be not unusual for the soldiers, under cover of dusk, to overstep their duty in order to serve some applicant who, through age or lack of physical strength, is poorly equipped to bear the strain. all sorts of provisions are asked for. one woman asks boldly for ham, canned chicken, vegetables and flour. another approaches timidly and would be glad to have a few loaves of bread and a little coffee. no discrimination. before complete system was introduced complaint was made of discrimination by those dealing out supplies, but under the present order of things the endeavor is made to treat everybody impartially. provisions are given out in order, so that imposition is avoided. it would seem that there could be no imposition in any case, however. the people who are here, and who are able to get within the lines at all, have a reason for their presence, and this is not curiosity. they are here for anything but entertainment, and there is no possibility of purchasing supplies. all must needs apply at the commissary department. a big distributing point for clothing is at the baltimore and ohio railroad station, in the fourth ward, known as harpville, on the east bank of the stony creek. a rudely constructed platform extends over a washed-out ditch, partially filled with débris. in the vicinity is a large barn and several smaller outhouses, thrown in a tumble-down condition. piled against them are beams and rafters from houses smashed into kindling wood. all about the station are boxes, empty and full, scattered in confusion, and around and about these crowds are clustered as best they can. a big policeman stands upon a raised platform made of small boxes, and as he is supplied with goods from the station he throws about in the crowds socks, shoes, dresses, shirts, pantaloons, etc., guessing as rapidly as possible at proportion and speedily getting rid of his bundle. around the corner, on a street running at right angles with the tracks, is the provision department. these two are sample stations. they are scattered about at convenient points, and number about ten in all. chapter xvii. one week after the great disaster. by slow degrees and painful labor the barren place where johnstown stood begins again to look a little like the habitations of a civilized community. daily a little is added to the cleared space once filled with the concrete rubbish of this town, daily the number of willing workers who are helping the town to rise again increases. to-day the great yellow plain which was filled with the best business blocks and residences before the flood is covered with tents for soldiers and laborers and gangs of men at work. the wrecks are being removed or burned up. those houses which were left only partially destroyed are beginning to be repaired. still, it will be months, very likely years, before the pathway of the flood ceases to be perfectly plain through the town. its boundaries are as plainly marked now as if drawn on a map; where the flood went it left its ineffaceable track. nearly one-half of the triangle in which johnstown stood is plainly marked, one angle of the triangle pointing to the east and directly up the conemaugh valley, from which the flood descended. its eastern side was formed by the line of the river. the second angle pointed toward the big stone arch bridge, which played such an important part in the tragedy. the western ran along the base of the mountain on the bank of stony creek, and the third angle was toward stony creek valley. miles of buildings in the wreck. imagine that before the flood this triangle was thickly covered with houses. the lower or northern part was filled with solid business blocks, the upper or southern half with residences, for the most part built of wood. picture this triangle as a mile and a half in its greatest length and three-quarters of a mile in its greatest breadth. this was the way johnstown was ten days ago. now imagine that in the lower half of this triangle, where the business blocks were, every object has been utterly swept away with the exception of perhaps seven scattered buildings. in their places is nothing but sand and heaps of débris. imagine that in the upper portion of this triangle the pathway of destruction has been clearly cut. along the pathway houses have been torn to pieces, turned upside down, laid upon their sides or twisted on their foundations. put into the open space on the lower end of the triangle the tents and the fires of burning rubbish and you will have the picture of johnstown to-day. unheeded warnings. the people had been warned enough about the dangers of their location. they had been told again and again that the dam was unsafe, and whenever the freshets were out there were stories and rumors of its probable breaking. the freshets had been high for many days before that fatal friday. all the creeks were over their banks and their waters were running on the streets. cellars and pavements were flooded. reports from the dam showed that it was holding back more water than at any other time in its history. a telegraph despatch early in the afternoon gave startling information about the cracks in the dam, but it was the old story of the wolf. they had heard it so often that they heard it this time and did not care. the first warning that the people had of their coming doom was the roar of the advancing wave. it rushed out of the valley at four o'clock in the afternoon with incredible swiftness. those who saw it and are still alive say that it seemed to be as high as an ordinary house. it carried in its front an immense amount of battered wreckage, and over it hung a cloud of what seemed to be fog, but was the dust from the buildings it had destroyed. straight across the river it rushed upon the apex of the triangle. it struck the first houses and swept them away in fragments. the cries and shrieks of the frightened people began to be heard above the roar of the floods, and a few steps further the great wave struck some unusually solid structure. its force right in the centre was already diminished. on these houses it split and the greater part of it went on diagonally across the triangle, deflecting somewhat toward the north and so on down to the stone arch bridge. nothing could withstand the flood. wherever it went the houses tumbled down as if they were built of cards. it was not alone the great volume of water, but the immense revolving mass of lumber it carried, that gave it an additional and terrific force, and houses, five bridges, railroad trains, boilers and factories were whirling furiously about. what could stand against such an instrument of destruction as this? it swept the triangle as clean as a board. it tore up pavements. it dug out railroad tracks, and twisted them into strange and fantastic shapes. it carried with it thousands of human beings, crushing them against the fragments, and drove their bodies into the thick mass of mud and sand which it carried at the bottom. it went on and on straight as an arrow, and piled masses of all it had gathered against and over the solid arches of the stone bridge. the bridge sustained the shock. how it did it engineers who have seen the effects and the marvellous strength of the flood in other places wonder. an immense raft of houses and lumber and trees and rubbish of every kind, acres in extent, collected here. roasted in the débris. in these houses were imprisoned people still alive, in numbers estimated at two or three thousand, tossed about in the whirling flood which was turned into strange eddies by the obstruction it had met. in some way not explained a fire broke out. the frame structures packed in closely together were like so much tinder wood. those who had escaped drowning died in their prisons a more horrible death. while this was going on that part of the divided stream which turned to the south continued on its way. at first its violence was undiminished, but as it went on the inclination of the land and the obstacles it met somewhat broke its force. it swept across the triangle, inclining toward the south, and was turned still further in that direction by the bed of stony creek, at the foot of the mountain which forms the western barrier of the basin in which johnstown lies. its course is plainly visible now, as it was two hours afterward. where it started everything is cleared away. a little further along the houses are still standing, but they are only masses of lumber and laths. still further to the north they are overturned or lying upon their sides or corners, some curiously battered and as full of great holes as if they had been shot at with cannon. they are surrounded by driftwood and timbers, ground into splinters, railroad cars, ties and beams, all in a wild, untraceable jumble. the wave reached to the north at least a distance of a mile from the point where it was divided. then it swept backward. it carried with it many houses that had come from every part of the river. at the mercy of the waves. upon them and upon flooded roofs and doors and timbers were men, women and children crying, beseeching and praying for help. those on the shore who were watching this never to be forgotten spectacle saw the sufferers in the river go sweeping by, saw them come down again and still were unable to give them the slightest assistance. the flood proceeded half a mile or more, and then was met and reinforced by a wave started backward from the eddy formed at the stone arch bridge. with redoubled force it turned once more to the south and then it went half a mile further, toppling over the houses, wrecking some and adding some to those which it had brought down from other places. for the second time it spent its force and turned back, swept to the south and to destruction those who had four times been within sight of safety. this time the whole mass of flooded wreckage was carried down to the stone arch bridge and added to the collection there and at last to the fire that was raging. hundreds will never be found. the blackened timber left from this fire, wedged in tightly above the bridge, is the only gorge at which workmen have labored all this week with dynamite and monstrous cranes. in it and below it are unnumbered hundreds of bodies. how many perished in that frightful fire will never be known. only a small proportion of the bodies can ever be found. some were burned so that nothing but a handful of ashes remained, and that was swept away long ago with the torrent. some were buried deep in the sand, and some have been carried down and hidden in sand banks and slews. many will be destroyed by dynamite, and some will have disappeared long before the great flood of rubbish can be removed. of all the horrible features of this dreadful story none is more heartrending than the story of that fire. it began about five o'clock that afternoon and went on all night and all the next day, and smouldered until monday noon. its progress was retarded somewhat by the rain and by the soaking of the material in the water, but this was only an added horror, for it prolonged the anguish for those imprisoned in the great raft who plainly saw their approaching death. those who saw this sight from the shore cannot speak of it now and will hardly be able to speak of it as long as they live without tears. imagination could not picture a situation more harrowing to human feeling than to stand there and watch that horrible scene without being able to rescue the prisoners or even alleviate their sufferings. ruins left to tell the tale. just below the stone bridge are the great works of the cambria iron company. they occupy the eastern bank of the stream for a distance of half a mile. the flood, tearing over the bridge, descended upon these works and tore the southernmost end of them to pieces. the rest of the buildings escaped, but none of the works were swept away in the torrent. an iron bridge used jointly by the public and by the iron company to transport its coal from the mines across the river was caught by the very front of the flood and tossed away as if built of toothpicks. looking from the stone arch bridge, the iron company's buildings, the lower town school house, three of the buildings which divided the flood, a church, part of a brick residence and a little cluster of brick business houses, is all that can be seen above the yellow waste. why these buildings are left it is impossible to say. the school house, except for most of the windows being battered in and the scars and dents driven into it from the passing wreckage, is almost uninjured, although it stands directly in the centre of the flood. locomotives swimming in the torrent. it is plain from the appearance of the buildings that the direction of the flood in many places was rotary, and the houses which still stand may have escaped between the eddies. no other explanation seems possible, for the force of the torrent was tremendous. it carried five locomotives, with their tenders, several miles, and piled them up against the stone bridge as easily as it carried a box of clothespins. at the head of the iron company's works was a great pile of iron in pieces eight feet long and a foot and a half thick either way. the flood toppled these over. in the half charred raft above the bridge are found great boilers, masses of iron, twisted beams and girders from bridges, heavy safes, pieces of railroad track, a hundred car wheels, mixed with every conceivable object of household use--pianos, sofas, dressing cases, crockery, trunks and their contents. yet in all that mass it is impossible to find any trace of that pile of bricks built into the business houses of the town; nor yet upon the banks, nor in the heaps of sand which, when the flood went down, were left here and there, is there any trace of the material of the building except the lumber. in the opinion of experts, all this stuff must have been ground into powder and swept down the river. johnstown will never resume its former importance. a curse will hang over this beautiful valley as long as this generation lasts. the sanitary experts who have examined the place say that in all probability it will be plague ridden for years and years. decomposing bodies in the wreck. the massive stone bridge of the pennsylvania railroad, opposite the cambria iron works, marks the point of demarcation between the borough of johnstown and that of cambria city. the changes in the situation which have occurred since the eventful friday have not been numerous. the wreckage impacted beneath the arches has been removed from three of them, leaving four, which are closed by masses of timber and drift material. i climbed over the débris in the famous cul-de-sac and reached the second from the johnstown side after half an hour's labor. the appearance was singular. beneath the conglomeration of timber which filled the cavity of the arch to a distance of twenty-five feet from the top the waters of the conemaugh flowed swiftly. there was a network of telegraph wires, iron rods and metal work of pullman cars stretched across from stone work to stone work on either side. the gridiron, as it were, penetrated far down into the water, and it had proved sufficiently strong to resist the onward rush of the lighter flotsam which swept before the onrolling wave. lodged in this strange pile was the body of a horse. deep among the meshes a terrible spectacle presented itself. there were the bodies of three people--a woman, a child and a laborer with hobnailed shoes. they were beyond the reach of the workers who are clearing the wreck near to the bridge and the latter will be unable to reach the corpses until a considerable amount of blasting with dynamite has been done. there was a faint odor of decomposition and another day will cause the vicinity of the viaduct to suggest a charnel house to the olfactory senses. there are many other bodies, no doubt, beneath the débris and prevented from floating down the stream by the ruins. cambria city paralyzed. conemaugh city was connected with the cambria iron works, on the opposite side of the conemaugh, by a temporary suspension bridge of steel wire. the bridge was originally for two railways--a narrow and a broad gauge--and a footway. it was swept away before the reservoir burst, according to all accounts. cambria city, or rather a fringe of houses along the higher ground of the bank, the remaining portion of a once prosperous town, is absolutely paralyzed by the stunning blow which has befallen it. there are but few people at work among the débris. the clean sweep of the flood left little wreckage behind. a few sad-faced women wandered about and poked in the sand and among the broken stone which now covers the location of their former homes. the men who were saved have returned to their work at the cambria mills, and the survivors among their families are stowed in the houses which remain intact. there must have been at least one thousand lives lost from cambria city. there has been no attempt to replace the bridge at "ten acre," as the point below cambria city is called. the banks of the conemaugh remain covered with débris. in many places the masses are piled twenty-five feet high. the people are clearing their land by burning the unwonted accumulations. only an occasional body is found. most of the corpses which have been buried at nineveh were found in the bushes which fringe the river. all the way to freeport the accumulation of débris may be seen. kindly care for the helpless. there is to-day no lack of supplies, save at cambria city, which has been overlooked and neglected, but where the destitution is great. the people there are in great want of food. bread has given out, and ham is about the only food to be obtained. in only one of the wrecked houses left untouched by the flood i found from twenty to twenty-five refugees. the commissary at the pennsylvania railroad depot is heaped so high with stores that distribution goes on with difficulty. the grubbtown commissary is in the same condition. the red cross people got fairly to work in their supply tent to-day, and during the morning alone distributed five hundred packages of clothing. their hospital on the hill, back of kernville, is in excellent order, and the patients quartered in the village houses are comfortably situated. there have been no deaths at the cambria hospital. the doctors there have cared for cases indoors and out. even grandma teeter is doing well. she was taken out of the wreck at the bridge on saturday with her right arm crushed. it had to be amputated, and the old woman--she is eighty-three years of age--stood the operation finely. miss hinckley, of philadelphia, is busy in kernville making known the plans of the children's aid society. she does an immense amount of running about and visiting houses. many children made orphans by the flood are now being cared for. there are a hundred or more of them; just how many no one knows. "i have great difficulty," said miss hinckley to me to-day, "to persuade the people who have taken children to care for that our society can be trusted to take charge of what will surely be a burden to them. all my work now is to inspire confidence. we have received hundreds of letters from people anxious to adopt children. they are ready now in the first flush of sympathy, but i am afraid that they will not be willing to take the children when we are ready to place them." many dead still in the ruins. the ruins still shelter a ghastly load of dead. every hour at least one new body is uncovered and borne on a rough stretcher to some one of the many morgues. the sight loses none of its sadness and pathos by its commonness; only the horror is gone, giving place to apathy and stupor. stalwart men, in mud-stained, working clothes, bring up the body, the face covered with a cloth. the crowds part and gaze at the burned corpse as it passes. at the morgue it is examined for identification, washed and prepared for burial. not more than half of these recovered now are identified. the vast majority fill nameless but numbered graves, and the descriptions are much too indefinite to hope for identification after burial. what can you expect from a description like this, picked out at random: "woman, five feet four inches tall, long hair?" the body of eugene hannon, twenty-two, found yesterday near the first presbyterian church, was identified to-day by his father. he was a member of the league of american wheelmen, and his bicycle was found within a few yards of his body. the father will lay the wrecked bicycle on the coffin of his son. just now a woman, still young and poorly dressed, went by the shed where i am writing, sobbing most pitifully. she lost her husband and children in the flood and is on the verge of insanity. finding solace in work. the day opened with heavy rain and an early morning thunder storm. the hillside streams were filled to the banks and everything was dripping. the air was chilly and damp, and daylight was slow in coming to this valley of desolation and death. at an early hour the valley, where so many have gone to rest, presented a most dismal scene. it looked, indeed, like the valley of the dead. nothing was moving, and all remained within the meagre shelter offered them till the day had fairly begun. as the day advanced, the tented hills began to show signs of life, smoke arose from many a camp fire, and on every eminence surrounding this valley of desolation could be seen the guards moving among the tented villages. the weather was most unpleasant for any one to be outdoors, but it apparently had no effect on the people here, for as soon as the early breakfast was over the thousands of workmen could be seen going to their work, and soon the whole valley that in the early morning hours was asleep was a teeming throng of life and activity. while the rain was far from pleasant to the workers and many helpers, it was certainly providential that the cool weather is continuing in order to prevent the much-dreaded decomposition of the hundreds of human bodies yet unrecovered and the thousands of animals that perished in the flood. the air this morning, while tainted to some extent with the fumes arising from the decaying bodies, was not near so bad as it would have been had the morning been hot and sultry. working on the stone bridge débris. by seven o'clock the whole valley was full of people and the scene was a most animated one. the various sections of the flooded territory were full of men busy in searching for the dead, removing and burning the débris. at eight o'clock this morning five bodies had been taken from the mass at the stone bridge. a large force of men have been working all day on this part of the wreck, but so great is the quantity of wreckage to be gone over and removed that while much work is done very slow progress is being made. the continued falling of the river renders the removal of the débris every day more arduous, and where a few days ago the timbers when loosened would float away, now they have to be moved by hand, making the work very slow. a most welcome arrival this morning was dr. b. bullen of disinfectant fame. he brought with him fifty barrels more of his disinfectant. the doctor will take charge of the disinfecting of the dangerous sections of the flooded district and notably at the stone bridge. twenty-five barrels have already been used with most favorable results. dr. bullen was a former resident of johnstown and lost thirty relatives in the flood, among them three brothers-in-law, three uncles and two aunts. clearing the cambria iron works. the cambria iron company's works presented a busy scene to-day. at least nine hundred men are at work, and most rapid progress is being made in clearing away the wreck. it is said that the works will start up in about three weeks. there is little change in the situation. every one is working with the one end in view, to clear away the wreckage and give the people of johnstown a chance to rebuild. the laborers working at the cambria iron works and on the pennsylvania railroad seem to be making rapid progress. this is no doubt for the reason that these men are more used to this kind of work. about ten o'clock the rain was over and the sun came out with its fierce june heat. a number of charges of dynamite were fired during the day, and each time with good effect. the channels through to the bridge are almost clear of débris, and each charge of dynamite has loosened large quantities of the wreckage. this is the eighth day since the demon of destruction swept down the valley of the conemaugh, but the desolation that marks its angry flight is still visible in all its intensity and horror. the days that have been spent by weary toilers whose efforts were steeled by grief have done little to repair the devastation wrought in one short hour by the potent fury of the elements. to the watchers on the mountain side all seems yet chaos and confusion. the thousand fires that spot the valley show that the torch is being used to complete the work of annihilation where repair is impossible and the smoke curls upward. it reminds one of the peace offerings of ancient babylon. uncle sam's men on hand. the corps of government engineers that arrived last night has already demonstrated the valuable assistance which it is capable of rendering in these times of emergency. with but a few hours rest, those men were up ere sunrise this morning, and by eight o'clock a pontoon bridge had been stretched across the river at kernville. acting in conjunction with the pennsylvania military authorities they are pursuing their labors at various other points, and by sundown it is confidently expected that pontoon bridges will be erected at all places where the necessities of traffic demand. it is the fact, probably not generally known, that the great government of the united states owns only feet of pontoon bridges, and that these are the same that were used by the federal forces in the civil war, twenty-five years ago. the bridges that are to be used at johnstown were brought from west point and willet's point, where they have been for years used in the ordinary course of instruction in the military and engineer corps. secret society relief. the following official announcements have been made: a masonic relief committee has been organized and solicits aid for distressed freemasons and their families. william a. donaldson, chairman. office of supreme commander, knights of the mystic chain, wilmington, del., june , .--in view of the great calamity that has befallen our brothers at johnstown, pa., and vicinity, i, h.g. rettes, supreme commander, request that wherever the order of the knights of the mystic chain exists there be liberal donations made for our afflicted brothers. affairs at the tremendous stone bridge wreckage pile seem to have resolved themselves into a state of almost hopelessness. it is amazing the routine into which everything has fallen in this particular place. every morning at seven o'clock a score of lilliputs come mechanically from huts and tents or the bare hillside, and wearily and weakly go to work clearing away this mass, and at the rate they are now proceeding it will actually be months before the débris is cleared away and the last body found. fortunately the wind is blowing away from us or we would have olfactory evidence that what is not found is far worse than what has been exposed. then it may be good business and good policy to have these few workers fool around the edge of the wreckage for five or ten minutes adjusting a dynamite blast, then hastily scramble away and consume as much more time before a tremendous roar announces the ugly work is done, but the onlookers doubt it. sometimes, when an extra large shot is used, the water, bits of wood and iron, and other shapes more fearfully suggestive, fly directly upward in a solid column at least three hundred feet high, only to fall back again in almost the same spot, to be tugged and pulled at or coaxed to float down an unwilling current that is falling so rapidly now that even this poor mode of egress will soon be shut entirely off. the fact of the matter is simply this: they are not attempting to recover bodies at the bridge, but as one blast tears yards of stuff into flinders it is shoved indifferently into the water, be it human or brute, stone, wood or iron, to float down toward pittsburgh or to sink to the bottom, may be a few yards from where it was pushed off from the main pile. up in the centre of the town the débris is piled even higher than at the stone bridge, but the work is going on fairly well. the men seem to be working more together and enter into the spirit of the thing. besides this, horses and wagons can get at the wrecks, and it really looks as if this part of the ruins has been exaggerated, and some of the foremen there say that at the present rate of work going on through the town all the bodies that ever will be recovered will be found within the next ten days. as to the condition these bodies are in, that has become almost a matter of indifference, except as to the effect upon the health of the living. compared with other calamities. an eye-witness writes as follows: the scene is one that cannot be described in outline--it must be told in detail to become intelligible. never before in this country, at least, was there a disaster so stupendous, so overwhelming, so terrible in its fierce and unheralded onset and so sorrowful in its death-dealing work. i traversed the mill river valley the day after the bursting of the mill river dam. i went over wallingford, in connecticut, a few hours after that terrible cyclone had swept through the beautiful new england village. i stood on the broken walls of the brooklyn theatre and looked down upon hecatombs of dead sacrificed in that holocaust to momus. each of these was in itself a terrible calamity, but here is not only what was most terrible in all these, but every horrifying feature of the mill river flood, the wallingford cyclone and the brooklyn theatre fire is here magnified tenfold, nay, a hundred fold. and what is even more terrible than the scenes of devastation, the piles of dead that have been unearthed from the ruins and the mangled human bodies that still remain buried in the débris, is the simple but startling fact that this disaster ought not to have happened. the flood was not due to the rains. this calamity is not the work of the unprovoked fury of the angry elements. this fair town and the populous valley above it, all the varied industries of this thriving city, all these precious lives are a sacrifice to the selfishness of a few men whose purses were bigger than their hearts. there would have been no flood if these rich men had not built an artificial pond in which to catch fish. the now famous dam was only a mud bank. for years it was a constant menace to johnstown and the conemaugh valley. it has long been only a question of time when the calamity that has befallen these people should befall them. it came at last because the arrogance of the purse and the pleasure-seeking selfishness of wealth were blind to the safety of a populous community. the cause of the johnstown disaster was wholly due to the south fork fishing and hunting club. this club was specially chartered by the legislature, and notwithstanding there was some opposition at the time, it was accorded the privilege of making an artificial lake and fish pond by means of an embankment. the site chosen was the old dam on south fork creek, about two miles above the village of south fork, on the conemaugh river. this dam was built by the pennsylvania canal in as a feeder to the canal below johnstown. when the canal was finally abandoned, after passing into the hands of the pennsylvania railroad company, the dam was sold to a private buyer for the very reasonable sum of $ . by him it was afterwards conveyed to the fishing and hunting club for $ , . this was about twenty years ago. the club spent $ , in rebuilding the dam and erected a beautiful club house on the west bank of the artificial lake. beside the club house there are from twelve to fifteen cottages, the summer residences of members of the club, all built since the acquisition of the property twenty years ago. ten of these cottages are visible from the embankment where the break occurred. it was a beautiful spot before the disaster, but this artificial lake in its placid beauty was a menace to the lives and property of the people in the conemaugh valley from its completion to its destruction. the south fork fishing and hunting club was a very aristocratic and exclusive organization. not even tuxedo puts on more airs. it was composed of about seventy members, a baker's dozen of them pittsburgh millionaires. these wealthy gentlemen and their associates never so much as recognized the existence of the common clay of south fork, except to warn all intruders to keep off the land and water of the south fork fishing and hunting club. their placards still stare sight-seers in the face. one of these reads: private property. all trespassers found hunting or fishing on these grounds will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. another is as follows: private property. no fishing or hunting on these premises, under penalty of the law, $ . south fork hunting and fishing club. only an earthwork. strenuously as the club insisted upon exacting the full penalties and extent of the law for encroachments upon its privileges, it was quite heedless of the rights of others. there probably never was in the world a case of such blind fatuity as that of the south fork fishing and hunting club in building and maintaining its dam. from the first it must have been known to every member of the club, as it certainly was to every resident of the south fork and conemaugh valleys, that if the water ever began to run over the breast of the dam the dam itself would give way. the dam was only a clay embankment. there was no masonry whatever--at least there is none visible in the break. the bottom was of brushwood and earth--some people in the south fork valley say hay and sand. in consequence, the people below the dam who knew how it was built have always regarded it as a menace to their safety. indeed, one man employed in its construction was discharged by the club or its contractor for protesting against the dam as insecure. his crime consisted in declaring that an embankment made in that way could not resist the force of an overflow. he was telling the simple truth, which was clear to every one except men disposed to take chances. chapter xviii. a walk through the valley of death. in the following graphic narrative one of the eye-witnesses of the fearful ruin and slaughter represents himself as a guide, and if the reader will consider himself as the party whom the guide is conducting, a vivid impression of the scene of the great destruction may be obtained. "hello, where on earth did you come from? and what are you doing here, anyhow? oh! you just dropped in to see the sights, eh? well, there are plenty of them and you won't see the like of them again if you live a century. what's that? you have been wandering around and got tangled up in the ruins and don't know where you are? well, that's not strange. i have been lost myself a dozen times. it's a wonder you haven't got roasted by some of those huge bonfires. but here, you come with me. let me be your guide for the afternoon and i'll put you in the way of seeing what is left of johnstown. "first, let's climb up this bluff just before us and we shall have a first-rate view of things. skip across this little temporary bridge over this babbling brook and now--climb! whew! that takes your breath, doesn't it? but it is worth the trouble. now you see we are standing on an embankment perhaps thirty feet high. we are in the midst, too, of a lot of tents. it is here that the soldier boys are encamped. off to one side you see the freight depot of the pennsylvania railroad and the tracks, you notice, run along on the top of this embankment. it is in that freight depot that adjutant general hastings has his headquarters. we will walk over there presently, but first let's take a look at our surroundings. prospect hill. "you notice, i suppose, that this flat spreading out before us at the bottom of the embankment is inclosed on all sides by mountains. they are shaped something like a triangle and we are standing at the base. here, let me make a rough sketch of it on the back of this envelope. it will help us out a little. there! that figure is the freight depot, near which we are standing. towering up above us are houses and up there a canvas city for refugees. there is a temporary hospital there, too, and a graveyard, where many a poor victim of the flood lies. the background is a high hill. the people here call it prospect hill. the flood! gracious! what a view the people up the hill must have had of it as it whirled, and eddied, and roared and rushed through the town, for this great flat before us was where the main portion of johnstown stood. [illustration] "you notice that there are gaps in the mountain chains which form the sides of the triangle. through the gap at our left comes the conemaugh river, flowing from the mountain on its way westward. river, did i say? i don't wonder you smile. it doesn't look much like a river--that little bubbling stream. can you imagine it swelling into a mighty sea, that puny thing, that is smiling in its glee over the awful havoc it has created? now you are beginning to understand how it is that johnstown proper lies within the forks of two streams. the conemaugh runs by us at our feet to the right. see, there is a wrecked and overturned car down there. if thrown across the stream it would almost bridge it. that is stony creek on the other side of the flat, running down through that gap which forms the apex of the triangle. it skirts the mountains on the right and the two streams meet. you can't see the meeting point from here, for our embankment curves, but they do meet around that curve, and then the united rivers flow under the now famous stone bridge, which was built to carry this railroad across the stream. oh! yes, we will go down there, for that bridge formed the gorge which proved so destructive. savage fury. "i would like to take you away up to the dam if we had time and point out the destruction all along down the valley until the flood rushed through that gap to the left and then spread over johnstown. but it is too late in the day for that, and the walk is a most tiresome one, so you will have to take my word for it. of course, you have read that the dam was constructed in a most outrageous manner. well, that is true. it is a wonder the valley wasn't swept long ago. no, the loss of life wasn't great in the upper part of the valley because the people took the warning which the johnstonians refused and mostly escaped. the little town of south fork was badly shattered and mineral point was swept away. "but the real fury of the flood is seen in its marks on the soil. gracious! how it leveled forests, swept away bowlders, cut out new channels and destroyed everything in its path. i cannot begin to give you even an idea of the wonderful power of that flood. at east conemaugh not a vestige of the place was left. where once stood a row of houses the river now runs, and the former river-bed is now filled with dirt and stones. it was in this vicinity, you know, where so many engines and cars were wrecked--smashed, twisted, broken and scattered along the valley for half a mile. it was here, too, where the passengers in the two trains met such a thrilling experience, and where so many of them were killed. the body of one of the passengers, miss bryan, of germantown, was found away down here in johnstown. "it took but a few minutes for the flood to rush down upon woodvale and sweep it out of existence, and then it made a mad break through that gap over there on the extreme left. the houses which you see on the hillside over there--figure --belong to conemaugh borough, a different place from east conemaugh, you understand. the borough also extended down over the flat. by the way, there is something very funny about all these separate boroughs. most all of them are naturally parts of johnstown--such as conemaugh, kernville, cambria city, prospect and the like, but there have been so many petty jealousies that they have refused to unite. but that is neither here nor there now, for in the common calamity they are one. laughing at danger. "now you would have thought that the people on the johnstown flat would have got out of the way when warned of danger, wouldn't you? but they simply laughed. you must remember that a good portion of the place was flooded long before the dam broke. the rise of the two rivers did that. the water ran from two to five or six feet high in some of the houses. but, bless you, that was nothing. the place had been flooded so many times and escaped that everybody actually howled down all suggestions of danger. telegrams had been coming into town all the afternoon and they were received by miss ogle, the brave lady operator, who stuck to her post to the last, but they might as well never have been sent for all the good they did. "well, now with johnstown spread out before you you can readily understand what happened when the flood burst through the gap. there was no time to run then. no time to pray, even. you notice the river makes a sharp curve, and naturally enough the impetus of the water spread it over a wide territory. the conemaugh houses on the flat went down like so many pasteboard houses. a portion of the flood followed the stream and the other portion went tearing along the line of the hills which form the left side of the triangle. wiped out of existence. "now look away over to the left and then away over to the hills on the right, and what do you see? that distance is how great? two miles, do you say? yes, fully that and probably more. well, now for two or three squares inland from this stream at our feet there is nothing but a barren waste of sand--looks like a desert, doesn't it? can you imagine that all that immense strip was covered with stores, business houses and dwellings? where are they now? why, just look at that circular hole just beneath us on the other side of the stream. that was the gas works once. the great iron receiver, or whatever you call it, went rolling, dashing, crashing away before the flood, and not a vestige of it has been found yet. can you ask, then, what became of the houses? simply wiped out of existence. "there! i put down the figure on the map. it is a brick building, as you see, but there is a big hole knocked in it. that is the b. and o. depot. figure --two more brick buildings with one end completely gone. these are the cambria iron company's offices and the company's stores. what else can you see? just around the curve where i mark down figure is another brick building--the millvale school-house. it is out of range from this point, but you shall see it by and by. these buildings are actually the only ones left standing in all that desert of sand, a covering four or five feet deep left by the flood and hiding whatever is underneath as effectually as the ashes of mt. vesuvius blotted out pompeii. there may be a thousand bodies under that sand for all that anybody knows. just ahead of us in the great area roughly shown by this figure lie the tents of the workmen engaged in putting johnstown in order. now, if you draw a line from the conemaugh hills right down back of the b. and o. depot through the camp of the workmen, and thence to stony creek, the only buildings you will find standing between us and that imaginary line are these i have already marked with figures as , and on the map. did you ever see anything so destructive in your life? a famous morgue. "you say you see a good many buildings in what appears to be the centre of the town. so you do, but just wait until you stroll among them. there are many there, it is true, but after all, how many are good for anything? oh! the water has been doing a tremendous amount of damage. why, over there, up to the very foot of the hills--i will mark the spot no. --behind the buildings which you see, it has simply torn things up by the roots. that is the fourth ward, and the ruins are full of the dead, and the fourth ward morgue has had more bodies in it than any of the others. "you remember that i told you that one current swept over that way. it caught up houses and they began to drift all over the place, crashing into each other and grinding people between the timbers. all this time the houses down here by the conemaugh had been floating toward the bridge. logs, boards, lumber and houses from the banks of stony creek had been coming down, too, and thus formed that tremendous jam above the stone bridge, which actually turned the current of the creek back upon itself. some of the houses from the centre of the city and from the fourth ward got into stony creek and actually went up the stream. others floated all over town in circles and finally, having reached the conemaugh, got caught in the jam at last and were destroyed by the fire which broke out there. after a time, too, the pressure at the bridge became so tremendous that the river burst a new channel for itself and then many houses came down again. [illustration: selling damaged goods.] "but i am anticipating. let us walk down to the bridge--it is not far--for the bridge is the key to the situation. we must pass the freight depot, for we follow the track. you see it is a busy place. you know we have had a change of administration here, and adjutant general hastings is in command. we are all heartily glad of it, too, for the worst kind of red tapeism prevailed under the pittsburgh regime. "and then the deputies--a lot of brutes appointed by the sheriff. what an ignorant set they were. most of them couldn't even read. they were the only toughs in town. they had captured all the tomato cans left over from the great flood which the bible tells about and had cut out tin stars to decorate themselves with. anybody who could find a piece of tin could be a deputy. and how they did bulldoze. "but all this is changed now. the deputies--we called them the tin policemen--have been bounced and the place is now guarded by the soldiers. business has taken the place of red tape, and general hastings has turned the freight depot into offices for his various departments, for a system has been established which will reach all the victims, bury all the dead, discover all the living and clean up the town. there is now a central bureau, into which reports are turned, and the old haphazard way of doing things has been swept as clean as the sand before us. there is general hastings' horse standing at the steps, for the general is in the saddle most of the time, here, there, everywhere, directing and ordering. "dinner! hello, dinner is ready. now you will see how the officers at headquarters live. you see, the table has been spread on the platform facing the railroad tracks. ah! there is hastings himself--white slouch hat, white shirt, blue flannel trousers, and boots. he looks every inch a soldier, doesn't he? there! he is beckoning to us. what do you suppose he wants. oh! he wants us to dine with him. shall we? it will be plain fare, but as good as can be found. a dudish society reporter from philadelphia dropped into town the other morning. he met a brother reporter from the same paper. "'oh!' he groaned. 'where can i find a restaurant?' "'restaurant!' shrieked the other. 'where do you think we are? restaurant! you come with me and i'll try to steal you a ham sandwich, and you'll be mighty lucky to get that.' "'oh! but i am so hungry. can you direct me to the nearest hack stand?' "the brother reporter turned and fled in dismay, and the society man hasn't been seen around here since. but it illustrates the time the boys have been having getting anything to eat. so we had better accept the general's invitation. what have we here? oh! this is fine. you don't mind tin plates and spoons and coffee cups, of course, especially as we have ham and potatoes, bread and coffee for dinner. that's a right good meal; but i tell you i have eaten enough ham to last me for a year, and when i get out of johnstown and get back to philadelphia i am going to make a break for the bellevue and eat. and there won't be any ham in that dinner, you can bet. a renowned building. "now, have you had enough? then we will continue our walk along the tracks to the bridge. first we pass the pennsylvania railroad passenger station. what a busy place it is! the tracks are filled with freight cars packed with supplies, and the platform is filled with men and women ready to take them. in this station a temporary morgue was established. it has been moved now to the school-house, no. , you know, on the map. now, as we round the curve you see it. that is the famous building that saved so many lives--the only one left in the great barren waste of sand. you know the water formed an eddy about it, and thus, as house after house floated and circled about it men and women would clutch the roof and climb upon it. the water reached half way to the ceiling on the second floor on a dead level. "now you can see where the two rivers come together. what a jam that was. it extended from the fork down to the bridge--no. . when the flames began to demolish it the pile towered far above the bridge. now it is level with the water, but so thickly is it packed that the river runs beneath it. let us stand here on the railroad embankment at the approach to the bridge, and watch the workmen. you notice how high the approaches are on either side, and you can readily understand how these high banks caught the drift. the stone arches of the bridge are low, you perceive. when the flood was at its height houses were actually swept over the bridge. from the débris left in the river and on the sides you can imagine what an immense dam it was that was formed, and just how it happened that the rivers turned back on themselves. i met a woman up stony creek early this morning. she was laughing over the adventure she and her children had. they floated down the creek to the bridge and then floated back again, and were finally rescued in boats. i asked her how she could joke about it. "'oh!' she said, 'i am never bothered about anything. i was as cool then as i am now, and rather enjoyed it.' "but she wasn't very cool. she was bordering on the hysterical. she and her children are now living with friends, for their house was completely wrecked. a telegraph office. "a good many people had experiences similar to hers before the river broke through the railroad embankment just above the bridge here and swept tracks and everything else down upon the cambria iron works. there they are, just behind us. i will mark them on the map--no. . then the flow rushed through cambria city, just below. that place is in a horrible condition--houses wrecked and streets full of débris. but there is no necessity of going there. you can see all the horrors you want right here. "look across the bridge, up the hill a little way. do you see that old, tumble-down coal shed? it is where the western union established its office, and in that neighborhood most of the reporters have been living--sleeping in brick-kilns, hay lofts, tents, anywhere in fact. what a nice time they have had of it. they have suffered as much as the flood victims. "phew! what a stench. it comes from the débris in the river. it is full of the dead bodies of horses, dogs; yes, and of human beings. we hear stories occasionally of women being taken from that mass alive. they are false, of course, but there was one instance that is authentic. a woman was found one week after the flood still breathing. she had been caught in some miraculous way. she was taken to pittsburgh, where she died. i was kicking about over the débris a day or two ago, and heard a cat mewing under the débris somewhere. i know half a dozen people who have rescued kittens and are caring for them tenderly. a flood cat will command a premium before long, i have no doubt. "ha! what's that? yes, it is a body. the sight is so common now that people pay no attention to it. we have been living in the midst of so much death, of so many scenes of a similar character, that i suppose the sensibilities have become hardened to them. there, they are placing the body on a window shutter and are carrying it up to the school-house. it will be laid on a board placed over the tops of the children's desks. you will notice coffins piled up all about the school-house. of course, the body is awfully disfigured and cannot be identified. the clothing will be described and the body hurried away to its nameless grave. fragment of a bible. "have you enough? then let us walk back toward headquarters and go down upon the flat into the centre of the town. what is that you have there? a piece of a bible? yes, you will find lots of leaves lying around. there is a story--i don't know how true it is--that many people have thrown their bibles away since the flood, declaring that their belief, after the horrors they have witnessed, is at an end. i can hardly credit this. but there is one curious thing that is certain, and everybody has noticed it. books and bibles have been found in the rubbish all over the town, and in a great many instances they are open at some passage calling attention to flood and disaster. i have found these myself a dozen times. it is a remarkable coincidence, to say the least. "some people may find a warning in all this. i don't pretend to say, but as we walk along here let me tell you of a conversation i had with a man who was worth nearly $ , before the flood. he has lost every cent, and is glad enough to get his daily meals from the supplies sent here. "'i don't know what to think of johnstown,' he said. 'we have been called a wicked place. perhaps all this is a judgment. just when we have been most prosperous some calamity has come upon us. we were never more prosperous than when this flood overwhelmed us.' "well here we are back at general hastings' headquarters. now we will go down the embankment, cross the river and plunge ahead into town. "over this loose sand we will trudge and strike in by the baltimore and ohio depot. now we are in the camp of the workingmen. here are the stalls for the horses, too. the men, you see, live in tents. there are not as many of them as there will be; probably not over fifteen hundred to-day, but there will be twice that to-morrow, and five thousand men will be employed here steadily for a long time to come. now let us jump right into main street. it is the worst one in town. just see! there is the post-office, looking as if it never would be able to pull itself out of the wreck. across the street is the bank, with the soldiers guarding it. there, just ahead, you see a tall brick building lifting its head out of the midst of a pile of ruins. there is where many people were saved. the current carried scores of men, women and children past it, and those who had strength deserted their rafts and wrecks of houses and crawled into its windows. "now our progress is blocked. that immense pile of wreckage is by no means as high as it was; but you don't want to crawl over it yet. phew! let's get out of this. how those piles of rubbish do smell. you know the board of health says there is nothing the matter with johnstown, but if the board of health would only take the trouble to nose about a bit it might learn a thing or two. you notice there have been grocery stores and markets around here, and you notice, too, the pile of decaying vegetable matter from them. these are worse than the dead bodies. horrible scenes. "are there bodies under these ruins? lots of them. there! what do you see this minute? those workmen have discovered one in the ruins of the merchants' hotel. poor fellow. he was pinned by falling walls, probably. a man was found there the other day with his pockets full of money. he had tried to save his fortune and lost his life. near by a man was found alive after an experience of a week in the débris. he called for water, but never drank it. his tongue was too stiff, and he had not strength to move a muscle. he died almost as soon as he was found. "well, did you ever see such a mass of wreckage? it doesn't look as if there were twenty houses fit to live in all over this flat. but a good many will be patched up after a fashion, no doubt. and this is only one street out of several in the same condition. "hello! those workmen are digging out of a cellar some barrels of whisky. that liquor will be guarded, for the old policemen and the 'tin' deputies have been having high old times with the liquor they have unearthed. there were formerly forty-five saloons in this town. do you know how many there are left? three. that's all. one saloon-keeper found $ , in the ruins of his place. "gracious! there is a freight car. it was caught up half a mile or more away and dumped down in this street. and there is a piano sticking out. hello! what have you found there? oh, a looking glass. yes, you find plenty of them in the rubbish almost as good as new. a friend of mine pulled out a glass pitcher and two goblets from that terrible mass at the bridge, and there wasn't a crack upon them. queer, isn't it? but so it goes. fragile things are not injured and stoves and iron are twisted and broken. the vagaries of this flood are many. 'i thought you were dead.' "turn this corner. now, will you look at that? there is a house with the back all knocked out. the furniture has disappeared, but on the wall you see a picture hanging, and as i am alive it is a picture of a flood. what did i tell you a little while ago? here is a house with its walls nearly intact. next it is nothing but a heap of rubbish. here is nothing but a cellar full of débris. next it is a wooden dwelling. a man sits on the piazza with his clothing hung about him for an airing. and so it goes right here in the neighborhood of the main street, but if we pull out a bit from this place we shall see that the damage is a great deal greater. through this break you can see the presbyterian church. it is about ruined, but it still stands. if you go up stairs, what do you think you will see in that cold, dark, damp room? stretched upon the tops of the pews are long boards, and stretched upon the boards are corpses. they have been embalmed, and are awaiting identification. but we won't go in there. all the morgues are alike, and we shall find another before long. "hark! there are two women greeting each other. let's hear what they say. "'why, eliza, i thought you were dead. how's all the folks? are they all saved?' "'yes; they are all saved--all but sister and her little girl.' "well, that was cool, wasn't it? but you hear that on every corner. as i told you, in the presence of so much death the sensibilities are blunted. people do not yet realize their great grief. "there, we are safely by the main street with its dangers of pestilence, for you noticed that it was reeking with filth and bad smells, and safely by the falling walls, for the workmen are tearing down everything shaky. look out, there, or you will get scorched by that huge bonfire. they are burning all over town. everything that the men can lift is dragged to these fires and burned. this is the plan for clearing the town. you noticed it at the bridge and you notice it here. men with axes and saws are cutting timbers too big to be moved, and men with ropes and horses and even stationary engines are pressed into service to tug at the ruins. slowly the débris is yielding to the flames. an awful sepulchre. "ha! now we are getting over by the hills into what is known as the fourth ward. here it is on our map--no. . what a sight! most of the bodies are taken from the ruins here. as far as you can see there is nothing but wreckage--yes, wreckage, from which the foulest odors are continually rising and in the midst of which countless big fires are burning. are you not almost discouraged at the idea of clearing so many acres up? well, it does look like an endless task. "there, you see that brick building? it is called the fourth ward school house. do you want to go in? piled up at one side are coffins--little coffins, medium sized coffins, large coffins--coffins for children, women and men. oh! what a gloomy, horrible place. stretched on these boards in this dismal room--what do you see? corpses dragged from the river and from the débris. see how distorted and swollen are the faces. they are beyond recognition. some have great bruises. some are covered with blood. some are black. turn your head away. such a sight you never saw before and pray god that you may never see it again. nearly bodies have been handled in this school house. outside once more for a breath of air! oh! the delightful change. but you are not yet away from the horrors. there is a tent in the school yard. what do you see? more coffins. yes, and each one has a victim. each is ready for shipment or burial. , to be fed. "let's hurry along. here on this corner is the temporary post-office. over there is a supply station. there are eleven such departments now under the new management, and people are given not only provisions but clothing. you ought to see the women coming down from the hills in the morning for the supplies. think of it! there are at least twenty thousand people in the flooded district to be fed for many weeks to come. you know there has been some comment because in the past all the money has not been used for food. i think it is a mistake. where is charity to cease? in my opinion, the thing to do is to clean this town up, and give the business men and mills a chance to start up again. when this is done people can earn their own living, and charity ceases. i am backed up in this statement by irwin hurrell, who is a burgess of johnstown, and knows everybody. let me read you something from my note book that he said to me: "'the people up in the hills have never had a better time. they won't work. they go around and get all the clothing they can and fill their houses with provisions.' thieves and idlers. "the burgess speaks the exact truth. some of these houses are packed with flour and potatoes. the hungarians and colored men and the 'tin' deputies, now out of a job, have been the real thieves. they pulled trunks from the river, cut the locks and rifled them. there have been no professional thieves here. the thieves live here. most of the respectable people were swept away by the flood, but nearly all the 'toughs' were left. now if i had my way i would make the survivors work. some one said the other day: 'why talk of sufferers? there are no sufferers. they are all dead.' this is true in a great measure. it is not charity to keep in idleness people who have lost nothing and won't work. i'd hunt them out and put them at it. "well, we will pass this supply depot, strike the baltimore and ohio track, and go up stony creek a bit. notice the long lines of freight cars loaded with supplies. on our right runs the little river. on our left is ward . i will note it as no. on the map. you see there is a little stretch of plateau and then the ground rises rapidly. see what ravages the flood made on the plateau. the houses are wrecked and filled with mud. the local name of this place is hornertown. one man here had $ , in his house. it was wrecked. he dug away at the ruins and found $ , . if we followed the stream up a mile or so we would come to the stonyvale cemetery. it is covered with logs and wrecks of houses. it was in one of these houses that the body of a woman was found last saturday. she was sitting at a table. the house had floated here on the back water from down the river. red cross tents. "there, i guess we have walked far enough. here are the tents of the red cross society, and by the side of them are those of the united states engineers. the engineers have thrown a pontoon bridge over the river, you see, to a place called kernville. here you are, no. on our little map. let us cross. by george! there is an old man on the bridge i have seen before. he lost his wife and two children in the flood, but he isn't crying for them. what bothers him most is the loss of a clock, but in the clock was $ , . "you see there is nothing new in kernville. it is the same old story. many lives have been lost here and the wreckage is something awful. the houses that remain are filled with mud and the ceilings still drip with water. people seem to have lost their senses. they are apparently paralyzed by their troubles. they sit around waiting for some one to come and clear the wreckage away. "well, it is a terrible sight and we will hurry through the place and cross to johnstown flat, over another pontoon bridge further down. it brings us out, as you see, near the main street again. hello! there is a man; there is his name on the sign--kramer, isn't it? who is getting his grocery store open, the first in town. he was flooded, but carried some of his goods to an upper floor and saved them. lucky kramer! here is a man selling photographs on the porch of a doctor's office. dr. brinkey. oh, yes, he was drowned. his body was found last monday. "well, we'll hurry by and get up to headquarters once more. it is o'clock. see, the workmen are knocking off and are going to the river to wash up. now, out comes the baseball, for recreation always follows work here. "once more on the platform of the freight station. dusk settles down over the valley. an engine near by begins to throb and electric lights spring up here and there. all over the town the flames of the great bonfires leap out of the gloom. from the camps of the workmen come ribald songs and jests, the presence of death has no effect on the living. "the songs gradually die away and the singers drop off into a deep sleep. the town becomes as silent as the graveyards which have been filled with its victims. not a sound is heard save the crackling of the flames and the challenges of the sentries to some belated newspaper man or straggler. "and thus another day draws to a close in ill-fated johnstown." chapter xix. a day of work and worship governor beaver has assumed the command. he arrived in johnstown yesterday, the th, and will take personal charge of the work of clearing the town and river. for that purpose $ , , from the state treasury will be made available immediately. this action means that the state will clear and clean the town. it was a day of prayer but not a day of rest in johnstown. faith and works went hand in hand. the flood-smitten people of the conemaugh, though they met in the very path of the torrent that swept their homes and families into ruin, offered up their prayers to almighty god and besought his divine mercy. but all through the ruin-choked city the sound of the pick and the shovel mingled with the voice of prayer, and the challenge of the sentinel rang out above the voice of supplication. there was no cessation in the great task the flood has left them with its legacy of woe. four charges of dynamite last night completed the wreck of the catholic church of st. john, which had been left by the flood in a worthless but dangerous condition. the thousands of laborers continued their work just as on any week day, except that there was no dynamite used on the gorge and that the cambria iron works were closed. there was the usual reward of the gleaners in the harvest-field of death, fifty eight bodies having been recovered. the most of those have been in stony creek, up which they were carried by the back rush of the current after the bridge broke the first wave. roman catholic services were held in the open air. father smith's exhortation. when the mass was over and father troutwine, who conducted it, had retired, father smith stood before them. "we have had enough of death lately," he said in a voice full of sympathy, "the calamity that has visited us is the greatest in the history of the united states. you must not be discouraged. other places have been visited by disaster at times, yet we know that they have risen again. you must not look on the fearful past. the lives of the lost cannot be restored." here he paused because they were weeping around him, and his own voice was broken, but continuing with an effort, he told them to reflect for consolation upon the manner in which their friends had gone to death. they had looked to god, he said, and wafted in prayers and acts of contrition, their souls had left their bodies and appeared at the throne in heaven. "surely never such prayers fell save from the lips of saints, and the lost of the valley are saints to-day while you mourn for them. god, who measures the acts of men by their opportunities, had pardoned their sins. you who are left living must go to work with a will. be men, be women. the eyes of the world are upon you, the eyes of all civilized nature. they listen, they wait to see what you are going to do." father smith closed by telling them that the coming fast days of this week need not be observed in the midst of such destitution as this, and they might eat without sinning any food that would give them life and strength. when the father had finished the congregation filed slowly out past the high pile of coffins, for st. columba's was a morgue in the days just passed. the protestant services. chaplain maguire held service in the camp of the th to-day. his pulpit was a drygoods box with the lid missing. it had been emptied of its freight into the wide lap of suffering. before him stood the blue-coated guardsmen in a deep half circle. there was a shed at his back and a group of flood survivors, some in old clothing of their own, some in the new garments of charity. they were for the most part members of the methodist congregation of johnstown to which he had preached for three years. "i hunted a long time yesterday for the foundations of my little home," he said, "but they were swept away, like the dear faces of the friends who used to gather around my table. but god doesn't own this side alone; he owns the other side too, and all is well whether we are on this side or the other. are your dear ones saved or lost? the only answer to that question is found in whether they trusted in god or not. trust in the lord and verily ye shall dwell in the land and be fed." it was not a sermon. nobody had words or voice for preaching. others spoke briefly and prayed. they sang, "jesus, lover of my soul." a song in the waters. the shrill treble of the weeping women in the shed was almost lost in the strong bass of the soldiers. "cora moses, who used to sing in our church choir, sang that beautiful hymn as she drifted away to her death amid the wreck," said the chaplain. "she died singing it. there was only the crash of buildings between the interruption of the song of earth and its continuation in heaven." dr. beale's address. dr. beale, whose own presbyterian church was one of the first morgues opened and who has lived among dead bodies ever since is the cheeriest man in johnstown. he made a prayer and an address. it was all straight-from-the-shoulder kind of talk, garbed in homely phrase. in the address he said: "i have been asked to say something about this disaster and its magnitude, but i haven't the heart. besides i haven't the words. if i was the biggest truth teller in the world i could not tell the tale." then the preacher went hammer and tongs at the practical teachings of the flood. "that night in alma hall when we thought we would all die i heard men call on god in prayer and pledge themselves to lead better lives if life was given them. since then i heard those same men cursing and swearing in these streets. brethren, there was no real prayer in any of those petitions put up by those of godless lives that night. they were merely crying out to a higher power for protection. they were like the death-bed fears of the infidel, for i have seen seventeen infidels die and everyone showed the white feather. nay, those prayers were unsanctified by the spirit, but let us who are here now living, dedicate ourselves to the service of almighty god. there were those who were to be dedicated that night. i know one who, when it came, sent his family up the staircase, and taking up his bible from his parlor table, opened at the th psalm, first verse, and, following them, read, and the waters followed him closely. and through the flood he read the word of god and there was peace in that house while terror was all around it." mothering the orphans. dr. beale announced that miss walk wanted twenty-five children for the northern home and then began shaking hands with his congregation and pressing on them the lessons of his sermon. "ah, old friend," he said, to a sandy moustached man in the grand army uniform, "you came safe out of the flood, now give that big heart of yours to jesus." the baptist congregation also held an open-air service. the unfortunate episcopal congregation is quite disorganized by the loss of their church and rector. they held no service, yet in a hundred temporary houses of the homeless the beautiful old litany of the faith was read by the devout churchmen. the soldiers' sunday. sunday brought to the soldiers of the th no rest from the guard and police work which makes the johnstown tour of duty everything but holiday soldiering. even those who were in camp fared no better than those who were mounted guards over banks, stores and supply trains, or driving unwilling italians to work down at cambria city. there was no shade nor a blade of grass in sight. the wreck of the city was all their scenery, and the sun beat down upon their tents till they were like ovens. they policed the camp thoroughly, sweeping the bare ground until it was as clean as a dutch kitchen. the boys had heard that chaplain maguire was to preach and they didn't leave a straw or a chip in his way. a young guardsman's suicide. a sun-browned young soldier of c company, th regiment, sat on the river bank in front of the camp this afternoon and watched across the valley the fire-scarred tower of the catholic church, blown to complete ruin under the force of dynamite. after the front had sunk into a brick heap, he arose, looked down once at the sunny river and the groups of many soldiers doing there week's washing at the foot of the bank, and then strode slowly to his tent. a moment later there seemed to be a lingering echo of the fall of the tower in c company's street. captain nesbitt, dozing in his quarters, heard the sound, and running in the direction of it found that private william b. young, aged , of oakdale, had placed the muzzle of his rifle against his left temple and gone to swell by one the interminable list of the conemaugh valley's dead. [illustration: a railroad train delayed by the flood.] despondency, caused by a slight illness and doubtless intensified by a night's guard duty among the gloomy ruins, is the only known cause of the soldier's act. he had been somewhat blue for a day, but there seemed to be no special weight upon his mind. his brother-in-law, private stimmler, of the same company, said that he was always despondent when ill, but had never threatened or attempted his life. he was a farmhand, and leaves a wife and two children. the dinner "shad" jones cooked. the sunday dinner was a great success. the bill of fare was vegetable soup, cold ham, beans, canned corn, pickled tripe and black coffee. it is worthy of note that the table in the officers' quarters did not have a delicacy upon it which was not shared by the men. the commissary ran short and had to borrow from the workmen's supplies. the dinner to-day was cooked by "shad" jones, a colored man known to every traveling man who has ever stopped at johnstown for his ability to hold four eggs in his mouth and swallow a drink of water without cracking a shell. he lost his wife in the flood and the th has adopted him. on this, the ninth day, the waters began to give up their dead. stony creek first showed their white faces and lifeless bodies floating on the surface, and men in skiffs went after them with their grappling rods. several of them were taken ashore during the afternoon and carried to the presbyterian church morgue, which was the nearest. then, too, the dead among the wreckage on shore came to light just the same as on other days. their exhumation excites no notice here now. dr. beale, keeper of the records of morgues, counted the numbers on his finger tips and said there were more than fifty found to-day in johnstown alone. in one dead man's pocket was $ , . . he was christopher kimble, an undertaker and finisher, who, when he saw the water coming, rushed down stairs to the safe to save his gold and there he was lost. several bodies were taken from the human raft burned beyond all recognition. the body of miss bessie bryan, the young philadelphian, was identified to-day as it lay in a coffin by a grave from which it had been exhumed in grand view cemetery. "returning home from a wedding in pittsburgh with her friend, miss paulsen, caught by the flood on the day express, found dead and buried twice," will be the brief record of her wild sad fate. whiskey and rioting. lieutenant wright, company i, with a detail of ninety-eight men, was called to the banks of stony creek over the raft to-night, to protect the employees of the philadelphia gas company. there they found a gang of rioters. the rioters this afternoon found a barrel of whiskey in the field of débris, and before the militia could destroy it they had managed to take a large quantity of it up on the mountain. to-night they came down to the camp intoxicated, attacked the cook, cleared the supper table and were managing things with a high hand when a messenger was despatched for the guard. before lieutenant wright's men reached there they had escaped. the beaver falls gang was surprised this afternoon by the militia, and gallons of whiskey, which they had hidden, were destroyed. a dozen saloons were swept into the creek at the bridge, and it is supposed that a hundred or more barrels are buried beneath the raft. among the most interesting relics of the flood is a small gold locket found in the ruins of the hurlbut house yesterday. the locket contains a small coil of dark brown hair, and has engraved on the inside the following remarkable lines: "lock of george washington's hair, cut in philadelphia while on his way to yorktown, ." mr. benford, one of the proprietors of the house, states that the locket was the property of his sister, who was lost in the flood, and was presented to her by an old lady in philadelphia, whose mother and herself cut the hair from the head of the "father of his country." chapter xx. millions of money for johnstown. never before in our country has there been such a magnificent exhibition of public sympathy and practical charity. as the occasion was the most urgent ever known, so the response has been the greatest. all classes have come to the rescue with a generosity, a thoughtfulness and heartfelt pity sufficient to convince the most stubborn misanthrope that religion is not dead and charity has not, like the fabled gods of greece, forsaken the earth. the following lines, cut from one of our popular journals, aptly represents the public feeling, and the warm sympathy that moved every heart: i. i stood with a mournful throng on the brink of a gloomy grave, in a valley where grief had found relief on the breast of an angry wave! i heard a tearful song that told of an orphan's love-- 'twas a song of woe from the valley below, to the father of heaven above! ii. 'twas the wail of two lonely waifs-- two children who prayed for bread! 'twas a pitiful cry--a mournful sigh-- from the home of the silent dead! 'twas a sad and soulful strain; it made the teardrops start; 'twas an echo of pain--a weird refrain-- and a song that touched my heart. iii. poor, fatherless, motherless waifs, come, dry your tearful eyes! not in vain, not in vain, have ye sung your refrain; it's echo has pierced the skies! the angels are watching you there, for your "home" is now above, and your father is he who forever shall be a father of infinite love! iv. blest be the noble throng, with generous impulse stirred, who are bringing relief to the valley of grief, where the orphan's song was heard! peace to them while they live, peace when their souls depart, for a friend in need is a friend indeed and a friend that reaches my heart! among the first to start a fund for the sufferers was the new york _herald_. the following is a specimen of the announcement made by that journal from day to day: great interest is being taken in the _herald_ fund for the johnstown sufferers. in the city, employees of all sorts of business houses, and of railroad, steamboat and other companies, are striving to see who can collect the most money. in the country, ministers, little girls, school children and busy workers are all collecting for the fund. it is being boomed by rich and poor, far and near. with the checks for hundreds of dollars yesterday came this note, enclosing a dime: "new york, june , . "mr. editor: "i am a little orphan girl. i saved ten cents, it is all i have, but i should like to send it to the sufferers of the flood. "annie abel." another letter written in a lady's hand read this way: "brookyn. "dear herald:-- "enclosed please find $ . left by little hame buckler in his purse when he died last september. also twenty-five cents from albert buckler and twenty-five cents from paul d. buckler. hoping their mites will help to feed or clothe some little ones, i am, with sympathy for the sufferers, "s.a.b." felix simonson, a twelve-year-old schoolboy, took it into his head on friday to go among his friends and get help for the sufferers. here is what he wrote on the top of his subscription paper: "i am very sorry for the poor people who have lost everything by the flood, and i am trying to collect some money to send to them. would you like to give something to help them?" how felix succeded is shown by a collection of $ . the first day. a large amount of clothing for men, women and children is being sent to the _herald_ office, as well as liberal contributions of money. the same story was, in effect, repeated from day to day. it only indicated what was going on throughout the country; in fact, throughout the world. london, paris, and other european towns, were only a few hours behind our american cities in starting funds for relief. the enthusiasm with which these responses were made is indicated by the following from one of the new york dailies: charity running rampant. everybody's business seems to be raising funds for pennsylvania. the mayor's office has been transformed into a counting room. more than a dozen clerks are employed in acknowledging the receipt of money for the pennsylvania sufferers. a large number, many of them of the poorer class, bring their own contributions. up to noon $ , . had been subscribed. this does not include sums subscribed but not paid in. all the city departments are expected to respond nobly. the executive committee of the conemaugh valley relief association met in the governor's room at the city hall yesterday, with general w.t. sherman in the chair. treasurer j. edward simmons announced that the fund in the fourth national bank amounted to $ , and that governor beaver's draft for $ , had been honored. john t. crimmins reported that more than $ , had been received at the mayor's office during the morning. he also reported that the leake and watts orphan asylum had offered, through the rev. dr. morgan dix, to take twenty-five of johnstown's orphans, between the ages of five and twelve, and care for them until they were sixteen and then provide them with homes. h.c. miner reported that many packages of clothing had been sent to johnstown and that the theatrical guild was arranging for benefit performances. under date of paris, june th, the following despatch conveyed intelligence of the gratifying response of americans in that city: duty nobly done. a meeting of americans was held to-day at the united states legation on a call in the morning papers by mr. whitelaw reid, the united states minister, to express the sympathy of the americans in paris with the sufferers by the johnstown calamity. in spite of the short notice the rooms of the legation were densely packed, and many went away unable to gain admittance. mr. reid was called to the chair and mr. ernest lambert was appointed secretary. the following resolutions were offered by mr. andrew carnegie and seconded by mr. james n. otis: a sympathetic message. "resolved, that we send across the atlantic to our brethren overwhelmed by the appalling disaster at johnstown our most profound and heartfelt sympathy. over their lost ones we mourn with them, and in every pang of all their misery we have our part. "resolved, that as american citizens we congratulate them upon and thank them for the numerous acts of noble heroism displayed under circumstances calculated to unnerve the bravest. especially do we honor and admire them for the capacity shown for local self-government upon which the stability of republican institutions depends, the military organizations sent from distant points to preserve order during the chaos that supervened having been returned to their homes as no longer required within forty-eight hours of the calamity. in these few hours the civil power recreated and asserted itself and resumed sway without the aid of counsel from distant authorities, but solely by and from the inherent power which remains in the people of johnstown themselves." brief and touching speeches were made by general layton, late united states minister to austria; mr. abram s. hewitt, general meredith read and others. a flow of dollars. the resolutions were then unanimously adopted and a committee was appointed to receive subscriptions. about , f. were subscribed on the spot. the american bankers all agreed to open subscriptions the next day at their banking houses. "buffalo bill" subscribed the entire receipts of one entertainment to be given under the auspices of the committee. as a sequel to the foregoing the following will be of interest to the reader: new york, june .--john monroe & co. have received cable instructions from united states minister reid, at paris, to pay messrs. drexel & co., of philadelphia, an additional sum of $ , , received from the treasurer of the paris johnstown relief committee. of this sum $ are the proceeds of a special performance by the wild west show, and with the previous contribution from paris makes a total of $ , . the pathetic story of sympathy and generous aid from every town and hamlet in the land can never be told; there is too much of it. philadelphia alone contributed over a million dollars, and new york showed equal generosity. in philadelphia it was not uncommon to see glass jars in front of stores and at other places to receive contributions from passers-by. in one of these an unknown man deposited $ one day; this is indicative of the feeling pervading the whole community that stricken johnstown must not suffer for houses, clothing, nor bread. [illustration: contributing to the relief fund in philadelphia.] so rapidly did gifts pour in that within eight days after the disaster the following statement was made from harrisburg: the governor's fund for the relief of the survivors of the flood in the conemaugh valley and other portions of the state is assuming large proportions and the disposition to contribute appears to be on the increase. to-day letters and telegrams were received requesting the governor to draw for $ , additional, swelling the aggregate sum at his disposal to about $ , , . many of the remittances are accompanied with statements that more may be expected. governor beaver telegraphed as follows from johnstown: "the situation is simply indescribable. the people have turned in with courage and heroism unparalleled. a decided impression has been made on the débris. the next week will do more, as they have many points opened for work. everything is very quiet. people are returning to work again and gaining courage and hope as they return. there need be no fear of too much being contributed for the relief of the people. there is a long, steady pull ahead requiring every effort and determination on the part of the people here, which is already assured, and the continued systematic support and benefactions of this generous people." feeding the hungry. three car loads of tents, enough to accommodate four thousand people, were sent to johnstown to-day from the state arsenal at the request of general hastings. the following special dispatch bears date of june th: car loads of provisions and clothing are arriving hourly and being distributed. the cynic who said that charity and gratitude were articles seldom to be met with in republics and among corporations would have had ample reason afforded him to-day to alter his warped philosophy several degrees had he been in this erstwhile town and seen train after train hourly rolling in, on both the baltimore and ohio and the pennsylvania railroads, laden with clothing and provisions from every point of the compass. each train bore messengers sent especially to distribute funds and provisions and clothing, volunteer physicians in large numbers, trained nurses and a corps of surgeons equipped with all needed instruments and medicines. fortunately the latter are not needed. philadelphia's quota consists of clothes, boots, shoes, cotton sheeting, hard breads, salt fish, canned goods, etc., all of which will be gratefully received and supply the most pressing needs of the stricken people. relief systematized. the relief work has been so systematized that there is no danger of any confusion. at the several distributing depots hundreds assemble morning, noon and night, and, forming in line, are supplied with provisions. men and women with families are given bread, butter, cheese, ham and canned meats, tea or coffee and sugar, and unmarried applicants sliced bread and butter or sandwiches. the army tents brought on by adjutant-general axline, of ohio, have been divided, and two white-walled villages now afford shelter to nearly six thousand homeless people. at the main commissary. at the johnstown station, on the east side of the river, everything is quiet, and considerable work is being done. this is the chief commissary station, and this morning by two o'clock , people were fed and about six hundred families were furnished with provisions. five carloads of clothing were distributed, and now almost every one is provided with clothing. the good work done by the relief committees in caring for the destitute can never be fully told. it was ready, generous and very successful. the scenes at the distributing points through the week have been most interesting. monday and tuesday saw lines of men, women and children in the scantiest of clothing, blue with cold, unwashed and dishevelled, so pitifully destitute a company as one would wish to see. since the clothing cars have come the people have assumed a more presentable appearance and food has brought life back to them and warmth, but their condition is still pitiful. the destitute ones are almost altogether from the well-to-do people of johnstown, who have lost all and are as poor as the poorest. altoona to the rescue. altoona has been so hemmed in by floods and the like, and her representatives have been so busy, that they had but little to say of the prompt action and excellent work done by open-handed citizens of that beautiful interior pennsylvania city. altoona first became alarmed by the non-arrival and reported loss of the day express east on the pennsylvania railroad friday afternoon. soon the station was thronged with an anxious crowd, and the excitement became intense as the scant news came slowly in. saturday the anxiety was relieved by a telegram from ebensburg, which a blundering telegraph operator made "three hundred lost," instead of "three thousand." that was soon corrected by later news, and the citizens immediately were called upon to meet for action. the mayor presided, and at once $ , was subscribed and provisions offered. by three o'clock that afternoon a car had been loaded and started for ebensburg, thirty-two miles away in charge of a committee. at ebensburg that evening ten teams were secured after much trouble and the supplies sent overland seventeen miles to the desolated valley. the night was an awful one for the committee in charge. the roads were badly washed and all but impassible. the hours dragged on. at last, sunday morning, the wagons drove into desolate conemaugh. there were no cheers to greet them, no cries of pleasure. the wretched sufferers were too wretched, too dazed for that. they simply crowded around the wagons, pitifully begging for bread or anything to eat. the committee report: "impostors have not bothered us much, and, singular enough, the ones that have were chiefly women, though to-day we sent away a man who we thought came too frequently. on questioning he owned up to having fifteen sacks of flour and five hams in his house. on tuesday we began to keep a record of those who received supplies, and we have given out supplies to fully families, representing , homeless people. our district is only for one side of the river. on the other is a commissary on adams street, near the baltimore and ohio railway station, another at kernville, a third at cambria city, a fourth at morrellville and a fifth at cambria. the people are very patient, though, of course, in their present condition they are apt to be querelous. wanted a better dress. "one woman who came for a dress indignantly refused the one i offered her. 'i don't want that,' she said. 'i lost one that cost me $ , $ for the cloth and $ for making, and i want a $ dress. you said you would make our losses good;' and she did not take the dress. "a clergyman came to me and begged for anything in the shape of foot covering. i had nothing to give him. men stand about ready to work, but barefooted. the clothing since the first day or two, when we got only worn stuff, fit only for bandages, has been good, and is now of excellent quality. most of the children's garments are outgrown clothes, good for much service. pittsburgh has sent from thirty to forty car loads of supplies, all of good quality and available, and in charge of local commissary men who had sense enough to go home when they turned over their supplies and did not stay and eat up the provisions they brought. ohio's timely work. "but above all, i want to praise the supplies sent by the ohio people in cleveland and columbus. these cities forwarded eight cars each. these were stocked with beautiful stuff, wisely chosen, and were in charge of adjutant general axline, sent by governor foraker, who worked like a wise man." grave mental conditions. the mental condition of almost every former resident of johnstown is one of the gravest character, and the reaction which will set in when the reality of the whole affair is fully comprehended can scarcely fail to produce many cases of permanent or temporary insanity. most of the faces that one meets, both male and female, are those of the most profound melancholia, associated with an almost absolute disregard of the future. the nervous system shows the strain it has borne by a tremulousness of the hand and of the lip in man as well as in woman. this nervous state is further evidenced by a peculiar intonation of words, the persons speaking mechanically, while the voices of many rough looking men are changed into such tremulous notes of so high a pitch as to make one imagine that a child on the verge of tears is speaking. crying is so rare that i saw not a tear on any face in johnstown, but the women that are left are haggard, with pinched features and heavy, dark lines under their eyes. indeed the evidence of systemic disturbance is so marked in almost every individual who was present at the time of the catastrophe that it is possible with the eye alone to separate the residents from those outside. everything required in the way of surgical appliances seem to be on hand, but medicines are scarce, and will probably be needed more in the next few days than heretofore. a fact in favor of the controlling of any malady is to be found in the very general exodus of the town's people, who crowd the platforms of departing trains. there can be no doubt that this movement should be encouraged to the greatest possible extent, and it would be well if places away from johnstown, at no too great distance, could be opened for the reception of those who, while not entirely disabled, are useless at home. the scarcity of pure spring water which is not tainted by dead animal matter is a pressing evil for consideration, but we doubt if this is as important a fact at johnstown as it is further down the river, owing to the large amount of decomposing flesh in the water at this latter point. no disinfectant can reach such a cause of disease save the action of the large volume of water which dilutes all poisonous materials. the torch for safety. there is a strong movement on foot in favor of applying the torch to the wrecked buildings in johnstown, and although the suggestion meets with strong opposition at this time, there is little doubt the ultimate solution of existing difficulties will be by this method. an army of men have been for two days employed in clearing up the wreck in the city proper, and although hundreds of bodies have been discovered, not one-fifth of the ground has yet been gone over. in many places the rubbish is piled twenty or thirty feet high, and not infrequently these great drifts cover an area of nearly an acre. narrow passages have been cut through in every direction, but the herculean labor of removing the rubbish has yet hardly begun. at a meeting of the central relief committee this afternoon general hastings suggested the advisability of drawing a cordon around the few houses that are not in ruins and applying the torch to the remaining great sea of waste. he explained briefly the great work yet to be accomplished if it were hoped to thoroughly overhaul every portion of the débris, and insisted that it would take , men to complete the task. of the hundreds of bodies buried beneath the rubbish, sand and stones, the skeleton or putrid remains of many was all that could be hoped to be recovered. a motion was made that after forty-eight hours' further search the débris of the city be consumed by fire, the engines to be on hand to play upon any valuable building that despite previous precautions, might become ignited by the general conflagration. this motion was debated pro and con for nearly half an hour. those whose relatives or friends still rest beneath the wreck remonstrated strongly against any such summary action. they insisted that all the talk of threatened epidemic was only the sensation gossip of fertile brains and that the search for the bodies should only be abandoned as a last extremity. the physicians in attendance warned the committee that the further exposure of putrid bodies in the valley could have but one result--the typhus or some other epidemic equally fatal to its victims. it was a question whether the living should be sacrificed to the dead, or whether the sway of sentiment or the mandate of science should be the ruling impulse. although the proposition to burn the wreck was defeated, it was evident that the movement was gaining many adherents, and the result will doubtless be that in a few days the torch will be applied, not only to the field of waste in johnstown, but also to the avalanche of débris that chokes the stream above the pennsylvania bridge. produced from images generously made available by the digital & multimedia center, michigan state university libraries.) _the colonial architecture of philadelphia_ nine hundred and seventy-five copies of =the colonial architecture of philadelphia=, of which nine hundred and fifty are for sale, have been printed from type and the type distributed. this copy is number [illustration: plate i.--doorway, cliveden, germantown.] _the colonial architecture of philadelphia_ _by_ _frank cousins and phil m. riley_ _illustrated_ [illustration] _boston_ _little, brown, and company_ _ _ _copyright, ,_ by little, brown, and company. _all rights reserved_ _foreword_ so many books have been published which are devoted wholly or in part to the fine old colonial residences and public buildings of philadelphia, including germantown, that it might seem almost the part of temerity to suppose there could be a place for another one. a survey of the entire list, however, discloses the fact that almost without exception these books are devoted primarily to a picture of the city in colonial times, to the stories of its old houses and other buildings now remaining, or to an account of the activities of those who peopled them from one to two centuries ago. some more or less complete description of the structures mentioned has occasionally been included, to be sure, but almost invariably this has been subordinate to the main theme. the narrative has been woven upon a historical rather than an architectural background, so that these books appeal to the tourist, historian and antiquary rather than to the architect, student and prospective home builder. interesting as was the provincial life of this community; absorbing as are the reminiscences attaching to its well-known early buildings; important as were the activities of those who made them part and parcel of our national life, the colonial architecture of this vicinity is in itself a priceless heritage--extensive, meritorious, substantial, distinctive. it is a heritage not only of local but of national interest, deserving detailed description, analysis and comparison in a book which includes historic facts only to lend true local color and impart human interest to the narrative, to indicate the sources of affluence and culture which aided so materially in developing this architecture, and to describe the life and manners of the time which determined its design and arrangement. such a book the authors have sought to make the present volume, and both mr. riley in writing the text and mr. cousins in illustrating it have been actuated primarily by architectural rather than historic values, although in most instances worthy of inclusion the two are inseparable. for much of the historic data the authors acknowledge their indebtedness to the authors of previous philadelphia books, notably "philadelphia, the city and its people" and "the literary history of philadelphia", ellis paxon oberholtzer; "old roads out of philadelphia" and "the romance of old philadelphia", john thomson faris; "the history of philadelphia" and "historic mansions of philadelphia", t. westcott; "the colonial homes of philadelphia and its neighborhood", harold donaldson eberlein and horace mather lippincott; "colonial mansions ", thomas allen glenn; "the guide book to historic germantown", charles francis jenkens; "germantown road and its associations", townsend ward. ph. b. wallace, of philadelphia, photographed some of the best subjects. the original boundaries of philadelphia remained unchanged for one hundred and seventy-five years after the founding of the city, the adjoining territory, as it became populated, being erected into corporated districts in the following order: southwark, ; northern liberties, ; moyamensing, ; spring garden, ; kensington, ; penn, ; richmond, ; west philadelphia, ; and belmont, . in all these districts, together with the boroughs of germantown, frankford, manayunk, white hall, bridesburg and aramingo, and the townships of passyunk, blockley, kingsessing, roxborough, germantown, bristol, oxford, lower dublin, moreland, byberry, delaware and penn were abolished by an act of the state legislature, and the boundaries of the city of philadelphia were extended to the philadelphia county lines. such of these outlying communities as had been settled prior to the revolution were closely related to philadelphia by common interests, a common provincial government and a common architecture. for these reasons, therefore, it seems more logical that this treatise devoted to the colonial architecture of the first capitol of the united states should embrace the greater city of the present day rather than confine itself to the city proper of colonial times. otherwise it would be a problem where to draw the line, and much of value would be omitted. the wealth of material thus comprehended is so great, however, that it is impossible in a single book of ordinary size to include more than a fractional part of it. an attempt has therefore been made to present an adequate number of representative types chosen with careful regard, first, to their architectural merit, and second, to their historic interest. exigencies of space are thus the only reason for the omission of numerous excellent houses without historic association and others rich in history but deficient in architecture. frank cousins and phil m. riley. april , _contents_ chapter page foreword v i. philadelphia architecture ii. georgian country houses of brick iii. city residences of brick iv. ledge-stone country houses v. plastered stone country houses vi. hewn stone country houses vii. doorways and porches viii. windows and shutters ix. halls and staircases x. mantels and chimney pieces xi. interior wood finish xii. public buildings index _list of plates_ i. doorway, cliveden, germantown _frontispiece_ page ii. old mermaid inn, mount airy; old red lion inn iii. camac street, "the street of little clubs"; woodford, northern liberties, fairmount park. erected by william coleman in iv. stenton, germantown avenue, germantown. erected by james logan in v. hope lodge, whitemarsh valley. erected by samuel morris in ; home of stephen girard vi. port royal house, frankford. erected in by edward stiles vii. blackwell house, pine street. erected about by john stamper; wharton house, spruce street. erected prior to by samuel pancoast viii. morris house, south eighth street. erected in by john reynolds ix. wistar house, fourth and locust streets. erected about ; betsy ross house, arch street x. glen fern, on wissahickon creek, germantown. erected about by thomas shoemaker; grumblethorpe, germantown avenue, germantown. erected in by john wister xi. upsala, germantown avenue and upsala streets, germantown. erected in by john johnson; end perspective of upsala xii. the woodlands, blockley township, west philadelphia. erected in by william hamilton; stable at the woodlands xiii. wyck, germantown avenue and walnut lane, germantown. erected by hans millan about ; hall and entrance doorways, wyck xiv. mount pleasant, northern liberties, fairmount park. erected in by captain james macpherson; the main house, mount pleasant xv. deschler-perot-morris house, germantown avenue, germantown. erected in by daniel deschler; vernon, vernon park, germantown. erected in by james matthews xvi. loudoun, germantown avenue and apsley street, germantown. erected in by thomas armat; solitude, blockley township, fairmount park. erected in by john penn xvii. cliveden, germantown avenue and johnson street, germantown. erected in by benjamin chew xviii. detail of cliveden façade; detail of bartram house façade xix. the highlands, skippack pike, whitemarsh. erected in by anthony morris xx. bartram house, kingsessing, west philadelphia. erected in - by john bartram; old green tree inn, germantown avenue, germantown. erected in xxi. johnson house, germantown avenue, germantown. erected in - by dirck jansen; billmeyer house, germantown avenue, germantown. erected in xxii. hooded doorway, johnson house, germantown; hooded doorway, green tree inn xxiii. pedimental doorway, league street; pedimental doorway, germantown avenue xxiv. doorway, germantown avenue; doorway, morris house, south eighth street xxv. doorway, germantown avenue; doorway, spruce street xxvi. doorway, germantown avenue; doorway, frankford avenue xxvii. doorway, powel house, south third street; doorway, wharton house, spruce street xxviii. doorway, south seventh street xxix. doorway, grumblethorpe, germantown avenue; doorway, germantown avenue xxx. doorway, doctor denton's house, germantown xxxi. west entrance, mount pleasant, fairmount park; east entrance, mount pleasant xxxii. doorway, solitude, fairmount park; doorway, perot-morris house, germantown avenue xxxiii. entrance porch and doorway, upsala, germantown; elliptical porch and doorway, fisher's lane, wayne junction xxxiv. doorway, south eighth street; doorway, stenton xxxv. doorway and ironwork, southeast corner of eighth and spruce streets xxxvi. doorway and ironwork, northeast corner of third and pine streets; stoop with curved stairs and iron handrail, south third street xxxvii. stoop and balustrade, wistar house; stoop and balustrade, race street xxxviii. detail of iron balustrade, south ninth street; stoop with wing flights, la grange alley xxxix. iron newel, fourth and liberty streets; iron newel, walnut street xl. footscraper, wyck; old philadelphia footscraper; footscraper, third and spruce streets; footscraper, dirck-keyser house, germantown xli. footscraper, south third street; footscraper, south third street; footscraper, vernon, germantown; footscraper, pine street xlii. iron stair rail and footscraper, south seventh street (section); iron stair rail and footscraper, south fourth street (section); iron stair rail and footscraper, seventh and locust streets (section); iron stair rail and footscraper, seventh and locust streets (section) xliii. detail of window and shutters, morris house xliv. window and shutters, free quakers' meeting house, fifth and arch streets; second story window, free quakers' meeting house xlv. detail of window, combes alley; window and shutters, cliveden; window, bartram house xlvi. window, stenton; window and shutters, race street xlvii. dormer, witherill house, north front street; dormer, germantown avenue, germantown; foreshortened window, morris house; dormer, stenton; window and shutters, witherill house; window and blinds, germantown avenue xlviii. shutter fastener, cliveden; shutter fastener, wyck; shutter fastener, perot-morris house; shutter fastener, germantown avenue xlix. detail of round headed window, congress hall; detail of round headed window, christ church l. fenestration, chancel end, st. peter's church li. details of round headed windows, christ church lii. chancel window, christ church; palladian window and doorway, independence hall liii. palladian window, the woodlands liv. great hall and staircase, stenton lv. hall and staircase, whitby hall; detail of staircase, whitby hall lvi. hall and staircase, mount pleasant; second floor hall archway and palladian window, mount pleasant lvii. hall and staircase, cliveden; staircase detail, cliveden lviii. detail of staircase balustrade and newel, upsala; staircase balustrade, roxborough lix. staircase detail, upsala; staircase balustrade, gowen house, mount airy lx. detail of stair ends, carpenter house, third and spruce streets; detail of stair ends, independence hall (horizontal section) lxi. chimney piece in the hall, stenton; chimney piece and paneled wall, great chamber, mount pleasant lxii. chimney piece and paneled wall, parlor, whitby hall lxiii. chimney piece, parlor, mount pleasant; chimney piece, parlor, cliveden lxiv. chimney piece and paneled wall on the second floor of an old spruce street house; detail of mantel, cypress street lxv. parlor mantel, upsala; detail of parlor mantel, upsala lxvi. mantel at upsala; mantel at third and delancy streets lxvii. mantel, rex house, mount airy; mantel at walnut street lxviii. parlor, stenton; reception room, stenton lxix. dining room, stenton; library, stenton lxx. pedimental doorway, first floor, mount pleasant; pedimental doorway, second floor, mount pleasant lxxi. doorways, second floor hall, mount pleasant; doorway detail, whitby hall lxxii. inside of front door, whitby hall; palladian window on stair landing, whitby hall lxxiii. window detail, parlor, whitby hall; window detail, dining room, whitby hall lxxiv. ceiling detail, solitude; cornice and frieze detail, solitude lxxv. independence hall, independence square side. begun in lxxvi. independence hall, chestnut street side lxxvii. independence hall, stairway; liberty bell, independence hall lxxviii. stairway landing, independence hall; palladian window at stairway landing lxxix. declaration chamber, independence hall lxxx. judge's bench, supreme court room, independence hall; arcade at opposite end of court room lxxxi. banquet hall, second floor, independence hall; entrance to banquet hall lxxxii. congress hall, sixth and chestnut streets. completed in ; congress hall from independence square lxxxiii. stair hall details, congress hall lxxxiv. interior detail of main entrance, congress hall; president's dais, senate chamber, congress hall lxxxv. gallery, senate chamber, congress hall lxxxvi. carpenters' hall, off chestnut street between south third and south fourth streets. erected in ; old market house, second and pine streets lxxxvii. main building, pennsylvania hospital. erected in lxxxviii. main hall and double staircase, pennsylvania hospital lxxxix. custom house, fifth and chestnut streets. completed in ; main building, girard college. begun in xc. old stock exchange, walnut and dock streets; girard national bank, south third street xci. christ church, north second street near market street. erected in - ; old swedes' church, swanson and christian streets. erected in - xcii. st. peter's church, south third and pine streets. erected in ; lectern, st. peter's church xciii. interior and chancel, christ church; interior and lectern, st. peter's church xciv. interior and chancel, old swedes' church; st. paul's church, south third street near walnut street xcv. mennonite meeting house, germantown. erected in ; holy trinity church, south twenty-first and walnut streets _the colonial architecture of philadelphia_ chapter i philadelphia architecture philadelphia occupies a unique position in american architecture. few of the early settled cities of the united states can boast so extensive or so notable a collection of dwellings and public buildings in the so-called colonial style, many of them under auspices that insure their indefinite perpetuation. these beautiful old structures are almost exclusively of brick and stone and of a more elaborate and substantial character than any contemporary work to be found above the mason and dixon line which later became in part the boundary between the north and the south. erected and occupied by the leading men of substance of the province of pennsylvania, the fine old countryseats, town residences and public buildings of the "city of brotherly love" not only comprise a priceless architectural inheritance, but the glamour of their historic association renders them almost national monuments, and so object lessons of material assistance in keeping alive the spirit and ideals of true americanism. much of the best colonial domestic architecture in america is to be found in this vicinity, a great deal of it still standing in virtually its pristine condition as enduring memorials of the most elegant period in colonial life. just as men have personality, so houses have individuality. and as the latter is but a reflection of the former, a study of the architecture of any neighborhood gives us a more intimate knowledge of contemporary life and manners, while the history of the homes of prominent personages is usually the history of the community. such a study is the more interesting in the present instance, however, in that not merely local but national history was enacted within the colonial residences and public buildings of old philadelphia. men prominent in historic incidents of colonial times which profoundly affected the destiny of the country lived in philadelphia. the fathers of the american nation were familiar figures on the streets of the city, and philadelphians in their native city wrote their names large in american history. philadelphia was not settled until approximately half a century later than the other early centers of the north,--plymouth, new york, salem, boston and providence. georgian architecture had completely won the approval of the english people, and so it was that few if any buildings showing elizabethan and jacobean influences were erected here as in new england. although several other nationalities were from the first represented in the population, notably the swedish, dutch and german, the british were always in the majority, and while a few old houses, especially those with plastered walls, have a slightly continental atmosphere, all are essentially georgian or pure colonial in design and detail. to understand how this remarkable collection of colonial architecture came into being, and to appreciate what it means to us, it is necessary briefly to review the early history of philadelphia. although some small trading posts had been established by the swedes and dutch in the lower valley of the delaware river from onward, it was not until that philadelphia was settled under a charter which william penn obtained from charles ii the previous year, providing a place of refuge for quakers who were suffering persecution in england under the "clarendon code." the site was chosen by penn's commission, consisting of nathaniel allen, john bezan and william heage, assisted by penn's cousin, captain william markham, as deputy governor, and thomas holme as surveyor-general. the swedes had established a settlement at the mouth of the schuylkill river not later than , and the site selected by the commissioners was held by three brothers of the swaenson family. they agreed, however, to take in exchange land in what is now known as the northern liberties, and in the summer of , holme laid out the city extending from the delaware river on the east to the schuylkill river on the west--a distance of about two miles--and from vine street on the north to cedar, now south street, on the south,--a distance of about one mile. penn landed at new castle on the delaware, october , , and probably came to his newly founded city soon afterward. a meeting of the provincial council was held march , , and from that time philadelphia was the capital of pennsylvania until , when lancaster was chosen. not only did penn obtain a grant of land possessed of rare and diversified natural beauty, extreme fertility, mineral wealth and richness of all kinds, but he showed great sagacity in encouraging ambitious men of education and affluence, and artisans of skill and taste in many lines, to colonize it. to these facts are due the quick prosperity which came to philadelphia and which has made it to this day one of the foremost manufacturing centers in the united states. textile, foundry and many other industries soon sprang up to supply the wants of these diligent people three thousand miles from the mother country and to provide a basis of trade with the rest of the world. shipyards were established and a merchant marine built up which soon brought to philadelphia a foreign and coastwise commerce second to none in the american colonies. local merchants engaged in trade with europe and the west indies, and these profitable ventures soon brought great affluence and a high degree of culture. by the time of the revolution philadelphia had become the largest, richest, most extravagant and fashionable city of the american colonies. society was gayer, more polished and distinguished than anywhere else this side of the atlantic. among the skilled artisans attracted by the promise of penn's "sylvania" were numerous carpenters and builders. penn induced james portius to come to the new world to design and execute his proprietary buildings, and portius was accompanied and followed by others of more or less skill in the same and allied trades. while some of the building materials and parts of the finished woodwork were for a time brought from england, local skill and resources were soon equal to the demands, as much of their handiwork still existing amply shows. as early as the master carpenters of the city organized the carpenters' company, a guild patterned after the worshipful company of carpenters of london, founded in . portius was one of the leading members, and on his death in laid the foundation of a valuable builders' library by giving his rare collection of early architectural books to the company. toward the middle of the eighteenth century american carpenters and builders everywhere, philadelphia included, were materially aided by the appearance of handy little ready reference books of directions for joinery containing measured drawings with excellent georgian detail. such publications became the fountainhead of colonial design. they taught our local craftsmen the technique of building and the art of proportion; instilled in their minds an appreciation of classic motives and the desire to adapt the spirit of the renaissance to their own needs and purposes. in those days some knowledge of architecture was considered essential to every gentleman's education, and with the aid of these builders' reference books many men in other professions throughout the country became amateur architects of no mean ability as a pastime. in and about philadelphia their georgian adaptations, often tempered to a degree by the quaker preference for the simple and practical, contributed much to the charm and distinction of local architecture. to such amateur architects we owe independence hall, designed by andrew hamilton, speaker of the pennsylvania assembly, and christ church, designed mainly by doctor john kearsley. [illustration: plate ii. --old mermaid inn, mount airy; old red lion inn.] [illustration: plate iii.--camac street, "the street of little clubs"; woodford, northern liberties, fairmount park. erected by william coleman in .] during the whole of the eighteenth century philadelphia was the most important city commercially, politically and socially in the american colonies. for this there were several reasons. owing to its liberal government and its policy of religious toleration, philadelphia and the outlying districts gradually became a refuge for european immigrants of various persecuted sects. nowhere else in america was such a heterogeneous mixture of races and religions to be found. there were swedes, dutch, english, germans, welsh, irish and scotch-irish; quakers, presbyterians, episcopalians, catholics, reformed lutherans, mennonites, dunkers, schwenkfelders and moravians. until the seven years' war between france and england from to the quakers dominated the pennsylvania government, and quaker influence remained strong in philadelphia long after it had given way to that of the more belligerent scotch-irish, mostly presbyterians, in the rest of pennsylvania, until the failure of the whiskey insurrection in . this scotch-irish ascendancy was due not only to their increasing numbers, but to the increasing general dissatisfaction with the quaker failure to provide for the defense of the province. the penns lost their governmental rights in and three years later had their territorial rights vested in the commonwealth. its central location among the american colonies, and the fact that it was the largest and most successful of the proprietary provinces, rendered pennsylvania's attitude in the struggle with the mother country during the revolution of vital importance. the british party was made strong by the loyalty of the large church of england element, the policy of neutrality adopted by the quakers, dunkers and mennonites, and the general satisfaction felt toward the free and liberal government of the province, which had been won gradually without such reverses as had embittered the people of massachusetts and some of the other british provinces. the whig party was successful, however, and pennsylvania contributed very materially to the success of the war of independence, by the important services of her statesmen, by her efficient troops and by the financial aid rendered by robert morris, founder of the bank of north america, the oldest financial institution in the united states. meanwhile philadelphia became the very center of the new republic in embryo. the first continental congress met in carpenters' hall on september , ; the second continental congress in the old state house, now known as independence hall, on may , ; and throughout the revolution, except from september , , to june , , when it was occupied by the british, and the congress met in lancaster and york, pennsylvania, and then in princeton, new jersey, philadelphia was virtually the capital of the american colonies and socially the most brilliant city in the country. in philadelphia the second continental congress adopted the declaration of independence, which the whole pennsylvania delegation except franklin regarded as premature, but which was afterward well supported by the state. the national convention which framed the constitution of the united states sat in philadelphia in , and from to , when the seat of government was moved to washington, philadelphia was the national capital. here the first bank in the colonies, the bank of north america, was opened in , and here the first mint for the coinage of united states money was established in . here benjamin franklin and david rittenhouse made their great contributions to science, and here on september , , washington delivered his farewell address to the people of the united states. here lived robert morris, who managed the finances of the revolution, stephen girard of the war of and jay cooke of the civil war. not only in politics, but in art, science, the drama and most fields of progress philadelphia took the lead in america for more than a century and a half after its founding. here was established the first public school in ; the first paper mill in ; the first botanical garden in ; the first masonic lodge in ; the first subscription library in ; the first volunteer fire company in ; the first magazine published by franklin in ; the first american philosophical society in ; the first religious magazine in ; the first medical school in ; the first fire insurance company in ; the first theater in ; the first school of anatomy in ; the first american dispensary in ; the first water works in ; the first zoölogical museum in ; the first american art school in ; the first academy of natural sciences in ; the first school for training teachers in ; the first american building and loan association in ; the first american numismatic society in . from the germantown friends' meeting, headed by francis daniel pastorius, came in the first protest against slavery in this country. in philadelphia was published the first american medical book in ; here was given the first shakespearean performance in this country in ; the first lightning rod was erected here in ; from philadelphia the first american arctic expedition set forth in ; on the schuylkill river in were made the first steamboat experiments; the earliest abolition society in the world was organized here in ; the first american piano was built here in ; here in the protestant episcopal church was formally established in the united states; the first carriage in the world propelled by steam was built here in ; the oldest american playhouse now in existence was built here in ; the first american locomotive, "ironsides", was built here in ; and the first daguerreotype of the human face was made here in . the bible and testament, shakespeare, milton and blackstone were printed for the first time in america in philadelphia, and thackeray's first book originally appeared here. during the latter half of the eighteenth century philadelphia became noted throughout the american colonies for its generous hospitality of every sort, and this trait was reflected in the domestic architecture of the period, which was usually designed with that object in view. for the brilliance of its social life there were several reasons. above all, it was the character of an ever-increasing number of inhabitants asserting itself. moreover, the tendency was aided by the fact that as the largest, most important and most central city in the colonies, it became the meeting place for delegates from all the colonies to discuss common problems, and therefore it was incumbent upon philadelphians to entertain the visitors. and this they did with a lavish hand. from the visit of the virginia commissioners in until the seat of the united states government was moved to washington in , every meeting of men prominent in political life was the occasion of much eating, drinking and conviviality in the best philadelphia homes and also in the inns, where it was the custom of that day to entertain considerably. the old red lion inn at north second and noble streets, a picturesque gambrel-roof structure of brick with a lean-to porch along the front, is an interesting survival of the inns and taverns of colonial days, as was also the old mermaid inn in mount airy, until torn down not long ago. at such gatherings were represented the most brilliant minds this side of the atlantic, and scintillating wit and humor enlivened the festive board, as contrasted with the bitter religious discussions which had characterized american gatherings in the preceding century when tolerance had not been so broad. [illustration: plate iv.--stenton, germantown avenue, germantown. erected by james logan in .] [illustration: plate v.--hope lodge, whitemarsh valley. erected by samuel morris in ; home of stephen girard.] but the brilliancy of social life in philadelphia was by no means confined to the entertainment of visitors. despite its importance, philadelphia was a relatively small place in those days. everybody knew everybody else of consequence, and social exchanges were inevitable among people of wealth and culture, prominent in public life and successful in commerce, of whom there were a larger number than in any other american city. while there were two separate and distinct social sets, the staid and sober quakers and the gay "world's people", they were ever being drawn more closely together. the early severity of the quakers had been greatly tempered by the increasing worldly influences about them. they were among the richest inhabitants and prominent in the government, holding the majority in the house of assembly. this brought them into constant association with and under the influence of men in public life elsewhere, demonstrating the fact that, like the "world's people", they dearly loved eating and drinking. one has but to peruse some of the old diaries of prominent friends which are still in existence to see that they occasionally "gormandized to the verge of gluttony", and even got "decently drunk." toward the outbreak of the revolution, life among most quakers had ceased to be as strict and monotonous as many have supposed. there were fox hunting, horse racing, assembly dances, barbecues, cider frolics, turtle and other dinners, tea parties and punch drinking, both under private auspices and among the activities of such clubs as the colony in schuylkill and the gloucester fox hunting club, in which the first city troop originated. at the time of monthly, quarterly and yearly meetings whole families of friends often visited other families for several days at a time, a custom which became an important element in the social intercourse of the province. cock fighting and bull baiting were among the frequent pastimes of philadelphians, although frowned upon by the strict quaker element. the same was true of theatrical entertainments, which began in and continued occasionally thereafter. following the first shakespearean performance in america at philadelphia in , a storehouse on water street near pine street, belonging to william plumstead, was fitted up as a theater, and in april, , the drama was really introduced to philadelphia by a series of plays given by william hallam's old american company. in the first theater in philadelphia purposely erected for the exhibition of plays was built at the southwest corner of vernon and south (then cedar) streets, and was opened by david douglass, the manager of the company started by hallam. a few years later, in , was built the old southwark or south street theater in south street above fourth, where major john andré and captain john peter de lancy acted during the british occupation of the city, and which after twenty years of illegal existence was opened "by authority" in . none of these now remains, but the walnut street theater, erected in , is said to be the oldest playhouse in the united states. taking all these facts into consideration, it is not surprising that, except for some of the earliest houses now remaining and others built with less ample fortunes, little difference is distinguishable between the homes of quakers and "world's people", and that the distinctive characteristics of the colonial architecture of philadelphia are more or less common to all buildings of the period. shortly after the revolution the built-up portion of the city was bounded by the delaware river on the east and seventh street on the west, and by poplar street on the north and christian street on the south. while houses in blocks were the rule, numerous unoccupied lots made many trees and gardens in the rear and at the sides of detached houses quite common. this was regarded as not entirely sufficient by the wealthier families, which considered country living essential to health, comfort and pleasure, and so maintained two establishments,--a town house for winter occupancy and a countryseat as a summer retreat. others desiring to live more nearly in the manner of their english forbears in the mother country chose to make an elaborate countryseat their year-round place of residence. thus the surrounding countryside--but especially to the northwestward along the high, wooded banks of the schuylkill river and wissahickon creek--became a community of great estates with elegant country houses which have no parallel in america other than the manorial estates along the james river in virginia. the philadelphia of to-day, therefore, has not only a distinctive architecture in its brick, stone and woodwork, but a diversified architecture embracing both the city and country types of design and construction. chapter ii georgian country houses of brick throughout the colonial period, and to a degree during the early years of the american nation, philadelphia clung to the manners and customs of the mother country as did few other communities in the new world. in architecture, therefore, it is not surprising to find the oldest houses and public buildings of the american metropolis of those days reflecting the tendencies of the times across the water. wood had already ceased to be a cheap building material in england, and although it was abundantly available in america, brick and stone were thought necessary for the better homes, despite the fact that for some years, until sources of clay and limestone were found, bricks and lime for making mortar had to be brought at great expense from overseas. so we find that in , the year following the founding of the "city of brotherly love", william penn erected for his daughter letitia the first brick house in the town, which was for several years occupied by penn and his family. it was located in letitia court, a small street running from market to chestnut streets between front and second streets. although of little architectural value, it was of great historic interest, and when in the encroachments of the wholesale district threatened to destroy it, the house was removed to fairmount park by the city and rebuilt on lansdowne drive west of the girard avenue bridge. it is open to the public and contains numerous penn relics. [illustration: plate vi.--port royal house, frankford. erected in by edward stiles.] [illustration: plate vii.--blackwell house, pine street. erected about by john stamper; wharton house, spruce street. erected prior to by samuel pancoast.] thus from the very outset brick construction has been favored in preference to wood in philadelphia. homes in the city proper were built of it chiefly, and likewise many of the elegant countryseats in the neighboring townships, now part of the greater philadelphia of to-day. the wealthier residents very early set the fashion of both city and country living, following in this custom the example of william penn, the founder, who not only had his house in town, but a country place, a veritable mansion, long since gone, on an island in the delaware river above bristol. british builders had forsaken the jacobean manner of the early renaissance and come completely under the spell of the english classic or so-called georgian style. correspondingly, american men of means were erecting country houses of brick, with ornamental trim classic in detail, and of marble and white-painted wood. marked by solidity, spaciousness and quiet dignity, they are thoroughly georgian in conception, and as such reminiscent of the manorial seats of virginia, yet less stately and in various respects peculiar to this section of the colonies. like the bricks, the elaborate interior woodwork was at first brought from overseas, but later produced by resident artisans of whom there was an ever increasing number of no mean order. almost without exception the colonial brickwork of philadelphia was laid up with wide mortar joints in flemish bond, red stretcher and black header bricks alternating in the same course. the arrangement not only imparts a delightful warmth and pleasing texture, but the headers provide frequent transverse ties, giving great strength to the wall. with this rich background the enlivening contrast of marble lintels and sills and white-painted wood trim, in which paneled shutters play a prominent part, form a picture of rare charm, rendered all the more satisfying by an appearance of obvious comfort, permanence and intrinsic worth which wood construction, however good, cannot convey. many of the splendid old pre-revolutionary country houses of brick no longer remain to us. some are gone altogether; others are remodeled almost beyond recognition; a few, hedged around by the growing city, have been allowed to fall into a state of hopeless decay. woodford, however, located in the northern liberties, fairmount park, at york and thirty-third streets, is fairly representative of the type of georgian countryseat of brick, so many of which were erected in the suburbs of philadelphia about the middle of the eighteenth century. it is a large square structure, two and a half stories in height, with a hipped roof rising above a handsome cornice with prominent modillions and surmounted by a balustraded belvedere. two large chimneys, much nearer together than is ordinarily the case, emerge within the inclosed area of the belvedere deck. a heavy pediment springs from the cornice above the pedimental doorway, and this repetition of the motive imparts a pleasing interest and emphasis to the façade. the subordinate cornice at the second-floor level is most unusual and may perhaps reflect the influence of the penthouse roof which became such a characteristic feature of the ledge stone work of the neighborhood. few houses have the brick pilaster treatment at the corners with corresponding cornice projections which enrich the ornamental trim. six broad soapstone steps with a simple wrought-iron handrail at either side lead up to a fine doorway, tuscan in spirit, with high narrow doors. above, a beautiful palladian window is one of the best features of the façade. an interesting fenestration scheme, with paneled shutters at the lower windows only, is enhanced by the pleasing scale of twelve-paned upper and lower window sashes having broad white muntins throughout. opening the front door, one finds himself in a wide hall with doorways giving entrance to large front rooms on each side. beyond, a beautifully detailed arch supported by pilasters spans the hall. the stairway is located near the center of the house in a hall to one side of the main hall and reached from it through a side door. interior woodwork of good design and workmanship everywhere greets the eye, especially noticeable features being the rounding cornices, heavy wainscots and the floors an inch and a half in thickness and doweled together. each room has a fireplace with ornamental iron back, a hearth of square bricks and a well-designed wood mantel. in the south front room blue tiles depicting elizabethan knights and their ladies surround the fireplace opening. brass handles instead of door knobs lend distinction to the hardware. woodford was erected in by william coleman, a successful merchant, eminent jurist and a friend of franklin. he was a member of the common council in , justice of the peace and judge of the county courts in and judge of the supreme court of pennsylvania from until his death ten years later. coleman's executors sold the place to alexander barclay, comptroller of his majesty's customs at philadelphia, and the grandson of robert barclay of ury, the noted quaker theologian and "apologist." [illustration: plate viii.--morris house, south eighth street. erected in by john reynolds.] [illustration: plate ix.--wistar house, fourth and locust streets. erected about ; betsy ross house, arch street.] on barclay's death in , woodford became the home of david franks, a wealthy jewish merchant and one of the signers of the non-importation resolutions of by which a large body of leading american merchants agreed "not to have any goods shipped from great britain until after the repeal of the stamp act." he was prominent both socially and politically, a member of the provincial assembly in and the register of wills. prior to the outbreak of the revolution, he was the agent of the crown in philadelphia and was then made commissary of the british prisoners in the american lines. in , however, he was arrested by general benedict arnold for attempting to transmit a letter harmful to the american cause, deprived of his commission and property, and obliged to remove to new york two years later. one of franks' daughters, abigail, married andrew hamilton of the woodlands, afterwards attorney-general of pennsylvania. another daughter, rebecca, married general sir henry johnson, who was defeated and captured by general anthony wayne at stony point. rebecca franks was one of the most beautiful and brilliant women of her day. well educated, a gifted writer and fascinating conversationalist, witty and winsome, she was popular in society and one of the belles of the celebrated "mischianza", which was given may , , by the british officers in honor of general lord howe upon his departure for england. this was a feast of gayety with a tournament somewhat like those common in the age of chivalry, and was planned largely by major john andré, who was later hanged by order of an american military commission for his connection with the treason of general benedict arnold. following the confiscation of franks' property in , woodford was sold to thomas paschall, a friend of franklin. later it was occupied for a time by william lewis, a noted advocate, and in was bought by isaac wharton, son of joseph wharton, owner of walnut grove in southwark at about fifth street and walnut avenue, where the "mischianza" was held. a son, francis rawle wharton, inherited the place on his father's death in and was the last private owner. in the estate was made part of fairmount park, and since it has been used as a guardhouse. a country house typical of the time, though unlike most other contemporary buildings in the details of its construction, is hope lodge in whitemarsh valley on the bethlehem pike just north of its junction with the skippack pike. it is thoroughly georgian in conception, and most of the materials, including all of the wood finish, were brought from england. the place reached a deplorable state of decay several years ago, yet the accompanying photograph shows enough remaining to be of considerable architectural interest. it is a large, square house two and a half stories high, its hipped roof broken by handsome pedimental dormers with round-topped windows. the front is of brick laid up in characteristic flemish bond, while the other walls are of plastered rubble stone masonry, the brickwork and stonework being quoined together at the front corners. a broad plaster coving is the principal feature of the simple molded cornice, and one notes the much used double belt formed by two projecting courses of brick at the second-floor level. the fenestration differs in several respects from that of similar houses erected a quarter century later. the arrangement of the ranging windows is quite conventional, but instead of marble lintels above them there are nicely gauged flat brick arches, while the basement windows are set in openings beneath segmental relieving arches with brick cores. the latter are reflected in effect by the recessed elliptical arches above all the windows in the walls of plastered rubble masonry. the windows themselves, with nine-paned upper and lower sashes having unusually heavy muntins, likewise the shutters on the lower story and the heavy paneled doors, are higher and narrower than was the rule a few years later. the entrance, with its characteristic double doors, is reached by a porch and four stone steps, its low hip roof with molded cornice being supported by two curious, square, tapering columns. porches were an unusual circumstance in the neighborhood, and this one is so unlike any others of colonial times which are worthy of note as to suggest its having been a subsequent addition. above, a round-arched recess with projecting brick sill replaces the conventional palladian window. indoors, an exceptionally wide hall extends entirely through the house from front to back, opening into spacious rooms on both sides through round-topped doorways with narrow double doors heavily paneled. an elliptical arch supported by fluted pilasters spans the hall about midway of its length, and a handsome staircase ascends laterally from the rear part after the common english manner of that day. throughout the house the woodwork is of good design and execution, the paneled wainscots, molded cornices, door and window casings all being very heavy, and the broad fireplaces and massive chimney pieces in complete accord. deep paneled window seats, very common in contemporary houses, are a feature of the first-floor rooms. the kitchens and the servants' quarters are located in a separate building to the rear, a brick-paved porch connecting the two. this custom, as in the south, was characteristic of the locality and period. [illustration: plate x.--glen fern, on wissahickon creek, germantown. erected about by thomas shoemaker; grumblethorpe, germantown avenue, germantown. erected in by john wister.] [illustration: plate xi.--upsala, germantown avenue and upsala streets, germantown. erected in by john johnson; end perspective of upsala.] hope lodge was erected in by samuel morris, a quaker of welsh descent, who was a justice of the peace in whitemarsh and an overseer of plymouth meeting. morris built it expecting to marry a young englishwoman to whom he had become affianced while on a visit to england with his mother, susanna heath, who was a prominent minister among the friends. the wedding did not occur, however, and samuel morris died a bachelor in , leaving his estate to his brother joshua, who sold hope lodge in to william west. in west's executors conveyed it to the life interest of colonel james horatio watmough with a reversion to his guardian, henry hope, a banker. it was colonel watmough who named the place hope lodge as a compliment to his guardian. one of his daughters married joseph reed, son of general joseph reed, and another married john sargent, the famous lawyer. both the reeds and sargents occupied hope lodge at various times, and it eventually passed into the wentz family. no other colonial country house of brick that now remains holds an interest, either architectural or historic, quite equal to that of stenton, which stands among fine old oaks, pines and hemlocks in a six-acre park, all that now remains of an estate of five hundred acres located on germantown avenue on the outskirts of germantown near the wayne junction railroad station. one of the earliest and most pretentious countryseats of the neighborhood, it combines heavy construction and substantial appearance with a picturesque charm that is rare in buildings of such early origin. this is due in part to the brightening effect of the fenestration, with many small-paned windows set in white-painted molded frames, and quite as much to the slender trellises between the lower-story windows supporting vines which have spread over the brickwork above in the most fascinating manner. both features impart a lighter sense of scale, while the profusion of white wood trim emphasizes more noticeably the delightful color and texture of the brickwork. the house is a great, square, hip-roofed structure two and a half stories high with two large square chimneys and severely plain pedimental dormers. servants' quarters, kitchens and greenhouses are located in a separate gable-roof structure a story and a half high, extending back more than a hundred feet from the main house, and connected with it by a covered porch along the back. in the kitchen the brick oven, the copper boiler and the fireplace with its crane still remain. the walls of the house consist of characteristic brickwork of red stretchers and black headers laid up in flemish bond, with square piers at the front corners and on each side of the entrance, and there is the more or less customary projecting belt at the second-floor level. on the second story the windows are set close up under the heavy overhanging cornice, with its prominent modillions, while on the lower story there are relieving arches with cores of brick instead of stone lintels so common on houses a few decades later. there are similar arches over the barred basement windows set in brick-lined areaways. interesting indeed is the scheme of fenestration. although formal and symmetrical on the front, the windows piercing the other walls frankly correspond to the interior floor plan, although ranging for the most part. unlike the usual arrangement, there are two widely spaced windows above the entrance, while the narrow flanking windows either side of the doorway may be regarded as one of the earliest instances of side lights in american architecture. the severely simple entrance with its high narrow paneled doors without either knob or latch is reached from a brick-paved walk about the house by three semicircular stone steps such as were common in england at the time, the various nicely hewn pieces fastened securely together with iron bands. the front door opens into a large square hall with a brick-paved floor and walls wainscoted to the ceiling with white-painted wood paneling. there is a fireplace on the right, and beyond an archway in the rear a staircase ascends to the second floor. to the right of the hall is the parlor, also with paneled walls, and a fireplace surrounded by pink tiles. in the wainscoted room back of this the sliding top of a closet offers opportunity for a person to conceal himself and listen through a small hole to the conversation in the adjoining hall. to the left of the hall is the dining room, beautifully wainscoted and having a built-in cupboard for china and a fireplace faced with blue tiles. the iron fireback bears the inscription "j. l. ." back of this through a passageway is a small breakfast room, whence an underground passage for use during storms or sieges leads from a trap door in the floor to the barns. the second-story floor plan is most unusual. the library, a great long room, extends entirely across the front of the house, with its range of six windows and two fireplaces on the opposite wall, one faced with blue tiles and the other with white. here, with the finest private collection of books in america at that time, the scholarly owner spent his declining years, the library going to the city of philadelphia on his death. two small bedrooms, each with a fireplace, were occupied by his daughters. a little back staircase leads to the third floor, where the woodwork of the chambers was unpainted. [illustration: plate xii.--the woodlands, blockley township, west philadelphia. erected in by william hamilton; stable at the woodlands.] [illustration: plate xiii.--wyck, germantown avenue and walnut lane, germantown. erected by hans millan about ; hall and entrance doorways, wyck.] stenton was erected in by james logan, a scholar, philosopher, man of affairs, the secretary and later the personal representative of william penn, the founder, and afterwards chief justice of the colony. descended from a noble scottish family, his father a clergyman and teacher who joined the society of friends in , james logan himself was for a time a teacher in london, but soon engaged in the shipping trade. in he came to america with william penn as his secretary, and on penn's return to england he was left in charge of the province. thereafter logan became a very important personage, much liked and fully trusted by all who knew him, including the indians, with whom he maintained friendly relations. for half a century he was a mighty factor in provincial affairs, and to read his life is to read the history of pennsylvania for that period, for he was chief justice, provincial secretary, commissioner of property, surveyor-general and president of the council. his ample fortune, amassed in commerce with edward shippen, in trade with the indians, and by the purchase and sale of lands, enabled him to live and entertain at stenton in a princely manner many distinguished american and european personages of that day. when logan died in , he was succeeded by his son william, who continued faithful to the proprietary interests and carried on the indian work. his son, doctor george logan, was the next proprietor during the revolutionary period. educated in england and scotland, he traveled extensively in europe; after his return to america he became a member of the agricultural and philosophical societies and was elected a senator from pennsylvania from to . during doctor logan's occupancy washington, jefferson, franklin and many other distinguished american and european personages were entertained at stenton. it was washington's headquarters on august , , while he was on his way to the brandywine from hartsville. ten years later, on july , , he came again as president of the constitutional convention, then sitting in philadelphia, to see a demonstration of land plaster on grass land that had been made by doctor logan. sir william howe occupied stenton as his headquarters during the battle of germantown, october , , and on november ordered it destroyed, along with the homes of other "obnoxious persons." the story of its narrow escape is interesting. two dragoons came to fire it. meeting a negro woman on their way to the barn for straw, they told her she might remove the bedding and clothing. meanwhile a british officer and several men happened along, inquiring for deserters, whereupon the negro servant with ready wit said that two were hiding in the barn. despite their protests, the men were carried away and the house was saved, as the order to fire it was not repeated. after doctor logan's death in , stenton was occupied by his widow, deborah logan, until her death in , when it passed to her son albanus, an agriculturalist and sportsman. his son gustavus was the last private owner, as the house was acquired by the city and occupied as their headquarters by the colonial dames, the descendants of the logan family removing to loudoun near by. no account of the colonial houses of philadelphia would be reasonably complete which failed to include the home of stephen girard. although of scant architectural distinction, it is of interest through its association with one of the chief outstanding figures of a city noted for its celebrated residents. it is a two-story hip-roofed structure, rather narrow but of exceptional length, taking the form of two plaster-walled wings on opposite sides of a central portion of brick having a pediment springing from the main cornice and a circular, ornamental window. as at hope lodge a broad plaster coving is the principal feature of the simple cornice. the windows and chimneys differ in various parts of the house, and the doors are strangely located, all suggesting alterations and additions. the central part of the house has casement sashes with blinds as contrasted with georgian sashes with paneled shutters elsewhere, and all second-story windows are foreshortened. stephen girard, a wealthy and eccentric philadelphia merchant, financier, philanthropist and the founder of girard college, was born near bordeaux, france, in , the son of a sea captain. he lost the sight of his right eye when eight years old and had only a meager education. beginning a seafaring life as a cabin boy, he in time became master and part owner of a small vessel trading between new york, new orleans and port au prince. in may, , he was driven into the port of philadelphia by a british fleet and settled there as a merchant. gradually he built up a fleet of vessels trading with new orleans and the west indies, and by the close of the revolution, girard was one of the richest men of his time, and he used his wealth in numerous ways to benefit the nation and humanity. in he utilized about a million dollars deposited with the barings of london to purchase shares of the much depreciated stock of the bank of the united states, which materially assisted the government in bolstering european confidence in its securities. when the bank was not rechartered, girard bought the building and cashier's house for a third of their original cost, and in may, , established the bank of stephen girard. in , when the government needed money to bring the second conflict with england to a successful conclusion, he subscribed for about ninety-five per cent of the war loan of five million dollars, of which only twenty thousand dollars besides had been taken, and he generously offered to the public at par shares which, following his purchase, had gone to a premium. [illustration: plate xiv.--mount pleasant, northern liberties, fairmount park. erected in by captain james macpherson; the main house, mount pleasant.] [illustration: plate xv.--deschler-perot-morris house, germantown avenue, germantown. erected in by daniel deschler; vernon, vernon park, germantown. erected in by james matthews.] girard showed his public spirit personally as well as financially. during the yellow fever epidemic in philadelphia in and in - he took the lead in relieving the poor and caring for the sick. he volunteered to act as manager of the hospital at bush hill and with the assistance of peter helm he cleansed the place and systemized the work. on his death in , girard's estate, the greatest private fortune in america, was valued at about seven and a half million dollars, and his philanthropy was again shown in his disposition of it. being without heirs, as his child had died soon after its birth and his beautiful wife had died after many years in an insane asylum, his heart went out to poor and orphan children. in his will he bequeathed $ , to various philadelphia charities; $ , to the city for improvement of the delaware river front, streets and buildings; $ , to pennsylvania for internal improvements, especially canals, and the bulk of the estate to philadelphia, chiefly for founding and maintaining a non-sectarian school or college, but also for providing a better police system, making municipal improvements and lessening taxation. the college was given for the support and education of poor white male orphans, of legitimate birth and character, between the ages of six and ten; and it was specified that no boy was to be permitted to stay after his eighteenth year, and that as regards admission, preference was to be shown, first to orphans born in philadelphia, second to orphans born in any other part of pennsylvania, third to orphans born in new york city, and fourth to orphans born in new orleans. work upon the buildings was begun in , and the college was opened with five buildings in . the central one, an imposing structure in the corinthian style of architecture designed by thomas ustick walter, has been called "the most perfect greek temple in existence." to it in were removed the remains of stephen girard and placed in a sarcophagus in the south vestibule. the college fund, originally $ , , , has grown to more than thirty-five million dollars; likewise the college has become virtually a village in itself. some twenty handsome buildings and residences, valued at about three and a half million dollars, and more than forty acres of land accommodate about two thousand students, teachers and employes. under the provisions of the girard trust fund nearly five hundred dwelling houses have been erected by the city in south philadelphia, all heated and lighted by a central plant operated by the trustees, and more than seventy million tons of coal have been mined on property belonging to his estate. few philanthropists have left their money so wisely or with such thoughtful provisions to meet changing conditions. [illustration: plate xvi.--loudoun, germantown avenue and apsley street, germantown. erected in by thomas armat; solitude, blockley township, fairmount park. erected in by john penn.] [illustration: plate xvii.--cliveden, germantown avenue and johnson street, germantown. erected in by benjamin chew.] perhaps the brick mansion most thoroughly representative of the type of georgian country house, of which so many sprang up about philadelphia from to , is port royal house on tacony street between church and duncan streets in frankford. this great square, hip-roofed structure with its quoined corners and projecting stone belt at the second-floor level; its surmounting belvedere, ornamental dormers and great chimney stacks; its central pediment springing from a heavy cornice above a projecting central portion of the façade in which are located a handsome palladian window and characteristic doric doorway; its large, ranging, twenty-four-paned windows with keyed stone lintels and blinds on the lower story, is in brick substantially what mount pleasant is in plastered stone, as will be seen in chapter v. as in the latter, a broad central hall extends entirely through the house, and the staircase is located in a small side hall. the rooms throughout are large and contain excellent woodwork and chimney pieces. port royal house was erected in by edward stiles, a wealthy merchant and shipowner, who like many others emigrated from bermuda to the bahama island of new providence and thence to philadelphia about the middle of the eighteenth century, to engage in american commerce. he was the great-grandson of john stiles, one of the first settlers of bermuda in , and the son of daniel stiles, of port royal parish, a vestryman and warden of port royal church and a member of the assembly of bermuda in . commerce between the american colonies and bermuda and the west indies was extensive, and stiles' business prospered. he had a store in front street between market and arch streets, and a town house in walnut street between third and fourth streets. in summer, like other men of his station and affluence, he lived at his countryseat, surrounded by many slaves, on an extensive plantation in oxford township, near frankford, that he had purchased from the waln family. to it he gave the name port royal after his birthplace in bermuda. to edward stiles in befell the opportunity to carry relief to the people of bermuda, then in dire distress because their supplies from america had been cut off by the non-importation agreement among the american colonies. in response to their petition to the continental congress, permission was granted to send stiles' ship, the _sea nymph_ (samuel stobel, master), laden with provisions to be paid for by the people of bermuda either in gold or arms, ammunition, saltpeter, sulphur and fieldpieces. during the occupation of philadelphia by the british in and , frankford became the middle ground between the opposing armies and subject to the depredations of both. port royal house, like many other estates of the vicinity, was robbed of its fine furniture, horses, slaves and provisions. under the will of edward stiles his slaves were freed and educated at the expense of his estate. in the lukens family bought port royal house and for several years a boarding school was conducted there. as the manufacturing about frankford grew, the locality lost its desirability as a place of residence. the house was abandoned to chance tenants and allowed to fall into an exceedingly delapidated condition. the accompanying photograph, however, depicts enough of its former state to indicate that in its day it was among the best brick country residences of the vicinity. chapter iii city residences of brick as the city of philadelphia grew and became more densely populated, land values increased greatly, and the custom developed of building brick residences in blocks fronting directly on the street, the party walls being located on the side property lines. like the country houses already described, these were laid up in flemish bond with alternating red stretcher and black header bricks, and thus an entire block presented a straight, continuous wall, broken only by a remarkably regular scheme of doorways and fenestration, and varied only by slight differences in the detail of doors and windows, lintels, cornices and dormers. these plain two-or three-story brick dwellings in long rows, in street after street, with white marble steps and trimmings, green or white shutters, each intended for one family, have been perpetuated through the intervening years, and now as then form the dominant feature of the domestic architecture of the city proper. for the most part these were single-front houses, that is to say, the doorway was located to the right or left with two windows at one side, while on the stories above windows ranged with the doorway, making three windows across each story. there were exceptions, however, the so-called morris house at number south eighth street being a notable example of a characteristic double-front house of the locality and period. they were gable-roof structures with high chimneys in the party walls, foreshortened, third-story windows and from one to three dormers piercing the roof. at the end of the block the wall was often carried up above the ridge between a pair of chimneys and terminated in a horizontal line, imparting greater stability to the chimney construction and lending an air of distinction to the whole house, which was further enhanced by locating the entrance directly beneath in the end wall rather than in the side of the building. the famous old wistar house at the southeast corner of fourth and locust streets is a case in point. pedimental dormers were the rule, sometimes with round-headed windows. elaborate molded wood cornices were a feature, often with prominent, even hand-tooled modillions. slightly projecting belts of brick courses, marble or other stone marked the floor levels, and keyed stone lintels were customary, although in some of the plainer houses the window frames were set between ordinary courses of brickwork, without decoration of any sort. most of the windows had either six-or nine-paned upper and lower sashes with third-story windows foreshortened in various ways. there were paneled shutters at the first-story windows and often on the second story as well, although blinds were sometimes used on the second story and rarely on the third. the high, deeply recessed doorways, with engaged columns or fluted pilasters supporting handsome entablatures or pediments, and beautifully paneled doors, often with a semicircular fanlight above, were characteristic of most philadelphia entrances. before them, occupying part of the sidewalk, was a single broad stone step, or at times a stoop consisting of a flight of three or four steps with a simple wrought-iron handrail, sometimes on both sides, but often on only one side. other common obstructions in the sidewalk were areaways at one or two basement windows and a rolling way with inclined double doors giving entrance from the street to the basement. [illustration: plate xviii.--detail of cliveden façade; detail of bartram house façade.] [illustration: plate xix.--the highlands, skippack pike, whitemarsh. erected in by anthony morris.] many of these city residences were of almost palatial character, built by wealthy merchants and men in political life who thought it expedient to live near their wharves and countinghouses or within easy distance of the seats of city, provincial and later of national government. beautiful gardens occupied the backyards of many such dwellings, affording veritable oases in a desert of bricks and mortar, yet many of the more affluent citizens maintained countryseats along the schuylkill or elsewhere in addition to their town houses. the location of many of these early city dwellings of brick was such that as the city grew they became undesirable as places of residence. business encroached upon them more and more, so that, except for houses which have remained for generations in the same family or have historic interest sufficient to have brought about their preservation by the city, relatively few still remain in anything like their original condition. of the quaint two-and three-story dwellings of modest though delightfully distinctive character, which once lined the narrow streets and alleys, most have become squalid tenements and small alien stores, or else have been utilized for commercial purposes. to walk through combes alley and elfret alley is to sense what once was and to realize the trend of the times, but there is much material for study in these rapidly decaying old sections that repay a visit by the architect and student. happily, however, one of these typical little streets is to be perpetuated in something like its pristine condition. camac street, "the street of little clubs", has become one of the unique features of the city,--a typically american "latin quarter." to enter this little, narrow, rough-paved alley, running south from walnut street between twelfth and thirteenth streets, is like stepping back a century or more. the squatty little two and a half story houses with picturesque doorways and dormer windows have become the homes of numerous clubs representing the best art interests of the city. poor richard club, plastic club, sketch club, coin d'or and franklin inn are among the names to be seen painted on the signs beside the doors. the houses and their gardens in the rear have been restored and provide excellent club, exhibition and lecture rooms, at the same time preserving some fine examples of a rapidly passing type of early american architecture. would that a similar course might be taken by local societies in every large american city where a wealth of colonial architecture exists! among the fine old single-front houses of particular interest which have suffered through the encroachment of business upon the former residential sections of the city are the blackwell house, number pine street, and the wharton house, number spruce street. the former was in many respects the most elegant residence in philadelphia, built almost without regard to cost by a man of great wealth, whose taste and refinement called for luxurious living and a beautiful home. the interior woodwork surpassed in design and execution anything to be found elsewhere in the city. many of the doorways had fluted pilasters, heavily molded casings and carved broken pediments. the doors were of mahogany as was likewise the wainscoting of the staircases. the sides of the rooms where fireplaces were located were completely paneled to the ceiling, and above the fireplace openings were narrow panels on which were hunting scenes done in mastic. some years ago much of this beautiful woodwork was removed, and to-day, despoiled of its former architectural splendor, dingy and dilapidated, the shell of the building is used as a cigar factory. the house was built about by john stamper, a wealthy english merchant, who had been successively councilman, alderman and finally mayor of philadelphia in . he bought the whole south side of pine street from second to third from the penns in , and for many years the house was surrounded by a garden containing flowers, shrubs and fruit trees. later the house passed into the hands of stamper's son-in-law, william bingham, senior, and afterwards to bingham's son-in-law, the reverend doctor robert blackwell. doctor blackwell was the son of colonel jacob blackwell, of new york, who owned extensive estates on long island along the east river, blackwell's island being included. after graduating from princeton, robert blackwell studied first medicine and then theology. after several years of tutoring at philipse manor, he was ordained to the ministry and served the missions at gloucester and st. mary's, colestown, new jersey. when both congregations were scattered by the revolution, he joined the continental army at valley forge as both chaplain and surgeon. in he married hannah bingham, whose considerable fortune, added to the estate of his father which he soon after inherited, made him the richest clergyman in america and one of the richest men in philadelphia. the following year he was called to assist doctor white, the rector of christ church and st. peter's, and to the latter doctor blackwell chiefly devoted himself until his resignation in due to failing health. it was the services of these united parishes which washington, his cabinet and members of congress attended frequently. on doctor blackwell's death in the house passed into the willing family and has since changed owners many times. the wharton house, number spruce street, was built in by samuel pancoast, a house carpenter, who sold it to mordecai lewis, a prominent merchant in the east india trade, shipowner, importer and one-time partner of william bingham, the brother-in-law of doctor blackwell, and whose palatial mansion in third street above spruce was one of the most exclusive social centers of the city. mordecai lewis was a director of the bank of north america, the philadelphia contributorship for the insurance of houses from loss by fire, the philadelphia library, and the treasurer of the pennsylvania hospital. much of the currency issued by the continental congress of bore his name. although a member of the volunteer military company, he was never in active service. following his death in the house was sold by his executors in to his son, samuel n. lewis, also a successful merchant of great public spirit. in the younger lewis sold the house to samuel fisher, another merchant and prominent friend noted for his hospitality and his charity, especially toward negroes and indians. because of his neutrality during the revolution, he was exiled to virginia from until , when he was arrested because of a business letter to his partner in new york which was regarded as antagonistic to the government. he was committed to the "old gaol", and after refusing bail was tried and because of the clamor of the mob was sentenced to imprisonment for the duration of the war. soon afterward, however, a pardon was offered him, which he refused, and two years later he left prison by invitation without terms, his health broken. his wedding gift to his daughter, deborah, on her marriage to william wharton in , was the spruce street house, which has ever since borne wharton's name. william wharton was the son of charles wharton, who, with his wife, hannah, devoted themselves to a religious life among the friends. deborah wharton, william wharton's wife, became a prominent minister of the society of friends, traveling extensively in the interests of indian welfare and giving generously of her ample means to various philanthropic causes. she was one of the early managers of swarthmore college, as has been a descendant in each generation of the family since that time. of her ten children, joseph wharton, also a prominent friend, was owner of the bethlehem steel works and one of the most successful ironmasters in the country. a liberal philanthropist, he founded the wharton school of finance and economy at the university of pennsylvania and was for many years president of the board of managers of swarthmore college. on his mother's death in the spruce street house came into his possession and is still owned by his estate. although rented as a rooming house, it remains in a fair state of preservation. [illustration: plate xx.--bartram house, kingsessing, west philadelphia. erected in - by john bartram; old green tree inn, germantown avenue, germantown. erected in .] [illustration: plate xxi.--johnson house, germantown avenue, germantown. erected in - by dirck jansen; billmeyer house, germantown avenue, germantown. erected in .] the wistar house, at the southwest corner of fourth and locust streets, to which architectural reference has previously been made, was built about and for nearly three quarters of a century thereafter was the scene of constant hospitality and lavish entertainment. here lived doctor william shippen, whose marriage to alice, the daughter of thomas lee, of virginia, and the sister of richard henry and arthur lee, was one of the numerous alliances which drew the county families of virginia and maryland into close relationship with philadelphia families. doctor shippen's home quickly became the resort of the virginia aristocracy when visiting the national capital, and in consequence there was a constant succession of balls and dinners during the winter season. in the house was occupied by doctor caspar wistar, the eminent anatomist, known to the élite of the city and nation for his brilliant social gatherings and as the man for whom that beautiful climbing plant, the _wistaria_, was named. doctor wistar's geniality, magnetism, intellectual leadership and generous hospitality made his home a gathering place for the most distinguished personages of his day in the professions, arts, sciences, letters and politics. since he held a chair at the university of pennsylvania and carried on an extensive private practice, the demands upon his time were great, but sunday evenings, and later on saturday evenings, he was at home to his friends, who formed the habit of calling regularly in numbers from ten to fifty and often bringing new-found friends, sure of a hearty welcome, brilliant conversation and choice refreshments. and so began one of the cherished institutions of philadelphia, the wistar parties, which were continued after the doctor's death in by wistar's friends and their descendants. the civil war brought an interruption, but in the gatherings were again resumed; few of the distinguished visitors to the city failed to be invited to attend, and, having attended, to praise most highly the exceptional hospitality shown them. during doctor wistar's lifetime the personnel of the parties gradually became substantially the membership of that world-famous scientific organization, the philosophical society, and later membership in that society became requisite to eligibility for the wistar parties. by far the handsomest old city residence of brick that remains in anything like its original condition is the so-called morris house at number south eighth street between walnut and spruce streets. although not built until very shortly after the struggle for american independence had been won, it is pre-revolutionary in character and colonial in style throughout. in elegance and distinction the façade is unexcelled in early american city architecture. unlike most houses of the time and locality, it has a double front with two windows each side of a central doorway, a range of five windows on the second and third floors and three simple dormers in the gable roof above. the windows have twelve-paned upper and lower sashes with paneled shutters on the first and second stories, and foreshortened eight-paned upper and lower sashes without shutters on the third story. the brickwork is of characteristic flemish bond with alternating red stretcher and black header bricks. two slightly projecting courses, two courses apart, form horizontal belts at the second-and third-floor levels, while the first thirteen courses above the sidewalk level project somewhat beyond the wall above and are laid up in running bond, every sixth course being a tie course of headers. beautifully tooled, light stone lintels with fine-scale radial scorings greatly enhance the beauty of the fenestration. each lintel appears to consist of seven gauged or keyed pieces each, but is in reality a single stone, the effect being secured by deep scorings. a heavy molded cornice and handsome gutter spouts complete the decorative features apart from the chaste pedimental doorway with its fluted pilasters and dainty fanlight, which is mentioned again in another chapter. a rolling way and areaways at the basement windows pierce the wall at the sidewalk level after the manner of the time. indoors, the hall extends entirely through the house to a door in the rear opening upon a box-bordered garden with rose trees and old-fashioned flowers. there is a parlor on the right of the hall and a library on the left. back of the latter is the dining room, while the kitchen and service portion of the house are located in an l extension to the rear. as indicated by two marble date stones set in the third-story front wall just below the cornice, this house was begun in and finished in by john reynolds. some years later it was purchased at a sheriff's sale by ann dunkin, who sold it in to luke wistar morris, the son of captain samuel morris. since that time it has remained in the morris family, and its occupants have maintained it in splendid condition. much beautiful old furniture, silver and china adorn the interior, most of the pieces having individual histories of interest; in fact, the place has become a veritable museum of morris and wistar heirlooms. within a few years the two old buildings that formerly adjoined the house to the right and left were removed so that the house now stands alone with a garden space at each side behind a handsome wrought-iron fence. an enthusiastic horseman and sportsman, samuel morris was until his death in president of the gloucester fox hunting club in which originated in november, , the philadelphia troop of light horse, better known as the city troop, the oldest military organization in the united states. in morris was a member of the committee of safety, and throughout the revolution he served as captain of the city troop and as a special agent for washington, in whose esteem he stood high. later he was a justice of the peace and a member of the pennsylvania assembly from to . a handsome china punch bowl presented to captain samuel morris by the members of the gloucester fox hunting club is one of the most prized possessions in the morris house. any book devoted to the colonial houses of philadelphia might perhaps be considered incomplete that failed to include the quaint little two and a half story building at number arch street, with its tiny store on the street floor and dwelling on the floors above. devoid of all architectural pretension and showing the decay of passing years, it is nevertheless typical of the modest shop and house of its day, and it interests the visitor still more as the home of betsy ross, who for many years was popularly supposed to have made the first american flag. betsy ross was the widow of john ross, a nephew of one of the signers of the declaration of independence, who had conducted an upholsterer's business in the little shop. for a time after his death she supported herself as a lace cleaner and by continuing the business of her husband. the romantic tradition goes, unsupported by official record, that, congress having voted in june, , for a flag of thirteen stripes, alternate red and white, with thirteen white stars in a blue field, the committee in charge consulted with washington, then in philadelphia, concerning the matter. knowing mrs. ross, washington led the way to her house and explained their mission. in her little shop under their eyes she cut and stitched together cloths of the three colors we love so well and soon produced the first version of the stars and stripes. the tale is a pretty one, and it is a pity that it should not be based on some good foundation, especially as the records show that subsequently betsy ross did make numerous flags for the government. how the story started is unknown, but none of the historians who have given the matter any attention believe it. john h. flow in "the true story of the american flag" condemns it utterly, and the united states government refused to adopt the betsy ross house as a national monument after a thorough investigation. notwithstanding the facts, however, this ancient little building still continues to be a place of interest to many tourists every year. [illustration: plate xxii.--hooded doorway, johnson house, germantown; hooded doorway, green tree inn.] [illustration: plate xxiii. pedimental doorway, league street; pedimental doorway, germantown avenue.] chapter iv ledge-stone country houses the use of natural building materials available on or near the site, when they are suitable or can be made so, always elicits hearty commendation; it gives local color and distinctive character. and so we look with particular admiration at the fine old countryseats of local rock-face and surfaced stone which abound in the neighborhood of philadelphia, especially at germantown, finding among them the most homelike and picturesque stone dwellings of the past and the best prototypes for present-day adaptation. nowhere can one discover better inspiration for rock-face stonework, and nowhere have the architects of to-day more successfully preserved and developed the best local traditions of colonial times. wherein lies the superlative picturesque appeal of the typical ledge stonework of germantown? as distinguished from surfaced stonework, it possesses that flexibility in use so essential to the many and varied requirements of domestic architecture imposed by the personality and mode of living of the owner. in a measure this ready adaptability is due to the irregular lines and rock face of the stone itself, so pleasing in scale, color and texture, and so completely in harmony with the natural landscape. but to a far greater extent it is due to the fact that its predominant lines are horizontal, the line of repose and stability. ledge stone, long and narrow, laid up in broken range, with the top and bottom beds approximately level, but with end joints as the stone works naturally, has an even more marked horizontal effect than brick, clap-boarded or shingled walls that tends to a surprising degree to simulate the impression of greater breadth of the entire mass. such matters as color, surface texture and the bond or pattern formed by the shape of the stones and their arrangement in the wall are the refinements of stonework; the essentials are strength and durability of the stone itself and stability of the wall. and this stability should be apparent as well as actual. the integrity of stonework depends upon its ability to stand alone, and nothing except high-cost surfaced stone is so readily conducive to handsome, honest masonry as the natural ledge stone of greater philadelphia. a consistent wall should be of sound construction without the aid of mortar, the mission of which is to chink the joints and make the structure weather-tight. many different examples of stonework, both the pointed and unpointed, stand virtually side by side for comparison about philadelphia. several methods of pointing have been employed. there is the flush pointing and the ridge or weathered type commonly known as colonial or "barn" pointing. of them all, however, a method of laying and pointing generally referred to as the germantown type has been most widely favored. it lends itself particularly well to the colonial style of house now so popular, the broad lines of the white pointing bringing the gray stone into pleasing harmony with the white woodwork. the pointing itself is much like the colonial or "barn" pointing already referred to,--the wide open joints being filled with mortar brought well to the surface of the stones and smoothed off by the flat of the trowel with little regard to definiteness of line, after which about one-fourth of the width of the pointing is cut sharply away at the bottom so as to leave a sloping weathered edge considerably below the center of the joint. this is sometimes left as cut, in order to preserve a difference in texture, or is gone over with a trowel, either free hand or along a straightedge, to give a more finished appearance or more pronounced horizontal line effect. generally gray in effect, a ledge-stone wall provides a delightful neutral background against which trellises of roses, wistaria, honeysuckle and other flowering climbers delight the eye, and to which the spreading english ivy clings in the most charming intimacy. white-painted woodwork, however, furnishes its prime embellishment,--doors, windows, porches, dormers and such necessary appurtenances of comfortable living punctuating its various parts with high lights which brighten the effect, balance the form and mass and lend distinctive character. one has but to examine the accompanying illustrations of a few notable homes of the colonial period to appreciate the undeniable charm of white-painted woodwork in a setting of ledge stone. in the midst of virgin forest at the end of livezey's lane in germantown on the banks of wissahickon creek, stands glen fern, more commonly known as the livezey house, with numerous old buildings near by which in years past were mills, granaries and cooper shops. the house is of typically picturesque ledge-stone construction and interesting arrangement, consisting of three adjoining gable-roof structures in diminishing order, each with a single shed-roof dormer in its roof. it is located on a garden terrace with ledge-stone embankment wall and steps leading up to the door, which originally had seats at each side, while a balcony above was reached by the door in the second story. two and a half stories high and having a chimney at each end, the main house attracts attention chiefly for its quaint fenestration, with two windows on one side of the door and one on the other, the foreshortened twelve-paned windows of the second story placed well up under the eaves, the first-story windows having six-paned upper and nine-paned lower sashes. as usual, there are shutters for the first-and blinds for the second-story windows. [illustration: plate xxiv.--doorway, germantown avenue; doorway, morris house, south eighth street.] [illustration: plate xxv.--doorway, germantown avenue; doorway, spruce street.] a winding stairway leads upward from a rather small hall. white-paneled wainscots and fireplaces surrounded by dark marble adorn each of the principal rooms, while the great kitchen fireplace, in an inglenook with a window beside a seat large enough to accommodate several persons, was the "courtin' corner" of three generations of the livezey family. the old grist mill on wissahickon creek, originally a considerable stream, was built by thomas shoemaker, and in conveyed by him to thomas livezey, junior, who operated it the rest of his life and lived at glen fern near by. the builder's father, jacob shoemaker, who gave the land upon which the germantown friends' meeting house stands at coulter and main streets, came to this country with pastorius in the ship _america_ in and became sheriff of the town in . thomas livezey, the progenitor of the livezey family, and the great-grandfather of thomas, junior, came from england in , and the records show that he served on the first grand jury of the first court held in the province, january , . thomas livezey, junior, the miller, was a public-spirited and many-sided man. something of a wag and given to writing letters in verse, his life also had its more serious side. besides being one of the founders and a trustee of the union schoolhouse of germantown, now germantown academy, he was a justice of the peace and a provincial commissioner in . being a friend, he took no part in the struggle for independence, although his provocation was great. for safety's sake the girls of the family, with the eatables and drinkables, were often locked up in the cellars during the occupancy of germantown by the british. on one occasion british soldiers came to the house and demanded food, and being told by one of the women that after cooking all day she was too weary to prepare it, one of the soldiers struck off the woman's ear with his sword. an officer appeared presently, however, demanded to know who had done so dastardly a thing and instantly split the culprit's head with his saber. livezey cultivated a large farm on the adjoining hillsides, and a dozen bottles of wine from his vineyard, forwarded by his friend robert wharton, elicited praise from benjamin franklin. farmers brought their grain hither for miles around, and the mill prospered. gradually a large west indian trade was built up in flour contaminated with garlic and unmarketable in philadelphia, the ships returning with silk, crêpes and beautiful china, so that livezey's son john became a prominent philadelphia merchant. another son, thomas, continued to run the mill, which about the time of the civil war was converted to the manufacture of linseed oil. in the entire property was purchased for fairmount park, and glen fern is now occupied by the valley green canoe club, which has restored it under the direction of john livezey. opposite the famous chew house on germantown avenue, amid a luxurious setting of splendid trees, clinging ivy and box-bordered gardens, stands upsala, one of the finest examples of the colonial architecture of philadelphia. a great, square two and a half story house with a gable roof, three handsome dormers in front, a goodly sized chimney toward either end, and an l in the rear, it speaks eloquently of substantial comfort. like many houses of the time and place, the façade is of faced stone carefully pointed, while the other walls are of exceptionally pleasing ledge stone, the two kinds of masonry being quoined together at the corners. the pointing of the stonework is a very informal variation of the modern germantown type,--flat-trowel pointed with little regard to definiteness of line. the wide joints are more appropriate in scale and taste than the ridge or weathered type, in that they harmonize better with the generally broad effect of the house and the white-painted wood trim of numerous windows and doors. keyed lintels and window sills of marble accentuate the fenestration, and the façade is further enriched by a handsome cornice and marble belt at the second-floor level. four marble steps give approach to the high, pedimental porch before a door of delightful grace and dignity. as was often the case, there are white-painted shutters at the lower windows and green-painted blinds at the upper. the gable ends of the house are interesting in their fenestration, with a fanlight of delightful pattern above and between two ordinary windows; one notices with interest that the returns of the eaves are carried entirely across the ends of the house from front to back, after the manner of the characteristic penthouse roof. within, a broad hall extends through the house, an archway at the foot of the winding staircase being its most striking feature. two rooms on each side contain handsome mantels, paneled wainscots and other beautiful wood finish. as indicated by the date stone in one of the gables, upsala was begun in by john johnson, junior, who inherited the land from his grandfather, also named john johnson, and was some three years in the building. it is located near the corner of upsal street on part of a tract of land that originally extended from germantown avenue, then germantown road, to the township line at wissahickon avenue. the house stands on the spot where the fortieth regiment of the british army was encamped, and where later general maxwell's cannon were planted to assail the chew house at the battle of germantown. it has been successively occupied by norton johnson, doctor william n. johnson and miss sallie w. johnson, all descendants of the builder. [illustration: plate xxvi.--doorway, germantown avenue; doorway, frankford avenue.] [illustration: plate xxvii.--doorway, powel house, south third street; doorway, wharton house, spruce street.] like upsala, grumblethorpe, at number main street, germantown, opposite indian queen lane, displays ledge-stone walls except for its façade, which is plastered, and it has the same returns of the eaves like a penthouse roof across the gables. this large two and a half story house stands directly on the sidewalk and has areaways at the sunken basement windows like many modern houses. a sturdy chimney at either end and two dormers with segmental topped windows are the features of the roof. the high recessed doorway, with its broad marble lower step in the brick sidewalk, is located so that there are three windows to the left and only two to the right. an interesting feature of the fenestration is the use of wide twelve-paned windows on the first story and of narrower and higher eighteen-paned windows on the second. again there are shutters on the lower story and blinds above. this variation in the windows of different stories is by no means an uncommon feature of philadelphia houses, and, as in this instance, often came about as the result of alterations. grumblethorpe was built in by john wister, who came to philadelphia from germany in and developed a large business in cultivating blackberries, making and importing wine in market street west of third. "wister's big house" was the first countryseat in germantown. originally it differed materially from its present outward appearance. there were no dormers, and the garret was lighted only at the ends. across the front and sides of the house the second-floor level was marked by a penthouse roof, broken over the entrance by a balcony reached by a door from the second story. to the right of the entrance there were two windows, as at present; to the left there was a smaller door with a window at each side of it. both doors were divided into upper and lower sections and had side-long seats outside. in the course of repairs and alterations in the penthouse roof and balcony, also the front seats, were removed, the upper and smaller lower doors were replaced by windows, and the front of the house was pebble dashed. a long wing extends back from the main house, and beyond is a workshop with many old tools and a numerous collection of interesting clocks in various stages of completion. still farther back is an observatory with its telescope, also a box-bordered formal garden in which still stands a quaint rain gauge. indoors, the hall and principal rooms are spacious but low studded, with simple white-painted woodwork, and in the kitchen a primitive crane supporting ancient iron pots still remains in the great fireplace. much fine old furniture, many rare books and numerous curios enhance the interest and beauty of the interiors. many men illustrious in art, science and literature shared wister's hospitality. his frequent visitors included gilbert stuart, the artist; christopher sower, one of the most versatile men in the colonies; thomas say, the eminent entomologist and president of the philadelphia academy of natural sciences; parker cleveland, author of the first book on american mineralogy; james nichol, the celebrated geologist and writer, and many other famous personages. quite as many unknown persons came to grumblethorpe, however, for bread was baked every saturday for distribution to the poor. during the battle of germantown, grumblethorpe was the headquarters of general agnew of the british army, and in the northwest parlor he died of wounds, staining the floor with his blood, the marks of which are still visible. in the same room major lenox, who occupied the house in , was married. major lenox was at various times marshal of the united states for the district of pennsylvania, director and president of the united states bank, and the representative of the united states at the court of st. james. john wister's eldest son, daniel, a prosperous merchant, inherited the property, and it was his daughter who wrote sally wister's well-known and charming "journal", the original manuscript of which is among the many treasures of this charming old house. it was daniel wister's son, charles j. wister, who built the observatory and developed the beautiful formal garden back of the house. upon retiring from business in he devoted himself to science, notably botany and mineralogy, upon which subjects he lectured at the germantown academy, of which he was secretary of the board of trustees for thirty years. in the place came into the hands of charles j. wister, junior, an artist, writer and friend of high repute, who, like his father, was for many years identified with germantown academy. on his death in grumblethorpe was shared by his nephews, owen wister, the novelist, and alexander w. wister, neither of whom resides there. [illustration: plate xxviii.--doorway, south seventh street.] [illustration: plate xxix.--doorway, grumblethorpe, germantown avenue; doorway, germantown avenue.] one of the noblest old ledge-stone mansions of the vicinity is the woodlands, located on high ground along the bank of the schuylkill river in blockley township, west philadelphia. it was formerly the countryseat of the hamilton family, from which a district of west philadelphia east of fortieth street and south of market street took the name of hamilton village. many years ago the grounds of the woodlands became a cemetery, and the house is now occupied by the superintendent and contains the cemetery offices. while the gay society of a century and a quarter ago is lacking the place still retains much of its former beauty and state. of essentially georgian character, the house is still more strongly reminiscent of many plantation mansions of the south. it has an entrance front to the north and a river or garden front to the south, while the kitchen arrangements are well concealed. between two semicircular bays that project from the ends of the building on the entrance front, six ionic pilasters support a broad and elaborately ornamented pediment, its chief features being the notching of the shingles, the circular window and the frieze with groups of vertical flutings in alternation with large round flower ornaments. a broad paved terrace three steps above the drive extends across the front from one bay to the other and gives approach to a round-arched central doorway with handsome leaded fanlight beneath a segmental hood supported by round engaged ionic columns. this doorway leads into the hall. on the river front a lofty pedimental-roofed portico centrally located and supported by six great smooth pillars is of distinctly southern aspect. another round-arched doorway flanked by two round-topped windows opens directly into an oval-shaped ballroom. the beautiful palladian windows on either side of this façade and recessed within an arch in the masonry are among the chief distinctions of the house. an examination of them indicates as convincingly as any modern work the delightful accord that may exist between gray stone and white woodwork, and draws attention to the masonry itself. the use of relatively small stones has resulted in an unconventional though pleasing wall effect, due to the prominence and rough character of the pointing which has been brought well out to the edges of the stones. a word may well be said in passing in regard to the stable at the woodlands, which, while rightly unassuming, lives in complete accord with the house, as every outbuilding should. a hip-roofed structure with lean-to wings, it is essentially a georgian conception. its walls are of ledge stone like the house, broken by a symmetrical arrangement of recessed arches in which the various doors and windows are set, and further embellished by a four-course belt of brick at the second-floor level. the woodlands was built in by william hamilton on an estate purchased in by his grandfather, andrew hamilton, the first of that name in america. it is the second house on the site, the first having made way for the present spacious structure which was designed to give expression to the tastes and desires of its builder. william hamilton was one of the wealthiest men of his day and loved display and the rôle of a lavish host. maintaining a large retinue of servants and living in a style surpassing that of most of his neighbors, his dinner parties and other social gatherings were attended by the most eminent personages of the time. a man of culture and refinement, he accumulated many valuable paintings and rare books, and his gardens, greenhouse and grounds were his particular pride and joy. to a large collection of native american plants and shrubs he added many exotic trees and plants. to him is credited the introduction of the ginkgo tree and the lombardy poplar to america. william hamilton was a nephew of governor james hamilton, by whose permission, granted to william hallam and his old american company of strolling players, the drama was established in philadelphia in , despite the strong opposition of the friends. william hamilton raised a regiment in his neighborhood to assist in the revolution, but being opposed to a complete break with the mother country, resigned his commission upon the signing of the declaration of independence. following the evacuation of philadelphia by the british he was arrested, charged with assisting the british forces and tried for high treason, but was acquitted and allowed to retain possession of his estates, which were duly inherited by his family on his death in . these charming old ledge-stone mansions, and others of lesser architectural merit and historical association, too numerous for description here, constitute the chief distinction of philadelphia architecture. whereas the city residences of brick differ little from those of several other not far distant places, and the country houses of that material recall many similar ones in delaware, maryland and even virginia, the ledge-stone house of greater philadelphia is a thing unto itself. it has no parallel in america. of substantial character and possessed of rare local color, it combines with picturesque appearance those highly desirable qualities of permanence and non-inflammability. it is the ideal construction for suburban philadelphia where the necessary building material abounds and new homes can live in accord with the old. [illustration: plate xxx.--doorway, doctor denton's house, germantown.] [illustration: plate xxxi.--west entrance, mount pleasant, fairmount park; east entrance, mount pleasant.] chapter v plastered stone country houses it is quite possible to preserve random shapes and rock faces in stonework that is structurally good, yet still fail in a measure to please the eye and satisfy the artistic sense. a house built of stones which, although irregular and of variable size, are generally cubical in shape and set with obvious painstaking to simulate a casual yet remarkably systematic arrangement, never fails to be clumsy and patchy. a case in point is waynesborough in easttown township, chester county, erected in by captain isaac wayne. greame park, erected in horsham township, montgomery county, by sir william keith five years after he was appointed governor of penn's colony in , instances another unsuccessful use of stonework and effectively explodes the pet notion of the indiscriminate that everything which is old is therefore good. the promiscuous use of rough, long, quarried stones, square blocks and narrow strips on end results in an utterly irrational effect, a confusing medley of short lines. going to the other extreme, the use of stones so small and irregular as to suggest a "crazy-quilt" mosaic rather than structural stonework is equally displeasing. this scheme unquestionably lends texture to the wall, but it attracts too much attention to itself to the detriment of such architectural features as doors, windows and other wood trim intended to provide suitable embellishment as well as to fulfill the practical requirements of daily use. inasmuch as rubble used in this manner becomes merely an aggregate in a concrete wall, the consistent thing to do is to consider it as such and give the wall an outside finish or veneer of rough plaster. this fact was recognized and often acted upon by the early philadelphia builders wherever the stone readily available did not make an attractive wall. a few of the best examples extant serve to indicate that houses of this sort have all the charm of the modern stucco structure built over hollow tile. perhaps the most picturesque of the old houses of this type is wyck at germantown avenue and walnut lane, germantown, a long, rambling structure of rubble masonry with an outside veneer of rough white plaster standing end to the street. although colonial in detail and partaking to a degree of the general character of its neighbors, the ensemble presents a rare blending of european influences with american construction. vine-clad trellises on the entrance front, a long arbor on the garden front, box-bordered flower beds and a profusion of shade trees and shrubs all help to compose a picture of rare charm in which leading american architects have often found inspiration for modern work. wyck is probably the oldest building in germantown and certainly quaint of appearance, considering its age, for it has been preserved as nearly as possible in its early condition. the oldest part was built about by hans millan. later another house was built near by on the opposite side of an old indian trail, and subsequently the two were joined together, a wide, brick-paved wagon way running beneath the connecting structure. this passage has since been closed in to form a spacious hallway with wide double doors and a long transom above, the outer doors being wood paneled and the inner ones glazed. of romantic interest is the use of this great hall of wyck as a hospital and operating room after the battle of germantown, and later, in , as the scene of a reception tendered to la fayette, following his breakfast at cliveden, when the townspeople were presented to him by charles j. wister. the doorway to the right, with its molded jambs, plain, four-paned transom and paneled door divided in the middle like many of the neighborhood, is of the most modest order, yet its simple lines and good proportions, together with the green of the climbing vines about it, in contrast with the white plaster walls, makes a strong appeal to everybody of artistic appreciation. the position of the knob indicates the size of the great rim lock within, while the graceful design of the brass knocker is justly one of the most popular to-day. wyck has never been sold, but has passed from one owner to another by inheritance through the jansen and wistar families to the haines family, in which it has since remained. one of its owners, caspar wistar, in established the first glassworks in america at salem, new jersey. the most notable house of plastered stone masonry, and one of the noblest countryseats in the vicinity of philadelphia, is clunie, later and better known as mount pleasant, located in the northern liberties, fairmount park, on the east bank of the schuylkill river only a little north of the girard avenue bridge. to see it is to appreciate more fully the princely mode of country living in which some of the most distinguished citizens of the early metropolis of the colonies indulged. [illustration: plate xxxii.--doorway, solitude, fairmount park; doorway perot-morris house, germantown avenue.] [illustration: plate xxxiii.--entrance porch and doorway, upsala, germantown; elliptical porch and doorway, fisher's lane, wayne junction.] standing on high ground and commanding broad views both up and down the stream, the house is of truly baronial mien and georgian character. two flanking outbuildings, two and a half stories high, hip-roofed and dormered, some forty feet from each end of the main house and corresponding with it in character and construction, provide the servants' quarters and various domestic offices. beyond the circle formed by the drive on the east or entrance front of the house and at some distance to either side are two barns. thus the house becomes the central feature in a strikingly picturesque group of buildings having all the manorial impressiveness of the old virginia mansions along the james river. the main house rises two and a half stories above a high foundation of hewn stone with iron-barred basement windows set in stone frames. it is of massive rubble-stone masonry, coated with yellowish-gray rough-cast and having heavy quoined corners of red brick, also a horizontal belt of the same material at the second-floor level, the keyed lintels of the large ranging windows, however, being of faced stone. above a heavy cornice with prominent modillions springs the hipped roof, pierced on both sides by two handsome dormers and surmounted by a long, beautifully balustraded belvedere. two great brick chimney stacks, one at each end of the building, with four arched openings near the top, lend an aspect of added dignity and solidity. the principal feature of the façade on both the east and west or river front is the slightly projecting central portion with its quoined corners, surmounting corniced pediment springing from the eaves, ornate palladian windows in the second story and superb pedimental doorway in harmony with the pedimental motive above. although the detail is heavy, and free use has been made of the orders, the work is american georgian at its best and altogether admirable. the doorways of the two sides are similar but not the same, and a comparison, as found in another chapter, is most interesting. within, a broad hall extends entirely through the house from one front to the other, as likewise does a spacious drawing-room on the north side with an elaborate chimney piece in the middle of the outside wall. the dining room occupies the west front, and back of it, in an l extension from the hall, a handsome staircase with gracefully turned balustrade leads to the bedrooms on the second floor. throughout the interior the wood finish is worthy of the exterior trim. beautifully tooled cornices, graceful pilasters, nicely molded door and window casings, heavy pedimental doorheads,--all are of excellent design and more carefully wrought than in average colonial work. finest of all, perhaps, is a chamber on the second floor overlooking the river that must, according to the very nature of things, have been the boudoir of the mistress of mount pleasant. the architectural treatment of the fireplace end of this room, with exquisite carving above the overmantel panel and above the closet doors at each side, is greatly admired by all who see it. the erection of mount pleasant was begun late in by john macpherson, a sea captain of clunie, scotland, who amassed a fortune and lost an arm in the adventurous practice of privateering. here he lived in manorial splendor, entertaining the most eminent personages of the day with munificent hospitality and employing himself with numerous ingenious inventions, notably a practical device for moving brick and stone houses intact. he wrote on moral philosophy, lectured on astronomy and published the first city directory in , a unique volume giving the names in direct house-to-house sequence and having such notations as, "i won't tell you", "what you please", and "cross woman" against street numbers where he found the occupants suspicious or unresponsive to his queries. meeting reverses in some of his financial affairs and longing for further adventures at sea, macpherson sought the chief command of the american navy at the outbreak of the revolution. this being denied him he leased mount pleasant to don juan de merailles, the spanish ambassador. but to be near general washington, merailles had to remove to morristown and there he soon died. in the spring of macpherson sold mount pleasant to general benedict arnold, of unhappy memory, whose remarkable and traitorous career is known to every american. arnold had been placed in command of philadelphia by washington, following its evacuation by the british, and in acquiring the most palatial countryseat in the vicinity he gratified his fondness for display and apparently saw in it a means of retaining or increasing his influence and power. it was his marriage gift to his bride, peggy shippen, the daughter of edward shippen, a moderate loyalist, who eventually became reconciled to the new order and was chief justice of the state from to . at mount pleasant arnold and his wife remained for more than a year, living extravagantly and entertaining lavishly. arnold's financial embarrassments and bitter contentions with persistent enemies became ever more deeply involved. here in bitterness, and not without some provocation, he conceived the dastardly plan of obtaining from washington command of west point, the key to the hudson river valley, in order that he might betray it to the british. following the discovery of the plot and arnold's flight to the british lines, his property was confiscated, and mount pleasant was leased for a short period to baron von steuben, after which it passed through several hands to general jonathan williams, of boston, in whose family the place remained until the middle of the nineteenth century, when it was acquired by the city as a part of fairmount park. at number germantown avenue, standing directly on the sidewalk as was often the case, and with a beautiful box-bordered garden of old-fashioned flowers about one hundred by four hundred feet along the south end, is one of the most interesting old plastered houses in philadelphia. well known in history, it is no less notable architecturally. in general arrangement it differs little from numerous other gable-roof structures of the vicinity, two and a half stories high with chimneys at each end and handsome pedimental dormers with round-topped windows between. it is in the excellent detail and nice proportion of the wood trim, both without and within, that this house excels. interest focuses upon the deeply recessed doorway with its sturdy tuscan columns and pediment, and the great, attractively paneled door. the fenestration is admirable with twenty-four-paned windows set in handsome frames with architrave casings and beautifully molded sills, the lower windows having shutters and the upper ones blinds. a notable feature is the heavy cornice with large modillions, and beneath a relatively fine-scale, double denticulated molding or grecian fret. within, a wide hall extends through the middle of the house, widening at the back where a handsome winding staircase with landings ascends to the floor above. opposite the staircase is a breakfast room overlooking the garden. the parlor and dining room on opposite sides of the hall, the bedrooms above and also the halls all have beautifully paneled wainscots. there are handsome chimney pieces in each room with dark pennsylvania marble facings about the fireplaces and ornamental panels so nicely made that no joints are visible. throughout the house the woodwork is of unusual beauty and unexcelled in workmanship. the house was built in by david deschler, a wealthy west india merchant, the son of an aide-de-camp to the reigning prince of baden, and margaret, a sister of john wister and caspar wistar. after the retreat of the american forces at the conclusion of the battle of germantown, sir william howe, the british commander, moved his headquarters from stenton to the deschler house. while there he is said to have been visited by prince william henry, then a midshipman in the royal navy, but afterward king william iv of england. upon deschler's death in the house was bought by colonel isaac franks, a new yorker who had served his country well in the continental army and filled several civil commissions after the conclusion of peace with england. he it was who rented the house to washington for a short period in the early winter of and again for six weeks in the following summer because of the yellow fever epidemic in philadelphia. here met the president's cabinet--jefferson, hamilton, knox and randolph--to discuss the president's message to congress and the difficulties with england, france and spain. aside from mount vernon, it is the only dwelling now standing in which washington lived for any considerable time. [illustration: plate xxxiv.--doorway, south eighth street; doorway, stenton.] [illustration: plate xxxv.--doorway and ironwork, southeast corner of eighth and spruce streets] in the property was purchased by elliston and john perot, two frenchmen who conducted a prosperous mercantile business in philadelphia. on the death of the former in , the place was purchased by his son-in-law, samuel b. morris, of the shipping firm of waln and morris, in whose family it has since remained. the interiors remain as in washington's time, and much of the furniture, silver and china used by him are still preserved, together with his letter thanking captain samuel morris for the valuable services of the first city troop during the revolution. although not erected until a few years after the treaty of peace following the revolution, vernon is so thoroughly colonial in architecture and of such merit as to warrant mention here. it stands in extensive grounds on the west side of germantown avenue, germantown, above chelton avenue. the main house is a hip-roofed structure two and a half stories in height of rubble masonry, the front being plastered and lined off to simulate dressed stone and the other walls being pebble dashed. a wing in the rear connects the main house with a semi-detached gable-roof structure in which were located the kitchen and servants' rooms. the principal features of the symmetrical façade with its ranging twelve-paned windows, shuttered on the lower story, are the central pediment with exquisite fanlight between flanking chimneys and handsomely detailed dormers, and a splendid doorway alluded to later in these pages. a fine-scale denticulated molding in the cornice, repeated elsewhere in the exterior wood trim, lends an air of exceptional richness and refinement. vernon was built in by james matthews, a whipmaker of the firm of mcallister and matthews. in it was purchased by john wistar, son of daniel wistar, and a member of the countinghouse of his uncle, william wistar. upon his uncle's death he conducted the business with his brother charles and became well known in mercantile circles and prominent in the society of friends. a bronze statue of him in quaker garb has been erected in front of the house. some years after his death in the place passed under the control of the city for a park and was occupied for a time by the free library. since the erection of a building near by for this latter purpose, it has housed the museum of the site and relic society, and contains much of interest to the student of early germantown. another house in the colonial spirit erected shortly after the close of the revolution is loudoun, at germantown avenue and apsley street, germantown, its grounds embracing the summit of neglee's hill. the house is two and a half stories high with additions which have somewhat altered its original appearance; it has a gambrel roof, hipped at one end after the mansard manner with excellent dormers on both the front and end just mentioned. its plastered rubble masonry walls are clothed with clinging ivy. the architectural interest centers chiefly in the fenestration and the pillared portico reminiscent of plantation mansions farther south. this portico, with its simple pediment and wooden columns surmounted by pleasingly unusual capitals of acanthus-leaf motive, was added some thirty years after the house was erected. the great twenty-four-paned ranging windows have heavy paneled shutters on the first floor and blinds on the second. tall, slender, engaged columns supporting a nicely detailed entablature frame a typical philadelphia doorway, the paneled door itself being single with a handsome leaded fanlight above. loudoun was built in by thomas armat as a countryseat for his son, thomas wright armat. the elder armat originally settled in loudoun county, virginia, and hence the name of the estate. coming to philadelphia about the time of the revolution, his family moved to germantown during the yellow fever epidemic of and found it such a pleasing place of residence that the building of loudoun some years later came as a natural consequence. it stands at the very outskirts of germantown, now the twenty-second ward of philadelphia, where germantown avenue starts its winding course toward chestnut hill. at the original lottery distribution of the land of the frankford company in the cave of francis daniel pastorius, there being no permanent houses at that time, the site fell to thomas kunders, in whose house at number germantown avenue the first meeting of friends was held in germantown. after the battle of germantown the hill was used as a hospital, and many dead were buried there. from to loudoun was rented to madam greland as a summer school for young women, and it was during this period, probably about , that the pillared portico was added. a successful philadelphia merchant and well-known philanthropist, thomas armat, gave the site for st. luke's church in germantown and assisted in its erection, also setting aside a chamber at loudoun which was known as the minister's room. he was among the first to suggest the use of coal for heating, and one of the early patentees of a hay scales. armat's daughter married gustavus logan, great-great-grandson of james logan and grandson of john dickinson, whose "farmer's letters", addressed to the people of england, are said to have brought about the repeal of the stamp act. loudoun still remains in the logan family. no stranger house can be found in all philadelphia than solitude on the west bank of the schuylkill in blockley township, fairmount park. it is a boxlike structure of plastered rubble masonry twenty-six feet square and two and a half stories high, with a hip roof having simple pedimental dormers and two oppositely disposed chimneys. the wood trim is severely simple throughout, from the heavy molded cornice under the eaves to the pedimental recessed doorway with its ionic columns and entablature. two slightly projecting courses of brick, one some ten inches or so above the other, form an unusual belt at the second-floor level, while a distinctive feature of the fenestration is seen in the fact that most of the windows have nine-paned upper and six-paned lower sashes. within, the entrance doorway leads into a hall some nine feet wide and extending entirely across the house from side to side. the remainder of the first floor consists of a large parlor with windows opening on a portico overlooking the river. a beautiful stucco cornice and ceiling and a carved wood surbase are its best features. in one corner a staircase with wrought-iron railing rises to the second floor, where there is a library about fifteen feet square with built-in bookcases, two connecting bedrooms, one with an alcove and secret door where the owner might shut himself away from intrusive visitors, and a staircase leading to more bedrooms on the third floor. the cellar is deep and roomy, with provision for wine storage, and an underground passage communicates with the kitchen located in a separate building about twenty-five feet distant. solitude was built in by john penn, a grandson of william penn, the founder of philadelphia, and a son of thomas penn, whose wife was a daughter of the earl of pomfret. a much traveled, scholarly man, poet, idealist and art patron, he came to philadelphia in to look after proprietary interests in pennsylvania and intending to become an american. but his claims were made under hereditary rights, and as the state was not disposed to honor them he concluded to remain an englishman. vexed with the perversity of human nature, he built solitude and named it for a lodge belonging to the duke of württemburg. there he lived somewhat the life of a recluse with his books and trees for three years. he was on friendly terms with his neighbors, however, who included his cousin, governor john penn, and judge richard peters. gay week-end parties also came in boats to enjoy his hospitality, and washington once spent a day with him during the sitting of the constitutional convention in philadelphia. in penn suddenly returned to england, built a handsome residence at stoke and embarked on a notable career in public life, becoming sheriff of bucks in , a member of parliament in , and royal governor of the island of portland in dorset for many years after . the university of cambridge made him an ll.d. in , and he won promotion to a lieutenant-colonelcy in the royal bucks yeomanry. later in his declining years he formed the outinian society to encourage young men and women to marry, although he inconsistently died a bachelor in . [illustration: plate xxxvi.--doorway and ironwork, northeast corner of third and pine streets; stoop with curved stairs and iron handrail, south third street.] [illustration: plate xxxvii.--stoop and balustrade, wistar house; stoop and balustrade, race street.] solitude then passed by inheritance to penn's youngest brother, granville, and on his death ten years later to a nephew, granville john penn, great-grandson of william penn, and the last penn at solitude. coming to philadelphia in middle life about he was lionized by society and in acknowledgment gave a grand "fête champêtre" and collation. following his death in , solitude and its grounds were made part of fairmount park, and after several years without tenancy the house in its original condition was made the administration building of the zoölogical society. the fine old plastered stone houses of philadelphia comprise one of the distinctive and most admired types of its colonial architecture. those with pebble-dashed walls which seek to simulate no other building material or form of construction possess the added charm of frank sincerity. fire-proof in character, pleasing in appearance, and readily adaptable to varied home requirements, they point the way wherever rubble stone incapable of forming an attractive wall is cheaply available. many modern dwellings in the colonial spirit are being built in this manner. chapter vi hewn stone country houses cost was not an object in building many of the larger old countryseats about philadelphia, for their owners were men of wealth and station, prominent in the affairs of the province and sharing its prosperity. influenced by the builders of the georgian period in england, and often under their personal supervision, the buildings on numerous great estates about the early metropolis of the american colonies were constructed of quarried stone, whether sawed in the form of "brick" stone or hammered to a relatively smooth surface. surfaced stone, however, especially when cut into rectangular blocks, is to be recommended only for public work or for very large and pretentious residences of formal character and arrangement. in small buildings, and unless handled with skill and discretion in larger work, its psychological effect upon the mind is that of uncompromising and somewhat repellent austerity; it suggests the prison-like palace rather than the domestic atmosphere of a true home,--an atmosphere to be had in stone only by preserving the greater spontaneity of irregular shapes and rock faces characteristic of germantown ledge stone. that the early builders of this vicinity were skilled stone masons and employed this form of building construction with sympathy and intelligence is indicated by the splendid old mansions that still remain as monuments to their genius,--stately, elegant, enduring, yet withal pleasing, comfortable and eminently livable. the use of "brick" stone for several of them has given a lighter scale, and by repetition of many closely related and prominent horizontals has simulated a greater breadth of façade and a lesser total height, both beneficial to the general appearance. as in ordinary brickwork, the vertical pointing is as wide as the horizontal, but the joints break, whereas the course lines are continuous, thus emphasizing the horizontals of light mortar. unquestionably the most notable mansion of hewn stone in greater philadelphia is cliveden, the countryseat of the chew family, located in extensive grounds at germantown avenue and johnson streets, germantown. one of the most substantial and elaborate residences of that day, it is two and a half stories in height and built of heavy masonry, the front illustrating well the pleasing use of surfaced germantown stone, flush pointed, the other walls being of rubble masonry, plastered and marked off to simulate dressed stone. two wings, one semi-detached and the other entirely so, extend back from the main house and contain the kitchen, servants' quarters and laundry. the classic front entrance opens into a large hall with small rooms on each side which were originally used as offices. beyond and above are many spacious rooms with excellent woodwork and handsome chimney pieces. no handsomer colonial façade is to be found in america. classic in feeling and symmetrical in arrangement, it is excellently detailed in every particular. above a slightly projecting water table the repeated horizontals of the limestone belt at the second-floor level, the heavy cornice with prominent modillions and the roof line impart a feeling of repose and stability quite apart from the character of the building material itself. the ranging windows, shuttered on the lower floor, are distinguished by their keyed limestone lintels and twelve-paned upper and lower sashes, while the roof is elaborated by two great chimney stacks, a like number of well-designed dormers with round-topped windows, and five handsome stone urns mounted on brick piers at the corners and over the entrance. the central portion of the façade projects slightly under a pediment in harmony with the splendid doric doorway beneath, of which more elsewhere. [illustration: plate xxxviii.--detail of iron balustrade, south ninth street; stoop with wing flights, la grange alley.] [illustration: plate xxxix.--iron newel, fourth and liberty streets; iron newel, walnut street.] cliveden was erected in by benjamin chew, a friend of washington and a descendant of one of the oldest and most distinguished virginia families, his great-grandfather, john chew, having settled at james citie about , and, like benjamin chew's grandfather and father, who resided in maryland, having been prominent in the courts and public affairs generally. benjamin chew studied law with andrew hamilton, and at the age of nineteen entered the middle temple, london, the same year as sir william blackstone. removing to philadelphia in , he was provincial counselor in , attorney general from to , recorder of the city from to , a member of the pennsylvania-maryland boundary commission in , register general of the province in , and in succeeded william allen as chief justice of the supreme court of pennsylvania. following the revolution he served as a judge and president of the high court of errours and appeals until it was abolished in . justice chew was brought up a quaker and his attitude coincided with that of many others who manifested sympathy for the american cause, yet hesitated at complete independence. in defining high treason to the april grand jury of , the last held under the crown, he stated that "an opposition by force of arms to the lawful authority of the king or his ministry is high treason, but in the moment when the king, or his ministers, shall exceed the authority vested in them by the constitution, submission to their mandate becomes treason." it is not surprising, therefore, that in august, , judge chew and john penn, the late proprietary, were arrested by the city troop and on refusing parole were imprisoned at the union iron works until sometime in . with fourteen attractive and accomplished children, two sons and twelve daughters, things were always lively at cliveden, and it was the scene of lavish entertainment of washington, adams and other members of the first continental congress. around its classic doorway the battle of germantown raged most fiercely. the house had been occupied by the british under colonel musgrave, the chew family being away at the time; and so effective a fortress did it prove that the center of washington's advance was checked and the day lost to the american arms. great damage was done inside and out by cannon balls, some of it being still visible, although several workmen spent the entire following winter putting the house in order. during his triumphal farewell tour of the twenty-four american states in , a breakfast was tendered to la fayette at cliveden on the day of his reception at wyck. in , justice chew sold cliveden to blair mcclenahan, a director of the bank of pennsylvania, for nine thousand dollars, but bought it back again in for twenty-five thousand dollars. since that time it has remained in the family and is still occupied part of the year. chew's woods, formerly part of the estate, have been presented to the city as a public park, but the stable behind the house, and connected with it by an underground passage, still remains much as ever; and therein reposes the curious old family coach. second only to cliveden in architectural interest is the highlands, located on the skippack pike overlooking the whitemarsh valley from a lofty site among giant old oaks, pines and sycamores. it is a splendid example of american architecture after the late georgian manner, and although not built until after the revolution, its character is such that it deserves to be included among the colonial houses of the vicinity. the south or entrance front is built of squared and nicely surfaced stones laid up with joints breaking much like brickwork, the pointing being of the ridge or weathered type. the sides are of ordinary rubble but plastered and lined off to simulate hewn stone. the central section of the façade projects slightly, two ionic pilasters of white marble supporting a pediment within which a semicircular fanlight ventilates and lights the attic. marble belts at the first-and second-floor levels, marble window sills and keystones in the lintels relieve and brighten the effect, while an unusual diamond fret lends distinction to the cornice. the windows have six-paned upper and lower sashes with blinds on all stories, as in the case of most of the later colonial houses. ornamental wrought-iron fire balconies at the second-story windows are a picturesque feature. the entrance porch, one of the few of consequence in philadelphia, is characterized by its chaste simplicity, the fine-scale reeded columns and wrought-iron balustrade of the marble steps being its chief features. but for the double doors characteristic of philadelphia, the doorway itself, of excellent proportions and having a handsome elliptical fanlight and side lights with leaded glass, would suggest salem design. within, a great hall extends through the house to a wide cross hall at the rear, where a broad and handsome staircase with wing flights above a gallery landing is located. a beautiful palladian window in the west end of the house lights this landing and the entire cross hall. much excellent woodwork adorns the spacious rooms, but the splendid adam mantels with their delicate applied stucco designs were long ago replaced by less pleasing creations of black marble. [illustration: plate xl.--footscraper, wyck; old philadelphia footscraper; footscraper, third and spruce streets; footscraper, dirck-keyser house, germantown.] [illustration: plate xli.--footscraper, south third street; footscraper, south third street; footscraper, vernon, germantown; footscraper, pine street.] the highlands was completed in by anthony morris, son of captain samuel morris, and a friend of jefferson, monroe and madison, and was some two years in the building. morris was admitted to the bar in and soon went into politics, later engaging extensively in the east india trade. representing the city of philadelphia in the state senate, he was in , at the age of twenty-seven, elected speaker, succeeding samuel powel. in this capacity he signed a bill providing for troops to suppress the whiskey rebellion, for which act he was disowned by the friends' meeting of which he was a member. dolly madison makes friendly references to morris in her memoirs and letters, and for nearly two years during madison's administration morris represented the united states at the court of spain. through his efforts an adjustment was effected in the boundary dispute over the florida cession. in morris sold the highlands to one hitner, who conveyed it in to george sheaff, in whose family it has since remained. nothing quite like bartram house is to be found anywhere in america. situated on the schuylkill river at kingsessing, west philadelphia, just to the south of what was once the lower or gray's ferry, this curious structure was begun in , and the main part of it was completed the following year, as indicated by a stone in one of the gables bearing the inscription in greek, "may god save", followed in english by "john and ann bartram, ." successive additions and alterations have changed the inside arrangement more than the exterior appearance, and it can hardly be said that the house now has any particular floor plan. probably the latest important changes were made when a stone bearing the following inscription was placed over the study window: it is god above almyty lord the holy one by me ador'd. john bartram, . in outward appearance bartram house is a simple gable-roof structure two and a half stories in height, of large, roughly hewn stones with east and west fronts and three dormers lighting the attic. the east or entrance front has a characteristic trellis-shaded doorway with quaint dutch seats at each side, while the west front has an odd, recessed porch between rude ionic columns of native stone, the same as the walls and built up like them. crudely chiseled, elaborately ornamental window casings, lintels and sills form a curious feature of this façade. clothed as it is with clinging ivy and climbing roses, the house suggests an effect of both stateliness and rusticity. bartram was a farmer, but his interest in plants, shrubs and trees was such that he became one of the greatest botanists of his day. in autumn, when his farm labors were finished for the year, he journeyed extensively about the colonies, gathering specimens with which to beautify his grounds. his greatest enjoyment in life was to make his collection of rare species ever more complete, and his remarkable accomplishments in this direction, despite many handicaps, entitle him to be known as the father of american botanists. after bartram's death his son william, also an eminent botanist, carried on the work, and later his son-in-law, colonel carr, did likewise until the place became one of the most interesting botanical gardens in the country. in the estate was purchased by andrew eastwick, a railway builder just returned from an extended commission in russia, who erected a large residence in another part of the grounds. in the city bought bartram house and its immediate grounds and in acquired the balance of the estate, the whole being converted into a public park and the old house being furnished and put in excellent condition by the descendants of the bartram family. undoubtedly the most notable instance of the use of "brick" stone with the so-called colonial or "barn" pointing is the johnson house at number germantown avenue, germantown. typical of the first homes that lined the street of this historic old town for nearly two miles, it is solidly built of dark native ledge stone, the front being of dressed rectangular blocks considerably smaller, somewhat rougher and hence less formal than the surfaced blocks of cliveden, for example. it is a single gable-roofed structure two and a half stories high with ranging windows throughout, a large chimney at each end and two dormers in the front between them. like many others of the time it had a small penthouse roof at the second-floor level which, with the overhanging eaves of the roof above, afforded protection from rainy weather for the joints of the stonework which was at first laid up in clay. lime for making more permanent mortar was far from plentiful for many years after america was first settled, and numerous makeshifts had to be resorted to unless the builder could afford to import lime from england at great expense. over the doorway, with its simple flanking seats, there is the familiar pedimental and slightly projecting hood, while the door itself is of the quaint divided type, permitting the upper half to be opened while the lower half is closed. on the first floor the windows have nine-paned sashes, both upper and lower, together with nicely paneled shutters, while on the second floor the upper sashes are foreshortened to six panes, and there are neither shutters nor blinds. this excellent example of the pennsylvania farmhouse type was built by dirck jansen, one of the original settlers of germantown, for his son john johnson at the time of his marriage to rachael livezey. the work was begun in and completed in , as indicated by a date stone in the peak of one of the gables. it was one of the largest and most substantial residences in the town and for that reason gave much concern to the society of friends of which the johnsons were members. during the battle of germantown it was in the thick of the fight, and following the warning of an officer john johnson and his entire family took refuge in the cellar. bullet holes through three doors are still visible, also the damage done to the northwest wall by a cannon ball. the backyard fence, riddled with bullets, was removed in to the museum of the site and relic society at vernon. since the death of john johnson in , the house has passed through many hands, all descendants of the builder, however. during the civil war it became a station of the "underground railway" for conducting fugitive slaves to canada, and mrs. josiah reeve, a great-great-granddaughter of the builder, used to tell how, when a child, she often wondered why so many colored people lived in the attic, staying only a day or so, when others would appear. generally similar to the johnson house is the old green tree inn, number germantown avenue, germantown, erected in . its principal distinctions lie in the three small, plain dormers with segmental topped windows; the coved cornice; the elliptical carving in the pediment of the hood over the door; the enriched ovolo molding of the penthouse roof, consisting of a ball and disk in alternation, and the arched openings of the basement windows. in this building on december , , then the home of daniel mackinett, the public school of germantown, the germantown academy, was organized, its building being erected the following year. in revolutionary times this old house was known as "widow mackinett's tavern", and it was a famous resort for driving parties from the city. many persons of note were entertained at the green tree inn, and when la fayette visited germantown in it was the intention to tender him a dinner there. it was concluded, however, that the tavern could not accommodate the party, and a breakfast at cliveden was given instead, to which reference has already been made. the old billmeyer house, also on germantown avenue, germantown, interests the student of architecture primarily as a rare instance of the early germantown two-family house. apart from its two front entrance doorways and the absence of a hood in the penthouse roof, it is much like the johnson house in general arrangement. the "brick" stones are larger and less pleasing, however, and the high elevation of the structure is evidently due to a subsequent change in the grade of the street. this, however, has given opportunity for a quaint double flight of wing steps with simple wrought-iron balustrades in the characteristic philadelphia manner. the seats, back to back, one for each doorway, recall those of the johnson house. one notices with admiration the beautifully detailed pedimental dormers with their round-topped windows, and with interest the unusual use of shutters on both the first and second stories. both upper and lower sashes on the first floor are twelve-paned, as are also the upper sashes on the second floor, the foreshortening of these upper windows being accomplished by means of eight-paned lower sashes. [illustration: plate xlii.--iron stair rail and footscraper, south seventh street (section); iron stair rail and footscraper, south fourth street (section); iron stair rail and footscraper, seventh and locust streets (section); iron stair rail and footscraper, seventh and locust streets (section).] [illustration: plate xliii.--detail of window and shutters, morris house.] erected in as a single dwelling, this house was occupied during the battle by the widow deshler and her family. at that time there was no building of any sort between the billmeyer and chew houses. it was in front of this house that washington stopped in his march down germantown avenue on october , , having discovered that the chew house was occupied by the british. there he conferred with his officers, ordered the attack and directed the battle. the tradition is that washington stood on a horse block, telescope in hand, trying in vain to penetrate the smoke and fog and discover the force of the enemy intrenched within the chew mansion. the stone cap of the horse block is still preserved, and the telescope is in the possession of germantown academy. the house suffered greatly at the hands of the british soldiers who were quartered there, and its woodwork still bears the marks of bullets and attempts to set it on fire. in it became the home of michael billmeyer, a celebrated german printer who carried on his trade there. homes such as the johnson and billmeyer houses and numerous similar ones, two and a half stories high with gable roofs, dormer windows and a penthouse roof at the second-floor level, are characteristic examples of the best pennsylvania farmhouse type which architects of the present day are perpetuating to a considerable extent. whether of dressed local or ledge stone, they are distinct from anything else anywhere that comes within the colonial category. in their design and construction sincerity of purpose is manifest; their sturdy simplicity and frank practicability give them a rare charm which appeals strongly to all lovers of the colonial style in architecture. chapter vii doorways and porches invariably one associates a house with its front entrance, for the doorway is the dominant feature of the façade, the keynote so to speak. truly utilitarian in purpose, and so lending itself more logically to elaboration for the sake of decorative effect, the doorway became the principal single feature of a colonial exterior. when designed in complete accord with the house it lends distinction and charm to the building as a whole. like men, doorways have character and individuality. indeed, in their individuality they reflect the character of those who built them. they symbolize the house as a whole and usually the mien of its occupants; they create the first impressions which the guest has of his host, and foretell more or less accurately the sort of welcome to be expected. the houses of philadelphia and vicinity, perhaps more than those of any other american city, possess the charm of architectural merit combined with historic interest. to appreciate more fully the important part played by philadelphians in early american affairs, we study their houses and home life, and as the primary index to the domestic architecture of the vicinity we direct our attention to the doorways and porches. like the houses, the doorways range in architectural pretension from the unaffected simplicity of wyck to the stately elaboration of cliveden and mount pleasant, and possess distinctive characteristics not seen elsewhere. wealth made philadelphia the most fashionable american city of the time, with all the attendant rivalries and jealousies of such a condition. desiring to put the best foot foremost, elaboration of the doorway provided a ready means to display the self-esteem, affluence and social position of the owner. naturally the quaker severity of former years was reflected in many of these outward manifestations of home life, and it is a study of absorbing interest to note the proportions and resulting spirit, so unlike new england doorways, which the local builders gave to their adaptations from the same renaissance motives. summed up in a sentence, the high, narrow doorways of philadelphia, for the most part without the welcoming side lights of new england, speak truly of quaker severity and the exclusiveness of the old aristocratic families. [illustration: plate xliv.--window and shutters, free quakers' meeting house, fifth and arch streets; second story window, free quakers' meeting house.] [illustration: plate xlv.--detail of windows, combes alley; window and shutters, cliveden; window, bartram house.] as to the doors themselves, four distinct types were common throughout the colonial period. single and double doors were equally popular, high, narrow double doors being favored for the more pretentious houses, although instances are not lacking of single doors in the mansions of colonial times. with very few exceptions molded and raised panels with broad bevels were used in all, and it is according to the arrangement of these panels that the different types of doors are best classified. one of the earliest and simplest was the six-panel single door with three stiles of about equal width, top and frieze rail about the same, bottom rail somewhat wider and lock rail about double the width of the frieze rail. the upper pair of panels were not quite high enough to be square, while the middle and lower pairs were oblong in shape, the middle one being higher than the lower. rarely this relation was reversed, and the lower pair was higher than the middle pair, the door at number germantown avenue being an example. as found in the farmhouses of germantown and thereabouts, notably wyck, glen fern, the green tree inn and the johnson and billmeyer houses, these six-panel doors were split horizontally through the lock rail, dividing them into an upper and lower part. this arrangement made it possible to open the upper part for ventilation while keeping the lower part closed to prevent stray animals and fowls from entering the house. numerous examples of undivided six-panel doors are shown by accompanying illustrations and referred to in detail in succeeding paragraphs. of these the door of grumblethorpe is unique in having a double stile in the middle, giving almost the appearance of double doors. three-panel double doors, such as those of mount pleasant, solitude and port royal house, were less common than any of the four principal types mentioned, and were little used except for a few decades after the middle of the eighteenth century. like six-panel single doors, the upper panel was often almost square, and the middle oblong panel higher than the bottom one of the same shape. at mount pleasant the middle and lower panels were of the same size. eight-panel single doors were employed extensively throughout the eighteenth century, and this is one of the most picturesque and distinctive of philadelphia types. for the most part the panels were arranged as shown by the doors of the perot-morris, powel and wharton houses with a pair of small and large panels in alternation. other notable instances are to be seen at loudoun, chalkley hall and the blackwell house. the top or first and third pairs were about half as high as their width, while the second and fourth pairs were oblong and usually of the same size, their height about one and one-half times their width. the door at upsala is a rare instance of the fourth pair of panels lower than the second, whereas that at number south seventh street shows this type with molded flat panels. as is well shown by the door of the perot-morris house, the fourth rail was the broad lock rail, and as in those days the latch was often separate, it was frequently placed on the rail above, and hence often referred to as the latch rail. another less common type of eight-panel single door is shown in accompanying illustrations by doors at number germantown avenue, number fisher's lane, wayne junction and number south eighth street. the panel arrangement consisted of three pairs of nearly square panels above the lock rail and one pair twice as high below. of the doors mentioned, that at wayne junction is unique in its flat molded panels. a corresponding panel arrangement of double doors is to be seen at the highlands. usually, however, four-panel double doors took the alternate small and large panel arrangement and were virtually halves of the more common type of eight-panel single door. such doors at stenton, cliveden and the morris house are illustrated in detail, and similar ones gave entrance to hope lodge, woodford and vernon. the woodford doors are interesting for their glazed quatrefoil openings in the top pair of panels, the vernon doors for a handsome brass knocker on the second panel of each one. for the most part philadelphia doorways were deeply recessed in connection with stone construction because of the great thickness of the walls. paneled jambs were let into the reveals of the opening, and whatever the panel arrangement of the door, a corresponding arrangement was followed in paneling the jambs and the soffit of the arch or flat lintel above. such a distinctive and pleasing feature did this become that it was widely adapted to brick construction, the outward projection of pilasters and engaged columns, often both, supporting pediments and entablatures which had the effect of increasing the depth of brick walls. the simplest type of philadelphia doorway is that common to the ledge and "brick" stone farmhouses of germantown, of which the doorway of the johnson house is perhaps the best example. these houses usually had a penthouse roof along the second-floor level, and as in this instance a pediment springing from this roof usually formed a hood above the doorway. although this doorway with its molded casings, four-paned horizontal transom and single door with six molded and raised panels is of the most modest character, its simple lines and good proportions present an effect of picturesque charm. the door is divided horizontally into two parts, after the dutch manner, like many farmhouse doors of the neighborhood. the position of the drop handle replacing the usual knob indicates the size of the great rim lock within, and the graceful design of the brass knocker is justly one of the most popular to-day. the seats flanking the entrance are unique and unlike any others in philadelphia, although those between the two doors of the billmeyer house near by are similar. [illustration: plate xlvi.--window, stenton; window and shutters, race street.] [illustration: plate xlvii.--dormer, witherill house, north front street; dormer, germantown avenue, germantown; foreshortened window, morris house; dormer, stenton; window and shutters, witherill house; window and blinds, germantown avenue.] substantially the same sort of doorway without the seats is to be seen at the old green tree inn, number germantown avenue, germantown, erected in . here, however, the effect is slightly enriched by a nicely hand-tooled ovolo molding in the cornice of the penthouse roof that is repeated with an elliptical fan design in the pediment of the hood. another type of philadelphia doorway only a little more elaborate than the foregoing is well illustrated at number league street and number germantown avenue. above the architrave casing across the lintel of these deeply recessed doorways a frieze and pediment form an effective doorhead. the pedimental league street doorhead is supported by hand-carved consoles at opposite ends, that of the germantown avenue doorhead by fluted pilasters. an oval shell pattern adorns the frieze of the former, while a denticulated molding enriches the latter. as contrasted with the plain cased frame of the former, the latter has paneled jambs and soffit, the spacing corresponding with that of the door. both doors are of the popular six-panel type with nicely molded and raised panels, and both doorheads are elaborated by short, broader sections of the vertical casings near the top. in refinement of detail and proportion, and in precision of workmanship the germantown avenue doorway surpasses that on league street. but the characteristic type of pedimental door trim in philadelphia takes a different form. about the middle of the eighteenth century the plain horizontal transom above outside doors was generally replaced by the more graceful semicircular fanlight, the glass area of which was divided by sash bars or leaded lines into numerous radiating patterns of more or less grace and beauty. by omitting the entablature of the common horizontal doorhead and breaking the base of the pediment, the round arch of the fanlight was made to fit very nicely within the sloping sides of the pediment, the keystone of the arched casing occupying the upper angle beneath the peak of the gable. pilasters or engaged columns support the pediment, their upper molded portion above the necking being carried across the horizontal lintel of the door frame. from the capitals up to the short cornice returns, replacing the usual base of the pediment, the spirit of the entablature is retained by pilaster projections molded after the manner of cornice, frieze and architrave. excellent doorways such as this with fluted pilaster casings, single doors with six molded and raised panels of familiar arrangement and paneled jambs and soffit to correspond are to be seen at number germantown avenue, germantown, and number pine street. the former is of considerable breadth, as philadelphia doorways go, and the fanlight is of rather too intricate pattern and heavy scale. the latter is exceptionally narrow, with pilasters in accord and a fanlight of chaste simplicity. like many others the door itself is dark painted and in striking contrast to the other white wood trim. one notices at once the strange placing of the knob at the top rather than in the middle of the lock rail, and the footscraper in a separate block of marble in the sidewalk at one side of the marble steps, the inference being that one should scrupulously wipe his feet before approaching the door. similar to these, but showing better proportion and greater refinement of detail, is the entrance to the morris house, one of the best known doorways in philadelphia and notable as one of the relatively few pedimental doorways of this type having the high four-panel double doors. the pediment framing the simple but very graceful fanlight is enriched by cornice moldings, hand-tooled to fine scale, the soffit of the corona being fluted, the bed-molding reeded and the dentil course being a familiar grecian fret. flutings also adorn the short architraves each side of the fanlight, and the abacus of the pilaster columns which is carried across a supplementary lintel in front of the lintel proper, the latter being several inches to the rear because of the deeply recessed arrangement of the door. the detail combines doric and ionic inspiration. an attractive knocker, simple brass knob and exceptionally large key plate indicating the great rim lock within, lend a quaint charm to a doorway distinctly pleasing in its entirety. two excellent doorways of this general type having paneled instead of fluted pilaster casings may be seen at number germantown avenue, germantown, and number south seventh street. the former is broad and has a six-panel door much like that at number germantown avenue, but the fanlight is of simpler pattern and withal more pleasing. a fine-scale dentil course lends interest to the pedimental cornice, while the frieze portions of the entablature section of the pilasters are elaborated by flutings and drillings, the latter suggestive of a festoon. a knocker of slender grace is the best feature of the hardware. the south seventh street entrance, higher and narrower, presents another example of the dark-painted door rendered the more interesting by reason of its eight-panel arrangement, the spacing being that usually employed for double doors. the wood trim, molded but nowhere carved, commends itself for effective simplicity. two marble steps, the upper one very deep, with an attractive iron rail on the buttresses at each side, complete a doorway picture that is typically philadelphian. [illustration: plate xlviii.--shutter fastener, cliveden; shutter fastener, wyck; shutter fastener, perot-morris house; shutter fastener, germantown avenue.] [illustration: plate xlix.--detail of round headed window, congress hall; detail of round headed window, christ church.] surpassing both of the foregoing, however, is the doorway at number spruce street. indeed, it is among the best of its type in the city. it has the simple excellence in detail of the south seventh street doorway, with better proportion, less height of pediment and greater apparent breadth, owing to the six-panel arrangement of the door and the fact that it is white like the wood trim about it. the only carved molding is the grecian fret of the dentil course in the pedimental cornice. here again another favorite knocker pattern greets the eye. engaged round columns, usually smooth and standing in front of wide pilasters, were often pleasing features of these pedimental doorways. in such instances the projection was so great that the entablature sections above the columns were square, and the soffit of the corona in the pediment was paneled. two notable instances may be cited at number germantown avenue, germantown, and number frankford avenue. both have the familiar six-panel doors with corresponding paneled jambs and arch soffit, attractively simple fanlights and much fine-scale hand carving in the pedimental cornice and architrave casing of the keyed arch. the former displays better taste. effective use is made of a reeded ovolo, and the fascia of the architrave bears a pleasing hand-tooled band of vertical flutes with a festooned flat fillet running through it. the most distinctive feature, however, is the double denticulated molding of the pedimental cornice with prominent drilled holes in each dentil alternately at top and bottom. although representing a high degree of the wood-carvers' art, the other doorway is rather over-ornate in its detail. the reeded ovolo is again prominent, and the fascia of the architrave of the arch bears a familiar decorative motive consisting of groups of five flutes in alternation with a conventionalized flower. the dentil course of the pedimental cornice takes the form of a peculiar reeded h pattern which is repeated in much finer scale on the edge of the corona, the abacus of the capitals and its continuation across the lintel of the door. least pleasing of all is the fluting of the frieze portion of the entablature sections with three sets of drillings suggestive of festoons. another admirable type of doorway, of which there are many examples in philadelphia, frames the high, round-headed arch of the doorway with tall, slender engaged columns supporting a massive entablature above the semicircular fanlight over the door. almost without exception the entablature is some variation of the ionic order with denticulated bed-mold in the cornice, plain flat frieze and molded architrave, the latter sometimes enriched by incised decorative bands. the columns are doric and smooth. they stand in front of more widely spaced pilasters, which are virtually a broadening of the casings of the door frame, and which support a second entablature back of the first and somewhat wider. the two combined form a doorhead with projection almost equal to a hood, but the effect is far more stately. such a doorway in its simplest form, with columns tapering considerably toward the top, in accordance with a prevalent local custom of the time, is to be seen on the powel house, number south third street. the sash divisions of the fanlight are unique, suggesting both gothic tracery and the lotus flower. the single, high eight-panel door recalls many having a similar arrangement of molded and raised panels, but differs from most of them in that the lock rail is about double the width of the two rails above. narrower, with more slender columns, and thus seemingly higher, is the doorway of the wharton house, number spruce street. while the entablature is generally similar, the moldings adhere less closely to the classic order, and the same is true of the exceptionally slender columns. an enriched ovolo suggesting a quarter section of a cylinder and two disks in alternation lends added refinement to the paneled jambs and the architrave casing of the arch with its hand-carved keystone. the fanlight is of simple but pleasing pattern, and the eight-panel door is of characteristic design. at number south seventh street the doorway itself strongly resembles that of the powel house, except that it is higher, narrower and rather lighter in scale. however, the wing flights of stone steps on the sidewalk leading to a broad landing before the door and the handsome wrought-iron rail lend individuality and rare charm to this notable example of a familiar type. the doorway of grumblethorpe, number germantown avenue, germantown, differs little in general appearance, if considerably in detail, from that of the powel house. one notices first how deeply recessed it is because of the thickness of the stone walls. with the projecting entablature it affords almost as much shelter as a porch. the single door next attracts attention. of six-panel and familiar arrangement, it differs from most of this sort in having a double stile in the middle, the effect simulating double doors. a simple, hand-tooled ovolo ornaments the jambs and architrave casings of the keyed arch. it is also repeated above the double denticulated member of the cornice, the latter enriched by a hole drilled in each dentil alternately above and below. daintiness and simplicity characterize the fanlight pattern set in lead lines. the doorway at number germantown avenue, germantown, may be regarded as one of the best of the more ornate examples of this type. [illustration: plate l.--fenestration, chancel end, st. peter's church.] [illustration: plate li.--details of round headed windows, christ church.] it has fluted columns, an intricately hand-tooled dentil course in the cornice, richly incised architraves and carved ovolo moldings. the denticulated molding has fluted dentils with horizontal connecting members forming a sort of continuous h pattern. an incised band of dainty grace adorns the architrave of the entablature. it consists of groups of five vertical flutes in alternation with drillings forming upward and downward arcs or double festoons. the architrave of the arch and lintel has a slightly different incised pattern. there are the same fluted groups with oval ornaments composed of drillings between. the door itself is of the regulation six-panel arrangement. few doorways in the corinthian order are to be found in what may properly be termed the colonial architecture of philadelphia, for this order was little used by american builders until early in the nineteenth century. the doorway of doctor denton's house in germantown instances its employment in a somewhat original manner. the entablature follows the classic order closely, except for the tiny consoles of the dentil course and the incised decoration of the upper fascia of the architrave, consisting of a band of elongated hexagons which is repeated across the lintel of the door and the imposts of the arch. a latin quotation, "procuc este profans", meaning "be far from here that which is unholy", is carved in the architrave casing over the fanlight. the columns are fluted, but have the doric rather than the usual corinthian capitals. double blind doors such as are a feature of this entrance were the predecessor of the modern screen door. arbor vitæ trees in square wooden tubs on the broad top step each side of the doorway complete a formal treatment of dignity and attractiveness. rarely occurred a doorway having a complete entablature above a fanlight surmounted by a pediment. the east and west entrances of mount pleasant offer two splendid examples, massive and dignified. while much alike in several respects, they differ sufficiently in detail to afford an interesting comparison. in size and general arrangement in their double three-panel doors and smooth columns, they greatly resemble each other. although not pure, the doorway of the west or river front is essentially tuscan and of the utmost simplicity. its chief distinction lies in the rustication of the casings, jambs and soffit, simulating stonework, and the heavy fanlight sash with its openings combining the keystone and arch in outline. the doorway of the east front, which is the entrance from the drive, is doric and has the customary triglyphs, mutules and guttæ. there is the same rustication of casings and jambs up to the height of the doors, but molded spandrils occupy the spaces each side of the round arch with its wide ornate keystone. exceptionally broad tapering and fluted mullions lend distinction to the heavy fanlight sash with its round-ended openings. neither of these doorways has the double projection of those previously described. the background pilasters are omitted, and the engaged columns stand directly against the stone masonry. a beautiful palladian window in the second-story wall above each doorway forms a closely related feature, the two being virtually parts of the same effect. oftener, where an entablature supported by engaged columns was surmounted by a pediment, the fanlight over the door was omitted. of the several instances in philadelphia, the best known is undoubtedly the classic doorway of cliveden, about which the battle of germantown raged most fiercely. the damage done by cannon balls to the stone steps may still be plainly seen. this doorway is one of the finest specimens of pure mutulary doric in america, very stately and somewhat severe. every detail is well-nigh perfect, and the proportions could hardly be better. a similar arrangement of the high, narrow, four-panel double doors is found elsewhere in philadelphia, while the blinds used instead of screen doors recall those of doctor denton's house, although divided by two rails respectively toward the top and bottom into three sections, the middle section being the largest. two small drop handles with pendant rings comprise the entire visible complement of hardware on the doors. as compared with the east entrance of mount pleasant, the cliveden detail is richer in the paneled soffits of the corona and the paneled metopes in alternation with the triglyphs of the frieze. one notices also that it is not deeply recessed according to the prevailing custom in the case of stone houses. another doorway of this general character and having double doors is the entrance to solitude. conventionally ionic in detail, with smooth columns and voluted capitals, it pleases the eye but lacks the impressiveness of the doorway at cliveden. the three-panel double doors are narrower, and this fact is emphasized by the deep recess with paneled jambs. there is but one broad step, which also serves as the threshold. the doorway of the perot-morris house, deeply recessed because of the thick stone walls, presents at its best another variation of this sturdiest of philadelphia types with a single, eight-panel, dark-painted door and a very broad top stone step before it. virtually a pure tuscan adaptation, it differs in a few particulars from others of similar character, notably in the pronounced tapering of the columns toward the top and the recessing of the entablature above the door to form pilaster projections above the columns. in other words, the recessed entablature of this doorhead replaces the fanlight of another type already referred to and of which the doorways at number germantown avenue and number frankford avenue are examples. the brass knob, the heavy iron latch and fastenings inside are the ones washington, jefferson, hamilton, knox and randolph handled in passing in and out during washington's occupancy. [illustration: plate lii.--chancel window, christ church; palladian window and doorway, independence hall.] [illustration: plate liii.--palladian window, the woodlands.] above the pediment is to be plainly seen the picturesque, cast-iron, hand-in-hand fire mark about a foot high, consisting of four clasped hands crossed in the unbreakable grasp of "my lady goes to london" of childhood days. this ancient design, to be seen on the morris, betsy ross and numerous other houses, was that of the oldest fire insurance company in the united states, organized in under franklin's leadership. this and other designs, such as the green tree, eagle, hand fire engine and hose and hydrant still remain on many old philadelphia buildings, indicating in earlier years which company held the policy. for a long time it was the custom to place these emblems on all insured houses, the principal reason for doing so being that certain volunteer fire companies were financed or assisted by certain insurance companies and consequently made special efforts to save burning houses insured by the company concerned. porches were the exception rather than the rule in the early architecture of philadelphia. only a few old colonial houses now remaining have them, and for the most part they are entrances to countryseats in the present suburbs rather than to residences in the city proper. the highlands and hope lodge have such porches to which reference has already been made in connection with the houses themselves. of scant architectural merit, the porch at hope lodge may possibly be of more recent origin than the house. except for the narrow double doors the entrance to the highlands is strongly reminiscent of new england doorways and porches. both have hipped roofs so low as to be almost flat. a splendid example of the gable roof or pedimental porch more typical of philadelphia architecture is that at upsala. although displaying free use of the orders, it is regarded as one of the best in america. on a square stone platform reached by three broad stone steps, slender, fluted doric columns, with engaged columns each side of the doorway, support a roof in the form of a pediment of generally ionic character, the architrave and cornice being notable for fine-scale hand tooling. it will be noticed that the motive of the cornice with its jig-sawed modillions, rope molding and enriched dentil course suggests ionic influence; that of the architrave, with its groups of five vertical flutings in alternation with an incised conventionalized flower, doric. the same entablature is carried about the inside of the roof, projecting over the doorway to form a much favored philadelphia doorhead supported by flanking engaged columns. the doorway itself is distinctly of philadelphia type, high, relatively narrow, and deeply recessed, with the soffit of the arch and the cheeks of the jambs beautifully paneled and a handsome semicircular fanlight above the single eight-panel door but with no side lights. the effect of the keystone and imposts, also the enrichment of the semicircular architrave casings are characteristic. the paneling of the door consists of pairs of small and large panels in alternation, the upper pair of large panels being noticeably higher than the lower pair. of far more modest character is the porch of the old henry house, number germantown avenue, long occupied by doctor w. s. ambler. it is much smaller, extremely simple in its detail and of generally less pleasing proportions. two slender, smooth columns and corresponding pilasters on the wall of the house support a pediment rather too flat for good appearance. except for the ionic capitals, the detail is rather nondescript as to its order. the round-arched, deeply recessed doorway has the usual paneled jambs and soffit, but the reeded casings and square impost blocks are of the sort that came into vogue about the beginning of the nineteenth century. the single door with its eight molded and raised panels is of that type, having three pairs of small panels of uniform size above a single pair of high panels, the lock rail being more than double the width of the rails above and wider than the bottom rail. unlike the usual fanlight, this one is patterned after a much used palladian window with sash bar divisions suggested by gothic tracery. at number fisher's lane, wayne junction, in connection with a doorway much like the above, is an elliptical porch much like those of salem, massachusetts, although devoid of their excellent proportion and nicety of detail. both the porch platform and steps are of wood, but the slender, smooth columns supporting the roof, which takes the form of an entablature, stand on high stone bases. only simple moldings have been employed, and the detail can hardly be said to belong to any particular order of architecture. the door itself is unusual in having molded flat rather than raised panels, while the fanlight is of more conventional pattern than that of the henry house. side lights and elliptical fanlights, so characteristic of new england doorways, are as rare as porches in the colonial architecture of philadelphia. the entrance of the highlands is thus unique in combining the three. the doorway at number south eighth street has the new england spirit in its breadth and general proportion; in the beauty of its leaded side lights and fanlight, but the broad stone steps on the sidewalk and the iron rails are typically philadelphian. so, too, is the paneling of the wide single door. the ornate woodwork of the frame and casings, however, especially the frieze across the lintel, with its oval and elliptical fluted designs elaborately hand-tooled, suggests the dutch influence of new york and new jersey. the iron rails of the steps present an interesting instance of the adaptation of gothic tracery, arches and quatrefoils. [illustration: plate liv.--great hall and staircase, stenton.] [illustration: plate lv.--hall and staircase, whitby hall; detail of staircase, whitby hall.] the front doorway at stenton may be regarded as the earliest instance of side lights in philadelphia, and one of the earliest in america. the width of the brick piers or munions is such, however, that there are virtually two high narrow windows rather than side lights in the commonly accepted sense of the term. indeed, they are treated as such, being divided into upper and lower sashes like those of the other windows, only narrower. neither door nor windows have casings, the molded frames being let into the reveals of the brickwork and the openings, as in most early colonial structures, having relieving arches with brick cores. a six-paned, horizontal toplight above the doors corresponds in scale with the windows. this simple entrance, with its high, narrow, four-panel doors having neither knob or latch, is reached from a brick-paved walk about the house by three semicircular stone steps, such as were common in england at the time, the various nicely hewn pieces being fastened securely together with iron bands. severity is written in every line, yet there is a picturesque charm about this quaint doorway that attracts all who see it. in this the warmth and texture of the brickwork play a large part, but much is also due to the flanking slender trellises supporting vines which have spread over the brickwork above in the most fascinating manner. toward the beginning of the nineteenth century and for a few decades thereafter, under the influence of the greek revival, a new type of round-arched doorway was developed in philadelphia,--broader, simpler, heavier in treatment than most of the foregoing. there were no ornamental casings, the only woodwork being the heavy frame let into the reveals of the brick wall. above a horizontal lintel treated after the manner of an architrave the semicircular fanlight was set in highly ornamental lead lines forming a decorative geometrical pattern. double doors were the rule, most of them four-panel with a small and large panel in alternation like many earlier doors, but the panels were molded and sunken rather than raised. in a few instances there was a single vertical panel to each door, sometimes round-topped as on the doors of the randolph house, number south fourth street. the most distinctive of these doorways is that at the southeast corner of eighth and spruce streets, where elliptical winding flights lead to a landing before the door. the ironwork is undoubtedly among the most graceful and best preserved in the city. this low, broad entrance resembles southern doorways rather than the philadelphia type, although there are a few others of similar character near by. the wide, flat casings and single-panel doors seem severe indeed by comparison with most of the earlier doorways with their greater flexibility of line. generally similar, the doorway of the old shippen mansion, number walnut street, with its straight flight of stone steps unadorned in any way, is less attractive except in the paneling of the doors. it lacks the grace of the winding stairs and the charm of the iron balustrade so much admired in the former. the fanlight pattern, good as it is, fails to make as strong an appeal as that of the other doorway. at the northeast corner of third and pine streets is to be found a very narrow doorway of this character, its double doors paneled like those of the shippen mansion and its graceful fanlight pattern more like that of the doorway at eighth and spruce streets, though differing considerably in detail. like many others in philadelphia this doorway is reached by four stone steps leading to a square stone platform, the entire construction being on the brick-paved sidewalk. the simple, slender rail of wrought iron, its chief decoration a repeated spiral, is the best feature. philadelphia, perhaps more than any other american city, is famous for the profusion and beauty of its ironwork, wrought and cast. for the most part it took the form of stair rails or balustrades, fences and foot scrapers, and many are the doorways of little or no architectural merit which are rendered beautiful by the accompanying ironwork. on the other hand, accompanying illustrations already discussed show the rare beauty of architecturally notable doorways enriched by the addition of good ironwork. fences were the exception rather than the rule in colonial times, although rarely employed along the front of a house to prevent passers from accidentally stepping into areaways in the sidewalk in front of basement windows. the danger of such a catastrophe was remote, however, for philadelphia sidewalks were very broad in order to make room for the customary stoop before the doorway and the frequent rolling way or basement entrance. these sidewalk obstructions being the rule, people formed the habit of walking near the curb, and accidents were thus avoided. it was not until late in the nineteenth century, when basement entrances with an open stairway along the front of the house began to be provided, that fences came into vogue, except in the suburbs, where a small front yard was sometimes surrounded by an iron fence. [illustration: plate lvi.--hall and staircase, mount pleasant; second floor hall archway and palladian window, mount pleasant.] [illustration: plate lvii.--hall and staircase, cliveden; staircase detail, cliveden.] stoops divide themselves into four principal classes, of which the first, consisting only of a single broad stone step before the doorway, perhaps hardly warrants the term. as at grumblethorpe and the morris house, these broad stone steps often had no ironwork other than a foot scraper set in one end or in the sidewalk near by. again, as at the entrance to the wistar house, there were iron handrails or balustrades at both sides. less common, though by no means infrequent, were the stoops of this sort with a single handrail at one side. these handrails or balustrades, replacing the stone parapets so common in other american cities, are patterned after the cathedral grilles and screens of the middle ages and consist of both gothic and classic detail utilized with ingenuity and good taste. most of the earlier designs are hand wrought. later, cast iron came into use, and much of the most interesting ironwork combines the two. the balustrade at the wistar house just referred to is a typical example of excellent cast-iron work, the design consisting of a diaper pattern of gothic tracery with harmonious decorative bands above and below. the germantown farmhouse presents another variant of this first and simplest type of stoop with a hooded penthouse roof above and quaint side seats flanking the doorway. as at the johnson house, the broad stone step was sometimes flush with the sidewalk pavement. the second type of stoop consists of a broad stone step or platform before the door with a straight flight of stone steps leading up to it. cliveden, mount pleasant and doctor denton's house are notable instances of such stoops without handrails of any sort. the powel house stoop of this type has one of the simplest wrought-iron rails in the city, while that of the house at number south eighth street, with its effective gothic detail, combines wrought and cast iron. two very effective wrought-iron handrails for stoops of this type, depending almost entirely upon scroll work at the top and bottom for their elaboration, are to be seen at number race street and number south ninth street, the handsome scroll pattern of the latter being the same as at the southeast corner of seventh and spruce streets, already referred to, and the former being given a distinctive touch by two large balls used as newels. sometimes, as at number south seventh street, there was only one step between the platform of the stoop and the sidewalk, when its appearance was essentially the same as a stoop of the first type such as that of the wistar house. the third type of stoop has the same broad platform before the door, but the flight of steps is along the front of the house at one side rather than directly in front. while these were oftener straight, as in the case of the doorway at the northeast corner of third and pine streets, already referred to, they were frequently curved, as at number south third street. both have a wrought-iron rail with the same scroll pattern of effective simplicity, a pattern much favored in modern adaptation. another stoop of this type at number south american street is high enough to permit a basement entrance beneath the platform. the ironwork is beautifully hand-wrought in the florentine manner, its elaborate scroll pattern beneath an evolute spiral band combining round ball spindles with flat bent fillets, and the curved newel treatment at each side adding materially to the grace of the whole. the fourth type of stoop has double or wing flights each side of the platform before the door. the doorway at number south seventh street, already referred to, is the most notable instance of straight flights in philadelphia, while that at the southeast corner of eighth and spruce streets occupies the same position in respect to curved flights. the wrought ironwork of the latter is superb. rich in effect, yet essentially simple in design, it has grace in every line, is not too ornate and displays splendid workmanship. again a spiral design is conspicuous in the stair balustrades, and the curved newel treatment recalls that of the foregoing stoop. the balustrade of the platform consists of a simple diaper pattern of intersecting arcs with the familiar evolute band above and below. the wing flight was a convenient arrangement for double houses, as instanced by the old billmeyer house in germantown, with its exceedingly plain iron handrail and straight spindles. of more interest is the balustrade at number la grange alley with its evolute spiral band and slender ball spindles beneath. during the nineteenth century more attention was given to newels in ironwork, and elaborate square posts combining cast and wrought pieces were constructed, such as that at fourth and liberty streets. in the accompanying balustrade are to be seen motives much employed in the other examples here illustrated. scroll work is conspicuous, as are rosettes, but a touch of individuality is given by a grecian band instead of the more common evolute spiral above the diaper pattern. the pineapple, emblem of hospitality, was attractive in cast iron and as utilized at number walnut street provided a distinctive newel. [illustration: plate lviii.--detail of staircase balustrade and newel, upsala; staircase balustrade, roxborough.] [illustration: plate lix.--staircase detail, upsala; staircase balustrade, gowen house, mount airy.] the roads on the outskirts of all colonial cities were very bad, and many of the less important streets of philadelphia had neither pavements nor sidewalks. after rains shoes were bemired in walking, and as rubbers were then unknown it was necessary to remove the mud from the shoes before entering a house. foot scrapers on the doorstep or at the foot of the front steps were a necessity and became ornamental adjuncts of the doorways of early colonial homes. for the most part of wrought iron, some of the later ones were cast in molds, that at wyck being a particularly interesting example. it consists of two grotesque griffins back to back, their wings joined tip to tip forming the scraper edge, and the whole being mounted in a large tray with turned-up edges. this scraper can thus be moved about as desired, and the tray catches the scrapings, which can be emptied occasionally without sweeping the entire doorstep. some of the earlier and simpler scrapers, such as that at third and spruce streets, consisted merely of two upright standards with a sharp-edged horizontal bar between them to provide the scraper proper. this horizontal part was made quite broad to take care of anticipated wear, which in this particular instance has been great during the intervening years. similar to this, except for the well-wrought tops of the standards and the curved supplementary supports, is the scraper of the dirck keyser doorway, number germantown avenue, germantown. regarded as a whole this design suggests nothing so much as the back and arms of an early english armchair. on the same page with these is shown another strange philadelphia scraper. apart from its outline it has no decoration, and what the origin of the design may be it is difficult to determine. to a degree, however, it resembles two crude, ancient battle-axes, the handles forming the scraper bar. a favorite design consisted of a sort of inverted oxbow with the curved part at the top and the scraper bar taking some ornamental pattern across the bottom from side to side. at the top, both outside and inside the bow, and sometimes down the sides, spiral ornaments were applied in the florentine manner. accompanying illustrations show two scrapers of this type at number south third street and another one elsewhere on the same street. the use of a little urn-shaped ornament at the top of the latter scraper is most effective. at number pine street is seen a scraper employing two large spirals themselves as supports for the scraper bar. the turn of the spiral is here outward as contrasted with the inward turn of the scrapers at upsala. a scraper of quaint simplicity standing on one central standard at vernon, germantown, suggests the heart as its motive, although having outward as well as inward curling spirals at the top. another clever device of philadelphia ironworkers was to make the foot scraper a part of the iron stair rail. usually in such a scheme it was also made part of the newel treatment on the lower step of the stoop, but at seventh and locust streets, for example, it stands on the second step beside and above the ornate round newel with its surmounting pineapple. here, as in the case of the simpler handrail in south seventh street, one of the iron spindles of the rail is split about a foot from the bottom, and the two halves bent respectively to the right and left until they meet the next spindle on each side, the scraper bar of ornamental outline being fastened across from one to the other of these spindles below. the principal charm of the south seventh street rail lies in its extreme simplicity, the twisted section of the spindles near the bottom being a clever expedient. the pleasing effect of the design at seventh and locust streets is largely due to appropriate use of the evolute spiral band. only a little more ornate than the south seventh street stair rail is that in south fourth street. a special spiral design above the foot scraper, however, virtually becomes a newel in this instance. the same is true of another much more elaborate stair rail at seventh and locust streets with its attractive diaper pattern between an upper and lower grecian band, the whole grille being supported by a graceful three-point bracket. chapter viii windows and shutters philadelphia windows and window frames during the colonial period were not so much a development as a perpetuation of the initial types, although of course some minor changes and improvements were made with passing years. from the very beginning sliding georgian sashes were the rule. penn's house has them and so have all the other historic homes and buildings of this vicinity now remaining. there are none of the diamond paned casement sashes, such as were employed in the first new england homes half a century earlier, for builders in both the mother country and the colonies had ceased to work in the elizabethan and jacobean manner and were completely under the influence of the renaissance. in the earlier houses the upper sash was let into the frame permanently, only the lower sash being movable and sliding upward, but in later years double-hung sashes with weights began to be adopted. stiles, rails and sash bars were all put together with mortise and tenon joints and even the sash bars were pegged together with wood. the glass was set in rabbeted edges and held in place by putty according to the method still in use. [illustration: plate lx.--detail of stair ends, carpenter house, third and spruce streets; detail of stair ends, independence hall (horizontal section).] [illustration: plate lxi.--chimney piece in the hall, stenton; chimney piece and paneled wall, great chamber, mount pleasant.] at first the panes were very small, and many were required in large windows, but as glass making advanced, the prevailing size was successively enlarged from about five by seven inches to six by eight, seven by nine, eight by ten, and nine by twelve. as the size of individual panes of glass was increased, their number in each sash was in some instances correspondingly decreased, although oftener larger sashes with the same number of panes resulted. philadelphia architects always manifested a keen appreciation of the value of scale imparted by the sash bar divisions of their windows, and for that reason small-paned sashes never ceased to be popular. although numerous variations exist, the custom of having an equal number of panes in both upper and lower sashes predominated. six, nine and twelve-paned sashes forming twelve, eighteen and twenty-four paned windows were all common throughout the colonial period. twelve-paned sashes were used chiefly in public buildings and the larger private mansions, six-paned sashes in houses of moderate size. while there are several notable instances of nine-paned upper and lower sashes, particularly hope lodge, cedar grove in harrowgate, northern liberties, and the wharton house at number spruce street, this arrangement frequently, although not always, resulted in a window rather too high and narrow to be pleasing in proportion. a comparison of the accompanying photographs of the window of a combes alley house with that of a house at number race street well illustrates the point. sometimes, where used on the lower story, six-paned upper and lower sashes are found in the windows of the second story. waynesborough, in easttown township, chester county, not far from philadelphia, is a well-known case in point. grumblethorpe presents the anomalous reverse arrangement of six-paned sashes on the first story and nine-paned sashes on the second story. still oftener six-and nine-paned sashes were combined in the same window, the larger sash being sometimes the upper and again the lower. bartram house and the johnson house are instances of nine-paned upper and lower sashes on the first story and nine-paned lower and six-paned upper sashes on the second story. greame park in horsham, montgomery county, not far from philadelphia, has nine-paned upper and lower sashes on the lower story and twelve-paned lower and nine-paned upper on the second floor. penn's house in fairmount park and glen fern are instances of nine-paned lower and six-paned upper sashes on the first story and six-paned upper and lower sashes on the second story. solitude and the blackwell house, number pine street, exemplify the reverse arrangement of nine-paned upper and six-paned lower sashes on both stories. six-paned upper and lower sashes on both the first and second floors were, perhaps, more common on houses of moderate size and some large mansions throughout the colonial period than any other window arrangement. notable instances are the highlands; upsala; vernon; wynnestay in wynnefield, west philadelphia; carlton in germantown; the powell house, number south third street; the evans house, number de lancy street; and the wistar house, fourth and locust streets. among the more pretentious countryseats and city residences having twelve-paned upper and lower sashes on both the first and second stories may be mentioned cliveden, stenton, loudoun, woodford, whitby hall, the morris house, the perot-morris house, chalkley hall and port royal house in frankford. twelve-paned sashes were also used in various ways in combination with six, eight and nine paned sashes. for example, the waln house, number south second street, has twelve-paned upper and lower sashes on the first story with six-paned upper and lower sashes on the second story, whereas mount pleasant has the reverse arrangement. laurel hill, in the northern liberties, fairmount park, has twelve-paned upper and lower sashes on the first story and eight-paned upper and lower sashes on the second story, whereas the billmeyer house has all twelve-paned sashes except the lower ones on the second story, which are eight-paned. wyck, consisting as it does of two buildings joined together, probably has the most heterogeneous fenestration of any house in philadelphia. on the first floor are windows having nine-paned lower and six-paned upper sashes, while on the second story are windows having twelve-paned lower and eight-paned upper sashes and others having six-paned upper and lower sashes. the free quakers' meeting house at fifth and arch streets has twelve-paned upper and lower sashes on the first story and eight-paned upper and twelve-paned lower sashes on the second floor. [illustration: plate lxii.--chimney piece and paneled wall, parlor, whitby hall.] [illustration: plate lxiii.--chimney piece, parlor, mount pleasant; chimney piece, parlor, cliveden.] to reduce their apparent height, three-story houses were foreshortened with square windows. two-piece sashes were used, and the number of panes differed considerably. while a like number in both upper and lower sashes was the rule, the blackwell house, number pine street, and the powel house, number south third street, are notable instances of foreshortened windows having three-paned upper and six-paned lower sashes. the wharton house, number spruce street, and the evans house, number de lancy street, have foreshortened windows with six-paned upper and lower sashes. the waln house, number south second street, the stocker house, number south front street, and pen rhyn in bensalem township, bucks county, have foreshortened windows with three-paned upper and lower sashes. such foreshortened windows as all the above were usually employed with six-and nine-paned sashes on the stories below. where eight-and twelve-paned sashes were used for the principal windows of the house, the foreshortened windows of the third story usually had eight-paned upper and lower sashes, as on the morris house, the wistar house at fourth and locust streets, whitby hall and chalkley hall in frankford. most philadelphia houses, whether gable or hip-roofed, have dormers to light the attic. two or three on a side were the rule, although a few small houses have only one. for the most part they were pedimental or gable-roofed. segmental topped dormers were rare, although a row of them is to be seen in camac street, "the street of little clubs", and occasional individual instances are to be found elsewhere. lean-to or shed-roof dormers never found favor, the only notable instances about philadelphia being at glen fern, cedar grove in harrowgate, northern liberties, and greame park in horsham, montgomery county. an accompanying illustration of a dormer on the witherill house, number north front street, shows the simplest type of gable-roof dormer with square-headed window and six-paned upper and lower sashes. similar dormers, differing chiefly in the detail of the moldings employed, are features of the morris house; wistar house, fourth and locust streets; wynnestay, wynnefield, west philadelphia; wyck; the johnson house; carlton, germantown; and chalkley hall, frankford. grumblethorpe and bartram house have dormers of this sort with a segmental topped upper window sash. solitude has this sort of dormer with three-paned upper and six-paned lower sashes, while stenton and the evans house, number de lancy street, have eight-paned upper and lower sashes. houses usually of somewhat later date and notable for greater refinement of detail had gable-roof dormers with round-headed palladian windows extending up into the pediment. as in the accompanying illustration showing a dormer on the house at number germantown avenue, germantown, the casings usually take the form of fluted pilasters, supporting the pediment with its nicely molded cornice, often, as in this instance, with a prominent denticulated molding. narrower supplementary pilasters supported a molded and keyed arch, forming the frame within which the window is set. the lower sash is six-paned, while the upper one has six rectangular panes above which six ornamental shaped panes form a semicircle. similar dormers, differing chiefly in ornamental detail, are features of loudoun, vernon, upsala, hope lodge, port royal house, the perot-morris house, the billmeyer house, the wharton house, number spruce street; the powel house, number south third street; and the stocker house, number south front street. the dormers of cliveden and mount pleasant are of this type but further elaborated by projecting ornamental scrolls at the sides. as the architecture of philadelphia is almost exclusively in brick and stone, there were none of the architrave casings and ornamental heads consisting of a cornice above the architrave and often of a complete entablature which characterized much contemporary new england work in wood. brick and stone construction require solid rather than cased wood frames let into the reveals of the brick wall and have no projections other than a molded sill, as on the morris house, while a stone lintel or brick arch must replace the ornamental head, often such a pleasing feature of wood construction. the frames were of heavy construction held together at the corners by large dowel pins and were ornamented by suitable moldings broken around the reveals of the masonry and by molded sash guides in the frame. in the earlier brick houses the square-headed window openings had either gauged arches, as at hope lodge, or relieving arches of alternate headers and stretchers with a brick core, as at stenton. later, as in the case of hewn stonework, prominent stone lintels and window sills were adopted. marble was much favored for this purpose because it harmonizes with the white-painted woodwork, brightens the façade and emphasizes the fenestration. most of the lintels take the shape of a flat, gauged arch with flutings simulating mortar joints that radiate from an imaginary center below and mark off voussoirs and a keystone. usually there is no surface ornamentation, the shape of the parts being depended upon to form a decorative pattern, the shallow vertical and horizontal scorings on the lintels of the morris house being exceptional. these, the lintels of cliveden and of the free quakers' meeting house, exemplify the three most common types. [illustration: plate lxiv.--chimney piece and paneled wall on the second floor of an old spruce street house; detail of mantel, cypress street.] [illustration: plate lxv.--parlor mantel, upsala; detail of parlor mantel, upsala.] unquestionably the most distinctive feature of the window treatment of this neighborhood was the outside shutters. colonial times were troublous, and glass was expensive. in the city, protection was wanted against lawlessness at night, and in the country there was for many years the ever-present possibility of an indian attack, despite the generally friendly relations of the quakers with the tribes of the vicinity. there were also some british soldiers not above making improper use of unshuttered windows at night. except for a relatively few country houses which had neither outside shutters nor blinds--notably stenton, solitude, mount pleasant, bartram house and the woodlands--the use of shutters on the first story was the rule. above that the custom varied greatly. where outside shutters were totally absent, inside hinged, folding and sometimes boxed shutters were almost invariably present. only a few important instances of old colonial houses having blinds on the lower story now remain. port royal house, for example, two and a half stories high, has blinds on the first story and none above. the highlands has blinds on both the first and second stories, while chalkley hall in frankford has blinds on all three of its stories. often there are shutters on the lower story and none above. three-story instances of this are the waln house, number south second street; the blackwell house, number pine street; and the wistar house, fourth and locust streets. two and a half story instances are cliveden, hope lodge, vernon, woodford, the johnson house and laurel hill in the northern liberties, fairmount park. less common are three-story houses having shutters on the first and second stories and none on the third. whitby hall, the morris house and the wharton house, number spruce street, are examples. rare are two and a half story houses having shutters on both the principal stories. wyck, cedar grove in harrowgate, northern liberties, and wynnestay in wynnefield, west philadelphia, are good examples. most two and a half story houses have shutters on the first story and blinds on the second, as instanced by upsala, grumblethorpe, loudoun, glen fern and the perot-morris house. the powel house, number south third street, is a rare instance of shutters on all three stories, while the evans house, number de lancy street, and pen rhyn in bensalem township, bucks county, are rare instances of shutters on the first story and blinds on the second and third stories. [illustration: plate lxvi.--mantel at upsala; mantel at third and de lancey streets.] [illustration: plate lxvii.--mantel, rex house, mount airy; mantel at walnut street.] these outside shutters are of heavy construction like doors, the stiles and rails having mortise and tenon joints held together by dowel pins and the panels being molded and raised. usually frieze and lock rails divide the shutter into three panels, the two lower ones being the same height and the upper one square. accompanying illustrations show eighteen-paned windows having shutters arranged in this manner at number race street and in combes alley. at cliveden the upper panel is not quite high enough to be square, and the same is true of the morris house shutters, which are also notable for the fact that the lower panel is not quite so high as the middle one. sometimes an opening of ornamental shape was cut through the top panel to admit a little light, as for instance the crescent in the shutters at wynnestay, wynnefield, west philadelphia. on a relatively few houses the shutters had four panels, the most common arrangement being a small and a large panel in alternation from the top downward. such shutters were features of loudoun, the wistar house, fourth and locust streets; the blackwell house, number pine street; the powel house, number south third street; the evans house, number spruce street; and the wharton house, number spruce street. an accompanying illustration shows an unusual four-panel arrangement on the witherill house, number north front street, the three upper almost square panels being of the same size and the lowest one being about twice as high as one of the small ones. top, frieze and lock rails are usually the same width as the stiles, and the bottom rail is about double width. the meeting stiles and sometimes those on the opposite side have rabbeted joints, the latter fitting the jambs of the window frame. as indicated by an accompanying illustration showing the typical treatment of a second-floor twelve-paned window at number germantown avenue, germantown, most blinds were strengthened by a lock rail about midway of the height, or slightly below, dividing the blind into an upper and lower section. blinds of this sort are to be seen at loudoun, grumblethorpe, upsala, the highlands and port royal house. at waynesborough in easttown township, chester county, this division is considerably below the middle, making the upper section much the larger. less common are blinds divided into three sections by two lock rails, such as those of the perot-morris house. the evans house, number de lancy street, has two-section blinds on the third story and three-section blinds on the second story. unusual indeed are blinds having only top and bottom rails. they are found now and then on small upper windows, as at glen fern. chalkley hall in frankford is a rare instance of such blinds on all three stories of a large countryseat. all of these blinds are of heavy construction, having top and lock rails about the same width as the stiles, and bottom rails about double width. except for heavy louvers instead of panels, they are much like shutters. the frame is of the same thickness, with mortise and tenon joints doweled together. a picturesque feature of philadelphia window treatment is the quaint wrought-iron fixtures with which shutters and blinds are hung and fastened. as clearly shown by the accompanying detail photograph of a window of the morris house, outside shutters are generally hung by means of hinges to the frame of the window. as these frames are set back in the reveal of the masonry, these hinges are necessarily of special shape, being of large projection to enable the shutters to fold back against the face of the wall. they were strap hinges tapering slightly in width, corresponding in length to the width of the shutter and fastened to it by means of two or three bolts. small pendant rings on the inside of the meeting stiles were provided for pulling the shutters together and closing them. they were fastened together by a long wrought-iron strap, usually bolted to the left-hand shutter, that projects to overlap the opposite shutter five or six inches when the shutters are closed. near the projecting end of the strap a pin at right angles to it sticks through a hole in an escutcheon plate in the lock rail of the opposite shutter, and an iron pin, suspended by a short length of chain to prevent loss, is inserted through a vertical drilling in the pin. later, sliding bolts were used, as seen on the shutters at number race street and the blinds at number germantown avenue, germantown. shutters and blinds were held back against the face of the wall in an open position by quaint wrought-iron turn buckles or gravitating catches and other simple fasteners. that on the shutters of the perot-morris house is the most prevalent pattern. the scroll at the bottom is longer and heavier than the round, flattened, upper portion, so that the fixture is kept in position by gravity. in this instance it is placed in the masonry wall near the meeting stile of the shutter. a similar fastener on the chew house is placed in the window sill near the outer stile of the shutter. another type of turning fastener that was quite popular is seen at number germantown avenue, germantown. it is held in place by a long iron strap screwed to the window sill, and the weight of the gravitating catch consists of a casting representing a bunch of grapes. more primitive and less satisfactory in use and appearance is the spring fastener bearing against the edge of the shutter seen at wyck. crude as these fixtures were, they have hardly been improved upon in principle, and similar designs of more finished workmanship are still used in modern work. twelve appears to be the largest number of panes employed in a sliding sash in philadelphia architecture, even in public buildings, except a few churches. there are such sashes in independence hall, congress hall, carpenters' hall, the free quakers' meeting house at fifth and arch streets and the main building of the pennsylvania hospital. in congress hall and carpenters' hall there are also round-topped windows with twelve-paned lower sashes and upper sashes having ten small ornamental panes to make up the semicircle above twelve rectangular panes. a few similar windows with seven ornamental panes in the round top are to be seen in christ church. [illustration: plate lxviii.--- parlor, stenton; reception room, stenton.] [illustration: plate lxix.--dining room, stenton; library, stenton.] the old swedes' church has a few rectangular windows with fifteen-and sixteen-paned upper and lower sashes, while over the front entrance there is a window having a twelve-paned upper and a sixteen-paned lower sash. in christ church are to be seen two windows having ten-paned upper and fifteen-paned lower sashes set in a recessed round brick arch. for the most part, however, the church windows of this period were round-topped, the upper sash being higher than the lower. most of the windows of st. peter's protestant episcopal church have fifteen-paned lower sashes, the upper sashes consisting of twenty rectangular panes above which twelve keystone-shaped panes and one semicircular pane form the round top. the windows of christ church are larger still and particularly interesting because of the heavy central muntin to strengthen the sash. on the first story the lower sashes have twenty-four panes and the upper ones eighteen rectangular panes with sixteen keystone-shaped and two quarter-round panes to form the semicircular top. on the second floor the windows are the same except for the eighteen-paned lower sashes. each side of the steeple on the lower story is a window of this size, notable for the ornamental spacing of twenty-one sash bar divisions, the sweeping curves of which form spaces for glass reminiscent of the gothic arch. these windows slide in molded frames set in the reveals of the brickwork under plain arches with marble or other stone imposts, keystone and sill. the imposts and keystone were often molded and otherwise hand-tooled, as on christ's church, and the sills were sometimes supported by a console at each end, as on st. peter's protestant episcopal church. some of the windows of both of these churches illustrate the frequent employment of slightly projecting brick arches and pilaster casings at the sides. the great palladian chancel windows of renaissance churches were often much larger. usually they were stationary, especially the central section, although sometimes, as in christ's church, the two side windows had sliding sashes. the central section of this window has ninety-six rectangular panes with twenty-four keystone-shaped and two quarter-round panes forming the round top. the narrow side windows have fifteen-paned upper and twelve-paned lower sashes. the treatment of this chancel end with heavy brick piers and pilasters, stone entablature, projecting brick spandrels and the bust of george ii, king of england, between them, above the arch of the palladian window, is most interesting. the chancel window of st. peter's protestant episcopal church has one hundred and eight rectangular panes in its central section with twenty-eight keystone-shaped panes and a semicircular pane forming the round top. each side of this end of the church, with four smaller round-headed windows ranged about the chancel window and a circular window in the pediment above, is a superb example of symmetrical arrangement. although large and more ornate, the palladian window above the entrance to independence hall on the independence square side is more like that found in domestic architecture. all three of its lower sashes are sliding. the central window consists of a twenty-four-paned lower sash and an upper sash with twenty-one ornamental-shaped panes forming the round top above twenty-four rectangular panes. the narrow side windows have six-paned upper and twelve-paned lower sashes. owing to its good proportion, the chaste simplicity of the detail and the pleasing combination of brick pilasters with wood trim, this has been referred to by architects as the best palladian window in america. the use of such a window in the ionic order above a doric doorway adds another to the many notable instances of free use of the orders by colonial builders. in domestic architecture palladian windows were employed chiefly to light the stairway landing, as at whitby hall; to light the upper hall, as at mount pleasant; and rarely to light the principal rooms each side of the front entrance, as at the woodlands. they not only charm the eye as interior features, but when viewed outdoors relieve the severity of many ranging square-headed windows and provide a center of interest in the fenestration, lending grace and distinction to the entire façade. no palladian windows in philadelphia so thoroughly please the eye or so convincingly indicate the delightful accord that may exist between gray ledge-stone masonry and white woodwork as those set within recessed arches at the woodlands. the proportion and simple, clean-cut detail throughout are exquisite. the engaged colonnettes of the mullions contrast pleasingly with the pilasters of the frame, each of the two supporting an entablature notable for its fine-scale dentil course, and these two in turn supporting a keyed, molded arch. the central window has twelve-paned upper and lower sliding sashes with an attractively spaced fanlight above. the narrow ten-paned side windows are stationary. unusual as is the use of these palladian windows, their charm is undeniable, and they are among the chief distinctions of the house. [illustration: plate lxx.--pedimental doorway, first floor, mount pleasant; pedimental doorway, second floor, mount pleasant.] [illustration: plate lxxi.--doorways, second floor hall, mount pleasant; doorway detail, whitby hall.] chapter ix halls and staircases the hall is of particular moment in the design of a house. there guests are welcomed to the fireside, and there their first impressions of the home are formed. the architectural treatment of the hall sets the keynote of the entire home interior, so to speak. its doorways and open arches frame vistas of the principal adjoining rooms, and its staircase, usually winding, affords a more or less complete survey of the whole house from various altitudes and angles. it is the place where the master puts his best foot foremost, as the expression goes, and happily the recognized utilitarian features of the typical colonial hall permit a notable degree of elaboration at once consistent and beautiful. throughout the feudal period of the middle ages the hall was the main and often the only living, reception and banquet room of castles, palaces and manor houses. it was the common center of home activities. there the lord and family retainers, servants and visitors were accommodated, and all the common life of the household was carried on. in early times there were, besides the hall, only a few sleeping rooms, even in the greatest establishments. later, more retired rooms were added, and gradually the hall became more and more an entranceway or passageway in the house, communicating with its different parts. when houses began to be built more than a single story in height, the staircase became an important feature of the hall, and balconies were also introduced overlooking this great room, which was often the full height of the building. in fact, balconies were for a time more conspicuous than staircases, which were frequently located in any convenient secluded place. however, as builders came to appreciate more fully the attractiveness of this utilitarian structure, when embellished with suitable ornament, the staircase was accorded a more prominent position. eventually it became the most important architectural feature of the hall, for the most part supplanting the balcony, which was in a measure replaced by the broad landings of broken, winding and wing flights. throughout the georgian period of english architecture, the hall of the better houses retained something of the size and aspect of the great halls of feudal days, while at the same time accommodating the staircase and serving as a passageway leading to the principal rooms on the various floors. in the more pretentious houses of the period they were the scene of dancing and banqueting on special occasions, and for that reason were of spacious size, often running entirely through the building from front to back with the staircase located in a smaller side hall adjoining. where space or expense were considerations, or where spacious parlors and drawing-rooms rendered the use of the hall for social purposes unnecessary, the staircase ascended in various ways at the rear of the main hall, usually beyond a flat or elliptical arch, where it added very materially to the effectiveness of the apartment without detracting at all from the use of the front portion as a reception room. such halls as the latter are as typical of the better provincial mansions of philadelphia, especially its countryseats, as of the plantation houses of virginia and the early settled communities farther south. in the city residences of philadelphia, built in blocks as elsewhere, the halls were of necessity narrower, mere passageways notable chiefly for their well-designed staircases, which consisted for the most part of a long straight run along one side with a single turn near the top to the second-floor passageway directly above that to the rear of the house on the floor below. in a few of the earlier country houses there are, however, halls reminiscent of medieval times, for the influences of the mother country were very strong in philadelphia, and its colonial architecture displays marked georgian tendencies, some of it the very earliest georgian characteristics still somewhat influenced by the life and manners of the elizabethan and jacobean periods. at stenton, the countryseat of james logan, to which detailed reference has been made in a previous chapter, there is a hall and staircase arrangement such as can be found only in some of the earliest eighteenth-century country houses. this great brick-paved room wainscoted to the ceiling, with a fireplace across the right-hand corner, reflects the hall of the english manor house, which was a gathering place for the family and for the reception of guests, as instanced by the reception tendered to lafayette in the great hall at wyck on july , . [illustration: plate lxxii.--inside of front door, whitby hall; palladian window on stair landing, whitby hall.] [illustration: plate lxxiii.--window detail, parlor, whitby hall; window detail, dining room, whitby hall.] admirable bolection molded wood paneling of the dado and wall space above, a heavy molded cornice and high, fluted and slightly tapering pilasters standing on pedestals flanking the entrances on all four sides indicate more eloquently than words the charm of white-painted interior woodwork. as in many houses of equally early date, the absence of a mantel over the fireplace is characteristic, yet it seems a distinct omission in beauty and usefulness. through the high arched opening in the rear, with its narrow double doors, is seen the winding staircase in a smaller stair hall beyond. in this hallway stands an iron chest to hold the family silver, the cumbrous old lock having fourteen tumblers. above there are wooden pegs in the wall on which to hang hats. the broad staircase with its plain rectangular box stair ends is one of unusually simple stateliness, yet typical of the sturdy lines of philadelphia construction, the window with its built-in seat on the landing being an ever pleasing arrangement. severely plain square newels support an exceptionally broad and heavy handrail capped with dark wood, while attractive turned balusters of distinctive pattern complete a balustrade of more than ordinarily substantial character. a nicely paneled dado with dark-capped surbase along the opposite wall greatly enriches the effect. about the middle of the eighteenth century wide halls leading entirely through the center of the house from front to back were common in large american houses. where country houses had entrance and garden fronts of almost equal importance, with a large doorway at each end of the hall, the staircase was usually located in a small stair hall to one side of the main hall and at the front or back, as happened to be most convenient with respect to the desired floor plan. where a small door at the rear opened into a secluded garden, the staircase was located at the rear of the main hall with the door under the staircase. in either case the staircase took the form of a broken flight, with a straight run along one wall rising about two-thirds of the total height to a broad landing across the hall where the direction of the flight reversed. the landing was usually lighted by a large round-topped palladian window which provided one of the most charming features of the interior as well as the exterior of the house. inside it was often graced by the "clock on the stairs", a handsome mahogany chair or a tip-table with candlesticks for lighting guests to their rooms. whitby hall at fifty-eighth street and florence avenue, kingsessing, west philadelphia, offers a notable instance of this latter type of hall and staircase. the wide hall extends entirely through the western wing, the main entrance being on the flag-paved piazza of the south front. on the north front there is a tower-like projection in which the staircase ascends with a broad landing across the rear wall and a low outside door beneath. this unusual arrangement permits side windows on the landing in addition to the great palladian window in the middle, so that both the upper and lower halls are flooded with light. a great beam architecturally embellished with a complete entablature with pulvinated frieze, the soffit of the architrave consisting of small square molded panels, spans the hall over the foot of the stairs along the line of the rear wall of the western wing. it is supported on opposite sides by well-proportioned fluted pilasters with nicely tooled ionic capitals and heavy molded bases. thus the staircase vista from the front end of the hall is framed by an architectural setting of rare beauty. the heavy cornice of the beam, with its molded and jig-sawed modillions, continues all around the hall ceiling, the turned and molded drops of the newels on the floor above tying into it very pleasingly over the stairs. a molded surbase and skirting, with a broad expanse of plastered wall between, provides an effective dado all around the hall. where it follows up the stairs, it corresponds to the handrail of the balustrade opposite. the molding is the same; there is the same upward sweep of the ramped rail, and it is also capped with dark wood. on the landing dainty little fluted pilasters support the surbase, their fine scale lending much grace and refinement. one notices there also the beautiful beveled paneling of the window embrasures, the paneled soffit of the palladian window and its built-in seat. the balustrade is of sturdy conventional type characteristic of the period. two attractively turned balusters grace each stair, their bases alike and otherwise differing only in the length of their tapering shafts. the newel treatment is especially appropriate, inasmuch as it reflects the ionic order, the balustrade winding scroll-fashion about a slender fluted colonnette, and the first stair tread taking the outline of the rail above. graceful scroll brackets adorn the stair ends beneath the molded projections of the treads. altogether this is one of the most notable halls of this type in philadelphia. the oldest part of whitby hall as it now stands was erected in by james coultas, wealthy merchant, shipowner, soldier and enthusiastic promoter of many public and philanthropic enterprises. in he established himself in a house then existing on the plantation that corresponds to the present east wing, which was reconstructed with rare fidelity in to match the western wing erected by colonel coultas. the walls of the entire present house all around are of nicely squared and dressed native gray stone, and to afford extra protection against prevailing winds a penthouse with coved cornice runs along the northern and western ends at the second-floor level. the gables of the west wing face north and south with quaint oval windows to light the attic. a flag-paved piazza extends across the south front, forming part of the main entrance, while in a tower projection on the north front is located the staircase already described. both the hall doorway and windows in this tower have brick trim, an unusual feature, while the bull's-eye light in the tower pediment, also set in brick trim, was a porthole glass from one of colonel coultas' ships. [illustration: plate lxxiv.--ceiling detail, solitude; cornice and frieze detail, solitude.] [illustration: plate lxxv.--independence hall, independence square side. begun in .] as a merchant and in numerous other private enterprises, colonel coultas amassed a substantial fortune. from to he was the lessee of the middle ferry, where market street bridge now stands, and it was chiefly due to his initiative that steps were first taken to make the schuylkill river navigable. he was one of the commissioners who surveyed the stream and the first to demonstrate that large boats could be taken above the falls. in he was a captain of the associates, a battery for the defense of philadelphia against french insolence, and in during the indian uprisings he became lieutenant-colonel of the county regiment. he was repeatedly justice of the peace, high sheriff of the county from to , and in was appointed judge of the orphans' court, quarter sessions, and common pleas. he carried on a farm in blockley, operated a sawmill on cobb's creek north of the blue bell inn, was a devout vestryman and enthusiastic huntsman. he it was who laid the corner stone of the church of st. james in , and as a member of the colony in schuylkill and the gloucester fox hunting club he was also prominently identified with the more convivial activities of the community. on colonel coultas' death in , whitby hall was inherited by his niece, martha ibbetson gray, and later passed by inheritance to her great-great-grandchildren in the thomas family, in whose hands it still remains. eloquently typical of the broad hall running entirely through the house from front to back, with the staircase located in a smaller side hall, is the arrangement at mount pleasant to which reference has already been made in a previous chapter. it is one which affords delightful vistas through the outside doorways at each end and an ample open space for dancing on occasion. handsome doorways along the sides open into the principal rooms and are notable for their beautifully molded architrave casings and nicely worked pedimental doorheads. in fact, the woodwork here, as well as that throughout the house, is heavier and richer in elaboration of detail than usual in georgian houses of the north, the classic details of the fluted pilasters and heavy, intricately carved complete entablature being pure mutulary doric and more ornate than the ionic detail of whitby hall. however, this was quite in keeping with the larger and more pretentious character of the former. the entablature is a positive triumph in cornice, frieze and architrave. the moldings are of good design and carefully worked; the guttæ of the mutules, the triglyphs with paneled metopes between, and the guttæ of the architrave all closely follow the classic order and exemplify the finest hand tooling of the period. so similar as a whole yet so different in detail are the staircase hall of mount pleasant and the staircase end of the main hall at whitby hall that they invite comparison. in general arrangement they are much the same, except that the staircases are reversed, left for right. as at whitby hall a flat arch frames the staircase vista, a great beam bearing the entablature surrounds the hall at the ceiling, spanning the entrance to the staircase hall and being supported by square, fluted columns. in this smaller hall a simple, though only a molded cornice in harmony with that of the main hall suffices. unlike the plain dado of the main hall, however, elaborated only by a molded surbase and skirting, a handsome paneled wainscot runs around the staircase hall and up the stairs. the spacing and workmanship displayed in this heavily beveled and molded paneling could hardly be better. at the foot of the flight, on the landing and at the head of the stairs, the ramped surbase with its dark wood cap, corresponding to the handrail opposite, is supported by slender fluted pilasters which materially enrich the effect. the space under the lower run of the staircase is entirely paneled up with a small diagonal topped door opening into the little closet thus afforded. the scroll-pattern stair ends, balustrade and spiral newel treatment are much the same as at whitby hall. although similar in pattern the balusters are more slender and placed three instead of two on each stair. on the second floor, as below, the hall extends entirely through the house, and following a frequent custom of the time was finished in a different order of architecture, the pulvinated ionic being chosen, no doubt, for its lighter grace and greater propriety adjoining bedchambers. in furtherance of this thought, only the cornice with its jig-sawed modillions was employed at the ceiling and the flat dado was paneled off by the application of moldings to give it a lighter scale. the complete entablature was used only over the archway at the head of the stairs, where it was supported by square, fluted columns with beautifully carved capitals. another mannerism of the time is the variation in the treatment of the doorways, the pedimental doorheads on one side being broken, whereas the others are not. but the handsomest features of this upper hall are the palladian windows, admitting a flood of light at each end, with their rectangular sashes each side of a higher, round-arched central window and a delightful arrangement of curved sash bars at the top. the many small panes lend a pleasing sense of scale, while the architectural treatment of the frames adds to the charm of the interior woodwork quite as materially as to the exterior façade. in working out the scheme, the entire ionic order is utilized on a small scale. both the casings and the mullions take the form of fluted square columns with typical carved capitals. these support two complete entablatures forming the lintels of the rectangular windows and being carried around into the embrasure of the central window, the keyed arch of which springs from the entablatures. it is a design which has never been improved upon. [illustration: plate lxxvi.--independence hall, chestnut street side.] [illustration: plate lxxvii.--independence hall, stairway; liberty bell, independence hall.] the hall and staircase at cliveden combine distinctive characteristics of the halls at stenton and mount pleasant. as at stenton, the hall itself consists of a large reception room centrally located, and about which the other principal rooms of the house are grouped. through an archway at the rear is a slightly narrower though spacious staircase hall extending through to the back of the house, where the broken staircase rises to a broad landing and the direction of the run reverses. the architecture is as pure doric as at mount pleasant, but of the denticulated rather than the mutulary order, and altogether more satisfactory for interior trim in wood. the cornice only is carried around the room at the ceiling, and in the staircase hall only the cymatium and corona of the cornice; but over the archway, supported by a colonnade of four fluted round columns, a complete entablature with nicely worked classic detail is employed and given added emphasis by several inches' projection into the reception hall. the columns are spaced so as to form a wide central archway flanked by two narrow ones, the effect being a staircase vista unexcelled in the domestic architecture of philadelphia. the picture is enriched by a heavily paneled wainscot and handsome, deeply embrasured doorways with architrave casings, paneled jambs and soffits. except for the single, simple turned newel, the staircase is much like that at mount pleasant. there is the similar ramped balustrade and paneled wainscot with ramped surbase and dark wood cap rail along the wall opposite. little pilasters likewise support this rail, but they are paneled rather than fluted. there are similar scroll-pattern stair ends and paneling under the stairs. in this instance the under side of the upper run is paneled in wood rather than plastered. the turned balusters are slightly more elaborate than at mount pleasant, but are used in the same manner, three to the stair. not built until nearly the dawn of the nineteenth century, upsala belongs to a later period than most of the notable houses in philadelphia. the lighter grace of adam design had begun to dominate american building and is to be seen in the staircase as well as in the mantels and other interior woodwork at upsala. the staircase combines features of the broken flight with a midway landing, such as the foregoing examples, and of the later development in long halls where the direction of the flight was reversed by a curved portion of the run instead of a landing. the breadth and length of the hall made landings possible and desirable, but instead of one wide midway landing between the upper and lower runs of the flight, there were two square landings separated by three steps, the stair stringers, balustrade and wainscot swinging upward in broad-sweeping curves. the wainscot consists of a charmingly varied paneling, while the balustrade is lighter in treatment than was usually the case. a simple dark wood handrail, slender, square molded balusters and stairs having a low rise and broad treads lend grace of appearance rarely equaled. jig-sawed outline brackets of unusually harmonious scroll pattern placed under the molded overhang of the treads provide additional ornamentation of a refined character. the spiral newel is but a simpler form of those already alluded to. altogether it is a staircase that charms the eye through its unaffected simplicity, a quality that never loses its power of appeal whether found inside the house or out. two other stairways with balustrades of slender grace are worthy of note, especially as instances of a single, small turned newel on the lower step, the handrail terminating in a round cap on the top. the simpler of these is at roxborough and has balusters of unique contour standing not on the stair treads but on the cased-up stair stringer. the staircase in the gowen house, mount airy, has a balustrade with three slender, but more or less conventional, balusters on each step, the treads, like the handrail and newel, being painted dark. a graceful jig-sawed bracket of scroll pattern adorns each stair end under the overhang of the tread, and the space under the stairs is closed in by well-spaced molded and raised paneling. another distinctive scroll outline bracket for stair ends forms the principal feature of a graceful staircase in the carpenter house, third and spruce streets. the pattern manifests great refinement and has excellent proportion. in contrast with these lighter designs for domestic architecture, it is interesting to examine the stair-end treatment in independence hall, which is equally pleasing as an example of heavier, richer detail for public work. the brackets are solid, of evolute spiral outline and beautifully hand carved. chapter x mantels and chimney pieces in colonial times fireplaces were a necessity. they supplied the only means of heating the house, and much of the cooking was done by them also. indeed, the hanging of the crane was regarded as a signal event in establishing a new home, and often a cast-iron fireback bore the date of erection of the house and the name or initials of its owner. each of the principal rooms had its fireplace and often a large parlor, drawing-room or library had two fireplaces, usually at opposite ends or sides, though rarely on the same side, as in the library at stenton. the hearthstone was the center of family life, and architects, therefore, very properly made the mantels and chimney pieces with which they embellished the fireplace the architectural center of each room,--the gem in a setting of nicely wrought interior woodwork. then came the franklin stove, throwing more heat out into the room and less up the chimney. fireplaces were accordingly bricked up to accommodate it, a pipe was run into it, and presently the air-tight stove supplanted franklin's open grate. later central heating plants for hot air, steam and hot water were developed in the basement and connected by pipes with registers and radiators in the various rooms above. they gave greater and more even heat, consumed less fuel and were more easily taken care of than several fires in various parts of the house. for a time houses were built for the most part without fireplaces, but gradually a sense of loss began to be generally felt. these registers and radiators warmed the flesh, but they left the spirit cold; there was no poetry or sentiment whatever about them. the outcome was obvious. the central heating plant has of course remained, but recent years have witnessed the general reopening of bricked-up fireplaces in old houses large and small, and to-day few new houses are built without a fireplace in the living room at least. to a degree it is a luxury, perhaps, though not a very expensive one, yet it is something for which all able to do so are very glad to pay. besides, on chilly spring and autumn days and rainy summer evenings it provides a cheap and convenient auxiliary heating plant. but an open fire warms more than the hands and feet; it reaches the heart. its appeal goes back to the tribal camp-fire and stirs some primitive instinct in man. "hearth and home" are synonymous; there is a whole ritual of domestic worship which centers around an open fire. a blaze on a hearth is more than a luxury, more than a comfort; it is an altar fire. [illustration: plate lxxviii.--stairway landing, independence hall; palladian window at stairway landing.] [illustration: plate lxxix.--declaration chamber, independence hall.] and so in building the modern colonial home we find ourselves ever going back to study the creations of the master builders of provincial times in america, when fireplaces meant even more than they do to-day, and finding in their achievements ideas and inspiration of great beauty and practical value. the neighborhood of philadelphia is as rich in its collection of fine old mantels and chimney pieces as in its splendid interior woodwork generally. like the latter they are for the most part of the early georgian period, mostly chimney pieces, many without shelves, and usually somewhat heavy in scale and detail. as in other important architectural features the development of mantels and chimney pieces in america followed to a degree the prevailing mode in the mother country. for many years after the italian classic orders were brought to england by inigo jones, early in the seventeenth century, chimney pieces usually consisted merely of a mantel shelf and classic architraves or bolection moldings about the fireplace opening, the chimney breast above being paneled like the rest of the room. toward the end of that century, and for several decades following, the shelf was omitted and the paneling on the chimney breast took the form of two horizontally disposed oblongs, the upper broader than the lower. such an arrangement in its simplest form is to be seen in the great hall at stenton, where a fireplace is located across one corner. the elliptical arch of the white pilastered brickwork and the height of the horizontal architrave above this arch impart a touch of quaint distinction. one notices with admiration the beautiful brass andirons and fire set, and with interest the floreated cast-iron fireback. going to the other extreme we find in the parlor at whitby hall a magnificently ornate example of the chimney piece without a mantel shelf which, as in many colonial houses, has been made the central feature of one side of the room, symmetrically arranged and architecturally treated with wood paneling throughout. a heavy cornice with prominent double denticulated string course or crenelated molding runs entirely around the room, tying the fireplace end of the room into the general scheme. the chimney piece projects slightly, lending greater emphasis, and at each side the wall space is given over to high round-topped double doors of closets divided into upper and lower parts, beautifully flush-paneled and hung with quaint iron h hinges. like those of the other doors and windows, the casings are of architrave pattern and in the center of the round arch is a keystone-shaped ornament hand-tooled in wood. the fireplace opening is faced beautifully with cut black marble brought from scotland and outlined with a nicely chiseled ovolo molding in wood similar to the familiar egg and dart pattern, but incorporating the richer lesbian leaf instead of the dart, a closely related reed-like motive replacing the conventional bead and reel. two handsomely carved consoles resting on the fillet of this ovolo molding support the superb molded panel of the overmantel some three by five feet, in which to this day not a joint is to be seen. a band of exquisite floreated carving in high relief fills the long, narrow, horizontal panel between the consoles. the precision of the tooling in this intricate tracery is indeed remarkable. nicely worked but simple parallel moldings with the favorite grecian fret sharply delineated between them and lesbian leaf ornaments in the square projections at the corners compose a frame of exceptional grace of detail and proportion. rarely is an ensemble so elaborate accompanied by such a marked degree of good taste and restraint. in the great chamber on the second floor, which is believed to have been the boudoir of the mistress of mount vernon, there is a very similar, though even more elaborate, architectural treatment of the fireplace and of the room. closets with round-topped doors again occupy the spaces each side of the fireplace; the cornice surrounding the entire room with its conspicuous grecian fret motive again ties the paneled end of the room into the general scheme, and in this instance the relation is made closer by the paneled wainscot which is carried about all four walls. in this wainscot two panel sections under each closet are hung as double doors opening into small supplementary closets. owing to the loftiness of the room, the closet doors have been elaborated by ornate broken pedimental heads repeating the cornice on a smaller scale, and which are supported by paneled pilasters and large consoles superbly carved with an acanthus leaf decoration. beautiful as these doorways are in themselves, they are so much heavier in treatment than the overmantel as to detract from it; they do not occupy an unobtrusive subordinate position, as do the closet doors of the parlor at whitby hall. moreover, the trim of each door occupies such a breadth of wall space that the fireplace and overmantel are narrowed, the latter taking the form of a vertical rather than a horizontal oblong. in fact, the dominant lines throughout are here vertical as contrasted with the dominant horizontal lines at whitby hall. the loftiness and stateliness of the room are thereby emphasized, but the effect is less restful. [illustration: plate lxxx.--judge's bench, supreme court room, independence hall; arcade at opposite end of court room.] [illustration: plate lxxxi.--banquet hall, second floor, independence hall; entrance to banquet hall.] in architectural detail the fireplace and overmantel recall that of the whitby hall chimney piece. there are similar black marble facings about the fireplace opening outlined by a hand-tooled molding, and similar elaborately carved consoles supporting a handsomely molded panel with projecting ornamental corners, but in this instance the panel is surmounted by a highly ornamental top, consisting of a swag or broken pediment with an exquisitely hand-carved floreated design in high relief between the volutes which imparts a charming lightness and grace to the ensemble. pilaster projections bearing nicely delineated leaf ornaments above the corners of the overmantel panel tie into corresponding projections in the cornice and unify the whole construction. otherwise the chimney piece differs from that of whitby hall chiefly in its moldings, in which the lesbian leaf is prominent. the ovolo about the marble facings of the fireplace bears the conventional bead and reel and egg and dart motives, the latter having a leaf design in alternation with the egg. the ogee molding outlining the overmantel panel is enriched with a larger and a smaller leaf motive in alternation, while the torus of the inner molding of this panel bears a little conventionalized flower in alternation with crossed flat fillets. altogether more pleasing is the chimney piece in the parlor at mount pleasant. in fact, it is regarded as one of the handsomest chimney pieces without a mantel shelf in america. its excellence is due not to superiority of detail, but to better proportion, the breadth of the chimney breast being sufficient to make the overmantel panel practically square. this great fireplace construction for burning four-foot logs projects into the room some eighteen inches, with wood-paneled sides, the adjoining walls being plastered. around it are carried the chaste ionic cornice with its prominent dentil course; and the paneled wainscot below corresponds to the pedestal of the order. in the general arrangement of the design, this chimney piece follows closely that of the one above, except that top, sides and bottom of the overmantel panel frame are alike. as at whitby hall the familiar grecian fret very acceptably occupies the space between the inner and outer moldings of this frame and obviates the need of any elaborate carved decoration above the panel. contrasting pleasingly with this fret and on opposite sides of it are a plain molded ovolo outlining the panel and a small floreated torus supplemented by a molded cymatium within. the pilaster projections tying the panel treatment to the cornice bear three nicely tooled vertical flower designs in a row, an unusual conception. an ovolo of conventional egg and dart motive with the customary bead and reel astragal outlines the black marble facings of the fireplace opening. the console ornamentation is strongly reminiscent of that at whitby hall. the mantel shelf proper was far too practical and attractive a feature of the fireplace to be long abandoned, however. it furnished a convenient place for clocks, candlesticks, china and other ornaments, and it appealed to the eye because of the homelike, livable appearance these articles of decoration gave to the room. about the middle of the eighteenth century the shelf of former times was reinstated and the overmantel was developed into a single large and elaborately framed panel over the chimney breast in which often hung a family portrait, a gilt-framed mirror or girandole. such a chimney piece is to be seen in the parlor at cliveden, its fireplace opening partly closed up to convert it for use with the coal grate shown by the accompanying illustration. in this instance the carved consoles support the shelf rather than the panel of the overmantel, which engages neither the shelf nor the cornice with its prominent double denticulated molding. otherwise, the chimney piece is essentially the same in arrangement as that in the parlor at mount pleasant. it has the same pleasing breadth and generally good proportions, but is severely simple in detail, the conventional ovolo of egg and dart motive without the astragal which outlines the black marble fireplace facings being the only enriched molding. as was customary, the shelf takes the form of a cymatium, and the projections above the consoles and central panel are characteristic details. much like this, though simpler in the absence of any enriched moldings and having less projection, is the chimney piece on the second floor of an old spruce street house shown by an accompanying illustration. it has substantially the same overmantel frame and mantel treatment. incidentally it furnishes an excellent example of the complete paneling of one end of a room with the familiar six-panel ordinary inside doors each side of the fireplace. the architrave casings of the doors with their horizontal projections over the lintel are in pleasing accord with the corresponding projections of the overmantel frame and of the facing of the fireplace opening. toward the end of the eighteenth century and for some years thereafter, mantels with a shelf, but without any overmantel treatment of the chimney breast, became the rule. the whole construction was usually projected from twelve to eighteen inches into the room, however, and as the surbase and skirting or a paneled wainscot and the cornice above was carried around it, the effect was much like that of a chimney piece, especially when a large, ornamental framed mantel mirror occupied the space over the chimney breast. the mantel itself took the form of a complete entablature above the fireplace opening, supported by pilasters at each side, the pilasters usually being carried up through the entablature by projections in architrave, frieze and cornice respectively, and the cymatium of the cornice forming the mantel shelf. the classic orders supplied much of the ornamental detail with which these mantels were embellished, and the work gave full scope to the genius of english and american wood-carvers, of whom there were many of marked ability in america. the thriving condition of the ship-building industry in the colonies was instrumental in attracting and developing skilled wood-carvers. many of them became apt students of architecture and proficient in executing hand-tooled enriched moldings and other ornament for mantels and chimney pieces. not content with the conventional detail of the classic orders, they varied it considerably to suit their purposes, using familiar motives in new ways, securing classic effects with detail of their own conception, and at times departing far from all precedent. for the most part their achievements displayed that good taste and restraint combined with a novelty and an ingenuity which have given our best colonial architecture its principal charm and distinction. numerous examples of this sort of hand-carved mantels are to be found in philadelphia, but none elicits greater admiration than those in two rooms at upsala which are shown by accompanying illustrations. enriched with a wealth of intricate, fine-scale hand-tooling of daintiness and precision, they indicate the influence of adam design and detail, although quite unlike the typical adam mantel. they form an especially interesting study for comparison because of the marked similarity of the general scheme in all three and the difference in effect resulting from variations in detail. the simplest of the three is a mantel for an iron hob grate with dark marble facings outlined by simple moldings. familiar fluted pilasters support a mantel board entablature of rare beauty. beneath a conventional cymatium and corona, with projections above the pilasters and central panel of the frieze, is a nicely worked dentil course,--a band of vertical flutes with a drilled tooth in the upper half of each alternate flute. the pilaster projections of the frieze are fluted in dots and dashes arranged in vertical lines, while a similar treatment of the central panel is so arranged that a pattern suggesting four festoons and five straight hanging garlands is produced. the upper fascia is enriched with groups of five vertical flutes in alternation with an incised conventionalized flower. [illustration: plate lxxxii.--congress hall, sixth and chestnut streets. completed in ; congress hall from independence square.] [illustration: plate lxxxiii.--stair hall details, congress hall.] resembling the foregoing, but more elaborate, is the mantel in the parlor with its richer moldings and intricate carving. an astragal with the customary bead and reel separates the cymatium and the corona, while a drilled rope supplies the bed molding above the dentil course. the latter consists of a continuous pattern of vertical and shorter horizontal flutes, the alternate vertical half spaces above and below the cross line of the h being cut out flat and deeper. the pilaster projections of the frieze, the central panel and the pilasters at each side of the fireplace opening supporting the entablature are vertical fluted in short sections which break joints like running bond in brickwork. in both the pilaster projections and the central panel the carving has been done in such a manner as to leave four-sided decorative figures with segmental sides in slender outline flush with the surface. the upper fascia of the architrave is adorned by shallow drillings suggesting tiny festoons and straight hanging garlands with a conventionalized flower above each festoon. a cavetto molding, enriched with a bead and reel astragal and another drilled rope torus, outlines the dark marble facings about the fireplace opening. handsome brass andirons, fender and fire set, together with the large gilt-framed mirror above, combine with the mantel to make this one of the most beautiful fireplaces in philadelphia. the third example in another room at upsala is virtually the same as the mantel just described, except for the greater elaboration of the pilasters, pilaster projections of the frieze and central panel. apart from these three features, the only essential differences are a dentil course in the cornice like that of the first upsala mantel described and a vertical fluted belt in the capital of the pilasters and associated moldings. in the pilaster projections of the frieze there are flush outline ornaments taking the form of a shield, while other graceful outline patterns running through the flutings adorn the upper half of the pilasters proper. the lower half is fluted in the short running bond sections. the central panel of the frieze retains and elaborates the motive of festoons and straight hanging garlands, the space above the festoons in this instance being left flush except for an incised conventionalized flower design in each of the three sections. rarely are three mantels of such attractive design, good proportion, distinctive detail and dainty appearance to be found in a single house. seldom are three mantels to be found which are so similar and yet so different. they present an eloquent illustration of the infinite possibilities of minor variation in architectural design. the same influences were at work elsewhere, however, and two other mantels shown by accompanying illustrations, one in a house at third and delancy streets and another in the rex house, mount airy, show numerous variations of similar motives. in both, vertical flutings are depended upon chiefly for decoration, ornamental patterns being formed by flush sections where the cutting of the flutes is interrupted. in both instances the original fireplace opening has been partially closed up, in one case for a franklin stove, and in the other for a hob grate, both for burning coal. the mantel at number cypress street, with its well-proportioned entablature and paneled pilasters, displays a central panel in the frieze similar to the foregoing examples, but possesses a more distinct adam character in the human figures in composition applied to the pilaster projections of the frieze, and in the drillings of the upper fascia of the architrave, simulating festoons. a reeded ovolo and deeply cut and drilled denticulated member lend sufficient emphasis to the string course of the cornice. at number walnut street is to be seen a typically adam mantel of exceptional grace and beauty. instead of the usual pilasters the entablature is supported by two pairs of slender reeded colonnettes, and the fireplace opening is framed by moldings in which a torus enriched with a rope motive is prominent. the shelf or cymatium of the entablature has round corners and is supported by pilaster projections above the colonnettes at each end and by a projecting central panel, all of these projections being vertical fluted in the frieze portion. both the central panel and the sunken panels each side of it bear graceful festoons and straight hanging garlands suspended from flower ornaments, the central space of both sunken panels being occupied by a small, sharply delineated medallion in white, suggestive of wedgewood. this composition work was nicely detailed and is still well preserved. below, the upper fascia of the architrave is enriched in accord with the adam spirit. drillings forming festoons with a tiny ornament above alternate with groups of seven vertical dotted lines. the fireplace opening has been closed up with stone slabs to inclose a franklin stove for burning coal, the effect being much the same as a hob grate. in terms of dainty grace and chaste simplicity this is one of the best mantels in philadelphia. chapter xi interior wood finish mantels and staircases, the most important architectural features of interiors, were very properly elaborated considerably beyond the somewhat negative character of background accessories by the builders of colonial times. virtually furnishings as well as necessary parts of the house, the application of tasteful ornamentation to them seems amply justified. each is a subject in itself, as indicated by the fact that stair building and mantel construction still remain independent trades quite apart from ordinary joinery. for that reason two separate chapters of this book have been devoted to these important subjects, the present chapter being devoted to interior woodwork in general. what the interior wood trim of the average eighteenth-century philadelphia house consists of is shown by accompanying photographs, especially those in stenton, mount pleasant and whitby hall. it is found that the principal rooms of pretentious mansions, such as the hall, parlor and reception room at stenton, were sometimes entirely paneled up on all sides. about this time, however, hand-blocked wall paper began to be brought to america, and a favorite treatment of colonial interiors, including halls, parlors, dining rooms and even the principal bedrooms of large houses, combined a cornice, or often a cornice and frieze, and sometimes a complete entablature, with a paneled wainscot or a flat dado with surbase and skirting, the wall between being papered. sometimes a dado effect was secured by means of a surbase above the skirting, the plaster space between being left white as in the parlor at cliveden or in the hall and dining room at whitby hall, or papered like the wall above, as in the parlor at whitby hall and in some of the chambers at upsala. later the skirting only was frequently employed with a simple cornice or picture mold, even in the principal rooms of the better houses, as in the dining room at whitby hall. several accompanying illustrations show it with the dado, while a few interiors of mount pleasant, upsala and cliveden show it with the paneled wainscot. this general scheme constitutes a pleasing and consistent application of the classic orders to interior walls, the dado, the wall above it and whatever portion of the entablature happens to be employed corresponding to the pedestal, shaft and entablature of the complete order respectively. in a room so treated the dado becomes virtually a continuous pedestal with a base or skirting and a surbase above the die or plane face of the pedestal. usually this surbase is molded to resemble the upper fascia or the complete architrave of the various orders. again it may be hand-carved with vertical flutings, continuous, as in the parlor at upsala, or in groups of three or more in alternation with an incised flower pattern, as in the rex house. for the most part the surmounting cornice and frieze of the room was of wood, beautifully molded and often hand-carved, the architrave usually being omitted. in the library at solitude, however, is to be seen a handsome cornice and frieze entirely of plaster or composition work in the adam manner, including familiar classic detail in which enriched cavetto and ogee moldings, festoons, flower ornaments and draped human figures are prominent. when chandeliers for candles began to be used in private houses they were hung from ornamental centerpieces of plaster on the ceiling, the motives usually being circles, ovals, festooned garlands and acanthus leaves. such a centerpiece and ornamental treatment of the ceiling is also a feature of this room. in most of the better houses during the provincial period, important rooms had paneled wainscots, papered walls and molded cornices, as in the parlor and second-story hall at mount pleasant and in the parlor at upsala. sometimes the plaster walls were left white or painted, as in the hall at cliveden and the library at stenton. a fireplace with paneled chimney piece was an important feature of most rooms, and the entire wall including it was often completely paneled up, closely relating the fireplace, doors or windows in a definite architectural scheme, as already shown by examples in stenton, whitby hall and mount pleasant. embrasured windows with two-part paneled folding shutters and seats jutting somewhat into the room were customary in early brick and stone houses, as at stenton. these were fastened by bars of wood thrust across from side to side and fitting into slots in the jambs. later, outside shutters came into vogue, and the jambs and soffit of the embrasures were paneled, as at whitby hall, the treatment of the palladian window on the staircase landing in this house being an especially fine example. the parlor at stenton is among the most notable instances in philadelphia of this architectural treatment of the fireplace in a room with wood paneling throughout. along georgian lines and decidedly substantial in character, it is essentially simple in conception and graceful in form and proportion, the spacing of the large bolection molded raised panels being excellent. first attention properly goes to the wide chimney piece with its unusual, but attractive overmantel paneling, low arched and marble-faced fireplace opening, beautiful brass fender and andirons. the symmetrical arrangement of two flanking china closets, with round-headed double doors recalling those shown at whitby hall and mount pleasant, is most effective. the work is executed in a masterly manner, the proportions being well calculated and the precision of the hand tooling remarkably well maintained. both the doors and embrasured windows of this room merit careful study. of more modest, but generally similar treatment, is the paneling of the reception room at stenton, the fireplace opening here having been closed for installation of a franklin stove. at whitby hall there are two interesting and characteristic examples of embrasured windows with paneled jambs and soffits, and molded architrave casings. in the dining room the embrasures are cased down to the window seats, while in the parlor the casings with their broader sections at top and bottom do not extend below the surbase, although the embrasure continues to the floor. in this latter room one of the colonial builder's favorite motives, ever recurring with minor variations throughout many houses, occupies the string course of the cornice. this double denticulated member or grecian fret band is formed by vertical cross cuttings, alternately from top and bottom of a square molding, the plain ogee molding beneath giving it just the proper emphasis. conforming to the characteristic panel arrangement of the time, most of the inside doors of philadelphia have six panels, the upper pair being not quite square and the two lower pairs being oblong, the middle pair being longer than the lower. like outside doors they were for the most part molded and raised with broad bevels, although occasionally, as on the second floor at mount pleasant, they were flat and bolection molded, giving the door a considerably different aspect. generally speaking, the workmanship was excellent, the beveling of the panels and the molding of the stiles and rails manifesting the utmost painstaking. a simple knob and key-plate, usually of brass, completed the complement of hardware, apart from the h hinges of early years and the butts which soon followed. it will be noted that all of these six-panel doors have stiles and muntins of virtually equal width, any variation being slightly wider stiles. top and frieze rails are alike and about the same width as the muntin, but the bottom rail is somewhat broader and the lock rail the broadest of the four. moldings are very simple and confined to the edge of the panels, with the splayed or beveled panels of earlier years gradually being abandoned in favor of plain, flat surfaces. [illustration: plate lxxxiv.--interior detail of main entrance, congress hall; president's dais, senate chamber, congress hall.] [illustration: plate lxxxv.--gallery, senate chamber, congress hall.] architrave casings were the rule, sometimes extending to the floor and often standing on heavy, square plinth blocks the height of the skirting beneath its molding. there are instances of both types at mount pleasant and whitby hall. the thickness of the walls in houses of brick and stone encouraged the custom of paneling the jambs and soffit of doorway openings to correspond with the paneling of the doors, the effect being rich and very pleasing. generally the architrave casing was miter-joined across the lintel, as at upsala, but in many of the better houses this horizontal part of the casing was given an overhang of an inch or two to form the doorhead. how pleasing this simple device was, especially when a rosette of stucco was applied to each jog of the casing, is well exemplified by the doors on the first floor at whitby hall. very similar door trim without the rosette is to be seen at cliveden and in numerous other houses. at mount pleasant, and in several of the more pretentious old colonial mansions of philadelphia, this type of door trim was elaborated by a surmounting frieze and heavy pediment above the architrave casing. the first floor hall at mount pleasant presents the interesting combination of a pulvinated ionic pediment with a mutulary doric cornice and frieze about the ceiling. here one notices the flat dado and doors with raised and molded panels as contrasted with the paneled wainscot and bolection-molded, flat-paneled doors of the second-story hall. in this latter, also, some of the pediments are complete, others broken, illustrating another whim of the early american builders. here the cornice is also ionic with jig-sawed modillions, and the ensemble is generally more pleasing. in proportion and precision of workmanship this woodwork is hardly excelled in philadelphia. the simple, carefully wrought dentil course of the doorheads lends a refining influence and pleasing sense of scale that seems to lighten the design very materially. philadelphia has no handsomer example of the enriched pedimental doorhead than the interior treatment of the entrance doorway of the blackwell house, number pine street. above the horizontal overhang of the architrave casing across the lintel two beautifully carved consoles, the width of the frieze in height, support a cornice which is the base of a broken pediment. the familiar grecian band or double denticulated molding in the string course gives character to the cornice, while an attractive leaf decoration in applied composition adorns the recessed frieze panel. projections of the cornice above the consoles lend an added touch of refinement. this elaboration of the white wood trim is further emphasized by the dark red-brown painting of the door to simulate old mahogany, which became a frequent feature of the houses of this period. round-headed doorways here and there, not only at the front entrance, but elsewhere, as in the hall at hope lodge, provided a welcome variation from the customary square-headed types and have been a pleasing feature of colonial interiors since early times. as framing the glazed doorways of china closets already referred to, they were a charming feature of the interior wood finish. at the front entrance the round-headed doorway was utilized to provide an ornamental yet practical fanlight transom over the door which admitted considerable light to brighten the hall. as contrasted with this more graceful arrangement, the broad front entrance to whitby hall, with its severely plain unmolded four-panel double doors and wrought-iron strap hinges, bolts, latch and great rim lock, is of quaint interest. the accompanying photograph shows well the dado effect secured by a surbase and skirting, and one notes with interest the cornice with its prominent modillions and the heavy plinth blocks on which the architrave casings of the doors stand. round-headed windows were employed for landing windows in stair halls, as at whitby hall, and in the central part of the palladian windows over entrances, as at mount pleasant, where they became decorative interior features of the front end of the second-floor halls. elliptical-headed openings are rare in philadelphia, and in most instances were arches across the main hall, as at hope lodge. sometimes they framed the staircase vista at the head or foot of the flight, where they became one of the most charming features of the best colonial interiors. the illustrations of interiors at stenton accompanying this chapter, serve, as might many others, to show that white-painted interior woodwork, although one of the greatest charms of the colonial house, finds its principal mission in providing the only architectural background that sets off satisfactorily the warmth of color and grace of line possessed by eighteenth-century furniture in mahogany and other dark woods. bright and cheerful, chaste and beautiful, it emphasizes the beauties of everything before it, yet seldom forces itself into undue prominence. it is a scheme of interior treatment which has stood the test of time and indicates what excellent taste the colonial builders manifested in resorting to its subtle influence to display their rare pieces of furniture brought from england and the continent. the admirable work of philadelphia joiners indicates conclusively the many possibilities of white-painted soft woods. unlike hardwood finish, the natural grain of the wood is concealed by painting, so that broad flat surfaces and simple moldings would be monotonous. beauty of form is therefore substituted for the beauty of wood grain. classic motives and detail are brought to bear upon the interior woodwork in such a manner as to delight the eye, yet not to detract unduly from the furnishings of the room. and the charm of much of the resulting woodwork indicates an early realization by american craftsmen of the fact that a nice balance between plain surface and decoration is as important as the decoration itself. it was by their facility in the design and execution of this woodwork that skilled wood-carvers were able to impart that lightness, grace and ingenuity of adaptation to which the colonial style chiefly owes its charm. chapter xii public buildings as in its domestic architecture of colonial times, philadelphia is so rich in its fine old public buildings that a readable and instructive book could be made about them alone. intended for religious, political and commercial purposes, erected from one to two centuries ago and ranging from the frugal simplicity of the mennonite meeting house in germantown to the stately beauty of independence hall, these noble edifices of bygone days were the scenes of momentous events in the most glorious and troublous period of the world's first republic. their histories are inspiring and likewise their architecture. exigencies of space in a book of this sort render it impossible to include all worthy examples, but an effort has been made to present a representative collection that does justice to the annals and building genius of this remarkable city. [illustration: plate lxxxvi.--carpenter's hall, off chestnut street, between south third and south fourth streets. erected in ; old market house, second and pine streets.] [illustration: plate lxxxvii.--main building, pennsylvania hospital. erected in .] probably the most famous historical monument in the united states is independence hall, on chestnut street between fifth and sixth streets. here the american nation really came into being and began to function, and here come thousands of visitors annually to view in awed admiration the greatest patriotic shrine of a free people. the building, designed by andrew hamilton, speaker of the assembly, and built under his direction for the state house, was used for that purpose until . the foundations were laid in , and the main building was ready for occupancy in , although the wings and steeple were not completed until . the steeple was taken down in , but was restored to its original condition by william strickland in , and further restorations of the building to its original condition were effected later by the city government. the east, or "declaration" chamber, still appears substantially as it did when that famous document was signed, but the restoration of certain other rooms has been less satisfactory. the building has been set apart by the city, which purchased it from the state in , as a museum of historical relics, and during the past century has been used by various public offices and societies. many famous buildings of colonial times were the work of amateur architects, but this is without exception the finest contemporary administrative building in america; a noble building rich in glorious memories; nobler even than the bulfinch state house at boston or the maryland state house at annapolis. it is an enduring monument to hamilton's versatility, showing that with his genius he might have won distinction as an architect no less than as a barrister. his sense of design, mass and proportion, his appreciation of the relative value and most effective uses of classic detail and his ability to harmonize the exigencies of the floor plan with attractive appearance were second to those of no professional architect of his time. independence hall is a stately structure of exceptionally well-balanced symmetrical arrangement, beautiful alike in its general mass and minutest details, and presenting a delightful appearance from whatever viewpoint it is seen,--dignified, spacious and picturesque, a building that seems to typify the serenity of mind and steadfastness of purpose of those sturdy patriots who made it famous. the structure comprises three parts; a large central building with hip-roofed wings for offices connected with the main building by open arcaded loggias. the present wings are restorations. beyond the wings are two buildings erected after the close of the revolution, but forming part of the group. that at the corner of fifth and chestnut streets was erected as the philadelphia county court house, while that at the corner of sixth and chestnut streets was the city hall. the entire group is of characteristic philadelphia brick construction, delightfully mellowed by age, with marble and white-painted wood trim. the main building is two stories high with a decked gable roof, heavily balustraded between large, arched quadruple chimney stacks at each end, corners heavily quoined with marble and ends without fenestration other than a round bull's-eye window in each. across the one hundred and seven feet of the chestnut street façade there is a range of nine broad, high, twenty-four-paned windows with flat gauged brick arches and high marble keystones, the central window being replaced by a simple, very high and deeply recessed doorway with a broad stone stoop before it. tying into the keystones is a horizontal belt of marble across the entire front. a similar belt is located immediately beneath the window sills of the second story, and between the two belts and ranging with the windows are nine oblong marble panels set into the brickwork. on the independence square façade everything is subordinated to the great square steeple-like clock tower, centrally located, which stands its entire height outside but adjoining the walls of the main building. in construction the lower two stories of the tower correspond to those of the building itself, and the cornice of the latter is effectively carried around the tower. above, the tower rises two more stories of brick with pedimented and pilastered walls in the ionic order and surmounted with classic urns and flame motives. above this level the construction of the clock tower is of white-painted wood, one story with corinthian pilasters and another balustraded, rising in four-sided diminutions to the octagonal, open arched belfry and superstructure, above which is a tapering pinnacle and gilt weathervane. it is a tower of grace, dignity and repose, a tower suggestive of ecclesiastical work, perhaps, yet withal in complete harmony with its situation and purpose. in the base of this tower is the main entrance, a simple and dignified pillared doorway in the mutulary doric order with double four-panel doors, and a magnificent palladian window in the ionic order above, to which reference was made in a previous chapter. thus three distinct orders of architecture are used in this tower alone, presenting another instance of the great freedom with which early american architects utilized their favorite motives. entering this doorway one comes into a great, square, lofty, brick-paved hall in the base of the tower where now reposes the liberty bell at the foot of what has often been called the finest staircase in america. and where, indeed, is to be found a more splendid combination of nicely worked white wood trim with touches of mahogany and dark green stairs? done in the ionic order, with a heavy cornice having carved modillions and a prominent dentil course, deeply embrasured windows with paneled jambs and broad sills supported by beautifully hand-tooled consoles, and a nicely spaced paneled wainscot, this entrance is a fitting frame for the broad winding staircase. rising ramp after ramp by broad treads and low risers, it leads first to a broad landing in front lighted by the palladian window over the entrance, and thence upward and around to a gallery across the opposite wall, where a broad double doorway with delightful fanlight above leads into the main hall of the second floor. to the right a narrow staircase rises to the belfry. the classic balustrade, with its mahogany-capped rail and simple landing newels is heavy but well proportioned; the paneled wainscot along the wall follows the contour of the ramped rail opposite, and the under side of the landings, gallery and upper runs are nicely paneled. elaborately carved scroll brackets adorn the stair ends, and a harmonious floreated volute spiral band runs along the edge of the gallery; while the pilaster casings of the upper doorway and of the palladian window are enriched with straight hanging garlands. at the foot of the staircase the newel treatment takes the scroll form of the ionic volute, the rail and balusters on the circular end of the broad lower step winding around a central column like the landing newels. hanging from its original beam, but within an ornamental frame erected in the center of this staircase hall, is the best-known relic of the building, the famous liberty bell, which is supposed, without adequate evidence, to have been the first bell to announce the adoption of the declaration of independence. it was cast in england early in and bears the following inscription: "by order of the assembly of the province of pennsylvania for the state house in philadelphia, ", and underneath: "proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof, lev. xxv, v, x." in august, , the bell was received in philadelphia, but was cracked by a stroke of the clapper the following month. it was recast, but the work being unsatisfactory, it was again recast with more copper, in philadelphia during may, , and in june was hung in the state house steeple, where it remained until taken to allentown, pennsylvania, in , to prevent it from falling into the hands of the british. in the bell was lowered and the steeple removed. in a new steeple was erected, and a new bell put in place, the liberty bell being given a place in an upper story of the tower to be rung only on occasions of great importance. on july , , it suddenly cracked again while being tolled in memory of chief justice john marshall, and on february , , this crack was so increased as nearly to destroy its sound. in it was placed in the east or declaration room, but in , the centennial year, it was again hung in the tower by a chain of thirteen links. from the time of its second recasting in , until it lost its sound in , the liberty bell was sounded on all important occasions, both grave and gay. it convened town meetings and the assembly, proclaimed the national anniversary, ushered in the new year, welcomed distinguished men, tolled for the honored dead, and on several occasions was muffled and tolled as an expression of public disapproval of various acts of british tyranny. passing through a high, round-headed arch with paneled jambs and soffit one enters the central hall, a magnificent apartment in the mutulary doric order, extending through the building to the chestnut street entrance. fluted columns standing on a high, broad pedestal which runs about the walls like a wainscot, support a heavy complete entablature enriched with beautifully hand-carved moldings, notably an egg and dart ovolo between cornice and frieze and foliated moldings about the mutules and the panels of the soffit and metopes. it is a hall of charming vistas in a noble architectural frame,--straight ahead to the chestnut street entrance; back through the great single arch to the staircase; to the left through an arcade of three pilastered arches into the west or supreme court chamber; to the right through a broad, double doorway into the east or "declaration" room, the original assembly chamber. the treatment of the latter wall of the hall is most elaborate. three cased arches correspond to the open arches opposite. on the wall within the two end ones are handsome, pedimental-topped, inscribed tablets, while in the middle one is located the doorway with an ornate, broken, pedimental doorhead taking the form of a swag. like the hall, the supreme court chamber is doric with fluted pilasters instead of engaged columns, and walls entirely paneled up. there are three windows at each end and two back of the judge's bench with its paneled platform and rail, and balustraded staircases at each end. in this room the convention to form a new constitution for pennsylvania met july , , and unanimously approved the declaration of independence, and pledged the support of the state. delegates to congress were elected who were signers of the declaration. in this room now stands the statue of washington carved out of a single block of wood by colonel william rush, after stuart. across the hall is the declaration chamber, forty feet and two inches long, thirty-nine feet and six inches wide and nineteen feet and eight inches high. as in size, its architecture is substantially the same as the chamber opposite, and like it the two corners near the hall are rounding. also it is of spacious appearance, light, beautiful and cheerful, a room to inspire noble deeds. instead of the high judge's bench at the side opposite the entrance, there is a relatively small platform or dais of two steps on which stands the presiding officer's desk in front of a large, elaborate, pedimental-topped frame with exquisitely enriched carved moldings, within which is a smaller frame containing a facsimile of the declaration of independence. to either side, between fluted pilasters, are segmental arched fireplaces with heavy mantel shelves above, supported by carved consoles, while beyond these are single doors with pedimental heads. otherwise the room is substantially like that across the hall. they are regarded as the best of the restored rooms of the building, and of the two the courtroom is perhaps rather the better in its greater simplicity. in the east or so-called declaration chamber, the second continental congress met may , ; george washington was chosen commander in chief of the continental army june , ; and the declaration of independence was adopted july , . the american officers taken prisoners at the battle of brandywine, september , and of germantown, october , , were held here as prisoners of war, and on july , , the articles of confederation and perpetual union between the states were signed here by representatives of eight states. the room contains much of the furniture of those days. the table and high-backed chippendale chair of mahogany used by the presidents of the continental congress and occupied by john hancock at the signing still remain, and on the table is to be seen the silver ink-stand with its quill box and sand shaker, in which the delegates dipped their pens in autographing the famous document. there are also fourteen of the original chairs used by delegates. on the walls hang portraits of forty-five of the fifty-six signers, also a portrait of washington by rembrandt peale. in fact, the collection of portraits is largely based on canvases secured from the famous peale museum which at one time occupied the upper floors of the building. there are also valuable paintings by benjamin west, gilbert stuart, edgar pine, thomas sully and allan ramsay. the bronze statue of washington standing in front of independence hall on chestnut street is a replica of the original one in white marble by bailey, which was removed on account of its disintegration. forty-five crayons and pastels by john sharpless, purchased by the city in , form a notable collection estimated to be worth half a million dollars. what is supposed to be the earliest exhibition of paintings ever held in america was that of robert edge pine, which occurred in independence hall in . [illustration: plate lxxxviii.--main hall and double staircase, pennsylvania hospital.] [illustration: plate lxxxix.--custom house, fifth and chestnut streets. completed in ; main building, girard college. begun in .] on the second floor the principal room is a great banqueting hall extending across the entire building on the chestnut street side with its range of nine windows and having a fireplace at each end. there are smaller rooms on each side of the broad entrance corridor; its wide, flat arch has four fluted columns supporting a heavy pedimental head with elliptical fanlight. architecturally the restoration of the second floor is less happy than that of the first. it is not in the spirit of the work below; nor does it accord with typical colonial work of pre-revolutionary days. it lacks that simple, straight-forward dignity of design; that fine sense of proportion; that refinement and appropriateness of detail. the spacing of the paneling of both the wainscot and the fireplace mantels is not characteristic; the detail of the latter is poorly chosen and assembled, and the whole aspect, especially the entrance arch, suggests a studied effort to achieve picturesque effect. on the northwest corner of independence square, which is the southeast corner of sixth and chestnut streets, is old congress hall, erected in , in which congress sat from to , and in which washington was inaugurated in for a second term with adams as vice-president, and in which adams, in , was inaugurated president with jefferson as vice-president. here washington presented his famous message concerning jay's treaty with england; here, toward the close of his second administration, he pronounced his farewell address, which is still regarded as a model of dignity and farsightedness. here, too, was officially announced the death of washington, when john marshall offered a resolution that a joint committee of the house and senate consider "the most suitable manner of paying honor to the memory of the man first in war, first in peace and first in the hearts of his countrymen", thus originating a phrase never to be forgotten in america. for some years after the building was occupied by the criminal courts, now located in the city hall. were it not so near the more pretentious independence hall, this demure little building would receive much more attention, for it is architecturally a gem of the colonial period, and such of its interior woodwork as has been restored has been more happily treated than is often the case. it is an oblong structure of brick, with marble and white wood trim, two stories high, hip-roofed and surmounted in the center by a well-proportioned, octagonal open cupola. on the front a pediment springs from the cornice over a slightly projecting central section of the façade, while a three-sided bay breaks the rear wall and enlarges the building. the stoop and doorway are of simple dignity, the double doors having the appearance of being four separate, very narrow four-panel doors, and the graceful fanlight above being in accord with the round-headed windows of the lower story. these windows are set effectively in brick arches with marble sills, keystones and imposts. on the upper story the windows are twenty-four-paned and square-headed with gauged brick arches and marble keystones. under the central front window over the entrance there is a handsome wrought-iron fire balcony. the best exterior feature of the building is the beautifully hand-tooled cornice with its coved member having a series of recessed arches and the well-known grecian band or double denticulated molding beneath. at the second-floor level a white marble belt accords well with the general scheme. no less interesting than the outward appearance of the entrance is its inward aspect, with its deeply paneled embrasures and soffit, its quaint strap hinges and rim lock. the arrangement of the double staircases with a halfway landing in this lofty, airy stair hall compels admiration for effective simplicity. the stair ends are unadorned, but the spaces under the lower run of both flights are nicely paneled up. the balusters are of good, though familiar pattern, and the lines of the dark ramped rail gracefully drawn. interest centers in the senate chamber with its barrel ceiling and panel-fronted galleries along both sides supported by slender round columns. here momentous business was transacted during the early years of the american nation, and many relics of those troublous times are here preserved. in the bay at the rear end the president's dais has been restored from remains found beneath an old platform. it is of graceful design with free-flowing curves and an elliptical swell front where the balustrade has a solid three-panel insert. the turned balusters are of slender grace, while the paneled pilasters or newels at the ends and corners are adorned with straight hanging garlands in applied work. there is also a festooned border in applied work above the opening into the bay that is carried about the room above the galleries. the central decoration of the ceiling and the eagle over the president's dais furnish excellent examples of eighteenth-century frescoes. a short distance east of independence square, in a narrow court off chestnut street, between south third and south fourth streets, hedged about by high modern office buildings that dwarf its size, is carpenters' hall, in which the first continental congress assembled, september , , and in which the national convention, in , framed the present constitution of the united states. the building was also the headquarters of the pennsylvania committee of correspondence; the basement was used as a magazine for ammunition during the revolution, and from to the whole of it was occupied by the first united states bank. [illustration: plate xc.--old stock exchange, walnut and dock streets; girard national bank, south third street.] [illustration: plate xci.--christ church, north second street near market street. erected in - ; old swedes' church, swanson and christian streets. erected in - .] the carpenters' company, established in , was patterned after the worshipful company of carpenters of london, which dates back to , and the early organization of such a guild in america indicates the large number and high character of the colonial builders of philadelphia and explains the excellence of the architecture in this neighborhood. the present building was begun in , but was not completed until , so that throughout the revolutionary period it was used in a partly finished condition. since it has been preserved wholly for its historic associations. here was conceived that liberty which had its birth in independence hall, so that its claim to fame is second only to the latter. like it, too, there are many interesting relics of those glorious days to be seen within. an inscription on a tablet outside very properly reads, "within these walls, henry, hancock, and adams inspired the delegates of the colonies with nerve and sinew for the toils of war." the building is in the form of a greek cross with four projecting gable ends and an octagonal cupola of graceful design and proportions at the center of the roof. it is of characteristic philadelphia brickwork, with handsomely cased twenty-four-paned windows shuttered on the lower floor. the entrance façade, with its broad, high stoop and pedimental doorway, double doors and fanlight above; its pleasing fenestration, especially the round-headed, palladian windows of the second floor, above balustrade sections resting on a horizontal belt of white at the second-floor level, and its pediment with a handsome hand-tooled cornice in which an always pleasing grecian band is prominent, does credit to its design, and altogether the structure was worthy of its purpose. within, the meeting room is of surprisingly generous size, considering the small impression given by the exterior aspect of the building. the restored woodwork is unfortunate, yet the general effect of bygone years remains. for two centuries philadelphia has been justly famous for its public markets, numerous and readily accessible to the entire community. marketing has ever been one of the duties of the thrifty housewife, to which philadelphia women have given particular attention, and everything possible has been done to make the task easy and satisfactory to them. when the city was first laid out its few wide streets, with the exception of broad street, were laid out for the convenience of markets, which in those days were placed in their center. a few of these old-time markets still remain, notably that at second and pine streets, its market house or central building of quaintly interesting design embracing features such as the octagonal cupola, marble lintels, sills and belt, and the elliptical and semicircular fanlights which are typically colonial. to benjamin franklin, philadelphia is largely indebted for the pennsylvania hospital fronting on pine street between south eighth and south ninth streets, the first hospital in the united states, which was projected in , erected in and still continues to be the foremost of some one hundred institutions in the city. the main building was designed by samuel rhodes, mayor of philadelphia, and in architectural excellence is regarded as second only to independence hall. individuals gave funds freely for its erection; the british parliament turned over to it some funds unclaimed by a land company; bishop whitefield gave a considerable sum; benjamin west painted a replica of his famous work, "christ healing the sick", now in the entrance hall, which was exhibited and earned four thousand pounds sterling in admissions; some players gave "hamlet" for the benefit of the hospital, and money was raised in numerous other ways. the building is a large and beautiful one of noble appearance, three stories high, having long, balanced wings two and a half stories high, with dormers and an octagon tower over the cross wings at each end. the total frontage is some two hundred and seventy-five feet. it is of reddish-brown brick, faced on the front of the first story of the main building with gray marble, and pierced by two large round-topped windows each side of a central doorway with a balustraded stoop and handsome semicircular fanlight and side lights. above, six corinthian pilasters support a beautifully detailed entablature at the eaves, from which springs a pediment with ornamental oval window. surmounting the hip roof is a square superstructure of wood, paneled and painted white, above which is a low octagonal belvedere platform with a huge, round balustrade. brick walls and an ornamental wistaria-clad iron fence surround the grounds, and no visitor has entered the central gate since la fayette. within the building there is much splendid interior wood finish. its best feature, however, is the high, broad hall, with fluted ionic columns supporting a mutulary doric entablature, leading back to a double winding staircase, which is a marvelous work of art, combining the simplicity and purity as well as the beauty of the middle georgian period. there are two landings on each flight, and from the spiral newels at the bottom the balustrades with ramped rails and heavy, turned balusters swing upward, as do the staircases, to the third floor. one notes with interest the unusual outline of the brackets under the overhang of the stair treads. a few important public buildings of philadelphia that were not erected until early in the nineteenth century had their inception directly or indirectly in the outgrowth of the war of independence, and their omission would render any treatise of the public buildings of the city noticeably incomplete. their inclusion here finds still further justification in the fact that they are of classic architecture and so to a degree in accord with colonial traditions. the custom house, a classic stone structure, on the south side of chestnut street between fourth and fifth streets, was built for the second united states bank, authorized by congress in april, , because of the bad financial condition into which the government had fallen during the war of . the building was designed by william strickland, in his day the leading american architect, being modeled after the parthenon of athens. it was completed in and was put to its present use in . the main building of girard college on girard avenue between north th and north th streets, of which thomas ustick walter, a pupil of strickland's, was the architect, is one of the finest specimens of pure greek architecture in america. indeed, this imposing corinthian structure of stone has been called "the most perfect greek temple in existence." work upon it was begun in , and the college was opened january , . to a sarcophagus in this main building were removed the remains of stephen girard in . the building is feet wide and feet long, and is surrounded by thirty-four fluted columns fifty-six feet high and seven feet in diameter at the base, which cost thirteen thousand dollars each. the total height of the building is ninety-seven feet, and it is arched throughout with brick and stone, and roofed with marble tiles. the weight of the roof is estimated at nearly one thousand tons. the old stock exchange at third and walnut and dock streets, facing a broad open space once an old-time market, is also the work of william strickland, who likewise designed st. paul's church, st. stephen's church, the almshouse and the united states naval asylum. it is an impressive round-fronted classic structure of gray stone in the corinthian order, with a semicircular colonnade above the first story supporting a handsomely executed entablature with conspicuous antefixes about the cornice. instead of a central flight of steps leading to a main entrance, there were two well-designed flights at each side. surmounting the whole is a daring, tall, round cupola, its roof supported by engaged columns and the spaces between pierced by classic grilles. the structure is notable throughout for excellence in mass and detail. [illustration: plate xcii.--st. peter's church, south third and pine streets. erected in ; lectern, st. peter's church.] [illustration: plate xciii.--interior and chancel, christ church; interior and lectern, st. peter's church.] at number south third street stands the oldest banking building in america, and withal one of the handsomest of such buildings. erected in by the first bank of the united states, this beautiful stone and brick structure in the corinthian order, with its fine pedimental portico bearing in high relief a modification of the seal of the united states, was owned and occupied by stephen girard from to , and since by the girard bank and the girard national bank. it is one of those classic structures which by reason of nicety in proportion and precision in detail still compares favorably with the best modern buildings of the city. the high, fluted columns and pilasters with their nicely wrought capitals lend an imposing nobility that immediately arrests attention, while the refinement of detail throughout well repays careful scrutiny. in this latter respect its best features are the cornice with its beautifully enriched moldings and modillions, the balustrade above, the window heads supported by hand-tooled consoles and the insert panels under the portico. the first bank of the united states was incorporated in with a capital of ten million dollars. it was the first national bank of issue essential to the system of banking built up by alexander hamilton in organizing the finances of the federal government under the constitution of . it issued circulating notes, discounted commercial paper and aided the government in its financial operations. although the government subscribed one-fifth of the capital, it was paid for by a roundabout process which actually resulted in the loan of the amount by the bank to the treasury. other loans were made by the bank to the government, until by the end of its obligations had reached $ , , . in order to meet these obligations, the government gradually disposed of its bank stock and by had sold its entire holdings at a profit of $ , . a statement submitted to congress january , , by albert gallatin, then secretary of the treasury, showed resources of $ , , , of which $ , , was in loans and discounts, $ , , in united states stock and $ , , in specie. the expiration of the charter of the bank, in , was the occasion for a party contest which prevented renewal and added greatly to the financial difficulties of the government during the war of . although foreign stockholders were not permitted to vote by proxy, and the twenty-five directors were required to be citizens of the united states, the bank was attacked on the ground of foreign ownership, and it was also claimed that congress had no constitutional power to create such an institution. thereupon the bank building and the cashier's house in philadelphia were purchased at a third of the original cost by girard, who, in may, , established the bank of stephen girard and thereafter assisted the government very materially. he was, in fact, the financier of the war of . no less interesting than the governmental and commercial public buildings of philadelphia are its churches, of which several of noble architecture date back to the colonial period. on north second street, just north of market, is located christ church, protestant episcopal, the first diocesan church of pennsylvania. it is a fine old building designed mainly by doctor john kearsley, a vestryman and physician. the corner stone was laid in , and the building was completed in , but the steeple, in part designed by benjamin franklin and containing a famous chime of eight bells, was not erected until . franklin was one of the managers of a lottery in for raising funds for the steeple and bells, the latter being imported at a cost of five hundred pounds sterling. on july , , after the declaration of independence had been read, these bells "rang out a merry chime." this imposing edifice eloquently indicates what architectural triumphs can be achieved in brickwork in the colonial style. apart from the spire, interest centers in the fenestration, which has already been treated in chapter viii, and in the wood trim. as in much contemporary architecture, the woodwork is conspicuous for the free use of the orders. for example, one immediately notes the mutulary doric cornice and frieze along the sides, and the pulvinated ionic entablature across the chancel gable above the palladian window. the roof is heavily balustraded in white-painted wood with the urns on the several pedestals holding torches with carved flames. a brick belfry rises square and sturdy above the roof and then continues upward in diminishing construction of wood, first virtually four-sided, then octagonal and finally in a low, tapering spire surmounted by a weather-vane. a distinctive feature is the simple iron fence along the street with two wrought-iron arched gates, as beautiful as any in america, hung from high, ball-topped stone posts. imposing in its simplicity, the interior is generally doric in character, but the ionic entablatures over the side sections of the beautiful palladian chancel window reflect the treatment outside. fluted columns standing on high pedestals, with square, doric entablature sections above, support graceful, elliptical arches, which separate the nave from the aisles in which are panel-fronted galleries. the organ loft over the main entrance is bow-fronted and highly ornate. [illustration: plate xciv.--interior and chancel, old swedes' church; st. paul's church, south third street near walnut street.] [illustration: plate xcv.--mennonite meeting house, germantown. erected in ; holy trinity church, south twenty-first and walnut streets.] certain alterations to the interior were made in , and in it was restored to its ancient character, but the high old-fashioned wineglass pulpit of remains, as does the font. a silver bowl, weighing more than five pounds, presented in by colonel quarry of the british army, is still in use, while a set of communion plate presented by queen anne in is brought forth on special occasions. the brass chandelier for candles has hung in its central position since . bishop white officiated as rector during revolutionary days, and his body lies under the altar. many well-known figures of american history worshiped here, both washington and franklin maintaining pews which are still preserved. that in which washington sat was placed in independence hall in . in the churchyard adjoining are buried a number of noted patriots, including benjamin franklin, robert morris, the financier of the revolution, james wilson, the first justice of the state and a signer of the declaration and constitution, brigadier general john forbes, john penn, peyton randolph, francis hopkinson, doctor benjamin rush, generals lambert, cadwalader, charles lee and jacob morgan of the continental army, and commodores truxton, bainbridge and dale of the navy. in the southeast part of the city, at swanson and christian streets, just east of front street, is located the ivy-clad old swedes' church, one of the most venerable buildings in america. it stands on the site of a blockhouse erected by the swedish settlers in . the present structure of brick was begun in and finished two years later. for one hundred and forty-three years it remained a worshiping place of the swedish lutherans, and for one hundred and thirty years it was in charge of ministers sent over from sweden. the baptismal font is the original one brought from sweden, and the communion service has been in use since . in the adjoining churchyard the oldest tombstone bearing a legible epitaph is dated . here alexander wilson, the celebrated naturalist, was buried at his own request, saying that the "birds would be apt to come and sing over my grave." although generally colonial in external appearance, and frankly so in the detail of its wood trim, the arrangement of the structure and its proportions, especially the peaked gable over the entrance and the small, low and square wooden belfry, give it a somewhat foreign aspect which is by no means surprising in the circumstances. indeed, it may be said to have decided norse suggestion. the interior, with its severely simple galleries, straight-backed wooden pews and high pulpit under the chancel window, has that quaintness to be seen in the earliest country churches of america. two big-eyed, winged cherubim on the organ loft are interesting examples of early swedish wood carving probably taken from an old swedish ship. st. peter's at south third and pine streets, the second protestant episcopal church in the city, was an offshoot of christ church, and for many years both were under the same rectorship. washington, during his various sojourns in philadelphia, attended sometimes one and again the other, and pew number in st. peter's is pointed out as his. the building was erected in and still retains its colonial characteristics. it is a brick structure two and a half stories in height, having pedimental ends and corners quoined with stone. the fenestration with many round-headed windows is excellent and has already been alluded to in chapter viii. at one end a massive, square, vine-clad belfry tower of brick rises to a height of six stories, above which there is a tall, slender wooden spire surmounted by a ball and cross. within are the original square box pews with doors, and seats facing both ways, those of the galleries being similarly arranged. the whole aspect is one of great plainness and simple dignity, yet withal pleasing. a unique feature is the location of the organ and altar at the eastern end and the reading desk and lofty wineglass pulpit, with sounding board overhead, at the western end. this compels the rector to conduct part of the service at each end of the church and obliges the congregation to change to the other seat of the pews in order to face in the opposite direction. in the adjoining churchyard are buried many distinguished early residents of the city, including commodore stephen decatur. trinity church, oxford, stands on the site of a log meetinghouse where church of england services were held as early as . the present brick structure was erected in . standing among fine old trees in the midst of a picturesque churchyard, it has an appearance rather english than american. the detail of the wood trim is obviously colonial, however, and the brickwork corresponds to the best in philadelphia. the influence of flemish brickwork is seen in the large diamond patterns each side of the semicircular marble inscription tablet above the principal doorway. st. paul's protestant episcopal church, south third and walnut streets, was designed by william strickland and built some years later than st. peter's. the exterior remains the same, but the interior has been considerably altered. it is a simple gable-roof structure of plastered rubble masonry, and its façade with broad pilasters, handsome round-topped windows and simple doorway is heavily vine-clad. a handsome fence with highly ornamental wrought-iron gates and large ball-topped posts lends a touch of added refinement to the picture. edwin forrest, the eminent american actor, is buried in one of the vaults of the church. although the friends were the first sect to erect a meetinghouse of their own in germantown, about , the mennonites built a log meetinghouse in , the first of this sect in america, and their present stone church on germantown avenue, near herman street, in , a modest one-story gable-roof structure of ledge stone. it would be impossible to conceive anything simpler than the tall, narrow, double doors with the little hood above a stone stoop with plain, iron handrail on one side. in the churchyard in front of it lie the remains of the man who shot and mortally wounded general agnew during the battle of germantown. index abacus, , acanthus leaf, , adam, mantels, , , ; design, in american building, ; cornice and frieze, agnew, general, allen, nathaniel, ambler, doctor w. s., american flag, the first, tradition concerning the making of, , andirons, , andré, major john, , arch street, house at no. (ross house), , arches, detailed, ; flat brick, ; elliptical, , ; with cores of brick, , ; at foot of stairway, ; palladian window recessed within, ; recessed, ; gauged, ; relieving, ; flanked by two narrow arches, ; across main hall, architects, amateur, architecture, advantage of study of, ; a part of gentleman's education in colonial times, architrave casings, of house no. germantown avenue, ; fine-scale hand carving in, ; of wharton house, ; molded, ; of old spruce street house, ; were the rule, ; miter-joined, architraves, fluted, ; molded, ; incised, ; of upsala, ; horizontal, areaways, , , armat, thomas, , armat, thomas wright, arnold, benedict, , articles of confederation, signing of, astragal, , , , bainbridge, commodore, balconies, hall, ball and cross, ball and disk, balusters, of stenton, ; of whitby hall, ; of upsala, ; in congress hall, , balustraded, belvederes, , ; roof, ; clock-tower, balustrades, of stairway, , , , ; of porch, ; of wing steps, ; patterned after cathedral grilles and screens, ; of cast iron, of wistar house, spiral design in, ; of house no. la grange alley, ; of independence hall, bank of north america, , bank of stephen girard, bank of the united states, the first, and the building it occupied, - barclay, alexander, "barn" pointing, , bartram, john, bartram, william, bartram house, - ; windows of, ; dormers of, ; with neither outside shutters nor blinds, bead and reel, , , , bed-molding, reeded, ; denticulated, belfry, belting, of stenton, ; of port royal house, ; of city blocks, ; of morris house, ; of upsala, ; of the woodlands stable, ; of mount pleasant, ; of solitude, ; of cliveden, ; of the highlands, ; of independence hall, belvedere platform, belvederes, of woodford, ; of port royal house, ; of mount pleasant, bezan, john, billmeyer, michael, billmeyer house, description of, , ; history of, ; six-panel door of, ; seats of entrance of, ; stoop of, ; windows of, ; dormers of, bingham, hannah, bingham, william, , blackwell, colonel jacob, blackwell, rev. doctor robert, , blackwell house, description of, , ; history of, , ; eight-panel door of, ; windows of, , ; shutters of, , ; doorhead of, blinds, of girard house, ; of port royal house, ; of city blocks, ; of upsala, ; of grumblethorpe, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of loudoun, ; of the highlands, ; use of, , ; structure of, , ; methods of hanging and fastening, - blocks, houses in, , ; characteristics of, , ; many of them palatial, ; decay of, ; of camac street, , bolts, bonding, , , , , books on joinery, botanical garden of john bartram, , brackets, , , brandywine, battle of, brick, favored from the outset in preference to wood, , ; georgian country houses of, - ; city residences of, - "brick" stone, , , , brick trim, brickwork, how laid up, ; of morris house, , builders, attracted to philadelphia at an early time, bull baiting, bull's-eye, light, ; window, cadwalader, general, camac street, , capitals, of acanthus-leaf motive, ; corinthian, ; ionic, , carlton, windows of, ; dormers of, carpenter house, carpenters, attracted to philadelphia at an early time, carpenters' company, the, , carpenters' hall, ; windows of, ; description and history of, - carr, colonel, carving, elliptical, ; floreated, casement sashes, casings. _see_ door-casings, window-casings cedar grove, windows of, ; dormers of, ; shutters of, chalkley hall, eight-panel door of, ; windows of, , ; dormers of, ; blinds of, , chandeliers, chew, benjamin, - chew, john, chew house, shutters of, chew's woods, chimney breast, , chimney-pieces, of hope lodge, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of cliveden, ; development of, ; of whitby hall, , ; of mount pleasant, , ; of cliveden, ; of old house on spruce street, ; paneled, ; of stenton, chimney stacks, of port royal house, ; of mount pleasant, ; of cliveden, ; of independence hall, chimneys, of woodford, ; of stenton, ; of girard house, ; of city blocks, ; of grumblethorpe, ; of vernon, ; of solitude, china closets, christ church, designed by doctor john kearsley, ; windows of, - ; history and description of, - churches, - city troop, the, clarendon code, the, classic, façade, ; moldings, ; entablature, ; detail, , , , , , , ; orders, application of, to walls, etc., ; urns, ; three orders used in tower of independence hall, ; balustrade, ; custom house, ; girard college, ; stock exchange, ; bank building, clay, makeshift for lime, cleveland, parker, cliveden, description of, , ; history of, - , , ; door of, ; doorway of, , ; stoop of, , ; windows of, ; dormers of, ; lintels of, ; shutters of, , ; hall and staircase of, , ; chimney piece of, ; parlor of, ; interior finish of, , clock tower, closets, with sliding top, ; fireplace, - clunie. _see_ mount pleasant coach, old family, cock fighting, coin d'or, coleman, william, colonial domestic architecture, much of best, to be found in neighborhood of philadelphia, colonial pointing, colonial style of architecture, in philadelphia, ; reference books on joinery the fountainhead of, ; more or less common to all buildings of the period in philadelphia, colonnettes, , columns, of hope lodge, ; of city blocks, ; engaged ionic, of the woodlands, ; tuscan, of house no. germantown avenue, ; of loudoun, ; ionic, of solitude, ; reeded, of the highlands, ; of bartram house, ; engaged, supporting pediment, ; engaged, supporting massive entablature, ; of wharton house, ; fluted, of house no. germantown avenue, ; fluted, of dr. denton's house, ; of upsala, ; fluted, in independence hall, ; engaged, in independence hall, combes alley, combes alley house, windows of, ; shutters of, congress hall, windows of, ; history and description of, - consoles, hand-carved, , , , , , ; of dental course, ; of mount pleasant, ; of independence hall, constitution of united states, setting of convention which framed, continental congresses in philadelphia, , , corinthian, doorways, ; capitals, ; pilasters, , , ; girard college, ; stock exchange, cornices, of woodford, , ; of hope lodge, , ; of girard house, ; of port royal house, ; of city blocks, ; of morris house, ; of upsala, ; of mount pleasant, , , , , ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of vernon, ; of solitude, ; of cliveden, , ; of the highlands, ; of green tree inn, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of house no. spruce street, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of house no. frankford avenue, ; of grumblethorpe, ; of stenton, ; of whitby hall, , ; of mount vernon, ; as usually used, , ; of house no. pine street, ; with prominent modillions, ; of independence hall, , ; of congress hall, ; in girard national bank building, corona, coultas, colonel, , coultas, james, country houses, georgian, of brick, - ; ledge-stone, - coving, of hope lodge, ; of girard house, ; of green tree inn, cupolas, , custom house, cymatium, , , , cypress street, house no. , mantel of, dado, , , , , dais, president's, in congress hall, , dale, commodore, decatur, commodore stephen, declaration of independence, signing of, , de lancy, captain john peter, dentil course, of morris house, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of house no. frankford avenue, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of dr. denton's house, ; of upsala, ; of the woodlands, ; of mount pleasant, , ; and mantel, , ; of independence hall, denton, dr., his house, , deschler, david, deschler, widow, dickinson, john, dirck, keyser house, footscraper of, door-casings, of hope lodge, ; of blackwell house, ; of mount pleasant, ; molded, ; of houses no. league street and no. germantown avenue, ; rusticated, ; of whitby hall, doorheads, pedimental, , , , ; elaborated, door trim, doors, paneled, of hope lodge, , ; paneled, of stenton, ; of girard house, ; paneled, of city blocks, ; of blackwell house, ; of upsala, ; of grumblethorpe, ; of wyck, ; paneled, of house no. germantown avenue, ; paneled, of loudoun, ; of the highlands, ; of johnson house, ; four types common in colonial period, ; single and double, ; types classified according to arrangement of panels ; six-panel, , , , ; three-panel, ; four-panel, ; eight-panel, , ; of morris house, ; of house no. south seventh street, ; of house no. spruce street, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of house no. frankford avenue, ; of powel house, ; of wharton house, ; of grumblethorpe, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; double blind, ; of mount pleasant, ; of cliveden, ; of solitude, ; of perot-morris house, ; of upsala, ; with molded flat panels, ; in round-arched doorways, , ; closet, ; by the side of the fireplace, doorways, of woodford, ; doric, of port royal house, ; of city blocks, ; of blackwell house, ; pedimental, of morris house, ; of grumblethorpe, ; of the woodlands, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of vernon, ; of loudoun, ; of solitude, ; doric, of cliveden, ; of the highlands, ; of bartram house, ; the dominating feature of façade, ; have character and individuality, ; broad range of, in philadelphia houses, ; unlike those of new england, ; high and narrow, and speak of quaker severity, ; recessed, ; the simplest type of, , ; of houses no. league street and no. germantown avenue, ; the characteristic type of pedimental door trim, ; of houses no. germantown avenue and no. pine street, , ; of morris house, ; of houses no. germantown avenue and no. south seventh street, ; of house no. spruce street, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of house no. frankford avenue, , ; of the powel house, , ; of house no. south seventh street, ; of grumblethorpe, ; of house no. germantown avenue, , ; of corinthian order, ; of dr. denton's house, ; of mount pleasant, ; having complete entablature above fanlight surmounted by pediment, ; tuscan, ; doric, ; of cliveden, , ; fine specimen of mutulary doric, ; of solitude, ; of perot-morris house, , ; of upsala, ; of henry house, ; of house no. south eighth street, , ; of stenton, earliest instance of side lights in philadelphia, , ; round-arched, ; examples of round-arched, , ; of mount vernon, ; round-headed, , ; of congress hall, doric, doorway, , , , , , ; inspiration, in morris house, ; columns, , ; capitals, ; architrave, ; entablature, , ; cornice, , ; apartment, , ; frieze, ; mutulary, , , , , , dormers of hope lodge, ; of stenton, ; of port royal house, ; pedimental, of city blocks, ; of morris house, ; shed-roof, of livezey house, ; of upsala, ; of grumblethorpe, ; of mount pleasant, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of vernon, ; of loudoun, ; of solitude, ; of cliveden, ; of bartram house, ; of the johnson house, ; of green tree inn, ; of the billmeyer house, ; pedimental or gable-roofed, segmental topped, lean-to or shed-roofed, - dots and dashes, douglass, david, drama, introduced into philadelphia, drilled rope, , drop handles, , drops, dunkin, ann, dutch seats, eastwick, andrew, eaves, , , egg and dart motive, , , , eighth and spruce streets, house at, doorway of, ; stoop of, elfret alley, english classic style of architecture. _see_ georgian entablature, ; of loudoun, ; ionic, , ; corinthian, ; above fanlight, ; recessed, ; doric, , ; of mount pleasant, , ; at cliveden, ; at upsala, ; at house no. walnut street, ; at independence hall, entrances, of hope lodge, ; of stenton, ; characteristic, ; of upsala, ; of grumblethorpe, ; of the woodlands, ; of the billmeyer house, ; house associated with, ; of the morris house, . _see_ doorways, porches. estates of the countryside of philadelphia, evans house, windows of, , ; dormers of, ; shutters and blinds of, , , façade, of woodford, ; of hope lodge, ; of morris house, ; of upsala, , ; of grumblethorpe, ; of mount pleasant, ; of vernon, ; of cliveden, ; of the highlands, ; of bartram house, ; of independence hall, fanlights, used in philadelphia entrances, ; of house no. south eighth street, ; of upsala, , ; of the woodlands, , ; of vernon, ; of loudoun, ; of the highlands, , ; transom replaced by, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of house no. pine street, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of house no. frankford avenue, ; a frequent type of doorway with, ; of the wharton house, ; of grumblethorpe, ; a rare type of, ; patterned after a much-used palladian window, ; of house no. fisher's lane, ; of house no. south eighth street, ; in round-headed doorways, ; of independence hall, , ; of congress hall, ; of the pennsylvania hospital, farmhouse type, pennsylvania, characteristic examples of, farmhouses, fascia, , , , , , fences, , , , fenestration. _see_ windows festoons, , , , "fête champêtre", firebacks, , , fire balconies, , fire marks, fireplaces, of woodford, ; of hope lodge, ; of livezey house, ; of mount pleasant, ; the significance and the history of, - ; segmental arched, fisher, deborah, . _see_ wharton, deborah fisher, samuel, fisher's lane, house no. , eight-panel door of, ; porch of, fixtures, wrought-iron, for hanging and fastening shutters and blinds, flemish bond, , , , , floors, of woodford, florentine manner, iron work wrought in, florida cession, the, flow, john h., and the tradition of the first american flag, flush pointing, flutings, , - footscrapers, , , - forbes, brigadier general john, foreshortening, of windows, of girard house, ; of city blocks, , ; of morris house, ; of livezey house, ; of johnson house, ; of the billmeyer house, ; in three-story houses, , forrest, edwin, fourth and liberty streets, house at, frankford, frankford avenue, house no. , doorway of, franklin, benjamin, , , , , franklin inn, franks, abigail, franks, david, franks, isaac, franks, rebecca, free quakers' meeting house, windows of, , ; lintels of, frieze, of the woodlands, ; of house no. league street, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of whitby hall, ; of house no. cypress street, ; of house no. walnut street, ; of solitude, front, double, of morris house, , furniture, old, , , , gable ends, gable roofs, ; of livezey house, ; of upsala, , ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of vernon, ; of bartram house, ; of the johnson house, ; of independence hall, ; of st. paul's protestant episcopal church, gambrel roof, gardens, of city houses, ; of morris house, ; of grumblethorpe, , ; of the woodlands, , ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of john bartram, , gates, georgian countryhouses of brick, - georgian fireplace, georgian sashes, , georgian style, , , ; of brick houses, ; woodford, ; hope lodge, ; the woodlands, , ; clunie, , ; of brick houses, ; the highlands, germantown, battle of, , , , , , , , germantown, ledge-stone houses at, germantown academy, the, , germantown avenue, house no. , description of, - ; history of, , ; six-panel door of house no. , ; eight-panel door of house no. , ; house no. , doorway of, ; house no. , doorway of, ; house no. , doorway of, ; house no. , doorway of, ; house no. , doorway of, , ; house no. , dormers of, ; house no. , blinds of, , ; house no. , shutter fasteners of, germantown stone, germantown type of pointing, ginkgo tree, the, girard, stephen, - ; his will, , girard college, , , , girard (stephen) house, glass, glen fern. _see_ livezey house gothic, tracery, , ; detail, ; arch, curves reminiscent of, gowen house, gravitating catches, gray, martha ibbetson, greame park, ; windows of, ; dormers of, grecian band, , , , grecian fret, , , , , , , greek architecture, girard college a fine specimen of, green tree inn, , ; six-panel door of, ; doorway of, haines family, hallam's (william) old american company, , halls, of wyck, ; an important interior feature, ; in early times, ; development of, ; staircases and balconies introduced into, ; in the georgian period of english architecture, , ; in provincial mansions of philadelphia, ; of stenton, , ; from back to front of the house, ; of whitby hall, - , - ; of mount pleasant, - ; of cliveden, , ; of upsala, , hamilton, alexander, hamilton, andrew, designer of independence hall, , , ; married abigail franks, ; the first of the name in america, ; benjamin chew studied law with, hamilton, governor james, hamilton, william, - hancock, john, handles, brass, of woodford, handrail, wrought-iron, of woodford, ; wrought-iron, of city blocks, ; of wistar house, ; patterned after cathedral grilles and screens, ; other examples of, - , , headers, , , , heage, william, heath, susanna, heating, methods of, - henry house, hewn stone country houses, - highlands, the, description of, , ; history of, , ; door of, ; porch of, ; unique in having porch, side-lights, and elliptical fanlight, ; windows of, ; blinds of, hinges, , , hipped roof, of woodford, ; of hope lodge, , ; of stenton, ; of girard house, ; of port royal house, ; of the stable of the woodlands, ; of mount pleasant, , ; of vernon, ; of loudoun, ; of solitude, ; of the highlands, ; of congress hall, hitner, purchaser of the highlands, holme, thomas, , hoods, , , hope, henry, hope lodge, description of, - ; history of, , ; door of, ; porch of, ; windows of, , ; dormers of, ; shutters of, ; round-headed doorway of, ; arch across main hall of, hopkinson, francis, horse block, howe, sir william, , , independence hall, designed by andrew hamilton, ; meeting of second continental congress in, ; windows of, , ; stair-end treatment of, ; history and description of, - inns and taverns of colonial days, , interior wood-finish, of the average eighteenth-century philadelphia house, - ; in the better houses of the provincial period, , ; of stenton, , ; of whitby hall, ; doors and doorways, - ; white-painted, , ; of congress hall, ; of carpenters' hall, interiors, colonial, a favorite treatment of, ionic, pilasters, , ; columns, , ; entablature, , , ; doorway, ; pediments, , ; window, ; newel, ; pulvinated, , ; cornice, ; walls of tower, ; palladian window, ; hall in independence hall, ; volute, ironwork, - jambs, molded, ; paneled, , , , , , , , , ; rusticated, jansen, dirck, jansen family, jefferson, thomas, johnson house, description of, , ; history of, , ; six-paneled door of, ; doorway of, ; windows of, ; dormers of, ; shutters of, johnson, general sir henry, johnson, john, , johnson, john, jr., johnson, norton, johnson, sallie w., johnson, doctor william n., joinery, reference books on, jones, inigo, kearsley, doctor john, , keith, sir william, key plate, keyed arch, keyed lintels, , , , keystones, , , kitchen, of stenton, ; of grumblethorpe, knobs, , , knockers, , , , , knox, henry, kunders, thomas, la fayette, , , la grange alley, house no. , balustrade of, lambert, general, landings, staircase, , , , , , laurel hill, windows of, ; shutters of, leaded glass, league street, house no. , doorway of, ledge-stone country houses, - ledge stonework, of germantown, its picturesque appeal, ; its adaptability, , ; has marked horizontal effect, ; is conducive to handsome, honest masonry, ; in combination with white-painted woodwork, , , ; mansions, the chief distinction of philadelphia architecture, lee, alice, lee, arthur, lee, general charles, lee, richard henry, lee, thomas, lenox, general, lesbian leaf ornaments, , lewis, mordecai, , lewis, samuel n., lewis, william, liberty bell, - library, of stenton, lime, makeshift for, lintels, of port royal house, ; keyed, of city blocks, ; of morris house, ; keyed, of upsala, ; keyed, of mount pleasant, ; keyed, of cliveden, ; of the highlands, ; of bartram house, ; stone, livezey, john, livezey, rachael, livezey, thomas, livezey, thomas, jr., , livezey, thomas, son of thomas, jr., livezey house, description of, , ; history of, - ; six-panel door of, ; windows of, ; dormers of, ; shutters and blinds of, , logan, albanus, logan, deborah, logan, doctor george, logan, gustavus, , logan, james, , , logan, william, lombardy poplar, the, loudoun, description of, , ; history of, , ; eight-panel door of, ; windows of, ; dormers, ; shutters and blinds of, , lukens family, mackinett, daniel, macpherson, john, , madison, dolly, mahogany, mansard roof, mantel shelves, , - mantels, of woodford, ; of upsala, , - ; of the highlands, ; development of, ; of stenton, ; of whitby hall, , ; of mount vernon, - ; of mount pleasant, , ; of cliveden, ; of old spruce street house, ; with shelf, ; of form of complete entablature, ; hand-carved ornaments for, ; for hob grate, ; elaborate, , ; of house at third and delancy streets, ; of the rex house, ; of house no. cypress street, ; of house no. walnut street, marble, houses of, ; pennsylvania, of house no. germantown avenue, ; use of, in trimmings, , , , , , , , , , markets, markham, captain william, marshall, chief justice john, , mastic, matthews, james, mcclenahan, blair, medallion, mennonites, church of, , merailles, don juan de, mermaid inn, in mount airy, metopes, , millan, hans, "mischianza", modillions, of woodford, ; of stenton, ; hand-tooled, of city blocks, ; of mount pleasant, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of cliveden, ; of upsala, ; of whitby hall, ; of mount pleasant, , ; of independence hall, ; of the girard national bank building, molding, denticulated, , , , , , , , , ; ovolo, , , , , ; cornice, , ; of classic order, ; rope, ; bolection, , , , , ; of mount pleasant, ; crenelated, ; of panel, ; bed, ; cavetto, , ; ogee, , ; of inside doors, morgan, general jacob, morris, anthony, morris, joshua, morris, luke wistar, morris, robert, services of, ; lived in philadelphia, ; grave of, morris, samuel, , morris, captain samuel, , morris, samuel b., morris house, description of, , , ; history of, , ; door of, ; doorway of, , ; windows of, , , , ; dormers of, ; shutters of, , , mount pleasant, description of, - ; history of, - ; three-panel door of, ; doorway of, ; stoop of, ; windows of, ; dormers of, ; with neither outside shutters nor blinds, ; palladian window of, ; hall of, - ; chimney-piece of, , ; interior wood finish of, , , , , , , ; round-headed windows of, mount vernon, - mullions, fluted, muntins, of woodford, ; of hope lodge, ; of christ church, ; of six-panel doors, musgrave, colonel, mutules, newels, , , , , , , nichol, james, northern liberties, the, observatory, , ogee, old swedes' church, , , , openings, elliptical-headed, outinian society, oval shell pattern, overmantel, , , ovolo, reeded, , ; enriched, ; hand-tooled, ; with bead and reel and egg and dart motive, ; molded, ; with egg and dart motive, , paintings, first exhibition of, palladian window, of woodford, ; of port royal house, ; of the woodlands, ; of mount pleasant, , , ; of the highlands, ; gable-roof dormers with, ; chancel, ; of independence hall, ; in domestic architecture, , ; on landing, ; of whitby hall, , , ; of independence hall, ; of carpenters' hall, ; of christ church, , pancoast, samuel, paneling, in shutters of woodford, ; in doors of hope lodge, ; in wainscots of hope lodge, ; of window-seats of hope lodge, ; of doors of stenton, ; of wainscoting of stenton, ; of walls of stenton, ; in shutters of girard house, ; of shutters of city blocks, ; of doors of city blocks, ; of sides of rooms and fireplace openings, ; of shutters of morris house, ; of wainscots of upsala, , ; of doors of wyck, ; of door and wainscots of house no. germantown avenue, ; of shutters of loudoun, ; of door of loudoun, ; of shutters of johnson house, ; doors classified according to, ; six-panel doors, , , , ; three-panel doors, ; eight-panel doors, , ; of jambs, , , , ; of door of morris house, ; of door of house no. south seventh street, ; of door of house no. spruce street, ; of door of house no. germantown avenue, ; of door of house no. frankford avenue, ; of door of powel house, ; of jambs of wharton house, ; of door of wharton house, ; of door of grumblethorpe, ; of door of house no. germantown avenue, ; of door of mount pleasant, ; of doors of cliveden, ; of soffits, ; of doors of solitude, ; of door of perot-morris house, ; of door of upsala, ; of jambs and soffit of henry house, ; molded flat, ; of doors in round-arched doorways, , ; of shutters, , ; of dado of stenton, ; of wainscot of cliveden, ; of wainscot of mount vernon, ; of wainscot of mount pleasant, ; of mantels, with shelf, ; of hall, parlor, and reception room, ; of wainscot, ; of chimney-piece, ; of overmantel, ; of reception room at stenton, ; of inside doors, ; of jambs and soffits, ; of door of independence hall, ; in independence hall, , , panes, size, , ; number, - , - ; rectangular, ; keystone-shaped, ; quarter-round, paschall, thomas, pastorius, francis daniel, peale, rembrandt, peale museum, pediments, of woodford, ; of port royal house, ; of city blocks, ; of blackwell house, ; of the woodlands, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of vernon, ; of loudoun, ; of cliveden, ; of the highlands, ; forming hood above doorway, ; of doorhead, ; of morris house, ; ionic, pen rhyn house, windows of, penn, granville, penn, granville john, penn, john, - , , penn, governor john, penn, letitia, , penn, thomas, penn, william, , , , , , penn's house, windows of, pennsylvania, importance of attitude of, in the revolution, pennsylvania hospital, , - penthouse roof, influence of, , , ; characteristic feature of ledge stonework, , ; of grumblethorpe, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of green tree inn, , ; of billmeyer, ; of whitby hall, perot, elliston, perot, john, perot-morris house, eight-panel door of, , ; doorway of, , ; windows of, ; dormers of, ; shutters and blinds of, , , peters, judge richard, philadelphia, unique position of, in american architecture, ; old buildings of, of brick and stone, and substantial in character, ; much of best colonial domestic architecture to be found in neighborhood of, ; history enacted in buildings of, ; georgian and pure colonial styles in, ; review of early history of, ; laid out by thomas holme, ; character of early settlers of, ; early commerce of, ; at the time of the revolution, ; importance of, in eighteenth century, ; a refuge for immigrants of persecuted sects, ; quaker influence in, ; scotch-irish ascendancy in, ; center of the new republic in embryo, ; the meeting of the continental congresses in, , ; the sitting of the convention for framing the constitution in, ; the national capital, ; famous men associated with, ; list of first things established or done at, - ; noted for its generous hospitality, ; brilliancy of its social life, - ; theaters in, ; estates of the countryside, ; has distinctive architecture in brick, stone, and woodwork, and diversified architecture of city and country types, ; clung to the manners and customs of the mother country, ; brick favored in, , ; the dominant feature of the domestic architecture of the city proper, ; houses of, possess charm of architectural merit combined with historic interest, philosophical society, the, piers, of stenton, ; of cliveden, pilasters, of woodford, ; of hope lodge, ; fluted, of city blocks, ; fluted, of blackwell house, ; fluted, of morris house, ; of the woodlands, ; of mount pleasant, ; of the highlands, ; supporting pediment, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; fluted, of whitby hall, , ; of mount vernon, ; of upsala, , , ; paneled, of house no. cypress street, , ; fluted, of independence hall, , pillars, pine, edgar, pine, robert edge, pine street, house no. , footscraper of, pine street, house no. , doorway of, pineapple, the, plastered stone country houses, - ; one of the distinctive types of philadelphia architecture, plastic club, pointing, methods of, ; of upsala, ; of the woodlands, ; of hewn stone houses, ; flush, of cliveden, ; of the highlands, pomfret, earl of, poor richard club, porch, to servants' quarters and kitchen, of hope lodge, ; of stenton, porches, of hope lodge, , ; pedimental, of upsala, , ; of the highlands, ; not common, ; of the highlands, ; of the henry house, ; elliptical, of house no. fisher's lane, port royal house, description of, , ; history of, - ; three-panel door of, ; windows of, ; dormers of, ; blinds of, , portico, , , portius, james, induced by penn to come to the new world, ; a leading member of the carpenters' company, ; laid foundation of builders' library, ports, powel house, eight-panel door of, ; doorway of, ; stoop of, ; windows of, , ; dormers of, ; shutters of, , public buildings, of philadelphia, historically and architecturally inspiring, ; discussion of, - quakers, philadelphia a place of refuge for, ; influence of, in philadelphia, ; loved eating and drinking, , ; other distractions of, ; little difference between homes of "world's people" and, quoining, , , , , , race street, house no. , windows of, ; shutters of, , race street, house no. , stoop of, railing, wrought iron, , ; adaptation of gothic tracery, rails, of blinds, , ; of doors, , ; of shutters, , ; of windows, rain gauge, ramsey, allan, randolph, edmund, randolph, peyton, randolph house, doorway of, red lion inn, survival of inns of colonial days, reed, general joseph, reed, joseph, reeded casings, reeded ovolo, , reeve, mrs. josiah, rex house, mantel of, ; interior wood finish of, reynolds, john, rhodes, samuel, ridge or weathered pointing, rim lock, , , rittenhouse, david, rock-face stonework, rolling ways, , roofs, balustraded, ; gable, , (livezey house), , (upsala), (no. germantown avenue), (vernon), (bartram house), (johnson house), (independence hall), (st. paul's protestant episcopal church); gambrel, ; hipped, (woodford), (hope lodge), (stenton), (home of stephen girard), (port royal house), (stable of the woodlands), , (mount pleasant), (loudoun), (solitude), (independence hall); mansard, rosettes, ross, betsy, , ross, john, roxborough, rubble masonry, , , , , , , , rush, doctor benjamin, rush, colonel william, st. luke's church, st. paul's protestant episcopal church, st. peter's protestant episcopal church, , , , sargent, john, sash bars, sashes, three-paned, , ; six-paned, , , , , , - , ; seven-paned, ; eight-paned, , , , , ; nine-paned, , , , , , - ; ten-paned, , ; twelve-paned, , , , , - , - ; fifteen-paned, , ; sixteen-paned, , ; eighteen-paned, ; twenty-paned, ; twenty-four-paned, ; with blinds, ; sliding georgian, ; upper and lower, adjustment of, ; double-hung, ; sliding, say, thomas, scotch-irish, in philadelphia, scroll work, , , , _sea nymph_, the, seats, doorway, , , , ; window, , , seventh and locust streets, house at, footscraper of, ; handrail of, sharpless, john, sheaff, george, shingles, shippen, edward, shippen, peggy, shippen, doctor william, shippen house, shoemaker, jacob, shoemaker, thomas, shutters, paneled, ; of woodford, ; of hope lodge, ; paneled, of girard house, ; paneled, of city blocks, ; paneled, of morris house, ; of livezey house, ; of upsala, ; of grumblethorpe, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of vernon, ; paneled, of loudoun, ; of cliveden, ; paneled, of johnson house, ; of the billmeyer house, ; use of, - ; boxed, ; paneling of, , ; methods of hanging and fastening, - side lights, of stenton, , ; of the highlands, ; rare, ; earliest instance of, in philadelphia, ; of pennsylvania hospital, site and relic society, , sketch club, skirting, soffits, paneled, , , , , , , , ; fluted, ; rusticated, solitude, description of, , ; history of, - ; three-paneled door of, ; doorway of, ; windows of, ; dormers of, ; with neither outside shutters nor blinds, ; interior finish of, south american street, house no. , stoop of, south eighth street, house no. , eight-paneled door of, ; doorway of, , ; stoop of, south ninth street, house no. , stoop of, south seventh street, house no. , eight-paneled door of, , ; doorway of, ; stoop of, ; handrail of, , south seventh street, house no. , doorway of, ; stoop of, south third street, house no. , porch of, south third street, house no. , footscrapers of, southwark, or south street, theater, sower, christopher, spandrils, molded, spindles, spruce street, house no. , doorway of, spruce street, old house on, chimney-piece of, stable, of the woodlands, staircases, wainscoted, ; hall, , , , ; of stenton, , ; of whitby hall, - , - ; of mount pleasant, - ; of cliveden, , ; of upsala, , ; of independence hall, ; of pennsylvania hospital, stair rail, footscraper combined with, , stairway, of hope lodge, ; balustraded, of mount pleasant, ; of the highlands, stamper, john, state house, the old (independence hall), , steeples, , , , stenton, description of, - ; history of, - ; door of, ; doorway of, , ; windows of, , ; with neither outside shutters nor blinds, ; hall of, , ; fireplace of, ; interior wood finish of, , , , steps, of woodford, ; of hope lodge, ; of stenton, ; single, of city blocks, ; of upsala, ; of grumblethorpe, ; of the highlands, ; of house no. south seventh street, ; on various classes of stoops, - steuben, baron von, stiles, of doors, , ; of doors, double, ; of windows, ; of shutters, , ; of blinds, stiles, daniel, stiles, edward, - stiles, john, stocker house, windows of, ; dormers of, stonework, surfaced and ledge, ; the refinements and the essentials of, ; pointed and unpointed, ; not always pleasing, , ; plastered, - ; surfaced, to be recommended only for large and pretentious residences or for public work, . _see_ ledge-stone stoops, , - , stretchers, of blocks, , ; of stenton, ; of morris house, strickland, william, , string course, stuart, gilbert, , sully, thomas, surbase, , , , , , swaenson family, swag, swedes, at the mouth of the schuylkill river, theaters, in philadelphia, third and delancy streets, house at, mantel of, third and pine streets, house at, doorway of, ; porch of, third and spruce streets, house at, footscraper of, tiles, of woodford, ; of stenton, , torus, , , tower, , , transom, four-paned, , triglyphs, , , trinity church, , truxton, commodore, turn buckles, tuscan, doorway, , , ; columns, two-family house, underground passage, , "underground railway", upsala, description of, , ; history of, , ; eight-panel door of, ; porch and doorway of, , ; footscraper of, ; windows of, ; dormers of, ; shutters and blinds of, , ; hall and staircase of, , ; mantels of, - ; chambers of, , ; interior woodwork of, urns, vernon, description of, , ; history of, ; door of, ; footscraper of, ; windows of, ; dormers of, ; shutters of, wainscots, of woodford, ; of hope lodge, ; of stenton, , ; of blackwell house, ; of livezey house, ; of upsala, , ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of cliveden, ; of mount vernon, ; of mount pleasant, ; paneled, , ; of independence hall, wall paper, hand-blocked, walls, of city blocks, , waln house, windows of, ; shutters of, walnut street, house no. , walnut street theater, walter, thomas ustick, , washington, george, his farewell address in philadelphia, ; at stenton, ; at house no. germantown avenue, ; at billmeyer house, ; statues of, , ; portrait of, ; associations of congress hall with, , ; at st. peter's church, water table, watmough, colonel james horatio, wayne, captain isaac, waynesborough, ; windows of, ; blinds of, wentz family, west, benjamin, , west, william, wharton, charles, wharton, deborah (fisher), , wharton, francis rawle, wharton, hannah, wharton, isaac, wharton, joseph, , wharton, robert, wharton, william, wharton house, , - ; eight-panel door of, ; doorway of, ; windows of, , ; dormers of, ; shutters of, , whiskey rebellion, the, whitby hall, windows of, , ; shutters of, ; palladian window of, , ; hall and stairway of, - , - ; history of, , ; chimney-piece of, , ; interior wood finish of, , , , , ; round-headed windows of, white, bishop, white, doctor, whitefield, bishop, "widow mackinett's tavern", william iv, king, william henry, prince, williams, jonathan, willing family, wilson, alexander, wilson, james, window-casings, , , window embrasures, , , , window frames, of stenton, ; of city blocks, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; during the colonial period, a perpetuation of the initial types, ; of heavy type, ; molded, window seats, , , window sills, of upsala, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of the highlands, ; of bartram house, ; stone, ; in independence hall, windows, ; of hope lodge, ; of stenton, , ; of the girard house, ; of port royal house, ; of city blocks, , ; of morris house, , ; of livezey house, , ; of upsala, ; of grumblethorpe, , ; of the woodlands, ; of mount pleasant, ; of house no. germantown avenue, ; of vernon, ; of loudoun, ; of solitude, ; of cliveden, ; of the highlands, , ; of the johnson house, , ; of green tree inn, ; of the billmeyer house, ; during the colonial period, a perpetuation of the initial types, ; treatment of, , ; of independence hall, ; of congress hall, ; of carpenters' hall, ; of pennsylvania hospital, , ; ten-paned, ; twelve-paned, , , , ; eighteen-paned, , ; twenty-four-paned, , , , , , , ; ranging, , , , , , , , , ; round-topped, , , , , , , , , , , ; square-headed, ; segmental-topped, , . _see_ dormers, palladian, sashes wing steps, , , wissahickon creek, mill on, - wistar, doctor caspar, , , wistar, daniel, wistar, john, wistar, william, wistar house, , - ; balustrade of, ; windows of, , ; dormers of, ; shutters of, , wistar parties, , _wistaria_, wister, alexander w., wister, charles j., , wister, charles j., jr., wister, daniel, wister, john, , , wister, margaret, wister, owen, wister, sally, "wister's big house." _see_ grumblethorpe witherill house, dormers of, ; shutters of, wood, white-painted, houses of, wood carvers, wood finish. _see_ interior woodford, description of, - ; history of, - ; door of, ; windows of, ; shutters of, woodlands, the, description of, - ; history of, - ; with neither outside shutters nor blinds, ; palladian windows of, , woods, white-painted soft, the possibilities of, woodwork brought from overseas, but later produced in the colonies, ; interior, of woodford, ; of hope lodge, ; of stenton, , ; of blackwell house, , ; white-painted, in combination with ledge stone, , , ; of upsala, ; of grumblethorpe, , ; of mount pleasant, ; of house no. germantown avenue, , ; of vernon, ; of solitude, ; of cliveden, ; of the highlands, ; of the billmeyer house, ; of house no. south seventh street, ; suggesting dutch influence, ; of mount vernon, ; of christ church, "world's people", the, , , wyck, - ; door of, ; footscraper of, ; windows of, ; dormers of, ; shutters of, , wynnestay, windows of, ; dormers of, ; shutters of, , luther and the reformation: the life-springs of our liberties. by joseph a. seiss, d.d., pastor of the church of the holy communion, philadelphia author of "a miracle in stone," "voices from babylon," etc. etc. [illustration: joseph a. seiss.] charles c. cook, nassau street, new york. copyright, , by porter & coates. preface. the first part of this book presents the studies of the author in preparing a memorial oration delivered in the city of new york, november , , on the four hundredth anniversary of the birth of martin luther. the second part presents his studies in a like preparation for certain discourses delivered in the city of philadelphia at the bi-centennial of the founding of the commonwealth of pennsylvania. there was no intention, in either case, to make a book, however small in size. but the utterances given on these occasions having been solicited for publication in permanent shape for common use, and the two parts being intimately related in the exhibition of the most vital springs of our religious and civil freedom, it has been concluded to print these studies entire and together in this form, in hope that the same may satisfy all such desires and serve to promote truth and righteousness. throughout the wide earth there has been an unexampled stir with regard to the life and work of the great reformer, and these presentations may help to show it no wild craze, but a just and rational recognition of god's wondrous providence in the constitution of our modern world. and to him who was, and who is, and who is to come, the god of all history and grace, be the praise, the honor, and the glory, world without end! thanksgiving day, . contents. luther and the reformation pp. - . human greatness, .--_the papacy_, .--efforts at reform, .--time of the reformation, .--frederick the wise, .--reuchlin, .--erasmus, .--ulric von hütten, .--ulrich zwingli, .--melanchthon, .--john calvin, .--luther the chosen instrument, .--his origin, .--early training, .--_nature of the reformation_, .--luther's spiritual training, .--development for his work, .--visit to rome, .--elected town-preacher, .--made a doctor, .--his various labors, .--collision with the hierarchy, .--the indulgence-traffic, .--tetzel's performances, .--luther on indulgences, .--sermon on indulgences, .--appeal to the bishops, .--_the ninety-five theses_, .--effect of the theses, .--tetzel's end, .--luther's growing influence, .--appeal to the pope, .--citation to rome, .--appears before cajetan, .--cajetan's failure, .--progress of events, .--_the leipsic disputation_, .--results of the debate, .--luther's excommunication, .--answer to the pope's bull, .--_the diet of worms_, .--doings of the romanists, .--luther summoned to the diet, .--luther at the diet, .--refuses to retract, .--his condemnation, .--carried to the wartburg, .--_translation of the bible_, .--his conservatism, .--growth of the reformation, .--_luther's catechisms_, .--protestants and war, .--_the confession of augsburg_, .--league of smalcald, .--luther's later years, .--_his personale_, .--his great qualities, .--his alleged coarseness, .--his marvelous achievements, .--his impress upon the world, .--his enemies and revilers, . the founding of pennsylvania, pp. - . i. the history and the men. beginning of colonization in america, .--movements in sweden, .--swedish proposals, .--was penn aware of these plans? .--the swedes in advance of penn, .--_the men of those times_, .--gustavus adolphus, .--axel oxenstiern, .--peter minuit, .--william penn, .--estimate of penn, .--penn and the indians, .--penn's work, .--the greatness of faith, . ii. the principles enthroned. man's religious nature, .--_our state the product of faith_, .--gustavus and the swedes, .--the feelings of william penn, .--_recognition of the divine being_, .--enactments on the subject, .--importance of this principle, .--_religious liberty_, .--persecution for opinion's sake, .--spirit of the founders of pennsylvania, .--constitutional provisions, .--_safeguards to true liberty_, .--laws on religion and morals, .--forms of government, .--_a republican state_, .--the last two hundred years, . luther and the reformation. a rare spectacle has been spreading itself before the face of heaven during these last months. millions of people, of many nations and languages, on both sides of the ocean, simultaneously engaged in celebrating the birth of a mere man, four hundred years after he was born, is an unwonted scene in our world. unprompted by any voice of authority, unconstrained by any command of power, we join in the wide-ranging demonstration. in the happy freedom which has come to us among the fruits of that man's labors we bring our humble chaplet to grace the memory of one whose worth and services there is scarce capacity to tell. human greatness. some men are colossal. their characters are so massive, and their position in history is so towering, that other men can hardly get high enough to take their measure. an overruling providence so endows and places them that they affect the world, turn its course into new channels, impart to it a new spirit, and leave their impress on all the ages after them. even humble individuals, without titles, crowns, or physical armaments, have wrought themselves into the very life of the race and built their memorials in the characteristics of epochs. history tells of a certain saul of tarsus, a lone and friendless man, stripped of all earthly possessions, forced into battle with a universe of enthroned superstition, encompassed by perils which threatened every hour to dissolve him, who, pressing his way over mountains of difficulty and through seas of suffering, and dying a martyr to his cause, gave to europe a living god and to the nations another and an everlasting king. we likewise read of a certain christopher columbus, brooding in lowly retirement upon the structure of the physical universe, ridiculed, frowned on by the learned, repulsed by court after court, yet launching out into the unknown seas to find an undiscovered hemisphere, and opening the way for persecuted liberty to cradle the grand empire of popular rule amid the golden hills of a new and independent continent. and in this category stands the name of martin luther. he was a poor, plain man, only a doctor of divinity, without place except as a teacher in a university, without power or authority except in the convictions and qualities of his own soul, and with no implements save his bible, tongue, and pen; but with him the ages divided and human history took a new departure. two pre-eminent revolutions have passed over europe since the beginning of the christian era. the one struck the rome and rule of emperors; the other struck the rome and rule of popes. the one brought the dark ages; the other ended them. the one overwhelmed the dominion of the cæsars; the other humiliated a more than imperial dominion reared in cæsar's place. alaric, rhadagaisus, genseric, and attila were the chief instruments and embodiment of the first; _martin luther_ was the chief instrument and embodiment of the second. the one wrought bloody desolation; the other brought blessed renovation, under which humanity has bloomed its happiest and its best. the papacy. since phocas decreed the bishop of rome the supreme head of the church on earth there had grown up strange power which claimed to decide beyond appeal respecting everybody and everything--from affairs of empire to the burial of the dead, from the thoughts of men here to the estate of their souls hereafter--and to command the anathemas of god upon any who dared to question its authority. it held itself divinely ordained to give crowns and to take them away. kings and potentates were its vassals, and nations had to defer to it and serve it, on pain of _interdicts_ which smote whole realms with gloom and desolation, prostrated all the industries of life, locked up the very graveyards against decent sepulture, and consigned peoples and generations to an irresistible damnation. it was omnipresent and omnipotent in civilized europe. its clergy and orders swarmed in every place, all sworn to guard it at every point on peril of their souls, and themselves held sacred in person and retreat from all reach of law for any crime save lack of fealty to the great autocracy.[ ] the money, the armies, the lands, the legislatures, the judges, the executives, the police, the schools, with the whole ecclesiastical administration, reaching even to the most private affairs of life, were under its control. and at its centre sat its absolute dictator, unanswerable and supreme, the alleged vicar of god on earth, for whom to err was deemed impossible. think of a power which could force king henry iv., the heir of a long line of emperors, to strip himself of every mark of his station, put on the linen dress of a penitent, walk barefooted through the winter's snow to the pope's castle at canossa, and there to wait three days at its gates, unbefriended, unfed, and half perishing with cold and hunger, till all but the alleged vicar of jesus christ were moved with pity for his miseries as he stood imploring the tardy clemency of hildebrand, which was almost as humiliating in its bestowal as in its reservation. think of a power which could force the english king, henry ii., to walk three miles of a flinty road, with bare and bleeding feet, to canterbury, to be flogged from one end of the church to the other by the beastly monks, and then forced to spend the whole night in supplications to the spirit of an obstinate, perjured, and defiant archbishop, whom four of his over-zealous knights, without his orders, had murdered, and whose inner garments, when he was stripped to receive his shroud, were found alive with vermin! think of a power which, in defiance of the sealed safe-conduct of the empire, could seize john huss, one of the worthiest and most learned men of his time, and burn him alive in the presence of the emperor! think of a power which, by a single edict, caused the deliberate murder of more than fifty thousand men in the netherlands alone! footnotes: [ ] many assumed the clerical character for no other reason than that it might screen them from the punishment which their actions deserved, and the monasteries were full of people who entered them to be secure against the consequences of their crimes and atrocities.--rymer's _foedera_, vol. xiii. p. . efforts at reform. to restrain and humble this gigantic power was the desideratum of ages. for two hundred years had men been laboring to curb and tame it. from theologians and universities, from kings and emperors, from provinces and synods, from general councils, and even the college of cardinals--in every name of right, virtue, and religion--appeal after appeal and solemn effort after effort were made to reform the roman court and free the world from the terrible oppression. wars on wars were waged; provinces on provinces were deluged with blood; coalitions, bound by sacred oaths, were formed against the giant tyranny. and yet the hierarchy managed to maintain its assumptions and to overwhelm all remedial attempts. whether made by individuals or secular powers, by councils or governments, the result was the same. the pontificate still triumphed, with its claims unabridged, its dominion unbroken, its scandals uncured. a general council sat at constance to reform the clergy in head and members. it managed to rid itself of three popes between whom christendom was divided, when the emperor moved that the work of reform proceed. but the cardinals said, how can the church reform itself without a head? so they elected a pope who was to lead reform. yet a day had hardly passed before they found themselves in a traitor's power, who reaffirmed all the acts of the iniquitous john xxiii., who had just been deposed for his crimes, and presently endowed him with a cardinal's hat! when this pope, martin v., died, the cardinals thought to remedy their previous mistake. they would secure their reforms before electing a pope. so they erected themselves into a standing senate, without which no future pope could act. and they each took solemn oath, before god and all angels, by st. peter and all apostles, by the holy sacrament of christ's body and blood, and by all the powers that be, if elected, to conform to these arrangements and to use all the rights and prerogatives of the sublime position to put in force the reforms conceded to be necessary. but what are oaths and fore-pledges to candidates greedy for office? the tickets which elected the new pope had hardly been counted when he absolved himself from all previous obligations, disowned the senate of cardinals he had helped to erect, began his career with violence and robbery, plundered the cities and states of italy, religiously violated all compacts but those which favored his absolute supremacy, brought to none effect the reform council of basle, deceived germany with his specious and hollow concessions, averted the improvements he had sworn to make, and by his perfidy and cunning managed to retain in subordination to the old régime nearly the whole of that christendom which he had outraged! in spite of the efforts of centuries, this super-imperial power held by the throat a struggling world. to break that gnarled and bony hand, which locked up everything in its grasp; to bring down the towering altitude of that olden tyranny, whose head was lifted to the clouds; to strike from the soul its clanking chains and set the suffering nations free; to champion the inborn rights of afflicted humanity, and conquer the ignorance and imposture which had governed for a thousand years,--constituted the work and office of the man the four hundredth anniversary of whose birth half the civilized world is celebrating to-day. time of the reformation. it has been said that when this tonsured augustinian came upon the stage almost any brave man might have brought about the impending changes. the reformers before the reformation, though vanquished, had indeed not lived in vain. the european peoples were outgrowing feudal vassalage, and moving toward nationalization and separation between the secular and ecclesiastical powers. travel, exploration, and discovery had introduced new subjects of human interest and contemplation. schools of law, medicine, and liberal education were being established and largely attended. the common mind was losing faith in the professions and teachings of the old hierarchy. free inquiry was overturning the dominion of authority in matters of thought and opinion. the intellect of man was beginning to recover from the nightmare of centuries. a mightier power than the sword had sprung up in the art of printing. in a word, the world was gravid with a new era. but it was not so clear who would be able to bring it safely to the birth. there were living at the time many eminent men who might be thought of for this office had it not been assigned to luther. reuchlin, erasmus, hütten, sickingen, and others have been named, but the list might be extended, and yet no one be found endowed with the qualities to accomplish the work that was needed and that was accomplished. frederick the wise. the saxon elector, frederick the wise, was the worthiest, most popular, and most influential ruler then in europe. he could have been emperor in place of charles v. had he consented to be. the history of the world since his time might have been greatly different had he yielded to the general desire. his principles, his attainments, his wisdom, and his spirit were everything to commend him. he founded the university of wittenberg in hope that it would produce preachers who would leave off the cold subtleties of scholasticism and the uncertainties of tradition, and give discourses that would possess the nerve and power of the gospel of god. he sought out the best and most pious men for his advisers. he was the devoted friend of learning, truth, and virtue. by his prudence and foresight in church and state he helped the reformation more than any other man then in power. had it not been for him perhaps luther could not have succeeded. but it was not in the nature of things for the noble elector to give us such a reformation as that led by his humble subject. it is useless to speculate as to what the reformation might have become in his hands; but it certainly could never have become what we rejoice to know it was, while the probabilities are that we would now be fighting the battles which luther fought for us three and a half centuries ago. reuchlin. reuchlin was a learned and able man, and deeply conscious of the need of reform. when the greek argyrophylos heard him read and explain thucydides, he exclaimed, "greece has retired beyond the alps." he was the first hebrew scholar of germany, and served to restore the hebrew scriptures to the knowledge of the church. he held that popes could err and be deceived. he had no faith in human abnegations for reconciliation with god. he saw no need for hierarchical mediations, and discredited the doctrine of purgatory and masses for the dead. he bravely defended the cause of learning against the ignorant monks, whom he hated and held up to merciless ridicule. he was a brilliant and persuasive orator. he was an associate and counselor of kings. he gave melanchthon to the reformation, and did much to promote it. luther recognized in him a great light, of vast service to the gospel in germany. but reuchlin could never have accomplished the reformation. the vital principles of it were not sufficiently rooted in him. he was a humanist, whose sympathies went with the republic of letters, not with the wants of the soul and the needs of the people. when he got into trouble he appealed to the pope. and though he lived to see luther in agonizing conflict with the hierarchy of rome, he refrained from making common cause with him, and died in connection with the unreformed church, whose doctrines he had questioned and whose orders he had so unsparingly ridiculed. erasmus of rotterdam. erasmus was a notable man, great in talent and of great service in preparing the way for the reformation. he turned reviving learning to the study of the word. he produced the first, and for a long time the only, critical edition of the new testament in the original, to which he added a latin translation and notes. he paraphrased the epistle to the romans--that great epistle on which above all, the reformation moved. though once an inmate of a monastery, he abhorred the monks and exposed them with terrible severity. he had more friends, reputation, and influence than perhaps any other private man in europe. and he was deep in the spirit of opposition to the scandalous condition of things in the church. but he never could have given us the reformation. he said all honest men sided with luther, and as an honest man his place would have been by luther's side; but he was too great a coward. "if i should join luther," said he, "i could only perish with him, and i do not mean to run my neck into the halter. let popes and emperors settle matters."--"your holiness says, come to rome; you might as well tell a crab to fly. if i write calmly against luther, i shall be called lukewarm; if i write as he does, i shall stir up a hornet's nest.... send for the best and wisest men in christendom, and follow their advice."--"reduce the dogmas necessary to be believed to the smallest possible number. on other points let every one believe as he likes. having done this, quietly correct the abuses of which the world justly complains." so wrote erasmus to the pope and to the archbishop of mayence. such was his ideal of reformation--a thing as impossible to bring into practical effect as its realization would have been absurd. it is easy to tell a crab to fly, but will he do it? as well propose to convert infallibility with a fable of Æsop as to count on bringing regeneration to the hierarchy by such counsels. the waters were too deep and the storms too fierce for the vacillating erasmus. he did some excellent service in his way, but all his counsels and ideas failed, as they deserved. once the idol of europe, he died a defeated, crushed, and miserable man. "hercules could not fight two monsters at once," said he, "while i, poor wretch! have lions, cerberuses, cancers, scorpions, every day at my sword's point.... there is no rest for me in my age, unless i join luther; and that i cannot, for i cannot accept his doctrines. sometimes i am stung with desire to avenge my wrongs; but my heart says, will you in your spleen raise hand against your mother who begot you at the font? i cannot do it. yet, because i bade monks remember their vows; because i told persons to leave off their wranglings and read the bible; because i told popes and cardinals to look to the apostles and be more like them,--the theologians say i am their enemy." thus in sorrow and in clouds erasmus passed away, as would the entire reformation in his hands. ulric von hÜtten. ulric von hütten, soldier and knight, equally distinguished in letters and in arms, and called the demosthenes of germany, was a zealous friend of reform. he had been in rome, and sharpened his darts from what he there saw to hurl them with effect. all the powers of satire and ridicule he brought to bear upon the pillars of the papacy. he helped to shake the edifice, and his plans and spirit might have served to pull it down had he been able to bring europe to his mind; but it would only have been to bury society in its ruins. ulrich zwingli. ulrich zwingli is ranked among reformers, and he was energetic in behalf of reform. but he fell a victim to his own mistakes, and with him would have perished the reformation also had it depended upon him. even had he lived, his radical and rationalistic spirit, his narrow and fiery patriotism, his shallow religious experience, and his eagerness to rest the cause of reformation on civil authority and the sword, would have wrecked it with nine-tenths of the european peoples. melanchthon. philip melanchthon was a better and a greater man, and did the reformation a far superior service. luther would have been much disabled without him, and germany has awarded him the title of its "preceptor." but no reformation could have come if the fighting or directing of its battles had been left to him. even with the great luther ever by his side, he could hardly get loose from rome and retain his wholeness, and when he was loose could hardly maintain his legs upon the ground that had been won. calvin. john calvin was a man of great learning and ability. marked has been his influence on the theology and government of a large portion of the reformed churches. but the reformation was twelve years old before he came into it. it had to exist already ere there could be a calvin, while his repeated flights to avoid danger prove how inadequate his courage was for such unflinching duty as rendered luther illustrious. he was a cold, hard, ascetic aristocrat at best, more cynical, stern, and tyrannical than brave. the organization for the church and civil government which he gave to geneva was quite too intolerant and inquisitorial for safe adoption in general or to endure the test of the true gospel spirit. under a régime which burnt servetus for heresy, threw men into prison for reading novels, hung and beheaded children for improper behavior toward parents, whipped and banished people for singing songs, and dealt with others as public blasphemers if they said a word against the reformers or failed to go to church, the cause of the reformation could never have commanded acceptance by the nations, or have survived had it been received. the famous "blue laws" of the new england colonies have had to be given up as a scandal upon enlightened civilization; but they were largely transcribed from calvin's code and counsels, including even the punishing of witches. for the last two hundred years the calvinistic peoples have been reforming back from calvin's rules and spirit, either to a better foundation for the perpetuation and honor of the church or to a rationalistic skepticism which lets go all the distinctive elements of the genuine christian creed--the natural reaction from the hard and overstrained severity of a legalistic style of christianity. with all the great service calvin has rendered to theological science and church discipline, there was an unnatural sombreness about him, which linked him rather with the middle ages and the hierarchical rule than with the glad, free spirit of a wholesome christian life. at twenty-seven he had already drawn up a formula of doctrine and organization which he never changed and to which he ever held. there was no development either in his life or in his ideas. the evangelic elements of his system he found ready to his hand, as thought out by luther and the german theologians. they did not originate or grow with him. and had the reformation depended upon him it could never have become a success. so too with any others that might be named. luther the chosen instrument. we may not limit providence. the work was to be done. every interest of the world and of the kingdom of god demanded it. and if there had been no luther at hand, some one else would have been raised up to serve in his place. but there _was_ a luther, and, as far as human insight can determine, he was the only man on earth competent to achieve the reformation. and he it was who did achieve it. looked at in advance, perhaps no one would have thought of him for such an office. he was so humbly born, so lowly in station, so destitute of fortune, and withal so honest a papist, that not the slightest tokens presented to mark him out as the chosen instrument to grapple with the magnitudinous tyranny by which europe was enthralled. but "god hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things that are mighty." moses was the son of a slave. the founder of the hebrew monarchy was a shepherd-boy. the redeemer-king of the world was born in a stable and reared in the family of a village carpenter. and we need not wonder that the hero-prophet of the modern ages was the son of a poor toiler for his daily bread, and compelled to sing upon the street for alms to keep body and soul together while struggling for an education. it has been the common order of providence that the greatest lights and benefactors of the race, the men who rose the highest above the level of their kind and stood as beacons to the world, were not such as would have been thought of in advance for the mighty services which render their names immortal. and that the master spirit of the great reformation was no exception all the more surely identifies that marvelous achievement as the work of an overruling god. luther's origin. luther was a saxon german--a german of the germans--born of that blood out of which, with but few exceptions, have sprung the ruling powers of the west since the last of the old roman emperors. he came out of the bosom of the freshest, strongest, and hardiest peoples then existing--the direct descendants of those wild cimbrian and teutonic tribes who, even in their heathenism, were the most virtuous, brave, and true of all the gentiles. nor was he the offspring of enfeebled, gouty, aristocratic blood. he was the son of the sinewy and sturdy yeomanry. though tradition reports one of his remote ancestors in something of imperial place among the chieftains of the semi-savage tribes from which he was descended, when the period of the reformation came his family was in like condition with that of the house of david when the christ was born. his father and grandfather and great-grandfather, he says himself, were true thuringian peasants. luther's early training. in the early periods of the mediæval church her missionaries came to these fiery warriors of the north and followed the conquests of charlemagne, to teach them that they had souls, that there is a living and all-knowing god at whose judgment-bar all must one day stand to give account, and that it would then be well with the believing, brave, honest, true, and good, and ill with cowards, profligates, and liars. it was a simple creed, but it took fast hold on the germanic heart, to show itself in sturdy power in the long after years. this creed, in unabated force, descended to luther's parents, and lived and wrought in them as a controlling principle. they were also strict to render it the same in their children. _hans luther_ was a hard and stern disciplinarian, unsparing in the enforcement of every virtue. _margaret luther_[ ] was noted among her neighbors as a model woman, and was so earnest in her inculcations of right that she preferred to see her son bleed beneath the rod rather than that he should do a questionable thing even respecting so small a matter as a nut. from his childhood luther was thus trained and attempered to fear god, reverence truth and honesty, and hate hypocrisy and lies. possibly his parents were severer with him than was necessary, but it was well for him, as the prospective prophet of a new era, to learn absolute obedience to those who were to him the representatives of that divine authority which he was to teach the world supremely to obey. but no birth, or blood, or parental drilling, or any mere human culture, could give the qualities necessary to a successful reformer. the church had fallen into all manner of evils, because it had drifted away from the apostolic doctrine as to how a man shall be just with god; which is the all-conditioning question of all right religion. there could then be no cure for those evils except by the bringing of the church back to that doctrine. but to do anything effectual toward such a recovery it was pre-eminently required that the reformer himself should first be brought to an experimental knowledge of what was to be witnessed and taught. on two different theatres, therefore, the reformation had to be wrought out: first, in the reformer's own soul, and then on the field of the world outside of him. footnotes: [ ] the maiden name of margaret luther, the mother of martin, was _margaret ziegler_. there has been a traditional belief that her name was margaret lindeman. the mistake originated in confounding luther's grandmother, whose name was _lindeman_, with luther's mother, whose name was _ziegler_. prof. julius köstlin, in his _life of luther_, after a thorough examination of original records and documents, gives this explanation. what the reformation was. it is hard to take in the depth and magnitude of what is called the great reformation. it stands out in history like a range of himalayan mountains, whose roots reach down into the heart of the world and whose summits pierce beyond the clouds. to bossuet and voltaire it was a mere squabble of the monks; to others it was the cupidity of secular sovereigns and lay nobility grasping for the power, estates, and riches of the church. some treat of it as a simple reaction against religious scandals, with no great depths of principle or meaning except to illustrate the recuperative power of human society to cure itself of oppressive ills. guizot describes it as "a vast effort of the human mind to achieve its freedom--a great endeavor to emancipate human reason." lord bacon takes it as the reawakening of antiquity and the recall of former times to reshape and fashion our own. whatever of truth some of these estimates may contain, they fall far short of a correct idea of what the reformation was, or wherein lay the vital spring of that wondrous revolution. its historic and philosophic centre was vastly deeper and more potent than either or all of these conceptions would make it. many influences contributed to its accomplishment, but its inmost principle was unique. the real nerve of the reformation was religious. its life was something different from mere earthly interests, utilities, aims, or passions. _its seat was in the conscience._ its true spring was the soul, confronted by eternal judgment, trembling for its estate before divine almightiness, and, on pain of banishment from every immortal good, forced to condition and dispose itself according to the clear revelations of god. it was not mere negation to an oppressive hierarchy, except as it was first positive and evangelic touching the direct and indefeasible relations and obligations of the soul to its maker. only when the hierarchy claimed to qualify these direct relations and obligations, thrust itself between the soul and its redeemer, and by eternal penalties sought to hold the conscience bound to human authorities and traditions, did the reformation protest and take issue. had the inalienable right and duty to obey god rather than man been conceded, the hierarchy, as such, might have remained, the same as monarchical government. but this the hierarchy negatived, condemned, and would by no means tolerate. hence the mighty contest. and the heart, sum, and essence of the whole struggle was the maintenance and the working out into living fact of this direct obligation of the soul to god and the supreme authority of his clear and unadulterated word. spiritual training. how luther came to these principles, and the fiery trials by which they were burnt into him as part of his inmost self, is one of the most vital chapters in the history. his father had designed him for the law. to this end he had gone through the best schools of germany, taken his master's degree, and was advancing in the particular studies relating to his intended profession, when a sudden change came over his life. religious in his temper and training, and educated in a creed which worked mainly on man's fears, without emphasizing the only basis of spiritual peace, he fell into great terrors of conscience. several occurrences contributed to this: ( ) he fell sick, and was likely to die. ( ) he accidentally severed an artery, and came near bleeding to death. ( ) a bosom friend of his was suddenly killed. all this made him think how it would be with him if called to stand before god in judgment, and filled him with alarm. then ( ) he was one day overtaken by a thunderstorm of unwonted violence. the terrific scene presented to his vivid fancy all the horrors of a mediæval picture of the last day, and himself about to be plunged into eternal fire. overwhelmed with terror, he cried to heaven for help, and vowed, if spared, to devote himself to the salvation of his soul by becoming a monk. his father hated monkery, and he shared the feeling; but, if it would save him, why hesitate? what was a father's displeasure or the loss of all the favors of the world to his safety against a hopeless perdition? call it superstition, call it religious melancholy, call it morbid hallucination, it was a most serious matter to the young luther, and out of it ultimately grew the reformation. false ideas underlay the resolve, but it was profoundly sincere and according to the ideas of ages. it was wrong, but he could not correct the error until he had tested it. and thus, by what he took as the unmistakable call of god, he entered the cloister. never man went into a monastery with purer motives. never a man went through the duties, drudgeries, and humiliations of the novitiate of convent-life with more unshrinking fidelity. never man endured more painful mental and bodily agonies that he might secure for himself an assured spiritual peace. romanists have expressed their wonder that so pure a man thought himself so great a sinner. but a sinner he was, as we all; and to avert the just anger of god he fasted, prayed, and mortified himself like an anchorite of the thebaid. and yet no peace or comfort came. a chained bible lay in the monastery. he had previously found a copy of it in the library of the university. day and night he read it, along with the writings of st. augustine. in both he found the same pictures of man's depravity which he realized in himself, but god's remedy for sin he had not found. in the earnestness of his studies the prescribed devotions were betimes crowded out, and then he punished himself without mercy to redeem his failures. whole nights and days together he lay upon his face crying to god, till he swooned in his agony. everything his brother-monks could tell him he tried, but all the resources of their religion were powerless to comfort him or to beget a righteousness in which his anguished soul could trust. it happened that one of the exceptionally enlightened and spiritual-minded monks of his time, _john staupitz_, was then the vicar-general of the augustinians in saxony. on his tour of inspection he came to erfurt, and there found luther, a walking skeleton, more dead than alive. he was specially drawn to the haggard young brother. the genial and sympathizing spirit of the vicar-general made luther feel at home in his presence, and to him he freely opened his whole heart, telling of his feelings, failures, and fears--his heartaches, his endeavors, his disappointments, and his despair. and god put the right words into the vicar-general's mouth. "look to the wounds of jesus," said he, "and to the blood he shed for you, and there see the mercy of god. cast yourself into the redeemer's arms, and trust in his righteous life and sacrificial death. he loved you first; love him in return, and let your penances and mortifications go." the oppressed and captive spirit began to feel its burden lighten under such discourse. god a god of love! piety a life of love! salvation by loving trust in a god already reconciled in christ! this was a new revelation. it brought the sorrowing young luther to the study of the scriptures with a new object of search. he read and meditated, and began to see the truth of what his vicar said. but doubts would come, and often his gloom returned. one day an aged monk came to his cell to comfort him. he said he only knew his creed, but in that he rested, reciting, "_i believe in the forgiveness of sins_."--"and do i not believe that?" said luther.--"ah," said the old monk, "you believe in the forgiveness of sins for david and peter and the thief on the cross, but you do not believe in the forgiveness of sins _for yourself_. st. bernard says the holy ghost speaks it to your own soul, _thy_ sins are forgiven _thee_." and so at last the right nerve was touched. the true word of god's deliverance was brought home to luther's understanding. he was penitent and in earnest, and needed only this great gospel hope to lift him from the horrible pit and the miry clay. as a light from heaven it came to his soul, and there remained, a comfort and a joy. the glad conclusion flashed upon him, never more to be shaken, "if god, for christ's sake, takes away our sins, then they are not taken away by any works of ours." the foundation-rock of a new world was reached. luther saw not yet what all this discovery meant, nor whither it would lead. he was as innocent of all thought of being a reformer as a new-born babe is of commanding an army on the battlefield. but the gospel principle of deliverance and salvation for his oppressed and anxious soul was found, and it was found for all the world. the anchor had taken hold on a new continent. in essence the great reformation was born--born in luther's soul. luther's development. more than ten years passed before this new principle began to work off the putrid carcass of mediæval religion which lay stretched over the stifled and suffocating church of christ. there were yet many steps and stages in the preparation for what was to come. but from that time forward everything moved toward general regeneration by means of that marrow doctrine of the gospel: _salvation by loving faith in the merit and mediation of jesus alone_. staupitz counseled the young monk to study the scriptures well and whatever could aid him in their right understanding, and gave orders to the monastery not to interfere with his studies. on may , , he was consecrated to the priesthood. within the year following, at the instance of staupitz, frederick the wise appointed him professor in the new university of wittenberg. may , , he took his degree of bachelor of divinity. from that time he began to use his place to attack the falsehoods of the prevailing philosophy and to explore and expose the absurdities of scholasticism, dwelling much on the great gospel treasure of god's free amnesty to sinful man through the merits and mediation of jesus christ, on which his own soul was planted. staupitz was astounded at the young brother's thorough mastery of the sacred word, the minuteness of his knowledge of it, and the power with which he expounded and defended the great principles of the evangelic faith. so able a teacher of the doctrines of the cross must at once begin to preach. luther remonstrated, for it was not then the custom for all priests to preach. he insisted that he would die under the weight of such responsibilities. "die, then," said staupitz; "god has plenty to do for intelligent young men in heaven." a little old wooden chapel, daubed with clay, twenty by thirty feet in size, with a crude platform of rough boards at one end and a small sooty gallery for scarce twenty persons at the other, and propped on all sides to keep it from tumbling down, was assigned him as his cathedral. myconius likens it to the stable of bethlehem, as there christ was born anew for the souls which now crowded to it. and when the thronging audiences required his transfer to the parish church, it was called the bringing of christ into the temple. the fame of this young theologian and preacher spread fast and far. the common people and the learned were alike impressed by his originality and power, and rejoiced in the electrifying clearness of his expositions and teachings. the elector was delighted, for he began to see his devout wishes realized. staupitz, who had drunk in the more pious spirit of the mystic theologians, shared the same feeling, and saw in luther's fresh, biblical, and energetic preaching what he felt the whole church needed. "he spared neither counsel nor applause," for he believed him the man of god for the times. he sent him to neighboring monasteries to preach to the monks. he gave him every opportunity to study, observe, and exercise his great talents. he even sent him on a mission to rome, more to acquaint him with that city, which he longed to see, than for any difficult or pressing business with the pope. luther's visit to rome. luther performed the journey on foot, passing from monastery to monastery, noting the extravagances, indolence, gluttony, and infidelity of the monks, and sometimes in danger of his life, both from the changes of climate and from the murderous resentments of some of these cloister-saints which his rebukes of their vices engendered. when rome first broke upon his sight, he hailed it reverently as the city of saints and holy martyrs. he almost envied those whose parents were dead, and who had it in their power to offer prayers for the repose of their souls by the side of such holy shrines. but when he beheld the vulgarities, profanities, paganism, and unconcealed unbelief which pervaded even the ecclesiastical circles of that city, his soul sunk within him. there was much to be seen in rome; and the roman catholic writers find great fault with luther for being so dull and unappreciative as to move amid it without being touched with a single spark of poetic fire. they tell of the glory of the cardinals, in litters, on horseback, in glittering carriages, blazing with jewels and shaded with gorgeous canopies; of marble palaces, grand walks, alabaster columns, gigantic obelisks, villas, gardens, grottoes, flowers, fountains, cascades; of churches adorned with polished pillars, gilded soffits, mosaic floors, altars sparkling with diamonds, and gorgeous pictures from master-hands looking down from every wall; of monuments, statues, images, and holy relics; and they blame luther that he could gaze upon it all without a stir of admiration--that he could look upon the sculpture and statuary and see nothing but pagan devices, the gods demosthenes and praxiteles, the feasts and pomps of delos, and the idle scenes of the heathen forum--that no gleam from the crown of perugino or michael angelo dazzled his eyes, and no strain of virgil or of dante, which the people sung in the streets, attracted his ear--that he was only cold and dumb before all the treasures and glories of art and all the grandeur of the high dignitaries of the church, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, exclaiming over nothing but the licentious impurities of the priests, the pagan pomps of the pontiff, the profane jests of the ministers of religion, the bare shoulders of the roman ladies. luther was not dead to the æsthetic, but to see faith and righteousness thus smothered and buried under a godless epicurean life was an offence to his honest german conscience. it looked to him as if the popes had reversed the saviour's choice, and accepted the devil's bid for christ to worship him. from what his own eyes and ears had now seen and heard, he knew what to believe concerning the state of things in the metropolis of christendom, and was satisfied that, as surely as there is a hell, the rome of those days was its mouth.[ ] footnotes: [ ] bellarmine, an honored author of the roman church, one competent to judge concerning the state of things at that time, and not over-forward to confess it, says: "for some years before the lutheran and calvinistic heresies were published there was not (as contemporary authors testify) any rigor in ecclesiastical judicatories, any discipline with regard to morals, any knowledge of sacred literature, any reverence for divine things: there was almost no religion remaining."--_bellarm._, concio xviii., opera, tom. vi. col. , edit. colon., , apud _gerdesii hist. evan. renovati_, vol. i. p. . luther as town-preacher. on his return the senate of wittenberg elected him town-preacher. in the cloister, in the castle chapel, and in the collegiate church he alternately exercised his gifts. romanists admit that "his success was great. he said he would not imitate his predecessors, and he kept his word. for the first time a christian preacher was seen to abandon the schoolmen and draw his texts and illustrations from the writings of inspiration. he was the originator and restorer of expository preaching in modern times." the elector heard him, and was filled with admiration. an old professor, whom the people called "the light of the world," listened to him, and was struck with his wonderful insight, his marvelous imagination, and his massive solidity. and wittenberg sprang into great renown because of him, for never before had been heard in saxony such a luminous expositor of god's holy word. luther made a doctor. on all hands it was agreed and insisted that he should be made a doctor of divinity. the costs were heavy, for simony was the order of the day and the pope exacted high prices for all church promotions; but the elector paid the charges. on the th of october, , the degree was conferred. it was no empty title to luther. it gave him liberties and rights which his enemies could not gainsay, and it laid on him obligations and duties which he never forgot. the obedience to the canons and the hierarchy which it exacted he afterward found inimical to christ and the gospel, and, as in duty bound, he threw it off, with other swaddling-bands of popery. but there was in it the pledge "to devote his whole life to the study, exposition and defence of the holy scriptures." this he accepted, and ever referred to as his sacred charter and commission. nor was it without significance that the great bell of wittenberg was rung when proclamation of this investiture was made. as the ringing of the bell on the old state-house when the declaration of independence was passed proclaimed the coming liberties of the american colonies, so this sounding of the great bell of wittenberg when luther was made doctor of divinity proclaimed and heralded to the nations of the earth the coming deliverance of the enslaved church. god's chosen servant had received his commission, and the better day was soon to dawn. * * * * * henceforth luther's labors and studies went forward with a new impulse and inspiration. hebrew and greek were thoroughly mastered. the fathers of the church, ancient and modern, were carefully read. the systems of the schoolmen, the book of sentences, the commentaries, the decretals--everything relating to his department as a doctor of theology--were examined, and brought to the test of holy scripture. in his sermons, lectures, and disquisitions the results of these incessant studies came out with a depth of penetration, a clearness of statement, a simplicity of utterance, a devoutness of spirit, and a convincing power of eloquence which, with the eminent sanctity of his life, won for him unbounded praise. the common feeling was that the earth did not contain another such a doctor and had not seen his equal for many ages. envy and jealousy themselves, those green-eyed monsters which gather about the paths of great qualities and successes, seemed for the time to be paralyzed before a brilliancy which rested on such humility, conscientiousness, fidelity, and merit. luther's labors. years of fruitful labor passed. the decalogue was expounded. paul's letter to the romans and the penitential psalms were explained. the lectures on the epistle to the galatians were nearly completed. but no book from luther had yet been published. in he was chosen district vicar of the augustinian monasteries of meissen and thuringia. it was a laborious office, but it gave him new experiences, familiarized him still more with the monks, brought him into executive administrations, and developed his tact in dealing with men. one other particular served greatly to establish him in the hearts of the people. a deadly plague broke out in wittenberg. citizens were dying by dozens and scores. at a later period a like scourge visited geneva, and so terrified calvin and his ministerial associates that they appealed to the supreme council, entreating, "mighty lords, release us from attending these infected people, for our lives are in peril." not so luther. his friends said, "fly! fly!" lest he should fall by the plague and be lost to the world. "fly?" said he. "no, no, my god. if i die, i die. the world will not perish because a monk has fallen. i am not st. paul, not to fear death, but god will sustain me." and as an angel of mercy he remained, ministering to the sick and dying and caring for the orphans and widows of the dead. collision with the hierarchy. such was luther up to the time of his rupture with rome. he knew something of the shams and falsities that prevailed, and he had assailed and exposed many of them in his lectures and sermons; but to lead a general reformation was the farthest from his thoughts. indeed, he still had such confidence in the integrity of the roman church that he did not yet realize how greatly a thorough general reformation was needed. humble in mind, peaceable in disposition, reverent toward authority, loving privacy, and fully occupied with his daily studies and duties, it was not in him to think of making war with powers whose claims he had not yet learned to question. but it was not possible that so brave, honest, and self-sacrificing a man should long pursue his convictions without coming into collision with the roman high priesthood. though far off at wittenberg, and trying to do his own duty well in his own legitimate sphere, it soon came athwart his path in a form so foul and offensive that it forced him to assault it. either he had to let go his sincerest convictions and dearest hopes or protest had to come. his personal salvation and that of his flock were at stake, and he could in no way remain a true man and not remonstrate. driven to this extremity, and struck at for his honest faithfulness, he struck again; and so came the battle which shook and revolutionized the world. the selling of indulgences. luther's first encounter with the hierarchy was on the traffic in indulgences. it was a good fortune that it there began. that traffic was so obnoxious to every sense of propriety that any vigorous attack upon it would command the approval of many honest and pious people. the central heresy of hierarchical religion was likewise embodied in it, so that a stab there, if logically followed up, would necessarily reach the very heart of the oppressive monster. and providence arranged that there the conflict should begin. leo x. had but recently ascended the papal throne. reared amid lavish wealth and culture, he was eager that his reign should equal that of solomon and the cæsars. he sought to aggrandize his relatives, to honor and enrich men of genius, and to surround himself with costly splendors and pleasures. these demanded extraordinary revenues. the projects of his ambitious predecessors had depleted the papal coffers. he needed to do something on a grand scale in order adequately to replenish his exchequer. as early as the eleventh century the popes had betimes resorted to the selling of pardons and the issuing of free passes to heaven on consideration of certain services or payments to the church. from urban ii. to leo x. this was more or less in vogue--first, to get soldiers for the holy wars,[ ] and then as a means of wealth to the church. if one wished to eat meat on fast-days, marry within prohibited degrees of relationship, or indulge in forbidden pleasures, he could do it without offence by rendering certain satisfactions before or after, which satisfactions could mostly be made by payments of money.[ ] in the same way he could buy remission of sins in general, or exemption for so many days, years, or centuries from the pains of purgatory. bulls of authority were given, in the name of the father, son, and holy ghost, to issue certificates of exemption from all penalties to such as did the service or paid the equivalent. immense incomes were thus realized. even to the present this facile invention for raising money has not been entirely discontinued. papal indulgences can be bought to-day in the shops of spain and elsewhere. leo seized upon this system with all the vigor and unscrupulousness characteristic of the medici. had he been asked whether he really believed in these pardons, he would have said that the church always believed the pope had power to grant them. had he spoken his real mind in the matter, he would have said that if the people chose to be such fools, it was not for him to find fault with them. and thus, under plea of raising funds to finish st. peter's, he instituted a grand trade in indulgences, and thereby laid the capstone of hierarchical iniquity which crushed the whole fabric to its base. the right to sell these wares in germany was awarded to albert, the gay young prince-archbishop of mayence. he was over head and ears in debt to the pope for his pallium, and leo gave him this chance to get out.[ ] half the proceeds of the trade in his territory were to go to his credit. but the work of proclaiming and distributing the pardons was committed to _john tetzel_, a dominican prior who had long experience in the business, and who achieved "a forlorn notoriety in european history" by his zeal in prosecuting it. footnotes: [ ] in the famous bull of gregory ix., published in , that pope exhorts and commands all good christians to take up the cross and join the expedition to recover the holy land. the language is: "the service to which mankind are now invited is an effectual atonement for the miscarriages of a negligent life. the discipline of a regular penance would have discouraged many offenders so much that they would have had no heart to venture upon it; but the holy war is a compendious method of discharging men from guilt and restoring them to the divine favor. even if they die on their march, the intention will be taken for the deed, and many in this way may be crowned without fighting."--given in collier's _eccl._, vol. i. [ ] the roman chancery once put forth a book, which went through many editions, giving the exact prices for the pardon of each particular sin. a deacon guilty of murder was absolved for twenty pounds. a bishop or abbot might assassinate for three hundred livres. any ecclesiastic might violate his vows of chastity for the third part of that sum, etc., etc.--see robertson's _charles v._ [ ] the pallium, or pall, was a narrow band of white wool to go over the shoulders in the form of a circle, from which hung bands of similar size before and behind, finished at the ends with pieces of sheet lead and embroidered with crosses. it was the mark of the dignity and rank of archbishops. albert owed pope leo x. forty-five thousand thalers for his right and appointment to wear the archbishop's pallium. it was in this way that the roman church was accustomed to sell out benefices as a divine right. even _expectative graces_, or mandates nominating a person to succeed to a benefice upon the first vacancy, were thus sold. companies existed in germany which made a business of buying up the benefices of particular sections and districts and retailing them at advanced rates. the selling of pardons was simply a lower kind of simoniacal bartering which pervaded the whole hierarchical establishment. tetzel's performances. tetzel entered the towns with noise and pomp, amid waving of flags, singing, and the ringing of bells. clergy, choristers, monks, and nuns moved in procession before and after him. he himself sat in a gilded chariot, with the bull of his authority spread out on a velvet cushion before him. the churches were his salesrooms, lighted and decorated for the occasion as in highest festival. from the pulpits his boisterous oratory rang, telling the virtues of indulgences, the wonderful power of the keys, and the unexampled grace of which he was the bearer from the holy lord and father at rome. he called on all--robbers, adulterers, murderers, everybody--to draw near, pay down their money, and receive from him letters, duly sealed, by which all their sins, past and future, should be pardoned and done away. not for the living only, but also for the dead, he proposed full and instantaneous deliverance from all future punishments on the payment of the price. and any wretch who dared to doubt or question the saving power of these certificates he in advance doomed to excommunication and the wrath of god.[ ] catholic divines have labored hard to whitewash or explain away this stupendous iniquity; but, with all they have said or may say, such were the presentations made by the hawkers of these wares and such was the text of the diplomas they issued. a dispensation or indulgence was nothing more nor less than a pretended letter of credit on heaven, drawn at will by the pope out of the superabundant merits of christ and all saints, to count so much on the books of god for so many murders, robberies, frauds, lies, slanders, or debaucheries. as the matter practically worked, a more profane and devilish traffic never had place in our world than that which the roman hierarchy thus carried on in the name of the triune god. footnotes: [ ] many of the sayings which tetzel gave out in his addresses to the people have been preserved, and are amply attested by those who listened to his harangues. "i would not," said he, "exchange my privileges for those of st. peter in heaven. he saved many by his sermons; i have saved more by my indulgences." "indulgences are the most precious and sublime of all the gifts of god." "no sins are so great that these pardons cannot cover them." "not for the living only, but for the dead also, there is immediate salvation in these indulgences." "ye priests, nobles, tradespeople, wives, maidens, young men! the souls of your parents and beloved ones are crying from the depths below: 'see our torments! a small alms would deliver us; and you can give it, and you will not.'" "o dull and brutish people, not to appreciate the grace so richly offered! this day heaven is open on all sides, and how many are the souls you might redeem if you only would! your father is in flames, and you can deliver him for ten groschen, and you do it not! what punishment must come for neglecting so great salvation! you should strip your coat from your back, if you have no other, and sell it to purchase so great grace as this, for god hath given all power to the pope." "the bodies of st. peter and st. paul, with those of many blessed martyrs, lie exposed, trampled on, polluted, dishonored, and rotting in the weather. our most holy lord the pope means to build the church to cover them with glory that shall have no equal on the earth. shall those holy ashes be left to be trodden in the mire?" "therefore bring your money, and do a work most profitable to departed souls. buy! buy!" "this red cross with the pope's arms has equal virtue with the cross of christ." "these pardons make cleaner than baptism, and purer than adam was in his innocence in paradise." in the certificates which tetzel gave to those who bought these pardons he declared that "by the authority of jesus christ, and of his apostles peter and paul, and of the most holy pope, i do absolve thee first from all ecclesiastical censures, in whatever manner they have been incurred, and then _from all thy sins, transgressions, and excesses, however enormous soever they may be_. i remit to you all punishment which you deserve in purgatory on their account, and i restore you to the holy sacraments of the church, union with the faithful, and to that innocence and purity possessed at baptism; _so that when you die the gates of punishment shall be shut and the gates of the happy paradise shall be opened; and if your death shall be delayed, this grace shall remain in full force when you are at the point of death_." the sums required for these passports to glory varied according to the rank and wealth of the applicant. for ordinary indulgence a king, queen, or bishop was to pay twenty-five ducats (a ducat being about a dollar of our money); abbots, counts, barons, and the like were charged ten ducats; other nobles and all who enjoyed annual incomes of five hundred florins were charged six ducats; and so down to half a florin, or twenty-five cents. but the commissioner also had a special scale for taxes on particular sins. sodomy was charged twelve ducats; sacrilege and perjury, nine; murder, seven or eight; witchcraft and polygamy, from two to six; taking the life of a parent, brother, sister, or an infant, from one to six. luther on indulgences. luther was on a tour of inspection as district vicar of the augustinians when he first heard of these shameful doings. as yet he understood but little of the system, and could not believe it possible that the fathers at rome could countenance, much less appoint and commission, such iniquities. boiling with indignation for the honor of the church, he threatened to make a hole in tetzel's drum, and wrote to the authorities to refuse passports to the hucksters of these shameful deceptions. but tetzel soon came near to wittenberg. some of luther's parishioners heard him, and bought absolutions. they afterward came to confession, acknowledging great irregularities of life. luther rebuked their wickedness, and would not promise them forgiveness unless contrite for their sins and earnestly endeavoring to amend their evil ways. they remonstrated, and brought out their certificates of plenary pardon. "i have nothing to do with your papers," said he. "god's word says you must repent and lead better lives, or you will perish." his words were at once carried to the ears of tetzel, who fumed with rage at such impudence toward the authority of the church. he ascended the pulpit and hurled the curses of god upon the saxon monk. * * * * * thus an honest pastor finds some of his flock on the way to ruin, and tries to guide them right. he is not thinking of attacking rome. he is ready to fight and die for holy mother church. his very protests are in her behalf. he is on his own rightful field, in faithful pursuit of his own rightful duty. here the erring hierarchy seeks him out and attacks him. shall he yield to timid fears and weak advisers, keep silence in his own house, and let the souls he is placed to guard become a prey to the destroyer? is he not sworn to defend god's holy word and gospel? what will be his eternal fate and that of his people should he now hold his peace? sermon on indulgences. without conferring with flesh and blood his resolve was made--a resolve on which hung all the better future of the world--a resolve to take the pulpit against the lying indulgences. for several days he shut himself in his cell to make sure of his ground and to elaborate what he would say. with eminent modesty and moderation his sentences were wrought, but with a perspicuity and clearness which no one could mistake. a crowded church awaited their delivery. he entered with his brother-monks, and joined in all the service with his usual voice and gravity. nothing in his countenance or manner betrayed the slightest agitation of his soul. it was a solemn and momentous step for himself and for mankind that he was about to take, but he was as calmly made up to it as to any other duty of his life. the moment came for him to speak; _and he spoke_. "i hold it impossible," said he, "to prove from the holy scriptures that divine justice demands from the sinner any other penance or satisfaction than a true repentance, a change of heart, a willing submission to bear the saviour's cross, and a readiness to do what good he can. "that indulgences applied to souls in purgatory serve to remit the punishments which they would otherwise suffer is an opinion devoid of any foundation. "indulgences, so far from expiating or cleansing from sin, leave the man in the same filth and condemnation in which they find him. "the church exacts somewhat of the sinner, and what it on its own account exacts it can on its own account remit, but nothing more. "if you have aught to spare, in god's name give it for the building of st. peter's, but do not buy pardons. "if you have means, feed the hungry, which is of more avail than piling stones together, and far better than the buying of indulgences. "my advice is, let indulgences alone; leave them to dead and sleepy christians; but see to it that ye be not of that kind. "indulgences are neither commanded nor approved of god. they excite no one to sanctification. they work nothing toward salvation. "that indulgences have virtue to deliver souls from purgatory i do not believe, nor can it be proven by them that teach it; the church says nothing to that effect. "what i preach to you is based on the certainty of the holy scriptures, which no one ought to doubt." so luther preached, and his word went out to the ends of the earth. it was no jest, like ulric von hütten's _epistles of obscure men_, or like the ridicule which reuchlin and erasmus heaped upon the stupid monks. it raised no laugh, but penetrated, like a rifle-shot, into the very heart of things. those who listened were deeply affected by the serious boldness of the preacher. the audience was with him in conviction, but many trembled for the result. "dear doctor, you have been very rash; what trouble may come of this!" said a venerable father as he pulled the sleeve of luther's gown and shook his head with misgivings. "if this is not rightly done in god's name," said luther, "it will come to nothing; if it is, let come what will." it was honest duty to god, truth, and the salvation of men that moved him. cowardly policy or timid expediency in such a matter was totally foreign to his soul. in a few days, the substance of the sermon was in print. tetzel raved over it. melanchthon says he burnt it in the market-place of jüterbock. in the name of god and the pope he bade defiance to its author, and challenged him by fire and water. luther laughed at him for braying so loud at a distance, yet declining to come to wittenberg to argue out the matter in close lists. appeal to the bishops. anxious to vindicate the church from what he believed to be an unwarranted liberty in the use of her name, luther wrote to the bishop of brandenburg and the archbishop of mayence. he made his points, and appealed to these his superiors to put down the scandalous falsities advanced by tetzel. they failed to answer in any decisive way. the one timidly advised silence, and the other had too much pecuniary interest in the business to notice the letter. thus, as a pastor, luther had taken his ground before his parishioners in the confessional. as a preacher he had uttered himself in earnest admonition from the pulpit. as a loyal son he had made his presentation and appeal to those in authority over him. was he right? or was he wrong? no commanding answer came, and there remained one other way of testing the question. as a doctor of divinity he could lawfully, as custom had been, demand an open and fair discussion of the matter with teachers and theologians. and upon this he now resolved. the ninety-five theses. he framed a list of propositions on the points in question. they were in latin, for his appeal was to theologians, and not yet to the common heart and mind of germany. to make them public, he took advantage of a great festival at wittenberg, when the town was full of visitors and strangers, and nailed them to the door of the new castle church, october , . these were the famous _ninety-five theses_. they were plainly-worded statements of the same points he had made in the confessional and in his sermon. they contained no assault upon the church, no arraignment of the pope, no personal attack on any one. neither were they given as necessarily true, but as what luther believed to be true, and the real truth or falsity of which he desired to have decided in the only way questions of faith and salvation can be rightly decided. the whole matter was fairly, humbly, and legitimately put. "i, martin luther, augustinian at wittenberg," he added at the end, "hereby declare that i have written these propositions against indulgences. i understand that some, not knowing what they affirm, are of opinion that i am a heretic, though our renowned university has not condemned me, nor any temporal or spiritual authority. therefore, now again, as often heretofore, i beg of one and all, for the sake of the true christian faith, to show me the better way, if peradventure they have learned it from above, or at least to submit their opinion to the decision of god and the church; for i am not so insane as to set up my views above everything and everybody, nor so silly as to accept the fables invented by men in preference to the word of god." it is from the nailing up of these _theses_ that the history of the great reformation dates; for the hammer-strokes which fixed that parchment started the alpine avalanche which overwhelmed the pride of rome and broke the stubborn power which had reigned supreme for a thousand years. effect of the theses. as no one came forward to discuss his theses, luther resolved to publish them to the world. in fourteen days they overspread germany. in a month they ran through all christendom. one historian says it seemed as if the angels of god were engaged in spreading them. at a single stroke, made in modesty and faith, luther had become the most noted person in germany--the man most talked of in all the world--the mouthpiece of the best people in christendom--the leader of a mighty revolution. reuchlin read, and thanked god. erasmus read, and rejoiced, only counseling moderation and prudence. the emperor maximilian read, and wrote to the saxon elector: "take care of the monk luther, for the time may come when we will need him." the bishop of wurzburg read, and was filled with gladness, and wrote to the elector frederick to hold on to luther as a preacher of the truth of god. the prior of steinlausitz read, and could not suppress his joy. "see here," said he to his monks: "the long-waited-for has come; he tells the truth. _berg_ means mountain, and _wittenberg_ is the mountain whither all the world will come to seek wisdom, and will find it." a student of annaberg read, and said, "this luther is the reaper in my dream, whom the voice bade me follow and gather in the bread of life;" and from that hour he was a fast friend of luther and his cause, and became the distinguished myconius. the pope himself read the theses, and did not think unfavorably of their author. he saw in luther a man of learning and brilliant genius, and that pleased him. the questions mooted he referred to a mere monkish jealousy--an unsober gust of passion which would soon blow over. he did not then realize the seriousness which was in the matter. his sphere was heathen art and worldly magnificence, not searching into the ways of god's salvation. the great german heart was moved, and the brave daring of him whose voice was thus lifted up against the abominations which were draining the country to fill the pope's coffers was hailed with enthusiasm. had luther been a smaller man he would have been swept away by his vast and sudden fame. but not all was sunshine. erasmus wittily said, luther committed two unpardonable sins: he touched the pope's crown and the monks' bellies. such effrontery would needs raise a mighty outcry. prierias, the master of the sacred palace, pronounced luther a heretic. hochstrat of cologne, reuchlin's enemy, clamored for fire to burn him. the indulgence-venders thundered their anathemas, promising a speedy holocaust of luther's body. the monasteries took on the form of so many kennels of enraged hounds howling to each other across the spiritual waste. and even some who pronounced the theses scriptural and orthodox shook their heads and sought to quash such dangerous proceedings. but luther remained firm at his post. he honestly believed what he had written, and he was not afraid of the truth. if the powers of the world should come down upon him and kill him, he was prepared for the slaughter. in all the mighty controversy he was ever ready to serve the gospel with his life or with his death. tetzel's end. tetzel continued to bray and fume against him from pulpit and press, denouncing him as a heresiarch, heretic, and schismatic. by wimpina's aid he issued a reply to luther's sermon, and also counter-theses on luther's propositions. but the tide was turning in the sea of human thinking. luther's utterances had turned it. the people were ready to tear the mountebank to pieces. two years later he imploringly complained to the pope's nuncio, miltitz, that such fury pursued him in germany, bohemia, hungary, and poland that he was nowhere safe. even the representative of the pope gave the wretch no sympathy. when luther heard of his illness he sent him a letter to tell him that he had forgiven him all. he died in leipsic, neglected, smitten in soul, and full of misery, july , . luther's growing influence. six months after the nailing up of the theses, luther was the hero of a general convention of the augustinians in heidelberg. he there submitted a series of propositions on philosophy and theology, which he defended with such convincing clearness and tact that he won for himself and his university great honor and renown. better still, four learned young men who there heard him saw the truth of his positions, and afterward became distinguished defenders of the reformation. his cause, meanwhile, was rapidly gaining friends. his replies to tetzel, prierias, hochstrat, and eck had gone forth to deepen the favorable impression made by the ninety-five theses. truth had once more lifted up its head in europe, and rome would find it no child's play to put it down. the skirmish-lines of the hierarchy had been met and driven in. the tug of serious battle was now to come. his appeal to the pope. luther made the advance. he wrote out explanations (or "_resolutions_") of his theses, and sent them, with a letter, to the pope. with great confidence, point, and elegance, but with equal submissiveness and humility, he spoke of the completeness of christ for the salvation of every true believer, without room or need for penances and other satisfactions; of the evilness of the times, and the pressing necessity for a general reform; of the damaging complaints everywhere resounding against the traffic in indulgences; of his unsuccessful appeals to the ecclesiastical princes; and of the unjust censures being heaped upon him for what he had done, entreating his holiness to instruct his humble petitioner, and condemn or approve, kill or preserve, as the voice of christ through him might be. he then believed that god's sanction had to come through the high clergy and heads of the church. many good christians had approved his theses, but he did not recognize in that the divine answer to his testimony. he said afterward: "i looked only to the pope, the cardinals, the bishops, the theologians, the jurisconsults, the monks, the priests, from whom i expected the breathing of the spirit." he had not yet learned what a bloody dragon claimed to impersonate the lamb of god. citation to answer for heresy. while, in open frankness, luther was thus meekly committing himself to the powers at rome, _they_ were meditating his destruction. insidiously they sought to deprive him of the elector's protection, and answered his humble and confiding appeal with a citation to appear before them to answer for heresy. things now were ominous of evil. wittenberg was filled with consternation. if luther obeyed, it was evident he would perish like so many faithful men before him; if he refused, he would be charged with contumacy and involve his prince. one and another expedient were proposed to meet the perplexity; but to secure a hearing in germany was all luther asked. to this the pope proved more willing than was thought. he was not sure of gaining by the public trial and execution of a man so deeply planted in the esteem of his countrymen, and by bringing him before a prudent legate he might induce him to retract and the trouble be ended; if not, it would be a less disturbing way of getting possession of the accused man. orders were therefore issued for luther to appear before cardinal cajetan at augsburg. luther before cajetan. on foot he undertook the journey, believed by all to be a journey to his death. but maximilian, then in the neighborhood of augsburg, gave him a safe-conduct, and cajetan was obliged to receive him with civility. he even embraced him with tokens of affection, thinking to win him to retraction. luther was much softened by these kindly manifestations, and was disposed to comply with almost anything if not required to deny the truth of god. the interviews were numerous. luther was told that it was useless to think that the civil powers would go to war for his protection; and where would he then be? his answer was: "i will be, as now, under the broad heavens of the almighty." remonstrances, entreaties, threatenings, and proposals of high distinction were addressed to him; but he wanted no cardinal's hat, and for nothing in rome's power would he consent to retract what he believed to be the gospel truth till shown wherein it was at variance with the divine word. cajetan's arguments tripped and failed at every point, and he could only reiterate that he had been sent to receive a retraction, not to debate the questions. luther as often promised this when shown from the scriptures to be in the wrong, but not till then. cajetan's mortification. foiled and disappointed in his designs, and astounded and impatient that a poor monk should thus set at naught all the prayers and powers of the sovereign of christendom, the cardinal bade him see his face no more until he had repented of his stubbornness. at this the friends of the reformer, fearing for his safety, clandestinely hurried him out of augsburg, literally grappling him up from his bed only half dressed, and brought him away to his university. he had answered the pope's summons, and yet was free! cajetan was mortified at the result, and was upbraided for his failure. in his chagrin he wrote angrily to the elector not to soil his name and lineage by sheltering a heretic, but to surrender luther at once, on pain of an interdict. the elector was troubled. luther had not been proven a heretic, neither did he believe him to be one; but he feared collision with the pope. luther said if he were in the elector's place he would answer the cardinal as he deserved for thus insulting an honest man; but, not to be an embarrassment to his prince, he agreed to leave the elector's dominions if he said so. but frederick would not surrender his distinguished subject to the legate, neither would he send him out of the country. it is hard to say which was here the nobler man, luther or his illustrious protector. progress of events. the minds of men by this time were much aroused, and luther's cause grew and strengthened. the learned melanchthon, reuchlin's relative and pupil, was added to the faculty at wittenberg, and became luther's chief co-laborer. the number of students in the university swelled to thousands, including the sons of noblemen and princes from all parts, who listened with admiration to luther's lectures and sermons and spread his fame and doctrines. and the feeling was deep and general that a new and marvelous light had arisen upon the world.[ ] it was now that maximilian died (jan. , ), and charles v., his grandson, a spanish prince of nineteen years, succeeded to his place. the imperial crown was laid at the feet of the elector frederick, luther's friend, but he declined it in favor of charles, only exacting a solemn pledge that he would not disturb the liberties of germany. civil freedom is one of the glorious fruits of the reformation, and here already it began to raise barricades against despotic power. footnotes: [ ] a writer of the roman church, in a vein of somewhat mingled sarcasm and seriousness, remarks: "the university had reason to be proud of luther, whose oral lectures attracted a multitude of strangers; these pilgrims from distant quarters joined their hands and bowed their heads at the sight of the towers of the city, like other travelers before jerusalem. wittenberg was like a new zion, whence the light of truth expanded to neighboring kingdoms, as of old from the holy city to pagan nations." the leipsic disputation. up to this time, however, there had been no questioning of the divine rights claimed by the hierarchy. luther was still a papist, and thought to grow his plants of evangelic faith under the shadow of the upas of ecclesiasticism. he had not yet been brought to see how his augustinian theology concerning sin and grace ran afoul of the entire round of the mediæval system and methods of holiness. it was only the famous leipsic disputation between him and dr. john eck that showed him the remoter and deeper relations of his position touching indulgences. this otherwise fruitless debate had the effect of making the nature and bearings of the controversy clear to both sides. eck now distinctly saw that luther must be forcibly put down or the whole papal system must fall; and luther was made to realize that he must surrender his doctrine of salvation through simple faith in christ or break with the pope and the hierarchical system. accepting the pontifical doctrines as true, eck claimed the victory, because he had driven luther to expressions at variance with those doctrines. on the other hand, luther had shown that the pontifical claims were without foundation in primitive christianity or the holy scriptures; that the papacy was not of divine authority or of the essence of the church; that the church existed before and beyond the papal hierarchy, as well as under it; that the only head of the universal christian church is christ himself; that wherever there is true faith in god's word, there the church is, whatever the form of external organization; that the popes could err and had erred, and councils likewise; and that neither separately nor together could they rightfully decree or ordain contrary to the scriptures, the only infallible rule. to all this eck could make no answer except that it was hussism over again, which the council of constance had condemned, and that, from the standpoint of the hierarchy, luther was a heretic and ought to be dealt with accordingly. results from the debate. luther now realized that the true gospel of god's salvation and the pontifical system were vitally and irreconcilably antagonistic; that the one could never be held in consistency with the other; and that there must come a final break between him and rome. this much depressed him. he showed his spiritual anguish by his deep dejection. but he soon rose above it. if he had the truth of god, as he verily believed, what were the pope and all devils against jehovah? and so he went on lecturing, preaching, writing, and publishing with his greatest power, brilliancy, and effectiveness. some of the best and most telling products of his pen now went forth to multitudes of eager readers. the glowing energy of his faith acted like a spreading fire, kindling the souls of men as they seldom have been kindled in any cause in any age. his _address to the nobility_ electrified all germany, and first fired the patriotic spirit of ulrich zwingli, the swiss reformer. his book on _the babylonian captivity of the church_ sounded a bugle-note which thrilled through all the german heart, gave bugenhagen to the reformation, and sent a shudder through the hierarchy.[ ] already, at maximilian's diet at augsburg to take measures against the turk, a latin pamphlet was openly circulated among the members which said that the turk to be resisted was living in italy; and miltitz, the pope's nuncio and chamberlain, confessed that from rome to altenberg he had found those greatly in the minority who did not side with luther. footnotes: [ ] glapio, the confessor of charles v., stated to chancellor brück at the diet of worms: "the alarm which i felt when i read the first pages of the _captivity_ cannot be expressed; they might be said to be lashes which scourged me from head to foot." luther's excommunication. but the tempest waxed fiercer and louder every day. luther's growing influence the more inflamed his enemies. hochstrat had induced two universities to condemn his doctrines. in sundry places his books were burned by the public hangman. eck had gone to italy, and was "moving the depths of hell" to secure the excommunication of the prejudged heretic. and could his bloodthirsty enemies have had their way, this would long since have come. but leo seems to have had more respect for luther than for them. learning and talent were more to him than any doctrines of the faith. the monks complained of him as too much given to luxury and pleasure to do his duty in defending the church. perhaps he had conscience enough to be ashamed to enforce his traffic in paper pardons by destroying the most honest and heroic man in germany. perhaps he did not like to stain his reign with so foul a record, even if dangerous complications should not attend it. whatever the cause, he was slow to respond to these clamors for blood. eck had almost as much trouble to get him to issue the bull of luther's excommunication as he had to answer luther's arguments in the leipsic discussion. but he eventually procured it, and undertook to enforce it. and yet, with all his zealous personal endeavors and high authority, he could hardly get it posted, promulged, or at all respected in germany. his parchment thunder lost its power in coming across the alps. miltitz also was in his way, who, with equal authority from the pope, was endeavoring to supersede the bull by attempts at reconciliation. it came to wittenberg in such a sorry plight that luther laughed at it as having the appearance of a forgery by dr. eck. he knew the pope had been bullied into the issuing of it, but this was the biting irony by which he indicated the character of the men by whom it was moved and the pitiable weakness to which such thunders had been reduced. but it was a bull of excommunication nevertheless. luther and his doctrines were condemned by the chief of christendom.[ ] multitudes were thrown into anxious perturbation. if the strong arm of the emperor should be given to sustain the pope, who would be able to stand? adrian, one of the faculty of wittenberg, was so frightened that he threw down his office and hastened to join the enemy. amid the perils which surrounded luther powerful knights offered to defend him by force of arms; but he answered, "_no_; by _the word_ the world was conquered, by _the word_ the church was saved, and by _the word_ it must be restored." the thoughts of his soul were not on human power, but centred on the throne of him who lives for ever. it was christ's gospel that was in peril, and he was sure jehovah would not abandon his own cause. germany waited to see what he would do. nor was it long kept in suspense. footnotes: [ ] the bull was issued june , . it specified forty-one propositions out of luther's works which it condemned as heretical, scandalous, and offensive to pious ears. it forbade all persons to read his writings, upon pain of excommunication. such as had any of his books in their possession were commanded to burn them. he himself, if he did not publicly recant his errors and burn his books within sixty days, was pronounced an obstinate heretic, excommunicated and delivered over to satan. and it enjoined upon all secular princes, under pain of incurring the same censure, to seize his person and deliver him up to be punished as his crimes deserved; that is to be burnt as a heretic. luther and the pope's bull. in a month he discharged a terrific volley of artillery upon the papacy by his book _against the bull of antichrist_. in thirteen days later he brought formal charges against the pope--_first_, as an unjust judge, who condemns without giving a hearing; _second_, as a heretic and apostate, who requires denial that faith is necessary; _third_, as an antichrist, who sets himself against the holy scriptures and usurps their authority; and _fourth_, as a blasphemer of the church and its free councils, who declares them nothing without himself. this was carrying the war into africa. appealing to a future general council and the scriptures as superior to popes, he now called upon the emperor, electors, princes, and all classes and estates in the whole german empire, as they valued the gospel and the favor of christ, to stand by him in this demonstration. and, that all might be certified in due form, he called a notary and five witnesses to hear and attest the same as verily the solemn act and deed of martin luther, done in behalf of himself and all who stood or should stand with him. rome persisted in forcing a schism, and this was luther's bill of divorcement. nay, more; as rome had sealed its condemnation of him by burning his books, he built a stack of fagots on the refuse piles outside the elster gate of wittenberg, invited thither the whole university, and when the fires were kindled and the flames were high, he cast into them, one by one, the books of the canon law, the decretals, the clementines, the papal extravagants, and all that lay at the base of the religion of the hierarchy! and when these were consumed he took leo's bull of excommunication, held it aloft, exclaiming with a loud voice, "since thou hast afflicted the saints of god, be thou consumed with fire unquenchable!" and dashed the impious document into the flames. well done was that! luther considered it the best act of his life. it was a brave heart, the bravest then living in this world, that dared to do it. but it was done then and for ever. wittenberg looked on with shoutings. the whole modern world of civilized man has ever since been looking on with thrilling wonder. and myriads of the sons of god and liberty are shouting over it yet. the miner's son had come up full abreast with the triple-crowned descendant of the medici. the monk of wittenberg had matched the proudest monarch in the world. henceforth the question was, which of them should sway the nations in the time to come? the diet of worms. the young emperor sided with the religion of the pope. the venerable elector frederick determined to stand by luther, at least till his case was fairly adjudged. he said it was not just to condemn a good and honest man unheard and unconvicted, and that "_justice must take precedence even of the pope_." conferences of state now became numerous and exciting, and the efforts of rome to have luther's excommunication recognized and enforced were many and various, but nothing short of a diet of the empire could settle the disturbance.[ ] such a diet was convoked by the young emperor for january, . it was the first of his reign, and the grandest ever held on german soil. philip of hesse came to it with a train of six hundred cavaliers. the electors, dukes, archbishops, landgraves, margraves, counts, bishops, barons, lords, deputies, legates, and ambassadors from foreign courts came in corresponding style. they felt it important to show their consequence at this first diet, and were all the more moved to be there in force because the exciting matter of reform was specified as one of the chief things to be considered. the result was one of the most august and illustrious assemblies of which modern history tells, and one which presented a spectacle of lasting wonder that a poor lone monk should thus have moved all the powers of the earth. footnotes: [ ] audin, in his _life of luther_, says: "a monk who wore a cassock out at the elbows had caused to the most powerful emperor in the world greater embarrassments than those which francis i., his unsuccessful rival at frankfort, threatened to raise against him in italy. with the cannon from his arsenal at ghent and his lances from namur, charles could beat the king of france between sunrise and sunset; but lances and cannon were impotent to subdue the religious revolution, which, like some of the glaciers which he crossed in coming from spain, acquired daily a new quantity of soil."--vol. i. chap. . again, in chap. , he says of the emperor: "the thought of measuring his strength with the hero of marignan was far from alarming him, but a struggle with the monk of wittenberg disturbed his sleep. he wished that they should try to overcome his obstinacy." doings of the romanists. for three months the diet wrangled over the affair of luther without reaching anything decided. the friends of rome were the chief actors, struggling in every way and hesitating at nothing to induce the diet and the emperor to acknowledge and enforce the pope's decree. but the influence of the german princes, especially that of the elector frederick, stood in the way; charles would not act, as he had no right to act, without the concurrence of the states, and the princes of germany held it unjust that luther should be condemned on charges which had never been fairly tried, on books which were not proven to be his, and especially since the sentence itself presented conditions with reference to which no answer had been legally ascertained. to overcome these oppositions different resorts were tried. leo issued a second bull, excommunicating luther absolutely, anathematizing him and all his friends and abettors. the pope's legate called for money to buy up influence for the romanists: "we must have money. send us money. money! money! or germany is lost!" the money came; but the reformer's friends could not be bought with bribes, however much the agents of rome needed such stimulation. trickery was brought into requisition to entrap luther's defenders by a secret proposal to compromise. luther was given great credit and right, except that he had gone a little too far, and it was only necessary to restrain him from further demonstrations. rome compromise with a man she had doubly excommunicated and anathematized! rome make terms with an outlaw whom she had infallibly doomed to eternal execration! yet with these proposals the emperor's confessor approached chancellor brück. but the chancellor's head was too clear to be caught by such treachery. then it was moved to refer the matter to a commission of arbitrators. this met with so much favor that the pope's legate, aleander, was alarmed lest luther should thereby escape, and hence set himself with unwonted energy to incite the emperor to decisive measures. charles was persuaded to make a demonstration, but demanded that the legate should first "convince the diet." aleander was the most famous orator rome had, and he rejoiced in his opportunity. he went before the assembly in a prepared speech of three hours in length to show up luther as a pestilent heretic, and the necessity of getting rid of him and his books and principles at once to prevent the world from being plunged into barbarism and utter desolation. he made a deep impression by his effort. it was only by the unexpected and crushing speech of duke george of saxony, luther's bitter personal enemy, that the train of things, so energetically wrought up, was turned. not in defence of luther, whom he disliked, but in defence of the german nation, he piled up before the door of the hierarchy such an overwhelming array of its oppressions, robberies, and scandals, and exposed with such an unsparing hand the falsities, profligacies, cupidity, and beastly indecencies of the roman clergy and officials, that the emperor hastened to recall the edict he had already signed, and yielded consent for luther to be called to answer for himself. luther summoned. in vain the pope's legate protested that it was not lawful thus to bring the decrees of the sovereign pontiff into question, or pleaded that luther's daring genius, flashing eyes, electric speech, and thrilling spirit would engender tumult and violence. on march th the emperor signed a summons and safe-conduct for the reformer to appear in worms within twenty-one days, to answer concerning his doctrines and writings. so far the thunders of the vatican were blank. with all the anxious fears which such a summons would naturally engender, luther resolved to obey it. the pope's adherents fumed in their helplessness when they learned that he was coming--coming, too, under the safe-conduct of the empire, coming to have a hearing before the diet!--_he_ whom the infallible vicar of heaven had condemned and anathematized! whither was the world drifting? luther's friends trembled lest he should share the fate of huss; his enemies trembled lest he should escape it; and both, in their several ways, tried to keep him back. placards of his condemnation were placed before him on the way, and spectacles to indicate his certain execution were enacted in his sight; but he was not the man to be deterred by the prospect of being burnt alive if god called for the sacrifice. lying fraud was also tried to seduce and betray him. glapio, the emperor's confessor, who had tried a similar trick upon the elector frederick, conceived the idea that if von sickingen and bucer could be won for the plot, a proposal to compromise the whole matter amicably might serve to beguile him to the château of his friend at ebernburg till his safe-conduct should expire, and then the liars could throw off the mask and dispose of him with credit in the eyes of rome. the glib and wily glapio led in the attempt. von sickingen and bucer were entrapped by his bland hypocrisy, and lent themselves to the execution of the specious proposition. but when they came to luther with it, he turned his back, saying, "if the emperor's confessor has anything to say to me he will find me at worms." but even his friends were alarmed at his coming. it was feared that he would be destroyed. the elector's confidential adviser sent a servant out to meet him, beseeching him by no means to enter the city. "go tell your master," said luther, "i will enter worms though as many devils should be there as tiles upon its houses!" and he did enter, with nobles, cavaliers, and gentry for his escort, and attended through the streets by a larger concourse than had greeted the entry of the emperor himself.[ ] footnotes: [ ] "the reception which he met with at worms was such as he might have reckoned a full reward of all his labors if vanity and the love of applause had been the principles by which he was influenced. greater crowds assembled to behold him than had appeared at the emperor's public entry; his apartments were daily filled with princes and personages of the highest rank; and he was treated with all the respect paid to those who possess the power of directing the understanding and sentiments of other men--a homage more sincere, as well as more flattering, than any which pre-eminence in birth or condition command."--robertson's _charles v._, vol. i. p. . luther at the diet. charles hurried to convene his council, saying, "luther is come; what shall we do with him?" a chancellor and bishop of flanders urged that he be despatched at once, and this scandalous humiliation of the holy see terminated. he said sigismund had allowed huss to be burned, and no one was bound to keep faith with a heretic. but the emperor was more moral than the teachings of his church, and said, "not so; we have given our promise, and we ought to keep it." on the morrow luther was conducted to the diet by the marshal of the empire. the excited people so crowded the gates and jammed about the doors that the soldiers had to use their halberds to open a way for him. an instinct not yet interpreted drew their hearts and allied them with the hero. from the thronged streets, windows, and housetops came voices as he passed--voices of petition and encouragement--voices of benediction on the brave and true--voices of sympathy and adjuration to be firm in god and in the power of his might. it was germany, scandinavia, england, scotland, and holland; it was the americas and hundreds of young republics yet unborn; it was the whole world of all after-time, with its free gospel, free conscience, free speech, free government, free science, and free schools,--uttering themselves in those half-smothered voices. luther heard them and was strengthened. but there was no danger he would betray the momentous trust. that morning, amid great rugged prayers which broke from him like massive rock-fragments hot and burning from a volcano of mingled faith and agony, laying one hand on the open bible and lifting the other to heaven, he cast his soul on omnipotence, in pledge unspeakable to obey only his conscience and his god. whether for life or death, his heart was fixed. a few steps more and he stood before imperial majesty, encompassed by the powers and dignitaries of the earth, so brave, calm, and true a man that thrones and kings looked on in silent awe and admiration, and even malignant scorn for the moment retreated into darkness. since he who wore the crown of thorns stood before pontius pilate there had not been a parallel to this scene.[ ] footnotes: [ ] a romanist thus describes the picture: "when the approach of luther was heard there ensued one of those deep silences in which the heart alone, by its hurried pulsations, gives sign of life. attention was diverted from the emperor to the monk. on the appearance of luther every one rose, regardless of the sovereign's presence. it inspired werner with one of the finest acts of his tragedy.... heine has glorified the appearance at worms. the catholic himself loves to contemplate that black gown in the presence of those lords and barons caparisoned in iron and armed with helmet and spear, and is moved by the voice of 'that young friar' who comes to defy all the powers of the earth."--audin's _life of luther_. "all parties must unite in admiring and venerating the man who, undaunted and alone, could stand before such an assembly, and vindicate with unshaken courage what he conceived to be the cause of religion, of liberty, and of truth, fearless of any reproaches but those of his own conscience, or of any disapprobation but that of his god."--roscoe's _life of leo x._, vol. iv. p. . luther himself, afterward recalling the event, said: "it must indeed have been god who gave me my boldness of heart; i doubt if i could show such courage again." luther's refusal to recant. a weak, poor man, arraigned and alone before the assembled powers of the earth, with only the grace of god and his cause on which to lean, had demand made of him whether or not he would retract his books or any part of them, _yes_ or _no_. but he did not shrink, neither did he falter. "since your imperial majesty and your excellencies require of me a direct and simple answer, i will give it. to the pope or councils i cannot submit my faith, for it is clear that they have erred and contradicted one another. therefore, unless i am convinced by proofs from holy scripture or by sound reasons, and my judgment by this means is commanded by god's word, _i cannot and will not retract anything_: for a christian cannot safely go contrary to his conscience." and, glancing over the august assembly, on whose will his life hung, he added in deep solemnity, those immortal words: "here i stand. i can do no otherwise. so help me god! amen."[ ] simple were the facts. luther afterward wrote to a friend: "i expected his majesty would bring fifty doctors to convict the monk outright; but it was not so. the whole history is this: are these your books? _yes._--will you retract them? _no._--well then, begone." he said the truth, but he could not then know all that was involved in what he reduced to such a simple colloquy. with that _yes_ and _no_ the wheel of ages made another revolution. the breath which spoke them turned the balances in which the whole subsequent history of civilization hung. it was the _yes_ and _no_ which applied the brakes to the juggernaut of usurpation, whose ponderous wheels had been crushing through the centuries. it was the _yes_ and _no_ which evidenced the reality of a power above all popes and empires. it was the _yes_ and _no_ which spoke the supreme obligation of the human soul to obey god and conscience, and started once more the pulsations of liberty in the arteries of man. it was the _yes_ and _no_ which divided eras, and marked the summit whence the streams began to form and flow to give back to this world a church without a pope and a state without an inquisition. charles had the happiness at worms to hear the tidings that fernando cortes had added mexico to his dominions. the emancipated peoples of the earth in the generations since have had the happiness to know that at worms, through the inflexible steadfastness of martin luther, god gave the inspirations of a new and better life for them! footnotes: [ ] "with this noble protest was laid the keystone of the reformation. the pontifical hierarchy shook to its centre, and the great cause of truth and regenerate religion spread with electric speed. the marble tomb of ignorance and error gave way, as it were, of a sudden; a thousand glorious events and magnificent discoveries thronged upon each other with pressing haste to behold and congratulate the mighty birth, the new creation, of which they were the harbingers, when, with a steady and triumphant step, the peerless form of human intellect rose erect, and, throwing off from its freshening limbs the death-shade and the grave-clothes by which it was enshrouded, ascended to the glorious resurrection of that noontide lustre which irradiates the horizon of our own day, rejoicing like a giant to run his race."--john mason good's _book of nature_, p. . luther's condemnation. after luther and his friends left worms the emperor issued an edict putting him and all his adherents under the ban of the empire, forbidding any one to give him food or shelter, calling on all who found him to arrest him, commanding all his books to be burned, and ordering the seizure of his friends and the confiscation of their possessions. it was what germany got for putting an austro-spanish bigot on the imperial throne. luther in the wartburg. but the cause of rome was not helped by it. luther's person was made safe by the elector, who arranged a friendly capture by which he was concealed in the wartburg in charge of the knights. no one knew what had become of him. his mysterious disappearance was naturally referred to some foul play of the romanists, and the feeling of resentment was intense and deep. indeed, germany was now bent on throwing off the religion of the hierarchy. no matter what it may once have been, no matter what service it may have rendered in helping europe through the dark ages, it had become gangrened, perverted, rotten, offensive, unbearable. the very means rome took to defend it increased revolt against it. it had come to be an oppressive lie, and it had to go. no bulls of popes or edicts of emperors could alter the decree of destiny. and a great and blessed fortune it was that luther still lived to guide and counsel in the momentous transition. but providence had endowed him for the purpose, and so preserved him for its execution. what was born with the theses, and baptized before the imperial diet at worms, he was now to nourish, educate, catechise, and prepare for glorious confirmation before a similar diet in the after years. translation of the bible. while in the wartburg he was forbidden to issue any writings. leisure was thus afforded for one of the most important things connected with the reformation. those ten months he utilized to prepare for germany and for the world a translation of the holy scriptures, which itself was enough to immortalize the reformer's name. great intellectual monuments have come down to us from the sixteenth century. it was an age in which the human mind put forth some of its noblest demonstrations. great communions still look back to its confessions as their rallying-centres, and millions of worshipers still render their devotions in the forms which then were cast. but pre-eminent over all the achievements of that sublime century was the giving of god's word to the people in their own language, which had its chief centre and impulse in the production of luther's _german bible_. well has it been said, "he who takes up that, grasps a whole world in his hand--a world which will perish only when this green earth itself shall pass away." it was the word that kindled the heart of luther to the work of reformation, and the word alone could bring it to its consummation. with the word the whole church of christ and the entire fabric of our civilization must stand or fall. undermine the bible and you undermine the world. it is the one, true, and only charter of faith, liberty, and salvation for man, without which this race of ours is a hopeless and abandoned wreck. and when luther gave forth his german bible, it was not only a transcendent literary achievement, which created and fixed the classic forms of his country's language,[ ] but an act of supremest wisdom and devotion; for the hope of the world is for ever cabled to the free and open word of god. footnotes: [ ] chevalier bunsen says; "it is luther's genius applied to the bible which has preserved the only unity which is, in our days, remaining to the german nation--that of language, literature, and thought. there is no similar instance in the known history of the world of a single man achieving such a work." luther's conservatism. up to the time of luther's residence in the wartburg nothing had been done toward changing the outward forms, ceremonies, and organization of the church. the great thing with him had been to get the inward, central doctrine right, believing that all else would then naturally come right in due time. but while he was hidden and silent certain fanatics thrust themselves into this field, and were on the eve of precipitating everything to destruction. tidings of the violent revolutionary spirit which had broken out reached him in his retreat and stirred him with sorrowful indignation, for it was the most damaging blow inflicted on the reformation. it is hard for men to keep their footing amid deep and vast commotions and not drift into ruinous excesses. storch, and münzer, and carlstadt, and melanchthon himself, were dangerously affected by the whirl of things. even good men sometimes forget that society cannot be conserved by mere negations; that wild and lawless revolution can never work a wholesome and abiding reformation; that the perpetuity of the church is an historic chain, each new link of which depends on those which have gone before. there was precious gold in the old conglomerate, which needed to be discriminated, extracted, and preserved. the divine foundations were not to be confounded with the rubbish heaped upon them. there was still a church of christ under the hierarchy, although the hierarchy was no part of its life or essence. the zwickau prophets, with their new revelations and revolts against civil authority; the wittenberg iconoclasts, with their repudiation of study and learning and all proper church order; and the sacramentarians, with their insidious rationalism against the plain word,--were not to be entrusted with the momentous interests with which the cause of the reformation was freighted. and hence, at the risk of the elector's displeasure and at the peril of his life, luther came forth from his covert to withstand the violence which was putting everything in jeopardy. grandly also did he reason out the genuine gospel principles against all these parties. he comprehended his ground from centre to circumference, and he held it alike against erring friends and menacing foes. the swollen torrent of events never once obscured his prophetic insight, never disturbed the balance of his judgment, never shook his hold upon the right. with a master-power he held revolutions and wars in check, while he revised and purified the liturgy and order of the church, wrought out the evangelic truth in its applications to existing things, and reared the renewed habilitation of the pure word and sacraments. growth of the reformation. it was now that pope leo died. his glory lasted but eight years. his successor, adrian vi., was a moderate man, of good intentions, though he could not see what evil there was in indulgences. he exhorted germany to get rid of luther, but said the church must be reformed, that the holy see had been for years horribly polluted, and that the evils had affected head and members. he was in solemn earnest this time, and began to change and purify the papal court. to some this was as if the voice of luther were being echoed from st. peter's chair, and adrian suddenly died, no man knows of what,[ ] and clement vii., a relative of leo x., was put upon the papal throne. in a diet was convened at nuremberg with reference to these same matters. campeggio, the pope's legate, thought it prudent to make his way thither without letting himself be known, and wrote back to his master that he had to be very cautious, as the majority of the diet consisted of "great lutherans." at this diet the edict of worms was virtually annulled, and it was plain enough that "great lutherans" had become very numerous and powerful. luther himself had become of sufficient consequence for henry viii., king of england, to write a book against him, for which the pope gave him the title of "defender of the faith," and for which luther repaid him in his own coin. erasmus also, long the prince of the whole literary world, was dogged into the writing of a book against the great reformer. poor erasmus found his match, and was overwhelmed with the result. he afterward sadly wrote: "my troops of friends are turned to enemies. everywhere scandal pursues me and calumny denies my name. every goose now hisses at erasmus." in , luther's friend and protector, the elector frederick, died. this would have been a sad blow for the reformation had there been no one of like mind to take his place. but god had the man in readiness. "frederick the wise" was succeeded by his brother, "john the constant." in hesse, in holland, in scandinavia, in prussia, in poland, in switzerland, in france, _everywhere_, the reformation advanced. duke george of saxony raged, got up an alliance against the growing cause, and beheaded citizens of leipsic for having luther's writings in their houses. eck still howled from ingolstadt for fire and fagots. the dukes of bavaria were fierce with persecutions. the archbishop of mayence punished cities because they would not have his priests for pastors. the emperor from spain announced his purpose to crush and exterminate "the wickedness of lutheranism." but it was all in vain. the sun had risen, the new era had come! luther now issued his _catechisms_, which proved a great and glorious aid to the true gospel. henceforth the children were to be bred up in the pure faith. matthesius says: "if luther in his lifetime had achieved no other work but that of bringing his two catechisms into use, the whole world could not sufficiently thank and repay him." a quarrel between the emperor and the pope also contributed to the progress of the reformation. a diet at spire in had interposed a check to the persecuting spirit of the romanists, and granted toleration to those of luther's mind in all the states where his doctrines were approved. the respite lasted for three years, until charles and clement composed their difference and united to wreak their wrath upon luther and his adherents. footnotes: [ ] the death of adrian vi., on the th of september, , was a subject of general rejoicing in rome. there was a crown of flowers hung to the door of his physician, with a card appended which read, "_to the savior of his country_." protestants and war. a second diet at spire, in , revoked the former act of toleration, and demanded of all the princes and estates an unconditional surrender to the pope's decrees. this called forth the heroic _protest_ of those who stood with luther. they refused to submit, claiming that in matters of divine service and the soul's salvation conscience and god must be obeyed rather than earthly powers. it was from this that the name of _protestants_ originated--a name which half the world now honors and accepts. the signers of this protest also pledged to each other their mutual support in defending their position. zwingli urged them to make war upon the emperor. he himself afterward took the sword, and perished by it. calvin, cranmer, knox, and even the puritan fathers as far as they had power and occasion, resorted to physical force and the civil arm to punish the rejecters of their creed. luther repudiated all such coercion. the sword was at his command, but he opposed its use for any purposes of religion. all the weight of his great influence was given to prevent his friends from mixing external force with what should ever have its seat only in the calm conviction of the soul. he thus practically anticipated roger williams and william penn and the most lauded results of modern freedom--not from constraint of circumstances and personal interests, but from his own clear insight into gospel principles. bloody religious wars came after he was dead, the prospect of which filled his soul with horror, and to which he could hardly give consent even in case of direst necessity for self-defence; but it is a transcendent fact that while he lived they were held in abeyance, most of all by his prayers and endeavors. he fought, indeed, as few men ever fought, but the only sword he wielded was "the sword of the spirit, which is the word of god." the confession of augsburg. and yet another imperial diet was convened with reference to these religious disturbances. it was held in augsburg in the spring of . the emperor was in the zenith of his power. he had overcome his french rival. he had spoiled rome, humbled the pope, and reorganized italy. the turks had withdrawn their armies. and the only thing in the way of a consolidated empire was the reformation in germany. to crush this was now his avowed purpose, and he anticipated no great hardship in doing it. he entered augsburg with unwonted magnificence and pomp. he had spoken very graciously in his invitation to the princes, but it was in his heart to compel their submission to his former edict of worms. it behoved them to be prepared to make a full exhibit of their principles, giving the ultimatum on which they proposed to stand. luther had been formulating articles embodying the points adhered to in his reformatory teachings. he had prepared one set for the marburg conference with the swiss divines. he had revised and elaborated these into the seventeen articles of schwabach. he had also prepared another series on abuses, submitted to the elector john at torgau. all these were now committed to melanchthon for careful elaboration into complete style and harmony for use at the diet. luther assisted in this work up to the time when the diet convened, and what remained to be done was completed in augsburg by melanchthon and the lutheran divines present with him. luther himself could not be there, as he was a dead man to the law, and by command of his prince was detained at coburg while the diet was in session. the first act of the emperor was to summon the protesting princes before him, asking of them the withdrawal of their protest. this they refused. they felt that they had constitutional right, founded on the decision of spire, to resist the emperor's demand; and they did not intend to surrender the just principles put forth in their noble protest. they celebrated divine service in their quarters, led by their own clergy, and refused to join in the procession at the roman festival of corpus christi. this gave much offence, and for the sake of peace they discontinued their services during the diet. at length they were asked to make their doctrinal presentation. melanchthon had admirably performed the work assigned him in the making up of the confession, and on the th day of june, , the document, duly signed, was read aloud to the emperor in the hearing of many. the effect of it upon the assembly was indescribable. many of the prejudices and false notions against the reformers were effectually dissipated. the enemies of the reformation felt that they had solemn realities to deal with which they had never imagined. others said that this was a more effectual preaching than that which had been suppressed. "christ is in the diet," said justus jonas, "and he does not keep silence. god's word cannot be bound." in a word, the world now had added to it one of its greatest treasures--the renowned and imperishable augsburg confession. luther was eager for tidings of what transpired at the diet. and when the confession came, as signed and delivered, he wrote: "i thrill with joy that i have lived to see the hour in which christ is preached by so many confessors to an assembly so illustrious in a form so beautiful." even reformed authors, from calvin down, have cheerfully added their testimony to the worth and excellence of this magnificent confession--the first since the athanasian creed. a late writer of this class says of it that "it best exhibits the prevailing genius of the german reformation, and will ever be cherished as one of the noblest monuments of faith from the pentecostal period of protestantism." the romanists attempted to answer the noble confession, but would not make their confutation public. compromises were proposed, but they came to naught. the imperial troops were called into the city and the gates closed to intimidate the princes, but it resulted in greater alarm to the romanists than to them. the confessors had taken their stand, and they were not to be moved from it. the diet ended with the decision that they should have until the following spring to determine whether they would submit to the roman church or not, and, if not, that measures would then be taken for their extermination. the league of smalcald. the emperor's edict appeared november th, and the protestant princes at once proceeded to form a league for mutual protection against attempts to force their consciences in these sacred matters. it was with difficulty that the consent of luther could be obtained for what, to him, looked like an arrangement to support the gospel by the sword. but he yielded to a necessity forced by the intolerance of rome. a convention was held at smalcald at christmas, , and there was formed the _league of smalcald_, which planted the political foundations of religious liberty for our modern world. by the presentation of the great confession of augsburg, along with the formation of the league of smalcald, the cause of luther became embodied in the official life of nations, and the new era of freedom had come safely to its birth. long and terrible storms were yet to be passed, but the ship was launched which no thunders of emperors or popes could ever shatter.[ ] when the months of probation ended, france had again become troublesome to the emperor, and the turks were renewing their movements against his dominions. he also found that he could not count on the catholic princes for the violent suppression of the protestants. luther's doctrines had taken too deep hold upon their subjects to render it safe to join in a war of extermination against them. the zwinglians also coalesced with the lutherans in presenting a united front against the threatened bloody coercion. the smalcald league, moreover, had grown to be a power which even the emperor could not despise. he therefore resolved to come to terms with the protestant members of his empire, and a peace--at least a truce--was concluded at nuremberg, which left things as they were to wait until a general council should settle the questions in dispute. footnotes: [ ] "the reformation of luther kindled up the minds of men afresh, leading to new habits of thought and awakening in individuals energies before unknown to themselves. the religious controversies of this period changed society, as well as religion, and to a considerable extent, where they did not change the religion of the state, they changed man himself in his modes of thought, his consciousness of his own powers, and his desire of intellectual attainment. the spirit of commercial and foreign adventure on the one hand and, on the other the assertion and maintenance of religious liberty, having their source in the reformation, and this love of religious liberty drawing after it or bringing along with it, as it always does, an ardent devotion to the principle of civil liberty also, were the powerful influences under which character was formed and men trained for the great work of introducing english civilization, english law, and, what is more than all, anglo-saxon blood, into the wilderness of north america."--daniel webster, _works_, vol. i. p. . luther's later years. luther lived nearly fifteen years after this grand crowning of his testimony, diligently laboring for christ and his country. the most brilliant part of his career was over, but his labors still were great and important. indeed, his whole life was intensely laborious. he was a busier man than the first napoleon. his publications, as reckoned up by seckendorf, amount to eleven hundred and thirty-seven. large and small together, they number seven hundred and fifteen volumes--one for every two weeks that he lived after issuing the first. even in the last six weeks of his life he issued thirty-one publications--more than five per week. if he had had no other cares and duties but to occupy himself with his pen, this would still prove him a very hercules in authorship.[ ] but his later years were saddened by many anxieties, afflictions, and trials. under god, he had achieved a transcendent work, and his confidence in its necessity, divinity, and perpetuity never failed; but he was much distressed to see it marred and damaged, as it was, by the weaknesses and passions of men. his great influence created jealousies. his persistent conservatism gave offence. those on whom he most relied betimes imperiled his cause by undue concessions and pusillanimity. the friends of the reformation often looked more to political than christian ends, or were more carnal than spiritual. threatening civil commotions troubled him. ultra reform attacked and blamed him. the agitations about a general council, which rome now treacherously urged, and meant to pack for its own purposes, gave him much anxiety. it was with reference to such a council that one other great document--_the articles of smalcald_--issued from his pen, in which he defined the true and final protestant position with regard to the hierarchy, and the fundamental organization of the church of christ. his bodily ailments also became frequent and severe. prematurely old, and worn out with cares, labors, and vexations--the common lot of great heroes and benefactors--he began to long for the heavenly rest. "i am weary of the world," said he, "and it is time the world were weary of me. the parting will be easy, like a traveler leaving his inn." he lived to his sixty-third year, and peacefully died in the faith he so effectually preached, while on a mission of reconciliation at the place where he was born, honored and lamented in his death as few men have ever been. his remains repose in front of the chancel in the castle church of wittenberg, on the door of which his own hand had nailed the ninety-five theses.[ ] footnotes: [ ] "never before was the human mind more prolific." "luther holds a high and glorious place in german literature." "in his manuscripts we nowhere discover the traces of fatigue or irritation, no embarrassment or erasures, no ill-applied epithet or unmanageable expression; and by the correctness of his writing we might imagine he was the copyist rather than the writer of the work."--so says _audin_, his roman catholic biographer. hallam's flippant and disparaging remarks on luther, contained in his _introduction to the literature of europe_, are simply outrageous, "stupid and senseless paragraphs," evidencing a presumption on the part of their author which deserves intensest rebuke. "hallam knows nothing about luther; he himself confesses his inability to read him in his native german; and this alone renders him incapable of judging intelligently respecting his merits as a writer; and, knowing nothing, it would have been honorable in him to say nothing, at least to say nothing disparagingly. and, by the way, it seems to us that writing a history of european literature without a knowledge of german is much like writing a history of metals without knowing anything of iron and steel.... luther's language became, through his writings, and has ever since remained, the language of literature and general intercourse among educated men, and is that which is now understood universally to be meant when _the german_ is spoken of. his translation of the bible is still as much the standard of purity for that language as homer is for the greek."--_dr. calvin e. stowe._ [ ] "nothing can be more edifying than the scene presented by the last days of luther, of which we have the most authentic and detailed accounts. when dying he collected his last strength and offered up the following prayer: 'heavenly father, eternal, merciful god, thou hast revealed to me thy dear son, our lord jesus christ. him i have taught, him i have confessed, him i love as my saviour and redeemer, whom the wicked persecute, dishonor, and reprove. take my poor soul up to thee!' "then two of his friends put to him the solemn question: 'reverend father, do you die in christ and in the doctrine you have constantly preached?' he answered by an audible and joyful '_yes_;' and, repeating the verse, 'father, into thy hands i commend my spirit,' he expired peacefully, without a struggle."--_encyc. britannica._ personale of luther. the personal appearance of this extraordinary man is but poorly given in the painted portraits of him. written descriptions inform us that he was of medium size, handsomely proportioned, and somewhat darkly complected. his arched brows, high cheek-bones, and powerful jaws and chin gave to his face an outline of ruggedness; but his features were regular, and softened all over with benevolence and every refined feeling. he had remarkable eyes, large, full, deep, dark, and brilliant, with a sort of amber circle around the pupil, which made them seem to emit fire when under excitement. his hair was dark and waving, but became entirely white in his later years. his mouth was elegantly formed, expressive of determination, tenderness, affection, and humor. his countenance was elevated, open, brave, and unflinching. his neck was short and strong and his breast broad and full. though compactly built, he was generally spare and wasted from incessant studies, hard labor, and an abstemious life. mosellanus, the moderator at the leipsic disputation, describes him quite fully as he appeared at that time, and says that "his body was so reduced by cares and study that one could almost count his bones." he himself makes frequent allusion to his wasted and enfeebled body. his health was never robust. he was a small eater. melanchthon says: "i have seen him, when he was in full health, absolutely neither eat nor drink for four days together. at other times i have seen him, for many days, content with the slightest allowance, a salt herring and a small hunch of bread per day." mosellanus further says that his manners were cultured and friendly, with nothing of stoical severity or pride in him--that he was cheerful and full of wit in company, and at all times fresh, joyous, inspiring, and pleasant. honest naturalness, grand simplicity, and an unpretentious majesty of character breathed all about him. an indwelling vehemency, a powerful will, and a firm confidence could readily be seen, but calm and mellowed with generous kindness, without a trace of selfishness or vanity. he was jovial, free-spoken, open, easily approached, and at home with all classes. audin says of him that "his voice was clear and sonorous, his eye beaming with fire, his head of the antique cast, his hands beautiful, and his gesture graceful and abounding--at once rabelais and fontaine, with the droll humor of the one and the polished elegance of the other." in society and in his home he was genial, playful, instructive, and often brilliant. his _table-talk_, collected (not always judiciously) by his friends, is one of the most original and remarkable of productions. he loved children and young people, and brought up several in his house besides his own. he had an inexhaustible flow of ready wit and good-humor, prepared for everybody on all occasions. he was a frank and free correspondent, and let out his heart in his letters, six large volumes of which have been preserved. he was specially fond of music, and cultivated it to a high degree. he could sing and play like a woman.[ ] "i have no pleasure in any man," said he, "who despises music. it is no invention of ours; it is the gift of god. i place it next to theology." he was himself a great musician and hymnist. handel confesses that he derived singular advantage from the study of his music; and coleridge says: "he did as much for the reformation by his hymns as by his translation of the bible." to this day he is the chief singer in a church of pre-eminent song. heine speaks of "those stirring songs which escaped from him in the very midst of his combats and necessities, like flowers making their way from between rough stones or moonbeams glittering among dark clouds." _ein feste burg_ welled from his great heart like the gushing of the waters from the smitten rock of horeb to inspirit and refresh god's faint and doubting people as long as the church is in this earthly wilderness. there is a mighty soul in it which lifts one, as on eagles' wings, high and triumphant over the blackest storms. and his whole life was a brilliantly enacted epic of marvelous grandeur and pathos.[ ] footnotes: [ ] mattähus ratzenberger, in a passage of his biography preserved in the _bibliotheca ducalis gothana_, says: "lutherus had also this custom: as soon as he had eaten the evening meal with his table companions he would fetch out of his little writing-room his _partes_ and hold a _musicam_ with those of them who had a mind for music. greatly was he delighted when a good composition of the old master fitted the responses or _hymnos de tempore anni_, and especially did he enjoy the _cantu gregoriana_ and chorale. but if at times he perceived in a new song that it was incorrectly copied he set it again upon the lines (that is, he brought the parts together and rectified it _in continenti_). right gladly did he join in the singing when _hymnus_ or _responsorium de tempore_ had been set by the _musicus_ to a _cantum gregorianum_, as we have said, and his young sons, martinus and paulus, had also after table to sing the _responsoria de tempore_, as at christmas, _verbum caro factum est_, _in principio erat verbum_; at easter, _christus resurgens ex mortuis_, _vita sanctorum_, _victimæ paschali laudes_, etc. in these _responsoria_ he always sang along with his sons, and in _cantu figurali_ he sang the alto." the alto which luther sang must not be confounded with the alto part of to-day. here it means the _cantus firmus_, the melody around which the old composers wove their contrapuntal ornamentation. luther was the creator of german congregational singing. [ ] luther's first poetic publication seems to have been certain verses composed on the martyrdom of two young christian monks, who were burned alive at brussels in for their faithful confession of the evangelical doctrines. a translation of a part of this composition is given in d'aubigné's _history of the reformation_ in these beautiful and stirring words: "flung to the heedless winds or on the waters cast, their ashes shall be watched, and gathered at the last; and from that scattered dust, around us and abroad, shall spring a plenteous seed of witnesses for god. "jesus hath now received their latest living breath, yet vain is satan's boast of victory in their death. still, still, though dead, they speak, and trumpet-tongued proclaim to many a wakening land the one availing name." audin, though a romanist, says: "the hymns which he translated from the latin into german may be unreservedly praised, as also those which he composed for the members of his own communion. he did not travesty the sacred word nor set his anger to music. he is grave, simple, solemn, and grand. he was at once the poet and musician of a great number of his hymns." his great qualities. luther's qualities of mind, heart, and attainment were transcendent. though naturally meek and diffident, when it came to matters of duty and conviction he was courageous, self-sacrificing, and brave beyond any mere man known to history. elijah fled before the threats of jezebel, but no powers on earth could daunt the soul of luther. even the apparitions of the devil himself could not disconcert him. roman catholic authors agree that "nature gave him a german industry and strength and an italian spirit and vivacity," and that "nobody excelled him in philosophy and theology, and nobody equaled him in eloquence." his mental range was not confined to any one set of subjects. in the midst of his profound occupation with questions of divinity and the church "his mind was literally world-wide. his eyes were for ever observant of what was around him. at a time when science was hardly out of its shell he had observed nature with the liveliest curiosity. he studied human nature like a dramatist. shakespeare himself drew from him. his memory was a museum of historical information, anecdotes of great men, and old german literature, songs, and proverbs, to the latter of which he made many rich additions from his own genius. scarce a subject could be spoken of on which he had not thought and on which he had not something remarkable to say."[ ] in consultations upon public affairs, when the most important things hung in peril, his contemporaries speak with amazement of the gigantic strength of his mind, the unexampled acuteness of his intellect, the breadth and loftiness of his understanding and counsels. but, though so great a genius, he laid great stress on sound and thorough learning and study. "the strength and glory of a town," said he, "does not depend on its wealth, its walls, its great mansions, its powerful armaments, but in the number of its learned, serious, kind, and well-educated citizens." he was himself a great scholar, far beyond what we would suspect in so perturbed a life, or what he cared to parade in his writings. he mastered the ancient languages, and insisted on the perpetual study of them as "the scabbard which holds the sword of the spirit, the cases which enclose the precious jewels, the vessels which contain the old wine, the baskets which carry the loaves and the fishes for the feeding of the multitude." his associates say of him that he was a great reader, eagerly perusing the church fathers, old and new, and all histories, well retaining what he read, and using the same with great skill as occasion called. melanchthon, who knew him well, and knew well how to judge of men's powers and attainments, said of him: "he is too great, too wonderful, for me to describe. whatever he writes, whatever he utters, goes to the soul and fixes itself like arrows in the heart. _he is a miracle among men._" nor was he without the humility of true greatness. newton's comparison of himself to a child gathering shells and pebbles on the shore, while the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before him, has been much cited and lauded as an illustration of the modesty of true science. but long before newton had luther said of himself, in the midst of his mighty achievements, "only a little of the first fruits of wisdom--only a few fragments of the boundless heights, breadths, and depths of truth--have i been able to gather." he was a man of amazing _faith_--that mighty principle which looks at things invisible, joins the soul to divine omnipotence, and launches out unfalteringly upon eternal realities, and which is ever the chief factor in all god's heroes of every age. he dwelt in constant nearness and communion with the eternal spirit, which reigns in the heavens and raises the willing and obedient into blessed instruments of itself for the actualizing of ends and ideals beyond and above the common course of things. with his feet ever planted on the promises, he could lay his hands upon the throne, and thus was lifted into a sublimity of energy, endurance, and command which made him one of the phenomenal wonders of humanity. he was a very samson in spiritual vigor, and another hannah's son in the strength and victory of his prayers. dr. calvin e. stowe says: "there was probably never created a more powerful human being, a more gigantic, full-proportioned man, in the highest sense of the term. all that belongs to human nature, all that goes to constitute a man, had a strongly-marked development in him. he was a _model man_, one that might be shown to other beings in other parts of the universe as a specimen of collective manhood in its maturest growth." as the guide and master of one of the greatest revolutions of time we look in vain for any one with whom to compare him, and as a revolutionary orator and preacher he had no equal. richter says, "his words are half-battles." melanchthon likens them to thunderbolts. he was at once a peter and a paul, a socrates and an Æsop, a chrysostom and a savonarola, a shakespeare and a whitefield, all condensed in one. footnotes: [ ] froude supplemented. his alleged coarseness. some blame him for not using kid gloves in handling the ferocious bulls, bears, and he-goats with whom he had to do. but what, otherwise, would have become of the reformation? his age was savage, and the men he had to meet were savage, and the matters at stake touched the very life of the world. what would a chesterfield or an addison have been in such a contest? erasmus said he had horns, and knew how to use them, but that germany needed just such a master. he understood the situation. "these gnarled logs," said he, "will not split without iron wedges and heavy malls. the air will not clear without lightning and thunder."[ ] but if he was rough betimes, he could be as gentle and tender as a maiden, and true to himself in both. he could fight monsters all day, and in the evening take his lute, gaze at the stars, sing psalms, and muse upon the clouds, the fields, the flowers, the birds, dissolved in melody and devotion. feared by the mighty of the earth, the dictator and reprimander of kings, the children loved him, and his great heart was as playful among them as one of themselves. if he was harsh and unsparing upon hypocrites, malignants, and fools, he called things by their right names, and still was as loving as he was brave. since king david's lament over absalom no more tender or pathetic scene has appeared in history or in fiction than his outpouring of paternal love and grief over the deathbed, coffin, and grave of his young and precious daughter madeleine. "i know of few things more touching," says carlyle, "than those soft breathings of affection, soft as a child's or a mother's, in this great wild heart of luther;" and adds: "i will call this luther a true great man; great in intellect, in courage, affection, and integrity; one of our most lovable and precious men. great not as a hewn obelisk, but as an alpine mountain, so simple, honest, spontaneous; not setting up to be great at all; there for quite another purpose than being great. ah, yes, unsubduable granite, piercing far and wide into the heavens; yet, in the clefts of it, fountains, green, beautiful valleys with flowers. a right spiritual hero and prophet; once more, a true son of nature and fact, for whom these centuries, and many that are yet to come, will be thankful to heaven." footnotes: [ ] "it must be observed that the coarse vituperations which shock the reader in luther's controversial works were not peculiar to him, being commonly used by scholars and divines of the middle ages in their disputations. the invectives of valla, filelfo, poggio, and other distinguished scholars against each other are notorious; and this bad taste continued in practice long after luther down to the seventeenth century, and traces of it are found in writers of the eighteenth, even in some of the works of the polished and courtly voltaire."--_cyclopædia of soc. for diffus. of useful knowledge._ his marvelous achievements. a lone man, whose days were spent in poverty; who could withstand the mighty vatican and all its flaming bulls; whose influence evoked and swayed successive diets of the empire; whom repeated edicts from the imperial throne could not crush; whom the talent, eloquence, and towering authority of the roman hierarchy assailed in vain; whom the attacks of kings of state and kings of literature could not disable; to offset whose opinions the greatest general council the church of rome ever held had to be convened, and, after sitting eighteen years, could not adjourn without conceding much to his positions; and whose name the greatest and most enlightened nations of the earth hail with glad acclaim,--necessarily must have been a wonder of a man.[ ] to begin with a minority consisting of one, and conquer kingdoms with the mere sword of his mouth; to bear the anathemas of church and the ban of empire, and triumph in spite of them; to refuse to fall down before the golden image of the combined nebuchadnezzars of his time, though threatened with the burning fires of earth and hell; to turn iconoclast of such magnitude and daring as to think of smiting the thing to pieces in the face of principalities and powers to whom it was as god--nay, to attempt this, _and to succeed in it_,--here was sublimity of heroism and achievement explainable only in the will and providence of the almighty, set to recover his gospel to a perishing race.[ ] footnotes: [ ] "in no other instance have such great events depended upon the courage, sagacity, and energy of a single man, who, by his sole and unassisted efforts, made his solitary cell the heart and centre of the most wonderful and important commotion the world ever witnessed--who by the native force and vigor of his genius attacked and successfully resisted, and at length overthrew, the most awful and sacred authority that ever imposed its commands on mankind."--a letter prefixed to luther's _table-talk_ in the folio edition of . [ ] "to overturn a system of religious belief founded on ancient and deep-rooted prejudices, supported by power and defended with no less art than industry--to establish in its room doctrines of the most contrary genius and tendency, and to accomplish all this, not by external violence or the force of arms, are operations which historians the least prone to credulity and superstition ascribe to that divine providence which with infinite ease can bring about events which to human sagacity appear impossible."--robertson's _charles v._ his impress upon the world. to describe the fruits of luther's labors would require the writing of the whole history of modern civilization and the setting forth of the noblest characteristics of this our modern world.[ ] on the german nation he has left more of his impress than any other man has left on any nation. the german people love to speak of him as the creative master of their noble language and literature, the great prophet and glory of their country. there is nothing so consecrated in all his native land as the places which connect with his life, presence, and deeds. but his mighty impress is not confined to germany. "he grasped the iron trumpet of his mother-tongue and blew a blast that shook the nations from rome to the orkneys." he is not only the central figure of germany, but of europe and of the whole modern world. take luther away, with the fruits of his life and deeds, and man to-day would cease to be what he is. frederick von schlegel, though a romanist, affirms that "it was upon him and his soul that the fate of europe depended." and on the fate of europe then depended the fate of our race. michelet, also a romanist, pronounces luther "the restorer of liberty in modern times;" and adds: "if we at this day exercise in all its plenitude the first and highest privilege of human intelligence, it is to him we are indebted for it." "and that any faith," says froude, "any piety, is alive now, even in the roman church itself, whose insolent hypocrisy he humbled into shame, is due in large measure to the poor miner's son." he certainly is to-day the most potently living man who has lived this side of the middle ages. the pulsations of his great heart are felt through the whole _corpus_ of our civilization. "four potentates," says the late dr. krauth, "ruled the mind of europe in the reformation: the emperor, erasmus, the pope, and luther. the pope wanes; erasmus is little; the emperor is nothing; but luther abides as a power for all time. his image casts itself upon the current of ages as the mountain mirrors itself in the river which winds at its foot. he has monuments in marble and bronze, and medals in silver and gold, but his noblest monument is the best love of the best hearts, and the brightest and purest impression of his image has been left in the souls of regenerated nations." many and glowing are the eulogies which have been pronounced upon him, but frederick von schlegel, speaking from the side of rome, gives it as his conviction that "few, even of his own disciples, appreciate him highly enough." genius, learning, eloquence, and song have volunteered their noble efforts to do him justice; centuries have added their light and testimony; half the world in its enthusiasm has urged on the inspiration; but the story in its full dimensions has not yet been adequately told. the skill and energy of other generations will yet be taxed to give it, if, indeed, it ever can be given apart from the illuminations of eternity.[ ] footnotes: [ ] "from the commencement of the religious war in germany to the peace of westphalia scarce anything great or memorable occurred in the european political world with which the reformation was not essentially connected. every event in the history of the world in this interval, if not directly occasioned, was nearly affected, by this religious revolution, and every state, great or small, remotely or immediately felt its influence."--schiller's _thirty years' war_, vol. i. p. . [ ] "luther was as wonderful as he was great. his personal experience in divine things was as deep as his mind was mighty, large, and unbounded. though called by the most high, and continued by his appointment, in the midst of papal darkness, idolatry, and error, with no companions but the saints of the bible, nor any other light but the lamp of the word to guide his feet, his heaven-taught soul was ministerially furnished with as rich pasture for the sheep of christ, as awful ammunition for the terror and destruction of the enemies by which he and they were perpetually surrounded. the sphere of his mighty ministry was not bounded by his defence of the truth against the great and powerful. no! he was as rich a pastor, as terrible a warrior. he fed the sheep in the fattest pastures, while he destroyed the wolves on every side. nor will those pastures be dried up or lost until time, nations, and the churches of god shall be no more."--dr. cole's _pref. to luther on genesis_. his enemies and revilers. rome has never forgotten nor forgiven him. she sought his life while living, and she curses him in his grave. profited by his labors beyond what she ever could have been without him, she strains and chokes with anathemas upon his name and everything that savors of him. her children are taught from infancy to hate and abhor him as they hope for salvation. many are the false turns and garbled forms in which her writers hold up his words and deeds to revenge themselves on his memory. again and again the oft-answered and exploded calumnies are revived afresh to throw dishonor on his cause. even while the free peoples of the earth are making these grateful acknowledgments of the priceless boon that has come to them through his life and labors, press and platform hiss with stale vituperations from the old enemy. and a puling churchism outside of rome takes an ill pleasure in following after her to gather and retail this vomit of malignity. luther was but a man. no one claims that he was perfection. but if those who sought his destruction while he lived had had no greater faults than he, with better grace their modern representatives might indulge their genius for his defamation. at best, as we might suppose, it is the little men, the men of narrow range and narrow heart--men dwarfed by egotism, bigotry, and self-conceit--who see the most of these defects. nobler minds, contemplating him from loftier standpoints, observe but little of them, and even honor them above the excellencies of common men. "the proofs that he was in some things like other men," says lessing, "are to me as precious as the most dazzling of his virtues."[ ] and, with all, where is the gain or wisdom of blowing smoke upon a diamond? the sun itself has holes in it too large for half a dozen worlds like ours to fill, but wherein is that great luminary thereby unfitted to be the matchless centre of our system, the glorious source of day, and the sublime symbol of the son of god? if luther married a beautiful woman, the proofs of which do not appear, it is what every other honest man would do if it suited him and he were free to do it. if he broke his vows to get a wife, of which there is no evidence, when vows are taken by mistake, tending to dishonor god, work unrighteousness, and hinder virtuous example and proper life, they ought to be broken, the sooner the better. and, whatever else may be alleged to his discredit, and whoever may arise to heap scandal on his name, the grand facts remain that it was chiefly through his marvelous qualities, word, and work that the towering dominion of the papacy was humbled and broken for ever; that prophets and apostles were released from their prisons once more to preach and prophesy to men; that the church of the early times was restored to the bereaved world; that the human mind was set free to read and follow god's word for itself; that the masses of neglected and downtrodden humanity were made into populations of live and thinking beings; and that the nations of the earth have become repossessed of their "inalienable rights" of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." "and let the pope and priests their victor scorn, each fault reveal, each imperfection scan, and by their fell anatomy of hate his life dissect with satire's keenest edge; yet still may luther, with his mighty heart, defy their malice. far beyond _them_ soars the soul they slander. from his tomb there still comes forth a magic which appalls them by its power; and the brave monk who made the popedom rock champions a world to show his equal yet!" footnotes: [ ] "it was by some of these qualities which we are now apt to blame that luther was fitted for accomplishing the great work which he undertook. to rouse mankind when sunk in ignorance and superstition, and to encounter the rage of bigotry armed with power, required the utmost vehemence of zeal as well as temper daring to excess."--robertson's _charles v._ the founding of pennsylvania. i. the history and the men. it was in , just nine years after luther's birth, that the intrepid genoese, christopher columbus, under the patronage of ferdinand, king of spain, made the discovery of land on this side of the atlantic ocean. a few years later the distinguished florentine, americus vespucius, set foot on its more interior coasts, described their features, and imprinted his name on this western continent. but it was not until more than a century later that permanent settlements of civilized people upon these shores began to be made. during the early part of the seventeenth century several such settlements were effected. a company of english adventurers planted themselves on the banks of the james river and founded virginia ( ). the dutch of holland, impelled by the spirit of mercantile enterprise, established a colony on the hudson, and founded what afterward became the city and state of new york ( ). then a shipload of english puritans, flying from religious oppression, landed at plymouth rock and made the beginning of new england ( ). a little later lord baltimore founded a colony on the chesapeake and commenced the state of maryland ( ). but it was not until - that the first permanent settlement was made in what subsequently became the state of pennsylvania. movements in sweden. from the year to there was upon the throne of sweden one of the noblest of kings, a great champion of religious liberty, the lamented and ever-to-be-remembered gustavus adolphus. in his profound thinking to promote the glory of god and the good of men his attention rested on this vast domain of wild lands in america. he knew the sorrows and distresses which thousands all over europe were suffering from the constant and devastating religious wars, and the purpose was kindled in his heart to plant here a colony as the beginning of a general asylum for these homeless and persecuted people, and determined to foster the same by his royal protection and care. "to this end he sent forth letters patent, dated stockholm, d of july, , wherein all, both high and low, were invited to contribute something to the company according to their means. the work was completed in the diet of the following year ( ), when the estates of the realm gave their assent and confirmed the measure. those who took part in this company were: his majesty's mother, the queen-dowager christina, the prince john casimir, the royal council, the most distinguished of the nobility, the highest officers of the army, the bishops and other clergymen, together with the burgomasters and aldermen of the cities, as well as a large number of the people generally. for the management and working of the plan there were appointed an admiral, vice-admiral, chapman, under-chapman, assistants, and commissaries, also a body of soldiers duly officered."[ ] and a more beneficent, brilliant, and promising arrangement of the sort was perhaps never made. the devout king intended his grand scheme "for the honor of god," for the welfare of his subjects and suffering christians in general, and as a means "to extend the doctrines of christ among the heathen." but when everything was complete and in full progress to go into effect, king gustavus adolphus was called to join and lead the allied armies of the protestant kingdoms of germany against the endeavors of the papal powers to crush out the cause of evangelical christianity and free conscience.[ ] for the ensuing five years the attention and energies of sweden were preoccupied, first with the polish, and then with these wars, and the colonization scheme was interrupted. then came the famous battle of lützen, , bringing glorious victory over the gigantic wallenstein, but death to the victor, the royal adolphus.[ ] only a few days before that dreadful battle he spoke of his colonization plan, and commended it to the german people at nuremberg as "the jewel of his kingdom;" but with the king's death the company disbanded. we could almost wish that gustavus had lived to carry out his humane and magnificent proposals with reference to this colony as well as for europe; but his work was done. what america lost by his death she more than regained in the final success and secure establishment of the holy cause for which he sacrificed his life. footnotes: [ ] acrelius's _history_, p. . [ ] "when he now beheld that the cause of protestantism was menaced more seriously than ever throughout the whole of germany, he took the decisive step, and, formally declaring war against the emperor, he, on the th of june, , landed on the coast of pomerania with fifteen thousand swedes. as soon as he stepped upon shore he dropped on his knees in prayer, while his example was followed by his whole army. truly he had undertaken, with but small and limited means, a great and mighty enterprise." "the swedes, so steady and strict in their discipline, appeared as protecting angels, and as the king advanced the belief spread far and near throughout the land that he was sent from heaven as its preserver."--_history of germany_, by kohlrausch, pp. , . "bavaria and the tyrol excepted, every province throughout germany had battled for liberty of conscience, and yet the whole of germany, notwithstanding her universal inclination for the reformation, had been deceived in her hopes: a second imperial edict seemed likely to crush the few remaining privileges spared by the edict of restitution.... gustavus, urged by his sincere piety, resolved to take up arms in defence of protestantism and to free germany from the yoke imposed by the jesuits."--menzel's _history of germany_, vol. ii. pp. , . "the party of the catholics were carrying all before them, and everything seemed to promise that ferdinand (the roman catholic emperor) would become absolute through the whole of germany, and succeed in that scheme which he seemed to meditate, of entirely abolishing the protestant religion in the empire. but this miserable prospect, both of political and religious thraldom, was dissolved by the great gustavus adolphus being invited by the protestant princes of germany to espouse the cause of the reformed religion, being himself of that persuasion."--tytler's _univ. hist._, vol. ii. p. . [ ] the death of gustavus adolphus is thus described by kohlrausch: "the king spent the cold autumnal night in his carriage, and advised with his generals about the battle. the morning dawned, and a thick fog covered the entire plain; the troops were drawn up in battle-array, and the swedes sang, accompanied with trumpets and drums, luther's hymn, _ein feste burg ist unser gott_ ('a mighty fortress is our god'), together with the hymn composed by the king himself, _verzage nicht, du häuflein klein_ ('fear not the foe, thou little flock'). just after eleven o'clock, when the sun was emerging from behind the clouds, and after a short prayer, the king mounted his horse, placed himself at the head of the right wing--the left being commanded by bernard of weimar--and cried, 'now, onward! may our god direct us!--lord, lord! help me this day to fight for the glory of thy name!' and, throwing away his cuirass with the words, 'god is my shield!' he led his troops to the front of the imperialists, who were well entrenched on the paved road which leads from lützen to leipsic, and stationed in the deep trenches on either side. a deadly cannonade saluted the swedes, and many here met their death; but their places were filled by others, who leaped over the trench, and the troops of wallenstein retreated. "in the mean time, pappenheim came up with his cavalry from halle, and the battle was renewed with the utmost fury. the swedish infantry fled behind the trenches. to assist them, the king hastened to the spot with a company of horse, and rode in full speed considerably in advance to descry the weak points of the enemy; only a few of his attendants, and francis, duke of saxe-lauenberg, rode with him. his short-sightedness led him too near a squadron of imperial horse; he received a shot in his arm, which nearly precipitated him to the ground; and just as he was turning to be led away from the tumultuous scene he received a second shot in the back. with the exclamation, 'my god! my god!' he fell from his horse, which also was shot in the neck, and was dragged for some distance, hanging by the stirrup. the duke abandoned him, but his faithful page tried to raise him, when the imperial horsemen shot him also, killed the king, and completely plundered him." pappenheim was also mortally wounded, wallenstein retreated, and the victory was with the swedes, but their noble king was no more. the swedish proposal. the plan of this illustrious king was to found here upon the delaware a free state under his sovereign protection, where the laborer should enjoy the fruit of his toil, where the rights of conscience should be preserved inviolate, and which should be open to the whole protestant world, then and for long time engaged in bloody conflict with the papal powers for the maintenance of its existence. here all were to be secure in their persons, their property, and their religious convictions. it was to be a place of refuge and peace for the persecuted of all nations, of security for the honor of the wives and daughters of those fleeing from sword, fire, and rapine, and from homes made desolate by oppressive war. it was to be a land of universal liberty for all classes, the soil of which was never to be burdened with slaves.[ ] and in all the colonies of america there was not a more thoroughly digested system for the practical realization of these ideas than that which the great gustavus adolphus had thus arranged. nor did it altogether die with his death. his mantle fell upon one of the best and greatest of men. axel oxenstiern, his friend and prime minister, and his successor in the administration of the affairs of the kingdom, was as competent as he was zealous to fulfill the wise plans and ideas of the slain king, not only with reference to sweden and europe, but also with regard to the contemplated colony in america. having taken the matter into his own hands, on the th of april, , only a few months after gustavus's death, oxenstiern renewed the movement which had been laid aside, and repeated the offer to germany and other countries, inviting general co-operation in the noble enterprise. peter minuit, a member of a distinguished family of rhenish prussia, who had been for years the able director and president of the dutch mercantile establishment on the hudson, presented himself in sweden, and entered into the matter with great energy and enthusiasm. and by the end of or early in two ships were seen entering and ascending the delaware, freighted with the elements and nucleus of the new state, such as gustavus had projected. these ships, under minuit, landed their passengers but a few miles south of where philadelphia now stands, and thus made the first beginning of what has since become the great and happy commonwealth of pennsylvania. this was _six years before penn was born_. footnotes: [ ] the description of the features of this plan is taken from geijer's _svenska folkets historia_, vol. iii. p. , given by dr. reynolds in his introduction to israel acrelius's _history of new sweden_, published by the historical society of pennsylvania. it was first propounded by gustavus adolphus in . also referred to in _argonautica gustaviana_, pp. and . was penn aware of these plans? how far william penn was illuminated and influenced by the ideas of the great and wise gustavus adolphus in reference to the founding of a free state in america as an asylum for the persecuted and suffering people of god in the old world, is nowhere told; but there is reason to believe that he knew of them, and took his own plans from them. a few facts bearing on the point may here be noted. one peculiarly striking is, that the same plan and principles with reference to such a colonial state which penn brought hither in the _welcome_ in were already matured and widely propounded by the illustrious swedish king more than half a century before they practically entered penn's mind. another is, that these proposals and principles were generally promulgated throughout europe--first by gustavus and those associated with him in the matter, and then again by oxenstiern, in germany, holland, and other countries. still another is, that in penn made a special tour of three months through holland and various parts of germany, visiting and conferring with many of the most pious and devoted people, including distinguished men and women, and clergy and laity of high standing, information, and influence. he made considerable stay in frankfort, where he says both calvinists and lutherans received him with gladness of heart. he visited mayence, worms, mannheim, mulheim, düsseldorf, herwerden, embaden, bremen, etc., etc., concerning which the editor of his _life and writings_ says he had "interesting interviews with many persons eminent for their talents, learning, or social position." among them were such as elizabeth, princess palatine, niece of charles i. of england and the daughter of the king of bohemia, the special friend of gustavus adolphus, who died of horror on hearing that gustavus was slain; anna maria, countess of hornes; the countess and earl of falkenstein and brück; the president of the council of state at embaden; the earl of donau, and the like; among all of which it is hardly possible that he should have failed to meet with the proposals which had gone out over all protestant europe from the throne of sweden. nor is there any evidence that william penn had thought of founding a free christian state in america until immediately after his return to england from this tour on the continent. furthermore, the plans of gustavus respecting his projected colony on the delaware were well understood in official circles in england itself, especially in london, from . john oxenstiern, brother of the great chancellor, was at that time swedish ambassador in london, and in that year he obtained from king charles i. a renunciation and cession to sweden of all claims of the english to the country on the delaware growing out of the rights of first discovery, and for the very purposes of this colonial free state and asylum first projected by the swedish king. the swedes in advance of penn. we are left to our own inferences from these facts. but, however much or little penn may have been directly influenced and guided by what gustavus adolphus had conceived and elaborated on the subject, the wise and noble conception which he brought with him for practical realization in was known to the european peoples for more than fifty years before he laid hold on it. the same had also been one of the chief sources of the inspiration of lord baltimore in the founding of the colony of maryland, of which penn was not ignorant. and the same, not unknown to him, had already begun to be realized here in what is now called pennsylvania full forty-four years before his arrival. shipload after shipload of sturdy and devoted people, mostly swedes, animated with the same grand ideas, had here been landed. and so successfully had they battled with the perils and hardships of the wilderness, and so justly had they treated and arranged to dwell in peace and love with the wild inhabitants of the forests, that when penn came he found everything prepared to his hand. the swedes alone already numbered about one thousand strong. they had conquered the wild woods, built them homes, and opened plantations; and "the eye of the stranger could begin to gaze with interest upon the signs of public improvement, ever regularly advancing, from the region of wilmington to that of philadelphia." when penn landed he found a town and court-house at new castle, and a town and place of public assemblage at upland, and a christian and free people in possession of the territory, with whom it was necessary for him to treat before his charter could avail for the planting of his colony. the land to which the swedes had acquired title (by england's release to sweden of all claim from right of discovery, by charter from sweden, by purchase from the indians, first under minuit, the first governor, and then under his successor, governor printz, and by other purchases or agreements) was the west bank of the delaware river from cape henlopen to trenton falls, and thence westward to the great fall in the susquehanna, near the mouth of the conewaga creek, which included nearly the whole of eastern pennsylvania and delaware. the fortunes of war, in europe and between the colonies, in course of time complicated the titles to one and another portion of this territory, but the swedes and dutch occupied and held the most prominent parts of it by right of actual possession when and after penn's charter was granted. penn's charter and arrival. but when penn arrived he brought with him letters patent from charles ii., king of england, to this same district of country and the wilds indefinitely beyond it, having also obtained from his friend, the king's brother, the duke of york, full releases of the claims vested in him to the "lower counties," which now form the state of delaware. penn was accompanied by from sixty to seventy colonists--all that survived the scourge which visited them in their passage across the sea. he landed first at new castle, of which the dutch of new york had by conquest obtained possession. to them he made known his grants and his plans, and succeeded in securing their acquiescence in them. thence he came to upland (chester), the head-quarters of the swedes, who "received their new fellow-citizens with great friendliness, carried up their goods and furniture from the ships, and entertained them in their own houses without charge." his proposals with regard to the establishment of a united commonwealth they also received with much favor. and immediately thereupon he convened a general assembly of the citizens, which sat for three days, by which an act was passed for the consolidation of the various interests and parties on the ground, a code of general regulations adopted, and the necessary features of a common government enacted; all of which together formed the basis of our present commonwealth. how pennsylvania was named. the name which penn had chosen for the territory of his grant was _sylvania_, but the king prefixed the name of penn and called it _penn's_ silvania (_penn's woods_), in honor of the recipient's father, sir william penn, a distinguished officer in the british navy. penn sought to have the title changed so as to leave his own name out, as he thought it savored too much of personal vanity; but his efforts did not avail. and thus our great old commonwealth took the name of _pennsylvania_, and the city of philadelphia was laid out and named by penn himself as its capital. the men of those times. in dwelling upon the founding of our happy commonwealth it is pleasant to contemplate how enlightened and exalted were the men whom providence employed for the performance of this important work. many are apt to think ours the age of culminated enlightenment, dignity, wisdom, and intelligence, and look upon the fathers of two and three hundred years ago as mere pigmies, just emerging from an era of barbarism and ignorance, not at all to be compared with the proud wiseacres of our day. never was there a greater mistake. the shallowness and flippancy of the leaders and politicians of this last quarter of the nineteenth century show them but little more than school-boys compared with the sturdy, sober-minded, deep-principled, dignified, and grand-spirited men who discovered and opened this continent and laid the foundations of our country's greatness. and those who were most concerned in the founding of our own commonwealth suffer in no respect in comparison with the greatest and the best. gustavus adolphus. i have named the illustrious gustavus adolphus as the man, above all, who first conceived, sketched, and propounded the grand idea of such a state. what other colonies reached only through varied experiments and gradual developments, pennsylvania had clear and mature, in ideal and in fact, from the very earliest beginning; and the royal heart and brain of sweden were its source. gustavus adolphus was born a prince in the regular line of sweden's ancient kings. his grandfather, gustavus vasa, was a man of thorough culture, excellent ability, and sterling moral qualities. when in germany he was an earnest listener to luther's preaching, became his friend and correspondent, a devout confessor and patron of the evangelic faith, and the wise establisher of the reformation in his kingdom. adolphus inherited all his grandfather's high qualities. he was the idol of his father, charles ix., and was devoutly trained from earliest childhood in the evangelic faith, educated in thorough princely style, familiarized with governmental affairs from the time he was a boy, and developed into an exemplary, wise, brave, and devoted christian man and illustrious king. he ascended the throne when but seventeen years of age, extricated his country from many internal and external troubles, organized for it a new system, and became the hero-sovereign of his age. he was one of the greatest of men, in cabinet and in field as well as in faith and humble devotion. he was a broad-minded statesman and patriot, one of the most beloved of rulers, and a philanthropist of the purest order and most comprehensive views. that evangelical christianity which luther and his coadjutors exhumed from the superincumbent rubbish of the middle ages was dearer to him than his throne or his life. the pure gospel of christ was to him the most precious of human possessions. for it he lived, and for it he died. one of his deep-souled hymns, sung along with luther's _ein feste burg_ at the head of his armies in his campaigns for christian liberty, has its place in our church-book to-day. and the bright peculiar star which appeared in the heavens at the time he was born fitly heralded his royal career. cut off in the midst of a succession of victories in the thirty-eighth year of his age, the influence of his mind nevertheless served to give another constitution to the germanic peoples, established the right and power of evangelical christianity to be and to be unmolested on the earth, and confirmed a new element in the development and progress of the european races and of mankind. with the loftiest conceptions of human life, a thorough acquaintance with the agencies which govern the world, a mind in all respects in thorough subjection to an enlightened christian conscience, a magnanimity and liberality of sentiment far in advance of his age, and an untarnished devotion which marked his history to its very end, his name stands at the head of the list of illustrious christian kings and human benefactors.[ ] footnotes: [ ] count galeazzo gualdo, a venetian roman catholic, who spent some years in both the imperial and the swedish armies, says of gustavus adolphus that "he was tall, stout, and of such truly royal demeanor that he universally commanded veneration, admiration, love, and fear. his hair and beard were of a light-brown color, his eye large, but not far-sighted. eloquence dwelt upon his tongue. he spoke german, the native language of his mother, the swedish, the latin, the french, and the italian languages, and his discourse was agreeable and lively. there never was a general served with so much cheerfulness and devotion as he. he was of an affable and friendly disposition, readily expressing commendation, and noble actions were indelibly fixed upon his memory; on the other hand, excessive politeness and flattery he hated, and if any person approached him in that way he never trusted him." axel oxenstiern. axel oxenstiern, his friend, companion, and prime minister, was of like mind and character with himself. he was high-born, religiously trained, and thoroughly educated in both theology and law in the best schools which the world then afforded. he was sweden's greatest and wisest counselor and diplomatist, liberal-minded, true-hearted, dignified, and devout. in religion, in patriotism, in earnest doing for the profoundest interests of man, he was one with his illustrious king. he negotiated the peace of kmered with denmark, the peace of stolbowa with russia, and the armistice with poland. he accompanied his king in the campaigns in germany, having charge of all diplomatic affairs and the devising of ways and means for the support of the army in the field, whilst the king commanded it. he won no victories of war, but he was a choice spirit in creating the means by which some of the most valuable of such victories were achieved, and conducted those victories to permanent peace. when gustavus adolphus fell at lützen a sacrifice to religious liberty, the whole administration of the kingdom was placed in oxenstiern's hands. the congress of foreign princes at heilbronn elected him to the headship of their league against the papal power of austria; and it was his wisdom and heroism alone which held the league together unto final triumph. bauer, torstensson, and von wrangle were the flaming swords which finally overwhelmed that power, but the brain which brought the fearful thirty years' war to a final close, and established the evangelical cause upon its lasting basis of security by the peace of westphalia ( ), was that of axel oxenstiern, the very man who sent to pennsylvania its original colonists as the founders of a free state. peter minuit. a kindred spirit was peter minuit, the man whom oxenstiern selected and commissioned to accompany these first colonists to the west bank of the delaware, and to act as their president and governor. he too was a high-born, cultured, large-minded christian man. he was an honored deacon in the walloon church at wesel. removing to holland, his high qualities led to his selection by the dutch west india company as the fittest man to be the first governor and director-general of the dutch colonies on the hudson. his great efficiency and public success in that capacity made him the subject of jealousies and accusations, resulting in his recall after five or six years of the most effective administration of the affairs of those colonies. oxenstiern had the breadth and penetration to understand his real worth, and appointed him the first governor of the new sweden which since has become the great state of pennsylvania. he lived less than five years in this new position, and died in fort christina, which he built and held during his last years of service on earth. he was a wise, laborious, and far-seeing man, consecrated with all his powers to the formation of a free commonwealth on this then wild territory. his name has largely sunk away from public attention, as the work of the swedes in general in the founding and fashioning of our commonwealth; but he and they deserve far better than has been awarded them. a few years ago ( ) some movement was for the first time made to erect a suitable monument to the memory of minuit. surely the founder of the greatest city in this western world, and of the colonial possessions of two european nations, and the first president and governor of the two greatest states in the american union, ranks among the great historic personages of his period; and his high qualities, noble spirit, and valuable services demand for him a grateful recognition which has been far too slow in coming. there is a debt owing to his name and memory which new york, pennsylvania, and the american people have not yet duly discharged. and to these grand men, first of all, are we under obligation of everlasting thanks for our free and happy old commonwealth. william penn. but without william penn to reinforce and more fully execute the noble plans, ideas, and beginnings which went before him, things perhaps never would have come to the fortunate results which he was the honored instrument in bringing about. this man, so renowned in the history of our state, and so specially honored by the peculiar society of which he was a zealous apostle, was respectably descended. his grandfather was a captain in the english navy, and his father became a distinguished naval officer, who reached high promotion and gave his son the privileges of a good education. penn was for three years a student in the university of oxford, until expelled, with others, for certain offensive non-conformities. he was not what we would call religiously trained, but he was endowed with a strong religious nature, even bordering on fanaticism, so that he needed only the application of the match to set his whole being aglow and active with the profoundest zeal, whether wise or otherwise. and that match was early applied. when england had reached the summit of delirium under her usurping protector, oliver cromwell, there arose, among many other sects full of enthusiastic self-assertion, that of the quakers, who were chiefly characterized by a profound religious, and oft fanatical, opposition to the established church, as well as to the crown. coming in contact with one of their most zealous preachers, young penn was inflamed with their spirit and became a vigorous propagator of their particular style of devotion. as the quaker tenets respected the state as well as religion, the bold avowal of them brought him into collision with the laws, and several times into prison and banishment. but, so far from intimidating him, this only the more confirmed him in his convictions and fervency. by his familiarity with able theologians, such as dr. owen and bishop tillotson, as well as from his own studies of the scriptures, he was deeply grounded in the main principles of the evangelic faith. indeed, he was in many things, in his later life, much less a quaker than many who glory in his name, and all his sons after him found their religious home in the church of england, which, to quakers generally, was a very babylon. but he was an honest-minded, pure, and cultured christian believer, holding firmly to the inward elements of the orthodox faith in god and christ, in revelation and eternal judgment, in the rights of man and the claims of justice. if some of his friends and representatives did not deal as honorably with the swedes in respect to their prior titles to their improved lands as right and charity would require, it is not to be set down to his personal reproach. and his zeal for his sect and his genuine devotion to god and religious liberty, together with a large-hearted philanthropy, were the springs which moved him to seize the opportunity which offered in the settlement of his deceased father's claim on the government to secure a grant of territory and privilege to form a free state in america--first for his own, and then for all other persecuted people. an estimate of penn. it may be that penn has been betimes a little overrated. he has, and deserves, a high place in the history of our commonwealth, but he was not the real founder of it; for its foundations were laid years before he was born and more than forty years before he received his charter. he founded pennsylvania only as americus vespucius discovered america. neither was he the author of those elements of free government, equal rights, and religious liberty which have characterized our commonwealth. they were the common principles of luther and the reformation, and were already largely embodied for this very territory[ ] long before penn's endeavors, as also, in measure, in the roman catholic colony of maryland from the same source. nor was he, in his own strength, possessed of so much wise forethought and profound legislative and executive ability as that with which he is sometimes credited. but he was a conscientious, earnest, and god-fearing man, cultured by education and grace, gifted with admirable address, sincere and philanthropic in his aims, and guided and impelled by circumstances and a peculiar religious zeal which providence overruled to ends far greater than his own intentions or thoughts. footnotes: [ ] see sketch of the plan of gustavus adolphus for his colony, page , and the instructions given to governor printz in . penn and the indians. what is called penn's particular policy toward the indians, and the means of his successes in that regard, existed in practical force scores of years before he arrived. his celebrated treaties with them, as far as they were fact, were but continuations and repetitions between them and the english, which had long before been made between them and the swedes, who did more for these barbarian peoples than he, and who helped him in the matter more than he helped himself. we are not fully informed respecting all the first instructions given to governor minuit when he came hither with pennsylvania's original colony in - , but there is every reason to infer that they strictly corresponded to those given to his successor, governor printz, five years afterward, on his appointment in , about which there can be no question. minuit entered into negotiations with the indians the very first thing on his landing, and purchased from them, as the rightful proprietors, all the land on the western side of the river from henlopen to trenton falls; a deed for which was regularly drawn up, to which the indians subscribed their hands and marks. posts were also driven into the ground as landmarks of this treaty, which were still visible in their places sixty years afterward. in the appointment and commission of governor printz it was commanded him to "bear in mind the articles of contract entered into with the wild inhabitants of the country as its rightful lords." "the wild nations bordering on all other sides the governor shall understand how to treat with all humanity and respect, that no violence, or wrong be done them; but he shall rather at every opportunity exert himself that the same wild people may gradually be instructed in the truths and worship of the christian religion, and in other ways brought to civilization and good government, and in this manner properly guided. especially shall he seek to gain their confidence, and impress upon their minds that neither he, the governor, nor his people and subordinates, are come into those parts to do them any wrong or injury." this policy was not a thing of mere coincidence. it was the express stipulation and command of the throne of sweden, august , , which was two years before william penn was born; and "this policy was steadily pursued and adhered to by the swedes during the whole time of their continuance in america, as the governors of the territory of which they had thus acquired the possession; and the consequences were of the most satisfactory character. they lived in peace with the indians, and received no injuries from them. the indians respected them, and long after the swedish power had disappeared from the shores of the delaware they continued to cherish its memory and speak of it with confidence and affection."[ ] governor printz arrived in this country in , and with him came rev. john campanius as chaplain and pastor of the swedish colony. his grandson, thomas campanius holm, many years after published numerous items put on record by the elder campanius, in which it appears that the commands to printz respecting the indians were very scrupulously carried out. according to these records, the indians were very familiar at the house of the elder campanius, and he did much to teach and christianize them. "he generally succeeded in making them understand that there is one lord god, self-existent and one in three persons; how the same god made the world, and made man, from whom all other men have descended; how adam afterward disobeyed, sinned against his creator, and involved all his descendants in condemnation; how god sent his only-begotten son jesus christ into the world, who was born of the virgin mary and suffered for the saving of men; how he died upon the cross, and was raised again the third day; and, lastly, how, after forty days, he ascended into heaven, whence he will return at a future day to judge the living and the dead," etc. and so much interest did they take in these instructions, and seemed so well disposed to embrace christianity, that campanius was induced to study and master their language, that he might the more effectually teach them the religion of christ. he also translated into the indian language the catechism of luther, perhaps the very first book ever put into the indian tongue. campanius began his work of evangelizing these wild people four years before eliot, who is sometimes called "the morning star of missionary enterprise," but who first commenced his labors in new england only in . hence dr. clay remarks that "the swedes may claim the honor of having been the first missionaries among the indians, at least in pennsylvania."[ ] "it was, _in fact, the swedes who inaugurated the peaceful policy of william penn_. this was not an accidental circumstance in the swedish policy, but was deliberately adopted and always carefully observed."[ ] when mr. rising became governor of the swedish colony he invited ten indian chiefs, or kings, to a friendly conference with him. it was held at tinicum, on the delaware, june , , when the governor saluted them, in the name of the swedish queen, with assurances of every kindness toward them, and proposed to them a firm renewal of the old friendship. campanius has given a minute account of this conference, and recites the speech in which one of the chiefs, named naaman, testified how good the swedes had been to them; that the swedes and indians had been in the time of governor printz as one body and one heart; that they would henceforward be as one head, like the calabash, which has neither rent nor seam, but one piece without a crack; and that in case of danger to the swedes they would ever serve and defend them. it was at the same time further arranged and agreed that if any trespasses were committed by any of their people upon the property of the swedes, the matter should be investigated by men chosen from both sides, and the person found guilty "should be punished for it as a warning to others."[ ] this occurred when william penn was but ten years of age, and twenty-eight years before his arrival in america. and upon the subject of the help which the swedes rendered to penn in his dealings with these people in the long after years, acrelius writes: "the proprietor ingratiated himself with the indians. the swedes acted as his interpreters, especially captain lars (lawrence) kock, who was a great favorite among the indians. he was sent to new york to buy goods suitable for traffic. he did all he could to give them a good opinion of their new ruler" (p. ); and it was by means of the aid and endeavors of the swedes, more than by any influence of his own, that penn came to the standing with these people to which he attained, and on which his fame in that regard rests. footnotes: [ ] introduction to acrelius's _history_. [ ] _swedish annals_, p. . [ ] dr. reynolds's _introduction to acrelius_, p. . [ ] see acrelius's _history_, pp. , , and clay's _swedish annals_, pp. , . penn's work. but still, as a man, a colonist, a governor, and a friend of the race, we owe to william penn great honor and respect, and his arrival here is amply worthy of our grateful commemoration. the location and framing of this goodly city, and a united and consolidated pennsylvania established finally in its original principles of common rights and common freedom, are his lasting monument. if he was not the spring of our colonial existence, he was its reinforcement by a strong and fortunate stream, which more fully determined the channel of its history. if the doctrine of liberty of conscience and religion, the principles of toleration and common rights, and the embodying of them in a free state open to all sufferers for conscience' sake, did not originate with him, he performed a noble work and contributed a powerful influence toward their final triumph and permanent establishment on this territory. and his career, taken all in all, connects his name with an illustrious service to the cause of freedom, humanity, and even christianity, especially in its more practical and ethical bearings. the greatness of faith. such, then, were the men most concerned in founding and framing our grand old commonwealth. they were men of faith, men of thorough culture, men of mark by birth and station, men who had learned to grapple with the great problem of human rights, human happiness, human needs, and human relations to heaven and earth. they believed in god, in the revelation of god, in the gospel of christ, in the responsibility of the soul to its maker, and in the demands of a living charity toward god and all his creatures. and their religious faith and convictions constituted the fire which set them in motion and sustained and directed their exertions for the noble ends which it is ours so richly to enjoy. had they not been the earnest christians that they were, they never could have been the men they proved themselves, nor ever have thought the thoughts or achieved the glorious works for ever connected with their names. we are apt to contemplate christian faith and devotion only in its more private and personal effects on individual souls, the light and peace it brings to the true believer, and the purification and hope it works in the hearts of those who receive it, whilst we overlook its force upon the great world outside and its shapings of the facts and currents of history. we think of luther wrestling with his sins, despairing and dying under the impossible task of working out for himself an availing righteousness, and rejoice with him in the light and peace which came to his agonized soul through the grand and all-conditioning doctrine of justification by simple faith in an all-sufficient redeemer; but we do not always realize how the breaking of that evangelic principle into his earnest heart was the incarnation of a power which divided the christian ages, brought the world over the summit of the water-shed, and turned the gravitation of the laboring nations toward a new era of liberty and happiness. and so we refer to the spiritual training of a gustavus adolphus and an axel oxenstiern in the simple truths of luther's catechism and the restored gospel, and to the opening of the heart of a william penn to the exhortations of friend loe to forsake the follies of the corrupt world and seek his portion with the pure in heaven, and mark the unfoldings of their better nature which those blessed instructions wrought; whilst we fail to note that therein lay the springs and germs which have given us our grand commonwealth and established for us the free institutions of church and state in which we so much glory and rejoice. ah, yes; there is greatness and good and blessing untold for man and for the world in the personal hearing, believing, and heeding of the word and testimony of god. no man can tell to what new impulses in human history, or to what new currents of benediction and continents of national glory, it may lead for souls in the school of christ to open themselves meekly to the inflowings of heaven's free grace. it was the sowing of god's truth and the planting of god's spirit in these men's hearts that most of all grew for us our country and our blessed liberties. ii. the principles enthroned. the religious element in man is the deepest and most powerful in his nature. it is that also which asserts and claims the greatest independence from external constraints. it is therefore the height of unwisdom, not to say tyranny, for earthly magistracy to interfere by penalty and sword with the religious opinions and movements of the people, so long as civil authority and public order are not invaded and the rights of others are not infringed. in such cases it is always best to combat only with the word of god. if of men it will come to naught, and if of god it cannot be suppressed. reaction against wrongs done to truth and right is sure to come, and will push through to revolution and victory in spite of all unrighteous power. it is vain for any human governments to think to chain up the honest convictions of the soul. god made it free, and sooner or later it will be free, in spite of everything. it was largely the weight and current of such reaction against arbitrary interference with the religious convictions and free conscience of man that furnished the impulse to the original peopling of our state and country, and gave shape to the constitution and laws of this commonwealth for the last two hundred years. nor will our inquiries and showings with regard to the founding of pennsylvania be complete without something more respecting the leading principles which governed in that fortunate movement. our state the product of faith. i. it is a matter of indisputable fact that the founding of our commonwealth was one of the direct fruits of the revived gospel of christ. but a little searching into the influences most active in the history is required to show that it was religious conviction and faith, more than anything else, that had to do with the case. changes had come. luther had found the bible chained, and set it free. apostolic christianity had reappeared, and was re-uttering itself with great power among the nations. its quickening truths and growing victories were undermining the gigantic usurpations and falsehoods which for ages had been oppressing our world. conscience, illuminated and revived by the word of god, had risen up to assert its rights of free judgment and free worship, and resentful power had drawn the sword to put it down. continental europe was being deluged with blood and devastated by relentless religious wars to crush out the evangelic faith, whose confessors held up the bible over all popes and secular powers, and would not consent to part with their inalienable charter from the throne of heaven to worship god according to his word. and amid these woeful struggles the good providence of the almighty opened up to the attention of the nations the vast new territories of this western world. from various motives, indeed, were the several original colonies of america founded. some of the colonists came from a spirit of adventure. some came for territorial aggrandizement and national enrichment. some came as mercantile speculators. and each of these considerations may have entered somewhat into the most of these colonization schemes. but it was mainly flight from oppression on account of religious convictions which influenced the first colony of new england, and a still freer religious motive induced the colonization of pennsylvania. all the men most concerned in the matter were profoundly religious men and thorough and active believers in revived christianity; and it was most of all from these religious feelings and impulses that they acted in the case. gustavus and the swedes. the first presentation to the king of sweden, by william usselinx, touching the planting of a colony on the west bank of the delaware, looked to the establishment of a trading company with unlimited trading privileges; and the argument for it was the great source of revenue it would be to the kingdom. but when gustavus adolphus entered into the subject and gave his royal favor to it, quite other motives and considerations came in to determine his course. as the history records, and quite aside from the prospect of establishing his power in these parts of the world, "the king, whose zeal for the honor of god was not less ardent than for the welfare of his subjects, _availed himself of this opportunity to extend the doctrines of christ among the heathen_,"[ ] and to this end granted letters patent, in which it was further provided that a free state should be formed, guaranteeing all personal rights of property, honor, and religion, and forming an asylum and place of security for the persecuted people of all nations. and when these gracious intentions of the king were revived after his death, the same ideas and provisions were carefully maintained, specially stipulating ( ) for every human respect toward the indians--to wit, that the governors of the colony should deal justly with them as the rightful lords of the land, and exert themselves at every opportunity "that the same wild people may be instructed in the truths and worship of the christian religion, and in other ways brought to civilization and good government, and in this manner properly guided;" ( ) "above all things to consider and see to it that divine service be duly maintained and zealously performed according to the unaltered augsburg confession;" and ( ) to protect those of a different confession in the free exercise of their own forms.[ ] it is plain, therefore, that the spirit of religion, the spirit of evangelical missions, the spirit of christian charity, and the spirit of devotion to the protection of religious liberty and freedom of conscience were the dominating motives on the part of those who founded the first permanent settlement on the territory of pennsylvania. footnotes: [ ] _history of new sweden_, by israel acrelius, p. . [ ] rehearsed in the commission to governor printz, , sections and . the feelings of william penn. bating somewhat the missionary character of the enterprise, the same may be said of william penn and his great reinforcement to what had thus been successfully begun long before his time. he was himself a very zealous preacher of religion, though more in the line of protest against the world and the existing church than in the line of positive christianity and the conversion and evangelization of the heathen. he had himself been a great sufferer for his religious convictions, along with the people whose cause he had espoused and made his own. his controlling desire was to honor and glorify god in the founding of a commonwealth in which those of his way of thinking might have a secure home of their own and worship their creator as best agreed with their feelings and convictions, without being molested or disturbed; offering at the same time the same precious boon to others in like constraints willing to share the lot of his endeavors. the motives of charles ii. in granting his charter were, first of all, to discharge a heavy pecuniary claim of penn against the government on account of his father; next, to honor the memory and merits of the late admiral penn; and, finally, at the same time, to "favor william penn in his laudable efforts to enlarge the british empire, to promote the trade and prosperity of the kingdom, and to reduce the savage nations by just and gentle measures to the love of civilized life and the christian religion." penn's idea, as stated by his memorialist, was "to obtain the grant of a territory on the west side of the delaware, in which he might not only furnish an asylum to friends (quakers), and others who were persecuted on account of their religious persuasion, but might erect a government upon principles approaching much nearer the standard of evangelical purity than any which had been previously raised." his own account of the matter is: "for my country i eyed the lord in obtaining it; and more was i drawn inward to look to him, and to owe it to his hand and power, than to any other way. i have so obtained it, and desire to keep it, that i may not be unworthy of his love, but do that which may answer his kind providence and serve his truth and people, that an example may be set up to the nations. there may be room there, though not here, for such an holy experiment." "i do therefore desire the lord's wisdom to guide me and those that may be concerned with me, that we may do the thing that is truly wise and just." and with these aims and this spirit he invited people to join him, came to the territory which had been granted him, conferred with the swedish and dutch colonists already on the ground, and together with them established the commonwealth of pennsylvania. recognition of the divine being. ii. accordingly, also, the chief corner-stone in the constitutional fabric of our state was the united official acknowledgment of the being and supremacy of one eternal and ever-living god, the judge of all men and the lord of nations. the self-existence and government of almighty god is the foundation of all things. nothing _is_ without him. and the devout and dutiful recognition of him and the absolute supremacy of his laws are the basis and chief element of everything good and stable in human affairs. he who denies this or fails in its acknowledgment is so far practically self-stultified, beside himself, outside the sphere of sound rationality, and incapable of rightly understanding or directing himself or anything else. nor could those who founded our commonwealth have been moved as they were, or achieved the happy success they did, had it not been for their clear, profound, and practical acknowledgment of the being and government of that good and almighty one who fills immensity and eternity, and from whom, and by whom, and to whom are all things. some feel and act as if it were an imbecility, or a thing only for the weak, timid, and helpless, to be concerned about an almighty god. but greater, braver, and more manly men did not then exist than those who were most prominent and active in founding and framing our commonwealth; and of all men then making themselves felt in the affairs of our world, they were among the most honest and devout in the practical confession of the eternal being and providence of jehovah. the great gustavus adolphus and the equally great axel oxenstiern held and confessed from their deepest souls and in all their thoughts and doings that there is an eternal god, infinite in power, wisdom, and goodness, the creator, preserver, and judge of all things, visible and invisible, and that on him and his favor alone all good and prosperity in this world and the next depends. this they ever formally and devoutly set forth in all their state papers and in all their undertakings and doings, whether as men or as rulers. the sound of songs and prayers to this almighty and ever-present god was heard at every sunrise through all the army of gustavus in the field, as well as in the tent and closet of its great commander. and all the instructions given to the governors of the colony on the delaware were meekly conditioned to the will of god, with specific emphasis on the provision: "above all things, shall the governor consider and see to it that a true and due worship, becoming honor, laud, and praise be paid to the most high in all things." the same is true of william penn. from early life he was always a zealous exhorter to the devout worship of almighty god as the only illuminator and helper of men. what he averred in his letter to the indians was the great root-principle of his life: "there is a great god and power, which hath made the world and all things therein, to whom you and i and all people owe their being and well-being, and to whom you and i must one day give an account for all that we have done in this world." and what was thus wrought into the texture of his being he also wove into the original constitution of our state. enactments on the subject. all the articles of government and regulation ordained by the first general assembly, held at upland (chester) from the seventh to the tenth day of december, , were fundamentally grounded on this express "whereas, the glory of almighty god and the good of mankind is the reason and end of government, and therefore government itself is a valuable ordinance of god; and forasmuch as it is principally desired to make and establish such laws as shall best preserve true christian and civil liberty, in opposition to all unchristian, licentious, and unjust practices, whereby god may have his due, cæsar his due, and the people their due, from tyranny and oppression on the one side, and insolence and licentiousness on the other; so that the best and firmest foundation may be laid for the present and future happiness of both the governor and the people of this province and their posterity;" for it was deemed and believed on all hands that neither permanence nor happiness, enduring order nor prosperity, could come from any other principle than that of the recognition of the supremacy and laws of him from whom all things proceed and on whom all creatures depend. on this wise also ran the very first of the sixty-one laws ordained by that assembly: "almighty god being the lord of conscience, father of lights, and the author as well as object of all divine knowledge, faith, and worship, who alone can enlighten the mind and convince the understanding of people in due reverence to his sovereignty over the souls of mankind," the rights of citizenship, protection, and liberty should be to every person, then or thereafter residing in this province, "who shall confess one almighty god to be the creator, upholder, and ruler of the world, and profess himself obliged in conscience to live peaceably and justly under the civil government;" provided, further, that no person antagonizing this confession, or refusing to profess the same, or convicted of unsober or dishonest conversation, should ever hold office in this commonwealth. and so entirely did this, and what else was then and there enacted and ordained, fall in with the teachings, feelings, and beliefs of the hardy and devoted swedish lutherans, who had here been professing and fulfilling the same for two scores of years preceding, that they not only joined in the making of these enactments, but sent a special deputation to the governor formally to assure him that, on these principles and the faithful administration of them, they would love, serve, and obey him with all they possessed. importance of this principle. nor can it ever be known in this world how much of the success, prosperity, and happy conservatism which have marked this commonwealth in all the days and years since, have come directly from this planting of it on the grand corner-stone of all national stability, order, and happiness. surely, a widely different course and condition of things would have come but for this secure anchoring of the ship on the everlasting rock. and a thousand pities it is that the influence of french atheism was allowed to exclude so wholesome a principle from the declaration of our national independence and from our national constitution. whilst such recognition of jehovah's supremacy and government abides in living force in the hearts of the people, the absence of its official formulation may be of no material disadvantage; but for the better preservation of it in men's minds, and for the obstruction of the insidious growth of what strikes at the foundation of all government and order, it would have been well had the same been put in place as the grand corner-stone of our whole national fabric, as it was in the original organization of the commonwealth of pennsylvania, and kept in both clear and unchangeable for ever. we might then hope for better things than are indicated by the present drift, and the outlook for those to come after us would be less dark and doubtful than it is. but, since weakenings and degeneration in these respects have come into the enactments of public power, it is all the more needful for every true and patriotic citizen to be earnest and firm in witnessing for god and his everlasting laws, that the people may be better than the later expressions of their state documents. the example of the fathers makes appeal to the consciences of their children not to let go from our hearts and lives the deep and abiding recognition and confession of that almighty governor of all things from whose righteous tribunal no one living can escape, and before whom no contemner of his authority can stand. religious liberty. iii. another great and precious principle enthroned in the founding of our commonwealth was that of religious liberty. one of the saddest chapters in human history is that of persecution on account of religious convictions--the imposition of penalties, torture, and death by the sword of government on worthy people because of their honest opinions of duty to almighty god. for the punishment of the lawless, the wicked, and the intractable, and for the praise, peace, and protection of them that do well, the civil magistrate is truly the authorized representative of god, and fails in his office and duty where the powers he wields are not studiously and vigorously exercised to these ends. but god hath reserved to himself, and hath not committed to any creature hands, the power and dominion to interfere with realm of conscience. as he alone can instruct and govern it, and as its sphere is that of the recognition of his will and law and the soul's direct amenability to his judgment-bar, it is a gross usurpation and a wicked presumption for any other authority or power to undertake to force obedience contrary to the soul's persuasion of what its maker demands of it as a condition of his favor. it is a principle of human action and obligation recognized in both testaments, that when the requirements of human authority conflict with those of the father of spirits we must obey god rather than man. the rights of conscience and the rights of god thus coincide, and to trample on the one is to deny the other. and when earthly governments invade this sacred territory they invade the exclusive domain of god and make war upon the very authority from which they have their right to be. the plea of its necessity for the support of orthodoxy, the maintenance of the truth, and the glory of god will not avail for its justification, for god has not ordained civil government to inflict imprisonment, exile, and death upon religious dissenters, or even heretics; and his truth and glory he has arranged to take care of in quite another fashion. what justin martyr and tertullian in the early church and luther in the reformation-time declared, must for ever stand among the settled verities of heaven: that it is not right to murder, burn, and afflict people because they feel in conscience bound to a belief and course of life which they have found and embraced as the certain will and requirement of their maker. we must ward off heresy with the sword of the spirit, which is the word of god, and not with the sword of the state and with fire. persecution for opinion's sake. and yet such abuses of power have been staining and darkening all the ages of human administration, and, unfortunately, among professing christians as well as among pagans and jews. intolerance is so rooted in the selfishness and ambition of human nature that it has ever been one of the most difficult of practical problems to curb and regulate it. those who have most complained of it whilst feeling it, often only needed to have the circumstances reversed in order to fall into similar wickedness. the puritans, who fled from it as from the dragon himself, soon had their star-chamber too, their whipping-posts, their death-scaffolds, and their sentences of exile for those who dissented from their orthodoxy and their order. even infidelity and atheism, always the most blatant for freedom when in the minority, have shown in the philosophy of hobbes and in the reign of terror in france that they are as liable to be intolerant, fanatical, and oppressive when they have the mastery as the strongest faith and the most assured religionism. and the quakers themselves, who make freedom of conscience one of the chief corner-stones of their religion, have not always been free from offensive and disorderly aggressions upon the rightful sphere of government and the rightful religious freedom of other worshipers. even so treacherous is the human heart on the subject of just and equal religious toleration. spirit of the founders. it is therefore a matter of everlasting gratitude and thanksgiving that all the men most concerned in the founding of our commonwealth were so clear and well-balanced on the subject of religious liberty, and so thoroughly inwove the same into its organic constitution. gustavus adolphus and axel oxenstiern were the heroes of their time in the cause of religious liberty in continental europe. though intensely troubled in their administration by the roman catholics and the anabaptists, the most intolerant of intolerants in those days, they never opposed force against the beliefs or worships of either; and when force was used against the papal powers, it was only so far as to preserve unto themselves and their fellow-confessors the inalienable right to worship god according to the dictates of their own consciences without molestation or disturbance. in their scheme of colonization in this western world, first and last, the invitation was to all classes of christians in suffering and persecution for conscience' sake, who were favorable to a free state where they could have the free enjoyment of their property and religion, to cast in their lot. in the first charter, confirmed by all the authorities of the kingdom and rehearsed in the instructions given by the throne for the execution of the intention, special provision was made for the protection of the convictions and worship of those not of the same confession with that for which the government provided. though a lutheran colony, under a lutheran king, sustained and protected by a lutheran government, the calvinists had place and equal protection in it from the very beginning; and when the quakers came, they were at once and as freely welcomed on the same free principles, as also the representatives of the church of england. as to william penn, though contemplating above all the well-being and furtherance of the particular society of which he was an eminent ornament and preacher, consistency with himself, as well as the established situation of affairs, demanded of him the free toleration of the church, however unpalatable to his society, and with it of all religious sects and orders of worship. from his prison at newgate he had written that the enaction of laws restraining persons from the free exercise of their consciences in matters of religion was but "the knotting of whipcord on the part of the enactors to lash their own posterity, whom they could never promise to be conformed for ages to come to a national religion." again and again had he preached and proclaimed the folly and wickedness of attempting to change the religious opinions of men by the application of force--the utter unreasonableness of persecuting orderly people in this world about things which belong to the next--the gross injustice of sacrificing any one's liberty or property on account of creed if not found breaking the laws relating to natural and civil things. hence, from principle as well as from necessity, when he came to formulate a political constitution for his colony, he laid it down as the primordial principle: "i do, for me and mine, declare and establish for the first fundamental of the government of my province that every person that doth and shall reside therein shall have and enjoy the free possession of his or her faith and exercise of worship toward god, in such way and manner as every such person shall in conscience believe is most acceptable to god. and so long as such person useth not this christian liberty to licentiousness or the destruction of others--that is, to speak loosely and profanely or contemptuously of god, christ, the holy scriptures, or religion, or commit any moral evil or injury against others in their conversation--he or she shall be protected in the enjoyment of the aforesaid christian liberty by the civil magistrate." constitutional provisions. this was in exact accord with the principles and provisions under which the original colony had been formed, and had already been living and prospering for more than forty years preceding. everything, therefore, was in full readiness and condition for the universal and hearty adoption of the grand first article enacted by the first general assembly, to wit: "that no person now or hereafter residing in this province, who shall confess one almighty god to be the creator, upholder, and ruler of the world, and profess himself obliged in conscience to live peaceably and justly under the civil government, shall in any wise be molested or prejudiced on account of his conscientious persuasion or practice; nor shall he be compelled to frequent or maintain any religious worship, place, or ministry contrary to his mind, but shall freely enjoy his liberty in that respect, without interruption or reflection." in these specific provisions all classes in the colony at the time heartily united. and thus was secured and guaranteed to every good citizen that full, rightful, and precious religious freedom which is the birthright of all americans, for which the oppressed of all the ages sighed, and which had to make its way through a red sea of human tears and blood and many a sorrowful wilderness before reaching its place of rest. safeguards to true liberty. iv. but the religious liberty which our fathers thus sought to secure and to transmit to their posterity was not a licentious libertinism. they knew the value of religious principles and good morals to the individual and to the state, and they did not leave it an open matter, under plea of free conscience, for men to conduct themselves as they please with regard to virtue and religion. to be disrespectful toward divine worship, to interfere with its free exercise as honest men are moved to render it, or to set at naught the moral code of honorable behavior in human society, is never the dictate of honest conviction of duty, and, in the nature of things, cannot be. it is not conscience, but the overriding of conscience; nay, rebellion against the whole code of conscience, against the foundations of all government, against the very existence of civil society. liberty to blaspheme almighty god, to profane his name and ordinances, to destroy his worship, and to set common morality at naught, is not religious liberty, but disorderly wickedness, a cloak of maliciousness, the licensing of the devil as an angel of light. it belongs to mere brute liberty, which must be restrained and brought under bonds in order to render true liberty possible. wild and lawless freedom must come under the restraints and limits of defined order, peace, and essential morality, or somebody's freedom must suffer, and social happiness is out of the question. and it is one of the inherent aims and offices of government to enforce this very constraint, without which it totally fails of its end and forfeits its right to be. where people are otherwise law-abiding, orderly, submissive to the requisites for the being and well-being of a state, and abstain from encroachments upon the liberties of others, they are not to be molested, forced, or compelled in spiritual matters contrary to their honest convictions; but public blasphemy, open profanity, disorderly interference with divine worship and reverence, and the hindrance of what tends to the preservation of good morals, it pertains to the existence and office of a state to restrain and punish. severity upon such disorders is not tyrannical abridgment of the rights of conscience, for no proper citizen's conscience can ever prompt or constrain him to any such things. and everything which tends to weaken and destroy regard for the eternal power on which all things depend, to relax the sense of accountability to the divine judgment, and to trample on the laws of eternal morality, is the worst enemy of the state, which it cannot allow without peril to its own existence. on the other hand, the state is bound for the same reasons to protect and defend religion in general and the cultivation of the religious sentiments, in so far, at least, as the laws of virtue and order are not transgressed in the name of religion. it may not interfere to decide between different religious societies or churches, as they may be equally conscientious and honest in their diversities; but where the tendency is to good and reverence, and the training of the community to right and orderly life, it belongs to the office and being of the state not only to tolerate, but to protect them all alike. in the fatherly care of its subjects, the people consenting, the state may also recommend and provide support for some particular and approved order of faith and worship, just as it provides for public education. and though the civil power may not rightfully punish, fine, imprison, and oppress orderly and honest citizens for conscientious non-conformity to any one specific system of belief and worship, it may, and must, provide for and protect what tends to its rightful conservation, and also condemn, punish, and restrain whatsoever tends to unseat it and undermine its existence and peace. these are fundamental requirements in all sound political economy. laws on religion and morals. our fathers, in their wisdom, understood this, and fashioned their state provisions and laws accordingly. the thing specified as the supreme concern of the public authorities in the original settlement of this territory by the swedes was, to "consider and see to it that a true and due worship, becoming honor, laud, and praise be paid to the most high god in all things," and that "all persons, but especially the young, shall be duly instructed in the articles of their christian faith." but if public worship and religious instruction are to be fostered and preserved by the state, there must be set times for it, the people released at those times from hindering occupations and engagements, and whatever may interfere therewith restrained and put under bonds against interruption. in other words, the lord's proper worship demands and requires a protected lord's day. such appointed and sacred times for these holy purposes have been from the foundation of the world. under all dispensations one day in every seven was a day unto the lord, protected and preserved for such sacred uses, on which secular occupations should cease, and nothing allowed which would interfere with the public worship of almighty god and the handling of his word. and "because it was requisite to appoint a certain day, that the people might know when they ought to come together, it appears that the christian church [and so all christian states] did for that purpose appoint the lord's day," our weekly sunday. this william penn found in existence and observance by the swedes and the dutch on this territory when he arrived. he therefore advised, and the first general assembly of pennsylvania justly ordained, "that, according to the good example of the primitive christians and the ease of the creation, every first day of the week, called the lord's day, people shall abstain from their common daily labor, that they may the better dispose themselves to worship god according to their understandings"--a provision so necessary and important that the statute laws of our commonwealth have always guarded its observance with penalties which the state cannot in justice to itself allow to go unenforced, and which no good citizen should refuse strictly to obey. and to the same end was it provided and ordained by the first general assembly that "if any person shall abuse or deride another for his different persuasion or practice in religion, such shall be looked upon as disturbers of the peace, and be punished accordingly." and in the line of the same wholesome and necessary policy it was also further provided and ordained that "all such offences against god as swearing, cursing, lying, profane talking, drunkenness, obscene words, revels, etc. etc., which excite the people to rudeness, cruelty, and irreligion, shall be respectively discouraged and severely punished." such were the good and righteous provisions made for the restraint of the licentiousness and brutishness of man in the primeval days of our commonwealth; and wherein it has since sunk away from these original organic laws the people have only weakened and degraded themselves, and hindered that virtuous and happy prosperity which would otherwise in far larger degree than now be our inheritance. forms of government. v. and yet again, as the fathers of our commonwealth gave us religion without compulsion, so they also gave us a state without a king. there is nothing necessarily wrong or necessarily right in this particular. monarchy, aristocracy, republicanism, or pure democracy cannot claim divine right the one over against the other. either may be good, or either may be bad, as the situation and the chances may be. there has been as much bloody wrong and ruin wrought in the name of liberty as in the establishment of thrones. there have been as good and happy governments by kings as by any other methods of human administration. civil authority is essential to man, and the power for it must lie somewhere. the only question is as to the safest depository of it. the mere form of the government is no great matter. it has been justly said, "there is hardly a government in the world so ill designed that in good hands would not do well enough, nor any so good that in ill hands can do aught great and good." governments depend on men, not men on governments. let men be good, and the government will not be bad; but if men are bad, no government will hold for good. if government be bad, good men will cure it; and if the government be good, bad men will warp and spoil it. nor is there any form of government known to man that is not liable to abuse, prostitution, tyranny, unrighteousness, and oppression. the best government is that which most efficiently conserves the true ends of government, be the form what it may. anything differing from this is worthless sentimentalism, undeserving of sober regard. and to meet the true ends of government there must be power to enforce obedience, and there must be checks upon that power to secure its subjects against its abuse; for "liberty without obedience is confusion, and obedience without liberty is slavery." but there may be liberty under monarchy, as well as reverence and obedience under democracy, whilst there may be oppression and bloody tyranny under either. amid the varied experiments of the ages the human mind is more and more settling itself in favor of mixed forms of government, in which the rights of the people and the limitations of authority are set down in fixed constitutions, taking the direct rule from the multitude, but still holding the rulers accountable to the people. such were more or less the forms under which the founders of our commonwealth were tutored. a republican state. but they went a degree further than the precedents before them. they believed the safest depository of power to be with the people themselves, under constitutions ordained by those intending to live under them and administered by persons of their own choice. "where the laws rule, and the people are a party to those laws," was believed to be the true ideal and realization of civil liberty--the way "to support power in reverence with the people, and to secure the people from the abuse of power, that they may be free by their just obedience, and the magistrates honorable for their just administration." and with these ideas, "with reverence to god and good conscience to men," the first general assembly in enacted a common code of sixty-one laws, in which the foundation-stones of the civil and criminal jurisprudence of this broad commonwealth were laid, and a style of government ordained so reasonable, moderate, just, and equal in its provisions that no one yet has found just cause to deny the wisdom and beneficence of its structure, whilst montesquieu pronounces it "an instance unparalleled in the world's history of the foundation of a great state laid in peace, justice, and equality." the last two hundred years. two hundred years have gone by since this completed organization of our noble commonwealth. her free and liberal principles then still remained in large measure to be learned by some of the other american colonies. from the very start she was the chief conservator of what was to be the model for all this grand union of free states--a character which she has never lost in all the history of our national existence. six generations of stalwart freemen has she reared beneath her shielding care to people her own vast territory and that of many other states, no one of which has ever failed in truthfulness to the great principles in which she was born. always more solid than noisy, and more reserved than obtrusive, she has ever served as the great balance-wheel in the mighty engine of our national organization. her life, commingled with other lives attempered to her own, now pulsates from ocean to ocean and from the frozen lakes to the warm gulf waters, all glad and glorious in the unity and sunshine of constitutional government in the hands of a free people. with her population drawn from all nationalities to learn from her lips the sacred lessons of independent self-rule, she has sent it forth as freely to the westward to build co-equal states in the beauty of her own image, whilst four millions of her children still abide in growing happiness under her maternal care. verily, it was the spirit of prophecy which said, two hundred years ago, "_god will bless that ground_." that blessing we have lived to see. may it continue for yet many centennials, and grow as it endures! may the faith and spirit of the men through whose piety and wisdom it has come still warm and animate the hearts of their successors to the latest generations! may no careless or corrupt administration of justice or "looseness" or infidelities of the people come in to bring down the wrath of heaven for its interruption! may the sterling principles of our happy freedom be made good to us and our posterity by the good keeping of them in honest virtue and obedience, and in due reverence of him who gave them, and who is the god and judge of nations! may those sacred conditions of the divine favor "which descend not with worldly inheritances" be so embedded in the training and education of our youth that the spirit of the children may not be a libel on the faith and devotion of their fathers! centuries have passed, but the god of gustavus adolphus, of the pilgrims of plymouth rock, of william penn, and of the hero-saints of every age and country still lives and reigns. men may deny it, but that does not alter it. his government and gospel are the same now that they have ever been. what he most approved and blessed in their days he most approves and blesses in ours. and may their fear and love of him be to us and our children a copy and a guide, to steer in safety amid the dangerous rapids of these doubtful times! "and thou, philadelphia, the virgin settlement of this province, named before thou wert born! what love, what care, what service, and what travail has there been to bring thee forth and preserve thee from such as would abuse and defile thee! my soul prays to god for thee, that thou mayest stand in the day of trial, that thy children may be blessed of the lord, and thy people saved by his power." the end. an old chester secret [illustration] books by margaret deland an old chester secret the promises of alice the awakening of helena richie the rising tide around old chester the hands of esau old chester tales an encore dr. lavendar's people partners the iron woman the voice where the laborers are few * * * * * harper & brothers, new york established [illustration: [see p. "what! insult this lady by asking for a 'promise'?"] an old chester secret by margaret deland _author of_ "old chester tales" "the iron woman" "around old chester" etc. _illustrations by_ f. walter taylor [illustration] harper & brothers publishers new york and london an old chester secret ---- copyright, , by harper & brothers printed in the united states of america published october, to lorin-- for this book, too, is his. kennebunkport august , illustrations "what! insult this lady by asking for a 'promise'?" _frontispiece_ "i will not give any of my apples back. they're mine" _facing p._ "if i saw him once i might want to see him again" " "hearts don't answer when reason whistles to them," he said " an old chester secret chapter i there was not a person in old chester less tainted by the vulgarity of secretiveness than miss lydia sampson. she had no more reticence than sunshine or wind, or any other elemental thing. how much of this was due to conditions it would be hard to say; certainly there was no "reticence" in her silence as to her neighbors' affairs; she simply didn't know them! nobody ever dreamed of confiding in lydia sampson! and she could not be reticent about her own affairs because they were inherently public. when she was a girl she broke her engagement to mr. william rives two weeks before the day fixed for the wedding--and the invitations were all out! so of course everybody knew _that_. to be sure, she never said why she broke it, but all old chester knew she hated meanness, and felt sure that she had given her william the choice of being generous or being jilted--and he chose the latter. as she grew older the joyous, untidy makeshifts of a poverty which was always hospitable and never attempted to be genteel, stared you in the face the minute you entered the house; so everybody knew she was poor. years later, her renewed engagement to mr. rives, and his flight some ten minutes before the marriage ceremony, were known to everybody because we had all been invited to the wedding, which cost (as we happened to know, because we had presented her with just exactly that amount) _a hundred dollars_! at the sight of such extravagance the thrifty william turned tail and ran, and we gave thanks and said he was a scoundrel to make us thankful, though, with the exception of doctor lavendar, we deplored the extravagance as much as he did! as for doctor lavendar, he said that it was a case of the grasshopper and the ant; "but lydia is a gambling grasshopper," said doctor lavendar; "she took tremendous chances, for suppose the party _hadn't_ scared william off?" so, obviously, anything which was personal to miss lydia was public property. she simply couldn't be secretive. then, suddenly, and in the open (so to speak) of her innocent candor, a secret pounced upon her! at first old chester didn't know that there was a secret. we merely knew that on a rainy december day (this was about eight months after william had turned tail) she was seen to get into the mercer stage, carrying a carpetbag in one hand and a bandbox in the other. this was surprising enough--for why should lydia sampson spend her money on going to mercer? yet it was not so surprising as the fact that she did not come back from mercer! and even that was a comparative surprise; the superlative astonishment was when it became known that she had left her door key at the post office and said she didn't know when she would return! "where on earth has she gone?" said old chester. but only mrs. drayton attempted to reply: "it certainly looks _very_ strange," said mrs. drayton. it was with the turning of her front-door key that miss lydia made public confession of secrecy--although she had resigned herself to it, privately, three months before. the secret had taken possession of her one hazy september evening, as she was sitting on her front doorstep, slapping her ankles when a mosquito discovered them, and watching the dusk falling like a warm veil across the hills. the air was full of the scent of evening primroses, and miss lydia, looking at a clump of them close to the step, could see the pointed buds begin to unfurl, then hesitate, then tremble, then opening with a silken burst of sound, spill their perfume into the twilight. except for the crickets, it was very still. once in a while some one plodded down the road, and once, when it was quite dark, mr. smith's victoria rumbled past, paused until the iron gates of his driveway swung open, then rumbled on to his big, handsome house. he was one of the new smiths, having lived in old chester hardly twenty years; when he came he brought his bride with him--a norton, she was, from new england. a nice enough woman, i suppose, but not a pennsylvanian. he and his wife built this house, which was so imposing that for some time they were thought of, contemptuously, as the _rich_ smiths. but by and by old chester felt more kindly and just called them the new smiths. mrs. smith died when their only child, mary, was a little girl, and mr. smith grew gradually into our esteem. the fact was, he was so good-looking and good-humored and high-tempered (he showed his teeth when he was in a rage, just as a dog does) old chester had to like him--even though it wished he was a better landlord to miss lydia, to whom he rented a crumbling little house just outside his gates. in matters of business mr. smith exacted his pound of flesh--and he got it! in lydia's case it sometimes really did represent "flesh," for she must have squeezed her rent out of her food. yet when, after her frightful extravagance in giving that party on money we had given her for the rebuilding of her chimney, mr. smith rebuilt it himself, and said she was a damned plucky old bird.--"looks like a wet hen," said mr. smith, "but plucky! plucky!"--after that, our liking for him became quite emphatic. not that old chester liked his epithets or approved of his approval of miss lydia's behavior (she bought kid gloves for her party, if you please! and a blue-silk dress; and, worse than all, presents for all old chester, of canary birds and pictures and what not, _all out of our hundred dollars_!)--we did not like the laxity of mr. smith's judgments upon the grasshopper's conduct, but we did approve of his building her chimney, because it saved us from putting our hands in our own pockets again. in the brown dusk of the september evening, miss lydia, watching her landlord roll past in his carriage, gave him a friendly nod. "he's nice," she said, "and so good-looking!" her eyes followed him until, in the shadows of the great trees of the driveway, she lost sight of him. then she fell to thinking about his daughter, a careless young creature, handsome and selfish, with the smith high color and black eyes, who was engaged to be married to another handsome young creature, fatter at twenty-three than is safe for the soul of a young man. miss lydia did not mind carl's fat because she had a heart for lovers. apparently her own serial and unhappy love affair had but increased her interest in happier love affairs. to be sure, mary's affair had had the zest of a little bit of unhappiness--just enough to amuse older people. the boy had been ordered off by his firm in mercer, at a day's notice, to attend to some business in mexico, and the wedding, which was to have been in april, had to be postponed for six months. carl had been terribly down in the mouth about it, and mary, in the twenty-four hours given them for farewells, had cried her eyes out, and even, at the last minute, just before her young man started off, implored her father to let them get married--which plea, of course, he laughed at, for the new mr. smith was not the sort of man to permit his only daughter to be married in such hole-and-corner fashion! as it happened, carl got back, quite unexpectedly, in september--but his prospective father-in-law was obdurate. "it won't hurt you to wait. 'anticipation makes a blessing dear!' december first you can have her," said the new mr. smith, much amused by the young people's doleful sentimentality. miss lydia, now, slapping the mosquitoes, and thinking about the approaching "blessing," in friendly satisfaction at so much young happiness being next door to her, hugged herself because of her own blessings. "i don't want to brag," she thought, "but certainly i am the luckiest person!" to count up her various pieces of luck (starting with the experience of being jilted): she had a nice landlord who looked like zeus, with his flashing black eyes and snow-white hair and beard. and she had so many friends! and she believed she could manage to make her black alpaca last another winter. "it is spotted," she thought, "but what real difference does a spot make?" (miss lydia was one of those rare people who have a sense of the relative values of life.) "it's a warm skirt," said miss lydia, weighing the importance of that spot with the expense of a new dress; "and, anyway, whenever i look at it, it just makes me think of the time i spilled the cream down the front at harriet hutchinson's. what a good time i had at harriet's!" after that she reflected upon the excellent quality of her blue silk. "i shall probably wear it only once or twice a year; it ought to last me my lifetime," said miss lydia. . . . it was just as she reached this blessing that, somewhere in the shadows, a quivering voice called, "miss sampson?" and out of the darkness of the smith driveway came a girlish figure. the iron gates clanged behind her, and she came up the little brick path to miss lydia's house with a sort of rush, a sort of fury; her voice was demanding and frightened and angry all together. "miss lydia!" miss lydia, startled from her blessings, screwed up her eyes, then, recognizing her visitor, exclaimed: "why, my dear! what is the matter?" and again, in real alarm, "what _is_ it?" for mary smith, dropping down on the step beside her, was trembling. "my dear!" miss lydia said, in consternation. "miss sampson, something--something has happened. a--a--an accident. i've come to you. i didn't know where else to go." she spoke with a sort of sobbing breathlessness. "you did just right," said miss lydia, "but what--" "you've got to help me! there's nobody else." "of course i will! but tell me--" "if you don't help me, i'll die," mary smith said. she struck her soft clenched fist on her knee, then covered her face with her hands. "but you must promise me you won't tell? ever--ever!" "of course i won't." "and you'll help me? oh, say you'll help me!" "have you and he quarreled?" said miss lydia, quickly. her own experience flashed back into her mind; it came to her with a little flutter of pride that this child--she was really only a child, just nineteen--who was to be married so soon, trusted to her worldly wisdom in such matters, and came for advice. "she hasn't any mother," miss lydia thought, sympathetically. "if you've quarreled, you and he," she said, putting her little roughened hand on mary's soft, shaking fist, "tell him you're sorry. kiss and make up!" then she remembered why she and her william had not kissed and made up. "unless"--she hesitated--"he has done something that isn't nice?" ("nice" was miss lydia's idea of perfection.) "but i'm sure he hasn't! he seemed to me, when i saw him, a very pleasing young man. so kiss and make up!" the younger woman was not listening. "i had to wait all day to come and speak to you. i've been frantic--_frantic_--waiting! but i couldn't have anybody see me come. they would have wondered. if you don't help me--" "but i will, mary, i will! don't you love him?" "_love_ him?" said the girl. "my god!" then, in a whisper, "if i only hadn't loved him--_so much_. . . . i am going to have a baby." it seemed as if miss lydia's little friendly chirpings were blown from her lips in the gust of these appalling words. mary herself was suddenly composed. "they sent him off to mexico at twenty-four hours' notice; it was cruel--cruel, to send him away! and he came to say good-by-- and. . . . and then i begged and begged father to let us get married; even the very morning that he went away, i said: 'let us get married to-day. please, father, _please_!' and he wouldn't, he wouldn't! he wanted a big wedding. oh, what did i care about a big wedding! still--i never supposed-- but i went to mercer yesterday and saw a doctor, and--and found out. i couldn't believe it was true. i said i'd die if it was true! and he said it was. . . . so then i rushed to carl's office. . . . he was frightened--for me. and then we thought of you. and all day to-day i've just walked the floor--waiting to get down here to see you. i couldn't come until it was dark. father thinks i'm in bed with a headache. i told the servants to tell him i had a headache. . . . we've got to manage somehow to make him let us get married right off. but--but even that won't save me. it will be known. it will be known--in january." miss lydia was speechless. "so you've got to help me. there's nobody else on earth who can. oh, you must--you must!" "but what can i do?" miss lydia gasped. "carl and i will go away somewhere. out west where nobody knows us. and then you'll come. and you'll take--_it_. you'll take care of it. and you can have all the money you want." "my dear," miss lydia said, trembling, "this is very, very dreadful, but i--" the girl burst into rending crying. "don't you--suppose _i_ know that it's--it's--it's dreadful?" "but i don't see how i can possibly--" "if you won't help me, i'll go right down to the river. oh, miss lydia, help me! please, _please_ help me!" "but it's impos--" mary stopped crying. "it isn't. it's perfectly possible! you'll simply go away to visit some friends--" "i haven't any friends, except in old chester--" "and when you come back you'll bring--_it_ with you. and you'll say you've adopted it. you'll say it's the child of a friend." miss lydia was silent. "if you won't help me," mary burst out, "i'll--" "does anybody know?" said miss lydia. "no." "oh, my dear, my dear! you must tell your father." "my _father_?" she laughed with terror. then miss lydia sampson did an impossible thing--judging from old chester's knowledge of her character. she said, "he's got to know or i won't help you." mary's recoil showed how completely, poor child! she had always had her own way; to be crossed now by this timid old maid was like going head-on into a gray mist and finding it a stone wall. there was a tingling silence. "then i'll kill myself," she said. miss lydia gripped her small, work-worn hands together, but said nothing. "oh, please help me!" mary said. "i will--if you'll tell your father or doctor lavendar. i don't care which." "neither!" said the girl. she got on her feet and stood looking down at little shabby miss lydia sitting on the step with her black frizette tumbling forward over one frightened blue eye. then she covered her face with those soft, trembling hands, all dimpled across the knuckles. "carl wanted to tell. he said, 'let's tell people i was a scoundrel--and stand up to it.' and i said, 'carl, i'll die first!' and i will, miss lydia. i'll die rather than have it known. nobody must know--ever." miss lydia shook her head. "somebody besides me must know." then very faintly she said, "_i'll_ tell your father." there was panic in her voice, but mary's voice, from behind the dimpled hands, was shrill with panic: "you mustn't! oh, you promised not to tell!" miss lydia went on, quietly, "he and i will decide what to do." "no, no!" mary said. "he'll kill carl!" "i shouldn't think carl would mind," said miss lydia. the girl dropped down again on the step. "oh, what shall i do--what shall i do--what shall i do? he'll hate me." "he'll be very, very unhappy," said miss lydia; "but he'll know what must be done. i don't. and he'll forgive you." "he won't forgive carl! father never forgives. he says so! and if he won't forgive carl he mustn't forgive me!" she hid her face. there was a long silence. then she said, in a whisper, "when will you . . . tell him?" "to-night." again she cringed away. "not to-night! please not to-night. oh, you promised you wouldn't tell! i can't bear-- let me think. i'll write to carl. no! no! father _mustn't_ know!" "listen," said lydia sampson; "you must get married right off. you can't wait until december. that's settled. but your father must manage it so that nobody will suspect--anything. understand?" "i mean to do that, anyway, but--" "unless you tell a great many small stories," said little, truthful miss lydia, "you can't manage it; but your father will just tell one big story, about business or something. gentlemen can always tell stories about business, and you can't find 'em out. the way we do about headaches. mr. smith will say business makes it necessary for him to hurry the wedding up so he can go away to--any place. see?" mary saw, but she shook her head. "he'll kill carl," she said again. "no, he won't," said miss lydia, "because then everything would come out; and, besides, he'd get hanged." again there was a long silence; then mary said, suddenly, violently: "well--_tell him_." "oh, my!" said miss lydia, "my! my!" but she got up, took the child's soft, shrinking hand, and together in the hazy silence of the summer night they walked--miss lydia hurrying forward, mary holding back--between the iron gates and up the driveway to the great house. talk about facing the cannon's mouth! when miss sampson came into the new mr. smith's library he was sitting in a circle of lamplight at his big table, writing and smoking. he looked up at her with a resigned shrug. "wants something done to her confounded house!" he thought. but he put down his cigar, got on his feet, and said, in his genial, wealthy way: "well, my good neighbor! how are you?" miss lydia could only gasp, "mr. smith--" (there was a faint movement outside the library door and she knew mary was listening). "mr. smith--" "sit down, sit down!" he said. "i am afraid you are troubled about something?" she sat down on the extreme edge of a chair, and he stood in front of her, stroking his white beard and looking at her, amused and bored, and very rich--but not unkind. "mr. smith--" she faltered. she swallowed two or three times, and squeezed her hands together; then, brokenly, but with almost no circumlocution, she told him. . . . there was a terrible scene in that handsome, shadowy, lamplit room. miss lydia emerged from it white and trembling; she fairly ran back to her own gate, stumbled up the mossy brick path to her front door, burst into her unlighted house, then locked the door and bolted it, and fell in a small, shaking heap against it, as if it barred out the loud anger and shame which she had left behind her in the great house among the trees. while mary had crouched in the hall, her ear against the keyhole, miss lydia sampson had held that blazing-eyed old man to common sense. no, he must _not_ carry the girl to mercer the next day, and take the hound by the throat, and marry them out of hand. no, he must _not_ summon the scoundrel to old chester and send for doctor lavendar. no, he must _not_ have a private wedding. . . . "they must be married in church and have white ribbons up the aisle," gasped miss lydia, "and--and rice. don't you understand? and it isn't nice, mr. smith, to use such language before ladies." it was twelve o'clock when miss lydia, in her dark entry, went over in her own mind the "language" which had been used; all he had vowed he would do, and all she had declared he should not do, and all mary (called in from the hall) had retorted as to the cruel things that had been done to her and carl "which had just driven them _wild_!" and then the curious rage with which mr. smith had turned upon his daughter when she cried out, "father, make her promise not to tell!" at that the new mr. smith's anger touched a really noble note: "what! insult this lady by asking for a 'promise'? good god! madam," he said, turning to miss sampson, "is this girl mine, to offer such an affront to a friend?" at which miss lydia felt, just for an instant, that he _was_ nice. but the next moment the thought of his fury at mary made her feel sick. remembering it now, she said to herself, "it was awful in him to show his teeth that way, and to call mary--_that_." and again, "it wasn't gentlemanly in him to use an indelicate word about the baby." miss lydia's mind refused to repeat two of the new mr. smith's words. the dreadfulness of them made her forget his momentary chivalry for her. "mary is only a child," she said to herself; "and as for the baby, i'll take care of the little thing; i won't let it know that its own grandfather called it--no, it wasn't nice in mr. smith to say such words before a young lady like mary, or before me, either, though i'm a good deal older than mary. i'm glad i told him so!" (miss lydia telling zeus he wasn't "nice"!) this september midnight was the first secret which pounced upon miss lydia. the next was the new mr. smith's short and terrible interview with his prospective son-in-law: "you are never to set foot in this town." and then his order to his daughter: "nor you, either, unless you come without that man. and there are to be no letters to or from miss sampson, understand that! i am not going to have people putting two and two together." certainly no such mental arithmetic took place at the very gay smith wedding in the second week in september--a wedding with white ribbons up the aisle! yes, and a reception at the big house! and rice! and old slippers! but when the gayety was over, and the bride and groom drove off in great state, miss lydia waved to them from her front door, and then stood looking after the carriage with strange pitifulness in her face. how much they had missed, these two who, instead of the joy and wonder and mystery of going away together into their new world, were driving off, scarcely speaking to each other, tasting on their young lips the stale bitterness of stolen fruit! after the carriage was out of sight miss lydia walked down the road to the rectory, carrying, as was the habit of her exasperatingly generous poverty when calling on her friends, a present, a tumbler of currant jelly for doctor lavendar. but when the old man remonstrated, she did not, as usual, begin to excuse herself. she only said, point-blank: "doctor lavendar, is it ever right to tell lies to save other people?" doctor lavendar, jingling the happy bridegroom's two gold pieces in his pocket, said: "what? what?" "not to save yourself," said miss lydia; "i know you can't tell lies to save yourself." doctor lavendar stopped jingling his gold pieces and frowned; then he said: "miss lydia, the truth about ourselves is the only safe way to live. if other folks want to be safe let them tell their own truths. it doesn't often help them for us to do it for 'em. my own principle has been not to tell a lie about other folks' affairs, but to reserve the truth. understand?" "i think i do," said miss lydia, faintly, "but it's difficult." doctor lavendar looked at his two gold pieces thoughtfully. "lydia," he said, "it's like walking on a tight rope." then he chuckled, dismissed the subject, and spread out his eagles on the table. "look at 'em! aren't they pretty? you see how glad mary's young man was to get her. i'll go halves with you!" her recoil as he handed her one of the gold pieces made him give her a keen look; but all she said was: "oh _no_! i wouldn't touch it!" then she seemed to get herself together: "i don't need it, thank you, sir," she said. when she went away doctor lavendar, looking after her, thrust out his lower lip. "_lydia_ not 'need' an eagle?" he said. "how long since?" and after a while he added, "now, what on earth--?" old chester, too, said, "what on earth--?" when, in december, miss lydia turned the key in her front door and, with her carpetbag and bandbox, took the morning stage for mercer. and we said it again, a few weeks later, when mrs. barkley received a letter in which miss lydia said she had been visiting friends in indiana and had been asked by them to take care of a beautiful baby boy, and she was bringing him home with her, and she hoped mrs. barkley would give her some advice about taking care of babies, for she was afraid she didn't know much--("'much'?" mrs. barkley snorted. "she knows as much about babies as a wildcat knows about tatting!")--and she was, as ever, mrs. barkley's affectionate lyddy. the effect of this letter upon old chester can be imagined. mrs. drayton said, "what i would like to know is, _whose baby is it_?" mrs. barkley said in a deep bass: "where will lyddy get the money to take care of it? as for advising her, i advise her to leave it on the doorstep of its blood relations!" doctor lavendar said: "ho, hum! do you remember what the new mr. smith said about her when she gave her party? well, i agree with him!" which (if you recall mr. smith's exact words) was really a shocking thing for a minister of the gospel to say! mrs. william king said, firmly, that she called it murder, to intrust a child to miss lydia sampson. "she'll hold it upside down and never know the difference," said mrs. king; and then, like everybody else, she asked mrs. drayton's question "whose baby is it?" there were many answers, mostly to the effect that lydia was so scatterbrained--as witness her "party," and her blue-silk dress, and her broken engagements, etc., etc., that she was perfectly capable of letting anybody shove a foundling into her arms! mrs. drayton's own answer to her question was that the whole thing looked queer--"not that i would imply anything against poor lydia's character, but it looks _queer_; and if you count back--" miss lydia's reply--for of course the question was asked her as soon as she and the baby, and the bandbox and the carpetbag got off the stage one march afternoon--miss lydia's answer was brief: "a friend's." she did emerge from her secrecy far enough to say to mrs. barkley that she was to receive "an honorarium" for the support of the little darling. "of course i won't spend a cent of it on myself," she added, simply. "is it a child of shame?" said mrs. barkley, sternly. miss lydia's shocked face and upraised, protesting hands, answered her: "my baby's parents were married persons! after they--passed on, a friend of theirs intrusted the child to me." "when did they die?" miss lydia reflected. "i didn't ask the date." "well, considering the child's age, the mother's death couldn't have been very long ago," mrs. barkley said, dryly. and miss lydia said, in a surprised way, as if it had just occurred to her: "why, no, of course not! it was an accident," she added. "for the mother?" "for both parents," said miss sampson, firmly. and that was all old chester got out of her. "well," said mrs. drayton, "_i_ am always charitable, but uncharitable persons might wonder. . . . it was last may, you know, that that rives man deserted her at the altar." "only fool persons would wonder anything like that about lydia sampson!" said mrs. barkley, fiercely. . . . but even in old chester there were two or three fools, so for their especial benefit mrs. barkley, who had her own views about miss sampson's wisdom in undertaking the care of a baby, but who would not let that drayton female speak against her, spread abroad the information that miss lydia's baby's parents, who had lived out west, had both been killed at the same time in an accident. "what kind?" "carriage, i believe," said mrs. barkley; "but they left sufficient money to support the child. so," she added, "old chester need have no further anxiety about lydia's poverty. their names? oh--smith." she had the presence of mind to tell lydia she had named the baby, and though miss lydia gave a little start--for she had thought of some more distinguished name for her charge--"smith," and the western parents and the carriage accident passed into history. chapter ii during the first year that the "smith" baby lived outside the brick wall of mr. smith's place, the iron gates of the driveway were not opened, because business obliged mr. smith to be in europe. (oh, said old chester, so that was why mary's wedding had to be hurried up?) when he returned to his native land he never, as he drove past, looked at the youngster playing in miss lydia's dooryard. then once johnny (he was three years old) ran after his ball almost under the feet of the smith horses, and as he was pulled from between the wheels his grandfather couldn't help seeing him. "don't do that tomfool thing again!" the old man shouted, and johnny, clasping his recovered ball, grinned at him. "he sinks johnny 'f'aid," the little fellow told miss lydia. a month or two afterward johnny threw a stone at the victoria and involuntarily mr. smith glanced in the direction from which it came. but, of course, human nature being like story books, he did finally notice his grandson. at intervals he spoke to miss lydia, and when johnny was six years old he even stopped one day long enough to give the child a quarter. mr. smith had aged very much after his daughter's marriage--and no wonder, old chester said, for he must be lonely in that big house, and mary never coming to see him! such behavior on the part of a daughter puzzled old chester. we couldn't understand it--unless it was that mr. smith didn't get along with his son-in-law? and mary, of course, didn't visit her father because a dutiful wife always agrees with her husband! a sentiment which places old chester chronologically. the day that mr. smith bestowed the quarter upon his grandson he spoke of his daughter's "dutifulness" to miss lydia. driving toward his house, he overtook two trudging figures, passed them by a rod or two, then called to the coachman to stop. "i'll walk," he said, briefly, and waited, in the dust of his receding carriage until miss lydia and her boy reached him. johnny was trudging along, pulling his express wagon, which was full of apples picked up on the path below an apple tree that leaned over the girdling wall of the smith place. as miss lydia approached her landlord her heart came up in her throat; it always did when she saw him, because she remembered the olympian thunders he had loosed on that awful night six years ago. "how do?" said mr. smith. his dark eyes under bristling, snow-white eyebrows blazed at her. he didn't notice the little boy. "how do you do?" said miss lydia, in a small voice. she looked tousled and breathless and rather spotted, and so little that mr. smith must have felt he could blow her away if he wanted to. apparently he didn't want to. he only said: "you--ah, never hear from--ah, my daughter, i suppose, miss sampson?" "no, sir," said miss lydia. "she doesn't care to visit me without her husband, and i won't have him under my roof!" his lip lifted for an instant and showed his teeth. "i see her when i go to philadelphia, and she writes me duty letters occasionally, but she never mentions--" "doesn't she?" said miss lydia. "i don't, either. but i just want to say that if you ever need any--ah, extra--" "i don't, thank you." then, reluctantly, the flashing black eyes looked down at johnny. "doesn't resemble--anybody? well, young man!" "say, 'how do you do?' johnny," miss lydia commanded, faintly. "how do?" johnny said, impatiently. he was looking over his apples and, discovering some bruised ones, frowned and threw them away. "where did you get your apples?" said mr. smith. "on the road," said johnny; "they ain't yours when they drop on the road." "say 'aren't,' johnny," said miss lydia. "it isn't nice to say 'ain't.'" "why aren't they mine?" said the old man. he was towering up above the two little figures, his feet wide apart, his hands behind him, switching his cane back and forth like a tail. "'cause i've got 'em," johnny explained, briefly. "ha! the nine-tenths! you'll be a lawyer, sir!" his grandfather said. "suppose i say, 'give me some'?" "i won't," said johnny. "oh, you won't, eh? you'll be a politician!" mr. smith said. "it isn't right to say, 'i won't,'" miss lydia corrected johnny, panting. mr. smith did not notice her nervousness; the boy's attitude, legs wide apart, hands behind him, clutching the tongue of his express wagon, held his eye. "he's like me!" he thought, with a thrill. "isn't it right to say, 'i won't say i won't'?" johnny countered. "jesuit!" mr. smith said, chuckling. "the church is the place for him, miss sampson." "anyway," johnny said, crossly, "i _will not_ give any of my apples back. they're mine." "how do you make that out?" said mr. smith. (and in an undertone to miss lydia, "no fool, eh?") "because i picked 'em up," said johnny. "well, here's a quarter," said his grandfather, putting his hand in his pocket. johnny took the coin with an air of satisfaction, but even as he slid it into his pocket he took it out again. "looky here," he said. "i thought i'd buy a pony with it, but i don't mind paying you for your apples--" and he held out the quarter. mr. smith laughed as he had not laughed for a long time. "you're a judge of horseflesh!" he said, and walked off, switching his tail behind him. [illustration: "i will not give any of my apples back. they're mine"] the story-book plot should begin here--the rich grandfather meets the unacknowledged grandchild, loves him, and makes him his heir--and, of course, incidentally, showers his largess upon the poor and virtuous lady who has cared for the little foundling; so everybody lives happy and dies wealthy. this intelligent arrangement of fiction might have been carried out if only miss lydia had behaved differently! but about two years later her behavior-- "she's put a spoke in my wheel!" mr. smith told himself, blankly. it was when johnny was eight that the spoke blocked the grandfather's progress. . . . he had gradually grown to know the boy very well, and, after much backing and filling in his own mind, decided to adopt him. he did not reach this decision easily, for there were risks in such an arrangement; resemblances might develop, and people might put two and two together! however, each time he decided that the risk was too great, a glimpse of johnny--stealing a ride by hanging on behind his grandfather's victoria, or going in swimming in deeper water than some of the older boys were willing to essay, or, once, blacking another fellow's eye--such a glimpse of his own flesh and blood gave him courage. courage gained the day when his grandson had scarlet fever and william king, meeting him after a call at miss lydia's, happened to say that johnny was a pretty sick child. the new mr. smith felt his heart under his spreading white beard contract sharply. "sick! very sick? good god! the wet hen won't know how to take care of him!" his alarm was so obvious that doctor king looked at him in surprise. "you are fond of the little fellow?" "oh, i see him playing around my gate," mr. smith said, and walked off quickly, lest he should find himself urging more advice, or a nurse, or what not. "king would wonder what earthly difference it could make to me!" he said to himself, in a panic of secrecy. it made enough difference to cause him to write to his daughter: "i hear the child is very sick and may die. congratulations to robertson." mary, reading the cruel words and never guessing the anxiety which had dictated them, grew white with anger. "i will never forgive father!" she said to herself, and went over to her husband and put her soft hands on his shoulders and kissed him. "carl," she said, "the--the little boy is sick"; his questioning look made her add, "oh, he'll get well"--but she must have felt some unspoken recoil in her husband, for she cried out, in quick denial, "of course i don't want anything to--to happen to him!" they did not speak of johnny's illness for two or three days; then mary said, "if anything had happened, we should have heard by this time?" and carl said, "oh, of course." when johnny was well again his grandfather's fear that doctor king might "wonder," ebbed. "it's safe enough to take him," he said to himself; "he doesn't look like anybody. and if i adopt him i can see that he's properly educated--and it will scare robertson to death!" he added, viciously, and showed his teeth. he even discussed adopting his grandchild with doctor lavendar: "mary hasn't done her duty," he said. "i've no grandchildren! i've a great mind to adopt some youngster. i'm fond of children." "good idea," said doctor lavendar. "i've taken a fancy to that little rascal who lives just at my gate. bright youngster. not a cowardly streak in him! quick-tempered, i'm afraid. but _i_ never blame anybody for that! i've thought, once or twice, that i'd adopt him." "and miss lydia, too?" doctor lavendar inquired, mildly. "oh, i should look after her, of course," said mr. smith. but it was still another six months before he really made up his mind. "i'll do it!" he said to himself. "but i suppose," he reflected, "i ought to tell mary--and the skunk." he went on to philadelphia for the purpose of telling mary, but he did it when carl was not present. mary blenched. "father, _don't_! people might--" "damn people! i like the boy. you're a coward, mary, and so is--robertson." "no! he isn't! carl isn't. i am." "i won't compromise you," he ended, contemptuously. "tell robertson i mean to do it. if he has anything to say he can say it in a letter." then he kissed her perfunctorily and said, "goo'-by--goo'-by," and took the night train for mercer. he lost no time when he got back to old chester in putting his plan through. the very next afternoon, knowing that johnny would be at doctor lavendar's collect class, he called on miss lydia. miss sampson's little house was more comfortable than it used to be; the quarterly check which came from "some one" patched up leaky roofs, and bought a new carpet, and did one or two other things; but it did not procure any luxuries, either for johnny or for herself, and it never made miss lydia look like anything but a small, bedraggled bird; her black frizette still got crooked and dipped over one soft blue eye, and she was generally shabby--except on the rare occasions when she wore the blue silk--and her parlor always looked as if a wind had blown through it. "i wouldn't _touch_ their money for myself!" she used to think, and saved every cent to give to johnny when he grew up. into her helter-skelter house came, on this saturday afternoon, her landlord. he had knocked on her front door with the gold head of his cane, and when she opened it he had said, "how do? how do?" and walked ahead of her into her little parlor. it was so little and he was so big that he seemed to fill the room. miss lydia said, in a fluttered voice, "how do you do?" "miss sampson," he said--he had seated himself in a chair that creaked under his ruddy bulk and he put both hands on the top of his cane; his black eyes were friendly and amused--"i've had it in mind for some time to have a little talk with you." "yes, sir," said miss lydia. "i need not go back to--to a painful experience that we both remember." miss lydia put her head on one side in a puzzled way, as if her memory had failed her. "you will know that i appreciated your attitude at that time. i appreciated it deeply." miss lydia rolled her handkerchief into a wabbly lamplighter; she seemed to have nothing to say. "i have come here now, not merely to tell you this, but to add that i intend to relieve you of the care of--ah, the little boy." miss lydia was silent. "there are things i should like to give him. he says he wants a pony. and i mean to educate him. it would seem strange to do this as an outsider; it might cause--ah, comment. so i am going to take him." "any grandfather would want to," said lydia sampson. mr. smith raised his bushy eyebrows. "well, we won't put it on that ground. but i like the boy, though i hear he gets into fights; i'm afraid he has the devil of a temper," said mr. smith, chuckling proudly. "but i've watched him, and he's no coward and no fool, either. in fact, i hear that he is a wonder mathematically. god knows where he got his brains! well, i am going to adopt him. but that will make no difference in your income. that is assured to you as long as you live. i am indebted to you, miss sampson. profoundly indebted." "not at all," said miss lydia. "i shall have a governess for him," said mr. smith; "but i hope you will not be too much occupied"--his voice was very genial, and as he spoke he bore down hard on his cane and began to struggle to his feet--"not too much occupied to keep a friendly eye upon him." he was standing now, a rather jove-like figure, before whom miss lydia looked really like a little brown grasshopper. "yes, i trust you will not lose your interest in him," he ended. "i won't," she said, faintly. "i have made all the arrangements," said johnny's grandfather. "i simply told--ah, the people who know about him, that i was going to take him." he was standing, switching his cane behind him; it hit an encroaching table leg and he apologized profusely. "mary was badly scared. as if i could not manage a thing like that! i like to scare--him"--the new mr. smith lifted his upper lip, and his teeth gleamed--"but, of course, i told her not to worry. well, i hope you will see him frequently." "i shall," said miss lydia. "of course you and i must tell the same story as to his antecedents. so if you will let me know how you have accounted for him, i'll be a very good parrot!" "i haven't told any stories. i just let people call him smith, and i just said--to johnny, and everybody--that i was a friend of his mother's. that's true, you know." "it is true, madam; it is, indeed!" said mary's father. he bowed with grave courtliness. "there was never a better friend than you, miss sampson." "i've been very careful not to tell anything that wasn't true," said miss lydia. "i told johnny his father and mother had lived out west; they did, you know, for four months. johnny began to ask questions when he was only five; he said he wished _he_ had a mother like other little boys. i had to tell him something, so i told him her name had been norton. that is true, you know. mary's middle name is norton. and i said i didn't know of any cousins or uncles; and that's true. and i said 'i had been told' that his father and mother had been killed in a carriage accident. i _was_ told so; people made it up," said miss lydia, simply, "so i just let 'em. i never said his parents had died that way. well, it made johnny cry. he used to say: 'poor mamma! poor mamma!' i haven't told what you'd call lies; i have only reserved the truth." "pathetic, his 'wanting' a mother," said mr. smith. "damn my son-in-law! excuse me, madam." "it would be nice if you would forgive him," miss lydia suggested, timidly. he shrugged his shoulders. "i never forgive. . . . well, i will keep up the geographical fiction and the runaway horses. and now i must not detain you further. i will take the boy to-morrow." he put out his big hand, and miss lydia, putting her little one into it, said: "who is going to adopt him?" "who?" said mr. smith. "why, i! who did you suppose was going to--robertson? my dear miss sampson, reassure yourself on that point! that hound shall never get hold of him!" "of course," miss lydia agreed, nodding, "johnny's parents, or his grandfather, have a right to him." mr. smith was just leaving the room, but he paused on the threshold and flung a careless word back to her: "his parents could never take him. the thing would come out." "if his _grandfather_ takes him it will come out," said miss lydia, following him into the hall. "yes, but his 'grandfather' won't take him," the old man said, with a grunt of amusement; "it is 'mr. smith' who is going to do that." "'mr. smith' can't." her caller turned and stared at her blankly. "his 'grandfather' can have him," said miss lydia. "_what!_" "his relations can have johnny." "but i--" "if you are a relation," miss lydia said--her voice was only a little whisper--"you can have him." they stood there in the hall, the big man, and the small, battling gambler of a woman, who was staking her most precious possession--a disowned child--on the chance that the pride of the man would outweigh his desire for ownership. their eyes--misty, frightened blue, and flashing black--seemed to meet and clash. "he won't dare," she was saying to herself, her heart pounding in her throat. and johnny's grandfather was saying to himself, very softly, "the devil!" he bent a little, as an elephant might stoop to scrutinize a grasshopper which was trying to block his way, and looked at her. then he roared with laughter. "well, upon my word!" he said. he put his cane under his arm, fumbled for his handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. "miss sampson," he said, "you are a bully. and you would be a highly successful blackmailer. but you are no coward; i'll say that for you. you are a damned game little party! i'll see to you, ma'am, i'll see to you!--_and i'll get the child_. but i like you. damned if i don't!" chapter iii the gambler went on her trembling legs back to her cluttered parlor and sat down, panting and pallid. the throw of the dice had been in her favor! it was curious that she had no misgiving as to what she was doing in thus closing the door of opportunity to johnny--for of course, the new mr. smith's protection would mean every sort of material opportunity for him! if it had been his "grandfather's" protection which had been offered, perhaps she might have hesitated, for that would have meant material opportunity plus a love great enough to tell the truth; and miss lydia's own love--which was but a spiritual opportunity--could not compete with that! as it was, she tested opportunities by saying, "his _grandfather_ can have him." of course it was just her old method of choosing the better part. . . . all her life this gallant, timid woman had weighed values. she had weighed the reputation of being a jilt as against marriage to a man she did not respect--and she found the temporary notoriety of the first lighter than the lifelong burden of the second. she weighed values again, when she put her hundred dollars' worth of generosity on one side of the scales, and william's meanness on the other--and when generosity kicked the beam she was glad to be jilted. she had even weighed the painful unrealities of concealed poverty as against open shabbiness, and she saw that a dress she couldn't afford was a greater load to carry than the consciousness of the spot on her old skirt--especially as the spot was glorified by the memory of a friend's hospitality! so now, when the new mr. smith considered adopting her boy, this simple soul weighed values for johnny: mr. smith--or johnny's grandfather? pride--or love? and pride outweighed love. miss lydia put her hands over her face and prayed aloud: "god, keep him proud, so i can keep johnny!" apparently god did, for it was only "mr. smith" who made further efforts to get her child. they were very determined efforts. miss lydia's landlord saw her again, and urged. she met what he had to say with a speechless obstinacy which made him extremely angry. when he saw her a third time he offered her an extraordinary increase in the honorarium--for which he had the grace five minutes later to apologize. he saw her once more, and threatened he would "take" johnny, anyhow! "how?" said poor, shaking miss lydia. then, as a last resort, he sent his lawyer to her, which scared her almost to death. but the interview produced, for mr. smith, nothing except legal assurance that he could doubtless secure the person of his grandson by appealing to the courts _in the character of a grandfather_--for miss lydia had never taken out papers for adoption. "the lady has nine-tenths of the law," said mr. smith's legal adviser, who had been consulted, first, as to a hypothetical case, and then told the facts. "the other one-tenth won't secure a child whom you don't claim as a relative. and the law means publicity." "the hussy!" said mr. smith. "she's put a spoke in my wheel." "she has," said the lawyer, and grinned behind his hand. mr. smith glared at him. "that little wet hen!" well! after one or two more efforts, he swallowed his defeat, and, though for nearly a year he would not recognize miss lydia when he met her in the street, he made fast friends with the freckled, very pugnacious boy at his gates. he used to stop and speak to him and tell him to say his multiplication table, and then give him a quarter and walk off, greatly diverted. sometimes when he saw his daughter in philadelphia, he would tell her, sardonically, that "that child" had more brains than his father and mother put together! "not than his father," poor, cowering mary would protest. and her father, looking at her with unforgiving eyes, would say, "i wish i owned him." ("i like to scare 'em!" he added to himself.) he certainly scared mary. scared her, and made her feel a strange anger, because he had something which did not belong to him; "after all, the boy is _ours_," she told her husband. she always went to bed with a headache after one of mr. smith's visits. as for carl, his face would grow crimson with helpless mortification under the gibes of his father-in-law as mary repeated them to him. once, when she told him that her father had "taken the boy home to supper with him," he swore under his breath, and she agreed, hurriedly: "father was simply mad to notice him! people will guess--" but carl broke in: "oh, i didn't mean _that_. no one would ever suspect anything. i meant, what right has _he_ to get fond of--the boy?" "not the slightest!" mary said. and they neither of them knew that they were beginning to be jealous. the occasion of mr. smith's "madness" was one winter afternoon when, meeting johnny in the road, he took him into his carriage, then sent word to miss lydia that he was keeping the child to supper. he put him in a big chair at the other end of the table and baited him with questions, and roared with laughter and pride at his replies. also, he gave him good advice, as a grandfather should: "i hear you are a bad boy and get into fights. never fight, sir, never fight! but if you do fight, lick your man." "yes, sir," said johnny. "and don't be afraid to tackle a bigger man than yourself. only cowards are afraid to do that!" "yes, sir," said johnny. "but of course i don't approve of fighting. only bad boys fight. remember that!" "yes, sir," said johnny, and scraped his plate loudly to attract the attention of old alfred, his grandfather's man, who, familiar and friendly from thirty years' service, said, as he brought the desired flannel cakes, "the little man holds his fork just as you do, sir!" at which mr. smith stopped laughing, and said: "miss sampson ought to teach him better manners." he did not invite johnny to supper again, which would have been a relief to mary if she had known it; and was just as well, anyhow, for miss lydia, quaking at her own supper table (while johnny was "holding his fork" in his grandfather's fashion!) had said to herself, "i'll tell him to say, 'no, thank you, sir,' if mr. smith ever asks him again." it was about this time that miss lydia's landlord softened toward her sufficiently to bow to her as he passed her house. once he even stopped her in the street to ask the particulars of one of johnny's escapades: it appeared that a boy--one of the mack boys, as it happened, who was always in hot water in old chester--got the credit of a smashed sash in mr. steele's greenhouse, which was really johnny's doing; and in spite of sniffling denials, the (for once) innocent mack boy was just about to get what the irate owner of the sash called a walloping, when johnny smith, breathless, and mad as a hatter, rushed into the greenhouse to say, "it was me done it!"--upon which the richly deserved walloping was handed over to the real culprit. later, for some private grudge, johnny paid it all back to young mack, but for the moment--"i take my medicine," said johnny, showing his teeth. "i don't hide behind another feller. but you bet i'll smash andy steele's hotbed sashes every chance i get!" poor little miss lydia was frightened to death at such a wicked remark, and prayed that god would please forgive johnny; and she was very bewildered to have mr. smith, listening to this dreadful story, chuckle with delight: "he'll come to a bad end, the scoundrel! tell him i say i expect he'll be hanged. i'll give him a quarter for every pane he broke." after this interview mr. smith used to call on miss lydia occasionally just to inquire what was johnny's latest crime, and once he invited his tenant to supper, "with your young scamp," his invitation ran. she went, and wore her blue silk, and sat on the edge of her chair, watching the grandfather and grandson, while the vein on her thin temple throbbed with fright. but it took another year of longing for his own flesh and blood before the new mr. smith reached an amazing, though temporary, decision. "i'll have him," he said to himself; "i _will_ have him! i'll swallow the wet hen, if i can't get him any other way. i'll--i'll marry the woman." . . . but he hesitated for still another month or two, for, though he wanted his grandson, he did not hanker to make a fool of himself; and a rich man in the late seventies who marries an impecunious spinster in the fifties looks rather like a fool. but when he finally reached the point of swallowing miss lydia he lost no time in walking out from his iron gates one fine afternoon and banging on her front door with his stick. when she opened it he announced that he had something he wanted to say. in his own mind, the words he proposed to speak were to this effect: "i'm going to marry you--to get the boy." to be sure, he would not express it just that way--one has to go round robin hood's barn in talking to females! so he began: "i have been planning more comfortable quarters for you, ma'am, than this house. more suitable quarters for my--for the boy; and i--" then he stopped. somehow or other, looking at miss lydia, sitting there so small and frightened and brave, he was suddenly ashamed. he could not offer this gallant soul the indignity of a bribe! "if i can't get the boy by fair means, i won't by foul," he told himself; so instead of offering himself, he talked about the weather; "and--and i want you to know that johnny shall be put down for something handsome in my will. it won't be suspicious. everybody in old chester knows that i like him--living here at my gates; though he has the devil of a temper! bad thing. very bad thing. he should control it. i've always controlled mine." miss lydia felt a sudden wave of pity; he was so helpless, and she was so powerful--and so lucky! all she said, in her breathless voice, was that he "was very kind--about the will." johnny's grandfather, looking into her sweet, blue eyes, suddenly said--and with no thought whatever of johnny--"i wish i was twenty years younger!" the wistful genuineness of that was the nearest he came to asking her to marry him. he went home feeling, as he walked up to his great, empty house, very old and forlorn, and yet relieved that he had not offered an affront to miss lydia nor, incidentally, made a fool of himself. then he thought with the old, hot anger, of carl robertson, and with a dreary impatience of his daughter; it was their doing that he couldn't own his own grandson! "well, the boy shall have his grandfather's money," he said to himself, stumbling a little as he went up the flight of granite steps to his front door. "every bit of it! i don't care whether people think things or not. damn 'em, let them think! what difference does it make? robertson can go to hell." he was so dulled that, for the moment, he forgot that if robertson went to hell mary would have to go, too. later that night his tired mind cleared, and he knew it wouldn't do to let johnny have his "grandfather's" money, and that even mr. smith's money must be bestowed with caution. "i'll leave a bequest that won't compromise mary, but she and robertson must somehow do the rest. i'll send for her next week and tell her what to do; and then i'll fix up a codicil." but next week he said _next_ week; and after that he thought, listlessly, that he wasn't equal to seeing her. "she's fond of robertson--i can't stand that! i never forgive." so he didn't send for his daughter. but a week later william king did. . . . "i suppose i've got to go?" mary told her husband, looking up from the doctor's telegram with scared eyes. "it wouldn't be decent not to," he said. "but _he_ is right there, by the gate! i might see him. oh--i don't dare!" "women are queer," johnny's father ruminated. "i should think you'd like to see him. i guess all this mother-love talk is a fairy tale"; then, before she could retort, he put his arms around her. "i didn't mean it, dear! forgive me. only, mary, i get to thinking about him, and i feel as if i'd like to see the little beggar!" "but how can i 'love' him?" she defended herself, in a smothered voice; "i don't know him." "stop and speak to him while you're at your father's," he urged; "and then you will know him." "oh, i couldn't--i couldn't! i'd be afraid to." "but why? nobody could possibly suppose--" "because," she said, "if i saw him once _i might want to see him again_." carl frowned with bewilderment, but johnny's mother began to pace up and down, back and forth--then suddenly flew out of the room and upstairs, to fall, crying, upon her bed. however, she obeyed doctor king's summons. the day the stage went jogging and creaking past miss lydia's door the lady inside looked straight ahead of her, and some one who saw her said she was very pale--"anxious about her father," old chester said, sympathetically. then old chester wondered whether carl was so unchristian as to refuse to come and see his father-in-law--"on his deathbed!"--or whether old mr. smith "on his death bed" was so unchristian as to refuse to see his son-in-law. "what _did_ they quarrel about!" old chester said. "certainly mr. smith seemed friendly enough to the young man before mary married him." [illustration: "if i saw him once i might want to see him again"] when mary--she was in the early thirties now, and johnny was thirteen--came into her father's room and sat down beside him, the old man opened his eyes and looked at her. "pleasant journey?" he said, thickly. "yes, father. i hope you are feeling better?" his eyes closed and he seemed to forget her. later, looking up at her from the pillows of his great carved rosewood bed--the headboard looked like the gothic doors of a cathedral--he said, "tell your husband"--he lifted his upper lip and showed his teeth--"to educate him." mary said, "who?"--then could have bitten her tongue out, for of course there was only one "him" for these three people! she gave a frightened glance about the room, but there was no one to hear that betraying pronoun. she said, faintly: "yes, father. now try to rest and don't talk. you'll feel better in the morning." "he hates a coward as much as i do," mr. smith mumbled. "and he has brains; doesn't get 'em from you two. guess he gets 'em from me." "father! please--_please_!" she said, in a terrified whisper. "somebody might hear." "they're welcome. mary . . . he handed me back my own quarter for my own apples. no fool." he gave a grunt of laughter. "he said, 'twelve times twelve' like lightning--when he was only ten! . . . last year he took his own licking, though the mack boy was in for it. . . . i'm going to give him a pony." after that he seemed to forget her and slept for a while. a day or two later he forgot everything, even johnny. the last person he remembered, curiously enough, was miss lydia sampson. it was when he was dying that he said, suddenly opening those marvelous eyes and smiling faintly: "little wet hen! damned game little party. stood right up to me. . . . wish i'd married her thirteen years ago. then there'd have been no fuss about my grandson." "_grandson?_" said doctor king, in a whisper to mrs. robertson. and she whispered back, "he is wandering." when mary's husband arrived for the funeral and for the reading of the will (in which there was nothing "handsome" for johnny!) the doctor told him of the new mr. smith's last words; and mr. robertson said, hurriedly, "delirious, of course." "i suppose so," said doctor king. but when he walked home with doctor lavendar, after the funeral, he said, "have you any idea who johnny smith belongs to, doctor lavendar?" "miss lydia," said doctor lavendar, promptly. to which william king replied, admiringly, "i have never understood how anybody _could_ look as innocent as you, and yet be so chock-full of other people's sins! wonder if his mother will ever claim him?" "wonder if miss lydia would give him up if she did?" doctor lavendar said. "she'd have to," william said. "on the principle that a 'mother is a mother still, the holiest thing alive'?" doctor lavendar quoted. "on the principle of ownership," said william king. "as to a mother being a 'holy thing,' i have never noticed that the mere process of child-bearing produces sanctity." "william," said doctor lavendar, "mrs. drayton would say you were indelicate. also, i believe you know that two and two make four?" "i have a pretty good head for arithmetic," said william king, "but i only added things up a day or two ago." chapter iv after mr. smith's death the robertsons stayed on in old chester to close the house. mary hardly left it, even to walk in the garden behind the circling brick wall. but she sent her husband on innumerable errands into old chester, and when he came back she would say, "did you see--_him_?" and sometimes johnny's father would say, "yes." "you didn't speak to him?" she would ask, in a panic. "of course not! but he's an attractive boy." once he added, "why don't you go and call on miss lydia--and see him yourself?" she caught her soft hands together in terror. "go to miss lydia's? i? oh, i couldn't! oh, carl, don't you see--_i might like him_!" "you couldn't help it if you saw him." "that's just it! i don't want to like him. nothing would induce me to see him." yet there came a moment when the urge of maternity was greater than the instinct of secrecy, greater even than the fear of awakening in herself that "liking" which would inevitably mean pain. she and johnny's father were to leave old chester the next day; for a week she had been counting the hours until they would start, and she could turn her back on this gnawing temptation! but when that last day came, she vacillated: "i'll just walk down and look at miss lydia's; he might be going in or coming out. . . . no! i won't; he might see me, and think-- . . . i must--i must. . . . oh, i _can't_, i won't!" yet in the late afternoon she slipped out of the house and went stealthily down the carriage road, and, standing in the shadow of one of the great stone gateposts, stared over at miss lydia's open door. as she stood there she heard a sound. her heart leaped--and fell, shuddering. just once in her life had she felt that elemental pang; it was when another sound, the little, thin cry of birth pierced her ears. now the sound was of laughter, the shrill, cracking laughter of an adolescent boy. she crept back to the big house, so exhausted that she said to old alfred, "tell mr. robertson that i have a headache, and am lying down." later, when her husband, full of concern at her discomfort, came upstairs to sit on the edge of her bed and ask her how she felt, she told him what had happened. "i wouldn't see him for anything," she said, gasping; "even his voice just about killed me! oh, carl, suppose i were to like him? oh, what shall i do?--_i don't want to like him._" "why, my dear, it would be all right if you did," he tried to reassure her. "there's no reason why you shouldn't see him once in a while--and like him, too. _i_ like him, though i haven't spoken to him. but i'm going to." "oh, carl, don't--" she besought him. but he said: "don't worry. you know i would never do anything rash." and the next day he stopped boldly at miss lydia's door, and talked about the weather, and gave johnny a dollar. "go downstreet and buy something," he said. and johnny said, "thank you, sir!" and went off, whistling. "he's a promising boy," mr. robertson said, in a low voice. miss lydia was extremely nervous during this five minutes. she had been nervous during the weeks that mary and carl were up there in the big house. suppose they should see just how "promising" johnny was--and want him?--and say they would take him? then she would reassure herself: "they can only take their son--and they don't want _him_!" yet she was infinitely relieved when, the next day, the smith house was finally closed and the "for sale or to let" sign put up on the iron gates that shut the graveled driveway from old chester's highroad. "they'll sell the house and never come back," she told herself. and indeed johnny was a year older, a year more plucky and high-tempered and affectionate, before miss lydia had any further cause for uneasiness. then, suddenly, mr. carl robertson appeared in town; he came, he said, to make sure that the still unsold smith house was not getting dilapidated. while he was looking it over he took occasion to tell several people that that boy who lived with the old lady in the house by the gate was an attractive youngster. "i suppose," said mr. robertson, "mary ought to sell that house to settle the estate, but she says she won't turn the old lady out. the little beggar she takes care of seems a nice little chap." then he said, casually, "who were his father and mother?" "that's what nobody knows," some one said; then added, significantly, "lydia is very secretive." and some one else said, "there _is_ a suspicion that the child is her own." "her _own_?" carl robertson gaped, open-mouthed. and when he turned his back on this particular gossip his face was darkly red. "somebody in this town needs a horse-whipping!" he told himself; "god forbid that miss sampson knows there are such fools in the world!" he was so angry and ashamed that his half-formed wish to do something for the child crystallized into purpose. but before he made any effort to carry his purpose out he discounted public opinion. "nothing like truth to throw people off the track," he reflected. so, with the frankness which may be such a perfect screen for lack of candor, he put everybody he met off the track by saying he was going to give miss lydia a hand in bringing up that boy of hers. "very generous," said mrs. barkley, and told old chester that the fat mr. robertson was an agreeable person, and she did wonder why his father-in-law had not got along with him! "the reason i spoke of it to mrs. barkley," carl robertson told miss lydia, "was that i knew she'd inform everybody in town. so that if, later on, i want to see the--the boy, once in a while, it won't set people gossiping." it was the night before he was leaving old chester that he said this. they were in miss lydia's parlor; the door was closed, for johnny was in the dining room, doing his examples, one leg around the leg of his chair, his tongue out, and breathing heavily: "farmer jones sold ten bushels of wheat at--" "i do want to see more of him," mr. robertson said; "and i want mary to." "do you?" said miss lydia. "well, he's ours, and--" "he's his father's and mother's," she conceded; "they would naturally want to see him." "yes," carl robertson said; "but of course we could never do more than that. we could never have him." miss lydia felt her legs trembling, and she put her hands under her black silk apron lest they might tremble, too. "no," she agreed, "i suppose you couldn't." he nodded. "it would be impossible; people must never suspect--" he stopped through sheer shame at the thought of all the years he had hidden behind this small, scared-looking woman, who had had no place to hide from a ridiculous but pursuing suspicion. when he got back to philadelphia and told his wife about the boy, he said, "some of those old cats in old chester actually thought he was--her own child." "what!" "fools. but, mary, she never betrayed us--that little old woman! she never told the truth." "she never knew it was said." "god knows, i hope she didn't. . . . we ought to have kept him." "carl! you know we couldn't; it would have been impossible!" "well, we cared more for our reputations than for our--son," he said. for a moment that poignant word startled mary into silence; then she said, breathlessly: "but, carl, that isn't common sense! what about--the boy himself? would it have been a good thing for him that people should know?" "it might have been a good thing for us," he said; "and it couldn't be any worse for him than it is. everybody thinks he's illegitimate." he paused, and then he said a really profound thing--for a fat, selfish man. "mary, i believe there isn't any _real_ welfare that's built on a lie. if it was to do over again i'd stand up to my own cussed folly." "you don't seem to consider me!" she said, bitterly. but he only said, slowly, "he's the finest little chap you ever saw." "pretty?" she said, forgetting her bitterness. "oh, he's a boy, a real boy. freckled. and when he's mad he shows his teeth, just as your father used to; i saw him in a fight. no; of course he's not 'pretty.'" "i'd like to see him--if i wasn't afraid to," she said. she was thirty-four now, a sad, idle, rich woman, with only three interests in life: eating and shopping and keeping the secret which made her cringe whenever she thought of it, which, since the night she heard johnny laugh, was pretty much all the time. it was the shopping interest that by and by united with the interest of the secret; it occurred to her that she might give "him" something. she would buy him a pair of skates! "but you must send them to him, carl." "why don't you do it yourself?" "it would look queer. people might--think." "well, they 'thought' about that poor little woman." "idiots! she's a hundred years old!" mary said, jealously. "she wasn't when he was born," her husband said, wearily. he probably loved his wife, but since that day when she had flung away the lure of mystery, her mind had ceased to interest him. this was cruel and unjust, but it was male human nature. "why don't you get acquainted with the youngster?" carl said, yawning. "_carl!_ you know it wouldn't do. besides, how could i?" "we could take the house ourselves next summer. there's some furniture in it still. it would come about naturally enough. and he would be at our gates." "oh no--_no_! maybe he looks like me." "no, he doesn't. didn't i tell you he isn't particularly good-looking?" "maybe he looks like you?" she objected, simply. and he laughed, and said, "thank you, my dear!" but mary didn't laugh. she got up and stood staring out of the window into the rainy street; "you send him the skates," she said; "you've seen him, so it wouldn't seem queer." the skates were sent, and johnny's mother was eager to see johnny's smudgy and laborious letter acknowledging "mr. robertson's kind present." "that's a very nice little letter!" she said; "he must be clever, like you. i'll buy some books for him." that was in january. by april johnny and his books and his multiplication table and his freckles were almost constantly in her mind. it was about the middle of april that she said to her husband: "if you haven't a tenant, i suppose we might open father's house for a month? perhaps being there would be better than--giving presents? if i saw him just once i shouldn't want to give him things." "i'm afraid you'd want to more than ever," he demurred, which, of course, made her protest: "oh no, i shouldn't! do let's do it!" "well," he conceded, in triumphant reluctance--for it was what he had wanted her to say--"if you insist. but i don't believe you'll like it." so that was how it happened that the weatherworn "for sale or to let" sign was taken down, and the rusty iron gates were opened, and the weedy graveled driveway made clean and tidy as it used to be in johnny's grandfather's time. johnny himself was immensely interested in all that went on in the way of renovation, and in the beautiful horses that came down before mr. and mrs. robertson arrived. "aunty, they must be pretty rich," he said. "they are," said miss lydia. "i guess if they had a boy they'd give him a pony," johnny said, sighing. "very likely," miss lydia told him. and she, too, watched the opening up of the big house with her frightened blue eyes. "lydia, you're losing flesh," mrs. barkley said in an anxious bass. indeed, all old chester was anxious about miss sampson's looks that summer. "what _is_ the matter?" said old chester. but miss lydia, although she really did grow thin, never said what was the matter. "i do dislike secretiveness!" said mrs. drayton; "i call it vulgar." "i wonder what she calls curiosity?" doctor lavendar said when this remark was repeated to him. miss lydia may have been vulgar, but her vulgarity did not save her from terror. when mary drove past the little house, the grasshopper's heart was in her mouth! would johnny's mother stop?--or would mrs. robertson go by? there came, of course, the inevitable day when the mother stopped. . . . it was in june, a day of white clouds racing in a blue sky, and tree tops bending and swaying and locust blossoms showering on the grass. johnny was engaged in trying to lure his cat out of a pear tree, into which a dog had chased her. "stop!" mary robertson called to the coachman; then, leaning forward, she tried to speak. her breath came with a gasp. "are you the--the boy who lives with miss sampson?" "yes'm," johnny said. "kitty, kitty!" then he called: "say, aunty! let's try her with milk!" miss lydia, coming to the door with a saucer of milk, stood for a paralyzed moment, then she said, "how do you do, mary?" "you haven't forgotten me?" mrs. robertson said. "well, no," said miss lydia. "lovely day," mary said, breathing quickly; then she waved a trembling hand. "good-by! go on, charles." charles flicked his whip and off she rumbled in the very same old victoria in which her father had rolled by miss lydia's door in the september dusk some fifteen years before. that night johnny's mother said to her husband, almost in a whisper, "i--spoke to him." he put a kindly arm around her. "isn't he as fine a boy as you ever saw?" after that mrs. robertson spoke to johnny smith frequently and miss lydia continued to lose flesh. the month that mr. and mrs. robertson were to spend in old chester lengthened into two--into three. and while they were there wonderful things happened to johnny in the way of presents--a lathe, a velocipede, a little engine to turn a wheel in the run at the foot of old mr. smith's pasture. also, he and his aunt lydia were invited to take supper with mr. and mrs. robertson. "we'll have to ask _her_," johnny's mother had said to johnny's father, "because it would look queer to have him come by himself. oh, carl, i am beginning to hate her!" "you mustn't, dear; she's good to him." "_i_ want to be good to him!" however, miss lydia, in her once-turned and twice-made-over blue silk, came and sat at the big table in the new mr. smith's dining room. she hardly spoke, but just sat there, the vein on her temple throbbing with fright, and listened to johnny's mother pouring herself out in fatuous but pathetic flattery and in promises of all sorts of delights. "mary, my _dear_!" carl robertson protested, but he felt the pain of the poor, child-hungry woman at the other end of the table. when miss lydia and johnny walked home together in the darkness her boy said: "a fellow'd be lucky with a mother like that, wouldn't he? she'd give him everything he wanted. she'd give him a pony," johnny said, wistfully. "yes," said miss lydia, faintly. "wish i had a mother who'd gimme a pony," johnny said, with the brutal honesty of his sex and years. and miss lydia said again, "yes." "maybe mrs. robertson'll gimme one," johnny said, hopefully; "she's always giving me things!" however, though johnny's gratitude consisted of a lively hope of benefits to come, he had some opinions of his own. "she kisses me," he said to miss lydia, wrinkling up his nose. "i don't like kissing ladies." poor mary couldn't help kissing him. the fresh, honest, ugly young face had become more wonderful to her than anything else on earth! but sometimes she looked at him and then at his father, and said to herself, "his eyes are not like carl's, but his mouth is as carl's used to be before he wore a beard; but nobody would know it now." mr. robertson looked pleased when she told him, anxiously, that "it _was_ showing--the likeness. he has your mouth. and people might--" "i wish to god i could own him," said carl robertson. "carl, he wants a pony! buy one for him." but johnny didn't get his pony, because when mr. robertson told miss lydia he was thinking of buying a horse for his boy, she said: "no; it isn't good for him, please, to have so many things." "the idea of her interfering!" mary told her husband. chapter v "i'm going to invite him to visit us next winter," mary said. this was at the end of the summer, and the prospect of saying good-by to johnny for almost a year was more than she could bear. "my dear!" her husband protested, "if you got him under your own roof you wouldn't be able to hold on to yourself! i could, but you couldn't. you'd tell him." "i wouldn't! why, i _couldn't_. of course he can never know. . . . but i'm going to see--that woman, and tell her that i shall have him visit us." "she'll not permit it." "'permit'!" mary said. "upon my word! my own child not '_permitted_'!" "it's hard," carl said, briefly. "you want him, too," she said, eagerly; "i can see you do! think of having him with us for a week! i could go into his room and--and pick up his clothes when he drops them round on the floor, the way boys do." she was breathless at the thought of such happiness. "i'll tell her i'm going to have him come in the christmas vacation. oh, carl"--her black, heavy eyes suddenly glittered with tears--"i want my baby," she said. the words stabbed him; for a moment he felt that there was no price too great to pay for comfort for her. "we'll try it," he said, "but we'll have to handle miss lydia just right to get her to consent to it." "'consent'?" she said, fiercely. "carl, i just hate her!" the long-smothered instinct of maternity leaped up and scorched her like a flame; she put her dimpled hands over her face and cried. he tried to tell her that she wasn't just. "after all, dear, we disowned him. naturally, she feels that he belongs to her." but she could not be just: "he belongs to us! and she prejudices him against us. i know she does. i said to him yesterday that her clothes weren't very fashionable. i just said it for fun; and he said, 'you shut up!'" "_what!_" johnny's father said, amused and horrified. "i believe she likes him to be rude to me," mary said. her jealousy of miss lydia had taken the form of suspicion; if johnny was impertinent, if that shabby miss lydia meant more to him than she did--the rich, beneficent, adoring mrs. robertson!--it must be because miss lydia "influenced" him. it was to counteract that influence that she planned the christmas visit; if she could have him to herself, even for a week, with all the enjoyments she would give him, she was sure she could rout "that woman" from her place in his heart! "i sha'n't ask for what is my own," she told carl; "i'll just say i'm going to take him for the christmas holidays. she won't dare to say he can't come!" yet when she went to tell miss lydia that johnny was coming, her certainty that the shabby woman wouldn't "dare," faded. miss lydia was in the kitchen, making cookies for her boy, and she could not instantly leave her rolling-pin when his mother knocked at the front door. mary had not been at that door since the september night when she had crouched, sobbing, on the steps. and now again it was september, and again the evening primroses were opening in the dusk. . . . as she knocked, a breath of their subtle perfume brought back that other dusk, and for an instant she was engulfed in a surge of memory. she felt faint and leaned against the door, waiting for miss lydia's little running step in the hall. she could hardly speak when the door opened. "good--good evening," she said, in a whisper. miss lydia, her frightened eyes peering at her caller from under that black frizette, could hardly speak herself. mary was the one to get herself in hand first. "may i come in, miss sampson?" "why, yes--" said miss lydia, doubtfully, and dusted her floury hands together. "i came to say," mary began, following her back to the kitchen, "i came--" "i'm making cookies for johnny," miss lydia said, briskly, and mary's soft hands clenched. why shouldn't _she_ be making cookies for johnny! "i've got a pan in the oven," said miss lydia, "and i've got to watch 'em." mary was silent; she sat down by the table, her breath catching in her throat. miss lydia did not, apparently, notice the agitation; she bustled about and brought her a cooky on a cracked plate--and watched her. "i want--" mary said, in a trembling voice, and crumbling the cooky with nervous fingers--"i mean, i am going to have johnny visit me this winter." "oh," said miss lydia, and sat down. "i'll have him during the holidays." "no." "why not?" mary said, angrily. "he'd guess." "you needn't be afraid of _that_!" miss lydia silently shook her head; instantly mary's anger turned to fright. "oh, miss lydia--please! i promise you he shall never have the dimmest idea--why, he _couldn't_ have! it wouldn't do, you know. but i want him just to--to look at." miss lydia was pale. she may have been a born gambler, but never had she taken such a chance as this--to give johnny back, even for a week, to the people who once had thrown him away, but who now were ready to do everything for him, give him anything he wanted!--and a boy wants so many things! "no," she said, "no." mary gave a starved cry, then dropped on her knees, clutched at the small, rough, floury hand and tried to kiss it. "a mother has a claim," she said, passionately. miss lydia, pulling her hand away, nodded. "yes, a mother has." "then let him come. oh, let him come!" "_are you his mother?_" mary fell back, half sitting on the floor, half kneeling at miss lydia's feet. "what do you mean? you know--" "sometimes," said miss lydia, "i think _i'm_ his mother." mary started. "she's crazy!" she thought, scared. "he is mine," miss lydia said, proudly; "some foolish people have even thought he was mine in--in your way." "absurd!" mary said, with a gasp. "you have never understood love, mary," miss lydia said; "never, from the very beginning." and even as johnny's mother recoiled at that sword-thrust, she added, her face very white: "but i'll chance it. yes, if he wants to visit you i'll let him. but i hope you won't hurt him." "hurt him? hurt my own child? he shall have everything!" "that's what i mean. it may hurt him. he may get to be like you," miss lydia said. . . . "oh, my cookies! they are burning!" she pushed johnny's mother aside--she wanted to push her over! to trample on her! to tear her! but she only pressed her gently aside and ran and opened the oven door, and then said, "oh _my_!" and raised a window to let the smoke out. . . . "i'll let him go," she said. but when mary tried to put her arms around her, and say brokenly how grateful she was, miss lydia shrank away and said, harshly, "_don't!_" "i couldn't bear to have her touch me," she told herself afterward; "she didn't love him when he was a baby." however, it was arranged, and the visit was made. it was a great experience for johnny! the stage to mercer, the railroad journey across the mountains, the handsome house, the good times every minute of every day! barnum's! candy shops! new clothes (and old ones dropped about on the floor for mrs. robertson to pick up!) and five five-dollar bills to carry back to old chester! then the week ended. . . . mrs. robertson, running to bring him his hat and make sure he had a clean handkerchief, and patting the collar of his coat with plump fingers, cried when she said good-by; and johnny sighed, and said he had a stomach ache, and he hated to go home. his mother glanced triumphantly at his father. "(do you hear that?) do you love me, johnny?" she demanded. "yes'm," johnny said, scowling. "as much as miss lydia?" johnny stared at her. "course not." "she doesn't give you so many presents as i do." "_mary!_" johnny's father protested. but johnny was equal to the occasion. "i'd just as leaves," said he, "give you one of my five dollars to pay for 'em"--which made even his mother laugh. "goo'-by," said johnny. "i guess i've eaten too much. i've had a fine time. much obliged. no, i do' want any more candy. o-o-o-h!" said johnny, "i wish i hadn't eaten so much! i hate going home." but he went--bearing his sheaves with him, his presents and his five five-dollar bills and his stomach ache. and he said he wished he could go right straight back to philadelphia! "do you?" said miss lydia, faintly. "but she's--funny, aunt lydia." "how 'funny'?" "well," said johnny, scrubbing the back of his hand across his cheeks, "she's always kissing me and talking about my liking her. oh--i don't really mind her, much. she's nice enough. but i _don't_ like kissing ladies. but i like visiting her," he added, candidly; "she takes me to lots of places and gives me things. i like presents," said johnny. "i hope she'll gimme a gun." . . . that night, the kissing lady, pacing up and down like a caged creature in her handsome parlor, which seemed so empty and orderly now, said suddenly to her husband, "why don't we adopt him?" "h-s-s-h!" he cautioned her; then, in a low voice, "i've thought of that." at which she instantly retreated. "it is out of the question! people would--think." chapter vi johnny would have had his gun right off, and many other things, too, if miss lydia hadn't interfered. "please don't send him so many presents," she wrote mrs. robertson in her scared, determined way. and mary, reading that letter, fed her bitterness with the memory of something which had happened during the visit. "it's just what i said," she told johnny's father; "she influences him against us by not letting us give him presents! i know that from the way he talks. i told him, after i bought the stereopticon for him, that i could give him nicer things than she could, and--" "mary! you mustn't say things like that!" "and--and--" mary said, crying, "he said, 'i like aunty without any presents.' you see? influence! the idea of her daring to say we mustn't give him a gun. he's _ours_!" "no, he's hers," johnny's father said, sadly; "she has the whip hand, mary--unless we tell the truth." "of course we can't do that," she said, sobbing. but after that philadelphia experience miss lydia--a fragile creature now, who lived and breathed for her boy--was obliged every winter to let johnny visit these people who had disowned him, cast him off, deserted him!--that was the way she put it to herself. she had to let him go because she couldn't think of any excuse for saying he couldn't go. she even asked doctor lavendar for a reason for refusing invitations, which the appreciative and frankly acquisitive johnny was anxious to accept. with a present of a bunch of lamplighters in her hand she went to the rectory, offering, as an explanation of her call, the fact that johnny had got into a fight with the youngest mack boy and rubbed his nose in the gutter, and mrs. mack was very angry, and said her boy's nose would never be handsome again; and she, miss lydia, didn't know what to do because johnny wouldn't tell her what the fight was about and wouldn't apologize. "johnny's fifteen and the mack boy is seventeen; and a boy doesn't need a handsome nose," said doctor lavendar. "i'd not interfere, if i were you." then she got the real question out: didn't doctor lavendar think it might be bad for johnny to visit mr. and mrs. robertson? "they're very rich, you know," miss lydia warned him, piteously. "they've taken a fancy to him, have they?" doctor lavendar asked. she nodded. the old man meditated. "lydia," he said at last, "you are so rich, and they're so poor, i'd be charitable, if i were you." so she was charitable. and for the next three or four years johnny went away for his good times, and old miss lydia stayed at home and had very bad times for fear that mr. and mrs. robertson might suddenly turn into johnny's father and mother! then the father and mother would come to old chester in the summer and have their bad times, for fear that miss lydia would "influence" johnny against mr. and mrs. robertson. (we got to quite like the robertsons, though we didn't see much of them. "pity they had no children," said old chester; "all that smith money going begging!") the smith money certainly went begging, so far as johnny was concerned. every time his father and mother tried to spend it on him miss lydia put her little frightened will between the boy and his grandfather's fortune. "boys can't accept presents, johnny, except from relations, you know," she would tell him; "it isn't nice." and johnny, thinking of the gun or the pony or what not, would stick out his lips and sigh and say no, he "s'posed not." as a result of such remarks he developed as healthy a pride as one could hope for in a lad, and by the time he was eighteen he was hot with embarrassment when mrs. robertson tried to force things upon him. "no, ma'am," he would say, awkwardly. "i--i can't take any presents." "why not?" she would demand, deeply hurt. "well, you know, you are not a relation," johnny would say; and his mother would rush up to her room and pace up and down, up and down, and cry until she could hardly see. "she's robbed us of our own child!" she used to tell her husband. as for johnny, he told miss lydia once that mrs. robertson was kind, and all that, but she was a nuisance. "oh, johnny, i wouldn't say _that_, dear. she's been nice to you." "what makes her?" said johnny, curiously. "why is she always gushing round?" "well, she likes you, johnny." johnny grinned. "i don't see why. i'm afraid i'm not awfully polite to her. she was telling me she'd give me anything on earth i wanted; made me feel like a fool!" said johnny, "and i said, 'aunty gives me everything i want, thank you'; and she said, 'she doesn't love you as much as i do.' and i said (all this love talk makes me kind of sick!) i said, 'oh yes, she does; she loved me when i was a squealing baby! you didn't know me then.'" "what did she say?" miss lydia asked, breathlessly. "oh, she sort of cried," said johnny, with a bored look. but his perplexity about mrs. robertson's gush lingered in his mind, and a year or two later, on his twentieth birthday, as it happened, he asked miss lydia again what on earth it meant? . . . the robertsons had braved the raw old chester winter and come down to the old house to be near their son on that day. they came like the greeks, bearing gifts, which, it being johnny's birthday, they knew could not be refused--and old miss lydia, unlike the priest of apollo, had no spear to thrust at them except the forbidden spear of truth! so her heart was in her mouth when johnny, who had gone to supper with his father and mother, came home at nearly midnight and told her how good they were to him. but he was preoccupied as he talked, and once or twice he frowned. then suddenly he burst out: "aunty, why does mr. robertson bother about me?" "does he?" miss lydia said. "well, yes; he says he wants me to go into his firm when i leave college. he says he'll give me mighty good pay. but--but he wants me to take his name." "_oh!_" said miss lydia. she looked so little and pretty, lying there in her bed, with her soft white hair--the frizette had vanished some years ago--parted over her delicate furrowed brow, and her blue eyes wide and frightened, like a child's, that johnny suddenly hugged her. "as for the name part of it," he said, "i said my name was smith. not handsome or distinguished, but my own. i said i had no desire to change it, but if i ever did it would be to sampson." a meager tear stood in the corner of miss lydia's eye. "that was very nice of you, johnny," she said, quaveringly. "i'd like the business part of it all right," said johnny. . . . "say, aunt lydia--what _is_ all the milk in the coconut about me? course i'm not grown up for nothing; i know i'm--queer. i got on to that when i was fifteen--i put the date on eddy mack's nose! but i'd like to know, really, who i am?" "you're my boy," said miss lydia. "you bet i am!" said johnny; "but who were my father and mother?" "they lived out west, and--" "i know all that fairy tale, aunty. let's have the facts." miss lydia was silent; her poor old eyes blinked; then she said: "they--deserted you, johnny. but you mustn't mind." the young man's face reddened sharply. "they weren't married, i suppose, when i was born?" he said, in a husky voice. "they--got married before you were born." he frowned, but he was obviously relieved; then he looked puzzled. "yet they deserted me? were they too poor to take care of me?" "well, no," miss lydia confessed. "not poor, yet they dumped me onto your doorstep?" he repeated, bewildered, but with a slow anger growing in his face. "well, i guess i'm well rid of 'em if they were that kind of people! cowards. i'd rather have murderers 'round, than cowards!" "oh, my dear, you mustn't be unjust. they gave me money for your support." "money!" he said. "they paid you to take me off their hands?" he paused; "aunt lydia," he said--and as he spoke his upper lip lifted and she saw his teeth--"aunt lydia, i'll never ask you about them again. i have no interest in them. they are nothing to me, just as i was nothing to them. but tell me one thing, is smith my name?" "yes," said miss lydia (it's his _middle_ name, she assured herself truthfully). but johnny laughed: "i guess you just called me smith. well, that's all right, though i'd rather you'd made it sampson. but smith will do. i said so to mrs. robertson. i said that my name was the same as her father's, and i thought he was the finest old man i'd ever known, and, though i was no relation, i hoped my smith name would be as dignified as his." "what did she say?" said miss lydia. "oh, she got weepy," said johnny, good-naturedly; "she's always either crying or kissing. but she's kind. look at those!" he said, displaying some sleeve links that his mother's soft, adoring fingers had fastened into his cuffs. "well, i don't take a berth with a new name tacked on to it, at robertson & carey's. he'll have to get some other fellow to swap names for him!" he went off to his room, his face still dark with the deep, elemental anger which that word "deserted" had stirred in him, but whistling as if to declare his entire indifference to the deserters. old miss lydia, alone, trembled very much. "take their name! _what will they do next?_" she said to herself. the robertsons were asking each other the same question, "what can we do now to get him?" the lure of a business opportunity had not moved the boy at all, and what he had said about being called sampson had been like a knife-thrust in their hearts. it made mary robertson so angry that she sprang at a fierce retaliation: "she _couldn't_ keep him--he wouldn't stay with her--if we told him the truth!" she said to johnny's father. "but we never can tell him," carl reminded her. "sometimes i think she'll drive me to it!" said mary. "no," robertson said, shortly. "no one would know it but the boy himself. and if he knew it he'd let us adopt him. and that would mean taking his own name." "no!" carl broke out, "it won't do! you see, i--don't want him to know." he paused, then seemed to pull the words out with a jerk: "i won't let him have any disrespect for his mother, and--" he got up and tramped about the room. "damn it! _i_ don't want to lose his good opinion, myself." her face turned darkly red. "oh," she cried, passionately, "'opinion'! what difference does his 'opinion' make to me? a mother is a mother. and i love him! oh, i love him so, i could just _die_! if he would put his arms around me the way he does to that terrible miss lydia, and kiss me, and say"--she clenched her hands and closed her eyes, and whispered the word she hungered to hear--"'_mother! mother!_' if i could hear him say _that_," she said, "i could just lie down and die! couldn't you?--to hear him say 'father'?" robertson set his teeth. "and what kind of an idea would he have of his 'father'? no, i won't consent to it!" "we can't get him in any other way," she urged. "then we'll never get him. i can't face it." "you don't love him as much as i do!" "i love him enough not to want to risk losing his respect." but this sentiment was beyond johnny's mother; all she thought of was her aching hunger for the careless, good-humored, but bored young man. the hunger for him grew and grew; it gnawed at her day and night. she urged carl to take a house in princeton while johnny was in college, and only johnny's father's common sense kept this project from being carried out. "you're afraid!" she taunted him. "dear," he said, kindly, "i'm afraid of being an ass. if he saw us tagging after him he'd hate us both. he's a man!" carl said, proudly. "no, i've no fancy for losing the regard of"--he paused--"my son," he said, very quietly. his wife put her hand over her mouth and stared at him; the word was too great for her; it was her baby she thought of, not her son. in johnny's first vacation, when she had rushed to old chester in june to open the house, she was met by the information that he was going off for the summer on a geological expedition. mary's disappointment made her feel a little sick. "what _shall_ i do without you!" "oh, if aunty can do without me, i guess outsiders can," said johnny, with clumsy amiability. "we'll be here when you get back in september," she said. he yawned, and said, "all right." then he strolled off, and she went upstairs and cried. johnny, walking home after this embarrassing interview, striking at the roadside brambles with a switch and whistling loudly, said to himself: "how on earth did mr. robertson fall in love with her? _he's_ got brains." a day or two later he went off for his geological summer, leaving in his mother's heart that rankling word, "outsiders." as the weeks dragged along and she counted the days until he would be back, she brooded and brooded over it. it festered so deeply that she could not speak of it to johnny's father. but once she said: "he's ungrateful! see all we've done for him!"--and carl realized that bitterness toward miss lydia, who had "robbed" her, was extending to the boy himself. and again--it was in august, and johnny was to be at home in a fortnight--she said, "he ought to be _made_ to come to us!" her husband looked at her in surprise. "you can't 'make' anybody love you, mary. we are just outsiders to him." she cried out so sharply that he was frightened, not knowing that he had turned a dagger-word in the wound. perhaps it was the intolerable pain of knowing that she was helpless that drove her one day, without carl's knowledge, to the rectory. "i'll put it to doctor lavendar as--as somebody else's story--the trouble of a 'friend,' and maybe he can tell me how i can make johnny feel that we are _not_ outsiders! oh, he owes it to us to do what we want! i'll tell doctor lavendar that the father and mother lived out west and are friends of mine. . . . he'll never put two and two together." she walked past the rectory twice before she could get her courage to the point of knocking. when she did, it was willy king who opened the door. "oh--is doctor lavendar ill?" she said. and doctor king answered, dryly, that when you are eighty-two you are not particularly well. "i thought i'd just drop in and ask his advice on something--nothing important," said johnny's mother, breathlessly. "i'll go away, and come some other time." upon which, from the open window overhead, came a voice: "i won't be wrapped up in cotton batting! send mary robertson upstairs." "haven't i any rights?" willy called back, good-naturedly, and doctor lavendar retorted: "maybe you have, but i have many wrongs. come along, mary." she went up, saying to herself: "i'll not speak of it. i'll just say i've come to see him." she was so nervous when she entered the room that her breath caught in her throat and she could hardly say, "how do you do?" the old man was in bed with a copy of _robinson crusoe_ on the table beside him. he held out a veined and trembling hand: "william's keeping me alive so he can charge me for two calls a day. well, my dear, what can i do for you?" mrs. robertson sat down in a big armchair and said, panting, that--that it was terribly hot. doctor lavendar watched her from under his heavy, drooping eyelids. "there was something i was going to ask you about," she said, "but it's no matter. doctor king says you are sick." "don't believe all doctor king tells you." "i just wanted to get advice for--for somebody else. but it's no matter." "let's hear about the 'somebody else.'" "they are not old chester people--so you won't mind if i don't name names?" "not in the least," said doctor lavendar, genially. "call 'em smith; that's a somewhat general title." "oh--no, that's not their name," she said, panic-stricken--then saw that he had meant it as a joke, and said, trying to smile, yes, there _were_ a good many smiths in the world! then suddenly her misery rose like a wave, and swept her into words: "these people are terribly unhappy, at least the mother is, because--" she paused, stammered, felt she had gone too far, and stumbled into contradictions which could not have misled anyone, certainly not doctor lavendar. "they, these people, had let their child be adopted--oh, a great many years ago, because they--they were not so situated that they could bring him--it--up. but they could, now. and they wanted him, they wanted him--her, i mean," said mary; "i believe it was a little girl. but the little girl didn't want to come back to them. and the person who had taken her influenced her against her parents, who had done _everything_ for her!--given her everything a child could want. it's cruel," said mary. "cruel! i know the parents, and--" "mary," said doctor lavendar, gently, "so do i." she recoiled as if from a blow. "no--oh no! you are mistaken, sir. you couldn't know them. his--his relatives don't live here. they live in another city. you couldn't possibly know them!" she was white with terror. what would carl say? oh, she must lie her way out of it! how mad she had been to come here and hint at things! "i have known johnny smith's parentage for several years, mary." "i didn't say the child was johnny smith!" "_i_ said so." "i don't know what you're talking about! the father and mother lived out west, but _i_ don't know the child. he is nothing to me." "i wonder," said doctor lavendar, half to himself, "do we all deny love thrice?--for you do love him, mary, my dear; i know you do." she tried, in panic denial, to meet his quiet eyes--then gave a little moan and bent over and hid her face on her knees. "oh, i do love him--i do," she said in a whisper. "but he doesn't love me. . . . and yet he is _mine_--carl's and mine." then anger flared up again: "who told you? oh, it was miss lydia, and she promised she wouldn't! how wicked in her!" "no one told me." there was a moment's silence, then doctor lavendar said, "there were people in old chester who thought he was miss lydia's." "fools! fools!" she said, passionately. "no one came forward to deny it." she did not notice this; the flood of despair and longing broke into entreaty; how could she get her child--her own child--who considered her just an outsider! "that's miss lydia's influence!" she said. doctor lavendar listened, asked a question or two, and then was silent. "i am dying for him!" she said; "oh, i am in agony for him!" the old man looked at her with pitying keenness. was this agony a spiritual birth or was it just the old selfishness which had never brooked denial? and if indeed it was a travail of the spirit, would not the soul be stillborn if her son's love should fail to sustain it? yet why should johnny love her? . . . mary was talking and trying not to cry; her words were a fury of pain and protest: "miss lydia won't give him up to people who haven't any claim upon him,--i mean any claim that is known. of course we have a claim--the greatest! but johnny doesn't know, so he won't consent to take our name--though it is our _right_! he doesn't know any reason for it. you see?" "i see." "i suppose if we told him the truth we could get him. but i'm afraid to tell him. yet without telling him i can't make him love me! he said i was an 'outsider.' _i!_ his mother! but if he knew there was a reason--" doctor lavendar looked out of the window into the yellowing leaves of the old jargonelle-pear tree, and shook his head. "hearts don't come when reason whistles to 'em," he said. "oh, if i could just hear him say 'mother'!" "why should he say 'mother'? you haven't been a mother to him." "i've given him everything!" doctor lavendar was silent. "he _ought_ to come to us. he is ours; and he owes us--" "just what you've earned, mary, just what you've earned. that's what children 'owe' their parents." "oh, what am i to do? what am i to do?" "how much do you want him, mary?" [illustration: "hearts don't answer when reason whistles to them," he said.] she was stammering with sobs. "it's all i want--it's my life--" "_perhaps_ publicity would win him. he has a great respect for courage. so perhaps--" she cringed. "but that couldn't be! it couldn't be. don't you understand?" "poor mary!" said doctor lavendar. "poor girl!" "doctor lavendar, make him come to us. _you_ can do it. you can do anything!" "mary, neither you nor i nor anybody else can 'make' a harvest anything but the seed which has been sowed. my child, you sowed vanity and selfishness." . . . by and by he put his hand on hers and said: "mary, wait. wait till you love him more and yourself less." it was dark when she went away. when doctor king came in in the evening he said to himself that mary robertson and the whole caboodle of 'em weren't worth the weariness in the wise old face. "william," said doctor lavendar, "i hope there won't be any conundrums in heaven; i don't seem able to answer them any more." then the whimsical fatigue vanished and he smiled. "lately i've just said, 'wait: god knows.' and stopped guessing." but he didn't stop thinking. chapter vii as for johnny's mother, she kept on thinking, too, but she yielded, for the moment, to the inevitableness of her harvest. and of course the devotion, and the invitations to philadelphia, and the summers in old chester continued. johnny's bored good humor accepted them all patiently enough; "for she is kind," he reminded himself. "and i like _him_," he used to tell his aunt lydia. once he confided his feelings on this subject to william king: "they are queer folks, the robertsons," johnny said. "why do they vegetate down here in old chester? they don't seem to know anybody but aunt lydia." william and the big fellow were jogging along in the doctor's shabby buggy out toward miss lydia's; she was very frail that summer and johnny had insisted that william king should come to see her. "the robertsons know _you_, apparently," the doctor said. "well, yes," john said, "and they've been nice to me ever since i can remember." "g'on!" doctor king told his mare, and slapped a rein down on jinny's back. "but, doctor king, they _are_ queer," johnny insisted. "what's the milk in the coconut about 'em?" "maybe a thunderstorm soured it." johnny grinned, then he looked at jinny's ears, coughed, and said, "i'd like to ask you a question, sir." "go ahead." "when people are kind to you--just what do you owe 'em? i didn't ask them to be kind to me--i mean the robertsons--but, holy peter!" said johnny, "they've given me presents ever since i was a child. they even had a wild idea of getting me to take their name! i said, 'no, thank you!' why should i take their name? . . . mrs. robertson always seems sort of critical of aunty. think of that! course she never says anything; she'd better not! if she did i'd raise cain. but i _feel_ it," johnny said, frowning. "well, what i want to know is, what do you owe people who do you favors? mind you, _i_ don't want their favors!" "well," william ruminated, "i should say that we owe people who do us favors, the truth of how we feel about them. if the truth wouldn't be agreeable to them, don't accept the favors!" "well, the 'truth' is that i get mad when mrs. robertson looks down on aunty! think of what she's stood for me!" the boy said, suddenly very red in the face. "when i was fifteen one of the fellows told me i was--was her son. i rubbed his nose in the mud." "oh, that was how mack got his broken nose, was it?" doctor king inquired, much interested. "well, i'm glad you did it. i guess it cured him of being _one_ kind of a fool. there was a time when i wanted to rub one or two female noses in the mud. however, they are really not worth thinking of, johnny." "no," john agreed, "but anybody who looks cross-eyed in my presence at aunt lydia will get his head punched." "amen," said william king, and drew jinny in at miss lydia's gate. it cannot be said that william king's opinion as to what we owe people who do us favors was very illuminating to johnny. "i like 'em--and i don't like 'em," he told miss lydia, with a bothered look. "but i wish to heaven she'd let up on presents!" on the whole he liked them more than he failed to like them; perhaps because they were, to a big, joyous, somewhat conceited youngster, rather pitiful in the way in which they seemed to hang upon him. he said as much once to his aunt lydia; mrs. robertson had asked him to come to supper, but had not asked miss lydia. "i suppose i've got to go," he said, scowling, "but they needn't think i'd rather have supper with them than with you! i just go because i'm sorry for 'em." "i am, too, johnny," she said. she had ceased to be afraid of them by this time. yet she might have been just a little afraid if she had known all that this special invitation involved. . . . mary robertson no longer shared her longing for her son with her husband. she had not even told him of that day when her misery had welled up and overflowed in frantic words to doctor lavendar. but she had never resigned herself to reaping what she had sowed. she was still determined, _somehow_, to get possession of her boy. occasionally she spoke of this determination to doctor lavendar, just because it was a relief to put it into words; but he never gave her much encouragement. he could only counsel a choice of two things: secrecy--and fortitude; or truth--and doubtful hope. little by little hope gained, and truth seemed more possible. and by and by a plan grew in her mind: she would get doctor lavendar to help her to tell johnny the truth, and then, supported by religion (as she thought of it), she would tell her son that it was his duty to live with her;--"nobody will know _why_! and he can't say 'no,' if doctor lavendar says, 'honor thy father and thy mother'!" that doctor lavendar would say this, she had no doubt whatever, for was he not a minister, and ministers always counseled people to obey the commandments. "but when i get him here, with johnny, we must be by ourselves," she thought; "i won't speak before _her_!" so that was why miss lydia was not invited to supper when johnny was--johnny and doctor lavendar! mary robertson was so tense all that september day when her two guests were expected that her husband noticed it. "you're not well, mary?" he said. "oh yes, yes!" she said--she was pacing up and down, up and down, like a caged creature. "carl, doctor lavendar is coming this evening." "my dear, i think that is about the tenth time you have mentioned it! i should not call the old gentleman a very exciting guest." "and johnny is coming." "well, what of it? i hope doctor lavendar won't ask him to say his catechism!" as it happened, johnny came first, and his mother was so eager to see him and touch him that, hearing his step, she ran to help him off with his coat--to his great embarrassment; then she came into the library clinging to his arm. father and son greeted each other with, "hello, youngster!" and, "hello, sir!" and johnny added that it was beginning to rain like blazes. "i sent the carriage for doctor lavendar," mrs. robertson said. "he coming?" johnny asked. "yes," she said; "he's very, very good, johnny, and"--she paused, then said, breathlessly, "_you must do whatever he wants you to do_." the young man looked faintly interested. "what's she up to now?" he asked himself; then began to talk to his father. but remembering his aunt lydia's parting injunction, "now, johnny, be nice to mrs. robertson," he was careful to speak to his mother once in a while. happening to catch the twinkle of her rings, he tried to be especially "nice." "when i get rich i'm going to buy aunty a diamond ring like yours, mrs. robertson." "i'll give you one of mine, if you'll wear it," she said, eagerly. johnny's guffaw of laughter ended in a droll look at his father, who said: "my dear mary! this _cub_, and a diamond ring?" she was too absorbed in loving her child to be hurt by his bad manners, and, besides, at that moment doctor lavendar arrived, and she ran out into the hall to welcome him; as she took his hand she whispered: "doctor lavendar, you will help me with johnny? _i am going to tell him._ i'm going to tell him to-night!--and i depend on you to make him come to us." the old man's face grew very grave; he looked closely at mary, standing there, clasping and unclasping her hands, but he did not answer her. later, when they went out to the dining room, he was still silent, just watching mary and listening to johnny,--who laughed and talked (and was "nice" to his mother), and ate enormously, and who looked, sitting there at his grandfather's old table, as much like the new mr. smith as twenty-three can look like seventy-eight. "well," the young fellow said, friendly and confidential to the company at large, "what do you suppose? it's settled--my 'career'!" "i hope that means robertson and carey?" mr. robertson said. he glanced over at his son with a sort of aching pride in his strength and carelessness. "i've offered this youngster a place in my firm," he explained to doctor lavendar, who said: "have you, indeed?" "no," johnny said, "it doesn't mean carey and robertson, though you're mighty kind, mr. robertson. but you see i can't leave old chester. it would pull aunt lydia up by the roots to go away. and of course i couldn't go without her." mary's plump hand, with its shining rings, clenched sharply on the tablecloth; she drew in her breath, but she said nothing. "well, what are you going to do?" carl said, not daring to meet his wife's eyes. "aunt lydia got a job for me in mr. dilworth's hardware store." his mother cried out--then checked herself. "miss lydia ought not to have thought of such a thing!" she tried to speak quietly, but she had to bite her lip to keep it steady. "mary!" her husband warned her. john's face darkened. "aunty ought always to do whatever she does do," he said. "of course," his father agreed, soothingly. "i only meant," mary explained, in a frightened voice, "that a hardware store isn't much of a chance for a man like you." "it means staying in old chester with aunty," he explained; "she's not very well now, mrs. robertson," he said, and sighed; "it would be too much for her, to move. she's not equal to it." his strong, rather harsh face softened and sobered. "and as for a hardware store not being a chance for _me_--i mean to make rome howl with a mercer branch! you see, aunty bought a half-interest for me. the lord knows where she got the money! saved it out of her food all these years, i guess." "she didn't, apparently, save it out of your food," doctor lavendar said, dryly; "i believe you weigh two hundred, johnny." "only a hundred and eighty-four," the young man assured him. mary, listening, was tingling all over; she had planned a very cautious approach to the truth which was to give her son back to her. she meant first to hint, and then to admit, and then to declare her _right_ to his love. but that miss lydia, without consulting johnny's father and mother, should have put him into such a business--"_my son_ in a hardware store!" mary thought;--that miss lydia should have dared! "he's mine--he's mine--he's mine! . . . of course," she was saying to herself as they went back to the library after dinner--"of course, he'll give it up the minute he knows who he is. but i hate her!" the room, in the september dusk, was lighted only by a lamp on the big desk; the windows opening on the garden were raised, for it was hot after the rain, and the air blew in, fragrant with wet leaves and the scent of some late roses. johnny's father, sinking down in a great leather chair, watched the young, vigorous figure standing in front of the mantelpiece, smoking and, after the fashion of his years, laying down the law for the improvement of the world. doctor lavendar did not look at johnny, but at his mother, who stood clutching the corner of the big desk--that desk at which, one september night twenty-three years ago, johnny's grandfather had been sitting when miss lydia came into the library. . . . "mary, my dear, aren't you going to sit down?" said doctor lavendar. she did not seem to hear him. "look here," she said, harshly; "i can't stand it--i won't stand it--" carl sprang up and laid his hand on her arm. "mary!" he said, under his breath. "_please_," he besought her; "for god's sake don't--don't--" "johnny, you belong to me," mary said. john smith, his cigar halfway to his lips, paused, bewildered and alarmed. "isn't she well?" he said, in a low voice to doctor lavendar. "i'm perfectly well. but i'm going to speak. doctor lavendar will tell you i have a right to speak! tell him so, doctor lavendar." "she has the right to speak," the old man said. "you hear that?" said the mother. "he says i have a right to you!" "i didn't say that," said doctor lavendar. "mary," her husband protested, "i will not allow"--but she did not hear him: "miss lydia sha'n't have you any longer. you are _mine_, johnny--_mine_. i want you, and i'm going to have you!" john smith's face went white; he put his cigar down on the mantelpiece, went across the long room, closed the door into the hall, then came back and looked at his mother. no one spoke. doctor lavendar had bent his head and shut his eyes; he would not watch the three struggling souls before him. johnny slowly turned his eyes toward mr. robertson. "and you--?" "yes," his father said. "john, you'll make the best of us, won't you?" silence tingled between them. then, unsteadily, and looking always at his father, john began to speak. "of course it makes no difference to me. aunt lydia and i have our own life. but--i'm sorry, sir." he put his shaking hands into his pockets. "you and mrs. robertson--" "oh, say 'mother'! say 'mother'!" she cried out. "--have been very kind to me, always,"--he paused, in a sudden, realizing adjustment: their "kindness," then, had not been the flattery he had supposed? it was just--love? "awfully kind," he said, huskily. "once i did wonder . . . then i thought it couldn't be, because--because, you see, i've always liked you, sir," he ended, awkwardly. carl robertson was dumb. "i've told you," his mother said, trembling--her fingers, catching at the sheet of blotting paper on desk, tore off a scrap of it, rolled it, twisted it, then pull off another scrap--"i've told you, because you are to come to us. you are to take our name--your name." she paused, swallowing hard, and struggling to keep the tears back. "you are _ours_, not hers. people thought you were hers, and it just about killed me." instantly the blood rushed into john smith's face; his eyes blazed. "what!" he stammered; "what! you knew that?" . . . his upper lip slowly lifted, and doctor lavendar saw his set teeth. "you _knew_ that some damned fools thought _that_, of my aunt lydia? are you my mother, and yet you could allow another woman-- my god!" he said, softly. she did not realize what she had done; she began to reassure him frantically. "no one shall ever know! no one will ever guess--" doctor lavendar shook his head. "mary," he warned her, "we must be known, even as also we know, before we enter the kingdom of heaven." they did not listen to him. "you mean," john said, "that you won't let it be known that you are--my mother?" "no, never! never! it couldn't be known--i promise you." "thank you," said john smith, sardonically,--and doctor lavendar held up protesting hands. but no one looked at him. "it would only be supposed," carl said, "that, being childless people, we would make you our son. nothing, as your mother says, would need be known." "how could you 'make me your son' and not have it known?" "i mean by law," his father explained. "there was a 'law' that made me your son twenty-three years ago. that's the only law that counts. you broke it when i was born. can i be born again?" "yes," said doctor lavendar. "you deserted me," johnny said, "and aunt lydia took me. shall i be like you, and desert her? little aunt lydia!" he gave a furious sob. "i'm not _your_ sort!" he said. the words were like a blow in mary's face. "doctor lavendar, tell him--tell him, 'honor thy father and thy mother'!" "'honor'?" her son said. "did i understand you to use the word '_honor_'?" again doctor lavendar raised an admonishing hand. "careful, john." "he means," carl said to his wife, quietly, though his face was gray--"he means he wants us to acknowledge him. mary, i'm willing. are you?" doctor lavendar lifted his bowed head, and his old eyes were suddenly eager with hope. johnny's mother stood looking at her child, her face twisted with tears. "_must_ i, to get him?" she gasped. "no," johnny said; "it is quite unnecessary." he smiled, so cruelly that his father's hands clenched; but mary only said, in passionate relief, "oh, you are good!" and the hope in doctor lavendar's eyes flickered out. "nothing will ever be known?" her son repeated, still smiling. "well, then, mrs. robertson, i thank you for 'nothing.'" doctor lavendar frowned, and mary recoiled, with a sort of moan. carl robertson cried out: "stop! you shall not speak so to your mother! i'm ashamed of you, sir!" but the mother ran forward and caught at her son's arm. "oh, but i will make it known! i will say who you are! i'll say you are mine! i will--i will--" "you can't, for i'm not," he said. she was clinging to him, but he looked over her head, eye to eye with his father. "how can i be her son, when she let people here in old chester believe that aunt lydia--" "johnny," said doctor lavendar, "it didn't make the slightest difference to miss lydia." the young man turned upon him. "doctor lavendar, these two people didn't own me, even when a pack of fools believed--" he choked over what the fools believed. "they let them think _that_ of aunt lydia! as for this--this lady being my 'mother'-- what's 'mother' but a word? aunt lydia may not be my mother, but i am her son. yes--yes--i am." "you are," doctor lavendar agreed. john turned and looked at his father. "i'm sorry for _him_," he said to doctor lavendar. "we will acknowledge you to-morrow," carl robertson said. "i won't acknowledge you," his son flung back at him. "all these years you have hidden behind aunty. stay hidden. i won't betray you." mary had dropped down into her father's chair; her face was covered by her hands on the desk. they heard her sob. her husband bent over her and put his arms about her. "mary," he said, in a whisper, "forgive me; i brought it on you--my poor mary!" then he stood up and looked at his son in suffering silence. "i don't blame you," he said, simply. at that, suddenly, john smith broke. the pain of it all had begun to penetrate his passionate loyalty. for a moment there was silence, except for mary's sobs. then johnny said, hoarsely, "mr. robertson, i'm--sorry. but . . . there isn't anything to do about it. i--i guess i'll go home." "john," said doctor lavendar, "your aunt lydia would want you to be kind." carl robertson shook his head. "we don't want kindness, doctor lavendar. i guess we don't want anything he can give. good-by, boy," he said. his son, passing him, caught at his hand and wrung it. "goo'-by," he said, roughly. there were tears in his eyes. then, without a look at his mother, he walked quickly down the room, and out into the hall. they could hear him putting on his hat and coat. . . . carl robertson pressed his clenched hand against his lips, and turned his back to the other two. mary was silent. doctor lavendar covered his eyes for a moment; then, just as johnny's hand was on the knob of the front door he called out: "john, wait a minute, will you? give me an arm; i'm going to walk home." the young man, out in the hall, frowned, and set his jaw. "all right," he called back, briefly. there was no detaining word or cry from the library while doctor lavendar shuffled silently into his coat,--and a minute later the door of the new mr. smith's house closed upon his grandson and the old minister. it had begun to rain again, and the driveway was very dark--darker even than on that september night when johnny's mother had cringed back from miss lydia's little leading hand and they had hurried along under the big trees. it was her son who hurried now. . . . "not so fast, johnny," said doctor lavendar. "excuse me, sir." he fell into step with the old man, but he was tense with the effort to walk slowly. . . . they were nearly at the gate before there was any speech between them. then johnny said, violently: "there's no use saying anything to me, doctor lavendar! not a particle of use!" "i haven't said anything, john." "they got you here to--to influence me! i saw through it the minute--she began. but i never forgive," johnny said; "i want you to understand that!" he was hurrying again. the old man pressed a little on his arm. "i'm sorry to be so slow, johnny." "oh--excuse me, sir; i didn't realize. . . . she threw me away. i've thrown her away. there's no use talking to me!" doctor lavendar was silent. "i tell you, i won't have anything to do with them--with her, i mean. he's not so bad. i--i like him--in spite of--of everything. but she deserted me when i was born." "it is certainly cruel to desert a newborn thing," said doctor lavendar. john smith agreed, furiously--and his upper lip lifted. "i think," said doctor lavendar, "something has been born to-night--" he was very much out of breath. "i'm walking too fast again? i beg your pardon, sir," the boy said. "suppose we stand still for a minute," said doctor lavendar. they stood still; the rain fell heavily on doctor lavendar's shoulders and dripped from the brim of his old felt hat. "she deserted me," john said. "there is nothing to be said in excuse. nothing." "no, desertion can never be excused," the old man agreed; "and, as you say, when your body was born, she left it. to-night her soul has been born. do you mean to desert it, john?" "even a dog doesn't leave her pups!" john said. ("his grandfather over again!" doctor lavendar thought.) yet it was to that inherited brutality that he made his appeal: "no; a mother has to be higher than an animal, to desert her young," doctor lavendar said. the young man's violent agreement broke off in the middle:--"what do you mean by that?" "shame is a strange thing," said doctor lavendar; "it can lift us up to heaven or push us down to hell; it gives us courage or it makes us cowards. an animal doesn't know shame." "you mean that--that woman--?" "i mean your mother was ashamed, john--" the young man was silent. "she tried to get away from shame by getting away from you. now she knows that only by staying with you could she really get away from it." "i will _never_ call her 'mother'!" johnny burst out. "miss lydia didn't stop to consider what she was going to call you; she just took care of you. yet you weren't as helpless as that poor woman back there in that empty house. johnny, her little weak soul, just born to-night, will die unless you take care of it." the young man stood still, his hands clenched. doctor lavendar took off his soaking wet hat, shook it, put it on again, and waited. there was only the sound of the rain and the drip-drip from the big trees along the driveway. then the boy said: "you said desertion could not be excused. i am ashamed to be known as belonging to her!" "that's just how she felt about you--_so she deserted you_." silence, except for john smith's panting breath. down the road, through the lilac bushes, came the twinkle of a lamp in miss lydia's window. "john," said doctor lavendar, "go to your mother. if you don't, you will be doing just what she did. be kind to her helpless soul, as miss lydia was kind to your helpless body." still silence. then suddenly mary's son flung doctor lavendar's hand from his arm, and turned back, almost running, to vanish in the shadows of his grandfather's driveway. but as he ran, he threw over his shoulder some broken, passionate words that sounded like--"i _won't_ be like her--" doctor lavendar stood still for a minute; then he drew a great breath of relief and plodded on slowly into the rainy darkness. the end * * * * * transcriber's notes: the repeated book title before chapter one was deleted to avoid redundancy. obvious punctuation errors repaired. page , "stomache" changed to "stomach" (stomach ache, and) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) a full description of the great tornado in chester county, pa. by richard darlington, jr., principal of "ercildoun seminary." west chester, pa.: f. s. hickman, printer & publisher. . the unprecedented destruction of property by the tornado which passed through the western part of our county on the first of july last, created in the minds of many a desire to have a full account of the movement, conduct, and origin of the storm cloud, together with such scientific explanation as would throw some light upon this remarkable phenomenon. after some weeks had elapsed, i gave the subject considerable attention, and have prepared this pamphlet, which i trust will meet some of the wants of intelligent inquirers upon this subject, and will also be the means of enabling the people to have a better knowledge of the loss sustained by those living along the route of the storm. this account has been prepared at the suggestion of a number who are interested in the subject. r. d. _west chester, aug. , ._ the great tornado. the summer of has been remarkable in some localities for the severity of its storms. these, in several instances, have partaken of the character of tornadoes. mt. carmel, in illinois, was nearly destroyed about the th of june last; pensaukee, in wisconsin, was nearly ruined on the th of july, and pittston, in massachusetts, suffered terribly from a tornado on the same day. while these great moving storm-clouds occur occasionally in some of the southern states, they generally move through sparsely settled districts, and the damage inflicted excites but little attention elsewhere. in the west indies, and in other tropical regions, these tornadoes are of frequent occurrence, and the damage is often fearful, whole towns being completely swept away. in the east indies, and on the coast of india, these storms are known as cyclones, because of their rotary motion--the greek word _ruklos_, from which "cyclone" is derived, meaning "_a whirl_". a cyclone frequently extends across a great belt, and is from fifty to five hundred miles in width. it may last for hours, and if it occurs on the ocean it destroys most of the vessels within its reach. in the dreadful hurricane that fell upon coringa, in india, in , the town was destroyed and twenty thousand people lost their lives. cyclones or hurricanes of this class, do not occur in our northern states; tornadoes, however, do in rare instances. these extend in width not more than a few hundred yards, or even feet, and come and go within the space of one or two minutes. in power and violence, however, they are as destructive as the cyclones. in tornadoes the storm-cloud, in nearly all instances, has a rotary motion; the wind also sweeping forward progressively at the rate of from five to twenty miles an hour. science has shown that in the latitude where these rare visitors come, they nearly always proceed from south-west to north-east. in the great illinois hurricane in may, , that passed over cook county, it is said that a family of nine persons was carried up in the air in a frame house, four of the nine being killed outright and the remainder severely injured. the house went to pieces amid the fury of the storm. generally these great storms are accompanied by peculiar electrical phenomena, though not in all instances. rain and hail often go with them. the storm-cloud of a tornado is nearly always funnel-shaped, the small end of the funnel extending downward. it looks like an immense balloon, and revolves on its axis with fearful rapidity. the air beyond the limits of this cloud is also in rapid motion, but merely partakes of the character of a very high wind and is not particularly destructive. the death-dealing and destructive power of the storm is confined to the limit of the conical cloud. all movements for personal safety must extend entirely beyond the circumference established by the rotary motion. the primary cause of these tornadoes is probably due to a low barometric condition of the atmosphere accompanied by a high temperature, and spreading over an area of very irregular shape. an area of high barometer, accompanied by a low temperature, encroaches upon the former, and then comes the mighty effort to equalize these two different conditions of the atmosphere and restore the equilibrium, which is the constant effort of nature. the more diverse these two conditions are, the greater will be the struggle of the giants in the contest. of course the electrical condition of the atmosphere existing at the time may form a very important factor in the tornado which may follow. what was the character and condition of the atmosphere on the memorable first of july last, when the storm-cloud which spread desolation over a narrow belt of not more than two hundred yards at most, swept across the western half of chester county, penn'a? the middle part of the day was hot and oppressive; the thermometer stood at about and the barometer about . . the atmosphere seemed very close, and the inhaling of air in the lungs was attended with rather more difficulty than usual. i remarked to a friend that there was a peculiar condition of the atmosphere, and yet who could have foretold the terrible results of that afternoon? the oldest inhabitant had never heard of a tornado in this section of country, and yet one was at hand. to give a faithful and accurate description of the movements and conduct of this storm-cloud, made it necessary for me to pass over the route of the moving mass and observe critically its results, and also to inquire of those living along and near its track what was its appearance, what was the direction of its sweep through the forest trees, how far the _debris_ were carried, what amount of life was destroyed, what was the width of its track, and how the rotary motion of the cloud seemed to affect the buildings and obstacles that vainly attempted to resist its march in a direction a little south of east. the first point of interest in connection with the tornado was about one mile south-east of the gap station, on the penn'a rail road, and about two miles west of the boundary line between chester and lancaster counties. from this point the storm-cloud proceeded for about two miles in a direction south degrees east, or about degrees south of a line running due east. about three-fourths of a mile east of sadsbury meeting house a slight change of direction occurred in the movement of the cloud, and it took a direction a little to the north, running south degrees east. it proceeded, with slight local variations, for about eight miles in a direct line, and cutting a track about yards wide, until it reached the property of william hamill, in east fallowfield township, near newlin's mill, and here it widened to about yards, destroying the fences, crops, etc., on his property. at this point a slight change of direction occurred towards the south, bringing it into contact with the timber tracts of e. phipps and thos. shields, in which a terrible destruction of forest trees occurred. it now veered to the north about ten degrees, and passed through the southern half of the village of ercildoun in a line south degrees east, or in a direction nearly due east, and continued thence until it arose in the air about half-a-mile east of ercildoun, and proceeded, at a higher elevation, for about seven miles, relieving the farms and property of the intervening country from destruction. as it approached broad run, about a mile west of marshallton, it descended sufficiently long to unroof and almost destroy the barns and out-buildings of two properties, owned respectively by richard baily and joseph marshall, of west bradford township. here it came to an end in its mad and reckless career. the two opposing currents of air had no doubt now become thoroughly blended and partook of the character of a high wind, fully relieved of its devastating properties. the storm-cloud was dissolved, or had permanently taken a higher elevation over a still greater amount of territory. the whole route of the tornado, as measured by its effects, was about miles. the width of its track was from to yards, averaging generally about yards. the following points also have been pretty clearly established by the use of the compass, and also by careful observation along the route of the storm: _first._ that the general direction of the storm-cloud during the first half of its journey, to a point near newlin's mill, one mile west of ercildoun, was south deg. east, but at that point it changed and its course afterwards was south deg. east, or nearly due east. _second._ that the destruction of property was generally greater as the cloud moved across a valley. _third._ that the velocity of the moving mass varied at different periods from to miles an hour, but twelve miles an hour would be considered a fair average. _fourth._ that the trees along the southern side of the track of desolation were generally thrown with their tops towards the north, or at right angles to the direction of the progressive motion of the cloud, while those on the northern side were thrown in the opposite direction. _fifth._ that in some instances houses and buildings near the _centre_ of the track were but slightly injured. these cases, however, were rare. _sixth._ that from local and other causes, the lower part of the conical cloud frequently moved out of a straight course, while the upper or larger part of the cone kept in a line very nearly direct. _seventh._ that as soon as the cloud was formed, a roaring sound commenced, which continued without interruption during its entire course. this sound was not unlike continuous thunder. _eighth._ that the movement of the storm-cloud was unaccompanied with much rain or hail, though one or the other fell at some distance north or south of the track, the sun frequently shining at the time. to explain some of these phenomena, even with the aid of science, is difficult. the storm-cloud itself was an entirely exceptional phenomenon in this latitude. such an event had never occurred before in eastern pennsylvania, and we are without the benefit of previous observation and experience. the great destruction of property in crossing valleys has excited marked attention. the cloud undoubtedly required an immense amount of air to feed it as it went along. persons near its track say that they breathed with the greatest difficulty. the surrounding air must have been very rare; in fact, a partial exhaustion must have resulted from the absorption of air by the moving mass. in crossing a valley at right angles, or nearly so, the dense air up and down on either side, would be at hand to furnish it with the necessary material, thus increasing its power and devastation; this is one explanation. another theory, which is probably the correct one, could safely be advanced upon plausible grounds. supposing electricity to be the primal cause of the cloud itself, in passing across deep and irregular valleys with rugged surface, more electricity would be developed, and greater power would be infused into the revolving cone as it moved forward. when passing over a smooth, level plateau, it would excite less of the electrical fluid, and would hence be disarmed of a portion of its ability to destroy buildings and fences. the second important point that we must consider is the increased destruction of property and great violence exhibited on the right side of the centre of the revolving axis of the storm-cloud, and a corresponding diminution of destructive power on the left side. the movement of the whirl was undoubtedly from right to left; the fallen trees indicate it. the forward motion of the hurricane would create a great inrushing of wind on the right side, and greater damage would result than upon the other side where the wind was returning to complete the rotary movement. while it is true the trees were overthrown to some extent in all directions, yet they mostly fell in the direction in which the wind struck them as it moved around in its whirling motion. the southern side of the track of desolation, however, presents evidence of the greatest power. the maple and other forest trees were frequently twisted entirely off, showing conclusively, that while they were first struck by the progressive motion, the rotary motion was sufficiently quick to locate the falling trunk. the great power of the storm-cloud was due to its revolution. in fact, this marks the difference between the high wind and the hurricane or tornado. the phenomena observed in connection with the storm of july first, are almost identical with those of similar character in the southern states and west indies. the third subject presented for our consideration is the upward and downward currents which seemed to exist within the cloud. objects were thrown upward to an immense distance, and the distance to which some objects were driven into the earth must convince us that there was a force downward of great power. it is true that a falling body, when influenced by gravity alone, will descend with great force, especially if started from a high point, but the deep excavations found in the track of the storm can only be accounted for by a downward current. the funnel-shaped cloud enlarging its circumference towards the top, would, with its centrifugal force resulting from its revolution, hurl bodies to a great distance, and we find the _debris_ of this tornado hundreds of yards outside of its track, proving that when an object was carried up in the whirl, it was often thrown off, laterally for a great distance. a remarkable feature in connection with the tornado is the preservation of buildings in the track of the storm. property on both sides of a house was sometimes destroyed, and yet the building itself was scarcely injured. this gap in the storm must have occurred from local causes, and from the gradual elevation and descent of the progressive movement of the cloud, thus carrying it over and beyond some of the objects in its track. some cases of this character will be mentioned in the subsequent pages of this book. the color and appearance of the storm cloud is worthy of consideration. by some who viewed it as it passed along, it is represented as being an immense balloon, extending to the height of several hundred feet, spreading out at the top, forming a funnel. it moved along at times with great rapidity, and at other times it seemed to halt, as if gathering strength for another effort. the color was variegated, the whole presenting rather a luminous appearance. missiles of every kind could be distinctly seen in and through the body of the cloud. at first sight it seemed to be a barn on fire--the burning embers flying in every direction; but a closer inspection proved it not to be fire, but dirt and hay and timbers, intermingled with leaves and other light substances, giving it the appearance of an immense wind storm, which was the correct conclusion. those who had a side view of the cloud state that it was quite light in appearance as it passed over grass fields and timber tracts, but when it reached a plowed field or a potato patch, it gathered up the dirt and loose material and became a very dark mass of matter, and presented a frightful appearance as it traveled forward with a velocity of a mile in four or five minutes. such was its character as it approached the village of ercildoun. jos. brinton, who resides at newlin's station, on the penn'a and delaware rail road, states that he observed the storm carefully as it came from the west. he was standing on his barn bridge at the time, and on looking over the high hill at the west of his residence his eyes were directed to a point just above the funnel of the cloud. he saw the clouds rise up at the circumference to a great height, and then pour over into the central cavity from all sides; this continued for some time. the funnel next appeared in full view, after the space of ten minutes. then the body of a tree appeared above; it appeared motionless, and grew larger and larger as the cloud approached--the tree being carried with the storm; finally it disappeared. the body of the storm-cloud was now full of missiles, having the appearance of millions of birds sailing through the air, the whole moving mass being of a very dark color. as it moved forward these missiles were discharged in every direction. the conical column now became very tall, and was of a white color, in appearance not unlike the under cloud of a great rain storm. as clouds of smoke and dirt rolled up through the mass and were carried around by the rotary motion, the appearance was that of an immense building on fire. he pronounces the sight to have been awfully grand, and terrible beyond description. [illustration: appearance of the storm-cloud while moving through joseph brinton's field.] with a view of having correct data of the tornado, and placing the same upon record, in company with my friend and schoolmate edwin walton, of highland township, i passed along the route of the storm-cloud. the first point of observation was near the residence of jos. d. pownell, lancaster co., pa. he gave us a short account of the cloud, and of the movement of the currents of air which formed it. as he sat upon the front porch of his residence, he saw a strong current of air blowing from the south-west. to the north a storm had just passed, and a powerful current set in from that direction and blew directly across, coming in conflict with the current from the south-west. the whirl commenced on their coming together, and was set in motion about half-a-mile from his house and one mile south-east of the gap station. this rotary motion or "whirl" probably resulted from the resistance encountered by these opposing currents of air, in their attempt to ascend vertically, there being less resistance in a lateral than in a vertical direction. the first movements of the cloud thus formed were of a decided character. some children that were playing in a field near by, saw the danger ahead and fled to a lime-kiln, thus saving their lives. the cloud now reached a stream of water, and mr. pownell says the water was taken up and carried into the funnel of the cloud, leaving the bed of the stream dry. it now approached his house with a continuous roaring sound, and he fled within. it passed along the north side of his house, overthrew his orchard, destroyed part of his corn crop, carried an apple tree fifty yards, and cut a track yards wide and proceeded in the direction of sadsbury meeting house. his loss was about $ . the first building struck was a tenement house on the property of elwood pownell. it was located on the top of a hill that overlooked the surrounding country; an old colored man named robert johnston occupied it. the building was leveled to the ground. he stated that he was coming up the hill as the cloud approached, and sought safety by leaning against the bank and holding firmly to the fence; he was not injured. he is now living in the _cellar_ of the house and crawls out into daylight when it is necessary; no movement is being made towards rebuilding his dwelling. loss, $ . the storm-cloud next passed over elwood pownell's property. his wagon shed and carriage house are gone, and a large number of his apple trees was overthrown. his farming utensils were swept away, and the barn itself was moved fourteen inches from its foundation. the fences on the property were more or less demolished, but his whole loss was not very great. he states that his father-in-law was paying him a visit on that afternoon, but was unable to get home in the evening as his carriage was seized by the storm and carried away. mr. pownell further states that he saw the wind coming, and with the greatest difficulty reached the house, being unable to find the door-latch after he got there. he also experienced great difficulty in breathing. his loss was estimated at about $ . the storm now passed in the direction of a property on which thomas bonsall, jr., resides, distant about one mile from christiana. two-thirds of the roof of his barn was carried off, and the eastern gable end fell with a crash, as the wind struck it. his orchard was destroyed, and also many of the fences on his property. the loss sustained on this property was about $ . about a mile distant from mr. bonsall's buildings was a barn, said to be owned by a building association of west chester. the roof of this building was carried off, and about $ damage was sustained. the storm-cloud had now acquired rapid motion and passed with great violence over the property of frank paxson, who lives almost directly east from the other properties mentioned. mr. paxson is quite an old man, and told his story with considerable frankness. he was lying down on that sabbath afternoon and had his attention suddenly called to a great roaring sound without. he had scarcely time to go to his front door and examine the situation, when his large stone structure encountered a tremendous blast of wind, and all was over in a moment. he then looked out upon the scene: his barn was entirely demolished, and also all his out-buildings. the trap door of his house was carried off, and all his carriages and farming utensils were gone. the trees near his dwelling, strange to say, were saved, while his orchard was uprooted from one end to the other. i observed one of his large apple trees, not only blown over, but carried about fifty feet from its proper place. mr. paxson evidently felt his loss deeply, but was cheerful. we asked him if he had received assistance from any source? he replied--"not any." he was slowly beginning the work of "reconstruction," but his place looked desolate indeed. his grain was stacked, and bore evidence of having been severely handled by the storm. his loss was estimated at about two thousand dollars. the next property in the track of the storm was that of madison irvin. part of the roof of his barn was gone, and his wagon shed was overthrown; a few fences and trees also were swept away. one hundred dollars would probably cover his loss. we were now beginning to advance up the north valley hill, and were about three miles from parkesburg. this hill, on its north side, is heavily wooded, and a great number of small properties is located along that section. some of these men are poor, but had succeeded in securing for themselves small homes and residences. stables here and there dotted the hillside, and a long line of forest trees extended in a northeasterly direction as far as the eye could reach. the great storm-cloud, in its onward movement, traveled over several of these properties. wayne woodland owns a farm of about seventy acres as the rise of the hill was reached. he had a full force of mechanics at work on a new barn, the old one having been a victim of the storm. the roof had been carried off his house and fifty-one of his apple trees were prostrate. the spring house had lost its roof, and his carriages and wagons were not to be found; in fact, the work of destruction had been nearly complete. his house, it is true, was standing, but he informed us that sixty panes of glass had been swept out of it. mr. woodland was about one hundred yards from his residence when he saw the storm approaching; he ran for his life and barely saved it. he estimated his loss at fifteen hundred dollars, and the estimate did not appear unreasonable. some small properties were now encountered, in the following order, viz: robert bradford, stable down, loss about fifty dollars. william cephas, roof off his house and stable, loss one hundred dollars. henry miller, stable destroyed, loss about fifty dollars. next came michael m. mcguigan and john murphy, whose losses were of a similar character, amounting, respectively, to about fifty and one hundred dollars. we were now at the top of the north valley hill, and on looking over the broad expanse of country to the east and to the south, we could distinctly see the track of desolation, as it extended across fields, over dwellings and barns, and through forests. the line of its course was almost direct, and no obstacle seemed to sway it much from its direct track. we traveled slowly down the hill, and then along the road that leads to parkesburg. the farm and residence of ezekiel young gave conclusive evidence that he had not been spared from the terrors of that july day. his land was made fenceless, his barn destroyed, (a good stone structure,) his slaughter house, wagon shed, and three tenement houses were unroofed, three stables were overthrown, his spring house was uncovered, and his carriages, wagons, and farming implements were wrecked. part of the orchard was destroyed, and on looking over into the meadow, towards the south, a huge tree, about eight feet in diameter, was prostrate. mr. young is a good farmer, keeps his buildings in fine repair, and was thoroughly overmatched for once by this monster that traveled over his premises. he was cheerful, but was deeply impressed by the immense mischief it had done him. his buildings were all being repaired. his loss may safely be put down at two thousand dollars. a remarkable incident occurred on the strasburg road, near mr. young's buildings. a german by the name of jacob eisinberger, was leisurely walking along the road; he was almost unconscious of the approach of the storm; on looking around he saw the fence blow away, and immediately found himself in the whirl. he was carried along for about two hundred yards in an unconscious state, and was then left in an adjoining field, his jaw being broken, his shoulder blade fractured, and various minor injuries were experienced. he was taken to the hospital at lancaster, and remained there for a time under treatment. this was probably the only instance in which the tornado carried a human being along with it. in all other instances personal safety was sought within dwellings, and in most cases with good success. the track of the storm now extended through the southern part of the borough of parkesburg; only the extreme south-western portion of the village, however, was destroyed. first came the new residence of mr. geo. paxson, superintendent of the penn'a and delaware r. r. this was a building of rather modest pretensions, long and narrow, and constructed of frame. it had been finished, and his family were preparing to move in on the following day. the dwelling was said to have been erected by contract, the cost to be about fifteen hundred dollars. the cloud on encountering the building, entirely demolished it; a pump stood on the north or kitchen end, solitary and alone, and it was evident that the structure had been near the centre of the storm track. several dwellings were now encountered towards the east in the following order: first, was mrs. fulton's; her house was so badly injured that it will probably have to be built again from the foundation. the loss, which it is said falls partly upon the parkesburg building association, cannot fall much below eight hundred dollars. next was charles hennings's residence; the east end of it was destroyed, with the loss of between one and two hundred dollars. vincent rice, who came next in order, and had a house in course of erection, sustained a loss of probably two hundred dollars. this includes, i believe, most, if not all the destruction within the immediate limits of parkesburg. we now saw ahead of us, and a little to the south of the main road, the residence of samuel jackson. his barn was gone, his house unroofed and otherwise injured; his orchard was overthrown, and all his out-buildings, some of which contained a large amount of grain, were entirely missing; his fences were nowhere to be seen, and there was the usual story of the destruction of farming implements, carriages, etc. the injury done to mr. jackson's property was very great indeed. he informed us that he was standing next to the door in one of the front rooms, and the great blast of wind blew the door off its hinges, striking him a blow which fractured several of his ribs, and left him entirely senseless. for several hours he remained in that condition, finding himself, eventually, in one of the neighbor's houses, and under medical treatment. mr. jackson's buildings were again in course of erection, though he stated that he hesitated considerably when he came to consider the question, whether or not he should re-erect them. he seemed very much surprised that _he_ should have received such an unfortunate overthrow, while his neighbors, of some of whom he spoke very highly, were passed by entirely. his loss will amount in the aggregate, to about two thousand dollars, which will fall upon himself, as no assistance, up to the time of his repairing, had been rendered him. the track of the storm-cloud now extended along the southern side of buck run valley, mounting the hill as it approached stottsville, and cutting a road through the forest trees south of the buildings on the property of mr. thomas hoffman. it then came down squarely into the valley, which turns abruptly to the right south of stottsville, and struck the track of the pomeroy and delaware city rail road, removing the rails for a considerable distance; the substantial bridge that crosses buck run, near the same point, was then demolished, the water in the bed of the stream being raised up _en masse_ by the whirl. the loss to the rail road company is probably six hundred dollars. the storm, on its northern border, had caught the barn, orchard, etc., of a property owned by dr. murphy, of parkesburg; it ran through a portion of his farm and did damage to the amount of six or seven hundred dollars. the next property that felt the fury of the hurricane as it proceeded in its course towards ercildoun, is owned and managed by william hamill, and is within the limits of east fallowfield township. here the storm-cloud widened to about three hundred yards, extending across the valley, running east and west through his farm, reaching his barn, and on its northern border, unroofing it and destroying the gable ends, inflicting a damage to the extent of three hundred dollars on the barn, and on the property itself of about twice that amount. we now approach the locality known as newlin's mills. these were not quite reached by the southern border of the storm track, but the timber tract of e. phipps, a quarter of a mile north, was absolutely destroyed, and as the cloud poured into the valley that divides the properties of mr. phipps and thos. shields, a destruction of timber occurred that absolutely beggars description. forest trees by the thousand were overthrown, many of which were broken off about half-way down the trunk, and others were uprooted; others again were twisted and interwoven in every conceivable shape. this mighty mass of material lies there to-day untouched, and thousands of people have visited the spot, amazed at the immense power which wind exerts when under the influence of rotary and progressive motion. such a sight was never before seen in this latitude. in the valley that divides these tracts of timber, was a humble frame dwelling two stories high, occupied by a family of colored people named hopkins. they heard the roaring of the storm as it approached from the west; the mother of the family, mary hopkins, rushed up stairs to close the windows, and as her hand was upon the sash, the house was overturned and the joists of the upper floor fell upon her, and she was found dead, having been crushed to death between the joists of the upper story and the rafters. the children below, or rather above her, as was the case at this time, were uninjured. this was the only person whose life was taken by the tornado, though a great number of narrow escapes was made. the loss sustained by messrs. phipps and shields would amount to about twelve hundred dollars each. the entire amount of timber destroyed on these two properties, and also on the property of joseph brinton, south east of them, is about thirty acres. from some cause not fully explainable, the cloud of wind, after striking this forest tract, changed its course about eight deg. to the north, proceeding in a line south deg. east, or nearly due east. this change brought the storm directly into the southern half of the village of ercildoun, one mile distant. before reaching that point, however, the property of joseph brinton had to be traveled over. his loss was heavy. his barn, carriage-house, and the north porch of his dwelling were destroyed; the house, from some cause, was not much injured. this was rather a strange circumstance, as the large trees on both sides of it were overthrown, and also the fences. there appeared to be two storm tracks at this point, but it was probably the same cloud that had divided for a few moments from some local cause. the hurricane also went through the orchard and wheat field on this property, destroying the trees, the whole of the wheat crop, and the fences in every direction. mr. brinton estimated his loss at twenty-five hundred dollars, and his estimate was not an extravagant one. i now come to that locality over which my own observation extended, and concerning which--"_haud ignota loquor_"--i can speak with a good degree of accuracy. the southern half of the village of ercildoun came next in the track of the storm-cloud. as this is the only village over which the tornado traveled, a brief description would not be inappropriate. this village contains about twenty dwellings. twenty-five years ago it had considerable reputation as a manufacturing locality--large quantities of agricultural implements being made every year, and in addition a foundry was kept in full operation. it had at that time a daily mail, a valuable library, and many other attractions not then found in many villages of like size. two friends' meeting houses are located here, one in the centre and the other at the western extremity of the place. in the days when the anti-slavery agitation was beginning to rouse the people to a sense of the great evil of our country, and when it required something akin to heroism to feed and protect the fugitive slave on his road to the north, this little settlement of friends did its whole duty in the cause of humanity, and was pretty widely known as a safe place for those fleeing from bondage. a public hall was erected in , and dedicated to free discussion. the motto, "let truth and error grapple," was emblazoned on its front in bold letters, and the lecturers and leading reformers of the day often held discussions there which would have been a credit to towns and villages of much greater pretensions. in "ercildoun seminary for young men and boys," was established, with smedley darlington as principal. it was a four-story structure, of good dimensions, and could accommodate about fifty pupils. as such, it was conducted for about three years, when the proprietor changed it to a boarding school for girls, and continued it thus for seven years, when it passed into the hands of its present proprietor, and afterwards was known as "ercildoun seminary for young ladies," and was kept in full operation to the present time. this institution was remodeled in , and additional wings were added to it. nearly two thousand pupils have received instruction here, and its patronage extended over a wide extent of country, including all the adjoining states, and many others. almost unvarying success attended the school in its efforts to promote the cause of education. with this brief description of the place and of its leading features, it will now fall to my lot to tell the story of the terrible damage inflicted upon it by the great tornado of july st. [illustration: seminary buildings of richard darlington, jr., at ercildoun, after the tornado.] my school had been vacated three days before, and all the pupils, together with their baggage, had gone. we felt, on that sabbath afternoon, a full sense of relief from responsibility and care. about o'clock in the afternoon, while engaged in reading, i was informed by my wife that an unusual rumbling and loud noise could be heard in the west. i remarked that it must be a thunderstorm and nothing more. the loud roar, however, continued, and became clearer and more distinct. i arose hastily, took a position and listened to the sound. in a few moments my mother-in-law, who resides with us, called to me in a loud voice to come to the west window on the main hall of the second story. i hurried thither, and on looking toward the west saw the great storm-cloud approaching, distant at that time perhaps half a mile, and coming over the level plain of the intervening fields. it was a novel and terrible sight to behold. the great conical mass seemed to be carrying along with it the timbers and burning embers of a barn on fire; vast masses of dirt and other dark objects appeared to be also in motion and coming directly towards my school buildings. no time must be lost; the whole establishment _might_ blow away, but in any event the safest place seemed to be the basement story. thither i asked my family to go immediately; they did so. on reaching the story immediately above the basement i halted, passed to the front porch, and took a position for observation, thinking that possibly our plans for safety would have to be modified. in a few moments the cloud struck the building; it came apparently with the force of two or three batteries of artillery, and the question was about to be decided whether the brick walls could stand the shock; if they could not, our lives must be sacrificed. it was all over in less than one minute. i had withdrawn to a front room on the first heavy fall of brick through the porch roof, for the upper story seemed to be coming down bodily upon the lower floors. after it was over i stepped to the east end of that part of the porch which was remaining, and viewed the situation; it was enough to sadden the stoutest heart. not a solitary building without was standing; the fourth story of the seminary was completely gone. our new dwelling house was in course of erection and was nearly completed. although it was a large structure, thirty-six by fifty feet, not a vestige of it remained above the cellar walls; even these were partially overthrown. my barn, carriage-house and stable, together with every other out-building, were nowhere to be seen. such a sight was never witnessed in this part of the country. the horses were still alive, though one of them, which had been in the barn, was gasping for life more than fifty yards from the building, and was badly mutilated; the other appeared unhurt, having kept just outside of the storm track. the cow, which had been grazing in the pasture field adjoining, had been lifted up bodily by the revolving mass and was thrown over a hedge twenty feet high, and was dead--the fall having probably killed her. the three hogs upon the premises looked as though they had crawled out of the earth, for they were covered with dirt; they seemed to breathe with the greatest difficulty and one of them soon died. about fifty chickens were lying around dead. the beautiful lawn in front of the seminary, containing thirty varieties of trees and ornamental shrubbery, was badly damaged, more than half of the trees being either twisted off or uprooted. not a fence could be seen anywhere. i turned away from the sad and sickening scene. the storm had broken nearly everything; the ground in all directions was covered with timber and with the _debris_ of buildings and of trees. some strange incidents occurred in connection with the destruction of property. three carriages within the same building had their wheels deposited at different points of the compass, more than one hundred yards distant from the building and from each other. the spokes and axles were mostly gone. the buildings had been covered with tin, and this tin roof was found in every direction at an almost equal radius from its former location. in several instances the roofing material was interwoven with the branches of trees, and was wound around the same two or three times. a large apple tree had been carried more than one hundred yards. a chestnut tree of huge dimensions in the front lawn had been stripped of nearly all its foliage, but had not been overthrown. over a hundred quilts and blankets from the seminary were lodged in the neighboring forests, torn into shreds. the upper section of a pump at the new dwelling had been lifted bodily into the air and deposited without the building. the grain in the barn, used for feeding the horses, was sown by the storm over more than half an acre of ground, and asserted its presence by a new and rapid growth. most of the evergreen trees on the lawn were broken off and the tops carried away. the apple trees in every case, however, were uprooted. the growing potatoes in one of my fields lost their green tops, the bare ground alone remaining. five hundred dollars' worth of school furniture in the upper story of the seminary, was carried away and entirely destroyed. an immense quantity of letters that had been stored, immediately under the roof of the building, were blown away, many of which were read by persons living ten miles distant. a hedge along the northern side of the seminary property, nearly twenty feet high, had the appearance, after the storm, of having been overrun by an immense flood. about a hundred loads of material of every character and description, were strewn around the premises, and were gathered up after the storm. several tons of hay that had been stored away in the barn, were blown away, and not a vestige of it could be seen anywhere. the timbers of the new dwelling were not only scattered around, but were shattered so effectually that an entire piece of lumber could with difficulty be found. pillars of brick weighing several tons were rolled out of their places near the top of the seminary, and were buried in the earth to a considerable depth. some of the school books were carried away for four miles or more, and were safely deposited near the farm houses in the surrounding country. other incidents might be given of the effects of the storm on this property. but it is unnecessary. the damage was immense. the loss in real and personal property, and every kind of damage inflicted upon the ercildoun seminary property, cannot fall much below ten thousand dollars. let us now consider the injury done to the remaining part of the village. cyrus coates resides immediately to the north of the school buildings. he owns a small farm, and a very fine orchard is located on the southern side of it. the northern part of the storm track passed over a portion of his property. his barn was demolished. a good wagon house was carried away, and all his carriages and wagons went with it. the greater part of his farming utensils were either missing or destroyed. two-thirds of his orchard, including about fifty trees, were overthrown. the fences in the track were carried away, and a large quantity of old grain that had been stored in his barn, was missing. mr. coates estimates his loss at over two thousand dollars. a house and barn, and a small lot of land immediately to the east of the seminary, are owned by elizabeth meredith, an aged woman, who resides there most of the time in company with her grand-daughter--a little girl of eight years. with some difficulty this young girl induced her aged grand-parent to descend from her room to the lower floor, as the storm was approaching. she accomplished her purpose and the lives of both of them were thus saved. the house was a stone and frame one, one-half being built of each. the storm-cloud passed almost directly over this dwelling and completely dismantled it. the slate roof was carried off, and the upper story went with it--the eastern part of the frame structure being blown forward into the adjoining road. the barn was completely blown away, and the fences shared the same fate. her loss, including house, barn and fences, cannot fall below eight hundred dollars. a row of houses, owned and occupied by several families of colored people next encountered the fury of the storm. lewis miller, who resides at the southern extremity, sustained a loss of about one hundred dollars. james richardson, who is next in order, had his house badly damaged, and was himself struck by missiles, and disabled for several weeks. his property was damaged to the extent of about two hundred dollars. a double building belonging to james and william long, shared a similar fate. it was unroofed and nearly torn to pieces. their loss will be near three hundred dollars. the last building, at the north end of the row, belongs to wm. harvey, a blacksmith. it encountered the full force of the northern track of the storm, and was unroofed, and fearfully injured. the shed adjoining was nowhere to be found. his whole loss was about four hundred dollars. the fallowfield meeting house property was now reached. a beautiful grove of trees in the western part was nearly destroyed, the trees lying in every direction. some of the oaks were very large, but were completely twisted off by the furious blast. the sheds for the protection of horses were all overthrown, and the upper part of the grave-yard wall was blown away, roof and all. the damage sustained by this property was not less than three hundred dollars. george walton, who owns a farm to the south of the meeting house, sustained some loss in the destruction of a portion of his oats crop, and of his fences. he estimates the damage inflicted upon him at near three hundred dollars. another property located on the south side of the road, passing through the place from east to west, was that of priscilla walton. her buildings were untouched, but nearly every tree of a thriving young apple orchard on the premises, was destroyed beyond reparation. her fences in the track of the storm were overthrown, and her loss cannot fall short of three hundred dollars. on leaving the village the tempest of wind made a complete wreck of all the buildings on the property of jacob carter, a colored man residing thereon. he was absent from home at the time of the storm, and on returning found that his new house, erected of gravel and cement, was nowhere to be seen. he loses by the storm about seven hundred dollars. we now leave the village of ercildoun, the damage to which i have enumerated with considerable care. we are also reaching a point at which the storm-cloud arose to a higher elevation, and passed above the farms and buildings, extending from susan pierce's property to a point near broad run, one mile west of marshallton. mrs. pierce was also a loser by the tornado. the east gable end of her barn, and also part of one side, though built of stone, fell to the ground when the cloud struck it. her loss, including fences and growing crops, amounts to about two hundred dollars. we now find that the storm-cloud passes to a higher elevation, or disappears, and for eight miles no buildings are touched. it descended in a modified form near broad run, and overturned and destroyed the barn of richard bailey, and leveled his fruit trees, inflicting a damage of about twelve hundred dollars. only one more property was encountered. the buildings of jos. marshall to the north of the strasburg road, were struck. his barn was destroyed and a portion of his house was demolished. he sustained a loss of near eighteen hundred dollars. the end of the track of desolation is now reached. the storm is at an end. the cloud has disappeared, and the story is nearly finished. the loss of property sustained by the persons living along the route of the storm-cloud is put in tabular form at the end of this work. it amounts to over thirty-five thousand dollars. edwin walton, of highland township, who had a good lateral view of the movement and appearance of the tornado, gives the following account of it: as the cyclone or tornado is a phenomenon of such rare occurrence in this part of the country, and having an excellent opportunity of witnessing the one which commenced in the eastern border of lancaster county, and passed through portions of sadsbury, highland, and east fallowfield townships, in chester county, pennsylvania, on the afternoon of july st, , i will endeavor to give as correct a description of it as possible, as it appeared to me. about two o'clock on the afternoon above mentioned, after arousing from a nap, i observed that clouds were gathering and distant thunder was muttering to the north-west. the day was warm, the thermometer indicating a temperature of about deg. fahrenheit, though no heated term (as it is sometimes called) had been experienced; the weather for several days previous having been rather cool and moist for the season. a strong wind was blowing from the south-west, producing (as i have been accustomed to term it) an active condition of the atmosphere, when storms quickly gather, move rapidly, and are apt to be severe, though not of long duration. i walked out into one of the fields and occupied an elevated position that afforded a good opportunity of witnessing what was, unexpectedly, soon to take place. i had been there from a half to three-quarters of an hour, when the gust, which had been gathering to the north-west presented a threatening appearance, a heavy rain apparently passing round to the northward. suddenly, a dark cloud made its appearance to the south-west, forming rapidly from the atmosphere, and moving with the lower current of air, to the northward. as soon as it reached the vicinity of the gust, the usual play of electricity commenced, which is frequently observed when clouds of unequal temperature meet. my attention was soon directed to a constant roaring or boiling noise that suddenly commenced at a point in the heavens to the north-west of me, and near the western extremity of the two clouds, a noise not quite resembling thunder, which, however, i supposed it to be, and said to myself, "can it be that the main body of the storm is in that direction when it looks so much darker and more threatening farther to the north?" for the clouds in the immediate vicinity of the noise were of a light appearance. the constant roaring, however, continued for probably five to eight minutes, when i first observed in the direction whence it proceeded, a dark cloud of smoky appearance rising from the earth and whirling in a terrible manner, with streams of lightning darting in quick succession from different directions into it, and a whitish, funnel-shaped cloud suspended over it. i was considerably startled, remarked that a cyclone was coming, halted a moment to ascertain the direction in which it was traveling, which appeared to be towards me, and started in haste to the house. i soon found that it would pass a little to the north, and would not strike us, though the air was thick with objects nearly overhead, many of which, to an observer at a considerable distance, closely resembled buzzards sailing round. i immediately took my stand on the upper porch at the east end of the house, when an almost uninterrupted view could be had all the way to the village of ercildoun, and here the grandest and most terrible sight that i ever beheld, suddenly burst into view, as the tornado passed from behind the hill north of the house, and crossed the narrow-wooded valley near brinton's mill, on the road leading to coatesville. this spot was heavily set with white-oak timber of good growth, but the moment it was struck by the whirlwind, the sturdy oaks, which had been standing for probably a century, were instantly thrown to the ground, many of them raising tons of earth and stones upon their roots, while others, not willing to leave the soil that had nourished them so long, were broken off at different heights and scattered around in confusion, or carried up in the winding funnel to be dashed from the earth far from where they grew. it is needless to attempt a description of the power exerted by the storm at this point, as many visitors who have been there declare that no description they had of it previously, conveyed any clear idea of the reality, and the mind is utterly powerless to conceive how any force can be generated to move an element so light and soft as the atmosphere we breathe, with such tremendous velocity as that required to produce the effect seen here, and many other places along its line of travel. as it passed from this valley over the hill, in the direction of ercildoun, at a distance of about three-eights of a mile from where i stood, i could distinctly see the branches of trees flying rapidly as they were thrown off by the centrifugal force of the whirl, the center being so densely filled with dust, leaves, etc., and the motion so rapid, that in it nothing could be recognized. it now moved across a cornfield but lately cultivated, belonging to joseph brinton, and here the most terrible-looking sight yet beheld presented itself, for the astonishing quantities of dust rolling upward, together with the dreadful roaring, and the sun almost shining, presented the appearance of a great moving fire, and such many supposed it to be. our nearest neighbors left their house terror-stricken, and came towards ours, believing, the world was on fire and the judgment day had surely come, a belief maintained by others as well as by them, while the horses ran as far as they could get from the frightful object. it could now be distinctly seen that ercildoun lay directly in its pathway, and i was almost horrified to think of such a destructive power moving through a village, for it seemed to a beholder as though no structure erected by human hands could, for a moment, stand before it, and it seems marvellous, considering the destruction done at this place, that not a single human life was lost, and only one in its whole line of about miles travel. the new dwelling house being erected by richard darlington, was about the first in the vicinity to share the fate of destruction, and the moment it was struck the timbers could be seen flying high in the air and scattering in all directions. the next instant the school building was obscured from view, but in a moment reappeared again, showing it to be on the outside of the center, and not in the full force of the storm. after passing through the town and completely destroying many of the buildings, the cone or funnel, which had accompanied the tornado like a dreaded omen, disappeared, showing that the whirling motion of the air had ceased, and the storm for the time being was spent. the rotary movement was to the left, which may be shown by standing upon one heel and turning around in that direction. this was evident from the fact that being on the south side, objects flying off from the center were thrown forward, while to a beholder on the north side, as the storm moved eastward, they were thrown backward. the cone appeared to be a cloud of vapor, nearly white, connecting at the base or upper end with a smooth surface of cloud somewhat darker, and tapering in a slightly concave manner for about two-thirds of its whole length, terminating in a tail of nearly equal thickness, about one-third of the whole length and at a height varying, probably, from to feet from the ground. the upper portion of the cone appeared to move nearly in a straight line, and at a uniform rate of speed, while the tail or lower end was frequently seen to bend considerably in different directions, showing that the storm was somewhat swayed from its true course in passing around the hills or crossing valleys at oblique angles, a fact verified by observation. sometimes it would seem to stop entirely for a few minutes, and then move on faster than before, and was quite as destructive on low ground and in narrow valleys as elsewhere. the appearance of fire frequently spoken of, especially by those toward whom the storm was approaching, i am satisfied was produced by the sunlight against the constantly rising dust, the light being partly transmitted and partly reflected. no rain fell in the track of the storm, but hail stones of large size and in considerably quantity fell in some localities on the north side of it. one remarkable feature observed by those near its passage, was the difference between the wind then blowing and that of ordinary winds, the tornado acting with a drawing or sucking force, trees and other objects seemed to give way more readily than if acted upon by the pushing force of the wind behind them. the size of the central portion, or that in which the power of the storm seemed to be generated, did not appear to be more than to feet in width. one person towards whom it was approaching, and but a short distance off, thought it about the size of a large balloon, though trees, buildings, and other objects, were prostrated for the width of to feet. the tornado of july st has assumed so much importance because of its novelty, and of the scientific points involved in its movements, that its history would be incomplete without some reference to the events which followed it, and which had direct connection with it. the suffering among the poorer classes in the village of ercildoun was of so decided a character, that a meeting was organized and a committee of relief was appointed, composed of the following persons, viz: abraham gibbons, margaretta walton, r. b. ramsey, david young, william webster, charles huston, jr., and b. fredd. this committee undertook the task of raising a sum of money to repair and rebuild the houses of those unable of themselves to do so. after considerable effort, in which the people of the borough of coatesville, and also of west chester and other places, made generous contributions, the sum of nearly two thousand dollars was raised for that purpose. this amount of money was generously distributed among the sufferers in sums varying from one to four hundred dollars, and most of the dwellings of the class referred to have been repaired, or are in course of erection, and erelong the desolate appearance of the place will not exist, and these people will be placed in a position as favorable as they were in before the storm. no relief has been rendered to any of the sufferers from insurance companies, or from any public corporation. after the storm had passed through the village of ercildoun on that sabbath afternoon, a tide of visitors set in, entirely unprecedented in this part of the country. the sun shone out beautifully; a terrible scene of desolation was spread out in every direction, buildings on every hand having been either blown away or overthrown; fences nowhere; the grass apparently parched and destroyed; trees filling all the roads and pathways; the _debris_ of dwellings spread over all the fields; animals gasping for breath or dying; crops shorn to a level with the ground, and human beings running in every direction. before evening had come, upwards of a thousand people were gazing with astonishment at the scene; carriages and vehicles of all descriptions were to be seen. on the following day, in fact, during the whole of the next three weeks, the number of visitors did not seem to diminish. on july th, the sabbath after the storm, it is estimated that the number was swelled to five thousand. all the roads leading to ercildoun were absolutely obstructed with vehicles. reporters for the press, artists for the illustrated papers, and photographers, were busily attending to their duties. some of these visitors came in the interest of science, others to extend sympathy and aid to the sufferers, but the great mass of them came with no such purpose. they gazed upon the scene as they would upon a great natural curiosity, and gave the subject little profound thought. they regarded it as a grand "show," and were certainly well repaid for their many miles of travel thither. the citizens of the village kept watch for a few days to prevent pilfering, but were not entirely successful, as many valuables were stolen. it is estimated that about fifteen thousand people visited the ruins in and around ercildoun. the damage done to the seminary property at ercildoun--amounting to one-fourth of the injury along the whole track of the storm--was so great, and the general outlook upon the lawn--in which most of the trees were either overthrown, broken off, or otherwise injured--was of so unfavorable a character, that it was deemed best by the proprietor to change its location. he purchased a valuable property containing twenty-six acres of land and very fine improvements, in the vicinity of the borough of west chester, twelve miles east of its former location. additional buildings of the most approved character were erected thereon, and its capacity for a young ladies' seminary or boarding school, is greater than it was at ercildoun, and it is believed that some advantages of a decided character will accrue to it in consequence of it being more easy of access, and of its close proximity to one of the most beautiful towns in the state of pennsylvania. the story of the great storm seems now to be fully told. it is one of the phenomena of the century. it has no rival or parallel in this latitude. its track was extremely narrow, not more than two hundred yards in width, yet it destroyed nearly forty thousand dollars worth of property, principally in buildings. we may never see the like again, but those of us that endured its terrors and suffered its losses, will never forget it. the storm-cloud, in its long journey of twenty-two miles, killed but one person and severely injured three others, but it imperiled the lives of several hundred, who are justly thankful for their narrow escape from death. we have not been accustomed to fear much the thunder, the lightning and the storms of heaven. that calm sabbath july afternoon has, however, reminded us that a passing cloud may be lashed into the wildest fury and deal out death and destruction on every hand. whilst we cannot foolishly regard this storm as a dispensation of providence, as some have said, but rather the wild fury of the elements, acting according to fixed laws, we are, nevertheless, impressed with the dangers to human life on every hand, and with the power of god as he carries out his laws, irrespective of man's wishes or expectations. estimated loss from the tornado. jos. d. pownell, $ elwood pownell, robert johnston, thos. bonsall, jr., building association of w. c., frank paxson, madison irvin, wayne woodland, robert bradford, william cephas, henry miller, michael mcguigan, john murphy, ezekiel young, geo. paxson, mrs. fulton, chas. hennings, vincent rice, samuel jackson, dr. murphy, penn'a & del. r. r., william hamill, joseph brinton, elisha phipps, thomas shields, richard darlington, jr., cyrus coates, elizabeth meredith, lewis miller, junius richardson, jas. & wm. long, william harvey, fallowfield meeting house, geo. walton, priscilla walton, jacob carter, susan pierce, richard bailey, joseph marshall, --------- $ produced from scans of public domain material produced by microsoft for their live search books site.) [illustration: chester rand horatio alger jr.] chester rand or the new path to fortune by horatio alger, jr. author of "andy grant's pluck," "sink or swim," "adrift in new york." new york hurst & company publishers transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. dialect spellings, contractions and discrepancies have been retained. the table of contents was not contained in the book and has been created for the convenience of the reader. contents chapter i. silas tripp ii. out of work iii. a noteworthy evening iv. a dying gift v. chester's first success vi. robert ramsay vii. silas tripp makes a discovery viii. a scene in the grocery store ix. new plans for chester x. a railroad acquaintance xi. chester's first experiences in new york xii. a real estate office xiii. mr. mullins, the bookkeeper xiv. the tables turned xv. a plot against chester xvi. prof. hazlitt at home xvii. chester takes a lesson in boxing xviii. dick ralston xix. mr. fairchild leaves the city xx. paul perkins, of minneapolis xxi. mr. perkins makes an acquaintance xxii. dick ralston's father xxiii. chester is discharged xxiv. introduces mr. sharpleigh, the detective xxv. chester meets another artist xxvi. a stranger in new york xxvii. mr. tripp is disappointed xxviii. prof. nugent xxix. mr. fairchild's telegram xxx. the attempted robbery xxxi. a day of surprises xxxii. edward granger xxxiii. a friend from oregon xxxiv. after a year xxxv. preparing for the journey xxxvi. a great surprise xxxvii. david mullins again xxxviii. abner trimble's plot xxxix. making a will xl. an unexpected surprise xli. conclusion chester rand. chapter i. silas tripp. probably the best known citizen of wyncombe, a small town nestling among the pennsylvania mountains, was silas tripp. he kept the village store, occasionally entertained travelers, having three spare rooms, was town treasurer, and conspicuous in other local offices. the store was in the center of the village, nearly opposite the principal church--there were two--and here it was that the townspeople gathered to hear and discuss the news. silas tripp had one assistant, a stout, pleasant-looking boy of fifteen, who looked attractive, despite his well-worn suit. chester rand was the son of a widow, who lived in a tiny cottage about fifty rods west of the presbyterian church, of which, by the way, silas tripp was senior deacon, for he was a leader in religious as well as secular affairs. chester's father had died of pneumonia about four years before the story commences, leaving his widow the cottage and about two hundred and fifty dollars. this sum little by little had melted, and a month previous the last dollar had been spent for the winter's supply of coal. mrs. rand had earned a small income by plain sewing and binding shoes for a shoe shop in the village, but to her dismay the announcement had just been made that the shop would close through the winter on account of the increased price of leather and overproduction during the year. "what shall we do, chester?" she asked, in alarm, when the news came. "we can't live on your salary, and i get very little sewing to do." "no, mother," said chester, his own face reflecting her anxiety; "we can't live on three dollars a week." "i have been earning two dollars by binding shoes," said mrs. rand. "it has been hard enough to live on five dollars a week, but i don't know how we can manage on three." "i'll tell you what i'll do, mother. i'll ask mr. tripp to raise my pay to four dollars a week." "but will he do it? he is a very close man, and always pleading poverty." "but i happen to know that he has ten thousand dollars invested in pennsylvania railroad stock. i overheard him saying so to mr. gardner." "ten thousand dollars! it seems a fortune!" sighed mrs. rand. "why do some people have so much and others so little?" "it beats me, mother. but i don't think either of us would exchange places with silas tripp with all his money. by the way, mother, mr. tripp is a widower. why don't you set your cap for him?" mrs. rand smiled, as her imagination conjured up the weazened and wrinkled face of the village storekeeper, with his gray hair standing up straight on his head like a natural pompadour. "if you want mr. tripp for a stepfather," she said, "i will see what i can do to ingratiate myself with him." "no, a thousand times no!" replied chester, with a shudder. "i'd rather live on one meal a day than have you marry him." "i agree with you, chester. we will live for each other, and hope for something to turn up." "i hope the first thing to turn up will be an increase of salary. to-morrow is new year's day, and it will be a good time to ask." accordingly, that evening, just as the store was about to close, chester gathered up courage and said: "mr. tripp." "well, that's my name," said silas, looking over his iron-bowed spectacles. "to-morrow is new year's day." "what if 'tis? i reckon i knew that without your tellin' me." "i came here last new year's day. i've been here a year." "what if you have?" "and i thought perhaps you might be willing to raise my salary to four dollars a week," continued chester, hurriedly. "oho, that's what you're after, is it?" said silas, grimly. "you think i'm made of money, i reckon. now, don't you?" "no, i don't; but, mr. tripp, mother and i find it very hard to get along, really we do. she won't have any more shoes to bind for three months to come, on account of the shoe shop's closing." "it's going to hurt me, too," said silas, with a frown. "when one business suspends it affects all the rest. i'll have mighty hard work to make both ends meet." this struck chester as ludicrous, but he did not feel inclined to laugh. here was silas tripp gathering in trade from the entire village and getting not a little in addition from outlying towns, complaining that he would find it hard to make both ends meet, though everyone said that he did not spend one-third of his income. on the whole, things did not look very encouraging. "perhaps," he said, nervously, "you would raise me to three dollars and a half?" "what is the boy thinkin' of? you must think i'm made of money. why, three dollars is han'some pay for what little you do." "why, i work fourteen hours a day," retorted chester. "i'm afraid you're gettin' lazy. boys shouldn't complain of their work. the fact is, chester, i feel as if i was payin' you too much." "too much! three dollars a week too much!" "too much, considerin' the state of business, and yourself bein' a boy. i've been meanin' to tell you that i've got a chance to get a cheaper boy." "who is it?" asked chester, in dismay. "it's abel wood. abel wood is every mite as big and strong as you are, and he come round last evenin' and said he'd work for two dollars and a quarter a week." "i couldn't work for that," said chester. "i don't mind bein' generous, considerin' you've been working for me more than a year. i'll give you two dollars and a half. that's twenty-five cents more'n the wood boy is willin' to take." "abel wood doesn't know anything about store work." "i'll soon learn him. sitooated as i am, i feel that i must look after every penny," and mr. tripp's face looked meaner and more weazened than ever as he fixed his small, bead-like eyes on his boy clerk. "then i guess i'll have to leave you, mr. tripp," said chester, with a deep feeling of disgust and dismay. "do just as you like," said his employer. "you're onreasonable to expect to get high pay when business is dull." "high pay!" repeated chester, bitterly. "three dollars a week!" "it's what i call high pay. when i was a boy, i only earned two dollars a week." "money would go further when you were a boy." "yes, it did. boys wasn't so extravagant in them days." "i don't believe you were ever extravagant, mr. tripp," said chester, with a tinge of sarcasm which his employer didn't detect. "no, i wasn't. i don't want to brag, but i never spent a cent foolishly. do you know how much money i spent the first three months i was at work?" "a dollar?" guessed chester. "a dollar!" repeated mr. tripp, in a tone of disapproval. "no, i only spent thirty-seven cents." "then i don't wonder you got rich," said chester, with a curl of the lip. "i ain't rich," said silas tripp, cautiously. "who told you i was?" "everybody says so." "then everybody is wrong. i'm a leetle 'forehanded, that's all." "i've heard people say you could afford to give up work and live on the interest of your money." silas tripp held up his hands as if astounded. "'tain't so," he said, sharply. "if i gave up business, i'd soon be in the poorhouse. well, what do you say? will you stay along and work for two dollars and a half a week?" "i couldn't do it," said chester, troubled. "all right! it's jest as you say. your week ends to-morrow night. if you see abel wood, you can tell him i want to see him." "i will," answered chester, bitterly. as he walked home he felt very despondent. wouldn't it have been better, he asked himself, to accept reduced wages than to give up his job? it would have been hard enough to attempt living on two dollars and a half a week, but that was better than no income at all. and yet, it looked so mean in silas tripp to present such an alternative, when he was abundantly able to give him the increase he asked for. "i must tell mother and see what she thinks about it," he said to himself. chapter ii. out of work. chester had a talk with his mother that evening. she felt indignant at silas tripp's meanness, but advised chester to remain in the store for the present. "i'd rather work anywhere else for two dollars," said chester, bitterly. it would be humiliating enough to accept the reduction, but he felt that duty to his mother required the sacrifice. he started on his way to the store in the morning, prepared to notify mr. tripp that he would remain, but he found that it was too late. just before he reached the store, he met abel wood, a loose-jointed, towheaded boy, with a stout body and extraordinarily long legs, who greeted him with a grin. "i'm goin' to work in your place monday mornin'," he said. "has mr. tripp spoken to you?" asked chester, his heart sinking. "yes, he said you was goin' to leave. what's up?" "mr. tripp cut down my wages," said chester. "i couldn't work for two dollars and a half." "he's only goin' to give me two and a quarter." "you can afford to work for that. your father's got steady work." "yes, but all the same i'll ask for more in a few weeks. where are you goin' to work?" "i don't know yet," answered chester, sadly. "it's awful hard to get a place in wyncombe." "i suppose it is. i hope something will turn up." he tried to speak hopefully, but there was very little hope in his heart. he went about his work in a mechanical way, but neglected nothing. when the time came for the store to close, silas tripp took three dollars from the drawer and handed it to him, saying: "there's your wages, chester. i expect it's the last i'll pay you." "yes, sir, i suppose so." "i don't know how i'll like the wood boy. he hain't no experience." "he'll get it, sir." "if you want to stay for two and a quarter--the same i'm going to give him--i'll tell him i've changed my mind." "no, sir; it wouldn't be right to put him off now. i guess i'll get something else to do." he turned and left the store, walking with a slower step than usual. his heart was heavy, for he felt that, poorly as they lived hitherto, they must live more poorly still in the days to come. he reached home at last, and put the three dollars in his mother's hands. "i don't know when i shall have any more money to give you, mother," he said. "it looks dark, chester, but the lord reigns. he will still be our friend." there was something in these simple words that cheered chester, and a weight seemed lifted from his heart. he felt that they were not quite friendless, and that there was still one, kinder and more powerful than any earthly friend, to whom they could look for help. when monday morning came he rose at the usual hour and breakfasted. "i'll go out and take a walk, mother," he said. "perhaps i may find some work somewhere." almost unconsciously, he took the familiar way to the store, and paused at a little distance from it. he saw abel come out with some packages to carry to a customer. it pained him to see another boy in his place, and he turned away with a sigh. during the night four or five inches of snow had fallen. this gave him an idea. as he came to the house of the misses cleveland, two maiden sisters who lived in a small cottage set back fifty feet from the road, he opened the gate and went up to the front door. miss jane cleveland opened it for him. "good-morning, chester," she said. "good-morning, miss cleveland. i thought you might want to get a path shoveled to the gate." "so i would; hannah tried to do it last time it snowed, but she caught an awful cold. but ain't you working up at the store?" "not now. mr. tripp cut down my wages, and i left." "do tell. have you got another place?" "not just yet. i thought i'd do any little jobs that came along till i got one." "that's right. what'll you charge to shovel a path?" chester hesitated. "fifteen cents," he answered, at last. "i'll give you ten. money's skerce." chester reflected that he could probably do the job in half an hour, and he accepted. it cheered him to think he was earning something, however small. he worked with a will, and in twenty-five minutes the work was done. "you're spry," said jane cleveland, when he brought the shovel to the door. "it took hannah twice as long, and she didn't do it as well." "it isn't the kind of work for ladies," replied chester. "wait till i fetch the money." miss cleveland went into the house, and returned with a nickel and four pennies. "i'm reely ashamed," she said. "i'll have to owe you a cent. but here's a mince pie i've just baked. take it home to your ma. maybe it'll come handy. i'll try to think of the other cent next time you come along." "don't trouble yourself about it, miss cleveland. the pie is worth a good deal more than the cent. mother'll be very much obliged to you." "she's very welcome, i'm sure," said the kindly spinster. "i hope you'll get work soon, chester." "thank you." chester made his way homeward, as he did not care to carry the pie about with him. his mother looked at him in surprise as he entered the house. "what have you there, chester?" she asked. "a pie from miss cleveland." "but how came she to give you a pie?" "i shoveled a path for her, and she gave me a pie and ten cents--no, nine. so you see, mother, i've earned something this week." "i take it as a good omen. a willing hand will generally find work to do." "how are you off for wood, mother?" "there is some left, chester." "i'll go out in the yard and work at the wood pile till dinner time. then this afternoon i will go out again and see if i can find some more paths to shovel." but chester was not destined to earn any more money that day. as a general thing, the village people shoveled their own paths, and would regard hiring such work done as sinful extravagance. chester did, however, find some work to do. about half-past three he met abel wood tugging a large basket, filled with groceries, to the minister's house. he had set it down, and was resting his tired arms when chester came along. "give me a lift with this basket, chester, that's a good fellow," said abel. chester lifted it. "yes, it is heavy," he said. "the minister's got some company," went on abel, "and he's given an extra large order." "how do you like working in the store, abel?" "it's hard work, harder than i thought." "but remember what a magnificent salary you will get," said chester, with a smile. "it ain't half enough. say, chester, old tripp is rich, ain't he?" "i should call myself rich if i had his money." "he's a miserly old hunks, then, to give me such small pay." "don't let him hear you say so." "i'll take care of that. come, you'll help me, won't you?" "yes," answered chester, good-naturedly; "i might as well, as i have nothing else to do." between the two the basket was easily carried. in a short time they had reached the minister's house. they took the basket around to the side door, just as mr. morris, the minister, came out, accompanied by a young man, who was evidently a stranger in the village, as chester did not remember having seen him before. "chester," said the minister, kindly, "how does it happen that you have an assistant to-day?" "i am the assistant, mr. morris. abel is mr. tripp's new boy." "indeed, i am surprised to hear that. when did you leave the store?" "last saturday night." "have you another place?" "not yet." "are you at leisure this afternoon?" "yes, sir." "then perhaps you will walk around with my friend, mr. conrad, and show him the village. i was going with him, but i have some writing to do, and you will do just as well." "i shall be very happy to go with mr. conrad," said chester, politely. "and i shall be very glad to have you," said the young man, with a pleasant smile. "come back to supper, chester," said the minister; "that is, if your mother can spare you." "thank you, sir. i suppose you will be able to carry back the empty basket, abel," added chester, as his successor emerged from the side door, relieved of his burden. "i guess so," answered abel, with a grin. "i was never in wyncombe before," began mr. conrad, "though i am a second cousin of your minister, mr. morris. i have to go away to-morrow morning, and wish to see a little of the town while i am here." "where do you live, mr. conrad?" "in the city of new york." "are you a minister, too?" "oh, no!" laughed the young man. "i am in a very different business. i am an artist--in a small way. i make sketches for books and magazines." "and does that pay?" "fairly well. i earn a comfortable living." "i didn't know one could get money for making pictures. i like to draw, myself." "i will see what you can do this evening; that is, if you accept my cousin's invitation." before the walk was over chester had become much interested in his new friend. he listened eagerly to his stories of the great city, and felt that life must be much better worth living there than in wyncombe. chapter iii. a noteworthy evening. chester enjoyed his supper. mr. morris, though a minister, had none of the starched dignity that many of his profession think it necessary to assume. he was kindly and genial, with a pleasant humor that made him agreeable company for the young as well as the old. mr. conrad spoke much of new york and his experiences there, and chester listened to him eagerly. "you have never been to new york, chester?" said the young artist. "no, sir, but i have read about it--and dreamed about it. sometime i hope to go there." "i think that is the dream of every country boy. well, it is the country boys that make the most successful men." "how do you account for that, herbert?" asked the minister. "generally they have been brought up to work, and work more earnestly than the city boys." when the supper table was cleared, mr. conrad took from his valise two or three of the latest issues of _puck_, _judge_ and _life_. he handed them to chester, who looked over them eagerly. "do you ever contribute to these papers, mr. conrad?" he asked. "yes; here is a sketch in _judge_, and another in _life_, which i furnished." "and do you get good pay for them?" "i received ten dollars for each." chester's eyes opened with surprise. "why," he said, "they are small. it couldn't have taken you long to draw them." "probably half an hour for each one." "and you received ten dollars each?" "yes, but don't gauge such work by the time it takes. it is the idea that is of value. the execution is a minor matter." chester looked thoughtful. "i should like to be an artist," he said, after a pause. "won't you give me a specimen of your work? you have seen mine." "i have not done any comic work, but i think i could." "here is a piece of drawing paper. now, let me see what you can do." chester leaned his head on his hand and began to think. he was in search of an idea. the young artist watched him with interest. at last his face brightened up. he seized the pencil, and began to draw rapidly. in twenty minutes he handed the paper to mr. conrad. the latter looked at it in amazement. "why, you are an artist," he said. "i had no idea you were capable of such work." "i am glad you like it," said chester, much pleased. "how long have you been drawing?" "ever since i can remember. i used to make pictures in school on my slate. some of them got me into trouble with the teacher." "i can imagine it, if you caricatured him. did you ever take lessons?" "no; there was no one in wyncombe to teach me. but i got hold of a drawing book once, and that helped me." "do you know what i am going to do with this sketch of yours?" chester looked an inquiry. "i will take it to new york with me, and see if i can dispose of it." "i am afraid it won't be of much use, mr. conrad. i am only a boy." "if a sketch is good, it doesn't matter how old or young an artist is." "i should like very much to get something for it. even fifty cents would be acceptable." "you hold your talent cheap, chester," said mr. conrad, with a smile. "i shall certainly ask more than that for it, as i don't approve of cheapening artistic labor." the rest of the evening passed pleasantly. when chester rose to go, mr. conrad said: "take these papers, chester. you can study them at your leisure, and if any happy thoughts or brilliant ideas come to you, dash them off and send them to me. i might do something with them." "thank you, sir. what is your address?" "number one ninety-nine west thirty-fourth street. well, good-by. i am glad to have met you. sometime you may be an artist." chester flushed with pride, and a new hope rose in his breast. he had always enjoyed drawing, but no one had ever encouraged him in it. even his mother thought of it only as a pleasant diversion for him. as to its bringing him in money, the idea had never occurred to him. it seemed wonderful, indeed, that a little sketch, the work of half an hour, should bring ten dollars. why compare with this the hours of toil in a grocery store--seventy, at least--which had been necessary to earn the small sum of three dollars. for the first time chester began to understand the difference between manual and intelligent labor. it was ten o'clock when chester left the minister's house--a late hour in wyncombe--and he had nearly reached his own modest home before he met anyone. then he overtook a man of perhaps thirty, thinly clad and shivering in the bitter, wintry wind. he was a stranger, evidently, for chester knew everyone in the village, and he was tempted to look back. the young man, encouraged perhaps by this evidence of interest, spoke, hurriedly: "do you know," he asked, "where i can get a bed for the night?" "mr. tripp has a few rooms that he lets to strangers. he is the storekeeper." the young man laughed, but there was no merriment in the laugh. "oh, yes. i know silas tripp," he said. "then you have been in wyncombe before?" "i never lived here, but i know silas tripp better than i want to. he is my uncle." "your uncle!" exclaimed chester, in surprise. "yes, i am his sister's son. my name is walter bruce." "then i should think your uncle's house was the place for you." "i have no money to pay for a bed." "but, if you are a relation----" "that makes no difference to silas tripp. he has no love for poor relations. you don't know him very well." "i ought to, for i have worked for him in the store for a year." "i didn't see you in there this evening." "i left him last saturday evening. there is another boy there now." "why did you leave him?" "because he wanted to cut down my wages from three dollars to two dollars and a quarter." "just like uncle silas. i see you know him." "have you seen him since you came to wyncombe?" "i was in the store this evening." "did you make yourself known to him?" "yes." "didn't he invite you to spend the night in the house?" "not he. he saw by my dress that i was poor, and gave me a lecture on my shiftless ways." "still he might have taken care of you for one night." "he wouldn't. he told me he washed his hands of me." chester looked sober. he was shocked by silas tripp's want of humanity. "you asked me where you could find a bed," he said. "come home with me, and i can promise you shelter for one night, at least." "thank you, boy," said bruce, grasping chester's hand. "you have a heart. but--perhaps your parents might object." "i have no father. my mother is always ready to do a kind act." "then i will accept your kind offer. i feared i should have to stay out all night." "and without an overcoat," said chester, compassionately. "yes, i had to part with my overcoat long since. i could not afford such a luxury. i suppose you understand!" "you sold it?" "no, i pawned it. i didn't get much for it--only three dollars, but it would be as easy for me to take the church and move it across the street as to redeem it." "you appear to have been unfortunate." "yes. fortune and i are at odds. yet i ought to have some money." "how's that?" "when my mother died uncle silas acted as executor of her estate. it was always supposed that she had some money--probably from two to three thousand dollars--but when uncle silas rendered in his account it had dwindled to one hundred and twenty-five dollars. of course that didn't last me long." "do you think that he acted wrongfully?" asked chester, startled. "do i think so? i have no doubt of it. you know money is his god." "yet to cheat his own nephew would be so base." "is there anything too base for such a man to do to get money?" the young man spoke bitterly. by this time they had reached chester's home. his mother was still up. she looked up in surprise at her son's companion. "mother," said chester, "this is mr. bruce. do you think we can give him a bed?" "why, certainly," replied mrs. rand, cordially. "have you had supper, sir?" "i wouldn't like to trouble you, ma'am." "it will be no trouble. i can make some tea in five minutes. chester, take out the bread and butter and cold meat from the closet." so before he went to bed the homeless wayfarer was provided with a warm meal, and the world seemed brighter and more cheerful to him. chapter iv. a dying gift. in the morning walter bruce came down to breakfast looking pale and sick. he had taken a severe cold from scanty clothing and exposure to the winter weather. "you have a hard cough, mr. bruce," said mrs. rand, in a tone of sympathy. "yes, madam; my lungs were always sensitive." when breakfast was over he took his hat and prepared to go. "i thank you very much for your kind hospitality," he began. then he was attacked by a fit of coughing. "where are you going. mr. bruce?" asked chester. "i don't know," he answered, despondently. "i came to wyncombe to see my uncle silas, but he will have nothing to say to me." chester and his mother exchanged looks. the same thought was in the mind of each. "stay with us a day or two," said mrs. rand. "you are not fit to travel. you need rest and care." "but i shall be giving you a great deal of trouble." "we shall not consider it such," said mrs. rand. "then i will accept your kind offer, for indeed i am very unwell." before the end of the day the young man was obliged to go to bed, and a doctor was summoned. bruce was pronounced to have a low fever, and to be quite unfit to travel. mrs. rand and chester began to feel anxious. their hearts were filled with pity for the young man, but how could they bear the expense which this sickness would entail upon them? "silas tripp is his uncle," said mrs. rand. "he ought to contribute the expense of his sickness." "i will go and see him," said chester. so he selected a time when business would be slack in the store, and called in. he found mr. trip in a peevish mood. "how are you, chester?" he said. "i wish you was back." "why, mr. tripp? you've got abel wood in my place." "he ain't of much account," grumbled silas. "what do you think he done this mornin'?" "i don't know, sir." "he smashed two dozen eggs, and eggs twenty-two cents a dozen. but i'll take it out of his salary. he's dreadful awkward, that boy!" "poor abel!" thought chester. "i am afraid he won't have much salary coming to him at the end of the week." "you never broke no eggs while you was here, chester." "no; i don't think i did." "you'd ought to have stayed." "i couldn't stay on the salary you offered. but, mr. tripp, i've come here on business." "hey? what about?" "your nephew, walter bruce, is staying at our house." "is he?" returned silas tripp, indifferently. "and he is sick." "i don't feel no interest in him," said silas, doggedly. "are you willing to pay his expenses? he has no money." "no, i ain't," snarled silas. "ef you take him you take him at your own risk." "you wouldn't have us turn him into the street?" said chester, indignantly. "you can do as you like. it ain't no affair of mine. i s'pose he sent you here." "no, he didn't; and i wouldn't have come if we had been better fixed. but we haven't enough money to live on ourselves." "then tell him to go away. i never wanted him to come to wyncombe." "it seems to me you ought to do something for your own nephew." "i can't support all my relations, and i won't," said silas, testily. "it ain't no use talkin'. walter bruce is shif'less and lazy, or he'd take care of himself. i ain't no call to keep him." "then you won't do anything for him? even two dollars a week would help him very much." "two dollars a week!" ejaculated silas. "you must think i am made of money. why, two dollars a week would make a hundred and four dollars a year." "that wouldn't be much for a man of your means, mr. tripp." "you talk foolish, chester. i have to work hard for a livin'. if i helped all my shif'less relations i'd end my days in the poorhouse." "i don't think you'll go there from that cause," chester could not help saying. "i guess not. i ain't a fool. let every tub stand on its own bottom, i say. but i won't be too hard. here's twenty-five cents," and silas took a battered quarter from the money drawer. "take it and use it careful." "i think we will try to get along without it," said chester, with a curl of the lip. "i'm afraid you can't afford it." "do just as you like," said silas, putting back the money with a sigh of relief, "but don't say i didn't offer to do something for walter." "no; i will tell him how much you offered to give." "that's a queer boy," said mr. tripp, as chester left the store. "seems to want me to pay all walter bruce's expenses. what made him come to wyncombe to get sick? he'd better have stayed where he lived, and then he'd have had a claim to go to the poorhouse. he can't live on me, i tell him that. them rands are foolish to take him in. they're as poor as poverty themselves, and now they've taken in a man who ain't no claim on them. i expect they thought they'd get a good sum out of me for boardin' him. there's a great many onrasonable people in the world." "i will go and see mr. morris, the minister," decided the perplexed chester. "he will tell me what to do." accordingly he called on the minister and unfolded the story to sympathetic ears. "you did right, chester," said mr. morris. "the poor fellow was fortunate to fall into your hands. but won't it be too much for your mother?" "it's the expense i am thinking of, mr. morris. you know i have lost my situation, and mother has no shoes to bind." "i can help you, chester. a rich lady of my acquaintance sends me a hundred dollars every year to bestow in charity. i will devote a part of this to the young man whom you have so kindly taken in, say at the rate of eight dollars a week." "that will make us feel easy," said chester gratefully. "how much do you think his uncle offered me?" "i am surprised that he should have offered anything." "he handed me twenty-five cents, but i told him i thought we could get along without it." "and you will. silas tripp has a small soul, hardly worth saving. he has made money his god, and serves his chosen deity faithfully." "i wouldn't change places with him for all his wealth." "some day you may be as rich as he, but i hope, if you are, you will use your wealth better." at the beginning of the third week walter bruce became suddenly worse. his constitution was fragile, and the disease had undermined his strength. the doctor looked grave. "do you think i shall pull through, doctor?" asked the young man. "while there is life there is hope, mr. bruce." "that means that the odds are against me?" "yes, i am sorry to say that you are right." walter bruce looked thoughtful. "i don't think i care much for life," he said. "i have had many disappointments, and i know that at the best i could never be strong and enjoy life as most of my age do--i am resigned." "how old are you, walter?" asked chester. "twenty-nine. it is a short life." "is there anyone you would wish me to notify if the worst comes?" "no, i have scarcely a relative--except silas tripp," he added, with a bitter smile. "you have no property to dispose of by will?" asked the doctor. "yes," was the unexpected answer, "but i shall not make a will. a will may be contested. i will give it away during my life." chester and the doctor looked surprised. they thought the other might refer to a ring or some small article. "i want everything to be legal," resumed bruce. "is there a lawyer in the village?" "yes, lawyer gardener." "send for him. i shall feel easier when i have attended to this last duty." within half an hour the lawyer was at his bedside. "in the inside pocket of my coat," said walter bruce, "you will find a document. it is the deed of five lots in the town of tacoma, in washington territory. i was out there last year, and having a little money, bought the lots for a song. they are worth very little now, but some time they may be of value." "to whom do you wish to give them?" asked mr. gardner. "to this boy," answered bruce, looking affectionately toward chester. "he and his have been my best friends." "but your uncle--he is a relative!" suggested chester. "he has no claim upon me. lawyer, make out a deed of gift of these lots to chester rand, and i will sign it." the writing was completed, bruce found strength to sign it, and then sank back exhausted. two days later he died. of course the eight dollars a week from the minister's fund ceased to be paid to the rands. chester had not succeeded in obtaining work. to be sure he had the five lots in tacoma, but he who had formerly owned them had died a pauper. the outlook was very dark. chapter v. chester's first success. chester and his mother and a few friends attended the funeral of walter bruce. silas tripp was too busy at the store to pay this parting compliment to his nephew. he expressed himself plainly about the folly of the rands in "runnin' into debt for a shif'less fellow" who had no claim upon them. "if they expect me to pay the funeral expenses they're mistaken," he added, positively. "i ain't no call to do it, and i won't do it." but he was not asked to defray the expenses of the simple funeral. it was paid for out of the minister's charitable fund. "some time i will pay you back the money, mr. morris," said chester. "i am mr. bruce's heir, and it is right that i should pay." "very well, chester. if your bequest amounts to anything i will not object. i hope for your sake that the lots may become valuable." "i don't expect it, mr. morris. will you be kind enough to take care of the papers for me?" "certainly, chester. i will keep them with my own papers." at this time tacoma contained only four hundred inhabitants. the northern pacific railroad had not been completed, and there was no certainty when it would be. so chester did not pay much attention or give much thought to his western property, but began to look round anxiously for something to do. during the sickness of walter bruce he had given up his time to helping his mother and the care of the sick man. the money received from the minister enabled him to do this. now the weekly income had ceased, and it became a serious question what he should do to bring in an income. he had almost forgotten his meeting with herbert conrad, the young artist, when the day after the funeral he received a letter in an unknown hand, addressed to "master chester rand, wyncombe, new york." as he opened it, his eyes opened wide with surprise and joy, when two five-dollar bills fluttered to the ground, for he had broken the seal in front of the post office. he read the letter eagerly. it ran thus: "dear chester:--i am glad to say that i have sold your sketch for ten dollars to one of the papers i showed you at wyncombe. if you have any others ready, send them along. try to think up some bright, original idea, and illustrate it in your best style. then send to me. "your sincere friend, herbert." chester hardly knew whether he was standing on his head or his heels. it seems almost incredible that a sketch which he had dashed off in twenty minutes should bring in such a magnificent sum. and for the first time it dawned upon him he was an artist. fifty dollars gained in any other way would not have given him so much satisfaction. why, it was only three weeks that he had been out of a place, and he had received more than he would have been paid in that time by mr. tripp. he decided to tell no one of his good luck but his mother and the minister. if he were fortunate enough to earn more, the neighbors might wonder as they pleased about the source of his supplies. the money came at the right time, for his mother needed some articles at the store. he concluded to get them on the way home. silas tripp was weighing out some sugar for a customer when chester entered. silas eyed him sharply, and was rather surprised to find him cheerful and in good spirits. "how's your mother this mornin', chester?" asked the grocer. "pretty well, thank you, mr. tripp." "are you doin' anything yet?" "there doesn't seem to be much work to do in wyncombe," answered chester, noncommittally. "you was foolish to leave a stiddy job at the store." "i couldn't afford to work for the money you offered me." "two dollars and a quarter is better than nothin'. i would have paid you two and a half. i like you better than that wood boy. is your mother workin'?" "she is doing a little sewing, but she had no time for that with a sick man in the house." "i don't see what made you keep a man that was no kith or kin to you." "would you have had us put him into the street, mr. tripp?" "i'd have laid the matter before the selec'-men, and got him into the poorhouse." "well, it is all over now, and i'm not sorry that we cared for the poor fellow. i would like six pounds of sugar and two of butter." "you ain't goin' to run a bill, be you?" asked silas, cautiously. "i can't afford to trust out any more." "we don't owe you anything, do we, mr. tripp?" "no; but i thought mebbe----" "i will pay for the articles," said chester, briefly. when he tendered the five-dollar bill silas tripp looked amazed. "where did you get so much money?" he gasped. "isn't it a good bill?" asked chester. "why, yes, but----" "i think that is all you have a right to ask," said chester, firmly. "it can't make any difference to you where it came from." "i thought you were poor," said mr. tripp. "so we are." "but it seems strange that you should have so much money." "five dollars isn't much money, mr. tripp." then a sudden idea came to silas tripp, and he paused in weighing out the butter. "did my nephew leave any money?" he asked, sharply. "yes, sir." "then i lay claim to it. i'm his only relation, and it is right that i should have it." "you shall have it if you will pay the expense of his illness." "humph! how much did he leave?" "thirty-seven cents." mr. tripp looked discomfited. "you can keep it," he said, magnanimously. "i don't lay no claim to it." "thank you," returned chester, gravely. "then this five-dollar bill didn't come from him?" "how could it? he hadn't as much money in the world." "he was a shif'less man. 'a rolling stone gathers no moss,'" observed mr. tripp, in a moralizing tone. "you haven't been a rolling stone, mr. tripp." "no; i've stuck to the store year in and year out for thirty-five years. i ain't had more'n three days off in that time." "if i had your money, mr. tripp, i'd go off and enjoy myself." "what, and leave the store?" said silas, aghast at the thought. "you could hire some one to run it." "i wouldn't find much left when i came back; no, i must stay at home and attend to business. do your folks go to bed early, chester?" "not before ten," answered chester, in some surprise. "then i'll call this evenin' after the store is closed." "very well, sir. you'll find us up." the idea had occurred to mr. tripp that mrs. rand must be very short of money, and might be induced to dispose of her place at a largely reduced figure. it would be a good-paying investment for him, and he was not above taking advantage of a poor widow's necessities. of course neither mrs. rand nor chester had any idea of his motives or intentions, and they awaited his visit with considerable curiosity. about fifteen minutes after nine a shuffling was heard at the door, there was a knock, and a minute later chester admitted the thin and shriveled figure of silas tripp. "good-evening, mr. tripp," said mrs. rand, politely. "good-evenin', ma'am, i thought i'd call in and inquire how you were gettin' along." "thank you, mr. tripp, for the interest you show in our affairs. we are not doing very well, as you may imagine." "so i surmised, ma'am. so i surmised." "it can't be possible he is going to offer us a loan," thought chester. "you've got a tidy little place here, ma'am. it isn't mortgaged, i rec'on." "no, sir." "why don't you sell it? you need the money, and you might hire another house, or pay rent for this." "do you know of anyone that wants to buy it, mr. tripp?" "mebbe i'd buy it myself, jest to help you along," answered silas, cautiously. "how much would you be willing to give?" put in chester. "well, i calculate--real estate's very low at present--three hundred and fifty dollars would be a fair price." mrs. rand looked amazed. "three hundred and fifty dollars!" she ejaculated. "why, it is worth at least seven hundred." "you couldn't get it, ma'am. that's a fancy price." "what rent would you charge in case we sold it to you, mr. tripp," asked chester. "well, say five dollars a month." "about sixteen or seventeen per cent. on the purchase money." "well, i'd have to pay taxes and repairs," explained tripp. "i don't care to sell, mr. tripp," said mrs. rand, decisively. "you may have to, ma'am." "if we do we shall try to get somewhere near its real value." "just as you like, ma'am," said silas, disappointed. "i'd pay you cash down." "if i decide to sell on your terms i'll let you know," said mrs. rand. "oh, well, i ain't set upon it. i only wanted to do you a favor." "we appreciate your kindness," said mrs. rand, dryly. "women don't know much about business," muttered silas, as he plodded home, disappointed. chapter vi. robert ramsay. mrs. rand was as much amazed as chester himself at his success as an artist. "how long were you in making the drawing?" she asked. "twenty minutes." "and you received ten dollars. it doesn't seem possible." "i wish i could work twenty minutes every week at that rate," laughed chester. "it would pay me better than working for silas tripp." "perhaps you can get some more work of the same kind?" "i shall send two more sketches to mr. conrad in a day or two. i shall take pains and do my best." two days later chester sent on the sketches, and then set about trying to find a job of some kind in the village. he heard of only one. an elderly farmer, job dexter, offered him a dollar a week and board if he would work for him. he would have eight cows to milk morning and night, the care of the barn, and a multitude of "chores" to attend to. "how much will you give me if i board at home, mr. dexter?" asked chester. "i must have you in the house. i can't have you trapesing home when you ought to be at work." "then i don't think i can come, mr. dexter. a dollar a week wouldn't pay me." "a dollar a week and board is good pay for a boy," said the farmer. "it may be for some boys, but not for me." chester reflected that if he worked all day at the farmer's he could not do any artistic work, and so would lose much more than he made. the sketch sold by mr. conrad brought him in as much as he would receive in ten weeks from farmer dexter. "wyncombe people don't seem very liberal, mother," said chester. "i thought mr. tripp pretty close, but job dexter beats him." in the meantime he met abel wood carrying groceries to a family in the village. "have you got a place yet, chester?" he asked. "no; but i have a chance of one." "where?" "at farmer dexter's." "don't you go! i worked for him once." "how did you like it?" "it almost killed me. i had to get up at half past four, work till seven in the evening, and all for a dollar a week and board." "was the board good?" inquired chester, curiously. "it was the poorest livin' i ever had. mrs. dexter don't know much about cookin'. we had baked beans for dinner three times a week, because they were cheap, and what was left was put on for breakfast the next mornin'." "i like baked beans." "you wouldn't like them as mrs. dexter cooked them, and you wouldn't want them for six meals a week." "no, i don't think i should," said chester, smiling. "how do you get along with silas tripp?" "he's always scoldin'; he says i am not half as smart as you." "i am much obliged to mr. tripp for his favorable opinion, but he didn't think enough of me to give me decent pay." "he's awful mean. he's talkin' of reducin' me to two dollars a week. he says business is very poor, and he isn't makin' any money." "i wish you and i were making half as much as he." "there's one thing i don't understand, chester. you ain't workin', yet you seem to have money." "how do you know i have?" "mr. tripp says you came into the store three or four days ago and changed a five-dollar bill." "yes; mr. tripp seemed anxious to know where i got it." "you didn't use to have five-dollar bills, chester, when you were at work." "this five-dollar bill dropped down the chimney one fine morning," said chester, laughing. "i wish one would drop down my chimney. but i must be gettin' along, or old tripp will give me hail columbia when i get back." about nine o'clock that evening, as chester was returning from a lecture in the church, he was accosted by a rough-looking fellow having very much the appearance of a tramp, who seemed somewhat under the influence of liquor. "i say, boss," said the tramp, "can't you give a poor man a quarter to help him along?" "are you out of work?" asked chester, staying his step. "yes; times is hard and work is scarce. i haven't earned anything for a month." "where do you come from?" "from pittsburg," answered the tramp, with some hesitation. "what do you work at when you are employed?" "i am a machinist. is there any chance in that line here?" "not in wyncombe." "that's what i thought. how about that quarter?" "i am out of work myself and quarters are scarce with me." "that's what you all say! there's small show for a good, industrious man." chester thought to himself that if the stranger was a good, industrious man he was unfortunate in his appearance. "i have sympathy for all who are out of work," he said. "mother and i are poor. when i did work i only got three dollars a week." "where did you work?" "in mr. tripp's store, in the center of the village." "i know. it's a two-story building, ain't it, with a piazza?" "yes." "has the old fellow got money?" "oh, yes; silas tripp is rich." "so? he didn't pay you much wages, though." "no; he feels poor. i dare say he feels poorer than i do." "such men ought not to have money," growled the tramp. "they're keepin' it out of the hands of honest men. what sort of a lookin' man is this man tripp? is he as big as me?" "oh, no, he is a thin, dried-up, little man, who looks as if he hadn't had a full meal of victuals in his life." "what time does he shut up shop?" "about this time," answered chester, rather puzzled by the tramp's persistence in asking questions. "what's your name?" "chester rand." "can't you give me a quarter? i'm awful hungry. i ain't had a bit to eat since yesterday." "i have no money to give you, but if you will come to our house i'll give you some supper." "where do you live?" "about five minutes' walk." "go ahead, then; i'm with you." mrs. rand looked up with surprise when the door opened and chester entered, followed by an ill-looking tramp, whose clothes were redolent of tobacco, and his breath of whisky. "mother," said chester, "this man tells me that he hasn't had anything to eat since yesterday." "no more i haven't," spoke up the tramp, in a hoarse voice. "he asked for some money. i could not give him that, but i told him we would give him some supper." "of course we will," said mrs. rand, in a tone of sympathy. she did not admire the appearance of her late visitor, but her heart was alive to the appeal of a hungry man. "sit down, sir," she said, "and i'll make some hot tea, and that with some bread and butter and cold meat will refresh you." "thank you, ma'am, i ain't overpartial to tea, and my doctor tells me i need whisky. you don't happen to have any whisky in the house, do you?" "this is a temperance house," said chester, "we never keep whisky." "well, maybe i can get along with the tea," sighed the tramp, in evident disappointment. "you look strong and healthy," observed mrs. rand. "i ain't, ma'am. looks is very deceiving. i've got a weakness here," and he touched the pit of his stomach, "that calls for strengthenin' drink. but i'll be glad of the victuals." when the table was spread with an extemporized supper, the unsavory visitor sat down, and did full justice to it. he even drank the tea, though he made up a face and called it "slops." "where did you come from, sir?" asked mrs. rand. "from chicago, ma'am." "were you at work there? what is your business?" "i'm a blacksmith, ma'am." "i thought you were a machinist and came from pittsburg," interrupted chester, in surprise. "i came here by way of pittsburg," answered the tramp, coughing. "i am machinist, too." "his stories don't seem to hang together," thought chester. after supper the tramp, who said his name was robert ramsay, took out his pipe and began to smoke. if it had not been a cold evening, mrs. rand, who disliked tobacco, would have asked him to smoke out of doors, but as it was she tolerated it. both chester and his mother feared that their unwelcome visitor would ask to stay all night, and they would not have felt safe with him in the house, but about a quarter past ten he got up and said he must be moving. "good-night, and good luck to you!" said chester. "same to you!" returned the tramp. "i wonder where he's going," thought chester. but when the next morning came he heard news that answered this question. chapter vii. silas tripp makes a discovery. when silas tripp went into his store the next day he was startled to find a window in the rear was partially open. "how did that window come open, abel?" he asked, as abel wood entered the store. "i don't know, sir." "it must have been you that opened it," said his employer, sternly. "i didn't do it, mr. tripp, honest i didn't," declared abel, earnestly. "then how did it come open, that's what i want to know?" "i am sure i can't tell." "somebody might have come in during the night and robbed the store." "so there might." "it's very mysterious. such things didn't happen when chester was here." abel made no answer, but began to sweep out the store, his first morning duty. when silas spoke of the store being robbed he had no idea that such a robbing had taken place, but he went to the money drawer and opened it to make sure all was safe. instantly there was a cry of dismay. "abel!" he exclaimed, "i've been robbed. there's a lot of money missing." abel stopped sweeping and turned pale. "is that so, mr. tripp?" he asked, faintly. "yes, there's--lemme see. there's been burglars here. oh, this is terrible!" "who could have done it, mr. tripp?" "i dunno, but the store was entered last night. i never shall feel safe again," groaned silas. "didn't they leave no traces?" "ha! here's a handkerchief," said mr. tripp, taking the article from the top of a flour barrel, "and yes, by gracious, it's marked chester rand." "you don't think he took the money?" ejaculated abel, in open-eyed wonder. "of course it must have been him! he knew just where i kept the money, and he could find his way about in the dark, he knew the store so well." "i didn't think chester would do such a thing." "that's how he came by his five-dollar bill. he came in bold as brass and paid me with my own money--the young rascal!" "but how could he do it if the money was took last night? it was two or three days ago he paid you the five-dollar bill." this was a poser, but mr. tripp was equal to the emergency. "he must have robbed me before," he said. "you haven't missed money before, have you?" "not to my knowledge, but he must have took it. abel, i want you to go right over to the widow rand's and tell chester i want to see him. i dunno but i'd better send the constable after him." "shall i carry him his handkerchief?" "no, and don't tell him it's been found. i don't want to put him on his guard." abel put his broom behind the door and betook himself to the house of mrs. rand. the widow herself opened the door. "is chester at home?" asked abel. "yes, he's eating his breakfast. do you want to see him?" "well, mr. tripp wants to see him." "possibly he wants chester to give him a little extra help," she thought. "won't you come in and take a cup of coffee while chester is finishing his breakfast?" she said. "thank you, ma'am." abel was a boy who was always ready to eat and drink, and he accepted the invitation with alacrity. "so mr. tripp wants to see me?" said chester. "do you know what it's about?" "he'll tell you," answered abel, evasively. chester was not specially interested or excited. he finished his breakfast in a leisurely manner, and then taking his hat, went out with abel. it occurred to him that mr. tripp might be intending to discharge abel, and wished to see if he would return to his old place. "so you don't know what he wants to see me about?" he asked. "well, i have an idea," answered abel, in a mysterious tone. "what is it, then?" "oh, i dassn't tell." "look here, abel, i won't stir a step till you do tell me. you are acting very strangely." "well, somethin' terrible has happened," abel ejaculated, in excited tones. "what's it?" "the store was robbed last night." "the store was robbed?" repeated chester. "what was taken?" "oh, lots and lots of money was taken from the drawer, and the window in the back of the store was left open." "i'm sorry to hear it. i didn't know there was anybody in wyncombe that would do such things. does mr. tripp suspect anybody?" "yes, he does." "who is it?" "he thinks you done it." chester stopped abruptly and looked amazed. "why, the man must be crazy! what on earth makes him think i would stoop to do such a thing?" "'cause your handkerchief was found on a flour barrel 'side of the money drawer." "my handkerchief! who says it was my handkerchief?" "your name was on it--in one corner; i seed it myself." then a light dawned upon chester. the tramp whom he and his mother had entertained the evening before, must have picked up his handkerchief, and left it in the store to divert suspicion from himself. the detective instinct was born within chester, and now he felt impatient to have the investigation proceed. "come on, abel," he said, "i want to see about this matter." "well, you needn't walk so plaguy fast, wouldn't if i was you." "why not?" "'cause you'll probably have to go to jail. i'll tell you what i'd do." "well?" "i'd hook it." "you mean run away?" "yes." "that's the last thing i'd do. mr. tripp would have a right to think i was guilty in that case." "well, ain't you?" "abel wood, i have a great mind to give you a licking. don't you know me any better than that?" "then why did you leave the handkerchief on the flour barrel?" "that'll come out in due time." they were near the store where mr. tripp was impatiently waiting for their appearance. he did not anticipate abel's staying to breakfast, and his suspicions were excited. "i'll bet chester rand has left town with the money," he groaned. "oh, it's awful to have your hard earnin's carried off so sudden. i'll send chester to jail unless he returns it--every cent of it." here abel entered the store, followed by chester. chapter viii. a scene in the grocery store. "so you've come, have you, you young thief?" said silas, sternly, as chester entered the store. "ain't you ashamed of yourself?" "no, i'm not," chester answered, boldly. "i've done nothing to be ashamed of." "oh, you hardened young villain. give me the money right off, or i'll send you to jail." "i hear from abel that the store was robbed last night, and i suppose from what you say that you suspect me." "so i do." "then you are mistaken. i spent all last night at home as my mother can testify." "then how came your handkerchief here?" demanded silas, triumphantly, holding up the article. "it must have been brought here." "oho, you admit that, do you? i didn't know but you'd say it came here itself." "no, i don't think it did." "i thought you'd own up arter a while." "i own up to nothing." "isn't the handkerchief yours?" "yes." "then you stay here while abel goes for the constable. you've got to be punished for such doin's. but i'll give ye one chance. give me back the money you took--thirty-seven dollars and sixty cents--and i'll forgive ye, and won't have you sent to jail." "that is a very kind offer, mr. tripp, and if i had taken the money i would accept it, and thank you. but i didn't take it." "go for the constable, abel, and mind you hurry. you just stay where you are, chester rand. don't you go for to run away." chester smiled. he felt that he had the key to the mystery, but he chose to defer throwing light upon it. "on the way, abel," said chester, "please call at our house and ask my mother to come to the store." "all right, chester." the constable was the first to arrive. "what's wanted, silas?" he asked, for in country villages neighbors are very apt to call one another by their christian names. "there's been robbery and burglary, mr. boody," responded mr. tripp. "my store was robbed last night of thirty-seven dollars and sixty cents." "sho, silas, how you talk!" "it's true, and there stands the thief!" "i am sitting, mr. tripp," said chester smiling. "see how he brazens it out! what a hardened young villain he is!" "come, silas, you must be crazy," expostulated the constable, who felt very friendly to chester. "chester wouldn't no more steal from you than i would." "i thought so myself, but when i found his handkerchief, marked with his name, on a flour barrel, i was convinced." "is that so, chester?" "yes, the handkerchief is mine." "it wasn't here last night," proceeded silas, "and it was here this morning. it stands to reason that it couldn't have walked here itself, and so of course it was brought here." by this time two other villagers entered the store. "what do you say to that, chester?" said the constable, beginning to be shaken in his conviction of chester's innocence. "i agree with mr. tripp. it must have been brought here." at this moment, mrs. rand and the minister whom she had met on the way, entered the store. "glad to see you, widder," said silas tripp, grimly. "i hope you ain't a-goin' to stand up for your son in his didoes." "i shall certainly stand by chester, mr. tripp. what is the trouble?" "only that he came into my store in the silent watches of last night," answered silas, sarcastically, "and made off with thirty-seven dollars and sixty cents." "it's a falsehood, whoever says it," exclaimed mrs. rand, hotly. "i supposed you'd stand up for him," sneered silas. "and for a very good reason. during the silent watches of last night, as you express it, chester was at home and in bed to my certain knowledge." "while his handkerchief walked over here and robbed the store," suggested silas tripp, with withering sarcasm, as he held up the telltale evidence of chester's dishonesty. "was this handkerchief found in the store?" asked mrs. rand, in surprise. "yes, ma'am, it was, and i calculate you'll find it hard to get over that evidence." mrs. rand's face lighted up with a sudden conviction. "i think i can explain it," she said, quietly. "oh, you can, can you? maybe you can tell who took the money." "i think i can." all eyes were turned upon her in eager expectation. "a tramp called at our house last evening," she said, "at about half-past nine, and i gave him a meal, as he professed to be hungry and penniless. it was some minutes after ten when he left the house. he must have picked up chester's handkerchief, and left it in your store after robbing the money drawer." "that's all very fine," said silas, incredulously, "but i don't know as there was any tramp. nobody saw him but you." "i beg your pardon, mr. tripp," said the minister, "but i saw him about half-past ten walking in the direction of your store. i was returning from visiting a sick parishioner when i met a man roughly dressed and of middle height, walking up the street. he was smoking a pipe." "he lighted it before leaving our house," said mrs. rand. "how did he know about my store?" demanded silas, incredulously. "he was asking questions about you while he was eating his supper." silas tripp was forced to confess, though reluctantly, that the case against chester was falling to the ground. but he did not like to give up. "i'd like to know where chester got the money he's been flauntin' round the last week," he said. "probably he stole it from your store last night," said the constable, with good-natured sarcasm. "that ain't answerin' the question." "i don't propose to answer the question," said chester, firmly. "where i got my money is no concern of mr. tripp, as long as i don't get it from him." "have i got to lose the money?" asked silas, in a tragical tone. "it's very hard on a poor man." all present smiled, for silas was one of the richest men in the village. "we might take up a contribution for you, silas," said the constable, jocosely. "oh, it's all very well for you to joke about it, considerin' you didn't lose it." at this moment abel wood, who had been sweeping the piazza, entered the store in excitement. "i say, there's the tramp now," he exclaimed. "where? where?" asked one and another. "out in the street. constable perkins has got him." "call him in," said the minister. a moment later, constable perkins came in, escorting the tramp, who was evidently under the influence of strong potations, and had difficulty in holding himself up. "where am i?" hiccoughed ramsay. "where did you find him, mr. perkins?" asked rev. mr. morris. "just outside of farmer dexter's barn. he was lying on the ground, with a jug of whisky at his side." "it was my jug," said silas. "he must have taken it from the store. i didn't miss it before. he must have took it away with him." "there warn't much whisky left in the jug. he must have absorbed most of it." now mr. tripp's indignation was turned against this new individual. "where is my money, you villain?" he demanded, hotly. "whaz-zer matter?" hiccoughed ramsay. "you came into my store last night and stole some money." "is zis zer store? it was jolly fun," and the inebriate laughed. "yes, it is. where is the money you took?" "spent it for whisky." "no, you didn't. you found the whisky here." ramsay made no reply. "he must have the money about him," suggested the minister. "you'd better search his pockets, mr. perkins." the constable thrust his hand into the pocket of his helpless charge, and drew out a roll of bills. silas tripp uttered an exclamation of joy. "give it to me," he said. "it's my money." the bills were counted and all were there. not one was missing. part of the silver could not be found. it had probably slipped from his pocket, for he had no opportunity of spending any. mr. tripp was so pleased to recover his bills that he neglected to complain of the silver coins that were missing. but still he felt incensed against the thief. "you'll suffer for this," he said, sternly, eying the tramp over his glasses. "who says i will?" "i say so. you'll have to go to jail." "i'm a 'spectable man," hiccoughed the tramp. "i'm an honest man. i ain't done nothin'." "why did you take my handkerchief last night?" asked chester. the tramp laughed. "good joke, wasn't it? so they'd think it was you." "it came near being a bad joke for me. do you think i robbed your store now, mr. tripp?" to this question silas tripp did not find it convenient to make an answer. he was one of those men--very numerous they are, too--who dislike to own themselves mistaken. "it seems to me, mr. tripp," said the minister, "that you owe an apology to our young friend here for your false suspicions." "anybody'd suspect him when they found his handkerchief," growled silas. "but now you know he was not concerned in the robbery you should make reparation." "i don't know where he got his money," said silas. "there's suthin' very mysterious about that five-dollar bill." "i've got another, mr. tripp," said chester, smiling. "like as not. where'd you get it?" "i don't feel obliged to tell." "it looks bad, that's all i've got to say," said the storekeeper. "i think, mr. tripp, you need not borrow any trouble on that score," interposed the minister. "i know where chester's money comes from, and i can assure you that it is honestly earned, more so than that which you receive from the whisky you sell." silas tripp was a little afraid of the minister, who was very plain-spoken, and turned away muttering. the crowd dispersed, some following constable perkins, who took his prisoner to the lockup. chapter ix. new plans for chester. two days later chester found another letter from mr. conrad at the post office. in it were two bills--a ten and a five. mr. conrad wrote: "i have disposed of your two sketches to the same paper. the publisher offered me fifteen dollars for the two, and i thought it best to accept. have you ever thought of coming to new york to live? you would be more favorably placed for disposing of your sketches, and would find more subjects in a large city than in a small village. the fear is that, if you continue to live in wyncombe, you will exhaust your invention. "there is one objection, the precarious nature of the business. you might sometimes go a month, perhaps, without selling a sketch, and meanwhile your expenses would go on. i think, however, that i have found a way of obviating this objection. i have a friend--mr. bushnell--who is in the real estate business, and he will take you into his office on my recommendation. he will pay you five dollars a week if he finds you satisfactory. this will afford you a steady income, which you can supplement by your art work. if you decide to accept my suggestion come to new york next saturday, and you can stay with me over sunday, and go to work on monday morning. "your sincere friend, "herbert conrad." chester read this letter in a tumult of excitement. the great city had always had a fascination for him, and he had hoped, without much expectation of the hope being realized, that he might one day find employment there. now the opportunity had come, but could he accept it? the question arose, how would his mother get along in his absence? she would be almost entirely without income. could he send her enough from the city to help her along? he went to his mother and showed her the letter. "fifteen dollars!" she exclaimed. "why, that is fine, chester. i shall begin to be proud of you. indeed, i am proud of you now." "i can hardly realize it myself, mother. i won't get too much elated, for it may not last. what do you think of mr. conrad's proposal?" "to go to new york?" "yes." mrs. rand's countenance fell. "i don't see how i can spare you, chester," she said, soberly. "if there were any chance of making a living in wyncombe, it would be different." "you might go back to mr. tripp's store." "after he had charged me with stealing? no, mother, i will never serve silas tripp again." "there might be some other chance." "but there isn't, mother. by the way, i heard at the post office that the shoe manufactory will open again in three weeks." "that's good news. i shall have some more binding to do." "and i can send you something every week from new york." "but i will be so lonely, chester, with no one else in the house." "that is true, mother." "but i won't let that stand in the way. you may have prospects in new york. you have none here." "and, as mr. conrad says, i am likely to run out of subjects for sketches." "i think i shall have to give my consent, then." "thank you, mother," said chester, joyfully. "i will do what i can to pay you for the sacrifice you are making." just then the doorbell rang. "it is mr. gardener, the lawyer," said chester, looking from the window. a moment later he admitted the lawyer. "well, chester," said mr. gardener, pleasantly, "have you disposed of your lots in tacoma yet?" "no, mr. gardener. in fact, i had almost forgotten about them." "sometime they may prove valuable." "i wish it might be soon." "i fancy you will have to wait a few years. by the time you are twenty-one you may come into a competence." "i won't think of it till then." "that's right. work as if you had nothing to look forward to." "you don't want to take me into your office and make a lawyer of me, mr. gardener, do you?" "law in wyncombe does not offer any inducements. if i depended on my law business, i should fare poorly, but thanks to a frugal and industrious father, i have a fair income outside of my earnings. mrs. rand, my visit this morning is to you. how would you like to take a boarder?" chester and his mother looked surprised. "who is it, mr. gardener?" "i have a cousin, a lady of forty, who thinks of settling down in wyncombe. she thinks country air will be more favorable to her health than the city." "probably she is used to better accommodations than she would find here." "my cousin will be satisfied with a modest home." "we have but two chambers, mine and chester's." "but you know, mother, i am going to new york to work." "that's true; your room will be vacant." mr. gardener looked surprised. "isn't this something new," he asked, "about you going to new york, i mean?" "yes, sir; that letter from mr. conrad will explain all." mr. gardener read the letter attentively. "i think the plan a good one," he said. "you will find that you will work better in a great city. then, if my cousin comes, your mother will not be so lonesome." "it is the very thing," said chester, enthusiastically. "what is your cousin's name, mr. gardener?" asked the widow. "miss jane dolby. she is a spinster, and at her age there is not much chance of her changing her condition. shall i write her that you will receive her?" "yes; i shall be glad to do so." "and, as miss dolby is a business woman, she will expect me to tell her your terms." "will four dollars a week be too much?" asked mrs. rand, in a tone of hesitation. "four dollars, my dear madam!" "do you consider it too much? i am afraid i could not afford to say less." "i consider it too little. my cousin is a woman of means. i will tell her your terms are eight dollars a week including washing." "but will she be willing to pay so much?" "she pays twelve dollars a week in the city, and could afford to pay more. she is not mean, but is always willing to pay a good price." "i can manage very comfortably on that sum," said mrs. rand, brightening up. "i hope i shall be able to make your cousin comfortable." "i am sure of it. miss dolby is a very sociable lady, and if you are willing to hear her talk she will be content." "she will keep me from feeling lonesome." when mr. gardener left the house, chester said: "all things seem to be working in aid of my plans, mother, i feel much more comfortable now that you will have company." "besides, chester, you will not need to send me any money. the money miss dolby pays me will be sufficient to defray the expenses of the table, and i shall still have some time for binding shoes." "then i hope i may be able to save some money." during the afternoon chester went to the store to buy groceries. mr. tripp himself filled the order. he seemed disposed to be friendly. "your money holds out well, chester," he said, as he made change for a two-dollar bill. "yes, mr. tripp." "i can't understand it, for my part. your mother must be a good manager." "yes, mr. tripp, she is." "you'd orter come back to work for me, chester." "but you have got a boy already." "the wood boy ain't worth shucks. he ain't got no push, and he's allus forgettin' his errands. if you'll come next monday i'll pay you two dollars and a half a week. that's pooty good for these times." "i'm sorry to disappoint you, mr. tripp, but i am going to work somewhere else." "where?" asked silas, in great surprise. "in new york," answered chester, proudly. "you don't say! how'd you get it?" "mr. conrad, an artist, a friend of the minister, got it for me." "is your mother willin' to have you go?" "she will miss me, but she thinks it will be for my advantage." "how's she goin' to live? it will take all you can earn to pay your own way in a big city. in fact, i don't believe you can do it." "i'll try, mr. tripp." chester did not care to mention the new boarder that was expected, as he thought it probable that mr. tripp, who always looked out for his own interests, would try to induce miss dolby to board with him. as mr. tripp had the reputation of keeping a very poor table, he had never succeeded in retaining a boarder over four weeks. chester found that his clothing needed replenishing, and ventured to spend five dollars for small articles, such as handkerchiefs, socks, etc. saturday morning he walked to the depot with a small gripsack in his hand and bought a ticket for new york. chapter x. a railroad acquaintance. the distance by rail from wyncombe to new york is fifty miles. when about eight years of age chester had made the journey, but not since then. everything was new to him, and, of course, interesting. his attention was drawn from the scenery by the passage of a train boy through the cars with a bundle of new magazines and papers. "here is all the magazines, _puck_ and _judge_." "how much do you charge for _puck_?" asked chester, with interest, for it was _puck_ that had accepted his first sketch. "ten cents." "give me one." chester took the paper and handed the train boy a dime. then he began to look over the pages. all at once he gave a start, his face flushed, his heart beat with excitement. there was his sketch looking much more attractive on the fair pages of the periodical than it had done in his pencil drawing. he kept looking at it. it seemed to have a fascination for him. it was his first appearance in a paper, and it was a proud moment for him. "what are you looking at so intently, my son?" asked the gentleman who sat at his side. he was a man of perhaps middle age, and he wore spectacles, which gave him a literary aspect. "i--i am looking at this sketch," answered chester, in slight confusion. "let me see it." chester handed over the paper and regarded his seat mate with some anxiety. he wanted to see what impression this, his maiden effort, would have on a staid man of middle age. "ha! very good!" said his companion, "but i don't see anything very remarkable about it. yet you were looking at it for as much as five minutes." "because it is mine," said chester, half proudly, half in embarrassment. "ah! that is different. did you really design it?" "yes, sir." "i suppose you got pay for it. i understand _puck_ pays for everything it publishes." "yes, sir; i got ten dollars." "ten dollars!" repeated the gentleman, in surprise. "really that is very handsome. do you often produce such sketches?" "i have just begun, sir. that is the first i have had published." "you are beginning young. how old are you?" "i am almost sixteen." "that is young for an artist. why, i am forty-five, and i haven't a particle of talent in that direction. my youngest son asked me the other day to draw a cow on the slate. i did as well as i could, and what do you think he said?" "what did he say?" asked chester, interested. "he said, 'papa, if it wasn't for the horns i should think it was a horse.'" chester laughed. it was a joke he could appreciate. "i suppose all cannot draw," he said. "it seems not. may i ask you if you live in new york--the city, i mean?" "no, sir." "but you are going there?" "yes, sir." "to live?" "i hope so. a friend has written advising me to come. he says i will be better placed to do art work, and dispose of my sketches." "are you expecting to earn your living that way?" "i hope to some time, but not at first." "i am glad to hear it. i should think you would find it very precarious." "i expect to work in a real estate office at five dollars a week, and only to spend my leisure hours in art work." "that seems sensible. have you been living in the country?" "yes, sir, in wyncombe." "i have heard of the place, but was never there. so you are just beginning the battle of life?" "yes, sir." "it has just occurred to me that i may be able to throw some work in your way. i am writing an ethnological work, and it will need to be illustrated. i can't afford to pay such prices as you receive from _puck_ and other periodicals of the same class, but then the work will not be original. it will consist chiefly of copies. i should think i might need a hundred illustrations, and i am afraid i could not pay more than two dollars each." a hundred illustrations at two dollars each! why, that would amount to two hundred dollars, and there would be no racking his brains for original ideas. "if you think i can do the work, sir, i shall be glad to undertake it," said chester, eagerly. "i have no doubt you can do it, for it will not require an expert. suppose you call upon me some evening within a week." "i will do so gladly, sir, if you will tell me where you live." "here is my card," said his companion, drawing out his case, and handing a card to chester. this was what chester read: "prof. edgar hazlitt." "do you know where lexington avenue is?" asked the professor. "i know very little about new york. in fact, nothing at all," chester was obliged to confess. "you will soon find your way about. i have no doubt you will find me," and the professor mentioned the number. "shall we say next wednesday evening, at eight o'clock sharp? that's if you have no engagement for that evening," he added, with a smile. chester laughed at the idea of his having any evening engagements in a city which he had not seen for eight years. "if you are engaged to dine with william vanderbilt or jay gould on that evening," continued the professor, with a merry look, "i will say thursday." "if i find i am engaged in either place, i think i can get off," said chester. "then wednesday evening let it be!" as the train neared new york chester began to be solicitous about finding mr. conrad in waiting for him. he knew nothing about the city, and would feel quite helpless should the artist not be present to meet him. he left the car and walked slowly along the platform, looking eagerly on all sides for the expected friendly face. but nowhere could he see herbert conrad. in some agitation he took from his pocket the card containing his friend's address, and he could hardly help inwardly reproaching him for leaving an inexperienced boy in the lurch. he was already beginning to feel homesick and forlorn, when a bright-looking lad of twelve, with light-brown hair, came up and asked: "is this chester rand?" "yes," answered chester, in surprise. "how do you know my name?" "i was sent here by mr. conrad to meet you." chester brightened up at once. so his friend had not forgotten him after all. "mr. conrad couldn't come to meet you, as he had an important engagement, so he sent me to bring you to his room. i am rob fisher." "i suppose that means robert fisher?" "yes, but everybody calls me rob." "are you a relation of mr. conrad?" "yes, i am his cousin. i live just outside of the city, but i am visiting my cousin for the day. i suppose you don't know much about new york?" "i know nothing at all." "i am pretty well posted, and i come into the city pretty often. just follow me. shall i carry your valise?" "oh, no; i am older than you and better able to carry it. what street is this?" "forty-second street. we will go to fifth avenue, and then walk down to thirty-fourth street." "that is where mr. conrad lives, isn't it?" "yes; it is one of the wide streets, like fourteenth and twenty-third, and this street." "there are some fine houses here." "i should think so. you live in wyncombe, don't you?" "yes; the houses are all of wood there." "i suppose so. mr. conrad tells me you are an artist," said rob, eying his new friend with curiosity. "in a small way." "i should like to see some of your pictures." "i can show you one," and chester opened his copy of _puck_ and pointed to the sketch already referred to. "did you really draw this yourself?" "yes." "and did you get any money for it?" "ten dollars," answered chester, with natural pride. "my! i wish i could get money for drawing." "perhaps you can some time." bob shook his head. "i haven't any talent that way." "what house is that?" asked chester, pointing to the marble mansion at the corner of thirty-fourth street. "that used to belong to a. t. stewart, the great merchant. i suppose you haven't any houses like that in wyncombe?" "oh, no." "we will turn down here. this is thirty-fourth street." they kept on, crossing sixth and seventh avenues, and presently stood in front of a neat, brownstone house between seventh and eighth avenues. "that is where mr. conrad lives," said rob. chapter xi. chester's first experiences in new york. the bell was rung, and a servant opened the door. "i will go up to mr. conrad's room," said rob. the servant knew him, and no objection was made. they went up two flights to the front room on the third floor. rob opened the door without ceremony and entered, followed by chester. he found himself in a spacious room, neatly furnished and hung around with engravings, with here and there an oil painting. there was a table near the window with a portfolio on it. here, no doubt, mr. conrad did some of his work. there was no bed in the room, but through an open door chester saw a connecting bedroom. "this is a nice room," he said. "yes, cousin herbert likes to be comfortable. here, give me your valise, and make yourself at home." chester sat down by the window and gazed out on the broad street. it was a pleasant, sunny day, and everything looked bright and attractive. "you are going to live in new york, aren't you?" asked rob. "yes, if i can make a living here." "i guess cousin herbert will help you." "he has already. he has obtained a place for me in a real estate office at five dollars a week." "i think i could live on five dollars a week." "i suppose it costs considerable to live in new york." chester felt no apprehension, however. he was sure he should succeed, and, indeed, he had reason to feel encouraged, for had he not already engaged two hundred dollars' worth of work?--and this sum seemed as much to him as two thousand would have done to mr. conrad. an hour glided by rapidly, and then a step was heard on the stairs. "that's cousin herbert," said rob, and he ran to open the door. "hello, rob. did you find chester?" "yes, here he is!" "glad to see you, chester," said the artist, shaking his hand cordially; "you must excuse my not going to meet you, but i was busily engaged on a large drawing for _harper's weekly_, and, feeling in a favorable mood, i didn't want to lose the benefit of my inspiration. you will find when you have more experience that an artist can accomplish three times as much when in the mood. "i am glad you didn't leave off for me. rob has taken good care of me." "yes, rob is used to the city; i thought you would be in safe hands. and how do you like my quarters?" "they are very pleasant. and the street is so wide, too." "yes, i like thirty-fourth street. i lodge, but i don't board here." chester was surprised to hear this. in wyncombe everyone took his meals in the same house in which he lodged. "and that reminds me, don't you feel hungry? i don't ask rob, for he always has an appetite. how is it with you, chester?" "i took a very early breakfast." "so i thought," laughed conrad. "well, put on our coats, and we'll go to trainor's." they walked over to sixth avenue and entered a restaurant adjoining the standard theater. it was handsomely decorated, and seemed to chester quite the finest room he was ever in. ranged in three rows were small tables, each designed for four persons. one of these was vacant, and conrad took a seat on one side, placing the two boys opposite. "now," he said, "i had better do the ordering. we will each order a different dish, and by sharing them we will have a variety." there is no need to mention of what the dinner consisted. all three enjoyed it, particularly the two boys. it was the first meal chester had taken in a restaurant, and he could not get rid of a feeling of embarrassment at the thought that the waiters, who were better dressed than many of the prominent citizens of wyncombe, were watching him. he did not, however, allow this feeling to interfere with his appetite. "do you always eat here, mr. conrad?" asked chester. "no; sometimes it is more convenient to go elsewhere. now and then i take a table d'hote dinner." "i don't think i can afford to come here often," chester remarked, after consulting the bill of fare and the prices set down opposite the different dishes. "no; it will be better for you to secure a boarding place. you want to be economical for the present. how did you leave your mother?" "very well, thank you, mr. conrad. we have been very fortunate in securing a boarder who pays eight dollars a week, so that mother thinks she can get along for the present without help from me." "that is famous. where did you get such a boarder in wyncombe?" "it is a lady, the cousin of mr. gardener, the lawyer. she will be company for mother." "it is an excellent arrangement. now, boys, if you have finished, i will go up and settle the bill." as they left the restaurant, mr. conrad said: "in honor of your arrival, i shall not work any more to-day. now, shall we go back to my room, or would you like to take a walk and see something of the city?" the unanimous decision was for the stroll. mr. conrad walked down broadway with the boys, pointing out any notable buildings on the way. chester was dazzled. the great city exceeded his anticipations. everything seemed on so grand a scale to the country boy, and with his joyous excitement there mingled the thought: "and i, too, am going to live here. i shall have a share in the great city, and mingle in its scenes every day." rob was used to the city, and took matters quietly. he was not particularly impressed. yet he could not help enjoying the walk, so perfect was the weather. as they passed lord & taylor's, a lady came out of the store. "why, mother," said rob, "is that you?" "yes, rob. i came in on a shopping excursion, and i want you to go with me and take care of me." rob grumbled a little, but, of course, acceded to his mother's request. so chester was left alone with mr. conrad. "how do you feel about coming to new york, chester?" asked his friend. "you are not afraid of failure, are you?" "no, mr. conrad, i feel very hopeful. something has happened to me to-day that encourages me very much." "what is it?" chester told the story of his meeting with prof. hazlitt, and the proposition which had been made to him. "why, this is famous," exclaimed conrad, looking pleased. "i know of prof. hazlitt, though i never met him. he was once professor in a western college, but inheriting a fortune from his uncle, came to new york to pursue his favorite studies. he does not teach now, but, i believe, delivers an annual course of lectures before the students of columbia college. he is a shrewd man, and the offer of employment from him is indeed a compliment. i am very glad you met him. he may throw other work in your way." "i hope i can give him satisfaction," said chester. "it makes me feel rich whenever i think of the sum i am to receive. two hundred dollars is a good deal of money." "to a boy like you, yes. it doesn't go very far with me now. it costs a good deal for me to live. how much do you think i have to pay for my room--without board?" "three dollars a week," guessed chester. mr. conrad smiled. "i pay ten dollars a week," he said. chester's breath was quite taken away. "why, i did not think the whole house would cost as much--for rent." "you will get a more correct idea of new york expenses after a while. now, let me come back to your plans. you had better stay with me for a few days." "but i am afraid i shall be putting you to inconvenience, mr. conrad." "no; it will be pleasant for me to have your company. on monday morning i will go with you to the office of the real estate broker who is to employ you." chester passed sunday pleasantly, going to church in the forenoon, and taking a walk with mr. conrad in the afternoon. he wrote a short letter to his mother, informing her of his safe arrival in the city, but not mentioning his engagement by prof. hazlitt. he preferred to wait till he had an interview with the professor, and decided whether he could do the work satisfactorily. "your future employer is clement fairchild," said the artist. "his office is on west fourteenth street, between seventh and eight avenues." "what sort of a man is he?" asked chester. "i don't know him very well, but i believe he does a very good business. you will know more about him in a week than i can tell you. there is one comfort, and that is that you are not wholly dependent upon him. i advise you, however, to say nothing in the office about your art work. business men sometimes have a prejudice against outside workers. they feel that an employee ought to be solely occupied with their interests." "i will remember what you say, mr. conrad." chester looked forward with considerable curiosity and some anxiety to his coming interview with mr. fairchild. chapter xii. a real estate office. about eight o'clock on monday morning chester, accompanied by his friend conrad, turned down fourteenth street from sixth avenue and kept on till they reached an office over which was the sign: "clement fairchild, real estate." "this is the place, chester," said the artist. "i will go in and introduce you." they entered the office. it was of fair size, and contained a high desk, an office table covered with papers, and several chairs. there was but one person in the office, a young man with black whiskers and mustache and an unamiable expression. he sat on a high stool, but he was only reading the morning paper. he turned lazily as he heard the door open, and let his glance rest on mr. conrad. "what can i do for you?" he asked, in a careless tone. "is mr. fairchild in?" asked the artist. "no." "when will he be in?" "can't say, i am sure. if you have any business, i will attend to it." "i have no special business, except to introduce my young friend here." "indeed!" said the clerk, impudently. "who is he?" "he is going to work here," returned mr. conrad, sharply. "what?" queried the bookkeeper, evidently taken by surprise. "who says he is going to work here?" "mr. fairchild." "he didn't say anything to me about it." "very remarkable, certainly," rejoined conrad. "i presume you have no objection." "look here," said the bookkeeper, "i think there is some mistake about this. the place was all but promised to my cousin." "you'll have to settle that matter with your employer. apparently he doesn't tell you everything, mr. ----" "my name is mullins--david mullins," said the bookkeeper, with dignity. "then, mr. mullins, i have the pleasure of introducing to you chester rand, late of wyncombe, now of new york, who will be associated with you in the real estate business." "perhaps so," sneered mullins. "he will stay here till mr. fairchild makes his appearance." "oh, he can sit down if he wants to." "i shall have to leave you, chester, as i must get to work. when mr. fairchild comes in, show him this note from me." "all right, sir." chester was rather chilled by his reception. he saw instinctively that his relations with mr. mullins were not likely to be cordial, and he suspected that if the bookkeeper could get him into trouble he would. after the artist had left the office, mr. david mullins leisurely picked his teeth with his pen-knife, and fixed a scrutinizing glance on chester, of whom he was evidently taking the measure. "do you knew mr. fairchild?" he at length asked, abruptly. "no, sir." "it's queer he should have engaged you as office boy." chester did not think it necessary to make any reply to this remark. "how much salary do you expect to get?" "five dollars a week." "who told you so?" "the gentleman who came in with me." "who is he?" "mr. herbert conrad, an artist and draughtsman." "never heard of him." mr. mullins spoke as if this was enough to settle the status of mr. conrad. a man whom he did not know must be obscure. "so, mr. fairchild engaged you through mr. conrad, did he?" "yes, sir." "do you know anything about the city?" "not much." "then i can't imagine why mr. fairchild should have hired you. you can't be of much use here." chester began to feel discouraged. all this was certainly very depressing. "i shall try to make myself useful," he said. "oh, yes," sneered mr. mullins, "new boys always say that." there was a railing stretching across the office about midway, dividing it into two parts. the table and desk were inside. the remaining space was left for the outside public. a poor woman entered the office, her face bearing the impress of sorrow. "is mr. fairchild in?" she asked. "no, he isn't." "i've come in about the month's rent." "very well! you can pay it to me. what name?" "mrs. carlin, sir." "ha! yes. your rent is six dollars. pass it over, and i will give you a receipt." "but i came to say that i had only three dollars and a half toward it." "and why have you only three dollars and a half, i'd like to know?" said mullins, rudely. "because my jimmy has been sick three days. he's a telegraph boy, and i'm a widow, wid only me bye to help me." "i have nothing to do with the sickness of your son. when you hired your rooms, you agreed to pay the rent, didn't you?" "yes, sir; but----" "and you didn't say anything about jimmy being sick or well." "true for you, sir; but----" "i think, mrs. carlin, you'll have to get hold of the other two dollars and a half some how, or out you'll go. see?" "shure, sir, you are very hard with a poor widow," said mrs. carlin, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. "business is business, mrs. carlin." "if mr. fairchild were in, he'd trate me better than you. will he be in soon?" "perhaps he will, and perhaps he won't. you can pay the money to me." "i won't, sir, beggin' your pardon. i'd rather wait and see him." "very well! you can take the consequences," and mr. mullins eyed the widow with an unpleasant and threatening glance. she looked very sad, and chester felt that he should like to give the bookkeeper a good shaking. he could not help despising a man who appeared to enjoy distressing an unfortunate woman whose only crime was poverty. at this moment the office door opened, and a gentleman of perhaps forty entered. he was a man with a kindly face, and looked far less important than the bookkeeper. mr. mullins, on seeing him, laid aside his unpleasant manner, and said, in a matter-of-fact tone: "this is mrs. carlin. she owes six dollars rent, and only brings three dollars and a half." "how is this, mrs. carlin?" inquired mr. fairchild, for this was he. mrs. carlin repeated her story of jimmy's illness and her consequent inability to pay the whole rent. "when do you think jimmy will get well?" asked the agent, kindly. "he's gettin' better fast, sir. i think he'll be able to go to work by wednesday. if you'll only wait a little while, sir----" "how long have you been paying rent here?" asked mr. fairchild. "this is the third year, sir." "and have you ever been in arrears before?" "no, sir." "then you deserve consideration. mr. mullins, give mrs. carlin a receipt on account, and she will pay the balance as soon as she can." "thank you, sir. may the saints reward you, sir! shure, i told this gentleman that you'd make it all right with me. he was very hard with me." "mr. mullins," said the agent, sternly, "i have before now told you that our customers are to be treated with consideration and kindness." david mullins did not reply, but he dug his pen viciously into the paper on which he was writing a receipt, and scowled, but as his back was turned to his employer, the latter did not see it. when mrs. carlin had left the office, chester thought it best to introduce himself. "i am chester rand, from wyncombe," he said. "mr. conrad came round to introduce me, but you were not in." "ah, yes, you have come to be my office boy. i am glad to see you and hope you will like the city. mr. mullins, you will set this boy to work." "he told me he was to work here, but as you had not mentioned it i thought there must be some mistake. he says he doesn't know much about the city." "neither did i when i first came here from a country town." "it will be rather inconvenient, sir. now, my cousin whom i mentioned to you is quite at home all over the city." "i am glad to hear it. he will find this knowledge of service--in some other situation," added mr. fairchild, significantly. david mullins bit his lip and was silent. he could not understand why felix gordon, his cousin, had failed to impress mr. fairchild favorably. he had not noticed that felix entered the office with a cigarette in his mouth, which he only threw away when he was introduced to the real estate agent. "i'll have that boy out of this place within a month, or my name isn't david mullins," he said to himself. chester could not read what was passing through his mind, but he felt instinctively that the bookkeeper was his enemy. chapter xiii. mr. mullins, the bookkeeper. chester felt that it was necessary to be on his guard. the bookkeeper was already his enemy. there were two causes for this. first, mr. mullins was naturally of an ugly disposition, and, secondly, he was disappointed in not securing the situation for his cousin. at noon the latter made his appearance. he was a thin, dark-complexioned boy, with curious-looking eyes that somehow inspired distrust. he walked up to the desk where the book keeper was writing. "good-morning, cousin david," he said. "good-morning, felix. sit down for a few minutes, and i will take you out to lunch." "all right!" answered felix. "who's that boy?" he inquired, in a low voice. "the new office boy. wait till we go out, and i will tell you about it." in five minutes david mullins put on his hat and coat and went out with his cousin. "stay here and mind the office," he said to chester, "and if anybody comes in, keep them, if possible. if any tenant comes to pay money, take it and give a receipt." "all right, sir." when they were in the street, felix asked: "where did you pick up the boy? why didn't i get the place?" "you must ask mr. fairchild that. he engaged him without consulting me." "what sort of a boy is he?" "a country gawky. he knows nothing of the city." "is he a friend of mr. fairchild?" "fairchild never met him before. some beggarly artist interceded for him." "it is too bad i can't be in the office. it would be so nice to be in the same place with you." "i did my best, but fairchild didn't seem to fancy you. i think he took a prejudice against you on account of your smoking cigarettes. he must have seen you with one." "does the new boy smoke cigarettes?" "i don't know. that gives me an idea. you had better get intimate with him and offer him cigarettes. he doesn't know mr. fairchild's prejudice, and may fall into the trap." "how can i get acquainted with him?" "i'll see to that. i shall be sending him out on an errand presently, and you can offer to go with him." "that'll do. but you must buy me a package of cigarettes." "very well. my plan is to have the boy offend mr. fairchild's prejudices, and that may make a vacancy for you. by the way, never let him see you smoking." "i won't, but as he is not about, i'll smoke a cigarette now." "better wait till after lunch." about ten minutes after mr. mullins left the office, a man of forty--evidently a mechanic--entered. "is the bookkeeper in?" he asked. "he's gone to lunch." "he sent me a bill for this month's rent, which i have already paid." "please give me your name." "james long." "and where do you live?" the address was given--a house on east twentieth street. "haven't you the receipt?" asked chester. "no." "didn't mr. mullins give you one?" "yes; but i carelessly left it on the table. i suppose he found it and kept the money," he added, bitterly. "but that would be a mean thing to do," said chester, startled. "nothing is too mean for mullins," said long. "he's a hard man and a tricky one." "he will come in soon if you can wait." "i can't. i am at work, and this is my noon hour." "i will tell him what you say----" "perhaps i may have a chance to call in this afternoon. i feel worried about this matter, for, although it is only ten dollars, that is a good deal to a man with a family, and earning only twelve dollars a week." presently mr. mullins returned. "has anybody been in?" he asked. "yes," answered chester. "a man named james long." a curious expression came into the bookkeeper's eye. "well, did he pay his rent?" "no; he said he had paid it already." "oh, he did, did he?" sneered the bookkeeper. "in that case, of course he has the receipt." "no; he said he had left it here on the table, and did not think of it till some time afterwards." "a likely story. he must think i am a fool. even a boy like you can see through that." "he seemed to me like an honest man." "oh, well, you are from the country, and could not be expected to know. we have some sharp swindlers in new york." chester was quite of that opinion, but he was beginning to think that the description would apply better to david mullins than to james long. "by the way, chester," said mr. mullins, with unusual blandness, "this is my cousin, felix gordon." "glad to meet you," said felix, with an artificial smile. chester took the extended hand. he was not especially drawn to felix, but felt that it behooved him to be polite. "you boys must be somewhere near the same age," said the bookkeeper. "i will give you a chance to become acquainted. chester, i want you to go to number four seventy-one bleecker street. i suppose you don't know where it is?" "no, sir." "felix, go with him and show him the way." chester was quite amazed at this unusual and unexpected kindness on the part of a man whom he had regarded as an enemy. was it possible that he had misjudged him? the two boys went out together. when they were fairly in the street, felix produced his package of cigarettes. "have one?" he asked. "no, thank you; i don't smoke." "don't smoke!" repeated felix, in apparent amusement. "you don't mean that?" "i never smoked a cigarette in my life." "then it's high time you learned. all boys smoke in the city." "i don't think i should like it." "oh, nonsense! just try one for my sake." "thank you, felix. you are very kind, but i promised mother i wouldn't smoke." "your mother lives in the country, doesn't she?" "yes." "then she won't know it." "that will make no difference. i made the promise, and i mean to keep it," said chester, firmly. "oh, well, suit yourself. what a muff he is!" thought felix. "however, he'll soon break over his virtuous resolutions. do you know," he continued, changing the subject, "that you have got the situation i was after?" "i think i heard mr. mullins say something about it. i am sorry if i have stood in your way." "oh, if it hadn't been you it would have been some other boy. how do you think you shall like the city?" "very much, i think." "what pay do you get?" "five dollars a week." "you can't live on that." "i will try to." "of course, it is different with me. i should have lived at home. you'll have to run into debt." "i will try not to." "where do you live?" "i am staying with a friend--mr. conrad, an artist--just now, but i shall soon get a boarding place." "i live on eighty-sixth street--in a flat. my father is in the custom house." "how long has your cousin--mr. mullins--been in this office?" "about five years. he's awfully smart, cousin david is. it's he that runs the business. mr. fairchild is no sort of a business man." chester wondered how, under the circumstances, mr. mullins should not have influence enough to secure the situation of office boy for felix. they soon reached bleecker street. chester took notice of the way in order that he might know it again. he was sharp and observing, and meant to qualify himself for his position as soon as possible. at five o'clock the office was vacated. chester remained to sweep up. a piece of paper on the floor attracted his attention. he picked it up and found, to his surprise, that it was james long's missing receipt. it was on the floor of the clothes closet, and he judged that it had dropped from the bookkeeper's pocket. what should he do with it? chapter xiv. the tables turned. under ordinary circumstances, chester would have handed the receipt to the bookkeeper, but he was convinced that it was the purpose of mr. mullins to defraud the tenant out of a month's rent, and he felt that it would not be in the interest of the latter for him to put this power in the hands of the enemy. obviously the receipt belonged to james long, who had lost it. fortunately, chester had the address of the mechanic on east twentieth street, and he resolved, though it would cost him quite a walk, to call and give him the paper. in twenty minutes after locking the office he found himself in front of a large tenement house, which was occupied by a great number of families. he found that long lived on the third floor back. he knocked at the door. it was opened to him by a woman of forty, who had a babe in her arms, while another--a little girl--was holding onto her dress. "does mr. james long live here?" asked chester. "yes." "is he at home?" "no, but i am expecting him home from work every minute. will you come in, or shall i give him your message?" "perhaps i had better see him, if it won't inconvenience you." "oh, no, if you will excuse my poor rooms," said mrs. long, pleasantly. "i am poor myself, and am not used to fine rooms." "take the rocking-chair," said mrs. long, offering him the best chair in the room. "if you will excuse me, i will go on preparing my husband's supper." "certainly. shall i take the baby?" "oh, i wouldn't like to trouble you." "i like babies." chester had seen that the baby's face was clean, and that it looked attractive. babies know their friends instinctively, and this particular baby was soon in a frolic with its young guardian. "i guess you are used to babies," said the mother, pleased. "no, i am the only baby in my family, but i am fond of children." i may remark here that manly boys generally do like children, and i haven't much respect for those who will tease or tyrannize over them. in ten minutes a heavy step was heard on the stairs, and james long entered. his face was sober, for, after his interview with chester rand--he had not had time for a second call--he began to fear that he should have to pay his month's rent over again, and this to him would involve a severe loss. he looked with surprise at chester, not immediately recognizing him. "i come from mr. fairchild's office," explained chester. "oh, yes; i remember seeing you there. has the receipt been found?" he added, eagerly. "yes." james long looked very much relieved. "i am very glad," he sighed. "mr. mullins wouldn't have believed me. what does he say now?" "he doesn't know that the receipt is found." "how is that?" asked the mechanic, puzzled. "i found it after mr. mullins went away." "where did you find it?" "in the clothes closet, just under where mr. mullins hangs his coat," added chester, significantly. "and you bring it to me?" "yes, it belongs to you. besides, after what i heard, i didn't dare to trust it in the hands of the bookkeeper." "i see you think the same of him as i do." "i don't like him." "you think he meant to cheat me?" "it looks like it." "i am all right now. what do you think i had better do?" "come round to-morrow, but don't show the receipt unless mr. fairchild is in the office. he is a very different man from mr. mullins. the bookkeeper might still play a trick upon you?" "i believe you're right. shall i tell him how you found and gave me back the receipt?" "no; let mr. mullins puzzle over it. it is fortunate he didn't destroy the receipt, or you would have had no resource." "you're a smart boy, and i'll take your advice. how long have you been in the office?" "this is my first day," answered chester, smiling. "well, well! i couldn't have believed it. you will make a smart business man. you've been a good friend to james long, and he won't forget it. i say, wife, perhaps this young gentleman will stay to supper." "thank you," answered chester. "i would, but i am to meet a friend uptown at six o'clock. it is so late," he added, looking at the clock on the mantel, "that i must go at once." when chester met his friend the artist, he told him of what had happened. "that mullins is evidently a rascal, and a very mean one," said mr. conrad. "if i were going to defraud anyone, it wouldn't be a poor mechanic." "mr. mullins has already taken a dislike to me. if he should discover that i have found the receipt and given it to mr. long, he would hate me even worse." "you must look out for him. he will bear watching." "i wish he were more like mr. fairchild. he seems a fair, honorable man." "he is. i don't understand why he should employ such a fellow as mullins." "perhaps he hasn't found him out." "mullins will find it hard to explain this matter. let me know how it comes out. i suppose long will call at the office to-morrow?" "yes; i advised him to." the next day, about twenty minutes after twelve, james long entered the office. he looked about him anxiously, and, to his relief, saw that mr. fairchild was present. he went up to the table where the broker was seated. "i came about my rent," he said. "you can speak to mr. mullins," said the broker, going on with his writing. "i would rather speak with you, sir." "how is that?" asked mr. fairchild, his attention excited. "i will tell you, sir," said the bookkeeper, with an ugly look. "this man came here yesterday and declined to pay his rent, because, he said, he had paid it already." "and i had," said long, quietly. "i am a mechanic on small wages, and i can't afford to pay my rent twice." "did you pay the rent to mr. mullins?" "yes, sir." "when?" "day before yesterday." "then he gave you a receipt?" "he did, sir." "it seems to me that than settles the question. did you give him a receipt, mr. mullins?" "if i had, he could show it now. he says that he left it behind in the office here. of course, that's too thin!" "it is very important to take good care of your receipt, mr. long." "did you ever lose or mislay a receipt, sir?" "yes, i have on two or three occasions." "so that i am not the only one to whom it has happened." "mr. mullins, did mr. long come to the office on the day when he says he paid the rent?" "yes, sir." "and he didn't pay it?" "no, sir. he said he hadn't the money, but would bring it in a few days." james long listened in indignant astonishment. "that is untrue, sir. i made no excuse, but handed mr. mullins the amount in full." "there is a very extraordinary discrepancy in your statements. you say that he wrote out a receipt?" "yes, sir." "it is a pity that you can't produce it." "yes," chimed in mullins, with a sneer, "it is unlucky that you cannot produce it." then came a sensation. "i can produce it," said long. "the receipt has been found," and he drew out the slip of paper and passed it to mr. fairchild. the face of mullins was a study. his amazement was deep and genuine. "it must be a forgery," he said. "mr. long can't possibly have a receipt." "you are mistaken," said mr. fairchild. "the receipt and the signature are genuine, and it is written on one of our letter heads." mullins took the receipt and faltered: "i don't understand it." "nor do i," said the broker, sternly. "did you make any entry on the books?" "i--i don't remember." "show me the record." mr. fairchild opened the book, and saw an entry made, but afterward erased. when the bookkeeper found the receipt on the table, a promising piece of rascality was suggested to him. he would keep the money himself, and conceal the record. "mr. long," said the broker, "here is your receipt. it is clear that you have paid your rent. you will have no more trouble." then, as the mechanic left the office, the broker, turning to the bookkeeper, said, sternly: "another such transaction, mr. mullins, and you leave my employ." "but, sir----" stammered mullins. "you may spare your words. i understand the matter. if you had not been in my employ so long, i would discharge you at the end of this week." mullins went back to his desk, crushed and mortified. but his brain was busy with the thought, "where could james long have obtained the receipt?" he remembered having put it into the pocket of his overcoat, and it had disappeared. "i was a fool that i didn't destroy it," he reflected. chapter xv. a plot against chester. the more the bookkeeper thought of it, the more he was of the opinion that chester must have had something to do with the events that led to his discovery and humiliation. otherwise, how could james long have recovered the receipt? he, himself, had found it and kept it in his possession. chester must have chanced upon the receipt and carried it to long. though well convinced of it, he wished to find out positively. accordingly, he took his cousin felix into his confidence as far as was necessary, and sent him to the room of the mechanic to find out whether chester had been there. it was the middle of the forenoon when felix knocked at the door of james long's humble home. mrs. long, with the baby in her arms, answered the knock. "is this mrs. long?" asked felix. "yes, sir." "i am the friend of chester rand." "i don't think i know mr. rand," said mrs. long, who had not heard chester's name. "the boy from mr. fairchild's office. he called here, i believe, one day last week." "oh, yes and a good friend he was to me and mine." "in what way?" asked felix, his face lighting with satisfaction at the discovery he had made. "he brought my husband the receipt he had lost. didn't he tell you?" "oh, yes. i wasn't thinking of that. he asked me to inquire if he left his gloves here?" "i haven't found any. i should have seen them if he left them here." "all right. i will tell him. he thought he might have left them. good morning, ma'am." and felix hurried downstairs. he was not partial to poor people or tenement houses, and he was glad to get away. he reached the office in time to go out to lunch with the bookkeeper. "well?" asked mullins, eagerly. "did you go to long's?" "yes." "what did you find out?" "i found out that your office boy had been there and carried them the receipt." "the young--viper! so he is trying to undermine me in the office. well, he'll live to regret it," and the bookkeeper shook his head vigorously. "i'd get even with him if i were you, cousin david." "trust me for that! i generally pay off all debts of that kind." "how will you do it?" asked felix, curiously. "i don't know yet. probably i'll get him into some bad scrape that will secure his discharge." "and then you'll get me into the place?" "i am afraid i can't. i am not on good terms with mr. fairchild, and my recommendation won't do you much good, even if i do manage to get rid of chester." "then i don't see how i am going to be benefited by working for you," said felix, dissatisfied. "i'll pay you in some way. to begin with, here's a dollar. this is for your errand of this morning." "thank you, cousin david," said felix, pocketing the bill with an air of satisfaction. "i think i'll go to daly's theater to-night. father doesn't give me much spending money--only twenty-five cents a week, and what's a fellow to do with such a beggarly sum as that?" "it is more than i had at your age." "the world has progressed since then. a boy needs more pocket money now than he did fifteen years ago. how soon shall you try to get even with that boy?" "i think it will be prudent to wait a while. mr. fairchild may suspect something if i move too soon. the boy has been with us less than a week." "he has been with you long enough to do some harm." "that's true," said mullins, with an ugly look. "does he seem to suit mr. fairchild?" "yes; he appears to be intelligent, and he attends to his duties--worse luck!--but he's a thorn in my side, a thorn in my side! i'd give twenty-five dollars if he was out of the office." "do you want me to break off acquaintance with him?" "no; keep on good terms with him. let him think you are his intimate friend. it will give me a chance to plot against him--through you." chapter xvi. prof. hazlitt at home. chester did not forget his engagement to call upon prof. hazlitt on wednesday evening. he was shown at once into the professor's study. it was a large room, the sides lined with bookcases crowded with volumes. there seemed to be more books than chester had ever seen before. in the center of the room was a study table, covered with books, open as if in use. on one side was a desk, at which prof. hazlitt himself was seated. "good-evening, my young friend," he said, cordially, as chester entered the room. "you did not forget your appointment." "no, sir. i was not likely to forget such an engagement." "have you grown to feel at home in the city?" "not entirely, sir, but i am getting a little used to it." "i think you mentioned that you were going into a real estate office?" "yes, sir. i have commenced my duties there." "i hope you find them agreeable." "i might, sir, but that the bookkeeper seems to have taken a dislike to me." "i suspect that you would like better to devote yourself to art work." "i think i should, sir, but mr. conrad thinks it better that i should only devote my leisure to drawing." "no doubt his advice is wise, for the present, at least. now, suppose we come to business. i believe i told you i am writing a book on ethnology." "yes, sir." "i find a good deal of help in rare volumes which i consult at the astor library. these i cannot borrow, but i have the use of anything i find suited to my needs in the library of columbia college. then i import a good many books. i shall spare no pains to make my own work valuable and comprehensive. of course, i shall feel at liberty to copy and use any illustrations i find in foreign publications. it is here that you can help me." "yes, sir." "here, for instance," and the professor opened a french book, "are some sketches illustrating the dress and appearance of the natives of madagascar. do you think you can copy them?" "i have no doubt of it, sir," he answered. "sit down in that chair and try. you will find pencils and drawing paper before you. i will mention one or two particulars in which i want you to deviate from the original." chester sat down and was soon deep in his task. he felt that it was important for him to do his best. he could understand that, though the professor was a kind-hearted man, he would be a strict critic. he therefore worked slowly and carefully, and it was nearly an hour before he raised his head and said: "i have finished." "show the sketch to me," said the professor. chester handed it to him. he examined it with critical attention. gradually his face lighted up with pleasure. "admirably done!" he exclaimed. "you have carried out my wishes." "then you are satisfied, sir?" "entirely." "i am very glad," said chester, with an air of relief. he felt now he could do all that was required of him, and, as the contract would pay him two hundred dollars, this success to-night was an important one. "i won't ask you to do any more this evening, but i will give you some work to do at home. i believe i agreed to pay you two dollars for each sketch?" "yes, sir." "probably you are not over well provided with money, and i will pay you as you go on. or, rather, i will give you ten dollars as an advance for future work." "thank you, sir. you are very kind." "only considerate. i have seen the time when a ten-dollar-bill would have been welcome to me. now, thanks to a wealthy relative, who left me a fortune, i am amply provided for." at this moment the study door opened and a bright-looking boy of about fifteen entered. "may i come in, uncle?" he asked, with a smile. "yes. chester, this is my nephew, arthur burks. arthur, this is chester rand, a young artist, who is assisting me." arthur came forward and gave chester his hand cordially. "you ought to wear spectacles," he said, "like uncle edgar. you don't look dignified enough to be his assistant." "that may come in time," said chester, with a smile. "arthur, i am done with chester for this evening," said the professor. "you may carry him off and entertain him. you may bring me the other two sketches whenever you are ready." "come up to my den," said arthur. "i have the front room on the third floor." as they went upstairs, a prolonged, melancholy shriek rang through the house. chester stopped short in dismay, and an expression of pain succeeded the gay look on arthur's face. chapter xvii. chester takes a lesson in boxing. "that is my poor, little cousin," explained arthur. "is he sick or in pain?" asked chester, in quick sympathy. "he had a fever when he was three years old that left his mind a wreck. he is now eight. the most eminent physicians have seen him, but there seems little hope of his improvement or recovery." "does he suffer pain?" "you ask on account of the shriek you heard. as far as we can tell, he does not. the shriek comes, so the doctor tells us, from a nervous spasm. he would have been a bright boy if he had kept his health. would you like to see him?" chester shrank back. "i am afraid i should excite him," he said. he had, besides, an idea that a boy so afflicted would be repulsive in appearance. "no," said arthur, "it may relieve him to see you by diverting his thoughts." without further words, he opened the door of a room at the head of the staircase and entered, followed reluctantly by chester. "ernest," said arthur, in a soothing tone, "i have brought you a friend. his name is chester." chester was amazed at the sight of the boy. he was wonderfully handsome, especially when at arthur's words the look of pain left his face and it brightened into radiant beauty. he seemed to fall in love with chester at first sight. he ran up to him, seized his hand, kissed it, and said: "i love you." arthur, too, looked amazed. "he never took to anyone so before," he said. "you have fascinated him." "sit down. let me sit in your lap," pleaded ernest. all feeling of repugnance, all thoughts of the boy's malady were forgotten. chester sat in a low rocking-chair and ernest seated himself in his lap, touching his face and hair softly with a caressing hand. "what a charming boy he is!" thought chester. "did you come to see me?" asked ernest, softly. "yes, i came with arthur." "will you stay with me a little while?" "a little while, but i must soon go. why did you scream so loud a little while ago?" "i--don't know." "were you in pain?" "n--no," answered ernest, softly. "do you like to cry out in that manner?" "no, but--i have to do it. i can't help it." "i think he gives the right explanation," said arthur. "it is a nervous impulse, and has nothing to do with pain." "does he ever sit in your lap, like this?" "no; i think he likes me in a way, for i am always kind to him, but you seem to draw him to you irresistibly." at that moment the professor came in. when he saw ernest sitting in chester's lap, he stopped short in astonishment. "this is strange," he said. "isn't it, uncle? chester seems to fascinate my little cousin. no sooner did he enter the room than ernest ran up to him, kissed his hand, and caressed him." "i can't explain it," said the professor, "but chester seems to have a wonderful influence over my poor boy. i never saw him look so happy or contented before." all this while ernest continued to stroke chester's cheek and his hair, and regarded him with looks of fond affection. "i am afraid ernest annoys you," said the professor. "no; i am glad he likes me. i never had a little brother. i think i should enjoy having one." "if he could only be always like this," said the professor, regretfully. just then margaret entered. she was the nurse, who had constant charge of ernest. she paused on the threshold, and her looks showed her surprise. "ernest has found a friend, margaret," said the professor. "i never saw the like, sir. come here, ernest." the boy shook his head. "no, i want to stay with him," indicating chester. "did ernest ever see him before, sir?" "no; it seems to be a case of love at first sight." "he has cut me out," said arthur, smiling. "ernest, which do you like best, me or him?" "him," answered ernest, touching chester's cheek. "i must tell dr. gridley of this new manifestation on the part of my poor boy," said the professor. "perhaps he can interpret it." for twenty minutes chester retained ernest on his lap. then arthur said: "chester must go now, ernest." the boy left chester's lap obediently. "will you come and see me again?" he pleaded. "yes, i will come," said chester, and, stooping over, he kissed the boy's cheek. ernest's face lighted up with a loving smile, and again he kissed chester's hand. "now, chester, you can come to my den." arthur opened the door of a large room, furnished with every comfort. it was easy to see that it was a boy's apartment. on a table were boxing gloves. over a desk in a corner was hung the photograph of a football team, of which arthur was the captain. there was another photograph representing him with gloves on, about to have a set-to with a boy friend. "do you box, chester?" he asked. "no; i never saw a pair of boxing gloves before." "i will give you a lesson. here, put on this pair." chester smiled. "i shall be at your mercy," he said. "i am, perhaps, as strong as you, but i have no science." "it won't take you long to learn." so the two boys faced each other. before he knew what was going to happen, chester received a light tap on the nose from his new friend. "i must tell you how to guard yourself. i will be the professor and you the pupil." chester soon became interested, and at the end of half an hour his teacher declared that he had improved wonderfully. "we will have a lesson every time you come to see uncle," he said. "then i shall come to see two professors." "yes, an old one and young one. between uncle, ernest and myself, you will find your time pretty well occupied when you come here." "i think it a great privilege to come here," said chester, gratefully. "and i am glad to have you. i shall have some one to box with, at any rate. now," he added, with a comical look, "i can't induce my uncle to have a bout with me. indeed, i should be afraid to, for he is so shortsighted he would need to wear spectacles, and i would inevitably break them." chester could not forbear laughing at the idea of the learned professor having a boxing match with his lively, young nephew. "if you will make me as good a boxer as yourself, i shall feel very much indebted." "that will come in time. i am quite flattered at the opportunity of posing as a teacher. have you a taste for jewelry? just look in this drawer." arthur opened one of the small drawers in his bureau, and displayed a varied collection of studs, sleeve buttons, collar buttons, scarf pins, etc. "you might set up a jeweler's store," suggested chester. "where did you get them all?" "i had an uncle who was in the business, and he and other relatives have given me plenty." "i haven't even a watch." "no, really? why, how can you get along without one?" "i have to." "wait a minute." arthur opened another drawer, revealing two silver watches, one an open face, the other a hunting watch. "take your choice," he said. "do you really mean it?" "certainly." "but would your uncle approve of your giving me such a valuable present?" "my uncle doesn't bother himself about such trifles. i don't use either of these watches. i have a gold one, given me last christmas." "since you are so kind, i think i prefer the hunting watch." "all right! there it is. let me set it for you. the chain goes with it, of course." chester felt delighted with his present. he had hoped sometime--when he was eighteen, perhaps--to own a watch, but had no expectation of getting one so soon. "you are a generous friend, arthur," he said. "don't make too much of such a trifle, chester!" returned the other, lightly. when chester said he must go home, arthur put on his hat and proposed to walk with him part of the way, an offer which chester gratefully accepted. they walked over to broadway, chatting as they went. all at once, chester, who had not expected to see anyone he knew, touched arthur on the arm. "do you see that man in front of us?" he asked, pointing to a figure about six feet ahead. "yes. what of him?" "it is our bookkeeper, david mullins." "is it, indeed? do you know whom he is walking with?" chester glanced at a rather flashily dressed individual who was walking arm in arm with the bookkeeper. "no," he answered. "it is dick ralston," answered arthur, "one of the most notorious gamblers in the city." chapter xviii. dick ralston. chester was new to the city and a novice in worldly affairs, but the discovery that the bookkeeper was on intimate terms with a gambler astounded him. he felt that mr. fairchild ought to know it, but he shrank from telling him. of course, the presumption was that mullins was also a gambler, but this was not certain. chester decided to say nothing, but to be watchful. david mullins had been five years in his present place, and his services must have been satisfactory or he would not have been retained. there was one thing, however, that chester did not know. this gambler--dick ralston, as he was familiarly called--was only a recent acquaintance. mullins had known him but three months, but had already, through his influence, been smitten by the desire to become rich more quickly than he could in any legitimate way. he had accompanied dick to the gaming table, and tried his luck, losing more than he could comfortably spare. he was in debt to his dangerous friend one hundred and fifty dollars, and on the evening in question dick had intimated that he was in need of the money. "but how can i give it to you?" asked mullins, in a tone of annoyance. "you receive a good salary." "one hundred dollars a month, yes. but i can't spare more than thirty dollars a month toward paying the debt." "which would take you five months. that won't suit me. haven't you got any money saved up?" "no; i ought to have, but i have enjoyed myself as i went along, and it has taken all i earned." "humph! very pleasant for me!" "and for me, too. it isn't very satisfactory to pinch and scrape for five months just to get out of debt. if it was for articles i had had--in other words, for value received--it would be different. but it is just for money lost at the gaming table--a gambling debt." "such debts, among men of honor," said dick, loftily, "are the most binding. everywhere they are debts of honor." "i don't see why," grumbled mullins. "come," said ralston, soothingly, "you are out of sorts, and can't see things in their right light. i'll lend you fifty dollars more, making the debt two hundred dollars." "i don't see how that will help me." "i'll tell you. you must win the money to pay your debt at the gaming table. why, two hundred dollars is a trifle. you might win it in one evening." "or lose as much more." "there's no such word as fail! shall i tell you what i did once?" "yes," answered mullins, in some curiosity. "i was in nashville--dead broke! i was younger then, and losses affected me more. i was even half inclined--you will laugh, i know--to blow my brains out or to throw myself into the river, when a stranger offered to lend me ten dollars to try my luck again. well, i thought as you did, that it was of little use. i would lose it, and so make matters worse. "but desperation led me to accept. it was one chance, not a very good one, but still a chance. from motives of prudence i only risked five dollars at first. i lost. savagely i threw down the remaining five and won twenty-five. then i got excited, and kept on for an hour. at the end of that time, how do you think i stood?" "how?" asked mullins, eagerly. "i had won eight hundred and sixty-five dollars," answered dick ralston, coolly. "i paid back the ten dollars, and went out of the gambling house a rich man, comparatively speaking." now, all this story was a clever fiction, but david mullins did not know this. he accepted it as plain matter of fact, and his heart beat quickly as he fancied himself winning as large a sum. "but such cases must be rare," he ventured. "not at all. i could tell you more wonderful stories about friends of mine, though it was the luckiest thing that ever happened to me. now, will you take the fifty dollars i offered you?" "yes, but i don't want to play again to-night. i feel nervous." "very good. meet me to-morrow evening at the gambling house, and the money shall be ready for you." then they parted, and the bookkeeper, who had a headache, went home and to bed. he had that evening lost fifty dollars to dick ralston, and so increased his debt from one hundred to one hundred and fifty dollars. but his heart was filled with feverish excitement. the story told by ralston had its effect upon him, and he decided to keep on in the dangerous path upon which he had entered. why pinch himself for five months to pay his debt, when a single evening's luck would clear him from every obligation? if dick ralston and others could be lucky, why not he? this was the way mullins reasoned. he never stopped to consider what would be the result if things did not turn out as he hoped--if he lost instead of won. some weeks passed. the bookkeeper met with varying success at the gaming table. sometimes he won, sometimes he lost, but on the whole his debt to dick ralston didn't increase. there were reasons why the gambler decided to go slow. he was playing with mullins as a cat plays with a mouse. but our chief concern is with chester rand. he found a comfortable room on twelfth street, not far from the office, which, with board, only cost him five dollars per week. this, to be sure, took all his salary, but he was earning something outside. on account of so much time being taken up by his work for the professor, he did little for the comic weeklies. but occasionally, through his friend, the artist, a five or ten-dollar bill came into his hands. he bought himself a new suit, and some other articles which he found he needed, and wrote home to ask his mother if she wished any assistance. "thank you for your offer," she replied, "but the money miss dolby pays me defrays all my housekeeping expenses and a little more. she is certainly peculiar, but is good-natured, and never finds fault. she is a good deal of company for me. of course, i miss you very much, but it cheers me to think you are doing well, and are happy, with good prospects for the future. there is nothing for you in wyncombe, as i very well know; that is, nothing you would be willing to accept. "that reminds me to say that mr. tripp is having a hard time with boys. he discharged abel wood soon after you went to new york. he has tried two boys since, but doesn't seem to get suited. when i was in the store yesterday, he inquired after you. 'tell him,' he said, 'that if he gets tired of new york, he can come back to the store, and i will pay him three dollars a week!" he said this with an air of a man who is making a magnificent offer. i told him you were satisfied with your position in the city. i must tell you of one mean thing he has done. "he has been trying to induce miss dolby to leave me and take board with him, offering to take her for two dollars a week less. she told me of this herself. 'i wouldn't go there if he'd take me for nothing,' she said, and i believe she meant it. she is not mean, and is willing to pay a fair, even a liberal, price, where she is suited. you see, therefore, that neither you nor i need borrow any trouble on this point!" this letter relieved chester of all anxiety. all things seemed bright to him. what he did for the comic weeklies, added to his work for prof. hazlitt, brought him in ten dollars a week on an average. this, added to the five dollars a week from mr. fairchild, gave him an aggregate salary of fifteen dollars a week, so that he was always amply provided with money. "cousin david," said felix to the bookkeeper one day, "i don't see how it happens that chester is so well supplied with cash." "is he?" asked mullins. "yes; he has just bought a new suit, a new hat and new shoes. they must have cost him altogether as much as thirty dollars. how much wages do you pay him?" "five dollars a week." "and he pays all that for board, for he told me so." "it does seem a little mysterious. perhaps his friend the artist helps him." "no, he doesn't. i intimated as much one day, but he said no, that he paid his own way. one evening last week, i saw him going into daly's theatre with a young fellow handsomely dressed--quite a young swell. they had two-dollar seats, and i learned that chester paid for them. he doesn't have any chance to pick up any money in this office, does he?" asked felix, significantly. "i can't say as to that. i haven't missed any." "i wish he would help himself. of course, he would be discharged, and then you might find a place for me." "i may do so yet." "is there any chance of it?" asked felix, eagerly. "in about two weeks, mr. fairchild is going west on business. he will be gone for a month, probably. in his absence, i shall run the office." "i see." "and i shall probably find some reason for discharging chester rand," added the bookkeeper, significantly. "in that case, you will hold yourself ready to slip into his place." "bully for you, cousin david," exclaimed felix, in exultation. chapter xix. mr. fairchild leaves the city. about ten days later, chester found himself alone in the office with his employer, the bookkeeper having gone out to call upon a man who had commissioned the broker to buy him a house. "chester," said mr. fairchild, "has mr. mullins mentioned to you that i start next monday on a western trip?" "i heard him say so to a gentleman in here on business." "i shall have to leave mr. mullins to take charge of the office and run the business. the time was when i would have done so with confidence, but the affair of james long has made me distrustful. he thoroughly understands my business, and it would be difficult for me to supply his place. for the present, therefore, i feel obliged to retain him. during my absence, however, i wish, if you see anything wrong, that you would apprise me of it by letter. you may direct letters to palmer's hotel, chicago, and they will be forwarded to me from there. what is your address?" chester gave it, and mr. fairchild wrote it down. "it is rather unusual," continued mr. fairchild, "for a man in my position to make a confidant of his office boy, but i have observed you carefully, and i believe that you are not only intelligent, but are faithful to my interests." "thank you, sir," said chester, with genuine gratification. "i think i can promise you that you will not be disappointed in me." "of course mr. mullins must not know of the understanding between us. don't breathe a hint of what i have said." "no, sir, i will not." "in case you think it necessary you may telegraph to me. i hope, however, that no such emergency will arise." chester asked himself whether it was his duty to apprise mr. fairchild of his seeing mullins in intimate companionship with a gambler, but, on the whole, decided not to do so. he did not wish needlessly to prejudice his employer against the bookkeeper. on monday morning mr. fairchild left the office and took the sixth avenue elevated train to cortlandt street station, from which it is only five minutes' walk to the ferry connecting with the train on the pennsylvania railroad. "how long shall you be away, mr. fairchild?" asked the bookkeeper. "i cannot yet tell. it will depend on the success i meet with in my business. i am afraid i may be absent four weeks." "don't hurry back," said mullins. "i will keep things running." "i rely upon your fidelity," said the broker, not without significance. "you may be assured of that. i have been in your employ for over five years." "and of course understand all the details of my business. that is true. continue faithful to me and you will have no cause to repent it." "thank you, sir. you need have no anxiety." "chester," said mr. fairchild, "you may go with me as far as the station and carry my grip." when they were outside, the broker said: "i could have carried the grip myself, but i wished to have a parting word with you. mr. mullins is thoroughly acquainted with my business, but within the last six months i found myself distrusting him. in four weeks, for i shall be likely to be away that length of time, something may occur detrimental to my interests, and i heartily wish i had some one else in charge. i may rely upon you bearing in mind what i told you the other day?" "yes, sir; i won't forget." "i know that you are faithful, and i only wish you understood the business well enough to be placed in charge." "i wish so, too," said chester, frankly. "i think, however," mr. fairchild added, with a smile, "that it would be hardly prudent to trust my business to an office boy." "you are already trusting me very much, mr. fairchild." "yes; i feel safe in doing so." chester took the grip up the elevated stairway and parted with mr. fairchild at the ticket office. as he went down to the street he reflected that his own position during the broker's absence might not be very comfortable. still he had his employer's confidence, and that gave him much pleasure. he had reached harris' large store on his way home when a rakish-looking figure, springing from he knew not where, overtook and touched him on the arm. chester immediately recognized him as the gambler with whom he had seen the bookkeeper walking on the evening of his first visit to the house of prof. hazlitt. "i say, boy," said ralston, "you're employed by fairchild, the real estate man, ain't you?" "yes, sir," answered chester, coldly. "didn't i see him going to the elevated station with you just now?" "yes, sir." "with a grip in his hand?" "yes." "is he off for a journey?" "he has started for the west." "so? i had business with him, but i suppose i can transact it with mullins just as well." "you will find him in the office." "all right! i'll go there." chester turned his glance upon dick ralston and rapidly took note of his appearance. he was rather a stocky man, with a red, pimpled face, a broad nose, small, twinkling eyes and intensely black hair. he wore a "loud," striped sack suit, and on one of his pudgy fingers was a diamond ring. it was really a diamond, and he had often found it serviceable. when he was in very bad luck he pawned it for a comfortable sum, but invariably redeemed it when fortune smiled upon him again. he followed chester into the broker's office. mullins sat on a stool at the desk, picking his teeth. he looked like a man of leisure, with little upon his mind. "hello, mullins, old boy!" said dick, pushing forward with extended hand. "so you're promoted to boss?" "yes," answered the bookkeeper, showing his teeth in a complacent smile. "can i sell you a house this morning?" "well, not exactly. i'm not quite up to that in the present state of my funds. if you have on your list a one-story shanty on the rocks near central park i may invest." "cash down, or do you want to have part of the purchase money on mortgage?" then both laughed, and ralston made a playful dig at mullins' ribs. chester could not help hearing the conversation. he saw in it a proof of the friendly relations between the two. this, so far as he knew, was the first visit made by ralston to mr. mullins. it was clear that the bookkeeper felt that such a caller would injure him in the eyes of mr. fairchild. "i am glad old fairchild is gone," said dick ralston, lowering his tone. "now i can come in freely." "don't come in too often," replied mullins, with a cautioning look at chester. "it might----" chester lost the rest of the sentence. "send him out!" suggested dick, in a still lower tone, but chester caught the words. "chester," said the bookkeeper, "you may go up to the fifth avenue hotel and ask at the office if mr. paul perkins, of minneapolis, has arrived?" "yes, sir." after chester went out, ralston inquired, "is there a man named paul perkins?" "not that i know of," answered mullins, with a laugh. "i see. you're a sharp fellow. you only wanted to get rid of the kid." "exactly. now we can talk freely." "that's what i came about. do you know, mullins, you are owing me seven hundred and fifty dollars?" "is it so much as that?" asked the bookkeeper, anxiously. "yes; i can show you the account. now, to tell you the truth, mullins, i'm in a tight fix, and my bank account needs replenishing." "so does mine," returned mullins, with a sickly smile. dick ralston frowned slightly. "no joking, please!" he said, roughly. "i'm in earnest." "i don't see what i am going to do about it," muttered mullins, defiantly. "don't you. then perhaps i can help you by a suggestion." "i wish you would." "you are left in charge here during mr. fairchild's absence?" "well, suppose i am." "and you handle the funds?" "yes." "then," and dick ralston bent over and whispered something in the bookkeeper's ear. mullins started, and looked agitated. "what would you have me do?" he inquired. "borrow a little money from the office," answered dick, coolly. "but, good heavens, man, it would ruin me. must you have me risk prison?" "don't be alarmed! i only want you to borrow two or three hundred dollars. you can return it before fairchild gets back." "how am i to return it?" "you can win it back in one evening at the gaming table." "or lose more." there was considerable further conversation, dick ralston urging, and mullins feebly opposing something which the gambler proposed. then a customer came in, who had to receive attention. inside of an hour chester re-entered the office, accompanied by a sandy-complexioned stranger, his head covered with a broad, flapping, western sombrero, and wearing a long, brown beard descending at least eighteen inches. "i hear you want to see me," he said to mullins. "who are you?" asked the astonished bookkeeper. "i am paul perkins, of minneapolis," was the surprising reply. chapter xx. paul perkins, of minneapolis. if a bomb had exploded in the office david mullins and his friend ralston could not have been more astonished than by the appearance of paul perkins, whose name was invented without the slightest idea that any such person existed. before relating what followed, a word of explanation is necessary. chester went to the fifth avenue hotel without the slightest suspicion that he had been sent on a fool's errand. he imagined, indeed, that mr. mullins wanted to get rid of him, but did not doubt that there was such a man as paul perkins, and that he was expected to arrive at the fifth avenue hotel. he walked up broadway in a leisurely manner, feeling that his hasty return was not desired. he reached the fifth avenue, and entering--it was the first time he had ever visited the hotel--went up to the desk. the clerk was giving instructions to a bell boy, who was directed to carry a visitor's card to no. . when at leisure, chester asked: "has mr. paul perkins, of minneapolis, arrived at the hotel?" the clerk looked over the list of arrivals. finally his forefinger stopped at an entry on the book. "yes," he answered, "he arrived last evening. did you wish to see him?" about this chester was in doubt. he had only been asked to inquire if mr. perkins had arrived. he assumed, however, that the bookkeeper wished to see mr. perkins at the office. accordingly he answered, "yes, sir. i should like to see him." the clerk rang a bell and another bell boy made his appearance. "write your name on a card," said the clerk, "and i will send it up." "the gentleman won't know my name," said chester. "then give the name of your firm." so chester, after slight hesitation, wrote: "chester rand. from clement fairchild, real estate broker." "take that up to ," said the clerk to the bell boy. in five minutes the boy returned. "mr. perkins says you are to come upstairs to his room," he reported. chester followed the bell boy to the elevator. he had never before ridden in such a conveyance and the sensation was a novel one. they got off at one of the upper floors, and chester followed his guide to the door of a room near by. the bell boy knocked. "come in," was heard from the inside. chester entered and found himself in the presence of a man of fifty, with a sandy complexion and thick, brown beard. he held the card in his hand, and was looking at it. "are you chester rand?" he asked, in a high-pitched voice. "yes, sir." "and you come from clement fairchild?" "yes, sir." "this is very curious. i never heard the name before." chester looked surprised. "i can't explain it, sir," he said. "i was asked to come to the hotel and ask if you had arrived." "where is mr. fairchild's office?" "on west fourteenth street." "and he is a real estate broker?" "yes, sir." "i don't understand what he wants of me, or how in the name of all that is curious he ever heard of me. i don't own any real estate, except a three-story house in which i live." "perhaps, sir, if you will go to the office with me you will get an explanation." "precisely. that is a very practical and sensible suggestion. is it far off? i ask because i have never been in new york before." "it is only about ten minutes' walk." "then i'll go with you, that is, if you can wait fifteen minutes while i finish writing a letter to my wife, apprising her of my safe arrival." "yes, sir, i am in no especial hurry." "then sit down, and--you may look at this," handing him the last copy of _puck_. chester opened the paper eagerly, for _puck_ had accepted two of his sketches. he opened it at random, and his eye lighted up, for there was one of the two sketches handsomely reproduced. he uttered a little exclamation. "what have you found?" asked paul perkins, looking up from his letter. "this picture--is one of mine." "you don't mean it!" exclaimed the man from minneapolis, dropping his pen in surprise. "i thought you were an office boy." "so i am, sir, but--sometimes i sell sketches to the illustrated papers." "what did you get for this?" "seven dollars and a half. that is, i sold this and another for fifteen dollars." "by the great horn spoon! but this is wonderful." chester did not feel called upon to say anything. "how long did it take you to draw this picture?" "a little over half an hour." "jerusalem! that is at the rate of ten dollars an hour. i am contented to make ten dollars a day." "so should i be, sir. i don't draw all the time," said chester, with a smile. "i was going to ask if you wouldn't give me lessons in drawing and sketching." "i should be afraid to, sir," laughed chester. "you might prove a dangerous rival." "you needn't be afraid. i can play as well as i can sing." "i suppose you sing well, sir," said chester, roguishly. "you can judge. when i was a young man i thought i would practice singing a little in my room one night. the next morning my landlady said, in a tone of sympathy, 'i heard you groaning last night, mr. perkins. did you have the toothache?'" chester burst into a hearty laugh. "if that is the case," he said, "i won't be afraid of you as a rival in drawing." mr. perkins set himself to finishing his letter, and in twenty minutes it was done. "now, i am ready," he said. as they went downstairs, chester observed, "i will ask you as a favor, mr. perkins, not to refer to my work in _puck_, as it is not known at the office that i do any work outside." "all right, my boy. by the way, how much do they pay you at the office?" "five dollars a week." "evidently it isn't as good a business as drawing." "no, sir; but it is more reliable. i can't always satisfy the comic papers, and i am likely to have sketches left on my hands." "yes; that is a practical way of looking at it, and shows that you are a boy of sense. what sort of a man is mr. fairchild?" "a very kind, considerate man, but i forgot to say that you won't see him." "but i thought he sent you to call on me?" "no, sir; mr. fairchild started for the west this morning. it was mr. mullins, the bookkeeper, who sent me." "that complicates the mystery. is he a good friend of yours?" "no, sir; he dislikes me." mr. perkins looked curious, and chester, considerably to his own surprise, confided to him the story of his relations with the bookkeeper. "he's a scamp!" commented the man from minneapolis. "why does mr. fairchild keep him. i wouldn't! i'd bounce him very quick." "he has been with mr. fairchild five years and understands his business thoroughly." "well, there is something in that; but i wouldn't like to have in my employ a man whom i couldn't trust. have you ever been out west?" "no, sir." "you ought to come out there. the city i represent is a smart one and no mistake. of course you've heard of the rivalry between minneapolis and st. paul." "yes, sir." "i don't take sides, for i live in both, but i think business facilities in minneapolis are greater. i think you are a boy who would succeed at the west." "i should like to go there some day. i own some property in washington territory." "you do?" exclaimed paul perkins, in great surprise. "whereabouts?" "in tacoma. i own some lots there." "then let me tell you, my boy, that you will be a rich man." "but i thought prices of land in tacoma were small." "so they are--at present; but it is the future terminus of the northern pacific railroad. when it is completed there will be a boom. how many lots do you own?" "five." "take my advice and hold on to them. what square is this?" they had reached seventeenth street. "union square." "it's a pretty place. is tiffany's near here?" "yes, sir; only two blocks away. we shall pass it." "all right! point it out to me. i'm going to buy a gold watch for myself there. i've needed one for a long time, but i wanted the satisfaction of buying one at tiffany's. anything that is sold there must be a no. ." "i have no doubt of it, but i don't trade there much yet." "no; you must wait till you have realized on your western lots." they turned down fourteenth street, and soon stood in front of mr. fairchild's office. they entered, and this brings us to the point where the last chapter ends. chapter xxi. mr. perkins makes an acquaintance. dick ralston and the bookkeeper stared at their western friend in undisguised amazement. finally mr. mullins said, "what did i understand you to call yourself?" "paul perkins, of minneapolis." "and--you are staying at the fifth avenue hotel?" "certainly. didn't you send this boy with a message?" said mr. perkins, rather impatiently. "ye-es." "how did you know that i was coming to new york? that's what beats me." mullins began to appreciate the situation, and he was cudgeling his brains for an explanation. finally one came. "i may be misinformed, but i learned from a friend of yours that you were coming here with an intention of locating in our city. now, as we are in the real estate business, i thought we would offer our services to find you a suitable house." "some friend of mine notified you of my coming to new york? why, i started off on a sudden without consulting anyone. i don't see how anyone could give you the information." "i won't undertake to explain it," said the bookkeeper. "i will only say that i am glad to meet you." "thank you! you are very polite. what was the name of the friend who spoke about me and my plans?" "i have a poor memory for names, but i believe i have the gentleman's card in my desk." he opened the desk and made an elaborate search for what he knew he should not find. "it's no use," he said, after a pause. "it's disappeared." "what was the appearance of the person?" persisted mr. perkins. "he was--tall, and--yes, with a dark complexion and--and side whiskers." "about how old?" "i should say about forty." "i know plenty of people answering that description. but how did he happen to call on you?" "there you have me. he had some business with mr. fairchild, and unfortunately mr. f. started west this morning." "i see. i can get no clew to the mystery. however, i am glad to have made the acquaintance of this young man," indicating chester. "oh, you mean our office boy," returned mullins, coldly. just then dick ralston nudged the bookkeeper. "introduce me," he said, _sotto voce_. the bookkeeper did not incline favorably to this request, but did not dare to refuse. dick ralston's appearance was decidedly against him, and his "loud" attire was in keeping with his face and manners. "mr. perkins," said mullins, "allow me to introduce my friend, mr. ralston." "glad to meet you, mr. ralston," said the man from minneapolis, extending his hand, which dick seized and pressed warmly. "proud to make your acquaintance, mr. perkins," rejoined the gambler. "i always did like western people." "thank you. i am not western by birth, though i went out to minnesota when i was a mere boy." "and i have no doubt you have prospered," said ralston, who was really anxious to learn whether mr. perkins was well provided with money and was worth fleecing. "well, i don't complain," answered perkins, in a matter-of-fact tone. "i shall be glad to pay you any attentions," insinuated ralston. "i know the ropes pretty well, and i flatter myself i can show you the town as well as anyone, eh, mullins?" "oh, yes," assented the bookkeeper, not over cordially. "i have no doubt of it, mr. ralston, and i take your offer kindly, but i am afraid i won't have time to go round much." "won't you go out and take a drink? mullins, you go, too!" "thank you, but i don't drink--at any rate, when i am away from home. by the way, mr.----" and he stopped short, for he did not remember the bookkeeper's name. "mr. mullins," suggested that gentleman. "you are misinformed about my wanting to locate in this city. new york's a right smart place, i admit, but give me minneapolis. that suits me." "all right, sir. i am misinformed, that's all." "if you find my friend's card just write and let me know his name. i'd like to know who it is that knows so much about my plans." "i will. where shall i direct?" "oh, just direct to minneapolis. i'm well known there. a letter will be sure to reach me." "shall you be at the hotel this evening, mr. perkins?" added dick ralston, who found it hard to give up his design upon his new acquaintance. "i don't know. i haven't made any plans." "i was thinking i might call upon you." "don't trouble yourself, mr. ralston. probably you would not find me in." mr. perkins was a tolerably shrewd man. he had "sized up" the gambler, and decided that he did not care to become any better acquainted with him. "just as you say," returned dick ralston, looking discomfited. "i thought perhaps i could make it pleasant for you." "if i find i have time i can call at your place of business," said the man from minneapolis, with a shrewd glance at the gambler. "i have no place of business," returned ralston, rather awkwardly. "i am a--a capitalist, and sometimes speculate in real estate. don't i, mullins?" "of course. by the way, i forgot to tell you that i have four lots on ninety-sixth street which would make a good investment." "ninety-sixth street! ahem, rather far uptown. what's the figure?" "five thousand dollars." "i'll take a look at them as soon as i have time. you see, mr. perkins, i do all my real estate business through my friend, mr. mullins." "just so." neither mr. perkins nor chester was taken in by ralston's assumption of the character of a capitalist. the western man had already a shrewd suspicion of the gambler's real business, and being a cautious and prudent man, did not care to cultivate him. "good-morning!" said mr. perkins. "i must not take up any more of your time. will you allow chester to go out with me for five minutes?" "certainly." david mullins would have liked to refuse, but had no good excuse for doing so. "don't stay long!" he said, rather sharply. "i won't keep him long." when they were in the street mr. perkins said: "i don't like the looks of that bookkeeper of yours." "nor do i," returned chester. "i wouldn't trust him any further than i could see him. who was that ralston? have you ever seen him before?" "once. he doesn't come into the office when mr. fairchild is at home." "do you know anything about him?" "i know--that is, i have heard that he is a well-known gambler." "by the great horn spoon, if i didn't think so! he seemed very anxious to show me round the city." "he would probably have taken you to a gambling house." "not if i was in my senses. i don't gamble, and i hope you don't." "i shouldn't know how," answered chester, with a smile. "have you any engagement for this evening?" "no, sir." "what time do you leave the office?" "at five o'clock." "then come round to the hotel and take dinner with me. i don't know anyone in the city, and i shall be glad to have your company this evening. we will take a walk together, and you can show me what's worth seeing." "are you not afraid that i will take you to a gambling house?" asked chester, with a smile. "i'll risk it." "you would find mr. ralston a better guide." "but not so safe a one. i shall be satisfied with you." when chester returned to the office mullins asked, sharply: "what did perkins want to say to you?" "he asked me to dine with him to-night at the fifth avenue hotel." "speak a good word for me, chester," said ralston, with unusual affability. "i would like to become better acquainted with him." "what shall i say, mr. ralston?" "tell him i am a prominent man, and expect to be nominated for congress next fall." this he said with a wink. chester and the bookkeeper laughed. "i'll tell him," said chester. chapter xxii. dick ralston's father. when chester followed mr. perkins into the great dining room of the fifth avenue he was rather dazzled by its size and the glistening appearance of the tables. "i hope you have brought your appetite with you, chester," said his western friend. "the fifth avenue sets a good table." "my appetite is sure to be good. i was kept so busy to-day that i had hardly time to buy a sandwich for lunch." "all the better! you'll enjoy your meal. as for me, i don't have the appetite i do at home. there's nothing like a tramp on the open prairie to make a man feel peckish." "have you ever been in new york before, mr. perkins?" "not since i was a boy. i was born up albany way, and came here when i was about your age. but, lord, the new york of that day wasn't a circumstance to what it is now. there was no elevated railroad then, nor horse cars either, for that matter, and where this hotel stands there was a riding school or something of that sort." "are you going to stay here long?" "i go to washington to-morrow, stopping at philadelphia and baltimore on the way. no. i have no business in washington, but i think by the time a man is fifty odd he ought to see the capital of his country. i shall shake hands with the president, too, if i find him at home." "have you ever been further west than minneapolis?" "yes, i have been clear out to the pacific. i've seen the town of tacoma, where you've got five lots. i shall write out to a friend in portland to buy me as many. then we shall both have an interest there." "you think the lots are worth something?" "i know it. when the northern pacific railroad is finished, every dollar your friend spent for his lots will be worth thirty or forty." "i hope your predictions will come true, mr. perkins." "did i hear you speaking of tacoma?" asked a gentleman on chester's left hand. "yes, sir." "i can tell you something about it. i live at seattle." "am i right about there being a future for the place?" asked paul perkins. "you are. i may say that lots there are already worth twice what they were last week." "how's that?" "because work on the railroad has been resumed, and there is no doubt now that it will be pushed to completion." "that settles it. i must own property there. i won't wait to write, but will telegraph my friend in portland to go there at once at my expense, and buy five--no, ten lots. i got that idea from you, chester, and if i make a profit i shall feel indebted to you." "i shall be glad if it helps fill your pockets, mr. perkins." "come up to my room for a while, chester," went on the other, "and we will consider what to do. we might go to the theater, but i think i would rather walk about here and there using my eyes. there is plenty to see in new york." "that will suit me, mr. perkins." about eight o'clock the two went downstairs. near the entrance, just inside the hotel, chester heard himself called by name. looking up, he recognized felix gordon. "are you going to the theater, chester?" asked felix. "no, i think not." "won't you introduce me to your friend?" "mr. perkins, this is felix gordon, nephew of our bookkeeper," said chester, unwillingly. "hope you are well, mr. gordon," said paul. "are you fond of the theater?" "yes, sir," answered felix, eagerly. "there's a good play at palmer's. i think you'd like it." "no doubt, but i'd rather see the streets of new york. as you are a friend of chester, do me the favor to buy yourself a ticket," and mr. perkins drew a two-dollar bill from his pocket and tendered it to felix. "i am ever so much obliged," said felix, effusively. "as it is time for the performance to commence, i'll go at once, if you'll excuse me." "certainly. you don't want to lose the beginning of the play." as felix started off on a half run, mr. perkins said: "do you know why i was so polite to felix, who by all accounts isn't your friend at all?" "no, i was rather puzzled." "i wanted to get rid of him. he was probably sent here by his uncle as a spy upon us. now he is disposed of." "i see you are shrewd," said chester, laughing. "yes, i'm a little foxy when there's occasion," rejoined mr. perkins. "now, where shall we go?" i will not undertake to describe the route followed by the two. the city was pretty much all new to the stranger from minneapolis, and it mattered little where he went. about ten o'clock the two witnessed from a distance a scene between a man of forty and an old, infirm man, apparently seventy years of age. "the younger man is ralston, the gambler," said chester, in excitement, when they were near enough to recognize the figures of the two. "halt a minute, and let us hear what it is all about," returned mr. perkins. "i am hungry," said the old man, pitifully, "and i have no money for a bed. have pity on me, dick, and give me something." "you ought not to have come here," returned ralston, roughly. "why didn't you stay in the country, where you had a comfortable home?" "in the poorhouse," murmured the old man, sadly. "well, it's no worse for being a poorhouse, is it?" "but is it right for me to live there when you are rich and prosperous?" "how do you know i am rich and prosperous?" "by your dress. and there's a diamond in your shirt bosom. that must be valuable." "it's about all i own that is valuable. it was a fool's errand that brought you here. you had better go back," and ralston prepared to go on. "won't you give me a trifle, dick?" "well, take that." "a quarter?" "yes; it will give you some supper." "but what shall i do for a bed?" "go to the station house. they'll take in an old man like you." before the aged man could renew his application the younger one had disappeared round the corner of the next street. "follow me, chester," said paul perkins. "i'm going to speak to the old man." he touched him on the shoulder. "are you in trouble, my friend?" he asked. the old man, looking the picture of despondency in his ragged suit, and with his long, gray locks floating over his shoulders, turned at the words. "yes, sir," he said, "i am poor and in trouble, and my heart is sore." "is the man who has just left you related to you?" "he is my only son." "he doesn't seem kind to you." "no; he cares nothing for his old father." "how did you become so poor?" "he is the cause. when he was turned twenty-one i was worth ten thousand dollars. he forged my name, more than once, and to save him i paid the forged notes. so it happened that i was turned out in my old age from the farm and the home that had been mine for twenty-five years, and in the end i was sent to the poorhouse." "then he brought all this upon you?" "yes." "do you know what he is now?" "he tells me he is in business." "his business is carried on at the gambling house, so my young friend here assures me. you will get no help from him." "i begin to think so. perhaps i was foolish to leave my home, poor as it was, and come here to ask help." "how much money will take you home?" "two dollars." "here is a ten-dollar bill. take it, get a meal and a night's lodging and in the morning start for home. it is the best thing you can do. as for your son, you can only leave him to his own devices. a man who will treat his old father as he has treated you will never prosper." "thank you, sir. i will follow your advice." "i would rather be in your position, old and poor as you are, than in his." "chester," added mr. perkins, as they walked on, "this ralston is a more contemptible rascal than i thought. if my old father were living, i would give half the money i possess. while i had a dollar in my pocket he should share it." "i say the same, mr. perkins." when they reached the fifth avenue hotel, paul perkins shook hands with chester. "good-night," he said. "you won't see me for two weeks, perhaps, but i'll be sure to find you out when i return to the city. i hope you won't have any trouble with that scoundrel in the office." "thank you, mr. perkins, but i am afraid i shall." "don't mind it if you do. remember that you will always have a friend in paul perkins." chapter xxiii. chester is discharged. "well," said david mullins, addressing his cousin felix, "did you go to the fifth avenue hotel last evening?" "yes, cousin david." "did you see that man from minneapolis and chester?" "yes." "where did they go?" "i don't know." "you don't know?" frowned mullins. "and why not, i should like to know?" "because i went to palmer's theater." "so that is the way you spent the quarter i gave you?" exclaimed the bookkeeper, indignantly. "i couldn't go to palmer's on that." "did you go with them?" asked mullins, hopefully. "no, but mr. perkins gave me money to go." "what made him do it?" "he thought i was a friend of chester." "how much did he give you?" "i occupied a dollar seat," answered felix, noncommittally. he did not care to mention that the sum given him was two dollars, half of which he still had in his pocket. "humph! so he gave you a dollar. why didn't you take it and stay with them?" "because he gave it to me expressly for the theater. it would have looked strange if i had stayed with them after all." "i would have found a way, but you are not smart." felix did not make any reply, being content with having deceived his cousin as to mr. perkins' gift. "i say, cousin david, aren't you going to bounce that boy pretty quick and give me his place?" "yes, as soon as i get a good excuse." "will you do it to-day?" "no; it would look strange. you may be sure i won't keep him long." at this point chester came into the office and was surprised to see mr. mullins and felix already there. usually the bookkeeper did not show up till half an hour later. "good-morning," said mullins, smoothly. "did you dine with mr. perkins last evening?" "yes, sir." "i suppose you went to the theater?" "no; mr. perkins preferred to take a walk, as he has not been in new york since he was a boy. did you enjoy the play, felix?" "yes, thank you. it was very nice. i am ever so much obliged to mr. perkins for the money to go." "mr. perkins must be a rich man?" said mullins, interrogatively. "i think he is pretty well off," answered chester. "how long does he stay in the city?" "he was to leave this morning. he is going to washington." david mullins was glad to hear this. it would make it easier for him to discharge chester. he dispatched him on an errand, and was about to make some entries in the books when dick ralston strolled in. "how are you, dick? can i do anything for you this morning?" "yes; you can let me have a hundred dollars." "i can't do that," answered the bookkeeper, with a slight frown. "you'll have to settle up soon," said ralston, in a surly tone. "give me time, can't you? i can't do everything in a minute. what is the matter with you? you look as if you had got out of the wrong side of the bed." "i had a disagreeable thing happen last evening. who should appear to me on madison avenue but the old man." "your father?" "yes; he left a good, comfortable home up in the country, and came here to see if he couldn't get some money out of me." "did he?" "i gave him a quarter and advised him to go back. he seems to think i am made of money." "so he has a comfortable home?" "yes," answered ralston, hesitating slightly. "he's better off than i am in one way. he has no board to pay, and sometimes i haven't money to pay mine." "i suppose he is staying with friends or relatives," said mullins, who was not aware that mr. ralston, senior, was the inmate of a poorhouse. "it is an arrangement i made for him. i felt angry to see him here, and i told him so. however, he isn't likely to come again. have you heard from fairchild yet?" "no; it isn't time. he won't reach chicago till this evening or to-morrow morning." "meanwhile--that is, while he is away--you have full swing, eh?" "yes; i suppose so." "then you'll be a fool if you don't take advantage of it." david mullins did not answer. he repented, now that it was too late, that he had placed himself in the power of such a man as dick ralston. as long as he owed him seven hundred and fifty dollars there was no escaping him, and mullins felt very uncomfortable when he considered what steps the gambler wanted him to take to get free from his debts. at this moment a dignified-looking gentleman living on west forty-seventh street entered the office. he was the owner of a large building, of which mr. fairchild acted as agent. he looked askance at dick ralston, whose loud dress and general appearance left little doubt as to his character. "is mr. fairchild in?" the caller asked. "no, sir; he started for the west yesterday." "i am sorry." "i can attend to your business, mr. gray." "no, thank you. i prefer to wait. how long will mr. fairchild be absent?" "probably six weeks." the gentleman took his leave, with another side glance at ralston. when he had gone, ralston said, "who is that, mullins?" "mr. gray, a wealthy banker, living on forty-seventh street." "so? why didn't you introduce me to the old duffer? i might have made something out of him." "he is not your style, dick. he wouldn't care to be introduced to a stranger." "so he puts on airs, does he?" "no; but he is rather a proud, reserved man." "thinks himself better than his fellow men, i suppose," sneered the gambler. "i can't say, but it wouldn't have been policy to make you acquainted. if you won't be offended, dick, i will say that though i am personally your friend, i am afraid that it isn't best for you to be here so much." "so you are getting on your high horse, mullins, are you?" "no; but you are too well known, dick. if you were only an ordinary man, now, it would be different, but your striking appearance naturally makes people curious about you." dick ralston was not insensible to flattery, and this compliment propitiated him. he was about to go out when chester entered, returning from his errand. "how are you, kid?" inquired ralston. "very well, mr. ralston," answered chester, coldly, for he could not forget how the gambler had treated his old father. "well, did you pass the evening with that cowboy from minneapolis?" "i spent the evening with mr. perkins." "of course! that's what i mean. has he got money?" "he didn't tell me." "he gave felix money to go to the theater," interposed mullins. "is that so? he seems to be liberal. i'd like to cultivate his acquaintance. how long is he going to stay at the fifth avenue?" "he left for washington this morning." "i am sorry to hear it. another chance gone, mullins." the bookkeeper looked warningly at ralston. he did not care to have him speak so freely before the office boy. "i don't suppose we are likely to have any business with paul perkins," he said. "i offered to sell him a house, but he doesn't care to locate in new york." things went on as usual for the rest of the day. mr. mullins, if anything, treated chester better than usual, and the office boy began to think that he had done the bookkeeper injustice. felix spent considerable of his time in the office, spending his time in reading nickel libraries, of which he generally carried a supply with him. on the next day, about three o'clock in the afternoon, chester was sent downtown on an errand. he was delayed about ten minutes by a block on the sixth avenue car line. when he entered the office, mullins demanded, sharply, "what made you so long?" chester explained. "that's too thin!" retorted the bookkeeper. "i have no doubt you loitered, wasting your employer's time." "that isn't true, mr. mullins," said chester, indignantly. "you won't mend mattters by impertinence. it is clear to me that you won't suit us. i will pay you your wages up to this evening, and you can look for another place." "mr. fairchild engaged me, mr. mullins. it is only right that you should keep me till he returns, and report your objections." "i don't require any instructions from you. you are discharged--do you understand?" "yes," answered chester, slowly. "you needn't wait till evening. here is your money. felix will take your place for the present." "yes, cousin david," returned felix, with alacrity. "i protest against this sudden discharge," said chester, "for no fault of my own, mr. mullins." "you have said enough. i understand my business." there was nothing for chester to do but to accept the dismissal. it took him by surprise, for though he anticipated ill treatment, he had not expected to be discharged. "well, felix," said the bookkeeper, "you've got the place at last." "yes," smiled felix, complacently. "didn't chester look glum when you bounced him?" "i don't know and i don't care. i have no further use for him. he's too fresh!" chapter xxiv. introduces mr. sharpleigh, the detective. chester was not so much disturbed by his discharge, so far as it related to his own welfare, as by the thought that mr. fairchild's interests were threatened. he felt that his absent employer ought to be notified at once. accordingly he went to the fifth avenue hotel and telegraphed to chicago: "i am discharged. felix gordon is in my place. will write." a few hours later chester received the following message at his lodgings. "your telegram received. will write you instructions. fairchild." two days later chester received a letter requesting him to call at once on a well-known detective, give him all the available information and request him to keep careful watch of mr. mullins and his operations, and interfere if any steps were taken prejudicial to mr. fairchild's interests. chester called on the detective and was fortunate enough to find him in. he expected to see a large man of impressive manners and imposing presence, and was rather disappointed when he found a small personage under the average height, exceedingly plain and unpretentious, who might easily have been taken for an humble clerk on a salary of ten or twelve dollars a week. mr. sharpleigh listened attentively to chester's communication, and then proceeded to ask questions. "do you know anything of mr. mullins outside of the office?" he asked. "a little, sir." "has he any bad habits? is he extravagant? does he drink?" "i have never seen any evidence that he drank," answered chester. "perhaps he may drink a glass of wine or beer occasionally." "i don't mean that. he is not what may be called an intemperate man?" "no, sir." "any other objectionable habits?" "i think he gambles." "ha! this is important. what makes you think so?" "he seems to be intimate with a man who, i am told, is a well-known gambler." "who is it?" "dick ralston." "ralston is as well known as any gambler in the city. how is it that this has not excited the suspicions of mr. fairchild?" "i don't think mr. fairchild knows it." "then ralston doesn't come into the office?" "he did not when mr. fairchild was in town. as soon as mr. fairchild left he came at once, and now spends considerable time there." "probably mullins owes him money lost in gambling." "i think he does. i overheard him one day urging mr. mullins to give him money." "that makes it probable. do you know if they keep company outside?" "i have seen them walking late in the evening." "why do you think mr. mullins discharged you?" "he wanted the place for a cousin of his." "what name?" "felix gordon." "is he there now?" "yes; felix was taken on when i was discharged." "at once?" "yes. he was in the office, probably waiting for the vacancy." "the plan seems to have been cut and dried. what sort of a boy is felix?" "i don't know him very well. he seems on confidential terms with mr. mullins." "did the bookkeeper have any other reasons for disliking you?" "yes; i interfered to prevent his cheating a mechanic out of his month's rent." "state the circumstances." chester did so. "how long has mr. mullins been in mr. fairchild's employ?" "about five years, i think i have heard." "that speaks well for him. probably his acquaintance with ralston is recent, or he would have done something before this to insure his discharge." there was a short silence, and chester asked: "have you any more questions, mr. sharpleigh?" "not at present. will you give me your address?" chester did so. "i will send for you if i need you. i think you can help me materially. you seem to have a clear head, and are observing." it was the evening for chester to call at prof. hazlitt's. "i passed your office this morning, chester," said arthur burks, "and thought of calling in, but i was in haste." "you wouldn't have found me, arthur. i am discharged." "what!" exclaimed arthur, in surprise. "what complaint does mr. fairchild make of you?" "none at all. he is out of the city. the bookkeeper, who dislikes me, discharged me, and gave the place to his cousin." "i am awfully sorry. what will you do?" "i have some money saved up. besides, i shall devote more time to drawing. i made a sketch yesterday which mr. conrad thinks i will get ten dollars for." "that is fine. i never earned ten dollars in my life." "you have never felt obliged to work, except in school." "i take care not to injure my health in studying," said arthur, with a laugh. "i will speak to uncle edgar, and he will arrange to have you come four times a week instead of two. then you will earn more money from him." "thank you, arthur. i should like that." prof. hazlitt, on being spoken to, ratified this arrangement, so that chester's mind was easy. he knew now that he would be able to support himself and more, too. chester soon had something more to encourage him. he received at his lodgings the following letter: "mr. chester rand. "dear sir: we are about to establish a new comic weekly, which we shall call _the phoenix_. it is backed by sufficient capital to insure its success. our attention has been called to some illustrations which you have furnished to some of our successful contemporaries, and we shall be glad to secure your services. we may be able to throw considerable work in your way. please call at our office as soon as possible. "editors of the phoenix." chester was quite exhilarated by this letter. he felt that it was a proof of his growing popularity as an artist, and this was particularly gratifying. besides, his income would be largely, at any rate considerably, increased. he lost no time in presenting himself at the office of _the phoenix_. it was located in a large office building on nassau street. he took the elevator and went upstairs to the sixth floor. on the door of a room a little way from the elevator he saw the name, and knocked. "come in!" was the response. chester opened the door and found himself in the presence of a man of about forty, with a profusion of brown hair shading a pleasant countenance. he looked up inquiringly as chester entered. "is this the editor of _the phoenix_?" inquired chester, respectfully. "_the phoenix_ will have no existence till next week," answered the other, pleasantly. "i expect to be its editor." "i came in answer to your letter." "to my letter?" repeated the editor, puzzled. "yes; my name is chester rand." "what!" exclaimed the brown-haired man, almost incredulously. "you--a boy? how old are you?" "sixteen." "and you are a contributor to _puck_ and other papers?" "yes, sir." "you must be a smart boy. shake hands." chester shook hands with a smile. "will my being a boy make any difference?" he asked. "not if your work is satisfactory. are you willing to work exclusively for _the phoenix_?" "yes, sir; that is, if i may be allowed to complete a contract i have made." "what sort of a contract?" "i am illustrating prof. hazlitt's ethnological work. i think it may take me some months more, working evenings." "that won't interfere with us. i was afraid you might be under an engagement with a rival publication." "no, sir. so far as that goes i will confine myself to _the phoenix_ if----" "terms are satisfactory, i suppose." "yes, sir." "then i will agree to pay you twenty-five dollars a week for the first six months. i may be able to do better afterward." chester was dazzled. twenty-five dollars a week! what would silas tripp say to that or his enemy, the bookkeeper. "i accept," he answered, promptly. chapter xxv. chester meets another artist. "where do you wish me to work?" asked chester, after a pause. "you can work at home, but you can call at the office every day to leave your work and receive instructions." "all right, sir. when do you wish me to commence?" "at once. have you any work ready? i asked because we want to get out the first number as soon as possible." "i have one sketch and have several ideas jotted down." "good! deliver as much as possible to-morrow." chester returned home in a high state of exultation. he would be paid less for individual sketches, but, on the other hand, he would have a steady income and an assured market for all he might produce. it seemed a wonderful promotion from five dollars a week to twenty-five. to be sure, when in the real estate office he had picked up extra compensation for outside work, but this was precarious and could not be depended on. with twenty-five dollars a week he would feel rich. this set him to considering that he must have a better room if he was to do work at home. in the same house where he now occupied a hall bedroom was a large, square room well lighted with two windows, well furnished and having a good writing desk, left by some previous tenant in part payment of arrears of rent, which he could have for five dollars a week. he had often thought he would like to occupy it, and wished he might find an agreeable roommate who would share the expense with him. now he felt that he could bear the expense alone. he lost no time in securing it and moving his few belongings in. mrs. crosby, his landlady, was rather surprised. "you must be doing well," she said. chester smiled. "i have been discharged from my position in the real estate office," he said. "then," said the landlady, in some dismay, "isn't it imprudent to take a more expensive room?" "i have secured a much better place." "oh! that alters the case. is it likely to be permanent?" "if i lose it i will go back to my old room." "i am sure i am glad to hear of your good luck, mr. rand. it is very seldom that a young man of your age----" "call me a boy. i am not a young man yet." "you seem to be getting on as well as a young man. i think you are real smart." "you mustn't flatter me, mrs. crosby. you will make me vain. i forgot to say that i shall be a considerable part of the time in my room. that is why i want a larger one." "but when will you work?" asked the landlady, puzzled. "i shall work in my room." "but what work can you do there?" "i am an artist; that is, i am to make drawings for a new magazine." "you don't say so? will that pay?" "very handsomely." "i hope you will show me some of them. i never met an artist before." "i am afraid i am not much of an artist. i can show you one of my pictures now." chester took from the table a number of _puck_ and pointed out a sketch. "that's pretty good," said the landlady. "you wouldn't get more than thirty-five cents for such a picture, would you?" "i was paid five dollars for that." "do tell!" exclaimed mrs. crosby, who was brought up in a country town and still used some of the expressions which were familiar to her in early days. "i can't hardly believe it. it seems foolish to pay so much for such a little thing." "i don't think it foolish, mrs. crosby. it must pay them, or they wouldn't keep on doing it." chester moved into his new room and enjoyed his ample accommodations very much. the next day he went to the office of _the phoenix_ and carried in two sketches. they were fortunate enough to win the approval of the editor. "i see you are practical and understand what we want, mr. rand," he said. just behind chester was a man of fifty, rather shabby and neglectful in his personal appearance. he might be described as an artist going to seed. whatever talent he might have had originally had been dulled and obscured by chronic intemperance. "excuse me, sir," he said, deferentially, "but i would like to submit a couple of sketches. i am guy radcliff." "glad to see you, mr. radcliff. let me examine them." "i am afraid," said the editor, after a brief examination, "that these are not quite what we want." "is it possible?" exclaimed mr. radcliff, indignantly. "you scorn my work, yet accept the sketches of that boy!" pointing at chester with withering contempt. "because he has given me what i want." "i was a famous artist before he was born." "very likely, and had done good work. but this is not good work." "sir!" "my dear sir, don't be offended. i don't care for the age of any of my contributors. i know something of your famous successes, and i hope next time to approve and buy what you bring me." mr. radcliff seemed only half propitiated. he and chester went out together. "what is your name, boy?" asked the artist. "chester rand." "i never heard of you." "i am only a beginner," said chester, modestly. "you seem to have got in with fleming." "i may not keep in with him." "are you doing pretty well?" "yes, for a boy." "have you got a loose quarter about you? i haven't done much work lately, and am hard up." chester took half a dollar from his pocket and handed it to the elder man. his compassion was stirred as he felt for radcliff's humiliation in being obliged to make such an appeal to a boy like himself. "thank you. you're a gentleman. i'll return it soon," said radcliff, looking relieved. "good luck to you! you're a good fellow, after all." "i wish you good luck, too, mr. radcliff." chester did not need to be told what had brought the elder artist into such an impecunious condition. his face with its unnatural flush showed that his habits had been far from creditable. "if i needed anything to keep me from drinking, mr. radcliff's example would be sufficient," thought chester. he had before now been invited to take a drink at some convenient saloon, but he had never been tempted to do so. two days later chester was walking through union square when he came face to face with felix gordon. felix espied him first. "hello! chester," said his successor. "hello! i didn't see you." "i envy you." "why?" "you have nothing to do but to enjoy yourself," answered felix, significantly. "oh, that's it!" said chester, smiling. he saw that felix thought him to be out of employment. "that was the case with you before you succeeded me in the real estate office. how do you like it?" "pretty well, but i think i ought to get more salary. you got five dollars, didn't you?" "yes." "i will try and get six when mr. fairchild gets back." "i wish you success." "you don't feel any grudge against me for taking your place?" "no; it wasn't you who got me discharged." "i thought you'd be in to get a letter of recommendation from cousin david." "would he give me one?" "i don't know. are you trying to get a place?" "no." felix looked surprised. "you ain't rich, are you?" he asked. "no; what makes you ask?" "i don't see how you can live without any salary." "i couldn't. i ought to tell you that i have got a place." "you have?" exclaimed felix, in surprise, and it must be confessed, disappointment. "yes." "where is it?" "in the office of a new paper." "what is it?" "_the phoenix_, a comic paper just started." "where is the office?" "in nassau street." "then why are you not there?" "i don't have to be there all the time." "do you get good pay?" "yes." "how much?" "i get more than i did at the real estate office." "you don't say!" "yes. i was in luck." "do you get six dollars?" "more. i don't care to tell you just how much i get." "by the way, there was an old man in the office yesterday inquiring after you." "did he give his name?" "yes. he said his name was silas tripp." "what on earth brought mr. tripp to new york?" chester asked himself. this question will be answered in the next chapter. chapter xxvi. a stranger in new york. it was not often that silas tripp went to new york. the expense was a consideration, and again he found it difficult to leave his business. but he had received a circular from an investment company in wall street, offering ten per cent. interest for any money he might have to invest. high interest always attracts men who love money, and it so happened that silas had five hundred dollars invested. the difference between six and ten per cent. interest on this sum would make twenty dollars annually, besides a contingent share in extra profits promised in the circular, and on the whole he thought it would pay him to make the journey. he went at once to the office of messrs. gripp & co., on his arrival in the city. he found the financial agents occupying handsome offices, well furnished and covered with a thick turkey carpet. everything betokened prosperity, and mr. tripp was dazzled. the result was that he made the investment and laid away in his old-fashioned wallet five new bonds, assuring a dividend of ten per cent. "i calc'late it's safe," he said to mr. gripp, a stout man with a florid face, expensively dressed and sporting a large and showy diamond ring. "assuredly, my dear sir," said gripp, with suavity. "i congratulate you, mr. tripp, on making an unusually profitable investment. i venture to say that within the year, besides the regular dividend, there will be an extra dividend of five per cent., making fifteen per cent. in all. it is a pity you had not more invested." "mebby i'll bring you in some more bimeby," said mr. tripp, cautiously. "i trust you will, for your own sake. to us it is not important, as we have plenty of capital offered. indeed, we have had to limit investments to five thousand dollars for each person. why, a millionaire, whose name would be very familiar to you if i could venture to mention it, came here last week and wanted to invest fifty thousand dollars in our bonds, but i firmly refused to take more than five thousand." "i don't see why you should," said silas, puzzled. "i will tell you why. we wish to give a chance to smaller investors, like yourself, for instance. rich men have plenty of ways in which to invest their money to advantage, while you probably don't know where to get over six per cent." "no; i never got more'n that." "i dare say you have considerable invested at that small interest." "well, mebbe." "think how much it would be for your advantage to get four per cent. more." "to be sure, sartin! well, i'll think of it, mr. gripp. mebbe i'll come and see you ag'in soon." mr. gripp smiled to himself. he saw that the bait was likely to prove effective. "well, good-by, mr. gripp. you'll send me any information about the bonds?" "yes, mr. tripp, with pleasure. whenever you are in the city, even if you have no business with us, make our office your home. whenever you have any letters to write, we will furnish you a desk and all facilities." "thank you, mr. gripp; you're very obleeging." so the old man went out, feeling very complacent over his new investment, and much pleased with the handsome way he was treated by mr. gripp. "lemme see," he reflected. "i've got five thousand dollars invested. at ten per cent. it would amount to five hundred dollars, and with an extra dividend of two hundred and fifty dollars more. i'll have to think it over. all seems safe and square, and mr. gripp is a real gentleman." silas tripp looked at his watch. it was only half-past ten. how should he occupy his spare time? "i guess i'll go and see chester rand," he said. "his mother told me where he was working. perhaps he'll know of some cheap place where i can get dinner. the last time i was in the city it cost me forty cents. that's a terrible price." mr. tripp knew the location of mr. fairchild's office, and after some inquiry he found his way there. he felt so much like a stranger in the big city that he anticipated with pleasure seeing a familiar face. perhaps chester would invite him out to lunch, and mr. tripp, in his frugality, would not have declined the offer even of an office boy, as long as it would save him expense. felix gordon was just leaving the office on an errand. "is that mr. fairchild's office?" inquired silas. "yes," answered felix, with rather a disdainful glance at silas tripp's rusty garments. "much obleeged to ye," said silas. he entered the office and glanced about, expecting to see chester. david mullins came forward, and with some show of civility greeted the old country merchant. though he was not naturally polite, he knew that the size of a man's purse could not always be judged from the cut or quality of his garments, and he was just as ready to make money out of silas as out of any fashionably dressed customer. "is mr. fairchild in?" asked silas. "no; mr. fairchild is out west. i am mr. mullins, his bookkeeper, and represent him." "just so! have you a boy workin' for you named chester--chester rand?" "are you a friend of his?" asked the bookkeeper. "well, yes. i come from wyncombe, where he lives, and i know his folks. i was told he was workin' here." "yes, he was working here," answered mullins, emphasizing the past tense. "isn't he here now?" demanded silas, with surprise. "no." "how's that?" "it's rather a delicate matter, as you are a friend of his, but some days since i was obliged to discharge him." "you don't say!" ejaculated silas, in manifest surprise. "i am sorry to say it." "but what was the matter? what did he do?" "well, as to that, he did nothing very serious, but he wasted time when he was sent out on an errand, and i felt that it was injurious to the interests of mr. fairchild to retain him." "he used to be spry enough when he worked for me." "when he worked for you?" "yes. i keep a store out in wyncombe, and he was in my employ most a year. i used to think him quite a lively boy." "i dare say he would do very well in a country store, but in the city we want boys to be active and wide awake. i don't want to say anything against him. he was perfectly honest, so far as i know." "has he got another place?" "i don't think he has. it is difficult for a boy to get a place in this city--that is, a good place, and he wouldn't be likely to refer any employer to me." "i'm afraid he'll be put to it to live, for his mother was poor. how much wages did you pay him?" "five dollars a week." "that's pretty high pay." "so it is, and we expect a first-class boy for that." "have you got a better boy in his place?" "yes; i have taken in a cousin of mine who knows my ways and satisfies me." "was it the boy i saw just after i came in--a dark-complexioned boy with black hair?" "yes, that is felix." "and you find him better than chester?" "yes." silas tripp did not make any comments, but he had not been very favorably impressed by the little he had seen of chester's successor. "mebbe chester isn't adapted to the city," silas said. "i think you are right. it would be better for him to go back into your store, but country boys fancy they must come to the city and become city business men." "that's so. mebbe i wouldn't succeed in the city myself, though i'm doin' a tidy business in wyncombe. i'd like to see chester. can you tell me where he lives?" "no, i haven't his address." "i wonder he hasn't gone back home. mebbe he hasn't got the money." "i presume you are correct in your conjecture." "his mother hasn't said anything to me about chester bein' out of work. i'm surprised at that." "perhaps he did not like to tell her." "very like, very like! i'm really sorry to hear chester ain't done no better." "he isn't quite up to our mark, but i dare say he will do very well in the country or in some small business." "are you doin' a large business? you don't seem to have much stock here." "my dear sir, we can't get brownstone houses and country villas into an office like this." "is that what you sell?" "yes; i sold a fifty-thousand-dollar house this morning up on forty-fifth street, and yesterday i sold a summer hotel for forty thousand dollars. our commission in each case would be several hundred dollars." "sho! well, you be doin' a good business. can you tell where i can get a good dinner moderate?" felix came in at this moment. "felix," said his cousin, "you may keep the office while i go out to lunch. mr. ---- you didn't tell me your name." "silas tripp." "mr. tripp, it will give me pleasure if you will go out and take lunch with me." "well, i am sure you're very polite," said silas, pleased to think he would be saved expense; "i'm much obliged." so the two went out together. mullins continued to say considerable that was derogatory to chester, and left mr. tripp under the impression that he was a failure so far as new york business was concerned. chapter xxvii. mr. tripp is disappointed. silas tripp returned home full of the news he had heard in new york. "just as i thought," he said to himself, "chester rand ought never to have left wyncombe. he ain't calc'lated to succeed in the city. he'd orter have stayed in my store. in two or three years he might have been earnin' four or five dollars a week, and he could have boarded at home. it costs a sight to live in the city. i ain't sure that i could afford it myself." mr. tripp decided to offer chester his old place at two dollars and a half a week. abel wood was again in his employ, but he didn't like him as well as chester. the latter he had always found reliable, while abel was rather apt to forget what silas told him. once he had stopped in the street and played ball, losing ten or fifteen minutes in that way. mr. tripp was obliged to confess that he never had a more satisfactory boy than chester. the store closed at nine, and silas, instead of going into the house, walked over to mrs. rand's cottage. she was rather surprised when she saw who her visitor was. "good-evening, mr. tripp," she said, politely. "won't you come in?" "thank you, widder. it's rather late to call, but i thought you might like to hear about york, seein' chester is there." "have you been to new york to-day?" "yes; i went up on a little business." "did you see chester?" "no, i didn't see him," answered silas, significantly. "did you hear anything of him?" mrs. rand naturally asked. mr. tripp coughed. "well, yes, i heered somethin' about him." "is he--sick?" asked the mother, anxiously, made apprehensive by his tone. "not that i know of. hain't he writ anything special to you?" "i had a letter yesterday, but there was nothing special in it." "i suppose he didn't say nothin' about his place?" "yes; he likes it very much." "i don't like to say it, widder, but he's deceivin' you. i saw his employer myself, and he said that he had to discharge chester." somehow mrs. rand did not seem so much disturbed by this intelligence as the storekeeper thought she would be. "oh, you mean the real estate office," she said. "yes; i was treated quite handsome by mr. mullins, the bookkeeper, who is runnin' the business while mr. fairchild is away. he says chester wasn't spry enough, that he wasn't wide awake enough to work in the city." mrs. rand actually smiled. "so that is what he said," she returned. "i can tell you why chester was discharged. mr. mullins wanted to give the place to his nephew." "mebbe so," answered silas, dubiously. "anyhow, it's unfortunate for chester to lose his place. i feel for you, mrs. rand, as i always liked chester myself, and i came here to-night to say that i'm ready to take him back into the store, and give him two dollars and a half a week. he suits me." mr. tripp leaned back in the rocking-chair and looked as if he had made a very handsome proposal. "i see, mr. tripp," said mrs. rand, smiling, "that you think chester is out of a position." "so he is. wasn't he discharged? i know from what mr. mullins said he won't take him back." "chester would not be willing to go back. he has a new and better place." "you don't say!" ejaculated mr. tripp, surprised and, it must be confessed, disappointed. "what sort of a place is it?" "he is working for a new york paper or magazine." "sho! does he get as much pay as he did at the other place?" "considerably more," mrs. rand answered, with satisfaction. "more'n five dollars a week?" "yes; he offers to send me five dollars a week, but i can get along without assistance, since miss dolby pays me so liberally." "well, i am surprised. chester is very lucky. mebbe it won't last," he continued, hopefully. "it seems likely to be permanent." "well, i guess i must be goin'. if he should lose his place, tell him i will take him back any time." "i don't think he would be satisfied to come back to wyncombe after working in new york." silas tripp returned to his house rather disappointed. he had felt so sure of securing chester's services, and now his old boy seemed to be quite out of his reach. "offered to send his mother five dollars a week!" he soliloquized. "then he must be makin' as much as ten in his new place. mr. mullins didn't seem to know about it. i wonder what he can be doin' to get such a high salary." chapter xxviii. prof. nugent. chester still went three times a week to the house of prof. hazlitt. he was getting on fast with the professor's work. "i think i shall go to press with my book before the end of the year," said the professor, one evening, as chester was taking his leave. "in my preface i shall mention your name, chester, as my artistic collaborator." "couldn't you mention my name, too, uncle edgar?" asked arthur burks. "in what way?" inquired the professor smiling. "you can say that i supervised the illustrations," answered arthur, demurely. "i am afraid you will have to wait till you are better entitled to credit." "now, that's mean, uncle edgar. i know how i'll get even with you." "how?" "i will write a rival book, and get chester to illustrate it better than yours." "it would need better illustrations, since there would be nothing else in the work worthy of attention." "your uncle has got you there," said chester. "you'll illustrate my book, won't you?" "certainly; that is, if i can depend on prompt payment." chester and arthur burks were fast friends. arthur did not shine in scholarship, but he was fond of fun, and was a warm-hearted and pleasant companion, and a true friend. one afternoon he called on chester at his room. "i bring you an invitation to dinner," he said. "uncle has a friend from oregon visiting him, and as he is an interesting talker, you will enjoy meeting him. i believe he is a professor in williamette university." "thank you, arthur; i shall be very glad to come." "come with me now, if you have got through your day's work. you can have a little scientific conversation before dinner." "it will be the science of baseball and tennis, i suspect, arthur." "no doubt you will find me very instructive." "you always are, arthur." "thank you. i like to be appreciated by somebody." at the dinner table chester was introduced to prof. nugent. "this is chester rand, the young artist who is illustrating my ethnological work, brother nugent," said prof. hazlitt. "what--this boy?" prof. nugent exclaimed, in a tone of surprise. "yes. boy as he is, he is a salaried contributor to _the phoenix_." "you surprise me. how old are you, mr. rand?" "sixteen." "i suppose you began your art education early?" chester smiled. "no, sir," he answered. "four months ago i was the boy in a country grocery store." "this is wonderful. i shall subscribe to _the phoenix_ before i go back to my western home." "i am afraid, sir, it will be too light to suit your taste." "my dear young friend, don't suppose i am always grave. what says the latin poet: "_'dulce est desipere in loco.'_ "if you don't understand it, probably arthur can enlighten you." "what does it mean, arthur?" "it means, 'when all your serious work is done, 'tis best to have a little fun,'" answered arthur, promptly. "bravo, arthur," said prof. nugent, clapping his hands. "so we have a young poet as well as a young artist here." "oh, yes," answered arthur. "i'm pretty smart, but few people find it out." "you'd better ask the professor about tacoma," suggested arthur, during a pause in the conversation. chapter xxix. mr. fairchild's telegram. "tacoma!" repeated the professor. "who is interested in tacoma?" "i own five lots of land there," answered chester. "then i congratulate you. lots are rising there, and are destined to go to a still higher point." "how do you account for that?" asked prof. hazlitt. "in three months the northern pacific railroad will be completed, and that will give a great impetus to the growth of the town. i expect to live to see fifty thousand people there. let me ask how you became possessed of these lots?" "they were given to me by a friend now dead." "what was his name?" "walter bruce." "indeed! why, i own three lots adjoining the bruce lots. they are among the best located in the town." "would you advise me to keep them or sell if i have the chance?" "to keep them, by all means. i shall keep mine. if, however, you wish to sell, i will myself pay you five hundred dollars each." "then i may consider myself worth twenty-five hundred dollars," said chester, in a tone of satisfaction. "yes, and more if you are willing to wait." "i think mr. bruce only gave twenty-five dollars apiece for them." "very likely. mine only cost thirty dollars each." "i shall begin to look upon you as a rich man, chester," said arthur burks. "only a rich boy," corrected chester, laughing. "i haven't begun to shave yet." "i think i shall commence next week," remarked arthur, rubbing his cheek vigorously. "since you own property in our neighborhood, mr. rand," said prof. nugent, "why don't you make us a visit?" "i hope to some day when i can afford it," replied chester, "but i didn't know till you told me just now that my lots were worth more than a trifle." "if ever you do come, don't forget to call on me at the university. it is located in salem, oregon. i may be able to take a trip to tacoma with you." "thank you, sir. i should like nothing better." the next afternoon chester chanced to enter the fifth avenue hotel. he went through the corridor and into the reading room to buy a paper. what was his surprise to see his recent acquaintance, paul perkins, sitting in an armchair, reading a minneapolis journal. "why, chester!" exclaimed mr. perkins, cordially, as he rose and shook chester's hand vigorously. "it does my heart good to see you. i was intending to call at your office to-morrow." "you wouldn't have found me, mr. perkins." "how is that?" "i have been discharged." "by that rascal, mullins? it's a shame. i must see if i can't find you another position." "thank you, but it is not necessary. i have a place already." "good! is it in the real estate business?" "no, i am engaged on _the phoenix_, a new weekly humorous paper, as one of the regular staff of artists." "whew! that is good. do you get fair pay?" "twenty-five dollars a week." "you don't say so. that is surprising. how much did you get at the other place?" "five." "then this is five times as good. you ought to give mr. mullins a vote of thanks for bouncing you." "i don't think he meant to benefit me," said chester, smiling. "do you have to work hard? what are your hours?" "i have none. i work at home and select my own hours." "are you through work for the day?" "yes." "then you must stay and dine with me. it is four o'clock. we can chat for an hour, and then go to dinner." "thank you. i will accept with pleasure. did you have a pleasant journey?" "yes; but i should have enjoyed it better if you had been with me. i called at the white house and shook hands with the president." "did you tell him you wanted an office?" "no office for me. i would rather have my own business and be my own master. washington's a fine city, but give me minneapolis." "i may call on you in minneapolis sometime, mr. perkins." "i hope you will. you'll find it worth visiting. it's a right smart place, if i do say it." "i have seen a professor from a university in oregon, and he has given me good news of my lots in tacoma. i have five, as i think i told you. he offered me five hundred dollars apiece cash down." "don't you take it! they're going a good deal higher, now that the railroad is nearly completed." "so he told me." "i congratulate you on your good luck, chester. i am sure you deserve it. but you haven't told me why you were 'bounced.'" "mr. mullins said i wasted time in going his errands. it wasn't true, but it was only an excuse to get rid of me. he took his cousin felix in my place." the two friends went to dinner about six o'clock. at seven they came downstairs and sat in the lobby on a sofa near the door. through the portal there was a constant ingress and egress of men--a motley crowd--business men, politicians, professionals and men perhaps of shady character, for a great hotel cannot discriminate, and hundreds pass in and out who are not guests and have no connection with the house. "it is a wonderful place, chester," said mr. perkins. "everybody seems at home here. i suppose everybody--everybody, at least, who is presentable--in new york comes here sometime during the year." just then chester uttered a little exclamation of surprise. as if to emphasize mr. perkins' remark, two persons came in who were very well known to the young artist. they were david mullins and dick ralston. mullins heard the slight exclamation and turned his head in the direction of the sofa on which chester and his friend were sitting. so did ralston. "why, it's your old boy!" he said. mullins smiled a little maliciously. he had not heard that chester had a place. "i suppose you are boarding here," he said, with a little sarcasm. "no, mr. mullins, but i have just dined here--with my friend, mr. perkins." mullins inclined his head slightly. "has he adopted you?" he asked, in a tone bordering on impertinence. "no, sir," answered mr. perkins; "but if chester ever wants me to, i will. at present he is prosperous, and requires no help or adoption." "oh! have you got a place?" asked mullins, turning to chester. "yes." "in the same business?" "no; i am in the office of a weekly paper." "oh!" said the bookkeeper, disdainfully. "they pay beggarly salaries at such places." "then i am favored. i receive more than twice as much as i did in your office." chester did not care to just state how much he received. "that can't be possible!" "it is a fact, however. has mr. fairchild returned?" "no. why do you want to know?" "i have no wish to go back, mr. mullins. don't be apprehensive of that. i don't wish to disturb felix." dick ralston listened with some interest to the conversation. "it strikes me the kid has come to no harm from being discharged," he said. "i believe this is mr. perkins, of minneapolis?" "yes, sir," answered the westerner, eying the gambler with a penetrating glance. "i shall be glad to be your guide if you wish to see something of new york. will you join us this evening?" "you are very polite, but i have an engagement with chester." "a mere boy! he knows nothing about the city." "still i am satisfied with him." the two passed on and went into the bar-room, where they sat down at a table and ordered some liquid refreshment. "well, mullins," said the gambler, "i am getting impatient. the days are slipping by, and you have done nothing." "you know what i am waiting for. yesterday a check for a thousand dollars was paid in at the office, and deposited in the bank to-day." "good! and then?" "i will send felix to the bank and draw out sixteen hundred. will that satisfy you?" "i see, and, according to our arrangement, felix will hand it to me on his way back to the office, and then swear that it was taken from him by some unknown party. you have coached him, have you?" "yes. of course, i had to let him into the secret partially, promising him twenty-five dollars for himself." "ten would have been sufficient." "he would not have been satisfied. we can spare that." "how soon do you expect fairchild back?" "in three days." but on the morrow mullins was disconcerted by receiving the following telegram: "expect me back sometime to-day. fairchild." chapter xxx. the attempted robbery. dick ralston was in the real estate office when the telegram was received. indeed, he spent a good deal of his time there, so that it was supposed by some that he had a share in the business. "look at that, dick!" said the bookkeeper, passing the telegram to his confederate. "confusion! what sends him home so soon?" said ralston. "do you suppose he suspects anything?" "no. how can he? perhaps," said mullins, nervously, "we had better give up the whole thing. you see how i will be placed. i'm afraid i shall be suspected." "look here!" growled ralston, "i don't want to hear any such weak, puerile talk. how do you propose to pay me the nine hundred and sixty-odd dollars you owe me? do you expect to save it out of your salary?" he concluded, with a sneer. "i wish we had never met," said the bookkeeper, in a troubled tone. "thank you; but it is too late for that. there is nothing to do but to carry out our program. how much money is there on deposit in the bank?" "about twenty-four hundred dollars." "then we had better draw out more than eighteen hundred. as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb." "you forget, ralston, that such a wholesale draft will raise suspicion at the bank." "you're awfully cautious." "i don't want everything to miscarry through imprudence." "come, it is ten o'clock. better send felix to the bank." "better wait a little while. if we drew such a large amount just at the beginning of banking hours, the bank officers might suspect something." "cautious again. well, wait half an hour, if you must. call felix and give him his instructions." felix gordon came in at this moment, and was admitted to the conference. "felix," said the bookkeeper, "you remember the arrangement i made with you yesterday?" "yes, cousin david." "it is to be carried out to-day. i shall give you a check for eighteen hundred dollars, and you will receive the money and come from the bank here." "yes, cousin david." "you will carry the parcel in the left-hand pocket of your sack coat, and if it is taken you can appear to be unconscious of it." "yes." "and--that is all you will have to do, except to say that a tall, thin man"--ralston was short and sturdy--"jostled against you, and must have taken it." "all right! i see. and i am to have twenty-five dollars for----" "your trouble. yes." "give it to me now." "wait till you come back. don't be afraid. you will get it." "all right." when felix was on his way to the bank, he did not know that he was followed at a little distance by a small man with keen, black eyes, who, without appearing to do so, watched carefully every movement of the young office boy. when felix entered the bank, he also entered the bank, and stood behind felix in the line at the paying teller's window. he nodded secretly to the teller when that official read the check presented by felix. "eighteen hundred dollars?" the latter repeated, aloud. "yes, sir," answered felix, composedly. "i shall have to go back to get it. we haven't as much here." he went to another part of the bank and returned after a time with three packages. one was labeled one thousand dollars, another five hundred dollars and a third two hundred dollars. then he counted out from the drawer beside him a hundred dollars in bills. felix, with a look of relief, took the three parcels and dropped them carelessly in the side pocket of his sack coat, and put the bills in loose. then he started on his way back to the office. mr. sharpleigh, for it was he, as the reader has doubtless guessed, walked closely behind him. he was not quite sure as to the manner in which the money was to be taken, but guessed at once when he caught sight of dick ralston at a little distance with his eyes intently fixed upon felix. the office boy sauntered along, with nothing apparently on his mind, and finally stopped in front of a window on union square, which appeared to have considerable attraction for him. then it was that the detective saw ralston come up, and, while apparently watching the window also, thrust his hand into the pocket of the office boy and withdraw the package of money, which he at once slipped into his own pocket. mr. sharpleigh smiled a little to himself. "very neat!" he soliloquized, "but it won't go down, my cunning friend." felix gave a little side glance, seeing what was going on, but immediately stared again in at the window. sharpleigh beckoned to a tall man, dressed as a civilian, but really an officer in plain clothes. "go after him!" he said, in a low voice, indicating ralston. then he followed felix, who in about five minutes began to show signs of agitation. he thrust his hand wildly into his pocket, and looked panic-stricken. "what is the matter, my boy?" asked sharpleigh, blandly. "oh, sir, i have been robbed," faltered felix. "robbed--of what?" "i had eighteen hundred dollars in bank bills in my pocket, in four parcels, and--and they must have been taken while i was looking in at this window." "you seem to have been very careless?" said sharpleigh. "why were you not more careful when you knew you had so much money in your care?" "i--i ought to have been, i know it, sir, but i wasn't thinking." "where are you employed?" "at mr. fairchild's office, on fourteenth street." "the real estate agent?" "yes, sir." "i know the place." "my cousin is the bookkeeper. he will be so angry with me." "i think he will have reason. i saw a man following you rather closely, i presume he took the money." "oh, won't you come back to the office with me and tell my cousin that? i am afraid he will discharge me." "yes, i will go with you." so it happened that felix and mr. sharpleigh went together into the office where mullins was eagerly waiting for the return of his emissary. "what's the matter, felix?" he said, as the boy entered. "have you brought the money?" "oh, cousin david, i am so sorry." "so sorry? for what?" "i--i have lost the money. a pickpocket took it while i was looking in at a window. this gentleman was near and he saw a suspicious-looking man next to me." "this is a strange story, felix. we must notify the police at once. did you see anyone likely to commit the theft, sir?" this was, of course, addressed to mr. sharpleigh. "yes." "you will be willing to testify to this at the police office? you see, this boy is my cousin. mr. fairchild is away, and i shall be blamed for this terrible loss. why, there were eighteen hundred dollars in the parcel!" "there were three parcels, and a roll of bills, cousin david." mr. mullins looked surprised. "then it was not all put in one parcel?" he said. "no." "that is strange. i--i don't know what to do. mr. fairchild has telegraphed that he will be at home sometime during the day. probably i had better wait till he comes before notifying the police." this he said in a questioning sort of way, as if asking sharpleigh's advice. "that will give the thief a chance to escape," suggested the detective. "true. perhaps you will be kind enough to leave word at the nearest police office. i only wish mr. fairchild were here." "all right, sir," said the detective, "i will comply with your request." he left the office, but it is needless to say that he didn't go far away. "this is a very interesting comedy," he murmured, rubbing his hands, "a very interesting comedy, and apparently played for my benefit." "now, felix," said the bookkeeper, "tell me how it all came out. did the paying teller look suspicious when you presented the check?" "no. he said he hadn't as much money in the drawer, and went to the safe in the back part of the bank. he returned with three parcels of bills in brown paper, and a hundred dollars loose." "and then you put it in your pocket?" "yes, cousin david; i did exactly as you told me. i put them in my pocket and walked back in a leisurely way." "did you see anything of ralston?" "yes, i saw him out of the corner of my eye, while i was looking in at a window on union square." "he took the money?" "yes. now, cousin david, give me the twenty-five dollars." at that instant the door was opened suddenly, and dick ralston dashed into the office, looking very much excited. "mullins," he said, "we've been sold--sold--regularly sold. look at this!" and he showed one of the brown packages partly torn open. "well," said the bookkeeper, "what's the matter?" "matter? matter enough. here's a package marked one thousand dollars, and it contains only slips of green paper in place of bills. you can see for yourself." chapter xxxi. a day of surprises. the bookkeeper looked amazed. he turned to felix. "was this package given you at the bank?" he asked. "yes," answered felix. "i don't understand it. do you think they suspected anything?" he continued, turning to ralston. "what could they suspect?" growled dick. "it's a pretty trick for a respectable bank to play on a customer." "was all the money bogus?" asked mullins. "here are a hundred dollars in good bills." "have you opened any of the other packages?" "no, but i will." the gambler tore off a little of the outer paper from the five-hundred-dollar and two-hundred-dollar packages, only to discover that their contents were no more valuable than those of the first bundle. "i'd like to know what all this means," said ralston. "is it a trick of yours?" he demanded, looking suspiciously at mullins. "no. on my honor, no. it is very puzzling. they must have made a mistake at the bank." "send the boy back." "it won't do. he has already reported that he has been robbed. it's--it's very awkward." "you must do something," said dick ralston, harshly. "i'm not going to be swindled in this way." it was at this point that the office door was heard to open. mr. sharpleigh entered and fixed his glance on ralston. "mr. mullins," he said, "you wish to know who robbed your office boy of the money he drew from the bank?" "yes," faltered mullins. "there he stands!" answered sharpleigh, calmly, pointing to ralston. "it's a--lie!" exclaimed the gambler, but he turned pale. "i saw the robbery with my own eyes." went on the detective, "and----" he turned his eyes to the door, which opened to admit a stalwart policeman. "arrest that man!" said the detective. "he lay in wait for the office boy, and on his return from the bank robbed him of a large sum of money which he had just drawn out." "who are you?" demanded ralston, trying to brazen it out. "i am james sharpleigh, a detective." mullins listened in dismay, for sharpleigh's name was familiar to him as one of the cleverest detectives in the city. "and who authorized you to meddle in a matter that did not concern you?" the answer came from an unexpected quarter. mr. fairchild, valise in hand and dusty with travel, entered the office. he heard the question, and quickly comprehended the situation. "it is nearly two weeks," he said, "since i engaged mr. sharpleigh to watch what was going on in the office. chester rand telegraphed me that he had been discharged, and my suspicions were excited." "so it's that boy!" muttered the bookkeeper, spitefully. "i left all to the discretion of my friend sharpleigh, who has justified my confidence. i shall have to ask him to throw light on the present situation." this the detective did in a few brief sentences. "am i to arrest this man?" asked the policeman. "yes," answered the broker, sternly. "mr. sharpleigh, will you accompany the officer and prefer charges?" "see here," said ralston, with an ugly look, "i'm not going to be a scapegoat. your bookkeeper put up this job." mr. fairchild turned slowly and regarded david mullins attentively. "i will bear in mind what you say," he answered. "i took nothing of value," continued ralston, "and you can't hold me. here are three packages filled with green paper." "yes," said sharpleigh, "the bank teller was acting under my instructions. i took care, however, to have one roll of genuine bills." when the three had left the office mr. fairchild turned to the bookkeeper. "mr. mullins," he said, "what could induce you to engage in such a wicked plot?" "i don't admit any complicity in the affair," replied the bookkeeper, in a surly tone. "have you seen chester rand lately?" "i saw him last evening at the fifth avenue hotel." "why did you discharge him?" "i thought him unfit for his place." "there may be a difference of opinion on that point. this boy," he added, significantly, "is a relative of yours, i believe." "yes." "will you give me an idea of what has been done during my absence?" together the broker and the bookkeeper went over the books. then mr. fairchild went out to dinner. he was no sooner out of the office than mullins said: "felix, remain here till mr. fairchild returns. i am going out on an errand." he opened the safe, drew therefrom a small package and left the office. half an hour later he was on a cortlandt street ferryboat bound for the jersey shore. the package which he took with him contained four hundred dollars in bills, which he had drawn from the bank the day previous without the knowledge of his confederate. he had been providing for contingencies. when mr. fairchild returned felix delivered the message. the broker at once looked suspicious. "did mr. mullins say where he was going?" he asked. "yes, sir. he said he was going out on an errand." "did he take anything with him?" "i didn't observe, sir." when sharpleigh came in a little later he looked about him inquiringly. "where's mullins?" "i don't think we shall see him again very soon," and the broker told the detective what he knew about his disappearance. sharpleigh shrugged his shoulders. "he has been too sharp for us," he said. "do you want me to do anything?" "no; his loss of place and reputation will be a sufficient punishment." at the close of the day felix said: "i suppose you don't want me any more." "you can stay till the end of the week. i have not had time to form any plans." "do--do you think cousin david will come back?" "i think it very improbable," said the broker, seriously. "can you throw any light on the events of to-day?" "yes, sir." "go on. was the robbery planned?" "yes, sir. i was to receive twenty-five dollars for my share." "i believe you know chester rand?" "yes, sir." "do you know where he lives?" "yes, sir." "will you ask him to call here to-morrow?" "i will, sir; but he tells me he has a good place, and would not care to return." "i am aware of that. it is possible i may retain you----" "oh, sir, if you would!" "on condition that you agree to serve me faithfully." this was quite beyond the expectations of felix. "i will try to do so," he said, earnestly. "you have begun well by confessing your share in the plot which came so near being successful. as your day's work is ended, i will consider the errand on which i am sending you extra, and will pay you for it." the broker handed a half dollar to felix, which he accepted joyfully. "i don't much care if cousin david has gone away," he soliloquized. "mr. fairchild seems a good sort of man, and i'll do my best to please him." when felix was ushered into chester's presence the latter was just finishing a comic sketch for _the phoenix_. "what's that?" asked felix, in surprise, for he was quite unaware of chester's artistic gifts. chester showed it to him with a smile. "now you see how i am making my living," he said. "do you get pay for that?" "yes, certainly." then felix bethought himself of his errand. "there's a great row at the office," he said. "mr. fairchild has got home, cousin david has run away and mr. ralston is arrested." "that's a budget of news. when did mr. fairchild return?" "this forenoon. he wants you to call to-morrow." "all right. i will do so." "and if he offers you back your old place you won't take it?" said felix, anxiously. "if you don't, i think he'll keep me." "then i'll promise not to accept. i am better satisfied where i am. have you had supper, felix?" "no." "then come and take supper with me. i go out about this time." "it had certainly been a day of surprises," as felix reflected when he found himself seated opposite a boy whom he had always disliked, as his guest. chapter xxxii. edward granger. "i suppose you don't care to come back to the office, chester?" said mr. fairchild, when chester called upon him the next day at the office. "i like my present position better," answered chester; "besides, i suppose you are hardly prepared to offer me twenty-five dollars a week." "do you receive as much as that?" asked the broker, in amazement. "yes, sir." "i congratulate you heartily," said mr. fairchild. "it is clear that you are too high priced for the real estate business." "felix tells me you may retain him." "i will give him a chance. it depends upon himself whether he stays." "i am very glad of it, sir. felix has hardly been my friend, but now that his cousin is away he may improve. i certainly hope so." "what shall you do about ralston?" asked chester, presently. "i shall proceed against him. such a man is a curse to the community. it was through him that my bookkeeper lost his integrity and ruined his prospects. if he is locked up he will be prevented from doing any more harm." as dick ralston will not again figure in this story, it may be mentioned here that he was found guilty in the trial that soon followed, and was sentenced to a term of several years' imprisonment. the bitterest reflection he had when sentence was pronounced was that his confederate, mullins, had escaped and was a free man. rogues may work together, but it is seldom that any tie of friendship exists between them. chester was now able to save money. including what he received from prof. hazlitt, his income was about thirty-five dollars a week. his personal expenses were greater than they had been, on account of having a more expensive room. yet altogether they did not exceed twelve dollars per week, leaving him a balance of twenty-three. of this sum he proposed to send his mother a part, but she wrote that the liberal board paid by miss jane dolby covered all her expenses. "i hope if you have money to spare you will put it in some savings bank," she wrote. "at present we are well and prospering, but the time may come when our income will be diminished, and then it will be very comfortable to have some money laid aside." chester acted upon his mother's suggestion. he did not tell her how much he earned. he wished this to be an agreeable surprise at some future day. then chester moved into a larger room. the hall bedroom which he had hitherto occupied was taken by a young man of nineteen named edward granger. he was slender and looked younger than he was. he did not seem strong, and there was a sad expression on his face. sometimes he called on chester, but for several days they had not met. about six o'clock one afternoon chester knocked at his door. "come in!" he heard, in a low voice. entering, he saw edward lying on the bed face downward, in an attitude of despondency. "what's the matter, edward?" he asked. "are you sick?" "yes, sick at heart," was the sad reply. "how is that?" inquired chester, in a tone of sympathy. "i have lost my place." "when was that?" "three days since. my employer has engaged in my place a boy from the country--his nephew--and i am laid aside." "that is unfortunate, certainly, but you must try to get another place. your employer will give you a recommendation, won't he?" "yes, i have one in my pocket, but it is not easy to get a new place, and meanwhile----" he hesitated. "meanwhile you are out of money, i suppose," said chester. "yes; i couldn't save anything. i got only five dollars a week, and my room costs two. i suppose, when the week is up, mrs. randolph will turn me into the street." "not while you have a friend in the next room," said chester, cordially. edward looked up quickly. "will you really be my friend?" he asked. "try me. have you had supper?" "i have not eaten anything for two days," answered granger, sadly. "why didn't you call upon me? i wouldn't have seen you suffer." "i didn't like to ask. i thought you would consider me a beggar." "you will understand me better after a while. now put on your hat and come out with me." edward did so, but he was so weak from long fasting that he was obliged to lean upon chester in walking to the restaurant, which was luckily near by. "let me advise you to take some soup first," said chester. "your stomach is weak, and that will prepare it for heartier food." "i don't feel hungry," returned edward. "i only feel faint." "it may be well not to eat very much at first." "how kind you are! i must be two or three years older than you, yet you care for and advise me." "consider me your uncle," said chester, brightly. "now tell me how it happens that you didn't apply to some friend or relative." a shadow passed over the boy's face. "i have none in new york--except yourself." "then you are not a city boy." "no; i came from portland." "in maine?" "no; in oregon." "you have relatives there?" "a mother." "i suppose you hear from her?" edward granger was silent. "i don't wish you to tell me if you have an objection." "yes, i will tell you, for i think you are a true friend. my mother is married again, and my stepfather from the first disliked me. i think it is because my mother had money, and he feared she would leave it to me. so he got up a false charge against me of dishonesty. my mother became cold to me, and i--left home. i am of a sensitive nature, and i could not bear the cold looks i met with." "how long ago was this?" "about six months since." "you came to new york directly?" "yes." "where did you get the money to come?" "i came by it honestly," answered edward, quickly. "i had a deposit in a savings bank, put in during my own father's life. i felt i had a right to use this, and i did so. it brought me to new york, and kept me here till i got a place in an insurance office." "and you managed to live on five dollars a week?" "yes; it was hard, but i went to the cheapest eating houses, and i--got along." "but you had no money to buy clothing." "i brought a fair supply with me. now i am beginning to need some small articles, such as handkerchiefs and socks." "i wondered you would never go to supper with me." "i didn't want you to know how little i ordered. you might have thought me mean." "poor fellow!" said chester, pityingly. "you have certainly had a hard time. and all the while your mother was living in comfort." "yes, in luxury, for she is worth at least fifty thousand dollars in her own right." "i hope your stepfather has not got possession of it." "he had not when i came away. my mother is naturally cautious, and would not give it to him. he attributed this to my influence over her, but it was not so. she is of scotch descent, and this made her careful about giving up her property. she allowed him the use of the income, only reserving a little for herself." "have you had any communication with her since you left portland?" "i wrote her once, but received no answer." "the letter may not have reached her. it may have fallen into the hands of your stepfather. what is his name?" "trimble--abner trimble." "was he in any business?" "yes; he kept a liquor saloon, and patronized his own bar too much for his own good." "i shouldn't think your mother would like to have him in that business." "she asked him to change it, but he wouldn't. he had a set of disreputable companions who made his saloon their headquarters, and he did not wish to give them up, as he might have had to do if he had gone into another business." by this time supper was over, and the two walked to broadway. edward felt stronger, and his eye was brighter. suddenly he gripped chester's arm. "do you see that man?" he asked, pointing to a black-bearded man on the other side of the street. "yes; what of him?" "it is a gentleman from portland, a neighbor of ours. what can he be doing in new york?" chapter xxxiii. a friend from oregon. "go over and speak to him," suggested chester. "come with me, then." the two boys crossed the street and intercepted the man from portland. he was of medium height, with dark hair, and had a brisk, western way with him. "don't you remember me, mr. wilson?" said edward. "what! edward granger?" ejaculated the oregonian. "well, i am glad to see you. didn't know what had become of you. are you living here?" "yes, sir. let me introduce my friend, chester rand." "glad to meet you, mr. rand," said wilson, heartily. "so you are a friend of edward's." "indeed he is, an excellent friend!" exclaimed young granger. "have you--seen my mother lately?" "come over to my hotel and i'll answer all your questions. i'm stopping at the continental, on the next block." "all right! will you come, chester?" "yes; i shall be glad to." they were soon sitting in the office of the continental hotel, at the corner of broadway and twentieth street. "now i'll answer your questions," said nathaniel wilson. "yes, i saw your mother the day before i set out." "and is she well?" asked edward, anxiously. "she was looking somewhat careworn. she probably misses you." "she never writes to me," said edward, bitterly. "it may be because she doesn't know your address. then your stepfather keeps her prejudiced against you." "i suppose there is no change in him?" "no; except that he is drinking harder than ever. his business is against him, though he would drink even if he didn't keep a saloon." "does he treat my mother well?" "i think he does. i have never heard anything to the contrary. you see, he wouldn't dare to do otherwise, as your mother has the property, and he wants to keep in with her in order to get a share." "i have been afraid that she would give a part to him." "thus far i am confident she hasn't done it. she is scotch, isn't she?" "yes; her name was downie, and she was born in glasgow, but came to this country at an early age." "the scotch are careful and conservative." "she probably gives most of her income to trimble--indeed, he collects her rents--but the principal she keeps in her own hands. once i heard your stepfather complaining bitterly of this. 'my wife,' he said, 'treats me very badly. she's rolling in wealth, and i am a poor man, obliged to work early and late for a poor living.'" "he pays nothing toward the support of the house," said edward, indignantly. "mother pays all bills, and gives him money for himself besides." "i don't see how she could have married such a man!" "nor i. he seems coarse, and is half the time under the influence of drink." "i wonder whether he has induced your mother to make a will in his favor," said wilson, thoughtfully. "if he did, i think her life would be in danger." edward turned pale at this suggestion. "i don't care so much for the property," he said, "but i can't bear to think of my mother's life as being in danger." "probably your mother's caution will serve her a good turn here also," said wilson. "it isn't best to borrow trouble. i will keep watch, and if i see or hear of anything alarming i will write you. but now tell me about yourself. are you at work?" "not just at present," replied edward, embarrassed. "but i think i can get him another place in a day or two," said chester, quickly. "if you need a little money, call on me," added the warm-hearted westerner. "you know you used to call me your uncle nathaniel." "i wouldn't like to borrow," said edward, shyly. "when was your birthday?" "a month ago." "then i must give you a birthday present you can't object to that," and mr. wilson took a ten-dollar gold piece from his pocket and pressed it upon edward. "thank you very much. i can't decline a birthday gift." "that's what i thought. i am an old friend, and have a right to remember you. was mr. rand in the same office with you?" "no; chester is an artist." "an artist! a boy like him!" ejaculated the oregonian in surprise. chester smiled. "i am getting older every day," he said. "that's what's the matter with me," rejoined mr. wilson. "you haven't any gray hair yet, while i have plenty." "not quite yet," smiled chester. "what kind of an artist are you?" "i make drawings for an illustrated weekly. it is a comic paper." "and perhaps you put your friends in occasionally?" "not friends exactly, but sometimes i sketch a face i meet in the street." "you may use me whenever you want a representative of the wild and woolly west." "thank you, mr. wilson." "but in that case you must send me a copy of the paper." "i won't forget it." "how long are you staying in new york, mr. wilson?" asked edward. "i go away to-morrow. you must spend the evening with me." "i should like to do so. it seems good to see an old friend." "by and by we will go to delmonico's and have an ice cream. i suppose you have been there?" "no; office boys don't often patronize delmonico. they are more likely to go to beefsteak john's." "i never heard that name. is it a fashionable place?" "yes, with those of small pocketbooks. it is a perfectly respectable place, but people living on fifth avenue prefer the brunswick or delmonico's." edward brightened up so much owing to the presence of a friend from his distant home that chester could hardly believe that it was the same boy whom he had found but a short time before in the depths of despondency. about nine o'clock they adjourned to delmonico's and ordered ices and cake. "this seems a tiptop place," said the oregonian, looking about him. "we haven't got anything equal to it in portland, but we may have sometime. the western people are progressive. we don't want to be at the tail end of the procession. mr. rand, you ought to come out and see something of the west, particularly of the pacific coast. you may not feel an interest in it at present, but----" "i have more interest in it than you imagine, mr. wilson. i have some property at tacoma." "you don't mean it! what kind of property?" "i own five lots there." "then you are in luck. lots in tacoma are rising every day." "but it wouldn't be well to sell at present, would it?" "no; the railroad has only recently been completed, and the growth of tacoma has only just begun." "i hope to go west some day." "when you do you must call on me. perhaps you will come, too, edward?" edward granger shook his head. "it won't be worth while for me to go back while mr. trimble is alive. he seems to have such an influence over my mother that it would not be pleasant for me to go there and have a cold reception from her." "i will call on her and mention your name. then i can see how the land lays. how she can prefer such a man as abner trimble to her own son i can't understand." about ten o'clock the two boys left mr. wilson, who had been going about all day and showed signs of fatigue. "shan't i see you again, mr. wilson?" asked edward. "no; i must take an early start in the morning. you had better let me lend you a little money." "no, thank you, sir. your generous gift will help me till i get a place." so the farewells were said, and the boys walked home. "now," said edward, "i must try to get a place. this money will last me two weeks, and in that time i ought to secure something." he went from place to place, answering advertisements the next day, but met with no luck. he was feeling rather depressed when chester came into his room. "i have found a place for you," he said, brightly. "you don't mean it! where is it?" asked young granger. "at the office of _the phoenix_. you will be in the mailing department. the salary is small--only seven dollars a week--but----" "i shall feel rich. it is two dollars more than i received at my last place. when am i to go to work?" "to-morrow. the mailing clerk has got a better place, and that makes an opening for you." "and i owe this good fortune to you," said edward, gratefully. "how can i repay you?" "by being my friend!" "that i shall be--for life!" replied edward, fervently. chapter xxxiv. after a year. a year passed. chester remained in the service of _the phoenix_, which had become an established success. his artistic work was so satisfactory that his salary had been raised from twenty-five to thirty dollars per week. yet he had not increased his personal expenses, and now had nearly a thousand dollars deposited in different savings banks. he had concealed the extent of his prosperity from his mother, meaning in time to surprise her agreeably. about this period he received a letter from wyncombe. it was from his mother. it ran thus: "dear chester: i am sorry to write you bad news. miss jane dolby has decided to visit a sister in chicago and remain a year. of course this cuts off the liberal income i have received from her, and which has been adequate to meet my expenses. i may be able to earn something by sewing, but it will be only a little. i shall, therefore, have to accept the offer you made me sometime since to send me a weekly sum. i am sorry to be a burden to you, but it will only be for a year. at the end of that time miss dolby promises to come back and resume boarding with me. "i think we have reason to feel grateful for your continued success in new york. silas tripp called a few evenings since. he has had a great deal of trouble with boys. he says he has not had anyone to suit him since you left. he asked me if i thought you would come back for four dollars a week. this he seemed to consider a very liberal offer, and it was--for him. i didn't give him any encouragement, as i presume you prefer art to the grocery business. "you need not begin to send me money, at once, as i have been able to save a little from miss dolby's board. "your affectionate mother, "sarah rand." chester answered at once: "dear mother: don't feel any anxiety about your loss of income through miss dolby's departure, and don't try to earn any money by sewing. my income is larger than you suppose, and i will send you weekly as much as you have been accustomed to receive from your boarder. should it be more than you need, you can lay aside any surplus for future use. "tell mr. tripp i prefer new york to wyncombe as a place of business, and i am obliged to decline his generous offer. i cannot help thinking sometimes how fortunate it was that he declined over a year since to increase my pay, as in that case i might still have been working for him instead of establishing a reputation as an artist here. last week i received a larger offer from another publication, but as the publishers of _the phoenix_ have always treated me well, i didn't think that i would be justified in making a change. i mean in a week or two to come home to pass sunday. i shall feel delighted to see my friends in wyncombe, and most of all, my mother. "your loving son, chester ." mrs. rand protested against chester sending her eight dollars a week, but he insisted upon it, advising her to lay aside what she did not need. one evening about this time edward granger, who still occupied the small apartment adjoining, came into chester's room, looking agitated. "what is the matter?" asked chester. "have you had bad news?" "yes; i have had a letter from mr. wilson, of portland, whom you recollect we met about a year ago." "i remember him." "i will read you his letter. you will see that i have reason to feel anxious." the letter ran as follows: "dear edward: i promised to send you any news i might pick up about your mother and her premising husband. trimble is indulging in liquor more than ever, and i don't see how he can stand it unless he has a castiron constitution. from what i hear he has never given up trying to get your mother's property into his hands. she has held out pretty firm, but she may yield yet. i hear that he is circulating reports that you are dead. in that case he thinks she may be induced to make a will leaving her property to mr. trimble; having, as i believe, no near relatives, so that he would seem to be the natural heir. "i may be doing trimble an injustice, but i think if such a will were made she wouldn't live long. your stepfather is in great straits for money, it seems, and he might be tempted to do something desperate. as far as i can hear, abner trimble's plan is this: he took a pal of his around to the house who had been in new york recently, and the latter gave a circumstantial account of your dying with typhoid fever. evidently your mother believed it, for she seemed quite broken down and has aged considerably since the news. no doubt her husband will seize this opportunity to induce her to make a will in his favor. here lies the danger; and i think i ought to warn you of it, for your presence here is needed to defeat your stepfather's wicked plans. come out at once, if you can. "your friend, "nathaniel wilson." "what do you think of that, chester?" asked edward, in a troubled voice. "i think it very important. your mother's life and your interests both are in peril." "and the worst of it is that i am helpless," said edward, sadly. "i ought to go out there, but you know how small my salary is. it has required the utmost economy to live, and i haven't as much as five dollars saved up. how can i make such a long and costly journey?" "i see the difficulty, edward, but i need time to think it over. to-morrow afternoon come in and i may have some advice to give you." "i know that you will advise me for the best, chester." "there is a good deal in age and experience," said chester, smiling. when edward left the room chester took from his pocket a letter received the day previous, and postmarked tacoma. it was to this effect: "mr. chester rand. "dear sir: we learn that you own five lots on main street, numbered from to . we have inquiries as to three of those lots as a location for a new hotel, which it is proposed to erect at an early date. we are, therefore, led to ask whether you are disposed to sell, and, if so, on what terms. we should be glad to have a personal interview with you, but if it is impracticable or inconvenient for you to come on to tacoma we will undertake, as your agents, to carry on the negotiations. "yours respectfully, "dean & downie, "real estate agents." "why shouldn't i go to tacoma?" thought chester. "i can probably sell the lots to better advantage than any agents, and should be entirely unable to fix upon a suitable price unless i am on the ground. in case i go on, i can take edward with me, and trust to him to repay the money advanced at some future time." the more chester thought of this plan the more favorable it struck him. he went the next day to the office of _the phoenix_, and after delivering his sketches, said: "i should like leave of absence for two months. can you spare me?" "does your health require it, mr. rand?" asked the editor. "no," answered chester, "but i own a little property in tacoma, and there are parties out there who wish to buy. it is important that i should go out there to attend to the matter." the editor arched his brows in astonishment. "what!" he said. "an artist, and own real estate? this is truly surprising." "i didn't earn it by my art," replied chester, smiling. "it was a bequest." "that accounts for it. i suppose, under the circumstances, we must let you go; but why need you give up your work? probably ideas and suggestions may come to you while you are traveling. these you can send to us by mail." "but i can't do enough to earn the salary you pay me." "then we will pay according to the amount you do." "that will be satisfactory." "do you need an advance for the expenses of your journey?" "no; i have some money laid by." "another surprise! when do you want to start?" "as soon as possible. i will not come to the office again." "then good luck and a pleasant journey." when edward granger came into his room later in the day, chester said: "day after to-morrow we start for oregon. ask your employers to hold your place for you, and get ready at once." "but the money, chester?" gasped edward. "i will advance it to you, and you shall repay me when you can." chapter xxxv. preparing for the journey. no sooner had chester decided upon his western journey than he telegraphed to dean & downe, of tacoma: "i will call upon you within two weeks." mrs. rand was much surprised when chester, coming home unexpectedly, announced his intentions. "do you want me to take you with me, mother?" asked chester, with a smile. "i am afraid i could not help you much. but you are not used to traveling. you may take the wrong cars." again chester smiled. "i have spent over a year in the city, mother," he said. "i have got along pretty well in the last twelve months, haven't i?" "yes; but suppose you were to fall sick, with no one to look after you?" "i didn't tell you that i am going to have company. edward granger, who was born in oregon, and is three years older than myself, will go with me." "then i shall feel easier. he knows the way, and can look after you." chester was secretly of opinion that he was more competent to look after edward, but did not say so. he saw that his mother was easier in mind, and this relieved him. before he started from new york he called to see mr. fairchild. on fourteenth street he fell in with felix gordon. "how are you getting along, felix?" he asked. "pretty well. mr. fairchild has raised me to six dollars a week." "i am glad of it. that shows he is satisfied with you." "i try to please him. i began to think that is the best policy. that is why you have succeeded so well." "do you ever hear from mr. mullins?" "no; but i know where he is." "where? of course you know that i have no wish to injure him." "he is somewhere in oregon, or perhaps in washington territory." washington had not at that time been advanced to the dignity of a state. "that is curious." "why is it curious?" "because i am going to start for oregon and washington to-night." "you don't mean it! what are you going for?" "on business," answered chester, not caring to make a confidant of felix." "won't it cost a good deal of money?" "yes; but i expect to get paid for going." "what a lucky fellow you are!" said felix, not without a trace of envy. "i wish i could go. i like to travel, but i have never had a chance." mr. fairchild was equally surprised when told of chester's plans. "are you going as an artist?" he asked. "no; as a real estate man," answered chester. "i own a few lots in tacoma, and have a chance of selling a part of them." then he went into particulars. "i congratulate you. i have only one piece of advice to offer. make careful inquiries as to the value of property. then ask a fair price, not one that is exorbitant. that might drive the hotel people to seeking another site for their house." "thank you, mr. fairchild; i will remember your advice." "the journey is an expensive one. if you need two or three hundred dollars i will loan it to you cheerfully." "thank you very much, but i have more money saved up than i shall require." "i see you are careful and provident. well, chester, i wish you every success." "i am sure of that, mr. fairchild. by the way, i hear that your old bookkeeper is in oregon or washington." "who told you?" "felix. have you any message for him if i happen to meet him?" "say that i have no intention of prosecuting him. if he is ever able i shall be glad to have him return the money he took from me. as to punishment, i am sure he has been punished enough by his enforced flight and sense of wrongdoing." chapter xxxvi. a great surprise. from new york to tacoma is a long journey. over three thousand miles must be traversed by rail, but the trip is far from tiresome. chester and his companion thoroughly enjoyed it. all was new and strange, and the broad spaces through which they passed were full of interest. they stopped at niagara falls, but only for a few hours, and spent a day in chicago. then they were whirled onward to st. paul and minneapolis, and later on over the broad plains of north dakota and through the mountains of montana. "i never thought the country was so large before," said chester to edward. "you have been over the ground once before." "yes; but part of it was during the night, it is pleasant to see it once more. many of the places have grown considerably, though it is only two years since i came from portland." chester made some agreeable acquaintances. an unsociable traveler misses many of the profitable results of his journey, besides finding time hang heavily on his hands. just after leaving bismarck, in north dakota, chester's attention was called to an old man, whose white hair and wrinkled face indicated that he had passed the age of seventy years. the conductor came through the car, collecting tickets. the old man searched for his, and an expression of dismay overspread his face. "i can't find my ticket," he said. "that is unfortunate. where did you come from?" "from buffalo." "when did you last see your ticket?" "i stopped over one night in bismarck, and had to share my room with a young man, for the hotel was crowded. i think he must have picked my pocket of the ticket." "did you know the ticket was missing when you boarded the train?" "no, sir. i did not think to look." "your case is unfortunate. how far are you going?" "to tacoma. i have a son there." "i am afraid you will have to pay the fare from here. i have no discretion in the matter, and cannot allow you to ride without a ticket." "don't you believe my ticket was stolen?" asked the old man, in a state of nervous agitation. "yes, i believe it. i don't think a man of your age would deceive me. but i cannot let you travel without paying for another." "i haven't money enough," said the old man, piteously. "if you will wait till i reach tacoma my son will give me money to pay you." "i am not allowed to do that. i think you will have to get out at the next station." the old man was much agitated. "it is very hard," he sighed. "i--i don't know what to do." chester had listened to this conversation with great sympathy for the unfortunate traveler, on account of his age and apparent helplessness. "how much is the fare to tacoma from this point?" he asked. "in the neighborhood of fifty dollars," answered the conductor. "will your son be able to pay this?" asked chester. "oh, yes," answered the old man. "william has been doin' well. he is going to build a large hotel in tacoma--he and another man." "then," said chester, "i will advance you what money you need. you can give me a memorandum, so that i can collect it from your son." "heaven bless you, young man!" said the old man, fervently. "you are indeed a friend to me who am but a stranger. i am sure you will prosper." "thank you." "what a fellow you are, chester!" said edward. "you will make yourself poor helping others." "i shall sleep better for having aided the old man," answered chester. the rest of the journey was uneventful. the two boys went at once to tacoma, as chester felt that the gentlemen who were negotiating for his lots were probably in a hurry to arrange for the building of the hotel. after establishing themselves at a hotel and eating dinner, they went at once to the office of dean & downie, the real estate agents from whom chester had received a letter. here a surprise awaited him. standing at a desk in the rear of the office was a figure that looked familiar. the man turned as the door opened to admit chester, and the latter recognized to his great astonishment his old enemy--david mullins! chapter xxxvii. david mullins again. when david mullins saw chester enter the office he turned pale, and looked panic-stricken. "you here!" he exclaimed, in a hollow voice. "yes, mr. mullins. i am surprised to meet you." "then you didn't know i was here?" "i heard from felix that you were in this part of the country." "i am trying to earn an honest living," said mullins, in agitation. "my employers know nothing to my prejudice. do you come as a friend or an enemy?" "mr. mullins, i haven't the least intention of harming you. i will not even appear to know you. i came here to see dean & downie, with whom i have business." "heaven be praised! i will not soon forget your kindness. here comes mr. dean. remember your promise." at this moment mr. dean entered the office. david mullins had returned to his desk. "this young man wishes to see you, mr. dean," he said, formally, when his employer entered. mr. dean looked at chester, inquiringly. "i am chester rand, with whom you have had some correspondence," said chester, tendering his card. "i have just arrived from new york." the broker regarded him in surprise. "you chester rand?" he exclaimed. "why, you are a boy." "i must plead guilty to that indictment," said chester, smiling, "but i am the owner of the lots which i understand are wanted for the new hotel." david mullins, who heard this conversation, looked up in amazement. he had not known of the correspondence with chester, as mr. dean had written his letter personally, and it had not gone through the office. "can you furnish any evidence of this?" asked mr. dean. "here is the letter you sent me, and here is a copy of my reply." the broker took the letter from chester's hand and all doubt vanished from his countenance. "i am glad to see you here so soon, mr. rand," he said, "as the parties with whom i am negotiating are anxious to conclude matters as soon as possible. will you go over with me to mr. taylor's office? taylor and pearson are the parties' names." "i will go with pleasure." as they walked through the chief business street chester noticed with interest evidences of activity everywhere. tacoma he found was situated, like san francisco, on a side hill, sloping down toward puget sound. "what a fine location for a town," he said. "yes," answered mr. dean, "this is destined to be a large city. our people are enterprising and progressive. seattle is at present ahead of us, but we mean to catch up, and that ere many years." "at what price are lots selling on this street?" "i see you have business ideas," said the broker, smiling. "i suppose you want to know what price you can charge for your lots." "you are right." "of course it will not be right for me to advise you, being employed by the other party, but i will give you some idea. the lot adjoining your plot sold last week for two thousand dollars." "two thousand?" "yes." "probably it would be well for me to wait a year or two, as the lots would undoubtedly command more then." "that is one way of looking at it. let me point out another. you have five lots, have you not?" "yes, sir." "if you sell three to the hotel company you can hold the other two five years if you like. the proximity of the hotel will help to enhance their value." "i see that." "that is a point to be considered. if you ask a prohibitory price, the hotel will go elsewhere, and you may have to wait a good while before you have a chance to sell. but here is mr. taylor's office." the broker entered, followed by chester. here a surprise awaited him. sitting in an armchair was his venerable friend of the train, appearing very much at home. his face lighted up when chester came in. "william," he said to a stout man of middle age, "this is the young man who generously advanced money to meet my car fare when i was in danger of being put off the train." the younger man advanced and cordially offered his hand. "my boy," he said, "i shall not soon forget your kindness to my father. i will gladly repay you for the money you disbursed on his account." "i was very glad to stand his friend, sir," returned chester, modestly. "let me know to whom i am indebted." "mr. taylor," said the broker, "this young gentleman is chester rand, owner of the lots which you wish to buy." "is it possible?" ejaculated william taylor. "i didn't know that the owner of the lots was a boy." "the lots were a bequest to me from the original owner," said chester. "and you have never been out this way before?" "this is my first visit to tacoma." "you are hardly old enough to be in business." "i am an artist; that is, i furnish illustrations to a comic weekly paper in new york." "you have begun life early. i suspect you are better fitted for business than most young men of your age. here is my partner, mr. pearson." in the negotiation that followed the reader will not be interested. at length a mutually satisfactory arrangement was made. chester agreed to sell the three lots wanted for the hotel for eight thousand dollars, half cash and the balance on a year's time at twelve per cent. interest. when the business was concluded and papers signed, mr. dean said: "mr. rand, i think you have made a good bargain. you might have extorted more, but you have received a fair price and retained the good will of the purchaser. what do you propose to do with the four thousand dollars you will receive in cash?" "i have not had time to think." "i will venture to give you some advice. my partner, john downie, has made a specialty of city property, and he will invest any part for you in lower-priced city lots, which are sure to advance rapidly." "then i will put the matter in his hands and rely on his judgment. i will carry back with me a thousand dollars, and leave with him three thousand dollars for investment." "then come back to the office and i will introduce you to mr. downie, with whom you can leave instructions." chester was presented to mr. downie, a blond young man, who looked honest and reliable, and they soon came to an understanding. they walked about the town--it was not a city then--and chester picked out several lots which he was in favor of buying. he remained a week in tacoma, and before the end of that time all arrangements were perfected, and he found himself the owner of seven lots, more or less eligible, in addition to the two he had reserved in the original plot. on the evening of the second day, as he was taking a walk alone, he encountered david mullins. "good-evening, mr. mullins," he said, politely. "good-evening, chester," returned the bookkeeper, flushing slightly. "i want to thank you for not exposing my past misdeeds." "i hope, mr. mullins, you did not think me mean enough to do so." "i am sorry to say that according to my sad experience eight out of ten would have done so, especially if they had reason, like you, to complain of personal ill treatment." "i don't believe in persecuting a man." "i wish all were of your way of thinking. shall i tell you my experience?" "if you will." "when i left new york i went to chicago and obtained the position of collector for a mercantile establishment. i was paid a commission, and got on very well till one unlucky day i fell in with an acquaintance from new york. "'where are you working?' he asked. "i told him. "the next day my employer summoned me to his presence. "'i shall not require your services any longer,' he said. "i asked no questions. i understood that my treacherous friend had given me away. "i had a few dollars saved, and went to minneapolis. there i was undisturbed for six months. then the same man appeared and again deprived me of my situation." "how contemptible!" ejaculated chester, with a ring of scorn in his voice. "then i came to tacoma, and here i have been thus far undisturbed. when i saw you i had a scare. i thought my time had come, and i must again move on." "so far from wishing to harm you, mr. mullins," said chester, "if, through the meanness of others you get into trouble you can any time send to me for a loan of fifty dollars." "thank you," ejaculated mullins, gratefully, wringing chester's hand. "you are heaping coals of fire on my head." "you will always have my best wishes for your prosperity. if ever you are able, repay the money you took from mr. fairchild, and i will venture to promise that he will forgive you." "with god's help i will!" chapter xxxviii. abner trimble's plot. just off first street, in portland, ore., is a saloon, over which appears the name of the proprietor: "abner trimble." two rough-looking fellows, smoking pipes, entered the saloon. behind the bar stood a stout, red-faced man. this was trimble, and his appearance indicated that he patronized the liquors he dispensed to others. "glad to see you, floyd," said trimble. "that means a glass of whisky, doesn't it?" returned floyd. "well, not now. i want you to go up to the house again, to see my wife." "about the old matter?" "yes; she isn't quite satisfied about the kid's death, and she won't make a will in my favor till she is. she wants to ask you a few questions." floyd made a wry face. "she's as bad as a lawyer. i say, abner, i'm afraid i'll get tripped up." "you must stick to the old story." "what was it?" "don't you remember you said that the kid hired a boat to row in the harbor along with two other boys, and the boat was upset and all three were drowned?" "yes, i remember. it's a smart yarn, isn't it?" grinned floyd. "yes, but you mustn't let her doubt it. you remember how you came to know about the drowning?" "no, i forget." abner trimble frowned. "look here, floyd. you'd better remember, or you won't get the money i promised you. you were out in a boat yourself, and saw the whole thing. you jumped into the water, and tried to save the kid, but it was no use. he went to the bottom--and that was the end of him!" "a very pretty story," said floyd, complacently. "won't i get somethin' for tryin' to save the kid's life?" "as like as not. i'll suggest it to the old lady myself." "when do you want me to go up to the house?" "now. the lawyer's coming at four o'clock, and i want you to confirm mrs. t. in her belief in the boy's death." "it's dry talkin', abner," said floyd, significantly. "take a glass of sarsaparilla, then." "sarsaparilla!" repeated floyd, contemptuously. "that's only fit for children." "lemon soda, then." "what's the matter with whisky?" "are you a fool? do you think mrs. t. will believe your story if you come to her smelling of whisky?" "you're hard on me, abner. just one little glass." "you can put that off till afterward. here, take some lemon soda, or i'll mix you a glass of lemonade." "well, if i must," said floyd, in a tone of resignation. "you can have as much whisky as you like afterward." "then the sooner we get over the job the better. i'm ready now." "here, tim, take my place," said abner trimble, calling his barkeeper; "i'm going to the house for an hour. now come along." abner trimble lived in a comfortable dwelling in the nicer portion of the city. it belonged to his wife when he married her, and he had simply taken up his residence in her house. he would have liked to have lived nearer the saloon, and had suggested this to his wife, but she was attached to her home and was unwilling to move. trimble ushered his visitor into the sitting room and went up to see his wife. she was sitting in an armchair in the room adjoining her chamber, looking pale and sorrowful. "well, mary," said trimble, "i've brought floyd along to answer any questions relating to poor edward's death." "yes, i shall be glad to see him," answered his wife, in a dull, spiritless tone. "shall i bring him up?" "if you like." trimble went to the landing and called out: "you can come up, floyd." floyd entered the room, holding his hat awkwardly in his hands. he was not used to society, and did not look forward with much pleasure to the interview which had been forced upon him. "i hope i see you well, ma'am," he said, bobbing his head. "as well as i ever expect to be," answered mrs. trimble, sadly. "your name is----" "floyd, ma'am. darius floyd." "and you knew my poor son?" "yes, ma'am, i knew him well. ed and i was regular cronies." mrs. trimble looked at the man before her, and was mildly surprised. certainly edward must have changed, or he would not keep such company. but, prejudiced against her son as she had been by her husband's misrepresentations, she feared that this was only another proof of edward's moral decadence. "you have been in new york recently?" "yes; i was there quite a while." "and you used to see edward?" "'most every day, ma'am." "how was he employed?" this was not a question to which mr. floyd had prepared an answer. he looked to mr. trimble as if for a suggestion, and the latter nodded impatiently, and shaped his mouth to mean "anything." "he was tendin' a pool room, ma'am," said floyd, with what he thought a lucky inspiration. "he was tendin' a pool room on sixth avenue." "he must indeed have changed to accept such employment. i hope he didn't drink?" "not often, ma'am; just a glass of sarsaparilla or lemon soda. them are my favorites." abner trimble turned aside to conceal a smile. he remembered mr. floyd's objecting to the innocent beverages mentioned, and his decided preference for whisky. "i am glad that he was not intemperate. you saw the accident?" "yes, ma'am." "please tell me once more what you can." "i took a boat down at the battery to have a row one afternoon, when, after a while, i saw another boat comin' out with three fellers into it. one of them was your son, edward." "did you know edward's companions?" "never saw them before in my life. they was about as old as he. well, by and by one of them stood up in the boat. i surmise he had been drinkin'. then, a minute afterward, i saw the boat upset, and the three was strugglin' in the water. "i didn't take no interest in the others, but i wanted to save edward, so i jumped into the water and made for him. that is, i thought i did. but it so happened in the confusion that i got hold of the wrong boy, and when i managed to get him on board my boat, i saw my mistake. it was too late to correct it--excuse my emotion, ma'am," and mr. floyd drew a red silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes; "but when i looked out and couldn't see either of the other young fellers, and realized that they were drowned, i felt awful bad." mrs. trimble put her handkerchief to her eyes and moaned. the picture drawn by mr. floyd was too much for her. "i wish i could see the young man whose life you saved," she said, after a pause, "have you his name and address?" "no, ma'am; he didn't even thank me. i didn't get even the price of a glass of--sarsaparilla out of him." mr. floyd came near saying whisky, but bethought himself in time. "i have been much interested by your sad story, mr. floyd," said the sorrow-stricken mother. "you seem to have a good and sympathetic heart." "yes, ma'am," replied floyd; "that is my weakness." "don't call it a weakness! it does you credit." mr. floyd exchanged a sly glance of complacency with abner trimble, who was pleased that his agent got off so creditably. he had evidently produced a good impression on mrs. trimble. "you see, my dear," he said, gently, "that there can be no doubt about poor edward's death. i have thought, under the circumstances, that you would feel like making a will, and seeing that i was suitably provided for. as matters stand your property would go to distant cousins, and second cousins at that, while i would be left out in the cold. "i know, of course, that you are younger than myself and likely to outlive me, but still, life is uncertain. i don't care much for money, but i wouldn't like to die destitute, and so i asked mr. coleman, the lawyer, to come round. i think i hear his ring now. will you see him?" "yes, if you wish it. i care very little what becomes of the property now my boy is no more." mr. trimble went downstairs, and returned with a very respectable-looking man of middle age, whom he introduced as mr. coleman. chapter xxxix. making a will. "mr. coleman," said trimble, with suavity, "this is my wife, mrs. trimble." the lawyer bowed. "i believe you wish to execute a will, mrs. trimble?" said he. "yes," answered the poor mother, in a spiritless tone. various questions were asked in relation to the property, and then the lawyer seated himself at a table and wrote the formal part of the will. "i understand you wish to leave the entire property to your husband?" he said, in a tone of inquiry. "in the event of my son's death," interpolated mrs. trimble. "but, my dear, he is dead," said abner trimble, with a slight frown. "i would prefer to have it expressed in this way." "i am sure," continued trimble, annoyed, "that mr. coleman will consider it unnecessary." "i see no objections to it," said the lawyer. "of course, the son being dead, it won't count." "mr. coleman," explained mrs. trimble, "i have no reason to doubt my poor son's death, but i didn't see him die, and there may have been a mistake." "how can there be?" demanded trimble, impatiently. "didn't my friend floyd see him drowned?" "he may have been mistaken. besides, he only says he did not see him after the boat upset. he may have been picked up by some other boat." for the first time trimble and floyd saw the flaw in the story, which had been invented by trimble himself. "was there any boat near, floyd?" asked trimble, winking significantly. "no, sir; not within a quarter of a mile." "edward could swim. he may have reached one by swimming." this was news to trimble. he had not been aware that his stepson could swim. "under the circumstances," said the lawyer, "i think mrs. trimble is right." trimble looked panic-stricken. knowing that edward granger was still living he recognized the fact that such a will would do him no good. "if he were alive he would let us know," he said, after a pause. "probably he would." "so that we may conclude he is dead." "it might be stipulated that if the missing son does not appear within three years from the time the will is made he may be regarded as dead?" suggested the lawyer. "one year would be sufficient, it seems to me," put in trimble. "i would rather make it three," said his wife. abner trimble looked disappointed, but did not dare object. the lawyer continued to write. "i understand, then," he observed, "that you bequeath all your estate to your husband, in the event of your son being decided to be dead." mrs. trimble paused to consider. "i think," she said, "i will leave the sum of five thousand dollars to charitable purposes as a memorial of edward." "i don't think much of charitable societies," growled trimble. "some of them do a great deal of good," said the lawyer. "are there any particular societies which you would wish to remember, mrs. trimble?" "i leave the choice to my executor," said the lady. "whom have you selected for that office?" "will you serve?" she asked. "then you don't care to appoint mr. trimble?" "no, i think not." "it is customary to appoint the husband, isn't it, mr. coleman?" asked abner. "it is quite often done." "i would prefer you," said mrs. trimble, decidedly. "if it will ease your mind, i will take the office, mrs. trimble." "now," said the lawyer, after a brief interval; "i will read the draft of the will as i have written it, and you can see if it meets your views." he had about half completed reading the document when there was heard a sharp ring at the doorbell. then there were steps on the stairs. a terrible surprise was in store for mrs. trimble. chapter xl. an unexpected surprise. the door of the sitting room was opened quickly, and two boys dashed into the room. they were edward granger and chester rand. abner trimble turned pale and uttered an imprecation. all his plans, so carefully laid, were menaced with ignominious defeat. floyd looked up in surprise, but did not comprehend the situation. in spite of the positive testimony he had given he did not even know edward granger by sight. mrs. trimble uttered a wild cry, but her face lighted up with supreme joy. "edward!" she exclaimed, and half rising, opened her arms. her son sprang forward and embraced his mother. "oh, edward!" she murmured, "are you really alive?" "very much alive, mother," answered edward, with a smile. "and i was mourning you as dead! i thought i should never see you again." "i have not died that i am aware of, mother. who told you i was dead?" "mr. trimble and--this gentleman," looking at floyd. "he told me he saw you drowned in new york bay." edward regarded floyd with curiosity. "i haven't any recollection of ever seeing the gentleman," he said. "i don't know him." "how do you explain this, mr. floyd?" asked mrs. trimble, suspiciously. floyd tried to speak, but faltered and stammered. he was in a very awkward position, and he realized it. abner trimble came to his assistance. "you must have been mistaken, floyd," he said. "the young man you saw drowned must have been a stranger." "yes," returned floyd, grasping the suggestion. "of course i must have been mistaken. the young man i saw bore a wonderful resemblance to mr. granger." "how long is it since you saw me drowned, mr. floyd?" asked edward. "about three weeks," answered floyd, in an embarrassed tone. "in new york bay?" "yes. you were out in a boat with two other young fellows--that is, a young man who was the perfect image of you was. the boat upset, and all three were spilled out. i saved the life of one, but the others were, as i thought, drowned. i am sorry that i was mistaken." "does that mean you are sorry i was not drowned?" "no; i am sorry to have harrowed up your mother's feelings by a story which proves to be untrue." "i suppose mr. trimble brought you here," said edward, quietly. he had in former days stood in fear of his stepfather, but now, backed up by chester, he felt a new sense of courage and independence. "of course i brought him here," growled trimble. "fully believing in my friend floyd's story, for i know him to be a gentleman of truth, i thought your mother ought to know it." "i was about to make my will at mr. trimble's suggestion, leaving him all my property," said mrs. trimble, regarding her husband suspiciously. "of course it was better to leave it to me than to second cousins whom you don't care anything about," interposed trimble, sourly. "come, floyd, our business is at an end. we will go over to the saloon." "shan't i get anything for my trouble?" asked floyd, uneasily, a remark which led the lawyer to regard him sharply. "your valuable time will be paid for," said trimble, sarcastically. he led the way out, and floyd followed. "mrs. trimble," said the lawyer, rising, "allow me to congratulate you on the happy event of this day. i am particularly glad that my services are not needed." "they will be needed, mr. coleman. will you do me the favor of drawing up a will leaving my entire property, with the exception of a thousand dollars, to my son, edward, and bring it here to-morrow morning, with two trusty witnesses, and i will sign it." "to whom will you leave the thousand dollars?" "to my--to mr. trimble," answered mrs. trimble, coldly. "i will not utterly ignore him." "very well, mrs. trimble. i will call at half-past ten o'clock to-morrow morning." the lawyer bowed himself out, leaving mrs. trimble and the boys together. "mother," said edward, "i have not yet had a chance to introduce to you my friend, chester rand, of new york." "i am very glad to welcome any friend of yours, edward." "you have reason to do so in this case, mother. but for chester i should not have had the money to come on from new york. he paid my traveling expenses." "he shall be repaid, and promptly, and he will accept my heartiest thanks, also. i hope, mr. rand, you will make your home with us while you are in portland." "thank you, mrs. trimble, but i have already secured lodgings at a hotel. at some future time i may accept your invitation." chester strongly suspected that he would not be a welcome guest to mr. trimble when that gentleman learned that he had been instrumental in bringing home his stepson in time to defeat his plans. but he called every day till, his business being concluded, he started on his return to new york. edward had expected to go back with him, but to this mrs. trimble would not listen. "we have been separated long enough, edward," she said. "henceforth your place is at my side. i feel that i have done you injustice, and i want to repair it. i made a mistake in marrying mr. trimble, but it is too late to correct that. i will not permit him, hereafter, to separate me from my son." "if you wish me to remain, mother, i will," rejoined edward. "i was not happy away from you. from this time forth i will stand by you and protect you from all that is unpleasant." edward spoke with a courage and manliness which he had not formerly shown. it was clear that adversity had strengthened and improved him. chapter xli. conclusion. let us go back to wyncombe. mrs. greene, living near mrs. rand, was a lady who made it her business to know all about her neighbors' affairs. she stepped into silas tripp's store to buy a pound of butter. mr. tripp himself waited upon her; mrs. greene generally had some item of news, and for this he possessed a keen relish. "any news, mrs. greene?" he asked, as he handed her the package of butter. "i suppose you've heard that the widder rand has lost her boarder?" "you don't say so!" returned silas, with genuine interest. "yes, it's so. i saw her go off myself yesterday afternoon, bag and baggage." "was she dissatisfied, do you think?" "like as not. the widder says she's comin' back, but i don't believe it. between you and me, mr. tripp, i wonder that she stayed so long. now, if she had been boardin' with you it would have been different." "so it would, mrs. greene; so it would. i would have been willing to take her just to oblige." "so would i, mr. tripp. the widder charged her a ridiculous price--eight dollars a week." "it was extortionate. i never charged such a price." "nor i. miss dolby's board ran the house, so that chester didn't need to send any home, and now chester's lost his place." "you don't say so!" ejaculated silas, eagerly. "yes. mrs. rand told me herself that he had left his work and gone out west in search of a place. i don't see, for my part, what the widder's goin' to do." "i'm sorry chester's been so unlucky. but he needn't have gone out west; i'm ready to take him back into my store." "that's very kind of you, mr. tripp." "i want to help along his mother, seein' she's a widder and in hard luck." "shall i tell her you will take chester back?" "no; i'll call round and see her about it. there may be some dickerin' about the salary. chester's got rather high notions, but i can't afford to pay extravagant prices." "just so. i'm sorry for the widder rand, but she's sot too much on that boy, and thought there wasn't no other boy in wyncombe that was equal to him. i'm sure my fred is just as smart as he." it was not till the next evening that mr. tripp found it convenient to call on mrs. rand. she was rather surprised by the visit, and a little curious to learn what it meant. "good-evenin', widder," said silas, coughing. "good-evening, mr. tripp. won't you step in for a few minutes?" "thank you. i don't care if i do. i heard yesterday from mrs. greene that you'd lost your boarder." "yes; miss dolby has gone to chicago for a year. she has a sister there." "do you expect her back?" "yes, after a year." "i wouldn't calc'late too much upon it if i were you. women folks is mighty onsartin when they make promises." mrs. rand smiled. "you may be right, mr. tripp," she said. "i hear, too, that chester's lost his place." "no; he has left it for a time, but he expects to go back." "that's onsartin, too. i'm sorry for you, widder." "thank you, mr. tripp, but there's no occasion." "you'll be rather put to it to get along, i reckon." "still, i have good friends in wyncombe," said mrs. rand, smiling mischievously. "now, if i were really 'put to it,' i am sure i could rely upon your assistance." "i'm very short of money," returned silas, alarmed at this suggestion. "still, i've got the will to help you. if chester's out of work, i'm ready to take him back into the store." "i will tell him that when i write." "where is he now?" "he's gone out west." "he's made a mistake. i knew a boy that went out west some years since, and nearly starved. he came home ragged and hungry." "i am not afraid chester will have that experience. he had saved up some money when at work in new york." "it won't last long, widder. it don't take long for fifty dollars to melt away. did he have that much?" "i think he did, mr. tripp." "he'd better have put it in a savings bank and come back to wyncombe to work for me. how soon do you expect him back?" "next week." "when he comes, send him round to see me." a few days later, mrs. greene went into silas tripp's store again. "well, mr. tripp," she said, "chester rand's got home." "you don't say! if you see him, tell him to come round and see me." "and i can tell you some more news. you know that half-acre lot that j'ins onto the widder's land?" "the apple orchard? yes." "well, chester's bought it." "you don't mean it! where on earth did he get the money? do you know what he paid?" "two hundred dollars." "he'll never be able to pay for it." "he has paid cash down. besides, he's got a new suit of clothes and a gold watch. i don't believe he will be willing to take a place in your store." silas tripp was amazed. nay, more, he was incredulous. but it so happened that chester himself came into the store in five minutes, and confirmed the news. "where did you get the money, chester?" asked mr. tripp, curiously, eying the boy with unwonted respect. "i saved it. i received high pay in new york." "but you've lost the place?" "oh, no! i go back to work next week." "how much pay do you get?" "thirty dollars a week." "don't try to fool me!" said silas, with asperity. "it ain't creditable to deceive a man old enough to be your grandfather." chester smiled. "do you want me to bring an affidavit from my employers?" he asked. "but it's ridiculous, payin' a boy such wages!" objected silas. "it would be foolish for you to pay it, mr. tripp; but they think me worth it." "what sort of work do you do?" "i make pictures. i will show you a couple," and chester produced a copy of _the phoenix_. "why, i didn't think they paid more'n a quarter apiece for such pictures." "it's lucky for me that they pay higher than that." "what was you doin' out west?" "i went partly to see the country." "i s'pose it cost you considerable money?" "yes, traveling is expensive." "you'd better have put the money in the bank." "i don't think so." "boys have foolish notions. i s'pose you was sorry to hear that miss dolby had gone away?" "no, i want mother to have a few months' rest." "your mother'll miss her board." "no, for i shall make it up to her." "you talk as if you was rich, chester." "i am not so rich as you, mr. tripp." "you seem to be spending more money; some day you'll be put to it to get along." but that has not yet come. two years have passed, and chester is still in the employ of _the phoenix_, but he now receives forty dollars per week. he has sold his other two lots in tacoma for five thousand dollars each, and still has the cheaper lots he bought as an investment. he could sell these at a handsome profit, but will hold them a while longer. about a year ago he received intelligence from edward granger that his stepfather had died suddenly of heart trouble, brought on by an undue use of alcoholic mixtures. edward concluded: "now there is nothing to mar my mother's happiness. i live at home and manage her business, besides filling a responsible place in a broker's office. we hope you will pay us a visit before long. we have never forgotten your kindness to me in my time of need." a month since mr. fairchild was surprised by receiving a remittance from tacoma. his old bookkeeper, david mullins, remitted to him the amount he had stolen at the time of his hurried departure from new york, with interest up to date. "i hope, mr. fairchild," he concluded, "you will now forgive me for my treachery. i feel great satisfaction in paying my debt. i have been assisted by a fortunate investment in outside lots. i am glad to hear that felix is doing well. you were kind to retain him." felix is really doing well, and bids fair to make a good business man. he was weak and influenced to evil by his cousin; but with good surroundings he is likely to turn out creditably. chester retains the friendship and good opinion of his first friend, carl conrad, and is a favorite visitor at the house of prof. hazlitt, whose great work has just appeared from the press of a subscription publisher. his nephew, arthur burks, is now in college, and he and chester remain intimate friends. silas tripp has ceased to expect to secure the services of chester in his store. he had never been able to understand the secret of chester's success, but has been heard to remark: "it does beat all how that boy gets along!" fortunately, prosperity has not spoiled chester. he is still the same modest and warm-hearted boy, or perhaps i should say young man, and his friends all agree that he deserves his success. the end. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) war from the inside [illustration: colonel frederick l. hitchcock] [illustration: monument of d regiment, p. v. erected by the state of pennsylvania on battle-field of antietam, md. dedicated sept. , it stands about two hundred yards directly in front of the battle line upon which this regiment fought, on the side of the famous "sunken road" occupied by the confederates. this road has since been widened and macadamized as a government road leading from "bloody lane" towards sharpsburg.] war from the inside the story of the nd regiment pennsylvania volunteer infantry in the war for the suppression of the rebellion - by frederick l. hitchcock late adjutant and major nd pennsylvania volunteers. published by authority of the nd regiment pennsylvania volunteer infantry association. press of j. b. lippincott company philadelphia copyright, by f. l. hitchcock preface this narrative was originally written without the least idea of publication, but to gratify the oft-repeated requests of my children. during the work, the ubiquitous newspaper reporter learned of it, and persuaded me to permit its publication in a local paper, where it appeared in weekly instalments. since then the demand that i should put it in more permanent form has been so persistent and wide-spread, that i have been constrained to comply, and have carefully revised and in part rewritten it. i have endeavored to confine myself to my own observations, experiences, and impressions, giving the inner life of the soldier as we experienced it. it was my good fortune to be associated with one of the best bodies of men who took part in the great civil war; to share in their hardships and their achievements. for this i am profoundly grateful. their story is my own. if these splendid gray-headed "boys"--those who have not yet passed the mortal firing-line--shall find some pleasure in again tramping over that glorious route, and recalling the historic scenes, and if the younger generation shall gather inspiration for a like patriotic dedication to country and to liberty, i shall be more than paid for my imperfect work. in conclusion, i desire to acknowledge my indebtedness to major james w. oakford, son of our intrepid colonel, who was the first of the regiment to fall, and to mr. lewis b. stillwell, son of that brave and splendid officer, captain richard stillwell, company k, who was wounded and disabled at fredericksburg, for constant encouragement in the preparation of the work and for assistance in its publication. scranton, pa., april , . contents chapter page i.--first lessons; or, doing the impossible ii.--the organization and make-up of the fighting machine called "the army" iii.--on the march iv.--drawing near the enemy--battle of south mountain--preliminary skirmishes v.--the battle of antietam vi.--the battle of antietam--continued vii.--harper's ferry and the leesburg and halltown expeditions viii.--from harper's ferry to fredericksburg ix.--the fredericksburg campaign x.--the battle of fredericksburg--continued xi.--why fredericksburg was lost xii.--lost colors recovered xiii.--the winter at falmouth xiv.--the winter at falmouth--continued xv.--the battle of chancellorsville xvi.--the battle of chancellorsville--continued xvii.--the muster out and home again appendix list of illustrations after the lapse of more than forty years, i hardly hoped to be able to publish pictures of all our officers, and have been more than pleased to secure so many. the others, i regret to say, could not be obtained. the youthful appearance of these officers will be remarked. all, i believe, with the exception of colonel oakford were below thirty years, and most between twenty and twenty-five. page colonel frederick l. hitchcock _frontispiece_ the monument _facing title-page_ groups of captains group, chaplain and surgeons colonel charles albright colonel vincent m. wilcox colonel richard a. oakford the silenced confederate battery the sunken road field hospital groups of lieutenants major frederick l. hitchcock don and i, and glimpse of camp of hancock's division, falmouth, va. reunion d regiment, p. v., , on battle-field of antietam. war from the inside chapter i first lessons; or, doing the impossible i was appointed adjutant of the one hundred and thirty-second regiment, pennsylvania volunteers, by our great war governor, andrew g. curtin, at the solicitation of colonel richard a. oakford, commanding the regiment, my commission dating the d day of august, . i reported for duty to colonel oakford at camp whipple, where the regiment was then encamped, on the d day of september, . this was immediately following the disasters of "chantilly" and "second bull run," and as i passed through washington to camp whipple, i found the greatest excitement prevailing because of these reverses, and a general apprehension for the safety of the capital in consequence. the wildest rumors were abroad concerning the approach of the victorious rebel troops, and an alarm amounting almost to a panic existed. being without a horse or other means of transportation, i was obliged to make my way, valise in hand, on foot from washington over the "long bridge" across the potomac, to camp whipple, some two miles up the river nearly opposite georgetown. from the wild rumors floating about washington, i did not know but i should be captured bag and baggage before reaching camp. undertaking this trip under those circumstances, i think, required almost as much nerve as "real work" did later on. getting beyond the long bridge there were abundant evidences of the reported disasters. straggling troops, army wagons, etc., were pouring in from the "front" in great disorder. i reached camp about three o'clock p.m. and found colonel oakford out with the regiment on battalion drill. an hour later i reported to his office (tent) as ready for duty. the colonel had been a lifelong personal friend, and i was received, as i expected, most cordially. i was assigned quarters, and a copy of the daily routine orders of camp was placed in my hands, and my attention specially called to the fact that the next "order of business" was "dress parade" at six o'clock. i inquired the cause of this special notice to me, and was informed that i was expected to officiate as adjutant of the regiment at that ceremony. i pleaded with the colonel to be allowed a day or so in camp to see how things were done before undertaking such difficult and important duties; that i knew absolutely nothing about any part of military service; had never served a day in any kind of military work, except in a country fire company; had never seen a dress parade of a full regiment in my life, and knew nothing whatever about the duties of an adjutant. my pleadings were all in vain. the only reply i received was a copy of the "army regulations," with the remark that i had two hours in which to study up and master the details of dress parade, and that i could not learn my duties any easier nor better than by actual practice; that my condition was no different from that of my fellow officers; that we were all there in a camp of instruction learning our duties, and there was not a moment to lose. i then began to realize something of the magnitude of the task which lay before me. to do difficult things, without knowing how; that is, to learn how in the doing, was the universal task of the union volunteer officer. i took up my "army regulations" and attacked the ceremony of dress parade as a life and death matter. before my two hours were ended, i could repeat every sentence of the ceremony verbatim, and felt that i had mastered the thing, and was not going to my execution in undertaking my duties as adjutant. alas for the frailty of memory; it failed me at the crucial moment, and i made a miserable spectacle of myself before a thousand officers and men, many of them old friends and acquaintances, all of whom, it seemed to me, were specially assembled on that occasion to witness my début, and see me get "balled up." they were not disappointed. things tactically impossible were freely done during that ceremony. looking back now upon that scene, from the long distance of forty years, i see a green country boy undertaking to handle one thousand men in the always difficult ceremony of a dress parade. (i once heard governor hartranft, who attained the rank of a major-general during the war, remark, as he witnessed this ceremony, that he had seen thousands of such parades, and among them all, only one that he considered absolutely faultless.) i wonder now that we got through it at all. think of standing to give your first command at the right of a line of men five hundred abreast, that is, nearly one thousand feet in length, and trying to make the men farthest away hear your small, unused, and untrained voice. i now can fully forgive my failure. the officers and men were considerate of me, however, and, knowing what was to be done, went through with it after a fashion in spite of my blunders. the regiment was one of the "nine months'" quota; it had been in the service barely two weeks at this time. it was made up of two companies, i and k, from scranton (captains james archbald, company i, and richard stillwell, company k), company a, danville, pa.; b, factoryville; c, wellsboro and vicinity; e, bloomsburg; f and g, mauch chunk, and h, catawissa. it numbered, officers and men, about one thousand. its field officers were colonel richard a. oakford, scranton; lieutenant-colonel vincent m. wilcox, scranton; major charles albright, mauch chunk; staff, frederick l. hitchcock, first lieutenant and adjutant, scranton; clinton w. neal, first lieutenant and quartermaster, bloomsburg; rev. schoonmaker, first lieutenant and chaplain, scranton. the transition from home life to that of an army in the field can only be appreciated from a stand-point of actual experience. from a well-ordered, well-cooked meal, served at a comfortable table with the accessories of home, howsoever humble, to a "catch as catch can" way of getting "grub," eating what, and when and where, you are fortunate enough to get to eat; and from a good, comfortable bed, comfortably housed in a comfortable home, to a blanket "shake down" under the beautiful sky, mark some of the features of this transition. [illustration: capt. martin m. brobst co. h] [illustration: capt. warner h. carnochan co. d] [illustration: capt. geo. w. wilhelm co. f] [illustration: capt. smith w. ingham co. b] [illustration: capt. chas. m'dougal co. c] [illustration: capt. richard stillwell co. k] [illustration: capt. james archbald, jr. co. i] [illustration: capt. charles c. norris co. a] [illustration: capt. jacob d. laciar co. f] [illustration: capt. jacob b. floyd co. k] [illustration: capt. robert a. abbott co. g] another feature is the utter change in one's individual liberty. to be no longer the arbiter of your own time and movements, but to have it rubbed into you at every turn that you are a very small part of an immense machine, whose business is to march and fight; that your every movement is under the control of your superior officers; that, in fact, you have no will of your own that can be exercised; that your individuality is for the time sunk, is a trial to an american freeman which patriotism alone can overcome. not the least feature of this transition is the practical obliteration of the lord's day. this is a great shock to a christian who has learned to love the lord's day and its hallowed associations. routine duty, the march, the fighting, all go right on, nothing stops for sunday. on the morning after reaching camp i had the pleasure of seeing major-general john pope, who commanded the union forces in the recent battles of chantilly and second bull run, and his staff, riding past camp into washington. he hailed us with a cheery "good-morning" in reply to our salute. he did not look like a badly defeated general, though he undoubtedly was--so badly, indeed, that he was never given any command of importance afterwards. on saturday, september , we received orders to join the army of the potomac--again under the command of "little mac"--at rockville, md., distant about eighteen miles. this was our first march. the day was excessively hot, and colonel oakford received permission to march in the evening. we broke camp about six o'clock p.m. it was a lovely moonlight night, the road was excellent, and for the first six miles the march was a delight. we marched quite leisurely, not making over two miles an hour, including rests, nevertheless the last half of the distance was very tiresome, owing to the raw and unseasoned condition of our men, and the heavy load they were carrying. we reached the bivouac of the grand army of the potomac, of which we were henceforth to be a part, at about three o'clock the next morning. three miles out from the main camp we encountered the outpost of the picket line and were duly halted. the picket officer had been informed of our coming, and so detained us only long enough to satisfy himself that we were all right. here we encountered actual conditions of war with all its paraphernalia for the first time. up to this time we had been playing at war, so to speak, in a camp of instruction. now we were entering upon the thing itself, with all its gruesome accessories. everything here was business, and awful business, too. here were parks of artillery quiet enough just now, but their throats will speak soon enough, and when they do it will not be the harmless booming of fourth of july celebrations. here we pass a bivouac of cavalry, and yonder on either side the road, in long lines of masses, spread out like wide swaths of grain, lie the infantry behind long rows of stacked guns. here were upward of seventy-five thousand men, all, except the cordon of pickets, sound asleep. in the midst of this mighty host the stillness was that of a graveyard; it seemed almost oppressive. halting the regiment, colonel oakford and i made our way to the head-quarters of major-general sumner, commanding the second army corps, to whom the colonel was ordered to report. we finally found him asleep in his head-quarters wagon. a tap on the canvas top of the wagon quickly brought the response, "hello! who's there? what's wanted?" colonel oakford replied, giving his name and rank, and that his regiment was here to report to him, according to orders. "oh, yes, colonel, that is right," replied the general. "how many men have you?" receiving the colonel's answer, general sumner said: "i wish you had ten times as many, for we need you badly. glad you are here, colonel. make yourselves as comfortable as you can for the rest of the night, and i will assign you to your brigade in the morning." here was a cordial reception and hospitality galore. "make yourselves comfortable"--in hotel "dame nature!" well, we were all weary enough to accept the hospitality. we turned into the adjacent field, "stacked arms," and in a jiffy were rolled up in our blankets and sound asleep. the mattresses supplied by madame nature were rather hard, but her rooms were fresh and airy, and the ceilings studded with the stars of glory. my last waking vision that night was a knowing wink from jupiter and mars, as much as to say, "sleep sweetly, we are here." the morning sun was well up before we got ourselves together the next morning. the "reveille" had no terrors for us greenhorns then. we found ourselves in the midst of a division of the bronzed old army of the potomac veterans. they were swarming all over us, and how unmercifully they did guy us! a regiment of tenderfeet was just taffy for those fellows. did our "ma's know we were out?" "get off those purty duds." "oh, you blue cherub!" etc., etc., at the same time accepting (?) without a murmur all the tobacco and other camp rarities they could reach. we were soon visited by brigadier-general nathan kimball, a swarthy, grizzly-bearded old gentleman, with lots of fire and energy in his eyes. he told the colonel our regiment had been assigned to his brigade. he directed the colonel to get the regiment in line, as he had something to say to the men, after which he would direct us where to join his troops. general kimball commanded a brigade which had achieved a great reputation under mcclellan in his west virginia campaign, and it had been named by him the "gibraltar brigade." it had also been through the peninsular and second bull run campaigns. it had comprised the fourth and eighth ohio, fourteenth indiana and seventh west virginia regiments, all of which had been reduced by hard service to mere skeleton regiments. the fourth ohio had become so small as to require its withdrawal from the army for recuperation, and our regiment was to take its place. to step into the shoes of one of these old regiments was business, indeed, for us. could we do it and keep up our end? it was certainly asking a great deal of a two weeks' old regiment. but it was the making of us. we were now a part of the old gibraltar brigade. our full address now was "one hundred and thirty-second pennsylvania volunteers, first brigade, third division, second army corps, army of the potomac." our own reputation we were now to make. we were on probation in the brigade, so to speak. these veterans were proud, and justly so, of their reputation. what our relation to that reputation was to be, we could see was a mooted question with them. they guyed us without measure until the crucial test, the "baptism of fire," had been passed. this occurred just ten days later, at the battle of antietam, the greatest battle of the war thus far, where for four bloody hours we held our section of the brigade line as stanch as a rock. here we earned our footing. henceforth we belonged to them. there was never another syllable of guying, but in its place the fullest meed of such praise and comradeship as is born only of brave and chivalrous men. chapter ii the organization and make-up of the fighting machine called "the army." we remained a day in bivouac after joining the gibraltar brigade at rockville, during which rations of fresh beef, salt pork, and "hardtack" (the boys' nickname for hard bread) were issued to the army, also ammunition. the method of issuing rations was as follows: colonels of regiments were directed to send in requisitions for so many days' rations, depending on the movements on hand, of hard bread and pork, and usually one day's rations of fresh beef. at brigade head-quarters these requisitions were consolidated, making the brigade requisition, and forwarded to division head-quarters. here they were again consolidated into a division requisition, and so on until the army head-quarters was reached. then the corps commissary received in bulk enough for his corps, and distributed it to the divisions in bulk, thence to brigades in bulk, thence to regiments, and finally from the regiment to the companies, and to the men. a long string of red tape, surely; and it might have been considerably shortened to the advantage of all, as it was later on. [illustration: rev. a. h. schoonmaker chaplain] [illustration: j. w. anawalt major and surgeon] [illustration: g. k. thompson first lieut. and ass't surgeon] an interesting feature of the issue of rations was the method of supplying the fresh beef. live cattle were driven to the army and issued alive to the several corps, from which details were made of men who had been butchers, who killed and dressed the beef. the animals were driven into an enclosure and expert marksmen shot them down as wanted. this seemed cruel work, but it was well done; the animal being hit usually at the base of its horns, death was instantaneous. this fresh meat, which we got but seldom after the march began, was cooked and eaten the day it was issued. enough for one day was all that was issued at a time, and this, after the non-eatable portions had been eliminated, did not overburden the men. the hard bread was a square cracker about the size of an ordinary soda cracker, only thicker, and very hard and dry. it was supposed to be of the same quality as sea biscuit or pilot bread, but i never saw any equal to that article. the salt pork was usually good for pork, but it was a great trial to us all to come down to camp fare, "hardtack and pork." sometimes the "hardtack" was very old and poor. i have seen many a one placed in the palm of the hand, a smart blow, a puff of breath, and mirabile! a handful of "squirmers"--the boys' illustration of a "full hand." it came to be the rule to eat in daylight for protection against the unknown quantity in the hardtack. if we had to eat in the dark, after a prolonged march, our protection then lay in breaking our cracker into a cup of boiling coffee, stir it well and then flow enough of the coffee over to carry off most of the strangers and take the balance on faith. on the march each man carried his own rations in haversacks. these were made of canvas and contained pockets for salt, sugar and coffee, besides room for about two days' rations of hard bread and pork. sometimes five, six, and seven days' rations were issued, then the balance had to be stowed away in knapsacks and pockets of the clothing. when, as was usual in the latter cases, there was also issued sixty to one hundred rounds of ammunition, the man became a veritable pack-mule. for the first month many of our men went hungry. having enormous appetites consequent upon this new and most strenuous mode of life, they would eat their five days' supply in two or three, and then have to "skirmish" or go hungry until the next supply was issued. most, however, soon learned the necessity as well as the benefit of restricting their appetites to the supply. but there were always some improvident ones, who never had a supply ahead, but were always in straights for grub. they were ready to black boots, clean guns, in fact, do any sort of menial work for their comrades for a snack to eat. their improvidence made them the drudges of the company. whatever may be said about other portions of the rations, the coffee was always good. i never saw any poor coffee, and it was a blessing it was so, for it became the soldiers' solace and stay, in camp, on picket and on the march. tired, footsore, and dusty from the march, or wet and cold on picket, or homesick and shivering in camp, there were rest and comfort and new life in a cup of hot coffee. we could not always have it on picket nor on the march. to make a cup of coffee two things were necessary besides the coffee, namely, water and fire, both frequently very difficult to obtain. on picket water was generally plentiful, but in the immediate presence of the enemy, fire was forbidden, for obvious reasons. on the march both were usually scarce, as i shall show later on. how was our coffee made? each man was provided with a pint tin cup. as much coffee as could comfortably be lifted from the haversack by the thumb and two fingers--depending somewhat on the supply--was placed in the cup, which was filled about three-fourths full of water, to leave room for boiling. it was then placed upon some live coals and brought to a boil, being well stirred in the meantime to get the strength of the coffee. a little cold water was then added to settle it. eggs, gelatin, or other notions of civilization, for settling, were studiously (?) omitted. sometimes sugar was added, but most of the men, especially the old vets, took it straight. it was astonishing how many of the "wrinkles of grim visaged war" were temporarily smoothed out by a cup of coffee. this was the mainstay of our meals on the march, a cup of coffee and a thin slice of raw pork between two hardtacks frequently constituting a meal. extras fell in the way once in a while. chickens have been known to stray into camp, the result of a night's foraging. among the early experiences of our boys was an incident related to me by the "boy" who was "it." he said he had a mighty narrow escape last night. i asked, "how was that?" "out hunting for chickens, struck a farmhouse, got a nice string, and was sneaking my way out. dark as tar. ran up against man, who grabbed me by the collar, and demanded 'what are you doing here?' i was mum as an owl. he marched me out where there was a flickering light, and sure as blazes it was old general kimball. i didn't know that house was brigade head-quarters. "'what regiment do you belong to?' "'dunno.' "'you've heard about the orders against marauding, eh?' "'dunno.' "'hand up those chickens, you rascal.' "i handed them out from behind my shaking legs. "'how many have you got?' "'dunno'--i had two pair of nice ones. the old man took out his knife and slowly cut out one pair, looking savagely at me all the time. "'there! you get back to camp as quick as your legs will carry you, and if i ever get my hands on you again you'll remember it.'" he said he thought he'd try and forage away from head-quarters next time. general kimball was a rigid disciplinarian, but withal a very kind-hearted man. he no doubt paid for those chickens rather than have one of his boys suffer for his foraging escapade. perhaps i ought to say a word about these foraging expeditions to eke out the boys' larder. these men were not thieves in any sense and very few attempted this dubious method, but the temptation was almost beyond the power of resistance. the best way to test this temptation is to diet yourself on "hardtack" and pork for just about one week. then the devil's argument--always present--was practically true there, "the chickens will be taken (not stolen) by some of the army, and you might as well have one as anybody." the following story of a neighboring regiment will show that even officers high in rank sometimes found that "circumstances alter cases." the troops were nearing bivouac at the close of the day, and, as usual, the colonel ordered the music to start up and the men to fall into step and approach camp in order (the march is usually in route step,--_i.e._, every man marches and carries his gun as he pleases). the fifes and the snare-drums promptly obeyed, but the big bass drum was silent. the men fell into cadence step in fine shape, including the bass drummer, but his big shell gave forth no sound. the colonel called out, "what's the matter with the bass drum?" still no response. a second ejaculation from head-quarters, a little more emphatic, fared no better. patience now exhausted, the colonel yelled, "what in h----l's the matter, i say, with----" when a sotto voice reached his ear, with "colonel, colonel, he's got a pair of chickens in his drum, and one is for you." "well, if the poor fellow is sick, let him fall out." a little explanation now about how the army is organized will probably make my story clearer. that an army is made of three principal arms, viz., artillery, cavalry, and infantry, is familiar to all; that the cavalry is mounted is also well known, but that in actual fighting they were often dismounted and fought as infantry may not be familiar to all. the cavalry and infantry--or foot troops--are organized practically alike, viz., first into companies of men and officers; second, into regiments of ten companies, or less, of infantry and twelve companies, more or less, of cavalry, two or more companies of cavalry constituting a "squadron," and a like number of companies of infantry a "battalion;" third, into brigades of two or more--usually four--regiments; fourth, divisions of two or more--usually three--brigades; fifth, army corps, any number of divisions--usually not more than three. logically, the rank of officers commanding these several subdivisions would be colonel, commanding a regiment; brigadier-general, his rank being indicated by one star, a brigade; a major-general, two stars, a division; a lieutenant-general, three stars, an army corps; and the whole army a general, his rank being indicated by four stars. this was carried out by the confederates in the organization of their armies. but not so with ours. with few exceptions--ours being one--the brigades were commanded by the senior colonels, and towards the end of the war this was sometimes temporarily true of divisions; the divisions by brigadiers, whilst we had no higher rank than that of major-general until general grant was made, first, lieutenant-general, and finally general. the artillery was organized into companies commonly called batteries. there were two branches, heavy and light artillery. the former were organized more like infantry, marched on foot and were armed with muskets in addition to the heavy guns they were trained to use. the latter were used against fortifications and were rarely brought into field work. the light artillery were mounted either on the horses or on the gun-carriages, and, though organized into a separate corps under the direction of the chief of artillery, were usually distributed among the divisions, one or two batteries accompanying each division. in addition to these chief branches of the service, there was the signal corps, the "eyes" of the army, made up mostly of young lieutenants and non-commissioned officers detailed from the several regiments. there were two such officers from scranton, namely, lieutenant fred. j. amsden, one hundred and thirty-sixth pennsylvania volunteers, and lieutenant frederick fuller, fifty-second pennsylvania volunteers, besides a number of enlisted men. another important branch of the service was the telegraph corps. it was remarkable the celerity with which wires would be run along the ground and on brush, day by day, keeping the several corps constantly in touch with the commanding general. there were comparatively few telegraph operators that could be detailed, and many had to be hired,--some boys who were too young to enlist. dr. j. emmet o'brien, of this city, was one of the most efficient of the latter class. it was dr. o'brien, then operating below petersburg, who caught the telegraphic cipher of the rebels and by tapping their wires caught many messages which were of material assistance to general grant in the closing movements of the war. it was he also who in like manner caught the movements of jeff davis and his cabinet in their efforts to escape, and put general wilson on his track, resulting in his final capture. mr. richard o'brien, the doctor's older brother, for many years superintendent of the western union telegraph lines in this end of the state, was at that time government superintendent of telegraphs, in charge of all its telegraphic operations in virginia and north carolina. he could tell many a hair-raising experience. he related to me the following incident, which occurred during grant's operations around petersburg, to illustrate the enterprise of the enemy in trying to get our telegrams, and the necessity of sending all messages in cipher. they never succeeded in translating the union cipher. but one day an operator at washington, either too lazy or too careless to put his message in cipher, telegraphed to the chief commissary at a place below city point that fifteen hundred head of beef cattle would be landed at that point on a certain day. the message was caught by the rebels. the beef cattle were landed on time, but in the meantime wade hampton had swept in with a division of rebel cavalry and was waiting to receive the cattle. with them were captured a handsome lot of rations and a number of prisoners, including all of mr. o'brien's telegraph operators at that post. mr. o'brien said he cared a good deal more about the loss of his operators than he did for the loss of the cattle and rations, for it was very hard to get competent operators at that time. there was at least one vacancy at washington following this incident. still another arm of the service was the pontoniers, whose duty it was to bridge non-fordable rivers. they were armed and drilled as infantry, but only for their own protection. their specialty was laying and removing pontoon bridges. a pontoon train consisted of forty to fifty wagons, each carrying pontoon boats, with plank and stringers for flooring and oars and anchors for placing. in laying a bridge these boats were anchored side by side across the stream, stringers made fast across them, and plank then placed on the stringers. every piece was securely keyed into place so that the bridge was wide enough and strong enough for a battery of artillery and a column of infantry to go over at the same time. the rapidity with which they would either lay or take up a bridge was amazing. if undisturbed they would bridge a stream two hundred yards wide in thirty minutes. they bridged the rappahannock at fredericksburg under fire on the th of december, , in a little over an hour, losing heavily in the act. having now given some account of the organization of this great human fighting machine, it will be proper to show how it was handled. for this purpose there were four staff departments, namely, the adjutant-general's, the quartermaster-general's, the commissary-general's, and the ordnance departments. the first named was the mouth-piece of the army. all orders were issued by and through that officer. it was the book-keeper of the army. each subdivision of the army had its adjutant-general down to the office of adjutant in the regiment, who was charged with issuing all orders, and with attending to their execution. he was secretary, so to speak, of the commanding officer, and his chief executive officer as well. extraordinary executive talent and tireless energy were required in these positions. the adjutant must be able at all times to inform his chief of the condition of every detail of the command whether an army corps or regiment, exactly how many men were fit for duty, how many sick or disabled, and just where they all are. in fact, he must be a walking encyclopædia of the whole command; added to this he was usually chief of staff, and must be in the saddle superintending every movement of the troops. always first on duty, his work was never finished. two of the best adjutants-general the world has produced literally wore themselves out in the service--seth williams and john b. rawlins. the first named was mcclellan's adjutant-general, the latter was grant's. mcclellan is credited with having organized the grand old army of the potomac, the main fighting force by which the rebellion was finally crushed. this was doubtless true, he being its first commanding officer. but the executive ability by which that magnificent machine was perfected was largely the work of seth williams, a very quiet, modest man, but a master of the minutest details of every department and an indefatigable worker. it was said his chief could wake him in the middle of the night and get from his memory a correct answer as to the number of men fit for duty in any one of the hundreds of regiments in the army, and just where it was, and what duty it was doing. when one remembers that this knowledge was acquired only by a daily perusal of the consolidated reports of the various regiments, brigades, divisions, and corps of the army, and that he could have found time for one reading only, it will be seen how marvellous his memory was. rawlins was said to possess much the same quality. it may truthfully be said that the army of the potomac was organized and began its remarkable career in the life blood of seth williams, and it completed its work in a blaze of glory, in the life blood of john b. rawlins. seth williams died in the service. rawlins came home with the victorious army only to die. a beautiful bronze equestrian statue was erected at washington under the influence of his beloved chief, grant, to commemorate the services of rawlins. so far as i know, seth williams shares the fate of most of his humbler comrades,--an unmarked grave. i have said all orders were sent out through the adjutant-general's office. this, of course, applies to all regular routine work only, for during the movements of troops on campaigns and in battle orders had in the nature of the case to be delivered verbally. for this purpose each general had a number of aides-de-camp. in sending such orders, the utmost courtesy was always observed. the formula was usually thus, "general kimball presents his compliments to colonel oakford and directs that he move his regiment to such and such a point." to which colonel oakford responds returning his compliments to general kimball and says "his order directing so and so has been received and shall be immediately obeyed." the quartermaster's department was charged with all matters connected with transportation; with the supplying of clothing, canvas, and equipage of all sorts. both the commissary and the ordnance departments were dependent upon the quartermaster for the transportation of their respective stores. the wagon trains required by the army of the potomac for all this service were prodigious. they were made up of four and six mule teams with heavy "prairie schooners" or canvas-covered wagons. i have seen two thousand of them halted for the night in a single park, and such trains on the march six to ten miles long were not unusual. it will readily be seen that to have them within easy reach, and prevent their falling into the hands of an alert enemy, was a tremendous problem in all movements of the army. the army mule has been much caricatured, satirized, and abused, but the soldier had no more faithful or indispensable servant than this same patient, plodding, hard-pulling, long-eared fellow of the roomy voice and nimble heels. the "boys" told a story which may illustrate the mule's education. a "tenderfoot" driver had gotten his team stalled in a mud hole, and by no amount of persuasion could he get them to budge an inch. helpers at the wheels and new hands on the lines were all to no purpose. a typical army bummer had been eying the scene with contemptuous silence. finally he cut loose: "say! you 'uns dunno the mule language. ye dunno the dilec. let a perfesser in there." he was promptly given the job. he doffed cap and blouse, marched up to those mules as if he weighed a ton and commanded the army. clearing away the crowd, he seized the leader's line, and distending his lungs, he shot out in a voice that could have been heard a mile a series of whoops, oaths, adjectives, and billingsgate that would have silenced the proverbial london fish vender. the mules recognized the "dilec" at once, pricked up their ears and took the load out in a jiffy. "ye see, gents, them ar mules is used to workin' with a perfesser." the commissary department supplied the rations, and the ordnance department the arms and ammunition, etc. still another branch of the service was the provost-marshal's department. this was the police force of the army. it had the care and custody of all prisoners, whether those arrested for crime, or prisoners of war--those captured from the enemy. in the case of prisoners sentenced to death by court-martial, the provost guard were their executioners. chapter iii on the march we are bound northward through maryland, the vets tell us, on a chase after the rebs. the army marches in three and four parallel columns, usually each corps in a column by itself, and distant from the other columns equal to about its length in line of battle, say a half to three-fourths of a mile. roads were utilized as far as practicable, but generally were left to the artillery and the wagon trains, whilst the infantry made roads for themselves directly through the fields. the whole army marches surrounded by "advance and rear guards," and "flankers," to prevent surprise. each column is headed by a corps of pioneers who, in addition to their arms, are provided with axes, picks and shovels, with the latter stone walls and fences are levelled sufficiently to permit the troops to pass, and ditches and other obstructions covered and removed. it is interesting to see how quickly this corps will dispose of an ordinary stone wall or rail fence. they go down so quickly that they hardly seem to pause in their march. we learn that the johnnies are only a couple of days ahead of us. that they marched rapidly and were on their good behavior, all marauding being forbidden, and they were singing a new song, entitled "my maryland," thus trying to woo this loyal border state over to the confederacy. we were told that lee hung two soldiers for stealing chickens and fruit just before they entered frederick city. much could be written about the discomforts of these marches, the chief of which was the dust more than the heat and the fatigue. no rain had fallen for some time, and the roads and the fields through which we passed were powdered into fine dust, which arose in almost suffocating clouds, so that mouth, lungs, eyes, and ears were filled with it. sometimes it became so dense that men could not be seen a dozen yards away. the different regiments took turns in heading the columns. there was comparative comfort at the head, but there were so many regiments that during the whole campaign our regiment enjoyed this privilege but once. another feature of the march was inability to satisfy thirst. the dust and heat no doubt produced an abnormal thirst which water did not seem to satisfy. the water we could get was always warm, and generally muddy and filthy. the latter was caused by the multitude of men using the little streams, springs, or wells. either of these, ordinarily abundant for many more than ever used them, were hardly a cup full apiece for a great army. hence many a scrimmage took place for the first dash at a cool well or spring. on our second or third day's march, such a scrap took place between the advanced columns for a well, and in the mêlée one man was accidentally pushed down into it, head first, and killed. he belonged to one of the connecticut regiments, i was told. we passed by the well, and were unable to get water, because a dead soldier lay at the bottom of it. his regiment probably got his body out, but we had to march on without stopping to learn whether they did or not. the problem of water for our army we found to be a troublesome one. immediately we halted, much of our rest would be taken up in efforts to get water. we lost no opportunity to fill our canteens. arriving in bivouac for the night, the first thing was a detail to fill canteens and camp kettles for supper coffee. we always bivouacked near a stream, if possible. but, then, so many men wanting it soon roiled it for miles, so that our details often had to follow the stream up three and four miles before they could get clean water. this may seem a strong statement, but if one will stop a moment and think of the effect upon even a good-sized stream, of a hundred thousand men, besides horses and mules, all wanting it for drinking, cooking, washing, and bathing (both the latter as peremptory needs as the former), he will see that the statement is no exaggeration. an interesting feature of our first two days' march was the clearing out of knapsacks to reduce the load. naturally each man was loaded with extras of various sorts, knicknacks of all varieties, but mostly supposed necessaries of camp life, put in by loving hands at home, a salve for this, a medicine for that, a keepsake from one and another, some the dearest of earth's treasures, each insignificant in itself, yet all taking room and adding weight to over-burdened shoulders. at the mid-day halt, on the first day knapsacks being off for rest, they came open and the sorting began. it was sad, yet comical withal, to notice the things that went out. the most bulky and least treasured went first. at the second halting, an hour later, still another sorting was made. the sun was hot and the knapsack was heavy. after the second day's march, those knapsacks contained little but what the soldier was compelled to carry, his rations, extra ammunition, and clothing. were these home treasures lost? oh, no! not one. our friends, the vets, gathered them all in as a rich harvest. they had been there themselves, and knowing what was coming, were on hand to gather the plums as they fell. the only difference was, that another mother's or sweetheart's "boy" got the treasures. on september we were approaching frederick city. our cavalry had a skirmish with the rebel cavalry, showing that we were nearing their army. and right here i ought to say that what an individual officer or soldier--unless perhaps a general officer--knows of events transpiring around him in the army is very little. even the movements he sees, he is seldom able to understand, his vision is so limited. he knows what his own regiment and possibly his own brigade does, but seldom more than that. he is as often the victim of false rumor as to movements of other portions of the army, as those who are outside of it. on this date we encamped near clarksville. it was rumored that the rebels were in force at frederick city. how far away that is we do not know. the only certainty about army life and army movements to the soldier is a constant condition of uncertainty. uncertainty as to where or when he will eat, sleep, or fight, where or when the end will come. one would almost doubt the certainty of his own existence, except for the hard knocks which make this impossible. the celebrated irish brigade, commanded by brigadier-general thomas francis meagher, was in richardson's division. they were a "free and easy" going crowd. general richardson impressed me as a man of great determination and courage. he was a large, heavy man, dressed roughly and spoke and acted very brusquely. french (who commanded our division) was also thick-set, probably upwards of sixty years old, quite gray and with a very red face. he had an affection of the eyes which kept him winking or blinking constantly, from which he earned the sobriquet, "old blink eye." i saw general burnside about this time. he was dressed so as to be almost unrecognizable as a general officer; wore a rough blouse, on the collar of which a close look revealed two much-battered and faded stars, indicating his rank of major-general. he wore a black "slouch" hat, the brim well down over his face, and rode along with a single orderly, without the least ostentation. the men of the other regiments knew him and broke out into a cheer, at which he promptly doffed his hat and swung it at the boys. his hat off, we recognized the handsome author of the "burnside" whiskers. he was not only very popular with his own corps--the ninth--but with the whole army, and chiefly, i think, because of his modest, quiet way of going about. this was so different from general mcclellan. on our third day's march we were halted for rest, when an orderly rode through the lines saying to the different colonels, "general mcclellan will pass this way in ten minutes." this meant that we were to be ready to cheer "little mac" when he came along, which, of course, we all did. he came, preceded by a squadron of cavalry and accompanied by a very large and brilliantly caparisoned staff, followed by more cavalry. he was dressed in the full uniform of a major-general and rode a superb horse, upon which he sat faultlessly. he was certainly a fine-looking officer and a very striking figure. but whether all this "fuss and feathers" was designed to impress the men, or was a freak of personal vanity, it did not favorably impress our men. many of the old vets, who had been with him on the peninsula, and now greeted him again after his reinstatement, were very enthusiastic. but notwithstanding their demonstrations, they rather negatived their praises by the remark, "no fight to-day; little mac has gone to the front." "look out for a fight when he goes to the rear." on the other hand, they said when "old man sumner"--our corps commander--"goes to the front, look out for a fight." general sumner was an old man--must have been nearly seventy--gray, and his color indicated advanced age, though he seemed quite vigorous. he went about very quietly and without display. he had a singular habit of dropping his under jaw, so that his mouth was partially open much of the time. we bivouacked on the th of september in front of frederick city, md., in a field occupied the night before by the rebels, so the people told us, and there was abundant evidence of their presence in the filth they left uncovered, for they had slaughtered beef for their troops and the putrid offal therefrom was polluting the air. still there we had to sleep. we marched the latter part of the day in the rain, and were soon well covered with mud. we managed to keep some of the water out with our gum blankets, and when we came to fix for the night, the men going in pairs made themselves fairly comfortable under their shelter tents. i should have explained that the only "canvas" supplied to the men on the march was shelter tents, which consisted of a square of stout muslin with button-holes on one side and buttons on the other. two of these buttoned together and stretched taut over a ridge-pole and made fast on the ground, would keep out the heaviest shower, provided the occupants were careful not to touch the muslin. a hand or elbow accidentally thrust against the tent brought the water through in streams. there is a knack in doing this, which the experience of the vets with whom we were brigaded soon taught us. choosing ground a little slanting, so the water would run away from them, they would sleep fairly dry and comfortable, even in a hard storm. as for us officers who were without shelter tents, we had to shift for ourselves as best we might. a favorite plan, when fences were available, was to place three or four rails endwise against the fence and make a shelter by fastening a gum blanket on top. this worked fairly well against a stone wall for a backing, but against an ordinary fence one side was unprotected, yet with another gum blanket, two of us could so roll ourselves up as to be comparatively water-proof. my diary states that in a driving rainstorm here i never slept better in my life. i remember awakening with my head thoroughly drenched, but otherwise comparatively dry. this night i succeeded in getting a "bang up" supper--a cooked meal--at a reb farm-house. it consisted of pork-steak, potatoes, and hot coffee with bread and butter. it was a great treat. i had now been without a square meal for nearly ten days. the old gentleman, a small farmer, talked freely about the war, not concealing his rebel sympathies. he extolled stonewall jackson and his men, who, he said, had passed through there only a day ahead of us. he firmly believed we would be whipped. he evidently had an eye for the "main chance," for he was quite willing to cook for us at twenty-five cents a meal, as long as he had stuff to cook and his good wife had strength to do the work. she seemed to be a nice old lady, and, hungry as i was, i felt almost unwilling to eat her supper, she looked so tired. i told her it was too bad. she smiled and said she was tired, but she couldn't bear to turn away these hungry boys. she said she had a son in the rebel army, and she knew we must be hungry and wet, for it was still raining hard. the officers at this time experienced difficulty in getting food to eat. the men were supplied with rations and forced to carry them, but rations were not issued to officers--though they might purchase of the commissary such as the men had, when there was a supply. the latter were supposed to provide their own mess, for which purpose their mess-kits were transported in a wagon supplied to each regiment. the field and staff usually made one mess, and the line or company officers another. sometimes the latter messed with their own men, carrying their rations along on the march the same as the men. this was discouraged by the government, but it proved the only way to be sure of food when needed, and was later on generally adopted. we had plenty of food with our mess-kit and cook, but on the march, and especially in the presence of the enemy, our wagons could never get within reach of us. indeed, when we bivouacked, they were generally from eight to ten miles away. the result was we often went hungry, unless we were able to pick up a meal at a farm-house--which seldom occurred, for the reason that most of these farmers were rebel sympathizers and would not feed us "yanks," or they would be either sold out, or stolen out, of food. the tale generally told was, "you 'uns has stolen all we 'uns had." this accounts for the entry in my diary that the next morning i marched without breakfast, but got a good bath in the monocacy--near which we encamped--in place of it. i got a "hardtack" and bit of raw pork about a.m. on the th of september, we passed through the city of frederick, md. it is a quaint old town, having then probably three thousand or more inhabitants and a decided business air. the rebels, they claimed, had cleaned them out of eatables and clothing, paying for them in confederate scrip, and one man told me they would not take the same scrip in change, but required union money; that this was demanded everywhere. general mcclellan passed through the streets while we were halted, as did general burnside shortly after. a funny incident occurred with the latter. general burnside, as usual, was accompanied by a single orderly, and had stopped a moment to speak to some officers, when a handsome, middle-aged lady stepped out of her house and approached. she put out her hand and, as the general clasped it, she raised herself up on her toes in an unmistakable motion to greet him with a kiss. the general so understood her, and, doffing his hat, bent down to meet her pouting lips, but, alas, he was too high up; bend as low as he might and stretch up as high as she could, their lips did not meet, and the kiss hung in mid-air. the boys caught the situation in a moment, and began to laugh and clap their hands, but the general solved the problem by dismounting and taking his kiss in the most gallant fashion, on which he was roundly cheered by the men. the lady was evidently of one of the best families. she said she was a stanch union woman, and was so glad to see our troops that she felt she must greet our general. there was "method in her madness," however, for she confined her favors to a general, and picked out the handsomest one of the lot. it is worthy of note, that during this incident, which excited uproarious laughter, not a disrespectful remark was made by any of the hundreds of our "boys" who witnessed it. general burnside chatted with her for a few moments, then remounted and rode away. approaching frederick city, the country is exceptionally beautiful and the land seemed to be under a good state of cultivation. in front of us loomed up almost against the sky the long ridge called the south mountain. it was evidently a spur of the blue ridge. another incident occurred soon after reaching bivouac, just beyond the city. we had arranged for our night's "lodging" and were preparing supper, when one of the native farmers came into camp and asked to see the colonel. colonel oakford and lieutenant-colonel wilcox were temporarily absent, and he was turned over to major albright, to whom he complained that "you 'uns" had stolen his last pig and he wanted pay for it. the major, who was a lawyer, began to cross-question him as to how he knew it was our men who had stolen it; there were at least fifty other regiments besides ours on the ground. but he would not be denied. [illustration: colonel charles albright] he said they told him they was "a hundred and thirty-two uns," and he also saw those figures on their caps. the major asked how long ago they took it. he replied that they got it only a little while ago, and offered to go and find it if the major would allow him. but the latter was confident he was mistaken in his men--that some of the old "vets" had got his pig. his chief argument was that our men were greenhorns and knew nothing about marauding; that some of the "vets" had doubtless made away with his pig and had laid it on our men. so persuasive was the major that the man finally went off satisfied that he had made a mistake in his men. the man was only well out of camp when one of our men appeared at the major's quarters with a piece of fresh pork for his supper, with the compliments of company----. now, the orders against marauding were very severe, and to have been caught would have involved heavy punishment. but the chief point of the incident, and which made it a huge joke on the major, lay in the fact that the latter who was a thoroughly conscientious man, had successfully fought off a charge against his men, whom he really believed to be innocent, only to find that during the very time he was persuading his man of their innocence, the scamps were almost within sound of his voice, actually butchering and dressing the pig. how they managed to capture and kill that pig, without a single squeal escaping, is one of the marvels of the service. certainly vets could have done no better. the man was gone, the mischief was done, the meat was spoiling, and we were very hungry. with rather cheerful sadness, it must be confessed, we became _particeps criminis_, and made a supper on the pork. chapter iv drawing near the enemy--battle of south mountain--preliminary skirmishes sunday, september , we broke camp at daylight and marched out on the hagerstown "pike." our division had the field this day. we crossed the ridge in rear of frederick city and thence down into and up a most beautiful valley. we made only about seven miles, though we actually marched over twelve. we were in the presence of the enemy and were manoeuvred so as to keep concealed. we heard heavy cannonading all day, and part of the time could see our batteries, towards which we were marching. towards night we heard the first musketry firing. it proved to be the closing of the short but sanguinary battle of south mountain. general reno, commanding the ninth corps, whose glistening bayonets we had seen across the valley ahead of us, had overtaken the rebel rear guard in south mountain pass and a severe action had ensued. general reno himself was killed. his body was brought back next morning in an ambulance on its way to washington. we reached the battle-ground about midnight, whither we had been hurried as supports. the batteries on both sides were still at work, but musketry firing had ceased. it had been a beautiful though very warm day, and the night was brilliantly moonlight, one of those exceptionally bright nights which almost equalled daylight. and this had been sunday--the lord's day! how dreadful the work for the lord's day! here i saw the first dead soldier. two of our artillerymen had been killed while serving their gun. both were terribly mangled. they had been laid aside, while others stepped into their places. there they still lay, horrible evidence of the "hell of war." subsequently i saw thousands of the killed on both sides, which made scarcely more impression on me than so many logs, but this first vision of the awful work of war still remains. even at this writing, forty years later, memory reproduces that horrible scene as clearly as on that beautiful sabbath evening. it was past midnight when we bivouacked for the little rest we were to have before resuming the "chase." being now in the immediate "presence of the enemy," we rested on "our arms," that is, every soldier lay down with his gun at his side, and knapsack and accoutrements ready to be "slung" immediately on the sounding of the "call." we officers did not unsaddle our horses, but dismounted and snatched an hour's sleep just as we were. bright and early next morning we were on our way again. it was a most beautiful morning. we soon passed the field where the musketry did its work the night before, and there were more than a hundred dead rebels scattered over the field, as the result of it. two or three were sitting upright, or nearly so, against stumps. they had evidently been mortally wounded, and died while waiting for help. all were dressed in coarse butternut-colored stuffs, very ugly in appearance, but admirably well calculated to conceal them from our troops. we rapidly passed over the mountain (south mountain) and down into the village of boonsborough. there was abundant evidence of the rebel skedaddle down the mountain ahead of our troops in the way of blankets, knapsacks, and other impedimenta, evidently dropped or thrown away in the flight. we passed several squads of rebel prisoners who had been captured by our cavalry and were being marched to the rear under guard. they were good-looking boys, apparently scarcely more than boys, and were poorly dressed and poorly supplied. some freely expressed themselves as glad they had been captured, as they were sick of the fighting. my own experiences this day were a taste of "the front," that is, the excitement attending a momentarily expected "brush" with the enemy. part of the time my heart was in my mouth, and my hair seemed to stand straight up. one can have little idea of this feeling until it has been experienced. any effort to describe it will be inadequate. personal fear? yes, that unquestionably is at the bottom of it, and i take no stock in the man who says he has no fear. we had been without food until late in the afternoon for reasons heretofore explained. towards night one of my friends in company k gave me a cup of coffee and a "hardtack." just before reaching boonsborough, a pretty village nestling at the foot of the south mountain, our cavalry had a sharp skirmish with the rebel rear-guard, in which captain kelley, of the illinois cavalry, was killed, i was told. at boonsborough we found the field hospitals with the rebel wounded from the fight of the day previous. their wounded men said their loss was over four hundred killed, among them two brigadiers-general, one colonel, and several officers of lesser rank. a rebel flag of truce came into our lines here to get the bodies of these dead officers and to arrange for burying their dead and caring for their wounded. the houses of boonsborough had been mostly vacated by the people on the approach of the rebel army and the fighting, and the latter had promptly occupied as many of them as they needed for their wounded. imagine these poor villagers returning from their flight to find their homes literally packed with wounded rebel soldiers and their attendants. whatever humble food supplies they may have had, all had been appropriated, for war spares nothing. some of the frightened people of the village were returning as we passed through, and were sadly lamenting the destruction of almost everything that could be destroyed on and about their homes by this besom of destruction,--war. food, stock, fences, bed and bedding, etc., all gone or destroyed. some of the houses had been perforated by the shells,--probably our own shells, aimed at the enemy. one man told me a shell had entered his house and landed on the bed in the front room, but had not exploded. had it exploded, he would have had a bigger story to tell. the rebels, we learned, had been gone but a few hours, and we were kept in pursuit. we marched out the shepherdstown road a few miles, reaching and passing through another village--keedysville. we were continuously approaching heavy cannonading. indeed, we had been marching for the past three days within hearing of, and drawing closer to, the artillery barking of the two armies. old vets said this meant a big fight within the next few hours. if so, i thought i shall better know how to diagnose similar symptoms in the future. a mile beyond keedysville we bivouacked for the night, after a hard, hot, and exciting day's chase. lieutenant-colonel wilcox came into camp with a great trophy, nothing less than a good old-fashioned fat loaf of home-made bread. he was immediately voted a niche in the future hall of fame, for two acts of extraordinary merit, namely, first, finding and capturing the bread, and, second, bringing it into camp intact, the latter act being considered supremely self-sacrificing. it was magnanimously divided by him, and made a supper for three of us. our mid-day meal had been made up of dust and excitement. all sorts of rumors were afloat as to the movements of the enemy, as well as of our own army. it was said jackson was across the potomac with a large force; that hooker was engaging him, and that we were likely to bag the balance of lee's army soon. one thing i learned, namely, that i could be sure only of what i saw, and that was very little, indeed, of the doings of either army. the soldier who professes to know all about army movements because he "was there," may be set down either as a bummer, who spent most of his time up trees, safely ensconced where he could see, or as a fake. [illustration: colonel vincent m. wilcox] my diary records a night of good rest september , , in this camp on the shepherdstown road. the morning was clear, beautiful, and cheery. this entry will look somewhat remarkable in view of that which follows, namely, "no breakfast in sight or in prospect." later one of our men gave me half his cup of coffee and a couple of small sweet potatoes, which i roasted and ate without seasoning. the "ball" opened soon after daylight by a rebel battery, about three-quarters of a mile away, attempting to shell our lines. our division was massed under the shelter of a hill. one of our batteries of -pounder brass guns promptly replied, and a beautiful artillery duel ensued, the first i had ever witnessed at close quarters. many of us crept up to the brow of the hill to see the "fun," though we were warned that we were courting trouble in so doing. we could see columns of rebel infantry marching in ranks of four, just as we marched, en route, and as shell after shell from our guns would explode among them and scatter and kill we would cheer. we were enjoying ourselves hugely until presently some additional puffs of smoke appeared from their side, followed immediately by a series of very ugly hissing, whizzing sounds, and the dropping of shells amongst our troops which changed the whole aspect of things. our merriment and cheering were replaced by a scurrying to cover, with blanched faces on some and an ominous, thoughtful quiet over all. this was really our first baptism of fire, for though at south mountain we had been in range and were credited with being in the fight as supports, none of the shells had actually visited us. several of these came altogether too close for comfort. colonel oakford, lieutenant-colonel wilcox, and i were sitting on our horses as close together as horses ordinarily stand, when one of these ugly missiles dropped down between us. it came with a shrieking, screeching sound, like the pitch of an electric car with the added noise of a dozen sky-rockets. it did not explode. it created considerable consternation and no little stir with horses and men, but did no damage further than the scare and a good showering of gravel and dust. another struck between the ranks of our brigade as they were resting under the hill with guns stacked,--only a few feet away from us. it also, happily, failed to explode, but we were sure some one must have been killed by it. it did not seem possible that such a missile could drop down upon a division of troops in mass without hitting somebody; but, strange as it may seem, it did no damage beyond knocking down a row of gun-stacks and tumbling topsy-turvy several men, who were badly bruised, but otherwise uninjured. the way the concussion tossed the men about was terrific. had these shells exploded, some other body would probably have had to write up this narrative. another shell incident occurred during this artillery duel that looked very funny, though it was anything but funny to the poor fellow who suffered. he, with others, had been up near our battery, on the knoll just above us, witnessing the firing, when one of these rebel shells came ricochetting along the ground towards him as he evidently thought, for he started to run down the hill thinking to get away from it, but in fact running exactly in front of the shell, which carried away one heel. he continued down the hill at greatly accelerated speed, but now hopping on one foot. had he remained where he was the missile would have passed him harmlessly. except when nearly spent, shells are not seen until they have passed, but the screeching, whizzing, hissing noise is sufficient to make one believe they are hunting him personally. veteran troops get to discount the terrors of these noises in a measure, and pay little attention to them, on the theory that if one is going to be hit by them he will be anyway, and no amount of dodging will save him, so they go right on and "take their chances." but with new troops the effect of a shell shrieking over or past them is often very ludicrous. an involuntary salaam follows the first sound, with a wild craning of the necks to see where it went. upon marching troops, the effect is like that of a puff of wind chasing a wave across a field of grain. returning to our artillery duel, so far as we could judge, our battery had the best of the practice, but not without paying the price, for the second rebel shell killed the major (chief of artillery of our division), who sat on his horse directing the fire, and besides there were a number of casualties among the battery men. i had seen many a battery practice on parade occasions with blank cartridges. how utterly different was the thing in war. infinitely more savage, the noise deafeningly multiplied, each gun, regardless of the others, doing its awful worst to spit out and hurl as from the mouth of a hell-born dragon these missiles of death at the enemy. the duel continued for upwards of two hours, until the enemy's battery hauled off, having apparently had enough. evidences of the conflict were sadly abundant. a number were killed, others wounded and several of the battery horses were killed. the work of the men in this hell of fire was magnificent. they never flagged for a moment, and at the conclusion were not in the least disabled, notwithstanding their losses. i think it was nimm's battery from pittsburg. this was the chief incident of the day. it was said the two armies were manoeuvring for position, and that a great battle was imminent. this from my diary. it proved to be true, and that all the skirmishes and "affaires" for the preceding ten days had been only preliminary to the great battle of antietam, fought on the next day, the th. we remained in bivouac here the remainder of the day and night. burnside's ninth corps passed to "the front" during the afternoon, a splendid body of veteran troops, whose handsome and popular general was heartily cheered. he was a large, heavily-built man, and sat his handsome horse like a prince. chapter v the battle of antietam never did day open more beautiful. we were astir at the first streak of dawn. we had slept, and soundly too, just where nightfall found us under the shelter of the hill near keedysville. no reveille call this morning. too close to the enemy. nor was this needed to arouse us. a simple call of a sergeant or corporal and every man was instantly awake and alert. all realized that there was ugly business and plenty of it just ahead. this was plainly visible in the faces as well as in the nervous, subdued demeanor of all. the absence of all joking and play and the almost painful sobriety of action, where jollity had been the rule, was particularly noticeable. before proceeding with the events of the battle, i should speak of the "night before the battle," of which so much has been said and written. my diary says that lieutenant-colonel wilcox, captain james archbald, co. i, and i slept together, sharing our blankets; that it rained during the night; this fact, with the other, that we were close friends at home, accounts for our sharing blankets. three of us with our gum blankets could so arrange as to keep fairly dry, notwithstanding the rain. the camp was ominously still this night. we were not allowed to sing or make any noise, nor have any fires--except just enough to make coffee--for fear of attracting the fire of the enemies' batteries. but there was no need of such an inhibition as to singing or frolicking, for there was no disposition to indulge in either. unquestionably, the problems of the morrow were occupying all breasts. letters were written home--many of them "last words"--and quiet talks were had, and promises made between comrades. promises providing against the dreaded possibilities of the morrow. "if the worst happens, jack." "yes, ned, send word to mother and to----, and these; she will prize them," and so directions were interchanged that meant so much. i can never forget the quiet words of colonel oakford, as he inquired very particularly if my roster of the officers and men of the regiment was complete, for, said he, with a smile, "we shall not all be here to-morrow night." now to resume the story of the battle. we were on the march about six o'clock and moved, as i thought, rather leisurely for upwards of two miles, crossing antietam creek, which our men waded nearly waist deep, emerging, of course, soaked through, our first experience of this kind. it was a hot morning and, therefore, the only ill effects of this wading was the discomfort to the men of marching with soaked feet. it was now quite evident that a great battle was in progress. a deafening pandemonium of cannonading, with shrieking and bursting shells, filled the air beyond us, towards which we were marching. an occasional shell whizzed by or over, reminding us that we were rapidly approaching the "debatable ground." soon we began to hear a most ominous sound which we had never before heard, except in the far distance at south mountain, namely, the rattle of musketry. it had none of the deafening bluster of the cannonading so terrifying to new troops, but to those who had once experienced its effect, it was infinitely more to be dreaded. the fatalities by musketry at close quarters, as the two armies fought at antietam and all through the civil war, as compared with those by artillery, are at least as to , probably much more than that. these volleys of musketry we were approaching sounded in the distance like the rapid pouring of shot upon a tinpan, or the tearing of heavy canvas, with slight pauses interspersed with single shots, or desultory shooting. all this presaged fearful work in store for us, with what results to each personally the future, measured probably by moments, would reveal. how does one feel under such conditions? to tell the truth, i realized the situation most keenly and felt very uncomfortable. lest there might be some undue manifestation of this feeling in my conduct, i said to myself, this is the duty i undertook to perform for my country, and now i'll do it, and leave the results with god. my greater fear was not that i might be killed, but that i might be grievously wounded and left a victim of suffering on the field. the nervous strain was plainly visible upon all of us. all moved doggedly forward in obedience to orders, in absolute silence so far as talking was concerned. the compressed lip and set teeth showed that nerve and resolution had been summoned to the discharge of duty. a few temporarily fell out, unable to endure the nervous strain, which was simply awful. there were a few others, it must be said, who skulked, took counsel of their cowardly legs, and, despite all efforts of "file closers" and officers, left the ranks. of these two classes most of the first rejoined us later on, and their dropping out was no reflection on their bravery. the nervous strain produced by the excitement and danger gave them the malady called by the vets, the "cannon quickstep." on our way into "position" we passed the "meyer spring,"--a magnificent fountain of sweet spring water. it was walled in, and must have been ten or twelve feet square and at least three feet deep, and a stream was flowing from it large enough to make a respectable brook. many of us succeeded in filling our canteens from this glorious spring, now surrounded by hundreds of wounded soldiers. what a godsend it was to those poor fellows. about eight o'clock we were formed into line of battle and moved forward through a grove of trees,[a] but before actually coming under musketry fire of the enemy we were moved back again, and swung around nearly a mile to the left to the base of a circular knoll to the left of the roulette farm-house and the road which leads up to the sharpsburg pike, near the dunkard church. the famous "sunken road"--a road which had been cut through the other side of this knoll--extended from the roulette lane directly in front of our line towards sharpsburg. i had ridden by the side of colonel oakford, except when on duty, up and down the column, and as the line was formed by the colonel and ordered forward, we dismounted and sent our horses to the rear by a servant. i was immediately sent by the colonel to the left of the line to assist in getting that into position. a rail fence separated us from the top of the knoll. bullets were whizzing and singing by our ears, but so far hitting none where i was. over the fence and up the knoll in an excellent line we went. in the centre of the knoll, perhaps a third of the way up, was a large tree, and under and around this tree lay a body of troops doing nothing. they were in our way, but our orders were forward, and through and over them we went. [illustration: colonel richard a. oakford killed at battle of antietam, september , ] reaching the top of the knoll we were met by a terrific volley from the rebels in the sunken road down the other side, not more than one hundred yards away, and also from another rebel line in a corn-field just beyond. some of our men were killed and wounded by this volley. we were ordered to lie down just under the top of the hill and crawl forward and fire over, each man crawling back, reloading his piece in this prone position and again crawling forward and firing. these tactics undoubtedly saved us many lives, for the fire of the two lines in front of us was terrific. the air was full of whizzing, singing, buzzing bullets. once down on the ground under cover of the hill, it required very strong resolution to get up where these missiles of death were flying so thickly, yet that was the duty of us officers, especially us of the field and staff. my duty kept me constantly moving up and down that whole line. on my way back to the right of the line, where i had left colonel oakford, i met lieutenant-colonel wilcox, who told me the terrible news that colonel oakford was killed. of the details of his death, i had no time then to inquire. we were then in the very maelstrom of the battle. men were falling every moment. the horrible noise of the battle was incessant and almost deafening. except that my mind was so absorbed in my duties, i do not know how i could have endured the strain. yet out of this pandemonium memory brings several remarkable incidents. they came and went with the rapidity of a quickly revolving kaleidoscope. you caught stupendous incidents on the instant, and in an instant they had passed. one was the brave death of the major of this regiment that was lying idle under the tree. the commanding officer evidently was not doing his duty, and this major was endeavoring to rally his men and get them at work. he was swinging his hat and cheering his men forward, when a solid shot decapitated him. his poor body went down as though some giant had picked it up and furiously slammed it on the ground, and i was so near him that i could almost have touched him with my sword. the inaction of this regiment lying behind us under that tree was very demoralizing to our men, setting them a bad example. general kimball, who commanded our brigade, was seated on his horse just under the knoll in the rear of our regiment, evidently watching our work, and he signalled me to come to him, and then gave me orders to present his compliments to the commanding officer of that regiment and direct him to get his men up and at work. i communicated this order as directed. the colonel was hugging the ground, and merely turned his face towards me without replying or attempting to obey the order. general kimball saw the whole thing, and again called me to him and, with an oath, commanded me to repeat the order to him at the muzzle of my revolver, and shoot him if he did not immediately obey. said general kimball: "get those cowards out of there or shoot them." my task was a most disagreeable one, but i must deliver my orders, and did so, but was saved the duty of shooting by the other officers of the regiment bravely rallying their men and pushing them forward to the firing-line, where they did good work. what became of that skulking colonel, i do not know. the air was now thick with smoke from the muskets, which not only obscured our vision of the enemy, but made breathing difficult and most uncomfortable. the day was excessively hot, and no air stirring, we were forced to breathe this powder smoke, impregnated with saltpetre, which burned the coating of nose, throat, and eyes almost like fire. captain abbott, commanding company g, from mauch chunk, a brave and splendid officer, was early carried to the rear, a ball having nearly carried away his under jaw. he afterwards told me that his first sensation of this awful wound was his mouth full of blood, teeth, and splintered bones, which he spat out on the ground, and then found that unless he got immediate help he would bleed to death in a few minutes. fortunately he found assistant surgeon hoover, who had been assigned to us just from his college graduation, who, under the shelter of a hay-stack, with no anæsthetic, performed an operation which dr. gross, of philadelphia, afterwards said had been but once before successfully performed in the history of surgery, and saved his life. lieutenant anson c. cranmer, company c, was killed, and the ground was soon strewn with the dead and wounded. soon our men began to call for more ammunition, and we officers were kept busy taking from the dead and wounded and distributing to the living. each man had eighty rounds when we began the fight. one man near me rose a moment, when a missile struck his gun about midway, and actually capsized him. he pulled himself together, and, finding he was only a little bruised, picked up another gun, with which the ground was now strewn, and went at it again. directly, a lull in the enemy's firing occurred, and we had an opportunity to look over the hill a little more carefully at their lines. their first line in the sunken road seemed to be all dead or wounded, and several of our men ran down there, to find that literally true. they brought back the lieutenant-colonel, a fine-looking man, who was mortally wounded. i shook his hand, and he said, "god bless you, boys, you are very kind." he asked to be laid down in some sheltered place, for, said he, "i have but a few moments to live." i well remember his refined, gentlemanly appearance, and how profoundly sorry i felt for him. he was young, lithely built, of sandy complexion, and wore a comparatively new uniform of confederate gray, on which was embroidered the insignia of the " th ga.,[b] c. s. a." he said, "you have killed all my brave boys; they are there in the road." and they were, i saw them next day lying four deep in places as they fell, a most awful picture of battle carnage. this lull was of very short duration, and like the lull of a storm presaged a renewal of the firing with greater fury, for a fresh line of rebel troops had been brought up. this occurred three times before we were relieved. [illustration: silenced confederate battery in front of dunker church sharpsburg road, antietam this little brick church lay between the opposing lines, and both union and confederate wounded were gathered in it] during the fiercest of the firing, another remarkable incident occurred, which well illustrated the fortunes of war. i heard a man shouting, "come over here men, you can see 'em better," and there, over the brow of the knoll, absolutely exposed, was private george coursen, of company k, sitting on a boulder, loading and firing as calmly as though there wasn't a rebel in the country. i yelled to him to come back under the cover of the hill-top, but he said he could see the rebels better there, and refused to leave his vantage-ground. i think he remained there until we were ordered back and did not receive a scratch. his escape was nothing less than a miracle. he seemed to have no idea of fear. a remarkable fact about our experience during this fight was that we took no note of time. when we were out of ammunition and about to move back i looked at my watch and found it was . p.m. we had been under fire since eight o'clock. i couldn't believe my eyes; was sure my watch had gone wrong. i would have sworn that we had not been there more than twenty minutes, when we had actually been in that very hell of fire for four and a half hours. just as we were moving back, the irish brigade came up, under command of general thomas francis meagher. they had been ordered to complete our work by a charge, and right gallantly they did it. many of our men, not understanding the order, joined in that charge. general meagher rode a beautiful white horse, but made a show of himself by tumbling off just as he reached our line. the boys said he was drunk, and he certainly looked and acted like a drunken man. he regained his feet and floundered about, swearing like a crazy man. the brigade, however, made a magnificent charge and swept everything before it. another incident occurred during the time we were under fire. my attention was arrested by a heavily built general officer passing to the rear on foot. he came close by me and as he passed he shouted: "you will have to get back. don't you see yonder line of rebels is flanking you?" i looked in the direction he pointed, and, sure enough, on our right and now well to our rear was an extended line of rebel infantry with their colors flying, moving forward almost with the precision of a parade. they had thrown forward a beautiful skirmish line and seemed to be practically masters of the situation. my heart was in my mouth for a couple of moments, until suddenly the picture changed, and their beautiful line collapsed and went back as if the d----l was after them. they had run up against an obstruction in a line of the "boys in blue," and many of them never went back. this general officer who spoke to me, i learned, was major-general richardson, commanding the first division, then badly wounded, and who died a few hours after. our regiment now moved back and to the right some three-quarters of a mile, where we were supplied with ammunition, and the men were allowed to make themselves a cup of coffee and eat a "hardtack." i was faint for want of food, for i had only a cup of coffee in the early morning, and was favored with a hardtack by one of the men, who were always ready and willing to share their rations with us. we now learned that our brigade had borne the brunt of a long and persistent effort by lee to break our line at this point, and that we were actually the third line which had been thrown into this breach, the other two having been wiped out before we advanced; that as a matter of fact our brigade, being composed so largely of raw troops--our regiment being really more than half the brigade in actual number--was designed to be held in reserve. but the onslaught of the enemy had been so terrific, that by eight o'clock a.m. our reserve line was all there was left and we had to be sent in. the other three regiments were veterans, old and tried. they had an established reputation of having never once been forced back or whipped, but the one hundred and thirty-second was new and, except as to numbers, an unknown quantity. we had been unmercifully guyed during the two preceding weeks, as i have said before, as a lot of "greenhorns," "pretty boys" in "pretty new clothes," "mamma's darlings," etc., etc., to the end of the vets' slang calendar. now that we had proved our metal under fire, the atmosphere was completely changed. not the semblance of another jibe against the one hundred and thirty-second pennsylvania volunteers. we did not know how well we had done, only that we had tried to do our duty under trying circumstances, until officers and men from other regiments came flocking over to congratulate and praise us. i didn't even know we had passed through the fire of a great battle until the colonel of the fourteenth indiana came over to condole with us on the loss of colonel oakford, and incidentally told us that this was undoubtedly the greatest battle of the war thus far, and that we probably would never have such another. after getting into our new position, i at once began to look up our losses. i learned that colonel oakford was killed by one of the rebel sharp-shooters just as the regiment scaled the fence in its advance up the knoll, and before we had fired a shot. it must have occurred almost instantly after i left him with orders for the left of the line. i was probably the last to whom he spoke. he was hit by a minie-ball in the left shoulder, just below the collar-bone. the doctor said the ball had severed one of the large arteries, and he died in a very few minutes. he had been in command of the regiment a little more than a month, but during that brief time his work as a disciplinarian and drill-master had made it possible for us to acquit ourselves as creditably as they all said we had done. general kimball was loud in our praise and greatly lamented colonel oakford's death, whom he admired very much. he was a brave, able, and accomplished officer and gentleman, and his loss to the regiment was irreparable. had colonel oakford lived his record must have been brilliant and his promotion rapid, for very few volunteer officers had so quickly mastered the details of military tactics and routine. he was a thorough disciplinarian, an able tactician, and the interests and welfare of his men were constantly upon his heart. my diary records the fact that i saw captain willard, of the fourteenth connecticut, fall as we passed their line on our way to the rear; that he appeared to have been hit by a grape-shot or piece of shell. i did not know him, only heard that he was a brother of e. n. willard, of scranton. the fourteenth connecticut men said he was a fine man and splendid officer. among the wounded--reported mortally--was sergeant martin hower, of company k, one of our very best non-commissioned officers. i saw him at the hospital, and it was very hard to be able to do nothing for him. it seemed our loss must reach upward of two hundred killed, wounded and missing. out of seven hundred and ninety-eight who answered to roll-call in the morning, we had with us less than three hundred at the close of the fight. our actual loss was: killed--officers, two (colonel oakford and lieutenant cranmer); men, twenty-eight; total, thirty. wounded--officers, four; men, one hundred and ten; total, one hundred and forty-four. to this should be added at least thirty of the men who died of their wounds within the next few days, which would make our death loss in this battle upward of sixty. of the missing, many of them were of those who joined the irish brigade in their charge, and who did not find us again for a day or so. it may seem strange that a man should not be able to find his regiment for so long a time, when really it is so close at hand. but when one remembers that our army of about seventy-five thousand men had upward of two hundred regiments massed within say two square miles, and that they were constantly changing position, it will be seen that looking for any one regiment is almost like looking for a needle in a hay-mow. chapter vi the battle of antietam--continued during the afternoon of this day we were again moved further to the right and placed as supports of a battery. we were posted about two hundred yards directly in front of the guns on low ground. the battery was evidently engaged in another artillery duel. we were in a comparatively safe position, so long as the rebel guns directed their firing at our battery; but after a time they began "feeling for the supports," first dropping their shells beyond our guns, then in front of them, until they finally got a pretty good range on our line and filled the air with bursting shells over our heads. one and another was carried to the rear, wounded, and the line became very restive. we were required to lie perfectly quiet. we found this very much more trying than being at work, and the line began to show symptoms of wavering, when general kimball, who with his staff had dismounted and was resting near us, immediately mounted his horse and, riding up and down the line, shouted: "stand firm, trust in god, and do your duty." it was an exceedingly brave act, and its effect was electric upon the men. there was no more wavering, and the rebel battery, evidently thinking they had not found the "supports," soon ceased firing upon us. it was now near night and the firing very perceptibly slackened in our vicinity, though a mile or more to the left it still continued very heavy. this, we afterwards learned, was the work at what has passed into history as "burnside's" bridge--the effort of burnside's corps to capture the stone bridge over antietam creek, near the village of sharpsburg, and the heights beyond. these were gallantly carried after a terrific fight quite late in the afternoon. our work, so far as this battle was concerned, was done. we rested "on our arms" where we were for the next forty-eight hours, expecting all the next day a renewal of the fighting; but nothing was done in our neighborhood beyond a few shots from the battery we were supporting. on the second day it became known that lee had hauled off, and there was no immediate prospect of further fighting. our companies were permitted to gather up their dead, and burying parties were organized. we were allowed to go over the field freely. it was a gruesome sight. our own dead had been cared for, but the rebel dead remained as they had fallen. in the hot sun the bodies had swollen and turned black. nearly all lay with faces up and eyes wide open, presenting a spectacle to make one shudder. the distended nostrils and thickened lips made them look like negroes, except for their straight hair. their limbs and bodies were so enlarged that their clothing seemed ready to burst. some ghouls had been among them, whether from their own lines or from ours, could not be known, but every man's pockets had been ripped out and the contents taken. in company with captain archbald i went over the position occupied by our regiment and brigade, the famous "sunken road,"--that is, the lane or road extending from near the "roulette house" towards sharpsburg. for some distance it had been cut through the opposite side of the knoll upon which we fought, and had the appearance of a sunken road. it was literally filled with rebel dead, which in some places lay three and four bodies deep. we afterwards saw pictures of this road in the illustrated papers, which partially portrayed the horrible scene. those poor fellows were the fifth[c] georgia regiment. this terrible work was mostly that of our regiment, and bore testimony to the effectiveness of the fire of our men. the position was an alluring one: the road was cut into the hill about waist high, and seemed to offer secure protection to a line of infantry, and so no doubt this line was posted there to hold the knoll and this sharpsburg road. it proved, however, nothing but a death-trap, for once our line got into position on the top of this crescent-shaped ridge we could reach them by a direct fire on the centre and a double flanking fire at the right and left of the line, and only about one hundred yards away. with nothing but an open field behind them there was absolutely no escape, nothing but death or surrender, and they evidently chose the former, for we saw no white flag displayed. we could now understand the remark of their lieutenant-colonel, whom our boys brought in, as already mentioned: "you have killed all my poor boys. they lie there in the road." i learned later that the few survivors of this regiment were sent south to guard rebel prisoners. [illustration: section of famous sunken road in front of line of d p. v., near roulette lane the dead are probably from the sixth georgia confederate troops] the lines of battle of both armies were not only marked by the presence of the dead, but by a vast variety of army equipage, such as blankets, canteens, haversacks, guns, gun-slings, bayonets, ramrods, some whole, others broken,--verily, a besom of destruction had done its work faithfully here. dead horses were everywhere, and the stench from them and the human dead was horrible. "uncle" billy sherman has said, "war is hell!" yet this definition, with all that imagination can picture, fails to reveal all its bloody horrors. the positions of some of the dead were very striking. one poor fellow lay face down on a partially fallen stone wall, with one arm and one foot extended, as if in the act of crawling over. his position attracted our attention, and we found his body literally riddled with bullets--there must have been hundreds--and most of them shot into him after he was dead, for they showed no marks of blood. probably the poor fellow had been wounded in trying to reach shelter behind that wall, was spotted in the act by our men, and killed right there, and became thereafter a target for every new man that saw him. another man lay, still clasping his musket, which he was evidently in the act of loading when a bullet pierced his heart, literally flooding his gun with his life's blood, a ghastly testimonial to his heroic sacrifice. we witnessed the burying details gathering up and burying the dead. the work was rough and heartless, but only comporting with the character of war. the natural reverence for the dead was wholly absent. the poor bodies, all of them heroes in their death, even though in a mistaken cause, were "planted" with as little feeling as though they had been so many logs. a trench was dug, where the digging was easiest, about seven feet wide and long enough to accommodate all the bodies gathered within a certain radius; these were then placed side by side, cross-wise of the trench, and buried without anything to keep the earth from them. in the case of the union dead the trenches were usually two or three feet deep, and the bodies were wrapped in blankets before being covered, but with the rebels no blankets were used, and the trenches were sometimes so shallow as to leave the toes exposed after a shower. no ceremony whatever attended this gruesome service, but it was generally accompanied by ribald jokes, at the expense of the poor "johnny" they were "planting." this was not the fruit of debased natures or degenerate hearts on the part of the boys, who well knew it might be their turn next, under the fortunes of war, to be buried in like manner, but it was recklessness and thoughtlessness, born of the hardening influences of war. having now given some account of the scenes in which i participated during the battle and the day after, let us look at another feature of the battle, and probably the most heart-breaking of all, the field hospital. there was one established for our division some three hundred yards in our rear, under the shelter of a hill. here were gathered as rapidly as possible the wounded, and a corps of surgeons were busily engaged in amputating limbs and dressing wounds. it should be understood that the accommodations were of the rudest character. a hospital tent had been hurriedly erected and an old house and barn utilized. of course, i saw nothing of it or its work until the evening after the battle, when i went to see the body of our dead colonel and some of our scranton boys who were wounded. outside the hospital were piles of amputated arms, legs, and feet, thrown out with as little care as so many pieces of wood. there were also many dead soldiers--those who had died after reaching the hospital--lying outside, there being inside scant room only for the living. here, on bunches of hay and straw, the poor fellows were lying so thickly that there was scarce room for the surgeon and attendants to move about among them. others were not allowed inside, except officers and an occasional friend who might be helping. our chaplain spent his time here and did yeoman service helping the wounded. yet all that could be done with the limited means at hand seemed only to accentuate the appalling need. the pallid, appealing faces were patient with a heroism born only of the truest metal. i was told by the surgeons that such expressions as this were not infrequent as they approached a man in his "turn": "please, doctor, attend to this poor fellow next; he's worse than i," and this when his own life's blood was fast oozing away. most of the wounded had to wait hours before having their wounds dressed, owing to insufficient force and inadequate facilities. i was told that not a surgeon had his eyes closed for three days after this battle. the doctors of neighboring towns within reach came and voluntarily gave their services, yet it is doubtless true that hundreds of the wounded perished for want of prompt and proper care. this is one of the unavoidable incidents of a great battle--a part of the horrors of war. the rebel wounded necessarily were second to our own in receiving care from the surgeons, yet they, too, received all the attention that was possible under the circumstances. some of their surgeons remained with their wounded, and i am told they and our own surgeons worked together most energetically and heroically in their efforts to relieve the sufferings of all, whether they wore the blue or the gray. suffering, it has been said, makes all the world akin. so here, in our lines, the wounded rebel was lost sight of in the suffering brother. we remained on the battle-field until september , four days after the fight. my notes of this day say that i was feeling so miserable as to be scarcely able to crawl about, yet was obliged to remain on duty; that lieutenant-colonel wilcox, now in command, and major shreve were in the same condition. this was due to the nervous strain through which we had passed, and to insufficient and unwholesome food. as stated before, we had been obliged to eat whatever we could get, which for the past four days had been mostly green field corn roasted as best we could. the wonder is that we were not utterly prostrated. nevertheless, i not only performed all my duties, but went a mile down the antietam creek, took a bath, and washed my underclothing, my first experience in the laundry business. we had been now for two weeks and more steadily on the march, our baggage in wagons somewhere en route, without the possibility of a change of clothing or of having any washing done. most of this time marching in a cloud of dust so thick that one could almost cut it, and perspiring freely, one can imagine our condition. bathing as frequently as opportunity offered, yet our condition was almost unendurable. for with the accumulation of dirt upon our body, there was added the ever-present scourge of the army, body lice. these vermin, called by the boys "graybacks," were nearly the size of a grain of wheat, and derived their name from their bluish-gray color. they seemed to infest the ground wherever there had been a bivouac of the rebels, and following them as we had, during all of this campaign, sleeping frequently on the ground just vacated by them, no one was exempt from this plague. they secreted themselves in the seams of the clothing and in the armpits chiefly. a good bath, with a change of underclothing, would usually rid one of them, but only to acquire a new crop in the first camp. the clothing could be freed of them by boiling in salt water or by going carefully over the seams and picking them off. the latter operation was a frequent occupation with the men on any day which was warm enough to permit them to disrobe for the purpose. one of the most laughable sights i ever beheld was the whole brigade, halted for a couple of hours' rest one hot day, with clothing off, "skirmishing," as the boys called it, for "graybacks." this was one of the many unpoetical features of army life which accentuated the sacrifices one made to serve his country. how did we ordinarily get our laundrying done? the enlisted men as a rule always did it themselves. occasionally in camp a number of them would club together and hire some "camp follower" or some other soldier to do it. officers of sufficient rank to have a servant, of course, readily solved the question. those of us of lesser rank could generally hire it done, except on the march. then we had to be our own laundrymen. having, as in the above instance, no change of clothing at hand, the washing followed a bath, and consisted in standing in the running water and rubbing as much of the dirt out of the underwear as could be done without soap, for that could not be had for love or money; then hanging them on the limb of a tree and sitting in the sun, as comfortable as possible, whilst wind and sun did the drying. a "snap-shot" of such a scene would no doubt be interesting. but "snap-shots" unfortunately were not then in vogue, and so a picture of high art must perish. we could not be over particular about having our clothes dry. the finishing touches were added as we wore them back to camp. my diary notes that there were nine hundred and ninety-eight rebel dead gathered and buried from in front of the lines of our division. this line was about a quarter of a mile long, and this was mostly our work (our division), although richardson's division had occupied part of this ground before us, but had been so quickly broken that they had not made much impression upon the enemy. our division had engaged them continuously and under a terrific fire from eight o'clock a.m. until . p.m. it may be asked why during that length of time and under such a fire all were not annihilated. the answer is, that inaccuracy and unsteadiness in firing on both sides greatly reduce its effectiveness, and taking all possible advantage of shelter by lying prone upon the ground also prevents losses; but the above number of rebel dead, it should be remembered, represents, probably, not more than twenty to twenty-five per cent. of their casualties in that area of their lines; the balance were wounded and were removed. so that with nine hundred and ninety-eight dead it can be safely estimated that their losses exceeded four thousand killed and wounded in that area. this would indicate what was undoubtedly true, that we were in the very heart of that great battle. [illustration: field hospital] here i wish to say that some chroniclers of battles have undertaken to measure the effectiveness and bravery of the different regiments, batteries, etc., by the numbers they have lost in certain battles; for example, one historian has made a book grading the regiments by the number of men they lost in action, assuming that the more men killed and wounded, the more brilliant and brave had been its work. this assumption is absolutely fallacious. heavy losses may be the result of great bravery with splendid work. on the other hand, they may be the result of cowardice or inefficiency. suppose, under trying circumstances, officers lose their heads and fail to properly handle their men, or if the latter prove cowardly and incapable of being moved with promptness to meet the exigency, great loss usually ensues, and this would be chargeable to cowardice or inefficiency. according to the loss way of estimating fighting regiments, the least deserving are liable to be credited with the best work. the rule is, the better drilled, disciplined, and the better officered, the less the losses in any position on the firing-line. one regiment i have in mind, with which we were afterwards brigaded, illustrates this principle. it was the first delaware volunteer infantry. it was a three years' regiment and had been in the field more than a year when we joined them. all things considered, it was the best drilled and disciplined regiment i saw in the service. it was as steady under fire as on parade. every movement in the tactics it could execute on the jump, and its fire was something to keep away from. the result was that, pushed everywhere to the front because of its splendid work, it lost comparatively few men. every man was a marksman and understood how to take all possible advantage of the situation to make his work most effective and at the same time take care of himself. this regiment, whose record was one unbroken succession of splendid achievements during its whole period of service, might never have gotten on a roll of fame founded on numbers of men lost. how much more glorious is a record founded on effective work and men saved! chapter vii harper's ferry and the leesburg and halltown expeditions neither side seemed anxious to resume the fighting on the th, though there was picket firing and some cannonading. we remained the next day where the darkness found us after the battle, ready and momentarily expecting to resume the work. all sorts of rumors were afloat as to the results of the battle, also as to future movements. whether we had won a great victory and were to press immediately forward to reap the fullest benefit of it, or whether it was practically a drawn battle, with the possibilities of an early retreat, we did not then know. we had no idea of what the name of the battle would be. my diary calls it the battle of "meyer's spring," from that magnificent fountain, on our line of battle, described in the last chapter. the confederates named it the battle of sharpsburg, from the village of that name on the right of their line. two days later, after the rebels had hauled off--which they did very leisurely the next day and night--we received "little mac's" congratulatory order on the great victory achieved at "antietam." so far as our part of the battle was concerned, we knew we had the best of it. we had cleaned up everything in our front, and the "chip was still serenely resting on our shoulder." but what had been the outcome elsewhere on the line we did not know. that our army had been terrifically battered was certain. our own losses indicated this. we were therefore both relieved and rejoiced on receiving the congratulatory order. i confess to have had some doubts about the extent of the victory, and whether, had lee remained and shown fight, we would not have repeated the old story and "retired in good order." as it was, the tide had evidently turned, and the magnificent old army of the potomac, after so many drubbings, had been able to score its first decisive victory. on the twenty-second day of september we were again on the march, our regiment reduced in numbers, from casualties in the battle and from sickness, by nearly three hundred men. lieutenant-colonel wilcox was now in command. the body of our late colonel had been shipped to scranton under guard of privates s. p. snyder and charles a. meylert, company k, the "exigencies of the service" permitting of no larger detail nor any officer to accompany it. we were told the army was bound for harper's ferry, distant some eight to ten miles. we passed through the village of sharpsburg--what there was left of it. it had been occupied by the rebels as the extreme right of their line on the morning of the battle. it presented abundant evidence of having been well in the zone of the fight. its buildings were riddled with shells, and confusion seemed to reign supreme. we learned that burnside, with the left wing of the army, had a very hot argument with lee's right during the afternoon for the possession of the stone bridge over antietam creek at the foot of the hill entering the village; that after two repulses with heavy loss, colonel hartranft (afterwards governor of pennsylvania) led his regiment, the fifty-first pennsylvania volunteers and the fifty-first new york, in a magnificent charge and carried the bridge and the heights above, and sharpsburg was ours. if any one would like to get an idea of what terrific work that charge was they should examine that bridge and the heights on the sharpsburg side. the latter rise almost perpendicularly more than three hundred feet. one of the "boys" who went over that bridge and up those heights in that memorable charge was private edward l. buck, fifty-first pennsylvania volunteers, formerly assistant postmaster of scranton, and ever since the war a prominent citizen of this city. that bridge is now known as "burnside's bridge." forty-one years afterwards, i passed over it, and was shown a shell still sticking in the masonry of one of the arches. it was a conical shell probably ten inches long, about half of it left protruding. little of special interest occurred on this march until we reached the potomac, a short distance above harper's ferry. here we were shown the little round house where john brown concealed his guns and "pikes" prior to his famous raid three years before. this was his rendezvous on the night before his ill-starred expedition descended upon the state of virginia and the south, in an insane effort to free the slaves. our division was headed by the fourteenth connecticut, and as we approached the river opposite harper's ferry its fine band struck up the then new and popular air, "john brown's body," and the whole division took up the song, and we forded the river singing it. slavery had destroyed the kansas home of old john brown, had murdered his sons, and undoubtedly driven him insane, because of his anti-slavery zeal. the great state of virginia--the "mother of presidents"--had vindicated her loyalty to the "peculiar institution," and, let it be added, her own spotless chivalry, by hanging this poor, crazy fanatic for high treason! was there poetic justice in our marching into the territory where these events transpired singing: "john brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave, his soul goes marching on?" this couplet, "we'll hang jeff davis to a sour apple-tree," was sung with peculiar zest, though i never quite understood what the poet had against the sour apple-tree. we marched through the quaint old town of harper's ferry, whose principal industry had been the government arsenal for the manufacture of muskets and other army ordnance. these buildings were now a mass of ruins, and the remainder of the town presented the appearance of a plucked goose, as both armies had successively captured and occupied it. we went into camp on a high plateau back of the village known as bolivar heights. the scenic situation at harper's ferry is remarkably grand. the town is situated on the tongue or fork of land at the junction of the potomac and shenandoah rivers. from the point where the rivers join, the land rises rapidly until the summit of bolivar heights is reached, several hundred feet above the town, from which a view is had of one of the most lovely valleys to be found anywhere in the world--the shenandoah valley. across the potomac to the east and facing harper's ferry rises maryland heights, a bluff probably a thousand feet high, while across the shenandoah to the right towers another precipitous bluff of about equal height called loudon heights. both of these bluffs commanded bolivar heights and harper's ferry. it was the sudden and unexpected appearance of stonewall jackson's batteries upon both of these supposed inaccessible bluffs that ten days before had forced the surrender of the garrison of ten thousand union troops which had been posted here to hold harper's ferry. it was said that the rain of shot and shell from those bluffs down upon our forces was simply merciless, and jackson had cut off all avenues of escape before opening his batteries. the cavalry, i believe, cut their way out, but the infantry, after twenty-four hours of that storm of shot and shell, were forced to hoist the white flag. how they could have lived half that time in such a hell of fire is a marvel. everything above ground bore evidence of this fire. there were unexploded shells lying about in great numbers. an incident that might have been anything but funny occurred the day after we encamped here. a new regiment joined the army and marched past our division to a point farther up the heights and went into camp. they were a fine-looking regiment, full in numbers, and with new, clean uniforms. their reception at the hands of the "vets" was very like our own three weeks before. our boys, however, were "vets" now, and joined in the "reception" with a zest quite usual under such circumstances. however, the "tenderfeet" incident had passed, and we were preparing our evening meal, when bang! bang! bang! bang! rang out a half-dozen shots in quick succession. every man jumped as though the whole rebel army was upon us. it was soon discovered that the explosions came from the camp of the "tenderfeet." some of those greenhorns had gathered a number of those unexploded shells, set them up on end for a fireplace, and were quietly boiling their coffee over them when they, of course, exploded. why none of them were seriously injured was a miracle. at the moment of explosion no one happened to be very near the fire. a moment before a dozen men had been standing over it. does providence graciously look out for the tenderfoot? some of them, i fear, were made to feel that they would rather be dead than take the guying they got for this evidence of their verdancy. camp life at bolivar heights soon resolved itself into the usual routine of drill and picket duty. how many corps of the army were encamped here i did not know, but we were a vast city of soldiers, and there was no end of matters to occupy attention when off duty. these included bathing expeditions to the shenandoah, a mile and a half away; the "doing" of the quaint old town of harper's ferry, and rambles up maryland and loudon heights, both of which were now occupied by our troops. this was our first experience in a large encampment in the field. one feature of it was exceedingly beautiful, and that was its system of "calls." the cavalry and artillery were encamped on one side of us. each battery of artillery and battalion of cavalry had its corps of "trumpeters" or "buglers," while the infantry regiments had their drum corps, whose duty it was to sound the various "camp calls." the principal calls were "reveille," the getting up or morning roll-call, at sunrise usually; the guard mount, the drill, the meal calls, the "retreat" (evening roll-call), and the "taps," the "turning in" or "lights out" call. the reveille, the retreat, and taps were required to be sounded by each battery, troop, and regiment in consecutive order, commencing at the extreme right. the firing of the morning gun was the signal for the first corps of cavalry buglers to begin the reveille, then in succession it was repeated first through the bugler corps and then by the drum corps back and forth through the lines until it had gone through the whole army. as a martial and musical feature it was exceedingly beautiful and inspiring. but as its purpose was to hustle out sleepy men to roll-call, it is doubtful if these features were fully appreciated; that its advent was an occasion for imprecation rather than appreciation the following story may illustrate. a group of "vets" were discussing what they would do when they got home from the war. several plans had been suggested--the taking into permanent camp of the soldier's sweetheart being the chief goal, of course. when pat's turn came to tell what he was going to do, he said: "i'll be takin' me girl and settling down wid her housekeepin' and thin i'll be hirin' of a dhrum corps to come an' play the ravalye iviry mornin' under me chamber windi." "what will you do that for? haven't you had enough of the reveille here?" "i'll just h'ist me windi, an' i'll yell, 'to h----l wid yer ravalye; i'll slape as long as i plase.'" many of these "calls" were parodied by the men. here is the reveille: i can't get 'em up, i can't get 'em up, i can't get 'em up at all, sir; i can't get 'em up, i can't get 'em up, i can't get 'em up at all. i'll go and tell the captain, i'll go and tell the captain, i'll go and tell the captain, i can't get 'em up at all. this is the sick call: get your quinine, get your quinine, and a blue pill too, and a blue pill too. get your quinine. and so on down the list. the retreat call at sundown was really enjoyed and was made more of. the day's work was then over, and each corps elaborated its music, the bands frequently extending it into an evening concert. the almost universal time-killer was cards. of course various games were played, but "poker" was king. a game of the latter could be found in almost every company street, officers as well as men took a "twist at the tiger." at the battle of chancellorsville i saw a game in full blast right under fire of the rebel shells. every screeching shell was greeted with an imprecation, while the game went on just the same. after our return home i was told of one man who made enough money at cards to successfully start himself in business. it was said he performed picket duty by hired proxies during the following winter in camp at falmouth, and gave his time wholly to the game. a new york city regiment lay adjoining our camp that winter, and a truer lot of sports, from colonel down, never entered the service. these men, officers and all, were his patrons. they came to "do the pennsylvania novice," but were themselves done in the end. on the d of october our brigade made what was termed a reconnoissance in force out through loudon county, virginia, to leesburg. it was reported that jeb. stuart was there with a force of cavalry and infantry. general kimball was sent with our brigade to capture him if possible. our orders on the evening of october were to report at brigade head-quarters at seven o'clock a.m., with three days' rations and sixty rounds of ammunition. this meant "business," and was a welcome change from the monotony of camp life. a regiment of cavalry and two batteries of artillery had been added to our brigade for this expedition. the morning dawned bright and beautiful, but the day proved a very hot one, and the first three or four miles of our march was around the base of loudon heights, close under the mountain over a very rocky road, and where there was not a breath of air stirring. we were delayed by the artillery in getting over this portion of the route, and then we were marched almost on the run to make up for the lost time. general kimball had gone forward with the cavalry, leaving his adjutant-general to bring up the balance of the column as rapidly as possible. in his efforts to hurry the men forward the latter overdid the matter. the result was the men dropped in scores utterly exhausted, so that within three hours our number had been reduced more than half, and at the end of the march in the evening there were just twenty-five officers and men of our regiment present for duty, and of the whole infantry force, three thousand strong at the start, there were less than two hundred present at the finish. this was due to an utter lack of judgment in marching. the distance covered had been twenty-three miles. the day had been hot, the road rough, and the men, in heavy marching order with three days' rations and sixty rounds of ammunition, had carried upwards of ninety pounds each. with such a load and under such conditions, to expect men to march any distance at the hurried pace required was criminal folly. it bore its natural fruit. our men were scattered on the route from harper's ferry to leesburg, a demoralized lot of stragglers. my diary mentions this experience with much indignation and attributes the folly to the effects of whiskey. of course, this was only a surmise. general kimball was not directly responsible for it. in his anxiety to capture jeb. stuart he had pushed ahead with the cavalry, and knew nothing of our condition until the forlorn party came straggling into his bivouac in the evening. he was very indignant, and said some words that cannot be recorded here. he was chagrined to find stuart gone, but now was greatly relieved that such was the fact. otherwise, said he, we would have stood an excellent chance for a journey south under rebel escort. on our way out we passed through several small villages, in none of which did we find evidence of decided union sentiment, except in waterford. this was a prosperous-looking town, and the people seemed hospitable, and manifested their union sentiments by furnishing us fruit and water freely. our cavalry caught four of stuart's men in a picture-gallery and marched them to the rear. i had the good fortune to secure a loaf of nice bread and a canteen of sweet milk. if any one wishes to know how good bread and milk is, let him step into my shoes on that weary night. conditions compelled us to remain at leesburg that night. we rested on our arms, fearing stuart might get an inkling of our plight and pounce upon us. my diary says i was unable to sleep because of suffering from a sprained knee and ankle, caused by my horse stumbling and falling on me just at dusk. the next morning we were off bright and early on the back track for camp, but by another route, so as to avoid being cut off by stuart. we had started out bravely to capture this wily rebel. now we were in mortal danger of being captured by him. a detail was made to go back over the route we came and gather up the stragglers. on our way back i was refused a canteen of water by the "missus" of one of the plantation dwellings; but on riding around to the rear, where the slaves lived, old "aunt lucy" supplied us freely with both milk and water. this was a sample of the difference between the aristocrat in the mansion and the slave in the hovel. the latter were always very friendly and ready to help us in every possible way, while as a rule we met with rebuff at the hands of the former. here we came in contact for the first time with plantation life under the institution of slavery. the main or plantation house was usually situated a quarter-mile or more back from the "pike." they were generally low, flat, one-story mansions, built of stone, while further to the rear, in the form of a square, were the wooden cabins of the slaves, each plantation a village by itself. we marched only about eight miles this day, and bivouacked near the village of hillsboro. this evening we officers of the field and staff caught on to a great treat in the way of stewed chicken and corn cake for supper at a union farmhouse, and thought ourselves very fortunate to be able to engage a breakfast at the same place for next morning. alas for the uncertainties of war! we had barely rolled ourselves in our blankets for the night when a staff officer from general kimball's head-quarters came and in a low tone of voice ordered us to arouse our men without the least noise and be off as quietly as possible; that scouts had reported that stuart was after us in hot haste. we were off almost in a jiffy. the night was cool and foggy. the former favored our rapid march, and the latter hid us from the enemy, who succeeded in capturing only a couple of men who fell out. we reached camp at harper's ferry shortly after sunrise, a thoroughly tired and battered crowd. the expedition proved absolutely fruitless, and had barely escaped being captured, owing to mismanagement. it was the most trying bit of service of our whole experience. some of our men never recovered from the exhaustion of that first day's march, and had to be discharged as permanently disabled. shortly after this another expedition relieved the monotony of camp life. general hancock, commanding the second division of our corps, had been sent to make a reconnoissance in force towards halltown, six to eight miles up the shenandoah valley. he had gone in the morning, and shortly after noon we had heard cannonading in that direction, showing that he had found "business." it was hancock's reputation to make "business," if the "johnnies" could be induced to tarry long enough for him to reach them. however, the firing shortly ceased, and the night set in with a terrific rain-storm. i remember, as i rolled myself in my blanket prepared for a good sleep in defiance of the rain, sympathizing with those poor fellows out on that reconnoissance in all this storm. my sympathy was premature. just then i heard an ominous scratch on my tent, and the hand of an orderly was thrust through the flaps with an order. in much trepidation i struck a light. sure i was of trouble, or an order would not have been sent out at such a time. my fears were realized. it directed our regiment to report at brigade head-quarters in heavy marching order with all possible despatch. here was a "state of things." was it ever so dark, and did it ever rain harder? not in my recollection. but that order left no time for cogitations. into boots, clothing, and gum blanket, out to the colonel's tent with the order, then with his orders to all the companies, the sounding of the long roll, the forming line, and away to brigade head-quarters in that inky blackness and drenching rain was the work of less than fifteen minutes. general kimball complimented us as being the first regiment to report, and we were honored with the head of the column which was to support hancock at halltown. french's division had been ordered out as supports, and kimball's brigade had the advance. we marched rapidly up the valley of the shenandoah, now as black as erebus. but soon the rain ceased, the clouds broke away, and the stars appeared, completely transforming the scene, and except for the mud and our wet and uncomfortable condition it would have been an enjoyable march. after going about six miles we were directed into a woods to rest until morning. inside the woods it was inky dark again, and we made headway with much difficulty. men and horses stumbled and floundered over fallen logs and through brush at imminent peril of limbs, until a halt was made, and after details for picket had been sent out we were allowed to rest until daylight. it was now about three o'clock. but to rest, soaking wet, almost covered with mud, in a woods that had been so drenched with rain that everything was like a soaked sponge, that was the problem. no fires were allowed, for no one knew how near the enemy might be. however, the men were tired enough to sleep, most of them, even under those conditions. i well remember the weary walking and stamping to keep warm until the sunshine came to our relief. but daylight revealed a condition of things relative to our position that, had the enemy known, we might again have been made an easy prey. our details for water, after going out some distance, as they supposed in our rear, suddenly found themselves uncomfortably near the enemy's outposts, and hurried back to camp with the information. it was found that in the darkness our picket line had actually gotten turned around, so that our rear had been carefully guarded, whilst our front was left wholly exposed. the denseness of the woods and the darkness of the night had been our salvation. we shortly learned that hancock had accomplished his purpose and was moving back to harper's ferry. we followed leisurely, reaching the camp about noon, thoroughly tired and bedraggled from the rain and mud. chapter viii from harper's ferry to fredericksburg we remained on bolivar heights, at harper's ferry, without further special incident until the st of october, . in the mean time lieutenant-colonel wilcox had been promoted to colonel to fill the vacancy caused by the death of colonel oakford at antietam. major albright had been promoted to lieutenant-colonel and the senior captain, shreve, company a, had been made major. colonel wilcox was on his back with a severe case of typhoid fever, and lieutenant-colonel albright had been some ten days absent on sick leave, during which time major shreve had been in command. lieutenant-colonel albright, hearing of the probable movement of the army, rejoined us in time to take command as we bade farewell to harper's ferry. to show how little a soldier can know of what is before him, i note the fact that we had just completed fixing up our quarters for cold weather at camp bolivar. this involved considerable labor and some expense. my diary records the fact that i had put up a "california stove" in my tent. this, if i remember rightly, was a cone-shaped sheet-iron affair, which had a small sliding door and sat on the ground, with a small pipe extending through the canvas roof just under the ridge-pole to the rear. it cost, i think, about four dollars, and required some skill in "setting up," chiefly in fixing the pipe so that it would not tumble about one's ears with every blast of wind that shook the tent, and in windy weather would at least carry some of the smoke outside. a special course of engineering was almost needed to be able to properly handle those stoves. a little too much fire, and you had to adopt pat's remedy when biddy's temper got up--sit on the outside until it cooled down. too little was worse than none, for your tent became a smoke-house. on the whole, they were much like the goose the aforesaid pat captured and brought into camp, "a mighty unconvanient burr'd, a little too big for one and not big enough for two." this fixing up of quarters had been done in contemplation of remaining here through the winter, and we had taken our cue from like actions of our brigade officers, who were supposed to know something about the movements of the army. when we got orders on the th of october to prepare for the march, i was assured by the adjutant-general of our brigade that it was nothing more than a day's reconnoissance, and that we were certainly not going to move our quarters. he knew as much about it as i did. within an hour after this order another came directing us to move in heavy marching order, with three days' rations and sixty rounds of ammunition. and so we moved out of harper's ferry on the st of october, leaving our fixed-up quarters, with my four-dollar stove, to geary's division, which succeeded to our camp. we crossed the shenandoah on a pontoon bridge and skirted the mountain under loudon heights over the same route south that we had taken on our way in from the leesburg raid. we marched very leisurely, making during the first four days only about twenty-five miles, to a village bearing the serious (?) name of snickersville. here we had the first evidence of the presence of the enemy. we were hurried through this village and up through the gap in the mountain called "snicker's gap" to head off the rebels. we soon came on to their scouts and pickets, who fled precipitately without firing a gun. part of our division halted on the top of the gap, while a couple of regiments skirmished through the woods both sides of the road down to the foot of the mountain on the other side. the enemy had taken "french leave," and so our men returned and our division bivouacked here for the night. we now learned that these giant armies were moving south in parallel columns, the mountain separating them. at every gap or pass in the mountain a bristling head or a clinched fist, so to speak, of one would be thrust through and the other would try to hit it. this was our mission, as we double-quicked it through this gap. when we got there the "fist" had been withdrawn, and our work for the time was over. but our bivouac here--how beautiful it was! the fields were clean and green, with plenty of shade, for right in the gap were some good farms. then the cavalry had not cleaned the country of everything eatable, as was usual, they being always in the advance. there was milk and bread to be had, and somehow--i never dared to inquire too closely about it--some good mutton came into camp that night, so that we had a splendid breakfast next morning. some fine honey was added to the bill of fare. the man who brought in the latter claimed that a rebel hive of bees attacked him whilst on picket duty, and he confiscated the honey as a measure of retaliation. but the special feature that makes that camp linger in my memory was the extraordinary beauty of the scene in the valley below us when the evening camp-fires were lighted. we were on a sort of table-land two or three hundred feet above the broad valley, which widened out at this point and made a most charming landscape. as the darkness drew on the camp-fires were lighted, and the scene became one of weird, bewitching beauty. almost as far as the eye could reach, covering three and possibly four square miles, were spread out the blazing camp-fires of that mighty host of our "boys in blue." no drums were beaten and the usual retreat call was not sounded, but the thousands of camp-fires told of the presence of our men. a martial city was cooking its evening coffee and resting its weary limbs in the genial camp-fire glow, whilst weary hearts were refreshed with the accompanying chat about friends and dearer ones at home. the scouting "johnny rebs" (and there were no doubt plenty of them viewing the scene) could have gotten from it no comforting information to impart as to our numbers. most of the army of the potomac, now largely augmented by new regiments, was there, probably not less than one hundred thousand men. it was a picture not of a lifetime, but of the centuries. it made my blood leap as i realized that i was looking down upon the grandest army, all things considered, of any age or time. its mission was to save to liberty and freedom the life of the best government the world ever saw. in its ranks was the best blood of a free people. in intelligence it was far superior to any other army that ever existed. scholars of all professions, tradesmen and farmers, were there, fighting side by side, animated by the same patriotic impulse. i said to myself, it is impossible that that army should be beaten. it is the strong right arm of the union, and under god it shall assuredly deal the death-blow to the rebellion. this it certainly did, though at a fearful cost, for it was fighting the same blood. the inspiration of that scene made me glad from the bottom of my heart that i had the privilege of being just one in that glorious army. after forty years, what would i take for that association with all its dangers and hardships? what for these pictures and memories? they are simply priceless. i only wish i could so paint the pictures and reproduce the scenes that they might be an inspiration to the same patriotism that moved this mighty host. one of our grizzly-headed "boys," after forty years, tells the following story of his experiences on a foraging expedition from the camp. three of them started out after beef. some young steers had been seen in the distance. they reached the field, a mile or more from camp. they found the game a mighty vigorous lot of young steers, and their troubles began when they tried to corral any one of them. both ends seemed to be in business at the same time, whilst a tail-hold proved to have more transportation possibilities than they had ever dreamed of. coaxing and persuasion proved utter failures, for the bovines seemed to have the same prejudices against our blue uniforms their owners had, and it would not do to fire a gun. however, after two hours of the hardest exercise they ever had, they succeeded in "pinching" their steer with nose, horn, and tail-holds. neither of them had ever undertaken to butcher a beef before, and a good-sized jackknife was all they had to work with. but beef they came for and must have, and one was selected to do the trick. here again they counted without their quarry. the latter evidently objected to being practised on by novices, for as the knife entered his neck he gave a jump which somehow nearly severed the would-be butcher's thumb. nevertheless, he completed his work without a word, and the animal was skinned and divided. just as they had him down a field officer rode almost on to them. they felt sure that their "fat was in the fire," for the officer--probably the field officer of the day--certainly saw them and saw what they were doing. but he turned and rode away without saying a word. it was evidently one of those things he did not want to see. well, the fun was not yet over. they backed their beef to camp, and this was about as uncomfortable a job as they ever had. no more tired trio ever rolled themselves in blankets than they were that night. but there was compensation. they had an abundant supply of "fresh" on hand and their sleep was sweet. alas for the uncertainties of camp life. notwithstanding they took the extra precaution to roll their several portions in their coats and placed them under their heads for pillows, some "sons of belial" from an adjacent regiment who had discovered them bringing their "game" into camp actually stole every ounce of the beef out from under their too soundly sleeping heads during the night and made off with it. after all their labor and trouble neither of them had a taste of that beef. their nostrils were regaled with the savory fumes of the cooking meat. they had no difficulty in discovering where it was. indeed, the whelps who stole it rather paraded their steal, knowing that the mouths of our men were sealed. they simply could not say a word, for marauding was punishable with death. the worst of the escapade was that the poor fellow whose thumb had been so nearly severed was made a cripple for life. he was never able to do another day's duty, and to shield him the other two--be it said to their everlasting honor--performed his picket duty in addition to their own until he was discharged. my diary notes the fact that fitz-john porter's corps passed us just before night, and i saw its commander for the first time. he was a small, slender, young-looking man, with full black whiskers and keen black eyes. he was dressed very modestly and wore the usual high black slouch hat, with a much battered gold-tassel band. a pair of silver stars on his shoulder, much obscured by wear and dust, indicated his rank of major-general. the next day, november , was cold and chilly and we were early on the march, still southward. we had now exhausted our supply of rations, and at a temporary halt wagon-loads of hardtack and pork were driven along our company lines and boxes of the bread and barrels of pork dumped out, and the men told to fill their haversacks. barrel heads and boxes were soon smashed with the butts of guns and contents appropriated, each man taking all he would. many a fine piece of the pork marched away on a bayonet, ready for the noon-day meal. i filled my own saddle-bags, as did the rest of us officers, preferring to take no further chances on the grub question. we bivouacked about four o'clock, after a thirteen-mile march in a raw and very chilly air. just going into bivouac i saw major-general john f. reynolds, who met such a tragic death at gettysburg the next july. his corps--the first--was in the advance of ours. our regiment was marching at the head of our brigade column. lieutenant-colonel albright was temporarily absent and i was directing the column. general reynolds's corps had passed into the field to the left and were already in bivouac; the other troops of our division were not visible at this point, and i was hesitating what direction to give the column. general reynolds was sitting on his horse looking at us, evidently with much interest, and noticing my dilemma, rode up to my assistance at once. addressing me as adjutant, he said: "part of your corps has moved in yonder," pointing out the place. "if i were you i would go in here and occupy this field to the right in column of divisions, and you may say general reynolds advised this, if you please." his manner and way of doing this little service were so pleasant that he captured me at once. had he chosen to do so, he could have given me orders, as the senior officer present, but with a gentle courtesy he accomplished his purpose without that, and to reassure me gave his name and rank in this delicate way. i shall never forget his pleasant smile as he returned my salute after thanking him for his suggestion. he was a superb-looking man, dark complexioned, wearing full black whiskers, and sat his fine horse like a centaur, tall, straight, and graceful, the ideal soldier. i do not remember to have ever seen this remarkable officer again. he was one of the few great commanders developed by the war. a quiet, modest man, he yet possessed a very decisive element of character, as illustrated by the following incident related to me by my friend colonel w. l. wilson, assistant adjutant-general of one of the divisions of reynolds's corps, and shows his unwearied vigilance and his indefatigable capacity for work. the corps was in the presence of the enemy, an attack was deemed highly probable. night had brought on a storm of rain and intense darkness. general reynolds had given the proper officers very explicit instructions about locating his picket lines, and colonel wilson, knowing the critical nature of the work and his division chief's anxiety over it, about midnight went out over their part of the line to make doubly sure that everything was right. among the first persons he encountered after reaching the outposts was general reynolds, all alone, making his way over the line in that drenching rain, to be assured that the pickets were properly posted and doing their duty. here is colonel wilson's account of the colloquy that ensued: "who are you, sir? where do you belong? what are you doing here?" he volleyed at me savagely. being apparently reassured by my reply, he continued in a less peremptory tone, "who ordered that line? how far out is it?" receiving my reply, he exclaimed, "push it out, push it out farther!" "how far, general?" i ventured to ask. "push it out until you feel something!" this was reynolds. we continued our march down what i was told was the valley of the catochin. november found us near upperville, where we bivouacked alongside an old graveyard, our head-quarters being established inside the enclosure, to get the protection of its stone wall from the cold wind that was blowing. the temperature had fallen during the past twenty-four hours, so that it was now decidedly chilly--good for marching, but cold in bivouac. my notes say that i was chilled through until my teeth chattered; that i slept in the hollow made by a sunken grave to get warm; that my dreams were not disturbed by any unsubstantial hobgoblins of the defunct member of an f. f. v. whose remains might have been resting below me. the letters f. f. v. meant much in those war days. they stood for "first family of virginia," an expression much in use by her slave-proud aristocracy, and, of course, much satirized by us of the north. on this day we passed several very handsome mansions with their slave contingents. one old "daddy" volunteered the information that his "mars was a pow'ful secesh;" that he had three sons in the rebel army. my diary notes with indignation that these rich plantations were carefully guarded by our cavalry to prevent our soldiers entering to get water as they passed. they would doubtless have helped themselves to other things as well, especially things eatable, but the owners were rebels and deserved to have their property taken, we all felt. the orders against marauding were punctuated by a striking example this day. the cavalry orderly of the general commanding our division, riding back to head-quarters after delivering a batch of orders, among them another on this hated subject, carried a pair of handsome turkeys strapped to his saddle. it is safe to say that entire flock came into our camp that night, and turkey was served at breakfast to some of the rank and file as well as to the general. verily, "consistency thou art a jewel." from upperville we moved by easy marching down to warrenton. the weather had grown much colder. on the th of november there was a fall of rain, succeeded by snow, and we marched in a very disagreeable slush. the bivouac in this snow was most trying. the result for myself was a severe attack of fever and ague. i had been much reduced in flesh from the fatigue and nervous strain of the strenuous life of the past two months. this attack prostrated me at once. i was placed in an ambulance, being unable to ride my horse. the shaking and jolting of that ambulance ride were something fearful. i can now sympathize with the wounded who were compelled to ride in those horrible vehicles. they were covered wagons, with seats on each side, and made with heavy, stiff springs, so as to stand the rough roads, which were frequently cut through the fields. this night general kimball had me brought to his head-quarters, a brick farm-house, for shelter. it was a kindness i greatly appreciated. the next night our chaplain succeeded in getting me into a farm-house some little distance from the regiment. he secured this accommodation on the strength of freemasonry. the owner's name i have preserved in my diary as mr. d. l. f. lake. he was one of mosby's "cavalry," as they called themselves. we in our army called them "guerillas." they were the terror of our army stragglers. they were "good union men" when our army was passing, but just as soon as the army had passed they were in their saddles, picking up every straggler and any who may have had to fall behind from sickness. in that way they got quite a few prisoners. this man did not hesitate to tell us the mode of their operations. he said his farm had been literally stripped of hay, grain, and cattle by our cavalry under general stoneman. all he had left was one chicken. this his wife cooked for the chaplain and me. he brought out richmond papers during the evening and freely discussed the issues of the war with the chaplain. i was too ill to pay much attention to what was said, only to gather that his idea of us northern people was that we were a miserable horde of invading barbarians, destined to be very speedily beaten and driven out. he admitted, however, that in financial transactions he preferred "greenbacks" to the confederate scrip, which i thought rather negatived his boasted faith in the success of the confederacy. his wife, who had, not many years gone, been young and pretty, occasionally chimed in with expressions of great hate and bitterness. perhaps the latter was not to be wondered at from their stand-point, and they had just now ample grounds for their bitter feelings in the fact that they had just been relieved of all their portable property by the union forces. he had receipts for what stoneman had taken, which would be good for their market value on his taking the oath of allegiance. but he said he would die rather than take that oath, so he considered his property gone. he no doubt thought better of this later on, and probably got pay for his stuff. his kindness to me on the score of our fraternal relations was generous to the full extent of his ability, and showed him to be a true man, notwithstanding his "secesh" proclivities. it was a great favor, for had i been compelled to remain out in that rough weather sick as i was, the consequences must have been most serious. on leaving i tried to pay him in gold coin for his hospitality, but he firmly declined my money, saying: "you know you could not have gotten into my house for money. pay in like manner as you have received when opportunity affords." for this fraternal hospitality i shall always remember my "secesh" masonic brother with gratitude, for i feel that it saved my life. another terrific day in that awful ambulance brought me to warrenton, where i got a room at a so-called hotel. here, upon the advice of our surgeon, i made application for leave of absence on account of sickness. the red tape that had to be "unwound" in getting this approved and returned almost proved my ruin. captain archbald was taken sick at this time, and his application for a like leave accompanied mine. the corps surgeon, dr. dougherty, called with our surgeon to examine us at the hotel, and said he would approve both applications; that it would be but a day or so before our leaves would be ready and returned to us. the next day orders for the army to move were issued, and we saw our men marching away. it made my heart ache not to be in my place with them. i was, however, barely able to sit up, so that was out of the question. now another possibility confronted us, namely, being picked up and carried off as prisoners by my late host's comrades, mosby's guerillas. the army was evidently evacuating warrenton and vicinity, and unless our leaves of absence reached us within a very few hours we would be outside of the "union lines" and transportation to washington unobtainable, for the railroad trains did not pretend to run beyond the union lines. the next day came, the last of our troops were moving out, and our leaves had not come. captain archbald and i resolved that we must cut that "red tape" rather than take the chances of going to richmond. this we did by securing suits of citizens' clothes and making our way as citizens through the lines to washington. from there we had no difficulty in reaching home in uniform. at washington i wrote colonel albright of our dilemma and the way we had solved it, and asked that our leaves of absence be forwarded to us at scranton. they came some two weeks later. had we remained at warrenton, they would never have reached us, unless in a rebel prison. yet i suppose we had committed an offence for which we could have been court-martialled. i should have mentioned that just at the time i was taken sick, on the th of november, whilst the army was approaching warrenton, the order relieving general mcclellan from the command of the army of the potomac was issued. he was ordered to report to his home in trenton, n. j., on waiting orders. great was the consternation among the veterans of that army on his retirement, for they really had a strong attachment for "little mac," as they fondly called him. he took his leave in an affectionate order, recounting the heroic deeds of this noble army. this was followed by a grand review, accompanied by battery salutes, and the military career of general george b. mcclellan passed into history. chapter ix the fredericksburg campaign i must pause long enough to speak of the days of that sick leave. just before reaching scranton i met on the train my old friend and employer, joseph c. platt, of the lackawanna iron & coal company, who insisted on taking me home with him. as i had no home of my own and no relations here, i accepted his kind hospitality. had i been their own son i could not have been cared for more tenderly. under the circumstances i am sure i was not a very prepossessing object to entertain. i well remember the warm bath and the glorious luxury of once more being actually clean, dressed in a civilized night-robe, and in a comfortable bed. it must be remembered that a soldier must habitually sleep in his clothes. i had not had my clothes off, except for a wash, since i entered the army. i had evidently been living beyond my strength, and now the latter gave way and i found myself unable to leave my bed for the next two weeks. dr. william frothingham gave me most excellent medical treatment, and with the motherly nursing of mrs. platt i was soon on the mend. on the th of december i started back for my regiment. i was by no means well, and the doctor was loath to let me go, as were all my kind friends; but a grand forward movement of the army was reported as in progress, and i felt that i must be at my post. i reached washington on the th, and it took the next two days to secure a pass and transportation to the front. the latter was somewhat difficult to obtain, owing to the fact that a movement of the army was in progress. what the character of the movement was no one seemed to know, not even the provost-marshal, who issued all passes. i took a boat leaving at six o'clock a.m. on the th for aquia creek and thence went by rail in a cattle-car to its terminus in the open field opposite fredericksburg. (the rebels were mean enough to refuse us depot privileges at the regular station in fredericksburg.) i arrived there about one o'clock p.m. a brisk cannonade was in progress between the union batteries posted on the heights back of falmouth and the confederate guns on marye's heights, back of fredericksburg. the problem now was to find my regiment. a stranger standing near said, in answer to my inquiry, that the union army had been encamped about a mile and a half back yonder, pointing to the hills in our rear, but that he was quite sure they had all gone across the river last night; that a big fight had taken place about laying the pontoon bridge over the river (the rappahannock), and the union forces had beaten the rebels back, laid the bridge and had crossed over and occupied the city. fredericksburg was a city of probably five or six thousand people, lying on the west bank of the rappahannock, which runs at this point nearly southeast. the river is probably one hundred and fifty to two hundred yards wide here, quite deep, with a rather swift current and high banks, so that one does not see the water until quite close to it. the railroad formerly ran from aquia creek to richmond via fredericksburg, the connection to washington being by boat from aquia creek. the war stopped its operation, but so much of it as was in the union lines had been seized by the government, and was being operated by the quartermaster's department for war purposes. the stations of the latter were wherever the troops were, and these were now operating against fredericksburg, hence i was dumped down in an open field opposite that city as stated above. i was fortunate enough to find a man who was going to hancock's old camp, and i concluded to go with him, believing that once there i could find our division camp belonging to the same corps. i chartered a burly "contraban" to carry my luggage, and we started. the ground was very soft from recent rains, and the mud was something terrible. if one has never encountered virginia mud, he can have no adequate idea of the meaning of the word. it gets a grip on your feet and just won't let go. every rise of your pedal extremities requires a mighty tug, as if you were lifting the earth, as indeed you are--a much larger share of it than is comfortable. a tramp of a mile and a half brought us to hancock's old camp. in my weak condition i was thoroughly exhausted, and so my "contraban" claimed to be, for he positively refused to go another step. i got my quartermaster friend to take care of my baggage, whilst i continued my search for our division camp. i was not successful in finding it that night, and was obliged to accept the invitation of a sick officer of the eighty-first pennsylvania volunteers to share his quarters for the night. i had eaten breakfast at five o'clock that morning in washington and had eaten nothing since, and it was now dusk. i was not only tired, but faint for want of food. this officer, whose name i regret i have forgotten, was a brother mason, and kindly divided his meagre rations with me, which consisted of boiled rice and hardtack. he had a little molasses, with which the former was lubricated, and a good strong cup of coffee was added. it was not waldorf-astoria fare, to be sure, and the explanation was that the boys had taken almost everything eatable with them. the next morning i picked up an old "crow-bait" of a horse, the only four-footed transportation possibly obtainable, and started for fredericksburg to find my regiment. the only directions i had about disposing of this frame of a horse was to "turn the bones loose when you get through with him." he could go only at a snail's pace, and when i reached fredericksburg it must have been nine o'clock. i crossed the pontoon bridge, which had been laid the morning before under circumstances of the greatest gallantry by howard's division of our corps. the "ball" was now well opened. marye's heights (pronounced marie, with the accent on the last letter, as if spelled maree), circling the city from the river above to a point below the city, was literally crowded with batteries of rebel artillery. these guns were firing at our batteries on the heights on the other side of the river, and also upon our troops occupying the city. the air was filled with screeching, bursting shells, and a deafening pandemonium was in progress. it was not a very inviting place to enter under these circumstances, but it was as safe for me as for my regiment, and my duty was to be with them. the trouble was to find it in that multitude of troops filling all the streets of the city. our corps alone numbered probably twelve thousand men at that time, and the ninth corps was there besides. however, i soon found kimball's brigade to my great delight, supposing our regiment was in it, as it was when i went away. general kimball greeted me with great cordiality; but when i asked where my regiment was, he said he was sorry he could not inform me; that they had that morning been transferred, much against his will, to general max weber's brigade, and where that was he did not know. it was probably somewhere in the city. said he: "you cannot possibly find it now, and it is a waste of time to try. i can give you plenty of work to-day. stay with me and serve as an aide on my staff." the officers of his staff, all of whom were personal friends, urgently joined in the general's invitation. but i felt that i must be with the regiment if it were possible to find it, and so declined what would have been a distinguishing service. some distance down the main street i ran on to the regiment just when i had abandoned all hope of finding it. my reception was exceedingly cordial, accompanied with the remark: "just in time, adjutant, just in time." i found lieutenant-colonel albright in command and with no help from our field and staff. colonel wilcox was still on sick leave. major shreve had returned to camp during the heavy cannonading of the day before, and colonel albright had lost his voice from a severe cold, so that i had to supply voice for him in the issuing of orders, in addition to my other duties. the situation was most portentous. we lay in the main street under the shelter of the houses, which were being bombarded by the rebel batteries in their efforts to reach our troops. the houses were all vacant; the people had fled on the approach of our army. not a soul did we see of the inhabitants of the city during the two days we occupied it. they had evidently left in great haste, taking but few things with them. i was told that in some houses the boys found and ate meals that had been prepared and left in their flight, and in all there was more or less food, which was appropriated. flour was plentiful, and the night after the battle there were army flapjacks galore. in some cases it might have been said these were fearfully and wonderfully made, but they went just the same. an incident connected with this occupation of fredericksburg comes to light after forty years. if general howard should see it the mystery of the sudden disappearance of his breakfast on that morning might be cleared up. our regiment happened to be quartered in the morning near his head-quarters. rations were scarce. general howard's servant had prepared him a most tempting breakfast from supplies found and confiscated from one of the houses. the sight of this repast and its savory fumes were too much for the empty stomachs of two of our men, who shall be nameless here. the trick was a neat one. one of them got the attention of the cook and held it until the other reached into the tent and dumped the contents of the main dish, hot and steaming, into his haversack and quietly sauntered away. when the cook discovered his loss the other fellow was gone. these rascals said it was the best dish of ham and eggs they ever ate. many houses had fine pianos and other musical instruments, and in some instances impromptu dances were on whilst confederate shells whanged through the house above their heads. it is safe to say that there was little left of valuable bric-à-brac to greet the fugitive people on their return. and it is highly probable that pianos and handsome furniture needed considerable repairing after the exodus of the "yank." this was not due to pure vandalism, although war creates the latter, but to the feeling of hatred for the miserable rebels who had brought on the war and were the cause of our being there. and it must be admitted there were some who pocketed all they could for the commercialism there might be in it, the argument again being, "somebody will take it, and i might as well have it as the other fellow." the first part of the argument was doubtless as true as the latter part was false. many trinkets were hawked about among the men after the fight as souvenirs. among them was a silver-plated communion flagon. some scamp had filched it from one of the churches and was trying to sell it. fortunately, he did not belong to our regiment. our chaplain took it from him and had it strapped to his saddle-bag. his purpose was to preserve it for its owner if the time should come that it could be returned. but in the meantime its presence attached to his saddle made him the butt of any amount of raillery from both officers and men. when i joined the regiment it was lying in front of the court-house, from the steeple of which some sixty or seventy feet high, the flags of our signal-corps were most actively wagging. it occurred to me that those signal-men were mighty nervy fellows. they were a beautiful mark for the rebel batteries, which were evidently doing their best to knock them out. the steeple was a plain, old-fashioned affair, having an open belfry, which seemed to be supported by four upright posts or timbers. i saw one of those uprights knocked out by a rebel shell. a couple more equally good shots and our signal-fellows would come ignominiously--no, gloriously--down, for there could be no ignominy with such pluck. but the wig-wagging went on, i fancied, with a little more snap and audacity than before, and they maintained their station there in the very teeth of the rebel batteries until the army was withdrawn. so much for "yankee nerve." i afterwards learned that the signal-officer there was none other than lieutenant frederick fuller, of scranton, one of my most intimate personal friends. lieutenant fuller told me that he was on duty at burnside's head-quarters on that morning; that a station was ordered opened in the belfry of that court-house, and another officer was despatched thither for that duty; that after waiting some time for the flags to appear he was ordered over to see what the trouble was. he found the other officer sitting under shelter, afraid to mount the belfry, nor could any persuasion induce him to face that storm of shell. lieutenant fuller thereupon climbed up into the belfry, opened the station himself, and ran it during the whole battle. about ten o'clock the command "forward" was sounded, and our brigade moved out towards marye's heights. some idea of the topography of fredericksburg and its rear i find is necessary to an understanding of what follows. marye's heights, which encircle the city back some five hundred yards, are the termination of a plateau which rises from one hundred and fifty to two hundred feet in an abrupt terrace from the plain upon which the city stands. these heights form a half-circle from the river above to a point below the city some little distance from the river, and are from a mile to a mile and a half long and are most admirably adapted for defensive purposes. the rebel batteries, numbering at least one hundred guns, were massed on these heights, and covered not only every street leading out from the city, but every square foot of ground of the plain below. a third of the way down the terrace was an earthwork filled with infantry, whilst at its foot ran the famous stone wall extending southward from the cemetery above the city, and was continued by an earthwork around the whole circle. behind this stone wall was massed a double line of confederate infantry. to enter either street leading out to those heights was to face the concentrated fire of that mass of artillery and the deadly work of those three lines of infantry. yet that was just what we had before us. our division (french's) led the assault. our regiment brought up the rear of our brigade column. as each regiment turned into the street leading out, it took up the run to cover this exposed ground as quickly as possible. lieutenant-colonel albright was leading our regiment and i was by his side. we passed rapidly up the street, already covered with the dead and wounded which had fallen from the regiments that had preceded us, until we reached the embankment of a railroad, which was nearly parallel with the enemy's works. a temporary halt was made here preparatory to moving forward in line of battle. turning to see that our men were in position, i was amazed to find that we had but one company with us. it was my duty as adjutant to go back and find and bring up the balance of the regiment. the distance was about four hundred yards. i can truthfully say that in that moment i gave my life up. i do not expect ever again to face death more certainly than i thought i did then. it did not seem possible that i could go through that fire again and return alive. the grass did not grow under my feet going back. my sprinting record was probably made then. it may be possible to see the humorous side at this distance, but it was verily a life and death matter then. one may ask how such dangers can be faced. the answer is, there are many things more to be feared than death. cowardice and failure of duty with me were some of them. i can fully appreciate the story of the soldier's soliloquy as he saw a rabbit sprinting back from the line of fire: "go it, cotton tail; if i hadn't a reputation at stake, i'd go to." reputation and duty were the holding forces. i said to myself, "this is duty. i'll trust in god and do it. if i fall, i cannot die better." without the help and stimulus of that trust i could not have done it, for i doubt if any man was ever more keenly susceptible to danger than i, and the experience of antietam had taught me the full force of this danger. the nervous strain was simply awful. it can be appreciated only by those who have experienced it. the atmosphere seemed surcharged with the most startling and frightful things. deaths, wounds, and appalling destruction everywhere. as fast as i was running back over that street, my eyes caught an incident that i can see now, which excited my pity, though i had no time to offer help. a fine-looking fellow had been struck by a shot, which had severed one leg and left it hanging by one of the tendons, the bone protruding, and he was bleeding profusely. some men were apparently trying to get him off the street. they had hold of his arms and the other leg, but were jumping and dodging at every shell that exploded, jerking and twisting this dangling leg to his horrible torture. i remember hearing him beseeching them to lay him down and let him die. they were probably a trio of cowards trying to get back from the front, and were using this wounded man to get away with, a not infrequent occurrence with that class of bummers. i found the balance of the regiment had passed our street and were in confusion further down the main street. as the second company was about turning to follow the column a shell had exploded in their faces, killing and wounding some ten men and throwing it into disorder. before it could be rallied the advancing column was out of sight. it was the work of but a few moments to straighten out the tangle and head them again for the front. no body of men could have more quickly and bravely responded, though they told me afterwards that they read in my pallid face the character of the work before them. back we went up that street on the run, having to pick our way to avoid stepping on the dead and wounded, for the ground was now blue with our fallen heroes. chapter x the battle of fredericksburg--concluded reaching the place in the rear of that railroad embankment, where i had left the brigade, i found it had just gone forward in line of battle, and a staff officer directed me to bring the rest of the regiment forward under fire, which i did, fortunately getting them into their proper position. the line was lying prone upon the ground in that open field and trying to maintain a fire against the rebel infantry not more than one hundred and fifty yards in our front behind that stone wall. we were now exposed to the fire of their three lines of infantry, having no shelter whatever. it was like standing upon a raised platform to be shot down by those sheltered behind it. had we been ordered to fix bayonets and charge those heights we could have understood the movement, though that would have been an impossible undertaking, defended as they were. but to be sent close up to those lines to maintain a firing-line without any intrenchments or other shelter, if that was its purpose, was simply to invite wholesale slaughter without the least compensation. it was to attempt the impossible, and invite certain destruction in the effort. on this interesting subject i have very decided convictions, which i will give later on. [illustration: first lieut. james a. rogers co. c] [illustration: first lieut. noah h. jay co. k] [illustration: first lieut. a. c. mensch co. e] [illustration: first lieut. charles e. gladding co. d] [illustration: first lieut. isaiah w. willitts co. h] [illustration: second lieut. d. r. mellick co. e] proceeding now with my narrative, we were evidently in a fearful slaughter-pen. our men were being swept away as by a terrific whirlwind. the ground was soft and spongy from recent rains, and our faces and clothes were bespattered with mud from bullets and fragments of shells striking the ground about us, whilst men were every moment being hit by the storm of projectiles that filled the air. in the midst of that frightful carnage a man rushing by grasped my hand and spoke. i turned and looked into the face of a friend from a distant city. there was a glance of recognition and he was swept away. what his fate was i do not know. that same moment i received what was supposed to be my death wound. whilst the men were lying down, my duties kept me on my feet. lieutenant charles mcdougal,[d] commanding the color company, called to me that the color-guard were all either killed or wounded. we had two stands of colors, the national and state flags. these colors were carried by two color-sergeants, protected by six color-corporals, which made up the color-guard. if either sergeant became disabled the nearest corporal took the colors, and so on until the color-guard were down. this was the condition when this officer called to me to replace these disabled men, so that the colors should be kept flying. he had one flag in his hand as i approached him, and he was in the act of handing it to me when a bullet crashed through his arm and wrist, spattering my face with his warm blood. i seized the staff as it fell from his shattered arm. the next instant a bullet cut the staff away just below my hand. an instant later i was struck on the head by the fragment of a shell and fell unconscious with the colors in my hand. how long i remained unconscious i do not know, possibly twenty minutes or more. what were my sensations when hit? i felt a terrific blow, but without pain, and the thought flashed through my mind, "this is the end," and then everything was black. i do not remember falling. it takes time to write this, but events moved then with startling rapidity. from the time we went forward from the embankment until the line was swept back could have been but a few minutes, otherwise all must have been killed. when i revived i was alone with the dead and wounded. the line of battle had been swept away. the field about me was literally covered with the blue uniforms of our dead and wounded men. the firing had very perceptibly decreased. i had worn into the battle my overcoat, with my sword buckled on the outside. i had been hit on the left side of my head, and that side of my body was covered with blood down to my feet, which was still flowing. my first thought was as to my condition, whether mortally wounded or not. i was perceptibly weakened from loss of blood, but lying there i could not tell how much strength i had left. i did not dare move, for that would make me a target for the guns that covered that terrible wall, the muzzles of which i could plainly see. many of them were still spitting out their fire with a venom that made my position exceedingly uncomfortable. what should i do? what could i do? to remain there was either to bleed to death or be taken prisoner and sent to libby, which i felt would mean for me a sure lingering death. to make a move to get off the field would draw the fire of those guns, which would surely finish me. these were the alternatives. i carefully stretched my legs to test my strength, and i made up my mind i had enough left to carry me off the field, and i resolved to take my chances in the effort. i determined that i would zigzag my course to the rear so as not to give them a line shot at me. so getting myself together i made a supreme effort and sprang up and off in jumps, first to the right, then to the left. as i expected, they opened on me, and the bullets flew thick and fast about me. the first turn i got a bullet through my right leg just above the ankle. it felt like the stinging cut of a whip and rather accelerated my speed. about fifty yards back was an old slab fence to my right, and i plunged headlong behind that, hoping to find shelter from those bullets. i fell directly behind several other wounded men, two of whom rolled over dead from bullets that came through the slabs and which were probably aimed at me. this flushed me again, and by the same zigzag tactics i succeeded in getting back to the railroad embankment, where, to my great joy, i found colonel albright with what remained of the regiment. colonel albright grasped me in his arms as i came over, with the exclamation, "we thought you were killed." sergeant-major clapp told me that he had rolled me over and satisfied himself that i was dead before they went back. as i reached cover under this embankment i remember noticing a field-officer rallying his men very near us on our right, and that instant his head was literally carried away by a shell. so intense was the situation that even this tragic death received only a passing thought. then came the irish brigade, charging over our line as they did at antietam. they came up and went forward in fine form, but they got but a few yards beyond the embankment, when they broke and came back, what was left of them, in great confusion. no troops could stand that fire. our division and the whole second corps, in fact, were now completely disorganized, and the men were making their way back to the city and the cover of the river-bank as best they could, whilst the splendid old ninth corps was advancing to take its place. profiting by our experience, they did not advance by those streets through which we came, but made their way through houses and yards and so escaped that concentrated fire on the streets. their advancing lines, covering the whole city front, looked magnificent, and it was dreadful to think that such a splendid body of men must march into such a slaughter-pen. their movement was a repetition of ours. with bayonets unfixed they moved forward and attempted to maintain a firing-line under marye's heights on the ground from which we had been driven, only to be hurled mercilessly back as we had been. our line had been the first to make this effort, and for some reason we had approached to within about one hundred yards of their main line of infantry, much closer than any of the troops that followed. the others had barely got beyond the embankment, when they were swept away. we, having approached nearer their line, were, of course, longer exposed to their fire and lost more heavily. i was always curious to know why we of the first line of that fateful movement succeeded in getting so much nearer their works than the equally brave and determined men who followed us. some years afterwards on revisiting this location i met an ex-confederate who commanded one of the rebel batteries on those heights that day. in answer to my questions, he said the first "yankee" line was permitted to approach much nearer than those that followed, for, said he, "we knew they were our meat, and when we finally opened on them with our full force, the slaughter was so awful it made me heart sick. but you kept coming with such persistency that we did not dare repeat those tactics." this may have been partially true so far as concerned their infantry fire, but a more potent reason, in my judgment, was that we had developed the utter hopelessness of the attempt, and men could not put heart into the effort. recurring to myself again, colonel albright stanched the flowing of blood from my wound in the head by making a strong compress of my large bandana handkerchief. the other wound in my leg did not give me much trouble then. in that condition, accompanied by another wounded man, i made my way back into the city. we found it one vast hospital. every house was literally crowded with wounded men. we were fortunate enough to run against our brigade surgeon, who had taken possession of a brick building on the main street for hospital purposes. the only thing he could give me to lie down upon was a wooden bench. we had dismounted and left our horses with a servant when we went forward, and our blankets, etc., were with them, and where they were now there was no means of knowing. i was therefore without those comforts. everything of that nature left by the rebels had long before been appropriated. the doctor hastily examined my wounds, pronounced them not dangerous, ordered the hospital steward to dress them, and was away. he, however, appropriated my red handkerchief. i had been presented by a friend on leaving scranton with two large old-fashioned red silk bandana handkerchiefs, and they were exceedingly useful. the doctor, seeing them, said, "i must have these to nail up over the outside door to show that this is a hospital," and, without so much as saying by your leave, carried them off. the effort was to secure as much protection as possible from the fire of the enemy, and to do this the red flag of the hospital must be displayed. it is against the rules of civilized warfare to fire upon a hospital. the doctor said my red silk handkerchiefs were the first red stuff of any kind he had been able to get hold of. of course i was glad to part with them for that purpose, though they were worth at that time $ each in gold. the wound in my head was fortunately a glancing blow from a fragment of a shell. it tore the scalp from the bone about three inches in length in the form of a v. it has never given me serious trouble, more than to be a barometer of changing weather. the wound in my leg nearly severed the big tendon. they both quickly healed, and i was off duty with them but the one day i took to get back to camp. after my wounds had been dressed i tried to sleep, being not only very weak from loss of blood, but almost in a condition of nervous exhaustion. i laid down on my bench, but shells were continually crashing through the building, and sleep was impossible. i went out on the street. it was crowded with wounded and straggling soldiers. the stragglers were hunting for their regiments, the wounded for hospital room. it seemed as if the army must have disintegrated. this was practically true of the second and ninth corps, which had made the assault. towards night general french rode down the street, accompanied by his staff. seeing me, he stopped his horse and exclaimed, "adjutant, where is my division? tell me where my men are. my god, i am without a command!" and the tears were flowing down his red, weather-beaten face. he was beside himself over the awful losses of his division. well he might be, for a great number of them were lying on yonder field in front of marye's heights, and the balance were scattered through the houses and on the river-bank practically disorganized. i was greatly alarmed for our safety that night. it seemed to me highly probable that general lee would come down upon us and capture all that were in the city, as he could easily have done. possibly he was satisfied with the damage already inflicted, and did not care to assume the care of our wounded, which that would have involved. i remained on my bench in that hospital through that long night without food or covering. i had eaten nothing since early morning. with the constant whanging of shells through ours and adjacent buildings and the moaning of the wounded lying all about me, sleep or rest was impossible. it was a night too dreadful to think of, and makes me shudder again as i write. we remained in the city the next day, sunday, and i rejoined our regiment, which, with other troops, was lying under the shelter of the river-bank. officers were getting their men together as far as possible and bringing order out of chaos. we had sunday about two hundred for duty out of three hundred and fifty taken into the battle. on monday, the th, we who were wounded were told to make our way across the river back to our old camps as best we could. i was now very weak, and my head and leg were very sore. the latter gave me much trouble in walking, nevertheless there was a three-mile tramp before us. lieutenant musselman, also wounded, went with me on this weary tramp. we did not reach camp that night, and so had to find shelter at a farm-house, already full of straggling and wounded soldiers. the owner was a widow, living with a grown-up daughter, and was a bitter rebel, although professing union sentiments whilst our army was there. she was, of course, greatly annoyed by the presence of these soldiers, most of whom were eating up her provisions without paying for them. some of them were "bummers," who had run away from the battle and had persuaded her to feed and shelter them for the protection they professed to afford her. she was in great wrath when we reached there and peremptorily forbade us entering. but i told her firmly that we were wounded men and must have shelter; that i would willingly pay for accommodations, but, permission or not, the latter we must have. this argument seemed to be convincing, and the daughter led us up to the garret, which, she said, was the only unoccupied room in the house. here she spread a blanket on the floor for us to sleep on. i suppose this was the best she could do. then, at our solicitation, she got us some supper, an exceedingly frugal meal, but we were glad to get that. the daughter did not seem to share her mother's bitterness, but as often as she could would interject a word in our favor, and really did all she could for us. i sincerely hope she was ultimately made a permanent prisoner by some good "boy in blue." here would have been an excellent opportunity to have woven into this narrative the golden thread of romance. this pretty secesh girl, with flashing blue eyes and golden hair, rebel to the core, yet befriending a wounded union soldier, etc. how readily it lends itself, but the truth must be told. the little arrow god had already driven home his shaft, and so the romance could not mature. during the evening general franz sigel and staff came to the house and demanded supper. our lady was very polite, assured him that it was impossible. "very well," said general sigel, "i think i shall want this place to-morrow for a hospital. madam, your kindness will be reciprocated." he spoke very emphatically, whereat the pretty daughter began to cry, and the mother to stammer apologies, and said she would do the best she could for them, but she really had nothing to cook. the general retired very indignant. whether or not his threat was carried out i do not know, for the next morning we were off without trying to get breakfast. on asking for her bill we were surprised to find her charges were evidently based on the highest war-time hotel rates. we had so poor a supper that we had no desire for breakfast there, and had slept on the garret floor. for this she demanded one dollar. we paid her fifty cents, which was more than double its worth, and left amidst a great volley of her choicest anathemas. we reached camp towards noon, and found we had tramped about five miles out of our way. the regiment was there ahead of us, the troops having evacuated fredericksburg on monday, two days after the battle, without opposition. we were actually under fire in this battle, that is, from the time the assault began until we were swept back, probably not more than thirty minutes as against four and one-half hours at antietam. yet our losses were proportionately much heavier. during my absence on sick leave, our regiment, after leaving warrenton, had been detailed on heavy "fatigue" duty, loading and unloading vessels and various kinds of laborer's work at belle-plain, and in consequence many were on the sick list, others were on various details, so that when we went into this battle we had only three hundred and fifty men for duty, against seven hundred and fifty at antietam. of this number my diary, written the th, says we lost: killed, ; wounded, ; missing, ; total, . lieutenant hoagland, company h, was killed. of the wounded, four were officers,--captain richard stillwell and first lieutenant john b. floyd, company k; first lieutenant musselman, company e, and first lieutenant mcdougal, commanding company c. lieutenant mcdougal's arm was shattered by a minie-ball whilst handing me the colors, detailed above. captain stillwell received a very singular wound. a bullet struck the side of his neck near the big artery and appeared to have gouged out a bit of flesh and glanced off. it bled more than this circumstance would have seemed to warrant, but the captain was sure he was not hurt and made light of it. swelling and pain speedily developed in his shoulder, and it was found that the missile, instead of glancing off, had taken a downward course and finally lodged near his shoulder-joint, a distance of ten or twelve inches from where it entered. he was given leave of absence on account of wounds, and the ball was cut out after his return home, and ultimately the whole channel made by the ball had to be opened, when it was found lined with whiskers which the ball had carried in with it. most of those computed above as missing were undoubtedly killed, but had not been so reported at that time. our loss in that half-hour was nearly one-third. one stand of our colors, the one whose staff was shot away in my hand, was missing, and the other was badly torn by shells and bullets. chapter xi why fredericksburg was lost i promised to give my convictions relative to the responsibility for the disaster of fredericksburg, and i might as well do it here. recalling the fact heretofore stated that we seemed to have been thrown against marye's heights to be sacrificed; that we were not ordered to charge their works, but to advance and maintain a line of battle-fire where such a thing was absolutely impossible, i come to the inquiry, what was the character and purpose of the movement and why did it fail? so thoroughly impressed was i that there was something radically wrong about it, that i determined to solve that question if possible, and so made a study of the subject at that time and later after my return home. i had personal friends in the first and sixth corps, which had operated on the extreme left, and i discussed with them the movements that day. finally, after my return home, i got access to covode's congressional reports on the conduct of the war covering that campaign, and from all these sources learned what i then and now believe to be substantially the facts about that campaign. the army was divided into three grand divisions, composed of two army corps each, namely, the second and ninth, the right grand division, commanded by sumner; the first and sixth, the left grand division, commanded by franklin, and the third and fifth, the centre, commanded by hooker. the plan of battle was to hold lee's army at fredericksburg by a "feint in force" (which means an attack sufficiently strong to deceive the enemy into the belief that it is the real or main attack) at that point, whilst the left grand division was to throw a pontoon bridge across the river three miles below and turn his flank (_i.e._, get behind them) in the rear of marye's heights. for this purpose the left grand division was to advance and attack vigorously. if successful, lee would then have been between franklin's forces on the left and our own on the right, with every possibility of being crushed. hooker was to hold his division in readiness to support either wing. had this plan been carried out, our work at the right would, at its conception, have been as it appeared to be, a mad sacrifice of men, but with an opportunity later on of pushing forward and reaping a victory. in that event, our position would have made us a tremendous factor in the result. now how was the plan carried out? the student will be puzzled on finding such a paucity of records concerning this disastrous movement. the official documents are remarkable for what they do not contain. a study of covode's reports on the conduct of the war will, i think, justify my conclusions, viz., that the disaster of fredericksburg was due not to accident, nor to a faulty plan of battle, but to a failure of the left grand division to perform the vital part assigned to it. my information gained at the time was that franklin was to remain concealed until the signal for our attack came; then he was to cross over and attack vigorously, a military expression, meaning to put all possible vigor and power into the movement. the signal was given as our attack began. whatever force may have crossed the river at that time, my information was that the division known as the pennsylvania reserve, now numbering probably not more than six thousand men, under general meade, was the only body of troops which made a determined attack on lee's right, in support of our work in front of marye's heights. realizing the opportunity, general meade pushed forward with his usual vigor and, though meeting strenuous opposition, soon found himself well in lee's rear, but without support. he sent back aide after aide to hurry forward the supporting lines, but without avail, finally galloping back himself. he found general birney resting near the bridge with his division. an eye-witness[e] to meade's interview with birney says the language of general meade as he upbraided birney for not coming to his support was enough to "almost make the stones creep;" that meade was almost wild with rage as he saw the golden opportunity slipping away and the slaughter of his men going for naught. he said birney responded that he agreed with general meade fully, and was ready and most anxious to come to his support, but that his orders were peremptory to await further orders in his present position: that he had been for an hour trying to find general franklin to obtain permission to move forward. this loss of time and want of support to meade's charge changed a possible victory into a fearful disaster. this was substantially the testimony of major-general reynolds, commanding the first corps, before the committee on the conduct of the war. burnside rode down to the left and vigorously expostulated with franklin for his failure to carry out his orders, and peremptorily ordered him to make the attack as originally directed, whilst he repeated the movement at the right. it was now considerably after noon, and this order was undoubtedly a mistake. the plan of battle had been revealed, and there was practically no hope of success. had the left grand division vigorously performed its part in the earlier movement, can any one doubt the result? i cannot think so. had meade, reynolds, or hancock been in command on the left that day, i feel confident that fredericksburg would have been recorded a glorious victory instead of a horrible slaughter. now, why did the left grand division fail to make the attack as ordered? halleck, in his report on the operations at fredericksburg, says "alleged misunderstanding of orders." here is his language: "it was intended that franklin's grand division, consisting of the corps of reynolds (first) and smith (sixth), should attack the enemy's right and turn his position on the heights in the rear of fredericksburg, while sumner and hooker attacked him in front. but by some alleged misunderstanding of orders franklin's operations were limited to a mere reconnoissance, and the direct attacks of sumner and hooker were unsupported." "rebellion records," vol. xxi., page . is the theory of a misunderstanding of orders tenable? the records show that on the th of december, two days before the battle, burnside ordered his division commanders to so dispose their troops as to bring them within easy reach of fredericksburg, and that on that day at twelve o'clock noon these officers were ordered to meet him personally at his head-quarters for final instructions. there are no records of what those instructions were, but is it credible that either general retired from that conference with a misunderstanding as to the plan of battle or of his own part in it? certain it is that neither sumner nor hooker misunderstood. and the excuse said to have been made by franklin, that he did not deem the attack on the left practicable, is not consistent with the idea of misunderstanding. otherwise, why did he attack at all? general halleck's guarded language clearly indicates where he placed the responsibility for that disaster, and that he did not credit the "misunderstanding of orders" theory. it is plainly evident burnside did not accept that excuse, as appears from his celebrated order no. , issued a month later, relieving franklin, smith, newton, cochran, and ferrero, and stating as his reason that "it being evident that these officers can be of no further service to this army,"--the first named being the commander of the left grand division, the second the commander of the sixth corps, and the others subordinate commanders in that wing of the army. general burnside explained to the committee on the conduct of the war[f] that in asking the president to approve this order, and making that a condition upon which he would consent to remain at the head of the army, he had explicitly stated, "that was the only condition on which he could command the army of the potomac." in other words, he could not command that army with those officers as his subordinates. the inference that there had been insubordination is inevitable. it was the current belief amongst us officers of the army that the battle of fredericksburg had been lost through a want of hearty co-operation, if not direct disobedience of orders, on the part of the officer commanding on the left that day, and some of his subordinates, and that this was due to a spirit of jealousy. mcclellan had but recently been removed from the command of the army, and the officers relieved were strong personal friends and partisans of the latter. again, burnside, his successor, was alleged to be junior in actual rank to franklin. whether either of these facts supplied the motives for the jealousy which lost that battle, if such was true, the judgment day alone will reveal. it is devoutly to be hoped that the light of that day will relieve the terrible disaster of fredericksburg of this awful shadow, and that nothing worse than a "misunderstanding of orders" was responsible for it. that order no. was disapproved at washington, and general burnside promptly tendered his resignation of the command of the army of the potomac. he felt that he had not received and was not likely to receive the cordial and hearty support of all his subordinate officers, and under those circumstances he did not want the responsibility of command. he expressed himself as anxious to serve his country and willing to work anywhere it might please the president to place him. he was not relieved, however, until a month or so later. in writing the foregoing i know that many brave men will take exception. i would say, however, that i have made a somewhat careful study of the subject from an absolutely unprejudiced stand-point, and such are the conclusions i reached, and they were shared by many of my fellow-officers who were in that campaign. the losses in this battle amount to nearly one-third the troops actually engaged, a most remarkable fact, and which stamps this engagement as one of the bloodiest in all history. burnside reports his loss as twelve hundred and eighty-four killed and nine thousand six hundred wounded, making a total loss, including the missing, of twelve thousand six hundred and fifty-three. of this loss the right grand division (the second and ninth corps) lost five thousand three hundred and eleven. the left grand division, franklin's (first and sixth corps, which numbered considerably more than the right grand division), lost three thousand four hundred and sixty-two, and most of this was sustained in the second attack in the afternoon. these facts sustain the belief above referred to in the army, that the main attack in the morning on the left was not what it should have been, and was the cause of the disaster. a remarkable fact connected with this loss is the great number of wounded as compared with the killed. usually the former exceeds the latter in the proportion of three and four to one, but at fredericksburg it was nearly nine to one. how this is to be explained i never understood, unless it be that most of the casualties were from exploding shells. the minute fragments of a shell scatter very widely and wound, whilst there are fewer of the large pieces which kill. for example, the shell that exploded in the front of our second company, as it was turning to enter the street leading out towards marye's heights, previously described, knocked out ten men, only one of whom was instantly killed. it is safe to estimate that of the nine thousand six hundred reported as wounded, one-third died or were permanently disabled therefrom. to show how quickly troops can recover from such a shock as the disaster of fredericksburg, the second corps had a grand review back of falmouth the second week after the battle. major-general edwin v. sumner, commanding the right grand division, was the reviewing officer. i have spoken before of this distinguished officer. this was his farewell to the second corps, which he had long commanded and to which he was greatly attached, a sentiment which was most cordially reciprocated by the men. he was now probably the oldest in years of all the officers in the army, yet still vigorous, intrepid, and efficient. he was relieved from active command in the field and assigned to the command of the department of the ohio, but a few months later died peacefully at his home in new york. is it not singular that this old hero should have escaped the numberless missiles of death in all the battles through which he had passed, so soon to succumb in the quietude of retirement? our regiment had present at this review but few over two hundred men, and the other regiments were proportionally small, so that the corps was scarcely larger than a good-sized division, yet it appeared in splendid condition. its depleted numbers and battle-scarred flags alone told the story of its recent experiences. the following week our regiment was detailed for a ten-days' tour of picket duty, and was encamped some distance above falmouth in a pretty grove. this change of service was a welcome one to the men in many respects, for there was better foraging opportunities, and there was also considerable excitement attending this service in the presence of the enemy. the rappahannock river was the dividing line of the two armies, and their respective pickets lined its banks. at this time the two lines were kept as far as possible concealed from each other, though there was practically no picket firing. later on the two lines were posted in full view of each other, and by agreement under a "flag of truce" all picket firing was strictly forbidden. thereafter, although forbidden, there was more or less conversation carried on between the two lines. chapter xii lost colors recovered in addition to our heavy loss of men at fredericksburg was the loss of our colors, the stand whose staff had been shot away in my hand as described in a former chapter. it can be well understood that we felt very keenly the loss of our flag, although we knew that it had been most honorably lost. it was known to have been brought off the field in the night by corporal william i. d. parks, company h, one of the color-guard, who was mortally wounded, and left by him in a church used as a temporary hospital. corporal parks was removed to a hospital at washington, where he died shortly afterwards, and the colors mysteriously disappeared. the act of this color-bearer in crawling off the field with his colors, wounded as he was to the death, was a deed of heroism that has few parallels. we made every effort to find the flag, but without success, and had concluded that it must have been left in fredericksburg, and so fallen into the hands of the enemy, when a couple of weeks after the battle, on returning from a ride down to falmouth, i noticed a regiment of our troops having dress parade. i rode near them, and my attention was at once attracted to the fact that they paraded three stands of colors, a most unusual circumstance. my suspicion was at once aroused that here were our lost colors. riding closer, my joy was great on recognizing our number and letters on their bullet-and shell-tattered folds, " p. v." anger immediately succeeded my joy as i saw that our precious colors were being paraded as a sort of trophy. this flag, under whose folds so many of our brave men had fallen, and which had been so heroically rescued from the field, exhibited to the army and the world as a trophy of the battle by another regiment! it was, in effect, a public proclamation of our cowardice and dishonor and of their prowess in possessing what we had failed to hold and guard, our sacred colors. it stung me to the quick. i do not remember ever to have been more beside myself with anger. it was with difficulty that i contained myself until their ceremony was over, when i rode up to the colonel, in the presence of all his officers, and in a voice which must have betrayed my emotion, demanded to know why he was parading our colors. his reply was, "those are the colors of a d----d runaway regiment which my men picked up on the battle-field of fredericksburg." my hair and whiskers were somewhat hot in color those days, and i have not kept a record of my language to that colonel for the next few minutes. i sincerely hope the recording angel has not. still, i am sure it was the explosion of a righteous indignation. full of wrath i galloped at topmost speed to camp and made known my discovery to colonel albright. if i was "hot," what shall be said of him? of a fiery, mercurial disposition, his temper flew in a moment. he mounted his horse and bade me lead him to this regiment. the brave heralds who carried "the good news from ghent to aix," did not gallop faster than did we two, and the wicked fellow who was hired to say two dollars' worth of "words" for the quaker did not do his work a bit more effectively than did my brave colonel in denouncing the man who had made that charge of cowardice against our regiment. well, he began to hedge immediately. he evidently saw that there was trouble ahead, and offered to give us the colors at once, but colonel albright peremptorily refused to accept them that way, and said he would demand a court of inquiry and would require full and complete vindication, cost what it might. a court of inquiry was at once asked for and granted. it was made up of officers outside of our division, and was directed to investigate the loss of our flag, and how it came into the possession of this other regiment. colonel albright was a good lawyer and conducted his own case before the court. it came out in the investigation that in making his report of the part his regiment took in the battle of fredericksburg this colonel had used substantially the same language he had to me concerning how he came into possession of the flag. here is the paragraph referring to our colors, taken from his report printed in the "rebellion records," vol. xxi., page : "i would also state that some cowardly members of a regiment unknown (?) abandoned their colors, which were recovered by captain northrup, of my regiment, and saved the disgrace of falling into the hands of the enemy." my diary notes that i interviewed this captain northrup, and he promptly stated that he took the colors from the hospital and brought them with him when their regiment left fredericksburg. he said he did not know how they got into the hospital, but supposed a wounded sergeant had left them there. he disclaimed any idea of their having been abandoned in a cowardly manner, and could not understand why his colonel had made such a declaration. the statement that his men rescued them from an unknown regiment was false upon its face, for our name was inscribed on its folds in plain letters, " d p. v." why he made such a statement, and why he treated the colors as he did, i could never understand, for had the statement been true it was outrageously unmilitary to proclaim to the world the cowardice of one of our own regiments. it was his duty to promptly send the colors to head-quarters, with a statement of the facts, so that the alleged runaways could be properly disciplined. as it was, it seemed a most contemptible effort to secure a little cheap, unearned glory. it was heartlessly cruel and unworthy of a brave soldier. the result of the court of inquiry was a full and complete vindication of our regiment, as shown by the following paragraph from an order issued by major-general o. o. howard, commanding the second corps: "the last color-bearer, badly wounded, left his regiment after dark, and in the town entered a church used as a hospital, taking his colors with him. he was carried away from this place and the colors left behind. the very fidelity of the color-bearer holding to his colors as long as he was conscious was the occasion of their loss to the regiment. not only no fault should be found with this regiment, but it should receive unqualified commendation." general french, commanding our division, published this order to the division, adding the following: "as the commander of the division, and knowing the character of the one hundred and thirty-second pennsylvania volunteers, which has fought under my eye in two of the bloodiest engagements of the war, and which has the highest encomiums from its brigade commander, general kimball, who knows what brave men are, i have deemed it my duty to make this record to go with whatever may have transpired in reference to this subject during my short absence." the above paragraphs were taken from bates's "history of pennsylvania volunteers." the colors were ordered returned to us with proper military honors. they were brought to general french's head-quarters by a military escort from that regiment, and i had the satisfaction of officially receiving them with a like escort from our regiment, commanded by first lieutenant j. d. laciar, of company g. the ceremony was to us a joyous and impressive occasion. it took place in the presence of general alfred sully, temporarily commanding the division, and staff, and our brigade officers. the two escorts were drawn up, facing each other. the order of major-general howard, above referred to, was read. this was followed by a little speech from general sully, in which we came in for some more praise; then both escorts presented arms, whilst their color-bearer transferred the colors to ours, and the ceremony was over. a happier escort never marched than was ours bearing home those restored colors. the weather was now getting very cold, and we set about making ourselves as comfortable as possible in camp. the men were allowed to fix up their tents as best they could without much regard for architectural beauty or regularity. some of them dug cellars four to five feet deep, made puncheon floors,--that is, floors made of split logs smoothed off and laid the flat side up,--whilst the sides were made of logs plastered up with mud. mud fireplaces were made with old barrels for chimneys. the roofs were canvas, of course, but fairly waterproof. a favorite bit of horse-play of the men at this time was to watch when the occupants of some tent were having a good time, and smoke them out by throwing a wet blanket over the top of their barrel chimney. in about a second the smoke would be almost dense enough to suffocate, and every fellow would pile out and hunt for the culprit. woe be unto him if they found him. a favorite ruse on the part of the culprit was to plunge into his tent and be placidly snoring when the victims began their hunt. sometimes the simulation would be too sonorous, and give him away, and then he had trouble on hand for the next hour. the ingenuity of these sons of belial in their pranks was beyond description. i have laughed until absolutely exhausted many a time. how did i know so much about them? well, i had two of the liveliest of these boys in my office as clerks, and, as they were generally in the fun, i was kept posted, and to tell the truth, as long as it did not seriously transgress, and there was fun in it, i knew nothing about it "officially." often have i seen these boys put up a job on some fellow quietly sleeping, by smoking out his next-door neighbors and then directing their attention to him as the culprit. to see him hauled out of a sound sleep and mauled for something he was entirely innocent of, vehemently protesting his innocence, yet the more he protested getting the more punishment, the rascals who put up the job doing most of the punishing, i have nearly split my sides. of course, no one was seriously hurt. the victim knew enough to keep his temper, and in the end enjoyed the lark as well as the rest. i speak of these things, for they were the oases in army life and drudgery. except for them it would have been unendurable. seldom were things so bad but that some bit of raillery would relieve the strain and get up a laugh, and everybody would feel better. we had a young fellow in one of the companies who was certainly the most comical genius i ever saw. he was known by a nickname only. no length of march and no severity of service could curb his spirits. when all were down in the dumps this fellow would perform some monkey-shine that would make even a horse laugh, and all would be in good spirits again. colonel albright used to say he was worth his weight in gold. he was with us until after fredericksburg, where he was either killed or wounded, and i do not remember to have seen him afterwards. i have spoken of the men's winter-quarters. we officers had our wall tents, and had them fixed up with puncheon floors also, and sheet-iron stoves, so that as long as we kept a fire burning all were fairly comfortable. but wood fires would last but an hour or so without replenishing, and so during the night we had great difficulty in keeping warm. some of the coldest nights my clerks and myself took turns in keeping up our fire. i rather prided myself on the construction of my bed. it was made of two springy poles held in place by crotched sticks driven into the ground. on the poles nailed crosswise was a bottom made of barrel-staves, the hollow side down, and on these was laid a bed of hay, kept in place by some old canvas sacking. on cold nights the only article of clothing we took off was our shoes or boots. then rolling ourselves in our blankets, with gum blanket outside tucked well around our feet and the whole surmounted with our overcoats, we managed to sleep pretty well. these puncheon floors were all the proceeds of foraging. no lumber of any kind was furnished by the government. the men cut the trees and split the logs wherever they could find them. most of them were "backed" into camp anywhere from one to four miles. after this little of note occurred in camp until christmas. we had made ourselves as comfortable as we could with the materials at hand, which were not in super-abundance. the weather was what we were told was characteristic of virginia winters,--rather mild, slush and mud, with its raw, disagreeable dampness, being the prevailing conditions. it was exceedingly trying to our men, and many, in consequence, were on the sick list. my diary notes that on christmas day we actually had a little sunshine, and that by way of adding good cheer to the occasion a ration of whiskey was issued to the men. the ration consisted of a gill for each man. each company was marched to the commissary tent, and every man received his gill in his cup or drank it from the measure, as he preferred. some of the men, who evidently were familiar with the intricacies of repeating in ward elections, managed in various ways to repeat their rations of this vile stuff until we had a good deal more than a gill of whiskey's worth of hilarity in camp. however, the noise was winked at, believing it would soon subside and pass off. all drills were suspended and the men were allowed passes freely out of camp, being required to be in quarters promptly at taps. the officers passed the day visiting and exchanging the compliments of the season. the wish for a "merry christmas" was about all there was to make it such. i remember our bill of fare for christmas dinner consisted of boiled rice and molasses, "lobskous" and stewed dried apples. the etymology of the euphonious word "lobskous" i am unable to give. the dish consisted of hardtack broken up and thoroughly soaked in water, then fried in pork fat. i trust my readers will preserve the recipe for a side dish next christmas. one of the boys, to show his appreciation of this extra fare for christmas dinner, improvised the following blessing: "good lord of love look down from above and see how a soldier's grub has mended,-- slushed rice, lobskous, and shoat, where only hardtack and hog were intended." the day was not without its fun, however. among other things, an impromptu foot-race was gotten up between the fourth new york and our regiment. the former regiment, with which we were now brigaded, was from new york city, and in its general make-up was decidedly "sporty." they had in their ranks specimens of almost all kinds of sports, such as professional boxers, wrestlers, fencers, and runners. one of the latter had been practising in the morning, and some of our boys had remarked that "he wasn't much of a runner," whereupon they were promptly challenged to produce a man who could beat him, for a cash prize of twenty dollars in gold. win or lose, our fellows were not to be bluffed, and so promptly accepted the challenge. back they came to camp with their "bluff," to look up a man to meet this professional. so far as our men were concerned, it was another case of the philistine defying the armies of israel. where was our david? all hands entered into the fun, from the colonel down. the race was to be a one-hundred-yard dash from a standing mark. we found our man in corporal riley tanner, of company i. he was a lithe, wiry fellow, a great favorite in his company, and in some trial sprints easily showed himself superior to all of the others. he, however, had never run a race, except in boys' play, and was not up on the professional tactics of such a contest. it was decided that the affair should take place at five o'clock p.m., on our regimental front, and should decide the championship of the two regiments in this particular. the course was duly measured and staked off, and was lined on both sides by a solid wall of the men, nearly our whole division being present, including most of the officers. if the championship of the world had been at stake, there could hardly have been more excitement, so much zest did every one put into it. on the minute the goliath of the bloody fourth appeared, clad in the most approved racing garb. he was a stockily built young irishman, and looked decidedly formidable, especially when our poor little david appeared a moment later, with no other preparation than his coat and cap off and pants rolled up. nevertheless, our boys thoroughly believed in him, and we all gave him a rousing cheer. the signal was given and away leaped our little champion like a frightened deer, literally running away from the professional from the start and beating him leisurely in the end by more than a dozen feet. great was the furore which followed. the victor was carried on the shoulders of his comrades of company i triumphantly back to his quarters, and afterwards through all the company streets, the victim of an immense popularity. corporal tanner, scarcely beyond his teens, was a good, brave, and true young man, popular with his comrades and faithful in all his duties. was this little race, so short and gloriously won, prophetic of his life's brief course? he came home to survive but a few years, and then die of injuries received in the service. he was as much a sacrifice upon the altar of his country as if he had been killed in battle. he was long ago laid to rest in a soldier's grave. but he still lives in the hearts of his comrades. here let me say a few words of our "friends, the enemy," we had just beaten, the fourth new york. its colonel was a scotchman named mcgregor, and he was a true mcgregor, a splendid officer. he was in command of the brigade after colonel andrews was wounded at fredericksburg, until himself disabled by a wound. his lieutenant-colonel was a captain in the new york police force when he entered the service, and after the war as inspector jameson he achieved a national reputation. he was a splendid fellow personally, and physically a king among men. he stood six feet two inches, beautifully proportioned, square, and straight as an indian, with heavy jet black hair and whiskers, and an eye that i imagine could almost burn a hole in a culprit. he could be both majestic and impressive when occasion required, and was more gifted in all these things than any man i ever knew. the following incident will illustrate his use of them. i met him in washington whilst returning to my regiment the day before the battle of fredericksburg. i joined him just before reaching the wharf where we were to take the boat. he had been up to washington on a day's pass, all any one could then get, and had for some reason overstayed his leave. i think he had missed his boat the day before. in consequence he could not get a pass through the lines to go back. i asked how he expected to get through the provost guard. "oh, that's easy," he said. "just watch me go through," and i did. there was a double guard at the entrance to the boat and a sergeant and lieutenant examining all passes. jameson threw his cape over his shoulders to conceal his shoulder-straps, put on one of his majestic airs, looked the officer through, as much as to say, you do not presume to question my rights here, and waved him and the guards aside, and deliberately stalked aboard, as though he commanded the army. i came meekly along behind, pass in hand. the officer had by that time recovered himself sufficiently to ejaculate, "who the h----l is that--general?" i repeated the ejaculation to the colonel afterwards to his great amusement. he was all right, and on his way to rejoin his regiment, where he was wounded next day, splendidly doing his duty. because he had overstayed his leave twenty-four hours, red tape would have required him to remain in washington, submit to a court-martial or court of inquiry, and probably after three or four weeks be sent back, duly excused, the country being deprived of his services in the mean time. well, to get back to christmas. after the foot-race the men were given free rein until ten o'clock p.m., and passes out of camp were not required. as the evening wore on, it became evident that john barleycorn had been getting in some extra work, from the character of the noise emanating from the company streets, and i became somewhat nervous about it. lieutenant-colonel albright's tent adjoined mine, and i could see that he was becoming a little exercised over this extra noise. the fear was that we might get a peremptory summons from division head-quarters to "explain immediately the causes of the unusual noises emanating from our regiment, and why it is not suppressed." just about ten o'clock there was an extra outburst, and i noticed colonel albright, with sword dangling, pass rapidly out of his tent and down towards the company streets from whence the noise came. i feared trouble, and slipped on my boots and followed as quickly as possible. but before i reached the scene, the colonel had drawn his sword and ordered all the men to their quarters, at the same time striking right and left with the flat of his sword, hitting two of the men. one proved to be a sergeant who was trying to quell the noise and get his men into quarters. the latter resented the blow and made a sharp retort to the colonel, who immediately repeated it, whereupon the sergeant struck him a terrible blow in the eye with his fist, knocking him down. i got there just in time to see the colonel fall, and immediately seized the sergeant and placed him in arrest. he was handed over to the division provost guard. the colonel was found to be seriously hurt. his eye swelled up and turned black and gave him great pain all night. and it was several days before he recovered the use of it. the most serious thing about this unfortunate culmination of our christmas festivities was not only the breach of discipline, but the present status of this sergeant. he was an exceptionally good non-commissioned officer, with a splendid record in both battles and in all service, yet he had now committed an offence the punishment for which, in time of war, was death,--viz., striking his superior commissioned officer. the next day colonel albright reported the affair to general french, commanding the division, who promptly advised him to prefer charges against the culprit and make an example of him. the matter was generally discussed by both officers and men in camp, and although it was felt that the sergeant had committed a grave offence, yet that the colonel was in a measure responsible for it. the latter was justly popular with all as a brave officer and good man, yet he had been guilty himself of an offence which had brought upon him the blow he had received. he had no right to strike a soldier as he did, even with the flat of his sword. nor was it the proper thing for him to take the place of his "officer of the guard" or "officer of the day" in enforcing his own orders regulating camp discipline. he should have sent for the latter and required them to do their duty in the matter. as a matter of fact, this was just what the officer of the day was doing when the colonel appeared. the colonel sent for me next morning, on his return from general french's head-quarters, and freely told me of the advice of the latter, and indicated his purpose to proceed. this splendid man has long since entered into rest. no truer man or braver officer entered the service than he, and it has been one of the greatest satisfactions of my life that i was able to possess his confidence to the fullest degree. he invited my views now and he afterwards thanked me for the service i then rendered him by opposing his contemplated action. he was still suffering very much from his injury and was in a poor mood to brook opposition. nevertheless i felt that if he subjected this man to the possible results of a court-martial, later on he would never forgive himself, and i so told him. i reminded him of the mistake he had made in assuming the duties of his "officer of the day," and of his graver error, if not offence, in striking the men; that such action would be very likely to produce similar results with almost any of the men upon whom it might be committed; that he had failed to respect the rights of his men even in matters of discipline, and that all this being true, it would be a mistake he would always regret if he failed to treat this affair in as manly and generous a way as discipline would permit. it was an occasion of keen regret that i had to differ with colonel albright, for i really loved the man. he dismissed me rather cavalierly with his thanks for my drastic frankness. by his direction a meeting of all the officers of the regiment was summoned to meet at his head-quarters in the afternoon to give their views as to the course to be pursued. the question, as submitted by the colonel being one purely of discipline, seemed to admit of but one treatment,--viz., court-martial; and this was the unanimous sentiment as expressed in this meeting, although outside, i well knew nearly all had expressed themselves differently. perhaps the way the colonel took to get their views was partly responsible for his failure to get their real feelings. he began with the youngest lieutenant and asked each officer up to the senior captain, what he thought the offence merited. the answer was, "i suppose court-martial." none seemed willing to accuse the colonel of his own error, and to have answered otherwise would have involved that, so they simply replied as above. the colonel said, after all had given their answers, that the adjutant did not agree with him nor them, and called on me to state my position, saying i was to be excused, as he supposed the sergeant was a personal friend. whilst it was true that i had known him at home, i disclaimed being influenced by that fact in this matter. the colonel, to my relief, adjourned the meeting without announcing his determination. i felt sure that a little more time would bring him to my way of thinking, and so it turned out. i saw the sergeant over at the provost-guard tent, and found him very anxious about his situation and thoroughly sorry for his hasty conduct towards the colonel, whom he sincerely respected. he said he felt terribly hurt at being so roughly treated. he was not to blame for the noise, but was actually doing his best to quiet the noisy ones and get them into quarters when the first intimation he had of the colonel's presence was the blow from his sword. he said this blow hurt him and roused his anger and he replied sharply, and on getting the second blow he struck without stopping to think of the consequences. i told the colonel of this conversation, and said if he would permit this man to express to him personally his sorrow for his conduct, and, under the circumstances, restore him to duty with no greater punishment than a loss of his rank as sergeant, i felt sure he would win the hearts of all the men and do an act he would always be glad of. two days later, to my great joy, he ordered me to prepare an order practically embodying my recommendations, the order to be read at dress parade that day, and the prisoner to be publicly released at that time. i think i never performed a more willing or difficult task than reading that order on parade that afternoon. just before the ceremony, the sergeant had been brought by the provost guard to the colonel's tent and had, in a manly way, expressed his sorrow for his act. the colonel had stated this fact to the regiment, and then directed me to read the order releasing the prisoner and restoring him to duty. the tears blinded my eyes and my emotions almost choked my voice as i tried to read, and i doubt if there was a dry eye in the ranks when i had finished. the outcome of the unfortunate affair was exceedingly satisfactory. the colonel, always popular, had now the hearts of all--officers and men. chapter xiii the winter at falmouth our brigade was now commanded by lieutenant-colonel marshall, tenth new york volunteers, who was the senior officer present for duty, colonels kruger, first delaware, and mcgregor, fourth new york, being absent on account of wounds received at fredericksburg, and colonel wilcox, of our regiment, absent, sick. i mention this to show how the exigencies of the service thrust upon junior officers the duties and responsibilities of much higher grades. here a lieutenant-colonel was discharging the duties appertaining to a general; sergeants frequently commanded companies, whilst a captain in command of a regiment was not an infrequent thing. these junior officers performing the duties of higher grades got no more compensation than the pay of their actual rank. on the th of january, colonel wilcox sent in his resignation, and lieutenant-colonel albright was commissioned colonel. major shreve was promoted to be lieutenant-colonel, and i had the honor to receive the rare and handsome compliment of an election to the office of major, although, being a staff-officer, i was not in the regular line of promotion. sergeant-major clapp succeeded to my position as adjutant, and private frank j. deemer, company k, who had been a clerk in my office, was appointed sergeant-major. just at this time i had a somewhat singular experience. i had received a three-days' leave of absence with permission to visit washington on business for the officers. this detail i mention because no leaves of absence other than for sickness or disability were obtainable at this time, except on urgent business for the officers of a regiment, and for but one officer to a regiment, and three days was the limit. to get to washington--only about sixty miles away--i had to start from camp before daylight in the morning, ride three miles to the railroad in a heavy, springless army wagon, across fields and over rutted roadways that were barely passable, the jolting of which was almost enough to shake one's bones loose; then ride twenty miles in a freight car, perched on whatever truck one could get a seat on, thence by boat to washington. the morning was exceptionally cold and i had to leave without breakfast; the result was i caught a severe cold, and when i reached my destination i was suffering terribly from an attack of dysentery. i was barely able to get to the ebbitt house, the clerk of which seeing my plight summoned a physician, who had me sent to the seminary hospital for officers at georgetown. here i received most excellent care. this institution was for officers only. there must have been upward of two hundred sick and wounded officers there at that time. it was under strict military rules. the surgeon in charge was its commanding officer, as absolute as though a general commanding a division in the field. when i reached the hospital i was registered, put to bed, and all clothing and personal effects taken from me. a warm bath followed with the assistance of a stalwart nurse and medicines were administered, and i soon found relief in a refreshing sleep. a couple of days later i had a remarkable visit. i was not allowed to sit up yet, but a fine-looking old gentleman, wearing the insignia of a major-general, appeared at my cot and extended his hand. his face was an exceedingly kind one and his voice, if possible, more so. his hair was white and he had the unmistakable appearance of advanced age, though he stood fully six feet high and was still square and unbent in form. he proceeded to say he had learned that a young officer bearing the name of hitchcock had been taken suddenly very ill and sent to this hospital, and inasmuch as his name was hitchcock, he was doubly interested to know, first how i was, and second who i was. my visitor was none other than major-general hitchcock, military attaché of president lincoln's cabinet and the first general commissioner for the exchange of prisoners of war. i think he was a retired regular army officer called from his retirement to special service as military adviser of the president and now in charge of the bureau for the exchange of prisoners of war. his call was very pleasant, and i learned from him that all of our name in this country were distantly related. that two brothers came to this country with the regicides and settled, one in new hampshire, the other at new haven. he was of the former stock, whilst i was from the latter. on retiring he bade me call on him when well. i greatly regret i never had the opportunity of returning his gracious visit. on the cot next mine lay an officer convalescing from a wound received at fredericksburg. i have forgotten his name, but we soon became well acquainted, and he proved a valuable and companionable acquaintance. he was the best posted man in military tactics i ever met, and was thoroughly familiar with all its branches from the school of the soldier to the grand tactics of a division. it was very profitable pastime for me to go over the tactics under his instruction, he illustrating each battalion movement by the use of matches on the coverlets of our cots. in that way i learned the various tactical movements as i had never been able to do before, and it was of immense value to me, having now been promoted to the position of a field-officer. this hospital was no better and in no wise different from those for private soldiers, except that we were charged a per diem for board, whereas there was no charge for the privates. i thought i could return at the end of a week, and asked to be discharged, but was rather curtly informed by the surgeon in charge that when the time came for my discharge he would inform me. the papers now contained rumors of another movement on foot, and, of course, i was very anxious to return. a few days later, after an examination, the doctor gave me my discharge. it was now ten days since i had left camp on a three-days' leave, but my discharge from the hospital operated as an extension, and i had no difficulty in getting transportation and passes through the lines to rejoin my regiment. i performed my errands for the officers of the regiment, which consisted in getting various articles for their comfort, and in several cases a bottle of something to "keep the cold out." as i write, i have before me, in perfect preservation, all the official papers covering that trip. here are copies of the papers required to get back to the regiment. they will give an idea of the conditions, getting in and out of washington at that time, as well as of the load i had to carry back: head-quarters military district of washington, washington, d. c., january , . lieutenant f. l. hitchcock, d p. v., with servant, has permission to proceed to falmouth, va., for the purpose of rejoining his regiment, and to take the following articles for officers and men: ( ) one drum, ( ) three express packages, carpet sack containing liquors, ( ) one box of provisions, ( ) one box of clothing. quartermaster please furnish transportation. by command of brigadier-general martindale, military governor of washington. john p. sherburne, _assistant adjutant-general_. no. . assistant-quartermaster's office, sixth street wharf, washington, d. c., january , . pass on government boat to aquia creek, three boxes and one drum, liquors and sutlers' stores strictly excluded. for adjutant f. l. hitchcock, pa. vols. j. m. robinson, _captain and a. q. m._ the word liquors above is erased with a pen. it is difficult at this day to realize that washington was surrounded with a cordon of sentries. all places of entrance and exit were under the strictest military surveillance. general martindale, as its military governor, was supreme in authority. no one could come or go, and nothing be taken in or out, without his permission. the servant included in the above pass was a "contraband," picked up in washington for the trip. there were hundreds of them clamoring for an opportunity to get down to the army. they were glad to do all one's drudgery for the chance of going, for once there, plenty of jobs could be found, besides the excitement and attractions of "uncle sam's" army were to them irresistible. i reached camp early in the evening and delivered my supplies, the officers being promptly on hand to receive them. the return of an officer from "civilization" was an event of no ordinary moment, and i had many calls that evening. the following anecdote of major-general howard was told that evening, apropos of the delivery of the "commissions" i had brought. the general was well known to be uncompromising in his opposition to the presence of liquor of any kind in camp, or elsewhere, and especially among the members of his official family. yet shortly after the battle of fredericksburg, one of his staff had a present of a bottle of "old rye." he put it away until some time during the general's absence he could safely bring it out and treat his fellow-members of the staff. the opportunity came one day when his chief announced his absence at army head-quarters for a couple of hours, and mounted and rode away. the hidden treasure was brought out and due preparation made for the delectation of all hands, and he was in the act of pulling the cork in front of his tent, when, suddenly hearing the clatter of horse's hoofs, he looked up just in time to see the general returning for a forgotten paper. he had barely time to swing the bottle behind his heels as he closed them in the position of a soldier, and arose and respectfully saluted. the position and salute were strictly according to army regulations, but with a general's own staff such formality was not usual. the general evidently caught the situation, for he was tantalizingly deliberate in acknowledging the salute, and finally remarked, with a twinkle in his eye, looking him full in the face: "mr.----, your position is faultless and your punctiliousness in saluting truly admirable. were you getting it ready to send to the hospital? very commendable, indeed; it will do so much good." and to the hospital, of course, it had to go, much to the chagrin of all the staff. the event of special interest at this time was the movement later known as the "mud march." troops had for three days been moving up the river, destination, of course, unknown to us, but now they were returning, a most sorry, mud-bedraggled looking crowd. we were glad enough not to have been with them. our corps had been for a week under marching orders, to move at a moment's notice, but the final order never came, and we were spared this experience. whatever the movement was designed to be, it was defeated by plain, simple mud. it should be spelled in the largest capitals, for it was all-powerful at this time. almost immediately after the movement began, it commenced to rain heavily. the ground was already soggy from previous rains, and it soon became a vast sea of mud. i have already spoken of virginia mud. it beggars description. your feet sink into it frequently ankle deep, and you lift them out with a sough. in some places it seemed as bottomless as a pit of quicksand. the old-established roads were measurably passable, but, as i have heretofore explained, most of the troops had to march directly across the fields, and here it proved absolutely impossible to move the wagon-trains and artillery any distance. this was the main reason why the movement had to be abandoned. i saw many wagons down over their hubs, stalled in the mire. and the guns and caissons of a battery of artillery were stalled near our camp, and had to be abandoned for the time. the horses were saved from miring with great difficulty. a few days later the guns and caissons were hauled out with ropes. there were dead mules and mired and broken wagons all along the route of the marching troops. the number of animals that perished in this futile march must have run up into thousands, killed by exposure over pulling or miring. it should be understood that when the army moves, and the mule trains of ammunition and rations are ordered to move, they must go as long as it is physically possible, mule or no mule. the lives of a thousand mules, more or less, is nothing compared with the necessity of having ammunition and rations at the proper place at the required time. i saw one mule team stalled in one of these sloughs. the heavy wagon was down so that the box was in the mud and the four mules were wallowing in a death struggle to get out. harness was cut and they were freed, all to no purpose. their struggles had made the slough like a stiff pudding, which was apparently bottomless; the more they struggled the deeper they got. finally a chain was hooked about the neck of one of the leaders and fastened to another wagon and the mule hauled out, but with a broken neck. the experiment was repeated in a modified way with the other leader, now over back in the mire, but with no better results. the others had ceased to struggle and were slowly sinking, and were mercifully killed and allowed to bury themselves in the mire, which they speedily did. it may be asked why more civilized methods were not employed to extricate these valuable animals. why fence rails or timbers were not placed under them as is usual? the answer is, there was not a fence rail nor anything of that nature probably within ten miles. everything of this kind had long ago been used for fire-wood for the soldiers' cooking. and as for timbers there probably was not a stick nearer than aquia creek, more than ten miles away. again it may be wondered why the chain was not passed around the mule's body rather than his neck. simply because the former was impossible without running the risk of miring the driver in the slough, and he was not disposed to run any risk of that kind. had this been practicable, it is doubtful if the result would have been any better, for without padding the chains would have killed or mangled the mule, and there were no means at hand for that purpose. the destruction of this class of property, always very severe under favorable circumstances in the army, was during this mud movement simply appalling. the loss of one or more mules meant an abandonment of the wagon and its contents to the weather in many instances, and the same was true where a team was mired. the rebels were evidently interested observers of this mud march, for their pickets taunted ours with such questions as "how d'ye like virginia mud?" "why don't you 'uns come over?" "how are you, mud?" etc., and they put up rude sign-boards on which were scrawled in large letters, "burnside stuck in the mud!" "burnside's name is mud!" etc. [illustration: major frederick l. hitchcock d p. v. a year later colonel th u. s. c. t.] the "mud march" had evidently settled it that there would be no further attempt to move until better weather conditions prevailed, which could not reasonably be looked for before april, and so we settled down for a winter where we were, back of falmouth. the several corps were spread out, occupying an area extending from within three miles of fredericksburg, nearly down to the potomac. our corps, the second, was located nearest to the latter city, and our picket lines covered its front to falmouth and some miles up the river. our division, the third (french's), had the line from the railroad bridge at fredericksburg to falmouth, something over two miles. being now a field-officer, my name was placed on the roster of picket field-officers of the day. my first detail on this duty came almost as soon as my commission. my duties had hitherto been confined almost exclusively to the staff or executive business of the regiment. further than making the necessary details of officers and men for picket duty, i had never had anything to do with that branch of the service. i had, therefore, only a smattering knowledge of the theory of this duty. it may well be judged, therefore, that i felt very keenly this lack, when i received my order to report for duty as division field-officer of the day, the following morning. here i was suddenly confronted with the responsibility of the command of the picket forces covering the dividing line between the two hostile armies. a demonstration of the enemy was to be looked for any moment, and it was most likely to occur on our front. i had hoped to have a few days to study up and by observing its practical work get some little idea of my new duties. but here was the detail, and it must be obeyed. it should be explained that the picket line consists of a cordon of sentinels surrounding the army, usually from two to three miles from its camp. its purpose is to watch the enemy, and guard against being surprised by an attack. except for this picket line, the main body of troops could never sleep with any degree of safety. to guard against attacks of the enemy would require it to remain perpetually under arms. whereas with its picket lines properly posted it may with safety relax its vigilance, this duty being transferred to its picket forces. this picket service being a necessity of all armies is a recognized feature of civilized warfare. hence, hostile armies remaining any length of time in position near each other usually make an agreement that pickets shall not fire upon each other. such agreement remains in force until a movement of one or the other army commences. notice of such a movement is, of course, never given. the other party finds out the fact as best it can. frequently the withdrawal or concealment of the picket line will be its first intimation. ordinarily, picket duty is not only of the very highest responsibility, but an exceedingly dangerous duty. until agreements to cease picket-firing are made, every sentinel is a legitimate target for the sentinels or pickets of the enemy, hence extreme vigilance, care, and nerve are required in the performance of this duty. the picket line in the presence of the enemy is generally posted in three lines,--viz., first, the line of sentries; second, the picket supports, about thirty yards in rear of the sentries, and third, the guard reserves, about three hundred yards farther in the rear, depending upon the topography of the country. each body constitutes one-third of the entire force, _i.e._, one-third is constantly on duty as sentinels, one-third as picket supports, and one-third as grand reserves. the changes are made every two hours, usually, so that each sentry serves two hours on "post" and four hours off. the latter four hours are spent half on grand reserve and half as picket supports. the supports are divided into companies, and posted in concealed positions, near enough to the sentry line to be able to give immediate support in case of attack, while the grand reserves, likewise concealed, are held in readiness to come to the assistance of any part of the line. ordinarily this part of the picket force is able to sleep during its two hours of reserve service. the supports, however, while resting, must remain alert and vigilant. it being the duty of the picket-line to prevent a surprise, it must repel any sort of attack with all its power. in the first instance the sentinel must promptly challenge any party approaching. the usual formula is: "halt! who comes there?" the approaching party failing to obey the command to halt, it is his duty to fire at once, even though he be outnumbered a hundred to one, and it cost him his life. many a faithful sentinel has lost his life in his fidelity to duty under such circumstances. for although the picket is there to prevent a surprise, the attacking party is equally bent on getting the advantage of a surprise, if possible, and many are the ruses adopted to capture sentinels before they can fire their guns. he must fire his gun, even though he be captured or run through with a bayonet the next instant. this gives the alarm, and the other sentries and picket supports open fire at once, and the reserves immediately join them, if necessary, to hold or impede the progress of the enemy. it is thus seen that in case of an attack the picket force finds itself maintaining a fight possibly against the whole opposing army, or whatever the attacking force may be. fight it must, cost whatever it may, so that time may be gained to sound the "long roll" and assemble the army. many of our picket fights were so saucy and stubborn that the attacks were nipped in the bud, the enemy believing the army was there opposing them. in the mean time, mounted orderlies would be despatched to army head-quarters with such information of the attack as the officer of the day was able to give. having now given some idea of picket service, i return to my own first experiences as field-officer of the day. i was fated to have several rather singular experiences on that first day. the first occurred in connection with my horse. i mounted and started for division head-quarters, about a half-mile away, in ample time to reach there a little before the appointed time--eight o'clock, but reaching the outer edge of our camp my horse balked, and in answer to my efforts to move him began to kick, rear, and plunge. he tried to throw me, and did nearly everything except roll over. every time i headed him forward, he would wheel around and start back for his stable. i coaxed him, then tried the spur, all to no purpose. i was losing valuable time, besides having a very uncomfortable kind of a fight on hand. i realized i must make him obey me or i could never handle him again. an orderly from general french came galloping over with the expected peremptory message. one minute's delay with him was almost a capital offence. i could only return word that i was doing my best to get there. the general and his staff then rode over to see my performance. he reassured me with the remark, "stick to him and make him obey you, or kill him." well, it took just about one hour to conquer him, at the end of which time i had ploughed up several acres of ground, my horse was in a white lather, and i was in the same condition. when he quit, he did so at once, and went on as cleverly as though nothing had happened. the cause of this freak i never understood, he never having done so before, and never did again. [illustration: don and i and a glimpse of the camp of hancock's division, second army corps, back of falmouth, va., winter of - . see page ] may i digress long enough to speak a little more of this remarkable horse. dr. holland says there is always hope for any man who has heart enough to love a good horse. army life was well calculated to develop the sterling qualities of both man and beast. hence, i suppose every man who had a good horse could safely regard him as "most remarkable." how many such have i heard cavalrymen talk about, descanting on the "remarkable" qualities of their half-human favorites, whilst the tears wet their cheeks. i had named this splendid animal "don fulano," after that superb horse in winthrop's "john brent," not because he was a magnificent black charger, etc.; on the contrary, in many respects he was the opposite of the original don fulano. raised upon an unromantic farm near scranton, an unattractive yellow bay, rather too heavy limbed and too stockily built to be called handsome, yet powerful, courageous, intelligent (he could almost talk), high spirited, with a heavy, shaggy mane and forelock, through which gleamed a pair of keen, fierce eyes, he had many of the qualities which distinguished his noble prototype. he had not the high honor to die carrying a slave to liberty, but when the final accounts come to be squared up in the horses' heaven, it is possible that the credit of having passed unflinchingly through the battles of fredericksburg and chancellorsville, and of having safely carried a wounded soldier off each field may prove to be a little something in favor of my splendid "don." as a saddler, he came to me practically unbroken. he was sold from the farm because he would jump all fences, yet under the saddle, when i took him, he would not jump the smallest obstacle. this is really as much of an art on the part of the rider as with the horse. an unskilled rider is liable to seriously injure both the horse and himself in jumping. if he is unsteady, the motion of the horse as he rises to make his leap is liable to pitch him over his head. on the other hand, if he clings back, a dead weight in his saddle, he is liable to throw the horse backward. i have seen both done. the secret of successful jumping is to give the horse his head as he rises, feel your knees against his sides firmly, rising with him as he rises and be again in your seat before his feet reach the ground. this helps him and saves both a killing jounce. i finally trained him so that as a jumper he was without a peer in our part of the army. i have had the men hold a pole fully a foot higher than my head, as i stood on the ground, and have jumped him back and forth over it as readily as cats and dogs are taught to jump over one's arm. and the men insisted that he cleared the pole at least a foot each jump. this jumping of horses was considered quite an accomplishment in the army, it being often a necessity on the march in getting over obstacles. one day i saw our general's son, a young west pointer, attached to his father's staff, trying to force his kentucky thoroughbred to jump a creek that ran past division head-quarters. the creek was probably ten to twelve feet wide and, like all virginia creeks, its banks seemed cut vertically through the soil and the water at the edges was about a foot deep. after repeated trials the best the young man's horse could do was to get his forefeet on the opposite bank. his hindfeet always landed in the water. mr. west pointer was way above noticing in any way a poor volunteer plebeian like myself mounted on an old plug like don. but don had taken in the situation as well as i, and when i said, "come, don, let's us try it," he just gathered himself and sailed over that creek like a bird, landing easily a couple of feet on the other side, and swung around for another try. the young fellow gathered up his thoroughbred and with an oath of disgust retired. don and i became great friends, and after our fight, above mentioned, in all our practice jumping or on the march, or riding about, i never had occasion to use the spur,--indeed, i seldom wore one. a simple "come, don," and he was quick to obey my every wish. he was kind and tractable with others, but it was a singular fact that, as for jumping or any other favors, he would do nothing for anybody but me, not even for my man who took care of him. others, including horse-trainers, repeatedly asked to try him, thinking they could improve his work, but he drew the line on all; not even a little jump would he make for any of them. i had been jumping him, one day, to the delight and admiration of the men. among them was a horse-trainer of the fourth new york, who asked the privilege of trying him. he mounted and brought him cantering up to the pole as though he was going over all right, but instead of making the leap he suddenly whirled, almost dumping the trainer, to the infinite amusement of the men; nor could he induce him to make the leap. i mounted again and he went over, back and forth, without the slightest hesitation. i brought him home from the war, and it was a great grief to me that i was unable to keep him as long as he lived. i secured him a good home, where he lived to a dignified old age. one of my household gods is a photograph of don and myself, with a section of the camp of hancock's division of the second corps for a background, taken at this time, whilst we lay back of falmouth. my second adventure that first day on picket duty occurred shortly after i reached the head-quarters of the picket at the lacey house, directly opposite the city of fredericksburg. i had seen the new line posted and the old line relieved, when a grizzly bearded old gentleman rode up and inquired for the "officer of the day." his dress was exceedingly plain. he wore a much-battered slouch hat down over his eyes, and on the shoulders of his blouse, scarcely discernible, was what had been the silver stars of a brigadier-general. i answered his inquiry by saluting, and then recognized general alfred sully, long famed as an indian fighter before the war. he introduced himself as "corps officer of the day" and my superior officer for this tour of picket duty. the peculiar thing about his presence was his treatment of me. he evidently saw that he had a greenhorn on hand, for the first question he fired at me was, "how many times have you served as picket officer of the day?" i candidly replied that this was my first experience. "your knowledge of the duties of officer of the day is somewhat limited?" i admitted the fact. "that is all right," said he with a pleasant smile. "you are just the man i want. you shall remain with me all day, and i will teach you all there is about it." i shall never forget that day's experience with this splendid old officer. i rode with him over the whole corps line in the morning, and after that he made his head-quarters at the lacey house with me. our division front, said he, is where an attack is most to be looked for, and then he went over it carefully with me, pointing out the most probable points of attack and how they should be met; what to do at this point and that, and so on, in a most intelligent and entertaining manner gave me the practical idea of a picket defence, out of his long and ample experience as a regular army officer. it was just what i needed and was of the greatest value to me. it was practical experience under a superb instructor. if all the regular army officers i came in contact with had been as kind and considerate as this superb indian fighter, i should have been equally grateful. unfortunately, this was not the case. my experience in this respect may have been exceptional, but the instance above narrated is the one solitary case in which my duties brought me in contact with regular army officers that i did not receive a rebuff, frequently most brutal and insulting. doubtless the lack of knowledge of army customs and routine on the part of us volunteer officers was calculated to try their patience, for they occupied all the higher executive staff positions, and routine business of all kinds had to pass their scrutiny. but what were they given west point education and training at the public expense for if not to impart it to those who should be called to fill volunteer positions in times of the country's need? and how should a volunteer, called into the service of his country without a particle of military education, be expected to understand the interminable routine of army red tape? i will dismiss this digression with a single instance of my experience in seeking information from one of the younger west pointers. it occurred while i was still adjutant and shortly before my promotion. some special detailed report was called for. there were so many of these wanted, with so many minute and intricate details, that i cannot remember what this particular one was, but they were enough almost to drive a man to drink. this one, i remember, utterly stumped me, and i rode over to captain mason, assistant adjutant-general of our brigade, a thoroughly competent officer, for information. he looked at it a moment, then said: "it beats me; but go down to corps head-quarters and you will find lieutenant----, a regular army officer, whose business it is to give just such information as you require." i rode there at once and inquired for lieutenant----, as directed. the reply was, "here he is. what in h----l do you want?" not specially reassured by this inquiry, i handed him the paper and made known my wishes for information. he literally threw it back at me with the reply, "go to h----l and find out." i replied that from his manner of speech i appeared to be pretty near there now. i went back to captain mason and recounted my experience, to his intense disgust, but that was all that ever came of it. we volunteers learned to avoid a regular officer, especially of the young west point type, as we would a pestilence. returning now to my picket duties of that day, a third incident occurred in the afternoon. the captain of the picket came into our office at the lacey house with the information that there was a hail from the opposite bank of the river with a flag of truce--a small white flag. we all rushed out, and general sully directed the captain to take a corporal's guard--a corporal and four men--from his reserve, and go down to the water's edge under a like flag and inquire what was wanted. this formality, he said, was necessary to properly recognize their flag of truce, and to guard against a possible fake or bit of treachery. the reply from the other side was that a young woman in fredericksburg was exceedingly desirous of reaching her home some distance within the union lines, and would the union commander receive a communication upon the subject. general sully replied that he would receive their communication and forward it to head-quarters, whereupon an orderly was sent over in a boat with the communication. he was unarmed, as were those who rowed him over. the letter was despatched to army head-quarters, whilst the orderly and his boatmen were detained at the landing under guard of our detail. they sat down and in an entirely easy and friendly way chatted with our guard. one would not have believed that these men would shed each other's blood instantly the little white flag was lowered. yet such was the fact. a half-hour brought a reply to the communication. we, of course, saw neither their letter nor the reply, but my lady was immediately brought over and escorted by a mounted guard to army head-quarters, an ambulance being utilized for the purpose. she was really a very pretty young woman, and evidently a thorough lady, though a spirit of hauteur made it apparent she was a southerner through and through. she maintained a perfect composure during the formality of her reception into our lines, for the officer from the rebel lines who escorted her required a receipt from the officer who had been sent down from head-quarters to receive her; and the appearance of a pretty woman in our lines was so unusual an event that uncle sam's boys may have been pardoned if they were all anxious to get a square view of the charming vision. this receipt had to be made in duplicate, one for each army, both officers, as well as the young woman, attesting it with their signatures. general sully more than half suspected she was a rebel spy. if she was, they wisely chose a beauty for the work. chapter xiv the winter at falmouth--continued during the remainder of the winter at falmouth, i was on as field-officer of the day about every fifth day, so that i was much of the time at the lacey house, and on the picket-line described in the foregoing chapter. the scenes here enacted constituted my chief experience at this time. the lacey house was famous during the war as being the head-quarters of either the picket lines between the two armies or of commanding officers of portions of both so frequently that it deserves more than a passing notice. it was a large old-time brick mansion, beautifully situated on the bank of the rappahannock, just opposite fredericksburg, and was, at the outbreak of the war, the private residence of colonel lacey, who was at the time i write a colonel in the rebel army. the house was very large; its rooms almost palatial in size, had been finished in richly carved hardwood panels and wainscoting, mostly polished mahogany. they were now denuded of nearly all such elegant wood-work. the latter, with much of the carved furniture, had been appropriated for fire-wood. pretty expensive fuel? yes, but not nearly so expensive as the discomfort of staying there without a fire, with the temperature just above the freezing-point, and your feet and body wet through from the rain and slush of the storm outside, in which you were doing picket duty. the only other fuel obtainable was a few soggy green logs; whether these had been cut from the old shade trees surrounding its ample grounds or not i do not know. i more than suspect they had, but the only way they could be made to burn in the old-fashioned open fireplaces was to assist the flames with an occasional piece of dry wood, the supply of which, as long as it lasted, was from the panels, wainscoting, and furniture of the house. later on the interior doors, all of heavy, elegant hardwood and finished in keeping with the other appointments of the place, had to go. this may seem at this distance as vandalism pure and simple. but if the would-be critic will place himself in the shoes of the soldier doing picket duty that winter, with all its hardships, and then remember that colonel lacey, the owner of the place, was not only in active rebellion against the government we were fighting to maintain, but was a colonel commanding a rebel regiment as a part of that great rebel army encamped not a rifle-shot away, which made it necessary for us to do this picket duty, he may reach the same conclusion as did our men, that it was not worth while to freeze ourselves in order to preserve this rebel's property. the large and ample grounds had been laid out with all the artistic care a landscape gardener could bestow upon them. rare plants, shrubs, and trees from all over the world had been transplanted here in great variety. they were now feeling the bitter blight of war. army wagons and artillery had made sad havoc of the beautiful grounds, and such of the rare trees and shrubbery as interfered with a good vision of the operations of the rebels in and around fredericksburg had been ruthlessly removed, and this included the larger part of them. the christian commission had its head-quarters in one wing of the house during this winter. it was presided over by mrs. john harris, of philadelphia, a most benevolent and amiable elderly lady. she was assisted by two or three young women, among whom was a daughter of justice grier, of the united states supreme court. these ladies were engaged in distributing supplies of various kinds, furnished by this association, to the sick and wounded soldiers in the various hospitals. they had an ambulance at their disposal, and one or two orderlies detailed to assist them. their work was most gracious and helpful, and they were entitled to the greatest credit for their hard and self-sacrificing labors. the red flag of the hospital floated over them, and such protection as it afforded they had; but it may be well understood that this location between two hostile armies, with active hostilities likely to be resumed any moment, and in the midst of a picket force keenly on the alert night and day, was not likely to be selected as a sanitarium for cases of nervous prostration. the men on picket had reason to remember mrs. harris, for those located at the lacey house daily partook of her bounty in the way of hot coffee, and frequently a dish of good hot soup; and the officers stationed there, usually three or four, were regularly invited to her table for all meals. these invitations were sure to be accepted, for they afforded an opportunity for a partially civilized meal. her meals were always preceded by a "grace" said by herself, while breakfast was followed by a worship service, at which a chapter from the bible was read and prayer offered by her. these prayers i shall never forget--their sweet fervency, in which the soldiers came in for a large share of her earnest requests. this large-hearted, motherly little woman made a host of friends among the boys in blue that winter. but her motherly kindness was occasionally taken advantage of by some of those sons of belial. one of them told this story of his former tour of duty: the weather was beastly uncomfortable, from rain and snow making a slush and mud, through which they had tramped until thoroughly soaked. they concluded they must have some hot whiskey punch. mother harris, they knew, had all the necessary ingredients, but how to get them was the question. one of them feigned a sudden attack of colic, and was all doubled up on the floor, groaning piteously. mother harris was told of it. of course, she rushed in to render assistance. in reply to her inquiries, the rascal could think of but one thing that would help him, and that was whiskey. a bottle was instantly produced, and a dose administered which gave partial relief; and now if he only had some hot water he was sure it would relieve him. a pitcher of steaming hot water was immediately sent in. then it was found that the strong liquor nauseated him, and one of the other scamps suggested that perhaps a lemon would relieve that, and a nice lemon was instantly produced. they had plenty of sugar themselves, and so from good mother harris's benevolent provision for the colic these rascals deliberately brewed a pitcher full of excellent hot whiskey punch. they had to invent a number of additional lies to keep her out of the room, but they were equal to it. she sent her orderlies in, one after the other, to inquire how the patient was progressing, and the boys secured a proper message back by letting them in for a swig. i hope the good old lady never discovered the fraud. i am sure she would not have believed anybody who might have undertaken to enlighten her, for her confidence in her "boys in blue" was so unbounded. almost every tour of picket duty revealed some new incident. our pickets were now posted in full view of those of the enemy, and the river was so narrow that conversation between the pickets could be carried on without difficulty. peremptory orders were issued forbidding our pickets from replying, or in any manner communicating with them, but it required the greatest care and vigilance on the part of all the officers of the picket to enforce this order. one of their sentries would hail one of ours with some friendly remark, and it was difficult to suppress the desire to reply. if a reply was not forthcoming, a nagging ejaculation, calculated to provoke, would follow, such as, "what's the matter, yank, are ye deaf?" "maybe ye are afeared o' those d----d officers." "we 'uns don't give a d---- for our officers," and so volley after volley would follow, whilst poor yank had to continue silently walking his beat. sometimes the "johnny" would wind up with a blast of oaths at his silent auditor. frequently our men would reply if they thought no officer was near to hear; they seemed to feel that it was only decent to be courteous to them. strange as it may seem, there was a strong disposition to fraternize whenever opportunity offered on the part of the men of both sides. this was manifested daily on this picket-line, not only in talk across the river, but in communication by means of miniature boats. our men were generally short of tobacco, and the johnnies had an abundance of this article of the very best quality; on the other hand, our men were "long" on coffee, of which commodity they were "short." so "johnny" would fix up a trade. "say, yank, if i send you over a boat-load of 'backy,' will ye send her back filled with coffee?" if he got an affirmative reply, which he often did, he would place his little boat in the stream with its rudder so fastened that the current would shoot it across a hundred yards or so further down. yank would watch his opportunity, get the boat, take out its precious cargo of tobacco, reload it with coffee, reverse the rudder, and send it back to "johnny," who was watching for it further down the stream. newspapers soon were called for by "johnny," and became a regular part of the cargo of these boats, for the rebels were wild to get our papers. the exchange of coffee and tobacco was a comparatively harmless matter and would probably have been winked at, but the sending of our northern papers into their line, containing news of every movement of our forces, was a thing that must be prohibited. a large part of the special instructions of all picket officers related to the suppression of this traffic. scarcely a day passed that we did not confiscate one or more of these boats. the tobacco our men were allowed to take, but the boat and all rebel newspapers had to be sent to army head-quarters. some of these miniature boats were marvels of beauty, and showed mechanical skill in construction of the highest order. others were rude "dugouts." they were generally about thirty inches long, six to ten inches wide, and about six inches deep. they were therefore capable of holding quite a quantity. it was a traffic very difficult to suppress, for our men wanted the tobacco and were unwilling to take that without sending back the proper _quid pro quo_. i doubt if it was ever altogether stopped that winter. the desire for tobacco on the part of our men was so great that they would break over, and some of the subordinate officers participated in it. these exchanges generally took place in the very early dawn, when the officer of the day and the officers of the picket were not supposed to be around. the officer of the day was required to make the "rounds" of his picket-line once after midnight, and then if everything was all right he could rest, his officers of the picket being responsible to him for their respective sections of the line. what is known in army regulations as the "grand rounds," a ceremonial visiting of the line by the officer of the day, accompanied by a sergeant and detail, was omitted on the picket-line as too noisy and ostentatious. in its place the officer of the day went over his line as quietly as possible, assuring himself that each man was in his proper place and was alert and doing his duty. the sleepy time was from two o'clock a.m. until daylight, and this was the time i found it necessary to be on the line. it took from two to four hours to get over the entire line and visit every sentry. the line, as i have stated heretofore, extended from the railroad bridge at fredericksburg to the village of falmouth, a distance of two and a half to three miles. in the daytime i could ride over it comfortably, but in the night i had to take it on foot. when these were dark as ink, and rainy, and the ground was slushy and muddy, as it usually was at that time, it was not a very agreeable duty. however, my duty was so much lighter than that of the men (who, though they were only two hours on post at a time, were out in the storm all the while), that i could not complain. the fidelity of our men to duty under these trying circumstances was most remarkable. twice only that winter did i find a man sleeping on post. in both of these cases the delinquent was scarcely more than a boy, who i really believed told the truth when they said they sat down because unable to stand up any longer, and, of course, instantly fell asleep. i had them relieved and sent back to camp, and did not report their offence. a disagreeable duty i had to perform occurred one morning just at break of day. i had just returned from my trip over the line and was about entering the lacey house, when i noticed a man running down towards the water's edge on the other side of the river. on these night tours of duty i wore a large cavalry overcoat with a long cape, which thoroughly concealed my rank and sword. i stepped out to the top of the bank to see what this man was doing, and he hailed me with: "hello, yank. i am going to send ye over a nice boat, with tobacco and newspapers. look out and get her, and send her back with coffee and newspapers, and don't let any of your d----d officers get hold of it. if they catch ye they'll raise h----l with you, and swipe the whole business." i did not say a word, but quietly walked down to where i saw the boat would touch the shore and waited for it. in the mean time he kept up a running fire of admonitions like the above, chiefly directed to the need of watching against the vigilance of our d----d officers. i picked up the boat, took it up the bank, and then threw my coat open, disclosing my sword and my sash as officer of the day. oh! the profanity and billingsgate that followed beggars description. i thought i had heard swearing before, but never anything to touch this fellow, and i really could not blame him very much. he had simply hailed the wrong man. the man he thought he was hailing, seeing my presence, kept out of the way. the boat was a little beauty, one of the handsomest i ever saw. it contained five or six pounds of the best virginia plug tobacco and several newspapers from richmond. i would have been glad to have kept the boat as a souvenir, but had to despatch it to head-quarters with all its contents at once. of course i never saw it again. the "johnnies" were not without their fun, as well as our boys. several times i was saluted by their pickets as officer of the day. army regulations require the sentry nearest the picket reserve, on seeing the officer of the day approach, to call out, "turn out the guard, officer of the day." thereupon the officer of the picket parades his reserves, which presents arms and is then inspected by the officer of the day. the red sash worn crosswise over the shoulder is the insignia of the officer of the day. several times that winter, as i was riding along our line, a rebel sentry yelled, "turn out the guard, officer of the day," and a sergeant paraded his guard, faced towards me across the river, and presented arms. of course, i lifted my cap in acknowledgment of the compliment, even though it was a bit of deviltry on their part. this indicated a grave want of discipline on the part of their troops. i am sure such an act would not have been thought of by our men. general burnside was relieved from command of the army on the th of january, , and was succeeded by major-general joseph hooker. "fighting joe," as he was familiarly called, was justly popular with the army, nevertheless there was general regret at the retirement of burnside, notwithstanding his ill success. that there was more than the "fates" against him was felt by many, and whether under existing conditions "fighting joe" or any one else was likely to achieve any better success was a serious question. however, all felt that the new commander had lots of fight in him, and the old army of the potomac was never known to "go back" on such a man. his advent as commander was signalized by a modest order announcing the fact, and matters moved on without a ripple upon the surface. routine work, drills, and picket duty occupied all our time. some of our men were required to go on picket duty every other day, so many were off duty from sickness and other causes. twenty-four hours on picket duty, with only twenty-four hours off between, was certainly very severe duty, yet the men did it without a murmur. when it is understood that this duty required being that whole time out in the most trying weather, usually either rain, sleet, slush, or mud, and constantly awake and alert against a possible attack, one can form an idea of the strain upon physical endurance it involved. the chief event preceding the chancellorsville movement was the grand review of the army by president lincoln and staff. the exact date of this review i do not remember, but it occurred a short time before the movement upon chancellorsville. owing to the absence of colonel albright and the illness of lieutenant-colonel shreve, the command of the regiment devolved upon me, and i had a funny experience getting ready for it. as a sort of preliminary drill, i concluded i would put the regiment through a practice review on our drill grounds. to do this properly, i had to imagine the presence of a reviewing officer standing before our line at the proper distance of thirty to forty yards. the ceremony involved opening the ranks, which brought the officers to the front of the line, the presenting arms, and dipping the colors, which the reviewing officer, usually a general, acknowledged by lifting his hat and gracefully bowing. i had reached the point in my practice drill where the "present arms" had been executed, and the colors lowered, and had turned to the front myself to complete the ceremony by presenting sword to my imaginary general, when lo! there rose up in front of me, in the proper position, a real reviewing officer in the shape of one of the worst looking army "bums" i ever saw. he assumed the position and dignified carriage of a major-general, lifted his dirty old "cabbage-leaf" cap, and bowed up and down the line with the grace and air of a wellington, and then he promptly skedaddled. the "boys" caught the situation instantly and were bursting with laughter. of course i didn't notice the performance, but the effort not to notice it almost used me up. this will illustrate how the army "bummer" never let an opportunity slip for a practical joke, cost what it might. this fellow was a specimen of this genus that was ubiquitous in the army. every regiment had one or more. they were always dirty and lousy, a sort of tramp, but always on hand at the wrong time and in the wrong place. a little indifferent sort of service could be occasionally worked out of them, but they generally skulked whenever there was business on hand, and then they were so fertile of excuses that somehow they escaped the penalty and turned up again when the "business" was over. their one specialty was foraging. they were born foragers. what they could not steal was not to be had, and this probably accounts in a measure for their being endured. their normal occupation was foraging and, incidentally, sancho panza like, looking for adventure. they knew more of our movements, and also of those of the enemy, than the commanding general of either. one of the most typical of this class that i knew was a young fellow i had known very well before the war. he was a shining light in society, occupying a high and responsible business position. his one fault was his good-fellowship and disposition to be convivial when off duty. he enlisted among the first, when the war broke out in , and i did not see him again until one day one of this genus "bummer" strayed into our camp. he stuck his head into my tent and wanted to know how "fred hitchcock was." i had to take a long second look to dig out from this bunch of rags and filth my one-time beau brummel acquaintance at home. his eyes were bleared, and told all too surely the cause of the transformation. his brag was that he had skipped every fight since he enlisted. "it's lots more fun," he said, "to climb a tree well in the rear and see the show. it's perfectly safe, you know, and then you don't get yourself killed and planted. what is the use," he argued, "of getting killed and have a fine monument erected over you, when you can't see it nor make any use of it after it is done? let the other fellows do that if they want to. i've no use for monuments." poor fellow, his cynical ideas were his ruin. better a thousand times had he been "planted" at the front, manfully doing his duty, than to save a worthless life and return with the record of a poltroon, despised by himself and everybody else. this review by president lincoln and the new commander-in-chief, general hooker, was, from a military, spectacular point of view, the chief event of our army experience. it included the whole of the great army of the potomac, now numbering upward of one hundred and thirty thousand men, probably its greatest numerical strength of the whole war. deducting picket details, there were present on this review, it is safe to say, from ninety thousand to one hundred thousand men. it was a remarkable event historically, because so far as i can learn it was the only time this great army was ever paraded in line so that it could be seen all together. in this respect it was the most magnificent military pageant ever witnessed on this continent, far exceeding in its impressive grandeur what has passed into history as the "great review," which preceded the final "muster out" at the close of the war in the city of washington. at the latter not more than ten thousand men could have been seen at one time, probably not nearly so many, for the eye could take in only the column which filled pennsylvania avenue from the capitol to the treasury building. whereas, upon our review the army was first drawn up in what is known as three lines of "masses," and one glance of the eye could take in the whole army. think of it! one hundred thousand men in one sweep of vision! if the word "selah" in the psalm means "stop! think! consider!" it would be particularly appropriate here. a word now about the formation in "lines of masses." each regiment was formed in column of divisions. to those unfamiliar with military terms, i must explain that this very common formation with large bodies of troops consists in putting two companies together as a division under the command of the senior officer, thus making of a regiment of ten companies a column of five divisions, each two-company front. this was known as "massing" the troops. when so placed in line they were called a line of "masses;" when marching, a column of "masses." it will be seen that the actual frontage of each regiment so formed was the width of two companies only, the other eight companies being formed in like manner in their rear. now imagine four regiments so formed and placed side by side, fronting on the same line and separated from each other by say fifty feet, and you have a brigade line of masses. the actual frontage of a brigade so formed would be considerably less than that of a single regiment on dress parade. now take three such brigades, separated from each other by say fifty feet, and you have a division line of masses. three divisions made up an army corps. the army was formed in three lines of masses, of two corps each, on the large open plain opposite fredericksburg, to the south and east of where the railroad crossed the river. each of these lines of masses contained from seventy to eighty regiments of infantry, besides the artillery, which was paraded on the several lines at different intervals. i do not remember seeing any cavalry, and my impression is that this branch of the service was not represented. some idea may be formed of the magnificence of this spectacle when i state that each of these lines of masses was more than a mile in length, and the depth of the three lines from front to rear, including the spaces between, was not less than four hundred yards, or about one-fifth of a mile. each of the regiments displayed its two stands of silk colors, one the blue flag representing the state from which it came, the other the national colors. there were here and there a brace of these flags, very conspicuous in their brilliant newness, indicating a fresh accession to the army, but most of them were tattered and torn by shot and shell, whilst a closer look revealed the less conspicuous but more deadly slits and punctures of the minie-balls. now place yourself on the right of this army paraded for review and look down the long lines. try to count the standards as the favoring wind lifts their sacred folds and caressingly shows you their battle scars. you will need to look very closely, lest those miniature penants, far away, whose staffs appear no larger than parlor matches protruding above lines of men, whose forms in the distance have long since merged into a mere bluish gray line, escape your eye. your numbering will crowd the five hundred mark ere you finish, and you should remember that each of these units represented a thousand men when in the vigor and enthusiasm of patriotic manhood they bravely marched to the front. only a fifth of them left? you say. and the others? ah! the battle, the hospital, the prison-pen, the h-ll of war, must be the answer. how can words describe the scene? this is that magnificent old battered army of the potomac. look upon it; you shall never behold its like again. there have been and may yet be many armies greater in numbers, and possibly, in all the paraphernalia of war, more showy. there can never be another army of the potomac, with such a history. as i gazed up and down those massive lines of living men, felt that i was one of them, and saw those battle-scarred flags kissed by the loving breeze, my blood tingled to my very finger-tips, my hair seemed almost to raise straight up, and i said a thousand confederacies can't whip us. and here i think i grasped the main purpose of this review. it was not simply to give the president a sight of his "strong right arm," as he fondly called the army of the potomac, nor general hooker, its new commander, an opportunity to see his men and them a chance to see their new chief,--though both of these were included,--but it was to give the army a square look at its mighty self, see how large and how strong it really was, that every man might thereby get the same enthusiasm and inspiration that i did, and know that it simply could not be beaten. the enemy, it is not strange to say, were intensely interested spectators of this whole scene, for the review was held in full view of the whole of their army. no place could have been chosen that would better have accommodated their enjoyment of the picture, if such it was, than that open plain, exactly in their front. and we could see them swarming over marye's heights and the lines to the south of it, intently gazing upon us. a scene more resplendent with military pageantry and the soul-stirring accessories of war they will never see again. but did it stir their blood? yes; but with bitterness only, for they must have seen that the task before them of successfully resisting the onslaughts of this army was impossible. here was disclosed, undoubtedly, another purpose of this grand review, viz., to let the enemy see with their own eyes how powerful the army was with which they had to contend. a remarkable feature of this review was the marvellous celerity of its formation. the various corps and subdivisions of the army were started on the march for the reviewing ground so as to reach it at about the same time. it should be remembered that most of them were encamped from four to eight miles away. aides-de-camp with markers by the score were already in position on the plain when the troops arrived, so that there was almost no delay in getting into position. as our column debouched upon the field, there seemed an inextricable mass of marching columns as far as the eye could see. could order ever be gotten out of it? yet, presto! the right of the line fell into position, a series of blue blocks, and then on down to the far left, block after block, came upon the line with unerring order and precision, as though it were a long curling whiplash straightening itself out to the tension of a giant hand. and so with each of the other two lines. all were formed simultaneously. here was not only perfection of military evolution, but the poetry of rhythmic movement. the three lines were all formed within twenty minutes, ready for the reviewing officers. almost immediately the blare of the trumpets announced the approach of the latter, and the tall form of the president was seen, accompanied by a large retinue, galloping down the first line. our division was formed, as i recollect, in the first line, about three hundred yards from the right. the president was mounted on a large, handsome horse, and as he drew near i saw that immediately on his right rode his son, robert lincoln, then a bright-looking lad of fourteen to fifteen years, and little "tad" lincoln, the idol of his father, was on his left. the latter could not have been more than seven or eight years old. he was mounted on a large horse, and his little feet seemed to stick almost straight out from the saddle. he was round and pudgy, and his jolly little body bobbed up and down like a ball under the stiff canter of his horse. i wondered how he maintained his seat, but he was really a better horseman than his father, for just before reaching our regiment there was a little summer stream ravine, probably a couple of yards wide, that had to be jumped. the horses took it all right, but the president landed on the other side with a terrific jounce, being almost unseated. the boys went over flying, little "tad" in high glee, like a monkey on a mustang. of course, a mighty cheer greeted the president as he galloped down the long line. there was something indescribably weird about that huzzah from the throats of these thousands of men, first full, sonorous, and thrilling, and then as it rolled down that attenuated line gradually fading into a minor strain until it was lost in the distance, only to reappear as the cavalcade returned in front of the second line, first the faintest note of a violin, then rapidly swelling into the full volume, to again die away and for the third time reappear and die away as the third line was reviewed. the president was followed by a large staff dressed in full uniform, which contrasted strongly with his own severely plain black. he wore a high silk hat and a plain frock coat. his face wore that peculiar sombre expression we see in all his photographs, but it lighted up into a half-smile as he occasionally lifted his hat in acknowledgment of the cheering of the men. about one hundred yards in rear of the president's staff came the new commanding general, "fighting joe." he was dressed in the full uniform of a major-general, and was accompanied by his chief of staff, seth williams--he who had held this position under every commander of the army of the potomac thus far--and a large and brilliant staff. there must have been fully twenty officers of various ranks, from his chief of staff, a general, down through all grades to a lieutenant, in this corps of staff officers. it was the first time i had seen general hooker to know him. his personal appearance did not belie his reputation. he had a singularly strong, handsome face, sat his superb horse like a king, broad-shouldered and elegantly proportioned in form, with a large, fine head, well covered with rather long hair, now as white as the driven snow and flowing in the wind as he galloped down the line, chapeau in hand; he was a striking and picturesque figure. it was evident the head of the army had lost nothing in personal appearance by its recent change. the same cheering marked the appearance of "fighting joe" which had greeted the president, as he and staff galloped down and up and down through the three long lines. both reviewing cavalcades moved at a brisk gallop, and occupied only about twenty minutes covering the three miles of lines; and then the president and staff took position, for the marching review, some distance in front and about midway of the lines. instantly the scene was transformed. the first line wheeled into column by brigades successively and, headed by general hooker and staff, moved rapidly forward. there were but few bands, and the drum corps had been consolidated into division corps. on passing the president, general hooker took position by his side and remained throughout the remainder of the ceremony. the troops marched in columns of masses, in the same formation they had stood in line; that is, in column of two companies front and only six yards between divisions. this made a very compact mass of troops, quite unusual in reviews, but was necessary in order to avoid the great length of time that in the usual formation would have been required for the passing of this vast body of men. yet in this close formation the balance of the day was nearly consumed in marching past the president. it must have been a trying ordeal to him, as he had to lift his hat as each stand of colors successively dipped in passing. immediately on passing the president, the several brigades were wheeled out of the column and ordered to quarters. i remember that we returned to our camp, over a mile distant, dismissed the men, and then several of us officers rode back to see the continuation of the pageant. when we got back the second line was only well on its way, which meant that only about half the army had passed in review. we could see from fifteen to twenty thousand men in column--that is to say, about one army corps--at a time. the quick, vigorous step, in rhythmical cadence to the music, the fife and drum, the massive swing, as though every man was actually a part of every other man; the glistening of bayonets like a long ribbon of polished steel, interspersed with the stirring effects of those historic flags, in countless numbers, made a picture impressive beyond the power of description. a picture of the ages. how glad i am to have looked upon it. i could not remain to see the end. when finally i was compelled to leave the third line was marching. i can still see that soul-thrilling column, that massive swing, those flaunting colors, that sheen of burnished steel! majestic! incomparable!! glorious!!! chapter xv the battle of chancellorsville an interesting item in the experience that winter at falmouth was the celebration of st. patrick's day by the irish brigade and their multitude of friends. they were encamped about a mile to the south of our brigade upon a beautiful, broad, open plain between the surrounding hills, which gave them a superb parade and drill-ground. upon this they had laid out a mile race track in excellent shape, and they had provided almost every conceivable sort of amusement that was possible to army life--matches in running, jumping, boxing, climbing the greased pole, sack races, etc. but the usual pig performance had to be omitted owing to the enforced absence of the pig. the appearance of a live porker would have stampeded the army in a wild chase for fresh meat. [illustration: on the battle-field of antietam fourth reunion of survivors of d regiment p. v., held sept. , , on the ground occupied by the regiment during the battle, in front of sunken road, near roulette house] the chief events were horse races. the army abounded in excellent thoroughbreds, private property of officers, and all were anxious to show the mettle of their steeds. everybody was invited to be present and take such part as he pleased in any of the events. it was a royal gala day to the army; from morning until night there were excitement and side-splitting amusement. nor was there, throughout the whole day, a thing, not even a small fight, that i heard of, to mar the wholesome fun, until towards night our old enemy, john barleycorn, managed to get in some of his work. the chief event of the day and the wind-up was a hurdle and ditch race, open to officers only. hurdles and ditches alternated the course at a distance of two hundred yards, except at the finish, where a hurdle and ditch were together, the ditch behind the hurdle. such a race was a hare-brained performance in the highest degree; but so was army life at its best, and this was not out of keeping with its surroundings. excitement was what was wanted, and this was well calculated to produce it. the hurdles were four and five feet high and did not prove serious obstacles to the jumpers, but the ditches, four and five feet wide and filled with water, proved a _bête noir_ to most of the racers. some twenty-five, all young staff-officers, started, but few got beyond the first ditch. many horses that took the hurdle all right positively refused the ditch. several officers were dumped at the first hurdle, and two were thrown squarely over their horses' heads into the first ditch, and were nice-looking specimens as they crawled out of that bath of muddy water. they were unhurt, however, and remounted and tried it again, with better success. the crowning incident of the day occurred at the finish of this race at the combination hurdle and ditch. out of the number who started, only three had compassed safely all the hurdles and ditches and come to the final leap. the horses were about a length apart each. the first took the hurdle in good shape, but failed to reach the further bank of the ditch and fell over sideways into it, carrying down his rider. whilst they were struggling to get out, the second man practically repeated the performance and fell on the first pair, and the rear man, now unable to check his horse, spurred him over, only to fall on the others. it was a fearful sight for a moment, and it seemed certain that the officers were killed or suffocated in that water, now thick with mud. but a hundred hands were instantly to the rescue, and in less time than it takes to tell it all were gotten out and, strange to say, the horses were unhurt and only one officer seriously injured, a broken leg only to the bad for the escapade. but neither officers nor horses were particularly handsome as they emerged from that ditch. the incident can be set down as a terrific finale to this first and last army celebration of st. patrick's day. the tedium of routine duty occupied our time without specially exciting incident until pleasanter weather towards the middle of april brought rumors of impending army movements again. about april we heard the cavalry under stoneman were on the move, and this was confirmed the next day, when i saw that general with quite a body of cavalry marching leisurely north. the horses appeared in excellent condition after a winter of partial rest. general stoneman was a large man, with short gray whiskers and gray hair and a strikingly bronzed red face. this story was told of him anent this movement, that hooker had told him to do something with his horses; to cross the river at one of the fords above and shake out his cavalry, that it was "about time the army saw a dead cavalryman." stoneman had replied, asking for materials to build bridges with, and "fighting joe" had impatiently replied that he wouldn't "give a d----n for a cavalryman who couldn't make a bridge without materials," meaning who could not cross a river without a bridge. soon orders came to supply ourselves with extra ammunition, and be prepared to move with six days' rations at a moment's notice. this settled it that "business" was about to commence again in earnest. what the contemplated movement was we had not the remotest idea, though we knew, of course, it was to be another whack in some form at the johnnies on the other side of the river. we set about disposing of all surplus baggage which had accumulated for winter quarters, and putting everything in trim for field living once more. we could now see columns of troops in the distance marching north. was the new movement, then, to be in that direction? this was the topic upon all lips. the desire to know something of what was being done with us was naturally very strong. where were we going? what were we going to do? yet a desire that in the nature of things could not be satisfied. one can have no conception of the feeling of going day after day blindly ahead, not knowing whither or why; knowing only that sooner or later you are going to fetch up against a fight, and calculating from your surroundings the probabilities of when. we felt one satisfaction, however, that this was to be our last campaign as a regiment. most of our men had enlisted in the july previous for nine months, and their time was now practically out; but, to their credit be it said, they would not raise this question during an active movement. there were troops who threw down their arms on the eve of battle and refused to go into action because their time was out. such action has been severely criticised, and i think uncharitably. after a man has honorably and patriotically served his full time and is entitled to his discharge, it would seem pretty hard to force him to go into battle and be killed or wounded. nevertheless, as a matter of fact, nearly this whole campaign was overtime for most of our regiment, yet the question was not raised. on april our corps broke camp and joined the column northward. the winter's rest had brought some accessions to our ranks from the sick and wounded, though the severe picket duty and the excessively damp weather had given us a large sick list. we had, to start with, upward of three hundred and seventy-five men, to which was added some twenty-five or thirty from the sick list, who came up to us on the march. it is a curious fact that many men left sick in camp, unable to march when the regiment leaves, will get themselves together after the former has been gone a few hours and pull out to overtake it. i saw men crying like children because the surgeon had forbidden them going with the regiment. the loneliness and homesickness, or whatever you please to call it, after the regiment has gone are too much for them. they simply cannot endure it, and so they strike out and follow. they will start by easy marches, and they generally improve in health from the moment they start. courage and nerve are both summoned for the effort, and the result is that at the end of the second or third day they rejoin the regiment and report for duty. this does not mean that they were not really sick, but that will power and exercise have beaten the disease. i have heard many a sick man say he would rather die than be left behind. we marched about six miles the first day, much of our route being through a wooded country, some of it so wet and spongy that corduroy roads had to be built for the wagons and artillery. the army can, as a rule, move as rapidly as it can move its artillery and supply trains, and no faster. of course, for short distances and special expeditions, where circumstances require, both cavalry and infantry move very rapidly, ignoring the wagon trains and artillery; but on a general campaign this is impossible, and so where the ground is bad these must be helped along. in a wooded country the usual method is by corduroy road. extra details are made to assist the pioneer corps, who cut down young saplings three to six inches in diameter and about six feet in length and lay them side by side on the ground, which is roughly levelled to receive them. they do not make a handsome road to speed over, but they bear up the artillery and army schooners, and that is all that is wanted of them. the second day we crossed the rappahannock at united states ford on a pontoon bridge. there had been a sharp skirmish here when the first troops crossed a couple of days before, and a battery of artillery was still in position guarding the crossing. we now began to experience once more the unmistakable symptoms of approaching battle,--sharp spurts of cannonading at irregular intervals some distance to the south and west of us, with the hurry of marching troops, ambulances and stretcher corps towards the front; more or less of army débris scattered about, and the nervous bustle everywhere apparent. we reached the famous chancellorsville house shortly after midnight. this was an old-time hostelry, situated on what was called the culpeper plank-road. it stood with two or three smaller houses in a cleared square space containing some twenty or thirty acres, in the midst of the densest forest of trees and undergrowth i ever saw. we had marched all day on plank and corduroy roads, through this wild tanglewood forest, most of the time in a drizzling rain, and we had been much delayed by the artillery trains, and it was after midnight when we reached our destination. the distance marched must have been twelve or more miles, and our men became greatly fatigued towards the last. it was my first experience with the regiment on the march in the field in my new position as major. as adjutant my place had been with the colonel at the head of the column. now my duties required me to march in the rear and keep up the stragglers. after nightfall it became intensely dark, and at each rest the men would drop down just where they were and would be instantly sound asleep. whether they dropped down into mud or not made little difference to many of them, for they were soaking wet and were so exhausted that they did not care. my troubles began when the "forward" was sounded, to arouse these seeming logs and get them on their feet once more and started. all who were practically exhausted had drifted to the rear and were on my hands. we had a provost guard in the rear, whose duty it was to bring up every man and permit no straggling, but they were in almost as bad a plight as the rest of the regiment. to arouse these sleeping men i had occasionally to resort to a smart blow with the flat of my sword and follow it up with the most energetic orders and entreaties. an appeal to their pluck and nerve was generally sufficient, and they would summon new courage and push manfully on. my own condition was scarcely better than that of the men. i rode that night considerable distances between our halts for rest, sitting bolt upright in my saddle fast asleep. i had all day alternated with some of the men in marching whilst they rode, and was not only thoroughly tired, but wet through. the march was much more trying to us because of our unseasoned condition owing to the long winter's exemption from this exercise. furthermore, we had been marching towards the firing, and were under the nervous strain always incident to operations in the presence of the enemy. nothing will quicker exhaust men than the nervous tension occasioned by the continued firing which indicates the imminence of a battle. at daylight we were aroused and under arms again. we found we were at the head-quarters of the army. the chancellorsville house, which had been vacated by its occupants, was used for office purposes, and much of the open space around it was occupied by the tents of general hooker and staff and hospital tents. of the latter there were three or four pitched so as to connect with each other, and over them was flying the yellow flag of the corps hospital. the first and third divisions of our second corps were massed in this chancellorsville square, beside pettit's battery. our brigade now consisted of the fourth new york, first delaware, and our regiment. the first named was sent off on some guard duty, which left colonel albright, of our regiment, the senior officer in command of the brigade. the ominous rattle of musketry not far away became momentarily more pronounced, and ambulances and stretcher-carriers were passing back and forth to the hospitals, carrying wounded men. the dead body of a regular army captain was soon brought back from the front, where sykes's division of regulars was sharply engaged. i do not know the name of this captain, but he was a fine-looking young officer. he had been killed by a minie-ball squarely through his forehead. we were marching out the plank-road as they brought this body in. passing out of the clearing, the woods and undergrowth each side the road was so dense that we could not see into it a half-dozen steps. we had gone possibly a quarter of a mile when we were overtaken by a staff-officer, who in whispers ordered us to turn back, regardless of orders from the front, and get back to the chancellorsville house as rapidly as possible, and to do so absolutely noiselessly; that a heavy force of rebels were in the woods on both sides of us, and we were in great danger of being cut to pieces and captured. we obeyed, and he rapidly worked his way to the front of the brigade and succeeded very quickly in getting us all safely out. we formed line near the chancellorsville house and were resting on our arms when i noticed another brigade going down that same road from which we had just been so hurriedly gotten out. the circumstance was so strange that i inquired what brigade it was, and learned that it was colonel (afterwards governor) james a. beaver's brigade of hancock's division of our corps. they had been gone but a short time when the rebels opened upon them from both sides of the road, and they were very roughly handled. colonel beaver was soon brought back, supposed mortally wounded. i saw him as he was brought to the rear. it was said he was shot through the body. afterwards, whilst he was governor, i mentioned the circumstance to him, and asked how he succeeded in fighting off the last enemy at that time. he said he then fully believed his wound was mortal. the bullet had struck him nearly midway of his body and appeared to have passed through and out of his back, and he was bleeding freely. he was brought to the hospital, where the corps surgeon--his own family physician at home--found him, and with an expression of countenance indicating the gravest fear proceeded to examine his wound. suddenly, with a sigh of relief, he exclaimed: "colonel, you are all right; the ball has struck a rib and followed it around and out." it was one of the hundreds of remarkable freaks performed by those ugly minie-balls during the war. why that brigade should have been allowed to march into that ambuscade, from which we had so narrowly escaped, i could not understand. it was one of the early _faux pas_ of that unfortunate comedy, rather tragedy of errors,--battle. in view of the events of the next two days, it will be interesting to recall the somewhat windy order published to the army by general hooker on the morning of the st of may, the date of the first day's battle, on which the events narrated in the last chapter occurred. this is the order: head-quarters army of the potomac, camp near falmouth, va., april , . it is with heartfelt satisfaction the commanding general announces to the army that the operations of the last three days have determined that our enemy must either ingloriously fly or come out from behind his defences and give us battle on our own ground, when certain destruction awaits him. * * * * * by command of major-general hooker. s. williams, _asst. adjt.-gen'l._ my recollection recalls a phrase in this order reading something like this: "we have got the enemy where god almighty can't save him, and he must either ingloriously," etc. i have been surprised not to find it in the records, and my memory is not alone in this respect, for a lieutenant-colonel of portland, me., in his account of this battle alludes to hooker's blasphemous order. the purpose of this order was to encourage the men and inspire them with the enthusiasm of forthcoming victory. but when we consider that the portion of the army operating around chancellorsville was at that very moment apparently as thoroughly caged up in a wilderness of almost impenetrable undergrowth, which made it impossible to move troops, and into which one could not see a dozen feet, as though they were actually behind iron bars, it will be seen how little ground there was for encouragement. i can think of no better comparison of the situation than to liken it to a fleet of ships enveloped in a dense fog endeavoring to operate against another having the advantage of the open. it will be remembered that when this movement commenced the army of the potomac numbered from one hundred and twenty thousand to one hundred and thirty thousand men, about double the opposing rebel force. hooker divided this army, taking with him four corps, numbering probably seventy thousand men, to operate from chancellorsville towards fredericksburg, and leaving three corps, about fifty thousand men, under sedgwick, to move upon the latter place from below. the purpose was to get lee's army between these two forces and crush him. all historians of this battle agree that up to a certain point hooker's strategy was most admirable. general pleasanton, who commanded our cavalry forces in that action, says that up to a certain point the movement on chancellorsville was one of the most brilliant in the annals of war. he put that point at the close of thursday, april . he had made a full reconnoissance of all that country and had informed general hooker of the nature of the ground, that for a depth of from four to five miles it was all unbroken tanglewood of the densest undergrowth, in which it was impossible to manoeuvre an army or to know anything of the movements of the enemy; that beyond this wilderness the country was open and well adapted to military movements, and he had taken occasion to urge upon him the importance of moving forward at once, so as to meet the enemy in open ground, but his information and advice, he tells us, fell upon leaden ears. lee had, up to this time, no information of the movement upon chancellorsville, having been wholly occupied with sedgwick at fredericksburg. the former was therefore a complete surprise to him. the "golden moment," according to pleasanton, to move forward and carry the battle out into the open, where the army could have been handled and would have had a chance, was on that day, as instantly the movement was disclosed, the enemy, being familiar with every foot of the country, would detach a sufficient force to operate in the open, and along the edge of the wilderness could keep us practically bottled up there and beat us in detail; and that is precisely what seems to have been done. the inexplicable question is, why did fighting "joe hooker," with seventy thousand as good troops as ever fired a gun, sit down in the middle of that tanglewood forest and allow lee to make a monkey of him while sedgwick was doing such magnificent work below? two distinguished participants in all these events holding high commands, namely, general alfred pleasanton, quoted above, and general doubleday, commanding first division, first army corps, have written articles upon this battle, agreeing on the feasibility and brilliancy of the movement, but by inference and things unsaid have practically left the same question suspended in the air. it is possible the correct answer should not now be given. to return to our own doings, on that friday, st of may, our division was drawn up in line of battle in front of the chancellorsville house, and we were permitted to rest on our arms. this meant that any moment we might be expected to move forward. the battle was now on in earnest. heavy firing was heard some miles below us, which was sedgwick's work at fredericksburg. nearer by there was cannonading and more or less severe musketry firing. ambulances and stretcher-carriers were constantly coming back from the front with wounded soldiers, taking them to the field hospital, which was just in our rear, and we could see the growing piles of amputated legs and arms which were thrown outside with as little care as if they were so many pieces of wood. we were evidently waiting for something, nobody seemed to know what. everything appeared to be "at heads." our corps and division commanders, couch, hancock, and french, with their staffs, were in close proximity to the troops, and all seemed to be in a condition of nervous uncertainty. what might be progressing in those black woods in front, was the question. a nearer volley of musketry would start everybody up, and we would stand arms in hand, as if expecting the unseen enemy to burst through the woods upon us. then the firing would slacken and we would drop down again for a time. in the mean time shells were screeching over us continually, and an occasional bullet would whiz uncomfortably near. the nervous strain under such conditions may be imagined. this state of affairs continued all through friday night and most of saturday. of course, sleep was out of the question for any of our officers. on thursday and friday nights the men got snatches of sleep, lying on their arms, between the times all were aroused against some fresh alarm. on saturday some beef cattle were driven up and slaughtered in the open square in front of our lines, and the details were progressing with the work of preparing the meat for issue when the storm of disaster of saturday afternoon burst upon us and their work was rudely interrupted. we had anxious premonitions of this impending storm for some hours. captain pettit, who commanded the famous battery of that name, which was posted immediately in our rear, had spent much of his time in the forenoon of saturday high up in a tall tree which stood just in front of the chancellorsville house and close to our line, with his field glass reconnoitring. several times he had come down with information that heavy bodies of the enemy were massing for a blow upon our front and where he believed they would strike. this information, we were told, he imparted to hooker's chief of staff, and begged permission to open at long range with his rifled guns, but no attention was paid to him. i saw him up the tree and heard some of his ejaculating, which indicated that he was almost wild with apprehension of what was coming. once on coming down he remarked to general hancock that we would "catch h----l in less than an hour." the latter seemed to be thoroughly alive to the situation and exceedingly anxious, as were couch and french, to do something to prepare for what was coming, yet nothing more was done until suddenly the firing, which had been growing in volume and intensity and gradually drawing nearer, developed in a storm of musketry of terrific fury immediately in our right front, apparently not more than three hundred yards away. we could not see a thing. what there might be between us and it, or whether it was the onslaught of the enemy or the firing of our troops, we knew not. but we had not long to wait. soon stragglers, few in numbers, began to appear, emerging from the woods into our clearing, and then more of them, these running, and then almost at once an avalanche of panic-stricken, flying men without arms, without knapsacks, many bareheaded, swearing, cursing, a wild, frenzied mob tearing to the rear. instantly they began to appear, general couch, commanding our corps, took in the situation and deployed two divisions to catch and hold the fugitives. part of the third corps was also deployed on our left. we were ordered to charge bayonets and permit no man to pass through our ranks. we soon had a seething, howling mob of dutchmen twenty to thirty feet in depth in front of our line, holding them back on the points of our bayonets, and still they came. every officer of our division, with drawn sword and pistol, was required to use all possible endeavor to hold them, and threatening to shoot the first man who refused to stand as ordered. general french and staff were galloping up and down our division line assisting in this work. in the mean time another line of battle was rapidly thrown in between these fugitives and the woods to stay the expected advance of the enemy. this was the famous break of the eleventh corps, starting with blenker's division and finally extending through the whole corps, some fifteen thousand men. it seemed as though the whole army was being stampeded. we soon had a vast throng of these fugitives dammed up in our front, a terrible menace to the integrity of our own line as well as of all in our rear. we were powerless to do anything should the enemy break through, and were in great danger of being ourselves swept away and disintegrated by this frantic mob. all this time the air was filled with shrieking shells from our own batteries as well as those of the enemy, doing, however, little damage beyond adding to the terror of the situation. the noise was deafening. pandemonium seemed to reign supreme in our front. our line, as well as that of the third corps on our left, was holding firm as a rock. i noticed a general officer, i thought it was general sickles, was very conspicuous in the vigor of his efforts to hold the line. a couple of fugitives had broken through his line and were rapidly going to the rear. i heard him order them to halt and turn back. one of them turned and cast a look at him, but paid no further attention to his order. he repeated the order in stentorian tones, this time with his pistol levelled, but it was not obeyed, and he fired, dropping the first man dead in his tracks. he again ordered the other man to halt, and it was sullenly obeyed. these men seemed to be almost stupid, deaf to orders or entreaty in their frenzy. an incident in our own front will illustrate. i noticed some extra commotion near our colors and rushed to see the cause. i found an officer with drawn sword threatening to run the color-sergeant through if he was not allowed to pass. he was a colonel and evidently a german. my orders to him to desist were answered with a curse, and i had to thrust my pistol into his face, with an energetic threat to blow his head off if he made one more move, before he seemed to come to his senses. i then appealed to him to see what an example he as an officer was setting, and demanded that he should get to work and help to stem the flight of his men rather than assist in their demoralization. to his credit be it said, he at once regained his better self, and thenceforth did splendid work up and down amongst these german fugitives, and later on, when they were moved to the rear, he rendered very material assistance. i did not learn who he was, but he was a splendid-looking officer and spoke both english and german fluently. one may ask why those men should have lost their heads so completely. to answer the question intelligently, one needs to put oneself into their place. the facts as we were told at the time were: that the eleventh corps, which contained two divisions of german troops, under schurz and blenker (i think steinwehr commanded the latter division in this action), was posted on the right of hooker's line in the woods, some distance in front and to the right of the chancellorsville house. that at the time stonewall jackson made his famous attack, above referred to, he caught one of those divisions "napping"--off their guard. they had stacked their guns and knapsacks, and were back some twenty yards, making their evening coffee, when suddenly the rebel skirmishers burst through the brush upon them, followed immediately by the main line, and before they realized it were between these troops and their guns. consternation reigned supreme in an instant and a helter-skelter flight followed. jackson followed up this advantage with his usual impetuosity, and although the other divisions of the eleventh made an effort to hold their ground, this big hole in the line was fatal to them and all were quickly swept away. of course, the division and brigade commanders were responsible for that unpardonable carelessness. no valid excuse can be made for such criminal want of watchfulness, especially for troops occupying a front line, and which had heard, or should have heard, as we a half mile farther in the rear had, all the premonitions of the coming storm. but it was an incident showing the utter folly of the attempt to maintain a line of battle in the midst of a dense undergrowth, through which nothing could be seen. it is exceedingly doubtful whether they could have held their line against jackson's onset under those conditions had they been on the alert, for he would have been on and over them almost before they could have seen him. to resist such an onset needs time to deliver a steady volley and then be ready with the bayonet. it was towards six o'clock in the evening when this flying mob struck our lines, and darkness had fallen before we were rid of them and something like order had been restored. in the mean time it certainly seemed as if everything was going to pieces. i got a little idea of what a panic-stricken army means. the fearful thing about it was, we knew it was terribly contagious, and that with all the uncertainties in that black wilderness from which this mob came and the pandemonium in progress all about us, it might seize our own troops and we be swept away to certain destruction in spite of all our efforts. it is said death rides on horseback with a fleeing army. nothing can be more horrible. hence a panic must be stopped, cost what it may. night undoubtedly came to our rescue with this one. one of the most heroic deeds i saw done to help stem the fleeing tide of men and restore courage was not the work of a battery, nor a charge of cavalry, but the charge of a band of music! the band of the fourteenth connecticut went right out into that open space between our new line and the rebels, with shot and shell crashing all about them, and played "the star-spangled banner," the "red, white, and blue," and "yankee doodle," and repeated them for fully twenty minutes. they never played better. did that require nerve? it was undoubtedly the first and only band concert ever given under such conditions. never was american grit more finely illustrated. its effect upon the men was magical. imagine the strains of our grand national hymn, "the star-spangled banner," suddenly bursting upon your ears out of that horrible pandemonium of panic-born yells, mingled with the roaring of musketry and the crashing of artillery. to what may it be likened? the carol of birds in the midst of the blackest thunder-storm? no simile can be adequate. its strains were clear and thrilling for a moment, then smothered by that fearful din, an instant later sounding bold and clear again, as if it would fearlessly emphasize the refrain, "our flag is still there." chapter xvi the battle of chancellorsville--continued recurring again to the incident of the band playing out there between the two hostile lines in the midst of that panic of the eleventh corps, it was a remarkable circumstance that none of them were killed. i think one or two were slightly wounded by pieces of exploding shells, and one or two of their instruments carried away scars from that scene. the rebels did not follow up their advantage, as we expected, probably owing to the effective work of our batteries, otherwise they would all have been either killed or captured. none of the enemy came into our clearing that i saw. we must have corralled upward of eight thousand of our demoralized men. some had their arms, most of them had none, which confirmed the story of their surprise narrated in the last chapter. they were marched to the rear under guard, and thus the further spread of the panic was avoided. it was now dark and the firing ceased, but only for a few moments, for the two picket-lines were posted so close together, neither knowing exactly where the other was, that both were exceedingly nervous; and the slightest movement, the stepping of a picket, the scurry of a rabbit, would set the firing going again. first it would be the firing of a single musket, then the quick rattle of a half-dozen, then the whole line with the reserves, for all were on the line together there; and then the batteries, of which there were now at least a half-dozen massed right around us, would open with terrific vigor, all firing into the darkness, whence the enemy was supposed to be coming. this continued at short intervals all night long. after the mob of fugitives had been disposed of, our division had formed in line of battle directly in front of the chancellorsville house, supporting the provisional line which had been hurriedly thrown in to cover the break of the eleventh corps, and we were "resting (?) on our arms." at each of these alarms every man was instantly on his feet, with guns at a "ready." general french and staff were close to us, and general couch and his staff only a few feet away. all were exceedingly nervous and keenly on the alert. it was a night of terrific experience long to be remembered. the nervous strain upon all was simply awful. we knew that the eleventh corps had been stampeded by the impetuous charge of stonewall jackson, and we felt sure he would seek to reap the fruits of the break he had made by an effort to pierce our centre, and this we would have to meet and repel when it came. we did not then know that in the general mix-up of that fateful afternoon that able and intrepid leader had himself fallen and was then dying. this fact, fortunate for us, undoubtedly accounts for the failure of the expected onset to materialize. we could probably have held him, for we had two divisions of the second corps and part of the third corps in double lines, all comparatively fresh, and before midnight the first corps was in position on our right. but the slaughter would have been horrible. after midnight these outbursts became less frequent, and we officers lay down with the men and tried to sleep. i do not think any of our general officers or their staffs even sat down that whole night, so apprehensive were they of the descent of the rebels upon our position. i said in the last chapter that on saturday morning some beef cattle were slaughtered near our line for issue to our division; that the work of distribution had not been completed before the panic came, and then these carcasses of beef were between ours and the rebel line on "debatable ground." this was too much for some of our men, and two or three crawled out to them during the night and helped themselves to such cuts as they could make from our side. one party next day told of being surprised by hearing cutting on the other side of the beef, and found, on investigating, that a "johnny" was there, when the following colloquy took place: "hello, johnny, are ye there?" "yes, yank; too bad to let this 'fresh' spoil. i say, yank, lend me your knife, mine's a poor one. we 'uns and you 'uns is all right here. yank, i'll help you if you'll help me, and we'll get all we want." the knife was passed over, and these two foes helped each other in that friendly darkness. how much actual truth there was in this story i do not know, but i do know that there was considerable fresh beef among the men in the morning, and it was not at all unlikely that the johnnies also profited by the presence of that "fresh" between the lines. soldiers of either army would run almost any risk to get a bit of fresh beef. the next morning we were ordered to pile up our knapsacks and make a breastwork of them for such protection as they might afford, in anticipation of the still expected attack. we managed to make a cup of coffee and eat a hardtack without getting off our guard for an instant, and about ten o'clock the first brigade, now carroll's, and ours, consisting of two regiments only, the first delaware and ours, under command of our colonel albright, were ordered forward into the woods to the right of the chancellorsville house. this was the opening of the third day's battle. we moved forward in excellent line until we struck the edge of the woods. the moment the crackling of the brush under our feet apprised the enemy of our advance we received a heavy volley, which must have been very hurriedly delivered, for it passed over our heads, not a man being hit, i think. the morning was lowering and misty and the air very light, so that the smoke made by the rebel volley, not more than fifty yards away, hung like a chalk line and indicated their exact position. the sudden retirement of our lieutenant-colonel at this point placed the command of the regiment on me, and i shouted to the men to aim below that line of smoke and then gave the order, fire by battalion, and we emptied our guns as one man, reloaded, and receiving no reply to our volley, moved forward through the thick brush and undergrowth. we soon came upon the rebel line, and a dreadful sight it was. the first officer i saw was a rebel captain, an irishman. he ejaculated, "we're all killed! we're all killed!" and offered to surrender. the commanding officer must have suffered the fate of his men. most of them were either killed or wounded. the hundred or so living promptly threw down their arms, and colonel albright sent them to the rear under guard. this irish captain vouchsafed the remark sotto voce that he was glad to be captured, that he'd been trying to get out of the d----n confederacy for a year. our battalion volley had exactly reached its mark and had done fearful execution. there must have been more than two hundred lying there either dead or wounded, marking their line of battle. this was the only instance in my war experience where we delivered a volley as a battalion. the usual order of firing in line of battle is by "file," each man firing as rapidly as he can effectively, without regard to any other man. the volley they had delivered at us was a battalion volley, and it would have effectively disposed of our advance had it been well delivered. fortunately for us, it was not, and their smoke-line gave us the opportunity to deliver a very effective counter-stroke. it had to be quickly done, we were so close together. there was no time to meditate. it was us or them. instantly i resolved to give them all we could, aiming well under their line of smoke, and take our chances with the bayonet if necessary. the order was calmly given and the volley was coolly delivered. i have never heard a better one. the value of coolness in delivering and the effectiveness of such a volley were clearly demonstrated in this instance. we again moved forward, working our way through the tangled undergrowth, and had gained probably five or six hundred yards when we encountered another line, and sharp firing began on both sides. we could see the enemy dodging behind trees and stumps not more than one hundred yards away. we also utilized the same shelter, and therefore suffered comparatively little. suddenly i found bullets beginning to come from our left and rear as well as from our front. two of these bullets had been aimed at me as i stood behind a small tree on our line. the first knowledge i had of them was from the splinters of bark in my face from the tree, first one and then the other in quick succession as the bullets struck, not more than three inches from my head. they were fairly good shots. i was thankful they were no better. but now i had to move a couple of companies to the left to meet this flank attack. it did not prove a serious matter, and the enemy was quickly driven back. the same thing was tried shortly after on our right flank, and was again disposed of the same way. they were probably groups of sharpshooters hunting for our officers. one of them, i happened to know, never went back, for i saw one of our sergeants kill him. i was at that moment standing by him, when he clapped his hand to his ear and exclaimed, "that was a 'hot one,'" as a bullet just ticked it. "there is the devil who did it. see him behind that bush?" and with that he aimed and fired. the fellow rolled over dead. we soon had the better of this fighting and our opponents withdrew. we seemed now to be isolated. we must have been nearly a half mile from where we entered the woods. we could not see nor hear of any troops on our immediate right or left. colonel albright came back to consult as to what was best to be done now. the brush and undergrowth were exceedingly dense. what there might be on our right or left we could not know without sending skirmishers out. the colonel said his orders were to advance and engage the enemy. no orders had come to him since our advance commenced, two hours and more before. we had met and beaten two lines of the enemy. should we continue the advance or retire and get further orders? my advice was to retire; that with our small force, not more than five hundred men, isolated in that dense wood, we were liable to be gobbled up. the colonel agreed with this view and ordered the line faced about and marched to the rear. i mention this consultation over the situation because here we were, two young men, who knew almost nothing about military matters beyond obeying orders, suddenly called upon to exercise judgment in a critical situation. bravery suggested push ahead and fight. to retire savored of over-prudence. nevertheless, it seemed to us we had no business remaining out there without connection with other troops on either right or left, and this decided the colonel to order the retreat. we moved back in line of battle in excellent order and quite leisurely, having no opposition and, so far as we knew, no troops following us. we came out into the clearing just where we had entered the woods two hours before. but here we met a scene that almost froze our blood. during our absence some half-dozen batteries, forty or more guns, had been massed here. hurried earthworks had been thrown up, covering the knapsacks our brigade had left there when we advanced. these guns were not forty yards away and were just waiting the order to open on those woods right where we were. as we emerged from the brush, our colors, fortunately, were a little in advance, and showed through before the line appeared. their timely appearance, we were told, saved us from being literally blown to pieces by those batteries. a second later the fatal order would have been given and our brigade would have been wiped out of existence by our own guns! as we came out of the woods an aide galloped down to us, his face perfectly livid, and in a voice portraying the greatest excitement shouted to colonel albright: "what in h----l and d-mnation are you doing here? get out of here! those woods are full of rebel troops, and we are just waiting to open on them." albright replied very coolly, "save your ammunition. there is not a rebel within a half mile, for we have just marched back that distance absolutely unmolested. why haven't you sent us orders? we went in here two hours ago, and not an order have we received since." he replied, "we have sent a dozen officers in to you with orders, and they all reported that you had been captured." albright answered, "they were a lot of cowards, for there hasn't been a minute since we advanced that an officer could not have come directly to us. there is something wrong about this. i will go and see general hooker." and directing me to move the troops away from the front of those guns, he started for general hooker's head-quarters, only a short distance away. as i was passing the right of that line of batteries a voice hailed me, and i turned, and there stood one of my old scranton friends, captain frank p. amsden, in command of his battery. said he, as he gripped my hand, "boy, you got out of those woods just in time. our guns are double-shotted with grape and canister; the word 'fire' was just on my lips when your colors appeared." i saw his gunners standing with their hands on the lanyards. after forty years my blood almost creeps as i recall that narrow escape. we now moved to the rear across the plank-road from the chancellorsville house in the woods, where we supported hancock's line. colonel albright soon returned from his visit to hooker's head-quarters. his account of that visit was most remarkable, and was substantially as follows: "i scratched on the flap of the hooker head-quarters' tent and instantly an officer appeared and asked what was wanted. i said i must see general hooker, that i had important information for him. he said, 'you cannot see general hooker; i am chief of staff; any information you have for the commanding general should be given to me.' i said, 'i must see general hooker,' and with that pushed myself by him into the tent, and there lay general hooker, apparently dead drunk. his face and position gave every indication of that condition, and i turned away sick and disgusted." it was subsequently stated that general hooker was unconscious at that time from the concussion of a shell. that he was standing on the porch of the chancellorsville house, leaning against one of its supports, when a shell struck it, rendering him unconscious. the incident narrated above occurred about one p.m. on sunday, may . the army was practically without a commander from this time until after sundown of that day, when general hooker reappeared and in a most conspicuous manner rode around between the lines of the two armies. if he was physically disabled, why was not the fact made known at once to the next officer in rank, whose duty it would have been to have assumed command of the army, and if possible stem the tide of defeat now rapidly overwhelming us? a half-day of most precious time would have been saved. that this was not done i happen to know from the following circumstances. in our new position we were only about fifty yards behind general hancock's line. the head-quarters at this time of general couch, commanding our corps; of general french, commanding our division, and of general hancock were all at the right of our regiment, behind our line. these generals and their staffs were resting, as were our troops, and they were sitting about, only a few feet away from us. we therefore heard much of their conversation. directly general howard joined them. i well remember his remarks concerning the behavior of his corps on the previous afternoon. his chagrin was punctured with the advice of old french to shoot a few dozen of them for example's sake. naturally, the chief subject of their conversation related to the present situation. it was perfectly clear they regarded it as very critical. we could hear heavy cannonading in the distance towards fredericksburg. several times hancock broke out with a savage oath as he impatiently paced up and down, swinging his sword. "they are knocking sedgwick to pieces. why don't we go forward?" or a similar ejaculation, and then, "general couch, why do you not assume command and order us forward? it is your duty." (the latter was next in rank to hooker.) to which general couch replied, "i cannot assume command." french and howard agreed with hancock, but couch remained imperturbable, saying, "when i am properly informed that general hooker is disabled and not in command, i shall assume the duty which will devolve upon me." and so hour after hour passed of inactivity at this most critical juncture. they said it was plain lee was making simply a show of force in our front whilst he had detached a large part of his army and was driving sedgwick before him down at fredericksburg. now, why this period of inactivity whilst sedgwick was being punished? why this interregnum in the command? when colonel albright returned from his call at hooker's tent, narrated above, he freely expressed his opinion that hooker's condition was as stated above. his views were then generally believed by those about head-quarters, and this was understood as the reason why the next officer in rank was not officially notified of his chief's disability and the responsibility of the command placed upon him. nothing was then said about the concussion of a shell. it is profoundly to be hoped that colonel albright's impression was wrong, and that the disability was produced, as alleged, by concussion of a shell. if so, there was a very grave dereliction of duty on the part of his chief of staff in not imparting the fact immediately to general couch, the officer next in rank, and devolving the command upon him. in our new position on the afternoon of sunday, the third day's battle, we were subjected to a continuous fire of skirmishers and sharpshooters, without the ability of replying. we laid up logs for a barricade and protected ourselves as well as we could. several were wounded during the afternoon, among them captain hall, of company i. his was a most singular wound. we were all lying prone upon the ground, when suddenly he spoke rather sharply and said he had got a clip on his knee. he said it was an insignificant flesh wound, but his leg was benumbed. he tried to step on it, but could not bear his weight on it, and very soon it became exceedingly painful, and his ankle swelled to double its natural size. he was taken back to one of the hospitals, where it was found a minie-ball had entered his leg above the knee and passed down between the bones to the ankle, where it was removed. this practically ended the service of one of the youngest of our captains, a brave and brilliant young officer. towards night a cold, drizzling rain set in, which chilled us to our bones. we could not have any fires, not even to make our coffee, for fear of disclosing our position to the enemy. for four days now we had been continuously under the terrible nervous strain incident to a battle and practically without any rest or sleep. during this time we had no cooked food, nothing but hardtack and raw pork and coffee but once. this condition began to tell upon us all. i had been under the weather when the movement began, and was ordered by our surgeon to remain behind, but i said no, not as long as i could get around. now i found my strength had reached its limit, and i took that officer's advice, with the colonel's orders, and went back to the division field hospital to get under cover from the rain and get a night's sleep if possible. i found a half-dozen hospital tents standing together as one hospital, and all full to overflowing with sick and wounded men. our brigade surgeon, a personal friend, was in charge. he finally found a place for me just under the edge of one of the tents, where i could keep part of the rain off. he brought me a stiff dose of whiskey and quinine, the universal war remedy, and i drank it and lay down, and was asleep in less time than it takes me to write it. about midnight the surgeon came and aroused me with the information that the army was moving back across the river, and that all in the hospital who could march were ordered to make their way back as best they could; that of the others the ambulances would carry all they could and the others would be left. this was astounding information. my first impulse was, of course, to return to my regiment, but the doctor negatived that emphatically by saying, "you are under my orders here, and my instructions are to send you all directly back to the ford and across the river; and then the army is already on the march, and you might as well attempt to find a needle in a haystack as undertake to find your regiment in these woods in this darkness." if his first reason had not been sufficient, the latter one was quite convincing. i realized at once the utter madness of any attempt to reach the regiment, at the same time that in this night tramp back over the river, some eight miles, i had a job that would tax my strength to the utmost. the doctor had found one of the men of our regiment who was sick, and bidding us help each other started us back over the old plank-road. how shall i describe the experiences of that night's tramp? the night was intensely dark and it was raining hard. the plank-road was such only in name. what few remnants remained of the old planks were rotten and were a constant menace to our footing. i must have had more than a dozen falls during that march from those broken planks, until face, arms, and legs were a mass of bruises. we were told to push forward as rapidly as we could to keep ahead of the great rabble of sick and wounded which was to follow immediately. this we tried to do, though the road was now crowded with the occupants of the other hospitals already on their way. these men were all either sick or wounded, and were making their way with the greatest difficulty, most of them in silence, but there was an occasional one whose tongue gave expression to every possible mishap in outbursts of the most shocking profanity. there were enough of these to make the night hideous. our road was a track just wide enough to admit a single wagon through the densest jungle of timber and undergrowth i ever saw. i cannot imagine the famed jungles of africa more dense or impenetrable, and it seemed to be without end as we wearily plodded on hour after hour, now stepping into a hole and sprawling in the mud, again stumbling against a stolid neighbor and being in turn jostled by him, with an oath for being in his way. many a poor fellow fell, too exhausted to rise, and we were too nearly dead to do more than mechanically note the fact. towards morning a quartette of men overtook us carrying a man on their shoulders. as they drew near us one of the forward pair stumbled and fell, and down came the body into the mud with a swash. if the body was not dead, the fall killed it, for it neither moved nor uttered a sound. with a fearful objurgation they went on and left it, and we did not have life enough left in us to make any investigation. it was like the case of a man on the verge of drowning seeing others perishing without the ability to help. it was a serious question whether we could pull ourselves through or should be obliged to drop in our tracks, to be run over and crushed or trampled to death, as many a poor fellow was that night. we had not an ounce of strength, nor had any of the hundreds of others in our condition, to bestow on those who could not longer care for themselves. here it was every man for himself. this night's experience was a horrible nightmare. it was long after daylight when we crawled out of those woods and reached united states ford. here a pontoon bridge had been thrown over, and a double column of troops and a battery of artillery were crossing at the same time. we pushed ourselves into the throng, as to which there was no semblance of order, and were soon on the other side. on the top of the bluff, some one hundred feet above the river, on our side, we noticed a hospital tent, and we thought if we could reach that we might find shelter and rest, for it was still raining and we were drenched to the skin, and so cold that our faces were blue and our teeth chattered. a last effort landed us at this hospital. alas for our hopes! it was crowded like sardines in a box with others who in like condition had reached it before us. i stuck my head in the tent. one glance was enough. the surgeon in charge, in answer to our mute appeal, said, "god help you, boys; i cannot. but here is a bottle of whiskey, take a good drink; it will do you good." we took a corking dose, nearly half the bottle, and lay down, spoon fashion, my comrade and i, by the side of that tent in the rain and slept for about an hour, until the stimulus of the liquor passed off and the cold began again to assert itself, when we had to start on again. i have never had any use for liquors in my life, and the use of them in any form as a beverage i consider as nothing else than harmful in the highest degree, yet i have always felt that this big dose of whiskey saved my life. could we have had a good cup of hot coffee at that time it would possibly have been better, but we might as well have looked for lodgings in the waldorf-astoria as for coffee at that time and place. imagine my feelings during all this night as i reflected that i had a good horse, overcoat, and gum blanket somewhere,--yes, somewhere, back, or wherever my regiment might be,--and here i was soaking wet, chilled to the bones and almost dead from tramping. we got word at the ford that the troops were to go back to their old camps, and there was nothing for us to do but to make our way back there as best we might. soon after we started colonel (afterwards judge dana, of wilkes-barre) dana's regiment passed. the colonel hailed me and kindly inquired why i happened to be there by myself on foot, said i looked most wretched, and insisted on my taking another bracer from a little emergency stock he had preserved. i had been but a few months out of his law office, from which i had been admitted to the bar. his kindly attentions under these limited circumstances were very cheering and helpful. we were all day covering the eight or more miles back to camp. but early in the day the rain ceased, the sun came out, we got warmed up marching, and after some hours our clothes became sufficiently dry to be more comfortable, so that when we reached camp in the evening our condition was much improved. this was due in part probably as much to the relief from the awful nervous strain of the battle and the conditions through which we had passed in that wilderness as to rest and the changed weather. when we reached this side of the river that nervous strain ceased. we were sure that fighting was over, at least for the present. we found the regiment had been in camp some hours ahead of us. our corps was probably on the march when we left the hospital, and had preceded us all the way back. i found my horse had brought back one of our wounded men, and this was some compensation for my own loss. we had been gone on this campaign from the th of april until the th of may, and such a week! how much that was horrible had been crowded into it. for variety of experiences of the many dreadful sides of war, that week far exceeded any other like period of our service. the fighting was boy's play compared with either antietam or fredericksburg, yet for ninety-six hours continuously we were under the terrible nervous strain of battle. our losses in this action were comparatively light, men killed, officers wounded (one of whom died a few days later), and men wounded, and one man missing; total loss, , or about fifteen per cent. of the number we took into action. this missing man i met at the recent reunion of our regiment. he was picked up from our skirmish line by that flanking party of rebels on the third day's fight described in my last. the circumstance will show how close the rebels were upon us before we discovered them. our skirmishers could not have been more than a dozen yards in advance of our main line, yet the thicket was so dense that the enemy was on him before he fairly realized it. he said he was placed with a lot of other prisoners and marched to the rear some distance, under guard, when a fine-looking confederate officer rode up to them. he was told it was general lee. he said he wore long, bushy whiskers and addressed them with a cheery,-- "good-morning, boys. what did you come down here for? a picnic? you didn't think you could whip us men of the south, did you?" one of the prisoners spoke up in reply,-- "yes, d----n you, we did, and we will. you haven't won this fight yet, and joe hooker will lick h----l out of you and recapture us before you get us out of these woods." the general laughed good-naturedly at the banter his questions had elicited, and solemnly assured them that there were not men enough in the whole north to take richmond. our man was probably misinformed as to who their interlocutor was. general lee did not wear long, bushy whiskers, and was at that time probably down directing operations against fredericksburg. this was probably jeb stuart, who had succeeded jackson in command of that wing of the rebel army. our prisoner fared much better than most prisoners, for it was his good fortune to be exchanged after twenty-three days' durance, probably owing to the expiration of his term of service. although the actual dates of enlistment of our men were all in july and their terms therefore expired, the government insisted upon holding us for the full period of nine months from the date of actual muster into the united states service, which would not be completed until the th of may. we had, therefore, eight days' service remaining after our return from the battle of chancellorsville, and we were continued in all duties just as though we had months yet to serve. our principal work was the old routine of picket duty again. our friends, the enemy, were now quick to tantalize our pickets with the defeat at chancellorsville. such remarks as these were volleyed at us: "we 'uns give you 'uns a right smart lickin' up in them woods." "how d'ye like virginny woods, yank?" and then they sang to us: "ain't ye mighty glad to get out the wilderness?" a song just then much in vogue. another volunteered the remark, as if to equalize the honors in some measure, "if we did wallop you 'uns, you 'uns killed our best general." "we feel mighty bad about stonewall's death," and so their tongues would run on, whether our men replied or not. chapter xvii the muster out and home again on the th of may we received orders to proceed to harrisburg for muster out. there was, of course, great rejoicing at the early prospect of home scenes once more. we walked on air, and lived for the next few days in fond anticipation. we were the recipients of any amount of attention from our multitude of friends in the division. many were the forms of leave-taking that took place. it was a great satisfaction to realize that in our comparatively brief period of service we had succeeded in winning our way so thoroughly into the big hearts of those veterans. the night before our departure was one of the gladdest and saddest of all our experience. the fourteenth connecticut band, that same band which had so heroically played out between the lines when the eleventh corps broke on that fateful saturday night at chancellorsville, came over and gave us a farewell serenade. they played most of the patriotic airs, with "home, sweet home," which i think never sounded quite so sadly sweet, and suggestively wound up with "when johnny comes marching home." most of the officers and men of the brigade were there to give us a soldier's good-by, and major-general couch, commanding our corps (the second), also paid us the compliment of a visit and made a pleasant little speech to the men who were informally grouped around head-quarters, commending our behavior in three of the greatest battles of the war. it had been our high honor, he said, to have had a part in those great battles, and though new and untried we had acquitted ourselves with great credit and had held our ground like veterans. he expressed the fervent hope that our patriotism would still further respond to the country's needs, and that we would all soon again be in the field. our honors were not yet complete. general french, commanding our division, issued a farewell order, a copy of which i would have been glad to publish, but i have not been able to get it. it was, however, gratifying in the extreme. he recounted our bravery under his eye in those battles and our efficient service on all duty, and wound up by saying he felt sure that men with such a record could not long remain at home, but would soon again rally around their country's flag. of general couch, our corps commander, we had seen but little, and were therefore very pleasantly surprised at his visit. of general french, bronzed and grizzly bearded, we had seen much; all our work had been under his immediate supervision. he was a typical old regular, and many were the cuffs and knocks we received for our inexperience and shortcomings, all, however, along the lines of discipline and for our good, and which had really helped to make soldiers of us. these incidents showed that each commanding general keeps a keen eye on all his regiments, and no one is quicker to detect and appreciate good behavior than they. we felt especially pleased with the praises of general french, because it revealed the other side of this old hero's character. rough in exterior and manner of speech, he was a strong character and a true hero. his position at the breaking out of the war will illustrate this. he was a southerner of the type of anderson and farragut. when so many of his fellows of the regular army, under pretext of following their states, went over into rebellion and treason, he stood firm and under circumstances which reflect great credit upon him. he had been in mexico and had spent a life on the frontier, and had grown old and gray in the service, reaching only the rank of captain. when the war finally came he was in command of a battery of artillery stationed some three hundred and fifty miles up the rio grande, on the border of mexico. he was cut off from all communication with washington, and the commander of his department, the notorious general david e. twiggs, had gone over to the confederacy. he was, therefore, thoroughly isolated. twiggs sent him a written order to surrender his battery to the rebel commander of that district. his characteristic reply was, that he would "see him and the confederacy in hell first;" that he was going to march his battery into god's country, and if anybody interfered with his progress they might expect a dose of shot and shell they would long remember. none of them felt disposed to test his threat, and so he marched his battery alone down through that rebel country those three hundred and fifty miles and more into our lines at the mouth of the rio grande, bringing off every gun and every dollar's worth of government property that he could carry, and what he could not carry he destroyed. he was immediately ordered north with his battery and justly rewarded with a brigadier-general's commission. early on the morning of the th we broke camp and bade farewell to that first of the world's great armies, the grand old army of the potomac. need i say that, joyous as was our home-going, there was more than a pang at the bottom of our hearts as we severed those heroic associations? a last look at the old familiar camp, a wave of the hand to the friendly adieus of our comrades, whose good-by glances indicated that they would gladly have exchanged places with us; that if our hearts were wrung at going, theirs were, too, at remaining; a last march down those falmouth hills, another and last glance at those terrible works behind fredericksburg, and we passed out of the army and out of the soldier into the citizen, for our work was now done and we were soldiers only in name. as our train reached belle-plain, where we were to take boat for washington, we noticed a long train of ambulances moving down towards the landing, and were told they were filled with wounded men, just now brought off the field at chancellorsville. there were upward of a thousand of them. it seems incredible that the wounded should have been left in those woods during these ten to twelve days since the battle. how many hundreds perished during that time for want of care nobody knows, and, more horrible still, nobody knows how many poor fellows were burned up in the portions of those woods that caught fire from the artillery. but such is war. dare any one doubt the correctness of uncle billy sherman's statement that "war is hell!" reaching washington, the regiment bivouacked a single night, awaiting transportation to harrisburg. during this time discipline was relaxed and the men were permitted to see the capital city. the lieutenant-colonel and i enjoyed the extraordinary luxury of a good bath, a square meal, and a civilized bed at the metropolitan hotel, the first in five long months. singular as it may seem, i caught a terrific cold as the price i paid for it. the next day we were again back in camp curtin, at harrisburg, with nothing to do but to make out the necessary muster rolls, turn in our government property,--guns, accoutrements, blankets, etc., and receive our discharges. this took over a week, so that it was the th of may before we were finally discharged and paid off. then the several companies finally separated. if it had been hard to leave our comrades of the army of the potomac, it was harder to sever the close comradeship of our own regiment, a relationship formed and cemented amidst the scenes that try men's souls, a comradeship born of fellowship in privation, danger, and suffering. i could hardly restrain my tears as we finally parted with our torn and tattered colors, the staff of one of which had been shot away in my hands. we had fought under their silken folds on three battle-fields, upon which we had left one-third of our number killed and wounded, including a colonel and three line officers and upward of seventy-five men killed and two hundred and fifteen wounded. out of our regiment of one thousand and twenty-four men mustered into the service august , , we had present at our muster out six hundred and eighteen. we had lost in battle two hundred and ninety-five in killed and wounded and one hundred and eleven from physical disability, sickness, etc., and all in the short space of nine months. of the sixteen nine-months regiments formed in august, , the one hundred and thirtieth and ours were the only regiments to actively participate in the three great battles of antietam, fredericksburg, and chancellorsville, and we lost more men than either of the others. i should mention a minor incident that occurred during our stay in harrisburg preparing for muster out. a large number of our men had asked me to see if i could not get authority to re-enlist a battalion from the regiment. i was assured that three-fourths of the men would go back with me, provided they could have a two weeks' furlough. i laid the matter before governor curtin. he said the government should take them by all means; that here was a splendid body of seasoned men that would be worth more than double their number of new recruits; but he was without authority to take them, and suggested that i go over to washington and lay the matter before the secretary of war. he gave me a letter to the latter and i hurried off. i had no doubt of my ability to raise an entire regiment from the great number of nine-months men now being discharged. i repaired to the war department, and here my troubles began. had the lines of sentries that guarded the approach to the armies in the field been half as efficient as the cordon of flunkies that barred the way to the war office, the former would have been beyond the reach of any enemy. at the entrance my pedigree was taken, with my credentials and a statement of my business. i was finally permitted to sit down in a waiting-room with a waiting crowd. occasionally a senator or a congressman would break the monotony by pushing himself in whilst we cultivated our patience by waiting. lunch time came and went. i waited. several times i ventured some remarks to the attendant as to when i might expect my turn to come, but he looked at me with a sort of far-off look, as though i could not have realized to whom i was speaking. finally, driven to desperation, after waiting more than four hours, i tried a little bluster and insisted that i would go in and see somebody. then i was assured that the only official about the office was a colonel----, acting assistant adjutant-general. i might see him. "yes," i said, "let me see him, anybody!" i was ushered into the great official's presence. he was a lieutenant-colonel, just one step above my own rank. he was dressed in a faultless new uniform. his hair was almost as red as a fresh red rose and parted in the middle, and his pose and dignity were quite worthy of the national snob hatchery at west point, of which he was a recent product. "young man," said he, with a supercilious air, "what might your business be?" i stated that i had brought a letter from his excellency, governor curtin, of pennsylvania, to the secretary of war, whom i desired to see on important business. "where is your letter, sir?" "i gave it up to the attendant four hours ago, who, i supposed, took it to the secretary." "there is no letter here, sir! what is your business? you cannot see the secretary of war." i then briefly stated my errand. his reply was,-- "young man, if you really desire to serve your country, go home and enlist." thoroughly disgusted, i retired, and so ended what might have saved to the service one of the best bodies of men that ever wore a government uniform, and at a time when the country was sorely in need of them. a word now of the personnel of the one hundred and thirty-second regiment and i am done. dr. bates, in his history of the pennsylvania troops, remarks that this regiment was composed of a remarkable body of men. this judgment must have been based upon his knowledge of their work. every known trade was represented in its ranks. danville gave us a company of iron workers and merchants, catawissa and bloomsburg, mechanics, tradesmen, and farmers. from mauch chunk we had two companies, which included many miners. from wyoming and bradford we had three companies of sturdy, intelligent young farmers intermingled with some mechanics and tradesmen. scranton, small as she was then, gave us two companies, which was scarcely a moiety of the number she sent into the service. i well remember how our flourishing young men's christian association was practically suspended because its members had gone to the war, and old nay aug hose company, the pride of the town, in which many of us had learned the little we knew of drill, was practically defunct for want of a membership which had "gone to the war." of these two scranton companies, company k had as its basis the old scranton city guard, a militia organization which, if not large, was thoroughly well drilled and made up of most excellent material. captain richard stillwell, who commanded this company, had organized the city guard and been its captain from the beginning. the other scranton company was perhaps more distinctively peculiar in its personnel than either of the other companies. it was composed almost exclusively of delaware, lackawanna & western railroad shop and coal men, and was known as the railroad guards. in its ranks were locomotive engineers, firemen, brakemen, trainmen, machinists, telegraph operators, despatchers, railroad-shop men, a few miners, foremen, coal-breaker men, etc. their captain, james archbald, jr., was assistant to his father as chief engineer of the road, and he used to say that with his company he could survey, lay out, build and operate a railroad. the first sergeant of that company, george conklin, brother of d. h. conklin, chief despatcher of the delaware, lackawanna & western, and his assistant, had been one of the first to learn the art of reading telegraph messages by ear, an accomplishment then quite uncommon. his memory had therefore been so developed that after a few times calling his company roll he dispensed with the book and called it alphabetically from memory. keeping a hundred names in his mind in proper order we thought quite a feat. forty years later, at one of our reunions, mr. conklin, now superintendent of a railroad, was present. i asked him if he remembered calling his company roll from memory. "yes," said he, "and i can do it now, and recall every face and voice," and he began and rattled off the names of his roll. he said sometimes in the old days the boys would try to fool him by getting a comrade to answer for them, but they could never do it, he would detect the different voice instantly. now, as i close this narrative, shall i speak of the gala day of our home-coming? i can, of course, only speak of the one i participated in, the coming home to scranton of companies i and k and the members of the field and staff who lived here. this, however, will be a fair description of the reception each of the other companies received at their respective homes. home-coming from the war! can we who know of it only as we read appreciate such a home-coming? that was forty-one years ago the th of last may. union hall, on lackawanna avenue, midway between wyoming and penn, had been festooned with flags, and in it a sumptuous dinner awaited us. a committee of prominent citizens, our old friends, not one of whom is now living, met us some distance down the road. a large delegation of scranton's ladies were at the hall to welcome and serve us, and of these, the last one, one of the mothers and matrons, has just passed into the great beyond. many of those of our own age, the special attraction of the returning "boys," have also gone, but a goodly number still remain. they will recall this picture with not a little interest, i am sure. if perchance cheeks should be wet and spectacles moistened as they read, it will be but a reproduction of the emotions of that beautiful day more than forty years ago. no soldier boys ever received a more joyous or hearty welcome. the bountiful repast was hurriedly eaten, for anxious mothers, wives, sisters, and sweethearts were there, whose claim upon their returning "boy in blue" for holier and tenderer relationship was paramount. amidst all these joyous reunions, were there no shadows? ah, yes. in the brief period of nine months our regiment had lost forty per cent. of its membership. company i had gone to the front with one hundred and one stalwart officers and men, and but sixty-eight came back with the company. of the missing names, daniel s. gardner, moses h. ames, george h. cator, daniel reed, richard a. smith, and john b. west were killed in battle or died of wounds soon after; orville sharp had died in the service. the others had succumbed to the hardships of the service and been discharged. of the same number company k took into the service, sixty-six came home with the company. sergeant martin l. hower, richard davis, jacob eschenbach, jephtha milligan, allen sparks, obadiah sherwood, and david c. young had been killed in battle or died of wounds; thomas d. davis, jesse p. kortz, samuel snyder, james scull, solon searles, and john w. wright had died in the service. the most conspicuous figure in the regiment, our colonel, richard a. oakford, had been the first to fall. so that amidst our rejoicings there were a multitude of hearts unutterably sad. will the time ever come when "the bitter shall not be mingled with the sweet" and tears of sorrow shall not drown the cup of gladness? let us hope and pray that it may; and now, as father time tenderly turns down the heroic leaf of the one hundred and thirty-second pennsylvania volunteers, let us find comfort in the truth, "_dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori._" appendix the following are copies of the muster-out rolls of the field and staff and the several companies of the one hundred and thirty-second regiment, pennsylvania volunteers, taken originally from bates's history, and compared and corrected from the original rolls in the adjutant-general's office, at harrisburg, pa. several corrections have been made from the personal recollections of officers and men whom i have been able to consult. there are doubtless errors in the original rolls, owing to the paucity of records in the hands of those whose duty it was to make them at the time of muster-out, owing to resignations and other casualties. some of these officers were new in the command, and complete records were not in their hands. it will be remembered that the whole period of service of the one hundred and thirty-second was occupied in the three strenuous campaigns of antietam, fredericksburg, and chancellorsville, during which regimental and company baggage, which included official records, were seldom seen, and in many cases were entirely lost. for example, at the battle of chancellorsville on the fateful d of may, we had lain in line of battle behind our knapsacks piled up in twos, as a little protection from bullets. when we were ordered forward, so quick was the movement, that these knapsacks, and officers' luggage as well, were ordered to be left. when, two hours later, on our return we reached this ground, we found our knapsacks were at the bottom of an earth-work which had been hurriedly thrown up during our absence, over which a line of batteries thrust the frowning muzzles of their guns. with one or two exceptions (where the officer commanding the company happened to have it in his pocket), the company rolls were lost in the knapsacks of the first sergeant, whose duty it was to carry it. thereupon new rolls had to be made up, and of course mostly from memory. under all these circumstances, the wonder is that there are not more errors in them. almost at the last moment did i learn that i could include these rolls in my book, without exceeding its limits under the contract price. during this time i have endeavored at considerable expense and labor to get them correct, but even so, i cannot hope that they are more than approximately complete. nothing can be more sacred or valuable to the veteran and his descendants than his war record. the difficulty with these rolls will be found i fear not so much in what is so briefly stated, but in what has been inadvertently omitted, and which was necessary to a complete record. there are a number of desertions. i have given them as they are on the rolls. it is possible that some of these men may have dropped out of the column from exhaustion on the march, fallen sick and had been taken to some hospital and died without identification. failing to report at roll-call and being unaccounted for, they would be carried on the company rolls as "absent without leave," until prolonged absence without information would compel the adding of the fearful word "deserted." there were instances where men taken sick made their way home without leave and were marked deserters. after recovering from a severe case of "army fever" they returned again to duty. this was in violation of discipline, and under the strict letter of the law they were deserters, but they saved the government the cost of their nursing, and, what is more, probably saved their lives and subsequent service by their going. i mention these things so that where the record appears harsh, the reader may know that possibly, if all the facts had been known, it might have been far different. field and staff. richard a. oakford, colonel, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, sept. , . vincent m. wilcox, colonel, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from lieutenant-colonel september, ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . charles albright, colonel, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from major to lieutenant-colonel september, , to colonel jan. , ; mustered out with regiment may , . joseph e. shreve, lieutenant-colonel, promoted from captain co. a to major september, , to lieutenant-colonel jan. , ; mustered out with regiment may , . frederick l. hitchcock, major, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from adjutant jan. , ; twice wounded at fredericksburg dec. , ; mustered out with regiment may , . austin f. clapp, adjutant, promoted from corporal co. k to sergeant-major nov. , ; to adjutant jan. , ; mustered out with regiment may , . clinton w. neal, quartermaster, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from co. e aug. , ; mustered out with regiment may , . james w. anawalt, surgeon (major), mustered in sept. , ; mustered out with regiment may , . george k. thompson, assistant surgeon (first lieutenant), mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with regiment may , . george w. hoover, assistant surgeon (first lieutenant), mustered in sept. , ; mustered out with regiment may , . a. h. schoonmaker, chaplain (first lieutenant), mustered in sept. , ; mustered out with regiment may , . thomas maxwell, sergeant-major, promoted to sergeant-major from co. a aug. , ; promoted to first lieutenant co. a nov. , . (see co. a.) frank j. deemer, sergeant-major, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from co. k jan. , ; mustered out with regiment may , . elmore h. wells, quartermaster-sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from co. b aug. , ; owing to prolonged sickness in hospital returned to co. jan. , . (see co. b.) brooks a. bass, quartermaster-sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from co. i jan. , ; mustered out with regiment may , . john f. salmon, commissary-sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from co. g aug. , ; died at harper's ferry, va., oct. , . william w. coolbaugh, commissary-sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from co. k oct. , ; transferred to company dec. , . (see co. k.) alonzo r. case, commissary-sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from sergeant co. c dec. , ; mustered out with regiment may , . horace a. deans, hospital steward, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from co. i oct. , ; transferred to ranks april , . (see co. i.) moses g. corwin, hospital steward, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from co. k april , ; mustered out with regiment may , . company a.[g] joseph e. shreve, captain, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to major. see field and staff. charles c. norris, captain, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from second lieutenant nov. , ; mustered out with company may , . george w. vangilder, first lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate oct. , . thomas maxwell, first lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from sergeant-major nov. , ; mustered out with regiment. ed. w. roderick, second lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from private; mustered out with company. david shutt, first sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from sergeant march , ; mustered out with company may , . j. m. hassenplug, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . john s. ware, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal march , ; mustered out with company may , . isaac d. crewitt, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal march , ; mustered out with company may , . michael kessler, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from private march , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . george lovett, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from private feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . jacob h. miller, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; discharged, jan. , , at washington, for wounds received at antietam, va., sept. , . joseph h. nevins, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate march , , at baltimore, md. daniel vanrouk, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . jacob redfield, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from private sept. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . james williams, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from private oct. , ; mustered out with company may , . conrad s. aten, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from private dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . george snyder, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; absent, sick, at muster-out. alex. huntington, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from private feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel stall, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from private feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry vincent, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from private march , ; mustered out with company may , . john harig, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from private march , ; mustered out with company may , . charles flick, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at baltimore, md., dec. , , of wounds received at antietam sept. , . nathan f. lightner, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at newark, n. j., on surgeon's certificate dec. , . wm. c. mccormick, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; discharged march , ; wounds received at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . henry l. shick, musician, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . amos appleman, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . sylvester w. arnwine, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry adams, private, mustered in aug. , ; died sept. of wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . arthur w. beaver, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jacob j. bookmiller, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . franklin g. blee, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jeremiah black, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william h. carroll, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel e. cooper, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted oct. , ; left at bolivar heights, va.; sick, failed to return to company. franklin devine, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william davis, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel v. dye, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at philadelphia on surgeon's certificate april , . william earp, jr., private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . james s. easton, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . hiram eggert, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph feidel, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel flickinger, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john b. a. foin, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james foster, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . c. w. fitzsimmons, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john l. fields, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george francis, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at harrisburg on surgeon's certificate nov. , . thomas goodall, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel gulicks, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john gibson, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . joseph hale, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george e. hunt, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . adam hornberger, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . d. hendrickson, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel hillner, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . hiram hummel, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . thomas jones, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . thomas james, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . w. j. w. klase, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . daniel j. p. klase, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . conrad lechthaler, private, mustered in aug. , ; left sick at warrenton, va., nov. , ; reported discharged; no official notice received. samuel langer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john leichow, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged oct. , , for wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . jacob long, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . watkin morgan, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . levi m. miller, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jacob w. moyer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . leonard mayer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . cornelius c. moyer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john morris, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . john mccoy, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james mckee, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted aug. , , from harrisburg. wm. b. neese, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . james m. phillips, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john p. reaser, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . simon reidy, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . isaac rantz, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . david h. rank, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . wm. a. ringler, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged may , , for wounds received at antietam, md., september , . jonathan rice, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . william stewart, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . edward d. smith, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william sunday, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . august schriever, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john stine, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . edwin l. smith, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . oliver b. switzer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . sharp m. snyder, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . aaron sechler, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . archibald vandling, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at harrisburg on surgeon's certificate nov. , . angus wright, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . andrew waugh, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john wallace, private, mustered in aug. , ; left sick in hospital at harper's ferry, va.; reported discharged; no official notice received. samuel wote, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . matthew r. wright, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . james d. wray, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted sept. , . company b. smith w. ingham, captain, mustered in aug. , ; resigned on surgeon's certificate at georgetown, sem. hospital, feb. , . george h. eastman, captain, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from first lieutenant feb. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . anson g. carpenter, first lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from second lieutenant feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . dewitt c. kitchen, second lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to first sergeant sept. , ; to second lieutenant feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . john d. smith, first sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to sergeant nov. , ; to first sergeant feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . george d. warner, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , ; buried in national cemetery, sec. , lot a, grave . jonas h. farr, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . freeman h. dixon, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; captured at antietam, md., sept. , ; promoted from corporal feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . julian w. stellwell, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal sept. , ; to sergeant feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . abner lewis, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from private nov. , ; mustered out with company may , . john h. teneyck, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , ; buried in national cemetery, sec. , lot a, grave . john b. overfield, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . john w. reynolds, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . calvin l. briggs, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal feb. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . hansom h. carrier, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal feb. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . isaac polmatien, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal feb. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . daniel w. smith, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george n. colvin, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . porter carpenter, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . james n. gardner, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate nov. , . otis gilmore, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; discharged at ascension hospital, washington, d. c., on surgeon's certificate december , . decatur hewett, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; deserted april , . andrew j. lewis, musician, mustered in aug. , ; prisoner of war from may to may , ; mustered out with company may , . robert l. reynolds, musician, mustered in aug. , ; prisoner of war from may to may , ; mustered out with company may , . elias aton, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . loren ball, private, mustered in aug. , ; prisoner of war from may to may , ; mustered out with company may , . john r. briggs, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . willard e. bullock, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph billings, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel bishop, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . thomas j. chase, private, mustered in aug. , ; absent in hospital since sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . levi conklin, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . thomas a. castle, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george a. carney, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . seth a. cobb, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . oliver e. clark, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . adelbert colvin, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at harwood hospital, washington, on surgeon's certificate sept. , . benjamin v. cole, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . jerome e. detrick, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james c. degraw, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . ezra dean, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at harwood hospital, washington, on surgeon's certificate sept. , . charles evans, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . john f. evans, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at acquia creek, va., dec. , ; buried in military asylum cemetery, washington, d. c. sylvester farnham, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . elisha farnham, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded with loss of arm at antietam, md., sept. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . dennis d. gardner, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . alonzo e. gregory, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . philander grow, private, mustered in aug. , ; died near falmouth, va., dec. , . leslie e. hawley, private, mustered in aug. , ; left sick at harper's ferry oct. , , discharged but received no official notice. samuel hooper, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . thomas m. hines, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . harvey b. howe, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at acquia creek hospital on surgeon's certificate feb. , . peter b. hanyon, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at convalescent camp hospital on surgeon's certificate feb. , . george m. harding, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; discharged at hospital, washington, on surgeon's certificate march , . benjamin h. hanyon, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted sept. , ; left in smoketown hospital. stephen t. ingham, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . horace jackson, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . judson a. jayne, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . martin v. kennedy, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . silas g. lewis, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . francis m. lewis, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , , and at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . ezra a. lawbert, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . alvah letteen, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at fort wood hospital, n. y. harbor, on surgeon's certificate march , . albanus little, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; absent at muster-out. uriah mott, private, mustered out with company may , . emmet j. mathewson, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles w. martin, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at hammond's hospital, point pleasant, md., on surgeon's certificate jan. , . wilson d. minor, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate nov. , . thomas s. moore, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at georgetown, d. c., oct. , . oliver c. newberg, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at patent office, f, washington, d. c., on surgeon's certificate jan. , . horace o'neal, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry ornt, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . elisha pedrick, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , . byron prevost, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles plattenburg, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . rufus f. parrish, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . reuben plattenburg, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at washington, d. c., march , . william h. reynolds, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; deserted oct. , ; returned january , ; mustered out with company may , . albert g. reynolds, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . oliver e. reynolds, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . perry t. rought, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . washington l. rought, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at washington on surgeon's certificate feb. , . milot roberts, private, mustered in aug. , ; died sept. of wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . esick smith, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jeremiah stanton, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . davis c. smith, private, mustered in aug. , ; left in hospital near falmouth may , ; absent at muster-out. william shoemaker, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . asa smerd, private, mustered in aug. , ; left sick at belle plains landing dec. , ; absent sick at muster-out. harman stark, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . wesley j. stark, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted nov. , ; returned march , ; mustered out with company may , . burton shoemaker, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at new york on surgeon's certificate jan. , . john h. smith, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , ; buried in national cemetery, sec. , lot a, grave . joseph w. stanton, private, mustered in aug. , ; left sick at harper's ferry oct. , ; deserted from hospital. jacob a. thomas, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . utley turner, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at philadelphia on surgeon's certificate jan. , . henry b. turner, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . w. b. vanarsdale, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . andrew m. wandle, private, mustered in aug. , ; captured at sniker's gap, va., nov. , , prisoner of war from nov. to dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . john wall, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . elmore h. wells[h], private, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to quartermaster-sergeant of regiment aug. , ; returned to company jan. , ; mustered out with company. hiram e. worden, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . company c. herman townsend, captain, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . charles m. mcdougal, captain, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from first lieutenant jan. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . james a. rogers, first lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from sergeant to first sergeant sept. , ; to first lieutenant jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . anson c. cranmer, second lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . levi d. landon, second lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from first sergeant sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . russell j. ross, first sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . dewitt teaver, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . amos w. vanfleet, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . andrew e. watts, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal sept. , ; to sergeant jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel w. wilcox, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal oct. , ; mustered out with company may , . john c. craven, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . alonzo r. case, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to commissary-sergeant dec. , . (see field and staff.) h. w. parkhurst, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; absent, sick, at muster-out. john a. bloom, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john mcclure, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal jan. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . lucien bothwell, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . elijah r. hickok, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal march , ; mustered out with company may , . wallace biddle, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . samuel e. blanchard, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . melville f. ephline, musician, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william spencer, musician, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . allen m. ayres, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; absent sick at muster-out. harrison b. benson, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george bennett, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . manning bailey, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . amos s. boothe, private, mustered in aug. , ; absent sick at muster-out. james a. barnes, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jeremiah bailey, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate nov. , . samuel h. bartlett, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at falmouth, va., feb. , . oliver blanchard, private, mustered in aug. , ; died sept. of wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , ; buried in national cemetery, sec. , lot a, grave . leroy j. cease, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . thomas d. cross, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . nathan s. denmark, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . lewis darling, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . simeon elliott, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . sylvester m. green, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john grauteer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . oscar c. griswold, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . ambrose s. gray, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . martin w. gray, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate dec. , . henry h. hoagland, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jasper n. hoagland, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . isaac n. harvey, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george w. harvey, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john j. howland, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . truman harris, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . solon j. hickok, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . stephen c. hickok, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles o. hazleton, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate april , . william hamilton, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . francis harris, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at le roy, pa., jan. , . john c. hurlburt, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . seth howland, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at chancellorsville, va., may , . andrew e. hoagland, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . william w. haxton, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted sept. , . silick june, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . frederick kerrick, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . roscoe s. loomis, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . david p. lindley, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel lindley, private, mustered in aug. , ; prisoner of war; date not given; mustered out with company may , . ira lindley, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged april , ; expiration of term. levi r. lester, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at washington, d. c., feb. , ; buried in military asylum cemetery. lewis m. leonard, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . george mallory, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate nov. , . charles l. miles, private, mustered in aug. , ; died near falmouth, va., may , . lyman r. newell, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . stephen a. randall, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john h. newell, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged oct. , , on surgeon's certificate of disability. john randall, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles m. rogers, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . judson a. royse, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . dewitt c. robinson, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jeremiah rockwell, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate march , . lynds a. spencer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james soper, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john b. streets, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . geo. c. shoemaker, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john schnader, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . solomon stone, private, mustered in aug. , ; prisoner of war; mustered out with company may , . lewis sellard, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william smith, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . daniel w. smith, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . nathan j. spencer, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate april , . james m. snader, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate nov. , . luke p. streeter, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate oct. , . jeremiah smith, private, mustered in aug. , ; died near falmouth, va., jan. , . charles b. thomas, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . george m. van dyke, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . e. g. van dyke, private, mustered in aug. , ; prisoner of war; mustered out with company may , . laning n. vargason, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . sevellon a. wilcox, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jefferson a. witherall, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company aug. , . charles walter, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . chauncey w. wheeler, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . merton c. wright, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged sept. , , on surgeon's certificate. joseph n. wright, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged sept. , , on surgeon's certificate. roswell a. walker, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at belle plain, va., dec. , . company d. charles h. chase, captain, mustered in aug. , ; resigned dec. , . w. h. carnochan, captain, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from second lieutenant nov. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles e. gladding, first lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company nov. , . j. w. brown, second lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; discharged aug. , , to date aug. , . f. marion wells, second lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from first sergeant dec. , ; wounded with loss of leg at chancellorsville, va., may , ; absent in hospital at muster-out; died a few days later. william c. cobb, first sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to first sergeant feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . alvah l. cooper, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . lert ballard, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . albert long, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . albert s. cobb, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . daniel grace, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal april , ; mustered out with company may , . alonzo ross, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal april , ; mustered out with company may , . albert preston, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; promoted to corporal feb. , ; mustered out with company. james f. carman, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company. albert o. scott, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; promoted to corporal feb. , ; mustered out with company. furman bullock, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal feb. , ; mustered out with company. samuel harkness, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john c. mcmahon, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate oct. , . elihu b. chase, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate oct. , . l. n. burnham, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; died nov. , , of wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , ; buried at chester, pa. hubbard h. williams, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; deserted at washington, d. c., nov. , ; returned may , ; discharged by general order june , . nathaniel mattock, musician, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . daniel h. moore, musician, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . stephen t. hall, wagoner, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal aug. , ; reduced to ranks feb. , ; mustered out with company. john b. alexander, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . julian l. andrus, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . nathan e. bailey, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles boyce, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . darius bullock, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph boughton, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company. warren s. bixley, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . ellis h. best, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george bennett, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . aaron w. bailey, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . oliver e. blakeslee, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at washington, d. c., jan. , ; pneumonia. orrin g. blakeslee, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at harper's ferry, va., nov. , . warren s. bailey, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted oct. , , at harper's ferry. richard w. canedy, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william m. clark, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . daniel carman, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles o. dark, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . christopher denmark, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . reuben dudley, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate march , . peter fuller, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; in hospital at muster-out. george fields, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . leander l. gregory, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george c. gerould, private, mustered in aug. , ; died oct. of wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . richard m. howland, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george w. howland, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jerome s. hill, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george w. hardy, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . martin harkness, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate dec. , . benjamin f. jones, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . lewis w. jones, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . richard m. johnson, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted sept. , . alvah m. kent, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . thomas lee, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . lewis laurent, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . festus lyon, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william a. mores, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph f. morley, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . gophar morgan, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate nov. , . abner miller, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate dec. , . john mcgregor, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . george w. mcalister, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james n. mcalister, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted sept. , ; returned march , ; mustered out with company may , . michael e. mcintosh, private, mustered in aug. , ; prisoner of war from nov. to dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . orrin p. mcallister, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate dec. , . samuel r. mcmahon, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . isaac p. mcintyre, private, mustered in aug. , ; died near falmouth, va., dec. , of wounds received at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . william f. newell, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry a. newell, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . chester northrop, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william peet, private, mustered in aug. , ; absent in hospital at muster-out. james patterson, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . richard w. phillips, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . homer t. rhodes, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry j. russell, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . s. cheney roby, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . nehemiah robinson, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted at frederick city, md., sept. , . charles n. smith, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . byron b. slade, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . norman c. shepherd, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . edward c. strong, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . barlow smith, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at harper's ferry, va., nov. , . conrad schantz, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted at harrisburg aug. , . j. o. van buskerk, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . joseph s. wilcox, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . barnum wilcox, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . norman wilcox, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . nathan wilcox, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , , and at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . ira v. williams, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . charles w. whipple, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles williams, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate oct. , . ezra h. welch, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at belle plain, va., dec. , . w. h. woodworth, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at falmouth, va., jan. , . martin west, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted october, . company e. michael whitmoyer, captain, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . andrew c. mensch, first lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . d. ramsey melick, second lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william a. barton, first sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william h. gilmore, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william j. renn, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles p. sloan, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . isaac n. kline, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . benjamin f. johnston, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . clark kressler, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry m. johnston, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . ephraim n. kline, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . edward c. green, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal nov. , ; mustered out with company may , . john n. hughes, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal jan. , .; mustered out with company may , . james b. fortner, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel wood, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal feb. , ; mustered out with company may , , . william c. robinson, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at harper's ferry on surgeon's certificate oct. , . james p. melick, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; died at washington, d. c., dec. , of wounds received at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . clinton w. neal, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to quartermaster aug. , . (see field and staff.) john staley, musician, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . azima v. hower, musician, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . tillman faux, wagoner, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . lafaye applegate, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . leonard beagle, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . hiram h. brodt, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jacob w. bomboy, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james s. bomboy; private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . edward w. coleman, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james w. cook, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james cadman, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . peter o. crist, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry croop, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate oct. , . thomas carothers, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . abel deily, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john moore eves, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john f. eck, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . moses j. french, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . clod'y s. m. fisher, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles a. folk, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . robert gillaspy, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john p. guilds, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . clinton c. hughes, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry c. hartman, sr., private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . c. h. hendershot, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william h. hunter, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry c. hartman, jr., private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel harder, private, mustered in aug. , ; prisoner from dec. , , to may , ; mustered out with company may , . adam heist, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george w. howell, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel harp, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . isaiah s. hartman, private, mustered in aug. , ; died oct. of wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . jesse m. howell, private, mustered in aug. , ; died near falmouth, va., jan. , . joseph s. hayman, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted aug. , . samuel r. johnson, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . hiram f. kline, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . thomas o. kline, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel c. krickbaum, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . amos y. kisner, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george m. kline, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . augustus m. kurtz, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . francis m. lutz, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . isaac m. lyons, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph w. lyons, private, mustered in aug. , ; absent sick in hospital since oct. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph lawton, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john lawton, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william lazarus, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . daniel markley, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . lemuel mood, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles muffley, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . clark price, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . levi h. priest, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . oliver palmer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph penrose, private, mustered in aug. , ; missed in action at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . david ruckle, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . josiah reedy, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . john roadarmel, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . isaac roadarmel, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jeremiah reese, private, mustered in sept. , ; captured at chancellorsville, va.; prisoner from may to may , ; mustered out with company may , . jonathan w. snyder, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles w. snyder, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , .. josiah stiles, private, mustered in aug. , ; absent, sick in hospital since sept. , . frederick m. staley, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george w. sterner, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry h. sands, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william c. shaw, private, mustered in aug. , ; absent, sick, at muster-out. james f. trump, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel m. vanhorne, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at washington, d. c., feb. , ; buried in harmony burial grounds, d. c. philip watts, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . amasa whitenite, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . gottlieb wagoner, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . gaylord whitmoyer, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . samuel young, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . franklin j. r. zellars, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . company f. george w. wilhelm, captain, mustered in aug. , ; discharged dec. , . jacob d. laciar, captain, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; promoted from second lieutenant jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . thomas musselman, first lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . john kerns, second lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal to sergeant sept. , ; to second lieutenant jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . oliver breneiser, first sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , and at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; promoted to corporal sept. , , to first sergeant jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . jacob miller, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john hoff, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal nov. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles mack, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal march , ; mustered out with company may , . john sherry, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . oliver f. musselman, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . f. c. wintemute, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . david m. jones, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . albert e. sheets, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william miner, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william r. rex, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal nov. , ; mustered out with company may , . lewis trainer, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal nov. , ; mustered out with company may , . john schultz, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; promoted to corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph schadel, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; died at belle plain, va., nov. , . george w. duryea, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; deserted aug. , , from camp curtin. edwin seyfried, musician, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . bar't armbruster, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . david arner, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william allen, private, mustered in aug. , ; captured at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . august belsner, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . thomas baker, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . daniel bartley, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted sept. , , near rockville, md. stephen cunfer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . thomas christine, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph l. clewell, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at harper's ferry, va., oct. of wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . chas. s. dreisbach, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph b. dreisbach, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph drumbore, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged jan. , , for wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . peter everts, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william everts, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . jonathan eck, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel everts, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . owen c. fullweiler, private, mustered in aug. , ; absent, sick, at muster-out. amon fritz, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . lewis frederick, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william frantz, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; absent, sick, at muster-out. aaron h. gumbard, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry grow, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george h. gearhard, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged march , , for wounds received at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . samuel grow, private, mustered in aug. , ; died dec. of wounds received at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; buried at alexandria; grave . joseph hontz, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . oliver hoff, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . frederick hosler, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john w. hottenstein, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george houser, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . sebastian hon, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john hills, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted aug. , , from camp curtin. alex. johnson, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel keene, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . edwin kemmerer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john kistler, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded, with loss of arm, at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; discharged, date unknown. daniel kressley, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . samuel d. lynn, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . levi m. levy, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . john lents, private, mustered in aug. , ; died jan. , , of wounds received at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . francis h. moser, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . monroe martin, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . alexander mills, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate sept. , . charles f. moyer, private, mustered in aug. , ; died sept. of wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . samuel mccance, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . daniel mcgee, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jacob notestein, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . valentine neumoyer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . moses neyer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james e. nace, private, mustered in aug. , ; died jan. , , of wounds received at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . enos olwerstefler, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . chas. a. patterson, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jacob rodfink, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . leopold rice, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jacob ridler, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . aaron rex, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam sept. , ; died at smoketown, md., nov. , . chas. w. ramaley, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at windmill point, va., jan. , . paul solt, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william s. siegfried, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . josiah sandel, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel steigerwalt, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . lewis steigerwalt, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles sinker, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . jacob strouse, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . otto sterner, private, mustered in aug. , ; died march , , of wounds received at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . francis solt, private, mustered in aug. , ; died sept. , , at frederick city, md. henry wernstein, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . company g. robert a. abbott, captain, mustered in aug. , ; discharged jan. , , for wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . isaac howard, captain, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from private to first sergeant jan. , , to captain jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . john c. dolan, first lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . william h. fulton, first lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from sergeant march , ; mustered out with company may , . edmund h. salkeld, second lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; discharged march , , for wounds received at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . john weiss, second lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from sergeant march , ; mustered out with company may , . charles simons, first sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . theop. williams, first sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from private to sergeant, to first sergeant nov. , ; killed at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . john i. c. williams, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . joshua butler, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . william radcliff, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal feb. , ; to sergeant march , ; mustered out with company may , . charles weiss, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal, to sergeant feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . john graver, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate sept. , . george rase, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; deserted sept. , , at camp whipple. john osborn, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; wounded, with loss of leg, at chancellorsville, va., may , ; discharged, date not given. david gabret, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william j. springer, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john leslie, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . hugh collan, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . peter leaser, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal feb. , ; mustered out with company may , . william h. noble, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . elijah youtz, musician, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate dec. , . charles abner, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph backert, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george buck, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted august , , at camp curtin. joseph conley, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . peter cassady, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william callahan, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william davis, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . bernard dempsey, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james derbyshire, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . michael dougherty, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . w. m. darlington, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at washington, d. c., of wounds received at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . patrick elliott, private, mustered in aug , ; mustered out with company may , . john earley, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . john ephlin, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . patrick fleming, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . conrad fry, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged dec. for wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . andrew floyd, private, mustered in aug. , ; died near falmouth, va., march , . charles holmes, private; mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william hay, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . morgan jenkins, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . christian klingle, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . matthew kelley, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william f. klotz, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john f. klotz, private, mustered in aug. , ; captured dec. , ; absent, at camp parole, annapolis, md., at muster-out. bernard kelly, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . willoughby koons, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; absent at muster-out. john knauss, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . william f. krum, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at smoketown, md., of wounds received at antietam sept. , ; buried in national cemetery, sec. , lot b, grave . henry lange, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william leed, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jonas locke, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate dec. , . henry mansfield, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jonathan l. miller, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . mannes mayer, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at smoketown, md., of wounds received at antietam, sept. , . edward p. meelick, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . luke masterson, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted aug. , , at camp curtin. john mcgovern, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged april , , for wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . michael mccullough, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . james patterson, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . alfred poh, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . michael reily, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . hugh reily, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . hugo ronemus, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jonathan c. ruch, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at smoketown, md., of wounds received at antietam, sept. , . thomas rigby, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted sept. , , at boonsborough, md. paul sowerwine, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . david shaffer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jacob shingler, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . bernhard smith, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . thomas smitham, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . robert synard, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john stacy, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william schoonover, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . h. b. schoonover, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john f. salmon, private, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to commissary-sergeant aug. , . thomas sproll, wagoner, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; absent at muster-out. john toner, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted aug. , , camp curtin. john weisly, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . weaver tilghman, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry wintersteen, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged feb. , , for wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . michael welsh, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate march , . rufus walters, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted aug. , , camp curtin. edward yemmons, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . company h. george w. john, captain, mustered in aug. , ; resigned dec. , . martin m. brobst, captain, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from first lieutenant dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . isaiah w. willits, first lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from first sergeant dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry h. hoagland, second lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; died dec. of wounds received at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . p. r. margerum, second lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . a. h. sharpless, first sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel f. savory, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george reedy, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . hiram w. brown, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . william mcneal, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . theodore kreigh, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . rolandus herbine, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel j. frederick, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . francis m. thomas, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . john p. hoagland, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal nov. , ; mustered out with company may , . ephraim l. kramer, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . d. hollingshead, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . theobald fields, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal jan. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . george harber, musician, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . burton w. fortner, musician, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . morgan g. drum, wagoner, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . h. h. brumbach, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john r. brobst, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william h. berger, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . william beaver, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph brumbach, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john bell, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . julius a. barrett, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . john bates, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate february, . william j. brumbach, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged feb. , . christian clewell, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . phineas cool, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate january, . hiram cool, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged january, , for wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . john dillon, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william h. dyer, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at belle plain, va., december, . john derr, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . albert erwine, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at belle plain, va., dec. , ; buried in military asylum cemetery, d. c. william fetterman, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . daniel fetterman, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . christopher m. fedder, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry b. fortner, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel a. fields, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . lloyd w. b. fisher, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jacob g. fisher, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john d. fincher, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate, date unknown. scott hite, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john hampton, private, mustered in aug. , ; absent, sick, at muster-out. arthur harder, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . thomas e. harder, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . ethan hampton, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . w. h. h. hartman, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate april , . clark harder, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . george h. hankins, private, mustered in aug. , ; died oct. ; bu. rec., oct. ; of wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , ; buried in national cemetery, sec. , lot b, grave . henry t. john, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william e. john, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jeremiah s. kreigh, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . edward kramer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . ralph m. lashell, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . emanuel l. lewis, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john ludwig, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james p. margerum, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william marks, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph martz, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . adam r. mensch, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . comodore p. mears, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles maloney, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . isaiah w. mastellar, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . patrick mcgraw, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at warrenton, va., nov. , . john f. ohl, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . irvin c. payne, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william j. d. parks, private, mustered in aug. , ; died dec. of wounds received at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; buried in military asylum cemetery, d. c. david phillips, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . tobias rinard, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . frederick reese, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . lloyd t. rider, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . elias c. rishel, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . henry j. robbins, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jeremiah rhodes, private, mustered in aug. , ; absent, sick, at muster-out. wesley rider, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at belle plain, va., december, . james m. richards, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . josiah g. roup, private, mustered in aug. , ; died of wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . benjamin b. schmick, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles s. schmick, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jeremiah h. snyder, private, mustered in aug. , ; absent, sick, at muster-out. clark b. stewart, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john h. stokes, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jesse shoemaker, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john m. sanks, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged by special order oct. , . george f. sterne, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . christian small, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at chancellorsville, va., may , . lewis thiele, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel m. thomas, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at falmouth, va., jan. , . john troup, private, mustered in aug. , ; died oct. of wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . dennis waters, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . robert m. watkins, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . monroe c. warn, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . daniel l. yeager, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . company i. james archbald, captain, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . philip s. hall, captain, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from second lieutenant jan. , ; wounded at chancellorsville may , ; absent in hospital at muster-out. robert r. meiller, first lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; discharged jan. , , for disability. benjamin gardner, first lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from sergeant jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . michael houser, second lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from private jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . george a. wolcott, first sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . george w. conklin, first sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . john m. miller, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john jones, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . isaac cornell, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . abram bittenbender, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal jan. , ; prisoner from may to may , ; mustered out with company may , . orlando taylor, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate dec. , . alfred j. barnes, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph sharpe, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; taken prisoner at hillsboro, va., nov. , , exchanged jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . owen j. bradford, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william h. hagar, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . reed g. lewis, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal april , ; mustered out with company may , . james a. sargent, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal jan. , ; mustered out with company may , . robert gray, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate oct. , . daniel s. gardner, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . orrin c. hubbard, musician, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . theodore keifer, musician, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph s. quinlain, wagoner, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . thomas allen, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . moses h. ames, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . george l. bradford, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william bracy, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john burnish, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . nathaniel d. barnes, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james barrowman, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . thomas barrowman, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . brooks a. bass, private, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to quartermaster-sergeant jan. , . (see field and staff.) milton brown, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . lewis a. bingham, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted jan. , ; returned march , ; mustered out with company may , . john berry, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged at fort wood hospital, n. y. harbor, on surgeon's certificate march , . abijah bersh, jr., private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted sept. , . burton j. capwell, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . thomas carhart, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate, date unknown. george h. cator, private, mustered in aug. , ; died oct. of wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , ; buried in national cemetery, sec. , lot c, grave . horace a. deans, private, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to hospital steward oct. , ; returned to company april , ; mustered out with company may , . frederick m. ellting, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . h. l. elmandorf, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted at warrenton, va., nov. , . edward ferris, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . john fern, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george e. fuller, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry m. fuller, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . benton v. finn, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . john finch, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate march , . william gunsauler, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john gahn, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . elisha r. harris, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel hubbard, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . j. hippenhammer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles hamm, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . richard hall, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william h. harrison, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry p. halstead, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . william hazlett, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . john l. hunt, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted at acquia creek, va., feb. , . roderick jones, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; absent, in hospital, at muster out. john j. kilmer, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . h. l. krigbaum, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . michael kelly, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george c. lanning, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . thomas z. lake, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . lyman milroy, private, mustered in aug. , ; prisoner from may to may , ; mustered out with company may , . george meuchler, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james j. maycock, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . stephen moomey, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james h. miller, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . robert o. moscrip, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james s. morse, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate oct. , . joseph niver, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . aaron orren, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john owen, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . john e. powell, private, mustered in aug. , ; captured at chancellorsville, va.; prisoner from may to may , ; mustered out with company may , . charles pontus, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james a. parker, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted at harper's ferry, va., oct. , . freeman j. roper, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . elezer raymond, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . nelson raymond, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; absent, in hospital, at muster-out. james s. randolph, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate jan. , . george w. ridgeway, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate, date unknown. daniel reed, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . william h. smith, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william h. seeley, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . laton slocum, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . michael sisk, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john sommers, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . richard a. smith, private, mustered in aug. , ; died oct. of wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . orvice sharp, private, mustered in aug. , ; died nov. , . reily s. tanner, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james l. tuthill, private, mustered in aug. , ; prisoner from may to may , ; mustered out with company may , . henry vusler, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted sept. , . david j. woodruff, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel wiggins, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . daniel winnich, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . burr c. warner, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john b. west, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . harrison young, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . company k. richard stillwell, captain, mustered in aug. , ; discharged march , , for wounds received at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . jacob b. floyd, captain, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from first lieutenant march , ; mustered out with company may , . noah h. jay, first lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from second lieutenant march , ; mustered out with company may , . sylvester ward, second lieutenant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from sergeant to first sergeant dec. , ; to second lieutenant march , ; mustered out with company may , . francis orchard, first sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from sergeant march , ; mustered out with company may , . george m. snyder, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . john bottsford, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . william c. keiser, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; promoted from corporal march , ; mustered out with company may , . martin l. hower, sergeant, mustered in aug. , ; died oct. of wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . philetus p. copeland, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . george coursen, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george a. kent, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . george w. johnson, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . john s. short, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal sept. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; absent in hospital at muster-out. george h. taylor, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . emil haugg, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to corporal march , ; mustered out with company may , . austin f. clapp, corporal, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to sergeant-major nov. , . (see field and staff.) lorenzo d. kemmerer, musician, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william silsbee, musician, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john m. kapp, wagoner, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . augustus ashton, private, mustered in aug. , ; taken prisoner at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . david brooks, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles h. boon, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . lewis h. bolton, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . adolf bendon, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate dec. , . charles a. bulmer, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate oct. , . william h. carling, private, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to adjutant's clerk january , ; mustered out with company may , . william w. coolbaugh, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . harrison cook, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jacob m. corwin, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john coolbaugh, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william h. coon, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate nov. , . moses y. corwin, private, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to hospital steward april , . (see field and staff.) benjamin a. c. daily, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . francis j. deemer, private, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to sergeant-major jan. , . (see field and staff.) richard davis, private, mustered in aug. , ; died jan. , , of wounds received at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; buried in military asylum cemetery, washington, d. c. thomas d. davis, private, mustered in aug. , ; died near washington, d. c, nov. , ; buried in military asylum cemetery, washington, d. c. jacob eschenbach, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , . charles frederick, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george gabriel, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at chancellorsville, va., may , ; mustered out with company may , . john c. higgins, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . peter harrabaum, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james h. havenstrite, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george hindle, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . edward f. henry, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged from emory hospital, washington, d. c, on surgeon's certificate jan. , . wilson hess, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . john p. heath, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted on march from antietam to harper's ferry, sept. , . michael kivilin, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . robert kennedy, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . jesse p. kortz, private, mustered in aug. , ; died near falmouth, va., dec. , . george w. linn, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . andrew landsickle, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john lindsey, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george matzenbacher, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel w. mead, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william l. marcy, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george b. mack, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles a. meylert, private, mustered in aug. , ; promoted to second lieutenant co. a, feb. , . jeptha milligan, private, mustered in aug. , ; killed at antietam, md., sept. , ; buried in national cemetery, sec. , lot a, grave . richard nape, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . daniel j. newman, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john r. powell, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph pellman, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . downing parry, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john ryan, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . samuel ruple, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . simon p. ringsdorf, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate feb. , . george smithing, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry m. seager, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . daniel w. scull, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . joseph snyder, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . simon p. snyder, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william d. snyder, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . charles b. scott, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . peter seigle, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john scott, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . walter a. sidner, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . martin l. smith, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . james stevens, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . john stitcher, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged nov. , , on account of wounds received at antietam sept. , . allen sparks, private, mustered in aug. , ; died sept. of wounds received at antietam, md., sept. , . obadiah sherwood, private, mustered in aug. , ; died nov. at smoketown, md., of wounds received at antietam sept. , . samuel s. snyder, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at philadelphia, pa., jan. , . james scull, private, mustered in aug. , ; died near falmouth, va., feb. , . solon searle, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at acquia creek, va., jan. , . alonzo l. slawson, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged, date unknown. leander j. smith, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted from camp whipple sept. , . david vipon, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . george c. wilson, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at antietam, md., sept. , ; mustered out with company may , . martin wilmore, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . orestes b. wright, private, mustered in aug. , ; wounded at fredericksburg, va., dec. , ; mustered out with company may , . john westphall, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . henry c. whiting, private, mustered in aug. , ; discharged on surgeon's certificate nov. , . john w. wright, private, mustered in aug. , ; died at harper's ferry, va., oct. , . albert wheeler, private, mustered in aug. , ; deserted from walnut street hospital, harrisburg, dec. , . conrad young, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . william h. young, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . w. l. yarrington, private, mustered in aug. , ; mustered out with company may , . daniel c. young, private, mustered in aug. , ; died dec. of wounds received at fredericksburg, va., dec. , . footnotes: [a] now known as east woods. [b] this is from my diary, but investigations since the war make it evident that it must be a mistake; that the th ga. was not in that road, but it was the th ga., and this officer was probably lieutenant-colonel j. m. newton of that regiment. [c] probably the th ga. [d] lieutenant, afterwards captain, charles mcdougal was a methodist minister before he entered the army. if he could preach as well as he could fight, he was worthy of a commission in the church militant. [e] this eye-witness was captain haviland, company g, one hundred and forty-second pennsylvania volunteers, whose regiment was attached to the pennsylvania reserves, and which lost in that charge two hundred and forty-three men killed and wounded. captain haviland had been wounded, and was making his way with major john bradley, also wounded, to the hospital. they happened to be passing birney's head-quarters when meade rode up, and heard the whole interview. [f] this order was dated january , , and can be found in the annual american cyclopædia, , page , with a copious extract from the report of the committee of congress on the conduct of the war. it is there stated that this order was issued subject to the president's approval, and was sent to washington for that purpose, general burnside soon following and interviewing the president. it is also stated that it was not approved and was not published. how, then, did i come in possession of its main features, so as to note them in my diary at the time? and how should my recollection of them be so clear, as they certainly are, unless it had been made public. possibly the press may have published it. it was certainly published in some form. [g] bates's history, pennsylvania volunteers, places here the name of "charles a. meylert, second lieutenant, promoted from private, co. k, feb. , , missing since that date." co. k's roll notes the transfer of this man to co. a. his name is not on the original roll of co. a, and is therefore omitted here. the following note received from captain charles c. norris, co. a, explains: philadelphia, july , . colonel f. l. hitchcock, scranton, pa. my dear colonel: ... i have a copy of the muster-out roll of co. a, to which i have referred.... i would also state that charles a. meylert does not appear on the muster-out roll, nor was he at any time carried on the roll of co. a.... on the march from harper's ferry to warrenton, va., about nov. , , co. a held an election for officers to fill vacancies caused by the promotion of captain shreve to be major of the regiment. the following were elected: chas. c. norris, captain; thomas maxwell, first lieutenant, and edward w. roderick, second lieutenant. the result of this election was forwarded through head-quarters to governor curtin. the commissions were not sent on until some time in december, . colonel albright, commanding the regiment, sent for me one day and told me he had received a commission for charles a. meylert as second lieutenant of co. a; that it was an outrage upon co. a, and that he would send it back to governor curtin with a letter, which i believe he did, the result of which was roderick's commission was issued in accordance with his election, and he was mustered in, and meylert's commission was revoked. as the commanding officer of co. a, i never received any official notice or record of meylert's commission or muster into service; hence his name was never entered upon my company roll. how bates came to place his name upon my roll, i do not know. i am yours truly, chas. c. norris. [h] prolonged illness from typhoid fever. produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) the coast of bohemia by w. d. howells biographical edition new york and london harper & brothers, publishers copyright, , , by william dean howells. _all rights reserved._ introductory sketch. in one of the old-fashioned books for children there was a story of the adventures of a cent (or perhaps that coin of older lineage, a penny) told by itself, which came into my mind when the publishers suggested that the readers of a new edition of this book might like to know how it happened to be written. i promptly fancied the book speaking, and taking upon itself the burden of autobiography, which we none of us find very heavy; and no sooner had i done so than i began actually to hear from it in a narrative of much greater distinctness than i could have supplied for it. "you must surely remember," it protested to my forgetfulness, "that you first thought of me in anything like definite shape as you stood looking on at the trotting-races of a county fair in northern ohio, and that i began to gather color and character while you loitered through the art-building, and dwelt with pitying interest upon the forlorn, unpromising exhibits there. "but previous to this, my motive existed somewhere in that nebulous fore-life where both men and books have their impalpable beginning; for even you cannot have forgotten that when a certain passionately enterprising young editor asked you for a novel to be printed in his journal, you so far imagined me as to say that i would be about a girl. when you looked over those hapless works of art at the pymantoning county fair, you thought, 'what a good thing it would be to have a nice village girl, with a real but limited gift, go from here to study art in new york! and get in love there! and married!' cornelia and her mother at once stepped out of the inchoate; ludlow advanced from another quarter of chaos, and i began really to be. "the getting me down on paper was a much later affair--nearly two years later. there were earlier engagements to be met; there was an exciting editorial episode to be got behind you; and there was material for a veridical representation of the ardent young life of the new york synthesis of art studies to be gathered as nearly at first hands and as furtively as possible. "i should be almost ashamed to remind you of the clandestine means you employed before you were forced to a frankness alien to your nature, and went and threw yourself on the mercy of a member who, upon your avowing your purpose, took you through the schools of the synthesis and instructed you in its operation. not satisfied with this, you got an undergraduate of the synthesis to coach you as to its social side, and while she was consenting to put it all down in writing for your convenience, you were shamelessly making notes of her boarding-house, as the very place to have cornelia come to. "your methods were at first so secret and uncandid that i wonder i ever came to be the innocent book i am; and i feel that the credit is far less due to you than to the friends who helped you. but i am glad to remember how you got your come-uppings when, long after, a student of the synthesis whom you asked, in your latent vanity, how she thought that social part of me was managed, answered, 'well, any one could see that it was studied altogether from the outside, that it wasn't at all the _spirit_ of the synthesis.' "it was enough almost to make me doubt myself, but i recovered my belief in my own truth when i reflected that it was merely a just punishment for you. i could expose you in other points, if i chose, and show what slight foundations you built my facts and characters upon; but perhaps that would be ungrateful. you were at least a doting parent, if not a wise one, and in your fondness you did your best to spoil me. you gave me two heroines, and you know very well that before you were done you did not know but you preferred charmian to cornelia. and you had nothing whatever to build charmian upon, not the slightest suggestion from life, where you afterwards encountered her egyptian profile! i think i ought to say that you had never been asked to a synthesis dance when you wrote that account of one in me; and though you have often been asked since, you have never had the courage to go for fear of finding out how little it was like your description. "but if charmian was created out of nothing, what should you say if i were frank about the other characters of my story? could you deny that the drummer who was first engaged to cornelia was anything more than a materialization from seeing a painter very long ago make his two fingers do a ballet-dance? or that ludlow was not at first a mere pointed beard and a complexion glimpsed in a slim young cuban one night at saratoga? or that cornelia's mother existed by any better right than your once happening to see a poor lady try to hide the gap in her teeth when she smiled? "when i think what a thing of shreds and patches i am, i wonder that i have any sort of individual temperament or consciousness at all. but i know that i have, and that you wrote me with pleasure and like me still. you think i have form, and that, if i am not very serious, i am sincere, and that somehow i represent a phase of our droll american civilization truly enough. i know you were vexed when some people said i did not go far enough, and insisted that the coast of bohemia ought to have been the whole kingdom. as if i should have cared to be that! there are shady places inland where i should not have liked my girls to be, and where i think my young men would not have liked to meet them; and i am glad you kept me within the sweet, pure breath of the sea. i think i am all the better book for that, and, if you are fond of me, you have your reasons. i----" "upon my word," i interrupted at this point, "it seems to me that you are saying rather more for yourself than i could say for you, if you _are_ one of my spoiled children. don't you think we had both better give the reader a chance, now?" "oh, if there are to be any readers!" cried the book, and lapsed into the silence of print. [illustration: w. d. howells.] transcriber's note: the table of contents has been added for the convenience of the reader. table of contents chapter i. xxi. ii. xxii. iii. xxiii. iv. xxiv. v. xxv. vi. xxvi. vii. xxvii. viii. xxviii. ix. xxix. x. xxx. xi. xxxi. xii. xxxii. xiii. xxxiii. xiv. xxxiv. xv. xxxv. xvi. xxxvi. xvii. xxxvii. xviii. xxxviii. xix. xxxix. xx. the coast of bohemia. i. the forty-sixth annual fair of the pymantoning county agricultural society was in its second day. the trotting-matches had begun, and the vast majority of the visitors had abandoned the other features of the exhibition for this supreme attraction. they clustered four or five deep along the half-mile of railing that enclosed the track, and sat sweltering in the hot september sun, on the benching of the grandstand that flanked a stretch of the course. boys selling lemonade and peanuts, and other boys with the score of the races, made their way up and down the seats with shrill cries; now and then there was a shriek of girls' laughter from a group of young people calling to some other group, or struggling for a programme caught back and forth; the young fellows shouted to each other jokes that were lost in mid-air; but, for the most part, the crowd was a very silent one, grimly intent upon the rival sulkies as they flashed by and lost themselves in the clouds that thickened over the distances of the long, dusty loop. here and there some one gave a shout as a horse broke, or settled down to his work under the guttural snarl of his driver; at times the whole throng burst into impartial applause as a horse gained or lost a length; but the quick throb of the hoofs on the velvety earth and the whir of the flying wheels were the sounds that chiefly made themselves heard. the spectacle had the importance which multitude givers, and ludlow found in it the effects which he hoped to get again in his impression. he saw the deep purples which he looked to see with eyes trained by the french masters of his school to find them, and the indigo blues, the intense greens, the rainbow oranges and scarlets; and he knew just how he should give them. in the light of that vast afternoon sky, cloudless, crystalline in its clearness, no brilliancy of rendering could be too bold. if he had the courage of his convictions, this purely american event could be reported on his canvas with all its native character; and yet it could be made to appeal to the enlightened eye with the charm of a french subject, and impressionism could be fully justified of its follower in pymantoning as well as in paris. that golden dust along the track; the level tops of the buggies drawn up within its ellipse, and the groups scattered about in gypsy gayety on the grass there; the dark blur of men behind the barrier; the women, with their bright hats and parasols, massed flower-like,--all made him long to express them in lines and dots and breadths of pure color. he had caught the vital effect of the whole, and he meant to interpret it so that its truth should be felt by all who had received the light of the new faith in painting, who believed in the prismatic colors as in the ten commandments, and who hoped to be saved by tone-contrasts. for the others, ludlow was at that day too fanatical an impressionist to care. he owed a duty to france no less than to america, and he wished to fulfil it in a picture which should at once testify to the excellence of the french method and the american material. at twenty-two, one is often much more secure and final in one's conclusions than one is afterwards. he was vexed that a lingering doubt of the subject had kept him from bringing a canvas with him at once, and recording his precious first glimpses of it. but he meant to come to the trotting-match the next day again, and then he hoped to get back to his primal impression of the scene, now so vivid in his mind. he made his way down the benches, and out of the enclosure of the track. he drew a deep breath, full of the sweet smell of the bruised grass, forsaken now by nearly all the feet that had trodden it. a few old farmers, who had failed to get places along the railing and had not cared to pay for seats on the stand, were loitering about, followed by their baffled and disappointed wives. the men occasionally stopped at the cattle-pens, but it was less to look at the bulls and boars and rams which had taken the premiums, and wore cards or ribbons certifying the fact, than to escape a consciousness of their partners, harassingly taciturn or voluble in their reproach. a number of these embittered women brokenly fringed the piazza of the fair-house, and ludlow made his way toward them with due sympathy for their poor little tragedy, so intelligible to him through the memories of his own country-bred youth. he followed with his pity those who sulked away through the deserted aisles of the building, and nursed their grievance among the prize fruits and vegetables, and the fruits and vegetables that had not taken the prizes. they were more censorious than they would have been perhaps if they had not been defeated themselves; he heard them dispute the wisdom of most of the awards as the shoutings and clappings from the racetrack penetrated the lonely hall. they creaked wearily up and down in their new shoes or best shoes, and he knew how they wished themselves at home and in bed, and wondered why they had ever been such fools as to come, anyway. occasionally, one of their husbands lagged in, as if in search of his wife, but kept at a safe distance, after seeing her, or hung about with a group of other husbands, who could not be put to shame or suffering as they might if they had appeared singly. ii. ludlow believed that if the right fellow ever came to the work, he could get as much pathos out of our farm folks as millet got out of his barbizon peasants. but the fact was that he was not the fellow; he wanted to paint beauty not pathos; and he thought, so far as he thought ethically about it, that, the americans needed to be shown the festive and joyous aspects of their common life. to discover and to represent these was his pleasure as an artist, and his duty as a citizen. he suspected, though, that the trotting-match was the only fact of the pymantoning county fair that could be persuaded to lend itself to his purpose. certainly, there was nothing in the fair-house, with those poor, dreary old people straggling through it, to gladden an artistic conception. agricultural implements do not group effectively, or pose singly with much picturesqueness; tall stalks of corn, mammoth squashes, huge apples and potatoes want the beauty and quality that belong to them out of doors, when they are gathered into the sections of a county fair-house; piles of melons fail of their poetry on a wooden floor, and heaps of grapes cannot assert themselves in a very bacchanal profusion against the ignominy of being spread upon long tables and ticketed with the names of their varieties and exhibitors. ludlow glanced at them, to right and left, as he walked through the long, barn-like building, and took in with other glances the inadequate decorations of the graceless interior. his roving eye caught the lettering over the lateral archways, and with a sort of contemptuous compassion he turned into the fine arts department. the fine arts were mostly represented by photographs and crazy quilts; but there were also tambourines and round brass plaques painted with flowers, and little satin banners painted with birds or autumn leaves, and gilt rolling-pins with vines. there were medley-pictures contrived of photographs cut out and grouped together in novel and unexpected relations; and there were set about divers patterns and pretences in keramics, as the decoration of earthen pots and jars was called. besides these were sketches in oil and charcoal, which ludlow found worse than the more primitive things, with their second-hand _chic_ picked up in a tenth-rate school. he began to ask himself whether people tasteless enough to produce these inanities and imagine them artistic, could form even the subjects of art; he began to have doubts of his impression of the trotting-match, its value, its possibility of importance. the senseless ugliness of the things really hurt him: his worship of beauty was a sort of religion, and their badness was a sort of blasphemy. he could not laugh at them; he wished he could; and his first impulse was to turn and escape from the fine arts department, and keep what little faith in the artistic future of the country he had been able to get together during his long sojourn out of it. since his return he had made sure of the feeling for color and form with which his country-women dressed themselves. there was no mistake about that; even here, in the rustic heart of the continent he had seen costumes which had touch and distinction; and it could not be that the instinct which they sprang from should go for nothing in the arts supposed higher than mantua-making and millinery. the village girls whom he saw so prettily gowned and picturesquely hatted on the benches out there by the race-course, could it have been they who committed these atrocities? or did these come up from yet deeper depths of the country, where the vague, shallow talk about art going on for the past decade was having its first crude effect? ludlow was exasperated as well as pained, for he knew that the pretty frocks and hats expressed a love of dressing prettily, which was honest and genuine enough, while the unhappy effects about him could spring only from a hollow vanity far lower than a woman's wish to be charming. it was not an innate impulse which produced them, but a sham ambition, implanted from without, and artificially stimulated by the false and fleeting mood of the time. they must really hamper the growth of æsthetic knowledge among people who were not destitute of the instinct. he exaggerated the importance of the fact with the sensitiveness of a man to whom æsthetic cultivation was all-important. it appeared to him a far greater evil than it was; it was odious to him, like a vice; it was almost a crime. he spent a very miserable time in the fine arts department of the pymantoning county agricultural fair; and in a kind of horrible fascination he began to review the collection in detail, to guess its causes in severalty and to philosophize its lamentable consequences. iii. in this process ludlow discovered that there was more of the fine arts department than he had supposed at first. he was aware of some women who had come into the next aisle or section, and presently he overheard fragments of their talk. a girl's voice said passionately: "i don't care! i shan't leave them here for folks to make remarks about! i knew they wouldn't take the premium, and i hope you're satisfied now, mother." "well, you're a very silly child," came in an older voice, suggestive of patience and amiability. "don't tear them, anyway!" "i shall! i don't care if i tear them all to pieces." there was a sound of quick steps, and of the angry swirl of skirts, and the crackling and rending of paper. "there, now!" said the older voice. "you've dropped one." "i don't care! i hope they'll trample it under their great stupid hoofs." the paper, whatever it was, came skating out under the draped tabling in the section where ludlow stood, arrested in his sad employment by the unseen drama, and lay at his feet. he picked it up, and he had only time to glance at it before he found himself confronted by a fiercely tearful young girl who came round the corner of his section, and suddenly stopped at sight of him. with one hand she pressed some crumpled sheets of paper against, her breast; the other she stretched toward ludlow. "oh! will you----" she began, and then she faltered; and as she turned her little head aside for a backward look over her shoulder, she made him, somehow, think of a hollyhock, by the tilt of her tall, slim, young figure, and by the colors of her hat from which her face flowered; no doubt the deep-crimson silk waist she wore, with its petal-edged ruffle flying free down her breast, had something to do with his fantastic notion. she was a brunette, with the lightness and delicacy that commonly go with the beauty of a blonde. she could not have been more than fifteen; her skirts had not yet matured to the full womanly length; she was still a child. a handsome, mild, middle-aged woman appeared beside the stormy young thing, and said in the voice which ludlow had already heard, "well, cornelia!" she seemed to make more account than the girl made of the young fellow's looks. he was of the medium height for a man, but he was so slight that he seemed of lower stature, and he eked out an effect of distinction by brushing his little moustache up sharply at the corners in a fashion he had learned in france, and by wearing a little black dot of an imperial. his brow was habitually darkened by a careworn frown, which came from deep and anxious thinking about the principles and the practice of art. he was very well dressed, and he carried himself with a sort of worldly splendor which did not intimidate the lady before him. in the country women have no more apprehension of men who are young and stylish and good-looking than they have in the city; they rather like them to be so, and meet them with confidence in any casual encounter. the lady said, "oh, thank you," as ludlow came up to the girl with the paper, and then she laughed with no particular intention, and said, "it's one of my daughter's drawings." "oh, indeed!" said ludlow, with a quick perception of the mother's pride in it, and of all the potentialities of prompt intimacy. "it's very good." "well, _i_ think so," said the lady, while the girl darkled and bridled in young helplessness. if she knew that her mother ought not to be offering a stranger her confidence like that, she did not know what to do about it. "she was just going to take them home," said the mother vaguely. "i'm sorry," said ludlow. "i seem to be a day after the fair, as far as they're concerned." "well, i don't know," said the mother, with the same amiable vagueness. she had some teeth gone, and when she smiled she tried to hide their absence on the side next ludlow; but as she was always smiling she did not succeed perfectly. she looked doubtfully at her daughter, in the manner of mothers whom no severity of snubbing can teach that their daughters when well-grown girls can no longer be treated as infants. "i don't know as you'd think you had lost much. we didn't expect they _would_ take the premium, a _great_ deal." "i should hope not," said ludlow. "the competition was bad enough." the mother seemed to divine a compliment in this indefinite speech. she said: "well, i don't see myself why they didn't take it." "there was probably no one to feel how much better they were," said ludlow. "well, that's what _i_ think," said the mother, "and it's what i tell her." she stood looking from ludlow to her daughter and back, and now she ventured, seeing him so intent on the sketch he still held, "you an artist?" "a student of art," said ludlow, with the effect of uncovering himself in a presence. the mother did not know what to make of it apparently; she said blankly, "oh!" and then added impressively, to her daughter: "why don't you show them to him, cornelia?" "i should think it a great favor," said ludlow, intending to be profoundly respectful. but he must have overdone it. the girl majestically gave her drawings to her mother, and marched out of the aisle. ludlow ignored her behavior, as if it had nothing to do with the question, and began to look at the drawings, one after another, with various inarticulate notes of comment imitated from a great french master, and with various foreign phrases, such as "_bon! bon! pas mauvais! joli! chic!_" he seemed to waken from them to a consciousness of the mother, and returned to english. "they are very interesting. has she had instruction?" "only in the high school, here. and she didn't seem to care any for that. she seems to want to work more by herself." "that's wrong," said ludlow, "though she's probably right about the high school." the mother made bold to ask, "where are _you_ taking lessons?" "i?" said ludlow, dreamily. "oh! everywhere." "i thought, perhaps," the mother began, and she stopped, and then resumed, "how many lessons do you expect to take?" iv. ludlow descended from the high horse which he saw it was really useless for him to ride in that simple presence. "i didn't mean that i was a student of art in that sense, exactly. i suppose i'm a painter of some sort. i studied in paris, and i'm working in new york--if that's what you mean." "yes," said the lady, as if she did not know quite what she meant. ludlow still remained in possession of the sketches, and he now looked at them with a new knot between his eyebrows. he had known at the first glance, with the perception of one who has done things in any art, that here was the possibility of things in his art, and he had spoken from a generous and compassionate impulse, from his recognition of the possibility, and from his sympathy with the girl in her defeat. now his conscience began to prick him. he asked himself whether he had any right to encourage her, whether he ought not rather to warn her. he asked her mother: "has she been doing this sort of thing long?" "ever since she was a little bit of a thing," said the mother. "you _might_ say she's been doing it ever since she could do anything; and she _ain't_ but about fifteen, _now_. well, she's going on sixteen," the mother added, scrupulously. "she was born the third of july, and now it's the beginning of september. so she's just fifteen years and a little over two months. i suppose she's too young to commence taking lessons regularly?" "no one would be too young for that," said ludlow, austerely, with his eyes on the sketch. he lifted them, and bent them frankly and kindly on the mother's face. "and were you thinking of her going on?" the mother questioned him for his exact meaning with the sweet unwisdom of her smile. "did you think of her becoming an artist, a painter?" "well," she returned, "i presume she would have as good a chance as anybody, if she had the talent for it." "she has the talent for it," said ludlow, "and she would have a better chance than most--that's very little to say--but it's a terribly rough road." "yes," the mother faltered, smiling. "yes. it's a hard road for a man, and it's doubly hard for a woman. it means work that breaks the back and wrings the brain. it means for a woman, tears, and hysterics, and nervous prostration, and insanity--some of them go wild over it. the conditions are bad air, and long hours, and pitiless criticism; and the rewards are slight and uncertain. one out of a hundred comes to anything at all; one out of a thousand to anything worth while. new york is swarming with girl art-students. they mostly live in poor boarding-houses, and some of them actually suffer from hunger and cold. for men the profession is hazardous, arduous; for women it's a slow anguish of endeavor and disappointment. most shop-girls earn more than most fairly successful art-students for years; most servant-girls fare better. if you are rich, and your daughter wishes to amuse herself by studying art, it's all very well; but even then i wouldn't recommend it as an amusement. if you're poor----" "i presume," the mother interrupted, "that she would be self-supporting by the time she had taken six months' lessons, and i guess she could get along till then." ludlow stared at the amiably smiling creature. from her unruffled composure his warning had apparently fallen like water from the back of a goose. he saw that it would be idle to go on, and he stopped short and waited for her to speak again. "if she was to go to new york to take lessons, how do you think she'd better----" she seemed not to know enough of the situation to formulate her question farther. he had pity on her ignorance, though he doubted whether he ought to have. "oh, go into the synthesis," he said briefly. "the synthesis?" "yes; the synthesis of art studies; it's the only thing. the work is hard, but it's thorough; the training's excellent, if you live through it." "oh, i guess she'd live through it," said the mother with a laugh. she added, "i don't know as i know just what you mean by the synthesis of art studies." "it's a society that the art-students have formed. they have their own building, and casts, and models; the principal artists have classes among them. you submit a sketch, and if you get in you work away till you drop, if you're in earnest, or till you're bored, if you're amusing yourself." "and should you think," said the mother gesturing toward him with the sketches in her hand, "that she could get in?" "i think she could," said ludlow, and he acted upon a sudden impulse. he took a card from his pocketbook, and gave it to the mother. "if you'll look me up when you come to new york, or let me know, i may be of use to you, and i shall be very glad to put you in the way of getting at the synthesis." "thanks," the mother drawled with her eyes on the card. she probably had no clear sense of the favor done her. she lifted her eyes and smiled on ludlow with another kind of intelligence. "you're visiting at mrs. burton's." "yes," said ludlow, remembering after a moment of surprise how pervasive the fact of a stranger's presence in a village is. "mr. burton can tell you who i am," he added in some impatience with her renewed scrutiny of his card. "oh, it's all right," she said, and she put it in her pocket, and then she began to drift away a little. "well, i'm sure i'm much obliged to you." she hesitated a moment, and then she said, "well, good afternoon." "good-by," said ludlow, and he lifted his hat and stood bowing her out of the fine arts department, while she kept her eyes on him to the last with admiration and approval. "well, i declare, cornelia," she burst out to her daughter, whom she found glowering at the agricultural implements, "that _is_ about the nicest fellow! do you know what he's done?" she stopped and began a search for her pocket, which ended successfully. "he's given me his name, and told me just what you're to do. and when you get to new york, if you ever do, you can go right straight _to_ him." she handed ludlow's card to the girl, who instantly tore it to pieces without looking at it. "i'll never go to him--horrid, mean, cross old thing! and you go and talk about me to a perfect stranger as if i were a baby. and now he'll go and laugh at you with the burtons, and they'll say it's just like you to say everything that comes into your head, that way, and think everybody's as nice as they seem. but _he_ isn't nice! he's _horrid_, and conceited, and--and--hateful. and i shall _never_ study art anywhere. and i'd _die_ before i asked _him_ to help me. he was just making fun of you all the time, and anybody but you would see it, mother! comparing me to a hired girl!" "no, i don't think he did _that_, cornelia," said the mother with some misgiving. "i presume he may have been a little touched up by your pictures, and wanted to put me down about them----" "oh, mother, mother, mother!" the girl broke into tears over the agricultural implements. "they were the dust under his feet." "why, cornelia, how you talk!" "i wish _you_ wouldn't talk, mother! i've asked you a thousand times, if i've asked you once, not to talk about me with anybody, and here you go and tell everything that you can think of to a person that you never saw before." "what did i tell him about you?" asked her mother, with the uncertainty of ladies who say a great deal. "you told him how old i was almost to a day!" "oh, well, that wasn't anything! i saw he'd got to know if he was to give any opinion about your going on that was worth having." "it'll be all over town, to-morrow. well, never mind! it's the last time you'll ever have a chance to do it. i'll never, never, never touch a pencil to draw with again! never! you've done it _now_, mother! _i_ don't care! i'll help you with your work, all you want, but don't ever ask me to draw a single thing after this. i guess he wouldn't have much to say about the style of a bonnet, or set of a dress, if it _was_ wrong!" the girl swept out of the building with tragedy-queen strides that refused to adjust themselves to the lazy, lounging pace of her mother, and carried her homeward so swiftly that she had time to bang the front gate and the front door, and her own room door and lock it, and be crying on the bed with her face in the pillow, long before her mother reached the house. the mother wore a face of unruffled serenity, and as there was no one near to see, she relaxed her vigilance, and smiled with luxurious indifference to the teeth she had lost. v. ludlow found his friend burton smoking on his porch when he came back from the fair, and watching with half-shut eyes the dust that overhung the street. some of the farmers were already beginning to drive home, and their wheels sent up the pulverous clouds which the western sun just tinged with red; burton got the color under the lower boughs of the maple grove of his deep door-yard. "well," he called out, in a voice expressive of the temperament which kept him content with his modest fortune and his village circumstance, when he might have made so much more and spent so much more in the world outside, "did you get your picture?" ludlow was only half-way up the walk from the street when the question met him, and he waited to reach the piazza steps before he answered. "oh, yes, i think i've got it." by this time mrs. burton had appeared at the hall door-way, and stood as if to let him decide whether he would come into the house, or join her husband outside. he turned aside to take a chair near burton's, tilted against the wall, but he addressed himself to her. "mrs. burton, who is rather a long-strung, easy-going, good-looking, middle-aged lady, with a daughter about fifteen years old, extremely pretty and rather peppery, who draws?" mrs. burton at once came out, and sat sidewise in the hammock, facing the two men. "how were they dressed?" ludlow told as well as he could; he reserved his fancy of the girl's being like a hollyhock. "was the daughter pretty?" "very pretty." "dark?" "yes, 'all that's best of dark and bright.'" "were they both very graceful?" "very graceful indeed." "why it must be mrs. saunders. where did you see them?" "in the art department." "yes. she came to ask me whether i would exhibit some of cornelia's drawings, if i were she." "and you told her you would?" her husband asked, taking his pipe out for the purpose. "of course i did. that was what she wished me to tell her." burton turned to ludlow. "had they taken many premiums?" "no; the premiums had been bestowed on the crazy quilts and the medley pictures--what extraordinarily idiotic inventions!--and miss saunders was tearing down her sketches in the next section. one of them slipped through on the floor, and they came round after it to where i was." "and so you got acquainted with mrs. saunders?" said mrs. burton. "no. but i got intimate," said ludlow. "i sympathized with her, and she advised with me about her daughter's art-education." "what did you advise her to do?" asked burton. "not to have her art-educated." "why, don't you think she has talent?" mrs. burton demanded, with a touch of resentment. "oh, yes. she has beauty, too. nothing is commoner than the talent and beauty of american girls. but they'd better trust to their beauty." "i don't think so," said mrs. burton, with spirit. "you can see how she's advised mrs. saunders," said burton, winking the eye next ludlow. "well, you mustn't be vexed with me, mrs. burton," ludlow replied to her. "i don't think she'll take my advice, especially as i put it in the form of warning. i told her how hard the girl would have to work: but i don't think she quite understood. i told her she had talent, too; and she did understand that; there was something uncommon in the child's work; something--different. who _are_ they, mrs. burton?" "_isn't_ there!" cried mrs. burton. "i'm glad you told the poor thing that. i thought they'd take the premium. i was going to tell you about her daughter. mrs. saunders must have been awfully disappointed." "she didn't seem to suffer much," ludlow suggested. "no," mrs. burton admitted, "she doesn't suffer much about anything. if she did she would have been dead long ago. first, her husband blown up by his saw-mill boiler, and then one son killed in a railroad accident, and another taken down with pneumonia almost the same day! and she goes on, smiling in the face of death----" "and looking out that he doesn't see how many teeth she's lost," burton prompted. ludlow laughed at the accuracy of the touch. mrs. burton retorted, "why shouldn't she? her good looks and her good nature are about all she has left in the world, except this daughter." "are they very poor?" asked ludlow, gently. "oh, nobody's _very_ poor in pymantoning," said mrs. burton. "and mrs. saunders has her business,--when she's a mind to work at it." "i suppose she has it, even when she hasn't a mind to work at it," said burton, making his pipe purr with a long, deep inspiration of satisfaction. "i know i have mine." "what _is_ her business?" asked ludlow. "well, she's a dressmaker and milliner--when she _is_." mrs. burton stated the fact with the effect of admitting it. "you mustn't suppose that makes any difference. in a place like pymantoning, she's 'as good as anybody,' and her daughter has as high social standing. you can't imagine how arcadian we are out here." "oh, yes, i can; i've lived in a village," said ludlow. "a new england village, yes; but the lines are drawn just as hard and fast there as they are in a city. you have to live in the west to understand what equality is, and in a purely american population, like this. you've got plenty of independence, in new england, but you haven't got equality, and we _have_,--or used to have." mrs. burton added the final words with apparent conscience. "just saved your distance, polly," said her husband. "we haven't got equality now, any more than we've got buffalo. i don't believe we ever had buffalo in this section; but we did have deer once; and when i was a boy here, venison was three cents a pound, and equality cheaper yet. when they cut off the woods the venison and the equality disappeared; they always do when the woods are cut off." "there's enough of it left for all practical purposes, and mrs. saunders moves in the first circles of pymantoning," said mrs. burton. "when she _does_ move," said burton. "she doesn't _like_ to move." "well, she has the greatest taste, and if you can get her to do anything for you your fortune's made. but it's a favor. she'll take a thing that you've got home from the city, and that you're frantic about, it's so bad, and smile over it a little, and touch it here and there, and it comes out a miracle of style and becomingness. it's like magic." "she _was_ charming," said ludlow, in dreamy reminiscence. "_isn't_ she?" mrs. burton demanded. "and her daughter gets all her artistic talent from her. mrs. saunders _is_ an artist, though i don't suppose you like to admit it of a dressmaker." "oh, yes, i do," said ludlow. "i don't see why a man or woman who drapes the human figure in stuffs, isn't an artist as well as the man or woman who drapes it in paint or clay." "well, that's sense," mrs. burton began. "she didn't know you had any, ludlow," her husband explained. mrs. burton did not regard him. "if she had any ambition she would be anything--just like some other lazy-boots," and now she gave the large, dangling congress gaiter of her husband a little push with the point of her slipper, for purposes of identification, as the newspapers say. "but the only ambition she's got is for her daughter, and she _is_ proud of her, and she would spoil her if she could get up the energy. she dotes on her, and nie is fond of her mother, too. do you think she can ever do anything in art?" "if she were a boy, i should say yes; as she's a girl, i don't know," said ludlow. "the chances are against her." "nature's against her, too," said burton. "_human_ nature ought to be for her, then," said mrs. burton. "if she were your sister what should you wish her to be?" she asked ludlow. "i should wish her to be"--ludlow thought a moment and then concluded--"happily married." "well, that's a shame!" cried mrs. burton. her husband laughed, while he knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the edge of his chair-seat. "rough on the holy estate of matrimony, polly." "oh, pshaw! i believe as much in the holy estate of matrimony as anybody, but i don't believe it's the begin-all or the end-all for a woman, any more than it is for a man. what, katy?" she spoke to a girl who appeared and disappeared in the doorway. "oh! well, come in to supper, now. i hope you have an appetite, mr. ludlow. mr. burton's such a delicate eater, and i like to have _some_body keep me in countenance." she suddenly put her hand on the back of her husband's chair, and sprung it forward from its incline against the wall, with a violence that bounced him fearfully, and extorted a roar of protest from him. they were much older than ludlow, and they permitted themselves the little rowdy freedoms that good-natured married people sometimes use, as fearlessly in his presence as if he were a grown-up nephew. they prized him as a discovery of their own, for they had stumbled on him one day before any one else had found him out, when he was sketching at fontainebleau. they liked the look of his picture, as they viewed it at a decent remove over his shoulder, and after they got by burton proposed to go back and kill the fellow on account of the solemn coxcombery of his personal appearance. his wife said: "well, ask him what he'll take for his picture, first," and burton returned and said with brutal directness, while he pointed at the canvas with his stick, "_combien?_" when ludlow looked round up at him and answered with a pleasant light in his eye, "well, i don't know exactly. what'll you give?" burton spared his life, and became his friend. he called his wife to him, and they bought the picture, and afterwards they went to ludlow's lodging, for he had no studio, and conscientiously painted in the open air, and bought others. they got the pictures dog cheap, as burton said, for ludlow was just beginning then, and his reputation which has never since become cloud-capt, was a tender and lowly plant. they made themselves like a youngish aunt and uncle to him, and had him with them all they could while they stayed in paris. when they came home they brought the first impressionistic pictures ever seen in the west; at pymantoning, the village cynic asked which was right side up, and whether he was to stand on his head or not to get them in range. ludlow remained in france, which he maintained had the only sun for impressionism; and then he changed his mind all at once, and under an impulse of sudden patriotism, declared for the american sky, and the thin, crystalline, american air. his faith included american subjects, and when, after his arrival in new york, burton wrote to claim a visit from him and ironically proposed the trotting-match at the county fair as an attraction for his pencil, ludlow remembered the trotting-matches he had seen in his boyhood, and came out to pymantoning with a seriousness of expectation that alarmed and then amused his friends. he was very glad that he had come, and that night, after the supper which lasted well into the early autumn lamp-light, he went out and walked the village streets under the september moon, seeing his picture everywhere before him, and thinking his young, exultant thoughts. the maples were set so thick along the main street that they stood like a high, dark wall on either side, and he looked up at the sky as from the bottom of a chasm. the village houses lurked behind their door-yard trees, with breadths of autumnal bloom in the gardens beside them. within their shadowy porches, or beside their gates, was "the delight of happy laughter, the delight of low replies," hushing itself at his approach, and breaking out again at his retreat. the air seemed full of love, and in the midst of his proud, gay hopes, he felt smitten with sudden isolation, such as youth knows in the presence of others' passion. he walked back to burton's rather pensively, and got up to his room and went to bed after as little stay for talk with his hosts as he could make decent; he did not like to break with his melancholy. he was roused from his first sleep by the sound of singing, which seemed to stop with his waking. there came a confused murmur of girls' and young men's voices, and ludlow could see from his open window the dim shapes of the serenaders in the dark of the trees below. then they were still, and all at once the silence was filled with a rich contralto note, carrying the song, till the whole choir of voices took up the burden. nothing prettier could have happened anywhere in the world. ludlow hung rapt upon the music till burton flung up his window, as if to thank the singers. they stopped at the sound, and with gay shouts and shrieks, and a medley of wild laughter, skurried away into the farther darkness, where ludlow heard them begin their serenade again under distant windows as little localized as any space of the sky. vi. ludlow went back to new york and took up his work with vigor and with fervor. the picture of the county fair, which he exhibited at the american artists', ran a gauntlet of criticism in which it was belabored at once for its unimaginative vulgarity and its fantastic unreality; then it returned to his studio and remained unsold, while the days, weeks, months and years went by and left each their fine trace on him. his purposes dropped away, mostly unfulfilled, as he grew older and wiser, but his dreams remained and he was still rich in a vast future. his impressionism was somewhat modified; he offered his palette less frequently to the public; he now and then permitted a black object to appear in his pictures; his purples and greens were less aggressive. his moustache had grown so thick that it could no longer be brushed up at the points with just the effect he desired, and he suffered it to branch straight across his cheeks; his little dot of an imperial had become lost in the beard which he wore so conscientiously trimmed to a point that it might be described as religiously pointed. he was now twenty-seven. at sixteen cornelia saunders had her first love-affair. it was with a young man who sold what he called art-goods by sample--satin banners, gilt rolling-pins, brass disks and keramics; he had permitted himself to speak to her on the train coming over from the junction, where she took the cars for pymantoning one afternoon after a day's shopping with her mother in lakeland. it did not last very long, and in fact it hardly survived the brief stay which the young man made in pymantoning, where his want of success in art-goods was probably owing to the fact that he gave his whole time to cornelia, or rather cornelia's mother, whom he found much more conversable; he played upon the banjo for her, and he danced a little clog-dance in her parlor, which was also her shop, to the accompaniment of his own whistling, first setting aside the bonnet-trees with their scanty fruitage of summer hats, and pushing the show-table against the wall. "won't hurt 'em a mite," he reassured her, and he struck her as a careful as well as accomplished young man. his passion for cornelia lingered a while in letters, which he proposed in parting, and then, about six months later, mrs. saunders received the newspaper announcement of his marriage to miss tweety byers of lakeland. there were "no cards," but mrs. saunders made out, with mrs. burton's help, that tweety was the infantile for the pet name of sweety; and the marriage seemed a fit union for one so warm and true as the young traveller in art-goods. mrs. saunders was a good deal surprised, but she did not suffer keenly from the disappointment which she had innocently done her best to bring upon her daughter. cornelia, who had been the passive instrument of her romance, did not suffer from it at all, having always objected to the thickness of the young man's hands, and to the early baldness which gave him the shakespearian brow he had so little use for. she laughed his memory to scorn, and employed the episode as best she could in quelling her mother's simple trust of passing strangers. they worked along together, in the easy, unambitious village fashion, and kept themselves in the average comfort, while the time went by and cornelia had grown from a long, lean child to a tall and stately young girl, who carried herself with so much native grace and pride that she had very little attention from the village youth. she had not even a girl friendship, and her chief social resource was in her intimacy at the burtons. she borrowed books of them, and read a good deal; and when she was seventeen she rubbed up her old studies and got a teacher's certificate for six months, and taught a summer term in a district at burnt pastures. she came home in the fall, and when she called at the burtons' to get a book, as usual, mrs. burton said, "nelie, you're not feeling very well, are you? somehow you looked fagged." "well, i do feel queer," said the girl. "i seem to be in a kind of dream. it--scares me. i'm afraid i'm going to be sick." "oh, i guess not," mrs. burton answered comfortably. "you're just tired out. how did you like your school?" "i hated it," said the girl, with a trembling chin and wet eyes. "i don't believe i'm fit for teaching. i won't try it any more; i'll stay at home and help mother." "you ought to keep up your drawing," said mrs. burton in general admonition. "do you draw any now?" "nothing much," said the girl. "i should think you would, to please your mother. don't you care anything for it yourself?" "yes; but i haven't the courage i had when i thought i knew it all. i don't think i should ever amount to anything. it would be a waste of time." "i don't think so," said mrs. burton. "i believe you could be a great artist." the girl laughed. "what ever became of that painter who visited you year before last at fair time?" "mr. ludlow? oh, he's in new york. _he_ thought your sketches were splendid, nelie." "he said the girls half-killed themselves there studying art." "did he?" demanded mrs. burton with a note of wrath in her voice. "mm. he told mother so that day." "he had no business to say such a thing before you. was that what discouraged you?" "oh, i don't know. i got discouraged. of course, i should like to please mother. how much do you suppose it would cost a person to live in new york? i don't mean take a room and board yourself; i shouldn't like to do that; but everything included." "i don't know, indeed, nelie. jim always kept the accounts when we were there, and we stayed at the fifth avenue hotel." "do you suppose it would be twice as much as it is here? five dollars a week?" "yes, i'm afraid it would," mrs. burton admitted. "i've got sixty-five dollars from my school. i suppose it would keep me three months in new york, if i was careful. but i'm not going to throw it away on any such wild scheme as that. i know _that_ much." they talked away from the question, and then talked back to it several times, after they had both seemed to abandon it. at last mrs. burton said, "why don't you let me write to mr. ludlow, nelie, and ask him all about it?" the girl jumped to her feet in a fright. "if you do, mrs. burton, i'll kill myself! no, i didn't mean to say that. but i'll never speak to you again. now you won't really, will you?" "no, i won't, nelie, if you don't want me to; but i don't see why---- why, bless the child!" mrs. burton sprang forward and caught the girl, who was reeling as if she were going to fall. "katy! katy! bring some water here, quick!" when they had laid cornelia on a sofa and restored her from her faint, mrs. burton would not let her try to rise. she sent out to burton, who was reading a novel in the mild forenoon air under the crimson maples, and made him get the carryall and take cornelia home in it. they thought they would pretend that they were out for a drive, and were merely dropping her at her mother's door; but no ruse was necessary. mrs. saunders tranquilly faced the fact; she said she thought the child hadn't been herself since she got back from her school, and she guessed she had better have the doctor now. vii. it was toward the end of january before cornelia was well enough to be about in the old way, after her typhoid fever. once she was so low that the rumor of her death went out; but when this proved false it was known for a good sign, and no woman, at least, was surprised when she began to get well. she was delirious part of the time, and then she raved constantly about ludlow, and going to new york to study art. it was a mere superficial effect from her talk with mrs. burton just before she was taken down with the fever; but it was pathetic, all the same, to hear her pleading with him, quarrelling, protesting that she was strong enough, and that she was not afraid but that she should get through all right if he would only tell her how to begin. "now you just tell me that, tell me that, tell me that! it's the _place_ that i can't find. if i can get to the right door! but it won't open! it won't open! oh, dear! what _shall_ i do!" mrs. burton, who heard this go on through the solemn hours of night, thought that if ludlow could only hear it he would be careful how he ever discouraged any human being again. it was as much as her husband could do to keep her from writing to him, and making the girl's fever a matter of personal reproach to him; but she refrained, and when cornelia got up from it she was so changed that mrs. burton was glad she had never tried to involve any one else in her anxieties about her. not only the fever had burned itself out, but cornelia's temperament seemed for awhile to have been consumed in the fire. she came out of it more like her mother. she was gentler than she used to be, and especially gentle and good to her mother; and she had not only grown to resemble her in a greater tranquillity and easy-goingness, but to have come into her ambitions and desires. the change surprised mrs. saunders a good deal; up to this time it had always surprised her that cornelia should not have been at all like her. she sometimes reflected, however, that if you came to that, cornelia's father had never been at all like her, either. it was only a passing phase of the girl's evolution. with the return of perfect health and her former strength, she got back her old energetic self, but of another quality and in another form. probably she would have grown into the character she now took on in any case; but following her convalescence as it did, it had a more dramatic effect. she began to review her studies and her examination papers before the doctor knew it, and when the county examiners met in june she was ready for them, and got a certificate authorizing her to teach for a year. with this she need not meet the poor occasions of any such forlorn end-of-the-earth as burnt pastures. she had an offer of the school at hartley's mills, and she taught three terms there, and brought home a hundred and fifty dollars at the end. all through the last winter she drew, more or less, and she could see better than any one else that she had not fallen behind in her art, but after having let it drop for a time, had taken it up with fresh power and greater skill. she had come to see things better than she used, and she had learned to be faithful to what she saw, which is the great matter in all the arts. she had never formulated this fact, even if she knew it; and mrs. burton was still further from guessing what it was that made cornelia's sketches so much more attractive than they were, when the girl let her look at them, in one of her proud, shy confidences. she said, "i do wish mr. ludlow could see these, nelie." "do you think he would be very much excited?" asked the girl, with the sarcastic humor which had risen up in her to be one of the reliefs of her earlier intensity. "he ought to be," said mrs. burton. "you know he _did_ admire your drawings, nelie; even those you had at the fair, that time." "did he?" returned the girl, carelessly. "what did he say?" "well, he said that if you were a boy there couldn't be any doubt about you." cornelia laughed. "that was a pretty safe kind of praise. i'm not likely ever to be a boy." she rose up from where they were sitting together, and went to put her drawings away in her room. when she came back, she said, "it would be fun to show him, some day, that even so low down a creature as a girl could be something." "i wish you would, nie," said mrs. burton, "i just _wish_ you would. why don't you go to new york, this winter, and study! why don't you make her, mrs. saunders?" "who? me?" said mrs. saunders, who sat by, in an indolent abeyance. "oh! i ain't allowed to open my mouth any more." "well," said cornelia, "don't be so ungrammatical, then, when you do it without being allowed, mother." mrs. saunders laughed in lazy enjoyment. "one thing i know; if i had my way she'd have been in new york studying long ago, instead of fooling away her time out here, school-teaching." "and where would you have been, mother?" "me?" said mrs. saunders again, incorrigibly. "oh, i guess i should have been somewhere!" "well, i'll tell you what," mrs. burton broke in, "nie must go, and that's all about it. i know from what mr. ludlow said that he believes she could be an artist. she would have to work hard, but i don't call teaching school _play_, exactly." "indeed it isn't!" said mrs. saunders. "i'd sooner set all day at the machine myself, and dear knows that's trying enough!" "i'm not afraid of the hard work," said cornelia. "what are you afraid of, then?" demanded her mother. "afraid of failing?" "no; of succeeding," answered cornelia, perversely. "_i_ can't make the child out," said mrs. saunders, with apparent pleasure in the mystery. cornelia went on, at least partially, to explain herself. "i mean, succeeding in the way women seem to succeed. they make me sick!" "oh," said her mother, with sarcasm that could not sustain itself even by a smile letting mrs. burton into the joke, "going to be a rosa bonnhure?" cornelia scorned this poor attempt of her mother. "if i can't succeed as men succeed, and be a great painter, and not just a great _woman_ painter, i'd rather be excused altogether. even rosa bonheur: i don't believe _her_ horses would have been considered so wonderful if a man had done them. i guess that's what mr. ludlow meant, and i guess he was right. i guess if a girl wants to turn out an artist she'd better start by being a boy." "i guess," said mrs. burton, with admiring eyes full of her beauty, "that if mr. ludlow could see you now, he'd be very sorry to have you a boy!" cornelia blushed the splendid red of a brunette. "there it is, mrs. burton! that's what's always in everybody's mind about a girl when she wants to do something. it's what a magnificent match she'll make by her painting or singing or acting! and if the poor fool only knew, she needn't draw or sing or act, to do that." "a person would think you'd been through the wars, cornelia," said her mother. "i don't care! it's a shame!" "it _is_ a shame, nelie," said mrs. burton, soothingly; and she added, unguardedly, "and i _told_ mr. ludlow so, when he spoke about a girl's being happily married, as if there was no other happiness for a girl." "oh! _he_ thinks that, does he?" "no, of course, he doesn't. he has a very high ideal of women; but he was just running on, in the usual way. he told afterwards how hard the girl art-students work in new york, and go ahead of the young men, some of them--where they have the strength. the only thing is that so few of them have the strength. that's what he meant." "what do you think, mother?" asked the girl with an abrupt turn toward her. "do you think i'd break down?" "i guess if you didn't break down teaching school, that you hated, you won't break down studying art, when you love it so." "well," cornelia said, with the air of putting an end to the audience, "i guess there's no great hurry about it." she let her mother follow mrs. burton out, recognizing with a smile of scornful intelligence the ladies' wish to have the last word about her to themselves. viii. "i don't know as i ever saw her let herself go so far before," said mrs. saunders, leaning on the top of the closed gate, and speaking across it to mrs. burton on the outside of the fence. "i guess she's thinking about it, pretty seriously. she's got money enough, and more than enough." "well," said mrs. burton, "i'm going to write to mr. ludlow about it, as soon as i get home, and i know i can get him to say something that'll decide her." "so do!" cried mrs. saunders, delighted. she lingered awhile talking of other things, so as to enable herself to meet cornelia with due unconsciousness when she returned to her. "have you been talking me over all this time, mother?" the girl asked. "we didn't hardly say a word about you," said her mother, and now she saw what a good thing it was that she had staid and talked impersonalities with mrs. burton. "well, one thing i know," said the girl, "if she gets that mr. ludlow to encourage me, i'll never go near new york in the world." mrs. saunders escaped into the next room, and answered back from that safe distance, "i guess you'd better get _her_ to tell you what she's going to do." when she returned, the girl stood looking dreamily out of the little crooked panes of the low window. she asked, with her back to her mother, "what would _you_ do, if i went?" "oh, i should get along," said mrs. saunders with the lazy piety which had never yet found providence to fail it. "i should get miss snively to go in with me, here. she ain't making out very well, alone, and she could be company to me in more ways than one." "yes," said the girl, in a deep sigh. "i thought of her." she faced about. "why, land, child!" cried her mother, "what's the matter?" cornelia's eyes were streaming with tears, and the passion in her heart was twisting her face with its anguish. she flung her arms round her mother's neck, and sobbed on her breast. "oh, i'm going, i'm going, and you don't seem to care whether i go or stay, and it'll _kill_ me to leave you." mrs. saunders smiled across the tempest of grief in her embrace, at her own tranquil image in the glass, and took it into the joke. "well, you ain't going to leave this minute," she said, smoothing the girl's black hair. "and i don't really care if you never go, nie. you mustn't go on my account." "don't you want me to?" "not unless you do." "and you don't care whether i'm ever an artist or not?" "what good is your being an artist going to do _me_?" asked her mother, still with a joking eye on herself in the mirror. "and i'm perfectly free to go or to stay, as far as your wish is concerned?" "well!" said mrs. saunders, with insincere scorn of the question. the girl gave her a fierce hug; she straightened herself up, and dashed the water from her eyes. "well, then," she said, "i'll see. but promise me one thing, mother." "what is it?" "that you won't ask me a single thing about it, from this out, if i _never_ decide!" "well, i won't, nie. i promise you that. _i_ don't want to drive you to anything. and i guess you know ten times as well what you want to do, as i do, anyway. i ain't going to worry you." three weeks later, just before fair time, cornelia went to see mrs. burton. it was warm, and mrs. burton brought out a fan for her on the piazza. "oh, i'm not hot," said cornelia. "mrs. burton, i've made up my mind to go to new york this winter, and study art." "i _knew_ you would, nie!" mrs. burton exulted. "yes. i've thought it all out. i've got the money, now. i keep wanting to paint, and i don't know whether i can or not, and the only way is to go and find out. it'll be easy enough to come home. i'll keep money enough to pay my way back." "yes," said mrs. burton, "it's the only way. but i guess you'll find out you can paint fast enough. it's a pretty good sign you can, if you want to." "oh, i don't know. some girls want to write poetry awfully, and can't. mrs. burton," she broke off, with a nervous laugh, "i don't suppose you expect that mr. ludlow out to the fair this year?" "no, nelie, i don't," said mrs. burton, with tender reluctance. "because," said the girl with another laugh, "he might save me a trip to new york, if he could see my drawings." something, she did not know what, in mrs. burton's manner, made her ask: "have you heard from him lately? perhaps _he's_ given it up, too!" "oh, no!" sighed mrs. burton, with a break from her cheerfulness with cornelia, which set its voluntary character in evidence to the girl's keen, young perception. "but he seemed to be rather discouraged about the prospects of artists when he wrote." she was afraid cornelia might ask her when he had written. "he seemed to think the ranks were very full. he's a very changeable person. he's always talked, before now, about there being plenty of room at the top." "well, that's where i expect to be," said the girl, smiling but trembling. she turned the talk, and soon rose to go, ignoring to the last mrs. burton's forced efforts to recur to her plan of studying art in new york. now she said: "mrs. burton, there's one thing i'd like to ask you," and she lifted her eyes upon her with a suddenness that almost made mrs. burton jump. "what is it, nelie?" "you've always been so good to me--and--and taken such an interest, that i'm afraid--i thought you might try--i want you to promise me you won't write to mr. ludlow about me, or ask him to do the least thing, for me!" "i won't, i won't indeed, nelie!" mrs. burton promised with grateful perfervor. "because," said the girl, taking her skirt in her left hand, preparatory to lifting it for her descent of the piazza steps, "now that i've made up my mind, i don't want to be discouraged, and i don't want to be helped. if i can't do for myself, i won't be done _for_." after she got down through the maples, and well out of the gate, burton came and stood in the hall door-way, with his pipe in his mouth. "saved your distance, polly, as usual; saved your distance." "what would _you_ have done?" retorted his wife. "i should have told her that i'd just got a letter from ludlow this morning, and that he begged and entreated me by everything i held dear, to keep the poor girl from coming to new york, and throwing away her time and health and money." "you wouldn't!" cried mrs. burton. "you wouldn't have done anything of the kind. it would have made her perfectly hate him." burton found his pipe out. he lighted a match and hollowed his hands over it above the pipe, to keep it from the draught. "well," he said, avoiding the point in controversy, "why _shouldn't_ she perfectly hate him?" ix. september was theoretically always a very busy month with mrs. saunders. she believed that she devoted it to activities which she called her fall work, and that she pressed forward in the fulfilments of these duties with a vigor inspired by the cool, clear weather. but in reality there was not much less folding of the hands with her in september than there was in july. she was apt, on the coolest and clearest september day, to drop into a chair with a deep drawn "_oh_, hum!" after the fatigue of bringing in an apronful of apples, or driving the hens away from her chrysanthemums, and she spent a good deal of time wondering how, with all she had to do, she was ever going to get those flowers in before the frost caught them. at one of these times, sitting up slim, graceful and picturesque, in the feather-cushioned rocker-lounge, and fanning her comely face with her shade-hat, it occurred to her to say to cornelia, sewing hard beside the window, "i guess you won't see them in blossom _this_ christmas, nie." "not unless you cut them at the roots and send them to me by mail to look at," said the girl. her mother laughed easily. "well, i must really take hold and help you, or you'll _never_ get away. i've put off everybody else's work, till it's perfectly scandalous, and i'm afraid they'll bring the roof about my ears, and yet i seem to be letting you do all your sewing. well, one thing, i presume i hate to have you go so!" "mother!" cried the girl, drawing out her needle to the full length of her thread before she let her hand drop nervelessly at her side, and she fell back to look fixedly at mrs. saunders. "if _that's_ the way you feel!" "i don't! i want you to go just as much as ever i did. but looking at you there, just against the window, that way, i got to thinking you wouldn't be there a great while; and----" mrs. saunders caught her breath, and was mute a moment before she gave way and began to whimper. from the force of habit she tried to whimper with one side of her mouth, as she smiled, to keep her missing teeth from showing; and at the sight of this characteristic effort, so familiar and so full of long association, cornelia's heart melted within her, and she ran to her mother, and pulled her head down on her breast and covered the unwhimpering cheek with kisses. "don't you suppose i think of that, too, mother? and when you go round the room, or out in the yard, i just keep following you as if i was magnetized, and i can see you with my eyes shut as well as i can with them open; and i _know_ how i shall feel when that's all i've got of you! but i'll soon be back! why i'll be here in june again! and it's no use, _now_. i've _got_ to go." "oh, yes," said her mother, pushing herself free, and entering upon so prolonged a search for her handkerchief that her tears had almost time to dry without it before she found it. "but that don't make it any easier, child." they had agreed from the time cornelia made up her mind to go, and they had vowed the burtons to secrecy, that they were not to tell any one till just before she started; but it was not in mrs. saunders's nature or the nature of things, that she should keep her part of the agreement. she was so proud of cornelia's going to study art in new york, and going on her own money, that she would have told all her customers that she was going, even if it had not proved such a good excuse for postponing and delaying the work they brought her. it was all over town before the first week was out, and the fact had been canvassed in and out of the presence of the principals, with much the same frankness. what cornelia had in excess of a putting-down pride her mother correspondingly lacked; what the girl forbade, mrs. saunders invited by her manner, and there were not many people, or at least many ladies, in pymantoning, who could not put their hands on their hearts and truly declare that they had spoken their minds as freely to mrs. saunders as they had to anybody. as the time drew near mrs. burton begged to be allowed to ask mr. ludlow about a boarding-place for cornelia; and to this cornelia consented on condition that he should be strictly prohibited from taking any more trouble than simply writing the address on a piece of paper. when mrs. burton brought it she confessed that mr. ludlow seemed to have so far exceeded his instructions as to have inquired the price of board in a single room. "i'm afraid, nelie, it's more than you expected. but everything _is_ very dear in new york, and mr. ludlow thought it was cheap. there's no fire in the room, even at that, but if you leave the door open when you're out, it heats nicely from the hall. it's over the door, four flights up; it's what they call a side room." "how much is it, mrs. burton?" cornelia asked, steadily; but she held her breath till the answer came. "it's seven dollars a week." "well, the land!" said mrs. saunders, for all comment on the extortionate figure. for a moment cornelia did not say anything. then she quietly remarked, "i can be home all the sooner," and she took the paper which ludlow had written the address on; she noticed that it smelt of tobacco smoke. "he said you could easily find your way from the grand central depot by the street cars; it's almost straight. he's written down on the back which cars you take. you give your check to the baggage expressman that comes aboard the train before you get in, and then you don't have the least trouble. he says there are several girl art-students in the same house, and you'll soon feel at home. he says if you feel the least timid about getting in alone, he'll come with a lady friend of his, to meet you, and she'll take you to your boarding-house." mrs. burton escaped with rather more than her life from the transmission of this offer. cornelia even said, "i'm very much obliged to him, i'm sure. but i shouldn't wish to trouble him, thank you. i won't feel the least timid." but her mother followed mrs. burton out to the gate, as usual. "i guess," mrs. saunders explained, "she hated to have him make so much to-do about it. what makes him want to bring a lady friend to meet her? somebody he's engaged to?" "well, that's what i wondered, at first," said mrs. burton. "but then when i came to think how very different the customs are in new york, i came to the conclusion that he did it on cornelia's account. if he was to take her to the boarding-house himself, they might think he was engaged to _her_." "well!" said mrs. saunders. "you may be sure it's because he's good and thoughtful about it, and wants her not to have any embarrassment." "oh, i guess he's all right," said mrs. saunders. "but who'd ever have thought of having to take such precautions? i shouldn't think life was worth having on such terms, if _i_ was a girl." she told cornelia about this strange social ceremony of chaperonage, which now for the first time practically concerned them. x. the night began to fall an hour before cornelia's train reached new york, and it drew into the station, through the whirl and dance of parti-colored lights everywhere. the black porter of the sleeping-ear caught up her bag and carried it out for her, as if he were going to carry it indefinitely; and outside she stood letting him hold it, while she looked about her, scared and bewildered, and the passengers hurrying by, pushed and bumped against her. when she collected her wits sufficiently to take it from him, she pressed on with the rest up toward the front of the station where the crowd frayed out in different directions. at the open doorway giving on the street she stopped, and stood holding her bag, and gazed fearfully out on a line of wild men on the curbstone; they all seemed to be stretching their hands out to her, and they rattled and clamored: "keb? a keb, a keb, a keb? want a keb? keb here! keb? a keb, a keb, a keb!" they were kept back by a policeman who prevented them from falling upon the passengers, and restored them to order when they yielded by the half-dozen to the fancy that some one had ordered a cab, and started off in the direction of their vehicles, and then rushed back so as not to lose other chances. the sight of cornelia standing bag in hand there, seemed to drive them to a frenzy of hope; several newsboys, eager to share their prosperity, rushed up and offered her the evening papers. cornelia strained forward from the doorway and tried to make out, in the kaleidoscopic pattern of lights, which was the fourth avenue car; the street was full of cars and carts and carriages, all going every which way, with a din of bells, and wheels and hoofs that was as if crushed to one clangerous mass by the superior uproar of the railroad trains coming and going on a sort of street-roof overhead. a sickening odor came from the mud of the gutters and the horses and people, and as if a wave of repulsion had struck against every sense in her, the girl turned and fled from the sight and sound and smell of it all into the ladies' waiting-room at her right. she knew about that room from mrs. burton, who had said she could go in there, and fix her hair if it had got tumbled, when she came off the train. but it had been so easy to keep everything just right in the nice dressing-room on the sleeper that she had expected to step out of the station and take a fourth avenue car without going into the ladies-room. she found herself the only person in it, except a comfortable, friendly-looking, middle-aged woman, who seemed to be in charge of the place, and was going about with a dust-cloth in her hand. she had such a home-like air, and it was so peaceful there, after all that uproar outside, that cornelia could hardly keep back the tears, though she knew it was silly, and kept saying so to herself under her breath. she put her hand-bag down, and went and stood at one of the windows, trying to make up her mind to venture out; and then she began to move back and forth from one window to the other. it must have been this effect of restlessness and anxiety that made the janitress speak to her at last: "expecting friends to meet you?" cornelia turned round and took a good look at the janitress. she decided from her official as well as her personal appearance that she might be trusted, as least provisionally. it had been going through her mind there at the windows what a fool she was to refuse to let mr. ludlow come to meet her with that friend of his, and she had been helplessly feigning that she had not refused, and that he was really coming, but was a little late. she was in the act of accepting his apology for the delay when the janitress spoke to her, and she said: "i don't know whether i'd better wait any longer. i was looking for a fourth avenue car." "well, you couldn't hardly miss one," said the janitress. "they're going all the time. stranger in the city?" "yes, i am," cornelia admitted; she thought she had better admit it. "well," said the janitress, "if i was you i'd wait for my friends a while longer. it's after dark, now, and if they come here and find you gone, they'll be uneasy, won't they?" "well," said cornelia, and she sank submissively into a seat. the janitress sat down too. "not but what it's safe enough, and you needn't be troubled, if they don't come. you can go half an hour later just as well. my! i've had people sit here all day and wait. the things i've seen here, well, if they were put into a story you couldn't hardly believe them. i had a poor woman come in here one morning last week with a baby in her arms, and three little children hanging round her, to wait for her husband; and she waited till midnight, and he didn't come. i could have told her first as well as last that he wasn't ever coming; i knew it from the kind of a letter he wrote her, and that she fished up out of her pocket to show me, so as to find whether she had come to the right place to wait, or not, but i couldn't bear to do it; and i did for her and the children as well as i could, and when it came to it, about twelve, i coaxed her to go home, and come again in the morning. she didn't come back again; i guess she began to suspect something herself." "why, don't you suppose he ever meant to come?" cornelia asked, tremulously. "_i_ don't know," said the janitress. "i didn't tell _her_ so. i've had all kinds of homeless folks come in here, that had lost their pocket-books, or never had any, and little tots of children, with papers pinned on to tell me who they were expecting, and i've had 'em here on my hands till i had to shut up at night." "and what did you do then?" cornelia began to be anxious about her own fate, in case she should not get away before the janitress had to shut up. "well, some i had to put into the street, them that were used to it; and then there are homes of all kinds for most of 'em; old ladies' homes, and young girls' homes, and destitute females' homes, and children's homes, where they can go for the night, and all i've got to do is to give an order. it isn't as bad as you'd think, when you first come to the city; i came here from connecticut." cornelia thought she might respond so far as to say, "i'm from ohio," and the janitress seemed to appreciate the confidence. she said, "not on your way to the white house, i suppose? there _are_ so many presidents from your state. well, i knew you were not from near new york, anywhere. i _do_ have so many different sorts of folks coming in here, and i have to get acquainted with so many of 'em whether or no. lots of foreigners, for one thing, and men blundering in, as well as women. they think it's a ticket-office, and want to buy tickets of me, and i have to direct 'em where. it's surprising how bright they are, oftentimes. the irish are the hardest to get pointed right; the italians are quick; and the chinese! my, they're the brightest of all. if a chinaman comes in for a ticket up the harlem road, all i've got to do is to set my hand so, and _so_!" she faced south and set her hand westward; then she faced west, and set her hand northward. "they understand in a minute, and they're off like a flash." as if she had done now all that sympathy demanded for cornelia, the janitress went about some work in another part of the room and left the girl to herself. but cornelia knew that she was keeping a friendly eye on her, and in the shelter of her presence, she tried to gather courage to make that start into the street alone, which she must finally make and which she was so foolish to keep postponing. she had written to the landlady of her boarding house that she should arrive on such a day, at such an hour; and here was the day, and she was letting the hour go by, and very likely the landlady would give her room to some one else. or, if the expressman who took her check on the train, should get there with her trunk first, the landlady might refuse to take it. cornelia did not know how people acted about such things in new york. she ought to go, and she tried to rise; but she was morally so unable that it was as if she were physically unable. people came and went; some of them more than once, and cornelia began to feel that they noticed her and recognized her, but still she could not move. suddenly a figure appeared at the door, the sight of which armed her with the power of flight. she knew that it was ludlow, from the photograph he had lately sent mrs. burton, with the pointed beard and the branching moustache which he had grown since they met last, and she jumped up to rush past him where he stood peering sharply round at the different faces in the room, and finally letting his eyes rest in eager question on hers. he came towards her, and then it was too late to escape. "miss saunders? _oh_, i'm so glad! i've been out of town, and i've only just got mrs. burton's telegram. have i kept you waiting long?" "not very," said cornelia. she might have said that he had not kept her waiting at all; the time that she had waited, without being kept by him, was now like no time at all; but she could not say anything more, and she wished to cry, she felt so glad and safe in his keeping. he caught up her bag, and she followed him out, with a blush over her shoulder for the janitress, who smiled after her with mistaken knowingness. but this was at least her self-delusion, and cornelia had an instant in the confusion when it seemed as if ludlow's coming had somehow annulled the tacit deceit she had practised in letting the janitress suppose she expected some one. ludlow kept talking to her all the way in the horse-car, but she could find only the briefest and dryest answers to his friendly questions about her mother and the burtons; and all pymantoning; and she could not blame him for taking such a hasty leave of her at her boarding-house that he almost flew down the steps before the door closed upon her. she knew that she had disgusted him; and she hinted at this in the letter of scolding gratitude which she wrote to mrs. burton before she slept, for the trick she had played her. after all, though, she reasoned, she need not be so much troubled: he had done it for mrs. burton, and not for her, and he had not thought it worth while to bring a chaperon. to be sure, he had no time for that; but there was something in it all which put cornelia back to the mere child she was when they first met in the fair house at pymantoning; she kept seeing herself angry and ill-mannered and cross to her mother, and it was as if he saw her so, too. she resented that, for she knew that she was another person now, and she tingled with vexation that she had done nothing to make him realize it. xi. ludlow caught a cab in the street, and drove furiously to his lodging, where he dressed in ten minutes, so that he was not more than fifteen minutes late at the dinner he had risked missing for cornelia's sake. "i'm afraid i'm very late," he said, from his place at the left of his hostess; he pulled his napkin across his lap, and began to attack his oysters at once. "oh, not at all," said the lady, but he knew that she would have said much the same if he had come as they were rising from table. a clear, gay voice rose from the corner of the board diagonally opposite: "the candles haven't begun to burn their shades yet; so you are still early, mr. ludlow." the others laughed with the joy people feel in having a familiar fact noted for the first time. they had all seen candle-shades weakly topple down on the flames and take fire at dinner. the gay voice went on, rendered, perhaps, a little over-bold by success: "if you see the men rising to put them out, you may be sure that they've been seated exactly an hour." ludlow looked across the bed of roses which filled two-thirds of the table, across the glitter of glass, and the waver of light and shadow, and said, "oh, _you're_ there!" the wit that had inspired the voice before gave out; the owner tried to make a pout do duty for it. "of course i'm there," she said; then pending another inspiration she was silent. everybody waited for her to rise again to the level of her reputation for clever things, and the general expectation expressed itself in a subdued creaking of stiff linen above the board, and the low murmur of silken skirts under the table. finally one of the men said, "well, it's bad enough to come late, but it's a good deal worse to come too early. i'd rather come late, any time." "mr. wetmore wants you to ask him why, mrs. westley," said ludlow. mrs. westley entreated, "oh, why, mr. wetmore?" and every one laughed. "all right, ludlow," said the gentleman in friendly menace. then he answered mrs. westley: "well, one thing, your hostess respects you more. if you come too early you bring reproach and you meet contempt; reproach that she shouldn't have been ready to receive you, and contempt that you should have supposed her capable of dining at the hour fixed." it was a mrs. rangeley who had launched the first shaft at ludlow; she now fitted another little arrow to her string, under cover of the laugh that followed mr. wetmore's reasons. "i shouldn't object to any one's coming late, unless i were giving the dinner; but what i can't bear is wondering what it was kept them." again she had given a touch that reminded the company of their common humanity and their unity of emotion, and the laugh that responded was without any of that reservation or uncertainty which a subtle observer may often detect in the enjoyment of brilliant things said at dinner. but the great charm of the westley dinners was that people generally did understand each other there. if you made a joke, as wetmore said, you were not often required to spell it. he celebrated the westleys as ideal hosts: mrs. westley had the youth and beauty befitting a second wife; her social ambition had as yet not developed into the passion for millionaires; she was simply content with painters, like himself and ludlow, literary men, lawyers, doctors and their several wives. general westley was in what wetmore called the bloom of age. he might be depended upon for the unexpected, like fate. he occasionally did it, he occasionally said it, from the passive hospitality that characterized him. "i believe i share that impatience of yours, mrs. rangeley," he now remarked; "though in the present case i think we ought to leave everything to mr. ludlow's conscience." "oh, do you think that would be quite safe?" she asked with burlesque seriousness. "well! if we _must_!" ludlow said, "why, i think mrs. rangeley is right. i would much rather yield to compulsion. i don't mind telling what kept me, if i'm obliged to." "oh, i almost hate to have you, now!" mrs. rangeley bubbled back. "your willingness, somehow, makes it awful. you may be going to boast of it!" "no, no!" wetmore interposed. "i don't believe it's anything to boast of." "now, you see, you _must_ speak," said mrs. westley. ludlow fell back in his chair, and dreamily crumbled his bread. "i don't see how i can, exactly." wetmore leaned forward and looked at ludlow round the snowy shoulder of a tall lady next him. "is there any particular form of words in which you like to be prompted, when you get to this point?" "dr. brayton might hypnotize him," suggested the lady whose shoulder wetmore was looking round. the doctor answered across the table, "in these cases of the inverted or prostrated will, there is often not volition enough to coöperate with the hypnotizer. i don't believe i could do anything with mr. ludlow." "how much," sighed mrs. rangeley, "i should like to be the centre of universal interest like that!" "it's a good pose," said wetmore; "but really i think ludlow is working it too hard. i don't approve of mob violence, as the papers say when they're going to; but if he keeps this up much longer i won't be answerable for the consequences. i feel that we are getting beyond the control of our leaders." ludlow was tempted to exploit the little incident with cornelia, for he felt sure that it would win the dinner-table success which we all like to achieve. her coming to study art in new york, and her arriving in that way, was a pretty romance; prettier than it would have been if she were plainer, and he knew that he could give the whole situation so that she should appear charming, and should appeal to everybody's sympathy. if he could show her stiff and blunt, as she was, so much the better. he would go back to their first meeting, and bring in a sketch of pymantoning county fair, and of the village itself and its social conditions, with studies of burton and his wife. every point would tell, for though his commensals were now all well-to-do new yorkers, he knew that the time had been with them when they lived closer to the ground, in simple country towns, as most prosperous and eminent americans have done. "well," said wetmore, "how long are you going to make us wait?" "oh, you mustn't wait for _me_," said ludlow. "once is enough to-night. i'm not going to say what kept me." this also was a success in its way. it drew cries of protest and reproach from the ladies, and laughter from the men. wetmore made himself heard above the rest. "mrs. westley, i know this man, and i can't let you be made the victim of one of his shameless fakes. there was really nothing kept him. he either forgot the time, or, what is more probable, he deliberately put off coming so as to give himself a little momentary importance by arriving late. i don't wish to be hard upon him, but that is the truth." "no, no," said the hostess in the applause which recognized wetmore's mischievous intent. "i'll not believe anything of the kind." from her this had the effect of repartee, and when she asked with the single-heartedness which wetmore had praised among her friends as her strongest point, and advised her keeping up as long as she possibly could, "it isn't so, is it, mr. ludlow?" the finest wit could not have done more for her. the general beamed upon her over the length of the table. mrs. rangeley said at his elbow, "she's always more charming than any one else, simply because she _is_," and he made no effort to turn the compliment upon her as she thought he might very well have done. under cover of what the others now began saying about different matters, ludlow murmured to mrs. westley, "i don't mind telling _you_. you know that young girl you said you would go with me to meet when i should ask you?" "the little school-mistress?" "yes." ludlow smiled. "she isn't so very little, any more. it was she who kept me. i found a dispatch at my place when i got home to-day, telling me she was coming, and would arrive at six, and there was no time to trouble you; it was half-past when i got it." "she's actually come then?" asked mrs. westlay. "nothing you could say would stop her?" "no," said ludlow with a shrug. he added, after a moment, "but i don't know that i blame her. nothing would have stopped _me_." "and is there anything else i can do? has she a pleasant place to stay?" "good enough, i fancy. it's a boarding-house where several people i know have been. she must be left to her own devices, now. that's the best thing for her. it's the only thing." xii. in spite of his theory as to what was best for her, in some ways ludlow rather expected that cornelia would apply to him for advice as to how and where she should begin work. he forgot how fully he had already given it; but she had not. she remembered what she had overheard him say to her mother, that day in the fair house, about the superiority of the synthesis of studies, and she had since confirmed her faith in his judgment by much silent inquiry of the newspapers. they had the sunday edition of the _lakeland light_ at pymantoning, and cornelia had kept herself informed of the "gossip of the ateliers," and concerning "women and artists," "artists' summer homes," "phases of studio life," "the ladies who are organizing ceramic clubs," "women art students," "glimpses of the dens of new york women artists," and other æsthetic interests which the sunday edition of the _light_ purveyed with the newspaper syndicate's generous and indiscriminate abundance. she did not believe it all; much of it seemed to her very silly; but she nourished her ambition upon it all the same. the lady writers who celebrated the lady artists, and who mostly preferred to swim in seas of personal float, did now and then offer their readers a basis of solid fact; and they all agreed that the synthesis of art studies was the place for a girl if she was in earnest and wished to work. as these ladies described them the conditions were of the exacting sort which cornelia's nature craved, and she had her sex-pride in the synthesis, too, because she had read that women had borne an important part in founding it; the strictest technical training and the freest spirit of artistic endeavor prevailed in a school that owed its existence so largely to them. that was a great point, even if every one of the instructors was a man. she supposed that mr. ludlow would have sheltered himself behind this fact if she had used the other to justify herself in going on with art after he had urged that as a woman, she had better not do so. but the last thing cornelia intended was to justify herself to mr. ludlow, and she vehemently wished he would not try to do anything more for her, now. after sleeping upon the facts of their meeting she felt sure that he would not try. she approved of herself for not having asked him to call in parting. she was almost glad that he hardly had given her a chance to do so. it was saturday night when cornelia arrived, and she spent sunday writing home a full account of her adventures to her mother, whom she asked to give mrs. barton the note she enclosed, and in looking over her drawings, and trying to decide which she should take to the synthesis with her. she had a good deal of tacit argument about them with mr. ludlow, who persisted in her thoughts after several definitive dismissals; and monday morning she presented herself with some drawings she had chosen as less ridiculous than some of the others, and hovered with a haughty humility at the door of the little office till the janitor asked her if she would not come in and sit down. he had apparently had official experience of cases like hers; he refused without surprise the drawings which she offered him as her credentials, and said the secretary would be in directly. he did not go so far as to declare his own quality, but he hospitably did what he could to make her feel at home. numbers of young people began to appear, singly and in twos and threes, and then go out again, and go on up the stairs which led crookedly to and from the corner the office was cramped into. some of them went up stairs after merely glancing into the office, others found letters there, and staid chatting awhile. they looked at cornelia with merely an identifying eye, at first, as if they perceived that she was a new girl, but as if new girls were such an old story that they could not linger long over one girl of the kind. certain of the young ladies after they went up stairs came down in long, dismal calico aprons that covered them to the throat, and with an air of being so much absorbed in their work that they did not know what they had on. they looked at cornelia again, those who had seen her before, and those who had not, made up for it by looking at her twice, and cornelia began to wonder if there was anything peculiar about her, as she sat upright, stiffening with resentment and faintly flushing under their scrutiny. she wore her best dress, which was a street dress, as the best dress of a village girl usually is; her mother had fitted it, and they had made it themselves, and agreed that it was very becoming; mrs. burton had said so, too. the fashion of her hat she was not so sure about, but it was a pretty hat, and unless she had got it on skewy, and she did not believe she had, there was nothing about it to make people stare so. there was one of these girls, whom cornelia felt to be as tall as herself, and of much her figure; she was as dark as cornelia, but of a different darkness. instead of the red that always lurked under the dusk in cornelia's cheeks, and that now burned richly through it, her face was of one olive pallor, except her crimson lips; her long eyes were black, with level brows, and with a heavy fringe of lucent black hair cut straight above them; her nose was straight, at first glance, but showed a slight arch in profile; her mouth was a little too full, and her chin slightly retreated. she came in late, and stopped at the door of the office, and bent upon cornelia a look at once prehistoric and _fin de siècle_, which lighted up with astonishment, interest and sympathy, successively; then she went trailing herself on up stairs with her strange sphinx-face over her shoulder, and turned upon cornelia as long as she could see her. at last a gentleman came in and sat down behind the table in the corner, and cornelia found a hoarse voice to ask him if he was the secretary. he answered in the friendly way that she afterwards found went all through the synthesis, that he was, and she said, with her country bluntness, that she wished to study at the synthesis, and she had brought some of her drawings with her, if he wanted to look at them. he took them, but either he did not want to look at them, or else it was not his affair to do so. he said she would have to fill out a form, and he gave her a blank which asked her in print a number of questions she had not thought of asking herself till then. it obliged her to confess that she had never studied under any one before, and to say which master in the synthesis she would like to study under, now. she had to choose between life, and still-life, and the antique, and she chose the antique. she was not governed by any knowledge or desire in her choice more definite than such as come from her having read somewhere that the instructor in the antique was the severest of all the synthesis instructors, and the most dreaded in his criticisms by the students. she did not forget, even in the presence of the secretary, and with that bewildering blank before her, that she wished to be treated with severity, and that the criticism she needed was the criticism that every one dreaded. when the secretary fastened her application to her drawings, she asked if she should wait to learn whether it was accepted or not; but he said that he would send her application to the members' room, and the instructor would see it there in the morning. she would have liked to ask him if she should come back there to find out, but she was afraid to do it; he might say no, and then she should not know what to do. she determined to come without his leave, and the next morning she found that the master whom they had been submitted to had so far approved her drawings as to have scrawled upon her application, "recommended to the preparatory." the secretary said the instructor in the preparatory would tell her which grade to enter there. cornelia's heart danced, but she governed herself outwardly, and asked through her set teeth, "can i begin at once?" she had lost one day already, and she was not going to lose another if she could help it. the secretary smiled. "if the instructor in the preparatory will place you." before noon she had passed the criticism needed for this, and was in the lowest grade of the preparatory. but she was a student at the synthesis, and she was there to work in the way that those who knew best bade her. she wished to endure hardness, and the more hardness the better. xiii. cornelia found herself in the last of a long line of sections or stalls which flanked a narrow corridor dividing the girl students from the young men, who were often indeed hardly more than boys. there was a table stretching from this corridor to a window looking down on the roofs of some carpenter shops and stables; on the board before her lay the elementary shape of a hand in plaster, which she was trying to draw. at her side that odd-looking girl, who had stared so at her on the stairs the day before, was working at a block foot, and not getting it very well. she had in fact given it up for the present and was watching cornelia's work and watching her face, and talking to her. "what is your name?" she broke off to ask, in the midst of a monologue upon the social customs and characteristics of the synthesis. cornelia always frowned, and drew her breath in long sibilations, when she was trying hard to get a thing right. she now turned a knotted forehead on her companion, but stopped her hissing to ask, "what?" then she came to herself and said, "oh! saunders." "i don't mean your last name," said the other, "i mean your first name." "cornelia," said the owner of it, as briefly as before. "i should have thought it would have been gladys," the other suggested. cornelia looked up in astonishment and some resentment. "why in the world should my name be gladys?" she demanded. "i don't know," the other explained. "but the first moment i saw you in the office, i said to myself, 'of course her name is gladys.' mine is charmian." "is it?" said cornelia, not so much with preoccupation, perhaps, as with indifference. she thought it rather a nice name, but she did not know what she had to do with it. "yes," the other said, as if she had somehow expected to be doubted. "my last name's maybough." cornelia kept on at her work without remark, and miss maybough pursued, as if it were a branch of autobiography, "i'm going to have lunch; aren't you?" cornelia sighed dreamily, as she drew back for an effect of her drawing, which she held up on the table before her, "is it time?" "do you suppose they would be letting me talk so to you if it weren't? the monitor would have been down on me long ago." cornelia had noticed a girl who seemed to be in authority, and who sat where she could oversee and overhear all that went on. "is she one of the students?" she asked. miss maybough nodded. "elected every month. she's awful. you can't do anything with her when she's on duty, but she's a little dear when she isn't. you'll like her." miss maybough leaned toward her, and joined cornelia in a study of her drawing. "how splendidly you're getting it. it's very _chic_. oh, anybody can see that _you've_ got genius!" her admiration made no visible impression upon cornelia, and for a moment she looked a little disappointed; then she took a basket from under the table, and drew from it a bottle of some yellowish liquid, an orange and a bit of sponge cake. "are you going to have yours here?" she asked, as cornelia opened a paper with the modest sandwich in it which she had made at breakfast, and fetched from her boarding-house. "oh, i'm so glad you haven't brought anything to drink with you! i felt almost sure you hadn't, and now you've got to share mine." she took a cup from her basket, and in spite of cornelia's protest that she never drank anything but water at dinner, she poured it full of tea for her. "i'll drink out of the bottle," she said. "i like to. some of the girls bring chocolate, but i think there's nothing like cold tea for the brain. chocolate's so clogging; so's milk; but sometimes i bring that; it's glorious, drinking it out of the can." she tilted the bottle to her lips, and half drained it at a draught. "i always feel that i'm working with inspiration after i've had my cold tea. of course they won't let _you_ stay here long," she added. "why?" cornelia fluttered back in alarm. "when they see your work they'll see that you're fit for still-life, at least." "oh!" said cornelia, vexed at having been scared for nothing. "i guess they won't be in any great hurry about it." "how magnificent!" said miss maybough. "of course, with that calm of yours, you can wait, as if you had eternity before you. do you know that you are _terribly_ calm?" cornelia turned and gave her a long stare. miss maybough broke her bit of cake in two, and offered her half, and cornelia took it mechanically, but ate her sandwich. "_i_ feel as if i had eternity _behind_ me, i've been in the preparatory so long." on the common footing this drop to the solid ground gave, cornelia asked her how long. "well, it's the beginning of my second year, now. if they don't let me go to round hands pretty soon, i shall have to see if i can't get the form by modelling. that's the best way. i suppose it's my imagination; it carries me away so, and i don't see the thing as it is before me; that's what they say. but with the clay, i'll _have_ to, don't you know. well, you know some of the french painters model their whole picture in clay and paint it, before they touch the canvas, any way. i shall try it here awhile longer, and then if i can't get to the round in any other way, i'll take to the clay. if sculpture concentrates you more, perhaps i may stick to it altogether. art is one, anyhow, and the great thing is to _live_ it. don't you think so?" "i don't know," said cornelia. "i'm not certain i know what you mean." "you will," said miss maybough, "after you've been here awhile, and get used to the atmosphere. i don't believe i really knew what life meant before i came to the synthesis. when you get to realizing the standards of the synthesis, then you begin to breathe freely for the first time. i expect to pass the rest of my days here. i shouldn't care if i stayed till i was thirty. how old are you?" "i'm going on twenty," said cornelia. "why?" "oh, nothing. you can't begin too young; though some people think you oughtn't to come before you're eighteen. i look upon my days before i came here as simply wasted. don't you want to go out and sit on the stairs awhile?" "i don't believe i do," said cornelia, taking up her drawing again, as if she were going on with it. "horrors!" miss maybough put her hand out over the sketch. "you don't mean that you're going to carry it any farther?" "why, it isn't finished yet," cornelia began. "of _course_ it isn't, and it never ought to be! i hope you're not going to turn out a _niggler_! _please_ don't! i couldn't bear to have you. nobody will respect you if you _finish_. don't! if you won't come out with me and get a breath of fresh air, do start a new drawing! i want them to see this in the rough. it's _so_ bold." miss maybough had left her own drawing in the rough, but it could not be called bold; though if she had seen the block hand with a faltering eye, she seemed to have had a fearless vision of many other things, and she had covered her paper with a fantastic medley of grotesque shapes, out of that imagination which she had given cornelia to know was so fatally mischievous to her in its uninvited activities. "_don't_ look at them!" she pleaded, when cornelia involuntarily glanced at her study. "my only hope is to hate them. i almost _pray_ to be delivered from them. let's talk of something else." she turned the sheet over. "do you mind my having said that about your drawing?" "no!" said cornelia, provoked to laughter by the solemnity of the demand. "why should i?" "oh, i don't know. do you think you shall like me? i mean, do you care if i like _you_--very, _very_ much?" "i don't suppose i could stop it if i did, could i?" asked cornelia. the sphinx seemed to find heart to smile. "of course, i'm ridiculous. but i do hope we're going to be friends. tell me about yourself. or, have some more tea!" xiv. "i don't want any more tea, thank you," said cornelia, "and there isn't anything to tell." "there must be!" the other girl insisted, clinging to her bottle with tragic intensity. "any one can see that _you've_ lived. what part of the country did you come from?" "ohio," said cornelia, as the best way to be done with it. "and have you ever been in santa fé?" "goodness, no! why, it's in new mexico!" "yes; i was born there. then my father went to colorado. he isn't living, now. are your father and mother living?" "my mother is," said cornelia; the words brought up a vision of her mother, as she must be sitting that moment in the little front-room, and a mist came suddenly before her eyes; she shut her lips hard to keep them from trembling. "i see, you worship her," said miss maybough fervidly, keeping her gaze fixed upon cornelia. "you are homesick!" "i'm _not_ homesick!" said cornelia, angry that she should be so and that she should be denying it. "mine," said the other, "died while i was a baby. she had indian blood," she added in the same way in which she had said her name was charmian. "_did_ she?" cornelia asked. "that is the legend," said miss maybough solemnly. "her grandmother was a zuñi princess." she turned her profile. "see?" "it does look a little indian," said cornelia. "some people think it's egyptian," miss maybough suggested, as if she had been leading up to the notion, and were anxious not to have it ignored. cornelia examined the profile steadily presented, more carefully: "it's a good deal more egyptian." miss maybough relieved her profile from duty, and continued, "we've been everywhere. paris two years. that's where i took up art in dead earnest; julian, you know. mamma didn't want me to; she wanted me to go into society there; and she does here; but i hate it. don't you think society is very frivolous, or, any way, very stupid?" "i don't know much about it. i never went out, much," said cornelia. "well, i hope you're not conventional! nobody's conventional _here_." "i don't believe i'm conventional enough to hurt," said cornelia. "you have humor, too," said miss maybough, thoughtfully, as if she had been mentally cataloguing her characteristics. "_you'll_ be popular." cornelia stared at her and turned to her drawing. "but you're proud," said the other, "i can see that. i adore pride. it must have been your pride that fascinated me at the first glance. do you mind my being fascinated with you?" cornelia wanted to laugh; at the same time she wondered what new kind of crazy person she had got with; this was hardly one of the art-students that went wild from overwork. miss maybough kept on without waiting to be answered: "i haven't got a bit of pride, myself. i could just let you walk over me. how does it feel to be proud? what are you proud _for_?" cornelia quieted a first impulse to resent this pursuit. "i don't think i'm very proud. i used to be proud when i was little;--i guess you ought to have asked me then." "oh, yes! tell me about yourself!" miss maybough implored again, but she went on as before without giving cornelia any chance to reply. "of course, when i say mamma, i mean my step-mother. she's very good to me, but she doesn't understand me. you'll like her. i'll tell you what sort of a person she is." she did so at such length that the lunch hour passed before she finished, and a hush fell upon all the babbling voices about, as the monitor came back to her place. toward the end of the afternoon the monitor's vigilance relaxed again, and miss maybough began to talk again. "if you want to be anything by the synthesis standards," she said, "you've got to keep this up a whole year, you know." it was now four o'clock, and cornelia had been working steadily since eleven, except for the half-hour at lunch-time. "they'll see how well you draw; you needn't be afraid of their not doing that; and they'll let you go on to the round at once, perhaps. but if you're truly synthetic in spirit, you won't want to. you'll want to get all you can out of the block; and it'll take you a year to do that; then another year for the full length, you know. at first we only had the block here, and a good many people think now that the full length preparatory encroaches on the antique. sometimes they even let you put in backgrounds here, but it don't matter much: when the instructor in the antique gets hold of you he makes you unlearn everything you've learnt in the full-length. _he's_ grand." a girl who was working at the other end of the table said with a careless air, "they told me i might go up to the antique to-day." "lida!" miss maybough protested, in a voice hoarse with admiration. "yes; but i'm not going." "_why_ not? i should think you would be so proud. _how_ did they come to tell you?" "oh, they just said i might. but i'm not going. they're so severe in the antique. they just discourage you." "yes, that is so," said miss maybough, with a sigh of solemn joy. "they make you feel as if you couldn't draw at all." "yes," said the other girl. "they act as if you didn't know a thing." "i _wouldn't_ go," said miss maybough. "i don't know. perhaps i may." the girl went on drawing, and miss maybough turned to cornelia again. "towards the end of your third year--or perhaps you don't like to have your future all mapped out. does it scare you?" "i guess if it does i shall live through it," said cornelia steadily; her heart was beginning to quake somewhat, but she was all the more determined not to show it. "well, the third year you may get to painting still-life, while you keep up your drawing afternoons here. the next year you'll go into the antique class, if they'll let you, and draw heads, and keep up your still-life mornings. when they think you're fit for it, they'll let you do an arm, maybe, and work along that way to the full figure; and that takes another whole winter. then you go into the life class, one of them, all the morning, and keep drawing from the antique in the afternoons, or else do heads from the model. you do a head every day, and then paint it out, and begin another the next day. you learn to sacrifice self to art. it's grand! well, then, the next winter you keep on just the same, and as many winters after that as you please. you know what one instructor said to a girl that asked him what she should do after she had been five years in the synthesis?" "no, i don't," answered cornelia anxiously. "stay five years more!" miss maybough did not give this time to sink very deep into cornelia's spirit. "will you let me call you by your first name?" "why, i've hardly ever been called by any other," said cornelia simply. "and will you call me charmian?" "i had just as lief." cornelia laughed; she could not help it; that girl seemed so odd; she did not know whether she liked her or not. "what poise you _have_ got!" sighed charmian. "may i come to see you? not a ceremonious call. in your own room; where we can talk." cornelia thought that if they went on as they had that day, they should probably talk quite enough at the synthesis; but she said, "why, yes, i should like to have you, if you won't care for my sitting on the trunk. there's only one chair." "let _me_ have the trunk! promise me you'll let me sit on the trunk. it's divine! is it in a salvation hotel?" "what do you mean?" asked cornelia. "why, that's what they call the places that the young women's christian association keep." "no, it isn't. it's just a boarding-house." cornelia wrote her address on a piece of paper, and charmian received it with solemn rapture. she caught cornelia in a sudden embrace and kissed her, before cornelia could help herself. "oh, i adore you!" she cried. they parted at the head of the stairs, where they found themselves among groups of students arriving from all parts of the place, and pausing for synthesis gossip, which cornelia could not have entered into yet if she had wished. she escaped, and walked home to her boarding-house with rather a languid pace, and climbed to her little room on the fifth story, and lay down on her bed. it was harder work than teaching, and her back ached, and her heart was heavy with the thought of five years in the synthesis, when she barely had money enough for one winter. she was not afraid of the work; she liked that; she would be glad to spend her whole life at it; but she could not give five years to it, and perhaps ten. she was ashamed now to think she had once dreamed of somehow slipping through in a year, and getting the good of it without working for it. she tried to plan how she could go home and teach a year, and then come back and study a year, and so on; but by the end of the twenty years that it would take for ten years' study at this rate, she would be an old woman of forty, ready to drop into the grave. she was determined not to give up, and if she did not give up, there was no other end to it; or so it seemed at the close of her first day in the synthesis. she was very homesick, and she would have liked to give up altogether and go home. but she thought of what people would say; of how her mother, who would be so glad to see her, would feel. she would not be a baby, and she turned her face over in the pillow and sobbed. xv. cornelia thought that perhaps mr. ludlow would feel it due to mrs. burton to come and ask how she was getting on; but if she did not wish him to come she had reason to be glad, for the whole week passed, and she did not see him, or hear anything from him. she did not blame him, for she had been very uncouth, and no doubt he had done his whole duty in meeting her at the depot, and seeing her safely housed the first night. she wished to appreciate his kindness, and when she found herself wondering a little at his not caring to know anything more about her, she made much of it. if it was not all that she could have imagined from his offer to be of use to her in any way he could, she reminded herself that he had made that offer a very long time ago, and that she never meant to use him. beside, she was proud of having made her start alone, and she knew which way she wished to go, though the way seemed so hard and long at times. she was not sure that all the students at the synthesis were so clear as to their direction, but they all had the same faith in the synthesis and its methods. they hardly ever talked to her of anything else, and first and last they talked a good deal to her. it was against the rules to loiter and talk in the corridors, as much against the rules as smoking; but every now and then you came upon a young man with a cigarette, and he was nearly always talking with a group of girls. at lunch-time the steps and window-seats were full, and the passages were no longer thoroughfares. after the first day cornelia came out with the rest; charmian maybough said that one could not get into the spirit of the synthesis unless one did; and in fact those who wished to work and those who would rather have played, as it seemed to her, met there in the same æsthetic equality. she found herself acquainted with a great many girls whose names she did not know, in the fervor of the common interest, the perpetual glow of enthusiasm which crowned the severest ordeals of the synthesis with the halo of happy martyrdom if not the wreath of victory. they talked about the different instructors, how awful they were, and how they made you cry sometimes, they were so hard on your work; but if you amounted to anything, you did not mind it when you got to feel what they meant; then you _wanted_ them to be harsh. they said of one, "my! you ought to see him! _he_ can spoil your drawing for you! he just takes your charcoal, and puts thick black lines all over everything. it don't do to finish much for _him_." they celebrated another for sitting down in front of your work, and drooping in silent despair before it for awhile, and then looking up at you in cold disgust, and asking, "what made you draw it _that_ way?" as if it were inconceivable anybody should have been willing to do it so. there were other instructors who were known to have the idea of getting at the best in you by a sympathetic interest in what you had tried for, and looking for some good in it. the girls dramatized their manner of doing this; they did not hold them in greater regard than the harder masters, but they did not hold them in less, and some of them seemed to value an instructor as much for the way he squinted his eyes at your drawing as for what he said of it. the young men did not talk so much of the instructors; they were more reticent about everything. but some had formed themselves upon them, and you could tell which each of these was studying under; or this was what charmian maybough said. she led cornelia all about through the quaint old rookery, with its wandering corridors, and its clusters of rooms distributed at random in the upper stories of several buildings which the synthesis had gathered to itself as if by a sort of affinity, and she lectured upon every one and everything. it was against usage for students in the lower grades to visit the upper classes when they were at work; but charmian contrived stolen glimpses of the still-life rooms and the rooms where they were working from the draped models. for the first time cornelia saw the irregular hemicycle of students silently intent upon the silent forms and faces of those strange creatures who sat tranced in a lifeless immobility, as if the long practice of their trade had resolved them into something as impersonal as the innumerable pictures studied from them. she even penetrated with charmian to the women's life-room, where you really could not go while the model was posing, and where they had to time their visit at the moment when the girls had left off for lunch, and were chattering over their chocolate. they had set it out on the vacant model-stand, and they invited their visitors to break bread with them: the bread they had brought to rub out their drawings with. they made cornelia feel as much at home with them on the summit they had reached, as she felt with the timidest beginners in the preparatory. charmian had reported everywhere that she had genius, and in the absence of proofs to the contrary the life-class accepted her as if she had. their talk was not very different from the talk of the students in the lower grades. they spoke of the synthesis, and asked her how she liked it, but they did not wait for her to say. they began to descant upon their instructors, and the pictures their instructors had last exhibited at the academy or the american artists; and the things that the old synthesis pupils had there. cornelia learned here that even actual synthetics had things in the exhibitions, and that in the last academy a preparatory girl had sold a picture; she determined that before the winter was over she would at least give the academy a chance to refuse the picture of another preparatory girl. she got charmian to point out the girl who had sold the picture; she was a little, quiet-looking thing; cornelia saw some of her work in round hands and she did not think it was better than she could do herself. she took courage and dreamed of trying not to disappoint the hopes of immediate performance, which she knew her mother would be having in spite of her pretending the contrary. her mother had written that she must not work herself down, trying to learn too fast, but must take the whole winter for it. cornelia wondered what she would think if she knew how little a person could be expected to do in one winter, in the regular synthesis way. she was happier at the end of the first week than she had been at the end of the first day, though she was very tired, and was glad to stop at the earlier hour when most of the students left their work on saturday afternoon. she had begun to feel the charm of the synthesis, which every one said she would feel. she was already a citizen of the little republic where the heaviest drudgery was sweet with a vague, high faith and hope. it was all a strange happiness to her, and yet not strange. it was like a heritage of her own that she had come into; something she was born to, a right, a natural condition. she did not formulate this, or anything; she did not ask herself why the frivolities and affectations which disgusted her in the beginning no longer offended her so much; she only saw that some of the most frivolous and affected of her fellow-citizens were the cleverest; and that the worst of them were better than they might have been where the ideal was less generous. she did not know then or afterwards just why some of them were there, and they did not seem to know themselves. there were some who could reasonably expect to live by their art; there were more who could hope to live by teaching it. but there were others who had no definite aim or purpose, and seemed to think their study would shape them to some design. they were trying it, they did not know clearly why, or at least were not able to say clearly why. there were several rich girls, and they worked from the love of it, as hard as the poorest. there were some through whom she realized what ludlow meant when he spoke to her mother of the want that often went hand in hand with art; there were others even more pitiful, who struggled with the bare sufficiency of gift to keep within the synthesis. but even among the girls who were so poor that they had to stint themselves of food and fire, for art's sake, there were the bravest and gayest spirits; and some of these who could never have learned to draw well if they had spent their lives in the synthesis, and were only waiting till their instructor should find the heart to forbid them further endeavor, were so sweet and good that cornelia's heart ached for them. at first she was overawed by all the students, simply because they were all older students at the synthesis than she was. then she included them without distinction in the slight that she felt for the chatter and the airs of some. after that she made her exceptions among them; she begun to see how every one honored and admired the hard workers. she could not revert to her awe of them, even of the hardest workers; but she became more tolerant of the idlest and vaguest. she compared herself with the clever ones, and owned herself less clever, not without bitterness, but certainly with sincerity, and with a final humility that enabled her to tolerate those who were least clever. xvi. when she got home from the synthesis the first saturday afternoon, cornelia climbed up the four flights of stairs that led to her little room, and lay down to rest, as she promised mrs. burton she would do every day; some days she did not. she had to lie on her bed, which filled two-thirds of the room. there was a bureau with a glass, which she could not see the bottom of her skirt in without jumping up; and a wash-stand with a shut-down lid, where she wrote her letters and drew; a chair stood between that and her trunk, which was next the door, and let the door open part way. it seemed very cramped at first, but she soon got used to it, and then she did not think about it; but accepted it as she did everything else in the life that was all so strange to her. she had never been in a boarding-house before, and she did not know whether it was new york usage or not, that her trunk, which the expressman had managed to leave in the lower hall, should be left standing there for twenty-four hours after his escape, and that then she should be asked to take some things out of it so that it should not be too heavy for the serving-maids to carry up to her room. there was no man-servant in the place; but the landlady said that they expected to have a furnace-man as soon as it came cold weather. the landlady was such an indistinct quality, that it could seldom be known whether she was at home or not, and when she was identifiably present, whether she had promised or had not promised to do this or that. people were always trying to see her for some reason or no reason, and it was said that the best time to find her was at table. this was not so easy; the meals had a certain range in time, and the landlady was nominally at the head of the table; but those who came early to find her made the mistake of not having come late, and if you came late you just missed her. yet she was sometimes actually to be encountered at the head of the stairs from the kitchen, or evanescing from the parlor; and somehow the house was operated; the meals came and went, and the smell of their coming and going filled the hall-way from the ground floor to the attic. some people complained of the meals, but cornelia's traditions were so simple that she thought them a constant succession of prodigies, with never less than steak, fish and hash for breakfast, and always turkey and cranberry sauce for dinner, and often ice-cream; sometimes the things were rather burnt, but she did not see that there was much to find fault with. she celebrated the luxury in her letters home, and she said that she liked the landlady, too, and that they had got to be great friends; in fact the landlady reminded the girl of her own mother in the sort of springless effectiveness with which she brought things to pass, when you would never have expected any result whatever; and she was gentle like her mother, and simple-hearted, with all her elusiveness. but she was not neat, like mrs. saunders; the house went at loose ends. cornelia found fluff under her bed that must have been there a long time. the parlor and the dining-room were kept darkened, and no one could have told what mysteries their corners and set pieces of furniture harbored. the carpets, where the subdued light struck them, betrayed places worn down to the warp. mrs. montgomery herself had a like effect of unsparing use; her personal upholstery showed frayed edges and broken woofs, which did not seriously discord with her nerveless gentility. the parlor was very long and rather narrow, and it was crossed at the rear by the dining-room which showed the table in stages of preparation or dismantling through sliding-doors never quite shut. at intervals along the parlor walls were set sofas in linen brocade and yellow jute; and various easy and uneasy chairs in green plush stood about in no definite relation to the black-walnut, marble-topped centre-table. a scarf, knotted and held by a spelter vase to one of the marble mantles, for there were two, recorded a moment of the æsthetic craze which had ceased before it got farther amidst the earlier and honester ugliness of the room. the gas-fixtures were of the vine-leaf and grape-cluster bronze-age; some of the garlands which ought to have been attached to the burners, hung loose from the parent stem, without the effort on the part of any witness to complete the artistic intention. in the evening, the lady-boarders received their gentlemen-callers in the parlor; their lady-callers were liable at all times to be asked if they would not like to go to the boarders' rooms, and whether they expressed this preference or not, they were directed where to find them by the maid, who then rapidly disappeared down the kitchen stairs. in fact, the door-service at mrs. montgomery's was something she would probably have deprecated if any one had asked her to do so. it was the charge of a large, raw-boned irish girl, who made up by her athletic physique and her bass voice for the want of a man-servant on the premises. she brow-beat visitors into acceptance of the theory that the persons they came to see were not at home, especially if they showed signs of intending to wait in the parlor while she went upstairs to find out. those who suffered from her were of the sex least fitted to combat her. the gentlemen boarders seldom had callers; when they had, their callers did not ask whether their friends were in or not; they went and saw for themselves. the gentlemen at mrs. montgomery's were fewer than the ladies, and they were for several reasons in greater favor. for one thing they gave less trouble: they had a less lively fear of mice, and they were not so apt to be out of health and to want their meals sent up; they ate more, but they did not waste so much, and they never did any sort of washing in their rooms. cornelia did not know who or what some of them were; but she made sure of a theatrical manager; two or three gentlemen in different branches of commerce; a newspaper writer of some sort, and an oldish gentleman who had been with mrs. montgomery a great while, and did not seem to be anything but a gentleman boarder, pure and simple. they were all very civil and quiet, and they bore with the amiable american fortitude the hardships of the common lot at mrs. montgomery's, which cornelia underwent ignorantly as necessary incidents of life in new york. she now fell asleep where she lay, and she was startled from her nap, but hardly surprised, to hear her name spoken in the hall far below, as if it were a theme of contention between the bass-voiced irish girl and some one at the street door, who supported the other side of the question in low, indistinct, lady-like murmurs. "no, she don't be in," said the irish girl bluntly. the polite murmur insisted, and the irish girl said, with finality, "well, then, yous can go up yourselves and see; the room is right over the dure, four flights up." cornelia jumped up and tried to pull her hair into a knot before the glass. there came a tap at her door and the voice of charmian maybough asked, "may i come in, miss saunders,--cornelia?" "yes," said cornelia, and she opened the door as far as her trunk would let her. charmian pushed impetuously in. she took cornelia in her arms and kissed her, as if they had not met for a long time. "oh," she said, whirling about, so as to sweep the whole room with her glance, before sinking down on cornelia's trunk, "why can't _i_ have something like this? well, i shall have, i hope, before i die, yet. what made her say you weren't in? i knew you were." she rose and flew about the room, and examined it in detail. she was very beautifully dressed, in a street costume of immediate fashion, without a suggestion of the æstheticism of the picturesque gown she wore at the synthesis; that had originality, but cornelia perceived with the eye trained to see such differences, that this had authority. charmian could not help holding and carrying herself differently in it, too. she was exquisitely gloved, and cornelia instinctively felt that her hat was from paris, though till then she had never seen a paris hat to know it. she might have been a little overawed by it, if the wearer had not abruptly asked her what she thought of it. "well," said cornelia, with her country directness, which was so different from the other's abruptness, "i think it's about the most perfect thing i ever saw." charmian sighed. "i saw you looking at it. yes, it _is_ a dream. but it's a badge of slavery. so's the whole costume. look how i'm laced!" she flung open the jacket and revealed a waist certainly much smaller than she had earlier in the day. "that's the way it goes through my whole life. mamma is dead set against the artistic, and i'm dead set against the fashionable. as long as i'm at the synthesis, i do as the synthetics do. i dress like the synthesis, and i think like it, and i act like it. as soon as i get home in the afternoon, i have to be of the world worldly. i put on a worth frock, and mamma would make me put on a worth spirit, if she could. i do my best to conform, because it's the bargain, and i'll keep my word if it kills me. _now_ you see what a double life i lead! if i could only be steeped in hopeless poverty to the lips! if i could have a room like this, even! sometimes i'm so bewildered by the twofold existence i'm leading, i don't really know what i'm saying. those your things, of course?" she sprang from cornelia's trunk, which she had sank down upon again, and swiftly traversed the sketches cornelia had pinned about the wall. "what touch! yes, you merely have to live on, to be anything you like. it'll do itself for _you_. well, i suppose you'll have to see her." she turned about to cornelia with an air of deprecation. "mamma, you know. she's down stairs waiting for us. she thinks it right to come with me always. i dare say it is. she isn't so very bad, you know. only she insists upon knowing all the girls i take a fancy to, herself. you needn't be afraid of her." "i don't know why i should be afraid of anybody," said cornelia. the darker corner of the long parlor was occupied by a young couple in the earnest inquiry into each other's psychological peculiarities which marks a stage of the passion of love. it obliged them to get very close together, where they sat, she on a lounge and he in the chair, which he kept pulling nearer and nearer; they fulfilled these conditions and exchanged their observations with a freedom that ignored the presence of the lady sitting somewhat severely upright between the two long, front windows, exactly midway of the dingy lace curtains, trained fan-wise on the carpet. they were not disturbed when cornelia and charmian appeared; the young lady continued to dangle the tassel of a cushion through her fingers, and the young man leaned toward her with his face in his hand, and his elbow sunk in the arm of the lounge; but the other lady rose at once and came quickly forward, as if escaping from them. beside the tall girls she looked rather little, and she was decidedly blonde against their brunette color. she wore a veil that came just between her upper and her lower lip, and that stirred lightly when she spoke. she was dressed with the same authoritative fashion as charmian, but not so simply. she did not wait for her daughter to speak, but took cornelia's hand, and said in a soft voice, "miss saunders? i am very glad we found you at home. my daughter has been speaking to me about you, and we hoped to have come sooner, but we couldn't manage together before." "won't you sit down?" asked cornelia. "no, i thank you," mrs. maybough returned, with a velvety tenderness of tone that seemed to convey assent. "we shall be rather late, as it is. i hope you're comfortably situated here." "oh, very," said cornelia. "i've never been away from home before, and of course it isn't like home." "yes," said mrs. maybough, "one misses the refinements of home in such places." she turned and swept the appointments of the room, including the students of psychology, with a critical eye. "i wish _i_ could come here," sighed the daughter. "if i could have a room like cornelia's, mamma! i _wish_ you could see it." "i'm glad you're pleasantly placed, miss saunders. i hope you're not working too hard at the synthesis. i understand the young ladies there are so enthusiastic." "oh, no," cornelia protested. "of course she is!" said charmian. "everybody works too hard at the synthesis. it's the ideal of the place. we woke her out of a nap, and i know she was tired to death." cornelia could not deny it, and so she said nothing. "oh!" said mrs. maybough, non-committally; "that won't do." she paused, without intermitting the scrutiny which cornelia felt she had been subjecting her to from the first moment through her veil. "you mustn't wear yourself out." she paused again, and then while charmian turned away with an effect of impatience, she asked, "do you ever go out on sundays?" "why, i don't know," cornelia began, not certain whether mrs. maybough meant walking out or driving out; young people did both in pymantoning. mrs. maybough pursued: "we receive on thursdays, but we have a few friends coming in to-morrow afternoon, and we should be very glad to see you, if you have nothing better." the invitation was so tentatively, so gingerly offered in manner, if not in words, that cornelia was not quite sure it had been given. she involuntarily searched her memory for something better before she spoke; for the first time in her life she was about to invent a previous engagement, when charmian suddenly turned and laid her arms about her neck. "you'll come, of course!" "charmian!" said mrs. maybough. it would have been hard to tell whether she was reproving the action or the urgence. "then we shall hope to see you?" "yes, thank you," said cornelia. "do come!" said charmian, as if she had not yet accepted. "i can't let it be a whole day and two nights before i see you again!" she put her arm round cornelia's waist, as the girl went with them to the outer door, to open it for them, in her village fashion. in the hall, charmian whispered passionately, "don't you _envy_ them? _oh_, if i could live in such a house with you, and with people like that just to look at!" "my dear!" said mrs. maybough. "they seem to be engaged," said cornelia placidly, without sense of anything wrong in the appearance of the fact. "evidently," said mrs. maybough. "i shouldn't care for the engagement," said charmian. "that would be rather horrid. but if you were in love, to feel that you needn't hide it or pretend not to be! that is life! i'm coming here, mamma!" xvii. mrs. maybough had an apartment in the mandan flats, and her windows looked out over miles of the tinted foliage of the park, and down across the avenue into one of the pretty pools which light up its woodland reaches. the position was superb, and the mandan was in some sort worthy of it. the architect had done his best to give unity and character to its tremendous mass, and he had failed in much less measure than the architects of such buildings usually do. cornelia dismounted into the dirty street in front of it from a shabby horse-car, and penetrated its dimmed splendors of mosaic pavement and polished granite pillars and frescoed vaults, with a heart fluttered by a hall-boy all over buttons, and a janitor in blue and silver livery, and an elevator-man in like keeping with american ideals. she was disgusted with herself that she should be so scared, and she was ashamed of the relief she felt when a servant in plain clothes opened mrs. maybough's door to her; she knew he must be a servant because he had on a dress-coat and a white tie, and she had heard the burtons joke about how they were always taking the waiters for clergymen at first in europe, he answered her with subdued respectfulness when she asked for the ladies, and then he went forward and for the first time in her life she heard her name called into a drawing-room, as she had read it was done in england, but never could imagine it. the man held aside the portière for her to pass, but before she could pass there came a kind of joyous whoop from within, a swishing of skirts toward her, and she was caught in the arms of charmian, who kissed her again and again, and cried out over her goodness in coming. "why, didn't you expect me?" cornelia asked bluntly. "yes, but i was just pretending you wouldn't come, or something had happened to keep you, so that i could have the good of the revulsion when you did come, and feel that it was worth all i had suffered. don't you like to do that?" "i don't believe i ever did it," said cornelia. "that's what makes you so glorious," charmian exulted. "you don't _need_ to do such things. you're equal to life as it comes. but i have to prepare myself for it every way i can. don't you see?" she led her, all embraced, into the drawing-room, where she released her to the smooth welcome of mrs. maybough. there was no one else in the vast, high room which was lit with long windows and darkened again with long, thick curtains, but was still light enough to let cornelia see the elaborate richness of mrs. maybough's dress and the simple richness of charmian's. she herself wore her street-dress and she did not know whether she ought to keep her hat on or not; but charmian said she must pour tea with her, and she danced cornelia down the splendid length of the three great salons opening into each other along the front of the apartment, toward her own room where she said she must leave it. the drawing-room was a harmony of pictures so rich and soft, and rugs so rich and soft, that the colors seemed to play from wall to floor and back again in the same mellow note; the dimness of the dining-room was starred with the glimmer of silver and cut-glass and the fainter reflected light of polished mahogany; the library was a luxury of low leather chairs and lounges, lurking window-seats, curtained in warm colors, and shelves full of even ranks of books in french bindings of blue and green leather. there was a great carved library table in front of the hearth where a soft-coal fire flickered with a point or two of flame; on the mantel a french clock of classic architecture caught the eye with the gleam of its pendulum as it vibrated inaudibly. it was all extremely well done, infinitely better done than cornelia could have known. it was tasteful and refined, with the taste and refinement of the decorator who had wished to produce the effect of long establishment and well-bred permanency; the mandan flats were really not two years old, and mrs. maybough had taken her apartment in the spring and had been in it only a few weeks. "now all this is _mamma_," charmian said, suffering cornelia to pause for a backward glance at the rooms as she pushed open a door at the side of the library. "i simply endure it because it's in the bargain. but it's no more me than my gown is. this is where i _stay_, when i'm with mamma, but i'm going to show you where i _live_, where i _dream_." she glided down the electric-lighted corridor where they found themselves, and apologized over her shoulder to cornelia behind her: "of course, you can't have an attic in a flat; and anything like rain on the roof is practically impossible; but i've come as near to it as i could. be careful! here are the stairs." she mounted eight or ten steps that crooked upward, and flung wide a door at the top of the landing. it gave into a large room fronting northward and lighted with one wide window; the ceiling sloped and narrowed down to this from the quadrangular vault, and the cool gray walls rose not much above cornelia's head where they met the roof. they were all stuck about with sketches in oil and charcoal. an easel with a canvas on it stood convenient to the light; a flesh-tinted lay-figure in tumbled drapery drooped limply in a corner; a table littered with palettes and brushes and battered tubes of color was carelessly pushed against the window; there were some lustrous rugs hung up beside the door; the floor was bare except for a great tiger-skin, with the head on, that sprawled in front of the fire-place. this was very simple, with rough iron fire-dogs; the low mantel was scattered with cigarettes, cigars in chinese bronze vases at either end, and midway a medley of pipes, long-stemmed in clay and stubbed in briar-wood. "good gracious!" said cornelia. "do you smoke?" "not yet," charmian answered gravely, "but i'm going to learn: bernhardt does. these are just some pipes that i got the men at the synthesis to give me; pipes are so full of character. and isn't this something _like_?" she invited cornelia to a study of the place by turning about and looking at it herself. "it seemed as if it never _would_ come together, at one time. everything was in it, just as it should be; and then i found it was the ridiculous ceiling that was the trouble. it came to me like a flash, what to do, and i got this canvas painted the color of the walls, and sloped so as to cut off half the height of the room; and now it's a perfect symphony. you wouldn't have thought it wasn't a real ceiling?" "no, i shouldn't," said cornelia, as much surprised as charmian could have wished. "you can imagine what a relief it is to steal away here from all that unreality of mamma's, down there, and give yourself up to the truth of art; i just draw a long breath when i get in here, and leave the world behind me. why, when i get off here alone, for a minute, i unlace!" cornelia went about looking at the sketches on the walls; they were all that mixture of bad drawing and fantastic thinking which she was used to in the things charmian scribbled over her paper at the synthesis. she glanced toward the easel, but charmian said, "don't look at it! there's nothing there; i haven't decided what i shall do yet. i did think i should paint this tiger skin, but i don't feel easy painting the skin of a tiger i haven't killed myself. if i could get mamma to take me out to india and let me shoot one! but don't you think the whole place is perfect? i've tried to make it just what a studio ought to be, and yet keep it free from pose, don't you know?" "yes," said cornelia. "i've never seen a studio, before." "you poor thing, you don't mean it!" cried charmian in deep pity. cornelia said nothing, and charmian went on with an air of candor, "well, i haven't seen a great many myself--only two or three--but i know how they are, and it's easy enough to realize one. what i want is to have the atmosphere of art about me, all the time. i'm like a fish out of water when i'm out of the atmosphere of art. i intend to spend my whole time here when i'm not at the synthesis." "i should think it would be a good place to work," cornelia conceded. "yes, and i _am_ going to work here," said charmian. "the great trouble with me is that i have so many things in my mind i don't know which to begin on first. that's why the synthesis is so good for me; it concentrates me, if it _is_ on a block hand. _you're_ concentrated by nature, and so you can't feel what a glorious pang it is to be fixed to one spot like a butterfly with a pin through you. i don't see how i ever lived without the synthesis. i'm going to have a wolf-hound--as soon as i can get a good-tempered one that the man can lead out in the park for exercise--to curl up here in front of the fire; and i'm going to have foils and masks over the chimney. as soon as i'm a member of the synthesis i'm going to get them to let me be one of the monitors: that'll concentrate me, if anything will, keeping the rest in order, and i can get a lot of ideas from posing the model; don't you think so? but _you've_ got all the ideas you want, already. aren't you going to join the sketch class?" "i don't know but i am," said cornelia. "i haven't got quite turned round yet." "well, you must do it. i'm going to have the class here, some day, as soon as i get the place in _perfect_ order. i must have a suit of japanese armor for that corner, over there; and then two or three of those queer-looking, old, long, faded trunks, you know, with eastern stuffs gaping out of them, to set along the wall. i should be ashamed to have anybody see it now; but you have an eye, you can supply every thing with a glance. i'm going to have a bed made up in the alcove, over there, and sleep here, sometimes: just that broad lounge, you know, with some rugs on it--i've got the cushions, you see, already--and mice running over you, for the crumbs you've left when you've got hungry sitting up late. are you afraid of mice?" "well, i shouldn't care to have them run over me, much," said cornelia. "well, i shouldn't either," said charmian, "but if you sleep in your studio, sometime you _have_ to. they all do. just put your hat in here," and she glided before cornelia through the studio door into one that opened beside it. the room was a dim and silent bedchamber, appointed with the faultless luxury that characterized the rest of the apartment. cornelia had never dreamt of anything like it, but "_don't_ look at it!" charmian pleaded. "i hate it, and i'm going to get into the studio to sleep as soon as i've thought out the kind of hangings. well, we shall have to hurry back now," but she kept cornelia while she critically rearranged a ribbon on her, and studied the effect of it over her shoulder in the glass. "yes," she said, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, "perfectly roman! gladys wouldn't have done for you. cornelia was a step in the right direction; but it ought to have been fulvia. "'i should have clung to fulvia's waist and thrust the dagger through her side,'" she chanted tragically; and she flung her arms about cornelia for illustration. "_dream of fair women_, you know. what part are you going to play, today?" "what part?" cornelia demanded, freeing herself, with her darkest frown of perplexity. "you're not going to have theatricals, i hope." she thought it was going pretty far to receive company sunday afternoon, and if there was to be anything more she was ready to take her stand now. charmian gave a shout of laughter. "i wish we were. then i could be _natural_. but i mean, what are you going to be: very gentle and mild and sweet and shrinking; or very philosophical and thoughtful; or very stately and cold and remote? you know you have to be _something_. don't you always plan out the character you want them to think you?" "no," said cornelia, driven to her bluntest by the discomfort she felt at such a question, and the doubt it cast her into. charmian looked at her gloomily. "you strange creature!" she murmured. "but i love you," she added aloud. "i simply idolize you!" cornelia said, half-laughing, "don't be ridiculous," and pulled herself out of the embrace which her devotee had thrown about her. but she could not help liking charmian for seeming to like her so much. xviii. they still had some time with mrs. maybough, when they went back to her before any one else came; cornelia could see that her features were rather small and regular, and that her hair was that sort of elderly blond in color which makes people look younger than they are after they have passed a certain age. she was really well on in the thirties when she went out to leadville to take charge of charmian maybough's education from the new england town where she had always lived, and ended by marrying charmian's father. at that time andrew maybough had already made and lost several fortunes without great depravation from the immoralities of the process; he remained, as he had always been, a large, loosely good-natured, casual kind of creature, of whom it was a question whether he would not be buried by public subscription, in the end; but he died so opportunely that he left the widow of his second marriage with the income from a million dollars, which she was to share during her lifetime with the child of his first. mrs. maybough went abroad with her step-daughter, and most of the girl's life had been spent in europe. there was a good deal of dresden in their sojourn, something of florence, necessarily a little of paris; it was not altogether wanting in london, where mrs. maybough was presented at court. but so far as definitively materialized society was concerned, europe could not be said to have availed. when she came back to her own country, it was without more than the hope that some society people, whom she had met abroad, might remember her. "you'll see the greatest lot of frumps, if they ever do come," charmian said to cornelia, after her stepmother had made her excuses to cornelia for her friends being rather late, "and i don't think they're half as uncertain to come as mamma does. anyway, they're certain to stay, after they get here, till you want to rise up and howl." "my dear!" said mrs. maybough. "oh, i don't suppose i ever _shall_ howl. i'm too thoroughly subdued; and with cornelia here to-day i shall be able to hold in. you're the first synthesis girl," she frankly explained to cornelia, "that mamma's ever let me have. she thinks they spend all their time drawing the nude." mrs. maybough looked at cornelia for the effect of this boldness upon her, and the girl frowned to keep herself from laughing, and then gave way. mrs. maybough smiled with a ladylike decorum which redeemed the excess from impropriety. charmian seemed to know the bounds of her license, and as if mrs. maybough's smile had marked them, she went no farther, and her mother began softly to question cornelia about herself. the girl perceived that charmian had not told her anything quite right concerning her, but had got everything dramatically and picturesquely awry. she tried to keep cornelia from setting the facts straight, because it took all the romance out of them, and she said she should always believe them as she had reported them. cornelia knew from novels that they were very humble facts, but she was prepared to abide by them whatever a great society woman like mrs. maybough should think of them. mrs. maybough seemed to think none the worse of them in the simple angularity which cornelia gave them. her friends began to come in at last, and cornelia found herself, for the first time, in a company of those modern nomads whom prosperity and the various forms of indigestion have multiplied among us. they were mostly people whom mrs. maybough had met in europe, drinking different waters and sampling divers climates, and they had lately arrived home, or were just going abroad, or to florida, or colorado, or california. the men were not so sick as the women, but they were prosperous, and that was as good or as bad a reason for their homelessness. they gradually withdrew from the ladies, and stirred their tea in groups of their own sex, and talked investments; sometimes they spoke of their diseases, or their hotels and steamers; and they took advice of each other about places to go to if they went in this direction or that, but said that, when it came to it they supposed they should go where their wives decided. the ladies spoke of where they had met last, and of some who had died since, or had got their daughters married; they professed a generous envy of mrs. maybough for being so nicely settled, and said that now they supposed she would always live in new york, unless, one of them archly suggested, her daughter should be carried off somewhere; if one had such a lovely daughter it was what one might expect to happen, any day. xix. the part that charmian had chosen to represent must have been that of an egyptian slave. she served her mother's guests with the tea that cornelia poured, in attitudes of the eldest sculptures and mural paintings, and received their thanks and compliments with the passive impersonality of one whose hope in life had been taken away some time in the reign of thotmes ii. she did not at once relent from her self-sacrificial conception of herself, even under the flatteries of the nice little fellow who had decorated the apartment for mrs. maybough, and had come to drink a cup of tea in the environment of his own taste. perhaps this was because he had been one of the first to note the peculiar type of charmian's style and beauty, and she wished to keep him in mind of it. he did duty as youth and gayety beside the young ladies at their tea-urn, and when he learned that cornelia was studying at the synthesis, he professed a vivid interest and a great pleasure. "i want huntley to paint miss maybough," he said. "don't you think he would do it tremendously well, miss saunders?" "miss saunders is going to paint me," said charmian, mystically. "as soon as i get to the round," said cornelia to charmian; she was rather afraid to speak to the decorator. "i suppose you wouldn't want to be painted with block hands." the decorator laughed, and charmian asked, "isn't she nice not to say anything about a block head? very few synthesis girls could have helped it; it's one of the oldest synthesis jokes." the young man smiled sympathetically, and said he was sure they would not keep miss saunders long at the block. "there's a friend of mine i should like to bring here, some day." "mamma would be glad to see him," said charmian. "who is it?" somebody began to sing: a full-bodiced lady, in a bonnet, and with an over-arching bust distended with chest-notes, which swelled and sank tumultuously to her music; her little tightly-gloved hands seemed of an earlier period. cornelia lost the name which mr. plaisdell gave, in the first outburst, and caught nothing more of the talk which charmian dropped, and then caught up again when the hand-clapping began. some of the people went, and others came, with brief devoirs to mrs. maybough in the crepuscular corner where she sat. the tea circulated more and more; the babble rose and fell; it was all very curious to cornelia, who had never seen anything like it before, and quite lost the sense of the day being sunday. the stout lady's song had been serious, if not precisely devotional in character; but cornelia could not have profited by the fact, for she did not know german. mr. plaisdell kept up his talk with charmian, and she caught some words now and then that showed he was still speaking of his friend, or had recurred to him. "i'm rather dangerous when i get started on him. he's working out of his mannerisms into himself. he's a great fellow. i'm going to ask mrs. maybough." but he did not go at once. he drew nearer cornelia, and tried to include her in the talk, but she was ashamed to find that she was difficult to get on common ground. she would not keep on talking synthesis, as if that were the only thing she knew, but in fact she did not know much else in new york, even about art. "ah!" he broke off to charmian, with a lift of his head. "that's _too_ bad! there he comes now, with wetmore!" cornelia looked toward mrs. maybough with him. one gentleman was presenting another to mrs. maybough. they got through with her as quickly as most people did, and then they made their way toward cornelia's table. she had just time to govern her head and hand into stony rigidity, when wetmore came up with ludlow, whom he introduced to charmian. she was going to extend the acquaintance to cornelia, but had no chance before ludlow took cornelia's petrified fingers and bowed over them. the men suppressed their surprise, if they had any, at this meeting as of old friends, but charmian felt no obligation to silence. "where in the world have you met before? why, cornelia saunders, why didn't you say you knew mr. ludlow?" "i'm afraid i didn't give her time," ludlow answered. "yes, but we were just speaking of you--mr. plaisdell was!" said charmian, with the injury still in her voice. "i didn't hear you speak of him," cornelia said, with a vague flutter of her hands toward the teacups. the action seemed to justify wetmore to himself in saying, "yes, thank you, i _will_ have some tea, miss saunders, and then i'll get some one to introduce me to you. you haven't seen _me_ before, and i can't stand these airs of ludlow's." he made them laugh, and charmian introduced them, and cornelia gave him his tea; then charmian returned to her grievance and complained to cornelia: "i thought you didn't know anybody in new york." "well, it seems you were not far wrong," wetmore interposed. "i don't call ludlow much of anybody." "you don't often come down to anything as crude as that, wetmore," ludlow said. "not if i can help it. but i was driven to it, this time; the provocation was great." "i had the pleasure of meeting miss saunders at home, several years ago," ludlow said in obedience to charmian. "we had some very delightful friends in common, there--old friends of mine--at pymantoning." "what a pretty name," said mr. plaisdell. "what a pity that none of our great cities happen to have those musical indian names." "chicago," wetmore suggested. "yes, chicago is big, and the name is indian; but is it pretty?" "you can't have everything. i don't suppose it is very decorative." "pymantoning is as pretty as its name," said ludlow. "it has the loveliness of a level, to begin with; we're so besotted with mountains in the east that we don't know how lovely a level is." "the sea," wetmore suggested again. "well, yes, that's occasionally level," ludlow admitted. "but it hasn't got white houses with green blinds behind black ranks of maples in the moonlight." "if 'good taste' could have had its way, the white house with green blinds would have been a thing of the past." said the decorator. "and they were a genuine instinct, an inspiration, with our people. the white paint is always beautiful,--as marble is. people tried to replace it with mud-color--the color of the ground the house was built on! i congratulate miss saunders on the conservatism of py--?" "pymantoning," said cornelia, eager to contribute something to the talk, and then vexed to have it made much of by mr. plaisdell. wetmore was looking away. he floated lightly off, with the buoyancy which is sometimes the property of people of his bulk, and ludlow remained talking with charmian. then, with what was like the insensible transition of dreams to her, he was talking with cornelia. he said he had been meaning to come and see her all the week past, but he had been out of town, and very busy, and he supposed she was occupied with looking about and getting settled. he did not make out a very clear case, she chose to think, and she was not sure but he was treating her still as a child, and she tried to think how she could make him realize that she was not. he seemed quite surprised to hear that she had been at work in the synthesis ever since tuesday. he complimented her energy, and asked, not how she was getting on there, but how she liked it; she answered stiffly, and she knew that he was ignoring her blunt behavior as something she could not help, and that vexed her the more; she wished to resist his friendliness because she did not deserve it. she kept seeing how handsome he was, with his brilliant brown beard, and his hazel eyes. there were points of sunny light in his eyes, when he smiled, and then his teeth shone very white. he did not smile very much; she liked his being serious and not making speeches; she wished she could do something to make him think her less of an auk, but when she tried, it was only worse. he did not say anything to let her think he had changed his mind as to the wisdom of her coming to study art in new york; and she liked that; she should have hated him if he had. "have you got that little manet, yet?" mr. plaisdell broke in upon them. "i was telling miss maybough about it." "yes," said ludlow. "it's at my place. why won't miss maybough and miss saunders come and see it? you'll come, won't you, miss maybough?" "if mamma will let me," said charmian, meekly. "of course! suppose we go ask her?" the friends of mrs. maybough had now reduced themselves to wetmore, who sat beside her, looking over at the little tea-table group. ludlow led the rest toward her. "what an imprudence," he called out, "when i'd just been booming you! now you come up in person to spoil everything." ludlow presented his petition, and mrs. maybough received it with her provisional anxiety till he named the day for the visit. she said she had an engagement for saturday afternoon, and ludlow ventured, "then perhaps you'd let the young ladies come with a friend of mine: mrs. westley. she'll be glad to call for them, i'm sure." "mrs. general westley?" "yes." "we met them in rome," said mrs. maybough. "i shall be very happy, indeed, for my daughter. but you know miss saunders--is not staying with us?" "miss saunders will be very happy for herself," said charmian. the men took their leave, and charmian seized the first moment to breathe in cornelia's ear: "oh, what luck! i didn't suppose he _would_ do it, when i got mr. plaisdell to hint about that manet. and it's all for you. now come into my room and tell me everything about it. you have got to stay for dinner." "no, no; i can't," cornelia gasped. "and i'm not going to his studio. he asked me because he had to." "i should think he did _have_ to. he talked to you as if there was no one else here. how _did_ you meet him before? _when_ did you?" she could not wait for cornelia to say, but broke out with fresh astonishment. "why, walter ludlow! do you know who walter _ludlow_ is? he's one of the greatest painters in new york. he's the greatest!" "who is mr. wetmore?" cornelia asked evasively. "don't name him in the same century! he's grand, too! does those little meissonier things. he's going to paint mamma. she's one of his types. he must have brought mr. ludlow to see me. but he didn't. he saw nobody but you! oh cornelia!" she caught cornelia in her arms. "don't be a goose!" said cornelia, struggling to get away. "will you tell me all about it, then?" "yes. but it isn't anything." at the end of the story charmian sighed, "how romantic! of course, he's simply in a frenzy till he sees you again. i don't believe he can live through the week." "he'll have to live through several," said cornelia; "you can excuse me when you go. he's very conceited, and he talks to you as if he were a thousand years old. i think mr. plaisdell is a great deal nicer. he doesn't treat you as if you were--i don't know what!" xx. the next day cornelia found herself the object of rumors that filled the synthesis. she knew that they all came from charmian, and that she could not hope to overtake them with denial. the ridiculous romances multiplied themselves, and those who did not understand that cornelia and ludlow had grown up together in the same place, or were first cousins, had been encouraged to believe that they were old lovers, who had quarrelled, and never spoken till they happened to meet at mrs. maybough's. ludlow was noted for a certain reticence and austerity with women, which might well have come from an unhappy love-affair; once when he took one of the instructor's classes at the synthesis temporarily, his forbidding urbanity was so glacial, that the girls scarcely dared to breathe in his presence, and left it half-frozen. the severest of the masters, with all his sarcasm, was simply nothing to him. cornelia liked to hear that. she should have despised ludlow if she had heard he was silly with girls, and she did not wish to despise him, though she knew that he despised her; she could bear that. the synthesis praises made her the more determined, however, to judge his recent work when she came to see it, just as she would judge any one's work. but first of all she meant not to see it. she seemed to have more trouble in bringing herself back to this point than in keeping charmian to it. charmian came to believe her at last, after declaring it the rudest thing she ever heard of, and asking cornelia what she expected to say to mrs. westley when she came for her. cornelia could never quite believe it herself, though she strengthened her purpose with repeated affirmation, tacit and explicit, and said it would be very easy to tell mrs. westley she was not going, if she ever did come for her. she could not keep charmian from referring the case to every one on the steps and window-sills in the synthesis, and at the sketch-class, where charmian published it the first time cornelia came, and wove a romance from it which involved herself as the close friend and witness of so strange a being. cornelia tried not to let all this interfere with her work, but it did, and at the sketch-class where she might have shown some rebound from the servile work of the preparatory, and some originality, she disappointed those whom charmian had taught to expect anything of her. they took her rustic hauteur and her professed indifference to the distinction of ludlow's invitation, as her pose. she went home from the class vexed to tears by her failure, and puzzled to know what she really should say to that mrs. westley when she came; it wouldn't be so easy to tell her she was not going, after all. cornelia hated her, and wished she would not come; she had let the whole week go by, now, till thursday, and perhaps she really would not come. the girl knew so little of the rigidity of city dates that she thought very likely mrs. westley had decided to put it off till another week. she let herself into her boarding-house with her latch-key and stood confronted in the hall with ludlow, who was giving some charge to the maid. "oh, miss saunders," he said, and he put the card he held into his pocket, "i'm so glad not to miss you; i was just leaving a written message, but now i can tell you." he hesitated, and cornelia did not know what to do. but she said, "won't you come in?" with a vague movement toward the parlor. "why, yes, thank you, for a moment," he said; and he went back with her. "i hope i haven't kept you waiting," she said, with a severity which was for her own awkwardness. he did not take it for himself. "oh, no! i've just come from mrs. westley's, and she's charged me with a message for you." he handed cornelia a note. "she will call for you and miss maybough at the synthesis rather earlier than you usually leave work, i believe, but i want you to have some daylight on my manet. i hope half-past two won't be too early?" "oh, no," said cornelia, and while she wondered how she could make this opening of assent turn to refusal in the end, ludlow went on: "there's something of my own, that i'd like to have you look at. of course, you won't get away with the manet, alone; i don't suppose you expected that. i've an idea you can tell me where i've gone wrong, if i have; it's all a great while ago. have you ever been at the county fair at pymantoning since----" he stopped, and cornelia perceived that it was with doubt whether it might not still be a tender point with her. "oh, yes, i've forgiven the fair long ago." she laughed, and he laughed with her. "it's best not to keep a grudge against a defeat, i suppose. if we do, it won't help us. i've had my quarrel with the pymantoning county fair, too; but it wasn't with the fine arts committee." "no, i didn't suppose you wanted to exhibit anything there," said cornelia. "why, i don't know. it might be a very good thing for me. why not? i'd like to exhibit this very picture there. it's an impression--not just what i'd do, now--of the trotting-match i saw there that day." "yes," said cornelia, letting her eyes fall, "mrs. burton said you had painted it, or you were going to." "well, i did," said ludlow, "and nobody seemed to know what i was after. i wonder if they would in pymantoning! but what i wanted to ask was that you would try to look at it from the pymantoning point of view. i hope you haven't lost that yet?" "well, i haven't been away such a great while," said cornelia, smiling. "no; but still, one sophisticates in new york very soon. i'll tell you what i've got a notion of! well, it's all very much in the air, yet, but so far as i've thought it out, it's the relation of our art to our life. it sounds rather boring, i know, and i suppose i'm a bit of a theorist; i always was. it's easy enough to prove to the few that our life is full of poetry and picturesqueness; but can i prove it to the many? can the people themselves be made to see it and feel it? that's the question. can they be interested in a picture--a real work of art that asserts itself in a good way? can they be taught to care for my impression of the trotting-match at the pymantoning county fair, as much as they would for a chromo of the same thing, and be made to feel that there was something more in it perhaps?" he sat fronting her, with his head down over the hat he held between his hands; now he lifted his face and looked into hers. she smiled at his earnestness, and for a little instant felt herself older and wiser in her practicality. "you might send it out to the next county fair, and see." "why, that's just what i thought of!" he said, and he laughed. "do you suppose they would let me exhibit it in the fine arts department?" "i don't believe they would give you the first premium," said cornelia. "well, well, then i should have to put up with the second! i should like to get the first, i confess," ludlow went on seriously. "the premium would mean something to me--not so much, of course, as a popular recognition. what do you think the chance of that would be?" "well, i haven't seen the picture yet," cornelia suggested. "ah, that's true! i forgot that," he said, and they both laughed. "but what do you think of my theory? it seems to me," and now he leaned back in his chair, and smiled upon her with that bright earnestness which women always found charming in him, "it seems to me that the worst effect of an artist's life is to wrap him up in himself, and separate him from his kind. even if he goes in for what they call popular subjects, he takes from the many and gives to the few; he ought to give something back to the crowd--he ought to give everything back. but the terrible question is whether they'll have it; and he has no means of finding out." "and you've come to one of the crowd to inquire?" cornelia asked. up to that moment she had been flattered, too, by his serious appeal to her, and generously pleased. but the chance offered, and she perversely seized it. he protested with a simple "ah!" and she was ashamed. "i don't know," she hurried on to say. "i never thought about it in that way." "well, it isn't so simple any more, after you once begin. i don't suppose i shall be at peace quite till i try what i can do; and seeing you sunday brought pymantoning all so freshly back, that i've been wondering, from time to time, ever since, whether you could possibly help me." "i will try, as the good little boy said," cornelia assented. "it makes me feel like a good little boy to have asked it." ludlow did not profit by the chance which the conclusion of their agreement offered him, to go. he stayed and talked on, and from time to time he recurred to what he had asked, and said he was afraid she would think he was using her, and tried to explain that he really was not, but was approaching her most humbly for her opinion. he could not make it out, but they got better and better acquainted in the fun they had with his failures. it went on till cornelia said, "now, really, if you keep it up, i shall have to stand you in the corner, with your face to the wall." "oh, do!" he entreated. "it would be such a relief." "you know i _was_ a teacher two winters," she said, "and have actually stood boys in corners." that seemed to interest him afresh; he made her tell him all about her school-teaching. he stayed till the bell rang for dinner, and he suffered a decent moment to pass before he rose then. "after all," he said at parting, "i think you'd better decide that it's merely my manet you're coming to see." "yes, merely the manet," cornelia assented. "if i choose, the ludlows will all be stood in the corners with their faces to the wall." she found her own face very flushed, when she climbed up to her room for a moment before going in to dinner, and her heart seemed to be beating in her neck. she looked at mrs. westley's note. it stated everything so explicitly that she did not see why mr. ludlow need have come to explain. she remembered now that she had forgotten to tell him she was not going. xxi. cornelia thought mrs. westley would come for charmian and herself in her carriage; but when they went down to her in the synthesis office, they found that she had planned to walk with them to ludlow's studio. she said it was not a great way off; and she had got into the habit of walking there, when he was painting her; she supposed they would rather walk after their work. cornelia said "oh, yes," and charmian asked, at her perfervidest, had mr. ludlow painted _her_? and mrs. westley answered calmly. yes; she believed he did not think it very successful; her husband liked it, though. charmian said, oh, how much she should like to see it, and mrs. westley said she must show it her some time. cornelia thought mrs. westley very pretty, but she decided that she did not care to see ludlow's picture of her. his studio stood a little back from the sidewalk; it was approached by a broad sloping pavement, and had two wide valves for the doorway. he opened the door himself, at their ring, and they found themselves in a large, gray room which went to the roof, with its vaulted ceiling; this was pierced with a vast window, that descended half-way down the northward wall. "my studio started in life as a gentleman's stable; then it fell into the hands of a sculptor, and then it got as low as a painter." he said to charmian, "mr. plaisdell has told me how ingeniously you treated one of your rooms that you took for a studio." charmian answered with dark humility, "but a studio without a painter in it!" and there were some offers and refusals of compliment between them, which ended in his saying that he would like to see her studio, and her saying that mrs. maybough would always be glad to see him. then he talked with mrs. westley, who was very pleasant to cornelia while the banter with charmian went on, and proposed to show his pictures; he fancied that was what he had got them there, for; but he would make a decent pretence of the manet, first. the manet was one of that painter's most excessive; it was almost insolent in its defiance of the old theory and method of art. "he had to go too far, in those days, or he wouldn't have arrived anywhere," ludlow said, dreamily, as he stood looking with them at the picture. "he fell back to the point he had really meant to reach." he put the picture away amidst the sighs and murmurs of mrs. westley and charmian, and the silence of cornelia, which he did not try to break. he began to show his own pictures, taking them at random, as it seemed, from the ranks of canvasses faced against the wall. "you know we impressionists are nothing if not prolific," he said, and he kept turning the frame on his easel, now for a long picture, and now for a tall one. the praises of the others followed him, but cornelia could not speak. some of the pictures she did not like; some she thought were preposterous; but there were some that she found brilliantly successful, and a few that charmed her with their delicate and tender poetry. he said something about most of them, in apology or extenuation; cornelia believed that she knew which he liked by his not saying anything of them. suddenly he set a large picture on the easel that quite filled the frame. "trotting match at the pymantoning county fair," he announced, and he turned away and began to make tea in a little battered copper kettle over a spirit-lamp, on a table strewn with color-tubes in the corner. "ah, yes," said mrs. westley. "i remember this at the american artists; three or four years ago, wasn't it? but you've done something to it, haven't you?" "improved with age," said ludlow, with his back toward them, bent above his tea-kettle. "that's all." "it seems like painting a weed, though," said charmian. "how can you care for such subjects?" ludlow came up to her with the first cup of tea. "it's no use to paint lilies, you know." "do you call that an answer?" "a poor one." he brought mrs. westley some tea, and then he came to cornelia with a cup in each hand, one for her, and one for himself, and frankly put himself between her and the others. "well, what do you think of it?" he asked, as if there were no one else but they two. she felt a warm flush of pleasure in his boldness. "i don't know. it's like it; that's the way i've always seen it; and it's beautiful. but somehow----" "what?" "it looks as if it were somewhere else." "you've hit it," said ludlow. "it serves me right. you see i was so anxious to prove that an american subject was just as susceptible of impressionistic treatment as a french one, that i made this look as french as i could. i must do it again and more modestly; not be so patronizing. i should like to come out there next fall again, and see another trotting-match. i suppose they'll have one?" "they always have them; it wouldn't be the fair without them," said cornelia. "well, i must come, and somehow do it on the spot; that's the only way." he pulled himself more directly in front of her and ignored the others, who talked about his picture with faded interest to each other, and then went about, and looked at the objects in the studio. "i don't think i made myself quite clear the other day, about what i wanted to do in this way." he plunged into the affair again, and if cornelia did not understand it better, it was not for want of explanation. perhaps she did not listen very closely. all the time she thought how brilliantly handsome he was, and how fine, by every worldly criterion. "yes," he said, "that is something i have been thinking of ever since my picture failed with the public; it deserved to fail, and you've made it so clear why, that i can't refuse to know, or to keep myself in the dark about it any longer. i don't believe we can take much from the common stock of life in any way, and find the thing at all real in our hands, without intending to give something back. do you?" cornelia had never thought about it before; she did not try to pretend that she had; it seemed a little fantastic to her, but it flattered her to have him talk to her about it, and she liked his seriousness. he did not keep up the kind of banter with her that he did with charmian; he did not pay her compliments, and she hated compliments from men. ludlow went off to speak to mrs. westley of something he saw her looking at; charmian edged nearer to cornelia. "i would give the world to be in your place. i never saw anything like it. keep on looking just as you are! it's magnificent. such color, and that queenly pose of the head! it would kill those synthesis girls if they knew how he had been talking to you. my, if i could get anybody to be serious with _me_! talk! say something! _do you think its going to rain before we get home?_ his eyes keep turning this way, all the time; you can't see them, but they do. _i am glad i brought my umbrella. have you got your waterproof?_ i'm going to make you tell me every word he said when he came to see you yesterday; it'll be mean if you don't. _no, i think i shall go up by the elevated, and then take the surface-car across._ it's the most romantic thing i ever heard of. _no, i don't believe it will be dark._ speak! say something! you mustn't let me do all the talking; he'll notice." cornelia began to laugh, and charmian turned away and joined mrs. westley and ludlow, who were tilting outward some of the canvasses faced against the wall, and talking them over. cornelia followed her, and they all four loitered over the paintings, luxuriously giving a glance at each, and saying a word or two about it. "yes," ludlow said, "sometimes i used to do three or four of them a day. i work more slowly now; if you want to get any thinking in, you've got to take time to it." it was growing dark; ludlow proposed to see them all home one after another. mrs. westley said no, indeed; the broadway car, at the end of the second block, would leave her within three minutes of her door. "and nothing could happen in three minutes," said ludlow. "that stands to reason." "and _my_ one luxury is going home alone," said charmian. "mamma doesn't allow it, except to and from the synthesis. then i'm an art student and perfectly safe. if i were a young lady my life wouldn't be worth anything." "yes," ludlow assented, "the great thing is to have some sort of business to be where you are." "i know a girl who's in some of the charities, and she goes about at all hours of the night, and nobody speaks to her," said charmian. "well, then," said ludlow, "i don't see that there's anything for me to do, unless we all go together with mrs. wesley to get her broadway car, and then keep on to the elevated with you, miss maybough. miss saunders may be frightened enough then to let me walk to her door with her. a man likes to be of some little use in the world." they had some mild fun about the weakness of cornelia in needing an escort. she found it best to own that she did not quite know her way home, and was afraid to ask if she got puzzled. ludlow put out his spirit-lamp, which had been burning blue all the time, and embittering the tea in the kettle over it, and then they carried out their plan. cornelia went before with mrs. westley, who asked her to come to her on her day, whenever she could leave her work for such a reckless dissipation. at the foot of the elevated station stairs, where charmian inflexibly required that they should part with her, in the interest of the personal liberty which she prized above personal safety, she embraced cornelia formally, and then added an embrace of a more specific character, and whispered to her ear, "you're glorious!" and fled up the station stairs. cornelia understood that she was glorious because mr. ludlow was walking home with her, and that charmian was giving the fact a significance out of all reason. they talked rather soberly, as two people do when a gayer third has left them, and they had little silences. they spoke of charmian, and cornelia praised her beauty and her heart, and said how everybody liked her at the synthesis. "do they laugh at her a little, too?" ludlow asked. "why?" "she's rather romantic." "oh, i thought all girls were romantic." "yes? you're not." "what makes you think so?" asked the girl. "i'm a great deal more romantic than is good for me. don't you like romantic people? i do!" "i don't believe i do," said ludlow. "they're rather apt to make trouble. i don't mean miss maybough. she'll probably take it out in madly impossible art. can she draw?" cornelia did not like to say what she thought of charmian's drawing, exactly. she said, "well, i don't know." ludlow hastened to say, "i oughtn't to have asked that about your friend." "we're both in the preparatory, you know," cornelia explained. "i think charmian has a great deal of imagination." "well, that's a good thing, if it doesn't go too far. fortunately it can't, in the preparatory." at her door cornelia did not know whether to ask him in, as she would have done in pymantoning; she ended by not even offering him her hand; but he took it all the same, as if he had expected her to offer it. xxii. cornelia found herself in her room without knowing how she got there, or how long she had been there, when the man-voiced irish girl came up and said something to her. she did not understand at first; then she made out that there was a gentleman asking for her in the parlor; and with a glance at her face in the glass, she ran down stairs. she knew it was ludlow, and that he had thought of something he wanted to say, and had come back. it must be something very important; it might be an invitation to go with him somewhere; she wondered if they would have a chaperone. in the vague light of the long parlor, where a single burner was turned half up, because it was not yet dark outside, a figure rose from one of the sofas and came toward her with one hand extended in gay and even jocose greeting. it was the figure of a young man, with a high forehead, and with nothing to obstruct the view of the shakespearian dome it mounted into, except a modest growth of hair above either ear. he was light upon his feet, and he advanced with a rhythmical step. cornelia tried to make believe that she did not know who it was; she recoiled, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, and she could not gainsay him when he demanded joyfully, "why, nie! why, nelie! don't you remember me? dickerson, j. b., with gates & clarkson, art goods? pymantoning? days of yore, generally? oh, pshaw, now!" "yes, i remember you," said cornelia, in a voice as cold as the finger-tips which she inwardly raged to think she gave him, but was helpless to refuse, simply because he was holding out his hand to her. "well, it's good for sore eyes to see you again," said mr. dickerson, closing both of his hands on hers. "let's see; it's four years ago! how the time flies! i declare, it don't hardly seem a day. mustn't tell you how you've grown, i suppose? well, we _weren't_ much more than children, then, anyhow. set down! i'm at home here. old stamping-ground of mine, when i'm in new york; our house has its headquarters in new york, now; everything's got to come, sooner or later. well, it's a great place." cornelia obeyed him for the same reason that she gave him her hand, which was no reason. "i heard your voice there at the door, when you came in a little while ago, and i was just going to rush out and speak to you. i was sure it was you; but thinks i, 'it can't be; it's too good to be true'; and i waited till i could see mrs. montgomery, and then i sent up for you. didn't send my name; thought i'd like to surprise you. well, how's the folks? mother still doing business at the old stand? living and well, i hope?" "my mother is well," said cornelia. she wondered how she should rid herself of this horrible little creature, who grew, as she looked at him in her fascination, more abominable to her every moment. she was without any definite purpose in asking, "how is mrs. dickerson?" the question appeared to give mr. dickerson great satisfaction; he laughed, throwing back his head: "who, tweet? well, i thought you'd be after me there, about the first thing! i don't blame you; don't blame you a bit. be just so myself, if i was in your place! perfectly natural you should! then you ain't heard?" "i don't know what you mean," said cornelia, with mounting aversion. she edged away from him, for in the expression of his agreeable emotion he had pushed nearer to her on the sofa. "why, tweet is mrs. byers, now; court let her take back her maiden name. i didn't oppose the divorce; nothing like peace in families, you know. tweet was all right, and i hain't got anything to say against her. _she's_ a good girl; but we couldn't seem to hit it off, and we agreed to quit, after we'd tried it a couple of years or so, and i've been a free man ever since." it could not be honestly said that cornelia was profoundly revolted by the facts so lightly, almost gaily, presented. her innocence of so much that they implied, and her familiarity with divorce as a common incident of life, alike protected her from the shock. but what really struck terror to her heart was something that she realized with the look that the hideous little man now bent upon her: the mutual understanding; the rights once relinquished which might now be urged again; the memory of things past, were all suggested in this look. she thought of ludlow, with his lofty ideals and his great gifts, and then she looked at this little grinning, leering wretch, and remembered how he had once put his arm round her and kissed her. it seemed impossible--too cruel and unjust to be. she was scarcely more than a child, then, and that foolish affair had been more her mother's folly than her own. it flashed upon her that unless she put away the shame of it, the shame would weaken her and master her. but how to assert herself she did not know till he gave her some pretext. "well," he sighed, rolling his head against the back of the sofa, and looking up at the chandelier, "sometimes a man has more freedom than he's got any use for. i don't know as i want to be back under tweet's thumb, but i guess the scripture was about right where it says it ain't good for a man to be alone. when d'you leave pymantoning, nelie?" "it makes no difference when i left." cornelia got to her feet, trembling. "and i'll thank you not to call me by my first name, mr. dickerson. i don't know why you should do it, and i don't like it." "oh, all right, all right," said mr. dickerson. "i don't blame you. i think you're perfectly excusable to feel the way you do. but some time, when i get a chance, i should like to tell you about it, and put it to you in the right light----" "i don't want to hear about it," cried cornelia fiercely. "and i won't have you thinking that it's because i ever did care for you. i didn't. and i was only too glad when you got married. and i don't hate you, for i despise you too much; and i always did. so!" she stamped her foot for a final emphasis, but she was aware of her words all having fallen effectless, like blows dealt some detestable thing in a dream. "good! just what i expected and deserved," said mr. dickerson, with a magnanimity that was appalling. "i did behave like a perfect scallawag to you, nie; but i was young then, and tweet got round me before i knew. i can explain----" "i don't want you to explain! i won't let you. you're too disgusting for anything. don't i tell you i _never_ cared for you?" "why, of course," said mr. dickerson tolerantly, "you say that now; and i don't blame you. but _i_ guess you _did_ care, once, nelie." "oh, my goodness, what shall i do?" she found herself appealing in some sort to the little wretch against himself. "why, let's see how you look; i hain't had a fair peep at you, yet." as if with the notion of affording a relief to the strain of the situation, he advanced, and lifted his hand toward the low-burning chandelier. "stop!" cried cornelia. "are you staying here--in this house?" "well, i inferred that i was, from a remark that i made." "then i'm going away instantly. i will tell mrs. montgomery, and i will go to-night." "why, nie!" "hush! don't you--don't dare to speak to me! oh, you--you----" she could not find a word that would express all her loathing of him, and her scorn of herself in the past for having given him the hold upon her that nothing appeared to have loosed. she was putting on a bold front, and she meant to keep her word, but if she left that house, she did not know where, in the whole vast city, she should go. of course she could go to charmian maybough; but besides bring afraid to venture out after dark, she knew she would have to tell charmian all about it; or else make a mystery of it; there was nothing, probably, that charmian would have liked better, but there was nothing that cornelia would have liked less. she wanted to cry; it always seems hard and very unjust to us, in after life, when some error or folly of our youth rises up to perplex us; and cornelia was all the more rebellious because the fault was not wholly hers, or not even largely, but mostly her dear, innocent, unwise mother's. mr. dickerson dropped his hand without turning up the gas; perhaps he did not need a stronger light on cornelia, after all. "oh, well! i don't want to drive you out of the house. i'll go. i've got my grip out here in the hall. but see here! i told mrs. montgomery we hailed from the same place--children together, and i don't know but what cousins--and how glad i was to find you here, and now if i leave---- better let me stay here, over night, anyhow! i'm off on the road to-morrow, anyway. i won't trouble you; i won't, indeed. now you can depend upon it. word's as good as my bond, if my bond _ain't_ worth a great deal. but, honor bright!" cornelia's heart, which stood still at the threat she made, began to pound in her breast. she panted so that she could hardly speak. "will you call me by my first name?" she demanded. "no. you shall be miss saunders to me till you say when." "and will you ever speak to me, or look at me, as if we were ever anything but the most perfect strangers?" "it'll be a good deal of a discount from what i told mrs. montgomery, but i guess i shall have to promise." "and you will go in the morning?" "sure." "how soon?" "well, i don't like a _very_ early breakfast, but i guess i can get out of the house by about nine, or half-past eight, maybe." "then you may stay." cornelia turned and marched out of the parlor with a state that failed her more and more, the higher she mounted toward her room. if it had been a flight further she would have had to crawl on her hands and knees. at first she thought she would not go down to dinner, but after a while she found herself very hungry, and she decided she must go for appearance sake at any rate. at the bottom of her heart, too, she was curious to see whether that little wretch would keep his word. he was the life of the table. his jokes made everybody laugh; it could be seen that he was a prime favorite with the landlady. after the coffee came he played a great many tricks with knives and forks and spoons, and coins. he dressed one of his hands, all but two fingers, with a napkin which he made like the skirts of a ballet-dancer, and then made his fingers dance a hornpipe. he tried a skirt-dance with them later, but it was comparatively a failure, for want of practice, he said. toward cornelia he behaved with the most scrupulous deference, even with delicacy, as if they had indeed met in former days, but as if she were a person of such dignity and consequence that their acquaintance could only have been of the most formal character. he did it so well, and seemed to take such a pleasure in doing it that she blushed for him. some of the things he said to the others were so droll that she had to laugh at them. but he did not presume upon her tolerance. xxiii. the false courage that supported her in dickerson's presence left cornelia when she went back to her room, and she did not sleep that night, or she thought she did not. she came down early for a cup of coffee, and the landlady told her that mr. dickerson had just gone; he wished mrs. montgomery to give cornelia his respects, and apologize for his going away without waiting to see her again. he had really expected to stay over till monday, but he found he could save several days by taking the chicago limited that morning. mrs. montgomery praised his energy; she did not believe he would be on the road a great while longer; he would be in the firm in less than another year. she hinted at his past unhappiness in the married state, and she said she did hope that he would get somebody who would appreciate him, next time. there did not seem to be any doubt in her mind that there would be a next time with him. cornelia wanted to ask whether she expected him back soon; she could not; but she resolved that whenever he came he should not find her in that house. she thought where she should go, and what excuse she should make for going, what she should tell charmian, or mr. ludlow, if she ever saw him again. it seemed to her that she had better go home, but cornelia hated to give up; she could not bear to be driven away. she went to church, to escape herself, and a turmoil of things alien to the place and the hour whirled through her mind during the service; she came out spent with a thousand-fold dramatization of her relations to mr. dickerson and to mr. ludlow. she sat down on a bench in the little park before the church, and tried to think what she ought to do, while the children ran up and down the walks, and the people from the neighboring east side avenues, in their poor sunday best, swarmed in the square for the mild sun and air of the late october. the street cars dinned ceaselessly up and down, and back and forth; the trains of the elevated hurtled by on the west and on the east; the troubled city roared all round with the anguish of the perpetual coming and going; but it was as much sunday there as it would have been on the back street in pymantoning where her mother's little house stood. the leaves that dripped down at her feet in the light warm breaths of wind passing over the square might have fallen from the maple before the gate at home. the awful unity of life for the first time appeared to her. was it true that you could not get away from what you had been? was that the meaning of that little wretch's coming back to claim her after he had forfeited every shadow of right to her that even her mother's ignorance and folly had given him? then it meant that he would come back again and again, and never stop coming. she made believe that if she looked up, she should now see him actually coming down the path toward her; she held her eyes fixed upon the ground at her feet, and then it seemed to her every moment that he was just going to take the seat next her. the seat was already taken; a heavy german woman filled it so solidly that no phantasm could have squeezed in beside her. but the presence of dickerson became so veritable that cornelia started up breathless, and hurried home, sick with the fear that she should find him waiting for her there. she was afraid to go out the next morning, lest she should meet him on the street, though she knew that by this time he was a thousand miles away. at the synthesis she was ashamed to let charmian think that her absent and tremulous mood had something to do with ludlow; but she was so much more ashamed of the shabby truth that she would have been willing to accept the romance herself. this was very dishonest; it was very wicked and foolish; cornelia saw herself becoming a guilty accomplice in an innocent illusion. she found strength to silence charmian's surmise, if not to undeceive her; she did her best; and as the days began to remove her farther and farther from the moment of her actual encounter with dickerson, her reason came more and more into control of her conscience. she tried not to be the fool of a useless remorse for something she was at least not mainly to blame for. she had to make the struggle alone; there was no one she could advise with; her heart shut when she thought of telling any one her trouble; but in her perpetual reveries she argued the case before ludlow. it seemed to her as if he had come to render her a final judgment when his name was sent up to her room, that saturday afternoon which ended the longest week of her life. she went down, and found him alone in the long parlor, and it was in keeping with her fantastic prepossession that he should begin, "i wonder how i shall say what i've come for?" as if he would fain have softened her sentence. he kept her hand a moment longer than he need; but he was not one of those disgusting people who hold your hand while they talk to you, and whom cornelia hated. she did not now resent it, though she was sensible of having to take her hand from him. "i don't know," she answered, with hysterical flippancy. "if i did i would tell you." he laughed, as if he liked her flippancy, and he said, "it's very simple. in fact, that's what makes it so difficult." "then you might practice on something hard first," she suggested wildly. "how would the weather do?" "yes, hasn't it been beautiful?" said ludlow, with an involuntary lapse into earnestness. "i was in the park to-day for a little effect i wanted to get, and it was heartbreaking to leave the woods. i was away up in those forest depths that look wild in spite of the asphalt. if you haven't been there, you must go some day while the autumn color lasts. i saw a lot of your synthesis ladies painting there. i didn't know but i might see you." this was all very matter of fact. cornelia took herself in hand, and shook herself out of her hallucination. "no, i don't suppose it would be right for a person who was merely in the preparatory to go sketching in the park. and charmian and i were very good to-day, and kept working away at our block hands as long as the light lasted." "ah, yes; miss maybough," said ludlow; then he paused absently a moment. "do you think she is going to do much in art?" "how should i know?" returned cornelia. she thought it rather odd he should recur to that after she had let him see she did not want to talk about charmian's art. "because you know that you can do something yourself," said ludlow. "that is the only kind of people who can really know. the other sort of people can make clever guesses; they can't know." "and you believe that i can do something?" asked cornelia, and a sudden revulsion of feeling sent the tears to her eyes. it was so sweet to be praised, believed in, after what she had been through. "but you haven't seen anything of mine except those things--in the fair house." "oh, yes, i have. i've seen the drawings you submitted at the synthesis. i've just seen them. i may as well confess it: i asked to see them." "you did! and--and--well?" she fluttered back. "it will take hard work." "oh, i know that!" "and it will take time." "yes, that is the worst of it. i don't see how i can give the time." "why?" he asked. "oh, because--i can't very well be away from home." she colored as she said this, for she could have been away from home well enough if she had the money. "i thought i would come and try it for one winter." he said lightly, "perhaps you'll get so much interested that you'll find you can take more time." "i don't know," she answered. "well, then, you must get in all the work you can this winter. block hands are well enough, but they're not the whole of art nor the whole preparation for it." "oh, i've joined the sketch class," she said. "yes, that's well enough, too," he assented. "but i want you to come and paint with me," he suddenly added. "you? me?" she gasped. "yes," he returned. "i'll tell you what i mean. i've been asked to paint a lady. she'll have to come to my place, and i want you to come with her, and see what you can do, too. i hope it doesn't seem too extraordinary?" he broke off, at sight of the color in her face. "oh, no," said cornelia. she wondered what charmian would say if she knew this; she wondered what the synthesis would say; the synthesis held mr. ludlow in only less honor than the regular synthesis instructors, and mr. ludlow had asked her to come and paint with him! she took shelter in the belief that mrs. burton must have put him up to it, somehow, but she ought to say something grateful, or at least something. she found herself stupidly and aimlessly asking, "is it mrs. westley?" as if that had anything to do with the matter. "no; i don't see why i didn't tell you at once," said ludlow. "it's your friend, miss maybough." cornelia relieved her nerves with a laugh. "i wonder how she ever kept from telling it." "perhaps she didn't know. i've only just got a letter from her mother, asking me to paint her, and i haven't decided yet that i shall do it." she thought that he wanted her to ask him why, and she asked, "what are you waiting for?" "for two reasons. do you want the real reason first?" he asked, smiling at her. she laughed. "no, the unreal one!" "well, i doubt whether mrs. maybough wrote to me of her own inspiration, entirely. i suspect that wetmore and plaisdell have been working the affair, and i don't like that." "well?" "and i'm waiting for you to say whether i could do it. that's the real reason." "how should i know?" "i could make a picture of her," he said, "but could i make a portrait? there is something in every one which holds the true likeness; if you don't get at that, you don't make a portrait, and you don't give people their money's worth. they haven't proposed to buy merely a picture of you; they've proposed to buy a picture of a certain person; you may give them more, but you can't honestly give them less; and if you don't think you can give them that, then you had better not try. i should like to try for miss maybough's likeness, and i'll do that, at least, if you'll try with me. the question is whether you would like to." "like to? it's the greatest opportunity! why, i hope i know what a chance it is, and i don't know why you ask me to." "i want to learn of you." "if you talk that way i shall know you are making fun of me." "then i will talk some other way. i mean what i say. i want you to show me how to look at miss maybough. it sounds fantastic----" "it sounds ridiculous. i shall not do anything of the kind." "very well, then, i shall not paint her." "you don't expect me to believe that," said cornelia, but she did believe it a little, and she was daunted. she said, "charmian would hate it." "i don't believe she would," said ludlow. "i don't think she would mind being painted by half-a-dozen people at once. the more the better." "that shows you don't understand her," cornelia began. "didn't i tell you i didn't understand her? now, you see, you must. i should have overdone that trait in her. of course there is something better than that." "i don't see how you could propose my painting her, too," cornelia relented, provisionally. ludlow was daunted in his turn; he had not thought of that. it would be a little embarrassing, certainly, but he could not quite own this. he laughed and said, "i have a notion she will propose it herself, if you give her a chance." "oh," said cornelia, "if she does that, all well and good." "then i may say to her mother that i will make a try at the portrait?" "what have i to do with it?" cornelia demanded, liking and not liking to have the decision seem left to her. "i shall have nothing to do with it if she doesn't do it of her own accord." "you may be sure that she shall not have even a suggestion of any kind," said ludlow, solemnly. "i shall know it if she does," cornelia retorted, not so solemnly, and they both laughed. while he stayed and talked with her the affair had its reason and justification; it seemed very simple and natural; but when he went away it began to look difficult and absurd. it was something else she would have to keep secret, like that folly of the past; it cast a malign light upon ludlow, and showed him less wise and less true than she had thought him. she must take back her consent; she must send for him, write to him, and do it; but she did not know how without seeming to blame him, and she wished to blame only herself. she let the evening go by, and she stood before the glass, putting up her hand to her back hair to extract the first dismantling hairpin, for a sleepless night, when a knock at her door was followed by the words, "he's waitun' in the parlor." the door was opened and the irish girl put a card in her hand. xxiv. the card was ludlow's, and the words, "do see me, if you can, for a moment," were scribbled on it. cornelia ran down stairs. he was standing, hat in hand, under the leafy gas chandelier in the parlor, and he said at once, "i've come back to say it won't do. you can't come to paint miss maybough with me. it would be a trick. i wonder i ever thought of such a thing." she broke out in a joyful laugh. "i knew you came for that." he continued to accuse himself, to explain himself. he ended, "you must have been despising me!" "i despised myself. but i had made up my mind to tell charmian all about it. there's no need to do that, now it's all over." "but it isn't all over for me," said ludlow gloomily. "i went straight home from here, and wrote to mrs. maybough that i would paint her daughter, and now i'm in for it." he looked so acutely miserable that cornelia gave way to a laugh, which had the effect of raising his fallen spirits, and making him laugh, too. they sat down together and began to talk the affair all over again. some of the boarders who were at the theatre came in before he rose to go. cornelia followed him out into the hall. "then there is nothing for me to do about it?" "no, nothing," he said, "unless you want to take the commission off my hands, and paint the picture alone." he tried to look gloomy again, but he smiled. every one slept late at mrs. montgomery's on sunday morning; all sects united in this observance of the day; in fact you could not get breakfast till nine. cornelia opened her door somewhat later even than this, and started at the sight of charmian maybough standing there, with her hand raised in act to knock. they exchanged little shrieks of alarm. "did i scare you? well, it's worth it, and you'll say so when you know what's happened. go right back in!" charmian pushed cornelia back and shut the door. "you needn't try to guess, and i won't ask you to. but it's simply this: mr. ludlow is going to paint me. what do you think of that? though i sha'n't expect you to say at once. but it's so. mamma wrote to him several days ago, but she kept the whole affair from me till she knew he would do it, and he only sent his answer last night after dinner." charmian sat down on the side of the bed with the effect of intending to take all the time that was needed for the full sensation. "and now, while you're absorbing the great central fact, i will ask if you have any idea why i have rushed down here this morning before you were up, or mamma either, to interview you?" "no, i haven't," said cornelia. "you don't happen to have an olive or a cracker any where about? i don't need them for illustration, but i haven't had any breakfast, yet." "there are some ginger-snaps in the bureau box right before you," said cornelia from the window-sill. "ginger-snaps will do, in an extreme case like this," said charmian, and she left her place long enough to search the bureau box. "what little ones!" she sighed. "but no matter; i can eat them all." she returned to her seat on cornelia's bed with the paper bag which she had found, in her hand. "well, i have thought it perfectly out, and all you have to do is to give your consent; and if you knew how much valuable sleep i had lost, thinking it out, you would consent at once. you know that the sittings will have to be at his studio, and that i shall have to have somebody go with me." cornelia was silent, and charmian urged, "you know that much, don't you?" "yes, i suppose so," cornelia allowed. "well, then, you know i could have mamma go, but it would bore her; or i could have a maid go, but that would bore me; and so i've decided to have you go." "me?" "yes; and don't say you can't till you know what you're talking about. it'll take all your afternoons for a week or a fortnight, and you'll think you can't give the time. but i'll tell you how you can, and more too; how you can give the whole winter, if it takes him that long to paint me; but they say he paints very rapidly, and gets his picture at a dash, or else doesn't get it at all; and it's neither more nor less than this: i'm going to get him to let you paint me at the same time? what do you think of that?" all our motives are mixed, and it was not pure conscience which now wrought in cornelia. it was pride, too, and a certain resentment that charmian should assume authority to make mr. ludlow do this or that. for an instant she questioned whether he had not broken faith with her, and got charmian to propose this; then she knew that it could not have been. she said coldly, "i can't do it." "_what!_ not when i've come down here before breakfast to ask you? why can't you?" charmian wailed. "because mr. ludlow was here last night, and asked me to do it." "he _did_? then i am the happiest girl in the world! let me embrace you, cornelia!" "don't be--disgusting!" said cornelia, but she felt that charmian was generously glad of the honor done her, and that she had wronged her by suspecting her of a wish to show power over mr. ludlow. "i told him i couldn't, and i can't, because it would have seemed to be making use of you, and--and--you wouldn't like it, and i wouldn't like it in your place, and--i wouldn't do it. and i should have to tell you that he proposed it, and that you would perfectly hate it." "when it was the very first thing i thought of? let me embrace you again, cornelia saunders, you adorable wooden image! why his proposing it makes it perfectly divine, and relieves me of all responsibility. oh, i would come down here every _day_ before breakfast a whole week, for a moment like this! then it's all settled; and we will send him word that we will begin to-morrow afternoon. let's discuss the character you will do me in. i want you to paint me in character--both of you--something allegorical or mythical. or perhaps you're hungry, too! and i've eaten every one of the snaps." "no, i can't do it," cornelia still protested; but the reasons why she could not, seemed to have escaped her, or to have turned into mere excuses. in fact, since charmian had proposed it, and seemed to wish it, they were really no longer reasons. cornelia alleged them again with a sense of their fatuity. she did not finally assent; she did not finally refuse; but she felt that she was very weak. "i see what you're thinking about," said charmian, "but you needn't be afraid. i shall not show anything out. i shall be a perfect--tomb." "what do you mean?" demanded cornelia, with a vexation heightened by the sense of her own insincerity. "oh, _you_ know what. but from this time forth _i_ don't. it will be glorious not to let myself realize it. i shall just sit and think up conundrums, and not hear, or see, or dream anything. yes, i can do it, and it will be splendid practice. this is the way i shall look." she took a pose in cornelia's one chair, and put on an air of impenetrable mystery, which she relinquished a moment to explain, "of course this back is rather too stiff and straight; i shall be more crouching." she pushed a ginger-snap between her lips, and chewed enigmatically upon it. "see?" she said. "now, look here, charmian maybough," said cornelia sternly, "if you ever mention that again, or allude to it the least in the world----" "don't i _say_ i won't?" demanded charmian, jumping up. "that will be the whole fun of it. from the very first moment, till i'm framed and hung in a good light, i'm going to be _mum_, through and through, and if _you_ don't speak of him, i sha'n't, except as a fellow-artist." "what a simpleton!" said cornelia. she laughed in spite of her vexation. "i'm not obliged to let what you think trouble me." "of course not." "your thinking it doesn't make it so." "no----" "but if you let _him_ see----" "the whole idea is _not_ to let him see! that's what i shall do it all for. good-by!" she put the paper bag down on the bureau for the greater convenience of embracing cornelia. "why don't you stay and have breakfast with me?" cornelia asked. "you'll be sick." "breakfast? and ruin everything! i would rather _never_ have any breakfast!" she took up the paper bag again, and explored it with an eager hand, while she stared absently at cornelia. "ah! i _thought_ there was one left! what mites of things." she put the last ginger-snap into her mouth, and with a flying kiss to cornelia as she passed, she flashed out of the door, and down the stairs. xxv. after all, ludlow decided that he would paint charmian in her own studio, with the accessories of her peculiar pose in life about her; they were factitious, but they were genuine expressions of her character; he could not realize her so well away from there. the first afternoon was given to trying her in this light and that, and studying her from different points. she wished to stand before her easel, in her synthesis working-dress, with her palette on her thumb, and a brush in her other hand. he said finally, "why not?" and cornelia made a tentative sketch of her. at the end of the afternoon he waited while the girl was putting on her hat in charmian's room, where she smiled into the glass at charmian's face over her shoulder, thinking of the intense fidelity her friend had shown throughout to her promise of unconsciousness. "didn't i do it magnificently?" charmian demanded. "it almost killed me; but i meant to do it if it did kill me; and now his offering to see you aboard the car shows that _he_ is determined to do it, too, if it kills _him_. i call it masterly." "well, don't go and spoil it now," said cornelia. "and if you're going to ask me every day how you've done----" "oh, i'm not! only the first day and the last day!" "well!" as ludlow walked with cornelia toward the point where she was to take her car down town, he began, "you see, she is _so_ dramatic, that if you tried to do her in any other way--that is, simply--you would be doing her artificially. you have to take her as she is, don't you think?" "i don't know as i think charmian is acting all the time, if that's what you mean," said cornelia. "or any of the time, even." ludlow wished she had said she did not know _that_ instead of _as_, but he reflected that ninety americans out of a hundred, lettered or unlettered, would have said the same. "oh, i don't at all mean that she is, intentionally. it's because it's her nature that i want to recognize it. you think it _is_ her nature, don't you?" he asked deferentially. "oh, i suppose it is," she answered; it amused her to have him take such a serious tone about charmian. "i shall have to depend a great deal on your judgment in that matter," he went on. "you won't mind it, i hope?" "not if you won't mind it's not being worth anything." "it will be worth everything!" "or if you won't care for my not giving it, sometimes." "i don't understand." "well, i shouldn't want to seem to talk her over." "oh, no! you _don't_ think i expected you to do that? it was merely the right point of view i wanted to get." "i don't know as i object to that," said cornelia. the car which she wished to take came by, and he stopped it and handed her aboard. she thought he might decide to come with her, but he bowed his good-night, and she saw him walking on down town as she passed him. at the end of a fortnight ludlow had failed to get his picture of charmian; at the end of a month he began with a new pose and a fresh theory. that quality of hers which he hoped to surprise with cornelia's help, and which was to give verity and value to his portrait, when once he expressed it there, escaped him still. she was capable of perfect poses, but they were mere flashes of attitude. then the antique mystery lurking in her face went out of it, and she became _fin de siècle_ and romantic, and young ladyish, and uninteresting to ludlow. she made tea every afternoon when they finished, and sometimes the talk they began with before they began work prolonged itself till the time for the tea had come. on the days when mr. plaisdell dropped in for a cup, the talk took such a range that the early dark fell before it ended, and then cornelia had to stay for dinner and to be sent home in mrs. maybough's coupé. she had never supposed there was anything like it in all the world. money, and, in a certain measure, the things that money could buy, were imaginable in pymantoning; but joys so fine, so simple as these, were what she could not have forecast from any ground of experience or knowledge. she tried to give her mother a notion of what they said and did; but she told her frankly she never could understand. mrs. saunders, in fact, could not see why it was so exciting; she read cornelia's letters to mrs. burton, who said she could see, and she told mrs. saunders that, she would like it as much as cornelia did, if she were in her place; that she was a kind of bohemian herself. she tried to explain what bohemian meant, and what bohemia was; but this is what no one can quite do. charmian herself, who aimed to be a perfect bohemian, was uncertain of the ways and means of operating the bohemian life, when she had apparently thrown off all the restrictions, for the afternoon, at least, that prevented its realization. she had a faultless setting for it. there never was a girl's studio that was more like a man's studio, an actual studio. mr. ludlow himself praised it; he said he felt at home in it, and he liked it because it was not carried a bit too far. charmian's mother had left her free to do what she wished, and there was not a convention of philistine housekeeping in the arrangement of the place. everything was in the admired disorder of an artist's environment; but mrs. maybough insisted upon neatness. even here charmian had to submit to a compromise. she might and did keep things strewn all about in her studio, but every morning the housemaid was sent in to sweep it and dust it. she was a housemaid of great intelligence, and an imperfect sense of humor, and she obeyed with unsmiling scrupulosity the instructions she had to leave everything in miss charmian's studio exactly as she found it, but to leave it clean. in consequence, this home of art had an effect of indescribable coldness and bareness, and there were at first some tempestuous scenes which cornelia witnessed between charmian and her mother, when the girl vainly protested: "but don't you _see_, mamma, that if you have it regularly dusted, it never can have any sentiment, any atmosphere?" "i don't see how you can call _dust_ atmosphere, my dear," said her stepmother. "if i left your studio looking as you want it, and there should be a fire, what would people think?" "well, if there should happen to be anybody from wilbraham, mass.," charmian retorted, "they might criticise, but i don't think the new york fire department would notice whether the place had been dusted or not. but, go on, mamma! _some_ day i shall have a studio out of the house--cornelia and i are going to have one--and then i guess you won't have it dusted!" "i'm sure miss saunders wouldn't let it get dusty," said mrs. maybough, and then, in self-defence, charmian gave cornelia the worst character for housekeeping that she could invent from her knowledge of cornelia's room. she begged her pardon afterwards, but she said she had to do it, and she took what comfort she could in slamming everything round, as she called it, in her studio, when she went with cornelia to have her coffee there. the maid restored it to its conscious picturesqueness the next day. charmian was troubled to decide what was truly bohemian to eat, when they became hungry over their work. she provided candy and chocolate in all their forms and phases, but all girls ate candy and chocolate, and they were so missish, and so indistinctive, and they both went so badly with tea, which she must have because of the weird effect of the spirit-lamp under the kettle, that she disused them after the first week. there remained always crackers, which went with anything, but the question was what to have with them. their natural association with cheese was rejected because charmian said she should be ashamed to offer mr. ludlow those insipid little neufchatel things, which were made in new jersey, anyway, and the gruyère smelt so, and so did camembert; and pine-apple cheese was philistine. there was nothing for it but olives, and though olives had no savor of originality, the little crescent ones were picturesque, and if you picked them out of the bottle with the end of a brush-handle, sharpened to a point, and the other person received them with their thumb and finger, the whole act was indisputably bohemian. there was one day when they all got on particularly well, and charmian boldly ordered some champagne for a burst. the man brought back apollinaris water, and she was afraid to ask why, for fear he should say mrs. maybough sent it. ludlow said he never took champagne, and was awfully glad of the apollinaris, and so the change was a great success, for neither charmian nor cornelia counted, in any case; they both hated every kind of wine. another time, cornelia, when she came, found charmian lighting one of the cigars kept for show on her mantel. she laughed wildly at cornelia's dismay, and the smoke, which had been going up her nose, went down her throat in a volume, and cornelia had to run and catch her; she was reaching out in every direction for help. cornelia led her to the couch, which was still waiting its rugs to become a bed, and she lay down there, very pale and still, and was silent a long time, till cornelia said, "now, if i could find a moose somewhere to run over you," and they both burst into a shriek of laughter. "but i'm going to _learn_" charmian declared. "where did that cigar go?" she sprang up to look for it, but they never could find it, and they decided it must have gone into the fire, and been burnt up; that particular cigar seemed essential to the experiment, or at least charmian did not try another. they were both very grave after ludlow came. when he went away, he said, with an absent look at charmian, "you have a magnificent pallor to-day, miss maybough, and i must compliment you on keeping much quieter than usual." "oh, thank you," said charmian, gravely, and as soon as the door closed upon him she flung herself into cornelia's arms, and they stifled their laughter in each other's necks. it seemed to them that nothing so wildly funny had ever happened before; they remained a long while quaking over the question whether there was smell of smoke enough in the room to have made him suspect anything, and whether his congratulations were not ironical. charmian said that her mistake was in not beginning with a cigarette instead of a cigar; she said she was ready to begin with a cigarette then, and she dared cornelia to try one, too. cornelia refused the challenge, and then she said, well, she would do it herself, some day. there was a moment when it seemed to her that the bohemian ideal could be realized to a wild excess in pop-corn. she bought a popper and three ears of corn, and brought them home tied up in paper, and fastened to some canvases she got for cornelia. she insisted that it was part of the bargain that she should supply cornelia's canvases. but the process of popping made them all very red in the face; they had to take it by turns, for she would not let ludlow hold the popper the whole time. they had a snowy heap of corn at last, which she put on the hearth before them in the hollow of a japanese shield, detached from a suit of armor, for that use. they sat on the hearth to eat it, and they told ghost-stories and talked of the most psychological things they could think of. in all this charmian put cornelia forward as much as she dared, and kept herself in a sort of impassioned abeyance. if cornelia had been the most jealous and exacting of principals she could not have received from her second a more single and devoted allegiance. charmian's joy in her fortunately mounted in proportion to the devotion she paid her, rather than cornelia's gratitude for it. she did not like to talk of herself, and these séances were nothing if not strictly personal; but charmian talked for her, and represented her in phases of interest which cornelia repudiated with a laugh, or denied outright, without scruple, when the invention was too bold. charmian contrived that she should acquire the greater merit, from her refusals of it, and went on to fresh self-sacrifices in her behalf. sometimes she started the things they talked of; not because she ever seemed to have been thinking of them, or of anything, definitely, but because she was always apparently letting her mind wander about in space, and chanced upon them there. mostly, however, the suggestions came from ludlow. he talked of art, its methods, its principles, its duties to the age, the people, the civilization; the large moral uses, which kindled charmian's fancy, and made cornelia laugh when charmian proposed a scheme for the relief and refinement of the poor on the east side, by frescoing the outsides of the tenement houses in mott street and mulberry bend, with subjects recalling the home life of the dwellers there: rice-fields and tea-plantations for the chinese, and views of etna and vesuvius and their native shores for the sicilians and neapolitans, with perhaps religious histories. ludlow had to explain that he had not meant the employment of any such direct and obvious means, but the gradual growth of a conscience in art. cornelia thought him vague, but it seemed clear to charmian. she said, "oh, yes; _that_," and she made tea, and had him set fire to some pieces of southern lightwood on her hearth, for the sake of the murky fumes and the wreaths of dusky crimson flame, which she said it was so weird to sit by. in all matters of artistic theory and practice she set cornelia the example of grovelling at the master's feet, as if there could be no question of anything else; but in other things cornelia sometimes asserted herself against this slavish submission with a kind of violence little short of impertinence. after these moral paroxysms, in which she disputed the most obviously right and reasonable things, she was always humiliated and cast down before his sincerity in trying to find a meaning in her difference from him, as if he could not imagine the nervous impulse that carried her beyond the bounds of truth, and must accuse himself of error. when this happened she would not let charmian take her to task for her behavior; she would not own that she was wrong; she put the blame on him, and found him arrogant and patronizing. she had always known he was that kind of person, and she did not mean to be treated like a child in everything, even if he was a genius. by this time they were far away from that point in charmian's romance where the faithful friend of the heroine remains forever constant to her vow not to speak to the heroine of the hero's passion for her, and in fact rather finds it a duty to break her vow, and enjoys being snubbed for it. as the transaction of the whole affair took place in charmian's fancy, cornelia had been obliged to indulge her in it, with the understanding that she should not let it interfere with their work, or try to involve her visibly or palpably in it. with all their idling they had days when they worked intensely, and ludlow was as severe with cornelia's work as he was with his own. he made her rub out and paint out, and he drew ruthless modifications of her work all over it, like the crudest of the synthesis masters. he made her paint out every day the work of the day before, as they did in the synthesis; though sometimes he paused over it in a sort of puzzle. once he said, holding her sketch into the light he wanted, at the close of the afternoon, "if i didn't know you had done that to-day, i should say it was the one you had done yesterday." toward the end of the month he recurred to this notion again. "suppose," he said, "we keep this, and you do another to-morrow." the next day he said, in the same perplexity, "well, keep this, and do another." after a week he took all her canvases, and set them one back of another, but so that he could see each in nearly the same light. he stood looking at them silently, with the two girls behind him, one at either shoulder. "it's as lovely as standing between two mirrors," charmian suggested dreamily. "pretty much of a sameness," cornelia remarked. "mm," ludlow made in his throat. he glanced over the shoulder next her, and asked, as if charmian were not there, "what makes you do her always alike?" "because she _is_ always alike." "then i've seen her wrong," said ludlow, and he stared at charmian as if she were a lay-figure. she bore his scrutiny as impassively as a lay-figure could. he turned again to cornelia's sketches, and said gloomily, "i should like to have wetmore see these." "oh!" said cornelia. charmian came to life with another "oh!" and then she demanded. "when? we must have something besides tea for mr. wetmore." "i think i'll ask him to step round in the morning," said ludlow, with authority. charmian said "oh!" again, but submitted with the eagerness of a disciple; all phases of the art-life were equally precious, and even a snub from such a master must be willingly accepted. he went away and would not have any tea; he had an air of trouble--almost of offence. "isn't he grand, gloomy and peculiar?" charmian said. "i wonder what's the matter?" she turned to ludlow's picture which he had left standing on the chair where he painted at it in disdain of an easel, and silently compared it with cornelia's sketches. then she looked at cornelia and gave a dramatic start. "what is the matter?" asked cornelia. she came up and began to look at the picture, too. charmian demanded, "don't you see?" "no, i don't see anything," said cornelia, but as she looked something became apparent which she could not deny. she blushed violently and turned upon charmian. "you ought to be ashamed," she began, and she tried to take hold of her; she did not know why. charmian escaped, and fled to the other end of the room with a wild laugh, and stood there. cornelia dropped into the chair before the picture, with her head fallen on her elbow. she seemed to be laughing, too, and charmian went on: "what is there to be ashamed of? i think it's glorious. it's one of the most romantic things i ever heard of. he simply couldn't help it, and it proves everything i've said. of course that was the reason he couldn't see _me_ all along. why, if such a thing had happened to me, i should go round shouting it from the house-tops. i don't suppose he knew what he was doing, or else he didn't care; perfectly desperate. what _fun_!" cornelia kept laughing, but charmian stopped and waited a moment and listened. "why, cornelia!" she said remorsefully, entreatingly, but she remained the length of the room away. then she approached tentatively, and when cornelia suddenly ceased to laugh she put her hand on her head, and tenderly lifted her face. it was dabbled with tears. "cornelia!" she said again. cornelia sprang to her feet with a fierceness that sent her flying some yards away. "charmian maybough! will you ever speak of this to any living soul?" "no, no! indeed i won't----" charmian began. "will you ever _think_ of it!" "no----" "because i don't choose to have you think i am such a fool as to--to----" "no, indeed, i don't." "because there isn't anything of it, and it wouldn't mean anything, if there were." "no," said charmian. "the only thing is to tear him out of your heart; and i will help you!" she made as if she were ready to begin then, and cornelia broke into a genuine laugh. "don't be ridiculous. i guess there isn't much to tear." "then what are you going to do?" "nothing! what can i! there isn't anything to do anything about. if it's there, he knows it, and he's left it there because he didn't care what we thought. he was just trying something. he's always treated me like a perfect--child. that's all there is of it, and you know it." "yes," charmian meekly assented. then she plucked up a spirit in cornelia's behalf. "the only thing is to keep going on the same as ever, and show him we haven't seen anything, and don't care if we have." "no," said cornelia sadly, "i shall not come any more. or, if i do, it will just be to---- i'm not certain yet what i shall do." she provisionally dried her eyes and repaired her looks at the little mirror which hung at one side of the mantel, and then came back to charmian who stood looking at cornelia's sketches, still in the order ludlow had left them in. she stole her arm round cornelia's waist. "well, anyway, he can't say _you've_ returned the compliment. they're perfectly magnificent, every one; and they're all _me_. now we can _both_ live for art." xxvi. wetmore came the next morning with ludlow, and looked at cornelia's studies. "well, there's no doubt about her talent. i wonder why it was wasted on one of her sex! these gifted girls, poor things, there don't seem to be any real call for them." he turned from the sketches a moment to the arrangement of charmian's studio. "i suppose this is the other girl's expression." he looked more closely at the keeping of the room, and said, with a smile of mixed compassion and amusement, "why, this girl seems to be trying to do the bohemian act!" "that is her pose," ludlow admitted. "and does she get a great deal of satisfaction out of it?" "the usual amount i fancy." ludlow began to tell of some of charmian's attempts to realize her ideal. wetmore listened with a pitying smile. "poor thing! it isn't much like the genuine thing, as we used to see it in paris, is it? we americans are too innocent in our traditions and experiences; our bohemia is a non-alcoholic, unfermented condition. when it is diluted down to the apprehension of an american girl it's no better, or no worse, than a kind of arcadia. miss maybough ought to go round with a shepherdess's crook and a straw hat with daisies in it. that's what _she_ wants to do, if she knew it. is that a practicable pipe? i suppose those cigarettes are chocolates in disguise. well!" he reverted to cornelia's canvases. "why, of course they're good. she's doomed. she will have to exhibit. you couldn't do less, ludlow, than have her carry this one a little farther"--he picked out one of the canvases and set it apart--"and offer it to the academy." "do you really think so?" asked ludlow, looking at it gravely. "i don't know. with the friends you've got on the committee---- but you don't suppose i came up here to see these things alone, did you? where's _your_ picture?" "i haven't any," said ludlow. "ob, rubbish! where's your theory of a picture, then? i don't care what you call it. my only anxiety, when you got a plain, simple, every-day conundrum like miss maybough to paint, was that you would try to paint the answer instead of the conundrum, and i dare say that's the trouble. you've been trying to give something more of her character than you found in her face; is that it? well, you deserved to fail, then. you've been trying to _interpret_ her; to come the prophet! i don't condemn the poetry in your nature, ludlow," wetmore went on, "and if i could manage it for you, i think i could keep it from doing mischief. that is why i am so plain-spoken with you." "do you call it plain-speaking?" ludlow said, putting his picture where it could be seen best. "i was going to accuse you of flattery." "well, you had better ponder the weighty truths i have let fall. i don't go round dropping them on everybody's toes." "probably there are not enough of them," ludlow suggested. "oh, yes, there are." wetmore waited till ludlow should say he was ready to have him look at his picture. "the fact is, i've been giving a good deal of attention to your case, lately. you're not simple enough, and you've had the wrong training. you would naturally like to paint the literature of a thing, and let it go at that. but you've studied in france, where they know better, and you can't bring yourself to do it. your nature and your school are at odds. you ought to have studied in england. they don't know how to paint there, but they've brought fiction in color to the highest point, and they're not ashamed of it." "perhaps you've boon theorizing, too," said ludlow, stepping aside from his picture. "not on canvas," wetmore returned. he put himself in the place ludlow had just left. "hello!" he began, but after a glance at ludlow he went on, with the effect of having checked himself, to speak carefully and guardedly of the work in detail. his specific criticism was as gentle and diffident as his general censure of ludlow was blunt and outright. it was given mostly in questions, and in recognitions of intention. "well, the sum of it is," said ludlow at last, "you see it's a failure." wetmore shrugged, as if this were something ludlow ought not to have asked. he went back to cornelia's sketches, and looked at them one after another. "that girl knows what she's about, or what she wants to do, and she goes for it every time. she _has_ got talent. whether she's got enough to stand the training! that's the great difference, after all. lots of people have talent; that's the gift. the question is whether one has it in paying quantity, or enough of it to amount to anything after the digging and refining. i should say that girl had, but very likely i might be mistaken." ludlow joined in the examination of the sketches. he put his hand on the weak points as well as on the strong ones; he enjoyed with wetmore the places where her artlessness had frankly offered itself instead of her art. there was something ingenuous and honest in it all that made it all charming. "yes, i think she can do it," said wetmore, "if she wants to bad enough, or if she doesn't want to get married worse." ludlow winced. "isn't there something a little vulgar in that notion of ours that a woman always wishes first and most of all to get married?" "my dear boy," said wetmore, with an affectionate hand on ludlow's shoulder, "i never denied being vulgar." "oh, i dare say. but i was thinking of myself." ludlow sent word to charmian at the synthesis that he should not ask her to sit to him that afternoon, and in the evening he went to see wetmore. it was eleven o'clock, and he would have been welcome at wetmore's any time between that hour of the night and two of the morning. he found a number of people. mrs. westley was there with mrs. rangeley; they had been at a concert together. mrs. wetmore had just made a welsh rabbit, and they were all talking of the real meaning of the word "beautiful." "_i_ think," mrs. rangeley was saying, "that the beautiful is whatever pleases or fascinates. there are lots of good-looking people who are not beautiful at all, because they have no atmosphere: and you see other people, who are irregular, and quite plain even, and yet you come away feeling that they are perfectly beautiful." mrs. rangeley's own beauty was a little irregular. she looked anxiously round, and caught wetmore in a smile. "what are you laughing at?" she demanded in rueful deprecation. "oh, nothing, nothing!" he said. "i was thinking how convincing you were!" "nothing of the kind!" said one of the men, who had been listening patiently till she fully committed herself. "there couldn't be a more fallacious notion of the meaning of beauty. the thing exists in itself, independently of our pleasure or displeasure; they have almost nothing to do with it. if you mix it with them you are lost, as far as a true conception of it goes. beauty is something as absolute as truth, and whatever varies from it, as it was ascertained, we'll say, by the greek sculptors and the italian painters, is unbeautiful, just as anything that varies from the truth is untrue. charm, fascination, atmosphere, are purely subjective; one feels them and another doesn't. but beauty is objective, and nobody can deny it who sees it, whether he likes it or not. you can't get away from it, any more than you can get away from the truth. there it is!" "where?" asked wetmore. he looked at the ladies as if he thought one of them had been indicated. "how delightful to have one's ideas jumped on just as if they were a man's!" sighed mrs. rangeley. her opponent laughed a generous delight, as if he liked nothing better than having his reasoning brought to naught. he entered joyously into the tumult which the utterance of the different opinions, prejudices and prepossessions of the company became. ludlow escaped from it, and made his way to mrs. westley, in that remoter and quieter corner, which she seemed to find everywhere when you saw her out of her own house; there she was necessarily prominent. "i think mr. agnew is right, and mrs. rangeley is altogether wrong," she said. "there couldn't be a better illustration of it than in those two young art-student friends of yours. miss saunders is beautiful in just that absolute way mr. agnew speaks of; you simply can't refuse to see it; and miss maybough is fascinating, if you feel her so. i should think you'd find her very difficult to paint, and with miss saunders there, all the time, i should be afraid of getting her decided qualities into my picture." ludlow said, "ah, that's very interesting." he meant to outstay the rest, for he wished to speak with wetmore alone, and it seemed as though those people would never go. they went at last. mrs. wetmore herself went off to the domestic quarter of the apartment, and left the two men together. "'baccy?" asked wetmore, with a hospitable gesture toward the pipes on his mantel. "no, thank you," said ludlow. "well?" "wetmore, what was it you saw in my picture today, when you began with that 'hello' of yours, and then broke off to say something else?" "did i do that? well, if you really wish to know----" "i do!" "i'll tell you. i was going to ask you which of those two girls you had painted it from. the topography was the topography of miss maybough, but the landscape was the landscape of miss saunders." he waited, as if for ludlow to speak; then he went on: "i supposed you had been working from some new theory of yours, and i thought i had said about as much on your theories as you would stand for the time." "was that all?" ludlow asked. "all? it seems to me that's a good deal to be compressed into one small 'hello.'" wetmore lighted a pipe, and began to smoke in great comfort. "we were talking, just before you dropped in, of what you may call the psychical chemistry of our kind of shop: the way a fellow transmutes himself into everything he does. i can trace the man himself in every figure he draws or models. you can't get away from yourself, simply because you are always thinking yourself, or through yourself; you can't see or know any one else in any other way." "it's a very curious thing," said ludlow, uneasily. "i've noticed that, too; i suppose every one has. but--good-night." wetmore followed him out of the studio to the head of the public stairs with a lamp, and ludlow stopped there again. "should you think there was anything any one but you would notice?" "you mean the two girls themselves? well, i should say, on general principles, that what two such girls didn't see in your work----" "of course! then--what would you do? would you speak to her about it?" "which?" "you know: miss saunders." "ah! it seems rather difficult, doesn't it?" "confoundedly." "why, if you mean to say it was unconscious, perhaps i was mistaken. the thing may have been altogether in my own mind. i'd like to take another look at it----" "you can't. i've painted it out." ludlow ran down one flight of the stairs, and then came stumbling quickly back. "i say, wetmore. do you tell your wife everything?" "my dear boy, i don't tell her anything. she finds it out. but, then, _she_ never tells anybody." xxvii. ludlow sent word again to charmian that he should not be able to keep his appointment for the afternoon, and as soon as he could hope to find cornelia at home from the synthesis, he went to see her. he began abruptly, "i came to tell you, miss saunders, when i first thought of painting miss maybough, and now i've come to tell you that i've given it up." "given it up?" she repeated. "you've seen the failures i've made. i took my last one home yesterday, and painted it out." he looked at cornelia, but if he expected her to give him any sort of leading, he was disappointed. he had to conclude unaided, "i'm not going to try any more." she did not answer, and he went on, after a moment: "of course, it's humiliating to make a failure, but it's better to own it, and leave it behind you; if you don't own it, you have to carry it with you, and it remains a burden." she kept her eyes away from him, but she said, "oh, yes; certainly." "the worst of it was the disappointment i had to inflict upon mrs. maybough," he went on uneasily. "she was really hurt, and i don't believe i convinced her after all that i simply and honestly couldn't get the picture. i went to tell her this afternoon, and she seemed to feel some sort of disparagement--i can't express it--in my giving it up." he stopped, and cornelia asked, as if forced to say something, "does charmian know?" "i suppose she does, by this time," said ludlow. he roused himself from a moment of revery, and added, "but i didn't intend to oppress you with this. i want to tell you something--else." he drew a deep breath. she started forward where she sat, and looked past him at the door, as if to see whether the way of escape was clear. he went on: "i took wetmore there with me yesterday, and i showed him your sketches, and he thinks you might get one of them into the academy exhibition in the spring, after you've carried it a little farther." she sank back in her chair. "does he?" she asked listlessly, and she thought, as of another person, how her heart would once have thrilled at the hope of this. "yes. but i don't feel sure that it would be well," said ludlow. "i wanted to say, though, that i shall be glad to come and be of any little use i can if you're going on with it." "oh, thank you," said cornelia. she thought she was going to say something more, but she stopped stiffly at that, and they both stood in an embarrassment which neither could hide from the other. he repeated his offer, in other terms, and she was able finally to thank him a little more fitly, and to say that she should not forget his kind offer; she should not forget all he had done for her, all the trouble he had taken, and they parted with a vague alienation. as we grow older, we are impatient of misunderstandings, of disagreements; we make haste to have them explained; but while we are young, life seems so spacious and so full of chances that we fetch a large compass round about such things, and wait for favoring fortuities, and hope for occasions precisely fit; we linger in dangerous delays, and take risks that may be ruinous. cornelia went hack to her work at the synthesis as before, but she worked listlessly and aimlessly; the zest was gone, and the meaning. she knew that for the past month she had drudged through the morning at the synthesis that she might free herself to the glad endeavor of the afternoon at charmian's studio with a good conscience. ludlow's criticism, even when it was harshest, was incentive and inspiration; and her life was blank and dull on the old terms. the arts have a logic of their own, which seems no logic at all to the interests. ludlow's world found it altogether fit and intelligible that he should give up trying to paint charmian if he had failed to get his picture of her, and thought he could not get it. mrs. maybough's world regarded it as a breach of contract for him not to do what he had undertaken. she had more trouble to reconcile her friends to his behavior than she had in justifying it to herself. through charmian she had at least a second-hand appreciation of motives and principles that were instantly satisfactory to the girl and to all her comrades at the synthesis; they accepted it as another proof of ludlow's greatness that he should frankly own he had missed his picture of her, and they exalted charmian as a partner in his merit, for being so impossible. the arguments of wetmore went for something with mrs. maybough, though they were mainly admissions to the effect that ludlow was more of a crank than he had supposed, and would have to be humored in a case of the kind; but it was chiefly the courage and friendship of mrs. westley that availed. she enforced what she had to say in his behalf with the invitation to her january thursdays which she had brought. she had brought it in person because she wished to beg mrs. maybough to let her daughter come with her friend, miss saunders, and pour tea at the first of the thursdays. "i got you off," she said to ludlow, when they met, "but it was not easy. she still thinks you ought to have let her see your last attempt, and left her to decide whether it was good or not." mrs. westley showed her amusement at this, but ludlow answered gravely that there was a certain reason in the position. "if she's disappointed in not having any portrait, though," he added, "she had better take miss saunders's." "do you really mean that?" mrs. westley asked, with more or less of that incredulity concerning the performance of a woman which all the sex feel, in spite of their boasting about one another. "has she so much talent?" "why not? somebody has to have the talent." this was like wetmore's tone, and it made mrs. westley think of him. "and do you believe she could get her picture into the exhibition?" "has wetmore been talking to you about it?" "yes." "i don't know," said ludlow. "that was wetmore's notion." "and does she know about it?" "i mentioned it to her." "it would be a great thing for her if she could get her picture in--and sell it." "yes," ludlow dryly admitted. he wished he had never told mrs. westley how cornelia had earned the money for her studies at the synthesis; he resented the implication of her need, and mrs. westley vaguely felt that she had somehow gone wrong. she made haste to retrieve her error by suggesting, "perhaps miss maybough would object, though." "that's hardly thinkable." said ludlow lightly. he would have gone away without making mrs. westley due return for the trouble she had taken for him with mrs. maybough, and she was so far vexed that she would have let him go without telling him that she was going to have his _protégée_ pour tea for her; she had fancied that this would have pleased him. but by one of those sudden flashes that seem to come from somewhere without, he saw himself in the odious light in which she must see him, and he turned in time. "mrs. westley, i think you have taken a great deal more pains for me than i'm worth. it's difficult to care what such a poor little philistine as mrs. maybough--the mere figment of somebody else's misgotten money--thinks of me. but she _is_ to be regarded, and i know that you have looked after her in my interest; and it's very kind of you, and very good--it's like you. if you've done it, though, with the notion of my keeping on in portraits, or getting more portraits to paint, i'm sorry, for i shall not try to do any. i'm not fit for that kind of work. i don't say it because i despise the work, but because i despise myself. i should always let some wretched preoccupation of my own--some fancy, some whim--come between me and what i see my sitter to be, and paint that." "that is, you have some imagination," she began, in defence of him against himself. "no, no! there's scope for the greatest imagination, the most intense feeling, in portraits. but i can't do that kind of thing, and i must stick to my little sophistical fantasies, or my bald reports of nature. but miss saunders, if she were not a woman--excuse me!----" "oh, i understand!" "she could do it, and she will, if she keeps on. she could have a career; she could be a painter of women's portraits. a man's idea of a woman, it's interesting, of course, but it's never quite just; it's never quite true; it can't be. every woman knows that, but you go on accepting men's notions of women, in literature and in art, as if they were essentially, or anything but superficially, like women. i couldn't get a picture of miss maybough because i was always making more or less than there really was of her. you were speaking the other night at wetmore's, of the uncertain quality of her beauty, and the danger of getting something else in," said ludlow, suddenly grappling with the fact, "and i was always doing that, or else leaving everything out. her beauty has no fixed impression. it ranges from something exquisite to something grotesque; just as she ranges in character from the noblest generosity to the most inconceivable absurdity. you never can know how she will look or how she will behave. at least, _i_ couldn't. i was always guessing at her; but miss saunders seemed to understand her. all her studies of her are alike; the last might be taken for the first, except that the handling is better. it's invariably the very person, without being in the least photographic, as people call it, because it is one woman's unclouded perception of another. the only question is whether miss saunders can keep that saving simplicity. it may be trained out of her, or she may be taught to put other things before it. wetmore felt the danger of that, when we looked at her sketches. i'm not saying they're not full of faults; the technique is bad enough; sometimes it's almost childish; but the root of the matter is there. she knows what she sees, and she tells." "really?" said mrs. westley. "it _is_ hard for a woman to believe much in women; we don't expect anything of each other yet. should you like her to paint me?" "i?" "i mean, do you think she could do it?" "not yet. she doesn't know enough of life, even if she knew enough of art. she merely painted another girl." "that is true," said mrs. westley with a sigh. she added impersonally; "but if people only kept to what they knew, and didn't do what they divined, there would be very little art or literature left, it seems to me." "well, perhaps the less the better." said ludlow, with a smile for the absurdity he was reduced to. "what was left would certainty be the best." he felt as if his praise of cornelia were somehow retrieval; as if it would avail where he seemed otherwise so helpless, and would bring them together on the old terms again. there was, indeed, nothing explicit in their alienation, and when he saw cornelia at mrs. westley's first thursday, he made his way to her at once, and asked her if she would give him some tea, with the effect of having had a cup from her the day before. he did not know whether to be pleased or not that she treated their meeting as something uneventful, too, and made a little joke about remembering that he liked his tea without sugar. "i wasn't aware that you knew that," he said. "oh, yes; that is the way charmian always made it for you; and sometimes i made it." "to be sure. it seems a great while ago. how are you getting on with your picture?" "i'm not getting on," said cornelia, and she turned aside to make a cup of tea for an old gentleman, who confessed that he liked a spoonful of rum in his. general westley had brought him up and presented him, and he remained chatting with cornelia, apparently in the fatuity that if he talked trivially to her he would be the same as a young man. ludlow stayed, too, and when the old gentleman got away, he said, the same as if there had been no interruption, "why aren't you getting on?" "because i'm not doing anything to it." "you ought to. i told you what wetmore said of it." "yes; but i don't know how," said cornelia, with a laugh that he liked; it seemed an effect of pleasure in his presence at her elbow; though from time to time she ignored him, and talked with other people who came for tea. he noticed that she had begun to have a little society manner of her own; he did not know whether he liked it or not. she wore a very pretty dress, too; one he had not seen before. "will you let me show you how--as well as i can?" "after i've asked you? thank you!" "i offered, once, before you asked." "oh!" said cornelia, with her face aslant from him over her tea-cups. "i thought you had forgotten that." he winced, but he knew that he deserved the little scratch. he did not try to exculpate himself, but he asked, "may i talk with miss maybough about it?" cornelia returned gayly, "it's a free country." he rose from the chair which he had been keeping at her elbow, and looked about over the room. it was very full, and the first of mrs. westley's thursdays was successful beyond question. with the roving eye, which he would not suffer to be intercepted, he saw the distinguished people whom she had hitherto affected in their usual number, and in rather unusual number the society people who had probably come to satisfy an amiable curiosity; he made his reflection that mrs. westley's evolution was proceeding in the inevitable direction, and that in another winter the swells would come so increasingly that there would be no celebrities for them to see. his glance rested upon mrs. maybough, who stood in a little desolation of her own, trying to look as if she were not there, and he had the inspiration to go and speak to her instead of her daughter; there were people enough speaking to charmian, or seeming to speak to her, which serves much the same purpose on such occasions. she was looking her most mysterious, and he praised her peculiar charm to mrs. maybough. "it's no wonder i failed with that portrait." mrs. maybough said, "you must try again, mr. ludlow." "no, i won't abuse your patience again, but i will tell you: i should like to come and look now and then at the picture miss saunders has begun of her, and that i want her to keep on with." "why not?" asked mrs. maybough in the softest assent. she would not listen to the injuries which ludlow heaped upon himself in proof of his unworthiness to cross her threshold. he went back to cornelia, and said, "well, it's arranged. i've spoken with mrs. maybough, and we can begin again whenever you like." "with mrs. maybough? you said you were going to speak to charmian!" "it doesn't matter, does it?" "yes. i--i don't know yet as i want to go on with the picture. i hadn't thought----" "oh!" said ludlow, with marked politeness. "then i misunderstood. but don't let it annoy you. it doesn't matter, of course. there's no sort of appointment." he found mrs. westley in a moment of disoccupation before he went, and used a friend's right to recognize the brilliancy of her thursday. she refused all merit for it and asked him if he had ever seen any thing like the contrast of charmian at the chocolate with cornelia at the tea. "did you notice the gown miss saunders had on? it's one that her mother has just sent her from home. she says her mother made it, and she came to ask me, the other day, if it would do to pour tea in. wasn't it delightful? i'm going to have her spend a week with me in lent. the general has taken a great fancy to her. i think i begin to appreciate her fascination; it's her courage and her candor together. most girls are so uncertain and capricious. it's delightful to meet such a straightforward and downright creature." "oh, yes," said ludlow. xxviii. cornelia knew that ludlow was offended. she had not meant to hurt or offend him; though she thought he had behaved very queerly ever since he gave up painting charmian. she had really not had time to think of his offer before he went off to speak with charmian, as she supposed. the moment he was gone she saw that it would not do; that she could not have him coming to look at her work; she did not feel that she could ever touch it again. she wondered at him, and now if he had spoken to mrs. maybough instead of charmian, it was not her fault, certainly. she did not wish to revenge herself, but she remembered how much she had been left to account for as she could, or painfully to ignore. if he was mystified and puzzled now, it was no more than she had been before. there was nothing that cornelia hated so much as to be made a fool of, and this was the grievance which she was willing fate should retaliate upon him, though she had not meant it at all. she ought to have been satisfied, and she ought to have been happy, but she was not. she wished to escape from herself, and she eagerly accepted an invitation to go with mrs. montgomery to the theatre that night. the manager had got two places and given them to the landlady. cornelia had a passion for the theatre, and in the excitement of the play, which worked strongly in her ingenuous fancy, she forgot herself for the time, or dimly remembered the real world and her lot in it, as if it were a subordinate action of the piece. at the end of the fourth act she heard a voice which she knew, saying, "well, well! is this the way the folks at pymantoning expect you to spend your evenings?" she looked up and around, and saw mr. dickerson in the seat behind her. he put forward two hands over her shoulder--one for her to shake, and one for mrs. montgomery. "why, mr. dickerson!" said the landlady, "where did you spring from? you been sitting here behind us all the time?" "i wish i had," said dickerson. "but this seat is 'another's,' as they say on the stage; he's gone out 'to see a man,' and i'm keeping it for him. just caught sight of you before the curtain fell. couldn't hardly believe my eyes." "but where _are_ you? why haven't you been round to the house?" "well, i'm only here for a day," said dickerson, with a note of self-denial in his voice that cornelia knew was meant for her, "and i thought i wouldn't disturb you. no use making so many bites of a cherry. i got in so late last night i had to go to a hotel anyway." mrs. montgomery began some hospitable expostulations, but be waived them with, "yes; that's all right. i'll remember it next time, mrs. montgomery," and then he began to speak of the play, and he was so funny about some things in it that he made cornelia laugh. he took leave of them when the owner of the seat came back. he told mrs. montgomery he should not see her again this time; but at the end of the play they found him waiting for them at the outer door of the theatre. he skipped lightly into step with them. "thought i might as well see you home, as they say in pymantoning. do' know as i shall be back for quite a while, this next trip, and we don't see much ladies' society on the road; at least, _i_ don't. i'm not so easy to make acquaintance as i used to be. i suppose it was being married so long. i can't manage to help a pretty girl raise a car-window, or put her grip into the rack, the way i could once. fact is, there don't seem to _be_ so many pretty girls as there were, or else i'm gettin' old-sighted, and can't see 'em." he spoke to mrs. montgomery, but cornelia knew he was talking at her. now he leaned forward and addressed her across mrs. montgomery: "do' know as i told you that i saw your mother in lakeland day before yesterday, miss saunders." "oh, did you?" cornelia eagerly besought him. the apparition of her mother rose before her; it was almost like having her actually there, to meet some one who had seen her so lately. "was she looking well? the last letter she wrote she hadn't been very----" "well, i guess she's all right, now. you know _i_ think your mother is about the finest woman in this world, miss nelie, and the prettiest-looking. i've never told you about mrs. saunders, have i, mrs. montgomery? well, you wouldn't know but her and miss nelie were sisters. she looks like a girl, a little way off; and she _is_ a girl, in her feelings. she's got the kindest heart, and she's the best person _i_ ever saw. i tell you, it would be a different sort of a world if everybody was like mrs. saunders, and i should ha' been a different sort of a man if i'd always appreciated her goodness. well, so it goes," he said, with a sigh of indefinite regret, which availed with cornelia because it was mixed with praise of her mother; it made her feel safer with him and more tolerant. he leaned forward again, and said across mrs. montgomery, as before: "she was gettin' off the train from pymantoning, and i was just takin' my train west, but i knew it was her as soon as i saw her walk. i was half a mind to stop and speak to her, and let my train go." cornelia could see her mother, just how she would look, wandering sweetly and vaguely away from her train, and the vision was so delightful to her, that it made her laugh. "i guess you're mother's girl," mrs. montgomery interpreted, and mr. dickerson said: "well, i guess she's got a good right to be. i wasn't certain whether it was her or miss saunders first when i saw her, the other day." at her door mrs. montgomery invited him to come in, and he said he did not know but he would for a minute, and cornelia's gratitude for his praise of her mother kept her from leaving them at once. in the dining-room, where mrs. montgomery set out a lunch for him, he began to tell stories. cornelia had no grudge against him for the past. she was only too glad that it had all fallen out as it did; and though she still knew that he was a shameless little wretch, she did not feel so personally disgraced by him, as she had at first, when she was not sure she could make him keep his distance. he was a respite from her own thoughts, and she lingered and lingered, and listened and listened, remotely aware that it was wrong, but somehow bewildered and constrained. mrs. montgomery went down to the kitchen a moment, for something more to add to the lunch, and he seized the chance to say, "i know how you feel about me, miss saunders, and i don't blame you. you needn't be afraid; i ain't going to trouble you. i might, if you was a different kind of girl; but i've thought it all over since i saw you, and i respect you. i hope you won't give me away to mrs. montgomery, but if you do, i shall respect you all the same, and i sha'n't blame you, even then." the landlady returned, and he went on, "i was just tellin' miss saunders about my friend bob whiteley's railroad accident. but you've heard it so often." "oh, well, do go on!" said mrs. montgomery, setting down the plate of cold chicken she had brought back with her. it was midnight before he rose. "i declare i could listen all night," said mrs. montgomery. cornelia could have done so, too, but she did not say it. while the talk lasted, she had a pleasure in the apt slang, and sinister wit and low wisdom, which made everything higher and nobler seem ridiculous. she tried helplessly to rise above the delight she found in it, and while she listened, she was miserably aware that she was unworthy even of the cheap respect which this amusing little wretch made a show of paying her before mrs. montgomery. she loathed him, and yet she hated to have him go; for then she would be left to herself and her own thoughts. as she crept up the long stairs to her room, she asked herself if she could be the same girl who had poured tea at mrs. westley's, and talked to all those refined people, who seemed to admire her and make much of her, as if she were one of them. before, she had escaped from the toils of that folly of the past by disowning it; but now, she had voluntarily made it hers. she had wilfully entangled herself in its toils; they seemed to trip her steps, and make her stumble on the stairs as if they were tangible things. she had knowingly suffered such a man as that, whose commonness of soul she had always instinctively felt, to come back into her life, and she could never banish him again. she could never even tell any one; she was the captive of her shabby secret till he should come again and openly claim her. he would come again; there could be no doubt of that. on the bureau before her glass lay a letter. it was from ludlow, and it delicately expressed the hope that there had been nothing in his manner of offering to help her with her picture which made it impossible for her to accept. "i need not tell you that i think you have talent, for i have told you that before. i have flattered myself that i had a personal interest in it, because i saw it long ago, and i have been rather proud of thinking that you were making use of me. i wish you would think the matter over, and decide to go on with your picture of miss maybough. i promise to reduce my criticism to a minimum, for i think it is more important that you should keep on in your own way, even if you go a little wrong in it, now and then, than that you should go perfectly right in some one's else. do let me hear from you, and say that i may come saturday to miss maybough's studio, and silently see what you are doing." in a postscript he wrote: "i am afraid that i have offended you by something in my words or ways. if i have, won't you at least let me come and be forgiven?" she dropped her face on the letter where it lay open before her, and stretched out her arms, and moaned in a despair that no tears even came to soften. she realized how much worse it was to have made a fool of herself than to be made a fool of. xxix. there was only one thing for cornelia to do now, and she did it as well as she knew how, or could hope to know without the help that she could not seek anywhere. she wrote to ludlow and thanked him, and told him that she did not think she should go on with the picture of charmian, for the present. she said, in the first five or six drafts of her letter, that it had been her uncertainty as to this which made her hesitate when he spoke to her, but in every form she gave this she found it false; and at last she left it out altogether, and merely assured him that she had nothing whatever to forgive him. she wished to forbid his coming to see her; she did not know quite how to do that; but either the tone of her letter was forbidding enough, or else he felt that he had done his whole duty, now, for he did not come. with moments of utter self-abasement, she had to leave charmian to the belief that she was distraught and captious, solely for the reason they shared the secret of, and charmian respected this with a devotion so obvious as to be almost spectacular. cornelia found herself turning into a romantic heroine, and had to make such struggle against the transformation as she could in bursts of hysterical gayety. these had rather the effect of deepening charmian's compassionate gloom, till she exhausted her possibilities in that direction and began to crave some new expression. there was no change in her affection for cornelia; and there were times when cornelia longed to trust her fully; she knew that it would be safe, and she did not believe that it would lower her in charmian's eyes; but to keep the fact of her weakness altogether her own seemed the only terms on which she could bear it. one day there came a letter from her mother out of her usual order of writing; she wrote on sunday, and her letters reached cornelia the next evening; but this letter came on a wednesday morning, and the sight of it filled cornelia with alarm, first for her mother, and then for herself; which deepened as she read: "dear nie: that good-for-nothing little scrub has been here, talken aboute you, and acting as if you was hand-and-glove with him. now nelie, i don't want to interfere with you anyway and i won't if you say the word. but i never felt just righte about that fellow, and what i done long ago to make you tollerate him, and now i want to make it up to you if i can. he is a common low-down person, and he isn't fit to speake to you, and i hope you wont speake to him. the divorce, the way i look at it, don't make any difference; hese just as much married as what he ever was, and if he had never been married atoll, it wouldn't of made any difference as far as i feel about it. now nelie, you are old enough to take care of yourself, but i hope if that fellow ever comes around you again, you'll box his ears and be done with him. i know hes got a smooth tongue, and he can make you laugh in spite of yourselfe, but don't you have anything to do with him. "mother. "p. s. i have been talken it over with mrs. burton, and she thinks just the way i do aboute it. she thinks you are good enough for the best, and you no need to throw yourself away on such a perfect little scamp. in haste. how is that cellebrated picture that you are painting with mr. ludlow getting along?" * * * * * cornelia got this letter from the postman at mrs. montgomery's door, when she opened it to go out in the morning, and she read it on her way to the synthesis. it seemed to make the air reel around her, and step by step she felt as if she should fall. a wild anger swelled her heart, and left no room there for shame even. she wondered what abominable lies that little wretch had told; but they must have been impudent indeed to overcome her mother's life-long reluctance from writing and her well-grounded fears of spelling, so far as to make her send a letter out of the usual course. but when her first fury passed, and she began to grow weak in the revulsion, she felt only her helplessness in the presence of such audacity, and a fear that nothing could save her from him. if he could make her so far forget herself as to tolerate him, to listen to his stories, to laugh at his jokes, and show him that she enjoyed his company, after all she knew of him, then he could make her marry him, if he tried. the logic was perfect, and it seemed but another link in the infrangible chain of events, when she found another letter waiting for her at the office of the synthesis. it bore the postmark of lakeland, of the same date as her mother's, and in the corner of the envelope the business card of gates & clarkson, dealers in art goods; j. b. dickerson, in a line of fine print at the top was modestly "with" them. the address, "dear friend," was written over something else which had been rubbed out, but beyond this the letter ran fluently and uninterruptedly along in a hand which had a business-like directness and distinctness. "i don't know," the writer said, "as you expected to hear from me, and i don't know as i expected to let you, but circumstances alter cases, and i just wanted to drop you a line and tell you that i have been in pymantoning and seen your mother. she is looking prime, and younger than ever. we had a long talk about old times, and i told her what a mistake i made. confession is good for the soul, they say, and i took a big dose of it; i guess i confessed pretty much everything; regular topsey style. well, your mother didn't spare me any, and i don't know but what she was about right. the fact is, a man on the road don't think as much about his p's and q's as he ought as long as he is young, and if i made a bad break in that little matrimonial venture of mine, i guess it was no more than i deserved to. i told your mother just how i happened to meet you again, and how the sight of you was enough to make another man of me. i was always a little too much afraid of you, or it might have turned out different; but i can appreciate a character like yours, and i want you to know it. i guess your mother sized it up about right when i said all i asked was to worship you at a distance, and she said she guessed you would look out for the _distance._ i told her you had, up to date. i want you to understand that i don't presume on anything, and if we seemed to have a pretty good time after the theatre, the other night, it was because you didn't want to spoil mrs. montgomery's fun, and treated me well just because i was a friend of hers. well, it's pretty hard to realize that my life is ruined, and that i have got nobody but myself to thank for it, but i guess that's what i've got to come to, sooner or later. it's what your mother said, and i guess she was right; she didn't spare me a bit, and i didn't want her to. i knew she would write to you, as soon as i was gone, and tell you not to have anything to do with me; and if she has, all i have got to say is, _all right_. i have been a bad lot, and i don't deny it, and all i can ask now, from this time forward, is to be kept from doing any more mischief. i don't know as i shall ever see you again; i had a kind of presentiment i shouldn't, and i told your mother so. i don't know but i told a little more about how kind you were to me the other evening than what the facts would justify exactly, but as sure as you live i didn't _mean_ to lie about it. if i exaggerated any, it was because it seemed the greatest thing in the world to me, just to talk to you, and be where i could see you smile, and hear you laugh; you've got a laugh that is like a child's, or an angel's, if angels laugh. i've heard of their weeping, and if you knew my whole life, i think you would shed a tear or two over me. but that is not what i am trying to get at; i want to explain that if i appeared to brag of being tolerated by you, and made it seem any thing more than toleration, it was because it was like heaven to me not to have you give me the grand bounce again. and what i want to ask you now, is just to let me write to you, every now and then, and when i am tempted to go wrong, anyways--and a business life is full of temptations--let me put the case before you, and have you set me right. i won't want but a word from you, and most part of the time, i shall just want to free my mind to you on life in general, and won't expect any answer. i feel as if you had got my soul in your hands, and you could save it, or throw it away. that is all. i am writing on the train, and i have to use pencil. i hope you'll excuse the stationery; it's all the porter could get me, and i'm anxious to have a letter go back to you at once. i know your mother has written to you, and i want to corroborate everything she says against me." the letter covered half-a-dozen telegraph blanks, and filled them full, so that the diffident suggestion, "my permanent address is with gates & clarkson," had to be written along the side of the first page. the low cunning, the impudent hypocrisy, the leering pretence of reverence, the affectation of penitence, the whole fraudulent design, so flimsy that the writer himself seemed to be mocking at it, was open to cornelia, and she read the letter through with distinct relief. whatever the fascinations of mr. dickerson were when he was personally at hand, he had none at a distance, and when she ran over the pages a second time, it was with a laugh, which she felt sure he would have joined her in, if he had been there. it turned her tragedy into farce so completely, for the time, that she went through her morning's work with a pleasure and a peace of mind which she had not felt for many days. it really seemed such a joke, that she almost yielded to the temptation of showing passages of the letter to charmian; and she forebore only because she would have had to tell more than she cared to have any one know of mr. dickerson, if she did. she had a right to keep all that from those who had no right to know it, but she had no right, or if she had the right, she had not the power to act as if the past had never been. she set herself to bear what was laid upon her, and if she was ever to have strength for her burden she must begin by owning her weakness. there was no one to whom she could own it but her mother, and she did this fully as soon as she got back to her room, and could sit down to answer her letter. she enclosed dickerson's, and while she did not spare him, she took the whole blame upon herself, for she said she might have known that if she suffered him to see that he amused her or pleased her at all, he was impudent enough to think that he could make her like him again. "and mother," she wrote, "you know i never really liked him, and was only too glad to get rid of him; you know that much. but i suppose you will wonder, then, why i ever let him speak to me if i really despised him as much as ever; and that is not easy to explain. for one thing he was with mrs. montgomery, and she likes him, and she has always been so good to me that i hated to treat him badly before her; but that is not the real reason, and i am not going to pretend it was. you know yourself how funny he is, and can make you laugh in spite of yourself, but it was not that, either. it was because i was angry with myself for having been angry with some one else, without a cause, as i can see it now, and i had made a fool of myself, and i wanted to get away from myself. i cannot tell you just how it was, yet, and i do not know as i ever can, but that was truly it, and nothing else, though the other things had something to do with it. i suppose it was just like men when they take a drink of whiskey to make them forget. the worst of it all is, and the discouraging part is, that it shows me i have not changed a particle. my temper is just us bad as ever, and i might as well be back at sixteen, for all the sense i've got. sometimes it seems to me that the past is all there is of us, anyway. it seems to come up in me, all the time, and i am so ashamed i don't know what to do. i make all kinds of good resolutions, and i want to be good, and then comes something and it is all over with me. then, it appears as if it was not me, altogether, that is to blame. i know i was to blame, this last time, laughing at that little 'scrub's' jokes as you call him, and behaving like a fool; but i don't see how i was to blame for his coming back into my life, when i never really wanted him at all, and certainly never wished to set eyes on him again. "i don't suppose it would be the least use to ask you not to show this letter to mrs. burton, and i won't, but if you do, i wish you would ask her what she thinks it means, and whether it's fate, or foreordination, or _what_." mrs. saunders carried cornelia's letter to mrs. burton, as cornelia had foreseen, but the question she put to her was not the abstraction the girl had suggested. "mrs. burton," she asked, "who was it do you suppose nie was so mad with that she had to go off and play the fool, that way?" mrs. burton passed the point of casuistry too. "well, of course i don't know, mrs. saunders. has she said anything about mr. ludlow lately?" "no, she hain't said a word, and that seems suspicious. she said a week or two ago that he had give up trying to paint that maybough girl, and that she guessed she had got the last of her lessons from him; but she didn't seem much troubled about it. but i guess by her not wantin' to tell, it's him. what do you suppose he did to provoke her?" "oh, just some young people's nonsense, probably. it'll come all right. you needn't worry about it, because if it won't come right of itself, he'll _make_ it come." "oh, i'm not worrying about that," said mrs. saunders, "i'm worrying about this." she gave her the letter cornelia had enclosed, and as mrs. burton began to read it she said, "if that fellow keeps on writing to her, i don't know what i _will_ do." xxx. ludlow did not come to see cornelia, but they met, from time to time, at mrs. westley's, where he was aware of her being rather taken up; at mrs. maybough's, where he found it his duty to show himself after his failure with charmian's picture, so as to help mrs. maybough let people know there was nothing but the best feeling about it; and, more to his surprise, at wetmore's. at the painter's, charmian, who came with her, realized more than anywhere else, her dream of bohemia, and wetmore threw a little excess into the social ease of his life that he might fulfil her ideal. he proposed that mrs. wetmore should set the example of hilarities that her domestic spirit abhorred; he accused her of cutting off his beer, and invented conditions of insolvency and privation that surpassed charmian's wildest hopes. he borrowed money of ludlow in her presence, and said that he did not know that he should ever be able to pay it back. he planned roystering escapades which were never put in effect, and once he really went out with the two girls to the shop of an old german, on the avenue, who dealt in _delicatessen_, and bought some nuremberg gingerbread and a bottle of lime-juice, after rejecting all the ranker meats and drinks as unworthy the palates of true bohemians. he invited charmian to take part in various _bats_, for the purpose of shocking the pymantoning propriety of cornelia, and they got such fun out of it as children do when the make-believe of their elders has been thinned to the most transparent pretence; but charmian, who knew he was making fun of her, remained as passionately attached to the ideal he mocked as ever; and cornelia had the guilty pang of wondering what he would think of her if he knew all about mr. dickerson, whose nature she now perceived to be that of the vulgarest _batting_. she did not answer the letter she first got, nor any of those which immediately followed, and this had the effect of checking mr. dickerson's ardor for so long a time that she began to think he would not trouble her again. there was no real offence between her and ludlow, or any but such as could wear itself away with time and the custom of friendly meeting. he had the magnanimity to ignore it when he first saw her after that thursday of mrs. westley's, and she had too keen a sense of having been a fool not to wish to act more wisely as soon as she could forget. there came so long a lapse between the letters of mr. dickerson that he ceased, at least perpetually, to haunt her thoughts. she had moments when it seemed as if she might justly consent to be happy again, or at least allow herself to enjoy the passing pleasure of the time without blame. she even suffered herself to fancy taking up the picture of charmian, and carrying it farther under ludlow's criticism. she was very ambitious to try her fate with the academy, and when he offered so generously to help her again, as if she had not refused him once so rudely, she could not deny him. she found herself once more in charmian's studio, and it all began to go on the same as if it had never stopped. it seemed like a dream, sometimes, when she thought about it, and it did not seem like a very wise dream. cornelia now wished, above all things, to have a little bit of sense, as she phrased it in her thoughts; and she was aware that the present position of affairs might look rather crazy to some people. the best excuse for it was that it would have looked crazier yet if she had refused such an opportunity simply because of the circumstances. she began to be a little vague about the circumstances, and whether they were queer because she had fancied a likeness of herself in mr. ludlow's picture of charmian, or because she had afterwards made a fool of herself so irreparably as to be unworthy mr. ludlow's kindness. if it was merely kindness, and she was the object of charity, it was all right; she could accept it on those terms. she even tempted him to patronize her, but when he ventured upon something elderly and paternal in his monitions, she resented it so fiercely that she was astonished and ashamed. there was an inconsistency in it all that was perplexing, but not so perplexing as to spoil the pleasure of it. there were not sittings every day, now; ludlow came once or twice a week, and criticised her work; sometimes he struck off a sketch himself, in illustration of a point, and these sketches were now so unlike cornelia, and so wholly like charmian, that when he left them for her guidance, she studied them with a remote ache in her heart. "never mind," charmian consoled her once, "he just does it on purpose." "does what?" cornelia demanded awfully. "oh, nothing!" one of the sketches he fancied so much that he began to carry it forward. he worked at it whenever he came, and under his hand it grew an idealized charmian, in which her fantastic quality expressed itself as high imagination, and her formless generosity as a wise and noble magnanimity. she made fun of it when they were alone, but cornelia could see that she was secretly proud of having inspired it, and that she did not really care for the constant portrait which cornelia had been faithfully finishing up, while ludlow changed and experimented, though charmian praised her to his disadvantage. one day he said he had carried his picture as far as he could, and he should let it go at that. it seemed an end of their pleasant days together; the two girls agreed that now there could be no further excuse for their keeping on, and cornelia wondered how she could let him know that she understood. that evening he came to call on her at mrs. montgomery's, and before he sat down he began to say: "i want to ask your advice, miss saunders, about what i shall do with my sketch of miss maybough." cornelia blenched, for no reason that she could think of; she could not gasp out the "yes" that she tried to utter. "you see," he went on, "i know that i've disappointed mrs. maybough, and i'd like to make her some sort of reparation, but i can't offer her the sketch instead of the portrait; if she liked it she would want to pay for it, and i can't take money for it. so i've thought of giving the sketch to miss maybough." he looked at cornelia, now, for the advice he had asked, but she did not speak, and he had to say: "but i don't know whether she likes it or not. do you know whether she does? has she ever spoken of it to you? of course she's said civil things to me about it. i beg your pardon! i suppose you don't care to tell, and i had no right to inquire." "oh, yes; yes." "well?" "i know she likes it; she must." "but she hasn't said so?" "not--exactly." "then what makes you think she does?" "i don't know. any one would. it's very beautiful." cornelia spoke very dryly, very coldly. "but is it a likeness? is it she? her character? what do _you_ think of it yourself?" "i don't know as i can say----" "ah, i see you don't like it!" said ludlow, with an air of disappointment. "and yet i aimed at pleasing you in it." "at pleasing _me_?" she murmured thickly back. "yes, you. i tried to see her as you do; to do her justice, and if it is overdone, or flattered, or idealized, it is because i've been working toward your notion----" "oh!" said cornelia, and then, to the great amazement of herself as well as ludlow, she began to laugh, and she laughed on, with her face in her handkerchief. when she took her handkerchief down, her eyes looked strange, but she asked, with a sort of radiance, "and did you think i thought charmian was really like that?" "why, i didn't know---- you've been very severe with me when i've suggested she wasn't. at first, when i wanted to do her as humbug, you wouldn't stand it, and now, when i've done her as mystery, you laugh." cornelia pressed her handkerchief to her shining eyes, and laughed a little more. "that is because she isn't either. can't you understand?" "i could understand her being both, i think. don't you think she's a little of both?" "i told you," said cornelia gravely, "that i didn't like to talk charmian over." "that was a good while ago. i didn't know but you might, by this time." "why?" she asked. "am i so changeable?" "no; you're the one constant and steadfast creature in a world of variableness. i didn't really expect that. i know that i can always find you where i left you. you are the same as when i first saw you." it seemed to cornelia that she had been asking him to praise her, and she was not going to have that. "do you mean that i behave as badly as i did in the fair house? no wonder you treat me like a child." this was not at all what she meant to say, however, and was worse than what she had said before. "no," he answered seriously. "i meant that you are not capricious, and i hate caprice. but do i treat you like a child?" "sometimes," said cornelia, looking down and feeling silly. "i am very sorry. i wish you would tell me how." she had not expected this pursuit, and she flashed back, "you are doing it now! you wouldn't say that to--to--any one else." ludlow paused thoughtfully. then he said, "i seem to treat myself like a child when i am with you. perhaps that's what displeases you. well, i can't help that. it is because you are so true that i can't keep up the conventions with you." they were both silent; cornelia was trying to think what she should say, and he added, irrelevantly, "if you don't like that sketch of her, i won't give it to her." "i? what have i to do with it?" she did not know what they were talking about, or to what end. "yes, you must give it to her. i know she wants it. and i know how kind you are, and good. i didn't mean--i didn't wish to blame you--i don't know why i'm making such a _perfect_ fool of myself." she had let him have her hand somehow, and he was keeping it; but they had both risen. "may i stay a moment?" he entreated. no one thing now seemed more inconsequent than another, and cornelia answered, with a catching of her breath, but as if it quite followed, "why, certainly," and they both sat down again. "there is something i wish to tell--to speak of," he began. "i think it's what you mean. in my picture of miss maybough----" "i didn't mean that at all. that doesn't make any difference to me," she broke incoherently in upon him. "i didn't care for it. you can do what you please with it." he looked at her in a daze while she spoke. "oh," he said, "i am very stupid. i didn't mean this sketch of mine; i don't care for that, now. i meant that other picture of her--the last one--the one i painted out before i gave up painting her---- did you see that it was like you?" cornelia felt that he was taking an advantage of her, and she lifted her eyes indignantly. "mr. ludlow!" "ah! don't think _that_," he pleaded, and she knew that he meant her unexpressed sense of unfairness in him. "i know you saw it; and the likeness was there because--i wanted to tell you long ago, but i couldn't, because when we met afterwards i was afraid that i was mistaken, in what i thought--hoped. i had no right to know anything till i was sure of myself; but--the picture was like you because you were all the time in my thoughts, and nothing and no one but you. cornelia----" she rose up crazily, and looked toward the door, as if she were going to run out of the room. "what is it?" he implored. "you know i love you." "let me go!" she panted. "if you tell me you don't care for me----" "i don't! i don't care for you, and--let me go!" he stood flushed and scared before her. "i--i am sorry. i didn't mean--i hoped---- but it is all right---- i mean you are right, and i am wrong. i am very wrong." xxxi. ludlow stood aside and cornelia escaped. when she reached her own room, she had a sense of her failure to take formal leave of him, and she mechanically blamed herself for that before she blamed herself for anything else. at first he was altogether to blame, and she heaped the thought of him with wild reproach and injury; if she had behaved like a fool, it was because she was trapped into it, and could not help it; she had to do so. she recalled distinctly, amidst the turmoil, how she had always kept in mind that a girl who had once let a man, like that dreadful little wretch, whose name she could not take into her consciousness, suppose that she could care for him, could not let a man like ludlow care for her. if she did, she was wicked, and she knew she had not done it for she had been on her guard against it. the reasoning was perfect, and if he had spoiled everything now, he had himself to thank for it; and she did not pity him. still she wished she had not run out of the room; she wished she had behaved with more dignity, and not been rude; he could laugh at her for that; it was like her behavior with him from the very beginning; there was something in him that always made her behave badly with him, like a petulant child. he would be glad to forget her; he would believe, now, that she was not good enough for him; and he might laugh; but at least he could not say that she had ever done or said the least thing to let him suppose that she cared for him. if she had, she should not forgive herself, and she should pity him as much as she blamed him now. there was nothing in her whole conduct that would have warranted her in supposing such a thing, if she were a man. cornelia had this comfort, and she clung to it, till it flashed through her that not being a man, she could not imagine what the things were that could let a man suppose it. she had never thought of that before, and it dazed her. perhaps he had seen all along that she did care for him, that he had known it in some way unknown and forever unknowable to her; the way a man knows; and all her disguises had availed nothing against him. then, if he had known, he had acted very deceitfully and very wrongfully, and nothing could excuse him unless there had been other signs that a girl would recognize, too. that would excuse him, it would justify him, and she tried to see the affair with another woman's eyes. she tried to see it with charmian's eves, but she knew they were filled with a romantic iridescence that danced before them and wrapt it in a rainbow mist. then she tried mrs. westley's eyes, which she knew were friendly to both ludlow and herself, and she told her everything in her impassioned revery: all about that little wretch; all about the first portrait of charmian and the likeness they had seen in it; all about what had happened since ludlow began to criticise her work again. in the mere preparation for this review she found another's agency insufferable; she abandoned herself wildly to a vision which burned itself upon her in mass and detail, under a light that searched motive and conduct alike, and left her no refuge from the truth. then she perceived, how at every moment since they began those last lessons at charmain's he must have believed she cared for him and wished him to care for her. if she had not seen it too, it was because she was stupid, and she was to blame all the same. she was blind to what he saw in her, and she had thought because she was hidden from herself that she was hidden from him. it was not a question now of whether she cared for him, or not; that was past all question; but whether she had not led him on to think she did, and she owned that down to the last moment before he had spoken, wittingly or unwittingly she had coaxed him to praise her, to console her, lo make love to her. she was rightly punished, and she was ready to suffer, but she could not let him suffer the shame of thinking himself wrong. that was mean, that was cowardly, and whatever she was, cornelia was not base, and not afraid. she would have been willing to follow him into the night, to go to his door, and knock at it, and when he came, flash out at him, "i did love you, i do love you," and then run, she did not know where, but somewhere out of the world. but he might not be there, or some one else might come to the door; the crude, material difficulties denied her the fierce joy of this exploit, but she could not rest (she should never really rest again) till she had done the nearest thing to it that she could. she looked at the little busy-bee clock ticking away on her bureau and saw that it was half-past eleven o'clock, and that there was no time to lose, and she sat down and wrote: "i did care for you. but i can never see you again. i cannot tell you the reason." she drew a deep breath when the thing was done, and hurried the scrap unsigned into an envelope and addressed it to ludlow. she was in a frenzy till she could get it out of her hands and into the postal-box beyond recall. she pulled a shawl over her head and flew down stairs and out of the door into the street toward the postal-box on the corner. but before she reached it she thought of a special-delivery stamp, which should carry the letter to ludlow the first thing in the morning, and she pushed on to the druggist's at the corner beyond to get it. she was aware of the man staring at her, as if she had asked for arsenic; and she supposed she must have looked strange. this did not come into her mind till she found herself again at mrs. montgomery's door, where she stood in a panic ecstasy at having got rid of the letter, which the special stamp seemed to make still more irrevocable, and tried to fit her night-latch into the lock. the cat, which had been shut out, crept up from the area, and rubbed with a soft insinuation against her skirt. she gave a little shriek of terror, and the door was suddenly pulled open from within. she threw back her shawl from her head, and under the low-burning gas-light held aloft by the spelter statuette in the newel post, she confronted mr. dickerson. he had his hat on, and had the air of just having let himself in; his gripsack stood at his feet. "why, nelie! miss saunders! is that you? why, where in the world---- well, this _is_ something like 'willy, we have missed you'; i've just come. what was the matter out there? somebody trying to scare you? well, there's nothing to be afraid of now, anyway. how you do pant! but it becomes you. yes, it does! you look now just like i've seen you all the time i've been gone! you didn't answer any of my letters; i don't know as i could have expected any different. but i did hope---- nelie, it's no use! i've got to speak out, and it's now or never; maybe there won't be another chance. look here, my girl! i _want_ you--i love you, nie! and i always d----" he had got her hand, and he was drawing her toward him. she struggled to free herself, but he pulled her closer. her heart swelled with a fury of grief for all she had suffered and lost through him. she thought of what her mother had said she ought to do if he ever spoke to her again; there came without her agency, almost, three swift, sharp, electrical blows from the hand she had freed; she saw him reeling backward with his hand at his face, and then she was standing in her own room, looking at her ghost in the glass. now, if mr. ludlow knew, he would surely despise her, and she wished she were dead indeed: not so much because she had boxed dickerson's ears as because she had done what obliged her to do it. xxxii. it is hard for the young to understand that the world which seems to stop with their disaster is going on with smooth indifference, and that a little time will carry them so far from any fateful event that when they gather courage to face it they will find it curiously shrunken in the perspective. nothing really stops the world but death, and that only for the dead. if we live, we must move on, we must change, we must outwear every motion, however poignant or deep. cornelia's shame failed to kill her; she woke the next morning with a self-loathing that seemed even greater than that of the night before, but it was actually less; and it yielded to the strong will which she brought to bear upon herself. she went to her work at the synthesis as if nothing had happened, and she kept at it with a hard, mechanical faithfulness which she found the more possible, perhaps, because charmian was not there, for some reason, and she had not her sympathy as well as her own weakness to manage. she surprised herself with the results of her pitiless industry, and realized for the first time the mysterious duality of being, in the power of the brain and the hand to toil while the heart aches. she was glad, she kept assuring herself, that she had put an end to all hope from ludlow; she rejoiced bitterly that now, however she had disgraced herself in her violent behavior, she had at least disgraced no one else. no one else could suffer through any claim upon her, or kindness for her, or had any right to feel ashamed of her or injured by her. but cornelia was at the same time puzzled and perplexed with herself, and dismayed with the slightness of her hold upon impulses of hers which she thought she had overcome and bound forever. she made the discovery, which she was yet far too young to formulate, that she had a temperament to deal with that could at any time shake to ruins the character she had so carefully built upon it, and had so wholly mistaken for herself. in the midst of this dismay she made another discovery, and this was that perhaps even her temperament was not what she had believed it, but was still largely unknown to her. she had always known that she was quick and passionate, but she certainly had not supposed that she was capable of the meanness of wondering whether mr. ludlow would take her note as less final than she had meant it, and would perhaps seek some explanation of it. no girl that she ever heard or read of, had ever fallen quite so low as to hope that; but was not she hoping just that? perhaps she had even written those words with the tacit intention of calling him back! but this conjecture was the mere play of a morbid fancy, and weak as she was, cornelia had the strength to forbid it and deny it. at the end of the afternoon, she pretended that she ought to go and see what had happened to charmian, and on the way, she had time to recognize her own hypocrisy, and to resolve that she would do penance for it by coming straight at the true reason of her errand. she was sent to charmian in her studio, and she scarcely gave her a chance to explain that she had staid at home on account of a cold, and had written a note for cornelia to come to dinner with her, which she would find when she got back. cornelia said, "i want to tell you something, charmian, and i want you to tell me what you really think--whether i've done right, or not." charmian's eyes lightened. "wait a moment!" she got a piece of the lightwood, and put it on the fire which she had kindled on the hearth to keep the spring chill off, and went and turned ludlow's sketch of herself to the wall. "i know it's about him." then she came and crouched on the tiger-skin at cornelia's feet, and clasped her hands around her knees, and fixed her averted face on the blazing pine. "now go on," she said, as if she had arranged the pose to her perfect satisfaction. cornelia went on. "it's about him, and it's about some one else, too," and she had no pity on herself in telling charmian all about that early, shabby affair with dickerson. "i knew it," said charmian, with a sigh of utter content, "i _told_ you, the first time i saw you, that _you_ had lived. well: and has he--turned up?" "he has turned up--three times," said cornelia. charmian shivered with enjoyment of the romantic situation. she reached a hand behind her and tried to clutch one of cornelia's but had to get on without it. "and well: have they met?" "no, they haven't," said cornelia crossly, but not so much with charmian as with the necessity she was now in of telling her about her last meeting with ludlow. she began, "they almost did," and when charmian in the intensity of her interest could not keep turning around to stare at her, cornelia took hold of her head and turned her face toward the fire again. then she went on to tell how it had all happened. she did not spare herself at any point, and she ended the story with the expression of her belief that she had deserved it all. "it wasn't boxing that little wretch's ears that was the disgrace; it was having brought myself to where i _had_ to box them." "yes, that was it," sighed charmian, with deep conviction. "and i had to tell _him_ that i could never care for him, because i couldn't bear to tell him what a fool i had been." "no, no; you never could do that!" "and i couldn't bear to have him think i was better than i really was, or let him care for me unless i told him all about that miserable old affair." "no, _you_ couldn't, cornelia," said charmian solemnly. "_some_ girls might; _most_ girls _would_. they would just consider it a flirtation, and not say anything about it, or not till after they were engaged, and then just laugh. but you are different from other girls--you are so _true_! yes, you would have to tell it if it killed you; i can see that; and you couldn't tell it, and you had to break his heart. yes, you _had_ to!" "oh, charmian maybough! how cruel you are!" cornelia flung herself forward and cried; charmian whirled round, and kneeling before her, threw her arms around her, in a pose of which she felt the perfection, and kissed her tenderly. "why didn't you let me see how you were looking? how i have gone on----" cornelia pulled herself loose. "charmian! do you _dare_ to mean that i want him to ever speak to me again--or look at me?" "no, no----" "or that i'm sorry i did it?" "no; it's this cold that's making me so stupid." "if he were to come back again this instant, i should have to tell him just the same, or else tell him about that--that--and you know i couldn't do that if i lived a thousand years." now she melted, indeed, and suffered charmian to moan over her, and fortify her with all the reasons she had urged herself in various forms of repetition. charmain showed her again how impossible everything that she had thought impossible was, and convinced her of every conviction. she made cornelia's tragedy her romance, and solemnly exulted in its fatality, while she lifted her in her struggle of conscience to a height from which for the present at least, cornelia could not have descended without a ruinous loss of self-respect. in the renunciation in which the worshipper confirmed her saint, ludlow and his rights and feelings were ignored, and cornelia herself was offered nothing more substantial than the prospect that henceforth she and charmian could live for each other in a union that should be all principle on one side and all adoration on the other. xxxiii. cornelia did not go to pass that week in lent with mrs. westley. when she went, rather tardily, to withdraw her promise, she said that the time was now growing so short she must give every moment to the synthesis. mrs. westley tacitly arranged to cancel some little plans she had made for her, and in the pity a certain harassed air of the girl's moved in her, she accepted her excuses as valid, and said, "but i am afraid you are overworking at the synthesis, miss saunders. are you feeling quite well?" "oh, perfectly," cornelia answered with a false buoyancy from which she visibly fell. she looked down, and said, "i wish the work was twice as hard!" "ah, you have come to that very soon," said mrs. westley; and then they were both silent, till she added, "how are you getting on with your picture of miss maybough?" "oh, i'm not doing anything with that," said cornelia, and she stood up to go. "but you are going to exhibit it?" mrs. westley persisted. "no, t don't know as i am. i should have to offer it first." "it would be sure to be accepted; mr. ludlow thinks it would." "oh, yes; i know," said cornelia, feeling herself get very red. "but i guess i won't offer it. goodbye." mrs. westley kept the impression of something much more personal than artistic in cornelia's reference to her picture, and when she met ludlow a few days after, she asked him if he knew that miss saunders was not going to offer her picture to the exhibition. he said simply that he did not know it. "don't you think she ought? i don't think she's looking very well, of late; do you?" "i don't know; isn't she? i haven't seen her----" he began carelessly; he added anxiously. "when did you see her?" "a few days ago. she came to say she could not take the time from the synthesis to pay me that little visit. i'm afraid she's working too hard. of course, she's very ambitious; but i can't understand her not wanting to show her picture, there, and trying to sell it." ludlow stooped forward and pulled the long ears of mrs. westley's fashionable dog which lay on the rug at his feet. "have you any idea why she's changed her mind?" "yes," said ludlow. "i think it's because i helped her with it." "is she so independent? or perhaps i am not quite discreet----" "why not? you say she didn't look well?" "she looked--worried." he asked, as if it immediately followed, "mrs. westley, should you mind giving me a little advice about a matter--a very serious matter?" "if you won't follow it." "do we ever?" "well?" "how much use can a man be to a girl when he knows that he can't be of the greatest?" "none, if he is sure." "he is perfectly sure." "he had better let her alone, then. he had better not try." "i am going to try. but i thank you for your advice more than if i were going to take it." they parted laughing; and mrs. westley was contented to be left with the mystery which she believed was no mystery to her. ludlow went home and wrote to cornelia: "dear miss saunders: i hear you are not going to try to get your picture into the exhibition. i will not pretend not to understand why, and you would not wish me to; so i feel free to say that you are making a mistake. you ought to offer your picture; i think it would be accepted, and you have no right to forego the chance it would give you, for the only reason you can have. i know that mr. wetmore would be glad to advise you about it; and i am sure you will believe that i have not asked him to do so. "yours sincerely, "w. ludlow." cornelia turned this letter in many lights, and tried to take it in many ways; but in the end she could only take it in the right way, and she wrote back: "dear mr. ludlow: i thank you very much for your letter, and i am going to do what you say. yours sincerely, "cornelia saunders. "p. s. i do appreciate your kindness very much." she added this postscript after trying many times to write a reply that would seem less blunt and dry; but she could not write anything at all between a letter that she felt was gushing and this note which certainly could not be called so; she thought the postscript did not help it much, but she let it go. as soon as she had done so, it seemed to her that she had no reason for having done so, and she did not see how she could justify it to charmian, whom she had told that she should not offer her picture. she would have to say that she had changed her mind simply because mr. ludlow had bidden her, and she tried to think how she could make that appear sufficient. but charmian was entirely satisfied. "oh, yes," she said, "that was the least you could do, when he asked you. you certainly owed him _that_ much. _now_," she added mystically, "he never can say a _thing_." they were in charmian's studio, where cornelia's sketch of her had been ever since she left working on it; and charmian ran and got it, and set it where they could both see it in the light of the new event. it's magnificent, cornelia. there's no other word for it. did you know he was going to give me his?" "yes, he told me he was going to," said cornelia, looking at her sketch, with a dreamy suffusion of happiness in her face. "it's glorious, but it doesn't come within a million miles of yours. mr. wetmore isn't on the committee, this year, but he knows them all, and----" cornelia turned upon her. "charmian maybough, if you breathe, if you _dream_ a word to him about it i will never speak to you. if my picture can't get into the exhibition without the help of friends----" "oh, _i_ shan't speak to him about it," charmian hastened to assure her. in pursuance of her promise, she only spoke to mrs. wetmore, and at the right time wetmore used his influence with the committee. then, for the reason, or the no reason that governs such matters, or because cornelia's picture was no better than too many others that were accepted, it was refused. xxxiv. the blow was not softened to cornelia by her having prophesied to charmian as well as to herself, that she knew her picture would be refused. now she was aware that at the bottom of her heart she had always hoped and believed it would be accepted. she had kept it all from her mother, but she had her fond, proud visions of how her mother would look when she got her letter saying that she had a picture in the exhibition, and how she would throw on her sacque and bonnet, and run up to mrs. burton for an explanation and full sense of the honor. in these fancies cornelia even had them come to new york, to see her picture in position; it was not on the line, of course, and yet it was not skyed. her pride was not involved, and she suffered no sting of wounded vanity from its rejection: her hurt was in a tenderer place. she would not have cared how many people knew of her failure, if her mother and mrs. burton need not have known; but she wrote faithfully home of it, and tried to make neither much nor little of it. she forbade charmian the indignation which she would have liked to vent, but she let her cry over the event with her. no one else knew that it had actually happened except wetmore and ludlow; she was angry with them at first for encouraging her to offer the picture, but wetmore came and was so mystified and humbled by its refusal, that she forgave him and even comforted him for his part in the affair. "she acted like a little man about it," he reported to ludlow. "she'll do. when a girl can take a blow like that the way she does, she makes you wish that more fellows were girls. when i had my first picture refused, it laid me up. but i'm not going to let this thing rest. i'm going to see if that picture can't be got into the american artists'." "better not," said ludlow so vaguely that wetmore thought he must mean something. "why?" "oh--i don't believe she'd like it." "what makes you think so? have you seen her?" "no----" "you haven't? well, ludlow, _i_ didn't lose any time. perhaps you think there was no one else to blame for the mortification of that poor child." "no, i don't. i am to blame, too. i encouraged her to try--i urged her." "then i should think you would go and tell her so." "ah, i think she knows it. if i told her anything, i should tell her no one was to blame but myself." "well, that wouldn't be a bad idea." wetmore lighted his pipe. "confound those fellows! i should like to knock their heads together. if there is anything like the self-righteousness of a committee when it's wrong---but there isn't, fortunately." it was not the first time that ludlow had faltered in the notion of going to cornelia and claiming to be wholly at fault. in thought he was always doing it, and there were times when he almost did it in reality, but he let these times pass effectless, hoping for some better time when the thing would do itself, waiting for the miracle which love expects, when it is itself the miracle that brings all its desires to fulfilment. he certainly had some excuses for preferring a passive part in what he would have been so glad to have happen. cornelia had confessed that she had once cared for him, but at the same time she had implied that she cared for him no longer, and she had practically forbidden him to see her again. much study of her words could make nothing else of them, and it was not until ludlow saw his way to going impersonally in his quality of mistaken adviser, from whom explanation and atonement were due, that he went to cornelia. even then he did not quite believe that she would see him, and he gladly lost the bet he made himself, at the sound of a descending step on the stairs, that it was the irish girl coming back to say that miss saunders was not at home. they met very awkwardly, and ludlow had such an official tone in claiming responsibility for having got cornelia to offer her picture, and so have it rejected, that he hardly knew who was talking. "that is all," he said, stiffly; and he rose and stood looking into his hat. "it seemed to me that i couldn't do less than come and say this, and i hope you don't feel that i'm--i'm unwarranted in coming." "oh, no," cried cornelia, "it's very kind of you, and no one's to blame but me. i don't suppose i should care; only"--she bit her lips hard, and added deep in her throat--"i hated to have my mother---- but i am rightfully punished." she meant for the dickerson business, but ludlow thought she meant for her presumption, and his heart smote him in tender indignation as her head sank and her face averted itself. it touched him keenly that she should speak to him in that way of her mother, as if from an instinctive sense of his loving and faithful sympathy; and then, somehow he had her in his arms, there in mrs. montgomery's dim parlor; he noted, as in a dream, that his hat had fallen and was rolling half the length of it. "oh, wait!" cried the girl. "what are you doing---- you don't know. there is something i must tell you--that will make you hate me----" she struggled to begin somehow, but she did not know where. "no," he said. "you needn't tell me anything. there isn't anything in the world that could change me to you--nothing that you could tell me! sometime, if you must--if you wish; but not now. i've been too miserable, and now i'm so happy." "but it's very foolish, it's silly! i tell you----" "not now, not now!" he insisted. he made her cry, he made her laugh; but he would not listen to her. she knew it was all wrong, that it was romantic and fantastic, and she was afraid of it; but she was so happy too, that she could not will it for the moment to be otherwise. she put off the time that must come, or let him put it off for her, and gladly lost herself in the bliss of the present. the fear, growing more and more vague and formless, haunted her rapture, but even this ceased before they parted, and left her at perfect peace in his love--their love. he told her how much she could be to him, how she could supplement him in every way where he was faltering and deficient, and he poured out his heart in praises of her that made her brain reel. they talked of a thousand things, touching them, and leaving them, and coming back, but always keeping within the circle of their relation to themselves. they flattered one another with the tireless and credulous egotism of love; they tried to tell what they had thought of each other from the first moment they met, and tried to make out that they neither had ever since had a thought that was not the other's; they believed this. the commonplaces of the passion ever since it began to refine itself from the earliest savage impulse, seemed to have occurred to them for the first time in the history of the race; they accused themselves each of not being worthy of the other; they desired to be very good, and to live for the highest things. they began this life by spending the whole afternoon together. when some other people came into the parlor, they went out to walk. they walked so long and far, that they came at last to the park without meaning to, and sat on a bench by a rock. other people were doing the same: nurses with baby-carriages before them; men smoking and reading; elderly husbands with their elderly wives beside them, whom they scarcely spoke to; it must have been a very common, idle thing, but to them it had the importance, the distinction of something signal, done for the first time. they staid there till it was almost dark, and then they went and had tea together in the restaurant of one of the vast hotels at the entrance of the park. it was a very philistine place, with rich-looking, dull-looking people, travellers and sojourners, dining about in its spacious splendor; but they got a table in a corner and were as much alone there as in the park; their happiness seemed to push the world away from them wherever they were, and to leave them free within a wide circle of their own. she poured the tea for them both from the pot which the waiter set at her side; he looked on in joyful wonder and content. "how natural it all is," he sighed. "i should think you had always been doing that for me. but i suppose it is only from the beginning of time!" she let him talk the most, because she was too glad to speak, and because they had both the same thoughts, and it did not need two to utter them. now and then, he made her speak; he made her answer some question; but it was like some question that she had asked herself. from time to time they spoke of others besides themselves; of her mother and the burtons, of charmian, of mrs. westley, of wetmore; but it was in relation to themselves; without this relation, nothing had any meaning. when they parted after an evening prolonged till midnight in mrs. montgomery's parlor, that which had been quiescent in cornelia's soul, stirred again, and she knew that she was wrong to let ludlow go without telling him of dickerson. it was the folly of that agreement of theirs about painting charmian repeating itself in slightly different terms, and with vastly deeper meaning, but to a like end of passive deceit, of tacit untruth; his wish did not change it. she thought afterwards she could not have let him go without telling him, if she had not believed somehow that the parallel would complete itself, and that he would come back, as he had done before, and help her undo what was false between them; but perhaps this was not so; perhaps if she had been sure he would not come back she would not have spoken; at any rate he did not come back. xxxv. cornelia was left to no better counsels than those of charmian maybough, and these were disabled from what they might have been at their best, by cornelia's failure to be frank with her. if she was wronging charmian by making her a half-confidant only, she could not be more open with her than with ludlow, and she must let her think that she had told him everything until she had told him everything. she did honestly try to do so, from time to time; she tried to lead him on to ask her what it was he had kept her from telling him in that first moment of their newly confessed love, when it would have been easier than it could ever be again. she reproached him in her heart for having prevented her then; it seemed as if he must know that she was longing for his help to be frank; but she never could make that cry for his help pass her lips where it trembled when she ought to have felt safest with him. she began to be afraid of him, and he began to be aware of her fear. he went home after parting with her that first night of their engagement too glad of all that was, to feel any lack in it; but the first thought in his mind when he woke the next morning was not that perfect joy which the last before he fell asleep had been. his discomfort was a formless emotion at first, and it was a moment before it took shape in the mistake he had made, in forbidding cornelia to tell him what she had kept from him, merely because he knew that she wished to keep it. he ought to have been strong enough for both, and he had joined his weakness to hers from a fantastic impulse of generosity. now he perceived that the truth, slighted and postponed, must right itself at the cost of the love which it should have been part of. he began to be tormented with a curiosity to know what he could not ask, or let her suspect that he even wished to know. whether he was with her or away from her, he always had that in his mind, and in the small nether ache, inappeasable and incessant, he paid the penalty of his romantic folly. he had to bear it and to hide it. yet they both seemed flawlessly happy to others, and in a sort they seemed so to themselves. they waited for the chance that should make them really so. cornelia kept on at her work, all the more devotedly because she was now going home so soon and because she knew herself divided from it by an interest which made art seem slight and poor, when she felt secure in her happiness, and made it seem nothing when her heart misgave her. she never could devolve upon that if love failed her; art could only be a part of her love henceforward. she could go home and help her mother with her work till she died, if love failed her, but she could never draw another line. there was going to be an exhibition of synthesis work at the close of the synthesis year, and there was to be a masquerade dance in the presence of the pictures. charmian was the heart and soul of the masquerade, and she pushed its claims to the disadvantage of the exhibition. some of the young ladies who thought that art should have the first place, went about saying that she was for the dance because she could waltz and mask better than she could draw, and would rather exhibit herself than her work, but it was a shame that she should make miss saunders work for her the way she did, because miss saunders, though she was so overrated, was really learning something, thanks to the synthesis atmosphere; and charmian maybough would never learn anything. it was all very well for her to pretend that she scorned to send anything to a school exhibition, but she was at least not such a simpleton as to risk offering anything, for it would not be accepted. that, they said, was the real secret of her devotion to the masquerade and of her theory that the spirit of the synthesis could be expressed as well in making that beautiful, as in the exhibition. charmian had cornelia come and stay with her the whole week before the great event, and she spent it in a tumult of joyful excitement divided between the tremendous interests of ludlow's coming every night to see cornelia, and of having them both advise with her about her costume. ludlow was invited to the dance, and he was to be there so as to drive home with her and cornelia. in the mean time charmian's harshest critics were not going to be outdone, if they could help it, in any way; they not only contributed to the exhibition, but four or five days beforehand they began to stay away from the synthesis, and get up their costumes for the masquerade. everything was to be very simple, and you could come in costume or not, as you pleased, but the consensus was that people were coming in costume, and you would not want to look odd. the hall for the dancing was created by taking down the board partitions that separated three of the class-rooms; and hanging the walls with cheese-cloth to hide the old stains and paint-marks, and with pictures by the instructors. there was a piano for the music, and around the wall rough benches were put, with rugs over them to save the ladies' dresses. the effect was very pretty, with palettes on nails, high up, and tall flowers in vases on brackets, and a life-study in plaster by one of the girls, in a corner of the room. it all had the charm of tasteful design yielding here and there to happy caprice; this mingling of the ordered and the bizarre, expressed the spirit, at once free and submissive, of the place. there had been a great deal of trouble which at times seemed out of all keeping with the end to be gained, but when it was all over, the trouble seemed nothing. the exhibition was the best the synthesis had ever made, and those who had been left out of it were not the least of those in the masquerade; they were by no means the worst dressed, or when they unmasked, the plainest, and charmian's favorite maxim that art was all one, was verified in the costumes of several girls who could not draw any better than she could. if they were not on the walls in one way neither were they in another. after they had wandered heart-sick through the different rooms, and found their sketches nowhere, they had their compensation when the dancing began. the floor was filled early, and the scene gathered gayety and brilliancy. it had the charm that the taste of the school could give in the artistic effects, and its spirit of generous comradery found play in the praises they gave each other's costumes, and each other's looks when they were not in costume. it was a question whether cornelia who came as herself, was lovelier than charmian, who was easily recognizable as cleopatra, with ophidian accessories in her dress that suggested at once the serpent of old nile, and a moqui snake-dancer. cornelia looked more beautiful than ever; her engagement with ludlow had come out and she moved in the halo of poetic interest which betrothal gives a girl with all other girls; it was thought an inspiration that she should not have come in costume, but in her own character. ludlow's fitness to carry off such a prize was disputed; he was one of the heroes of the synthesis, and much was conceded to him because he had more than once replaced the instructor in still-life there. but there remained a misgiving with some whether cornelia was right in giving up her art for him; whether she were not recreant to the synthesis in doing that; the doubt, freshly raised by her beauty, was not appeased till charmian met it with the assertion that cornelia was not going to give up her art at all, but after her marriage was coming back to study and paint with ludlow. charmian bore her honors graciously, both as the friend of the new fiancée, and as the most successful mask of the evening. in her pride and joy, she set the example of looking out for girls who were not having a good time, and helping them to have one with the men of her own too constant following, and with those who stood about, wanting the wish or the courage to attach themselves to any one. in the excitement she did not miss cornelia, or notice whether ludlow had come yet. when she did think of her it was to fancy that she was off somewhere with him, and did not want to be looked up. before the high moment when one of the instructors appeared, and chose a partner fur the virginia reel, charmian had fused all the faltering and reluctant temperaments in the warmth of her amiability. nobody ever denied her good nature, in fact, whatever else they denied her, and there were none who begrudged her its reward at last. she was last on the floor, when the orchestra, having played as long as it had bargained to, refused to play any longer, and the dance came to an end. she then realized that it was after twelve, and she remembered cornelia. she rushed down into the dressing-room, and found her sitting there alone, bonneted and wrapped for the street. there was something suddenly strange and fateful about it all to charmian. "cornelia!" she entreated. "what is the matter? what has become of mr. ludlow? hasn't he been here to-night?" cornelia shook her head, and made a hoarse murmur in her throat, as if she wished to speak and could not. there seemed to be some sort of weight upon her, so that she could not rise, but charmian swiftly made her own changes of toilet necessary for the street, and got cornelia out of doors and into her coupé which was waiting for them, before the others descended from the dancing-room, where the men staid to help the janitor put out the lights. as the carriage whirled them away, they could hear the gay cries and laughter of the first of the revellers who came out into the night after them. xxxvi. the solemn man-servant, who was now also sleepy, but who saved the respect due the young ladies by putting his hand over a yawn when he let them in, brought cornelia a letter which he seemed to have been keeping on his professional salver. "a letter for you, miss. it came about an hour after you went out. the messenger said he wasn't to wait for an answer, and mrs. maybough thought she needn't send it to you at the synthesis. she wanted me to tell you, miss." "oh, it is all right, thank you," said cornelia, with a tremor which she could not repress at the sight of ludlow's handwriting. charmian put her arm round her. "come into the studio, dear. you can answer it there, if you want to, at once." "well," said cornelia, passively. charmian found her sitting with the letter in her lap, as if she had not moved from her posture while she had been away exchanging her ptolemaic travesty for the ease of a long silken morning gown of nile green. she came back buttoning it at her throat, when she gave a start of high tragic satisfaction at something stonily rigid in cornelia's attitude, but she kept to herself both her satisfaction and the poignant sympathy she felt at the same time, and sank noiselessly into a chair by the fireless hearth. after a moment cornelia stirred and asked, "do you want to see it, charmian?" "do you want me to?" charmian asked back, with her heart in her throat, lest the question should make cornelia change her mind. there were two lines from ludlow, unsigned: "i have received the enclosed letter, which i think you should see before i see you again." his note enclosed a letter from dickerson to ludlow, which ran: "although you are a stranger to me, i feel an old friend's interest in your engagement to miss cornelia saunders, of which i have just been informed. i can fully endorse your good taste. was once engaged to the young lady myself some years since, and have been in correspondence with her up to a very recent date. would call and offer my well wishes in person, but am unexpectedly called away on business. presume miss saunders has told you of our little affair, so will not enlarge upon the facts. please give her my best regards and congratulations. "yours respect'ly, "j. b. dickerson." charmian let the papers fall to her lap, and looked at cornelia who stared blankly, helplessly back at her. "what a hateful, spiteful little cad!" she began, and she enlarged at length upon mr. dickerson's character and behavior. she arrested herself in this pleasure, and said, "but i don't understand why mr. ludlow should have staid away this evening on account of his letter, or why he should have sent it to you, if he knew about it already. it seems to me----" "he didn't know about it," said cornelia. "i haven't told him yet." "why, cornelia!" the reproachful superiority in charmian's tone was bitter to cornelia, but she did not even attempt to resent it. she said meekly, "i did try to tell him. i wanted to tell him the very first thing, but he wouldn't let me, then; and then--i couldn't." charmian's superiority melted into sympathy: "of course," she said. "and now, i never can tell him," cornelia desperately concluded. "never!" charmian assented. the gleam of common-sense which had visited her for an instant, was lost in the lime-light of romance, which her fancy cast upon the situation. "and what are you going to do?" she asked, enraptured by its hopeless gloom. "nothing. what can i do?" "no. you can do nothing." she started, as with a sudden inspiration. "why, look here, cornelia! why wouldn't this do?" she stopped so long that cornelia asked, somewhat crossly, "well?" "i don't know whether i'd better tell you. but i know it would be the very thing. do you want me to tell you?" "oh, it makes no difference," said cornelia, hopelessly. charmian went on tentatively, "why, it's this. i've often heard of such things: me to pretend that _i_ wrote this horrid dickerson letter, and there isn't any such person; but i did it just for a joke, or wanted to break off the engagement because i couldn't bear to give you up. don't you see? it's like lots of things on the stage, and i've read of them, i'd be perfectly willing to sacrifice myself in such a cause, and i should have to, for after i said i had done such a thing as that, he would never let you speak to me again, or look at me, even. but i should die happy----" she stopped, frozen to silence, by the scornful rejection in cornelia's look. "oh, no, no! it wouldn't do! i see it wouldn't! don't speak! but there's nothing else left, that i know of." she added, by another inspiration, "or, yes! now--_now_--we can live for each other, cornelia. you will outlive this. you will be terribly changed, of course; and perhaps your health may be affected; but i shall always be with you from this on. i have loved you more truly than he ever did, if he can throw you over for a little thing like that. if i were a man i should exult to ignore such a thing. oh, if men could only be what girls would be if they were men! but now you must begin to forget him from this instant--to put him out of your mind--your life." to further this end charmian talked of ludlow for a long time, and entered upon a close examination of his good and bad qualities; his probable motives for now behaving as he was doing, and the influence of the present tragedy upon his future as a painter. it would either destroy him or it would be the fire out of which he would rise a master; he would degenerate into a heartless worldling, which he might very well do, for he was fond of society, or he might become a gloomy recluse, and produce pictures which the multitude would never know were painted with tears and blood. "of course, i don't mean literally; the idea is rather disgusting; but you know what i mean, cornelia. he may commit suicide, like that french painter, robert; but he doesn't seem one of that kind, exactly; he's much more likely to abandon art and become an art-critic. yes, it may make an art-critic of him." cornelia sat in a heavy muse, hearing and not hearing what she said. charmian bustled about, and made a fire of lightwood, and then kindled her spirit lamp, and made tea, which she brought to cornelia. "we may as well take it," she said. "we shall not sleep to-night anyway. what a strange ending to our happy evening. it's perfectly hawthornesque. don't you think it's like the _marble faun_, somehow? i believe you will rise to a higher life through this trouble, cornelia, just as donatello did through his crime. i can arrange it with mamma to be with you; and if i can't i shall just simply abandon her, and we will take a little flat like two newspaper girls that i heard of, and live together. we will get one down-town, on the east side." cornelia look the tea and drank it, but she could not speak. it would have been easier to bear if she had only had herself alone to blame, but mixed with her shame, and with her pity for him, was a sense of his want of wisdom in refusing to let her speak at once, when she wanted to tell him all about dickerson. that was her instinct; she had been right, and he wrong; she might be to blame for everything since, but he was to blame then and for that. now it was all wrong, and past undoing. she tried, in the reveries running along with what she was hearing of charmian's talk, every way of undoing it that she could imagine: she wrote to ludlow; she sent for him; she went to him; but it was all impossible. she did not wish to undo the wrong that she might have back her dream of happiness again; she had been willing to be less than true, and she could wish him to know that she hated herself for that. it went on and on, in her brain; there was no end to it; no way to undo the snarl that life had tangled itself up into. she looked at the clock on the mantel, and saw that it was three o'clock. "why don't you go to bed?" she asked charmian. "i shall not go to bed, i shall never go to bed," said charmian darkly. she added, "if you'll come with me, i will." "i can't," said cornelia, with a sort of dry anguish. she rose from where she had been sitting motionless so long. "let me lie down on that couch of yours, there. i'm tired to death." she went toward the alcove curtained off from the studio, and charmian put her arm round her to stay her and help. "don't. i can get along perfectly well." "i will lie down here with you," said charmian. "you won't mind?" "no, i shall like to have you." cornelia shivered as she sat down on the edge of this divan, and charmian ran back to put another stick of lightwood on the fire, and turn the gas down to a blue flame. she pulled down rugs and draperies, and dragged them toward the alcove for covering. "oh, how different it is from the way i always supposed it would be when i expected to sleep here!" she sank her voice to a ghostly whisper, and yawned. "now you go to sleep, cornelia; but if you want anything i shall be watching here beside you, and you must ask me. would you like anything now? an olive, or a--cracker?" "nothing," said cornelia, tumbling wearily upon the couch. charmian surveyed her white, drawn face with profound appreciation. then she stretched herself at her side, and in a little while cornelia knew by her long, regular breathing that she had found relief from the stress of sympathy in sleep. xxxvii. the cold north-light of the studio showed that it was broad day when a tap at the door roused cornelia from a thin drowse she had fallen into at dawn. she stirred, and charmian threw herself from the couch to her feet. "don't move--i'll get it--let me----" she tossed back the black mane that fell over her eyes and stared about her. "what--what is it? have i been asleep? oh, i never can forgive myself!" the tapping at the door began again, and she ran to open it. the inexorable housemaid was there; she said that mrs. maybough was frightened at her not finding either of the young ladies in their rooms, and had sent her to see if they were in the studio. "yes, tell her we are, please; we fell asleep on the couch, please; and, norah! we want our breakfast here. we are very--busy, and we can't be disturbed." she twisted her hair into a loose knot, and cowered over the hearth, where she kindled some pieces of lightwood, and then sat huddled before it, watching the murky roll of its flames, till the maid came back with the tray. charmian wished to bring cornelia a cup of coffee where she still lay, so crushed with the despair that had rolled back upon her with the first consciousness that she thought she never could rise again. but as the aroma of the coffee that charmian poured out stole to her, she found strength to lift herself on her elbow, and say, "no, i will take it there with you." the maid had put the tray on the low table where charmian usually served tea, but in spite of all the poignant associations of this piece of furniture with happier times, the two girls ate hungrily of the omelette and the vienna rolls; and by the time the maid had put the studio in order, and beaten up the cushions of the couch into their formal shape, they had cleared the tray, and she took it away with her quite empty. even in the house of mourning, and perhaps there more than elsewhere, the cravings of the animal, which hungers and thirsts on, whatever happens, satisfy themselves, while the spirit faints and despairs. perhaps if cornelia had thought of it she would not have chosen to starve to no visible end, but she did not think, and she ate ravenously as long as there was anything left, and when she had eaten, she felt so much stronger in heart and clearer in mind, that after the maid had gone she began, "charmian, i am going home, at once, and you mustn't try to stop me; i mean to mrs. montgomery's. i want to write to mr. ludlow. i shall tell him it is all true." "cornelia!" "yes; what else could i tell him?" "oh, you must! but must you write it?" "yes; i never can see him again, and i won't let him think that i want to, or to have him forgive me. he was to blame, but i was the most, for he might have thought it was just some little thing, and i knew what it was, and that it was something he ought to know at once. he will always believe now that it was worse than it is, if anything can be worse. i shall tell him that after i had seen mr. dickerson again, and knew just what a--a dreadful thing he was, i tolerated him, and lured him on----" "you _didn't_ lure him on, and i won't let you say such a thing, cornelia saunders," charmian protested. "you always did profess to have sense, and that isn't sense." "i never had any sense," said cornelia, "i can see that now. i have been a perfect fool from the beginning." "you may have been a fool," said charmian, judicially, "but you have not been false, and i am not going to let you say so. if you don't promise not to, i will tell mr. ludlow myself that you were always perfectly true, and you couldn't help being true, any more than a--a broomstick, or anything else that is perpendicular. now, will you promise?" "i will tell him just how everything was, and he can judge. but what difference? it's all over, and i wouldn't help it if i could." "yes, i know that," said charmian, "but that's all the more reason why you shouldn't go and say more than there is. he can't think, even if you're just to yourself, that you want to--wheedle." "wheedle!" cried cornelia. "well, not wheedle, exactly, but what would _be_ wheedling in some other girl--in me," said charmian, offering herself up. "will you let me see the letter before you send it? i do believe i've got more sense than you have about such things, this minute." "you wouldn't have any to brag of, even then," said cornelia with gloomy meekness, and unconscious sarcasm. "yes, i will let you see the letter." "well, then, you needn't go home to write it; you can write in your room here. i want to see that letter, and i sha'n't let it go if there's the least thing wrong in it." she jumped up gayly, as if this were the happiest possible solution of the whole difficulty, and began to push cornelia out of the room. "now go, and after you've put yourself in shape, and got your hair done, you'll have some self-respect. i suppose you won't begin to write till you're all as spick and span as if you were going to receive a call from him. i'm such a slouch that i should just sit down and write, looking every which-way--but i know you can't." she came back to the studio an hour later, and waited impatiently for cornelia's appearance. she was so long coming that charmian opened the door, to go and ask her some question, so as to get her to say that she would be with her in a moment, even if she didn't come, and almost ran against the man-servant, who was bringing her a card. she gave a little nervous shriek, and caught it from his salver. "for miss saunders, miss," he said, in respectful deprecation of her precipitate behavior. "yes, yes; it's all right. say that she--_is in the studio_." charmian spoke in thick gasps. the card was ludlow's; and between the man's going and ludlow's coming, she experienced a succession of sensations which were, perhaps, the most heroically perfect of any in a career so much devoted to the emotions. she did not stop to inquire what she should do after she got ludlow there, or to ask herself what he was coming for, a little after nine o'clock in the morning; she simply waited his approach in an abandon which exhausted the capabilities of the situation, and left her rather limp and languid when he did appear. if it had been her own affair she could not have entered into it with more zeal, more impassioned interest. so far as she reasoned her action at all, it was intended to keep ludlow, after she got him there, till cornelia should come, for she argued that if she should go for her cornelia would suspect something, and she would not come at all. xxxviii. when ludlow found charmian and not cornelia waiting for him, he managed to get through the formalities of greeting decently, but he had an intensity which he had the effect of not allowing to relax. he sat down with visible self-constraint when charmian invited him to do so. "miss saunders has just gone to her room; she'll be back in a moment." she added, with wild joy in a fact which veiled the truth, "she is writing a note." "oh!" said ludlow, and he was so clearly able not to say anything more that charmian instantly soared over him in smooth self-possession. "we were so sorry not to see you last night, mr. ludlow. it was a perfect success, except your not coming, of course." "thank you," said ludlow, "i was--i couldn't come--at the last moment." "yes, i understood you intended to come. i do wish you could have seen miss saunders! i don't believe she ever looked lovelier. i wanted her to go in costume, you know, but she wouldn't, and in fact when i saw her, i saw that she needn't. she doesn't have to eke herself out, as some people do." ludlow was aware of the opening for a civil speech, but he was quite helpless to use it. he stared blankly at charmian, who went on: "and then, cornelia is so perfectly truthful, you know, so sincere, that any sort of disguise would have been out of character with her, and i'm glad she went simply as herself. we were up so late talking, that we slept till i don't know when, this morning. i forgot to wind my clock. i suppose it's very late." "no," said ludlow, "it's so very early that i ought to apologize for coming, i suppose. but i wished to see miss saunders----" he stopped, feeling that he had given too rude a hint. charmian did not take it amiss. "oh, cornelia is usually up at all sorts of unnatural hours of the day. i expected when she came here to spend the week with me, we should have some fun, sitting up and talking, but last night is the only time we have had a real good talk, and i suppose that was because we were so excited that even cornelia couldn't go to sleep at once. i do wish you could have seen some of the costumes, mr. ludlow!" ludlow began to wonder whether cornelia had got his letter, or whether, if she had got it, she had kept the matter so carefully from charmian that she had not suspected anything was wrong. or, what was more likely, had not cornelia cared? was she glad to be released, and had she joyfully hailed his letter and its enclosure as a means of escape? his brain reeled with these doubts, which were the next moment relieved with the crazy hope that if his letter had not yet been delivered, he might recover it, and present the affair in the shape he had now come to give it. he believed that charmian must have some motive for what she was doing and saying beyond the hospitable purpose of amusing him till cornelia should appear. we always think that other people have distinct motives, but for the most part in our intercourse with one another we are really as superficially intentioned, when we are intentioned at all, as charmian was in wishing to get what sensation she could out of the dramatic situation by hovering darkly over it, and playing perilously about its circumference. she divined that he was not there to deepen its tragical tendency at least, and she continued without well knowing what she was going to say next: "yes, i think that the real reason why cornelia wouldn't go in costume was that she felt that it was a kind of subterfuge. she keeps me in a perfect twitter of self-reproach. i tell her i would rather have the conscience of the worst kind of person than hers; i could get along with it a great deal easier. don't you think you could, mr. ludlow?" "yes, yes," said ludlow aimlessly. he rose up, and pretended a curiosity about a sketch on the wall; he could not endure to sit still. "won't you have a cup of tea?" asked charmian. "cornelia and i had some last night, and----" "no, thank you," said ludlow. "do let me ring for some coffee, then?" "no, i have just breakfasted--that is, i have breakfasted----" "why, were _you_ up early, too?" said charmian, with what seemed to ludlow a supernatural shrewdness. "it's perfectly telepathic! the psychical research ought to have it. it would be such fun if we could get together and compare our reasons for waking so early. but cornelia and i didn't know just when we did wake, and i suppose the psychical research wouldn't care for it without. she seems to be writing a pretty long note, or a pretty hard one!" ludlow lifted his downcast eyes, and gave her a look that was ghastly. "did you look at your watch?" she asked. "look at my watch?" he returned in a daze. "when you woke, that is." "oh!" he groaned. "because----" charmian suddenly stopped and ran to the door, which cornelia opened before she could reach it. cornelia gave her a letter. "see if this will do," she said spiritlessly, and charmian caught it from her hand. "yes, yes, i'll read it," she said, as she slipped out of the door and shut cornelia in. cornelia saw ludlow, and made an instinctive movement of flight. "for pity's sake, don't go!" he implored. "i didn't know you were here," she said, the same dejection in her tone. "no, they told me you were here; but let me stay long enough to tell you---- that abominable letter--you ought never to have known that it existed. i don't expect you to forgive me; i don't ask you; but i am so ashamed; and i would do anything if i could recall--undo--cornelia! _isn't_ there any way of atoning for it? come! i don't believe a word of that scoundrel's. i don't know what his motive was, and i don't care. let it all be as if nothing of the kind had ever happened. dearest, don't speak of it, and i never will!" cornelia was tempted. she could see how he had wrought himself up to this pitch, and she believed that he would keep his word; we believe such miracles of those we love, before life has taught us that love cannot make nature err against itself. in his absence the duty she had to do was hard; in his presence it seemed impossible, now when he asked her not to do it. she had not expected ever to see him again, or to be tried in this way. she had just written it all to him, but she must speak it now. she had been weak, and had brought on herself the worst she had to tell, and should she be false, even though he wished it, and not tell? she forced the words out in a voice that hardly seemed her own at first. "no, we made a mistake; you did, and i did, too. there was something--something--i wanted to tell you at first, but you wouldn't let me, and i was glad you wouldn't; but it was all wrong, and now i have got to tell you, when everything is over, and it can never do any good." she gave a dry sob, and cast upon him a look of keen reproach, which he knew he deserved. "i _was_ engaged to him once. or," she added, as if she could not bear to see him blench, "he could think so. it was the year after you were in pymantoning." she went on and told him everything. she did not spare herself any fact that she thought he ought to know, and as she detailed the squalid history, it seemed to her far worse than it had ever been in her own thoughts of it. he listened patiently, and at the end he asked, "is that all?" "all?" "yes. i wanted to know just how much you have to forgive me." she looked at him stupefied. "yes, i ought to have let you tell me all this before, when you wanted to, at first. but i have been a romantic fool, and i have made you suffer for my folly. i have left you to think, all the time, that i might care for this; that i might not know that you were yourself through it all, or that i could care for you any the less because of it, when it only makes you dearer to me." "no!" she said for all protest, and he understood. "oh, i don't mean that you were always right in it, or always wise; but i can truly say it makes no difference with me except to make you dearer. if i had always had more sense than i had, you would not have to blame yourself for the only wrong or unwise thing you have done, and i am really to blame for that." she knew that he meant her having taken refuge from his apparent indifference in dickerson, when she fell below her ideal of herself. this was what she had thought at the time; it was the thought with which she had justified herself then, and she could not deny it now. she loved him for taking her blame away, and she said to strengthen herself for her doom, "well, it is all over!" "no," he said, "why is it over? don't be worse than i was. let us be reasonable about it! why shouldn't we talk of it as if we were other people? do you mean it is all over because you think i must be troubled by what you've told me, or because you can't forgive me for not letting you tell me before?" "you know which!" she said. "well, then, what should you think of some other man if he could care for such a thing, when some other girl had told it him of herself? you would think him very unjust and----" "but it isn't some other man; it isn't some other girl!" "no, i'm glad it isn't. but can't we reason about it as if it were?" "no, we can't. it would be--wicked." "it would be wicked not to. do you think you ought to break our engagement because i didn't let you tell me this at first?" cornelia could not say that she did; she could hardly say, "i don't know." ludlow assumed that she had said more. "then if you don't think you ought to do it for that, do you think you ought to do it for nothing?" "for nothing?" cornelia asked herself. was there really nothing else, then? she stood looking at him, as if she were asking him that aloud. he was not so far off as when they began to talk, just after they had risen, and now he suddenly came much nearer still. "are you going to drive me from you because i don't care for all this?" "you ought to care," she persisted. "but if i don't? if i can't? then what is the reason you won't let it all be as if nothing had happened? ah, i see! you can't forgive me for sending you his letter! well, i deserve to be punished for that!" "no; i should have despised you if you hadn't----" "well?" she was silent, looking at the floor. he put his arm round her, and pushed her head down on his shoulder. "oh, how silly!" she said, with lips muted against his own. xxxix. cornelia and ludlow were married at pymantoning in the latter part of june, and he spent the summer there, working at a picture which he was going to exhibit in the fall. at the same time he worked at a good many other pictures, and he helped cornelia with the things she was trying. he painted passages and incidents in her pictures, sometimes illustratively, and sometimes for the pleasure of having their lives blended in their work, and he tried to see how nearly he could lose his work in hers. he pretended that he learned more than he taught in the process, and that he felt in her efforts a determining force, a clear sense of what she wanted to do, that gave positive form and direction to what was vague and speculative in himself. he was strenuous that she should not, in the slightest degree, lapse from her ideal and purpose, or should cease to be an artist in becoming a wife. he contended that there was no real need of that, and though it had happened in most of the many cases where artists had married artists, he held that it had happened through the man's selfishness and thoughtlessness, and not through the conditions. he was resolved that cornelia should not lose faith in herself from want of his appreciation, or from her own over-valuation of his greater skill and school; and he could prove to any one who listened that she had the rarer gift. he did not persuade her, with all his reasons, but her mother faithfully believed him. it had never seemed surprising to her that cornelia should win a man like ludlow; she saw no reason why cornelia should not; and she could readily accept the notion of cornelia's superiority when he advanced it. she was not arrogant about it; she was simply and entirely satisfied; and she was every moment so content with cornelia's husband that cornelia herself had to be a little critical of him in self-defence. she called him a dreamer and theorist; she ran him down to the burtons, and said he would never come to anything, because artists who talked well never painted so well. she allowed that he talked divinely, and it would not have been safe for mrs. burton to agree with her otherwise; but mrs. burton was far too wise a woman to do so. she did not, perhaps, ride so high a horse as mrs. saunders in her praises of ludlow, but it would have been as impossible to unseat her. she regarded herself as somehow the architect of cornelia's happiness in having discovered ludlow and believed in him long before cornelia met him, and she could easily see that if he had not come out to visit burton, that first time, they would never have met at all. mrs. saunders could joyfully admit this without in the least relinquishing her own belief, so inarticulate that it was merely part of her personal consciousness, that this happiness was of as remote an origin as the foundations of the world. she could see, now, that nothing else could have been intended from the beginning, but she did not fail at the same time to credit herself with forethought and wisdom in bracing cornelia against the overtures of dickerson when he reappeared in her life. burton, of course, advanced no claim to recognition in the affair. he enjoyed every moment of ludlow's stay in pymantoning, and gave his work a great deal of humorous attention and gratuitous criticism, especially the picture he was chiefly engaged upon. this, when it was shown at the county fair, where ludlow chose to enter it, before he took it back to now york with him in the fall, did not keep the crowd away from the trotting-matches, and it did not take either the first or the second premium. in fact, if the critics of the metropolis were right in their judgment of it when it appeared later in the academy, it did not deserve either of them. they said that it was an offence to those who had hoped better things of the painter as time went on with him, and who would now find themselves snubbed by this return to his worst manner. here, they said, was his palette again, with a tacit invitation to the public to make what it liked of the colors, as children did with the embers on the hearth, or the frost on the window. you paid your money and you took your choice as to what mr. ludlow meant by this extraordinary performance, if he really meant anything at all. as far as it could be made out with the naked eye, it represented a clump of hollyhocks, with a slim, shadowy and uncertain young girl among them, and the painter had apparently wished to suggest a family, resemblance among them all. to this end he had emphasized some facts of the girl's dress, accessories to his purpose, the petal-edged ruffle of her crimson silk waist, the flower-like flare of her red hat, and its finials of knotted ribbon; and in the hollyhocks he had recognized a girlishness of bearing, which he evidently hoped would appeal to a fantastic sympathy in the spectator. the piece was called "hollyhocks"; it might equally well be called "girls," though when you had called it one or the other, it would be hard to say just what you were to do about it, especially with the impression curiously left by the picture that whether it was a group of girls, or a clump of hollyhocks, they were not in very good humor. the moment chosen, if one might judge from some suggestions of light, was that just before the breaking of a thunderstorm; the girl, if it was a girl, had flashed into sight round the corner of the house where the hollyhocks, if they were hollyhocks, were blowing outward in the first gust of the storm. it could not be denied that there was something fine in the wild toss and pull of the flowers, with the abandon of the storm in them; this was the best thing in the piece. it was probably intended to express a moment of electric passion; but there was something so forced, and at the same time so ineffectual in the execution of the feebly fantastic design, that it became the duty of impartial criticism, to advise mr. ludlow, if he must continue to paint at all, to paint either girls or flowers, but not both at once, or both together, or convertibly. ludlow did not mind these criticisms much, being pretty well used to that kind of thing, and feeling secure of his public in any event; but cornelia was deeply vexed. she knew that it must be evident to those who knew her and knew him that she was the girl and she was the hollyhocks, and though the origin of the picture was forever hid in the memories of their first meeting, she was aware of a measure of justice in the censure that condemned it for obscurity. she had not wished him to show it, but here, as often elsewhere, she found him helpless to yield to her, even though he confessed that she was right. he did not try to justify himself, and he did not explain himself very clearly. "i don't know how it is about one's work, exactly. up to a certain point you are master over it, and it seems to belong absolutely to you; but beyond that it is its own master and does what it pleases with itself. of course i could have kept from showing that picture, and yet--i must." "well, at least, then, you can keep from selling it," said cornelia. "i want it; give it to me." "my dear, i will buy it for you. mrs. maybough became the owner of the picture, yesterday, but i will offer her an advance on the price she paid." cornelia now thought she was really angry with him for the first time since their marriage. she would not speak at once, but when she did speak, it was to say, "no, let her keep it. i know charmian made her buy it and i wouldn't like to take it from her. she has so much imagination that maybe she can see some meaning in it and it will always be such a pleasure to her to explain it even if she can't." charmian made the ludlows a bohemian dinner as soon as the people whom she wanted got back to town. she said it was a bohemian dinner, and she asked artists, mostly; but of course she had the westleys and their friend mrs. rangeley. there were several of the synthesis girls, who said the synthesis would never be itself again without cornelia, and there were some of the students, nice fellows, whom charmian had liked; there were, of course, the wetmores. ludlow's picture was in evidence in a place of honor, especially created for it, and wetmore said, when they sat down at dinner, "well, ludlow, all _this_ company can tell where you got your hollyhocks." cornelia turned the color of the reddest in the picture, and wetmore recognized her consciousness with the added remark, "oh, you'll be in all his imaginative pictures, now, mrs. ludlow. that's the fate of the wife of an imaginative painter. but you really must get him to keep you out of his portraits." charmian checked herself in a wild laugh, and sent cornelia a look of fond and proud intelligence, which mrs. rangeley tapped, as it were, on its way up the length of the table. "o mrs. ludlow!" she entreated. "what is it? i hope it isn't professional envy! is he afraid of mr. ludlow becoming too popular?" ludlow answered for his wife, "mrs. rangeley, that was worthy even of you," and he boldly kissed his hand to her. the dinner was remembered for several weeks as one of the pleasantest people had ever been at, and it established mrs. maybough in such social acceptance that she was asked to the first of the westley dinners, where swells prevailed, and where she was as null as any of them. but although charmian was apparently radiant the whole evening, and would hardly let cornelia go away at the end, she wanted her to stay so and talk it over, she had a girl's perverseness in not admitting the perfection of the occasion to mrs. maybough, when she said, "well, my dear, i hope your dinner was bohemian enough for you." "bohemian!" she retorted. "it wasn't bohemian at all. you oughtn't to have taken the ladies away at coffee. they ought to have stayed and had cigarettes with the gentlemen." "my dear, you know that the mere smell of tobacco makes you sick!" "no matter, i should--if i could only have seen cornelia ludlow smoking--i should have been willing to _die_. and now--now, i'm afraid she's going to be perfectly respectable!" * * * * * harper's magazine one hundredth volume . . . fiftieth year . . . cents a copy $ . a year the best all around magazine published in this country.--_boston journal._ we doubt if a better magazine was ever published anywhere.--_brooklyn eagle._ harper's averages much higher than its contemporaries.--_san francisco wave._ there is no better magazine than harper's.--_baltimore american._ harper's unquestionably leads all the illustrated monthlies.--_n.y. university magazine._ harper's is the magazine for the million, because the million will have it.--_christian advocate_, n.y. harper's new monthly is decidedly an institution of american literature.--_boston saturday evening express._ harper's magazine is stupendous.--_chicago news._ cents a copy $ . a year for sale everywhere by william dean howells ragged lady. a novel. $ . . the story of a play. a novel. $ . . the landlord at lion's head. a novel. illustrated. $ . . my literary passions. $ . . the day of their wedding. a story. illustrated by t. de thulstru. $ . . a traveler from altruria. a romance. $ . . the coast of bohemia. a novel. illustrated. $ . . the world of chance. a novel. $ . . annie kilburn. a novel. $ . . an imperative duty. a novel. $ . . an open-eyed conspiracy. an idyl of saratoga. $ . . the quality of mercy. a novel. $ . . a hazard of new fortunes. a novel. two volumes. $ . . april hopes. a novel. $ . . the shadow of a dream. a story, $ . . modern italian poets. essays and versions. with portraits. $ . . the mouse-trap, and other farces. ill'd. $ . . _uniform library edition. post octavo, cloth_. * * * * * impressions and experiences. essays. post vo, cloth, ornamental, uncut edges and gilt top, $ . . criticism and fiction. with portrait. mo, cloth, $ . . by brander matthews outlines in local color. illustrated. post vo. cloth, ornamental, $ . . aspects of fiction, and other ventures in criticism. post vo. cloth, ornamental, uncut edges and gilt top, $ . . tales of fantasy and fact. with an illustration by a. b. frost. post vo, cloth, ornamental, $ . . his father's son. a novel of new york. illustrated by t. de thulstrup. post vo, cloth, ornamental, $ . . vignettes of manhattan. illustrated by w. t. smedley. post vo, cloth, ornamental, $ . . the story of a story, and other stories. illustrated. mo, cloth, ornamental, $ . . studies of the stage. with portrait. mo, cloth, ornamental, $ . . americanisms and briticisms, with other essays on other isms. with portrait. mo, cloth, ornamental, $ . . the royal marine. an idyl of narragansett pier. illustrated. mo, cloth, ornamental, $ . . this picture and that. a comedy. illustrated. mo, cloth, ornamental, cents. the decision of the court. a comedy. illustrated. cloth, ornamental, cents. in the vestibule limited. a story. illustrated. mo, cloth, ornamental, cents. professor matthews's style has grace and fluency, he has a clear insight, and he writes with the felicity of one thoroughly conversant with literature.--_brooklyn eagle._ mr. matthews writes as a student of life and a cultivated man of the world. his stories are finished with a high degree of art. it is always a pleasure to meet with an essay in fiction from his expertly wielded pen.--_boston beacon._ * * * * * harper & brothers, publishers new york and london _any of the above works will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of the price._ by charles dudley warner that fortune. post vo, half leather, $ . . "that fortune" is a vivid and powerful portrayal of new york life. it is the third in a trilogy, being in a way a sequel to "a little journey in the world" and "the golden house." the people for whom shakespeare wrote. mo, cloth, ornamental, deckel edges and gilt top, $ . . the relation of literature to life. post vo, cloth, ornamental, uncut edges and gilt top, $ . . (in "harper's contemporary essayists.") the golden house. illustrated by w. t. smedley. post vo, ornamental half leather, uncut edges and gilt top, $ . . a little journey in the world. a novel. post vo, half leather, uncut edges and gilt top, $ . ; paper, cents. their pilgrimage. illustrated by c. s. reinhart. post vo, half leather, uncut edges and gilt top, $ . . studies in the south and west, with comments on canada. post vo, half leather, uncut edges and gilt top, $ . as we go. with portrait and illustrations. mo, cloth, ornamental, $ . . (in "harper's american essayists.") as we were saying. with portrait and illustrations. mo, cloth, ornamental, $ . . (in "harper's american essayists.") the work of washington irving. with portraits. mo, cloth, ornamental, cents. (in black and white series.) mr. warner has such a fine fancy, such a genial humor, that one never tires of him.--_cincinnati commercial gazette._ * * * * * harper & brothers, publishers new york and london _any of the above works will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of this price._ note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) a little maid of old philadelphia by alice turner curtis author of a little maid of province town a little maid of massachusetts colony a little maid of narragansett bay a little maid of bunker hill a little maid of ticonderoga a little maid of old connecticut a little maid of old maine illustrated by edna cooke [illustration: she looked up to find lafayette smiling at her] the penn publishing company philadelphia copyright by the penn publishing company a little maid of old philadelphia introduction ruth pernell and winifred merrill lived in philadelphia. the city had been for some time in the hands of general howe and the british army. ruth's father was with washington at valley forge, and the little girls were ardent supporters of the american cause, and admirers of the gallant young frenchman, the marquis de lafayette. children in were much like those of to-day, and ruth and her friends, eager as they were for the war to end successfully, were fond of dolls and pets, and games and little plays. yet they kept their ears open, and when ruth overheard what two british soldiers said she knew how to make good use of her knowledge. in each of the other "little maid" books is the story of an american girl during the revolution. the other stories are: "a little maid of province town," "a little maid of massachusetts colony." "a little maid of bunker hill," "a little maid of narragansett bay," "a little maid of ticonderoga," "a little maid of old connecticut." contents i. hero is lost ii. gilbert and lafayette iii. ruth visits general howe iv. aunt deborah is surprised v. ruth decides vi. a difficult day vii. gilbert's play viii. betty runs away ix. betty's adventure x. the lost programme xi. a long road xii. a long ride xiii. home again xiv. the candy disappears xv. a fairy story xvi. betty and annette xvii. queen betty xviii. a great resolve xix. the visit xx. lafayette's visit xxi. at home illustrations page she looked up to find lafayette smiling at her _frontispiece_ "'tis a lady coming to call" it was a favorite play-house "the first of may is garland day" the big horse trotted down the street a little maid of old philadelphia chapter i hero is lost "where do you suppose hero can be, aunt deborah? he isn't anywhere about the house, or in the shed or the garden," and ruth pernell's voice sounded as if she could hardly keep back the tears as she stood in the doorway of the pleasant kitchen where aunt deborah was at work. "do you suppose the british have taken him?" she asked a little fearfully; for it was the spring of , when the british troops were in philadelphia, and ruth was quite sure that every english soldier who saw hero must want him for his own. the dog was her dearest possession. on her tenth birthday, nearly a year before, her father had given her hero for a birthday present; and now that her father was with washington's army his gift seemed even more precious to his little daughter. aunt deborah looked at ruth for a moment before she answered, and ruth became conscious that her brown hair was rough and untidy from running about the garden in the march wind, that her hands were not clean, and that there was an ugly rent in her blue checked apron where it had caught on a nail in the shed. "was it not yesterday that thee declared hero was stolen, only to find that he had followed winifred merrill home? and on sunday, thee was sure he had been killed, because he did not appear the first time thee called," responded aunt deborah reprovingly. aunt deborah was not very large, and her smooth round face under the neat cap, such as quaker women wear, was usually smiling and friendly; but it always seemed to ruth that no least bit of dirt or untidiness ever escaped those gray eyes. "do you suppose he is at winifred's? i wish she wouldn't let him follow her," and ruth's tone was troubled. of course winifred was her dearest friend, but ruth was not willing that hero should divide his loyalty. "very likely," responded aunt deborah, "but thee must smooth thy hair, wash thy hands and change thy apron before thee goes to inquire; and put on thy hat. it is not seemly for a girl to run about the street bareheaded." "oh, aunt deborah! only to go next door!" pleaded ruth, but aunt deborah only nodded; so ruth went to her own room and in a few minutes was back tying the broad brown ribbons of her hat under her chin as she ran through the kitchen. "i do hope mother will come home soon," the little girl thought as she went down the front steps to the street; "aunt deborah is so fussy." mrs. pernell had been away for a week caring for her sister who lived in germantown, near philadelphia, and who was ill; and aunt deborah mary farleigh had come in from her home at barren hill, twelve miles distant, to stay with ruth during mrs. pernell's absence. as ruth ran up the steps of her friend's house the front door opened, and winifred appeared. "oh, ruthie! where are you going?" she asked smilingly. winifred was just a month older than ruth, and they were very nearly the same size. they both had blue eyes; but ruth's hair was of a darker brown than winifred's. they had both attended the same school until lord cornwallis with his troops entered philadelphia; since that time each little girl had been taught at home. "is hero here?" ruth asked, hardly noticing her friend's question. winifred shook her head. "are you _sure_, winifred? perhaps he ran in your garden and you didn't see him," said ruth. "well, we'll see. we'll call him," winifred replied, holding the door open for ruth to come in. the merrill and pernell houses were separated by a high brick wall, and each house stood near the street with broad gardens on each side as well as at the rear. the two friends went through the house, and out on a narrow porch and ruth called, "hero! hero!" but there was no welcoming bark, no sight of the brown shepherd dog. they went about the yard calling, and winifred's older brother gilbert, who was preparing a garden bed near the further wall, assured them that the dog had not been there that morning. "then he is lost! what shall i do!" said ruth despairingly. "i do believe the english have taken him. only yesterday, on second street, when aunt deborah and i were coming home, an officer patted him and called him a 'fine dog,'" she continued quickly. gilbert and winifred both looked very serious at this statement. gilbert was fourteen years old. he was tall for his age, and thought himself quite old enough to be a soldier; but as his father and elder brother were both in washington's army he realized that he must stay at home and take care of his mother and winifred. "i have a mind to go straight to high street and tell general howe," said ruth, "for i heard my mother say that the english general would not permit his soldiers to take what did not belong to them." gilbert shook his head soberly. "that may be true; but you are not sure that your dog has been stolen," he said. "you had best wait a while. hero may have wandered off and may come home safely. i'd not ask any favors of america's enemies," he concluded, picking up his spade and turning back to his work. "it wouldn't be a favor to ask for what belonged to me," ruth answered sharply. but gilbert's words made her more hopeful; winifred was sure that gilbert was right, and that hero would come safely home. "come up to my room, ruthie; mother has given me her scrap-bag. i can have all the pieces of silk and chintz to make things for my dolls, and you can pick out something to make your cecilia a bonnet, and perhaps a cape." "oh! truly, winifred?" responded ruth, almost forgetting hero in this tempting offer. the two little girls ran up the broad stairway to winifred's room, which was at the back of the house overlooking the garden. the two windows had broad window-seats, and on one of these, in a small chair, made of stiff pasteboard and covered with a flowered chintz, sat "josephine," winifred's most treasured doll. josephine wore a very full skirt of crimson silk, a cape of the same material, and on her head rested a bonnet of white silk, on the front of which was a tall white feather. there were two smaller dolls, and each occupied a chair exactly like the one in which josephine was seated, but neither of them was so beautifully dressed. "i made that bonnet myself," winifred declared, as ruth knelled down beside the dolls and exclaimed admiringly over josephine's fine apparel. "and that feather is one that came floating into our garden. gilbert says it's an eagle's feather," she continued. "it is lovely!" ruth said, "and this window is the nicest place to play dolls in all philadelphia. and these dolls' chairs are splendid. i wish i had one for cecilia." "well, why don't you make one? i helped grandma make these. all you have to do is cut the pieces out of cardboard, cover them with cloth, and sew them together. i'll help you," said winifred, as she opened a closet door and drew out a brown linen bag. "this is the scrap-bag. look, ruthie;" and she drew out a long strip of plaided silk. "that would make a lovely sash for cecilia," said ruth, "but of course it would be nice for josephine," she added quickly, half-afraid that she had seemed grasping of winifred's possessions. "josephine doesn't like a sash," said winifred. "you take it home and tell cecilia it's a present from aunt winifred." then there was a roll of small pieces of pale blue satin; just right to make a bonnet for ruth's doll. for some time the little girls played happily with the bright pieces of silk, selecting bits for one or the other of the dolls, so that when the big clock in the hall struck twelve ruth jumped up in surprise. "oh, winnie! it's dinner-time! what will aunt deborah say to me?" she exclaimed, putting on her hat, and gathering up the silk pieces. "thank you, winnie! i must run. aunt deborah doesn't like me to be late, ever," she said, hurrying toward the stairway. "come over to-morrow and i'll help you make a doll's chair; and i hope you'll find hero safe at home," winifred called after her as ruth ran down the stairs. at winifred's words all ruth's pleasure in the morning's play, in the pretty bits of silk for her dolls, and the plan for making the chairs, vanished. hero was lost; she knew he was. with his silky coat, and his faithful, soft brown eyes, his eager bark of welcome when his little mistress came running into the garden for a game of hide-and-go-seek with him. aunt deborah had spread the table for dinner, which was one of ruth's regular duties; and when ruth came slowly into the room she was just bringing in a dish of baked potatoes hot from the oven. "i didn't find hero," said ruth, throwing her little package of silks on a chair and then her hat on top of it. "what shall i do, aunt deborah? what shall i do? i am sure one of those english soldiers has taken him," and now ruth began to cry. "ruth! stop thy foolish crying. thy dinner is waiting. go to thy room and make thyself tidy," commanded aunt deborah, "and take thy hat and package," she added. ruth obeyed rather reluctantly. "all aunt deborah thinks about is keeping 'tidy,'" she whispered rebelliously as she left the room. "i've washed my hands three times already to-day. she doesn't care if hero is lost. probably she's glad, because his paws are dirty." but ruth was mistaken; aunt deborah had spent an hour that morning in going up and down the alley looking for the missing dog, and in a careful search of the house and garden. she valued hero's faithfulness; and not even ruth herself would have been more pleased than aunt deborah to hear his bark, and see him jump forward from his usual playground in the garden. "perhaps hero has wandered off," aunt deborah said when ruth took her place at the table, "but he will come back, i doubt not, before nightfall." "if he doesn't i shall go and tell the british general that he must find him," declared ruth, somewhat to aunt deborah's amusement; who was quite sure that the little girl would not dare to approach general howe, who had comfortably established himself in one of the fine houses on high street. chapter ii gilbert and lafayette two days passed and there was no tidings of the missing dog; and even aunt deborah began to fear that they should never see him again. it was very difficult for ruth to attend to the tasks that aunt deborah set for her; for all she could think of was hero. gilbert merrill had gone about the city making inquiries, but no one had seen hero, or could tell him anything about ruth's dog. aunt deborah was very sorry for her little niece, but she still insisted that ruth should dust the dining-room as carefully each morning as if hero was safe in the yard; that the little girl should knit her stint on the gray wool sock, intended for some loyal soldier, and sew for a half hour each afternoon. ruth dropped stitches in her knitting, for a little blur of tears hid her work from sight when she thought that perhaps her dear hero might be hurt, unable to find his way home; or perhaps he was shut up somewhere by some cruel person who did not care if he was fed or not. aunt deborah was very patient with the little girl. she picked up the dropped stitches in the knitting; and when she found how uneven a seam ruth was stitching she picked out the threads without a word of reproof. but on the second day, as they sat at work in the little sewing-room at the top of the stairs, ruth threw down her knitting and began to cry. "i can't knit! i can't do anything until hero is found. you know i can't, aunt deborah. and i do wish my mother would come home," she sobbed. aunt deborah did not speak for a moment. she had no little girls of her own, and she often feared that she might not know what was exactly right for her little niece. so she never spoke hastily. "for thy sake, dear child, i wish that thy mother were here: but it is very pleasant for me to have thy company, ruth," she said in her musical, even voice. "would thee not like to go and play with winifred? but be sure thy hair is smooth." but ruth made no reply. she stopped crying, however, and looked up at aunt deborah. "didn't you like hero?" she asked. aunt deborah knitted on until she came to the last stitch on her needle, then she lay down her work, and looked at ruth with her pleasant smile. "indeed, i liked hero," she said; "but suppose i decided that because he was lost i would no longer prepare thy breakfast or dinner? that i would not see that thy mother's house was in order. thee would truly think i had but little sense. it does not prove thy liking to cry because thy dog is lost; to fix thy thoughts on thy own feelings and leave thy tasks for me to do. it does not help bring hero back. now, put on thy hat and cape and we will walk toward the river. i have an errand to do," and aunt deborah got up and went to her own room to put on her long gray cape and the gray bonnet that she always wore on the street. she was waiting in the front hall when ruth came slowly down the stairs. she had put on her brown straw hat, whose ribbons tied beneath her chin, and the pretty cape of blue cloth; for there was a sharp little march wind, although the sun shone brightly. ruth's face was very sober; there were traces of tears on her cheeks. she wished that she had said she would rather play with winifred; but it was too late now. "we need many things, but i fear 'twill not be easy to purchase either good cotton cloth or a package of pepper," aunt deborah said as they turned on to second street. "there was but little in the shops when the british came, and of that little they have taken for themselves so there is not much left for the people." "they have taken hero, i know they have!" ruth replied. "i wish washington would come and drive the english out." "oh! ho! so here is a small rebel declaring treason right to the face of an officer of the king!" and ruth, surprised and frightened, felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked up to find a tall soldier in a red coat with shining buttons and bands of gilt looking at her with evident amusement. "you had best whisper such words as those, young lady," he added sternly, and passed on, leaving ruth and aunt deborah standing surprised and half-frightened. "this is an american city," aunt deborah announced calmly, as they walked on. "these intruders can stay but a time. but they have sharp ears, indeed. does thee know why thy father named thy dog 'hero'?" she continued, looking down at ruth. "oh, yes! father said 'hero' meant courage and honor; and so it was the right name for such a fine dog," ruth answered quickly. "aunt deborah! what was that?" she added, stopping short. for she had heard a familiar bark. but aunt deborah had heard nothing. they were passing a house where a number of soldiers were sitting on the porch smoking. "i heard hero bark. he is in that house," ruth declared, and before aunt deborah could say a word to prevent such a rash act ruth had run up the steps. "have you found a lost dog, if you please?" she asked, half-frightened, when she found herself facing two red-faced soldiers who looked at her as if she were some wild bird that had flown to the porch. before they could reply aunt deborah's hand was on ruth's arm, and the little girl heard her aunt saying: "thee must pardon the child. she has lost her dog, and is greatly troubled. she means no harm." the younger of the two men stood up and bowed politely, and held his hat in his hand until aunt deborah had led ruth back to the street; but neither of the men had answered her question. "oh, aunt deborah! what made you? i know hero is in that house. i heard him bark. you spoiled it all," sobbed ruth, as aunt deborah, holding her fast by the hand, hurried toward home, quite forgetting the errands she wished to do. aunt deborah sighed to herself. she began to fear that ruth was a difficult child; and that perhaps she did not know the right way to deal with little girls. but she did not reprove ruth either for her rash act or for speaking with so little regard of aunt deborah's authority. "may i go in and see winifred?" ruth asked when they reached home, and aunt deborah gave her permission. "oh, winifred! i know where hero is," ruth declared, as the two friends went up to winifred's room, and she hastened to tell the adventures of the walk with aunt deborah. "i am going back after him, winifred, and you must come with me," she concluded. but winifred said that her mother was out, and that she must not leave the house until her return. she looked at ruth admiringly. "i think you were brave, ruth, to ask those soldiers. but i don't believe they would give you back hero if you do go back. perhaps they would make you a prisoner," she said a little fearfully; and at last ruth reluctantly agreed not to go after the dog that day. the little girls decided that the best way would be to go straight to general howe and tell him that one of his soldiers had taken hero, and was keeping him from his rightful owner. "i'll go to-morrow. but we must not let aunt deborah know," said ruth, and winifred promised to keep the plan a secret. now that there seemed a hope of rescuing her dog ruth was nearly her own happy self again. winifred got out some squares of pasteboard and very carefully marked out patterns of the back and sides, as well as for the seat, for the dolls' chair. then she went to find gilbert to borrow his knife with which to cut the cardboard; and before ruth started for home the pieces were all ready to be covered. as the two little friends sat in the pleasant window-seat winifred said: "what do you think, ruthie! gilbert wants to change his name. he wants us to call him lafayette!" and winifred laughed, as if she thought the idea very funny. "why, i think that is splendid!" ruth replied, her blue eyes shining at the thought of a "lafayette" next door to her own home. for all the children of philadelphia knew the story of the brave young frenchman, hardly more than a boy himself, who had left all the comforts of his paris home to share the danger and privations of the american soldiers. he had visited philadelphia the previous summer, , soon after his arrival in america. gilbert had seen the handsome young officer, and ever since then he had pleaded that he might be called "lafayette" instead of gilbert. "if i were a boy i should wish my name 'lafayette,'" declared ruth. "i wish we could do something for him, don't you, winifred?" "yes; but what could two little girls do for him? why, he is a hero, and a friend of washington's," winifred responded. neither ruth nor winifred imagined that it would be only a few months before one of them would do a great service for the gallant young frenchman. chapter iii ruth visits general howe aunt deborah was unusually quiet in her manner toward her little niece when ruth came home with the cardboard ready to be covered. she did not ask ruth to set the table for supper, but began to spread the cloth herself. "i will do that, aunt deborah. you know i always do," ruth said, laying down the parts for the dolls' chair, and coming toward the table. "i will do it. thou mayst go to thy room, ruth; i will call thee when supper is ready," aunt deborah replied, without a glance at the little girl. ruth felt her face flush uncomfortably as she suddenly recalled the way in which she had spoken to aunt deborah after her aunt had led her away from the porch where the english soldiers were sitting, and where ruth was sure hero was hidden. she went up the stairs very slowly to her own chamber, a small room opening from the large front room where aunt deborah slept. she sat down near the window, feeling not only ashamed but very unhappy. "if my mother were only here i shouldn't be sent off up-stairs. i don't like aunt deborah," she exclaimed, and looked up to see her aunt standing in the doorway. for a moment the two looked at each other, and ruth could see that aunt deborah was trying very hard to keep back the tears. then the door closed, very softly, and ruth was again alone. "oh, dear," she whispered, "and i promised my mother to do everything i could to help aunt deborah, and now she heard me say that i don't like her," and ruth leaned her head against the arm of the big chair in which she had curled up and began to cry, quite sure that no little girl in all philadelphia had as much reason for unhappiness as herself. after a little she wiped her eyes, and began to think over her misfortunes: first of all, hero was lost. then came all the troubles that, it seemed to ruth, aunt deborah was to blame for. as she said them over to herself they appeared sufficient reasons for her dislike: "she is always fussing. always telling me to brush my hair, or wash my hands, or not to soil my dress. and i do believe she is glad that hero is lost, and does not wish me to find him because he brings dirt into the house." as ruth finished a sudden resolve came into her mind. she would not wait for the next day before going to general howe to tell her story of hero's disappearance, and of being sure that he had been taken by an english soldier. she would go at once. if she waited perhaps aunt deborah would find some way of preventing the carrying out of the plan. "perhaps if general howe thought i was a grown-up lady, or nearly grown up, he would pay more attention than to what a little girl might ask," thought ruth. and then a great idea flashed into her mind: she would pretend to be grown up. "i'll wear mother's best dress, and do up my hair and wear her bonnet," she decided; and opening her chamber door she ran through aunt deborah's room to the deep closet where her mother's best dress, a pretty gown of russet-colored silk, was hanging. ruth pulled it down, slipped it on over her dress of stout brown gingham, and began to fasten it. "i didn't know my mother was so big," she thought regretfully, as she managed to turn back the long sleeves, and glanced down at the full breadths of the skirt which lay in a big waving circle about her feet. "i'll have to hold it up as high as i can to walk at all." in a few minutes the dress was fastened, and she managed to pin up her hair; and now she drew out the bandbox containing her mother's best bonnet. it was made of a pretty shade of brown velvet, with a wreath of delicate green leaves, and strings of pale green ribbon. ruth tied the strings firmly under her chin. the bonnet came well down over her face, nearly hiding her ears, but the little girl thought this was very fortunate, as it would prevent any one discovering who she was, if she should happen to meet any friend or acquaintance. she began to feel hurried and a little afraid that aunt deborah might call her to supper before she could escape from the house. holding up the brown silk skirt, and stepping very carefully, she made her way down the stairs, opened the front door, and with a long breath of relief, found herself standing on the front porch. the late afternoon was already growing shadowy with the approach of twilight; and there was no one to be seen on the quiet street as ruth, holding her skirt up in front while the sides and back trailed about her on the dirty pavement, walked hurriedly along toward high street. "i'll walk more like a grown-up lady when i get near the general's house," she resolved. "won't winifred be surprised when she knows that the english general thought i really was grown up?" and ruth gave a little laugh of delight at the thought of her friend's astonishment, quite forgetting all the troubles that had seemed so overpowering an hour before. as she turned into high street she found herself facing the amused stare of two young ladies who were hurrying home from an afternoon walk. "i suppose they were laughing because i was holding up my skirt," thought ruth, quite unconscious of her absurd appearance, "but i'll have to, for i couldn't walk a step if i didn't," she decided. [illustration: "'tis a lady coming to call"] two english soldiers were on guard at the entrance of the fine mansion that the english general had taken from its rightful owner for his own use; and as ruth, now half afraid to go up the steps, stood looking up at them a little fearfully, one of them noticed the queer little figure, and, quite forgetting his dignity, chuckled with amusement. "look, dick! here is a lady admiring our fine uniforms," he said, calling his companion's attention to ruth, whose gown now trailed about her, and whose bonnet had slipped to one side. "'tis a lady coming to call on the general," responded "dick," with a wink at the first speaker. "did you wish to see general howe, madam?" he continued, looking down at ruth, while his companion chuckled with delight. "yes, if you please," ruth managed to reply, beginning to feel a little afraid, and wishing that she had waited until the next day when winifred might have come with her. "kindly walk up the steps, madam, and i will announce you to the general," continued the young soldier, welcoming the hope of a little amusement to break the monotony of his daily duties. ruth obeyed, stumbling a little as she reached the top. "and what name shall i say?" dick asked, bowing very low. "mistress ruth dilling ham pernell, if you please, sir," ruth replied, gaining a little courage, and trying to stand as tall as possible, hardly sure if the young soldier was really laughing at her, or if he believed her dress to be a proof of at least twenty years of experience. "'twill be good sport for the general and his friends. they are just sitting down to dinner," "dick" whispered to the other guard, as he swung open the big door and ushered ruth into the hall, and then led the way toward the dining-room. "what nonsense is this, dick? we are not rehearsing any play just now," called a gay voice; and ruth and the young soldier were confronted by a tall officer whom ruth instantly recognized as the same who had called her a "rebel" that very afternoon on second street. she became really frightened. suppose he should remember her, and tell general howe what she had said about washington driving the english from the city? it might be that, just as winifred had said, and they would put her in prison. she wished she were safely at home with aunt deborah. but "dick" was speaking to the handsome young officer. "ah, now, major andré, 'twill be as good as any comedy you have seen in south street," he declared, "and the general will be well pleased. no harm shall come to the child." "well, i'll not interfere. this is a dull town at best," responded the young officer laughingly, and without another glance at ruth, he entered the dining-room, with a word to the soldier who stood at the door. the big door was now swung wide open by two servants in the livery of the english general. just beyond them stood major andré, who bowed very low as ruth entered, and said: "general howe, a lady who greatly desires to ask a favor of you," and ruth found herself on the threshold of the beautiful room whose paneled walls were brilliantly lighted by many wax candles in silver sconces. the table was handsomely spread with fine china, glass and silver; and about it were seated a number of english officers. "more comedy, andré!" called a pleasant voice; "kindly bring the lady this way," and general howe rose from his seat at the head of the table, and instantly all his guests were on their feet. major andré held out his hand to ruth. she well knew that this was the proper moment to make her best curtsy, and in spite of the clumsy skirt, the bonnet which kept nodding over her face, and the long sleeves that had slipped down over her hands, she managed to make a not ungraceful curtsy. there was a little murmur of applause, and major andré smiled kindly upon her, and taking her hand led her toward the head of the table with as much grace and courtesy as if he were handing miss peggy ship pen herself, one of the beauties of the town, to a seat at general howe's dinner table. "you are a most welcome guest," declared the english general smilingly, as ruth stood before him. "i understand you have a favor to ask of me. whatever it is you may be very sure i will be most happy to grant it," and he smiled down at the queer little figure, quite sure that his young officer major andré had planned the whole affair for his amusement. "if you please, sir, i want my dog," said ruth falteringly. chapter iv aunt deborah is surprised years after, when ruth was really "grown up," she often recalled the wonderful night when she sat at general howe's dinner-table. for major andré had lifted her to a seat beside the general; with a friendly word he untied the bonnet-strings and put the bonnet on a side table; and ruth began to think that it was all a dream from which she would soon awaken to find herself safely at home. she wondered if it really were ruth pernell who was answering the general's questions about the missing hero. "i can do no less than try to find your dog, little maid," he said, "for when my own dog wandered away to general washington's camp, in the germantown fray, the general sent him back to me under the protection of a flag of truce; so, as you tell me your father is with washington, i must see to it that hero is found. that is, if one of my soldiers has so far forgotten orders as to have taken him," for the english general took every care that his soldiers should do no harm to the residents of the city. ruth was sure that she knew the very house where she had heard hero's bark; and now that general howe had promised that a search should be made she was eager to go home, and slid out of the chair just as a servant set a plate before her. "i must go home. i--i--ran away," she said a little falteringly, looking up at the tall general. "will you please find hero the first thing to-morrow?" "here, andré! the young lady wishes to return home," said the general, "and see to it that you take her there safely, and that you find the lost hero. and find a better plot for your next comedy," the general added, as the young officer came forward. ruth wondered what "comedy" meant. she did not know that major andré, whose gay good humor and charming manner made him a favorite with all, was depended upon to furnish amusement for his brother officers; or that they had at first believed that ruth, stumbling into the dining-room dressed as a woman, was the first act of some amusing play of andré's contriving. now that it proved she was only a runaway little girl looking for a lost dog they found it amusing that the young officer should have the trouble of taking her home. ruth could never quite remember the manner in which the general bade her good-bye, or if she make her curtsy, or even thanked him for promising that hero should be found. major andré tied on her bonnet, and opening a door that led to a side entrance, led her to the street. "now tell me the way, and i'll have you home in a jiffy," he said pleasantly. but it was no easy matter for ruth to walk as rapidly as her companion; she stumbled over the skirt; the strings of her bonnet had slipped so that it kept bobbing over her eyes and had to be pushed back; and she was now so frightened at the thought of what aunt deborah would say that she hardly knew in what direction they were going until the young officer stopped at her own door and lifted the knocker whose rap was sure to bring aunt deborah hastening to answer it. "you will not forget about hero?" ruth said as they stood on the steps. "indeed, i shall not. be very sure i will do my best to find your dog. i will go to the house on second street early to-morrow," responded andré, and the door swung open and aunt deborah, holding a candle in one hand, stood looking at them. "here is your little girl, madam; she has done no harm, i assure you. she did but make a friendly call on general howe, who sent me to bring her safely home," said the young officer, hat in hand, and making his best bow. "i thank thee for bringing the child home, sir," responded aunt deborah, drawing ruth firmly over the threshold and closing the door before major andré could say another word. the young officer hurried back to the general's dinner-table, a little vexed that he had made so much needless trouble for himself by introducing the queer little girl to general howe. "slip off thy mother's dress at once, before you do it further harm," said aunt deborah; and ruth, not daring to look up, hastened to obey, as she stood in the dimly-lit hall. "i--i--only went to look for hero," ruth tried to explain, after a moment's silence. "so thee had to put on thy mother's very best gown; one that she does not wear herself save on great occasions," responded aunt deborah, taking up the silk dress out of which ruth had just stepped. "it is probably ruined. go straight to bed. thou art a willful and unruly child," she continued, as ruth started toward the stairway. aunt deborah followed her, the dress over her arm, but she said no more until they reached ruth's chamber. "i believed thee safe in thy room. when thee did not come to supper i thought thee ashamed and sorry, because of the manner in which thou spoke to me; so i did not open the door. but no; thee was playing at being some one beside thy rightful self; and going to the house of an enemy against whom thy father is fighting. i know not what to say to thee, ruth, nor how to make thee realize that thee has brought shame upon us," said aunt deborah. ruth was crying bitterly, and could make no response. aunt deborah took the candle and left the room, leaving ruth to find her way into bed in the dark. she wished with all her heart that she had not worn her mother's silk gown and pretty bonnet. if they really were ruined she knew it would be a long time before her mother could replace them; for there was no extra money in the little household while america was fighting for her rightful liberties. "none of them, not even general howe, believed that i was really grown up. they were just laughing at me," she thought. "it would have been just as well if i had waited, and had asked aunt deborah if i might not go. oh, dear! and now i have spoiled mother's dress." ruth was so unhappy that she had quite forgotten that hero might soon be restored to her. chapter v ruth decides ruth slept late the next morning, and when she first awoke it was with the puzzled feeling of waking from a bad dream. then slowly she remembered the happenings of the previous day. the spring sunlight filled the room. from a hawthorn tree just below her window she could hear a robin singing as if there were nothing but sunshine and delight in all the world. and then the big clock in the hallway began to strike. "one! two! three! four! five! six! seven! eight! _nine!_" counted the little girl, and with the last stroke she was out of bed. before she was dressed aunt deborah opened the door. "good-morning, ruth," she said pleasantly, quite as if nothing had happened on the previous day, and that ruth had not slept two hours later than usual. "i have brought thee thy breakfast; and thee may stay in thy room until i call thee," and aunt deborah set a small tray on the light stand near the window, and before ruth could make any response she had left the room. ruth was very hungry. she had no supper on the previous night, and she now looked eagerly toward the little tray, which held only, a bowl and pitcher. the bowl was nearly full of porridge, and the pitcher of creamy milk. that was all very well; and she ate it all, to the last spoonful. but usually there were hot corn muffins and a bit of bacon or an egg to follow the porridge, and ruth was still hungry. "perhaps aunt deborah forgot," thought ruth, "but i don't believe she did. perhaps she is only provoked at me for being late for breakfast!" ruth shook up her pillows, turned back the blankets of her bed, and then went to the window and leaned out. there were two robins now on the top branch of the hawthorn, and for a moment she watched them, wondering if they were planning to build a nest there. the window overlooked the merrill's' garden; and in a few minutes ruth saw gilbert coming along the path toward the wall. "lafayette! la-fay-ettie!" she called. gilbert looked about as if puzzled, and ruth called again. "i'm up-stairs. gil-bert!" and at this the boy turned and looked up, and waved his hat in response. "i've found hero," she called. "honest! and an english officer is going to bring him home this very morning." "come on over and tell winifred," responded gilbert. "she has something to tell you, too. something fine." "i can't come over this morning. i----" but before ruth could say another word she felt a firm hand on her shoulder, and she was drawn into the room and the window closed, and aunt deborah was looking at her reprovingly. "ruth, why did thee think i wanted thee to stay up-stairs this morning?" she asked. ruth shook her head sullenly. she said to herself that no matter what aunt deborah might say she would not answer. "well, my child, then i must tell thee. i hoped thee would think over thy willfulness of yesterday; that thee would realize that thy conduct was such as would grieve and shame thy father and mother. dost thou think it a small thing nearly to ruin thy mother's best gown? to go dressed as if in a play to the house of an enemy of thy country to ask a favor? and before that thee quite forgot thy good manners in rushing up the steps of that house on second street, and then speaking rudely to me, who have no wish but to be kind to thee and help thee be a good girl." while aunt deborah was speaking ruth looked up at her, a little frightened and sullen at first; then as she saw that aunt deborah's face was pale, that she looked as if she had been crying and was nearly ready to cry again, the little girl's heart softened, and she ran toward her aunt, saying: "oh, aunt deborah! i am sorry i spoke rudely to you. and when i said i did not like you it was only because i was cross and so unhappy about hero. i do like you, truly i do. and, oh! i did not think about general howe being our enemy; or that i would spoil mother's pretty gown. i only thought about hero." and now ruth was sobbing, and aunt deborah's arm was about her. but for a moment aunt deborah made no response; then she said: "dear child, thee has given me happiness again. and now let us both do our best until thy mother returns. but thee knows that it is right for thee to decide if thee should not be punished in some way, so that in future thee will remember not to lose thy temper, to remember thy manners; and above all not to stoop to deceit to gain thy wishes." aunt deborah smiled happily at her little niece as she finished, as if quite sure that ruth would welcome her suggestion. ruth smiled in response. she began to think it would be rather fine to decide on her own punishment, and resolved it should be even more severe than any aunt deborah would inflict. "yes, aunt deborah, i will stay up-stairs all day. and i will eat only porridge for my dinner and supper. i will not call from the window, and i will knit; and not even play with cecilia," she said eagerly. "very well, dear child. but beside these things thee must say over to thyself the reason for thy punishment. say to thyself: 'not again will i be rude or unkind, not again will i be thoughtless of my behavior,'" said aunt deborah approvingly. there was a loud knock at the front door, and aunt deborah hurried away to answer it. in a moment ruth heard a joyous bark. "it's hero! it's hero!" she exclaimed, running toward the door. but with her hand on the latch she stopped suddenly. she had promised that she would not leave the room that day. she had set her own punishment for rudeness, and for the thoughtlessness that had perhaps ruined her mother's dress. "oh! i wish i hadn't dressed up," she thought, as she turned slowly away from the door, thinking of hero looking wistfully about for his little mistress. she knew that aunt deborah would be kind to him, but not to see hero after he had been missing so long was a real punishment for the little girl, and she went back to the window and stood looking out wishing that for a punishment she had thought of something beside staying in her room all day. as she looked out she saw that gilbert was still in his garden, that winifred was beside him, and that they were both making motions for her to open the window. she shook her head soberly. she could see that winifred was greatly excited about something, and was talking eagerly to her brother. they both looked up at ruth's window and again motioned with waving arms for her to open it. after a few moments they seemed to realize that she had, for some reason they could not imagine, been forbidden to; and with a good-bye signal they both turned and ran toward the house. "i do wonder what they wanted to tell me," thought ruth. "oh, dear! it is dreadful to stay up here when hero is home, and when winifred and gilbert have a secret." she began to realize that she had set herself no light punishment. "but it wouldn't be a punishment if i were enjoying it," she finally decided, and getting the half-finished sock from her knitting bag, she drew a small rocking-chair to the center of the room, seated herself and began resolutely to knit. now and then she could hear sounds from the rooms below; and once ruth dropped her knitting and started toward the door, for she had heard hero's plaintive whine as he waited for admittance. then had come aunt deborah's voice calling him away sternly; and ruth picked up her knitting, resolved to keep exactly to her promise. she wondered if major andré had sent hero home in charge of "dick," the smiling young soldier who had spoken to her on general howe's door-steps. but most of all her thoughts centered about winifred and gilbert. she heard the clock strike eleven, and realized that she was very hungry; and that an hour was a long time to wait before aunt deborah would bring her bowl of porridge. a shadow darkened the window, and she looked up with startled eyes to see winifred's face pressed against the glass. ruth ran to the window. "how did you get up here?" she questioned in wonder. "open the window, quick!" winifred responded in an anxious whisper. "the ladder wiggles about, and somebody may see me." ruth opened the window and winifred crawled in, and suddenly the ladder disappeared. "it's gilbert. he promised to take it down as soon as i got in. what is the matter, ruth? has aunt deborah made you stay up-stairs? did you know hero was home? a soldier brought him." while winifred talked she looked at ruth anxiously, as if to make sure that nothing had really befallen her friend. ruth was smiling with delight at her unexpected visitor. "oh, winifred! you were splendid to come up the ladder. i'm staying up-stairs to punish myself. i was rude to aunt deborah; and last night i dressed up in my mother's best dress and went to see general howe!" ruth answered. winifred was too surprised to reply, and ruth went on telling of her sudden decision, and of the adventures that followed, and concluded with: "and of course i ought not to have dressed up, and i ought not to have run away. so now i am staying up-stairs all day, and all i am to have to eat is porridge and milk. i decided it myself," she concluded, not a little pleased at the thought. "why, ruth pernell!" exclaimed winifred admiringly. "i don't know which is the most wonderful, your going to see general howe, or your deciding to punish yourself. begin at the time you reached the general's house and tell me everything up to now." ruth was quite ready to do this, and the two little friends seated themselves on the window-seat, winifred listening admiringly while ruth told over the story of the previous night. she had forgotten all about punishment; but a noise in the hallway and the sound of the clock striking the hour of noon made her stop suddenly in her whispered recital. "it's aunt deborah! winifred, hide, quick! under the bed," she said, at the same moment giving winifred a little push. aunt deborah came in smiling and inauspicious, with a well-filled bowl of porridge and a generous pitcher of milk on the tray. it had been a happy morning for aunt deborah. hero was safe at home, none the worse for his adventures; and, best of all, ruth of her own accord had declared herself to blame, and decided that her faults should be punished. it seemed to aunt deborah that after this she and her little niece would have no more misunderstandings. she thought it a fine thing that ruth wished to stay by herself all that sunny spring day; and she was sure it was no light punishment. chapter vi a difficult day aunt deborah did not linger to talk with her little niece, for it was a part of her belief that idle talk was unwise. the door had hardly closed behind her when winifred's head appeared from under the chintz valance of the bed, and she looked cautiously about. "has she gone?" she asked in a cautious whisper. ruth nodded, and winifred now crawled out from her hiding-place. "i'm glad she didn't see me, ruth. for when i came to the door this morning she said you could not see any one to-day; so i thought you were being punished, and i was bound to see you. oh, ruth! are you to have nothing but porridge?" and winifred looked at ruth's tray as if she thought such a dinner would be punishment enough for a much greater offense. "i chose it! i said i would eat only porridge," responded ruth, beginning to think that perhaps she had been more severe with herself than had been really necessary; and she wondered, with a little regretful sigh, if aunt deborah was having stewed oysters for dinner; for ruth was sure that nothing could taste better than oysters. "i had to see you, ruth; and it was gilbert who thought of the ladder. he has written a play, and you are to take part in it, and so am i," continued winifred, who had nearly forgotten her own important news in listening to ruth's surprising story. "'a play'?" echoed ruth questioningly, hardly understanding her friend's meaning. "yes! yes! don't you know that the english soldiers give plays in the southward theater? they dress up and make believe, just as you did last night," winifred explained, "and gilbert's play is like that." "then i don't want to," ruth declared. "it's horrid pretending to be somebody besides yourself." "oh, ruth! this isn't like what you did. it's all about washington and lafayette," winifred explained eagerly, "and our pony is to be in it, and so is hero. it's splendid; truly it is, ruth; and gilbert wants you to come and rehearse this afternoon, in our stable. if you are punishing yourself you can come if you wish to." ruth shook her head. "no, i can't. don't you see i can't, winifred? i promised just as much as if somebody else had made me. i'll have to stay in this room all day, because i told aunt deborah that i would." winifred jumped up quickly. "then i must go right home, for gilbert said that if you couldn't take part we'd try and get betty hastings. she's older and taller than you, anyway, so she'd look more like lafayette," she said, moving toward the door. betty hastings lived just around the corner on chestnut street. she was twelve years old. she was tall for her age, and her hair was brown and very curly. she did not often play with the younger girls. "lafayette? was i to be lafayette in the play?" asked ruth. "oh, winifred! ask gilbert to wait. i'll come over first thing to-morrow morning. you tell him i _have_ to stay up here to-day. don't ask betty!" she pleaded, and winifred finally agreed to try and persuade her brother to wait until the following morning before asking betty. "you see, it's to be a birthday surprise for mother; and her birthday is a week from to-day, so there isn't much time," winifred explained, as she started toward the door. "winifred! where are you going?" ruth whispered in alarm; and winifred laughed at her friend's surprise to see her about to walk boldly from the room. "i can go down-stairs so your aunt won't know it, and open the front door just as easy, and walk right out. she is in the kitchen and won't hear me," winifred answered; and with a warning word to be sure and be at the stable at nine o'clock the next morning, the little girl opened the door cautiously and disappeared. after winifred had gone ruth ate her porridge. she began to think of gilbert's play, and of the fun it would be to take the part of the brave young frenchman. she walked about the room, looked at cecilia and the half-finished chair, and sighed deeply at the thought that she might be rehearsing with winifred and gilbert, the pony and hero, instead of staying alone in her room. at last she remembered her knitting, and took it up rather reluctantly. "i do wish i hadn't worn mother's dress," she thought. and she was conscious of a little uncomfortable feeling as to winifred's visit after aunt deborah's refusal to admit her. "but i didn't ask her to come, or help her," she finally decided; although she began to wish that her friend had waited to tell her the great news until the next day and so avoided deceiving aunt deborah. but at last the long afternoon ended; and when the clock struck six there was a joyous bark just outside ruth's door, and aunt deborah opened it for hero to come bounding in. he had so much to tell his little mistress, with barks and jumps, and faithful pleading eyes, that it was some little time before aunt deborah found a chance to speak. "thee had best come down to the dining-room and have supper with me. there are creamed oysters and toast and a bit of jelly. i think thee does not need porridge for another meal to-day," she said smilingly. "i know i'll remember about mother's dress. it has been hard to stay up here all day," ruth answered, glad indeed that her time of punishment was over. "but aunt deborah doesn't know just how hard it was," she thought as she followed her aunt down the stairs, with hero close beside her, thinking over winifred's great news. as she took her usual place at the table she was glad that she had not taken winifred's suggestion to shorten her hours of solitude. the steaming oysters sent out an appetizing odor, the toast was crisp and golden, and the tumbler of amber-colored jelly seemed to reflect the light of the candles in their tall brass candlesticks which stood at each end of the table. "i have good news for thee, ruth," said aunt deborah, smiling at her across the table. "i have word that thy mother will return early the coming week." ruth gave an exclamation of delight. "oh, aunt deborah! what a lot of nice things happen all together," she said. "you won't go back to barren hill when she comes, will you?" for ruth began to realize that, even with her dear mother safe at home once more, she would miss the kind aunt who had been so unfailingly patient. it was evident that aunt deborah was greatly pleased. her brown eyes shone, and ruth suddenly discovered the amazing fact that there was a dimple in aunt deborah's right cheek. "'tis indeed pleasant that thou should wish me to stay; but i fear my house at barren hill needs its mistress. to-morrow is the first of april, and i must see about planting my garden as soon as possible. perhaps thy mother will let thee come for a visit before long," she responded. "that is, if the english general will take such a great risk as to give a small maid permission to leave the city," for no one could leave philadelphia at that time without a written permission from an english officer. ruth was quite sure that she should like to visit barren hill. she knew it was half-way to valley forge, where the american soldiers had passed a dreary winter, suffering from cold and hunger, while their enemies had enjoyed the comforts of american homes in philadelphia. but now that spring had come the american people were more hopeful; they were sure their army would soon drive the enemy from the city. the people of little settlements like barren hill managed to carry food and clothing to the american soldiers. aunt deborah, just before coming to philadelphia, had carried a treasured store of honey to washington's headquarters, as well as clothing and food for ruth's father. although aunt deborah was a quaker she was sure of the righteousness of america's war against oppression. "perhaps i could see my father if i go to visit you, aunt deborah," said ruth hopefully. but aunt deborah could give no assurance as to this. she knew that any day might see washington's army moving from its winter quarters. "thee could help me with the garden," she responded. "the bees will soon be about their work now; and there are many things in the country for a small maid to find pleasure in." "did you ever see lafayette, aunt deborah?" ruth asked. "why, child! did not thy mother tell thee? he stopped at my door one day. he was on horseback, and only two soldiers with him. they had ridden out from camp to make sure no english spies were about, and he stopped to ask for a cup of water. he was pleased to take milk instead. thee shall see the very cup from which he drank, ruth. it was one of the pink luster cups, and i put it apart from the others. some day thee shall have it for thy own," said aunt deborah, smiling at ruth's evident delight. as ruth listened she resolved that nothing should prevent her from visiting aunt deborah. perhaps she might see lafayette as well as her dear father. perhaps the young frenchman might again call at aunt deborah's door, and she, ruth pernell, hand him the pink luster cup filled with milk. aunt deborah's voice interrupted these pleasant day-dreams. "now, ruth, thee may help me wash the dishes; and we will make sure that hero is safely indoors," she said. "yes, indeed. oh! aunt deborah, this has been a splendid day, after all," the little girl responded, thinking of hero safe at home, of winifred's visit, and of the pink luster cup that some day would be her own. chapter vii gilbert's play ruth was up in good season the next morning, and aunt deborah was quite willing for her little niece to take hero for a morning call on winifred; and it was not yet nine o'clock when ruth pushed open the gate that led from the alley into the merrill's' garden. the stable stood beside this gate, and was some distance from the house. fluff, the pony, had a fine box stall with a window looking into the garden. fluff belonged to gilbert; but gilbert had grown so tall that he thought the pony too small for his use, and on winifred's last birthday had given her all right and title to the little gray pony, whose thick mane and plume-like tail had made the name "fluff" most appropriate. the stable was nearly hidden from the house by shrubs and trees, and gilbert and winifred found it a fine play-house. ruth often wished that there was a stable in her father's garden, and that she had a pony exactly like fluff. at the sound of hero's bark winifred and gilbert both appeared in the doorway of the stable, and close behind them stood betty hastings. ruth stood still with a questioning look at winifred. she was sure that gilbert had asked betty to take the part of lafayette, and for a moment she was tempted to turn away without a word. but before she could act on this impulse there was a chorus of welcoming greetings for her and for hero, and winifred came running to meet her. "betty is going to take the part of lord cornwallis!" winifred exclaimed, as she put her arm about ruth and led her to the stable. "gilbert thinks you were splendid to go straight to general howe and ask for hero," she added, "and betty wants to hear just what major andré said," so ruth, instead of finding herself entirely supplanted by betty, as she had for a moment feared, was surrounded by the eager interest and attention of the little group. it seemed to ruth that she had never before known how nice betty hastings really was. the older girl was evidently greatly impressed by the fact that ruth had sat next to the english general at his dinner table. "i wish i could have been you, ruth," she declared admiringly. "it was all right for ruth to ask for her dog," gilbert interrupted, "but _i_ wouldn't have sat down at general howe's table. not much i wouldn't." "but major andré lifted me up. i didn't do it myself," replied ruth, suddenly ashamed that she had entirely forgotten that the english officers were her enemies, and had even been rather pleased that no other little girl in philadelphia could say that she had sat at the dinner table of the great english general. "and you are no better than a tory, betty hastings," gilbert continued, looking disapprovingly toward brown-eyed betty. "you said a little while ago that you would rather be lord cornwallis than washington." "well, what if i did? i only meant in your play; because the english uniform is fine. all scarlet and gold," betty explained. she was smiling, and evidently did not care at all if gilbert did not approve of her. "come on and tell us what your play is about," she added. gilbert's frown vanished. he drew a roll of paper from his pocket; and, looking soberly at his companions, said: "the name of my play is 'america defeats the foe.' it is in two acts. the first act is lord cornwallis, that's you, betty, on his knees asking washington to spare his life. the second act is washington and lafayette and their triumphant army, winifred is the army, marching into philadelphia." "um-m," said betty slowly, "what does washington say when lord cornwallis asks him to spare his life?" "i don't just know yet," gilbert admitted. "i thought i'd wait until we rehearsed." "you said fluff and hero were to have parts," winifred reminded him, a little anxiously. "what does lafayette wear?" asked ruth. gilbert's face flushed: "just like girls, wanting to know everything before i've had time to think. but i can tell you one thing, we'll have to plan our costumes now." "mine is all planned," said betty; "you know there is an english officer lodging at our house, and i'll borrow his scarlet coat." "my aunt deborah has seen lafayette," ruth announced proudly, "and i'll ask her to tell me just what he wore, and then perhaps i can look just like him." winifred said nothing. gilbert had already told her that he meant to dress up two broomsticks as american soldiers, and these were to "march" on each side of winifred, with her aid and assistance. she was always ready to help gilbert in all his plans, but she was beginning to think that it would be rather a difficult task to be a triumphant army; especially as gilbert had told her that she must cheer for washington and lafayette when they reached the "state house," whose location he had not yet decided on. "aren't you going to have any girls or women in your play?" asked betty, apparently not greatly pleased with gilbert's brief description. "_i_ think you ought to have lady washington in a balcony waving her handkerchief, when the victorious army enters philadelphia. i could be lady washington, because i'll be all through being lord cornwallis in the first act," and betty smiled at her companions as if sure they would be greatly pleased by her suggestion. "why, yes----" began gilbert, but before he could say more a wail from winifred made them all look at her in surprise. "betty hastings shan't be everything! if she's going to be lady washington i won't play. i won't be an army, anyway," she sobbed. "oh! i don't care!" said betty good-humored. "i just happened to think of it, that's all. i'd just as soon be the army." it was finally decided that winifred should be lady washington, and wave from the top of the grain-bin when the triumphant army passed. lafayette was to ride on fluff, and gilbert said he meant to borrow a horse for george washington. hero was to follow the army. it was dinner-time before all these important questions were settled; and it was agreed that they would meet again the next morning for another rehearsal. gilbert promised to have speeches ready for lafayette and cornwallis. "the way it is now nobody has anything to say but washington," betty had said, and gilbert had agreed that cornwallis should at least say, "spare me, noble washington," while lafayette could make some response to washington's speech, which betty thought far too long, thanking the young frenchman for his aid to america. "i wish gilbert would let you make up our speeches, betty," said ruth, looking up at her companion with admiring eyes, as the two girls stopped for a moment at ruth's door. "it wasn't any play at all until you told him what to do." "it will come out all right," responded betty. "it's the dressing up that will be fun. i wish we could get ned ferris to play the drum and march ahead." ruth agreed that a drummer would make it seem more like a triumphant army. "do you suppose the english officer at your house will really lend you his red coat?" questioned ruth. betty laughed. "of course he will; for he won't know anything about it. 'tis his best coat, and hangs in a closet in the passage near his room. he wears it only now and then. i shall just borrow it, and then hang it back in the closet," declared betty. "just as you did your mother's dress," she added quickly, as if half-afraid of ruth's disapproval, and with a "good-bye until to-morrow, lafayette," she ran quickly down the street. ruth was a little thoughtful as she went into the house. she wished that she had told betty that she was sorry about borrowing her mother's dress without permission, and that it would be wiser to ask the soldier to lend his coat. then she remembered that betty was nearly thirteen, and of course must know more than a little girl only just past ten. aunt deborah greeted her smilingly. "i have been brushing thy mother's gown, ruth. 'twas sadly in need of it, and a tear on the side breadth. but i have mended it so well that 'twill hardly be noticed, and sponged and pressed the dress until it looks as well as ever," she said. ruth's face brightened. "oh! i am so glad, aunt deborah. then mother need not know i wore it, or that i went to see general howe. you will not tell her, will you, aunt deborah?" said ruth eagerly. the smile faded from aunt deborah's face, and she turned away from ruth with a little sigh. "no, i will not tell her, ruth. but thee will surely do that thyself," she answered. "but you say the dress looks as well as ever," said ruth, "and, oh, aunt deborah! it will make mother feel so bad to know that i was so thoughtless," and ruth looked pleadingly toward her aunt. "thee shall settle the matter for thyself, ruth. but i hope thee will tell thy mother," responded aunt deborah. but ruth made no reply. in the afternoon winifred came over, and the two little girls sat down on the back porch to talk over gilbert's play. winifred said that the broomsticks could be dressed up in some blue coverlets, with cocked hats made from paper, and ruth promised to help winifred make the hats. "betty is going to borrow her mother's fine silk cape and bonnet for me to wear as lady washington," winifred continued eagerly. "isn't betty splendid to let me have the very best part of all, and to get so many nice things for us to dress up in?" "will she ask her mother for the cape and bonnet?" ruth questioned. "of course she will," declared winifred, "and i have thought of something. we can dress josephine and cecilia in their best dresses, and have them sit beside lady washington on the top of the grain box." ruth agreed that such a plan would add to the success of gilbert's play. "my mother is coming home in a few days," she said when winifred said that she must go home. "well, i guess she will be proud when you tell her that you went to general howe and made him find hero," winifred replied. for winifred was sure that it had been a very courageous act to face the english general. "i am not going to tell her a word about it," was ruth's reply. chapter viii betty runs away the days now passed very quickly for ruth and her friends. every day betty hastings, winifred, ruth and gilbert were in the merrill's' garden or stable at work on the costumes for "america conquers the foe." ned ferris, a boy not much older than ruth, had promised gilbert to play on his drum, and to march at the head of the "army;" he would not need to rehearse, so would not come until the day decided on for the play. ned had also offered the loan of his brown pony, a much larger animal than fluff, for "washington" to ride; and now gilbert, winifred and ruth were all sure that the play would be a success. betty hastings was not so confident. she had begun to fear that it would be no easy matter to borrow the scarlet coat without the owner's knowledge: and she was even more doubtful in regard to her mother's fine cape and bonnet; but she said nothing of this to the others. if she had known that gilbert had invited her mother, as well as a number of other friends of mrs. merrill's, to what he described as "a birthday surprise for my mother," betty would doubtless have given up her part; but gilbert had asked each guest to keep the invitation a secret; and it was probable that a surprise was in store for "cornwallis" as well as for gilbert's mother. mrs. pernell returned home from germantown on the very morning of mrs. merrill's birthday, and ruth was so delighted at her arrival that she nearly forgot to ask her mother to come to the play that afternoon, as gilbert had requested. gilbert had said that he wished mistress deborah farleigh would come with ruth's mother, but added: "it isn't any use to ask her, for quakers don't believe in plays." "but this is different; i'm sure she will come," ruth had responded eagerly; and had been greatly pleased when aunt deborah agreed, saying that, "'twas surely a patriotic lesson that she would like well to see." mrs. pernell also praised gilbert's cleverness, and promised to be ready in good season. "perhaps i had best wear my brown silk to do credit to mrs. merrill's birthday party," she said, and wondered why ruth became so silent and looked so sober. for a moment ruth was tempted to tell her mother the whole story of her visit to general howe; but she resisted the impulse. "it would spoil everything to make mother feel bad the very day she has come home," the little girl assured herself; but she no longer felt light-hearted, and when her mother patted hero's head, and said that she knew he had taken good care of everything in her absence, ruth grew even more serious. aunt deborah was very quiet; but now and then her eyes rested on ruth a little questioningly. "i suppose aunt deborah is thinking i ought to tell mother," thought ruth, and was glad to hurry away as soon as they finished dinner, saying she must be in good season, as gilbert had set three o'clock as the hour for the arrival of his audience. "you must come in through the alley," ruth reminded her mother and aunt; for gilbert had decided that the guests were to be a part of the surprise for his mother. gilbert was arranging seats for the company just inside the door of the stable behind a rope stretched from the front to the door of fluff's stall. on the previous day the children had made an excursion to fair mount, and had brought home a quantity of blossoming boughs of the white dogwood, branches of pine, and of flowering elder, and these were used to make a background for the seats intended for the guests, to hide a part of the grain-bin, from which lady washington was to wave, and made the stable a very attractive and pleasant place. the guests could look through the open door into the garden where blue iris, yellow daffodils and purple lilacs were already in bloom. when ruth came running to the stable winifred called out to her from the top of the grain-bin: "look, ruth! look!" and ruth stopped in the doorway with an exclamation of surprise. for there was winifred wearing mrs. hastings' beautiful blue mantle of rich silk, and a bonnet with soft blue plumes, and beside her sat two other figures that, for a moment, ruth believed to be two strange ladies. then she realized that winifred had "dressed up" bundles of hay in two old gowns of her mother's, with their "heads" crowned by wreaths of leaves and flowers. winifred laughed delightedly at ruth's astonishment. "you see, josephine and cecilia were not tall enough; and of course lady washington ought to have company," she explained. gilbert, dressed in a blue coat, yellow knee-breeches, and with a crimson and white scarf pinned across his coat, came to the door. he wore a cocked hat, and a wooden sword was fastened at his side, and he endeavored to stand as tall as possible. "betty is waiting for you behind the lilac bushes," he said, and vanished; and ruth ran off to the bunch of lilacs behind the stable where betty, in a scarlet coat that covered her completely, was holding fluff's bridle-rein, and close by stood ned ferris beside his brown pony. "here is your coat and hat, 'lafayette,'" said betty, pointing to a bundle, which ruth hastened to open. the coat was of blue velvet. it was one that betty had found in a trunk in her mother's attic. there were ruffles of yellowed lace at the wrists, and tarnished gilt buttons and braid on the shoulders. this old velvet coat had belonged to betty's grandfather, and was highly valued by her father. but betty had not asked permission to take it. ruth tied up her hair and put on the cocked hat that she had helped winifred make; then with betty's aid she slipped on the velvet coat, and with the addition of a wooden sword which gilbert had made for her she was ready for her part in the play. the guests all arrived in good season, and were escorted to their seats by "washington" himself, who then ran to the house to announce to his mother that some friends of hers were in the garden. mrs. merrill, greatly to gilbert's satisfaction, did not seem to notice that he was not dressed as usual, and walked beside him down the garden path; as a turn in the path brought them in sight of the stable door gilbert said: "this is a birthday surprise for you, mother. it's a play, and here is the programme," and he handed her a strip of white paper bordered with a row of stars cut from gilt paper. at the top gilbert had printed: "_america conquers the foe_" _a play by gilbert merrill for mother's birthday_ _act first_ _cornwallis begs for mercy_ _cornwallis b. hastings washington g. merrill_ _act second_ _washington's triumphant army enters philadelphia_ _washington g. merrill lafayette r. pernell lady washington miss winifred merrill_ _army band._ mrs. merrill read the programme admiringly. "it is indeed a wonderful birthday surprise, my dear boy," she said smilingly, "and i am proud of you," and she hurried forward to greet and welcome her friends, while gilbert ran to summon "cornwallis" to be ready for the first act. an old horse-blanket, suspended from the hay-loft in the rear of the stable, served as a curtain behind which knelt betty in the scarlet coat. gilbert now took his place beside her, trying to look stern and noble. at gilbert's whistle winifred, who was in the hay-loft, was to pull up the blanket by the long strings that gilbert had skilfully arranged. the whistle sounded clearly. up rose the curtain. there was an approving murmur from the audience at the sight of "cornwallis" on his knees. "spare me, noble washington!" said betty, but in rather a feeble voice. washington's right hand was stretched over the head of his conquered foe. "arise, cornwallis. flee for your life. my army is at hand," responded washington; and betty, stumbling a little, escaped from the rear door, while washington marched out to meet his army, and the audience applauded. betty's mother had noticed the red coat, and wondered what english soldier had consented to lend it for such a purpose. it did not occur to her that betty had taken it from their lodger's closet. when betty had entered the stable by the rear door and knelt according to washington's directions she could hear the murmur of voices. "who is with your mother?" she whispered to "washington," but there had been no time to answer, and betty found herself facing not only gilbert's mother but a dozen other ladies of whom her mother was one; and it was a very anxious and troubled betty who joined the little group behind the lilac bushes and, slipping off the red coat, put on an old coat and hat belonging to gilbert's father, and with the dressed up broomsticks, took her place behind fluff as the "army." ned ferris sounded a measured "rat-a-tat-tat" on his drum and strode toward the entrance to the stable, followed by washington and lafayette, the "army," and the docile hero. lady washington scrambled from the hay-loft to the top of the grain-bin, drew her fine silk mantle about her, and smiled graciously down upon the assembled guests. mrs. hastings looked up at her. "for pity's sake!" her seatmate heard her murmur, "my best mantle and bonnet!" but at that moment came the quick beat of a drum. washington's pony, a little annoyed and nervous, and fluff, determined to reach his stall as quickly as possible, although "lafayette" endeavored to guide him in the appointed course, entered the stable. "washington" drew rein beneath the grain-bin and lifted his hat to lady washington, who leaned forward to wave in response; but unfortunately her bonnet strings were not fastened, and the fine bonnet with its blue plumes fell from her head and went tumbling down almost on hero's brown head. in a second the dog had seized it, and forgetting his part in the procession, jumped this way and that, shaking this new plaything with delighted satisfaction. mrs. hastings kept her seat resolutely. it would have been an easy matter to have stepped from her seat and rescued the bonnet. but mrs. hastings knew that such a movement on her part would have brought gilbert's play to an untimely end, and spoiled the pleasure of all the guests, as well as of the children who took part. so she did not move, even when hero fled out into the garden with the plumes grasped in his teeth. betty, ruth and winifred never forgot that moment, nor the fact that mrs. hastings had apparently not seen what happened. even in her fright at the results of her "borrowing" betty hastings was very proud of her mother. the drummer played on. the two ponies were swung around face to face; washington and lafayette clasped hands for a moment; then side by side, with drum playing, but with a silent army, the little procession vanished through the rear door. gilbert was delighted with his success. it seemed to him that everything had gone very well, and he was especially grateful to betty hastings for securing the english officer's coat. but betty, having seen the ruin of the bonnet, had suddenly realized that it was a serious matter to take the belongings of other people without their permission; and her first thought was of the officer's coat. whatever happened she must return that coat to the closet from which she had taken it as soon as possible. then she would try and explain to her mother that she had not meant any harm should befall the borrowed articles. so, grasping the red coat, betty opened the door into the alley and started off as fast as she could go; while ruth, still wearing the fine velvet coat, crouched down behind the lilac bushes, too unhappy to care if the play had been a success or not; for as "lafayette" faced the audience she had seen that her mother was wearing the brown silk dress. chapter ix betty's adventure "come, ruth, mistress hastings is waiting for thy fine velvet coat," and ruth looked up to see aunt deborah smiling down upon her; and in a moment the little girl was clinging to aunt deborah's arm, and asking anxiously: "did mother find the mended place in her dress? oh, aunt deborah! i do wish i had told her all about it!" "slip off the coat, dear child, and run and tell her now," said aunt deborah, and in a moment ruth was running across the garden to where her mother was standing with mrs. merrill. mrs. pernell smiled down at her little daughter, and clasping the warm little hand in her own turned toward the gate. in a moment ruth was in the midst of her story, and mrs. pernell listened without a word until ruth, breathless and almost in tears, finished by saying: "i didn't think it would hurt the dress, mother! i'm so sorry. and i am sorry i didn't tell you the moment you got home." ruth felt her hand clasped a little more closely at this; but her mother made no response until they were in ruth's pleasant chamber. then mrs. pernell drew her little girl down beside her on the broad window-seat; and leaning her head against her mother's shoulder ruth told of the day she had stayed up-stairs as a punishment for her thoughtlessness. "mother, you haven't said a word!" ruth finally exclaimed, looking up anxiously. "are you ashamed of me?" "why, i think i am rather proud of my little daughter," was the smiling response. "you set your own punishment, and i know you will stop and think when next you plan such a masquerade party. my dress, it seems, is but little the worse, after all; and hero is well worth some sacrifice. perhaps if you had not been 'dressed up' you would not have been admitted to general howe's house, and might not have succeeded in rescuing hero," said mrs. pernell, stooping down to kiss her little girl's flushed cheek. "oh, mother! i do love you," exclaimed the happy child. "i'll never be afraid to tell you everything." "of course you will tell me everything. that is what mothers are for," rejoined mrs. pernell. "and now i will take off my silk gown, and you had best smooth your hair and make yourself tidy for supper." "that sounds like aunt deborah," said ruth laughingly. but as she obeyed her mother's suggestion she thought happily that now mother was at home everything was sure to go smoothly. when gilbert's play was over mrs. hastings, although sadly troubled over betty's "borrowings," and the ruin of her pretty bonnet, complimented gilbert and winifred on the success of the play; and not until she had chatted for a few moments with mrs. merrill did she go to rescue her valued mantle and the treasured velvet coat. she hoped the english officer's coat was none the worse for its part in the play; and, like betty, she hoped to return it before it was missed by its rightful owner; for it would be no easy matter to explain why it had been borrowed, and she knew its loss would make serious trouble. she noticed that her mantle was dusty and wrinkled, and that the lace on the velvet coat was torn. the scarlet coat, however, was not to be found, and betty had also disappeared. deciding that she would find her little daughter and the coat safely at home mrs. hastings bade her friends good-bye and started for her walk home. but she did not find betty there. supper time came, and still no betty. a servant was sent to mrs. merrill's to inquire for the little girl, but came hurrying back with the tidings that betty had not been seen since the end of the play. mrs. merrill now looked through every room, but betty was not to be found. she inquired at the homes of her neighbors, but no one had seen the little girl. the april twilight deepened to dusk; the stars shone out and found mrs. hastings anxious and troubled, for she could find no trace of betty. when betty ran down the alley she had thought it would be an easy matter to reach home with the red coat; but she had forgotten that philadelphia was full of the king's soldiers, and that a bareheaded little girl racing down the street with the coat of an english officer over her arm would not escape notice; and she had only reached second street when a passing soldier called to her. his call only made her run the faster, and the soldier sped after her. if betty had stopped at once, told her own name and address, and the name of the owner of the coat, the soldier would doubtless have taken her directly home and made sure that she had told him the truth, and it is probable that her troubles would have been at an end. but betty was now too frightened to think clearly. she did not even know the direction in which she ran was straight away from her home. the english soldier ran clumsily, and betty, turning quickly into another street, soon distanced him; but only to run straight into another soldier, who seized her firmly by both arms, swung her about, and without a word marched her down the street. "making off with an officer's coat," he said, after what seemed a very long time to the frightened girl. "what's your name?" betty made no response. she resolved that no one should ever know that betty hastings had been suspected of such a dreadful thing as taking what she had no right to take. "won't speak, eh? well, i'll take you to captain de lance and see what he has to say to you," said the soldier, and the silent little girl, still holding the scarlet coat, was led down one street after another until she saw the shining waters of the schuylkill river before her, and the soldier led her up the steps of an old stone house whose garden ran down to the river. the soldier was evidently familiar with the house, for he pushed open the door and led betty into a big pleasant room, and motioned toward a comfortable chair. "you can sit there until the captain comes in; and you had best tell me your name. 'twill do you no good to sulk," he said, taking the coat from her reluctant grasp. but betty only set her lips more firmly. she resolved not to speak, no matter what might befall her. "very well, miss. i'll leave you to find your tongue," said the soldier, laying the coat carefully over a chair and leaving the room. betty heard him turn the key in the lock. she was tired, and leaned back in the cushioned chair, hardly realizing what had befallen her. she could hear steps now and then outside the door, and every moment expected that it would open and the captain of whom the soldier had spoken would appear. but the room grew shadowy in the deepening twilight and no one came near. betty's thoughts flew homeward to the candle-lit dining-room where dinah, the hastings' colored servant, would be spreading the table for supper, and betty realized that she was very hungry. she left her seat and tiptoed toward a long window at the further end of the room. the window looked out into the garden, and betty instantly realized that it swung in on hinges and was not fastened, and that it would be an easy matter to let herself down to the ground. "i must take the coat," she thought, and crept back to the chair where the scarlet coat lay. in a moment she was back at the window and had dropped the coat to the ground; and now, grasping the window sill with both hands, she let herself carefully down. picking up the coat, and keeping close in the shadow of the house, betty made her way until she was near the door through which she had entered the house. she went very carefully, peering ahead into the shadows, and listening intently for any sound that might warn her that her flight had been discovered. but she heard no sound, and at last she reached the road. "it is too dark for any one to know what color the coat is now," she thought, as she hurried along. betty realized that she was a long distance from home, but she was sure that she could soon find her way to some familiar street and then it would be an easy matter to reach home. now and then she passed groups of people homeward bound, or english soldiers sauntering along the street, and then turning a corner she gave a little exclamation of delight, for there, close at hand, were the brick walls of christ church, its graceful spire rising against the clear april sky. and now home was near at hand and betty quickened her pace. she had almost forgotten her mother's ruined bonnet and the fact that she had no excuse to give for borrowing the things for gilbert's play without permission. all she could think of was the fact that she was in sight of home. she ran up the steps and the door opened as if by magic, and betty's mother clasped her little girl, scarlet coat and all, in her welcoming arms. chapter x the lost programme the scarlet coat, after being carefully brushed and pressed, was returned to its place in the closet; and its owner never knew or imagined the part it had taken in gilbert's play. the soldier who had locked betty into captain de lance's room, and returned to find that the silent little captive had outwitted him and made her escape, decided that it was best to keep the affair to himself, and say nothing about a little girl with an officer's coat for which she would not account. ruth and winifred came early the next morning to make sure that betty was safe at home, and listened eagerly to the story of her adventure. "do you suppose you could find the way back to the stone house?" questioned ruth. "yes, i am sure i could," responded betty; but she did not suggest, as ruth hoped, that they should all make an excursion to the house by the river. in fact, winifred and ruth both agreed on their way home that betty seemed very sober. and it was true that betty was more quiet than usual for several days; for she realized that she had had a narrow escape from a serious punishment. nor could she forget the pretty plumed bonnet that hero had so gaily destroyed. the fact that her mother did not speak of the bonnet only made betty the more repentant. she and ruth had both resolved that they would not again take for granted that they could use other people's property without permission. "aunt deborah is going home to barren hill to-morrow," said ruth, as she and winifred came near home; "farmer withal is to call for her. you know he brings in butter and cheese from his farm every thursday, and aunt deborah will ride home in his wagon. i wish i were going with her." "oh, ruth pernell!" said winifred reproachfully. "well, i do. barren hill is half-way to valley forge, and perhaps i could see my father. and, winifred! one day lafayette stopped at aunt deborah's door! perhaps i might see him; perhaps he might ask me to carry a message for him," said ruth eagerly. "little girls can't carry war messages," winifred rejoined confidently. "you are just like gilbert, always wishing you could do something for lafayette. i don't see why. i would rather help washington." "it's because lafayette came 'way from france," ruth replied, "and, anyway, i am going to barren hill. mother says that i may go next month." "i have thought of something!" winifred announced. "to-morrow you and i will drive out a little way with your aunt. with fluff, i mean; and hero may go too. i will harness fluff into the cart, and we will be all ready to start at the same time they do." ruth agreed that this would be a fine plan, and both the girls were sure that aunt deborah would be pleased that they wished to go a part of the way with her. they decided to take "josephine" and "cecilia," as well as hero, with them. [illustration: it was a favorite play-house] "it will make up to them for not taking part in the play," said winifred. so much had happened during the past week that ruth had entirely forgotten the unfinished chair for cecilia, but now she spoke of it to winifred. "i will help you finish it. but let's take our dolls and work into the garden; it is too warm to stay in the house," she said, and in a short time the two little girls had brought cecilia and josephine, as well as their sewing bags, to the shade of the wide-spreading maple tree that grew in the further corner of the pernell's' garden. ruth's father had built a low seat around this tree, and it was a favorite play-house for the two little friends. hero followed them, and stretched himself out at their feet, quite sure that they were both happier because of his presence. for a little while the girls worked steadily, covering with chintz the cardboard pieces that would form the chair. "i'll put it together," said winifred, and with skillful fingers she fastened the seat, back and arms; and with a triumphant "there!" set it down beside ruth, who looked at it admiringly, and lost no time in establishing cecilia in her new possession. "wouldn't it be fine if we could make a sofa, and a table and a little bed for each of our dolls?" suggested ruth. "we can," declared winifred, "but i think it would be nicer to have the table and bed made of wood. let's go in your shed and see if we can find some nice smooth pieces." "and father's tool box is in the shed," said ruth, as they left their dolls in hero's care and ran across the garden to the shed, whose open door faced the big maple. the shed was nearly square. beside the wide door there were two windows, both looking into the garden, and beneath these was mr. pernell's work-bench, and a box containing his treasured tools; and on a long shelf over the bench were carefully arranged strips and squares of polished wood. for in the days of peace mr. pernell had used his leisure hours in making frames for pictures, a work-box, desk or light-stand; and had collected this store of material from many sources. ruth had often played about in the shed while her father was at work, but she had no idea of the value of his store of wood. "oh, winifred! look! this will make a fine table!" she said, standing on the work-bench and pulling down a strip of curly maple. "and here are some dark shiny strips, just the thing for bed-posts!" said winnie, drawing out a slender length of highly polished mahogany. in a few minutes the two girls had pulled down a number of strips of wood, had opened mr. pernell's tool-chest and taken out a number of planes, a small saw, gimlets and a hammer. "but we haven't any patterns," said winifred. "you know we had a pattern for the chair." "we don't need any pattern for a table. it is just a top and four legs, one at each corner," declared ruth. "we can begin on the table to-day; then we can look at sofas and beds and make patterns, if we need to." "here is something to measure with," said winifred, holding up a foot-rule. "we can make anything! oh, ruth! instead of making doll furniture let's make truly tables, i am sure some of those pieces are large enough." "winifred, you always think of just the right thing," ruth responded admiringly. "let's make a table for a present for betty. she got all those nice things for us to dress up in, and we have never made her a present." winifred nodded approvingly. she was greatly pleased by ruth's admiration, and she thought that betty would be greatly surprised to discover that two girls so much younger than herself could really make a table. "ruth! ruth!" called aunt deborah from the back porch. "dinner is ready!" so the two little girls were obliged to leave their pleasant plans, and, after promising to return early that afternoon, winifred started for home while ruth ran into the house. "my chair is all finished for cecilia," she announced as she took her seat at the dinner-table, "and winifred and i are going to make a table for betty." mrs. pernell and aunt deborah both smiled their approval, thinking that the table for betty, like cecilia's chair, was to be made of pasteboard. "thee must bring thy doll to barren hill," said aunt deborah. "there are fine places to play in the big barn and in the pine woods, and thy doll will be company for thee." "how soon may i visit aunt deborah, mother?" ruth asked eagerly. "may i not go with farmer withal next week?" "i cannot spare you so soon, ruthie dear," responded her mother, "and i will have to ask permission from the english general for you to leave the town. you see they fear even small americans," she concluded laughingly. but before dinner was over it was decided that, if all went well, ruth should go to barren hill about the first of may. that seemed a long time to ruth; but she remembered that betty's table was not even begun, and if she and winifred did decide to make furniture for their dolls the three weeks that must pass before her visit to barren hill would perhaps be none too long a time. mrs. pernell had just left the table when there was a rap at the door, and before any one could respond it opened, and there stood winifred; her face was pale and she was evidently frightened. "oh, mrs. pernell! there are two english officers at our house. they have come to take gilbert," she exclaimed, "and they want ruth too." "'take gilbert'!" echoed mrs. pernell. "what has he done? and what do they want of ruth?" "oh! it's because of the play. mother lost the programme we made for her. it blew away, and an english soldier found it; and they are going to take ruth too," winifred finished nearly in tears. "i will go and speak with these officers," said aunt deborah calmly. "thee need not be troubled, winifred. thee and ruth had best come with me so they can see how dangerous an enemy they have to arrest," and aunt deborah smiled so reassuringly that winifred took courage, and followed aunt deborah to the door. they were soon in the merrill's' garden, just in time to meet two english soldiers with gilbert between them coming down the steps. aunt deborah went forward smilingly. "thee does not mean to take this lad from his home," she said, speaking to the elder of the two men. "he has done nothing worthy of thy notice, and his mother can ill spare him." "that may be, madam. but we must obey orders. we have to take g. merrill and r. pernell to general howe," the man answered civilly. "here is r. pernell," said aunt deborah, her hand resting protestingly on ruth's shoulder. "surely thee does not mean to take this little girl?" the soldiers seemed somewhat surprised at this, but repeated that they must obey orders. gilbert did not seem at all afraid; he took ruth by the hand, and told her that it was nothing to be alarmed about. mrs. merrill, aunt deborah, ruth's mother and winifred kept close to the "prisoners" as the little party made its way down the street toward the headquarters of the english general. chapter xi a long road "what is this?" called a pleasant voice, and the two soldiers halted instantly and saluted a young officer who blocked their way. "if thee please, sir, there has been a mistake made," said aunt deborah, and proceeded to tell the story of the birthday entertainment that the children had given for mrs. merrill. the young officer listened gravely. "as you say, madam, they are but children; but such games find little favor among loyal english people," he responded. "but thee must remember we are americans," said aunt deborah fearlessly. the young officer turned and walked beside them. now and then he smiled as if amused by his own thoughts, but he said nothing more until they reached the headquarters of the general. "wait here a moment," he said, and ran up the steps. "i shall tell them that ruth had nothing to do with it, and that i am the only one to blame," gilbert said to mrs. pernell. "of course they won't punish any one but me." before mrs. pernell could reply the young officer appeared at the door, and came slowly down the steps. "come with me, young sir," he said, resting his hand on gilbert's shoulder. "you may take the little girls home, ladies," he added. "i am quite sure they will not prove a danger to england's cause." "i will wait for my son," said mrs. merrill. "i do not suppose you mean to detain him long." "i cannot say as to that, madam; but you are quite welcome to wait. if you will come in i will see that you find a comfortable chair," he replied courteously. "i will wait here," said mrs. merrill. "and we will wait also," declared ruth's mother. ruth and winifred clasped each other's hands as they watched gilbert being led up the steps. they thought their mothers were very brave indeed to reply so calmly to an english officer. gilbert was absent not more than a half hour, but it seemed much longer to the anxious little group. he came down the steps alone, and when his mother slipped her hand under one arm while winifred clasped his other hand he smiled and said: "humph! all they did was laugh and tell me to choose a better plot for my next play. they are not soldiers at all. why, they asked me if i would not like to take a part in one of major andré's plays." "what did you say, gilbert?" questioned winifred. "i said '_no_.' and that's all i said. and i did not thank them for the offer; and then they laughed more than ever. i wish washington would drive them out of philadelphia," answered gilbert, who was a trifle disappointed that the englishmen had not taken his play more seriously. he would not have minded if he had been held as a prisoner for a few days; it would have made him feel that he had really done something to prove his loyalty to the american cause. but mrs. merrill was very glad to have her tall son safely beside her, although she was inclined to agree with him that the gay young english officers took their duties too lightly. there had been balls at the city tavern every week during the winter, and most of the officers seemed to forget that there were dangers in store for them from the american army at valley forge. gilbert's adventure made ruth and winifred completely forget their plan to make a table as a present for betty until late that afternoon; and then they decided not to begin it until after aunt deborah's departure the next day. "mother has a table shaped like a heart. we could mark a heart on that square piece of dark wood with chalk and then cut it out," suggested winnie. "i am sure betty would like that better than a plain square table." "of course she would," agreed ruth. neither of the little girls realized how hard an undertaking it would be to carve a heart-shaped table top from the square piece of mahogany. ruth was awake at an early hour the next morning. the april sun shone warmly in through her open window; the robins, who had built a nest in the hawthorn tree, sang jubilantly as if rejoicing that spring was really at hand, and ruth could hear her mother and aunt deborah moving about in the lower rooms. it was just the day for a ride in the country. ruth was glad that winifred had thought of so pleasant a plan as driving a part of the way with aunt deborah. both the little girls had taken it for granted that their mothers would have no objection. winifred was used to driving the pony, and had often taken ruth with her, but they had never been farther than fair mount, a pleasant hill just outside the town on the schuylkill river, or along the quiet streets of the town; but to-day winifred had said that they would drive until aunt deborah should tell them to turn toward home. farmer withal usually arrived in the city at an early hour, delivered his produce, then gave the big brown horse an hour or two rest, and was ready to start on his return journey directly after dinner. aunt deborah did not keep him waiting, and was at the gate with mrs. pernell beside her when the round-faced smiling farmer in his long coat of heavy blue drilling and his wide-rimmed hat came driving up. "where can ruth be?" her mother said anxiously, as the farmer lifted aunt deborah's trunk into the back of the wagon and stood waiting to help her mount to the high seat. at that moment the pony carriage drew up behind the wagon with winnie and ruth smiling and waving their hands at aunt deborah. "we are going a little way with you, mistress farleigh," called winifred. "may i go, mother?" ruth added. aunt deborah was evidently greatly pleased that the little girls had wished to go a little way with her on her journey home, and mrs. pernell smiled and nodded her consent, thinking that ruth would be safely back in an hour at the longest, and waving her good-byes as farmer withal climbed to his seat and the brown horse trotted off, closely followed by fluff. down the street they went, turning now into the broader highway and at last reaching the river road that led straight to mat son's ford, beyond which the road led on to valley forge. as they came in sight of the river the big horse stopped, and in a moment fluff was beside the farmer's cart. aunt deborah smiled down at the little girls. "'tis best that thee turn toward home now. and i thank thee both for coming so far with me. 'twill not be long now, ruth, before i hope to see thee at barren hill. and thee, winifred, will be welcome also whenever thou canst give me the pleasure of a visit." before aunt deborah had finished speaking ruth was out of the pony carriage and standing on the step of farmer withe's cart holding up a package. "here is something i made for you, aunt deborah," she said. aunt deborah reached down and received the small carefully wrapped package. "thank thee, dear child," she said, and ruth stood by the roadside and waved a good-bye as the brown horse trotted off at a more rapid pace than he had traveled through the town. "i wish we could have gone farther," she said regretfully as she went back to her seat beside winifred. "well, we can. we'll turn up that shady road and see where it goes," responded winifred. "what did you give your aunt?" "a needle-book. mother helped me make it. it is of blue flannel, with embroidered edges, and shaped like a small book, with aunt deborah's initials on the cover," said ruth. "would it not be pleasant if you could visit aunt deborah when i do?" winifred feared that such a visit would not be possible. but the two little friends talked of many things as fluff trotted along the narrow country road, hardly more than a lane, and sheltered by closely growing trees. now and then the road came out into an open space, and there would be many violets growing close to the roadside. then the girls sprang from the cart and gathered handfuls of the fragrant blossoms, while fluff nibbled at the grass, or twisted his head to watch his young mistress. the wild honeysuckle was also in bloom along a sloping pasture, and ruth was eager to gather it to take home to her mother. she climbed up the rough slope, followed by winifred, and they soon had large bunches of the delicate blossoms. from the top of the little hill that they had climbed they could see the distant line of the blue river, and after roaming about for a time they decided it was time to return to fluff and start for home. the pony whinnied a little impatiently and shook his head at them as they approached. "he thinks we have stayed too long," said winifred laughingly. "what time do you suppose it is, ruth?" "oh! we can't have been away from home more than an hour," said ruth; "but the sky looks cloudy, doesn't it?" but it was not clouds that made the sky darken, it was the rapidly approaching twilight. the tall trees shut out the golden spring sunshine; and the afternoon had passed so pleasantly that neither ruth nor winifred had any idea that evening was close at hand, or that they were miles from home in a solitary and unknown road that had seemed to grow more narrow as they went on. "perhaps we had better turn around now," suggested winifred a few moments after they had gathered the wild honeysuckle. "i told mother we would be home early. why, what is the matter with fluff?" she added in a startled tone, for the little pony had come to a full stop. both the little girls jumped out of the cart and ran to the pony's head, which drooped low. fluff was breathing heavily, and it seemed to winifred as if his slender legs trembled. "why, he can't be tired. he had that long rest just now," said ruth anxiously. neither of them realized that ever since leaving the river the road had run steadily up-hill, or that the pony had been traveling for a number of hours. fluff was no longer young, and he had never been required to go long distances; and now he could go no further. "i'll take off his harness," said winifred quickly. "i hope he isn't going to have a fit. ned farris's pony has fits." it did not take her long to set fluff free from the pony-cart, and he turned a grateful look toward his little mistress, who began to wish there was a brook or spring near at hand where the little creature could drink. ruth smoothed fluff's head, and winifred with a bunch of wayside grass rubbed his back and legs. "he's going to lie down," said winifred as fluff moved his head about quickly; and in a moment the tired little creature had stretched himself at their feet. "what shall we do? i am sure fluff can't take us home," exclaimed winifred, "and we can't go and leave him here." "it can't be very far from home," responded ruth. "i could go home and tell gilbert, and he would come right back for you with ned's pony." "but what could we do with fluff?" asked winifred a little despondently. "he is too tired to drive home." "perhaps he'd be rested enough by that time to go home, if he didn't have to pull the cart," said ruth; "anyway, i do think one of us ought to go home or our mothers will think some harm has befallen us. i'll stay, if you would rather go." but winifred shook her head. she did not wish to leave the pony; neither was she pleased at the thought of staying by herself on that lonely road. at last, however, they decided that ruth's plan was the best they could think of, and ruth started. "i'll hurry all the way, winifred; and gilbert will come back as fast as he can," she called as she started to run down the hill. chapter xii a long ride "i wish we had brought hero," thought ruth regretfully as she hurried down the shadowy road, "then he could have come with me for company." for at the last moment before leaving home the little girls had decided that it was not best to let hero accompany them. there was not room for him in the pony-cart, and for him to race along the streets might well mean that he would again disappear; so ruth had been quite ready to leave him at home. but now she would have been very glad to have him running along beside her. "josephine" and "cecilia" had also been left behind; in fact neither winifred nor ruth had remembered the dolls until after they had said good-bye to aunt deborah. and, while ruth was regretting the absence of hero, winifred, sitting close beside fluff, was wishing that her beloved josephine was there to keep her company. "it would be a great adventure for josephine," she thought, looking up through the overhanging branches of the big oak under which fluff had stopped to rest. for a time she amused herself by braiding the long grass and weaving it about green twigs broken from an elder-bush until she had made a wide, shallow basket with a handle. into this she put the violets and wild honeysuckle, resolving to take it home as a present to her mother. she put it carefully under the seat of the pony-cart, and then decided to search for a spring or brook, for she was thirsty. fluff showed no signs of wishing to start for home, or even to eat the tempting young grass growing near. "if i find a brook perhaps i can lead him, and then he will get a good drink," thought winifred, crossing the narrow road and pushing aside a thick growth of wild shrubs. "oh!" she exclaimed, for she had stepped at once on to damp yielding moss which covered her low cut slippers and whetted her feet as completely as if she had stepped into a brook. just beyond this moss lay a clear little pool of water, evidently fed by springs. winifred discovered that the farther, or upper, bank of the pool was dry and sandy, and in a few moments she was kneeling beside the clear water and drinking thirstily. she then made her way back to the road, breaking down branches of the shrubs to make a way for fluff, who was now on his feet looking about as if in search of his little mistress. "come on, fluff," she said coaxingly, grasping the plume-like mane. "come and have a drink." the pony moved forward obediently. he hesitated a moment at having to push his way through the undergrowth, but with winifred encouraging and urging him forward he was soon in sight of the pool, and then sprang forward so suddenly that his mane slid through winifred's hands and she found herself on her hands and knees while fluff, with his nose in the clear water, was drinking thirstily. winifred laughed as she scrambled to her feet. her shoes and stockings were wet and muddy, her pretty blue linen dress was torn, and now she realized that her hat was gone, that she must have lost it in pushing her way through the undergrowth; but these things seemed of small consequence to winifred just then; for the pony, with his forefeet planted firmly in the shallow water, was evidently more himself than he had been since he had stopped short under the oak tree. "i'll lead him back and harness him into the cart and start after ruth," thought his little mistress happily, "and i do believe it is getting dark!" she added aloud, realizing that the woods seemed very shadowy, as she made her way toward the pool. as she came near fluff he lifted his head from the water, shook himself much as a big dog would do, and whinnied with satisfaction. but as winifred approached more closely he gave a little dancing step into the water just beyond her reach. "oh, fluff! it isn't any time to play games. we must start for home before it is really dark," said winifred. but fluff was now rested, and free from his harness in a fragrant shadowy wood. he was sure that his little mistress must be as ready as himself for a game, so he edged along the pool until a clear space opened before him, and then he stepped out, and trotted briskly away between the tall trees. "fluff! fluff!" called winifred, running after him. "oh! where did he go?" for the pony had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him. winifred ran on until her way was blocked by thickly growing underbrush. then she turned back, but now she could not find the pool. the shadows deepened; she could hardly distinguish one tree from another, and there was no sound or sign from the gray pony. "what shall i do?" she said, standing close to the trunk of a pine tree that rose straight and tall with wide-spreading branches. she realized that she must now be some distance from the road and the big oak tree where she had left the pony-cart, and fluff perhaps was deep in this wilderness, unable to make his way back; and, worst of all, night was close upon her. it was indeed a dangerous position for a little girl to be alone in a wilderness as winifred found herself. it was a time when many wild beasts still wandered about, often coming near to the outskirts of towns and villages. winifred remembered that only a few weeks earlier a catamount had been killed at fair mount, and she knew that in the early spring bears left the dens where they had slept through the winter, and wandered through the woods eating the tender young buds and leaves. she crouched closer to the tree as she remembered these things, and then suddenly she recalled the words that she had worked on her sampler: "there shall no evil befall thee. for he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways." her mother had traced the words, and winifred had worked them in dull blue yarns on the perforated wool cloth. she said them over aloud: "no evil befall thee," and was no longer afraid. she did not think now of the beasts of the dark wood, but of a kindly presence that would shelter her. "perhaps fluff will come and find me," she thought hopefully. "anyway, ruth will soon be back with gilbert, and they will call my name, and i shall call back," and so comforted and encouraged winifred sat down on the soft pine spills and leaned back against the tall tree. a pair of squirrels chattered noisily in the branches; a soft-footed little animal sped by almost touching her feet, and she could hear faint calls from nesting birds near at hand. "for he shall give his angels charge over thee," the little girl whispered to herself, and soothed and quieted by the spring fragrance of the wood her eyes closed. ruth, meanwhile, was trudging along the road toward home. she was sure that she could find the way without any trouble. "all i have to do is to turn when i come to the river road and follow it straight back to the city, and then any one can tell me how to get home," she thought, hopefully. but she began to think she should never reach the river road. her thin shoes were scrubbed and dusty, and she wondered what aunt deborah would say at her untidy appearance. now and then she would quicken her pace and run until she was out of breath. she began to understand why fluff was tired out. just before she reached the river road there was the sound of breaking twigs, and of some animal making its way through the woods, and the next moment a deer followed by a young fawn sprang into the road directly in front of the surprised and startled little girl; but they vanished before ruth realized that they had been within reach of her hand. "oh! i wish winifred could have seen them," she thought. the road now hardly showed in the thick dusk. ruth stumbled often, and began to be both hungry and thirsty. she wished she could stop and rest; but the thought of winifred sitting alone under the big oak tree made her resolve not to stop until she reached home. at last she could see an open space ahead, and the dark line of the river; and at the same moment she heard the sound of trotting feet on the road behind her and a little gray figure ran swiftly by. "that was fluff! i know it was fluff," she exclaimed, and called loudly after the pony. but fluff did not stop; he knew he was headed for home, and it was much easier to run along free and unharnessed than to pull a cart containing two little girls. ruth now hardly knew what to do. perhaps winifred might be coming closely behind the pony. "perhaps i ought to wait and see if she is coming," thought ruth, puzzled and uncertain as to the right course to take. before she could decide she saw the gleam of a lantern, and heard the wheels of a carriage coming rapidly over the road, and without a moment's hesitation she called out: "stop! please stop!" and heard a familiar voice respond: "it's ruth. it's ruth." and the light of the lantern showed gilbert and his mother in ned farris's pony-cart. in a moment they were standing in the road beside her, and ruth was telling the story of the woodland road, and of winifred waiting beside the pony-cart under a big oak tree. "and fluff just ran by, headed for home," she concluded. "i thought it was fluff who raced past us. i was sure it was he," said gilbert. they were now puzzled what course to take. to leave winifred alone so far from any human habitation was not to be thought of; neither did mrs. merrill wish ruth to go on toward home without some one with her. "gilbert, you must go home with ruth, and i will drive on after winifred," she decided. "mrs. pernell will be sadly troubled when fluff comes running home and she has no news of her little girl. go as quickly as you can." gilbert agreed; but he felt a little defrauded as he and ruth turned toward home. he would have enjoyed going up that dark hillside road, where it seemed to him some interesting adventure might befall a traveler. mrs. merrill, with the lantern fastened to the front of the cart, drove rapidly up the hill, trying to pierce the dusky shadows of the roadside. now and then she called winifred's name, and listened intently for some response, but none came. at last the light from the lantern showed the pony-carriage in the shadow of the big oak tree, and in a moment mrs. merrill was on the ground beside it. but winifred was not to be seen. "winifred!" she called over and over, but there was no reply. chapter xiii home again winifred awakened suddenly. for a moment she looked about with startled eyes. "winifred! winifred!" "that is mother calling," she exclaimed aloud, springing to her feet, and resting one hand against the smooth trunk of the pine tree. for a moment she was too surprised and sleepy to respond to the call; then she called back, "mother! i'm in the woods!" at the same time moving slowly around to the other side of the big tree. "oh! there's a light! and there's the road! and there is mother!" and stumbling and running winifred appeared in the road only a short distance from the flickering light of the lantern. "mother! mother! did you come all alone?" called winifred, as her mother held her close as if, thought the little girl, "i had been away a long time." "i thought i was way in the deep woods, and i was close to the road all the time. but fluff is lost," she explained, as her mother led her toward the cart. "no, dear; fluff passed us on our way home, and will probably be safe in his stall long before we get back," replied mrs. merrill, and as they drove through the darkness she told her little daughter of how troubled she and mrs. pernell had been as the afternoon passed and winifred and ruth failed to return; of gilbert borrowing ned's pony, of meeting ruth, "and i have been here an hour, calling and calling," she concluded. "how sound asleep i must have been not to hear you," said winifred happily, snuggling closer to her mother's side. "after fluff ran off i began to be frightened," she continued. "i thought of catamounts and bears; and then i thought of my sampler." "your sampler?" repeated mrs. merrill, not understanding just what winifred meant. "yes, mother dear! don't you remember the words you traced on it? 'there shall no evil befall thee. for he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways,'" repeated the little girl. "i kept saying it over and over and i was not afraid." for a moment mrs. merrill did not reply. she stooped and kissed her little daughter, and then said: "that was right, dear child." it was nearly midnight when mrs. merrill and winifred reached home, and gilbert lifted a very sleepy little girl from the pony-cart. "mrs. pernell and ruth are here," he said, "and she has some hot broth ready." gilbert looked after ned's pony before following his mother and sister into the house. mrs. pernell had already prepared his supper and he had eaten it with ruth on reaching home after their long walk; but that seemed a long time ago, and he was quite ready to sit down at the candle-lit table and join the others. the hot broth, toast and damson preserves were very welcome to winifred and her mother. the little group around the table were all too tired to talk much, but they smiled happily at one another, rejoicing that they were all safe and at home. it was decided that mrs. pernell and ruth should stay the remainder of the night with the merrill's. "hero will take care of our house," ruth said confidently, as she and her mother entered the pleasant chamber where they were to sleep. "mother, you never scold me, do you?" she said, just as mrs. pernell extinguished the candle, and smiled happily to herself at her mother's little laugh. "why, ruthie dear! i should hope not. you know 'scold' is an ugly word. there is nothing about it that is fair. it means to 'find fault,' which is never quite fair; do you think it is?" and ruth agreed that "scold" had an ugly sound. "we didn't mean to stay away and to worry you," said ruth. "of course you didn't, dear child. go to sleep," replied her mother, who was thinking to herself that no other little girl was as dear and good as her own little daughter. and, strange as it may seem, mrs. merrill was thinking that very same thing about winifred. how much there was for the two little friends to talk about the next day! gilbert and fluff had started off at an early hour to bring home the pony-cart, and early in the afternoon betty hastings came to see ruth. she knew nothing about the adventure of the day before, and listened eagerly to ruth and winifred as they told of the lonely road, the coming of darkness, and of the deer and fawn that ruth had seen. the two younger girls looked at betty admiringly as they all sat together in mrs. pernell's front room. betty's smooth brown curls under her pretty white straw hat, her shining brown eyes and pleasant smile, and the pretty dress of blue and white plaid, made her well worth their approving glances. both ruth and winifred wondered to themselves why it was that betty's hands were always clean, her hair smooth, and her dress always neat and in order. they decided, as they had often done before, that it was because betty was so nearly grown up, nearly thirteen. they were quite sure that being tidy and careful was a gift that came with years. ruth always liked to have betty come to see her. "it's just like really being grown up when betty comes," she had explained to her mother, "because we always sit in the front room, and never play dolls." so this afternoon when mrs. pernell brought in a tray with the little silver pitcher and sugar bowl, the luster teapot, and the treasured canton cups and saucers, together with a plate of round frosted cakes, and ruth had the pleasure of giving betty and winifred a cup of "real tea" she felt herself the most fortunate little girl in philadelphia. "'tis not a taxed tea," mrs. pernell declared smilingly; for americans had refused to receive any tea on which the government of great britain demanded an unlawful tax. "i came to ask you and winifred to a may party," said betty, when she was ready to start for home. "my mother says i may invite a dozen girls to go maying to some pleasant place on the river, where we can gather flowers, put up a may-pole, and have a picnic lunch. mother will get some one to drive us all out in a big wagon." both ruth and winifred were delighted at the invitation, and thanked betty. may-day was nearly two weeks distant, but they were glad to have so pleasant an invitation. and the front door had hardly closed behind their visitor when ruth exclaimed: "we must begin on that table right away, winifred, so that it will surely be finished by may-day. i have just remembered that may first is betty's birthday! her mother always has a party for her." "so it is!" responded winifred, as she followed ruth toward the shed. there was a piece of chalk in the drawer of the work-bench, and ruth, laying the square of smooth dark wood on the top of a barrel, began to mark a large heart, while winifred stood beside her watching admiringly. "there!" ruth exclaimed, as her rather uneven chalk line came to an end. "i guess that is enough to go by. we can make the edges smooth with some of the tools." winifred agreed promptly. "i'll make the legs," she volunteered. "be sure and have them all the same length," advised ruth. "you can take this chalk and mark the places where to saw;" and in a few moments winifred with a small sharp saw was endeavoring to cut through the strips of hard wood selected for table legs, while ruth with a sharp knife tried in vain to make some impression on the square of mahogany. snap! went the slender knife-blade! "oh, winifred! quick! i've cut off my thumb!" screamed ruth, as she raced past the horrified winifred and ran into the kitchen calling: "mother! mother!" in a moment her mother was beside her; the injured thumb was bathed and bandaged, and ruth was explaining, with winifred's help, how the accident occurred. it was really a deep cut, and it was no wonder that the little girl had been frightened. mrs. pennell went to the shed with the little girls, and looked with troubled eyes at the cherished pieces of polished wood, and the fine tools scattered about the floor. "we must put all these tools carefully back in the chest, and the wood on the shelf just as your father left it. winifred will help me, for you must not use your hand, ruth," she said. "but, mother, we want to make a heart-shaped table for a birthday present for betty," ruth explained. "mayn't we use father's tools?" "no, my dear. it would have been a very serious thing if you had spoiled any of his saws or planes. and those strips and squares of wood are valuable. besides that you and winifred are not accustomed to the use of tools; and you might really have cut off your thumb instead of only cutting it," said mrs. pennell. "i am to blame that i did not tell you how much your dear father valued these tools and wood." "oh, mother! you are never to blame. i ought to have asked you," ruth declared. "well, my dear, i really think it would have been wiser. but now we must think of something else as a present for betty. with that hurt thumb, ruth, i am afraid you cannot make her anything," responded her mother, leading the way to the seat under the maple tree. "now, let us all try and think of something that betty would like for a birthday gift," she continued, as they all sat down. hero came bounding across the yard, and took his usual place at ruth's feet. "i know! i know exactly what betty would like," declared ruth, "and i am sure i could help make it. candy! she loves candy. can i not use some of your sugar, mother, to make some heart-shaped sweets?" for ruth had some tiny heart-shaped molds of tin, into which hot candy mixture could be turned, and that when cool came out in perfect shapes. "that will be better than a table," said winifred eagerly, "and i know my mother will give me some sugar for such a purpose. and, ruth! we can make a heart-shaped box of paper to put it in." mrs. pennell listened smilingly as the two little girls made their plan for their friend's birthday gift. she promised to give them a portion of her scanty store of sugar. "you will not need to make it for a week to come; and ruth's thumb will be well by that time. you may have the kitchen to yourselves on the last day of april," she said. ruth quite forgot the ugly cut in her excitement over the proposed candy-making. "i am glad may is only ten days away," she said. "just think of all that is going to happen next month! betty's birthday picnic, and my visit to aunt deborah! and perhaps even more than that. perhaps i shall see lafayette! and perhaps the english will leave philadelphia." both her mother and winifred laughed at ruth's eager prophecy. chapter xiv the candy disappears gilbert and winifred often talked to ruth of their soldier brother, vinal; and she never tired of hearing the story of a midnight visit he had made during the previous winter. he had arrived home late one afternoon, coming up the street as if there were not an english soldier in the city, and had stayed the night in his own home, departing early the next morning for valley forge. it was just such an adventure as the children admired, and would have well liked to have had some part in. gilbert had reluctantly given up the plan of changing his name to lafayette. no one seemed to remember his wish, and after a few weeks he no longer reminded ruth or winifred. as the time of ruth's visit to barren hill drew near she made many pleasant plans of all she would see and do while at aunt deborah's square stone house, and recalled all that her aunt had told her of the beehives in a sunny corner of the garden, the flocks of chickens, the many birds that nested safely in the orchard trees, and the big attic that would be such a fine play-house on stormy days. but most of all ruth thought of the fact that barren hill was only ten miles distant from valley forge, and that there might be some way in which she could see her father. "i wish i could find out that the english were going to leave philadelphia, and then i would have good news for father," she thought. "or if i could carry a fine present for father to give lafayette." but there seemed little prospect that a little girl like ruth could be the bearer of good news to the troops at valley forge, or of a present to the gallant young frenchman. ruth's thumb healed in a few days, so that she could help her mother in the garden, and do her usual work about the house. every morning, directly after breakfast, was the lesson hour, when mrs. pennell and ruth would sit down in the dining-room and, as ruth had described it to aunt deborah, "tell stories." there were "history" stories, and these ruth liked best of all. one was the story of the first quaker emigrants who came to philadelphia in three small ships, bringing a friendly letter from the good-natured king charles to the delaware indians. she liked to hear how these people sailed safely across the atlantic and came up the delaware, and first found shelter in caves along the river's bank, and then built themselves log cabins, and big strong houses. then there were stories of the stars, by which sailors steered their course at sea, and there were stories of birds and beasts, and a very amusing game in which a small girl from japan and another from china, and a little black girl from africa, each recited the way children were taught in those countries. mrs. pennell did not always tell the stories, no, indeed! often ruth would be asked to tell the story of william penn, or perhaps to draw a little picture of certain constellations. and always there was the adding of apples, the dividing of apples into four parts and eight parts, which mrs. pennell called "fractions." and after this pleasant hour there were the neat stitches to be set in apron, dress, or handkerchief. nearly every child had regular tasks; they were taught to use their hands as well as their eyes and thoughts, and ruth was very proud that she could hemstitch nicely, and "set the heel" of a stocking, and finish off its toe. after vinal brought the letter from ruth's father mrs. pennell seemed more cheerful, and often said that she was sure it would not be many months before philadelphia would be rid of the enemy. ruth and winifred counted the days until the last day of april, when they were to make the candy as a present for betty. the pretty heart-shaped box that was to hold it was already finished. mrs. pennell had helped them make it. she had carefully shaped it from pasteboard, and then, with a flour paste, the little girls had covered it carefully with some pretty bits of wall-paper. the cover had three tiny hearts cut from gilt paper, and ruth and winifred were both sure that betty would be much pleased by their gift, especially when she opened it and found it full of sweets. ruth had just finished her lesson hour on the morning of the day before the may-day picnic, when winifred appeared. she brought a package of sugar that her mother had given her as her share for the candy, and the two little girls ran to the kitchen, which they were to have quite to themselves for their candy-making. the family cooking was done over the bed of coals in the fireplace, and ruth brought out a saucepan, a big spoon, and some sugar from the pantry, and talking happily of the pleasures of the coming day the two little friends measured their sugar and set the saucepan over the coals, while ruth, spoon in hand, watched it carefully, while winifred stood close by ready to help. it was a great event to be permitted to make candy, and both winifred and ruth decided that it would be a much more acceptable present than a table. in a short time the melted sugar, flavored with rose leaves, was ready to be turned into the tiny heart-shaped molds, and set to cool on the window ledge. "let's go out in the garden," suggested ruth. "if we stay in here we shall keep looking at the candy to see if it is ready to turn out, and it will seem forever." so they went out to the seat under the maple tree, played with hero, talked about the may party and the time, now near at hand, when ruth would go to visit aunt deborah, and nearly an hour passed before they returned to the kitchen. "why, where are the molds?" exclaimed ruth. "where is the candy?" demanded winifred, and they looked at the vacant window-sill where they had left the sweets to cool. "mother must have put them in the pantry," said ruth. "of course," winifred agreed, and the little girls exchanged a smile of relief as they both turned toward the pantry. but the candy was not there. "i'll run and ask her where she put it," said ruth, and hurried off to find her mother who was busy in one of the upper rooms. "but i have not been down-stairs, dear child," mrs. pennell replied. "you do not suppose the molds have fallen out of the window?" she asked, and without stopping to answer ruth ran back to the kitchen, and leaned out of the window, but there was no candy to be seen. "oh, ruth! the box is gone, too! some one must have come in and taken it!" said winifred; and, sure enough, the pretty box had disappeared from the table as well as the molds from the window. both the little girls were ready to cry with disappointment. they knew that each of the other guests would bring betty a present, and they knew also that their mothers could not spare any more sugar for candy. besides this the pretty box was gone, and they had no more bits of paper to make another. "i shan't go to the party," ruth declared. "and who could have been mean enough to take the candy?" mrs. pennell was nearly as troubled as ruth and winnie. it was evident that some one must have entered the house by the front door, taken the candy, and made off while the girls were in the garden. she feared that other things must have been taken, but a careful search proved that nothing else was missing. winifred agreed with ruth that they did not wish to go to the party without a present for betty. "and now it is too late to even think of anything," she said as she started for home, leaving ruth puzzled and unhappy, and wondering to herself if perhaps some ill-natured fairies had not made off with the sweets. the more ruth thought of this the more convinced she was that it was what had happened. she remembered hearing queer little noises at her window that morning that she had thought were made by the birds nesting in the hawthorn. now she said to herself that it must have been fairies coming into the house. "and because i did not make them welcome they have taken the candy," she decided, remembering a fairy tale that mrs. merrill had once told the two girls in which children had always welcomed fairies who came tapping at the windows of a spring morning, by singing: "welcome, fairies good and kind; come in, come in, and welcome find." in the story the fairies had brought wonderful gifts, but if they had not been welcomed they would have taken the children's dearest possessions, which could only be recovered by walking around the garden just before sunrise and bowing low three times to the lilac, three times to a robin, and three times with your eyes shut tight, repeating each time: "fairies, fairies, here i bow. will you kindly pardon now that i did not hear or see when you came to visit me?" ruth was glad that she could remember it. "i'll get up before sunrise to-morrow morning and do exactly as the little girl did in the story when the fairies brought back her silver heart, and then probably when i open my eyes there will be the box and the candy," thought ruth. "why, of course, it was because the box and the candies were heart-shaped," she decided; "that's another reason i'm sure it was fairies. it will be splendid if i can get them back. i won't tell winifred until after breakfast to-morrow. won't she be surprised?" mrs. pennell wondered a little that ruth was in such good spirits the rest of the day, after the disappearance of the candy, and that she was so ready to go to bed at an hour earlier than the usual time. chapter xv a fairy story when gilbert took the pan of candy-molds from the open window of mrs. pennell's kitchen, and, reaching in captured the heart-shaped box from the table, his only intention was to keep them just long enough to puzzle ruth and winifred and then return them. when the girls came back to the kitchen he had run into the shed, and set box and pan in the open drawer of the work-bench and closed it quickly, and had then gone home to attend to some garden work, meaning to come back in an hour at the longest; but his mother had sent him on an errand, and it was noon before gilbert remembered the candy; and then winifred was telling the story of its disappearance: "you wouldn't think any one would be so mean as to take our candy," she concluded, and gilbert felt his face flush uncomfortably, and realized that it was going to be very difficult to explain what he had intended for a joke to ruth and winifred. in some way he must get that candy and box back to the place from which he had taken it, or else tell the girls what he had done; and this last alternative would be unpleasant. all that afternoon he was on the alert for a chance to slip into the pennells' garden, enter the shed and rescue the hidden sweets; but the day was warm and pleasant, and ruth and winifred with their dolls and hero were out-of-doors playing about in the shade of the maple tree until it was too late for gilbert to carry out his plan; so that he was as uneasy and troubled as ruth or winifred over the missing candy, and not until evening could he think of any way to recover it. he was just closing the stable for the night when he noticed the shallow basket of woven grass and twigs which winifred had made on the eventful afternoon's journey along the river road. the violets and wild honeysuckle were now only dried up stems; but the basket looked serviceable and attractive. gilbert smiled as he picked it up. he knew now exactly what he would do: he would get up very early the next morning, gather daffodils and iris and then take the basket to mrs. pennell's shed,--take the candy from the molds, fill the box, and setting the box in winifred's grass basket cover it with flowers; then he would hang it to the knocker of the pennells' front door. "the girls will think the fairies did it for a may-day surprise," he chuckled to himself, remembering that winifred could never quite decide about fairies: if there really were such wonderful little people or not. so gilbert was up before sunrise the next morning, and with a friendly word to hero, found it an easy matter to enter the shed quietly and take the candy and box from the bench drawer. in a few moments he had filled the box skilfully without breaking one of the tiny hearts, set it in the basket and covered it with the spring blossoms. he was just about to leave the shed when he heard a voice, and peering out saw ruth bowing to the lilac tree and saying in a low voice: "fairies, fairies, here i bow. will you kindly pardon now that i did not hear or see when you came to visit me?" "jiminy! it's that old fairy story mother tells; and ruth believes it," thought gilbert, as he watched ruth bowing low to a startled robin, which flew up to a higher branch in the hawthorn tree. she was so much absorbed in what she was doing that she did not hear the stealthy step behind her on the soft grass as gilbert swiftly set down the mold pan and the basket, and flew back to the shop. he had just reached its shelter when ruth turned to go back to the house and saw the basket. she looked at it for a moment as if she could hardly believe her eyes; and as she stooped to pick it up ruth fully expected that basket, pan and tin molds would all vanish from sight. but no! they were real; and, quite as ruth expected, the box, filled with candy hearts, was under the flowers. "oh! what will winifred say?" she whispered to herself. and then she bowed to the lilac tree and to the robin, and said, "thank you, kind fairies. i will always know now that you are true and kind," and then ruth ran into the house to wake up her mother and tell her this wonderful story, and show her the basket in proof of the fairies' visit. gilbert hurried home. he was delighted with the success of his plan, but a little troubled that ruth should believe so implicitly that fairies had first taken and then returned the candy. mrs. pennell listened to ruth's story and looked at the basket with as much wonder and surprise as even ruth could expect. although she did not deny that fairies had a hand in the return of the candy, she endeavored to explain to herself just how it could have occurred. but she remembered how much happiness she herself had had as a small girl in believing in good fairies, and was quite willing that her own little daughter should have the same pleasure. the merrills were just sitting down to an early breakfast when ruth came over to tell winifred that the candy had been found, but she did not tell all the story, for she knew gilbert laughed at fairies. "i'll tell you all about it on the way to betty's," she said, for it had been arranged that betty's guests should all meet at her house, where the wagons would be in readiness to take them to a favorite picnic ground, a green sloping field on the banks of the schuylkill river, where there were groups of wide-spreading elms and where many spring flowers grew. winifred was so eager to hear about the return of the candy that she could hardly wait to finish her breakfast. ruth had not lingered after telling the great news, but had run home to make ready for the picnic. gilbert continued to feel uneasy about his part in the fairy story, and after ruth and winifred had started for the may party he followed his mother into the garden and offered to help her transplant the young seedlings. "mother, do you think there is any harm in believing in fairies?" he asked, and before his mother could reply gilbert was telling her the story. "ruth seemed more pleased about the fairies than she did to get the candy back," he concluded, "and i don't think there is any harm in fairies, do you?" "why, no, gilbert! i am always hoping that they really are true," replied his mother smilingly. "oh, mother! you are as bad as ruth," laughed gilbert; "but do you think i ought to tell ruth that i hid the candy, and then brought it back?" "no, not at present. some time in the future you can tell ruth about it, if you wish, but i think it would be too bad to spoil her pleasure to-day. but perhaps you had better ask mrs. pennell, and then do whatever she thinks best," replied his mother. the thought of telling mrs. pennell of his mischievous act made gilbert rather uncomfortable, but he responded promptly: "all right, mother. i'll go now," and ran toward the house to wash his hands before presenting himself at mrs. pennell's door. "so that was it. i could not imagine how it happened," said mrs. pennell when gilbert had told of hiding the candy, and of meaning to return it as a may basket. she agreed with mrs. merrill that ruth could be told the facts later on, and did not seem to feel that gilbert's joke had been anything but natural and harmless, so gilbert returned home with an untroubled mind. betty had asked her little guests to be at her house at half-past ten o'clock, and when ruth and winifred came down the street they saw a big wagon with two big brown horses standing in front of betty's house; just behind the big wagon was a smaller one which dinah was helping to load with baskets and packages. "that's the lunch wagon," said winifred. "oh, ruth! i'm sure we are going to have a beautiful time. what do you suppose betty will say when you tell her about the fairies?" "i don't know. but probably she will think she is lucky to have a basket made by fairies," responded ruth, who did not know the story of the basket that she carried so carefully. "i made that basket. truly i did, ruth," winifred declared eagerly. ruth's smile vanished. she stood still and looked at winifred accusingly. "then i suppose there weren't any fairies at all? if you made the basket you probably put the candy in it and set it in my garden for me to find. and you let me tell you all about bowing to the lilac tree, and never said a word," exclaimed ruth; "and i suppose you have been laughing at me all the time," she concluded, a little choke coming in her throat at the thought that her best friend, as well as the fairies, had failed her. before winifred could say a word ruth ran ahead as fast as she could go. betty was on the steps, and a number of the girls who were going on the picnic were with her. she greeted ruth warmly, and when ruth explained that the basket was from winifred and herself betty was greatly pleased. she was looking at the basket and box admiringly when winnie appeared. "did ruth tell you that is a fairy present?" she asked eagerly, and at the little chorus of laughter and questions, winifred went on and told the story just as ruth had told it to her, while ruth stood by looking rather sulky and unhappy. the moment winifred finished ruth stepped forward and said: "that's a good story, but it isn't true. about the fairies, i mean. not one word of it. and winifred knows it isn't." chapter xvi betty and annette the girls' laughter ceased, and they looked at ruth a little questioningly as if expecting that she would explain. but it was betty who, slipping her arm around winifred, said pleasantly: "well, we are all obliged to winnie for telling us such a beautiful story. and i am sure it is just what the fairies would do if they happened to think of it." winifred looked up at the older girl gratefully, but she felt very unhappy. she could not understand why ruth, her very best friend, should have turned against her, and denied the story. ruth stood, sulky and silent, and a little ashamed, as the other guests arrived; and when betty declared that it was time to start and led the way toward the big wagon, ruth walked alone and was the last one of betty's guests to climb up to her seat. there were ten little girls in the party, and black jason, dinah's husband, was to drive the team. mrs. hastings sat on the back seat between betty and ruth; the small wagon with the good things for the birthday luncheon followed close behind, driven by a friend of jason's. the other girls laughed and talked merrily as the big horses trotted briskly through the streets leading to the river. but ruth was silent, except when mrs. hastings spoke to her; then she answered as pleasantly as possible, but she had no pleasure in the ride. now and then they passed groups of english soldiers; and as they turned into the river road several red-coated officers on horseback rode past them. "we wish you a happy may, young ladies," called one of the officers, bowing very low as he rode past the wagon filled with happy girls. there was no response to his polite salutation; for even the children of the historic city resented the presence of the english soldiery. "mother, sing your may-day song," suggested betty. but mrs. hastings shook her head laughingly. "i must save that for our dance round the may-pole," she replied, "and we shall soon be at the picnic field now." the field was very near the place where ruth and winifred had turned into the hill road, and the may party reached it after not more than an hour's ride. black jason drove through the field toward the river bank, and stopped under a group of tall elms. in a few moments the girls were scattered about searching for flowers. black jason and his friend unloaded the lunch wagon, and then mrs. hastings called the girls to decide on the best place to erect the may-pole, a fine birch tree that black jason was now chopping down. "there are so many good places!" exclaimed betty, looking about the smooth field. "i think this is the best," she decided finally, as, with her guests beside her, she stopped near the edge of a wood. it was just the place for a may-pole, the other girls declared, as they looked about; and black jason and his friend set up the tall birch tree, whose green branches were more beautiful than any decoration that the girls could have imagined. while mrs. hastings and betty spread the lunch in the shade of the woods, the other girls gathered flowers and wove garlands for each other, and talked happily together. ruth found herself seated beside annette tennant, a girl about betty's age. "i will give you my wreath, and you can give me yours," said the older girl. "you are rather young to be asked to this party," she continued, looking at ruth. "i am nearly eleven," replied ruth. "winifred merrill isn't any older than that." "i noticed there were two little girls," rejoined annette condescendingly. "you mustn't mind if most of us are older. i always like children," went on annette, who was even taller than betty hastings, and whose yellow hair was braided neatly and wound around her head. ruth made no reply. she was feeling a little ashamed that she had declared winifred's story to be untrue. even if winnie had set the basket in the garden and let her go about bowing to trees and birds ruth felt that she herself had been rude and unkind. "what made that other child tell all that rigmarole about fairies?" questioned annette. "i was glad when you spoke up and said that it was not true. of course we older girls knew she was making it up." suddenly ruth became perfectly sure that winifred had had nothing to do with the discovery of the candy, and that winifred had really believed the fairies had brought it back, using her basket for the purpose. "winifred didn't make it up," declared ruth. "it was exactly as she told it. the fairies did take away the candy, and bring it back." annette stopped weaving the vines and flowers, and jumped up. "well, you are a very funny child. you tell us all that winifred merrill made up a story, and now you tell me that it was true," she exclaimed scornfully. "you need not give me your garland; i don't want it, or anything to do with you," and before ruth could say a word in reply annette had joined a group of the older girls, and was evidently telling them her opinion of ruth pennell. ruth looked down through a blur of tears at the wreath she was making. she could hardly see the flowers in her lap. "i wish i had stayed at home. i hate grown-up girls," she thought bitterly, wishing herself in her own garden with hero and cecilia for playmates. the sound of betty's voice calling to her guests that luncheon was ready made ruth look up. she saw the other girls walking toward the shade of the tall elms where mrs. hastings stood waiting for them. winifred was evidently in high favor; annette walked on one side and mary pierce on the other, each with an arm about the pleased but somewhat embarrassed winifred. "ruth! ruthie pennell! we are all waiting for you," called betty, and ruth followed the others. it was evident at once that none of the girls meant to sit beside ruth if it could be avoided. annette had declared that she believed ruth to be a mischief-maker, and untruthful, and that it was the duty of the older girls to "teach her a lesson." "we must let the child realize that older girls don't approve of such things," annette had said, and the others agreed that the best way to express their disapproval was to leave ruth to herself as much as possible. winifred was now more puzzled than ever. when annette had repeated ruth's declaration that winifred's story was true, that fairies had returned the candy, she did not know what to think. "i'm sure ruthie was only fooling," winifred declared bravely. "i mean when she said that i made up the story about the candy. because it was just what she told me." "then the child must be taught that we don't like such fooling," responded annette, with what she felt was a very grown-up and impressive manner. "sit here, ruth," said betty, wondering at the manner of the older girls, "and, winifred, come and sit beside her." winifred was quite ready to change her seat as betty suggested, but annette's hand clasped her arm, and it was annette who answered: "winnie would rather sit here, beside me." "all right," responded betty. "then i'll have ruthie for my helper. i can always depend on you, ruth, can't i?" she added, smiling at her young friend. "always," whispered ruth, gratefully; and it was she who helped betty serve the other girls with the excellent cold chicken, and bread, and butter, the jelly-filled tarts, and squares of molasses gingerbread, so that annette's proposed "lesson" bid fair to be defeated. "what's the matter, ruthie?" betty found a chance to whisper, as they sat down together a little way from the larger group. ruth told the story eagerly. "i don't know why i thought winnie had put the basket there, or why i was so horrid as to say that she told a story," confessed the unhappy little girl. "do you suppose it really was the fairies, betty?" betty looked rather sober for a minute. she was thinking to herself that her may-day party bid fair to be a failure unless her guests could realize that ruth had only made a mistake for which she was sorry. she blamed annette more than she did ruth, feeling sure that winifred and ruth would have come to a friendly understanding if annette had not interfered. "i have a plan, ruthie, that perhaps will make it all right. will you do just what i tell you?" "yes, indeed i will," responded ruth gratefully. mrs. hastings had left the girls to themselves and gone over to the may-pole. "come here, winifred," called betty, and this time annette made no objection, and in a moment winifred was sitting beside ruth, and both the little girls were thinking that betty was much nicer than any other "grown-up" girl in the party. "ruth pennell is going to tell us a story," announced betty. "she doesn't know if it really is true or not. for a little while she thought her best friend had taken the part of a fairy, but afterward she was sure she had not. now, ruth," and betty turned smilingly toward her little friend, "stand up and tell us all about it; about the making my candy, how it disappeared, and what you did to recover it. then, when you have finished, we will take a vote and see how many of us believe in fairies." for a moment ruth hesitated, but winifred's friendly smile encouraged her and she stood up. she did not look at the group of girls sitting about under the trees; she looked straight over their heads at the river, and began to speak, beginning her story with the discovery that the candy had disappeared. she spoke clearly, and when she finished by saying that she was sorry that she had been rude to winifred, because she and winifred both rather believed in fairies, there was a little murmur of approval. "now, girls, all those who believe in fairies stand up," said betty, jumping to her feet, and reaching out a hand to the girls beside her, and at the same time beginning to sing: "'here are fields of smiling flowers-- come and seek may in her bowers. catch young may. make her stay; dance around her bright and gay.'" nearly all the girls knew the song and joined in singing, as hand in hand they ran across the smooth grass toward the may-pole, where mrs. hastings stood waiting for them. and now ruth was her happy, smiling self again, and annette was no longer eager to teach "lessons" to the younger girls. annette and ruth were both conscious, however, that betty, with her frank kindness, had smoothed out their mistakes. chapter xvii queen betty the girls had exchanged their wreaths of flowers as they sat down to luncheon, all excepting ruth and annette, who wore the ones they had made themselves, and they now made a very attractive picture as they all formed a ring around the may-pole, singing an old song that their mothers had sung when they too were little girls; a may-pole song that had been sung in england for hundreds of years. "'round the may-pole, trit, trit, trot. see what a garland we have got: fine and gay, trip away. happy is our new may day.'" "now for choosing the may queen!" said mary pierce, and a little chorus of "betty hastings! betty hastings!" was the response, and betty curtsied very low, and thanked her guests. for "maids of honor" she chose ruth and winifred, whose duties were to walk one on each side of the may queen on her way to her throne, and then kneel beside her until she bade them rise. while the girls had been at luncheon and dancing around the may-pole black jason and his friend had been busily at work behind some thick growing trees near the river. "all ready, missie!" he announced, as, hat in hand, and bowing low, he came smilingly toward the "queen of the may." a little procession formed to follow jason, who led the way through a woodland path to a clearing that opened toward the river. in this clearing stood a big rustic chair, betty's "throne." ruth and winifred handed the queen to her seat with great ceremony, and then one after another the girls approached the throne, curtsying low and laying their garlands at betty's feet. now they joined hands in a little circle and danced around the throne, singing: "'the first of may is garland day, and every child should dance and play. curl your locks as i do mine, and wear your summer gown so fine.'" [illustration: "the first of may is garland day"] the queen of the may asks any favor she pleases from the throne, but as soon as she leaves the throne her power ceases; so now the group of laughing girls stood waiting to hear what the queen would ask: "a wreath and a staff and a cup to quaff," demanded betty smilingly, and away raced her loyal subjects to fulfil the royal demand. it was annette who brought the wreath of violets; mary pierce came with a curving branch that jason had cut from a maple tree and trimmed into a staff, while caroline fraser brought a cup of cool water from the spring under the willow tree. "we must soon be thinking of home," mrs. hastings reminded them, as the girls, now flushed and a little tired, seated themselves about the throne, from which betty had descended. "you have not sung your may-day song, mother!" betty reminded her, and the girls now gathered about mrs. hastings, repeating betty's request. "but it isn't really 'my' song; it is an old english may song," mrs. hastings said. "'spring is coming, spring is coming, flowers are coming too; pansies, lilies, daffodils, now are coming through.'" "'spring is coming, spring is coming, all around is fair; shimmer and quiver on the river joy is everywhere.'" as she finished singing mrs. hastings curtsied to the happy group, and said: "i wish you a happy may." when black jason drove the brown horses into the field, and the girls took their seats in the wagon, they all declared it was the best may-day party they had ever known, and they all thought betty hastings was the most fortunate of girls that her birthday came on the first day of may. "how would you and winifred like to sit with jason on the front seat, ruth?" asked mrs. hastings, and the two little friends smiled at each other, and replied that they would like it very much, and so were lifted to the high seat beside the good-natured jason. "i almost spoiled everything," ruth whispered to winifred, "but betty made it come out all right. i like betty." "so do i," responded winifred, and they smiled at each other again, both quite sure that they would never again come so near to a quarrel as they had that may-day. as they drove past a square stone house whose gardens sloped down to the river, black jason pointed toward it with his whip and said: "dat de house where capitan delancy live, an' he an' de oder fine english soldiers are gettin' up a great party, a kind of show like." the girls looked well at the house from which betty had so skilfully made her escape on the night following gilbert's play. "are they going to have the party in that house, jason?" asked ruth. "landy! no, missie. it's to be out to master wharton's fine place in southwark. folks do say as general sir willem howe be gwen to leave dis place. they certain do say so," and jason chuckled with satisfaction at the thought. "then will general washington and lafayette come here, jason?" questioned ruth eagerly. "i dunno, missie. but i reckon de english gwen to have a mighty fine party. deere gwine to have bands o' music in boats on de river. yam," and jason chuckled at the thought of all the great preparations that had already begun for the most splendid pageant that america had seen, and about which the people of philadelphia were wondering, for the english officers were making elaborate plans. "i wish i could drive two horses," said ruth, looking a little longingly at the reins and whip that jason so skilfully held in one hand. "landy, missie! yo' jes' take hold de reins like dis," responded jason, at the same moment clasping ruth's hands over the leather reins. "now hole 'em study." ruth obeyed jason's instructions to "look straight ahead, an' hole 'em up study," and it was the happiest part of all that happy may-day to be driving jason's brown horses, with the other girls singing and laughing on the seats behind her. but as they turned from the river road into the town jason again took the reins. the girls were now carried each to her own home, so winifred and ruth were set down at the merrills' door. "we have had a beautiful time, betty. we shall always remember _your_ birthday," declared ruth, and winnie repeated the words. betty smiled and waved her hand; she realized that her two little friends were thanking her for more than their happy may-day. hero welcomed ruth home, and seemed to be trying to tell her something. he ran around her, barking and whining. "what is it, hero? what is the matter? where is my mother?" she asked, as she pushed open the door of the sitting-room and found it vacant. "mother!" she called, running into the dining-room, and then heard her mother's voice calling from the kitchen: "come out here, ruthie!" ruth stopped in the doorway with an exclamation of surprise. "oh, mother! what is it?" she asked, for mrs. pennell was sitting in a low chair near the window, with one foot resting on a stool. "i have sprained my ankle, ruthie. i slipped coming in from the porch about an hour ago, and could just manage to crawl to this chair," replied mrs. pennell; "and now you will have to be 'mother' for a time. tie my apron over your dress, and start up the fire, and fill the big kettle with water." ruth obeyed quickly, and in a few moments had carried out her mother's directions, bringing a small wooden tub in which to turn the water when it should be heated. she could think of nothing but that her mother must be in pain, as she drew off mrs. pennell's slipper and stocking, filled the tub, and now gently bathed the swollen ankle. "remember, ruthie, dear, when any one has the ill-fortune to sprain wrist or ankle, that hot water is the best aid," mrs. pennell said, as she directed the way in which ruth should bandage the ankle. "i am afraid i am going to make a good deal of work for my little girl. we must try and send for your aunt clara to come as soon as possible," she added. but ruth did not mind the work; as she went from pantry to fireplace, preparing toast and a dish of hot gruel for her mother her thoughts flew away to aunt deborah at barren hill, to the lustre cup out of which lafayette had drunk, and she realized that she could not go away from home now that her mother was lame. after supper the ankle was bathed again, and now mrs. pennell thought it best that ruth should run in and tell mrs. merrill of the accident, and ask her assistance. for she found herself unable to walk. mrs. merrill came at once, and with her aid mrs. pennell was able to reach the big sofa in the sitting-room where she was made comfortable for the night. "i will send gilbert to germantown early in the morning to fetch your sister," said mrs. merrill, as she bade her neighbor good-night. "it is fortunate that ruth had not started for her visit to barren hill," she added. "it is, indeed. i could hardly spare her now," mrs. pennell responded. ruth listened with a feeling that there would never be any more happy days. her mother was lame; she could not go to barren hill, and all her plans for visiting her father at valley forge, and perhaps seeing the brave young lafayette, must be given up. as she went slowly up-stairs to bed, she had almost forgotten the happy birthday picnic near the river. but she recalled what black jason had said of the rumor that general howe was soon to leave philadelphia. just now, however, that seemed to be of little importance to ruth. her last waking thought was that she must be sure to get up early, very early, the next morning and have hot water ready to bathe the hurt ankle. chapter xviii a great resolve although ruth was up in good season the next morning, she had only started the kitchen fire when mrs. merrill and gilbert appeared at the kitchen door with a basket containing breakfast for mrs. pennell and ruth. gilbert was all ready to start for his drive to germantown, and, after a few words with mrs. pennell, hurried away. mrs. merrill bathed the sprained ankle and helped ruth's mother to a comfortable chair near the window. "may i not put the little table by your chair, mother, and have my breakfast here with you?" asked ruth. "yes, indeed! that is exactly what i was wishing you to do, my dear," responded mrs. pennell; and ruth ran away to the kitchen and brought in the hot corn bread that mrs. merrill had brought, the dish of porridge and the pot of steaming coffee. then she drew a chair up opposite her mother, and they smiled happily at each other across the small table. mrs. pennell declared that her foot was much better. "i am sure your aunt clara will return with gilbert," she continued, "but even then i am afraid you will have to do a good deal more than ever before, ruthie, dear, for aunt clara is not yet fully recovered from her illness." ruth felt rather proud to know that her mother relied upon her to be of so much help, and, for the moment, quite forgot the visit to barren hill. she told her mother of all the delights of betty's may-day party, and when she carried the breakfast dishes out to the kitchen she was almost her happy self again. winifred came over and helped ruth with the household work that morning, and early in the afternoon aunt clara arrived; who, in spite of mrs. pennell's fears in regard to her strength, declared herself quite equal to taking care of her sister and attending to the work of the house. nevertheless ruth was kept busy for a number of days; she did not go very far from her mother's sitting-room, and mrs. pennell said that her little daughter was "hands and feet" for her lame mother. mrs. pennell's fingers were busy making a dress for ruth. it was of white linen that aunt deborah had woven herself, and brought as a present to ruth, and mrs. pennell was hemstitching the broad collar and dainty cuffs. "your aunt deborah will be pleased if you have the dress to wear when you visit her," said mrs. pennell, a few days after her accident, when ruth sat beside her, both busy with their needles. "but i can't go to barren hill, mother. you couldn't spare me," replied ruth. "of course you must go to barren hill. not just at present; but in a week or two i shall be hobbling about the house, and your aunt clara will stay with me while you are away," said mrs. pennell. "truly? am i really to go to barren hill?" exclaimed ruth, dropping her work, and jumping up from her chair. "oh! i'm so glad." mrs. pennell looked at her little girl in surprise. she had had no idea how much ruth had counted on this visit, nor with what disappointment she had given it up. "why, my dear child, you have not said a word about your visit since i hurt my ankle. i had not an idea that you wished to go so much," she said. "i didn't wish to go when you couldn't take a step," ruth declared. "well! i think it is almost worth while to have a sprained ankle to find out what a good little daughter i have," said her mother. "i feel very proud indeed. and now i think you had best put on your hat and go and make betty hastings an afternoon visit. it is nearly a week since her may party." "i will ask winifred to go, too," said ruth eagerly, feeling happier than she had since her mother's accident. "you had best change your dress, dear; put on your blue chambray," suggested her mother, and ruth ran off to her own room, singing, "joy is everywhere," as gaily as she had sung it when dancing around betty's throne. in a little while she was back in the sitting-room, all ready for her visit. in the pretty blue dress, and wearing a white hat with a blue ribbon around the crown, and with her white stockings and low shoes with shining silver buckles, ruth was indeed a little girl of whom any mother might be proud. winifred was soon ready to accompany her, and the two friends started on their walk to see betty hastings. as they came in sight of the hastings house they both exclaimed in surprise. for on the steps was betty, wearing her best hat, and the tall english officer, whose red coat betty had borrowed for gilbert's play, stood beside her. "do you suppose betty is a prisoner?" whispered winnie, a little fearfully. "of course she isn't, all dressed up in her best," replied ruth, and at that moment betty saw her two friends and waved her hand to them as she came down the steps beside the english officer. "oh, winifred! ruth! i am so glad you came. now you can go with us to walnut grove and see the english officers practising for their tournament. captain harlow says you may go," she exclaimed, running forward to meet them. before ruth or winifred could reply the tall officer was beside betty, and she now introduced him to her friends. ruth and winnie curtsied, with rather sober faces, and the englishman bowed politely, and said that he should be happy to have ruth and winifred accompany them. the young englishman had lodged with mrs. hastings ever since the september day when the english army entered philadelphia. he had been unfailingly kind to all the family, and when he offered to take betty to walnut grove to see the preparations already well under way for the "mischianza," as the soldiers named their famous entertainment to be given in honor of general howe, mrs. hastings was quite willing for betty to go. "we shall be home in good season. i am sure your mothers would be willing," urged betty, "and 'twill be a fine sight to-day, since the soldiers are to rehearse, as we did for gilbert's play." "let's go, ruth," winifred whispered eagerly, and ruth agreed, but with a vague feeling that she ought not to wish to be entertained by the amusements of america's enemies. as they walked on toward knight's wharf, at the water edge of green street, where a boat was waiting to take captain harlow and his guests down the river to mr. wharton's country place, ruth kept repeating the word "tournament" to herself, and wondering what it meant. betty must know, she thought, for she had spoken it so easily. she resolved to ask her at the first opportunity. a rowboat with two sailors was waiting for the captain, and he helped the little girls to the comfortable seats, and took his place at the tiller, and with a word to the oarsmen the boat moved out from the wharf and headed toward southwark. "what does 'tournament' mean, betty?" ruth whispered. "wait and see," laughed betty. "does it mean the same as 'rehearsal'?" persisted ruth. "not exactly," replied betty, who only that very morning had asked her mother the same question. "it really means a make-believe battle," she explained, seeing ruth's look of disappointment. "men dress up in armor, such as soldiers used to wear, and their horses wear shields, and the men have long spears, and make-believe attack each other." "shall we see that to-day?" ruth questioned. but before betty could answer she realized that captain harlow was speaking. "i suppose you all know what the knights of the days of chivalry fought for?" he was saying, with a friendly smile at the three little american girls who were his guests. "what are 'knights'?" questioned winifred. "can you answer that, miss betty?" asked the captain. "mother told me that a knight was a brave soldier, whose king gave him a sword, and then said: 'arise, sir knight,'" replied betty, while ruth and winifred listened admiringly, thinking their friend betty must be the most clever girl in philadelphia. "well, that is near enough," replied the young officer, "but i will tell you that in olden times knights used to have tilts, or tournaments, such as we mean to have on the eighteenth of this month. white knights against the knights of the blended rose." it all sounded very wonderful to the three little girls, and ruth was eager to reach southwark, fearing that they might miss some part of this rehearsal. the beautiful river was very still that pleasant afternoon in may, and the boat moved rapidly along, now and then passing some fishing-craft or pleasure boat, and the little girls smiled happily at each other, thinking that this indeed was a great adventure. as the boat drew near the landing place, they could see a number of people on the wharf, and one of these ruth at once recognized as major andré, the young officer who had introduced her to general howe on the night when she had gone to demand the return of hero. captain harlow led the little girls to a bench on the further side of mr. wharton's beautiful lawn. "stay here until i come after you," he said and hurried away. the girls looked about admiringly. just across the lawn from where they were sitting men were at work on a pavilion, in which the guests would be seated to view the "mischianza." soldiers on horseback were riding back and forth, and a trumpet call sent them all trotting away, to return immediately with long lances and shields on their left arms. forming in two divisions they galloped forward and back, turning so quickly that ruth and betty both exclaimed, fearful that the riders would be thrown. in a little while captain harlow came and took his guests to visit the ballroom. from the garden they ascended a short flight of steps, and entered a spacious hall, lined with mirrors. never had the little girls seen anything so wonderful. wherever they looked they saw betty, ruth, and winifred all smiling with delight. captain harlow called a servant, and in a few moments the man returned with a silver tray on which were plates of candied fruits, cakes, and glasses of lemonade for his little guests. "it's more wonderful than the may-day party," whispered winifred. but ruth did not hear her. for at that moment two officers had entered the room. "sir henry clinton will arrive to-morrow, and general howe will soon be on his way to england," she heard one of them say. "'tis a pity he cannot capture young lafayette and take him back to england with him. king george would give him a royal welcome," responded the other. "there is some such plan afoot," declared the first speaker. "'capture lafayette!'" ruth whispered the dreadful words over to herself and all her delight and pleasure vanished. these men, even the kind captain harlow, whom the hastings liked so well, would try their best to capture the young french republican, america's best friend, and take him to england a prisoner. ruth could think of nothing else. she wondered if perhaps there was not already some plan by which lafayette would be captured. she was very silent all the remainder of the afternoon, and betty decided that ruth must be tired. but they all thanked the captain very politely for their pleasant visit, as he helped them from the boat and walked with them to mrs. hastings' door. ruth was eager to get home. she meant to ask her mother if she might not go to barren hill very soon, perhaps to-morrow. it seemed to her she could hardly wait that long; for who could tell what the english soldiers might do before warning could reach lafayette? for ruth had made a great resolve: she would try to let lafayette know that the english general meant to do his best to take him a prisoner to england. once at barren hill ruth was sure that she could find some way to reach washington's camp and warn the young frenchman. chapter xix the visit ruth's mother and aunt listened to her account of her afternoon's adventure with interest, but when she had finished her mother said: "i do not blame you, my dear, for accepting betty's invitation, but i am surprised that mrs. hastings should permit an enemy of america's rights to become a friend, as it is evident she so regards the young english officer who lodges there." in her heart ruth agreed with her mother. it seemed disloyal even to have accepted betty's invitation. nevertheless ruth was glad that she had gone to southwark; for the conversation she had overheard in regard to lafayette seemed of great importance to the little girl. she did not speak to any one of what she had heard the english officers say, but she could not explain even to herself why she had not at once told winnie, or why she did not now tell her mother. it seemed to ruth that it was a secret which she could confide only to one person: to lafayette himself. "may i go to barren hill to-morrow, mother, dear?" she asked earnestly, as she bade her mother good-night. "why, ruthie! of course not! your things are not ready, and we have not sent aunt deborah word to have farmer withely call for you," replied her mother in surprise. "why are you so anxious to go to-morrow?" "oh, mother! never mind about my things. and i am sure farmer withely will take me," urged ruth. "but do you think it will be quite fair to aunt clara?" said mrs. pennell gravely. "you know there are many things you can do to help her until i am on my feet again. be patient, ruthie. you shall go to barren hill as soon as it is possible." ruth was ready to cry with disappointment as she went up-stairs to bed. for a moment she had been tempted to tell her mother her reason for wanting to go at once to barren hill, but she realized that her mother might say that a little girl could do nothing to protect a great soldier, and forbid her making any attempt to reach the young frenchman only to repeat the careless talk of english soldiers. "i must do it myself, in some way. i must!" thought ruth as she prepared for bed. she wondered if aunt clara would not help her in her plan to go to barren hill. ruth was late to breakfast the next morning, and aunt clara wondered a little at her sober face, while mrs. pennell was troubled, thinking that ruth was brooding over her disappointment in not going to barren hill. the little girl performed her usual household duties; but when her mother suggested that she should go and play with winifred, she shook her head. in the afternoon she went into the yard with hero and "cecilia" to the seat under the maple tree. aunt clara noticed that the little girl sat looking across the garden as if her thoughts were far away, neglecting cecilia, and paying no attention to the faithful hero. "i am afraid ruthie is going to be ill," she said to mrs. pennell. "she has not seemed like herself since she got home from her visit yesterday." mrs. pennell was quite sure that ruth was not ill, but she was troubled that her little daughter should be so disappointed and unwilling to postpone the visit to aunt deborah. "her heart is set on going to barren hill, and i have told her she must wait a while," she explained. "but why not let her go now?" suggested aunt clara. "she is a good and helpful child, and deserves the pleasure. i can make her things ready." it did not take much persuasion for mrs. pennell to give her consent, and when ruth came slowly into the sitting-room, in response to aunt clara's call, her mother said: "well, my dear, your aunt clara says that you well deserve to start for barren hill as soon as she can make you ready. so be on the outlook for farmer withely to-morrow morning, and ask him to call for you on thursday, and to tell aunt deborah to expect you." ruth's face had brightened as her mother began to speak, but as mrs. pennell finished she was again almost ready to cry. "'thursday'!" she repeated. "that's two whole days to wait! why can't i go to-morrow?" she said anxiously. mrs. pennell looked at ruth in surprise. never before had she known her little daughter to whine, or seem to want her own way more than anything else. "what is the matter, ruth? i thought you would be so glad that your aunt clara had persuaded me to let you go so soon. if you say anything about going before thursday we shall give up the visit altogether," she said. ruth hardly knew what to say or do. it seemed to the little girl that her delay in starting for barren hill meant the possibility of the capture of lafayette. she was tempted to tell her mother the reason for wishing to start at once, but she was sure mrs. pennell would promptly forbid her carrying out her plan to visit valley forge. ruth managed to thank her mother for permission to go on thursday, and to say that she would be sure and see farmer withely and give him the message the next morning, and then went back to her seat in the garden. she had just taken up cecilia, when the garden gate was pushed open and winifred came running up the path. "gilbert says he is ashamed of me!" declared winifred, "and of you, and of betty hastings, for going to southwark yesterday," and she looked at ruth a little fearfully, as if expecting her friend to be quite overcome by gilbert's disapproval. "i don't care if he is," was ruth's surprising reply. "i am glad i went, and i always shall be glad. and perhaps some day gilbert will be glad too." "why, ruth pennell!" exclaimed winifred. "you tell him just what i say," insisted ruth, beginning to feel more cheerful at the thought of gilbert's surprise when he should discover that she had saved lafayette from capture through her visit to southwark. after all, thursday was only the day after to-morrow, she reflected, and the english were too much occupied in their welcome to sir henry clinton to start off to capture the young frenchman. besides that encouraging thought winifred had brought over a box filled with beads. they were wonderful beads--blue, all shades of blue, and sparkling red beads, and beads of shining green, and white beads as clear as dew-drops. "you may pick out those you like best," said the generous winnie, "enough to make you a necklace, and one for cecilia, too," and the two little girls were soon happily occupied with the beads, and ruth forgot all about her fears lest her warning should come too late. but when winifred jumped up saying that it was time for her to go home, ruth remembered that she had not told winnie that she was to go to barren hill on thursday. "oh, ruth! then you won't see all the processions for captain harlow's entertainment. and he said this morning when i went over to see betty that we could go down again, the very day before it is given," exclaimed winifred. "i wouldn't go if i were at home," declared ruth, "but don't you tell gilbert that i said i wouldn't go. you tell him what i said first: 'that i am glad i went, and i always shall be glad. and that perhaps some day he will be glad too that i went to southwark.'" winifred promised to deliver the message. she did not suppose it had any special meaning, but she was sure it would puzzle gilbert. the next day was a busy one for ruth. farmer withely promised to call for her on thursday afternoon, and wondered to himself why the little girl was so eager to visit barren hill. mrs. pennell finished the white linen dress, while ruth helped aunt clara in the work of the house, packed the small leathern trunk, which was to accompany her on her journey, and last of all dressed cecilia in her best, for she had decided, at aunt clara's suggestion, that cecilia needed a visit to the country. mrs. pennell could now walk a little, and not until thursday morning did ruth have a single doubt in regard to going away from home. but as the time of her departure drew near she kept close beside her mother, and when aunt clara called that farmer withely was driving down the street ruth was suddenly quite sure that she could not go and leave her mother behind. "oh, mother! i don't wish to go," she exclaimed, her arms close about her mother's neck. mrs. pennell held her close, telling her of the beautiful time she would have with aunt deborah. "and, who knows! you may see lafayette himself," she added, knowing how great a hero the young frenchman seemed to all american children, as well as to their elders. "i shall come home soon," ruth answered earnestly, and then aunt clara called that farmer withely was waiting, and with one more good-bye kiss ruth ran down the steps, and in a few moments was seated beside the farmer, while the big horse trotted down the street. aunt clara had put a box on the wagon seat beside ruth. "open it when you are half-way to your journey's end," she had said smilingly, and farmer withely had smiled also, and nodded approvingly, thinking to himself that he had no better customers than the pennell family, and being quite sure of the appetizing contents of the box. as they drove out of the town, past the stone house, and on to the river road ruth pointed out the field, where the may-pole was still standing, and told the farmer all the may-day sports and songs. "perhaps you could remember some of those songs, miss ruth? now, if you could, i should admire to hear them," said farmer withely. [illustration: the big horse trotted down the street] "yes, indeed! i remember every one," said ruth, and when she began mrs. hastings' song, farmer withely found that it was one he too used to sing as a boy on far-off may-days, and so they sang it together, their voices falling pleasantly on the sweet spring air. then ruth ventured to ask if farmer withely had ever seen general washington, or, perhaps, young lafayette? "indeed i have. my best gray horse has now the honor of belonging to general washington, and many a cold journey have i taken to carry food to the soldiers at valley forge," responded farmer withely, and he went on to tell of the unfaltering courage of the american soldiers through the hardships at the camp. he told of young lafayette's recent return to valley forge from albany, and of his devotion to the american cause. ruth listened eagerly to all he had to tell her, and the miles slipped away behind them, and when farmer withely pointed toward the old church, which stood near the summit of barren hill, and said that they had nearly reached their journey's end, ruth declared that it had been a very pleasant journey, and farmer withely said he would like just such a passenger every day. aunt deborah farleigh was at the gate to welcome her little niece, and then ruth had to be taken and introduced to the bees, and to see two brown calves in the barnyard, and a flock of fine chickens. after that it was nearly dusk and supper was ready, and it was not until ruth took her seat at the table that she remembered her real errand to barren hill. "aunt deborah, the english have not captured lafayette, have they?" she asked earnestly. for once aunt deborah was startled from her usual calmness. "for pity's sake, child! what dost thou mean?" she responded. "i have heard naught of such a thing." ruth gave a sigh of relief. "i just wanted to be sure," she replied. chapter xx lafayette's visit the may sun streamed warmly into the big square chamber where ruth slept, and she awoke to the song of birds, and the fragrance of blossoming lilacs. for a few moments she lay quite still, looking wonderingly about the room. it seemed a "shining" room to ruth, with its whitewashed walls, and its smooth polished floor, and only a chest of drawers, a light-stand and a rush-bottomed chair for furniture. she got up and dressed slowly, wondering if her mother missed her very much, and if hero would go scratching and whining to her door in search of his little mistress. aunt deborah's house was much larger than the little brick house which was ruth's home in philadelphia, and as ruth came slowly down the wide stairs she thought what a fine house it would be for little girls to live in; there seemed so much room and so little furniture. aunt deborah lived alone, but the withely farm adjoined hers, and farmer withely took care of her farm and stock. "good-morning, ruth," said aunt deborah with her sunny smile, as her little niece came into the big kitchen to find breakfast awaiting her. "i trust thy pleasure in being here is as great as mine in having thee. and i have great news for thee. thy dear father came over from valley forge a week ago, and was sorry enough to find thee not here. and he had great tidings for me. he says that france has now joined with america in the war against england, and washington hopes for great aid from so powerful an ally." "oh, aunt deborah! won't my father come again?" responded ruth. "may i not go to valley forge to see him?" "it may be that he will come again," aunt deborah replied thoughtfully. "and who knows but he may come with lafayette! for general washington is sending scouting parties about the country to discover the plans of the english. so any day we may see the troops of either army come marching up the road." ruth was almost too excited to eat her breakfast after listening to aunt deborah's news, and even the sight of the pink lustre cup from which lafayette had drunk seemed of little consequence. if english soldiers came marching that way ruth knew well that their purpose would be to capture american scouting parties, and she became more eager than ever to go to valley forge, and again asked aunt deborah if she could not go. but aunt deborah promptly responded that such a visit was impossible. "tis a ride of over ten miles, and a ford to cross," she said. "farmer withely has no spare time at present to take thee; besides that, general washington does not care for visitors." ruth looked so disappointed that aunt deborah added: "and who knows what day lafayette may ride this way again? it may even be this very morning! take thy doll and walk to the church; from there thou canst see both ways. if the english redcoats come along the river road thee must hasten back and tell me, so that we may start some one off at once to warn our american soldiers." "might i go?" asked ruth. "how could a small girl like thee cross the schuylkill?" questioned aunt deborah. "'tis most likely i should have to go myself." ruth now felt that she could really be of use if she kept watch from the top of barren hill, and she ran through the garden, and climbed up the rough slope to the little square church, from whose steps she could watch the quiet road which curved along by the woods to the riverside. she thought of hero, and wished it had been possible to bring him with her. "just for company," she whispered to herself, for she began to feel that she was a long way from home. "unless father or lafayette comes to-day i must go to valley forge to-morrow," she resolved. but the day passed without a sign of any advancing troops, and at supper-time ruth was so quiet and sober that aunt deborah began to fear that her little niece was homesick, and tried to amuse her by telling her of a tame squirrel who lived in the wood-shed and had made friends with a family of kittens. but the little girl did not seem interested; she wanted to know if the water was very deep at matson's ford, and how long it would take to walk to valley forge; until aunt deborah wondered if ruth really thought such a journey possible for a little girl. she recalled the visit ruth had made to the english general in order to rescue hero, and said to herself that she was sure ruth would not again undertake any plan without asking permission. "i'll wait until to-morrow," ruth resolved, as she went to bed that night. "i mustn't wait any longer," and comforted by that resolution she was soon fast asleep. she awoke before daylight, to find aunt deborah standing beside the bed. "get up, my dear child. lose no time. general lafayette is below, and i am preparing his breakfast," she said. "oh, aunt deborah!" exclaimed ruth, sure that this was a dream from which she would soon awake. "hasten, child, if thou wouldst see him," and aunt deborah, candle in hand, disappeared from the shadowy room. ruth dressed more quickly than ever before, but she did not neglect to brush her hair neatly, but not until she opened the kitchen door did she realize that the strings to her stout leather shoes were unfastened. it was broad daylight now, and the morning sunshine was all about the marquis de lafayette as he looked up with a smiling nod to the little girl who stood gazing at him from the doorway. "if thee please, sir, this is my niece, ruth pennell, who has long cherished the hope of seeing thee," said aunt deborah. the young frenchman rose from his seat, and bowed as ceremoniously as if lady washington herself stood before him. ruth could think only of her thick shoes and the wandering strings, as she endeavored to make a proper curtsy. lafayette was in the uniform of an american officer, and two american soldiers were on guard at the open door. the little party had ridden over from valley forge under cover of the night to discover a camping-ground for a body of troops which lafayette was soon to lead toward philadelphia, for washington had discovered that sir henry clinton had orders to evacuate the city. "will you not share my breakfast, mistress ruth?" asked the young frenchman, drawing one of the high-backed wooden chairs to the table beside his own. "the child will indeed be honored," replied aunt deborah, and almost before ruth could realize the great honor in store for her she found herself seated at the table. she looked up to find lafayette smiling at her shy word of thanks. what a wonderful breakfast for any little girl to have to remember. ruth wished with all her heart that winifred and gilbert could see her. "i have a small daughter of my own in france," said the kind young frenchman, "and i hear that your father is at valley forge." "yes, sir," responded ruth faintly, wondering to herself why she did not at once tell him what she had heard the english officers at southwark say of general howe's intention to capture him. "well, very soon he will be safe at home," continued lafayette. and now ruth resolved to speak. "if you please, sir----" she began, but at that moment lafayette sprang to his feet, and with a word of thanks to aunt deborah for her hospitality, and a smiling nod to ruth, he started toward the door, saying: "i have indeed lingered too long. i must lose no time in getting back to camp." but now ruth was out of her chair in a second; she was no longer in awe of the young frenchman. "i must tell you. i heard two englishmen say you were to be captured and taken to england," she declared eagerly, running along by his side. the young man smiled down at the eager, half frightened child. "ah, well, _ma chere_, they have been saying that for a long time," he responded lightly, "but thou art a kind little maid to warn me; and i assure thee i will remember it," and with a word of farewell he hurried across the garden, mounted his horse, and in a few moments had vanished behind the thick growing trees. aunt deborah and ruth stood on the garden path listening until they could no longer hear the sound of the horses' feet on the hard country road. then aunt deborah smiled at ruth. "thee should be a happy girl now, i am sure," she said, "and thee did right to tell him what his enemies threaten. perhaps that was one reason thee was so anxious to visit valley forge?" "oh, yes, aunt deborah! if he had not come i should have had to run away so he might surely be warned," ruth responded. "i would have taken the message myself had need been," said aunt deborah; "but thee sees that he already knew of their wicked plan. he did but smile at such a threat." a few days after this visit there was great excitement on barren hill. a troop of american soldiers, the very flower of washington's army, commanded by lafayette, were in camp on the hill. farmers were bringing buckets of milk and freshly baked bread for the soldiers' breakfast, and ruth could see and hear the bustle of the camps. at first mistress farleigh and ruth had hoped that ruth's father might be one of the company, but as the day passed and he did not appear at the stone house they became sure that he was still at valley forge. mistress farleigh had told ruth not to go to the summit of the hill where the troops were camped. "thee may walk toward the river, or in the paths at the edge of the wood," aunt deborah had said, adding that she wished hero were at barren hill. "then thee could go wherever thee pleased." but that day ruth was content to play with cecilia in the pleasant garden, hoping until long after sunset that her father might appear. neither aunt deborah nor ruth slept well that night, and both were up very early in the morning. after their simple breakfast aunt deborah busied herself with bread making, that she might send hot corn bread to the american soldiers. "and wilt thou not run over to farmer withely's and ask mistress withely for the loan of a covered basket of good size, ruth," she suggested, and ruth willingly obeyed. the withely farmhouse was at the further side of a broad field, and hidden by a small grove of pine trees. it was a pleasant walk in the early morning, and as ruth ran along she could see that the american troops were harnessing their horses, and that it was evident some movement was at hand. "oh! perhaps i shall never see lafayette again, and i did not help him after all," she thought. and now another and more startling sound came to ruth's ears. along the ridge road she could hear the sound of horses' feet and the rattle of musketry. "perhaps it is more american soldiers coming," thought the little girl. but she felt vaguely troubled, as she went slowly on. she had just entered the little woodland path which led to farmer withely's when she saw a glimmer of a red coat in the underbrush. ruth stopped, and crouched low behind a small tree. she heard low voices, and in a moment a laughing voice said: "we have the fine frenchman just where we want him. he is preparing his men to receive howe's soldiers on the ridge road, but he does not dream that general grant with seven thousand troops is coming up in his rear. general howe has invited a dinner party to meet lafayette to-night in philadelphia." "'tis a fine thing to get the frenchman," came the low response; "we'd better move farther up the hill now." for a moment ruth hesitated, hardly realizing the importance of what she had overheard. then she turned and ran toward the american encampment, where she could see troops of soldiers already moving forward toward the ridge road. "oh i suppose i do not get there in time to tell him that there is an english army coming behind him," she thought. once she stumbled and fell over an unseen root; but at last breathless and tired she found herself facing a number of american soldiers, one of whom called out: "run home, child; you are in danger here." "lafayette! lafayette!" she called wildly. "tell him there are thousands of english soldiers coming up the road behind his army. the road from swedes ford," called ruth. almost before ruth finished speaking one of the soldiers had turned his horse and galloped away to find his commander, and tell him of this unexpected enemy. ruth turned and hurried home. she had entirely forgotten about her errand to farmer withely's. chapter xxi at home lafayette had received the startling news and acted upon it without a question. he marched his men rapidly toward matson's ford, on the lower road, and when the british generals came up to barren hill they were astonished to find that they had only each other to fight. they decided not to cross the river, but returned to philadelphia, much disappointed that the marquis de lafayette was not their prisoner. lafayette likewise marched back to valley forge, where he was received with great joy. the soldier who had taken ruth's message found an opportunity to tell lafayette that the news that had saved his army had been brought by a little girl. "she came running up the hill calling your name, sir. a little girl with yellow hair and blue eyes," said the soldier. "would you know her if you saw her again?" questioned the young frenchman. "i should indeed, sir," was the quick reply. aunt deborah had not questioned ruth when, flushed and tired, she came running back to the house on the morning when the americans had so easily made their escape, thanks to ruth's message, from the overwhelming armies of the english. for a number of days ruth did not venture beyond the garden, and when, a week later, her father opened the gate and called "ruth!" she ran to meet him, feeling sure that now everything was sure to come right, and that she and her father could soon return to philadelphia. but mr. pennell was not alone; there was a tall smiling soldier just behind him, and near the gate a graceful figure on horseback that ruth recognized as lafayette. aunt deborah came hurrying to welcome mr. pennell; the soldier had turned back, and was standing beside the mounted officer, who soon dismounted and came slowly up the path. "lieutenant pennell, i have to thank your little maid for a very great service," he said, as he took ruth's hand, and smiled down on the little girl; and then he told first of ruth's warning that his capture was planned by general howe, and then of her warning of an advancing army against his troops. "i came this morning that i might thank her for her loyal service to america and to me," he said, bending low to kiss the warm little hand that rested in his own. it was indeed a wonderful day for ruth pennell. after lafayette rode away she told the story to her surprised and astonished father, while aunt deborah listened as if she could hardly believe her own ears. lieutenant pennell had been given a week's furlough, and was quite sure that it would be possible for him to visit his home in philadelphia, taking ruth with him, for the english were leaving the city as rapidly as possible. later in the day aunt deborah told ruth's father of his little daughter's visit to general howe, and ruth told of gilbert's play, and of the boys' arrest by the english, of betty's capture on account of the borrowed coat, and of her escape from the house by the river. "the children of philadelphia will indeed remember the year of , and surely my little daughter can never forget it," responded her father. ruth was eager to start for home as soon as possible, especially as aunt deborah said that she must return in midsummer with her mother for a longer visit. "and thy friend winifred must come also," she had added. winifred and gilbert had heard the story of ruth's warning to the american army, for aunt deborah had sent a letter to mrs. pennell at the first opportunity, and gilbert had at once declared that he would "make up a play" about it. "and we will have it the very day ruth comes home," he said. "i will be lafayette, and ruth can be herself." "and let's ask betty and all the girls who went to the may party," suggested winifred. "and ned, too, and mother and mrs. pennell," agreed gilbert. "i tell you, it is lucky ruth went to barren hill, and i guess it's lucky you girls went to southwark that day. you see, it put ruth on the lookout to warn lafayette," he added. gilbert's second play proved even a greater success than his first. the girls listened admiringly to winifred's account of lafayette's thanking ruth, and when the guests had all gone the two little friends went to their favorite seat in ruth's garden under the big maple tree. hero kept very close to his little mistress, as if afraid that she might again suddenly disappear. "do you remember that day when we began the chair for cecilia, ruthie?" asked winifred, "and when you said you wished you could do some great service for lafayette because he had come to help america?" ruth nodded, not quite sure of the exact day, but very sure that she had always wanted to help the young frenchman, and wondering what winifred would say next. "and now you have done him a great service," winifred continued soberly. "and betty and annette, and all the girls say that you are a real heroine." "i guess they don't know much about heroines," responded ruth, but there was a pleased smile about her mouth. of course any little girl whose hand had been kissed by lafayette was a heroine, she thought happily. the stories in this series are: a little maid of province town a little maid of massachusetts colony a little maid of narragansett bay a little maid of bunker hill a little maid of ticonderoga a little maid of old connecticut a little maid of old philadelphia a little maid of old maine _the fair play settlers of the west branch valley, - : a study of frontier ethnography_ by george d. wolf commonwealth of pennsylvania the pennsylvania historical and museum commission harrisburg, the pennsylvania historical and museum commission james b. stevenson, _chairman_ charles g. webb, _vice chairman_ herman blum mrs. ferne smith hetrick mark s. gleeson mrs. henry p. hoffstot, jr. ralph hazeltine maurice a. mook thomas elliott wynne david h. kurtzman, _ex officio superintendent of public instruction_ members from the general assembly mrs. sarah anderson, _representative_ paul w. mahady, _senator_ orville e. snare, _representative_ john h. ware, iii, _senator_ trustees ex officio raymond p. shafer, _governor of the commonwealth_ robert p. casey, _auditor general_ grace m. sloan, _state treasurer_ administrative staff sylvester k. stevens, _executive director_ william j. wewer, _deputy executive director_ donald h. kent, _director bureau of archives and history_ frank j. schmidt, _director bureau of historic sites and properties_ william n. richards, _director bureau of museums_ _preface_ in an age when man's horizons are constantly being widened to include hitherto little-known or non-existent countries, and even other planets and outer space, there is still much to be said for the oft-neglected study of man in his more immediate environs. intrigued with the historical tale of the "fair play settlers" of the west branch valley of the susquehanna river and practically a life-long resident of the west branch valley, this writer felt that their story was worth telling and that it might offer some insight into the development of democracy on the frontier. the result is an ethnography of the fair play settlers. this account, however, is not meant to typify the frontier experience; it is simply an illustration, and, the author hopes, a useful one. no intensive research can be conducted without the help and encouragement of many fine and wonderful people. this author is deeply indebted to librarians, archivists and historians, local historians and genealogists, local and county historical societies, and collectors of manuscripts, diaries, and journals pertinent to the history of the west branch valley. a comprehensive listing of all who have assisted in this effort would be too extensive, but certain persons cannot be ignored. my grateful appreciation is here expressed to a few of these; but my gratitude is no less sincere to the many persons who are not here mentioned. librarians who have been most helpful in providing bibliographies, checking files, and obtaining volumes from other libraries include miss isabel welch, of the ross library in lock haven; mrs. kathleen chandler, formerly of the lock haven state college library; and miss barbara ault, of the library of congress. archivists and historians who have been most generous in their aid are the late dr. paul a. w. wallace, of the pennsylvania historical and museum commission; mrs. phyllis v. parsons, of collegeville; dr. alfred p. james, of the university of pittsburgh; and mrs. solon j. buck, of washington, d. c. perhaps the most significant research support for this investigation was provided by a local historian and genealogist, mrs. helen herritt russell, of jersey shore. dr. samuel p. bayard, of the pennsylvania state university, analyzed the fair play settlers using linguistic techniques to determine their national origins. this help was basic to the demographic portion of this study. dr. charles f. berkheimer and mrs. marshall anspach, both of williamsport, magnanimously consented to loan this author their copies, respectively, of william colbert's _journal_ and the wagner collection of revolutionary war pension claims. county and local historical societies which opened their collections for study were the clinton county historical society, the lycoming historical society, the northumberland county historical society, the centre county historical society, the greene county historical society, and the muncy historical society and museum of history. for his refreshing criticisms and constant encouragement, dr. murray g. murphey, of the university of pennsylvania, will find me forever thankful. without him, this study would not have been possible. the author would like to thank the members of the pennsylvania historical and museum commission and its executive director, dr. s. k. stevens, for making possible this publication; he would also like to thank mr. donald h. kent, director of the bureau of archives and history, and mr. william a. hunter, chief of the division of history, who supervised publication; and members of the staff of the division of history: mr. harold l. myers, associate historian and chief of the editorial section, who readied the manuscript for publication; mrs. gail m. gibson, associate historian, who prepared the index; and mr. george r. beyer, assistant historian. my sincerest thanks are also extended to mrs. mary b. bower, who typed the entire manuscript and offered useful suggestions with regard to style. finally, for providing almost ideal conditions for carrying on this work and for sustaining me throughout, my wife, margaret, is deserving of a gratitude which cannot be fully expressed. george d. wolf _introduction_ between and , in an area some twenty-five miles long and about two miles wide, located on the north side of the west branch of the susquehanna river and extending from lycoming creek (at the present williamsport) to the great island (just east of the present lock haven), some to families settled. they established a community and a political organization called the fair play system. this study is about these people and their system. the author of a recent case study of democracy in a frontier county commented on the need for this kind of investigation.[ ] cognizant of the fact that a number of valuable histories of american communities have been written, he noted that few of them deal explicitly with the actual relation of frontier experience to democracy: no one seems to have studied microscopically a given area that experienced transition from wilderness to settled community with the purpose of determining how much democracy, in turner's sense, existed initially in the first phase of settlement, during the process itself, and in the period that immediately followed. this research encompasses the first two stages of that development and includes tangential references to the third stage. the geography of the fair play territory has been confused for almost two centuries. the conclusions of this analysis will not prove too satisfying to those who unquestioningly accept and revere the old local legends. however, it will be noted that these conclusions are based upon the accounts of journalists and diarists rather than hearsay. this should put the controversial "question of the tiadaghton" to rest. a statistical analysis has been made as a significant part of the demography of the fair play settlers. however, limitations in data may raise some questions regarding the validity of the conclusions. nevertheless, the national and ethnic origins of these settlers, their american sources of emigration, the periods of immigration, the reasons for migration, and population stability and mobility have all been investigated. the result offers some surprises when compared with the trends of the time--in the province and throughout the colonies. the _politics_ of fair play is the principal concern of this entire study--appropriately, it was from their political system that these frontiersmen derived their unusual name. this was not the only group to use the name, however. another "fair play system" existed in southwestern pennsylvania during the same period, and perhaps a similar study can be made of those pioneers and their life. as for the fair play community of the west branch, we know about its political structure through the cases subsequently reviewed by established courts of the commonwealth. from these cases, we have reconstructed a "code" of operation which demonstrates certain democratic tendencies. in addition to studying the political system, an effort has been made to validate the story of the locally-famed pine creek declaration of independence. although some evidence for such a declaration was found, it seems inconclusive. the west branch valley was part of what turner called the second frontier, the allegheny, and so this agrarian frontier community has been examined for evidence of the democratic traits which turner characterized as particularly american. this analysis is not meant to portray a typical situation, but it does provide support for turner's evaluation. as this was a farmer's frontier, and as transportation and communication facilities were extremely limited, a generally self-sufficient and naturally self-reliant community developed as a matter of survival. the characteristics which this frontier nurtured, and the non-english--even anti-english--composition of its population make understandable the sentiment in this region for independence from great britain. this, of course, is supremely demonstrated in the separate declaration of independence drawn, according to the report, by the settlers of the fair play frontier. fair play _society_ is, perhaps, the second-most-important facet of this ethnographic analysis. an understanding of it necessitated an inquiry into the social relationships, the religious institutions, the educational and cultural opportunities, and the values of this frontier community. the results, again, lend credence to turner's hypothesis. admittedly, turner's bold assertion that "the growth of nationalism and the evolution of american political institutions were dependent on the advance of the frontier" is somewhat contradicted by the nature of this pennsylvania frontier. western lands in pennsylvania were either provincial, commonwealth, or indian lands, but never national lands. as a result, western land ordinances, and the whole controversy which accompanied the ratification of the articles of confederation, had no real significance in pennsylvania. however, in subsequent years, the expansion of internal improvement legislation and nationalism sustains turner's thesis, as does the democratic and non-sectional nature of the middle colonial region generally.[ ] the _intellectual character_ which the frontier spawned has been described as rationalistic. however, this was a rationalism which was not at odds with empiricism, but which was more in line with what has been called the american philosophy, pragmatism. or, to put it in the vernacular, "if it works, it's good." the frontiersman was a trial-and-error empiricist, who believed in his own ability to fathom the depths of the problems which plagued him. if the apparent solution contradicted past patterns and interpretations, he justified his actions in terms of the realities of the moment. it is this pragmatic ratio-empiricism which we imply when we use the term "rationalistic." an examination of the role of _leadership_, suggested by the curti study, presents the first summary of this type for the west branch valley. here, too, the limited numbers of this frontier population, combined with its peculiar tendency to rely upon peripheral residents for top leadership, prevents any broad generalizations. the nature of its leadership can only be interpreted in terms of this particular group in this specific location. the last two chapters of this study are summary chapters. the first of these is an analysis of democracy on one segment of the pennsylvania frontier. arbitrarily defining democracy, certain objective criteria were set up to evaluate it in the fair play territory. political democracy was investigated in terms of popular sovereignty, political equality, popular consultation, and majority rule, and the political system was judged on the basis of these principles. social democracy was ascertained through inquiries concerning religious freedom, the social class system, and economic opportunity. the conclusion is that, for this frontier at least, democratic tendencies were displayed in various contexts. the final chapter, although relying to a large extent upon turner's great work, is in no way intended to be a critical evaluation of that thesis. its primary objective is to test one interpretation of it through a particular analytic technique, ethnographic in nature. frontier ethnography has proved to be a reliable research tool, mainly because of its wide scope. it permits conclusions which a strictly confined study, given the data limitations of this and other frontier areas, would not allow. democracy, it is no doubt agreed, is a difficult thing to assess, particularly when there are so many conflicting interpretations of it. but an examination of it, even in its most primitive stages in this country, can give the researcher a glimpse of its fundamentals and its effectiveness. in a time when idealists envision a world community based upon the self-determination which was basic in this nation's early development, it is essential to re-evaluate that principle in terms of its earliest american development. if we would enjoy the blessings of freedom, we must undergo the fatigue of attempting to understand it. some seventy years ago, a great american historian suggested an interpretation of the american ethos. turner's thesis is still being debated today, something which i am certain would please its author immensely. but what is needed today is not the prolongation of the debate as to its validity so much as the investigation of it with newer techniques which, it might be added, turner himself suggested. this is the merit of frontier ethnography, and, perhaps, the particular value of this study. to me, robert frost implied as much in his wonderful "stopping by woods on a snowy evening." yes, the "woods" of contemporary history are "lovely, dark and deep, but i have promises to keep, and miles to go before i sleep, and miles to go before i sleep." it is hoped that this investigation is the beginning of the answer to that promise, but it is well-recognized that there are miles to go. footnotes: [ ] merle curti _et al._, _the making of an american community: a case study of democracy in a frontier county_ (stanford, ), p. . [ ] _frontier and section: selected essays of frederick jackson turner_, intro. by ray allen billington (englewood cliffs, n. j., ), pp. - . _table of contents_ preface iii introduction v i. fair play territory: geography and topography ii. the fair play settlers: demographic factors iii. the politics of fair play iv. the farmers' frontier v. fair play society vi. leadership and the problems of the frontier vii. democracy on the pennsylvania frontier viii. frontier ethnography and the turner thesis bibliography index [map] chapter one _fair play territory: geography and topography_ the colonial period of american history has been of primary concern to the historian because of its fundamental importance in the development of american civilization. what the american pioneers encountered, particularly in the interior settlements, was, basically, a frontier experience. an ethnographic analysis of one part of the provincial frontier of pennsylvania indicates the significance of that colonial influence. the "primitive agricultural democracy" of this frontier illustrates the "style of life" which provided the basis for a distinctly "american" culture which emerged from the colonial experience.[ ] while this writer's approach is dominantly turnerian, this study does not necessarily contend that this pennsylvania frontier was typical of the general colonial experience, nor that this ethnographic analysis presents in microcosm the development of the american ethos. however, on this farmer's frontier there was adequate evidence of the composite nationality, the self-reliance, the independence, and the nationalistic and rationalistic traits which turner characterized as american. in his famed essay on "the significance of the frontier," turner saw the frontier as the crucible in which the english, scotch-irish, and palatine germans were merged into a new and distinctly american nationality, no longer characteristically english.[ ] the pennsylvania frontier, with its dominant scotch-irish and german influence, is a case in point. the fair play territory of the west branch valley of the susquehanna river, the setting for this analysis, was part of what turner called the second frontier, the allegheny mountains.[ ] located about ninety miles up the susquehanna from the present state capital at harrisburg, and extending some twenty-five-odd miles westward between the present cities of williamsport and lock haven, this territory was the heartland of the central pennsylvania frontier in the decade preceding the american revolution. the term "fair play settlers," used to designate the inhabitants of this region, is derived from the extra-legal political system which these democratic forerunners set up to maintain order in their developing community. being squatters and, consequently, without the bounds of any established political agency, they formed their own government, and labeled it "fair play." however, despite the apparent simplicity of the above geographic description, the exact boundaries of the fair play territory have been debated for almost two centuries. before we can assess the democratic traits of the fair play settlers, we must first clearly define what is meant by the fair play territory. the terminal points in this analysis are and , the dates of the two indian treaties made at fort stanwix (now rome), new york. the former opened up the fair play territory to settlement, and the latter brought it within the limits of the commonwealth of pennsylvania, thus legalizing the _de facto_ political structure which had developed in the interim. according to the treaty of , negotiated by sir william johnson with the indians of the six nations, the western line of colonial settlement was extended from the allegheny mountains, previously set by the proclamation of , to a line extending to the mouth of lycoming creek, which empties into the west branch of the susquehanna river. the creek is referred to as the tiadaghton in the original of the treaty.[ ] the question of whether pine creek or lycoming creek was the tiadaghton is the first major question of this investigation. the map which faces page one outlines the territory in question. following the successful eviction of the french in the french and indian war, the american counterpart of the seven years' war, the crown sought a more orderly westward advance than had been the rule. heretofore, the establishment of frontier settlements had stirred up conflict with the indians and brought frontier pleas to the colonial assemblies for military support and protection. the result was greater pressure on the already depleted exchequer. the opinion that a more controlled and less expensive westward advance could be accomplished is reflected in the royal proclamation of . this proclamation has frequently been misinterpreted as a definite effort to deprive the colonies of their western lands. the very language of the document contradicts this. for example, the expression "for the present, and until our further pleasure be known" clearly indicates the tentative nature of the proclamation, which was "to prevent [the repetition of] such irregularities for the future" with the indians, irregularities which had prompted pontiac's rebellion.[ ] the orderly advancement of this colonial frontier was to be accomplished through subsequent treaties with the indians. the treaty of fort stanwix in is one such example of those treaties.[ ] the term "fair play settlers" refers to the residents of the area between lycoming creek and the great island on the north side of the west branch of the susquehanna river, and to those who interacted with them, during the period - , when that area was outside of the provincial limits. the appellation stems from the annual designation by the settlers of "fair play men," a tribunal of three with quasi-executive, legislative, and judicial authority over the residents. the relevance of the first stanwix treaty to the geographic area of this study is a matter of the utmost importance. the western boundary of that treaty in the west branch valley of the susquehanna has been a source of some confusion because of the employment of the name "tiadaghton" in the treaty to designate that boundary. the question, quite simply, is whether pine creek or lycoming is the tiadaghton. if pine creek is the tiadaghton, an extra-legal political organization would have been unnecessary, for the so-called fair play settlers of this book would have been under provincial jurisdiction.[ ] the designation of lycoming creek as the tiadaghton tends to give geographic corroboration for the fair play system. first and foremost among the pine creek supporters is john meginness, the nineteenth-century historian of the west branch valley. his work is undoubtedly the most often quoted source of information on the west branch valley of the susquehanna, and rightfully so. although he wrote when standards of documentation were lax and relied to an extent upon local legendry as related by aged residents, meginness' views have a general validity. however, there is some question regarding his judgment concerning the boundary issue. quoting directly from the journal of moravian bishop augustus spangenburg, who visited the west branch valley in in the company of conrad weiser, david zeisberger, and john schebosh, meginness describes the bishop's travel from montoursville, or ostonwaken as the indians called it, to the "limping messenger," or "diadachton creek," where the party camped for the night.[ ] it is interesting to note that the moravian journalist refers here to lycoming creek as the tiadaghton, some twenty-three years prior to the purchase at fort stanwix, which made the question a local issue. yet meginness, in a footnote written better than a hundred years later, says that "it afterwards turned out that the true _diadachton_ or _tiadachton_, was what is now known as pine creek."[ ] perhaps meginness was influenced by the aged sources of some of his accounts. it may be, however, that he was merely repeating the judgment of an earlier generation which had sought to legalize its settlement made prior to the second stanwix treaty. the indian description of the boundary line in the fort stanwix treaty of may also have had some impact upon meginness. regardless, a comparison of data, pro and con, will demonstrate that the tiadaghton is lycoming creek. john blair linn, of bellefonte, stood second to meginness in popular repute as historian of the west branch valley. however, he too calls pine creek the tiadaghton, though the reliability of his sources is questionable. unlike meginness, whose judgment derived somewhat from interviews with contemporaries of the period, linn based his contention upon the statements made by the indians at the second stanwix treaty meeting in .[ ] at those sessions on october and , , the pennsylvania commissioners twice questioned the deputies of the six nations about the location of the tiadaghton, and were told twice that it was pine creek.[ ] in the first instance, samuel j. atlee, speaking for the other pennsylvania commissioners, called attention to the last deed made at fort stanwix in and asked the question about the tiadaghton: this last deed, brothers, with the map annexed, are descriptive of the purchase made sixteen years ago at this place; one of the boundary lines calls for a creek by the name of _tyadoghton_, we wish our brothers the six nations to explain to us clearly which you call the _tyadoghton_, as there are two creeks issuing from the _burnet's hills_, _pine_ and _lycoming_.[ ] captain aaron hill, a mohawk chief, responded for the indians: with regard to the creek called _tyadoghton_, mentioned in your deed of , we have already answered you, and again repeat it, it is the same you call _pine creek_, being the largest emptying into the west branch of the _susquehannah_.[ ] this, of course, was the "more positive answer" which the indians had promised after the previous day's interrogation.[ ] it substantiated the description given in the discussions preceding the fort stanwix treaty of .[ ] however, the map illustrating the treaty line, although tending to support this view, is subject to interpretation.[ ] regardless, this record of the treaty sessions provides the strongest evidence to sustain the pine creek view. there is little doubt that meginness and linn were influenced by the record. this is certainly true of d. s. maynard, a lesser nineteenth-century historian, whose work is obviously based upon the research of meginness. maynard repeated the evidence of his predecessor from the account of thomas sergeant by describing the stanwix treaty line of as coming "across to the headwaters of pine creek." maynard's utter dependence upon meginness suggests that his evidence is more repetitive than substantive.[ ] a more recent student of local history, eugene p. bertin, of muncy, gives pine creek his undocumented support, which appears to be nothing more than an elaboration of the accounts of meginness and linn.[ ] dr. bertin's account appears to be better folklore than history.[ ] another twentieth-century writer, elsie singmaster, offers more objective support for pine creek, although her argument appears to be better semantics than geography.[ ] edmund a. deschweinitz, in his biography of david zeisberger, errs in his interpretation of the term "limping messenger" (tiadaghton), used by bishop spangenburg in his account of their journey to the west branch valley in . he notes that on their way to onondaga (syracuse) after leaving "ostonwaken" (montoursville) they passed through the valley of tiadaghton creek. they were following the sheshequin path. but he identifies the tiadaghton with pine creek. there was an indian path up pine creek, but it led to niagara, not onondaga.[ ] aside from the designation by the indians at the second stanwix treaty, there is only one other source which lends any credibility to the pine creek view, and that is smith's _laws of the commonwealth of pennsylvania_. after the last treaty was made acquiring pennsylvania lands from the indians, the legislature, in order to quell disputes about the right of occupancy in this "new purchase,"[ ] passed the following legislation: and whereas divers persons, who have heretofore occupied and cultivated small tracts of land, without the bounds of the purchase made, as aforesaid, in the year of our lord one thousand seven hundred and sixty-eight, and within the purchase made, or now to be made, by the said commissioners, have, by their resolute stand and sufferings during the late war, merited, that those settlers should have the pre-emption of their respective plantations: _be it therefore enacted by the authority aforesaid_, that all and every person or persons, and their legal representatives, who has or have heretofore settled on the north side of the west branch of the river susquehanna, upon the indian territory, between lycomick or lycoming creek on the east, and tyagaghton or pine creek on the west, as well as other lands within the said residuary purchase from the indians, of the territory within this state, excepting always the lands herein before excepted, shall be allowed a right of pre-emption to their respective possessions, at the price aforesaid.[ ] it may be worth observing, however, that legislation tends to reflect popular demand rather than the hard facts of a situation. in this case the settlers of the region prior to stood to benefit by this legislation and formed an effective pressure group. the contrary view in this long-standing geographical debate is based, for the most part, upon the records of journalists and diarists who traveled along the west branch _prior_ to the first stanwix treaty and who thus had no axe to grind. that the lycoming creek was in fact the tiadaghton referred to by the indians at fort stanwix in is strongly indicated by the weight of evidence derived from the journals of conrad weiser ( ), john bartram ( ), bishop spangenburg ( ), moravian bishop john ettwein ( ), and the reverend philip vickers fithian ( ). in addition, the maps of lewis evans ( ) and john adlum ( ), the land applications of robert galbreath and martin stover ( ), and a statute of the pennsylvania general assembly all tend to validate lycoming's claim to recognition as the tiadaghton. each datum has merit in the final analysis, which justifies the specific examination which follows: supporting evidence is found in weiser's german journal, which was meant for his family and friends, and translated into english by his great-grandson, hiester h. muhlenberg. (weiser also kept an english journal for the council at philadelphia.) weiser wrote: "the stream we are now on the indians call dia-daclitu, (die berirte, the lost or bewildered) which in fact deserves such a name."[ ] (this is an obvious misspelling of diadachton.) weiser was following the sheshequin path with shickellamy to onondaga and this entry is recorded on march , , long before there was any question about the tiadaghton. there seems to be some confusion over bishop spangenburg's use of the term "limping messenger" in his journal for june , . he too was traveling the sheshequin path with david zeisberger, conrad weiser, shickellamy, andrew montour, _et al._ he describes the "limping messenger" as a camp on the "tiadachton" (lycoming), whereas deschweinitz in his _zeisberger_ interprets the term to mean pine creek.[ ] another traveler along the sheshequin path was the colonial botanist, john bartram. bartram, in the company of weiser and lewis evans, the map maker, notes in his diary of july , , riding "down [up] a valley to a point, a prospect of an opening bearing n, then down the hill to a run and over a rich neck lying between it and the tiadaughton."[ ] incidentally, the editor of this extract from bartram's journal makes the quite devastating point that meginness did not know of bartram's journal, which was published in london in but which did not appear in america until .[ ] one of the moravian journalists who visited the scenic susquehanna along the west branch was bishop john ettwein, who passed through this valley on his way to ohio in . he wrote of "lycoming creek, [as the stream] which marks the boundary line of lands purchased from the indians."[ ] perhaps the most interesting and informative diarist who journeyed along the west branch was the reverend philip vickers fithian. fithian came to what we will establish as fair play country on july , , at what he called "lacommon creek." his conclusion was that this creek was the tiadaghton.[ ] it is this same fithian, it might be added, whose virginia journals were the primary basis for the reconstruction of colonial williamsburg. the work of colonial cartographers also substantiates the claim that lycoming creek is the tiadaghton. both lewis evans, following his journey in the company of bartram and weiser, and john adlum, who conducted a survey of the west branch valley in for the commonwealth of pennsylvania, failed to label pine creek as the "tiadaghton" on their maps.[ ] in fact, adlum's map of , found among the papers of william bingham, designates the area east of lycoming creek as the "old purchase." furthermore, as is the case with evans' map, adlum does not apply the tiadaghton label to either pine creek or lycoming creek.[ ] two applications in for land in the new purchase show that the tiadaghton, or in this case "ticadaughton," can only be lycoming creek. the application of robert galbreath (no. ) is described as "bounded on one side by the proprietor's tract at lycoming." martin stover applied for the same tract (application no. ), which is described as "below the mouth of ticadaughton creek."[ ] the copies of these two applications, together with the copy of the survey, offer irrefutable proof of the validity of lycoming's claim. perhaps the final note is the action of the general assembly of the commonwealth of pennsylvania on december , .[ ] the legislators affirmed the judgments of the frontier journalists, whose recorded journeys offer the best proof that the lycoming is the tiadaghton. prior to this action, the provincial authorities had issued a proclamation on september , , prohibiting settlement west of lycoming creek by white persons. violators were to be apprehended and tried. the penalties were real and quite severe: £ fine, twelve months in prison without bail, and a guarantee of twelve months of exemplary conduct after release.[ ] court records, however, fail to indicate any prosecutions. finally, the latest scholar to delve into the complexities of the stanwix treaties, professor peter marshall, says that there was no prolonged and close discussion about the running of the treaty line in pennsylvania (the tiadaghton question), no discussion in any way comparable to that which took place over its location in new york.[ ] in summary then, it appears that the treaty of fort stanwix in was responsible for opening the west branch valley to settlement, such settlement being stimulated by the opening of the land office in philadelphia on april , . james tilghman, secretary of the land office, published the notice of his office's willingness "to receive applications from all persons inclinable to take up lands in the new purchase."[ ] the enthusiasm generated by the opening of the land office is shown by the better than , applications received on the very first day. however, the question of the tiadaghton came to be a source of real contention. the ambiguity of the indian references to the western boundary of the first stanwix treaty led the eager settlers, who were seeking to legitimize claims in the area between lycoming and pine creeks, to favor pine creek. there was substance to the settlers' claim. the significance of the boundary question to this study is better understood when it is recognized that the so-called fair play system of government in lands beyond the provincial limits must have a definable locale. it is this writer's firm conviction that fair play territory extended from lycoming creek, on the north side of the west branch of the susquehanna, to the great island, some five miles west of pine creek. the foundation for the establishment of lycoming creek as the tiadaghton, and consequently, as the eastern boundary of the fair play territory is apparent once all the evidence is examined. aside from the comments of the indians at the treaty negotiations and smith's _laws of the commonwealth of pennsylvania_, there are only secondary accounts with little documentation to sustain the pine creek argument. on the other hand, the lycoming creek claim is buttressed by such primary sources as the journals of weiser, bartram, spangenberg, ettwein, and fithian, three of which were written before the location of the tiadaghton became a subject of dispute. since none of these men was seeking lands, they can be considered impartial observers. furthermore, the cartographic efforts of lewis evans and john adlum followed actual visits to the region and say nothing to favor the pine creek view. perhaps the indians were merely accepting an already accomplished fact at the meeting in . dr. paul a. w. wallace says that this would have been expected from the subservient, pacified indian. regardless, the provincial leadership made no effort to settle the lands in what some called "the disputed territory" until after the later agreement at stanwix; in fact, they discouraged it.[ ] the simple desire for legitimacy gives us very little to go on in the light of more than adequate documentation of the justice of the lycoming view. this evidence might suggest changing the name of the long-revered "tiadaghton elm" to the "pine creek elm" and bringing to a close the vexatious question of the tiadaghton. however let us strike a note of caution, if not humility. indian place names had a way of shifting, doubling, and moving, since they served largely as descriptive terms and not as true place names. it is not at all unusual to find the same name applied to several places or to find names migrating. the tiadaghton could have been lycoming creek to some indians at one time, and pine creek to others at the same or another time. consider, for example, that there were three miami rivers in present ohio, which are now known as the miami, the little miami, and the maumee. it hardly makes any real difference to the geography of the fair play territory, or to the delimiting of its boundaries, which stream was the tiadaghton. actually, it was the doubt about it which drew in the squatters and created fair play. these settlers justified their contention that the tiadaghton was pine creek by moving into the territory and holding onto it. this may be reason enough for calling the famous tree the tiadaghton elm, even if early travelers and the proprietary officials said that the tiadaghton was lycoming creek.[ ] the topography of the region also influenced the delineation of what we call fair play territory. the jugular vein which supplies the life-blood to this region is undoubtedly the west branch of the susquehanna river. this branch of the great river, which drains almost fifty per cent of the state, follows a northeasterly course of some forty miles from the great island, which is just east of present lock haven, to what is now muncy, then turns southward.[ ] the west branch of the mighty susquehanna, which has plagued generations of residents with its spring floodings, was the primary means of ingress and egress for the area. rich bottom lands at the mouths of lycoming, larrys, and pine creeks drew the hardy pioneer farmers, and here they worked the soil to provide the immediate needs for survival. hemmed in on the north by the plateau area of the appalachian front and on the south by the bald eagle mountains, these courageous pioneers of frontier democracy carved their future out of the two-mile area (more often less) between those two forbidding natural walls. with the best lands to be found around the mouth of pine creek, which is reasonably close to the center of this twenty-five-mile area, it seems quite natural that the major political, social, and economic developments would take place in close proximity--and they did.[ ] thus, an area never exceeding two miles in width and spanning some ten miles (presently from jersey shore to lock haven) was the heartland of fair play settlement. lycoming creek, larrys creek, and pine creek all run south into the west branch, having channeled breaks through the rolling valley which extends along the previously defined territory. "the land was ours before we were the land's," the poet said, and it seems apropos of this moment in history.[ ] fair play territory, possessed before it was owned and operated under _de facto_ rule, would be some time in americanizing the sturdy frontiersmen who came to bring civilization to this wilderness. footnotes: [ ] carl l. becker, _beginnings of the american people_ (ithaca, n. y., ), p. . [ ] turner, _frontier and section_, p. . [ ] frederick jackson turner, _the frontier in american history_ (new york, ), p. . [ ] e. b. o'callaghan, _documentary history of the state of new york_ (albany, ), i, - . [ ] henry steele commager, _documents of american history_ (new york, ), i, . [ ] an earlier twentieth-century historian misinterprets the first stanwix treaty in much the same manner as earlier colonial historians erred in their judgments of the proclamation of . albert t. volwiler, _george croghan and the westward movement, - _ (cleveland, ), p. , really overstates his case, if the fair play settlers are any example, when he claims that the fort stanwix line, by setting a definite boundary, impeded the western advance. establishing friendships with the indians and then persuading them to sell their lands proved valuable to more than speculators, whose case volwiler documents so well, as west branch settlements after will attest. [ ] the extension of provincial authority to pine creek would have taken in three-fourths of what we have labeled fair play territory. [ ] john f. meginness, _otzinachson: a history of the west branch valley of the susquehanna_ (williamsport, ), p. . the full passage from the bethlehem diary (now in the moravian archives) was translated by the late dr. william n. schwarze for dr. paul a. w. wallace, historian of the pennsylvania historical and museum commission, as follows: "in the afternoon [june , new style] our brethren left that place [beyond montoursville] and came in the evening to the limping messenger on the tiadachton creek, where they spent the night." in the _pennsylvania magazine of history and biography_, ii ( ), (hereafter cited as _pmhb_), zeisberger's account is translated in this manner: "in the afternoon we proceeded on our journey, and at dusk came to the 'limping messenger,' or diadachton creek [a note identifies this as lycoming], and encamped for the night." here the error is in identifying the limping messenger with the stream. meginness, of course, repeated the error in his _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . referring the passage to vernon h. nelson of the moravian archives, through dr. wallace, resulted in a clarification of the translation and the affirmation of the "limping messenger" as a camp on the stream. in the bethlehem diary, under june , , the sentence appears as follows: "des nachm. reissten unsre brr wieder von da weg u kamen abends zum hinckenden boten an der tiatachton creek, u lagen da uber nacht." in the original travel journal the passage reads: "des nachm. reissten wir wieder von da weg, u kamen abends zum _hinckenden boten_ an der tiatachton crick u lagen da uber nacht." de schweinitz in his _zeisberger_ further confused the issue in his description of the journey. he takes the adventurers (zeisberger, spangenburg, conrad weiser, shickellamy, and andrew montour) through the valley of the tiadaghton creek on the sheshequin path to onondaga (syracuse). there was an indian path up pine creek, but it led to niagara, not onondaga. [ ] meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . this is an added note of meginness' commentary upon the citation noted above. [ ] john blair linn, _history of centre and clinton counties, pennsylvania_ (philadelphia, ), p. . linn also deals with the tiadaghton question in his "indian land and its fair play settlers," _pmhb_, vii ( ), - . here he simply defines fair play territory as "indian land" encompassing the lycoming-pine creek region. [ ] _minutes of the first session of the ninth general assembly of the commonwealth of pennsylvania ..._ (philadelphia, ), appendix, proceedings of the treaties held at forts stanwix and mcintosh, pp. - . [ ] _ibid._, oct. , p. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] _ibid._, oct. , p. . [ ] e. b. o'callaghan, _documents relative to the colonial history of the state of new york_, viii (albany, ), . in the discussions preceding the fort stanwix treaty of , the indians' description of the boundary line could be interpreted as favoring pine creek: "... to the head of the west branch of susquehanna thence down the same to bald eagle creek thence across the river at tiadaghta creek below the great island, thence by a straight line to burnett's hills and along the same...." the juxtaposition of bald eagle creek, the great island, and "tiadaghta" creek makes this conclusion plausible. [ ] _see also ibid._, guy johnson's map illustrating the treaty line, opposite p. . [ ] d. s. maynard, _historical view of clinton county, from its earliest settlement to the present time_ (lock haven, ), p. . the line is given by maynard as follows: "... and took in the lands lying east of the north branch of the susquehanna, beginning at owego, down to towanda, thence up the same and across to the headwaters of pine creek; thence down the same to kittanning...." [ ] eugene p. bertin, "primary streams of lycoming county," _now and then_, viii ( ), - . [ ] dr. bertin, former associate secretary of the pennsylvania state education association, adds nothing to the meginness and linn accounts, his probable sources. he speaks of settlements as early as , whereas it is a matter of record that cleary campbell squatted in what is now north lock haven sometime shortly after . he refers to the establishment of homes, properly, but then goes on to add churches and schools. the source for his "children and elders met together periodically to recite catechism to the preacher, who was a travelling missionary, one being phillip fithian," was j. b. linn. but fithian, an extremely accurate diarist, fails to mention the occasion during his one-week visit to this area in the summer of . however, the real value of this article is the editorial note by t. kenneth wood on the tiadaghton question. in it he refers to john bartram's journal of , twenty-five years before the stanwix treaty at rome, n. y., with the iroquois, which recounts his travels with the oneida chief shickellamy and conrad weiser. lewis evans was also in the party, making notes for his map of . the party, on its way to onondaga (syracuse), was approaching lycoming creek at a point just south of powys, via the sheshequin indian path. bartram, the first american botanist, who wrote in his journal nightly after checking with his two guides, gives this account, t. kenneth wood (ed.), "observations made by john bartram in his travels from pennsylvania to onondaga, oswego and the lake ontario in ," _now and then_, v ( ), : "then down a hill to a run and over a rich neck of land lying between it and the tiadaughton." no contact was made with pine creek. dr. wood contends in his note to the bertin article, and this writer is inclined to agree, that the indian of and the indian of were telling the truth and that the white settlers of , and for sixteen years thereafter, were wrong, either through guile and design or ignorance. he says, "the original indian principals signing the treaty had retreated westward and sixteen years of fighting over the question (and possibly a few bribes) had settled it to the white man's satisfaction. the indians always had to yield or get out." this is essentially the point which dr. wallace made to me in his letter of feb. , . [ ] elsie singmaster, _pennsylvania's susquehanna_ (harrisburg, ), p. . her pine creek description (while describing tributaries of the susquehanna) speaks of the gorge as the upper course of pine creek, which is now part of harrison state park. here, she says, "the rim is accessible by a paved highway, and from there one may look down a thousand feet and understand why the indians called the stream tiadaghton or lost creek." [ ] edmund a. deschweinitz, _the life and times of david zeisberger_ (philadelphia, ), p. . further evidence of deschweinitz' confusion is found in his geographical glossary in the same book. on page , he calls the great island, lock haven; on page , he calls long island, jersey shore; and on page , he refers to pine creek as the tiadaghton, "also called diadaghton." [ ] the term "new purchase" was frequently used, both officially and otherwise, to designate the area on the north side of the west branch of the susquehanna from lycoming creek to the great island, although in actuality the purchase line terminated at lycoming creek. [ ] charles smith, _laws of the commonwealth of pennsylvania_ (philadelphia, ), ii, . [ ] paul a. w. wallace, _conrad weiser, friend of colonist and mohawk_ (philadelphia, ), p. . [ ] wallace mistakenly attaches the appellation "limping messenger" to "a foot-sore indian named anontagketa," _ibid._, p. . however, this error was corrected in a letter to this writer, august , . [ ] wood (ed.), "observations made by john bartram," p. . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . [ ] robert greenhalgh albion and leonidas dodson (eds.), _philip vickers fithian: journal, - _ (princeton, ), pp. - . [ ] hazel shields garrison, "cartography of pennsylvania before ," _pmhb_, lix ( ), - . information on adlum's maps was obtained from [t. kenneth wood], "map drawn by john adlum, district surveyor, , found among the bingham papers," _now and then_, x (july, ), - . [ ] [wood], "map drawn by john adlum," pp. - . [ ] bureau of land records, harrisburg, pennsylvania, new purchase applications, nos. and , april , . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, first series, xi, . [ ] _colonial records_, x, . [ ] in a letter to this writer, may , , professor marshall states: "it was my opinion that the treaty marked, in one aspect, a bargain between johnson and the six nations. i do not accept billington's charge of betrayal of their interests. but it does seem to me that this meant hard bargaining in new york, when the state of indian and colonial lands was precisely known to both sides, and indifference and ignorance beyond this point.... as far as i am aware, there was no prolonged and close discussion about the running of the line in pennsylvania in the least comparable to that which took place over its location in new york." _see_ peter marshall, "sir william johnson and the treaty of fort stanwix, ," _the journal of american studies_, i (oct., ), pp. - . [ ] meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . [ ] helen herritt russell, "signers of the pine creek declaration of independence," _the northumberland county historical society proceedings and addresses_, xxii ( ), - . [ ] the fame of this historic elm stems from the fact that it is reputed to be the site of a local declaration of independence made the same day as the adoption of jefferson's draft in philadelphia, july , . the author is indebted to donald h. kent, director of the bureau of archives and history, pennsylvania historical and museum commission, for the idea and some of the expression in this paragraph. [ ] paul a. w. wallace, _pennsylvania: seed of a nation_ (new york, ) p. . this delightful book in the "regions of america" series, edited by carl carmer, contains an excellent chapter on the significance of pennsylvania's "three rivers." [ ] gristmills--meeting places of the fair play tribunal--a school, and a church would all be found in this pine creek region. however, the church (presbyterian) would not be built until the territory became an official part of the commonwealth following the second stanwix treaty in . [ ] robert frost, _complete poems of robert frost_ (new york, ), p. . this poem somehow characterizes the experiences of the settlers of this frontier and many frontiers to come. chapter two _the fair play settlers: demographic factors_ james logan, president of the proprietary council of pennsylvania, - , once declared that "if the scotch-irish continue to come they will make themselves masters of the province."[ ] his prediction, which was to be generally proven in the province during the french and indian war, was to be demonstrated particularly in the west branch valley during the revolutionary period. the scotch-irish were the dominant national or ethnic group in the fair play territory from to . this dominance is demonstrated in chart , which indicates the national origins of eighty families in the fair play territory. chart national origins of fair play settlers[ ] expressed in numbers and percentages total scotch-irish english german scots irish welsh french ==================================================================== % . . . . -------------------------------------------------------------------- not only were the scotch-irish the most numerous national stock among the fair play settlers of the west branch valley, but they also represented a plurality and almost a majority of the entire population. the significance of this finding in terms of the "style of life" of the fair play settlers cannot be over-emphasized. it influenced the politics, the religion, the family patterns, and thus the values of this frontier society. several other important conclusions can be drawn from this chart. in contrast to the population of pennsylvania in general and the assumptions regarding frontier areas in particular, the english, rather than the germans, were the second most numerous national stock group. the germans, however, made up the third-largest segment of the west branch valley population. the scots, welsh, irish, and a few french inhabitants formed the remaining sixteen per cent of the population. obviously, this was a dominantly anglo-saxon protestant area of settlement. the impact of this scotch-irish hegemony upon the religion, politics, family life, and social values in general will be dealt with in a later chapter. however, it can be noted at this juncture that the strong-willed individualism which characterized these sturdy people was as much influenced by their national origin as by their experience on the american frontier. furthermore, presbyterianism influenced and was influenced by a developing democratic political system, which paralleled the american presbyterian system of popular rather than hierarchical church government.[ ] a prominent immigration historian has pointed out that "the theory of presbyterian republicanism, as a matter of church policy, could easily be reconciled with demands of the more radical democrats of ."[ ] finally, the social life and customs and, hence, the values of this frontier society were governed for the most part by this majority group. thus, dogmatic faith, political equality, social and economic independence, respect for education, and a tightly-knit pattern of family relationships express appropriately the institutional patterns by which the scotch-irish of the west branch operated. it is interesting to contrast the national stock groupings of this susquehanna frontier with the results of a study of national origins of the american population made by the american council of learned societies and published in :[ ] chart classification of the white population into its national stocks in the continental united states and pennsylvania: ; and in the fair play territory: (expressed in percentages). scotch-irish english german scots irish welsh french other ========================================================================= conti- nental united states . . . . . . . penn- sylva- nia . . . . . . . fair play terri- tory . . . . ------------------------------------------------------------------------- from this comparison it can readily be seen that the national origins of the fair play settlers in no way conform to either the national pattern or the state pattern of just a few years later. although this limited frontier area can be recognized as having its own individual ratio of component stocks, it is representative rather than unique in its culture and values. the reaction of those of other national stocks to the frontier experience buttresses the conclusion that their values were influenced more by the frontier than by national origin. it is this common reaction to the problems of the frontier which gives rise to the conclusion that this west branch valley environment was characterized by and that its inhabitants held values which turner evaluated as democratic. the nature of those democratic values is, however, dealt with in greater detail in subsequent chapters. the american sources of emigration form the next question to be considered in examining the origins of the fair play settlers. lacking adequate statistical data for a complete picture of migration in terms of percentages, the following chart indicates only the probable origins of the three most numerous national stock groupings in the fair play territory: chart american sources of emigration[ ] national percentage of stock population american source of emigration =============================================================== scotch-irish . chester, cumberland, dauphin, lancaster counties english new jersey, new york, southeastern pennsylvania (philadelphia and bucks counties) german chester, lancaster, philadelphia, and york counties total . --------------------------------------------------------------- obviously, the primary sources for the west branch settlements were the lower susquehanna valley and southeastern pennsylvania. however, an appreciable number of english settlers appear to have come originally from new jersey to settle in what they called "jersey shore," immediately east of the mouth of pine creek. one explanation for the migration of the dominant stock, the scotch-irish, is probably the fact that the provincial government refused to sell more lands in lancaster and york counties to the scotch-irish. in effect, they were driven to use squatter tactics in the fair play territory.[ ] the internal origins of sixteen of these settlers can be verified in either meginness or linn. four came from chester county, three each from the juniata valley and lancaster county, two each from cumberland county and new jersey, and one each from dauphin county and from orange county in new york. nine of these settlers, incidentally, were scotch-irish. although these data are insufficient for any valid generalization, they do conform to the characteristic migratory trends indicated in chart . in analyzing the migration of settlers into the west branch valley beyond the line of the "new purchase," it becomes apparent that the scotch-irish came from the fringe areas of settlement, whereas the english and germans tended to migrate from more settled areas. furthermore, the english migrants often came from outside the province of pennsylvania, either from new jersey or new york. in fact, if one were to construct a pattern of concentric zones, with the core in the southeastern corner of the province and the lines radiating in a north-westerly direction, the english would be found at the core, the germans in the next zone, and the scotch-irish in the outlying area. this zoning offers no real contradiction of the usual pattern of pennsylvania migrations. however, when one combines the data of internal movements with those of external origins, certain contradictions do appear. the most noteworthy of these is, of course, the prominence of english settlers on this fair play frontier vis-à-vis the germans. since the pennsylvania frontiersmen of the wyoming valley were of english stock, and immigrated from new england, it might have been assumed that some of these connecticut settlers came into the west branch valley. here, however, all evidence points to the fact that connecticut settlers did not migrate west of muncy, which is located at the juncture of muncy creek and the west branch of the susquehanna river (where the bend in the river turns into a directly western pattern). thus the connecticut boundary dispute of - , which erupted into the pennamite wars, did not involve the fair play settlers.[ ] nevertheless, at least one fair play settler looked forward to the possibility of an advance of the connecticut settlement along the west branch.[ ] the impact of events upon the settlement of the fair play territory is particularly apparent when one examines the periods of immigration to and emigration from the region. three events seemed to have had the greatest influence upon the immigration: the treaty of fort stanwix in , which extended the provincial limits to lycoming creek in this region, and the resultant opening of the land office for claims in the "new purchase" on april , ;[ ] the almost complete evacuation of the territory in the "great runaway" of the summer of , which was prompted by indian attacks and the fear of a great massacre comparable to the "wyoming valley massacre" of that same year;[ ] and finally, the stanwix treaty of , which brought the fair play area within the limits of the province.[ ] the first stanwix treaty, made by sir william johnson with the six nations in november of , extended the legitimate line of english colonial settlement from the line established by the proclamation of to a point on the west branch of the susquehanna river at the mouth of lycoming creek (the tiadaghton, as it was so ambiguously labeled).[ ] this extension, ostensibly for the purpose of providing lands for the colonial veterans of the french and indian war, became a boon to speculators and an inducement to the scotch-irish squatters who took lands beyond the limits of this "new purchase" in what was to become the fair play territory. in the summer of the war whoop once again caused the settlers of the west branch valley to flee from their homes for fear of a repetition of the wyoming massacre. the peril of the moment is vividly described in this communication to the executive council in philadelphia from colonel samuel hunter, commander of fort augusta: the carnage at wioming, the devastations and murders upon the west branch of susquehanna, on bald eagle creek, and in short throughout the whole county to within a few miles of these towns (the recital of which must be shocking) i suppose must have before now have reached your ears, if not you may figure yourselves men, women, and children, butchered and scalped, many of them after being promised quarters, and some scalped alive, of which we have miserable instances amongst us.... i have only to add that a few hundreds of men well armed and immediately sent to our relief would prevent much bloodshed, confusion and devastation ... as the appearance of being supported would call back many of our fugitives to save their harvest for their subsistence, rather than suffer the inconveniences which reason tells me they do down the country and their with their families return must ease the people below of a heavy and unprofitable burthen.[ ] robert covenhoven, who lived at the mouth of the loyalsock creek and who fled to sunbury (fort augusta) also, described the flight: such a sight i never saw in my life. boats, canoes, hog-troughs, rafts hastily made of dry sticks, every sort of floating article, had been put in requisition, and were crowded with women, children, and plunder. there were several hundred people in all.... the whole convoy arrived safely at sunbury, leaving the entire range of farms along the west branch to the ravages of the indians.[ ] in this eighteenth-century dunkirk, the west branch valley was practically cleared of settlers. the indians, it is true, proved troublesome to the entire advancing american frontier; but unlike the french, whose menacing forts had been removed in the recent wars, the indians were unable to halt the westward penetration. an expedition under the leadership of colonel thomas hartley was sent out expressly for the purpose of boosting morale in the west branch valley following the wyoming massacre and the great runaway. colonel hartley's letter to thomas mckean, chief justice of pennsylvania and a member of the continental congress, gives bitter testimony to the conditions which he observed in september of : you heard of the distresses of these frontiers they are truly great--the people which we found were difident and timid the panick had not yet left them--many a wealthy family reduced to poverty & without a home, some had lost their husbands their children or friends--all was gloomy.... the barbarians do now and then attack an unarmed man a helpless mother or infant.... the colonel indicated, however, that strong militia support and some offensive action would restore confidence and cause the people to return to the valley. his interpretation of the significance of his mission is quite clearly stated in the conclusion of his letter: "we shall not have it in our power to gain honour or laurels on these frontiers but we have the satisfaction to think we save our country...." hartley's solution to the indian problem, which had driven off the settlers, was to expel them "beyond the lakes" excepting only the more civilized tuscaroras and oneidas.[ ] despite the danger from the indians, the fair play settlers began trickling back to their homes, or what was left of them, toward the end of the revolutionary war. once the war was ended and the fair play territory was annexed by subsequent purchase, the mass movement of settlers to the west branch valley resumed. incidentally, dr. wallace in his _conrad weiser_ assesses one john henry lydius with the major responsibility for the indian massacres in central and northeastern pennsylvania. wallace notes that lydius' connecticut purchase from the indians in caused "war between pennsylvania and connecticut and ... [precipitated] the massacre of wyoming in ." this massacre, as west branch historians know, had its subsequent impact on the west branch valley in the great runaway, although the winters massacre of june , , which prompted the evacuation of the valley, actually preceded the wyoming affair.[ ] finally, the purchase of the remaining indian lands in pennsylvania (except for the small corner of the erie triangle) was made on october , , in a second stanwix treaty. this accession ended the pennsylvania boundary dispute with the six nations; and it also ended the need for any extra-legal system of government in the west branch valley, for this new treaty encompassed the fair play territory.[ ] however, this treaty raised the troublesome tiadaghton question once again, a question only partly resolved by the legislature's designation of lycoming creek as the tiadaghton and the recognition of the squatters' right of pre-emption to their settlements along the west branch of the susquehanna.[ ] the land office was opened for the sale of this purchase july , ; by fifty heads of families were listed for state taxes in northumberland county.[ ] approximately fifty per cent of these taxables had been in the area earlier. perhaps the only significant nationality trend to be noted in this important sequence of events is the tenacity of the scotch-irish and the subsequent increase of english and german settlers following this last "new purchase."[ ] over half of the taxables in pine creek township, the new designation for much of the fair play territory after it became an official part of the province, were scotch-irish. as a result, these scots from the north of ireland continued to maintain their position of leadership even after the area was included in the commonwealth. the reasons for migrating to the west branch valley in this fifteen-year period from to were varied and numerous. for the most part, the various nationality groups which emigrated from europe came for economic opportunity and because of religious and political persecutions. their movement to the frontier regions was prompted by similar problems. in fact, much the same as the earlier settlers of jamestown and plymouth, the squatters of the west branch valley came for gain and for god. furthermore, the promise of penn's "holy experiment," in which men of diverse backgrounds could live together peacefully in religious freedom and political equality, encouraged them to come to pennsylvania. however, once the dominant group of the fair play frontier, the scotch-irish, arrived in pennsylvania, they found themselves unsuited to the settled areas. the natural enemy of the english, who had oppressed them at home, these settlers soon found themselves repeating the old world conflicts. in addition, the german pietists caused them further embarrassment in their new homes. their calvinism, fierce political independence, and earnest desire for land and opportunity soon made them _personae non gratae_ in the established areas. hence, they migrated to the frontier areas and even beyond the limits of provincial interference and control.[ ] the paucity of population data makes impossible any extensive analysis of the stability and mobility of the fair play settlers. however, the tax lists, both in the published archives and in the files of the county commissioners in northumberland county, offer limited evidence for the early years, though they provide ample data for the years after . prior to the great runaway in , tax lists are available for the entire county of northumberland; the lists simply indicate the taxable's township, acreage, and tax. records in the northumberland county courthouse give the assessments for , , , and . due to the fact that the fair play territory was outside the provincial limits until after the purchase of fort stanwix in , the assessment lists give only those persons residing within northumberland county. as a result, there were only six to twelve settlers who associated with the fair play men who were included in the lists for - . chart indicates the names, national origins, and years listed for those settlers. chart fair play settlers on the tax rolls - .[ ] name national origin ============================================================== james alexander scotch-irish x x george calhoune scotch-irish x x x x cleary campbell scotch-irish x william campbell, jr. scotch-irish x x x x william campbell, jr. scotch-irish x x john clark english x thomas forster english x x x x james irwin scotch-irish x x x x john jamison english x isaiah jones welsh x robert king german x x x john price welsh x x --- --- --- --- totals -------------------------------------------------------------- from these limited data one obviously concludes that the scotch-irish were not only the most numerous but also the most persistent of these frontiersmen. also, nine of these men, that is all except clark, jones, and king, appear on the tax lists for northumberland county for the year .[ ] interestingly enough, six of these nine were scotch-irish; and although our sample is limited, it is readily apparent that the stalwart scots had a way of "hanging on." it would be presumptuous to conclude that seventy-five per cent of the residents before returned by ; but it is fact that some forty families had made improvements in the area by when william cooke was sent out by the land office to "warn the people of[f] the unpurchased land."[ ] furthermore, as indicated earlier, some fifty families appear on the assessments for , more than half of whom had been in the region before. any effort to analyze the population in terms of stability and mobility runs head-on into the creation of new townships in the 's, the inability to establish death rates for this frontier, and the inadequacy of probate records. the result is that the data are intuitively rather than statistically sound. chart offers a comparison of tax lists over a period of nine years as the basis for some conclusions regarding the stability and mobility of the fair play settlers. chart population stability and mobility based upon a comparison of tax lists for the period from to .[ ] - - ========================================================== number of residents assessed number appearing on previous assessments ---------------------------------------------------------- except for the - figures, all of the tax data are for state taxes. the exception is the listing for the federal supply tax in - . the steady growth rate of the area is easily recognizable both in raw figures and in percentages. beginning with an increase of a little more than seven per cent between the first two listings, we find a seventy per cent increase in the final figures. the tremendous increase in the last two assessments may be due to the purchase of and the subsequent legitimizing of claims through the establishment of pre-emption rights. the stability of the population is particularly noted in the consistently high percentage of residents with some tenure in the valley. furthermore, the apparent contradiction of this statement by the decline to fourteen residents in the listing who had once left and then returned is offset when one examines the neighboring township assessments for that same year. here fourteen additional names of former fair play settlers are to be found which would sustain the characteristic pattern of tenure. the statistical problem is complicated by the creation of new townships following the purchase of . pine creek and lycoming were the new designations for the former fair play territory, pine creek running from the creek of that same name west, and lycoming extending from pine creek east to lycoming creek. petitions from the area in , , and give a similar picture. almost half of the names which are found on the tax lists appear on two or more of these appeals. these include a distress petition in june of , and petitions asking recognition of pre-emption rights in and .[ ] the signatures on the petitions range in number from thirty-nine to fifty-one, and at least twenty-four of these settlers signed two or more of these documents. the very nature of these petitions, particularly the later ones, indicates the tremendous desire on the part of these sturdy pioneers to remain in or return to their homes in the west branch valley. here too, however, this tenacity of purpose is not strictly confined to the scotch-irish. what conclusions can be drawn from this analysis of the demographic factors in the fair play settlement? particularly evident is the dominance of the scotch-irish, who numerically composed the greatest national stock group in the population. this dominance, as we have already noted, greatly influenced the political and social institutions of the area. secondly, one might consider the numbers of english settlers, as compared with the number of germans, surprising. as a matter of fact, if one adds the numbers of scots and welsh inhabitants to the english and scotch-irish, the result is an "english" percentage of seventy-seven and one half for the entire population. thus it is quite logical to assume that english customs and language would prevail, and they did. incidentally, it should be added that the "english" nature of the population, combined with the scotch-irish plurality, meant that the scotch-irish were more representative of this frontier than they were innovators of its customs and values. if a majority of the fair play settlers came from the british isles, from where did they emigrate in america? here it is quite clear that these frontiersmen were predominantly from the lower susquehanna valley and southeastern pennsylvania. pennsylvania was to them a land of liberty and opportunity;[ ] and when they failed to find these privileges in the settled areas, they moved out on the frontier where they could make their own rules, that is to say, establish their own familiar institutions. the result was the fair play system. although the fair play settlers came to america and central pennsylvania for the usual political, economic, and social reasons, the two stanwix treaties and the indian raids of had the most influence on population fluctuations. the pioneers came into the territory over-reaching the limits of the "new purchase" of . they were driven out, almost to a man, in the great runaway of . and finally, they returned after the second "new purchase" in , which resulted in the recognition of their pre-emption claims for their earlier illegal settlements. it is interesting to note that pre-emption claims were recognized in the west branch valley some forty-five years prior to federal legislation to that effect.[ ] despite fluctuations in the population, the scotch-irish were able to maintain their hold over the valley and thus influence the pattern of development for this frontier outpost. horace walpole, addressing the english parliament during the american revolution, said, "there is no use crying about it. cousin america has run off with a presbyterian parson, and that is the end of it."[ ] the scotch-irish with their presbyterianism had run off with the west branch valley as well; and their independent spirit would see them in the foreground of the "noblest rupture in the history of mankind." that independent spirit and leadership is particularly noted in the political system which they established along the west branch of the susquehanna river. their "fair play system" is the primary concern of the next chapter. footnotes: [ ] e. melvin williams, "the scotch-irish in pennsylvania," _americana_, xvii ( ), . [ ] this chart was compiled by making a list of eighty names appearing in an article on the genealogy of the fair play men, helen herritt russell, "the documented story of the fair play men and their government," _the northumberland county historical society proceedings and addresses_, xii ( ), - . mrs. russell is genealogist of the fort antes chapter of the daughters of the american revolution in jersey shore, pa. the names were checked in meginness and linn for possible national origin. approximately one-fourth were verified in these sources. although this writer questioned the validity of the geographic conclusions of meginness and linn, both have ample documentation for their findings regarding genealogy and national origins. these findings can be validated in the published archives. the entire sample of names was submitted to dr. samuel p. bayard, a folklore specialist and professor of english at the pennsylvania state university, whose determination was made on the basis of linguistic techniques. [ ] popular control was an american rather than a scottish influence necessitated by the absence of sufficient numbers of ministers. in scotland, the minister chose his elders and thus dominated the session; in america, the selection was made by the congregation. _see_ james g. leyburn, _the scotch-irish: a social history_ (chapel hill, ), p. . [ ] carl wittke, _we who built america_ (cleveland, ), p. . [ ] american council of learned societies, "report of committee on linguistic and national stocks in the population of the united states," _annual report of the american historical association for the year _ (washington, ), i, . [ ] this summary has been prepared from three main sources: wayland f. dunaway, _the scotch-irish of colonial pennsylvania_ (hamden, conn., ), pp. - ; meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), pp. - ; and john b. linn, _history of centre and clinton counties, pennsylvania_ (philadelphia, ), pp. , - . [ ] williams, "the scotch-irish in pennsylvania," p. . [ ] wayland f. dunaway, _a history of pennsylvania_ (englewood cliffs, n. j., ), pp. - . according to john bacon deans, "the migration of the connecticut yankees to the west branch of the susquehanna river," _the northumberland county historical society proceedings and addresses_, xx ( ), - , eighty-two yankees came to warrior's run in september of , but none went farther west. [ ] wyoming historical and geological society, wilkes-barre, pa., the zebulon butler papers, jonas davis to zebulon butler, march , . [ ] meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . [ ] linn, _history of centre and clinton counties_, p. ; meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), pp. - . [ ] linn, _history of centre and clinton counties_, p. ; meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . [ ] o'callaghan, _documentary history of the state of new york_, i, - . [ ] meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . this july , , communication from colonel hunter did not fall on deaf ears, for colonel thomas hartley was ordered to the area with his regiment before the summer was out. [ ] linn, _history of centre and clinton counties_, p. . [ ] richmond d. williams, "col. thomas hartley's expedition of ," _now and then_, xii ( ), - . [ ] wallace, _conrad weiser_, pp. - . lydius had gotten the indians drunk following the settlement at albany between the six nations and the proprietaries. this boundary line (albany) "crossed the west branch below the big island," p. . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, first series, xi, . [ ] meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . [ ] linn, _history of centre and clinton counties_, p. . _pennsylvania archives_, third series, xix, - . [ ] the ambiguity of the term "new purchase" becomes apparent once it is recognized that territorial acquisitions of both stanwix treaties adopted that appellation. [ ] dunaway, _the scotch-irish of colonial pennsylvania_, pp. - . [ ] northumberland county courthouse, sunbury, pa., penns & c. - tax assessments, cabinet # . this book, found in the cellar of the courthouse, also contains the pine creek assessment for . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, third series, xix, - . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, first series, xii, - . the squatters, apparently warned in advance, had practically all vacated the premises. however, neighbors across the river willingly gave their names. [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, third series, xix, , , , , . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, second series, iii ( ), , - . the original petitions of and are located in the state archives, harrisburg. [ ] penn's colony was well advertised, and the emphasis upon liberty of conscience, when contrasted with the restrictions of the test act, gives ample support for the significance of liberty as a motivating factor. however, economic causes predominated. [ ] ray allen billington, _westward expansion_ (new york, ), p. . billington refers here to the distribution-pre-emption measure of , whereas congress actually recognized squatters' rights in the act of . [ ] williams, "the scotch-irish in pennsylvania," p. . chapter three _the politics of fair play_ the political system of these predominantly scotch-irish squatters in the susquehanna valley, along the west branch, offers a vivid demonstration of the impact of the frontier on the development of democratic institutions. occupying lands beyond the reach of the provincial legislature, with some forty families of mixed national origin in residence by , these frontier "outlaws" had to devise some solution to the question of authority in their territory.[ ] their solution was the extra-legal creation of _de facto_ rule historically known as the fair play system. the following is a contemporary description of that system: there existed a great number of locations of the third of april, , for the choicest lands on the west branch of susquehanna, between the mouths of _lycoming_ and _pine creeks_; but the proprietaries, from extreme caution, the result of that experience, which had also produced the very penal laws of , and , and the proclamation already stated, had prohibited any surveys being made beyond the _lycoming_. in the mean time, in violation of all law, a set of hardy adventurers, had from time to time, seated themselves on this doubtful territory. they made improvements, and formed a very considerable population. it is true, so far as regarded the rights to real property, they were not under the protection of the laws of the country; and were we to adopt the visionary theories of some philosophers, who have drawn their arguments from a supposed state of nature, we might be led to believe that the state of these people would have been a state of continual warfare; and that in contests for property the weakest must give way to the strongest. to prevent the consequences, real or supposed, of this state of things, they formed a mutual compact among themselves. they annually elected a tribunal, in rotation, of three of their settlers, whom they called _fair play men_, who were to decide all controversies, and settle disputed boundaries. from their decision there was no appeal. there could be no resistance. the decree was enforced by the whole body, who started up in mass, at the mandate of the court, and execution and eviction was as sudden, and irresistible as the judgment. every new comer was obliged to apply to this powerful tribunal, and upon his solemn engagement to submit in all respects, _to the law of the land_, he was permitted to take possession of some vacant spot. their decrees were, however, just; and when their settlements were recognized by law, and _fair play_ had ceased, their decisions were received in evidence, and confirmed by judgments of courts.[ ] the idea of authority from the people was nothing new; in fact, it is as old as the greeks. nor is the concept of a "social compact," here implied, particularly novel to the american scene. the theory was that people hitherto unconnected assembled and gave their consent to be governed by a certain ruler or rulers under some particular form of government.[ ] theoretically justified by john locke in his persuasive defense of the glorious revolution, it had been practiced in plymouth, rhode island, connecticut, and new hampshire, where practical necessity had required it for settlements occasionally made outside charter limits. the frontier, whether in new england or in the west branch valley, created a practical necessity which made popular consent the basis of an actual government. they were not "covenanters" in the congregational sense of having brought an established church with them to the fair play territory. but the fair play settlers understood and subscribed to the principle of popular control, which was fundamental to such solemnly made and properly ratified agreements. separated from the authority of the crown, detached from the authority of the hierarchy of the church by the protestant reformation, possessing no american tradition of extensive political experience, these settlers could only depend upon themselves as proper authorities for their own political system. furthermore, the great majority of the settlers who came to the fair play territory came from families who had left their homes in the old country to escape political, economic, and social restrictions, only to be made unwelcome in their new homes in the settled areas of pennsylvania. displaced persons in a new country, they were forced by lives of conflict to seek better opportunity by moving to undeveloped lands. as a result, they settled along the west branch of the susquehanna, beyond the authority of the crown and outside the pressures of the provincial legislature. if man is a predatory beast in his natural state, a belief some expressed in the eighteenth century, then it follows naturally that every society must have some agency of authority and control. the universally standardized solution to the problem of social control is government. the fair play system was the answer on this susquehanna frontier to the need for some legitimate agency of force.[ ] this system vested authority in the people through annual elections of a tribunal of three of their number. the members of the tribunal were given quasi-executive, legislative, and judicial powers over all the settlers in the west branch valley "beyond the purchase line."[ ] although no record of any of these elections has been preserved, the composition of the fair play tribunal in has been established and verified by subsequent reviews of land claims in the county courts.[ ] also, two of the members of the tribunal of are identified in a pre-emption claim made before the lycoming county court in .[ ] it is interesting to note that among these five men are represented the three most prominent national stock groups in the area, with the scotch-irish, as our earlier sample demonstrated, in the majority. lacking returns of the annual elections of the tribunal and minutes of its actual meetings, we have only smith's _laws of the commonwealth of pennsylvania_, petitions from the fair play settlers, and the subsequent review of land questions by the northumberland and lycoming county courts to evaluate the tribunal, its members, and its procedures. however, these data are more than adequate in giving us a picture of this _de facto_, though illegal, rule, which existed in the west branch valley until the treaty of fort stanwix in brought the territory under commonwealth jurisdiction. the composition of the electorate varied with the fluctuations in population caused by the two stanwix treaties, the revolution, and the great runaway. since property and religious qualifications were the primary prerequisites to voting at this time, it seems logical to assume that a similar basis for suffrage operated in the west branch valley.[ ] having no regular church--the first, a presbyterian, was not organized until --property qualifications appear to have been the basis for what, in this area, was practically universal manhood suffrage. due to the fact that the entire settlement consisted of squatters, practically all of the heads of households were property holders, regardless of the questionable legality of their holdings. the tax lists indicate holdings of some to acres on the average for residents, so it is particularly difficult to know whether or not a minimum holding requirement prevailed. the provincial suffrage requirement in this period was generally fifty acres of land or £ of personal property.[ ] although this study encompasses a fifteen-year period from to , it appears that the fair play system functioned for about five years, from to . this is due to the fact that only "fourty improvements,"[ ] meaning forty family settlements, existed in the area by , and that following the great runaway of , the territory was almost devoid of settlers. the void was filled, however, when settlers began returning toward the end of the revolution and following the accession of the territory in the second stanwix treaty, in . thus, for all practical purposes, the functioning of the fair play system was confined to this more limited time. furthermore, the system was supplemented in by the introduction of the committee of safety, and later that year by the council of safety.[ ] as is indicated in smith's _laws_, annual meetings were held to select the governing tribunal of three for the ensuing year. generally convened at some readily accessible place, these sessions were presumably held in the open or at one of the frontier forts erected in the area: fort antes, across the river from jersey shore; or fort horn, located on the south side of the susquehanna about eight miles west of jersey shore. there were frontier forts in the vicinity of the present muncy--fort muncy--and lock haven--fort reed; but fort muncy was some twenty-odd miles east of the fair play territory and fort reed was beyond the great island at its western extremity. as a result, these outposts were unlikely meeting places for the tribunal or for its election.[ ] unfortunately, there is no recorded evidence of a specific meeting of the fair play men. the authority of the fair play tribunal extended across the entire territory from lycoming creek to the great island on the north side of the west branch of the susquehanna. however, most of the disputed cases, which can be verified by subsequent court reviews in either northumberland or lycoming counties, seem to have involved land claims in the area between lycoming and pine creeks. the tribunal accepted or rejected claims for settlement in the area and decided boundary questions and other controversies among settlers.[ ] as to a specific code of laws, there is none of record. however, the cases subsequently reviewed in the established county courts refer to some of their regular practices. for example, any man who left his improvement for six weeks without leaving someone to continue it, lost his right to the improvement;[ ] any man who went into the army could count on the fair play men (the tribunal) to protect his property;[ ] any man who sought land in the territory was obliged to obtain not only the approval of the fair play men but also of his nearest potential neighbors;[ ] and the summary process of ejectment which the fair play men exercised was real and certain and sometimes supported by the militia.[ ] the specific membership of the fair play tribunal is rather difficult to ascertain due to its failure to keep minutes of its proceedings and the absence of any recorded code. however, as indicated earlier,[ ] the existence of the tribunal between the years and , and its actual composition in and , have already been established from the review of its decisions by the circuit court of lycoming county. assuming the principle of rotation from a contemporary description, some eighteen settlers held the positions of authority during the years noted.[ ] the cases reviewed reveal the names of five of these eighteen. recognizing the limitations of our twenty-eight per cent sampling, however, it is interesting to note that the three major national stocks are represented in this restricted sample. furthermore, as was mentioned previously,[ ] the scotch-irish settlers, being in the majority, enjoyed the majority representation on the tribunal. an analysis of leadership in the territory, to be developed more fully later, leads one to conclude that the scotch-irish, in the main, were the political leaders of the area.[ ] a diligent search of some sixty cases in the court of common pleas in both northumberland and lycoming counties yielded some documentary evidence regarding the procedures of the fair play tribunal.[ ] three cases in lycoming county and one from northumberland county contain depositions which describe the activities of the fair play men in some detail. one case, _hughes_ vs. _dougherty_, was appealed to the supreme court of the commonwealth. all of the cases deal with the question of title to lands in the fair play territory following the purchase of these lands at the treaty of fort stanwix in . the depositions taken in conjunction with these cases indicate the processes of settlement and ejectment, in addition to the policies regarding land tenure. the fairness of the fair play decisions is noted by the fact that the regular courts concurred with the earlier judgments of the tribunal.[ ] an anecdote involving one of the fair play men, peter rodey, illustrates the nature of this frontier justice. according to legend, chief justice mckean of the state supreme court was holding court in this district, and, curious about the principles or code of the fair play men, he inquired about them of peter rodey, a former member of the tribunal. rodey, unable to recall the details of the code, simply replied: "all i can say is, that since your honor's coorts have come among us, _fair play_ has entirely ceased, and law has taken its place."[ ] the justice of "fair play" and the nature of the system can be seen from an analysis of the cases reviewed subsequently in the established courts. as mentioned previously, these cases describe the procedures regarding settlement, land tenure, and ejectment. although no recorded code of laws has been located, references to "resolutions of the fair play men" regularly appear in the depositions and summaries of these cases.[ ] according to leyburn, a customary "law" concerning settlement rights operated on the frontier, particularly among the scotch-irish.[ ] this "law" recognized three settlement rights: "corn right," which established claims to acres for each acre of grain planted; "tomahawk right," which marked off the area claimed by deadening trees at the boundaries of the claim; and, "cabin right," which confirmed the claim by the construction of a cabin upon the premises. if the decisions of the regular courts are at all indicative, fair play settlement was generally based upon "cabin right." however, the frequent allusion to "improvements" implies some secondary consideration to what leyburn has defined as "corn right." in the case of _hughes_ vs. _dougherty_, the significance of "improvements," or "corn rights," vis-à-vis "cabin rights" is particularly noted.[ ] the following summary of that case, found in _pennsylvania reports_, emphasizes that significance, in addition to defining a fair play "code" pertaining to land tenure: this was an ejectment for acres of land, part of the indian lands in _northumberland_ county. the plaintiff claimed under a warrant issued on the d _may_ , for the premises, and a survey made thereon upon the th _january_ . the defendant, on the th _june_ , entered a caveat against the claims of the plaintiff, and on the th _october_ following, took out a warrant for the land in dispute, on which he was then settled. both claimed the pre-emption under the act of st _december_ ,[ ] and on the evidence given the facts appeared to be: that in , one _james hughes_, a brother of the plaintiff, settled on the lands in question and made some small improvements. in the next year he enlarged his improvement, and cut logs to build an house. in the winter following he went to his father's in _donegal_ in _lancaster_ county, and died there. his elder brother _thomas_ was at that time settled on the indian land, and one of the "fair play men," who had assembled together and made a resolution, (which they agreed to enforce as the law of the place,) that "if any person was absent from his "settlement for six weeks he should forfeit his right." [quotation marks as published.] in the spring of the defendant came to the settlement, and was advised by the fair play men to settle on the premises which _hughes_ had left; this he did, and built a cabin. the plaintiff soon after came, claiming it in right of his brother, and aided by _thomas hughes_, took possession of the cabin; but the defendant collecting his friends, an affray ensued, in which _hughes_ was beaten off and the defendant left in possession. he continued to improve, built an house and stable, and cleared about ten acres. in he was driven off by the enemy and entered into the army. at the close of the war, both plaintiff and defendant returned to the settlement, each claiming the land in dispute. the warrant was taken out in the name of _james hughes_, (the father of the plaintiff who is since dead,) for the benefit of his children. after argument by mr. _charles smith_ and mr. _duncan_ for the plaintiff, and mr. _daniel smith_ and mr. _read_ for the defendant, justice _shippen_ in the charge of the court to the jury, said-- the dispute here, is between a first improvement, and a subsequent but much more valuable improvement. but neither of the parties has any legal or equitable right, but under the act of the st _december_ . the settlement on this land was against law. it was an offence that tended to involve this country in blood. but the merit and sufferings of the actual settlers cancelled the offence, and the legislature, mindful of their situation, provided this special act for their relief. the preamble recites their "resolute stand and sufferings," as deserving a right of pre-emption. the legislature had no eye to any person who was not one of the occupiers after the commencement of the war, and a transient settler removed, (no matter how,) is not an object of the law. this is our construction of the act. _james hughes_ under whom the plaintiff claims, died before the war, the other occupied the premises after, and in the language of the act, "stood and suffered." if this construction be right, the cause is at an end. besides, the plaintiff claims as the heir of _thomas_, who was the heir of _james_, the first settler. i will not say that the fair play men could make a law to bind the settlers; but they might by agreement bind themselves. now _thomas_ was one of these, and was bound by his conduct, from disputing the right of the defendant. this warrant it seems, is taken out in the name of the father, and it is said, as a trustee for his children. it is sometimes done for the benefit of all concerned. if this be the case, it may be well enough; but still it is not so regular, as it might have been[.] with these observations, we submit it to you. verdict for the defendant.[ ] this case, although originated in the northumberland county court in , was appealed to the state supreme court, where the lower court decision was affirmed in . the summary runs the gamut of fair play procedures from settlement, through questions of tenure, to ejectment. its completeness indicates its usefulness. partial and occasional depositions in the other cases cited help to round out the picture of the fair play "code." for example, the right of settlement included not only the approval of the fair play men, but also the acceptance of the prospective landholder by his neighbors. allusions to this effect are made in the coldren deposition as well as in the huff-latcha case. eleanor coldren's deposition, made at sunbury, june , , concerns the disputed title to certain lands of her deceased husband, abraham dewitt, opposite the great island. her comments about neighbor approval demonstrate the point. she says, for instance, that ... in the spring of , henry antes and cookson long, two of the fair-play men, with others, were at the deponent's house, next below barnabas bonner's improvement, where deponent's husband kept a tavern, and heard antes and long say that they (meaning the fair-play men) and the neighbors of the settlement had unanimously agreed that james irvin, james parr, abraham dewitt and barnabas bonner should ... have their improvement rights fitted.... she speaks of the resolution of the claims problem "as being the unanimous agreement of the neighbors and fair-play men...."[ ] william king, who temporarily claimed part of the land involved in the dispute between edmund huff and jacob latcha, also refers to neighbor approval in his deposition taken in that case. he said, "i first went to edmund huff, then to thomas kemplen, samuel dougherty, william mcmeans, and thomas ferguson, and asked if they would accept me as a neighbor...."[ ] land tenure policy is noted by this same william king in the case of _james grier_ vs. _william tharpe_. repeating what we have already pointed out in the case of _hughes_ vs. _dougherty_, king testified that "there was a law among the fair-play men by which any man, who absented himself for the space of six weeks, lost his right to his improvement."[ ] in the huff-latcha case, king recounts the case of one joseph haines who "had once a right ... but had forfeited his right by the fair-play law...."[ ] the forfeiture rule was tempered, however, in cases involving military service. bratton caldwell's deposition in _grier_ vs. _tharpe_ is a case in point. caldwell, one of the fair play men in , declared that "greer went into the army in and was a wagon-master till the fall of .... in july, , the runaway, john martin, had come on the land in his absence. the fair-play men put greer in possession. if a man went into the army, the fair-play men protected his property."[ ] meginness mentions a similar decision in the case of john toner and morgan sweeney.[ ] sweeney had attempted to turn a lease for improvements in toner's behalf to possession for himself, but the northumberland county court honored the fair play rule concerning military service and decided in favor of toner. the summary process of ejectment utilized by the fair play men, occasionally with militia support, is evident from william king's deposition in the huff-latcha case. king, having sold his right to one william paul, recounts the method as follows: william paul went on the land and finished his cabin. soon after a party b[r]ought robert arthur and built a cabin near paul's in which arthur lived. paul applied to the fair-play men who decided in favor of paul. arthur would not go off. paul made a complaint to the company at a muster at quinashahague[ ] that arthur still lived on the land and would not go off, although the fair-play men had decided against him. i was one of the officers at that time and we agreed to come and run him off. the most of the company came down as far as edmund huff's who kept stills. we got a keg of whisk[e]y and proceeded to arthur's cabin. he was at home with his rifle in his hand and his wife had a bayonet on a stick, and they threatened death to the first person who would enter the house. the door was shut and thomas kemplen, our captain, made a run at the door, burst it open and instantly seized arthur by the neck. we pulled down the cabin, threw it into the river, lashed two canoes together and put arthur and his family and his goods into them and sent them down the river. william paul then lived undisturbed upon the land until the indians drove us all away.[ ] william paul was then ( ) from home on a militia tour.[ ] although land disputes offer documentary evidence of the fair play system, it seems quite likely that the tribunal's jurisdiction extended to other matters. a few anecdotes, obviously based quite tenuously upon hearsay, will suffice to illustrate. joseph antes, son of colonel henry antes, used to tell this story: it seems that one francis clark, who lived just west of jersey shore in the fair play territory, gained possession of a dog which belonged to an indian. upon learning of this, the indian appealed to the fair play men, who ordered clark's arrest and trial for the alleged theft. clark was convicted and sentenced to be lashed. the punishment was to be inflicted by a person decided by lot, the responsibility falling upon the man drawing the red grain of corn from a bag containing grains of corn for each man present. philip antes was the reluctant "winner." the indian, seeing that the decision of the "court" was to be carried out immediately, magnanimously suggested that banishment would serve better than flogging. clark agreed and left for the nippenose valley, where his settlement is a matter of record.[ ] another anecdote, if true, gives further testimony to the justice of fair play. in this instance, a minister and school teacher named kincaid faced the fair play tribunal on the charge of abusing his family. tried and convicted, he was sentenced to be ridden on a rail for his offense.[ ] here again, the tale, though legendary, is made plausible by the established fact of kincaid's residence in the area.[ ] doubtless the most notable political action of the fair play settlers is their declaration of independence, which meginness calls "a remarkable coincidence" because "it took place about the same time that the declaration was signed in philadelphia!"[ ] aware, as were many of the american colonists in the spring and summer of , that independence was being debated in philadelphia, these west branch pioneers decided to absolve themselves from all allegiance to the crown and declare their own independence. meeting under a large elm on the west bank of pine creek, mistakenly known as the "tiadaghton elm," the fair play men and settlers simply resolved their own right of self-determination, a principle upon which they had been acting for some time. unfortunately, no record of the resolution has been preserved--if it was actually written. however, the names of the supposed signers, all bona fide fair play settlers, have been passed down to the present.[ ] as every careful historian knows, no declaration was signed in philadelphia on july , , except by the clerk and presiding officer of the continental congress. consequently, the pine creek story arouses justifiable skepticism. however, there does seem to be some evidence to substantiate this famous act. first of all, fithian's _journal_ gives insight into the possible motivation for such independent action. in an entry for thursday, july , , he writes of reviewing "the 'squires library," noting that "after some perusal i fix'd in the farmer's memorable letters."[ ] fithian was reading john dickinson's _letters from a farmer in pennsylvania_, which he had come across in the library of john fleming, his host for a week in the west branch valley. dickinson's dozen uncompromising epistles in opposition to the grenville and townshend programs both inspired and incited liberty-lovers. furthermore, fleming himself was a leader among the fair play settlers, and may have been aroused to action by the eloquence of dickinson's expression. every idea is an incitement to action and the ideas of _letters from a farmer_, which made dickinson the chief american propagandist prior to thomas paine, reached into the frontier of the west branch valley. the best contemporary evidence in support of the pine creek declaration is found in the widow's pension application of anna jackson hamilton, daughter-in-law of alexander hamilton, who was one of the early settlers and a prominent leader along the west branch of the susquehanna. mrs. hamilton, whose pension application and accompanying statement were made in , lived within one mile of the reputedly historic elm. in her sworn statement she says, "i remember well the day independence was declared on the plains of pine creek, seeing such numbers flocking there, and independence being all the talk, i had a knolege of what was doing."[ ] her son john corroborates this in his statement that "she and an old colored woman are the only persons now living in the country who remembers the meeting of the th of july, , at pine creek. she remembers it well."[ ] mrs. hamilton was ninety years old at the time of her declaration, which was made some eighty-two years after the celebrated event.[ ] following the outbreak of the revolution and the meeting of the second continental congress, the fair play system of the west branch valley was soon augmented by another extra-legal organization, the committee of safety. ostensibly created for the purpose of raising and equipping a "suitable force to form pennsylvania's quota of the continental army," it soon exercised executive authority dually with the assembly.[ ] the council of safety was instituted as the successor to the committee of safety by a resolution of the provincial convention of , then meeting in philadelphia to draw up a new constitution for pennsylvania. it was continued by an act of the assembly that same year. it functioned from july , , until it was dissolved on december , , by a proclamation of the supreme executive council.[ ] locally, however, the township branches continued to function and were still referred to as "committees." it appears from the resolutions and actions of the local committee that the fair play men maintained jurisdiction in land questions, but that all other cases were within the range of the committee's authority. in fact, a resolution dated february , , asserted that "the committee of bald eagle is the most competent judges of the circumstances of the people of that township."[ ] this resolution was made in conjunction with an order from the county committee to prevent the loss of rye and other grains which were being "carried out of the township for stilling."[ ] although cautioned against "using too much rigor in their measures," the committee was advised to find "a medium between seizing of property and supplying the wants of the poor."[ ] the county committee even went so far as to recommend the suppression of such practices as "profaning the sabbath in an unchristian and scandalous manner."[ ] in april of , the county committee required an oath of allegiance from one william reed, who had refused military service for reasons of conscience.[ ] although bald eagle township did not, at this time, extend into fair play territory,[ ] it is interesting to note that the local committee, whose three members frequently changed, often included settlers from that territory or those who were in close association with the fair play men.[ ] the revolution apparently gave a certain quasi-legality to the claims of the "outlaws" of the west branch valley. one further political note is worthy of mention. after lexington and concord and the formation of the various committees of safety, the civil officers of bald eagle township, that is to say the constable, supervisor, and overseers, were often chosen from among settlers on the borders of, or actually in, fair play territory.[ ] the politics of fair play then was nothing more than that--fair play. it was a pragmatic system which the necessities of the frontier experience, more than national or ethnic origin, had developed. the "codes" of operation represented a consensus, equally, freely, and fairly arrived at--a common "law" based upon general agreement and practical acceptance. there were subsequent appeals to regular courts of law, but, surprisingly enough, in every instance the fairness of the judgments was sustained. no fair play decision was reversed. furthermore, the frequency of elections and the use of the principle of rotation in office were additional assurances against the usurpation of power by any small clique or ruling class. popular sovereignty, political equality, and popular consultation--these were the basic elements of fair play. footnotes: [ ] _colonial records_, x, . the fair play settlers were outlawed by a proclamation of the council signed by governor john penn on sept. , . the proclamation was issued "strictly enjoyning and requiring all and every person and persons, already settled or residing on any lands beyond the boundary line of the last indian purchase, immediately to evacuate their illegal settlements, and to depart and remove themselves from the said lands without delay, on pain of being prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law." the "last indian purchase" referred to here is, of course, the stanwix treaty of . [ ] smith, _laws_, ii, . [ ] richard w. leopold and arthur s. link (eds.), _problems in american history_ (englewood cliffs, n. j., ), p. . the entire first problem in this excellent text deals with the question of authority in american government. [ ] this fair play system was certainly not unique, for other frontier societies employed the same technique, even down to the ruling tribunal of three members. see solon and elizabeth buck, _the planting of civilization in western pennsylvania_ (pittsburgh, ), pp. , . however, it must be pointed out that the bucks' "fair play" reference is based on smith, _laws_, ii, , which samuel p. bates used in "a general application of the practice to w. pa. areas after ," in his _history of greene county, pennsylvania_ (chicago, ). this was the interpretation given in a letter from dr. alfred p. james to the author, july , . dr. james also says that "it is possible that there are evidences of fair play men titles in the court records of washington and greene counties." [ ] this designation was often employed to classify those settlers who took up lands beyond the limits of the treaty of fort stanwix in , that is to say, west of lycoming creek on the north side of the west branch of the susquehanna. [ ] russell, "signers of the pine creek declaration of independence," p. . mrs. russell, whose historical accuracy can be verified through her indicated sources, refers to old borough minutes of jersey shore as her source for the names of the tribunal of , namely, bartram caldwell, john walker, and james brandon. upon discussing the matter with her, i learned that a clipping from an old jersey shore paper, now lost, which described the minutes, was her actual source. however, adequate documentation and meticulous research characterize her work. furthermore, bratton caldwell (he signed his name bartram) is also labeled a fair play official by linn, "indian land and its fair play settlers, - ," p. . linn's identification comes in the case of _greer_ vs. _tharpe_, greer's case being a pre-emption claim on the basis of military service. [ ] "eleanor coldren's deposition," _now and then_, xii ( ), - . the deposition reads "that in the spring of , henry antes and cookson long, two of the fair-play men, with others, were at the deponent's house...." [ ] oscar t. barck, jr. and hugh t. lefler, _colonial america_ (new york, ), pp. - . although barck and lefler indicate in this section on "the colonial franchise" that universal suffrage did not prevail in the colonies, they do note the significance of "free land," of which fair play territory was an excellent example. [ ] _ibid_, p. . [ ] william cooke to james tilghman, _pennsylvania archives_, first series, xii, - . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, fourth series, iii, - . [ ] _report of the commission to locate the site of the frontier forts of pennsylvania_ (harrisburg, ), i, , , - . [ ] smith, _laws_, ii, . [ ] linn, "indian land and its fair-play settlers," p. . this six weeks provision is noted in the deposition of john sutton in the case of _william greer_ vs. _william tharpe_, dated march , . [ ] _ibid._, . bratton caldwell, one of the fair play men, indicates this practice in his deposition in the _greer_ vs. _tharpe_ case. [ ] "eleanor coldren's deposition," pp. - . [ ] linn, "indian land and its fair-play settlers," pp. - . william king, in his deposition taken march , , in _huff_ vs. _satcha_ [sic], in the circuit court of lycoming county, notes the use of a company of militia, of which he was an officer, to eject a settler. linn errs in his reference to the defendant as "satcha." the man's name was latcha, according to the appearance docket commencing , no. , lycoming county. [ ] _see_ nn. and , p. . [ ] smith, _laws_, ii, . _see also_, pp. and , this chapter, in which the excerpt from this source is quoted verbatim. [ ] _supra_, p. . [ ] _infra_, chapter six. the question of leadership in conjunction with the problems of this frontier is discussed in chapter six. [ ] the appearance dockets and files were checked for northumberland county from to and for lycoming county from to . these records, obtained in the offices of the respective prothonotaries, produced thirty-seven cases in northumberland and twenty-two in lycoming county dealing with former fair play settlers. unfortunately, only four were reviews of actual fair play decisions. [ ] northumberland county originated in and lycoming county in . clinton county was not created until . [ ] meginness, _otzinachson_ (philadelphia, ), p. . [ ] the cases referred to here are: _hughes_ vs. _dougherty_, _huff_ vs. _satcha_, and _grier_ vs. _tharpe_. they were located in the appearance dockets of lycoming and northumberland counties in the respective prothonotaries' offices. _hughes_ vs. _dougherty_ appears in the northumberland county docket for november, , to august, , in the february term of the court of common pleas, file . both the huff and grier cases were found in the lycoming county docket no. , commencing , court terms and file numbers indicated as follows: _huff_ vs. _satcha_, february, , # , and _grier_ vs. _tharpe_, may, , # . a partial deposition by eleanor coldren, _now and then_, xii ( ), - , was also employed. although the case appears to be _dewitt_ vs. _dunn_, i could not locate it in the appearance dockets. depositions taken in the huff and grier cases were published in linn, "indian land and its fair-play settlers," pp. - . [ ] leyburn, _the scotch-irish_, p. . [ ] jasper yeates, _pennsylvania reports_, i (philadelphia, ), - . [ ] smith, _laws_, ii, . [ ] yeates, _pennsylvania reports_, i, - . [ ] "eleanor coldren's deposition," pp. - . [ ] linn, "indian land and its fair-play settlers," p. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] _ibid._ [ ] _ibid._ [ ] meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . [ ] now linden, in woodward township, a few miles west of williamsport. [ ] king refers here to the great runaway of . [ ] linn, "indian land and its fair-play settlers," p. - . [ ] meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] d. s. maynard, _historical view of clinton county_ (lock haven, ), pp. - . maynard has reprinted here some excerpts from john hamilton's "early times on the west branch," which was published in the lock haven _republican_ in . unfortunately, recurrent floods destroyed most of the newspaper files, and copies of this series are not now available. john hamilton was a third-generation descendant of alexander hamilton, one of the original fair play settlers. [ ] meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . [ ] _ibid._ an alleged copy of the declaration published in _a picture of clinton county_ (lock haven, ), p. , is clearly spurious. the language of this pennsylvania writers' project of the w.p.a. is obviously twentieth-century, and it contains references to events which had not yet occurred. [ ] _fithian: journal_, p. . [ ] muncy historical society, muncy, pa., wagner collection, anna jackson hamilton to hon. george c. whiting, commissioner of pensions, dec. , . [ ] _ibid._, john hamilton to hon. george c. whiting, commissioner of pensions, may , . [ ] the veracity of the witness is an important question here. meginness, in his edition, devotes a footnote, p. , to this remarkable woman who was in full possession of her faculties at the time. the rev. john grier, son-in-law of mrs. hamilton and brother of supreme court justice robert c. grier, wrote to president buchanan on nov. , , (wagner collection), stating that "mrs. hamilton is one of the most intelligent in our community." buchanan then wrote an affidavit in support of grier's statements to the commissioner of pensions, nov. , , (wagner collection). aside from the declarations of mrs. hamilton and her son, the only other support, and this is hearsay, is found in the account of an alleged conversation between w. h. sanderson and robert couvenhoven, the famed scout. w. h. sanderson, _historical reminiscences_, ed. henry w. shoemaker (altoona, ), pp. - . here again, the fact that the reminiscences were not recorded until some seventy years after the "chats" raises serious doubts. [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, fourth series, iii, . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] linn, _history of centre and clinton counties_, p. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] _ibid._ [ ] _ibid._ [ ] _ibid._ _see also_ john h. carter, "the committee of safety of northumberland county," _the northumberland county historical society proceedings and addresses_, xviii ( ), - . [ ] _see_ map of the fair play territory in chapter one. [ ] linn, _history of centre and clinton counties_, p. . _see also_, carter, "the committee of safety," pp. - , for a full account of the activities of the committee. carter notes that the county committee consisted of thirty-three members, three from each of the eleven townships chosen for a period of six months. [ ] _ibid._, pp. - . chapter four _the farmers' frontier_ the economy of the west branch valley was basically agrarian--a farmers' frontier. the "new order of americanism"[ ] which arose on this frontier was in part due to the cultural background of its inhabitants, the knowledge and traditional values which they had brought with them. it was further influenced by the frontier status of the region itself--an area of virgin land in the earliest stages of development. and finally, it was affected by the physical characteristics of the territory, particularly the mountains which separated these settlers from the more established settlements. it has been said that "many of the enduring characteristics of the american creed and the american national character originated in the way of life of the colonial farmer."[ ] the fair play territory was typical of this development. the early pioneer, particularly if he was scotch-irish, generally came into the area from the cumberland valley, the "seed-plot and nursery" of the scotch-irish in america, the "original reservoir" of this leading frontier stock, via the great shamokin path.[ ] since there were no roads, only indian trails, the frontier traveler customarily followed the indian paths which had been cleared along the rivers and streams. the great shamokin path followed the susquehanna from shamokin (now sunbury) to the west branch, then out along the west branch to the allegheny mountains.[ ] loading his wife and smaller children on a pack horse, his scanty possessions on another horse, the prospective settler drove a cow or two into the wild frontier at the rate of about twenty miles a day.[ ] this meant that a trip of approximately two days brought him from fort augusta to the fair play country. indian paths were the primary means of ingress and egress, although supplemented by the waterways which they paralleled. in addition to the great shamokin path, there were paths up lycoming creek (the sheshequin path), and up pine creek, besides the path which followed bald eagle creek down into the juniata valley. these trails and adjoining water routes were usually traveled on horseback or in canoes, depending upon the route to be followed. however, the rivers and streams were more often passages of departure than courses of entry. established roads, that is authorized public constructions, were not to reach the west branch region until , although the northumberland county court ordered such construction and reported on it at the october term in .[ ] appointments were made at the august session of "to view, and if they saw cause, to lay out a bridle road from the mouth of bald eagle creek to the town of sunbury."[ ] it was not until ten years later that extensions of this road were authorized, carrying it into the nittany valley and to bald eagle's nest (near milesburg, on the indian path from the great island to ohio).[ ] travel was usually on horseback or on foot. canoes and flatboats, or simply rafts, were used on the rivers and creeks where available. wagons, however, appeared after the construction of public roads and were seen in the great runaway of .[ ] the problem of communication between the frontier and the settled areas was a difficult one compounded by the natural geographic barriers and the fact that post and coach roads did not extend into this central pennsylvania region. as a result the inhabitants had to depend upon occasional travelers, circuit riders, surveyors, and other provincial authorities who visited them infrequently. otherwise, the meetings of the fair play tribunal, irregular as they were, and the communications from the county committee of safety were about the only sources of information available. of course, cabin-building, cornhusking, and quilting parties provided ample opportunities for the dissemination of strictly "local" news. newspapers were not introduced into the upper susquehanna valley until around the turn of the century. the _northumberland gazette_ was published in sunbury in or .[ ] the first truly west branch paper was not circulated until , when the _lycoming gazette_ was first published in williamsport.[ ] on the eve of the revolution there were only seven newspapers available in the entire province, none of which circulated as far north as the fair play territory.[ ] as a matter of fact, there were only thirty-seven papers printed in all thirteen colonies at the beginning of the revolution.[ ] the fair play settler was an "outlaw," a squatter who came into this central pennsylvania wilderness with his family and without the benefit of a land grant, and who literally hacked and carved out a living. the natural elements, the savage natives, and the wild life all resisted him; but he conquered them all, and the conquest gave him a feeling of accomplishment which enhanced his independent spirit. if the story of the great plains frontier can be told in terms of railroads, barbed-wire fences, windmills, and six-shooters,[ ] then the cruder tale of the west branch frontier can be told in terms of the rifle, the axe, and the plow. the rifle, first and foremost as the weapon of security, was the basic means of self-preservation in a wild land where survival was a constant question.[ ] the axe, which theodore roosevelt later described as "a servant hardly standing second even to the rifle,"[ ] was the main implement of destruction and construction. it was used for clearing the forest of the many trees which encroached upon the acreage which the settler had staked out for himself, and for cutting the logs which would provide the rude, one-room shelter the pioneer constructed for himself and his family. the crude wooden plow was the implement which made this frontiersman a farmer, although its effectiveness was extremely limited. however, the soil was so fertile, and the weeds so sparse, that scratching the earth and scattering seeds produced a crop.[ ] a contemporary description of squatter settlements in muncy hills, some twenty-odd miles east of the fair play territory, but in the west branch valley, gives a vivid picture of the nature of these early establishments: they came from no body enquires where, or how, but generally with families, fix on any spot in the wood that pleases them. cut down some trees & make up a log hut in a day, clear away the underweed & girdle.... the trees they have no use for if cut down after their hut is made. they dig up & harrow the ground, plant potatoes, a crop which they get out in three months, sow corn, etc., (& having sown in peace by the law of the land they are secured in reaping in peace) & continue at work without ever enquiring whose the land is, until the proprietor himself disturbs & drives them off with difficulty.[ ] this experience was duplicated in the fair play territory where there were no immediate neighbors whose permission was necessary for settlement, or until a dispute was carried to the tribunal for adjudication. this procedure was detailed in the last chapter. having selected a site, preferably on or near a stream, and obtained approval from the fair play men and his neighbors, the prospective settler was faced with the long and tedious work of clearing the land for his home and farm. this was an extended effort for he could clear only a few acres a year. in the meantime, his survival depended upon the few provisions he brought with him--some grain for meal, a little flour, and perhaps some salt pork and smoked meat. these supplies, combined with the wild game and fish which abounded in the area, served until such a time as crops could be produced. it was a rigorous life complicated by the fact that the meager supplies often ran out before the first crop was brought in. the first month's meals were too often variations on the limited fare of water porridge and hulled corn, as described by a later pioneer.[ ] homes in the fair play territory were built "to _live_ in, and not for _show_...."[ ] the following description, by the grandson of one of the original settlers, illustrates the cooperative nature of the enterprise, in addition to giving a clear picture of the type of construction which replaced the early lean-to shelter with which the frontiersman was first acquainted: our buildings are made of hewn logs, on an average feet long by wide, sometimes a wall of stone, a foot or more above the level of the earth, raised as a foundation; but in general, four large stones are laid at the corners, and the building raised on _them_. the house is covered sometimes with shingles, sometimes with clapboards. [the latter required no laths, rafters, or nails, and was put on in less time.] ... the ground logs being laid saddle-shaped, on the upper edge, is cut in with an axe, at the ends, as long as the logs are thick, then the end logs are raised and a "notch" cut to fit the saddle. this is the only kind of tie or binder they have; and when the building is raised as many rounds as it is intended, the ribs are raised, on which a course of clapboards is laid, butts resting on a "butting pole." a press pole is laid on the clapboards immediately over the ribs to keep them from shifting by the wind, and the pole is kept to its berth by stay blocks, resting in the first course against the butting-pole. the logs are run upon the building on skids by the help of wooden forks. the most experienced "axe-man" are placed on the buildings as "cornermen;" the rest of the company are on the ground to carry the logs and run them up.[ ] in this fashion, the frontier cabin was raised and covered in a single day, without a mason, without a pound of iron, and with nothing but dirt for flooring. the doors and windows were subsequently cut out of the structure to suit the tastes of its occupants. in this one-room cabin lived the frontier settler and his family, who might be joined by guests. small wonder, then, that additions to this construction took on such significance that they were items of mention in later wills.[ ] once having cleared a reasonable portion of his property, raised his cabin, and scratched out an existence for his first few months of occupation, the pioneer was now ready to get down to the business of farming. working around the stumps which cluttered his improvement, the frontier farmer planted his main crops, which were, of course, the food grains--wheat, rye, with oats, barley, and corn, and buckwheat and corn for the livestock. some indication of the planting and harvesting seasons can be seen from this account: i find wheat is sown here in the fall (beging. of septr.) clover & timothy grass is generally sown with it. the wheat is cut in june or beginning of july after which the grass grows very rapidly & always affords two crops. where grass has not been sown they harrow the ground well where the wheat is taken off & sow buck wheat which ripens by the beginning & through september is excellent food for poultry & cattle & makes good cakes.[ ] the amazing fertility of the soil, as noted by more than one journalist, eased the difficulties of the crude wooden implements which were the farmer's tools. reference is made to "one [who] plowed the same spot ... for eight years ... [taking] double crops without giving it an ounce of manure."[ ] scientific farming had not yet come to the west branch valley, although the philadelphia area had been awakened to its possibilities through the publications of franklin's american philosophical society. fertile soil was practically essential when one considers the crude implements with which the frontier farmer carried on his hazardous vocation. in addition to the crude wooden plow, which we have already mentioned, the agrarian pioneer of the west branch possessed a long-bladed sickle, a homemade rake, a homemade hay fork, and a grain shovel.[ ] all of these items were made of wood and were of the crudest sort.[ ] as time went on, he added a few tools of his own invention, but these, and his sturdy curved-handled axe, constituted the essential instruments of the farmer's craft. july was the month of harvest for the mainly "subsistence" farmers scattered along the west branch. the uncertainties of the weather and the number of acres planted had some influence upon the harvesting, so that it was not unusual to see the wheat still swaying in the warm summer breezes in the last week of july. however, if possible, the grain was generally cut the first part of the month in order that buckwheat, or other fodder, might be sown and harvested in the fall. harvesttime was a cooperative enterprise and whole families joined in "bringing in the sheaves." the grain had to be cut and raked into piles, and the piles bundled into shocks tied together with stalks of the grain itself. this took "hands" and the frontier family was generally the only labor force available. in time, however, field work was confined to the men of the family among the scotch-irish, who attached social significance to the type of work done by their women. fithian's _journal_ reveals, however, that class-consciousness was not yet apparent in the division of labor on this frontier. on two occasions he describes daughters of leading families engaged in other than household tasks. arriving at the home of squire fleming, with whom he was to stay for a week, fithian notes on july , , that betsey fleming, his host's daughter, "was milking."[ ] the very next day, upon visiting the squire's brother, who had "two fine daughter's," this presbyterian journalist found "one of them reaping."[ ] if leyburn's comment that social status among the scotch-irish depended in part upon the work done by the women of the family, then these examples attest to the fact that "status" was a luxury which the fair play settlers could not yet afford.[ ] threshing was either done by hand with flails, or, if the family had a cow or two (and the tax lists indicate that they did), the grain was separated by driving the livestock around and around over the unbundled straw. finally, the chaff was removed by throwing the grain into the air while the breeze was flowing. the grain was then collected and readied for milling. gristmills were available in the west branch valley almost from the outset of settlement due to the many fine streams which flowed through the territory. as a result, few farmers had to travel more than five miles, generally on horseback, to carry their bags of grain to the mill. if the farmer had no horse, he had to carry his sack of grain on his shoulder. if the settler lived on or near a stream, he put his sacks of grain in a canoe and paddled downstream to the nearest mill. in the early days before the mills, the grain was pounded into meal by using a heavy pestle and a hollowed-out stump, a crude mortar which served the purpose. in time, the gristmill owners also operated distilleries, converting the pioneer's wheat, rye, and barley into spirited beverages which were freely imbibed along this and other frontiers. by the time of the revolution, distilling was so common as to cause the committee of safety to take action to conserve the grain.[ ] "home brew," however, was quite the custom, and it was not long before most farmers operated their own stills. self-sufficiency was both a characteristic and a necessity among these scotch-irish, english, and german settlers of central pennsylvania. bringing their agrarian traditions with them from the "old country," where they had operated small farms, they were bound to a "subsistence farming" existence by the inaccessibility of markets to the frontier. one diarist found this conducive to a "perfect independence" which made a "market to them, almost unnecessary."[ ] this economic independence carried over into frontier manufacturing, if it can be called that, because the industry, except for the gristmills and their distilleries, was strictly domestic. it has often been said that the frontier farmer was a "jack-of-all trades," and the west branch settler of the fair play territory was a typical example. with no market of skilled labor, or any other market for that matter,[ ] he was his own carpenter, cooper, shoe-maker, tailor, and blacksmith. whatever he wanted or needed had to be made in his own home. thus, frontier industry was of the handicraft or domestic type, with tasks apportioned among the various members of the family in accordance with their sex and talent. it was truly a "complete little world" in which the pioneer family supplied its every demand by its own efforts.[ ] although the role of the women was to take on status significance as the frontier areas became more stable, in the earlier years of settlement their tasks were extensive and varied. though they were busy with household duties such as churning butter, making soap, pouring candles, quilting, and weaving cloth for the family's clothing, it was not uncommon for the women to join the men in the field at harvesttime. the domesticity of the american housewife may be one impact on american life made by the germans.[ ] the children, too, were important persons in the economic life of the frontier family. their labors lightened the load for both father and mother. with no available labor market from which to draw farm hands and household help, it was both necessary and useful to give the boys and girls a vocational apprenticeship in farming or homemaking. the girls' responsibilities were usually, although not exclusively, related to the hearth; the efforts of the boys were generally confined to the field and the implements employed there, although they did service too as household handymen, hauling wood, making fires, and the like.[ ] in addition to their farming and domestic industry, the other economic activities of these agrarian pioneers included the care of their livestock and the exploitation of the available natural resources in their subsistence pattern of living. the tax lists for northumberland county indicate the possession of two or three horses and a like number of cows for each head of a household.[ ] there were also "various breeds of hogs" although they were not listed by the tax assessor.[ ] mr. davy's comment that "sheep are not well understood ... often destroyed by the wolves ... few ... except [those] of good capital keep them" may explain their absence from these same assessments.[ ] maple syrup provided the sugar supply, a fact noted by land speculators who touted this "country abounding in the sugar tree."[ ] anti-slave interests later thought that maple sugar would replace the slave-produced cane sugar.[ ] mr. davy described the process as he observed it at muncy: the maple trees yield about w of sugar each on an average annually, some give as much as ws but these are rare. it is drawn off in april & may by boring holes in the tree into which quills & canes are introduced to convey the juice to a trough placed round the bottom of it. this juice is boiled down to sugar & clarified with very little trouble & is very good.[ ] honey also existed in great quantities in the area and was used extensively. apparently the "sweet tooth" of the west branch settlers was well satisfied by the ample resources for saccharine products. the trade and commerce of the west branch valley were strictly confined to its own locale. mountain barriers, limited transportation facilities, and insufficient contact with the settled areas of the province only served to heighten the essential self-sufficiency of the fair play settlers. the result was an economic independence which doubtless had its political manifestations.[ ] economic conditions have their political implications, but it was the total impact of the frontier and not simply the commercial restrictions of some outside authority which made the fair play settlers self-reliant and independent "subsistence" farmers. the farmers' frontier did not result from the impact of any particular national stock groups, for scotch-irish, english, and german settlers reacted similarly. as the most recent historian of the scotch-irish, the most numerical national stock on this frontier, suggests, "authentically democratic principles, when the scotch-irish exhibited them in america, were rather the result of their experiences on colonial frontiers than the product of the scottish and ulster heritage."[ ] the farmers' frontier with its characteristics of individualistic self-reliance was a product of the frontier itself. footnotes: [ ] turner, _the frontier in american history_, p. . [ ] henry bamford parkes, _the american experience_ (new york, ), p. . [ ] dunaway, _the scotch-irish of colonial pennsylvania_, p. . [ ] paul a. w. wallace, _indian paths of pennsylvania_ (harrisburg, ), pp. - , includes two maps. [ ] chester d. clark, "pioneer life in the new purchase," _the northumberland county historical society proceedings and addresses_, vii ( ), . [ ] meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] linn, _history of centre and clinton counties_, p. . [ ] meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . [ ] meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . [ ] _ibid._, p. [ ] carl and jessica bridenbaugh, _rebels and gentlemen: philadelphia in the age of franklin_ (new york, ), p. . [ ] barck and lefler, _colonial america_, p. . [ ] walter prescott webb, _the great plains_ (new york, ), pp. - . [ ] herbert h. beck, "martin meylin, a progenitor of the pennsylvania rifle," _papers read before the lancaster county historical society_, liii ( ), - . [ ] clark, "pioneer life in the new purchase," p. . [ ] lewis e. theiss, "early agriculture," _susquehanna tales_ (sunbury, ), p. . [ ] norman b. wilkinson (ed.), "mr. davy's diary," _pennsylvania history_, xx ( ), . [ ] james w. silver (ed.), "chauncey brockway, an autobiographical sketch," _pennsylvania history_, xxv ( ), . [ ] maynard, _historical view of clinton county_, p. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] the probate records of northumberland and lycoming counties, found in the respective offices of the register of wills and recorder of deeds, contain entries leaving to the widow the "best room in the house," or, "her choice of rooms." no doubt, the simplicity of the earlier home accentuated the value of the additions. [ ] "mr. davy's diary," p. . [ ] _ibid._, p. . the reverend philip vickers fithian notes the richness of the land in the journal of his one-week visit to the area in the summer of . he was also surprised to find that "many have their grain yet in the field," a notation for the th of july. _fithian: journal_, p. . [ ] theiss, _susquehanna tales_, p. . [ ] the museum of the muncy historical society contains examples of these early farm implements and offers vivid evidence of their crudeness. [ ] _fithian: journal_, p. . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] leyburn, _the scotch-irish_, p. . [ ] linn, _history of centre and clinton counties_, p. . [ ] "mr. davy's diary," p. . [ ] dunaway, _the scotch-irish of colonial pennsylvania_, p. . even in the more settled areas of the susquehanna valley markets were slow to develop as this note from "mr. davy's diary," p. , reported on oct. , : "at present there is no market here but if many english families settle this will soon follow as there is an excellent supply of every necessary & even luxury in the neighbourhood." [ ] j. e. wright and doris s. corbett, _pioneer life in western pennsylvania_ (pittsburgh, ), p. . [ ] arthur w. calhoun, _a social history of the american family_ (new york, ), i, . [ ] wright and corbett, _pioneer life in western pennsylvania_, pp. - . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, third series, xix, - . [ ] "mr. davy's diary," p. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] _ibid._, pp. - . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] one student of the commerce of the susquehanna valley made sweeping generalizations about its significance which can hardly be substantiated. _see_ morris k. turner, _the commercial relations of the susquehanna valley during the colonial period_ (ph.d. thesis, university of pennsylvania, ). this dissertation, although claiming to deal with the susquehanna valley, never gets much beyond harrisburg and seldom reaches as far north as fort augusta. its accounts of roads, navigation improvements, and trade fail to reach the fair play settlers. this lends further support to their independent and self-sufficient existence. turner's concluding paragraph is, however, a gem of economic determinism and bears repeating in full. found on page , it reads as follows: "if then, the commercial relations of the susquehanna valley were so far reaching affecting as they did in the pre-revolutionary period the attitude of the people on all the questions, practically, of the day it is only fair to say that it was these relations which promoted the revolution in the province and drove the old government out of existence. the political issues were aided and abetted, yes, were created, were born from the womb of the neglected commercial relations of the province and no other section at the time had such extensive relations as the susquehanna valley. no other conclusion can be reached after a serious study of the history of the period." [ ] leyburn, _the scotch-irish_, p. . chapter five _fair play society_ the society of the fair play territory, between the year and , was indeed simple. there were no towns or population clusters, either in the territory or within a range of some thirty-five or forty miles. furthermore, as we have already noted, transportation and communication facilities were so limited as to make contact with the "outside world" an exception rather than the rule. as we have also seen, economic functions on this farmers' frontier were not highly specialized. even the political system, with its tribunal of fair play men, operated without the benefit of any formal code. but it would be easy, from these indications, to magnify the simplicity of the social structure and of social relationships in the west branch valley. if we are to consider the development of democracy on this frontier, we must take into account the various national stock groups who settled this area and, in so doing, weigh their relative economic and social status, the amount of intermarriage between them, and the ease and frequency with which they visited each other. these and other social relationships, such as their joint participation in voluntary associations, their prejudices and conflicts, and the assimilation of alien groups, must all be evaluated. the leadership, the existence of social classes, and the family patterns must, of necessity, be a part of our inquiry. and finally, the religious institutions, the educational and cultural opportunities, and the system of values have to be considered in arriving at a judgment regarding the democratic nature of fair play society. fair play society was composed of scotch-irish ( . per cent), english ( per cent), german ( per cent), scots ( . per cent), irish ( per cent), welsh ( . per cent) and french ( . per cent) settlers.[ ] due to the pioneering conditions under which all of these national stock groups developed their "improvements," economic privilege was rather difficult to attain. furthermore, even after the legislature granted pre-emption in the act of december, , the grants were limited to acres.[ ] in consequence of this, massive holdings were impossible to maintain legally, as the customary holdings of two to three hundred acres indicate in the tax lists for the years after .[ ] in fact, the tax lists suggest that absentee-owners or persons outside the actual geographic limits of the fair play territory who participated with the fair play settlers were the only ones to possess to , acres or more.[ ] this fact, combined with the "subsistence farming" which all of the area settlers pursued, suggests a relatively comparable economic status for the members of the fair play society. consequently, social status was not necessarily dependent upon economic status. social status on this frontier depended more upon achieved status than ascribed status. this may have been an influence of the scotch-irish, who judged, and thus classified, a neighbor by the size and condition of his dwelling, the care of his farm, the work done by the women in the family, his personal characteristics and morality, and his diversions.[ ] journalists, pension claimants, and the operative, although unwritten, code of the fair play men all give corroborative evidence in this regard.[ ] of all these criteria, personal character and morality seemed to have been most important. the scotch-irish, who, like the people of other national stocks, accepted social classes as the right ordering of society, shifted their emphasis, as a result of the frontier experience, from family heritage to individual achievement.[ ] intermarriages provide a further key to the social relationships of the fair play settlers. if a small sample is any indication, the cases of intermarriages among the various national stock groups were relatively high, with better than one-third of the marriages sampled falling within this classification.[ ] the fact that the scotch-irish frequently married within their own group was probably due to their being more "available" in terms of numbers. industry and good character were the prime criteria for selecting a frontier mate, as dunaway points out.[ ] the ease and frequency of neighborly visits is vividly demonstrated in the characteristically cooperative cabin-raisings, barn-raisings, cornhuskings and similar activities in which joint effort was usual. the women, too, exchanged visits and, on occasion, gathered at one place for quilting or other mutually shared activities.[ ] furthermore, the frontier journalists often noted the fine hospitality and congeniality of their backwoods hosts.[ ] further evidence of the egalitarian influence of this frontier is found in the joint participation of fair play settlers in voluntary associations.[ ] this is particularly noticeable in their attendance at outdoor sermons and involvement in the various political activities. at a time when fewer than families lived in the territory, fithian observed that "there were present about an hundred & forty" people for a sermon which he gave on the banks of the susquehanna, opposite the present city of lock haven, on sunday, july , .[ ] although william colbert, a methodist, later "preached to a large congregation of willing hearers" within the territory, he did not think that it was "worth the preachers while to stop here."[ ] this may have been due to the fact that they were mainly presbyterians. colbert's reception was apparently fair for he makes a point of saying, "i know not that there is a prejudiced person among them."[ ] no regular church was established in this region until , so it appears that the settlers generally participated in group religious activities regardless of the denominational affiliation of the preacher conducting the services. however, as we will point out later, this is not to suggest that there was no friction between denominations. the political activities of the fair play settlers demonstrate the mass participation, at least of the adult males, in this type of voluntary association. the annual elections of the fair play men were conducted without discrimination against any of the settlers by reason of religion, national origin, or property. in addition, the decisions of the tribunal were carried out, as smith reports, "by the whole body, who started up in mass, at the mandate of the court."[ ] special occasions, such as the pine creek declaration of independence, were also marked by the participation _en masse_ of these west branch pioneers. mrs. hamilton, in her widow's pension application, speaks of "seeing such numbers flocking there" (along the banks of pine creek in july of ).[ ] apparently, as mrs. hamilton says, most of the settlers "had a knolege of what was doing," particularly with regard to political affairs.[ ] these evidences of group participation in religious and political activities should not mislead one into thinking that conflict, legal or otherwise, was alien to the west branch frontiersmen. the cases brought before the fair play "court" and the friction between methodists and presbyterians affirm this strife. the first settler in the territory, cleary campbell, was an almost constant litigant, both as plaintiff and defendant, in the northumberland county court from the time of his arrival in .[ ] his name, along with the names of other fair play settlers, appeared regularly on the appearance dockets of the northumberland and lycoming county courts. the cases usually involved land titles and personal obligations or debts. the religious conflict is clearly seen in the journal of the reverend william colbert. an incident which occurred about twenty miles south of the west branch illustrates this friction: this is a town [present-day milton] with three stores, three taverns, two ball allies. agreeable to its size it appears to be one of the most dissipated places i ever saw. i could not tell how to pass them--i inquired at one of the ball allies if preaching was expected--a religious old presbyterian standing by where they were playing answered that he did not know. i then asked them that were playing ball, they answered no. i farther asked them if they did not think they would be better employed hearing preaching than playing ball. their answer was a laugh, that there was time for all things and that they went to preachings on sundays. i told them they would not be willing to go to judgment from that exercise--they said they ventured that. so after a little conversation with the old man i left them ripening for destruction....[ ] colbert's journal is filled with snide remarks and caustic comments about presbyterians in general and calvinist doctrines in particular.[ ] he was especially concerned for the "lost souls" of the presbyterians of the west branch valley. a twentieth-century theologian suggests that presbyterian dogmatism had driven the scotch-irish to the frontier; this same problem complicated their social relationships in the backwoods country.[ ] the process of acculturation of the frontier was marked by the impact of the aborigines upon the new white settlers in terms of the developing style of life in the west branch valley. in fact, the culture of the indian may have affected the white settlers more than theirs affected that of the indian. for instance, mr. davy says that "the dress & manners of the people more nearly assimilate to those of the indians than lower down, but the purest english language is universally spoken."[ ] the west branch valley was a new world whose experiences made new men, rather than a transplanted old world with its emphasis on heritage and tradition.[ ] however, the english language and scots presbyterianism were basic ingredients in the melting pot of this and other frontiers where the american character emerged. the social class structure of fair play society is rather difficult to assess. extensive land holdings and material possessions were not characteristic of these "squatter" settlements. consequently, property was not the distinguishing factor in stratifying the social levels of the fair play community. furthermore, there was no slave population or indentured servant class to be confined to the lowest rung of the social ladder. here, each man either owned his "improvement" or operated under some condition of tenancy. however, both indentured servitude and negro slavery existed in the "new purchase" of in nearby muncy.[ ] thus, it was a two-class pattern, in the main, which constituted the fair play society--landholders and tenants. in addition, though, there was a further delineation within the landholding class on the basis of character and morality. this characteristically scotch-irish differentiation may have been due to the predominance of the ulsterites in the west branch population.[ ] in consideration of this fact, a three-class structure, consisting of an elite, other landholders, and tenants, would best describe the social class system of the fair play territory. the elite of the fair play society were generally the political and economic leaders as well. they owned the "forts," operated the gristmills, and held the prominent political positions in the vicinity. surprisingly enough, though, they frequently resided on the fringe areas of the territory and were thus able to acquire more land.[ ] a fuller description of this elite and its leadership is given in the next chapter. the frontier family was undoubtedly the key social institution in transmitting this new "american" culture to subsequent generations. regardless of national origin, the families were closely-knit, well-disciplined units, whose members formed rather complete social and economic entities. as we have already noted, the agrarian family had its own division of labor, with each member carrying out his assigned tasks and, at the same time, learning the practices and procedures of the farmers' frontier. it was also the cultural and educational core, in which its members learned their faith, received their education, and acquired the values which would serve them throughout their lives. family loyalty was a marked characteristic on the frontier and, incidentally, among the scotch-irish. the woman's lot was severe but she accepted it with a submissiveness which can still be seen in some backcountry areas of pennsylvania today.[ ] clannish and dependent upon each other, the frontier family had no use for divorce, which was practically unknown.[ ] if the patterns and values of these frontier families tended to approximate those of the scotch-irish in particular, and they did, it was because the scotch-irish were representative rather than unique.[ ] the church was probably the second most important social institution in developing a system of values and a "style of life" in the fair play territory. here again, the scotch-irish with their presbyterianism provided the most significant influence, and ultimately the first regular church--although methodists, such as colbert, found little to favor in calvinism. almost without exception, the wills probated in the courts of northumberland and lycoming counties between and asked for burial "in a decent and christian like manner," and committed the departed soul to "the creator." a christian life and a christian burial were valued in this frontier society. due to the absence of regular churches, religious instruction was primarily carried on by mothers "abel to instruct," as mrs. hamilton put it.[ ] prayer, the reading of the bible, and a rudimentary catechism were all a part of this home worship, conducted by one or both parents. baptism and other sacraments of the church were provided by itinerant pastors who made their "rounds" through the valley. presbyterians and, later, methodists developed the practice of gathering together in their cabins in "praying societies."[ ] originally consisting of neighbor groups, these societies, in time, took in areas consisting of several miles.[ ] itinerant pastors began to include the fair play territory in their travels in the decade of the 's. philip vickers fithian learned from his host, squire fleming, that he was the first "orderly" preacher in the area.[ ] fithian's visit came about after he obtained an honorable dismissal from the first philadelphia presbytery--as no vacancies existed--in order to preach outside its bounds.[ ] although in the territory for only one week in the summer of , fithian's account of his sunday sermon on the banks of the susquehanna clearly describes the nature of wilderness preaching: at eleven i began service. we crossed over to the indian land, & held worship on the bank of the river, opposite to the great island, about a mile & a half below 'squire fleming's. there were present about an hundred & forty; i stood at the root of a great tree, & the people sitting in the bushes, & green grass round me. they gave great attention. i had the eyes of all upon me. i spoke with some force, & pretty loud. i recommended to them earnestly the religious observation of god's sabbaths, in this remote place, where they seldom have the gospel preached--that they should attend with carefulness & reverence upon it when it is among them--and that they ought to strive to have it established here.[ ] fithian's recommendation was not carried out until , when the pine creek church was organized under the historic "independence" elm with robert love and a mr. culbertson as the first elders.[ ] this church, along with the lycoming church, which was formed in the eastern part of the former fair play territory in october of that same year, was served by the reverend isaac grier, who was called to serve lycoming creek, pine creek, and the great island, and ordained and installed by the carlisle presbytery, april , .[ ] he thus became the first regularly installed pastor in what had been the fair play territory. it was not until that the presbyterian general assembly organized the northumberland presbytery, which serves west branch valley presbyterians to this day. in the days of the fair play system the area was assigned to donegal presbytery, although in the carlisle presbytery was formed out of the western part of donegal.[ ] missionary efforts of presbyterians in the fair play territory go all the way back to september of , when the reverend david brainerd preached to the indians of the great island.[ ] but from that time until the opening of the west branch valley to settlement, following the first treaty at fort stanwix, nothing concerning the area appears on presbytery records. however, after the treaty one presbyterian minister, the reverend francis alison, pastor of the first presbyterian church of philadelphia and vice-provost of the college of philadelphia, applied for land above the mouth of bald eagle creek and was granted some , acres.[ ] alison never came into the region and, in fact, sold his entire purchase to john fleming in .[ ] although fithian was the first "orderly" preacher assigned to the west branch, the donegal presbytery had received an application from "setlers upon the w. branch of susquehannah" for ministerial supplies (pastors) in the middle of april, .[ ] apparently these supplies never reached north of present-day lewisburg. presbyterianism, then, was the most significant religious influence in the fair play territory. methodists and baptists penetrated the region after the revolution, but that penetration, although marked by some conflict, was not vital to the development of a system of values on this frontier during the period under study.[ ] furthermore, it was not until well into the nineteenth century that other protestant sects established churches in the west branch valley. the extent of that influence and the nature of this frontier faith were central to the development of fair play society. since there were no organized churches in the area, the family was the key agency of religious instruction and service. this fact, combined with the impact of the great awakening, led to the freeing of the individual from the communal covenant, resulting in a secularization of religion which culminated in a kind of "predestined freedom."[ ] consequently, the political implications of american presbyterianism, which had the largest church membership in colonial pennsylvania and the strongest affiliation on this frontier, were demonstrated in the democratic radicalism which the frontier spawned. political maturity, that is to say, independence, was a logical evolution from religious emancipation.[ ] in addition to the political implications of presbyterianism, respect for education was a significant factor in the value structure of this frontier. the probate records of this period are filled with examples of the great desire to see the "children schooled," and specific educational instructions were often included in the wills.[ ] the presbyterian emphasis upon an educated ministry suggests that this reverence for education may also have been an education for reverence. morality, education, and political equality and freedom--these were the basic tenets of this frontier faith. despite the high value placed upon education, the educational and cultural opportunities on this frontier, as on others, were extremely limited. aside from home instruction and the occasional visit of an itinerant pastor, formal education was a luxury which these pioneers could not yet afford. however, earlier historians of the west branch refer to the existence of a "log school" at "sour's ferry" in .[ ] instruction in the "three r's," enforced with strict discipline, was given here a few months out of the year. a presbyterian preacher who came into the region and stayed was the first teacher. educational opportunity was extremely limited but education was highly respected. books, too, were a luxury in the west branch valley. although some of the wills of fair play settlers indicate the importance of books by mentioning them specifically, there was no common library from which the settlers could draw. however, fithian's _journal_ contains a note that he "reviewed the 'squires library"; so we do know of at least one library in the territory. its accessibility for most of these pioneers is, of course, another question. frontier art was mainly functional. its objects were generally the furniture, the tools and weapons, and the implements of the household. individual expressions of creative talent, these items, whether they were designs on the rifle stock or styles of tableware, were outlets of artistic demonstration. probably the most prized and picturesque of the frontier folk arts was the making of patchwork quilts.[ ] although we have found no "fair play" pattern, we do know that the women of every frontier household sewed, and, because of the demand for bed quilts, every scrap was saved for the quilt-making. colbert's _journal_ tells of his dining at one richard manning's "with a number of women who were quilting."[ ] quilting parties were social events in the lives of these frontier women, and their _objets d'art_ were fully discussed from patterns and designs down to the intricate techniques of needlecraft. perhaps the patchwork quilt is the enduring legacy of frontier folk art. the music of the frontier was primarily vocal--the singing of hymns and, possibly, folk songs. instrumental music was confined to the fiddle, which one fair play settler felt valuable enough to mention in his will.[ ] the fiddle also provided the musical background for the rollicking reels and jigs which the scotch-irish enjoyed so much.[ ] that it was a hard life is certainly true, but it had its happy moments and music was the source of much of that happiness. medical practices throughout the frontier were primitive, to say the least, and the west branch valley was no exception. a diary of a minister in the susquehanna valley around lancaster provides specific examples of the purges, blood-letting, and herb concoctions which the frontier settler endured in order to survive.[ ] in spite of the liberal use of spirited stimulants, ailing frontiersmen often suffered violent reactions both from their illnesses and their cures. although the fair play settlers of the west branch valley doubtless had their own mythology and folklore, most of it was passed on by word of mouth; as a result, little of record remains. the revolutionary pension claims are filled with tales of the courage and patriotism of the stouthearted men and women of this frontier. a frequent claim is that the measures taken to defend fort augusta, after the great runaway, urged by fair play settlers who had fled to that point, saved the frontier and made independence a reality. perhaps the best-known story is that of the "independence elm" on pine creek. however, as a recent writer suggests, the story of the "pine creek declaration" may refer merely to the reading of a copy of the national declaration rather than to a separate document drawn up by the inhabitants of this frontier.[ ] mrs. hamilton's testimony to the event notwithstanding, no copy of the declaration has ever been found. another tale concerns the frequent reference to the upper pine creek area as "beulah land."[ ] it seems that a circuit rider singing hymns approached a camp up pine creek in the black forest. later, asked to sing, he offered the familiar "beulah land." still later, he met with an accident between blackwell and cammal resulting in his death. the entertained were his mourners. subsequently, they kept his name alive by singing the old hymn to such an extent that the name "beulah land" became attached to this region on pine creek. frontier life afforded little leisure time so that recreation was generally economically oriented or related to some household task. in addition, wrestling, foot-racing, jumping, throwing the tomahawk, and shooting at marks were popular sports.[ ] but drinking was probably the most common frontier recreation. it has been said that the scotch-irish made more whiskey and drank more of it than any other group.[ ] everyone drank it, even the ministers. in fact, the tavern preceded the church as a social center in the west branch valley.[ ] moderation, however, was the rule; excessive drinking was frowned upon.[ ] the value system of fair play society can be analyzed in terms of the expressed ideals and beliefs, the conduct, and the material possessions of the pioneers who settled along the west branch during this period. journalists, diarists, and pension claimants offer recorded evidence of the ideals and beliefs of these settlers. their actual behavior gives us some understanding of conduct as value. and finally, the probate records of the northumberland and lycoming county courts contribute some documentation concerning the material values of these frontier inhabitants. the result was a society dedicated to the idea of progress and oriented to a future of political and social equality and economic opportunity. a firm conviction concerning the right of property, that is, the right of individual private ownership, was developed early in the american experience in virginia and massachusetts and was reinforced by the experience of successive frontiers, of which the fair play territory was one. this is noted particularly in the pride in individual "improvements" and the vigorous assertion of property rights before the fair play tribunal and, later, in the regular courts. the large scotch-irish population on this and other frontiers characteristically asserted this view. motivated by a spirit of individualism and the desire for a better way of life, the fair play settlers found land ownership basic to the accomplishment of their desired ends.[ ] in conjunction with the policy of private land ownership, the support of squatters' rights tended to emphasize the equality of achievement rather than that of ascription. no man's position was ascribed in the fair play territory--he had to earn it. however, as we noted earlier, the pioneer farmer had to obtain the approval of his neighbors in order to settle in the area; but no evidence exists to show that this approval was in any way dependent upon social class or national origin. furthermore, the annual election of the fair play men by the settlers, along with their rotation in office, gave a fair measure of political equality, which was reflected in the decisions of the tribunal affecting land claims. the hospitality of the fair play settlers is particularly stressed by the journalists who traveled in the west branch valley.[ ] despite the limitations of rooms and furnishings, the frontier cabin was ever open to the weary traveler, and spirited conversation and beverages were always available to revive him. good food and fine friends could be found on the frontier. the frontiersman took great pride in his hospitality. dependent upon outside travelers for news, the latest remedies for ailments, and mail, the inhabitants of the frontier opened the doors of their cabins and their hearts to visitors. taken into a home, the weary traveler often found himself treated to the best in food and comfort which the limitations of the frontier permitted. generally sharing the one-room cabin, like any member of the family, he soon learned that he was a welcome guest rather than a stranger in their midst. the loneliness of the frontier stimulated the hospitality of the frontiersman. although no "frontier philosophy," as such, existed, the conduct of its inhabitants demonstrated their faith, their patriotism, their spirit of mutual helpfulness, and their temperance. the pioneer was not a philosopher or a thinker, because the rigorous struggle for survival, which was his, did not permit the leisure to develop these traits. he was a doer whose values and beliefs were reflected in his behavior. the favorable, but not always eager, reception of itinerant pastors, the religious instruction which took place in the home, and the frequent references to "the creator" in the wills testify to the relevance of faith in influencing the character and behavior of these early americans. faith was not only relevant but also a matter of choice, and freedom of worship was practiced on this frontier. here again, the scotch-irish presbyterian influence may have been significant.[ ] patriotism, with few exceptions, was characteristic of the frontier. but loyalty to what? on this frontier it seems to have meant devotion to an america which developed through new world experience. like topsy, "it jus' growed," and no frontiersman wanted it taken away. the enthusiastic reception of the declaration of independence by the fair play settlers combined with the legend of their own resolutions on the question indicate this patriotic feeling. despite their political differences with the settled areas, the west branch pioneers were overwhelmingly loyal to the patriot cause in the american revolution.[ ] their loyalty, however, was more to the ideal of freedom, or "liberty" as they termed it, than to any organization or state. they believed in and supported the liberty which their own hard work and the circumstances of the frontier had made possible. mutual helpfulness was essential to survival in the wilderness and valued among its pioneers. cabin-raisings, cornhuskings, harvesttime, and quilting parties are just a few examples of this spirit in action. individualistic in his approach, the frontier farmer realized the need for neighborly support and appreciated its offer. in spite of the availability of a more-than-adequate supply of spirited liquid refreshment, temperance was both commended and respected on this pennsylvania frontier. one historian points out that there was probably less drunkenness on the frontier than there was in eastern pennsylvania, where it was not unusual for young men to get drunk at the taverns or to drink themselves under the table at weddings or at other social functions.[ ] drunkards were few and generally despised on the frontier.[ ] material values, in a society where possessions, beyond the land itself and the rude cabin built upon it, are limited, are best gleaned from the probate records, which listed the prized possessions of this frontier community. beds and bedsteads are the items which appear most frequently in the wills of the fair play settlers. occasionally, the ultimate in frontier affluence is reached in the form of a "feather bed."[ ] beds, or feather beds, and bedsteads were so highly valued as pieces of furniture that they were often passed on to the daughters, serving as a substantial part of their dowries.[ ] surprisingly enough, the widow often received "the room she now sleeps in" or, "her choise of any one room in the house." this is not so amazing, however, when one realizes that additional rooms beyond the original one-room cabin quite logically became highly valued. pewterware was the silver of the frontier, and, if the probate records are any indication, there was little of it and no silver. aside from references to furniture such as spinning wheels, bureaus, tables, and chairs, and these not too regularly, it is quite evident that material possessions were few. what then was the nature of fair play society? the frontier, by its very nature, had an egalitarian influence which is readily apparent from this analysis of the "style of life" along the west branch. a relative political and social equality existed in this land of economic opportunity where faith, patriotism, helpfulness, and self-determination were the outstanding traits. the frontier brought the democratizing role of achievement to the fore in american life, and the fair play settlers were an excellent example. footnotes: [ ] _see_ chart in chapter two. [ ] smith, _laws_, ii, . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, third series, xix, - . [ ] for example, in the county assessments for , _pennsylvania archives_, third series, xix, , , the individual holdings of resident property owners range from to , acres, whereas non-residents' range from to , . only six of thirty residents showed property in excess of acres and four of these had acres or less. the two large landowners were peripheral fair play residents. subsequent tax lists indicate that non-residents eventually sold their property in sections. [ ] leyburn, _the scotch-irish_, p. . [ ] _fithian: journal_ ( ) and _journal of william colbert_ ( - ). these journals of the first regularly assigned itinerant pastors, presbyterian and methodist, to the west branch valley, contain numerous references concerning the personal character and morality of the settlers. in the hamilton papers of the wagner collection of revolutionary war pension claimants, p. , mrs. hamilton writes to the honorable george c. whiting, commissioner of pensions, on dec. , : "i believe they were people of clear sound mind, just, upright, morrall, religious, and friendly to all. i should say they came nearest to keeping the commandment, love your nabour as yourself, then any people i ever lived among." [ ] leyburn, _the scotch-irish_, p. . [ ] helen herritt russell, "the documented story of the fair play men and their government," _the northumberland county historical society proceedings and addresses_, xxii ( ), - . mrs. russell, whose genealogical studies were the basis of chart in chapter two, notes marriages among the names, of which were intermarriages of different national stocks. of the marriages, were between scotch-irish couples. intermarriages produced english-scotch-irish couples, german-scotch-irish, welsh-scotch-irish, and german-english. the intermarriages appear to follow the national stock percentages in the population. this would suggest that the intermarriages were a matter of choice rather than of necessity. [ ] dunaway, _the scotch-irish of colonial pennsylvania_, p. . [ ] _journal of william colbert_ ( - ). this entry for thursday, sept. , , is from a typescript belonging to dr. charles f. berkheimer, of williamsport. the original is in chicago at the garrett biblical seminary. [ ] here again, fithian, colbert, and mr. davy all mention the friendly reception which was theirs on this frontier. davy, in an entry for oct. , , p. , says, "in the winter sleighs are in general use on the rivers & on land & it is time of visiting & jollity throughout the country." [ ] _journal of william colbert_, tuesday, aug. , . here the reverend colbert refers to the existence of a class in religion among the group of presbyterians, although the prospects appear none too favorable. in fact, he says, "i had no desire to meet the class, so disordered are they, therefore omitted it." quarterly meetings of methodists were also held in the west branch valley, as colbert notes in his journal for saturday, sept. , , and saturday, sept. , . in , colbert remarks that "our quarterly meeting began at joshua white's today." the following year he wrote that "brother paynter and i have to hold a quarterly meeting at ammariah sutton's at lycommon." each of these instances indicates the presence of some sort of voluntary religious association. however, it must be recalled that fithian mentioned no such classes or meetings extant during his visit in july of . [ ] _fithian: journal_, pp. - . [ ] _journal of william colbert_, thursday, oct. , , and saturday, aug. , . [ ] _ibid._, tuesday, oct. , . [ ] smith, _laws_, ii, . [ ] muncy historical society, wagner collection, hamilton papers, p. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] _see_ the appearance dockets commencing in for northumberland county and for lycoming county. [ ] _journal of william colbert_, monday, june , . [ ] _ibid._, saturday, aug. , : "calvinist must certainly be the most damnable doctrine upon the face of the globe." sunday, july , : "here for telling the people they must live without sin, i so offended a presbyterian, that he got up, called his wife and away he went." sunday july , : "... in the afternoon for the first time heard a presbyterian at pine creek.... he is an able speaker but could not, but, calvinistic like speak against sinless perfection." monday, aug. , : "... rode to john hamilton's in the afternoon. here the unhappy souls [presbyterian fair play settlers] that were joined together in society, i fear are going to ruin." thursday, oct. , : "i went to john hamilton's on the bald eagle creek spoke a few words to a few people: i do not think that is worth the preachers while to stop here." [ ] f. b. everett, "early presbyterianism along the west branch of the susquehanna river," _journal of the presbyterian historical society_, xii ( ), . according to the reverend mr. everett, whose article also appeared in the montgomery _mirror_ for oct. , , the scotch-irish, with the anglicans, were the dogmatists of pennsylvania. the quakers and pietistic german sects were anti-dogmatic. dogmatically adhering to his catechisms, the scotch-irishman "resented the aspersions cast upon dogma and creed." the frontier gave him freedom from the quakers who still considered presbyterians as those "who had burnt a quaker in new england from the cart's tail, and had murdered other quakers." [ ] "mr. davy's diary," p. . [ ] thomas j. wertenbaker, _the first americans, - _ (new york, ). wertenbaker's first chapter, "a new world makes new men," develops this thesis generally for the american colonial experience, and, as turner said, those first colonies were the first frontier. [ ] clark, "pioneer life in the new purchase," pp. , . clark notes that indentured servitude appeared in muncy, where samuel wallis' great holdings made such service feasible. he also mentions wallis' ownership of slaves, verified by the quarter session docket of . wallis freed two negro slaves, zell and chloe, posting a £ bond that they would not become a charge on the township. [ ] leyburn, _the scotch-irish_, p. . _see also_ dunaway, _the scotch-irish of colonial pennsylvania_, pp. - . [ ] these "fringe area" participants in fair play society actually resided, for the most part, in provincial territory and hence enjoyed greater stability and more land. [ ] calhoun, _a social history of the american family_, i, . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] leyburn, _the scotch-irish_, p. . leyburn points out that since the scotch-irish were never a "minority," in the sense that their values differed radically from the norms of their areas of settlement, they never suffered the normlessness which durkheim calls anomie--the absence of clear standards to follow. as leyburn states it, anomie was an experience unknown to the scotch-irishman, for he moved immediately upon arrival to a region where there was neither a settlement nor an established culture. he held land, knew independence, had manifold responsibilities from the very outset. he spoke the language of his neighbors to the east through whose communities he had passed on his way to the frontier. their institutions and standards differed at only minor points from his own. the scotch-irish were not, in short, a "minority group" and needed no immigrant aid society to tide them over a period of maladjustment so that they might become assimilated in the american melting pot. this, however, is not to suggest that minorities are necessarily anomic. the jews, for example, were always a cultural minority in europe, yet they adhered intensely to their own cultural norms. [ ] muncy historical society, wagner collection, hamilton papers, p. . [ ] j. e. wright and doris s. corbett, _pioneer life in western pennsylvania_ (pittsburgh, ), p. . [ ] _ibid._ the existence of these "praying societies" is further substantiated in colbert's _journal_. during these services, lay persons gave exhortations or assisted colbert in some fashion. [ ] _fithian: journal_, p. . [ ] robert s. cocks, _one hundred and fifty years of evangelism, the history of northumberland presbytery - _ (n. p., ), p. . [ ] _fithian: journal_, pp. - . [ ] joseph stevens, _history of the presbytery of northumberland, from its organization, in , to may _ (williamsport, ), p. . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] cocks, _one hundred and fifty years of evangelism_, p. . [ ] guy s. klett, "scotch-irish presbyterian pioneering along the susquehanna river," _pennsylvania history_, xx ( ), p. . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] linn, _history of centre and clinton counties_, p. . [ ] klett, "scotch-irish presbyterian pioneering," p. . [ ] _journal of william colbert_, monday, june , ; and robert berger, "the story of baptist beginnings in lycoming county," _now and then_, xii ( ), - . according to the reverend robert berger, of hughesville, a few baptist settlers came into lycoming county from new jersey, but were soon driven out by the indians. apparently, the philadelphia baptist association sent missionaries to the area in and . however, not until the association commissioned elders patton, clingan, and vaughn in did any extensive baptist preaching take place in this region. they were sent out for three months on the juniata and the west branch. the loyalsock baptist church, established in , is the first church. [ ] dietmar rothermund, _the layman's progress: religious and political experience in colonial pennsylvania - _ (philadelphia, ), p. . as rothermund describes it, "the pilgrim's progress had turned into the layman's emancipation, and finally into the citizen's revolution" (p. ). he calls "the political maturity which followed the era of religious emancipation ... america's real revolutionary heritage" (p. ). [ ] _ibid._, p. . it must first be recognized that american presbyterianism differed from that of scotland particularly with regard to local autonomy. the presbyterian church, like the united states under the constitution of , was federal in its governmental structure, and the autonomy of the local religious institutions was later carried into politics. leyburn, _the scotch-irish_, p. , emphasizes the fact that the scotch-irishman's church had accustomed him to belief in government by the consent of the governed, in representative and republican institutions. the relationship between the church covenant and the social compact is quite direct. if men can bind themselves together to form a church, then it seems quite logical that they can bind themselves together to form a government. fair play democracy was simply political presbyterianism. its impact has been noted by a number of historians. dunaway, _the scotch-irish of colonial pennsylvania_, p. , claims that "the actual means by which pennsylvania was transformed from a proprietary province into an american commonwealth was the new political organization developed by the scotch-irish in alliance with the eastern radical leaders of the continental revolutionary movement. this extra-legal organization, consisting of the committee of safety, the provincial and county committees of correspondence, and the provincial conventions, supplanted the regular provincial government by absorbing its functions." becker, _beginning of the american people_, p. , calls the scotch-irish a people "whose religion confirmed them in a democratic habit of mind." [ ] lycoming county courthouse, will book # , george quigley's will, p. . [ ] maynard, _historical view of clinton county_, p. . [ ] carrie a. hall and rose g. kretsinger, _the romance of the patchwork quilt in america_ (new york, ), p. . [ ] _journal of william colbert_, thursday, sept. , . [ ] lycoming county courthouse, will book # , william chatham's will, p. . chatham's bequest is "to robert devling my fidel." [ ] dunaway, _the scotch-irish of colonial pennsylvania_, p. . [ ] rev. john cuthbertson's diary ( - ), microfilm transcript, rolls, pennsylvania historical and museum commission, harrisburg. an example, found on p. , is this "_famous american receipt for the rheumatism_. take of garlic two cloves, of gum ammoniac, one drachm; blend them by bruising together. make them into two or three bolus's with fair water and swallow one at night and the other in the morning. drink strong sassafras tea while using these. it banishes also contractions of the joints. pounds been given for this." [ ] rebecca f. gross, "postscript to the week," lock haven _express_, aug. , , p. . [ ] eugene p. bertin, "primary streams of lycoming county," _now and then_, viii ( ), - . [ ] dunaway, _the scotch-irish of colonial pennsylvania_, p. . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] "eleanor coldren's deposition," pp. - . mrs. coldren refers to a tavern, just west of chatham's run, in the spring of . the first church appeared in . [ ] "diary of the unknown traveler," _now and then_, x ( ), . the diarist tells of a tavernkeeper who refused a man a pint of wine because "he had had enough" (thursday, july , ). [ ] leyburn, _the scotch-irish_, pp. - . leyburn suggests, and the fair play settlers demonstrate, that ulster and america were similar experiences. he says (p. ) that the scotch-irish "lived on land in both regions often forcibly taken from the natives. the confiscation itself was declared legal by the authorities, and the actual settlement was made in the conviction that the land was now rightfully theirs. might makes right--at least in the matter of life and land ownership." [ ] _fithian: journal_, the _journal of william colbert_, and "mr. davy's diary" all refer to the hospitality of the people of this frontier. for example, fithian speaks of his hosts as "sociable, kind"; while colbert constantly mentions the "liberty" which he enjoyed in the various homes which he visited. [ ] leyburn, _the scotch-irish_, pp. - . leyburn suggests that belief in the superiority of the presbyterian church to any king justifies revolt; if one may, others may, leading to anarchy. thus freedom of worship for a minority allied itself in america with liberty of worship for all. the right of revolution, as it was acted upon in america, was also implied. [ ] loyalists in the west branch valley suffered the usual privations as this excerpt from the "diary of the unknown traveler," p. , indicates: "_thursday, july , _.... mr. witteker and his family are of the people called quakers but was turned out of the society during the time of war for paing the money called substitute [relief from the draft]* money to the congress agents. m[r]. w's case is really hard. he suffered as above by his friends for aiding congress and his estate was conviscated [_sic_] by the state for being a loyalist." [*phrase bracketed in quotation.] [ ] dunaway, _the scotch-irish of colonial pennsylvania_, pp. - . [ ] _ibid._, p. . an example of this attitude is found in this entry in the "diary of the unknown traveler," p. : "this afternoon july [ ] a person with two horses, one he rode, the other lead, called at wittekers for a pint of wine, but on account of him being intoxicated before mr. w. told him he had had enough & would not let him have any. where could we find so disinterested a tavernkeeper in england? in england they never refuse as long as they pay, but here the man had the money ready if they would let him have the wine." [ ] this conclusion was reached after the reading of some three hundred wills in the probate records of northumberland and lycoming counties. this particular reference is from james caldwell's will, nov. , , located in will book # , p. , lycoming county courthouse. [ ] clark, "pioneer life in the new purchase," p. . beds and feather beds seem to have been status symbols of a sort often willed to the wife or included as a dowry. chapter six _leadership and the problems of the frontier_ any analysis of democracy in the fair play territory must consider the question of leadership and the particular problems of that frontier. the number of leaders and their roles, the marks of leadership, and the circumstances which brought certain men to the fore must all be considered. was there some correlation between property-holdings, or national origin, and leadership? were there certain offices conducive to the exercise of leadership? the subject of leadership entails inquiry into each of these areas. unfortunately, only one biographical study of any fair play leader has ever been attempted, that of henry antes.[ ] as a result, the patterns of leadership must be gleaned from court records, tax lists, lists of public officials, and petitions from the settlers of this frontier. consequently, what follows gives us some general understanding of the nature of leadership but offers little in the way of insight into the personalities of the leaders. using the curti study as an example, certain objective criteria have been set up in analyzing leadership in the west branch valley.[ ] obviously, some leaders were more important than others. their influence extended beyond the limits of the fair play territory. these leaders, provided that they stood out in respect to at least three of the four criteria established, have been categorized as regional leaders. these four criteria have been used in this study to determine regional leadership: ( ) the holding of political office, ( ) the ownership of better-than-average property holdings, ( ) the operation of frontier forts, and ( ) the holding of military rank of some significance.[ ] of these criteria, office holding appears to be the most important. thus, regional leaders were generally re-elected to public office, or held more than one such office. furthermore, it will be noted that these offices tended to be with the established governments of the state and county. since some leaders never held any political office, another classification seemed necessary. consequently, the role of local leadership was also classified. the influence of some men seems to have been strictly confined to the fair play territory, either by virtue of their election to some local office or by their prominence in some other phase of community life. as a result, local leaders have been considered as ( ) those who held at least two local offices, or ( ) those who exercised identifiable community leadership in a non-political context. after an extensive examination of the lists of public officials for northumberland county, the tax lists for the same period, the records of the fair play men and the committee of safety, the accounts of the frontier forts in the region, and the military records of these settlers, it becomes evident that only three men can be considered as regional leaders and not more than seven or eight as local leaders.[ ] henry antes, robert fleming, and frederick antes are the regional leaders; and alexander hamilton, john fleming, james crawford, john walker, thomas hughes, cookson long, william reed, and samuel horn are the local leaders. obviously, the listings are too limited to offer any valid quantitative analysis. henry antes is undoubtedly the single most outstanding leader in the entire fair play country. judge of the court of quarter sessions, sheriff, justice of the peace, fair play spokesman, captain (later colonel) of associators and commander of fort antes, miller and property owner, personal friend of john dickinson and other provincial leaders, henry antes was the top figure in civic, economic, military, and social affairs along the west branch. influential within and without the fair play territory, henry antes was truly the major leader in the valley. the antes family had long played a significant role in the history of the province of pennsylvania. as macminn relates, henry's father, henry, sr., had been "associated with the most prominent men of his time in movements for the public good."[ ] a moravian, the elder antes had assisted count zinzendorf in his missionary efforts, aided whitefield in his philanthropic endeavors, worked with henry muhlenberg in educating the german town community, and served with a marked impartiality as a justice of the peace.[ ] from such stock came the necessary leadership for the fair play settlers of the west branch frontier. born near pottstown in montgomery county in , young henry may have learned of frontier opportunity from visitors to his father's inn, such as zinzendorf and spangenburg, who had traveled along the west branch of the susquehanna. consequently, joined by his brother william, he signed an article of agreement on september , , for the purchase of land in the west branch valley.[ ] when another brother, frederick, obtained property in the area later in that same decade, the antes brothers, particularly henry and frederick, became the dominant political, economic, and social influence in the territory. frederick, however, was more of an absentee leader since he never actually resided in the fair play territory. although the combined holdings of the antes brothers constituted only a little less than acres, their gristmill, the first in the region, became the meeting place for the area settlers, providing a forum for the usual discussions of politics and prices.[ ] from lycoming creek on the east to pine creek and the great island on the west, the frontier farmers brought their grain to the antes mill, on the south side of the susquehanna river opposite present jersey shore. while the milling went on, the men analyzed their common problems and debated the future of this pioneer land. if there was a center for the dissemination of news in the west branch valley, it was the antes mill and fort, which was soon constructed on the property. located in almost the center of the fair play territory (although actually across the river from it), where men met of necessity, and having had a father who had exerted influence and exercised leadership in philadelphia county, the antes brothers were well prepared to lead the west branch pioneers. with their gristmill giving henry and frederick a decided economic edge, they soon became involved in the politics of the fair play territory, northumberland county, and the province of pennsylvania. henry became primarily a local and county leader, while his brother concentrated on county and provincial and, later, state affairs. both served as county judges--henry, appointed in , and frederick, elected in --which suggests judicial responsibility as the key to assuming major leadership, since robert fleming took frederick's judicial post when he resigned to take a seat in the general assembly.[ ] by the summer of , when philip vickers fithian first included the west branch in his itinerary--the valley by then supported some families--henry antes had already distinguished himself as a public servant. he, along with five others, had been commissioned by the county court to lay out a road from fort augusta to the mouth of bald eagle creek;[ ] he had served as a spokesman for the fair play men in a land title dispute;[ ] he had been made a justice of the peace;[ ] and he had been appointed as a judge of the court of quarter sessions.[ ] this was to be only the beginning, for in , when the associators were organized, henry antes was made captain of company eight, embodying the nippenose and pine creek settlers.[ ] but even this is not the complete picture, for when the settlers returned to the region in the eighties, following the great runaway of , antes became sheriff, the chief law enforcement officer of northumberland county.[ ] the popular miller had become the popular leader, a popularity enhanced by his interpretation of the sheriff's role, an interpretation which occasionally brought him into conflict with the state's leaders.[ ] the leadership of the antes brothers is further accentuated by the activities of frederick antes. between and he was a delegate to the pennsylvania constitutional convention, justice of the peace, president judge of the county courts, county treasurer, commissioner of purchase for northumberland county, a representative in the general assembly, and a colonel of militia.[ ] with henry on the west branch and frederick frequently in philadelphia, the antes family had a constant finger on the pulse of pennsylvania politics. official duties, plus the strategic location of the antes fort and mill, made frederick and henry antes the most influential persons in the west branch valley during the operation of the fair play system. eminently qualified by numerous public responsibilities, the antes brothers were major leaders of the fair play settlers. robert fleming, the third regional leader in the territory, also served as a judge of the court of common pleas for the county, although that service began in march, , after the fair play territory was acquired by the state of pennsylvania in the second stanwix treaty of .[ ] he became a justice of the peace at the same time.[ ] prior to his judicial obligations, fleming had been a member of the county committee of safety, a township overseer, a representative in the general assembly, a second lieutenant of associators, and possibly a fair play man.[ ] during the revolution, he was primarily concerned with the area around the great island, serving at reed's fort (present lock haven) and on the fleming estate, which some referred to as fort fleming. robert had a brother, john, with whom fithian stayed during his brief sojourn in the territory. their combined holdings, the largest in the vicinity, ran to almost , acres, of which , acres were robert's.[ ] certain conclusions can be drawn from these data regarding the regional leaders of the fair play territory. better than average property holdings, extensive in the case of robert fleming; judicial responsibility, which was true of all three men; primary authority in frontier forts (the antes brothers owned and commanded antes fort, and the flemings operated their own stockade and commanded fort reed); and military rank ranging from lieutenant of associators to colonel of militia: these characteristics signified major leadership in the west branch valley among the fair play settlers. coincidentally, it can be noted that two of the three regional leaders, having served in the state legislature, had influence which reached to the state house in philadelphia. obviously, these men were known outside of the limited environs of the fair play territory. in fact, both henry and frederick antes enjoyed a more than passing acquaintance with benjamin franklin and john dickinson, two of the giants of this period of pennsylvania's history.[ ] a further observation which can be made concerning leadership relates to the question of national origin. although the fair play territory has often been referred to as "scotch-irish country," the german antes brothers performed the outstanding leadership roles on this frontier. also, the specific geographic location of our regional leaders provides a final note of interest. all three of them, henry and frederick antes, and robert fleming, actually resided outside the limits of the fair play territory. they were on the geographic fringe but at the leadership core. their close proximity to the fair play territory, separated from it only by the susquehanna river, in addition to their contacts with and positions in established government, gave these men an obvious political eminence. the forts located in both places and the anteses' gristmill gave both the flemings and the anteses opportunity for leadership. local leaders generally lived within the fair play territory, had average property holdings, and served on either the fair play tribunal or the township committee of safety. there are, of course, exceptions to each of these generalizations. the fort operators, samuel horn, william reed, and john fleming, resided on the provincial or state side of the susquehanna river. furthermore, john fleming was the largest property owner in the area with some , acres.[ ] and one man, james crawford, held the highly respected county office of sheriff.[ ] three of the local leaders, john fleming, alexander hamilton, and james crawford, stand out from the rest, although for different reasons. john fleming undoubtedly would have become a major leader had he lived longer--he died in . his extensive property made his home the usual stop for itinerant pastors and other travelers in the valley, as fithian's _journal_ attests.[ ] it also made him a figure of central significance in economic affairs. alexander hamilton was probably "the" local leader. a member of the committee of safety and presumably a fair play man, he was also the captain of horn's fort.[ ] he is also the reputed author of the pine creek declaration. james crawford was more noted for military exploits than for civic duties. prior to his military service, crawford had represented northumberland county in the constitutional convention of , which framed the state constitution and, later, commissioned him as a major in the twelfth pennsylvania regiment.[ ] deprived of his commission after the germantown campaign, major crawford returned home and was elected county sheriff, an office which he held until succeeded by henry antes.[ ] of the other local leaders, horn and reed held only lesser township offices, overseer and supervisor, respectively, in addition to operating frontier forts.[ ] cookson long, mentioned as a fair play man in in eleanor coldren's deposition, later commanded fort reed, for a time, as a captain of associators.[ ] the final two local leaders, john walker and thomas hughes, both took turns as fair play men and as members of the local committee of safety.[ ] in analyzing the local leadership roles which these various settlers filled, additional and pertinent conclusions become apparent. in the first place, the fair play men were obviously not the top leaders of the community. henry antes may have served as their spokesman in , and it is quite possible that robert fleming was a member of the tribunal, but both were more important as county leaders. secondly, fair play men were members of the committee of safety, a fact which suggests that their efforts may have been coordinated. finally, returning to the question of national origin, six of these eight local leaders were either scots, scotch-irish, or irish. the other two were germans. no englishman was a leader, either regional or local, in the fair play territory between and . perhaps, as carl becker suggests, this was due to the fact that neither the german nor the scotch-irish immigrant held in his breast any sentiment of loyalty to king george, or much sympathy with the traditions or the leaders of english society.[ ] what were the particular problems of this frontier and how effective were these leaders in meeting them? the question of defense, including the daily task of survival in the wilderness, the right of pre-emption, and the efforts to obtain frontier representation in the assembly: these were the main problems in this pioneer land along the west branch of the susquehanna. all were not solved during the period under analysis, but the attempts to solve these and other problems afford us the opportunity to evaluate the leadership in the fair play territory. doubtless, the most pressing public need on this frontier was protection from the marauding indians who plagued these pioneers throughout the fifteen years encompassed by this study. aroused by the british during the revolution, the indians of the six nations descended from new york into the west branch valley to harass and, finally, to drive the fair play settlers from their homes. driven from their homes, the frontiersmen of the west branch first gathered in the hastily-constructed and poorly-manned forts conveniently scattered along the susquehanna from jersey shore to lock haven, but, ultimately, these too had to be evacuated in the great runaway in . the severity of these attacks is evident from this petition from the settlers gathered at fort horn, above present mcelhattan, pleading for military support in their perilous position: _to the honourable the supreame executive councill of the commonwealth of pennsyllvania, in lancaster;_ wee, your humble petitioners, the inhabitance of bald eagle township, on the west branch of susquehannah, northumberland county, &c., &c., humbly sheweth: that, wherease, wee are driven by the indians from our habitations and obblidged to assemble ourselves together for our common defence, have thought mete to acquaint you with our deplorable situation. wee have for a month by past, endeavoured to maintain our ground, with the loss of nearly fifty murdered and made captives, still expecting relief from coll. hunter; but wee are pursuaded that the gentleman has done for us as mutch as has layd in his power; we are at len[g]th surrounded with great numbers on every side, and unless our honourable councill does grant us some assistance wee will be obblidged to evaquete [_sic_] this frontier; which will be great encouragement to the enemy, and bee very injurious to our common cause. we, therefore, humbly request that you would grant us as many men as you may judge suficient to defend four small garrisons, and some amunition, and as we are wery ill prowided with arms, we beg that you would afford us some of them; for particulars we refer to the bearer, robert fleming, esq'r, and begs leave to conclude. your humble petitioners, as in duty bound, shall ever pray. sined by us:[ ] this petition was signed by some forty-seven settlers, including john and robert fleming, alexander hamilton, and samuel horn. unfortunately, the much-needed assistance was not forthcoming, and colonel hunter soon sent instructions from fort augusta for the evacuation of the valley. this evacuation is, of course, the great runaway.[ ] it is interesting to note, however, that the bearer of this petition was robert fleming, one of the regional leaders of the territory. although forced to leave the west branch valley, the fair play settlers responded to colonel hunter's fervent plea to stay at fort augusta to help in the defense of this last frontier. their gallant stand on the west branch and their earnestly successful support of fort augusta, the last frontier outpost in central pennsylvania, protected the interior, enabled the continental congress "to function in safety at a period when its collapse would have meant total disaster to the american cause," and provided a vivid demonstration of what a later president of the united states would call "that last full measure of devotion."[ ] in the fall of , following the earlier alliance with france, the tide of the revolution began to flow in favor of independence, notwithstanding the fact that the fair play territory was now deserted. but for two years previous, when the issue of independence had been in grave doubt, the courageous pioneers of the west branch stood their ground in tiny garrisons at fort antes, fort horn, and fort reed, resisting the attacking indians at the insistence of their leaders, that freedom might be preserved. perhaps it is a little-known story, but the fate of independence was in good hands with the fair play settlers of the west branch valley, who fought to preserve it. towards the end of the revolution the fair play settlers returned to the territory, and a new problem arose, that of title claims or, more particularly, the right of pre-emption. still outside the bounds of the commonwealth and organized government, these frontier squatters petitioned the supreme council for validation of their land claims.[ ] two petitions, one in august, , and the other in march, , were sent. their claims were recognized by an act of the general assembly passed in may, .[ ] by this time, the land in question had been opened for settlement by virtue of the treaty of fort stanwix in . needless to say, their petitions had been prompted in part by fear of land speculators who were attempting to buy up their lands through the land office in philadelphia. the prominence of local leaders, such as alexander hamilton and john walker, is once again noted in these petitions. these petitions achieved notable results in that the right of pre-emption for the west branch squatters was recognized by the commonwealth long before the national government endorsed the principle. furthermore, the validation of these claims beyond the purchase line of the stanwix treaty of provided the first legal recognition of pre-emption in the state of pennsylvania. unsuccessful in maintaining their homes against the incursive indians, but successful in regaining them by right of pre-emption, the fair play settlers were also vitally concerned with representative democracy. locally, on the county level, and in the province and state, these frontiersmen sought to make their wishes known, both to and through their political leaders. how well they achieved these goals was influenced by the number of persons whom they elected to both legal and extra-legal offices at the various political levels. the fair play settlers managed to send two of their associates to the general assembly in the decade after lexington and concord.[ ] these two, robert fleming and frederick antes, constituted a disproportionate representation, when one considers the limited population of the fair play community and the general under-representation of the frontier counties at this period. in fact, a few hundred families in and around the west branch were surprisingly fortunate to have one of their number, robert fleming, in the general assembly when, following a petition from the frontier counties in , a new apportionment created an assembly in which fifty-eight legislators represented pennsylvania's , people.[ ] however, the elections of both fleming and antes came after the new constitution of , in which each county was given six representatives.[ ] it can hardly be said that the west branch valley lacked adequate representation in the councils of the state. furthermore, frederick antes was a delegate to that state constitutional convention. this not only emphasizes the leadership role of antes, but also points up the good fortune of the fair play settlers in having one of their community participate in the framing of the new state government. although the fair play settlers lived beyond the legal limits of settlement, they were very much involved in its political affairs. aside from the general assembly and the constitutional convention, these pioneers of the northumberland county frontier placed three men on the county bench, one of whom was presiding judge.[ ] fair play men became justices of fair play in the county courts. concerning other county offices, the key position of sheriff was held continuously from to by members of the fair play community.[ ] here again, it appears that the proper administration of justice could be expected from fair play men. locally, the rotational system of the fair play tribunal and the frequent changes in the composition of the committee of safety give rise to the conclusion that political democracy, in the sense of active participation in public office, was truly a characteristic of the fair play territory. nine different men served on the three-man committee of safety from february of to february of , three new members being elected semi-annually. except for the two or three years following the great runaway, the three members of the fair play tribunal were elected annually. in conclusion, then, what can be said regarding the leadership of the fair play settlers? except for the dangers from indian hostility, which were compounded by the settlers' limited manpower, the leadership was more than adequate, one might say eminently successful, in meeting the needs of the frontier. it enacted law, interpreted it, and saw to it that the law was carried out on every political level with which the west branch pioneers had contact. in short, it gave them a government of, by, and for themselves. this was _real_ representation by spokesmen of a small community, very different from _virtual_ representation in a distant parliament, from which their independence had now been declared. footnotes: [ ] edwin macminn, _on the frontier with colonel antes_ (camden, n. j., ). this book is a mosaic of primary and secondary sources dealing with the entire area, rather than a standard biographical treatment of its particular subject. [ ] merle curti, _the making of an american community: a case study of democracy in a frontier county_ (stanford, ), pp. - . this entire fifteenth chapter is devoted to both a quantitative and qualitative analysis of "leadership." [ ] wealth, i.e., liquid assets, was not necessarily a criterion on this agrarian frontier, where a man's assets were not easily convertible into cash. hence, property was the main economic source of value. [ ] the records of the first state and county officers are found in the _pennsylvania archives_, second series, iii, - , and john blair linn, _annals of buffalo valley_ (harrisburg, ), pp. - . some data are also available in linn, _history of centre and clinton counties_. the tax listings were located in the _pennsylvania archives_, third series, xix, , , , and - . mrs. russell also collected a listing for the years to for northumberland county. court records, pension claims, meginness' _otzinachson_ ( ) and _frontier forts of pennsylvania_ provided the remaining data. [ ] macminn, _on the frontier with colonel antes_, p. . [ ] _ibid._, pp. - . macminn also calls the senior antes the father of the unity conferences of christian endeavor and presents a copy of a letter written on dec. , , calling for a new year's day meeting of christians in germantown in in support of this statement. of his minor judicial role, macminn offers this account published in christopher saur's _pensylvanische berichte_ for may , : "were such magistrates more numerous, the poor would not have cause to complain and to weep over gross injustices which they have to suffer because persons are respected." [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . _see also_, macminn, _on the frontier with colonel antes_, p. . [ ] macminn, _on the frontier with colonel antes_, pp. , ; and _pennsylvania archives_, second series, iii, p. . [ ] linn, _history of centre and clinton counties_, p. . [ ] "eleanor coldren's deposition," pp. - . [ ] linn, _annals of the buffalo valley_, p. ; and meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . [ ] macminn, _on the frontier with colonel antes_, p. . [ ] linn, _history of centre and clinton counties_, p. . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, second series, iii, . [ ] macminn, _on the frontier with colonel antes_, pp. - . see also alex. patterson to john dickinson (october , ) in the zebulon butler papers, wyoming historical and geological society, wilkes-barre, pa. patterson, speaking of antes' failure to arrest zebulon butler, said of antes: "the sheriff has not done his duty nor do i believe he intends it being. a party man among which i am sorry to see so little principels of humanity or honnor, men who wish for popularity at the expense of the propperty and perhaps blood of their fellow citizens...." [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, second series, iii, - , and macminn, _on the frontier with colonel antes_, pp. , , and . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, second series, iii, . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] _ibid._, pp. , ; linn, _history of centre and clinton counties_, pp. - ; and _colonial records_, xi, . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, third series, xix, . [ ] macminn, _on the frontier with colonel antes_, pp. and . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, third series, xix, . [ ] _colonial records_, xii. . [ ] _fithian: journal_, p. . [ ] linn, _history of centre and clinton counties_, p. . the full account of hamilton's military service is given in the hamilton pension papers in the wagner collection, muncy historical society. hamilton had also been a member of the group commissioned to lay out a road from bald eagle creek to fort augusta. linn, _history_, p. . [ ] _ibid._, p. , and meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), p. . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, second series, iii, . [ ] linn, _history of centre and clinton counties_, p. . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] _ibid._; yeates, _pennsylvania reports_, i, ; and russell, "signers of the pine creek declaration of independence," p. . [ ] becker, _beginnings of the american people_, p. . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, second series, iii, pp. - . the petition was dated june , . the situation had been further complicated by the enlistment the previous summer of many of the able-bodied men to aid washington in cambridge, massachusetts. these men, "early in the service of their country from the unpurchased land on the west branch of the river susquehanna," deprived the valley of its available manpower. [ ] _see_ chapter two for a fuller description of the great runaway. [ ] helen herritt russell, "the great runaway of ," _the journal of the lycoming historical society_, ii, no. ( ), - . this article contains a few additions to an article by the same name by mrs. russell published in _the northumberland county historical society proceedings and addresses_, xxiii ( ), - . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, second series, iii, - . [ ] smith, _laws_, ii, . [ ] robert fleming and frederick antes, as previously noted, had been elected in and , respectively. [ ] dunaway, _history of pennsylvania_, pp. , . of these fifty-eight, twenty-eight came from the frontier counties of york, berks, bedford, cumberland, and northumberland. [ ] wallace, _pennsylvania: seed of a nation_, pp. - . [ ] as previously noted, henry antes had been appointed judge of the court of quarter sessions in , and frederick antes and fleming had been elected in and , respectively. frederick antes was president judge. [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, second series, iii, . chapter seven _democracy on the pennsylvania frontier_ one of the most often used and least understood words in the american lexicon is the term "democracy." in the colonial period, it was seldom used, except in denunciation. however, properly defined, it can help us to evaluate the fair play settlers in some understandable context. etymologically stemming from two greek words, _demos_, meaning "the people," and _kratos_, meaning "authority," democracy means "authority in the people" or, we can say, "self-determination." by self-determination is meant the right of the people to decide their own political, economic, and social institutions. self-determination in its basic, or political, context can best be explained through james bryce's definition of a democracy. lord bryce said: the word democracy has been used ever since the time of herodotus to denote that form of government in which the ruling power of a state is legally vested, not in any particular class or classes, but in the members of the community as a whole.[ ] analyzing the key phrases in bryce's statement, we can best clarify the meaning of political self-determination. ( ) "the ruling power of a state." self-determination, as it is employed here, concerns the right of the people of fair play society to determine their own political institutions. fair play society did not constitute a state, but it was a political community, and in that sense bryce's definition applies. living outside the legal limit of settlement of province and commonwealth, these people could not obtain legal authority for their own rule, so, following the prevalent theory of the social compact, they formed their own government. the result was the annual election, by the people, of the fair play tribunal, the source of final authority in the fair play territory. ( ) "is legally vested." fair play society was actually illegal; that is to say, the settlements were made in violation of the laws of the province. however, the extra-legal government which was formed was created by, and responsive to, the popular will. since the actual authority for rule was vested in the people, it can be considered as legal for the fair play community. ( ) "in the members of the community." the members of the fair play community, as previously noted, were not strictly resident within the geographic confines of the fair play territory. communities, it has been said, are total ways of life, complexes of behavior composed of all the institutions necessary to carry on a complete life, formed into a working whole.[ ] self-determination, as it is used here, suggests that the community as a whole participates in the decision-making process. ( ) "not in any particular class or classes, but in the members of the community as a whole." bryce's definition here extends the interpretation of "the members of the community." obviously, if any particular class or classes were vested with the final political authority, then the people as a whole, that is, the fair play community, would not exercise self-determination. the concept of self-determination, carried to an economic context, suggests that the people of the fair play community had the right to determine their own economic institutions. this means that they had the right to choose their own portion of land, subject, of course, to the will of the existing community, and to utilize it according to their own needs and interests. this meant that no undemocratic and feudalistic practices, such as primogeniture and entail, could exist. granted that this is self-determination rather broadly interpreted in an economic context, the question is whether or not these people had the right to choose their own plot of ground and work it as they saw fit, unhampered by any preordained system of discrimination or restriction. socially, the idea of self-determination is applied to evaluate the religious institutions, the class structure, and the value system. the application concerns, once again, the authority of the people to determine their own social patterns. it questions whether or not any fair play settler could worship according to the dictates of his own conscience. it evaluates the class structure to ascertain whether or not a superimposed caste system ordered the class structure of fair play society, rather than a community-determined system in which choice and opportunity provided flexibility and mobility. and finally, it considers whether or not the values of the fair play settlers were inculcated by some internal clique or external force, rather than being developed by the members of the community themselves. did democracy exist on this pennsylvania frontier? was the fair play system marked by real representation and popular control? these questions must be answered before any judgment can be made concerning political democracy in the west branch valley. was there equality of economic opportunity on this farmers' frontier? was land available to all who sought it, and on equal terms? these problems need to be considered before we can attach the label "democratic" on the economic life of the fair play settlers. if democracy prizes diversity, as some claim, were the diverse elements of fair play society equally recognized?[ ] was the class structure open or closed, mobile or fixed? did the mixed national stocks enjoy religious freedom? one needs to inquire into each of these areas prior to a final evaluation of fair play society. a useful tool for evaluating political democracy can be found in ranney and kendall's _democracy and the american party system_.[ ] it suggests the use of popular sovereignty, political equality, popular consultation, and majority rule as criteria for democracy. accepting these criteria as basic principles of democracy, we can begin to analyze the democratic character of the fair play system. a political system based upon popular sovereignty is one in which the final authority to rule is vested in the people. the question of who the people are is still before us today. in the fullest sense, popular sovereignty means rule by all the people, but in colonial america the "people" was a much more qualified term. it generally signified white, protestant, adult males who were property owners. in the fair play territory, the ruling "people" were "the whole body" of adult male settlers who annually elected their governing tribunal and participated in the decisions of its "court."[ ] lacking an established church, or any church for that matter, and possessing property lying beyond legal limits of settlement, the fair play settlers could not have enforced religious or property qualifications for voting, even if they had so desired, and there is no evidence to indicate that they did. furthermore, the frequency of elections, which were held annually, and the principle of rotating the offices among the settlers tended to emphasize the sovereignty of the people in this part of the west branch valley. the right of suffrage, it is true, had not been extended to women, but this was the rule throughout colonial america. popular sovereignty, in its qualified eighteenth-century sense, was a basic characteristic of the political democracy which existed on this frontier. political equality, that is "one man, one vote," was practiced by the pioneers of the west branch. there was no additional vote given to the large property owners; in fact, as the tax lists indicate, there were no large property owners within the geographic limits of the fair play territory. thus, each man, rather than a small ruling oligarchy, had the opportunity to participate in the decision-making process of the fair play community. in a democratic society, the people must be consulted by the policy makers prior to their exercise of the power of decision. among the fair play settlers this basically democratic principle was vividly demonstrated in the case of disputed land titles, the primary concern of the fair play men. in both eleanor coldren's deposition in behalf of her deceased husband and in the huff-latcha case, it was established that the unanimous consent of the prospective neighbors had to be obtained before a favorable decision was rendered in behalf of the land claimants.[ ] the frequency of elections, combined with the ease and regularity of assembly, provided the settlers with the opportunity to become acquainted with the circumstances of their problems. here again, the paucity of specific data prompts us to some speculation regarding the nature and location of these meetings. however, it must be added, the hamilton pension papers and the petitions to the supreme council in philadelphia refer specifically to meetings at fort horn and fort antes.[ ] direct representation based upon popular consultation was a distinct trait of the political democracy in the fair play territory. the fourth principle of political democracy, majority rule, is probably the most controversial and confusing element of the combination. absolute majority rule, its critics tell us, means majority "tyranny" and minority acquiescence, despite the fact that this fear is not empirically demonstrable.[ ] the majority ruled absolutely in the fair play territory just as it did in the new england town meeting, and with similar results. however, it never restricted suffrage or public office to particular religious or nationality groups. scotch-irish, english, and german settlers participated equally in the political process. however, as we pointed out in the last chapter, the english did not enjoy leadership roles in the community.[ ] whether this was by accident or by design is difficult to ascertain. perhaps it was just a further demonstration of the absolute rule of the majority with the scotch-irish and the germans combining to form that majority. the nature of community implies shared interests and the prevailing interest in this frontier community was survival. necessity undoubtedly caused the english minority to accept the scotch-irish and german leadership, because forbearance meant survival. conversely, the scotch-irish and germans could, and did, support the english in positions of responsibility on the basis of their mutual needs and their desire to maintain the community.[ ] not only physical survival but also economic survival were mutually desirable to fair play community members, and the decisions of the court were rendered on the basis of equal justice.[ ] as long as minority feelings are given free expression in an atmosphere of mutual concern, there is little danger of misinterpretation by the majority. such a climate prevailed in the meetings of the fair play settlers and the sessions of the fair play men; at least, there is no available evidence to the contrary. the nature and role of consensus in the fair play territory hinged upon what was best for the community. fundamental agreement was reached, based upon mutual need apparent from open discussion. in the event of conflict, forbearance, which was in the best interest of the community, could be expected.[ ] an examination of the appearance dockets of the county courts for northumberland and lycoming counties suggests, however, that this consensus did not extend to questions of land titles. nevertheless, the all-inclusiveness of signatures on petitions to the supreme executive council for protection from the indians and for the recognition of the right of pre-emption, and the general response of the fair play settlers to calls for troops for the continental army indicate to some degree the nature and extent of that consensus.[ ] democracy, that is self-determination, did exist among the fair play settlers of this pennsylvania frontier. there was no outside authority which legislated the affairs of the pioneers of the west branch. they selected their own representatives, the fair play men, and maintained their control over them, a control which was assured both by annual elections and the full participation of the settlers in the decision-making process. the will of the majority prevailed, and that will was expressed through a community consensus reached by the full participation of political equals. it was neither radical nor revolutionary, but it was typical of the american colonial experience. the fair play settlers had not "jumped the gun" on independence, although they participated in the movement. they did not rebel against a ruling aristocracy. they simply governed themselves. self-determination, as we have already stated, includes the right of the people to decide upon their own economic institutions. this right was asserted on the farmers' frontier of the west branch. with free land available to those who worked it, provided the neighbors and the fair play men approved, economic opportunity was shared by the scotch-irish, english, german, scots, irish, welsh, and french settlers.[ ] this sharing, in itself, was a demonstration of economic democracy. the labor system, too, was an affirmation of the democratic ideal. because free land was available in the fair play territory, neither slavery nor involuntary servitude existed in this region, although it was found in immediately adjacent areas.[ ] free labor, family labor to be more exact, was the system employed in this portion of the west branch valley. noticeable, too, was the spirit of cooperation in such enterprises as cabin-raisings, barn-raisings, harvesting, cornhuskings and the like. this mutual helpfulness was characteristic of the frontier and obviated the necessity of any enforced labor system. tenancy was occasionally practiced in the fair play territory, although it appears that the tenant farmer suffered no feelings of inferiority, if the following case is any example: ... peter dewitt ... leased the land in question to william mcilhatton as a cropper, who took possession of it after huggins left it: that the terms of the lease were that mcilhatton should possess the land about two or three years, rendering hold of the crops to be raised unto peter dewitt, who was to find him a team and farming utensils: that the lease was in writing and lodged with a certain daniel cruger who lived in the neighborhood at that time.[ ] sometime later, mcelhattan obtained the lease from cruger and sold "his right" to william dunn, claiming that dewitt had failed to fill his end of the bargain, despite the fact that eleanor coldren gave evidence to the contrary. when challenged for selling dewitt's land, mcelhattan responded in a fashion which demonstrates the independent spirit of this lessee. he said "that he only sold his right to dunn and if dunn would be such a fool as to give him forty or fifty pounds for nothing he mcilhatton would be a greater fool for not taking it--for that dunn knew what right he (mcilhatton) had."[ ] obviously, if this case is indicative, and there were others, share-cropping did not induce attitudes of subservience. religious freedom, in which pennsylvania ranked second only to rhode island in colonial america, was enjoyed by the frontiersmen of the west branch. it might, however, be better described as a freedom from religion rather than a freedom of religion. with no system of local taxation and no regular church, there was no establishment of religion. nevertheless, this is not to suggest that religious qualifications were not applied to prospective landowners, potential voters, or members of the fair play community. religious liberty had been guaranteed to pennsylvanians in the charter of privileges of , and no religious test was required for suffrage in the new state constitution in . belief in one god and in the inspiration of the scriptures was required for members of the assembly, but bona fide fair play settlers were disqualified on geographic grounds anyhow.[ ] there is no record of religious discrimination among the fair play settlers. in addition to the absence of a regular church, this was probably due, in part, to the religious composition of the population. the pioneers of the west branch were protestant christians, and if denominational in their approach, either presbyterian or methodist. the friction between methodists and presbyterians appears to have been doctrinal rather than political or social.[ ] the comparative economic equality in an area of free land had a democratizing influence on the social class structure. this three-class stratification, composed of property owners distinguished by their morality, other property owners, and tenants, was an open-class system marked by a noticeable degree of mobility. fair play settlers who began as tenants could, and did, become property owners. since no one in the fair play territory could claim more than acres under the pre-emption act of , there was little chance for the development of an aristocratic class.[ ] it was a society of achievement in which the race was open to anyone who could acquire land, with the approval of his neighbors and the fair play men, and "improve" it. there is no evidence to indicate that the availability of land was restricted because of national origin, religious affiliation, or a previous condition of servitude. this is not to say that the judgments of neighbors may not have been based upon these criteria, but, at least, there is no record of such discrimination. the fair play settlers were eighteenth-century souls and romantic egalitarianism was not a characteristic of such persons. the frontier, however, broke "the cake of custom" and the necessities of that experience contributed to the development of democracy as we have defined it. a recent writer, analyzing the "democracy" of the scotch-irish, made his evaluation on the basis of the contemporary french definition of liberty, equality, and fraternity.[ ] on this basis, the scotch-irish fail; but if we equate democracy with self-determination, the scotch-irish and the fair play settlers of the west branch valley can be seen as thoroughgoing democrats. the value system of the pioneers on the west branch of the susquehanna reflected, at least in part, the democracy of the frontier. the spirit of cooperation and mutual helpfulness was a prime characteristic of this frontier, as it was of others. cabin-raisings, barn-raisings, and the cooperative enterprises at harvesttime enhanced the spirit of community and brought the settlers together in common efforts, which demonstrated their equality. individualism could be harnessed for the common good, and such was the case among the fair play settlers in the struggle for economic survival. faith, patriotism, and temperance were not necessarily democratic, but they also were part of the value system of the fair play settlers. in matters of faith, there was a certain "live and let live" philosophy, which had democratic implications. despite the conflict between methodists and presbyterians, the members of the presbyterian majority made their homes available to methodist preachers.[ ] this demonstrated a willingness at least to hear "the other side." such an atmosphere is conducive to democracy, if not to conversion. there is little doubt, however, that this receptivity was due in part to the absence of any "regular" church or preacher. here again, the necessities of the frontier made "democrats" of its occupants. the most intense patriots are often ethnocentric and chauvinistic. the fair play settlers were such patriots, according to one journalist.[ ] however, the patriotism of the eighteenth century had not reached the level of concern for all mankind which finds expression today. the pioneers of the west branch were democrats in an age not yet conditioned to democracy. temperance, particularly with regard to the use of spirited beverages, usually implies abstinence, which is certainly not democratic if it is applied in a formally imposed prohibition without any local option. abstinence by choice, however, is purely a matter of self-determination. but in an area where drinking was a commonly accepted practice, such as the frontier, the term signifies moderation. in the fair play territory drinking, but not drunkenness, was condoned. the spirit of the frontier, or the use of it, was not incompatible with democracy. frontier values, for the most part then, were democratic in tendency. noteworthy for their attitude of community cooperation and mutual helpfulness, supported by a faith which could not afford to be exclusive, temperate in their personal habits, particularly in the use of alcohol, the patriots of the fair play territory looked to a future filled with promise and opportunity for all the diverse elements of their society. this is the democracy which the frontier nurtured. it flourished in the west branch valley. in summary then, was self-determination the central theme in the fair play territory? did the fair play settlers truly determine their own political, economic, and social institutions? the available data suggest that they did. the democracy of the fair play settlers encompassed popular sovereignty, political equality, popular consultation, majority rule, religious freedom, an open class structure, free land, free labor, and a value system whose dominating feature was mutual helpfulness. the democracy of fair play was basically the fair play of democracy. observable in this atmosphere were the traits of a developing american character, traits which the frontier historian, frederick jackson turner, defined as democratic.[ ] these included the composite nationality of a population of mixed national origins; the self-reliance which the new experience of the frontier developed; the independence, both of action and in spirit, which the relative isolation of the environment promoted; a rationalistic, or pragmatic, approach to problems necessitated by circumstances lacking in precedents for solution; and perhaps a growing nationalism, marked by an identification with something larger than the mere provincial assembly, something existing, but not yet realized, the american nation. these traits, in conjunction with turner's thesis, are a major concern of the final chapter. that chapter will provide an evaluation of frontier ethnography as a technique for testing the validity of this interpretation of turner's thesis on the fair play frontier of the west branch valley. footnotes: [ ] quoted in austin ranney and willmoore kendall, _democracy and the american party system_ (new york, ), pp. - . [ ] don martindale, _american society_ (new york, ), p. . [ ] national education association, educational policies commission, _the education of free men in american democracy_ (washington, ), pp. - . [ ] pp. - . [ ] smith, _laws_, ii, . [ ] "eleanor coldren's deposition," pp. - ; lycoming county docket no. , commencing , no. ; _see also_, chapter two, _passim_. [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, second series, iii, ; and the muncy historical society, wagner collection, hamilton papers. [ ] ranney and kendall, _democracy and the american party system_, p. . the authors argue here that the history of town meetings in america and the parliamentary system in great britain shows hundreds of years without majority tyranny or civil war. [ ] chapter six, pp. , . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, second series, iii, . for example, john chatham, an english miller, was elected coroner in , a minor role to be sure, but he was supported. [ ] smith, _laws_, ii, - . in _sweeney_ vs. _toner_, an englishman, toner's property right was upheld because his absence was for military service, despite the fact that sweeney, a scotch-irishman, was a majority representative. [ ] linn, "indian land and its fair play settlers," p. . the case cited here, _huff_ vs. _satcha_, saw the use of militia to drive off a landholder whose title had been denied by the fair play men. [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, second series, iii, - , - , and - . on page , fifty-three officers and soldiers are described as "early in the service from the unpurchased land." thirty-nine petitioners (p. ) sought pre-emption, a claim repeated over two years later by some fifty-three settlers. the petition to the supreme council (p. ) for protection from the indians in prior to the great runaway bore forty-seven names. [ ] _see_ chapter two for a demographic analysis of the fair play settlers. [ ] clark, "pioneer life in the new purchase," p. . [ ] "eleanor coldren's deposition," p. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] _see_ chapter one for the geographic bounds of the fair play territory. the fair play territory did not come under state jurisdiction until the second stanwix treaty in . regardless, it must be remembered that settlers on the south bank of the susquehanna actually participated in the political, economic, and social life of the community. the fact that these participants were often community leaders was pointed out in chapter six. [ ] _see_ the footnotes in chapter five referring to _the journal of william colbert_. [ ] smith, _laws_, ii, . [ ] leyburn, _the scotch-irish_, pp. - . [ ] _the journal of william colbert._ colbert had been received at annanias mcfaddon's (aug. , , sept. , ) and john hamilton's (july , , aug. , ), where he both preached and lodged. both were presbyterians, and, as noted earlier, colbert expressed grave doubts concerning his efforts there. [ ] "diary of the unknown traveler," p. . [ ] turner, _frontier and section_, p. . chapter eight _frontier ethnography and the turner thesis_ in the first chapter of his recent study, _the making of an american community_, merle curti suggests that "less is to be gained by further analysis of turner's brilliant and far-ranging but often ambiguous presentations than by patient and careful study of particular frontier areas in the light of the investigator's interpretation of turner's theory."[ ] this study was undertaken with just such a purpose in mind. in addition, it is hoped that this investigation will give some insight into the value of ethnography and its usefulness as an analytic technique in studying the frontier. by definition, ethnography is "the scientific description of nations or races of men, their customs, habits, and differences."[ ] frontier ethnography is the scientific description of the full institutional pattern of a particular group of people, located specifically on a certain frontier, within a certain period of time. that institutional pattern is described from the analysis of data concerning the political and economic systems, and the social structure, including religion, the family, the value system, social classes, art, music, recreation, mythology, and folklore. also, as noted in the first two chapters of this study, geographic and demographic data have been analyzed in an attempt to picture the area under observation and the people who inhabited that region. it is believed that these various data present a fuller view of the "way of life" of these people than the earlier politico-military accounts of nineteenth-century historians. of course, there are certain limitations in this particular analysis. this study is not meant to be typical of the frontier experience or necessarily representative of frontier communities. however, it would have broader implications if a similar study were made for greene county in western pennsylvania, where a group composed mainly of scotch-irish presbyterians also set up a "fair play system."[ ] furthermore, it is my interpretation of turner's thesis which is being tested, not the validity of the thesis. despite the fact that the fair play settlers and their "system" have been referred to by both pennsylvania and frontier historians in the twentieth century, neither the settlers nor their system has been studied in depth.[ ] meginness and linn, the foremost historians of the west branch, were both nineteenth-century writers, and, unfortunately, twentieth-century scholars have not considered the fair play settlers worthy of their study. biographical studies are limited to the work of edwin macminn on colonel antes, completed in . as a result, there has been a definite need for an investigation collating the researches of these earlier historians and based upon the available primary data. this study is an attempt to fill the void. the seeming paucity of primary source materials is a further complication to the student of fair play history. however, letters, journals, diaries, probate records, tax lists, pension claims, and court records offer adequate data to the inquiring historian, although the extra-legal character of the settlement seriously reduced the public record. nevertheless, the broad scope of ethnography provides the kind of study for which the data supply a rather full picture of life on this frontier. political, economic, and social patterns are discernible, although no day-by-day account for any extended period has been uncovered. this ethnographic analysis demonstrates the merits of the "civilization approach" to history. examining every aspect of a society, it provides more than a mere "battles and leaders" account. the result gives insight into a "style of life" rather than a chronology of highlights. this study has investigated the full institutional structure of the fair play frontier, evaluating that structure in terms of a developing democracy, or, at least, of democratic tendencies. american civilization was a frontier civilization from the outset, and that frontier experience was significant in the development of american democracy. frederick jackson turner's frontier thesis, which has probably inspired more historical scholarship than any other american thesis, stated that "the existence of an area of free land, its continuous recession, and the advance of american settlement westward, explain american development."[ ] that development took place on successive frontiers stretching from the atlantic to the pacific coast over a period of almost three centuries. turner's second frontier, the allegheny mountains, marked the farmers' frontier of the fair play settlers of the west branch valley. it was on the frontier, according to turner, that the "true" traits of american character emerged; its composite nationality, its self-reliant spirit, its independence of thought and action, its nationalism, and its rationalistic approach to the problems of a pioneer existence. the fair play settlers, american frontiersmen, suggested some of these traits in their character. recognizing the data limitations of this study, the evidence indicates some validation of this test of turner's model. however, it would be presumptuous indeed to conclude that this analysis offers a complete demonstration of the impact of the frontier in the development of traits of character which turner classified as american. the composite nationality of the fair play settlers is particularly evident from the demographic analysis offered at the beginning of this study.[ ] seven different national stock groups appeared on this frontier: scotch-irish, english, german, scots, irish, welsh, and french. here, indeed, was "the crucible of the frontier," in which settlers were "americanized, liberated, and fused into a mixed race."[ ] the legendary self-reliance of the frontiersman is not without some basis in fact. the nature of the frontier experience itself was conducive to its development. its appearance among the fair play settlers is implied in various contexts. politically, it is suggested in the creation of the fair play men, the annual governing tribunal, an extra-legal political agency in this extra-provincial territory. economically, it is intimated in the image of the frontier farmer tackling the wilderness with rifle and plow and the unbounded determination to make a better life for himself and his family. socially, the self-reliance of these doughty pioneers is indicated in the continuation of their religious practices and worship, despite the absence of any organized church. their self reliance is indicated, as well, in the flexibility of a social structure whose main criterion was achievement, a society in which "what" you were was more important than "who" you were. these examples are, of course, only brief glimpses of the elusive trait of self-reliance which turner considered typical of the frontier. independence, or the ability to act independently, was a characteristic frontier trait, according to turner. the fair play settlers presented some contradictions. it is true that they organized their own system of government and the code under which it operated. however, their key leaders lived on the periphery; and the settlers petitioned the commonwealth government for assistance in the vital questions of defense and pre-emption rights.[ ] the fair play settlers were generally independent, a condition promoted by the necessities of frontier life; but, obviously, they were not isolated. it is difficult to assess the nationalizing influence of this particular frontier. in the first place, aside from the second continental congress, there was no national government during most of the fair play period. the articles of confederation were not ratified until , and fair play territory was opened to settlement after the treaty of fort stanwix in . furthermore, the patriotism of the fair play settlers seems to reflect an ethnocentric pride in their own territory and an exaggerated interpretation of its significance to the developing nation.[ ] their patriotism was apparently for an ideal, liberty, to which they were devoted, having already enjoyed it in a nation only recently declared, but yet to be recognized. and, for its support, there had been a rush to the colors by these settlers "beyond the purchase line."[ ] the "real american revolution," as john adams described it, was "in the minds and hearts of the people," and it was "effected before the war commenced."[ ] that revolution had already occurred in the fair play territory prior to the firing of "the shot heard round the world" on lexington green. the frontier experience had a profound influence on the development of the american philosophy of pragmatism. turner claimed that it was "to the frontier" that "the american intellect owe[d] its striking characteristics."[ ] and the fair play settlers showed that ... coarseness and strength combined with acuteness and inquisitiveness; that practical, inventive turn of mind, quick to find expedients; that masterful grasp of material things, lacking in the artistic but powerful to effect great ends; that restless, nervous energy; that dominant individualism, working for good and for evil, and withal that buoyancy and exuberance which comes with freedom....[ ] the frontiersman of the west branch was a free spirit in a free land, a doer rather than a thinker, more concerned with the "hows" than the "whys" of survival. this practical approach to problems can be seen in the homes he built, the tools he made, the clothes he wore, the political and social systems under which he operated, and the set of values by which he was motivated. the development of these characteristic american traits owed much to the frontier and the new experiences which it offered. this ethnographic analysis of the fair play settlers of the west branch valley has attempted to present a clearer picture of the "style of life" on this particular frontier and, in so doing, to suggest a further technique for the frontier historian. there are, no doubt, certain defects in this specific study, but the fault lies with the limitations of the data rather than the technique. the scope of this investigation has carried into questions of geography, demography, politics, economics, social systems, and leadership. unfortunately, the frontier had not yet provided the leisure essential to artistic and aesthetic pursuits. consequently, these areas were given a limited treatment. furthermore, the mythology and folklore of this valley offered little of record. however, the breadth of this analysis has furnished evidence of the existence of democracy on this frontier and, thus, support for turner's thesis, or at least for this interpretation of it. the geographic analysis has clarified the question of the tiadaghton, demonstrating that lycoming creek, rather than pine creek, was the true eastern boundary of the fair play territory. the substantial destruction of an erroneous legend has been the main contribution of the geographic part of this study.[ ] it is now clear that the fair play territory extended from lycoming creek, on the north side of the west branch of the susquehanna river, to the great island, just east of lock haven. this frontier region was beyond the legal limit of settlement of the province and the commonwealth from to . hence, within its limits was formed the extra-legal political system known as fair play. the demographic portion of this study has added to the undermining of the frontier myth of the scotch-irish. the evidence presented here indicates that it was the frontier, rather than national origin, which affected the behavior of the pioneers of the west branch valley. the fair play settlers, a mixed population of seven national stock groups, reacted similarly to the common problems of the frontier experience. in one important exception, the fair play system itself, there is, however, an apparent contradiction. since no account of any "fair play system" has turned up in the annals of the cumberland valley, the american reservoir of the scotch-irish, it seems quite probable that the "system" originated in either northern ireland or scotland, or else on the frontier itself. this probability offers good ground for further study, particularly when the existence of a similar "system" in greene county, which was found in conjunction with this investigation, is considered.[ ] if the fair play system originated on the frontier, why did not it also appear on the virginia and carolina frontiers where the scotch-irish predominated? regardless, the lack of data corroborating the american origin of the fair play system leads to the conclusion that the germ of this political organization was brought to this country by the scotch-irish from their cultural heritage, and that those elements were found usable under the frontier conditions of both central and southwestern pennsylvania. if so, the politics of "fair play" will add to, rather than detract from, the myth of the scotch-irish. this study has also brought forward the first complete account of court records validating the activities of the fair play men. mainly concerned with the adjudication of land questions, this frontier tribunal developed an unwritten code which encompassed the problems of settlement, tenure, and ejectment. subsequently reviewed in the regular courts of the counties of which the fair play territory became a part, these cases provide substantial evidence of the existence of a "system" as well as insight into the manner of its operation. the fairness of the fair play system is marked by the fact that none of the decisions of its tribunal was later reversed in the established county courts. supplemented by the committee of safety for northumberland county and augmented by peripheral leaders, who gave them a voice in the higher councils of the state, the fair play men and their government proved adequate to the needs of the settlers, until all were driven off in the great runaway of . some corroboration for the legendary tale of a "fair play declaration of independence" was found in the course of this study. although consisting, in the main, of accounts culled from the records of revolutionary war pension claimants made some eighty years after the event, the evidence is that of a contemporary.[ ] however, the most common objection to this conclusion, that the fair play declaration was merely the reading of a copy of jefferson's declaration, is unsubstantiated by the archival descriptions.[ ] perhaps the fair play declaration is apocryphal, but, lacking valid disclaimers, the hamilton data offer some basis for a judgment. it is the tentative conclusion of this writer that there was such a declaration on the banks of pine creek in july of . the fair play territory was truly "an area of free land" in which a "new order of americanism" emerged.[ ] individualistic and self-reliant of necessity, the pioneers of this farmers' frontier rationally developed their solution to the problem of survival in the wilderness, a democratic squatter sovereignty. with land readily available and a free labor system to work it, provided that the family was large enough to assure sufficient "hands," these agrarian frontiersmen not only cultivated the soil but also a free society. and their cooperative spirit, despite their mixed national origins, was markedly noticeable at harvesttime. from such spirit are communities formed, and from such communities a democratic society emerges. this analysis has not only described the geography and demography, the politics and economics of the fair play settlers; it has also examined the basis and structure of this society, including the value system which undergirded it. the results have pictured the religious liberty extant in a frontier society isolated from any regular or established church, a liberty of conscience which left each man free to worship according to the dictates of his own faith. this freedom, this right to choose for himself, made the fair play settler surprisingly receptive to other groups and their practices, practices which he was free to reject, and often did.[ ] this analysis has also pointed up the class structure and its significance in promoting order in a frontier community. and finally, an examination of the value system of these pennsylvania pioneers has provided an understanding of why they behaved as they did. the last major aspect of this investigation concerned the nature of leadership. determined by the people, and thus essentially democratic, it had certain peculiar characteristics. in the first place, the top leaders tended to come from the fair play community in its broadest social sense, but not from the fair play territory in its narrow geographic sense.[ ] secondly, the political participation of the fair play settlers, if office-holding is any criterion, emphasizes the high degree of involvement in terms of the total population.[ ] and last, this leadership appeared to be overextended when faced with the problem of defending its own frontier and the new nation which was striving so desperately for independence. consequently, it was forced to turn to established government for support. this may have been the embryonic beginning of the nationalism which the frontier fostered in later generations. what then, is the meaning of this particular study, an ethnographic interpretation of turner's thesis? turner himself, gave the best argument for ethnography. he said that ... the economist, the political scientist, the psychologist, the sociologist, the geographer, the student of literature, of art, of religion--all the allied laborers in the study of society--have contributions to make to the equipment of the historian. these contributions are partly of material, partly of tools, partly of new points of view, new hypotheses, new suggestions of relations, causes, and emphasis. each of these special students is in some danger of bias by his particular point of view, by his exposure to see simply the thing in which he is primarily interested, and also by his effort to deduce the universal laws of his separate science. the historian, on the other hand, is exposed to the danger of dealing with the complex and interacting social forces of a period or of a country from some single point of view to which his special training or interest inclines him. if the truth is to be made known, the historian must so far familiarize himself with the work, and equip himself with the training of his sister-subjects that he can at least avail himself of their results and in some reasonable degree master the essential tools of their trade.[ ] frontier ethnography is just such an effort. the frontier ethnographer then, because of his interdisciplinary approach, can capture the spirit of pioneer life. and if, as turner suggested, the frontier explains american development, then frontier ethnography presents an understanding of the american ethos with its ideals of discovery, democracy, and individualism.[ ] these ideals characterize "the american spirit and the meaning of america in world history."[ ] the ideal of discovery, "the courageous determination to break new paths," as turner called it, was abundantly evident in the fair play territory of the west branch valley.[ ] this innovating spirit can be seen in the piercing of the provincial boundary, despite the restrictive legislation to the contrary, and the establishment of homes in indian territory.[ ] it was also demonstrated in a marvelous adaptability in solving the new problems of the frontier, problems for which the old dogmas were no longer applicable. the new world of the susquehanna frontier made new men, americans. self-determination, the ideal of democracy as we have defined it, was the cornerstone of fair play society. its particular contribution was the fair play "system" with its popularly elected tribunal of fair play men. perhaps this was the proper antecedent of the commission form of local government which came into vogue on the progressive wave of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. regardless, the geographic limitations of the fair play territory, the frequency of elections, and the open conduct of meetings tend to substantiate the democratic evaluation which has been made of the politics of this frontier community. furthermore, as was pointed out in the last chapter, this self-determination was the key characteristic of the economic and social life of these people.[ ] the pioneer ideal of creative and competitive individualism, which turner considered america's best contribution to history and to progress, was an essential of the frontier experience which became an integral part of the american mythology.[ ] the "myth of the happy yeoman," as one historian called it, is still revered in american folklore and respected in american politics, whether it is outmoded or not.[ ] the primitive nature of frontier life developed this characteristically american trait and the family, the basic organization of social control, promoted it. it was this promotion, with its antipathy to any outside control, which stimulated the revolution, creating an american nation from an already existing american character. the individualism of the west branch frontier is also apparent in the administration of justice. the fair play system emphasized the personality of law, by its very title, rather than the organized machinery of justice.[ ] frontier law was personal and direct, resulting in the unchecked development of the individual, a circumstance which turner considered the significant product of this frontier democracy.[ ] being personal, though, it had meaning for those affected by it, as an anecdote noted earlier indicated.[ ] individualism has become somewhat of an anachronism in a mass society, but its obsolescence today is part of the current american tragedy. the buoyant self-confidence which it inspired has made much of the american dream a reality. legislation, it is true, has taken the place of free lands as the means of preserving democracy, but it will be a hollow triumph if that legislation suppresses this essential trait of the american character, its individualism. no intelligent person today would recommend a return to the laissez-faire individualism of the social darwinists of the late nineteenth century, but it must be admitted that a society emphasizing the worth of the individual and dedicated to principles of justice and fair play, the banner under which the frontiersmen of the west branch operated, has genuine merit. whether the historian is analyzing old frontiers or charting new ones, the timeless question remains: does man have the intelligence adequate to secure his own survival? the old frontiers, such as the fair play territory of the west branch of the susquehanna, were free lands of opportunity for a better life, and the history of the westward movement of the american people gives ample proof of their conquest. but the new frontiers are not so clearly marked or so easily conquered. perhaps a re-examination of the history of the old frontiers can give increased meaning to the problems of the new. this investigation was attempted, in part, to serve such a purpose. the intelligent solution to the problem of survival for the pioneers of the west branch valley was fair play. the ethnography of the fair play settlers is the record of the democratic development of an american community under the impact of the new experience of the frontier. footnotes: [ ] p. . [ ] _the oxford universal dictionary_ (oxford, ), p. . [ ] solon and elizabeth buck, _the planting of civilization in western pennsylvania_ (pittsburgh, ), pp. and . [ ] _see_, for example, dunaway, _a history of pennsylvania_, p. , and _the scotch-irish of colonial pennsylvania_, pp. - ; _also_, leyburn, _the scotch-irish_, p. . [ ] turner, _the frontier in american history_, p. . [ ] _see_ chapter two. [ ] quoted by ray allen billington in his introduction to turner, _frontier and section_, p. . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, second series, iii, - , - . [ ] this pride was notably demonstrated in the insistence of the fair play settlers that a stand be made at fort augusta following the great runaway. previous to this, they had pleaded for support for "our common cause" in the defense of this frontier. _pennsylvania archives_, second series, iii, . [ ] _pennsylvania archives_, second series, x, - , , and fifth series, ii, - . [ ] quoted in clinton rossiter, _the first american revolution_ (new york, ), pp. - . [ ] turner, _the frontier in american history_, p. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] _see also_, george d. wolf, "the tiadaghton question," _the lock haven review_, series i, no. ( ), - . [ ] buck, _the planting of civilization in western pennsylvania_, pp. , . [ ] anna jackson hamilton to hon. george c. whiting, commissioner of pensions, dec. , , wagner collection, muncy historical society. [ ] _colonial records_, x, - . the following resolution of congress was entered in the minutes of the council of safety on july , : _resolved_, that copies of the declaration be sent to the several assemblies, conventions, and councils of safety, and to the several commanding officers of the continental troops, that it be proclaimed in each of the united states, and at the head of the army. by order of congress. sign'd, john hancock, presid't. provision was also made for the reading in philadelphia at noon on july , and letters were sent to bucks, chester, northampton, lancaster, and berks counties with copies of the declaration to be posted on monday the th where elections for delegates were to be held. for some reason, the frontier counties of bedford, cumberland, westmoreland, york, and northumberland, contiguous to the fair play territory, were omitted from these instructions. [ ] turner, _the frontier in american history_, pp. , . [ ] _the journal of william colbert_ gives frequent testimony to this statement, as indicated in chapter five. [ ] _see_ the map in chapter one for the geographic boundaries of the fair play territory. note the location of the top leaders, henry and frederick antes and robert fleming, in chapter six. [ ] the number of different office-holders runs to better than ten per cent of the population. [ ] turner, _the frontier in american history_, pp. - . [ ] _ibid._, pp. - . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] meginness, _otzinachson_ ( ), pp. - . [ ] _see_ chapter seven for an evaluation of "democracy on the pennsylvania frontier." [ ] turner, _the frontier in american history_, p. . [ ] richard hofstadter, "the myth of the happy yeoman," _american heritage_, vii, no. (april, ), - . [ ] the term "the personality of the law" is turner's and emphasizes the men who carried out the law, rather than its structure. the fact that the ruling tribunal of the west branch valley was referred to as the "fair play men" rather than the "tribunal" illustrates this contention. [ ] turner, _the frontier in american history_, pp. - . [ ] _see_ chapter three, n. . _bibliography_ books albion, robert g. and leonidas dodson (eds.). _philip vickers fithian: journal, - ._ princeton, . american council of learned societies. "report of the committee on linguistic and national stocks in the population of the united states," _annual report of the american historical association for the year _, i. washington, . andrews, charles m. _colonial folkways._ new haven, . ----. _guide to the materials for american history to in the public record office of great britain._ washington, . ---- and frances g. davenport. _guide to the manuscript materials for the history of the united states to , in the british museum, in minor london archives, and in the libraries of oxford and cambridge._ washington, . barck, oscar t., jr., and hugh t. lefler. _colonial america._ new york, . bates, samuel p. _greene county._ chicago, . becker, carl l. _beginnings of the american people._ ithaca, n. y., . bell, herbert. _history of northumberland county, pennsylvania._ chicago, . billington, ray allen. _westward expansion._ new york, . boyd, julian p., and robert j. taylor (eds.). _the susquehanna company papers_, - . vols. ithaca, n. y., . bridenbaugh, carl and jessica. _rebels and gentlemen: philadelphia in the age of franklin._ new york, . buck, solon j. and elizabeth h. _the planting of civilization in western pennsylvania._ pittsburgh, . calhoun, arthur w. _a social history of the american family_, i. new york, . cocks, robert s. _one hundred and fifty years of evangelism, the history of northumberland presbytery, - ._ . commager, henry s. _documents of american history_, i. new york, . crick, b. r. and miriam alman (eds.). _a guide to manuscripts relating to america in great britain and ireland._ new york, . curti, merle, _et al._ _the making of an american community, a case study of democracy in a frontier county._ stanford, . day, richard e. (comp.). _calendar of the sir william johnson manuscripts in the new york state library._ albany, n. y., . depuy, henry f. _a bibliography of the english colonial treaties with the american indians including a synopsis of each treaty._ new york, . deschweinitz, edmund a. _the life and times of david zeisberger._ philadelphia, . doddridge, joseph. _notes on the settlement and indian wars of the western parts of virginia and pennsylvania._ pittsburgh, . dunaway, wayland f. _a history of pennsylvania._ englewood cliffs, n. j., . ----. _the scotch-irish of colonial pennsylvania._ chapel hill, . egle, william h. _history of the commonwealth of pennsylvania._ philadelphia, . ---- (ed.). _historical register: notes and queries, historical and genealogical, relating to interior pennsylvania_, vols. harrisburg, - . ----. _pennsylvania genealogies; scotch-irish and german._ harrisburg, , . frost, robert. _complete poems of robert frost._ new york, . hall, carrie a., and rose g. kretsinger. _the romance of the patchwork quilt in america._ new york, . hanna, c. a. _the scotch-irish._ vols. new york, . jones, u. j. _history of the early settlements of the juniata valley._ philadelphia, . klett, guy s. _presbyterians in colonial pennsylvania._ philadelphia, . leopold, richard w., and arthur s. link (eds.). _problems in american history._ englewood cliffs, n. j., . leyburn, james g. _the scotch-irish: a social history._ chapel hill, . lincoln, charles a. (comp.). _calendar of sr. william johnson manuscripts in the library of the american antiquarian society._ ("transactions of the society," vol. xi.) worcester, . linn, john b. _history of centre and clinton counties, pennsylvania._ philadelphia, . ----. _annals of buffalo valley._ harrisburg, . macminn, edwin. _on the frontier with colonel antes._ camden, n. j., . maginnis, t. h., jr. _the irish contribution to american independence._ philadelphia, . martin, a. e., and h. h. shenk. _pennsylvania history told by contemporaries._ new york, . martindale, don. _american society._ new york, . maynard, d. s. _historical view of clinton county, from its earliest settlement to the present time._ lock haven, . meginness, john f. _biographical annals of the west branch valley._ williamsport, . ----. _history of lycoming county, pennsylvania._ chicago, . ----. _otzinachson: or a history of the west branch valley of the susquehanna._ philadelphia, . ----. _otzinachson: a history of the west branch valley of the susquehanna._ williamsport, . national education association. _the education of free men in american democracy._ washington, . o'callaghan, e. b. _documentary history of the state of new york_, i. albany, n. y., . _the oxford universal dictionary._ oxford, . parkes, henry bamford. _the american experience._ new york, . the pennsylvania writers' project, work projects administration. _a picture of clinton county._ williamsport, . ----. _a picture of lycoming county._ williamsport, . proud, robert. _history of pennsylvania in north america._ vols. philadelphia, , . ranney, austin, and willmoore kendall. _democracy and the american party system._ new york, . rossiter, clinton. _the first american revolution._ new york, . rothermund, dietmar. _the layman's progress._ philadelphia, . rupp, israel d. (ed.). _a collection of thirty thousand names of german, swiss, dutch, french, portuguese, and other immigrants in pennsylvania, chronologically arranged from to ._ harrisburg, . sanderson, w. h. _historical reminiscences_, ed. henry w. shoemaker. altoona, . sergeant, thomas. _view of the land laws of pennsylvania with notices of its early history and legislation._ philadelphia and pittsburgh, . shimmell, lewis s. _border warfare in pennsylvania during the revolution._ harrisburg, . singmaster, elsie. _pennsylvania's susquehanna._ harrisburg, . smith, charles. _laws of the commonwealth of pennsylvania_, ii. philadelphia, . stevens, benjamin f. _catalogue index of manuscripts in the archives of england, france, holland, and spain relating to america, - ._ london, - . (in manuscript in the library of congress.) stevens, joseph. _history of the presbytery of northumberland._ williamsport, . sullivan, james (ed.). _the papers of sir william johnson_, i-iii. albany, . taylor, george r. _the turner thesis concerning the role of the frontier in american history_ ("problems in american civilization."). boston, . theiss, lewis e. "early agriculture," _susquehanna tales_ (sunbury, ), - . tome, philip. _pioneer life; or thirty years a hunter._ harrisburg, . trinterud, leonard j. _the forming of an american tradition: a re-examination of colonial presbyterianism._ philadelphia, . turner, frederick jackson. _frontier and section: selected essays of frederick jackson turner._ intro. by ray allen billington. englewood, cliffs, n. j., . ----. _the frontier in american history._ new york, . volwiler, albert t. _george croghan and the westward movement - ._ cleveland, . wallace, paul a. w. _conrad weiser._ philadelphia, . ----. _indians in pennsylvania._ harrisburg, . ----. _pennsylvania: seed of a nation._ new york, . webb, walter prescott. _the great plains._ new york, . wertenbaker, thomas j. _the first americans - ._ new york, . ----. _the founding of american civilization: the middle colonies._ new york, . wittke, carl. _we who built america._ . wright, j. e., and doris s. corbett. _pioneer life in western pennsylvania._ pittsburgh, . wright, louis b. _culture on the moving frontier._ bloomington, ind., . ----. _the atlantic frontier._ new york, . ----. _the cultural life of the american colonies, - ._ new york, . yeates, jasper. _pennsylvania reports_, i. philadelphia and st. louis, . public documents _appearance docket commencing _, no. . lycoming county, office of the prothonotor, williamsport. _colonial records_, ix. harrisburg, . _colonial records_, x. harrisburg, . _colonial records_, xi. harrisburg, . _colonial records_, xii. harrisburg, . _colonial records_, xx. harrisburg, . _pennsylvania archives_, [first series], xi. philadelphia, . ----, [first series], xii. philadelphia, . ----, second series, ii. harrisburg, . ----, second series, iii. harrisburg, . ----, second series, xvii. harrisburg, . ----, third series, xi-xxii. harrisburg, . _new purchase applications, nos. and _, april , . bureau of land records, harrisburg. _report of the commission to locate the site of the frontier forts of pennsylvania._ harrisburg, . articles and essays baelyn, bernard. "political experiences and enlightenment ideas in eighteenth-century america," _american historical review_, lxvii (january, ), - . beck, herbert h. "martin meylin, a progenitor of the pennsylvania rifle," _papers read before the lancaster county historical society_, liii ( ), - . berger, robert. "the story of baptist beginnings in lycoming county," _now and then_, xii (july, ), - . bertin, eugene p. "primary streams of lycoming county," _now and then_, viii (october, ), - . carter, john h. "the committee of safety of northumberland county," _the northumberland county historical society proceedings and addresses_, xviii ( ), - . champagne, roger. "family politics versus constitutional principles: the new york assembly elections of and ," _william and mary quarterly_, third series, xx (january, ), - . clark, chester. "pioneer life in the new purchase," _northumberland county historical society proceedings and addresses_, vii ( ), - . deans, john bacon. "the migration of the connecticut yankees to the west branch of the susquehanna river," _proceedings of the northumberland county historical society_ ( ), - . "diary of the unknown traveler," _now and then_, x (january, ), - . "eleanor coldren's depositions," _now and then_, xii (october, ), - . everett, f. b. "early presbyterianism along the west branch of the susquehanna river," _journal presbyterian historical society_, xii (october, ), - . garrison, hazel shields. "cartography of pennsylvania before ," _pennsylvania magazine of history and biography_, lix (july, ), - . gross, rebecca f. "postscript to the week," lock haven _express_ (august , ), . hofstadter, richard. "the myth of the happy yeoman," _american heritage_, vii (april, ), - . johns, john o. "july , --rediscovered." _commonwealth: the magazine for pennsylvania_, ii (july, ), - . jordan, john w. (contributor), "spangenberg's notes of travel to onondaga in ," _pennsylvania magazine of history and biography_, ii (no. , ), - . klett, guy s. "scotch-irish presbyterian pioneering along the susquehanna river," _pennsylvania history_, xx (april, ), - . linn, john blair. "indian land and its fair play settlers, - ," _the pennsylvania magazine of history and biography_, vii (no. , ), - . "map drawn by john adlum, district surveyor, , found among the bingham papers," _now & then_, x. (july, ), - . meginness, john f. "the scotch-irish of the upper susquehanna valley," _scotch-irish society of america proceedings and addresses_, viii ( ), - . neal, don. "freedom outpost," _pennsylvania game news_, xxxi (july, ), - . russell, helen herritt. "the documented story of the fair play men and their government," _proceedings of the northumberland county historical society_, xxii ( ), - . ----. "the great runaway of ," _the journal of the lycoming historical society_, ii (no. , ), - . ----. "the great runaway of ," _the northumberland county historical society proceedings and addresses_, xxiii ( ), - . ----. "signers of the pine creek declaration of independence," _proceedings of the northumberland county historical society_, xxii ( ), - . silver, james w. (ed.). "an autobiographical sketch of chauncey brockway," _pennsylvania history_, xxv (april, ), - . stille, c. j. "pennsylvania and the declaration of independence," _pennsylvania magazine of history and biography_, xiii (no. , ), - . wallace, paul a. w., excerpt from letter, sept. , , _now and then_, x (october, ), . wilkinson, norman b. (ed.). "mr. davy's diary," _now and then_, x (april, ), - . williams, e. melvin. "the scotch-irish in pennsylvania," _americana_ xvii ( ), - . williams, richmond d. "col. thomas hartley's expedition of ," _now and then_, xii (april, ), - . wolf, george d. "the tiadaghton question," _the lock haven review_, series i, no. ( ), - . wood, t. kenneth (ed.). "journal of an english emigrant farmer," _lycoming historical society proceedings and papers_, no. ( ). ----. _now and then_, x (july, ), - . ---- (ed.). "observations made by john bartram in his travels from pennsylvania to onondaga, oswego and the lake ontario in ," _now and then_, v ( ), . unpublished studies turner, morris k. "the commercial relations of the susquehanna valley during the colonial period." unpublished ph.d. dissertation, university of pennsylvania, . _manuscripts_ manuscript collections zebulon butler papers, wyoming historical and geological society, wilkes-barre, pennsylvania. rev. john cuthbertson's diary, - (microfilm, reels). the pennsylvania historical and museum commission, harrisburg. journal of william colbert (typescript). property of the rev. charles f. berkheimer of williamsport, pa. original ( - ) at the garrett biblical seminary, chicago. (copy also at lycoming college, williamsport.) revolutionary war pension claims (typescript). wagner collection, muncy historical society and museum of history, muncy, pa. personal correspondence mrs. solon j. buck, washington, d. c, june , , to the author. alfred p. james, pittsburgh, july , , to the author. peter marshall, berkeley, calif., may , , to the author. mrs. phyllis v. parsons, collegeville, pa., october , , to the author. paul a. w. wallace, harrisburg, february , , july , august , and december , , to the author. _index_ adlum, john, , , alexander, james, allegheny mountains, , , , allison, rev. francis, american revolution, , , , , , , , , , , , , antes, frederick, - , antes, henry, jr., , , - , antes, henry, sr., antes, joseph, antes, philip, antes, william, antes mill, , , art, arthur, robert, atlee, samuel j., bald eagle creek, , , , bald eagle mountains, bald eagle township, , , bald eagle's nest, baptists, barn-raisings, , , bartram, john, - , bertin, eugene p., "beulah land," bingham, william, blackwell, bonner, barnabas, books, , brainerd, rev. david, bryce, james, , bucks county, burnet's hills, "cabin right," cabin-raisings, , , , , , caldwell, bratton, , calhoune, george, cammal, campbell, cleary, , campbell, william, jr., carlisle presbytery, charter of privileges, chester county, , children, clark, francis, clark, john, colbert, william, - , , coldren, eleanor, , , , commerce, committee of safety, , , , , , , - , , connecticut, , , , constitutional convention, pennsylvania ( ), , , continental congress, , cooke, william, "corn right," council of safety, , covenhoven, robert, crawford, james, , , cruger, daniel, culbertson, mr., cumberland county, , cumberland valley, , curti, merle, , dauphin county, , davy, mr., , declaration of independence, , , , , "declaration of independence" of fair play settlers, - , , , , , , , defense, , , demography, - , , - deschweinitz, edmund a., , dewitt, abraham, dewitt, peter, , dickinson, john, , , donegal presbytery, dougherty, samuel, drinking, , , , , duncan, mr., dunn, william, economic institutions, - , , - , , , ; _see also_ farming education, , , , ejectment, - , , english, - , - , , , , , , , , , ettwein, bishop john, , , evans, lewis, - , fair play men, , , - , , , , , , , - , , , , , , ; _see also_ tribunal, fair play faith, , , , , , family life, , , , , , , ferguson, thomas, fithian, philip vickers, , , , , , , , , , , fleming, betsey, fleming, john, , , , , , , , fleming, robert, , , , , , forster, thomas, fort antes, , , , , , fort augusta, , , , fort fleming, fort horn, , - , , fort muncy, fort reed, , , , fort stanwix, treaties of, , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , forts, , , - franklin, benjamin, , french, , - , , , , french and indian war, , , galbreath, robert, , general assembly, , , , , , , , , george iii, germans, - , - , , , , , - , , , germantown, , great island, , , , , , , , , , , great runaway - , , , , , , , , , great shamokin path, , greene county, , , grier, rev. isaac, grier, james, , _grier_ vs. _tharpe_, gristmills, , haines, joseph, hamilton, alexander, , , , , hamilton, anna jackson, , , , , , hamilton, john, hartley, col. thomas, , harvest, , , , , hill, aaron, homes, , , , horn, samuel, , , , hospitality, , huff, edmund, , huff-latcha (satcha) case, , , huggins, mr., hughes, james, , hughes, thomas, , , , _hughes_ vs. _dougherty_, - hunter, col. samuel, , , , immigration, - , , , , "improvements," - , , , , , indentured servitude, , independence, , , ; _see also_ declaration of independence indians, , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , individualism, , , , , , , , industry, , intermarriage, , irish, - , , , , irwin (irvin), james, , jamison, john, jersey shore, , , , , , johnson, sir william, , jones, isaiah, juniata valley, , kemplen, thomas, , kendall, willmoore, kincaid, mr., king, robert, king, william, , labor, , , lancaster, lancaster county, , , land claims, , , , , - , , , , , , - , land office, , , , larrys creek, , latcha, jacob, law, unwritten, - leadership, , - , , , lewisburg, leyburn, james g., , "limping messenger," , , linn, john blair, - , , lock haven, , , , , , , , locke, john, logan, james, long, cookson, , , love, robert, lycoming church, lycoming county courts, , , , , , , lycoming creek - , - , , , , , , , , lycoming _gazette_, lycoming township, lydius, john henry, mcelhattan, pa., mcelhattan, william, , mckean, thomas, , , mcmeans, william, macminn, edwin, , manning, richard, marshall, peter, martin, john, maynard, d. s., , medical practices, , meginness, john, - , , , , , methodists, , , , , , , milesburg, military service, - , , , , , , , milton, ministers, itinerant, , , , missionaries, montgomery county, montour, andrew, montoursville; _see_ ostonwaken moravians, muhlenberg, henry, muhlenberg, hiester h., muncy, , , , muncy creek, muncy hills, music, , national origins, - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , nationalism, , , , new hampshire, new jersey, , "new purchase," , , , , , , , new york, , , newspapers, niagara, n. y., nippenose valley, , nittany valley, northumberland county, - , , , , , , , , , , northumberland county courts, , , , , , , , , northumberland _gazette_, northumberland presbytery, office holding, , , , , , , "old purchase," onondaga (syracuse), n. y., , orange county, n. y., ostonwaken (montoursville), , paine, thomas, parr, james, patriotism, , - , , , paul, william, pennamite wars, petitions, , , , , , , , philadelphia, , , philadelphia county, , pine creek, - , , , , , , , , , , , , , pine creek church, pine creek township, , plymouth colony, political equality, , , , , , , , pottstown, pragmatism, , , "praying societies," pre-emption, - , , , , , , , , , presbyterianism, , , , - , - , , , , price, john, proclamation of , , , property right, , quilting, , , , ranney, austin, read, mr., recreation, , reed, william, , , , religion, , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , revolution; _see_ american revolution rhode island, , roads, rodey, peter, , schebosh, john, scotch-irish, - , , , - , , , , , , , - , - , - , , - , , , , , , , scots, - , , , , , self-determination, - , , - , self-reliance, , , self-sufficiency, , - sergeant, thomas, settlement, - , , , , , sheshequin path, - , shickellamy, , shippen, justice edward, singmaster, elsie, slavery, , smith, charles, smith, daniel, social compact, , social structure, , , , , , , , , - , , , , sour's ferry, spangenburg, bishop augustus, , - , , squatters' rights, , , stover, martin, , suffrage, , , , , sunbury, , - supreme court, pennsylvania, , supreme executive council, , , , , sweeney, morgan, syracuse, n. y.; _see_ onondaga, n. y. tax lists, - , , , , , , temperance, - , , tenancy, , - tenure, land, - , tiadaghton creek, - , , "tiadaghton elm," , , , tilghman, james, "tomahawk right," toner, john, tools, , , , , , tribunal, fair play, - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ; _see also_ fair play men turner, frederick jackson, , , - , , , values, , , , , , - , , virginia, , voluntary associations, , - walker, john, , , wallace, paul a. w., , weiser, conrad, , - , welsh, - , , , , , whitefield, george, williamsport, , wills, , , , , , winters massacre, women, , , , wyoming massacre, - wyoming valley, york county, zeisberger, david, , , zinzendorf, nicholas von, transcriber's endnotes minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. archaic spellings in quoted material have been retained. the following discrepancies have been noted and corrected where possible: page , chart . the data in column headed ' ' does not tally with the total below. with no obvious solution, the table remains as originally published. footnote , chapter . 'see nn. and , p. .' corrected to _see nn. and , p. ._ footnote , chapter . 'supra, p. .' corrected to _supra, p. ._ index entry 'economic institutions'. there is no index entry for '_farming_', however the main references to farming can found in chapter four. my first cruise, and other stories, by w.h.g. kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ there are four stories here, but it is not clear whether they are all by kingston. the first one, which gives the book its name, certainly is, and possibly the third, "the enchanted gate". the first story is a sort of diary or blog written by a young midshipman on his first voyage to sea, to his brother who was still at school. there are all the usual incidents, including swimming exercises. the other stories are well outside the kingston style, but are certainly amusing and worth reading. the book is quite short. ________________________________________________________________________ my first cruise, and other stories, by w.h.g. kingston. story one, chapter . notes from pringle rushforth's sea log. a letter to brother harry, at eton. it has become a reality, dear harry. i feel very strange--a curious sensation in the throat, just as if i was going to cry, and yet it is exactly what i have been longing for. you know better than any one how i had set my heart on going to sea, and yet i thought that i should never manage it. but, after all, here i am, really and truly a midshipman; at least a volunteer of the first class, as we are called now. the first time i put on my uniform, with my gold-band cap and dirk, i could not help every now and then looking at the gold lace on my collar and the buttons with the anchor and crown, and very pretty and nice they looked; and i do believe that this half-reconciled poor mamma, and fanny, and mary, and dear little emily to my going when they saw me with them on. i'll tell you how it all happened. uncle tom came to stay with us. he had been at the hall a week when, the very day before i was to go back to school, while we were all at breakfast, he got a long official-looking letter. no sooner had he torn it open and glanced at its contents, than he jumped up and shook papa by the hand, then kissed mamma, exclaiming, "they do acknowledge my services, and in a handsome way too, and they have appointed me to the juno intended for the south american station; the very ship i should have chosen! i must have pringle with me. no nonsense, mary. he wants to be a sailor, and a sailor he shall be. he's well fitted for it. i'll have no denial. it's settled--that's all right." (i had been telling him the day before how much i wanted to go to sea.) he carried his point, and set all the household preparing my kit, and then posted off for london, and rattled down to portsmouth to hoist his flag. he is not a man to do things by halves. in three days i followed him. the ship was nearly ready for sea. most of the officers had joined. there was only one vacancy, which i got. another captain had been appointed, who had been superseded, and he had selected most of the officers. many of my messmates are good fellows, but of others the less said about them the better, at least as far as i could judge from the way they behaved when i first went into the berth. we carry thirty-six guns. there is the main deck, on which most of them are placed, and the upper deck, which is open to the sky, and where all the ropes lead, and where some guns are, and the lower deck, where we sleep in hammocks slung to the beams, and where our berth is; that is the place where we live--our drawing-room, and parlour, and study, and anything else you please. there is a table in the centre, and lockers all round, and if you want to move about you have to get behind the other fellows' backs or over the table. under it are cases and hampers of all sorts, which the caterer has not unpacked. he is an old mate, and keeps us all in order. his name is gregson. i don't know whether i shall like him. he has been a great many years a midshipman; for a mate is only a passed midshipman who wants to be a lieutenant, but can't. he has no interest--nobody to help him on--so there he is growling and grumbling from morning to night, declaring that he'll cut the service, and go and join the russians, and make his country rue the day; but he doesn't, and i believe he wouldn't, if they would make him an admiral and a count off-hand. my chief friend they call dicky snookes. his real name, though, is algernon godolphin stafford, on which he rather prides himself. this was found out, so it was voted that he should be re-christened, and not be allowed under dreadful pains and penalties to assume his proper appellation in the berth; so no one thinks of calling him anything but snookes. he is getting not to mind it, which i am glad of, as he does not seem a bad fellow, and is up to fun of all sorts. there is another fellow who is always called lord jones or my lord, because he is as unlike what you would suppose a nobleman to be as possible. then there is polly. his real name is skeffington scoulding, which was voted too long, so, as poor fellow he has lost an eye, he was dubbed polyphemus, which was soon turned into polly. i haven't got a new name yet, so i hope to stick to my own. i have picked up a good many more bits of information during the three days i have been on board, but i have not time to tell them now. i will though, don't fear. i hope to be put in a watch when we get to sea. i don't mean inside a silver case, to go on tick!--ha!--ha!--ha! but to keep watch under a lieutenant, to see what the ship is about, and to keep her out of scrapes. good-bye, dear old fellow, i'll tell you more when i can.-- your affect brother, pringle rushforth. story one, chapter . notes from my log. the capstern went round with a merry tune--the boatswain's whistle sounded shrilly along the decks with a magic effect--the anchor was hove up--the sails were let fall and but a few minutes had passed, after the captain gave the word of command, before the ship, under a wide spread of snowy canvas, was standing down the solent towards the needle passage. it was a lovely summer's day, the sky was blue and so was the water, and the land looked green and bright, and the paint was so fresh, and the deck so white, and the officers in their glittering uniform had so polished an appearance, and the men in their white trousers and shirts with worked collars and natty hats, looked so neat and active as they sprang nimbly aloft, or flew about the decks, that i felt very proud of the frigate and everything about her, and very glad that i had come to sea. to be sure matters below were not quite in the same order just then. still prouder was i when we saluted the queen, who was at osborne--firing away first on one side and then on the other, with a flash and a roar, and a huge puff of smoke. we passed out at the needles with the cheese-like castle of hurst and its red ninepin-looking lighthouses on our right, and a little further to the west on our right with the high cliffs of alum bay striped curiously with coloured sand and three high-pointed rocks, wading out into the sea, as if wanting to get across to the north shore. these are the needle rocks. we had run the high white cliff at the west end of the island out of sight before dark, and that, except a thin blue tint of land away to the north-east, was the last i saw of the shores of dear old happy england. i daresay others felt as i did, but we all had so much to do that we hadn't time to talk about it. dickey snookes had been to sea already for a few months, and of course knew a great deal more than i could--at least he said that he did, and on the strength of it offered to tell me all about everything. i thought i saw a twinkle in his eye, but his eyes always are twinkling, so i did not suspect him of intending mischief. we had some vegetables for dinner--some carrots and turnips--and he asked me if i knew where they grew? i said in some garden, i supposed. "of course, young 'un," he answered. but you wouldn't suppose we had a garden up in our foretop, where we grow all sorts of greens and other things. you have not found your way there, i suspect. i told him that i had not, and he said that i must go up there that very afternoon with him, and that he would introduce me to the head-gardener, who was always up there looking after the gooseberry bushes. i knew that this was a joke, but still i wanted to see what he meant. i said that i was ready at once, but he kept putting me off; and whenever he saw me going up the rigging he always got some one to send for me or to call me, so that it was quite late in the day before i succeeded in getting into the shrouds. the sun had now gone down, the sky was overcast, and the sea had a leaden gloomy look--there was a swell also, and the ship rolled so much from side to side, that, as i looked up and saw the mastheads forming arches in the sky, i could not help fancying that i should be sent off when i got up there like a stone from a sling, or an ancient catapult, right into the water. the idea made me hold on very tight, let me tell you; yet, as it would never do to give it up, on i went with my teeth pretty closely clenched, and my eyes fixed on the top, which seemed to grow farther and farther away from me, like jack's bean-stalk. at last i got up just under the top. there are two ways of getting on to it. one is by going along some ropes, called the futtock shrouds, when one hangs very much as a fly does crawling along the ceiling. i didn't like it, being up there all alone in the gloom, for it was very different to climbing an apple-tree or the oak-tree at the bottom of the lawn, with our nest on the top of it, where you and i used to sit and smoke cane cigars, and fancy ourselves istelson and collingwood. it wasn't pleasant going along the futtock shrouds, and still less getting round them outside into the top, for as the ship rolled it felt as if the mast was coming right down on the top of me. i waited, however, holding on as a cat does to a bough when you shake it, till the ship rolled over the other way, and then up i sprang easily enough, and there i saw dickey snookes and polly and my lord all standing by the side of the captain of the top, and grinning from ear to ear, as if they had some very good joke in hand. at first i thought that the captain of the top was a very important person, but i soon found that he was only one of the seamen who is more active and smarter than the rest, and takes command of those aloft. "here comes midshipman green," they all exclaimed, as they saw my head appearing between the topmast shrouds. when i stood in the top they all insisted on shaking hands with me, pinching my fingers terribly. "and so you want to see our garden up here," said snookes; "you're the greenest thing we've got in it just now, let me tell you--ha! ha! ha!" i didn't see anything to laugh at; but i laughed just to keep them company, thinking the joke was over. however, before i knew what they were about they caught hold of me, and while one blinded my eyes with a handkerchief, i found myself lashed up to the rigging with my arms and legs spread out just like the eagle on a russian flag. presently all was silent. the ship kept rolling backwards and forwards as before, and i began to feel somewhat queer in the region of my waistband and right up to my throat, still i wouldn't cry out. suddenly i found the bandage whisked off my eyes, and then i could see only one top man standing on the other side of the top, but my messmates had disappeared. i called to the man. he touched his hat with the greatest respect. i told him to cast me loose. "my orders were, sir, not to touch you," he answered. i argued the point. "well, sir, if as how you pays your footing, i'll do it," he replied; "but, sir, you'll take care that i'm not tied up and get two dozen for disobeying orders." i was ready to promise anything, for it was very unpleasant rolling about up there in the dark. after some hesitation and further talk, tom hansard, that was the topman's name, cut off the lashings. i gave him five shillings, all the money i had in my pocket. "you'll keep it secret, sir," said he. "you'll say nothing against a poor fellow like me, sir; that you won't, i know." i promised him, and he then helped me down through the lubber's hole, for as to going down outside, i couldn't just then have done it to save my life. when i got back to the berth, there were all my three messmates seated round the table, taking their tea, and pretending to be very much astonished at hearing all which had happened to me. of course, i said nothing about tom hansard, and they pretended that they could not make out how i had got loose. i found out, however, that the whole plan was arranged beforehand by dicky snookes and my other messmates with the captain of the top, just to see what i was made of, and what i would do, it being understood that he was to keep whatever he could get out of me. had i cried or made a fuss about the matter, or said that i would complain to my uncle, i should have been looked upon as a regular sneak. the fellows hate telling of one another here just as much as we did at school. from the way i took the trick i believe they liked me better than they did before. of course, all about the garden and the vegetables was nonsense, and i should have been green to have believed it, which i didn't. away we went rolling along with a westerly swell and a northerly wind, while many of the fellows in the berth were singing: "there we lay, all the day, in the bay of biscay, o;" and others "rule britannia," old gregson not forgetting his standing joke of "bless the old girl; i wish, while she was about it, that she had ruled them straighter." the very next morning the gale, of which the swell was the forerunner, came down upon us with a sudden gust. "all hands shorten sail," was shouted along the decks. the men flew aloft, that is, they climbed up so nimbly that they looked as if they were flying, and they lay out on the yards to reef the sail. snookes had to go also, as he was stationed in the foretop. "any greens up there to-day?" i asked as he passed me, not looking happy, for the ship was tumbling about, the spray was flying over us, and the wind was howling terrifically in the rigging. it was altogether very different to what it had been on the previous evening. still poor snookes had to go up. the boatswain's whistle and the voices of the officers sounded loud above the gale, and so did the cries of the midshipmen. i contrived to make myself heard, though, of course, i only sung out what i was told to say, and wasn't always certain what would happen after i had said it, any more than does a person in a fairy tale, who has got hold of some magic words and doesn't know what effect they will produce. the topgallantsails and royals were quickly furled--those are the sails highest up, you know; and then the huge topsails came rattling down the masts, and the men lay out on the yards and caught hold of them, as they were bulging out and flapping fearfully about, to reef them. one of the topmen, tom hansard, was at the weather yardarm, and had hold of the earing, which isn't a bit like those gold things our sisters wear in their ears, but is a long rope which helps to reef the sails. suddenly the ship gave a tremendous lurch, i heard a cry, i looked up, and there was tom hansard hanging by one hand to the earing from the yard-arm, right over the foaming ocean. i felt as if i had swallowed a bucket full of snow. i thought the poor fellow must be dropped overboard, and so did everybody else, and some were running to one of the boats to lower her to pick him up. he swung fearfully about from side to side. no human power could save him. i was watching to see him drop, when he made a great effort, and springing up, he caught the rope with his other hand. still he was only a degree better off. fancy dangling away at the end of a thin rope, jerked backwards and forwards high up in the air, with certain death were he to fall on board, and very small prospect of escape if he fell into the foaming, tumbling sea, through which the ship was flying at the rate of some ten knots an hour. i felt inclined to shriek out in sympathy, for i am sure that i should have shrieked out, and very loudly too, had i been up there in his place. i felt sure that he would come down when i saw two of the topmen going out to the end of the yard-arm and stretching out their arms towards him to help him. he saw them, and began to climb up the thin rope till they could catch hold of his jacket, then up they pulled him, though the sails flapping about very nearly tore him out of their hands. they held him on to the yard for a minute till he could recover himself, and then he scrambled in on to the top. there was a general shout fore and aft when he was safe. another man went to the weather earing, and three reefs were taken in the topsails. i heard the first lieutenant observe to uncle tom that he was very glad to get the ship snug at last; but i cannot say that i thought her snug, or anything snug about her, for there we were among clouds of sleet and spray, tumbling and rolling about in that undignified way in which i had not thought it possible so fine a frigate could have been tumbled and rolled about. it brought down the ship a peg or two in my estimation, and took the shine out of many of us, let me tell you. that fellow snookes was continually offering me a lump of fat bacon, and at dinner he contrived to slip all the most greasy bits into my plate. i held out manfully, and tried to look very heroic, or, at all events, indifferent; but, oh harry, i did feel very wretched, and began to reflect that i might possibly have been rather happier on shore. i suspect that the way my lips curled, and the yellow look of my eyes, betrayed me. the gale lasted for three days. i was very glad when it was over; so you understand it is not all sunshine at sea. story one, chapter . the slaver. it was reported that we were to touch at one or two places on the coast of africa, and then to stand across to the brazils. the first land we made was that near sierra leone. i always thought that negroes lived in thatched huts, and wore bits of white cloth round their loins. we brought up before free town, the capital of the colony, when what was my surprise to see really a very handsome place, containing between fifteen and twenty thousand inhabitants, the greater number black or brown men, and as well-dressed and comfortable-looking as any white people could be. what is more, they have schools and colleges where they are capitally taught, and all the little black children go to school; so that the truth is, that they are far better educated than are the children of the working classes in many parts of england, and are all just as good christians as we are. sommers told me all this, and a great deal more. i haven't spoken about him before. he's a mate--such a good-natured, kind fellow, and is very merry, though he can be very serious; and do you know, when he's in the berth, none of the others, big or little, swear and talk about things they oughtn't to. i like sommers, and so even does snookes and my lord; and he never lets anybody bully polly when he's near. i think that i should have been bullied a good deal, but i took everything that was said or done in good part, or pretended to be unconscious of it, and lost no opportunity of retorting--good-naturedly of course--it would not have done otherwise. and now, the rest only play the same tricks with me that they do with each other. no one makes any difference with me because i am the captain's nephew, any more than uncle tom does himself. uncle tom is very kind, but he makes no difference that i can see between the rest of the midshipmen and me. he does the best that he can for all of us, that is the truth: he punishes all alike if we do wrong, and has us all into the cabin and gives us good advice, and talks to us frequently. still we do, somehow or other, manage to get into scrapes. i have been mastheaded twice, and dickey snookes five times, since we came to sea; once for dressing up the sheep in some of the men's clothes just before the crew were mustered, and then letting them out on the deck; and another time for cutting poor polly's hammock down by the head, and very nearly cracking his skull--luckily it's rather thick. after leaving free town we touched at monrovia, the capital of liberia. have you ever read about that settlement? it was established by the people of the united states, and colonised by men of colour, or blacks, who had been once slaves and had obtained their freedom. it is a republic, and the chief magistrate as well as all the officers are brown or black men. it is not nearly so large nor so flourishing a place as sierra leone. in the latter, you see, there are a great many intelligent white men who set the blacks an example of industry and perseverance, in which qualities they are somewhat wanting generally. still it is wonderful to see what black men can do when left free with a good example before them. monrovia is really a very respectable-looking city. there are a number of stone warehouses full of goods near the water, and a good many dwelling-houses of brick, nicely furnished, and of two storeys high, but the greater number of the habitations are of wood, on brick foundations. there are several churches, four or five at least, with black or coloured preachers. the greater part of the principal inhabitants are engaged in trade, exchanging palm oil, ivory, cam-wood, which is a valuable dye, for european or american manufactures. they have also a number of vessels manned by liberian sailors, which sail along the coast to collect the produce of the country. uncle tom took me on shore, but we remained only a very short time, so that i cannot give you a more particular account of the place. leaving the coast of africa, we stood across the atlantic towards that of america. we had left the land some four or five days when the wind fell, and we lay becalmed, one side and then the other dipping provokingly into the smooth, glassy, and shining water, and very nearly rolling our masts out. it was so hot, too, that the pitch bubbled up through the seams in the deck, and dickey snookes declared we could have roasted our dinners on the capstern-head. i believe, indeed, that we could. i was very glad when the sun went down, and the night came, but it was not so very much cooler even then, and most of the watch below remained on deck to swallow some fresh air, but very little any one of us benefited by it. the next day, at all events, i thought that we should get a breeze, but it was much the same. hot! oh, how hot it was! we all went gasping about the decks, not knowing what to do with ourselves, and the sea shone so brightly that it was positively painful to look at it. i daresay that it would have been much worse on shore, for, at all events, the air we breathed was pure and clear, though it was pretty well roasted. it was curious to see the same chips of wood and empty hampers, and all the odds and ends thrown overboard, floating around us day after day. we had been a week thus becalmed when i was sent aloft, as the midshipmen occasionally are, to see what was to be seen. i did not expect to see anything, but i did, and that was a long, thin, dark blue line away to the north-east. i reported it to the officer of the watch. he said it was all right, and that we should have a breeze before long, and ordered the watch to trim sails. the blue line increased in width till it could be seen from the deck, and on it came, growing broader and broader every instant. sure enough it was a breeze stirring up the surface of the ocean. in a little time the upper sails felt its influence, and then the topsails began to bulge out, and the courses moved, and away we glided through the still smooth water faster than we had done for many a day. for some hours we ran on till a sail was reported right ahead still becalmed. as we drew near we discovered her to be a large topsail schooner, with a very rakish appearance. she was still becalmed, but as we brought the breeze up with us her sails bulged out, and she began to glide through the water. there were many discussions as to what she was; some thought her an honest trader, others a slaver; some said she was american, and others spanish or portuguese. "one thing is in her favour," observed old gregson, "she does not attempt to run away." "good reason, greggy," said dickey snookes aside to me, "she can't--just see what she will do when she gets the wind!" though i had never seen a slaver, the stranger came exactly up to my idea of what a slaver was like. we always at sea call a vessel, whose name and country we don't know, a stranger. still she did not run away even when she got the breeze, but hove her topsail to the mast, and kept bobbing gracefully away at us as we came up, while the stars and stripes of the united states flew out at her peak. all doubts as to the honesty of her character were dissipated when an officer standing at her gangway hailed and asked what frigate we were. the reply was given, and he was asked what schooner that was. "`the wide awake,' from new orleans, bound in for sierra leone. shall be happy to take any letters or packages you have to send for that settlement, captain," exclaimed the speaker through his trumpet. this was all very polite. still more so was it when the american skipper offered to send his boat aboard us to receive our despatches. as it happened, the captain had been wishing to send a letter back to sierra leone, and several of the officers wished to write, and as the delay would not be great, we told the polite american that we would trouble him. he seemed well pleased, and said that he would get his boat ready, and drop aboard us. i remained on deck watching the schooner, for there is something very attractive to my eye in the movements of another vessel at sea. a boat was after some time lowered from the schooner and pulled towards us, when she filled her fore-topsail, stood a little way on, tacked, and then steered so as to get to windward of us. i saw our first lieutenant watching her very narrowly when she did this, and then looking at her boat. presently he went into the captain's cabin. he was not there long. when he came out he ordered a boat to be manned, with the crew all armed, and directed the crews of three or four guns on either side to go quietly to their quarters. i saw, meantime, that the american's boat, instead of pulling up alongside, was passing astern of us, so as to meet the schooner, now rapidly approaching our weather quarter. she was still within hearing when the first lieutenant shouted, "our despatches are ready--come on board!" but the people in the boat pretended not to hear, and pulled on towards the schooner. on this sommers was ordered to take command of the boat, and to proceed on board the stranger. to my great delight i got leave from uncle tom to accompany him. it was very kind--it was the first piece of favouritism he had shown me. dickey snookes was quite jealous when he saw me jump into the boat. "ah, pringle, you'll get knocked on the head, my boy, depend on that!" was his encouraging observation. away we pulled towards the schooner. her boat had reached her, and was hoisted up. we had before not observed more than a dozen or fifteen men at the utmost. there were now more than double that number on her deck, or about her rigging. every stitch of canvas she could carry was set; her yards were braced sharp up, and away she went like a shot on a bowline. "give way, my lads, give way!" cried sommers, and the men did give way, pulling with all their might; but the schooner went through the water much faster than we did, and in spite of all our efforts soon left us far behind. "that was the meaning of all his politeness about the letters-- he expected to hoodwink us, did he? the rogue!" exclaimed sommers. "but though we do not catch him, the frigate will; there is no fear of that!" we pulled on after the schooner some time longer, but sommers at length saw that the chase was perfectly hopeless. "the worst of it is, that the frigate will have to heave to to pick us up," he observed. he then asked me if i should mind letting the frigate stand on after the chase, and stand the chance of being picked up when she had caught her. i cannot say that i particularly liked the notion of being left all alone in a boat in the middle of the atlantic. still i did not like to say so. however, the captain settled the point by heaving the frigate to as she came up to us, and ordering us to return on board. this we did with as little delay, as possible, when once more the frigate stood on after the schooner. still the latter had gained a considerable advantage, but she was not beyond the range of our guns, and we now began to fire away at her to make her heave to again. of course she had no intention of doing this if she could help it. our shot went flying pretty thickly after her, but still, though several struck her and cut her ropes, and made eyelet holes in her sails, her damages were repaired as quickly as they were produced, and there seemed a considerable chance of her getting away from us altogether. story one, chapter . the chase. our frigate sails very fast; there are few ships in the service sail faster, and none in most respects to surpass her, or indeed, i really believe, to equal her. i do not know what she cannot do. the boatswain says, and i believe him, that she can do everything but talk. still, somehow or other, that piccarooning-looking schooner managed to keep ahead of us, and after some time actually ran out of the range of our shot. she was undoubtedly one of the fastest vessels of her class ever built, or it would not have happened. the schooner made a number of short tacks right away in the wind's eye. this would not have suited us, as we took longer to go about, so we had to stretch away to the eastward, while she, tacking once more, stood to the north-west. sometimes we appeared to be a long way apart, then about we would go and be almost up with her again. what we had to fear was night coming on before we could get up to her, when very probably she would contrive to escape in the dark. old gregson watched her moodily. "of course she will escape," he observed. "she is probably full of slaves, and would prove a rich prize to us. we are not likely to have any luck; no ship has that i'm on board." it seemed probable that in this case, at all events, he would be right. we were all so eager in watching the chase that none of us felt inclined to go below. the pangs of hunger at dinner-time, however, drove most of us there. we had not got half through the meal before dickey snookes made his appearance with the announcement that the schooner's maintopmast had been carried away, and that we should be soon up to her. we all rushed on deck to find matters very much as they were when we went below, and on our return to the berth there was master dickey comfortably seated at table, helping himself to the best bits of the boiled beef and duff, and laughing at our simplicity, or, as he remarked, at our being so easily sold. he got a cobbing by the by, as a wind-up to his amusement, after dinner was over. it is an operation by no means over-pleasant to the person on whom it is inflicted. the weapon employed is a handkerchief with a corner knotted; or a stocking, with the end filled with socks, or something to make a hard knot. the patient is laid across the mess-table, and each member of the berth inflicts a blow on a part of his body, over which his clothes are tightly drawn. as the day drew on, the wind increased. dickey snookes having been properly cobbed, we all hurried on deck. as we looked through our glasses, we saw that the schooner was staggering along under as much canvas as she could carry; while the frigate glided on with becoming dignity, we having decidedly the advantage in a strong wind. i asked sommers what he thought about the matter. "we are coming up with her, lad, hand over hand, and if the wind holds she will be under our guns before nightfall," he answered. as you may suppose, i was highly delighted with the thoughts of this, and hoped that i might be sent on board with the prize crew. still the schooner held on her course, and her determined attempts to escape convinced us more and more that she had good reason for so doing. the evening was now drawing on. we had gained on her very considerably, but still she was sufficiently ahead, should the night prove dark, to escape us. the very idea that she would do so was provoking. some did not seem to care so much about it as others. dickey made a joke of the matter, and said how foolish we should all look in the morning when the schooner was nowhere; and polly was provokingly indifferent. the sun went down, and darkness came on, and very dark it was; and though i looked and looked i could not see the chase, but there were many on board who could, and we began firing away, the flashes of the guns looking very bright through the darkness. at last i saw the schooner's dark hull and masts, like a shadow against the sky, and there then was a cry that her foretopmast was shot away, and our people gave a loud cheer. directly after this the first lieutenant shouted that she had struck, and we ceased firing. two boats were ordered away to take possession. the second lieutenant went in one, and sommers had command of the other. i jumped into his boat, as if it were a matter of course; and away we pulled toward the schooner. "i guess that you have pretty considerably outmanoeuvred us, gentlemen, but still i don't know, by what right you, or any other men alive, venture on board a free and independent merchantman of the united states of america," said a man who met us at the gangway. "you come on board at your peril!" "we are well aware of that, friend," answered our lieutenant; "but we must be satisfied that you are an american before we let you go." saying this, he led the way on board. by the light of the lanterns we carried, we could see a very ill-looking crew scowling at us, and evidently wishing to heave us overboard. it was lucky that we were all well armed. i daresay that you will fancy i could not have done much, but i could fire off a pistol at all events, which was as likely to kill as that of a bigger fellow--that was one comfort. the man who had hailed us, and pretended to be the captain, had said that the vessel was american. mr talbot was only a short time in the cabin when he came out again, and telling us that he had no doubt she was a portuguese or brazilian, ordered the hatches, which were closed, to be lifted off. this took us some little time to do. never shall i forget the horrible stench--the shrieks and cries and groans which ascended from the hold as the hatches were got off. we lowered our lanterns and looked down. there, arranged in rows along the deck, and chained two and two, squatting on their hams, were several hundreds of blacks--men, women, and children. i cannot describe the dreadful faces of despair and horror and suffering which met our view as the light of our lanterns fell on them, while they looked up with their white eyes and black visages imploringly at us. i fancy that they thought we were going to shoot them all; for the portuguese crew had told them so, in the hopes, should we free them, that they might set upon us and throw us overboard. this amiable intention was frustrated, because mr talbot had been on the coast of africa and was well up to the tricks of the slavers. he consequently would not allow any of the poor wretches to be liberated till all necessary precautions had been taken to prevent them from doing any harm. our first care was to secure the slaver's crew. they seemed as if inclined to make some resistance; but we pointed to the frigate, which was close to us, and intimated that if they did not behave themselves we should call her to our assistance; so, with no very good grace, they consented to step into one of our boats to be carried on board the juno. i was very glad to get rid of them, for i could not help feeling, as i walked about the deck, that any moment they might set upon us and knock us on the head. as soon as they had gone, mr talbot sent sommers and me round the deck with water and farinha; that is the food the blacks are fed on. we had four men with us carrying the provisions. i could not have supposed that human beings, with flesh and blood like ourselves, could have existed in such a horrible condition. in the first place, there was barely four feet between the decks, and that was very high for a slaver; many are only three feet. even i had to bend down to get along. close as they could be packed, the poor creatures sat on the bare, hard, dirty deck, without even room to stretch their legs. i almost fainted, and even sommers and the men had great difficulty in getting along. oh! how eagerly the poor creatures drank the water when we put it to their mouths, though they did not seem to care much about the food. many could not even lift up their heads to take the water. several were dying; and as we put the tin cups to their mouths, even while gazing at us, and, i am sure, feeling grateful, they fell back and died. many were already dead when we came to them, and there they lay, chained to the living. sometimes we found that a father had died, leaving two or three small children; sometimes a mother had sunk, leaving an infant still living. several poor children had died, and it was hard work, and cruel it seemed, to make the poor mothers give up the bodies to be thrown overboard. we came to one black lad, who was sitting by the side of a woman, whom we guessed must be his mother. sommers said that he thought she had not many minutes to live. the poor fellow seemed so grateful when we gave her some water and food, which revived her somewhat. i never saw a greater change in anybody's countenance. he was at first the very picture of misery and despair. then he thought that she was going to recover. he looked up as if he could almost have worshipped us, with a smile which, though his countenance was black, was full of expression. we knocked off her chains, and then those of the lad, and sommers directed one of the men to assist me in carrying her on deck. there were many in as deplorable a condition as this poor woman, and i scarcely know why it was i felt so anxious to assist her, except on account of her son; there was something in his face which had so interested me. when we got her on deck, she sat up but she could not reply to her son, who, with tears in his eyes, spoke to her, imploring her, it seemed, to answer him. the surgeon and assistant-surgeons had by this time come on board. i begged the first to come and look at the poor woman before he went below. when i returned, she had sunk back in her son's arms. our kind doctor took her hand--"it's all over with her; i can do nothing. the poor lad will find it out," he observed, and then he had to hurry below. it was some time before the poor lad could believe that his mother was dead, and then he burst into such a fit of tears that i thought he would have died himself. it convinced me that negroes have got hearts just like ours, though dickey snookes always declares they have not, and that they once had tails, which is all nonsense. we had now a strong body of seamen on board, and they kept bringing up the negroes from below--men, women, and children. several were dead, and two or three had been dead for a couple of days or more. one poor woman had kept the dead body of her child, pretending that it was alive, nor bearing to part with it, till she herself fell sick. at length it was taken from her, but she died as soon as she was brought on deck. in spite of all the doctors could do, many others died also. it was daylight before we got the slave hold in anything like order. as soon as the sun rose, up went the glorious flag of old england, and from that moment every negro on board was free. it is a proud thing to feel that not for a moment can a man remain a slave who rests under the shadow of that time-honoured banner. the instant the slave, whatever his country, sets foot on british soil, he is free, or placed under the protection of the british flag. it is a thing to be proud of. of that i am certain. not for a long time, however, could we persuade the poor slaves that we meant them well, and were doing all we could for their benefit. when they once were convinced of this, they gave us their unlimited confidence. we were then able to trust about a third at a time on deck, to enable us to clean out the hold. it was not so much that we had reason to be on our guard against what the negroes could do to us, as to prevent them from injuring themselves. mr talbot had ordered about fifty to be brought on deck soon after daylight. he had their irons knocked off, and water and brushes were given them that they might clean themselves. no sooner, however, did two of them find themselves free, than, before anybody could prevent them, they leaped overboard. one poor fellow sunk at once, and disappeared from our sight; the other seemed to repent of the act, and swam to regain the schooner. i, with others, instantly leaped into one of the boats alongside to go and pick him up. just as we were shoving off, i saw a black triangular fin sticking up above the surface dart from under the counter. we shouted and splashed the oars as we pulled with all our might towards the poor fellow. there was a terrible shriek; he gave one imploring gaze at us as he threw up his arms and sank from view. we could see him going rapidly down, with a large dark object below him, while a red circle came up and filled the eddy he had made. "jack shark musters pretty thick about here," observed the coxswain; "he knows well enough when he's likely to have a feast." it was very dreadful, but, do you know, it is extraordinary how little one feels those sort of things at the time. when i got on board i looked about for the poor lad whose mother had died. i found him still sitting by her body. that had to be taken from him, and then he was left alone. he seemed not to know or to care for any of the other blacks, but when i spoke to him he knelt down and kissed my hand, and said some words which i thought meant--"you'll be kind to me and take care of me. i know you will. i'll trust to you." i do not know whether this was really what he said or not, but, at all events, i determined to do my best, and to be a friend to him. slavers, when captured, are usually sent into sierra leone to be condemned, when the slaves are set free, and the vessels are sold. on examining our prize, however, it was discovered that she had but a short allowance of water and farinha, or provisions of any sort; and as the wind was fair for rio de janeiro, and contrary for sierra leone, the captain decided on carrying her to the former place, or to some other port on the brazilian coast, where she might obtain a sufficient supply of necessaries, which we could not afford to give her from the frigate. sommers was appointed to command the prize, and i was not a little gratified when he obtained leave to take me with him. my traps were soon on board, and we then shaped a course for rio de janeiro. story one, chapter . peter pongo. i forgot to say that dickey snookes was sent on board the prize to keep me company. he told me that the captain had called him into the cabin, and given him a long lecture about playing tricks, and that he had made up his mind to behave very circumspectly. i doubted that he would keep very long to his good resolution. i felt excessively proud when i first walked the deck of the prize as officer of the watch, though that fellow snookes would declare that the old quartermaster who kept it with me was my dry-nurse, and that i was a mere make-believe. i know that i kept pacing up and down on the weather side of the quarter-deck with great dignity, looking up at the sails, and every now and then giving a glance at the compass, to assure myself that the man at the helm was steering a proper course. i should like to know what officer in the service, under the circumstances, could do more. we were ordered to keep the frigate always in sight, and as the prize sailed well, we had little difficulty in doing that. in the day time we collected the poor blacks to come on deck in fifties at a time, and walk up and down. we had a black man on board the frigate, who was now sent with us, and he understood the language of some of the slaves. i had not forgotten the poor boy whose mother i had seen die, and i got permission for him to attend at our mess. the other black seaman was able to explain to him what he had to do, and i set to work to teach him english. he learned with surprising rapidity, and could soon exchange words with me. i wished to give him a name, and succeeded in learning that his native one was pongo. he, of course, had no christian name, so i proposed calling him peter, and he was always afterwards known as peter pongo. he soon became a capital servant, though he did now and then make curious mistakes. once he brought our soup into the cabin in a wash-bowl, and another time emptied into a pail two bottles of wine which he had been ordered to cool in water. snookes was for punishing him, but i saved the poor fellow, as i was certain that he had not done either of the things being aware of their incorrectness. he exhibited, in consequence, the greatest gratitude towards me, and evidently looked up to me as his friend and protector. he improved rapidly in his knowledge of english, and by the time we drew near the coast of south america he was able to explain himself with tolerable clearness. with the aid of the negro seaman i spoke of, i got somewhat of poor peter pongo's simple history out of him. i cannot put it in his words, for though at the time i could understand them, yet you certainly would not if i wrote them down. one day i had gone forward, and when seated on the forecastle, under the shade of the fore-staysail, i listened to his narrative. "ah! massa pringle, my country very good," he began. he always called me pringle, for he could not manage to pronounce my surname. "plenty yams there-- plenty denge--plenty corn--plenty sheep--tall trees--high mountains-- water come gushing out of rocks up among clouds--so cool with foam--loud roar--make grass grow--bright ponds--many animals come and drink. ah! no country like mine. my father have good house too--very warm--very cool--no rain come in--all built round square--high roof, hang long way over wall--room for walk up and down under it. dere we all sit in middle of square, listen to stories--now we laugh, now we cry--sun go down, moon get up--star twinkle in dark sky, all so bright--still we talk--talk on--tell long stories--so happy--laugh still more. ah! what is dat? dreadful shriek--shriek--shriek--guns fire--we all start up-- some run one way, some anoder--house on fire--flames rise up--fierce men come in--cut down some--kill--kill--take women, children--many young men--some fight--dey all killed--my father killed--mother, brother, and me all carried away together--hands tied behind our backs--hundreds-- hundreds poor people, all drive away towards coast--then with long sticks and whips drive along--walk, walk--foot so sore--sleep at night under tree--all chained--up again before sun--walk, walk on all day-- cruel men beat us--some grow sick. my brother, him grow sick--lie down under tree--men beat him with stick--he look up--say, oh, no beat me-- give one sigh, fall back and die. dere he stay--many die like him--some lie down, and men beat him up again. on we go--see at last blue ocean-- put into barracoon--all chained to iron bar--no move one side nor oder-- wait dere many days. ship with white sail come at last--we all put on raft--carried to ship. oh, how many--more, more come--ship no hold them--many sick--many die--thrown overboard--shark eat them. on we sail--oh, how hot--more, more die--many days no more--float on water like one log--den you come--white man, spaniard, say you kill us--ah, no, no--you very good--we very happy--yes, massa, peter pongo very happy now." such was peter's brief account of himself. you will not consider it too much of a rigmarole. i was, i know, much interested when he told it me, and i had some little difficulty in making out what he meant. soon after this we entered the magnificent harbour of rio de janeiro, which looks like a lake surrounded by lofty hills, the curious sugar-loaf rising above all. i have heard it said that it would contain all the ships in the world; but, large as it is, i have an idea that they would be very close packed if they were all brought together there. the city is large, built on level ground, or rather on a swamp, with mountains covered with trees rising directly behind it. there are numerous churches and fine palaces, and many large public buildings, but the white inhabitants are very brown and dirty, and the black, who seem to be very numerous, wear a remarkably small amount of clothing. though the greater number are slaves, they are very merry slaves, and it was amusing to see one party meet another. they would stop, pull off their straw hats, make a series of mock polite bows, and some remarks which were sure to produce roars of laughter; how they would twist and turn about, and at last lean against each other's backs, that they might more at their ease indulge in fresh cachinnations. i have never seen any but blacks twist themselves into such curious attitudes. i cannot give a more lucid account of this imperial city, because i was so very little on shore. we had a great deal of work in getting the schooner refitted. all the poor blacks were taken on board the frigate, for we could not trust them on shore lest the brazilians might have spirited them away, while the schooner was thoroughly cleansed and fumigated. we then took in an ample supply of water and provisions, and prepared to recross the atlantic. the brazilians could not understand why we took so much trouble about a few miserable blacks, and thought that we should have done much more wisely had we sold them to them at half-price. mr talbot had still charge of the prize, and having sommers as his lieutenant, with dickey snookes and me, he was ordered to carry her back to sierra leone. we flattered ourselves that both my lord and polly looked at us with a considerable amount of envy as we wished them farewell. story one, chapter . overboard. once more we were at sea. had it not been for the honour of the thing, we should have preferred being on board the frigate, for although i have a great respect for many africans, i must say that it is not agreeable to have some hundreds of them as shipmates. we had happily very fine weather, and the poor people were able constantly to take the air on deck. they seemed to have forgotten all their sufferings and miseries, and would sing and dance and tell stories, and laugh all day long. i still continued to take peter pongo in hand, and began to teach him not only to speak but to read and write english. snookes used to laugh at me at first, but when he saw the progress peter made he wanted to teach him likewise. to this i said no, he might try and teach some one else, but he was not to interfere with my pupil. he agreed to this, but either he selected a stupid subject, or his mode of teaching was not good, for he made wonderfully little progress. for a week he was trying to teach his pupil tommy toad, as he called him, three letters of the alphabet, and at the end of the time he could not tell b from c. mr talbot took care also that we should not be idle, and kept us knotting and splicing and doing all sorts of work aloft. we were approaching our port, and were congratulating ourselves on having made a favourable passage, when two of our men were taken sick, then another and another, till our strength was sadly reduced. one poor fellow died, and there appeared every prospect of our losing more. the negroes were generally ready enough to work, but as they did not know how, they were of little use. mr talbot and sommers worked away most heroically, attending to the sick, pulling and hauling, and often steering the vessel. dickey and i did our best to help them. while the fine weather lasted our difficulties were not very great; at the same time, we were so short handed that the labour fell heavily on those who remained well. dickey and i, though not very big or strong, from going constantly aloft, were of no little use, we flattered ourselves. one evening as we were approaching our destination, being closed hauled under all sail and standing on our course--sommers was at the helm, mr talbot was below, and dickey and i with two men were on deck, all we could muster for the watch--sommers kept looking anxiously round the horizon, especially to the southward, where i observed some dark clouds banking up. as i watched them, they seemed suddenly to take it into their heads to roll rapidly onward, and down they bore upon us like a flock of sheep scouring over the downs. "all hands shorten sail," shouted sommers. "stafford. rushforth, aloft lads, and furl the fore-topgallantsail." up we sprang into the rigging. as yet the breeze was very light, and there was no difficulty in what we had to do, but a few minutes' delay might make the task impracticable. dickey was spirited enough in reality. we lay along on the yard, and had begun to haul the sail, when, as i was stretching over to get a hold of the canvas to gather it up, i lost my balance, and over i went head first. i heard a shriek. it was from dickey. he thought i should be killed. so should i, if i had had time to think about the matter; but providentially at that moment a sudden puff of wind bulged out the foretopsail to its utmost extent, and i striking it at the moment, away it sent me, as from a catapult, right over the bows, clear of the vessel. had i struck the deck or bulwarks i should have been killed. i sank, but quickly coming to the surface, looked about me with very little hope of being saved, for there was the schooner flying on before the fast-increasing gale; and as i knew full well, with so few seamen on board, that it would take some time to put about to come to my relief. all this flashed rapidly through my mind. farther and farther away flew the schooner, still i determined not to give in. i could swim pretty well, and i managed to throw off my jacket and kick off my shoes, and as only a thin pair of trousers and a shirt remained, i had no difficulty in keeping myself above water; but the knowledge that sharks abounded in those seas, and that any moment one of those horrid monsters might catch hold of my leg and haul me down, gave me very unpleasant sensations. i watched the receding vessel--moments seemed hours. there was no sign of her putting about. i at length was about to give way to despair, when my eye fell on an object floating between her and me. it was of some size--a grating i concluded--and i made out a black ball on the other side of it. the grating was moving towards me. i struck out to make it, and then i saw that it was pushed by a negro. "keep up, massa pringle, keep up," said a voice in a cheery tone, which i recognised as that of peter pongo. my spirits returned. i had been a careless, thoughtless fellow, but i prayed then as i never prayed before, that the dreadful sharks might be kept from me, that i might reach the grating, and might by some means or other be saved. i felt a strength and courage i had not felt before. i struck out with all my power, still it seemed very very long before i reached the grating, and in my agitation i almost sank as i was catching hold of it. peter pongo had, however, sprang on to it and caught hold of me. i soon recovered. words enough did not just then come into my head to thank him, but i took his hand, and he understood me. so far i was safe, for the grating was large enough to hold us both, but the sea was rapidly rising, and we might easily again be washed off. we looked about us, the schooner had not yet tacked, and the squall had already caught her. she was heeling over on her beam-ends, and everything seemed in confusion on board--yards swinging about, ropes flying away, and sails shivering to tatters. it was late in the evening, the sky was obscured, and darkness was coming on. the seas, too, began to dance wildly about us; their white tops, curling over and leaving dark cavern-looking hollows underneath, into which it seemed every instant that we must glide and be swallowed up. the prospect altogether was gloomy in the extreme. i felt how much i owed to poor peter pongo, who had voluntarily exposed himself to it for my sake, and i felt that had he not done so, i should long before this have been numbered with the dead. i still thought that we should both be saved. there were some bits of rope fastened to the grating, and by these we lashed ourselves to it, or we should inevitably have been washed off. we were constantly under water, but as it was warm that did not signify, as we soon again came to the surface. our fear was lest some hungry shark should make a dart at us on those occasions and pick us off. darker and darker it grew, the seas as they dashed wildly about made a loud prolonged roar, and at last, as we cast our eyes forward, not a glimpse of the schooner could we see. as the conviction of our forlorn condition broke upon me--i could not help it--i gave way to tears. i could not wring my hands because they were busy holding on to the grating. i thought of you, mother, and papa, and dear harry, and our sisters, and that i should never see you any more; or old england, or the hall, or uncle tom, or any of my friends. peter wasn't so unhappy, because he had no friends remaining, and his native village was in ruins. the darkness came thicker and thicker down upon us. nothing could we see but the dark waves rising up on every side against the sky. not a star was visible. we no longer, indeed, knew in which direction to look for the schooner. it appeared, i remember exactly, as if we were being tossed about inside a black ball. i could not calculate how long a time had passed since i had fallen overboard, when i began to feel very hungry. i had had a bit of biscuit in my pocket, but that had been lost with my jacket, and now i had nothing to eat. i bore it for some time, and then i felt very faint, and thought that i could not possibly hold on any longer. still i did my best not to let go, and every now and then peter spoke to me and encouraged me, "neber fear, massa," said he. "him you tell me of, live up in sky, him watch over us." we did not speak much, however; we could not, i do not know why. oh, that was a dreary, awful night, not likely to be forgotten! yet here i am alive. i shall never despair after that, and shall always feel, in however terrible a position i am placed, that a merciful god is watching over me, and that he will find means to save me. story one, chapter . cause for gratitude. the longest night must come to an end. many people, when kept awake in a comfortable bed with the toothache or some other pain, or perhaps with a little fever, think themselves very miserable, and much to be pitied. peter pongo and i were rather worse off, tossing about on the grating out on the atlantic there, not having anything to eat, and not knowing any moment when we might be washed away from our unsteady raft. how we held on during all that night i cannot tell. the light came at last. we knew where the east was by seeing a bright red streak in the sky. we kept our eyes turned eagerly in that direction, for we fancied that there we should see the schooner. our view, however, was very much circumscribed, and it was only as we were tossed up to the top of a sea that we could obtain even a glimpse of the horizon. we had scarcely time to assure ourselves whether or not there was a sail there before either a foam-topped sea jumped up before us, or we sank down again into the trough. we gazed, but we gazed in vain. no sail was to be seen. in spite of our almost hopeless position we became very hungry, and, what was worse, thirsty also. as the sun rose and struck down on our heads my thirst increased. i felt certain that i could not hold on much longer. peter pongo did not care so much about the hot sun, but he was very hungry. suddenly i saw some red objects floating near us in the water. i looked again. oh, how eager i felt to get them--they were oranges. they were too far off to reach. i was afraid to quit the grating. i had no strength left to swim. no sooner did peter see them than he slid off the raft, and swimming round them collected a dozen or more before him, and pushing them on enabled me to pick them out of the water. i felt greatly relieved when he was once more safe on the grating. oh, how delicious those oranges were! they were the means, i doubt not, of preserving our lives. they quenched our thirst, but they could not stop the pangs of hunger. the sun rose higher and higher, till we guessed it was noon. the wind went down, but the sea still continued to tumble us about most uncomfortably. both of us were becoming very drowsy when we started up--a loud shout sounded in our ears. "why, lads, you keep a bad look-out on board your craft," said a voice. we looked up--a large ship was passing us. "don't fear--we'll pick you up," said the former speaker. i heard the cry of "helm's alee!" the yards swung round, and the ship was rounded too. by that time she seemed to have got a long way from us. presently, however, we saw a boat dashing among the seas towards us. i thought that her bow would have come right down on our raft, but just then i felt a strong arm grasp me by the shoulder, and haul me in, while peter was treated in the same way, and we were quickly alongside the ship. we were lifted on board. she appeared full of people, who looked very kindly at us. at first i could not speak a word; i did not know why. i thought that i was going to say something, but no sound was produced. the people who stood round remarked that i was a foreigner, and two or three people came up and addressed me in strange languages, but of course i was not more likely to answer them than i was my own countrymen. at last i heard peter pongo, who had been much concerned at my silence, say, "him officer--speakie by and by." this remark seemed to satisfy those present, and in about an hour i was able to sit up and explain what had happened. i found that we had been rescued by an emigrant ship bound for the cape of good hope. i was in hope that she might be able to land us at sierra leone, but i found that she could not possibly go out of her course; indeed, that we were much to the southward of that place, and that on to the cape we also must go. in a very few minutes i became, i must own, reconciled to the necessity. when the cabin passengers found that i was a midshipman they rigged me out in very comfortable clothes, and clubbing together presented me with a sum of money, as they said, to enable me to live comfortably, till i could find my way back to my ship. when, also, they heard how gallantly peter pongo had rescued me, they gave him a handsome present. he could scarcely comprehend his good fortune, and as he looked at the money he evidently thought himself the owner of boundless wealth. i had the best of everything at the chief cabin table, and could not help thinking how pleasant it would be to live the life of a passenger on board an emigrant ship all the year round. i was therefore very much surprised to hear some of them grumbling from morning to night, complaining of having nothing to do, and wishing that the voyage was over. if they had lived in a midshipman's berth for a few months, i rather suspect that they would have thought themselves well off. i need not describe our passage to the cape; it was a very pleasant one. i was very happy during the short time i remained at that curious old dutch place, cape town. i saw the table-mountain and the tablecloth on the top of it, and then a sloop of war called there, and the commodore, who was there, ordered me and peter pongo a passage back to sierra leone. i was never idle, for i found ample employment in teaching peter to read, and wonderful was the progress he made. he was a great favourite on board the corvette on account of his intelligence and amiable manners, and the gallant way in which he had preserved my life. on entering the harbour of sierra leone, there, to my great satisfaction, lay our schooner, with the pennant flying at her masthead, and the british ensign at her peak. i got a boat from the corvette, and at once pulled on board. i could see at a glance that the schooner had been turned into a man-of-war. she had been bought, as i afterwards found, into the service. i was in plain clothes, and peter pongo who accompanied me, was very nicely dressed, and no one would have recognised him as the little slave boy he had before appeared. dickey snookes looked over the side. i sprang up the side. "what do you want?" he asked. "to see that very important personage, mr algernon godolphin stafford, commonly known as dickey snookes," i answered, taking his hand. he started, and looked at me very hard, really gasping for breath, so astonished was he. "what! is it you yourself, rushforth, my dear fellow?" he exclaimed. "i am indeed glad. we thought you were lost; gobbled up by a shark, or sunk to the bottom of the sea. here, sommers--here's rushforth come to life again, and the black boy too." sommers, who was below, came on deck, and received me most cordially. mr talbot, who had command of the schooner, now called the liberia, was on shore. she was to sail, i found, the very next day for rio janeiro, to act as a tender to our ship. i consulted with sommers what would be most to the advantage of peter pongo to do. he strongly advised his going to the college at sierra leone, where he would receive a very good education, and he undertook to arrange the matter. i had still the greater part of the money given me by the passengers of the emigrant ship, which i had kept for the purpose of devoting it to peter's use. this, with what he had of his own, would enable him to make a fair start in life. peter himself, though very sorry to leave me, was much pleased with the proposal. that very afternoon he and i accompanied sommers on shore, when the whole matter was arranged in a very satisfactory way with some of the gentlemen connected with the college, who undertook to invest the sum i have mentioned for peter's benefit. peter burst into tears as i wished him good-bye, and i felt a very curious sensation about the throat. the next day we sailed for rio. story one, chapter . conclusion. we had a fast run across the atlantic. the news of my supposed loss had reached the frigate, and the kind way in which my uncle and the gun-room officers, as well as my messmates, received me, showed me that i had been regretted--of course a midshipman cannot expect to create any very great sorrow when he loses the number of his mess, as an admiral or a post-captain would. i did not meet with any other very extraordinary adventures during the remainder of the four years the frigate was in commission. i found the south american station a very pleasant one. i might have found rio dull, but that i was constantly sent away in the liberia, which did good service by capturing several slavers. we used to make her look like what she formerly was, and in that way she acted as a decoy, and entrapped several slavers who approached her without suspicion. we had one long trip round cape horn, and visited the coast of chili and peru. that was the most interesting we took. i feel that i have a right to be considered something of a sailor after having doubled cape horn, and crossed and re-crossed the line. at length the frigate was ordered home; the schooner remained at rio to do duty as before as a tender. on our way we touched at sierra leone. my uncle gave me leave to go on shore. i hurried off to the college, for i was anxious to hear something of my old friend and the preserver of my life. three years had passed since i had seen him. he was then little more than fourteen. i was shown into a room where several pupil teachers were engaged in giving instruction to a number of young lads and boys. one teacher was evidently taking the lead of the rest. in very eloquent language he was explaining the truths of christianity to a class of most attentive listeners. though the skin of the speaker was black, the voice was that of an educated englishman. i waited till he had ceased speaking. there is mr pongo, said the person who had conducted me to the room. his eye brightened as he saw me, and in an instant springing from his desk his hands were warmly pressed in mine. what immense progress he has made! how little i have advanced since we parted! i thought as i looked at him and heard him describe his work. i felt humbled and ashamed of myself. i thought over the matter, and resolved in future to employ my time, as far as i had the power, to the advantage of myself as well as that of others. pongo came on board the frigate, and was received most kindly by my uncle and all the officers. he was, i found, training to become a missionary of the gospel among his countrymen, and hoped ultimately to be ordained. i have since frequently heard from him. we spent only three days at sierra leone, and arrived at last safely in old england, and thus ended my first cruise. story two, chapter . the travelling tin-man, founded on fact, by miss leslie. micajah warner was owner and cultivator of a small farm in one of the oldest, most fertile, and most beautiful counties of the state of pennsylvania, not far from maryland line. micajah was a plain quaker, and a man of quiet and primitive habits. he was totally devoid of all ambitious cravings after tracts of ten thousand acres, and he aspired not to the honour and glory of having his name given to a town in the western wilderness (though warnerville would not have sounded badly), neither was he possessed of an unconquerable desire of becoming a judge, or of going to congress. therefore, he had always been able to resist the persuasions and example of those of his neighbours who left the home of their fathers, and the comforts of an old settlement, to seek a less tedious road to wealth and consequence, on the other side of the allegany. he was satisfied with the possession of two hundred acres, one half of which he had lent (not given) to his son israel, who expected shortly to be married to a very pretty and notable young woman in the neighbourhood, who was, however, no heiress. upon this event, israel was to be established in an old frame-house that had long since been abandoned by his father in favour of the substantial stone dwelling which the family occupied at the period of our story. the house had been taken up and transplanted to that part of the farm now allotted to israel, and he very prudently deferred repairing it till he saw whether it survived its progress across the domain. but as it did not fall asunder during the journey, it was judged worthy of a new front-door, new window-panes, and new shingles to cover the vast chasms of the roof, all which improvements were made by israel's own hands. this house was deposited in the vicinity of the upper branch of the creek, and conveniently near to a saw-mill, which had been built by israel in person. like all of her sect, whether in town or country, bulah, the wife of micajah warner, was a woman of even temper, untiring industry, and great skill in housewifery. her daughters, commonly called amy and orphy, were neat pretty little quaker girls, extremely alert, and accustomed from their earliest childhood to assist in the work of the house. as her daughters were so handy and industrious, and only went half the year to school, mrs warner did not think it necessary to keep any other help than an indentured negro girl, named chloe. except the marriage of israel, which was now in prospect; a flood in the neighbouring creek, which had raised the water so high as to wash away the brick oven from the side of the house; a tornado that carried off the roof of the old stable, and landed it whole in an adjoining clover field; and a visit from a family of beggars (an extraordinary phenomenon in the country), nothing occurred among the warners for a long succession of years that had occasioned more than a month's talk of the mother, and a month's listening of the children. "they kept the noiseless tenor of their way." the occupations of israel and his father (assisted occasionally by a few hired men) were, of course, those of the farm, except when israel took a day now and then to attend to his saw-mill. with regard to domestic arrangements, everything connected with household affairs went on in the same course year after year except that, as the daughters of the family improved in capability of work, chloe the black girl, retrograded. they washed on monday (with the assistance of a woman, hired for the day), ironed on tuesday, performed what they called "the little baking" on wednesday, and "the big baking" on friday; cleaned the house on saturday, and clear-starched their book-muslin collars; rode on horseback to friends' meeting on sunday morning, and visited their neighbours on sunday afternoon. it was the day after the one on which israel and his bride-elect had passed meeting, and consequently, a month before the one fixed for the wedding, that something like an adventure fell among the warner family. it was a beautiful evening at the close of august. the father and son had been all day in the meadows, mowing the second crop of grass; mrs warner was darning stockings in the porch, with her two daughters knitting on the bench beside her; amy being then fourteen, and orphy about twelve. chloe was absent, having been borrowed by a relation, about five miles off, to do the general work of the house, while the family were engaged in preparing for a quilting frolic. "come, girls," said mrs warner to her daughter, "it's just sun-down. the geese are coming home, and daddy and israel will soon be here. amy, do thee go down to the spring-house, and bring up the milk and butter, and orphy, thee can set the table." the two girls put up their knitting (not, however, till they had knit to the middle of the needle), and in a short time, amy was seen coming back from the spring-house, with a large pitcher of milk and a plate of butter. in the meantime, orphy had drawn out the ponderous claw-footed walnut table that stood all summer in the porch, and spreading over it a brown linen cloth, placed in regular order their everyday supper equipage of pewter plates, earthen porringers, and iron spoons. the viands consisted of an immense round loaf of bread, nearly as large as a grindstone, and made of wheat and indian meal, the half of a huge cheese, a piece of cold pork, a peach pie, an apple pie, and, as it had been baking day, there was the customary addition of a rice pudding, in an earthen pan of stupendous size. the last finish of the decorations of the table was a large bowl of cool water, placed near the seat occupied by the father of the family, who never could begin any of his meals without a copious draught of the pure element. in a few minutes, the farmer and his son made their appearance as they turned the angle of the peach-orchard fence, preceded by the geese, their usual _avant-couriers_, who went out every morning to feed in an old field beyond the meadows. as soon as micajah and israel had hung up their scythes and washed themselves at the pump, they sat down to table, the farmer in his own blue-painted, high-backed, high-armed chair, and israel taking the seat always allotted to him--a low chair, the rushes of which having long since deserted the bottom, had been replaced by cross pieces of cloth listing, ingeniously interwoven with each other; and this being, according to the general opinion, the worst seat in the house, always fell to the share of the young man, who was usually passive on all occasions, and never seemed to consider himself entitled to the same accommodation as the rest of the family. suddenly, the shrill blast of a tin trumpet resounded through the woods, that covered the hill in front of the house, to the great disturbance of the geese, who had settled themselves quietly for the night in their usual bivouac around the ruins of an old waggon. the warners ceased their supper to listen and look; and they saw emerging from the woods, and rolling down the hill at a brisk trot, the cart of one of those itinerant tin merchants, who originate in new england, and travel from one end of the union to the other, avoiding the cities, and seeking customers amongst the country people; who, besides buying their ware, always invite them to a meal and a bed. the tinman came blowing his horn to the steps of the porch, and there stopping his cart, addressed the farmer's wife in the true nasal twang that characterises the lower class of new englanders, and inquired "if she had any notion of a bargain." she replied that "she believed she had no occasion for anything"--her customary answer to all such questions. but israel, who looked into futurity, and entertained views towards his own housekeeping, stepped forward to the tin-cart, and began to take down and examine various mugs, pans, kettles, and coffee-pots--the latter particularly, as he had a passion for coffee, which he secretly determined to indulge both morning and evening, as soon as he was settled in his domicile. "mother," said amy, "i do wish thee would buy a new coffee-pot, for ours has been leaking all summer, and i have to stop it every morning with rye-meal. thee knows we can give the old one to israel." "to be sure," replied mrs warner, "it will do well enough for young beginners. but i cannot say i feel quite free to buy a new coffee-pot at this time. i must consider about it." "and there's the cullender," said orphy, "it has such a big crack at the bottom, that when i am smashing the squashes for dinner, not only the water, but the squashes themselves drip through. better give it to israel, and get a new one for ourselves. what's this?" she continued, taking up a tin water-dipper. "that is for dipping warter out of the bucket," replied the tinman. "oh, yes," cried amy, "i've seen such a one at rachel johnson's. what a clever thing it is, with a good long handle, so that there's no danger of splashing the water on our clothes. do buy it, mother. thee knows that israel can have the big calabash: i patched it myself, yesterday, where it was broken, and bound the edge with new tape, and it's now as good as ever." "i don't know," said the farmer, "that we want anything but a new lantern; for ours had the socket burnt out long before these moonlight nights, and it's dangerous work taking a candle into the stable." the tinman knowing that our plain old farmers, though extremely liberal of everything that is produced on their plantations, are, frequently, very tenacious of coin, and much averse to parting with actual money, recommended his wares more on account of their cheapness than their goodness; and, in fact, the price of most of the articles was two or three cents lower than they could be purchased for at the stores. old micajah thought there was no actual necessity for anything except the lantern; but his daughters were so importunate for the coffee-pot, the cullender, and the water-dipper, that finally all three were purchased and paid for. the tinman in vain endeavoured to prevail on mrs warner to buy some patty-pans, which the girls looked at with longing eyes; and he reminded them how pretty the pumpkin pies would look at their next quilting, baked in scollop-edged tins. but this purchase was peremptorily refused by the good quaker woman, alleging that scollop-edged pies were all pride and vanity, and that, if properly made, they were quite good enough baked in round plates. the travelling merchant then produced divers boxes and phials of quack medicines, prepared at a celebrated manufactory of those articles, and duly sealed with the maker's own seal, and inscribed with his name in his own handwriting. amongst these, he said, "there were certain cures for every complaint in natur'--draps for the agur, the toothache, and the rhumatiz; salves for ringworms, corns, frostbitten heels, and sore eyes; and pills for consumption and fall fevers; beside that most valuable of all physic, swain's wormifuge." the young people exclaimed with one accord against the purchase of any of the medicines; and business being over, the tinman was invited by the farmer to sit down and take his supper with the family--an invitation as freely accepted as given. the twilight was now closing, but the full moon had risen, and afforded sufficient light for the supper table in the porch. the tinman took a seat, and before mrs warner had finished her usual invitation to strangers, of--"reach to, and help thyself; we are poor hands at inviting, but thee's welcome to it, such as it is"--he had already cut himself a huge piece of the cold pork, and an enormous slice of bread. he next poured out a porringer of milk, to which he afterwards added one-third of the peach pie, and several platesful of rice pudding. he then said, "i suppose you haven't got no cider about the house;" and israel, at his father's request, immediately brought up a pitcher of that liquor from the cellar. during supper the tinman entertained his entertainers with anecdotes of the roguery of his own countrymen, or rather, as he called them, his "statesmen." in his opinion of their general dishonesty, mrs warner most cordially joined. she related a story of an itinerant yankee who persuaded her to empty some of her pillows and bolsters, under colour of exchanging with him old feathers for new; a thing which she acknowledged had puzzled her not a little, as she thought it strange that any man should bargain so badly for himself. he produced from his cart a bag of feathers which he declared were quite new; but after his departure she found that he had given her such short measure that she had not half enough to fill her ticking, and most of the feathers were proved, upon examination, to have belonged to chickens rather than to geese--nearly a whole cock's tail having been found amongst them. the farmer pointed into the open door of the house, and showed the tinman a large wooden clock put up without a case between two windows, the pendulum and the weights being "exposed and bare." this clock he had bought for ten dollars of a travelling yankee, who had set out to supply the country with machines. it had only kept tolerable time for about two months, and had ever since been getting faster and faster, though it was still faithfully wound up every week. the hands were now going merrily round at the rate of ten miles an hour, and it never struck less than twelve. the yankee tinman, with a candour that excited the admiration of the whole family, acknowledged that his statesmen were the greatest rogues "on the face of the yearth;" and recounted instances of their trickery that would have startled the belief of any but the inexperienced and credulous people who were now listening to him. he told, for example, of sausages being brought to market in an eastern town, that, when purchased and prepared for frying, were found to be filled with chopped turnip and shreds of red flannel. for once, thought the warners, we have found an honest yankee. they sat a long time at table, and though the tinman seemed to talk all the time he was eating, the quantity of victuals that he caused to disappear surprised even mrs warner, accustomed as she was to the appetite of israel. when the yankee had at last completed his supper, the farmer invited him to stay all night; but he replied, "it was moonshiny, and fine cool travelling after a warm day; he preferred putting on towards maryland as soon as his creature was rested, and had a feed." he then, without more ceremony, led his horse and cart into the barn-yard, and stopping near the stable door, fed the animal by the light of the moon, and carried him a bucket of water from the pump. the girls being reminded by their mother that it was late, and that the cows had long since come home, they took their pails and went out to milk, while she washed up the supper things. whilst they were milking, the subsequent dialogue took place between them:-- _orphy_. i know it's not right to notice strangers, and to be sure the man's welcome, but, amy, did thee ever see anybody take victuals like this yankee? _amy_. yes, but he didn't eat all he took, for i saw him slip a great chunk of bread and cheese into his pocket, and then a big piece of pie, while he was talking and making us laugh. _orphy_. well, i think a man must be very badly off to do such a thing. i wonder he did not ask for victuals to take away with him. he need not have been afraid. he must know that victuals is no object. and then he has travelled the roads long enough to be sure that he can get a meal for nothing at any house he stops at, as all the tinmen do. he must have seen us looking at his eating so much, and may be his pride is hurt, and so he's made up his mind, all of a sudden, to take his meals no more at people's houses. _amy_. then why can't he stop at a tavern, and pay for his victuals? _orphy_. may be he don't want to spend his money in that trifling way. who knows, he may be saving it up to help an old mother, or to buy back land, or something of that sort? i'll be bound he calculates upon eating nothing to-morrow but what he slipped off from our table. _amy_. all he took will not last him a day. it's a pity of him, anyhow. _orphy_. i wish he had not been too bashful to ask for victuals to take with him. _amy_. and still he did not strike me at all as a bashful man. _orphy_. suppose we were just in a private way to put some victuals into his cart for him, without letting him know anything about it! let's hide it among the tins, and how glad he'll be when he finds it to-morrow! _amy_. so we will; that's an excellent notion! i never pitied anybody so much since the day the beggars came, which was five years ago last harvest; for i have kept count ever since; and i remember it as well as if it was yesterday. _orphy_. we don't know what a hard thing it is to want victuals, as the irish schoolmaster used to tell us when he saw us emptying pans of milk into the pig-trough, and turning the cows into the orchard to eat the heaps of apples lying under the trees. _amy_. yes, and it must be worse for an american to want victuals than for people from the old countries, who are used to it. after they had finished their milking, and strained and put away their milk, the kind-hearted little girls proceeded to accomplish their benevolent purpose. they took from the large wire safe in the cellar a pie, half a loaf of bread, and a great piece of cheese, and putting them into a basket, they went to the barn-yard, intending to tell their mother as soon as the tinman was gone, and not for one moment doubting her approval--since in the house of an american farmer, victuals, as orphy justly observed, are no object. as they approached the barn-yard they saw, by the light of the moon, the yankee coming away from his cart, and returning to the house. the girls crouched down behind the garden fence till he had passed, and then cautiously proceeded on their errand. they went to the back of the cart, intending to deposit their provisions, when they were startled at seeing something evidently alive moving behind the round opening of the linen cover; and in a moment the head of a little black child peeped out of the hole. the girls were so surprised that they stopped short and could not utter a word, and the young negro, evidently afraid of being seen, immediately popped down its head among the tins. "amy, did thee see that?" asked orphy in a low voice. "yes, i did so," replied amy; "what can the yankee be doing with that little nigger? and why does he hide it? let's go and ask the child." "no, no!" exclaimed orphy, "the tinman will be angry." "and who cares if he is?" said amy; "he has done something he is ashamed of, and we need not be afraid of him." they went quite close to the back of the cart, and amy said, "here, little snow-ball, show thyself and speak, and do not be afraid, for nobody's going to hurt thee." "how did thee come into this cart?" asked orphy, "and why does the yankee hide thee? tell us all about it, and be sure not to speak above thy breath." the black child again peeped out of the hole, and looking cautiously round, said, "are you quite sure the naughty man won't hear us?" "quite sure," answered amy; "but is thee boy or girl?" "i'm a little gal," replied the child; and with the characteristic volubility of her race she continued, "and my name's dinah, and i'm five years old, and my daddy and mammy are free coloured people, and they lives a big piece off, and daddy works out, and mammy sells gingerbread and molasses-beer, and we have a sign over the door with a bottle and cake on it." _amy_. but how did this man get hold of thee, if thy father and mother are free people? thee can't be bound to him, or he need not hide thee. _dinah_. oh, i know, i ain't bounded to him; i expect he stole me. _amy_. stole thee! what, here in the free state of pennsylvania? _dinah_. i was out picking huckle-berries in the woods up the roads, and i strayed off a big piece from home. then the tinman comed along, driving his cart, and i run close to the side of the road to look, as i always does when anybody goes by. so he told me to come into his cart, and he would give me a tin mug to put my huckle-berries in, and i might chuse it myself, and it would hold them a heap better than my old indian basket. so i was very glad, and he lifted me up into the cart; and i choosed the very best and biggest tin mug he had, and emptied my huckle-berries into it. and then he told me he'd give me a ride in his cart, and then he set me far back on a box, and he whipped his creatur, and druv, and druv, and jolted me so, i tumbled all down among the tins. and then he picked me up, and tied me fast with his handkercher to one of the back posts of the cart, to keep me steady, he said. and then, for all i was steady, i couldn't help crying, and i wanted him to take me home to daddy and mammy. but he only sniggered at me, and said he wouldn't, and bid me hush; and then he got mad, and because i couldn't hush up just in a minute, he whipped me quite smart. _orphy_. poor little thing! _dinah_. and then i got frightened, for he put on a wicked look, and said he'd kill me dead if i cried any more, or made the least noise. and so he has been carrying me along in his cart for two days and two nights, and he makes me hide away all the time, and he won't let nobody see me. and i hate him, and yesterday, when i know'd he didn't see me, i spit on the crown of his hat. _amy_. hush! thee must never say thee hates anybody. _dinah_. at night i sleeps upon the bag of feathers; and when he stops anywhere to eat, he comes sneaking to the back of the cart, and pokes in victuals (he has just now brung me some), and he tells me he wants me to be fat and good-looking. i was afeard he was going to sell me to the butcher, as nac willet did his fat calf, and i thought i'd axe him about it, and he laughed and told me he was going to sell me, sure enough, but not to a butcher. and i'm almost all the time very sorry, only sometimes i'm not; and then i should like to play with the tins, only he won't let me. i don't dare to cry out loud, for fear the naughty man would whip me, but i always moan when we're going through woods, and there's nobody in sight to hear me. he never lets me look out of the back of the cart, only when there's nobody to see me, and he won't let me sing even when i want to. and i moan most when i think of daddy and mammy, and how they are wondering what has become of me; and i think moaning does me good, only he stops me short. _amy_. now, orphy, what is to be done? the tinman has, of course, kidnapped this black child to take her into maryland, where he can sell her for a good price, as she is a fat, healthy-looking thing, and that is a slave state. does thee think we ought to let him take her off. _orphy_. no, indeed! i think i could feel free to fight for her myself; that is, if fighting was not forbidden by friends. yonder's israel coming to turn the cows into the clover-field. little girl, lie quiet, and don't offer to show thyself. israel now advanced--"well, girls," said he, "what's thee doing at the tinman's cart? not meddling among his tins, i hope? oh, the curiosity of women folks!" "israel," said amy, "step softly; we have something to show thee." the girls then lifted up the corner of the cart-cover, and displayed the little negro girl, crouched upon the bag of feathers--a part of his merchandise which the yankee had not thought it expedient to produce, after hearing mrs warner's anecdote of one of his predecessors. the young man was much amazed; and his two sisters began both at once to relate to him the story of the black child. israel looked almost indignant. his sisters said to him, "to be sure we won't let the yankee carry this child off with, him." "i judge we won't," answered israel. "then," said amy, "let us take her out of the cart, and hide her in the barn, or somewhere, till he is gone." "no," replied israel, "i can't say i feel free to do that. it would be too much like stealing her over again; and i've no notion of evening myself to a yankee in any of his ways. put her down in the cart, and let her alone. i'll have no underhand work about her. let's all go back to the house. mother has got down all the broken crockery from the top shelf in the corner cupboard, and the yankee's mending it with a sort of stuff like sticks of sealing-wax, that he carries about with him; and i dare say he'll get her to pay him more for it than the things are worth. but i say nothing." the girls cautioned dinah not to let the tinman know that they had discovered her, and to keep herself perfectly quiet; and they then accompanied their brother to the house, feeling very fidgety and uneasy. they found the table covered with old bowls, old tea-pots, old sugar dishes, and old pitchers, the fractures of which the yankee was cementing together, whilst mrs warner held the candle, and her husband viewed the operation with great curiosity. "israel," said his mother, as he entered, "this friend is making the china as good as new, only that we can't help seeing the join; and we are going to give all the mended things to thee." the yankee having finished his work, and been paid for it, said it was high time for him to be about starting, and he must go and look after his cart. he accordingly left the house for that purpose; and israel, looking out at the end window, said, "i see he's not coming round to the house again, but going to try the short-cut into the back road. i'll go and see that he puts up the bars after him." israel went out, and his sisters followed him, to see the tinman off. the yankee came to the bars, leading his horse with the cart, and found israel there before him. "are you going to let down the bars for me?" said the tinman. "no," replied israel, "i'm not going to be so polite; but i intend to see that thee carries off nothing more than belongs to thee." "what do you mean?" exclaimed the yankee, changing colour. "i expect i can show thee," answered israel. then, stepping up to the back of the cart, and putting in his hands, he pulled out the black child, and held her up before him, saying, "now, if thee offers to touch this girl, i think we shall be apt to differ." the tinman then advanced towards israel, and, with a menacing look, raised his whip; but the fearless young quaker (having consigned the little girl to his sisters, who held her between them) immediately broke a stick from a tree that grew near, and stood on the defensive, with a most steadfast look of calm resolution. the yankee went close up to him, brandishing his whip, but, before he had time to strike, israel, with the utmost coolness, and with great strength and dexterity, seized him by the collar, and swinging him round to some distance, flung him to the ground with such force as to stun him, saying, "mind i don't call myself a fighting character, but if thee offers to get up i shall feel free to keep thee down." the tinman began to move, and the girls ran shrieking to the house for their father, dragging with them the little black girl, whose screams (as is usual with all of her colour) were the loudest of the loud. in an instant the stout old farmer was at the side of his son, and notwithstanding the struggle of the yankee, they succeeded by main force in conveying him to the stable, into which they fastened him for the night. early next morning, israel and his father went to the nearest magistrate for a warrant and a constable, and were followed home by half the township. the county court was then in session; the tinman was tried, and convicted of having kidnapped a free black child, with the design of selling her as a slave in one of the southern states; and he was punished by fine and imprisonment. the warner family would have felt more compassion for him than they did, only that all the mended china fell to pieces again the next day, and his tins were so badly soldered that all their bottoms came out before the end of the month. mrs warner declared that she had done with yankee tinmen for ever, and in short with all other yankees. but the storekeeper, philip thompson, who was the sensible man of the neighbourhood, and took two philadelphia newspapers, convinced her that some of the best and greatest men america can boast of, were natives of the new england states; and he even asserted, that in the course of his life (and his age did not exceed sixty-seven) he had met with no less than five perfectly honest yankee tinmen; and besides being honest, two of them were not in the least impudent. amongst the latter, however, he did not of course include a very handsome fellow, that a few years since made the tour of the united states with his tin-cart, calling himself the boston beauty, and wearing his own miniature round his neck. to conclude:--an advertisement having been inserted in several of the papers to designate where dinah, the little black girl, was to be found, and the tinman's trial having also been noticed in the public prints, in about a fortnight her father and mother (two very decent free negroes) arrived to claim her, having walked all the way from their cottage at the extremity of the next county. they immediately identified her, and the meeting was most joyful to them and to her. they told at full length every particular of their anxious search after their child, which was ended by a gentleman bringing a newspaper to their house, containing the welcome intelligence that she was safe at micajah warner's. amy and orphy were desirous of retaining little dinah in the family, and as the child's parents seemed very willing, the girls urged their mother to keep her instead of chloe, who, they said, could very easily be made over to israel. but to the astonishment of the whole family, israel on this occasion proved refractory, declaring that he would not allow his wife to be plagued with such an imp as chloe, and that he chose to have little dinah herself, if her parents would bind her to him till she was eighteen. this affair was soon satisfactorily arranged. israel was married at the appointed time, and took possession of the house near the saw-mill. he prospered; and in a few years was able to buy a farm of his own, and to build a stone-house on it. dinah turned out extremely well, and the warner family still talk of the night when she was discovered in the cart of the travelling tinman. story three, chapter . the beautiful gate. one morning, by break of day, old josiah, who lived in the little cottage he had built, on the borders of the great forest, found his wife awake long before him--indeed she had scarcely closed her eyes that night; and she was ready to speak the moment his eyes opened; for she had promised their dear tiny, their only child, that she would have a private talk with his father. so she said in a low, but distinct voice, as though she were talking to herself: "i have nursed him, and watched over him year after year. he has been like the sun shining in my path, and precious as a flower. there is not another like him. i love him better than i do my eyes. if he were away i might as well be blind." "that puts me in mind of what i've been dreaming," said the old man. "if i was only sure that he would come at last to the beautiful gate, i wouldn't say another word. but who can tell? and it it actually happened that he lost his sight--poor tiny!" josiah did not finish what he had begun to say, but hid his face in the bed-clothes, and then the good wife knew that he was weeping, and her own tears began to fall, and she could not say a word. after breakfast, when josiah had gone off into the woods, the mother told tiny of this bit of a conversation, but of course she could not explain about the dream. she knew no more what the boy's father had dreamed than you or i do, only she knew it was something curious and fanciful about the beautiful gate. tiny listened with great interest to his mother's words, and he smiled as he kissed her when she had done speaking; and he said, "wait till this evening, mother dear, and you shall see." and so she waited till the evening. when they were gathered around the kitchen-fire at night, tiny took down the harp that hung on the kitchen wall. it had hung there ever since the day that tiny was born. a poor old pilgrim gave it on that very day to josiah in exchange for a loaf of bread. by that i do not mean that josiah sold the loaf to the poor old hungry pilgrim. josiah was too charitable to make a trade with a beggar. but the stranger said this strange thing to josiah:--"i am near to death--i shall sing no more--i am going home. keep my harp for me until a singer asks you for it, and promises you that he will sing unto the lord a new song. give it to _him_; but be sure before you do so that he is worthy to sing the song unto the lord." so josiah had taken the harp home with him, and hung it on the wall, as i said, on the day that tiny was born. and he waited for the coming of the poet who should have that wondrous song to sing. the father, when he saw what it was the boy would do, made a little move as if he would prevent him; but the mother playfully caught the old man's hand, and held it in hers, while she said aloud, "only one song, tiny. your father's rest was disturbed last night--so get through with it as quickly as you can." at these last words the old man looked well pleased, for he fancied that his wife agreed with him, because he would not yet allow himself to believe that it was for his boy tiny that the old pilgrim left the harp. and yet never was a sweeter voice than that of the young singer--old josiah acknowledged that to himself, and old josiah knew--he was a judge of such things, for all his life he had been singing songs in his heart. yes! though you would never have imagined such a thing, that is, if you are in the habit of judging folks from their outward appearance--he had such a rough, wrinkled face, brown with freckles and tan, such coarse, shaggy grey hair, and such a short, crooked, awkward figure, you never would have guessed what songs he was for ever singing in his heart with his inward voice--they were songs which worldly people would never hear--only god and the angels heard them. only god and the holy angels!--for as to kitty, though she was josiah's best earthly friend, though she knew he was such an excellent man, though she believed that there was not a better man than he in all the world, though year by year he had been growing lovelier and lovelier in her eyes--yes! though his hair, of course, became rougher and greyer, and his figure more bent, and his hands harder, and his teeth were nearly all gone!--growing lovelier because of his excellence, which increased with age as good wine does--still even she, who knew him better than any person on earth, even she knew him so little that she never so much as dreamed that this wonderful voice of tiny's was but the echo of what had been going on in josiah's heart and mind ever since he was himself a child! it was because he understood all this so very well that josiah was troubled when he thought about his son. but to go back to the singer in the chimney-corner. tiny sat alone on his side of the fire-place, in the little chair fashioned out of knotted twigs of oak which his father had made for him long ago. opposite him were the old folks--the father with his arms folded on his broad chest, the mother knitting beside him, now and then casting a sidelong glance at the old man to see how it went with him. wonderful was that song which tiny sung! even the winter wind seemed hushing its voice to hear it, and through the little windows looked the astonished moon. josiah lifted up his eyes in great amazement as he heard it, as if he had altogether lost himself. it was nothing like his dream that tiny sang, though to be sure it was all about a beautiful gate. altogether about the beautiful gate! and of the young poet, who, passing through it, went his way into the great temple of the world, singing his great songs, borne like a conqueror with a golden canopy carried over him, and a golden crown upon his head! riding upon a white horse splendidly caparisoned, and crowds of people strewing multitudes of flowers before him! and of the lady who placed the victor's crown upon his head! she was by his side, more beautiful than any dream, rejoicing in his triumph, and leading him on towards her father's palace, the beautiful pearl gates of which were thrown wide open, and the king himself with a bare head stood there on foot, to welcome the poet to the great feast. with this the song ended, and with a grand sweep of the silver strings tiny gently arose, and hung the harp against the wall, and sat down again with folded hands and blushing cheek, half frightened, now when all was over, to think what he had done. the fire had vanished from his eyes, and the red glow of his cheek went following after; and if you had gone into josiah's kitchen just then, you never would have guessed that _he_ was the enchanter who had been raising such a storm of splendid music. at first the old man could not speak--tears choked his words. "ahem," said he once or twice, and he cleared his voice with the intention of speaking; but for a long time no words followed. at length he said, shaking his head,--"it isn't like what i dreamed--it isn't like what i dreamed;" and one would have supposed that the old man felt himself guilty of a sin by the way he looked at tiny, it was with so very sad a look. "but beautifuller," said the mother, "beautifuller, isn't it, josiah!" "yes," answered josiah; but still he spoke as if he had some secret misgiving--as if he were not quite sure that the beauty of the song had a right to do away with the sadness of his dream. "but," said tiny, timidly, yet as if determined that he would have the matter quite settled now and for ever--"_am_ i a singer, father? _am_ i a poet?" slowly came the answer--but it actually came, "yes," with a broken voice and troubled look, and then the old man buried his face in his hands, as if he had pronounced some dreadful doom upon his only son. "then," said tiny boldly, rising from his seat, "i must go into the world. it says it needs me; and father, shall _your_ son hide himself when any one in need calls to him for help? i never would have gone, father, if you and mother had not said that i was a singer and a poet. for you i know would never deceive me; and i made a vow that if ever a time came when you should say that to me, then i would go. but this is my home, father and mother; i shall never get another. the wide world could not give me one. it is not rich enough to build me a home like this." "don't speak in that way," said the old man; and he turned away that tiny should not see his face, and he bent his head upon the back of his chair. presently tiny went softly up to him and laid his hand upon josiah's arm, and his voice trembled while he said, "dear father, are you angry with me?" "no, tiny," said josiah; "but what are you going to do with the world? you! ... my poor boy." "good!" said tiny with a loud, courageous voice--as if he were prepared, single handed, to fight all the evil there was in the world--"good, father, or i would not have dared to take the pilgrim's harp down from the wall. i will sing," continued he still more hopefully, and looking up smiling into the old man's face--"i will sing for the sick and the weary, and cheer them; i will tell the people that god smiles on patient labour, and has a reward in store for the faithful, better than gold and rubies. i will get money for my songs, and feed the hungry; i will comfort the afflicted; i will--" "but," said josiah solemnly, lifting his head from the back of the chair, and looking at tiny as if he would read every thought there was in the boy's heart, "what did all that mean about the beautiful gate? ah, my son, you were thinking more of your own pride and glory, than of the miserable and the poor!" "it was only to prove to you that i had a voice, and that i could sing, father," answered tiny. long gazed josiah upon the face of his son as he heard this. then he closed his eyes, and bent his head, and tiny knew that he was praying. that was a solemn silence--you could have heard a pin drop on the kitchen floor. presently the old man arose, and without speaking, went softly and took the harp down from the wall. "take it," said he, handing it to tiny, "take it--it is yours. do what you will. the lord direct your goings." "without your blessing, father?" said tiny, stepping back and folding his arms upon his breast. he would not take the harp. then, with both hands pressed on tiny's head, the old man said, "may god bless you, my son." the old man's face was very calm then, and there was not a tear in his eyes as he spoke; he had begun to hope again. and he turned away from tiny to comfort his poor wife. "many, many years we lived alone before our tiny came," said he, "and we were very happy; and we will be very happy yet, though he is going away. he is our all; but if the world needs him he shall go and serve it." nothing more said josiah, for his heart was full--too full for further speech. well, tiny the singer went sailing down the river one bright morning, on a boat loaded with wood, which in that part of the country is called lumber; his harp was on his arm, and the rest of his worldly goods upon his back. tiny sat upon the top of the lumber, the most valuable part of the ship's load by far, though the seamen and the owner of the lumber thought him only a silly country lad, who was going down to the city, probably on a foolish errand. and tiny looked at the banks of the river, right and left, as they floated down it, and thought of all the songs he would sing. all the first day it was of the poor he would help, of the desolate hearts he would cheer, of the weary lives he would encourage, that he thought; the world that had need of him should never find him hard of hearing when it called to him for help. and much he wondered--the poet tiny sailing down the river towards the world, how it happened that the world with all its mighty riches, and its hosts on hosts of helpers, should ever stand in need of him! but though he wondered, his joy was none the less that it had happened so. on the first night he dreamed of pale faces growing rosy, and sad hearts becoming lighter, and weary hands strengthened, all by his own efforts. the world that had need of him felt itself better off on account of his labours! but on the second day of tiny's journey other thoughts began to mingle with these. about his father and mother he thought, not in such a way as they would have been glad to know, but proudly and loftily! what could he do for them? bring home a name that the world never mentioned except with praises and a blessing! and that thought made his cheek glow and his eyes flash, and at night he dreamed of a trumpeter shouting his name abroad, and going up the river to tell old josiah how famous his boy had become in the earth! and the third day he dreamed, with his eyes wide open, the livelong day, of the beautiful gate, and the palace of fame and wealth to which it led! and he saw himself entering therein, and the multitude following him. he ate upon a throne, and wise men came with gifts, and offered them to him. alas, poor tiny! the world had already too many helpers thinking just such thoughts--it had need of no more coming with such offerings as these. would no one tell him so? would no one tell him that the new song to be sung unto our lord was very different from this? at the end of the third day, tiny's journey was ended... and he was landed in the world... slowly the ship came sailing into harbour, and took its place among a thousand other ships, and tiny went ashore. it was about sunset that tiny found himself in the street of the great city. the workmen were going home from their labour, he thought at first; but could it be a city full of workmen? he asked himself as the crowd passed by him and he stood gazing on the poor. for he saw only the poor: now and then something dazzling and splendid went past, but if he turned again to discover what it was that made his eyes ache so with the brightness, the strange sight was lost in the crowd, and all he could see were pale faces, and hungry voices, and the half-clad forms of men, and women, and children. and then he said to himself with a groan, "the city is full of beggars." as he said that, another thought occurred to tiny, and he unfastened his harp, and touched the strings. but in the din and roar of the city wagons, and in the confusion of voices, for every one seemed to be talking at the top of his voice, what chance had that harp-player of being heard? still, though the crowd brushed past him as if there was no sound whatever in the harp strings, and no power at all in the hand that struck them, tiny kept on playing, and presently he began to sing. it was _that_ they wanted--the living human voice, that trembled and grew strong again, that was sorrowful and joyous, that prayed and wept, and gave thanks, just as the human heart does! it was _that_ the people wanted; and so well did they know their want that the moment tiny began to sing, the crowd going past him, heard his voice. and the people gathered round him, and more than one said to himself with joy, "our brother has come at last!" they gathered around him--the poor, and lame, and sick, and blind; ragged children, weary men, desponding women, whose want and sorrow spoke from every look, and word, and dress. closely they crowded around him; and angry voices were hushed, and troubled hearts for the moment forgot their trouble, and the weary forgot that another day of toil was before them. the pale woman nearest tiny who held the little baby in her arms, felt its limbs growing colder and colder, and once she looked under her shawl and quickly laid her hand upon her darling's heart, but though she knew then that the child was dead, still she stood there smiling, and looking up towards heaven where tiny's eyes so often looked, because at that very moment he was singing of the father in heaven, whose house of many mansions is large enough for all the world. it was strange to see the effect of tiny's song upon those people! how bright their faces grew! kind words from a human heart are such an excellent medicine--they make such astonishing cures! you would have thought, had you been passing by the crowd that gathered around tiny, you would have thought an angel had been promising some good thing to them. whereas it was only this young tiny, this country lad, who had journeyed from the shadow of the great forest, who was telling them of a good time surely coming! when he had finished his song, tiny would have put up his harp, and gone his way, but that he could not do, because of the crowd. "sing again!" the people cried,--the beggars and rich men together (it was a long time since they had spoken with one voice). did i tell you that a number of rich men had gathered, like a sort of outer wall, around the crowd of poor people which stood next to tiny? "sing again," they cried; and loud and clear above the other voices said one, "there is but a solitary singer in the world that sings in such a strain as that. and he, i thought, was far away. can this be he?" then tiny's heart leaped within him, hearing it, and he said to himself: "if my father and mother were but here to see it!" and he sang again-- and still for the poor, and the weary, and the sick, and the faint-hearted, until the street became as silent as a church where the minister is saying, "glory be unto the father." and indeed it was just then a sacred temple, where a sacred voice was preaching in a most sacred cause. i'm sure you know by this time what the "cause" was? and while he sang, the rich men of the outer circle were busy among themselves, even while they listened, and presently the person who had before spoken, made his way through the crowd, carrying a great purse filled with silver, and he said, "you are the poet himself--do with this what you think best. we have a long time been looking for you in the world. come home with me, and dwell in my house, oh, poet, i pray you." tiny took the heavy purse, and looked at it, and from it to the people. then said he--oh, what melody was in his voice, how sweet his words!--"none of you but are my friends--you are more--my brothers and sisters. come and tell me how much you need." as he spoke, he looked at the woman who stood nearest him, with the dead baby in her arms. her eyes met his, and she threw back the old, ragged shawl, and showed him her little child. "give me," said she, "only enough to bury it. i want nothing for myself. i had nothing but my baby to care for." the poet bowed his head over the little one, and fast his tears fell on the poor, pale face, and like pearls the tears shone on the soft, white cheek, while he whispered in the ear of the woman, "their angels do always behold the face of our father." and he gave her what she needed, and gently covered the baby's face again with the tattered shawl, and the mother went away. then a child came up and said--now this was a poor street beggar, remember, a boy whom people called _as bold as a thief_--he came and looked at tiny, and said gently, as if speaking to an elder brother whom he loved and trusted: "my father and mother are dead; i have a little brother and sister at home, and they depend on me; i have been trying to get work, but no one believes my story. i would like to take a loaf of bread home to them." and tiny, looking at the boy, seemed to read his heart, and he said, laying his hand on the poor fellow's shoulder, "be always as patient, and gentle, and believing as you are now, and you will have bread for them and to spare, without fear." then came an old, old man bending on his staff, and he spoke out sharply, as if he were half starved, and all he said was, "bread!" and with that he held out his hand as if all he had to do was to ask, in order to get what he wanted. for a moment tiny made him no answer, and some persons who had heard the demand, and saw that tiny gave him nothing, began to laugh. but at that sound tiny rebuked them with his look, and put his hand into the purse. the old man saw all this, and he said, "i am tired of begging, i am tired of saying, `for mercy's sake give to me,'--for people don't have mercy--they know nothing about being merciful, and they don't care for mercy's sake. i don't beg of you, mr poet. i only ask you as if you were my son, and that's all. give me bread. i'm starving." and tiny said, "for my dear father's sake take this--god forbid that _i_ should ever be deaf when an old man with a wrinkled face and white hair speaks to me." afar off stood a young girl looking at the poet. tiny saw her, and that she needed something of him, though she did not come and ask, and so he beckoned to her. she came at that, and as she drew nearer he fancied that she had been weeping, and that her grief had kept her back. she had wept so violently that when tiny spoke to her and said, "what is it?" she could not answer him. but at length, while he waited so patiently, she made a great effort, and controlled herself and said, "my mother!" that was all she said--and tiny asked no more. he knew that some great grief had fallen on her--that was all he needed to know; he laid his hand in hers, and turned away before she could thank him, but he left with her a word that he had spoken which had power to comfort her long after the money he gave her was all gone--long after the day when her poor mother had no more need for bread. "when my father and mother forsake me, then the lord will lift me up." that was what he whispered to her as he left her. and thus he went through that crowd of miserable people, comforting them all. but it was remarkable how much more value the poor folks seemed to put upon his word than they did upon the money he gave them, much as they stood in need of that! i wonder if you ever thought about the wonderful power there is in words? at length, when the purse was empty, he stood alone in the midst of the circle of rich men who had given him the silver to distribute as he would. then the man who handed him the purse went up and said to tiny, "poet, come home with me. you are come at last! the city ought to be illuminated--we have stood so long in need of you, expecting you." so tiny, believing what the rich man said, went home with the stranger-- and for a long time he abode in that house. and rich men feasted tiny, and taught him to drink wine: and great men praised him, and flattered him till he believed that their praise was precious above all things, and that he could not live without it! was not that absurd? nay, children, was not that most terrible, that our dear tiny should ever have been tempted to believe such wicked trash and falsehood! he, too, who was to sing that sweet and holy new song to the lord! they surrounded him day and night, these rich, gay men, and these great men, and they fed upon the delicious thoughts he gave them, and they kept him in such a whirl of pleasure that he had no time to work for the poor, and hardly any time to think of them--excepting at the dead of night, when he sometimes fancied or dreamed that the old pilgrim owner of the harp had come, or would come quickly, and take it away from him. at these times poor tiny would make excellent resolutions, but the next day was sure to see them broken. he seemed no stronger when he attempted to keep them than a poor little bird who is determined that he will be free, and so goes driving against the wires of his cage! when tiny spoke with his friend, as he sometimes did, about the plan with which he had come into the world, his friend always made him very polite answers, and good promises--oh, yes, certainly he would do all that _he_ could to help him on in such an excellent cause! but the fact was, he did everything to prevent him. i wonder if anybody else has got any such friend in his heart, or in his house, as our tiny found in his very first walk through that city street? if i knew of any one that had, i should say, look out for him! beware of him. and so tiny lived, and presently it happened just as you would expect; his conscience troubled him no longer; he only sang such songs on feast days, and holidays, and even in the church, as his companions liked; and he became very well pleased with his employment! that was the very worst of it. i shall tell you in a very few words what happened next. tiny suddenly fell ill of a very curious disease, which caused all his rich friends to forsake him, and he almost died of it. in those days his only helper was a poor young beggar girl--one of those persons whom he had relieved by his songs, and by the money he distributed from the rich man's purse that happy day,--the little girl who had wept so bitterly, and whose only word was, when he questioned her,--"my mother!" he recovered from his disease in time, but all his old acquaintances had forsaken him; and he must have felt their loss exceedingly, for now he had an attack of a desperate complaint, which i pray you may never have!--called despair--and tiny crept away from the sight of all men, into a garret, and thought that he would die there. a garret at home is a very different place from a garret in the world; and so our poet thought, when he compared this miserable, dismal place with the little attic far, far away in his own father's cottage, where he was next-door neighbour to the swallows who slept in their little mud cabins under the cottage eaves! never in his life was tiny so lonely. he had come to help the world, said he, talking to himself, and the world cared not half so much about it as it would about the doings of a wonderful "learned pig," or the extraordinary spectacle of a man cutting profiles with his toes in black paper! "have you been all the while helping the world, and is this all the pay you get?" said the girl, his poor friend, who remembered what he had done for her, when she was in her worst need. "yes," said tiny; but there was no truth in what he said. he did not intend to speak falsely, however,--which proves the sad pass he had arrived at; he did not even know when he was deceiving himself! and when tiny said, that "yes," what do you suppose he thought of? not of all the precious time that he had wasted--not of the pilgrim's harp--not of the promises he had made his father--nor of the great hope of the poor which he had no cruelly disappointed--but only of the evil fortune which had fallen on himself! this beggar girl to wait on him, instead of the most beautiful lady in the world for a crown bearer! this garret for a home, instead of a place at the king's table. and more fiercely than ever raged that sickness called despair. but at length his strength began to return to him a little, and then for the first time poor tiny discovered that he was blind. and all the days and weeks that came and went were like one long, dark night. in those dreadful days our singer had nothing to do but to think, and the little beggar girl had nothing to do but to beg; for tiny's charity and goodness of heart seemed to have all forsaken him, and one day in his anger he drove her out of his garret, and bade her return no more, for that the very thought of her was hateful to him. in doing this, tiny brought a terrible calamity upon himself; he fell against his harp and broke it. after that, while he sat pondering on the sad plight he was in, hungry and cold and blind, he suddenly started up. a new thought had come to him. "i will go home to my father's house," he said. "there is no other way for me. oh, my mother!" and bitterly he wept as he pronounced that name, and thought how little like her tender and serene love was the love of the best of all the friends he had found in that great city of the world. as he started up so quickly in a sort of frenzy, his foot struck against the broken harp, and instantly the instrument gave forth a wailing sound, that pierced the poet's heart. he lifted up the harp: alas! it was _so_ broken he could do nothing with it; from his hands it fell back upon the floor where it had lain neglected, forgotten, so long. but tiny's heart was now fairly awakened, and stooping to the floor, he raised the precious treasure again. "i will carry back the broken fragments," said he; "they shall go back to my father with me. the harp is his; i can do nothing more with it for ever. i have ruined it; i have done nothing for the world, as i promised him. a fine thing it is for me to go back to him in this dreadful plight. but if he says to me, `thou art no son of mine,' i will say, `father, i am no more _worthy_ to be called thy son; make me thy hired servant--only pay me in love.'" and so saying, tiny began to descend from his attic. carefully he went down the stairs, ready to ask help of the first person whose voice he should hear. but he had groped his way as far as the street door, before he met a soul. as he stepped upon the threshold, and was about to move on into the street, a voice--a child's voice--said to him-- "i'm very hungry, sir." the patient tone of the speaker arrested tiny's steps, and he pondered a moment. it was the hearts that belonged to voices like this, which he had vowed to help! his own heart sunk within him at that thought. "wretched soul that i am," said he to himself, thinking of the opportunities which he had lost. but to the child he said-- "i'm blinder than a bat, and hungry, too. so i'm worse off than you are. do you live about here?" "just round the corner," said the little girl. "is there a physician near here?" he asked next; for a now thought--a new hope, rather--had come into his heart. "yes, sir--very near. i know where it is," said the child. "i got him once for my mother." "if you will lead me to him," said tiny, his voice broken as his heart was, "i will do a good turn for you. you won't be the loser by it. who takes care of you?" "of me, sir?" asked the girl, as if surprised that he should think that any one took care of her. "nobody. i'm all alone." "alone! alone!" repeated tiny: "your hand is very little; you are a mite of a girl to be alone." "they're all dead but me, every one of 'em. yes, sir, they are." "no mother?" said tiny, with a choking voice--thinking of the kind heart and tender loving eyes away off in the lonely little cottage on the border of the forest--"no mother, little girl? was _that_ what you said?" "dead," replied the child. "did you love her?" asked tiny, the poet, while his heart wept burning tears. the girl said not a word, but tiny heard her sob, and held her hand close in his own, as though he would protect her, even if he were blind, while he said aloud-- "lead me to the physician, little friend." quietly and swiftly she led him, and as they went, tiny never once thought, what if any of the great folks who once courted and praised him should see him led on foot through the streets by a little beggar girl, himself looking hardly more respectable than the poorest of all beggars! "shall i ring the door bell?" asked she, at length coming to a sudden halt. "king it," said he. but before she could do that the house door opened, and the physician himself appeared, prepared for a drive; his carriage was already in waiting at the door. "here he is," exclaimed the girl; and at the same moment a gruff voice demanded-- "what do you want, you two, eh? speak quick, for i'm off." in one word tiny told what it was he wanted. "blind, eh?" said the doctor, stooping and looking into the pale face of the unhappy singer; "_born_ blind! i can do nothing for you. john! drive the horses away from that curb-stone." he stepped forward, as he spoke, as if about to leave the children, but he stood still again the next minute, arrested by the sound of tiny's indignant voice. "born blind!" the singer cried; "no more than you were, sir. if you knew how to use your eyes to any good purpose, you never would say such a thing. since i was ill i've been blind, but never a moment before." "come into the house a minute," said the doctor, who had been carefully studying tiny's face during the last few seconds. "come in, and i'll soon settle that point for you." "for yourself, you mean," said tiny, in an under tone, as he and the beggar girl went in. "what's that you carry?" said the physician. "lay down your pack for a moment." but tiny would not do that. he had taken up his harp in much the same spirit as if it had been a cross, and he was determined never to lay it down again until he came to his father's house. so he merely said, "don't call it a pack; it was a harp once, but now it's only some bits of wood and cord." "broken!" said the doctor; and you would have been in doubt, if you had heard him, as to whether he meant tiny's harp or heart. "broken! ah, ...;" and he seemed to get a little new light on the subject when he looked again into tiny's face. "ah," he said again, and still more thoughtfully; "now! about those eyes. you went into a great rage just now when i told you that you were born blind. on a closer examination of them, i am still tempted to think that if you were not born blind, you never had the full use of your eyes. how are you going to prove to me that i'm mistaken? if you can prove that it came after your sickness,"--he hesitated a little--"i'm not so sure but that something might be done for you." at that tiny's anger was not much lessened; and he was in doubt as to what he should do, until the child said to him, "sing to him about your mother." the words had the effect of a broad ray of light streaming into a dark and dismal place, and without another word tiny began to sing. his voice was faint and broken; it never once rose into a high strain of pride, as if he had his merits as a singer to support; he sung with tears, and such pathos as singer never did before, of his mother and her love. by the words of his song he brought her there into that very room, with her good and pleasant looks, her loving eyes and tender smile, so that they who heard could also behold her. he sung of all that she had been to him in his childhood, of the brightness she made in their home, of all that she had done for him, and concluded with the prayerful longing that his eyes might once more receive their sight, that so he might behold her. "the doctor is weeping," whispered the little girl in tiny's ear. it was a long time before the doctor spoke; but at length he arose and laid some pieces of silver in tiny's hand; and he said, "i cannot help you. but what you have to do is to go to the beautiful gate, and there you will find a physician famous for the cure of such cases as yours. true enough you weren't _born_ blind--far from it. i ask your pardon for the mistake. i wish there were more blind in the way you were. go your way to the beautiful gate." as the doctor spoke he arose and walked quickly towards the door, and the children followed him out. all at once tiny recollected that they had yet one very important thing to learn, and he cried out-- "but, sir, which way shall we go in order to arrive at the beautiful gate?" too late! while he spoke the doctor stepped into his carriage, the coachman closed the door with a loud bang and drove away, and tiny and the little girl were left quite in the dark as to what they should do next. for a long time they stood still in perfect silence. at last tiny said, "lead the way, little girl, for i am blind and cannot see. come! we will go on, if you have an idea that we shall ever come to the beautiful gate." "in all my life i never heard of it before," said she sadly. "but i have," cried tiny, trying to keep his courage up by speaking brave words. "come on with me!" yet, in spite of his words, he held fast to the girl's hand, and she led him down the street. presently, towards nightfall, they came up to a crowd of people, a mob of men and boys who were quarrelling. well did tiny understand the angry sound; and, as for the girl walking with him, she trembled with fear, and said, "shall we turn down this street? they are having a terrible fight. i am afraid you will be hurt." "not i," said tiny. "is the sun near setting?" "it has set," said the girl. "and does the red light shine on the men's faces?" asked the poet. "yes," answered the girl, wondering. "on the night when i first came into this city's streets it was so. my harp was perfect then; but it was the voice, and not the other music, that the people eared for, when i sang. wait now." the little girl obediently stood still, and all at once tiny began to sing. none of his gay songs sung at feasts, and revels, or on holidays, but a song of peace, as grand and solemn as a psalm; and the quarrelling men and boys stood still and listened, and, before the song was ended, the ringleaders of the fight had crept away in shame. other voices then began to shout in praise of the young stranger, who with a few simple words had stilled their angry passions. "the brave fellow is blind," said they; "we will do something good for him!" and one, and another, and another, cried out, "come with us, and we will do you good." but instead of answering a word, tiny went his way as if he were deaf as a post, as well as blind as a bat, and by his side, holding his hand close, went the little beggar girl. until they came in the increasing darkness to a narrow, crooked lane, and met a woman who was running, crying, with a young child in her arms. "what is this?" asked tiny. "a woman, pale as death, with a child in her arms," said the girl. "wait!" shouted tiny, stopping just before the woman. his cry so astonished her that she stood, in an instant, as still as a statue. "what is it that you want?" "food! medicine! clothes! a home!" answered she, with a loud cry. "give me the child--take this--get what you need, and i will wait here with the little one," said tiny. without a word the woman gave her child--it was a poor little cripple-- into his arms; and then she went on to obey him; and softly on the evening air, in that damp, dismal lane, arose the songs which tiny sang to soothe and comfort the poor little creature. and in his arms it slept, hushed by the melody, a slumber such as had not for a long time visited his eyes. wonderful singer! blessed songs! sung for a wretched sickly stranger, who could not even thank him! but you think they died away upon the air, those songs? that they did no other good than merely hushing a hungry child to sleep? a student in an attic heard the song, and smiled, and murmured to himself, "that is like having a long walk in in the woods, and hearing all the birds sing." a sick girl, who had writhed upon her bed in pain all the day, heard the gentle singing voice, and it was like a charm upon her--she lay resting in a sweet calm, and said, "hark! it is an angel!" a blind old man started up from a troubled slumber, and smiled a happy smile that said as plain as any voice, "it gives me back my youth, my children, and my country home;" and he smiled again and again, and listened at his window, scarcely daring to breathe lest he should lose a single word. a baby clad in rags, and sheltered from the cold with them, a baby in its cradle--what do you think that cradle was? as truly as you live, nothing but a box such as a merchant packs his goods in! that baby, sleeping, heard it, and a light like sunshine spread over its pretty face. a thief skulking along in the shadow of the great high building, heard that voice and was struck to the heart, and crept back to his den, and did no wicked thing that night. a prisoner who was condemned to die heard it in his cell near by, and he forgot his chains, and dreamed that he was once more innocent and free--a boy playing with his mates, and loved and trusted by them. at length the mother of the crippled infant came back, and brought food for her child, and a warm blanket for it, and she, and tiny, and the beggar girl, tiny's companion, ate their supper there upon the sidewalk of that dark, narrow lane, and then they went their separate ways--tiny and his friend, taking the poor woman's blessing with them, going in one direction, and the mother and her baby in another, but they all slept in the street that night. the next morning by daybreak tiny was again on his way down that same long, narrow, dingy street, the little girl still walking by his side. swiftly they walked, and in silence, like persons who are sure of their destination, and know that they are in the right way, though they had not said a word to each other on that subject since they set out in the path. "what is that?" at length asked tiny, stopping short in the street. "a tolling bell," said the girl. "do you see a funeral?" "yes; don't you?" tiny made no answer at first; at length he said, "let us go into the churchyard;" and he waited for the beggar girl to lead the way, which she did, and together they went in at the open churchyard gate. as they did so, a clergyman was thanking the friends who had kindly come to help in burying the mother of orphan children. tiny heard that word, and he said to the girl, whose name, i ought long ago to have told you, was grace--he said, "are there many friends with the children?" "no," she answered sadly. "are the people poor?" he asked. "yes, very poor," said she. then tiny stepped forward when the clergyman had done speaking, and raised a hymn for the dead, and a prayer to the father of the fatherless. when he had made an end, he stepped back again, and took the hand of grace, and walked away with her in the deep silence, for everybody in the churchyard was weeping. but as they went through the gate the silence was broken, and tiny heard the clergyman saying, "weep no longer, children; my house shall be your home, my wife shall be your mother. come, let us go back to our home." and grace and tiny went their way. on, and on, and on, through the narrow filthy street, out into the open country,--through a desert, and a forest; and it seemed as if poor tiny would sing his very life away. for wherever those appeared who seemed to need the voice of human pity, or brotherly love, or any act of charity, the voice and hand of tiny were upraised. and every hour, whichever way he went, he found the world had need of him! they had no better guide than that with which they set out on their search for the beautiful gate. but tiny's heart was opened, and it led him wherever there was misery, and want, and sin, and grief; and flowers grew up in the path he trod, and sparkling springs burst forth in desert places. and then as to his blindness. fast he held by the hand of the beggar girl as they went on their way together, but the film was withdrawing from his eye-balls. when he turned them up towards the heaven, if they could not yet discern that, they could get a glimpse of the earth! so he said within himself, "surely we are in the right way; we shall yet come to the beautiful gate, and i shall have my sight again. then will i hasten to my father's house, and when all is forgiven me, i will say to my mother, receive this child i bring thee for a daughter, for she has been my guide through a weary way; and i know that my mother will love my little sister grace." "and what then?" asked a voice in tiny's soul, "_what_ then wilt thou do?" "labour till i die!" exclaimed tiny aloud, with flashing eyes. "but for what, poet, wilt thou labour?" "for the poor world that needs me," bravely cried he with a mighty voice. "ah," whispered something faintly in his ear, with a taunting voice that pierced his heart like a sharp sword--"ah, you said that once before; and fine work you made of it!" tiny made no answer to this taunt, with words, but with all the strength of his great poet mind he cried again, "for the poor world that needs me!" and the vow was registered in heaven, and angels were sent to strengthen him in that determination--him who was to sing the new song to the lord. a long way further grace and tiny walked together on their journey; they walked in silence, thinking so fast that, without knowing it, they were almost on a run in the attempt their feet were making to keep pace with their thoughts. at length grace broke the silence with a sudden cry-- "oh, tiny! what is this?" tiny looked up at the sound of her voice, and then he stood stock still as if he were turned to stone. "oh, tiny! can you see?" again exclaimed grace, who was watching her companion's face in a great wonder; it became so changed all at once. "oh, tiny, tiny, can you see?" she cried again, in terror, for he did not answer her, but grew paler and paler, swaying to and fro like a reed in the wind, until he fell like one dead upon the ground, saying--"my home! my home! and the beautiful gate is here!" just then an old man came slowly from the forest, near to which they had come in their journey. his head was bent, he moved slowly like one in troubled thought, and as he walked he said to himself, "long have i toiled, bringing these forest trees into this shape; and people know what i have done--of their own free will they call it a beautiful gate. but oh, if i could only find the blind one lying before it, ready to be carried through it to his mother! then, indeed, it would be beautiful to me. oh tiny! oh my child, when wilt thou return from thy long wanderings?" "please, sir," said a child's voice--it was the voice of our little grace, you know--"please, sir, will you come and help me?" and she ran back to the place where tiny lay. swiftly as a bird on wing went josiah with the child. without a word he lifted up the senseless poet and the broken harp; and with the precious burden passed on through the beautiful gate of the forest, into the cottage home--grace following him! once more the broken harp hung on the kitchen wall--no longer broken. once more the swallows and the poet slept side by side, in their comfortable nests. once more old kitty's eyes grew bright. once more josiah smiled. again a singing voice went echoing through the world, working miracles of good. rich men heard it and opened their purses. proud men heard it and grew humble. angry voices heard it and grew soft. wicked spirits heard it and grew beautiful in charities. the sick, and sad, and desolate heard it and were at peace. mourners heard it and rejoiced. the songs that voice sang, echoed through the churches, through the streets; and by ten thousand thousand firesides they were sung again and yet again. but all the while the great heart, the mighty, loving human heart from which they came, was nestled in that little nest of home on the border of the forest, far away from all the world's temptations, in the safe shelter of a household's love. story four, chapter . the chimaera, by n. hawthorne. once in the old, old times (for all the strange things which i tell you about happened long before anybody can remember), a fountain gushed out of a hill-side in the marvellous land of greece; and, for aught i know, after so many thousand years, it is still gushing out of the very self-same spot. at any rate, there was the pleasant fountain welling freshly forth and sparkling adown the hillside, in the golden sunset, when a handsome young man named bellerophon drew near its margin. in his hand he held a bridle, studded with brilliant gems, and adorned with a golden bit. seeing an old man, and another of middle age, and a little boy, near the fountain, and like wise a maiden, who was dipping up some of the water in a pitcher, he paused, and begged that he might refresh himself with a draught. "this is very delicious water," he said to the maiden, as he rinsed and filled her pitcher, after drinking out of it. "will you be kind enough to tell me whether the fountain has any name?" "yes; it is called the fountain of pirene," answered the maiden; and then she added, "my grandmother has told me that this clear fountain was once a beautiful woman, and when her son was killed by the arrows of the huntress diana, she melted all away into tears. and so the water, which you find so cool and sweet, is the sorrow of that poor mother's heart!" "i should not have dreamed," observed the young stranger, "that so clear a well-spring, with its gush and gurgle, and its cheery dance out of the shade into the sunlight, had so much as one tear-drop in its bosom! and this, then, is pirene? i thank you, pretty maiden, for telling me its name. i have come from a far-away country to find this very spot." a middle-aged country fellow (he had driven his cow to drink out of the spring) stared hard at young bellerophon, and at the handsome bridle which he carried in his hand. "the water-courses must be getting low, friend, in your part of the world," remarked he, "if you come so far only to find the fountain of pirene. but, pray, have you lost a horse? i see you carry the bridle in your hand; and a very pretty one it is, with that double row of bright stones upon it. if the horse was as fine as the bridle, you are much to be pitied for losing him." "i have lost no horse," said bellerophon, with a smile. "but i happen to be seeking a very famous one, which, as wise people have informed me, must be found hereabouts, if anywhere. do you know whether the winged horse pegasus still haunts the fountain of pirene, as he used to do, in your forefathers' days?" but then the country fellow laughed. some of you, my little friends, have probably heard that this pegasus was a snow-white steed, with beautiful silvery wings, who spent most of his time on the summit of mount helicon. he was as wild, and as swift, and as buoyant, in his flight through the air, as any eagle that ever soared into the clouds. there was nothing else like him in the world. he had no mate; he had never been backed or bridled by a master; and, for many a long year, he led a solitary and a happy life. oh, how fine a thing it is to be a winged horse! sleeping at night, as he did, on a lofty mountain-top, and passing the greater part of the day in the air, pegasus seemed hardly to be a creature of the earth. whenever he was seen, up very high above people's heads, with the sunshine on his silvery wings, you would have thought that he belonged to the sky, and that, skimming a little too low, he had got astray among our mists and vapours, and was seeking his way back again. it was very pretty to behold him plunge into the fleecy bosom of a bright cloud, and be lost in it for a moment or two, and then break forth from the other side; or, in a sullen rain-storm, when there was a grey pavement of clouds over the whole sky, it would sometimes happen that the winged horse descended right through it, and the glad light of the upper region would gleam after him. in another instant, it is true, both pegasus and the pleasant light would be gone away together. but any one that was fortunate enough to see this wondrous spectacle felt cheerful the whole day afterwards, and as much longer as the storm lasted. in the summer time, and in the beautifullest of weather, pegasus often alighted on the solid earth, and, closing his silvery wings, would gallop over hill and dale for pastime, as fleetly as the wind. oftener than in any other place, he had been seen near the fountain of pirene, drinking the delicious water, or rolling himself upon the soft grass of the margin. sometimes, too (but pegasus was very dainty in his food), he would crop a few of the clover-blossoms that happened to be the sweetest. to the fountain of pirene, therefore, people's great-grandfathers had been in the habit of going (as long as they were youthful, and retained their faith in winged horses), in hopes of getting a glimpse at the beautiful pegasus. but, of late years, he had been very seldom seen. indeed, there were many of the country folks, dwelling within half an hour's walk of the fountain, who had never beheld pegasus, and did not believe that there was any such creature in existence. the country fellow to whom bellerophon was speaking chanced to be one of those incredulous persons. and that was the reason why he laughed. "pegasus, indeed!" cried he, turning up his nose as high as such a flat nose could be turned up, "pegasus, indeed! a winged horse, truly! why, friend, are you in your senses? of what use would wings be to a horse? could he drag the plough so well, think you? to be sure, there might be a little saving in the expense of shoes; but then, how would a man like to see his horse flying out of the stable window?--yes; or whisking him up above the clouds, when he only wanted to ride to mill! no, no! i don't believe in pegasus. there never was such a ridiculous kind of a horse-fowl made!" "i have some reason to think otherwise," said bellerophon, quietly. and then he turned to an old, grey man who was leaning on a staff, and listening very attentively, with his head stretched forward, and one hand at his ear, because for the last twenty years he had been getting rather deaf. "and what say you, venerable sir?" inquired he. "in your younger days, i should imagine you must frequently have seen the winged steed!" "ah, young stranger, my memory is very poor!" said the aged man. "when i was a lad, if i remember rightly, i used to believe there was such a horse, and so did everybody else. but, now-a-days, i hardly know what to think, and very seldom think about the winged horse at all. if i ever saw the creature, it was a long, long while ago; and, to tell you the truth, i doubt whether i ever did see him. one day, to be sure, when i was quite a youth, i remember seeing some hoof-tramps round about the brink of the fountain. pegasus might have made those hoof-marks; and so might some other horse." "and have you never seen him, my fair maiden?" asked bellerophon of the girl, who stood with the pitcher on her head, while this talk went on. "you certainly could see pegasus if anybody can, for your eyes are very bright." "once i thought i saw him," replied the maiden, with a smile and a blush. "it was either pegasus, or a large white bird, a very great way up in the air. and one other time, as i was coming to the fountain with my pitcher, i heard a neigh. oh, such a brisk and melodious neigh as that was! my very heart leaped with delight at the sound. but it startled me, nevertheless; so that i ran home without filling my pitcher." "that was truly a pity!" said bellerophon. and he turned to the child, whom i mentioned at the beginning of the story, and who was gazing at him, as children are apt to gaze at strangers, with his rosy mouth wide open. "well, my little fellow," cried bellerophon, playfully pulling one of his curls, "i suppose you have often seen the winged horse." "that i have," answered the child very readily. "i saw him yesterday, and many times before." "you are a fine little man!" said bellerophon, drawing the child closer to him. "come, tell me all about it." "why," replied the child, "i often come here to sail little boats in the fountain, and to gather pretty pebbles out of its basin. and sometimes when i look down into the water, i see the image of the winged horse, in the picture of the sky that is there. i wish he would come down and take me on his back, and let me ride him up to the moon! but, if i so much as stir to look at him, he flies far away out of sight." and bellerophon put his faith in the child, who had seen the image of pegasus in the water, and in the maiden, who had heard him neigh so melodiously, rather than in the middle-aged clown, who believed only in cart-horses, or in the old man, who had forgotten the beautiful things of his youth. therefore he haunted about the fountain of pirene for a great many days afterwards. he kept continually on the watch, looking upward at the sky, or else down into the water, hoping for ever that he should see either the reflected image of the winged horse, or the marvellous reality. he held the bridle, with its bright gems and golden bit, always ready in his hand. the rustic people, who dwelt in the neighbourhood, and drove their cattle to the fountain to drink, would often laugh at poor bellerophon, and sometimes take him pretty severely to task. they told him that an able-bodied young man, like himself, ought to have better business than to be wasting his time in such an idle pursuit. they offered to sell him a horse, if he wanted one; and when bellerophon declined the purchase they tried to drive a bargain with him for his fine bridle. even the country boys thought him so very foolish, that they used to have a great deal of sport about him; and were rude enough not to care a fig, although bellerophon saw and heard it. one little urchin, for example, would play pegasus, and cut the oddest imaginable capers, by way of flying, while one of his schoolfellows would scamper after him, holding forth a twist of bulrushes, which was intended to represent bellerophon's ornamented bridle. but the gentle child, who had seen the picture of pegasus in the water, comforted the young stranger more than all the naughty boys could torment him. the dear little fellow, in his play-hours, often sat down beside him, and, without speaking a word, would look down into the fountain and up towards the sky, with so innocent a faith that bellerophon could not help feeling encouraged. now you will, perhaps, wish to be told why it was that bellerophon had undertaken to catch the winged horse. and we shall find no better opportunity to speak about this matter than while he is waiting for pegasus to appear. if i were to relate the whole of bellerophon's previous adventures, they might easily grow into a very long story. it will be quite enough to say, that, in a certain country of asia, a terrible monster, called a chimaera, had made its appearance, and was doing more mischief than could be talked about between now and sunset. according to the best accounts which i have been able to obtain, this chimaera was nearly, if not quite, the ugliest and most poisonous creature, and the strangest and unaccountablest, and the hardest to fight with, and the most difficult to run away from, that ever came out of the earth's inside. it had a tail like a boa-constrictor; its body was like i do not care what; and it had three separate heads, one of which was a lion's, the second a goat's, and the third an abominably great snake's. and a hot blast of fire came flaming out of each of its three mouths! being an earthly monster, i doubt whether it had any wings; but, wings or no, it ran like a goat and a lion, and wriggled along like a serpent, and thus contrived to make about as much speed as all three together. oh, the mischief, and mischief, and mischief, that this naughty creature did! with its flaming breath, it could set a forest on fire, or burn up a field of grain, or, for that matter, a village, with all its fences and houses. it laid waste the whole country round about, and used to eat up people and animals alive, and cook them afterwards in the burning oven of its stomach. mercy on us, little children, i hope neither you nor i will ever happen to meet a chimaera! while the hateful beast (if a beast we can anywise call it) was doing all these horrible things, it so chanced that bellerophon came to that part of the world, on a visit to the king. the king's name was iobates, and lycia was the country which he ruled over. bellerophon was one of the bravest youths in the world, and desired nothing so much as to do some valiant and beneficent deed, such as would make all mankind admire and love him. in those days, the only way for a young man to distinguish himself was by fighting battles, either with the enemies of his country, or with wicked giants, or with troublesome dragons, or with wild beasts, when he could find nothing more dangerous to encounter. king iobates, perceiving the courage of his youthful visitor, proposed to him to go and fight the chimaera, which everybody else was afraid of, and which, unless it should be soon killed, was likely to convert lycia into a desert. bellerophon hesitated not a moment, but assured the king that he would either slay this dreaded chimaera, or perish in the attempt. but, in the first place, as the monster was so prodigiously swift, he bethought himself that he should never win the victory by fighting on foot. the wisest thing he could do, therefore, was to get the very best and fleetest horse that could anywhere be found. and what other horse, in all the world, was half so fleet as the marvellous horse pegasus, who had wings as well as legs, and was even more active in the air than on the earth? to be sure, a great many people denied that there was any such horse with wings, and said that the stories about him were all poetry and nonsense. but, wonderful as it appeared, bellerophon believed that pegasus was a real steed, and hoped that he himself might be fortunate enough to find him; and, once fairly mounted on his back, he would be able to fight the chimaera at better advantage. and this was the purpose with which he had travelled from lycia to greece, and had brought the beautifully ornamented bridle in his hand. it was an enchanted bridle. if he could only succeed in putting the golden bit into the mouth of pegasus, the winged horse would be submissive, and would own bellerophon for his master, and fly whithersoever he might choose to turn the rein. but, indeed, it was a weary and anxious time, while bellerophon waited and waited for pegasus, in hopes that he would come and drink at the fountain of pirene. he was afraid lest king iobates should imagine that he had fled from the chimaera. it pained him, too, to think how much mischief the monster was doing, while he himself, instead of fighting with it, was compelled to sit idly poring over the bright waters of pirene, as they gushed out of the sparkling sand. and as pegasus had come thither so seldom, in these latter days, and scarcely alighted there more than once in a lifetime, bellerophon feared that he might grow an old man, and have no strength left in his arms nor courage in his heart, before the winged horse would appear. oh, how heavily passes the time while an adventurous youth is yearning to do his part in life, and to gather in the harvest of his renown! how hard a lesson it is to wait! our life is brief, and how much of it is spent in teaching us only this! well was it for bellerophon that the gentle child had grown so fond of him, and was never weary of keeping him company. every morning the child gave him a new hope to put in his bosom, instead of yesterday's withered one. "dear bellerophon," he would cry, looking up hopefully into his face, "i think we shall see pegasus to-day!" and, at length, if it had not been for the little boy's unwavering faith, bellerophon would have given up all hope, and would have gone back to lycia, and have done his best to slay the chimaera without the help of his winged horse. and in that case poor bellerophon would at least have been terribly scorched by the creature's breath, and would most probably have been killed and devoured. nobody should ever try to fight an earth-born chimaera, unless he can first get upon the back of an aerial steed. one morning the child spoke to bellerophon even more hopefully than usual. "dear, dear bellerophon," cried he, "i know not why it is, but i feel as if we should certainly see pegasus to-day!" and all that day he would not stir a step from bellerophon's side; so they ate a crust of bread together, and drank some of the water of the fountain. in the afternoon, there they sat, and bellerophon had thrown his arm around the child, who likewise had put one of his little hands into bellerophon's. the latter was lost in his own thoughts, and was fixing his eyes vacantly on the trunks of the trees that overshadowed the fountain, and on the grape vines that clambered up among their branches. but the gentle child was gazing down into the water. he was grieved, for bellerophon's sake, that the hope of another day should be deceived like so many before it; and two or three quiet tear-drops fell from his eyes, and mingled with what were said to be the many tears of pirene, when she wept for her slain children. but, when he least thought of it, bellerophon felt the pressure of the child's little hand, and heard a soft, almost breathless whisper. "see there, dear bellerophon! there is an image in the water!" the young man looked down into the dimpling mirror of the fountain, and saw what he took to be the reflection of the bird, which seemed to be flying at a great height in the air, with a gleam of sunshine on its snowy or silvery wings. "what a splendid bird it must be!" said he. "and how very large it looks, though it must really be flying higher than the clouds!" "it makes me tremble!" whispered the child. "i am afraid to look up into the air! it is very beautiful, and yet i dare only look at its image in the water. dear bellerophon, do you not see that it is no bird? it is the winged horse pegasus!" bellerophon's heart began to throb! he gazed keenly upward, but could not see the winged creature, whether bird or horse, because, just then, it had plunged into the fleecy depths of a summer cloud. it was but a moment, however, before the object re-appeared, sinking lightly down out of the cloud, although still at a vast distance from the earth. bellerophon caught the child in his arms, and shrunk back with him, so that they were both hidden among the thick shrubbery which grew all around the fountain. not that he was afraid of any harm, but he dreaded lest, if pegasus caught a glimpse of them, he would fly far away, and alight in some inaccessible mountain-top. for it was really the winged horse. after they had expected him so long, he was coming to quench his thirst with the water of pirene. nearer and nearer came the aerial wonder, flying in great circles, as you may have seen a dove when about to alight. downward came pegasus, in those wide, sweeping circles, which grew narrower and narrower still, as he gradually approached the earth. at length--not that he was weary, but only idle and luxurious--pegasus folded his wings, and lay down on the soft green turf. but, being too full of aerial life to remain quiet for many moments together, he soon rolled over on his back, with his four slender legs in the air. it was beautiful to see him, this one solitary creature, whose mate had never been created, but who needed no companion, and, living a great many hundred years, was as happy as the centuries were long. the more he did such things as mortal horses are accustomed to do, the less earthly and the more wonderful he seemed. bellerophon and the child almost held their breath, partly from a delightful awe, but still more because they dreaded lest the slightest stir or murmur should send him up, with the speed of an arrow-flight, into the furthest blue of the sky. finally, when he had had enough of rolling over and over, pegasus turned himself about, and, indolently, like any other horse, put out his fore-legs, in order to rise from the ground; and bellerophon, who had guessed that he would do so, darted suddenly from the thicket, and leaped astride on his back. yes, there he sat, on the back of the winged horse! but what a bound did pegasus make, when, for the first time, he felt the weight of a mortal man upon his loins! a bound, indeed! before he had time to draw a breath, bellerophon found himself five hundred feet aloft, and still shooting upward, while the winged horse snorted and trembled with terror and anger. upward he went, up, up, up, until he plunged into the cold, misty bosom of a cloud, at which only a little while before bellerophon had been gazing and fancying it a very pleasant spot. then again, out of the heart of the cloud, pegasus shot down like a thunder-bolt, as if he meant to dash both himself and his rider headlong against a rock. then he went through about a thousand of the wildest caprioles that had ever been performed either by a bird or a horse. i cannot tell you half that he did. he skimmed straightforward, and sideways, and backward. he reared himself erect, with his fore-legs on a wreath of mist, and his hind-legs on nothing at all. he flung out his heels behind, and put down his head between his legs, with his wings pointing right upward. at about two miles' height above the earth, he turned a somersault, so that bellerophon's heels were where his head should have been, and he seemed to look down into the sky, instead of up. he twisted his head about, and, looking bellerophon in the face, with fire flashing from his eyes, made a terrible attempt to bite him. he fluttered his pinions so wildly that one of the silver feathers was shaken out, and floating earthward, was picked up by the child, who kept it as long as he lived, in memory of pegasus and bellerophon. but the latter (who, as you may judge, was as good a horseman as ever galloped) had been watching his opportunity, and at last clapped the golden bit of the enchanted bridle between the winged steed's jaws. no sooner was this done, than pegasus became as manageable as if he had taken food, all his life, out of bellerophon's hand. to speak what i really feel, it was almost a sadness to see so wild a creature grow suddenly so tame. and pegasus seemed to feel it so likewise. he looked round to bellerophon, with the tears in his beautiful eyes, instead of the fire that so recently flashed from them. but when bellerophon patted his head, and spoke a few authoritative, yet kind and soothing words, another look came into the eyes of pegasus; for he was glad at heart, after so many lonely centuries, to have found a companion and a master. thus it always is with winged horses, and with all such wild and solitary creatures. if you can catch and overcome them, it is the surest way to win their love. while pegasus had been doing his utmost to shake bellerophon off his back, he had flown a very long distance, and they had come within sight of a lofty mountain by the time the bit was in his mouth. bellerophon had seen this mountain before, and knew it to be helicon, on the summit of which was the winged horse's abode. thither (after looking gently into his rider's face, as if to ask leave) pegasus now flew, and, alighting, waited patiently until bellerophon should please to dismount. the young man accordingly leaped from his steed's back, but still held him fast by the bridle. meeting his eyes, however, he was so affected by the gentleness of his aspect, and by his beauty, and by the thought of the free life which pegasus had heretofore lived, that he could not bear to keep him a prisoner, if he really desired his liberty. obeying this generous impulse, he slipped the enchanted bridle off the head of pegasus, and took the bit from his mouth. "leave me, pegasus!" said he. "either leave me, or love me." in an instant the winged horse shot almost out of sight, soaring straight upward from the summit of mount helicon. being long after sunset, it was now twilight on the mountain-top, and dusky evening over all the country round about. but pegasus flew so high that he overtook the departed day, and was bathed in the upper radiance of the sun. ascending higher and higher, he looked like a bright speck, and at last could no longer be seen in the hollow waste of the sky. and bellerophon was afraid that he should never behold him more; but, while he was lamenting his own folly, the bright speck re-appeared, and drew nearer and nearer, until it descended lower than the sunshine; and, behold, pegasus had come back! after this trial, there was no more fear of the winged horse's making his escape. he and bellerophon were friends, and put loving faith in one another. that night they lay down and slept together, with bellerophon's arm about the neck of pegasus, not as a caution, but for kindness; and they awoke at peep of day, and bade one another good-morning, each in his own language. in this manner, bellerophon and the wondrous steed spent several days, and grew better acquainted and fonder of each other all the time. they went on long aerial journeys, and sometimes ascended so high that the earth looked hardly bigger than--the moon. they visited distant countries and amazed the inhabitants, who thought that the beautiful young man, on the back of the winged horse, must have come down out of the sky. a thousand miles a day was no more than an easy space for the fleet pegasus to pass over. bellerophon was delighted with this kind of life, and would have liked nothing better than to live always in the same way, aloft in the clear atmosphere; for it was always sunny weather up there, however cheerless and rainy it might be in the lower region. but he could not forget the horrible chimaera which he had promised king iobates to slay. so at last, when he had become well accustomed to feats of horsemanship in the air, could manage pegasus with the least motion of his hand, and had taught him to obey his voice, he determined to attempt the performance of this perilous adventure. at daybreak, therefore, as soon as he unclosed his eyes, he gently pinched the winged horse's ear, in order to arouse him. pegasus immediately started from the ground, and pranced about a quarter of a mile aloft, and made a grand sweep around the mountain-top, by way of showing that he was wide awake, and ready for any kind of an excursion. during the whole of this little flight he uttered a loud, brisk, and melodious neigh, and finally came down at bellerophon's side as lightly as ever you saw a sparrow hop upon a twig. "well done, dear pegasus; well done, my sky-skimmer," cried bellerophon, fondly stroking the horse's neck. "and now, my fleet and beautiful friend, we must break our fast. to-day we are to fight the terrible chimaera." as soon as they had eaten their morning meal, and drank some sparkling water from a spring called hippocrene, pegasus held out his head, of his own accord, so that his master might put on the bridle. then, with a great many playful leaps and airy caperings, he showed his impatience to be gone; while bellerophon was girding on his sword, and hanging his shield about his neck, and preparing himself for battle. when everything was ready, the rider mounted, and (as was his custom when going a long distance) ascended five miles perpendicularly, so as the better to see whither he was directing his course. he then turned the head of pegasus towards the east, and set out for lycia. in their flight they overtook an eagle, and came so nigh him, before he could get out of their way, that bellerophon might easily have caught him by the leg. hastening onward at this rate, it was still early in the forenoon when they beheld the lofty mountains of lycia, with their deep and shaggy valleys. if bellerophon had been told truly, it was in one of those dismal valleys that the hideous chimaera had taken up its abode. being now so near their journey's end, the winged horse gradually descended with his rider; and they took advantage of some clouds that were floating over the mountain-tops, in order to conceal themselves. hovering on the upper surface of a cloud, and peeping over its edge, bellerophon had a pretty distinct view of the mountainous part of lycia, and could look into all its shadowy vales at once. at first there appeared to be nothing remarkable. it was a wild, savage, and rocky tract of high and precipitous hills. in the more level part of the country, there were the ruins of houses that had been burnt, and, here and there, the carcases of dead cattle strewn about the pastures where they had been feeding. "the chimaera must have done this mischief," thought bellerophon. "but where can the monster be?" as i have already said, there was nothing remarkable to be detected, at first sight, in any of the valleys and dells that lay among the precipitous heights of the mountains. nothing at all; unless, indeed, it were three spires of black smoke, which issued from what seemed to be the mouth of a cavern, and clambered suddenly into the atmosphere. before reaching the mountain-top, these three black smoke-wreaths mingled themselves into one. the cavern was almost directly beneath the winged horse and his rider, at the distance of about a thousand feet. the smoke, as it, crept heavily upward, had an ugly, sulphurous, stifling scent, which caused pegasus to snort and bellerophon to sneeze. so disagreeable was it to the marvellous steed (who was accustomed to breathe only the purest air), that he waved his wings, and shot half a mile out of the range of this offensive vapour. but, on looking behind him, bellerophon saw something that induced him first to draw the bridle, and then to turn pegasus about. he made a sign which the winged horse understood, and sunk slowly through the air, until his hoofs were scarcely more than a man's height above the rocky bottom of the valley. in front, as far off as you could throw a stone, was the cavern's mouth, with the three smoke-wreaths oozing out of it. and what else did bellerophon behold there? there seemed to be a heap of strange and terrible creatures curled up within the cavern. their bodies lay so close together, that bellerophon could not distinguish them apart: but judging by their heads, one of these creatures was a huge snake, the second a fierce lion, and the third an ugly goat. the lion and the goat were asleep; the snake was broad awake, and kept staring around him with a great pair of fiery eyes. but--and this was the most wonderful part of the matter, the three spires of smoke evidently issued from the nostrils of these three heads! so strange was the spectacle, that, though bellerophon had been all along expecting it, the truth did not immediately occur to him, that here was the terrible three-headed chimaera. he had found out the chimaera's cavern. the snake, the lion, a and the goat, as he supposed them to be, were not three separate creatures, but one monster! the wicked, hateful thing! slumbering as two-thirds of it were, it still held, in its abominable claws, the remnant of an unfortunate lamb--or possibly (but i hate to think so) it was a dear little boy-- which its three mouths had been gnawing before two of them fell asleep! all at once, bellerophon started as from a dream, and knew it to be the chimaera. pegasus seemed to know it at the same instant, and sent forth a neigh, that sounded like the call of a trumpet to battle. at this sound the three heads reared themselves erect, and belched out great flashes of flame. before bellerophon had time to consider what to do next, the monster flung itself out of the cavern and sprung straight towards him, with its immense claws extended and its snaky tail twisting itself venomously behind. if pegasus had not been as nimble as a bird, both he and his rider would have been overthrown by the chimaera's headlong rush, and thus the battle have been ended before it was well begun. but the winged horse was not to be caught so. in the twinkling of an eye he was up aloft, half-way to the clouds, snorting with anger. he shuddered, too, not with affright, but with utter disgust at the loathsomeness of this poisonous thing with three heads. the chimaera, on the other hand, raised itself up so as to stand absolutely on the tip-end of its tail, with its talons pawing fiercely in the air, and its three heads spluttering fire at pegasus and his rider. my stars, how it roared, and hissed, and bellowed! bellerophon, meanwhile, was fitting his shield on his arm, and drawing his sword. "now, my beloved pegasus," he whispered in the winged horse's ear, "thou must help me to slay this insufferable monster; or else thou shalt fly back to thy solitary mountain peak without thy friend bellerophon. for either the chimaera dies, or its three mouths shall gnaw this head of mine, which has slumbered upon thy neck!" pegasus whinnied, and, turning back his head, rubbed his nose tenderly against his rider's cheek. it was his way of telling him that, though he had wings and was an immortal horse, yet he would perish, if it were possible for immortality to perish, rather than leave bellerophon behind. "i thank you, pegasus," answered bellerophon. "now, then, let us make a dash at the monster!" uttering these words, he shook the bridle; and pegasus darted down aslant, as swift as the flight of an arrow, right towards the chimaera's threefold head, which, all this time, was poking itself as high as it could into the air. as he came within arm's length, bellerophon made a cut at the monster, but was carried onward by his steed, before he could see whether the blow had been successful. pegasus continued his course, but soon wheeled round, at about the same distance from the chimaera as before. bellerophon then perceived that he had cut the goat's head of the monster almost off, so that it dangled downward by the skin, and seemed quite dead. but to make amends, the snake's head and the lion's head had taken all the fierceness of the dead one into themselves, and spit flame, and hissed, and roared, with a vast deal more fury than before. "never mind, my brave pegasus!" cried bellerophon. "with another stroke like that we will stop either its hissing or its roaring." and again he shook the bridle. dashing aslant-wise, as before, the winged horse made another arrow-flight towards the chimaera, and bellerophon aimed another downright stroke at one of the two remaining heads, as he shot by. but, this time, neither he nor pegasus escaped so well as at first. with one of its claws, the chimaera had given the young man a deep scratch in his shoulder, and had slightly damaged the left wing of the flying steed with the other. on his part, bellerophon had mortally wounded the lion's head of the monster, insomuch that it now hung downward, with its fire almost extinguished, and sending out gasps of thick black smoke. the snake's head, however (which was the only one now left), was twice as fierce and venomous as ever before. it belched forth shoots of fire five hundred yards long, and emitted hisses so loud, so harsh, and so ear-piercing, that king iobates heard them, fifty miles off, and trembled till the throne shook under him. "well-a-day!" thought the poor king; "the chimaera is certainly coming to devour me!" meanwhile, pegasus had again paused in the air, and neighed angrily, while sparkles of a pure crystal flame darted out of his eyes. how unlike the lurid fire of the chimaera! the aerial steed's spirit was all aroused, and so was that of bellerophon. "dost thou bleed, my immortal horse?" cried the young man, caring less for his own hurt than for the anguish of this glorious creature, that ought never to have tasted pain. "the execrable chimaera shall pay for this mischief, with his last head!" then he shook the bridle, shouted loudly, and guided pegasus, not aslant-wise as before, but straight at the monster's hideous front. so rapid was the onset, that it seemed but a dazzle and a flash, before bellerophon was at close gripes with the enemy. the chimaera, by this time, after losing its second head, had got into a red-hot passion of pain and rampant rage. it so flounced about, half on earth and partly in the air, that it was impossible to say which element it rested upon. it opened its snake-jaws to such an abominable width, that pegasus might almost, i was going to say, have flown right down its throat, wings outspread, rider and all? at their approach it shot out a tremendous blast of its fiery breath, and enveloped bellerophon and his stead in a perfect atmosphere of flame, singeing the wings of pegasus, scorching off one whole side of the young man's golden ringlets, and making them both far hotter than was comfortable, from head to foot. but this was nothing to what followed. when the airy rush of the winged horse had brought him within the distance of a hundred yards, the chimaera gave a spring, and flung its huge, awkward, venomous, and utterly detestable carcase a right upon poor pegasus, clung round him with might and main, and tied up its snaky tail into a knot! up flew the aerial steed, higher, higher, higher, above the mountain peaks, above the clouds, and almost out of sight of the solid earth. but still the earth-born monster kept its hold, and was borne upward, along with the creature of light and air. bellerophon, meanwhile turning about, found himself face to face with the ugly grimness of the chimaera's visage, and could only avoid being scorched to death, or bitten right in twain, by holding up his shield. over the upper edge of the shield, he looked sternly into the savage eyes of the monster. but the chimaera was so mad and wild with pain, that it did not guard itself so well as might else have been the case. perhaps, after all, the best way to fight a chimaera is by getting as close to it as you can. in its efforts to stick its horrible iron claws into its enemy, the creature left its own breast quite exposed; and perceiving this, bellerophon thrust his sword up to the hilt into its cruel heart. immediately the snaky tail untied its knot. the monster let go its hold of pegasus, and fell from that vast height downward; while the fire within its bosom, instead of being put out, burned fiercer than ever, and quickly began to consume the dead carcase. thus it fell out of the sky, all a-flame, and (it being nightfall before it reached the earth) was mistaken for a shooting star or a comet. but at early sunrise, some cottager's were going to their day's labour, and saw, to their astonishment, that several acres of ground were strewn with black ashes. in the middle of a field there was a heap of whitened bones, a great deal higher than a haystack. nothing else was ever seen of the dreadful chimaera! and when bellerophon had won the victory, he bent forward and kissed pegasus, while the tears stood in his eyes. "back now, my beloved steed!" said he. "back to the fountain of pirene!" pegasus skimmed through the air, quicker than ever he did before, and reached the fountain in a very short time. and there he found the old man leaning on his staff, and the country fellow watering his cow, and the pretty maiden filling her pitcher. "i remember now," quoth the old man, "i saw this winged horse once before, when i was quite a lad. but he was ten times handsomer in those days." "i own a cart-horse worth three of him!" said the country fellow. "if this pony were mine, the first thing i should do would be to clip his wings!" but the poor maiden said nothing, for she had always the luck to be afraid at the wrong time. so she ran away, and let her pitcher tumble down, and broke it. "where is the gentle child," asked bellerophon, "who used to keep me company, and never lost his faith, and never was weary of gazing into the fountain?" "here am i, dear bellerophon!" said the child, softly. for the little boy had spent day after day, on the margin of pirene, waiting for his friend to come back; but when he perceived bellerophon descending through the clouds, mounted on the winged horse, he had shrunk back into the shrubbery. he was a delicate and tender child, and dreaded lest the old man and the country fellow should see the tears gushing from his eyes. "thou hast won the victory," said he, joyfully, running to the knee of bellerophon, who still sat on the back of pegasus. "i knew thou wouldst." "yes, dear child!" replied bellerophon, alighting from the winged horse. "but if thy faith had not helped me, i should never have waited for pegasus, and never have gone up above the clouds, and never have conquered the terrible chimaera. thou, my beloved little friend, hast done it all. and now let us give pegasus his liberty." so he slipped off the enchanted bridle from the head of the marvellous steed. "be free, for evermore, my pegasus!" cried he with a shade of sadness in his tone. "be as free as thou art fleet!" but pegasus rested his head on bellerophon's shoulder, and would not be persuaded to take flight. "well, then," said bellerophon, caressing the airy horse, "thou shalt be with me as long as thou wilt; and we will go together forthwith, and tell king iobates that the chimaera is destroyed." then bellerophon embraced the gentle child, and promised to come to him again, and departed. but, in after years, that child took higher flights upon the aerial steed than ever did bellerophon, and achieved more honourable deeds than his friend's victory over the chimaera. for, gentle and tender as he was, he grew to be a mighty poet! westways a village chronicle by s. weir mitchell, m.d., ll.d. author of _hugh wynne_, _the adventures of françois_, _constance trescot_, etc., etc. i dedicate this book which recalls certain scenes of the civil war to the memory of my three brothers r.w.m. n.c.m. e.k.m. all of whom served in the armies of their country preface there will be many people in this book; some will be important, others will come on the scene for a time and return no more. the life-lines of these persons will cross and recross, to meet once or twice and not again, like the ruts in a much used road. to-day the stage may be crowded, to-morrow empty. the corner novels where only a half dozen people are concerned give no impression of the multitudinous contacts which affect human lives. even of the limited life of a village this is true. it was more true of the time of my story, which lacking plot must rely for interest on the influential relations of social groups, then more defined in small communities than they are to-day. long before the civil war there were in the middle states, near to or remote from great centres, villages where the social division of classes was tacitly accepted. in or near these towns one or more families were continuously important on account of wealth or because of historic position, generations of social training, and constant relation to the larger world. they came by degrees to constitute what i may describe as an indistinct caste, for a long time accepted as such by their less fortune-favoured neighbours. they were, in fact, for many years almost as much a class by themselves as are the long-seated county families of england and like these were looked to for helpful aid in sickness and in other of the calamities of life. the democrat time, increasing ease of travel and the growth of large industries, gradually altered the relation between these small communities, and the families who in the smaller matters of life long remained singularly familiar with their poorer neighbours and in the way of closer social intimacies far apart. it seemed to me worth while to use the life of one of these groups of people as the background of a story which also deals with the influence of politics and war on all classes. westways chapter i the first penhallow crossed the alleghanies long before the war for independence and on the frontier of civilisation took up land where the axe was needed for the forest and the rifle for the indian. he made a clearing and lived a hard life of peril, wearily waiting for the charred stumps to rot away. the younger men of the name in colonial days and later left the place early, and for the most part took to the sea or to the army, if there were activity in the way of war. in later years, others drifted westward on the tide of border migration, where adventure was always to be had. this stir of enterprise in a breed tends to extinction in the male lines. men are thinned out in their wooing of danger--the _belle dame sans merci_. thus there were but few penhallows alive at any one time, and yet for many years they bred in old-fashioned numbers. as time ran on, a penhallow prospered in the cities, and clinging to the land added fresh acres as new ambitions developed qualities which are not infrequently found in descendants of long-seated american families. it was not then, nor is it now, rare in american life to find fortune-favoured men returning in later days to the homes of their youth to become useful in many ways to the communities they loved. one of these, james penhallow,--and there was always a james,--after greatly prospering in the ventures of the china trade, was of the many who about bought great tracts of land on the farther slope of the pennsylvania alleghanies. his own purchases lay near and around the few hundred acres his ancestor took up and where an aged cousin was left in charge of the farm-house. when this tenant died, the house decayed, and the next penhallow weary of being taxed for unproductive land spent a summer on the property, and with the aid of engineers found iron in plenty and soft coal. he began about to develop the property, and built a large house which he never occupied and which was long known in the county as "penhallow's folly." it was considered the more notably foolish because of being set, in unamerican fashion, deep in the woods, and remote from the highway. what was believed to be the oldest pine-tree in the county gave to the place the popular name of "grey pine" and being accepted by the family when they came there to live, "penhallow's folly" ceased to be considered descriptive. the able and enterprising discoverer of mines had two sons. one of them, the youngest, married late in life, and dying soon after left a widow and a posthumous son john, of whom more hereafter. the elder brother was graduated from west point, served some years with distinction, and marrying found himself obliged to resign his captaincy on his father's death to take charge of the iron-mills and mines, which had become far more important to the family than their extensive forest-holdings on the foot-hills of the western watershed of the alleghanies. the country had long been well settled. the farmers thrived as the mills and mines needed increasing supplies of food and the railway gave access to market. the small village of westways was less fortunate than the county. strung along the side of the road opposite to penhallow's woods, it had lost the bustling prosperity of a day when the conestoga wagons stopped over-night at the "general wayne inn" and when as yet no one dreamed that the new railroad would ruin the taverns set at intervals along the highway to pittsburgh. now that westways crossing, two miles away, had been made the nearest station, westways was left to live on the mill-wages and such profits as farming furnished. when captain james penhallow repaired the neglected house and kept the town busy with demands for workmen, the village woke up for a whole summer. in the autumn he brought to grey pine his wife, ann grey, of the well-known greys of the eastern shore of maryland. a year or two of discomfort at western army-posts and a busy-minded, energetic personality, made welcome to this little lady a position which provided unaccustomed luxuries and a limitless range of duties, such as were to her what mere social enjoyments are to many women. grey pine--the house, the flower and kitchen-gardens, the church to be built--and the schools at the mills, all were as she liked it, having been bred up amid the kindly despotism of a great plantation with its many dependent slaves. when ann penhallow put grey pine and the penhallow crest on her notepaper, her husband said laughing that women had no rights to crests, and that although the arms were surely his by right of good cornish descent, he thought their use in america a folly. this disturbed ann penhallow very little, but when they first came to grey pine the headings of her notepaper were matters of considerable curiosity to the straggling village of westways, where she soon became liked, respected, and moderately feared. a busy-minded woman, few things in the life of the people about her escaped her notice, and she distributed uninvited counsel or well-considered charity and did her best to restrain the more lavish, periodical assistance when harvests were now and then bad--which made james penhallow a favourite in the county. late in the summer of , john penhallow's widow, long a wandering resident in europe, acquired the first serious illness of a self-manufactured life of invalidism and promptly died at vevey. her only child, john, was at once ordered home by his uncle and guardian, james penhallow, and after some delay crossed the sea in charge of his tutor. the dependent little fellow hid under a natural reserve what grief he felt, and accustomed to being sent here and there by an absent mother, silently submissive, was turned over by the tutor to james penhallow's agent in philadelphia. on the next day, early in november, he was put in charge of a conductor to be left at westways crossing, where he was told that some one would meet him. the day was warm when in the morning he took his seat in the train, but before noon it became clouded, and an early snow-storm with sudden fall of temperature made the boy sensible that he was ill-clothed to encounter the change of weather. he had been unfortunate in the fact that his mother had for years used the vigilant tyranny of feebleness to enforce upon the boy her own sanitary views. children are easily made hypochondriac, and under her system of government he became self-attentive, careful of what he ate and extremely timid. there had been many tutors and only twice long residence at schools in vevey and for a winter in budapest. the health she too sedulously watched she was fast destroying, and her son was at the time of her death a thin, pallid, undersized boy, who disliked even the mild sports of french lads, and had been flattered and considered until he had acquired the conviction that he was an important member of an important family. his other mother--nature--had given him, happily, better traits. he was an observer, a born lover of books, intelligent, truthful, and trained in the gentle, somewhat formal, manners of an older person. now for the first time in his guarded life he was alone on a railway journey in charge of the conductor. a more unhappy, frightened little fellow could hardly have been found. the train paused at many stations; men and women got on or got out of the cars, very common-looking people, surely, he concluded. the day ran by to afternoon. the train had stopped at a station for lunch, but john, although hungry, was afraid of being left and kept the seat which he presumed to be his own property until a stout man took half of it. a little later, a lean old woman said, "move up, sonny," and sat down. when she asked his name and where he lived, he replied in the coldly civil manner with which he had heard his mother repress the good-natured advances of her wandering countrymen. when again the seat was free, he fell to thinking of the unknown home, grey pine, which he had heard his mother talk of to english friends as "our ancestral home," and of the great forests, the mines and the iron-works. her son would, of course, inherit it, as captain penhallow had no child. "really a great estate, my dear," his mother had said. it loomed large in his young imagination. who would meet him? probably a carriage with the liveried driver and the groom immaculate in white-topped boots, a fur cover on his arm. it would, of course, be captain penhallow who would make him welcome. then the cold, which is hostile to imagination, made him shiver as he drew his thin cloak about him and watched the snow squadrons wind-driven and the big flakes blurring his view as they melted on the panes. by and by, two giggling young women near by made comments on his looks and dress. fragments of their talk he overheard. it was not quite pleasant. "law! ain't he got curly hair, and ain't he just like a girl doll," and so on in the lawless freedom of democratic feminine speech. the flat morocco cap and large visor of the french schoolboy and the dark blue cloak with the silver clasp were subjects of comment. one of them offered peanuts or sugar-plums, which he declined with "much obliged, but i never take them." now and then he consulted his watch or felt in his pocket to be certain that his baggage-check was secure, or looked to see if the little bag of toilet articles at his feet was safe. the kindly attentions of those who noticed his evident discomfort were neither mannerless nor, as he thought, impertinent. a woman said to him that he seemed cold, wouldn't he put around him a shawl she laid on his knees. he declined it civilly with thanks. in fact, he was thinly and quite too lightly clad, and he not only felt the cold, but was unhappy and utterly unprepared by any previous experience for the mode of travel, the crowded car and the rough kindness of the people, who liking his curly hair and refined young childlike face would have been of service if he had accepted their advances with any pleasure. presently, after four in the afternoon, the brakeman called "all out for westways crossing." john seized his bag and was at the exit-door before the train came to a stand. the conductor bade him be careful, as the steps were slippery. as the engine snorted and the train moved away, the conductor cried out, "forgot your cane, sonny," and threw the light gold-mounted bamboo from the car. he had a new sense of loneliness as he stood on the roofless platform, half a foot deep in gathering snow, which driven by a pitiless gale from the north blew his cloak about as he looked to see that his trunk had been delivered. a man shifted a switch and coming back said, "gi'me your check." john decided that this was not safe, and to the man's amusement said that he would wait until the carriage of captain penhallow arrived. the man went away. john remained angrily expectant looking up the road. presently he heard the gay jingle of bells and around a turn of the road came a one-horse sleigh. it stopped beside him. he first saw only the odd face of the driver in a fur cap and earlets. then, tossing off the bear skins, bounded on to the platform a young girl and shook herself snow-free as she threw back a wild mane of dark red hair. "halloa! john penhallow," she cried, "i'm leila grey. i'm sent for you. i'm late too. uncle james has gone to the mills and aunt ann is busy. been here long?" "not very," said john, his teeth chattering with cold. "gracious! you'll freeze. sorry i was late." she saw at a glance the low shoes, the blue cloak, the kid gloves, the boy's look of suffering, and at once took possession of him. "get into the sleigh. oh! leave your check on the trunk or give it to me." she was off and away to the trunk as he climbed in, helpless. she undid the counter check, ran across to the guard's house, was back in a moment and tumbled in beside him. "but, is it safe? my trunk, i mean," said john. "safe. no one will steal it. pat will come for it. there he is now. tuck in the rugs. put this shawl around you and over your head." she pinned it with ready fingers. "now, you'll be real comfy." the chilled boy puzzled and amused her. as he became warm, john felt better in the hands of this easy despot, but was somewhat indignant. "to send a chit of a girl for him--john penhallow!" "now," she cried to the driver, "be careful. why did they send _you_?" billy, a middle-aged man, short-legged and long of body, turned a big-featured head as he replied in an odd boyish voice, "the man was busy giving a ball in the stable." "a ball"--said john--"in the stable?" "oh! that is funny," said the girl. "a ball's a big pill for lucy, my mare. she's sick." "oh! i see." and they were off and away through the wind-driven snow. the girl, instinctively aware of the shyness and discomfort of her companion, set herself to put him at ease. the lessening snow still fell, but now a brilliant sun lighted the white radiance of field and forest. he was warmer, and the disconnected chat of childhood began. "the snow is early. don't you love it?" said the small maid bent on making herself agreeable. "no, i do not." "but, oh!--see--the sun is out. now you will like it. i suppose you don't know how to walk in snow-shoes, or it would be lovely to go right home across country." "i never used them. once i read about them in a book." "oh! you'll learn. i'll teach you." john, used to being considered and flattered, as he became more comfortable began to resent the way in which the girl proposed to instruct him. he was silent for a time. "tuck in that robe," she said. "how old are you?" "this last september, fifteen. how old are you?" "guess." "about ten, i think." now this was malicious. "ten, indeed! i'm thirteen and ten months and--and three days," she returned, with the accuracy of childhood about age. "were you at school in europe?" "yes, in france and hungary." "that's queer. in hungary and france--oh! then you can speak french." "of course," he replied. "can't you?" "a little, but aunt ann says i have a good accent when i read to her--we often do." "you should say 'without accent,'" he felt better after this assertion of superior knowledge. she thought his manners bad, but, though more amused than annoyed, felt herself snubbed and was silent for a time. he was quick to perceive that he had better have held his critical tongue, and said pleasantly, "but really it don't matter--only i was told that in france." she was as quick to reply, "you shouldn't say 'don't matter,' i say that sometimes, and then uncle james comes down on me." "why? i am really at a loss--" "oh! you must say 'doesn't'--not 'don't.'" she shook her great mass of hair and cried merrily, "i guess we are about even now, john penhallow." then they laughed gaily, as the boy said, "i wasn't very--very courteous." "now that's pretty, john. good gracious, billy!" she cried, punching the broad back of the driver. "are you asleep? you are all over the road." "oh! i was thinkin' how pole, the butcher, sold the squire a horse that's spavined--got it sent back--funny, wasn't it?" "look out," said leila, "you will upset us." john looked the uneasiness he felt, as he said, "do you think it is safe?" "no, i don't. drive on, billy, but do be careful." they came to the little village of westways. at intervals billy communicated bits of village gossip. "susan mcknight, she's going to marry finney--" "bother susan," cried leila. "be careful." john alarmed held on to his seat as the sleigh rocked about, while billy whipped up the mare. "this is westways, our village. it is just a row of houses. uncle james won't sell land on our side. look out, billy! our rector lives in that small house by the church. his name is mark rivers. you'll like him. that's mr. grace, the baptist preacher." she bade him good-day. "stop, billy!" he pulled up at the sidewalk. "good afternoon, mrs. crocker," she said, as the postmistress came out to the sleigh. "please mail this. any letters for us?" "no, leila." she glanced at the curly locks above the thin face and the wrapped up form in the shawl. "got a nice little girl with you, leila." john indignant said nothing. "this is a boy--my cousin, john penhallow," returned leila. "law! is that so?" "get on," cried leila. "stop at josiah's." here a tall, strongly built, very black negro came out. "fine frosty day, missy." "come up to the house to-night. uncle jim wants you." "i'll come--sure." "now, get along, billy." the black was strange to the boy. he thought the lower orders here disrespectful. "josiah's our barber," said leila. "he saved me once from a dreadful accident. you'll like him." "will i?" thought john, but merely remarked, "they all seem rather intimate." "why not?" said the young republican. "ah! here's the gate. i'll get out and open it. it's the best gate to swing on in the whole place." as she tossed the furs aside, john gasped, "to swing on--" "oh, yes. aunt ann says i am too old to swing on gates, but i do. it shuts with a bang. i'll show you some day." "what is swinging on a gate?" said john, as she jumped out and stood in the snow laughing. surely this was an amazing kind of boy. "why, did you never hear the rhyme about it?" "no," said john, "i never did." "well, you just get on the gate when it's wide open and give a push, and you sing-- "if i was the president of these united states, i'd suck molasses candy and swing upon the gates. "there! then it shuts--bang!" with this bit of child folklore she scampered away through the snow and stood holding the gate open while billy drove through. she reflected mischievously that it must have been three years since she had swung on a gate. john feeling warm and for the first time looking about him with interest began to notice the grandeur of the rigid snow-laden pines of an untouched forest which stood in what was now brilliant sunshine. as leila got into the sleigh, she said, "now, billy, go slowly when you make the short turn at the house. if you upset us, i--i'll kill you." "yes, miss. guess i'll drive all right." but the ways of drivers are everywhere the same, and to come to the end of a drive swiftly with crack of whip was an unresisted temptation. "_sang de dieu!_" cried john, "we will be upset." "we are," shouted leila. the horse was down, the sleigh on its side, and the cousins disappeared in a huge drift piled high when the road was cleared. chapter ii john was the first to return to the outer world. he stood still, seeing the horse on its legs, billy unharnessing, leila for an instant lost to sight. the boy was scared. in his ordered life it was an unequalled experience. then he saw a merry face above the drift and lying around it a wide-spread glory of red hair on the white snow. in after years he would recall the beauty of the laughing young face in its setting of dark gold and sunlit silver snow. "oh, my!" she cried. "that billy! don't stand there, john; pull me out, i'm stuck." he gave her a hand and she bounded forth out of the drift, shaking off the dry snow as a wet dog shakes off water. "what's the matter, john?" he was trying to empty neck, pocket and shoes of snow, and was past the limits of what small endurance he had been taught. "i shall catch my death of cold. it's down my back--it's everywhere, and i--shall get--laryngitis." the brave blue eyes of the girl stared at his dejected figure. she was at heart a gentle, little woman-child, endowed by nature with so much of tom-boy barbarism as was good for her. just now a feeling of contemptuous surprise overcame her kindliness and her aunt's training. "there's your bag on the snow, and billy will find your cap. what does a boy want with a bag? a boy--and afraid of snow!" she cried. "help him with that harness." he made no reply, but looked about for his lost cane. then the young despot turned upon the driver. "wait till uncle james hears; he'll come down on you." "my lands!" said billy, unbuckling a trace, "i'll just say, i'm sorry; and the squire he'll say, don't let it happen again; and i'll say, yes, sir." "yes, until aunt ann hears," said leila, and turned to john. his attitude of utter helplessness touched her. "come into the house; you must be cold." she was of a sudden all tenderness. through an outside winter doorway-shelter they entered a hall unusually large for an american's house and warmed by two great blazing hickory wood-fires. "come in," she cried, "you'll be all right. sit down by the fire; i'll be down in a minute, i want to see where aunt ann has put you." "i am much obliged," said john shivering. he was alone, but wet as he was the place captured an ever active imagination. he looked about him as he stood before the roaring fire. to the right was an open library, to the left a drawing-room rarely used, the hall being by choice the favoured sitting-room. the dining-room was built out from the back of the hall, whence up a broad stairway leila had gone. the walls were hung with indian painted robes, sioux and arapahoe weapons, old colonial rifles, and among them portraits of three generations of penhallows. many older people had found interesting the strange adornment of the walls, where amid antlered trophies of game, buffalo heads and war-worn indian relics, could be read something of the owner's tastes and history. john stood by the fire fascinated. like many timid boys, he liked books of adventure and to imagine himself heroic in situations of peril. "it's all right. come up," cried leila from the stair. "your trunk's there now. there's a fine fire." forgetful of the cold ride and of the snow down his back, he was standing before the feathered head-dress of a sioux chief and touching the tomahawk below it. he turned as she spoke. "those must be scalp-locks--three." he saw the prairie, the wild pursuit--saw them as she could not. he went after her upstairs, the girl talking, the boy rapt, lost in far-away battles on the plains. "this is your room. see what a nice fire. you can dry yourself. your trunk is here already." she lighted two candles. "we dine at half-past six." "thank you; i am very much obliged," he said, thinking what a mannerless girl. leila closed the door and stood still a moment. then she exclaimed, "well, i never! what will uncle jim say?" she listened a moment. no one was in the hall. then she laughed, and getting astride of the banister-rail made a wild, swift and perilous descent, alighting at the foot in the hall, and readjusting her short skirts as she heard her aunt and uncle on the porch. "i was just in time," she exclaimed. "wouldn't i have caught it!" the squire, as the village called him, would have applauded this form of coasting, but aunt ann had other views. "well!" he said as they came in, "what have you done with your young man?" now he was for leila anything but a man or manly, but she was a loyal little lady and unwilling to expose the guest to uncle jim's laughter. "he's all right," she said, "but billy upset the sleigh." she was longing to tell about that ball in the stable, but refrained. "so billy upset you; and john, where is he?" "he's upstairs getting dried." "it is rather a rough welcome," remarked her aunt. "he lost his cap and his cane," said leila. "his cane!" exclaimed her uncle, "his cane!" "i must see him," said his wife. "better let him alone, ann." but as usual she took her own way and went upstairs. she came down in a few minutes, finding her husband standing before the fire--an erect, soldierly figure close to forty years of age. "well, ann?" he queried. "a very nice lad, with such good manners, james." "billy found his cap," said leila, "but he couldn't get the sleigh set up until the stable men came." "and that cane," laughed penhallow. "was the boy amused or--or scared?" "i don't know," which was hardly true, but the chivalry of childhood forbade tale-telling and he learned very little. "he was rather tired and cold, so i made him go to his room and rest." "poor child!" said aunt ann. james penhallow looked at leila. some manner of signals were interchanged. "i saw billy digging in the big drift," he said. "i trust he found the young gentleman's cane." some pitying, dim comprehension of the delicately nurtured lad had brought to the social surface the kindliness of the girl and she said no more. "it is time to dress for dinner," said ann. away from the usages of the city she had wisely insisted on keeping up the social forms which the squire would at times have been glad to disregard. for a moment ann penhallow lingered. "we must try to make him feel at home, james." "of course, my dear. i can imagine how susan penhallow would have educated a boy, and now i know quite too well what we shall have to undo--and--do." "you won't, oh! you will not be too hard on him." "i--no, my dear--but--i suspect his american education has begun already." "what do you mean?" "ask leila--and billy. but that can wait." they separated. while his elders were thus briefly discussing this new addition to the responsibilities of their busy lives, the subject of their talk had been warmed into comfortable repossession of his self-esteem. he set in order his elaborate silver toilet things marked with the penhallow crest, saw in the glass that his dress and unboylike length of curly hair were as he had been taught they should be; then he looked at his watch and went slowly downstairs. "halloa! john," he heard as he reached the last turn of the stairs. "most glad to see you. you are very welcome to your new home." the man who hailed him was six feet two inches, deep-chested, erect--the west point figure; the face clean-shaven, ruddy, hazel-eyed, was radiant with the honest feeling of desire to put this childlike boy at ease. the little gentleman needed no aid and replied, "my dear uncle, i cannot sufficiently thank you." a little bow went with his words, and he placidly accepted his aunt's embrace, while the hearty miss leila looked on in silence. the boy's black suit, the short jacket, the neat black tie, made the paleness of his thin large-featured face too obvious. then leila took note of the court shoes and silk socks, and looked at uncle jim to see what he thought. the squire reserved what criticism he may have had and asked cheerfully about the journey, aunt ann aiding him with eager will to make the boy feel at home. he was quite enough at home. it was all agreeable, these handsome relations and the other penhallows on the walls. he had been taught that which is good or ill as men use it, pride of race, and in his capacity to be impressed by his surroundings was years older than leila. he felt sure that he would like it here at grey pine, but was surprised to see no butler and to be waited on at dinner by two neat little maids. when ann penhallow asked him about his schools and his life in europe, he became critical, and conversed about picture-galleries and foreign life with no lack of accuracy, while the squire listened smiling and leila sat dumb with astonishment as the dinner went on. he ate little and kept in mind the endless lessons in regard to what he should or should not eat. meanwhile, he silently approved of the old silver and these well-bred kinsfolk, with a reserve of doubt concerning his silent cousin. his uncle had at last his one glass of madeira, and as they rose his aunt said, "you may be tired, john; you ought to go to bed early." "it is not yet time," he said. "i always retire at ten o'clock." "he 'retires,'" murmured his uncle. "come, ann, we will leave leila to make friends with the new cousin. try john at checkers, leila. she defeats me easily." "i--never saw any one could beat me at _jeu des dames_," said john. it was a fine chance to get even with leila for the humiliating adventures of a not very flattering day. "well, take care," said the squire, not altogether amused. "come, ann." entering the large library room he closed the door, drew over it a curtain, filled his pipe but did not light it, and sat down at the fire beside his wife. "well, james," she said, "did you ever see a better mannered lad, and so intelligent?" "never--nor any lad who has as good an opinion of his small self. he is too young for his years, and in some ways too old. i looked him over a bit. he is a mere scaffolding, a sickly-looking chap. he eats too little. i heard him remark to you that potatoes disagreed with him and that he never ate apples." "but, james, what shall we do with him? it is a new and a difficult responsibility." "do with him? oh! make a man of him. give him and leila a week's holiday. turn him loose with that fine tom-boy. then he must go to school to mark rivers with leila and those two young village imps, the doctor's boy and grace's, that precious young baptist. they will do him good. when mark reports, we shall see further. that is all my present wisdom, ann. has the _tribune_ come? oh! i see--it is on the table." ann was still in some doubt and returned to the boy. "and where do i come in?" "feed the young animal and get the tailor in the village to make him some warm rough clothes, and get him boots for the snow--and thick gloves--and a warm ready-made overcoat." "i will. but, james, leila will half kill him. he is so thin and pale. he looks hardly older than she does." then ann rose, saying, "well, we shall see, i suppose you are right," and after some talk about the iron-works left him to his pipe. when she returned to the hall, the two children were talking of europe--or rather leila was listening. "well," said the little lady, ann penhallow, "how did the game go, john?" "i am rather out of practice," said john. leila said nothing. he had been shamefully worsted. "i think i shall go to bed," he remarked, looking at his watch. "i would," she said. "there are the candles. there is a bathroom next to you." he was tired and disgusted, but slept soundly. when at breakfast he said that he was not allowed tea or coffee, he was fed with milk, to which with hot bread and new acquaintance with griddle cakes he took kindly. after breakfast he was driven to the village with his aunt and equipped with a rough ready-made overcoat and high boots. he found the dress comfortable, but not to his taste. when he came back, the squire and leila had disappeared and he was left to his own devices. he was advised by his aunt to walk about and see the stables and the horses. that any boy should not want to see the horses was inconceivable in this household. he did go out and walk on the porch, but soon went in chilled and sat down to lose himself in a book of polar travel. he liked history, travel and biographies of soldiers, fearfully desiring to have his own courage tested--a more common boy-wish than might be supposed. he thought of it as he laid down the book and began to inspect again the painted buffalo skins on the wall, letting his imagination wander when once more he touched a sioux tomahawk with its grim adornment of scalp-locks. he was far away when he heard his aunt say, "you were not out long, john. did they show you the horses?" shy and reserved in novel surroundings, he was rather too much at his ease amid socially familiar things, and now said lightly that he had not seen the stables. "really, aunt ann, i prefer to read or to look at these interesting indian relics." "ask your uncle about them," she said, "but you will find out that horses are important in this household." she left him with the conviction that james penhallow was, on the whole, right as to the educational needs of this lad. after lunch his uncle said, "leila will show you about the place. you will want to see the horses, of course, and the dogs." "and my guinea pigs," added leila. he took no interest in either, and the dogs somewhat alarmed him. his cousin, a little discouraged, led him away into the woods where the ancient pines stood snow laden far apart with no intrusion between them of low shrubbery. leila was silent, half aware that he was hard to entertain, and then mischievously wilful to give this indifferent cousin a lesson. presently he stood still, looking up at the towering cones of the motionless pines. "how stately they are--how like old vikings!" he said. his imagination was the oldest mental characteristic of this over-guarded, repressed boyhood. leila turned, surprised. this was beyond her appreciative capacity. "once i heard uncle jim say something like that. he's queer about trees. he talks to them sometimes just like that. there's the biggest pine over there--i'll show it to you. why! he will stop and pat it and say, 'how are you?'--isn't it funny?" "no, it isn't funny at all. it's--it's beautiful!" "you must be like him, john." "i--like him! do you think so?" he was pleased. the indian horseman of the plains who could talk to the big tree began to be felt by the boy as somehow nearer. "let's play indian," said leila. "i'll show you." she was merry, intent on mischief. "oh! whatever you like." he was uninterested. leila said, "you stand behind this tree, i will stand behind that one." she took for herself the larger shelter. "then you, each of us, get ready this way a pile of snowballs. i say, make ready! fire! and we snowball one another like everything. the first indian that's hit, he falls down dead. then the other rushes at him and scalps him." "but," said john, "how can he?" "oh! he just gives your hair a pull and makes believe." "i see." "then we play it five times, and each scalp counts one. now, isn't that real jolly?" john had his doubts as to this, but he took his place and made some snowballs clumsily. "make ready! fire!" cried leila. the snowballs flew. at last, the girl seeing how wildly he threw exposed herself. a better shot took her full in the face. laughing gaily, she dropped, "i'm dead." the game pleased him with its unlooked-for good luck. "now don't stand there like a ninny--scalp me," she cried. he ran to her side and knelt down. the widespread hair affected him curiously. he touched it daintily, let it fall, and rose. "to pull at a girl's hair! i couldn't do it." leila laughed. "a good pull, that's how to scalp." "i couldn't," said john. "well, you are a queer sort of indian!" she was less merciful, but in the end, to her surprise, he had three scalps. "uncle jim will laugh when i tell him," she said. "shall we go home?" "no, i want to see uncle jim's big tree." "oh! he's only uncle jim to me. aunt don't like it. he will tell you some day to call him uncle jim. he says i got that as brevet rank the day my mare refused the barnyard fence and pitched me off. i just got on again and made her take it! that's why he's uncle jim." john became thoughtful about that brevet privilege of a remote future. he had, however, persistent ways. "i want to see the big pine, leila." "oh! come on then. it's a long way. we must cut across." he followed her remorselessly swift feet through the leafless bushes and drifts until they came upon a giant pine in a wide space cleared to give the veteran royal solitude. "that's him," cried leila, and carelessly cast herself down on the snow. the boy stood still in wonder. something about the tree disturbed him emotionally. with hands clasped behind his back, he stared up at its towering heights. he was silent. "what's the matter? what do you see?" she was never long silent. he was searching for a word. "it's solemn. i like it." he moved forward and patted the huge hole with a feeling of reverence and affection. "i wish he could speak to us. how are you, old fellow?" leila watched him. as yet she had no least comprehension of this sense of being kindred to nature. it is rare in youth. as he spoke, a little breeze stirred the old fellow's topmost crest and a light downfall of snow fell on the pair. leila laughed, but the boy cried, "there! he has answered. we are friends." "now, if that isn't uncle jim all over. he just does make me laugh." john shook off the snow. "let's go home," he said. he was warm and red with the exercise, and in high good-humour over his success. "did you never read a poem called 'the talking oak'? i had a tutor used to read it to me." "now, the idea of a tree talking!" she said. "no, i never heard of it. come along, we'll be late. that's funny about a tree talking. can you run?" they ran, but not far, because deep snow makes running hard. it was after dark when they tramped on to the back porch. john's experience taught him to expect blame for being out late. no one asked a question or made a remark. he was ignored, to his amazement. whether, as he soon learned, he was in or out, wet or dry, seemed to be of no moment to any one, provided he was punctual at meal-times. it was at first hard to realize the reasonable freedom suddenly in his possession. the appearance of complete want of interest in his health and what he did was as useful a moral tonic as was for the body the educational out-of-doors' society of the fearless girl, his aunt's niece whom he was told to consider as his cousin. to his surprise, he was free to come and go, and what he or leila did in the woods or in the stables no one inquired. aunt ann uneasy would have known all about them, but the squire urged, that for a time, "let alone" was the better policy. this freedom was so unusual, so unreservedly complete, as to rejoice leila, who was very ready to use the liberty it gave. in a week the rector's school would shut them up for half of the day of sunlit snow. meanwhile, john wondered with interest every morning where next those thin active young legs would lead him. the dogs he soon took to, when leila's whistle called them,--a wild troop, never allowed beyond the porch or in the house. for some occult reason mrs. ann disliked dogs and liked cats, which roamed the house at will and were at deadly feud with the stable canines. no rough weather ever disturbed leila's out-of-door habits, but when for two days a lazy rain fell and froze on the snow, john declared that he could not venture to get wet with his tendency to tonsilitis. as leila refused indoor society and he did not like to be left alone, he missed the gay and gallant little lady, and still no one questioned him. on the third day at breakfast leila was wildly excited. the smooth ice-mailed snow shone brilliant in the sunshine. "coasting weather, uncle jim," leila said. "first class," said her uncle. "get off before the sun melts the crust." "do be careful, dear," said ann penhallow, "and do not try the farm hill." "yes, aunt." the squire exchanged signal glances with leila over the teacup he was lifting. "come, john," she said. "no dogs to-day. it's just perfect. here's your sled." john had seen coasting in germany and had been strictly forbidden so perilous an amusement. as they walked over the crackling ice-cover of the snow, he said, "why do you want to sled, leila? i consider it extremely dangerous. i saw two persons hurt when we were in switzerland." his imagination was predicting all manner of disaster, but he had the moral courage which makes hypocrisy impossible. from the hill crest john looked down the long silvery slope and did not like it. "it's just a foolish risk. do you mean to slide down to that brook?" "slide! we coast, we don't slide. i think you had better go back and tell uncle jim you were afraid." he was furious. "i tell you this, miss grey--i am afraid--i have been told--well, never mind--that--well---i won't say i'm not afraid--but i'm more afraid of uncle james than--than--of death." she stood still a moment as she faced him, the two pair of blue eyes meeting. he was very youthful for his years and was near the possibility of the tears of anger, and, too, the virile qualities of his race were protesting forces in the background of undeveloped character. the sweet girl face grew red and kinder. "i was mean, john penhallow. i am sorry i was rude." "no--no," he exclaimed, "it was i who was--was--ill-mannered. i--mean to coast if i die." "die," she laughed gaily. "let me go first." "go ahead then." she was astride of the sled and away down the long descent, while he watched her swift flight. he set his teeth and was off after her. a thrill of pleasure possessed him, the joy of swift movement. near the foot was an abrupt fall to a frozen brook and then a sharp ascent. he rolled over at leila's feet seeing a firmament of stars and rose bewildered. "busted?" cried leila, who picked up the slang of the village boys to her aunt's disgust. "i am not what you call busted," said john, "but i consider it most disagreeable." without a word more he left her, set out up the hill and coasted again. he upset half-way down, rolled over, and got on again laughing. this time somehow he got over the brook and turned crossly on leila with, "i hope now you are satisfied, miss grey." "you'll do, i guess," said she. "i just wondered if you would back out, john. let's try the other hills." he went after her vexed at her way of ordering him about, and not displeased with john penhallow and his new experience in snatching from danger a fearful joy. chapter iii the difficult lessons on the use of snow-shoes took up day after day, until weary but at last eager he followed her tireless little figure far into the more remote woods. "what's that?" he said. "i wanted you to see it, john." it was an old log cabin. "that's where the first james penhallow lived. uncle jim keeps it from tumbling to pieces, but it's no use to anybody." "the first penhallow," said john. "it must be very old." "oh! i suppose so--i don't know--ask uncle jim. they say the indians attacked it once--that first james penhallow and his wife fought them till help came. i thought you would like to see it." he went in, kicking off his snow-shoes. she was getting used to his silences, and now with some surprise at his evident interest followed him. he walked about making brief remarks or eagerly asking questions. "they must have had loop-holes to shoot. did they kill any indians?" "yes, five. they are buried behind the cabin. uncle jim set a stone to mark the place." he made no reply. his thoughts were far away in time, realizing the beleaguered cabin, the night of fear, the flashing rifles of his ancestors. the fear--would he have been afraid? "when i was little, i was afraid to come here alone," said the girl. "i should like to come here at night," he returned. "why? i wouldn't. oh! not at night. i don't see what fun there would be in that." "then i would know--" "know what, john? what would you know?" "oh! no matter." he had a deep desire to learn if he would be afraid. "some day," he added, "i will tell you. let's go home." "are you tired?" "i'm half dead," he laughed as he slipped on his snow-shoes. a long and heavy rain cleared away the snow, and the more usual softness of the end of november set in. their holiday sports were over for a time, to john's relief. on a monday he went through the woods with leila to the rectory. mark rivers, who had only seen john twice, made him welcome. the tall, thin, pale man, with the quiet smile and attentive grey eyes, made a ready capture of the boy. there were only two other scholars, the sons of the doctor and the baptist preacher, lads of sixteen, not very mannerly, rather rough country boys, who nudged one another and regarded john with amused interest. in two or three days john knew that he was in the care of an unusually scholarly man, who became at once his friend and treated the lazy village boys and him with considerate kindliness. john liked it. to his surprise, no questions were asked at home about the school, and the afternoons were often free for lonely walks, when leila went away on her mare and john was at liberty to read or to do as best pleased him. at times leila bored him, and although with his well-taught courteous ways he was careful not to show impatience, he had the imaginative boy's capacity to enjoy being alone and a long repressed curiosity which now found indulgence among people who liked to answer questions and were pleased when he asked them. very often, as he came into easier relations with his aunt, he was told to take some query she could not answer to uncle james or the rector. a rather sensitive lad, he soon became aware that his uncle appeared to take no great interest in him, and, too, the boy's long cultivated though lessening reserve kept them apart. meanwhile, ann watched with pleasure his gain in independence, in looks and in appetite. while james penhallow after his game of whist at night growled in his den over the bitter politics of the day, north and south, his wife read aloud to the children by the fireside in her own small sitting-room or answered as best she could john's questions, confessing ignorance at times or turning to books of reference. it was not always easy to satisfy this restless young mind in a fast developing body. "were guinea pigs really pigs? what was the hematite iron-ore his uncle used at the works?" once he was surprised. he asked one evening, "what was the missouri compromise?" he had read so much about it in the papers. "hasn't it something to do with slavery? aunt ann, it must seem strange to own a man." his eager young ears had heard rather ignorant talk of it from his mother's english friends. his aunt said quietly, "my people in maryland own slaves, john. it is not a matter for a child to discuss. the abolitionists at the north are making trouble. it is a subject--we--i do not care to talk about." "but what is an abolitionist, aunt?" he urged. she laughed and said gaily, "i will answer no more conundrums; ask your uncle." leila who took no interest in politics fidgeted until she got her chance when mrs. ann would not answer john. "i want to hear about that talking oak, john." she was quicker than he to observe her aunt's annoyance, and ann, glad to be let off easily, found the needed book, and for a time they fell under the charm of tennyson, and then earlier than usual were sent to bed. the days ran on into weeks of school, and now there were snow-shoe tramps or sleigh rides to see some big piece of casting at the forge, where persistently-curious john did learn from some one what hematite was. the life became to him steadily more and more pleasant as he shed with ease the habits of an over regulated life, and living wholesome days prospered in body and mind. christmas was a disappointment to leila and to him. there was an outbreak of measles at westways and there would be no carols, nor children gathered at grey pine. ann's usual bounty of toys was sent to the village. john's present from his uncle was a pair of skates, and then leila saw a delightful chance to add another branch of education. next morning, for this was holiday-week, she asked if he would like to learn to skate. they had gone early to the cabin and were lazily enjoying a rest after a snow-shoe tramp. he replied, in an absent way, "i suppose i may as well learn. how many indians were there?" "i don't know. who cares now?" "i do." "i never saw such a boy. you can't ride and you can't skate. you are just good for nothing. you're just fit to be sold at a rummage-sale." he was less easily vexed than made curious. "what's a rummage-sale?" "oh! we had one two years ago. once in a while aunt ann says there must be one, so she gathers up all the trash and uncle jim's old clothes (he hates that), and the village people they buy things. and mr. rivers sells the things at auction, you know--and oh, my! he was funny." "so they sell what no one wants. then why does any one buy?" "i'm sure, i don't know." "i wonder what i would fetch, leila?" "not much," she said. "maybe you're right." he had one of the brief boy-moods of self-abasement. leila changed quickly. "i'll bid for you," she said coyly. he laughed and looked up, surprised at this earliest indication of the feminine. "what would you give?" he asked. "well, about twenty-five cents." he laughed. "i may improve, leila, and the price go up. let us go and learn to skate--you must teach me." "of course," said leila, "but you will soon learn. it's hard at first." at lunch, on christmas day, john had thanked his uncle for the skates in the formal way which ann liked and james penhallow did not. he said, "i am very greatly obliged for the skates. they appear to me excellent." "what a confoundedly civil young gentleman," thought penhallow. "i have been thinking you must learn to skate. the pond has been swept clear of snow." "thank you," returned the boy, with a grin which his uncle thought odd. "leila will teach you." john was silent, regarding his uncle with never dying interest, the soldier of indian battles, the perfect rider and good shot, adored in the stables and loved, as john was learning, in all the country side. john was in the grip of a boy's admiration for a realized ideal--the worship, by the timid, of courage. of the few things he did well, he thought little; and an invalid's fears had discouraged rough games until he had become like a timorous girl. he had much dread of horses, and was alarmingly sure that he would some day be made to ride. once in paris he had tried, had had a harmless accident and, willingly yielding to his mother's fears, had tried no more. late in the afternoon, leila, with her long wake of flying hair, burst into the squire's den. "what the deuce is the matter?" asked penhallow. "oh! uncle jim, he can skate like--like a witch. i couldn't keep near him. he skated an 'l' for my name. uncle jim, he's a fraud." penhallow knew now why the boy had grinned at him. "i think, leila, he will do. where did he learn to skate?" "at vevey, he says, on the lake." "yes, of geneva." "tom mcgregor was there and bob grace. we played tag. john knows a way to play tag on skates. you must chalk your right hand and you must mark with it the other fellow's right shoulder. it must be jolly. we had no chalk, but we are to play it to-morrow. isn't it interesting, uncle john?" penhallow laughed. "interesting, my dear? oh! your aunt will be after you with a stick." "aunt ann's--stick!" laughed leila. "my dear leila," he said gravely, "this boy has had all the manliness coddled out of him, but he looks like his father. i have my own ideas of how to deal with him. i suppose he will brag a bit at dinner." "he will not, uncle jim." "bet you a pound of bonbons, leila." "from town?" "yes." "all right." "can he coast? i did not ask you." "well! pretty well," said leila. for some unknown reason she was unwilling to say more. "doesn't the rector dine here, to-day, leila?" "yes, but--oh! uncle jim, we found a big hornets' nest yesterday on the log cabin. they seemed all asleep. i told john we would fight them in the spring." "and what did he say?" "he said: 'did they sting?'--i said: 'that was the fun of it!'" "better not tell your aunt." "no, sir. i'm an obedient little girl." "you little scamp! you were meant to be a boy. is there anything you are afraid of?" "yes, algebra." "oh! get out," and she fled. at dinner john said no word of the skating, to the satisfaction of leila who conveyed to her uncle a gratified sense of victory by some of the signs which were their private property. leaving the cousins to their game of chess, penhallow followed his wife and mark rivers into his library. "well, mark," he said, "you have had this boy long enough to judge; it is time i heard what you think of him. you asked me to wait. the youngster is rather reticent, and leila is about the only person in the house who really knows much about him. he talks like a man of thirty." "i do not find him reticent," remarked mrs. ann, "and his manners are charming--i wish leila's were half as good." "well, let's hear about him." "may i smoke?" asked the rector. "anywhere but in my drawing-room. i believe james would like to smoke in church." "it might have its consolations," returned penhallow. "thanks," said rivers smiling. neither man took advantage of her unusual permission. "but you, squire, have been closer than i to this interesting boy. what do you make of him?" "he can't ride--he hardly knows a horse from a mule." "that's not his fault," said mrs. penhallow, "he's afraid of horses." "afraid!" said her husband. "by george! afraid of horses." "he speaks french perfectly," said mark rivers. "he can't swim. i got that out of leila. i understand he tried it once and gave it up." "but his mother made him, james. you know susan. she was as timid as a house-fly for herself, and i suppose for him." "i asked him," said rivers, "if he knew any latin. he answered me in latin and told me that at budapest where he was long at school the boys had to speak latin." "and the rest, rivers. is he well up in mathematics?" "no, he finds that difficult. but, upon my word, squire, he is the most doggedly persistent fellow i have ever had to teach and i handled many boys when i was younger. i can take care of my side of the boy." "he can skate, james," said mrs. ann. "yes, so i hear. i suppose that under leila's care and a good out-of-door life he will drop his girl-ways--but--" "but what, james?" "oh! he has been taught that there is no shame in failure, no disgrace in being afraid." "how do you know he is afraid, my dear james?" "oh! i know." leila's unwillingness to talk had given him some suspicion of the truth. "well, we shall see. he needs some rough boy-company. i don't like to have the village boys alone with leila, but when she has john with her it may be as well to ask dr. mcgregor's son tom to coast and play with them." "he has no manners," said mrs. penhallow. "then he may get some from john. he never will from leila. i will take care of the rest, rivers. he has got to learn to ride." "you won't be too hard on him, james?" said his wife. "not unless he needs it. let us drop him." "have you seen yesterday's papers?" asked rivers. "our politics, north and south, look to me stormy." penhallow shook his head at the tall rector. the angry strife of sections and parties was the one matter he never discussed with ann penhallow. the rector recalled it as he saw mrs. ann sit up and drop on her lap the garment upon which her ever industrious hands were busy. accepting penhallow's hint, rivers said quickly, "but really there is nothing new," and then, "tom mcgregor will certainly be the better for our little gentleman's good manners, and he too has something to learn of tom." "i should say he has," said penhallow. "a little dose of west point, i suppose," laughed mrs. ann. "it is my husband's one ideal of education." "it must once, i fancy, have satisfied ann grey," retorted the squire smiling. "i reserve any later opinion of james penhallow," she said laughing, and gathering up her sewing bag left them, declaring that now they might smoke. the two men rose, and when alone began at once to talk of the coming election in the fall of and the endless troubles arising out of the fugitive slave act. the boy who had been the subject of their conversation was slowly becoming used to novel surroundings and the influence they exerted. ann talked to him at times of his mother, but he had the disinclination to speak of the dead which most children have, and had in some ways been kept so much of a child as to astonish his aunt. neither leila nor any one could have failed to like him and his gentle ways, and as between him and the village boys she knew leila preferred this clever, if too timid, cousin. so far they had had no serious quarrels. when she rode with the squire, john wandered in the woods, enjoying solitude, and having some appreciative relation to nature, the great pine woods, the strange noises of the breaking ice in the river, the sunset skies. among the village boys with whom at the rector's small school and in the village john was thrown, he liked least the lad mcgregor, who had now been invited to coast or skate with the grey pine cousins. tom had the democratic boy-belief that very refined manners imply lack of some other far more practical qualities, and thus to him and the westways boys john penhallow was simply an absurd miss nancy kind of lad, and it was long after the elders of the little town admired and liked him that the boys learned to respect him. it was easy to see why the generous, good-tempered and pleasant lad failed to satisfy the town boys. john had been sedulously educated into the belief that he was of a class to which these fellows did not belong, and of this the squire had soon some suspicion when, obedient as always, john accepted his uncle's choice of his friend the doctor's son as a playmate. he was having his hair cut when tom mcgregor came into the shop of josiah, the barber. "wait a minute," said john. "are you through, mr. josiah?" tom grinned, "got a handle to your name?" "yes, because master john is a gentleman." "then i'll call you mister too." "it won't ever make you mister," said the barber, "that kind's born so." john disliked this outspoken expression of an opinion he shared. "nonsense," he said. "come up, tom, this afternoon. don't forget the muskrat traps, mr. josiah." "no, sir. too early yet." "all right," returned tom. "i'll come." march had come and the last snow still lay on the land when thus invited tom joined john and leila in the stable-yard. "let's play tag," cried leila. tom was ready. "here's a stick." they took hold of it in turn. tom's hand came out on top. "i'm tagger. look out!" he cried. they played the game. at last he caught leila, and crying out, "you're tagged," seized her boy-cap and threw it up on to the steep slope of the stable roof. "oh! that's not fair," cried the girl. "you are a rude boy. now you've got to get it." "no, indeed. get the stable-man to get it." she turned to john, "please to get it." "how can i?" he said. "go up inside--there's a trap door. you can slide down the snow and get it." "but i might fall." "there's your chance," said tom grinning. john stood, still irresolute. leila walked away into the stable. "she'll get a man," said tom a little regretful of his rudeness, as she disappeared. in a moment leila was up in the hayloft and out on the roof. spreading out arms and thin legs she carefully let herself slide down the soft snow until, seizing her cap, she set her feet on the roof gutter, crying out, "get a ladder quick." alarmed at her perilous position, they ran and called out a groom, a ladder was brought, and in a moment she was on the ground. leila turned on the two lads. "you are a coward, tom mcgregor, and you too, john penhallow. i never--never will play with you again." "it was just fun," said tom; "any of the men could have poked it down." "cowards," said the girl, tossing back her dark mass of hair and moving away without a look at the discomfited pair. "i suppose now you will go and tell the squire," said tom. he was alarmed. she turned, "i--a tell-tale!" her child-code of conduct was imperative. "i am neither a tell-tale nor a coward. 'tell-tale pick a nail and hang him to a cow's tail!'" and with this well-known declaration of her creed of playground honour, she walked away. "she'll tell," said tom. "she won't," said john. "guess i'll go home," said tom, and left john to his reflections. they were most disagreeable. john went into the woods and sat down on a log. "so," he said aloud, "she called me a coward--and i am--i was--i can't bear it. what would my uncle say?" his eyes filled. he brushed away the tears with his sleeve. a sudden remembrance of how good she had been to him, how loyally silent, added to his distress. he longed for a chance to prove that he was not that--that--eager and yet distrustful, he got up and walked through the melting snow to the cabin, where he lay on the floor thinking, a prey to that fiend imagination, of which he had a larger share than is always pleasant when excuses are needed. leila was coldly civil and held her tongue, but for a few days would not go into the woods with him and rode alone or with her uncle. tom came no more for a week, until self-assured that the squire had not heard of his behaviour, as he met him on the road with his usual hearty greeting. ann penhallow saw that the boy was less happy than usual and suspected some mild difficulty with leila, but in her wise way said nothing and began to use him for some of her many errands of helpfulness in the village and on the farms, where always he made friends. seeing at last that the boy was too silent and to her eye unhappy, she talked of it to mark rivers. the next day, after school, he said to john, "i want to see that old cabin in the woods. long as i have lived here i have never been that far. come and show me the way. i tried once to find it and got lost. we can have a jolly good talk, you and i." the word of kindly approach was timely. john felt the invitation as a compliment, and was singularly open to the approval his lessons won from this gentle dark-eyed man. "oh!" he said, "i should like that." after lunch, leila, a little penitent, said with unwonted shyness, "the woods are very nice to-day, and i found the first arbutus under the snow." when john did not respond, she made a further propitiatory advance, "it will soon be time for that hornets' nest, we must go and see." "what are you about?" said mrs. ann; "you will get stung." "pursuit of natural history," said penhallow smiling. "you are as bad as leila, james." "won't you come?" asked the girl at last. "thank you. i regret that i have an engagement with mr. rivers," said john, with the prim manner he was fast losing. "by george!" murmured penhallow as he rose. john looked up puzzled, and his uncle, much amused, went to get his boots and riding-dress. "wait till i get you on a horse, my lord chesterfield," he muttered. "he and leila must have had a row. what about, i wonder." he asked no questions. with a renewal of contentment and well-pleased, john called for the rector. they went away into the forest to the cabin. "and so," said rivers, "this is where the first penhallow had his indian fight. i must ask the squire." "i know about it," said john. "leila told me, and"--he paused, "i saw it." "oh! did you? let's hear." they lay down, and the rector lazily smoked. "well, go ahead, jack, i like stories." he had early rechristened him jack, and the boy liked it. "well, sir, they saw them coming near to dusk and ran. you see, it was a clearing then; the trees have grown here since. that was at dusk. they barred the door and cut loop-holes between the logs. next morning the indians came on. she fired first, and she cried out, 'oh! james, i've killed a man.'" "she said that?" asked rivers. "yes, and she wouldn't shoot again until her man was wounded, then she was like a raging lioness." "a lioness!" echoed rivers. "by evening, help came." "how did you know all this?" "oh! leila told me some--and the rest--well, sir, i saw it. i've been here often." the rector studied the excited young face. "would you like to have been there, jack?" "no." "why not?" "i should have been afraid, and--" then quickly, "i suppose he was; she was; any one would have been." "like as not. he for her, most of all. but there are many kinds of fear, jack." john was silent, and the rector waited. then the boy broke out, "leila told me last week i was a coward." "indeed! leila told you that! that wasn't like her, jack. why did she say it?" this was a friendly hearer, whose question john had invited. to-day the human relief of confession was great to the boy. he told the story, in bits, carefully, as if to have it exact were essential. mark rivers watched him through his pipe smoke, trying to think of what he could or should say to this small soul in trouble. the boy was lying on the floor looking up, his hands clasped behind his head. "that's all, sir. it's dreadful." the young rector's directness of character set him on the right path. "i don't know just what to say to you, jack. you see, you have been taught to be afraid of horses and dogs, of exposure to rain, and generally of being hurt, until--well, jack, if your mother had not been an invalid, she would not have educated you to fear, to have no joy in risks. now you are in more wholesome surroundings--and--in a little while you will forget this small trouble." the young clergyman felt that in his puzzle he had been rather vague, and added pleasantly, "you have the courage of truth. that's moral courage. tom would have explained or denied, or done anything to get out of the scrape, if the squire had come down on him. you would not." "oh! thank you," said john. "i'm sorry i troubled you." "you did in a way; but you did not when you trusted a man who is your friend. let us drop it. where are those indian graves?" they went out and wandered in the woods, until john said, "oh! this must be that arbutus leila talks about, just peeping out from under the snow." they gathered a large bunch. "it is the first breath of the fragrance of spring," said rivers. "oh! yes, sir. how sweet it is! it does not grow in europe." "no, we own it with many other good and pleasant things." when they came to the house, leila was dismounting after her ride. john said, "here leila, i gathered these for you." when she said, "thank you, john," he knew by her smiling face that he was forgiven, and without a word followed her into the hall, still pursued by the thought; but i was afraid. he put aside this trouble for a time, and the wood sports with leila were once more resumed. what thought of his failure the girl still kept in mind, if she thought of it at all, he never knew, or not for many days. he had no wish to talk of it, but fearfully desired to set himself right with her and with john penhallow. one day in early april she asked him to go to the stable and order her horse. he did so, and alone with an unpleasant memory, in the stable-yard he stood still a moment, and then with a sudden impulse threw his cap up on to the roof. he took a moment to regret it, and then saying, "i've got to do it!" he went into the stable and out of the hay-loft on to the sloping roof. he did not dare to wait, but let himself slide down the frozen snow, seized his cap, and knew of a sudden that the smooth ice-coating was an unsuspected peril. he rolled over on his face, straightened himself, and slid to the edge. he clutched the gutter, hung a moment, and dropped some fifteen feet upon the hard pavement. for a moment the shock stunned him. then, as he lay, he was aware of billy, who cried, "he's dead! he's dead!" and ran to the house, where he met mrs. ann and leila on the porch. "he's killed--he's dead!" "who? who?" they cried. "mr. john, he's dead!" as billy ran, the dead got his wits about him, sat up, and, hearing billy howling, got on his feet. his hands were torn and bleeding, but he was not otherwise damaged. he ran after billy, and was but a moment behind him. mrs. ann was shaking the simple fellow, vainly trying to learn what had happened. leila white to the lips was leaning against a pillar. john called out, "i'm all right, aunt. i had a fall--and billy, do hold your tongue." billy cried, "he's not dead!" and fled as he had come. "my poor boy," said mrs. ann, "sit down." he gladly obeyed. at this moment james penhallow came downstairs. "what's all this row about, ann? i heard billy--oh, so you're the dead man, john. how did you happen to die?" "i fell off the stable roof, sir." "well, you got off easily." he asked no other questions, to john's relief, but said, "your hands look as if you had fought our big tom-cat." john had risen on his uncle's approach. now penhallow said, "sit down. put some court-plaster on those scratches, ann, or a postage stamp--or--so--come, leila, the horses are here. run upstairs and get my riding-whip. that fool brought me down in a hurry. when the chimney took fire last year he ran through the village yelling that the house was burned down. don't let your aunt coddle you, john." "do let the boy alone, james." "come, leila," he said. "i think i won't ride to-day, uncle jim." a faint signal from his wife sent him on his way alone with, "all right, leila. any errands, my dear?" "no--but please call at the grocer's and ask him why he has sent no sugar--and tell mrs. saul i want her. if pole is in, you might mention that when i order beef i do not want veal." while john was being plastered and in dread of the further questions which were not asked, leila went upstairs, and the squire rode away to the iron-works smiling and pleased. "he'll do," he murmured, "but what the deuce was my young dandy doing on the roof?" the captain had learned in the army the wisdom of asking no needless questions. "leila must have been a pretty lively instructor in mischief. by and by, ann will have it out of the boy, and--i must stop that. now she will be too full of surgery. she is sure to think leila had something to do with it." he saw of late that ann was resolute as to what to him would be a sad loss. leila was to be sent to school before long--accomplishments! "damn accomplishments! i have tried to make a boy out of her--now the inevitable feminine appears--she was scared white--and the boy was pretty shaky. i am sure leila will know all about it." that school business had already been discussed with his wife, and then, he thought, "there is to come a winter in the city, society, and--some nice young man, and so good-bye, my dear comrade. get up, brutus." he dismissed his cares as the big bay stretched out in a gallop. after some surgical care, john was told to go to his room and lie down. he protested that he was in no need of rest, but ann penhallow, positive in small ways with every one, including her husband, sent john away with an imperative order, nor on the whole was he sorry to be alone. no one had been too curious. he recognized this as a reasonable habit of the family. and leila? he was of no mind to be frank with her; and this he had done was a debt paid to john penhallow! he may not have so put it, but he would not admit to himself that leila's contemptuous epithet had had any influence on his action. the outcome was a keen sense of happy self-approval. when he had dressed for dinner, feeling pretty sore all over, he found leila waiting at the head of the stairs. "john penhallow, you threw your cap on the roof and went up to get it, you did." "i did, leila, but how did you know?" she smiled and replied, "i--i don't know, john. i am sorry for what i said, and oh! john, uncle jim, he was pleased!" "do you think so?" "yes." she caught his hand and at the last landing let it fall. at dinner, the squire asked kindly: "are you all right, my boy?" "yes, sir," and that was all. mark rivers, who had heard of this incident from mrs. penhallow, and at last from leila, was alone in a position to comprehend the motives which combined to bring about an act of rashness. the rector had some sympathy with the boy and liked him for choosing a time when no one was present to witness his trial of himself. he too had the good sense like the squire to ask no questions. meanwhile, tom mcgregor came no more, feeling the wound to his pride, but without the urgent need felt by john to set himself in a better position with himself. he would have thought nothing of accepting leila's challenge, but very much wanted to see the polite girl-boy brought to shame. in fact, even the straightforward squire, with all his ready cordiality, at times found john's extreme politeness ridiculous at his age, but knew it to be the result of absurd training and the absence of natural association with other and manly boys. to tom it was unexplained and caused that very common feeling of vague suspicion of some claim to superiority which refined manners imply to those who lack manners altogether. chapter iv april passed, the arbutus fragrance was gone, while the maples were putting forth ruddy buds which looked like a prophecy of the distant autumn and made gay with colour the young greenery of spring. meanwhile, school went on, and john grew stronger and broader in this altogether wholesome atmosphere of outdoor activity and indoor life of kindness and apparently inattentive indifference on the part of his busy uncle. on an evening late in may, (john long remembered it), the squire as usual left their little circle and retired to the library, where he busied himself over matters involving business letters, and then fell to reading in the _tribune_ the bitter politics of fremont's contest with buchanan and the still angry talk over brooks's assault on senator sumner. he foresaw defeat and was with cool judgment aware of what the formation of the republican party indicated in the way of trouble to come. the repeal of the missouri compromise had years before disturbed his party allegiance, and now no longer had he been able to see the grave question of slavery as ann his wife saw it. he threw aside the papers, set his table in order, and opening the door called john to come in and pay him a visit. the boy rose surprised. never once had this over-occupied man talked to him at length and he had never been set free to wander in the tempting wilderness of books, which now and then when james penhallow was absent were remorselessly dusted by mrs. ann and the maid, with dislocating consequences over which james penhallow growled in belated protest. john went in, glanced up at the captain's sword over the mantelpiece, and sat down as desired by the still-needed fire. "john," said his uncle in his usual direct way, "have you ever been on the back of a horse?" "yes, sir, once--in paris at a riding-school." "once! you said 'once'--well?" "i fell off--mother was with me." "and you got on again?" "no, sir." "why not?" john flushed and hesitated, watched by the dark-eyed squire. "i was afraid!" he would not say that his mother forbade it. "what is your name?" "john, sir," he returned astonished. "and the rest--the rest, sir," added his uncle abruptly. john troubled by the soldier's impatient tones said: "penhallow, sir." he was near to a too emotional display. "and you, john penhallow, my brother's son, were afraid?" "i was." it was only in part true. his mother had forbidden the master to remount him. "by george!" said penhallow angrily, "i don't believe you, i can't!" john rose, "i may be a coward, uncle james, but i never lie." penhallow stood up, "i beg your pardon, john." "oh! no, uncle james. i--please not." he felt as if the tall soldier was humiliating himself, but could not have put it in words. "i was hasty, my boy. you must, of course, learn to ride. by the way, do you ever read the papers?" "not often, sir--hardly ever. they are kept in your library or aunt ann's." "well, it is time you did read them. come in here when you want to be alone--or any time. you won't bother me. take what books you want, and ask me about the politics of the day. the country is going to the devil, but don't discuss this election with your aunt." "no, sir." he had gathered from the rector enough to make him understand the warning. john went out with the idea that this business of learning to ride was somewhere in the future. he was a little disturbed when the next day after breakfast his uncle said, "come, john, the horses are in the training-ring." mrs. ann said, "james, if you are going to apply west point riding-school methods to john, i protest." "then protest, my dear," he said. "you will kill him," she returned. "my dear ann, i am not going to kill him, i am going to teach him to live. come, john. i am going to teach him to ride." raising horses was one of the squire's amusements, and the training-course where young horses were broken usually got an hour of his busy day. "may i come?" asked leila. "please, not," said john, anticipating disaster and desiring no amused spectators. "in a week or so, yes, leila," said penhallow, "not now." there were two stable-boys waiting and a pony long retired on grassy pension. "now," said penhallow, "put a foot on my knee and up you go." "but, there's no saddle." "there are two. the lord of horses put one on the back of a horse and another under a man. up! sir." john got on. "grip him with your legs, hold on to the mane if you like, but not by the reins." the pony feeling no urgency to move stood still and nibbled the young grass. a smart tap of the squire's whip started him, and john rolled off. "come, sir, get on." the boys from the stable grinned. john set his teeth. "don't stiffen yourself. that's better." he fell once again, and at the close of an hour his uncle said, "there that will do for to-day, and not so bad either." "i'd like to try it again, sir," gasped john. "you young humbug," laughed penhallow. "go and console your distracted aunt. i am off to the mills." the ex-captain was merciless enough, and day after day john was so stiff that, as he confessed to leila, a jointed doll was a trifle to his condition. she laughed, "i went through it once, but one day it came." "what came, leila?" "oh! the joy of the horse!" "i shall never get to that." but he did, for the hard riding-master scolded, smiled, praised, and when at last john sat in the saddle the bareback lessons gave him a certain confidence. the training went on day after day, under the rule of patient but relentless efficiency. it was far into june when, having backed without serious misadventures two or three well-broken horses, penhallow mounted him on leila's mare, lucy, and set out to ride with him. "let us ride to the mills, john." the mare was perfectly gaited and easy. they rode on, talking horses. "you will have to manage the mills some day," said penhallow. "you own quite a fifth of them. now i have three partners, but some day you and i will run them." the boy had been there before with rivers, but now the squire presented him to the foreman and as they moved about explained the machinery. it was altogether delightful, and this was a newly discovered uncle. on the way home the squire talked of the momentous november elections and of his dread of the future with buchanan in power, while he led the way through lanes and woods until they came to the farm. "we will cross the fields," he said, and dismounting took down the upper bars of a fence. then he rode back a little, and returning took the low fence, crying, "now, john, sit like a sack--loosely. the mare jumps like a frog; go back a bit. now, then, give her her head!" for a moment he was in the air as his uncle cried, "you lost a stirrup. try it again. oh! that was better. now, once more, come," and he was over at penhallow's side. he had found the joy of the horse! "a bit more confidence and practice and you will do. i want you to ride venus. she shies at a shadow--at anything black. don't forget that." "oh, thank you, uncle james!" "it is uncle jim now, my boy. i knew from the first you would come out all right. i believe in blood--horses and men. i believe in blood." this was james penhallow all over. a reticent man, almost as tenderly trustful as a woman, of those who came up to his standards of honour, truth and the courage which rightly seemed to him the backbone of all the virtues. what john thought may be readily imagined. accustomed to be considered and flattered, his uncle's quiet reserve had seemed to him disappointing, and now of late this abrupt praise and accepting comradeship left the sensitive lad too grateful for words. the man at his side was wise enough to say no more, and they rode home and dismounted without further speech. after dinner john sought a corner with leila, where he could share with her his new-born enthusiasm about horses. the squire called to the rector and mrs. ann to come into his library. "sit down, mark," he said, "i am rash to invite you; both you and ann bore me to death with your sunday schools and the mill men who won't come to church. i don't hear our baptist friend complain." "but he does," said rivers. "i do not wonder," said ann, "that they will not attend the chapel." "if," said penhallow, "you were to swap pulpits, mark, it would draw. there are many ways--oh, i am quite in earnest, ann. don't put on one of your excommunicating looks. i remember once in idaho at dusk, i had two guides. they were positive, each of them, that certain trails would lead to the top. i tossed up which to go with. it was pretty serious--indians and so on--i'll tell you about it some time, rector. well, we met at dawn on the summit. how about the moral, ann?" ann penhallow laughed. in politics, morals and religion, she held unchanging sentiments. "my dear james, people who make fables supply the morals. i decline." "very good, but you see mine." "i never see what i do not want to see," which was pretty close to the truth. "the fact is," said rivers, "i have preaccepted the squire's hint. grace is sick again. i tell him it is that last immersion business. i have promised to preach for him next sunday, as your young curate at the mills wants to air his eloquence here." "not really!" said mrs. ann, "at his chapel?" "yes, and i mean to use a part of our service." "if the bishop knew it." "if! he would possibly forbid it, or be glad i did it." mrs. ann totally disapproved. she took up her knitting and said no more, while rivers and penhallow talked of a disturbance at the works of no great moment. the rector noticed mrs. penhallow's sudden loss of interest in their talk and her failure to comment on his statement, an unusual thing with this woman, who, busy-minded as the bee, gathered honey of interest from most of the affairs of life. in a pause of the talk he turned to her, "i am sorry to have annoyed you," he said--"i mean about preaching for grace." "but why do you do it?" "because," he returned, "my master bids me. over and over one finds in his word that he foreknew how men would differ and come to worship him and use his revelations in ways which would depend on diversity of temperaments, or under the leadership of individual minds of great force. it may be that it was meant that we should disagree, and yet--i--yet as to essentials we are one. that i never can forget." "then," she said quickly, "you are of many creeds." "no and yes," he returned smiling. "in essentials yes, in ceremonial usage no; in some other morsels of belief held by others charitably dubious--i dislike argument about religion in the brief inadequateness of talk--especially with you from whom i am apt to differ and to whom i owe so much--so very much." she took up her knitting again as she said, "i am afraid the balance of debt is on our side." "then," said penhallow, who, too, disliked argument on religion, "if you have got through with additions to the useless squabbles of centuries, which hurt and never help, i--" "but," broke in his wife, "i have had no answer." "oh, but you have, ann; for me, rivers is right." "then i am in a minority of one," she returned, "but i have not had my say." "well, dear, keep it for next time. now i want, as i said, a little counsel about john." "and about leila, james. something has got to be done." the squire said ruefully, "yes, i suppose so. i do not know that anything needs to be done. you saw john's condition before dinner. he had a swollen nose and fair promise of a black eye. i asked you to take no notice of it. i wanted first to hear what had happened. i got leila on the porch and extracted it by bits. it seems that tom was rude to leila." "i never liked your allowing him to play with the children, james." "but the boy needs boy-company." "and what of leila? she needs girl-company." "i fear," said rivers, "that may be the case." "it is so," said mrs. ann decisively, pleased with his support. "what happened, james?" "i did not push leila about what tom did. john slapped his face and got knocked down. he got up and went at tom like a wildcat. tom knocked him down again and held him. he said that john must say he had had enough." "he didn't," said rivers, "i am sure he didn't." "no, mark, he said he would die first, which was what he should have said. then billy had the sense to pull the big boy off, and as leila was near tears i asked no more questions. it was really most satisfactory." "how can you say that?" said his wife. "it was brutal." "you do not often misunderstand me, ann. i mean, of course, that our boy did the right thing. how does it strike you, mark?" he had a distinct intention to get the rector into trouble. "not this time, squire," and he laughed. "the boy did what his nature bade him. of course, being a nice little boy, he should have remonstrated. there are several ways--" "thanks," said penhallow. "of course, ann, the playing with tom will end. i fancy there is no need to interfere." "he should be punished for rudeness to leila," said mrs. penhallow. "oh, well, he's a rough lad and like enough sorry. how can i punish him without making too much of a row." "you are quite right, as i see it," said rivers. "let it drop; but, indeed, it is true that leila should have other than rough lads as school-companions." "oh, lord! rivers." "i am glad to agree with you at least about one thing," said mrs. penhallow. "in september john will be sixteen, and leila a year or so younger. she is now simply a big, daring, strong boy." "if you think that, ann, you are oddly mistaken." "i am," she said; "i was. it was only one end of my reasons why she must go to school. before john came and when we had cousins here--girls, she simply despised them or led them into dreadful scrapes." "well, ann, we will talk it over another time." rivers smiled and ann penhallow went out, longing to attend to the swollen face now bent low over a book. the two men she left smoked in such silence as is one of the privileges of friendship. at last penhallow said, "of course, mark, my wife is right, but i shall miss the girl. my wife cannot ride with me, and now i am to lose leila. after school come young men. confound it, rector, i wish the girl had less promise of beauty--of--well, all the greys have it--attractiveness for our sex. some of them are fools, but they have it all the same, and they keep it to the end. what is most queer about it is that they are not easily won. the men who trouble hearts for a game do not win these women." "some one will suffer," said rivers reflectively. he wondered if the wooing of ann grey by this masterful man had been a long one. a moment he gave to remembrance of his own long and tender care of the very young wife he had won easily and seen fade with terrible slowness as her life let fall its joys as it were leaf by leaf, with bitter sense of losing the fair heritage of youth. now he said, "were all these women, squire, who had the gift of bewitchment, good?" "no, now and then hurtful, or honest gentlewomen, or like ann grey too entirely good for this wicked world--" "as westways knows," said rivers, thinking how the serene beauty of a life of noble ways had contributed spiritual charm to whatever ann penhallow had of attractiveness. "but," he went on, "leila cannot go until the fall, and you will still have the boy. i had my doubts of your method of education, but it has worked well. he has a good mind and is so far ahead of his years in education that he will be ready for college too early." "well, i hate to think of these changes. he must learn to box." "another physical virtue to be added," laughed rivers. "yes, he must learn to face these young country fellows." after a brief pause he added, "i am looking forward to buchanan's nomination and election, mark, with anxiety. both north and south are losing temper." "yes, but shall you vote for him? i presume you have always been a democrat, more or less--less of late." "i shall vote for fremont if he is nominated; not wholly a wise choice. i am tired of what seems like an endless effort north and south, to add more exasperations. it will go on and on. each section seems to want to make the other angry." "it is not mrs. penhallow's opinion, i fear. the wrongdoing is all on our side." said the squire gravely, "that is a matter, mark, we never now discuss--the one matter. her brothers in maryland, are at odds. one at least is bitter, as i gather from their letters." "well, after the election things will quiet down, as usual." "they will not, mark. i know the south. unhappily they think we live by the creed of day-book and ledger. we as surely misunderstand them, and god alone knows what the future holds for us." this was unusual talk for penhallow. he thought much, but talked little, and his wife's resolute attitude of opinions held from youth was the one trouble of an unusually happy life. "we can only hope for the best," said rivers. "time is a great peacemaker." "or not," returned his host as rivers rose. "just a word, mark, before you go. i am desirous that you should not misunderstand me in regard to my politics. i see that slavery is to be more and more in question. my own creed is, 'let it alone, obey the laws, return the runaways,--oh! whether you like it or not,--but no more slave territory.' and for me, my friend, the states are one country and above all else, above slave questions, is that of an unbroken union. i shall vote for fremont. i cannot go to party meetings and speak for him because, mark, i am in doubt about the man, and because--oh! you know." yes, he knew more or less, but knowing did not quite approve. the squire of grey pine rarely spoke at length, but now he longed, as he gave some further clue to his reticence, to make public a political creed which was not yet so fortified by the logic of events as to be fully capable of defence. "the humorous side of it," he said, "is that my very good wife has been doing some pretty ardent electioneering while i am sitting still, because to throw my weight into the local contest would oblige me to speak out and declare my whole political religion of which i am not quite secure enough to talk freely." the young rector looked at his older friend, who was uneasy between his uncertain sense of duty and his desire not to go among people at the mills and in the town and struggle with his wife for votes. "i may, mark, i may do no more than let it be known how i shall vote. that is all. it will be of use. i could wish to do more. i think that here and at the mills the feeling is rather strong for buchanan, but why i cannot see." mrs. ann had been really active, and her constant kindness at the mills and in the little town gave to her wishes a certain influential force among these isolated groups of people who in their remoteness had not been disturbed by the aggressive policy of the south. "of course, mark, my change of opinion will excite remark. whoever wins, i shall be uneasy about the future. must you go? good-night." he went to the hall door with the rector, and then back to his pipe, dismissing the subject for the time. on his return, he found john in the library looking at the sword hanging over the mantelpiece. "well, jack," he said, "a penny for your thoughts." "oh; i was thinking what the sword had seen." "i hope it will see no more, but it may--it may. now i want to say a word to you. you had a fight with tom mcgregor and got the worst of it." "i did." "i do not ask why. you seem to have shown some pluck." "i don't know, uncle. i was angry, and i just slapped his face. he deserved it." "very well, but never slap. i suppose that is the french schoolboy way of fighting. hit hard--get in the first blow." "yes, sir. i hadn't a chance." "you must take my old cadet boxing-gloves from under the sword. i have spoken to sam, the groom. i saw him last year in a bout with the butcher's boy. after he has knocked you about for a month, you will be better able to take care of the penhallow nose." "i shall like that." "you won't, but it will help to fill out your chest." then he laughed, "did you ever get that cane?" "no, sir. billy found it. leila gave him twenty-five cents for it, and now she won't give it to me." "well, well, is that so? the ways of women are strange." "i don't see why she keeps it, uncle." "nor i. now go to bed, it is late. she is a bit of a tease, john. mark rivers says she is now just one half of the riddle called woman." john understood well enough that he was some day expected by his uncle to have it out with tom. he got two other bits of advice on this matter. the rector detained him after school, a few days later. "how goes the swimming, john?" he asked. the squire early in the summer had taken this matter in hand, and as ann penhallow said, with the west point methods of kill or cure. john replied to the rector that he was now given leave to swim with the westways boys. the pool was an old river-channel, now closed above, and making a quiet deep pool such as in england is called a "backwater" and in canada a "bogan." the only access was through the penhallow grounds, but this was never denied. "does tom mcgregor swim there?" asked rivers. "yes, and the other boys. it is great fun now; it was not at first." "about tom, john. i hope you have made friends with him." said john, with something of his former grown-up manner, "it appears to me that we never were friends. i regret, sir, that it seems to you desirable." "but, john, it is. for two christian lads like you to keep up a quarrel--" "he's a heathen, sir. i told him yesterday that he ought to apologize to leila." "and what did he say?" "he said, he guessed i wanted another licking. that's the kind of christian he is." "i must speak to him." "oh, please not to do that! he will think i am afraid." here were the squire and rivers on two sides of this question. "are you afraid, john? you were once frank with me about it." "i do not think, mr. rivers, you ought to ask me that." he drew up his figure as he spoke. the rector would have liked to have whistled--a rare habit with him when alone and not in one of his moods of depression. he said, "i beg your pardon, john," and felt that he had not only done no good, but had made a mistake. john said, "i am greatly obliged, sir." when half-way home he went back and met rivers at his gate. "well," said the rector, "left anything?" "no, sir," said the boy, his young figure stiffening, his head up. "i wasn't honest, sir." and again with his old half-lost formal way, "i--i--you might have thought--i wasn't--quite honourable. i mean--i'll never be able to forgive that blackguard until i can--can get even with him. you see, sir?" "yes, i see," said rivers, who did not see, or know for a moment what to say. "well, think it over, john. he is more a rough cub than a blackguard. think it over." "yes, sir," and john walked away. the rector looked after the boy thinking--he's the squire all over, with more imagination, a gentleman to the core. but how wonderfully changed, and in only eight months. john was now, this july, allowed to ride with leila when his uncle was otherwise occupied. he had been mounted on a safe old horse and was not spared advice from leila, who enjoyed a little the position of mistress of equestrianism. she was slyly conscious of her comrade's mildly resentful state of mind. "don't pull on him so hard, john. the great thing is to get intimate with a horse's mouth. he's pretty rough, but if you wouldn't keep so stiff, you wouldn't feel it." john began to be a little impatient. "let us talk of something else than horses. i got a good dose of advice yesterday from uncle jim. i am afraid that you will be sent to school in the fall. i hate schools. you'll have no riding and snowballing, and i shall miss you. you see, i was never friends with a girl before." "uncle jim would never let me go." "but aunt ann?" he queried. "i heard her tell mr. rivers that you must go. she said that you were too old, or would be, for snowballing and rough games and needed the society of young ladies." "young ladies!" said leila scornfully. "we had two from baltimore year before last. i happened to hit one of them in the eye with a snowball, and she howled worse than billy when he plays bear." "oh, you'll like it after a while," he said, with anticipative wisdom, "but i shall be left to play with tom. i want you to miss me. it is too horrid." "i shall miss you; indeed, i shall. i suppose i am only a girl, but i won't forget what you did when that boy was rude. i used to think once you were like a girl and just afraid. i never yet thanked you," and she leaned over and laid a hand for a moment on his. "i believe you wouldn't be afraid now to do what i dared you to do." he laughed. there had been many such dares. "which dare was it, leila?" "oh, to go at night--at night to the indian graves. i tried it once and got half way--" "and was scalped all the way back, i suppose." "i was, john. try it yourself." "i did, a month after i came." "oh! and you never told me." "no, why should i?" it had not had for him the quality of bodily peril. it was somehow far less alarming. he had started with fear, but was of no mind to confess. they rode on in silence, until at last she said. "i hope you won't fight that boy again." "oh," he said, "i didn't mind it so very much." she was hinting that he would again be beaten. "but i minded, john. i hated it." he would say no more. he had now had, as concerned tom, three advisers. he kept his own counsel, with the not unusual reticence of a boy. he did not wish to be pitied on account of what he did not consider defeat, and wanted no one to discuss it. he was better pleased when a week later the english groom talked to him after the boxing-lesson. "that fellow, tom, told me about your slapping him. he said that he didn't want to lick you if you hadn't hit him." "it's not a thing i want to talk about, sam. i had to hit him and i didn't know how; that's all. put on the gloves again." "there, that'll do, sir. you're light on your pins, and he's sort of slow. if you ever have to fight him, just remember that and keep cool and keep moving." the young boxing-tutor was silently of opinion that john penhallow would not be satisfied until he had faced tom again. john made believe, as we say, that he had no such desire. he had, however, long been caressed and flattered into the belief that he was important, and was, in his uncle's army phrase, to be obeyed and respected accordingly by inferiors. his whole life now for many months had, however, contributed experiences contradictory to his tacitly accepted boy-views. sometimes in youth the mental development and conceptions of what seem desirable in life appear to make abrupt advances without apparent bodily changes. more wholesomely and more rarely at the plastic age characteristics strengthen and mind and body both gather virile capacity. when john penhallow met his cousin on his first arrival, he was in enterprise, vigour, general good sense and normal relation to life, really far younger than leila. in knowledge, mind and imagination, he was far in advance. in these months he had passed her in the race of life. he felt it, but in many ways was also dimly aware that leila was less expressively free in word and action, sometimes to his surprise liking to be alone at the age when rare moods of mild melancholy trouble the time of rapid female florescence. there was still between them acceptance of equality, with on his part a certain growth of respectful consideration, on hers a gentle perception of his gain in manliness and of deference to his experience of a world of which she knew as yet nothing, but with some occasional resentment when the dominating man in the boy came to the surface. when his aunt praised his manners, leila said, "he isn't always so very gentle." when his uncle laughed at his awkward horsemanship, she defended him, reminding her uncle, to his amusement, of her own early mishaps. chapter v john's intimacy with the squire prospered. leila had been a gay comrade, but not as yet so interested as to tempt him to discussion of the confusing politics of the day. "she has not as yet a seeking mind," said the rector, who in the confessional of the evening pipe saw more and more plainly that this was a divided house. the squire could not talk politics with ann, his wife. she held a changeless belief in regard to slavery, a conviction of its value to owner and owned too positive to be tempted into discussing it with people who knew so little of it and did not agree with her. james penhallow, like thousands in that day of grim self-questioning, had been forced to reconsider opinions long held, and was reaching conclusions which he learned by degrees made argument with the simplicity of his wife's political creed more and more undesirable. leila was too young to be interested. the rector was intensely anti-slavery and saw but one side of the ominous questions which were bewildering the largest minds. the increasing interest in his nephew was, therefore, a source of real relief to the uncle. meanwhile, the financial difficulties of the period demanded constant thought of the affairs of the mills and took him away at times to philadelphia or pittsburgh. thus the summer ran on to an end. buchanan and breckenridge had been nominated and the republicans had accepted fremont and dayton. birthdays were always pleasantly remembered at grey pine, and on september th, when john, aged sixteen, came down to breakfast, as he took his seat ann came behind him and said as she kissed him, "you are sixteen to-day; here is my present." the boy flushed with pleasure as he received a pair of silver spurs. "oh! thank you, aunt ann," he cried as he rose. "and here is mine," said leila, and laughing asked with both hands behind her back, "which hand, john?" "oh! both--both." "no." "then the one nearest the heart." some quick reflection passed through ann penhallow's mind of this being like an older man's humour. leila gave him a riding-whip. he had a moment's return of the grown-up courtesies he had been taught, and bowed as he thanked her, saying, "now, i suppose, i am your knight, aunt ann." "and mine," said leila. "i do not divide with any one," said mrs. ann. "where is your present, james?" he had kept his secret. "come and see," he cried. he led them to the porch. "that is mine, john." a thorough-bred horse stood at the door, saddled and bridled. ann thought the gift extravagant, but held her tongue. "oh, uncle jim," said john. his heart was too full for the words he wanted to say. "for me--for me." he knew what the gift meant. "you must name him," said leila. "i rode him once, john. he has no name. uncle jim said he should have no name until he had an owner. now i know." john stood patting the horse's neck. "wasn't his mother a virginia mare, james?" said ann. "yes." "oh, then call him dixy." for a moment the squire was of a mind to object, but said gaily, "by all means, ann, call him dixy if you like, and now breakfast, please." here they heard dixy's pedigree at length. "above all, jack, remember that dixy is of gentle birth; make friends with him. he may misbehave; never, sir, lose your temper with him. be wary of use of whip or spur." there was more of it, until mrs. ann said, "your coffee will be cold. it is one of your uncle's horse-sermons." john laughed. how delightful it all was! "may i ride today with you, uncle?" "yes, i want to introduce you to--dixy--yes--" "and may i ride with you?" asked leila. "no, my dear," said the aunt, "i want you at home. there is the raspberry jam and currant jelly and tomato figs." "gracious, leila, we shall not have a ride for a week." "oh, not that bad, john," said mrs. ann, "only two days and--and sunday. after that you may have her, and i shall be glad to be rid of her. she eats as much as she preserves." "oh! aunt ann." a few days went by, and as it rained in the afternoon there was no riding, but there was the swimming-pool, and for rain john now cared very little. on his way he met a half dozen village lads. they swam, and hatched (it was john's device) a bit of mischief involving billy, who was fond of watching their sports when he was tired of doing chores about the stable. john heard of it later. the likelihood of unpleasant results from their mischief was discussed as they walked homeward. there were in all five boys from the village, with whom by this time john had formed democratic intimacies and moderate likings which would have shocked his mother. he had had no quarrels since long ago he had resented tom mcgregor's rudeness to leila and had suffered the humiliation of defeat in his brief battle with the bigger boy. the easy victor, tom, had half forgotten or ignored it, as boys do. now as they considered an unpleasant situation, joe grace, the son of the baptist preacher, broke the silence. he announced what was the general conclusion, halting for emphasis as he spoke. "i say, fellows, there will be an awful row." "that's so," said william, the butcher's son. "anyhow," remarked ashton, whose father was a foreman at the mills, "it was great fun; didn't think billy could run like that." it will be observed that the young gentleman of ten months ago had become comfortably democratic in his associations and had shed much of his too-fine manners as the herding instincts of the boy made the society of comrades desirable when leila's company was not attainable. "oh!" he said, "billy can run, but i had none of the fun." then he asked anxiously, "did billy get as far as the house?" "you bet," said baynton, the son of the carpenter, "i saw him, heard him shout to the squire. guess it's all over town by this time." "anyhow it was you, john, set it up," said a timid little boy, the child of the blacksmith. "that's so," said grace, "guess you'll catch it hot." john considered the last spokesman with scorn as tom, his former foe, said, "shut up, joe grace, you were quick enough to go into it--and me too." "thanks," said john, reluctantly acknowledging the confession of partnership in the mischief, "i am glad one of you has a little--well, honour." they went on their way in silence and left him alone. nothing was said of the matter at the dinner-table, where to john's relief mr. rivers was a guest. john observed, however, that mrs. ann had less of her usual gaiety, and he was not much surprised when his uncle leaving the table said, "come into the library, john." the captain lighted his pipe and sat down. "now, sir," he said, "billy is a poor witness. i desire to hear what happened." the stiffened hardness of the speaker in a measure affected the boy. he stood for a moment silent. the captain, impatient, exclaimed, "now, i want the simple truth and nothing else." the boy felt himself flush. "i do not lie, sir. i always tell the truth." "of course--of course," returned penhallow. "this thing has annoyed me. sit down and tell me all about it." rather more at his ease john said, "i went to swim with some of the village boys, sir. we played tag in the water--" the squire had at once a divergent interest, "tag--tag--swimming? who invented that game? good idea--how do you play it?" john a little relieved continued, "you see, uncle, you can dive to escape or come up under a fellow to tag him. it's just splendid!" he concluded with enthusiasm. then the captain remembered that this was a domestic court-martial, and self-reminded said, "the tag has nothing to do with the matter in question; go on." "we got tired and sat on the bank. billy was wandering about. he never can keep still. i proposed that i should hide in the bushes and the boys should tell billy i was drowned." "indeed!" "we went into the water; i hid in the bushes and the boys called out i was drowned. when billy heard it, he gathered up all my clothes and my shoes, and before i could get out he just yelled, 'john's drowned, i must take his clothes home to his poor aunt.' then he ran. the last i heard was, 'he's drowned, he's drowned!'" "and then?" "well, the other fellows put on something and went after him; they caught him in the cornfield and took away my clothes. then billy ran to the house. that is all i know." the squire was suppressing his mirth. "aren't you ashamed?" "no, sir, but i am sorry." "i don't like practical jokes. billy kept on lamenting your fate. he might have told leila or your aunt. luckily i received his news, and no one else. you will go to westways and say there is to be no swimming for a week in my pool." "yes, sir." "you are not to ride dixy or any other horse for ten days." this was terrible. "now, be off with you, and tell mr. rivers to come in." "yes, sir." when rivers sat down, the squire suppressing his laughter related the story. "the boy's coming on, mark. he's penhallow all over." "but, squire, by the boy's looks i infer you did not tell him that." "oh, hardly. i hate practical jokes, and i have stopped his riding for ten days." "i suppose you are right," and they fell to talking politics and of the confusion of parties with three candidates in the field. mrs. ann who suspected what had been the result of this court-martial was disposed towards pity, but john retired to a corner and a book and slipped away to bed early. penalties he had suffered at school, but this was a terrible experience, and now he was to let the other boys know that the swimming-pool was closed for a week. at breakfast he made believe to be contented in mind, and asked in his best manner if his uncle had any errands for him in westways or at the mills. when the captain said no and remarked further that if he wished to walk, he would find the wood-roads cooler than the highway john expressed himself grateful for his advice with such a complete return of his formal manner as came near to unmasking the inner amusement which the squire was getting from the evident annoyance he was giving mrs. ann, who thought that he was needlessly irritating a boy who to her mind was hurt and sore. "come, leila," she said rising. "we may meet you in the village, john; and do get your hair cut, and see mr. spooner and tell him--no, i will write it." john was pleased to feel that he had other reasons for visiting westways than his uncle's order. he went down the avenue whistling, and in no hurry. leila had some dim comprehension of john's state of mind. of billy and of the squire's court-martial she had heard from mrs. ann, and although that lady said little, the girl very well knew that her aunt thought her husband had been too severe. she stood on the porch, vaguely troubled for this comrade, and watched him as he passed from view, taking a short cut through the trees. the girl checked something like a sob as she went into the house. it was the opinion of the county that mrs. penhallow was a right good woman and masterful; but of leila the judgment of the village was that she was just sweet through and through. the rector said she radiated the good-nature of perfect health. what more there was time would show. westways knew well these two young people, and leila was simply leila to nearly every one. "quite time," reflected mrs. ann, "that she was miss leila." as she went with her through the town there were pleasant greetings, until at last they came to the butcher's. mr. pole, large after the way of his craft, appeared in a white apron. "well, now, how you do grow, leila." "not enough yet," said leila. "fine day, mrs. penhallow." he was a little uneasy, divining her errand. "now, pole, before i make a permanent change to the butcher at the mills, i wish to say that it is because a pound of beef weighs less at grey pine than in your shop." at this time john was added to the hearers, being in search of william pole with the squire's order about the swimming. he waited until his aunt should be through. he was a little amused, which on the whole was, just then, good for him. "now ma'am, after all these years you won't drop me like that." "short weights are reason enough." leila listened, sorry for pole, who reddened and replied, "fact is, ma'am, i don't always do the weighing myself, and the boys they are real careless. what with hannah's asthma keeping me awake and a lot of fools loafing around and talking politics, i do wonder i ever get things right. it's fremont and it's buchanan--a man can't tell what to do." mrs. penhallow was not usually to be turned aside, and meant now to deal out even justice. but if the butcher knew it or not, she was offered what she liked and at home could not have. "i hope, pole, you are not going to vote for fremont." "well, ma'am, it ain't easy to decide. i've always followed the squire." ann penhallow knew, alas! what this would mean. "i've been thinking i'll stand to vote for buchanan. was you wanting a saddle of lamb to-day? i have one here, and a finer i never saw." "well, pole, keep your politics and your weights in order. send me the lamb." the butcher smiled as mrs. ann turned away. whether the lady of grey pine was conscious of having bought a vote or not, it was pretty clear to her nephew that peter pole's weights would not be further questioned as long as his politics were democratic. when his aunt had gone, john called bill pole out of the shop and said, "there's to be no swimming for a week, for any of us. where are the other fellows?" "guessed we would catch it. they're playing ball back of the church. i'll go along with you." he was pleased to see how the others would take their deprivation of a swim in the september heat. they came on the other culprit's, who called to john to come and play. he was not so minded, and was in haste to get through with a disagreeable errand. as he hesitated, pole eager to distribute the unpleasant news cried out, "the squire says that we can't swim in the pool for a week--none of us. how do you fellows like that?" "it's mighty mean of him." "what's that?" said john. "he was right and you know it. i don't like it any better than you do--but--" bill baynton, the youngest boy, broke in, "who told the squire what fellows was in it?" "it wasn't billy," said another lad; "he just kept on yelling you was dead." "look here," said tom mcgregor turning to john, "did you tell the squire we fellows set it up?" john was insulted. he knew well the playground code of honour, but remembered in time his boxing-master's advice, the more mad you are the cooler you keep yourself. he replied in his old formal way, "the question is one you have no right to ask; it is an insult." to the boys the failure to say "no" meant evasion. "then, of course, you told," returned the older lad. "if i wasn't afraid you'd run home and complain, i'd spank you." it had been impossible for john to be angry with his uncle, although the punishment and the shame of carrying the news to the other boys he felt to be a too severe penalty. but here was cause for letting loose righteous anger. he had meant to wait, having been wisely counselled by his boxing-master to be in no haste to challenge his enemy, until further practice had made success possible; but now his rising wrath overcame his prudence, "well, try it," he said. "you beat me once. if you think i'll tell if i am licked, i assure you, you are safe. i took the whole blame about billy and i was asked no names." tom hesitated and said, "i never heard that." "i will accept an apology," said john in his most dignified way. the boys laughed. john flushed a little, and as tom remained silent added, "if you won't, then lick me if you can." as he spoke, he slipped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. the long lessons in self-defence had given him some confidence and, what was as useful, had developed chest and arms. "hit him, tom," said the small boy. in a moment the fight was on, the non-combatants delighted. to tom's surprise his wild blows somehow failed to get home. it was characteristic of john then as in later days that he became cool as he realized his danger, while tom quite lost his head as the success of the defence disappointed his attack. to hit hard, to rush in and throw his enemy, was all he had of the tactics of offence. the younger lad, untouched, light on his feet, was continually shifting his ground; then at last he struck right and left. he had not weight enough to knock down his foe, but as tom staggered, john leaped aside and felt the joy of battle as he got in a blow under the ear and tom fell. "get on him--hit him," cried the boys. "by george, if he ain't licked!" john stood still. tom rose, and as he made a furious rush at the victor, a loud voice called out, "halloa! quit that." both boys stood still as mark rivers climbed over the fence and stood between them. john was not sorry for the interruption. he was well aware that in the rough and tumble of a close he had not weight enough to encounter what would have lost him the fight he had so far won. he stood still panting, smiling, and happy. "hadn't you boys better shake hands?" said the rector. tom, furious, was collecting blood from his nose on his handkerchief. neither boy spoke. "well, john," said rivers waiting. "i'll shake hands, sir, when tom apologizes." the rector smiled. apologies were hardly understood as endings to village fights. "he won't do it," said john with a glance at the swollen face; "another time i'll make him." "will you!" exclaimed tom. the rector felt that on the whole it might have been better had they fought it out. now the peacemaking business was clearly not blessed. "you are a nice pair of young christians," he said. "at all events, you shall not fight any more to-day. come, john." the boy put on his jacket and went away with rivers, who asked presently what was this about. "mr. rivers, soon after i came that fellow was rough to leila; i hit him, and he beat me like--like a dog." "and you let all these suns go down upon your wrath?" "there wasn't any wrath, sir. he wouldn't apologize to leila; he wouldn't do it." "oh! indeed." "then he said something to-day about uncle jim." "anything else?" "yes, he made it pretty clear that he thought me a liar." "well, but you knew you were not." "yes, sir, but he didn't appear to know." "do you think you convinced him?" "no, sir, but i feel better." "ah! is that so? morally better, john?" and he laughed as he bade him good-bye. the lad who left him was tired, but entirely satisfied with john penhallow. he went to the stable and had a technical talk with the english groom, who deeply regretted not to have seen the fight. there being no riding or swimming to fill the time, he took a net, some tackle and a bucket, and went down to the river and netted a "hellbender." he put him in a bucket of water and carried him to the stable, where he was visited by leila and rivers, and later departed this life, much lamented. in the afternoon, being in a happy mood, john easily persuaded leila to abandon her ride, and walk with him. when they sat down beside the indian graves, to his surprise she suddenly shifted the talk and said, "john, who would you vote for? i asked aunt ann, and she said, 'buchanan, of course'; and when i asked uncle jim, he said, 'fremont'; but i want to understand. i saw in the paper that it was wicked to keep slaves, but my cousins in maryland have slaves; it can't be wicked." "would you like to be bought and sold?" he said. "but, i am not black, john." "i believe old josiah was a slave." "every one knows that. why did he run away, john?" "because he wanted to be free, i suppose, and not have to work without pay." "and don't they pay slaves?" asked leila. "no, they don't." john felt unable to make clear to her why the two people they respected and loved never discussed what the village talked about so freely. these intelligent children were in the toils of a question which was disturbing the consciences and the interests of a continent. the simpler side was clear to both of them. the idea of selling the industrious old barber was as yet enough to settle their politics. "aunt ann must have good reasons," said john. "mr. rivers says she is the most just woman he ever knew." it puzzled him. "i suppose we are too young to understand." "aunt ann will never talk about slaves. i asked her last week." "but uncle jim will talk, and he likes to be asked when we are alone. i don't believe in slavery." "it seems so queer, john, to own a man." john grinned, "or a girl, leila." "well, no one owns me, i tell you; they'd have a hard time." she shook what rivers called her free-flowing cascade of hair in the pride of conscious freedom. the talk ran on. at last she said, "i'll tell you a queer thing. i heard mr. rivers say to uncle--i heard him say, we were all slaves. he said that no one owns himself. i think that's silly," said the young philosopher, "don't you, john?" "i don't know," returned john; "i think it's a big puzzle. let's go." no word reached the squire of the battle behind the church until four days later, when rivers came in after dinner and found penhallow in his library deep in thought. "worried, squire?" he asked. "yes, affairs are in a bad way and will be until the election is over. it always disturbs commerce. the town will go democratic, i suppose." "yes, as i told you, unless you take a hand and are in earnest and outspoken." "i could be, but it has not yet the force of imperative duty, and it would hurt ann more than i feel willing to do. talk of something else. she would cease her mild canvass if she thought it annoyed me." "i see--sir. i think i ought to tell you that john has had another battle with tom mcgregor." "indeed?" the squire sat up, all attention. "he does not show any marks of it." "no, but tom does." "indeed! what happened?" "well, i believe, tom thought john told you what boys were in that joke on billy. i fancy something was said about you--something personal, which john resented." "that is of no moment. what else? i ought to be clear about it." "well, squire, tom was badly mauled and john was tired when i arrived as peacemaker. i stopped the battle, but he was not at all disposed to talk about it. i am sure of one thing--he has had a grudge against tom--since he was rude to leila." the squire rose and walked about the room. "h'm! very strange that--what a mere child he was when he got licked--boys don't remember injuries that way." then seeming to become conscious of rivers' presence, he stopped beside him and added, "what with my education and leila's, he has grown amazingly. he was as timid as a foal." "he is not now, squire, and john has been as useful mentally to leila. she is learning to think." "sorry for it, mark, women ought not to think. now if my good ann wouldn't think, i should be the happier." "my dear squire," said rivers, setting an affectionate hand on his arm, "my dear mrs. penhallow doesn't think, except about the every-day things of life. her politics and religion are sacred beliefs not to be rudely jostled by the disturbance of thinking. if there is illness, debt or trouble, at the mills or in westways, she becomes seraphic and intelligent enough." "yes, rivers, and if i put before her, as i sometimes do, a perplexing business matter, i am surprised at her competence. of course, she is as able as you or i to reason, but on one subject she does not reason or believe that it admits of discussion; and by heaven! my friend, i am sometimes ashamed to keep out of this business. so far as this state is concerned, it is hopeless. you know, dear friend, what you have been to us, and that to no other man on earth could i speak as i have done to you; but mark, if things get worse--and they will--what then? john asked me what we should do if the southern states did really secede. things seem to stick in his mind like burrs--he was at it again next day." rivers smiled. "like me, i suppose." "yes, mark. he is persistent about everything--lessons, sports, oh! everything; an uncomfortably curious lad, too. these southern opinions about reclaiming a man's slaves bother the boy. he reads my papers, and how can i stop him? i don't want to. there! we are at it again." "yes, there is no escape from these questions." "and he has even got leila excited and she wants to know--i told her to ask ann penhallow--i have not heard of the result. well, you are going. good-night." the squire sat still in the not very agreeable company of his thoughts. leila was to go to school this september, buchanan's election in november was sure, and john--he had come to love the lad, and perhaps he had been too severe. then he thought of the boy's fight and smiled. the rector and he had disagreed. was it better for boys to abuse one another or to settle things by a fight? the rector had urged that his argument for the ordeal of battle would apply with equal force to the duel of men. he had said, "no, boys do not kill; and after all even the duel has its values." then the rector said he was past praying for and had better read the decalogue. when next day mark rivers was being shaved by the skilled hand of josiah, he heard the voice of his friend and fishing-companion, the rev. isaac grace, "what about the trout-brook this afternoon?" "of course," said mark, moveless under the razor. "call for me at five." "seen yesterday's _press_?" "no. i can't talk, grace." "this town's all for buchanan and breckenridge. how will the squire vote?" "ask him. take care, josiah." "if the squire isn't taking any active part, mrs. penhallow is. she is taking a good deal of interest in the roof of my chapel and--and--other things." the rector did not like it. "i can't talk, grace." "but i can."--"well," thought the rector, "for an intelligent man you are slow at taking hints." the good-natured rotund preacher went on, amazing his helpless friend, "i wonder if the squire would like her canvassing--" "ask him." "guess not. she's a good woman, but not just after the fashion of st. paul's women." "she hasn't done no talking to me," said josiah, chuckling. "there, sir, i'm through." then the released rector said, "if you talk politics again to me for the next two months, grace, i will never tie for you another trout-fly. your turn," and he left the chair to grace, who sat down saying with the persistency of the good-humoured and tactless, "if i want a roof to my chapel, i've got to keep out of talking republican polities, that's clear--" "and several other things," returned mark sharply. "such as," said grace, but the rector had gone and josiah was lathering the big red face. "got to make believe sometimes, sir," said josiah. "she's an uncommon kind lady, and the pumpkins she gives me are fine. a fellow's got time to think between this and november. pumpkins and leaky roofs do make a man kind of thoughtful." he grinned approval of his own wisdom. "now don't talk, sir. might chance to cut you." this sly unmasking of motives, his own and those of others, was disagreeable to the good little man who was eager to get his chapel roofed and no more willing than mrs. penhallow to admit that how he would vote had anything to do with the much needed repairs. his people were poor and the leaks were becoming worse and worse. he kept his peace, and the barber smiling plied the razor. now the squire paused at the open door, where he met his nephew. "come to get those scalp-locks trimmed, john? they are perilously long. if you were to get into a fight and a fellow got hold of them, you would have a bad time." then as his uncle went away laughing, john knew that the squire must have heard of his battle from mark rivers. he did not like it. why he did not know or ask himself, being as yet too immature for such self-analysis. mr. grace got up clean-shaven, adjusted a soiled paper-collar, and said, "good-morning, john. i am sorry to hear that a christian lad like you should be fighting. i am sure that neither mr. rivers nor your aunt would approve of it. my son told me about it, and i think it my duty--" john broke in, "then your son is a tell-tale, mr. grace, and allow me to say that this is none of his business. when i am insulted, i resent it." to be chaffed by his own uncle when under sentence of a court-martial had not been agreeable, but this admonition was unendurable. he entered the shop. "well, i never," exclaimed the preacher, as john went by him. the barber was laughing. "set down, mr. john." "i suppose the whole of westways knows it, mr. josiah?" "they do, sir. wish i'd seen it." "damn!" exclaimed john, swearing for the first time in his life. "cut my hair short, please, and don't talk." "no, sir. you ain't even got a scratch." "oh, do shut up," said john. there was a long silence while the curly locks fell. "you gave it to the baptist man hot. i don't like him. he calls me joe. it isn't respectable. my name's josiah." "haven't you any other name?" said john, having recovered his good-humour. "yes, sir, but i keeps that to myself." "but why?" urged john. josiah hesitated. "well, mr. john, i ran away, and--so it was best to get a new name." "indeed! of course, every one knows you must have run away--but no one cares." "might say i was run away with--can't always hold a horse," he laughed aloud in a leisurely way. "when he took me over the state-line, i didn't go back." "i see," said john laughing, as he rose and paid the barber. the cracked mirror satisfied him that he was well shorn. "you looks a heap older now you're shorn. makes old fellows look younger--ever notice that?" "no." then josiah, of a sudden wisely cautious, said, "you won't tell mrs. penhallow, nor no one, about me, what i said?" "of course not; but why my aunt, mr. josiah? she, like my uncle, must know you ran away." when john first arrived the black barber's appearance so impressed the lad that he spoke to him as mr. josiah, and seeing later how much this pleased him continued in his quite courteous way to address him now and then as mr. josiah. the barber liked it. he hesitated a moment before answering. "you needn't talk about it if you don't want to," said john. "guess whole truth's better than half truth--nothin' makes folk curious like knowin' half. when i first came here, i guessed i'd best change my name, so i said i was josiah. fact is, mr. john, i didn't know mrs. penhallow came from maryland till i had been here quite a while and got to like the folks and the captain." john's experience was enlarging. he could hardly have realized the strange comfort the black felt in his confession. what it all summed up for josiah in the way of possible peril of loss of liberty john presently had made plain to him. he was increasingly urgent in his demand for answers to the many questions life was bringing. the papers he read had been sharp schoolmasters, and of slave life he knew nothing except from his aunt's pleasant memories of plantation life when a girl on a great maryland manor. that she could betray to servitude the years of grey-haired freedom seemed to john incredible of the angel of kindly helpfulness. he stood still in thought, troubled by his boy-share of puzzle over a too mighty problem. josiah, a little uneasy, said, "what was you thinkin', mr. john?" the young fellow replied smiling, "do you think aunt ann would hurt anybody? do you think she would send word to some one--to take you back? anyhow she can't know who was your master." the old black nodded slowly, "mr. john, she born mistress and i born slave; she can't help it--and they was good people too--all the people that owned me. they liked me too. i didn't have to work except holdin' horses and trainin' colts--and housework. they was always kind to me." "but why did you run away?" "well, mr. john, it was sort of sudden. you see ever since i could remember there was some one to say, caesar you do this, or you go there. one day when i was breakin' a colt, mr. woodburn says to me--i was leanin' against a stump--how will that colt turn out? i said, i don't know, but i did. it wasn't any good. my mind was took up watchin' a hawk goin' here and there over head like he was enjoyin' hisself. then--then it come over me--that he'd got no boss but god. it got a grip on me like--" the lad listened intently. "you wanted to be free like the hawk." "i don't quite know--never thought of it before--might have seen lots of hawks. i ain't never told any one." "are you glad to be free?" "ah, kind of half glad, sir. i ain't altogether broke in to it. you see i'm old for change." as he ended, james penhallow reappeared. "got through, john? you look years older. your aunt will miss those curly locks." he went into the shop as john walked away, leaving josiah who would have liked to add a word more of caution and who nevertheless felt somehow a sense of relief in having made a confession the motive force of which he would have found it impossible to explain. john asked himself no such question as he wandered deep in boy-thought along the broken line of the village houses. josiah's confidence troubled and yet flattered him. his imagination was captured by the suggested idea of the wild freedom of the hawk. he resolved to be careful, and felt more and more that he had been trusted with a secret involving danger. while john wandered away, the barber cut the squire's hair, and to his surprise josiah did not as usual pour out his supply of village gossip. chapter vi it was now four days since john's sentence had been pronounced, and not to be allowed to swim in the heat of a hot september added to the severity of the penalty. the heat as usual made tempers hot and circumstances variously disturbed the household of grey pine. politics vexed and business troubled the master. of the one he could not talk to his wife--of the other he would not at present, hoping for better business conditions, and feeling that politics and business were now too nearly related to keep them apart. ann, his wife, thought him depressed--a rare mood for him. perhaps it was the unusual moist heat. he said, "yes, yes, dear, one does feel it." she did not guess that the obvious unhappiness of the lad who had won the soldier's heart was being felt by penhallow without his seeing how he could end it and yet not lessen the value of a just verdict. of all those concerned leila was the one most troubled. on this hot afternoon she saw john disappear into the forest. when mrs. ann came out on the porch where she had for a minute left the girl, she saw her sewing-bag on a chair and caught sight of the flowing hair and agile young figure as she set a hand on the low stone wall of the garden and was over and lost among the trees. "leila, leila," cried mrs. ann, "i told you to finish--" it was useless. "everything goes wrong to-day," she murmured. "well, school will civilize that young barbarian, and she must have longer skirts." this was a sore subject and leila had been vainly rebellious. meanwhile the flying girl overtook john, who had things to think about and wished to be alone. "well," he said, with some impatience, "what is it?" "oh, i just wanted a walk, and don't be cross, john." he looked at her, and perhaps for the first time had the male perception of the beauty of the disordered hair, the pleading look of the blue eyes, and the brilliant colour of the eager flushed face. it was the hair--the wonderful hair. she threw it back as she stood. no one could long be cross to leila. even her resolute aunt was sometimes defeated by her unconquerable sweetness. "i am so sorry for you, john," she said. "well, i am not, leila, if you mean that uncle jim was hard on me." "yes, he was, and i mean to tell him--i do." "please not." she said nothing in the way of reply, but only, "let us go and see the spring." "well, come along." they wandered far into the untouched forest. "ah! here it is," she cried. a spring of water ran out from among the anchoring roots of a huge black spruce. he stood gazing down at it. "oh, leila, isn't it wonderful?" "were you never here before, john?" "no, never. it seems as if it was born out of the tree. no wonder this spruce grew so tall and strong. how cold it must keep the old fellow's toes." "what queer ideas you have, john." she had not yet the gift of fancy, long denied to some in the emergent years of approaching womanhood. "i am tired, john," she said, as she dropped with hands clasped behind her head and hidden in the glorious abundance of darkening red hair, which lay around her on the brown pine-needles like the disordered aureole of some careless-minded saint. john said, "it is this terrible heat. i never before heard you complain of being tired." "oh, it's just nice tired." she lay still, comfortable, with open eyes staring up at the intense blue of the september sky seen through the wide-east limbs of pine and spruce. the little rill, scarce a finger thickness of water, crawled out lazily between the roots and trickled away. the girl was in empty-minded enjoyment of the luxury of complete relaxation of every muscle of her strong young body. the spring was noiseless, no leaf was astir in all the forest around them. the girl lay still, a part of the vast quietness. john penhallow stood a moment, and then said, "good gracious! leila, your eyes are blue." it was true. when big eyes are wide open staring up at the comrade blue of the deep blue sky, they win a certain beauty of added colour like little quiet lakelets under the azure sky when no wind disturbs their power of reflecting capture. "oh, john, and didn't you know my eyes were blue?" she spoke with languid interest in the fact he announced. "but," he said, looking down at her as he stood, "they're so--so very blue." "oh, all the greys have blue eyes." he laughed gentle laughter and dropped on the pine-needles of the forest floor. the spring lay between them. he felt, as she did not, the charm of the stillness. he wanted to find words in which to put his desire for expression. she broke into his mood of imaginative seekings. "how cold it is," she said, gathering the water in the cup of her hand, and then with both hands did better and got a refreshing drink. "that makes a better cup," he said. "let us follow the water to the river." "it never gets there. it runs into lonesome man's swamp, and that's the end of him." "who, lonesome man or the spring? and who was lonesome man?" "nobody knows. what does it matter?" he watched her toy with the new-born rill, a mere thread of water, build a lilliputian dam, and muddle the clear outflow as it broke, and then build again. he had the thought that she had suddenly become younger, more like a child, and he himself older. "why don't you talk, john?" she said. "i can't. i am wondering about that lonesome man and what the trees are thinking. don't you feel how still it is? it's disrespectful to gabble before your betters." he felt it and said it without affectation, but as usual his mood of wandering thought failed to interest leila. "i hate it when it's quiet! i like to hear the wind howl in the pines--" he expressed his annoyance. "you never want to talk anything but horses and swimming. wait till you come back next spring with long skirts--such a nice well-behaved miss grey." he was, in familiar phrase, out of sorts, with a bit of will to annoy a disappointing companion. his mild effort had no success. "oh, john, it's awful! you ought to be sorry for me. the more you grow up the more your skirts grow down. bother their manners! who cares! let's go home. it feels just as if it was sunday." "it is, in the woods. well, come along." he walked on in the silence, she thinking of that alarming prospect of school, and he of the escaped slave's secret and, what struck the boy most--the hawk. never before had he been told anything which was to be sacredly guarded from others. it gave him now a pleasant feeling of having been trusted. suppose leila had been told such a thing, how would she feel, and aunt ann? he was like a man who has too large a deposit in a doubtful bank. he was vaguely uneasy lest he might tell or in some way betray his sense of possessing a person's confidence. as they came near the house, leila said, "catch me, i'll run you home." "tag," he cried. as they came to the side porch, ann penhallow said, "finish that handkerchief--now, at once. it is time you were taught other than tom-boy ways." john went by into the house. after dinner the squire had his usual game of whist, always to the dissatisfaction of leila, whose thoughts wandered like birds on the wing, from twig to twig. john usually played far better, but just now worse than his cousin, and forgot or revoked, to his uncle's disgust. a man of rather settled habits, now as usual penhallow went to his library for the company of the pipe, which ann disliked, and the _tribune_, which she regarded as the organ of satanic politics. seeing both john and her aunt absorbed in their books, leila passed quickly back of them, opened the library door, and said softly, "may i come in, uncle jim?" during the last few days he had missed, and he well knew why, john's visits and intelligent questions. leila was welcome. "why, of course, pussy cat. come in. shut the door; your aunt dislikes the pipe smoke. sit down." for some reason she desired to stand. "don't stand," he said, "sit down on my knee." she obeyed. "there," he said, "that's comfy. how heavy you are. good gracious, child! what am i to do without you?" "isn't it awful, uncle jim." "it is--it is. what do you want, my dear? anything wrong with the horses?" "no, sir. it's--john--" "oh! it's john. well, what is it?" "it isn't john--it's john and the horses--i mean john and dixy. patrick rides dixy for exercise every day." "well, what's the matter? first it's john, then dixy, then john and dixy, and then john and dixy and pat." the girl saw through the amusement he had in teasing her and said with gravity, "i wish you would be serious, uncle jim. i want five minutes of uninterrupted attention." the squire exploded, "good gracious! that is ann grey all over. you must have heard her say it." "i did, and you listen, too. sometimes you don't, uncle jim. i guess you weren't well broke when you were young." "great scott! you minx! some day a girl i know will have to stand at attention. go ahead." "pat's ruining dixy's mouth. you ought to see him sawing at the curb. you always rode him on the snaffle." "that boy pat needs a good licking, leila." "but dixy don't. the fact is, uncle jim, you're neglecting the stables for politics." "is that your own wisdom, miss grey? what with the weight of wisdom and years, you're getting heavy. try a chair." "no, i'm quite comfy. it was josiah who told me. he often comes up to look over the colts, of a sunday--" "nice work for sunday, miss grey." she made no direct reply. "he told me that horse ought to be ridden by--by john or you, and no one else. he says the way to ruin a horse is to have a lot of people ride him like pat--they're just spoiling dixy--" "what! in four days? nonsense." "but," said the counsel in the case, "it's to be ten. it isn't about john, it's dixy's mouth, uncle." "oh, you darling little liar!" here she kissed him and was silent. "it won't do," he said. "there's no logic in a kiss, miss grey. first comes ann grey and says, too much army discipline; and then you tell me what that gossiping old darkey says, and then you try the final argument--a kiss. can't do it. there will be an end of all discipline. i hate practical jokes. there!" if he thought to finish the matter thus, he much undervalued the ingenuity and persistency of the young portia who was now conducting the case. "suppose you take a chair, miss grey. it is rather warm to provide permanent human seats for stout young women--" "i'm not stout," said leila with emphasis, accepting the hint by dropping with coiled legs upon a cushion at his feet. "i'm not stout. i weigh one hundred and thirty and a half pounds. and oh! isn't it hot. i haven't had a swim for--oh, at least five days counting sunday." the pool was kept free until noon for leila and her aunt. "why didn't you swim?" he asked lightly, being too intellectually busy clearing his pipe to see where the leading counsel was conducting him. "why, uncle jim, i wouldn't swim if john wasn't allowed too; i just couldn't. i'm going to bed--but, please, don't let pat ride dixy." "i can attend to my stables, miss grey. john won't die of heat for want of a swim. you don't seem to concern yourself with those equally overbaked young scamps in westways." "uncle jim, you're just real mean to-night. josiah told me yesterday that my cousin beat tom mcgregor because he said it was mean of you to stop the swimming. john said it was just, and tom said he was a liar, and--oh, my! john licked him--wish i'd seen it." this was news quite to his liking. he made no reply, lost in wonder over the ways of the mind male and female. "you ought to be ashamed, you a girl, to want to see a fight. it's time you went to school. isn't the rector on the porch? i thought i heard him." now, of late leila had got to that stage of the game of thought-interchange when the young proudly use newly acquired word-counters. "i think, uncle jim, you're--you're irreverent." the squire shut the door on all outward show of mirth, and said gravely, "isn't it pronounced irrelevant, my dear miss malaprop?" "yes--yes," said leila. "that's a word john uses. it's just short for 'flying the track'!" "any other stable slang, leila?" he was by habit averse to changing his decisions, and outside of ann penhallow's range of authority the squire's discipline was undisputed and his decrees obeyed. he had been pleased and gaily amused for this half hour, but was of a mind to leave unchanged the penalties he had inflicted. "are you through, with this nonsense, leila?" he said as he rose. "is this an ingenious little game set up between you and john?" to his utter amazement she began to cry. "by george!" he said, "don't cry," which is what a kind man always says when presented with the riddle of tears. she drew a brown fist across her wet cheeks and said indignantly, "my cousin is a gentleman." she turned to go by him. "no, dear, wait a moment." he held her arm. "please, let me go. when john first came, you said he was a prig--and if he would just do some boy-mischief and kick up his heels like a two-year-old with some fun in him--you said he was a sort of girl-boy--" there were for punctuation sobs and silences. "and where did you get all this about a prig?" he broke in, amazed. "oh, i heard you tell aunt ann. and now," said portia, "the first time he does a real nice jolly piece of mischief you come down on him like--like a thousand of bricks." her slang was reserved for the squire, as he well knew. the blue eyes shining with tears looked up from under the glorious disorder of the mass of hair. it was too much for the man. "how darned logical you are!" he acknowledged some consciousness of having been inconsistent. he had said one thing and done another. "you are worse than your aunt." then leila knew that ann penhallow had talked to the squire. "well," he said, "what's your opinion, miss grey?" "i think you're distanced." "what--what! wait a little. you may tell that young man to ride when he pleases and to swim, and to tell those scamps it's too hot to deprive them of the use of the pool. there, now get out!" "but--uncle jim--i--can't. oh, i really can't. you've got to do it yourself." this he much disliked to do. "i hear your aunt calling. mr. rivers is going." she kissed him. "now, don't wait, uncle jim, and don't scold john. he's been no use for these four days. goodnight," and she left him. "well, well," he said, "i suppose i've got to do it." he found ann alone. "about john! i can't stand up against you two. he is to be let off about the riding and swimming. i think you may find it pleasant to tell him, my dear." she said gravely, "it will come with more propriety from you; but i do think you are right." then he knew that he had to do it himself. "very well, dear," he said. "how that girl is developing. it is time she had other company than john, but lord! how i shall miss her--" "and i, james." he went out for the walk he generally took before bed-time. she lingered, putting things in order on her work-table, wondering what leila could have said to thus influence a man the village described as "set in his ways." she was curious to know, but not of a mind to question leila. before going to bed, she went to her own sitting-room on the left of the hall. it was sacred to domestic and church business. it held a few books and was secured by long custom from men's tobacco smoke. she sat down and wrote to her cousin, george grey. "dear george: if politics do not keep you, we shall look for you this month. there are colts to criticize and talk over, leila is eager to see her unknown cousin before she goes to school near baltimore this september. "i believe this town will go for buchanan, but i am not sure. james and i, as you know, never talk politics. i am distressed to believe as i do that he will vote for fremont; that 'the great, the appalling issue,' as mr. buchanan says, 'is union or disunion' does not seem to affect him. i read forney's paper, and james reads that wild abolition _tribune_. it is very dreadful, and i am without any one i can talk to. my much loved rector is an extreme antislavery man. "yours always, ann penhallow. "i am not at all sure of you. be certain to let us know when to expect you. you know you are--well, i leave your social conscience to say what. "yours sincerely, ann penhallow." at breakfast ann penhallow sat down to the coffee-urn distributing cheerful good-mornings. the squire murmured absently over his napkin, "may the lord make us thankful for this and all the blessings of life." he occasionally varied his grace, and sometimes to ann's amazement. why should he ask to be made thankful, she reflected. these occasional slips and variations on the simple phrase of gratitude she had come to recognize as signs of preoccupation, and now glanced at her husband, anxious always when he was concerned. then, as he turned to john, she understood that between his trained belief in the usefulness of inexorable discipline and an almost womanly tenderness of affection the heart had somehow won. she knew him well and at times read with ease the signs of distress and annoyance or resolute decision. usually he was gay and merry at breakfast, chaffing the children and eating with the appetite of a man who was using and renewing his tissues in a wholesome way. now he was silent, absent, and ate little. he was the victim of a combination of annoyances. had he been wise to commit himself to a reversal of his sentence? other and more important matters troubled him, but as usual where bothers come in battalions it is the lesser skirmishers who are felt for the moment. "i see in the hall, ann," he said, "a letter for george grey--i will mail it. when does he come?" "i do not know." "john," he said, "you will oblige me by riding to the mill and asking dr. mcgregor to come to westways and see old josiah. of course, he will charge it to me." the squire was a little ashamed of this indirect confession of retreat. john looked up, hesitated a moment, and said, "what horse, sir?" "dixy, of course." "another cup, james," said mrs. ann tranquilly amused. john rose, went around the table to his uncle, and said in his finest manner, "i am greatly obliged, sir." "oh, nonsense! he's rather fresh, take care." then leila said, "it's very hot, uncle jim." "you small fiend," said penhallow. "hot! on your way, john, tell those rascals at westways they may use the pond." the faint smile on ann penhallow's face somehow set the whole business in an agreeably humorous light. the squire broke into the relief of laughter and rose saying, "get out of this, all of you, if you want to keep your scalps." john went to the stable not quite pleased. he had felt that his punishment for a boy-frolic and the unexpected results of billy's alarm had been pretty large. his aunt had not said so to him, but had made it clear to her husband that the penalty was quite disproportioned to the size of the offence; a remark which had made him the more resolute not to disturb the course of justice; and now this chit of a girl had made him seem like an irresolute fool, and he would have to explain to rivers, who would laugh. as he went out of the hall-door, he felt a pretty rough little paw in his hand and heard a whisper. "you're just the dearest thing ever was." concerning john penhallow, it is to be said that he did not understand why he was let off so easily. he had a suspicion that leila was somehow concerned, and also the feeling that he would rather have suffered to the end. however, it would be rather good fun to announce this swimming-permit to the boys. seeing from his shop door john riding down the avenue, josiah came limping across the road. he leaned on the gate facing the boy and looking over the horse and rider with the pleasure of one who, as the squire liked to say, knew when horse-flesh and man-flesh were suitably matched. "girth's a bit slack, master john. always look it over, sir, before you mount." "thanks, josiah. open the gate, please. how lame you are. i am to send the doctor to look after you and peter lamb." the big black man opened the gate and adjusted the girth. "that's right now. i've got the worst rheumatics i ever did have. peter lamb's sick too. that's apple-whisky. the squire's mighty patient with that man, because his mother nursed the squire when he was a baby. they're near of an age, but you wouldn't think it to look at peter and the captain; whisky does hurry up old time a lot." and so john got the town gossip. "i ain't no faith in doctorin' rheumatics; wouldn't have him now if i hadn't lost my old buck-eye. my rabbit-foot's turned grey this week. that's a sign of trouble." john laughed and rode from the gate on which leila had invited him to indulge in the luxury of swinging. it seemed years ago since she had sung to his astonishment the lyric of the gate. she appeared to him now not much older. and how completely he felt at home. he rode along the old pike through westways, nodding to mrs. lamb, the mother of the scamp whom the squire was every now and then saving from the consequences of the combination of a revengeful nature and bad whisky. then billy hailed john with malicious simplicity. "halloa!--john--can't swim--can't swim--ho, ho!" the butcher's small boy was loading meat on a cart. john stayed to say a word to him, pleased to have the chance, as the boy grinned at billy's mocking malice. "halloa! pole," he called. "my uncle says we fellows may swim. tell the other fellows." "gosh! but that's good--john. i'll tell 'em." john rode on and fell to thinking of leila, with some humiliating suspicion in regard to her share in the squire's change of mind; or was it aunt ann's influence? and why did he himself not altogether like it? why should his aunt and leila interfere? he wished they had let the matter alone. what had a girl to do with it? he was again conscious that he felt of a sudden older than leila, and did not fully realize that in the race of life he had gone swiftly past her during these few months, and that in the next year she in turn would sweep past him in the developmental changes of life. now she seemed to him more timid, more childlike than usual; but long thinkings are not of the psychic habits of normal youth, and dixy recovered his attention. he satisfied the well-bred horse, who of late had been losing his temper in the society of a rough groom, ignorant of the necessity for good manners with horses. neither strange noises nor machines disturbed dixy as john rode through the busy iron-mills to the door of a small brick house, so well known that no sign announced it as the home of the only medical man available at the mills or in westways. john tied dixy to the hitching-post, gnawed by the doctor's horse during long hours of waiting on an unpunctual man. the doors were open, and as john entered he was aware of an odour of drugs and saw dr. mcgregor sound asleep in an armchair, a red silk handkerchief over his bald head, and a swarm of disappointed flies hovering above him. in the back room the clink and rattle of a pestle and mortar ceased as tom appeared. john, in high good-humour, said, "good afternoon, tom. my uncle has let up on the swimming. he asked me to let you fellows know." "it's about time," said tom crossly. "after all it was your fault and we had to pay for it." "now, tom, you made me pretty angry when you talked to me the other day, and if you want to get me into another row, i won't object; but i was not asked for any names, and i did not put the blame on any one. can't you believe a fellow?" "no, i can't. if that parson hadn't come, i'd have licked you." "perhaps," said john. "isn't any perhaps about it. you look out, that's all." john laughed. he was just now what the squire described as horse-happy and indisposed to quarrel. "suppose you wake up the old gentleman. he _can_ snore." tom shook the doctor's shoulder, "wake up, dad. here's john penhallow." the doctor sat up and pulled off his handkerchief. the flies fell upon his bald pate. "darn the flies," he said. "what is it, john?" "my uncle wants you to come to westways to-morrow and doctor old josiah's rheumatism." "i'll come." "he wants you to look after peter lamb. he's been drinking again." "what! that whisky-rotted scamp. it's pure waste of time. how the same milk came to feed the squire and that beast the lord knows. he has no more morals than a tom-cat. i'll come, but it's waste of good doctoring." here he turned his rising temper on tom. "you and my boy have been having a fight. you licked him and saved me the trouble. i heard from mr. rivers what tom said." "it was no one's business but tom's and mine," returned john much amused to know that the peaceful rector must have watched the fight and overheard what caused it. tom scowled, and the peacemaking old doctor got up, adding, "be more gentle with tom next time." tom knew better than to reply and went back to pill-making furious and humiliated. "good-bye, john," said the doctor. "i'll see the squire after i have doctored that whisky sponge." then john rode home on dixy. chapter vii before the period of which i write, the county and town had unfailingly voted the democratic ticket. but for half a decade the unrest of the cities reflected in the journals had been disturbing the minds of country communities in the middle states. in the rural districts of pennsylvania there had been very little actively hostile sentiment about slavery, but the never ending disputes over kansas had at last begun to weaken party ties, and more and more to direct opinion on to the originating cause of trouble. the small voting population of westways had begun to suspect of late that james penhallow's unwillingness to discuss politics meant some change in his fidelity to the party of which buchanan was the candidate. what mrs. ann felt she had rather freely allowed to be known. the little groups which were apt to gather about the grocer's barrels at evening discussed the grave question of the day with an interest no previous presidential canvass had caused, and this side eddy of quiet village life was now agreeably disturbed by the great currents of national politics. westways began to take itself seriously, as little towns will at times, and to ask how this man or that would vote at the coming election in november. the old farmers who from his youth still called the squire "james" were democrats. swallow, the only lawyer the town possessed, was silent, which was felt as remarkable in a man who usually talked much more than occasion demanded and wore a habit-mask of good-fellowship, which had served to deceive many a blunt old farmer, but not james penhallow. at grey pine there was a sense of tension. penhallow was a man slow in thinking out conclusions, but in times demanding action swiftly decisive. he had at last settled in his mind that he must leave his party and follow a leader he had known in the army and never entirely trusted. whether he should take an active share in the politics of the county troubled him, as he had told rivers. he must, of course, tell his wife how he had resolved to vote. to speak here and there at meetings, to throw himself into the contest, was quite another matter. his wife would feel deeply grieved. between the two influential feelings the resolution of forces, as he put it to himself with a sad smile, decided him to hold his tongue so far as the outer world was concerned, to vote for the principles unfortunately represented by fremont, but to have one frank talk with ann penhallow. there was no need to do this as yet, and he smiled again at the thought that mrs. ann was, as he pretty well knew, playing the game of politics at westways. he might stop her. he could ask her to hold her hand, but to let her continue on her way and to openly make war against her, that he could not do. it did not matter much as the state in any case would go for buchanan. he hesitated, and had better have been plain with her. she knew that he had been long in doubt, but did not as yet suspect how complete was his desertion of opinions she held to as she did to her religious creed. he found relief in his decision, and too in freedom of talk with rivers, who looked upon slavery as simply wicked and had no charity for the section so little responsible for an inherited curse they were now driven by opponent criticism to consider a blessing for all concerned. john too was asking questions and beginning now and then to wonder more and more that what westways discussed should never be mentioned at grey pine. he rode dixy early in the mornings with leila at his side, fished or swam in the afternoons, and so the days ran on. on september th, ann was to take leila to the school in maryland. three days before this terrible exile was to begin, as they turned in at the gate of the stable-yard, leila said, "i have only three days. i want to go and see the indian graves and the spring, and all the dear places i feel as if i shall never see again." "what nonsense, leila. what do you mean?" "oh, aunt ann says i will be so changed in a year, i won't know myself." "you mean, you won't see things then as they are seen now." "yes, that's what i wanted to say, but you always know how to find the right words." "perhaps," he said. "things never look just the same tomorrow, but they may look--well, nicer--or--i can't always find the right word. suppose we walk to the graves after lunch and have a good talk." it was so agreed. they were never quite free from the chance of being sent on errands, and as aunt ann showed signs they well knew, they slipped away quietly and were gone before the ever-busy lady had ready a basket of contributions to the comfort of a sick woman in the village. they crossed the garden and were lost to view in the woods before leila spoke. "we just did it. billy will have to go." they laughed merrily at their escape. "just think, john, how long it is since you came. it seems years. oh, you _were_ a queer boy! i just hated you." "i do suppose, leila, i must have looked odd with that funny cap and the cane--" "and the way you looked when i told you about swinging on the gate. i hadn't done that for--oh, two years. what did you think of me?" "i thought you were very rude, and then--oh, leila! when you came up out of the drift--" he hesitated. "oh, go on; i don't mind--not now." "i thought you beautiful with all that splendid hair on the snow." "oh, john! how silly!" whether or not she was unusually good to look at had hardly ever before occurred to her. she flushed slightly, pleased and wondering, with a new seed of gentle vanity planted in her simple nature, a child on the threshold of the womanly inheritance of maidenhood. then he said gravely, "it is wonderful to me how we have changed. i shall miss you. to think you are the only girl i ever played with, and now when you come back at christmas--" "i am not to come back then, john. i am to stay with my uncles in baltimore and not come home until next june." "you will be a young lady in long skirts and your hair tucked up. it's dreadful." "can't be helped, john. you will look after lucy, and write to me." "and you will write to me, leila?" "if i may. aunt says they are very strict. but i shall write to aunt ann, of course." "that won't be the same." "no." they walked on in silence for a little while, the girl gazing idly at the tall trees, the lad feeling strangely aware, freshly aware, as they moved, of the great blue eyes and of the sun-shafts falling on the abundant hair she swept back from time to time with a careless hand. presently she stood still, and sat down without a word on the moss-cushioned trunk of a great spruce, fallen perhaps a century ago. she was passing through momentary moods of depression or of pleasure as she thought of change and travel, or nourishing little jealous desires that her serious-minded cousin should miss her. the cousin turned back. "you might have invited me to sit down, miss grey." he laughed, and then as he fell on the brown pine-needles at her feet and looked up, he saw that her usual quick response to his challenge of mirth was wanting. "what are you thinking about?" he asked. "oh, about aunt ann and uncle jim, and--and--lucy, and who will ride her--" "you can trust uncle jim about lucy." "i suppose so," said the girl rather dolefully and too near to the tears she had been sternly taught to suppress. "isn't it queer," he said, "how people think about the same things? i was just going to speak of aunt ann and uncle jim. uncle jim often talks to me and to mr. rivers about the election, but if i say a word or ask a question at table, aunt ann says, 'we don't talk politics.'" "but once, john, i heard mr. rivers say that slavery was a curse and wicked. uncle jim, he said aunt ann's people held slaves, and he didn't want to talk about it. i couldn't hear the rest. i told you once about this." "how you hear things, leila. prince fine ear was a trifle to you." "who was prince fine ear?" she asked. "oh, he was the fairy prince who could hear the grass grow and the roses talk. it's a pretty french fairy tale." "what a gabble there must be in the garden, john." "it doesn't need prince fine ear to hear. don't these big pines talk to you sometimes, and the wind in the pines--the winds--?" "no, they don't, but lucy does." something like a feeling of disappointment faintly disturbed the play of his fancies. "let us go to the graves." "yes, all right, come." they got no further than the cabin and again sat down near by, leila carelessly gathering the early golden-rod in her lap as they sat leaning against the cabin logs. "this is our last walk," she said, arranging the golden plumes. "there is a white golden-rod; find me another, john." he went away to the back of the cabin and returning threw in her lap a half dozen. "old josiah says the blacks in the south think it is good luck to find the first white golden-rod. then, he says, you must have a luck-wish. what shall it be? come--quick now." "oh, i--don't know. yes, i wish to have lucy at that terrible boarding-school." john laughed. "oh, leila, is that the best you can do?" "yes, wish a wish for me, if mine doesn't suit." then he said, "i wish the school had small-pox and you had to stay at grey pine." "i didn't think you'd care as much as that. aren't these flowers beautiful? wish me a real wish." "then, i wish that when we grow up you would marry me." "well, john, you are a silly." she took on an air of authoritative reprimand. "why, john, you are only a boy, but you ought to know better than to talk such nonsense." "and you," he said, "are just a little girl." "oh, i'm not so very little," returned miss grey. "when i'm older, i shall ask you again; and if you say no, i'll ask again--and--until--" "what nonsense, john. let's go home." he rose flushed and troubled, and said, "are you vexed, leila?" "no, of course not; but it was foolish of you." he made no reply, in fact hardly heard her. he was for the moment older in some ways than his years. what had strangely moved him disturbed leila not at all. she talked on lightly, laughing at times, and was answered briefly; for although he had no desire to speak, the unfailing courteous ways of his foreign education forced him to disregard his desire to say. "oh, do let me alone; you don't understand." he hardly understood himself or the impulsive stir of emotion--a signal of coming manhood. annoyed by his unwillingness to talk, she too fell to silence, and they walked homeward. during the time left to them there was much to do in the way of visits to the older village people and some of the farmer families who had been here on the soil nearly as long as the penhallows. there were no other neighbours near enough for country intercourse, and the life at grey pine offered few attractions to friends or relatives from the cities unless they liked to tramp with the squire in search of game. the life was, therefore, lonely and would for some women have been unendurable; but as the baptist preacher said to rivers, "duties are enough to satisfy mrs. penhallow, and i do guess she enjoys her own goodness like the angels must do." mark rivers answered, "that is pretty nearly true, but i wish she would not invent duties which don't belong to women." "about the election, you mean?" "yes. it troubles me, and i am sure it troubles the squire. what about yourself, grace?" and a singularly sad smile went with the query and a side glance at his friend's face. he had been uneasy about him since grace had bent a little in the house of rimmon. "oh, rivers, the roof has got to leak. i have kept away from mrs. penhallow. i can't accept her help and then preach against her party, and--i mean to do it. i've wrestled with this little sin and--i don't say i wasn't tempted--i was. now i am clear. we baptists can stand what water leaks down on us from heaven." "you mean to preach politics, grace?" "yes, that's what i mean to do. oh! here comes mrs. penhallow." they had met in front of josiah's shop. as mrs. penhallow approached, mr. grace discovering a suddenly remembered engagement hurried away, and rivers went with her along the rough sidewalk of westways. "i go away to-morrow with leila," she said, "and mr. penhallow goes to pittsburgh. we shall leave john to you for at least a week. he will give you no trouble. he has quite lost his foreign boyish ways, and don't you think he is like my husband?" "he is in some ways very like the squire." "yes, in some things--i so rarely leave home that this journey to baltimore with leila seems to me like foreign travel." "does leila like it?" "no, but it is time she was thrown among girls. she is less than she was a mere wild boy. it is strange, mark, that ever since john came she has been less of a hoyden--and more of a simple girl." "it is," he said, "a fine young nature in a strong body. she has the promise of beauty--whatever that may be worth." "worth! it is worth a great deal," said mrs. ann. "it helps. the moral value of beauty! ah, mark rivers, i should like to discuss that with you. she is at the ugly duck age. now i must go home. i want you to look after some things while i am away, and mr. penhallow is troubled about his pet scamp, lamb." she went on with her details of what he was to do, until he said laughing, "please to put it on paper." "i will. not to leave john quite alone, i have arranged for you to dine with him, and i suppose he will go to you in the mornings for his lessons as usual." "oh, yes, of course. i enjoy these fellows, but the able ones are john and tom mcgregor. tom is in the rough as yet, but he will come out all right. i shall lose him in a year. he is over seventeen and is to study medicine. but what about lamb?" "i am wicked enough to wish he were really ill. it is only the usual drunken bout, but he is a sort of frankenstein to the squire because of that absurd foster-brother feeling. he is still in bed, i presume." "as you ask it," said rivers, "i will see him, but if he belongs to any flock, he is a black sheep of grace's fold. anything else, mrs. penhallow?" he asked smiling--"but don't trust my memory." "if i think of anything more, i shall make a note of it and, of course, you will see us at the station--the ten o'clock train--and give me a list of the books you wanted. i may find them in philadelphia." "thank you." "oh," she said, turning back, "i forgot. my cousin, george grey, is coming, but he is so uncertain that he may come as he advises me in ten days, or as is quite possible to-morrow, or not at all." "very good. if he comes, we will try to make grey pine agreeable." "that is really all, mark, i think," and the little lady went away, with a pleasant word for the long familiar people as she went by. in the afternoon leila saw the squire ride to the mills with john, and went herself to the stable for a last mournful interview with lucy. it was as well that her aunt with unconscious good sense kept her busy until dinner-time. the girl was near to accepting the relieving bribe of unrestrained tears, being sad and at the age of those internal conflicts which at the time of incomplete formation of character are apt to trouble the more sensitive sex. a good hard gallop would have cured her anticipative homesickness, for it must be a very black care indeed that keeps its seat behind the rider. the next morning the rector and john were at the station of westways crossroads when the grey pine carriage drove up. mrs. ann and leila were a half hour too early, as was mrs. penhallow's habit. billy was on the cart with the baggage, grinning as usual and full of self-importance. "well, billy," said leila, talking to every one to conceal her child-grief at this parting with the joyous activities of her energetic young life. "well, billy, it's good-bye for a year." "won't have no more fun, miss leila--and nobody to snowball billy, this winter." "no, not this winter." "found another ground-hog yesterday. i'll let her alone till you come back." john laughed. "miss leila will have long skirts and--hoops, billy. there will be no more coasting and no more snowballing or digging up ground-hogs." "hoops--what for?" said billy. john laughed. "please don't, john," she said, "it's too dreadful. oh! i hear the whistle." "mark," said mrs. ann, "if george grey comes--james, did you leave the wine-closet key?" "yes, my dear." he turned to leila, and kissing her said, "a year is soon over. be a good girl, my child. it is about as bad for me as for you. god bless you. there, get on, ann. yes, the trunks are all right. good-bye." he stood a moment with john looking after the vanishing train. then, he said, "no need to stay here with me, mark," and the rector understanding him left him waiting for the westbound train and walked home across the fields with john penhallow. john was long silent, but at last said, "it will be pretty lonesome without leila." "nice word, lonesome, john. old english, i believe--has had its adventures like some other words. lonely doesn't express as well the idea of being alone and sorrowful. we must do our best for your uncle and aunt. your turn to leave us will come, and then leila will be lonesome." "i don't think she will care as much." rivers glanced at the strong young face. "why do you say that?" "i don't know, mr. rivers. i--she is more of a child than i am." "that hardly answers my question. but i must leave you. i am going to see that scamp misnamed lamb. see you at dinner. don't cultivate lonesomeness, john. no one is ever really alone." leaving his pupil to consider what john thought rather too much of an enigma, the young clergyman took to the dusty highway which led to westways. john watched the tall figure awkwardly climbing a snake fence, and keeping in mind for explanation the clergyman's last remark he went away through the woods. chapter viii penhallow had gravely told john that in his absence he must look after the stables and the farm, so that now he had for the first time in his life responsibilities. the horses and the stables were to be looked over every day. of course, too, he must ride to the squire's farm, which was two miles away, and which was considered a model of all that a farm should be. the crop yield to the acre was most satisfactory, but when some one of the old quaker farmers, whose apple-orchards the squire had plundered when young, walked over it and asked, "well, james, how much did thee clear this last year?" the owner would honestly confess that mrs. ann's kitchen-garden paid better; but then she gave away what the house did not use. very many years before slavery had become by tacit consent avoided as a subject for discussion, mrs. ann critical of what his farm cost, being herself country-bred, had said that if it were worked with maryland blacks it would pay and pay well. "you mean, dear, that if i owned the labour, it would pay." "yes," she returned gaily, "and with me for your farmeress." "you are, you are!" he laughed, "and you have cultivated me. i am well broken to your satisfaction, i trust; but to me, ann, the unpaid labour of the slave seems impossible." "oh, james, it is not only possible, but right for us who know what for all concerned is best." "well, well," he laughed, "the vegetable garden seems to be run at a profit without them--ah! ann, how about that?" the talk was, as they both knew, more serious than it would have seemed to any one who might have chanced to be present. the tact born of perfect love has the certainty of instinct, and to be sensitive even to tenderness in regard to the prejudices or the fixed opinions of another does much to insure happiness both in friendship and in love. here with these two people was a radical difference of belief concerning what was to be more and more a hard subject as the differences of sentiment north and south became sharply defined. westways and the mills understood her, and what were her political beliefs, but not the laughingly guarded silence of the much loved and usually outspoken squire, who now and then relieved his mind by talking political history to john or rivers. the stables and farm were seriously inspected and opinions expressed concerning colts and horses to the amusement of the grooms. he presided in penhallow's place at table with some sense of newly acquired importance, and on the fourth day of his uncle's absence, at mark rivers's request, asked mr. grace to join them. the good baptist was the more pleased to come in the absence of mrs. penhallow, who liking neither his creed nor his manners, respected the goodness of a life of self-denial, which, as his friend rivers knew, really left him with hardly enough to keep his preaching soul alive. "grace is late, as usual," said rivers to john. "he has, i believe, no acquaintance with minutes and no more conception of time than the angels. ah! i see him. his table-manners really distress your aunt; but manners are--well, we will leave that to another time. good evening, grace." "glad to see you, sir," said john. on a word from rivers, the guest offered thanks, which somewhat amazed john by its elaborate repetitions. the stout little preacher, carefully tucking his napkin between his paper shirt-collar and his neck, addressed himself to material illustration of his thankfulness, while the rector observed with a pitiful interest the obvious animal satisfaction of the man. john with more amusement saw the silver fork used for a time and at last abandoned for use of the knife. unconsciously happier for an unusually good dinner, grace accepted a tumbler of the penhallow cider, remarking, "i never take spirits, rivers, but i suppose cider to be a quite innocent beverage." rivers smiled. "it will do you no harm." "it occurs to me, rivers," said grace, "that although wine is mentioned in the bible, cider is not. there is no warning against its use." it also occurred to rivers that there was none against applejack. "quite right," he said. "you make me think of that scamp, lamb. mcgregor tells me that he is very ill." "a pity he wouldn't die," remarked the young host, who had indiscreetly taken two full tumblers of old hard cider before rivers had noticed his unaccustomed use of this rather potent drink. "you should not desire the death of any man, john," said grace, "least of all the death of a sinner like lamb." "really," said john with the dignity of just a trifle too much cider, "my phrase did not admit of your construction." "no," laughed rivers, seeing it well to intervene, "and yet to say it is a pity may be a kindly wish and leaves it open to charitable interpretation." "he is quite unprepared to die," insisted grace, with the clerical intonation which rivers disliked. "how do you know that?" asked rivers. "i know," said john confidently. "he told me he was a born thief and loved to lie. he was pretty drunk at the time." "that is too nearly true to be pleasant," remarked rivers, "'_in vino veritas_.' the man is a very strange nature. i think he never forgives a benefit. i sometimes think he has no sense of the difference between right and wrong--an unmoral nature, beyond your preaching or mine, grace, even if he ever gave us a chance." "i think he is a cruel beast," said john. "i saw him once--" rivers interrupted him saying, as he rose, "suppose we smoke." with unconscious imitation of the courteous squire he represented, john said, "we will smoke in the library if you have had enough wine." rivers said, "certainly, squire," not altogether amused as john, a little embarrassed, said quickly, "i should have said cider." "of course, we have had no wine, quite a natural mistake," remarked grace, which the representative squire felt to be a very disagreeable comment. "you will find cigars and pipes on the table," said the rector, "and i will join you in a moment." so saying he detained john by a hand on his arm and led him aside as they crossed the hall. "you are feeling that old hard cider, my boy. you had better go to bed. i should have warned you." "yes, sir--i--did not--i mean--i--" "_c'est une diablesse_--a little devil. there are others, and worse ones, john. good-night." on the stairs the young fellow felt a deepening sense of humiliation and surprise as he became aware of the value of the banister-rail. rivers went into the library blaming his want of care, and a little sorry for the lad's evident distress. "what, not smoking, grace?" "no, i have given it up." "but, why?" "well, i can't smoke cheap strong tobacco, and i can't afford better stuff." "then, be at ease, my friend. the squire has sent me a large supply. i am to divide with you," which was as near to a fib as the young clergyman ever got in his blameless life. "i shall thank him," returned grace simply, "and return to my pipe, but i do sometimes think it is too weak an indulgence of a slavish habit." "hardly worth while to thank penhallow; he will have forgotten all about it." "but i shall not." they smoked and talked politics, and the village and their work, until at last, after one of the pipe-filling pauses, grace said, "i ought not to have taken that cider, but it singularly refreshed me. you did not partake." "no, it disagrees with me." "i feel it, brother rivers. i feel it slightly, and--i--a man who preaches temperance, total abstinence--" "my dear grace, that is not temperance. there may be intemperance in the way a man puts his opinions before others--a man may hurt his own cause--" grace returned quickly, "you were in our church wednesday night--i saw you. you think i was intemperate?" "frankly, yes. you were abusive. you are too well self-governed to understand the working-man's temptations. you preached from the heart as you felt, without the charity of the head." "perhaps--perhaps," he returned humbly; and then with a quite gentle retort, "don't you sometimes preach too much from the head, brother rivers?" "yes, that may be the case. i am conscious sometimes that i lack your power of direct appeal--your personal application of the truth. i ought to preach the first half of the sermon--the appeal to the reason, the head part--and ask you to conclude with the heart share--the personal application of my cold logic." "let us try it," said grace rising and much amused; "cold, rivers! your cold logic! there is nothing cold in all your nature. let us go home; we have had a good talk." as they walked down the avenue grace said, "what are you doing about lamb? is it really wise to talk to him?" "just now," said the rector, "he has acquired a temporary conscience in the shape of a congested stomach. i talked to him a little. he is penitent, or says he is, and as his mother is sometimes absent, i have set billy to care for him; some one must. i have found that to keep billy on a job you must give him a daily allowance of chewing tobacco; that answers." "bad company, brother rivers." "oh, there is no guile in billy." they parted at the grey pine gate. rivers had innocently prepared remote mischief, which by no possible human foresight could he have anticipated. when, walking in the quiet of a lonely wood, a man sets his foot on a dead branch, the far end stirs another, and the motion so transmitted agitates a half dozen feet away the leaves of a group of ferns. the man stops and suspects some little woodland citizen as the cause of the unexplained movement; thus it is in the affairs of life. we do some innocent thing and are puzzled to explain how it brings about remote mischief. meanwhile an unendurable craving for drink beset the man lamb, who was the prey of slowly lessening delusions. guardian billy chewed his daily supply of tobacco and sat at the window in the hot second-storey room feeding lamb with brief phrases concerning what he saw on the street. "oh! there go squire's horses for exercise; joe's on lucy." "damn lucy! do you go to mother's room--" "what for?" "oh, she keeps her money in it, and mrs. penhallow paid her in advance the day she left." "can't do it," said billy, who had strict orders not to leave lamb alone. "oh, just look in the top drawer. she keeps a bit of money rolled up in one of her stockings. that will get me a little whisky and you lots of tobacco." "can't do it," said billy. "want me to steal? won't do it." "then i'll get even with you some day." billy laughed. "why i could lick you--like mr. john licked the doctor's son. gosh! there goes pole's wagon." lamb fell to thought of how to get that whisky. the ingenuity of the man who craves alcohol or morphia is sometimes surprising even to the most experienced doctor. the immorality of the means of attainment is never considered. if, as with lamb, a lie or worse be needed, there is a certain satisfaction in having outwitted nurse and doctor. on the day after the two clergymen had heard john's final opinion of lamb, the bed-fast man received his daily visit from his spiritual physician, and the clergyman met at the house door the doctor of the body. "i suppose," said mcgregor, "that you and i as concerns this infernal rascal are under orders from penhallow and his wife. i at least have the satisfaction of being paid--" "oh, i am paid, doctor," the clergyman smiled. "of course, any one and every one who serves that very efficient and positive saint, mrs. penhallow, is paid. she's too terrifyingly good. it must be--well, inconvenient at times. now she wants this animal looked after because of mrs. lamb; and the squire has some sort of absurd belief that because the same breasts that nursed him nursed our patient, he must befriend the fellow--and he does. truth is, rivers, that man's father was a sodden drunkard but, i am told, not otherwise bad. it's a pretty sure doom for the child. this man's body has damned his soul, and now the soul is paying it back in kind." "the damnation will be settled elsewhere," said rivers gravely. "you are pleading for him when you say he had a father who drank." "well, yes, yes. that is true, but i do confoundedly mistrust him. he never remembers a kindness and never forgets the smallest injury. but when mrs. penhallow puts a hand on your arm and you look at her, you just go and do what she wants done. oh, me too! let's get out of this unreasonable sun and see this fellow." billy was chasing blue-bottle flies on the window panes, and the patient in bed was lying still, flushed, with red eyes. he was slowly recovering from an attack of delirium tremens and reassembling his scattered wits. "well," said mcgregor, "better, i see. bugs gone?" "yes, sir; but if i had a little, just a nip of whisky to taper off on, i'd be all right." "not a drop, peter." "i'll die if i don't get it." "then die sober." peter made no reply. mcgregor felt his pulse, made his usual careful examination, and said at last, "now keep quiet, and in a few days you'll be well." "for god's sake, give me whisky--a little. i'm so weak i can't stand up." "no," said mcgregor, "it will pass. now i must go. a word with you, mr. rivers." when outside of the room he said, "we must trust billy, i suppose?" "yes, there is no one else." "that man is giving his whole mind to thinking how he can get whisky. he will lie, cheat, steal, do anything to get it." "how can he? neither billy nor his old mother will help him. he will get well, doctor, i suppose?" "yes, i told him he would. more's the pity. he is a permanent nuisance, up to any wickedness, a hopelessly ruined wild beast." "perhaps," said rivers; "perhaps. who can be sure of that?" he despaired of no one. the sadly experienced doctor shook his head. "he will live to do much mischief. the good die young; you may be sure the wicked do not. in some ways the man's case has its droll side. queer case! in some ways interesting." "how is it interesting?" said rivers. "oh, what he saw--his delusions when he was at his worst." "what did he see?" "oh, bugs--snakes--the common symptoms, and at last the 'wilmot proviso.' imagine it. he knew no more of that than of the physiology of the man in the moon. he described it as a 'plucked chicken.'" "i suppose that was a wild contribution from the endless political talk of the town." "well, a 'plucked chicken' was not so bad. he saw also 'bleeding kansas.' a 'stuck pig' that was; and more--more, but i must go." rivers went back to the room. "here is your tobacco, billy, and wait downstairs; don't go away." the big man turned over in bed as the clergyman entered. "mr. rivers. i'm bad. i might have died. won't you pray for me?" rivers hesitated, and then fell on his knees at the bedside, his face in his hands. peter lay still smiling, grimly attentive. as rivers rose to his feet, lamb said, "couldn't i have just a little whisky? doctors don't always know. i've been in this scrape before, and just a little liquor does help and it don't do any harm. i can't think, i'm so harried inside. i can't even pray, and i want to pray. now, you will, sir, won't you?" this mingling of low cunning, of childlike appeal and of hypocrisy, obviously suggested anything but the christian charity of reply; what should he say? putting aside angry comment, he fell back upon his one constant resource, what would christ have said to this sinful man? he stood so long silent by the bed, which creaked as lamb sat up, that the man's agony of morbid thirst caught from his silence a little hope, and he said, "now you will, i know." rivers made no direct answer. was it hopeless? he tried to read the face--the too thin straight nose, white between dusky red cheeks, the projecting lower lip, and the lip above it long, the eyes small, red, and eagerly attentive. this was not the time for reason. he said, "i should be your worst enemy, peter. every one has been good to you; over and over the squire has saved you from jail. mrs. penhallow asked me to help you. try to bear what your sin has brought on you, oh! do try. pray god for help to bear it patiently." "i'm in hell. what's the use of praying in hell? get me whisky and i'll pray." rivers felt himself to be at the end of his resources, and that the enfeebled mind was incapable of response to any appeal to head or heart. "i will come again," he said. "good-bye." "oh, damn everybody," muttered peter. rivers went out and sent billy up to take charge. lamb was still sitting up in bed when billy returned. the simple fellow poured out in brief sentences small bits of what he had seen at the street door. "oh, shut up," said peter. "the doctor says i'll feel better if i'm shaved--ain't been shaved these three weeks. doctor wants you to go and get josiah to come and fix me up to-night. you tell him it's the doctor's orders. don't you be gone long. i'm kind of lonely." "all right," said billy, in the cheerful way which made him a favourite despite his disinclination for steady work. "now, don't be gone long. i need a good shave, billy." "guess you do--way you look you wouldn't fetch five cents at one of them rummage-sales. ain't had but one in four years." "oh, get out, billy." once rid of his guard he tried in vain to stand up and fell back cursing. the order from the doctor was to be obeyed. "guess he's too shaky to shave himself," said josiah. "i'll come about half-past eight." as josiah walked to the far end of the village, he thought in his simple way of his last three years. after much wandering and fear of being traced, he had been used at the stables by penhallow. that he had been a slave was suspected, but that troubled no one in westways. he had long felt at ease and safe. he lived alone, a man of some forty years, cooked for himself, and had in the county bank a small amount of carefully saved earnings. he had his likes and dislikes, but he had the prudently guarded tongue of servitude. long before john penhallow had understood better the tall black man's position and won the confidence of a friendly hour, he saw with his well-bred courtesy how pleased was the man to be called mr. josiah. it sounded queer, as pole remarked, to call a runaway darkey mister, but this in no way disturbed john. the friendly feeling for the black grew as they fished together in the summer afternoons, or trapped muskrats, or dug up hellbenders. the barber had one half-concealed dislike. the man he was now to shave he both feared and hated. "couldn't tell you why, master john. it's like the way crocker's wife's 'feared of cats. they ain't never hurt her none." "well," he said, "here i am," and in unusual silence set about his work by dim candlelight. the patient was as silent. when josiah had finished, he said no word of his fee, knowing it to be a hopeless debt. "guess you do look the better for a shave," he remarked, as he was about to leave. "i'll send up billy." the uneasy guardian had seized on the chance to get a little relief. "no, don't go," said lamb. "i'm in a hell of thirst. i want you to get me some whisky. i'll pay you when i get work." josiah was prudent and had no will to oblige the drunkard nor any belief in future repayment. "couldn't do that--doctor wouldn't like it." "what, you won't do it?" "no, i can't do it." "if you don't, i'll tell what i know about you." "what do you know?" the long lost terror returned--but what could he know? "oh, you ran away--i know all about it. you help me now and i'll keep quiet--you'd better." a fierce desire rose in the mind of josiah to kill the rascal, and then, by long habit prudent, he said, "i'll have to think about it." but what could this man know? "best to think damn quick, or you'll have your old master down on you. i give you till to-morrow morning early. do you hear? it's just a nip of whisky i want." "yes, i hear--got to think about it." he went out into the night, a soul in fear. no one knew his former master's name. then his very good intelligence resumed control. no one really knew--only john--and he very little. he put it aside, confident in the young fellow's discretion. of course, the town suspected that he was a fugitive slave, but nobody cared or seemed to care. and yet, at times in his altogether prosperous happy years of freedom, when he read of the fugitive-slave act, and he read much, he had disturbing hours. he stood still a moment and crossed the road. the episcopal church, which he punctually attended, was on penhallow's land, and near by was the rectory where mark lived with an old woman cook and some help from mrs. lamb. the night was warm, the windows were open, and the clergyman was seen writing. josiah at the window spoke. "excuse me, sir, could i talk to you? i am in a heap of trouble." "in trouble, josiah? come in, the front door is open." as he entered the rector's study, rivers said, "sit down." something in the look of the man made him think of hunted animals. "no one else is in the house. what is it?" the black poured out his story. "so then," said rivers, "he lied to you about the doctor and threatened you with a lie. why, josiah, if he had known who was your master, he would have told you, and whether or not you ran away from slavery is none of his business. mr. penhallow believes you did, others suspect it, but no one cares. you are liked and you have the respect of the town. there would be trouble if any man tried to claim you." "i'd like to tell you all about it, sir." "no--no--on no account. tell no one. now go home. i will settle with that drunken liar." "thank you. may god bless--and thank you." the clergyman sat in thought a while, and the more he considered the matter which he had made light of to the scared black, the less he liked it. he dismissed it for a time as a lie told to secure whisky, but the fear josiah showed was something pitiful in this strong black giant. he knew lamb well enough to feel sure that josiah would now have in him an enemy who was sure in some way to get what he called "even" with the barber, and was a man known and spoken of in westways as "real spiteful." when next day rivers entered the room where lamb lay abed, he saw at once that he was better. he meant to make plain to a revengeful man that josiah had friends and that the attempt to blackmail him would be dangerous. lamb was sitting up in bed apparently relieved, and was reading a newspaper. the moment he spoke rivers knew that he was a far more intelligent person than the man of yesterday. lamb said, "billy, set a chair for mr. rivers. the heat's awful for october." billy obeyed and stepped out glad to escape. rivers said, "no, i won't sit down. i have something to say to you, and i advise you to listen. you lied to billy about the doctor yesterday, and you tried to frighten josiah into getting you whisky--you lied to him." josiah had not returned, and now it was plain that he had told the clergyman of the threat. lamb was quick to understand the situation, and the cleverness of his defence interested and for a moment half deceived the rector. "who says i lied? maybe i did. i don't remember. it's just like a dream--i don't feel nowise accountable. if--i--abused josiah, i'm sorry. he did shave me. let me think--what was it scared josiah?" he had the slight frown of a man pursuing a lost memory. "it is hardly worth while, peter, to go into the matter if you don't recall what you said." he realized that the defence was perfect. its too ready arguments added to his disbelief in its truth. lamb was now enjoying the game. "was josiah really here, sir? but, of course, he was, for he shaved me. i do remember that. won't you sit down, sir?" "no, i must go. i am pleased to find you so much better." "thank you, sir. i don't want whisky now. i'll be fit for work in a week or so. i wonder what i did say to josiah?" this was a little too much for rivers's patience. "whatever you said had better never be said again or you will find yourself in very serious trouble with mr. penhallow." "why, mr. rivers, i know i drink, and then i'm not responsible, but how could i say to that poor old darkey what i don't mind i said yesterday?" "well, you may chance to remember," said rivers; "at least i have done my duty in warning you." "i'd like, sir," returned lamb, leaning forward with his head bent and uplift of lids over watchful eyes--"oh, i want you to know how much i thank you, sir, for all your kind--" "you may credit the squire for that. good-bye," and he went out. neither man had been in the least deceived, but the honours of the game were with the big man in the bed, which creaked under his weight as he fell back grinning in pleased self-approval. "damn that black cuss," he muttered, "and the preacher too. i'll make them sorry." at the outer doorstep mark rivers stood still and wiped the sweat from his forehead. there must be minutes in the life of the most spiritually minded clergyman when to bow a little in the rimmon house of the gods of profane language would be a relief. he may have had the thought, for he smiled self-amused and remembered his friend grace. then he took himself to task, reflecting that he should have been more gently kind, and was there not some better mode of approaching this man? was he not a spirit in prison, as st. peter said? what right had he with his beliefs to despair of any human soul? then he dismissed the matter and went home to his uncompleted sermon. he would have to tell the squire; yes, that would be advisable. the days at grey pine ran on in the routine of lessons, riding, and the pleasure for john of representing his uncle in the oversight of the young thoroughbred colts and the stables. brief talks with rivers of books and politics filled the after-dinner hour, and when he left john fell with eagerness on the newspapers of the day. his uncle's mail he forwarded to pittsburgh, and heard from him that he would not return until mid-october. his aunt would be at home about the th, and leila was now at her school. the boy felt the unaccustomed loneliness, and most of all the absence of leila. one letter for his aunt lay on the hall table. it came too late to be sent on its way, nor had she asked to have letters forwarded. two days before her return was to be expected, when john came down dressed for dinner, he found mr. rivers standing with his back to a fire, which the evening coolness of october in the hills made desirable. the rector was smiling. "mr. george grey came just after you went upstairs. it seems that he wrote to your aunt the letter on the table in the hall. as no one met him at westways crossing, he was caught in a shower and pretty well soaked before he got some one to bring him to grey pine. i think he feels rather neglected." "has he never been here before?" asked john, curious in regard to the guest who he thought, from hearing his aunt speak of him, must be a person of importance. "no, not for a long while. he is only a second cousin of mrs. penhallow; but as all greys are for her--well, _the_ greys--we must do our best to make it pleasant for him until your aunt and uncle return." "of course," said john, with some faint feeling that it was needless to remind him, his uncle's representative, of his duties as the host. rivers said, smiling, "it may not be easy to amuse mr. grey. i did not tell you that your aunt wrote me, she will not be here until the afternoon train on the th. ah! here is mr. grey." john was aware of a neatly built, slight man in middle life, clad in a suit of dark grey. he came down the stairs in a leisurely way. "not much of a grey!" thought rivers, as he observed the clean-shaven face, which was sallow, or what the english once described as olivaster, the eyes small and dark, the hair black and so long as to darkly frame the thin-featured, clean-shaven refinement of a pleasant and now smiling face. john went across the hall to receive him, saying, "i am john penhallow, sir. i am sorry we did not know you were to be here to-day." "it is all right--all right. rather chilly ride. less moisture outside and more inside would have been agreeable; in fact, would be at present, if i may take the liberty." seeing that the host did not understand him, rivers said promptly, "i think, john, mr. grey is pleasantly reminding us that we should offer him some of your uncle's rye." "of course," said john, who had not had the dimmest idea what the maryland gentleman meant. mr. grey took the whisky slowly, remarking that he knew the brand, "peach-flavoured, sir. very good, does credit to penhallow's taste. as mr. clay once remarked, the mellowing years, sir, have refined it." "dinner is ready," said john. there was no necessity to entertain mr. grey. he talked at length, what james penhallow later described as "grown-up prattle." horses, the crops, and at length the proper methods of fining wine--a word of encouragement from rivers set him off again. meanwhile the dinner grew cold on his plate. at last, abruptly conscious of the lingering meal, mr. grey said, "this comes, sir, of being in too interesting society." was this mere quaint humour, thought rivers; but when grey added, "i should have said, sir, too interested company," he began to wonder at the self-absorption of what was evidently a provincial gentleman. at last, with "your very good health!" he took freely of the captain's madeira. rivers, who sipped a single glass slowly, was about to rise when to his amusement, using his uncle's phrase, john said, "my uncle thinks that madeira and tobacco do not go well together; you may like to smoke in the library." grey remarked, "quite right, as henry clay once said, 'there is nothing as melancholy as the old age of a dinner; who, sir, shall pronounce its epitaph?' that, sir, i call eloquence. no more wine, thank you." as he spoke, he drew a large cabana from his waistcoat pocket and lighted it from one of the candles on the table. rivers remarked, "we will find it warmer in the library." when the two men settled down to pipe or cigar at the library fire, john, who had felt the rôle of host rather difficult, was eager to get a look at the _tribune_ which lay invitingly on the table, and presently caught the eye of mr. grey. "i see you have the _tribune_" he said. "a mischief-making paper--devilish. i presume penhallow takes it to see what the other side has to say. very wise, sir, that." rivers, unwilling to announce his friend's political opinions, said, smiling, "i must leave mr. penhallow to account for that wicked journal." grey sat up with something like the alert look of a suddenly awakened terrier on his thin face. "i presume the captain (he spoke of him usually as the captain) must be able to control a good many votes in the village and at the iron-works." "i rather fancy," said rivers, "that he has taken no active part in the coming election." "unnecessary, perhaps. it is, i suppose, like my own county. we haven't a dozen free-soil voters. 'bleeding kansas' is a dead issue with us. it is bled to death, politically dead, sir, and buried." "not here," said john imprudently. "uncle james says buchanan will carry the state by a small majority, but he may not carry this county." "then he should see to it," said grey. "elect fremont, my boy, and the union will go to pieces. does the north suppose we will endure a sectional president? no, sir, it would mean secession--the death-knell of the union. sir, we may be driven to more practical arguments by the scurrilous speeches of the abolitionists. it is an attack on property, on the ownership of the inferior race by the supremely superior. that is the vital question." he spoke with excitement and gesticulated as if at a political meeting. mark rivers, annoyed, felt a strong inclination to box john's ears. he took advantage of the pause to say, "would you like a little more rye, mr. grey?" "why, yes, sir. i confess to being a trifle dry. but to resume our discussion--" "pardon me. john, ask for the whisky." to john this was interesting and astonishing. he had never heard talk as wild. the annoyance on rivers's face was such as to be easily read by the least observant. elsewhere mr. rivers would have had a ready answer, but as grey sat still a little while enjoying his own eloquence, the fire and the whisky, rivers's slight negative hint informed john that he was to hold his tongue. as the clergyman turned to speak to grey, the latter said, "i wish to add a word more, sir. you will find that the men at the south cling to state rights; if these do not preserve for me and others my property and the right, sir, to take my body-servant to boston or kansas, sure that he will be as secure as my--my--shirt-studs, state rights are of no practical use." "you make it very plain," said rivers, feeling at last that he must defend his own opinions. "i have myself a few words to say--but, is that all?" "not quite--not quite. i am of the belief that the wants of the southern states should be considered, and the demand for their only possible labour considered. i would re-open the slave-trade. i may shock you, reverend sir, but that is my opinion." "and, as i observe," said rivers, "that also of some governors of states." he disliked being addressed as "reverend," and knew how penhallow would smile when captained. there was a brief silence, what rivers used to call the punctuation value of the pipe. the maryland gentleman was honestly clear in the statement of his political creed, and rivers felt some need to be amiable and watchful of his own words in what he was longing to say. john listened, amazed. he had had his lesson in our history from two competent masters and was now intensely interested as he listened to the ultimate creed of the owner of men. grey had at last given up the cigar he had lighted over and over and let go out as often. he set down his empty glass, and said with perfect courtesy, "i may have been excessive in statement. i beg pardon for having spoken of, or rather hinted at, the need for a resort to arms. that is never a pleasant hint among gentlemen. i should like to hear how this awful problem presents itself to you, a clergyman of, sir, i am glad to know, my own church." "yes, that is always pleasant to hear," said rivers. "there at least we are on common ground. i dislike these discussions, mr. grey, but i cannot leave you without a reply, although in this house (and he meant the hint to have its future usefulness) politics are rarely discussed." "indeed!" exclaimed grey. "at home we talk little else. i do believe the watermelons and the pumpkins talk politics." rivers smiled. "i shall reply to you, of course. it will not be a full answer. i want to say that this present trouble is not a quarrel born within the memory of any living man. the colonial life began with colonial differences and aversions due to religion--puritan, quaker and church of england, intercolonial tariffs and what not. for the planter-class we were mere traders; they for us were men too lightly presumed to live an idle life of gambling, sport and hard drinking--a life foreign to ours. the colonies were to one another like foreign countries. in the revolution you may read clearly the effect of these opinions, when washington expressed the wish that his officers would forget that they came from connecticut or virginia, and remember only they were americans." grey said, "we did our share, sir." "yes, but all washington's important generals were northern men; but that is not to the point. washington put down the whisky-tax revolt with small regard for state rights. the constitution unhappily left those state rights in a condition to keep up old differences. that is clear, i regret to say. then came the tariff and a new seed of dissension. slavery and its growing claims added later mischief, but it was not the only cause of our troubles, nor is it to-day with us, although it is with you, the largest. we have tried compromises. they are of the history of our own time, familiar to all of us. well, mr. grey, the question is shall we submit to the threat of division, a broken land and its consequences?--one moment and i have done. i am filled with gloom when i look forward. when nations differ, treaties or time, or what not, may settle disputes; too often war. but, mr. grey, never are radical, civil or religious differences settled without the sword, if i have read history aright. you see," and he smiled, "i could not let pass your hint without a word." "if it comes to that--to war," said grey, "we would win. in that belief lies the certainty i dread." "ah! sir, in that southern belief lies the certainty i too dread. you think we live merely lives of commerce. you do not realise that there is with us a profound sentiment of affection for the union. no people worth anything ever lived without the very human desire of national self-preservation. it has the force of a man's personal desire for self-preservation. pardon me, i suppose that i have the habit of the sermon." grey replied, "you are very interesting, but i am tired. a little more rye, john. i must adjourn this discussion--we will talk again." "not if i can help it," laughed rivers. "i ought to say that i shall vote the republican ticket." "i regret it--i deeply regret it. oh! thanks, john." he drank the whisky and went upstairs to bed. rivers sat down. "this man is what i call a stateriot. i am or try to be that larger thing, a patriot. i did not say all, it was useless. your uncle cares little--oh, too little--about slavery, and generally the north cares as little; but the antislavery men are active and say, as did washington, that the union of the states was or will be insecure until slavery comes to an end. it may be so, john; it is the constant seed of discord. i would say, let them go in peace, but that would be only to postpone war to a future day. i rarely talk about this matter. what made you start him? you ought to have held your tongue." the young fellow smiled. "yes, sir, i suppose so." "however, we won't have it again if i can help it." "it was very interesting." "quite too interesting, but will he try it on the squire and your aunt? now i am going home. i hate these talks. don't sit up and read the _tribune_." "no, sir, and i will take mr. grey to ride to-morrow." "do, and send him home too tired to talk politics." "i think if i put him on uncle's big john it will answer." chapter ix while the two maids from westways waited on the family at breakfast, the guest was pleased to express himself favourably in regard to the coffee and the corn bread. john being left alone in care of the guest after the meal proposed a visit to the stables. mr. grey preferred for a time the fire, and later would like to walk to the village. somewhat relieved, john found for him the baltimore paper, which mrs. penhallow read daily. mr. grey would not smoke, but before john went away remarked, "i perceive, my boy, no spittoon." he was chewing tobacco vigorously and using the fireplace for his frequent expectoration. john, a little embarrassed, thought of his aunt ann. the habit of chewing was strange to the boy's home experience. certainly, billy chewed, and others in the town, nor was it at that time uncommon at the north. he confided his difficulty to the groom, his boxing-master, who having in his room the needed utensil placed it beside the hall-fire, to mr. grey's satisfaction--a square tray of wood filled with sawdust. "not ornamental, but useful, john, in fact essential," said mr. grey, as john excused himself with the statement that he had to go to school. when he returned through the woods, about noon, to his relief he saw far down the avenue mr. grey and the gold-headed, tasselled cane he carried. a little later mr. grey in the sun of a cool day early in october was walking along the village street in keen search of news of politics. he talked first to pole, the butcher, who hearing that he was a cousin of mrs. penhallow assured him that the town would go solid for buchanan. then he met billy, who was going a-fishing, having refused a wood-cutting job the rector offered. "a nice fishing-rod that," said grey. billy who was bird-witted and short of memory replied, "mrs. penhallow she gave me a dollar to pay pole-tax if i vote for--i guess it was buchanan. i bought a nice fishing-pole." grey was much amused and agreeably instructed in regard to mrs. ann's sentiments, as he realized the simple fellow's mental condition. "a fishing-pole-tax--well--well--" and would tell john of his joke. "any barber in this town?" he asked. "yes, there's josiah," and billy was no longer to be detained. mr. grey mailed a letter, but the post-mistress would not talk politics and was busy. at last, wandering eastward, he came upon the only unoccupied person in westways. peter lamb, slowly recovering strength, was seated on his mother's doorstep. his search for money had been defeated by the widow's caution, and the whisky craving was being felt anew. "good morning," said grey. "you seem to be the only man here with nothing to do." "yes, sir. i've been sick, and am not quite fit to work. sickness is hard on a working man, sir." grey, a kindly person, put his hand in his pocket, "quite right, it is hard. how are the people here going to vote? i hope the good old ticket." "oh! buchanan and breckenridge, sir, except one or two and the darkey barber. he's a runaway--i guess. been here these three or four years. squire likes him because he's clever about breaking colts." "indeed!" "he's a lazy nigger, sir; ought to be sent back where he belongs." "what is his name? i suppose he can shave me." "calls himself josiah," said peter. "mighty poor barber--cut my face last time he shaved me. you see, he's lost two fingers--makes him awkwarder." "what! what!" said grey, of a sudden reflecting, "two fingers--" "know him?" said lamb quickly. "i--no--do you suppose i know every runaway nigger?" "oh, of course not. might i ask your name, sir?" "i am a cousin of mrs. penhallow. my name is grey." peter became cautious and silent. "here is a little help, my man, until you get work. stick to the good old party." he left two dollars in lamb's eager hands. surprised at this unusual bounty, peter said, "thank you, sir. god bless you. it'll be a great help." it meant for the hapless drinker whisky, and he was quick to note the way in which grey became interested in the man who had lost fingers. grey lingered. "i must risk your barber's awkwardness," he said. "oh, he can shave pretty well when he's sober. he's our only darkey, sir. you can't miss him. i might show you his shop." this grey declined. "i suppose, sir," said peter, curious, "all darkies look so much alike that it is hard to tell them apart." "oh, not for us--not for us." then peter was still more sure that the gentleman with the gold-headed cane was from the south. as grey lingered thoughtful, lamb was maliciously inspired by the size of grey's donation and the prospect it offered. he studied the face of the southern gentleman and ventured to say, "excuse me, sir, but if you want to get that man back--" "i want him! good gracious! i did not own him. my inquiries were, i might say, casual, purely casual." lamb, thanks to the penhallows, had had some education at the school for the mill children, but what was meant by "purely casual" he did not know. if it implied lack of interest, that was not the case, or why the questions and this gift, large for westways. but if the gentleman did not own josiah's years of lost labour, some one else did, and who was it? as grey turned away, he said, "i may see you again. i am with my cousin at grey pine. by the bye, how will the county vote?" peter assured him that the democratic party would carry the county. "i am glad," said grey, "that the people, the real backbone of the country, desire to do justice to the south." he felt himself on the way to another exposition of constitutional rights, but realising that it was unwise checked the outflow of eloquence. he could not, however, refrain from adding, "your people then are a law-abiding community." "yes, sir," said the lover of law, "we are just that, and good sound democrats." grey, curious and mildly interested, determined to be reassured in regard to this black barber's former status. he walked slowly by josiah's shop followed at a distance by peter. the barber was shaving mr. pole, and intent on his task. grey caught sight of the black's face. one look was enough--it was familiar--unmistakable. in place of going in to be shaved he turned away and quickened his steps. peter grinned and went home. "the darn nigger horse-thief," murmured grey. "i'll write to woodburn." then he concluded that first it would be well without committing himself to know more surely how far this democratic community would go in support of the fugitive-slave law. he applauded his cautiousness. a moment later pole, well shaven, overtook him. grey stopped him, chatted as they went on, and at last asked if there was in westways a good democratic lawyer. pole was confident that mr. swallow would be all that he could desire, and pointed out his house. meanwhile peter lamb began to suspect that there was mischief brewing for the man who had brought down on him the anger of mark rivers, and like enough worse things as soon as penhallow came home. as pole turned into his shop-door, mr. grey went westward in deep thought. he was sure of the barber's identity. if josiah had been his own property, he would with no hesitation have taken the steps needful to reclaim the fugitive, but it was mr. woodburn who had lost josiah's years of service and it was desirable not hastily to commit his friend. he knew with what trouble the fugitive-slave law had been obeyed or not obeyed at the north. he was not aware that men who cared little about slavery were indignant at a law which set aside every safeguard with which the growth of civilization had surrounded the trial of even the worst criminal. as he considered the situation, he walked more and more slowly until he paused in front of swallow's house. every one had assured him that since general jackson's time the town and county had changelessly voted the good old democratic ticket. here at least the rights of property would be respected, and there would be no lawless city mobs to make the restoration of a slave difficult. the brick house and ill-kept garden before which he paused looked unattractive. beside the house a one-storey wooden office bore the name "henry w. swallow, attorney-at-law." there was neither bell nor knocker. mr. grey rapped on the office door with his cane, and after waiting a moment without hearing any one, he entered a front room and looked about him. swallow was a personage whose like was found too often in the small pennsylvania villages. the only child of a close-fisted, saving farmer, he found himself on his father's death more than sufficiently well-off to go to college and later to study law. he was careful and penurious, but failing of success in philadelphia returned to westways when about thirty years old, bought a piece of land in the town, built a house, married a pretty, commonplace young woman, and began to look for business. there was little to be had. the squire drew his own leases and sold lands to farmers unaided. then swallow began to take interest in politics and to lend money to the small farmers, taking mortgages at carefully guarded, usurious interest. merciless foreclosures resulted, and as by degrees his operations enlarged, he grew richer and became feared and important in a county community where money was scarce. some of his victims went in despair to the much loved squire for help, and got, over and over, relief, which disappointed swallow who disliked him as he did no other man in the county. the squire returned his enmity with contemptuous bitterness and entire distrust of the man and all his ways. mr. grey saw in the further room the back of a thin figure in a white jacket seated at a desk. the man thus occupied on hearing his entrance said, without looking back, "sit down, and in a moment i'll attend to you." grey replied, "in a moment you won't see me;" and, his voice rising, "i am accustomed to be treated with civility." swallow rose at once, and seeing a well-dressed stranger said, "excuse me, i was drawing a mortgage for a farmer i expected. take a seat. i am at your service." somewhat mollified, grey sat down. as he took his seat he was not at all sure of what he was really willing to say or do. he was not an indecisive person at home, but here in a northern state, on what might be hostile ground, he was in doubt concerning that which he felt he honourably owed as a duty to his neighbour. the word had for him limiting definitions, as indeed it has for most of us. resolving to be cautious, he said with deliberate emphasis, "i should like what i have to say to be considered, sir, as george washington used to remark, as 'under the rose'--a strictly professional confidence." "of course," said swallow. "my name is george grey. i am at grey pine on a visit to my cousin, mrs. penhallow." "a most admirable lady," said the lawyer; "absent just now, i hear." he too determined on caution. "i have been wandering about your quiet little town this morning and made some odd acquaintances. one billy, he called himself, most amusing--most amusing. it seems that my cousin gave him money to pay his poll-tax. the poor simple fellow bought a fishing-pole and line. he was, i fancy, to vote for buchanan. my cousin, i infer, must be like all our people a sound democrat." "i have heard as much," returned swallow. "i am doing what i can for the party, but the people here are sadly misled and our own party is slowly losing ground." "indeed! i talked a little with a poor fellow named lamb, out-of-work and sick. he assured me that the town was solid for buchanan, and also the county." swallow laughed heartily. "what! peter lamb. he is our prize drunkard, sir, and would have been in jail long ago but for penhallow. they are foster-brothers." "indeed!" mr. grey felt that his knowledge of character had been sadly at fault and that he had been wise in not having said more to the man out-of-work. "do you think, mr. swallow, that if a master reclaimed a slave in this county that there would be any trouble in carrying out the law?" "no, sir," said swallow. "the county authorities are all democrats and would obey the law. suppose, sir, that you were frankly to put before me the whole case, relying on my secrecy. where is the man?" "let me then tell you my story. as a sound democrat it will at least have your sympathy." "certainly, i am all attention." "about the tenth of june over four years ago i rode with my friend woodburn into our county-town. at the bank we left our horses with his groom caesar, an excellent servant, much trusted; used to ride quarter races for my father when a boy. when we came out, woodburn's horse was hitched to a post and mine was gone, and that infernal nigger on him. he was traced to the border, but my mare had no match in the county." "so he stole the horse; that makes it an easy case." "no, sir. to be precise, he left the horse at a tavern in this state, with my name and address. some quakers helped him on his way." "and he is in this county?" asked swallow. "yes, sir. his name here is josiah--seems to be known by that name alone." "josiah!" gasped swallow. "a special favourite of penhallow. a case to be gravely considered--most gravely. the squire--" "but surely he will obey the law." "yes--probably--but who can say? he was at one time a democrat, but now is, i hear, likely to vote for fremont." "that seems incredible." "and yet true. i should like, sir, to think the matter over for a day or two. did the man see you--i mean, recognize you?" "no, but as i went by his shop, i at once recognized him; and he has lost two fingers. oh! i know the fellow. i can swear to him, and it is easy to bring his master woodburn here." "i see. well, let me think it over for a day or two." "very good," returned grey, "and pray consider yourself as in my debt for your services." "all right, mr. grey." with this mr. grey went away a thoughtful man. he attracted some attention as he moved along the fronts of the houses. strangers were rare. being careful not to go near josiah's little shop, he crossed the road and climbing the fence went through the wood, reflecting that until this matter was settled he would feel that his movements must be unpleasantly governed by the need to avoid josiah. he felt this to be humiliating. other considerations presented themselves in turn. this ungrateful black had run away with his, george grey's, horse--a personal wrong. his duty to woodburn was plain. then, if this black fellow was as swallow said, a favourite of captain penhallow, to plan his capture while himself a guest in penhallow's house was rather an awkward business. however, he felt that he must inform his friend woodburn, after which he would turn him over to swallow and not appear in the business at all. it did not, however, present itself to the maryland gentleman as a nice situation. if his cousin ann were, as he easily learned, a strong democrat, it might be well to sound her on the general situation. she had lived half her life among slaves and those who owned them. she would know how far penhallow was to be considered as a law-abiding citizen, or whether he might be offended, for after all, as george grey knew, his own share in the matter would be certain to become known. "a damned unpleasant affair," he said aloud as he walked up the avenue, "but we as southern gentlemen have got to stand by one another. i must let woodburn know, and decide for himself." neither was the lawyer swallow altogether easy about the matter on which he had desired time for thought. it would be the first case in the county under the fugitive-slave act. if the man were reclaimed, he, swallow, would be heard of all through the state; but would that help him before the people in a canvass for the house? he could not answer, for the old political parties were going to pieces and new ones were forming. moreover, josiah was much liked and much respected. then, too, there was the fee. he walked about the room singularly disturbed. some prenatal fate had decreed that he should be old-aged at forty. he had begun to be aware that his legs were aging faster than his mind. except the pleasure of accumulating money, which brought no enjoyment, he had thus far no games in life which interested him; but now the shifting politics of the time had tempted him, and possibly this case might be used to his advantage. the black eyebrows under fast whitening hair grew together in a frown, while below slowly gathered the long smile of satisfaction. "how penhallow will hate it." this thought was for him what the stolen mare was for george grey. he must look up the law. meanwhile george grey, under the necessity of avoiding the village for a time, was rather bored. he had criticized the stables and the horses, and had been told that the squire relied with good reason on the judgment of josiah in regard to the promise of good qualities in colts. then, used to easy roadsters, he had been put on the squire's rough trotter and led by the tireless lad had come back weary from long rides across rough country fields and over fences. the clergyman would talk no more politics, john pleaded lessons, and it was on the whole dull, so that mr. grey was pleased to hear of the early return of his cousin. a letter to john desired him to meet his aunt on the th, and accordingly he drove to the station at westways crossing, picking up billy on the way. mrs. ann got out of the car followed by the conductor and brakeman carrying boxes and bundles, which billy, greatly excited, stowed away under the seats of the jersey wagon. mrs. penhallow distributed smiles and thanks to the men who made haste to assist, being one of the women who have no need to ask help from any man in sight. "now, billy," she said, "be careful with those horses. when you attend, you drive very well." she settled herself on the back seat with john, delighted to be again where her tireless sense of duty kept her busy--quite too busy at times, thought some of the village dames. "your uncle james will soon be at home. is his pet scamp any better?" john did not know, but josiah's rheumatism was quite well. "sister-in-law has a baby. six trout i ketched; they're at the house for you--weighs seven pounds," said billy without turning round. "trout or baby?" said ann, laughing. "baby, ma'am." "thanks, but don't talk any more." "yes, ma'am." "how is leila?" asked john. "does she like it at school?" "no, not at all; but she will." "i don't, aunt ann." "i suppose not." "am i to be allowed to write to her?" "i think not. there is some rule that letters, but--" and she laughed merrily. the rector, who worshipped her, said once that her laugh was like the spring song of birds. "but sometimes i may be naughty enough to let you slip a few lines into my letters." "that is more than i hoped for. i am--i was so glad to get you back, aunt ann, that i forgot to tell you, mr. george grey has come." "how delightful! he has been promising a visit for years. how pleased james will be! i wonder how the old bachelor ever made up his mind. i hope you made it pleasant, john." "i tried to, aunt." whether james penhallow would like it was for john doubtful, but he said nothing further. "the cities are wild about politics, and there is no end of trouble in philadelphia over the case of a fugitive slave. i was glad to get away to grey pine." john had never heard her mention this tender subject and was not surprised when she added quickly, "but i never talk politics, john, and you are too young to know anything about them." this was by no means true, as she well knew. "how are my chickens?" she asked endless questions of small moment. "got a new fishing-rod," said billy, but to john's amusement did not pursue the story concerning which george grey had gleefully enlightened him. "well, at last, cousin george," she cried, as the cousin gave her his hand on the porch. "glad to see you--most glad. come in when you have finished your cigar." she followed john into the hall. "ah! the dear home." then her eyes fell on the much used spittoon by the fireside. "good gracious, john, a--a spittoon!" "yes, aunt. mr. grey chews." "indeed!" she looked at the box and went upstairs. for years to come and in the most incongruous surroundings john penhallow now and then laughed as he saw again the look with which mrs. ann regarded the article so essential to mr. grey's comfort. she disliked all forms of tobacco use, and the law of the pipe had long ago been settled at grey pine as mrs. penhallow decreed, because that was always what james penhallow decided to think desirable. "but this! this!" murmured the little lady, as she came down the staircase ready for dinner. she rang for the maid. "take that thing away and wash it well, and put in fresh sawdust twice a day." "i hope john has been a good host," she said, as grey entered the hall. "couldn't be better, and i have had some delightful rides. i found the mills interesting--in fact, most instructive." he spoke in short childlike sentences unless excited by politics. mrs. ann noted without surprise the free use of whisky, and later the appreciative frequency of resort to penhallow's madeira. a glass of wine at lunch and after dinner were her husband's sole indulgence. the larger potations of her cousin in no way affected him. he talked as usual to mark rivers and john about horses, crops and the weather, while mrs. ann listened to the flow of disconnected trifles in some wonder as to how james penhallow would endure it. grey for the time kept off the danger line of politics, having had of late such variously contributed knowledge as made him careful. when to mrs. ann's relief dinner was over, the rector said his sermon for to-morrow must excuse him and went home. john decided that his role of host was over and retired to his algebra and to questions more easy to solve than of how to entertain mr. george grey. it was not difficult, as mrs. penhallow saw, to make grey feel at home; all he required was whisky, cigars, and some mild appearance of interest in his talk. she had long anticipated his visit with pleasure, thinking that james penhallow would be pleased and the better for some rational male society. rivers had now deserted her, and she really would not sit with her kinsman's cigar a whole evening in the library. she said, "the night is warm for october, come out onto the porch, george." "with all the pleasure in the world," said grey, as he followed her. by habit and training hospitable and now resigned to her fate, mrs. ann said, "light your cigar, george; i do not mind it out-of-doors." "i am greatly indebted--i was given to understand that it was disagreeable to you--like--politics--ah! cousin ann." "we are not much given to talking politics," she said rather sharply. "not talk politics!" exclaimed grey. "what else is there to talk about nowadays? but why not, cousin ann?" "well, merely because while i am southern--and a democrat, james has seen fit to abandon our party and become a republican." "incomprehensible!" said grey. "ours is the party of gentlemen--of old traditions. i cannot understand it." "nor i," said she, "but now at least," and she laughed--"there will be one republican gentleman. however, george, as we are both much in earnest, we keep politics out of the house." "it must be rather awkward, ann." "what must be rather awkward?" did he really mean to discuss, to criticize her relations to james penhallow? the darkness was for a time the grateful screen. grey, a courteous man, felt the reproof in her question, and replied, "i beg pardon, my dear ann, i have heard of the captain's unfortunate change of opinion. i shall hope, however, to be able to convince him that to elect fremont will be to break up the union. i think i could put it so clearly that--" ann laughed low laughter as vastly amused she laid a hand on her cousin's arm. "you don't know james penhallow. he has been from his youth a democrat. there never was any question about how he would vote. but now, since --" and she paused, "in fact, i do not care to discuss with you what i will not with james." her great love, her birth, training, education and respect for the character of her husband, made this discussion hateful. her eyes filled, and, much troubled, she was glad of the mask of night. "but answer me one question, ann. why did he change?" "he was becoming dissatisfied and losing faith in his own party, but it was at last my own dear south and its friends at the north who drove him out." again she paused. "what do you mean, ann?" asked grey, still persistent. "it began long ago, george. he said to me one day, 'that fool fillmore has signed the fugitive-slave act; it is hardly possible to obey it.' then i said, 'would you not, james?' i can never forget it. he said, 'yes, i obey the law, ann, but this should be labelled 'an act to exasperate the north.' i am done with the democrat and all his ways. obey the law! yes, i was a soldier.' then he said, 'ann, we must never talk politics again.' we never do." "and yet, ann," said grey, "that act was needed." "perhaps," she returned, and then followed a long silence, as with thought of james penhallow she sat smiling in the darkness and watched the rare wandering lanterns of the belated fireflies. the man at her side was troubled into unnatural silence. he had hoped to find an ally in his cousin's husband, and now what should he do? he had concluded that as an honest man he had done his duty when he had written to woodburn; but now as a man of honour what should he say to james penhallow? to conceal from his host what he had done was the obvious business-like course. this troubled a man who was usually able to see his way straight on all matters of social conduct and was sensitive on points of honour. while ann sat still and wondered that her guest was so long silent, he was finding altogether unpleasant his conclusion that he must be frank with penhallow. he felt sure, however, that ann would naturally be on his side. he introduced the matter lightly with, "i chanced to see in the village a black man who is said to be a vagabond scamp. he is called josiah--a runaway slave, i fancy." ann sat up in her chair. "who said he was a scamp?" "oh, a man named lamb." then he suddenly remembered mr. swallow's characterization, and added, "not a very trustworthy witness, i presume." ann laughed. "peter lamb! he is a drunken, loafing fellow, who to his good fortune chances to have been james's foster-brother. as concerns josiah, he turned up here some years ago, got work in the stables, and was set up by james as the village barber. no one knew whence he came. i did, of course, suspect him to be a runaway. he is honest and industrious. last year i was ill when james was absent. we have only maids in the house, and when i was recovering josiah carried me up and downstairs until james returned. a year after he came, leila had an accident. josiah stopped her horse and got badly hurt--" then with quick insight, she added, "what interest have you in our barber, george? is it possible you know josiah?" escape from truthful reply was impossible. "yes, i do. he is the property of my friend and neighbour woodburn. i knew him at once--the man had lost three fingers--he did not see me." "well!" she said coldly, "what next, george grey?" "i must inform his master. as a southern woman you, of course, see that no other course is possible. it is unpleasant, but your sense of right must make you agree with me." she returned, speaking slowly, "i do wish you would not do it, george." then she said quickly, "have you taken any steps in this matter?" he was fairly cornered. "yes, i wrote to woodburn. he will be here in a couple of days. i am sure he will lose no time--and will take legal measures at once to reclaim his property." "i suppose it is all right," she said despairingly, "but i am more than sorry--what james will say i do not know. i hope he will not be called on to act--under the law he may." "when does he return?" said grey. "i shall, of course, be frank with him." "that will be advisable. he may be absent for a week longer, or so he writes. i leave you to your cigar. i am tired, and to-morrow is sunday. shall you go to church?" "certainly, ann. good-night." at the door she turned back with a new and relieving thought. "suppose i--or we--buy this man's freedom." "if i owned him that would not be required after what you have told me, but woodburn is an obstinate, rather stern man, and will refuse, i fear, to sell--" "what will he do with josiah if he is returned to him as the act orders?" "oh! once a runaway--and the man is no good?--he would probably sell him to be sent south." she rose and for a moment stood still in the darkness, and then crying, "the pity of it, my god, the pity of it!" went away without the usual courtesy of good-night. george grey, when left to his own company, somewhat amazed, began to wish he had never had a hand in this business. ann penhallow went up to her room, although it was as yet early, leaving john in the library and grey with a neglected cigar on the porch. in the bedroom over his shop the man most concerned sat industriously reading the _tribune_. ann sat down to think. the practical application of a creed to conduct is not always easy. all her young life had been among kindly considered slaves. mr. woodburn had a right to his property. the law provided for the return of slaves if they ran away. she suddenly realized that this man's future fate was in her power, and she both liked and respected him, and he had been hurt in their service. oh! why was not james at home? could she sit still and let things go their way while the mechanism of the law worked. between head and heart there was much argument. her imagination pictured josiah's future. had he deserved a fate so sad? she fell on her knees and prayed for help. at last she rose and went down to the library. john laid down his book and stood up. the young face greeted her pleasantly, as she said, "sit down, john, i want to talk to you. can you keep a secret?" "why--yes--aunt ann. what is it?" "i mean, john, keep it so that no one will guess you have a secret." "i think i can," he replied, much surprised and very curious. "you are young, john, but in your uncle's absence there is no one else to whom i can turn for help. now, listen. has mr. grey gone to bed?" "yes, aunt." she leaned toward him, speaking low, almost in a whisper, "i do not want to explain, i only want to tell you something. josiah is a runaway slave, john." "yes, aunt, he told me all about it." "did he, indeed!" "yes, we are great friends--i like him--and he trusted me. what's the matter now?" he was quick to understand that josiah was in some danger. naturally enough he remembered the man's talk and his one fear--recapture. "george grey has recognised josiah as a runaway slave of a mr. woodburn--" she was most unwilling to say plainly, "go and warn him." he started up. "and they mean to take him back?" she was silent. the indecisions of the habitually decisive are hard to deal with. the lad was puzzled by her failure to say more. "it is dreadful, aunt ann. i think i ought to go and tell josiah--now--to-night." she made no comment except to say, "arrest is not possible on sunday--and he is safe until monday or tuesday." john penhallow looked at her for a moment surprised that she did not say go, or else forbid him to go; it was unlike her. he had no desire to wait for sunday and was filled with anxiety. "i think i must go now--now," he said. "then i shall go to bed," she said, and kissing him went away slowly step by step up the stairs. staircases are apt to suggest reflections, and there are various ways of rendering the french phrase "_esprit de l'escalier_." aware that want of moral courage had made her uncertain what to do, or like the indian, having two hearts, ann had been unable to accept bravely the counsel of either. the loyal decisiveness of a lad of only sixteen years had settled the matter and relieved her of any need to personally warn josiah. some other influences aided to make her feel satisfied that there should be a warning. she was resentful because george grey had put her in a position where she had been embarrassed by intense sectional sense of duty and by kindly personal regard for a man who not being criminal was to be deprived of all the safeguards against injustice provided by the common law. there were other and minor causes which helped to content her with what she well knew she had done to disappoint mr. woodburn of his prey. george grey was really a bore of capacity to wreck the social patience of the most courteous. the rector fled from him, john always had lessons and how would james endure his vacuous talk. it all helped her to be comfortably angry, and there too was that horrible spittoon. the young fellow who went with needless haste out of the house and down the avenue about eleven o'clock had no indecisions. josiah trusted him, and he felt the compliment this implied. chapter x on the far side of the highroad westways slumbered. only in the rector's small house were lights burning. the town was in absolute darkness. westways went to bed early. a pleased sense of the responsibility of his errand went with john as he came near to where josiah's humble two-storey house stood back from the street line, marked by the well-known striped pole of the barber, of which josiah was professionally proud. john paused in front of the door. he knew that he must awaken no one but josiah. after a moment's thought he went along the side of the house to the small garden behind it where josiah grew the melons no one else could grow, and which he delighted to take to miss leila or mrs. penhallow. in the novel the heroes threw pebbles at the window to call up fair damsels. john grinned; he might break a pane, but the noise--he was needlessly cautious. josiah had built a trellis against the back of the house for grapevines which had not prospered. john began to climb up it with care and easily got within reach of the second-storey window. he tapped sharply on the glass, but getting no reply hesitated a moment. he could hear from within the sonorous assurance of deep slumber. somehow he must waken him. he lifted the sash and called over and over in a low voice, "josiah!" the snoring ceased, but not the sleep. the lad was resolute and still fearful of making a noise. he climbed with care into the dark room upsetting a little table. instantly josiah bounded out of bed and caught him in his strong grip, as john gasped, "josiah!" "my god!" cried the black in alarm, "anything wrong at the house?" "no, sit down--i've got to tell you something. your old master, woodburn, is coming to catch you--he will be here soon--i know he won't be here for a day or two--" "is that so, master john? it's awful--i've got to run. i always knowed sometime i'd have to run." he sat down on the bed; he was appalled. "god help me!--where can i go? i've got two hundred dollars and seventy-five cents saved up in the county bank, and i've not got fifty cents in the house. i can't get the money out--i'd be afraid to go there monday. oh, lord!" he began to dress in wild haste. john tried in vain to assure him that he would be safe on sunday and monday, or even later, but was in fact not sure, and the man was wailing like a child in distress, thinking over his easy, upright life and his little treasure, which seemed to him lost. he asked no questions; all other emotion was lost in one over-mastering terror. john said at last, "if i write a cheque for you, can you sign your name to it?" "yes, sir." "then i will write a cheque for all of it and i'll get it out for you." a candle was lighted and the cheque written. "now write your name here, josiah--so--that's right." he obeyed like a child, and john who had often collected cheques for his aunt of late, knew well enough how to word it to be paid to bearer. he put it in his pocket. "but how will i ever get it?" said josiah, "and where must i go? i'll get away monday afternoon." john was troubled, and then said, "i'll tell you. go to the old cabin in the wood. that will be safe. i will bring you your money monday afternoon." the black reflected in silence and then said, "that will do--no man will take me alive, i know--my god, i know! who set them on me? who told? it was that drunken rascal, peter. he told me he'd tell if i didn't get him whisky. how did he know--oh, lord! he set 'em on me--i'd like to kill him." john was alarmed at the fierceness of the threat. "oh! but you won't--promise me. i've helped you, josiah." "i promise, master john. i'm a christian man, thank the lord. i'd like to, but i won't--i won't." "now, that's right," said john much relieved. "you'll go to the cabin monday--for sure." "yes--who told you to tell me?" john, prudently cautious, refused to answer. "now, let me out, i must go. i can't tell you how sorry i will be--" and he was tempted to add his aunt, but was wise in time. he had done his errand well, and was pleased with the success of his adventure and the flavour of peril in what he had done. he let himself into grey pine and went noiselessly upstairs. then a window was closed and a waiting, anxious woman went to bed and lay long awake thinking. john understood the unusual affection of his aunt's greeting when before breakfast she kissed him and started george grey on his easy conversational trot. she had compromised with her political conscience and, notwithstanding, was strangely satisfied and a trifle ashamed that she had not been more distinctly courageous. at church they had as usual a good congregation of the village folk and men from the mills, for rivers was eminently a man's preacher and was much liked. john observed, however, that josiah, who took care of the church, was not in his usual seat near the door. he was at home terribly alarmed and making ready for his departure on monday. the rector missing him called after church, but his knock was not answered. when mr. grey in the afternoon declared he would take a walk and mail some letters, mrs. ann called john into the library. "well," she said, "did you see josiah?" "yes, aunt." it was characteristic of john penhallow even thus early in life that he was modest and direct in statement. he said nothing of his mode of reaching josiah. "i told him of his risk. he will hide in--" "do not tell me where," said ann quickly; "i do not want to know." he wondered why she desired to hear no more. he went on--"he has money in the county bank--two hundred dollars." "he must have been saving--poor fellow!" "i wrote a cheque for him, to bearer. i am to draw it tomorrow and take it to him in the afternoon. then he will be able to get away." here indeed was something for ann to think about. when josiah was missed and legal measures taken, a pursuit organized, john having drawn his money might be questioned. this would never do--never. oddly enough she had the thought, "who will now shave james?" she smiled and said, "i must keep you out of the case--give me the cheque. oh, i see it is drawn to bearer. i wonder if his owner could claim it. he may--he might--if it is left there." "that would be mean," said john. "yes," she said thoughtfully. "yes--i could give him the money. let me think about it. of course, i could draw on my account and leave josiah's alone. but he has a right to his own money. i will keep the cheque, john. i will draw out his money and give it to you. good gracious, boy! you are like james penhallow." "that's praise for a fellow!" said john. ann had the courage of her race and meant at last to see this thing through at all costs. the man had made his money and should have it. she was now resolute to take her share in the perilous matter she had started; and after all she was the wife of james penhallow of grey pine; who would dare to question her? as to george grey, she dismissed him with a low laugh and wondered when that long-desired guest would elect to leave grey pine. at ten on monday billy, for choice, drove her over to the bank at the mills. the young cashier was asked about his sick sister, and then rather surprised as he took the cheque inquired, "how will you have it, ma'am? josiah must be getting an investment." "one hundred in fifties and the rest--oh, fifty in fives, the rest in ones." she drove away, and in an hour gave the notes to john in an envelope, asking no questions. he set off in the afternoon to give josiah his money. meanwhile on this monday morning a strange scene in this drama was being acted in josiah's little shop. he was at the door watchful and thinking of his past and too doubtful future, when he saw peter lamb pause near by. the man, fresh from the terrors of delirium tremens, had used the gift of grey with some prudence and was in the happy condition of slight alcoholic excitement and good-humour. "halloa!" cried peter. "how are you? i'm going to the mills to see my girl--want you to shave me--got over my joke; funny, wasn't it?" a sudden ferocious desire awoke in the good-natured barber--some long-past inheritance of african lust for the blood of an enemy. "don't like to kiss with a rough beard," said peter. "i'll pay--got money--now." "come in," said josiah. "set down. i'll shut the door--it's a cold morning." he spread the lather over the red face. "head back a bit--that's right comfortable now, isn't it?" "all right--go ahead." josiah took his razor. "now, then," he said, as he set a big strong hand on the man's forehead, "if you move, i'll cut your throat--keep quiet--don't you move. you told i was a slave--you ruined my life--i never did you no harm--i'd kill you just as easy as that--" and he drew the blunt cold back of the razor across the hairy neck. "my god!--i--" the man shuddered. "keep still--or you are a dead man." "oh, lord!" groaned lamb. "i would kill you, but i don't want to be hanged. god will take care of you--he is sure. some day you will do some wickedness worse than this--you just look at me." there was for peter fearful fascination in the black face of the man who stood looking down at him, the jaw moving, the white teeth showing, the eyes red, the face twitching with half-suppressed passion. "answer me now--and by god, if you lie, i will kill you. you set some one on me? quick now!" "i did." "who was it? no lies, now!" "mr. george grey." then josiah fully realized his danger. "why did you?" "you wouldn't help me to get whisky." "well, was that all?" "you went and got the preacher to set mr. penhallow on me. he gave me the devil." "my god, was that all? you've ruined me for a drink of whisky--you've got your revenge. i'm lost--lost. your day will come--i'll be there. now go and repent if you can--you've been near to death. go!" he cried. he seized the terrified man with one strong hand, lifted him from the chair, cast open the door and hurled him out into the street. a little crowd gathered around lamb as he rose on one elbow, dazed. "drunk!" said pole, the butcher. "drunk again!" josiah shut and locked the door. then he tied up his bundle of clothes, filled a basket with food, and went out into his garden. he cast a look back at the neatly kept home he had recently made fresh with paint. he paused to pick a chilled rosebud and set it in his button-hole--a fashion copied from his adored captain. he glanced tearfully at the glass-framed covers of the yellowing melon vines. he had made money out of his melons, and next year would have been able to send a good many to pittsburgh. as he turned to leave the little garden in which he took such pride, he heard an old rooster's challenge in his chicken-yard, which had been another means of money-making. he went back and opened the door, leaving the fowl their liberty. when in the lane behind his house, he walked along in the rear of the houses, and making sure that he was unobserved, crossed the road and entered the thick penhallow forest. he walked rapidly for half an hour, and leaving the wood road found his way to the cabin the first penhallow built. it was about half after one o'clock when the fugitive lay down on the earth of the cabin with his hands clasped behind his head. he stared upward, wondering where he could go to be safe. he would have to spend some of the carefully saved money. that seemed to him of all things the most cruel. he was not trained to consecutive thinking; memories old or new flitted through his mind. now and then he said to himself that perhaps he had had no right to run away--and perhaps this was punishment. he had fled from the comforts of an easy life, where he had been fed, clothed and trusted. not for a moment would he have gone back--but why had he run away? what message that soaring hawk had sent to him from his swift circling sweep overhead he was not able to put in words even if he had so desired. "that wicked hawk done it!" he said aloud. at last, hearing steps outside, he bounded to his feet, a hand on the knife in his belt. he stood still waiting, ready as a crouching tiger, resolute, a man at bay with an unsated appetite for freedom. the door opened and john entered. "you sort of scared me, master john." "you are safe here, josiah, and here is your money." he took it without a word, except, "i reckon, master john, you know i'm thankful. was there any one missing me?" "no, no one." "i'll get away to-night. i'll go down through lonesome man's swamp and take my old bateau and run down the river. you might look after my muskrat traps. i was meaning to make a purse for the little missy. now do you just go away, and may the lord bless you. i guess we won't ever meet no more. you'll be mighty careful, master john?" "but you'll write, josiah." "i wouldn't dare to write--i'd be takin' risks. think i'm safe here? oh, lord!" "no one knows where you are--you'll go to-night?" "yes, after dark." he seemed more at ease as he said, "it was peter lamb set mr. grey on me. he must have seen me after that. i told you it was peter." "yes,"--and then with the hopefulness of youth--"but you will come back, i am sure." "no, sir--never no more--and the captain and miss leila--it's awful--where can i go?" john could not help him further. "god bless you, master john." they parted at length at the door of the cabin which had seen no other parting as sad. the black lay down again. now and then he swept his sleeve across tearful eyes. then he stowed his money under his shirt in a linen bag hung to his neck, keeping out a few dollars, and at last fell sound asleep exhausted by emotion, josiah's customers were few in number. westways was too poor to be able to afford a barber more than once a week, and then it was always in mid-morning when work ceased for an hour. sometimes the squire on his way to the mills came to town early, but as a rule josiah went to grey pine and shaved him while they talked about colts and their training. as he was rarely needed in the afternoon, josiah often closed his shop about two o'clock and went a-fishing or set traps on the river bank. his absence on this monday afternoon gave rise, therefore, to no surprise, but when his little shop remained closed on tuesday, his neighbours began to wonder. peter lamb wandering by rather more drunken than on monday, stood a while looking at the shut door, then went on his devious way, thinking of the fierce eyes and the curse. next came swallow for his daily shave. he knocked at the door and tried to enter. it was locked. he heard no answer to his louder knock. he at once suspected that his prey had escaped him, and that the large fee he had counted on was to say the least doubtful. but who could have warned the black? had mr. grey been imprudent? lamb had been the person who had led grey, as swallow knew from that gentleman, to suspect josiah as a runaway; but now as he saw peter reeling up the street, he was aware that he was in no state to be questioned. he went away disappointed and found that no one he met knew whither josiah had gone. at grey pine mrs. ann, uneasily conscious of her share in the matter, asked john if he had given the money to josiah. he said yes, and that the man was safe and by this time far away. meanwhile, the little town buzzed with unwonted excitement and politics gave place about the grocer's door at evening to animated discussion, which was even more interesting when on wednesday there was still no news and the town lamented the need to go unshaven. on thursday morning billy was sent with a led horse to meet penhallow at westways crossing. penhallow had written that he must go on to a meeting of the directors of the bank at the mills and would not be at home until dinner-time. the afternoon train brought mr. woodburn, who as advised by grey went at once to swallow's house, where mrs. swallow gave him a note from her husband asking that if he came he would await the lawyer's return. "well, billy, glad to see you," said penhallow, as he settled himself in the saddle. "all well at grey pine?" "yes, sir." the squire was in high good-humour on having made two good contracts for iron rails. "how are politics, billy?" "don't know, sir." "anything new at westways?" "yes, sir," replied billy with emphasis. "well, what is it?" "josiah's run away." "run away! why?" "don't know--he's gone." penhallow was troubled, but asked no other questions, as he was late. he might learn more at home. he rode through the town and on to the mills. there he transacted some business and went thence to the bank. the board of well-to-do farmers was already in session, and swallow--a member--was talking. "what is that?" said penhallow as he entered, hearing josiah mentioned. some one said, "he has been missing since monday." "he drew out all his money that morning," said swallow, "all of it." "indeed," said penhallow. "did _he_ draw it--i mean in person?" "no," said the lawyer, who was well pleased to make mischief and hated penhallow. penhallow was uneasily curious. "who drew it?" he asked. "josiah could hardly have known how to draw a cheque; i had once to help him write one." "it was a cheque to bearer, i hear," said swallow smiling. "mrs. penhallow drew the money. no doubt josiah got it before he left." penhallow said, "you are insolent." "you asked a question," returned swallow, "and i answered it." "and with a comment i permit no man to make. you said, 'no doubt he got it.' i want an apology at once." he went around the table to where swallow sat. the lawyer rose, saying, "every one will know to-day that josiah was a runaway slave. his master will be here this evening. whoever warned him is liable under the fugitive-slave act--mrs. penhallow drew the money and--" "one word more, sir, of my wife, and i will thrash you. it is clear that you know all about the matter and connect my wife with this man's escape--you have insulted her." "oh, mr. penhallow," said the old farmer who presided, "i beg of you--" "keep quiet," said the squire, "this is my business." "i did not mean to insult mrs. penhallow," said swallow; "i apologize--i--" "you miserable dog," said penhallow, "you are both a coward and a lying, usurious plunderer of hard-working men. you may be thankful that i am a good-tempered man--but take care." "i shall ask this board to remember what has been said of me," said swallow. "the law--" "law! the law of the cowhide is what you will get if i hear again that you have used my wife's name. good-day, gentlemen." he went our furious and rode homeward at speed. before the squire reached grey pine he had recovered his temper and his habitual capacity to meet the difficulties of life with judicial calmness. he had long been sure that josiah had been a slave and had run away. but after these years, that he should have been discovered in this remote little town seemed to him singular. the man was useful to him in several ways and had won his entire respect and liking, so that he felt personal annoyance because of this valuable servant having been scared away. that ann had been in any way concerned in aiding his escape perplexed him, as he remembered how entire was her belief in the creed of the masters of slaves who with their northern allies had so long been the controlling legislative power of the country. "i am glad to be at home, my dear ann," he said, as they met on the porch. "ah! grey, so you are come at last. it is not too late to say how very welcome you are; and john, i believe you have grown an inch since i left." they went in, chatting and merry. the squire cast an amused look at the big spittoon and then at his wife, and went upstairs to dress for dinner. at the meal no one for a variety of good reasons mentioned josiah. the tall soldier with the readiness of helpless courtesy fell into the talk of politics which grey desired. "yes, buchanan will carry the state, grey, but by no large majority." "and the general election?" asked the cousin. "yes, that is my fear. he will be elected." ann, who dreaded these discussions, had just now a reproachful political conscience. she glanced at her husband expecting him to defend his beliefs. he was silent, however, while grey exclaimed, "fear, sir--fear? you surely cannot mean to say--to imply that the election of a black republican would be desirable." he laid down his fork and was about to become untimely eloquent--rivers smiled--watching the squire and his wife, as penhallow said: "pardon me, grey, but i cannot have my best mutton neglected." "oh, yes--yes--but a word--a word. elect fremont--and we secede. elect buchanan--and the union is safe. there, sir, you have it in a nutshell." "ah, my dear grey," said penhallow, "this is rather of the nature of a threat--never a very digestible thing--for me, at least--and i am not very convincible. we will discuss it over our wine or a cigar." he turned to his wife, "any news of leila, ann?" "yes, i had a letter to-day," she returned, somewhat relieved. "she seems to be better satisfied." grey accepted the interrupting hint and fell to critical talk of the squire's horses. after the wine penhallow carried off his guest to the library, and avoiding politics with difficulty was unutterably bored by the little gentleman's reminiscent nothings about himself, his crops, tobacco, wines, his habits of life, what agreed with him and what did not. at last, with some final whisky, mr. grey went to bed. ann, who was waiting anxiously, eager to get through with the talk she dreaded, went at once into the library. penhallow rising threw his cigar into the fire. she laughed, but not in her usual merry way, and cried, "do smoke, james, i shall not mind it; i am forever disciplined to any fate. there is a spittoon in the hall--a spittoon!" the squire laughed joyously, and kissed her. "i can wait for my pipe; we can't have any lapse in domestic discipline." then he added, "i hear that my good josiah has gone away--i may as well say, run away." "yes--he has gone, james." she hesitated greatly troubled. "and you helped him--a runaway slave--you--" he smiled. it had for him an oddly humorous aspect. "i did--i did--" and the little lady began to sob like a child. "it was--was wrong--" there was nothing comic in it for ann penhallow. "you angel of goodness," he cried, as he caught her in his arms and held the weeping face against his shoulder, "my brave little lady!" "i ought not to have done it--but i did--i did--oh, james! to think that my cousin should have brought this trouble on us--but i did--oh, james!" "listen, my dear. if i had been here, i should have done it. see what you have saved me. now sit down and let us have it all out, my dear, all of it." "and you really mean that?" she wailed piteously. "you won't think i did wrong--you won't think i have made trouble for you--" "you have not," he replied, "you have helped me. but, dear, do sit down and just merely, as in these many years, trust my love. now quiet yourself and let us talk it over calmly." "yes--yes." she wiped her eyes. "do smoke, james--i like it." "oh, you dear liar," he said. "and so it was grey?" she looked up. "yes, george grey; but, james, he did not know how much we liked josiah nor how good he had been to me, and how he got hurt when he stopped leila's pony. he was sorry--but it was too late--oh, james!--you will not--oh, you will not--" "will not what, dear?" penhallow was disgusted. a guest entertained in his own house to become a detective of an escaped slave in westways, at his very gate! "my charity, ann, hardly covers this kind of sin against the decencies of life. but i wish to hear all of it. now, who betrayed the man--who told grey?" "i am sorry to say that it was peter lamb who first mentioned josiah to george grey as a runaway. when he spoke of his lost fingers, george was led to suspect who josiah really was. then he saw him, and as soon as he was sure, he wrote to a mr. woodburn, who was josiah's old owner." "i suppose he recognized josiah readily?" "yes, he had been a servant of george's friend, mr. woodburn, and george says he was a man indulgently treated and much trusted." "i infer from what i learned to-day that george told you all this and had already seen swallow, so that the trap was set and mr. woodburn was to arrive. did george imagine you would warn my poor barber--" "but i--i didn't--i mean--i let john hear about it--and he told josiah." he listened. here was another mrs. ann. there was in ann at times a bewildering childlike simplicity with remarkable intelligence--a combination to be found in some of the nobler types of womanhood. he made no remark upon her way of betraying the trust implied in george grey's commonplace confession. "so, then, my dear, john went and gave the man a warning?" "yes, i would have gone, but it was at night and i thought it better to let john see him. how he did it i did not want to know--i preferred to know nothing about it." this last sentence so appealed to penhallow's not very ready sense of humour that he felt it needful to control his mirth as he saw her watching earnestness. "grey, i presume, called on that rascal swallow, mr. woodburn is sent for, and meanwhile josiah is told and wisely runs away. he will never be caught. anything else, my dear?" "yes, i said to george that we would buy josiah's freedom--what amuses you, james?" he was smiling. "oh, the idea of buying a man's power to go and come, when he has been his own master for years. you were right, but it seems that you failed--or, so i infer." "yes. he said mr. woodburn was still angry and always had considered josiah wickedly ungrateful." penhallow looked at his wife. her sense of the comedies of life was sometimes beyond his comprehension, but now--now was she not a little bit, half consciously, of the defrauded master's opinion? "and so, when that failed, you went to bank and drew out the poor fellow's savings?" he meant to hear the whole story. there was worse yet, and he was sure she would speak of it. but now she was her courageous self and desired to confess her share in the matter. "of course, he had to have money, ann." she wanted to get through with this, the most unpleasant part of the matter. "i want to tell you," she said. "i drew out his money with a cheque john made out and josiah signed. john took him his two hundred dollars, as he knew where josiah would hide--i--i did not want to know." her large part in this perilous business began to trouble the squire. his face had long been to her an open book, and she saw in his silence the man's annoyance. she added instantly, "i could not let john draw it--and josiah would not--he was too scared. he had to have his money. was i wrong--was i foolish, james?" "no--you were right. the cheque was in john's handwriting. you were the person to draw it. i would have drawn the money for him. he had a man's right to his honest savings. it will end here--so you may be quite at ease." of this he was not altogether certain. he understood now why she had not given him of her own money, but ann was clearly too agitated to make it well or wise to question her methods further. "go to bed, dear, and sleep the sleep of the just--you did the right thing." he kissed her. "good-night." "one moment more, james. you know, of course--you know that all my life i have believed with my brothers that slavery was wise and right. i had to believe that--to think so might exact from me and others what i never could have anticipated. i came face to face with a test of my creed, and i failed. i am glad i failed." "my dear ann," he said, "i am supposed to be a christian man--i go to church, i have a creed of conduct. to-day i lost my temper and told a man i would thrash him if he dared to say a word more." "it was at the bank, james?" "yes. that fellow swallow spoke of your having drawn josiah's money. he was insolent. you need have no anxiety about it--it is all over. i only mention it because i want you to feel that our creeds of conduct in life are not always our masters, and sometimes ought not to be. let that comfort you a little. you know that to have been a silent looker-on at the return to slavery of a man to whom we owed so much was impossible. my wonder is that for a moment you could have hesitated. it makes me comprehend more charitably the attitude of the owners of men. now, dear, we won't talk any more. good-night--again--good-night." he lighted a cigar and sat long in thought. he had meant not to speak to her of swallow, but it had been, as he saw, of service. then he wondered how long mr. george grey would remain and if he would not think it necessary to speak of josiah. as concerned john, he would be in no hurry to talk to him of the barber; and how the lad had grown in mind and body!--a wonderful change and satisfactory. when after breakfast mr. grey showed no desire to mention josiah and prudently avoided talk about politics, penhallow was greatly relieved. that his host did not open the question of mr. grey's conduct in the matter of the runaway was as satisfactory to the maryland gentleman, whose sense of duty had created for him a situation which was increasingly disagreeable. he warmly welcomed penhallow's invitation to look at some newly purchased horses, and expressed the most cordial approval of whatever he saw, somewhat to the amusement of penhallow. penhallow left him when, declining to ride to the mills, mr. grey retired to the library and read the _tribune_, with internal comment on its editorial columns. he laid the paper aside. mr. woodburn would probably have arrived in the afternoon, and would have arranged with swallow for a consultation in which mr. grey would be expected to take part. it was plain that he really must talk to the captain. he rose and went slowly down the avenue. a half-hour in westways singularly relieved him. swallow was not at home, and josiah, the cause of mr. grey's perplexities, had certainly fled, nor did he learn that mr. woodburn had already arrived. he was now shamefully eager to escape that interview with the captain, and relieved to find that there was no need to wait for the friend he had brought to westways on a vain errand. returning to grey pine, he explained to his cousin that letters from home made it necessary for him to leave on the mid-afternoon train. never did ann penhallow more gratefully practise the virtue that speeds the parting guest. he was sorry to miss the captain and would have the pleasure of sending him a barrel of the best maryland whisky; "and would you, my dear cousin, say, in your delightful way, to the good rector how much i enjoyed his conversation?" ann saw that the lunch was of the best and that the wagon was ready in more than ample season. as he left, she expressed all the regret she ought to have felt, and as the carriage disappeared at a turn of the avenue she sank down in a chair. then she rang a bell. "take away that thing," she said,--"that spittoon." "if james penhallow were here," she murmured, "i should ask him to say--damn! i wonder now if that man woodburn will come, and if there will be a difficulty with james on my account." she sat long in thought, waiting to greet her husband, while mr. grey was left impatient at the station owing to the too hospitable desire of ann to speed the parting guest. when about dusk the squire rode along the road through westways, he came on the rector and dismounted, leaving his horse to be led home by pole's boy. "glad to see you, mark. how goes it; and how did you like mr. grey?" "to tell you the truth, squire, i did not like him. i was forced into a talk about politics. we differed, as you may suppose. he was not quite pleasant. he seemed to have been so mixed up with this sad business about josiah that i kept away at last, so that i might keep my temper. billy drove him to the station after lunch." "indeed!" said penhallow, pleased that grey had gone. it was news to him and not unwelcome. ann would no doubt explain. "what put grey on the track of josiah as a runaway? was it a mere accidental encounter?" he desired to get some confirmatory information. "no--i suspect not." then he related what josiah had told him of peter's threats. "i may do that reprobate injustice, but--however, that is all i now know or feel justified in suspecting." "well, come up and dine to-day; we can talk it out after dinner." "with pleasure," said rivers. penhallow moodily walking up the street, his head bent in thought, was made aware that he was almost in collision with swallow and a large man with a look of good-humoured amusement and the wide-open eyes and uplift of brow expressive of pleasure and surprise. "by george, woodburn!" said the squire. "i heard some one of your name was here, but did not connect the name with you. i last heard of you as in a wild mix-up with the sioux, and i wished i was with you." as penhallow spoke the two men shook hands, swallow meanwhile standing apart not over-pleased as through the narrowed lids of near-sight he saw that the two men must have known one another well and even intimately, for woodburn replied, "thought you knew i'd left the army, jim. the last five years i've been running my wife's plantation in maryland." the squire's pleasure at his encounter with an old west point comrade for a moment caused him to forget that this was the master who had been set on josiah's track by grey. it was but for a moment. then he drew up his soldierly figure and said coldly, "i am sorry that you are here on what cannot be a very agreeable errand." "oh!" said woodburn cheerfully, "i came to get my old servant, caesar. it seems to have been a fool's errand. he has slipped away. i suppose that grey as usual talked too freely. but how the deuce does it concern you? i see that it does." penhallow laughed. "he was my barber." "and mine," said woodburn. "if you have missed him, jim, for a few days, i have missed him for three years and more." then both men laughed heartily at their inequality of loss. "i cannot understand why this fellow ran away. he was a man i trusted and indulged to such an extent that my wife says i spoiled him. she says he owned me quite as much as i owned him--a darned ungrateful cuss! i came here pretty cross when i got george's letter, and now i hear of an amount of hostile feeling which rather surprised me." "that you are surprised, will, surprises me," said penhallow. "the fugitive-slave act will always meet with opposition at the north. it seems made to create irritation even among people who really are not actively hostile to slavery. if it became necessary to enforce it, i believe that i would obey it, because it is the law--but it is making endless trouble. may i ask what you propose to do about this present case?" "do--oh, nothing! i am advised to employ detectives and hunt the man down. i will not; i shall go home. it is not mr. swallow's advice." "no, it is not," said the lawyer, who stood aside waiting a chance to speak. "some one warned the man, and it is pretty generally suspected how he came to be told." penhallow turned to woodburn, "has mr. swallow ventured to connect me or any of my family with this matter?" "no," said woodburn, which was true. swallow meant to keep in reserve mrs. penhallow's share in the escape until he learned how far an angry slave-owner was disposed to go. woodburn had, however, let him understand that he was not of a mind to go further, and had paid in good-humour a bill he thought excessive. grey had made it all seem easy, and then as swallow now learned had gone away. he had also written to his own overseer, and thus among their neighbours a strong feeling prevailed that this was a case for prompt and easy action. the action had been prompt and had failed. woodburn was going home to add more bitterness to the southern sense of northern injustice. when woodburn, much to penhallow's relief, had said he was done with the case, the squire returned, "then, as you are through with mr. swallow, come home and dine with me. where are you staying?" "at mr. swallow's, but i leave by the night train." "so soon! but come and dine. i will send for your bag and see that you get to your train." the prospect of swallow and his feeble, overdressed wife, and his comrade's urgency, decided woodburn. he said, "yes, if mr. swallow will excuse me." swallow said, "oh, of course!" relieved to be rid of a dissatisfied client, and the two ex-soldiers went away together chatting of west point life. half-way up the avenue penhallow said, "before we go in, a word or two--" "what is it, jim?" "that fellow said nothing of mrs. penhallow, you are sure?" "yes," returned woodburn, "not a word. i knew that you lived here, but neither of you nor of mrs. penhallow did he say a word in connection with this business. i meant to look you up this afternoon. why do you speak of your wife?" "because--well--i could not let you join us without an honest word concerning what i was sure you would have heard from swallow. now if you had taken what i presume was his advice--to punish the people concerned in warning josiah, you--indeed i--might hesitate--" "what do you mean, jim?" said his companion much amazed. "i mean this: after our loose-tongued friend grey told my wife that josiah was in danger, she sent him word of the risk he ran, and then drew out of our bank for him his savings and enabled him to get away. now don't say a word until i have done. listen! this man turned up here over three years ago and was soon employed about my stables. he broke his leg in stopping a runaway and saved my wife's young niece, our adopted child, leila grey. there was some other kind and efficient service. that's all. now, can you dine with me?" "with all my heart, jim. damn grey! did he talk much?" "did he? no, he gabbled. but are you satisfied?" "yes, jim. i am sorry i drove off your barber--and i shall hold my tongue when i get home--as far as i can." "then come. i have some of my father's madeira, if grey has left any. i shall say a word to mrs. penhallow. by george! i am glad to have you." penhallow showed woodburn to a room, and feeling relieved and even elated, found his wife, who had tired of waiting and had gone to get ready to dine. he told her in a few words enough to set her at ease with the new guest. then mark rivers came in and john penhallow, who having heard about the stranger's errand was puzzled when he became aware of the cordial relations of his uncle and mr. woodburn. the dinner was pleasant and unembarrassed. the lad whom events had singularly matured listened to gay memories of west point and to talk of cadets whose names were to live in history or who had been distinguished in our unrighteous war with mexico. when now and then the talk became quite calmly political, ann listened to the good-natured debate and was longing to speak her mind. she was, however, wisely silent, and reflected half amused that she had lost the right to express herself on the question which was making politics ill-tempered but was now being discussed at her table with such well-bred courtesy. john soon ceased to follow the wandering talk, and feeling what for him had the charm of romance in the flight of josiah sat thinking over the scene of the warning at night, the scared fugitive in the cabin, and the lonely voyage down through the darkness of the rapids of the river. where would the man go? would they ever see him again? they were to meet in far-away days and in hours far more perilous. then he was caught once more by gay stories of adventures on the plains and memories of indian battles, until the wine had been drunk and the squire took his friend to the library for an hour. chapter xi penhallow himself drove his guest to meet the night express to the east, and well pleased with his day returned to find his wife talking with rivers and john. he sat down with them at the fire in the hall, saying, "i wanted to keep woodburn longer, but he was wise not to stay. what are you two talking over--you were laughing?" "i," said rivers, "was hearing how that very courteous gentleman chanced to dine with these mortal enemies who stole his property. i kept quiet, mrs. penhallow said nothing, john ate his dinner, and no one quarrelled. i longed for mr. grey--" "for shame," said mrs. ann. "tell him why we were laughing--it was at nothing particular." "it was about poor old mrs. burton." "what about her? if you can make that widow interesting in any way, i shall be grateful." "it was about her dead husband--" "am i to hear it or not?" said penhallow. "what is it?" "why, what she said was that she was more than ever confirmed in her belief in special providences, because malcolm was so fond of tomatoes, and this year of his death not one of their tomatoes ripened." the squire's range of enjoyment of the comic had limitations, but this story was immensely enjoyed and to his taste. he laughed in his hearty way. "did she tell you that, mark, or has it improved in your hands?" "no--no, i got it from grace, and he had it from the widow. i do not think it seemed the least bit funny to grace." "but after all," said mrs. ann, "is it so very comic?" "oh, now," said penhallow, "we are in for a discussion on special providences. i can't stand it to-night; i want something more definite. my manager says sometimes, 'i want to close out this-here business.' now i want to close out this abominable business about my poor josiah. you and your aunt, john, have been, as you may know, breaking the law of your country--" rivers, surprised and still partially ignorant, looked from one to another. "oh, james!" remonstrated his wife, not overpleased. "wait a little, my dear ann. now, john, i want to hear precisely how you gave josiah a warning and--well--all the rest. you ought to know that my little lady did as usual the right thing. the risks and whatever there might have been of danger were ours by right--a debt paid to a poor runaway who had made us his friends. now, john!" rivers watched his pupil with the utmost interest. john stood up a little excited by this unexpected need to confess. he leaned against the side of the mantel and said, "well, you see, uncle jim, i got in at the back--" "i don't see at all. i want to be made to see--i want the whole story." john had in mind that he had done a rather fine thing and ought to relate it as lightly as he had heard woodburn tell of furious battles with apaches. but, as his uncle wanted the whole story, he must have some good reason, and the young fellow was honestly delighted. standing by the fire, watched by three people who loved him, and above all by the captain, his ideal of what he felt he himself could never be, john penhallow told of his entrance to josiah's room and of his thought of the cabin as a hiding-place. when he hesitated, penhallow said, "oh, don't leave out, john penhallow, i want all the details. i have my reasons, john." flushed and handsome, with his strong young face above the figure which was to have his uncle's athletic build, he related his story to the close. as he told of the parting with the frightened fugitive and the hunted man's last blessing, he was affected as he had not been at the time. "that's all, uncle jim. it was too bad--and he will never come back." "he could," said rivers. "yes--but he will not. i know the man," said penhallow. "he has the courage of the minute, but the timidity of the slave. we shall see him no more, i fear." the little group around the fire fell to silence, and john sat down. he wanted a word of approval, and got it. "i want you to know, john," said penhallow, "that i think you behaved with courage and discretion. it was not an errand for a boy, but no man could have done better, and your aunt had no one else. i am glad she had not." then john penhallow felt that he was shaky and that his eyes were uncomfortably filling. with a boy's dislike of showing emotion, he mastered his feelings and said, "thank you, uncle jim." "that is all," said the squire, who too saw and comprehended what he saw, "go to bed, you breaker of the law--" "and i," said ann, "a wicked partner. come, john." they left the master of the house with the rector. rivers looked at the clock, "i think i must go. i do not stand late hours. if i let the day capture the night, the day after is apt to find me dull." "well, stand it this once, mark. i hate councils of war or peace without the pipe, and now, imagine it, my dear wife wanted me to smoke, and that was all along of that terrible spittoon and the long-expected cousin of whom i have heard from time to time. _les absens n'out pas toujours tort_. now smoke and don't watch the clock. i said this abominable business was to be closed out--" "and is it not?" asked rivers. "no. i do not talk about peter lamb to my wife, because she thinks my helping him so often has done the man more harm than good. it was not grey alone who was responsible. he told mrs. penhallow that peter had sent him to josiah's shop. he told grey too that josiah must be a runaway slave and that any one would know him by his having lost two fingers. that at once set grey on this mischievous track." "i am only too sure that you are right," returned rivers. "peter tried a very futile blackmailing trick on josiah. he wanted to get whisky, and told the poor negro that he must get it for him or he would let his master know where he was. of course, the scamp knew what we all knew and no more, but it alarmed josiah, who came to me at once. he was like a scared child. i told him to go home and that peter had lied. he went away looking as if the old savagery in his blood might become practically active." "i don't wonder," said penhallow. "did it end there?" "no, i saw peter next day, and he of course lied to me very cleverly, said it was only a joke on josiah, and so on. i think, sir, and you will i hope excuse me--i do think that the man were better let alone. every time you help him, he gets worse. when he was arrested and suspected of burning robert's hayrick, you pleaded with the old farmer and got the man off. he boasted of it the next time he got drunk." "i know--i know." the squire had paid robert's loss, and aware of his own folly was of no mind to confess to any one. "i have no wish or will to help him. i mean now to drop him altogether, and i must tell him so. but what a pity it is! he is intelligent, and was a good carpenter until he began to drink. i must talk to him." "you will only make him more revengeful. he has what he calls 'got even' with josiah, and he is capable of doing it with you or me. let him alone." "not i," said the squire; "if only for his mother's sake, i must see what i can do." "useless--quite useless," said rivers. "you may think that strange advice for a clergyman, but i do sometimes despair of others and occasionally of mark rivers. goodnight." during these days the fugitive floated down the swift little river at night, and at dawn hid his frail boat and himself in the forests of a thinly settled land. he was brave enough, but his ignorance of geography added to his persistent terror. on the third day the broader waters brought him to farms and houses. then he left his boat and struck out across the country until he came to a railway. in the station he made out that it led to philadelphia. knowing that he would be safe there, he bought a ticket and arrived in the city the next day--a free man with money, intelligence, and an honest liking for steady work. the squire had the good habit of second thought. his wife knew it well and had often found it valuable and to be trusted. at present he was thoroughly disgusted with the consequences of what he knew to be in some degree the result of his own feeling that he was bound to care for the man whose tie to him was one few men would have considered as in any serious degree obligatory. the night brought good counsel, and he made up his mind next morning simply to let the foster-brother alone. fate decreed otherwise. in the morning he was asked by his wife to go with her to the village; she wanted some advice. he did not ask what, but said, "of course. i am to try the barber's assistant i have brought from the mills to shave me, and what is more important--westways. i have put him in our poor old josiah's shop." they went together to pole's, and returning she stopped before the barn-like building where grace gathered on sundays a scant audience to hear the sermons which rivers had told him had too much heart and too little head. "what is it?" asked penhallow. "i have heard, james, that their chapel (she never called it church) is leaking--the roof, i mean. could not you pay for a new roof?" "of course, my dear--of course. it can't cost much. i will see grace about it." "thank you, james." on no account would she now have done this herself. she was out of touch for the time with the whole business of politics, and to have indulged her usual gentle desire to help others would have implied obligation on the part of the baptist to accept her wish that he should vote and use his influence for buchanan. now the thing would be done without her aid. in time her desire to see the democrats win in the interest of her dear south would revive, but at present what with grey and the threat of the practical application of the fugitive-slave act and her husband's disgust, she was disposed to let politics alone. presently, as they walked on, peter lamb stopped them. "i'd like to speak to you for a moment, mr. penhallow." mrs. penhallow walked on. "what is it?" said the squire. "i'm all right now--i'll never drink again. i want some work--and mother's sick." "we will see to her, but you get no more work from me." "why, what's the matter, sir?" "matter! you might ask josiah if he were here. you know well enough what you did--and now i am done with you." "so help me god, i never--" "oh! get out of my way. you are a miserable, lying, ungrateful man, and i have done with you." he walked away conscious of having again lost his temper, which was rare. the red-faced man he left stood still, his lips parted, the large yellow teeth showing. "it's that damned parson," he said. penhallow rejoined his wife. "what did he want?" she asked. "oh, work," he said. "i told him he could get no more from me." "well, james," she said, "that is the first sensible thing you have ever done about that man. you have thoroughly spoiled him, and now it is very likely too late to discipline him." "yes--perhaps--you may be right." he knew her to be right, but he did not like her agreement with his decision to be connected with even her mild statement that it had been better if long before he had been more reasonably severe and treated lamb as others would have treated him. in the minor affairs of life ann penhallow used the quick perception of a woman, and now and then brought the squire's kindly excesses to the bar of common sense. sometimes the sentence was never announced, but now and then annoyed at his over-indulgent charity she allowed her impatience the privilege of speech, and then, as on this occasion, was sorry to have spoken. dismissing his slight vexation, penhallow said presently, "he told me his mother was sick." "she was not yesterday. i took her our monthly allowance and some towels i wanted hemmed and marked. he lied to you, james. did you believe him even for a moment?" "but she might be sick, ann. i meant you to stop and ask." "i will, of course." this time she held her tongue, and left him at grace's door. the perfect sweetness of her husband's generous temperament was sometimes trying to ann in its results, but now it had helped her out of an awkward position, and with pride and affection she watched his soldierly figure for a moment and then went on her way. intent with gladness on fulfilling his wife's errand, he went up the steps of the small two-storey house of the baptist preacher. he had difficulty in making any one hear where there was no one to hear. if at westways the use of the rare bells or more common knockers brought no one to the door, you were free to walk in and cry, "where are you, amanda jane, and shall i come right up?" penhallow had never set foot in the house, but had no hesitation in entering the front room close to the narrow hall which was known as the front entry. the details of men's surroundings did not usually interest penhallow, but in the mills or the far past days of military service nothing escaped him that could be of use in the work of the hour. the stout little baptist preacher, with his constant every-day jollity and violent sermons, of which he had heard from rivers, in no way interested penhallow. when he once said to ann, "the man is unneat and common," she replied, "no, he is homely, but neither vulgar nor common. i hate his emotional performances, but the man is good, james." "then i do wish, ann, he would button his waistcoat and pull up his socks." now he looked about him with some unusual attention. there was no carpet. a set of oddly coloured chairs and settees which would have pleased ann, a square mahogany table set on elephantine legs, completed the furnishings of a whitewashed room, where the flies, driven indoors by cool weather, buzzed on window glasses dull with dust. the back room had only a writing-table, a small case of theological books, and two or three much used volumes of american history. penhallow looked around him with unusually awakened pity. the gathered dust, the battered chairs, the spider-webs in the darker corners, would have variously annoyed and disgusted ann penhallow. a well-worn bible lay on the table, with a ragged volume of "hiawatha" and "bunyan's holy war." there were no other books. this form of poverty piteously appealed to him. "by george!" he exclaimed, "that is sad. the man is book-poor. ann must have that library. i will ask him to use mine." as he stood still in thought, he heard steps, and turned to meet dr. mcgregor. "come to see grace, sir?" said the doctor. "yes, i came about a little business, but there seems to be no one in." "grace is in bed and pretty sick too." "what is the matter?" "oh, had a baptism in the river--stood too long in the water and got chilled. it has happened before. come up and see him--he'll like it." the squire hesitated and then followed the doctor. "who cares for him?" he asked as they moved up the stairs. "oh, his son. rather a dull lad, but not a bad fellow. he has no servant--cooks for himself. ever try it, squire?" "i--often. but what a life!" the stout little clergyman lay on a carved four-post bedstead of old mahogany, which seemed to hint of better days. the ragged patch-work quilt over him told too of busy woman-hands long dead. the windows were closed, the air was sick (as mcgregor said later), and there was the indescribable composite odour which only the sick chamber of poverty knows. the boy, glad to escape, went out as they entered. grace sat up. "now," he said cheerfully, "this is real good of you to come and see me! take a seat, sir." the chairs were what the doctor once described as non-sitable, and wabbled as they sat down. "you are better, i see, grace," said the doctor. "i fetched up the squire for a consultation." "yes, i'm near about right." he had none of the common feeling of the poor that he must excuse his surroundings to these richer visitors, nor any least embarrassment. "it's good to see some one, mr. penhallow." "i come on a pleasant errand," said penhallow. "we will talk it over and then leave you to the doctor. mrs. penhallow wants me to roof your church. i came to say to you that i shall do it with pleasure. you will lose the use of it for one sunday at least." "thank you, squire," said grace simply. "that's real good medicine." "i will see to it at once." the doctor opened a window, and penhallow drew a grateful breath of fresh air. "don't go, sir," said grace. the squire sat down again while mcgregor went through his examination of the sick man. then he too rose to leave. "must you go?" said grace. "it is such a pleasure to see some one from the outside." the doctor smiled and lingered. "i suppose, squire, you'll get joe boynton, the carpenter, to put on the roof? he's one of my flock." "yes," said penhallow, "but he will want to put his old workman, peter lamb, on the job, and i have no desire to help that man any further. he gives his mother nothing, and every cent he makes goes for drink." mcgregor nodded approval, but wondered why at last the squire's unfailing good-nature had struck for higher wages of virtue in the man he had ruined by kindness. "i try to keep work in westways," said penhallow. "joe shall roof the chapel, and like as not peter will be too drunk to help. i can't quite make it a condition with joe that he shall not employ peter, but i should like to." mcgregor's face grew smiling at penhallow's conclusion when he added, "i hope he may get work elsewhere." then the squire went downstairs with the doctor, exchanging brevities of talk. "are you aware, penhallow, that this wicked business about josiah has beaten buchanan in westways? come to apply the fugitive-slave act and people won't stand it. as long as it was just a matter of newspaper discussion westways didn't feel it, but when it drove away our barber, westways's conscience woke up to feel how wicked it was." the squire had had an illustration nearer home and kept thinking of it as he murmured monosyllabic contributions while the doctor went on--"my own belief is that if the november election were delayed six months, fremont would carry pennsylvania." penhallow recovered fuller consciousness and returned, "i distrust fremont. i knew him in the west. but he represents, or rather he stands for, a party, and it is mine." "i am glad to know that," said mcgregor. "i am really glad. it is a relief to be sure about a man like you, penhallow. i suppose you know that you are loved in the county as no one else is." "nonsense," exclaimed the squire, laughing, but not ill-pleased. "no, i am serious; but it leads up to this: am i free to say you will vote the republican ticket?" "yes--yes--you may say so." "it will be of use, but couldn't i persuade you to speak at the meeting next week at the mills?" "no, mcgregor. that is not in my line." he had other reasons for refusal. "let us drop politics. what is that boy of yours going to do?" "study medicine," he says. "he has brains enough, and mr. rivers tells me he is studious. our two lads fell out, it seems, and my boy got the worst of it. what i don't like is that he has not made up with john." "no, that is bad; but boys get over their quarrels in time. however, i must go. if i can be of any use to tom, you know that i am at your service." "when were you not at everybody's service?" said the doctor, and they went out through the hall. "good-bye," said penhallow, but the doctor stopped him. "penhallow, may i take the liberty to bother you with a bit of unasked advice?" "a liberty, nonsense! what is it?" "well, then--let that drunken brute peter alone. you said that you would not let the carpenter use him, but why not? then you hoped he would get work. let him alone." "mcgregor, i have a great charity for a drunkard's son--and the rest you know." "yes, too well." "i try to put myself in his place--with his inheritance--" "you can't. nothing is more kind than that in some cases, and nothing more foolish in others or in this--" "perhaps. i will think it over, doctor. good-bye." meanwhile grace lay in bed thoughtfully considering the situation. while her husband seemed practically inactive in politics, mrs. penhallow had been busy, and she had clearly hinted that the roofing of the chapel might depend on how grace used his large influence in the electoral contest, but had said nothing very definite. he was well aware, however, that in his need for help he had bowed a little in the house of rimmon. then he had talked with rivers and straightened up, and now did the squire's offer imply any pledge on his own part? while he tried to solve this problem, penhallow reappeared. "i forgot something, grace," he said. "mrs. penhallow will send mrs. lamb here for a few days, and some--oh, some little luxuries--ice and fresh milk." the baptist did not like it. was this to keep him in the way he had resolved not to go. "thank you and her," he returned, and then added abruptly, "how are you meaning to vote, squire?" "oh, for fremont," replied penhallow, rather puzzled. "well, that will be good news in westways." it was to him, too, and he felt himself free. "isn't mrs. penhallow rather on the other side?" he had no least idea that the question might be regarded as impertinent. penhallow said coldly, "my wife and i are rather averse to talking politics. i came back to say that i want you to feel free to make use of my library--just as rivers does." "now that will be good. i am book-starved except for rivers's help. thank you." he put out a fat hand and said, "god has been good to me this day; may he be as kind to you and yours." the squire went his way wondering what the deuce the man had to do with ann penhallow's politics. mrs. lamb took charge of grace, and mrs. penhallow saw that he was well supplied and gave no further thought to the incorrigible and changeful political views of westways. the excitement over the flight of josiah lessened, and westways settled down to the ordinary dull routine of a little community dependent on small farmers and the mill-men who boarded at the old tavern or with some of the townspeople. * * * * * the forests were rapidly changing colour except where pine and spruce stood darkly green amid the growing magnificence of maple and oak. it was the intermediate season in which were neither winter nor summer sports, and john penhallow enjoying the pageant of autumn rode daily or took long walks, exploring the woods, missing leila and giving free wing to a mind which felt the yearning, never to be satisfied, to translate into human speech its bird-song of enjoyment of nature. on an afternoon in mid-october he saw mr. rivers, to his surprise, far away on the bank of the river. well aware that the clergyman was rarely given to any form of exercise on foot, john was a little surprised when he came upon the tall, stooping, pallid man with what ann penhallow called the "eloquent" eyes. he was lying on the bank lazily throwing stones into the river. as john broke through the alders and red willows above him, he turned at the sound and cried, as john jumped down the bank, "glad to see you, john! i have been trying to settle a question no one can settle to the satisfaction of others or even himself. you might give me your opinion as to who wrote the epistle to the hebrews. origen gave it up, and philo had a theory about apollos, and there is tertullian, that's all any fellow knows; and so now i await your opinion. what nobody knows about, anybody's opinion is good about." john laughed as he said, "i don't think i'll try." "did you ever read hebrews, john? the epistle i mean." "no." "then don't or not yet. the bible books ought to be read at different ages of a man's life. i could arrange them. your aunt reads to you or with you, i believe?" "yes--acts just now, sir. she makes it so clear and interesting that it seems as if all might have happened now to some missionaries somewhere." "that is an art. some of the bible stories require such help to make them seem real to modern folk. how does, or how did, leila take mrs. ann's teachings?" "oh, leila," he replied, as he began to pitch pebbles in the little river, "leila--wriggled. you know, she really can't keep quiet, mr. rivers." "yes, i know well enough. but did what interested you interest leila?" "no--no, indeed, sir. it troubled aunt ann because she could not make her see things. usually at night before bedtime we read some of the gospels, and then once a week acts. every now and then leila would sit still and ask such queer questions--about people." "what kind of questions, john?" he was interested and curious. "oh, about peter's mother and--i forget--oh, yes, once--i remember that because aunt did not like it and i really couldn't see why." "well, what was it?" "she wanted to know if christ's brothers ever were married and if they had children." "did she, indeed! well--well!" "aunt ann asked her why she wanted to know that, and leila said it was because she was thinking how christ must have loved them, and maybe that was why he was so fond of little children. now, i couldn't have thought that." "nor i," said rivers. "she will care more for people--oh, many people--and by and by for things, events and the large aspects of life, but she is as yet undeveloped." john was clear that he did not want her to like many people, but he was inclined to keep this to himself and merely said, "i don't quite understand." "no, perhaps i _was_ a little vague. leila is at the puzzling age. you will find her much altered in a year." "i won't like that." "well, perhaps not. but you too have changed a good deal since you came. you were a queer young prig." "i was--i was indeed." then they were silent a while. john thought of his mother who had left him to the care of tutors and schools while she led a wandering, unhappy, invalid life. he remembered the alps and the _spas_ and her fretful care of his very good health, and then the delight of being free and surrounded with all a boy desires, and at last leila and the wonderful hair on the snow-drift. "look at the leaves, john," said rivers. "what fleets of red and gold!" "i wonder," said john, "how far they will drift, and if any of them will ever float to the sea. it is a long way." "yes," returned rivers, "and so we too are drifting." "oh, no, sir," said john, with the confidence of youth, "we are not drifting, we are sailing--not just like the leaves anywhere the waves take them." "more or less," added rivers moodily, "more or less." he looked at the boy as he spoke, conscious of a nature unlike his own. then he laughed outright. "you may be sure we are a good deal hustled by circumstances--like the leaves." "i should prefer to hustle circumstances," replied john gaily, and again the rector studied the young face and wondered what life had in store for this resolute nature. "come, let us go. i have walked too far for me, i am overtired, john." what it felt to be overtired, john hardly knew. he said, "i know a short cut, cater-cornered across the new clearing." as they walked homeward, rivers said, "what do you want to do, john? you are more than fit for the university--you should be thinking about it." "i do not know." "would you like to be a clergyman?" "no," said john decisively. "or a lawyer, or a doctor like tom mcgregor?" "i do not know--i have not thought about it much, but i might like to go to west point." "indeed!" "yes, but i am not sure." chapter xii when john was eager to hear what leila wrote, his aunt laughed and said, "as you know, there is always a word of remembrance for you, but her letters would hardly interest you. they are about the girls and the teachers and new gowns. write to her--i will enclose it, but you need expect no answer." that leila should have acquired interest in gowns seemed to him unlike that fearless playmate. he learned that the rules of the school forbade the writing of letters except to parents and near relatives. he was now to write to leila the first letter he had written since his laborious epistles to his mother when at school. his compositions seemed to rivers childlike long after he showed notable competence in speech. "dear leila: it is very hard that you cannot write to me. we are all well here except lucy, who is lame. it isn't very much. "of course you have heard about our good old josiah. isn't that slave law wicked? westways is angry and all turned round for fremont. mr. grace has been ill, and uncle jim is putting a roof on his chapel. josiah left me his traps when he ran away. he meant to make you a muskrat skin bag. i found four in his traps, and i have caught four more, and when mrs. lamb makes a bag of them, i am to have for it a silver clasp which belonged to great-grandmother penhallow. no girl will have one like that. it was on account of josiah the town will not vote for buchanan. "i wish i had asked you for a lock of your hair. i remember how it looked on the snow when billy upset us."-- he had found his letter-writing hard work, and let it alone for a time. before he finished it, he had more serious news to add. the autumnal sunset of the year, the red and gold of maple, oak and sassafras, was new to the boy who had spent so many years in europe, and more wonderful was it when in this late october on the uplands there fell softly upon the glowing colours of the woods a light covering of early snow. once seen it is a spectacle never to be forgotten, and he had the gift of being charmed by the scenic ingenuities of nature. the scripture reading was over and he was thinking late in the evening of what he had seen, when his aunt said, "goodnight, john--bed-time," and went up the stairway. john lay quiet, with closed eyes, seeing the sunlit snow lightly dusted on the red and yellows of the forest. about eleven his uncle came from the library. "what, you scamp!--up so late! i meant to mail this letter to-day; run down and mail it. it ought to go when billy takes the letters to westways crossing early to-morrow. i will wait up for you. now use those long legs and hurry." john took his cap and set off, liking the run over the snow, which was light and no longer falling. he raced down the avenue and climbed the gate, thinking of leila. he dropped the letter into the post-office box, and decided to return by a short way through the penhallow woods which faced the town. he moved eastward, climbed the fence, and stood still. he was some two hundred yards from the parsonage. his attention was arrested by a dull glow behind the house. he ran towards it as it flared upward a broad rush of flame, brilliantly lighting the expanse of snow and sending long prancing shafts of shadow through the woods as it struck on the tall spruces. shouting, "fire! fire!" john came nearer. the large store of dry pine and birch for winter-use piled in a shed against the back of rivers's house was burning fiercely, with that look of ungoverned fury which gives such an expression of merciless, personal rage to a great fire. the terror of it at first possessed the lad, who was shouting himself hoarse. the flame was already running up and over the outer planking and curling down upon the thin snow of the shingled roof as he ran around the small garden and saw the front door open and rivers come out. the rector said, "it is gone, john; i will go for your uncle. run over to the wayne and call up the men. tell them to get out my books and what they can, but to run no risks. quick, now! wake up the town." there was little need, for some one at the inn had heard john's cries. in a few minutes the village was awake and out of doors before penhallow arriving took charge and scattered men through the easily lighted pines, in some dread of a forest fire. the snow on the floor of pine-needles and on the laden trees was, however, as he soon saw, an insurance against the peril from far-scattered sparks, and happily there was no wind. little of what was of any value was saved, and in the absence of water there was nothing to do but to watch the fire complete its destructive work. "there is nothing more we can do, rivers," said penhallow. "john was the first to see it. we will talk about it to-morrow--not now--not here." the three grey pine people stood apart while books and clothes and little else were carried across the road and stored in the village houses. at last the flames rose high in the air and for a few minutes as the roof fell in, the beauty of the illumination was what impressed john and rivers. the squire now and then gave quick orders or stood still in thought. at last he said to the rector, "i want you to go to grey pine, call up mrs. penhallow and tell her, and then go to bed. you will like to stay here with me, john?" "yes, sir." the squire walked away as rivers left them. "fine sight, ain't it, mr. john," said billy, the one person who enjoyed the fire. "yes," said john, absently intent on the red-lighted snow spaces and the gigantic shadows of the thinly timbered verge of the forest as they were and were not. then there was a moment of alarm. an old birch, loosely clad with dry, ragged bark stood near to the house. a flake of falling fire fell on it. instantly the whole trunk-cover blazed up with a roar like that of a great beast in pain. it was sudden and for the instant terrible, but the snow-laden leaves still left on it failed to take fire, and what in summer would have been a calamity was at an end. "gosh!" exclaimed billy, "didn't he howl?" john made no reply. "couldn't wake peter. i was out first." he had liked the fun of banging at the doors. "old woman lamb said she couldn't wake him." "drunk, i suppose," said john absently, stamping out a spark among the pine-needles at his feet, now freed from snow by the heat. the night passed, and when the dawning came, the squire leaving some orders went homeward with john, saying only, "go to bed at once, we will talk about it later. i don't like it, john. you saw it first--where did it begin?" "outside, sir, in the wood-shed." "indeed! there has been some foul play. who could it have been?" he said no more. it was far into the morning when john awaking found that he had been allowed to make up for the lost sleep of the past night. his aunt smiling greeted him with a kiss, concerning which there is something to be said in regard to what commentary the assistant features make upon the kiss. "i would not have you called earlier," she said; "but now, here is your breakfast, you have earned it." she sat down and watched the disappearance of a meal which would have filled his mother with anxiety. ann was really enjoying the young fellow's wholesome appetite and contrasting it with the apprehensive care concerning food he had shown when long before he had seemed to her husband and herself a human problem hard to solve. james penhallow had been wise, and leila a rough and efficient schoolmistress. "do not hurry, john; have another cup?" "yes, please." "have you written that letter? i mean to be naughty enough to enclose it to leila. i told you so." "yes, but it is not quite done, and now i must tell her about the fire. i wrote her that josiah had gone away." "the less of it the better. i mean about--well, about your warning him--and the rest--your share and mine." "of course not, aunt ann. i would not talk about myself. i mean, i could not write about it." "you would talk of it if she were here--you would, i am sure." "yes, that's different--i suppose, i would," he returned. she was struck with this as being like what james penhallow would have said and have, or not have, done. "if you have finished, john, i think your uncle wants you." "why didn't you tell me, aunt?" he said, as he got up in haste. "oh, boys must be fed," she cried. she too rose from her seat, and went around the table and kissed him again, saying, "you are more and more like my captain, john." being a woman, as john was well aware, not given to express approval of what were merely acts of duty, he was surprised at what was, for her, excess of praise; nor was she as much given to kissing, as are many women. the lad felt, therefore, that what she thus said and did was unusual, and was what his uncle jim called one of ann's rarely conferred brevets of affection. "yes," she repeated, "you are like him." "what! i like uncle jim! i wish i were." "now go," she said, giving him a gentle push. she was shyly aware of a lapse into unhabitual emotion and of some closer approach to the maternal relation fostered by his growing resemblance to james penhallow. "so," laughed his uncle as john entered the library, "you have burned down the school and are on a holiday--you and rivers." john grinned. "yes, sir." "sit down. we are discussing that fire. you were the first to see it, john. it was about eleven--" "yes, uncle, it struck as i left the hall." "no one else was in sight, and in fact, rivers, no one in westways is out of bed at ten. both you and john are sure the fire began outside where the wood was piled under a shed." "yes," said rivers. "it was a well dried winter supply, birch and pine. the shed, as you know, was alongside of the kitchen door. i went over the house as usual about nine, after old susan, the maid, had gone home. i covered the kitchen fire with ashes--a thing she is apt to neglect. i went to bed at ten and wakened to hear the glass crack and to smell smoke. the kitchen lay under my bedroom. i fear it was a deliberate act of wickedness." "that is certain," said penhallow, "but who could have wanted to do it. you and i, rivers, know every one in westways. can you think of any one with malice enough to make him want to bum a house and risk the possibility of murder?" rivers turned his lean pale face toward the squire, unwilling to speak out what was in the minds of both men. john listened, looking from one serious face to the other. "it seems to me quite incredible," said penhallow, and then rivers knew surely that the older man had a pretty definite belief in regard to the person who had been concerned. he knew too why the squire was unwilling to accuse him, and waited to hear what next penhallow would say. "it makes one feel uncomfortable," said penhallow, and turning to john, "who was first there after you came?" "billy, sir, i think, even before the men from the wayne, but i am not sure. i told him to pound on the doors and wake up the town." "did he say anything?" "oh, just his usual silliness." "was peter lamb at the fire?" "i think not. his mother opened a window and said that she could not waken peter. it was billy told me that. i told billy, i supposed peter was drunk. but he wasn't yesterday afternoon--i saw him." "oh, there was time enough for that," remarked rivers. then the two men smoked and were silent, until at last the squire said, "of course, you must stay here, rivers, and you know how glad we shall be--oh, don't protest. it is the only pleasant thing which comes out of this abominable matter. ann will like it." "thank you," returned rivers, "i too like it." john went away to look at the ruin left by the fire, and the squire said to his friend, "as i am absent in the mornings at the mills, you may keep school here, rivers," and it was so settled. before going out penhallow went to his wife's little room on the farther side of the hall. he had no desire to hide his conclusions from her. she saw how grave he looked. "what is it, james?" she asked, looking up from her desk. "i am as sure as a man can be that peter lamb set fire to the parsonage. he has always been revengeful and he owed our friend, the rector, a grudge. i have no direct evidence of his guilt, and what am i to do? you know why i have always stood by him. i suppose that i was wrong." she knew only too well, but now his evident trouble troubled her and she loved him too well to accept the temptation to use the exasperating phrase, "i always told you so." "you can do nothing, james, without more certainty. you will not question his mother?" "no, i can't do that, ann; and yet i cannot quite let this go by and simply sit still." "what do you propose to do?" "i do not know," and with this he left her and rode to the mills. in the afternoon he called at mrs. lamb's and asked where he could find peter. she was evidently uneasy, as she said, "you gave him work on the new roof of the baptist chapel with boynton; he might be there." he made no comment, and went on his way until reaching the chapel he called peter down from the roof and said, "come with me, i want to talk to you." peter was now sober and was sharply on guard. "come away from the town," added the squire. he crossed the street, entered his own woods and walked through them until he came in sight of the smoking relics of the parsonage, where at a distance some few persons were idly discussing what was also on penhallow's mind. here he turned on his foster-brother, and said, "you set that house on fire. i could get out of your mother enough to make it right to arrest you, but i will not bring her into the matter. others suspect you. now, what have you to say?" "say! i didn't do it--that's all. i was in bed." "why did you not get up and help?" "wasn't any of my business," he replied sulkily. "everybody in this town's against me, and now when i've given up drinking, to say i set a house afire--" "well!" said penhallow, "this is my last word, you may go. i shall not have you arrested, but i cannot answer for what others may do." peter walked away. he had been for several days enough under the influence of whisky to intensify what were for him normal or at least habitually indulged characteristics. for them he was only in part responsible. his mother had spoiled him. he had been as a child the playmate of his breast-brother until time and change had left him only in such a relation to penhallow as would have meant little or nothing to most men. as a result, out of the squire's long and indulgent care of a lad who grew up a very competent carpenter, and gradually more and more an idle drunkard, peter had come to overestimate the power of his claim on penhallow. what share in his evil qualities his father's drunkenness had, is in no man's power to say. his desire to revenge the slightest ill-treatment or the abuse his evil ways earned had the impelling force of a brute instinct. what he called "getting even" kept him in difficulties, and when he made things unpleasant or worse for the offenders, his constant state of induced indifference to consequences left him careless and satisfied. when there was not enough whisky to be had, his wild acts of revengeful malice were succeeded by such childlike terror as penhallow's words produced. 'the preacher would have him arrested; the squire would not interfere. some day he would get even with him too!' there was now, however, no recourse but flight. he hastened home and finding his mother absent searched roughly until by accident as he let fall her bible, a bank note dropped out. there were others, some sixty dollars or more, her meagre savings. he took it all without the least indecision. at dark after her return he ate the supper she provided. when she had gone to bed, he packed some clothes in a canvas bag and went quietly out upon the highway. opposite to the smoking ruin of the rectory he halted. he muttered, "i've got even with him anyhow!" as he murmured his satisfaction, a man left on guard crossed the road. "halloa! where are you bound, peter?" "goin' after a job. bad fire, wasn't it--hard on the preacher!" "hard. he's well lodged at the squire's, and i do hear it was insured. nobody's much the worse, and it will make a fine bit of work for some of us. who done it, i wonder?" "how should i know! good-night." when out of sight, he turned and said, "i ain't got even yet. them rich people's hard to beat. damn the squire! i'll get even with him some day." he was bitterly disappointed. "gosh! i ran that nigger out, and now i'm a runaway too. it's queer." at westways crossing he waited until an empty freight train was switched off to let the night express go by. then he stowed himself away in an open box-car and had a comfortable sense of relief as it rolled eastward. he felt sure that the squire's last words meant that he might be arrested and that immediate flight was his only chance of escape. he thus passes, like josiah, for some years out of my story. he had money, was when sober a clever carpenter, and felt, therefore, no fear of his future. he had the shrewd conviction that the squire at least would not be displeased to get rid of him, and would not be very eager to have him pursued. james penhallow was disagreeably aware that it was his duty to bring about the punishment of his drunken foster-brother, but he did not like it. when the next morning he was about to mount his horse, he saw mrs. lamb, now an aged woman, coming slowly up the avenue. as she came to the steps of the porch, penhallow went to meet her, giving the help of his hand. "good-morning, ellen," he said, "what brings you here over the snow this frosty day? do you want to see mrs. penhallow?" for a moment she was too breathless to answer. the withered leanness of the weary old face moved in an effort to speak, but was defeated by emotion. she gasped, "let me set down." he led her into the hall and gave her a chair. then he called his wife from her library-room. ann at once knew that something more than the effect of exertion was to be read in the moving face. the dull grey eyes of age stared at james penhallow and then at her, and again at him, as in the vigour of perfect health they looked down at his old nurse and with kindly patience waited. "don't hurry, ellen," said mrs. ann. "you are out of breath." she seemed to ann like some dumb animal that had no language but a look to tell the story of despair or pain. at last she found her voice and gasped out, "i came to tell you he has run away. he went last night. i'd like to be able to say, james penhallow, that i don't know why he went away--" "we will not talk of it, ellen," said the squire, with some sense of relief at the loss of need to do what he had felt to be a duty. "come near to the fire," he added. "no, i want to go home. i had to tell you. i just want to be alone. i'd have given it to him if he had asked me. i don't mind his taking the money, but he took it out of my bible. i kept it there. it was like stealing from the lord. it'll bring him bad luck. mostly it was in the gospels--just a bank-note here and there--sixty-one dollars and seventy-three cents it was." she seemed to be talking to herself rather than to the man and woman at her side. she went on--sometimes a babble they could not comprehend, as in pity and wonder they stood over her. then again her voice rose, "he took it from the book of god. oh, my son, my son! i must go." she rose feebly tottering, and added, "it will follow him like a curse out of the bible. he took it out of the bible. i must go." "no," said penhallow, "wait and i will send you home." she sat down again. "thank you." then with renewed strength, she said, "you won't have them go after him?" "no, i will not." he went away to order the carriage, and returning said, "you know, ellen, that you will always be taken care of." "yes, i know, sir--i know. but he took it out of my bible--out of the book of god." she was presently helped into the wagon and sent away murmuring incoherently. "and so, james," said ann, "she knew too much about the fire. what a tragedy!" "yes, she knew. i am glad that he has gone. if he had faced it out and stayed, i must have done something. i suppose it is better for her on the whole. when he was drunk, he was brutal; when he was sober, he kept her worried. i am glad he has gone." "but," said ann, "he was her son--" "yes, more's the pity." in a day or two it was known that peter had disappeared. the town knew very well why and discussed it at evening, when as usual the men gathered for a talk. pole expressed the general opinion when he said, "it's hard on the old woman, but i guess it's a riddance of bad rubbish." then they fell to talking politics, the roofing of the chapel and the price of wheat and so westways settled down again to its every-day quiet round of duties. the excitement of the fire and lamb's flight had been unfavourable to literary composition, but now john returned to his letter. he continued: "the reticule will have to be finished in town. uncle will take it after the election or send it to you. if you remember your latin, you will know that reticule comes from _reticulus,_ a net. but this isn't really a net. "we have had a big excitement. some one set fire to the parsonage and it burnt down." [he did not tell her who set it on fire, although he knew very well that it was peter lamb.] "lamb has run away, and i think we are well rid of him. "i do miss you very much. mr. rivers says you will be a fashionable young lady when you come back and will never snowball any more. i don't believe it. "yours truly, "john penhallow." mrs. penhallow enclosed the letter in one of her own, and no answer came until she gave him a note at the end of october. leila wrote: "dear john: it is against the rules to write to any one but parents, and i am breaking the rules when i enclose this to you. i do not think i ought to do it, and i will not again. "you would not know me in my long skirts, and i wear my hair in two plaits. the girls are all from the south and are very angry when they talk about the north. i cannot answer them and am sorry i do not know more about politics, but i do know that uncle jim would not agree with them. "i go on saturdays and over sundays to my cousins in baltimore. they say that the south will secede if fremont should be elected. i just hold my tongue and listen. "yours sincerely, "leila grey. "p.s. i shall be very proud of the bag. i hope you are studying hard." "indeed!" muttered john. "thanks, miss grey." there was no more of it. john penhallow had come by degrees to value the rare privilege of a walk with the too easily wearied clergyman, who had avenues of ready intellectual approach which invited the adventurous mind of the lad and were not in the mental topography of james penhallow. the cool, hazy days of late october had come with their splendour of colour-contrasts such as only the artist nature could make acceptable, and this year the autumn was unusually brilliant. "do you enjoy it?" asked rivers. "oh, yes, sir. i suppose every one does." "in a measure, as some people do the great music, and as the poets usually do not. people presume that the ear for rhythm is the same as that for music. they are things apart. a few poets have had both." "that seems strange," said john. "i have neither," and he was lost in thought until rivers, as usual easily tired, said, "let us sit down. how hazy the air is, john! it tenderly flatters these wild colour-contrasts. it is like a november day of the indian summer." "why do they call it indian summer?" asked john. "i do not know. i tried in vain to run it down in the dictionaries. in canada it is known as 'l'été de st. martin.'" "it seems," said john, "as if the decay of the year had ceased, in pity. it is so beautiful and so new to me. i feel sometimes when i am alone in these woods as if something was going to happen. did you ever feel that, sir?" rivers was silent for a moment. the lad's power to state things in speech and his incapacity to put his thoughts in writing had often puzzled the tutor. "why don't you put such reflections into verse, john? it's good practice in english." "i can't--i've tried." "try again." "no," said john decidedly. "do look at those maples, mr. rivers--and the oaks--and the variety of colour in the sassafras. did you ever notice how its leaves differ in shape?" "i never did, but nothing is exactly the same as anything else. we talked of that once." "then since the world began there never was another me or leila?" "never. there is only one of anything." john was silent--in thought of his unresemblance to any other john. "but i am like uncle jim! aunt says so." "yes, outwardly you are; but you have what he has not--imagination. it is both friend and foe as may be. it may not be a good gift for a soldier--at least one form of it. it may be the parent of fear--of indecisions." "but, mr. rivers, may it not work also for good and suggest possibilities--let you into seeing what other men may do?" the reflection seemed to rivers not like the thought of so young a man. he returned, "but i said it might be a friend and have practical uses in life. i have not found it that myself. but some men have morbid imagination. let us walk." they went on again through the quiet splendour of the woodlands. "uncle jim is going away after the election." "yes." "he will see leila. don't you miss her?" "yes, but not as you do. however, she will grow up and go by you and be a woman while you are more slowly maturing. that is their way. and then she will marry." "good gracious! leila marry!" "yes--it is a way they have. let us go home." john was disinclined to talk. marry--yes--when i am older, i shall ask her until she does! november came in churlish humour and raged in storms of wind and rain, until before their time to let fall their leaves the woods were stripped of their gay colours. on the fourth day of november the squire voted the fremont electoral ticket, and understood that with the exception of swallow and pole, westways had followed the master of grey pine. the other candidates did not trouble them. the sad case of josiah and the threat to capture their barber had lost buchanan the twenty-seven votes of the little town. mr. boynton, the carpenter, fastening the last shingles on the chapel roof remarked to a workman that it was an awful pity josiah couldn't know about it and that the new barber wasn't up to shaving a real stiff beard. the squire wrote to his wife from philadelphia on the ninth: "dear ann: we never talk politics because you were born a democrat and consider andrew jackson a political saint. i begin to wish he might be reincarnated in the body of buchanan. he will need backbone, i fear. he has carried our state by only three thousand majority in a vote of , . i am told that the excitement here was so great that the peacemaking effect of a day of cold drizzle alone prevented riot and bloodshed. mr. buchanan said in october, 'we shall hear no more of "bleeding kansas."' well, i hope so. here we are at one. i should feel more regret at the defeat of my party if i had more belief in fremont, but your man is, i am sure, elected, and we must hope for the best and try to think that hope reasonable. "i have been fortunate in my contracts for rails with the two railroads. i shall finish this letter in baltimore.-- "baltimore.--i saw leila, who has quite the air of a young lady and is well, handsome and reasonably contented. dined with your brother henry; and really, ann, the cold-blooded way the men talked of secession was a little beyond endurance. i spoke my mind at last, and was heard with courteous disapproval. my friend, lt.-colonel robert lee of the army, was the only man who was silent about our troubles. two men earnestly advocated the re-opening of the slave-trade, and if as they say slavery is a blessing, the slave-trade is morally justified and logically desirable. i do want you to feel, my dear ann, how extreme are the views of these pleasant gentlemen. "the madeira was good, and despite the half-hidden bitterness of opinion, i enjoyed my visit. let john read this letter if you like to do so. "yours always and in all ways, "james penhallow." she did not like, but john heard all about this visit when the squire came home. the winter of - went by without other incident at westways, with mrs. ann's usual bountiful christmas gifts to the children at the mills and westways. mr. buchanan was inaugurated in march. the captain smiled grimly as he read in the same paper the message of the governor of south carolina recommending the re-opening of the trade in slaves, and the new president's hopes "that the long agitation over slavery is approaching its end." nor did penhallow fancy the cabinet appointments, but he said nothing more of his opinions to ann penhallow. chapter xiii in the early days of may the squire began to rebuild the parsonage, and near by it a large room for sunday school and town-meetings. ann desired to add a library-room for the town and would have set about this at once had not her husband resolutely set himself against any addition to the work with which she filled her usefully busy life. she yielded with reluctance, and the library plan was set aside to the regret of rivers, who living in a spiritual atmosphere was slow to perceive what with the anxiety of a great love james penhallow saw so clearly--the failure of ann penhallow's health. when at last penhallow sat down with mcgregor in his office, the doctor knew at once that something serious was troubling his friend. "well, penhallow," he said, "what can i do for you?" "i want you to see my wife. she sleeps badly, tires easily, and worst of all is unwilling to consult you." "yes, that's serious. of course, she does the work of two people, but has it ever occurred to you, penhallow, that in the isolated life you lead she may be at times bored and want or need society, change?" "my dear doctor, if i propose to her to ask our friends from the cities to visit us, she says that entertaining women would only add to her burdens. how could she amuse them?" the squire had the helplessness of a strong man who has to deal with the case of a woman who, when a doctor is thought to be necessary, feels that she has a right to an opinion as to whether or not it is worth while. she did not believe it to be necessary and felt that there was something unpleasant in this medical intrusion upon a life which had been one of unbroken health. to her husband's annoyance she begged him to wait, and on one pretext or another put off the consultation--it would do in a week, or 'she was better.' her postponement and lack of decision added to the squire's distress, but it was mid-june before she finally yielded and without a word to penhallow wrote to ask mcgregor to call. in a week leila would be at grey pine. the glad prospect of a summer's leisure filled john with happy anticipations. he had his boat put in order, looked after lucy's condition, and had in mind a dozen plans for distant long-desired rides into the mountains, rides which now his uncle had promised to take with them. he soon learned that the medical providence which so often interferes with our plans in life had to be considered. mrs. penhallow to john's surprise had of late gone to bed long before her accustomed hour, and one evening in this june of penhallow seeing her go upstairs at nine o'clock called john into the library. "mr. rivers," he said, "has gone to see some one in westways, and i have a chance to talk to you. sit down." john obeyed, missing half consciously the ever-ready smile of the squire. "i am troubled about your aunt. dr. mcgregor assures me that she has no distinct ailment, but is simply so tired that she is sure to become ill if she stays at home. no one can make her lessen her work if she stays here. you are young, but you must have been aware of what she does for this town and at the mills--oh, for every one who is in need or in trouble. there is the every-day routine of the house, the sick in the village, the sewing class, the sunday afternoon reading in the small hospital at our mills, letters--no end of them. how she has stood it so long, i cannot see." "but she seems to like it, sir," said john. he couldn't understand that what was so plainly enjoyed could be hurtful. "yes, she likes it, but--well, she has a heavenly soul in an earthly body, and now at last the body is in revolt against overuse, or that at least is the way mcgregor puts it. i ought to have stopped it long ago." john was faintly amused at the idea of any one controlling ann penhallow where her despotic beliefs concerning duties were concerned. the squire was silent for a little while, and then said, "it has got to stop, john. i have talked to mcgregor and to her. leila is to meet us in philadelphia. i shall take them to cape may and leave them there for at least the two months of summer. you may know what that means for me and for her, and, i suppose, for you." "could i not go there for a while?" "i think not. i really have not the courage to be left alone, john. i think of asking you to spend a part of the day at the mills this summer. you will have to learn the business, for as you know your own property, your aunt's and mine are largely invested in our works. i thought too of an engineering school for you in the fall, and then of the school of mines in paris. it is a long look ahead, but it would fit you to relieve me of my work. think it over, my son. how does it look to you, or have you thought of what you mean or want to do? don't answer me now--think it over. and now i have some letters to write. good-night." john went upstairs to bed with much to think about, and above all else of the disappointing summer before him and the wish he had long cherished, but which his uncle's last words had made it necessary for him to reconsider. ann penhallow had made a characteristic fight against the combined forces of the doctor and her husband. she had declared she would give up this and that, if only she could be left at home. she showed to the doctor an irritability quite new to his experience of her and which he accepted as added evidence of need of change. her bodily condition and her want of common sense in a matter so clear to him troubled the squire and drove him to his usual resort when worried--long rides or hard tramps with his gun. after luncheon and a decisive talk with mrs. ann, she had pleaded that he ought to remain with them at the shore. she was sure he needed it and it would set her mind at ease. he told her what she knew well enough, how impossible it would be for him to leave the mills and be absent long. she who rarely manufactured difficulties now began to ask how this was to be done and that, until rivers said at last, "i can promise to read at the hospital until i go away for my august holiday." "you would not know the kind of things to read." "no one could do it as well as you," said rivers, "but i can try." "everything will be cared for, ann," said penhallow, "only don't worry." "i never worry," she returned, rising. "you men think everything will run along easily without a woman's attention." "oh, but ann, my dear ann!" exclaimed penhallow, not knowing what more to say, annoyed at the discussion and at her display of unnecessary temper and the entire loss of her usual common sense. she said, with a laugh in which there was no mirth, "i presume one of you will, of course, run my sewing-class?" "ann--ann!" said the squire. rivers understood her now in the comprehending sympathy of his own too frequent moods of melancholy. "ah!" he murmured, "if i could but teach her how to knit the ravelled sleeve of care." "i presume," she added, "that i am to accept it as settled," and so went out. "come, john," said penhallow an hour later, "call the dogs--i must have a good hard tramp, and a talk with you!" john kept pace with, the rapid stride of the squire, taking note of the reddening buds of the maples, for this year in the hills the spring came late. "you must have seen your aunt's condition," said penhallow. "i have seen it coming on ever since that miserable affair of josiah. it troubled her greatly." john had the puzzled feeling of the inexperienced young in regard to the matter of illness and its influential effect on temper, and was well pleased to converse on anything else, when his uncle asked, "have you thought over what i said to you about your future?" "well?" "i should like to go to west point, uncle jim." to his surprise penhallow returned, pausing as he spoke, "i had thought of that, but as i did not know you had ever considered it, i did not mention it. it would in some ways please me. as a life-long career it would not. we are in no danger of war, and an idle existence at army-posts is not a very desirable thing for an able man." "i had the idea, uncle, that i would not remain in the service." "but you would have to serve two years after you were graduated--and still that was what i did, oh! and longer--much longer. as an education in discipline and much else, it is good--very good. but tell me are you really in earnest about it?" "yes, sir." "well, it is better than college. i will think about it. if you go to the point, it should be this coming fall. i wonder what ann will say." then john knew that the squire favoured what had been for a long time on his own mind. what had made him eager to go into the army was in part that tendency towards adventure which had been a family trait and his admiration for the soldier-uncle; nor did the mere student life and the quiet years of managing the iron-mills as yet appeal to him as desirable. "i wish, uncle jim, that you could settle the matter." this was so like his own dislike of unsettled affairs that the squire laughed in his hearty way. "so far as i am concerned, you may regard it as decided; but securing a nomination to the point is quite another matter. it may be difficult. i will see about it. now we will let it drop. that dog is pointing. ah! the rascal. it is a hare." they saw no more birds, nor did the squire expect to find anything in the woods except the peace of mind to be secured by violent exercise. he went on talking about the horses and the mills. when near to the house, penhallow said, "your aunt is to go away to-morrow. every day here seems to add to her difficulty in leaving home. i shall say nothing to her of west point until it is settled one way or another. i shall, of course, go to the cape for a day, unless your aunt's brother charles will take my place when he brings leila to philadelphia to meet us. i may be gone a week, and you and rivers are to keep bachelor's hall and watch the work on the parsonage. i shall ask leila to write to you and to me about your aunt. did i say that we go by the : a.m. express?" "no, sir." "well, we do." james penhallow was pleased and amazed when he discovered that mrs. ann was quietly submissive to the arrangements made for her comfort on the journey. she appeared to have abruptly regained her good temper and, penhallow thought, was unnaturally and excessively grateful for every small service. being unused to the ways of sick women, he wondered as the train ran down the descent from the allegheny mountains how long a time was required to know any human being entirely. he had been introduced within two weeks to two ann penhallows besides the ann he had lived with these many years. he concluded, as others have done, that people are hard to understand, and thus thinking he ran over in mind the group they left on the platform at westways crossing. there was billy--apparently a simple character, abruptly capable of doing unexpected things; useful to-day, useless tomorrow. he called up to mind the very competent doctor; john, and his friend--the moody clergyman--beloved of all men. the doctor had said of him, "a man living in the monastery of himself--in our world, but not of it." "what amuses you, james?" asked his wife. this good sign of return to her normal curiosity was familiarly pleasant. "i was recalling, ann, what mcgregor said of rivers after that horrid time of sickness at westways. you may remember it." "no, i do not." "no! he said that rivers was a round-shouldered angel." "that does not seem to me amusing, james." "round-shouldered he is, ann, and for the rest you at least ought to recognize your heavenly fellow-citizens when you meet them." "is that your poetry or your folly, james penhallow?" "mine, my dear? no language is expansive enough for mcgregor when he talks about you." "nonsense, james. he knows how to please somebody. we were discussing mark rivers." "were we? then here is a nice little dose from the doctor for you. last christmas, after you had personally sat up with old mrs. lamb when she was so ill, and until i made a row about it--" "yes--yes--i know." her curiosity got the better of her dislike of being praised for what to her was a simple duty, and she added, "well, what did he say?" "oh, that you and rivers were like angels gone astray in the strange country called earth; and then that imp of a boy, john, who says queer things, said that it was like a bit of verse rivers had read to him. he knew it too. i liked it and got him to write it out. i have it in my pocket-book. like to see it?" "no," she returned--and then--"yes," as she reflected that it must have originally applied to another than herself. he was in the habit of storing in his pocket-book slips from the papers--news, receipts for stable-medicine, and rarely verse. now and then he emptied them into the waste basket. he brought it out of his pocket-book and she read it: as when two angel citizens of heaven swift winged on errands of the master's love meet in some earthly guise. "is that all of it?" "no, john could not remember the rest, and i did not ask mark." "i should suppose not. thank you for believing it had any application to me. and, james, i have been a very cross angel of late." "oh, my dear ann, dr. mcgregor said--" "never mind dr. mcgregor, james. go and smoke your cigar. i am tired and i must not talk any more--talking on a train always tires me." two days after the departure of his aunt and uncle, john persuaded rivers to walk with him on the holiday morning of saturday. the clergyman caring little for the spring charm of the maiden summer, but much for john penhallow's youth of promise, wandered on slowly through the woods, with head bent forward, stumbling now and then, lost to a world where his companion was joyfully conscious of the prettiness of new-born and translucent foliage. always pleased to sit down, rivers dropped his thin length of body upon the brown pine-needles near the cabin and settling his back against a fallen tree-trunk made himself comfortable. as usual, when at rest, he began to talk. "john," he said, "you and tom mcgregor had a quarrel long ago--and a fight." "yes, sir," returned john wondering. "i saw it--i did not interfere at once--i was wrong." this greatly amused john. "you stopped it just in time for me--i was about done for." "yes, but now, john, i have talked to tom, and--i am afraid you have never made it up." "no, he was insolent to leila and rude. but we had a talk about it--oh, a good while ago--before she went away." "oh, had you! well, what then?" "oh, he told me you had talked to him and he had seen leila and told her he was sorry. she never said a word to me. i told him that he ought to have apologized to me--too." rivers was amused. "apologies are not much in fashion among westways boys. what did he say?" "oh, just that he didn't see that at all--and then he said that he was going away this fall to study medicine, and some day when he was a doctor he would have a chance to get even with me, and wouldn't he dose me well. then we both laughed, and--i shook hands with him. that's all, sir." "well, i am pleased. he is by no means a bad fellow, and as you know he is clever--and can beat you in mathematics." "yes, but i licked him well, and he knows it." "for shame, john. i wish my baptist friend's boy would do better--he is dull." "but i like him," said john. "he is so plucky." "there is another matter i want to talk about. i had a long conversation about you with your uncle the night before he left. i heard with regret that you want to go into the army." "may i ask why?" said john, as he lay on the ground lazily fingering the pine-needles. "is it because the hideous business called war attracts you?" "no, but i like what i hear of the point from uncle jim. i prefer it to any college life. besides this, i do not expect to spend my life in the service, and after all it is simply a first rate training for anything i may want to do later--care of the mills, i mean. uncle jim is pleased, and as for war, mr. rivers, if that is what you dislike, what chance of war is there?" "you have very likely forgotten my talk with mr. george grey. the north and the south will never put an end to their differences without bloodshed." it seemed a strange opinion to john. he had thought so when he heard their talk, but now the clergyman's earnestness and some better understanding of the half-century's bitter feeling made him thoughtful. rising to his feet, he said, "uncle jim does not agree with you, and aunt ann and her brother, henry grey, think that mr. buchanan will bring all our troubles to an end. of course, sir, i don't know, but"--and his voice rose--"if there ever should be such a war, i am on uncle jim's side, and being out of west point would not keep me out of the fight." rivers shook his head. "it will come, john. few men think as i do, and your uncle considers me, i suspect, to be governed by my unhappy way of seeing the dark side of things. he says that i am a bewildered pessimist about politics. a pessimist i may be, but it is the habitually hopeful meliorist who is just now perplexed past power to think straight." john's interest was caught for the moment by the word, "meliorist." "what is a meliorist, sir?" he asked. "oh, a wild insanity of hopefulness. you all have it. i dislike to talk about the sad future, and i wonder men at the north are so blind." he fell again to mere musings, a self-absorbed man, while john, attracted by a squirrel's gambols and used to the rector's long silences, wandered near by among the pines, with a vagabond mind on this or that, and watching the alert little acrobat of the forest. as he moved about, he recalled his first walks to the cabin with leila and the wild thing he had said one day--and her reply. one ages fast, at seventeen, and now he wondered if he had been quite wise, and with the wisdom and authority of a year and a half of mental growth punished his foolish boy-past with severity of reproach. he had failed for a time to hear, or at least to hear with attention, the low-voiced soliloquies in which mr. rivers sometimes indulged. mcgregor, an observant man, said that rivers's mind jumped from thought to thought, and that his talk had at times no connective tissue and was hard to follow. now he spoke louder. "no one, john, no one sees that every new compromise compromises principles and honour. have you read any of the speeches of a man named lincoln in illinois? he got a considerable vote in that nominating convention." "no, sir." "then read it--read him. a prophet of disaster! he says, 'a house divided against itself cannot stand. this government cannot endure permanently half slave, half free.' the man did not know that he was ignorantly quoting george washington's opinion. it is so, and so it will be. i would let them go their way in peace, for the sin of man-owning is ours--was ours--and we are to suffer for it soon or late--a nation's debts have to be paid, and some are paid in blood." the young fellow listened but had no comment ready, and indeed knew too little of the terrible questions for which time alone would have an answer to feel the full force of these awful texts. he did say, "i will read mr. lincoln's speeches. uncle talks to me about kansas and slavery and compromises, but it is sometimes too much for me." "yes, he will not talk of these things to your aunt, and is not willing to talk to me. he thinks both of us are extremists. no, i won't walk any further. let us go home." the natural light-mindedness of a healthy lad easily disposes of the problems which disturb the older mind. john forgot it all for a time in the pleasant interest of a letter from leila, received a day before his uncle's return. "cape may, june st. "my dear john: here at last i am free to write to you when i please, and i have some rather strange news; but first of aunt ann. she is very well pleased and is already much better. uncle jim left us to-day, and i am to have lucy here and one of the grooms. if only i could have you to ride with me on this splendid beach and see the great blue waves roll up like a vast army charging with white plumes and then rolling back in defeat."-- john paused. this was not like leila. he felt in a vague way that she must be changing, and remembered the rector's predictions. then he read on-- "now for my adventure: aunt ann wanted some hair-wash, and i went to the barber's shop in the town to buy it. there was no one in but a black boy, because it was the bathing-time. he, i mean the boy, said he would call mr. johnson. in a moment there came out of a back room who do you think but our josiah! he just stood still a moment--and then said, 'good god! miss leila! come into the back room--you did give me a turn.' i thought he seemed to be alarmed. well, i went with him, and he asked me at once who was with me. i said, aunt ann, and that she was not well. then i got out of him that he had wandered a while, and at last chosen this as a safe place. no one had told me fully about cousin george grey and why josiah was scared and ran away, but now i got it all out of him--and how you warned him--and i do think it was splendid of a boy like you. he was dreadfully afraid of being taken back to be a slave. it seems he saved his money, and after working here bought out the shop when his master fell ill. i did not like it, but to quiet him i really had to say that i would not tell aunt ann, or he would have to run away again. i am sure aunt would not do anything to trouble him, but it was quite impossible to make him believe me, and he got me at last to promise him. i suppose there is really no harm in it, but i never did keep anything from aunt ann. i got the hair-wash and went away with his secret. now, isn't that a story! "i forgot one thing. as the southern gentlemen come to be shaved and ask where he was born, they hear--think of it--that 'mr. johnson' was born in connecticut! his grandfather had been a slave. i shall see him again. "this is the longest letter i ever wrote, and you are to feel duly complimented, mr. penhallow. "good-bye. love from aunt ann. "yours truly, "leila grey. "p.s. i am sure that i may trust you not to speak of josiah." mr. john penhallow, as they said at westways, "going on seventeen," gathered much of interest in reading and re-reading this letter from miss grey. to own a secret with leila was pleasant. to hear of josiah as "mr. johnson" amused him. that he was prosperous he liked, and that he was fearful with or without reason seemed strange. it was and had been hard for the young freeman to realize the ever-present state of mind of a man in terror of arrest without any crime on his conscience. there was perhaps a slight hint of doubt in leila's request that he would be careful not to mention what she had said of josiah, "as if i am really a boy and leila older than i," murmured john. he knew, as he once more read her words, that he ought to tell his uncle, who could best decide what to do about josiah and his terror of being reclaimed by his old owner. during the early hours of a summer night mark rivers sat on the porch in a rocking-chair, which he declared gave him all the exercise he required. it was the only rocking-chair at grey pine, and nothing so disturbed the squire as mark rivers rocking on that unpleasant piece of furniture and smoking as if it were a locomotive. it was an indulgence of ann penhallow, who knew that there had been a half-dozen rockers in the burned rectory. john sat on the steps and listened to the shrill katydids or watched the devious lanterns of the fireflies. a bat darted over the head of rivers, who ducked as it went by, watching its uncertain flight. "i am terribly afraid of bats," said the rector. "are you?" "i--no. they're harmless." "yes, i know that, but i am without reason afraid of them. i think of the demons as being like monstrous bats. but that is a silly use of imagination." "uncle jim doesn't like them, and you once told me that he had very little imagination." "yes. one can't explain these dislikes. your uncle reasons well and has a clear logical mind, but he has neither creative nor receptive imagination." "receptive?" asked john. "yes, that is why he has none of your aunt's joy in poetry. when i read to her wordsworth's 'brougham castle,' he said that he had never heard more silly nonsense." "i remember it was that wonderful verse about the 'longing of the shield.'" "yes--i forgot you were there. verse like that is a good test of a person's capacity to feel poetry--that kind, i mean." "i hear uncle jim's horse." "yes. i can't see, john, why a man should want to have a horse sent to meet him instead of a comfortable wagon,"--and for emphasis, as usual with rivers, the rocking-chair was swinging to the limits of its arc of safe motion. the squire dismounted and came up the steps with "good-evening, rivers,"--and to john, "i have good news for you--but order my supper at once, then we will talk." he was in his boyish mood of gaiety. "how far have you travelled on that rocker, rivers?" "now, squire--now, really--" it was a favourite subject of chaff. "why not have rocking-chairs in church, mark? think what a patient congregation you would have! come, john, i am hungry." he fled laughing. while the squire ate in silence, john waited until his uncle said, "come into the library." here he filled his pipe and took the match john offered. "there are many curious varieties of man, john. there is the man who prefers a rocking-chair to the saddle. it's queer--very queer; and he is as much afraid of a horse as i am--of--i don't know what." the squire's memory failed to answer the call. "what are you grinning at, you young scamp?" "oh, mr. rivers did say, uncle jim, something about bats." "yes, that's it--bats--and i do suppose every one has his especial fear. ah! quite inexplicable nonsense!--fears like mine about bats, or your aunt's about dogs, but also fears that make a man afraid that he will not face a danger that is a duty. when we had smallpox at the mills, soon after rivers came here, he went to the mill-town and lived there a month, and nursed the sick and buried the dead. at last he took the disease lightly, but it left a mark or two on his forehead. that i call--well, heroic. confound that rocking-chair! how it squeaks!" john was too intently listening to hear anything but the speaker who declared heroic the long lean man with the pale face and the eyes like search-lights. john waited; he wanted to hear something more. "did many die, uncle?" "oh, yes. the men had fought mcgregor about vaccination. many died. there was blindness too. supplies failed--no one would come in from the farms." john waited with the fear of defect in his ideal man. then he ventured, "and aunt ann, was she here?" "no, i sent her away when i went to milltown." "oh! you were there too, sir?" "yes, damn it!" he rarely swore at all. "where did you suppose i would be? but i lived in terror for a month--oh, in deadly fear!" "thank you, sir." "thank me, what for? some forms of sudden danger make me gay, with all my faculties at their best, but not that. i had to nurse rivers; that was the worst of it. you see, my son, i was a coward." "i should like to be your kind of a coward, uncle jim." "well, it was awful. let us talk of something else. i left your aunt better, went to washington, saw our congressman, got your nomination to west point and a letter from leila. your aunt must be fast mending, for she was making a long list of furniture for the new parsonage, and 'would i see ellen lamb and'--eleven other things, the lord knows what else, and 'when could she return?' mcgregor said in september, and i so wrote to her; she will hate it. and she dislikes your going to west point. i had to tell her, of course." "i have had a letter from leila, uncle. did she write you anything about josiah?" "about josiah! no. what was that?" "she said i was not to tell, but i think you ought to know--" "of course, i should know. go on. let me see the letter." "it is upstairs, sir, but this is what she wrote," and he went on to tell the story. the squire laughed. "i must let mr. johnson know, as leila did not know, that it was ann who really sent you to warn him. poor fellow! i can understand his alarm, and how can i reassure him? george grey is going to cape may, or so says your aunt, and i am sure if josiah knows that he is recognized, he will drop everything and run. i would run, john, and quickly too. grey will be sure to write to woodburn again." "what then, sir?" "oh, he told your aunt ann and me that he would not go any further unless he chanced to know certainly where josiah was. if he did, it would be his duty, as he said, to reclaim him. it is not a pleasant business, and i ought to warn josiah, which you may not know is against the law. however, i will think it over. ann did not say when grey was coming, and he is just as apt not to go as to go. confound him and all their ways." john had nothing to say. the matter was in older and wiser hands than his. his uncle rose, "i must go to bed, but i have a word to say now about your examinations for admission. i must talk to rivers. good-night!" chapter xiv on saturday the squire asked john to ride with him. as they mounted, billy came with the mail. penhallow glanced at the letters and put them in his pocket. as the horses walked away, john said, "i was in westways yesterday, uncle, to get my hair cut. i heard that pole has had chicken-pox, uncle." "funny that, for a butcher!" said the squire. they chatted of the small village news. "they have quit discussing politics, uncle jim." "yes, every four years we settle down to the enjoyment of the belief that now everything will go right, or if we are of those who lost the fight, then there is the comfort of thinking things could not be worse, and that the other fellows are responsible." "uncle jim, at westways people talked about the election as if it were a horse-race, and didn't interest anybody when it was over." "yes, yes; but there are for the average american many things to think about, and he doesn't bother himself about who is to be president or why, until, as mcgregor says, events come along and kick him and say, 'get up and think, or do something.'" "when i talked to mr. rivers lately, he seemed very blue about the country. he seems to believe that everything is going wrong." "oh, rivers!" exclaimed penhallow, "what a great, noble soul! but, john, a half hour of talk with him about our national affairs leaves me tangled in a net of despair, and i hate it. you have a letter, i see." "yes, it is from leila, sir." "let's hear it," said penhallow. john was inclined, he could hardly have told why, to consider this letter when alone, but now there was nothing possible except to do as he was bid. "read it. i want to hear it, john." as they walked their horses along the road, john read: "dear john": i did not expect to write to you again until you wrote to me, but i have been perplexed to know what was best to do. i wanted--oh, so much--to consult uncle jim, or some older person than you, and so i ask you to send this to uncle jim if he is absent, or let him see it if he is at home. he is moving about and we do not know how to address him."-- "that's a big preface--go on." "i did not see josiah again until yesterday morning. aunt ann has been insisting that my hair needs singeing at the ends to make it grow. [it is too long now for comfort.]"-- "that's in brackets, uncle jim--the hair, i mean." "yes--what next?" "well, john, when aunt ann keeps on and on in her gently obstinate, i mean resolute, way, it is best to give up and make believe a little that you agree with her. my hair was to be singed--i gave up."-- "oh, leila!" exclaimed penhallow, rocking in the saddle with laughter, while john looked up smiling. "go on." "so aunt's new maid got her orders, and while aunt was asleep in her room the maid brought up josiah. it was as good as a play. he was very civil and quiet. you know how he loved to talk. he singed my hair, and it was horrid--like the smell of singeing a plucked chicken. after that he sent the maid to his shop for some hair-wash. as soon as she was gone, he said, 'i'm done for, miss leila. i met mr. george grey on the beach this morning. he knew me and i knew him. he said, "what! you here, you rascally runaway horse-thief!" i said, "i wasn't a thief or a rascal." then he said something i didn't hear, for i just left him and--i can't stay here--he'll do something, and i can't run no risks--oh, lord!'"-- "i thought," said the squire, "we were done with that tiresome fool, george grey. whether he will write again to woodburn about josiah or not, no one can say. woodburn did tell me that if at any time he could easily get hold of his slave, he would feel it to be a duty to make use of the fugitive-slave law. i do not think he will be very eager, but after all it is uncertain, and if i were josiah, i would run away." as he talked, the horses walked on through the forest wood-roads. for a moment he said nothing, and then, "it is hard to put yourself in another man's place; that means to be for the time of decision that man with his inheritances, all his memories, all his hopes and all his fears." this was felt by the lad to be somehow unlike his uncle, who added, "i heard mark rivers say that about peter, but it applies here. i would run. but go on with your letter. what else does leila say?" john read on: "josiah was so scared that i could not even get him to listen to me. he gathered up his barber things in haste, and kept on saying over and over, 'i have got to go, missy.' now he has gone and his shop is shut up. i was so sorry for him, i must have cried, for aunt's maid asked me what was the matter. this is all. it is late. i shall mail this to-morrow. aunt ann has been expecting mr. george grey, my far-away cousin. i wish he was further away! "-- "good gracious! leila. well, john, any more?" "yes, sir." "he came in this morning, i mean mr. grey, and began to talk and was so pleased to see his dear cousin. aunt ann went on knitting and saying something pleasant now and then. at last he asked if she knew that runaway horse-thief we called josiah was the barber here. he said that he must really write to that rascal's owner, and went over and over the same thing. aunt ann looked at me when he mentioned the barber. then she sat up and said, 'if you have done talking, i desire to say a word.' of course, he was at her service. you know, john, how he talks. aunt ann said, 'you made quite enough trouble, george, about this man at westways. i told you then that he had done us a service i could never forget. i won't have him disturbed here. mr. woodburn behaved with discretion and courtesy. if you make any more trouble, i shall never forgive you. i won't have it, george grey.' i never saw any one so embarrassed, john. he put his hat on the floor and picked it up, and then he sat down in his chair and, i call it, wilted. he said that he had not quite made up his mind. at this aunt ann stood up, letting her knitting drop, and said, 'then you had better; you've got no mind.' after this he got up and said that she had insulted him. aunt ann was red and angry. she said, 'tell james penhallow that, mr. grey.' after this he went away, and aunt ann said to me, 'tell josiah if you can find him that he need not be afraid; the man will not write to mr. woodburn.' after that i told her all about mr. johnson and got a good scolding for not having told her before, and that josiah had gone away scared. she was tired and angry and sent me away. that is all. let uncle jim get this letter. "yours truly, "leila. "p.s. oh, i forgot. josiah gave me a letter for uncle jim. i enclose it. i did not give it to aunt ann; perhaps i ought to have done so. but it would have been useless because it is sealed, and you know the rule at grey pine." "poor josiah!" said penhallow, "i wonder where he has gone." "he may say in his letter," said john. "read it to me, my son. i forgot my glasses." "it is addressed to captain penhallow." "yes, i was always that to josiah--always." john opened the letter, which was carefully sealed with a large red wafer. "it is well written, uncle." "yes--yes. rivers taught him--and he speaks nearly as good english as george grey." john looked up from the letter. "oh, that is funny! it begins, 'respectable sir.'" "my dear john, that isn't funny at all--it's old-fashioned. i have seen a letter from the great dr. rush in which the mother of washington is mentioned as 'that respectable lady.' but now, sir, you will be good enough to let me hear that letter without your valuable comments." the tone was impatient. john said, "excuse me, uncle, but i couldn't help it." "oh, read it." "i am driven away again. i write this to thank you for all you done for me at westways. mr. grey he met me here on the beach and i'm afraid--i don't take no chances. i saved money here. i can get on anywhere. it's awful to have to ran away, and that drunkard peter lamb all the while safe with his mother. i can't get him out of my mind. i'm a christian man--and i tried to forgive him. i can't do it. if i am quiet and let alone, i forget. i've got to get up and go and hide, and i curse him that done it. please, sir, not tell mr. rivers what i say. i seen miss leila. i always said miss leila would be a beauty. there ain't no young lady here can hold a candle to her. i want to say i did have hope to see mr. john. "god bless you, captain. "your obedient servant, "josiah." the squire halted in the open pine forest on a wood-road behind the cabin. he threw one leg over the pommel and sat still with the ease of a horseman in any of the postures the saddle affords. "read me both of those letters again, and slowly." this time john made no remarks. when he came to the end of josiah's letter, he looked towards the silent figure seated sideways. the squire made no comment, but searched his pockets for the flint and steel he always carried. lighting his pipe he slid to the ground. "take the rein, john," he said, "or the mare will follow me." penhallow was deep in the story these letters told, and he thought best when walking. john sat in his saddle watching the tall soldierly figure move up the road and back again to the cabin his ancestors had held through one long night of fear. john caught sight of the face as penhallow came and then turned away on his slow walk, smoking furiously. he sat still, having learned to be respectful of the long silences to which at times penhallow was given. now and then with a word he quieted the uneasy mare--a favourite taught to follow the master. at last penhallow struck his pipe on a stone to empty it, and by habit carefully set a foot on the live coal. then he came to the off side of his mare and took the rein. facing john, he set an elbow on the horse's back and a hand on his own cheek. this was no unusual attitude. he did not mount, but stood still. the ruddy good-humoured face, clean-shaven and large of feature, had lost its look of constant good-humour. in fact, the feature language expressed the minute's mood in a way which any one less familiar with the man than john might have read with ease. then he said, in an absent way, "are we men of the north all cowards like josiah? they think so--they do really think so. it is helping to make trouble." then he lifted himself lightly into the saddle, with swift change of mood and an odd laugh of comment on his conclusion, as he broke into a gallop. "let us get into the sun." john followed him as they rode swiftly over a cross-road and out on to the highway. again the horses were walking, and penhallow said, "i suppose you may not have understood me. i was suddenly angry. it is a relief sometimes to let off steam. well, i fancy time will answer me--or that is what i try not to believe--but it may--it may. let us talk of something else. i must find out from rivers just how well you are prepared for the point. then i mean to give you every night an hour or so of what he cannot teach. you ride well, you know french and german, you box--it may be of service, keep it up once a week at least. i envy you the young disciplined life--the simpleness of it--the want of responsibilities." "thank you, sir," returned john, "i hope to like it and to do you credit, uncle." "you will, i am sure. let us go to the mills." john hesitated before he asked, "could not i have, sir, a few days with aunt ann at the cape?" "no, i shall want you here." john was silent and disappointed. the squire saw it. "it can't be helped--i do not feel able to be alone. leila will be away a year more and you will be gone for several years. for your sake and mine i want you this summer. take care! you lost a stirrup when dixy shied. oh! here are the mills. good morning, mcgregor. all well?" "yes, sir. tom has gone to the city. he is to be in the office of a friend of mine this summer. i shall be alone." "john goes to west point this september, doctor." "indeed! you too will be alone. next it will be leila. how the young birds are leaving the nests! even that slow lad of grace's is going. he is to learn farming with old roberts. he has a broad back and the advantage of not being a thinking-machine." "he may have made the best choice, mcgregor." "no, sir," said the doctor, "my son has the best of it." john laughed. "i don't think i should like either farm or medicine." "no," returned the doctor, with his queer way of stating things, "there must be some one to feed the people; tom is to be trained to cure, and you to kill." "i don't want to kill anybody," said john, laughing. "but that is the business you are going to learn, young man." john was silent. the idea of killing anybody! "heard from mrs. penhallow lately?" asked the doctor. "no, but from leila to-day; and, you will be surprised, from josiah too." "is that so?" "yes. give him the two letters, john. let me have them to-morrow, doctor. good-bye," and they rode on to the mills. "it is a pity, john, josiah gave no address," said penhallow,--"a childlike man, intelligent, and with some underlying temper of the old african barbarian." the summer days ran on with plenty of work for john and without incidents of moment, until the rector went away as was his habit the first of august, more moody than usual. if the rectory were finished, he would go there in september, and mrs. ann had written to him about the needed furniture. on august th that lady wrote from cape may that she must go home, and leila that her aunt was well but homesick. the squire, who missed her greatly, unreluctantly yielded, and on august th she was met at the station by penhallow and john. to the surprise of both, she had brought leila, as her school was not to begin until september th. "my dear james," cried mrs. ann, "it is worth while to have been away to learn how good it is to get home again. i thought i would surprise you with leila." as the squire kissed her, leila and the maid came from the car to the platform loaded with bundles. john stood still. nature had been busy with her artist-work. a year had gone by--the year of maturing growth of mind and body for a girl nearing sixteen. unprepared for her change, john felt at once that this was a woman, who quickly smiling gave him a cordial greeting and her hand. "why, john penhallow," she said, "what a big boy you are grown!" it was as if an older person had spoken to a younger. a head taller than the little mrs. ann, she was in the bloom of maiden loveliness, rosy, joyous, a certain new stateliness in her movements. the gift of grace had been added by the fairy godmother nature. john said, with gravity, "you are most welcome home, leila," and then quickly aware of some coldness in his words, "oh, i am so very glad to see you!" she had gone by him in the swift changes of life. without so putting it distinctly into the words of a mental soliloquy, john was conscious that here was another leila. "come, in with you," said the happy master of grey pine. "how well you look, ann, and how young! the cart will bring your bundles." john penhallow on an august afternoon was of billy's opinion that leila had "rowed a lot" as she came out upon the porch and gaily laughing cried, "at last,--aunt ann has done with me." they were both suffering from one of those dislocations of relation which even in adult life are felt when friends long apart come together again. the feeling of loss, as far as john was concerned, grew less as leila with return of childlike joy roamed with him over the house and through the stables, and next day through westways, with a pleasant word for every one and on busying errands for her aunt. he was himself occupied with study; but now the squire had said it would be wise to drop his work. with something of timidity he said to leila, "i am free for this afternoon; come and see again our old playgrounds. it will be a long while before we can take another walk." "certainly, john. and isn't it a nice, good-natured day? the summer is over. sometimes i wish we had no divisions of months, and the life of the year was one quiet flow of days--oh, with no names to remind you." "but think, leila, of losing all the poetry of the months. why not have no day or night? oh, come along. what do you want with a sunshade and a veil--we will be mostly in the woods." "my complexion, mr. penhallow," cried miss grey gaily. he watched her young figure as she went upstairs--the mass of darkened gold hair coiled in the classic fashion of the day on the back of her head. she looked around from the stair. "i shall be ready in a minute, john. it rained yesterday--will it be wet in the woods?" "no," cried john, "and what does it matter?" he had a dull feeling of resentment, of loss, of consciousness of new barriers and of distance from the old comrade. their way led across the garden, which was showing signs of feeling the chilly nights of the close of summer in this upland, where the seasons sometimes change abruptly. "the garden has missed aunt ann," said leila. "uncle jim looks at it from the porch, says 'how pretty!' and expects to see roses on his table every day. i do believe he considers a garden as merely a kind of flower-farm." "aunt ann's garden interests her the way westways does. there are sick flowers and weeds like human weeds, and bugs and diseases that need a flower-doctor, and flowers that are morbid or ill-humoured. that is not my wisdom, leila, it is mr. rivers's." "no, john, it isn't at all like you." "aunt ann didn't like it, and yet i think he meant it to be a compliment, for he really considers aunt ann a model of what a woman ought to be." "i know that pretty well," said leila. "when i used to lose my temper over that horrid algebra, i was told to consider how aunt ann kept her temper no matter what happened, as if that had anything to do with algebra and equations. if he had seen her when she talked to george grey about josiah, he would have known aunt ann better. i was proud of her." "aunt ann angry!" said john. "i should have liked to have seen that. poor josiah!" they talked of the unlucky runaway, and were presently among the familiar pine and spruce, far beyond the garden bounds. "do put up that veil," said john, "and you have not the least excuse for your parasol." "oh, if you like, john. tell me about west point. it was such a surprise." "i will when i am there, if i am able to pass the examinations." "you will--you will. uncle jim told me you would pass easily." "indeed! he never told me that. i have my doubts." "and i have none," she returned, smiling. "mr. rivers dislikes it. he wrote to me about it just before he left. do you know, he did really think that you ought to be a clergyman. he said you were so serious-minded for--for a boy." john laughed, "nice clergyman i'd have made." did leila too consider him a boy? "oh! here we are at the old cabin. i never forget the first day we came here--and the graves. the older i grow, leila, the more clearly i can see the fight and the rifle-flashes, and the rescue--and the night--i can feel their terror." "oh, we were mere children, john; and i do suppose that it is a pretty well decorated tradition." he looked at her with surprise, as she added, "i used to believe it all, now it seems strange to me, john--like a dream of childhood. i think you really are a good deal of a boy yet." "no, i am not a boy. i sometimes fancy i never was a boy--i came here a child." and then, "i think you like to tease me, leila," and this was true, although she was not pleased to be told so. "you think, leila, that it teases me to be called a boy by your ladyship. i think it is because you remember what a boy once said to you here--right here." "what do you mean?" she knew very well what he meant, but quickly repenting of her feminine fib, said, "oh, i do know, but i wanted to forget--i wanted to pretend to forget, because you know what friends we have been, and it was really so foolish." he had been lying at her feet; now he rose slowly. "you are not like my leila to-day." "oh, john!" "no--and it is hard, because i am going away--and--it will not be pleasant to think how you are changed." "i wish you wouldn't say such things to me, john." "i had to--because--i love you. if i was a boy when i was, as you say, silly, i was in earnest. it was nonsense to ask you, to say you would marry me some day. it wasn't so very long ago after all; but i agree with you, it _was_ foolish. now i mean to make no such proposal." "please, john." she looked up at him as he stood over her so grave, so earnest--and so like uncle jim. for the time she got the fleeting impression of this being a man. he hardly heard her appeal. "i want to say now that i love you." for a moment the 'boy's will, the wind's will,' blew a gale. "i love you and i always shall. some day i shall ask you that foolish question again, and again." she too was after all very young and had been playing a bit at being a woman. now his expression of passion embarrassed her--because she had no answer ready; nor was it all entirely disagreeable. he stood still a moment, and added, "that is all--i ask nothing now." then she stood up, having to say something and unwilling to hurt him--wanting not to say too much or too little, and ending by a childlike reply. "oh, john, i do wish you would never say such things to me. i am too young to listen to such nonsense." "and i am young too," he laughed. "well--well--let us go home and confess like children." "now i know you are a fool, john penhallow, and very disagreeable." "when we were ever so young, leila, and we quarrelled, we used to agree not to speak to one another for a day. are you cross enough for that now?" "no, i am not; but i want to feel sure that you will not say such things to me again." "i make no promise, leila; i should break it. if i gave you a boy's love, forget it, laugh at it; but if i give you a man's love, take care." this odd drama--girl and woman, boy and maturing man--held the stage; now one, now the other. "take care, indeed!" she said, repeating his words and turning on him with sudden ungraciousness, "i think we have had enough of this nonsense." she was in fact the more disturbed of the two, and knowing it let anger loose to chase away she knew not what, which was troubling her with emotion she could neither entirely control nor explain later as the result of what seemed to her mere foolishness. if he was himself disturbed by his storm of primitive passion, he did not show it as she did. "yes," he said in reply, "we have had for the present enough of this--enough talk, i mean--" "we!" she exclaimed. "leila! do you want me to apologize?" "no." "then--let us get those roses for aunt ann--what are left of them." she was glad to escape further discussion--not sure of her capacity to keep in order this cousin who was now so young and now so alarmingly old. his abrupt use of self-control she recognised--liked and then disliked, for a little wrath in his reply would have made her feel more at ease. with well-reassumed good-humour, she said, "now you are my nice old playmate, but never, never bother me that way again." "yes, ma'am," said john, laughing. "i can hear aunt ann say, 'run, dears, and get me flowers--and--there will be cakes for you.'" "no, bread and apple-butter, john." they went along merry, making believe to be at ease. "the robins are gone," said leila. "i haven't seen one today; and the warblers are getting uneasy and will be gone soon. i haven't seen a squirrel lately. josiah used to say that meant an early winter." "oh, but the asters! what colour! and the golden-rod! look at it close, leila. each little flower is a star of gold." "how pretty!" she bent down over the flowers to pay the homage of honest pleasure. "how you always see, john, so easily, the pretty little wild beauties of the woods; i never could." she was "making up" as children say. "oh, you were the schoolmaster once," he laughed. "come, we have enough; now for the garden." they passed through the paling fence and along the disordered beds, where a night of too early frost had touched with chill fingers of disaster the latest buds. leila moved about looking at the garden, fingering a bud here and there with gentle epitaphs of "late," "too late," or gathering the more matronly roses which had bloomed in time. john watched her bend over them, and then where there were none but frost-wilted buds stand still and fondle with tender touch the withered maidens of the garden. he came to her side, "well, leila, i'll swap thoughts with you." she looked up, "your's first then." "i was thinking it must be hard to die before you came to be a rose--like some other more human things." "is that a charade, john? you will be writing poems about the lament of the belated virgin roses that had not gathered more timely sunshine and were alas! too late." he looked at her with a smile of pleased surprise. "thanks, cousin; it is you who should be the laureate of the garden. shelley would envy you." "indeed! i am flattered, sir, but i have not read any of shelley as yet. you have, i suppose? he is supposed to be very wicked. get me some more golden-rod, john." he went back to the edge of the wood and came again laden, rejoining her at the porch. for two days her aunt kept her busy. early in the week she went away to be met in philadelphia by her uncle charles, and to be returned to her maryland school. a day or two later john too left to undergo the dreaded examination at west point. the two older people were left alone at grey pine with the rector, who had returned from his annual holiday later than usual. always depressed at these seasons, he was now indisposed for the society of even the two people who were his most valued friends. he dined with them the day john went away and took up the many duties of his clerical life, until as was his custom, a week later he came in smiling for the saturday dinner, saying, "well, here comes the old house-dog for his bone." they made him welcome as gaily. "has the town wickedness accumulated in your absence, mark?" said penhallow. "mine has," said ann penhallow, "but i never confess except to myself." "ann penhallow might be a severe confessor," said rivers as they sat down. "how you must miss john and leila. i shall most sadly." "oh, for my part," said ann, "i have made up my mind not to lament the inevitable, but my husband is like a lost dog and--oh!--heart-hungry for leila, and worried about that boy's examination--his passing." "have i said a word?" said the squire indignantly. "pass! of course, he will pass." "no one doubts that, james; but you are afraid he will not be near the top." "you are a witch, ann. how did you know that?" "how?" and she laughed. "how long have we been married!" "nonsense, ann! what has that got to do with the matter?" "well," said rivers, a little amused, "we shall know in a day or two. he will pass high." "of course," said penhallow. then the talk drifted away to the mills, the village and the farm work. when after dinner rivers declined to smoke with the squire, ann walked with the clergyman down the avenue and said presently, "dine with us on monday, mark, and as often as possible. my husband is really worrying about john." "and you, dear lady?" "i--oh, of course, i miss them greatly; but leila needs the contact with the social life she now has in the weekly holiday at baltimore; and as for john, did it never occur to you that he ought to be among men of his age--and social position--and women too, who will not, i fancy, count for much in the 'west point education.' "yes--yes, what you say is true of course, but ah! i dread for him the temptations of another life than this." "would you keep him here longer, if you could?" she asked. "no. what would life be worth or how could character be developed without temptation? that is one of my puzzles about the world to come, a world where there would be no 'yes and no' would hardly be worth while." "and quite beyond me," cried ann, laughing. "we have done our best for them. let us pray that they will not forget. i have no fear for leila. i do not know about john. i must go home. come often. good-night. i suppose the sermon takes you away so early." "yes--more or less, and i am poor company just now. good-night." chapter xv when at breakfast on a monday morning penhallow said, "that mail is late again," his wife knew that he was still eager for news from john. "the mail is always late on monday morning, james. if you are in haste to get to the mills, i will send it after you." "no, it is unimportant, ann. another cup, please. ah! there it is now." he went out on to the porch. "you are late, billy." "i ain't late--it was mrs. crocker--she kept me." penhallow selected two letters postmarked west point, and opening one as he went in to the breakfast-room, said, "my dear, it is rather satisfactory--quite as much as could be expected." "well, james! what is rather satisfactory? you are really exasperating at times." "am i? well, john has passed in the first half dozen--he does not yet know just where--" "and are you not entirely contented? you ought to be. what is the other letter?" he opened it. "it is only a line from the old drawing-master to say that john did well and would have been second or third, they said, except for not being higher in mathematics." as he spoke he rose and put both letters in his pocket. "now i must go." "but let me see them, james." "oh, john's is only a half dozen lines, and i must go at once--i have an appointment at the mills--i want to look over the letters again, and shall write to him from the office." ann was slightly annoyed, but said no more until on the porch before he mounted she took a mild revenge. "i know where you are going." "well, and where, please?" he fell into her trap. "first, you will stop at the rectory and read those letters to mark rivers; then the belated mail will excuse a pause at the post-office to scold mrs. crocker. tell pole as you go by that last mutton was atrociously tough. of course, you won't mention john." "well, are you done?" he said, as he mounted dixy. "i can wait, ann, until you read the letters." "thanks, i am in no hurry." he turned in the saddle and gave her the letters. she put aside her brief feeling of annoyance and stood beside him as she read them. "thank you, james. what an uneasy old uncle you are. now go. oh, be off with you--and don't forget dr. mcgregor." as he rode away, she called after him, "james--james--i forgot something." he turned, checking dixy. "oh, i forgot to say that you must not forget the office clerks, because you know they are all so fond of john." "what a wretch you are, ann penhallow! go in and repent." "i don't," and laughing, joyously, she stood and looked after the tall figure as he rode away happy and gaily singing, as he was apt to do if pleased, the first army carol the satisfaction of the moment suggested: come out to the stable as soon as you 're able, and see that the horses that they get some corn. for if you don't do it, the colonel will know it, and then you will rue it as sure as you're born. "ah!" said his wife, "how he goes back--always goes back--to the wild army life when something pleases him. thank god that can never come again." she recalled her first year of married life, the dull garrison routine, the weeks of her husband's absences, and when the troop came back and there were empty saddles and weeping women. at dinner the squire must needs drink the young cadet's health and express to rivers his regret that there was not a west point for leila. mrs. ann was of opinion that she had had too much of it already. rivers agreed with his hostess, and in one of his darkest days won the privilege of long silences by questioning the squire in regard to the studies and life at west point, while mrs. ann more socially observant than her husband saw how moody was rivers and with what effort he manufactured an appearance of interest in the captain's enthusiasm concerning educative methods at the great army school. she was relieved when he carried off rivers to the library. "it is chilly, mark; would you like a fire?" he asked. "yes, i am never too warm." the squire set the logs ablaze. "no pipe, mark?" "not yet." he stretched out his lean length before the ruddy birch blaze and was silent. the squire watched him and made no attempt to disturb the deep reverie in which the young clergyman remained. at last the great grey eyes turned from the fire, and rivers sat up in his chair, as he said, "you must have seen how inconsiderately i have allowed my depression to dismiss the courtesies of life. i owe you and my dear mrs. penhallow both an apology and an explanation."-- "but really, mark--" "oh, let me go on. i have long wanted to talk myself out, and as often my courage has failed. i have had a most unhappy life, penhallow. all the pleasant things in it--the past few years--have been given me here. i married young--" "one moment, mark. before you came to us the bishop wrote me in confidence of your life. not even mrs. penhallow has seen that letter." "then you knew--but not all. now i have had a sad relief. he told you of--well, of my life, of my mother's hopeless insanity--and the rest." "yes--yes--all, i believe--all." "not quite all. i have spent a part at least of every august with her; now at last she is dead. but my family story has left with me the fear of dying like my brothers or of becoming as she became. when i came to you i was a lonely soul, sick in mind and weak in body. i am better--far better--and now with some renewal of hope and courage i shall face my world again. you have had--you will have charity for my days of melancholy. i never believed that a priest should marry--and yet i did. i suffered, and never again can i dream of love. i am doubly armed by memory and by the horror of continuing a race doomed to disaster. there you have it all to my relief. there is some mysterious consolation in unloading one's mind. how good you have been to me! and i have been so useless--so little of what i might have been." penhallow rose, set a hand on rivers's shoulder, seeing the sweat on his forehead and the appeal of the sad eyes turned up to meet his gaze. "what," he said, "would our children have been without you? god knows i have been a better man for your company, and the mills--the village--how can you fail to see what you have done--" "no--no--i am a failure. it may be that the moods of self-reproach are morbid. that too torments me. even to-day i was thinking of how christ would have dealt with that miserable man, peter lamb, and how uncharitable i was, how crude, how void of sympathy--" "you--you--" said penhallow, as he moved away. "my own regret is that i did not turn him over to the law. well, points of view do differ curiously. we will let him drop. he will come to grief some day. and now take my thanks and my dear ann's for what you have told me. let us drop that too. take a pipe." "no, i must go. i am the easier in my mind, but i am tired and not at all in the pipe mood." he went out through the hall, and with a hasty "good-night" to his hostess and "pleasant dreams--or none," went slowly down the avenue. the woman he left, with her knitting needles at rest a moment, was considering the man and his moods with such intuitive sympathy and comprehension as belongs to the sex which is physiologically the more subject to abrupt changes in the climate of the mind. as her husband entered, she began anew the small steadying industry for which man has no substitute. "upon my word, james, when you desire to exchange confidences, you must get further away from me." "you don't mean me to believe you overheard our talk in the library, with the door closed and the curtain across it." her acuteness of hearing often puzzled him, and he had always to ask for proof. she nodded gay assurance, and said again, ceasing to knit, "i overheard too much--oh, not all--bits--enough to trouble me. i moved away so as not to hear. all i care to know is how to be of real service to a friend to whom we owe so much." "i want you--in fact, mark wants you--to hear in full what you know in part." "well, james, i have very little curiosity about the details of the misfortunes of my friends unless to know is to obtain means of helpfulness." "you won't get any here, i fear, but as he has been often strange and depressed and, as he says, unresponsive to your kindness, he does want you now to see what cause there was." "very well, if he wants it. i see you have a letter." "yes, i kept it. it was marked strictly confidential--i hate that--" she smiled as he added, "it seems to imply the possibility of indiscretion on my part." "oh, james! oh, you dear man!" and she laughed outright, liking to tease where she deeply loved, knowing him through and through, as he never could know her. then she saw that he was not in the mood for jesting with an edge to it; nor was she. "at all events, you did not let me see that letter--now i am to see it." "yes, you are to see it. you might at any time have seen it." "yes, read it to me." "when our good bishop sent mark rivers here to us, he wrote me this letter--" "well, go on." "my dear sir: i send you the one of my young clergy with whom i am the most reluctant to part. you will soon learn why, and learning will be thankful. but to make clear to you why i urge him--in fact, order him to go--requires a word of explanation. he is now only twenty-six years of age but looks older. he married young and not wisely a woman who lived a childlike dissatisfied life, and died after two years. one of his brothers died an epileptic; the other, a promising lawyer, became insane and killed himself. this so affected their widowed mother that she fell into a speechless melancholy and has ever since been in the care of nurses in a farmer's family--a hopeless case. i became of late alarmed at his increasing depression and evident failure in bodily strength. he was advised to take a small country parish, and so i send him to you and my friend, mrs. penhallow, sure that he will give as much as he gets. i need not say more. he is well worth saving--one of god's best--with too exacting a conscience--learned, eloquent and earnest, and to end, a gentleman." "there is a lot more about indian missions, which i think are hopeless, but i sent him a cheque, of course." "i supposed, james, that his depression was owing to his want of vigorous health. now i see, but how very sorrowful it is! what else is there? i did not mean to listen, but something was said about his mother." "yes. he has spent with her a large part of every august--he called it his holiday. my god, ann! poor fellow! this august she died. it must be a relief." "perhaps." "oh, surely. this is all, ann." "i wish you had been less discreet long ago, james. i think that the bishop knowing how sensitive, how very reticent mark is, meant only that he should not learn what was confided to you." "i never thought of that, ann. you may be right." she made no further comment, except to say, "but to know clears the air and leaves me free to talk to him at need." penhallow felt that where he himself might be a useless confessor, his wife was surely to be trusted. "if, ann, the man could only be got on to the back of a horse--" she won the desirable relief of laughter, and the eyes that were full of the tears of pity for this disastrous life overflowed of a sudden with mirth at the squire's one remedy for the troubles of this earthly existence. "oh, i am in earnest," he said. "now i must write to john." when after a week or more she did talk to mark rivers, he was the better for it and felt free to speak to her as a younger man may to an older woman and can rarely do to the closest of male friends, for, after all, most friendships have their personal limitations and the man who has not both men and women friends may at some time miss what the double intimacies alone can give. * * * * * the uneasy sense of something lost was more felt than mentioned that fall at grey pine, where quick feet on the stair and the sound of young laughter were no longer heard. rivers saw too how distinctly the village folk missed these gay young people. mrs. crocker, of the shop where everything was to be bought, bewailed herself to rivers, who was the receiver of all manner of woes. "mrs. penhallow is getting to be so particular no one knows where to find her. you would never think it, sir, but she says my tea is not fit to drink, and she is going to get her sugar from philadelphia. it's awful! she says it isn't as sweet as it used to be--as if sugar wasn't always the same--" "which it isn't," laughed rivers. "and my tea!--then here comes in the squire to get a dog-collar, and roars to my poor deaf job, 'that last tea was the best we have ever had. send five pounds to dr. mcgregor from me--charge it to me--and a pound to mrs. lamb.' it wasn't but ten minutes later. do set down, mr. rivers." he accepted the chair she dusted with her apron and quietly enjoyed the little drama. the facts were plain, the small influential motives as clear. secure of her hearer, mrs. crocker went on: "i was saying it wasn't ten minutes later that same morning mrs. penhallow came down on me about the sugar and the tea--worst she ever had. she--oh, lord!--she wouldn't listen, and declared that she would return the tea and get sugar from town." "pretty bad that," said rivers, sympathetic. "did she send back the tea?" "no, sir. in came pole grinning that very evening. he said she had made an awful row about the last leg of mutton he sent. pole said she was that bad--she didn't show no temper, but she kept on a sort of quiet mad about the mutton." "well, what did pole do?" "you'd never guess. it was one of the squire's own sheep. pole he just sent her the other leg of the same sheep!" again the rector laughed. "well, and what did mrs. penhallow do?" "she told him that was all right. pole he guessed i'd better send her a pound of the same tea." "did you?" "i did--ain't heard yet. now what would you advise? never saw her this way before." "well," said rivers, "tell her how the town misses leila and john." "they do. i do wonder if it's just missing those children upsets her so." whether his advice were taken or not, rivers did not learn directly, but mrs. crocker said things were better when next they met, and the clergyman asked no questions. penhallow had his own distracting troubles. the financial condition which became serious in the spring and summer of was beginning to cause him alarm, and soon after the new year came in he felt obliged to talk over his affairs and to advise his wife to loan the mill company money not elsewhere to be had except at ruinous interest. she wished simply to give him the sum needed, but he said no, and made clear to her why he required help. she was pleased to be consulted, and showing, as usual, notable comprehension of the business situation, at once did as he desired. rivers not aware of what was so completely occupying penhallow's mind, wondered later why he would not discuss the decision of the supreme court in the dred scott case and did not share his own indignation. "but," he urged, "it declares the missouri compromise not warranted by the constitution!" "i can't talk about it, mark," said penhallow, "i am too worried by my own affairs." then rivers asked no further questions; he hoped he would read the masterly dissenting opinion of justices mclean and curtis. penhallow returned impatiently that he had no time, and that the slavery question were better left to the decision of "chief justice time." it was unlike the squire, and rivers perplexed and more or less ignorant concerning his friend's affairs left him, in wonder that what was so angrily disturbing the northern states should quite fail to interest penhallow. meanwhile there were pleasant letters from leila. she thought it hard to be denied correspondence with john, and wrote of the satisfaction felt by her uncle henry and his friends in regard to the dred scott decision. she had been wise enough to take her uncle charles's advice and to hold her republican tongue, as he with a minority in baltimore was wisely doing. the money crisis came with full force while the affairs of kansas were troubling both north and south. in august there was widespread ruin. banks failed, money was held hard, contracts were broken and to avoid a worse calamity the penhallow mills discharged half of the men. meanwhile under governor walker's just and firm rule, for a brief season 'bleeding kansas' was no longer heard of. to add to the confusion of parties, douglas broke with the administration and damaged the powerful democratic machine when he came out with changed opinions and dauntless courage against the new lecompton constitution. in june leila's school life came to a close, and to the delight of her relations she came home. when that afternoon rivers came into the hall, a tall young woman rose of a sudden and swept him a curtsey, saying, "i am leila grey, sir. please to be glad to see me." "good gracious, leila! you are a woman!" "and what else should i be?" "alas! what? my little friend and scholar--oh! the evil magic of time." "oh! friend--friend!" she exclaimed, "then, now, and always." she gave him both hands. "yes, always," he said quickly. "and this," he said to himself, "is the child who used to give me the morning kiss. it is very wonderful!" "i really think, aunt ann, that mr. rivers just for a moment did not know me." "indeed! that must have amused him." "oh, here is james." there was laughter at dinner and a little gay venture into the politics of leila's school, which appeared to have been disagreeable to miss grey. rivers watched the animated face as she gave her account of how the school took a vote in the garden and were all democrats. the squire a little puzzled by his wife's evident disinclination to interfere with the dinner-table politics got a faint suspicion that here had come into grey pine a new and positive influence. he was more surprised that mrs. ann asked, "what did you say, leila?" "i? now, aunt ann, what would you have done or said?" "oh, voted with the democrats, of course." "oh, mrs. penhallow!" cried the rector. the squire much amused asked, "well, leila, did you run away?" "i--oh, uncle jim! i said i was a democrat--i voted the democratic ticket." "did you?" exclaimed rivers. "so james penhallow and my brother charles have lost a republican vote," laughed ann. "but, aunt ann, i added that i was a douglas democrat." the squire exploded into peals of laughter. ann said, "for shame!" "they decided to lynch me, but no one of them could catch me before miss mayo appeared on the playground and we all became demure as pussy cats. she was cross." "she was quite right," said her aunt. "i do not see why girls should be discussing politics." rivers became silently regardant, and penhallow frowning sat still. the anticipated bolt had fallen--it fell in vain. leila did not accept the decree, but defended herself gaily. "aunt ann," she said, "douglas is right, or at least half right. and do tell me how old must a girl be before she has a right to think?" "think! oh, if you like, think. but, my dear leila, your uncle, mr. rivers and i, although we think and hold very diverse opinions, feel that on such matters discussion only leaves a sting, and so we tacitly leave it out of our talk. there, my dear, you have my opinion." there was a moment of silence. leila looked up. "oh, my dear aunt ann, if you were on the side of old nick, mr. rivers wouldn't care a penny less for you, and i never could see why to differ in talk about politics is going to hurt past anything love could accept. aunt helen and uncle charles both talk politics and they do love one another, although aunt helen is tremendously democratic." "my dear leila!" "oh, aunt ann! i will not say a word more if you want me to hold my tongue." "wouldn't the other way be more wholesome on the whole?" said rivers. "i have long thought so," said the squire. "there are ways and ways--" "perhaps," said ann. "shall you ride with your uncle tomorrow, leila?" "oh, shall i! i long for it--i dream about it. may i ride dixy, uncle jim?" "yes, if you have a riding-habit you can wear. we will see to that. you have grown a good bit, but i fancy we can manage." "and how is pole, aunt; and the doctor and crocker and his fat wife--oh, and everybody?" "oh, much, as usual. we had a skirmish about mutton, but the last pole sent is good--in fact, excellent. he needs watching." then the talk fell on the lessened work at the mills, and there being now four players the squire had his whist again, and later carried rivers away to smoke in the library, leaving ann and leila. as the library door closed, leila dropped on a cushion at her aunt's feet, and with her head in ann's lap expressed her contentment by a few moments of silence. then sitting up, she said, "i am so happy i should like to purr. i was naughty at dinner, but it was just because i wanted to make uncle jim laugh. he looks--don't you think he looks worried, aunt? is it the mills and--the men out of work? dear aunt ann, how can one keep on not talking about politics and things that are next to one's religion--and concerning our country--my country?" ann made no direct reply, but went back to what was nearer than any creed of politics. "yes, dear. when one big thing worries james, then everything worries him. the state of the money market makes all business difficult, and he feels uncomfortable because the mill company is in want of work, and because their debts are overdue and not likely to be paid in full or at all." "i wish i could do something to help uncle jim." "you can ride with him and i cannot. you can talk to him without limitations; i cannot. he is reasonable about this grave question of slavery. he does not think it right; i do--oh, good for master and best for the black. when, soon after our marriage, we spoke of it, he was positive and told me to read what washington had said about slavery. we were both young and said angry things which left a pang of remembrance. after that we were careful. but now this terrible question comes up in the village and in every paper. it will get worse, and i see no end to it." leila was silent, remembering too her aunt's share in josiah's escape. the advice implied in her aunt's frank talk she saw was to be accepted. "i will remember, aunt ann." at least she was free to talk to her uncle. "has any one heard of josiah?" asked leila. "no, i was sorry for him. he had so many good traits. i think he would have been more happy if he had remained with his master." leila had her doubts, but was self-advised to say no more than, "i often think of him. now i shall go to bed." "yes, you must be tired." "i am never tired, but to be free to sit up late or go to bed and read what i want to--and to ride! good-night. i can write to john--now there's another bit of freedom. oh, dear, how delightful it all is!" she went upstairs thinking how hard it would be to keep off of the forbidden ground, and after all was her aunt entirely wise? well, there was uncle jim and john. while this talk went on the rector alone with his host said, "you are evidently to have a fresh and very positive factor in your household life--" "hush," said the squire. "talk low--ann penhallow has incredible hearing." "true--quite true--i forgot. how amazingly the child has changed. she will be a useful ferment, i fancy. how strange it is always--this abrupt leap of the girl into the heritage of womanhood. the boy matures slowly, by imperceptible gradations. now leila seems to me years older than john, and the change is really somewhat startling; but then i have seen very little of young women. there is the girl, the maid, the woman." "oh, but there is boy, lad, and man." "not comparable, squire; continuously growing in one case, and in the other developmental surprises and, ever after, fall and rise of energy. the general trouble about understanding women is that men judge them by some one well-known woman. i heard a famous doctor say that no man need pretend to understand women unless he had been familiar with sick women." the squire recalling the case of ann penhallow was silent. the clergyman thinking too of his own bitter experience lapsed into contemplative cleaning of a much valued meerschaum pipe. the squire not given to morbid or other psychological studies made brief reply. "i hope that leila will remain half boy." "too late, squire--too late. you've got a woman on your hands. there will be two heads to grey pine." "and may i ask where do i come in?" he was at times almost dull-witted, and yet in danger swift to think and quick to act. rivers filling the well-cleaned pipe looked up. there was something of unwonted gaiety in the moving face-lines which frame the eyes and give to them the appearance of change of expression. "my dear friend, you were as dough that is kneaded in the hands of leila, the girl; you will be no less so now in the hands of this splendid young woman." "oh, now--by george! rivers, you must think me--" "think you! oh, like other men. and as concerns mrs. ann, there will sometimes be a firm alliance with leila before which you will wilt--or--no, i will not venture further." "you had better not, or you may fail like other prophets." "no, i was thinking as you spoke of the fact that leila has seen a good deal of a very interesting society in baltimore, and has had the chance, and i am sure the desire, to hear more of the wild southern party-talk than most girls have." "yes, she has been in both camps." "and always was and is, i fancy, eagerly curious in the best sense. more than my dear mrs. ann, she has wide intellectual sympathies--and appetites." "that's a very fine phrase, mark." "isn't it, squire? i was also comparing in my mind john's want of association with men of his own social accident of position. he lived here with some rough country lads and with you and me. he has had no such chance as leila's." "oh, the point will mature him. then two years on the plains--and after that the mills." "perhaps--two years! but, penhallow, who can dare to predict what god has in store for us. two years!" "yes--too true--who can! just now we are financially diseased, and men are thinking more of the bread and butter and debts of to-morrow than of mr. buchanan in the toils of his southern cabinet." "that's so. good-night." leila took upstairs with her john's last letter to her aunt, and sitting down read it eagerly: "west point. "my dear aunt: the life here, as i wrote you, is something almost monastic in its systematic regularity, and its despotic claims on one's time. it leaves small leisure for letters except on sundays; and if a fellow means to be well placed, even then he is wise to do some work. the outside world seems far away, and we read and can read few papers. "i am of uncle jim's politics, but although there are many pretty sensitive cadets from the south, some of them my friends, there is so pleasant a camaraderie among us that there are few quarrels, and certainly none of the bitterness of the two sections. "i think i may have told you that we have no furlough until we have been here two years, but i hope some time for a visit from uncle jim and you, or at least from him and leila. how she would enjoy it! the wonderful beauty of the great river in the embrace of these wooded mountains, the charm of the heroic lives it has nourished and the romance of its early history are delightful--" "enjoy it," murmured leila, "oh, would i not indeed!" then she read on: "tell leila to write me all about the horses and the town, and if josiah has been heard of. tom mcgregor writes me that after he is graduated next year, he means to try for a place in the army and get a year or two of army life before he settles down to help his father. so it takes only two years to learn how to keep people alive and four to learn how to kill them." "i wonder who john means to kill." she sat in thought a while, and rising to undress said, "he must be greatly changed, my dear boy, jack. jack!" chapter xvi the widespread disapproval at the north of the dred scott decision was somewhat less manifest in the middle months of the year because of the general financial distress, which diverted attention from what was so agreeable to the slave states, where in fact the stringency in the money market had been felt but little. at grey pine, as elsewhere in pennsylvania, the evil influence of the depression in trade was felt as never before. more men were discharged, and penhallow and his wife practised economy which to him was difficult and distasteful. to limit expenditure on herself was of little moment to ann penhallow, but to have to limit her ability to give where more and more were needing help was to her at least a hard trial. with the spring of , business had begun to revive, while more bitterness arose when in the senatorial contest stephen douglas encountered the soil-born vigorous intellect of the little known lawyer lincoln. the debate put fresh life into the increasing power of the republican party in the west. "listen to this," said rivers to the squire in july of . "here is a new choice. long ago i got touch of this man, when he said, 'a house divided against itself cannot stand.'" he went on to read aloud parts of the famous speech. leila sitting with them on the porch looked round to hear her uncle's comment. he said, "it is too radical, rivers. it leaves no chance for compromise--it is a declaration of war." "it is god's truth," said rivers. "the democrats will rejoice," said penhallow. "the administration will be as i am against douglas and against this man's views." "i wish he were even more of an abolitionist, squire. the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, ought to apply to all men, black and white." "yes, but are there to be further applications. shall your free black vote? does he say that?" "no, but i do." "good gracious!" exclaimed the squire. "i move we adjourn. here comes ann." keen to have the last word, rivers urged, "he is not against some fugitive-slave law--not for abolition of slavery in the district of columbia--or the slave trade between the states." "but," said leila, "i read it all last night in my room. he said it was the right and duty of congress to prohibit slavery in all the territories." "the right," said penhallow, "miss politician?" "and the duty," returned rivers. they rose as ann came up the steps. billy was carrying the baskets she had emptied in the village, and as usual with ann when there had been much to do, she came home, rivers said, refreshed by the exercise of her gentle despotisms as a man may be by use of competent muscles. "you are all struck dumb," she cried. "i smell the sulphur of bad politics." "i'm for buch and breck," said billy. "misses she give me a dollar to vote for buchanan, i know--" leila delightedly encouraged him. "did you?" "no, it was for poll-tax. take in those baskets at once," said ann. "yes, ma'am. bought a fishing-pole." the confusion of mind which had made this practical use of ann's mild political contribution was new to the squire, and deliciously funny to leila. penhallow laughed outright. rivers was silent watching mrs. ann. to his surprise, she said, "you are bad--all of you. if the women could vote we would cease to have trouble. it may please you all to know that since that idiot pole has mortgaged his farm to swallow and bought out the butcher at the mills, he has repented of his democratic wickedness and says, 'after all the squire was right.'" "and where, my dear, did you get all this gossip?" asked penhallow. "it is complicated; ask pole." "i could guess," laughed leila. "and i," cried the squire. "you will all suffer," cried ann, "and don't complain, james penhallow, if tough beef is the final result of political complications." whereupon she gathered her skirts and fled laughing. "pole will pay dearly," said the squire, who was secretly securing meat for the discharged mill-hands and understood what had influenced pole. grey pine and westways during the summer and fall of felt, like many in the northern states, the need to live with economy. want of employment added to the unrest, and the idle men found time to discuss the angry politics which rang through the debates in the senate. the changed tariff on iron, to which pennsylvania was always selfishly sensitive, affected the voting, and penhallow was pleased when the administration suffered disaster in the october elections. all parties--republican, american and douglas democrats--united to cast discredit on the president's policy, but penhallow knew that the change of duties on iron had little to do with the far-spread ruin of trade and manufactures the result of long credits and the careless finance of an over-prosperous people. the electoral results were looked upon as a republican victory. he so explained it on a november afternoon, as he rode through the still forest with leila grey, when the faint haze and warmer days told of that mysterious arrest of decay we call the indian summer. as they rode, the long lapses into silence told of the pleasant relations of two people entirely at ease with one another. now it was a question asked--and now quick discussion. she had slowly won with maidenhood what few children have, more or less of the varied forms of imagination, which once had rather amused or puzzled her in john penhallow. her uncle, who thought slowly unless in danger, rode on with his mind upon a small order for rails and was far from feeling the mystery of the autumn days. the girl beside him was reading into the slow rocking to and fro of the falling leaves some reluctance to become forever a part of the decaying mould. "please, uncle jim, don't trot. let them walk. it is so full of tender deaths." "what do you mean, leila?--as if death were ever beautiful or tender. you and your aunt bother me with your absurd manufacture of some relation to nature--" "oh, uncle jim! once i saw you pat a big pine and say 'how are you, old fellow?' i told john it was nonsense, but he said it was fine." "oh, but that was a tree." leila laughed. "of that there can be no doubt." "well, and what of it? it was half fun. you and john and your aunt sit up and explode into enthusiasm over verse, when it could all be said far better in simple prose." "i should like to put that to the test some night." "not i, miss grey. i have no poetry in me. i am cold prose through and through." "you--you!" she cried. "some people like poetry--some people are poetry." "what--what?" "wasn't your hero cromwell just magnificent, stately blank verse?" "what confounded nonsense!" she glanced at the manly figure with the cavalry seat, erect, handsome, to her heroic--an ideal gentleman in all his ways. "stuff and nonsense!" he added. "well, uncle jim--to talk prose--the elections please you?" "yes. the north is stiffening up. it is as well. did you see what seward said, 'an irrepressible conflict,' and that man lincoln, 'the house divided against itself cannot stand'? now i should like to think them both wrong." "and do you not?" she asked. "no. some devilish fate seems to be at the helm, as rivers says. we avoid one rock to fall into wild breakers of exasperation; with fugitive-slave cases on one side, and on the other importations of slaves. where will it end?" "but what would you do, uncle?" "oh, amend the fugitive-slave law. try the cases by jury. let slavery alone to cure itself, as it would in time. it would if we let it alone." "and kansas?" asked leila. "oh, douglas is right, but his view of the matter will never satisfy the south nor the extreme men at the north. my dear leila, the days are dark and will be darker, and worst of all they really think we are afraid." his face grew stern. "i hate to talk about it. have you heard from john lately?" "yes, only last week." "and you write to him, of course?" "yes, i answer his letters. aunt ann writes every sunday. are things better at the mills?" "rather. now for a gallop--it puts me always in a more hopeful humour. don't let your aunt overwork you, leila; she will." "she can't, uncle jim." it was true. leila gently rebelled against incessant good works--sewing-classes for the village girls, sunday school, and the endless errands which left no time for books. her occasional walks with marks rivers enabled her to form some clear idea of the difference of opinion which so sharply divided parties north of maryland. his own belief was that slavery was a sinful thing with which there should be no truce and no patient waiting upon the influence of time. he combated the squire's equally simple creed--the unbroken union of the states. she fought the rector hard, to his delight. far more pleasant on three afternoons in the week were the lessons in italian with her aunt, and rivers's brilliant commentary on dante. the months ran on into and through the winter, with an economical christmas to ann's regret. * * * * * as a rule the political contests of our country go on without deeply affecting the peace of families. in the cotton states opinion was or had to appear to be at one. in the north the bitterness and unreason of limited groups of anti-slavery people excited the anger of men who saw in their ways and speeches continual sources of irritation, which made all compromise difficult. the strife of parties where now men were earnest as they never were before since revolutionary days was felt most seriously in the border states. "james," said ann after breakfast, when leila had gone to dress for a ride, "i think i ought to tell you that i have had this morning letters from both my brothers. i wrote, you know, asking them to bring the girls to us. leila is too much alone. they both decline. charles has come out for the republicans, and now--it is too dreadful--they do not speak. charles tells me there is a strong minority with him and that the state is not all for the south. i cannot believe it." "indeed!" he was not altogether displeased. "i am sorry for you, ann, as their sister." "and as a man, you are not! where will it all end? there is neither charity nor reason at the north. i am disturbed for our country." "you ask where it will all end. where will it end? god alone knows. let us at least wait quietly the course of events we cannot control. i at least try to be reasonable." he left her standing in tears, for which he had no comfort in thought or word. over all the land, north and south, there were such differences of opinion between wife and husband, brothers, friends and kinsmen. as he stood at the door about to ride to the mills he looked back and heard her delayed comment. "one moment, james--" "oh, what is the matter?" cried leila at the foot of the stairs. to see ann penhallow in tears was strange indeed. her uncle standing with his hand on his wife's shoulder had just spoken. turning to leila, he said: "your aunt and i have had some unpleasant news from your uncles in baltimore--a political quarrel." "i knew it in the spring, uncle jim." the girl's thoughtful reticence surprised him. neither to him nor to ann had she said a word of this family feud. "thank you, leila," murmured her aunt. the squire wondered why, as her aunt added, "i am greatly troubled. we have always been a most united family; but, dear, this--this has brought home to me, as nothing else has, the breaking up of the ties which bound the south and north together. it is only the sign of worse things to come." "but, ann," said penhallow, "i must say"--a sharp grip on his arm by leila's hand stopped him. he checked himself in time--"it is all very sad, but neither you nor i can help it." "that is too true, james. i should not have said what i did. i want to see one of the men at the mills. his children are ill, his wife is in great distress." "i will drive you myself this morning. i will send dixy away and order the gig." "thank you; i shall like that, james." meanwhile leila rode away, having in a moment of tactful interference made her influence felt. she was well aware of it and smiled as she walked her horse down the avenue, murmuring, "i suppose i shall catch it from uncle jim." and then, "no, he will be glad i pinched him, but he did look cross for a moment." no word of the family dissension reached john in their ever cheerful letters. on a wild windy afternoon in february, the snow falling heavily, leila on her way to the village rang at the rector's door. getting no answer, she went in and passing through the front room knocked at the library door. "come in." rivers was at his table in a room littered with books and newspapers. the gentle smile of his usual greeting was missing. she saw at once that he was in one of his moods of melancholy--rare of late. her eyes quick to see when she was interested noted that where he sat there was neither book nor paper in front of him. he rose as she entered, tall, stooping, lean, and so thin-featured that his large eyes were the more notable. "aunt ann has a cold, and joe grace was at the house to say that his father is ill, and aunt wishes you to go with me and see what is wanted. he has no way to send for the doctor; and so you see, as he is in bed, you must go with me." "oh, i saw him this morning. it is of no moment. i did what was needed." "but i have to see mrs. lamb too. come for the walk. it is blowing a gale and the snow is splendid--do come." of late he had rarely walked with her. he hesitated. "do come." "if i die of cold, leila." "die! you do not take exercise enough to keep your blood in motion. come, please!" he said no more except "wait a moment," and returned fitly clad. a fury of charging battalions of snow met them in the avenue. she faced it gallantly, joyous and rosy. he bent to avoid the sting of the driven snow, shivering, and more at ease when in the town the houses broke the force of the gale. "you won't need to go to grace's," he urged. "i am under orders. don't you know aunt ann?" presently plunging through the snow-drifts they came into the dreary disordered back room which had so troubled penhallow. it was cold with that indoor cold which is so unpleasant. joe grace came in--a big strapping young fellow. "i came from the farm and found father in bed and no wood in the stack. some one has just fetched a load." he began to make a fire. "go up to your father," said rivers. "make a fire in his room. you ought to have come sooner. oh, that poor helpless baptist saint--there isn't much wrong, but the man is half frozen--and it is so needless." "come," said leila. "does he require anything?" "no, i saw to that." as he spoke, he piled log on log and warmed his long thin hands. "wait a little, leila." she sat down, while the loose casements rattled. "leila," he said, "there is no chance to talk to you at grey pine. i am troubled about these, my friends. what i now have of health and mental wholesomeness in my life, i owe to them. i came hither a broken, hopeless man. now they are in trouble." she looked up at him in some surprise at his confession. "i want to help them. your uncle told me of your aunt's new distress and the cause. then i made him talk business, and asked him to let me lend him thirty thousand dollars. he said no, but i did see how it pleased him. he said that it would be lost. at all events his refusal was decisive." "but," said leila, increasingly surprised, "that was noble of you." "nonsense, my dear leila; i have more than i need--enough to help others--and would still have enough." she had a feeling of astonishment at the idea of his being so well-off, and now from his words some explanation of the mysterious aid which had so helped at the mills and so puzzled mrs. ann. why had he talked to her? he himself could not have told why. as he stood at the fire he went on talking, while she made her quick mental comments. "you call it noble. it is a rather strange thing; but to go to a friend in financial despair with a cheque-book is a test of friendship before which many friendships fail. before my uncle left me rich beyond my needs, i had an unpleasant experience on a small scale, but it was a useful example in the conduct of life." he paused for a moment, and then said, "i shall try the squire again." "i think you will fail--i know uncle jim. but what you tell me--is it very bad? i mean, is he--are the mills--likely to fail?" "that depends as i see it on the summer nominations and the fall elections, and their result no one can predict. the future looks to me full of peril." "but why?" she asked, and had some surprise when he said, "i have lived in the south. i taught school in macon. i know the south, its increasing belief in the despotic power of cotton and tobacco, its splendid courage, and the sense of mastery given by the ownership of man. why do i talk my despair out to a young life like yours? i suppose confession to be a relief--the tears of the soul. i suppose it is easier to talk to a woman." "then why not to aunt ann?" thought leila, as he went on to say, "i have often asked myself why confession is such a relief." he smiled as he added, "i wonder if st. francis ever confessed to monica." then he was silent, turning round before the fire, unwilling to leave it. leila had been but recently introduced to the knowledge of st. francis, and was struck with the oddity of representing monica; and the tall, gaunt figure with the sad eyes, as the joyful st. francis. "now, i must go home," he said. "indeed, no! you are to go with me to the post-office and then to see mrs. lamb." he had some pleasant sense of liking to be ordered about by this young woman. as they faced the snow, he asked, "how tall are you, leila?" "five feet ten inches and--to be accurate--a quarter. why do you ask?" "idle curiosity." "curiosity is never idle, mr. rivers. it is industrious. i proved that in a composition i wrote at school. it did bother miss mayo." "i should think it might," said rivers. "any letters, mrs. crocker?" "no, sir; none for squire's folk. two newspapers. awful cold, miss leila. molasses so hard to-day, had to be chopped--" "oh, now, mrs. crocker!" the fat post-mistress was still handling the pile of finger-soiled letters. "oh, there's one for mrs. lamb." "we are going there. i'll take it." "thanks, miss. she's right constant in coming for letters, but the letters they don't come, and now here's one at last." leila tucked it into her belt. "i tell you, miss leila, a post-office is a place to make you laugh one day and cry the next. when you see a girl from the country come here twice a week for maybe two months and then go away trying that hard to make believe it wasn't of any account. there ought to be some one to write 'em letters--just to say, 'don't cry, he'll come.' it might be a queer letter." rivers wondered at the very abrupt and very american introduction of unexpected sentiment and humour. "let me know and i'll write them, mrs. crocker," cried leila. she had the very youthful reflection that it was odd for such a fat woman to be sentimental. "i should like to open all the letters for a week, mrs. crocker," said rivers. "wouldn't uncle sam make a row?" "he would, indeed!" "idle curiosity," laughed leila, as they went out into the storm. he made no reply and reflected on this young woman's developmental change and the gaiety which he so lacked. leila, wondering what peter wrote to the lonely old widow, went to look for her in the kitchen, while rivers sat down in the neatly kept front room. he waited long. at last leila came out alone, and as they walked away she said, "the letter was from peter." "indeed!" "yes, i got it all out of her." "got what?" "she gets three dollars a week from aunt ann and all her vegetables from aunt ann, and she is all the time complaining to uncle jim. then, of course, uncle jim gives her more money--and peter gets it--" "where is he?" "oh, in philadelphia, and here and there." "you should tell the squire." "no, i think not." "perhaps--yes--perhaps you are right." and facing the wild norther she left him at his door and went homewards with a new burden of thought on her mind. the winter broke up and late in may penhallow left home on business. he wrote from philadelphia: "my dear ann: trade is dead, money still locked up, and the railways hesitating to give orders for much-needed rails. i have one small order, which will keep us going, but will hardly pay. "i never talk of the political disorder, but now you will feel as i do a certain dismay at the action of the vicksburg convention in the interest of the slave states. not all were represented--tennessee and florida voted against the resolution that all state and federal laws prohibiting the african slave trade ought to be repealed. south carolina to my surprise divided its vote; there were forty for, nineteen against this resolution. it seems made to exasperate the north and build up the republican party. i who am simply for the union most deeply regret this action. "i want leila to meet me here to-day week. we will take the steamer and go to west point, let her see the place, and bring john home for his month of furlough. "i have talked here to the mayor and other moderate union men, and find them more hopeful than i of a peaceful ending. "yours always, "james penhallow." chapter xvii when leila sat upon the upper deck of the great hudson river steamer, she was in a condition of excitement natural to an imaginative nature unused to travel. her mind was like a fresh canvas ready for the hand of the artist. she was wondering at times what john penhallow would look like after over two years of absence and hardly heard the murmur of talk around her, and was as unconscious of the interested glances of the young men attracted by the tall figure standing in the bow as the great river opened before her. "that," said her uncle, "is weehawken. there--just there--hamilton was killed by burr, and near by hamilton's son four years before was killed in a duel--a political quarrel." she knew the sad story well, and with the gift of visualization saw the scene and the red pistol-flashes which meant the death of a statesman of genius. "and there are the palisades, leila." the young summer was clothing the banks with leafage not yet dark green, and translucent in the morning sun. no railroads marred the loveliness of the lawns on the east bank, and the grey architecture of the palisades rose in solemn grandeur to westward. "it is full of history, leila. there is tarrytown, where andré was taken." she listened in silence. the day ran on--the palisades fell away. "dobbs's ferry, my dear;" and pointing across the river, "on that hill andré died." presently the mountains rose before them, and in the afternoon they drew up at the old wharf. "we stay at cozzen's hotel, leila. i will send on the baggage and we will walk up to the point." she hardly heard him. a tall young man in white pantaloons and blue jacket stood on the pier. "good gracious, uncle jim, it is john!" a strange sense of disappointed remembrance possessed her. the boy playmate of her youth was gone. he gave both hands of welcome, as he said, "by george, leila, i am glad to see you." "you may thank uncle for our visit. aunt ann was not very willing to part with me." he was about to make the obvious reply of the man, but refrained. they talked lightly of the place, of her journey, and at last he said very quietly, even coldly, as if it were merely a natural history observation, "you are amazingly grown, cousin leila. it is as well for cadets and officers that your stay is to be brief." "john, i have been in baltimore. you will have to put it stronger than that--i am used to it." "i will see if i can improve on it, leila." now this was not at all the way she meant to meet him, nor these the words they meant to use--or rather, she--for john penhallow had given it no thought, except to be glad as a child promised a gift and then embarrassed into a word of simple descriptive admiration. when john penhallow said, with a curious gravity and a little of his old formal manner, "i will reflect on it," she knew with the quick perception of her sex that here was a new masculine study for the great naturalist woman. the boy--the lad--she knew were no more. "who is that with uncle james?" she asked. "the commandant." "my niece, miss grey. colonel beauregard, my dear. let us walk up to the point." the commandant, who made good his name, took possession of the delighted young woman and carried her away to his home with penhallow, leaving the cadet to return to his routine of duty. as they parted, he said, "i am set free to-morrow, leila, at five, and excused from the afternoon parade. if you and uncle jim will walk up to port putnam, i will join you." "i will tell uncle jim. you will be at the hop of course? i have been thinking of nothing else for a week." "i may be late." "oh, why?" "we are in the midst of our examinations. even to get time for a walk with you and uncle was hard. i wrote uncle jim not to come now. he must have missed it." "and so i am to suffer." "i doubt the anguish," he returned, laughing, as he touched his cap, and left her to brief consideration of the cadet cousin. "uncle jim might have been just like that--looked like that. they are very unlike too. i used to be able to tell just what jack would do when we were children--don't think i can now. how tall he is and how handsome. the uniform is becoming. i wonder if i too am so greatly changed." it is well here to betray the secrets of the novelists' confessional. leila grey had seen in the south much of an interesting society where love affairs were brief, lightly taken, easily ended, or hardly more than the mid-air flirtations of butterflies. no such perilous approaches to the most intimate relations of men and women were for this young woman, on whom the love and tactful friendship of the married life of grey pine had left a lasting impression. one must have known her well to become aware of the sense of duty to her ideals which lay behind her alert appearance of joyous gaiety and capacity to see the mirthful aspects of life. once long ago the lad's moment of passionate longing had but lightly stirred the dreamless sleep of unawakened power to love. even the memory of john's boy-folly had faded with time. her relation to him had been little more than warm friendship. even that tie--and she was abruptly aware of it--had become less close. she was directly conscious of the fact and wondered if this grave young man felt as she did. she lay awake that night and wondered too if his ideals of heroism and ambition were still actively present, and where too was his imagination--ever on the wing and far beyond her mental flight? she also had changed. did he know it or care? then she dismissed him and fell asleep. as john penhallow near to noon came out a little weary and anxious from the examination ordeal, he chanced on his uncle and leila waiting with the officer of the day, who said to him, "after dinner you are free for the rest of the afternoon. mr. penhallow has asked me to relieve you." as he bade them good-morning, his uncle said, "how goes the examination?" "don't ask me yet, sir; but i cannot go home until the end of next week. then i shall know the result." "but what examination remains?" persisted the squire. "don't ask him, uncle jim." "well--all right." "thank you, leila. i am worn out. i am glad of a let-up. i dream equations and pontoon bridges--and i must do some work after dinner. then i will find you and uncle jim on fort putnam, at five." "i want to talk with beauregard," said penhallow, "about the south. leila can find her way." "i can," she said. "i want to sketch the river, and that will give me time." "oh, there goes the dinner call. come in at a quarter to one with uncle jim. i have leave to admit you. there will be something to interest you." "and what, john--men eating?" "no. one of my best friends, gresham from south carolina, has been ordered home by his father." "and why?" asked penhallow. "oh, merely because his people are very bitter, and, as he tells me, they write about secession as if it were merely needed to say to the north 'we mean to cut loose'--and go; it is just to be as simple as 'good-bye, children.' i think i wrote you, uncle, that we do not talk politics here, but this quiet assumption of being able to do with us what they please is not the ordinary tone of the southern cadets. now and then there is a row--" leila listened with interest and some presently gratified desire to hear her cousin declare his own political creed. she spoke, as they stood beside the staff from which the flag was streaming in the north wind, "would it not be better, john, as mr. rivers desires, to let the southern states go in peace?" as she spoke, she was aware of something more than being merely anxious that he should make the one gallant answer to the words that challenged opinion. the squire caught on to some comprehension of the earnestness with which she put the question. to his uncle's surprise, the cadet said, "ah, my dear leila, that is really asking me on which side i should be if we come to an open rupture." "i did not mean quite that, john, and i spoke rather lightly; but you do not answer." he somewhat resented this inquisition, but as he saw his uncle turn, apparently expectant, he said quietly and speaking with the low voice which may be so surpassingly expressive, "i hardly see, leila, why you put such a question to me here under the flag. if there is to be war--secession, i shall stand by the flag, my country, and an unbroken union." the young face flushed a little, the mouth, which was of singular beauty, closed with a grip on the strong jaw. then, to leila's surprise, the captain and john suddenly uncovered as music rang out from the quarters of the band. "why do you do that, uncle jim?" "don't you hear, leila? it is the 'star spangled banner'--we all uncover." here and there on the parade ground, far and near, officers, cadets and soldiers, stood still an instant bareheaded. "oh," murmured leila. "how wonderful! how beautiful!" surprised at the effect of this ceremonial usage upon herself, she stood a moment with that sense of constriction in the throat which is so common a signal of emotion. the music ceased, and as they moved on penhallow asked, "what about gresham, your friend?" "oh, you know, uncle, when a cadet resigns for any cause which involves no dishonour, we have a little ceremony. i want you to see it. no college has that kind of thing. don't be late. i will join you in time." the captain and leila attracted much attention from the cadets at dinner in the mess hall. "now, dear, look!" said penhallow. at the end of the long table a cadet rose--the captain of the corps in charge of the battalion. there was absolute silence. the young officer spoke: "you all know that to our regret one of us leaves to-day. mr. gresham, you have the privilege of calling the battalion to attention." a slightly built young fellow in citizen's dress rose at his side. for a moment he could not fully command his voice; then his tones rang clear: "most unwillingly i take my farewell. i am given the privilege of those who depart with honour. battalion! attention! god bless you! good-bye!" the class filed out, and lifting the departing man on their shoulders bore him down to the old south dock and bade him farewell. penhallow looked after them. "there goes the first, leila. there will be more--many more--to follow, unless things greatly change--and they will not. i hoped to take john home with us, but he will come in a week. i must leave to-morrow morning. john is in the dumps just now, but beauregard has only pleasant things to say of him. i wish he were as agreeable about the polities of his own state." "are they so bad?" "don't ask me, leila." the capital of available energy in the young may be so exhausted by mental labour, when accompanied by anxiety, that the whole body for a time feels the effect. muscular action becomes overconscious, and intense use of the mind seems to rob the motor centres of easy capacity to use the muscles. john penhallow walked slowly up the rough road to where the ruined bastions of port putnam rose high above the hudson. he was aware of being tired as he had not been for years. the hot close air and the long hours of concentration of mind left him discouraged as well as exhausted. he was still in the toils of the might-have-been, of that wasting process--an examination, and turning over in his mind logistics, logarithms, trajectories, equations, and a mob of disconnected questions. "oh, by george!" he exclaimed, "what's the worth while of it?" all the pleasantly estimated assets of life and love and friendship became unavailable securities in the presence of a mood of depression which came of breathing air which had lost its vitalizing ozone. and now at a turn in the road nature fed her child with a freshening change of horizon. looking up he saw a hawk in circling flight set against the blue sky. he never saw this without thinking of josiah, and then of prisoned things like a young hawk he had seen sitting dejected in a cage in the barracks. did he have dreams of airy freedom? it had affected him as an image of caged energy--of useless power. with contrasted remembrance he went back to the guarded procession of boys from the lyceum in france, the flower-stalls, and the bird-market, the larks singing merrily in their small wicker cages. yes, he had them--the two lines he wanted--a poet's condensed statement of the thought he could not fully phrase: ah! the lark! he hath the heaven which he sings,-- but my poor hawk hath only wings. the success of the capture of this final perfection of statement of his own thought refreshed him in a way which is one of the mysteries of that wild charlatan imagination, who now and then administers tonics to the weary which are of inexplicable value. john penhallow felt the sudden uplift and quickened his pace until he paused within the bastion lines of the fort. before him, with her back to him, sat leila. her hat lay beside her finished sketch. she was thinking that john penhallow, the boy friend, was to-day in its accepted sense but an acquaintance, of whom she desired, without knowing why, to know more. that he had changed was obvious. in fact, he had only developed on the lines of his inherited character, while in the revolutionary alterations of perfected womanhood she had undergone a far more radical transformation. the young woman, whom now he watched unseen, rose and stood on the crumbling wall. a roughly caressing northwest wind blew back her skirts. she threw out her wide-sleeved arms in exultant pleasure at the magnificence of the vast river, with its forest boundaries, and the rock-ribbed heights of crow's nest. as she stood looking "taller than human," she reminded him of the figure of victory he had seen as a boy on the stairway of the louvre. he stood still--again refreshed. the figure he then saw lived with him through life, strangely recurrent in moments of peril, on the march, or in the loneliness of his tent. "good evening," he said as he came near. she sat down on the low wall and he at her feet. "ah, it is good to get you alone for a quiet talk, leila." she was aware of a wild desire to lay a hand among the curls his cadet-cropped hair still left over his forehead. "do you really like the life here, john?" "oh, yes. it is so definite--its duties are so plain--nothing is left to choice. like it? yes, i like it." "but, isn't it very limited?" "all good education must be--it is only a preparation; but one's imagination is free--as to a man's future, and as to ambitions. there one can use one's wings." she continued her investigation. "then you have ambitions. yes, you must have," she cried with animation. "oh, i want you to have them--ideals too of life. we used to discuss them." he looked up. "you think i have changed. you want to know how. it is all vague--very vague. yet, i could put my creed of what conduct is desirable in life in a phrase--in a text." "do, john." she leaned over in her interest. "render unto caesar the things which are caesar's and to god the things which are god's." the seriousness of the upturned face for a moment kept her silently reflective. "caesar! what of caesar, john?" "my country, of course; that is simple. the rest, leila, covers all--almost all of life and needs no comment. but how serious we are. tell me all about home and the village and the horses and uncle jim. he has some grey hairs." "he may well have grey hairs, john. the times are bad. he is worried. imagine uncle jim economical!" "incredible." "yes. he told me that his talk with colonel beauregard had made him despair of a peaceful ending, and usually he is hopeful." "well, don't make me talk politics. we rarely do. isn't this outlook beautiful? people rarely come here and it often gives me a chance to be alone and to think." "and what do you think about, john?" she was again curious. "oh, many things, big and little. uncle jim, aunt ann, mr. rivers, dixy--hornets, muskrats," he laughed. she noted the omission of leila grey. "and what else?" "oh, the tragedy of arnold,--the pathos of washington's despair,--his words, 'who is there now i can trust?'" "it came home to me, john, this morning when colonel beauregard showed us the portraits of the major-generals of the revolution. i saw a vacant place and a tablet like the rest, but with 'major general--born ' and no name! i asked what it meant. the colonel said only, 'arnold.' that is too pitiful--and his wife--i read somewhere that she was young, beautiful, and innocent of his horrible treason." "yes, what crime could be worse than his, and, too, such a gallant soldier. let us walk around the fort. oh, by the way, i found here last week two continental buttons, third pennsylvania infantry. like to have them, leila? i thought you might." "would i like?" she took them eagerly. "they ought to be gilded and used as sleeve-links." but where she kept them john penhallow never knew. they did not make the sleeve-links for which she agreed they were so suitable. "isn't there a walk down through the woods?" asked leila. "yes, this way." leaving the road they followed a rough trail through the woods to a more open space half-way down the hill. here he paused. "this is our last chance to talk until i am at grey pine." "that will be very soon, john." she sat down amid numberless violets, adding, "there will be the hop to-night, as you call it." "yes, the hop. i forgot. you will give me the first dance?" to her surprise he asked no others. "cadets have to learn to dance, but baltimore may have left you critical." still on her investigation track, she returned, "oh, baltimore! it seems odd to me that i should have seen so much of the world of men and women and you who are older so little in this military monastery." he laughed outright. "we have the officers' families, and if we are allowed to visit, the kembles and gouverneurs and pauldings across the river--no better social life anywhere. and as for young women--sisters, cousins--_embarras de choix_, miss grey. they come in flocks like the blackbirds. i assure you that this branch of natural history is pretty well illustrated at the point. we are apt to be rather over-supplied in june." "indeed!--all sorts, i suppose." "yes, a variety, and just now three charming young women from the south." "rather a strong adjective--charming. i might hesitate to apply it to a whole flock. i think men are more apt to use it than women." "i stand by my adjective. take care of your laurels, miss grey. i am lucky enough to have two dances with miss ramsay. her brother is a cadet." "introduce him to me. what myriads of violets!" "do you remember how, when we were small, we used to fight violets?" "how long ago it seems, john. it must have been the first june after you appeared in that amazing cap and--the cane i have it yet. let's fight violets. it may have a charm to make me look young again--i feel so old sometimes." intent on her game, she was already gathering the flowers in her lap, while the young man a little puzzled and a little amused watched the face which she described for his benefit as needing to look young. she ran on gaily, "you will pick five and i will pick five. i never heard of any other children fighting violets. it is a neglected branch of education. i got it from the westways children. now, fair play, john penhallow." he was carelessly taking his five violets, while leila was testing hers, choosing them with care. the charm she sought was working--they were children again. "that's not fair, leila." "why not?" "you are testing yours. it is a mean advantage. i would scorn to do such a thing. it is just like a woman--the way you do about dress. all women ought to dress alike--then the competition would be fair." leila looked up from her lap full of violets. "i should like to see _your_ miss ramsay in one of my gowns." "_my_ miss ramsay! no such luck." "you're a goose, jack." "you're a silly, leila." "oh, now, we are children, john. this is the magic of the june violets." "and you are just fourteen, leila. the wrinkles of age are gone--they used to be dimples." "nonsense! let's play." they hooked together the bent stems of the flowers. then there was a quick jerk, and one violet was decapitated. "one for you, leila;--and another." "you are not paying any attention to the game. please to keep young a little while." he was watching the sunlight as it fell upon her neck when it bent over the flowers. "and how am i to keep young, miss grey?" "oh, any woman can answer that--ask miss ramsay." "i will. there! you have won, leila, three to two. there used always to be a forfeit. what must i pay?" "now, john, what terrible task shall i put upon you? i have it. you shall ask me to give you the third dance." "that is miss ramsay's. i am sorry." "oh, one girl is as good as another." "perhaps--for women." he did not ask of her any other dances. "but really, leila, the better bred of these southern girls we see here are most pleasant acquaintances, more socially easy of acquaintance than northern girls. as they are butterflies of the hour--their frank ways are valuable in what you call our monastery." "yes, i know them well. there may be time here for some brief flirtations. i used to see them in maryland, and once when aunt margaret took me on visits to some old virginia homes. these pleasant girls take to it with no more conscience than birds in the spring. i used to see it in maryland." "oh, yes," he said, "but it means very little;--quite harmless--mere practice, like our fencing bouts." "did you ever kiss a woman, john--just for practice?" "why did i say that!" thought leila. "come, sir, confess!" "yes," he said, not liking it and far from any conception of the little mob of motives which betrayed to her a state of mind he had not the daring to guess. "did i? that requires courage. have i--ever kissed a woman? yes, often--" "oh, i did not ask who." "aunt ann--and a girl once--" "indeed!" "yes--leila grey, aged fifteen--and got my ears boxed. this confession being at an end, i want absolution." the air was cleared. "how about the first polka as absolution?" said leila. "it is unusual, but as penance it may answer." "the penance may be mine. i shall know better after the first round, mr. penhallow." "you are complimentary, miss grey," he added, with the whimsical display of mirth which was more than a smile and not a laugh, and was singularly attractive. in place of keeping up the gay game of trifles as shuttle-cocks, leila stood still upon the edge of the wood, "i don't think you liked what i asked." "what, about kissing? i did not, but upon my honour i answered you truly." he was grave as he replied. "you did not think it impertinent, jack?" "i don't know what i thought it." and then, as if to avoid need to defend or explain contradictory statements, he said, "put yourself in my place. suppose i had dared to ask you if ever a man had kissed you--" "oh, that's the difference between kissing and being kissed." "then put it my way." "john penhallow, i should dearly like to box your ears. once a man did kiss me. he was tall, handsome, and had the formal courtly manners you have at times. he was general winfield scott. he kissed my hand." "you minx!" cried john, "you are no better than you used to be. there goes the bugle!" and laughing as he deserted her, he ran down the hill and across the parade ground. "he is not really handsome," said the young woman, "but no man ought to have so beautiful a mouth--i could have made him do it in a minute. why did i not? what's the matter? i merely couldn't. he hasn't the remotest idea that if he were to kiss me--i--" she reddened at the thought and went with quick steps of "virgin liberty" to take tea with the commandant. in new york, on his way home, penhallow received a telegram, "i am third. john penhallow." then the squire presented leila with a bracelet, to the belated indignation of aunt ann, who was practising the most disagreeable economy. her husband wrote her that the best policy for a man financially in peril was to be extravagant enough to discredit belief in his need to lessen expenditure. he was, moreover, pleasantly aware that the improving conditions of trade this summer of had enabled him to collect some large outstanding debts. he encouraged leila to remember their old village friends, but when he proposed a set of furs for ann penhallow's winter wear leila became ingeniously impossible about choice, and the squire's too lavish generosity somehow failed to materialize; but why or how was not clear to him because of their being feminine diplomatic ways--which attain results and leave with the male a mildly felt resentment without apparent cause of defeat. as cadet no. of his class in this year's studies made the railway journey of a warm june day, he recalled with wondering amusement his first lonely railway travel. "i was a perfect little snob." the formal, too old-mannered politeness of his childhood had left, if the child is father of the man, an inheritance of pleasant courtesy which was unusual and had varied values in the intercourse of life. rivers said of him later that the manner of john penhallow's manners had the mystery of charm. even when younger, at grey pine, he liked to talk to people, with curiosity about their lives and their work. now, as the train moved on, he fell into chat with the country folk who got on the train for short travel. soon or late they all talked politics, but 'generally guessed things would be settled somehow'--which is the easily reached conclusion of the american. when the old conductor, with the confidence john's manner invited, asked what uniform he wore, john said, laughing, "do you not remember the boy with a cane who got out at westways crossing?" "you ain't him--?? not really? why it's years ago! you are quite a bit changed." "for the better, i hope." "well, here's your station, and miss grey waiting." "oh, john, glad to see you! i told aunt no one must go for you but me. get in. and billy, look out how you drive." billy, bewildered by the tall figure in cadet jacket and grey pantaloons, needed the warning. then there was the avenue, the big grey pine, home, and aunt ann's kiss of welcome. the old familiar life was again his. he rode with the squire or leila, swam, and talked to rivers whenever he could induce the too easily tired man to walk with him. he was best pleased to do so when leila was of the party. then at least the talk was free and wandered from poetry and village news to discussion of the last addition to the causes of quarrel between the north and south. when tempted to speak at length, rivers sat down. "how can a man venture to speak, john, like mr. jefferson davis? have you read his speech?" "no, sir." "well, he says the importation of africans ought to be left to the states--and the president. he thinks that as cuba is the only spot in the civilized world where the african slave-trade is permitted, its cession to us would put an end to that blot on civilization. an end to it, indeed! think of it!" his voice rose as he spoke. "end slavery and you end that accursed trade. and to think that a woman like ann penhallow should think it right!" neither john nor leila were willing to discuss their aunt's definitely held views. "i think," said leila, who had listened silently, "aunt ann has lost or put aside her interest in politics." "i wish i could," said john. "but what do you mean, leila? she has never said so." "it's just this. aunt ann told me two weeks ago that uncle henry grey was talked of as a delegate to the democratic convention to meet next year. now her newspapers remain unopened. they are feeding these dissensions north and south. no wonder she is tired of it all. i am with uncle jim, but i hate to wrangle over politics like senator davis and this new man lincoln--oh, and the rest. no good comes of it. i can't see it as you do, mr. rivers." "and yet, i am right," said rivers gravely. "god knows. it is in his hands." "what aunt ann thinks right," said leila, "can't be so unpardonably wicked." she spoke softly. "oh, john, look at that squirrel. she is carrying a young one on her back--how pretty! she has to do it. what a lovely instinct. it must be heavy." "i suppose," said rivers, "we all have loads we must carry, are born to carry--" "like the south, sir," said john. "we can help neither the squirrel nor the south. you think we can throw stones at the chipmunk and make her drop it--and--" "bad logic, john," returned rivers. "but soon there will be stones thrown." "and who will cast the first stone?" rejoined leila, rising. "it is an ancient crime," said rivers. "it was once ours, and it will be ours to end it. now i leave you to finish your walk; i am tired." as they moved away, he looked after them. "beauty, intelligence, perfect health--oh, my god!" in august with ever resisted temptation john penhallow went back to west point to take up his work again. the autumn came, and in october, at night, the squire read with dismay and anger of the tragic attempt of john brown at harper's ferry. "my poor ann," he exclaimed. he went at once from his library back to the hall, where leila was reading aloud. "ann," he said, "have you seen the papers to-day?" "i have read no paper for a month, james. they only fill me with grief and the sense of how helpless i am--even--even--with those i love. what is it now, james?" "an insane murderer named john brown has made an attack on harper's perry with a dozen or so of infatuated followers." he went on to tell briefly the miserable story of a madman's folly. "the whole north is mad," said ann, not looking up, but knitting faster as she spoke, "mad--the abolitionists of boston are behind it." it was too miserably true. "thank you, james, for wanting to make me see in this only insanity." the squire stood still, watched by the pitiful gaze of leila. "i want you, ann--i wanted you to see, dear, to feel how every thoughtful man in the north condemns the wickedness of this, and of any, attempt to cause insurrection among the slaves." "yes--yes, of course--no doubt--but it is the natural result of northern sentiment." "oh, aunt ann!" "keep quiet, child!" "you should not have talked politics to me, james." "but, my god, ann, this is not politics!" he looked down at her flushed face and with the fatal newspaper in his hand stood still a moment, and then went back to his library. there he stayed before the fire, distressed beyond measure. "just so," he said, "the south will take it--just so." ann penhallow said, "where did you leave off, leila? go on, my dear, with the book." "i can't. you were cruel to uncle jim--and he was so dear and sweet." "if you can't read, you had better go to bed." leila broke into tears and stumbled up the stairs with half-blinded eyes. ann sat long, hearing penhallow's steps as he walked to and fro. then she let fall her knitting, rose, and went into the library. "james, forgive me. i was unjust to say such things--i was--" "please don't," he cried, and took her in his arms. "oh, my love," he said, "we have darker days than this before us. if only there was between north and south love like ours--there is not. we at least shall love on to the end--no matter what happens." the tearful face looked up, "and you do forgive me?" "forgive! there is no need for any such word in the dictionary of love." between half-hysterical laughter and ready tears, she gasped, "where did you get that prettiness?" "read it in a book, you goosey. go to bed." "no, not yet. this crime or craze will make mischief?" "yes, ann, out of all proportion to the thing. the south will be in a frenzy, and the north filled with regret and horror. now go to bed--we have behaved like naughty children." "oh, james, must i be put in a corner?" "yes--of my heart. now, good night." november passed. the man who had sinned was fairly tried, and on december nd went to a well-deserved death. penhallow refused to talk of him to rivers, who praised the courage of his last hours. "mark," he said, "have been twice or thrice sure i was to die--and i have seen two murderers hanged, and i do assure you that neither they nor i were visibly disturbed. the fact is, when a fellow is sure to be put to death, he is either dramatic--as this madman was--or quietly undemonstrative. martyr! nonsense! it was simply stupid. i don't want to talk about it. those mischief-makers in congress will howl over it." they did, and secession was ever in the air. chapter xviii the figure of lincoln had been set on the by-ways of state politics by his debate with douglas. his address in new york in february of set him on the highways of the nation's life. meanwhile there were no talks about politics at grey pine. the christmas season had again gone by with unwonted economies. while douglas defined his opinions in the senate and jefferson davis made plain that the union would be dissolved if a radical republican were elected, it became clear that the democratic party which in april was to nominate candidates would be other than of one mind. penhallow in washington heard seward in the senate. of this memorable occasion he wrote with such enthusiasm to leila as he rarely showed: "i may not write to your aunt, and i am moved to write to you by the effect mr. seward's speech had on me. he is not much of a man in his make-up. his voice is husky and his gestures are awkward and have no relation to what he says. it seemed a dried-up sort of talk, but he held the senate and galleries to fascinated attention for two hours, and was so appealing, so moderate. the questions at issue were handled with what rivers calls and never uses--the eloquence of moderation. i suppose he will be the nominee of the republican party. it won't please the abolitionists at all. i wish you could have heard it. "i came here to see two southern senators who have been counsel for us in regard to debts owing the mills by southern railways. i gathered easily that my well-known republican views made collection difficult. i was about to say something angry--it would have done no good, and i am opposed to useless anger. it is all pretty bad, because the south has hardly felt the panic, or its continued effect on our trade. "i am wrong to trouble you with my troubles. we shall pull through. "yours, "james penhallow." "p.s. i should have been prepared for my failure to get fair treatment. i had learned in new york that lists of abolition houses have been published in the south, and southern buyers warned not to place orders with them. i wonder if i am thus listed. our agent in savannah writes that it is quite useless to solicit orders on account of the prevalent sentiment, and he is leaving the town." penhallow went home disappointed and discouraged, and called a private meeting of his pittsburgh partners. he set before them the state of their affairs. there would be no debts collectible in the south. he smiled as he added that he had collected certain vague promises, which could hardly be used to pay notes. these could and would be met, they said, but finally agreed with him that unless they had other orders, it might be necessary to further reduce their small force. his partners were richer than he, but indisposed to take risks until the fall conventions were over. it was so agreed. as they were leaving, penhallow said, "but there will be our workmen--what will become of them?" they were sure times would get better, and did not feel his nearness of responsibility for workmen he knew so long and so well. he rode home at a walk. the situation of his firm was like that of many others, and now this april of business doubts, sectional feeling and love of country seemed to intensify the interest with which all classes looked forward to the charleston democratic convention. the convention met on april rd. it was grave and able. there were daily prayers in the churches of charleston for the success of southern principles. henry grey, a delegate, wrote to his sister: "the douglas platform was adopted and at once the delegations of six cotton states withdrew. we who cannot accept douglas meet in richmond. it means secession unless the republicans are reasonable when they nominate in chicago. mr. alexander stephens predicts a civil war, which most men i meet here consider very unlikely." ann handed this letter to her husband, saying, "this will interest you." he read it twice, and then said, "there is at least one man in the south who believes the north will fight--stephens." "but will it, james?" a predictive spectre of fear rose before her. slowly folding the letter he said, "yes, the south does not know us." she walked away. on may th the republicans met in chicago. the news of the nomination of lincoln came to the squire as riding from the mills he met dr. mcgregor afoot. "what, walking!" he said. "i never before saw you afoot--away from that saint of a mare." "yes, my old mare got bit by something yesterday and kicked the gig to smithereens, and lamed her off hind-leg." "i will lend you a horse and a gig," said penhallow. "thanks," said mcgregor simply. "i am sweating through my coat." "but don't leave my horse half a day tied to a post--any animal with horse-sense would kick." "as if i ever did--but when the ladies keep me waiting. heard the good news? no--we have nominated lincoln--and hamlin." "i preferred seward. you surprise me. what of the platform?" "oh, good! the union, tariff, free soil. you will like it. the october elections in pennsylvania will tell us who will win--later you will have to take an active part." "no. come up to-morrow and get that horse--no, i'll send it." the squire met rivers on the avenue. as he walked beside the horse, he said, "i am going to dine with you." "that is always good, but be on your guard about politics at grey pine. lincoln is nominated." "thank god! what do you think of it, squire?" "i think with you. this is definite--no more wabbling. but rest assured, it means, if he is elected, secession, and in the end war. we will try to avert it. we will invent compromises, at which the south will laugh; at last, we will fight, mark. but we are a quiet commercial people and will not fight if we can avoid it. they believe nothing will make us fight. the average, every-day northerner thinks the threat of secession is mere bluff." "do you recall, squire, what thucydides said of the greeks at the time of the peloponnesian war?" "i--how the deuce should i?--what did he say?" "he said the greeks did not understand each other any longer, although they spoke the same language. the same words in boston and in charleston have different meanings." "but," said penhallow, "we never did understand one another." "no, never. war--even war--is better than to keep up a partnership in slavery--a sleeping partnership. oh, i would let them go--or accept the gage of battle." "pretty well that, for a clergyman, mark. as for me, having seen war, i want never to see it again. this may please you." as he spoke, he extracted a slip of paper from his pocket-book, where to leila's amusement queer bits of all kinds of matters were collected. now it was verse. "read that. you might have written it. i kept it for you. there is ann on the porch. don't read it now." late that evening rivers sat down to think over the sermon of the next sunday. the squire had once said to him, "war brings out all that is best and all that is worst in a nation." he read the verses, and then read them aloud. "they say that war is hell, the great accursed, the sin impossible to be forgiven; yet i can look beyond it at its worst and still find blue in heaven. "and as i note how nobly natures form under the war's red reign, i deem it true that he who made the earthquake and the storm perchance makes battles too. "the life he loves is not the life of span abbreviated by each passing breath; it is the true humanity of man victorious over death." "no great thing in the way of poetry--but--a thought--a thought. oh, i should like to preach of men's duty to their country just now. i envy grace his freedom. if i preached as he does, people would say it was none of a preacher's business to apply christ's creed of conduct to a question like slavery. mrs. penhallow would walk out of the church. but before long men will blame the preacher who does not say, 'thou shalt love thy country as thyself'--ah, and better, yes, and preach it too." during the early summer of , james penhallow guarded an awkward silence about politics. leila found that her uncle would not talk of what the closing months of buchanan's administration might contribute to insure peaceful settlement. john penhallow was as averse to answering her eager questions. their silence on matters which concerned a nation's possible dismemberment and her aunt's too evident distress weighed heavily upon leila. the newspapers bewildered her. the _tribune_ was for peaceful separation, and then later was against it. uncle jim had said he was too worried about the mills to talk politics, "don't ask me, leila." at last, an errand to dr. mcgregor's gave her the chance she desired. "yes," said the doctor, "i'll come to-day. one of the maids? well, what else, leila?" seeing that she still lingered. "i want to know something about all this tangle of politics. there's breckinridge, douglas, bell and lincoln--four candidates. uncle jim gets almost cross when i ask him what they all stand for. mr. rivers told me to be thankful i have no vote. if there is to be war, have i no interest? there is uncle jim--and--and john." the doctor said, "sit down, leila. your uncle could answer you. he won't talk. i don't believe john penhallow owns any politics except a soldier's blind creed of devotion to the flag." "oh, the flag, doctor! but it is a symbol--it is history. i won't write to a man any more who has no certain opinions. he never answers." "well, my dear, see how hard it is to know what to think! one state after another is seceding. the old juggle of compromises goes on in that circus we call congress. the audience is grimly silent. crittenden's compromise has failed. the president is at last against secession--and makes no vigorous effort to reinforce fort sumter. the cabinet was distinctly with the south--the new men came in too late. you--a girl--may well call it a tangle. it is a diabolical cat's-cradle. my only hope, my dear, is in a new and practically untried man--abraham lincoln. the south is one in opinion--we are perplexed by the fears of commerce and are split. there you have all my wisdom. read the news, but not the weathercock essays called editorials. oh! i forgot to tell the squire that tom, my young doctor, has passed the army board and is awaiting orders in washington. by-bye!" "tom as a doctor--and in uniform," leila murmured, as her horse walked away. "how these boys go on and on, and we women just wait and wait while men dispose of our fates." in february the confederacy of the south was organising, and in march of mr. lincoln was president. penhallow groaned over cameron as secretary of war, smiled approval of the cabinet with seward and chase and anxiously waited to see what lincoln would do. events followed fast in those eventful days. on the thirteenth of april ann penhallow sat in the spring sunshine on the porch, while leila read aloud to her with entranced attention "the marble faun." the advent of an early spring in the uplands was to be seen in the ruddy colour of the maples. bees were busy among the young flowers. there was noiseless peace in the moveless infant foliage. "how still it is!" said leila looking up from the book. they were far from the madding crowd. "what is it, billy?" he was red, breathless, excited, and suddenly broke out in his thin boy-like voice, "hurrah! they've fired on the flag." "who--what flag?" "don't know." he had no least idea of what his words meant. "don't know," and crying "hurrah! they've fired on the flag," fled away. ann said, "go to the village and find out what that idiot meant." in a half hour leila came back. "well, what is it?" "the charleston troops have fired on fort sumter--my god! aunt ann--on the flag--our flag!" ann rose, gathered up her work, hesitated a moment, and saying, "that is bad news, indeed," went into the house. leila sat down on the step of the porch and broke into a passion of tears, as james penhallow coming through the woods dismounted at her side. "what is the matter, my dear child?" "they have fired on the flag at sumter--it is an insult!" "yes, my child, that--and much more. a blunder too! mr. lincoln should thank god to-day. he will have with him now the north as one man. colonel anderson must surrender; he will be helpless. alas for his wife, a georgia woman!--and my ann, my dear ann." there are few alive to-day who recall the effect caused in the states of the north by what thousands of men and women, rich and poor, felt to be an insult, and for the hour, far more to them than the material consequences which were to follow. when rivers saw the working people of the little town passionately enraged, the women in tears, he read in this outbreak of a class not given to sentimental emotion what was felt when the fatal news came home to lonely farms or great cities over all the north and west. memorable events followed in bewildering succession during the early spring and summer of . john wrote that beauregard and all but a score of southern cadets had left the point. robert lee's decision to resign from the army was to the squire far more sorrowfully important. when lincoln's call to arms was followed in july by the defeat of bull run, james penhallow wrote to his nephew: "my dear john: your aunt is beyond measure disturbed. i have been more at ease now that this terrible decision as to whether we are to be one or god knows how many is to be settled by the ordeal of battle. i am amazed that no one has dwelt upon what would have followed accepted secession. we should have had a long frontier of custom houses, endless rows over escaping slaves, and the outlet of the mississippi in the possession of a foreign country. within ten years war would have followed; better let it come now. "i am offered a regiment by governor curtin. to accept would be fatal to our interests in the mills. it may become an imperative duty to accept; but this war will last long, or i much underestimate the difficulties of overcoming a gallant people waging a defensive war in a country where every road and creek is familiar. "yours, in haste, "james penhallow." john wrote later: "my dear uncle: here is news for you! all of my class are ordered to washington. i shall be in the engineer corps. i see general mcclellan is put in command of the army. i will write again from washington." ann penhallow heard the letter, and saying merely, "it had to come!" made the bitter forecast that it would be james penhallow's turn next. john wrote again as he had promised, but now to leila: "at last we are in this crowded city. we get our uniforms in a day or two. i am a lieutenant of engineers. we are now in tents. on arrival we were marched to general scott's headquarters, and while drawn up in line mr. lincoln came out. he said a few words to us. his appearance was strange to me. a tall stooping figure, in what our village calls 'store clothes,' but very neat; the face big, homely, with a look of sadness in the eyes. he shook hands with each of us in turn, saying a word of encouragement. why he spoke specially to me, i do not know. he asked my name. i said 'penhallow.' 'oh,' he said, 'a cornish name--the great iron-works. do you know the cornish rhyme? it rings right true.' i said, 'no, sir.' 'well, it is good. do your duty. there is a whole creed in the word--man needs no other. god bless you, boys.' it was great, leila. what is the cornish rhyme? ask uncle jim. write me care of the engineer camp. "i put this on a separate slip for you. in baltimore we were delayed and i had an hour's leave. i called on your uncle, charles grey. he is union through and through. his brother henry has gone south. while i was walking with mr. charles grey, a lady went by us, drawing away her skirts with quite unmistakable contempt and staring at your uncle in a way which was so singular that i asked what it all meant. he replied, 'it is your united states cadet uniform--and the lady is mrs. henry grey. i am not of their acquaintance.' this, leila, was my first taste of the bitterness of feeling here. it is the worse for the uprising of union feeling all over maryland. "my class-mates are rather jolly about their commissions and the prospect of active war. i have myself a certain sense of being a mere cipher, a dread too of failure. i can say so to you and to no one else. i am going where death is in the air--and there are things which make me eager to live--and--to be able to live to feel that i have done my duty. thinking of how intensely you feel and how you grieve over being unable to do more than pray, i mean to pet a little the idea that i am your substitute." at this point she sat a while with the letter on her lap. then she read on: "i hoped for a brief furlough, but got none, and so i shall apply to memory and imagination for frequent leave of absence,--from duty. "yours, "john penhallow." "to pet a little the idea! that is so like john. well, yes--i don't mind being petted as a substitute and at a distance. it's rather confusing." chapter xix it was late in october and ten at night, when leila with her uncle was endeavouring to discover on one of the large maps, then so much in demand, the situation of the many small conflicts which local feeling brought about. "it all wants a head--one head, leila. now it is here, there and everywhere, useless gain or loss--and no large scheme. john left washington two weeks ago. you saw his letter?" "no." "then i may have told you--i am sure i did. damn it, leila! i am so bothered. i did tell ann, i suppose." "why, of course, uncle jim. i wish i could help you. is it the mills?" "yes. your little property, part of john's--your aunt's--are all in the family business. ann says, 'what's the difference? nothing matters now.' it isn't like her." "i'm sure i don't care, uncle jim." "don't talk nonsense. in a month we shall know if we are bankrupt. i did not mean to trouble you. i did mean to tell you that to my relief john is out of washington and ordered to report to general grant at cairo. see, dear, there is a pin marking it on the map." "do you know this general?" "yes. he took no special rank at the point, but--who can tell! generals are born, not made. i saw a beautiful water-colour by him at the point. that's all i know of him. now, go to bed--and don't take with you my worries and fight battles in your dreams." there was in fact no one on whom he could willingly unload all of his burdens. the need to relieve the hands out of work--two-thirds of his force--was growing less of late, as men drifted off into the state force which the able governor curtin was sending to mcclellan. penhallow's friends in pittsburgh had been able to secure a mortgage on grey pine, and thus aided by his partners he won a little relief, while rivers watched him with increasing anxiety. on the th of january, , he walked into mcgregor's office and said to his stout friend, "mcgregor, i am in the utmost distress about my wife. inside my home and at the mills i am beset with enough difficulties to drive a man wild. we have a meeting in half an hour to decide what we shall do. i used to talk to ann of my affairs. no one has or had a clearer head. now, i can't." "why not, my friend?" "she will not talk. henry grey is in the confederate service; charles is out and out for the union; we have no later news of john. we miserably sit and eat and manufacture feeble talk at table. it is pitiful. her duties she does, as you may know, but comes home worn out and goes to bed at nine. even the village people see it and ask me about her. if it were not for leila, i should have no one to talk to." a boy came in. "you are wanted, sir, at the mill office." "say i will come at once. i'll see you after the meeting, mcgregor." "one moment, squire. here's a bit of good news for you. cameron has resigned, and edwin stanton is secretary of war." "stanton! indeed! thank heaven for that. now things will move, i am sure." the squire found in his office sibley, one of his partners, a heavy old man, who carried the indifferent manners of a farmer's son into a middle age of successful business. he sat with his chair tilted back, a huge cabana cigar hanging unlighted from the corner of his mouth. he made no movement towards rising, but gave his hand as he sat, and said: "there, penhallow, just read that!" as the squire took the telegram, sibley scratched a match on the back of his pantaloons and waiting for the sulphur to burn out lit his cigar. ever after the smell of sulphur brought to the squire of grey pine the sense of some pleasant association and then a less agreeable remembrance. "read it--read it out loud, penhallow! it was a near thing. wardlow couldn't meet us--be here at noon. read it--i've read it about ten times--want to hear it again. i've been as near broke as you--but that's an old story. when you're at your last dollar, buy a fast pair of trotters--one thousand-dollar pair--and drive them. up goes your credit! told you that once." penhallow looked up from the telegram. "is this certain?" "yes, it has been repeated--you can rely on it." "washington, willard's hotel. "mr. stanton has given contract for field artillery to the penhallow mills. "richard ainseley." penhallow had read it aloud as he stood. then he sat down. "don't speak to me for a moment, sibley. thank god!" he murmured, while the care-wrinkled face of the veteran speculator looked at him with a faint smile of affectionate regard. "well," said penhallow, "is this all?" "no. while cameron was in office the contract was drawn in favour of the lancaster works. we have been urging our own claims, and their washington agent, your very particular friend, mr. swallow, would have had the job in a week more. when stanton saw our bid and that it was really a more advantageous offer, he sent first for swallow and then for ainseley and settled it at once. i believe your name and well-known character did the business. do you know--do you realize what it means to us?" "hardly. i had no hope while cameron was in office. i left it to you and ainseley." "well, you will see the contract to-morrow." he wriggled on to one leg of the frail office chair and came down with a crash. he gathered up his two hundred pounds and laughing said, as he looked at the wreck, "that's what we would have been tomorrow but for that bit of yellow paper. in six months you will be a rich man, my friend. cannon--shells--the whole outfit. we must get to work at once. an ordnance officer will be here to-morrow with specifications, and your own knowledge will be invaluable. i'd like to see swallow again. he was so darned sure!" wardlow turned up by the noon train, and they worked until dusk, when his partners left him to secure hands in pittsburgh, while the good news spread among the men still at work. penhallow rode home through the woods humming his old army songs--a relieved and happy man. the doctor waited a half-hour in vain, and after his noonday dinner was about to go out when mrs. penhallow was driven to his door. somewhat surprised, he went back with her. "sit down," he said. "what can i do for you?" "oh, for me nothing! i want to talk about my husband. he is ill, i am sure--he is ill. he eats little, he sleeps badly, he has lost--oh, altogether lost--his natural gaiety. he hardly speaks at all." the doctor was silent. "well," she said. "can you bear a little frank talk?" he asked. "yes--why not?" "do you know that he is on the verge of complete financial ruin?" "what does that matter? i can--i can bear anything--give up anything--" "you have the woman's--the good woman's--indifference about money. do you talk to him about it?" "no. we get on at once to the causes of trouble--this unrighteous war--that i can't stand." "ah, mrs. penhallow, there must be in the north and south many families divided in opinion; what do you suppose they do? this absolute silence is fatal. you two are drifting apart--" "oh, not that! surely not that!" "yes! the man is worried past endurance. if he really were to fall ill--a serious typhoid, for instance, the south and your brother and john, everything would be forgotten--there would be only james penhallow. it would be better to talk of the war--to quarrel over it--to make him talk business--oh, anything rather than to live as you are living. he is not ill. go home and comfort him. he needs it. he has become a lonely man, and it is your fault. he was here to-day in the utmost distress about you--" "about me?" "yes." "there is nothing the matter with me!" "yes, there is--oh, with both of you. this war will last for years--and so will you. all i have to say is that my friend, james penhallow, is worth all the south, and that soon or late he will stand it no longer and will go where he ought to be--into the army." "you are talking nonsense--he will never leave the mills." he had called up her constant fear. "it is not nonsense. when he is a broken man and you and he are become irritable over a war you did not make and cannot end, he will choose absence and imperative duty as his only relief." as she stood up, red and angry, she said, "you have only hurt and not helped me." she said no other word as he went with her to the wagon. he looked after her a moment. "well, well! there are many kinds of fools--an intelligent fool is the worst. i didn't help her any, and by george! i am sorry." when at twilight the doctor came home from distant visits to farms, he met leila near to his door. "i want to see you a minute," she said, as she slipped out of her saddle. "a woman's minute or a man's minute?" "a man's." she secured her mare as he said, "well, come in. it's rather amusing, leila. sit down. i've had james penhallow here to say his wife's breaking down. i've had mrs. penhallow here to say james penhallow is ill. except the maids and the cats and you, all grey pine is diagnosing one another. and now, you come! don't tell me you're ill--i won't have it." "please don't joke, doctor. i am troubled about these dear people. i talked to mr. rivers about it, and he is troubled and says it is the mills and money. i know that, but at the bottom of it all is the war. now aunt ann is reading the papers again--i think it is very strange; it's confusing, doctor." "here," reflected the doctor, "is at least one person with some sense." she went on, speaking slowly, "uncle jim comes home tired. aunt ann eats her dinner and reads, and is in bed by nine. the house is as melancholy as--i feel as if i were in a mousetrap--" "why mouse-trap, my dear?" "it sounds all right. the mouse is waiting for something awful to happen--and so am i. uncle jim talked of asking people to stay with us. it's just to please aunt ann. she said, 'no, james, i don't want any one.' he wished to please her. she really thinks of nothing but the war and uncle jim, and when uncle jim is away she will spend an hour alone over his maps. she has--what do you call it--?" "is obsession the word you want?" "yes--that's it." "now, leila, neither you nor i nor mark rivers can help those two people we love. don't cry, leila; or cry if it will help you. when you marry, be sure to ask, 'what are your politics, jeremiah?'" his diversion answered his purpose. "i never would marry a man named jeremiah." "i recommend a well-trained widower." "i prefer to attend to my husband's education myself. i should like a man who is single-minded when i marry him." "well, for perversion of english you are quite unequalled. go and flirt a bit for relief of mind with mark rivers." "i would as soon flirt with an undertaker. why not with dr. mcgregor?" "it would be comparable, leila, to a flirtation between a june rose and a frost-bitten cabbage. now, go away. these people's fates are on the lap of the gods." "of the god of war, i fear," said leila. "yes, more or less." he sent her away mysteriously relieved, she knew not why. "a little humour," he reflected, "is as the indians say, _big medicine_." whether the good doctor's advisory prescription would have served as useful a purpose in the case of ann penhallow, he doubted. that heart-sick little lady was driven swiftly homeward, the sleigh-runners creaking on the frozen snow: "walk the horses," she said to billy, as they entered the long avenue, "and quit talking." while with the doctor and when angrily leaving him, she was the easy victim of a storm of emotions. as she felt the healthy sting of the dry cold, she began the process of re-adjustment we are wise to practise after a time of passion when by degrees facts and motives begin to reassume more just proportions. he had said, the war would last long. that she had not believed. could she and james live for years afraid to speak of what was going on? the fact that her much-loved maryland did not rise as one man and join the confederacy had disturbed her with her first doubt as to the final result of the great conflict. she thought it over with lessening anger at the terrible thing mcgregor had said, "you two are drifting apart." this sentence kept saying itself over and over. "stop, billy." she was back again in the world of everyday. "get in, mr. rivers. we are both late for our dante." as she spoke, an oppressed pine below which he stood under a big umbrella was of a mind to bear its load no longer and let fall a bushel or so of snow on the clergyman's cover. his look of bewilderment and his upward glance as if for some human explanation routed from ann's mind everything except amusement over this calamity. "you must not mind if i laugh." she took for granted the leave to laugh, as he said, "i don't see where the fun comes in. it is most disagreeable." the eloquent eyes expressed calamity. it was really felt as if it had been a personal attack. "it was a punishment for your utterly abominable politics." for the first time for months she was her unfettered self. his mind was still on his calamity. "i really staggered under it." "shake it off and get in to the sleigh. my husband ought to have all the big pines cut down." rivers's mind had many levels. sometimes they were on spiritual heights, or as now--almost childlike. "to stay indoors would be on the whole more reasonable," he said, "or to have these trees along the avenue shaken." "i'd like the job," ventured billy. "keep quiet," said mrs. ann. "it is most uncomfortable as it melts," said rivers. ann thought of john penhallow's early adventure in the snow, and seeing how strangely real was mark rivers's discomfort, remarked to herself that he was like a cat for dislike of being wet, and was thankful for her privilege of laughing inwardly. billy, who was, as leila said, an unexpectable person, contributed to ann penhallow's sense of there being still some available fun in a world where men were feebly imitating the vast slaughters of nature. he considered the crushed umbrella, the felt hat awry, and the disconsolate figure. "parson do look crosser than a wet hen." then too rivers's laugh set free her mirth, and ann penhallow laughed as she had not done for many a day. "that is about my condition," said rivers. "i shall go home and get into dry clothes. billy, you're a poet." "don't like nobody to call me names," grunted billy. "i wish james had heard that," cried ann, while rivers gathered up the remains of his umbrella. as billy drove away, mrs. penhallow called back, "you will come to dinner to-day?" "thank you, but not to-day." as ann came down the stairs to the hall, penhallow was in the man's attitude, with his back to the fire. leila with a hand on the mantel and a foot on the fender was talking to her uncle, an open letter in her hand. ann heard him say, "that was in october"--and then--"why this must be a month old!" "it must have been delayed. he wrote a note after the fight at belmont, and that was in october. he did write once since then, but it was hardly worth sending. as a letter writer, john is rather a failure, but this is longer." she laughed gaily as she spread open the letter. "he has got a new hero, uncle--general grant. john is strong on heroes--he began with you." "stuff and nonsense," said the squire. "read it." leila hesitated. "oh, let's hear it," cried her aunt. "go on, dear," said the squire. leila still hesitated. usually ann penhallow carried away john's rare letters to be read when alone. now she said, with unnatural deliberation. "read it; one may as well hear his news; we can't always just ignore what goes on." leila a little puzzled glanced at her aunt. the squire pleased and astonished said, "go on, my dear." turning to the candles on the hall table, leila read the letter:--"why how long it has been! it is dated november th." "dear leila: we have been moving from place to place, and although i know or guess why, it is best left out of letters. at belmont general grant had a narrow escape from capture. he was the last man on board the boat. he is a slightly built, grave, tired-looking man, middle-aged, carelessly dressed and eternally smoking. i was in the thick of the row--a sort of aide, as there was no engineer work. he was as cool as a cucumber--" "why are cucumbers cool?" asked leila, looking up. "oh, bother! go on!" said penhallow. "we shall move soon. good-bye. "john penhallow." ann made no comment. the squire said, "it might have been longer. come, there's dinner, and i am hungry." ann looked at him. he was gay, and laughed at her account of rivers's disaster. "i have some good news for you, ann. i shall keep it until after dinner. then we can talk it over at leisure. it concerns all of us, even john." "i don't see how i am to wait," said leila. "you will have to." ann made an effort to meet the tone of gaiety in her husband's talk, and when the wine was set before him, he said, "now, ann, a glass--and leila, 'to our good news and good luck--and to john.'" they followed him into the library, and being in sacrificial mood, ann filled a pipe, lighted a match, and said, "i want you to smoke, james." "not yet, dear. sit down." "no, i want to stand." she stood beside the fire, a little lady, with an arm around the waist of her niece. the squire seated was enjoying the suspense of his eager audience. "you know, dear ann, that for two years or more the mills have been without large orders. we have been in the most embarrassing situation. our debts"--he was about to say, 'in the south'--"unpaid. i had to ask you to help us." this was news to leila. "why mention that, james?" said her aunt. "well, we long ago lessened our force. to shut down entirely was ruin, but when we met to-day we were to decide whether it was honest to borrow more money and stagger on, or as i thought, honourable to close the mills and realize for our creditors all we could." ann sat down with some feeling of remorse. why had she not known all this? was it her fault? he had borne it for the most part without her knowledge--alone. "my god! it is true," she reflected, "we have drifted apart." he had hopefully waited, not wanting to trouble a woman already so obviously sorrow-laden. he seemed to echo her thought. "you see, dear," and the strong face grew tender, "i did not mean to disturb you until it became inevitable. i am glad i waited." ann, about to speak, was checked by his lifted hand. "now, dear, all my troubles are over. mr. stanton, the new secretary of war, has signed a contract with our firm for field artillery. it is a fortune. our bid was low. a year's work--shot, shell--and so on. congratulate me, ann." "my god!" he cried, "what is the matter?" ann penhallow turned quickly, a hand on the table staying herself. "and you--you are to make cannon--you--and i--and with my money!" she laughed hysterical laughter--"to kill my people the north has robbed and driven into war and insulted for years--i--i--" her voice broke--she stood speechless, pale and more pale. penhallow was appalled. he ran to catch her as she swayed. "don't touch me," she cried. "i feared for--you--the army--but never this--this!" despite her resistance, he laid her on the lounge. "leila," she said, "i want to go upstairs to bed." the face became white; she had fainted. "is she dead?" he said hoarsely, looking down at her pale face. "no--no. carry her upstairs, uncle." he picked up the slight form and presently laid her on her bed. "leave her to me, uncle jim. i have seen girls in hysterics. send up a maid--the doctor! no, i will come down when she is undressed. see, her colour is better." he went downstairs, reluctant to leave her. in the library he sat down and waited. an hour passed by, and at last leila reappeared. she kissed him with more than her usual tenderness, saying, "she is quiet now. i will lie down on her lounge to-night. don't worry, uncle jim." this advice so often given was felt by him to be out of his power to follow. he knew very well that this he would have now to consider was not only a mere business affair. it ceased to be that when he heard with the shock of bewilderment his wife's outburst of angry protest. he loved her as few men love after many years of married life, and his affection was still singularly young. his desire to content her had made him unwisely avoid talk about differences of opinion. in fact his normal attitude was dictated by such gentle solicitude as is not uncommon in very virile men, who have long memory for the careless or casual sharp word. to the end of his days he never suspected that to have been less the lover and more the clear-sighted outspoken friend would have been better for her and for him. he sat into the night smoking pipe after pipe, grappling with a situation which would have presented no difficulties to a coarser nature. at last he went upstairs, listened a moment at ann's chamber door, and having smoked too much spent a thought-tormented night, out of which he won one conclusion--the need to discuss his trouble with some friend. at six he rose and dressed, asked the astonished cook for an egg and coffee, went to the stables, and ordered a groom to saddle horses and follow him. a wild gallop over perilously slippery roads brought him to mcgregor's door, a quarter of a mile from the mills. the doctor was at breakfast, and rose up astonished. "what's wrong now, penhallow?" he said. "oh, everything--everything." "then sit down and let us talk. what is it?" the squire took himself in hand and quietly related his story of the contract and his wife's reception of what had been to him so agreeable until she had spoken. "can you bear--i said it yesterday to mrs. penhallow--a frank opinion?" "yes, from you--anything." "have no alarm about her health, my friend. it is only the hysteria of a woman a little spoiled by too tender indulgence." the squire did not like it, but said, "oh, perhaps! but now--the rest--the rest--what am i to do?" the doctor sat still a while in perplexed thought. "take your time," said penhallow. "i have sent the horses to the stable at the mills, where my partners are to meet me early to-day." the doctor said, "mrs. penhallow will be more or less herself to-day. i will see her early. there are several ways of dealing with this matter. you can take out of the business her share of the stock." "that would be simple. my partners would take it now and gladly." "what else you do depends on her condition of mind and the extent to which you are willing to give way before the persistency of a woman who feels and does not or can not reason." "then i am not now to do anything but tell her that i will take her stock out of the business." "that may relieve her. so far i can go with you. but, my dear penhallow, she may be utterly unreasonable about your manufacture of cannon, and what then you may do i cannot say. how long will it be before you begin to turn out cannon?" "oh, two months or more. many changes will be needed, but we have meanwhile an order for rails from the baltimore and ohio." "then we can wait. now i am off for grey pine. see me about noon. don't go back home now. that's all." while the squire walked away to the mills, mcgregor was uneasily moving his ponderous bulk to and fro in the room. "it's his damn tender, soft-hearted ways that will win in the end. my old indian guide used to say, 'much stick, good squaw.' ann penhallow has never in her whole life had any stick. damn these sugar plum husbands! i'd like to know what miss leila grey thinks of this performance. now, there's a woman!" when after a night of deep sleep ann woke to find leila standing by her bed, she rose on an elbow saying, "what time is it? why are you here?" "it is eight, aunt. you were ill last night; i stayed on your lounge." now her aunt sat up. "i was ill, you say--something happened." the thing pieced itself together--ragged bits of memories storm-scattered by emotion were reassembled, vague at first, then quickly more clear. she broke into unnaturally rapid speech, reddening darkly, with ominous dilatation of the pupils of her large blue eyes. "and so james penhallow is to be made rich by making cannon to kill my people--oh, i remember!" it seemed absurdly childlike to leila, who heard her with amazement. "and with my money--it is easy to stay at home and murder--and be paid for it. let him go and--fight. that's bad enough--i--" "god of heaven, aunt ann!" the girl broke in, "don't dare to say that to uncle jim. are you crazy--to say such things." "i don't know what i am. oh, those cannon! i hear them. he shall not do it--do you hear me? now send me up a cup of tea--and don't come in again. i want james--tell him--tell him." "he went away to the mills at six o'clock." "i know. he is afraid to talk to me--i want to see him--send for him at once. i said at once--do you hear! now go." as leila turned to leave, she heard a knock at the door, said "come in," and to her relief saw enter large and smiling the trusted doctor. as he neared the bed, ann fell back speechless and rigid. "ah, leila! that makes it all plain. there is no danger. close the blinds; i want the room darkened. so! come into the back room--leave the door ajar." he selected a trustworthy chair and sat down with deliberate care. "now listen to me, my dear. this is pure hysteria. it may last for days or weeks--it will get well. it is the natural result of birth, education, worry, etc.--and a lot of darned et ceteras. when you let loose a mob of emotions, you get into trouble--they smash things, and this is what has become of one of god's sweetest, purest souls." "it is most dreadful, doctor; but what shall we do with uncle jim. if she has a mere cold in the head, he is troubled." "yes--yes." the doctor took counsel with himself. "i will send up old mrs. lamb to help you--she is wise in the ways of sick women. take your rides--and don't fret over this suicide of reason." he was pleased with his phrase. "let her see penhallow if she asks for him, but not if you can help it. it is all as plain as day. she has been living of late a life of unwholesome suppression. she has been alarmed by penhallow's looks, hurt by her brothers' quarrels, and heart-sick about the war and john. then your uncle springs on her this contract business and there is an explosion." after giving careful orders, he went away. to penhallow he said, "when you are at home keep out of her room. if you have to see her, tell her nothing has been done or will be for months. the time will come when you will have to discuss matters." chapter xx leila grey never forgot the month which followed. penhallow was mercifully spared the sight of the drama of hysteria, and when not at the mills went about the house and farm like a lost dog; or, if leila was busy, took refuge with rivers. even the war maps claimed no present interest until a letter came from john after the capture of port donaldson. at evening they found the place on the map. "well, now let's hear it. ann is better, mcgregor says," he was as readily elated as depressed. "does she ask for me?" "no," said leila, "at first she did, but not now." "read the letter, my dear." "dear leila: i wrote to aunt ann and uncle jim a fortnight ago--" "never came," said penhallow. "i am called an engineer, but there is no engineering required, so i am any general's nigger. i have been frozen and thawed over and over. no camp fires allowed, and our frozen , besieged , men. general s.t. smith picked me up as an aide, and on the th personally led a charge on the rebel lines, walking quietly in front of our men to keep them from firing. it did not prevent the rebs from abusing our neutrality. it was not very agreeable, but we stormed their lines and i got off with a bit out of my left shoulder--nothing of moment. now we have them. if this war goes on, grant will be the man who will end it. i am too cold to write more. love to all. "general smith desires to be remembered to uncle jim, and told me he was more than satisfied with "yours, "john penhallow." "isn't that delightful, uncle jim? but every night i think of it--this facing of death. i see battles and storming parties. don't you see things before you fall asleep? i can see whatever i want to see--or don't want to." "never saw anything of the kind--i just go to sleep." "i thought everybody could see things as i do." "see john too, leila? wish i could." "yes," she said, "sometimes." in fact, she could see at will the man who was so near and so dear and a friend to-day--and in that very lonely time when the house was still and the mind going off guard, the something indefinitely more. the squire, who had been studying the map, was now standing before the fire looking up where hung over the mantel his sword and the heavy army pistols. he turned away as he said, "life is pretty hard, leila. i ought to be here--here making guns. i want to be where my class-mates are in the field. i can't see my way, leila. when i see a duty clearly, i can do it. now here i have to decide what is my duty. there is no devil like indecision. what would you do?" "it is a question as to what you will do, not i--and--oh, dear uncle jim, it is, you know, what we call in that horrid algebra the x of the equation." "i must see your aunt ann. is she"--and he hesitated--"is she herself?"--he would not say, quite, sane. "she is not at all times." "how far must i consider her, or be guided by the effect my decision will have on her? there are my partners to consider. the money does not influence me--it is ann--ann." then she knew that he would make any sacrifice necessary to set ann penhallow at ease. "i think," she said as she rose, "that we had better go to bed." "i suppose so," he said. "wait a moment. your aunt told me that i had better go where there was war--she could not have guessed that i have lived for months with that temptation. i shall end by accepting a command. now since her reproach i shall feel that war offers the bribe of ease and relief from care." "i know, the call of duty--you will have to go. but, oh, my god! it is very terrible." "the fact is, this sudden good fortune for a time so set me at ease that i lost sight of my honest craving for action. now i ought to thank ann for making me see what i ought to do--must do. but how--how? it will clear up somehow. goodnight." it was the end of march before mcgregor told penhallow that mrs. penhallow insisted on seeing him. "now, squire," he said, "you will be shocked at her appearance, but she is really well in body, and this thing has got to be set at rest. she talks of it incessantly." penhallow entered the dimly lighted room and passed his old nurse, mrs. lamb, as she whispered, "don't stay long, sir." he was shocked as he won clearer vision in the dim light. "oh, james!" she said, "they wouldn't let me see you. open the shutters." he obeyed, and kneeling kissed the wasted face he loved so well. the commonplaces of life came to his aid as he kissed her again, and she said, "dear me, james, you haven't shaved to-day." "no, i am going to stop at the barber's--but i miss josiah." she smiled. "yes, poor josiah." then he took courage, fearfully timid as men are when they confront the illness of women. "i want to say to you, ann, that having your power of attorney i have withdrawn your fifty thousand dollars you had lent to the mills. my partners were glad to take it." he said nothing of their surprise at the offer. "thank you," she returned feebly. "and you are going on with the business?" her voice rising as she spoke. "we will talk of that later, ann. i was told not to let you talk long. i shall endeavour to invest your money so as to give you a reasonable return--it will take time." he did not succeed in diverting her attention. she put out a thin hand and caught his sleeve. "do you think me unreasonable, james?" "yes," he said, and it needed courage. "i was sure you would say so." the great blue eyes, larger for the wasted setting of nature's wonderful jewels, looked up at him in dumb appeal. "won't you think a little of how i feel--and--and shall feel?" "think a little--a little?" he returned; "i have done nothing else but think." "you don't answer me, james." there was the old quiet, persistent way he had known in many happy days, reinforced by hysteric incapacity to comprehend the maze of difficulties in which he was caught. "it is a pity i did not die," she said, "that would have saved you all this trouble." he felt the cruelty of her words as he broke away and left the room. mcgregor had waited, and hearing his story said, "it will pass. you must not mind it--she is hardly sane." james penhallow mounted and rode to the village, was duly shaved, and went on to the post-office. mrs. crocker rotund and rosy came out and handed him as he sat in the saddle a sheaf of letters. "yes, mrs. penhallow is better, thank you." as he rode away the reins on dixy's neck, he read his letters and stuffed them in his pocket until he came to one, over which he lingered long. it ran thus: "my dear sir: will you not reconsider the offer of the colonelcy of a regiment? it will not require your presence until july. there is no need to reply at once. there is no one else so entirely fit for such a charge, and the attorney-general, your friend meredith, unites with me in my appeal to you. the state and the country need you. "yours truly, "andrew curtin." he reached but one conclusion as he turned the tempting offer over in his mind, and acting on it wrote the governor from his office that his wife was at present too ill for him to consider the offer of a command. as day by day he sat with ann, to his relief she ceased to dwell on the matter which had so disturbed her, and rapidly regaining health, flesh and strength, began to ask about the house and the village people. it was a happy day when in may he carried her down to a hammock on the porch. a week later she spoke again, "what conclusion have you reached?" she said. "about the mills?" "yes." "ask me in a week, ann. do you want to read john's letters? there are several--one about a battle at pittsburgh landing in tennessee." "i want to hear nothing of the war. is he well?" "yes, thank god." the news of mcclellan's army was anything but satisfactory, and more and more the soldier longed to be in the field. early in june, penhallow on his way to meet his partners paused at mcgregor's house to ask his opinion of his wife. "how do i find her? better every day--more herself. but what of you?" "of me? i can stand it no longer, doctor. i cannot see this war in virginia go on to the end without taking part in it. i must--do anything--anything--make any sacrifice." "but your wife--the mills--" "i have but one answer--my country! i told you i had refused governor curtin's offer--what to do about our contract i do not yet know. they are reorganizing the artillery service." "and you would like that best?" "yes. what amuses you?" the doctor smiled often, but as mrs. crocker said, when he did laugh it was as good as a fourth of july celebration and the house shook. as the squire watched him, the smile broadened out in circles from the mouth like the ripples cast by a stone on still water; then the eyes grew merrily busy and the big frame shook with laughter. "well, now, squire! to give up making guns and go in for using them--well--well!" "don't chaff me, mcgregor; i mean to be in it, cost what it may. i am to meet my partners--good-bye." the doctor wondered what ann penhallow would do or say. it was past guessing but he saw clearly that penhallow was glad of any excuse to get into the field. "glad to see you, ainseley," said penhallow. "good morning, sibley. you will find things moving. many casting moulds will be ready by this day week." "last night," said sibley, the richer member of the firm, "i had a telegram from austin, the iron-man. he asks what we would take to transfer our contract. i replied that we did not deal that way with government contracts. to-day i got this other--read it." "on what terms will you take me in? my ore, as you know, is not hematite and is better than yours." penhallow sat still reading the telegram again and again. here was an unlooked-for way out of his troubles. at last he looked up, and to their surprise said, "my capital in the business is one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and you--the firm--pay me a rental of ten thousand." "not last year," said ainseley; "we could not, as you know." "yes. our partnership ends this july st. wire austin that i will sell him my share and go out. you may ask him what bonus you please--i mean, i will sell to you at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars--the rental will go on, of course." "my heavens!" cried sibley, "what do you mean? it is throwing away a fortune, man--a fortune." penhallow laughed. "and yet i mean to do it. the work is ready to go on. you will have ordnance officers here--you won't miss me." they argued with him in vain. waldron not altogether dissatisfied sat still, wondering how much bonus austin would stand, while ainseley and sibley troubled for their friend and not well pleased, fought his decision. "are you fully resolved on this, penhallow?" said sibley. "i am. i cannot take out the small amount of money john penhallow owns. it must remain, at least for a time, and will be a convenience to you. my wife's money is already out. it was only a loan." "but why should not you sell out to austin," said sibley, "if you mean to leave us, and get out of him a profit--and why after all this act of supreme folly? pardon me, it is that--really that" penhallow smiled. "i go out of this business because i simply cannot stay out of the army. i could not be a soldier and accept continuous profits from a government contract. imagine what would be said! for the same reason i cannot sell to austin at an advance. that is clear--is it not?" "yes," said ainseley, "and i am sorry. think it over." "i have done my thinking. it will take the lawyers and you at least two months to settle it and make out the papers. after july st i shall not come to the mills. i mean to leave no occasion for unpleasant comment when i re-enter the service. of course, you will advertise your new partnership and make plain my position. i am sorry to leave you, but most glad to leave you prosperous. i will put it all on paper, with a condition that at the close of the war--i give it three years--i shall be free to replace austin--that is, if the rebs don't kill me." as he mounted at evening to ride home, he was aware of leila. "halloa, uncle jim! as mr. rivers was reading dante to aunt ann, i begged off, and so here i am--thought i would catch you. i haven't been on a horse for a week. the mare knows it and enjoyed the holiday. she kicked pole's bull terrier into the middle of next week." "a notable feat. i wish some one would kick me into the middle of august." "what's wrong, uncle jim? aunt ann is every day better; john is well; you don't look unhappy. oh, i know when anything really is the matter." "no, i am happier than i have been for many a day. you know what rivers says, 'in the inn of decision there is rest,'--some oriental nonsense. well, i am a guest in the inn of decision, but i've got to pay the bill." "please not to talk riddles, uncle. i have gone through so much this spring--what with aunt and this terrible war--and where john is we don't know. i heard from aunt margaret. she says that we escape the endless reminders of war--the extras called at night, heard in church, great battle on the potomac, lists of killed and wounded. it must be awful. you buy a paper--and find there was no battle." "yes, we escape that at least. i have made arrangements to close my partnership on july st." "oh, uncle jim!" "the president, i hear, will call for three hundred thousand men--i can stand it no longer--i am eating my heart out. i refused a regiment some time ago; now i shall ask for one. i wrote at once to the governor." she leaned over, laid a hand on his arm and said, "is not one dear life enough?" "my child, john had to go. i could, of course, find some excuse for not going. i set myself free to-day. but now i am to settle with ann. except for that i would be supremely contented. you would not keep me here if you had the power, nor would you bring home john if you could, dear." "no," she said faintly. some quickly dismissed suspicion rose to consciousness as he stole a glance at her face. "i understand," she added, "it is a question of honour--you must go." "it is a question of duty, dear; but what ann will say i do not know--but i shall go." she turned. "uncle jim, if you did not go and the war went on to--god alone knows what end--she would be sick with shame. i know. you see i am a woman and i know. she will suffer, but she will not break down again and she will not try to hold you back. but this house without you and john will be rather lonely. how did you get out of the mills, uncle?" he answered her at length as they rode homeward with more to think of than was pleasant. at the avenue gate she said earnestly, "don't wait too long before telling aunt ann." "upon my word, i am sorry," returned the squire, "for the unfortunate man who may become your husband. if you undertake to offer advice at your tender years, what will you do when you are older?" "my husband-that-is-to-be sends you his compliments," laughed leila, "and says--i don't know what he says, but it is exactly the right thing, captain penhallow. but really, don't wait, uncle." "you are quite right, my dear." nevertheless he waited. decisiveness in affairs and in moments of peril he had, but where ann was concerned he became easily unsure, and as mcgregor said, "wabbled awful." this was to leila. "what gets the matter with men? the finer they are, the braver--the more can a woman bother their judgment. he wires for a regimental command--gets it; and, by george, throws away a fortune to get the privilege of firing a cannon at mrs. ann's beloved rebels. he mustn't make guns it seems--he tries not to believe her hysterics at all affected by his tossing away this big contract." "now, doctor, you are in one of your cynical moods. i hate you to talk this way about the finest gentleman i ever knew, or ever shall know. you delight to tease me." "yes--you are so real. no one could get hysterics out of you. now why do you suppose james penhallow wants to plunge into this chaotic war?" "or your son, tom? why do you get up of a winter night to ride miles to see some poor woman who will never pay you a penny?" "pure habit." "nonsense. you go--and uncle jim goes--because to go is duty." "then i think duty is a woman--that accounts for it, leila. i retire beaten." "you are very bad to-day--but make uncle jim talk it all out to aunt ann." "he will, and soon. he has been routed by a dozen excuses. i told him at last that the mill business has leaked out and the village is saying things. i told him it must not come to her except through him, and that he could not now use her health as an excuse for delay. it is strange a man should be so timid." and still penhallow lingered, finding more or less of reason in the delays created by the lawyers. meanwhile he had accepted the command of the th pennsylvania infantry which was being drilled at harrisburg, so that he was told there was no occasion for haste in assuming charge. but at last he felt that he must no longer delay. the sun was setting on an afternoon in july when penhallow, seeing as she sat on the porch how the roses of the spring of health were blooming on his wife's cheeks, said, "i want to talk to you alone, ann. can you walk to the river?" "yes, i was there yesterday." the cat-birds, most delightful of the love-poets of summer, were singing in the hedges, and as they walked through the garden penhallow said, "the rose crop is promising, ann." "yes." she was silent until they sat on the bank above the little river. then she said, "you are keeping something from me, james. no news can trouble me as much as--as to be sure that i am kept in the dark about your affairs." "i meant to be frank, ann, but i have felt so alarmed about your health--" "you need not be--i can bear anything but not to know--" "that is why i brought you here, my dear. you are aware that i took out of the business the money you loaned to us." "yes--yes--i know." "i have given up my partnership and withdrawn my capital. the business will go on without me." "was this because--i?--but no matter. go on, please." he was incapable of concealing the truth from her, however much he might have disguised it from others. "you had your share in causing me to give up, but for a year since this war has gone on from one disaster to another, i have known that as a soldier i must be in it." she was perfectly calm. "i have long known it would come, james. to have you and john and my brother henry--all in it, is a hard fate." "my dear, charles writes me that henry has left the army and gone to europe on business for the confederates." "indeed." some feeling of annoyance troubled her. "then he at least is in no danger." "none, my dear." "when do you go?" "i am to command the th infantry, and i shall leave about august st." "so soon!" she sat still, thinking over what grey pine would be without him. he explained as she sat that all details of his affairs would be put for her clearly on paper. he ended by saying, "ask me any questions you want answered." "then, james, there will be no income from the mills--from--from that contract?" "none, except my rental. with that you may do as you please. there will be also, of course, at your disposal the income from my re-invested capital." "thank you, james." she was by far the less moved of the two. "have i greatly troubled you?" he asked. he was distressed for her. "no, james. i knew it would come." as the shadows darkened on the forest floor and gathered overhead, she rose to her feet. "whatever happens, james--whoever wins--i am the loser. i want you to be sorry for me." "and, my dear ann, whichever way this contest ends, i too lose." she returned with tender sadness, "yes, i did not think of that. give me your arm, james--i am--tired." he wondered that she had said nothing of the immense sacrifice few men would have made; nor did she seem to have realized what urgency of added motives she had contributed to bring about his decision. chapter xxi through the great heat of july, , the war went on its inconclusive way. in westways, as elsewhere, the call of the people's president for three hundred thousand men was felt the more thoughtfully because now it was, of course, known that penhallow was colonel of the th infantry; that he had made a great sacrifice of money was also known, but not understood, and ann penhallow's half-forgotten politics were again discussed when the village evening parliament met in front of the post-office. mrs. crocker, off duty, stood framed in the door, cooling her round face with a palmetto fan and listening with interest to the talk or taking part in the discussion in so positive a way as was felt to be indiscreetly feminine, but respected on account of her official representation of a husband too deaf to fulfil his duties. the doctor got out of his gig. "any letters from my boy?" "yes, two. wanted to send them by billy, but he's war-wild and wouldn't go." the doctor looked over his letters. "all right, i hope," said mrs. crocker. pole in his shirt sleeves listening said, "of course, he is all right--doctors don't fight none." "send your son, pole, before you talk nonsense," said mcgregor. "my boy got a ball in his leg at malvern hill." "my son's going along with the squire," returned pole, "leaves me short of help, and my wife's about crazy over it." "what about mrs. penhallow?" said mrs. crocker. "i guess she's the kind that don't show what she feels." "oh, money's a great comforter," returned the butcher. "what i'm to do, i don't know." "well, i'm going too," said joe grace, "and father says i'm right." "oh, here's the parson," said pole, as rivers approached. "he's like the rest of them--all for war." "well, pole," said rivers, "how are you and mrs. crocker? i think you are getting thin this hot weather." "am i? no such good luck. we are talking war, mr. rivers. i do hear that what with the mill-boys and country fellows there's some thirty going into the colonel's regiment." "so i hear. on sunday i mean to talk to them after service. you might say so." "i will. if i had a boy, he should go," said mrs. crocker. "it's easy talking when you haven't none," said pole. "we are gettin' licked, and some day lee will be over the border. it's just useless to spend money and cripple men." there was a moment of silence, when mrs. crocker spoke. "pole, you aren't ever sure of your legs. you were all for buchanan, and then all for lincoln. now you're uneasy on the top rail of the fence and the rail ain't round." the parliament broke into laughter, and with more talk dissolved after some critical wisdom about the war. * * * * * it was july th, after ten at night, the day before the final sunday of the month. the colonel of the th stood with leila before a big war map. "this fight at malvern hill"--he put a pin on the place--"was a mistake on the part of lee, and yet he is a master of the game. he was terribly beaten--an aggressive general would have attacked at once." "would he have won, uncle?" "i think so--but after a defeat these armies are as dangerous as a cornered cat." "but, dear uncle jim, what is the matter with us?--we have men, money and courage." "well, this is how i see it. neither side has a broad-minded general in command of the whole field of war. every day sees bits of fights, skirmishes, useless loss of life. there is on neither side any connected scheme of war. god knows how it will end. i do not yet see the man. if robert lee were in absolute command of all the effective force of the south, we would have trouble." "but if he is so good a soldier, why did he make what you call a frontal attack on entrenched troops at malvern?" "my dear, when two men spar and neither can quite end the fight, one gets angry or over-confident and loses his head, then he does something wild--and pays for it." "i see. you leave on monday?" "yes--early." "mr. rivers means to talk after service to the men who are enlisting." "so he told me. i begged him to be moderate." "he asked me for a text, uncle." "well!" "i gave him the one about caesar and god." "what put that into your head--it does not seem suitable?" "oh, do you think so? some one once mentioned it to me. i could preach on it myself, but texts grow wonderfully in his hands. they glow--oh, they get halos about them. he ought to be in a great city." "oh, my dear, mark rivers has his limitations like all of us. he would die. even here he has to be watched. mcgregor told him last year that he was suffering from the contagion of other people's wickedness with occasional acute fits of over-conscientiousness. rivers said it was incomprehensible nonsense; he was almost angry." "and yet it is true, uncle jim." "i'm glad i haven't the disease. i told mcgregor as much. by george! he said my variety of the disorder was about other folk's stupidity. then, when i said that i didn't understand him, he laughed. he makes me furious when he only laughs and won't answer--and won't explain." "why, uncle! i love to see him laugh. he laughs all over--he shakes. i told him it was a mirthquake. that set him off again. was tom mcgregor badly hurt?" "no, not badly." "will aunt go to church to-morrow?" "no." "i thought she would not. i should love to see you in uniform." "not here, my dear, but i will send you a daguerreotype." * * * * * when on this sunday long remembered in westways, the tall figure of mark rivers rose to open the service, he saw the little church crowded, the aisles filled, and in the front pews penhallow, his niece, and behind them the young men who were to join his regiment. grace had asked his own people to be present, and here and there were the mothers and sisters of the recruits, and a few men on crutches or wasted by the fevers of the virginia marshes. mark rivers read the morning service as few men know how to read it. he rarely needed the prayer-book--he knew it all. he gave to it the freshness of a new message of love and helpfulness. more than ever on this sunday leila felt a sense of spiritual soaring, of personally sharing the praises of the angel choir when, looking upwards, he said: "therefore with angels and archangels and all the company of heaven we laud and magnify thy glorious name." she recalled that john had said, "when mark rivers says 'angels and archangels' it is like the clash of silver cymbals." he gave out at the close his favourite hymn, "lead, kindly light." it was well and sweetly sung by the girl-choir. as the music closed he rose--a figure of command, his spare frame looking larger for his robes. for a silent moment his eloquent eyes wandered over the crowd, gathering the attentive gaze of young and old, then he said: "i want to talk on this unusual occasion for a little while, to you who are answering the call of a man who is like a father calling his sons to a task of danger. my text is: 'render, therefore, unto caesar the things that are caesar's and unto god the things that are god's.' the wonder of the great texts is that they have many applications as time runs on. you know the familiar story. payment of the tax meant obedience to the government, to law, to order. i would that i had the power to make you see with me the scene. it is to me so very distinct. the pharisees desire to tempt him, a jew, into a statement treasonable to the roman rule they had accepted. was it right for the jew to pay the tax which sustained this government? he had, as you may remember, already paid it for peter and himself. he asks for the penny bearing caesar's head and answers them in the words of the text, 'render unto caesar, therefore, the things which are caesar's.' he returns the penny. i wonder where that little coin is to-day? it has gone, but the lesson it read remains forever; nor even today is the pharisee gone with his invidious temptations. _you_ are to-day obeying a greater than caesar. _you_ are meeting the material obligations of a day of discouragement--and for some a day of doubt. "the nobler applications which lie within the meaning of the latter part of the text he answers more fully than was asked: 'render unto god the things which are god's.' what are these things which are at need to be rendered to him? what larger tax? ease--comfort--home--the strong bodies which make work safe and pleasant. he asks of you the exercise of unusual qualities--the courage which looks death in the face and will not take the bribe of safety, of life, at the cost of dishonour. ah! not in battle is my fear for you. in the long idleness of camps will come your hours of temptation. think then of those at home who believe in you. it is a great thing to have an outside conscience--wife, mother, sister. those are hours when it is hard to render unto god what he gave. "we are now, as i said, at a time of discouragement. there are cowards who would yield--who would compromise--men who want peace at any cost. you answer them nobly. here, in this sacred cause, if he asks it, we render life or the easy competencies of youth in its day of vigour." the man paused. the strange power of the eyes spoke to them in this moment of silence. "oh! i said the cause was sacred--an unbroken land. _he_ gave you that, just for wide-world uses. keep it! guard it!--with all that union of the states meant and still means to-day. _you_ are not to blame for this necessity--war. the man who bends unpaid over the master's cotton-field is the innocent cause of all this bloodshed. if there were no slavery, there would have been no war. but let there be no hatred in the brave hearts you carry. god did not slay saul, the earnest--i might say--the honest persecutor. he made him blind for a time. the awful charity of god is nowhere else so wonderful. these gallant people you are going to meet will some day see that god was opening their eyes to better days and nobler ways. they too are honest in the belief that god is on their side. therefore, let there be no bitterness. "some of you are what we call religious. do not be ashamed of it. the hardest fighters the world has known were men who went to battle with arms invisible to man. a word more and i have done. i have the hope--indeed the certainty--that i shall be sent to the field on errands of mercy and helpfulness. we may meet again. and now, take with you the earnest will to render unto god what things he gave for his highest uses. now let us offer the prayer for the volunteers our great bishop desires the church to use. let us pray." in unusual silence the congregation moved away, a silence shared by leila and her uncle. at last she said, "uncle jim, i wish aunt ann could have heard that sermon--it could not have hurt her." "perhaps not." "i wonder why she has so great a respect for him, so real a friendship. he thinks slavery the sin of sins. he has very little charity about it--oh, none--and aunt ann is as sure it is a divinely appointed relation." "they fought it out, my dear, in his early days at westways, and when they both found that they were clad in the armour of changeless beliefs no arguments could penetrate, they gave up and took of two fine natures what was left for life's uses and became friends. at least, that is how mcgregor put it. he sometimes states things well." "i see," said leila thoughtfully, and set herself to thinking whether if she had radical differences of opinion with some one, she could settle into a condition of armed neutrality. then she wondered if war made changes in the character of a man. presently she asked, "why, uncle jim, are you suddenly in such haste to go?" "there is need of haste. i could not tell ann; i can tell you. we were never worse off since the war began. the governor asks me to meet him in harrisburg. what he fears is that in september lee will cross the potomac, with the hope of maryland rising. our governor will call out fifty thousand militia. he wants me to take a command; i shall take it, but lee's veterans would brush our militia away like summer flies. if he finds the army of the potomac before him, there may be a different story. i hope, please god, to be with it. there you have all i know, but it is for you alone. my regiment will go to the front before the end of the month." "you will write to me, uncle." "yes, when i can. your aunt asks me to write often, but not to write about the war, as if--well, no matter. but i can write to you. good night--and be brave, dear--and ann! you will watch over her?" "yes, surely." * * * * * ann penhallow having sorrowfully made up her mind that her husband's honour required his return to the army saw to it with her usual efficiency that everything he might need was carefully provided. at bed-time of that sunday she said quietly, "good night and good-bye, james. i do not want to be called to-morrow to say good-bye. you will be off by six. leila will give you your breakfast. write often." she was to appearance cheerful and even gay, as she paused on the stairs laughing. "these men," she cried, "i wonder how they do without women orderlies. at the last moment i found you had left your razors--good-night!" the colonel's eyes followed her slight form a little puzzled and not entirely pleased at this easy dismissal of sentiment, when he knew what he himself would have done if she had flown the least signal of distress. he turned to leila. "i am very much relieved, my dear, to see that your aunt is taking my departure quietly. i was afraid of another breakdown, and i could not have stayed a day longer." leila who had watched this parting with some anxiety said, "i was a little uneasy myself, but really aunt ann was great." she could have made the well-loved colonel miserable by translating for him into the tongue of man the language of the actress on the stairs. "i wonder," she reflected, "if all men are that blind, or only the heroic or unimaginative." * * * * * colonel penhallow was detained by consultations with the governor and by regimental work until near the close of august, when his command was hurried forward to join mcclellan's army. he followed it a day later. he wrote long notes to his wife almost daily and then in september after the battle of antietam more freely to leila:-- "dear leila: you will be surprised to hear from me as at washington on this september th. i overtook my command at noon, in philadelphia, where the regiment was being well fed in the big building known as the cooper shop. i was pleased with the look of the men, who have been long drilled in camp. after the meal i went outside and mounted dixy, who was as rebellious as if he knew he was on the side to which his name did not belong. a soldier was vainly trying to mount my mare. he lost his temper and struck her. i saw a black man interfering, and rode forward seeing there was some trouble. by george! it was josiah. i shook hands with him and said, 'where did you come from? he said, 'saw your name, sir, in the paper and just quit my work. i'm goin' along with you--i'm your servant. i've been thinkin' this long while i'd go back to westways, but i've been doin' well here, and i just kep' a puttin' it off. i'm goin' with you.' i said, 'all right, get on that horse.' he patted the uneasy mare and in a moment was in the saddle and i a well pleased man. tell your aunt i am well cared for. "we were hurried forward, and i had the pleasure of seeing my men behave well when we stormed south mountain--a very gallant affair. joe grace was hurt, but not badly, and was left behind. as to the killed, none are from westways. at antietam we were with the reserve, which i thought should have been used and was not. it was an attack on an interior line as seems always to be our luck. mcclellan will follow lee, of course. my regiment is to be with the sixth corps, but i was ordered by the secretary of war to report to him in washington. it is disgusting! but orders are orders. the lieutenant-colonel will have my place, and i hope to get back soon. josiah was caught in the thick of the fight at fox gap. he was scared a sort of green. he will get over it--i know the signs. it was pure nervousness. his explanation was very perfect, 'i just laid down flat because i was afraid of gittin' this servant of yours killed.' we grinned mutual approval of the excuse. "yours ever, "james penhallow." "p.s. you will have found this letter very unsatisfactory, but the fact is that only people of ample leisure make good correspondents. but now to sum up: yesterday i saw stanton, had a glimpse of swallow, saw mr. lincoln, and had an adventure so out of the common that it was like one of the stories of adventure in which jack used to delight. now i cannot--should not tell it--but some day--yes. send this p.s., bit of good news, on its way. read it first." "well, that is exasperating? surely men are most unsatisfactory letter writers. no woman with an interesting subject could be so uninteresting. john is as bad or worse." she found enclosed a postscript slip for mr. grace. "dear sir: that boy of yours is not badly hurt. he behaved with intelligent courage when for a moment a part of our charging line hesitated. i was proud of him; i have made him a corporal. "yours truly, "james penhallow." the order to report to the former counsel of his firm, secretary stanton, brought an unhappy colonel to the war department. he sent in his card, and was asked to follow an orderly. as he was about to enter the private office of the war minister, to his amazement swallow came out. with a curt good morning, penhallow went by him. the great secretary rose to greet him, saying, "you are very welcome, penhallow--never more welcome." "you look worn out, stanton," said the colonel. "no, not yet; but, my god! penhallow, my life is one to kill the toughest. what with army mishaps, inefficiency, contractors backed by congressmen--all the scum that war brings to the top. do you know why i sent for you?" "no. it was an order--i ask no questions. i am at your service." "you were disappointed, of course." "yes, i was." "well, there were two reasons. one is frankly this. your firm has a contract for field artillery--and now you are in the service." "i see! it is not now my firm. i gave up my partnership." "so i saw, but who of these hungry contractors will believe that you gave up--a fortune--to enter the army! the facts are either not well known or have been misstated." "very likely. i gave up what you speak of as a fortune as you gave up a great income at the bar, and for the same reason i withdrew all my capital. even the rental of my mills will go to the sanitary commission. i could not leave a doubt or the least cause for suspicion." "i was sure of you, but this has been a well-nursed scandal, due to an influential lot of disappointed contractors who would have controlled the giving of that contract had i not come into office. i shall kill it dead. trust that to me." "thank you, stanton, i could have stood it." "yes, but you do not know, my dear penhallow, what washington is at present. well, let it go. it is now my business. do you know this mr. swallow?" "know him? yes--a usurious scamp of a lawyer, who to our relief has left westways. do not trust him. i presume that i owe this talk about me to him." "well, yes, to him and his associates." "what does he want now?" "what he will not get. let him go. i said i had two reasons for ordering you here. one i have stated. i want some one i can entirely trust, not merely for honesty and loyalty, but also because of business competence. all manner of work for the government is going on here and elsewhere. i want some one to report on it from time to time. it will keep you here this winter. you do not like it?" "no, but it was an order." "yes, i am sorry to take you for a time out of active service, but trust me this war will last long. this winter i want you for a variety of inspection work here or elsewhere. it will be mere business, dull, unexciting, with unending watchfulness, and advisory technical help and advice. i want not only personal character--i can get that, but not easily the combination of technical training and business capacity." he unrolled a bundle of papers. "there for example, colonel, are plans for a new form of ambulance and pontoon wagons ready for approval. i want a report on both." he went on to speak of the ambulances with amazing knowledge of the details of their build. penhallow watched this earnest, overtasked man, and began to comprehend the vastness of his daily toil, the weight of his mighty load of care. as he talked, cards were brought in, messages sent or received, telegrams--the talk was dropped--resumed--and the colonel simply listened. at last the secretary said, "that will do for to-day. you have room no. , and such clerks and orderlies as you may need. you will find on your table these specifications--and more--others. and now, how is your beautiful grey pine and its mistress and leila? you will assure them of my undiminished affection. and john--where is he?" "with general grant, but where just now i cannot say." as he spoke, the door opened and an officer announced--"the president." the ungainly length of lincoln appeared. a quiet smile lingered on the large-featured face, with some humorous appreciation of the war secretary's evident annoyance at this abrupt visit. mr. stanton's greeting as he rose was as the colonel thought coldly civil. "my friend, colonel penhallow, sir." "glad to see you," said lincoln, and then with a certain simplicity explained, "you see, colonel, sometimes i run away out of the back of the white house--just to get free of the guards. don't look so bothered, stanton. i'm too fine a failure for any one to want to kill me. any news?" "none," said the secretary, as he stood not too well pleased; "colonel penhallow is to be in my office on inspection duty." "indeed! glad to see you." the huge hand closed on penhallow's with innocent use of its power. "name sounds familiar. yes--there was a cadet of your name last year. your son, i suppose?" "no, my nephew--in the engineers with general grant." "tell him i asked for him--handsome fellow. anything i can do for him?" "nothing, sir." "anything i can do for you?" "nothing, sir." "don't let stanton kill you. he ought to have a brevet, stanton. he is the only man in washington don't want anything." even the weary face of the secretary smiled under his heavy beard. "just stepped in to divide growls with you. come with me, colonel, or stanton will have a brigade of officers to escort me. wait for me at the outer door--i'll join you." penhallow pleased and amused, went out taking with him the sense of puzzle felt by so many over this unusual personage. at the main entrance the colonel came on swallow. "a word with you," he said very quietly. "you have been lying about me to the secretary and elsewhere. be careful. i am sometimes short of temper. you have hurt yourself, not me, and you will get no contracts here." "well, we will see about that," said swallow, and was about to say more when the president appeared. "come, colonel," he said. swallow fell back and penhallow walked away as men touched their hats. for a block or more lincoln did not speak, and respecting his silence the soldier was as silent. then, with his amazing frankness, lincoln spoke. "does the emancipation proclamation please you?" "as a war measure, yes." "and not otherwise?" "it is none of my business to criticize my commander-in-chief." "well, i won't make it an order, but i wish mcclellan was of your way of thinking." again there was silence. penhallow was astonished at this outspoken statement, being aware as few men were of the fact that the general in question had been disinclined to announce the emancipation message to the army until he found that his corps commanders were not cordially with him in opinion. as they stopped at the gate of the railing around the white house, lincoln said, "when you don't want anything, come and see me--or if you do." then, becoming grave, he asked, "what effect will my proclamation of emancipation have in the south? it takes effect in january, you know." it was like lincoln. he asked this question of all manner of people. "i want to know," he added, as penhallow hesitated. "i am not in a position, sir, to have any opinion about how the rebels will be affected by it." "oh, confederates! colonel--not rebels. calling names only hurts, and don't ever help. better to be amiable about labels." "it was a slip of the tongue, mr. president. i usually say confederates." "quite right--tongue very slippery organ. reckon my small truant holiday's over. everybody generally is letting me know what effect that emancipation-thunder will have." a strangely tender smile grew upon the large features. "you see, colonel, you and i are the only ignorant people in washington. good-bye." chapter xxii saluting the commander-in-chief, penhallow turned away in absent mood thinking of the burdened man who had passed from sight into the white house. as he crossed lafayette square, he suddenly remembered that the president's request for his company had caused him to forget to look over the papers in his office of which the secretary had spoken. it was desirable to revisit the war department. as he walked around the statue of andrew jackson, he came suddenly face to face with his wife's brother, henry grey. for a moment he was in doubt. the man was in united states uniform, with an army cloak over his shoulders--but it was grey. something like consternation possessed the federal officer. the confederate faced him smiling, as penhallow said, "my god! grey, you here! a spy in our uniform! many people know you--detection and arrest would mean--" "don't talk so loud, james. you are excited, and there is really no reason." penhallow said quietly, "i have good reason to be excited. you will walk on in front of me to willard's hotel. i will go with you to my rooms, where we can talk freely. now, sir." grey stood still. "and suppose i decline to obey my rather positive brother-in-law." "you are not a fool. if you were to try to escape me, and you are thinking of it, i would set on you at once any half dozen of the soldiers within call." "in that case my revolver would settle my earthly accounts--and pleasantly relieve you." "don't talk. go on ahead of me." he would not walk beside him. "as you please." no more words passed. they moved up pennsylvania avenue, now at mid-day crowded with officers, soldiers, and clerks going to lunch. grey was courteously saluting the officers he passed. this particularly enraged the man who was following him and was hopelessly trying to see how with regard to his own honour he could save this easy-going and well-loved brother of ann penhallow. if the confederate had made his escape, he would have been relieved, but he gave him no least chance, nor was grey at all meaning to take any risks. he knew or believed that his captor could not give him up to justice. he had never much liked the steady, self-controlled business man, the master of grey pine. himself a light-hearted, thoughtless character, he quite failed to comprehend the agony of indecision which was harassing the federal officer. in fact, then and later in their talk, he found something amusing in the personal embarrassment penhallow's recognition had brought upon him. as they approached the hotel, the confederate had become certain that he was in no kind of danger. the trapper less at ease than the trapped was after his habit becoming cool, competent and intensely watchful. the one man was more and more his careless, rather egotistic self; the other was of a sudden the rare self of an hour of peril--in a word, dangerous. as they reached the second floor, penhallow said, "this way." josiah in the dimly lighted corridor was putting the last shine on a pair of riding-boots. as he rose, his master said, "stay here--i am not at home--to anybody--to any one." he led the way into his sitting-room; grey following said, "excuse me," as he locked the door. "you are quite safe," remarked his host, rather annoyed. "oh, that i take for granted." james penhallow said, "sit down. there are cigars." "a match please. cigars are rare luxuries with us." as the confederate waited for the sulphur of the match to pass away, penhallow took note of the slight, delicate figure, the blue eyes like ann's, the well-bred face. filling his own pipe he sat down with his back to the window, facing his brother-in-law. "you are very comfortable here, james. how is my sister, and your beauty, leila?" "well--very well. but let us talk a little. you are a spy in our uniform." "that is obvious enough. i am one of many in your departments and outside of them. what do you propose? i am sorry we met." "my duty is to turn you over to the provost-marshal." "of course, but alas! my dear james, there is my sister--you won't do it--no one would under the circumstances. what the deuce made you speak to me? you put us both in an awkward position. you became responsible for a duty you can't fulfil. i am really most sorry for you. it was a bit of bad luck." penhallow rose to get a match and moved about the room uneasily as henry grey went on talking lightly of the situation which involved for him possibilities of death as a spy, and for penhallow a dilemma in which grey saw his own safety. "rather disagreeable all round, james. but i trust you won't let it worry you. i always think a man must be worried when he lets his pipe go out. there is no need to worry, and after all"--he added smiling--"you created a situation which might have been avoided. no one would have known--in a day or two we would have been talking to general lee. an excellent cigar, james." while his brother-in-law chatted lightly, apparently unconcerned, the union officer was considering this way or that out of the toils woven of duty, affection and honour; but as he kept on seeking a mode of escape, he was also hearing and watching the man before him with attention which missed no word. he was barely conscious that the younger man appeared enough at ease to dare to use language which the federal officer felt to be meant to annoy. a single word used by grey stopped the colonel's mental mechanism as if a forceful brake had been applied. the man before him had said carelessly, "_we_--_we_ would have been talking to general lee." the word "we" repeated itself in his mind like an echo. he too lightly despised grey's capacity as a spy, but he had said "we." there were, it seemed, others; how many?--what had they done? this terribly simplified the game. to arrest grey would or might be useless. who were his companions and where were they? once missing this confident confederate they might escape. to question grey would be in vain. to give him any hint that he had been imprudent would be to lose an advantage. he was so intent on the question of how to carry out a decisive purpose that he missed for the moment grey's easy-minded talk, and then was suddenly aware that grey was really amusing himself with a cat-and-mouse game. but now he too was at ease and became quietly civil as he filled another pipe, and with an air of despair which altogether deceived grey said, "i see that i can do nothing, henry. there is no reason to protract an unpleasant matter." "i supposed you would reach this very obvious conclusion." then unable to resist a chance to annoy a man who had given him a needless half hour not free from unpleasant possibilities, grey rose and remarked, smiling, "i hope when we occupy this town to meet you under more agreeable circumstances." "sir," said penhallow, "the painful situation in which i am placed does not give you the freedom to insult me." the confederate was quite unaware that the colonel was becoming more and more a man to fear, "i beg pardon, james," he said, "i was only anticipating history." as he spoke, he stood securing a neglected button of his neat uniform. this act strangely exasperated the colonel. "i will see you out," he said. "the buttons of the massachusetts third might attract attention." "oh, my cloak covers it," and he threw it carelessly over his shoulders. penhallow said, "i have confessed defeat--you may thank ann penhallow." "yes--an unfortunate situation, james. may i have another cigar? thanks." "sorry i have no whisky, grey." "and i--how it pours! what a downfall!" the colonel was becoming more and more outwardly polite. "good-bye, henry." "_au revoir_," said the younger man. penhallow went with his brother-in-law down the long corridor, neither man speaking again. as they passed josiah, penhallow said, "i shall want my horse at five, and shall want you with me." at the head of the stairs he dismissed his visitor without a further word. then he turned back quickly to josiah and said in a low voice, "follow that man--don't lose him. take your time. it is important--a matter of life and death to me--to know where he lives. quick now--i trust you." "yes, sir." he was gone. grey feeling entirely safe walked away in the heavy rain with a mind at ease and a little sorry as a soldier for the hapless situation with which penhallow had had to struggle. when we have known men only in the every-day business of life or in ordinary social relations, we may quite fail to credit them with qualities which are never called into activity except by unusual circumstances. grey, an able engineer, regarded penhallow as a rather slow thinker, a good man of business, and now as a commonplace, well-mannered officer. he smiled as he thought how his sister had made her husband in this present predicament what algebraists call a "negligible quantity." he would have been less easy had he known that the man he left felt keenly a sense of imperilled honour and of insult which his relation to grey forbade him to avenge. he had become a man alert, observant, and quick to see his way and to act. josiah, with all his hunting instincts aroused, loitered idly after grey in the rain, one of the scores of lazy, unnoticeable negroes. he was gone all the afternoon, and at eight o'clock found penhallow in his room. "did you find where he lives?" asked the colonel. "that man, he lives at sixteenth street. two more live there. they was in and out all day--and he went to shops and carried things away--" "what kind of shops?" "where they sell paper and pens--and 'pothecaries." "sit down--you look tired." it was plain that they were soon about to move and were buying what was needed in the south--quinine, of course. but what had been their errand? he said, "get some supper and come back soon." then he sat down to think. an engineer of competence lately back from europe! his errand--their errand--must be of moment. he took a small revolver out of a drawer, put in shells, placed it in his breast pocket, and secured a box of matches. about nine, in a summer thunder-shower of wind and rain, he followed josiah and walked to no. sixteenth street. as he stood he asked, "how did those men get in, josiah?" "all had keys. want to get in, colonel?" "yes, i want to get in. are there any others in the house--servants--any one?" "no, sir," josiah said. "i went round to an alley at the back of the house. there are lights on the second storey. you can get in easy at the back, sir." seeing a policeman on the opposite pavement, penhallow at once changed his plan of entrance, and crossing the street said to the policeman, "is this your beat?" "yes, sir." "very good! you see i am in uniform. here is my card. i am on duty at the war department. here is my general pass from the provost-marshal general. come to the gas lamp and read it. here are ten dollars. i have to get into no. on government business. if i do not come out in thirty minutes, give the alarm, call others and go in. who lives there?" "it is a gambling house--or was--not now." "very good. this is my servant, josiah. if i get out safely, come to willard's to-morrow at nine--use my card--ask for me--and you will not be sorry to have helped me." "you want to get in!" "yes." "no use to ring, sir," said josiah. "there ain't any servants and the gentlemen, they ate outside. lord, how it rains!" the policeman hesitated. another ten dollar note changed owners. "well, it isn't police duty--and you're not a burglar--" the colonel laughed. "if i were, i'd have been in that house without your aid." "well, yes, sir. burglars don't usually take the police into their confidence. there are no lights except in the second storey. if your man's not afraid and it's an honest government job, let him go through that side alley, get over the fence--i'll help him--and either through a window or by the cellar he can get in and open the front door for you." josiah laughed low laughter as he crossed the street with the officer and was lost to view. the colonel waited at the door. in a few minutes the man returning said, "want me with you? he got in easily." "no, but take the time when i enter and keep near." they waited. "nine-thirty now, sir." "give me the full time." penhallow went up the steps and knocked at the door. it was opened and he went in. "shut the door quietly, josiah--open if the policeman knocks. now, be quiet, and if you hear a shot, or a big row call the police." the house below-stairs was in darkness. he took off his shoes and went into a room on the first floor. striking a match, he saw only ordinary furniture. the room back of it revealed to his failing match a roulette table. he went out into the hall and up the stairs with the utmost caution to avoid noise. on the second floor the door of the front room was ajar. they must be careless and confident, he reflected as he entered. a lighted candle on a pine table dimly illuminated a room in some confusion. on the floor were two small bags half full of clothes which he swiftly searched, without revealing anything of moment. a third, smaller bag lay open on the table. it contained a number of small rolls of very thin paper, and on the table there were spread out two others. as he looked, he knew they were admirably drawn sketches of the forts and the lines of connecting works which defended the city. making sure no more papers were to be found, he thrust all of them within his waistcoat, buttoned it securely, felt for his revolver, and listened. in the closed back room there was much mirth and the clink of glasses. he drew near the door and felt certain that grey was relating with comic additions his interview of the morning. without hesitation he threw open the door as three men sprang to their feet and grey covered him with a revolver. he said quietly, "sorry to disturb you, gentlemen. put down that toy, grey." "no, by heaven!--not till--" "my dear grey, between me and that pistol stands a woman--as she stood for your safety this morning. men who talk, don't shoot. you are all three in deadly peril--you had better hear me. i could have covered you all with my revolver. put down that thing!" "put it down," said the older of the three. grey laid the weapon on the table. "this is not war," said penhallow, "and you are three to one. sit down." he set the example. "it is clear that you are all confederate officers and spies. let us talk a little. i came on mr. grey to-day by accident. it was my duty to have him arrested; but he is my wife's brother. if a pistol is heard or i am not out of this, safe, in a few minutes, the police now on guard will enter--and you are doomed men. i am presumably on government business. now, gentlemen, will you leave at once or in an hour or less?" "i for one accept," said the man who had been silent. "and i," said the elder of the party. "on your honour?" "yes." grey laughed lightly, "oh, of course. our work is done. speed the parting guest!" "i wish," said the colonel, rising, "to leave no misapprehension on your minds--or on that of mr. grey. those admirable sketches left carelessly on the table are in my pocket. were they not, you would all three be lost men. did you think, grey, that to save your life or my own i would permit you to escape with your work? had i not these papers, your chance of death would not weigh with me a moment." grey started up. "don't be foolish, grey," said the older man. "we have played and lost. there has been much carelessness--and we have suffered for it. i accept defeat, colonel." penhallow looked at the watch in his hand. "you have ten minutes grace--no, rather less. may i ask of you one thing? you are every hour in danger, but i too am aware that if this interview be talked about in richmond or you are caught, my name may be so used as to make trouble for me, for how could i explain that to save my wife's brother i connived at the escape of confederate officers acting as spies? i ask no pledge, gentlemen. i merely leave my honour as a soldier in your hands. good-night, and don't delay." grey was silent. the older man said, "i permit myself to hope we may meet some time under more pleasant circumstances--for me, i mean,"--he added, laughing. "good-night." penhallow withdrew quickly and found josiah on guard. he said, "it is all right--but for sport it beats possum-hunting. open the door." the rain was still falling in torrents. "all right," he said to the policeman, "come and see me to-morrow early." "what was the matter, sir? i've got to make my report." then penhallow saw the possibility of trouble and as quickly that to bribe further might only make mischief. "do not come to the hotel, but at eleven sharp call on me at the war department on seventeenth street. you have my card. by that time i shall have talked the matter over with the secretary. i am not at liberty to talk of it now--and you had better not. it is a government affair. you go off duty, when?" "at six. you said eleven, sir?" "yes, good-night. go home, josiah." the colonel was so wet that the added contributions of water were of no moment. the soldier in uniform may not carry an umbrella--for reasons unknown to me. before breakfast next morning josiah brought him a letter, left at the hotel too late in the night for delivery. he read it with some amusement and with an uncertain amount of satisfaction: "my dear j: when by evil luck i encountered you, i was sure of three things. first, that i was safe; then, that we had secured what we wanted; and last, that our way home was assured. if in my satisfaction i played the bluff game rather lightly--well, in a way to annoy you--i beg now to apologize. that i should so stupidly have given away a game already won is sufficiently humiliating, and the dog on top may readily forgive. you spoilt a gallant venture, but, by jove, you did it well! i can't imagine how you found me! accept my congratulations. "yours sincerely, "g." "confound him! what i suffered don't count. he's just the man he always was--brave, of course, quixotically chivalrous, a light weight. ann used to say he was a grown-up boy and small for his age. well, he has had his spanking. confound him!" he went on thinking of this gay, clever, inconsiderate, not unlovable man. "if by mishap he were captured while trying to escape, what then? he would be fool enough to make the venture in our uniform. there would be swift justice; and only the final appeal to caesar. he was with good reason ill at ease. i might indeed have to ask the president for something." he reconsidered his own relation to the adventure as he sat at breakfast, and saw in it some remainder of danger. at ten o'clock he was with the secretary. "i want," he said, "to talk to you as my old friend. you are my official superior and may order me to the north pole, but now may i re-assume the other position for a minute and make a confidential statement?" "certainly, penhallow. i am always free to advise you." "i want to say something and to be asked no questions. am i clear?" "certainly." "thank you. i had an extraordinary adventure yesterday. i am not at liberty to do more than say that it put me in possession of these plans." he spread on the table well-drawn sketches of the forts around washington. stanton's grim, bearded face grew stern. "you have my word, penhallow. if i had not too easily given it we would have been placed in a disagreeable position. i am debarred from asking you how you came into possession of these papers. the spies who made them would have been in my power early this morning--and not even the president's weakness would have saved their necks." penhallow was silent, but was anxiously watching the angry secretary, who swept the papers aside with an impatient gesture, feeling that he had been so dealt with as to be left without even the relief he too often found in outbursts of violent language. penhallow's quiet attitude reminded him that he could not now take advantage of his official position to say what was on his mind. "colonel," he said, "i want a report on some better method of getting remounts for the cavalry." "i will consider it, sir." "what about that contract for ambulances?" "i shall have my report ready to-morrow." "that is all." it is to be feared that the next visitor suffered what penhallow escaped. with no other orders the colonel left, rewarded the punctual policeman and went home to write to his wife, infinitely disgusted with the life before him and behind him, and desiring no more adventures. chapter xxiii the winter of - went by with sherman's defeat at vicksburg and rosecrans's inconclusive battle of stone river. the unpopular conscription act in february, , and last of all the discreditable defeat of hooker in may at chancellorsville, disheartened the most hopeful. meanwhile, penhallow wrote to his wife with no word of the war, and poured out his annoyance to leila with less restraint. "dear leila: i get brief notes from john, who is with the one general (grant) who has any luck. the list of discredited commanders good and bad increases. i am weary beyond measure of the kind of life i lead. i learn to-day, may th, of the progress of the investment of vicksburg, and of john as busy at last with his proper work of bridges, corduroy roads and the siege approaches. "the drift homeward of our crippled men, you tell of, is indeed sad. i am glad that grace's boy is well; and so rivers has gone to the army again. pole's lad, with the lost arm, must have some work at the mills. say i ask it. good-bye. "yours, james penhallow." on the th of june the secretary said to penhallow, "you know that lee has crossed the potomac. general hunt has asked to have you put in charge of the reserve artillery of the potomac army. i shall relieve you here and give the order, but i want you for a week longer to clear up matters." penhallow worked hard up to the time set by stanton, and meanwhile made his arrangements to leave for the field. "now that you are going away," said stanton, "i wish to express my warm thanks for admirable service. i may say to you that hooker has been removed and meade put in command." "that is good news, indeed, sir. now the potomac army will be handled by a soldier." the secretary had risen to say his parting words, and penhallow as he held his hand saw how reluctant he was to let him go. they had long been friends, and now the colonel observing his worn face felt for him the utmost anxiety. a stern, grave man, passionately devoted to his country, he was the impatient slave of duty. sometimes hasty, unjust, or even ungenerous, he was indifferent to the enemies he too needlessly created, and was hated by many and not loved even by those who respected his devotion and competence. he spared neither his subordinates nor, least of all, edwin stanton, and spendthrift of vital force and energy went his way, one of the great war ministers like carnot and pitt. now, as they stood about to part, he showed feeling with which few would have given him credit, and for which penhallow was unprepared. "well," he said, "you are going. i shall miss your help in a life sometimes lonely, and overcrowded with work. you have been far more useful here than you could have been in the field. living and working as you have done, you have made enemies. the more enemies an honest gentleman collects the richer he is. you are glad to go--well, don't think this town a mere great gambling place. it is a focal point--all that is bad in war seems to be represented here--spies, cheating contractors, political generals, generals as meek as missionaries. you have seen the worst of it--the worst. but my dear penhallow, there is one comfort, richmond is just as foul with thieving contractors, extravagance, intrigue, and spies who report to us with almost the regularity of the post; and, as with us, there is also honour, honesty, religion, belief in their cause." the secretary had spoken at unusual length and in an unusual mood. when once, before the war, he had spent a few happy days at grey pine, mrs. crocker characterized him as "a yes-and-no kind of man." now as he walked with his friend to the door, he said, "does mrs. penhallow know of your change of duty? i am aware of her feeling about this unhappy strife." "no. there will be a battle--time enough--soon enough to write afterwards, if there should be any earthly afterwards." "you are quite right," said the secretary. "good-bye. i envy you your active share in this game." penhallow, as for the last time he went down the outer steps, looked back at the old brick war-office on seventeenth street. he felt the satisfaction of disagreeable duty well done. then he recalled with some sense of it as being rather ridiculous his adventure with henry grey. in a far distant day he would tell ann. as he halted at the foot of the steps, he thought of his only interview with lincoln. the tall figure with the sombre face left in his memory that haunting sense of the unusual of which others had spoken and which was apt to disappear upon more familiar acquaintance. on the morning of june in this year , leila riding from the mills paused a minute to take note of the hillside burial-ground, dotted here and there with pitiful little linen flags, sole memorials of son or father--the victims of war. "one never can get away from it," she murmured, and rode on into westways. sitting in the saddle she waited patiently at the door of the post-office. mrs. crocker was distributing letters and newspapers. an old quaker farmer was reading aloud on the pavement the latest news. "there ain't no list of killed and wounded," he said. forgetful of the creed of his sect, his son was with the army. he read, "the rebels have got york--that's sure--and carlisle too. they are near harrisburg." "oh, but we have burned the bridge over the susquehanna," said some one. another and younger man with his arm in a sling asked, "are they only cavalry?" "no, general ewell is in command. there are infantry." "where is lee?" "i don't make that out." they went away one by one, sharing the uneasiness felt in the great cities. leila called out, "any letters, mrs. crocker? this is bad news." "here's one for you--it came in a letter to me. i was to give it to you alone." leila tore it open and read it. "any bad news, leila?" "yes, uncle james is with the army. i should not have told you. general meade is in command. aunt ann is not to know. there will be a battle--after that he will write--after it. please not to mention where uncle jim is. when is your nephew to be buried--at the mills?" "at eleven to-morrow." "i shall be there. aunt ann will send flowers. poor boy! he has lingered long." "and he did so want to go back to the army. you see, he was that weak he cried. he was in the colour-guard and asked to have the flag hung on the wall. any news of our john? i dreamed about him last night, only he had long curly locks--like he used to have." "no, not a word." "has mr. rivers got back?" "no, he is still with the army. you know, aunt sends him with money for the sanitary." "yes, the sanitary commission--we all know." leila turned homeward seeing the curly locks. "oh, to be a man now!" she murmured. she was bearing the woman's burden. mrs. crocker called after her, "you forgot the papers." "burn them," said leila. "i have heard enough--and more than enough, and aunt ann never reads them." penhallow had found time to visit his home twice in the winter, but found there little to please him. his wife was obviously feeling the varied strain of war, and leila showed plainly that she too was suffering. he returned to his work unhappy, a discontented and resolutely dutiful man, hard driven by a relentless superior. now, at last, the relief of action had come. no one who has not lived through those years of war can imagine the variety of suffering which darkened countless homes throughout the land. at grey pine, ann penhallow living in a neighbourhood which was hostile to her own political creed was deeply distressed by the fact that on both sides were men dear to her. it must have been a too common addition to the misery of war and was not in some cases without passionate resentment. there were northern men in the service of the confederacy, and of the southern graduates from west point nearly fifty per cent, had remained loyal to the flag, as they elected to understand loyalty. the student of human motives may well be puzzled, for example, to explain why two of the most eminent soldiers of the war, both being men of the highest character and both virginians should have decided to take different sides. some such reflection occupied leila grey's mind as she rode away. many of the officers now in one of the two armies had dined or stayed a few pleasant days at grey pine. for one of them, robert lee, penhallow had a warm regard. she remembered too general scott, a virginian, and her aunt's southern friend drayton, the man whom a poet has since described when with farragut as "courtly, gallant and wise." "ah, me!" she murmured, "duty must be at times a costly luxury.--a costly necessity," she concluded, was better--that left no privilege of choice. she smiled, dismissing the mental problem, and rode on full of anxiety for those she loved and her unfortunate country. our most profound emotions are for the greater souls dumb and have no language if it be not that of prayer, or the tearful overflow which means so much and is so mysteriously helpful. she found both forms of expression when she knelt that night. in the afternoon the refreshing upland coolness of evening followed on the humid heat of a hot june day. towards sunset ann penhallow, to her niece's surprise, drew on her shawl and said she would like to walk down to the little river. any proposal to break the routine of a life unwholesome in its monotony was agreeable to leila. no talk of the war was possible. when ann penhallow now more and more rarely and with effort went on her too frequently needed errands of relief or consolation, the village people understood her silence about the war, and accepting her bounty somewhat resented an attitude of mind which forbade the pleasant old familiarity of approach. the life was unhealthy for leila, and mcgregor watched its influence with affection and some professional apprehension. glad of any change, leila walked with her aunt through the garden among the roses in which now her aunt took no interest. they heard the catbirds carolling in the hedges, and ann thought of the day a year ago when she listened to them with james penhallow at her side. they reached in silence an open space above the broad quiet backwater. beyond a low beach the river flowed by, wide and smooth, a swift stream. from the western side the sunset light fell in widening shafts of scarlet across the water. "let us sit here," said the elder woman. "i am too weak to walk further"--for her a strange confession. as they sat down on the mossy carpet, leila caught the passive hand of her aunt. "i suppose you still swim here, every morning, leila? i used to like it--i have now no heart for anything." leila could only say, "why not, aunt?" "how can you ask me! i think--i dream of nothing but this unnatural war." "is that wise, aunt? or as dr. mcgregor would say, 'wholesome'?" "it is not; but i cannot help it--it darkens my whole life. billy was up at the house this morning talking in his wild way. i did not even try to understand, but"--and she hesitated--"i suppose i had better know." this was strange to leila, who too hesitated, and then concluding to be frank returned, "it might have been better, aunt, if you had known all along what was going on--" "what would have been the use?" said her aunt in a tone of languid indifference. "it can end in but one way." a sensation of anger rose dominant in the mind of the girl. it was hard to bear. she broke out into words of passionate resentment--the first revolt. "you think only of your dear south--of your friends--your brother--" "leila!" she was past self-control or other control. "well, then, be glad lee is in pennsylvania--general ewell has taken york and hagerstown--there will be a great battle. may god help the right--my country!" "general lee," cried ann; "lee in pennsylvania! then that will end the war. i am glad james is safe in washington." leila already self-reproachful, was silent. to tell her he was with the army of the north would be cruel and was what james penhallow had forbidden. "he is in washington?" asked ann anxiously. "when last i heard, he was in washington, aunt, and as you know, john is before vicksburg with general grant." "they will never take it--never." "perhaps not, aunt ann," said leila, penitent. the younger woman was disinclined to talk and sat quiet, one of the millions who were wondering what the next few days would bring. the light to westward was slowly fading as she remained with hands clasped about her knees and put aside the useless longing to know what none could know. her anger was gone as she caught with a side glance the frail look of ann penhallow. she felt too the soothing benediction of the day's most sacred hour. of a sudden ann penhallow bounded to her feet. a thunderous roar broke on the evening stillness. the smooth backwater shivered and the cat-tails and reeds swayed, as the sound struck echoes from the hills and died away. leila caught and stayed the swaying figure. "it is only the first of the great new siege guns they are trying on the lower meadows. sit down, dear, for a moment. do be careful--you are getting"--she hesitated--"hysterical. there will be another presently. do sit down, dear aunt. don't be nervous." she was alarmed by her aunt's silent statuesque position. she could have applied no wiser remedy than her warning advice. no woman likes to be told she is nervous or hysterical and now it acted with the certainty of a charm. "i am not nervous--it was so sudden. i was startled." she turned away with a quick movement of annoyance, releasing herself from leila's arm. "let's go home. oh, my god!" she cried, as once again the cannon-roar shook the leaves on the upward slope before them. "it is the voice of war. can i never get away from it--never--never?" "you will not be troubled again to-day," said the girl, "and the smaller guns on the further meadow we hardly notice at the house." ann's steps quickened. she had been scared at her own realization of her want of self-government and was once more in command of her emotions. "do not talk to me, leila. i was quite upset--i am all right now." the great guns were sent away next day on their errands of destruction. then the two lonely women waited as the whole country waited for news which whatever it might be would carry grief to countless homes. on the second day of july, , under a heavy cloud of dust which hung high in air over the approach of the baltimore pike to gettysburg, the long column of the reserve artillery of the potomac army rumbled along the road, and more and more clearly the weary men heard the sound of cannon. about ten in the morning the advance guard was checked and the line came to a halt. james penhallow, who since dawn had been urging on his command, rode in haste along the side of the cumbered road to where a hurrying brigade of infantry crossing his way explained why his guns were thus brought to a standstill. he saw that he must wait for the foot soldiers to go by. the cannoneers dismounted from the horses or dropped off the caissons, and glad of a rest lit their pipes and lay down or wandered about in search of water. the colonel, pleased to be on time, was in gay good-humour as he talked to the men or listened to the musketry fire far to the left. he said to a group of men, "we are all as grey as the rebs, boys, but it is good pennsylvania dust." as he spoke a roar of laughter was heard from the neighbourhood of the village cemetery on his right. he rode near it and saw the men gathered before an old notice board. he read: "any person found using fire arms in this vicinity will be prosecuted according to law." penhallow shook with laughter. "guess we'll have to be right careful, colonel," said a sergeant. "you will, indeed." "it's an awful warning, boys," said a private. "shouldn't wonder if bob lee set it up to scare us." "i'd like to take it home." they chaffed the passing infantry, and were answered in kind. penhallow impatient saw that the road would soon be clear. as he issued quick orders and men mounted in haste, a young aide rode up, saluted, and said, "i have orders, colonel, from general hunt to guide you to where he desires your guns to be parked." "one moment," said penhallow; "the road is a tangle of wagons:" and to a captain, "ride on and side-track those wagons; be quick too." then he said to the aide, "we have a few minutes--how are things going? i heard of general reynold's death, and little more." "yes, we were outnumbered yesterday and--well licked. why they did not rush us, the lord knows!" "give me some idea of our position." "well, sir, here to our right is cemetery hill, strongly held; to your left the line turns east and then south in a loop to wooded hills--one culp's, they call it. that is our right. there is a row on there as you can hear. before us as we stand our position runs south along a low ridge and ends on two pretty high-wooded hills they call round tops. that's our left. from our front the ground slopes down some forty feet or so, and about a mile away the rebs hold the town seminary and a long low rise facing us." "thank you, that seems pretty clear. there is firing over beyond the cemetery?" "yes, the skirmishers get cross now and then. the road seems clear, sir." orders rang out and the guns rattled up the pike like some monstrous articulated insect, all encumbering wagons being swept aside to make way for the privileged guns. "you are to park here, sir, on the open between this and the taneytown road. there is a brook--a creek." "thanks, that is clear." the ground thus chosen lay some hundred yards behind the low crest held midway of our line by the second corps, whence the ground fell away in a gentle slope. the space back of our line was in what to a layman's eye would have seemed the wildest confusion of wagons, ambulances, ammunition mules, cattle, and wandering men. it was slowly assuming some order as the provost guard, dusty, despotic and cross, ranged the wagons, drove back stragglers, and left wide lanes for the artillery to move at need to the front. the colonel spent some hours in getting his guns placed and in seeing that no least detail was lacking. with orders about instant readiness, with a word of praise here, of sharp criticism there, he turned away a well-contented man and walked up the slope in search of the headquarters. as he approached the front, he saw the bushy ridge in which, or back of which, the men lay at rest. behind them were surgeons selecting partially protected places for immediate aid, stretcher-bearers, ambulances and all the mechanism of help for the wounded. officers were making sure that men had at hand one hundred rounds of ammunition. some three hundred yards behind the mid-centre of the second corps, on the taneytown road, penhallow was directed to a small, rather shabby one-storey farm-house. "by george," he murmured, "here is one general who means to be near the front." he was met at the door by the tall handsome figure of general hancock, a blue-eyed man with a slight moustache over a square expressively firm jaw. "glad to see you, penhallow. meade was anxious--i knew you would be on time. come in." penhallow saw before him a mean little room, on one side a wide bed with a gaudy coverlet, on a pine table in the centre a bucket of water, a tin cup, and a candle-stick. five rickety rush-covered chairs completed the furnishings. meade rose from study of the map an engineer officer was explaining. he was unknown to penhallow, who observed him with interest--a tall spare man with grey-sprinkled dark hair a large roman nose and spectacles over wide blue eyes; a gentleman of the best, modest, unassuming, and now carelessly clad. "colonel penhallow," said hancock. "glad to see you." he turned to receive with evident pleasure a report of the morning's fight on the right wing, glanced without obvious interest at the captured flag of the stonewall brigade, and greeted the colonel warmly. "i can only offer you water," he said. "sit down. you may like to look over this map." while the commander wrote orders and despatched aide after aide, penhallow bent over the map. "you see," said hancock, "we have unusual luck for us in a short interior line. i judge from the moving guidons that lee is extending his front--it may be six miles long." "and ours?" "well, from wing to wing across the loop to right, not half of that." "i see," said penhallow, and accepting a drink of tepid water he went out to find and report to the chief of artillery, general hunt. he met him with general john gibbon and two aides a few yards from the door, and making his brief report learned as he moved away that there was some trouble on the left wing. meade coming out with hancock, they mounted and rode away in haste, too late to correct general sickles' unfortunate decision to improve general meade's battle-line. it was not penhallow's business, nor did he then fully understand that costly blunder. returning to his guns, he sent, as hunt had ordered, two of his reserve batteries up to the back of the line of the second corps, and finding general gibbon temporarily in command walked with him to what is now called the "crest" and stood among cushing's guns. alertly interested, penhallow saw to the left, half hidden by bushes and a clump of trees, a long line of infantry lying at ease, their muskets in glittering stacks behind them. to the right the ground was more open. a broken stone fence lay in front of the second corps. it was patched with fence rails and added stone, and where the clump of trees projected in advance of the line made a right angle and extended thence in front of the batteries on the crest about thirty yards. then it met a like right angle of stone fencing and followed the line far to the right. behind these rude walls lay the pennsylvania and new york men, three small regiments. further back on a little higher ground was the silent array of cannon, thus able at need to fire over the heads of the guarding infantry, now idly lying at rest in the baking heat of a july morning. the men about the cannon lounged at ease on the ground in the forty foot interspaces between the batteries, some eighteen pieces in all. suddenly an aide rode up, and saying, "see you again, penhallow," gibbon rode away in haste. penhallow, who was carefully gathering in all that could then be seen from the locality, moved over to where a young battery captain was leaning against a cannon wheel wiping the sweat from his face or gazing over the vale below him, apparently lost in thought. "captain cushing, i believe," said the colonel. "i am colonel penhallow, in command of the reserve artillery." "indeed!" said the young officer. "these are some of your guns--" "not mine--i was out of it long ago. they still carry the brand of my old iron-mills." "we shall see, sir, that they do honour to your name." "i am sure of that," returned the colonel, looking at the face of the officer, who as he spoke patted the gun beside him in an affectionate way. "it seems very peaceful," he said. "yes, yes," returned penhallow, "very." they looked for a moment of silence down the vale before them, where a mile away the ground rose to a low ridge, beyond which in woody shelters lay the hostile lines. "what road is that?" asked penhallow. "it leaves our right and crosses to enter lee's right." "the emmitsburg pike, sir." the colonel's glass searched the space before him. "i see some fine farm-houses--deserted, of course, and wheat fields no man will reap this year." he spoke thoughtfully, and as woodruff of the nearer battery joined them, the roar of cannon broke the stillness. "far on our left," said woodruff. at the sound, the men sprang to their feet and took their stations. smoke rose and clouded their view of the distant field where on our left a fury of battle raged, while the rattle of infantry volleys became continuous. no more words were spoken. through the long afternoon the unseen fight went on in front of the round tops. as it came nearer and the grey lines were visible, the guns on the crest opened a lively fire and kept up their destructive business until the approach of the enemy ceased to extend towards our centre and fell away in death or disorderly flight. about sunset this varied noise subsided and the remote sound of cheering was heard. "we must have won," said general webb, the brigade commander. "it was a flanking movement. how little any one man knows of a battle!" "by george! i am glad of a let up," said the young captain. "i am vilely dirty." he wiped the grime and sweat from his face and threw himself on the ground as generals hunt and gibbon rode up. "no great damage here, i see, webb. they got awfully licked, but it was near to something else." questioned by penhallow, they heard the news of our needless loss and final triumphant repulse of the enemy. hunt said emphatic things about political generals and their ways. "he lost a leg," said gibbon, "and i think to have lost his life would have been, fortunate. they are at it still on the right, but the twelfth corps has gone back to culp's hill and ewell will get his share of pounding--if it be his corps." "then we may get some sleep," said penhallow, as he moved away. "i have had very little for two nights." chapter xxiv it was near to seven when he went down to his parked guns, seeing as he went that the ways were kept clear, and finding ready hot coffee and broiled chicken. "where did you get this, josiah?" he asked. "kind of came in, sir--know'd he was wanted--laid two eggs." the colonel laughed and asked no further questions. "pull off my boots. horses all right?" "yes, sir." without-undressing he fell on his camp-bed and, towards dusk thinking with grim humour of his wife and the penhallow guns, fell asleep. about four in the morning the mad clamour of battle awakened him. he got up and went out of the tent. the night air was hot and oppressive. far to our right there was the rattle of musketry and the occasional upward flare of cannon flashes against low-lying clouds. from the farthest side of the taneytown road at the rear he heard the rattle of ambulances arriving from the field of fight to leave the wounded in tent hospitals. they came slowly, marked by their flickering lanterns, and were away again more swiftly. he gave some vague thought to the wounded and to the surgeons, for whom the night was as the day. at sunrise he went up past the already busy headquarters and came to the bush-hidden lines, where six thousand men of the second corps along a half mile of the irregular far-stretched crest were up and busy. fires were lighted, coffee boiled and biscuits munched. an air of confidence and gaiety among the men pleased him as he paused to give a sergeant a pipe light and divided his tobacco among a thankful group of ragged soldiers. all was quiet. an outpost skirmish on the right, as a man said, "was petering out." he paused here and there to talk to the men, and was interested to hear them discussing with intelligence the advantage of our short line. now and then the guns far to left or right quarrelled, but at eleven in the morning this third of july all was quiet except the murmurous noise of thousands of men who talked or lay at rest in the bushes or contrived a refuge from the sun under shelter of a canvas hung on ramrods. generals gibbon and webb, coming near, promised him a late breakfast, and he went with them to the little peach orchard near the headquarters on the taneytown road. they sat down on mess-chests or cracker-boxes, and to penhallow's amusement josiah appeared with john, the servant of gibbon, for josiah was, as he said, on easy terms with every black servant in the line. presently hancock rode up with meade. generals newton and pleasanton also appeared, and with their aides joined them. these men were officially penhallow's superiors, and although hancock and gibbon were his friends, he made no effort to take part in the discussion in regard to what the passing day would bring. he had his own opinion, but no one asked for it and he smoked in an undisturbed private council of war. at last, as he rose, newton said, "you knew john reynolds well, penhallow. a moment before he fell, his aide had begged him to fall back to a less dangerous position." "he was my friend--a soldier of the best." "the pennsylvanians are in force to-day--you and i and--" "oh, colonels don't count," laughed penhallow; "but there are meade, hancock, gregg, humphreys, hays, gibbon, geary, crawford--" hancock said, "we pennsylvanians hold the lowest and weakest point of our line--all pennsylvanians on their own soil." "yes, but they will not attack here," said newton. "oh, do you think so?" said hancock. "wait a little." the headquarters' ambulance drove up with further supplies. the chickens were of mature age, but every one was hungry. cigars and pipes were lighted, and newton chaffed gibbon as the arrogant young brigadier in command for the time of hancock's corps. the talk soon fell again upon the probabilities of the day. penhallow listened. meade grave and silent sat on a cracker-box and ate in an absent way, or scribbled orders, and at last directed that the picked body of men, the provost's guards, should join their regimental commands. about a quarter to noon the generals one by one rode away. having no especial duty, penhallow walked to where on the crest the eighteen guns were drawn up. the sky was clear as yet, a windless, hot day. gibbon joined him. "what next?" said gibbon, as penhallow clambered up and stood a tall figure on the limber of one of cushing's guns, his field glass searching the valley and the enemy's position. "isn't it like a big chess-board?" "yes--their skirmishers look like grey posts, and our own blue. they seem uneasy." "aren't they just like pawns in the game!" remarked captain haskell of the staff. penhallow, intent, hardly heard them, but said presently, "there are guidons moving fast to their right." "oh, artillery taking position. we shall hear from them," returned gibbon. "hancock thinks that being beaten on both flanks, lee will attack our centre, and this is the lowest point." "well," said haskell, "it would be madness--can lee remember malvern hill?" "i wonder what grant is doing?" remarked gibbon. at that time, seated under an oak, watched at a distance by john penhallow and a group of officers, he was dictating to unlucky pemberton the terms of vicksburg's surrender. penhallow got down from his perch and wandered among the other guns, talking to the men who were lying on the sod, or interested in the battery horses behind the shelter of trees quietly munching the thin grasses. he returned to cushing's guns, and being in the mental attitude of intense attention to things he would not usually have noticed, he was struck with the young captain's manly build, and then with his delicacy of feature, something girl-like and gentle in his ways. penhallow remarked that the guns so hot already from the sun would be too easily overheated when they were put to use. "ah," returned cushing, "but will they be asked to talk today?" the innocent looking smile and the quick flash of wide-opened eyes told of his wish to send messages across the vale. "yes, i think so," said the colonel; "i think so,"--and again observant he saw the slight figure straighten and a quite other look of tender sadness come upon his face. "how quiet they are--how very quiet!" then he laughed merrily. "see that dog on the emmitsburg road. he doesn't know which side he's on." penhallow looked at his watch. "it is one o'clock." then his glass was up. "ah!" he exclaimed, as he closed it, "now we shall catch it. i thought as much." a mile away, far on lee's right, on the low ridge in front of his position, a flash of light was seen. as the round ring of smoke shot out from the cannon, the colonel remembered the little leila's delight when he blew smoke rings as they sat on the porch. instantly a second gun spoke. the two shells flew over our line and lit far to the rear, while at once along lee's position a hundred and fifty guns rang out and were instantly answered by our own artillery from round top to cemetery hill. general hunt beside him replying to the quick questions he put, said, "we could not place over seventy-five guns--not room enough." "is that all? they are distributing their favours along our whole front." at once a vast shroud of smoke rose and hid both lines, while out of it flew countless shell and roundshot. at first most of the confederate missiles flew high and fell far behind our crest. the two officers were coolly critical as they stood between the batteries. "he must think our men are back of the guns like his own. the wall and bushes hide them." "the fuses are too long," said hunt quietly. "that's better and worse," he added, as a shell exploded near by and one of woodruff's guns went out of action and the ground was strewn with the dead and wounded. "we shall want some of your guns." penhallow went in haste to the rear. what he saw was terrible. the iron hail of shells fell fast around him on the wide open space or even as far away as the hospital tents. on or near the taneytown road terror-stricken wagon-drivers were flying, ammunition mules were torn to pieces or lying mangled; a shell exploded in a wagon,--driver, horses and a load of bread were gone. horses lay about, dead or horribly torn; one horse hitched to a tree went on cropping grass. penhallow missed nothing. he was in the mood peril always brought. men said he was a slow, sure thinker, and missed seeing things which did not interest him. now he was gay, tuned to the highest pitch of automatic watchfulness, as this far-sent storm of bursting shells went over and past the troops it was meant to destroy. hurrying through it he saw the wide slope clear rapidly of what was left of active life. he laughed as a round shot knocked a knapsack off a man's back. the man unhurt did not stay to look for it. once the colonel dropped as a shell lit near him. it did not explode. he ejaculated, "pshaw," and went on. he came near the taneytown road to find that his artillery had suffered. a score of harnessed horses lay dead or horribly mangled. his quick orders sent up to the front a dozen guns. some were horsed, some were pulled with ropes by the cheering, eager cannoneers. their way was up the deserted slope, "well cleared by the enemy," thought penhallow with a smile. once he looked back and saw the far flight of a shell end in or near an ambulance of the wounded beyond the taneytown road. during his absence gun after gun had been disabled and a caisson exploded; the gun crews lay dead or wounded. what more horribly disturbed penhallow was the hideous screams of the battery horses. "ah! the pity of it. they had no cause to die for--no duty--no choice." as he assisted in replacing the wreckage of the guns, he still heard the cries of the animals who so dumb in peace found in torture voices of anguish unheard before--unnatural, strange. the appalling tempest of shells screamed on and on, while the most of them fell beyond the crest. penhallow looked up to note their flight. they darted overhead shrill-voiced or hissing. there was a white puff of smoke, a red flash, and an explosion. general gibbon, coming back from the long line of his corps, said, "my men have suffered very little, but the headquarters behind them are in ruin. meade has moved back." as he spoke the shells began to fall on the crest. "they seem to be more attentive to us," said the battery captain woodruff. "thought we'd catch it!" "horrible!--those horses, gibbon," said penhallow. at last there seemed to be more concentrated firing on the crest. many shells fell near the imperfect wall-shelter of the crouching men, while others exploded among the lines to left or right in the bushes. "they are doing better now, confound them!" said the young general coolly. "our men at the wall seem disturbed. "come with me," he said to penhallow and haskell of the staff, who had just joined them. they went down in front of the guns to where behind the low wall lay the two thin lines of the pennsylvania regiments. he spoke to the colonel of the st, who with other officers was afoot encouraging the men. "keep cool, boys," said gibbon. the men laughed. "oh, we're all right, general, but we ain't cool." gibbon laughed. "let us go over the wall and try to see a little better," said penhallow. a hundred yards beyond the lines they sat down. the ceaseless rain of shot and shell from both sides went over them, the canopy of smoke being so high above that the interspace between the lines was now more or less visible. far beyond them our skirmish outposts were still motionless on guard; and yet further farms and houses, some smoking in ruin, lay among the green fields along the emmitsburg pike. "it is pretty safe here," said the corps commander, while far above them the shells sang their war notes. penhallow looked back. "they've got the range--there goes one of the guns--oh! and another." "let's go back," said gibbon, rising, "we are too safe here." they laughed at his reason and followed him, haskell remarking on the lessening of the fire. as they moved about the forty-foot spaces between the disabled batteries, the last cannon-ball rolled by them and bounded down the slope harmless. at once there was movement,--quick orders, officers busy, as fresh cannon replaced the wrecked pieces. many of the unhurt cannoneers lay down utterly exhausted. the dead were drawn aside, while the wounded crawled away or were cared for by the stretcher-bearers and surgeons. meanwhile the dense, hot, smoke-pall rose slowly and drifted away. the field-glasses were at once in use. "it is half-past two," said general hunt; "what next? oh! our skirmishers are falling back." "they are going to attack," said haskell, "and can they mean our whole line--or where?" the cannoneers were called to their pieces, and silently expectant the little group waited on the fateful hour, while the orderly quiet of discipline was to be seen on the crest. the field-glasses of the officers were searching with intense interest the more and more visible vale. "pretty plain now, gibbon," said hunt. "yes, we are in for it." "they are forming," said penhallow. a line appeared from the low swell of ground in front of lee's position--then a second and a third. muskets and bayonets flashed in the sun. "can you make out their flags?" asked gibbon, "or their numbers?" "not the flags." he waited intent, watchful. no one spoke--minute after minute went by. at last penhallow answered. "a long line--a good half mile--quite twelve thousand--oh, more--more. now they are advancing _en échelon_." to left, to right, along our lines was heard the thud, thud, of the ramrods, and percussion-cap boxes were slid around the waist to be handy. penhallow and others drew their pistols. the cannon were now fully replaced, the regimental flags unrolled, and on the front line, long motionless, the trefoil guidons of the two divisions of the second corps fluttered feebly. the long row of skirmishers firing fell back more and more rapidly, and came at last into our lines. penhallow said, turning to gibbon, "they have--i think--they have no supporting batteries--that is strange." haskell and gibbon had gone as he spoke and the low crest was free at this point of all but the artillery force. to left, the projecting clump of trees and the lines of the second corps--all he could see--were ominously quiet. gibbon came back to the crest. he said, "we may need backing if they concentrate on us; here our line is too thin." and still the orderly grey columns came on silently, without their usual charging-yell. "ah!" exclaimed penhallow without lowering his glass, as he gazed to our left. the clamour of cannon broke out from little round top. "rifles!" exclaimed gibbon. "good!" their left made no reply, but seemed to draw away from the fire. "i can see no more," said the colonel, "but they stopped at the emmitsburg road." the acrid odour of musketry drifted across the field as he turned to gaze at the left wing of the fast coming onset. far to our right they came under the fire of cemetery hill and of an advanced massachusetts regiment. he saw the blue flags of virginia sway, fall, and rise no more, while scattered and broken the confederates fled or fell under the fury of the death messages from above the long-buried dead of the village graves. "now then, cushing!" cried hunt, and the guns on the crest opened fire. it was plain that the long confederate lines, frayed on each flank, had crowded together making a vast wedge of attack. then all along our miles of troops a crackle of musketry broke out, the big guns bellowing. the field was mostly lost to view in the dense smoke, under which the charging-force halted and steadily returned the fire. "i can't see," cried cushing near by. "quite three hundred yards or more," said the colonel, "and you are hurt, cushing. go to the rear." the blood was streaming down his leg. "not i--it is nothing. hang those fellows!" a new york battery gallantly run in between disabled guns crowded cushing's cannon. he cried, "section one to the front, by hand!" he was instantly obeyed. as he went with it to the front near to the wall, followed by penhallow, he said, "it is my last canister, colonel. i can't see well." dimly seen figures in the dense smoke were visible here and there some two hundred yards away, with flutter of reeling battle-flags in the smoke, while more and more swiftly the wedge of men came on, losing terribly by the fire of the men at the wall along the lines. cushing stood with the lanyard of the percussion trigger in his hand. it seems inconceivable, but the two men smiled. then he cried, "my god!"--his figure swayed, he held his left hand over a ghastly wound in his side, and as he reeled pulled the lanyard. he may have seen the red flash, and then with a bullet through the open mouth fell dead across the trail of his gun. for a moment penhallow was the only officer of rank near the silent battery. where cushing's two guns came too near the wall, the men moved away to the sides leaving an unguarded space. checked everywhere to right and left, the assailants crowded on to the clump of trees and to where the pennsylvania line held the stone wall. ignorant of the ruin behind them, the grey mass came on with a rush through the smoke. the men in blue, losing terribly, fell back from a part of the wall in confusion--a mere mob--sweeping webb, penhallow and others with them, swearing and furious. two or three hundred feet back they stopped, a confused mass. general webb, haskell and other officers rallied them. the red flags gathered thicker, where the small units of many commands stood fast under the shelter of a portion of the lost wall. penhallow looked back and saw the massachusetts flags--our centre alone had given way. the flanks of the broken regiments still held the wall and poured in a murderous fire where the splendid courage of the onset halted, unwilling to fly, unable to go on. webb, furious, rallied his men, while penhallow, haskell and gibbon vainly urged an advance. a colour-sergeant ran forward and fell dead. a corporal caught up the flag and dropped. a confederate general leaped over the deserted wall and laid a hand on cushing's gun. he fell instantly at the side of the dead captain, as with a sudden roar of fury the broken pennsylvanians rolled in a disordered mass of men and officers against the disorganized valour which held the wall. the smoke held--still holds, the secret of how many met the northern men at the wall; how long they fought among cushing's guns, on and over the wall, no man who came out of it could tell. penhallow emptied his revolver and seizing a musket fought the brute battle with the men who used fists, stones, gun-rammers--a howling mob of blue and grey. and so the swaying flags fell down under trampling men and the lost wall was won. the fight was over. men fell in scores, asking quarter. the flanking fires had been merciless, and the slope was populous with dead and wounded men, while far away the smoke half hid the sullen retreat of the survivors. the prearranged mechanism of war became active. thousands of prisoners were being ordered to the rear. men stood still, gasping, breathless or dazed. as penhallow stood breathing hard, from the right wing, among the long silent dead of cemetery hill, arose a wild hurrah. it gathered volume, rolled down the long line of corps after corps, and died away among the echoes of the pennsylvania hills. he looked about him trying to recover interest. some one said that hancock and gibbon were wounded. the rush of the _mêlée_ had carried him far down the track of the charge, and having no instant duty he sat down, his clothes in tatters. as he recovered strength, he was aware of general meade on horseback with an aide. the general, white and grave, said to haskell, "how has it gone here?" an officer cried, "they are beaten," showing two flags he held. meade said sharply: "damn the flags! are the men gone?" "yes, sir, the attack is over." he uncovered, said only, "thank god!" gave some rapid orders and rode away beside the death-swath, careful, as penhallow saw, to keep his horse off of the thirty scattered flags, many lying under or over the brave who had fought and lost in this memorable charge. penhallow could have known of the battle only what he had seen, but a few words from an officer told him that nowhere except at this part of the line of the second corps had the attack been at all fortunate. on the wide field of attack our ambulance corps was rescuing the hundreds of wounded confederates, many of them buried, helpless, beneath the bodies of the motionless dead. two soldiers stood near him derisively flaunting flags. "quit that," cried the colonel, "drop them!" the men obeyed. "death captured them--not we," said penhallow, and saw that he was speaking to a boyish confederate lieutenant, who had just dragged himself limping out of the ghastly heap of dead. touching his forehead in salute, he said, "thank you, sir. where shall i go?" "up there," replied the colonel. "you will be cared for." the man limped away followed by penhallow, who glanced at the torn confederate banners lying blood-stained about the wall and beyond it. he read their labels--manassas, chancellorsville, sharpsburg. one marked fredericksburg lay gripped in the hand of a dead sergeant. he crossed the wall to look for the body of the captain of the battery; men were lifting it. "my god!--poor boy!" murmured the colonel, as he looked on the white face of death. he asked who was the rebel general who had fallen beside cushing. "general armistead," said an officer--"mortally wounded, they say." penhallow turned and went down the slope again. far away, widely scattered, he caught glimpses of this rash and gallant attack. he was aware of that strange complex odour which rises from a battlefield. it affected him as horrible and as unlike any other unpleasant smell. feeling better, he busied himself directing those who were aiding the wounded. a general officer he did not know said to him, "stop the firing from that regiment." a number of still excited men of one of the flanking brigades on our right were firing uselessly at the dimly seen and remote mass of the enemy. penhallow went quickly to the right, and as he drew near shouted, "stop those men--quit firing!" he raised his hand to call attention to his order. the firing lessened, and seeing that he was understood he turned away. at the moment he was not fifty feet from the flanking line, and had moved far down the slope as one of the final shots rang out. he felt something like a blow on his right temple, and as he staggered was aware of the gush of blood down his face. "what fool did that?" he exclaimed as he reeled and fell. he rose, fell, rose again, and managed to tie a handkerchief around his head. he stumbled to the wall and lay down, his head aching. he could go no further. "queer, that," he murmured; "they might have seen." he sat up; things around him were doubled to his view. "are you hit?" said haskell, who was directing stretcher-bearers and sending prisoners to the rear. "not badly." he was giddy and in great pain. then he was aware of the anxious face of josiah. "my god! you hurt, sir? come to look for you--can you ride? i fetched dixy--mare's killed." "i am not badly hurt. tighten this handkerchief and give me your arm--i can't ride," he arose, and amazed at his weakness, dragged himself down the slope, through the reforming lines, the thousands of prisoners, the reinforcing cannon and the wreckage of the hillside. he fell on his couch, and more at ease began to think, with some difficulty in controlling his thoughts. at last he said, "i shall be up to-morrow," and lay still, seeing, as the late afternoon went by, grey pine and ann penhallow. then he was aware of captain haskell and a surgeon, who dressed his wound and said, "it was mere shock--there is no fracture. the ball cut the artery and tore the scalp. you'll be all right in a day or two." penhallow said, "please to direct my servant to the sanitary commission. i think my friend, the rev. mark rivers, is with them." he slept none. it was early dawn when rivers came in anxious and troubled. for the first time in years of acquaintance he found penhallow depressed, and amazed because so small a wound made him weak and unable to think clearly or to give orders. "and it was some stupid boy from our line," he said. his incapacity made rivers uneasy, and although penhallow broke out to his surprise in angry remonstrance, he convinced him at last that he must return to grey pine on sick leave. he asked no question about the army. insisting that he was too well to give up his command, nevertheless he talked much of headache and lack of bodily power. he was, as rivers saw, no longer the good-humoured, quiet gentleman, with no thought of self. in a week he was stronger, but as his watchful friend realized, there was something mysteriously wrong with his mental and moral mechanism. on the day after the battle penhallow asked to have his wife telegraphed that he was slightly wounded, and that she must not come to him. rivers wrote also a brief and guarded letter to leila of their early return to grey pine. in a vain effort to interest the colonel, he told him of the surrender of vicksburg.--he asked where it was and wasn't john there, but somewhat later became more clear-minded and eager to go home. chapter xxv rivers gathered no comfort from a consultation of surgeons, who talked of the long-lasting effects of concussion of the brain. made careful by the sad change he had observed in ann penhallow when last seen, he sent his telegram for leila to the care of the post-mistress, and a day later a brief letter. understanding the mode of address, mrs. crocker walked at once to grey pine, and found leila in the garden. "where is your aunt?" she asked. "lying down in her room. i got your kind note about the fight last evening. is it true? is the news confirmed?" "yes. there was a terrible battle at gettysburg. the rebels were defeated by general meade and are retreating." "i did not tell aunt ann anything. i waited to hear, as i was sure i would from uncle james. is there evil news?" "i don't know. here is a telegram to my care for you from mr. rivers. it must have been delayed--and then came this letter to mrs. penhallow from him." "then--then--there is bad news," she cried as she tore open the telegram and stood still. "what is it?--you know how we all love him." "uncle jim is wounded--not seriously--and will be here shortly." "oh, but i am sorry--and glad." "yes--yes--i must tell aunt at once. she has not left her room for two days, and i forbade the maids to talk of the victory until it was sure--now she must know all. i must tell her at once." "why not get dr. mcgregor?" "no--no," she returned with decision. "i shall know best how to tell--it wants a woman." the ruddy, stout post-mistress looked at the tall young woman with sudden appreciation of her self-command and mental growth. "maybe you're about right, but i thought--well, fact is, i've seen of late so many people just tear open a letter--and go all to pieces." leila smiled. "you don't know my aunt. now i must go. oh, this war--this war! to-morrow will scatter joy and grief over all the land." "yes, i've been near about mobbed to-day. good-bye." the messenger of evil news went straight from the garden path, where the roses were in unusual abundance. to her surprise she saw her aunt on the back porch. as leila hesitated, she said, "i saw mrs. crocker from my window, leila. she gave you something--a letter--or a telegram. what is it? i suppose after what i have heard of the confederates at york and carlisle, they may be in harrisburg by this time and the railroad to the west cut off. it may be well to know." she spoke rapidly as she came down the steps to meet her niece. "it is as well james penhallow is not in it." the two women stood facing one another in one of those immeasurably brief silences which are to timeless thought as are ages. her husband safe, general lee victorious--some slight look of satisfaction could be seen in her face--a faint smile, too easily read--and then-- "well, dear, your news?" anger, tenderness, love, pity--all dictated answers. "aunt ann, i have bad news." "of course, dear. it was to be expected. you won't believe me, but i am sorry for you and for james." the face of the tall young woman flushed hot. she had meant to spare her--to be tender. she said, "general lee is retreating after losing a great battle at gettysburg." her aunt said quickly, "but james penhallow--he is in washington?" "no, he was in the army--he is wounded--not seriously--and he is coming home." "i might have known it." a great illumination came over her face not understood by leila. she was strangely glad for him that he had been in the field and not in peaceful safety at washington. with abrupt change of expression, she added, "wounded? not seriously. that isn't like him to come home for a slight wound. you or mark rivers are hiding something." "not i, aunt; but any wound that kept him off duty would be better cared for here. lee's defeat leaves him free for a time--i mean at ease--" "don't talk nonsense!" she cried. "what do i care for lee--or meade--or battles! james penhallow is all the world to me. victory!"--she flamed with mounting colour--"it is i am the victor! he comes back with honour--i have no duties--no country--i have only my love. oh, my god! if he had died--if--if--i should have hated!--" she spoke with harsh vehemence, and of a sudden stopped, and breathing fast gasped in low-voiced broken tones, "don't stare at me--i am not a fool--i am--i am--only the fool of a great love. you don't know what it means. my god! i have no child--james penhallow is to me children, husband--all--everything." she stood still, wide-eyed, staring down the garden paths, a wonder of yearning tenderness in her face, with rivers's letter in her hand. "read your letter, aunt." "yes--yes--i forgot it." she read it, and said, "it only confirms the telegram." the storm of passionate emotion was over. leila amazed and fearful of results--twice seen before--watched her. "you have seen," she said in a low voice, "the soul of a great love laid bare. may you too some day, my child, love as i do! have no fear for me--i see it in your looks. come in--i have to see to things--i have to give some orders--there will be much to do." she was at once quiet, and composedly led the way into the house, the astonished girl following her. in the hall mrs. penhallow said, "i fear, dear, i have left too much of the management of the house to you--of late, i mean. what with the farms and stables, i am not surprised that things have not been quite as james would desire. i am going to relieve you a little. i suppose the stables are all right." "they are," returned leila, feeling hurt. her aunt had not been in the kitchen or given an order for nearly a month, and house, farm and stables, had been by degrees allowed to slip into leila's well-trained and competent hands. meanwhile ann penhallow had gradually failed in health and lost interest in duties which had been to her, as rivers said, what social pleasures were to some women. she yielded by degrees and not without resistance to mere physical weakness, and under the emotional stress of war, and above all the absence of the man on whom she depended, had lapsed to mcgregor's dismay into a state of mind and body for which he had no remedy. every physician of large experience must have seen cases of self-created, unresisted invalidism end with mysterious abruptness and the return of mental, moral and physical competence, under the influence of some call upon their sense of duty made by calamity, such as an acute illness in the household, financial ruin, or the death of a husband. the return of a wounded man and the need to care for him acted thus upon ann penhallow. leila looked on in surprise. her aunt's astounding indifference to the results of defeat for her beloved south when she learned of her husband's injury left the younger woman utterly bewildered. nothing in her own nature, as she thought it all over, enabled her to understand it, nor was her aunt's rapid gain in health and cheerfulness during the next few days more easy to explain. at first with effort, but very soon with increase of ability, she gradually became more and more her old self. ann penhallow spent the remainder of the next day in one of those household inspections which let no failure in neatness or order escape attention. james penhallow's library was to be cleaned and cared for in a way to distress any man-minded man, while leila looked on. had her aunt's recent look of ill-health represented nothing but the depressing influence of a year of anxiety? and, if so, why under the distress of a nearer and more material disaster should she grow so quickly active, and apparently strong in place of becoming more feeble. she followed her aunt about the house trying to be helpful, and a little amused at her return to some of the ways which at times annoyed penhallow into positive revolt. as she thought of it, ann was standing over a battered army-chest, open and half full of well-worn cavalry uniforms. "really, leila," she said, "these old army clothes had better be disposed of--and that shabby smoking-jacket--i have not seen it for years. why do men keep their useless, shabby clothes?" "i think uncle jim wouldn't like those old army uniforms given away, aunt; and don't you remember how he looked like an old van dyke portrait in that lovely brown velvet jacket?" ann, standing with the much used garment in her hand, let it drop into the chest, saying, "i really cannot see the use of keeping things as men love to do--" "and women never!" cried leila, closing the lid of the box, and remarking that he would like to find things as he left them; and had aunt ann noticed that there were moths about the bear skins. now a moth has the power of singularly exciting some women--the diversion proved effectual. and still as the week went by ann seemed to be gaining in strength. at lunch, a telegram from charles grey, baltimore, said, "penhallow here, doing well. will return on the th, by afternoon train, with rivers and servant." "read that, dear--i want you, leila, to ride to the mills and tell dr. mcgregor that i will send the carriage for him in time for him to meet your uncle at the station. i had better not meet him--and there will be mark rivers and josiah and--but you will see to all that." "certainly, aunt." "it will be the day after to-morrow. be sure that the doctor makes no mistake. there are two trains--he will be on the four o'clock express." this was in the manner of her aunt ann of former days. "shall i write it down?" leila cried, "no," and fled, laughing. the next day to leila's surprise and pleasure her aunt came down to breakfast and quietly took her place as mistress of the tea-urn. the talent of common sense as applicable to the lesser social commerce of life was one of leila's gifts, and she made no comment on her aunt's amazing resumption of her old habits. ann herself felt some inclination to explain her rapid recovery of health, and said as she took the long-vacant seat at the breakfast table, "i think, leila, the doctor's last tonic has been of use to me--i feel quite like myself." having thus anticipated her too sharp-eyed niece's congratulations, leila's expression of pleasure came in accordant place. whereupon they both smiled across the table, having that delicate appreciation of the needs of the situation which is rarely at the service of the blundering mind of man. the moment of gentle hypocrisy passed, the mistress of grey pine took up her memoranda for the day, and said with some attempt at being just her usual self, "i shall walk to westways after breakfast--pole needs to be talked to. the meats have been of his worst lately." then with a glance at the paper, "your uncle's books must be dusted; i quite forgot it; i will set susan to work this morning." "but," said leila, "he does hate that, aunt ann. the last time she succeeded in setting together 'don juan' and 'st. thomas à kempis.'" ann laughed, and said with some of her old sense of humour, "it might do them both good--dust them yourself." "i will," said leila, liking the task. "and when you ride this afternoon, see mrs. lamb. the cook tells me that she hears of that scamp, her son, as in the army--a nice kind of soldier." a half-dozen other errands were mentioned, and they parted, ann adding, "there is no mail to-day." they met again at lunch. "it is too bad, leila, billy was given the letters and forgot them and went a-fishing. there was a letter for you from mark rivers about your uncle. does he think me a child? i read it." "you read it, aunt!" exclaimed leila astonished at this infraction of their household law. "of course i read it. i knew it must be about james." leila made no reply, but did not like it. "here it is, my dear. i fear james is in a more serious state than i was led to believe by their first letters. there is also a letter from john to you." she did not ask to see it, and leila took both missives and presently went away to the stables. even john, as was plain, was forgotten in her aunt's anxiety in regard to her husband. her many errands over, leila riding slowly through the lonely wood-roads read the letters: "my dear leila," wrote rivers, "you had better let your aunt know that the colonel's wound must have so shocked the brain, though there is no fracture, as to have left him in a mental state which gives me the utmost anxiety. you will sadly realize my meaning when you see him. be careful how you tell your aunt. "yours truly, "mark rivers." here indeed was trouble. leila's eyes filled and tears fell on the paper. she rode on deep in thought, and at last securing the message of calamity in her belt opened john's letter. "i write you, dear leila, from my tent near vicksburg, this th of july. the prisoners from pemberton's army are passing as i write. our men are giving them bread and tobacco, and there is no least sign of enmity or triumph. i am pretty well worn out, as the few engineers have been worked hard and the constant nearness of death in the trenches within five to one hundred feet of the rebel lines was a situation to make a man think--not of course while in immediate danger, but afterwards. i had some narrow escapes--we all had. but, dear leila, it has been a splendid thing to see how this man grant, with the expressionless face, struck swiftly one army after another and returned to secure his prey. "i cannot even now get a leave of absence, and i am beyond words anxious to hear about dear uncle jim. just a line from him makes me think he was to be with general meade and in that great battle we won. a telegram to the engineers' camp, vicksburg, will relieve me. "it is unlikely, if we go south, that i shall see you for many a day. all leaves are, i find, denied. war--intense war like this--seems to me to change men in wonderful ways. it makes some men bad or reckless or drunkards or hard and cruel; it makes others thoughtful, dutiful and religious. this is more often the case among the men than you may think it would be. certainly it does age a fellow fast. i seem to have passed many years since i sat with you at west point and you made me feel how young i was and how little i had seen of life. it was true, but now i have seen life at its worst and its best. i have had too the education of battle, the lessons read by thousands of deaths and all the many temptations of camp life. i believe, and i can say it to you, i am the better for it all, and think less and less of the man who was fool enough to do what with more humility he will surely do once more, if it please god that he come out of this terrible war alive. "when you see me again, you will at least respect my years, for one lives fast here, and the months seem years and the family bible a vain record, as i remember that the statement of births comes after the apocrypha which leaves room for doubt."-- leila smiled. "how like him," she murmured. "i said months. there are (there were once last week) minutes when one felt an insolent contempt of death, although the bullets were singing by like our brave hornets. is that courage? i used as a boy to wonder how i would feel in danger. don't tell, but on going under fire i shiver, and then am at once in quiet possession of all my capacities, whatever they be worth. a man drops by my side--and i am surprised; then another--and i am sure i won't be hit. but i _was_ three weeks ago in my leg! it made me furious, and i still limp a bit. it was only a nip--a spent bullet. i wanted to get at that anonymous rascal who did it. "do wire me, and write fully. "yours, john. "p.s. i wonder where tom mcgregor is, and pole's boy and joe grace, and those greys who went diverse ways. as you never talk of yourself when you write those brief letters on notepaper the size of a postage stamp, you might at least tell me all about these good people in westways." she telegraphed him, "uncle jim slightly wounded, is coming home. will write. leila grey." about four in the afternoon of this july th ann penhallow kissed her husband as he came up the porch steps. he was leaning heavily on mark rivers's arm. he said, "it is quite a long time, ann. how long is it?" then he shook off rivers, saying, "i am quite well," and going by his wife went through the open door, moving like one dazed. he stood still a moment looking about him, turned back and speaking to his wife said, "i understand now. at first it seemed strange to me and as if i had never been here before. ever feel that way, ann?" "oh, often, james." no signal of her anguish showed on the gallantly carried face of the little woman. "quiet, isn't it? when was it i was hit? it was--wasn't it in may? rivers says it was july--i do not like contradiction." his appreciation of time and recognition of locality were alike disordered, as rivers had observed with distress and a too constant desire to set him right. with better appreciation of his condition, ann accepted his statement. "yes--yes, of course, dear--it is just so." "i knew you would understand me. i should like to go to bed--i want josiah--no one else." "yes, dear," and this above all else made clear to the unhappy little lady how far was the sturdy soldier who had left her from the broken man in undress uniform who clung to the rail, as he went slowly up the stairway with his servant. in the hall he had seen leila, but gave her no word, not even his habitual smile of recognition. ann stared after them a moment, motioned rivers away with uplifted hand, and hastening into the library sat down and wept like a child. she had been unprepared for the change in his appearance and ways. more closely observant, leila saw that the lines of decisiveness were gone, the humorous circles about the mouth and eyes, as it were, flattened out, and that the whole face, with the lips a little languidly parted, had become expressionless. it was many days before she could see the altered visage without emotion, or talk of him to her aunt with any of the amazing hopefulness with which the older woman dwelt on her husband's intervals of resemblance to his former self. he would not ride or enter the stables, but his life was otherwise a childlike resumption of his ordinary habits, except that when annoyed by ann's too obvious anxiety or excess of carefulness, he became irritable at times and even violent in language. he so plainly preferred leila's company in his short walks as to make the wife jealous and vexed that she was not wanted during every minute of his altered life. he read no books as of old, but would have leila read to him the war news until he fell asleep, when she quietly slipped away. mark rivers resumed his duties for a time, unwilling to abandon these dear friends for whom mcgregor, puzzled and perplexed, had no word of consolation, except the assurance that his condition did not grow worse. at times penhallow was dimly aware of his state; at others he resented any effort to control him and was so angry when the doctor proposed a consultation that the idea was too easily given up, for always in this as in everything his wife agreed with him and indulged him as women indulge a sick child. the village grieved for the colonel who rode no more through westways with a gay word of greeting for all he met. the iron-mills were busy. the great guns tested on the meadows now and then shook the panes in the western windows of grey pine. they no longer disturbed ann penhallow. the war went its thunderous way unheeded by her. unendingly hopeful, the oppression of disaster seemed only to confirm and strengthen her finest qualities. like the pine-tree winning vigour from its rock-clasped roots, she gathered such hardening strength of soul and body from his condition as the more happy years had never put at her command. "no letters to-day, miss leila," said the post-mistress standing beside the younger woman's horse. "just only them papers with their lists of killed and wounded." "i must always be leila, not miss leila," said the horsewoman. "well--well--i like that better. how's the colonel?" "much the same--certainly no worse. it is wonderful how my aunt stands it." "don't you notice, leila, how she has kind of softened? me and joe was talking of it yesterday. she always was good, but folks did use to say she was sort of hard and--positive. now, she's kind of gentled--noticed that?" "yes, i have noticed it; but i must go. give me the papers. you love a talk." "there's no news of john?" "none of late. he is with general grant--but where we do not know." "it's right pleasant to have josiah back. lord! but he's strong on war stories--ought to hear him. he was always good at stories." "yes, i suppose so. good-bye." james penhallow sat on the back porch in the after luncheon hour to get with the freshness of october what sunshine the westerning sun was sifting through the red and gold of the maples beyond the garden walls. he was in the undress uniform of the artillery, and still wore the trefoil of the second corps. an effort by ann to remove his soiled army garb and substitute his lay dress caused an outbreak of anger which left him speechless and feeble, and her in an agony of regretful penitence. josiah, wiser than she, ventured to tell her what had happened once before when his badge of the glorious second corps had been missing. "after all, what does it matter?" she said to herself, and made no effort to repair the ragged bullet tear south mountain left in his jacket, and in which he had at his worst times such childlike pride as in another and well-known general had once amused him. he was just now in one of his best conditions and was clearly enjoying the pipe he used but rarely. ann at his feet on the porch-step read aloud to him with indifference to all but the man she now and then looked up to with the loving tenderness his brief betterment fed with illusory hope. "what's that, ann?" he exclaimed; "grant at chattanooga! that's john's ideal general. didn't he write about him at--where was it? oh! belmont." "yes, after belmont, james." "when does mark rivers go back?" "to-morrow. he is always so out of spirits here that i am really relieved when he returns to the sanitary commission." he made no reply, and she continued her reading. "isn't that leila with rivers, ann?" "yes. he likes to walk with her." "so would any man." a faint smile--very rare of late--showed in her pleased upward look at the face--the changed face--she loved. the pair of whom they spoke were lost to view in the forest. "and you are glad to go?" said leila to rivers. "yes, i am. i can hardly say glad, but now that your uncle is, so to speak, lost to me and your aunt absorbed in her one task and the duties she has taken up again, our pleasant dante lessons are set aside, and what is there left of the old intellectual life which is gone--gone?" "but," said leila gaily, "you have the church and my humble society. why, you are really learning to walk, as you did not until of late." making no reply to her personal remark, he was silent for a moment, and then said with slow articulation and to her surprise, for he rarely spoke of himself, "nine years ago i came here, a man broken in mind and body. this life and these dear friends have made me as strong as i can ever hope to be. but the rest--the rest. i know what power god has given me to bring souls to him. i can influence men--the lowly and--well, others, as few can. i cannot live in cities--i dare not risk the failure in health; and yet, i want--i want a larger field. i found it when your aunt's liberality sent me to the army. there in my poor way i can serve my country--and that is much to me." he was silent. "but," she said, "is there not work enough here? and the war cannot last much longer. don't think you must ever leave us." "i shall--i must. there are limitations i cannot talk of even--above all to you. your aunt knows this--and your uncle did--long ago." "what limitations?" she asked rashly. "you are the last person, leila grey, to whom i could speak of them. i have said too much, but"--and he paused--"i am tired--i will leave you to finish your walk." the great beautiful eyes turned on him for a moment. "oh, my god!" he exclaimed, and reproaching his brief human weakness left her abruptly, walking slowly away through the drifting red and gold of leaves rocking in air as they sauntered to earth, and was at last lost to view in the woodland. leila stood still, puzzled and sorrowful, as she watched the tall stooping form. "how old he looks," she murmured. "what did he mean? i must ask aunt ann." but she never did, feeling that what he had said was something like a cautiously hinted confession. in the early morning he was gone again to the field of war. chapter xxvi through the winter of - at grey pine things remained unaltered, and mcgregor concluded that there was no hope for happier change. rare letters came from john penhallow to his aunt, who sent no replies, and to leila, who wrote impersonal letters, as did john. once he wrote that his uncle might like to know, that after that pontoon business in the night at chattanooga and general farrar smith's brilliant action, he, john penhallow, was to be addressed as _captain_. as the war went on, he was across the rapidan with grant in may. at grey pine after breakfast the windows and both doors of the hall were open to let the western breezes enter. they lingered in the garden to stir the mothers of unborn flowers and swept through the hall, bearing as they passed some gentle intimation of the ending of a cold spring. the mail had been given to the colonel, as he insisted it should be. with some appearance of interest he said, "from mark, for you, ann." "none for me, uncle?" asked leila, as she went around the table. "let me help you. how many there are." she captured her own share, and for a moment stood curious as she sorted the mail. "army trash, uncle! what a lot of paper is needed to carry on war! here is one--i have seen him before--he is marked 'respectfully referred.'" the colonel released a smile, which stirred ann like a pleasant memory, and fed one of the little hopes she was ever on the watch to find. "what is your letter, ann?" he asked. looking up she replied, "it is only to acknowledge receipt of my draft. he is in washington. i gather that he does not mean to come back until the war is over." "over!" she thought; "lee is not pemberton, as grant will learn." it was of more moment to her that penhallow was easier to interest, and ate as he used to do. "is your letter from john, leila?" he said. "i don't like concealments." "but, i didn't conceal anything!" "don't contradict me!" "no, sir." ann's face grew watchful, fearing one of the outbreaks which left him weak and querulous. "well," said the colonel, "read us john's letter. there is as much fuss about it as if it were a love-letter." there is no way as yet discovered to victoriously suppress a blush, but time--a little fraction of time--is helpful, and there are ways of hiding what cannot be conquered. the letter fell on the floor, and being recovered was opened and read with a certain something in the voice which caused ann critically to use her eyes. "dear leila: i am just now with the second corps, but where you will know in a week; now i must not say.--" "what's the date?" asked penhallow. "there is none." "look at the envelope." "i tore it up, sir." "never throw away an envelope until you have read the letter." ann looked pleased--that was james penhallow, his old self. leila read on. "i am glad to be under canvas, and you know my faith in general grant. "tell aunt ann i have had three servants in two weeks. these newly freed blacks are like mere children and quite useless, or else--well--one was brutal to my horse. i sometimes wish josiah was twins and i had one of him.--" "what's that?" asked penhallow. "twins--i don't understand." "he wishes he had a servant like josiah, uncle." "well, let him go to john," said the colonel, with something of his old positive manner. "but you would miss him, james." "i will not," he returned, and then--"what else is there?" "oh--nothing--except that he will write again soon, and that he met mr. rivers in washington. that is all--a very unsatisfactory letter." for a day or two the colonel said no more of josiah, and then asked if he had gone, and was so obviously annoyed that ann gave way as usual and talked of her husband's wish to josiah. the old life of westways and grey pine was over, and josiah was allowed by ann to do so little for penhallow that the black was not ill-pleased to leave home again for the army life and to be with the man whom as a lad he had trusted and who had helped him in a day of peril. no one thought of any need for a pass. he was amply supplied with money and bade them good-bye. he put what he required in a knapsack, and leaving westways for the second time and with a lighter heart, set off afoot to catch the train at westways crossing. the old slave was thus put upon a way which was to lead to renewed and unpleasant acquaintance with one of the minor characters of my story. tired of unaccustomed idleness josiah grinned as he went across country thinking of the directions he had received from leila of how he was to find john penhallow. "you know he is captain of engineers, josiah. now how are you going to find him? an army is as big as a great city, and in motion, too." "well, missy," said josiah, "the way i'll find him is the way dog caesar finds you in the woods." he would hear no more and left her. josiah knew many people in washington, black and white, and after some disappointments went with a lot of remounts for cavalry to join the army in the wilderness, where he served variously with the army teams. on an afternoon late in may, , he strode on, passing by the long lines of marching men who filled the roadways on their way to the crossing of the north anna river. he had been chaffed, misdirected, laughed at or civilly treated, as he questioned men about the engineers. he took it all with good-humour. about three, he came near to a house on the wayside, where a halt had been ordered to give the men a brief rest. the soldiers dust-grey and thirsty scattered over the clearing or lay in the shadow of the scrub oaks. some thronged about a well or a wayside spring, or draining their canteens caught a brief joy from the lighted pipe so dear to the soldier. josiah looked about him, and knew the log-cabins some distance away from the better house to have been the slave-quarters. beyond them was a better built log-house. apparently all were deserted--men, cattle and horses, were gone. he lay down a little way from the road and listened to the talk of the men seated in front of him. he heard a private say, "a halt is as bad as a march, the dust is a foot deep, and what between flies and mosquitoes, they're as bad as the rebs." "ah!" said an old corporal, "just you wait a bit. these are only a skirmish line. july and chickahominy mosquitoes will get you when your baccy's out." "it's out now." josiah was eager to question some one and was aware of the value of tobacco as a social solvent. he said, "i've got some baccy, corporal." the men in front of him turned. "for sale--how much?" "no," said josiah. "my pouch is full. help yourselves." this liberal contribution was warmly appreciated, and the private, who was the son of a new york banker, interested in the black man, asked, "what are you doing in this big circus?" it was the opening for which josiah waited. "looking for an engineer-captain." the corporal said, "well, like enough he'll be at the bridge of the north anna--but the engineers are here, there and anywhere. what is his name?" "thank you, sir. my master is captain penhallow." "well, good luck to you." "take another pipe load," returned josiah, grateful for the unusual interest. "thank you," said the private, "with pleasure. tobacco is as scarce as hen's teeth." "that's so. who's that officer on the big horse? he's a rider whoever he is." "that's the ring-master of this show," laughed the private. "not general grant!" "yes." josiah considered him with interest. there was of a sudden some disturbance about the larger of the more remote cabins; a soldier ran out followed by a screaming young woman. her wild cries attracted attention to the man, who was at once caught and held while he vainly protested. the men about josiah sat up or got on their feet. the young woman ran here and there among the groups of soldiers like one distracted. at last, near the larger house at the roadside she fell on her knees and rocked backwards and forwards sobbing. josiah at a distance saw only that a soldier had been caught trying to escape notice as a young woman followed him out of the house. it was too well understood by the angry men who crowded around the captive. the general said to his staff, "wait here, gentlemen." he rode through the crowd of soldiers, saying, "keep back, my men; keep away--all of you." then he dismounted and walked to where the girl--she was hardly more--still knelt wailing and beating the air with uplifted hands. "stand up, my good girl, and tell me what is wrong." the voice was low and of a certain gentleness, rarely rising even in moments of peril. she stood up, "i can't--i can't--let me go--i want to die!" the figure, still slight of build in those days, bent over her pitiful. "i am general grant. look up at me. there shall be justice done, but i must know." she looked up a moment at the kind grave face, then with bent head and hands over her eyes she sobbed out what none but the general could hear. his voice grew even more distinctly soft as touching her shoulder he said, "look at that man. oh, bring him near--nearer. now, be sure, is that the man? look again! i must be certain." with a quick motion she pushed his hand from her shoulder as she stood, and pointing to the brute held by two soldiers cried, "that's him--oh, my god! take him away--kill him. le' me go. don't you keep me." she looked about like some hopelessly trapped, wild-eyed animal. "you may go, of course," said the low-voiced man. "i will set a guard over your house." "don't want no yankee guard--le' me go--i've got nothin' to guard--i want to die." she darted away and through the parting groups of men who were clear enough about what they knew had happened and what should be done. the dark grey eyes of the general followed her flight for a pitying instant. then he remounted, and said to the scared captive, "what have you got to say?" "it's all a lie." the general's face grew stern. he turned and asked for an officer of the provost guard. a captain rode up and saluted. "i have no time to lose in trying this scoundrel. we can't take along the only witness." he hesitated a moment. "let your men tie him to a tree near the road. let two of the guard watch him until the rear has gone by. put a paper on his breast--make his crime clear, clear." he said a word or two more to the officer, and then "put on it, '_left to the justice of general lee_.'" "is that all, sir?" said the amazed officer. "no--put below, '_u.s. grant_.' the girl will tell her story. when the cavalry pass, leave him. now, gentlemen, the men have had a rest, let us ride on." josiah a hundred feet away heard, "fall in--fall in." the tired soldiers rose reluctant and the long line tramped away. josiah interested sat still and saw them go by under the dust-laden air. the girl had gone past her home and into the woods. the guards curiously watched by the marching men passed near josiah with their prisoner and busied themselves with looking among the hazel, scrub oak and sassafras for a large enough tree near to the road. as they went by, he saw the man. "my god!" he exclaimed, "it's peter lamb." he moved away and lay down well hidden in the brush. it was a very simple mind which considered this meeting with the only being the black man hated. the unusual never appealed to him as it would have done to a more imaginative person. the coming thus on his enemy was only what he had angrily predicted when he had peter in his power and had said to him that some day god would punish him. it had come true. the men who had arrested peter and were near enough to hear the brief sentence, understood it, and being eagerly questioned soon spread among the moving ranks the story of the crime and this unexampled punishment. it was plain to josiah, but what was to follow he did not know, as he rose, lingered about, and following the provost's party considered the wonderful fact of his fulfilled prediction. the coincidence of being himself present did not cause the surprise which what we call coincidences awaken in minds which crave explanations of the uncommon. it was just what was sure to happen somehow, some day, when god settled josiah's personal account with a wicked man. he had, however, an urgent curiosity to see how it would end and a remainder of far-descended savagery in the wish to let his one enemy know that he was a witness of his punishment. thinking thus, josiah went through the wayside scrub to see how the guard would dispose of their prisoner. the man who had sinned was presently tied to a tree facing the road. his hands were securely tied behind it, and his feet as rudely dealt with. he said no word as they pinned the label on his breast. then the two guards sat down between peter and the roadway. men of the passing brigades asked them questions. they replied briefly and smoked with entire unconcern as to their prisoner, or speculated in regard to what the rebs would say or do to him. the mosquitoes tormented him, and once he shuddered when one of the guards guessed that perhaps the girl would come back and see him tied up. the story of grant's unusual punishment was told over and over to men as the regiments went by. now and then soldiers left the ranks to read the sentence of what must mean death. some as they read were as silent as the doomed wretch; others laughed or cursed him for dishonouring the army in which this one crime was almost unknown. a sergeant tore the corps mark from his coat, and still he said no word. the long-drawn array went on and on; the evening shadows lengthened; miles of wagon trains rumbled by; whips cracked over mules; the cavalry guard bringing up the rear was lost in the dust left by tramping thousands; the setting sun shone through it ruddy; and last came the squadron net of the provost-marshal gathering in the stragglers. tired men were helped by a grip on the stirrup leather. the lazy loiterers were urged forward with language unquotable, the mildest being "darned coffee-coolers." at last, all had gone. josiah rose from his hiding place and listened as the clank of steel and the sound of hurried horsemen died away. no other noises broke the twilight stillness. he walked back to the roadside, and stood before the pinioned and now lonely man. "you're caught at last, peter lamb." "oh, lord!" cried the captive. "it's josiah. for god's sake, let me loose." "reckon i won't," said josiah. "i'm in agony--my arms--i shall die--and i am innocent. i did not do anything. won't you help me?" "no--the rebs will come and hang you." the man's cunning awoke. he said the one thing, made the one plea which, as he spoke, troubled josiah's decision. "is the squire alive?" "why shouldn't he be alive?" asked josiah, surprised. "oh, i saw in a paper that he was wounded at gettysburg. now, josiah, if he was here--if he was to know you left me to die." josiah was uncertain what he would have done. his simple-minded view of things was disturbed, and his tendency to be forgiving kindly assisted to give potency to the appeal. he said, "i won't set you free, but i'll do this much," and he tore the paper from peter's breast, saying, "you'll get off with some lie when the rebs come." then he turned and walked away, tearing up the death warrant and hearing the wild pleas of the painfully bound man. the night had come, but save for the faintly heard complaint of some far-distant dog, there was nothing to break the quiet of the deserted land which lay between the two armies. having torn to pieces and carefully scattered the bits of paper, josiah, who while doing one thing could not think of another, began to reflect on what he had done. he had been too long in servitude not to respect authority. if any one knew--but no one could know. he himself had said that what had come upon lamb was a judgment--the act of one who had said, "i will repay." it troubled a mind whose machinery was of childlike incapacity to deal with problems involving the moral aspects of conduct. perhaps this had been a chance to give lamb an opportunity to repent by setting him free; but there had already been interference with the judgment of god. more personally material events relieved the black from responsibility. his quick ear caught the sound of troopers, the sharp notes of steel clinking; he had no mind to be picked up by the enemy's horse, and dismissing all other considerations he took to the woods and walked rapidly away. late in the evening he crossed the north anna with a train of wagons, as driver of an unruly mule team, one of which had rewarded his driver in kind for brutal use of the whip and perverted english. the man groaning in the wagon informed josiah concerning mules and their ways. after a day or two he was pleased to get back on his legs, for when bullets were not flying the army life was full of interest. a man who could cook well, shave an officer or shoe a horse, never lacked the friends of an hour; and too, his unfailing good-humour was always helpful. an officer of the line would have been easy to find, but the engineers were continually in motion and hard to locate. he got no news of john penhallow until the th of may, when he came on general wilson's cavalry division left on the north side of the pamunkey river to cover the crossing of the trains. these troopers were rather particular about straggling negroes, and josiah sharply questioned told the simple truth as he moved toward the bridge, answering the questions of a young officer. a horse tied to a sapling at the roadside for reasons unknown kicked the passing cavalry man's horse. the officer moved on swearing a very original mixture of the over-ripe english of armies. swearing was a highly cultivated accomplishment in the cavalry; no infantry profanity approached it in originality. the officer occupied with his uneasy horse dropped josiah as he rode on. a small, dark-skinned negro, rather neatly dressed, spoke to josiah in the dialect of the southern slave, which i shall not try to put on paper. he spoke reflectively and as if from long consideration of the subject, entering at once into the intimacies of a relation with the man of his own colour. "that horse is the meanest i ever saw--i know him." "he's near thoroughbred," said josiah, "and been badly handled, i reckon. it's no good cussin' horses or mules--a good horseman don't ever do it--horses know." "well, the officer that rides that horse now is about the only man can ride him. that horse pretty nearly killed one of my general's staff. he sold him mighty sudden." "who's your general?" queries josiah. "why, general grant--i'm his headquarter man--they call me bill--everybody knows me." he rose at once in josiah's estimation. "who owns that horse?" asked josiah. "i'd like well to handle his beast." "he's an engineer-officer, name of penhallow. he's down yonder somewhere about that pontoon bridge. i'm left here to hunt up a headquarter wagon." "penhallow!" exclaimed josiah, delighted. "why, i'm down here to be his servant." "well, let's go to the bridge. you'll get a chance to cross after the wagons get over. i've just found mine." they moved to one side and sat down. "that's wilson's cavalry on guard. worst dust i ever saw. infantry dust's bad, but cavalry dust don't ever settle. the ninth corps's gone over. there come the wagons." with cracking of whip and imprecations the wagons went over the swaying pontoons. bill left him, and josiah waited to cross behind the wagons. on the bridge midway, a young officer in the dark dress and black-striped pantaloons of the engineers moved beside the teams anxiously observing some loosened flooring. a wagon wheel gave way, and the wagon lurching over struck the officer, who fell into the muddy water of the pamunkey. always amused at an officer's mishap, cavalry men and drivers laughed. the young man struck out for the farther shore, and came on to a shelving slope of slimy mud, and was vainly struggling to get a footing when an officer ran down the bank and gave him a needed hand. thus aided, penhallow gained firm ground. with a look of disgust at his condition, as he faced the laughing troopers he said, with his somewhat formal way, "to whom am i indebted?" "roland blake is my name. isn't it captain penhallow of the engineers?" "yes, well disguised with rebel mud. what a mess! but, by george! not worse than you when i first saw you." "where was it?" asked blake. "i can give a good guess. you were quite as lovely as mr. penhallow." it was a third officer who spoke. "by the bye," he added, "as blake doesn't present me, i am philip francis." "i can't even offer to shake hands," returned penhallow, laughing, as he scraped the flakes of mud from his face. "i saw you both at the bloody angle. i think i could describe you." "don't," said francis. "some people are modest," said blake. "i think you will soon dry to dust in this sun. i have offered myself that consolation before. it's the only certainty in this land of the unexpected." "the wagons are over; here comes the guard," said francis. "it's our beastly business now. call up the men, roland." "provost duty, i suppose," said penhallow. "i prefer my mud." "yes," growled francis, "human scavengers--army police. i'm out of it this week, thank heaven." the last wagon came creaking over the bridge, the long line of cavalry trotted after them, the provost guard mounted to fall in at the rear and gather in the stragglers. "sorry i can't give you a mount," said blake, as he turned to recross the bridge. "thank you, i have a horse on the other side." as he spoke a breeze stirred the dead atmosphere and shook down from the trees their gathered load of dust. francis said, "it's half of virginia!" blake murmured, "dust to dust--a queer reminder." "oh, shut up!" cried francis. the young engineer laughed and said to himself, "if aunt ann could see me. it's like being tarred and feathered. see you soon again, i hope, mr. blake. i am deep in your debt." they passed out of sight. no one remained but the bridge-guard. the engineer sat down and devoted his entire energies to the difficult task of pulling off boots full of mud and water. meanwhile as the provost-officers rode back over the pontoons francis said, "i remember that man, penhallow, at the bloody angle. he was the only man i saw who wasn't fight-crazy, he insisted on my going to the rear. you know i was bleeding like a stuck pig. it was between the two attacks. i said, 'oh, go to h---!' he said, 'there is no need to go far.' i am sure he did not remember me. a rather cool hand--west point, of course." "what struck me," said blake, "was that he did not swear." "then," said francis, "he is the only man in the army who would have failed to damn those grinning troopers." "except grant," said blake. "so they say.--it's hard to believe, but i suppose the staff knows. wonder if lee swears. two army commanders who don't swear? it's incredible!" as penhallow, left alone, tugged at a reluctant boot, he heard, "good lord! master john, that's my business." he looked up to seize josiah by the hand, exclaiming, "how did you get here?--i am glad to see you. pull off this boot. how are they all?" "the colonel he sent me." "indeed! how is he? i've not heard for a month." "he's bad, master john, bad--kind of forgets things--and swears." "that's strange for him." "the doctors they can't seem to make it out. he hasn't put a leg over a horse, not since he was wounded." evidently this was for josiah the most serious evidence of change from former health. "how is aunt ann?" tugging at the boots josiah answered, "she's just a wonder--and miss leila, she's just as pretty as a pansy." penhallow smiled; it left a large choice to the imagination. "pansy--pansy--why is she like a pansy, josiah?" "well, master john, it's because she's so many kinds of pretty. you see i used to raise pansies. that boot's a tough one." "have you any letters for me?" "no, sir. they said i wasn't as sure as the army-post. got a note from dr. mcgregor in my sack. hadn't i better get your horse over the bridge--i liked his looks, and i asked a man named bill who owned that horse. he said you did, and that's how i found you. he said that horse was a bad one. he said he was called 'hoodoo.' that's unlucky!" "yes, he's mine, josiah. you would like to change his name?" "yes, sir, i would. this boot's the worst!" penhallow laughed. "that horse, josiah, has every virtue a horse ought to have and every vice he ought not to have. he'll be as good as aunt ann one day, and as mean and bad as peter lamb the next day. halloa there, guard! let my man cross over." hoodoo came quietly, and as penhallow walked his horse, josiah related the village news, and then more and more plainly the captain gathered some clear idea of his uncle's condition and of the influence the younger woman was exerting on a household over which hung the feeling of inexorable doom. as he read mcgregor's letter he knew too well that were he with them he could be of no practical use. the next few days john penhallow was kept busy, and on june nd having to report with some sketch-maps he found the headquarters at bethesda church. the pews had been taken out and set under trees. the staff was scattered about at ease. general grant, to john's amusement, was petting a stray kitten with one hand and writing despatches with the other. at last he began to talk with members of the christian commission about their work. among them john was aware of mark rivers. a few minutes later he had his chance and took the clergyman away to the tents of the engineers for a long and disheartening talk of home. they met no more for many days, and soon he was too busy to think of asking the leave of absence he so much desired. chapter xxvii the effort to crush lee's army by a frontal attack led to the disastrous defeat of cold harbor, and grant who was never personally routed resolved to throw his army south of the james river. it involved a concealed night march, while his lines were in many places but thirty to one hundred feet from the watchful confederates. the utmost secrecy was used in regard to the bold movement intended, but preparations for it demanded frequent reconnaissances and map-sketching on the part of the engineers. a night of map-making after a long day in the saddle left john penhallow on june th a weary man lying on his camp-bed too tired to sleep. he heard blake ask, "are you at home, penhallow?" few men would have been as welcome as the serious-minded new england captain who had met penhallow from time to time since the engineer's mud-bath in the pamunkey river. "glad to get you by yourself," said blake. "you look used up. do keep quiet!" "i will, but sit down and take a pipe. coffee, josiah!" he called out. "i am quite too popular by reason of josiah's amazing ability to forage. if the headquarters are within reach, he and bill--that's the general's man--hunt together. the results are surprising! but i learned long ago from my uncle, colonel penhallow, that in the army it is well to ask no unnecessary questions. my man is very intelligent, and as i keep him in tobacco and greenbacks, i sometimes fancy that headquarters does not always get the best out of the raids of these two contrabands." "i have profited by it, penhallow. i have personal memories of that young roast pig, i think your man called it a shoat. your corps must have caught it hard these last days. i suppose we are in for something unusual. you are the only man i know who doesn't grumble. francis says it's as natural to the beast called an army as barking is to a dog." "of course, the habit is stupid, blake. i mean the constant growl about the unavoidable discomforts of war; but this last week has got me near the growling point. i have had two ague chills and quinine enough to ring chimes in my head. i haven't had a decent wash for a week, and really war is a disgustingly dirty business. you don't realize that in history, in fiction, or in pictures. it's filthy! oh, you may laugh!" "who could help laughing?" "i can to-day. to-morrow i shall grin at it all, but just now i am half dead. what with laying corduroys and bridging creeks, to be burnt up next day, and chickahominy flies--oh, lord! if there is nothing else on hand in the way of copies of maps, some general like barnard has an insane curiosity to reconnoitre. then the rebs wake up--and amuse themselves." blake laughed. "you are getting pretty near to that growl." "am i? i have more than impossible demands to bother me. what with some despondent letters--i told you about my uncle's wound and the results, i should have a fierce attack of home-sickness if i had leisure to think at all." blake had found in penhallow much that he liked and qualities which were responsive to his own high ideal of the man and the soldier. he looked him over as the young engineer lay on his camp-bed. "get anything but home-sick, penhallow! i get faint fits of it. the quinine of 'get up, captain, and put out those pickets' dismisses it, or bullets. lord, but we have had them in over-doses of late. francis has been hit twice but not seriously. he says that lee is an irregular practitioner. it is strange that some men are hit in every skirmish; it would bleed the courage out of me." "would it? i have had two flesh wounds. they made me furiously angry. you were speaking of lee--my uncle greatly admired him. i should like to know more about him. i had a little chance when we were trying to arrange a truce to care for the wounded. you remember it failed, but i had a few minute's talk with a rebel captain. he liked it when i told him how much we admired his general. that led him to talk, and among other things he told me that lee had no sense of humour and i gathered was a man rather difficult of approach." "he might apply to grant for the rest of his qualities," said blake. "he would get it; but what made you ask about sense of the humorous? i have too little, francis too much." "oh," laughed penhallow, "from saint to sinner it is a good medicine--even for home-sickness." "and the desperate malady of love," returned blake. "i shall not venture to diagnose your need. how is that?" "i?--nonsense," laughed the engineer. "but seriously, blake, about home-sickness; one of my best men has it badly--not the mild malady you and i may have." "you are quite right. it accounts for some desertions--not to the enemy, of course. i talked lately of this condition to a dr. mcgregor--" "mcgregor!" returned penhallow, sitting up. "where is he? i'd like to see him--an old comrade." "he is with our brigade." "tell him to look me up. the engineers are easily found just now. he was an old schoolmate." "i'll tell him. by the way, penhallow, when asking for my mail to-day, i persuaded the post-master to give me your letters. don't mind me--you will want to read them--quite a batch of them." "oh, they can wait. don't go. ah! here's josiah with coffee." "how it does set a fellow up, penhallow. another cup, please. i had to wait a long time for our letters and yours. really that place was more tragic than a battlefield." "why so? i send josiah for my mail." "oh, there were three cold-blooded men-machines returning letters. i watched them marking the letters--'not found'--'missing'--and so on." "killed, i suppose--or prisoners." "yes, awful, indeed--most sorrowful! imagine it! others were forwarding letters--heaps of them--from men who may be dead. you know how apt men are to write letters before a battle." "i wait till it is over," said penhallow. "that post-office gave me a fit of craving for home and peace." "home-sickness! what, you, blake!" "oh, that worst kind; home-sickness for a home when you have no home. i wonder if in that other world we shall be home-sick for this." "that depends. ah! here comes a reminder that we are in this world just now--and just as we have begun one of our real talks." an orderly appeared with a note. penhallow read it. he was on his feet at once. "saddle hoodoo, josiah. i must go. come soon again, blake. we have had a good talk--or a bit of one." at four in the morning of june th, when john penhallow with a group of older engineers looked across the twenty-one hundred feet of the james river they were to bridge, he realized the courage and capacity of the soldier who had so completely deceived his wary antagonist. before eleven that night a hundred pontoons stayed by barges bridged the wide stream from shore to shore. already the second corps under hancock had been hastily ferried over the river. the work on the bridge had been hard, and the young captain had had neither food nor rest. late at night, the work being over, he recrossed the bridge, and after a hasty meal lay down on the bluff above the james with others of his corps and slept the uneasy sleep of an overtired man. at dawn he was awakened by the multiple noises of an army moving on the low-lying meadows below the bluff. refreshed and free from any demand on his time, he breakfasted at ease, and lighting his pipe was at once deeply interested in what he saw. as he looked about him, he was aware of general grant standing alone on the higher ground. he saw the general throw away his cigar and with hands clasped behind him remain watching in rapt silence the scene below him. "i wonder," thought penhallow, "of what he is thinking." the face was grave, the man motionless. the engineer turned to look at the matchless spectacle below him. the sound of bands rose in gay music from the approaches to the river, where vast masses of infantry lay waiting their turn to cross. the guns of batteries gleamed in the sun, endless wagon-trains and ambulances moved or were at rest. here and there the wind of morning fluttered the flags and guidons with flashes of colour. the hum of a great army, the multitudinous murmurs of men talking, the crack of whips, the sharp rattle of wagons and of moving artillery, made a strange orchestra. over all rose the warning shrieks of the gun-boat signals. far or near on the fertile meadows the ripened corn and grain showed in green squares between the masses of men and stirred in the morning breeze or lay trampled in ruin by the rude feet of war. it was an hour and a scene to excite the dullest mind, and penhallow intensely interested sat fascinated by a spectacle at once splendid and fateful. the snake-like procession of infantry wagons and batteries moved across the bridge and was lost to view in the forest. penhallow turned again to look at his general, who remained statuesque and motionless. then, suddenly the master of this might of men and guns looked up, listened to warren's artillery far beyond the river, and with the same expressionless face called for his horse and rode away followed by his staff. the battle-summer of went on with the wearisome siege of petersburg and the frequent efforts to cut the railways which enabled the confederates to draw supplies from states which as yet had hardly felt the stress of war. late in the year the army became a city of huts, and there was the unexampled spectacle of this great host voting quietly in the election which gave to lincoln another evidence of the trust reposed in him. the engineers had little to do in connection with the larger movements of the army, and save for the siege work were at times idle critics of their superiors. the closing month of brought weather which made the wooden huts, usually shared by two officers, more comfortable than tents. the construction of these long streets of sheltering quarters brought out much ingenuity, and penhallow profited by josiah's clever devices and watchful care. as the army was in winter-quarters, there was time enough for pleasant visiting, and for the engineers more than enough of danger in the trenches or when called on to accompany some general officer as an aide during grant's obstinate efforts to cut the railways on which lee relied. francis, not gravely wounded, was at home repairing damages; but now, with snow on the ground and ease of intercourse, blake was a frequent visitor in the engineer quarters. when rivers also turned up, the two young men found the talk unrivalled, for never had the tall clergyman seemed more attractive or as happy. of an afternoon late in november penhallow was toasting himself by the small fire-place and deep in thought. he had had a long day in the intrenchments and one moment of that feeling of imminent nearness to death which affects men in various ways. a shell neatly dropped in a trench within a few feet of where he stood, rolled over, spitting red flashes. the men cried, "down, down, sir!" and fell flat. something like the fascination a snake exercises held him motionless; he never was able to explain his folly. the fuse went out as he watched it--the shell was a dead thing and harmless. the men as they rose eyed him curiously. "a near thing," he said, and with unusual care moved along a traverse, his duty over for the day. he took with him a feeling of mental confusion and of annoyed wonder. he found josiah picking a chicken as he sat whistling in front of the tent. "there's been a fight, sir, about three o'clock, on our left. bill says we beat." "indeed!" it was too common news to interest him. he felt some singular completeness of exhaustion, and was troubled because of there being no explanation which satisfied him. asking for whisky to josiah's surprise, he took it and lay down, as the servant said, "there's letters, sir, on the table." "very well. close the tent and say i'm not well; i won't see any one." "yes, sir. nothing serious?" "no." he fell asleep as if drugged. outside josiah picked his lean chicken and whistled with such peculiar sweetness as is possible only to the black man. everything interested him. now and then he listened to the varied notes of the missiles far away and attracting little attention unless men were so near that the war-cries of shot and shell became of material moment. the day was cold, and an early november snow lay on the ground and covered the long rows of cabins. far to the rear a band was practising. josiah listened, and with a negative head-shake of disapproving criticism returned to the feather picking and sang as he picked: i wish i was in dixie land, in dixie land, in dixie land. he held up the plucked fowl and said, "must have been on short rations." the early evening was quiet. now and then a cloaked horseman went by noiseless on the snow. josiah looked up, laid down the chicken, and listened to the irregular tramp of a body of men. then, as the head of a long column came near and passed before him between the rows of huts, he stood up to watch them. "prisoners," he said. many were battle-grimed and in tatters, without caps and ill-shod. here and there among them a captured officer marched on looking straight ahead. the larger part were dejected and plodded on in silence, with heads down, while others stared about them curious and from the cabins near by a few officers came out and many soldiers gathered. as usual there were no comments, no sign of triumph and only the silence of respect. josiah asked a guard where they came from. "oh, hancock's fight at hatcher's run--got about nine hundred." the crowd of observers increased in number as the end of the line drew near. josiah lost interest and sat down. "got to singe that chicken," he murmured, with the habit of open speech of the man who had lived long alone. suddenly he let the bird drop and exclaimed under his breath, "jehoshaphat!"--his only substitute for an oath--"it's him!" among the last of the line of captured men he saw one with head bent down looking neither to the right nor the left--it was peter lamb! at this moment two soldiers ran forward and shouted out something to the officer bringing up the rear. he cried, "halt! take out that man." there was a little confusion, and peter was roughly haled out of the mass. the officer called a sergeant. "guard this fellow well," and he bade the men who had detected lamb go with the guard. soldiers crowded in on them. "what's the matter--who is he?" they asked. "back, there!" cried the lieutenant. "a deserter," said some one. "damn him." lamb was silent while between the two guards he was taken to the rear. josiah forgot his chicken and followed them at a distance. he saw lamb handcuffed and vainly protesting as he was thrust into the prison-hut of the provostry. josiah asked one of the men who had brought about the arrest, "who is that man?" "oh, he was a good while ago in my regiment--in our company too, the st pennsylvania--a drunken beast--name of stacy--joe stacy. we missed him when we were near the north anna--at roll-call." "what will they do with him?" "shoot him, i hope. his hands were powder blacked. he was caught on the skirmish line." "thank you." josiah walked away deep in thought. he soon settled to the conclusion that the rebs had found peter and that perhaps he had had no choice of what he would do and had had to enlist. what explanatory lie peter had told he could not guess. josiah went slowly back to the tent. his chicken was gone. he laid this loss on peter, saying, "he always did bring me bad luck." penhallow was still asleep. ought he to tell him of peter lamb. he decided not to do so, or at least to wait. inborn kindliness acted as it had done before, and conscious of his own helplessness, he was at a loss. near to dusk he lighted a pipe and sat down outside of penhallow's hut. servants of engineer officers spoke as they passed, or chaffed him. his readiness for a verbal duel was wanting and he replied curtly. he was trying to make out to his own satisfaction whether he could or ought to do anything but hold his tongue and let this man die and so disappear. he knew that he himself could do nothing, nor did he believe anything could be done to help the man. he felt, however, that because he hated peter, he was bound by his simply held creed to want to do something. he did not want to do anything, but then in confusing urgency there was the old mother, the colonel's indulgent care of this drunken animal, and at last some personal realization of the loneliness of this man so near to death. then he remembered that mark rivers was within reach. to get this clergyman to see peter would relieve him of the singular feeling of responsibility he could not altogether set aside. he was the only person who could identify lamb. that, at least, he did not mean to do. he would find mr. rivers and leave to him to act as he thought best. he heard penhallow calling, and went in to find him reading his letters. after providing for his wants, he set out to find the clergyman. his pass carried him where-ever he desired to go, and after ten at night he found mark rivers with the christian commission. "what is it?" asked rivers. "is john ill?" "no, sir," and he told in a few sentences the miserable story, to the clergyman's amazement. "i will go with you," he said. "i must get leave to see him, but you had better not speak of peter to any one." josiah was already somewhat indisposed to tell to others the story of the north anna incident, and walked on in silence over the snow until at the provost-marshal's quarters rivers dismissed him. in a brief talk with the provost-marshal, rivers learned that there had been a hastily summoned court-martial, and in the presence of very clear evidence a verdict approved by general grant. the man would be shot at seven the next morning. "a hopeless case, mr. rivers," said the provost, "any appeal for reprieve will be useless--utterly useless--there will be no time given for appeal to mr. lincoln. we have had too much of this lately." rivers said nothing of his acquaintance with the condemned man. he too had reached the conviction, now made more definite, that needless pain for the old mother could be avoided by letting peter die with the name he had assumed. it was after twelve at night when the provost's pass admitted him to a small wooden prison. one candle dimly lighted the hut, where a manacled man crouched by a failing fire. the soldier on guard passed out as the clergyman entered. when the door closed behind him, rivers said, "peter." "my god! mr. rivers. they say i'll be shot. you won't let them shoot me--they can't do it--i don't want to die." "i came here because josiah recognized you and brought me." "he must have told on me." "told what? he did not tell anything. now listen to me. you are certain to be shot at seven to-morrow morning. i have asked for delay--none will be given. i come only to entreat you to make your peace with god--to tell you that you have but these few hours in which to repent. let me pray with you--for you. there is nothing else i can do for you; i have tried and failed. indeed i tried most earnestly." "you can help if you will! you were always against me. you can telegraph colonel penhallow. he will answer--he won't let them shoot me." rivers who stood over the crouched figure laid a hand on his shoulder. "if he were here he could do nothing. and even if i did telegraph him, he is in no condition to answer. he was wounded at gettysburg and his mind is clouded. it would only trouble him and your mother, and not help you. your mother would hear, and you should at least have the manliness to accept in silence what you have earned." "but it's my life--my life--i can't die." rivers was silent. "you won't telegraph?" "no. it is useless." "but you might do something--you're cruel. i am innocent. god let me be born of a drunken father--i had to drink too--i had to. the squire wouldn't give me work--no one helped me. i enlisted in a new york regiment. i got drunk and ran away and enlisted in the st pennsylvania. i stole chickens, and near to the north anna i was cruelly punished. then the rebs caught me. i had to enlist. oh, lord! i am unfortunate. if i only could have a little whisky." mark rivers for a moment barren of answer was sure that as usual peter was lying and without any of his old cunning. "peter, this story does not help you. you are about to die, and no one--can help you--i have tried in vain--nothing can save you. why at a time so solemn as this do you lie to me? why did you desert? and for stealing chickens? nonsense!" "well, then, it was about a woman. josiah knows--he saw it all. i didn't desert--i was tied to a tree--he could clear me. they left me tied. i had to enlist; i had to!" "a woman!" rivers understood. "if he were to tell, it would only make your case worse. oh, peter, let me pray for you." "oh, pray if you want to. what's the good? if you won't telegraph the squire, get me whisky; and if you won't do that, go away. talk about god and praying when i'm to be murdered just because my father drank! i don't want any praying--i don't believe in it--you just go away and get me some whisky. the squire might have saved me--i wanted to quit from drink and he just told me to get out--and i did. i hate him and--you." rivers stood up. "may god help and pity you," he said, and so left him. he slept none, and rising early, prayed fervently for this wrecked soul. as he walked at six in the morning to the prison hut, he thought over the man who long ago had so defeated him. he had seemed to him more feeble in mind and less cunning in his statements than had been the case in former days. he concluded that he was in the state of a man used to drinking whisky and for a time deprived of it. when he met him moving under guard from the prison, he felt sure that his conclusion had been correct. as rivers came up, the officer in charge said, "if, sir, as a clergyman you desire to walk beside this man, there is no objection." "oh, let him come," said peter, with a defiant air. some one pitiful had indulged the fated man with the liquor he craved. rivers took his place beside peter as the guards at his side fell back. soldiers off duty, many blacks and other camp-followers, gathered in silence as the little procession moved over the snow, noiseless except for the tramp of many feet and the rumble of the cart in which was an empty coffin. "can i do anything for you?" said rivers, turning toward the flushed face at his side. "no--you can't." the man smelled horribly of whisky; the charitable aid must have been ample. "is there any message you want me to carry?" "message--who would i send messages to?" in fact, rivers did not know. he was appalled at a man going half drunk to death. he moved on, for a little while at the end of his resources. "even yet," he whispered, "there is time to repent and ask god to pardon a wasted life." peter made no reply and then they were in the open space on one side of a hollow square. on three sides the regiment stood intent as the group came near. "even yet," murmured rivers. of a sudden peter's face became white. he said, "i want to tell you one thing--i want you to tell him. i shot the squire at gettysburg--i wish i had killed him--i thought i had. there!--i always did get even." "stand back, sir, please," said a captain. rivers was dumb with the horror of it and stepped aside. the last words he would have said choked him in the attempt to speak. six soldiers took their places before the man who stood with his hands tied behind his back, his face white, the muscles twitching, while a bandage was tied over his eyes. "he wants to speak to you, sir," said the captain. rivers stepped to his side. "i did not tell my name. tell my mother i was shot--not how--not why." rivers fell back. the captain let fall a handkerchief. six rifles rang out, and peter lamb had gone to his account. the regiment marched away. the music of the band rang clear through the frosty air. the captain said, "where is the surgeon?" tom mcgregor appeared, and as he had to certify to the death bent down over the quivering body. "my god! mr. rivers," he said in a low voice, looking up, "it is peter lamb." "hush, tom," whispered rivers, "no one knows him except josiah." they walked away together while rivers told of josiah's recognition of lamb. "keep silent about his name, tom," and then went on to speak of the man's revengeful story about the colonel, to tom's horror. "i am sorry you told me," said the young surgeon. "yes, i was unwise--but--" "oh, let us drop it, mr. rivers. how is john? i have been three times to see him and he twice to see me, but always he was at the front, and as for me we have six thousand beds and too few surgeons, so that i could not often get away. does he know of this man's fate?" "no--and he had better not." "i agree with you. let us bury his name with him. so he shot our dear colonel--how strange, how horrible!" "he believed that he did shoot him, and as the ball came from the lines of the st when the fight was practically at an end, it may be true. he certainly meant to kill him." "what an entirely, hopelessly complete scoundrel!" said mcgregor. "except," said rivers, "that he did not want his mother to know how he died." "human wickedness is very incomplete," said the surgeon. "i wonder whether the devil is as perfectly wicked as we are taught to believe. you think this fellow, my dear old schoolmaster, was not utterly bad. now about wanting his mother not to know--i for my part--" "don't, tom. leave him this rag of charity to cover a multitude of sins. now, i must leave you. see john soon--he is wasted by unending and dangerous work--with malaria too, and what not; see him soon. he is a splendid replica of the colonel with a far better mind. i wish he were at home." "and i that another fellow were at home. good-bye." mcgregor called at john's tent, but learned that at six he had gone on duty to the trenches. chapter xxviii late on christmas morning of this year , penhallow with no duty on his hands saw with satisfaction the peacemaking efforts of the winter weather. a thin drizzle of cold rain froze as it fell on the snow; the engineers' lines were quiet. there was no infantry drill and the raw recruits had rest from the never satisfied sergeants, while unmanageable accumulations of gifts from distant homes were being distributed to well-pleased men. penhallow, lazily at ease, planned to spend christmas day with tom mcgregor or roland blake. the orders of a too energetic colonel of his own corps summarily disposed of his anticipated leisure. the tired and disgusted captain dismounted at evening, and limping gave his horse to josiah. "what you done to hoodoo, master john? he's lame--and you too." without answering john penhallow turned to greet tom mcgregor. "happy christmas, tom." "you don't look very happy, john, nor that poor beast of yours. but i am glad to have caught you at last." the faraway thunder of the siege mortars was heard as he spoke. "nice christmas carol that! have you been to-day in the graveyards you call trenches?" "no, i was not on duty. i meant to ride over to your hospital to have a home-talk and exchange grumbles, but just as i mounted colonel swift stopped with a smartly dressed aide-de-camp. i saluted. he said, 'i was looking for an engineer off duty. have the kindness to ride with me.'" "by george! tom, he was so polite that i felt sure we were on some unpleasant errand. i was as civil, and said, 'with pleasure.' a nice christmas celebration! well, i have been in the saddle all day. it rained and froze to sleet on the snow, and the horses slipped and slid most unpleasantly. about noon we passed our pickets. i was half frozen. when we got a bit further, the old colonel pulled up on a hillside and began to ask me questions, how far was that bridge, and could i see their pickets, and where did that cross-road go to. the aide was apparently ornamental and did not do anything but guess. i answered with sublime confidence, as my mind got thawed a little and the colonel made notes." "i know," laughed tom. "must never admit in the army that you don't know. you can always write 'respectfully referred' on a document. when general grant visits our hospital and asks questions ten to the minute, i fire back replies after quick consultation with my imagination. it works. he assured the surgeon-in-charge that i was a remarkably well-informed officer. so was he!" "come in," said penhallow. "i am cold and cross. i expect a brevet at least--nothing less; but if comstock or duane reads the colonel's notes, i may get something else." "have you had a fall, john? you are pretty dirty, and that horse with the queer name is dead lame. how did you come to grief?" "i had an adventure." "really! what was it?" "tell you another time--it was a queer one. here's mr. rivers." he was followed by a contraband black with a basket. "happy christmas, boys. i bring you a christmas turkey and a plum-pudding from your aunt, john." he was made heartily welcome and was in unusually good spirits, as josiah took possession of these unexpected rations and john got into dry clothes. they fell to familiar talk of westways. "i fear," said rivers, "that the colonel is worse. i am always sure of that when mrs. penhallow writes of him as cheerful." "my father," said tom, "tells me he has days of excessive unnatural gaiety, and then is irritable and cannot remember even the events of yesterday." "can you account for it, tom?" asked john. "no, but he ought to take dad's advice and see professor askew. it makes him furious. oh! if we were all at home again, mr. rivers--and out of this row. you are limping, john--what's wrong? let me see that leg." "no, you don't," cried john merrily. "you promised to get even with me after our famous battle--i don't trust you. i bruised my knee--that's all." "well, i can wait." they talked of home, of the village and its people, and at their meal of the way they proposed to conduct the spring campaign. many bloodless battles were thus fought over mess-tables and around camp-fires. "for my part," said john, "i want to get done with this mole business and do anything in the open--oh, here comes blake! you know our clergyman from home, the rev. mr. rivers? no! well, then i make you the christmas gift of a pleasant acquaintance. sit down, there is some turkey left and plum-pudding." "glad to see you, mcgregor," said blake. "i know mr. rivers by sight--oh, and well, too--he was back of the line in that horrid mix-up at the bloody angle--he was with the stretcher-bearers." "where," said mcgregor, "he had no business to be." rivers laughed as he rarely did. "it may seem strange to you all, but i am never so happy"--he came near to saying so little unhappy--"as when i am among the dying and the wounded, even if the firing is heavy." blake looked at the large-featured face and the eyes that, as old mcgregor said, were so kindly and so like mysterious jewels as they seemed to radiate the light that came from within. his moment of critical doubt passed, and he felt the strange attractiveness which rivers had for men and the influential trust he surely won. "i prefer," remarked mcgregor, "to operate when bullets are not flying." "but you do not think of them then," returned rivers, "i am sure you do not." "no, i do not, but they seem to be too attentive at times. i lost a little finger-tip back of round top. we had thirteen surgeons killed or wounded that day. the rebs left eighty surgeons with their wounded. we sent them home after we got up enough help from the cities." "it was not done always," said penhallow. "more's the pity." "we had grant at the hospital yesterday," said the doctor. "he comes often." "did you notice his face?" queried rivers. "the face? not particularly--why?" "he has two deep lines between the eyes, and crossing them two lateral furrows on the forehead. in sicily they call it the 'cross of misfortune.'" "then it has yet to come," said blake. "late or early," said rivers, "they assure you it will come. some men find their calamities when young, some when they are old, which is better." "let us be thankful that we have no choice," said blake. "may god spare you now and always," said rivers. the habitual melancholy he dreaded took possession of his face as he rose, adding, "come, tom, we must go." "and i," said blake. "happy christmas to you all--and a happier new year than ." they left john to the letters josiah placed on the table. the night was now clear and the stars brilliant, as penhallow saw blake mount his horse and rivers and mcgregor walk away to find the hospital ambulance. "there at least is peace," said john, as he watched the pleiades and the north star, symbol of unfailing duty. "well, it is as good as a sermon, and as it belongs there on eternal guard so do i belong here for my little day; but i trust the spring will bring us peace, for--oh, my god!--i want it--and westways." he went in to his hut and stirred the fire into roaring companionship. meanwhile rivers, walking with mcgregor, said, "did the figure of that doomed wretch haunt you as we talked to john?" "it did indeed! i had never before been ordered to certify to a death like that, and i hated it even before i bent down and knew who it was." "how far was he accountable, tom?" "don't ask me riddles like that, mr. rivers. it is a subject i have often thought about. it turns up in many forms--most terribly in the cases of the sins of the fathers being loaded on the sons. how far is a man accountable who inherits a family tendency to insanity? should he marry? if he falls in love, what ought he to do or not do? it is a pretty grim proposition, mr. rivers." "he should not marry," replied the clergyman, and both moved on in silent thought. "oh, here is our ambulance," said tom. they got in, rivers reflecting how war, parent of good and evil, had made of this rough country-bred lad a dutiful, thoughtful man. presently mcgregor said, "when we were talking of our unpleasant duties, i meant to tell you that one of them is to tattoo a d--for deserter--on the breast of some poor homesick fellow. after that his head is shaved; then the men laugh as he is drummed out of the lines--and it's disgusting." "i agree with you," said rivers. john lighted a fresh pipe and sat down by the fire to get some christmas pleasure from the home letter in leila's large and clear script. his aunt had ceased to write to him, and had left to her niece this task, insisting that it should be punctually fulfilled. this time the letter was brief. "of course, my dear john, you know that i am under orders to write to you once a week."--"is that explanatory?" thought the reader.--the letter dealt with the town and mills, the sad condition of colonel penhallow, his aunt's messages and her advice to john in regard to health. the horses came in for the largest share of a page. and why did he not write more about himself? she did not suppose that even winter war consisted only in drawing maps and waiting for grant to flank lee out of petersburg and richmond. "war," wrote the young woman, "must be rather a dull business. have you no adventures? tom mcgregor wrote his father that you had a thrilling experience in the trenches lately. the doctor spoke of it to aunt ann, who was surprised i had never mentioned it. don't dry up into an old regular like the inspecting major of ordnance at the mills. "expectantly yours, "leila grey. "a happy christmas, jack." "oh, great scott!" laughed john. he read it again. not a word of herself, nor any of her rides, or of the incessant reading she liked to discuss with him. some dim suspicion of the why of this impersonal letter gently flattered the winged hopefulness of love. "well, i think i shall punish you, miss grey, for sending me a christmas letter like that." oh, the dear old playmate, the tease, the eyes full of tenderness when the child's shaft of satire hurt! he laughed gaily as he went through the historically famous test of courage in snuffing the flaring candle wicks with his fingers. the little cabin was warm, the night silent, not a sound came from the lines a mile away to disturb the peaceful memories of home within the thirty thousand pickets needed to guard our far-spread army. men on both sides spoke this christmas night, for they were often near and exchanged greetings as they called out, "halloa, johnny reb, merry christmas!" "same to you, yank," and during that sacred night there was the truce of god and overhead the silence of the solemn stars. as the young captain became altogether comfortable, his thoughts wandered far afield--always at last to josiah's pansy, the many-masked leila, and behind her pretty feminine disguises the serious-minded woman for whom, as he smilingly consulted his fancy, he found no flower emblem to suit him. the letter he read once more represented many leilas. could he answer all of them and abide too by the silence he meant to preserve until the war was over? the imp of mischief was at his side. there was no kind of personal word of herself in the letter, except that he was ordered to talk of john penhallow and his adventures. he wrote far into the christmas night: "dear leila: to hear is to obey. i am to write of myself--of adventures. nearness to death in the trenches is an every-second-day adventure enough--no one talks of it. tom was ill-advised to report of me at home. i used to dream of the romance of war when i was a boy. there is very little romance in it, and much dirt, awful horrors of the dead and wounded, of battles lost or won, and waste beyond conception. after a big fight or wearying march one could collect material for a rummage-sale such as would rout aunt ann's ideal of an amusing auction of useless things. "my love to one and all, and above all to the dear colonel who is never long out of my mind. "yours truly, "john penhallow." "i put on this separate sheet for you alone the adventure you ask for. it is the only one worth telling, and came to me this christmas morning. it was strange enough. "an old colonel caught me as i was about to visit tom mcgregor at the hospital. i was disgusted, but he wanted an engineer. he got me, alas! we rode far to our left over icy snow-crust. to cut my tale short, after we passed our outlying pickets and i had answered a dozen questions, he said, 'can you see their pickets?' i said, 'no, they are half a mile away on the far side of a creek in the woods. that road leads to a bridge; they may be behind the creek.' "'do you think it fordable?' "'i do not know.' like a fool, i said, 'i will ride down the road and get a nearer look.' he would be much obliged. i rode hoodoo down an icy hill with a sharp lookout for their pickets. as i rode, i slipped my revolver out and let it hang at my wrist. i rode on cautiously. about a quarter of a mile from the creek i made up my mind that i had gone far enough. the creek was frozen, as i might have known, and the colonel too. as i checked hoodoo a shot rang out from a clump of pines on my right and a horseman leaped into the road some twenty yards in front of me. i fired and missed him. he turned and rode pretty fast toward the bridge, turning to fire as he went. i like a fool rode after him. we exchanged shot after shot. he was on the farther end of the bridge when he pulled up his horse and stopped short. he held up a hand; i felt for my sword, having emptied my revolver. it was rather ridiculous. by george! the man was laughing. we were not fifty feet apart when i reined up hoodoo. we had each fired six shots in vain--i had counted his. "he called out, 'a rather pretty duel, sir. don't ride over the bridge.' a picket shot from the left singing over my head rather emphasized his warning. 'it would not be fair--you would ride right into my pickets.' it was an unusual bit of chivalry. "i called out, 'thank you, i hope i have not hit you. may i ask your name?' "'i am at your service. i am'--here captain john wrote merrily--'scheherazade who says-- "being now sleepy, the caliph will hear the amazing sequel to-morrow night or _later_. "there you have my adventure all but the end. if i do not hear more of miss grey's personal adventures she will never--never, hear the name. "john penhallow." he laughed outright as he closed and directed the envelope. i suppose, he wrote in his diary, that as there are several leilas, there are also several john penhallows, and i am just now the mischievous lad who was so much younger than miss grey. would she laugh over the lesson of his letter or be angry, or cry a little and feel ill-treated, or--and even that was possible--say it was of no moment who the man was. he felt the gaiety which in some men who have not the mere brute courage of the bull-dog is apt to follow for many hours the escape from a great danger. the boylike mischief of his letter was in part due to some return of the cheerful mood which possessed him after the morning's risks. he went out to question the night of the weather. as he looked over the snow and then up at the mighty clock-work of the stars, he responded slowly to the awe this silentness of immeasurable forces was apt to produce; a perfect engine at the mills in noiseless motion always had upon him the same effect. as he moved, his knee reminded him of the morning's escape. when he rode away from the bridge, with attentions from the enemy's pickets following and came near the waiting colonel, his horse came down and like his rider suffered for the fall on frozen ground. there was just then for a time less work than usual for the engineers, and he had begun to feel troubled by the fact that two weeks had gone by since leila wrote, without a home letter. then it came and was brief: "dear john: i have truly no better and no worse news to send about dear uncle jim and this saddened home. to be quite frank with you, your letter made me realize what is hardly felt as here in our home we become used to war news. i thought less of your mischievous attempt to torment my curiosity than of your personal danger, and yet i know too well what are the constant risks in your engineer duties, for i have found among uncle jim's books accounts of the siege of sevastopol. as to your naughty ending, i do not care who the man was--why should i? i doubt if you really know. "i am, your seriously indifferent leila grey. "p.s. i am ashamed to admit that i reopened my letter to tell you i fibbed large. _please_ not to tease me any more." he replied at once: "dear leila: i am off to the front as usual. the man was henry grey. an amazing encounter! i had never seen him, as you may know. i did not wait to reply to him because the rebel pickets were not so considerate as their colonel. i recalled uncle jim's casual mention of henry grey as a rather light-minded, quixotic man. i am glad he is, but imagine what a tragedy failed to materialize because two men were awkward with the pistol. but what a strange meeting too! it is not the only case. a captain i know took his own brother prisoner last month; the rebel would not shake hands with him. do not tell aunt ann--or rather, do what seems best to you. i trust you, of course. the encounter made me want to know your uncle in some far-off happier day. "in haste, yours, "john penhallow." chapter xxix when late in march grant about to move left the engineer brigade at city point, the need to corduroy the rain-soaked roads called some of the corps to the front, and among them john penhallow. as usual when unoccupied they were set free to volunteer for staff duty. it thus chanced that penhallow found himself for a time an extra aide to general john parke. the guarded outer lines of the defences of petersburg included forests with here and there open spaces and clumps of trees. more than a half mile away from the enemy, on rising ground, amid bushes and trees, lay the army corps of general parke. it was far into the night. the men were comfortably asleep, for on this second of april, the air was no longer chilly and there were no tents up. in the mid-centre of the corps-line behind the ridge a huge fire marked the headquarters. as the great logs blazed high, they cast radiating shadows of tree trunks, which were and were not as the fire rose or fell. horses tied to the trees moved uneasily when from far and near came the clamour of guns. now and then a man sat up in the darkness and listened, but this was some new recruit. for the most of the sleepers the roar of guns was less disturbing than the surly mosquitoes and the sonorous trumpeting of a noisy neighbour. aides dismounted near the one small tent in the wood shadows, and coming out mounted horses as tired as the riders and rode away into the night. here and there apart black servants and orderlies slept the deep sleep of irresponsibility and among them josiah. beside the deserted fire john penhallow sat smoking. a hand fell on his shoulder. "halloa, blake!" he said, "where did you come from?" "i am on wright's staff. i am waiting for a note i am to carry. there will be no sleep for me to-night. we shall attack at dawn--a square frontal attack through slashes, chevaux-de-frises and parapets; but the men are keen for it, and we shall win." "i think so--the game is nearly played out." "i am sorry for them, penhallow." "and i. i was thinking when you came of the pleasant west point friends who may be in those woods yonder, and of the coming agony of that wonderful crumbling host of brave men, and of my uncle's friend, robert lee. i shall be a happy man when i can take their hands again." "how many will be left?" said blake. "god knows--we shall, i hope, live to be proud of them." "my friend francis sees always the humorous side of war--i cannot." "it does have--oh, very rarely--its humorous side," returned penhallow, "but not often for me. his mocking way of seeing things is doubly unpleasant because no man in the army is more in earnest. this orchestra of snoring men would amuse him." as blake sat down, he said, "i wonder if they are talking the language of that land--that nightly bourne from which we bring back so little. listen to them!" "that's so like you, blake. i was reflecting too when you came on the good luck i had at the north anna when you pulled me out. mark rivers once said that i was good at making acquaintances, but slow at making friendships." "thank you," said blake, understanding him readily. "i am somewhat like you." the solemnity of the night and of the fate-laden hours had opened for a minute the minds of two men as reserved and reticent as are most well-bred americans, who as a rule lack the strange out-spoken frankness of our english kin. "oh! here is my summons," said blake. "good luck to you, penhallow. i have about the closing of this war a kind of fear i have never had before." "that is natural enough," returned penhallow, "and i fancy it is not uncommon. let us part with a more pleasant thought. you will come and shoot with me at grey pine in the fall? bye-bye." blake rode away. his friend deep in thought and unable to sleep watched the dying fire. the night hours ran on. obedient to habit he wound his watch. "not asleep," said a pleasant voice. he rose to face the slight figure and gently smiling face of general parke. "what time is it, penhallow?" "four o'clock, sir." "i have sent back captain blake with a word to general wright, but he will have too long a ride. i want you to carry this same request. by taking the short cut in front of our lines, you can get there in a third of the time. you will keep this side of our pickets to where our line turns, then go through them and down the slope a bit. for a short distance you will be near the clump of trees on the right. if it is picketed--there are no pickets nearer--you will have to ride hard. once past the angle of their line you are safe. am i clear?" "certainly, sir. there is some marshy ground--i climbed a tree and looked it over yesterday--it won't stop the men, but may slow a horse." "i see. here is my note." penhallow tucked it in his belt and roused josiah. "see to the girth," he said. "is hoodoo in good order?" "yes, sir. where you going, master john?" "a little errand. make haste." "i know those little errands," said the black. "the good lord care for him," he murmured, as the man he loved best was lost in the darkness. he was aware of the great danger of his errand and was at once in that state of intensity of attention which sharpens every sense. he rode for the fourth of a mile between the long lines of infantry now astir here and there, and then an officer saw him through their picket-line. "good luck to you!" he said. "i think the rebs have no outlying pickets, but the woods are full of them." penhallow rode down a slight incline, and remembering that the marsh lower down might be difficult turned aside and came on a deep gully. the night was still dark, but a faint glow to eastward made haste desirable. the gully, as he rode beside it, flattened out, but at once he felt that his horse was in trouble on marshy ground. he dismounted and led him, but always the better footing lay nearer to the clump of trees. he made up his mind to ride for it. while on foot he had been as yet hardly visible. a shot from the salient group of trees decided him. he mounted and touched hoodoo with the spur. the horse bounded forwards too quickly to sink in the boggy ground. then a dozen shots told the rider he had been seen. something like the feeling of a blow from a stick was felt as his left arm fell with gripped reins, and the right arm also dropped. hoodoo pitched forward, rose with a gallant effort, and sinking down rolled to left upon the rider's leg. the horse lay still. penhallow's first sensation was astonishment; then he began to make efforts to get free. his arms were of no use. he tried to stir his horse with the spur of the free foot. it had no effect. something must be wrong with him. he had himself a feeling of weakness he could not comprehend, aware that he had no wound of the trunk. his useless arms made all effort vain, and the left foot under the weight of the horse began to feel numb. the position struck him as past help until our people charged. he thought of francis's axiom that there was nothing so entirely tragic as to be without some marginalia of humour. the lad smiled at his use of the word. his own situation appealed to him as ridiculous--a man with a horse on him waiting for an army to lift it off. the left elbow began to recover from the early insensibility of shock and to be painful. then in the dim light, as he lifted his head, he was aware of a rebel soldier in front covering him with a revolver. penhallow cried out with promptness, "i surrender--and i am shot through both arms." the soldier said, "you are not worth taking--guess you'll keep till we lick the yanks," and walking around the helpless officer he appropriated his revolver. "can you get my horse up?" said john. "horse up! i want your boots." "well, pull them off--i can't." "oh, don't you bother, i'll get them." with this he knelt down and began on the boot which belonged to the leg projecting beneath the horse. "darn it! they're just my size." as he tugged at it, hoodoo dying and convulsed struck out with his fore legs and caught the unlucky soldier full in the belly. the man gave a wild cry and staggering back fell. penhallow craned over the horse's body and broke into laughter. it hurt his arm, but he gasped with fierce joy, "francis would call him a freebooter." then he fell back and quite helpless listened. unable to turn his head, he heard behind him the wild rush of men. leaping over horse and man they went by. he got a look to right and left. they tore through the slashes, dropping fast and facing a furious fusillade were lost to sight in the underbrush. "by george! they've won," he exclaimed and fell back. "they must have carried the parapet." he waited. in about a half hour a party of men in grey went by. an officer in blue cried out, "up the hill, you beggars!" more of the grey men followed--a battle-grimed mob of hundreds. "halloa!" called penhallow. "get this horse up. put your hand in my pocket and you will find fifty dollars." they stopped short and a half dozen men lifted the dead animal. "thank you, set me on my feet," said penhallow. "empty my pockets--i can't use my arms." they did it well, and taking also his watch went on their way well pleased. john stood still, the blood tingling in his numb foot. "halloa!" he cried, as the stretcher-bearers and surgeons came near. a headquarters surgeon said, "we thought you were killed. can you walk?" "no--hit in both arms--why the deuce can't i walk?" "shock, i suppose." a half hour later he was in a hospital tent and a grim old army surgeon handling his arms. "right arm flesh-wound--left elbow smashed. you will likely have to lose the arm." "no, i won't," said penhallow, "i'd as leave die." "don't talk nonsense. they all say that. see you again." "you will get ten dollars," said john to a hospital orderly, "if you will find captain blake of general wright's staff." "i'll do it, sir." presently his arms having been dressed, he was made comfortable with morphia. at dusk next morning his friend blake sat down beside his cot. "are you badly hurt?" he said. a certain tenderness in the voice was like a revelation of some qualities unknown before. "i do not know. for about the first time in my life i am suffering pain--i mean constant pain, with a devilish variety in it too. the same ball, i believe, went through some muscle in the right arm and smashed my left elbow. it's a queer experience. the surgeon-in-charge informed me that i would probably lose the arm. the younger surgeon says the ball will become what he calls encysted. they probed and couldn't find it. isn't that josiah i hear?" "yes, i will bring him in." in a moment they came back. "my god! master john, i been looking for you all night and this morning i found hoodoo dead. didn't i say he'd bring you bad luck. oh, my!--are you hurt bad?" "less noise there," said an assistant surgeon, "or get out of this." "he'll be quiet," said blake, "and you will have the decency to be less rough." the indignant doctor walked away. "poor hoodoo--he did his best," murmured john. "get me out of this, blake. it's a hell of suffering. take me to tom mcgregor at city point." "i will, but now i must go. general parke hopes you are doing well. you will be mentioned in his despatches." "that is of no moment--get me to mcgregor. hang the flies--i can't fight them." john never forgot the ambulance and the rough railway ride to city point, nor his pleasure when at rest in the officers' pavilion he waited for his old playmate. as i write i see, as he saw, the long familiar ward, the neat cots, the busy orderlies. he waited with the impatience of increasing pain. "well, tom," he said, with an effort to appear gay, "here's your chance at last to get even." mcgregor made brief reply as he uncovered the wounded joint. then he said gravely, "a little ether--i will get out the ball." "no ether, tom, i can stand it. now get to work." "i shall hurt you horribly." "no ether," he repeated. "go on, tom." mcgregor sat beside him with a finger on the bounding pulse and understood its meaning and the tale it told. "it will not be long, john," and then with attention so concentrated as not even to note the one stir of the tortured body or to hear the long-drawn groan of pain, he rose to his feet. "all right, john--it's only a slug--lucky it was not a musket ball." he laid a tender hand on the sweating brow, shot a dose of morphia into the right arm, and added, "you will get well with a stiff joint. now go to sleep. the right arm is sound, a flesh-wound." "thanks," said john, "we are even now, tom. captain blake telegraphed your father, tom--but write, please." "to whom, john?" "to leila--but do not alarm them." "i will write. in a week or two you must go home. that is the medicine you need most. you will still have some pain, but you will not lose the arm." "thank you--but what of the army? i am a bit confused as to time. parke attacked on the second of april, i think. what day is this?" "oh, they got out of petersburg that night--out of richmond too. lee is done for--a day or two will end it." "thank god," murmured john, "but i am so sorry for lee." "can't say i am." "oh, that blessed morphia!" "well, go to sleep--i will see you again shortly. i have other fellows to look after. in a few minutes you will be easy. draw the fly-nets, orderly." of all that followed john penhallow in later years remembered most distinctly the half hour of astonishing relief from pain. as his senses one by one went off guard, he seemed to himself to be watching with increase of ease the departure of some material tormentor. in after years he recalled with far less readiness the days of varied torment which required more and more morphia. why i know not, the remembrance of pain as time goes by is far less permanent than that of relief or of an hour of radiant happiness. long days of suffering followed as the tortured nerves recorded their far-spread effects in the waste of the body and that failure of emotional control which even the most courageous feel when long under the tyranny of continuous pain. mcgregor watched him with anxiety and such help as was possible. on the tenth of april john awakened after a night of assisted sleep to find himself nearly free from pain. tom came early into the ward. "good news, john," he said. "lee has surrendered. you look better. your resignation will be accepted, and i have a leave of absence. economy is the rule. we are sending the wounded north in ship-loads. home! home! old fellow, in a week." the man on the cot looked up. "you have a letter, i see," and as he spoke broke into childlike tears, for so did long suffering deal with the most self-controlled in those terrible years, which we do well to forgive, and to remember with pride not for ourselves alone. the child-man on the bed murmured, "home was too much for me." the surgeon who loved him well said, "read your letter--you are not the only man in this ward whom pain has made a baby. home will complete your cure--home!" "thank you, tom." he turned to the letter and using the one half-useful hand opened it with difficulty. what he first felt was disappointment at the brevity of the letter. he was what blake called home-hungry. with acute perception, being himself a homeless man, blake made his diagnosis of that form of heart-ache which too often adds a perilously depressing agency to the more material disasters of war. pain, fever, the inevitable ward odours, the easier neighbour in the next bed who was of a mind to be social, the flies--those virginia flies more wily than lee's troopers--and even trifling annoyances made penhallow irritable. he became a burden to hospital stewards and over-worked orderlies, and now the first look at leila's letter disturbed him, and as he read he became indignant: "dear john: mr. blake's telegram telling us of your wound caused us some anxiety, which was made less by dr. mcgregor's somewhat hastily written letter. aunt ann thought it was excusable in so busy a man. poor uncle jim on hearing it said, 'yes, yes--why didn't john write--can't be much the matter.' this shows you his sad failure. he has not mentioned it since. "it is a relief to us to know that you were not dangerously hurt. it seems as if this sad war and its consequences were near to end. let us hear soon. aunt ann promises to write to you at once. "yours truly, "leila grey." he threw the letter down, and forgetting that he had asked blake and the doctor not to alarm his people, was overcome by the coldness of leila's letter. he lay still, and with eyes quite too full felt that life had for him little of that which once made it sweet with what all men hold most dear. he would have been relieved if he could have seen leila when alone she read and read again mcgregor's letter, and read with fear between the lines of carefully guarded words what he would not say and for days much feared to say. she sat down and wrote to john a letter of such tender anxiety as was she felt a confession she was of no mind to make. he was in no danger. had he been, she would have written even more frankly. but her trouble about her uncle was fed from day to day by what her aunt could not or would not see, and it was a nearer calamity and more and more distressing. then she sat thinking what was john like now. she saw the slight figure, so young and still so thoughtful, as she had smiled in her larger experience of men when they had sat and played years ago with violets on the hillside of west point. no, she was unprepared to commit herself for life, for would he too be of the same mind? for a moment she stood still indecisive, then she tore up her too tender letter and wrote the brief note which so troubled him. she sent it and then was sorry she had not obeyed the impulse of the kindlier hour. the nobler woman instinct is apt to be armed by nature for defensive warfare. if she has imagination, she has in hours of doubt some sense of humiliation in the vast surrender of marriage. this accounts for certain of the cases of celibate women, who miss the complete life and have no ready traitor within the guarded fortress to open the way to love. some such instinctive limitations beset leila grey. the sorrow of a great, a nearer and constant affection came to her aid. to think of anything like love, even if again it questioned her, was out of the question while before her eyes james penhallow was fading in mind. john penhallow was shortly relieved by mcgregor's order that he should get some exercise. it enabled him to escape the early surgical visit and the diverse odours of surgical dressings which lingered in the long ward while breakfast was being served. there were more uneasy sleepers than he in the ward and much pain, and crippled men with little to look forward to. the suffering he saw and could not lessen had been for john one of the depressing agencies of this hospital life. the ward was quiet when he awoke at dawn of april th. he quickly summoned an orderly and endured the daily humiliation of being dressed like a baby. he found josiah waiting with the camp-chair at the door as he came out of the ward. "how you feeling, master john?" "rather better. what time is it? that reb stole my watch." even yet it was amusing. he laughed at the remembrance of having been relieved by the prisoners of purse and watch. for josiah to extract his own watch was as mcgregor said something like a surgical operation. "it's not goin', master john. it's been losing time--like it wasn't accountable. what's it called watch for if it don't watch?" this faintly amused john. he said no more, but sat enjoying the early morning quiet, the long hazy reaches of the james river, the awakening of life here and there, and the early stir among the gun-boats. "get me some coffee, josiah," he said. "i am like your watch, losing time and everything else." josiah stood over him. his unnatural depression troubled a simple mind made sensitive by a limitless affection and dog-like power to feel without comprehending the moods of the master. "captain john, you was sayin' to me yesterday you was most unfortunate. i just went away and kept a kind of thinkin' about it." "well, what conclusion did you come to?" he spoke wearily. "oh, i just wondered if you'd like to change with me--guess you wouldn't for all the pain?" surprised at the man's reflection, john looked up at the black kindly face. "get me some coffee." "yes, sir--what's that?" the morning gun rang out the sunrise hour. "what's that, sir?" the flag was being hoisted on the slope below them. "it's stopped at half-mast, sir! who's dead now?" "go and ask, josiah." mcgregor came up as he spoke. "the president was killed last night, john, by an assassin!" "lincoln killed!" "yes--i will tell you by and by--now this is all we know. i must make my rounds. we leave to-morrow for home." john sat alone. this measureless calamity had at once on the thoughtful young soldier the effect of lessening the influences of his over-sensitive surrender to pain and its attendant power to weaken self-control. like others, in the turmoil of war he had given too little thought to the promethean torment of a great soul chained to the rock of duty--the man to whom like the christ "the common people listened gladly." he looked back over his own physical suffering with sense of shame at his defeat, and sat up in his chair as if with a call on his worn frame to assert the power of a soul to hear and answer the summons of a great example. "thank you, josiah," he said cheerfully. "no coffee is like yours to set a fellow up." a greater tonic was acting. "we go home to-morrow." "that's good. listen, sir--what's that?" "minute guns, josiah. have you heard the news?" "yes, sir--it's awful; but we are going home to westways." chapter xxx as the trains went northward crowded with more or less damaged officers and men, john penhallow in his faded engineer uniform showed signs of renewed vitality. he chatted in his old companionable way with the other home-bound volunteers, and as they went through baltimore related to mcgregor with some merriment his bloodless duel with mrs. penhallow's rebel brother henry. the doctor watched him with the most friendly satisfaction and with such pride as a florist may have in his prospering flowers. the colour of health was returning to the pale face and there was evidently relief from excessive pain. he heard, too, as they chatted, of john's regrets that his simple engineer dress was not as neat as he would have desired and of whether his aunt would dislike it. wearing the station of westways crossing, john fell into a laughing account of his first arrival and of the meeting with leila. the home-tonic was of use and he was glad with gay gladness that the war was over. as the train stopped, he said as he got out, "there is no carriage--you telegraphed, mcgregor?" "yes, i did, but the service is, i fancy, snowed under just now with messages. i will walk on and have them send for you." "no," said john, "i am quite able to walk. come along." "are you really able?" "yes--we'll take it easy." "there isn't much left of you to carry what remains." "my legs are all right, tom." he led the way through the woods until they came out on the avenue. "think of it, tom,--it is close to nine years since first i left grey pine for the point." in the afternoon of this sunny day late in april the colonel sat on the porch with his wife. below them on the step rivers was reading aloud the detailed account of lincoln's death. leila coming out of the house was first to see the tall thin figure in dark undress uniform. she was thankful for an unwatched moment of ability to gain entire self-command. it was needed. she helped herself by her cry of joyous recognition. "aunt ann! aunt ann!" she cried, "there is dr. mcgregor and--and john and josiah." the aunt cast a look of anxiety at the expressionless face of james penhallow, as he rose to his feet, saying, "why wasn't i told?" "we did not know, sir," said rivers, dropping the paper as he went down the steps to meet the new-comer. then the wasted figure with the left arm in a sling was in ann penhallow's embrace. "my god!" he said, "but it's good to be at home." as he spoke he turned to the colonel who had risen. "got hit, john? it runs in the family. once had a sioux arrow through my arm. glad to see you. want to be fed up a bit. lord! but you're lean." he said no more, but sat down again without appearance of interest. rivers made john welcome with a pleasant word, and leila coming forward took his hand, saying quietly, "we hardly looked for you to-day, but it is none too soon." then she turned to mcgregor, "we have much to thank you for. you will stay to dine?" john, still too sensitive, was troubled as he realized his uncle's condition, and felt that there was something in leila's manner which was unlike that of the far-remembered leila of other days. she had urged mcgregor to stay and dine, and then added, "but, of course, that pleasure must wait--you will want to see your father. he is so proud of you--as we all are." "that is a pleasant welcome, miss leila; and, dear mrs. penhallow, i do not want a carriage, i prefer to walk. i will see you, john, and that lame arm to-morrow. good-bye, colonel." the master of grey pine said, "nice young man! ann ought to kill the fatted calf. tell john not to be late for dinner." "it is all right, james," said mrs. ann, "all right." rivers watched with pain the vacant face of the colonel. this mental failure constantly recalled the days of anguish when with despair he had seen all who were dear to him one after another die mentally before their merciful exit from life. "john must be tired," he said. leila, who noted on the young soldier's face the effect of sudden realization of his useless state said, "your room is ready, john." "yes," said john, "i should like to rest before dinner." with a word as to the fatigue of his journey, leila followed him into the well-remembered hall. "good heavens, leila. it seems an age since i was here. send up josiah. i am like a baby and need him to help me." she looked after him pitifully as he went up the stairs. "surely," she thought, "we have paid dearly our debt to the country." he came down at six o'clock, still in his undress uniform, but thinking that his aunt would not like it. in a day or two he would have the civilian clothes he had ordered in philadelphia. he need have had no such anxiety; she was indifferent to all but her husband, who sat at table speechless, while leila and john too consciously manufactured talk of the home and the mills--and the ending of the war. after the meal ann began her patient efforts to interest the colonel with a game of cards and then of backgammon. it seemed only to make him irritable, and he said at last, "i think i must go to bed." "certainly, dear." she went with him upstairs, saying, "good-night, children." "she will not return, john. this is what goes on day after day." "it is very sad--i did not fully comprehend his condition." "he is often far worse, and complains of his head or is resolutely--i should say obstinately--bent on some folly, such as walking to the mills and advising them. aunt ann never contradicts him--what he wants, she wants. not the most reasonable opposition is of any use." "does he never ride, leila?" "never, and is vexed when dr. mcgregor calls to see him and advises a consultation. once we had a distressing outbreak." "and yet," said john, "there should have been other advice long ago. somehow there must be." "mr. rivers has urged it and made him angry; as for aunt ann, she sees only the bright side of his case and humours him as she would a sick child." "she is greatly changed, leila. i hardly know how to state it. she has a look of--well, of something spiritual in her face." "yes, that is true. are you in pain, john?" she added. "yes--not in great pain, but enough. for two weeks i did suffer horribly." "john! oh, my poor jack! we never knew--is it so bad?" "yes, imagine a toothache in your elbow with a variety of torments in the whole arm." "i can't imagine. i never had a toothache--in fact, i hardly know the sensation of serious pain." "well, i broke down under it, leila. i became depressed and quite foolishly hopeless. some day i will tell you what helped me out of a morass of melancholy." "tell me now." "no, i must go to bed. i am getting better and will get off with a stiff elbow, so tom says. at first they talked of amputation. that was awful. good-night!" it was none too soon. she was still unsure of herself, and although no word of tender approach had disturbed her as he talked, and she was glad of that, the tense look of pain, the reserve of his hospital confession of suffering nearly broke down her guarded attitude. as he passed out of view at the turn of the stairs, she murmured, "oh, if only uncle jim were well." josiah came at the call of the bell. she detained him. she asked, "how was the captain wounded? no one wrote of how it happened." "well, missy, he would ride a horse called hoodoo--it was just the bad luck of that brute done it." josiah's account was graphic and clear enough. john penhallow's character lost nothing as interpreted by josiah. "it was a dangerous errand, i suppose." "yes, miss leila. you see, when they know about a man that he somehow don't mind bullets and will go straight to where he's sent, they're very apt to get him killed. at the first shot he ought to have tumbled off and played possum till it was dark." "but then," said leila, "he would have been too late with general parke's message." "of course, master john couldn't sham dead like i would.--i don't despise bullets like he does. once before he had orders to go somewhere, and couldn't get across a river. he was as mad as a wet hen." "a wet hen--delightful! did he do it?" "guess you don't know him! when master john wants anything, well, he's a terrible wanter--always was that way even when he was a boy--when he wants anything, he gets it." "indeed! does he? i think he is waiting for you, josiah." the black's conclusive summary hardened the young woman's heart. she sat a while smiling, then took up a book and failed to become interested. as john became familiar with the altered life of a household once happy and in pleasant relation to the outer world, he felt as leila had done the depressing influence of a home in which the caprices of an invalid life were constantly to be considered. meanwhile his own spare figure gained flesh, and on one sunny morning--he long remembered it--he was rather suddenly free from pain, and with only the stiff elbow was, as mcgregor described it, "discharged cured." for some time he had been feeling that in bodily vigour and sense of being his normal self he had been rapidly gaining ground. the relief from the thraldom of pain brought a sudden uplift of spirits and a feeling of having been born anew into an inheritance of renewed strength and of senses sharpened beyond what he had ever known. a certain activity of happiness like a bodily springtime comes with such a convalescence. ceasing to feel the despotism of self-attention, he began to recover his natural good sense and to watch with more care his uncle's state, his aunt's want of consideration for any one but james penhallow, and the effect upon leila of this abnormal existence. he began to understand that to surely win this sad girl-heart there must be a patient siege, and above all something done for the master of grey pine. he recognized with love's impatience the beauty of this young life amid the difficulties of the colonel's moods and ann penhallow's ill-concealed jealousy. a great passion may be a very selfish thing, or in the nobler natures rise so high on the wings of love that it casts like the singing lark no shadow on the earth. he could wait and respect with patient affection the sense of duty which perhaps--ah! that perhaps--made love a thing which must wait--yes, and wait too with helpful service where she too had nobly served. when the day came for his first venture on a horse and he rode through the young leafage of june, no enterprise seemed impossible. how could he be of use to her and these dear people to whom he owed so much? war had been costly, but it had taught him that devotion to the duty of the hour which is one of the best lessons of that terrible schoolmaster. there was, as he saw every day, no overruling common sense in the household of grey pine, and no apparent possibility of reasonable control. just now it was worse than ever, and he meant to talk it over with the two mcgregors. with josiah riding behind him, he left a message here and there in the village, laughing and jesting, with a word of sympathy where the war had left its cruel memories. he had been in the little town very often since his return, but never before when free from pain or with the pleasant consciousness that he had it in his power to be to these friends of his childhood what the colonel had been. he talked to joe grace, left a message for pole's son, and then rode on to his appointment. he sat down with father and son in the unchanged surroundings of the untidy office; even the flies were busy as before on the old man's tempting bald head. "well, john," said the doctor, "what's up now? the squire won't see me at all." tom sat still and listened. "there are two things to consider, and i want your advice; but, first, i want to say that there is no head to that family. i wonder how leila stands it. i mean that your advice shall be taken about a consultation with prof. askew." "you want my advice? do you, indeed! mrs. penhallow will ask the colonel's opinion, he will swear, and the matter is at an end." "i mean to have that consultation," said john. tom laughed and nodded approval. "it's no use, john, none," said the older man. "we shall see about that. do you approve?--that is my question." "if that's the form of advice you want, why, of course--yes--but count me out." "count me in, john," said the younger surgeon. "i know what askew will say and what should have been done long ago." "an operation?" asked his father. "yes, sir, an operation." "too late!" "well," said john, "he gets no worse; a week or two will make no difference, i presume." "none," said dr. mcgregor. "it may," said tom. "well, it may have to wait. just now there is a very serious question. aunt ann made last night the wild suggestion that the colonel might be amused if we had one of those rummage-sales with which she used to delight the village. uncle jim at once declared it to be the thing he would like best. aunt ann said we must see about it at once. her satisfaction in finding an amusement which the colonel fancied was really childlike. leila said nothing, nor did i. in fact, the proposal came about when i happened unluckily to say what a fine chance uncle sam had for a rummage-sale after a forced march or a fight. i recall having said much the same thing long ago in a letter to leila." "then there's nothing to be done just now, john," remarked tom mcgregor, "but i cannot conceive of anything more likely to affect badly a disordered brain." the older man was silent until john asked, "is it worth while to talk to aunt ann about it--advise against it?" "quite useless, john. i advise you and leila quietly to assist your aunt, and like as not the colonel may forget all about it in a day or two." "no, doctor. to-day he had billy up with him in the attic bringing down whatever he can find, useful or useless." with little satisfaction from this talk, john rode homeward. sitting in the saddle at the post-office door, he called for the mail. mrs. crocker, of undiminished bulk and rosiness, came out. "how's your arm, captain? i bet it's more use than mine. the rheumatism have took to permanent boarding in my right shoulder--and no glory like you got to show for it." "i could do without the glory." "no, you couldn't. if i was a man, i'd be glad to swap; you've got to make believe a bit, but the town's proud of you. i guess some one will soon have to look after them penhallow mills." mrs. crocker put a detaining hand on his bridle reins. "yes, yes," said john absently, glancing well pleased over a kind letter of inquiry from general parke. "well, what else, mrs. crocker?" "the colonel quite give me a shock this morning. he's not been here--no, not once--since he came home. well, he walked in quite spry and told me there was to be a rummage-sale in a week, and i was to put up a notice and tell everybody. why, mr. john, he was that natural. he went away laughing because i offered to sell my old man--twenty-five cents a pound. i did notice he don't walk right." "yes, i have noticed that; but this notion of a rummage-sale has seemed to make him better. now, suppose you let my reins go." "oh, mr. john, don't be in such a hurry. it's surely a responsible place, this post-office; i don't ever get time for a quiet talk." "well, mrs. crocker, now is your chance." "that's real good of you. i was wanting to ask if you ever heard anything of peter lamb. he wrote to his mother he was in the army, and then that was the end of it. she keeps on writing once a week, and the letters come back stamped 'not found.' i guess he's wandering somewhere." "like enough. i went to see her last week, but i could not give her any comfort. she couldn't have a worse thing happen than for peter to come home." "well, captain john, when you come to have babies of your own, you'll find mothers are a curious kind of animal." "mothers!" laughed john. "i hope there won't be more than one. now, i really must go." "oh, just one more real bit of news. lawyer swallow's wife was here yesterday with another man to settle up her husband's business." "is he dead?" "they say so, but you can't believe everything you hear. now, don't hurry. what most killed swallow was just this: he hated pole like poison, and when he got a five hundred dollar mortgage-grip on pole's pasture meadow, he kept that butcher-man real uneasy. when you were all away, swallow began to squeeze--what those lawyers call 'foreclose.' it's just some lawyer word for robbery." "it's pretty bad, mrs. crocker, but two people are waiting for you and this isn't exactly government business." "got to hear the end, captain." "i suppose so--what next?" dixy wondered why the spur touched him even lightly. "pole, he told mrs. penhallow all about it, and she wasn't as glad to help her meat-man as she was to bother swallow, so she took over the mortgage. when the squire first came home from washington and wasn't like he was later, she told him, of course. now everybody knows pole's ways, and so the squire he says to me--he was awful amused--'mrs. crocker, i asked mrs. penhallow how pole was going to pay her.' she said she did put that at pole, and he said it wouldn't take long to eat up that debt at grey pine. he wouldn't have dared to speak like that to your aunt if she hadn't got to be so meek-like, what with war and bother." by this time dixy was with reason displeased and so restless that mrs. crocker let the reins drop, but as john penhallow rode away she cried, "the price of meats at grey pine has been going up ever since, until miss leila--" the rest was lost to the captain. he rode away laughing as he reflected on what share of pole's debt he was to devour. chapter xxxi the bustle and folly of a rummage-sale was once in every two or three years a frolic altogether pleasant to quiet westways. it enabled ann penhallow and other wise women to get rid of worn-out garments and other trash dear to the male mind. when leila complained of the disturbing antecedents of a rummage-sale, mrs. crocker, contributive of unasked wisdom, remarked, "men have habits, and women don't; women have blind instincts. you'll find that out when you're married. you see marriage is a kind of voyage of discovery. you just remember that and begin early to keep your young man from storing away useless clothes and the like. that's where a rummage-sale comes in handy." leila laughed. "why not sell the unsatisfactory young man, mrs. crocker?" "well, that ain't a bad idea," said the post-mistress slyly, "if he's a damaged article--a rummage-sale of husbands not up to sample." "a very useful idea," said the young woman. "good-bye." in the afternoon a day later, leila, making her escape from her aunt's busy collections, slipped away into the woods alone. the solitude of the early woodland days of summer were what she needed, and the chance they gave for such tranquil reflection as the disturbance and restless state of her home just now made it rarely possible to secure. she tried to put aside her increasing anxiety about her uncle and had more difficulty in dealing with john penhallow and his over-quiet friendliness. she thought too of her own coldly-worded letters and of the suffering of which she had been kept so long ignorant. he had loved her once; did he now? she was annoyed to hear the voice of mark rivers. "so, leila, you have run away, and i do not wonder. this turmoil is most distressing." "yes, yes--and everything--those years of war and what it has brought us--and my dear uncle jim--and how is it to end? let us talk of something else. i came here to be--well, to see if i could find peace of soul and what these silent forests have often given me, strength to take up again the cares and troubles of life." he did not excuse his intrusion nor seem to notice the obvious suggestions, but fell upon their personal application to himself. "they have never done that for me," he said sadly. "there is some defect in my nature--some want. i have no such relation to nature; it is speechless to me--mute, and i never needed more what i fail to find in myself. the war and its duties gave me the only entire happiness i have had for years." then he added, in a curiously contemplative manner, "it does seem as if a man had a right to some undisturbed happiness in life. i must go. i leave you to the quiet of the woods." "i am sorry," she said, "i am sorry that you are able to imply that you have never known happiness. surely you cannot mean that." it was all she could say. his look of profound melancholy hurt her, for like all who knew mark rivers well, she loved, respected and admired him. he made no explanatory reply, but after a brief silence said, "i must go, leila, where there are both duties and dangers--not--no, not in cities." "i trust you do not mean to leave us--surely not!" "no, not yet--not while i can be of use to these dear friends." as she moved on at his side or before him, he saw too well the easy grace of her strong young virgin form, the great blue eyes, the expressive tenderness of features which told of dumb sympathy with what she had no knowledge to understand. he longed to say, "i love you and am condemned by my conscience to ask no return." it would only add to his unhappiness and disturb a relation which even in its incompleteness was dear to him. the human yearning to confess, to win even the sad luxury of pity beset the man. in his constant habit of introspection, he had become unobservant and had no least idea that the two young people he loved so well were nearing what was to him forever impossible. "let me sit down," he said unwilling to leave her; "i am tired." he was terribly afraid of himself and shaken by a storm of passion, which left his sensitive body feeble. she sat down with him on a great trunk wrecked a century ago. "are you not well?" she asked, observing the paleness of his face. "no, it is nothing. i am not very well, but it is nothing of moment. don't let it trouble you--i am much as usual. i want, leila, what i cannot get--what i ought not to get." even this approach to fuller confession relieved him. "what is there, my dear mr. rivers, you cannot get? oh! you are a man to envy with your hold on men, your power to charm, your eloquence. i have heard dr. mcgregor talk of what you were among the wounded and the dying on the firing-line. don't you know that you are one of god's helpful messengers, an interpreter into terms of human thought and words of what men need to-day, when--" "no, no," he broke in, lifting a hand of dissenting protest. the flushed young face as she spoke, his sense of being nobly considered by this earnest young woman had again made him feel how just the little more would have set free in ardent words what he was honestly striving to control. "thank you, my dear leila, i could wish i were all you think i am; but were it all true, there would remain things that sweeten life and which must always be forbidden to me." he rose to his feet once again master of his troubled soul. "i leave you," he said, "and your tireless youth to your walk. we cannot have everything, i must be contented in some moment of self-delusion to half believe the half of what you credit me with." "then," cried leila, laughing, "you would have only a fourth." "ah! i taught you arithmetic too well." he too laughed as he turned away. laughter was rare with him and to smile frequent. he walked slowly away to the rectory and for two days was not seen at grey pine. leila, more at ease and relieved by the final gay banter, strolled into the solemn quiet of the pines the squire had so successfully freed from underbrush and left in royal solitude. at the door of the old log-cabin she lay down on the dry floor of pine-needles. the quick interchange of talk had given her no chance to consider, as now she reviewed in thoughtful illumination, what had seemed to her strange. she tried to recall exactly what he had said. of a sudden she knew, and was startled to know. she had come into possession of the power of a woman innocent of intention to inflict pain on a strong and high-minded man. a lower nature might have felt some sense of triumph. it left her with no feeling but the utmost distress and pitiful thinking of what had gone wrong in this man's life. once before she had been thus puzzled. the relief of her walk was gone. she gathered some imperfect comfort in the thought that she might not have been justified in her conclusions regarding a man who was in so many ways an unexplained personality. during the next few days the village was in a state of anticipative pleasure and of effort to find for the rummage-sale articles which were damaged or useless. at grey pine john and leila grey were the only unexcited persons. she was too troubled in divers ways to enjoy the amusement to be had out of what delighted every one else except john penhallow. to please his aunt he made some small and peculiar offerings, and daily went away to the mills to meet and consult with the colonel's former partners. he was out of humour with his world, saw trouble ahead if he did as he meant to do, and as there was an east wind howling through the pines, his wounded arm was recording the storm in dull aches or sharp twinges. he smoked, i fear, too much during these days of preparation for the rummage-sale, and rode hard; while leila within the dismantled house was all day long like the quiet steadying flywheel in some noisy machinery. what with billy as the over-excited colonel's aide and her aunt aggrieved by a word of critical comment on her husband's actions, leila had need of all the qualities required in a household where, as it seemed to her, it was hard to keep tongue or temper quiet. mr. rivers towards the end of the week came in often, and would, of course, see that the sunday school hall was made ready for the sale. he would make some contributions and help to arrange the articles for the sale. the colonel's continuity of childlike interest deceived him into sharing the belief of ann penhallow, who was, leila thought, unreasonably elated. meanwhile leila felt as a kind of desertion john's successive days of absence. where was he? what was he doing? once she would have asked frankly why he left to her the burden of cares he ought to have been eager to share, while mark rivers was so steadily helpful. when ann penhallow asked him to act as salesman, he said that he was at her disposal. the colonel declared that was just the thing, and john must uncover and announce the articles to be sold. he said, "how long ago was the last sale? wasn't it last year?" "no, dear, not so lately." "i must have forgotten. perhaps, rivers, we might sell a few useless people. what would leila fetch in the marriage market?" ann somewhat annoyed said nothing; nor did rivers like it. the colonel continued, "might sell john--badly damaged." "i must go," said rivers. "i have my sermon to think over. i mean to use the text you gave me, leila, some two weeks ago." sunday went by, and tuesday, the day of the sale, came with a return of the east wind and a cold downpour of rain. the colonel and billy were busy late in the day; mrs. ann was tired; while john in some pain was silent at dinner. the carriage took the colonel and his wife to the hall. he was now quiet and answered curtly the too frequent questions about how he felt. "we will send back for you, leila," said her aunt. "no, i want to walk there with john." the captain looked up surprised, "why, yes, with pleasure." she came down in her rain-cloak. "take a large umbrella, john. how it blows!" as they set off in the face of a rain-whipped wind, he said, "take my arm, leila--the other side--the sound arm." "you were in pain at dinner, john." "it is my familiar devil, the east wind, but don't talk of it." she understood him, and returned, "i will not if you don't wish me to talk of it. where have you been all these uneasy days?" "oh, at the mills. uncle refuses to speak of business and i am trying to understand the situation--some one must." "i see--you must explain it all to me later." "i will. one of the mill men of my corps needed help. i have asked tom to see him. how depressed mr. rivers seems. gracious, how it rains!" "yes, he is at his worst. i am sorry you missed his sermon on sunday--it was great. he talked about lincoln, and used a text i gave him some time ago." "what was it?" "it is in exodus: 'ye have seen what i did unto the egyptians and how i bare you on eagles' wings, and brought you unto myself.'" john's ready imagination began for a silent moment to play with the words. "how did he use it, leila?" "oh, he told the preceding story briefly, and then his great seeking eyes wandered a little and he said, 'think how the uplift of god's eagles' wings enlarged their horizon!' then he seemed to me to have the idea that they might not comprehend, so he made one of those eloquent pauses and went on to say, 'you can all, like lincoln, rise as he rose from the lesser things of a hard life to see more widely and more surely the duties of life. the eagle-wings of god's uplifting power are for you, for me, for all of us.' he made them understand." "i am sorry i missed it. i spent the sunday morning with my engineer." "aren't you getting wet, john?" "no. how did he end?" "what i did not like was the dwelling on lincoln's melancholy, and the effort it must have cost him--at times. it seemed to me, john, as if he was preaching to himself. i wonder if clergymen often preach to themselves. some of us have to. the sketch of lincoln's life was to me a wonder of terse biography. at the close he did not dwell on the murder, but just said--'then--and then, my friends, god took him to himself.'" "thank you, leila. what a lot of wagons--we must have half the county--and in this rain too." "now, john, you hate this affair, and so do i; but the westways people think it great fun, and in the last few years they have had very little." "_ni moi non plus, mademoiselle grey._" "yes, yes," she said, "i know, john, but make it go--make it gay, john. it will soon be over." "i will try." they left their wet garments in an empty outer room and entering by a side door stood beside the raised platform at the end of the crowded hall. quite a hundred villagers or farming people, young and old, filled the room, and the air was oppressively heavy. at one end on a raised platform the colonel was seated, and near by his wife well pleased to see him smiling as he recognized here and there some of the farmers who had been the playmates of his youth. john stood by the long table on which, covered by sheets, lay the articles for sale. rivers came forward to the front of the platform, leaving leila, who declined to sit down, at one side with mr. grace and the two mcgregors. the murmur of voices ceased; there was an appearance of expectant attention. rivers raised a hand, and said, "you are all, i am sure, most glad to welcome the friend who like others among you has paid so dearly for keeping unbroken the union of the states." loud applause followed, as he paused. "an occasion like this brings together young and old for good-humoured fun, and may remind you of a similar meeting years ago. this is to be a rummage-auction of useful things out of use, and of useless things. if you will explain why anybody wants useless things i shall know why some of you come to hear me preach or"--with a slight pause--"my friend, grace." every one laughed, and john and leila alike felt that rivers had struck the right note. "captain john penhallow"--loud plaudits--"captain john penhallow will mention the articles for sale. now, as you see, they are all hidden--some of them i have never seen. whoever makes the highest bid of the sale for the most useless article will collect the whole product--the whole proceeds of the sale, and"--he laughed--"will pay it over to the girl about to be married." this was really great fun, and even john felt some relief as the hall rang with merry laughter. only tom mcgregor was grave while he watched the colonel. as rivers spoke, colonel penhallow stood up, swayed a little, straightened his tall figure, and waving rivers aside said, "i shall now conduct this sale." this was only a pleasant surprise to the audience, and was welcomed with noisy hands. the two mcgregors exchanged looks of anxious alarm as the colonel said, "now, john!" mrs. penhallow smiled approval. john uncovered a corner of the nearest sheet and brought out a clock without hands. "first article! who'll bid? i think the hands have all struck like the mill-hands down east. five cents--do i hear ten? going--gone," cried the colonel. a rag doll came next and brought a penny. there was high bidding over a heavy band-box. when it went for half a dollar to mrs. crocker and was found to contain a shrivelled pumpkin of last year's crop, the audience wildly congratulated the post-mistress. john, who was now thoroughly in the spirit of their fun, produced two large apples. "now what daughter of eve will bid," said the elated colonel. leila laughing bid fifty cents. "going--gone." "look out for the serpent, miss grey," said grace. leila handed the apples to a small girl, who losing no time followed eve's remote example. "oh, mother!" she cried, "it's got a five-dollar piece in it--most broke my new tooth." "the root of all evil," said grace. there were pots that were cracked or bottomless, old novels, and to the evident dismay of john a favourite smoking jacket. ann clapped her hands with delight as john shook at her a finger of reproach. then came tied up in paper, which john unrolled, the long-forgotten cane of his youth, and how it got there the squire or billy may have known. john bid, but at a warning signal from leila gave up, as she recaptured her property. there were other apples, with and without money; and so with fun and merriment the sale went on to westways' satisfaction. "what's this," said john, with an unpleasant shock of annoyance as he uncovered the colonel's war-worn uniform. he hesitated, looking towards his uncle who seemed bewildered. "that's that rascal, billy--it's a mistake," exclaimed the colonel. "no, sir," shouted billy, "squire told me to take 'em. there's a sword too. squire said it wasn't any use now." no one laughed; it was obviously one of billy's blunders. john put the worn uniform and the sword aside and threw a cover over them. it was an unpleasant reminder of the colonel's state of mind and disturbed the little group at one side of the stage. john made haste to get away from it. "last article for sale--it's large and must be bought covered up. who will bid?" amid laughter the bids rose. at a dollar and ten cents it fell to mrs. pole, and proved when uncovered to be another band-box. mrs. pole came forward, and ann penhallow pleased to have been able to amuse her husband said, "we are curious, mrs. pole, open it." mrs. pole obeyed, and as she held up the rolled package it dropped into the unmistakable form of a man's breeches. westways exploded into wild applause, understanding joyously this freak of fortune. mrs. pole joined in their merriment, and the carpenter punched the butcher in the ribs for emphasis, as he said, "how's that, pole?" the butcher made use of unpleasant language, as john relieved said, "the sale is over. you can settle with mr. grace." as he spoke he moved over to where leila stood beside the two mcgregors. the people rose and put on their cloaks preparing to leave. then john heard tom mcgregor say, "look out, father! something is going to happen." the colonel moved forward unsteadily. his face flushed, grew pale, and something like a grimace distorted his features, as he said, "the sale is not over, sit down." people took their places again wondering what was to come. then with the clear ringing voice the cavalry lines knew in far-away indian wars, he cried, "we will now sell the most useless article in westways. who'll buy silly billy?" "can't sell me," piped out billy's thin voice as he fled in alarm, amid laughter. "the sale is over, uncle," said john. "no, sir--don't interrupt. i'd like to sell swallow." this was much to their taste. "guess he's sold a many of us," cried an old farmer. "why, he's dead," said mrs. crocker. the colonel's gaze wandered. the little group of friends became hopelessly uneasy; even mrs. ann ceased to smile. "you stand up, polly somers--you are the handsomest girl in the county," which was quite true. the girl, who was near by, sat still embarrassed. "get up," said penhallow sharply. "she's withdrawed these three months," cried a ready-witted young farmer. "oh, is she? well, then, we will go on." tom mcgregor went quietly up the two steps to the platform. all those who were near to the much-loved master of grey pine stood still aware of something wrong and unable to interfere. rivers alone moved towards him and was put aside by an authoritative gesture. the moment of silence was oppressive, and leila was hardly conscious of the movement which carried her up beside dr. mcgregor to the level of the platform. "oh, do something," she whispered; "please do something." "it is useless--this can't last." "uncle jim," she exclaimed in her despair, and what more she would have urged was unheard or unsaid as the colonel turned towards her and cried, "one more for sale!" no one spoke. at last these various people who loved the man well saw more or less clearly that he was no longer their james penhallow of other days. he went on at once with raised voice: "last sale--leila grey--likely young woman--warranted sound--single or double harness. fetch her up." his confusion of mind was painfuly apparent. "who'll bid?" a suppressed titter rose from the younger people. "she is withdrawn, uncle," said john penhallow distinctly. "ah! who did you say--like polly, owner withdraws her--can't you speak out?" "i said, withdrawn, sir," john repeated. as he spoke he saw the colonel stagger backwards and sink into his chair; his face became white and twitched; his head fell to one side; he breathed stertorously, flushed slightly, and was instantly as one asleep. ann penhallow and the two doctors were at his side. rivers called out, "leave the room, all of you, please. open the windows, grace!" "is he dead?" asked ann of mcgregor. "no, no--it is a slight fit--there is no danger." a moment later penhallow opened his eyes, sat up, and said, "where am i? what's all this about?" john said, "a bit faint, uncle. the carriage is waiting." he staggered to his feet, and seizing rivers's arm followed ann and john in silence. with rivers they were driven back to grey pine. of all ann penhallow's schemes to amuse or interest her husband this had been the most utter failure. every one had gone from the hall when john missing leila returned to the outer room to put on his cloak. the boy-cap leila liked to wear in bad weather, her rain-cloak, his umbrella, were as they had been left. he stood still in the first moment available for thought and knew that here was a new trouble. she must have been so shocked and ashamed as to have fled in the rain eager to get away. neither he nor any man could have realized what she felt as her uncle talked wildly--and she had been put up for sale. she used none of the resources of reason. all her body was hot with the same flush of shame which burned in her face. in her passion of disgust and anger, she hurried out into the storm. the chill of the east wind was friendly. she gave no other thought to the wind-driven rain, but ran through the woods like a wild thing, all virginal woman, unreasonable, insulted, angry as a child is angry--even her uncle was forgotten. she ran upstairs, the glory of her rain-soaked hair in tumbled disorder, and in her room broke into the open speech which passion confides to the priest solitude. "oh, john penhallow, how could you! that ends it--a man who could--and oh, john penhallow!" she cried a little, wailing in a childish way, and then with some returning sense of anxiety put herself in condition to go downstairs, where she learned that her uncle was in bed. she went back to her room. chapter xxxii a half hour later john sat alone in the library. he had much to disturb a young man trained to obey and at need command, and was feeling the responsibility of an unusual position. at last he wrote a note to his aunt and sent it up to her by a maid. in a few minutes ann penhallow appeared. "what is it, john? i cannot leave james alone long." she sat down. "now don't keep me." "i need not detain you long, but i feel that you ought to know, aunt ann, that i have had a talk with tom mcgregor and have sent a telegram to dr. askew desiring him to come at once and see my uncle. i ought to hear to-morrow." she rose to her feet. "you did this, john, without a word to me and knowing that your uncle has over and over said he would not listen to anything of the kind. you have taken a great liberty--i shall telegraph for your doctor not to come. james is always better after these attacks." much surprised, he said, "these attacks--has he had them before?" "oh, twice--very slight." "but, aunt, do you not understand how serious this one was?" "he is better already--much better. there should not be any need to remind you that you are not the head of this house. i shall telegraph at once, in the morning, and stop him." "it will be too late, aunt." "then your doctor may go back. i will not see this doctor if in spite of my telegram he should come. you will understand, john, that this ends it. i certainly will not have james constantly irritated. i shall telegraph now--at once." "you will do, aunt, as it seems best to you." he saw the telegram written and heard her order to send it to the westways office. his aunt, having settled the matter, went upstairs, an angry and indignant woman, leaving in the library a man resolute not to accept defeat. he wrote a second message: "disregard mrs. penhallow's telegram. come at once. fee at discretion. will meet you at westways crossing." he roused up josiah and gave his order. "ride to the mills and get this despatch sent to-night or early to-morrow--oh, to-night, somehow. it is important. pay some one--only get it sent. here are five dollars." he was of no mind to meet either leila or his aunt, and to escape them breakfasted early next morning, and riding to the mills was pleased to avoid another painful interview. on his return at evening the dinner at grey pine was made rather less uncomfortable by the presence of rivers who talked to ann penhallow while the colonel dozed in his armchair. accustomed to have her decisions obeyed in her home, ann penhallow had now dismissed the question of a consultation as settled, and had quite lightly mentioned to leila that john had revived the subject and that she had once for all put an end to it. she was sorry to have had to be so positive, but was pleased to be done with the matter in dispute. she little knew the young soldier. when he was certain that the consultant would come, he began to consider what he would do if his aunt did simply refuse to see dr. askew. she might, in fact, be as resolute as her nephew. in her trouble about her husband's mishap, ann penhallow hardly regarded her niece's unpleasant share in the sad ending of the rummage-sale--it was relatively of no moment. nor would the girl herself have been willing to discuss it. john penhallow should have held his tongue, and now all westways must be laughing--and she would never--never--forgive him. evidently her aunt had scolded him about that consultation. she had a little curiosity to know how he had taken it and how he looked when he came to match the will of his young manhood against the unreasonable obstinacy of the woman he had been taught to obey. she observed next day at breakfast that john was more than usually gay, as he asked if there were any errands. there were none. he loitered about waiting and at last went out to the back porch where he stood a minute looking over the box hedge which bounded the garden. leila was busy taking tribute from the first roses of the summer days. as she bent over, she let them fall one by one into the basket at her feet. now and then she drew up her tall figure, and seemed to john as she paused to be deep in thought. when she became aware of his approach, she fell again to harvesting roses. he said, "leila, before i go to the mills, i want to talk with you about what is troubling me. in fact--" without looking up she broke into his attempt to explain himself, "i am in no mood to discuss anything, john penhallow." he was frankly puzzled. of the many leilas, this was a new acquaintance, but he said quietly, "it is necessary to make a statement--i want first to explain." she refreshed her rising anger with words. "i do not want any explanation--there are things no woman can pardon. i was insulted." "my dear leila, upon my honour i do not know what you mean." she was near to saying, "i am not yours, or dear." something in the look of the attentive face and the calmness of his manner put her on guard, and she said only, "that is, i presume, because you are not a woman." he said, "i do not regret that, but you clearly are thinking of one thing and i of another. it must be the rummage-sale. i have no desire to discuss that sorrowful business, miss grey. you have quite misapprehended me. it is of uncle jim i want to talk--in fact, to ask advice." "i did not understand," she said, flushing a little. his formal manner was very unpleasant, and to be called miss grey was ridiculous. if he had shown anger or even annoyance it would have eased the situation. he went on to explain himself, rather aware of her embarrassment and not altogether sorry for her mishap. "i said i want help--advice. i have sent for prof. askew. aunt ann has telegraphed him not to come. i wired him to disregard her message. he has answered me that he will be here at the house, if the train is on time, about six to-day. it is our last hope, but it is a hope. aunt ann must see this gentleman--i say she must. now, how can it be managed?" leila let fall a handful of roses into the basket and faced him. "take time," he said. "i do really need help--how can i make aunt ann see this famous surgeon? take time," he repeated. here was for leila a rather astonishing revelation of resolute aggressive manhood--a new john penhallow. relieved to have been taken out of her angry mood, she stood still a moment while he waited on her counsel. "there is but one way," she said, "it is the only way. i do not like it--whether you will be willing to accept it, i do not know." "and still you advise it?" "i do not." "well, what is it?" "at about six every afternoon, when uncle jim is asleep, aunt ann is almost certain to be in her little library-room. take dr. askew in, present him, and walk out. she will hate it, but she is sure to be what she is always to a guest. he will have his chance." "thank you, miss grey."--how she hated that!--"you have helped me." he touched his army cap in salute and left her alone. at the garden gate he looked back--miss grey was also looking back, and vexed at being thus caught bent down again and cut buds and roses with sharp nips of the scissors. it was not in the nature or breeding of john penhallow to like leila's plan for securing to the surgeon a chance to impose on a reluctant woman a clearly stated opinion which otherwise she might have the courage to disregard. but what else could he do? a little after six he met the carriage far down the avenue and walked slowly to the house with the younger mcgregor and the surgeon. "you are most welcome," said john. "dr. mcgregor has, i trust, told you of our difficulties with my aunt?" askew smiled. "yes; it is no uncommon case. i may add that dr. mcgregor's letters have satisfied me that an immediate operation offers the only and too long delayed chance of success. i must, of course, see mrs. penhallow--the sooner the better." "yes--pray follow me." he led the way across the hall, opened the library door, and said to the astonished lady, "prof. askew, aunt ann." then he went out. well aware of being trapped, mrs. penhallow stood up and apparently at perfect ease said, "you must have had a very tiresome journey." "not very," he returned, as he accepted a seat. then the little lady sat up and said, "you must pardon me if i say that this consultation has been brought about by my nephew against my husband's wishes." "and your own?" "yes, my own." "i so understand it. may i say in my defence that i missed your telegram and only saw it when it was sent after me on the train, but now i am here." she had not the courage to say what she would have liked to say, and he went on. "general hancock saw me a day or two back. what he said of your husband gave me at once a personal interest in him. isn't it odd how one is brought to realize what a small place our world is? i was at port delaware before the war ended and saw there--i was on inspection duty--a confederate colonel, henry grey--a prisoner. is he not a relation of the handsome miss grey we met on the avenue?" "my niece. he is my brother." "indeed! i gave some advice about his wound--it was not serious. may i talk to you a little about your husband?" she felt herself cornered, and could not escape without discourtesy, of which she was quite incapable; "or," he added, "may i not rather talk first to colonel penhallow, and later to you? it is, i take it, his view of this very grave matter which naturally influences you." for the briefest of moments she made no reply. then she stood up and felt the force conveyed in the personality of george askew, as he towered over her, a man of unusual height. she looked up at the large kind face the long sad wards knew so well. the lines of thought were deeply graven below a broad forehead thinly crowned with yellow hair now fast greying. he showed no sign of impatience. "yes," she said, "that will be better--you must see mr. penhallow before you talk to me. if he consents to do what you want to do--i--well, dr. askew, i am just now too angry to reason. have the kindness to follow me." she was unwilling to give her husband any more choice than john penhallow had given her. if the colonel became irritable and declined to accept the visit of this impressive personage as a surgeon, well, that must of course end the matter. but as he went upstairs behind her, there arose in her mind a storm-battered hope. the surgeon was smiling and so far pleased. he was greatly interested in the case he was about to see. it had excited some discussion as unusual, and the unusual in surgery or medicine has many times been the guide to broad highways of usefulness where the daring of the one has made easy the way for the many. now he meant to win the confidence of the man, if he proved sane enough to reason. he might also have to make more complete his conquest of this coldly civil hostess. it was for him an old game, and he played it with tact and skill. she paused at the door. "pray wait a moment, doctor. no--he has wakened, i hear him." he stopped her. "before we see the colonel--before i see him--i want you to be heartily in accord with any decision we may reach. there are but two courses which seem to me possible, and i do want you to feel sure that either you will have to watch a mind crumble hopelessly or, if we succeed, see one of those amazing recoveries which are like the dawning of day. i say this most earnestly, because your hearty help may be wanted. if he says _no_ to our decision, his fate may really rest with your will to stand by me." this was pretty hard, and no time was given for discussion. she looked up at the kind pleading face, and while feeling that she must yield, hesitated--so distinctly hesitated that the surgeon's brow became severely grave as the furrows between the eyes deepened in growing wonder. he took her hand as if to get into some personal touch with a woman whose opposition he could not understand. "you will help me? in this man's condition a word may win or lose a game in which the stake is a life--oh, that is little--or the restoration of a noble, useful mind. i know you will help me." she looked down, and said faintly, "yes." "thank you." he smiled--"bless me! what a little hand," he said, as he let it fall. she opened the door and as he followed her, stepped aside, saying bravely, "here is a friend, james. you will like to see dr. askew." he took the chair she set at the bedside, while the colonel regarded him suspiciously, saying, "i think i heard of you after gettysburg." "yes, i took care of general hancock. a lot of us went down to help. curious case his--a ball hit the pommel of his saddle and drove a nail into his leg." "yes, i heard of it. it was thought they were firing nails--queer that!" askew seized on the moment of illumined intelligence, wondering what dull surgeon had set in this man's mind an obsession which forbade all other opinion. "hancock will suffer long--but now, about you--did no one think you could be relieved by an operation? take your time to answer me." penhallow, groping in the confusion of remote memories, returned, "i seem to recall--yes--it was talked of--" "but not done? some one is responsible for these years of pain. you do suffer?" "oh, my god! yes. i try to bear it." his eyes filled. "is it too late?" "no," said askew, "it is not." what doubt he had he put aside. "then we will see to-morrow." "an operation!" said ann, alarmed. a look conquered her. "you will do, james, whatever dr. askew wishes?" "i will--but don't make me talk any more, ann--my head aches." askew rose. "please to send up the drs. mcgregor. may i make use of another room?" "yes, of course." ann penhallow found dr. tom and his father on the porch with leila and john. she said, "take the doctors up to my own room, leila, and i want to talk with john--there are some arrangements to make." leila, guiltily conscious of her share in securing the surgeon's interview with her aunt, was glad to accept the hint and the chance to escape. ann sat down beside john, and said, "john, why did you trick me into a talk with dr. askew?" "because, aunt, you said you would not see him--and it was necessary." "you took me too literally." "i took you at your word--something had to be done. if it fails, we are no worse off." "but it may fail--oh! what if it does, john." "aunt ann, i am in despair. listen to me; no, i must talk it out. the agreement with uncle's old partners ended with the war. things at the mills are in confusion--what is to be done? i asked uncle jim to give me a power of attorney to act for him. he refused. you supported him. delay is ruinous, and yet we can do nothing. you are vexed with me--yes--you have not given me my morning kiss for days. leila is unreasonably angry with me because that dreadful night i did the only thing possible in my power to stop my uncle. i am most unhappy. i sometimes think i had better go away and look for work as an engineer, and--you did love me once." he rose and walked up and down the porch silent; he had emptied mind and heart. then he paused before her. she was crying, as she said, "don't reproach me, john--i can't bear it--i have had to bear too much to-day--and you were so naughty." he leaned over and kissed her forehead. "john," she said, "there is to be an operation to-morrow. it is terrible. may the good god be kind to him and us. now go away--i want to be alone. see that dr. askew is well cared for." "certainly, aunt ann." he had won his battle. at dinner the doctor was at pains to dispel the gloom which, as he well knew, falls on those who love when one of the critical hours of life approaches. when they left the table he went into the library with the doctors and john, where they smoked many pipes and talked war. at breakfast next day askew's account of his early morning drew a smile even from ann penhallow. "sleep! yes, i suppose i slept. there was a blank of some hours. i am apt to waken early. at dawn there was a bright red-eyed sky, then it clouded as if the eyes had shut. a little later miss grey rode away on a chestnut horse. i walked through your garden and an unseen lady gave me this rose-bud. i had a joyful swim. as i came back i saw captain penhallow ride away--and why not with you, miss grey? you may perceive that i am a dangerous man to entertain. if you do not prefer better society, may i ask to ride with you to-morrow?" "what better society?" asked leila. "oh, miss grey, alone--by herself." the two young people understood the charitable gaiety of his talk, but although one of them at least was feeling a sudden access of relief the quick jesting chat and laughter became distressing to ann penhallow. at last she rose and excused herself, saying, "another cup? my niece will give it to you." "one moment," he returned--his face became grave. "i shall operate early this morning. you must go out-of-doors--the porch--i suggest the porch. i shall send down dr. mcgregor to tell you frankly the result of my operation. i want captain penhallow, and with him and the two mcgregors we shall care for my patient. i hope the doctors will let you see the colonel in a week. i shall trespass on your hospitality for two days more." "i could wish it were a week. i shall do precisely what you desire." john penhallow caught some signal of amused surprise in leila's looks. he checked his own smile of partnership in mirth at ann penhallow's sudden subjugation, feeling that with leila the intimacies of mirth were at an end. ann took her knitting and went out upon the back porch. "how many rows can i knit until i hear? no, leila--i want to be alone. here is a note from mr. rivers. the bishop met him at harrisburg and carried him off to philadelphia. i hope there is no scheme to take him away. now go, dear." she heard the voices of the mcgregors as they went upstairs. she sat alone and waited. among the friends who know me only through my summer-born books, there must be many who can recall such hours of suspense as ann penhallow endured. the clock in the hall struck ten. a little later her keen sense made her aware of the faint odour of ether from the open windows on the second floor. she let fall her work, went down the garden path, and walked with quick steps among the firstlings of june. then came tom mcgregor swiftly, and in his smiling face she read good news. "it is all right," he said; "it is over. there was a fracture of the fragile inner layer of the bone--a piece was pressing on the brain--it was easily removed. the doctor is very much pleased. oh, my dear mrs. penhallow, there are better days ahead for you and him. now, i must go back." "thank god!" she said, "and--and you--and--john. god forgive me, i have been a fool!" the next two days went by without incident. askew rode, walked, and had no news for her except, "he is doing well." he would say no more. what hours of doubt, of watchful fear, he had, she never knew. on the morning of the third day, while the carriage waited to carry him away, mrs. penhallow led him into her library. "now," she said, with her cheque-book open before her, "we owe you a debt none can pay, but let me offer you my most humble apologies for my behaviour when you came." "please, don't," he returned. "but i had to. and now, let me know what is our lesser and more material debt?" he rose, smiling. "it has been my happy, unbroken rule to take nothing from any soldier who served in this sad war--oh! on either side. i have made, i hope, some friends. the colonel asked to-day about a horse dixy--i think--and when could he ride. you may imagine my pleasure. he will get well, but you must be patient. i leave him in competent hands, and in the fall i mean to come back and shoot your woodcocks. good-bye." he was gone. chapter xxxiii a week later ann penhallow was told that she might see her husband. she entered his bedroom with timidity. "oh, ann, my most dear ann!" he cried, as she kissed him. his expression of recovered intelligence overcame her for a moment. she faltered, "how are you feeling, james--any better?" "better--i am well." "hardly, dear--do be careful." she was unable to accept as a wholesome reality this amazing resurrection of a mind. he understood her need for some reassurance, and said, "don't worry about me, ann. it is like a vague dream, all these many months--but a dream you know fades fast. my own memories get clearer--some things are quite lost--some are as distinct as if they happened yesterday. the war is a puzzle to me--and--if i try to remember, it confuses me. but i must not talk war to you--i do remember that. i won't do it again, dear." there was something so childlike in this that it almost overcame the woman's steadily guarded calm. she had been warned to be careful that there should be no excitement to agitate a mind which was slowly groping its way out of the shadows of half-illumined memories. "oh, my dear james," she said quietly, "talk of war or anything; it is over." despite her cautious command of her voice it trembled with emotion as she said, "nothing is of any moment but you--you. what do i care for the war or--or anything but to have you as you were? oh, my god! i am thankful." it disturbed him, as she saw. he felt and looked puzzled as he said, "i see--i am not quite clear-headed yet, ann." "no, but you will be. don't try too hard, james. we must be patient and wait." "i will--i will--and it is such a relief to have no pain and to see you." then as he asked about leila and the mill work, the younger doctor came in and said, "time is up, mrs. penhallow." "what--already, tom?" "but i want to know more," said the colonel. "wasn't there a rummage-sale--" "yes; but now you must let mrs. penhallow go. you are mending daily. to-morrow mrs. penhallow may come again, and there will be to-morrow, and many happy to-morrows." she went out and downstairs singing in a low sweet voice--a long lost habit. if to watch with an aching heart the hopeless decay of a mind be the most distressing of all human trials, surely there can be few greater joys than to see a disordered intellect emerge day by day into possession of its long lost capacities. james penhallow was soon able to sign a power of attorney enabling john to reconstruct the old partnership with his own name added to the firm. very soon town and county shared in the growth of prosperity which followed the war. rivers was the only one who was not what his friends desired, and never was his melancholy mood more noticeable. the master of grey pine was, of course, many months in recovering his normal state of mind. the man's bodily strength had not been seriously impaired, and the return of his natural gaiety and his eager resumption one by one of his old habits filled his home with that cheerfulness which is the relieving and precious gift of convalescence. penhallow's remembrances of the war were rapidly recovered as he talked to john, but much of his recent life was buried in the strange graveyard of memory, which gave up no reminding ghosts of what all who loved the man feared might haunt him. when satisfied of the certainty of his uncle's recovery john penhallow hurt by leila's continual coldness and seeing for it no reasonable explanation gave more and more time to the mills in which the family fortunes were so seriously concerned. on the first of september he was glad to go away on business which carried him to several of the large cities, and resulted in orders which would keep the works busy for many months. he no longer wrote to leila, nor did he expect letters from her. he considered any nearer relation than friendship to be at an end, but to lose that also seemed to him a quite too needlessly cruel loss, and now for the first time on returning he approached grey pine without pleasure. he had telegraphed to have a horse sent to meet him at westways crossing, that he might ride on to the mills after seeing his uncle. having taken the night train, it was about noon when leila saw him coming up the avenue. she went forward to the roadside and as he sat in the saddle shook his hand, saying, "i am sorry you were delayed, john. you will be disappointed to know that uncle jim and aunt ann left home yesterday." she wished that he had not quite so clearly shown the limits of his regret, as he said quietly, "well, i shall miss them, of course." "a letter from aunt's brother, henry grey, asked them to visit him at the old maryland home. i think it both pleased and surprised aunt ann. i am to join them later. josiah is to matronize me--or, if you like, patronize me. uncle jim was delighted to be asked and hopes to reconcile the brothers. henry's letter was very kind, but he is still suffering from his wound. of course, aunt ann was happy." he looked down at the upturned face as he sat in the saddle. she had given him no warm word of personal welcome. "well, it can't be helped. i had much to talk over with uncle." then he laughed. "what amuses you, john?" "oh, i should like to see the interview. both uncle jim and i had queer encounters with henry grey." "uncle jim!--what--when?" "ask him. i should have liked to add george grey to the party. as for your uncle henry"--john smiled--"a serious wound is rather productive of the unexpected, as i know. i will see you at dinner--now i must go on to the mills." he rode away thinking without pleasure of being alone with leila. the presence of the maids who waited at dinner kept their conversation on the colonel's rapid gain in health, village incidents, and the mill life--mere loitering disconnected talk of no interest except to fill the hour of two people who would have preferred to be silent. john said, as he rose from the table, "i have a letter to write, leila, and so i must leave you to the better company of your book." once--but a little while ago--he would have asked what book was now on hand. "any messages for aunt or uncle?" "none--i wrote this morning." he sat down in the library at his old desk and wrote: "dear leila"--then he stood up--the easy freedom of the letter was denied to him. he was in the mood when outspoken speech, always for him the more natural way of expressing himself, became imperative. he went back to the hall. the book lay face down on her lap. "what is it, john?" she asked. "i want to talk to you--not here. come into the library; those maids hear everything." "certainly," she said, "if you want me." she sat down, and john leaning against the mantel and looking down at her, said, "i came in here to write to you what is not easy to write or say--i prefer to put it into speech." "indeed! i am quite ready to listen." "after your recent treatment of me, i have no inclination to make myself needlessly unpleasant. you have made it plain to me that what my heart longs for is to be put aside forever. there is something due to a man's self-respect. but if you were a man, leila, i could say more easily something else. are we--am i to lose also your friendship--or is even that at an end?" the blue eyes became less adventurous as she said, "i don't understand you, john." "i think you do. long as i have known you, i cannot have known you fully. blake used to say that everybody is several people, and just now--here has come into my life some one i don't know--and don't want to know." "indeed! it must be rather confusing to be several people. your friend, mr. blake, as your letters showed, was rather given to enigmatical statements. i should like to know him. would you please, john, to bring me my fan--i left it in that delightful book you interrupted." "certainly," he said, now a trifle more at ease. for leila to ask of any one such a service was so unlike her that he felt it to be a betrayal of embarrassment, and was humorously pleased as he went and came again. she took the fan and played with that expressive piece of a woman's outfit while john brought the talk back to its starting-point. "cannot you be the leila i used to know--a frank girl; or are you to use one of your many disguises and just leave things as they have been of late?" "if you will say plainly just what you mean, john"--the fan was in active use--"i will be as frank as possible." "but you may not like it, leila." "oh, go on. i know you are going to be unpleasant." he looked at her with surprise. "we are fencing--and i hate it. once at west point i was fencing with a man, my friend; the button broke off my foil and i hurt him seriously. he fell dead beside me in the trenches at vicksburg--dead!" "oh, john!"--the fan ceased moving. "what i mean is that one may chance, you or i, to say something that will leave in memory that which no years will blot out. don't be vexed with me. i have had a cruel summer. what with uncle jim and aunt ann--and now with you, i--well--you told me after that dreadful night when uncle jim was so wild that i had insulted you--" "don't talk of it," she cried. "i was put to shame before all those grinning people. you ought to have said nothing--or something better than that farmer boy said--" "well--perhaps, leila; but the point is not _what_ i said in my desire to help you and stop a man for the time insane. the point is that i did not insult you; for an insult to be really that it must be intentional." "then you think i was unreasonably angry?" "yes, i do; and ever since then you have been coldly civil. i cannot stand it. i shall never again ask you for what you cannot give, but if you are to continue to resent what i said, then grey pine is no home for me." she stood up, the fan falling to the floor. "what do you want me to say, john penhallow?" "wait a little--just a word more. it was what poor uncle jim said that hurt you. you could not turn on him; in your quite natural dismay or disgust you turned on me, who meant only to help in a dreadful situation. you know i am right"--his voice rose as he went on--"it is i, not you, who am insulted. if you were a man, i should ask for an apology; as you are the woman i have hopelessly loved for years, i will not ask you to say you were wrong--i do not want you to say that. i want you to say you are sorry you hurt me." "i am sorry i hurt you, john. will that do?"--her eyes were filling. "yes--but--" "but what?" "oh, i want you to feel sorry." "don't say any more," she returned. "let us be friends again." she put out her hand, he took it, picked up her fan, laid it on the table, and saying "thank you!" opened the door towards which she moved and closed it after her. "and so"--she kept saying to herself--"we are to be no more than friends." she sat still staring across the hall, trying to read. she was fast losing control of the woman who was fenced in by social rule and custom, trained to suppress emotion and to be the steady mistress of insurgent passion. "my god," she murmured, "i should never have been angry when he bought me, if i had not loved him--and now it is all over--perhaps!" some readjustment there may have been, for when he reentered the hall an hour later, she was reading. he said, as she looked up, "i mean to have a long tramp to-morrow. i shall start early and walk to the mills and on to the ore-beds. then i shall return over the hills back of westways, and bring you, i hope, a few wood-pigeons. i may be a little late for dinner." "but, john, it is quite twelve miles, and you will have to carry a gun--and your arm--" john laughed happy laughter. "that was so like aunt ann!" "was it?--and now you will say 'yes, yes, you are quite right,' and walk away and do just as you meant to do, like uncle jim." "i may, but i will not walk further than grey pine." the air had cleared--he had done some good! "good-night," he said, "it is late." "don't go too far, john. i shall read a while. this book is really so interesting. we will talk about it." "good-night, once more." the woman he left in the hall laid her book aside. her unreasonable vexation had gone, defeated by the quiet statement of his simply confessed unhappiness. she looked about the hall and recalled their youth and the love of which she still felt sure. the manliness of his ways appealed to her sense of the value of character. why she had been so coldly difficult of approach she did not know. what woman can define that defensive instinct? "he shall ask me again, and i--ah, heaven!--i love him." a wild passionate longing shook her as she rose to her feet. at early morning john wandered away through the woods feeling the joyful relief from the hot air of cities. after his visit to the mills and the iron-mines, he struck across a somewhat unfamiliar country, found few birds, and the blackened ravage of an old forest fire. he returned to the well-known river-bank below the garden and the pines, and instead of going to grey pine as he had meant to do went on as far as the cabin, failing to get any more birds. he had walked some fourteen miles, and was reminded by a distinct sense of fatigue that the body had not yet regained its former vigour. it was about five of the warm september day when he came to the old log-house. smiling as he recalled the memories of his childhood, he went into the cabin and found its shelter pleasant and the cooling air of evening grateful. he took off his game bag, laid it on the floor, set his gun against the wall, and glad of a rest sat down. having enjoyed his first smoke of the day, he let his head drop on the floor, and by no means intending it fell asleep. leila too was in a happier mood, and sure of not meeting john set out to walk through the forest. after a pleasant loitering stroll she stopped at the cabin door, and as she glanced in saw john penhallow asleep. she leaned against the door post and considered the motionless sleeper in the shadows of the closing day. she was alone with him--alone as never before. he would neither question nor make answer. strange thoughts came into her mind, disturbing, novel. how could he sleep without a pillow? it must be an army habit after tent-less nights of exhaustion in the deadly trenches. people--men--had tried to kill this living silent thing before her; and he too--he too had wanted to kill. she wondered at that as with the motion of a will-less automaton she drew nearer step by step. her feet unwatched struck the half-filled game-bag. she stumbled, caught her breath, and had a moment of fear as she hung the bag on the wooden hook upon which as a child she used to hang her sun-bonnet. then again some natural yearning moved her, and unresisting as in a dream she drew still nearer--merely a woman in an unguarded moment once again under the control of a great passion which knew no social rule of conduct nor the maiden modesties of a serenely dutiful life. at each approach, she stood still, unashamed, innocent of guile, thrilling with emotion which before in quiet hours had been felt as no more disturbing than the wandering little breezes which scarcely stir the leafage of the young spring. she stood still until she won bodily mastery of this stormy influence with its faintly conveyed sense of maiden terror. her thoughts wandered as she looked down on the sleeper. in voiceless self-whispered speech she said, "ah me! he used to be so vexed when i said he was too young to ask me--a woman--to marry him. how young he looks now!" the wounded arm forever crippled lay across his breast. she caught her breath. "i wonder," she thought, "if we get younger in sleep--and then age in the daytime. good heavens! he is smiling like a baby. oh! but i should like to know what he is thinking of." there was unresisted fascination in the little drama of passionate love so long repressed. she knelt beside him, saw the one great beauty of the hardy bronzed face, the mouth now relaxed, with the perfect lip lines of a young antinous. she bent over him intent, reading his face as a child reads some forbidden book, reading it feature by feature as a woman reads for the first time with understanding a passionate love-poem. ah, if he would but open his eyes and then sleep again and never know. he moved, and she drew back ready for flight, shy and startled. and now he was quiet. "i must--i must," she murmured. "his lips? ah! would they forgive?--and--if, if he wakens, i shall die of shame. oh, naughty love of mine that was so cruel yesterday, i forgive you!" what would he do--must he do--if he wakened? the risk, the urgent passion of appealing love, gave her approach the quality of a sacred ceremonial. she bent lower, not breathing, fearful, helpless, and dropt on his forehead a kiss, light as the touch a honey-seeking butterfly leaves on an unstirred flower. he moved a little; she rose in alarm and backed to the door. "oh! why did i?" she said to herself, reproachful for a moment's delicious weakness. she looked back at the motionless sleeper, as she stood in the doorway. "why did i?--but then he does look so young--and innocent." once more in the world of custom, she fled through the forest shadows, and far away sank down panting. she caught up the tumbled downfall of hair, and suddenly another leila, laughed as she remembered that he would miss the game-bag he had set at his side. how puzzled he would be when he missed it. amused delight in his wondering search captured her. she saw again the beauty of his mouth and the face above it as she recalled what her aunt margaret grey had mischievously said to her, a girl, of james penhallow. "he has the one penhallow beauty--the mouth, but then he has that monumental penhallow nose--it might be in the way." she had not understood, but now she did, and again laughing went away homeward, not at all unhappy or repentant, for who would ever know, and love is a priest who gives absolution easily. chapter xxxiv in her room she went straight to the long cheval glass and looked at leila grey. "so, he will never ask me again?" the mirror reported a quite other answer. "mark rivers once said conscience runs down at times like a watch. i must have forgotten to wind up mine. how could i have done it!" she blushed a little at the remembrance. "well, he will never know." she dressed in white summer garb with unusual care and went down the stairs smiling. "the captain is not in yet," said the maid. she waited long for john penhallow, who had gone up the back stairs, and now at last came down to dinner. "excuse me, leila. i was so very tired that i fell asleep in the old cabin, but i had a noble tramp, and there are some birds, not many; i shot badly." he said no word of the displaced game-bag, which made her uneasy, but talked of the mills and of some trouble at the mines about wages. she pretended to be interested. after dinner, she said, "you will want to smoke--come into uncle jim's library. i like the pipe smell. how aunt ann detests it!" "has uncle jim gone back to his pipe?" he inquired, as she sat down. "yes, and aunt ann declares that she likes it now." "how pleasantly you women can fib," remarked john. she made no reply except, "well, sometimes." he did not fill his pipe although he lighted in succession two matches and let them burn out. "why don't you smoke, john?" this was a vague effort at the self-defence which she felt might be needed, the mood of the hour not being at all like the mood of two hours ago. "no," he replied, "not yet. where did you walk--or did you walk?" "oh, i took a little stroll through the woods." "did you chance to go by the old cabin?" this was very dreadful. "oh, one hardly remembers if one passes places seen every day. why do you ask, john?"--and then knew she was fatally blundering. "why? oh, i fell asleep, and when i woke up my game-bag had mysteriously hung itself on the wall." "you might have put it there and forgotten it." "no, some one must have been in the cabin." "oh, john, how stupid of us! why, of course, it was josiah." john was in a state of mind to enjoy the game, and shaking his head in negation said, "no, josiah passed me long before. he had a lot of frogs he caught in lonesome man's swamp." miss leila having exhausted all the possible explanations, said with sweet simplicity, "did you ever find out the origin of that name? who was the _lonesome man_? you see, john, lonesome seems to stand for lonely and sad, as mr. rivers said." this was rather too clever, but the young woman was so near detection as not to think wisely. john repeated her words, "lonely and sad." he had been humorously sure of his prey, but the words she used had the effect of bringing into direct speech the appeal she had been trying to evade and knew was near at hand. he stood leaning against the mantel, his crippled arm caught in his waistcoat. repeating her word "lonesome" "more than merely alone"--he put aside his pipe, the companion of many camp-fires. his moment of after-silence caused the blue eyes to question timidly with upward glance as their owner sat below him. he was very grave as he said, "i have come, leila, to a critical time in my life. i loved you in a boy's unmeaning way; i loved you as a lad and a man. i have said so often in one way or another. you told me at west point pretty plainly that--oh, you made it clear--that i was a boy asking a woman for her heart. it was years ago." "john, i--want to--" "well--later--now i mean to have my say. you were not altogether wrong. i told you that i should ask again when i had more to offer than a boy cadet. since then i have held my tongue, or said enough to be sure that your reply made clear that my time had not yet come. "you cannot know how much you have been a part of my life. i went gladly into the war because it was a righteous cause. no man thinks as he goes into action, this is for my country, but--well, leila, many times when men were falling around me, you have been with me. if a fatal ball had found me, i should have carried with me to another world a thought of you. this is not mere lover's talk. i believe in you--you are a noble-minded woman, worthy of any man's love, but"--and he smiled--"as josiah put it, you are rather numerous." "am i?--i am much obliged by josiah's study of my character." "don't, please, leila! it is true. i have been as good as my word. i have been through all that can tempt in camps and cities. i was only a young officer, but i have won praise from men whose praise is history. did you ever think that an honest love may be to a man like a second--an angelic--conscience? by heaven! leila, it should make a woman careful." the woman's eyes had long since been lost to the man's, as with bent head she listened intently, for the first time amazed at what she had been to a man whose ideals were of the highest and his ways beyond reproach. a coy upward lift of the proudly carried head--a mere glance of transient reply--too brief for the man to read--might have meant, "have not i too been careful of my life!" he went on slowly. "you and i have not been spared the discipline of responsibility. action, danger--helps a man. you at home have had the worst of it--you dear, sweet, beautiful thing. it would have made some women peevish or rebellious. you have grown under it in mind and heart, and i think the soul has fed the dear body. to have set you free from aunt ann's morbid unreason and the sorrow of uncle jim's condition would have been enough to repay my taking over responsibilities which aunt ann should have borne." "john--i--" "no, dear, let me say a word more. i have at last talked myself out--or almost. it is vain to put me aside again. you do not dare to say you do not love me--" "you have not asked me," she murmured. "no, i said i would not yesterday. a tender word would have brought me to your feet--and i was very sore." "if you were a woman, you would have understood and--" "oh, wait a little," he said. "you are going to ask me to marry you, leila grey--" she was on her feet. "take care," he cried, and a smile on the strong battle-tried face arrested her angry outburst. she said only, "why?--i ask--you--why indeed?" "because, leila, you owe it to my self-respect--because you have given that which implies love, and all i ask--" she looked up at him with eyes that implored pity, but all she found herself able to say was, "i don't understand." "you kissed me in the cabin this afternoon--i was not asleep--i had half risen when i heard you, and i fell back in wondering quiet to see what you would do or say when you should wake me up." she was silent. "and then you kissed me--" "oh, john! how wicked of you--why did you keep so still?" "i waited--longing." "for what?" "hoping you would kiss me again." "what! twice?" she cried. "how could you think i would kiss you twice--i was so ashamed--" "well, leila?" she began to feel that she was perilously close to tears, as he said softly, "leila grey!" "john penhallow, will you take me--oh, john! i love you." he caught her hand and touched it with his lips reverently. "if," she cried, "if you do not give me back my kiss, i shall die of shame." he bent over her and kissed her forehead lightly, as though he were in fear of too familiar approach to a thing too sacred for a rude caress. a great surf-like rush of comprehension swept over the woman. "was i so loved as this--so honoured?" then she said suddenly, "you are pale--are you in pain?" for she saw him grasp the wounded arm and set his teeth. "yes, yes--sometimes--when things happen--it wakes up and reminds me. i shall be better in a moment. take care"--for her arms were around him--"i think, dear, i am not yet as strong as i shall be--but love is a great tonic, and--i can bear no more to-night. i am in pain. i fear this has been too much for me." then he kissed her on lips that took it as a great draft from the fountain of youth and love. "to-morrow, dear, we will ride together--in the morning. ah, together!" "where--jack?" "oh, into fairyland! god bless you! great heavens, how beautiful you are! good-night!" she fell into a seat as he went out, and heard his feet on the stair--then he stood beside her again. "leila, forgive me--i was hard--uncourteous--to make you say--" "hush!" she cried, between tears and laughter, as she put her hand over his mouth, "no one shall abuse my jack--not even captain penhallow. there, sir! i deserved it." she ran by him, and was gone. i have not the pass-words into fairyland, and where they rode that morning in september is not within my knowledge; nor can i say what adventures they may have met with. the byways of this enchanted land here and there by ill-luck come near to the haunts of men, who may catch glimpses of such as ride through fairyland unsuspicious of other eyes. billy neglectful of mails this morning, was on the river bobbing for eels. to be long attentive to anything was for him impossible, wherefore his wandering gaze caught sight for a moment through the fringe of willows of two people riding slowly. he saw with amazement that on horseback in fairyland the feat of kissing is possible. some hours later, my lovers, feeling as john wickedly quoted, that "the world is too much with us," rode into westways to get billy's neglected mail. mr. crocker, lean and deaf, at ease in charge of the grocery counter, sat unoccupied in his shirt sleeves, while mrs. crocker bent over the mail she had sorted. there were letters for the little group of village folk, who read them at once as they sat on the step or as they moved away stumbling along the sidewalk. mrs. crocker sallied out with a batch of letters. "quite a lot, captain. good-morning, leila." "mail these, mrs. crocker," said the travellers fresh from fairyland. "i saw some was from the squire and some from mrs. penhallow--squire's writing better." "you wicked mrs. crocker," said john, "how much you pick up of folk's secrets, i should like to know--" "secrets!" laughed leila. "they can't be read on the outside of letters." then mrs. crocker on the sidewalk to them on horseback began to talk. john seeing that leila was interested and amused sat still and listened. "secrets," exclaimed the post-mistress, "ain't all inside of letters. they're on the envelopes sometimes. oh! i've seen 'em in war time, letters that looked like they'd been out in the rain--sort of blistered; and people here in those days just tore open their letters and laughed or cried." mrs. crocker caught her breath and paused. "i know, john," said leila in a low aside. "and there used to come back from the front letters marked 'missing' or 'can't be found.' folks used to come in gay and go away with a letter just crumpled up in a hand. and now it's all over--and up you come right gallant and happy. here comes old granny lamb tottering along. i'd invent a letter from that brute if i could. i tell you, leila, mother-hope dies hard." "it is sad--dreadful. come, john." "one minute, please," said mrs. crocker, "i'm not half done. i tell you, captain john, there's a heap of human nature comin' and goin' through a post-office. well, good-bye." they rode away to grey pine exchanging bits from their letters. their uncle and aunt would be home in a week. "sooner--if they get the letter i mailed last night," laughed leila. "i should like to have seen it." "no doubt." at the open avenue gate josiah was waiting. he saluted in soldier fashion, penhallow acknowledging the greeting in like manner. josiah said, "wouldn't you just let me have a minute with the captain?" leila laughed. "certainly." she rode away wondering what josiah had to report alone to the man who for him was and always would he captain despite the old custom of the regular army. "well, josiah--nothing wrong, i trust." "no, sir--everything just entirely right--but first i got to ask your advice. i've had a letter from the colonel--he just says some things ought to make a man kind of blush." john had the odd thought that a blush must be the securely private property of a fellow as black as this grey-headed old friend. "what does he say, josiah?" "he wants to give me a farm." "well, why not--you have earned a dozen." "i'd like it--but--if you're goin' to marry miss leila, i'd rather live with you." "good heavens!" said the traveller out of fairyland, "what put that in your head?" josiah smiled. "you'll please to excuse me, captain--but i thought i ought to tell you about that fool billy. he was bobbin' for eels--and--he saw you go by--" "well, what else?" "he met me and he said, 'saw mr. john kissin' miss leila!' he was off like a shot singin' out 'goin' to get married, sure.' it will be all over westways by noon, sir." john laughed. "well, it's true, josiah--confound billy! well, what more?" "oh, i would rather live with you. the colonel wants to give me a farm--don't want any farm." "well, well--we'll see about it later." "the trouble would be, sir, who's to shave the colonel?" "that's serious," said john, as he rode away to rejoin leila, who had meant to keep their secret from the village until their aunt's return. three days went by before ann penhallow's letter of reply came to hand. "well, any more news, leila?" said john. "yes, but not altogether pleasant--i am to leave early tomorrow. uncle jim will meet me in philadelphia--and, oh! i know aunt ann well--there will be no end of shopping." "i should feel worse about it, leila, but i see by one of my letters that there is some row in pittsburgh over our last rails. i am not responsible, but i must go to-night and see about it. isn't it dreadful, leila?" the two having come of late into a great inheritance in fairyland demanding close personal attention were at one as regarded absence. after dinner leila said, "my order to report to headquarters from heart-quarters was in the second post-script. i have saved the rest of the letter for you." "read it, please." "my dear children: you are a pair of young ostriches--you know what they do. did you suppose a middle-aged ostrich could not use her eyes? i did think it took a quite needless length of time." "isn't that absurd, john, as if--" "well, what more?" she read on--"i dislike long engagements--" "now, that is better, leila." "your uncle says you must live at grey pine. i said, no--young married people had better be alone. he must build you a house on the river nearer the mills. i am making a list of what furniture you will require--" "there is more of that--much more, john, and a list of things to be done before her return. isn't that like what aunt was before the war?" john laughed. "well, she will have her way." "more or less," said leila. "oh, there's another postscript!" "well?" "i think you should be married about christmas week. of course, mark rivers will marry you, and i shall ask the bishop to assist, when i see him on our way home. don't fail to write to both your uncles." "it is certainly complete," said john. he left for pittsburgh that night. * * * * * i have little to add to this long story. the days went by swiftly, and after a week all of the family, except john, were once more together at grey pine. mark rivers had also returned. he was too evidently in one of his moods of sombre silentness, but his congratulations were warm and as he sat at dinner he made unusual efforts to be at his agreeable best. when they left the table, he said, "no, colonel, i shall not smoke to-night. may i have a few minutes of your time, mrs. penhallow?" "certainly, mark--i want to talk to you about the bible class--i mean to take it up again." she led the way into her own little library. "sit down--there is so much to talk over. of course, you will marry these dear children somewhere about christmas time." "no," he said, "i shall be far away." "away! oh, mark! surely you do not mean to leave us." "yes, i am going to live as a missionary among the indians." "you cannot--you really cannot--where could you be more useful than here?" "no, i must go. my life on the whole has been most happy here--and how to thank you i fail to be able to say." "but why," she urged, "why do you go?" "oh--i want--i must have an active life, open air, even risks. the war gave me what i need for entire competence of body and mind to use in my master's service. but now, the war is at an end--" "thank god! but all you ask--and more--mark, except danger, are here--and oh, but we shall miss you, and more than ever when we miss too these children. think of it--don't make up your mind until james talks to you--" "no, i go to-morrow." "but it does seem to me, mark, that you are making a serious change without sufficient consideration of what you lose and we lose." "yes, yes," he returned, "i know--but to remain is for me impossible." "but why?" he was silent a moment, looking at this dear friend with the over-filled eyes of a troubled and yet resolute manhood. then he said, "i did not mean to tell you why in my weakness flight alone will save me from what has been to me unbearable here and ever will be." "can i in any way help you?" "no." "but what is it--trust me a little--what is it?" he hesitated, and then said, "it is leila grey! god pity my weakness, and you will say good-bye and give the squire this note and them my love." he was gone. the woman sat still for an hour, pitiful, and understanding the flight of a too sensitive man. then she gave her husband the note, with her good-night, and no other word. of why her friend had gone she said later nothing, except to defend him for his obedience to the call of duty. late that evening john returned. when after breakfast next day he and leila were riding through the wood-roads of the forest, john said, "i cannot or i could not see why mr. rivers went away so abruptly." "nor i," said leila. then there was one of those long silences dear to lovers. "what are you thinking of, jack?" "uncle jim told me last night the story of the early life of mark rivers." "tell it to me." he told it--"but," he continued, "that was not all of him. i have heard mr. rivers hold at the closest attention a great crowd of soldiers with that far-carrying voice; and then to hear as he led them singing the old familiar hymns--perhaps a thousand men--oh, it was a thing to remember! and they loved him, leila, because behind the battle line he was coolly, serviceably brave; and in the hospital wards--well, as tender as--well, as you would have been. i wondered, leila, why he did not marry again. the first was a mistake, but i suppose he knew that for him to marry would have been wrong, with that sad family history. probably life never offered him the temptation." "perhaps not," said leila, and they rode out of the woods and over the meadows. "let us talk of something less sad." "well, leila, a pleasant thing to discuss is tom mcgregor. i suspect him of a fortunate love affair with the daughter of the general at fortress monroe." "indeed--but what else? oh, our own great debt to him!" "uncle jim is considering that. we may trust him to be more than generous. yes, surely. now for a run over this grass. can you take that fence?" "can i, indeed! follow me, jack." "anywhere. everywhere, leila!" the end books by dr. s. weir mitchell fiction hugh wynne. constance trescot. the youth of washington. circumstance. the adventures of franÇois. the autobiography of a quack. dr. north and his friends. in war time. roland blake. far in the forest. characteristics. when all the woods are green. a madeira party. the red city. hephzibah guinness. a comedy of conscience. a diplomatic adventure. the guillotine club. john sherwood, ironmaster. westways. essays. doctor and patient. wear and tear.--hints for the overworked. poems. collected poems. the wager, and other poems. the comfort of the hills. none online distributed proofreading canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net [illustration: _a map of the country of the five nations, belonging to the province of new york; and of the lakes near which the nations of far indians live, with part of canada._ _n.b. the tuscaroras are now reckon'd a sixth nation, & live between the onondagues & oneidas; & the necariages of misilimakinac were received to be the seventh nation at albany, may .th ; at their own desire, men of that nation being present besides women & children. the chief trade with the far indians is at the onondagues rivers mouth where they must all pass to go towards canada._] the h i s t o r y of the five indian nations of _c a n a d a_, which are dependent on the province of new-york in america, and are the barrier between the english and french in that part of the world. with accounts of their religion, manners, customs, laws, and forms of government; their several battles and treaties with the _european_ nations; particular relations of their several wars with the other _indians_; and a true account of the present state of our trade with them. in which are shewn the great advantage of their trade and alliance to the _british_ nation, and the intrigues and attempts of the french to engage them from us; a subject nearly concerning all our _american_ plantations, and highly meriting the consideration of the _british_ nation at this juncture. * * * * * _by the honourable_ c a d w a l l a d e r c o l d e n, _esq_; _one of his majesty's counsel, and surveyor-general of_ new-york. * * * * * to which are added, accounts of the several other nations of _indians_ in _north-america_, their numbers, strength, &c. and the treaties which have been lately made with them. a work highly entertaining to all, and particularly useful to the persons who have any trade or concern in that part of the world. * * * * * l o n d o n: printed for t. osborne, in _gray's-inn_. mdccxlvii. to the honourable g e n e r a l _o g l e t h o r p e._ _sir,_ the _indian_ affairs have ever appeared to your judgment of such importance to the welfare of our own people, that you have ever carefully applied your thoughts to them; and that with such success, that not only the present generation will enjoy the benefit of your care, but our latest posterity bless your memory for that happiness the foundation of which was laid under your care, provided that the people here, whose duty and interest is chiefly concerned, do on their own parts second your endeavours, towards securing the peace, and advancing the prosperity of their country. the following account of the _five indian nations_ will shew what dangerous neighbours the _indians_ have once been; what pains a neighbouring colony (whose interest is opposite to ours) has taken to withdraw their affections from us; and how much we ought to be on our guard. if we only consider the riches which our enemies receive from the _indian trade_ (though we were under no apprehensions from the _indians_ themselves) it would be highly imprudent in us to suffer such people to grow rich and powerful, while it is in our power to prevent it, with much less charge and trouble, than it is in theirs to accomplish their designs. these considerations alone are sufficient to make the _indian affairs_ deserve the most serious thoughts of every governor in _america_. but i well know, besides; that your excellency's views are not confined to the interest of one country only. the _five nations_ are a poor and, generally called, barbarous people, bred under the darkest ignorance; and yet a bright and noble genius shines through these black clouds. none of the greatest _roman_ heroes have discovered a greater love to their country, or a greater contempt of death, than these people called barbarians have done, when liberty came in competition. indeed, i think our _indians_ have outdone the _romans_ in this particular; some of the greatest of those have we know murdered themselves to avoid shame or torments; but our _indians_ have refused to die meanly, or with but little pain, when they thought their country's honour would be at stake by it[ ]; but have given their bodies, willingly, to the most cruel torments of their enemies, to shew, as they said, that the _five nations_ consisted of men, whose courage and resolution could not be shaken. they greatly sully, however, those noble virtues, by that cruel passion, revenge; this they think is not only lawful, but honourable, to exert without mercy on their country's enemies, and for this only it is that they can deserve the name of barbarians. but what, alas! sir, have we christians done to make them better? we have indeed reason to be ashamed, that these infidels, by our conversation and neighbourhood, are become worse than they were before they knew us. instead of virtues we have only taught them vices, that they were intirely free from before that time. the narrow views of private interest have occasioned this, and will occasion greater, even publick mischiefs, if the governors of the people do not, like true patriots, exert themselves, and put a stop to these growing evils. if these practices be winked at, instead of faithful friends, that have manfully fought our battles for us, the _five nations_ will become faithless thieves and robbers, and join with every enemy that can give them any hopes of plunder. if care were taken to plant and cultivate in them that general benevolence to mankind, which is the true first principle of virtue, it would effectually eradicate those horrid vices, occasioned by their unbounded revenge; and then they would no longer deserve the name of barbarians, but would become a people, whose friendship might add honour to the _british_ nation. the _greeks_ and _romans_, sir, once as much barbarians as our _indians_ now are, deified the heroes that first taught them those virtues, from whence the grandeur of those renowned nations wholly proceeded; a good man, however, will feel more real satisfaction and pleasure, from the sense of having any way forwarded the civilizing of a barbarous nation, or of having multiplied the number of good men, than from the fondest hopes of such extravagant honours. these considerations, i believe, will induce you, sir, to think a history of the _five nations_ not unworthy of your patronage; and on these only it is that i presume to offer my best endeavours in this, who am, with the greatest respect, _s i r,_ _your most obedient,_ _and most humble servant,_ cadwallader colden. [footnote : this will appear by several instances in the second part of this history.] the p r e f a c e to the f i r s t p a r t. _though every one that is in the least acquainted with the affairs of_ north-america, _knows of what consequence the_ indians, _commonly known to the people of_ new-york _by the name of the_ five nations, _are, both in peace and war; i know of no accounts of them, published in_ english, _but what are very imperfect, and indeed meer translations of_ french _authors, who themselves know little of the truth. this seems to throw some reflections on the inhabitants of our province, as if we wanted curiosity to enquire into our own affairs, and were willing to rest satisfied with the accounts the_ french _give us of our own_ indians, _notwithstanding that the_ french _in_ canada _are always in a different interest, and sometimes in open hostility with us. this consideration, i hope, will justify my attempting to write an history of the_ five nations _at this time; and having had the perusal of the minutes of the commissioners for_ indian affairs, _i have been enabled to collect many materials for this history, which are not to be found any where else; and cannot but think, that a history of this kind will be of great use to all the_ british _colonies in_ north-america, _since it may enable them to learn experience at the expence of others: and if i can contribute any thing to so good a purpose, i shall not think my labour lost._ _it will be necessary for me here to say something in excuse of two things in the following performance, which, i am afraid, will naturally be found fault with in it. the first is, the filling up so great part of the work with the adventures of small parties, and sometimes with those of one single man: and the second is, the inserting so many speeches at length._ _as to the first, the history of_ indians _would be very lame, without an account of these private adventures; for their warlike expeditions are almost always carried on by surprising each other, and their whole art of war consists in managing small parties. the whole country being one continued forest, gives great advantages to those skulking parties, and has obliged the christians to imitate the_ indians _in this method of making war among them. and some would, doubtless, be desirous to know the manners and customs of the_ indians, _in their publick treaties especially, who could not be satisfied without taking notice of several minute circumstances, and things otherwise of no consequence. we are fond of searching into remote antiquity, to know the manners of our earliest progenitors; and, if i am not mistaken, the_ indians _are living images of them._ _my design therefore in the second was, that thereby the genius of the_ indians _might appear. an historian may paint mens actions in lively colours, or in faint shades, as he likes best, and in both cases preserve a perfect likeness; but it will be a difficult task to shew the wit, judgment, art, simplicity, and ignorance of the several parties, managing a_ treaty, _in other words than their own. as to my part, i thought myself incapable of doing it, without depriving the judicious observer of the opportunity of discovering much of the_ indian genius, _by my contracting or paraphrasing their harangues, and without committing often gross mistakes. for, on these occasions, a skilful manager often talks confusedly, and obscurely, with design; which if an historian should endeavour to amend, the reader would receive the history in a false light._ _the reader will find a great difference between some of the speeches here given of those made at_ albany, _and those taken from the_ french authors. _ours are genuine and truly related, as delivered by the sworn interpreters, of whom truth only is required; a rough stile, with truth, is preferable to eloquence without it: this may be said in justification of the_ indian _expression, though i must own, that i suspect our interpreters may not have done justice to the_ indian _eloquence. for the_ indians _having but few words, and few complex ideas, use many metaphors in their discourse, which interpreted by an unskilful tongue, may appear mean, and strike our imagination faintly; but under the pen of a skilful representer, might strongly move our passions by their lively images. i have heard an old_ indian sachem _speak with much vivacity and elocution, so that the speaker pleased and moved the auditors with the manner of delivering his discourse; which however, as it afterwards came from the interpreter, disappointed us in our expectations. after the speaker had employed a considerable time in haranguing with much elocution, the interpreter often explained the whole by one single sentence. i believe the speaker, in that time, embellished and adorned his figures, that they might have their full force on the imagination, while the interpreter contented himself with the sense, in as few words as it could be expressed._ _he that first writes the history of things, which are not generally known, ought to avoid, as much as possible, to make the evidence of the truth depend intirely on his own veracity and judgment; and for this reason i have related several transactions in the words of the registers, when this is once done, he that shall write afterwards, need not act with so much caution._ _the history of these_ indians, _i promise myself, will give an agreeable amusement to many; almost every one will find something in it suited to his own palate; but every line will not please every man; on the contrary, one will naturally approve what another condemns, as one desires to know what another thinks not worth the trouble of reading; for which reason, i think, it is better to run the risque of being sometimes tedious to certain readers, than to omit any thing that may be useful to the world._ _i have sometimes thought, that histories wrote with all the delicacy of a fine romance, are like_ french _dishes, more agreeable to the palate than the stomach, and less wholesome than more common and coarser diet._ _an historian's views must be curious and extensive, and the history of different people and different ages requires different rules, and often different abilities to write it; i hope therefore the reader will, from those considerations, receive this first attempt of this kind, with more than usual allowances._ _the inhabitants of_ new-york _have been much more concerned in the transactions, which followed the year_ , _than in those which preceded it. and as it requires uncommon courage and resolution to engage willingly in the wars against a cruel and barbarous enemy, i should be sorry to forget any that might deserve to be remembered by their country, with gratitude on that occasion._ a v o c a b u l a r y of _some words and names used by the_ french _authors, who treat of the_ indian affairs, _which are different from the names of the same people or places, used or understood by the_ english, _and may therefore be useful to those who intend to read the_ french _accounts, or compare them with the accounts now published._ * * * * * _names used by the_ _the same are called by the_ english, french. _or by the_ five nations. abenaguies. owenagungas, _or_ new-england indians, _and_ _are sometimes called the_ eastern indians. algonkins. adirondacks. amihouis. dionondadies, _or_ tuinondadeks, _a branch or tribe of_ _the_ quatoghies. aniez. mohawks, _called likewise_ maquas. bay des puans. enitajiche. chigagou. caneraghik. corlaer, _or_ corlard. schenectady. _but the_ five nations _commonly call the_ _governor of_ new-york _by_ _this name, and often the_ _people of the province of_ new-york _in general._ detroit. teuchsagrondie. hurons. quatoghie. hinois. chictaghicks. iroquois. _the_ five nations. lac huron. caniatare, _or_ quatoghe lake. loups. scahkook indians. manhattan. new-york city. mascoutecs. odislastagheks. mourigan. mahikander, _or_ river indians, _living on_ hudson'_s river,_ _below_ albany. miamies. twightwies. missilimakinak. teiodondoraghie. missisakies. achsisaghecks. oneyouts. oneydoes. ontario lac. cadarackui lake. orange. albany. outagamies. quacksies, _and_ scunksiks. outawas. utawawas, _or_ dewagunhas. renards. quaksies. sauiteurs. estiaghicks. shaouonons. satanas. tateras. toderiks. terre rouge. scunksik. tongorias. erighecks. tsonontouans. senekas. the c o n t e n t s. _the introduction, being a short view of the form of government of the_ five nations, _and of their laws and customs._ pag. part i. chap. i. _of the wars of the_ five nations, _with the_ adirondacks _and_ quatoghies. chap. ii. _the wars and treaties of peace of the_ indians _of the_ five nations _with the_ french, _from_ _to_ , _and their affairs with_ new-york _in that time._ chap. iii. _of the transactions of the_ indians _of the_ five nations _with the neighbouring_ english _colonies._ chap. iv. _mons._ de la barre's _expedition, and some remarkable transactions in_ . chap. v. _the_ english _attempt to trade in the lakes, and the_ french _attack the_ senekas. chap. vi. _colonel_ dongan's _advice to the_ indians. adario's _enterprize, and_ montreal _sacked by the_ five nations. part ii. chap. i. _the state of affairs in_ new-york _and_ canada _at the time of the_ revolution _in_ great-britain. chap. ii. _a treaty between the agents of_ massachusets-bay, new-plymouth, _and_ connecticut, _and the_ sachems _of the_ five nations _at_ albany, _in the year_ . chap. iii. _an account of a general council of the_ five nations _at_ onondaga, _to consider of the count_ de frontenac's _message._ chap. iv. _the_ french _surprize_ schenectady. _the_ mohawks _speech of condolance on that occasion._ chap. v. _the_ five nations _continue the war with the_ french. _the_ mohawks _encline to peace. their conferences with the_ governor _of_ new-york. chap. vi. _the_ english _attack_ montreal _by land, in conjunction with the_ indians, _and_ quebeck _by sea._ chap. vii. _the_ french, _and the_ five nations, _continue the war all winter with various success. the_ french _burn a captain of the_ five nations _alive._ chap. viii. _the_ five nations _treat with capt._ ingoldsby. chap. ix. _the_ french _surprize, and take three_ mohawk _castles._ chap. x. _the treaties and negotiations the_ five nations _had with the_ english _and_ french _in the years_ , _and_ . chap. xi. _the war continued. the_ french _repossess themselves of_ cadarackui fort; _and find means to break off the treaty between the_ five nations _and_ dionondadies. chap. xii. _the count_ de frontenac _attacks_ onondaga _in person with the whole force of_ canada. _the_ five nations _continue the war with the_ french, _and make peace with the_ dionondadies. chap. xiii. _the conduct which the_ english _and_ french _observed in regard to the_ five nations, _immediately after the peace of_ ryswick. _treaties, charters, publick acts_ &c. _from_ pag. , _to the end._ [illustration] the i n t r o d u c t i o n, being _a short view of the form of government of the_ five nations, _and of their laws, customs_, &c. it is necessary to know something of the form of government of the people, whose history one is about to know, and a few words will be sufficient to give the reader a conception of that of the _five nations_, because it still remains under original simplicity, and free from those complicated contrivances, which have become necessary to the nations, where deceit and cunning have increased as much as their knowledge and wisdom. the _five nations_ (as their name denotes) consist of so many tribes or nations, joined together by a league or confederacy, like the _united provinces_, and without any superiority of the one over the other. this union has continued so long, that the christians know nothing of the original of it: the people in it are known by the _english_ under the names of _mohawks, oneydoes, onondagas, cayugas,_ and _sennekas._ each of these nations is again divided into three tribes or families, who distinguish themselves by three different arms or ensigns, the _tortoise_, the _bear_, and the _wolf_; and the _sachems_, or old men of these families, put this ensign, or mark of their family, to every publick paper, when they sign it. each of these nations is an absolute republick by itself, and every castle in each nation makes an independent republick, and is govern'd in all publick affairs by its own _sachems_ or old men. the authority of these rulers is gain'd by, and consists wholly in the opinion the rest of the nation have of their wisdom and integrity. they never execute their resolutions by force upon any of their people. honour and esteem are their principal rewards; as shame, and being despised, their punishments. they have certain customs, which they observe in their publick transactions with other nations, and in their private affairs among themselves; which it is scandalous for any one among them not to observe, and these always draw after them either publick or private resentment, whenever they are broke. their leaders and captains, in like manner, obtain their authority, by the general opinion of their courage and conduct, and lose it by a failure in those virtues. their great men, both sachems and captains, are generally poorer than the common people; for they affect to give away and distribute all the presents or plunder they get in their treaties or in war, so as to leave nothing to themselves. there is not a man in the ministry of the _five nations_, who has gain'd his office, otherwise than by merit; there is not the least salary, or any sort of profit, annexed to any office, to tempt the covetous or sordid; but, on the contrary, every unworthy action is unavoidably attended with the forfeiture of their commission; for their authority is only the esteem of the people, and ceases the moment that esteem is lost. here we see the natural origin of all power and authority among a free people, and whatever artificial power or sovereignty any man may have acquired, by the laws and constitution of a country, his real power will be ever much greater or less, in proportion to the esteem the people have of him. the _five nations_ think themselves by nature superior to the rest of mankind, and call themselves _ongue-honwe_; that is, men surpassing all others. this opinion, which they take care to cultivate into their children, gives them that courage, which has been so terrible to all the nations of _north america_; and they have taken such care to impress the same opinion of their people on all their neighbours, that they, on all occasions, yield the most submissive obedience to them. i have been told by old men in _new england_, who remembered the time when the _mohawks_ made war on their _indians_, that as soon as a single _mohawk_ was discover'd in the country, their _indians_ raised a cry from hill to hill, _a mohawk! a mohawk!_ upon which they all fled like sheep before wolves, without attempting to make the least resistance, whatever odds were on their side. the poor _new england indians_ immediately ran to the christian houses, and the _mohawks_ often pursued them so closely, that they entered along with them, and knocked their brains out in the presence of the people of the house; but if the family had time to shut the door, they never attempted to force it, and on no occasion did any injury to the christians. all the nations round them have, for many years, intirely submitted to them, and pay a yearly tribute to them in _wampum_[ ]; they dare neither make war nor peace, without the consent of the _mohawks_. two old men commonly go about every year or two, to receive this tribute; and i have often had opportunity to observe what anxiety the poor _indians_ were under, while these two old men remained in that part of the country where i was. an old _mohawk sachem_, in a poor blanket and a dirty shirt, may be seen issuing his orders with as arbitrary an authority, as a _roman_ dictator. it is not for the sake of tribute however, that they make war, but from the notions of glory, which they have ever most strongly imprinted on their minds; and the farther they go to seek an enemy, the greater glory they think they gain; there cannot, i think, be a greater or stronger instance than this, how much the sentiments, impressed upon a people's mind, conduce to their grandeur, or one that more verifies a saying often to be met with, though but too little minded, that it is in the power of the rulers of a people to make them either great or little; for by inculcating only the notions of honour and virtue, or those of luxury and riches, the people, in a little time, will become such as their rulers desire. the _five nations_, in their love of liberty, and of their country, in their bravery in battle, and their constancy in enduring torments, equal the fortitude of the most renowned _romans_. i shall finish their general character by what an enemy, a _frenchman_, says of them, _monsieur de la poterie_, in his history of _north america_. "when we speak (says he) of the _five nations_ in _france_, they are thought, by a common mistake, to be mere barbarians, always thirsting after human blood; but their true character is very different. they are indeed the fiercest and most formidable people in _north america_, and, at the same time, are as politick and judicious, as well can be conceived; and this appears from the management of all the affairs which they transact, not only with the _french_ and _english_, but likewise with almost all the _indian_ nations of this vast continent." their matters of consequence, which concern all the nations, are transacted in a general meeting of the _sachems_ of each nation. these conventions are commonly held at _onnondaga_, which is nearly the center of their country; but they have fixed on _albany_ for the place of treating with the _british colonies_. they strictly follow one maxim, formerly used by the _romans_ to increase their strength, that is, they encourage the people of other nations to incorporate with them; and when they have subdued any people, after they have satiated their revenge by some cruel examples, they adopt the rest of their captives; who, if they behave well, become equally esteemed with their own people; so that some of their captives have afterwards become their greatest _sachems_ and _captains_. the _tuskaroras_, after the war they had with the people of _carolina_, fled to the _five nations_, and are now incorporated with them; so that they now properly indeed consist of six nations, though they still retain the old name of the _five nations_ among the _english_. the _cowetas_ also, or _creek-indians_, are in the same friendship with them. the _tuskaroras_, since they came under the province of _new york_, behave themselves well, and remain peaceable and quiet; and by this may be seen the advantage of using the _indians_ well, and i believe, if they were still better used (as there is room enough to do it) they would be proportionably more useful to us. the cruelty the _indians_ use in their wars, towards those that do not or cannot resist, such as women and children, and to their prisoners, after they have them in their power, is deservedly indeed held in abhorrence: but whoever reads the history of the so famed ancient heroes, will find them, i'm afraid, not much better in this respect. does _achilles_'s behaviour to _hector_'s dead body, in _homer_, appear less savage? this cruelty is also not peculiar to the _five nations_, but equally practised by all other _indians_. it is wonderful, how custom and education are able to soften the most horrid actions, even among a polite and learned people; witness the _carthaginians_ and _phoenicians_ burning their own children alive in sacrifice; and several passages in the _jewish history_; and witness, in later times, the christians burning one another alive, for god's sake. when any of the young men of these nations have a mind to signalize themselves, and to gain a reputation among their countrymen, by some notable enterprize against their enemy, they at first communicate their design to two or three of their most intimate friends; and if they come into it, an invitation is made, in their names, to all the young men of the castle, to feast on dog's flesh; but whether this be, because dog's flesh is most agreeable to _indian_ palates, or whether it be as an emblem of fidelity, for which the dog is distinguished by all nations, that it is always used on this occasion, i have not sufficient information to determine. when the company is met, the promoters of the enterprize set forth the undertaking in the best colours they can; they boast of what they intend to do, and incite others to join, from the glory there is to be obtained; and all who eat of the dog's flesh, thereby inlist themselves. the night before they set out, they make a grand feast, to this all the noted warriors of the nation are invited; and here they have their war dance, to the beat of a kind of a kettle-drum. the warriors are seated in two rows in the house, and each rises up in his turn, and sings the great acts he has himself performed, and the deeds of his ancestors; and this is always accompanied with a kind of a dance, or rather action, representing the manner in which they were performed; and from time to time, all present join in a chorus, applauding every notable act. they exaggerate the injuries they have at any time received from their enemies, and extol the glory which any of their ancestors have gained by their bravery and courage; so that they work up their spirits to a high degree of warlike enthusiasm. i have sometimes persuaded some of their young _indians_ to act these dances, for our diversion, and to shew us the manner of them; and even, on these occasions, they have work'd themselves up to such a pitch, that they have made all present uneasy. is it not probable, that such designs as these have given the first rise to tragedy? they come to these dances with their faces painted in a frightful manner, as they always are when they go to war, to make themselves terrible to their enemies; and in this manner the night is spent. next day they march out with much formality, dressed in their finest apparel, and, in their march, observe a profound silence. an officer of the regular troops told me, that while he was commandant of _fort-hunter_, the _mohawks_, on one of these occasions, told him, that they expected the usual military honours as they passed the garison. accordingly he drew out his garison, the men presented their pieces as the _indians_ passed, and the drum beat a march; and with less respect, the officer said, they would have been dissatisfied. the _indians_ passed in a single row, one after another, with great gravity and profound silence; and every one of them, as he passed the officer, took his gun from his shoulder, and fired into the ground near the officer's foot: they marched in this manner three or four miles from their castle. the women, on these occasions, always follow them with their old clothes, and they send back by them their finery in which they marched from the castle. but before they go from this place, where they exchange their clothes, they always peel a large piece of the bark from some great tree; they commonly chuse an oak, as most lasting; upon the smooth side of this wood they, with their red paint, draw one or more canoes, going from home, with the number of men in them padling, which go upon the expedition; and some animal, as a deer or fox, an emblem of the nation against which the expedition is designed, is painted at the head of the canoes; for they always travel in canoes along the rivers, which lead to the country against which the expedition is designed, as far as they can. after the expedition is over, they stop at the same place in their return, and send to their castle, to inform their friends of their arrival; that they may be prepared to give them a solemn reception, suited to the success they have had. in the mean time, they represent on the same, or some tree near it, the event of the enterprize, and now the canoes are painted with their heads turned towards the castle; the number of the enemy killed, is represented by scalps painted black, and the number of prisoners by as many withs, (in their painting not unlike pothooks) with which they usually pinion their captives. these trees are the annals, or rather trophies of the _five nations_: i have seen many of them; and by them, and their war songs, they preserve the history of their great achievements. the solemn reception of these warriors, and the acclamations of applause, which they receive at their return, cannot but have in the hearers the same effect, in raising an emulation for glory, that a triumph had on the old _romans_. after their prisoners are secured, they never offer them the least male-treatment, but, on the contrary, will rather starve themselves, than suffer them to want; and i have been always assured, that there is not one instance, of their offering the least violence to the chastity of any woman that was their captive. but notwithstanding this, the poor prisoners afterwards undergo severe punishments before they receive the last doom of life or death. the warriors think it for their glory, to lead them through all the villages of the nations subject to them, which lie near the road; and these, to shew their affection to the _five nations_, and their abhorrence of their enemies, draw up in two lines, through which the poor prisoners, stark naked, must run the gauntlet; and on this occasion, it is always observed, the women are much more cruel than the men. the prisoners meet with the same sad reception when they reach their journey's end; and after this, they are presented to those that have lost any relation in that or any former enterprize. if the captives be accepted, there is an end to their sorrow from that moment; they are dressed as fine as they can make them; they are absolutely free (except to return to their own country) and enjoy all the privileges the person had, in whose place they are accepted; but if otherwise they die in torments, to satiate the revenge of those that refuse them. if a young man or boy be received in place of a husband that was killed, all the children of the deceased call that boy father; so that one may sometimes hear a man of thirty say, that such a boy of fifteen or twenty is his father. their castles are generally a square surrounded with palisadoes, without any bastions or out-works; for, since the general peace, their villages lie all open. their only instruments of war are musquets, hatchets, and long sharp pointed knives; these they always carry about with them: their hatchet, in war-time, is stuck in their girdle behind them; and besides what use they make of this weapon in their hand, they have a dexterous way of throwing it, which i have seen them often practise in their exercise, by throwing it into a tree at a distance: they have, in this, the art of directing and regulating the motion, so that though the hatchet turns round as it flies, the edge always sticks in the tree, and near the place at which they aim it. the use of bows and arrows are now intirely laid aside, except among the boys, who are still very dexterous in killing fowls and other animals with them. they use neither drum nor trumpet, nor any kind of musical instrument in their wars; their throats serve them on all occasions, where such are necessary. many of them have a surprising faculty of raising their voice, not only in inarticulate sounds, but likewise to make their words understood at a great distance; and we find the same was practised by _homer_'s heroes, _thrice to its pitch his lofty voice he rears,---- o friend!_ ulysses _shouts invade my ears._ the _five nations_ have such absolute notions of liberty, that they allow of no kind of superiority of one over another, and banish all servitude from their territories. they never make any prisoner a slave; but it is customary among them to make a compliment of naturalization into the _five nations_; and, considering how highly they value themselves above all others, this must be no small compliment. this is not done by any general act of the nation, but every single person has a right to do it, by a kind of adoption. the first time i was among the _mohawks_, i had this compliment from one of their old _sachems_, which he did, by giving me his own name, _cayenderongue_. he had been a notable warrior; and he told me, that now i had a right to assume to myself all the acts of valour he had performed, and that now my name would echo from hill to hill all over the _five nations_. as for my part, i thought no more of it at that time, than as an artifice to draw a belly full of strong liquor from me, for himself and his companions; but when about ten or twelve years afterwards, my business led me again among them, i directed the interpreter to say something from me to the _sachems_; he was for some time at a loss to understand their answer, till he had asked me whether i had any name among them: i then found that i was really known to them by that name, and that the old _sachem_, from the time he had given me his name, had assumed another to himself. i was adopted, at that time, into the tribe of the _bear_, and, for that reason, i often afterwards had the kind compliment of _brother bear_. the hospitality of these _indians_ is no less remarkable, than their other virtues; as soon as any stranger comes, they are sure to offer him victuals. if there be several in company, and come from a-far, one of their best houses is cleaned and given up for their entertainment. their complaisance, on these occasions, goes even farther than christian civility allows of, as they have no other rule for it, than the furnishing their guest with every thing they think will be agreeable to him; for this reason, some of their prettiest girls are always ordered to wash themselves, and dress in their best apparel, in order to be presented to the stranger, for his choice; and the young lady, who has the honour to be preferred on these occasions, performs all the duties of a fond wife, during the stranger's stay: but this last piece of hospitality is now either laid aside by the _mohawks_, or, at least, they never offer it to any christian. this nation indeed has laid aside many of its ancient customs, and so likewise have the other nations, with whom we are best acquainted; and have adopted many of ours; so that it is not easy now to distinguish their original and genuine manners, from those which they have lately acquired; and for this reason it is, that they now seldom offer victuals to persons of any distinction, because they know, that their food and cookery is not agreeable to our delicate palates. their men value themselves, in having all kind of food in equal esteem. a _mohawk sachem_ told me with a kind of pride, that a man eats every thing without distinction, _bears, cats, dogs, snakes, frogs_, &c. intimating, that it is womanish, to have any delicacy in the choice of food. i can however give two strong instances of the hospitality of the _mohawks_, which fell under my own observation; and which shew, that they have the very same notion of hospitality, which we find in the ancient poets. when i was last in the _mohawks_ country, the _sachems_ told me, that they had an _englishman_ among their people, a servant who had run from his master in _new york_. i immediately told them, that they must deliver him up. no, they answered, we never serve any man so, who puts himself under our protection. on this i insisted on the injury they did thereby to his master; and they allowed it might be an injury, and replied, though we never will deliver him up, we are willing to pay the value of the servant to the master. another man made his escape from the goal of _albany_, where he was in prison on an execution for debt; the _mohawks_ received him, and, as they protected him against the sheriff and his officers, they not only paid the debt for him, but gave him land, over and above sufficient for a good farm, whereon he lived when i was last there. to this it may be added, all their extraordinary visits are accompanied with giving and receiving presents of some value; as we learn likewise from _homer_ was the practice in old times. _polygamy_ is not usual among them; and indeed, in any nation, where all are on a par, as to riches and power, plurality of wives cannot well be introduced. as all kind of slavery is banished from the countries of the _five nations_, so they keep themselves free also from the bondage of wedlock; and when either of the parties becomes disgusted, they separate without formality or ignominy to either, unless it be occasioned by some scandalous offence in one of them. and in case of divorce, the children, according to the natural course of all animals, follow the mother. the women here bring forth their children with as much ease as other animals, and without the help of a midwife, and, soon after their delivery, return to their usual employment. they alone also perform all the drudgery about their houses, they plant their corn, and labour it, in every respect, till it is brought to the table: they likewise cut all their fire-wood, and bring it home on their backs, and in their marches bear the burdens. the men disdain all kind of labour, and employ themselves alone in hunting, as the only proper business for soldiers. at times, when it is not proper to hunt, one finds the _old men_ in companies, in conversation; the young men at their exercises, shooting at marks, throwing the hatchet, wrestling, or running, and the women all busy at labour in the fields. on these occasions, the state of _lacedæmon_ ever occurs to my mind, which that of the _five nations_, in many respects, resembles; their laws, or customs, being, in both, form'd to render the minds and bodies of the people fit for war. theft is very scandalous among them; and it is necessary it should be so among all _indians_, since they have no locks, but those of their minds, to preserve their goods. there is one vice which the _indians_ have all fallen into, since their acquaintance with the _christians_, and of which they could not be guilty before that time, that is, drunkenness: it is strange, how all the _indian_ nations, and almost every person among them, male and female, are infatuated with the love of strong drink; they know no bounds to their desire, while they can swallow it down, and then indeed the greatest man among them scarcely deserves the name of a brute. they never have been taught to conquer any passion, but by some contrary passion; and the traders, with whom they chiefly converse, are so far from giving them any abhorrence of this vice, that they encourage it all they can, not only for the profit of the liquor they sell, but that they may have an opportunity to impose upon them. and this, as they chiefly drink spirits, has destroyed greater numbers, than all their wars and diseases put together. the people of the _five nations_ are much given to _speech-making_, ever the natural consequence of a perfect republican government: where no single person has a power to compel, the arts of persuasion alone must prevail. as their best speakers distinguish themselves in their publick councils and treaties with other nations, and thereby gain the esteem and applause of their countrymen, (the only superiority which any one of them has over the others) it is probable they apply themselves to this art, by some kind of study and exercise, in a great measure. it is impossible for me to judge how far they excel, as i am ignorant of their language; but the speakers whom i have heard, had all a great fluency of words, and much more grace in their manner, than any man could expect, among a people intirely ignorant of all the liberal arts and sciences. i am inform'd, that they are very nice in the turn of their expressions, and that few of themselves are so far masters of their language, as never to offend the ears of their _indian_ auditory, by an unpolite expression. they have, it seems, a certain _urbanitas_, or _atticism_, in their language, of which the common ears are ever sensible, though only their great speakers attain to it. they are so much given to speech-making, that their common complements, to any person they respect, at meeting and parting, are made in harangues. they have some kind of elegancy in varying and compounding their words, to which, not many of themselves attain, and this principally distinguishes their best speakers. i have endeavoured to get some account of this, as a thing that might be acceptable to the curious; but, as i have not met with any one person who understands their language, and also knows any thing of grammar, or of the learned languages, i have not been able to attain the least satisfaction. their present minister tells me, that their verbs are varied, but in a manner so different from the _greek_ or _latin_, that he cannot discover by what rule it was done; and even suspects, that every verb has a peculiar mode: they have but few radical words, but they compound their words without end; by this their language becomes sufficiently copious, and leaves room for a good deal of art to please a delicate ear. sometimes one word among them includes an entire definition of the thing; for example, they call _wine oneharadeseboengtseragberie_, as much as to say, a _liquor made of the juice of the grape_. the words expressing things lately come to their knowledge are all compounds: they have no labeals in their language, nor can they pronounce perfectly any word wherein there is a labeal; and when one endeavours to teach them to pronounce these words, they tell one, they think it ridiculous that they must shut their lips to speak. their language abounds with gutturals and strong aspirations, these make it very sonorous and bold; and their speeches abound with metaphors, after the manner of the eastern nations, as will best appear by the speeches that i have copied. as to what _religious notions_ they have, it is difficult to judge of them; because the _indians_, that speak any _english_, and live near us, have learned many things of us; and it is not easy to distinguish the notions they had originally among themselves, from those they have learned of the _christians_. it is certain they have no kind of publick worship, and i am told that they have no radical word to express _god_, but use a compound word, signifying the preserver, sustainer, or master of the universe; neither could i ever learn what sentiments they have of a future existence. their funeral rites seem to be formed upon a notion of some kind of existence after death: they make a large round hole, in which the body can be placed upright, or upon its haunches, which after the body is placed in it, is covered with timber, to support the earth which they lay over, and thereby keep the body free from being pressed; they then raise the earth in a round hill over it. they always dress the corps in all its finery, and put wampum and other things into the grave with it; and the relations suffer not grass or any weed to grow on the grave, and frequently visit it with lamentations: but whether these things be done only as marks of respect to the deceased, or from a notion of some kind of existence after death, must be left to the judgment of the reader. they are very superstitious in observing omens and dreams; i have observed them shew a superstitious awe of the owl, and be highly displeased with some that mimicked the cry of that bird in the night. an officer of the regular troops has informed me also, that while he had the command of the garrison at _oswego_, a boy of one of the far westward nations died there; the parents made a regular pile of split wood, laid the corps upon it, and burnt it; while the pile was burning, they stood gravely looking on, without any lamentation, but when it was burnt down, they gathered up the bones with many tears, put them into a box, and carried them away with them; and this inclination, which all ignorant people have to superstition and amusing ceremonies, gives the popish priests a great advantage in recommending their religion, beyond what the regularity of the protestant doctrine allows of. queen _anne_ sent over a missionary to reside among the _mohawks_, and allowed him a sufficient subsistence from the privy purse; she sent furniture for a chappel, and a valuable set of plate for the communion table; and (if i am not mistaken) the like furniture and plate for each of the other nations, though that of the _mohawks_ was only applied to the use designed. the common prayer, or at least a considerable part of it, was translated also into their language and printed; some other pieces were likewise translated for the minister's use, _viz_. an exposition of the creed, decalogue, lord's prayer, and church catechism, and a discourse on the sacraments. but as that minister was never able to attain any tolerable knowledge of their language, and was naturally a heavy man, he had but small success; and his allowance failing, by the queen's death, he left them. these nations had no teacher, from that time, till within these few years, that a young gentleman, out of pious zeal, went voluntarily among the _mohawks_. he was at first intirely ignorant of their language, and had no interpreter, except one of the _indians_, who understood a little _english_, and had, in the late missionary's time, learn'd to read and write in his own language. he learned from him how to pronounce the words in the translations, which had been made for the late missionary's use. he set up a school, to teach their children to read and write their own language; and they made surprizing proficiency, considering their master did not understand their language. i happened to be in the _mohawk_ country, and saw several of their performances; i was present at their worship, where they went through some part of the common prayer with great decency. i was likewise present, several times, at their private devotions, which some of them performed duly, morning and evening. i had also many opportunities of observing the great regard they had for this young man; so far, that the fear of his leaving them made the greatest restraint on them, with which he threatened them, after they had been guilty of any offence. soon after that time, this gentleman went to _england_, received orders, and was sent by the society, missionary to _albany_, with liberty to spend some part of his time among the _mohawks_. i had lately a letter from him, dated the seventh of _december_, , in which he writes as follows: "drunkenness was so common among them, that i doubt, whether there was one grown person of either sex free from it; seldom a day passed, without some, and very often forty or fifty being drunk at a time. but i found they were very fond of keeping me among them, and afraid i should leave them, which i made use of to good purpose; daily threatning them with my departure, in case they did not forsake that vice, and frequently requiring a particular promise from them singly; by which means (through god's blessing) there was a gradual reformation; and i know not that i have seen above ten or twelve persons drunk among them this summer. the women are almost all entirely reformed, and the men very much. they have intirely left off divorces, and are legally married. they are very constant and devout at church and family devotions. they have not been known to exercise cruelty to prisoners, and have, in a great measure, left off going a fighting, which i find the most difficult, of all things, to dissuade them from. they seem also persuaded of the truths of christianity. the greatest inconveniency i labour under, is the want of an interpreter, which could i obtain, for two or three years, i should hope to be tolerably master of their language, and be able to render it easier to my successor." this gentleman's uncommon zeal deserves, i think, this publick testimony, that it may be a means of his receiving such encouragement, as may enable him to pursue the pious purposes he has in view. the _mohawks_, were they civilized, may be useful to us many ways, and, on many occasions, more than any of our own people can be; and this well deserves to be considered. there is one custom their men constantly observe, which i must not forget to mention; that if they be sent with any message, though it demand the greatest dispatch, or though they bring intelligence of any imminent danger, they never tell it at their first approach; but sit down for a minute or two, at least, in silence, to recollect themselves, before they speak, that they may not shew any degree of fear or surprize, by an indecent expression. every sudden repartee, in a publick treaty, leaves with them an impression of a light inconsiderate mind; but, in private conversation, they use, and are delighted with brisk witty answers, as we can be. by this they shew the great difference they place between the conversations of man and man, and of nation and nation; and in this, and a thousand other things, might well be an example to the _european_ nations. [footnote : _wampum_ is the current money among the _indians:_ it is of two sorts, white and purple; the white is worked out of the inside of the great conques into the form of a bead, and perforated, to string on leather; the purple is worked out of the inside of the muscle shell; they are wove as broad as one's hand, and about two feet long; these they call belts, and give and receive at their treaties as the seals of friendship; for lesser matters a single string is given. every bead is of a known value, and a belt of a less number, is made to equal one of a greater, by so many as is wanting fastened to the belt by a string.] the h i s t o r y of the five _indian_ nations, depending on the province of _new-york_. * * * * * part i. _the history of the_ five nations, _from the time the christians first knew any thing of them, to that of the revolution in_ great-britain. * * * * * chap. i. _of the wars of the_ five nations _with the_ adirondacks _and_ quatoghies. the first settlers of _new-york_ having been little curious in inquiring into the _indian affairs_, further than what related to trade; or, at least, having neglected to transmit their discoveries to posterity, it is much more difficult to give a just history of these nations before, than since the time of their being under the _crown of england_. what we can learn of certainty, however, is this. the _french_ settled at _canada_ in the year , six years before the _dutch_ possessed themselves of _new-netherlands_, now called _new-york_, and found the _five nations_ at war with the _adirondacks_, which, they tell us, was occasioned in the following manner. the _adirondacks_ formerly lived three-hundred miles above _trois rivieres_, where now the _utawawas_ are situated; at that time they employ'd themselves wholly in hunting, and the _five nations_ made planting of corn their business. by this means they became useful to each other, by exchanging corn for venison. the _adirondacks_, however, valued themselves, as delighting in a more manly employment, and despised the _five nations_, in following business, which they thought only fit for women. but it once happened, that the game failed the _adirondacks_, which made them desire some of the young men of the _five nations_ to assist them in hunting. these young men soon became much more expert in hunting, and able to endure fatigues, than the _adirondacks_ expected or desired; in short, they became jealous of them, and, one night, murdered all the young men they had with them. the _five nations_ complained to the chiefs of the _adirondacks_, of the inhumanity of this action; but they contented themselves with blaming the murderers, and ordered them to make some small[ ] presents to the relations of the murdered persons, without being apprehensive of the resentment of the _five nations_; for they looked upon them, as men not capable of taking any great revenge. this however provoked the _five nations_ to that degree, that they soon resolved, by some means, to be revenged; and the _adirondacks_ being informed of their designs, thought to prevent them, by reducing them with force to their obedience. the _five nations_ then lived near where _mont real_ now stands; they defended themselves at first but faintly against the vigorous attacks of the _adirondacks_, and were forced to leave their own country, and fly to the banks of the lakes where they live now. as they were hitherto losers by the war, it obliged them to apply themselves to the exercise of arms, in which they became daily more and more expert. their _sachems_, in order to raise their people's spirits, turned them against the _satanas_[ ], a less warlike nation, who then lived on the banks of the lakes; for they found it was difficult to remove the dread their people had of the valour of the _adirondacks_. the _five nations_ soon subdued the _satanas_, and drove them out of their country; and their people's courage being thus elevated, they, from this time, not only defended themselves bravely against the whole force of the _adirondacks_, but often carried the war into the heart of the _adirondacks_'s country, and, at last, forced them to leave it, and to fly into that part of the country, where _quebeck_ is now built. there are more instances than one in history, of poor dispirited nations, that by some signal affront or abuse have had their spirits so raised, that they have not only performed notable things on a sudden, but, if they happened, at the same time, to be led and governed by wise men, have so far kept up, and improved that spirit, that they have become, in a manner, a different people. let us examine history, and we shall find, that the different figure every country has made in the world, has been ever principally owing to the principles which were inculcated into, and carefully cultivated in the people. in this chiefly consists the art of making a nation glorious, or the crime of debasing them into servitude or slavery. it was from the notions of liberty, honour, and glory, and such wise and generous principles, which the meanest citizen among the old _romans_ entertained, that they became so great and powerful, and a terror to all nations; as the sordid, timorous, cunning artifices, and the love of wealth and sensual pleasures, cultivated among the present _romans_, has debased them now into the meanest and least feared nation on the earth. the history of the _five nations_ will readily shew, how far the ancient _roman_ principles have been cultivated among them. soon after this change of the people of these nations, the _french_ arrived at _canada_, and settled at _quebeck_; and they thinking it adviseable to gain the esteem and friendship of the _adirondacks_, in whose country they settled, _monsieur champlain_, the first governor of _canada_, joined the _adirondacks_ in an expedition against the _five nations_. they met a party of two-hundred men of the _five nations_ in _corlar's lake_, which the _french_, on this occasion called by _monsieur champlain's_ name, and both sides went ashore to prepare for battle, which proved to the disadvantage of the _five nations_. the _french_, in short, kept themselves undiscover'd, till the moment they began to join battle; and their fire-arms surprised the _five nations_ so much, that they were immediately put into confusion; for, before that time, they had never seen such weapons. the trade with the _french_, soon after this, drew most of the neighbouring nations to _quebeck_, and they all joined in the war against the _five nations_. the _adirondacks_ having their numbers thus increased, and their fire-arms giving them new confidence, proposed nothing less to themselves, than the intire destruction of the _five nations_. upon this, their young warriors became fierce and insolent, and would not be kept under any discipline or subjection to their captains; but, upon all occasions, rashly attacked the enemy, who were obliged to keep themselves upon the defensive; and to make up what they wanted in force, by stratagems, and a skilful management of the war. the young men of the _five nations_ soon perceived the advantages they gained by this conduct, and every day grew more submissive to their captains, and diligent in executing any enterprize. the _five nations_ sent out small parties only, who meeting with great numbers of the _adirondacks_, retired before them with seeming terror, while the _adirondacks_ pursued them with fury, and without thought, till they were cunningly drawn into ambuscades, where most of their men were killed or taken prisoners, with little or no loss to the _five nations_. the _adirondacks_, by this means, wasted away, and their boldest soldiers were almost intirely destroy'd, while the number of the _five nations_ were increased, by the addition of the prisoners, which they took from the _satanas_. the wisest and best soldiers of the _adirondacks_, when it was too late, now at length discovered, that they must learn the art of war from those enemies that they at first despised; and now five of their captains endeavoured to perform by themselves singly, with art and by stratagem, what they could not do by force at the head of their armies; they had however no longer any hopes of conquering, their thoughts were only set on revenge. it is not improper to observe here, once for all, that in writing the history of _indians_, it is often necessary to give an account of the enterprizes of single persons, otherwise the _indian_ genius can never be known, or their manner of making war understood. an _indian_ named _piskaret_ was at this time one of the captains of greatest fame among the _adirondacks:_ this bold man, with four other captains, set out for _trois-rivieres_ in one canoe, each of them being provided with three musquets, which they loaded with two bullets apiece, joined with a small chain ten inches long; they met with five canoes in _sorel river_, each having ten men of the _five nations_ on board. _piskaret_ and his captains, as soon as those of the _five nations_ drew near, pretended to give themselves up for lost, and sung their death song,[ ] then suddenly fired upon the canoes, which they repeated with the arms that lay ready loaded, and tore those birch vessels betwixt wind and water. the men of the _five nations_ were so surprized, that they tumbled out of their canoes, and gave _piskaret_ and his companions the opportunity of knocking as many of them on the head as they pleased, and saving the others, to feed their revenge, which they did, by burning them alive with the most cruel torments. this however was so far from glutting _piskaret_'s revenge, that it seemed rather to give a keener edge to it; for he soon after undertook another enterprize, in which none of his countrymen durst accompany him: he was well acquainted with the country of the _five nations_, and set out about the time the snow began to melt, with the precaution of putting the hinder part of his snow shoes forward, that if any should happen upon his footsteps, they might think he was gone the contrary way; and, for further security, went along the ridges and high grounds, where the snow was melted, that his track might be often lost; when he came near one of the villages of the _five nations_, he hid himself till night, and then entered a cabin, while every body was fast asleep, murdered the whole family, and carried their scalps into his lurking place. the next day the people of the village searched for the murderer in vain. the following night he murdered all he found in another cabin. the inhabitants next day searched likewise in vain for the murderer; but the third night a watch was kept in every house. _piskaret_ in the night bundled up the scalps he had taken the two former nights, to carry, as the proof of his victory, and then stole privately from house to house, till at last he found an _indian_ nodding, who was upon the watch in one of the houses; he knockt this man on the head; but as this alarmed the rest, he was forced immediately to fly. he was however under no great concern from the pursuit, being more swift of foot than any _indian_ then living. he let his pursuers come near him from time to time, and then would dart from them. this he did with design to tire them out with the hopes of overtaking him. as it began to grow dark, he hid himself, and his pursuers stop'd to rest. they not being apprehensive of any danger from a single man, soon fell asleep, and the bold _piskaret_ observing this, knock'd them all on the head, and carried away their scalps with the rest. such stories as these are told among the _indians_, as extraordinary instances of the courage and conduct of their captains. the _indians_ will often travel thus three or four hundred miles singly, or two or three in company, and lurk about their enemy's borders for several weeks, in hopes to revenge the death of a near relation or dear friend. indeed they give themselves so very much up to revenge, that this passion seems to gnaw their souls, and gives them no rest till they satisfy it. it is this delight in revenge, that makes all barbarous nations cruel; and the curbing such passions is one of the happy effects of being civilized. the _five nations_ are so much delighted with stratagems in war, that no superiority of their forces ever make them neglect them. they amused the _adirondacks_ and their allies the _quatoghies_ (called by the _french hurons_) by sending to the _french_, and desiring peace. the _french_ desired them to receive some priests among them, in hopes that those prudent fathers would, by some art, reconcile them to their interest, and engage their affections. the _five nations_ readily accepted the offer, and some _jesuits_ went along with them: but after they had the jesuits in their power, they used them only as hostages, and thereby obliged the _french_ to stand neuter, while they prepared to attack the _adirondacks_ and _quatoghies_, and they defeated the _quatoghies_ in a dreadful battle fought within two leagues of _quebeck_. the _french_ own, that if the _five nations_ had known their weakness at that time, they might have easily destroyed the whole colony. this defeat, in sight of the _french_ settlements, struck terror into all their allies, who were at that time very numerous, because of the trade with the _french_, which furnished them with many the most useful conveniences; for before that time the _indians_ had no iron tool among them. the _nipeceriniens_, who then lived on the banks of _st. laurence river_, fled upon this to the northward, believing that the extreme coldness of the climate, and a barren soil, would be the securest defence against the ambition of the _five nations_. the remainder of the _quatoghies_ fled with the _utawawas_ southwestward; and for the greater security, settled in an island, which being further than the name of the _five nations_ had then reached, they trusted to the distance of the place, and the advantage of its situation. their last expedition having succeeded so well, the _five nations_ gave out, that they intended next winter to visit _yonnendio_, (the name they give to the governor of _canada_;) these visits are always made with much shew. under this pretence they gathered together or men. their out scouts met with _piskaret_ near _niccolet river_, and still pretending a friendly visit to the governor of _canada_, as their only design, he told them, that the _adirondacks_ were divided into two bodies, one of which hunted on the north side of _st. laurence river_ at _wabmake_, three leagues above _trois rivieres_, and the other at _nicolet_. as soon as they had gained this information, they killed him, and returned with his head to the army. the _five nations_ divided likewise into two bodies; they surprized the _adirondacks_ in both places, and in both cut them in pieces. thus the most warlike and polite nation of all the _indians_ in _north america_, was almost intirely destroyed by a people they at first despised, and by a war which their pride and injustice brought upon them; and we here see, that all the advantages of numbers, courage and weapons, is not equal to good discipline in an army. a very few _adirondacks_ only now remain in some villages near _quebeck_, who still waste away and decay, by their drinking strong waters, tho' when the _french_ first settled at _quebeck_, fighting men of them lived between that place and _sillerie_, which are only a league distant, besides those that lived at _saquenay, trois rivieres_, and some other places. and since this decisive battle, the _adirondacks_ have never been considered as of any consequence, either in peace or war. the _quatoghies_ and _atawawas_ now soon began to be in want of the _european_ commodities, which had made them considerable among their new friends. in order therefore to supply themselves anew, they returned to trade at _quebeck_; and by this means the place of their retreat was discovered to the _five nations_; and they not having their revenge satiated, while the _quatoghies_ had a being, soon convinced them, that no extent of country could set bounds to that passion, when it rages in the hearts of the _five nations_, for they soon after attack'd them in their new settlement. the _quatoghies_ had the good fortune to discover the _five nations_ time enough to make their escape, and fled to the _putewatemies_, who lived a day's journey further, where they, and all the neighbouring nations, secured themselves in a large fort. the _five nations_ followed, but, being in want of provision, they could not attempt a siege, and therefore proposed a treaty with the _putewatemies_, which was accepted. the _putewatemies_ acknowledged the _five nations_ as masters of all the nations round them, applauded their valour, and promised them their friendship, and to supply them with provisions; they would not however trust themselves out of their fort, but sent out a supply; and even this they did, only with design to do that by treachery, which they durst not attempt by force; for the provisions were poisoned. the treachery was discovered however to the _five nations_, by an old _quatoghie_, who had a son prisoner among them; his affection for his son overcoming even his hatred to his country's enemies. this treachery highly enraged the _five nations_ against the _putewatemies_, and the neighbouring people; but famine obliging them to retire at this time, they divided their armies into parties, the better to provide for their subsistence, by hunting; one of these parties in their chace fell in with a village of the _chicktaghicks_ (called by the _french hinois_) and surprized the old men, women and children, when the young men were abroad hunting; but the young men, upon their return, gathering together all the rest of the villages, pursued this party of the _five nations_, and recovered the prisoners. this was the first time that the _five nations_ had been seen in those parts, but their name was become so terrible, that the _chictaghicks_, notwithstanding this advantage, left their country, and fled to the nations that lived westward, till the general peace was settled by the _french_, and not till on that occasion returned to their own country. [footnote : it is still a custom among the _indians_, to expiate murder by presents to the relations of the person killed.] [footnote : they are called _shaouonons_, by the _french_, and live now on one of the banks of the misissipi.] [footnote : it is a custom among the _indian_ prisoners of war, when led to death, to sing an account of their own exploits; and this they are hardy enough to continue even in the midst of tortures.] chap. ii. _the wars and treaties of peace of the_ indians _of the_ five nations _with the_ french, _from_ _to_ , _and their affairs with_ new-york _in that time_. in _june_ _monsieur de trasi_ appointed _vice-roy_ of _america_ by the _french king_, arrived at _quebeck_, after he had visited the _french islands_ in the _west indies_, and brought with him four companies of foot; and in _september_ of the same year, _mr. coursel_ arrived governor general of _canada_; he brought with him a regiment and several families, with all things necessary for establishing of a colony. their force being now thus considerably augmented, the _french_ governor resolved to chastise the insolence of the _five nations_; and for that purpose, in the winter, sent out a party against the _mohawks_, but these by the cold, and their not knowing the use of snow shoes, suffered very much, without doing any thing against the enemy. this party however fell in with _skenectady_[ ], a small town which _corlear_ (a considerable man among the _dutch_) had then newly settled. when they appeared near _shenectady_, they were almost dead with cold and hunger; and the _indians_, who were then in that village, had intirely destroyed them, if _corlear_, (in compassion to his fellow christians) had not contriv'd their escape. he had a mighty influence over the _indians_; and it is from him, and in remembrance of his merit, that all governors of _new-york_ are called _corlear_ by the _indians_ to this day, tho' he himself was never governor. he persuaded the _indians_, that this was a small party of the _french_ army come to amuse them, that the great body was gone directly towards their castles, and that it was necessary for them immediately to go in defence of their wives and children. this they believed, and readily obeyed; and as soon as the _indians_ were gone, he sent to the _french_, and supplied them with provisions and other necessaries to carry them back. the _french_ governor, in order to reward so signal a service, invited _corlear_ to _canada_; but as he went through the great lake, which lies to the northward of _albany_, his canoe was overset, and he was drowned; and from this accident that lake has ever since been called _corlear_'s _lake_, by the people of _new-york_. there is a rock in this lake, on which the waves dash and fly up to a great height; when the wind blows hard, the _indians_ believe, that an old _indian_ lives under this rock, who has the power of the winds; and therefore, as they pass it in their voyages over, they always throw a pipe, or some other small present to this old _indian_, and pray a favourable wind. the _english_ that pass with them sometimes laugh at them, but they are sure to be told of _corlear_'s death. your great countryman _corlear_ (say they) as he passed by this rock, jested at our fathers making presents to this _old indian_, and in derision turned up his backside, but this affront cost him his life. in the following spring the _vice-roy_ and the _governor of canada_, with twenty eight companies of foot, and all the militia of the colony, marched into the country of the _mohawks_, with a design to destroy this nation, which by their wars not only prevented their commerce with the western _indians_, but likewise often put their colony in danger. it certainly was a bold attempt, to march above miles from _quebeck_ through vast unknown forests. the _mohawks_ however, on their approach, men, women, and children, retired into the woods, and all that the _french_ were able to do, was to burn some villages, and to murder some old _sachems_ that (like the old roman senators,) chose rather to dye than to desert their houses. the _french_ were so conceited before, of their superiority over the _indians_ in their skill of war, and their weapons, that they thought they could not escape, but the little honour or advantage they got by this expedition lessened their vanity, and made them desirous of peace; and the _five nations_ remaining fearful of the _french fire arms_, it was without much difficulty concluded in the year . the _five nations_ however being naturally very enterprizing and haughty, one of their parties some time after met with some _french_ in their hunting, and quarrelled with them. the _indians_ had the advantage, they killed several of the _french_, and carried one prisoner into their own country. _monsieur de coursel_ sent on this to threaten the _five nations_ with war, if they did not deliver up these murderers; and the _five nations_, to shew their publick displeasure at this breach of peace, sent _agariata_, the captain of the company that did the mischief, with forty others, to beg pardon; but _monsieur coursel_ was resolved to make an example of _agariata_, and ordered him to be hanged in sight of his countrymen; and the _french_ think that this severity was a great means of preserving the peace till the year . the _dutch_, who settled in the _new netherlands_, now called _new-york_, in , entered into an alliance with the five nations, which continued without any breach on either side, till the _english_ gained this country. the _dutch_ gained the hearts of the _five nations_ by their kind usage, and were frequently useful to the _french_, in saving those of them that were prisoners from the cruelty of the _indians_. in , _new-york_ being taken by the _english_, they likewise immediately entered into a friendship with the _five nations_, which has continued without the least breach to this day; and history, i believe, cannot give an instance of the most christian or most catholick kings observing a treaty so strictly, and for so long a time as these barbarians, as they are called, have done. the _english_ and _french_ (peace being every where settled) now endeavoured to extend their commerce and alliances among the _indian nations_, that live to the westward of _new-york_. the _french_ however, in their measures, discovered always a design of conquering and commanding; for with this view _mr. de frontenac_, who had succeeded in the government of _canada_, in the year , persuaded the _five nations_ to allow him to build a fort on the north side of _cadarackui lake_, under pretence of a store for _merchandise_, and the security of his traders, and under the same pretence built several other forts at some other considerable places far in the country. the _english_ and _dutch_, on the contrary, prosecuted their measures only with the arts of peace, by sending people among the _indians_ to gain their affections, and to persuade them to come to _albany_ to trade; but the war with the _dutch_, which happened about this time, prevented even these honest designs from having the success they otherwise might have had; for in the year , _new-york_ being surprised by the _dutch_, and restored the next year to the _english_, the alterations of government, and of masters, obstructed very much any measures that could have been taken for the publick good. their trade was likewise considerably hindered by the war which the _five nations_ had at that time with the river indians[ ], which forced many of those _indians_ to seek shelter among the _utawawas_, who fell under the _french_ government at last; however, the _english_, _dutch_ and _french_ having all made peace in _europe_, and the government of _new-york_ likewise having obtained a peace between the _five nations_ and _mahikandars_ or _river indians_, both the _english_ and _french_ were at full liberty to prosecute their designs of extending their commerce among the _indians_, which both did with very considerable success and advantage to the inhabitants of their respective colonies. but this justice must be done to the _french_, that they far exceeded the _english_ in the daring attempts of some of their inhabitants, in travelling very far among unknown _indians_, discovering new countries, and every where spreading the fame of the _french_ name and grandeur. the _sieur perot_ travelled in the year as far as _the fall st. mary_ beyond _missilimakinak_, and having learned those _indians_ language, gained them over to his country's interest. the courage and resolution of many of these adventurers are deservedly recorded by the _french_; but the _english_ give it another turn, and say it is the barrenness and poverty of _canada_ that pushes the men of spirit there, upon enterprizes, that they would not have attempted, if they had lived in the province of _new-york_. the chief reason, in my opinion, however, of the _french_ having so far succeeded beyond the _english_ is, that the _indian affairs_ are the particular care of the governor and other principal officers in _canada_, who have the greatest knowledge and authority; whereas those affairs in _new-york_ are chiefly left to the management of a few traders with the _indians_, who have no care for, or skill in publick affairs, and only mind their private interest. [footnote : the _french_ call this town _corlear_, from the persons name who first settled there. it is situate on the _mohawks_ river sixteen miles from _albany_.] [footnote : the _indians_ living on the branches of _hudson_'s river, within or near the _english_ settlements at that time.] chap. iii. _of the transactions of the_ indians _of the_ five nations _with the neighbouring_ english _colonies_. the _five nations_ being now amply supplied by the _english_ with fire-arms and ammunition, give full swing to their warlike genius, and soon resolved to revenge the affronts they had at any time received from the _indian_ nations that lived at a greater distance from them. the nearest nations, as they were attack'd, commonly fled to those that were further off, and the _five nations_ pursued them. this, together with a desire they had of conquering, or ambition of making all the nations round them their tributaries, or to acknowledge the _five nations_ to be so far their masters, as to be absolutely directed by them in all affairs of peace and war with their neighbours, made them overrun great part of _north-america_. they carried their arms as far south as _carolina_, to the northward of _new-england_, and as far west as the river _mississipi_, over a vast country, which extends twelve hundred miles in length, from north to south, and about six hundred miles in breadth; where they intirely destroyed many nations, of whom there are now no accounts remaining among the _english_. these warlike expeditions often proved troublesome to the colonies of _virginia_ and _maryland_; for not only the _indians_ that were friends to those colonies became victims to the fury of the _five nations_, but the christian inhabitants likewise were frequently involved in the same calamity. the _french_ having a long time felt the inconveniencies and dangers they were in from this restless warlike spirit of the _five nations_, made use of this time of peace to guard against it for the future, and were very diligent in pursuing the most prudent measures. they sent some of their wisest priests and jesuits to reside among them, and the governors of _new-york_ were ordered, by the _duke of york_, to give these priests all the incouragement in their power. the chief view of these priests was, to give the _indians_ the highest opinion of the _french power_ and wisdom, and to render the _english_ as suspected and as mean as possible in their eyes. they waited likewise for every opportunity to breed a quarrel between the _english_ and the _indians_, and to withdraw the _five nations_ from fighting with those nations that traded to _canada_. for these purposes these priests were instrumental in turning the resentment of the _five nations_ against the _indians_, that were in friendship with _virginia_ and _maryland_. the governor of _maryland_, on the other hand, to prevent the ill consequences, that might happen by wars between nations that were in friendship with the _english_, and lived in their neighbourhood, sent _colonel coursey_, in the year , to _albany_, to increase the friendship between _virginia_ and _maryland_ on the one part, and the _five nations_ on the other; and, accordingly, both sides gave mutual promises at _albany_: but this good understanding was soon shaken by some parties of the _oneydoes_, _onondagas_, and _senekas_, who were out when this treaty was made, and were ignorant of it. one of them met with the _susguehana indians_, who were in friendship with _maryland_, and fell upon them; they killed four of the _susguehanas_, and took six prisoners. five of these prisoners fell to the share of the _senekas_, who, as soon as they arrived in their own country, sent them back with presents, to shew that they kept their promises with _maryland_; but the _oneydoes_ detained the prisoner they had. another party, that went against the _canagesse indians_ (friends of _virginia_) were surprised by a troop of horse, who killed one man, and took a woman prisoner: the _indians_, in revenge, killed four of the inhabitants, and carried away their scalps, with six christian prisoners. the _mohawks_, all this while, kept strictly to their words, and suffered none of their men to go towards _virginia_ and _maryland_. there is reason to think that the _dutch_, who lived about _albany_ at that time, spirited up the _indians_ against the _english_; the national differences, that were then recent, bred a rancour in their spirits. some _dutchmen_ persuaded the _oneydoes_, that the _english_ at _new-york_ were resolved to destroy them, and put them into a terrible disturbance; for here the _dutch_ and the _french_ priests joined in the same measures. the commandant at _albany_ hearing of this, sent two interpreters of the _indian_ language, to persuade the _oneydoes_ to come to _albany_, in order to be assured of the _english_ friendship, and to have their jealousy removed; which being done, _swerise_, one of the chief _sachems_ of the _oneydoes_, excused his countrymen at _albany_ the fifteenth of _february_ / , by laying the blame on the people of _schenectady_, who had informed not one, but several of their people, and at several times, that the _english_ designed to cut them all off; and said, had they not reason to believe the people of _schenectady_, who are friends and neighbours to the _english_? they brought with them a christian woman and her child, that had been taken prisoners, and restored them, praying the governor to use his interest to have their people restored, that had been taken by the people of _virginia_; but they kept another christian woman and her two children, which they said they did only till such time as their prisoners should be restored, or some _canastoga indians_ given in their place. when the _five nations_ make peace with another nation, that has taken some of the _five nations_ prisoners, if these prisoners be dead, or cannot be restored, they usually demand some _indians_, in friendship with the _five nations_, in their stead; who either are adopted in place of their dead friends, or restored to their own nation; and sometimes they desire some of their enemies to be given to them, and even those frequently are adopted by a father in place of a son, or by a sister in place of a brother, and, most frequently, by a wife in place of a husband lost in the wars; but if they chance not to be agreeable to the relations, then they are certainly made sacrifices to their revenge. governor _andross_, being acquainted by letter with this last proposal of the _oneydoes_, required the immediate delivery of the christian prisoners, and promised to write to _virginia_ to have the _indian_ prisoners sav'd. some presents being given to the _oneydoes_, and they promised to bring them in a month's time. they, at the same time, informed the commandant at _albany_, that eight of their men were then out against the people of _virginia_; that they knew nothing of what was now promised; and therefore, in case they should do any harm, they desired that it might not be taken as a breach of their promises they now made. they promised likewise to inform the governor of every thing these parties shou'd happen to do. in the last place they said, we shall be very sorry if any thing should happen to the prisoners that we have promised to restore, lest it should create some jealousies of us, we hope that you will consider that they are mortal. accordingly, in _may_ following, the _oneydoes_ brought the other three prisoners to _albany_, and, on the twenty-fourth of that month, _swerise_, when he delivered them to the commandant at _albany_, and the commissioners for _indian_ affairs, said, "_brethren_, "we are come to this place with much trouble, as we did last winter, and renew the request we then made, that six _indians_ be delivered to us in the room of these six christians, in case our people, who are prisoners, be dead. none of us have gone out against the christians since we were last here; but we told you then that some were then out, who knew nothing of the governor's orders, and we desired, that if any thing happened it might not be taken ill. now thirteen of our people, who went out against our _indian_ enemies, met eighteen men on horseback, as far from any of the _english_ plantations as _cahnuaga_ is from _albany_, they fired upon our people; our men, being soldiers, returned their fire, and killed two men and two horses, and brought away their scalps. "it would be convenient that the governor tell the people of _virginia_, not to send their men so far from home; for if they should meet our parties in their way against our enemies, the _cahnowas_, whom the _english_ call _arogisti_, we cannot answer for the consequences. "we have now observed the governor's orders, in bringing the three other christian prisoners; and we trust the affair of our prisoners wholly to the governor. "we have now performed our promises: but where are our prisoners; or, if they be dead, the others in their room, now when it is so late in the spring? however, we will still trust this to the governor." then delivering the prisoners one by one, said, "we have, we say, now performed our promises, and are not ashamed. we hope _corlaer_, who governs the whole country, will likewise do that, of which he need not be ashamed. "_corlaer_ governs the whole land, from _new-york_ to _albany_, and from thence to the _senekas land_; we, who are his inferiors, shall faithfully keep the chain: let him perform his promise, as we have ours, that the chain be not broken on his side, who governs the whole country." then the commissioners gave them presents for their kind usage of the prisoners. after which _swerise_ stood up again and said; "let _corlaer_ take care, that the _indian_ woman, that is wanting, be restored, and, for those that are killed, others in their room. if _corlaer_ will not give ear to us in this affair, we will not hereafter give ear to him in any thing." hearing afterwards, that these last words were ill taken, _swerise_, with two more of the chief _oneydoe sachems_, excused it, saying; "what we said, of not hearkening any more to _corlaer_, did not proceed from the heart, but was spoken by way of argument, to make _corlaer_ more careful to release our people that are prisoners; and you may be convinced it was so, when you consider that it was said after your answer, and without laying down either bever, or any belt or wampum, as we always do, when we make propositions[ ]; therefore we desire, that, if it be noted, it may be blotted out, and not made known to _corlaer_, for we hold firmly to our covenant, as we said in our propositions." they, at the same time, told them, that the _sinondowans_[ ] came to them with eight belts, desiring them no longer to prosecute the war with the _virginia indians_, but to go to war against the _dewaganas_[ ], a nation lying to the north-westward; and that the _sennekas_ did desire them to set these christians at liberty, and to carry them to _albany_; all which we promised to do. the _five nations_ continuing however still to be troublesome to _virginia_, that government, in _september_ following, sent colonel _william kendall_, and colonel _southley littleton_, to _albany_, to renew and confirm the friendship between _virginia_ and the _five nations_. colonel _littleton_ died at _albany_, before the _indians_ arrived; and colonel _kendall_ spoke first to the _oneydoes_, and told them in a set speech, "that their people had taken away and destroyed their goods and people, and brought some of the women and children of _virginia_ captives into their castles, contrary to that faith and promise, and in breach of the peace made with colonel _coursey_, without any the least provocation, or injury done, by the people of _virginia_. however, through the great respect _virginia_ has to their nations, and by the persuasions of the governor of _new-york_, and the information he has given the government of _virginia_, that they had quietly and peaceably delivered to him the prisoners taken from _virginia_, who were returned safely; and their excusing the same, and inclination to live peaceably, without injuring _virginia_ for the future; the government of _virginia_ did forgive all the damages the _five nations_ have done to the people of _virginia_, though very great; provided that they, or any living among them, for the future, do not offend, or molest the people of _virginia_, or _indians_ living among them." he spoke to the _mohawks_ and _sennekas_, separately from the _oneydoes_, because they had not done any mischief, and promised them kind and neighbourly usage when they came to _virginia_, and gave them presents; they returned the compliment, with an assurance of their friendship, and condoled colonel _littleton_'s death, after the _indian_ manner, by a =present of a belt of black wampum=, besides the belt given, on renewal of the friendship. the _onnondagas_ did not come till _november_; on the fifth of which month the _virginia_ agent spoke to them, in the same words he did to the _oneydoes_. it does not appear, by the register of _indian_ affairs, what answer the _oneydoes_ and _onnondagas_ made, but it is certain they did not observe friendship with _virginia_, but molested them with reiterated incursions of their parties. it is observable, however, that these two nations, and the _cayugas_, only had _french_ priests among them at that time, and that none of the rest ever molested the _english_; for which reason, colonel _dongan_, notwithstanding the orders he had received from his master, and that he himself was a papist, complained of the ill offices these priests did to the _english_ interest, and forbid the _five nations_ to entertain any of them; though the _english_ and _french_ crowns, while he was governor of _new-york_, seemed to be more than ever in strict friendship. the _french_ had no hopes of persuading the _five nations_ to break with _new-york_ directly, but they were in hopes, that, by the _indian_ parties doing frequent mischief in _virginia_, the government of _new-york_ would be forced to join, in resenting the injury, and thereby that union, between the government of _new-york_ and the _five nations_, would be broke, which always obstructed, and often defeated, the design the _french_ had, of subjecting all _north america_ to the crown of _france_. for this reason, the governors of _new-york_ have always, with the greatest caution, avoided a breach with these nations, on account of the little differences they had with the neighbouring colonies. these new incursions of these two nations were so troublesome to the people of _virginia_, that their governor, the lord _howard of effingham_, thought it necessary, for their security, to undertake a journey to _new-york_. i shall give a particular account of this affair, which was thought of such consequence, that a peer of _england_ left his government, and travelled four-hundred miles, to treat with the _five nations_; and shall take this opportunity of describing some ceremonies they use, in making peace. the _sachems_ of the _five nations_ being called to _albany_, eight _mohawks_, three _oneydoes_, three _onnondagas_, and three _cayuga sachems_, met his lordship there; and, on the thirteenth of _july_, , he, accompanied by two of the council of _virginia_, spoke to the _sachems_ as follows, in the presence of colonel _thomas dongan_, governor of _new-york_, and the magistrates of _albany_. the _senekas_ being far off, were not then arrived. _proposals made by the right honourable_ francis _lord_ howard of effingham, _governor-general of his majesty's dominion of_ virginia. _to_ _the_ mohawks, oneydoes, onnondagas, _and_ cayugas. "it is now about seven years, said he, since you (unprovoked) came into _virginia_, a country belonging to the great king of _england_, and committed several murders and robberies, carrying away our christian women and children prisoners into your castles. all which injuries we designed to have revenged on you, but at the desire of sir _edmond andross_, then governor-general of this country, we desisted from destroying you, and sent our agents, colonel _william kendal_, and colonel _southley littleton_, to confirm and make sure the peace, that colonel _coursey_ of _maryland_ included us in, when he first treated with you. we find, that as you quickly forgot what you promised colonel _coursey_, so you have wilfully broke the covenant-chain which you promised our agent, colonel _kendal_, should be kept more strong and bright, if we of _virginia_ would bury, in the pit of oblivion, the injury then done us; which, upon governor _andross_'s intercession, and your submission, we were willing to forget: but you not at all minding the covenant then made, have every year since, come into our country in a war-like manner, under pretence of fighting with our _indians_, our friends and neighbours, which you ought not to have done, our agent having included them likewise in the peace. you not only destroyed, and took several of them prisoners, but you have also killed and burnt our christian people, destroying corn and tobacco, more than you made use of, killed our horses, hogs, and cattle; not to eat, but to let them lie in the woods and stink: this you did, when you were not denied any thing you said you wanted. "i must also tell you, that, under the pretence of friendship, you have come to houses at the heads of our rivers (when they have been fortified) with a white sheet on a pole, and have laid down your guns before the fort; upon which, our people taking you for friends, have admitted your great men into their forts, and have given them meat and drink, what they desired. after the great men had refreshed themselves, and desiring to return, as they were let out of the fort-gates, the young men commonly rushed into the fort, and plundered the houses, taking away, and destroying all the corn, tobacco, and bedding, and what else was in the houses. when they went away, they generally also took several sheep with them, and killed several cows big with calf, and left them behind them cut to pieces, and flung about, as if it were in defiance of us, and in derision of our friendship. these, and many more injuries that you have done us, have caused me to raise forces, to send to the heads of our rivers, to defend our people from these outrages, till i came to _new-york_, to colonel _thomas dongan_, your governor-general, to desire him, as we are all one king's subjects, to assist me in warring against you, to revenge the christian blood that you have shed, and to make you give full satisfaction for all the goods that you have destroyed: but by the mediation of your governor, i am now come to _albany_ to speak with you, and to know the reason of your breaking the covenant-chain, not only with us and our neighbour _indians_, but with _maryland_, who are great king _charles_'s subjects; for our _indians_ have given king _charles_ their land; therefore i, the governor of _virginia_, will protect them, as your governor, under the great _duke of york_ and _albany_, will henceforth you, when the chain of friendship is made between us all. "now i have let you know, that i am sensible of all the injuries you have done us, and by the desire of your governor-general, i am willing to make a new chain with you for _virginia_, _maryland_, and our _indians_, that may be more strong and lasting, even to the word's end; so that we may be brethren, and great king _charles_'s children. "i propose to you, _first_, that you call out of our countries of _virginia_ and _maryland_, all your young men or soldiers that are now there. "_secondly_, that you do not hinder or molest our friendly _indians_ from hunting in our mountains, it having been their country, and none of yours; they never go into your country to disturb any of you. "_thirdly_, though the damages you have done our country be very great, and would require a great deal of satisfaction, which you are bound to give; yet we assure you, that only by the persuasions of your governor, who is at a vast deal of trouble and charge for your welfare, which you ever ought to acknowledge, i have pass'd it by and forgiven you; upon this condition, that your people, nor any living among you, for the future, ever commit any incursions upon our christians or _indians_ living among us, or in _maryland_. "for the better confirmation of the same, and that the peace now concluded may be lasting, i propose to have two [ ] hatchets buried, as a final determination of all wars and jarrings between us; one on behalf of us and our _indians_, and the other for all your _nations_ united together, that ever did us any injury, or pretended to war against our _indian_ friends, or those of _maryland_. "and that nothing may be wanting for confirmation thereof (if you desire it) we are willing to send some of our _indian sachems_, with an agent, next summer, about this time, that they may ratify the covenant with you here, in this prefixed house, where you may see and speak together as friends. "that the covenant now made between us, in this prefixed house, in the presence of your governor, may be firmly kept and performed on your parts, as it always has been on ours; and that you do not break any one link of the covenant-chain for the future, by your people's coming near our plantations; when you march to the southward, keep to the feet of the mountains, and do not come nigh the heads of our rivers, there being no bever-hunting there; for we shall not for the future, though you lay down your arms as friends, ever trust you more, you have so often deceived us." the next day the _mohawks_ answer'd first by their speaker, saying: "we must, in the first place, say something to the other three nations, by way of reproof, for their not keeping the former chain, as they ought; and therefore we desire you, great _sachem of virginia_, and you _corlaer_, and all here present to give ear, for we will conceal nothing of the evil they have done." [then turning to the other nations.] "you have heard yesterday all that has been said; as for our parts, we are free of the blame laid on us; we have always been obedient to _corlaer_, and have steadily kept our chain with _virginia_, _maryland_, and _boston_; but ye are stupid and brutish, and have no understanding, we must stamp understanding into you. let the new chain made yesterday be carefully preserved for the future. this we earnestly recommend to you, for we are ready to cry for shame of you; let us be no more ashamed on your account, but be obedient, and =take this belt=, to keep what we say in your memory. "hear now, now is the time to hearken; the covenant-chain had very near slipt, by your not keeping it firmly. hold it fast now, when all former evils are buried in the pit. "you _oneydoes_, i speak to you as children; be no longer childish, or void of understanding. "you _onondagas_, our brethren, you are like deaf people, that cannot hear, your senses are covered with dirt and filth. "you _cayugas_, do not return into your former ways. there are three things we must all observe. "_first_, the covenant with _corlear_. _secondly_, the covenant with _virginia_ and _maryland_. _thirdly_, with _boston_. we must stamp understanding into you, that you may be obedient; and =take this belt= for a remembrancer." then _cadianne_, the same _mohawk_ speaker, turning to my lord, said: "we are very thankful to you, great _sachem_ of _virginia_, that you are persuaded by _corlear_, our governor, to forgive all former faults. we are very glad to hear you, and see your heart softened. =take these three bevers= as a token. "we thank the great _sachem_ of _virginia_ for saying, that the axe shall be thrown into the pit. =take these two bevers=, as a token of our joy and thankfulness. "we are glad that _assarigoa_[ ] will bury in the pit what is past. let the earth be trod hard over it; or rather, let a strong stream run under the pit, to wash the evil away out of our sight and remembrance, and that it may never be digged up again. "_assarigoa_, you are a man of knowledge and understanding, thus to keep the covenant-chain bright as silver; and now again to renew it, and make it stronger. (then pointing to the three other nations, said,) but they are chain-breakers. i lay down this as a token, that we _mohawks_ have preserved the chain intire on our parts. =gives two bevers and a racoon.= "the covenant must be kept; for the fire of love of _virginia_ and _maryland_ burns in this place, as well as ours, and this house of peace must be kept clean. =gives two bevers.= "we now plant a tree[ ], whose top will reach the sun, and its branches spread far abroad, so that it shall be seen afar off; and we shall shelter ourselves under it, and live in peace without molestation. here he =gave two bevers=. "you proposed yesterday, that if we were desirous to see the _indians_ of _virginia_, you are willing to send some of their _sachems_ next summer, about this time, to this place. this proposal pleases me very much, the sooner they come the better, that we may speak with them in this house, which is appointed for our speaking with our friends; and =give two belts= to confirm it. "you have now heard what exhortation we have made to the other three nations; we have taken the hatchet out of their hands; we now therefore pray, that both your hatchets may likewise be buried in a deep pit. =giving two bevers.= "_assarigoa_, some of us _mohawks_ are out against our enemies, that lie afar off, they will do you no harm, nor plunder, as the others do. be kind to them, if they shall happen to come to any of your plantations; give them some tobacco and some victuals; for they will neither rob nor steal, as the _oneydoes_, _onnondagas_, and _cayugas_ have done. "the _oneydoes_ particularly thank you, great _sachem_ of _virginia_, for consenting to lay down the axe. the hatchet is taken out of all their hands. =gives a belt.= "we again thank _assarigoa_, that he has made a new chain. let it be kept bright and clean, and held fast on all sides; let not any one pull his arm from it. we include all the _four nations_, in giving this belt. "we again pray _assarigoa_, to take the _oneydoes_ into his favour, and keep the chain strong with them; for they are our children. =gives a belt.= "the _oneydoes_ =give twenty bevers=, as a satisfaction for what they promised the lord _baltimore_, and desire that they may be discharged of that debt." the two governors told them, that they would use their endeavours with the lord _baltimore_, to persuade him to forgive what remained. then the _indians_ desired that the hole might be dug, to bury the axes, _viz._ one in behalf of _virginia_ and their _indians_, another in behalf of _maryland_ and theirs, and three for the _onnondagas_, _oneydoes_, and _cayugas_. the _mohawks_ said, there was no need of burying any on their account, for the first chain had never been broke by them. then the three nations spoke by an _onnondaga_, called _thanohjanihta_, who said: "we thank the great _sachem of virginia_, that he has so readily forgiven and forgot the injuries that have been done; and we, for our parts, gladly catch at, and lay hold of the new chain. then each of them delivered an axe to be buried, and =gave a belt=. "i speak in the name of all three nations, and include them in this chain, which we desire may be kept clean and bright like silver. =gives a belt.= "we desire that the path may be open for the _indians_ under _assarigoa_'s protection, to come safely and freely to this place, in order to confirm the peace." =gives six fathom of wampum.= then the axes were buried in the south-east end of the court-yard, and the _indians_ threw the earth upon them; after which the lord _howard_ told them, since now a firm peace is concluded, we shall hereafter remain friends, and _virginia_ and _maryland_ will send once in two or three years to renew it, and some of our _sachems_ shall come, according to your desire, to confirm it. last of all the _oneydoes_, the _onnondagas_, and _cayugas_, jointly sang the peace-song, with demonstrations of much joy; and thanked the governor of _new-york_ for his effectual mediation with the governor of _virginia_ in their favour. colonel _dungan_ had gained the affections of the _five nations_, and they esteemed him much. they desired the _duke of york_'s arms to put upon their _castles_, which, from the sequel of their story, we may suppose they were told would save them from the _french_. colonel _dungan_ desired them to call home those of their nations that had settled in _canada_[ ]. to which they answered, _corlear_ keeps a correspondence and friendship with _canada_, and therefore he can prevail more than we can. let _corlear_ use his endeavours to draw our _indians_ home to their own country. the government of the _massachusets bay_ had appointed colonel _stephanus cortland_, one of the council of _new-york_, their agent at this time, to renew their friendship likewise with the _five nations_, and to give them some small presents; which was accordingly done. the governor of _new-york_, colonel _dungan_, concluded with this advice to them: keep a good understanding among yourselves; if any difference happen, acquaint me with it, and i will compose it. make no agreement with the _french_, or any other nation, without my knowledge and approbation. then he gave the duke's arms to be put up at each of their castles, in hopes it might deter the _french_ from attacking them, (as they were threatened from _canada_) by this so manifest a declaration of their being under the protection of the crown of _england_, when the two crowns were in the strictest friendship; but it is probable the _french_ chose this very time to attack them, to bring them off from that confidence they seemed to have in the _english_. it may be proper, before i proceed, to insert here also a remarkable speech made by the _onnondagas_ and _cayugas_ to the two governors, on the second day of _august_, _viz._ "_brother_ corlear, "your _sachem_ is a great _sachem_, and we are but a small people; but when the _english_ came first to _manhatan_,[ ] to _aragiske_[ ] and to _yakokranagary_[ ], they were then but a small people, and we were great. then, because we found you a good people, we treated you kindly, and gave you land; we hope therefore, now that you are great, and we small, you will protect us from the _french_. if you do not, we shall lose all our hunting and bevers: the _french_ will get all the bevers. the reason they are now angry with us is, because we carry our bever to our brethren. "we have put our lands and ourselves under the protection of the great _duke of york_, the brother of your great _sachem_, who is likewise a great _sachem_. "we have annexed the _susquehana_ river, which we won with the sword, to this government; and we desire it may be a branch of the great tree that grows in this place, the top of which reaches the sun, and its branches shelter us from the _french_, and all other nations. our fire burns in your houses, and your fire burns with us; we desire it may be so always. but we will not that any of the great _penn_'s people settle upon the _susquehana_ river, for we have no other land to leave to our children. "our young men are soldiers, and when they are provoked, they are like wolves in the woods, as you, _sachem_ of _virginia_, very well know. "we have put ourselves under the great _sachem charles_, that lives on the other side the great lake. we =give you these two white dressed deer-skins=, to send to the great _sachem_, that he may write on them, and put a great red seal to them, to confirm what we now do; and put the _susquehana_ river above the falls, and all the rest of our land under the great _duke of york_, and give that land to none else. our brethren, his people, have been like fathers to our wives and children, and have given us bread when we were in need of it; we will not therefore join ourselves, or our land, to any other government but this. we desire _corlear_, our governor, may send this our proposition to the great _sachem charles_, who dwells on the other side the great lake, with this =belt of wampum=, and this other =smaller belt= to the _duke of york_ his brother: and =we give you, _corlear_, this bever=, that you may send over this proposition. "you great man of _virginia_, we let you know, that great _penn_ did speak to us here in _corlear_'s house by his agents, and desired to buy the _susquehana_ river of us, but we would not hearken to him, for we had fastened it to this government. "we desire you therefore to bear witness of what we now do, and that we now confirm what we have done before. let your friend, that lives on the other side the great lake, know this, that we being a free people, though united to the _english_, may give our lands, and be joined to the _sachem_ we like best. we =give this bever= to remember what we say." the _senekas_ arrived soon after, and, on the fifth of _august_, spoke to the lord _howard_ in the following manner: "we have heard and understood what mischief hath been done in _virginia_; we have it as perfect as if it were upon our fingers ends. o _corlear_! we thank you for having been our intercessor, so that the axe has not fallen upon us. "and you _assarigoa_, great _sachem of virginia_, we thank you for burying all evil in the pit. we are informed, that the _mohawks_, _oneydoes_, _onnondagas_, and _cayugas_, have buried the axe already; now we that live remotest off, are come to do the same, and to include in this chain the _cahnawaas_, your friends. we desire therefore, that an axe, on our part, may be buried with one of _assarigoa_'s. o _corlear! corlear!_ we thank you for laying hold of one end of the axe; and we thank you, great governor of _virginia_, not only for throwing aside the axe, but more especially for your putting all evil from your heart. now we have a new chain, a strong and a straight chain, that cannot be broken. the tree of peace is planted so firmly, that it cannot be moved, let us on both sides hold the chain fast. "we understand what you said of the great _sachem_, that lives on the other side the great water. "you tell us, that the _cahnawaas_ will come hither, to strengthen the chain. let them not make any excuse, that they are old and feeble, or that their feet are sore. if the old _sachems_ cannot, let the young men come. we shall not fail to come hither, tho' we live farthest off, and then the new chain will be stronger and brighter. "we understand, that because of the mischief that has been done to the people and castles of _virginia_ and _maryland_, we must not come near the heads of your rivers, nor near your plantations, but keep at the foot of the mountains; for tho' we lay down our arms, as friends, we shall not be trusted for the future, but looked on as robbers. we agree however to this proposition, and shall wholly stay away from _virginia_: and this we do in gratitude to _corlear_, who has been at so great pains to persuade you, great governor of _virginia_, to forget what is past. you are wise in giving ear to _corlear_'s good advice, for we shall now go a path which was never trod before. "we have now done speaking to _corlear_, and the governor of _virginia_; let the chain be for ever kept clean and bright by him, and we shall do the same. "the other nations from the _mohawks_ country to the _cayugas_, have delivered up the _susquehana_ river, and all that country, to _corlear_'s government. we confirm what they have done by =giving this belt=." coll. _bird_, one of the council of _virginia_, and _edmond jennings esq_; attorney general of that province, came with four _indian sachems_, (according to the lord _howard_'s promise) to renew and confirm the peace, and met the _five nations_ at _albany_ in _september_ . coll. _bird_ accused them of having again broke their promise, by taking an _indian_ girl from an _english_ man's house, and four _indian_ boys prisoners. they excused this, by its being done by the parties that were out when the peace was concluded, who knew nothing of it; which accident they had provided against in their articles. they said, the four boys were given to the relations of those men that were lost; and it would be difficult to obtain their restoration: but they at last promised to deliver them up. the _senakas_ and _mohawks_ declared themselves free of any blame, and chid the other nations. so that we may still observe the influence which the _french_ priests had obtained over those other nations, and to what christian like purpose they used it. the _mohawks_ speaker said, "where shall i seek the chain of peace? where shall i find it but upon our path[ ]? and whither doth our path lead us, but into this house? this is a house of peace;" after this he sang all the links of the chain over. he afterwards sang by way of admonition to the _onondagas_, _oneydoes_, and _cayugas_, and concluded all with a song to the _virginia indians_. the _french priests_ however still employed their influence over the _onnondagas_, _cayugas_, and _oneydoes_; and it was easy for them to spirit up the _indians_ (naturally revengeful) against their old enemies. a party of the _oneydoes_ went out two years after this against the _wayanoak indians_, friends of _virginia_, and killed some of the people of _virginia_, who assisted those _indians_. they took six prisoners, but restored them at _albany_, with an excuse, that they did not know they were friends of _virginia_. but coll. _dungan_ on this occasion told them, that he only had kept all the _english_ in _north-america_ from joining together to destroy them; that if ever he should hear of the like complaint, he would dig up the hatchet, and join with the rest of the _english_ to cut them off root and branch; for there were many complaints made of him to the king by the _english_, as well as by the governor of _canada_, for his favouring of them. we have now gone through the material transactions which the _five nations_ had with the _english_, in which we find the _english_ pursuing nothing but peaceable and christian-like measures; and the _five nations_ (tho' barbarians) living with the people of _new-york_, like good neighbours and faithful friends, and generally with all the _english_ also, except when they were influenced by the _jesuites_; at the same time, one cannot but admire the zeal, courage, and resolution of these jesuites, that would adventure to live among _indians_ at war with their nation; and the better to carry their purposes, to comply with all the humours and manners of such a wild people, so as not to be distinguished by strangers from meer _indians_. one of them, named _milet_, remained with the _oneydoes_ till after the year ; he was advanced to the degree of a _sachem_, and had so great an influence over them, that the other nations could not prevail with them to part with him. while he lived with them, the _oneydoes_ were frequently turned against the southern _indians_ (friends of the _english_ southern colonies) and were always wavering in their resolutions against the _french_ at _canada_. we shall now see what effect the policy of the _french_ had, who pursued very different measures from the _english_. chap. iv. _mr_. de la barre'_s expedition, and some remarkable transactions in_ . the _french_, in the time they were at peace with the _five nations_, built their forts at _taidonderaghi_ and _missilimakinak_, and made a settlement there. they carried on their commerce among the numerous nations that live on the banks of the great lakes, and the banks of the _mississipi_; they not only prosecuted their trade among these nations, but did all they could to secure their obedience, and to make them absolutely subject to the crown of _france_, by building forts at the considerable passes, and placing small garisons in them. they took in short all the precautions in their power, not only to restrain the _indians_ by force, but likewise to gain their affections, by sending _missionaries_ among them. the only obstruction they met with was from the _five nations_, who introduced the _english_ of _new-york_ into the lakes to trade with the _indians_ that lived round them. this gave the _french_ much uneasiness, because they foresaw, that the _english_ would not only prove dangerous rivals, but that the advantages which they had in trade, beyond what it was possible for the inhabitants of _canada_ to have, would enable the people of _new-york_ so far to undersel them, that their trade would soon be ruined, and all the interest lost which they had gained with so much labour and expence. the _five nations_ likewise continued in war with many of the nations, with the _chictaghicks_ particularly, who yielded the most profitable trade to the _french_; and as often as they discovered any of the _french_ carrying ammunition towards these nations, they fell upon them, and took all their powder, lead and arms from them. this made the _french_ traders afraid of travelling, and prevented their _indians_ from hunting, and also lessened the opinion they had of the _french_ power, when they found that the _french_ were not able to protect them against the insults of the _five nations_. the _senakas_ lie next to the lakes, and nearest to the nations with whom the _french_ carried on the greatest trade, these people were so averse to that nation, that they would never receive any priests among them, and of consequence were most firmly attach'd to the _english_ interest, who supplied them with arms and powder (the means to be revenged of their enemies.) for these reasons mr. _de la barre_ (governor of _canada_) sent a messenger to coll. _dungan_, to complain of the injuries the _senakas_ had done to the _french_, and to shew the necessity he was under to bring the _five nations_ to reason by force of arms. this messenger happening to arrive at the time the _indians_ met the lord _howard_ at _albany_, coll. _dungan_ told the _senakas_ the complaints that the _french_ governor made of them. to which they gave him the following answer, in presence of mr. _de la barre_'s messenger, on the th of _august_ . "we were sent for, and are come, and have heard what you have said to us, that _corlear_ hath great complaints of us, both from _virginia_ and _canada_. what they complain of from _canada_ may possibly be true, that some of our young men have taken some of their goods, but _yonnendio_ the governor of _canada_, is the cause of it. he not only permits his people to carry ammunition, guns, powder, lead, and axes to the _tuihtuih-ronoons_[ ] our enemies, but sends them thither on purpose. these guns which he sends knock our bever hunters on the head, and our enemies carry the bevers to _canada_ that we would have brought to our brethren. our bever hunters are soldiers, and could bear this no longer. they met some _french_ in their way to our enemies, and very near them, carrying ammunition, which our men took from them. this is agreeable to our customs in war; and we may therefore openly own it, tho' we know not whether it be practised by the christians in such like cases. "when the governor of _canada_ speaks to us of the chain, he calls us children, and saith, i am your father, you must hold fast the chain, and i will do the same: i will protect you as a father doth his children. is this protection, to speak thus with his lips, and at the same time to knock us on the head, by assisting our enemies with ammunition? "he always says, i am your father, and you are my children; and yet he is angry with his children, for taking these goods. "but, o _corlear_! o _assarigoa_! we must complain to you; you _corlear_ are a lord, and govern this country; is it just that our father is going to fight with us for these things, or is it well done? we rejoiced when _la sal_ was sent over the great water; and when _perot_ was removed, because they had furnished our enemies with ammunition; but we are disappointed in our hopes, for we find our enemies are still supplied. is this well done? yea, he often forbids us to make war on any of the nations with whom he trades; and at the same time furnishes them with all sorts of ammunition, to enable them to destroy us. "thus far in answer to the complaint the governor of _canada_ hath made of us to _corlear_. _corlear_ said to us, that satisfaction must be made to the _french_ for the mischief we have done them. this he said before he heard our answer. now let him that hath inspection over all our countries, on whom our eyes are fixed, let him, even _corlear_, judge and determine. if you say that it must be paid, we shall pay it, but we cannot live without free bever hunting. "_corlear_, hear what we say, we thank you for the duke's arms, which you have given us to be put in our castles, as a defence to them. you command them. have we wandered out of the way, as the governor of _canada_ says? we do not threaten him with war, as he threatens us. what shall we do? shall we run away, or shall we sit still in our houses? what shall we do? we speek to him that governs and commands us. "now _corlear_, and _assarigoa_, and all people here present, remember what we have answered to the complaints of the governor of _canada_; yea, we wish that what we here said may come to his ears." then they =gave a belt=. monsieur _de la barre_ at this time was gone, with all the force of _canada_, to _cadarackui fort_, and ordered the three vessels to be repaired which the _french_ had built on _cadarackui lake_: his design was to frighten the _five nations_ into his own terms, by the appearance of the _french_ army, which consisted of soldiers of the regular troops, _indians_, and men that carried provisions, besides men that he left to secure _cadarackui fort_, and the western _indians_, that he expected would join him. but while he was at this fort, the fatigue of travelling in the month of _august_, together with the unhealthiness of that place (the country thereabout being very marshy) where he tarried six weeks, occasioned so great a sickness in his army, that he found himself unable to perform any thing but by treaty; and therefore sent orders to monsr. _dulhut_, who was come from _missilimakinak_ with men, _french_ and _indians_, to stop. monsr. _de la barre_ passed across the lake, with as many men as were able to travel, and arrived at the river which the _french_ call _la famine_, by the _indians_ called _kaihohage_, which falls into the south side of _cadarackui lake_, about thirty miles from _onnondago_. there were two villages of the _five nations_ on the north side of the lake, about fifteen miles from the _french_ fort, consisting of those _indians_ that had the most inclination to the _french_: they provided the _french_ army with provisions, while they remained at the fort; but it is probable, sent an account to their own nations of every thing that happened; and that this was the reason of the usage they afterwards met with from the _french_. when monsr. _de la barre_ sent to coll. _dungan_, he was in hopes, from the strict alliance that was then between the crowns of _england_ and _france_, and from coll. _dungan_'s being a papist, that he would at least sit still till he had reduced the _five nations_. but none of these reasons permitted that gentleman to be easy, while the _french_ attempted such things, as in their consequences would be of the highest degree prejudicial to the _english_ interest, and might put all the _english_ colonies in _america_ in danger. wherefore he dispatched the publick interpreter, with orders to do every thing in his power to prevent the _five nations_ going to treat with monsr. _de la barre_. the interpreter succeeded in his design with the _mohawks_, and with the _senakas_, who promised that they would not go near the _french_ governor: but he had not the like success with the _onnondagas, oneydoes_, and _cayugas_, who had received the _french_ priests, for they would not hear the interpreter, but in presence of the _french_ priests, and monsr. _la main_, and three other _frenchmen_ that monsr. _de la barre_ had sent to persuade them to meet him at _kaihohage_; they gave the following answer to the interpreter. "_arie_, you are _corlear's messenger_, _ohquesse_[ ] (monsr. _la maine_) is the governor of _canada_'s; and there[ ] sits our father; _yonnondio_ acquainted us some time ago, that he would speak with us, before he would undertake any thing against the _senakas_. now he hath sent for all the nations to speak with him in friendship, and that at a place not far from _onnondaga_, even at _kaihohage_. but our brother _corlear_ tells us, that we must not meet the governor of _canada_ without his permission; and that if _yonnondio_ have any thing to say to us, he must first send to _corlear_ for leave to speak with us. _yonnondio_ has sent long ago to us to speak with him, and he has lately repeated that desire by _onnissantie_ the brother of our father _twirhaersira_[ ] that sits there; he has not only entreated us by our father, but by two praying _indians_, one an _onnondaga_, the other the son of an old _mohawk sachem_, _connondowe_. they brought five great belts of wampum, not a fathom or two only, as you bring. now _ohquesse_ has been sent with three _frenchmen_; _yonnondio_ not being content with all this, has likewise sent _dennehoct_, and two other _mohawks_, to persuade us to meet him, and to speak with him of good things. should we not go to him after all this intreaty, when he is come so far, and so near to us? certainly if we do not, we shall provoke his wrath, and not deserve his goodness. you say we are subjects to the king of _england_ and _duke of york_, but we say we are brethren. we must take care of ourselves. those arms fixed upon the posts, without the gate, cannot defend us against the arms of _la barre_. brother _corlear_, we tell you, that we shall bind a covenant chain to our arm, and to his, as thick as that post, (pointing to a post of the house) be not dissatisfied; should we not embrace this happiness offered us, _viz_. peace, in the place of war; yea, we shall take the evil doers, the _senekas_, by the hand, and _la barre_ likewise, and their ax and his sword shall be thrown into a deep water. we wish our brother _corlear_ were present, but it seems the time will not permit of it." accordingly _garangula_, one of the chief _sachems_ of the _onondaga's_, with thirty warriors, went with mr. _le maine_, to meet the governor of _canada_ at _kaihohage_. after he had been two days in the _french_ camp, monsr. _la barre_ spoke to him as follows, (the _french_ officers making a semi-circle on one side, while _garangula_, with his warriors, compleated the circle on the other.) _monsr_. de la barre's _speech to_ garangula.[ ] "the king, my master, being informed that the _five nations_ have often infringed the peace, has ordered me to come hither with a guard, and to send _ohguesse_ to the _onondagas_, to bring the chief _sachem_ to my camp. the intention of the great king is, that you and i may smoke the _calumet_[ ] of peace together, but on this condition, that you promise me, in the name of the _senekas, cayugas, onondagas_, and _mohawks_, to give intire satisfaction and reparation to his subjects; and for the future never to molest them. "the _senekas, cayugas, onondagas, oneydoes_, and _mohawks_ have robbed and abused all the traders that were passing to the _illinois_ and _umamies_, and other _indian_ nations, the children of my king. they have acted, on these occasions, contrary to the treaty of peace with my predecessor. i am ordered therefore to demand satisfaction, and to tell them, that in case of refusal, or their plundering us any more, that i have express orders to declare war. this belt confirms my words. the warriors of the _five nations_ have conducted the _english_ into the lakes, which belong to the king, my master, and brought the _english_ among the nations that are his children, to destroy the trade of his subjects, and to withdraw these nations from him. they have carried the _english_ thither, notwithstanding the prohibition of the late governor of _new-york_, who foresaw the risque that both they and you would run. i am willing to forget these things, but if ever the like shall happen for the future, i have express orders to declare war against you. this belt confirms my words. your warriors have made several barbarous incursions on the _illinois_ and _umamies_; they have massacred men, women, and children, and have made many of these nations prisoners, who thought themselves safe in their villages in time of peace. these people, who are my king's children, must not be your slaves; you must give them their liberty, and send them back into their own country. if the _five nations_ shall refuse to do this, i have express orders to declare war against them. this belt confirms my words. "this is what i have to say to _garangula_, that he may carry to the _senekas, onondagas, oneydoes, cayugas_, and _mohawks_ the declaration which the king, my master, has commanded me to make. he doth not wish them to force him to send a great army to _cadarackui_ fort, to begin a war which must be fatal to them. he would be sorry that this fort, that was the work of peace, should become the prison of your warriors. we must endeavour, on both sides, to prevent such misfortunes. the _french_, who are the brethren and friends of the _five nations_, will never trouble their repose, provided that the satisfaction which i demand be given, and that the treaties of peace be hereafter observed. i shall be extremely grieved if my words do not produce the effect which i expect from them; for then i shall be obliged to join with the governor of _new-york_, who is commanded by his master to assist me, and burn the castles of the _five nations_, and destroy you. this belt confirms my words." _garangala_ was very much surprised to find the soft words of the _jesuit_, and of the governor's messengers, turned to such threatening language. this was designed to strike terror into the _indians_; but _garangula_ having good information from those of the _five nations_ living near _cadarackui_ fort, of all the sickness and other misfortunes which afflicted the _french_ army, it was far from producing the designed effect. all the time that _monsieur de la barre_ spoke, _garangula_ kept his eyes fixed on the end of his pipe; as soon as the governor had done speaking, he rose up, and having walked five or six times round the circle, he returned to his place, where he spoke standing, while _monsieur de la barre_ kept his elbow-chair. garangula's _answer_. "_yonnondio_, "i honour you, and the warriors that are with me all likewise honour you. your interpreter has finished your speech; i now begin mine. my words make haste to reach your ears, hearken to them. "_yonnondio_, you must have believed, when you left _quebeck_, that the sun had burnt up all the forests which render our country inaccessible to the _french_, or that the lakes had so far overflown their banks, that they had surrounded our castles, and that it was impossible for us to get out of them. yes, _yonnondio_, surely you must have dreamt so, and the curiosity of seeing so great a wonder has brought you so far. now you are undeceived, since that i and the warriors here present are come to assure you, that the _senekas, cayugas, onondagas, oneydoes_, and _mohawks_ are yet alive. i thank you, in their name, for bringing back into their country the _calumet_, which your predecessor received from their hands. it was happy for you, that you left underground that murdering hatchet, that has been so often dyed in the blood of the _french_. hear, _yonnondio_, i do not sleep, i have my eyes open, and the sun, which enlightens me, discovers to me a great captain at the head of a company of soldiers, who speaks as if he were dreaming. he says, that he only came to the lake to smoke on the great _calumet_ with the _onondagas_. but _garangula_ says, that he sees the contrary, that it was to knock them on the head, if sickness had not weakened the arms of the _french_. "i see _yonnondio_ raving in a camp of sick men, whose lives the great spirit has saved, by inflicting this sickness on them. hear, _yonnondio_, our women had taken their clubs, our children and old men had carried their bows and arrows into the heart of your camp, if our warriors had not disarmed them, and kept them back, when your messenger, _ohguesse_, came to our castles. it is done, and i have said it. hear, _yonnondio_, we plundered none of the _french_, but those that carried guns, powder, and ball to the _iwikties_ and _chictaghicks_, because those arms might have cost us our lives. herein we follow the example of the jesuits, who stave all the caggs of rum brought to our castles, lest the drunken _indians_ should knock them on the head. our warriors have not bevers enough to pay for all these arms, that they have taken, and our old men are not afraid of the war. this belt preserves my words. "we carried the _english_ into our lakes, to trade there with the _utawawas_ and _quatoghies_, as the _adirondacks_ brought the _french_ to our castles, to carry on a trade which the _english_ say is theirs. we are born free, we neither depend on _yonnondio_ nor _corlear_. "we may go where we please, and carry with us whom we please, and buy and sell what we please: if your allies be your slaves, use them as such, command them to receive no other but your people. this belt preserves my words. "we knock'd the _twihtwies_ and _chictaghicks_ on the head, because they had cut down the trees of peace, which were the limits of our country. they have hunted bevers on our lands: they have acted contrary to the customs of all _indians_; for they left none of the bevers alive, they killed both male and female. they brought the _satanas_[ ] into their country, to take part with them, after they had concerted ill designs against us. we have done less than either the _english_ or _french_, that have usurped the lands of so many _indian_ nations, and chased them from their own country. this belt preserves my words. hear, _yonnondio_, what i say is the voice of all the _five nations_; hear what they answer, open your ears to what they speak: the _senekas, cayugas, onondagas, oneydoes_, and _mohawks_ say, that when they buried the hatchet at _cadarackui_ (in the presence of your predecessor) in the middle of the fort, they planted the tree of peace in the same place, to be there carefully preserved, that, in place of a retreat for soldiers, that fort might be a rendezvous for merchants; that, in place of arms and ammunition of war, bevers and merchandise should only enter there. "hear, _yonnondio_, take care for the future, that so great a number of soldiers, as appear there, do not choak the tree of peace planted in so small a fort. it will be a great loss, if after it had so easily taken root, you should stop its growth, and prevent its covering your country and ours with its branches. i assure you, in the name of the _five nations_, that our warriors shall dance to the _calumet_ of peace under its leaves, and shall remain quiet on their matts, and shall never dig up the hatchet, till their brethren, _yonnondio_ or _corlear_, shall either jointly or separately endeavour to attack the country, which the great spirit has given to our ancestors. this belt preserves my words, and this other, the authority which the _five nations_ has given me." then _garangula_ addressing himself to monsieur _le maine_, said: "take courage, _ohguesse_, you have spirit, speak, explain my words, forget nothing, tell all that your brethren and friends say to _yonnondio_, your governor, by the mouth of _garangula_, who loves you, and desires you to accept of =this present of bever=, and take part with me in my feast, to which i invite you. this present of bever is sent to _yonnondio_ on the part of the _five nations_." when _garangula_'s harangue was explained to monsieur _de la barre_, he returned to his tent, much inraged at what he had heard. _garangula_ feasted the _french_ officers, and then went home, and monsieur _de la barre_ set out in his way towards _montreal_; and as soon as the general was imbarked, with the few soldiers that remained in health, the militia made the best of their way to their own habitations, without any order or discipline. thus a very chargeable and fatiguing expedition (which was to strike the terror of the _french_ name into the stubborn hearts of the _five nations_) ended in a scold between the _french_ general and an old _indian_. chap. v. _the_ english _attempt to trade in the lakes_, _and the_ french _attack the_ senekas. the _marquis de nonville_ having now succeeded monsieur _de la barre_, in the year , and having brought a considerable reinforcement of soldiers with him, resolved to recover the honour the _french_ had lost in the last expedition, and revenge the slaughter the _five nations_ continued to make of the _twihtwies_ and _chictaghicks_, who had put themselves under the _french_ protection; for the _five nations_ having intirely subdued the _chictaghicks_[ ], after a six years war, they resolved next to fall upon the _twihtwies_, and to call them to an account for the disturbance they had given some of their people in their bever hunting. the _five nations_ have few or no bever in their own country, and for that reason are obliged to hunt at a great distance, which often occasions disputes with their neighbours about the property of the bever. the bever is the most valuable branch of the _indian_ trade, and as the _twihtwies_ carried their bevers to the _french_, the _english_ encouraged the _five nations_ in these expeditions, and particularly, in the beginning of the year , made the _five nations_ a present of a barrel of powder, when their whole force was preparing to go against the _twihtwies_. the _english_ were the better pleased with this war, because they thought that it would divert the _five nations_ from the _virginia indians_: but the _french_ were resolved to support their friends more effectually by a powerful diversion, and to change the seat of the war. for this purpose mr. _de nonville_ sent, in _may_ , great quantities of provision to _cadarackui_ fort, and gathered the whole force of _canada_ to _montreal_. his army consisted of fifteen hundred _french_ of the regular troops and militia, and five hundred _indians_ that lived near _montreal_ and _quebeck_. he sent likewise orders to the commandant at _missilimakinak_ to assemble all the nations living round him, and to march them to _oniagara_, in order to join the forces of _canada_ designed against the _senekas_, and the other officers posted among the _indians_ westward had the like orders. the _twihtwies_ received the hatchet with joy from the hands of the _french_ officer. the _outagamies_, _kikabous_, and _maskuticks_, who were not used to canoes, were at first persuaded to join the _twihtwies_, who were to march by land to _teuchsagrondie_, where there was a _french_ fort, at which they were to be supplied with ammunition. but after the _french_ officer left them, the _utagamies_ and _maskuticks_ were dissuaded by some of the _mahikander indians_, who happened to be with a neighbouring nation at that time. the _putewatemies, malhominies_, and _puans_ offered themselves willingly, and went to the rendezvous at _missilimakinak_; where they were received by the _utawawas_ with all the marks of honour usually paid to soldiers. though the _utawawas_ had no inclination to the present enterprize; they could not tell however how to appear against it, otherwise than by inventing what delays they could, to prevent their march. in the mean while a canoe arrived, which was sent by mr. _de nonville_, with his orders to the officers. this canoe, in her passage, discovered some _english_, commanded by major _mac gergory_, in their way to _teiodonderaghie_. the _english_ thought (after they had an account of the new alliance their king had entered into with the _french_) that the _french_ would not disturb them in prosecuting a trade with the _indians_ every where, and that the trade would be equally free and open to both nations. with these hopes a considerable number of adventurers went out, under the conduct of major _mac gergory_, to trade with the _indians_ that lived on the banks of the lakes; and that they might be the more welcome, persuaded the _five nations_ to set all the _dionondadie_ prisoners at liberty, who went along with the _english_, and conducted them towards _missilimakinak_, or _teiodonderaghie_; but the _english_ found themselves mistaken, for the _french_ commandant at _teiodonderaghie_, as soon as he had notice of this, sent three-hundred _french_ to intercept the _english_. [ ] the _utawawas_ and _dionondadies_ having likewise an account of the _english_, designed to support their own independency, and to incourage the _english_ trade. the return of the _dionondadie_ prisoners made that nation very hearty in favouring the _english_, they therefore marched immediately off, with design to join major _mac gergory_; but the _utawawas_ were divided in their inclinations, their chief, with about thirty more, joined the _french_, the rest remained in suspence, and stood neuter. the _utawawas_ thus wavering, disconcerted the measures of the _dionondadies_, for they began to suspect the _utawawas_, and therefore immediately returned to secure their wives and children that they had left near the _french_ fort with the _utawawas_. the _english_ and their effects were seized without any opposition, and were carried to the _french_ fort at _teiodonderaghie_. the _english_ brought great quantities of rum with them, (which the _indians_ love more than their lives) and the _french_ being afraid, that if the _indians_ took to drinking, they would grow ungovernable, did what they could to keep them from it. they were most concerned that the _putewatemies_ (who had no knowledge of the _english_, or of that bewitching liquor, and were firmly attached to the _french_) should not taste it. the _utawawas_ still contrived delays to the march, and having got some of the _putewatemies_ privately by themselves, they offered them a cag of rum, and said: "we are all brethren, we ought to make one body, and to have one soul. the _french_ invite us to war against the _five nations_, with design to make us slaves, and that we should make ourselves the tools to effect it. as soon as they shall have destroyed the _five nations_, they will no longer observe any measures with us, but use us like those beasts they tie to their ploughs. let us leave them to themselves, and they will never be able to accomplish any thing against the _five nations_." but the _putewatemies_ had entertained such notions of the _french_, as made them deaf to the politicks of the _utawawas_. the _french_ however grew jealous of these caballings, and therefore resolved to delay their march no longer, and would not stay one day more for the _utawawas_, who desired only so much time to pitch their canoes, and went away without them. mr. _tonti_, commandant among the _chictaghicks_, met with another party of the _english_ of about thirty men, in lake _erie_, as he marched with the _chicktaghicks_ and _twihtwies_, and other neighbouring nations, to the general rendezvous. he fell upon the _english_, plundered them, and took them prisoners. the _french_ divided all the merchandize among the _indians_, but kept the rum to themselves, and got all drunk. the _deonondadie_ prisoners, that conducted the _english_, joined with the _mahikander_ _indians_ that were among mr. _tonti_'s _indians_ (who had privately dissuaded about twenty of the neighbouring nations from going with _tonti_) and endeavoured to persuade all the _indians_ to fall upon the _french_, while they were drunk, and destroy them; saying, the _french_ are a proud, imperious, covetous people, that sell their goods at an extravagant price; the _english_ are a good natured honest people, and will furnish you with every thing at reasonable rates. but these arguments were to no purpose, for these far _indians_ had entertained an extraordinary opinion of the _french_ power, and knew nothing of the _english_. the _french_ and _putewatemies_ being gone from _teiodonderaghie_, the _utawawas_ began to be afraid of the _french_ resentment, and therefore, the better to keep up the colour they had put on their delays, marched over land, with all possible expedition, to the general rendezvous near _oniagara_, where all the _french_ force, both christians and _indians_, was to meet. the _five nations_ being informed of the _french_ preparations, laid aside their design against the _twihtwies_, and prepared to give the _french_ a warm reception. upon this the priest at _onondaga_ left them, but the priest at _oneydo_ had the courage to stay. the _senekas_ came to _albany_ to provide ammunition, and the commissioners made them a present of a considerable quantity of powder and lead, besides what they purchased. they were under a great deal of concern when they took leave of the commissioners, and said, "since we are to expect no other assistance from our brethren, we must recommend our wives and children to you, who will fly to you, if any misfortune shall happen to us. it may be we shall never see you again; for we are resolved to behave so, as our brethren shall have no reason to be ashamed of us." we must now return to monsieur _de nonville_'s army. monsieur _campagnie_ marched eight or ten days before the rest of the army, with between two and three hundred _cannadians_. as soon as they arrived at _cadarackui_, they surprised two villages of the _five nations_, that were settled about eight leagues from that place, to prevent their giving any intelligence to their own nation of the _french_ preparations, or of the state of their army, as it was supposed they did in the last expedition under monsieur _de la barre_. these people were surprised when they least expected it, and by them from whom they feared no harm, because they had settled there at the invitation, and on the faith of the _french_. they were carried in cold blood to the fort, and tied to stakes, to be tormented by the _french indians_, (christians, as they call them) while they continued singing in their country manner, and upbraiding the _french_ with their perfidy and ingratitude. while monsieur _de nonville_ was at _cadarackui_ fort, he had an account, that the _chicktaghicks_ and _twihtwies_ waited for the _quatoghies_ and _utawawas_ at lake _st. clair_[ ], with whom they designed to march to the general rendezvous, at the mouth of the _senekas_ river. for this expedition was chiefly designed against the _senekas_, who had absolutely refused to meet monsieur _de la barre_, and were most firmly attached to the _english_. the _senekas_, for this reason, were designed to be made examples of the _french_ resentment to all the other nations of _indians_. the messenger having assured the general, that it was time to depart, in order to meet with the western _indians_, that came to his assistance, he set out the twenty-third of _june_, and sent one part of his army in canoes, along the north shore of the lake, while he, with the other part, passed along the south, that no accidents of wind might prevent the one or the other reaching, within the time appointed, at the place the _indians_ were to meet him. it happened, by reason of the good weather, that both arrived on the same day, and joined the western _indians_ at _trondequat_, as soon as the men were put on shore, they hawled up the canoes, and began a fort, where four hundred men were left to guard the canoes, and the baggage. here a young _cannadian_ was shot to death, as a deserter, for conducting the _english_ into the lakes, though the two nations were not only at peace, but their kings in stricter friendship than usual. but this piece of severity is not to be wondered at, when this war was undertaken, chiefly to put a stop to the _english_ trade, which now began to extend itself far into the continent, and would in its consequence ruin theirs. the next day the army began to march towards the chief village of the _senekas_, which was only seven leagues distant, every man carrying ten biskets for his provision. the _indian_ traders made the van with part of the _indians_, the other part marched in the rear, while the regular troops and militia composed the main body. the army marched four leagues the first day without discovering any thing; the next day the scouts advanced before the army, as far as the corn of the villages, without seeing any body, though they passed within pistol-shot of five-hundred _senekas_, that lay on their bellies, and let them pass and repass without disturbing them. on the report which they made, the _french_ hastened their march, in hopes to overtake the women, children, and old men; for they no longer doubted of all being fled. but as soon as the _french_ reached the foot of a hill, about a quarter of a league from the village, the _senekas_ suddenly raised the warshout, with a discharge of their fire-arms. this put the regular troops, as well as the militia, into such a fright, as they marched through the woods, that the battalions immediately divided, and run to the right and left, and, in the confusion, fired upon one another. when the _senekas_ perceived their disorder, they fell in among them pell-mell, till the _french indians_, more used to such way of fighting, gathered together and repulsed the _senekas_. there were (according to the _french_ accounts) a hundred _frenchmen_, ten _french indians_, and about fourscore _senekas_ killed, in this rencounter. monsieur _de nonville_ was so dispirited with the fright that his men had been put into, that his _indians_ could not persuade him to pursue. he halted the remainder of that day. the next day he marched on with design to burn the village, but when he came there, he found that the _senekas_ had saved him the trouble; for they had laid all in ashes before they retired. two old men only were found in the castle, who were cut into pieces and boiled to make soup for the _french_ allies. the _french_ staid five or six days to destroy their corn, and then marched to two other villages, at two or three leagues distance. after they had performed the like exploits in those places, they returned to the banks of the lake. before the _french_ left the lakes, they built a fort of four bastions at _oniagara_, on the south-side of the straights, between lake _erie_ and _cadarackui_ lake, and left a hundred men, with eight months provisions in it. but this garison was so closely blocked up by the _five nations_, that they all died of hunger, except seven or eight, who were accidentally relieved by a party of _french indians_. the western _indians_, when they parted from the _french_ general, made their harangues, as usual, in which they told him, with what pleasure they saw a fort so well placed to favour their designs against the _five nations_, and that they relied on his never finishing the war, but with the destruction of the _five nations_, or forcing them to abandon their country. he assured them, that he would act with such vigour, that they would soon see the _five nations_ driven into the sea. he sent a detachment of soldiers to _teiodonderaghie_, and in his return to _canada_, which was by the north side of the lake, he left a sufficient number of men, and a quantity of provisions, at _cadarackui_ fort. the _french_ having got nothing but dry blows by this expedition, sent thirteen of the _indians_, that they surprised at _cadarackui_, to _france_, as trophies of their victory, where they were put into the galleys, as rebels to their king. chap. vi. _colonel_ dongan's _advice to the_ indians. adario's _enterprize_, _and_ montreal _sacked by the_ five nations. colonel _dongan_, who had the _indian_ affairs very much at heart, met the _five nations_ at _albany_ as soon as possible after the _french_ expedition, and spoke to them on the fifth of _august_, in the following words, _viz_. "_brethren_, "i am very glad to see you here in this house, and am heartily glad that you have sustained no greater loss by the _french_, though i believe it was their intention to destroy you all, if they could have surprised you in your castles. "as soon as i heard their design to war with you, i gave you notice, and came up hither myself, that i might be ready to give all the assistance and advice that so short a time would allow me. "i am now about sending a gentleman to _england_, to the king, my master, to let him know, that the _french_ have invaded his territories on this side of the great lake, and warred upon the brethren his subjects. i therefore would willingly know, whether the brethren have given the governor of _canada_ any provocation or not; and if they have, how, and in what manner; because i am obliged to give a true account of this matter. this business may cause a war between the king of _england_ and the _french_ king, both in _europe_ and here, and therefore i must know the truth. "i know the governor of _canada_ dare not enter into the king of _england_'s territories, in a hostile manner, without provocation, if he thought the brethren were the king of _england_'s subjects; but you have, two or three years ago, made a covenant-chain with the _french_, contrary to my command, (which i knew could not hold long) being void of itself among the christians; for as much as subjects (as you are) ought not to treat with any foreign nation, it not lying in your power, you have brought this trouble on your selves, and, as i believe, this is the only reason of their falling on you at this time. "brethren, i took it very ill, that after you had put yourselves into the number of the great king of _england_'s subjects, you should ever offer to make peace or war without my consent. you know that we can live without you, but you cannot live without us. you never found that i told you a lye, and i offered you the assistance you wanted, provided that you would be advised by me; for i know the _french_ better than any of you do. "now since there is a war begun upon you by the governor of _canada_, i hope without any provocation by you given, i desire and command you, that you hearken to no treaty but by my advice; which if you follow, you shall have the benefit of the great chain of friendship between the great king of _england_ and the king of _france_, which came out of _england_ the other day, and which i have sent to _canada_ by _anthony le junard_. in the mean time, i will give you such advice as will be for your good; and will supply you with such necessaries, as you will have need of. "_first_, my advice is, as to what prisoners of the _french_ you shall take, that you draw not their blood, but bring them home, and keep them to exchange for your people, which they have prisoners already, or may take hereafter. "_ dly_, that if it be possible, that you can order it so, i would have you take one or two of your wisest _sachems_, and one or two of your _chief captains_, of each nation, to be a council to manage all affairs of the war. they to give orders to the rest of the officers what they are to do, that your designs may be kept private; for after it comes among so many people, it is blazed abroad, and your designs are often frustrated; and those chief men should keep a correspondence with me by a trusty messenger. "_ dly_, the great matter under consideration with the brethren is, how to strengthen themselves, and weaken their enemy. my opinion is, that the brethren should send messengers to the _utawawas_, _twihtwies_, and the _farther indians_, and to send back likewise some of the prisoners of these nations, if you have any left, to bury the hatchet, and to make a covenant-chain, that they may put away all the _french_ that are among them, and that you will open a path for them this way, they being the king of _england_'s subjects likewise, tho' the french have been admitted to trade with them; for all that the _french_ have in _canada_, they had it of the great king of _england_; that by that means they may come hither freely, where they may have every thing cheaper than among the _french_: that you and they may join together against the _french_, and make so firm a league, that whoever is an enemy to one, must be to both. "_ thly_, another thing of concern is, that you ought to do what you can to open a path for all the _north indians_ and _mahikanders_, that are among the _utawawas_ and further nations: i will endeavour to do the same to bring them home; for, they not daring to return home your way, the _french_ keep them there on purpose to join with the other nations against you, for your destruction; for you know, that one of them is worse than six of the others; therefore all means must be used to bring them home, and use them kindly as they pass through your country. "_ thly_, my advice further is, that messengers go, in behalf of all the _five nations_, to the _christian indians_ at _canada_, to persuade them to come home to their native country. this will be another great means to weaken your enemy; but if they will not be advised, you know what to do with them. "_ thly_, i think it very necessary, for the brethren's security and assistance, and to the endamaging the _french_, to build a fort upon the lake, where i may keep stores and provisions, in case of necessity; and therefore i would have the brethren let me know what place will be most convenient for it. "_ thly_, i would not have the brethren keep their corn in their castles, as i hear the _onondagas_ do, but bury it a great way in the woods, where few people may know where it is, for fear of such an accident as has happened to the _senekas_. "_ thly_, i have given my advice in your general assembly by mr. _dirk wessels_, and _akus_ the interpreter, how you are to manage your parties, and how necessary it is to get prisoners, to exchange for your own men that are prisoners with the _french_; and i am glad to hear that the brethren are so united, as mr. _dirk wessels_ tells me you are, and that there are no rotten members nor _french_ spies among you. "_ thly_, the brethren may remember my advice, which i sent you this spring, not to go to _cadarackui_; if you had, they would have served you as they did your people that came from hunting thither; for i told you then, that i knew the _french_ better than you did. "_ thly_, there was no advice or proposition that i made to the brethren, all the time that the priest lived at _onondaga_, but what he wrote to _canada_, as i found by one of his letters, which he gave to an _indian_ to carry to _canada_, but which was brought hither; therefore i desire the brethren not to receive him or any _french priest_ any more, having sent for _english priests_, with whom you may be supplied to your content. "_ thly_, i would have the brethren look out sharp, for fear of being surprized. i believe all the strength of the _french_ will be at their frontier places, _viz_. at _cadarackui_ and _oniagara_, where they have built a fort now, and at _trois rivieres_, _montreal_, and _chambly_. "_ thly_, let me put you in mind again, not to make any treaties without my means, which will be more advantageous for you, than your doing it by yourselves, for then you will be looked upon as the king of _england_'s subjects, and let me know, from time to time, every thing that is done. "thus far i have spoken to you relating to the war." then he chid them for their breach of faith with _virginia_. he told them, that he was informed, that last spring they had killed a fine gentleman, with some others; and that a party of the _oneydoes_ was now there at the head of _tames river_, with intention to destroy all the _indians_ thereabout. they had taken six prisoners, whom he ordered them to bring to him, to be restored; and that for the future they should desist from doing any injury to the people of _virginia_, or their _indians_, otherwise all the _english_ would unite to destroy them. but at the same time he freed the _senekas_ from any blame, and commended them as a brave and honest people, who never had done any thing contrary to his orders, except in making that unlucky peace with the _french_, three years ago. _lastly_, he recommended to them, not to suffer their people to be drunk during the war: a soldier thereby (he said) loses his reputation, because of the advantages it will give the enemy over him. this honest gentleman earnestly pursued the interest of his country; but it seems his measures were not agreeable to those his master had taken with the _french_ king; for he had orders to procure a peace for the _french_ on their own terms, and was soon after this removed from his government. indeed such an active, as well as prudent governor of _new-york_, could not be acceptable to the _french_, who had the universal monarchy in view, in _america_ as well as in _europe_. the great dispute between coll. _dungan_ and the _french_ was in this, that coll. _dungan_ would force the _french_ to apply to him, in all affairs relating to the _five nations_, and the _french_ would treat with them independently of the _english_. for this reason coll. _dungan_ refused any assistance to the _french_, till they, by such application, should acknowledge the dependance of the _five nations_ on the crown of _england_. but king _james_ ordered him to give up this point; and that he should persuade the _five nations_ to send to _canada_, to receive proposals from the _french governor_; and for this purpose, forced them to agree to a cessation of arms, till their deputies should go and return from _canada_; and that they should, in the mean time, deliver up all the prisoners they had taken from the _french_; and that no accident might prevent this, and blast so favourable an opportunity of making peace to the best advantage, monsr. _de nonville_ sent his orders to all his officers in the _indian_ countries, to observe a cessation of arms, till the ambassador of the _five nations_ should meet him at _montreal_, as they had given him reason to expect they would in a little time, to conclude the peace in the usual form. in the mean time, _adario_, the chief of the _deonondadies_, finding that his nation was become suspected by the _french_, since the time they had shewn so much inclination to the _english_, when they attempted to trade at _missilimakinak_, resolved, by some notable action against the _five nations_, to recover the good graces of the _french_. for this purpose, he marched from _missilimakinak_, at the head of a hundred men; and that he might act with the more security, he took _cadarackui_ fort in his way for intelligence: the commandant informed him, that monsr. _de nonville_ was in hopes of concluding a peace with the _five nations_, and expected their ambassadors in eight or ten days at _montreal_ for that purpose, and therefore desired him to return to _missilimakinak_, without attempting any thing that might obstruct so good a design. the _indian_ being surprised with this news, was under great concern for his nation, which he was afraid would be sacrificed to the _french_ interest, but dissembled his concern before the _french_ officer. he went from _cadarackui_, not to return home as the commandant thought, but to wait for the ambassadors of the _five nations_, near one of the falls of _cadarackui_ river, by which he knew they must pass. he did not lurk there above four or five days, before the deputies came guarded by forty young soldiers, who were all surprised, and killed or taken prisoners. as soon as the prisoners were all secured, the cunning _deonondadi_ told them, "that he having been informed, by the governor of _canada_, that fifty warriors of their nation were to pass this way about this time, he had secured this pass, not doubting of intercepting them." the ambassadors being much surprised at the _french_ perfidy, told _adario_ the design of their journey, who, the better to play his part, seemed to grow mad and furious, declaring against monsr. _de nonville_, and said he would, some time or other, be revenged of him, for making a tool of him, to commit such horrid treachery. then looking stedfastly on the prisoners (among whom _dekanefora_ was the principal ambassador) _adario_ said to them, go, my brethren, i unty your bonds, and send you home again, tho' our nations be at war: the _french_ governor has made me commit so black an action, that i shall never be easy after it, till the _five nations_ shall have taken full revenge. this was sufficient to persuade the ambassadors of the truth of what he said, who assured him, that he and his nation might make their peace when they pleased. _adario_ lost only one man on this occasion, and would keep a _satana_ prisoner (adopted into the _five nations_) to fill up his place. then he gave arms, powder and ball to the rest of the prisoners, to enable them to return. the ambassadors were chiefly, if not all, _onondagas_, and _oneydoes_, who had been long under the influence of the _french_ priests, and still retained an affection to them; but this adventure thoroughly changed their thoughts, and irritated them so heartily against the _french_, that all the _five nations_ prosecuted the war unanimously. _adario_ delivered the slave (his prisoner) to the _french_ at _missilimakinak_, who to keep up the enmity between the _deonondadies_ and the _five nations_, ordered him to be shot to death. _adario_ called one of the _five nations_, who had been long a prisoner, to be an eye witness of his countryman's death, then bid him make his escape to his own country, to give an account of the _french_ cruelty, from which it was not in his power to save a prisoner, he himself had taken. this heightned the rage of the _five nations_ so, that monsr. _de nonville_'s sending to disown _adario_ in this action, had no effect upon them; their breasts admitted of no thoughts but that of revenge. it was not long before the _french_ felt the bloody effects of this cruel passion, for men of the _five nations_ invaded the island of _montreal_, when the _french_ had no suspicion of any such attempt, while monsr. _de nonville_ and his lady were in that town. they landed on the south side of the island, at _la chine_, on the th of _july_ , where they burnt and sacked all the plantations, and made a terrible massacre of men, women, and children. the _french_ were under apprehension of the town's being attack'd, for which reason, they durst not send out any considerable party to the relief of the country, only once, when the _indians_ had blocked up two forts, monsr. _de nonville_ sent out a hundred soldiers, and fifty _indians_, to try to bring off the men in those forts. the _french_ of this party were all either taken or cut to pieces, except one soldier, and the commanding officer, who, after he had his thighs broke, was carried off by twelve _indians_ that made their escape. there were above a thousand of the _french_ killed at this time, and twenty-six were carried away prisoners, the greatest part of which were burnt alive. the _five nations_ only lost three men on this expedition, that got drunk and were left behind. this, however, did not satiate their thirst after blood, for, in _october_ following, they destroyed likewise all the lower part of the island, and carried away many prisoners. the consequence of these expeditions were very dismal to the _french_, for they were forced to burn their two barks, which they had on _cadarackui_ lake, and to abandon their fort there; they designed to have blown up their works, when they left that place; and for that end left a lighted match where the powder lay, but were in such a fright, that they durst not stay to see what effect it had. they went down _cadarackui_ river in seven birch canoes; and for greater security, travelled in the night. one of the canoes, with all the men in it, were lost, by their precipitation, as they passed one of the falls in that river. the _five nations_ hearing the _french_ had deserted _cadarackui_ fort, fifty _indians_ went and took possession of it, who found the match the _french_ had left, which had gone out, and twenty eight barrels of powder in the same place, together with several other stores. the news of the success the _five nations_ had over the _french_ soon spread itself among all the _indians_, and put the _french_ affairs every where into the greatest disorder. the _utawawas_ had always shewn an inclination to the _english_, and they therefore immediately sent openly four _sachems_, with three prisoners of the _senekas_, which they had, to assure them, that they would for ever renounce all friendship with the _french_, and promised to restore the rest of the prisoners. they also included seven nations, that lived near _missilimakinak_, in this peace. this put the _french_ commandant there under the greatest difficulty to maintain his post; but there was no choice, he must stand his ground, for the _five nations_ had cut off all hopes of retiring. the _nepairinians_ and _kikabous_, of all their numerous allies, only remained firm to the _french_; every one of the others endeavoured to gain the friendship of the _five nations_; and would certainly have done it, by murdering all the _french_ among them, had not the sieur _perot_, with wonderful sagacity and eminent hazard to his own person, diverted them. _canada_ was now in a most miserable condition, for while the greatest number of their men had been employed in the expedition against the _five nations_, and in trading among the far nations, and making new discoveries and settlements, tillage and husbandry had been neglected; and they lost several thousands of their inhabitants, by the continual incursions of small parties, so that none durst hazard themselves out of fortified places; indeed, it is hard to conceive what distress the _french_ were then under, for tho' they were every where almost starving, they could not plant nor sow, or go from one village to another for relief, but with imminent danger of having their scalps carried away by the sculking _indians_; at last the whole country being laid waste, famine began to rage, and was like to have put a miserable end to that colony. if the _indians_ had understood the method of attacking forts, nothing could have preserved the _french_ from an entire destruction at this time; for whoever considers the state of the _indian_ affairs during this period, how the _five nations_ were divided in their sentiments and measures; that the _onondagas_, _cayugas_, and _oneydoes_, under the influence of the _french_ jesuites, were diverted from prosecuting the war against _canada_, by the jesuites cunningly spiriting up those three nations against the _virginia indians_, and persuading them to send out their parties that way: that the _senekas_ had a war at the same time upon their hands with three numerous _indian_ nations, the _utawawas_, _chicktaghicks_, and _twihtwies_; and that the measures the _english_ observed all king _james_'s reign, gave the _indians_ rather grounds of jealousy than assistance: i say, whoever considers all these things, and what the _five nations_ did actually perform, under all these disadvantages against the _french_, will hardly doubt, that the _five nations_ by themselves were at that time an overmatch for the _french_ of _canada_. [footnote : the word proposition has been always used by the commissioners for _indian affairs_ at _albany_, to signify proposals or articles in the treaties or agreements made with the _indians_.] [footnote : a castle of the _sennekas_, from whence the _french_ call the _sennekas tonontouan_.] [footnote : comprehended under the general name of _utawawas_.] [footnote : all _indians_ make use of a hatchet or axe, as an emblem to express war.] [footnote : the name the _five nations_ always give the governor of _virginia_.] [footnote : the _five nations_ always express peace by the metaphor of a tree.] [footnote : the _french priests_ had, from time to time, persuaded several of the _five nations_ to leave their own country, and to settle near _montreal_; where the _french_ are very industrious in encouraging them. their numbers have been likewise increased by the prisoners the _french_ have taken in war, and by others that have run from their own country; because of some mischief that they had done, or debts which they owed the christians. these _indians_ are all profess'd papists, and for that reason are commonly called the _praying indians_ by their countrymen, and they are called _cahnuagas_ by the people of _albany_, from the place where they live; the _french_ value them on account of the intelligence they give in time of war, and their knowledge of the countries.] [footnote : _new-york._] [footnote : _virginia._] [footnote : _maryland._] [footnote : the _mohawks_ country is situated between the other nations and _albany_.] [footnote : _ronoon_ signifies nation or people, in the language of the _five nations_; they say _tuihtuih-ronoons, chichighik-ronoon, deonondadik-ronoon_, &c.] [footnote : that is, the _partridge_.] [footnote : pointing to the _jesuite_.] [footnote : the _indians_ commonly gave a new name to any person they receive or adapt into their nation. this is the _jesuites indian_ name, the interpretation whereof i know not.] [footnote : voyages du _baron de la hontan_, tome . letter .] [footnote : the _calumet_ is a large smoaking pipe made of marble, most commonly of a dark red, well polished, shaped somewhat in the form of a hatchet, and adorned with large feathers of several colours. it is used in all the _indian_ treaties with strangers, and as a flag of truce between contending parties, which all the _indians_ think a very high crime to violate. these _calumets_ are generally of nice workmanship, and were in use before the _indians_ knew any thing of the christians; for which reason we are at a loss to conceive by what means they pierced these pipes, and shaped them so finely, before they had the use of iron.] [footnote : called _sawanons_ by the _french_.] [footnote : called _illinois_ by the _french_.] [footnote : history de le amerique septentrionale, par mr. de la poterie, tome ii. cap. .] [footnote : in the straights between lake _erie_ and _quatoghie_ lake.] the h i s t o r y of the five indian nations dependent on the province of new-york. part ii. the p r e f a c e to the second part. _the former part of this history was written at_ new-york _in the year_ , _on occasion of a dispute which then happened, between the government of_ new-york _and some_ merchants. _the_ french _of_ canada _had the whole fur trade with the_ western indians _in their hands, and were supplied with their woollen goods from_ new-york. _mr._ burnet, _who took more pains to be informed of the interest of the people he was set over, and of making them useful to their mother country, than plantation governors usually do, took the trouble of perusing all the registers of the_ indian _affairs on this occasion. he from thence conceived of what consequence the fur trade with the_ western indians _was of to_ great-britain; _that as the_ english _had the fur trade to_ hudson's bay _given up to them, by the treaty of_ utrecht, _so, by the advantages which the province of_ new-york _has in its situation, they might be able to draw the whole fur trade in the other parts of_ america _to themselves, and thereby the_ english _engross that trade, and the manufactories depending on it_. _for this purpose he thought it necessary to put a stop to the trade between_ new-york _and_ canada, _by which the_ french _supplied themselves with the most valuable and necessary commodities for the_ indian _market, and to set the inhabitants of this province on trading directly with the_ indians. _besides the consideration of profit and gain, he considered what influence this trade had on the numerous nations of_ indians _living on the vast continent of_ north-america, _and who surround the_ british _colonies; of what advantage it might be of, if they were influenced by the_ english _in case of a war with_ france; _and how prejudicial, on the other hand, if they were directed by_ french _counsels_. _the legislature of_ new-york _was soon convinced of the justness of his reasoning, and passed an act, prohibiting the trade to_ canada, _and for encouraging the trade directly with the_ indians. _they were likewise at the charge of building a fortified trading house at_ oswego, _on_ cadarackui lake, _and have ever since maintained a garison there. as this act did in its consequence take a large profit from one or two considerable merchants, who had the trade to_ canada, _intirely in their hands, they endeavoured to raise a clamour against it in the province, and presented likewise petitions to the king, in order to get the act repealed. upon this occasion mr._ burnet _gave me the perusal of the publick register of_ indian _affairs, and it was thought the publication of the history of the_ five nations _might be of use at that time_. _i shall only add, that mr._ burnet's _scheme has had its desired effect: the_ english _have gained the trade which the_ french, _before that, had with the_ indians _to the westward of_ new-york; _and whereas, before that time, a very inconsiderable number of men were employed in the_ indian _trade abroad, now above three hundred men are employed at the trading house at_ oswego _alone; and the_ indian _trade has since that time yearly increased so far, that several_ indian _nations come now every summer to trade there, whose names were not so much as known by the_ english _before_. _this history, from_ new-york, _soon went to_ england, _and i have been informed, that a publication, with a continuance of that work, would be acceptable there. i have the more chearfully complied with this notice, because of the war threatened from_ france, _believing that a publication of this kind may be useful, whether the present inquietudes between the two nations end in a war or in a treaty. the_ french _have encouraged several publications of this sort at_ paris, _and certainly such may be more useful in a_ british _government, where the people have so great a share in it, than it can be in a_ french _government, intirely directed by the will of their prince_. _i now continue this history to the peace of_ reswick, _and if i find this acceptable, and that a farther continuation of it be desired, i shall, if my life and health be preserved, carry it down farther; but as i have too much reason to doubt my own ability, to give that pleasure and satisfaction which the publick may expect in things thus submitted to their view, i think it not justifiable to trouble them with too much at once_. the h i s t o r y of the five _indian_ nations, depending on the province of _new-york_. * * * * * part ii. _the history of the_ five indian nations _of_ canada, _from the time of the revolution to the peace of_ reswick. * * * * * chap. i. _the state of affairs in_ new-york _and_ canada, _at the time of the_ revolution _in_ great-britain. we left the _five nations_ triumphing over the _french_ in _canada_, and they almost reduced to despair. the revolution, which happened at this time in _england_, seemed to be a favourable conjunction for the _five nations_; the _english_ colonies, by the war at that time declared against _france_, becoming parties in their quarrel: for one will be ready to think, that the _five nations_ being by themselves too powerful for the _french_, as appears by the preceding chapter, when these were assisted by the _utawawas_, _quatoghies_, _twihtwies_, _chictaghicks_, _putewatemies_, and all the _western indian nations_, and when the _english_ stood neuter; now certainly, when not only all these _indian nations_ had made peace with the _five nations_, but the _english_ joined with them in the war, the _french_ would not be able to stand one campaign. but we shall find what a turn affairs took, contrary to all reasonable expectations, from the general appearance of things, and of what importance a resolute wise governor is to the well-being of a people, and how prejudicial divisions and parties are. for this reason, it will be necessary to take a view of the publick affairs in the province of _new-york_, and in _canada_, at that time, in order to understand the true causes of the alterations, which afterwards happened in favour of the _french_. the revolution occasioned as great divisions and parties in the province of _new-york_, in proportion to the number of people, as it did in _britain_, if not greater. the governor and all the officers either fled or absconded; the gentlemen of the king's council, and some of the most considerable or richest people, either out of love, or what they thought duty, to king _james_, or rather from an opinion they had that the _prince of orange_ could not succeed, refused to join in the declaration the people made in favour of that prince, and suffered the administration to fall into different hands, who were more zealous for the protestant interest, and who were joined by the far greatest number of the inhabitants. after the revolution was established, they that had appeared so warmly for it, thought that they deserved best of the government, and expected to be continued in the publick offices; the others were zealous to recover the authority they had lost, and used the most persuasive means with the governors for that purpose, while the former trusted to their merit. this begat great animosities, which continued many years. each party, as they were at different times favoured by several governors, opposed all the measures taken by the other, while each of them were by turns in credit with the people or the governor, and sometimes even prosecuted each other to death. the publick measures were by these means perpetually fluctuating, and often one day contradictory to what they were the day before. the succeeding governors, finding their private account in favouring sometimes the one party, and at other times the other, kept up the animosities all king _william_'s reign, though very much to the publick prejudice; for each party was this while so eager in resenting private injuries, that they intirely neglected the publick good. the constitution of government in the _english plantations_, where the governors have no salary, but what they can attain with the consent of the assemblies or representatives of the people, gave occasion to imprudent governors to fall upon these expedients, as they sometimes call them, for getting of money. and a prevailing faction, knowing for what purpose the governments in _america_ were chiefly desired by the _english_ gentlemen, used this great privilege to tempt a governor to be the head of a party, when he ought to have been the head of the government. indeed _new-york_ has had the misfortune, too frequently, to be under such as could not keep their passion for money secret, though none found it so profitable a government, as they did who followed strictly the true maxims of governing, without making money the only rule of their actions. the frequent changes of governors were likewise prejudicial to the publick affairs. colonel _slaughter_, the first governor after the revolution, happened to die soon after his arrival, when steady, as well as resolute measures, were most necessary. but some think, that the occasion of all the misfortunes lay in the want of care in the choice of governors, when the affairs of _america_ wanted able hands to manage them; they think that the ministry had the saving of money chiefly in view, when, to gratify some small services, they gave employments in _america_ to those that were not capable of much meaner offices at home. the opinion the people had of colonel _slaughter_'s capacity gave ground to these surmises; but, if it was so, it happened to be very ill saved money; for the mismanagements in this country occasioned far greater expence to the crown afterwards, than would have bought such gentlemen handsome estates, besides the great losses they occasioned to the subjects. the greatest number of the inhabitants of the province of _new-york_ being _dutch_, still retained an affection to their mother country, and by their aversion to the _english_ weakened the administration. the common people of _albany_, who are all _dutch_, could not forbear giving the _indians_ some ill impressions of the _english_; for the _mohawks_, in one of their publick speeches, expressed themselves thus: "we hear a _dutch prince_ reigns now in _england_, why do you suffer the _english_ soldiers to remain in the fort? put all the _english_ out of the town. when the _dutch_ held this country long ago, we lay in their houses; but the _english_ have always made us lie without doors." it is true, that the plantations were first settled by the meanest people of every nation, and such as had the least sense of any honour. the _dutch_ first settlers, many of them i may say, had none of the virtues of their countrymen, except their industry in getting money, and they sacrificed every thing, other people think honourable or most sacred, to their gain: but i do not think it proper to give particular instances of this. the people of _new-england_ were engaged in a bloody war at this time with the _owenagungas_, _ouragies_, and _ponacoks_, the _indians_ that lie between them and the _french_ settlements. the _scahkooks_ were originally part of these _indians_. they left their country about the year , and settled above _albany_, on the branch of _hudson's river_ that runs towards _canada_. the people of _new-england_ were jealous of the _scahkook indians_, that they remembering the old difference they had with the people of _new england_, and the relation they bore to the _eastern indians_, did countenance and assist these _indians_ in the war against _new england_. they had reason for these jealousies, for the _scahkook indians_ received privately some _owenagunga_ messengers, and kept their coming among them secret from the people of _albany_; and some _scahkooks_ had gone privately to the _owenagungas_. they were afraid likewise, that the _mohawks_ might have some inclination to favour those _indians_, because some of the _eastern indians_ had fled to the _mohawks_, and were kindly received by them, and lived among them. notwithstanding all these failures of good policy, in the government of _new-york_, the _french_ had not gained so great advantages, if they had not carefully observed a different conduct, which it is now necessary to consider. _canada_ was at this time in a very distressed condition, the country and out plantations burnt and destroyed, their trade intirely at a stand, great numbers of their people slain, and the remainder in danger of perishing by famine, as well as by the sword of inveterate cruel enemies. when such misfortunes happen to a country, under any administration, though in truth the conduct of affairs be not to be blamed, it is often prudent to change the ministers; for the common people never fail to blame them, notwithstanding their having acted with the greatest wisdom, and therefore cannot so soon recover their spirits, that are sunk by misfortunes, as by putting their affairs into different hands. for these reasons, it is probable, the _french_ king recalled mr. _de nonville_, but rewarded him for his services, by an honourable employment in the houshold. the count _de frontenac_ was sent in his place. this gentleman had been formerly governor of that country, and was perfectly acquainted with its interest; of a temper of mind fitted to such desperate times, of undaunted courage, and indefatigable, though in the sixty-eighth year of his age. the count _de frontenac_ arrived the second of _october_ . the country immediately received new life by the arrival of a person, of whose courage and conduct every one had entertained a high opinion. care was taken to increase this impression on the minds of the people, by making publick rejoicings with as much noise as possible. he wisely improved this new life, by immediately entering upon action, without suffering their hopes to grow cold. he staid no longer at _quebeck_, than was necessary to be informed of the present state of affairs, and in four or five days after his arrival set out in a canoe for _montreal_, where his presence was most necessary; and the winter was already so far advanced, that the ice made it impracticable to go in a larger vessel. by this the old gentleman increased the opinion and hopes the people entertained of him, that, without staying to refresh himself after a fatiguing sea-voyage, he would immediately undertake another, that required all the vigour and heat of youth to withstand the inclemencies of the climate and season, and the difficulty of such a passage. when the count _de frontenac_ came to _montreal_, he increased the admiration the people had of his vigour and zeal, by pretending to go to visit _cadarackui fort_, now abandoned, which he had built in the time he was formerly governor. the clergy and people of _montreal_ came jointly with stretched out arms, representing the danger of such an attempt, and the difficulties and hardships that would necessarily attend it, praying him not to expose a life that was so necessary for their safety. he, with seeming reluctance, yielded to their intreaties; i say with seeming reluctance, for it was inconsistent with his prudence really to have such a design. this shew of the governor's offering to go in person, animated some of the gentlemen of the country, who voluntarily went in the winter, with one hundred _indian_ traders, to visit that fort; and finding it in better condition than they expected, by the report of those who had abandoned it, they staid there, and made some small reparations in the walls, which the _indians_ had thrown down. the count _de frontenac_ brought back with him _tawerahet_, a _capiga sachem_, one of the thirteen prisoners that mr. _de nonville_ took at _cadarackui_, and sent to _france_. he was in hopes this _indian_ would be useful in procuring a treaty of peace with the _five nations_, for they had an extraordinary opinion of _tawerahet_; and the _french_ had found, by sad experience, that they could not be gainers by continuing the war: for this purpose the count used _tawerahet_ with much kindness, during his voyage, and, after he arrived at _quebeck_, lodged him in the castle under his own roof, and took such pains with this _sachem_, that he forgot all the ill usage he had formerly received. the _french_ had the more reason to desire a peace with the _five nations_, because they knew, that they would now certainly have the _english_ colonies likewise upon them; and if the _five nations_ had been able to do so much mischief by themselves alone, they were much more to be feared, when they would be assisted, in all probability, with the force and interest of the _english_ colonies. four _indians_ of less note, who were brought back along with _tawerahet_, were immediately dispatched, in this _sachem_'s name, to the _five nations_, to inform them of his return, and of the kind usage they had received from the count _de frontenac_; and to press them to send some to visit their old friend, who had been so kind to them when he was formerly governor of _canada_, and who still retained an affection to the _five nations_; as appeared by the kindness _tawerahet_ and they had received from him. this was the only method left to the _french_ of making proposals of peace, which it was their interest by all means to procure. the governor of _canada_, as i said, conceived that there was no way so proper to keep up the spirits of the people, who had got new life by his arrival, as by putting them upon action; and indeed their present miserable condition made them forward enough, to undertake the most desperate enterprize, when the frequent incursions of the _indians_ made it as dangerous to be at home, as to attack the enemy abroad. for this purpose he sent out three parties in the winter; one was designed against _new-york_, the other against _connecticut_, and the last against _new-england_. the _five nations_ followed colonel _dungan_'s advice, in endeavouring to bring off the _western indians_ from the _french_, and had all the success that could be expected, before mr. _de frontenac_ arrived. they were overjoyed when they heard, that the _english_ had entered into war with the _french_, and came several times to _albany_ to know the certainty of it, while it was only rumoured about. the people of _albany_ desired them to secure any of the praying _indians_ that should come from _canada_, if they found that they were still ruled by the priests; but to encourage them, if they came with a design to return to their own country. the _senekas, cayugas, onondagas_, and _oneydoes_, the twenty seventh of _june_ , before any governor arrived, renewed the old covenant (as they said) which was first made many years ago with one _tagues_, who came with a ship into their river. "then we first became brethren, said they, and continued so till last fall, that sir _edmond andross_ came and made a new chain, by calling us children; but let us stick to the old chain, which has continued from the first time it was made, by which we became brethren, and have ever since always behaved as such. _virginia, maryland_, and _new-england_, have been taken into this silver chain, with which our friendship is locked fast. we are now come to make the chain clear and bright. here they =gave two bevers=." king _james_, a little before his abdication, sent over sir _edmond andross_ with arbitrary powers, and he, in imitation of the _french_, changed the stile of speaking to the _indians_, of which they were very sensible. they discovered a great concern for their people that were carried to _canada_; they long hoped (they said) that the king of _england_ would have been powerful enough to deliver them, but now they began to lose all hopes of them. chap. ii. _a treaty between the agents of_ massachuset's bay, new-plymouth, _and_ connecticut, _and the_ sachems _of the_ five nations, _at_ albany, _in the year_ . about the beginning of _september_ , colonel _john pynchon_, major _john savage_, and captain _jonathan bull_, agents for the colonies of _massachuset's bay, new-plymouth_, and _connecticut_, arrived at _albany_, to renew the friendship with the _five nations_, and to engage them against the _eastern indians_, who made war on the _english_ of those colonies, and were supported by the _french_. the _five nations_ had received four messengers from the _eastern indians_, which gave the people of _new-england_ some apprehensions, and they were therefore desirous to know what reception these messengers had met with. the _five nations_ answered by _tahajadoris_, a _mohawk sachem_, on the twenty fourth of _september_. he made a long oration, repeating all that the agent from _new-england_ had said, the day before, and desired them to be attentive to the answer now to be made to them. they commonly repeat over all that has been said to them, before they return any answer, and one may be surprized at the exactness of these repetitions. they take the following method to assist their memories: the _sachem_, who presides at these conferences, has a bundle of small sticks in his hand; as soon as the speaker has finished any one article of his speech, this _sachem_ gives a stick to another _sachem_, who is particularly to remember that article; and so when another article is finished, he gives a stick to another to take care of that other, and so on. in like manner when the speaker answers, each of these has the particular care of the answer resolved on to each article, and prompts the orator, when his memory fails him, in the article committed to his charge. _tahajadoris_ addressing himself to the agents, said: "brethren, "you are welcome to this house, which is appointed for our treaties and publick business with the christians; we thank you for renewing the covenant-chain. it is now no longer of iron and subject to rust, as formerly, but of pure silver, and includes in it all the king's subjects, from the _senekas_ country eastward, as far as any of the great king's subjects live, and southward, from _new-england_ to _virginia_. here he =gave a bever=. "we are glad to hear of the good success our great king has had over the _french_ by sea, in taking and sinking so many of their men of war. you tell us in your proposals that we are one people, let us then go hand in hand together, to ruin and destroy the _french_ our common enemy. =gives a bever.= "the covenant-chain between us is ancient (as you tell us) and of long standing, and it has been kept inviolably by us. when you had wars some time ago with the _indians_, you desired us to help you; we did it readily, and to the purpose; for we pursued them closely, by which we prevented the effusion of much of your blood. this was a certain sign that we loved truly and sincerely, and from our hearts. =gives a belt.= "you advise us to pursue our enemies, the _french_, vigorously; this we assure you we are resolved to do to the utmost of our power: but since the _french_ are your enemies likewise, we desire our brethren of the three colonies to send us an hundred men for the security of this place, which is ill provided, in case of an attack from the _french_; the christians have victuals enough for their entertainment. =gives one belt.= "we patiently bore many injuries from the _french_, from one year to another, before we took up the axe against them. our patience made the governor of _canada_ think, that we were afraid of him, and durst not resent the injuries we had so long suffered; but now he is undeceived. we assure you, that we are resolved never to drop the axe, the _french_ never shall see our faces in peace, we shall never be reconciled as long as one _frenchman_ is alive. we shall never make peace, though our nation should be ruined by it, and every one of us cut in pieces. our brethren of the three colonies may depend on this. =gives a bever.= "as to what you told us of the _owenagungas_ and _uragees_, we answer: that we were never so proud and haughty, as to begin a war without just provocation. you tell us that they are treacherous rogues, we believe it, and that they will undoubtedly assist the _french_. if they shall do this, or shall join with any of our enemies, either _french_ or _indians_, then we will kill and destroy them. =gives a bever.=" then the _mohawks_ offered five of their men, to guard the agents home against any of their _indian_ enemies, who they were afraid might be laying in wait for the agents, and =gave a belt=. afterwards the speaker continued his speech, and said: "we have spoke what we had to say of the war, we now come to the affairs of peace: we promise to preserve the chain inviolably, and wish that the sun may always shine in peace over all our heads that are comprehended in this chain. we =give two belts=, one for the sun, the other for its beams." "we make fast the roots of the tree of peace and tranquillity, which is planted in this place. its roots extend as far as the utmost of your colonies; if the _french_ should come to shake this tree, we would feel it by the motion of its roots, which extend into our country: but we trust it will not be in the governor of _canada_'s power to shake this tree, which has been so firmly and so long planted with us. =bevers.=" _lastly_, he desired the magistrates of _albany_ to remember what he had said, and =gave them a bever=. but the agents perceiving, that they had not answered any thing about the _owenagunga_ messengers, and had answered indistinctly about the war with the _eastern indians_, desired them to explain themselves fully on these two points, about which the agents were chiefly concerned. the _five nations_ answered: "we cannot declare war against the _eastern indians_, for they have done us no harm: nevertheless our brethren of _new-england_ may be assured, that we will live and die in friendship with them. when we took up the axe against the _french_ and their confederates, we did it to revenge the injuries they had done us; we did not make war with them at the persuasions of our brethren here; for we did not so much as acquaint them with our intention, till fourteen days after our army had begun their march." after the company had separated, the _sachems_ sent to the _new-england_ agents, desiring to speak with them in private; which being granted, the speaker said, we have something to tell you, which was not proper to be spoken openly, for some of our people have an affection to the _owenagungas_; and we were afraid, that they would discover or hinder our designs. now we assure our brethren, that we are resolved to look on your enemies as ours, and that we will first fall on the _owaragees_[ ]; and then on the _owenagungas_, and lastly on the _french_; and that you may be convinced of our intention, we design to send five of our young men along with our brethren to _new-england_, to guard them, who have orders to view the country of the _owaragees_, to discover in what manner it can be attacked with the most advantage. this we always do before we make an attempt on our enemies. in a word, brethren, your war is our war, for we will live and dye with you. but it is to be observed, that they confirmed nothing relating to these _indians_, by giving belts. it is probable, that the _sachems_ acted with some art on this occasion, for they really had favourable inclinations towards the _owenagungas_; and they had reason not to increase the number of their enemies, by making war on the _eastern indians_, who avoided doing them any injury. the people of _albany_ likewise have always been averse to engage our _indians_ in a war with the _eastern indians_, lest it should change the seat of the war, and bring it to their own doors. on the th the magistrates of _albany_ had a private conference with the _sachems_ of the _five nations_, and desired to know their resolutions as to the war with _canada_, and the measures they resolved to follow. in this conference the _indians_ saw that the people of _albany_ were so much afraid of the _french_, that their spirits were sunk under the apprehensions of the approaching war; and for this reason made the following answer. "we have a hundred and forty men out-skulking about _canada_; it is impossible for the _french_ to attempt any thing, without being discovered and harassed by these parties: if the _french_ shall attempt any thing this way, all the _five nations_ will come to your assistance, for our brethren and we are but one, and we will live and dye together. we have desired a hundred men of our brethren of _boston_ to assist us here, because this place is most exposed; but if the governor of _canada_ is so strong, as to overcome us all united together, then he must be our master, and is not to be resisted; but we have confidence in a good and just cause; for the great god of heaven knows how deceitfully the _french_ have dealt with us, their arms can have no success. the great god hath sent us signs in the sky to confirm this. we have heard uncommon noise in the heavens, and have seen heads fall down upon earth, which we look upon as a certain presage of the destruction of the _french_: take courage! on this they all immediately joined in singing and crying out, courage! courage!" [footnote : called by the people of _new-england panocok indians_.] chap. iii. _an account of a general council of the_ five nations _at_ onondaga, _to consider the count_ de frontenac'_s message_. on the th of _december_ , two _indians_ came to _albany_, being sent by the _onondaga_ and _oneydo sachems_, with seven hands of wampum from each nation, to tell their brethren in _new-york_ and _new-england_, that three of their old friends, who had been carried prisoners to _france_, were come with proposals from _canada_; that there was a council of the _sachems_ appointed to meet at _onondaga_, and that they therefore desired the mayor of _albany_, _peter scheyler_, and some others of their brethren, to come thither, to be present and to advise on an affair of so great consequence; for they were resolved to do nothing without the knowledge and consent of all those that were included in the chain with them. the same messenger told them, that some letters were sent to the jesuit at _oneydo_; and that they would neither burn, nor suffer those letters to be opened, till the brethren should first see them. all that the magistrates of _albany_ did on this important occasion, was to send three _indians_ with instructions in their name, to dissuade the _five nations_ from entertaining any thoughts of peace, or yielding to a cessation of arms. on the th of _january_ one of the chief _mohawk sachems_ came to _albany_, to tell the _magistrates_, that he was to go to _onondaga_, and desired the brethren's advice how to behave there; on which the magistrates thought it necessary to send likewise the publick interpreter, and another person to assist at the general meeting, with written instructions; but no person of note, that had any influence on the _indians_, went. when the messengers arrived at _oneydo_, they discoursed privately with one of the prisoners that had returned from _france_, and found that he had no love for the _french_; but it is impossible but that _indians_, who had seen the _french_ court, and many of their troops, must be surprised at their grandeur: he complained however of the ill usage he had met with. the _french_ chose, on this occasion, to send first to _oneydo_, because of the assistance they expected the jesuit, that resided there, would give to their negotiation. i believe it will not be tedious to the reader, that desires to know the _indian genius_, if i give a circumstantial account of this general council or parliament of the _five nations_, that he may see in what manner a people that we call savages behave on such important occasions. on the d of _january_ the general council was opened at _onondaga_, consisting of eighty _sachems_; in the first place _sadekanaghtie_, an _onondaga sachem_, rising up, addressed himself to the messenger of _albany_, saying, four messengers are come from the governor of _canada_, _viz_. three who had been carried prisoners to _france_, and a _sachem_ of the _praying indians_ that live at _montreal_. the governor of _canada_ notifies his arrival to us, that he is the count _de frontenac_, who had been formerly governor there; that he had brought back with him _tawerahet_ a _cayuga sachem_, and twelve prisoners, that had been carried to _france_; then taking the belt of _wampum_ in his hand, and holding it by the middle, he added, what i have said relates only to one half of the belt, the other half is to let us know, that he intends to kindle again his fire at _cadarackui_ next spring, and therefore invites his children, and _dekanasora_ an _onondaga captain_ in particular, to treat there with him about the old chain. then _adarahta_ the chief _sachem_ of the _praying indians_ stood up, and said, with three belts in his hand, i advise you to meet the governor of _canada_ as he desires; agree to this, if you would live, and =gives one belt of _wampum_=. _tawerahet_ sends you this other belt, to inform you of the miseries, that he and the rest of your countrymen have suffered in their captivity; and to advise you to hearken to _yonondio_, if you desire to live. this third belt is from _thurensera_[ ], _ohguesse_[ ], and _ertel_[ ], who say by it, to their brethren: we have interceded for you with _yonondio_, and therefore advise you to meet him at _cadarackui_ in the spring, because it will be for your advantage. when this _sachem_ had done speaking, the _mohawk_ messenger sent from _albany_ delivered his message word for word, as he had received it, without omitting the least article. the interpreter, while the _indian_ was speaking, read over a paper, on which the message was set down, lest any thing should have been forgot. after this _cannehoot_ a _seneka sachem_ stood up, and gave the general council a particular account of a treaty made last summer, between the _senekas_ and the _wagunha_ messengers, (one of the _utawawa_ nations) who had concluded a peace for themselves, and seven other nations, to which the other four nations were desired to agree, and their brethren of _new-york_ to be included in it. he said the proposals made in several propositions were as follow. . we are come to join two bodies into one. delivering up at the same time two prisoners. . we are come to learn wisdom of you _senekas_, and of the other _five nations_, and of your brethren of _new-york_. =giving a belt.= . we by this belt wipe away the tears from the eyes of your friends, whose relations have been killed in the war, and likewise[ ] the paint from your soldiers faces. =giving another belt.= . we now throw aside the ax, which _yonondio_ put into our hands, by this =third belt=. . let the sun, as long as he shall endure, always shine upon us in friendship. here he =gave a red marble sun= as large as a plate. . let the rain of heaven wash away all hatred, that we may again smoke together in peace, =giving a large pipe= of red marble. . _yonondio_ is drunk, but we wash our hands clean from all his actions. =giving a fourth belt.= . now we are clean washed by the water of heaven, neither of us must defile ourselves by hearkening to _yonondio_. . we have twelve of your nation prisoners, who shall be brought home in the spring; there he =gave a belt=, to confirm the promise. . we will bring your prisoners when the strawberries shall be in blossom,[ ] at which time we intend to visit _corlear_, and see the place where the wampum is made. (_new-york_.) the speaker added, we will also tell our friends the other _utawawa_ nations, and the _dionondadies_, who have eleven of your people prisoners, what we have now done, and invite them to make peace with you. he said further, we have sent three messengers back with the _wagunhas_, in order to confirm this peace with their nation. after the _seneka_ speaker had done, the _wagunha_ presents were hung up in the house, in the sight of the whole assembly, and afterwards distributed among the several nations, and their acceptance was a ratification of the treaty. a =large belt was given= also to the _albany_ messengers as their share. the belt of wampum sent from _albany_ was in like manner hanged up, and afterwards divided. _new-england_, which the _indians_ call _kinshon_ (that is a fish) sent likewise the model of a fish, as a token of their adhering to the general covenant. this fish was handed round among the _sachems_, and then laid aside to be put up. after these ceremonies were over, _sadekanahtie_, an _onondaga_ speaker, stood up, and said, brethren, we must stick to our brother _quider_, and look on _yonondio_ as our enemy, for he is a cheat: by _quider_ they meant _peter schyler_ the mayor of _albany_, who had gained a considerable esteem among them; as they have no labeals in their language, they pronounce _peter_ by the sound _quider_. the messenger from _canada_ had brought letters, and some medicinal powder, for the jesuit _milet_, who resided at _oneydo_. these letters and the powder were delivered to the interpreter from _albany_ to be carried thither, that the contents of them might be made known to the _sachems_ of the several nations. the jesuit was present all this while in their council. then the interpreter was desired to speak what he had to say from their brethren at _albany_. he told them, that a new governor was arrived, who had brought a great many soldiers from _england_. that the king of _england_ had declared war against _france_, and that the people of _new-england_ were fitting out ships against _canada_. he advised them, that they should not hearken to the _french_, for when they talk of peace, said he, war is in their heart, and desired them to enter into no treaty but at _albany_, for the _french_, he said, would mind no agreement made any where else. after this they had consultations for some time together, and then gave the following answer by their speaker. brethren, our fire burns at _albany_. we will not send _dekanasora_ to _cadarackui_. we adhere to our old chain with _corlear_; we will prosecute the war with _yonondio_, and will follow your advice in drawing off our men from _cadarackui_. brethren, we are glad to hear the news you tell us, but tell us no lies. brother _kinshon_, we hear you design to send soldiers to the eastward against the _indians_ there; but we advise you, now so many are united against the _french_, to fall immediately on them. strike at the root, when the trunk shall be cut down, the branches fall of course. _corlear_ and _kinshon_, courage! courage! in the spring to _quebeck_, take that place, and you'll have your feet on the necks of the _french_, and all their friends in _america_. after this they agreed to the following answer to be sent to the governor of _canada_. . _yonondio_, you have notified your return to us, and that you have brought back of our people that were carried to _france_, we are glad of it. you desire us to meet you at _cadarackui_ next spring, to treat of the old chain; but _yonondio_, how can we trust you, after you have acted deceitfully so often? witness what was done at _cadarackui_; the usage our messengers met with at _utawawa_, and what was done to the _senekas_ at _utawawa_. this was their answer; however, they sent a belt with this, which always shews a disposition to treat. . _therhansera, ohguesse_ and _ertel_, do you observe friendship with us, if you have not, how come you to advise us to renew friendship with _yonondio_, they sent them likewise a belt? . _tawerahet_, the whole council is glad to hear, that you are returned with the other twelve. _yonondio_, you must send home _tawerahet_ and the others this very winter, before spring, and we will save all the _french_ that we have prisoners till that time. . _yonondio_, you desire to speak with us at _cadarackui_: don't you know that your fire there is extinguished? it is extinguished with blood, you must send home the prisoners in the first place. . we let you know that we have made peace with the _wagunhas_. . you are not to think, that we have laid down the axe, because we return an answer; we intend no such thing: our fair-fighters shall continue the war till our countrymen return. . when our brother _tawerahet_ is returned, then will we speak to you of peace. as soon as the council broke up, their resolutions were made publick to all their people, by the _sachems_ of their several nations. two _sachems_ were sent to _albany_, by their general council, to inform their brethren there of their resolutions, and to bring back the contents of the letters sent from _canada_ to the jesuit. as soon as they arrived, one of the _mohawks_, that had been sent from _albany_ to the council, delivered the _wagunha_ belt, and repeated over distinctly all the articles agreed to with that nation, and referred to the _onondaga speaker_, being one of those sent by the council of _albany_, to recite the answer to the governor of _canada_. he rising up, repeated over the whole as before set down, and added; the _french_ are full of deceit; but i call god to witness, we have hitherto used no deceit with them, but how we shall act for the future, time only can discover. then he assured the brethren, that the _five nations_ were resolved to prosecute the war, in token whereof he presented _quider_[ ] with a belt, in which three axes were represented. perhaps by this representation only three nations joined in sending it, the _cayugas_ and _oneydoes_ being more under the influence of the jesuit _milet_, who lived among them intirely, according to their manner of life, and was adopted by the _oneydoes_, and made one of their _sachems_. the letters from _canada_ to him were read, they contained nothing but common news and compliments. the _mohawk_ messengers, that had been sent from _albany_, had carried with them goods to sell at the general council. this was taken notice of at the general council, and gave the _indians_ a mean opinion of the people of _albany_, and particularly of _peter schyler_; for it is exceedingly scandalous among the _indians_, to employ a merchant in publick affairs; merchants, (i mean the traders with the _indians_) are looked upon by them as liars, and people not to be trusted, and of no credit, who by their thoughts being continually turned upon profit and loss, consider every thing with that private view. as this made a noise at _albany_, by its giving the jesuit an opportunity of setting the messengers from _albany_ in an ill light, _peter scheyler_ cleared himself by oath, of his having any interest directly or indirectly in those goods, and sent a belt back with his publick justification. the _mohawk_ messengers had refused to take the goods, as being scandalous to the business they went on; but were persuaded, by being told that the goods belonged to _quider_. the magistrates of _albany_ advised the _sachems_, to send the jesuit prisoner to _albany_, where he might be kept securely, without having it in his power to do mischief, but they could not prevail. the _indians_ were resolved to keep all the means of making peace in their own hands. [footnote : _thurensera_ signifies the dawning of the day, and was the name given by the _indians_ to the jesuit _lamberville_, who had formerly resided at _onondaga_.] [footnote : monsr. _le morne_, the word signifies a partridge.] [footnote : _ertel_ signifies a rose, the name of some other _french_ gentleman, for whom the _indians_ had an esteem.] [footnote : the _indians_ always paint their faces when they go to war, to make themselves look more terrible to the enemy. a soldier in the _indian_ language is expressed by a word, which signifies a fair-fighter.] [footnote : the _indians_ in this manner distinguish the seasons of the year, as the time of planting corn, or when it is ripe, when the chesnuts blossom, &c.] [footnote : _peter schyler_, mayor of _albany_.] chap. iv. _the_ french _surprise_ schenectady. _the_ mohawks _speech of condoleance on that occasion_. the _count de frontenac_ being desirous, as before observed, to raise the drooping spirits of the _french_ in _canada_, by keeping them in action, and engaging the most daring of them, in enterprizes that might give courage to the rest, had sent out three parties against the _english_ colonies, in hopes thereby to lessen the confidence which the _five nations_ had in the _english_ assistance, now that _england_ had declared war against _france_. the party sent against _new-york_ was commanded by _monsr. de herville_, and was ordered to attempt the surprising of _schenectady_, the nearest village to the _mohawks_; it consisted of _french bush-lopers_ or _indian_ traders, and of as many _indians_, the most of them _french_ converts from the _mohawks_, commonly called the _praying indians_, settled at a place near _montreal_, called _cahnuaga_. they were well acquainted with all that part of the country round _schenectady_; and came in sight of the place the th of _february_ - . the people of _schenectady_ were at that time in the greatest security, notwithstanding that they had information from the _indians_, of a party of _french_, and _french indians_ being upon their march that way. they did not think it practicable, in that season of the year, while it was extremely cold, and the whole country covered with snow. indeed _europeans_ will hardly think it possible, that men could make such a march through the wilderness in the severest frosts, without any covering from the heavens, or any provision, except what they carried on their backs. tho' the people of _schenectady_ were informed in the evening before the place was surprised, that several sculking _indians_ were seen near the place, they concluded, that they could be only some of the neighbouring _indians_; and as they had no officer of any esteem among them, not a single man could be persuaded to watch in such severe weather, tho', as the _french_ owned afterwards, if they had found the least guard or watch, they would not have attempted the place, but have surrendered themselves prisoners: they were so exceedingly distressed with the length of their march, and with cold, and hunger, but finding the place in fatal security, they marched into the heart of the village, without being discovered by any one person; then they raised their war shout, entered the houses, murdered every person they met, men, women, and children, naked and in cold blood; and at the same time set fire to the houses. a very few escaped, by running out naked into the woods in this terrible weather: and several hid themselves, till the first fury of the attack was over; but these were soon driven from their lurking places by the fire, and were all made prisoners. captain _alexander glen_, at this time, lived at a distance by himself, on the other side of the river, and was the most noted man in the place. he had at several times been kind to the _french_, who had been taken prisoners by the _mohawks_, and had saved several of them from the fire. the _french_ were sensible what horror this cruel sacking of a defenceless place, and murdering people in cold blood, must raise in mens minds; and to lessen this, they resolved to shew their gratitude to captain _glen_. they had passed his house in the night, and observing that he stood on his defence the next morning, some of them went to the river side, and calling to him, assured him, that they designed him no injury. they persuaded him to come to the _french_ officer, who restored to him all his relations that were prisoners. some _mohawks_ being also found in the village, the _french_ dismissed them, with assurance, that they designed them no hurt. this conduct was not only necessary to promote the peace which the _count de frontenac_ with so much earnestness desired, but likewise to secure their retreat, by making the _mohawks_ less eager to pursue them. the _french_ marched back, without reaping any visible advantage from this barbarous enterprize, besides the murdering sixty-three innocent persons in cold blood, and carrying twenty-seven of them away prisoners. the care the _french_ took to sooth the _mohawks_ had not intirely it's effect, for as soon as they heard of this action, a hundred of their readiest young men pursued the _french_, fell upon their rear, and killed and took twenty-five of them. this action frightened the inhabitants in and about _albany_ so much, that many resolved to desert the place, and retire to _new-york_. they were packing up and preparing for this purpose, when the _mohawk sachems_ came to _albany_ to condole, according to their custom, with their friends, when any misfortune befals them. i shall give their speech on this occasion, as it will be of use to the reader, in order to his forming a true notion of the _indian genius_. they spoke the twenty-fifth of _march_ as follows. "brethren, the murder of our brethren at _schenectady_ by the _french_ grieves us as much, as if it had been done to our selves, for we are in the same chain; and no doubt our brethren of _new-england_ will be likewise sadly affected with this cruel action of the _french_. the _french_ on this occasion have not acted like brave men, but like thieves and robbers. be not therefore discouraged. we =give this belt= _to wipe away your tears_. "brethren, we lament the death of so many of our brethren, whose blood has been shed at _schenectady_. we don't think that what the _french_ have done can be called a victory, it is only a farther proof of their cruel deceit. the governor of _canada_ sends to _onondaga_, and talks to us of peace with our whole house, but war was in his heart, as you now see by woful experience. he did the same formerly at _cadarackui_, and in the _senekas_ country. this is the third time he has acted so deceitfully. he has broken open our house at both ends, formerly in the _senekas_ country, and now here. we hope however to be revenged of them. one hundred of our bravest young men are in pursuit of them, they are brisk fellows, and they will follow the _french_ to their doors. we will beset them so closely, that not a man in _canada_ shall dare to step out of doors to cut a stick of wood; but now _we gather up our dead, to bury them_, by =this second belt=. "brethren, we came from our castles with tears in our eyes, to bemoan the bloodshed at _schenectady_ by the perfidious _french_. while we bury our dead murdered at _schenectady_, we know not what may have befallen our own people, that are in pursuit of the enemy, they may be dead; what has befallen you may happen to us; and therefore _we come to bury our brethren at_ schenectady with =this third belt=. "great and sudden is the mischief, as if it had fallen from heaven upon us. our forefathers taught us to go with all speed to bemoan and lament with our brethren, when any disaster or misfortune happens to any in our chain. take this bill of vigilance, that you may be more watchful for the future. _we give our brethren eye-water_ to make them sharp sighted, =giving a fourth belt=. "we are now come to the house where we usually renew the chain; but alas! we find the house polluted, polluted with blood. all the _five nations_ have heard of this, and we are come to wipe away the blood, and clean the house. we come to invite _corlear_, and every one of you, and _quider_ (calling to every one of the principal men present by their names) _to be revenged of the enemy_, by =this fifth belt=. "brethren, be not discouraged, we are strong enough. this is the beginning of your war, and the whole house have their eyes fixed upon you at this time, to observe your behaviour. they wait your motion, and are ready to join in any resolute measures. "our chain is a strong chain, it is a silver chain, it can neither rust nor be broken. we, as to our parts, are resolute to continue the war. "we will never desist, so long as a man of us remains. take heart, do not pack up and go away, [ ] this will give heart to a dastardly enemy. we are of the race of the bear, and a bear you know never yields, while one drop of blood is left. _we must all be bears_; =giving a sixth belt=. "brethren be patient, this disaster is an affliction which has fallen from heaven upon us. the sun, which hath been cloudy, and sent this disaster, will shine again with its pleasant beams. take courage, said he, courage, repeating the word several times as they =gave a seventh belt=. (_to the_ english.) brethren, three years ago we were engaged in a bloody war with the _french_, and you encouraged us to proceed in it. our success answered our expectation; but we were not well begun, when _corlear_ stopt us from going on. had you permitted us to go on, the _french_ would not now have been able to do the mischief, they have done, we would have prevented their sowing, planting or reaping. we would have humbled them effectually, but now we dye. the obstructions you then made now ruin us. let us after this be steady, and take no such false measures for the future, but _prosecute the war vigorously_. =giving a bever skin.= the brethren must keep good watch, and if the enemy come again, send more speedily to us. don't desert _schenectady_. the enemy will glory in seeing it desolate. it will give them courage that had none before, _fortify the place_, it is not well fortified now: the _stockadoes_ are too short, the _indians_ can jump over them. =gave a bever skin.= brethren, the mischief done at _schenectady_ cannot be helped now; but for the future, when the enemy appears any where, let nothing hinder your sending to us by expresses, and fire great guns, that all may be alarmed. we advise you to bring all the _river indians_ under your subjection to live near _albany_, to be ready on all occasions. send to _new-england_, tell them what has happened to you. they will undoubtedly awake and lend us their helping hand. it is their interest, as much as ours, to push the war to a speedy conclusion. be not discouraged, the _french_ are not so numerous as some people talk. if we but heartily unite to push on the war, and mind _our business, the_ french _will soon be subdued_. the magistrates having returned an answer on the twenty seventh, to the satisfaction of the _indians_, they repeated it all over, word by word, to let the magistrates see how carefully they minded it, and then added, brethren, we are glad to find you are not discouraged. the best and wisest men sometimes make mistakes. let us now pursue the war vigorously. we have a hundred men out, they are good scouts. we expect to meet all the _sachems_ of the other nations, as they come to condole with you. you need not fear our being ready, at the first notice. our ax is always in our hands, but take care that you be timely ready. your ships, that must do the principal work, are long a fitting out. we do not design to go out with a small company, or in sculking parties; but as soon as the nations can meet, we shall be ready with our whole force. if you would bring this war to a happy issue, you must begin soon, before the _french_ can recover the losses they have received from us, and get new vigour and life, therefore send in all haste to _new-england_. neither you nor we can continue long in the condition we are now in, we must order matters so, that the _french_ be kept in continual fear and alarm at home; for this is the only way to be secure, and in peace here. the _scahkok indians_, in our opinion, are well placed where they are (to the northward of _albany_); they are a good out-guard; they are our children, and we shall take care that they do their duty: but you must take care of the _indians_ below the town, place them nearer the town, so as they may _be of most service to you_. here we see the _mohawks_ acting like hearty friends, and if the value of the belts given at that time be considered, together with what they said on that occasion, they gave the strongest proofs of their sincerity. each of these belts amount to a large sum in the _indian_ account. the _english_ of _new-york_ and the _french_ of _canada_ were now entering into a war, in which the part the _five nations_ are to take is of the greatest consequence to both; the very being of the _french_ colony depended on it, as well as the safety of the _english_. the _indians_ at this time had the greatest aversion to the _french_, and they desired nothing so much, as that the _english_ might join heartily in this war. we shall see by the sequel how a publick spirit, directed by wise counsels, can overcome all difficulties, while a selfish spirit loses all, even natural advantages. in the present case, the turn things took seems to have been entirely owing to one thing. the french in making the count _de frontenac_ governor of _canada_, chose the man every way the best qualified for this service: the _english_ seemed to have little regard to the qualification of the person they sent, but to gratify a relation or a friend, by giving him an opportunity to make a fortune; and as he knew that he was recommended with this view, his counsels were chiefly employed for this purpose. by this means an _english governor_ generally wants the esteem of the people; while they think that a governor has not the good of the people in view, but his own, they on all occasions are jealous of him; so that even a good governor, with more difficulty, pursues generous purposes and publick benefits, because the people suspect them to be mere pretences to cover a private design. it is for this reason, that any man, opposing a governor, is sure to meet with the favour of the people, almost in every case. on the other hand, the opinion the _french_ had of the count _de frontenac_'s publick spirit, and of his wisdom and diligence, made them enter into all his measures without hesitating, and chearfully obey all his commands. [footnote : this was spoke to the _english_, who were about removing from _albany_.] chap. v. _the_ five nations _continue the war with the_ french; _the_ mohawks _incline to peace_; _their conferences with the_ governor _of_ new-york. the _governor_ of _canada_ received hopes that the _five nations_ inclined to peace, by their returning an answer to _therawaet_'s message, and thought he might now venture to send some _french_ to them with further proposals. the chevalier _d'o_, with an interpreter called _collin_, and some others, went; but they had a much warmer reception than they expected, being forced to run the gauntlet through a long lane of _indians_, as they entered their castle, and were afterwards delivered up prisoners to the _english_. the _five nations_ kept out at this time small parties, that continually harassed the _french_. the count _de frontenac_ sent captain _louvigni_ to _missilimakinak_, to relieve the garison, and he had orders, by all means, to prevent the peace which the _utawawas_ and _quatoghies_ were upon the point of concluding with the _five nations_. he carried with him one hundred forty three _french_, and six _indians_, and was likewise accompanied with a lieutenant and thirty men, till he got one hundred twenty miles from _montreal_. they were met in _cadarackui river_, at a place called the _cats_, by a party of the _five nations_, who fell vigorously on their canoes, killed several of the _french_, and made them give way; but _louvigni_, by putting his men ashore, at last got the better, after a smart engagement, in which the _indians_ had several men killed, and two men, and as many women, taken prisoners. i am obliged to rely on the _french_ account of these skirmishes; they do not mention the number of the _indians_ in this rencounter, but i suspect them to have been much fewer than the _french_; for when the enemy are equal in number, or greater, they seldom forget to tell it. one of the _indian_ prisoners was carried by them to _missilimackinak_, to confirm this victory, and was delivered to the _utawawas_, who eat him. the lieutenant carried the other back with him. he was given to _therawaet_. to revenge this loss, the _five nations_ sent a party against the _island of montreal_, who fell on that part called the _trembling point_; and though they were discovered before they gave their blow, they attacked a party of regular troops, and killed the commanding officer, and twelve of his men: another party carried off fifteen or sixteen prisoners from _riviere puante_, over against _trois rivieres_. this party was pursued, and finding that they were like to be overpowered, murdered their prisoners and made their escape. these incursions kept all the river, from _montreal_ to _quebeck_, in continual alarm, and obliged the governor to send all the soldiers to guard the south side of the river. notwithstanding this, five persons were carried away in sight of _sorel fort_, by a small skulking party, but they were soon afterwards recovered by the soldiers. about the same time another party burnt the plantations at _st. ours_. the _five nations_ had conceived great hopes from the assistance of the _english_, as the magistrates of _albany_ had promised the _mohawks_, when they came to condole, after the surprising of _schenectady_; but the _english_ were so far from performing these promises, that many of the inhabitants retired from _albany_ to _new-york_; and they who had the administration of affairs, were so intent on their party quarrels, that they intirely neglected the _indian_ affairs. indeed the people of _new-york_ have too often made large promises, and have thereby put the _indians_ upon bold enterprizes, when no measures were concerted for supporting them. this made the _indians_ think, that the _english_ were lavish of _indian_ lives and too careful of their own. the _mohawks_, who lived nearest the _english_, were most sensible of these things, and soon entertained notions prejudicial to the opinion they ought to have had of the _english_ prudence and conduct; it is even probable, these _indians_ began to entertain a mean opinion of both the _english_ courage and integrity. it is not strange then, that the _mohawks_ at last gave ear to the assiduous application of their countrymen, the _praying indians_, who, with _french_ arguments, persuaded them to make peace as soon as possible, without trusting longer to the _english_, who had so often disappointed or deceived them. the _mohawks_ sent one of their _sachems_, _odigacege_, to the _praying indians_, who introduced him to the count _de frontenac_. the count made him welcome, and told him, that he was sorry for the injuries his predecessors had done them; but that he would treat them like friends, if their future conduct did not prevent him, and =gave him a belt=, with proposals of peace to his nation. colonel _slaughter_, who was then governor of _new-york_, being informed that the _five nations_ were like to make peace with the _french_, by their having lost much of their confidence in the _english_ assistance, found it necessary to meet them, which he did in the end of _may_ . there were present at that time six _oneydo_, eleven _onondaga_, four _cayuga_, and ten _seneka sachems_. he renewed the covenant with them, and gave them presents. the _mohawks_ having entered into a treaty with the _french_, did not join with the other four nations in their answer. on the second of _june_ the speaker, in name of the other four nations, told him, they were glad to see a governor again in this place; that they had learned from their ancestors, that the first ship which arrived in this country surprized them exceedingly; that they were curious to know what was in its huge belly. they found christians in it, and among them one _jacques_, with whom they made a chain of friendship, which has been preserved to this day. by that chain it was agreed, that whatever injury was done to the one, should be deemed, by both sides, as likewise done to the other. then they mentioned the confusion that had lately been in the government of _new-york_, which had like to have confounded all their affairs, but hoped all would be reduced to their wonted order and quiet. they complained of several of the brethren leaving _albany_ in time of danger, and praised those by name who staid, and then said: our tree of peace, which grows in this place, has of late been much shaken, we must now secure and fasten its roots; we must frequently manure and dress it, that its roots may spread far. they assured the governor, that they were resolved to prosecute the war against the _french_ as long as they lived, and that they would never speak of peace, but with the common consent. they abhor those that do otherwise, and desired that the brethren might not keep a correspondence with _canada_ by letters. you need not (said they) press us to mind the war, we mind it above all things; do you but your parts, lay aside all other thoughts but that of the war, for it is the only thing we have at heart. they =gave bevers= at the end of every distinct part of their answer. on the fourth the _mohawks_ spoke to the governor, in presence of the other four nations: they confessed the negotiations they had with the _praying indians_, and with the governor of _canada_, and that they had received a belt from him. then they restored one of the prisoners taken at _schenectady_, as the fruit of that negotiation. they desired the governor's advice, and the advice of the whole house, what answer to return to the governor of _canada_; and lastly, desired the _senekas_ to release the prisoners they had taken from the _praying indians_. colonel _slaughter_ check'd the _mohawks_ for entering into a separate treaty with the enemy, and said he could admit of no proposals of peace. he told them, that the prisoners taken from the _praying indians_ must not be restored; putting them in mind, that some of them having been formerly released, soon after returned and murdered several people, and burnt several houses. he assured them of his assistance, and then added, you must keep the enemy in perpetual alarm. the _mohawks_ thanked him for his assurance of assistance; but took notice of his saying, _you_ must keep the enemy in perpetual alarm. why don't you say, they replied, we will keep the enemy in perpetual alarm. in the last place, the _mohawks_ renewed their league with all the _english_ colonies; adding, though an angry dog has endeavoured to bite the chain in pieces, we are resolved to keep it firm, both in peace and in war: we now renew the old chain, that so the tree of peace and prosperity may flourish, and spread its roots through all the country. in the last place, the four nations answered the _mohawks_. "_mohawks_, our brethren, in answer to your proposals from the governor of _canada_, we must put you in mind of his deceit and treachery; we need only give one recent instance, how he lately sent to the _senekas_ to treat of peace, and at the same time fell upon _schenectady_, and cut that place off. we tell you, that the belt sent by the _french_ governor is poison; we spew it out of our mouths, we absolutely reject it, and are resolved to prosecute the war as long as we live." then they left the belt lying on the ground. chap. vi. _the_ english _attack_ montreal _by land_, _in conjunction with the_ indians, _and_ quebeck _by sea_. it was now evident that the _indians_ could no longer be amused with words, and that, unless the _english_ entered soon upon action, the _french_ would carry their design of making peace with the _five nations_, and the _english_ be left to carry on the war in _america_ by themselves. certainly a more proper opportunity of doing it with success could not be expected, than at present, while the _french_ in _canada_ had neither recovered their spirits, nor the strength they had lost, by the terrible incursions of the _five nations_. a joint invasion on _canada_ was concerted with _new-england_, they were to attack _quebeck_ by sea, while _new-york_ attacked _montreal_ by land. the governor therefore proposed to the _indians_ to join with him in attacking _canada_, for which purpose he told them, that he designed to send a considerable force this summer. they desired time to consult on it at their general meeting, which was soon to be held at _onondaga_, and to know what number of christians he designed to send, that they might join a suitable number of their men. to this the governor answered, that he must not communicate the particulars of his design to so many, because they could not then be kept secret from the enemy; as he found by the discoveries that were last year made to the _french_ by that means. it was at last agreed, that the _mohawks_ should join with the christians that were to march from _new-york_ directly against _montreal_, and that the other four nations should send a considerable party down _cadarackui lake_, and join them before _montreal_. major _peter schuyler_, the same whom the _indians_ call _quider_, commanded the party sent from _new-york_, which consisted of three hundred men, one half christians, the other _mohawks_ and _scahkook indians_. he set out from _albany_ about midsummer. as he was preparing his canoes to pass _corlear_'s lake, he was discovered by the _french indians_, who immediately returned to _montreal_, to give information of what they had seen. the chevalier _clermont_ was sent out to make further discoveries: he found the _english_ above _chamblie_, and went immediately back with the intelligence he there gained. in the mean while mr. _de callieres_, governor of _montreal_, did all in his power to give major _schuyler_ a proper reception, by drawing the militia and regular troops together for the defence of the place. there happened to be a very considerable number of _utawawas_ trading at that time at _montreal_, mr. _de colliere_, in order to engage them to join him, made a great feast for them, went among them, and, after the _indian_ manner, began the war song, leading up the dance with his axe in his hand, and shouting and hollowing in the same wild manner the _indians_ do. this done, he carried his whole force, which consisted of twelve hundred men, cross the river, and encamped on the south side, at _la prairie de la magdeleine_, together with a great number of _utawawas_, the _praying indians_, and other _french indians_. the famous _therawaet_ being now entirely gained by the caresses of the count _de frontenac_, made one of the number. they encamped round the fort, which stood on a steep rising ground between two meadows. major _schuyler_ having left forty of his men to guard his canoes, which had carried him cross the lake, marched on without stopping. he got into a hollow, which led into the meadow, without being discovered; and marching under that cover, he fell suddenly upon the militia, who were soon put into confusion, and many of them, and of the _utawawas_, who were posted with them, were killed. he pursued them as they fled to the fort, which he attacked briskly, but was obliged to leave it, by the approach of the regular troops who came to relieve it. he received them however bravely, and, after they had lost several officers and many men, they retired. major _schuyler_ finding the number of the enemy much greater than was expected, and being informed that a considerable party of the enemy had marched southward, he began to apprehend, that this party was sent to cut off his retreat, by destroying his canoes. it was resolved therefore immediately to follow this party; he overtook them, and they covering themselves behind some large fallen trees, he attacked them, and made his way through them, but with considerable loss. in this attack the _mohawks_ signalized themselves, but the _scahkook indians_ did not behave themselves well. the _mohawks_, upon no occasion, yielded an inch of ground, till the _english_ first gave way. the _french_, by their own accounts, lost, in the several attacks made by _schuyler_, two captains, six lieutenants, and five ensigns, and, in all, three hundred men, so that their slain were in number more than major _schuyler_ had with him. the _mohawks_ suffered much, having seventeen men killed, and eleven wounded. they returned to _albany_ the eleventh of _august_. after the _english_ under major _schuyler_ had retired, an _owenagunga indian_ came from _new-england_, with an account of the preparations made there against _canada_, and that they had actually sailed. this fleet, which was commanded by _sir william phips_, was discovered in _st. laurence bay_, while the count _de frontenac_ remained at _montreal_; and thereupon he made all possible haste to _quebeck_, and carried three hundred men with him. the fleet, which consisted of thirty sail, did not reach _quebeck_ till the seventh of _october_. sir _william_ spent three days in nothing but consultation, while the _french_ made all possible preparation for a defence, and, by this means, suffered them to get over the fright and consternation, into which the first appearance of the fleet had thrown them; for the place was not in any posture of defence. it gave them time likewise to draw all the country round them into the town. and on the fourth day sir _william_ summoned the _count_ to surrender, who returned him such an answer as his conduct deserved. the _english_ landed four miles below the town, and had thick woods to march through, before they could come at it, in which ambuscades of _french_ and _indians_ were made at proper distances, by whom the _english_ were repulsed with considerable loss. they attempted the wood again the next day with no better success. the _french_, in their account of this action, say, that the men, though they appeared to be as little disciplined as men could be, behaved with great bravery, but that sir _william_'s conduct was such, that, if he had been in concert with them, he could not have done more to ruin the enterprize; yet his fidelity was never suspected. in short, this descent was so ill managed, that the _english_ got on board again in the night, with the loss of all the cannon and baggage which they had landed. the _french_ thought themselves in such great danger at that time, that they attributed their deliverance to the most immediate protection of heaven, in confounding the devices of their enemy, and by depriving them of common sense; and for this reason the people of _quebeck_ make an annual procession, in commemoration of this deliverance. sir _william_ cannonaded the town for some time with little execution, and then returned in hast, winter approaching; indeed that season was already so far advanced, that he lost eight vessels in his return. the _five nations_ continued their incursions all along _st. laurence river_, from _montreal_ to _quebeck_, and carried away many scalps. at one time a _french_ officer, with thirty eight men, surprised some of the _five nations_ in a cabin, which they had built near _lake st. piere_. some of them escaped and informed two other cabins, which the _french_ had not discovered, and they returned with their companions, and killed the captain and lieutenant, and one half of the men. notwithstanding that the _french_ preserved their country, these warlike expeditions, and the necessity they were under of being on their guard, prevented their cultivating the ground, or of reaping the fruit of what they had sowed or planted. this occasioned a famine in _canada_, and, to increase the misery of the poor inhabitants, they were forced to feed the soldiers gratis, while their own children wanted bread. in _october_ the _onondagas_, _cayugas_, and _oneydoes_ came to _albany_, to condole with the _english_, for the men lost in the expedition against _montreal_, as they had already done with the _mohawks_. they said it was ever their custom to condole with their friends when they lost any number of men in battle, though they had the victory. they at the same time, as they had often done before, complained of the dearness of powder: why, say they, do you call us your king's soldiers, when you will not sell us powder at the usual and reasonable rates? and in answer to a complaint, of there not being a sufficient number of _english_ sent against _montreal_, the people of _albany_ upbraided them with a breach of promise, in not sending that party down _cadarackui river_ which they promised, which they said was the chief reason of the want of success in that expedition. chap. vii. _the_ french _and the_ five nations _continue the war all winter with various success_. _the_ french _burn a_ captain _of the_ five nations _alive_. the old _french_ governor kept up his vigour and spirits wonderfully, no fatigue made him ever think of rest. he knew of what use it would be to convince the _five nations_, that the joint attack of the _english_ and _indians_ had neither weakened him, nor frightened him from carrying on the war with as much vigour as before. it was absolutely necessary that the _utawawas_ and other _western indians_, who came to _montreal_ to trade, should return safe to their own country, otherwise there would be an end to the _french_ trade with those nations, upon which the being of _canada_ depends; for it is only by the _fur-trade_ with these nations that they make returns to _europe_; and if these nations did not return in time, all the _western indians_ would look on the _french_ as lost, and consequently would make peace with the _five nations_, and perhaps join in the destruction of _canada_. captain _la forest_, with one hundred and ten men, was sent to conduct the _utawawas_ home; he carried with him considerable presents sent by the king of _france_, to confirm these nations in the _french_ interest. two _indian_ prisoners, taken at _la prairie_, were given to the _utawawas_, and carried with them, to confirm the stories they were to tell of their successes against the _english_ and _five nations_. these poor men were there burnt alive; and if i should add, that it was done by _french_ instigation, what i shall relate by and by will clear me of the want of charity. i believe it was so, in order to rivet the hatred between these people and the _five nations_. the _five nations_ continued their incursions all winter on _canada_. forty of the _mohawks_ fell upon _fort vercheres_, and carried off twenty of the inhabitants; but the alarm reaching _montreal_, mr. _de crizaei_, with one hundred men of the regular troops, was sent in pursuit of them, who recovered most of the prisoners. the count _de frontenac_ being informed, that a considerable party of the _five nations_ hunted bever on the neck of land between _cadarackui lake_ and _lake erie_, with great security, resolved to give them a better opinion of the strength and courage of the _french_. for this purpose he sent three hundred and twelve men to surprise them, under the command of mr. _beaucour_, a young gentleman. the _praying indians_ of _montreal_ were of the party. this expedition being in the winter, they were obliged to undergo cruel fatigues, while they marched on the snow with snow shoes, and carried all their provision on their backs. several of the _french_ had their feet frozen, which obliged fifteen to return, with some old _indians_, that could not bear the fatigue; and it was with much difficulty that _beaucour_ could persuade the rest to continue their march. after a march to a surprizing distance, at that season of the year, they surprised eighty of the _five nations_, who notwithstanding made a brave defence, and did not run before they left most of their men dead on the spot. three women were made prisoners, with whom the _french_ immediately turned back to _montreal_. some stragling parties went towards _albany_, but did no more mischief than killing two or three stragling persons, and alarming the country. the trade to _missilimakinak_ being still intirely stopt, by the parties of the _five nations_ investing _cadarackui river_, by which, and _cadarackui lake_, the passage in canoes is made to the _western indians_, captain _la noue_, with a command of the regular troops, was ordered early in the spring to guard the traders through that passage; but when he reached the _falls de calumette_, he discovered the enemy, and returned faster than he went. _la noue_ had orders a second time to attempt this passage, and went as far as the river _du lievre_ (thirty leagues from _montreal_) without any obstruction; but there discovering several canoes of the _five nations_, he went back as fast as before. the _quatoghies_ and the _bullheads_[ ] having informed the _french_ of another smaller river, which falls into _cadarackui river_, and runs to the northward of it, by which a passage might be made to the lakes, it was resolved to attempt this passage, though it were much farther round, and more dangerous, there being many more rapid falls in that river. three officers, with thirty soldiers, were sent with the traders for this purpose, but a party of the _five nations_ meeting with them in the long fall, before they reached this river, they were all killed or taken, except four that escaped back to _montreal_. a considerable party of the _five nations_, under the command of _blackkettle_, a famous hero, continued a long time on _cadarackui river_, in hopes of meeting with other _french_ parties, in their passage towards _missilimakinak_; but finding that no attempts were made that way, he resolved to make an irruption into the country round _montreal_. the _french_ say he had six hundred men with him; but they usually increase the number of their enemies, in the relation they give of these transactions, either to excuse their fears, or to increase their glory. _blackkettle_ overrun the country (to use the _french_ expression) as a torrent does the low-lands, when it overflows its banks, and there is no withstanding it. the soldiers had orders to stand upon the defensive within their forts. mr. _de vaudreuil_ pursued this party (after they had burnt and ravaged the whole country) at the head of four hundred men; he overtook them and surprised them. the _five nations_ fought desperately, though the same author, at this place, makes them no more than two hundred men. after they had lost twenty men on the spot, they broke through the _french_, and marched off. the _french_ lost four officers and many common soldiers, and they took five men, nine women, and five children prisoners. the _five nations_ in a few days had however some revenge; a captain having had orders to guard the vessels from _montreal_ to _quebeck_, a party of the _five nations_ attacked him in his return, as he passed through the islands in _lake st. pierre_. he himself was killed, and the whole party intirely routed. the _french_ all this summer were obliged to keep upon the defensive within their forts, while the _five nations_, in small parties, ravaged the whole country, so that no man stirred the least distance from a fort, but he was in danger of losing his scalp. the count _de frontenac_ was pierced to the heart, when he found that he could not revenge these terrible incursions of the _five nations_; and his anguish made him guilty of such a piece of monstrous cruelty, in burning a prisoner alive after the _indian_ manner, as though i have frequently mentioned to have been done by the _indians_, yet i forbore giving the particulars of such barbarous acts, suspecting it might be too offensive to christian ears, even in the history of savages. here however i think it useful to give a circumstantial account of this horrid act, to shew on one hand, what courage and resolution, virtue, the love of glory, and the love of one's country can instill into mens minds, even where the knowledge of true religion is wanting; and on the other hand, how far a false policy, under a corrupt religion, can debase even great minds. the count _de frontenac_, i say, condemned two prisoners of the _five nations_ to be burnt publickly alive. the intendant's lady intreated him to moderate the sentence, and the jesuits, it is said, used their endeavours for the same purpose. but the count _de frontenac_ said, there is a necessity of making such an example, to frighten the _five nations_ from approaching the plantations, since the indulgence, that had hitherto been shewn, had incouraged them to advance with the greatest boldness to the very gates of their towns; while they thought they run no other risque, but of being made prisoners, where they live better than at home. he added, that the _five nations_ having burnt so many _french_, justified this method of making reprizals. but with submission to the politeness of the _french_ nation, may i not ask, whether every (or any) horrid action of a barbarous enemy, can justify a civilized nation in doing the like? when the governor could not be moved, the jesuits went to the prison, to instruct the prisoners in the mysteries of our holy religion, _viz_. of the trinity, the incarnation of our saviour, the joys of paradise, and the punishments of hell, to fit their souls for heaven by baptism, while their bodies were condemned to torments. but the _indians_, after they had heard their sentence, refused to hear the jesuits speak, and began to prepare for death in their own country manner, by singing their death song. some charitable person threw a knife into the prison, with which one of them dispatched himself: the other was carried out to the place of execution by the christian _indians_ of _loretto_, to which he walked, seemingly, with as much indifference as ever martyr did to the stake. while they were torturing him, he continued singing, that he was a warrior brave and without fear; that the most cruel death could not shake his courage; that the most cruel torment should not draw an indecent expression from him; that his comrade was a coward, a scandal to the _five nations_, who had killed himself for fear of pain; that he had the comfort to reflect, that he had made many _frenchmen_ suffer as he did now. he fully verified his words, for the most violent torment could not force the least complaint from him, though his executioners tried their utmost skill to do it. they first broiled his feet between two red hot stones; then they put his fingers into red hot pipes, and though he had his arms at liberty, he would not pull his fingers out; they cut his joints, and taking hold of the sinews, twisted them round small bars of iron. all this while he kept singing and recounting his own brave actions against the _french_. at last they flead his scalp from his skull, and poured scalding hot sand upon it; at which time the intendant's lady obtained leave of the governor to have the _coup-de-grace_ given, and i believe she thereby likewise obtained a favour to every reader, in delivering him from a further continuance of this account of _french_ cruelty. notwithstanding this cruelty, which the _french_ governor manifested towards the _five nations_, and thereby his hatred of them, he found peace with them so necessary to _canada_, that he still pursued it by all the means in his power. for this purpose the _praying indians_ (who, as i observed before, are _mohawks_, and have always kept a correspondence with their own nation) were employed to bring it about, and to endeavour a cessation of arms, that the governor might have an opportunity of shewing what kind things he had in his heart towards the _five nations_, but without success. [footnote : the _bullheads_ are said to be cowardly people.] chap. viii. _the_ five nations _treat with captain_ ingoldsby. the governor of _new-york_, colonel _slaughter_'s death, soon after his arrival, was very prejudicial to the affairs of _new-york_; for captain _ingoldsby_, who had no other commission but that of captain of one of the independent companies of foot, took upon himself the government of the province, without any authority; and he having likewise highly offended a great number of the people, by the share he took in the late party quarrels, it was not easy for him to prosecute any vigorous measures. he was reckoned to be much more a soldier than a statesman. captain _ingoldsby_ met the five nations at _albany_, the sixth of _june_ . in his speech, he told them of his vigorous resolutions to prosecute the war, and then blamed them for not sending (according to their promise) a party down _cadarackui river_, to join them that went from _albany_ against _montreal_, and for their carelesness in suffering themselves to be surprised last winter in their hunting. he desired them to keep the enemy in perpetual alarm, by the incursions of their parties into the enemy's country, and to give him timely notice of all their motions. he told them in the next place, that he heard the _french_ were still using their wonted artifice, of amusing them with offers of peace; but the former proceedings of the _french_ sufficiently demonstrates, said he to the brethren, that while peace is in their mouths, war is in their hearts, and the late horrid murder of the brethren, after quarter given, sufficiently shews the perfidy and rancour of their hearts. it is in vain, said he, to think of any cessation of arms, much less of a peace, while the two kings are at war at home. he added, _virginia_ is ready to assist us, and only waits the king's orders, which are daily expected, and then renewed the chain for _virginia_. in the last place he told them, that he heard the _dionondadas_ had sent two prisoners home, with a view thereby to procure peace; and advised them by all means to make peace with that nation. the _five nations_ answered by _cheda_, an _oneydo sachem:_ "_brother_ corlear, the _sachems_ of the _five nations_ have with great attention heard _corlear_ speak; we shall make a short recital, to shew you with what care we have hearkened. after the recital he continued. we heartily thank _corlear_, for his coming to this place to view the strength thereof, for his bringing forces with him, and for his resolution of putting garisons into the frontier places. =giving five bevers and a belt.= brother _corlear_, as to what you blame us for, let us not reproach one another, such words do not favour well among friends. they gave nothing with this article. brother _corlear_, be patient under the loss of your men, as we are of the _mohawks_ our brethren, that were killed at the same time. you take no notice of the great losses we have suffered. we designed to have come to this place to have condoled with you in your loss, but the war took up all our time, and employed all hands. they =gave five bevers, four otters, and one belt=, as a gift of condolence. brother _corlear_, we are all subjects of one great king and queen, we have one head, one heart, one interest, and are all ingaged in the same war. you tell us, that we must expect no peace while the kings are at war on the other side the great water. we thank you for being so plain with us. we assure you we have no thoughts of peace. we are resolved to carry on the war, though we know we only are in danger of being losers. pray do you prosecute the war with the same resolution. you are strong and have many people. you have a great king, who is able to hold out long. we are but a small people, and decline daily, by the men we lose in this war, we do our utmost to destroy the enemy; but how strange does it seem to us! how unaccountable! that while our great king is so inveterate against the _french_, and you are so earnest with us to carry on the war, that powder is now sold dearer to us than ever? we are poor, and not able to buy while we neglect hunting; and we cannot hunt and carry on the war at the same time: we expect, that this evil we so justly complain of be immediately remedied. =giving nine bevers.= brother _corlear_, you desire us to keep the enemy in perpetual alarm, that they may have no rest, till they are in their graves; is it not to secure your own frontiers? why then not one word of your people that are to join us? we assure you we shall continue to carry on the war into the heart of the enemies country. =giving eight bevers.= we the _five nations_, _mohawks_, _oneydoes_, _onondagas_, _cayugas_, and _senekas_, renew the silver chain whereby we are linked fast with our brethren of _assarigoa_ (_virginia_) and we promise to preserve it as long as the sun shall shine in the heavens. =giving ten bevers.= but brother _corlear_, how comes it, that none of our brethren fastened in the same chain with us, offer their helping hand in this general war, in which our great king is engaged against the _french_? pray _corlear_, how come _maryland_, _delaware river_, and _new-england_, to be disengaged from this war? you have always told us, that they are our brethren, subjects of the same great king. has our king sold them? or do they fail in their obedience? or do they draw their arms out of our chain? or has the great king commanded, that the few subjects he has in this place, should make war against the _french_ alone? pray make plain to us this mystery? how can they and we be brethren, and make different families? how can they and we be subjects of the same great king, and not be engaged in the same war? how can they and we have the same heart, the same head, and the same interest, as you tell us, and not have the same thoughts? how comes it, that the enemy burns and destroys the towns in _new-england_, and they make no resistance? how comes our great king to make war, and not to destroy his enemies? when, if he would only command his subjects on this side the great lake to joyn, the destruction of the enemy would not make one summer's work. you need not warn us of the deceit and treachery of the _french_, who would probably insinuate thoughts of peace; but brethren, you need not fear us, we will never hearken to them: tho' at the same time, we must own, that we have not been without thoughts of your being inclined to peace, by reason of the brethren's backwardness in pushing on the war. the _french_ spread reports among us to this purpose, and say, that they had in a manner concluded the matter with you. we rejoice to be now assured of this falshood. we shall never desist fighting the _french_ as long as we shall live. and =gave a belt of wampum=. we now renew the old chain, and here plant the tree of prosperity and peace. may it grow and thrive, and spread its roots even beyond _canada_. =giving a belt.= we make the house clean, where all our affairs of importance are transacted with these five otters. we return you thanks for the powder and lead given us; but what shall we do with them without guns, shall we throw them at the enemy? we doubt they will not hurt them so. before this we always had guns given us. it is no wonder the governor of _canada_ gains upon us, for he supplies his _indians_ with guns as well as powder; he supplies them plentifully with every thing that can hurt us. =giving five otters.= as to the _dionondadas_ setting two of our nation at liberty, we must tell you, that it was not the act of that nation, but the private act of one person: we are desirous to make peace with that nation as soon as we can, upon honourable terms. and =gave a belt=. the _mohawks_, before they left the place, desired a private conference with the governor, and told him, that they were all exceedingly dissatisfied, that the other _english_ colonies gave no assistance, and that it might prove of ill consequence. captain _ingoldsby_ promised to write to them, and hoped it would have a good effect. chap. ix. _the_ french _surprise and take three_ mohawk _castles_. the _praying indians_ promised their endeavours to reconcile their brethren the _mohawks_ to the _french_, on whom the _french_ expected they would have much influence; but their endeavours proving ineffectual, their correspondence began to be suspected. the _french_ thought they did more hurt than good, by the intelligence the enemy by their means received. the _french_ in _canada_ began to lose their spirits, by being obliged to remain so long upon the defensive, as the _five nations_ gained more courage by it. the count _de frontenac_ thought it therefore absolutely necessary to undertake some bold enterprize, to shew the _five nations_, that they had to do with an enemy still able to act offensively: an attack on the _mohawks_ he thought would be most effectual for this purpose, because it would shew, at the same time, that the _english_ would not protect their nearest neighbours. as this was designed to be done by surprize, the winter season was chosen for this purpose, as least to be suspected at such a time; and when the enemy could not, without great hardship, keep scouts abroad, to discover them or the _english_ give any assistance. the body of the _french_ designed for this expedition was put under three captains of the regular troops, and thirty subalterns, and consisted of picked men of the regular troops of the common militia of the country of the _praying indians_, the _quatoghies_ of _loretto_, _adirondacks_, and _sohokies_, who live to the eastward of _boston_, making in all about six or seven hundred men, so that a great part of the force of _canada_ was employed in it. they were well supplied with all sorts of ammunition, provision, snow-shoes, and such conveniencies for carriage, as were practicable upon the snow, and through such great forests as they had to pass. the _french_ at _canada_ have a kind of light sledges made with skins, and are drawn by large dogs on the frozen snow. they set out from _la prairie de magdeleine_ the th of _january_ - , after having endured what might have been thought unsurmountable hardships; they passed by _schenectady_ at some distance from it, on the th of _february_, at which time one that had been taken prisoner, when that place was sacked, made his escape from them, and gave the people of _schenectady_ intelligence of the _french_, who by an express, immediately informed the commandant of _albany_. the millitia was expeditiously raised, and a lieutenant with fifty five horse was immediately dispatched to _schenectady_; but no care was taken to give the _mohawks_ notice, which might have been done without much danger, by sending up the south side of the river, whilst the _french_ marched on the north. the _french_, on the th at night, reached the first _mohawk_ castle, where there were only five men, and some women and children in great security, their other men being all abroad, these were all taken without opposition. the next fort not far from it was in like manner surprized, without any opposition, both of them were very small, and being next the _english_, not fortified. _schenectady_ being the nearest _english_ settlement to the _mohawks_, and but a little way from their nearest castle, many of them are always there. the _mohawks_ then in the town were exceedingly enraged, that none went out to assist their nation; some were sent therefore out the next day, to gain information of the enemy, and to give the _mohawks_ notice; but they returned without doing their duty. the _french_ went on to the next _mohawk_ fort, which was the largest; and coming to that in the night, they heard some noise, and suspected they were discovered: but this noise was only occasioned by a war dance, forty of the _indians_ designing to go next day upon some enterprize. the _french_ approached the castle silently, and finding the _indians_ no way on their guard, opened the gate, and entered before they were discovered; but notwithstanding this, and the confusion the _indians_ must be in, this conquest was not without loss of blood, the _french_ having lost thirty men, before the _indians_ entirely submitted: the _french_ designed to have put them all to the sword, but their own _indians_ would not suffer it, and gave quarter: they took three hundred prisoners, of whom one hundred were fighting men. i have no account of the number of _mohawks_ killed, but no doubt it was very considerable. when the account came to _albany_, how much the _mohawks_, who were at _schenectady_, were enraged, that no assistance was sent to their countrymen; _peter schuyler_ a major of the militia offered himself to go with what force could be got ready for their assistance. he went himself immediately to _schenectady_, and sent out to discover the enemy: his scouts brought him intelligence, first, that the _french_ were in possession of the two smallest forts, afterwards, that they had heard great firing at the largest fort; and at last, that it was taken. having received men, partly regular troops, but most of the militia, he began his march on the th in quest of the enemy; but hearing soon after, that six hundred men of the upper castles were on their march, 'tis probable he did not endeavour to be up with the _french_ so soon as he might; for i find by his journal, that he was nearer them on the fourteenth, than he was two days after. he had not sufficient force to fight them: he sent therefore to the upper _indians_, to hasten their march. on the th he was joined by these _indians_, in all two hundred and ninety men and boys, very ill armed. his body then consisted of two hundred and fifty christians, and two hundred and ninety _indians_, armed fighting men. they had no other provision but some biscuit every man had in his pocket. on the th he was informed by an _indian_, who pretended to be a deserter, that the _french_ had built a fort, where they designed to wait for him, and fight him; whereupon he sent an express to coll. _ingoldesby_, then commandant at _albany_, to hasten more men to join him, with sufficient provision for the whole. he found afterwards, that this _indian_ was sent by the french, on purpose to persuade the _indians_ to give over the pursuit. major _schuyler_ came up to the enemy on the th; when he came near them he did not go on streight towards them, for fear of ambuscades, but marched round. as soon as he came in sight, he was saluted with three loud shouts, which were answered with as much noise. the _indians_ began in their manner to secure themselves, by felling the trees between them, and the enemy sallied out to prevent them, but were soon beat back. the _indians_ fell to work again, and desired the christians to assist them, which was done, but in such confusion, that they themselves were in danger from the falling trees. the _french_ sallied a second time with all their force, crying out, _they run, we'll cut them off, and get their provisions_; but they were warmly received, and beat back into their fort. they sallied a third time, and were beat back with considerable loss, the _indians_ bringing in several heads and scalps. as soon as the skirmishing was over, the major sent back an express, to hasten the men that were to reinforce him, and were to bring provision, some of the men having had no provision for two days. the _major_ then secured himself, under the cover of the fallen trees, and kept out watches to observe the _french_. the th proving a cold stormy day, with snow, he was informed, by a deserter, that the _french_ were upon their march, it not being easy to follow their tracks, or to discover them in such weather. the officers were commanded to pursue and retard their march, till the reinforcement should come up, but the men refused to march without provision. the officers, with about men, and a body of _indians_, followed the enemy till night, when they began to secure themselves, by fortifying their camp. the officers wanting a sufficient number to secure themselves in like manner, or to sight the enemy, returned, leaving about forty christians, and one hundred _indians_, to observe them. on the th the provisions, with about men, arrived, under the command of captain _sims_ of the regular troops. every man, as he was served with provision, marched towards the enemy. the van was commanded by captain _peter matthews_ of the regular troops, who coming up with the enemy's rear, would have attacked them, to retard their march, but the _mohawks_ were averse to fighting. the french dropt on purpose several of their prisoners, who told the _mohawks_, that the _french_ were resolved to put all the prisoners to the sword, if they should be attacked. the enemy passed the north branch of _hudson_'s river upon a cake of ice, which, very opportunely for them, stuck there in one place, while it was open by a late thaw, both above and below. the weather continuing very cold, and the _indians_ averse to fighting, major _schuyler_ gave over the pursuit on the th, having lost only four private men, and as many _indians_, two officers and twelve men christians and _indians_ were wounded. the _french_ lost thirty three men (the bodies of twenty seven were found) of whom four were officers, and twenty-six wounded, as the deserters told him. between forty and fifty prisoners were recovered. i have been told, that captain _matthews_ desired coll. _schuyler_, when he came first up with the _french_, to summon them to surrender; he said, the _french_ are in great distress, and this will give them an opinion of our strength; but coll. _schuyler_ refused, tho' he was brave, he was no soldier; and it is very probable, that the _french_ observing the want of conduct and discipline, were encouraged. it is true, the _english_ were in great want of provisions at that time. the _indians_ eat the bodies of the _french_ that they found. coll. _schuyler_ (as he told me himself) going among the _indians_ at that time, was invited to eat broth with them, which some of them had ready boiled, which he did, till they, putting the ladle into the kettle to take out more, brought out a _french_ man's hand, which put an end to his appetite. the _french_ went home as fast as they could carry their wounded men with them; but coming to a place, where they had hid provisions for their supply in their return, they found it all spoiled. this put them in great distress, so that they were forced to eat their shoes; they sent some of the nimblest men forward to _montreal_, that provision might meet them. as soon as they came near the settlements they dispersed, every man running home to eat, so that they returned to _canada_ like an army routed. the _french_ own they lost eighty men, and had thirty three wounded in this expedition. one may wonder how it is possible for men to march several hundred miles in the wilderness, while the ground is every where covered with snow, two or three feet deep at least; but the foremost march on snow shoes, which beat a firm track for those that follow. at night, when they rest, they dig a hole in the snow, throwing the snow up all round, but highest towards that side from whence the wind blows, so large, as to contain as many men as can lye round a fire: they make the fire in the middle, and cover the frozen ground round it with the small branches of the fir-trees. thus they tell me a man lyes much warmer, than one imagines that never tried it. when the information of the _french_ came to _schenectady_, an express was sent to _new-york_ to coll. _fletcher_ then governor there; the express reached _new-york_, an hundred and fifty miles from _albany_, the th at ten in the night. the governor got the city regiment under arms by eight the next morning. he called out to know who were willing to go with him to the frontiers, they all immediately threw up their hats, and answered one and all. indeed the people of this province have, upon all occasions, shewn their courage and resolution in defence of their country; but the misfortune is, they are under no discipline, and have been seldom led by men that knew their duty. the governor ordered an hundred and fifty voluntiers for this service, and as many more from _long-island_. the river then happened to be open by a sudden thaw, which does not, at that time of the year, happen once in twenty years. he embarked three hundred men in five sloops, by four in the afternoon of the th, and arrived at _albany_ the th at nine in the morning. the same day the governor went to _schenectady_, and ordered the men to follow, but before they could get every thing ready for their march into the woods, they had an account, that major _schuyler_ was upon his return. several gentlemen of _albany_, particularly mr. _lanslear_, a gentleman of the best estate there, went out voluntiers under major _schuyler_, which i ought not to have forgot. coll. _fletcher_ made a speech to the _mohawks_ at _albany_, he blamed their supine negligence, in suffering themselves to be surprised in the manner they were in time of war. he told them that they had reason to be convinced, that the _english_ were their friends heartily, by the number of men he had marched to their assistance in a very little time, upon the first notice. he promised to wipe away their tears in the spring, by considerable presents; and that he would, in the mean while, take care of their subsistence, by providing houses and victuals for them. he told them, he doubted they had some false brethren among them, that gave the _french_ information, and favoured their designs; and in the last place, advised them to convince the _french_, that they had not lost their courage with this misfortune. the _mohawks_, in their answer, called coll. _fletcher_ by the name of _cayenguirago_; and he was called so by the _indians_ always after this. it signifies _a great swift arrow_, as an acknowledgement of the speed he made to their assistance. but they appeared, in their answer, to be quite disheartned; they had not, in the memory of any man, received such a blow. they said their strength was quite broke, by the continuance of the war; but they added, if all the _english_ colonies would join, they could still easily take _canada_: their being so ill armed, was the reason (they said) that the _french_ had now escaped. the _french_, continued they, arm their _indians_ compleatly, and furnish them with every thing necessary for war, as we find every time we meet with them. the _french_ had got a great quantity of furs, and other peltry, at _missilimakinak_, by their trade with the _indians_; but the _five nations_ had so effectually blocked up the passage between that and _canada_, that they had remained there useless to the _french_ for several years. the count _de frontenac_, after his success against the _mohawks_, was in hopes the _five nations_ would keep more at home in defence of their own castles, and with these hopes sent a lieutenant, with eighteen _canadians_, and twenty _praying indians_, to open the passage to _missilimakinak_; but this party fell in with another of the _five nations_, who entirely routed them, so that a few escaped only, to give an account of their misfortune; at last canoes, loaded with furs from _missilimakinak_, arrived at _montreal_, which gave as universal a joy to _canada_, as the arrival of the _galleons_ give in _spain_. chap. x. _the treaties and negotiations the_ five nations _had with the_ english _and_ french, _in the years_ _and_ . as by this time the reader may be tired with the horrid scenes of a barbarous war, it may be some relief to observe the _indian_ genius in the arts of negotiating; and see how a barbarous people, without any of the arts and sciences in which we value our selves, manage their interest with the most learned, most polite, and artificial nation in _europe_. the _five nations_ were informed, that the governor of _canada_ had received from _europe_ a very considerable recruit of soldiers, and of all sorts of ammunition. this, with the great loss the _mohawks_ had lately suffered, while they had been amused by the _english_ with great hopes, and very little real assistance, made the _oneydoes_, at last yield to the solicitations of the jesuit _milet_, to send a message to the _french_ for peace. it is probable he had the art to influence the people at _albany_ to favour his designs, by giving them hopes of being included in the peace, as may be conjectured, from what will appear in the sequel. coll. _fletcher_ being informed, that the _oneydoes_ had sent a messenger to _canada_, sent for the _five nations_ to _albany_. he spoke to them the third of _july_ . he first excused his not meeting them as he had promised, at the time the sap begins to run in the trees, by reason of his having received a commission to be governor of _pensilvania_, to which place he was obliged at that time to go. he put them in mind with what speed he came to their assistance last winter, and how effectual, in all probability, it would have been, had they only retarded the enemy's march till he could have reached them: he advised them to guard against being drunk, and shewed them the ill consequences of it in time of war. then he said, "i have received information, that some of the brethren are wavering, and inclined to peace with the enemy; and am assured, that such thoughts must arise from the instigation of the jesuit _milet_, whom some of the brethren have suffered to live so long among them, and whose only practice is to delude and betray them. let me therefore advise you to remove that ill person from among you." in the end he condoled their dead, and made them a very considerable present of ninety guns, eight hundred and ten pound of powder, eight hundred bars of lead, a thousand flints, eighty seven hatchets, four gross of knives, besides a considerable quantity of cloathing and provisions. this present, he told them, their king and queen had sent them, and renewed the covenant for all the _english_ colonies. the king usually sends them a considerable present with every new governor sent to _new-york_, which is not always applied as it is designed. if this present had been made sooner, it had been of much more use to the _english_, as well as to the _five nations_. the _five nations_ the next day spoke as follows. brother _cayenguirago_, "we are involved in a bloody war, which makes us sit in sorrow and grief; and being about to speak of matters of importance, we, in the first place, clear the mouth and throat of our interpretess, by =giving her these three bever skins=." then they repeated his excellency's speech, in answer to which they said, "brother _cayenguirago_, we rejoice, that the great king and queen of _england_ take such notice of us, as we find, by the large present sent us; we return hearty thanks for the ammunition especially. "we are glad that our brother _cayenguirago_ renews the chain, not only between us and this government, but likewise with _new-england_, _virginia_, _maryland_ and _pensilvania_; it shall be kept inviolable by us the _five nations_, as long as the sun shines. we pray our brother _cayenguirago_ to have a watchful eye, that none of the other colonies keep any correspondence with the enemy, but use their endeavours to destroy them. we heard nothing of what you told us of the priest _milet_, who lives at _oneydo_, till we came to this town. we have enquired the truth of our brethren the _oneydoes_, who confess, that the priest sent an _indian_ to _canada_ with letters, which has surprised us very much. "brother _cayenguirago_, you are our great tree, whose roots extend to the utmost bounds of this government; we desire you may not be disturbed when any of our prisoners misbehave, for they are not countenanced by us; and all proper methods shall be taken, to prevent the like for the future. in like manner we beg you to take care, that none of the prisoners you have correspond with the enemy, as we suspect the chevalier _d'o_. did; and that he was sent with letters to _canada_ by some of our brethren. (he made his escape from _boston_.) "brother _cayenguirago_, in former times our propositions to one another were only discourses of peace and friendship, and in giving presents; but how much is the case altered of late? now we talk of nothing but war, and are continually prompting one another to it. as to our parts, we will keep close to the war to the last drop of our blood; and tho' we be tossed to and fro with storms, we will remain stedfast to the last man, as it was resolved by both in the beginning of the war. "brother _cayenguirago_, we were told in our own country, not only that the king had made you governor of _pensilvania_, but likewise that you were preparing a fleet to take _canada_. o! what joyful news this was to our young men. _sadagarus_, the great _seneka_ captain, was to command them. now they said, we need only make one hearty push, while the fleet is before _quebeck_. now there will be an end to this bloody war, and all our troubles; but alas, now we are come here, we hear not one word of this design. "brother _cayenguirago_, you are that flourishing tree that covers us; you keep the chain bright; we have one request to make to you, that you may stay with us, and not return to _england_; for you know our ways and manners. if you have any thing to tell the king and queen, write it to them, for the king knows you to be a wise man, and will therefore believe you. "brother _cayenguirago_, we are very glad to hear that _pensilvania_ is come under your government, bring their young men here, with their bows and arrows and hatchets in their hands, for this is the place of action. we are pleased that the _showonons_ or _satanas_, who are our enemies, have applied to you for protection; and that you sent them to us to endeavour a peace, and that you sent christians with them, to conduct them back again. we wish they were come to assist us against the common enemy. "brother _cayenguirago_, now we have done, but must tell you again, that we roll and wallow in joy, by reason of the great favour the great king and queen has done us, in sending us arms and ammunition, at a time when we are in the greatest need of them; and because there is such unity among the brethren." they made the governor a considerable present of furs, to shew their respect to his person; but they did not give one belt to confirm any one article; so that the whole of it is, according to their stile, only argumentative. coll. _fletcher_ not being satisfied with their answer, concerning the jesuit _milet_, made this further proposal to them. "as to _milet_ the priest, whom the brethren of _oneydo_ still harbour among them, i must tell you again, that he betrays you, and all your councils; and that you may see i desire not to diminish your number, i am willing to give you a pretty _indian_ boy, in lieu of the old priest; and accordingly the boy was brought and delivered to them." in answer to this the _oneydo sachem_ said, "as soon as the _indian_ messenger returns all his papers shall be taken from him, and be forthwith brought to our brother _cayenguirago_, before the priest shall see any of them: we are willing to take the boy in exchange for the priest, but it is not safe to do it, while our messenger is in the power of the enemy; let the boy stay here till we bring the priest, which shall be as soon as the messenger shall return". but he gave no belt, or other present, to confirm this promise. he added, "brother _cayenguirago_, we now acquaint you that it is proposed by all the _five nations_, to make peace with the _dionondadies_, a nation of _indians_ near in alliance with the _french_ of _canada_. this will both strengthen us and weaken the enemy. the _senekas_, who live nearest them, have undertaken this treaty, and take belts of wampum from the other nations, to confirm the peace. we desire your approbation, that you would send your belt in concurrence, as our eldest brother in our chain." the governor approved of this, and =gave them a belt= to carry in his name. notwithstanding what the speaker of the _five nations_ had promised to the governor, to bring all the papers the _oneydo_ messenger should bring from _canada_, before the jesuit _milet_ should have liberty to see them, it could not be difficult for the jesuit, to persuade them to keep the power of making peace in their own hands, and for that purpose, to call a meeting of the _sachems_ of _onondago_, where all such matters had been formerly transacted among themselves, and there to determine independently, rather than to submit themselves to another nation at _albany_. they only invited the _english_ to assist at the general council. the _english_ used what arguments they could to dissuade this meeting, but rather to observe the promise made to the governor; and it seems used some threatning. the _mohawks_ had so much regard to the _english_, that they refused to assist at the council. the other four, notwithstanding this, met, and resolved on an answer to be sent to the governor of _canada_; but at the same time, to shew their regard to the _mohawks_ and _english_, these resolutions were not to be final, till they should first be communicated to the _english_ and _mohawks_, and their advice received thereon; for which purpose several _sachems_ were sent to _albany_, of whom _decanesora_ was the principal and the speaker. _decanesora_ had for many years the greatest reputation among the _five nations_ for speaking, and was generally employed as their speaker, in their negotiations with both _french_ and _english_: he was grown old when i saw him, and heard him speak; he had a great fluency in speaking, and a graceful elocution, that would have pleased in any part of the world. his person was tall and well made, and his features, to my thinking, resembled much the bustos of _cicero_. i shall give an account of these negotiations from _decanesora_'s mouth, because his narration agrees in the main with the account the _french_ give of them, and carries along with it as strong evidences of truth, as that of the _french_ do: but the chief reason is, that i intend to give the reader as perfect a notion as i can of the _indian_ genius; and here it will appear, what art _decanesora_ had, to make an account of an affair less disagreeable to _english_ ears, which had been undertaken against their advice, and contrary to their interest. _decanesora_ spoke to major _schuyler_ (_quider_) and the magistrates of _albany_, the second of _february_ - as follows. "brother _cayenguirago_[ ], we are come to acquaint you, that our children the _oneydoes_ having of themselves sent a messenger to _canada_, he has brought back with him a belt of peace from the governor of _canada_. "as soon as _tariha_ (the messenger) arrived at _canada_, he was asked, where the six hundred men were that were to attack _canada_, as they had been informed by _cariokese_ a _mohawk_ deserter? he assured them there was no such design. "he was carried to _quebeck_, where he delivered his belt, with the following propositions. _onondio_, if you would have peace go to _albany_, and ask it there, for the _five nations_ will do nothing without _cayenguirago_. the governor of _canada_ was angry at this, and said, he had nothing to do with the governor of _new-york_, he would treat only with the _five nations_; the peace between the christians must be made on the other side the great lake. he added, he was sorry to see the _five nations_ so far degenerated, as to take a sixth nation into their chain, to rule over them. if you had desired me to come and treat in any of your castles, i would have done it; but to tell me i must go to _albany_, is to desire of me what i can by no means do. you have done very ill, to suffer the people of _new-york_ to govern you so far, that you dare do nothing without their consent. i advise you to send two of each nation to me, and let _decanesora_ be one of them. i have orders from the king my master to grant you peace, if you come in your proper persons to ask it. the governor of _canada_ afterwards said, "children of the _five nations_, i have compassion for your little children, therefore come speedily, and speak of peace to me, otherwise i'll stop my ears for the future: by all means let _decanesora_ come; for if the _mohawks_ come alone, i will not hear them, some of all the _five nations_ must come. now _tariha_ return home, and tell the _five nations_, that i will wait for their coming till the trees bud, and the bark can be parted from the trees. i design for _france_ in the spring, and i leave a gentleman to command here, to whom i have given orders to raise soldiers, if you do not come in that time, and then what will become of you? i am truly grieved to see the _five nations_ so debauched and deceived by _cayenguirago_, who is lately come to _new-york_, and by _quider_. formerly the chief men of the _five nations_ used to converse with me; but this governor of _new-york_ has so deluded you, that you hearken to none but him; but take care of what will follow, if you hearken to none but him." then _decanesora_ excused the not sending the letters to _albany_, which came by _tariha_, as they had promised, saying, the other nations trusted this to the _oneydoes_, because the messenger was to return to them, and the _oneydoes_ deceived the others. he likewise excused their not coming to _albany_ as soon as _tariha_ returned, which was in _november_. he said the chief _sachem_ of the _onondagas_, who was entrusted (as their speaker) by the _five nations_ with their general affairs, by the general council of _onondaga_, had a sore leg, and could not travel[ ]. that in such case he (_decanesora_) did all that was in his power, that is, he called a council at _onondaga_, to give directions in this affair; and that he invited _quider_ to this council. he continued, "the four nations that met there resolved to send deputies to _canada_, and that i _decanesora_ was to be one of them; but at the same time ordered me, with some others, to communicate the resolutions of the general council to our brethren at _albany_, and to the _mohawks_, to be farther advised by them. "the resolutions are, to =send three belts= to the governor of _canada_, with the following propositions. * * * * * "i. _onondio_, you have sent for me often, and as often asked, why i am afraid to come? the great kettle of war that you have hung over the fire is the reason of it. then laying down the first belt, i am to ask his consent to the other two belts which i still keep in my hand. "ii. we now not only throw down the kettle, and thereby throw the boiling water out of it, but likewise break it to pieces, that it may never be hanged up again by this second belt. "iii. hearken, _onondio_, you are sent from the _french_ king, your master, as _cayenguirago_ is from the great king and queen of _england_. what i am now about to speak to you, is by inspiration from the great god of heaven. you say that you will have nothing to do with our brethren of _cayenguirago_, but i must tell you, that we are inseparable, we can have no peace with you so long as you are at war with them; we must stand and fall with them; which i am to confirm, by laying down the third belt. * * * * * "when this was concluded the jesuit _milet_, and another _french_ gentleman (who had been taken prisoner, and was taken into the place of the chief _sachem of onondaga_, formerly lost in the war, and thereby became a _sachem_) desired leave to add two belts to the other three. by their being _sachems_ they had a vote in the general council, and a right to propose any thing. they wrote and read to us the purports of their belts, and we have brought their papers with us, to shew to our brethren." to shew the necessity they were under of making peace, speedily he added: "that two women, who were prisoners at _canada_, had made their escape, on purpose to inform them that the _french_ were making great preparations of battoes, and other necessaries for an expedition; one said, she had informed one of the _sachems_ of the _praying indians_ of her design, who sent an _indian_ with her to advise the _five nations_, to prevent the great danger they were threatened with by a speedy conclusion of the peace; and added, that they had sent one of their people back with this _praying indian_, to assure them that deputies would certainly go to _canada_ in the spring to treat of peace." i make no doubt, this was only an article to hasten the _five nations_ to conclude the peace, lest the _english_, if it were delayed, should find means to prevent it. then he shewed the flag which the governor of _canada_ sent them to be carried by their deputies, that the _french_ might know them. upon these resolutions being taken, the _five nations_ recalled six hundred men, that they had placed along _cadarackui river_, to intercept the _french_, as they passed to and from _missilimakinak_. the jesuit's papers being read to them, several things were found in them which he had not read to the general council. to this _decanesora_ answered; "we know that the priest favours his own nation, and deceives us in many things; but it is not in his power to alter our affection to our brethren, we wish you would bury all misunderstandings that you have conceived on his account; and we likewise wish you gave less credit to the rum-carriers than you do." here we see, by this appellation, what a contemptible character the traders have among the _indians_, and yet the government of _new-york_ has almost perpetually trusted the management of the _indian_ affairs to these traders. _decanesora_ ended his conference as follows: "the governor of _canada_'s words, and the resolutions of the four nations are now before you, consult therefore what is to be done, and if it be necessary for the brethren to go to our castles to advise us farther, be not unwilling; and then he laid down a large belt eleven rows deep, and seven fathom of wampum." the next day major _schuyler_ told them that he could consent to no treaty with the _french_; but proposed to them to meet the governor here in seventy days, and that _decanesora_ in particular should return at that time, and gave a belt. they agreed to meet the governor at that time; "but as for myself (says _decanesora_) i cannot promise; i am now the minister of the general council, and cannot dispose of myself, but by their directions; if they order me, i shall willingly return. we did not expect to hear such positive prohibition of keeping any correspondence with the _french_; seventy days must pass before we meet again, if any mischief be done by the enemy in that time, let us not blame one another. consider again what is most for the publick good, and let it be spoken before we part, and laid down a large belt of fourteen deep." major _schuyler_ then asked them again, whether they promised to stop all correspondence with the _french_, either by the jesuit or otherwise, for seventy days, and till they shall have his excellency the governor's answer. _decanesora_ answered to this, "i have no authority to answer this question. i shall lay the belt down in every one of the castles, and tell, that by it all correspondence is desired to stop with the _french_; but i cannot promise that this will be complied with." major _schuyler_ on the sixth called the _indians_ again together: he advised them not to submit to, nor trust such a perfidious nation as the _french_ are, who have upon all occasions proved themselves such. be not discouraged, (says he, =giving a belt=) heaven begins again to favour us. this day the forerunners of the _shawonons_ are come to town, seven nations are on their march following them, one thousand in number, including men, women and children, as you may learn from their own mouths. take courage, and be not afraid, =giving five fathom of wampum=. this seemed a lucky incident, and accordingly it had more influence than all other arguments together. _decanesora_, the next day, called the magistrates together, and told them, you have at last shut up the way to _canada_, but we have one thing to ask, after mature deliberation, which we expect will not be refused us. major _schuyler_ assured them that every thing should be granted, which was either for their safety or honour. we desire then, said he, that you send a messenger along with ours to the _praying indians_ at _canada_, to tell them that the priest is false; that we are to meet _cayenguirago_ in the spring, and therefore cannot go to _canada_ at that time; and that a further cessation of arms be agreed to, till such time as we can go. we desire at least, that if you will not send a messenger, that you put the message in writing, as a token of your assent to it. this last was agreed to, and the message was put in writing in the following words, and translated into _french_. * * * * * the =dispatch of three belts=, which two messengers of the _five nations_ carry to the _caraguists_ and catholick _indians_, according to what was resolved by the _agayandres_ or _sachems_ of the _five nations_, at _albany_, _february_ the ninth . _first belt_. the _agayandres_ of the _five nations_ cannot go to _canada_ in the spring, as they gave reason to expect by the last message from _onondaga_, because _cayenguirago_ has called all the _five nations_, and other _indians_, to meet him at _albany_, in the month of _april_ next, to which the _five nations_ have agreed. _second belt_. if the _caraguists_, or _french_, have any thing to propose to the _five nations_, they may safely come into our country. this belt opens the path, and secures it to them both coming and going. _third belt_. the _five nations_, and their friends, lay down the hatchet till they shall have an answer, which they expect in forty days. provided nevertheless, that the _caraguists_ and _french_ tye their hatchets down at the same time. * * * * * these belts were accordingly presented to the _praying indians_ of _cahnuaga_, who refused to receive them but in the presence of mr. _de callieres_, governor of _montreal_. mr. _de callieres_ acquainted the count _de frontenac_ with the contents. after which the _praying indians_, in presence of mr. _de callieres_, gave the following answer. "we will have no correspondence with the _five nations_, but by order of the governor of _canada_ our father, and unless _decanesora_, and the other deputies, come before the feast of st. _john_, the way will be shut up for ever after, and our father's ears will be stopt. we however assure you, that if the deputies come in that time the path shall be safe both coming and going." whether the accounts given of the coming of the _shawonons_ was only an amusement, or whether they were diverted on their march, i know not, for i find no farther account of them in the register of the _indian_ affairs: however it was, the impression made on the _indians_ by that news, was not sufficient to withstand the force of the resolute answer their messenger received from the _praying indians_. _decanesora_ and the other deputies went early in the spring to _canada_; the other _sachems_ met colonel _fletcher_ at _albany_, the fourth of _may_ . the _indians_ spoke first by _sadakanahtie_, an _onondaga sachem_, as follows: "_brother_ cayenguirago, "some of our _sachems_ agreed last winter that we should keep no correspondence with the _french_; we confess that we have broke that promise, and that we have received a messenger from _canada_, and have sent our deputies likewise thither. the belt is not yet arrived, by which we are to acknowledge our fault in doing this. the reason of our doing it is truly this, we are afraid of the enemy. "when a messenger came last year from _canada_ to _onondaga_, our brother _cayenguirago_ discharged our meeting in general council at _onondaga_, to consult on that message, and ordered us to hold our general council here at _albany_ on that affair. the privilege of meeting in general council, when we please, is a privilege we always have enjoyed; no former governor, of the name of _corlear_, ever obstructed this privilege. we planted a tree of peace in this place with them, its roots and branches extend as far as _virginia_ and _new-england_, and we have reposed with pleasure under its shade. brother, let us keep to that first tree, and let us be united and unanimous; such prohibition of our assemblies will be of ill consequence, and occasion differences between us. "we acknowledge, i say, our sending agents to _canada_ for peace, we were incouraged in doing this, by the knowledge we have of the governor of _canada_. he is an old man, and was formerly governor of that place. he was always esteemed a wise peaceable man, and therefore we trust our message will have a good issue. we did not take it amiss that you sent to the _dewagunhas_, nor that _arnout_ was sent to the _satanas_, both of them our enemies; and, for the same reason, our brother _cayenguirago_ ought not to be displeased with our sending to the _french_ for peace. "we, _onondagas_, acknowledge ourselves to have been the chief promoters of this message, we have sent in all nine _sachems_ with nine belts. it is true we are now under much uneasiness in having trusted so many _sachems_ in the _french_ hands, being almost half the number we have in our nation, but we were in haste to prevent the designs the _french_ had against our countries and yours, by the great warlike preparations they were making in _canada_." then he told all the orders and directions which their ambassadors had received; which agreeing with the account which _decanesora_ gave of his negotiation, i shall here pass over. he finished all by =giving a belt=. colonel _fletcher_ told them, he would give no answer to what they had said, before they discovered to him what reason they had to say, that he had forbid their holding any assembly at _onondaga_, and that he had made peace with the _dewagunhas_ and _satanas_, without their consent and concurrence. to this the speaker the next day answered; "i was sick, and absent when the affairs you mention were transacted, and i was at a loss how to excuse our sending to the _french_ contrary to your advice; but several _sachems_ being arrived since i spoke, i have been better informed by them, who were present at those transactions. we find it, in every circumstance, as our brother _cayenguirago_ says; that you did not obstruct our keeping general councils at _onondaga_, but only cautioned us in hearkening to the fallacies of the _french_, and in holding meetings on that occasion. we assure you we will never separate from you, we still have one head, one blood, one soul, and one heart with you; and as a confirmation of this i =give this belt seven deep=. "as to the _dewagunhas_ and _shawonons_, we are confident _cayenguirago_ will not admit them into his government, till they have made peace with us, which we shall willingly grant. when our enemies are humbled, and beg peace, why should they not have it? let them come and live with us, it will strengthen our country. "brother _cayenguirago_, when the christians first arrived in this country, we received them kindly. when they were but a small people, we entered into a league with them, to guard them from all enemies whatsoever. we were so fond of their society, that we tied the great canoe which brought them, not with a rope made of bark to a tree, but with a strong iron chain fastened to a great mountain. now before the christians arrived, the general council of the _five nations_ was held at _onondaga_, where there has, from the beginning, a continual fire been kept burning; it is made of two great logs, whose fire never extinguishes. as soon as the hatchet-makers (their general name for christians) arrived, this general council at _onondaga_ planted this tree at _albany_, whose roots and branches have since spread as far as _new-england_, _connecticut, pensilvania, maryland_ and _virginia_; and under the shade of this tree all these _english_ colonies have frequently been sheltered. then (=giving seven fathom of wampum=) he renewed the chain, and promised, as they likewise expected, mutual assistance, in case of any attack from any enemy. "the only reason, to be plain with you, continued he, of our sending to make peace with the _french_, is the low condition to which we are reduced, while none of our neighbours send us the least assistance, so that the whole burthen of the war lyes on us alone. our brethren of _new-england, connecticut_, _pensilvania, maryland_ and _virginia_, of their own accord thrust their arms into our chain; but since the war began we have received no assistance from them. we alone cannot continue the war against the _french_, by reason of the recruits they daily receive from the other side the great lake. "brother _cayenguirago_, speak from your heart, are you resolved to prosecute the war vigorously against the _french_, and are your neighbours of _virginia, maryland, pensilvania, connecticut_ and _new-england_, resolved to assist us? if it be so, we assure you, notwithstanding any treaty hitherto entered into, we will prosecute the war as hotly as ever. but if our neighbours will not assist, we must make peace, and we submit it to your consideration, by =giving this great belt fifteen deep=. "brother _cayenguirago_, i have truly told you the reasons which have induced us to offer peace to the _french_; we shall likewise, from the bottom of our hearts, inform you of the design we have in this treaty. when the governor of _canada_ shall have accepted the nine belts, of which i have just now told you, then we shall have something more to say by two large belts, which lye still hid in our bosom. we shall lay down first one and say, we have a brother _cayenguirago_, with whose people we have been united in one chain from the beginning, they must be included in this treaty; we cannot see them involved in bloody war, while we sit in easy peace. if the governor of _canada_ answer, that he has made a separate peace with us, and that he cannot make any peace with _cayenguirago_, because the war is from over the great lake; then we shall lay down the second great broad belt, and tell the governor of _canada_, if you will not include _cayenguirago_'s people, the treaty will become thereby void, as if it had never been made; and if he persists, we will absolutely leave him." while the _sachems_ were at _albany_, _decanesora_ and the other ambassadors arrived at the castle of the _praying indians_, near the falls above _montreal_. they were conducted from thence, by the superior of the jesuits, to _quebeck_. they had their audience of the governor of _canada_ with great solemnity, in the presence of all the ecclesiasticks and officers of distinction, and of the most considerable _indians_ then in the place. they were every day, while they staid in the place, entertained at the governor's table, or at the tables of the most considerable officers. _decanesora_ on his side made a good appearance, being cloathed in scarlet trim'd with gold, and with a laced bever hat on his head, which had been given him by colonel _fletcher_ before he went. the jesuit _milet_ had by letter informed the governor of every thing in their commission, and though he was thereby enabled to have answered them immediately, he consulted three days, after the ambassadors had delivered what they had to say, before he would return an answer, that it might appear with more solemnity. the _indians_ never return a sudden answer on any occasion of importance, however resolved they be beforehand, and despise those that do, though their answer be never so much to the purpose. i choose to give an account of this from _decanesora_'s mouth, as i did of the former, and for the same reason. the account given of it by the _indians_ agrees, in all the material points, with that published by the _french_, and i am confident it is not less genuine. colonel _fletcher_ being sensible of what consequence this treaty between the _french_ and _five nations_ might be of to all the _english_ colonies, gave them notice of it, and informed them of the reasons which had induced the _indians_ to enter into it. he told them, there was no possibility of preventing it, but by the _indians_ being assured of more effectual assistance, than they had hitherto received, and advised them to send commissioners for that purpose to _albany_ in _august_, at which time he intended to meet the _five nations_ there, after the return of their messengers from _canada_. accordingly, _andrew hamilton_, esq; governor of _new-jersey_, colonel _john pinchon_, _samuel sands_, esq; and major _pen townsend_, commissioners from _massachuset's bay_, and colonel _john hauley_ and captain _stanley_, commissioners from _connecticut_, waited on colonel _fletcher_ at _albany_, who carried with him likewise a part of the council of _new-york_. these gentlemen having met the _indians_ at _albany_ the fifteenth of _august_, _decanesora_ rose up first, and desired leave to sing a song or two of peace, before they began on business. then _rode_, a _mohawk sachem_, rose up, and addressing himself to the other _sachems_, said, we have great reason to rejoice, seeing so many of those, who are in our chain, are now met, to consult together on the general weal; after which they sang two or three songs. _sadakanahtie_ being chosen speaker for that day, rose up, spoke much to the same purpose as he had done to colonel _fletcher_ in _may_ last; giving a metaphorical account of their league with the _english_, how it began, and by what steps it had been inlarged and strengthened; how the other colonies had thrust their arms into this chain, but had given little or no assistance against the common enemy. "our brother _cayenguirago_'s arms (says he) and ours are stiff, and tired with holding fast the chain, whilst our neighbours sit still and smoak at their ease. the fat is melted from our flesh, and fallen on our neighbours, who grow fat while we grow lean: they flourish while we decay. "this chain made us the envy of the _french_, and if all had held it as fast as _cayenguirago_, it would have been a terror also. if we would all heartily join and take the hatchet in our hand, our common enemy would soon be destroyed, and we should for ever after live in peace and ease. do you but your parts, and thunder itself cannot break our chain." then he mentioned some jealousies they had entertained of _new-england_, by their suffering the chevalier _d'o_ to escape to _canada_, which they suspected had been concerted between him and the people of _new-england_, in order to treat of peace. "our agents, said he, saw the chevalier _d'o_ at _canada_, who told them that he had been set at liberty by the _english_, and that it was in vain that the _five nations_ warred against the _french_, while the _english_ favoured them." on this occasion he shewed them a fish painted on paper, which the commissioners of _new-england_ had given them, when they first entered into the chain, as a seal to the league. he finished by telling them, that they would next day give all the particulars of their negotiation in _canada_. the next day _decanesora_ proceeded to the account of his negotiation, as follows: "the governor of _canada_ having often sent to us to come to _canada_ to treat with him, we went thither, and told him that we were come to treat of peace. we made the following proposals. "father, if we do not conclude a peace now, it will be your fault; for we have already taken the hatchet out of the hands of the _river indians_ (_hudson_'s river) whom we incited to the war. but we must tell you, that you are an ill man, you are inconstant and not to be trusted; we have had war together a long time, and though you occasioned the war, we never hated the house of _oghessa_, (a gentleman living at _montreal_) let him undertake the toilsome journey to _onondaga_; for if he will he shall be welcome. "father, we are now speaking of peace, and therefore i must speak a word to the _praying indians_, and first to those of _cahnuaga_ (chiefly _mohawks_) you know our customs and manners, therefore make _onondio_ acquainted therewith, and be assisting in the prosecuting of this good work. then to the other castle, called _canassadaga_, (chiefly _onondagas_) you are worse than the _french_ themselves, you deserted from us, and side with our enemies to destroy us; make some amends now, by forwarding peace. "you have almost eat us up, our best men are killed in this bloody war; but we now forget what is past. before this we once threw the hatchet into the river of _kaihohage_[ ], but you fished it up, and treacherously surprised our people at _cadarackui_. after this you sent to us to have our prisoners restored; then the hatchet was thrown up to the sky, but you kept a string fastened to the helve, and pulled it down, and fell upon our people again. this we revenged to some purpose, by the destruction of your people and houses in the island of _montreal_. "now we are come to cover the blood from our sight, which has been shed by both sides during this long war. "_onondio_, we have been at war a long time, we now give you a medicine to drive away all ill thoughts from your heart, to purge it and make it clean, and restore it to its former state. "_onondio_, we will not permit any settlement at _cadarackui_; you have had your fire there thrice extinguished; we will not consent to your rebuilding that fort, but the passage through the river shall be free and clear. we make the sun clean, and drive away all clouds and darkness, that we may see the light without interruption. "_onondio_, we have taken many prisoners from one another, during the war. the prisoners we took have been delivered, according to our custom, to the families that have lost any in the war. they no longer belong to the publick, they may give them back if they please, your people may do the same. we have brought back two prisoners, and restore them to you. "after i had finished what i had to say, continued he, the governor of _canada_ told me, that he would not make peace with _cayenguirago_. to this i answered, these words displease me much, you shall keep peace with him. _onondio_ said again, i must fight with _cayenguirago_, it is not in my power to make peace; this can only be done by my master, who lives over the great water. to this i replied, i cannot bear this discourse; if you should fight him now, and not stay till i get home, all the country will look on me as a traytor; i can treat with you no longer. the argument on this subject lasted three days, at last the governor of _canada_ assured me, that he would not undertake any enterprize against _cayenguirago_ this summer, but would wait to hear what he wou'd say. "the governor of _canada_ insisted three days to have hostages left, which i refused, but two agreeing of their own accord to stay, they were left, _viz_. one an _onondago_, another a _seneka_. "then the governor of _canada_ made the following publick answer: "i. i accept of peace as you offer. "ii. son, bring all the prisoners back that you have taken from me, and yours shall have liberty to return home, if they please. "iii. children, erect my fire again at _cadarackui_, and plant there the tree of peace. "after this the governor of _canada_ delivered me a belt, which i now lay down before you; by it he said, desire _cayenguirago_ to send a wise man to me, and he shall have protection according to the custom of christians; and added, "children of the _five nations_, if _cayenguirago_ shall employ you to do any service for him, do not accept of it, let him send his own people." _decanesora_ added, that the governor of _canada_ had fixed eighty days for a return to this belt. he continued and said, "the _sachems_ of the _dionondadies_ were present; after i had finished my speech, they said; may what you have now said be from your hearts; we suspect you are not sincere; let us no longer feel the smart of the hatchet, and gave this belt which i now lay down. "the _praying indians_ next said, brethren, our father _onondio_ has told you to bring home all the prisoners, do not fail in this; =giving two belts=. "brother _cayenguirago_, you will find what i have now said confirmed by this paper, which the governor of _canada_ gave me. i brought letters likewise for the jesuit _milet_, who was to read the paper to us." the paper contained the articles in _french_, in which the governor of _canada_ was willing to make peace. but besides what _decanesora_ here tells, the _french_ accounts say, that he brought two belts underground (that is privately) from three _onondaga sachems_, to assure the governor of _canada_ of their particular affection, which the governor of _canada_ answered, by a private belt to them. as soon as _decanesora_ had done speaking, colonel _fletcher_ rejected the belt sent by the governor of _canada_, saying; if the governor of _canada_ have any thing to say to me, let him send some of his people to _albany_, and they shall have protection. next day _sadekanahtie_, after he had sung a long song, gave the following account of their negotiations with the _dewagunhas_ and _dionondadies_, which they had undertaken by the governor's advice. "we were afraid, says he, to send messengers of our own people, and therefore we employed two prisoners we had of the _dionondadies_ with the governor's belt. some time after this, some of the _senekas_ hunting near the _dionondadies_, two of them were taken; but when they were carried to the _dionondadie_ castle, they were not treated like prisoners; they were used kindly, and sent back with the following offers of peace. "we are glad to see you face to face to speak to you, since the sun has been so propitious to send home the men that were prisoners with you, giving a few strings of wampum. "we are glad of this opportunity to tell you, that we have been both drunk in making war on one another; we now give you a cordial to ease your hearts, that there be no longer war between us, by =this belt=. "we are glad that you have set the doors open as far as _cayenguirago_'s house, that we may freely go thither. carry him =this second belt=. "brethren, we thank you for having prepared a place for us at your general council of _onondaga_. our country is every where free to you to treat with us, by =this third belt=. "brethren, our whole country rejoiced when you invited us into your country, and from thence to go where _cayenguirago_ dwells; be not afraid to come to our country, you shall meet with no molestation. "brethren, we thank you for putting us in mind of what was formerly agreed to, _viz_. that when any ill accident happens, we were to meet together to compose matters, and not to revenge it with war. we are now together to put an end to all misunderstanding, by =this fourth belt=. "brethren, (we include all the nations from the _senekas_ country to _new-york_ in this name) hearken to us. we rend the clouds asunder, and drive away all darkness from the heavens, that the sun of peace may shine with brightness over us all; =giving a sun= of a round red polished stone. "brethren, we put the hatchet into the hands of the _chightaghies_, _twithtwies_, and _odsirachies_, to war against you; but we shall in three days go to these nations and take the hatchet out of their hands; =giving half a stone pipe=. "you _senekas_ are stupid creatures, we must therefore warn you not to hunt so far from your castles, lest you be hurt by any of these three nations, and then blame us. they then =gave the other half of the pipe=. "but brother _cayenguirago_, says _sadakahnitie_, do not suffer these nations to come nearer than the _senekas_ country, lest they discover our weakness, and to what a low condition the war has reduced us. these nations have been so long in friendship with the _french_, and are so much under their influence, that we cannot trust them yet, or be too much upon our guard against them." colonel _fletcher_ not being able to give the _five nations_ any assurance of a vigorous assistance, he called the principal _sachems_ to a private conference on the twentieth. he asked them, whether they had made peace with the governor of _canada_; they answered, that it only wanted his approbation, and added, that they could no longer carry on the war without assistance. you have the whole negotiations before you, say they, and we submit it to your prudence. he then allowed them to make peace, provided they kept faithful in their chain with the _english_; but told them, that as to his part he could make no peace with the governor of _canada_. they were under great uneasiness to leave their friends in the war, they said, and wished, since neither the governor of _canada_ nor he would receive proposals by their hands, that they might think of some neutral place to treat. the governor answered, that he could neither receive nor send any message on that head; and that peace could be only made between them by the two kings. the governor next asked them, whether they would permit the _french_ to build again at _cadarackui_; they answered, they would never permit it, and were resolved to insist on it, in all the ensuing treaties, that he never shall. then the governor added, if you permit the french to build any where on that lake, there will be an end to your liberty, your posterity will become slaves to the _french_. if ever you should permit them, i will look on it as an absolute breach of the chain with us: if the _french_ attempt it give me notice, and i will march the whole force of my government to your assistance. we shall find afterwards, however, that the government of _new-york_ was far from making good this promise. the governor told them, that they had lost much of their honour in creeping to the _french_, in such an abject manner; for, says he, the governor of _canada_'s paper, which you brought with you, says, that you came in the most humble and penitent manner, and begged peace. to which they answered, the governor of _canada_ has no reason to make such reflexions, we have many of his belts to shew, by which he again and again sued to us for peace, before we would hearken to him. but, replies the governor, how came you to call him father? for no other reason, they replied, but because he calls us children. these names signify nothing. they desired the governor not to say any thing particularly of _cadarackui_, in his publick speech that he was to make next day, for they had, they said, some among them that would tell all to the governor of _canada_; and concluded, with wishing that they had some one, who could write and read all that the governor had said to them, that they might not forget any part of it, when they come to consult and resolve on this weighty affair, at their general council at _onondaga_. here we see these barbarians, these savages, as we call them, acting with the greatest regard to the treaties they had entered into with their allies, and that at a time when the exigences of their own affairs, and when the faint feeble assistance, which their allies had contributed in the common cause, would, among christian potentates, have been thought a sufficient excuse for their taking care of themselves separately, in breach of the most solemn confederacy they could enter into. the _sachems_ of the _five nations_ being met at _onondaga_, to consult on the terms offered by the _french_, they were divided in their opinions; the _cayugas_, and part of the _senekas_, were most favourable to the _french_ proposals; but the major part was absolutely against allowing the _french_ to rebuild a fort at _cadarackui_, nor would they consent to include all the _french_ allies in the treaty, with some of which they had particular causes of animosity. the party that was most for peace obtained leave to go to _canada_, to try whether they could obtain terms less disagreeable. they accordingly went thither, within the time prefixed by the governor of _canada_, for an answer; and to make themselves more acceptable to the _french_, they carried thirteen prisoners with them, and delivered them up. the jesuit _milet_ was of this number, who had been taken in the year , and one _jonscaire_, who had been long a prisoner among the _senekas_: he had been delivered up to a family of the _senekas_, that had lost some considerable relation, and was by them adopted. he ingratiated himself so much with that nation, that he was advanced to the rank of a _sachem_, and preserved their esteem to the day of his death; whereby he became, after the general peace, very useful to the _french_ in all negotiations with the _five nations_, and to this day they shew their regard to his family and children. when the governor of _canada_ came to particulars with these deputies, he could obtain nothing but ambiguous or dubious answers, as to the rebuilding of _cadarackui fort_, and the including of all the _french_ allies in the peace. whereupon he dismissed them with presents, and made them many fair promises, in case of their compliance; but threatened them with utter destruction, in case of their refusing the terms he had offered. many of the _french indian_ allies were present, when the governor of _canada_ refused any agreement without his allies being included in it, and this attached them exceedingly to the _french_ interest. this regard, which the _french_ generally shew for the interest of their allies, is a piece of policy which, upon all occasions, proves useful to them; whereas, the neglect of this piece of natural justice has as often been prejudicial to others, who have not had so tender a sense of it. but it is not so easy for a weak state to keep up its honour in such cases, as it is for a powerful prince. [footnote : when the affair of which they speak concerns the government of _new-york_, the _indians_ always address themselves to the governor, whether he be present or not.] [footnote : this, in the _indian_ idiom, signifies a trifling excuse of an unwilling person.] [footnote : the _french_ call it _la famine_, near oswego. the treaty with mr. _de la bar_ was made there.] chap. xi. _the war renewed_. _the_ french _repossess themselves of_ cadarackui _fort_, _and find means to break off the treaty between the_ five nations _and_ dionondadies. the _five nations_ refusing to come to the governor of _canada_'s terms, he resolved to force them; and as he suspected that they continued obstinate, by the advice of the _english_, and the confidence they had of the _english_ assistance, he thought he would most effectually lessen that confidence, by attacking and destroying the remainder of the _mohawks_, who liv'd adjoining to the _english_ settlements. for this purpose he resolved to march, in the winter, the whole force of _canada_ against that nation; but one of the prisoners learning their design, made his escape, and informed the _mohawks_ of it. this made him alter his measures, knowing well enough, that if the _english_ were prepared to receive them, such an enterprize would only lead those engaged in it to certain destruction. he then sent three hundred men into the neck of land between _lake erie_ and _cadarackui lake_, the usual hunting place of the _five nations_, in hopes of surprising them while they hunted carelessly there, and at the same time to view the old _french_ fort there, to observe in what condition it remained. this party met with three or four men, who defended themselves obstinately, till they all fell dead on the spot. they surprised likewise a cabin, where they took some men and women prisoners; and four of them were publickly burnt alive at _montreal_. so far the count _de frontenac_ thought it more proper to imitate the _indians_ in their most savage cruelties, than to instruct them, by his example, in the compassion of the christian doctrine. a party of one hundred and fifty of the _five nations_ fell upon the _dewagunhas_, in their way to _canada_, and entirely routed them. ten prisoners were taken, nine of which were burnt alive, in revenge of the same fate the four men of the _five nations_ had received at _montreal_. this year also some sculking _french indians_ murdered some people near _albany_ and _schenectady_. the party sent to view _cadarackui fort_ found it in a better condition than they expected, the _indians_ having neglected to demolish and level the bastions, and probably they had not instruments sufficient to do it. the count _de frontenac_ therefore, in the summer of the year , sent a considerable body of men, both _french_ and _indians_, thither, to repair the fortifications, and to cover those that should be at work. the _five nations_, in _august_, sent messengers to _albany_, to acquaint the _english_ that the _french_ had taken possession of _cadarackui_, and were repairing of it. they demanded, in consequence of the promise colonel _fletcher_ had given them, the assistance of five hundred men and some cannon, which they promised they would draw over land, where they could not be carried by water. at the same time they desired, that the people of _new-england_ might be told, that many of the _owenagungas_ were gone with the _french_ to _cadarackui_, and that this was a proper time to fall upon those that remained, and to destroy them, and the women and children. coll. _fletcher_ came to _albany_ in _september_; there, in a speech to the _five nations_, he blamed them for being asleep, when they suffered the _french_ to take possession of _cadarackui_; it would have been much easier, he said, to have prevented their getting the possession, than to drive them out, now they are in it, especially as now you yourselves are convinced, that it is impossible to carry cannon thither from this place. all, says he, i can now do, is to advise you to invest the place with your parties, so as to prevent their receiving any supply of provisions: by this means you may force them to desert it. then he gave them pound of powder, two thousand pound of lead, fusees, one hundred hatchets, three hundred and forty eight knives, and two thousand flints, besides cloathing, &c. but in my opinion, the government of _new-york_ have, on all occasions, been exceedingly to be blamed, in not having some men of experience among the _five nations_ to advise and direct them on all emergencies of importance. the _french_ are very careful of this, and the _officers_ of the regular troops are obliged to take their tours among their _indians_, while the captains of the independent companies of fusiliers at _new-york_ live like military monks, in idleness and luxury. the _french_ gained a great advantage, by possessing this place, as it is of great security to their traders, in their passing between _montreal_ and _missilimakinak_. it served likewise as a place of stores, and retreat in all their enterprizes against the _five nations_, that place being nearly about half way between _montreal_ and the country of the _five nations_. it likewise exposed the _five nations_ in their hunting, to the incursions of that garison, by its being in the neighbourhood of their principal hunting place for bever. the _french_ grew exceedingly uneasy, when they found, that the _dionondadies_, who live near _missilimakinak_, had almost concluded a peace with the _five nations_, and that the rest of their allies were like to follow their example: some of these nations had been at _montreal_, and at their return forwarded the peace, that thereby they might be at liberty to go to _albany_; for they informed their neighbours, that the _five nations_ had intirely shut up the path to _montreal_; and besides that, the _french_ were not in a condition to supply them, for they had nothing for themselves, not so much as a drop of strong spirits. if these nations had, at that time, deserted the _french_, it might probably have put an end to the _french_ colony; for as the lands of _canada_ barely produce sufficient for the subsistence of its inhabitants, the only means they have of purchasing cloathing and other necessaries is by their trade with the _indians_. the _french_ likewise had been in danger of greater mischief by the peace, for these nations being at war with the _five nations_, and lying on the back of them, obliged the _five nations_ to keep always a very considerable part of their force at home, to defend themselves against these nations, and to revenge the injuries they received from them; but if the peace had been concluded with these nations, the _five nations_ could have turned their whole force against _canada_, and probably might have persuaded these nations to have joined with them in warring on the _french_. the _french_ commandant at _missilimakinak_ had his hands full at this time; and if he had not been a man of great abilities, he must have sunk under the difficulties he had to go through; in the first place, to contradict the stories brought from _montreal_, he ordered the stores of his fort to be sold to the _indians_ at the cheapest rate, and assured them, that great quantities were every day expected from _france_, which were only detained by contrary winds; and after these goods shall arrive, said he, they will be sold cheaper than ever they have been. he told them likewise, that the count _de frontenac_ would never make peace with the _five nations_, but was resolved to extirpate them; for which purpose he was now rebuilding _cadarackui fort_. at the same time he took all possible methods to extinguish the beginnings of friendship, which appeared between the _five nations_ and _dionondadies_. the _dionondadies_ durst not avow their treating with the _five nations_ to the _french_, neither durst the _five nations_ trust their agents in a place where they knew the _french_ had so great influence; both sides therefore agreed to carry on their treaty by means of prisoners which they took from one another. the civility with which the _dionondadies_ treated these prisoners, their dismissing them, and their receiving again prisoners which had been taken by the _five nations_, gave the commandant sufficient ground to suspect what was doing. the _dionondadies_ at last took seven men of the _five nations_ prisoners, and carried them to _missilimakinak_. the _french_ perceiving, by their manner of bringing them in, that the _dionondadies_ intended to treat them with the civility they had lately used to others, murdered two of them with their knives as they stept ashore. on this the _dionondadies_ immediately took to their arms, saved the other five, and carried them safe to their castle; and continuing in arms, threatened revenge for the insult they had received. the _french_ were forced in like manner to stand to their arms, and as there are always many different nations at _missilimakinak_ trading, some of which were inveterate enemies of the _five nations_, they joined with the _french_. the _utawawas_ stood neuter. this gave the commandant means of ending the dispute by composition. he in the first place assured them, that the christians abhorred all manner of cruelty, and then told them, that as the _french_ shared with the _dionondadies_ in all the dangers and losses sustained by the war, they ought in like manner to partake with them in any advantage. the _dionondadies_ on this were persuaded to deliver up one of the prisoners. what i am about to relate, i think, gives room to charge the _french_ with a piece of policy, not only inconsistent with the christian religion, but likewise with the character of a polite people; and that all considerations from religion, honour, and virtue, must give way to the present exigencies of their affairs. that an end might be put to the beginnings of a reconciliation between these people and the _five nations_, the _french_ gave a publick invitation to feast on the soup to be made on this prisoner, and, in a more particular manner, invited the _utawawas_ to the entertainment. the prisoner being first made fast to a stake, so as to have room to move round it, a _frenchman_ began the horrid tragedy, by broiling the flesh of the prisoner's legs, from his toes to his knees, with the red hot barrel of a gun; his example was followed by an _utawawa_, and they relieved one another as they grew tired. the prisoner all this while continued his death song, till they clapt a red hot frying-pan on his buttocks, when he cried out, fire is strong and too powerful; then all their _indians_ mocked him, as wanting courage and resolution. you, they said, a soldier and a captain, as you say, and afraid of fire; you are not a man. they continued their torments for two hours without ceasing. an _utawawa_ being desirous to outdo the _french_ in their refined cruelty, split a furrow from the prisoner's shoulder to his garter, and filling it with gunpowder, set fire to it. this gave him exquisite pain, and raised excessive laughter in his tormenters. when they found his throat so much parched, that he was no longer able to gratify their ears with his howling, they gave him water, to enable him to continue their pleasure longer. but at last his strength failing, an _utawawa_ flead off his scalp, and threw burning hot coals on his scull. then they untied him, and bid him run for his life: he began to run, tumbling like a drunken man; they shut up the way to the east, and made him run westward, the country, as they think, of departed (miserable) souls. he had still force left to throw stones, till they put an end to his misery by knocking him on the head with a stone. after this every one cut a slice from his body, to conclude the tragedy with a feast. it is doing no injury, i think, to these _frenchmen_, who thus glory in this horrid cruelty, to ask them, whether they did not likewise regale their revengeful appetites with a share of this inhuman feast? though i have had frequent occasions to mention these barbarous inhuman cruelties, transacted by the _indians_, yet i have avoided to relate the particular circumstances of them, because i believe few civilized ears can bear the reading of them without horror. but when they are perpetrated by christians, and so far gloried in, as to be recorded in their own history, i am willing to shew it to my countrymen in its proper colours. this last piece of _french_ history is taken from _histoire de l'amerique septentrionale, par monsr. de la poterie_, published at _paris_ with the royal licence, and recommended to the publick by mons. _fontenelle_, vol. ii. page . though this cruel act had its designed effect, in breaking off this method of negotiating between the _five nations_ and _dionondadies_, it did not prevent the peace; and it had very near raised a civil war with their own _indians_, which was only prevented by the dextrous conduct of the _french_ officers, who, in all kind of artifice, have always been superior to the _indians_. but let me observe on this occasion, that the avoiding any misfortune, by any base or wicked action, is commonly the cause of greater mischiefs than what is thereby avoided; and of this numerous examples may be given. chap. xii. _the count_ de frontenac _attacks_ onondaga _in person_, _with the whole force of_ canada. _the_ five nations _continue the war with the_ french, _and make peace with the_ dionondadies. the count _de frontenac_ having secured _cadarackui fort_, which was called by his name, as a place of arms and provisions, and for a retreat to the men that should happen to be sick or wounded, resolved to make the _five nations_ feel his resentment of their refusing his terms of peace. for this purpose he assembled all the regular troops of _canada_, the militia, the _owenagungas_, the _quatoghies_ of _loretto_, the _adirondacks_, _sokokies_, _nepiciriniens_, the _praying indians_ of the _five nations_, and a few _utawawas_, at _montreal_, in _june_ . the other western _indians_ near _missilimakinak_, by their late correspondence with the _five nations_, and the dissatisfaction they had manifested, were not trusted. the manner of making war with the _indians_ in a country wholly covered with woods, must be so much different from the methods used in _europe_, that i believe the reader will be pleased to have a particular account of the count _de frontenac_'s conduct in this, who was an old experienced general, in the seventy fourth year of his age. it is to be observed, that it is impossible to pass the vast forests between the countries of the _five nations_ with waggons, or other carriages, or on horseback, or even on foot, in the summer time, by reason of many impassible thick swamps and morasses. for this reason, the only method of travelling is in bark canoes, or very light battoes, along the rivers, which may be easily carried on men's shoulders, where the stream of the river becomes too rapid, and from one river to another; for which purpose the shortest passes are always chosen, and are called, for this reason, carrying places. the count _de frontenac_ marched from _la chine_, in the south end of the island of _montreal_, the fourth of _july_. he divided five hundred _indians_ so, that the greatest number of them should always be in the van, which consisted of two battalions of the regular troops. they were followed by the canoes which carried the provisions. the van was commanded by the chevalier _de callieres_, governor of _montreal_; he had with him two large battoes, which carried two small pieces of cannon, small mortars, granadoes, and the utensils of the artillery. the count _de frontenac_ was at the head of the main body, accompanied by the engineer and several gentlemen voluntiers. the body consisted of four battalions of the militia, who, in war with _indians_, were then more depended on than the regular troops; these were commanded by monsieur _ramsay_, governor of _trois rivieres_. the rear, which consisted of two battalions of regular troops, and of the rest of the _indians_, was under the command of the chevalier _de vaudreuil_. all the _indians_ had _french_ officers set over them. in this order the army marched, only those that were in the van one day, were in the rear the next; and they always kept a number of _indians_ on the scout, to discover the tracks of the enemy, for fear of ambuscades. and when they were obliged to carry the canoes, and drag the large battoes, several parties were detached to cover the men that worked. after twelve days march they arrived at _cadarackui fort_, one hundred eighty miles from _montreal_. here they waited for the _utawawas_, who disappointed them; and in the mean time raised a bark, which had remained sunk since _cadarackui fort_ was deserted. they crossed over _cadarackui_ lake to _onondaga_ river (now _ohswega_). this river being narrow and rapid, they ordered fifty men to march on each side of it, to prevent their being surprised, and the army moved slowly along the river, according to the intelligence they received from their scouts. they found a tree, as they passed along, on which the _indians_ had, in their manner, painted the _french_ army, and had laid by it two bundles of cut rushes. this was a defiance in the _indian_ manner, and to tell them by the number of rushes, that fourteen hundred thirty four men would meet them. the _french_ passed the little lake, between _ohswega_ and _onondaga_, in order of battle; and the two wings, to prevent their being surprised, and to make the place of their landing more uncertain to the enemy, took a circuit along the coast. as soon as they had landed they raised a fort. a _seneka_, who had been some time a prisoner in _canada_, and pretended an attachment to the _french_, was sent out to make a discovery. he deserted to the _onondagas_. he found them waiting for the _french_, with a resolution to defend their castle, and to fight the _french_; for which purpose they had sent away their women and children. the _seneka_ told them that the _french_ army was as numerous as the leaves on the trees; that they had machines which threw balls up in the air, and which falling on their castle burst to pieces, and spread fire and death every where, against which their stockadoes could be of no defence. this was confirmed by another _seneka_, who deserted. upon which the _onondagas_ thought it most adviseable to retire, leaving their poor fort and bark cottages all in flames. after the general had an account of this, he marched to their village in order of battle. the army was divided into two lines: the first commanded by the chevalier _de callieres_, who placed himself on the left, consisted of two battalions of the inhabitants in the center, and a battalion of the regular troops on each wing. the artillery followed them. most of the _indians_ of this division were upon the right, who continually sent out scouts. the second line was commanded by the chevalier _de vaudreuel_, composed of the same number of battalions, and in the same order. the count _de frontenac_ was carried in a chair directly after the artillery. but it was impossible for them to keep their order, in passing through thick woods, and in passing brooks. in this formidable manner the aged general marched up to the ashes of the village, and his army exerted their fury on the _indian_ corn, which covered a large field in thick ranks. an _indian sachem_, about one hundred years old, would not retire with the rest, but chose this time to end his days. the _french indians_ had the pleasure of tormenting him, which he bore with surprising evenness of mind, and with that resolution which becomes a _sachem_ of the _five nations_. he told his tormentors to remember well his death, when his countrymen should come to take terrible vengeance of them. upon which, one stabbing him several times with his knife, he thanked him but said, you had better make me die by fire, that these dogs of _frenchmen_ may learn how to suffer like men. you _indians_, their allies, you dogs of dogs, think of me when you shall be in the like state. thus this old _sachem_, under all the weakness of old age, preserved a greatness of soul, and a due regard for the honour of his country, to the last moment of his breath. the chevalier _de vaudreuil_ was sent with a detachment of six or seven hundred men to destroy the _oneydoes_ corn, who liv'd but a small distance from _onondaga_, which he performed without any resistance. the jesuit _milet_ had lived for the most part with the _oneydoes_; he had infused into them the most favourable sentiments of the _french_, and they had been the most inclined to peace on the _french_ terms. thirty five of them staid in their castle to make the _french_ welcome; but the only favour they obtained, was to be made prisoners, and carried to _montreal_. the _french_ governor declared his resolutions to extirpate the _onondagas_, and for that reason gave orders to give no quarter. the difficulty of supporting so many men in these deserts, made it necessary for the count _de frontenac_ to return as speedily as possible. though the _french_ army was much an overmatch for the _onondagas_, both in number of men and in their arms, the _onondagas_ were not so far dispirited, as not to follow them in their return. they found opportunities to revenge themselves in some measure, by cutting off every canoe that happened at any time to be at a distance from the main body. this obliged the count to hasten his march, so that he returned to _montreal_ the tenth of _august_. the _onondagas_ suffered nothing by this chargeable expedition, but the loss of their corn, and their bark cottages. they lost not one man, but the old _sachem_, who resolved to die a martyr to his country's honour. the _french_ suffered considerably by its consequences; for all the planters being taken off from their labour, either in this expedition, or in watching and securing their forts and country, a famine ensued; and this i find has often happened in _canada_, where all the men, fit to bear arms, have been employed in such like expeditions. if the _oneydoes_ had not timely surrendered themselves, the count had not been able to have carried home the least token of a victory. and all that can be said for this enterprize is, that it was a kind of heroick dotage. the influence that the jesuit _milet_ had obtained over the _oneydoes_ was such, that some time after this, thirty of them deserted to the _french_, and desired that he might be appointed their pastor. in the following winter the _mohawks_, with the governor of _new york_'s privacy, =sent one to the _praying indians_ with two belts=, and he carried two prisoners with him. by the first belt he asked, whether the path was entirely shut up between their two countries; and, by the second, demanded the restitution of a prisoner the _praying indians_ had taken: but his real design was, to learn the state of their country, and what designs were forming. notwithstanding the influence and artifice of the _french_ priests over these converts, they still retained an affection to their countrymen; for which reason the count _de frontenac_ entertained a jealousy of these intercourses, and threatened to put to death any that should come in that manner again; but the messenger had the satisfaction of discovering the distressed condition of _canada_ by famine. a party of the _french_ was sent out in the winter, to make some attempt upon the _english_ settlements near _albany_; but some _mohawks_ and _scahkook indians_ meeting with them, before they reached the settlements, they were intirely routed. the commanding officer, one _du bau_, and two others, saved themselves from the fury of the _indians_, by running to _albany_; the rest were either killed or perished in the woods, so that not one man of this party got back to _canada_. it was much easier for the _french_ to set the _praying indians_ upon the _english_, against whom it is possible many of them had personal animosities, that made them go over to the _french_, than to fight their countrymen. several of them came this winter skulking about _schenectady_ and _albany_; and being well acquainted with the country, and speaking likewise the _mohawk_'s language, by which they sometimes deceived the inhabitants, they surprised some of the inhabitants, and carried away their scalps. the _five nations_, to shew that the count _de frontenac_'s expedition had no way discouraged them, sent out several parties against _canada_. one of them met with a party of _french_ upon _st. laurence river_, near _montreal_. the _french_ were routed, and their captain killed. as soon as this was heard at _montreal_, _repentigni_ was sent out after them with a considerable party of _french_, _nepicirinien indians_ and _praying indians_; but this party was likewise defeated, and the captain, with many of his men, killed. thus the war was continued till the peace of _reswick_, by small parties of _indians_, on both sides, harassing, surprising, and scalping the inhabitants near _montreal_ and _albany_. some time this year the chief _sachem_ of the _dionondadies_ (whom the _french_ call the _baron_) went to _quebeck_, pretending a strong attachment to the _french_, but really to conceal the treaty of peace that he was on the point of concluding with the _five nations_; for which purpose he had =sent his son with nineteen belts= to the _senekas_. the substance of whose commission was as follows: the _french_ have for many years confounded our resolutions, and deceived us, but now we are resolved to break all their artifices, by stopping our ears. we come now to unite with you, while the _french_ know nothing of the matter. the commandant at _missilimakinak_ has told us many lies, he has betrayed us, and made us kill one another, but we are firmly resolved never to hearken to him any more. the peace was accordingly firmly concluded, notwithstanding all the opposition the _french_ could make. the _french_ authors say, the only reason that induced the _dionondadies_ was, that the _english_ sold them goods cheaper than the _french_ could. some time before the news of the peace arrived, the _french_ at _montreal_ being informed that a party of the _five nations_ were discovered near _corlear's lake_, sent out a captain with a party of soldiers and _indians_, who being well experienced in the manner of making war with _indians_, marched through the thickest woods, and by the least frequented places, so that he discovered the enemy, without being discovered. he surprised that party, killed several, and took one prisoner. the _utawawas_ being then trading at _montreal_, the count _de frontenac_ invited them to a feast to be made of this prisoner, and caused him to be burnt publickly alive at _montreal_, in the manner of which i have already given two accounts from the _french_ authors. chap. xiii. _the conduct which the_ english _and_ french _observed_, _in regard to the_ five nations, _immediately after the peace of_ reswick. soon after the news of the peace of _reswick_ reached _new-york_, the governor sent an express to _canada_, to inform the governor there of it, that hostilities might cease. the _five nations_ having an account of the peace earlier than they had it in _canada_, took advantage of it, in hunting bever near _cadarackui fort_. the governor of _canada_ being informed of this, and believing that the _five nations_ thought themselves secure by the general peace, resolved to take his last revenge of them. for this purpose he sent a considerable party of _adirondacks_ to surprise them, which they did, and killed several, but not without loss of many of their own men. the loss of one of their greatest captains at that time gave the _five nations_ the greatest affliction. after he was mortally wounded, he cried out: "must i, who have made the whole earth tremble before me, now die by the hands of children?" for he despised the _adirondacks_. a dispute at this time arose, between the government of _new-york_ and _canada_, about the _french_ prisoners which the _five nations_ had in their hands. the earl of _bellamont_, then governor of _new-york_, would have the _french_ receive those prisoners from him, and directed the _five nations_ to bring them to _albany_ for that purpose. the _french_, on the other hand, refused to own the _five nations_ as subject to the crown of _great-britain_, and threatened to continue the war against the _five nations_, if they did not bring the prisoners to _montreal_, and deliver them there. the count _de frontenac_ sent some of the _praying indians_ with a message to this purpose, and to have all the _french_ allies included in the general peace. the messenger on his return told the count, publickly in presence of several _utawawas_, that the _five nations_ refused to include several of his allies, but were resolved to revenge the injuries they had received. the _utawawas_ were exceedingly discomposed at hearing this, and the count, to recover their spirits, assured them, that he never would make peace without including all his allies in it, and without having all their prisoners restored. at the same time he made preparations to attack the _five nations_ with the whole force of _canada_. the earl of _bellamont_ being informed of this, sent captain _john schuyler_ (of the militia) to tell the count, that he had the interest of the king his master too much at heart, to suffer the _french_ to treat the _five nations_ like enemies, after the conclusion of the general peace; for which reason he had ordered them to be on their guard, and had furnished them with arms and ammunition; that he had ordered the lieutenant-governor, in case they were attacked, either by the _french_ or their allies, to join them with the regular troops; and that, if he found it necessary, he would raise the whole force of his government in their defence. this put a stop to the _french_ threatening, and both sides made complaint to their masters. the two kings ordered their respective governors to be assisting to each other, in making the peace effectual to both nations, and to leave the disputes, as to the dependency of the _indian nations_, to be determined by commissioners, to be appointed pursuant to the treaty of _reswick_. it is exceedingly impolitick, when weaker potentates, ingaged in a confederacy against one powerful prince, leave any points to be determined after the conclusion of a peace; for if they cannot obtain a concession, while the confederacy stands and their force is united, how can a weaker prince hope to obtain it, when he is left alone to himself, after the confederacy is dissolved? the _french_ have so often found the benefit of this piece of imprudence, that in all their treaties they use all the cajoling, and every artifice in their power, to obtain this advantage, and they seldom miss it. about the time of the conclusion of the peace at _reswick_, the noted _therouet_ died at _montreal_. the _french_ gave him christian burial in a pompous manner, the priest, that attended him at his death, having declared that he died a true christian; for, said the priest, while i explained to him the passion of our saviour, whom the _jews_ crucified, he cried out; "oh! had i been there, i would have revenged his death, and brought away their scalps." soon after the peace was known at _montreal_, three considerable men of the _praying indians_ came to _albany_; they had fine laced coats given them, and were invited to return to their own country. they answered, that they were young men, and had not skill to make a suitable answer, and had not their ancient men to consult with; but promised to communicate the proposals to their old men, and would bring back an answer in the fall. i find nothing more of this in the register of _indian affairs_, though it might have been of great consequence had it been pursued to purpose; but such matters, where there is not an immediate private profit, are seldom pursued by the _english_ with that care and assiduity, with which they are by the _french_. while captain _schuyler_ was in _canada_, he entered into some indiscreet discourse with monsieur _maricour_, for whom the _five nations_ had a particular esteem, and call _stowtowisse_. captain _schuyler_, in asserting the dependency of the _five nations_ on _new-york_, said, that those nations were their slaves. mr. _maricour_ told this discourse to an _onondaga_, with all the aggravations he could, and added, that it was intirely owing to the _english_ that the peace was not absolutely concluded, and that captain _schuyler_ prevented their prisoners being restored, because he would have them sent to _albany_, as being slaves to the _english_. that the _french_ had no dispute with the _english_, but for the independency of the _five nations_. this indiscreet conduct of captain _schuyler_ was so much resented by the _five nations_, that a deputation of the most considerable _sachems_ was sent to _albany_ in _june_ , to complain of it; and they sent at the same time deputies to _canada_ to conclude the peace, independently of the _english_. these deputies that came to _albany_ were so far convinced that the _french_ had abused them, and how much more it was for their security to be included in the general peace with the _english_, than to have only the _french_ faith for their security, that they immediately dispatched a messenger after their deputies that were gone to _canada_. though this messenger reached them too late to stop their proceeding, it convinced the deputies so far of its being for their interest to be joined with the _english_ in the peace, as they had been in the war, that they insisted that the exchange of prisoners be made at _albany_. at the same time the messenger was sent after their deputies to _canada_, colonel _peter schuyler_ was sent with others to _onondaga_, to remove the prejudices they had received there. the count _de frontenac_ died while these disputes continued. monsieur _de callieres_, who succeeded him, put an end to them, by agreeing to send to _onondaga_ to regulate the exchange of prisoners there; for which purpose monsieur _maricour_, _ioncaire_, and the jesuit _bruyas_, were sent. when the _french_ commissioners were come within less than a mile of _onondaga_ castle, they put themselves in order and marched with the _french_ colours carried before them, and with as much show as they could make. _decanesora_ met them without the gate, and =complimented them with three strings of wampum=. by the first he wiped away their tears for the _french_ that had been slain in the war. by the second he opened their mouths, that they might speak freely; that is, promised them freedom of speech. by the third he cleaned the matt, on which they were to sit, from the blood that had been spilt on both sides: the compliment was returned by the jesuit, then they entered the fort, and were saluted with a general discharge of all the fire arms. they were carried to the best cabin in the fort, and there entertained with a feast. the deputies of the several nations not being all arrived, the jesuit, and monsieur _maricour_, passed the time in visiting and conversing with the _french_ prisoners. the general council being at last met, the jesuit made the following speech, which i take from the relation the _five nations_ afterwards made of it to the earl of _bellamont_. " . i am glad to see the _five nations_, and that some of them went to _canada_, notwithstanding _corlear_ forbid them: i am sorry for the loss of your people killed by the remote _indians_; i condole their death, and wipe away the blood by this belt. " . the war kettle boiled so long, that it would have scalded all the _five nations_ had it continued; but now it is overset, and turned upside down, and a firm peace made. " . i now plant the tree of peace and welfare at _onondaga_. " . keep fast the chain you have made with _corlear_, for now we have one heart and one interest with them; but why is _corlear_ against your corresponding with us, ought we not to converse together when we are at peace and in friendship? " . deliver up the _french_ prisoners you have, and we shall deliver not only those of your nation we have, but all those likewise taken by any of our allies; and gave a belt. " . i offer myself to you to live with you at _onondaga_, to instruct you in the christian religion, and to drive away all sickness, plagues and diseases out of your country, and gave a third belt. " . this last belt, he said, is from the _rondaxe_, or _french indians_, to desire restitution of the prisoners taken from them." the jesuit in the conclusion said; "why does not _corlear_ tell you what passes between the governor of _canada_ and him? he keeps you in the dark, while the governor of _canada_ conceals nothing from his children. nor does the governor of _canada_ claim your land, as _corlear_ does." the general council immediately rejected the belt by which the jesuit offered to stay with them, saying, we have already accepted _corlear's_ belt, by which he offers us pastors to instruct us. _decanesora_ added, the jesuits have always deceived us, for while they preached peace, the _french_ came and knocked us on the head. to this the jesuit replied, that if he had known that _corlear_ intended to send them pastors, he would not have offered this belt. it is to be observed that the _indian_ council refused to hear the _french_, or to give them an answer, but in presence of the commissioners from _albany_. the _french_ commissioners having assured the peace with the _five nations_, the inhabitants of _canada_ esteemed it the greatest blessing that could be procured for them from heaven; for nothing could be more terrible than this last war with the _five nations_. while this war lasted, the inhabitants eat their bread in continual fear and trembling. no man was sure, when out of his house, of ever returning to it again. while they laboured in the fields, they were under perpetual apprehensions of being killed or seized, and carried to the _indian_ country, there to end their days in cruel torments. they many times were forced to neglect both their seed time and harvest. the landlord often saw all his land plundered, his houses burnt, and the whole country ruined, while they thought their persons not safe in their fortifications. in short, all trade and business was often at an intire stand, while fear, despair, and misery appeared in the faces of the poor inhabitants. the _french_ commissioners carried several of the principal _sachems_ of the _five nations_ back with them, who were received at _montreal_ with great joy. they were saluted by a discharge of all the great guns round the place, as they entered. the _french_ allies took this amiss, and asked if their governor was entering. they were told, that it was a compliment paid to the _five nations_, whose _sachems_ were then entering the town. we perceive, they replied, that fear makes the _french_ shew more respect to their enemies, than love can make them do to their friends. monsieur _de callieres_ assembled all the _french_ allies, (who were then very numerous at _montreal_) to make the exchange of prisoners, and they delivered the prisoners they had taken, though the _five nations_ had sent none to be exchanged for them. thus we see a brave people struggle with every difficulty, till they can get out of it with honour; and such people always gain respect, even from their most inveterate enemies. i shall finish this part by observing, that notwithstanding the _french_ commissioners took all the pains possible to carry home the _french_, that were prisoners with the _five nations_, and they had full liberty from the _indians_, few of them could be persuaded to return. it may be thought that this was occasioned from the hardships they had endured in their own country, under a tyrannical government and a barren soil: but this certainly was not the only reason; for the _english_ had as much difficulty to persuade the people, that had been taken prisoners by the _french indians_, to leave the _indian_ manner of living, though no people enjoy more liberty, and live in greater plenty, than the common inhabitants of _new-york_ do. no arguments, no intreaties, nor tears of their friends and relations, could persuade many of them to leave their new _indian_ friends and acquaintance; several of them that were by the caressings of their relations persuaded to come home, in a little time grew tired of our manner of living, and run away again to the _indians_, and ended their days with them. on the other hand, _indian_ children have been carefully educated among the _english_, cloathed and taught, yet, i think, there is not one instance, that any of these, after they had liberty to go among their own people, and were come to age, would remain with the _english_, but returned to their own nations, and became as fond of the _indian_ manner of life as those that knew nothing of a civilized manner of living. what i now tell of christian prisoners among _indians_, relates not only to what happened at the conclusion of this war, but has been found true on many other occasions. _the end of the_ second part. [illustration] =transcriber's notes:= hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in the original page ii, extra word to removed page , who remembred the ==> who remembered the page , i immmediately told ==> i immediately told page , to exereise cruelty ==> to exercise cruelty page , that the chigtaghcicks ==> that the chictaghicks page , and mahikindars or ==> and mahikandars or page , desire may may be ==> desire may be page , the peace. gives ==> the peace." gives page , on the other. ==> on the other.) page , be extreamly grieved ==> be extremely grieved page , confirms my words. ==> confirms my words. page , way towards monreal ==> way towards montreal page , the begining of ==> the beginning of page , the mihikander indians ==> the mahikander indians page , which he gave to to an _indian_ ==> which he gave to an _indian_ page , troies rivieres ==> trois rivieres page , to the war. ==> to the war. page , intercepting them. ==> intercepting them. page , belt of wampum ==> belt of wampum. page footnote, ersel signifies ==> ertel signifies page , therhansera, oghuesse and ==> therhansera, ohguesse and page , our far-fighters shall ==> our fair-fighters shall page , we are but ==> we are but page , the brethrens backwardness ==> the brethren's backwardness page , de magdaleine the ==> de magdeleine the page , three bever skins. ==> three bever skins. page , delivered to them. ==> delivered to them. page , those of cahnaaga ==> those of cahnuaga page footnote, near ohswego. ==> near oswego. page , most favorable to ==> most favourable to page , an enterprise would ==> an enterprize would page , and some canon ==> and some cannon page , their enterprises against ==> their enterprizes against none tillie: a mennonite maid a story of the pennsylvania dutch by helen reimensnyder martin contents i "oh, i love her! i love her!" ii "i'm going to learn you once!" iii "what's hurtin' you, tillie?" iv "the doc" combines business and pleasure v "novels ain't moral, doc!" vi jake getz in a quandary vii "the last days of pump-eye" viii miss margaret's errand ix "i'll do my darn best, teacher!" x adam schunk's funeral xi "pop! i feel to be plain" xii absalom keeps company xiii ezra herr, pedagogue xiv the harvard graduate xv the wackernagels at home xvi the wackernagels "conwerse" xvii the teacher meets absalom xviii tillie reveals herself xix tillie tells a lie xx tillie is "set back" xxi "i'll marry him to-morrow!" xxii the doc concocts a plot xxiii sunshine and shadow xxiv the revolt of tillie xxv getz "learns" tillie xxvi tillie's last fight tillie: a mennonite maid a story of the pennsylvania dutch i "oh, i love her! i love her!" tillie's slender little body thrilled with a peculiar ecstasy as she stepped upon the platform and felt her close proximity to the teacher--so close that she could catch the sweet, wonderful fragrance of her clothes and see the heave and fall of her bosom. once tillie's head had rested against that motherly bosom. she had fainted in school one morning after a day and evening of hard, hard work in her father's celery-beds, followed by a chastisement for being caught with a "story-book"; and she had come out of her faint to find herself in the heaven of sitting on miss margaret's lap, her head against her breast and miss margaret's soft hand smoothing her cheek and hair. and it was in that blissful moment that tillie had discovered, for the first time in her young existence, that life could be worth while. not within her memory had any one ever caressed her before, or spoken to her tenderly, and in that fascinating tone of anxious concern. afterward, tillie often tried to faint again in school; but, such is nature's perversity, she never could succeed. school had just been called after the noon recess, and miss margaret was standing before her desk with a watchful eye on the troops of children crowding in from the playground to their seats, when the little girl stepped to her side on the platform. this country school-house was a dingy little building in the heart of lancaster county, the home of the pennsylvania dutch. miss margaret had been the teacher only a few months, and having come from kentucky and not being "a millersville normal," she differed quite radically from any teacher they had ever had in new canaan. indeed, she was so wholly different from any one tillie had ever seen in her life, that to the child's adoring heart she was nothing less than a miracle. surely no one but cinderella had ever been so beautiful! and how different, too, were her clothes from those of the other young ladies of new canaan, and, oh, so much prettier--though not nearly so fancy; and she didn't "speak her words" as other people of tillie's acquaintance spoke. to tillie it was celestial music to hear miss margaret say, for instance, "buttah" when she meant butter-r-r, and "windo" for windah. "it gives her such a nice sound when she talks," thought tillie. sometimes miss margaret's ignorance of the dialect of the neighborhood led to complications, as in her conversation just now with tillie. "well?" she inquired, lifting the little girl's chin with her forefinger as tillie stood at her side and thereby causing that small worshiper to blush with radiant pleasure. "what is it, honey?" miss margaret always made tillie feel that she liked her. tillie wondered how miss margaret could like her! what was there to like? no one had ever liked her before. "it wonders me!" tillie often whispered to herself with throbbing heart. "please, miss margaret," said the child, "pop says to ast you will you give me the darst to go home till half-past three this after?" "if you go home till half-past three, you need not come back, honey--it wouldn't be worth while, when school closes at four." "but i don't mean," said tillie, in puzzled surprise, "that i want to go home and come back. i sayed whether i have the darst to go home till half-past three. pop he's went to lancaster, and he'll be back till half-past three a'ready, and he says then i got to be home to help him in the celery-beds." miss margaret held her pretty head on one side, considering, as she looked down into the little girl's upturned face. "is this a conundrum, tillie? how your father be in lancaster now and yet be home until half-past three? it's uncanny. unless," she added, a ray of light coming to her,--"unless 'till' means by. your father will be home by half-past three and wants you then?" "yes, ma'am. i can't talk just so right," said tillie apologetically, "like what you can. yes, sometimes i say my we's like my w's, yet!" miss margaret laughed. "bless your little heart!" she said, running her fingers through tillie's hair. "but you would rather stay in school until four, wouldn't you, than go home to help your father in the celery-beds?" "oh, yes, ma'am," said tillie wistfully, "but pop he has to get them beds through till saturday market a'ready, and so we got to get 'em done behind thursday or friday yet." "if i say you can't go home?" tillie colored all over her sensitive little face as, instead of answering, she nervously worked her toe into a crack in the platform. "but your father can't blame you, honey, if i won't let you go home." "he wouldn't stop to ast me was it my fault, miss margaret. if i wasn't there on time, he'd just--" "all right, dear, you may go at half-past three, then," miss margaret gently said, patting the child's shoulder. "as soon as you have written your composition." "yes, ma'am, miss margaret." it was hard for tillie, as she sat at her desk that afternoon, to fix her wandering attention upon the writing of her composition, so fascinating was it just to revel idly in the sense of the touch of that loved hand that had stroked her hair, and the tone of that caressing voice that had called her "honey." miss margaret always said to the composition classes, "just try to write simply of what you see or feel, and then you will be sure to write a good 'composition.'" tillie was moved this afternoon to pour out on paper all that she "felt" about her divinity. but she had some misgivings as to the fitness of this. she dwelt upon the thought of it, however, dreamily gazing out of the window near which she sat, into the blue sky of the october afternoon--until presently her ear was caught by the sound of miss margaret's voice speaking to absalom puntz, who stood at the foot of the composition class, now before her on the platform. "you may read your composition, absalom." absalom was one of "the big boys," but though he was sixteen years old and large for his age, his slowness in learning classed him with the children of twelve or thirteen. however, as learning was considered in new canaan a superfluous and wholly unnecessary adjunct to the means of living, absalom's want of agility in imbibing erudition never troubled him, nor did it in the least call forth the pity or contempt of his schoolmates. three times during the morning session he had raised his hand to announce stolidly to his long-suffering teacher, "i can't think of no subjeck"; and at last miss margaret had relaxed her spartan resolution to make him do his own thinking and had helped him out. "write of something that is interesting you just at present. isn't there some one thing you care more about than other things?" she had asked. absalom had stared at her blankly without replying. "now, absalom," she had said desperately, "i think i know one thing you have been interested in lately--write me a composition on girls." of course the school had greeted the advice with a laugh, and miss margaret had smiled with them, though she had not meant to be facetious. absalom, however, had taken her suggestion seriously. "is your composition written, absalom?" she was asking as tillie turned from the window, her contemplation of her own composition arrested by the sound of the voice which to her was the sweetest music in the world. "no'm," sullenly answered absalom. "i didn't get it through till it was time a'ready." "but, absalom, you've been at it this whole blessed day! you've not done another thing!" "i wrote off some of it." "well," sighed miss margaret, "let us hear what you have done." absalom unfolded a sheet of paper and laboriously read: "girls "the only thing i took particular notice to, about girls, is that they are always picking lint off each other, still." he stopped and slowly folded his paper. "but go on," said miss margaret. "read it all.' "that's all the fu'ther i got." miss margaret looked at him for an instant, then suddenly lifted the lid of her desk, evidently to search for something. when she closed it her face was quite grave. "we'll have the reading-lesson now," she announced. tillie tried to withdraw her attention from the teacher and fix it on her own work, but the gay, glad tone in which lizzie harnish was reading the lines, "when thoughts of the last bitter hour come like a blight over thy spirit--" hopelessly checked the flow of her ideas. this class was large, and by the time absalom's turn to read was reached, "thanatopsis" had been finished, and so the first stanza of "the bells" fell to him. it had transpired in the reading of "thanatopsis" that a grave and solemn tone best suited that poem, and the value of this intelligence was made manifest when, in a voice of preternatural solemnity, he read: "what a world of merriment their melody foretells!" instantly, when he had finished his "stanza," lizzie raised her hand to offer a criticism. "absalom, he didn't put in no gestures." miss margaret's predecessor had painstakingly trained his reading-classes in the art of gesticulation in public speaking, and miss margaret found the results of his labors so entertaining that she had never been able to bring herself to suppress the monstrosity. "i don't like them gestures," sulkily retorted absalom. "never mind the gestures," miss margaret consoled him--which indifference on her part seemed high treason to the well-trained class. "i'll hear you read, now, the list of synonyms you found in these two poems," she added. "lizzie may read first." while the class rapidly leafed their readers to find their lists of synonyms, miss margaret looked up and spoke to tillie, reminding her gently that that composition would not be written by half-past three if she did not hasten her work. tillie blushed with embarrassment at being caught in an idleness that had to be reproved, and resolutely bent all her powers to her task. she looked about the room for a subject. the walls were adorned with the print portraits of "great men,"--former state superintendents of public instruction in pennsylvania,--and with highly colored chromo portraits of washington, lincoln, grant, and garfield. then there were a number of framed mottos: "education rules in america," "rely on yourself," "god is our hope," "dare to say no," "knowledge is power," "education is the chief defense of nations." but none of these things made tillie's genius to burn, and again her eyes wandered to the window and gazed out into the blue sky; and after a few moments she suddenly turned to her desk and rapidly wrote down her "subject"--"evening." the mountain of the opening sentence being crossed, the rest went smoothly enough, for tillie wrote it from her heart. "evening. "i love to take my little sisters and brothers and go out, still, on a hill-top when the sun is setting so red in the west, and the birds are singing around us, and the cows are coming home to be milked, and the men are returning from their day's work. "i would love to play in the evening if i had the dare, when the children are gay and everything around me is happy. "i love to see the flowers closing their buds when the shades of evening are come. the thought has come to me, still, that i hope the closing of my life may come as quiet and peaceful as the closing of the flowers in the evening. "matilda maria getz." miss margaret was just calling for absalom's synonyms when tillie carried her composition to the desk, and absalom was replying with his customary half-defiant sullenness. "my pop he sayed i ain't got need to waste my time gettin' learnt them cinnamons. pop he says what's the use learnin' two words where [which] means the selfsame thing--one's enough." absalom's father was a school director and absalom had grown accustomed, under the rule of miss margaret's predecessors, to feel the force of the fact in their care not to offend him. "but your father is not the teacher here--i am," she cheerfully told him. "so you may stay after school and do what i require." tillie felt a pang of uneasiness as she went back to her seat. absalom's father was very influential and, as all the township knew, very spiteful. he could send miss margaret away, and he would do it, if she offended his only child, absalom. tillie thought she could not bear it at all if miss margaret were sent away. poor miss margaret did not seem to realize her own danger. tillie felt tempted to warn her. it was only this morning that the teacher had laughed at absalom when he said that the declaration of independence was "a treaty between the united states and england,"--and had asked him, "which country, do you think, hurrahed the loudest, absalom, when that treaty was signed?" and now this afternoon she "as much as said absalom's father should mind to his own business!" it was growing serious. there had never been before a teacher at william penn school-house who had not judiciously "showed partiality" to absalom. "and he used to be dummer yet [stupider even] than what he is now," thought tillie, remembering vividly a school entertainment that had been given during her own first year at school, when absalom, nine years old, had spoken his first piece. his pious methodist grandmother had endeavored to teach him a little hymn to speak on the great occasion, while his frivolous aunt from the city of lancaster had tried at the same time to teach him "bobby shafto." new canaan audiences were neither discriminating nor critical, but the assembly before which little absalom had risen to "speak his piece off," had found themselves confused when he told them that "on jordan's bank the baptist stands, silver buckles on his knee." tillie would never forget her own infantine agony of suspense as she sat, a tiny girl of five, in the audience, listening to absalom's mistakes. but eli darmstetter, the teacher, had not scolded him. then there was the time that absalom had forced a fight at recess and had made little adam oberholzer's nose bleed--it was little adam (whose father was not at that time a school director) that had to stay after school; and though every one knew it wasn't fair, it had been accepted without criticism, because even the young rising generation of new canaan understood the impossibility and folly of quarreling with one's means of earning money. but miss margaret appeared to be perfectly blind to the perils of her position. tillie was deeply troubled about it. at half-past three, when, at a nod from miss margaret the little girl left her desk to go home, a wonderful thing happened--miss margaret gave her a story-book. "you are so fond of reading, tillie, i brought you this. you may take it home, and when you have read it, bring it back to me, and i'll give you something else to read." delighted as tillie was to have the book for its own sake, it was yet greater happiness to handle something belonging to miss margaret and to realize that miss margaret had thought so much about her as to bring it to her. "it's a novel, tillie. have you ever read a novel?" "no'm. only li-bries." "what?" "sunday-school li-bries. us we're evangelicals, and us children we go to the sunday-school, and i still bring home li-bry books. pop he don't uphold to novel-readin'. i have never saw a novel yet." "well, this book won't injure you, tillie. you must tell me all about it when you have read it. you will find it so interesting, i'm afraid you won't be able to study your lessons while you are reading it." outside the school-room, tillie looked at the title,--ivanhoe,"--and turned over the pages in an ecstasy of anticipation. "oh! i love her! i love her!" throbbed her little hungry heart. ii "i'm going to learn you once!" tillie was obliged, when about a half-mile from her father's farm, to hide her precious book. this she did by pinning her petticoat into a bag and concealing the book in it. it was in this way that she always carried home her "li-bries" from sunday-school, for all story-book reading was prohibited by her father. it was uncomfortable walking along the highroad with the book knocking against her legs at every step, but that was not so painful as her father's punishment would be did he discover her bringing home a "novel"! she was not permitted to bring home even a school-book, and she had greatly astonished miss margaret, one day at the beginning of the term, by asking, "please, will you leave me let my books in school? pop says i darsen't bring 'em home." "what you can't learn in school, you can do without," tillie's father had said. "when you're home you'll work fur your wittles." tillie's father was a frugal, honest, hard-working, and very prosperous pennsylvania dutch farmer, who thought he religiously performed his parental duty in bringing up his many children in the fear of his heavy hand, in unceasing labor, and in almost total abstinence from all amusement and self-indulgence. far from thinking himself cruel, he was convinced that the oftener and the more vigorously he applied "the strap," the more conscientious a parent was he. his wife, tillie's stepmother, was as submissive to his authority as were her five children and tillie. apathetic, anemic, overworked, she yet never dreamed of considering herself or her children abused, accepting her lot as the natural one of woman, who was created to be a child-bearer, and to keep man well fed and comfortable. the only variation from the deadly monotony of her mechanical and unceasing labor was found in her habit of irritability with her stepchild. she considered tillie "a dopple" (a stupid, awkward person); for though usually a wonderful little household worker, tillie, when very much tired out, was apt to drop dishes; and absent-mindedly she would put her sunbonnet instead of the bread into the oven, or pour molasses instead of batter on the griddle. such misdemeanors were always plaintively reported by mrs. getz to tillie's father, who, without fail, conscientiously applied what he considered the undoubted cure. in practising the strenuous economy prescribed by her husband, mrs. getz had to manoeuver very skilfully to keep her children decently clothed, and tillie in this matter was a great help to her; for the little girl possessed a precocious skill in combining a pile of patches into a passably decent dress or coat for one of her little brothers or sisters. nevertheless, it was invariably tillie who was slighted in the small expenditures that were made each year for the family clothing. the child had always really preferred that the others should have "new things" rather than herself--until miss margaret came; and now, before miss margaret's daintiness, she felt ashamed of her own shabby appearance and longed unspeakably for fresh, pretty clothes. tillie knew perfectly well that her father had plenty of money to buy them for her if he would. but she never thought of asking him or her stepmother for anything more than what they saw fit to give her. the getz family was a perfectly familiar type among the german farming class of southeastern pennsylvania. jacob getz, though spoken of in the neighborhood as being "wonderful near," which means very penurious, and considered by the more gentle-minded amish and mennonites of the township to be "overly strict" with his family and "too ready with the strap still," was nevertheless highly respected as one who worked hard and was prosperous, lived economically, honestly, and in the fear of the lord, and was "laying by." the getz farm was typical of the better sort to be found in that county. a neat walk, bordered by clam shells, led from a wooden gate to the porch of a rather large, and severely plain frame house, facing the road. every shutter on the front and sides of the building was tightly closed, and there was no sign of life about the place. a stranger, ignorant of the pennsylvania dutch custom of living in the kitchen and shutting off the "best rooms,"--to be used in their mustiness and stiff unhomelikeness on sunday only,--would have thought the house temporarily empty. it was forbiddingly and uncompromisingly spick-and-span. a grass-plot, ornamented with a circular flower-bed, extended a short distance on either side of the house. but not too much land was put to such unproductive use; and the small lawn was closely bordered by a corn-field on the one side and on the other by an apple orchard. beyond stretched the tobacco--and wheat-fields, and behind the house were the vegetable garden and the barn-yard. arrived at home by half-past three, tillie hid her "ivanhoe" under the pillow of her bed when she went up-stairs to change her faded calico school dress for the yet older garment she wore at her work. if she had not been obliged to change her dress, she would have been puzzled to know how to hide her book, for she could not, without creating suspicion, have gone up-stairs in the daytime. in new canaan one never went up-stairs during the day, except at the rare times when obliged to change one's clothes. every one washed at the pump and used the one family roller-towel hanging on the porch. miss margaret, ever since her arrival in the neighborhood, had been the subject of wide-spread remark and even suspicion, because she "washed up-stairs" and even sat up-stairs!--in her bedroom! it was an unheard-of proceeding in new canaan. tillie helped her father in the celery-beds until dark; then, weary, but excited at the prospect of her book, she went in from the fields and up-stairs to the little low-roofed bed-chamber which she shared with her two half-sisters. they were already in bed and asleep, as was their mother in the room across the hall, for every one went to bed at sundown in canaan township, and got up at sunrise. tillie was in bed in a few minutes, rejoicing in the feeling of the book under her pillow. not yet dared she venture to light a candle and read it--not until she should hear her father's heavy snoring in the room across the hall. the candles which she used for this surreptitious reading of sunday-school "li-bries" and any other chance literature which fell in her way, were procured with money paid to her by miss margaret for helping her to clean the school-room on friday afternoons after school. tillie would have been happy to help her for the mere joy of being with her, but miss margaret insisted upon paying her ten cents for each such service. the little girl was obliged to resort to a deep-laid plot in order to do this work for the teacher. it had been her father's custom--ever since, at the age of five, she had begun to go to school--to "time" her in coming home at noon and afternoon, and whenever she was not there on the minute, to mete out to her a dose of his ever-present strap. "i ain't havin' no playin' on the way home, still! when school is done, you come right away home then, to help me or your mom, or i 'll learn you once!" but it happened that miss margaret, in her reign at "william perm" school-house, had introduced the innovation of closing school on friday afternoons at half-past three instead of four, and tillie, with bribes of candy bought with part of her weekly wage of ten cents, secured secrecy as to this innovation from her little sister and brother who went to school with her--making them play in the school-grounds until she was ready to go home with them. before miss margaret had come to new canaan, tillie had done her midnight reading by the light of the kerosene lamp which, after every one was asleep, she would bring up from the kitchen to her bedside. but this was dangerous, as it often led to awkward inquiries as to the speedy consumption of the oil. candles were safer. tillie kept them and a box of matches hidden under the mattress. it was eleven o'clock when at last the child, trembling with mingled delight and apprehension, rose from her bed, softly closed her bedroom door, and with extremely judicious carefulness lighted her candle, propped up her pillow, and settled down to read as long as she should be able to hold her eyes open. the little sister at her side and the one in the bed at the other side of the room slept too soundly to be disturbed by the faint flickering light of that one candle. to-night her stolen pleasure proved more than usually engrossing. at first the book was interesting principally because of the fact, so vividly present with her, that miss margaret's eyes and mind had moved over every word and thought which, she was now absorbing. but soon her intense interest in the story excluded every other idea--even the fear of discovery. her young spirit was "out of the body" and following, as in a trance, this tale, the like of which she had never before read. the clock down-stairs in the kitchen struck twelve--one--two, but tillie never heard it. at half-past two o'clock in the morning, when the tallow candle was beginning to sputter to its end, she still was reading, her eyes bright as stars, her usually pale face flushed with excitement, her sensitive lips parted in breathless interest--when, suddenly, a stinging blow of "the strap" on her shoulders brought from her a cry of pain and fright. "what you mean, doin' somepin like, this yet!" sternly demanded her father. "what fur book's that there?" he took the book from her hands and tillie cowered beneath the covers, the wish flashing through her mind that the book could change into a bible as he looked at it!--which miracle would surely temper the punishment that in a moment she knew would be meted out to her. "'iwanhoe'--a novel! a novel!" he said in genuine horror. "tillie, where d'you get this here!" tillie knew that if she told lies she would go to hell, but she preferred to burn in torment forever rather than betray miss margaret; for her father, like absalom's, was a school director, and if he knew miss margaret read novels and lent them to the children, he would surely force her out of "william penn." "i lent it off of elviny dinkleberger!" she sobbed. "you know i tole you a'ready you darsen't bring books home! and you know i don't uphold to novel-readin'! i 'll have to learn you to mind better 'n this! where d' you get that there candle?" "i--bought it, pop." "bought? where d'you get the money!" tillie did not like the lies she had to tell, but she knew she had already perjured her soul beyond redemption and one lie more or less could not make matters worse. "i found it in the road." "how much did you find?" "fi' cents." "you hadn't ought to spent it without astin' me dare you. now i'm goin' to learn you once! set up." tillie obeyed, and the strap fell across her shoulders. her outcries awakened the household and started the youngest little sister, in her fright and sympathy with tillie, to a high-pitched wailing. the rest of them took the incident phlegmatically, the only novelty about it being the strange hour of its happening. but the hardest part of her punishment was to follow. "now this here book goes in the fire!" her father announced when at last his hand was stayed. "and any more that comes home goes after it in the stove, i'll see if you 'll mind your pop or not!" left alone in her bed, her body quivering, her little soul hot with shame and hatred, the child stifled her sobs in her pillow, her whole heart one bleeding wound. how could she ever tell miss margaret? surely she would never like her any more!--never again lay her hand on her hair, or praise her compositions, or call her "honey," or, even, perhaps, allow her to help her on fridays!--and what, then, would be the use of living? if only she could die and be dead like a cat or a bird and not go to hell, she would take the carving-knife and kill herself! but there was hell to be taken into consideration. and yet, could hell hold anything worse than the loss of miss margaret's kindness? how could she tell her of that burned-up book and endure to see her look at her with cold disapproval? oh, to make such return for her kindness, when she so longed with all her soul to show her how much she loved her! for the first time in all her school-days, tillie went next morning with reluctance to school. iii "what's hurtin' you, tillie?" she meant to make her confession as soon as she reached the school-house--and have it over--but miss margaret was busy writing on the blackboard, and tillie felt an immense relief at the necessary postponement of her ordeal to recess time. the hours of that morning were very long to her heavy heart, and the minutes dragged to the time of her doom--for nothing but blackness lay beyond the point of the acknowledgment which must turn her teacher's fondness to dislike. she saw miss margaret's eyes upon her several times during the morning, with that look of anxious concern which had so often fed her starved affections. yes, miss margaret evidently could see that she was in trouble and she was feeling sorry for her. but, alas, when she should learn the cause of her misery, how surely would that look turn to coldness and displeasure! tillie felt that she was ill preparing the way for her dread confession in the very bad recitations she made all morning. she failed in geography--every question that came to her; she failed to understand miss margaret's explanation of compound interest, though the explanation was gone over a third time for her especial benefit; she missed five words in spelling and two questions in united states history! "tillie, tillie!" miss margaret solemnly shook her head, as she closed her book at the end of the last recitation before recess. "too much 'ivanhoe,' i'm afraid! well, it's my fault, isn't it?" the little girl's blue eyes gazed up at her with a look of such anguish, that impulsively miss margaret drew her to her side, as the rest of the class moved away to their seats. "what's the matter, dear?" she asked. "aren't you well? you look pale and ill! what is it, tillie?" tillie's overwrought heart could bear no more. her head fell on miss margaret's shoulder as she broke into wildest crying. her body quivered with her gasping sobs and her little hands clutched convulsively at miss margaret's gown. "you poor little thing!" whispered miss margaret, her arms about the child; "what's the matter with you, honey? there, there, don't cry so--tell me what's the matter." it was such bliss to be petted like this--to feel miss margaret's arms about her and hear that loved voice so close to her!--for the last time! never again after this moment would she be liked and caressed! her heart was breaking and she could not answer for her sobbing. "tillie, dear, sit down here in my chair until i send the other children out to recess--and then you and i can have a talk by ourselves," miss margaret said, leading the child a step to her arm-chair on the platform. she stood beside the chair, holding tillie's throbbing head to her side, while she tapped the bell which dismissed the children. "now," she said, when the door had closed on the last of them and she had seated herself and drawn tillie to her again, "tell me what you are crying for, little girlie." "miss margaret!" tillie's words came in hysterical, choking gasps; "you won't never like me no more when i tell you what's happened, miss margaret!" "why, dear me, tillie, what on earth is it?" "i didn't mean to do it, miss margaret! and i'll redd up for you, fridays, still, till it's paid for a'ready, miss margaret, if you'll leave me, won't you, please? oh, won't you never like me no more?" "my dear little goosie, what is the matter with you? come," she said, taking the little girl's hand reassuringly in both her own, "tell me, child." a certain note of firmness in her usually drawling southern voice checked a little the child's hysterical emotion. she gulped the choking lump in her throat and answered. "i was readin' 'ivanhoe' in bed last night, and pop woke up, and seen my candle-light, and he conceited he'd look once and see what it was, and then he seen me, and he don't uphold to novel-readin', and he--he--" "well?" miss margaret gently urged her faltering speech. "he whipped me and--and burnt up your book!" "whipped you again!" miss margaret's soft voice indignantly exclaimed. "the br--" she checked herself and virtuously closed her lips. "i'm so sorry, tillie, that i got you into such a scrape!" tillie thought miss margaret could not have heard her clearly. "he--burnt up your book yet, miss margaret!" she found voice to whisper again. "indeed! i ought to make him pay for it!" "he didn't know it was yourn, miss margaret--he don't uphold to novel-readin', and if he'd know it was yourn he'd have you put out of william penn, so i tole him i lent it off of elviny dinkleberger--and i'll help you fridays till it's paid for a'ready, if you'll leave me, miss margaret!" she lifted pleading eyes to the teacher's face, to see therein a look of anger such as she had never before beheld in that gentle countenance--for miss margaret had caught sight of the marks of the strap on tillie's bare neck, and she was flushed with indignation at the outrage. but tillie, interpreting the anger to be against herself, turned as white as death, and a look of such hopeless woe came into her face that miss margaret suddenly realized the dread apprehension torturing the child. "come here to me, you poor little thing!" she tenderly exclaimed, drawing the little girl into her lap and folding her to her heart. "i don't care anything about the book, honey! did you think i would? there, there--don't cry so, tillie, don't cry. _i_ love you, don't you know i do!"--and miss margaret kissed the child's quivering lips, and with her own fragrant handkerchief wiped the tears from her cheeks, and with her soft, cool fingers smoothed back the hair from her hot forehead. and this child, who had never known the touch of a mother's hand and lips, was transported in that moment from the suffering of the past night and morning, to a happiness that made this hour stand out to her, in all the years that followed, as the one supreme experience of her childhood. ineffable tenderness of the mother heart of woman! that afternoon, when tillie got home from school,--ten minutes late according to the time allowed her by her father,--she was quite unable to go out to help him in the field. every step of the road home had been a dragging burden to her aching limbs, and the moment she reached the farm-house, she tumbled in a little heap upon the kitchen settee and lay there, exhausted and white, her eyes shining with fever, her mouth parched with thirst, her head throbbing with pain--feeling utterly indifferent to the consequences of her tardiness and her failure to meet her father in the field. "ain't you feelin' good?" her stepmother phlegmatically inquired from across the room, where she sat with a dish-pan in her lap, paring potatoes for supper. "no, ma'am," weakly answered tillie. "pop 'll be looking fur you out in the field." tillie wearily closed her eyes and did not answer. mrs. getz looked up from her pan and let her glance rest for an instant upon the child's white, pained face. "are you feelin' too mean to go help pop?" "yes, ma'am. i--can't!" gasped tillie, with a little sob. "you ain't lookin' good," the woman reluctantly conceded. "well, i'll leave you lay a while. mebbe pop used the strap too hard last night. he sayed this dinner that he was some uneasy that he used the strap so hard--but he was that wonderful spited to think you'd set up readin' a novel-book in the night-time yet! you might of knew you'd ketch an awful lickin' fur doin' such a dumm thing like what that was. sammy!" she called to her little eight-year-old son, who was playing on the kitchen porch, "you go out and tell pop tillie she's got sick fur me, and i'm leavin' her lay a while. now hurry on, or he'll come in here to see, once, ain't she home yet, or what. go on now!" sammy departed on his errand, and mrs. getz diligently resumed her potato-paring. "i don't know what pop'll say to you not comin' out to help," she presently remarked. tillie's head moved restlessly, but she did not speak. she was past caring what her father might say or do. mrs. getz thoughtfully considered a doubtful potato, and, concluding at length to discard it, "i guess," she said, throwing it back into the pan, "i'll let that one; it's some poor. do you feel fur eatin' any supper?" she asked. "i'm havin' fried smashed-potatoes and wieners [frankfort sausages]. some days i just don't know what to cook all." tillie's lips moved, but gave no sound. "i guess you're right down sick fur all; ain't? i wonder if pop'll have doc in. he won't want to spend any fur that. but you do look wonderful bad. it's awful onhandy comin' just to-day. i did feel fur sayin' to pop i'd go to the rewiwal to-night, of he didn't mind. it's a while back a'ready since i was to a meetin'--not even on a funeral. and they say they do now make awful funny up at bethel rewiwal this week. i was thinkin' i'd go once. but if you can't redd up after supper and help milk and put the childern to bed, i can't go fur all." no response from tillie. mrs. getz sighed her disappointment as she went on with her work. presently she spoke again. "this after, a lady agent come along. she had such a complexion lotion. she talked near a half-hour. she was, now, a beautiful conversationist! i just set and listened. then she was some spited that i wouldn't buy a box of complexion lotion off of her. but she certainly was, now, a beautiful conversationist!" the advent of an agent in the neighborhood was always a noteworthy event, and tillie's utterly indifferent reception of the news that to-day one had "been along" made mrs. getz look at her wonderingly. "are you too sick to take interest?" she asked. the child made no answer. the woman rose to put her potatoes on the stove. it was an hour later when, as tillie still lay motionless on the settee, and mrs. getz was dishing up the supper and putting it on the table, which stood near the wall at one end of the kitchen, mr. getz came in, tired, dirty, and hungry, from the celery-beds. the child opened her eyes at the familiar and often dreaded step, and looked up at him as he came and stood over her. "what's the matter? what's hurtin' you, tillie?" he asked, an unwonted kindness in his voice as he saw how ill the little girl looked. "i don'--know," tillie whispered, her heavy eyelids falling again. "you don' know! you can't be so worse if you don' know what's hurtin' you! have you fever, or the headache, or whatever?" he laid his rough hand on her forehead and passed it over her cheek. "she's some feverish," he said, turning to his wife, who was busy at the stove. "full much so!" "she had the cold a little, and i guess she's took more to it," mrs. getz returned, bearing the fried potatoes across the kitchen to the table. "i heard the doc talkin' there's smallpox handy to us, only a mile away at new canaan," said getz, a note of anxiety in his voice that made the sick child wearily marvel. why was he anxious about her? she wondered. it wasn't because he liked her, as miss margaret did. he was afraid of catching smallpox himself, perhaps. or he was afraid she would be unable to help him to-morrow, and maybe for many days, out in the celery-beds. that was why he spoke anxiously--not because he liked her and was sorry. no bitterness was mingled with tillie's quite matter-of-fact acceptance of these conclusions. "it would be a good much trouble to us if she was took down with the smallpox," mrs. getz's tired voice replied. "i guess not as much as it would be to her," the father said, a rough tenderness in his voice, and something else which tillie vaguely felt to be a note of pain. "are you havin' the doc in fur her, then?" his wife asked. "i guess i better, mebbe," the man hesitated. his thrifty mind shrank at the thought of the expense. he turned again to tillie and bent over her. "can't you tell pop what's hurtin' you, tillie?" "no--sir." mr. getz looked doubtfully and rather helplessly at his wife. "it's a bad sign, ain't, when they can't tell what's hurtin' 'em?" "i don't know what fur sign that is when they don't feel nothin'," she stoically answered, as she dished up her frankfort sausages. "if a person would just know oncet!" he exclaimed anxiously. "anyhow, she's pretty much sick--she looks it so! i guess i better mebbe not take no risks. i'll send fur doc over. sammy can go, then." "all right. supper's ready now. you can come eat." she went to the door to call the children in front the porch and the lawn; and mr. getz again bent over the child. "can you eat along, tillie?" tillie weakly shook her head. "don't you feel fur your wittles?" "no--sir." "well, well. i'll send fur the doc, then, and he can mebbe give you some pills, or what, to make you feel some better; ain't?" he said, again passing his rough hand over her forehead and cheek, with a touch as nearly like a caress as anything tillie had ever known from him. the tears welled up in her eyes and slowly rolled over her white face, as she felt this unwonted expression of affection. her father turned away quickly and went to the table, about which the children were gathering. "where's sammy?" he asked his wife. "i'm sendin' him fur the doc after supper." "where? i guess over," she motioned with her head as she lifted the youngest, a one-year-old boy, into his high chair. "over" was the family designation for the pump, at which every child of a suitable age was required to wash his face and hands before coming to the table. while waiting for the arrival of the doctor, after supper, getz ineffectually tried to force tillie to eat something. in his genuine anxiety about her and his eagerness for "the doc's" arrival, he quite forgot about the fee which would have to be paid for the visit. iv "the doc" combines business and pleasure miss margaret boarded at the "hotel" of new canaan. as the only other regular boarder was the middle-aged, rugged, unkempt little man known as "the doc," and as the transient guests were very few and far between, miss margaret shared the life of the hotel-keeper's family on an intimate and familiar footing. the invincible custom of new canaan of using a bedroom only at night made her unheard-of inclination to sit in her room during the day or before bedtime the subject of so much comment and wonder that, feeling it best to yield to the prejudice, she usually read, sewed, or wrote letters in the kitchen, or, when a fire was lighted, in the combination dining-room and sitting-room. it was the evening of the day of tillie's confession about "ivanhoe," and miss margaret, after the early supper-hour of the country hotel, had gone to the sitting-room, removed the chenille cover from the centre-table, uncorked the bottle of fluid sold at the village store as ink, but looking more like raspberryade, and settled herself to write, to one deeply interested in everything which interested her, an account of her day and its episode with the little daughter of jacob getz. this room in which she sat, like all other rooms of the district, was too primly neat to be cozy or comfortable. it contained a bright new rag carpet, a luridly painted wooden settee, a sewing-machine, and several uninviting wooden chairs. margaret often yearned to pull the pieces of furniture out from their stiff, sentinel-like stations against the wall and give to the room that divine touch of homeyness which it lacked. but she did not dare venture upon such a liberty. very quickly absorbed in her letter-writing, she did not notice the heavy footsteps which presently sounded across the floor and paused at her chair. "now that there writin'--" said a gruff voice at her shoulder; and, startled, she quickly turned in her chair, to find the other boarder, "the doc," leaning on the back of it, his shaggy head almost on a level with her fair one. "that there writin'," pursued the doctor, continuing to hold his fat head in unabashed proximity to her own and to her letter, "is wonderful easy to read. wonderful easy." miss margaret promptly covered her letter with a blotter, corked the raspberry-ade, and rose. "done a'ready?" asked the doctor. "for the present, yes." "see here oncet, teacher!" he suddenly fixed her with his small, keen eyes as he drew from the pocket of his shabby, dusty coat a long, legal-looking paper. "i have here," he said impressively, "an important dokiment, teacher, concerning of which i desire to consult you perfessionally." "yes?" "you just stay settin'; i'll fetch a chair and set aside of you and show it to you oncet." he drew a chair up to the table and margaret reluctantly sat down, feeling annoyed and disappointed at this interruption of her letter, yet unwilling, in the goodness of her heart, to snub the little man. the doctor bent near to her and spoke confidentially. "you see, them swanged fools in the legislature has went to work and passed a act--ag'in' my protest, mind you--compellin' doctors to fill out blanks answerin' to a lot of darn-fool questions 'bout one thing and 'nother, like this here." he had spread open on the table the paper he had drawn from his pocket. it was soiled from contact with his coat and his hands, and margaret, instead of touching the sheet, pressed it down with the handle of her pen. the doctor noticed the act and laughed. "you're wonderful easy kreistled [disgusted]; ain't? i took notice a'ready how when things is some dirty they kreistle you, still. but indeed, teacher," he gravely added, "it ain't healthy to wash so much and keep so clean as what you do. it's weakenin'. that's why city folks ain't so hearty--they get right into them big, long tubs they have built in their houses up-stairs! i seen one oncet in at doc hess's in lancaster. i says to him when i seen it, 'you wouldn't get me into that--it's too much like a coffin!' i says. 'it would make a body creepy to get in there.' and he says, 'i'd feel creepy if i didn't get in.' 'yes,' i says,'that's why you're so thin. you wash yourself away,' i says." "what's it all about?" miss margaret abruptly asked, examining the paper. "these here's the questions," answered the doctor, tracing them with his thick, dirty forefinger; "and these here's the blank spaces fur to write the answers into. now you can write better 'n me, teacher; and if you'll just take and write in the answers fur me, why, i'll do a favor fur you some time if ever you ast it off of me. and if ever you need a doctor, just you call on me, and i'm swanged if i charge you a cent!" among the simple population of new canaan the doc was considered the most blasphemous man in america, but there seemed to be a sort of general impression in the village that his profanity was, in some way, an eccentricity of genius. "thank you," miss margaret responded to his offer of free medical services. "i'll fill out the paper for you with pleasure." she read aloud the first question of the list. '"where did you attend lectures?'" her pen suspended over the paper, she looked at him inquiringly. "well?" she asked. "lekshures be blowed!" he exclaimed. "i ain't never 'tended no lekshures!" "oh!" said miss margaret, nodding conclusively. "well, then, let us pass on to the next question. 'to what school of medicine do you belong?'" "school?" repeated the doctor; "i went to school right here in this here town--it's better 'n thirty years ago, a'ready." "no," miss margaret explained, "that's not the question. 'to what school of medicine do you belong?' medicine, you know," she repeated, as though talking to a deaf person. "oh," said the doctor, "medicine, is it? i never have went to none," he announced defiantly. "i studied medicine in old doctor johnson's office and learnt it by practisin' it. that there's the only way to learn any business. do you suppose you could learn a boy carpenterin' by settin' him down to read books on sawin' boards and a-lekshurin' him on drivin' nails? no more can you make a doctor in no such swanged-fool way like that there!" "but," said margaret, "the question means do you practise allopathy, homeopathy, hydropathy, osteopathy,--or, for instance, eclecticism? are you, for example, a homeopathist?" "gosh!" said the doctor, looking at her admiringly, "i'm blamed if you don't know more big words than i ever seen in a spellin'-book or heard at a spellin'-bee! home-o-pathy? no, sir! when i give a dose to a patient, still, he 'most always generally finds it out, and pretty gosh-hang quick too! when he gits a dose of my herb bitters he knows it good enough. be sure, i don't give babies, and so forth, doses like them. all such i treat, still, according to home-o-pathy, and not like that swanged fool, doc hess, which only last week he give a baby a dose fitten only fur a field-hand--and he went to college!--oh, yes!--and heerd lekshures too! natural consequence, the baby up't and died fur 'em. but growed folks they need allopathy." "then," said margaret, "you might be called an eclectic?" "a eclectic?" the doctor inquiringly repeated, rubbing his nose. "to be sure, i know in a general way what a eclectic is, and so forth. but what would you mean, anyhow, by a eclectic doctor, so to speak, heh?" "an eclectic," margaret explained, "is one who claims to adopt whatever is good and reject whatever is bad in every system or school of medicine." "if that ain't a description of me yet!" exclaimed the doctor, delighted. "write 'em down, teacher! i'm a--now what d'you call 'em?" "you certainly are a what-do-you-call-'em!" thought margaret--but she gravely repeated, "an eclectic," and wrote the name in the blank space. "and here i've been practisin' that there style of medicine fur fifteen years without oncet suspicioning it! that is," he quickly corrected himself, in some confusion, "i haven't, so to speak, called it pretty often a eclectic, you see, gosh hang it! and--you understand, don't you, teacher?" margaret understood very well indeed, but she put the question by. the rest of the blank was filled with less difficulty, and in a few minutes the paper was folded and returned to the doctor's pocket. "i'm much obliged to you, teacher," he said heartily. "and mind, now," he added, leaning far back in his chair, crossing his legs, thrusting his thumbs into his vest pockets, and letting his eyes rest upon her, "if ever you want a doctor, i ain't chargin' you nothin'; and leave me tell you somethin'," he said, emphasizing each word by a shake of his forefinger, "jake getz and nathaniel puntz they're the two school directors that 'most always makes trouble fur the teacher. and i pass you my word that if they get down on you any, and want to chase you off your job, i'm standin' by you--i pass you my word!" "thank you. but what would they get down on me for?" "well, if jake getz saw you standin' up for his childern against his lickin' 'em or makin' 'em work hard; or if you wanted to make 'em take time to learn their books at home when he wants 'em to work--or some such--he'd get awful down on you. and nathaniel puntz he 's just the contrary--he wants his n' spoiled--he's got but the one." miss margaret recalled with a little thrill the loyalty with which tillie had tried to save her from her father's anger by telling him that elviny dinkleberger had lent her "ivanhoe." "i suppose i had a narrow escape there," she thought. "poor little tillie! she is so conscientious--i can fancy what that lie cost her!" gathering up her stationery, she made a movement to rise--but the doctor checked her with a question. "say! not that i want to ast questions too close--but what was you writin', now, in that letter of yourn, about jake getz?" miss margaret was scarcely prepared for the question. she stared at the man for an instant, then helplessly laughed at him. "well," he said apologetically, "i don't mean to be inquisitive that way--but sometimes i speak unpolite too--fur all i've saw high society a'ready!" he added, on the defensive. "why, here one time i went in to lancaster city to see doc hess, and he wouldn't have it no other way but i should stay and eat along. 'och,' i says, 'i don't want to, i'm so common that way, and i know yous are tony and it don't do. i'll just pick a piece [have luncheon] at the tavern,' i says. but no, he says i was to come eat along. so then i did. and his missus she was wonderful fashionable, but she acted just that nice and common with me as my own mother or my wife yet. and that was the first time i have eat what the noos-papers calls a course dinner. they was three courses. first they was soup and nothin' else settin' on the table, and then a colored young lady come in with such a silver pan and such a flat, wide knife, and she scraped the crumbs off between every one of them three courses. i felt awful funny. i tell you they was tony. i sayed to the missus, 'i hadn't ought to of came here. i'm not grand enough like yous'; but she sayed, 'it's nothing of the kind, and you're always welcome.' yes, she made herself that nice and common!" concluded the doctor. "so you see i have saw high society." "yes," miss margaret assented. "say!" he suddenly put another question to her. "why don't you get married?" "well," she parried, "why don't you?" "i was married a'ready. my wife she died fur me. she was layin' three months. she got so sore layin'. it was when we was stoppin' over in chicago yet. that's out in illinois. then, when she died,--och," he said despondently, "there fur a while i didn't take no interest in nothin' no more. when your wife dies, you don't feel fur nothin'. yes, yes," he sighed, "people have often troubles! oh," he granted, "i went to see other women since. but," shaking his head in discouragement, "it didn't go. i think i'm better off if i stay single. yes, i stay single yet. well," he reconsidered the question, his head on one side as he examined the fair lady before him, "if i could get one to suit me oncet." miss margaret grew alarmed. but the doctor complacently continued, "when my wife died fur me i moved fu'ther west, and i got out as fur as utah yet. that's where they have more 'n one wife. i thought, now, that there was a poor practice! one woman would do me. say!" he again fixed her with his eye. "what?" "do you like your job?" "well," she tentatively answered, "it's not uninteresting." "would you ruther keep your job than quit and get married?" "that depends--" "or," quickly added the doctor, "you might jus keep on teachin' the school after you was married, if you married some one livin' right here. ain't? and if you kep' on the right side of the school board. unlest you'd ruther marry a town fellah and give up your job out here. some thinks the women out here has to work too hard; but if they married a man where [who] was well fixed," he said, insinuatingly, "he could hire fur 'em [keep a servant]. now, there's me. i'm well fixed. i got money plenty." "you are very fortunate," said miss margaret, sympathetically. "yes, ain't? and i ain't got no one dependent on me, neither. no brothers, no sisters, no--wife--" he looked at her with an ingratiating smile. "some says i'm better off that way, but sometimes i think different. sometimes i think i'd like a wife oncet." "yes?" said miss margaret. "um--m," nodded the doctor. "yes, and i'm pretty well fixed. i wasn't always so comfortable off. it went a long while till i got to doin' pretty good, and sometimes i got tired waitin' fur my luck to come. it made me ugly dispositioned, my bad luck did. that's how i got in the way of addicting to profane language. i sayed, still, i wisht, now, the good lord would try posperity on me fur a while--fur adwersity certainly ain't makin' me a child of gawd, i sayed. but now," he added, rubbing his knees with satisfaction, "i'm fixed nice. besides my doctor's fees, i got ten acres, and three good hommies that'll be cows till a little while yet. and that there organ in the front room is my property. bought it fifteen years ago on the instalment plan. i leave missus keep it settin' in her parlor fur style that way. do you play the organ?" "i can," was miss margaret's qualified answer. "i always liked music--high-class music--like 'pinnyfore.' that's a nopery i heard in lancaster there one time at the rooft-garden. that was high-toned music, you bet. no trash about that. gimme somepin nice and ketchy. that's what i like. if it ain't ketchy, i don't take to it. and so," he added admiringly, "you can play the organ too!" "that's one of my distinguished accomplishments," said miss margaret. "well, say!" the doctor leaned forward and took her into his confidence. "i don't mind if my wife is smart, so long as she don't bother me any!" with this telling climax, the significance of which miss margaret could hardly mistake, the doctor fell back again in his chair, and regarded with complacency the comely young woman before him. but before she could collect her shocked wits to reply, the entrance of jake getz's son, sammy, interrupted them. he had come into the house at the kitchen door, and, having announced the object of his errand to the landlady, who, by the way, was his father's sister, he was followed into the sitting-room by a procession, consisting of his aunt, her husband, and their two little daughters. sammy was able to satisfy but meagerly the eager curiosity or interest of the household as to tillie's illness, and his aunt, cousins, and uncle presently returned to their work in the kitchen or out of doors, while the doctor rose reluctantly to go to the stables to hitch up. "pop says to say you should hurry," said sammy. "there's time plenty," petulantly answered the doctor. "i conceited i'd stay settin' with you this evening," he said regretfully to miss margaret. "but a doctor can't never make no plans to stay no-wheres! well!" he sighed, "i'll go round back now and hitch a while." "sammy," said miss margaret, when she found herself alone with the child, "wasn't your mother afraid you would get ill, coming over here, on such a cool evening, barefooted?" "och, no; she leaves me let my shoes off near till it snows already. the teacher we had last year he used to do worse 'n that yet!--he'd wash his feet in the winter-time!" said sammy, in the tone of one relating a deed of valor. "i heard aunty em speak how he washed 'em as much as oncet a week, still, in winter! the doc he sayed no wonder that feller took cold!" miss margaret gazed at the child with a feeling of fascination. "but, sammy," she said wonderingly, "your front porches get a weekly bath in winter--do the people of new canaan wash their porches oftener than they wash themselves?" "porches gets dirty," reasoned sammy. "folks don't get dirty in winter-time. summer's the time they get dirty, and then they mebbe wash in the run." "oh!" said miss margaret. during the six weeks of her life in canaan, she had never once seen in this or any other household the least sign of any toilet appointments, except a tin basin at the pump, a roller-towel on the porch, and a small mirror in the kitchen. tooth-brushes, she had learned, were almost unknown in the neighborhood, nearly every one of more than seventeen years wearing "store-teeth." it was a matter of much speculation to her that these people, who thought it so essential to keep their houses, especially their front porches, immaculately scrubbed, should never feel an equal necessity as to their own persons. the doctor came to the door and told sammy he was ready. "i wouldn't do it to go such a muddy night like what this is," he ruefully declared to miss margaret, "if i didn't feel it was serious; jake getz wouldn't spend any hirin' a doctor, without it was some serious. i'm sorry i got to go." "good-night, sammy," said miss margaret. "give tillie my love; and if she is not able to come to school to-morrow, i shall go to see her." v "novels ain't moral, doc!" tillie still lay on the kitchen settee, her father sitting at her side, when the doctor and sammy arrived. the other children had all been put to bed, and mrs. getz, seated at the kitchen table, was working on a pile of mending by the light of a small lamp. the doctor's verdict, when he had examined his patient's tongue, felt her pulse, and taken her temperature, was not clear. "she's got a high fever. that's 'a all the fu'ther i can go now. what it may turn to till morning, i can't tell till morning. give her these powders every hour, without she's sleeping. that's the most that she needs just now." "yes, if she can keep them powders down," said mr. getz, doubtfully. "she can't keep nothin' with her." "well, keep on giving them, anyhow. she's a pretty sick child." "you ain't no fears of smallpox, are you?" mrs. getz inquired. "mister was afraid it might mebbe be smallpox," she said, indicating her husband by the epithet. "not that you say that i sayed it was!" mr. getz warned the doctor. "we don't want no report put out! but is they any symptoms?" "och, no," the doctor reassured them. "it ain't smallpox. what did you give her that she couldn't keep with her?" "i fed some boiled milk to her." "did she drink tea?" he inquired, looking profound. "we don't drink no store tea," mrs. getz answered him. "we drink peppermint tea fur supper, still. tillie she didn't drink none this evening. some says store tea's bad fur the nerves. i ain't got no nerves," she went on placidly. "leastways, i ain't never felt none, so fur. mister he likes the peppermint." "and it comes cheaper," said mister. "mebbe you've been leavin' tillie work too much in the hot sun out in the fields with you?" the doctor shot a keen glance at the father; for jake getz was known to all canaan township as a man that got more work out of his wife and children than any other farmer in the district. "after school, some," mr. getz replied. "but not fur long at a time, fur it gets late a'ready till she gets home. anyhow, it's healthy fur her workin' in the fields. i guess," he speculated, "it was her settin' up in bed readin' last night done it. i don't know right how long it went that she was readin' before i seen the light, but it was near morning a'ready, and she'd burned near a whole candle out." "and mebbe you punished her?" the doctor inquired, holding his hand to tillie's temples. "well," nodded mr. getz, "i guess she won't be doin' somepin like that soon again. i think, still, i mebbe used the strap too hard, her bein' a girl that way. but a body's got to learn 'em when they're young, you know. and here it was a novel-book! she borrowed the loan of it off of elviny dinkleberger! i chucked it in the fire! i don't uphold to novel-readin'!" "well, now," argued the doctor, settling back in his chair, crossing his legs, and thrusting his thumbs into the arm-holes of his vest, "some chance times i read in such a 'home companion' paper, and here this winter i read a piece in nine chapters. i make no doubt that was a novel. leastways, i guess you'd call it a novel. and that piece," he said impressively, "wouldn't hurt nobody! it learns you. that piece," he insisted, "was got up by a moral person." "then i guess it wasn't no novel, doc," mr. getz firmly maintained. "anybody knows novels ain't moral. anyhow, i ain't havin' none in my house. if i see any, they get burnt up." "it's a pity you burnt it up, jake. i like to come by somepin like that, still, to pass the time when there ain't much doin'. how did elviny dinkleberger come by such a novel?" "i don't know. if i see her pop, i 'll tell him he better put a stop to such behaviors." tillie stirred restlessly on her pillow. "what was the subjeck of that there novel, tillie?" the doctor asked. "its subjeck was 'iwanhoe,'" mr. getz answered. "yes, i chucked it right in the stove." "'iwanhoe'!" exclaimed the doctor. "why, elviny must of borrowed the loan of that off of teacher--i seen teacher have it." tillie turned pleading eyes upon his face, but he did not see her. "do you mean to say," demanded mr. getz, "that teacher lends novels to the scholars!" "och!" said the doctor, suddenly catching the frantic appeal of tillie's eyes, and answering it with ready invention, "what am i talkin' about! it was elviny lent it to aunty em's little rebecca at the hotel, and teacher was tellin' rebecca she mustn't read it, but give it back right aways to elviny." "well!" said mr. getz, "a teacher that would lend novels to the scholars wouldn't stay long at william penn if my wote could put her out! and there 's them on the board that thinks just like what i think!" "to be sure!" the doctor soothed him. "to be sure! yes," he romanced, "rebecca she lent that book off of elviny dinkleberger, and teacher she tole rebecca to give it back." "i'll speak somepin to elviny's pop, first time i see him, how elviny's lendin' a novel to the scholars!" affirmed mr. getz. "you needn't trouble," said the doctor, coolly. "elviny's pop he give elviny that there book last christmas. i don't know what he'll think, jake, at your burnin' it up." tillie was gazing at the doctor, now, half in bewilderment, half in passionate gratitude. "if tillie did get smallpox," mrs. getz here broke in, "would she mebbe have to be took to the pest-house?" tillie started, and her feverish eyes sought in the face of the doctor to know what dreadful place a "pest-house" might be. "whether she'd have to be took to the pest-house?" the doctor inquiringly repeated. "yes, if she took the smallpox. but she ain't takin' it. you needn't worry." "doctors don't know near as much now as what they used to, still," mr. getz affirmed. "they didn't have to have no such pest-houses when i was a boy. leastways, they didn't have 'em. and they didn't never ketch such diseases like 'pendycitis and grip and them." "do you mean to say, jake getz, that you pass it as your opinion us doctors don't know more now than what they used to know thirty years ago, when you was a boy?" "of course they don't," was the dogmatic rejoinder. "nor nobody knows as much now as they did in ancient times a'ready. i mean back in bible times." "do you mean to say," hotly argued the doctor, "that they had automobiles in them days?" "to be sure i do! automobiles and all the other lost sciences!" "well," said the doctor, restraining his scorn with a mighty effort, "i'd like to see you prove it oncet!" "i can prove it right out of the bible! do you want better proof than that, doc? the bible says in so many words, 'there's nothing new under the sun.' there! you can't come over that there, can you? you don't consider into them things enough, doc. you ain't a religious man, that 's the trouble!" "i got religion a plenty, but i don't hold to no sich dumm thoughts!" "did you get your religion at bethel rewiwal?" mrs. getz quickly asked, glancing up from the little stocking she was darning, to look with some interest at the doctor. "i wanted to go over oncet before the rewiwal's done. but now tillie's sick, mebbe i won't get to go fur all. when they have rewiwals at bethel they always make so! and," she added, resuming her darning, "i like to see 'em jump that way. my, but they jump, now, when they get happy! but i didn't get to go this year yet." "well, and don't you get affected too?" the doctor asked, "and go out to the mourners' bench?" "if i do? no, i go just to see 'em jump," she monotonously repeated. "i wasn't never conwerted. mister he's a hard evangelical, you know." "and what does he think of your unconwerted state?" the doctor jocularly inquired. "what he thinks? there's nothing to think," was the stolid answer. "up there to bethel rewiwal," said mr. getz, "they don't stay conwerted. till rewiwal's over, they're off church again." "it made awful funny down there this two weeks back," repeated mrs. getz. "they jumped so. now there's the lutherans, they don't make nothin' when they conwert themselves. they don't jump nor nothin'. i don't like their meetin's. it's onhandy tillie got sick fur me just now. i did want to go oncet. here 's all this mendin' she could have did, too. she 's handier at sewin' than what i am, still. i always had so much other work, i never come at sewin', and i 'm some dopplig at it." "yes?--yes," said the doctor, rising to go. "well, tillie, good-by, and don't set up nights any more readin' novels," he laughed. "she ain't likely to," said her father. "my childern don't generally do somepin like that again after i once ketch 'em at it. ain't so, tillie? well, then, doc, you think she ain't serious?" "i said i can't tell till i've saw her again a'ready." "how long will it go till you come again?" "well," the doctor considered, "it looks some fur fallin' weather--ain't? if it rains and the roads are muddy till morning, so 's i can't drive fast, i won't mebbe be here till ten o'clock." "oh, doctor," whispered tillie, in a tone of distress, "can't i go to school? can't i? i'll be well enough, won't i? it's friday to-morrow, and i--i want to go!" she sobbed. "i want to go to miss margaret!" "no, you can't go to school to-morrow, tillie," her father said, "even if you're some better; i'm keepin' you home to lay still one day anyhow." "but i don't want to stay home!" the child exclaimed, casting off the shawl with which her father had covered her and throwing out her arms. "i want to go to school! i want to, pop!" she sobbed, almost screaming. "i want to go to miss margaret! i will, i will!" "tillie--tillie!" her father soothed her in that unwonted tone of gentleness that sounded so strange to her. his face had turned pale at her outcries, delirious they seemed to him, coming from his usually meek and submissive child. "there now," he said, drawing the cover over her again; "now lay still and be a good girl, ain't you will?" "will you leave me go to school to-morrow?" she pleaded piteously. "dare i go to school to-morrow?" "no, you dassent, tillie. but if you're a good girl, mebbe i 'll leave sammy ast teacher to come to see you after school." "oh, pop!" breathed the child ecstatically, as in supreme contentment she sank back again on her pillow. "i wonder will she come? do you think she will come to see me, mebbe?" "to be sure will she." "now think," said the doctor, "how much she sets store by teacher! and a lot of 'em's the same way--girls and boys." "i didn't know she was so much fur teacher," said mr. getz. "she never spoke nothin'." "she never spoke nothin' to me about it neither," said mrs. getz. "well, i 'll give you all good-by, then," said the doctor; and he went away. on his slow journey home through the mud he mused on the inevitable clash which he foresaw must some day come between the warm-hearted teacher (whom little tillie so loved, and who so injudiciously lent her "novel-books") and the stern and influential school director, jacob getz. "there my chanct comes in," thought the doctor; "there's where i mebbe put in my jaw and pop the question--just when jake getz is makin' her trouble and she's gettin' chased off her job. i passed my word i'd stand by her, and, by gum, i 'll do it! when she's out of a job--that's the time she 'll be dead easy! ain't? she's the most allurin' female i seen since my wife up't and died fur me!" vi jake getz in a quandary tillie's illness, though severe while it lasted, proved to be a matter of only a few days' confinement to bed; and fortunately for her, it was while she was still too weak and ill to be called to account for her misdeed that her father discovered her deception as to the owner of "ivanhoe." at least he found out, in talking with elviny dinkleberger and her father at the lancaster market, that the girl was innocent of ever having owned or even seen the book, and that, consequently, she had of course never lent it either to rebecca wackernagel at the hotel or to tillie. despite his rigorous dealings with his family (which, being the outcome of the pennsylvania dutch faith in the divine right of the head of the house, were entirely conscientious), jacob getz was strongly and deeply attached to his wife and children; and his alarm at tillie's illness, coming directly upon his severe punishment of her, had softened him sufficiently to temper his wrath at finding that she had told him what was not true. what her object could have been in shielding the real owner of the book he could not guess. his suspicions did not turn upon the teacher, because, in the first place, he would have seen no reason why tillie should wish to shield her, and, in the second, it was inconceivable that a teacher at william penn should set out so to pervert the young whom trusting parents placed under her care. there never had been a novel-reading teacher at william penn. the board would as soon have elected an opium-eater. where had tillie obtained that book? and why had she put the blame on elviny, who was her little friend? the doc, evidently, was in league with tillie! what could it mean? jake getz was not used to dealing with complications and mysteries. he pondered the case heavily. when he went home from market, he did not tell tillie of his discovery, for the doctor had ordered that she be kept quiet. not until a week later, when she was well enough to be out of bed, did he venture to tell her he had caught her telling a falsehood. he could not know that the white face of terror which she turned to him was fear for miss margaret and not, for once, apprehension of the strap. "i ain't whippin' you this time," he gruffly said, "if you tell me the truth whose that there book was." tillie did not speak. she was resting in the wooden rocking-chair by the kitchen window, a pillow at her head and a shawl over her knees. her stepmother was busy at the table with her saturday baking; sammy was giving the porch its saturday cleaning, and the other children, too little to work, were playing outdoors; even the baby, bundled up in its cart, was out on the grass-plot. "do you hear me, tillie? whose book was that there?" tillie's head hung low and her very lips were white. she did not answer. "you 're goin' to act stubborn to me!" her father incredulously exclaimed, and the woman at the table turned and stared in dull amazement at this unheard-of defiance of the head of the family. "tillie!" he grasped her roughly by the arm and shook her. "answer to me!" tillie's chest rose and fell tumultuously. bat she kept her eyes downcast and her lips closed. "fur why don't you want to tell, then?" "i--can't, pop!" "can't! if you wasn't sick i 'd soon learn you if you can't! now you might as well tell me right aways, fur i'll make you tell me some time!" tillie's lips quivered and the tears rolled slowly over her white cheeks. "fur why did you say it was elviny?" "she was the only person i thought to say." "but fur why didn't you say the person it was? answer to me!" he commanded. tillie curved her arm over her face and sobbed. she was still too weak from her fever to bear the strain of this unequal contest of wills. "well," concluded her father, his anger baffled and impotent before the child's weakness, "i won't bother you with it no more now. but you just wait till you 're well oncet! we'll see then if you'll tell me what i ast you or no!" "here's the doc," announced mrs. getz, as the sound of wheels was heard outside the gate. "well," her husband said indignantly as he rose and went to the door, "i just wonder what he's got to say fur hisself, lyin' to me like what he done!" "hello, jake!" was the doctor's breezy greeting as he walked into the kitchen, followed by a brood of curious little getzes, to whom the doctor's daily visits were an exciting episode. "howdy-do, missus," he briskly addressed the mother of the brood, pushing his hat to the back of his head in lieu of raising it. "and how's the patient?" he inquired with a suddenly professional air and tone. "some better, heh? heh? been cryin'! what fur?" he demanded, turning to mr. getz. "say, jake, you ain't been badgerin' this kid again fur somepin? she'll be havin' a relapse if you don't leave her be!" "it's you i'm wantin' to badger, doc weaver!" retorted mr. getz. "what fur did you lie to me about that there piece entitled 'iwanhoe'?" "you and your 'iwanhoe' be blowed! are you tormentin' this here kid about that yet? a body'd think you'd want to change that subjec', jake getz!" "not till i find from you, doc, whose that there novel-book was, and why you tole me it was elviny dinkleberger's!" "that's easy tole," responded the doctor. "that there book belonged to--" "no, doc, no, no!" came a pleading cry from tillie. "don't tell, doc, please don't tell!" "never you mind, tillie, that's all right. look here, jake getz!" the doctor turned his sharp little eyes upon the face of the father grown dark with anger at his child's undutiful interference. "you're got this here little girl worked up to the werge of a relapse! i tole you she must be kep' quiet and not worked up still!" "all right. i'm leavin' her alone--till she's well oncet! you just answer fur yourself and tell why you lied to me!" "well, jake, it was this here way. that there book belonged to me and tillie lent it off of me. that's how! ain't tillie?" mr. getz stared in stupefied wonder, while mrs. getz, too, looked on with a dull interest, as she leaned her back against the sink and dried her hands upon her apron. as for tillie, a great throb of relief thrilled through her as she heard the doctor utter this napoleonic lie--only to be followed the next instant by an overwhelming sense of her own wickedness in thus conniving with fraud. abysses of iniquity seemed to yawn at her feet, and she gazed with horror into their black depths. how could she ever again hold up her head. but--miss margaret, at least, was safe from the school board's wrath and indignation, and how unimportant, compared with that, was her own soul's salvation! "why didn't tillie say it was yourn?" mr. getz presently found voice to ask. "i tole her if she left it get put out i am addicted to novel readin'," said the doctor glibly, and with evident relish, "it might spoil my practice some. and tillie she's that kind-hearted she was sorry far me!" "and so you put her up to say it was elviny's! you put her up to tell lies to her pop!" "well, i never thought you 'd foller it up any, jake, and try to get elviny into trouble." "doc, i always knowed you was a blasphemer and that you didn't have no religion. but i thought you had anyhow morals. and i didn't think, now, you was a coward that way, to get behind a child and lie out of your own evil deeds!" "i'm that much a coward and a blasphemer, jake, that i 'm goin' to add the cost of that there book of mine where you burnt up, to your doctor's bill, unlest you pass me your promise you 'll drop this here subjec' and not bother tillie with it no more." the doctor had driven his victim into a corner. to yield a point in family discipline or to pay the price of the property he had destroyed--one of the two he must do. it was a most untoward predicament for jacob getz. "you had no right to lend that there book to tillie, doc, and i ain't payin' you a cent fur it!" he maintained. "i jus' mean, jake, i 'll make out my bill easy or stiff accordin' to the way you pass your promise." "if my word was no more better 'n yours, doe, my passin' my promise wouldn't help much!" "that's all right, jake. i don't set up to be religious and moral. i ain't sayed my prayers since i am old enough a'ready to know how likely i was, still, to kneel on a tack!" "it's no wonder you was put off of church!" was the biting retort. "hold up there, jake. i wasn't put off. i went off. i took myself off of church before the brethren had a chanct to put me off." "sammy!" mr. getz suddenly and sharply admonished his little son, who was sharpening his slate-pencil on the window-sill with a table-knife, "you stop right aways sharpenin' that pencil! you dassent sharpen your slate-pencils, do you hear? it wastes 'em so!" sammy hastily laid down the knife and thrust the pencil into his pocket. mr. getz turned again to the doctor and inquired irritably, "what is it to you if i teach my own child to mind me or not, i'd like to know?" "because she's been bothered into a sickness with this here thing a'ready, and it 's time it stopped now!" "it was you started it, leavin' her lend the book off of you!" "that's why i feel fur sparin' her some more trouble, seein' i was the instrument in the hands of providence fur gettin' her into all this here mess. see?" "i can't be sure when to know if you're lyin' or not," said mr. getz helplessly. "mebbe you can't, jake. sometimes i'm swangfid if i'm sure, still, myself. but there's one thing you kin be cocksure of--and that's a big doctor-bill unlest you do what i sayed." "now that i know who she lent the book off of there ain't nothin' to bother her about," sullenly granted mr. getz. "and as fur punishment--she's had punishment a-plenty, i guess, in her bein' so sick." "all right," the doctor said magnanimously. "there's one thing i 'll give you, jake: you're a man of your word, if you are a dutch hog!" "a--whatever?" mr. getz angrily demanded. "and i don't see," the doctor complacently continued, rising and pulling his hat down to his eyebrows, preparatory to leaving, "where tillie gets her fibbin' from. certainly not from her pop." "i don't mind her ever tellin' me no lie before." "och, jake, you drive your children to lie to you, the way you bring 'em up to be afraid of you. they got to lie, now and again, to a feller like you! well, well," he soothingly added as he saw the black look in the father's face at the airing of such views in the presence of his children, "never mind, jake, it 's all in the day's work!" he turned for a parting glance at tillie. "she 's better. she 'll be well till a day or two, now, and back to school--if she's kep' quiet, and her mind ain't bothered any. now, good-by to yous." vii "the last day of pump-eye" for a long time after her unhappy experiences with "ivanhoe" tillie did not again venture to transgress against her father's prohibition of novels. but her fear of the family strap, although great, did not equal the keenness of her mental hunger, and was not sufficient, therefore, to put a permanent check upon her secret midnight reading, though it did lead her to take every precaution against detection. miss margaret continued to lend her books and magazines from time to time, and in spite of the child's reluctance to risk involving the teacher in trouble with the school board through her father, she accepted them. and so during all this winter, through her love for books and her passionate devotion to her teacher, the little girl reveled in feasts of fancy and emotion and this term at school was the first season of real happiness her young life had ever known. once on her return from school the weight of a heavy volume had proved too great a strain on her worn and thin undergarment during the long walk home; the skirt had torn away from the band, and as she entered the kitchen, her stepmother discovered the book. tillie pleaded with her not to tell her father, and perhaps she might have succeeded in gaining a promise of secrecy had it not happened that just at the critical moment her father walked into the kitchen. of course, then the book was handed over to him, and tillie with it. "did you lend this off the doc again?" her father sternly demanded, the fated book in one hand and tillie's shoulder grasped in the other. tillie hated to utter the lie. she hoped she had modified her wickedness a bit by answering with a nod of her head. "what's he mean, throwin' away so much money on books?" mr. getz took time in his anger to wonder. he read the title, "'last days of pump-eye.' well!" he exclaimed, "this here's the last hour of this here 'pump-eye'! in the stove she goes! i don't owe the doc no doctor's bill now, and i'd like to see him make me pay him fur these here novels he leaves you lend off of him!" "please, please, pop!" tillie gasped, "don't burn it. give it back to--him! i won't read it--i won't bring home no more books of--hisn! only, please, pop, don't burn it--please!" for answer, he drew her with him as he strode to the fireplace. "i'm burnin' every book you bring home, do you hear?" he exclaimed; but before he could make good his words, the kitchen door was suddenly opened, and sammy's head was poked in, with the announcement, "the doc's buggy's comin' up the road!" the door banged shut again, but instantly tillie wrenched her shoulder free from her father's hand, flew out of doors and dashed across the "yard" to the front gate. her father's voice followed her, calling to her from the porch to "come right aways back here!" unheeding, she frantically waved to the doctor in his approaching buggy. sammy, with a bevy of small brothers and sisters, to whom, no less than to their parents, the passing of a "team" was an event not to be missed, were all crowded close to the fence. "some one sick again?" inquired the doctor as he drew up at tillie's side. "no, doc--but," tillie could hardly get her breath to speak, "pop's goin' to burn up 'last days of pompeii'; it's miss margaret's, and he thinks it's yourn; come in and take it, doc--please--and give it back to miss margaret, won't you?" "sure!" the doctor was out of his buggy at her side in an instant. "oh!" breathed tillie, "here's pop comin' with the book!" "see me fix him!" chuckled the doctor. "he's so dumm he'll b'lee' most anything. if i have much more dealin's with your pop, tillie, i'll be ketchin' on to how them novels is got up myself. and then mebbe i'll let doctorin', and go to novel-writin'!" the doctor laughed with relish of his own joke, as mr. getz, grim with anger, stalked up to the buggy. "look-ahere!" his voice was menacing as he held out the open book for tillie's inspection, and the child turned cold as she read on the fly-leaf, "margaret lind. "from a. c. l. christmas, --" "you sayed the doc give it to you! did you lend that other 'n' off of teacher too? answer to me! i'll have her chased off of william penn! i'll bring it up at next board meetin'!" "hold your whiskers, jake, or they'll blow off! you're talkin' through your hat! don't be so dumm! teacher she gev me that there book because she passed me her opinion she don't stand by novel-readin'. she was goin' to throw out that there book and i says i'd take it if she didn't want it. so then i left tillie borrow the loan of it." "so that's how you come by it, is it?" mr. getz eyed the doctor with suspicion. "how did you come by that there 'iwanhoe'?" "that there i bought at the second-hand book-store in there at lancaster one time. i ain't just so much fur books, but now and again i like to buy one too, when i see 'em cheap." "well, here!" mr. getz tossed the book into tie buggy. "take your old 'pump-eye.' and clear out. if i can't make you stop tryin' to spoil my child fur me, i can anyways learn her what she'll get oncet, if she don't mind!" again his hand grasped tillie's shoulder as he turned her about to take her into the house. "you better watch out, jake getz, or you 'll have another doctor's bill to pay!" the doctor warningly called after him. "that girl of yourn ain't strong enough to stand your rough handlin', and you'll find it out some day--to your regret! you'd better go round back and let off your feelin's choppin' wood fur missus, stead of hittin' that little girl, you big dopple!" mr. getz stalked on without deigning to reply, thrusting tillie ahead of him. the doctor jumped into his buggy and drove off. his warning, however, was not wholly lost upon the father. tillie's recent illness had awakened remorse for the severe punishment he had given her on the eve of it; and it had also touched his purse; and so, though she did not escape punishment for this second and, therefore, aggravated offense, it was meted out in stinted measure. and indeed, in her relief and thankfulness at again saving miss margaret, the child scarcely felt the few light blows which, in order that parental authority be maintained, her father forced himself to inflict upon her. in spite of these mishaps, however, tillie continued to devour all the books she could lay hold of and to run perilous risks for the sake of the delight she found in them. miss margaret stood to her for an image of every heroine of whom she read in prose or verse, and for the realization of all the romantic day-dreams in which, as an escape from the joyless and sordid life of her home, she was learning to live and move and have her being. therefore it came to her as a heavy blow indeed when, just after the christmas holidays, her father announced to her on the first morning of the reopening of school, "you best make good use of your time from now on, tillie, fur next spring i'm takin' you out of school." tillie's face turned white, and her heart thumped in her breast so that she could not speak. "you're comin' twelve year old," her father continued, "and you're enough educated, now, to do you. me and mom needs you at home." it never occurred to tillie to question or discuss a decision of her father's. when he spoke it was a finality and one might as well rebel at the falling of the snow or rain. tillie's woe was utterly hopeless. her dreary, drooping aspect in the next few days was noticed by miss margaret. "pop's takin' me out of school next spring," she heart-brokenly said when questioned. "and when i can't see you every day, miss margaret, i won't feel for nothin' no more. and i thought to get more educated than what i am yet. i thought to go to school till i was anyways fourteen." so keenly did miss margaret feel the outrage and wrong of tillie's arrested education, when her father could well afford to keep her in school until she was grown, if he would; so stirred was her warm southern blood at the thought of the fate to which poor tillie seemed doomed--the fate of a household drudge with not a moment's leisure from sunrise to night for a thought above the grubbing existence of a domestic beast of burden (thus it all looked to this woman from kentucky), that she determined, cost what it might, to go herself to appeal to mr. getz. "he will have me 'chased off of william penn,'" she ruefully told herself. "and the loss just now of my munificent salary of thirty-five dollars a month would be inconvenient. 'the doc' said he would 'stand by' me. but that might be more inconvenient still!" she thought, with a little shudder. "i suppose this is an impolitic step for me to take. but policy 'be blowed,' as the doctor would say! what are we in this world for but to help one another? i must try to help little tillie--bless her!" so the following monday afternoon after school, found miss margaret, in a not very complacent or confident frame of mind, walking with tillie and her younger brother and sister out over the snow-covered road to the getz farm to face the redoubtable head of the family. viii miss margaret's errand it was half-past four o'clock when they reached the farm-house, and they found the weary, dreary mother of the family cleaning fish at the kitchen sink, one baby pulling at her skirts, another sprawling on the floor at her feet. miss margaret inquired whether she might see mr. getz. "if you kin? yes, i guess," mrs. getz dully responded. "sammy, you go to the barn and tell pop teacher's here and wants to speak somepin to him. mister's out back," she explained to miss margaret, "choppin' wood." sammy departed, and miss margaret sat down in the chair which tillie brought to her. mrs. getz went on with her work at the sink, while tillie set to work at once on a crock of potatoes waiting to be pared. "you are getting supper very early, aren't you?' miss margaret asked, with a friendly attempt to make conversation. "no, we're some late. and i don't get it ready yet, i just start it. we're getting strangers fur supper." "are you?" "yes. some of mister's folks from east bethel." "and are they strangers to you?" mrs. getz paused in her scraping of the fish to consider the question. "if they're strangers to us? och, no. we knowed them this long time a'ready. us we're well acquainted. but to be sure they don't live with us, so we say strangers is comin'. you don't talk like us; ain't?" "n--not exactly." "i do think now (you must excuse me sayin' so) but you do talk awful funny," mrs. getz smiled feebly. "i suppose i do," miss margaret sympathetically replied. mr. getz now came into the room, and miss margaret rose to greet him. "i'm much obliged to meet you," he said awkwardly as he shook hands with her. he glanced at the clock on the mantel, then turned to speak to tillie. "are yous home long a'ready?" he inquired. "not so very long," tillie answered with an apprehensive glance at the clock. "you're some late," he said, with a threatening little nod as he drew up a chair in front of the teacher. "it's my fault," miss margaret hastened to say, "i made the children wait to bring me out here." "well," conceded mr. getz, "then we'll leave it go this time." miss margaret now bent her mind to the difficult task of persuading this stubborn pennsylvania dutchman to accept her views as to what was for the highest and best good of his daughter. eloquently she pointed out to him that tillie being a child of unusual ability, it would be much better for her to have an education than to be forced to spend her days in farm-house drudgery. but her point of view, being entirely novel, did not at all appeal to him. "i never thought to leave her go to school after she was twelve. that's long enough fur a girl; a female don't need much book-knowledge. it don't help her none to keep house fur her mister." "but she could become a teacher and then she could earn money," miss margaret argued, knowing the force of this point with mr. getz. "but look at all them years she'd have to spend learnin' herself to be intelligent enough fur to be a teacher, when she might be helpin' me and mom." "but she could help you by paying board here when she becomes the new canaan teacher." "that's so too," granted mr. getz; and margaret grew faintly hopeful. "but," he added, after a moment's heavy weighing of the matter, "it would take too long to get her enough educated fur to be a teacher, and i'm one of them," he maintained, "that holds a child is born to help the parent, and not contrarywise--that the parent must do everything fur the child that way." "if you love your children, you must wish for their highest good," she suggested, "and not trample on their best interests." "but they have the right to work for their parents," he insisted. "you needn't plague me to leave tillie stay in school, teacher. i ain't leavin' her!" "do you think you have a right to bring children into the world only to crush everything in them that is worth while?" margaret dared to say to him, her face flushed, her eyes bright with the intensity of her feelings. "that's all blamed foolishness!" jake getz affirmed. "do you think that your daughter, when she is grown and realizes all that she has lost, will 'rise up and call you blessed'?" she persisted. "do i think? well, what i think is that it's a good bit more particular that till she's growed she's been learnt to work and serve them that raised her. and what i think is that a person ain't fit to be a teacher of the young that sides along with the childern ag'in' their parents." miss margaret felt that it was time she took her leave. "look-ahere oncet, teacher!" mr. getz suddenly said, fixing on her a suspicious and searching look, "do you uphold to novel-readin'?" miss margaret hesitated perceptibly. she must shield tillie even more than herself. "what a question to ask of the teacher at william penn!" she gravely answered. "i know it ain't such a wery polite question," returned mr. getz, half apologetically. "but the way you side along with childern ag'in' their parents suspicions me that the doc was lyin' when he sayed them novel-books was hisn. now was they hisn or was they yourn?" miss margaret rose with a look and air of injury. "'mr. getz, no one ever before asked me such questions. indeed," she said, in a tone of virtuous primness, "i can't answer such questions." "all the same," sullenly asserted mr. getz, "i wouldn't put it a-past you after the way you passed your opinion to me this after!" "i must be going," returned miss margaret with dignity. mrs. getz came forward from the stove with a look and manner of apology for her husband's rudeness to the visitor. "what's your hurry? can't you stay and eat along? we're not anyways tired of you." "thank you. but they will be waiting for me at the hotel," said miss margaret gently. tillie, a bit frightened, also hovered near, her wistful little face pale. miss margaret drew her to her and held her at her side, as she looked up into the face of mr. getz. "i am very, very sorry, mr. getz, that my visit has proved so fruitless. you don't realize what a mistake you are making." "that ain't the way a teacher had ought to talk before a scholar to its parent!" indignantly retorted mr. getz. "and i'm pretty near sure it was all the time you where lent them books to tillie--corruptin' the young! i can tell you right now, i ain't votin' fur you at next election! and the way i wote is the way two other members always wotes still--and so you'll lose your job at william penn! that's what you get fur tryin' to interfere between a parent and a scholar! i hope it'll learn you!" "and when is the next election?" imperturbably asked miss margaret. "next month on the twenty-fifth of february. then you'll see oncet!" "according to the terms of my agreement with the board i hold my position until the first of april unless the board can show reasons why it should be taken from me. what reasons can you show?" "that you side along with the--" "that i try to persuade you not to take your child out of school when you can well afford to keep her there. that's what you have to tell the board." mr. getz stared at her, rather baffled. the children also stared in wide-eyed curiosity, realizing with wonder that teacher was "talkin' up to pop!" it was a novel and interesting spectacle. "well, anyways," continued mr. getz, rallying, "i'll bring it up in board meeting that you mebbe leave the scholars borry the loan of novels off of you." "but you can't prove it. i shall hold the board to their contract. they can't break it." miss margaret was taking very high ground, of which, in fact, she was not at all sure. mr. getz gazed at her with mingled anger and fascination. here was certainly a new species of woman! never before had any teacher at william penn failed to cringe to his authority as a director. "this much i kin say," he finally declared. "mebbe you kin hold us to that there contract, but you won't, anyways, be elected to come back here next term! that's sure! you'll have to look out fur another place till september a'ready. and we won't give you no recommend, neither, to get yourself another school with!" just here it was that miss margaret had her triumph, which she was quite human enough to thoroughly enjoy. "you won't have a chance to reelect me, for i am going to resign at the end of the term. i am going to be married the week after school closes." never had mr. getz felt himself so foiled. never before had any one subject in any degree to his authority so neatly eluded a reckoning at his hands. a tingling sensation ran along his arm and he had to restrain his impulse to lift it, grasp this slender creature standing so fearlessly before him, and thoroughly shake her. "who's the party?" asked mrs. getz, curiously. "it never got put out that you was promised. i ain't heard you had any steady comp'ny. to be sure, some says the doc likes you pretty good. is it now, mebbe, the doc? but no," she shook her head; "mister's sister em at the hotel would have tole me. is it some one where lives around here?" "i don't mind telling you," miss margaret graciously answered, realizing that her reply would greatly increase mr. getz's sense of defeat. "it is mr. lansing, a nephew of the state superintendent of schools and a professor at the millersville normal school." "well, now just look!" mrs. getz exclaimed wonderingly. "such a tony party! the state superintendent's nephew! that's even a more way-up person than what the county superintendent is! ain't? well, who'd 'a' thought!" "miss margaret!" tillie breathed, gazing up at her, her eyes wide and strained with distress, "if you go away and get married, won't i never see you no more?" "but, dear, i shall live so near--at the normal school only a few miles away. you can come to see me often." "but pop won't leave me, miss margaret--it costs too expensive to go wisiting, and i got to help with the work, still. o miss margaret!" tillie sobbed, as margaret sat down and held the clinging child to her, "i'll never see you no more after you go away!" "tillie, dear!" margaret tried to soothe her. "i 'll come to see you, then, if you can't come to see me. listen, tillie,--i've just thought of something." suddenly she put the little girl from her and stood up. "let me take tillie to live with me next fall at the normal school. won't you do that, mr. getz!" she urged him. "she could go to the preparatory school, and if we stay at millersville, dr. lansing and i would try to have her go through the normal school and graduate. will you consent to it, mr. getz?" "and who'd be payin' fur all this here?" mr. getz ironically inquired. "tillie could earn her own way as my little maid--helping me keep my few rooms in the normal school building and doing my mending and darning for me. and you know after she was graduated she could earn her living as a teacher." margaret saw the look of feverish eagerness with which tillie heard this proposal and awaited the outcome. before her husband could answer, mrs. getz offered a weak protest. "i hear the girls hired in town have to set away back in the kitchen and never dare set front--always away back, still. tillie wouldn't like that. nobody would." "but i shall live in a small suite of rooms at the school--a library, a bedroom, a bath-room, and a small room next to mine that can be tillie's bedroom. we shall take our meals in the school dining-room." "well, that mebbe she wouldn't mind. but 'way back she wouldn't be satisfied to set. that's why the country girls don't like to hire in town, because they dassent set front with the missus. here last market-day sophy haberbush she conceited she'd like oncet to hire out in town, and she ast me would i go with her after market to see a lady that advertised in the newspaper fur a girl, and i sayed no, i wouldn't mind. so i went along. but sophy she wouldn't take the place fur all. she ast the lady could she have her country company, sundays--he was her company fur four years now and she wouldn't like to give him up neither. she tole the lady her company goes, still, as early as eleven. but the lady sayed her house must be darkened and locked at half-past ten a'ready. she ast me was i sophy's mother and i sayed no, i'm nothin' to her but a neighbor woman. and she tole sophy, when they eat, still, sophy she couldn't eat along. i guess she thought sophy haberbush wasn't good enough. but she's as good as any person. her mother's name is smith before she was married, and them smiths was well fixed. she sayed sophy'd have to go in and out the back way and never out the front. why, they say some of the town people's that proud, if the front door-bell rings and the missus is standin' right there by it, she won't open that there front door but wants her hired girl to come clear from the kitchen to open it. yes, you mightn't b'lee me, but i heerd that a'ready. and mary hertzog she tole me when she hired out there fur a while one winter in town, why, one day she went to the missus and she says, 'there's two ladies in the parlor and i tole 'em you was helpin' in the kitchen,' and the missus she ast her, 'what fur did you tell 'em that? why, i'm that ashamed i don't know how to walk in the parlor!' and mary she ast the colored gentleman that worked there, what, now, did the missus mean?--and he sayed, 'well, mary, you've a heap to learn about the laws of society. don't you know you must always leave on the ladies ain't doin' nothin'?' mary sayed that colored gentleman was so wonderful intelligent that way. he'd been a restaurant waiter there fur a while and so was throwed in with the best people, and he was, now, that tony and high-minded! och, i wouldn't hire in town! to be sure, mister can do what he wants. well," she added, "it's a quarter till five--i guess i'll put the peppermint on a while. mister's folks'll be here till five." she moved away to the stove, and margaret resumed her assault upon the stubborn ignorance of the father. "think, mr. getz, what a difference all this would make in tillie's life," she urged. "and you'd be learnin' her all them years to up and sass her pop when she was growed and earnin' her own livin'!" he objected. "i certainly would not." "and all them years till she graduated she'd be no use to us where owns her," he said, as though his child were an item of live stock on the farm. "she could come home to you in the summer vacations," margaret suggested. "yes, and she'd come that spoilt we couldn't get no work out of her. no, if i hire her out winters, it'll be where i kin draw her wages myself--where's my right as her parent. what does a body have childern fur? to get no use out of 'em? it ain't no good you're plaguin' me. i ain't leavin' her go. tillie!" he commanded the child with a twirl of his thumb and a motion of his head; "go set the supper-table!" margaret laid her arm about tillie's shoulder. "well, dear," she said sorrowfully, "we must give it all up, i suppose. but don't lose heart, tillie. i shall not go out of your life. at least we can write to each other. now," she concluded, bending and kissing her, "i must go, but you and i shall have some talks before you stop school, and before i go away from new canaan." she pressed her lips to tillie's in a long kiss, while the child clung to her in passionate devotion. mr. getz looked on with dull bewilderment. he knew, in a vague way, that every word the teacher spoke to the child, no less than those useless caresses, was "siding along with the scholar ag'in' the parent," and yet he could not definitely have stated just how. he was quite sure that she would not dare so to defy him did she not know that she had the whip-handle in the fact that she did not want her "job" next year, and that the board could not, except for definite offenses, break their contract with her. it was only in view of these considerations that she played her game of "plaguing" him by championing tillie. jacob getz was incapable of recognizing in the teacher's attitude toward his child an unselfish interest and love. so, in dogged, sullen silence, he saw this extraordinary young woman take her leave and pass out of his house. ix "i'll do my darn best, teacher!" it soon "got put out" in new canaan that miss margaret was "promised," and the doctor was surprised to find how much the news depressed him. "i didn't know, now, how much i was stuck on her! to think i can't have her even if i do want her" (up to this time he had had moments now and then of not feeling absolutely sure of his inclination), "and that she's promised to one of them tony millersville normal professors! if it don't beat all! well," he drew a long, deep sigh as, lounging back in his buggy, he let his horse jog at his own gait along the muddy country road, "i jus' don't feel fur nothin' to-day. she was now certainly a sweet lady," he thought pensively, as though alluding to one who had died. "if there's one sek i do now like, it's the female--and she was certainly a nice party!" in the course of her career at william penn, miss margaret had developed such a genuine fondness for the shaggy, good-natured, generous, and unscrupulous little doctor, that before she abandoned her post at the end of the term, and shook the dust of new canaan from her feet, she took him into her confidence and begged him to take care of tillie. "she is an uncommon child, doctor, and she must--i am determined that she must--be rescued from the life to which that father of hers would condemn her. you must help me to bring it about." "nothin' i like better, teacher, than gettin' ahead of jake getz," the doctor readily agreed. "or obligin' you. to tell you the truth,--and it don't do no harm to say it now,--if you hadn't been promised, i was a-goin' to ast you myself! you took notice i gave you an inwitation there last week to go buggy-ridin' with me. that was leadin' up to it. after that sunday night you left me set up with you, i never conceited you was promised a'ready to somebody else--and you even left me set with my feet on your chair-rounds!" the doctor's tone was a bit injured. "am i to understand," inquired miss margaret, wonderingly, "that the permission to sit with one's feet on the rounds of a lady's chair is taken in new canaan as an indication of her favor--and even of her inclination to matrimony?" "it's looked to as meanin' gettin' down to biz!" the doctor affirmed. "then," meekly, "i humbly apologize." "that's all right," generously granted the doctor, "if you didn't know no better. but to be sure, i'm some disappointed." "i'm sorry for that!" "would you of mebbe said yes, if you hadn't of been promised a'ready to one of them tony millersville normal professors," the doctor inquired curiously--"me bein' a professional gentleman that way?" "i'm sure," replied this daughter of eve, who wished to use the doctor in her plans for tillie, "i should have been highly honored." the rueful, injured look on the doctor's face cleared to flattered complacency. "well," he said, "i'd like wery well to do what you ast off of me fur little tillie getz. but, teacher, what can a body do against a feller like jake getz? a body can't come between a man and his own offspring." "i know it," replied margaret, sadly. "but just keep a little watch over tillie and help her whenever you see that you can. won't you? promise me that you will. you have several times helped her out of trouble this winter. there may be other similar opportunities. between us, doctor, we may be able to make something of tillie." the doctor shook his head. "i'll do my darn best, teacher, but jake getz he's that wonderful set. a little girl like tillie couldn't never make no headway with jake getz standin' in her road. but anyways, teacher, i pass you my promise i'll do what i can." miss margaret's parting advice and promises to tillie so fired the girl's ambition and determination that some of the sting and anguish of parting from her who stood to the child for all the mother-love that her life had missed, was taken away in the burning purpose with which she found herself imbued, to bend her every thought and act in all the years to come to the reaching of that glorious goal which her idolized teacher set before her. "as soon as you are old enough," miss margaret admonished her, "you must assert yourself. take your rights--your right to an education, to some girlish pleasures, to a little liberty. no matter what you have to suffer in the struggle, fight it out, for you will suffer more in the end if you let yourself be defrauded of everything which makes it worth while to have been born. don't let yourself be sacrificed for those who not only will never appreciate it, but who will never be worth it. i think i do you no harm by telling you that you are worth all the rest of your family put together. the self-sacrifice which pampers the selfishness of others is not creditable. it is weak. it is unworthy. remember what i say to you--make a fight for your rights, just as soon as you are old enough--your right to be a woman instead of a chattel and a drudge. and meantime, make up for your rebellion by being as obedient and helpful and affectionate to your parents as you can be, without destroying yourself." such sentiments and ideas were almost a foreign language to tillie, and yet, intuitively, she understood the import of them. in her loneliness, after miss margaret's departure, she treasured and brooded over them day and night; and very much as the primitive christian courted martyrdom, her mind dwelt, with ever-growing resolution, upon the thought of the heroic courage with which, in the years to come, she would surely obey them. miss margaret had promised tillie that she would write to her, and the child, overlooking the serious difficulties in the way, had eagerly promised in return, to answer her letters. once a week mr. getz called for mail at the village store, and miss margaret's first letter was laboriously read by him on his way out to the farm. he found it, on the whole, uninteresting, but he vaguely gathered from one or two sentences that the teacher, even at the distance of five miles, was still trying to "plague" him by "siding along with his child ag'in' her parent." "see here oncet," he said to tillie, striding to the kitchen stove on his return home, the letter in his hand: "this here goes after them novel-books, in the fire! i ain't leavin' that there woman spoil you with no such letters like this here. now you know!" the gleam of actual wickedness in tillie's usually soft eyes, as she saw that longed-for letter tossed into the flames, would have startled her father had he seen it. the girl trembled from head to foot and turned a deathly white. "i hate you, hate you, hate you!" her hot heart was saying as she literally glared at her tormentor. "i'll never forget this--never, never; i'll make you suffer for it--i will, i will!" but her white lips were dumb, and her impotent passion, having no other outlet, could only tear and bruise her own heart as all the long morning she worked in a blind fury at her household tasks. but after dinner she did an unheard-of thing. without asking permission, or giving any explanation to either her father or her stepmother, she deliberately abandoned her usual saturday afternoon work of cleaning up (she said to herself that she did not care if the house rotted), and dressing herself, she walked straight through the kitchen before her stepmother's very eyes, and out of the house. her father was out in the fields when she undertook this high-handed step; and her mother was so dumb with amazement at such unusual behavior that she offered but a weak protest. "what'll pop say to your doin' somepin like this here!" she called querulously after tillie as she followed her across the kitchen to the door. "he'll whip you, tillie; and here's all the sweepin' to be did--" there was a strange gleam in tillie's eyes before which the woman shrank and held her peace. the girl swept past her, almost walked over several of the children sprawling on the porch, and went out of the gate and up the road toward the village. "what's the matter of her anyways?" the woman wonderingly said to herself as she went back to her work. "is it that she's so spited about that letter pop burnt up? but what's a letter to get spited about? there was enough worse things'n that that she took off her pop without actin' like this. och, but he'll whip her if he gets in here before she comes back. where's she goin' to, i wonder! well, i never did! i would not be her if her pop finds how she went off and let her work! i wonder shall i mebbe tell him on her or not, if he don't get in till she's home a'ready?" she meditated upon this problem of domestic economy as she mechanically did her chores, her reflections on tillie taking an unfriendly color as she felt the weight of her stepdaughter's abandoned tasks added to the already heavy burden of her own. it was to see the doctor that tillie had set out for the village hotel. he was the only person in all her little world to whom she felt she could turn for help in her suffering. her "aunty em," the landlady at the hotel, was, she knew, very fond of her; but tillie never thought of appealing to her in her trouble. "i never thought when i promised miss margaret i'd write to her still where i'd get the stamps from, and the paper and envelops," tillie explained to the doctor as they sat in confidential consultation in the hotel parlor, the child's white face of distress a challenge to his faithful remembrance of his promise to the teacher. "and now i got to find some way to let her know i didn't see her letter to me. doc, will you write and tell her for me?" she pleaded. "my hand-writin' ain't just so plain that way, tillie. but i'll give you all the paper and envelops and stamps you want to write on yourself to her." "oh, doc!" tillie gazed at him in fervent gratitude. "but mebbe i hadn't ought to take 'em when i can't pay you." "that's all right. if it'll make you feel some easier, you kin pay me when you're growed up and teachin'. your miss margaret she's bound to make a teacher out of you--or anyways a educated person. and then you kin pay me when you're got your nice education to make your livin' with." "that's what we'll do then!" tillie joyfully accepted this proposal. "i'll keep account and pay you back every cent, doc, when i'm earnin' my own livin'." "all right. that's settled then. now, fur your gettin' your letters, still, from teacher. how are we goin' to work that there? i'll tell you, tillie!" he slapped the table as an idea came to him. "you write her off a letter and tell her she must write her letters to you in a envelop directed to me. and i'll see as you get 'em all right, you bet! ain't?" "oh, doc!" tillie was affectionately grateful. "you are so kind to me! what would i do without you?" tears choked her voice, filled her eyes, and rolled down her face. "och, that's all right," he patted her shoulder. "ain't no better fun goin' fur me than gettin' ahead of that mean old jake getz!" tillie drew back a bit shocked; but she did not protest. carrying in her bosom a stamped envelop, a sheet of paper and a pencil, the child walked home in a very different frame of mind from that in which she had started out. she shuddered as she remembered how wickedly rebellious had been her mood that morning. never before had such hot and dreadful feelings and thoughts burned in her heart and brain. in an undefined way, the growing girl realized that such a state of mind and heart was unworthy her sacred friendship with miss margaret. "i want to be like her--and she was never ugly in her feelings like what i was all morning!" when she reached home, she so effectually made up for lost time in the vigor with which she attacked the saturday cleaning that mrs. getz, with unusual forbearance, decided not to tell her father of her insubordination. tillie wrote her first letter to miss margaret, ty stealth, at midnight. x adam schunk's funeral a crucial struggle with her father, to which both tillie and miss margaret had fearfully looked forward, came about much sooner than tillie had anticipated. the occasion of it, too, was not at all what she had expected and even planned it to be. it was her conversion, just a year after she had been taken out of school, to the ascetic faith of the new mennonites that precipitated the crisis, this conversion being wrought by a sermon which she heard at the funeral of a neighboring farmer. a funeral among the farmers of lancaster county is a festive occasion, the most popular form of dissipation known, bringing the whole population forth as in some regions they turn out to a circus. adam schank's death, having been caused by his own hand in a fit of despair over the loss of some money he had unsuccessfully invested, was so sudden and shocking that the effect produced on canaan township was profound, not to say awful. as for tillie, it was the first event of the kind that had ever come within her experience, and the religious sentiments in which she had been reared aroused in her, in common with the rest of the community, a superstitious fear before this sudden and solemn calling to judgment of one whom they had all known so familiarly, and who had so wickedly taken his own life. during the funeral at the farm-house, she sat in the crowded parlor where the coffin stood, and though surrounded by people, she felt strangely alone with this weird mystery of death which for the first time she was realizing. her mother was in the kitchen with the other farmers' wives of the neighborhood who were helping to prepare the immense quantity of food necessary to feed the large crowd that always attended a funeral, every one of whom, by the etiquette of the county, remained to supper after the services. her father, being among the hired hostlers of the occasion, was outside in the barn. mr. getz was head hostler at every funeral of the district, being detailed to assist and superintend the work of the other half dozen men employed to take charge of the "teams" that belonged to the funeral guests, who came in families, companies, and crowds. that so well-to-do a farmer as jake getz, one who owned his farm "clear," should make a practice of hiring out as a funeral hostler, with the humbler farmers who only rented the land they tilled, was one of the facts which gave him his reputation for being "keen on the penny." adam schunk, deceased, had been an "evangelical," but his wife being a new mennonite, a sect largely prevailing in southeastern pennsylvania, the funeral services were conducted by two ministers, one of them a new mennonite and the other an evangelical. it was the sermon of the new mennonite that led to tillie's conversion. the new mennonites being the most puritanic and exclusive of all sects, earnestly regarding themselves as the custodians of the only absolutely true light, their ministers insist on certain prerogatives as the condition of giving their services at a funeral. a new mennonite preacher will not consent to preach after a "world's preacher"--he must have first voice. it was therefore the somber doctrine of fear preached by the reverend brother abram underwocht which did its work upon tillie's conscience so completely that the gentler gospel set forth afterward by the evangelical brother was scarcely heeded. the reverend brother abram underwocht, in the "plain" garb of the mennonite sect, took his place at the foot of the stairway opening out of the sitting-room, and gave expression to his own profound sense of the solemnity of the occasion by a question introductory to his sermon, and asked in a tone of heavy import: "if this ain't a blow, what is it?" handkerchiefs were promptly produced and agitated faces hidden therein. why this was a "blow" of more than usual force, brother underwocht proceeded to explain in a blood-curdling talk of more than an hour's length, in which he set forth the new mennonite doctrine that none outside of the only true faith of christ, as held and taught by the new mennonites, could be saved from the fire which cannot be quenched. with the heroism born of deep conviction, he stoically disregarded the feelings of the bereaved family, and affirmed that the deceased having belonged to one of "the world's churches," no hope could be entertained for him, nor could his grieving widow look forward to meeting him again in the heavenly home to which she, a saved new mennonite, was destined. taking advantage of the fact that at least one third of those present were non-mennonites, brother underwoeht followed the usual course of the preachers of his sect on such an occasion, and made of his funeral sermon an exposition of the whole field of new mennonite faith and practice. beginning in the garden of eden, he graphically described that renowned locality as a type of the paradise from which adam schunk and others who did not "give themselves up" were excluded. "it must have been a magnificent scenery to almighty gawd," he said, referring to the beauties of man's first paradise. "but how soon to be snatched by sin from man's mortal vision, when eve started that conversation with the enemy of her soul! beloved, that was an unfortunate circumstance! and you that are still out of christ and in the world, have need to pray fur gawd's help, his aid, and his assistance, to enable you to overcome the enemy who that day was turned loose upon the world--that gawd may see fit to have you when you're done here a'ready. heed the solemn warning of this poor soul now laying before you cold in death! "'know that you're a transient creature, soon to fade and pass away." "even lazarus, where [who] was raised to life, was not raised fur never to die no more!" the only comfort he could offer to this stricken household was that he knew how bad they felt, having had a brother who had died with equal suddenness and also without hope, as he "had suosode hisself with a gun." this lengthy sermon was followed by a hymn, sung a line at a time at the preacher's dictation: "the body we now to the grave will commit, to there see corruption till jesus sees fit a spirit'al body for it to prepare, which henceforth then shall immortality wear." the new mennonites being forbidden by the "rules of the meeting" ever to hear a prayer or sermon by one who is not "a member," it was necessary, at the end of the reverend abram underwocht's sermon, for all the mennonites present to retire to a room apart and sit behind closed doors, while the evangelical brother put forth his false doctrine. so religiously stirred was tillie by the occasion that she was strongly tempted to rise and follow into the kitchen those who were thus retiring from the sound of the false teacher's voice. but her conversion not yet being complete, she kept her place. no doubt it was not so much the character of brother underwocht's new mennonite sermon which effected this state in tillie as that the spiritual condition of the young girl, just awakening to her womanhood, with all its mysterious craving, its religious brooding, its emotional susceptibility, led her to respond with her whole soul to the first appeal to her feelings. absorbed in her mournful contemplation of her own deep "conviction of sin," she did not heed the singing, led by the evangelical brother, of the hymn, "rock of ages, clept for me," nor did she hear a word of his discourse. at the conclusion of the house services, and before the journey to the graveyard, the supper was served, first to the mourners, and then to all those who expected to follow the body to the grave. the third table, for those who had prepared the meal, and the fourth, for the hostlers, were set after the departure of the funeral procession. convention has prescribed that the funeral meal shall consist invariably of cold meat, cheese, all sorts of stewed dried fruits, pickles, "lemon rice" (a dish never omitted), and coffee. as no one household possesses enough dishes for such an occasion, two chests of dishes owned by the mennonite church are sent to the house of mourning whenever needed by a member of the meeting. the mennonites present suffered a shock to their feelings upon the appearance of the widow of the deceased adam schunk, for--unprecedented circumstance!--she wore over her black mennonite hood a crape veil! this was an innovation nothing short of revolutionary, and the brethren and sisters, to whom their prescribed form of dress was sacred, were bewildered to know how they ought to regard such a digression from their rigid customs. "i guess mandy's proud of herself with her weil," tillie's stepmother whispered to her as she gave the girl a tray of coffee-cups to deliver about the table. but tillie's thoughts were inward bent, and she heeded not what went on about her. fear of death and the judgment, a longing to find the peace which could come only with an assured sense of her salvation, darkness as to how that peace might be found, a sense of the weakness of her flesh and spirit before her father's undoubted opposition to her "turning plain," as well as his certain refusal to supply the wherewithal for her mennonite garb, should she indeed be led of the spirit to "give herself up,"--all these warring thoughts and emotions stamped their lines upon the girl's sweet, troubled countenance, as, blind and deaf to her surroundings, she lent her helping hand almost as one acting in a trance. xi "pop! i feel to be plain" the psychical and, considering the critical age of the young girl, the physiological processes by which tillie was finally led to her conversion it is not necessary to analyze; for the experience is too universal, and differs too slightly in individual cases, to require comment. perhaps in tillie's case it was a more intense and permanent emotion than with the average convert. otherwise, deep and earnest though it was with her, it was not unique. the new mennonite sermon which had been the instrument to determine the channel in which should flow the emotional tide of her awakening womanhood, had convinced her that if she would be saved, she dare not compromise with the world by joining one of those churches as, for instance, the methodist or the evangelical, which permitted every sort of worldly indulgence,--fashionable dress, attendance at the circus, voting at the polls, musical instruments, "pleasure-seeking," and many other things which the word of god forbade. she must give herself up to the lord absolutely and entirely, forswearing all the world's allurements. the new mennonites alone, of all the christian sects, lived up to this scriptural ideal, and with them tillie would cast her lot. this austere body of christians could not so easily have won her heart had it forbidden her cherished ambition, constantly encouraged and stimulated by miss margaret, to educate herself. fortunately for her peace of mind, the new mennonites were not, like the amish, "enemies to education," though to be sure, as the preacher, brother abram underwocht, reminded her in her private talk with him, "to be dressy, or too well educated, or stylish, didn't belong to christ and the apostles; they were plain folks." it was in the lull of work that came, even in the getz family, on sunday afternoon, that tillie, summoning to her aid all the fervor of her new-found faith, ventured to face the ordeal of opening up with her father the subject of her conversion. he was sitting on the kitchen porch, dozing over a big bible spread open on his knee. the children were playing on the lawn, and mrs. getz was taking her sunday afternoon nap on the kitchen settee. tillie seated herself on the porch step at her father's feet. her eyes were clear and bright, but her face burned, and her heart beat heavily in her heaving bosom. "pop!" she timidly roused him from his dozing. "heh?" he muttered gruffly, opening his eyes and lifting his head. "pop, i got to speak somepin to you." an unusual note in her voice arrested him, and, wide awake now, he looked down at her inquiringly. "well? what, then?" "pop! i feel to be plain." "you! feel fur turnin' plain! why, you ain't old enough to know the meanin' of it! what d' you want about that there theology?" "i'm fourteen, pop. and the spirit has led me to see the light. i have gave myself up," she affirmed quietly, but with a quiver in her voice. "you have gave yourself up!" her father incredulously repeated. "yes, sir. and i'm loosed of all things that belong to the world. and now i feel fur wearin' the plain dress, fur that's according to scripture, which says, 'all is wanity!'" never before in her life had tillie spoken so many words to her father at one time, and he stared at her in astonishment. "yes, you're growin' up, that's so. i ain't noticed how fast you was growin'. it don't seem no time since you was born. but it's fourteen years back a'ready--yes, that's so. well, tillie, if you feel fur joinin' church, you're got to join on to the evangelicals. i ain't leavin' you follow no such nonsense as to turn plain. that don't belong to us getzes. we're evangelicals this long time a'ready." "aunty em was a getz, and she's gave herself up long ago." "well, she's the only one by the name getz that i ever knowed to be so foolish! i'm an evangelical, and what's good enough fur your pop will do you, i guess!" "the evangelicals ain't according to scripture, pop. they have wine at the communion, and the bible says, 'taste not, handle not,' and 'look not upon the wine when it is red.'" that she should criticize the evangelicals and pronounce them unscriptural was disintegrating to all his ideas of the subjection, of children. his sun-burned face grew darker. "mebbe you don't twist that there book! gawd he wouldn't of created wine to be made if it would be wrong fur to look at it! you can't come over that, can you? them scripture you spoke, just mean not to drink to drunkenness, nor eat to gluttonness. but," he sternly added, "it ain't fur you to answer up to your pop! i ain't leavin' you dress plain--and that's all that's to say!" "i got to do it, pop," tillie's low voice answered, "i must obey to christ." "what you sayin' to me? that you got to do somepin i tole you you haven't the dare to do? are you sayin' that to me, tillie? heh?" "i got to obey to christ," she repeated, her face paling. "you think! well, we'll see about that oncet! you leave me see you obeyin' to any one before your pop, and you'll soon get learnt better! how do you bring it out that the scripture says, 'childern, obey your parents'?" "'obey your parents in the lord,'" tillie amended. "well, you'll be obeyin' to the scripture and your parent by joinin' the evangelicals. d' you understand?" "the evangelicals don't hold to scripture, pop. they enlist. and we don't read of christ takin' any interest in war." "yes, but in the old dispensation them old kings did it, and certainly they was good men! they're in the bible!" "but we're livin' under the new dispensation. and a many things is changed to what they were under the old. pop, i can't dress fashionable any more." "now, look here, tillie, i oughtn't argy no words with you, fur you're my child and you're got the right to mind me just because i say it. but can't you see the inconsistentness of the plain people? now a new mennonite he says his conscience won't leave him wear grand [wear worldly dress] but he'll make his livin' in lancaster city by keepin' a jew'lry-store. and yet them mennonites won't leave a sister keep a millinery-shop!" "but," tillie tried to hold her ground, "there's watches, pop, and clocks that jew'lers sells. they're useful. we got to have watches and clocks. millinery is only pleasing to the eye." "well, the women couldn't go bare-headed neither, could they? and is ear-rings and such things like them useful? and all them fancy things they keep in their dry-goods stores? och, they're awful inconsistent that way! i ain't got no use fur new mennonites! why, here one day, when your mom was livin' yet, i owed a new mennonite six cents, and i handed him a dime and he couldn't change it out, but he sayed he'd send me the four cents. well, i waited and waited, and he never sent it. then i bought such a postal-card and wrote it in town to him yet. and that didn't fetch the four cents neither. i wrote to him backward and forward till i had wrote three cards a'ready, and then i seen i wouldn't gain nothin' by writin' one more if he did pay me, and if he didn't pay i'd lose that other cent yet. so i let it. now that's a new mennonite fur you! do you call that consistentness?" "but it's the word of gawd i go by, pop, not by the weak brethren." "well, you'll go by your pop's word and not join to them new mennonites! now i don't want to hear no more!" "won't you buy me the plain garb, pop?" "buy you the plain garb! now look here, tillie. if ever you ast me again to leave you join to anything but the evangelicals, or speak somepin to me about buyin' you the plain garb, i'm usin' the strap. do you hear me?" "pop," said tillie, solemnly, her face very white, "i'll always obey to you where i can--where i think it's right to. but if you won't buy me the plain dress and cap, aunty em wackernagel's going to. she says she never knew what happiness it was to be had in this life till she gave herself up and dressed plain and loosed herself from all worldly things. and i feel just like her." "all right--just you come wearin' them mennonite costumes 'round me oncet! i'll burn 'em up like what i burned up them novels where you lent off of your teacher! and i'll punish you so's you won't try it a second time to do what i tell you you haven't the dare to do!" the color flowed back into tillie's white face as he spoke. she was crimson now as she rose from the porch step and turned away from him to go into the house. jake getz realized, as with a sort of dull wonder his eyes followed her, that there was a something in his daughter's face this day, and in the bearing of her young frame as she walked before him, which he was not wont to see, which he did not understand, and with which he felt he could not cope. the vague sense of uneasiness which it gave him strengthened his resolve to crush, with a strong hand, this budding insubordination. two uneventful weeks passed by, during which tillie's quiet and dutiful demeanor almost disarmed her father's threatening watchfulness of her; so that when, one sunday afternoon, at four o'clock, she returned from a walk to her aunty em wackernagel's, clad in the meek garb of the new mennonites, his amazement at her intrepidity was even greater than his anger. the younger children, in high glee at what to them was a most comical transformation in their elder sister, danced around her with shrieks of laughter, crying out at the funny white cap which she wore, and the prim little three-cornered cape falling over her bosom, designed modestly to cover the vanity of woman's alluring form. mrs. getz, mechanically moving about the kitchen to get the supper, paused in her work only long enough to remark with stupid astonishment, "did you, now, get religion, tillie?" "yes, ma'am. i've gave myself up." "where did you come by the plain dress?" "aunty em bought it for me and helped me make it." her father had followed her in from the porch and now came up to her as she stood in the middle of the kitchen. the children scattered at his approach. "you go up-stairs and take them clo'es off!" he commanded. "i ain't leavin' you wear 'em one hour in this house!" "i have no others to put on, pop," tillie gently answered, her soft eyes meeting his with an absence of fear which puzzled and baffled him. "where's your others, then?" "i've let 'em at aunty em's. she took 'em in exchange for my plain dress. she says she can use 'em on 'manda and rebecca." "then you walk yourself right back over to the hotel and get 'em back of? of her, and let them clo'es you got on. go!" he roughly pointed to the door. "she wouldn't give 'em back to me. she'd know i hadn't ought to yield up to temptation, and she'd help me to resist by refusing me my fashionable clo'es." "you tell her if you come back home without 'em, i'm whippin' you! she'll give 'em to you then." "she'd say my love to christ ought not to be so weak but i can bear anything you want to do to me, pop. she had to take an awful lot off of gran'pop when she turned plain. pop," she added earnestly, "no matter what you do to me, i ain't givin' 'way; i'm standin' firm to serve christ!" "we'll see oncet!" her father grimly answered, striding across the room and taking his strap from its corner in the kitchen cupboard he grasped tillie's slender shoulder and lifted his heavy arm. and now for the first time in her life his wife interposed a word against his brutality. "jake!" in astonishment he turned to her. she was as pale as her stepdaughter. "jake! if she has got religion, you'll have awful bad luck if you try to get her away from it!" "i ain't sayin' she can't get religion if she wants! to be sure, i brung her up to be a christian. but i don't hold to this here nonsense of turnin' plain, and i tole her so, and she's got to obey to me or i'll learn her!" "you'll have bad luck if you whip her fur somepin like this here," his wife repeated. "don't you mind how when aunty em turned plain and gran'pop he acted to her so ugly that way, it didn't rain fur two weeks and his crops was spoilt, and he got that boil yet on his neck! yes, you'll see oncet," she warned him "if you use the strap fur somepin like what this is, what you'll mebbe come by yet!" "och, you're foolish!" he answered, but his tone was not confident. his raised arm dropped to his side and he looked uneasily into tillie's face, while he still kept his painful grasp of her shoulder. the soft bright eyes of the young girl met his, not with defiance, but with a light in them that somehow brought before his mind the look her mother had worn the night she died. superstition was in his blood, and he shuddered inwardly at his uncanny sense of mystery before this unfamiliar, illumined countenance of his daughter. the exalted soul of the girl cast a spell which even his unsensitive spirit could keenly feel, and something stirred in his breast--the latent sense of affectionate, protecting fatherhood. tillie saw and felt this sudden change in him. she lifted her free hand and laid it on his arm, her lips quivering. "father!" she half whispered. she had never called him that before, and it seemed strangely to bring home to him what, in this crisis of his child's life, was due to her from him, her only living parent. suddenly he released her shoulder and tossed away the strap. "i see i wouldn't be doin' right to oppose you in this here, tillie. well, i'm glad, fur all, that i ain't whippin' you. it goes ag'in' me to hit you since you was sick that time. you're gettin' full big, too, to be punished that there way, fur all i always sayed still i'd never leave a child of mine get ahead of me, no matter how big they was, so long as they lived off of me. but this here's different. you're feelin' conscientious about this here matter, and i ain't hinderin' you." to tillie's unspeakable amazement, he laid his hand on her head and held it there for an instant. "gawd bless you, my daughter, and help you to serve the lord acceptable!" so that crisis was past. but tillie knew, that night, as she rubbed witch-hazel on her sore shoulder, that a far worse struggle was before her. in seeking to carry out the determination that burned in her heart to get an education, no aid could come to her as it had to-day, from her father's sense of religious awe. would she be able, she wondered, to stand firm against his opposition when, a second time, it came to an issue between them? xii absalom keeps company tillie wrote to miss margaret (she could not learn to call her mrs. lansing) how that she had "given herself up and turned plain," and miss margaret, seeing how sacred this experience was to the young girl, treated the subject with all respect and even reverence. the correspondence between these two, together with the books which from time to time came to the girl from her faithful friend, did more toward tillie's growth and development along lines of which her parents had no suspicion, than all the schooling at william penn, under the instruction of the average "millersville normal," could ever have accomplished. and her tongue, though still very provincial, soon lost much of its native dialect, through her constant reading and study. of course whenever her father discovered her with her books he made her suffer. "you're got education enough a'ready," he would insist. "and too much fur your own good. look at me--i was only educated with a testament and a spelling-book and a slate. we had no such a blackboards even, to recite on. and do _i_ look as if i need to know any more 'n what i know a'ready?" tillie bore her punishments like a martyr--and continued surreptitiously to read and to study whenever and whatever she could; and not even the extreme conscientiousness of a new mennonite faltered at this filial disobedience. she obeyed her father implicitly, however tyrannical he was, to the point where he bade her suppress and kill all the best that god had given her of mind and heart. then she revolted; and she never for an instant doubted her entire justification in eluding or defying his authority. there was another influence besides her books and miss margaret's letters which, unconsciously to herself, was educating tillie at this time. her growing fondness for stealing off to the woods not far from the farm, of climbing to the hill-top beyond the creek, or walking over the fields under the wide sky--not only in the spring and summer, but at all times of the year--was yielding her a richness, a depth and breadth, of experience that nothing else could have given her. a nature deeply sensitive to the mysterious appeal of sky and green earth, of deep, shady forest and glistening water, when unfolding in daily touch with these things, will learn to see life with a broader, saner mind and catch glimpses and vistas of truth with a clearer vision than can ever come to one whose most susceptible years are spent walled in and overtopped by the houses of the city that shut out and stifle "the larger thought of god." and tillie, in spite of her narrowing new mennonite "convictions," did reach through her growing love for and intimacy with nature a plane of thought and feeling which was immeasurably above her perfunctory creed. sometimes the emotions excited by her solitary walks gave the young girl greater pain than happiness--yet it was a pain she would not have been spared, for she knew, though the knowledge was never formulated in her thought, that in some precious, intimate way her suffering set her apart and above the villagers and farming people about her--those whose placid, contented eyes never strayed from the potato-patch to the distant hills, or lifted themselves from the goodly tobacco-fields to the wide blue heavens. thus, cramped and crushing as much of her life was, it had--as all conditions must have--its compensations; and many of the very circumstances which at the time seemed most unbearable brought forth in later years rich fruit. and so, living under her father's watchful eye and relentless rule,--with long days of drudgery and outward acquiescence in his scheme of life that she devote herself, mind, body, and soul, to the service of himself, his wife, and their children, and in return to be poorly fed and scantily clad,--tillie nevertheless grew up in a world apart, hidden to the sealed vision of those about her; as unknown to them in her real life as though they had never looked upon her face; and while her father never for an instant doubted the girl's entire submission to him, she was day by day waxing stronger in her resolve to heed miss margaret's constant advice and make a fight for her right to the education her father had denied her, and for a life other than that to which his will would consign her. there were dark times when her steadfast purpose seemed impossible of fulfilment. but tillie felt she would rather die in the struggle than become the sort of apathetic household drudge she beheld in her stepmother--a condition into which it would be so easy to sink, once she loosed her wagon from its star. it was when tillie was seventeen years old--a slight, frail girl, with a look in her eyes as of one who lives in two worlds--that absalom puntz, one sunday evening in the fall of the year, saw her safe home from meeting and asked permission to "keep comp'ny" with her. now that morning tillie had received a letter from miss margaret (sent to her, as always, under cover to the doctor), and absalom's company on the way from church was a most unwelcome interruption to her happy brooding over the precious messages of love and helpfulness which those letters always brought her. a request for permission to "keep comp'ny" with a young lady meant a very definite thing in canaan township. "let's try each other," was what it signified; and acceptance of the proposition involved on each side an exclusion of all association with others of the opposite sex. tillie of course understood this. "but you're of the world's people, absalom," her soft, sweet voice answered him. they were walking along in the dim evening on the high dusty pike toward the getz farm. "and i'm a member of meeting. i can't marry out of the meeting." "this long time a'ready, tillie, i was thinkin' about givin' myself up and turnin' plain," he assured her. "to be sure, i know i'd have to, to git you. you've took notice, ain't you, how reg'lar i 'tend meeting? well, oncet me and you kin settle this here question of gittin' married, i'm turnin' plain as soon as i otherwise [possibly] kin." "i have never thought about keeping company, absalom." "nearly all the girls around here as old as you has their friend a'ready." absalom was twenty years old, stoutly built and coarse-featured, a deeply ingrained obstinacy being the only characteristic his heavy countenance suggested. he still attended the district school for a few months of the winter term. his father was one of the richest farmers of the neighborhood, and absalom, being his only child, was considered a matrimonial prize. "is there nobody left for you but me?" tillie inquired in a matter-of-fact tone. the conjugal relation, as she saw it in her father's home and in the neighborhood, with its entirely practical basis and utter absence of sentiment, had no attraction or interest for her, and she had long since made up her mind that she would none of it. "there ain't much choice," granted absalom. "but i anyways would pick out you, tillie." "why me?" "i dunno. i take to you. and i seen a'ready how handy you was at the work still. mom says, too, you'd make me a good housekeeper." tillie never dreamed of resenting this practical approval of her qualifications for the post with which absalom designed to honor her. it was because of her familiarity with such matrimonial standards as these that from her childhood up she had determined never to marry. from what she gathered of miss margaret's married life, through her letters, and from what she learned from the books and magazines which she read, she knew that out in the great unknown world there existed another basis of marriage. but she did not understand it and she never thought about it. the strongly emotional tide of her girlhood, up to this time, had been absorbed by her remarkable love for miss margaret and by her earnest religiousness. "there's no use in your wasting your time keeping company with me, absalom. i never intend to marry. i've made up my mind." "is it that your pop won't leave you, or whatever?" "i never asked him. i don't know what he would say." "mom spoke somepin about mebbe your pop he'd want to keep you at home, you bein' so useful to him and your mom. but i sayed when you come eighteen, you're your own boss. ain't, tillie?" "father probably would object to my marrying because i'm needed at home," tillie agreed. "that's why they wouldn't leave me go to school after i was eleven. but i don't want to marry." "you leave me be your steady friend, tillie, and i'll soon get you over them views," urged absalom, confidently. but tillie shook her head. "it would just waste your time, absalom." in canaan township it would have been considered highly dishonorable for a girl to allow a young man to "sit up with her sundays" if she definitely knew she would never marry him. time meant money, and even the time spent in courting must be judiciously used. "i don't mind if i do waste my time settin' up with you sundays, tillie. i take to you that much, it's something surprising, now! will you give me the dare to come next sunday?" "if you don't mind wasting your time--" tillie reluctantly granted. "it won't be wasted. i'll soon get you to think different to what you think now. you just leave me set up with you a couple sundays and see!" "i know i'll never think any different, absalom. you must not suppose that i will." "is it somepin you're got ag'in' me?" he asked incredulously, for he knew he was considered a prize. "i'm well-fixed enough, ain't i? i'd make you a good purvider, tillie. and i don't addict to no bad habits. i don't chew. nor i don't drink. nor i don't swear any. the most i ever sayed when i was spited was 'confound it.'" "it isn't that i have anything against you, absalom, especially. but--look here, absalom, if you were a woman, would you marry? what does a woman gain?" absalom stared at her in the dusky evening light of the high road. to ask of his slow-moving brain that it question the foundations of the universe and wrestle with a social and psychological problem like this made the poor youth dumb with bewilderment. "why should a woman get married?" tillie repeated. "that's what a woman's fur," absalom found his tongue to say. "she loses everything and gains nothing." "she gets kep'," absalom argued. "like the horses. only not so carefully. no, thank you, absalom. i can keep myself." "i'd keep you better 'n your pop keeps you, anyways, tillie. i'd make you a good purvider." "i won't ever marry," tillie repeated. "i didn't know you was so funny," absalom sullenly answered. "you might be glad i want to be your reg'lar friend." "no," said tillie, "i don't care about it." they walked on in silence for a few minutes. tillie looked away into the starlit night and thought of miss margaret and wished she were alone, that her thoughts might be uninterrupted. absalom, at her side, kicked up the dust with his heavy shoes, as he sulkily hung his head. presently he spoke again. "will you leave me come to see you sundays, still, if i take my chancet that i'm wastin' my time?" "if you'll leave it that way," tillie acquiesced, "and not hold me to anything." "all right. only you won't leave no one else set up with you, ain't not?" "there isn't any one else." "but some chance time another feller might turn up oncet that wants to keep comp'ny with you too." "i won't promise anything, absalom. if you want to come sundays to see me and the folks, you can. that's all i'll say." "i never seen such a funny girl as what you are!" growled absalom. tillie made no reply, and again they went on in silence. "say!" it was absalom who finally spoke. tillie's absent, dreamy gaze came down from the stars and rested upon his heavy, dull face. "ezra herr he's resigned william penn. he's gettin' more pay at abra'm lincoln in janewille. it comes unhandy, his leavin', now the term's just started and most all the applicants took a'ready. pop he got a letter from in there at lancaster off of superintendent reingruber and he's sendin' us a applicant out till next saturday three weeks--fur the directors to see oncet if he'll do." absalom's father was secretary of the board, and mr. getz was the treasurer. "pop he's goin' over to see your pop about it till to-morrow evenin' a'ready if he can make it suit." "when does ezra go?" tillie inquired. the new mennonite rule which forbade the use of all titles had led to the custom in this neighborhood, so populated with mennonites, of calling each one by his christian name. "till next friday three weeks," absalom replied. "pop says he don't know what to think about this here man superintendent reingruber's sendin' out. he ain't no millersville normal. the superintendent says he's a 'harvard gradyate'--whatever that is, pop says! pop he sayed it ain't familiar with him what that there is. and i guess the other directors don't know neither. pop he sayed when we're payin' as much as forty dollars a month we had ought, now, to have a millersville normal, and nothin' less. who wants to pay forty dollars a month fur such a harvard gradyate that we don't know right what it is." "what pay will ezra get at janeville?" tillie asked. her heart beat fast as she thought how she might, perhaps, in another year be the applicant for a vacancy at william penn. "around forty-five dollars," absalom answered. "oh!" tillie said; "it seems so much, don't it?" "fur settin' and doin' nothin' but hearin' off spellin' and readin' and whatever, it's too much! pop says he's goin' to ast your pop and the rest of the board if they hadn't ought to ast this here harvard gradyate to take a couple dollars less, seein' he ain't no millersville normal." they had by this time reached the farm, and tillie, not very warmly, asked absalom whether he would "come in and sit awhile." she almost sighed audibly as he eagerly consented. when he had left at twelve o'clock that night, she softly climbed the stairs to her room, careful not to disturb the sleeping household. tillie wondered why it was that every girl of her acquaintance exulted in being asked to keep company with a gentleman friend. she had found "sitting up" a more fatiguing task than even the dreaded monday's washing which would confront her on the morrow. "seein' it's the first time me and you set up together, i mebbe better not stay just so late," absalom had explained when, after three hours' courting, he had reluctantly risen to take his leave, under the firm conviction, as tillie plainly saw, that she felt as sorry to have him go as evidently he was to part from her! "how late," thought tillie, "will he stay the second time he sits up with me? and what," she wondered, "do other girls see in it?" the following sunday night, absalom came again, and this time he stayed until one o'clock, with the result that on the following monday morning tillie overslept herself and was one hour late in starting the washing. it was that evening, after supper, while mrs. getz was helping her husband make his toilet for a meeting of the school board--at which the application of that suspicious character, the harvard graduate, was to be considered--that the husband and wife discussed these significant sunday night visits. mrs. getz opened up the subject while she performed the wifely office of washing her husband's neck, his increasing bulk making that duty a rather difficult one for him. standing over him as he sat in a chair in the kitchen, holding on his knees a tin basin full of soapy water, she scrubbed his fat, sunburned neck with all the vigor and enthusiasm that she would have applied to the cleaning of the kitchen porch or the scouring of an iron skillet. a custom prevailed in the county of leaving one's parlor plainly furnished, or entirely empty, until the eldest daughter should come of age; it was then fitted up in style, as a place to which she and her "regular friend" could retire from the eyes of the girl's folks of a sunday night to do their "setting up." the occasion of a girl's "furnishing" was a notable one, usually celebrated by a party; and it was this fact that led her stepmother to remark presently: "say, pop, are you furnishin' fur tillie, now she's comin' eighteen years old?" "i ain't thought about it," mr. getz answered shortly. "that front room's furnished good enough a'ready. no--i ain't spendin' any!" "seein' she's a member and wears plain, it wouldn't cost wery expensive to furnish fur her, fur she hasn't the dare to have nothin' stylish like a organ or gilt-framed landscapes or sich stuffed furniture that way." "the room's good enough the way it is," repeated mr. getz. "i don't see no use spendin' on it." "it needs new paper and carpet. pop, it'll get put out if you don't furnish fur her. the neighbors'll talk how you're so close with your own child after she worked fur you so good still. i don't like it so well, pop, havin' the neighbors talk." "leave 'em talk. their talkin' don't cost me nothin'. i ain't furnishin'!" his tone was obstinate and angry. his wife rubbed him down with a crash towel as vigorously as she had washed him, then fastened his shirt, dipped the family comb in the soapy water and began with artistic care to part and comb his hair. "absalom puntz he's a nice party, pop. he'll be well-fixed till his pop's passed away a'ready." "you think! well, now look here, mom!" mr. getz spoke with stern decision. "tillie ain't got the dare to keep comp'ny sundays! it made her a whole hour late with the washin' this mornin'. i'm tellin' her she's got to tell absalom puntz he can't come no more." mrs. getz paused with comb poised in air, and her feeble jaw dropped in astonishment. "why, pop!" she said. "ain't you leavin' tillie keep comp'ny?" "no," affirmed mr. getz. "i ain't. what does a body go to the bother of raisin' childern fur? just to lose 'em as soon as they are growed enough to help earn a little? i ain't leavin' tillie get married! she's stayin' at home to help her pop and mom--except in winter when they ain't so much work, and mebbe then i'm hirin' her out to aunty em at the hotel where she can earn a little, too, to help along. she can easy earn enough to buy the children's winter clo'es and gums and school-books." "when she comes eighteen, pop, she'll have the right to get married whether or no you'd conceited you wouldn't give her the dare." "if i say i ain't buyin' her her aus styer, absalom puntz nor no other feller would take her." an "aus styer" is the household outfit always given to a bride by her father. "well, to be sure," granted mrs. getz, "i'd like keepin' tillie home to help me out with the work still. i didn't see how i was ever goin' to get through without her. but i thought when absalom puntz begin to come sundays, certainly you'd be fur her havin' him. i was sayin' to her only this mornin' that if she didn't want to dishearten absalom from comin' to set up with her, she'd have to take more notice to him and not act so dopplig with him--like as if she didn't care whether or no he made up to her. i tole her i'd think, now, she'd be wonderful pleased at his wantin' her, and him so well-fixed. certainly i never conceited you'd be ag'in' it. tillie she didn't answer nothin'. sometimes i do now think tillie's some different to what other girls is." "i'd be glad," said jacob getz in a milder tone, "if she ain't set on havin' him. i was some oneasy she might take it a little hard when i tole her she darsent get married." "och, tillie she never takes nothin' hard," mrs. getz answered easily. "she ain't never ast me you goin' to furnish fur her. she don't take no interest. she's so funny that way. i think to myself, still, tillie is, now, a little dumm!" it happened that while this dialogue was taking place, tillie was in the room above the kitchen, putting the two most recently arrived getz babies to bed; and as she sat near the open register with a baby on her lap, every word that passed between her father and stepmother was perfectly audible to her. with growing bitterness she listened to her father's frank avowal of his selfish designs. at the same time she felt a thrill of exultation, as she thought of the cherished secret locked in her breast--hidden the more securely from those with whom she seemed to live nearest. how amazed they would be, her stolid, unsuspicious parents, when they discovered that she had been secretly studying and, with miss margaret's help, preparing herself for the high calling of a teacher! one more year, now, and she would be ready, miss margaret assured her, to take the county superintendent's examination for a certificate to teach. then good-by to household drudgery and the perpetual self-sacrifice that robbed her of all that was worth while in life. with a serene mind, tillie rose, with the youngest baby in her arms, and tenderly tucked it in its little bed. xiii ezra herr, pedagogue it was a few days later, at the supper-table, that tillie's father made an announcement for which she was not wholly unprepared. "i'm hirin' you out this winter, tillie, at the hotel. aunty em says she's leavin' both the girls go to school again this winter and she'll need hired help. she'll pay me two dollars a week fur you. she'll pay it to me and i'll buy you what you need, still, out of it. you're goin' till next monday." tillie's heart leaped high with pleasure at this news. she was fond of her aunty em; she knew that life at the country hotel would be varied and interesting in comparison with the dull, grubbing existence of her own home; she would have to work very hard, of course, but not so hard, so unceasingly, as under her father's eye; and she would have absolute freedom to devote her spare time to her books. the thought of escaping from her father's watchfulness, and the prospect of hours of safe and uninterrupted study, filled her with secret joy. "i tole aunty em she's not to leave you waste no time readin'; when she don't need you, you're to come home and help mom still. mom she says she can't get through the winter sewin' without you. well, aunty em she says you can sew evenin's over there at the hotel, on the childern's clo'es. mom she can easy get through the other work without you, now sallie's goin' on thirteen. till december a'ready sally'll be thirteen. and the winter work's easy to what the summer is. in summer, to be sure, you'll have to come home and help me and mom. but in winter i'm hirin' you out." "but sally ain't as handy as what tillie is," said mrs. getz, plaintively. "and i don't see how i'm goin' to get through oncet without tillie." "sally's got to learn to be handier, that's all. she's got to get learnt like what i always learnt tillie fur you." fire flashed in tillie's soft eyes--a momentary flame of shame and aversion; if her blinded father had seen and understood, he would have realized how little, after all, he had ever succeeded in "learning" her the subservience he demanded of his children. as for the warning to her aunt, she knew that it would be ignored; that aunty em would never interfere with the use she made of the free time allowed her, no matter what her father's orders were to the contrary. "and you ain't to have absalom puntz comin' over there sundays neither," her father added. "i tole aunty em like i tole you the other day, i ain't leavin' you keep comp'ny. i raised you, now you have the right to work and help along a little. it's little enough a girl can earn anyways." tillie made no comment. her silence was of course understood by her father to mean submission; while her stepmother felt in her heart a contempt for a meekness that would bear, without a word of protest, the loss of a steady friend so well-fixed and so altogether desirable as absalom puntz. in absalom's two visits tillie had been sufficiently impressed with the steadiness of purpose and obstinacy of the young man's character to feel appalled at the fearful task of resisting his dogged determination to marry her. so confident he evidently was of ultimately winning her that at times tillie found herself quite sharing his confidence in the success of his courting, which her father's interdict she knew would not interfere with in the least. she always shuddered at the thought of being absalom's wife; and a feeling she could not always fling off, as of some impending doom, at times buried all the high hopes which for the past seven years had been the very breath of her life. tillie had one especially strong reason for rejoicing in the prospect of going to the village for the winter. the harvard graduate, if elected, would no doubt board at the hotel, or necessarily near by, and she could get him to lend her books and perhaps to give her some help with her studies. the village of new canaan and all the township were curious to see this stranger. the school directors had felt that they were conceding a good deal in consenting to consider the application of sueh an unknown quantity, when they could, at forty dollars a month, easily secure the services of a millersville normal. but the stress that had been brought to bear upon them by the county superintendent, whose son had been a classmate of the candidate, had been rather too strong to be resisted; and so the "harvard gradyate man" was coming. that afternoon tillie had walked over in a pouring rain to william penn to carry "gums" and umbrellas to her four younger brothers and sisters, and she had realized, with deep exultation, while listening to ezra herr's teaching, that she was already far better equipped than was ezra to do the work he was doing,--and he was a millersville normal! it happened that ezra was receiving a visit from a committee of janeville school directors, and he had departed from his every-day mechanical style of teaching in favor of some fancy methods which he had imbibed at the normal school during his attendance at the spring term, and which he reserved for use on occasions like the present. tillie watched him with profound attention, but hardly with profound respect. "childern," ezra said, with a look of deep thought, as he impressively paced up and down before the class of small boys and girls ranged on the platform, "now, childern, what's this reading lesson about?" "'bout a apple-tree!" answered several eager little voices. "yes," said ezra. "about an apple-tree. correct. now, childern--er--what grows on apple-trees, heh?" "apples!" answered the intelligent class. "correct. apples. and--now--what was it that came to the apple-tree?" "a little bird." "yes. a bird came to the apple tree. well--er," he floundered for a moment, then, by a sudden inspiration, "what can a bird do?" "fly! and sing!" "a bird can fly and sing," ezra nodded. "very good. now, sadie, you dare begin. i 'll leave each one read a werse." the next recitation was a fourth reader lesson consisting of a speech of daniel webster's, the import of which not one of the children, if indeed the teacher himself, had the faintest suspicion. and so the class was permitted to proceed, without interruption, in its labored conning of the massive eloquence of that great statesman; and the directors presently took their departure in the firm conviction that in ezra herr they had made a good investment of the forty-five dollars a month appropriated to their town out of the state treasury, and they agreed, on their way back to janeville, that new canaan was to be pitied for having to put up with anything so unheard-of as "a harvard gradyate or whatever," after having had the advantages of an educator like ezra herr. and tillie, as she walked home with her four brothers and sisters, hoped, for the sake of her own advancement, that a harvard graduate was at least not less intelligent than a millersville normal. xiv the harvard graduate that a man holding a harvard degree should consider so humble an educational post as that of new canaan needs a word of explanation. walter fairchilds was the protege of his uncle, the high church bishop of a new england state, who had practically, though not legally, adopted him, upon the death of his father, when the boy was fourteen years old, his mother having died at his birth. it was tacitly understood by walter that his uncle was educating him for the priesthood. his life, from the time the bishop took charge of him until he was ready for college, was spent in church boarding-schools. a spiritually minded, thoughtful boy, of an emotional temperament which responded to every appeal of beauty, whether of form, color, sound, or ethics, walter easily fell in with his uncle's designs for him, and rivaled him in the fervor of his devotion to the esthetic ritual of his church. his summer vacations were spent at bar harbor with the bishop's family, which consisted of his wife and two anemic daughters. they were people of limited interests, who built up barriers about their lives on all sides; social hedges which excluded all humanity but a select and very dull, uninteresting circle; intellectual walls which never admitted a stray unconventional idea; moral demarcations which nourished within them the mammon of self-righteousness, and theological harriers which shut out the sunlight of a broad charity. therefore, when in the course of his career at harvard, walter fairchilds discovered that intellectually he had outgrown not only the social creed of the divine right of the well-born, in which these people had educated him, but their theological creed as well, the necessity of breaking the fact to them, of wounding their affection for him, of disappointing the fond and cherished hope with which for years his uncle had spent money upon his education--the ordeal which he had to face was a fiery one. when, in deepest sorrow, and with all the delicacy of his sensitive nature, he told the bishop of his changed mental attitude toward the problem of religion, it seemed to him that in his uncle's reception of it the spirit of the spanish inquisitors was revived, so mad appeared to him his horror of this heresy and his conviction that he, walter, was a poison in the moral atmosphere, which must be exterminated at any cost. in this interview between them, the bishop stood revealed to him in a new character, and yet walter seemed to realize that in his deeper consciousness he had always known him for what he really was, though all the circumstances of his conventional life had conduced to hide his real self. he saw, now, how the submissiveness of his own dreamy boyhood had never called into active force his guardian's native love of domineering; his intolerance of opposition; the pride of his exacting will. but on the first provocation of circumstances, these traits stood boldly forth. "is it for this that i have spent my time and money upon you--to bring up an infidel?" bishop fairchilds demanded, when he had in part recovered from the first shock of amazement the news had given him. "i am not an infidel even if i have outgrown high church dogmas. i have a faith--i have a religion; and i assure you that i never so fully realized the vital truth of my religion as i do now--now that i see things, not in the dim cathedral light, but out under the broad heavens!" "how can you dare to question the authority of our holy mother, the church, whose teachings have come down to us through all these centuries, bearing the sacred sanction of the most ancient authority?" "old things can rot!" walter answered. "and you fancy," the bishop indignantly demanded, "that i will give one dollar for your support while you are adhering to this blasphemy? that i will ever again even so much as break bread with you, until, in humble contrition, you return to your allegiance to the church?" walter lifted his earnest eyes and met squarely his uncle's frowning stare. then the boy rose. "nothing, then, is left for me," he said steadily, "but to leave your home, give up the course of study i had hoped to continue at harvard, and get to work." "you fully realize all that this step must mean?" his uncle coldly asked him. "you are absolutely penniless." "in a matter of this kind, uncle, you must realize that such a consideration could not possibly enter in." "you have not a penny of your own. the few thousands that your father left were long ago used up in your school-bills." "and i am much in your debt; i know it all." "so you choose poverty and hardship for the sake of this perversity?" "others have suffered harder things for principle." thus they parted. and thus it was, through the suddenness and unexpectedness of the loss of his home and livelihood, that walter fairchilds came to apply for the position at william penn. "here, tillie, you take and go up to sister jennie hershey's and get some mush. i'm makin' fried mush fur supper," said aunty em, bustling into the hotel kitchen where her niece was paring potatoes, one saturday afternoon. "here's a quarter. get two pound." "oh, tillie," called her cousin rebecca from the adjoining dining-room, which served also as the family sitting-room, "hurry on and you'll mebbe be in time to see the stage come in with the new teacher in. mebbe you'll see him to speak to yet up at hershey's." "lizzie hershey's that wonderful tickled that the teacher's going to board at their place!" said amanda, the second daughter, a girl of tillie's age, as she stood in the kitchen doorway and watched tillie put on her black hood over the white mennonite cap. stout aunty em also wore the mennonite dress, which lent a certain dignity to her round face with its alert but kindly eyes; but her two daughters were still "of the world's people." "when lizzie she tole me about it, comin' out from lancaster after market this morning," continued amanda, "she was now that tickled! she sayed he's such a good-looker! och, i wisht he was stoppin' here; ain't, tillie? lizzie'll think herself much, havin' a town fellah stoppin' at their place." "if he's stoppin' at hershey's," said rebecca, appearing suddenly, "that ain't sayin' he has to get in with lizzie so wonderful thick! i hope he's a jolly fellah." amanda and rebecca were now girls of seventeen and eighteen years--buxom, rosy, absolutely unideal country lasses. beside them, frail little tillie seemed a creature of another clay. "lizzie tole me: she sayed how he come up to their market-stall in there at lancaster this morning," amanda related, "and tole her he'd heard jonas hershey's pork-stall at market was where he could mebbe find out a place he could board at in new canaan with a private family--he'd sooner live with a private family that way than at the hotel. well, lizzie she coaxed her pop right there in front of the teacher to say they'd take him, and jonas hershey he sayed he didn't care any. so lizzie she tole him then he could come to their place, and he sayed he'd be out this after in the four-o'clock stage." "well, and i wonder what her mother has to say to her and jonas fixin' it up between 'em to take a boarder and not waitin' to ast her!" aunty em said. "i guess mebbe sister jennie's spited!" the appellation of "sister" indicated no other relation than that of the mennonite church membership, mrs. jonas hershey being also a new mennonite. "now don't think you have to run all the way there and back, tillie," was her aunt's parting injunction. "_i_ don't time you like what your pop does! well, i guess not! i take notice you're always out of breath when you come back from an urrand. it's early yet--you dare stop awhile and talk to lizzie." tillie gave her aunt a look of grateful affection as she left the house. often when she longed to thank her for her many little acts of kindness, the words would not come. it was the habit of her life to repress every emotion of her mind, whether of bitterness or pleasure, and an unconquerable shyness seized upon her in any least attempt to reveal herself to those who were good to her. it was four o'clock on a beautiful october afternoon as she walked up the village street, and while she enjoyed, through all her sensitive maiden soul, the sweet sunshine and soft autumn coloring, her thought dwelt with a pleasant expectancy on her almost inevitable meeting with "the teacher," if he did indeed arrive in the stage now due at new canaan. unlike her cousins amanda and rebecca, and their neighbor lizzie hershey, tillie's eagerness to meet the young man was not born of a feminine hunger for romance. life as yet had not revealed those emotions to her except as she had known them in her love for miss margaret--which love was indeed full of a sacred sentiment. it was only because the teacher meant an aid to the realization of her ambition to become "educated" that she was interested in his coming. it was but a few minutes' walk to the home of jonas hershey, the country pork butcher. as tillie turned in at the gate, she heard, with a leap of her heart, the distant rumble of the approaching stagecoach. jonas hershey's home was probably the cleanest, neatest-looking red brick house in all the county. the board-walk from the gate to the door fairly glistened from the effects of soap and water. the flower-beds, almost painfully neat and free from weeds, were laid out on a strictly mathematical plan. a border of whitewashed clam-shells, laid side by side with military precision, set off the brilliant reds and yellows of the flowers, and a glance at them was like gazing into the face of the midday sun. tillie shaded her dazzled eyes as she walked across the garden to the side door which opened into the kitchen. it stood open and she stepped in without ceremony. for a moment she could see nothing but red and yellow flowers and whitewashed clam-shells. but as her vision cleared, she perceived her neighbor, lizzie hershey, a well-built, healthy-looking country lass of eighteen years, cutting bread at a table, and her mother, a large fat woman wearing the mennonite dress, standing before a huge kitchen range, stirring "ponhaus" in a caldron. the immaculate neatness of the large kitchen gave evidence, as did garden, board-walk, and front porch, of that morbid passion for "cleaning up" characteristic of the dutch housewife. jonas hershey did a very large and lucrative business, and the work of his establishment was heavy. but he hired no "help" and his wife and daughter worked early and late to aid him in earning the dollars which he hoarded. "sister jennie!" tillie accosted mrs. hershey with the new mennonite formal greeting, "i wish you the grace and peace of the lord." "the same to you, sister," mrs. hershey replied, bending to receive tillie's kiss as the girl came up to her at the stove--the mennonite interpretation of the command, "salute the brethren with a holy kiss." "well, lizzie," was tillie's only greeting to the girl at the table. lizzie was not a member of meeting and the rules forbade the members to kiss those who were still in the world. "well, tillie," answered lizzie, not looking up from the bread she was cutting. tillie instantly perceived a lack of cordiality. something was wrong. lizzie's face was sullen and her mother's countenance looked grim and determined. tillie wondered whether their evident ill-humor were in any way connected with herself, or whether her aunty em's surmise were correct, and sister jennie was really "spited." "i've come to get two pound of mush," she said, remembering her errand. "it's all," mrs. hershey returned. "we solt every cake at market, and no more's made yet. it was all a'ready till market was only half over." "aunty em'll be disappointed. she thought she'd make fried mush for supper," said tillie. "have you strangers?" inquired mrs. hershey. "no, we haven't anybody for supper, unless some come on the stage this after. we had four for dinner." "were they such agents, or what?" asked lizzie. tillie turned to her. "whether they were agents? no, they were just pleasure-seekers. they were out for a drive and stopped off to eat." at this instant the rattling old stage-coach drew up at the gate. the mother and daughter, paying no heed whatever to the sound, went on with their work, mrs. hershey looking a shade more grimly determined as she stirred her ponhaus and lizzie more sulky. tillie had just time to wonder whether she had better slip out before the stranger came in, when a knock on the open kitchen door checked her. neither mother nor daughter glanced up in answer to the knock. mrs. hershey resolutely kept her eyes on her caldron as she turned her big spoon about in it, and lizzie, with sullen, averted face, industriously cut her loaf. a second knock, followed by the appearance of a good-looking, well-dressed young man on the threshold, met with the same reception. tillie, in the background, and hidden by the stove, looked on wonderingly. the young man glanced, in evident mystification, at the woman by the stove and at the girl at the table, and a third time rapped loudly. "good afternoon!" he said pleasantly, an inquiring note in his voice. mrs. hershey and lizzie went on with their work as though they had not heard him. he took a step into the room, removing his hat. "you were expecting me this afternoon, weren't you?" he asked. "this is the place," lizzie remarked at last. "you were looking for me?" he repeated. mrs. hershey suddenly turned upon lizzie. "why don't you speak?" she inquired half-tauntingly. "you spoke before." tillie realized that sister jennie must be referring to lizzie's readiness at market that morning to "speak," in making her agreement with the young man for board. "you spoke this morning," the mother repeated. "why can't you speak now?" "och, why don't you speak yourself?" retorted lizzie. "it ain't fur me to speak!" the stranger appeared to recognize that he was the subject of a domestic unpleasantness. "you find it inconvenient to take me to board?" he hesitatingly inquired of mrs. hershey. "i shouldn't think of wishing to intrude. there is a hotel in the place, i suppose?" "yes. there is a hotel in new canaan." "i can get board there, no doubt?" "well," mrs. hershey replied argumentatively, "that's a public house and this ain't. we never made no practice of takin' boarders. to be sure, jonas he always was fur boarders. but i ain't fur!" "oh, yes," gravely nodded the young man. "yes. i see." he picked up the dress-suit case which he had set on the sill. "where is the hotel, may i ask?" "just up the road a piece. you can see the sign out," said mrs. hershey, while lizzie banged the bread-box shut with an energy forcibly expressive of her feelings. "thank you," responded the gentleman, a pair of keen, bright eyes sweeping lizzie's gloomy face. he bowed, put his hat on his head and stepped out of the house. there was a back door at the other side of the kitchen. not stopping for the ceremony of leave-taking, tillie slipped out of it to hurry home before the stranger should reach the hotel. her heart beat fast as she hurried across fields by a short-cut, and there was a sparkle of excitement in her eyes. her ears were tingling with sounds to which they were unaccustomed, and which thrilled them exquisitely--the speech, accent, and tones of one who belonged to that world unknown to her except through books--out of which miss margaret had come and to which this new teacher, she at once recognized, belonged. undoubtedly he was what was called, by magazine-writers and novel-writers, a "gentleman." and it was suddenly revealed to tillie that in real life the phenomenon thus named was even more interesting than in literature. the clean cut of the young man's thin face, his pale forehead, the fineness of the white hand he had lifted to his hat, his modulated voice and speech, all these things had, in her few minutes' observation of him, impressed themselves instantly and deeply upon the girl's fresh imagination. out of breath from her hurried walk, she reached the back door of the hotel several minutes before the teacher's arrival. she had just time to report to her aunt that sister jennie's mush was "all," and to reply in the affirmative to the eager questions of amanda and rebecca as to whether she had seen the teacher, when the sound of the knocker on the front door arrested their further catechism. "the stage didn't leave out whoever it is--it drove right apast," said aunty em. "you go, tillie, and see oncet who is it." tillie was sure that she had not been seen by the evicted applicant for board, as she had been hidden behind the stove. this impression was confirmed when she now opened the door to him, for there was no recognition in his eyes as he lifted his hat. it was the first time in tillie's life that a man had taken off his hat to her, and it almost palsied her tongue as she tried to ask him to come in. in reply to his inquiry as to whether he could get board here, she led him into the darkened parlor at the right of a long hall. groping her way across the floor to the window she drew up the blind. "just sit down," she said timidly. "i'll call aunty em." "thank you," he bowed with a little air of ceremony that for an instant held her spellbound. she stood staring at him--only recalled to herself and to a sense of shame for her rudeness by the sudden entrance of her aunt. "how d' do?" said mrs. wackernagel in her brisk, businesslike tone. "d'you want supper?" "i am the applicant for the new canaan school. i want to get board for the winter here, if i can--and in case i'm elected." "well, i say! tillie! d'you hear that? why us we all heard you was goin' to jonas hershey's." "they decided it wasn't convenient to take me and sent me here." "now think! if that wasn't like sister jennie yet! all right!" she announced conclusively. "we can accommodate you to satisfaction, i guess." "have you any other boarders?" the young man inquired. "no reg'lar boarders--except, to be sure, the doc; and he's lived with us it's comin' fifteen years, i think, or how long, till november a'ready. it's just our own fam'ly here and my niece where helps with the work, and the doc. we have a many to meals though, just passing through that way, you know. we don't often have more 'n one reg'lar boarder at oncet, so we just make 'em at home still, like as if they was one of us. now you," she hospitably concluded, "we'll lay in our best bed. we don't lay 'em in the best bed unless they're some clean-lookin'." tillie noticed as her aunt talked that while the young man listened with evident interest, his eyes moved about the room, taking in every detail of it. to tillie's mind, this hotel parlor was so "pleasing to the eye" as to constitute one of those temptations of the enemy against which her new mennonite faith prescribed most rigid discipline. she wondered whether the stranger did not think it very handsome. the arrangement of the room was evidently, like jonas hershey's flower-beds, the work of a mathematical genius. the chairs all stood with their stiff backs squarely against the wall, the same number facing each other from the four sides of the apartment. photographs in narrow oval frames, six or eight, formed another oval, all equidistant from the largest, which occupied the dead center, not only of this group, but of the wall from which it depended. the books on the square oak table, which stood in the exact middle of the floor, were arranged in cubical piles in the same rigid order. tillie saw the new teacher's glance sweep their titles: "touching incidents, and remarkable answers to prayer"; "from tannery to white house"; "gems of religious thought," by talmage; "history of the galveston horror; illustrated"; "platform echoes, or living truths for heart and head," by john b. gough. "lemme see--your name's fairchilds, ain't?" the landlady abruptly asked. "yes," bowed the young man. "will you, now, take it all right if i call you by your christian name? us mennonites daresent call folks mr. and mrs. because us we don't favor titles. what's your first name now?" mr. fairchilds considered the question with the appearance of trying to remember. "you'd better call me pestalozzi," he answered, with a look and tone of solemnity. "pesky louzy!" mrs. waekernagel exclaimed. "well, now think! that's a name where ain't familiar 'round here. is it after some of your folks?" "it was a name i think i bore in a previous incarnation as a teacher of youth," fairchilds gravely replied. mrs. waekernagel looked blank. "tillie!" she appealed to her niece, who had shyly stepped half behind her, "do you know right what he means?" tillie dumbly shook her head. "pesky louzy!" mrs. waekernagel experimented with the unfamiliar name. "don't it, now, beat all! it'll take me awhile till i'm used to that a'ready. mebbe i'll just call you teacher; ain't?" she looked at him inquiringly, expecting an answer. "ain't!" she repeated in her vigorous, whole-souled way. "eh--ain't what?" fairchilds asked, puzzled. "och, i just mean, say not? can't you mebbe talk english wery good? we had such a foreigners at this hotel a'ready. we had oncet one, he was from phil'delphy and he didn't know what we meant right when we sayed, 'the butter's all any more.' he'd ast like you, 'all what?' yes, he was that dumm! och, well," she added consolingly, "people can't help fur their dispositions, that way!" "and what must i call you?" the young man inquired. "my name's wackernagel." "miss or mrs.?" "well, i guess not miss anyhow! i'm the mother of four!" "oh, excuse me!" "oh, that's all right!" responded mrs. wackernagel, amiably. "well, i must go make supper now. you just make yourself at home that way." "may i go to my room?" "now?" asked mrs. wackernagel, incredulously. "before night?" "to unpack my dress-suit case," the young man explained. "my trunk will be brought out to-morrow on the stage." "all right. if you want. but we ain't used to goin' up-stairs in the daytime. tillie, you take his satchel and show him up. this is my niece, tillie getz." again mr. fairchilds bowed to the girl as his eyes rested on the fair face looking out from her white cap. tillie bent her head in response, then stooped to pick up the suit case. but he interposed and took it from her hands--and the touch of chivalry in the act went to her head like wine. she led the way up-stairs to the close, musty, best spare bedroom. xv the wackernagels at home at the supper-table, the apparently inexhaustible topic of talk was the refusal of the hersheys to receive the new teacher into the bosom of their family. a return to this theme again and again, on the part of the various members of the wackernagel household, did not seem to lessen its interest for them, though the teacher himself did not take a very animated part in its discussion. tillie realized, as with an absorbing interest she watched his fine face, that all he saw and heard here was as novel to him as the world whence he had come would be to her and her kindred and neighbors, could they be suddenly transplanted into it. tillie had never looked upon any human countenance which seemed to express so much of that ideal world in which she lived her real life. "to turn him off after he got there!" mrs. wackernagel exclaimed, reverting for the third time to the episode which had so excited the family. "and after lizzie and jonas they'd sayed he could come yet!" "well, i say!" mr. wackernagel shook his head, as though the story, even at its third recital, were full of surprises. mr. wackernagel was a tall, raw-boned man with conspicuously large feet and hands. he wore his hair plastered back from his face in a unique, not to say distinguished style, which he privately considered highly becoming his position as the proprietor of the new canaan hotel. mr. wackernagel's self-satisfaction did indeed cover every detail of his life--from the elegant fashion of his hair to the quality of the whisky which he sold over the bar, and of which he never tired of boasting. not only was he entirely pleased with himself, but his good-natured satisfaction included all his possessions--his horse first, then his wife, his two daughters, his permanent boarder, "the doc," and his wife's niece tillie. for people outside his own horizon, he had a tolerant but contemptuous pity. mr. wackernagel and the doctor both sat at table in their shirt-sleeves, the proprietor wearing a clean white shirt (his extravagance and vanity in using two white shirts a week being one of the chief historical facts of the village), while the doctor was wont to appear in a brown cotton shirt, the appearance of which suggested the hostler rather than the physician. that fairchilds should "eat in his coat" placed him, in the eyes of the wackernagels, on the high social plane of the drummers from the city, many of whom yearly visited the town with their wares. "and teacher he didn't press 'em none, up at jonas hershey's, to take him in, neither, he says," mrs. wackernagel pursued. "he says?" repeated mr. wackernagel, inquiringly. "well, that's like what i was, too, when i was a young man," he boasted. "if i thought i ain't wanted when i went to see a young lady--if she passed any insinyations--she never wasn't worried with me ag'in!" "i guess lizzie's spited that teacher's stoppin' at our place," giggled rebecca, her pretty face rosy with pleasurable excitement in the turn affairs had taken. she sat directly opposite mr. fairchilds, while amanda had the chair at his side. tillie could see that the young man's eyes rested occasionally upon the handsome, womanly form of her very good-looking cousin amanda. men always looked at amanda a great deal, tillie had often observed. the fact had never before had any special significance for her. "are you from lancaster, or wherever?" the doctor inquired of mr. fairchilds. "from connecticut," he replied in a tone that indefinably, but unmistakably checked further questioning. "now think! so fur off as that!" "yes, ain't!" exclaimed mrs. wackernagel. "it's a wonder a body'd ever be contented to live that fur off." "we're had strangers here in this hotel," mr. wackernagel began to brag, while he industriously ate of his fried sausage and fried potatoes, "from as fur away as illinois yet! and from as fur south as down in maine! yes, indeed! ain't, mom?" he demanded of his wife. "och, yes, many's the strange meals i cooked a'ready in this house. one week i cooked forty strange meals; say not, abe?" she returned. "yes, i mind of that week. it was mrs. johnson and her daughter we had from illinois and mrs. snyder from maine," abe explained to mr. fairchilds. "and them johnsons stayed the whole week." "they stopped here while mr. johnson went over the county sellin' milk-separators," added mrs. wackernagel. "and abe he was in lancaster that week, and the doc he was over to east donegal, and there was no man here except only us ladies! do you mind, rebecca?" eebecca nodded, her mouth too full for utterance. "mrs. johnson she looked younger than her own daughter yet," mrs. wackernagel related, with animation, innocent of any suspicion that the teacher might not find the subject of mrs. johnson as absorbing as she found it. "there is nothing like good health as a preserver of youth," responded fairchilds. "hotel-keepin' didn't pay till we got the license," mr. wackernagel chatted confidentially to the stranger. "mom, to be sure, she didn't favor my havin' a bar, because she belonged to meetin'. but i seen i couldn't make nothin' if i didn't. it was never no temptation to me--i was always among the whisky and i never got tight oncet. and it ain't the hard work farmin' was. i had to give up followin' farmin'. i got it so in my leg. why, sometimes i can't hardly walk no more." "and can't your doctor cure you?" fairchilds asked, with a curious glance at the unkempt little man across the table. "och, yes, he's helped me a heap a'ready. him he's as good a doctor as any they're got in lancaster even!" was the loyal response. "here a couple months back, a lady over in east donegal township she had wrote him a letter over here, how the five different kinds of doses where he give her daughter done her so much good, and she was that grateful, she sayed she just felt indebted fur a letter to him! ain't, doc? she sayed now her daughter's engaged to be married and her mind's more settled--and to be sure, that made somepin too. yes, she sayed her gettin' engaged done her near as much good as the five different kind of doses done her." "are you an allopath?" fairchilds asked the doctor. "i'm a eclectic," he responded glibly. "and do you know, teacher, i'd been practisin' that there style of medicine fur near twelve years before i knowed it was just to say the eclectic school, you understand." "like moliere's prose-writer!" remarked the teacher, then smiled at himself for making such an allusion in such a place. "won't you have some more sliced radishes, teacher?" urged the hostess. "i made a-plenty." "no, i thank you," fairchilds replied, with his little air of courtesy that so impressed the whole family. "i can't eat radishes in the evening with impunity." "but these is with winegar," mrs. wackernagel corrected him. before mr. fairchilds could explain, mr. wackernagel broke in, confirming the doctor's proud claim. "yes, doc he's a eclectic," he repeated, evidently feeling that the fact reflected credit on the hotel. "you can see his sign on the side door." "i was always interested in science," explained the doctor, under the manifest impression that he was continuing the subject. "phe-non-e-ma. that's what i like. odd things. i'm stuck on 'em! now this here wireless telegraphy. i'm stuck on that, you bet! to me that there's a phe-non-e-ma." "teacher," interrupted mrs. wackernagel, "you ain't eatin' hearty. leave me give you some more sausage." "if you please," mr. fairchilds bowed as he handed his plate to her. "why don't you leave him help hisself," protested mr. wackernagel. "he won't feel to make hisself at home if he can't help hisself like as if he was one of us that way." "och, well," confessed mrs. wackernagel, "i just keep astin' him will he have more, so i can hear him speak his manners so nice." she laughed aloud at her own vanity. "you took notice of it too, tillie, ain't? you can't eat fur lookin' at him!" a tide of color swept tillie's face as the teacher, with a look of amusement, turned his eyes toward her end of the table. her glance fell upon her plate, and she applied herself to cutting up her untouched sausage. "now, there's doc," remarked amanda, critically, "he's got good manners, but he don't use 'em." "och," said the doctor, "it ain't worth while to trouble." "i think it would be wonderful nice, teacher," said mrs. wackernagel, "if you learnt them manners you got to your scholars this winter. i wisht 'manda and rebecca knowed such manners. they're to be your scholars this winter." "indeed?" said fairchilds; "are they?" "'manda there," said her father, "she's so much fur actin' up you'll have to keep her right by you to keep her straight, still." "that's where i shall be delighted to keep her," returned fairchilds, gallantly, and amanda laughed boisterously and grew several shades rosier as she looked boldly up into the young man's eyes. "ain't you fresh though!" she exclaimed coquettishly. how dared they all make so free with this wonderful young man, marveled tillie. why didn't they realize, as she did, how far above them he was? she felt almost glad that in his little attentions to amanda and rebecca he had scarcely noticed her at all; for the bare thought of talking to him overwhelmed her with shyness. "mind tillie!" laughed mr. wackernagel, suddenly, "lookin' scared at the way yous are all talkin' up to teacher! tillie she's afraid of you," he explained to mr. fairchilds. "she ain't never got her tongue with her when there's strangers. ain't, tillie?" tillie's burning face was bent over her plate, and she did not attempt to answer. mr. fairchilds' eyes rested for an instant on the delicate, sensitive countenance of the girl. but his attention was diverted by an abrupt exclamation from mrs. wackernagel. "oh, abe!" she suddenly cried, "you ain't tole teacher yet about the albright sisters astin' you, on market, what might your name be!" the tone in which this serious omission was mentioned indicated that it was an anecdote treasured among the family archives. "now, i would mebbe of forgot that!" almost in consternation said mr. wackernagel. "well," he began, concentrating his attention upon the teacher, "it was this here way. the two miss albrights they had bought butter off of us, on market, for twenty years back a'ready, and all that time we didn't know what was their name, and they didn't know ourn; fur all, i often says to mom, 'now i wonder what's the name of them two thin little women.' well, you see, i was always a wonderful man fur my jokes. yes, i was wery fond of makin' a joke, still. so here one day the two sisters come along and bought their butter, and then one of 'em she says, 'excuse me, but here i've been buyin' butter off of yous fur this twenty years back a'ready and i ain't never heard your name. what might your name be?' now i was such a man fur my jokes, still, so i says to her"--mr. wackernagel's whole face twinkled with amusement, and his shoulders shook with laughter as he contemplated the joke he had perpetrated--"i says, 'well, it might be gener'l jackson'"--laughter again choked his utterance, and the stout form of mrs. wackernagel also was convulsed with amusement, while amanda and rebecca giggled appreciatively. tillie and the doctor alone remained unaffected. "'it might be gener'l jackson,' i says. 'but it ain't. it's abe wackernagel,' i says. you see," he explained, "she ast me what might my name be.--see?--and i says 'it might be jackson'--might be, you know, because she put it that way, what might it be. 'but it ain't,' i says. 'it's wackernagel.'" mr. and mrs. wackernagel and their daughters leaned back in their chairs and gave themselves up to prolonged and exuberant laughter, in which the teacher obligingly joined as well as he was able. when this hilarity had subsided, mr. wackernagel turned to mr. fairchilds with a question. "are you mebbe feelin' oneasy, teacher, about meetin' the school directors to-night? you know they meet here in the hotel parlor at seven o'clock to take a look at you; and if you suit, then you and them signs the agreement." "and if i don't suit?" "they'll turn you down and send you back home!" promptly answered the doctor. "that there board ain't conferrin' william penn on no one where don't suit 'em pretty good! they're a wonderful partic'lar board!" after supper the comely amanda agreed eagerly to the teacher's suggestion that she go with him for a walk, before the convening of the school board at seven o'clock, and show him the school-house, as he would like to behold, he said, "the seat of learning" which, if the board elected him, was to be the scene of his winter's campaign. amanda improved this opportunity to add her word of warning to that of the doctor. "that there board's awful hard to suit, still. oncet they got a millersville normal out here, and when she come to sign they seen she was near-sighted that way, and nathaniel puntz--he's a director--he up and says that wouldn't suit just so well, and they sent her back home. and here oncet a lady come out to apply and she should have sayed [she is reported to have said] she was afraid new canaan hadn't no accommodations good enough fur her, and the directors ast her, 'didn't most of our presidents come out of log cabins?' so they wouldn't elect her. now," concluded amanda, "you see!" "thanks for your warning. can you give me some pointers?" "what's them again?" "well, i must not be near-sighted, for one thing, and i must not demand 'all the modern improvements.' tell me what manner of man this school board loves and admires. to be in the dark as to their tastes, you know--" "you must make yourself nice and common," amanda instructed him. "you haven't dare to put on no city airs. to be sure, i guess they come a good bit natural to you, and, as mom says still, a body can't help fur their dispositions; but our directors is all plain that way and they don't like tony people that wants to come out here and think they're much!" "yes? i see. anything else?" "well, they'll be partic'lar about your bein' a perfessor." "how do you mean?" amanda looked at him in astonishment. "if you're a perfessor or no. they'll be sure to ast you." mr. fairchilds thoughtfully considered it. "you mean," he said, light coming to him, "they will ask me whether i am a professor of religion, don't you?" "why, to be sure!" "oh!" "and you better have your answer ready." "what, in your judgment, may i ask, would be a suitable answer to that?" "well, are you a perfessor?" "oh, i'm anything at all that will get me this 'job.' i've got to have it as a makeshift until i can get hold of something better. let me see--will a baptist do?" "are you a baptist?" the girl stolidly asked. "when circumstances are pressing. will they be satisfied with a baptist?" "that's one of the fashionable churches of the world," amanda replied gravely. "and the directors is most all mennonites and amish and dunkards. all them is plain churches and loosed of the world, you know." "oh, well, i'll wriggle out somehow! trust to luck!" fairchilds dismissed the subject, realizing the injudiciousness of being too confidential with this girl on so short an acquaintance. at the momentous hour of seven, the directors promptly assembled. when tillie, at her aunt's request, carried two kerosene lamps into the parlor, a sudden determination came to the girl to remain and witness the reception of the new teacher by the school board. she was almost sick with apprehension lest the board should realize, as she did, that this harvard graduate was too fine for such as they. it was an austere board, hard to satisfy, and there was nothing they would so quickly resent and reject as evident superiority in an applicant. the normal school students, their usual candidates, were for the most part, though not always, what was called in the neighborhood "nice and common." the new canaan board was certainly not accustomed to sitting in judgment upon an applicant such as this pestalozzi fairchilds. (tillie's religion forbade her to call him by the vain and worldly form of mr.) no one noticed the pale-faced girl as, after placing one lamp on the marble-topped table about which the directors sat and another on the mantelpiece, she moved quietly away to the farthest corner of the long, narrow parlor and seated herself back of the stove. the applicant, too, when he came into the room, was too much taken up with what he realized to be the perils of his case to observe the little watcher in the corner, though he walked past her so close that his coat brushed her shoulder, sending along her nerves, like a faint electric shock, a sensation so novel and so exquisite that it made her suddenly close her eyes to steady her throbbing head. there were present six members of the board--two amishmen, one old mennonite, one patriarchal-looking dunkard, one new mennonite, and one evangelical, the difference in their religious creeds being attested by their various costumes and the various cuts of beard and hair. the evangelical, the new mennonite, and the amishmen were farmers, the dunkard kept the store and the post-office, and the old mennonite was the stage-driver. jacob getz was the evangelical; and nathaniel puntz, absalom's father, the new mennonite. the investigation of the applicant was opened up by the president of the board, a long-haired amishman, whose clothes were fastened by hooks and eyes instead of buttons and buttonholes, these latter being considered by his sect as a worldly vanity. "what was your experience a'ready as a teacher?" fairchilds replied that he had never had any. tillie's heart sank as, from her post in the corner, she heard this answer. would the members think for one moment of paying forty dollars a month to a teacher without experience? she was sure they had never before done so. they were shaking their heads gravely over it, she could see. but the investigation proceeded. "what was your persuasion then?" tillie saw, in the teacher's hesitation, that he did not understand the question. "my 'persuasion'? oh! i see. you mean my church?" "yes, what's your conwictions?" he considered a moment. tillie hung breathlessly upon his answer. she knew how much depended upon it with this board of "plain" people. could he assure them that he was "a bible christian"? otherwise, they would never elect him to the new canaan school. he gave his reply, presently, in a tone suggesting his having at that moment recalled to memory just what his "persuasion" was. "let me see--yes--i'm a truth-seeker." "what's that again?" inquired the president, with interest. "i have not heard yet of that persuasion." "a truth-seeker," he gravely explained, "is one who believes in--eh--in a progress from an indefinite, incoherent homogeneity to a definite, coherent heterogeneity." the members looked at each other cautiously. "is that the english you're speakin', or whatever?" asked the dunkard member. "some of them words ain't familiar with me till now, and i don't know right what they mean." "yes, i'm talking english," nodded the applicant. "we also believe," he added, growing bolder, "in the fundamental, biogenetic law that ontogenesis is an abridged repetition of philogenesis." "he says they believe in genesis," remarked the old mennonite, appealing for aid, with bewildered eyes, to the other members. "maybe he's a jew yet!" put in nathaniel puntz. "we also believe," mr. fairchilds continued, beginning to enjoy himself, "in the revelations of science." "he believes in genesis and in revelations," explained the president to the others. "maybe he's a cat'lic!" suggested the suspicious mr. puntz. "no," said fairchilds, "i am, as i said, a truth-seeker. a truth-seeker can no more be a catholic or a jew in faith than an amishman can, or a mennonite, or a brennivinarian." tillie knew he was trying to say "winebrennarian," the name of one of the many religious sects of the county, and she wondered at his not knowing better. "you ain't a gradyate, neither, are you?" was the president's next question, the inscrutable mystery of the applicant's creed being for the moment dropped. "why, yes, i thought you knew that. of harvard." "och, that!" contemptuously; "i mean you ain't a gradyate of millersville normal?" "no," humbly acknowledged fairchilds. "when i was young," mr. getz irrelevantly remarked, "we didn't have no gradyate teachers like what they have now, still. but we anyhow learnt more according." "how long does it take you to get 'em from a, b, c's to the testament?" inquired the patriarchal dunkard. "that depends upon the capacity of the pupil," was mr. fairchilds's profound reply. "can you learn 'em 'rithmetic good?" asked nathaniel puntz. "i got a son his last teacher couldn't learn 'rithmetic to. he's wonderful dumm in 'rithmetic, that there boy is. absalom by name. after the grandfather. his teacher tried every way to learn him to count and figger good. he even took and spread toothpicks out yet--but that didn't learn him neither. i just says, he ain't appointed to learn 'rithmetic. then the teacher he tried him with such a algebry. but absalom he'd get so mixed up!--he couldn't keep them x's spotted." "i have a method," mr. fairchilds began, "which i trust--" to tillie's distress, her aunt's voice, at this instant calling her to "come stir the sots [yeast] in," summoned her to the kitchen. it was very hard to have to obey. she longed so to stay till fairchilds should come safely through his fiery ordeal. for a moment she was tempted to ignore the summons, but her conscience, no less than her grateful affection for her aunt, made such behavior impossible. softly she stole out of the room and noiselessly closed the door behind her. a half-hour later, when her aunt and cousins had gone to bed, and while the august school board still occupied the parlor, tillie sat sewing in the sitting-room, while the doctor, at the other side of the table, nodded over his newspaper. since tillie had come to live at the hotel, she and the doctor were often together in the evening; the doc was fond of a chat over his pipe with the child whom he so helped and befriended in her secret struggles to educate herself. there was, of course, a strong bond of sympathy and friendship between them in their common conspiracy with miss margaret, whom the doctor had never ceased to hold in tender memory. just now tillie's ears were strained to catch the sounds of the adjourning of the board. when at last she heard their shuffling footsteps in the hall, her heart beat fast with suspense. a moment more and the door leading from the parlor opened and fairchilds came out into the sitting-room. tillie did not lift her eyes from her sewing, but the room seemed suddenly filled with his presence. "well!" the doctor roused himself to greet the young man; "were you 'lected?" breathlessly, tillie waited to hear his answer. "oh, yes; i've escaped alive!" fairchilds leaned against the table in an attitude of utter relaxation. "they roasted me brown, though! galileo at rome, and martin luther at worms, had a dead easy time compared to what i've been through!" "i guess!" the doctor laughed. "ain't!" "i'm going to bed," the teacher announced in a tone of collapse. "good night!" "good night!" answered the doctor, cordially. fairchilds drew himself up from the table and took a step toward the stairway; this brought him to tillie's side of the table, and he paused a moment and looked down upon her as she sewed. her fingers trembled, and the pulse in her throat beat suffocatingly, but she did not look up. "good night, miss--tillie, isn't it?" "matilda maria," tillie's soft, shy voice replied as her eyes, full of light, were raised, for an instant, to the face above her. the man smiled and bowed his acknowledgment; then, after an instant's hesitation, he said, "pardon me: the uniform you and mrs. wackernagel wear--may i ask what it is?" "'uniform'?" breathed tillie, wonderingly. "oh, you mean the garb? we are members of meeting. the world calls us new mennonites." "and this is the uni--the garb of the new mennonites?" "yes, sir." "it is a very becoming garb, certainly," fairchilds smiled, gazing down upon the fair young girl with a puzzled look in his own face, for he recognized, not only in her delicate features, and in the light of her beautiful eyes, but also in her speech, a something that set her apart from the rest of this household. tillie colored deeply at his words, and the doctor laughed outright. "by gum! they wear the garb to make 'em look unbecomin'! and he ups and tells her it's becomin' yet! that's a choke, teacher! one on you, ain't? that there cap's to hide the hair which is a pride to the sek! and that cape over the bust is to hide woman's allurin' figger. see? and you ups and tells her it's a becomin' unyform! unyforms is what new mennonites don't uphold to! them's fur cat'lics and 'piscopals--and fur warriors--and the mennonites don't favor war! unyforms yet!" he laughed. "i'm swanged if that don't tickle me!" "i stand corrected. i beg pardon if i've offended," fairchilds said hastily. "miss--matilda--i hope i've not hurt your feelings? believe me, i did not mean to." "och!" the doctor answered for her, "tillie she ain't so easy hurt to her feelin's, are you, tillie? gosh, teacher, them manners you got must keep you busy! well, sometimes i think i'm better off if i stay common. then i don't have to bother." the door leading from the bar-room opened suddenly and jacob getz stood on the threshold. "well, tillie," he said by way of greeting. "uncle abe sayed you wasn't went to bed yet, so i stopped to see you a minute." "well, father," tillie answered as she put down her sewing and came up to him. awkwardly he bent to kiss her, and tillie, even in her emotional excitement, realized, with a passing wonder, that he appeared glad to see her after a week of separation. "it's been some lonesome, havin' you away," he told her. "is everybody well?" she asked. "yes, middlin'. you was sewin', was you?" he inquired, glancing at the work on the table. "yes, sir." "all right. don't waste your time. next saturday i 'll stop off after market on my way out from lancaster and see you oncet, and get your wages off of aunty em." "yes, sir." a vague idea of something unusual in the light of tillie's eyes arrested him. he glanced suspiciously at the doctor, who was speaking in a low tone to the teacher. "look-ahere, tillie. if teacher there wants to keep comp'ny with one of yous girls, it ain't to be you, mind. he ain't to be makin' up to you! i don't want you to waste your time that there way." apprehensively, tillie darted a sidelong glance at the teacher to see if he had heard--for though no tender sentiment was associated in her mind with the idea of "keeping company," yet intuitively she felt the unseemliness of her father's warning and its absurdity in the eyes of such as this stranger. mr. fairchilds was leaning against the table, his arms folded, his lips compressed and his face flushed. she was sure that he had overheard her father. was he angry, or--almost worse--did that compressed mouth mean concealed amusement? "well, now, i must be goin'," said mr. getz. "be a good girl, mind. och, i 'most forgot to tell you. me and your mom's conceited we'd drive up to puntz's sunday afternoon after the dinner work's through a'ready. and if aunty em don't want you partic'lar, you're to come home and mind the childern, do you hear?" "yes, sir." "now, don't forget. well, good-by, then." again he bent to kiss her, and tillie felt fairchilds's eyes upon her, as unresponsively she submitted to the caress. "good night to you, teacher." mr. getz gruffly raised his voice to speak to the pair by the table. "and to you, doc." they answered him and he went away. when tillie slowly turned back to the table, the teacher hastily took his leave and moved away to the stairway at the other end of the room. as she took up her sewing, she heard him mount the steps and presently close and lock the door of his room at the head of the stairs. "he was, now, wonderful surprised, tillie," the doctor confided to her, "when i tole him jake getz was your pop. he don't think your pop takes after you any. i says to him, 'tillie's pop, there, bein' one of your bosses, you better make up to tillie,' i says, and he sayed, 'you don't mean to tell me that that mr. getz of the school board is the father of this girl?' 'that's what,' i says. 'he's that much her father,' i says, 'that you'd better keep on the right side of him by makin' up to tillie,' i says, just to plague him. and just then your pop up and sayed if teacher wanted to keep comp'ny he must pick out 'manda or rebecca--and i seen teacher wanted to laugh, but his manners wouldn't leave him. he certainly has, now, a lot of manners, ain't, tillie?" tillie's head was bent over her sewing and she did not answer. the doctor yawned, stretched himself, and guessed he would step into the bar-room. tillie bent over her sewing for a long time after she was left alone. the music of the young man's grave voice as he had spoken her name and called her "miss matilda" sang in her brain. the fascination of his smile as he had looked down into her eyes, and the charm of his chivalrous courtesy, so novel to her experience, haunted and intoxicated her. and tonight, tillie felt her soul flooded with a life and light so new and strange that she trembled as before a miracle. meanwhile, walter fairchilds, alone in his room, his mind too full of the events and characters to which the past day had introduced him to admit of sleep, was picturing, with mingled amusement and regret, the genuine horror of his fastidious relatives could they know of his present environment, among people for whom their vocabulary had but one word--a word which would have consigned them all, even that sweet-voiced, clear-eyed little puritan, matilda maria, to outer darkness; and that he, their adopted son and brother, should be breaking bread and living on a footing of perfect equality with these villagers he knew would have been, in their eyes, an offense only second in heinousness to that of his apostasy. xvi the wackernagels "conwerse" the next day, being the sabbath, brought to tillie two of the keenest temptations she had ever known. in the first place, she did not want to obey her father and go home after dinner to take care of the children. all in a day the hotel had become to her the one haven where she would be, outside of which the sun did not shine. true, by going home she might hope to escape the objectionable sunday evening sitting-up with absalom; for in spite of the note she had sent him, telling him of her father's wish that he must not come to see her at the hotel, she was unhappily sure that he would appear as usual. indeed, with his characteristic dogged persistency, he was pretty certain to follow her, whithersoever she went. and even if he did not, it would be easier to endure the slow torture of his endless visit under this roof, which sheltered also that other presence, than to lose one hour away from its wonderful and mysterious charm. "now, look here, tillie," said aunty em, at the breakfast-table, "you worked hard this week, and this after you're restin'--leastways, unless you want to go home and take care of all them litter of childern. if you don't want to go, you just stay--and _i'll_ take the blame! i'll say i needed you." "let jake getz come 'round here tryin' to bully you, tillie," exclaimed mr. wackernagel, "and it won't take me a week to tell him what i think of him! i don't owe him nothin'!" "no," agreed jake getz's sister, "we don't live off of him!" "and i don't care who fetches him neither!" added mr. wackernagel--which expression of contempt was one of the most scathing known to the tongue of a pennsylvania dutchman. "what are you goin' to do, tillie?" amanda asked. "are you goin' or stayin'?" tillie wavered a moment between duty and inclination; between the habit of servility to her father and the magic power that held her in its fascinating spell here under her uncle's roof. "i'm staying," she faltered. "good fur you, tillie!" laughed her uncle. "you're gettin' learnt here to take your own head a little fur things. well, i'd like to get you spoilt good fur your pop--that's what i'd like to do!" "we darsent go too fur," warned aunty em, "or he won't leave her stay with us at all." "now there's you, abe," remarked the doctor, dryly; "from the time your childern could walk and talk a'ready all you had to say was 'go'--and they stayed. ain't?" mr. wackernagel joined in the loud laughter of his wife and daughters. tillie realized that the teacher, as he sipped his coffee, was listening to the dialogue with astonishment and curiosity, and she hungered to know all that was passing through his mind. her second temptation came to her upon hearing fairchilds, as they rose from the breakfast-table, suggest a walk in the woods with amanda and rebecca. "and won't miss tillie go too?" he inquired. her aunt answered for her. "och, she wouldn't have dare, her bein' a member, you know. it would be breakin' the sabbath. and anyways, even if it wasn't sunday, us new mennonites don't take walks or do anything just fur pleasure when they ain't nothin' useful in it. if tillie went, i'd have to report her to the meetin', even if it did go ag'in' me to do it." "and then what would happen?" mr. fairchilds inquired curiously. "she'd be set back." "'set back'?" "she wouldn't have dare to greet the sisters with a kiss, and she couldn't speak with me or eat with me or any of the brothers and sisters till she gave herself up ag'in and obeyed to the rules." "this is very interesting," commented fairchilds, his contemplative gaze moving from the face of mrs. wackernagel to tillie. "but," he questioned, "mrs. wackernagel, why are your daughters allowed to do what you think wrong and would not do?" "well," began aunty em, entering with relish into the discussion, for she was strong in theology, "we don't hold to forcin' our childern or interferin' with the free work of the holy spirit in bringin' souls to the truth. we don't do like them fashionable churches of the world where teaches their childern to say their prayers and makes 'em read the bible and go to sunday-school. we don't uphold to sunday-schools. you can't read nothin' in the scripture about sunday-schools. we hold everybody must come by their free will, and learnt only of the holy spirit, into the light of the one true way." fairchilds gravely thanked her for her explanation and pursued the subject no further. when tillie presently saw him start out with her cousins, an unregenerate longing filled her soul to stay away from meeting and go with them, to spend this holy sabbath day in worshiping, not her god, but this most god-like being who had come like the opening up of heaven into her simple, uneventful life. in her struggle with her conscience to crush such sinful desires, tillie felt that now, for the first time, she understood how jacob of old had wrestled with the angel. her spiritual struggle was not ended by her going dutifully to meeting with her aunt. during all the long services of the morning she fought with her wandering attention to keep it upon the sacred words that were spoken and sung. but her thoughts would not be controlled. straying like a wicked imp into forbidden paths, her fancy followed the envied ones into the soft, cool shadows of the autumn woods and along the banks of the beautiful conestoga, and mingling with the gentle murmuring of the leaves and the rippling of the water, she heard that resonant voice, so unlike any voice she had ever heard before, and that little abrupt laugh with its odd falsetto note, which haunted her like a strain of music; and she saw, in the sunlight of the lovely october morning, against a background of gold and brown leaves and silver water, the finely chiseled face, the thoughtful, pale forehead, the kind eyes, the capable white hands, of this most wonderful young man. tillie well understood that could the brethren and sisters know in what a worldly frame of mind she sat in the house of god this day, undoubtedly they would present her case for "discipline," and even, perhaps, "set her back." but all the while that she tried to fight back the enemy of her soul, who thus subtly beset her with temptation to sin, she felt the utter uselessness of her struggle with herself. for even when she did succeed in forcing her attention upon some of the hymns, it was in whimsical and persistent terms of the teacher that she considered them. how was it possible, she wondered, for him, or any unconverted soul, to hear, without being moved to "give himself up," such lines as these: "he washed them all to make them clean, but judas still was full of sin. may none of us, like judas, sell our lord for gold, and go to hell!" and these: "o man, remember, thou must die; the sentence is for you and i. where shall we be, or will we go, when we must leave this world below?" in the same moment that tillie was wondering how a "truth-seeker" would feel under these searching words, she felt herself condemned by them for her wandering attention. the young girl's feelings toward the stranger at this present stage of their evolution were not, like those of amanda and rebecca, the mere instinctive feminine craving for masculine admiration. she did not think of herself in relation to him at all. a great hunger possessed her to know him--all his thoughts, his emotions, the depths and the heights of him; she did not long, or even wish, that he might know and admire her. the three-mile drive home from church seemed to tillie, sitting in the high, old-fashioned buggy at her aunt's side, an endless journey. never had old dolly traveled so deliberately or with more frequent dead stops in the road to meditate upon her long-past youth. mrs. wackernagel's ineffectual slaps of the reins upon the back of the decrepit animal inspired in tillie an inhuman longing to seize the whip and lash the feeble beast into a swift pace. the girl felt appalled at her own feelings, so novel and inexplicable they seemed to her. whether there was more of ecstasy or torture in them, she hardly knew. immediately after dinner the teacher went out and did not turn up again until evening, when he retired immediately to the seclusion of his own room. the mystification of the family at this unaccountably unsocial behavior, their curiosity as to where he had been, their suspense as to what he did when alone so long in his bedroom, reached a tension that was painful. promptly at half-past six, absalom, clad in his sunday suit, appeared at the hotel, to perform his weekly stint of sitting-up. as rebecca always occupied the parlor on sunday evening with her gentleman friend, there was only left to absalom and tillie to sit either in the kitchen or with the assembled family in the sitting-room. tillie preferred the latter. of course she knew that such respite as the presence of the family gave her was only temporary, for in friendly consideration of what were supposed to be her feelings in the matter, they would all retire early. absalom also knowing this, accepted the brief inconvenience of their presence without any marked restiveness. "say, absalom," inquired the doctor, as the young man took up his post on the settee beside tillie, sitting as close to her as he could without pushing her off, "how did your pop pass his opinion about the new teacher after the board meeting saturday, heh?" the doctor was lounging in his own special chair by the table, his fat legs crossed and his thumbs thrust into his vest arms. amanda idly rocked back and forth in a large luridly painted rocking-chair by the window, and mrs. wackernagel sat by the table before an open bible in which she was not too much absorbed to join occasionally in the general conversation. "he sayed he was afraid he was some tony," answered absalom. "and," he added, a reflection in his tone of his father's suspicious attitude on saturday night toward fairchilds, "pop sayed he couldn't make out what was his conwictions. he couldn't even tell right was he a bible christian or no." "he certainly does, now, have pecooliar views," agreed the doctor. "i was talkin' to him this after--" "you was!" exclaimed amanda, a note of chagrin in her voice. "well, i'd like to know where at? where had he took himself to?" "up to the woods there by the old mill. i come on him there at five o'clock--layin' readin' and musin'--when i was takin' a short cut home through the woods comin' from adam oberholzer's." "well i never!" cried amanda. "and was he out there all by hisself the whole afternoon?" she asked incredulously. "so much as i know. ain't he, now, a queer feller not to want a girl along when one was so handy?" teased the doctor. "well," retorted amanda, "i think he's hard up--to be spendin' a whole afternoon readin'!" "oh, doc!" tillie leaned forward and whispered, "he's up in his room and perhaps he can hear us through the register!" "i wisht he kin," declared amanda, "if it would learn him how dumm us folks thinks a feller where spends a whole sunday afternoon by hisself readin'!" "why, yes," put in mrs. wackernagel; "what would a body be wantin' to waste time like that fur?--when he could of spent his nice afternoon settin' there on the porch with us all, conwersin'." "and he's at it ag'in this evenin', up there in his room," the doctor informed them. "i went up to give him my lamp, and i'm swanged if he ain't got a many books and such pamp'lets in his room! as many as ten, i guess! i tole him: i says, 'it does, now, beat all the way you take to them books and pamp'lets and things!'" "it's a pity of him!" said motherly mrs. wackernagel. "and i says to him," added the doctor, "i says, 'you ain't much fur sociability, are you?' i says." "well, i did think, too, amanda," sympathized her mother, "he'd set up with you mebbe to-night, seein' rebecca and tillie's each got their gent'man comp'ny--even if he didn't mean it fur really, but only to pass the time." "och, he needn't think i'm dyin' to set up with him! there's a plenty others would be glad to set up with me, if i was one of them that was fur keepin' comp'ny with just anybody! but i did think when i heard he was goin' to stop here that mebbe he'd be a jolly feller that way. well," amanda concluded scathingly, "i'm goin' to tell lizzie hershey she ain't missin' much!" "what's them pecooliar views of hisn you was goin' to speak to us, doc?" said absalom. "och, yes, i was goin' to tell you them. well, here this after we got to talkin' about the subjeck of prayer, and i ast him his opinion. and if i understood right what he meant, why, prayin' is no different to him than musin'. leastways, that's the thought i got out of his words." "musin'," repeated absalom. "what's musin'?" "yes, what's that ag'in?" asked mrs. wackernagel, alert with curiosity, theological discussions being always of deep interest to her. "musin' is settin' by yourself and thinkin' of your learnin'," explained the doctor. "i've took notice, this long time back, educated persons they like to set by theirselves, still, and muse." "and do you say," demanded absalom, indignantly, "that teacher he says it's the same to him as prayin'--this here musin'?" "so much as i know, that's what he sayed." "well," declared absalom, "that there ain't in the bible! he'd better watch out! if he ain't a bible christian, pop and jake getz and the other directors'll soon put him off william penn!" "och, absalom, go sass your gran'mom!" was the doctor's elegant retort. "what's ailin' you, anyways, that you want to be so spunky about teacher? i guess you're mebbe thinkin' he'll cut you out with tillie, ain't?" "i'd like to see him try it oncet!" growled absalom. tillie grew cold with fear that the teacher might hear them; but she knew there was no use in protesting. "are you goin' to keep on at william penn all winter, absalom?" mrs. wackernagel asked. "just long enough to see if he kin learn 'rithmetic to me. ezra herr, he was too dumm to learn me." "mebbe," said the doctor, astutely, "you was too dumm to get learnt!" "i am wonderful dumm in 'rithmetic," absalom acknowledged shamelessly. "but pop says this here teacher is smart and kin mebbe learn me. i've not saw him yet myself." much as tillie disliked being alone with her suitor, she was rather relieved this evening when the family, en masse, significantly took its departure to the second floor; for she hoped that with no one but absalom to deal with, she could induce him to lower his voice so their talk would not be audible to the teacher in the room above. had she been able but faintly to guess what was to ensue on her being left alone with him, she would have fled up-stairs with the rest of the family and left absalom to keep company with the chairs. xvii the teacher meets absalom only a short time had the sitting-room been abandoned to them when tillie was forced to put a check upon her lover's ardor. "now, absalom," she firmly said, moving away from his encircling arm, "unless you leave me be, i'm not sitting on the settee alongside you at all. you must not kiss me or hold my hand--or even touch me. never again. i told you so last sunday night." "but why?" absalom asked, genuinely puzzled. "is it that i kreistle you, tillie?" "n--no," she hesitated. an affirmative reply, she knew, would be regarded as a cold-blooded insult. in fact, tillie herself did not understand her own repugnance to absalom's caresses. "you act like as if i made you feel repulsive to me, tillie," he complained. "n--no. i don't want to be touched. that's all." "well, i'd like to know what fun you think there is in settin' up with a girl that won't leave a feller kiss her or hug her!" "i'm sure i don't know what you do see in it, absalom. i told you not to come." "if i ain't to hold your hand or kiss yon, what are we to do to pass the time?" he reasoned. "i'll tell you, absalom. let me read to you. then we wouldn't be wasting the evening." "i ain't much fur readin'. i ain't like teacher." he frowned and looked at her darkly. "i've took notice how much fur books you are that way. last sunday night, too, you sayed, 'let me read somepin to you.' mebbe you and teacher will be settin' up readin' together. and mebbe the doc wasn't just jokin' when he sayed teacher might cut me out!" "please, absalom," tillie implored him, "don't talk so loud!" "i don't care! i hope he hears me sayin' that if he ever comes tryin' to get my girl off me, i 'll get pop to have him put off his job!" "none of you know what you are talking about," tillie indignantly whispered. "you can't understand. the teacher is a man that wouldn't any more keep company with one of us country girls than you would keep company, absalom, with a gipsy. he's above us!" "well, i guess if you're good enough fur me, tillie getz, you're good enough fur anybody else--leastways fur a man that gets his job off the wotes of your pop and mine!" "the teacher is a--a gentleman, absalom." absalom did not understand. "well, i guess i know he ain't a lady. i guess i know what his sek is!" tillie sighed in despair, and sank back on the settee. for a few minutes they sat in strained silence. "i never seen a girl like what you are! you're wonderful different to the other girls i've knew a'ready." tillie did not reply. "where d'you come by them books you read?" "the doc gets them for me." "well, tillie, look-ahere. i spoke somepin to the doc how i wanted to fetch you somepin along when i come over sometime, and i ast him what, now, he thought you would mebbe like. and he sayed a book. so i got cousin sally puntz to fetch one along fur me from the methodist sunday-school li-bry, and here i brung it over to you." he produced a small volume from his coat pocket. "i was 'most ashamed to bring it, it's so wonderful little. i tole cousin sally, 'why didn't you bring me a bigger book?' and she sayed she did try to get a bigger one, but they was all. there's one in that li-bry with four hunderd pages. i tole her, now, she's to try to get me that there one next sunday before it's took by somebody. this one's 'most too little." tillie smiled as she took it from him. "thank you, absalom. i don't care if it's little, so long as it's interesting--and instructive," she spoke primly. "the bible's such a big book, i thought the bigger the book was, the nearer it was like the bible," said absalom. "but there's the dictionary, absalom. it's as big as the bible." "don't the size make nothin'?" absalom asked. tillie shook her head, still smiling. she glanced down and read aloud the title of the book she held: "'what a young husband ought to know.'" "but, absalom!" she faltered. "well? what?" she looked up into his heavy, blank face, and suddenly a faint sense of humor seemed born in her--and she laughed. the laugh illumined her face, and it was too much for absalom. he seized her and kissed her, with resounding emphasis, squarely on the mouth. instantly tillie wrenched herself away from him and stood up. her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled. and yet, she was not indignant with him in the sense that a less unsophisticated girl would have been. absalom, according to new canaan standards, was not exceeding his rights under the circumstances. but an instinct, subtle, undefined, incomprehensible to herself, contradicted, indeed, by every convention of the neighborhood in which she had been reared, made tillie feel that in yielding her lips to this man for whom she did not care, and whom, if she could hold out against him, she did not intend to marry, she was desecrating her womanhood. vague and obscure as her feeling was, it was strong enough to control her. "i meant what i said, absalom. if you won't leave me be, i won't stay here with you. you'll have to go home, for now i'm going right up-stairs." she spoke with a firmness that made the dull youth suddenly realize a thing of which he had never dreamed, that however slightly tillie resembled her father in other respects, she did have a bit of his determination. she took a step toward the stairs, but absalom seized her skirts and pulled her back. "you needn't think i'm leavin' you act like that to me, tillie!" he muttered, his ardor whetted by the difficulties of his courting. "now i'll learn you!" and holding her slight form in his burly grasp he kissed her again and again. "leave me go!" she cried. "i'll call out if you don't! stop it, absalom!" absalom laughed aloud, his eyes glittering as he felt her womanly helplessness in his strong clasp. "what you goin' to do about it, tillie? you can't help yourself--you got to get kissed if you want to or no!" and again his articulate caresses sounded upon her shrinking lips, and he roared with laughter in his own satisfaction and in his enjoyment of her predicament. "you can't help yourself," he said, crushing her against him in a bearish hug. "absalom!" the girl's voice rang out sharply in pain and fear. then of a sudden absalom's wrists were seized in a strong grip, and the young giant found his arms pinned behind him. "now, then, absalom, you let this little girl alone. do you understand?" said fairchilds, coolly, as he let go his hold on the youth and stepped round to his side. absalom's face turned white with fury as he realized who had dared to interfere. he opened his lips, but speech would not come to him. clenching his fingers, he drew back his arm, but his heavy fist, coming swiftly forward, was caught easily in fairchilds's palm--and held there. "come, come," he said soothingly, "it isn't worth while to row, you know. and in the presence of the lady!" "you mind to your own business!" spluttered absalom, struggling to free his hand, and, to his own surprise, failing. quickly he drew back his left fist and again tried to strike, only to find it too caught and held, with no apparent effort on the part of the teacher. tillie, at first pale with fright at what had promised to be so unequal a contest in view of the teacher's slight frame and the brawny, muscular strength of absalom, felt her pulses bound with a thrill of admiration for this cool, quiet force which could render the other's fury so helpless; while at the same time she felt sick with shame. "blame you!" cried absalom, wildly. "le' me be! it don't make nothin' to you if i kiss my girl! i don't owe you nothin'! you le' me be!" "certainly," returned fairchilds, cheerfully. "just stop annoying miss tillie, that's all i want."' he dropped the fellow's hands and deliberately drew out his handkerchief to wipe his own. a third time absalom made a furious dash at him, to find his two wrists caught in the vise-like grip of his antagonist. "tut, tut, absalom, this is quite enough. behave yourself, or i shall be obliged to hurt you." "you--you white-faced, woman-faced mackerel! you think you kin hurt me! you--" "now then," fairchilds again dropped absalom's hands and picked up from the settee the book which the youth had presented to tillie. "here, absalom, take your 'what a young husband ought to know' and go home." something in the teacher's quiet, confident tone cowed absalom completely--for the time being, at least. he was conquered. it was very bewildering. the man before him was not half his weight and was not in the least ruffled. how had he so easily "licked" him? absalom, by reason of his stalwart physique and the fact that his father was a director, had, during most of his school life, found pleasing diversion in keeping the various teachers of william penn cowed before him. he now saw his supremacy in that quarter at an end--physically speaking at least. there might be a moral point of attack. "look-ahere!" he blustered. "do you know my pop's nathaniel puntz, the director?" "you are a credit to him, absalom. by the way, will you take a message to him from me? tell him, please, that the lock on the school-room door is broken, and i'd be greatly obliged if he would send up a lock-smith to mend it." absalom looked discouraged. a harvard graduate was, manifestly, a freak of nature--invulnerable at all points. "if pop gets down on you, you won't be long at william penn!" he bullied. "you'll soon get chased off your job!" "my job at breaking you in? well, well, i might be spending my time more profitably, that's so." "you go on out of here and le' me alone with my girl!" quavered absalom, blinking away tears of rage. "that will be as she says. how is it, miss tillie? do you want him to go?" now tillie knew that if she allowed absalom puntz to leave her in his present state of baffled anger, fairchilds would not remain in new canaan a month. absalom was his father's only child, and nathaniel puntz was known to be both suspicious and vindictive. "clothed in a little brief authority," as school director, he never missed an opportunity to wield his precious power. with quick insight, tillie realized that the teacher would think meanly of her if, after her outcry at absalom's amorous behavior, she now inconsistently ask that he remain with her for the rest of the evening. but what the teacher might think about her did not matter so much as that he should be saved from the wrath of absalom. "please leave him stay," she answered in a low voice. fairchilds gazed in surprise upon the girl's sweet, troubled face. "let him stay?" "yes." "then perhaps my interference was unwelcome?" "i thank you, but--i want him to stay." "yes? i beg pardon for my intrusion. good night." he turned away somewhat abruptly and left the room. and tillie was again alone with absalom. in his chamber, getting ready for bed, fairchilds's thoughts idly dwelt upon the strange contradictions he seemed to see in the character of the little mennonite maiden. he had thought that he recognized in her a difference from the rest of this household--a difference in speech, in feature, in countenance, in her whole personality. and yet she could allow the amorous attentions of that coarse, stupid cub; and her protestations against the fellow's liberties with her had been mere coquetry. well, he would be careful, another time, how he played the part of a don quixote. meantime tillie, with suddenly developed histrionic skill, was, by a spartan self-sacrifice in submitting to absalom's love-making, overcoming his wrath against the teacher. absalom never suspected how he was being played upon, or what a mere tool he was in the hands of this gentle little girl, when, somewhat to his own surprise, he found himself half promising that the teacher should not be complained of to his father. the infinite tact and scheming it required on tillie's part to elicit this assurance without further arousing his jealousy left her, at the end of his prolonged sitting-up, utterly exhausted. yet when at last her weary head found her pillow, it was not to rest or sleep. a haunting, fearful certainty possessed her. "dumm" as he was, absalom, in his invulnerable persistency, had become to the tired, tortured girl simply an irresistible force of nature. and tillie felt that, struggle as she might against him, there would come a day when she could fight no longer, and so at last she must fall a victim to this incarnation of dutch determination. xviii tillie reveals herself in the next few days, tillie tried in vain to summon courage to appeal to the teacher for assistance in her winter's study. day after day she resolved to speak to him, and as often postponed it, unable to conquer her shyness. meantime, however, under the stimulus of his constant presence, she applied herself in every spare moment to the school-books used by her two cousins, and in this unaided work she succeeded, as usual, in making headway. fairchilds's attention was arrested by the frequent picture of the little mennonite maiden conning school-books by lamp-light. one evening he happened to be alone with her for a few minutes in the sitting-room. it was hallowe'en, and he was waiting for amanda to come down from her room, where she was arraying herself for conquest at a party in the village, to which he had been invited to escort her. "studying all alone?" he inquired sociably, coming to the table where tillie sat, and looking down upon her. "yes," said tillie, raising her eyes for an instant. "may i see!" he bent to look at her book, pressing it open with his palm, and the movement brought his hand in contact with hers. tillie felt for an instant as if she were going to swoon, so strangely delicious was the shock. "'hiawatha,'" he said, all unconscious of the tempest in the little soul apparently so close to him, yet in reality so immeasurably far away. "do you enjoy it?" he inquired curiously. "oh, yes"; then quickly she added, "i am parsing it." "oh!" there was a faint disappointment in his tone. "but," she confessed, "i read it all through the first day i began to parse it, and--and i wish i was parsing something else, because i keep reading this instead of parsing it, and--" "you enjoy the story and the poetry?" he questioned. "but a body mustn't read just for pleasure," she said timidly; "but for instruction; and this 'hiawatha' is a temptation to me." "what makes you think you ought not to read 'just for pleasure'?" "that would be a vanity. and we mennonites are loosed from the things of the world." "do you never do anything just for the pleasure of it?" "when pleasure and duty go hand in hand, then pleasure is not displeasing to god. but christ, you know, did not go about seeking pleasure. and we try to follow him in all things." "but, child, has not god made the world beautiful for our pleasure? has he not given us appetites and passions for our pleasure?--minds and hearts and bodies constructed for pleasure?" "has he made anything for pleasure apart from usefulness?" tillie asked earnestly, suddenly forgetting her shyness. "but when a thing gives pleasure it is serving the highest possible use," he insisted. "it is blasphemous to close your nature to the pleasures god has created for you. blasphemous!" "those thoughts have come to me still," said tillie. "but i know they were sent to me by the enemy." "'the enemy'?" "the enemy of our souls." "oh!" he nodded; then abruptly added, "now do you know, little girl, i wouldn't let him bother me at this stage of the game, if i were you! he's a back number, really!" he checked himself, remembering how dangerous such heresies were in new canaan. "don't you find it dull working alone?" he asked hastily, "and rather uphill?" "it is often very hard." "often? then you have been doing it for some time?" "yes," tillie answered hesitatingly. no one except the doctor shared her secret with miss margaret. self-concealment had come to be the habit of her life--her instinct for self-preservation. and yet, the teacher's evident interest, his presence so close to her, brought all her soul to her lips. she had a feeling that if she could overcome her shyness, she would be able to speak to him as unrestrainedly, as truly, as she talked in her letters to miss margaret. "do you have no help at all?" he pursued. could she trust him with the secret of miss margaret's letters? the habit of secretiveness was too strong upon her. "there is no one here to help me--unless you would sometimes," she timidly answered. "i am at your service always. nothing could give me greater pleasure." "thank you." her face flushed with delight. "you have, of course, been a pupil at william penn?" he asked. "yes, but father took me out of school when i was twelve. ever since then i've been trying to educate myself, but--" she lifted troubled eyes to his face, "no one here knows it but the doctor. no one must know it." "trust me," he nodded. "but why must they not know it?" "father would stop it if he found it out." "why?" "he wouldn't leave me waste the time." "you have had courage--to have struggled against such odds." "it has not been easy. but--it seems to me the things that are worth having are never easy to get." fairchilds looked at her keenly. "'the things that are worth having'? what do you count as such things?" "knowledge and truth; and personal freedom to be true to one's self." he concealed the shock of surprise he felt at her words. "what have we here?" he wondered, his pulse quickening as he looked into the shining upraised eyes of the girl and saw the tumultuous heaving of her bosom. he had been right after all, then, in feeling that she was different from the rest of them! he could see that it was under the stress of unusual emotion that she gave expression to thoughts which of necessity she must seldom or never utter to those about her. "'personal freedom to be true to one's self'?" he repeated. "what would it mean to you if you had it?" "life!" she answered. "i am only a dead machine, except when i am living out my true self." he deliberately placed his hand on hers as it lay on the table. "you make me want to clasp hands with you. do you realize what a big truth you have gotten hold of--and all that it involves?" "i only know what it means to me." "you are not free to be yourself?" "i have never drawn a natural breath except in secret." tillie's face was glowing. scarcely did she know herself in this wonderful experience of speaking freely, face to face, with one who understood. "my own recent experiences of life," he said gravely, "have brought me, too, to realize that it is death in life not to be true to one's self. but if you wait for the freedom to be so--" he shrugged his shoulders. "one always has that freedom if he will take it--at its fearful cost. to be uncompromisingly and always true to one's self simply means martyrdom in one form or another." he, too, marveled that he should have found any one in this household to whom he could speak in such a vein as this. "i always thought," tillie said, "that when i was enough educated to be a teacher and be independent of father, i would be free to live truly. but i see that you cannot. you, too, have to hide your real self. else you could not stay here in new canaan." "or anywhere else, child," he smiled. "it is only with the rare few whom one finds on one's own line of march that one can be absolutely one's self. your secret life, miss tillie, is not unique." a fascinating little brown curl had escaped from tillie's cap and lay on her cheek, and she raised her hand to push it back where it belonged, under its snowy mennonite covering. "don't!" said fairchilds. "let it be. it's pretty!" tillie stared up at him, a new wonder in her eyes. "in that mennonite cap, you look like--like a madonna!" almost unwittingly the words had leaped from his lips; he could not hold them back. and in uttering them, it came to him that in the freedom permissible to him with an unsophisticated but interesting and gifted girl like this--freedom from the conventional restraints which had always limited his intercourse with the girls of his own social world--there might be possible a friendship such as he had never known except with those of his own sex--and with them but rarely. the thought cheered him mightily; for his life in new canaan was heavy with loneliness. with the selfishness natural to man, he did not stop to consider what such companionship might come to mean to this inexperienced girl steeped in a life of sordid labor and unbroken monotony. there came the rustle of amanda's skirts on the stairs. fairchilds clasped tillie's passive hand. "i feel that i have found a friend to-night." amanda, brilliant in a scarlet frock and pink ribbons, appeared in the doorway. the vague, almost unseeing look with which the teacher turned to her was interpreted by the vanity of this buxom damsel to be the dazzled vision of eyes half blinded by her radiance. for a long time after they had gone away together, tillie sat with her face bowed upon her book, happiness surging through her with every great throb of her heart. at last she rose, picked up the lamp and carried it into the kitchen to the little mirror before which the family combed their hair. holding the lamp high, she surveyed her features. as long as her arm would bear the weight of the uplifted lamp, she gazed at her reflected image. when presently with trembling arm she set it on the dresser, tillie, like mother eve of old, had tasted of the tree of knowledge. tillie knew that she was very fair. that evening marked another crisis in the girl's inner life. far into the night she lay with her eyes wide open, staring into the darkness, seeing there strange new visions of her own soul, gazing into its hitherto unsounded depths and seeing there the heaven or the hell--she scarcely knew which--that possessed all her being. "blasphemous to close your nature to the pleasures god has created for you!" his words burned themselves into her brain. was it to an abyss of degradation that her nature was bearing her in a swift and fatal tide--or to a holy height of blessedness? alternately her fired imagination and awakened passion exalted her adoration of him into an almost religious joy, making her yearn to give herself to him, soul and body, as to a god; then plunged her into an agony of remorse and terror at her own idolatry and lawlessness. a new universe was opened up to her, and all of life appeared changed. all the poetry and the stories which she had ever read held new and wonderful meanings. the beauty in nature, which, even as a child, she had felt in a way she knew those about her could never have understood, now spoke to her in a language of infinite significance. the mystery, the wonder, the power of love were revealed to her, and her soul was athirst to drink deep at this magic fountain of living water. "you look like a madonna!" oh, surely, thought tillie, in the long hours of that wakeful night, this bliss which filled her heart was a temptation of the evil one, who did not scruple to use even such as the teacher for an instrument to work her undoing! was not his satanic hand clearly shown in these vain and wicked thoughts which crowded upon her--thoughts of how fair she would look in a red gown like amanda's, or in a blue hat like rebecca's, instead of in her white cap and black hood? she crushed her face in her pillow in an agony of remorse for her own faithlessness, as she felt how hideous was that black mennonite hood and all the plain garb which hitherto had stood to her for the peace, the comfort, the happiness, of her life! with all her mind, she tried to force back such wayward, sinful thoughts, but the more she wrestled with them, the more persistently did they obtrude themselves. on her knees she passionately prayed to be delivered from the temptation of such unfaithfulness to her lord, even in secret thought. yet even while in the very act of pleading for mercy, forgiveness, help, to her own unutterable horror she found herself wondering whether she would dare brave her father's wrath and ask her aunt, in the morning, to keep back from her father a portion of her week's wages that she might buy some new white caps, her old ones being of poor material and very worn. it was a tenet of her church that "wearing-apparel was instituted by god as a necessity for the sake of propriety and also for healthful warmth, but when used for purposes of adornment it becomes the evidence of an un-christlike spirit." now tillie knew that her present yearning for new caps was prompted, not by the praiseworthy and simple desire to be merely neat, but wholly by her vain longing to appear more fair in the eyes of the teacher. thus until the small hours of the morning did the young girl wrestle with the conflicting forces in her soul. but the enemy had it all his own way; for when tillie went down-stairs next morning to help her aunt get breakfast, she knew that she intended this day to buy those new caps in spite of the inevitable penalty she would have to suffer for daring to use her own money without her father's leave. and when she walked into the kitchen, her aunt was amazed to see the girl's fair face looking out from a halo of tender little brown curls, which, with a tortured conscience, and an apprehension of retribution at the hands of the meeting, tillie had brushed from under her cap and arranged with artful care. xix tillie tells a lie it was eleven o'clock on the following saturday morning, a busy hour at the hotel, and mrs. wackernagel and tillie were both hard at work in the kitchen, while eebecca and amanda were vigorously applying their young strength to "the up-stairs work." the teacher was lounging on the settee in the sitting-room, trying to read his boston transcript and divert his mind from its irritation and discontent under a condition of things which made it impossible for him to command tillie's time whenever he wanted a companion for a walk in the woods, or for a talk in which he might unburden himself of his pent-up thoughts and feelings. the only freedom she had was in the evening; and even then she was not always at liberty. there was amanda always ready and at hand--it kept him busy dodging her. why was fate so perverse in her dealings with him? why couldn't it be tillie instead of amanda? fairchilds chafed under this untoward condition of things like a fretful child--or, rather, just like a man who can't have what he wants. both tillie and her aunt went about their tasks this morning with a nervousness of movement and an anxiety of countenance that told of something unwonted in the air. fairchilds was vaguely conscious of this as he sat in the adjoining room, with the door ajar. "tillie!" said her aunt, with a sharpness unusual to her, as she closed the oven door with a spasmodic bang, "you put on your shawl and bonnet and go right up to sister jennie hershey's for some bacon." "why, aunty em!" said tillie, in surprise, looking up from the table where she was rolling out paste; "i can't let these pies." "i'll finish them pies. you just go now." "but we've got plenty of bacon." "if we've got bacon a-plenty, then get some ponhaus. or some mush. hurry up and go, tillie!" she came to the girl's side and took the rolling-pin from her hands. "and don't hurry back. set awhile. now get your things on quick." "but, aunty em--" "are you mindin' me, tillie, or ain't you?" her aunt sharply demanded. "but in about ten minutes father will be stopping on his way from lancaster market," tillie said, though obediently going toward the corner where hung her shawl and bonnet, "to get my wages and see me, aunty em--like what he does every saturday still." "well, don't be so dumm, tillie! that's why i'm sendin' you off!" "oh, aunty em, i don't want to go away and leave you to take all the blame for those new caps! and, anyhow, father will stop at sister jennie hershey's if he don't find me here." "i won't tell him you're there. and push them curls under your cap, or sister jennie'll be tellin' the meeting, and you'll be set back yet! i don't know what's come over you, tillie, to act that vain and unregenerate!" "father will guess i'm at sister jennie's, and he'll stop to see." "that's so, too." aunty em thoughtfully considered the situation. "go out and hide in the stable, tillie." tillie hesitated as she nervously twisted the strings of her bonnet. "what's the use of hiding, aunty em? i'd have to see him next saturday." "he won't be so mad about it till next saturday." tillie shook her head. "he'll keep getting angrier--until he has satisfied himself by punishing me in some way for spending that money without leave." the girl's face was pale, but she spoke very quietly, and her aunt looked at her curiously. "tillie, ain't you afraid of your pop no more?" "oh, aunty em! yes, i am afraid of him." "i'm all fidgety myself, thinkin' about how mad he'll be. dear knows what you must feel yet, tillie--and what all your little life you've been feelin', with his fear always hangin' over you still. sometimes when i think how my brother jake trains up his childern!"--indignation choked her--"i have feelin's that are un-christlike, tillie!" "and yet, aunty em," the girl said earnestly, "father does care for me too--even though he always did think i ought to want nothing else but to work for him. but he does care for me. the couple of times i was sick already, he was concerned. i can't forget it." "to be sure, he'd have to be a funny man if he wasn't concerned when his own child's sick, tillie. i don't give him much for that." "but it always puzzled me, aunty em--if father's concerned to see me sick or suffering, why will he himself deliberately make me suffer more than i ever suffered in any sickness? i never could understand that." "he always thinks he's doin' his duty by you. that we must give him. och, my! there's his wagon stoppin' now! go on out to the stable, tillie! quick!" "aunty em!" tillie faltered, "i'd sooner stay and have it done with now, than wait and have it hanging over me all the week till next saturday." there was another reason for her standing her ground and facing it out. ever since she had yielded to the temptation to buy the caps and let her hair curl about her face, her conscience had troubled her for her vanity; and a vague feeling that in suffering her father's displeasure she would be expiating her sin made her almost welcome his coming this morning. there was the familiar heavy tread in the bar-room which adjoined the kitchen. tillie flushed and paled by turns as it drew near, and her aunt rolled out the paste with a vigor and an emphasis that expressed her inward agitation. even fairchilds, in the next room, felt himself infected with the prevailing suspense. "well!" was jake getz's greeting as he entered the kitchen. "em!" he nodded to his sister. "well, tillie!" there was a note of affection in his greeting of his daughter. tillie realized that her father missed her presence at home almost as much as he missed the work that she did. the nature of his regard for her was a mystery that had always puzzled the girl. how could one be constantly hurting and thwarting a person whom one cared for? tillie went up to him dutifully and held out her hand. he took it and bent to kiss her. "are you well? you're lookin' some pale. and your hair's strubbly [untidy]." "she's been sewin' too steady on them clo'es fur your childern," said aunty em, quickly. "it gives her such a pain in her side still to set and sew. i ain't leavin' her set up every night to sew no more! you can just take them clo'es home, jake. they ain't done, and they won't get done here." "do you mebbe leave her set up readin' books or such pamp'lets, ain't?" mr. getz inquired. "i make her go to bed early still," mrs. wackernagel said evasively, though her mennonite conscience reproached her for such want of strict candor. "that dude teacher you got stayin' here mebbe gives her things to read, ain't?" mr. getz pursued his suspicions. "he's never gave her nothin' that i seen him," mrs. wackernagel affirmed. "well, mind you don't leave her waste time readin'. she ain't to." "you needn't trouble, jake!" "well," said jake, "i'll leave them clo'es another week, and mebbe tillie'll feel some better and can get 'em done. mom won't like it when i come without 'em this mornin'. she's needin' 'em fur the childern, and she thought they'd be done till this morning a'ready." "why don't you hire your washin' or buy her a washin'-machine? then she'd have time to do her own sewin'." "work don't hurt a body," mr. getz maintained. "it's healthy. what's tillie doin' this morning?" "she was bakin' these pies, but i want her now to redd up. take all them pans to the dresser, tillie." tillie went to the table to do as she was bid. "well, i must be goin' home now," said mr. getz. "i'll take tillie's wages, em." mrs. wackernagel set her lips as she wiped her hands on the roller-towel and opened the dresser drawer to get her purse. "how's her?" she inquired, referring to mrs. getz to gain time, as she counted out the money. "she's old-fashioned." "is the childern all well?" "yes, they're all middlin' well. hurry up, em; i'm in a hurry, and you're takin' wonderful long to count out them two dollars." "it's only one and a half this week, jake. tillie she had to have some new caps, and they come to fifty cents. and i took notice her underclo'es was too thin fur this cold spell, and i wanted her to buy herself a warm petticoat, but she wouldn't take the money." an angry red dyed the swarthy neck and forehead of the man, as his keen eyes, very like his sister's, only lacking their expression of kindness, flashed from her face to the countenance of his daughter at the dresser. "what business have you lettin' her buy anything?" he sternly demanded. "you was to give me her wages, and _i_ was to buy her what she couldn't do without. you're not keepin' your bargain!" "she needed them caps right away. i couldn't wait till saturday to ast you oncet. and," she boldly added, "you ought to leave her have another fifty cents to buy herself a warm petticoat!" "tillie!" commanded her father, "you come here!" the girl was very white as she obeyed him. but her eyes, as they met his, were not afraid. "it's easy seen why you're pale! i guess it ain't no pain in your side took from settin' up sewin' fur mom that's made you pale! now see here," he sternly said, "what did you do somepin like this fur? spendin' fifty cents without astin' me!" "i needed the caps," she quietly answered. "and i knew you would not let me buy them if i asked you, father." "you're standin' up here in front of me and sayin' to my face you done somepin you knowed i wouldn't give you darst to do! and you have no business, anyhow, wearin' them new mennonite caps! i never wanted you to take up with that blamed foolishness! well, i'll learn you! if i had you home i'd whip you!" "you ain't touchin' her 'round here!" exclaimed his sister. "you just try it, jake, and i'll call abe out!" "is she my own child or ain't she, em wackernagel? and can i do with my own what i please, or must i ast you and abe wackernagel?" "she's too growed up fur to be punished, jake, and you know it." "till she's too growed up to obey her pop, she'll get punished," he affirmed. "where's the good of your religion, i'd like to know, em--settin' a child on to defy her parent? and you, tillie, you stole that money off of me! your earnin's ain't yourn till you're twenty-one. is them new mennonite principles to take what ain't yourn? it ain't only the fifty cents i mind--it's your disobedience and your stealin'." "oh, father! it wasn't stealing!" "of course it wasn't stealin'--takin' what you earnt yourself--whether you are seventeen instead of twenty-one!" her aunt warmly assured her. "now look-ahere, em! if yous are goin' to get her so spoilt fur me, over here, she ain't stayin' here. i'll take her home!" "well, take her!" diplomatically answered his sister. "i can get abe's niece over to east donegal fur one-seventy-five. she'd be glad to come!" mr. getz at this drew in his sails a bit. "i'll give her one more chancet," he compromised. "but i ain't givin' her no second chancet if she does somepin again where she ain't got darst to do. next time i hear of her disobeyin' me, home she comes. i'd sooner lose the money than have her spoilt fur me. now look-ahere, tillie, you go get them new caps and bring 'em here." tillie turned away to obey. "now, jake, what are you up to?" his sister demanded as the girl left the room. "do you suppose i'd leave her keep them caps she stole the money off of me to buy?" getz retorted. "she earnt the money!" maintained mrs. wackernagel. "the money wasn't hern, and i'd sooner throw them caps in the rag-bag than leave her wear 'em when she disobeyed me to buy 'em." "jake getz, you're a reg'lar tyrant! you mind me of herod yet--and of punshus palate!" "ain't i followin' scripture when i train up my child to obey to her parent?" he wanted to know. "now look-ahere, jake; i'll give you them fifty cents and make a present to tillie of them caps if you'll leave her keep 'em." but in spite of his yearning for the fifty cents, mr. getz firmly refused this offer. paternal discipline must be maintained even at a financial loss. then, too, penurious and saving as he was, he was strictly honest, and he would not have thought it right to let his sister pay for his child's necessary wearing-apparel. "no, tillie's got to be punished. when i want her to have new caps, i'll buy 'em fur her." tillie reentered the room with the precious bits of linen tenderly wrapped up in tissue paper. her pallor was now gone, and her eyes were red with crying. she came to her father's side and handed him the soft bundle. "these here caps," he said to her, "mom can use fur night-caps, or what. when you buy somepin unknownst to me, tillie, i ain't leavin' you keep it! now go 'long back to your dishes. and next saturday, when i come, i want to find them clo'es done, do you understand?" tillie's eyes followed the parcel as it was crushed ruthlessly into her father's coat pocket--and she did not heed his question. "do you hear me, tillie?" he demanded. "yes," she answered, looking up at him with brimming eyes. his sister, watching them from across the room, saw in the man's face the working of conflicting feelings--his stern displeasure warring with his affection. mrs. wackernagel had realized, ever since tillie had come to live with her, that "jake's" brief weekly visits to his daughter were a pleasure to the hard man; and not only because of the two dollars which he came to collect. just now, she could see how he hated to part from her in anger. justice having been meted out in the form of the crushed and forfeited caps in his pocket, he would fain take leave of the girl with some expression of his kindlier feelings toward her. "now are you behavin' yourself--like a good girl--till i come again?" he asked, laying his hand upon her shoulder. "yes," she said dully. "then give me good-b'y." she held up her face and submitted to his kiss. "good-by, em. and mind you stop spoilin' my girl fur me!" he opened the door and went away. and fairchilds, an unwilling witness to the father's brutality, felt every nerve in his body tingle with a longing first to break the head of that brutal dutchman, and then to go and take little tillie in his arms and kiss her. to work off his feelings, he sprang up from the settee, put on his hat, and flung out of the house to walk down to "the krik." "never you mind, tillie," her aunt consoled her. "i'm goin' in town next wednesday, and i'm buyin' you some caps myself fur a present." "oh, aunty em, but maybe you'd better not be so good to me!" tillie said, dashing away the tears as she industriously rubbed her pans. "it was my vanity made me want new caps. and father's taking them was maybe the lord punishing my vanity." "you needed new caps--your old ones was wore out. and don't you be judgin' the lord by your pop! don't try to stop me--i'm buyin' you some caps." now tillie knew how becoming the new caps were to her, and her soul yearned for them even as (she told herself) israel of old yearned after the flesh-pots of egypt. to lose them was really a bitter disappointment to her. but aunty em would spare her that grief! a sudden passionate impulse of gratitude and love toward her aunt made her do a most unwonted thing. taking her hands from her dish-water, she dried them hastily, went over to mrs. wackernagel, threw her arms about her neck, and kissed her. "oh, aunty em, i love you like i've never loved any one--except miss margaret and--" she stopped short as she buried her face in her aunt's motherly bosom and clung to her. "and who else, tillie?" mrs. wackernagel asked, patting the girl's shoulder, her face beaming with pleasure at her niece's affectionate demonstration. "no one else, aunty em." tillie drew herself away and again returned to her work at the dresser. but all the rest of that day her conscience tortured her that she should have told this lie. for there was some one else. xx tillie is "set back" on sunday morning, in spite of her aunt's protestations, tillie went to meeting with her curls outside her cap. "they'll set you back!" protested mrs. wackernagel, in great trouble of spirit. "it would be worse to be deceitful than to be vain," tillie answered. "if i am going to let my hair curl week-days, i won't be a coward and deceive the meeting about myself." "but whatever made you take it into your head to act so vain, tillie?" her bewildered aunt inquired for the hundredth time. "it can't be fur absalom, fur you don't take to him. and, anyways, he says he wants to be led of the spirit to give hisself up. to be sure, i hope he ain't tempted to use religion as a means of gettin' the girl he wants!" "i know i'm doing wrong, aunty em," tillie replied sorrowfully. "maybe the meeting to-day will help me to conquer the enemy." she and her aunt realized during the course of the morning that the curls were creating a sensation. an explanation would certainly be demanded of tillie before the week was out. after the service, they did not stop long for "sociability,"--the situation was too strained,--but hurried out to their buggy as soon as they could escape. tillie marveled at herself as, on the way home, she found how small was her concern about the disapproval of the meeting, and even about her sin itself, before the fact that the teacher thought her curls adorable. aunty em, too, marveled as she perceived the girl's strange indifference to the inevitable public disgrace at the hands of the brethren and sisters. whatever was the matter with tillie? at the dinner-table, to spare tillie's evident embarrassment (perhaps because of the teacher's presence), mrs. wackernagel diverted the curiosity of the family as to how the meeting had received the curls. "what did yous do all while we was to meeting?" she asked of her two daughters. "me and amanda and teacher walked to buckarts station," rebecca answered. "did yous, now?" "up the pike a piece was all the fu'ther i felt fur goin'," continued eebecca, in a rather injured tone; "but amanda she was so fur seein' oncet if that fellah with those black mustache was at the blacksmith's shop yet, at buckarts! i tole her she needn't be makin' up to him, fur he's keepin' comp'ny with lizzie hershey!" "say, mom," announced amanda, ignoring her sister's rebuke, "i stopped in this morning to see lizzie hershey, and she's that spited about teacher's comin' here instead of to their place that she never so much as ast me would i spare my hat!" "now look!" exclaimed mrs. wackernagel. "and when i said, after while, 'now i must go,' she was that unneighborly she never ast me, 'what's your hurry?'" "was she that spited!" said mrs. wackernagel, half pityingly. "well, it was just like sister jennie hershey, if she didn't want teacher stayin' there, to tell him right out. some ain't as honest. some talks to please the people." "what fur sermont did yous have this morning?" asked mr. wackernagel, his mouth full of chicken. "we had levi harnish. he preached good," said mrs. wackernagel. "ain't he did, tillie?" "yes," replied tillie, coloring with the guilty consciousness that scarcely a word of that sermon had she heard. "i like to hear a sermont, like hisn, that does me good to my heart," said mrs. wackernagel. "levi harnish, he's a learnt preacher," said her husband, turning to fairchilds. "he reads wonderful much. and he's always thinkin' so earnest about his learnin' that i've saw him walk along the street in lancaster a'ready and a'most walk into people!" "he certainly can stand on the pulpit elegant!" agreed mrs. wackernagel. "why, he can preach his whole sermont with the bible shut, yet! and he can put out elocution that it's something turrible!" "you are not a mennonite, are you?" fairchilds asked of the landlord. "no," responded mr. wackernagel, with a shrug. "i bothered a whole lot at one time about religion. now i never bother." "we had silas trout to lead the singin' this morning," continued mrs. wackernagel. "i wisht i could sing by note, like him. i don't know notes; i just sing by random." "where's doc, anyhow?" suddenly inquired amanda, for the doctor's place at the table was vacant. "he was fetched away. mary holzapple's mister come fur him!" mr. wackernagel explained, with a meaning nod. "i say!" cried mrs. wackernagel. "so soon a'ready! and last week it was sue hess! doc's always gettin' fetched! nothin' but babies and babies!" tillie, whose eyes were always on the teacher, except when he chanced to glance her way, noted wonderingly the blush that suddenly covered his face and neck at this exclamation of her aunt's. in the primitive simplicity of her mind, she could see nothing embarrassing in the mere statement of any fact of natural history. "here comes doc now!" cried rebecca, at the opening of the kitchen door. "hello, doc!" she cried as he came into the dining-room. "what is it?" "twin girls!" the doctor proudly announced, going over to the stove to warm his hands after his long drive. "my lands!" exclaimed amanda. "now what do you think!" ejaculated mrs. wackernagel. "how's missus?" rebecca inquired. "doin' fine! but mister he ain't feelin' so well. he wanted a boy--or boys, as the case might be. it's gettin' some cold out," he added, rubbing his hands and holding them to the fire. that evening, when again fairchilds was unable to have a chat alone with tillie, because of absalom puntz's unfailing appearance at the hotel, he began to think, in his chagrin, that he must have exaggerated the girl's superiority, since week after week she could endure the attentions of "that lout." he could not know that it was for his sake--to keep him in his place at william penn--that poor tillie bore the hated caresses of absalom. that next week was one never to be forgotten by tillie. it stood out, in all the years that followed, as a week of wonder--in which were revealed to her the depths and the heights of ecstatic bliss--a bliss which so filled her being that she scarcely gave a thought to the disgrace hanging over her--her suspension from meeting. the fact that tillie and the teacher sat together, now, every evening, called forth no surmises or suspicions from the wackernagels, for the teacher was merely helping tillie with some studies. the family was charged to guard the fact from mr. getz. the lessons seldom lasted beyond the early bedtime of the family, for as soon as tillie and fairchilds found the sitting-room abandoned to their private use, the school-books were put aside. they had somewhat to say to each other. tillie's story of her long friendship with miss margaret, which she related to fairchilds, made him better understand much about the girl that had seemed inexplicable in view of her environment; while her wonder at and sympathetic interest in his own story of how he had come to apply for the school at new canaan both amused and touched him. "do you never have any doubts, tillie, of the truth of your creed?" he asked curiously, as they sat one evening at the sitting-room table, the school-books and the lamp pushed to one end. he had several times, in this week of intimacy, found it hard to reconcile the girl's fine intelligence and clear thought in some directions with her religious superstition. he hesitated to say a word to disturb her in her apparently unquestioning faith, though he felt she was worthy of a better creed than this impossibly narrow one of the new mennonites. "she isn't ready yet," he had thought, "to take hold of a larger idea of religion." "i have sometimes thought," she said earnestly, "that if the events which are related in the bible should happen now, we would not credit them. an infant born of a virgin, a star leading three travelers, a man who raised the dead and claimed to be god--we would think the folks who believed these things were ignorant and superstitious. and because they happened so long ago, and are in the book which we are told came from god, we believe. it is very strange! sometimes my thoughts trouble me. i try hard not to leave such thoughts come to me." "let, tillie, not 'leave.'" "will i ever learn not to get my 'leaves' and 'lets' mixed!" sighed tillie, despairingly. "use 'let' whenever you find 'leave' on the end of your tongue, and vice versa," he advised, with a smile. she looked at him doubtfully. "are you joking?" "indeed, no! i couldn't give you a better rule." "there's another thing i wish you would tell me, please," she said, her eyes downcast. "well?" "i can't call you 'mr.' fairchilds, because such complimentary speech is forbidden to us new mennonites. it would come natural to me to call you 'teacher,' but you would think that what you call 'provincial.'" "but you say 'miss' margaret." "i could not get out of the way of it, because i had called her that so many years before i gave myself up. that makes it seem different. but you--what must i call you?" "i don't see what's left--unless you call me 'say'!" "i must have something to call you," she pleaded. "would you mind if i called you by your christian name?" "i should like nothing better." he drew forward a volume of mrs. browning's poems which lay among his books on the table, opened it at the fly-leaf, and pointed to his name. "'walter'?" read tillie. "but i thought--" "it was pestalozzi? that was only my little joke. my name's walter." on the approach of sunday, fairchilds questioned her one evening about absalom. "will that lad be taking up your whole sunday evening again?" he demanded. she told him, then, why she suffered absalom's unwelcome attentions. it was in order that she might use her influence over him to keep the teacher in his place. "but i can't permit such a thing!" he vehemently protested. "tillie, i am touched by your kindness and self-sacrifice! but, dear child, i trust i am man enough to hold my own here without your suffering for me! you must not do it." "you don't know nathaniel puntz!" she shook her head. "absalom will never forgive you, and, at a word from him, his father would never rest until he had got rid of you. you see, none of the directors like you--they don't understand you--they say you are 'too tony.' and then your methods of teaching--they aren't like those of the millersville normal teachers we've had, and therefore are unsound! i discovered last week, when i was out home, that my father is very much opposed to you. they all felt just so to miss margaret." "i see. nevertheless, you shall not bear my burdens. and don't you see it's not just to poor absalom? you can't marry him, so you ought not to encourage him." "'if i refused to le-let absalom come, you would not remain a month at new canaan," was her answer. "but it isn't a matter of life and death to me to stay at new canaan! i need not starve if i lose my position here. there are better places." tillie gazed down upon the chenille table-cover, and did not speak. she could not tell him that it did seem to her a matter of life and death to have him stay. "it seems to me, tillie, you could shake off absalom through your father's objections to his attentions. the fellow could not blame you for that." "but don't you see i must keep him by me, in order to protect you." "my dear little girl, that's rough on absalom; and i'm not sure it's worthy of you." "but you don't understand. you think absalom will be hurt in his feelings if i refuse to marry him. but i've told him all along i won't marry him. and it isn't his feelings that are concerned. he only wants a good housekeeper." fairchilds's eyes rested on the girl as she sat before him in the fresh bloom of her maidenhood, and he realized what he knew she did not--that unsentimental, hard-headed, and practical as absalom might be, if she allowed him the close intimacy of "setting-up" with her, the fellow must suffer in the end in not winning her. but the teacher thought it wise to make no further comment, as he saw, at any rate, that he could not move her in her resolution to defend him. and there was another thing that he saw. the extraneous differences between himself and tillie, and even the radical differences of breeding and heredity which, he had assumed from the first, made any least romance or sentiment on the part of either of them unthinkable, however much they might enjoy a good comradeship,--all these differences had strangely sunk out of sight as he had, from day to day, grown in touch with the girl's real self, and he found himself unable to think of her and himself except in that deeper sense in which her soul met his. any other consideration of their relation seemed almost grotesque. this was his feeling--but his reason struggled with his feeling and bade him beware. suppose that she too should come to feel that with the meeting of their spirits the difference in their conditions melted away like ice in the sunshine. would not the result be fraught with tragedy for her? for himself, he was willing, for the sake of his present pleasure, to risk a future wrestling with his impracticable sentiments; but what must be the cost of such a struggle to a frail, sensitive girl, with no compensations whatever in any single phase of her life? clearly, he was treading on dangerous ground. he must curb himself. before another sunday came around, the ax had fallen--the brethren came to reason with tillie, and finding her unable to say she was sincerely repentant and would amend her vain and carnal deportment, she was, in the course of the next week, "set back." "i would be willing to put back the curls," she said to her aunt, who also reasoned with her in private; "but it would avail nothing. for my heart is still vain and carnal. 'man looketh upon the outward appearance, but god looketh on the heart.'" "then, tillie," said her aunt, her kindly face pale with distress in the resolution she had taken, "you'll have to go home and stay. you can't stay here as long as you're not holding out in your professions." tillie's face went white, and she gazed into her aunt's resolute countenance with anguish in her own. "i'd not do it to send you away, tillie, if i could otherwise help it. but look how inconwenient it would be havin' you here to help work, and me not havin' dare to talk or eat with you. i'm not obeyin' to the 'rules' now in talkin' to you. but i tole the brethren i'd only speak to you long enough to reason with you some--and then, if that didn't make nothin', i'd send you home." the rules forbade the members to sit at table or hold any unnecessary word of communication with one who had failed to "hold out," and who had in consequence been "set back." tillie, in her strange indifference to the disgrace of being set back, had not foreseen her inevitable dismissal from her aunt's employ. she recognized, now, with despair in her soul, that aunty em could not do otherwise than send her home. "when must i go, aunty em?" "as soon as you make your mind up you ain't goin' to repent of your carnal deportment." "i can't repent, aunty em!" tillie's voice sounded hollow to herself as she spoke. "then, tillie, you're got to go to-morrow. i 'll have to get my niece from east donegal over." it sounded to tillie like the crack of doom. the doctor, who was loath to have her leave, who held her interests at heart, and who knew what she would forfeit in losing the help which the teacher was giving her daily in her studies, undertook to add his expostulations to that of the brethern and sisters. "by gum, tillie, slick them swanged curls back, if they don't suit the taste of the meeting! are you willin' to leave go your nice education, where you're gettin', fur a couple of damned curls? i don't know what's got into you to act so blamed stubborn about keepin' your hair strubbled 'round your face!" "but the vanity would still be in my heart even if i did brush them back. and i don't want to be deceitful." "och, come now," urged the doctor, "just till you're got your certificate a'ready to teach! that wouldn't be long. then, after that, you can be as undeceitful as you want." but tillie could not be brought to view the matter in this light. she did not sit at table with the family that day, for that would have forced her aunt to stay away from the table. mrs. wackernagel could break bread without reproach with all her unconverted household; but not with a backslider--for the prohibition was intended as a discipline, imposed in all love, to bring the recalcitrant member back into the fold. that afternoon, tillie and the teacher took a walk together in the snow-covered woods. "it all seems so extraordinary, so inexplicable!" fairchilds repeated over and over. like all the rest of the household, he could not be reconciled to her going. his regret was, indeed, greater than that of any of the rest, and rather surprised himself. the pallor of tillie's face and the anguish in her eyes he attributed to the church discipline she was suffering. he never dreamed how wholly and absolutely it was for him. "is it any stranger," tillie asked, her low voice full of pain, "than that your uncle should send you away because of your unbelief?" this word, "unbelief," stood for a very definite thing in new canaan--a lost and hopeless condition of the soul. "it seems to me, the idea is the same," said tillie. "yes," acknowledged fairchilds, "of course you are right. intolerance, bigotry, narrowness--they are the same the world over--and stand for ignorance always." tillie silently considered his words. it had not occurred to her to question the perfect justice of the meeting's action. suddenly she saw in the path before her a half-frozen, fluttering sparrow. they both paused, and tillie stooped, gently took it up, and folded it in her warm shawl. as she felt its throbbing little body against her hand, she thought of herself in the hand of god. she turned and spoke her thought to fairchilds. "could i possibly hurt this little bird, which is so entirely at my mercy? could i judge it, condemn and punish it, for some mistake or wrong or weakness it had committed in its little world? and could god be less kind, less merciful to me than i could be to this little bird? could he hold my soul in the hollow of his hand and vivisect it to judge whether its errors were worthy of his divine anger? he knows how weak and ignorant i am. i will not fear him," she said, her eyes shining. "i will trust myself in his power--and believe in his love." "the new mennonite creed won't hold her long," thought fairchilds. "our highest religious moments, tillie," he said, "come to us, not through churches, nor even through bibles. they are the moments when we are most receptive of the message nature is always patiently waiting to speak to us--if we will only hear. it is she alone that can lead us to see god face to face, instead of 'through another man's dim thought of him.'" "yes," agreed tillie, "i have often felt more--more religious," she said, after an instant's hesitation, "when i've been walking here alone in the woods, or down by the creek, or up on chestnut hill--than i could feel in church. in church we hear about god, as you say, through other men's dim thoughts of him. here, alone, we are with him." they walked in silence for a space, tillie feeling with mingled bliss and despair the fascination of this parting hour. but it did not occur to fairchilds that her departure from the hotel meant the end of their intercourse. "i shall come out to the farm to see you, tillie, as often as you will let me. you know, i've no one else to talk to, about here, as i talk with you. what a pleasure it has been!" "oh, but father will never le--let me spend my time with you as i did at the hotel! he will be angry at my being sent home, and he will keep me constantly at work to make up for the loss it is to him. this is our last talk together!" "i'll risk your father's wrath, tillie. you don't suppose i'd let a small matter like that stand in the way of our friendship?" "but father will not l--let--me spend time with you. and if you come when he told you not to he would put you out of william penn!" "i'm coming, all the same, tillie." "father will blame me, if you do." "can't you take your own part, tillie?" he gravely asked. "no, no," he hastily added, for he did not forget the talk he had overheard about the new caps, in which mr. getz had threatened personal violence to his daughter. "i know you must not suffer for my sake. but you cannot mean that we are not to meet at all after this?" "only at chance times," faltered tillie; "that is all." very simply and somewhat constrainedly they said good-by the next morning, fairchilds to go to his work at william penn and tillie to drive out with her uncle abe to meet her father's displeasure. xxi "i'll marry him to-morrow!" mr. getz had plainly given absalom to understand that he did not want him to sit up with tillie, as he "wasn't leaving her marry." absalom had answered that he guessed tillie would have something to say to that when she was "eighteen a'ready." and on the first sunday evening after her return home he had boldly presented himself at the farm. "that's where you'll get fooled, absalom, fur she's been raised to mind her pop!" mr. getz had responded. "if she disobeyed to my word, i wouldn't give her no aus styer. i guess you wouldn't marry a girl where wouldn't bring you no aus styer!" absalom, who was frugal, had felt rather baffled at this threat. nevertheless, here he was again on sunday evening at the farm to assure tillie that he would stand by her, and that if she was not restored to membership in the meeting, he wouldn't give himself up, either. mr. getz dared not go to the length of forbidding absalom his house, for that would have meant a family feud between all the getzes and all the puntzes of the county. he could only insist that tillie "dishearten him," and that she dismiss him not later than ten o'clock. to almost any other youth in the neighborhood, such opposition would have proved effectual. but every new obstacle seemed only to increase absalom's determination to have what he had set out to get. to-night he produced another book, which he said he had bought at the second-hand book-store in lancaster. "'cupid and psyche,'" tillie read the title. "oh, absalom, thank you. this is lovely. it's a story from greek mythology--i've been hearing some of these stories from the teacher"--she checked herself, suddenly, at absalom's look of jealous suspicion. "i'm wonderful glad you ain't in there at the hotel no more," he said. "i hadn't no fair chancet, with teacher right there on the grounds." "absalom," said tillie, gravely, with a little air of dignity that did not wholly fail to impress him, "i insist on it that you never speak of the teacher in that way in connection with me. you might as well speak of my marrying the county superintendent! he'd be just as likely to ask me!" the county superintendent of public instruction was held in such awe that his name was scarcely mentioned in an ordinary tone of voice. "as if there's no difference from a teacher at william penn to the county superintendent! you ain't that dumm, tillie!" "the difference is that the teacher at william penn is superior in every way to the county superintendent!" she spoke impulsively, and she regretted her words the moment they were uttered. but absalom only half comprehended her meaning. "you think you ain't good enough fur him, and you think i ain't good enough fur you!" he grumbled. "i have never saw such a funny girl! well," he nodded confidently, "you'll think different one of these here days!" "you must not cherish any false hopes, absalom," tillie insisted in some distress. "well, fur why don't you want to have me?" he demanded for the hundredth time. "absalom,"--tillie tried a new mode of discouragement,--"i don't want to get married because i don't want to be a farmer's wife--they have to work too hard!" it was enough to drive away any lover in the countryside, and for a moment absalom was staggered. "well!" he exclaimed, "a woman that's afraid of work ain't no wife fur me, anyways!" tillie's heart leaped high for an instant in the hope that now she had effectually cooled his ardor. but it sank again as she recalled the necessity of retaining at least his good-will and friendship, that she might protect the teacher. "now, absalom," she feebly protested, "did you ever see me afraid of work?" "well, then, if you ain't afraid of workin', what makes you talk so contrary?" "i don't know. come, let me read this nice book you've brought me," she urged, much as she might have tried to divert one of her little sisters or brothers. "i'd ruther just set. i ain't much fur readin'. jake getz he says he's goin' to chase you to bed at ten--and ten comes wonderful soon sundays. leave us just set." tillie well understood that this was to endure absalom's clownish wooing. but for the sake of the cause, she said to herself, she would conquer her repugnance and bear it. for two weeks after tillie's return home, she did not once have a word alone with fairchilds. he came several times, ostensibly on errands from her aunt; but on each occasion he found her hard at work in her father's presence. at his first visit, tillie, as he was leaving, rose from her corn-husking in the barn to go with him to the gate, but her father interfered. "you stay where you're at!" with burning face, she turned to her work. and fairchilds, carefully suppressing an impulse to shake jake getz till his teeth rattled, walked quietly out of the gate and up the road. her father was more than usually stern and exacting with her in these days of her suspension from meeting, inasmuch as it involved her dismissal from the hotel and the consequent loss to him of two dollars a week. as for tillie, she found a faint consolation in the fact of the teacher's evident chagrin and indignation at the tyrannical rule which forbade intercourse between them. at stated intervals, the brethren came to reason with her, but while she expressed her willingness to put her curls back, she would not acknowledge that her heart was no longer "carnal and vain," and so they found it impossible to restore her to favor. a few weeks before christmas, absalom, deciding that he had imbibed all the arithmetical erudition he could hold, stopped school. on the evening that he took his books home, he gave the teacher a parting blow, which he felt sure quite avenged the outrageous defeat he had suffered at his hands on that sunday night at the hotel. "me and tillie's promised. it ain't put out yet, but i conceited i'd better tell you, so's you wouldn't be wastin' your time tryin' to make up to her." "you and tillie are engaged to be married?" fairchilds incredulously asked. "that's what! as good as, anyways. i always get somepin i want when i make up my mind oncet." and he grinned maliciously. fairchilds pondered the matter as, with depressed spirits, he walked home over the frozen road. "no wonder the poor girl yielded to the pressure of such an environment," he mused. "i suppose she thinks absalom's rule will not be so bad as her father's. but that a girl like tillie should be pushed to the wall like that--it is horrible! and yet--if she were worthy a better fate would she not have held out?--it is too bad, it is unjust to her 'miss margaret' that she should give up now! i feel," he sadly told himself, "disappointed in tillie!" when the notable "columbus celebration" came off in new canaan, in which event several schools of the township united to participate, and which was attended by the entire countryside, as if it were a funeral, tillie hoped that here would be an opportunity for seeing and speaking with walter fairchilds. but in this she was bitterly disappointed. it was not until a week later, at the township institute, which met at new canaan, and which was also attended by the entire population, that her deep desire was gratified. it was during the reading of an address, before the institute, by miss spooner, the teacher at east donegal, that fairchilds deliberately came and sat by tillie in the back of the school-room. tillie's heart beat fast, and she found herself doubting the reality of his precious nearness after the long, dreary days of hungering for him. she dared not speak to him while miss spooner held forth, and, indeed, she feared even to look at him, lest curious eyes read in her face what consciously she strove to conceal. she realized his restless impatience under miss spooner's eloquence. "it was a week back already, we had our columbus celebration," read this educator of lancaster county, genteelly curving the little finger of each hand, as she held her address, which was esthetically tied with blue ribbon. "it was an inspiring sight to see those one hundred enthusiastic and paterotic children marching two by two, led by their equally enthusiastic and paterotic teachers! forming a semicircle in the open air, the exercises were opened by a song, 'o my country,' sung by clear--r-r-ringing--childish voices...." it was the last item on the program, and by mutual and silent consent, tillie and fairchilds, at the first stir of the audience, slipped out of the schoolhouse together. tillie's father was in the audience, and so was absalom. but they had sat far forward, and tillie hoped they had not seen her go out with the teacher. "let us hurry over to the woods, where we can be alone and undisturbed, and have a good talk!" proposed fairchilds, his face showing the pleasure he felt in the meeting. after a few minutes' hurried walking, they were able to slacken their pace and stroll leisurely through the bleak winter forest. "tillie, tillie!" he said, "why won't you abandon this 'carnal' life you are leading, be restored to the approbation of the brethren, and come back to the hotel? i am very lonely without you." tillie could scarcely find her voice to answer, for the joy that filled her at his words--a joy so full that she felt but a very faint pang at his reference to the ban under which she suffered. she had thought his failure to speak to her at the "celebration" had indicated indifference or forgetfulness. but now that was all forgotten; every nerve in her body quivered with happiness. he, however, at once interpreted her silence to mean that he had wounded her. "forgive me for speaking so lightly of what to you must be a sacred and serious matter. god knows, my own experience--which, as you say, was not unlike your own--was sufficiently serious to me. but somehow, i can't take this seriously--this matter of your pretty curls!" "sometimes i wonder whether you take any person or any thing, here, seriously," she half smiled. "you seem to me to be always mocking at us a little." "mocking? not so bad as that. and never at you, tillie." "you were sneering at miss spooner, weren't you?" "not at her; at christopher columbus--though, up to the time of that celebration, i was always rather fond of the discoverer of america. but now let us talk of you, tillie. allow me to congratulate you!" "what for?" "true enough. i stand corrected. then accept my sincere sympathy." he smiled whimsically. tillie lifted her eyes to his face, and their pretty look of bewilderment made him long to stoop and snatch a kiss from her lips. but he resisted the temptation. "i refer to your engagement to absalom. that's one reason why i wanted you to come out here with me this afternoon--so that you could tell me about it--and explain to me what made you give up all your plans. what will your miss margaret say?" tillie stopped short, her cheeks reddening. "what makes you think i am promised to absalom?" "the fact is, i've only his word for it." "he told you that?" "certainly. isn't it true?" "do you think so poorly of me?" tillie asked in a low voice. he looked at her quickly. "tillie, i'm sorry; i ought not to have believed it for an instant!" "i have a higher ambition in life than to settle down to take care of absalom puntz!" said tillie, fire in her soft eyes, and an unwonted vibration in her gentle voice. "my credulity was an insult to you!" "absalom did not mean to tell you a lie. he has made up his mind to have me, so he thinks it is all as good as settled. sometimes i am almost afraid he will win me just by thinking he is going to." "send him about his business! don't keep up this folly, dear child!" "i would rather stand absalom," she faltered, "than stand having you go away." "but, tillie," he turned almost fiercely upon her--"tillie, i would rather see you dead at my feet than to see your soul tied to that clod of earth!" a wild thrill of rapture shot through tillie's heart at his words. for an instant she looked up at him, her soul shining in her eyes. "does he--does he--care that much what happens to me?" throbbed in her brain. for the first time fairchilds fully realized, with shame at his blind selfishness, the danger and the cruelty of his intimate friendship with this little mennonite maid. for her it could but end in a heartbreak; for him--"i have been a cad, a despicable cad!" he told himself in bitter self-reproach. "if i had only known! but now it's too late--unless--" in his mind he rapidly went over the simple history of their friendship as they walked along; and, busy with her own thought, tillie did not notice his abstraction. "tillie," he said suddenly. "next saturday there is an examination of applicants for certificates at east donegal. you must take that examination. you are perfectly well prepared to pass it." "oh, do you really, really think i am?" the girl cried breathlessly. "i know it. the only question is, how are you going to get off to attend the examination?" "father will be at the lancaster market on saturday morning!" "then i'll hire a buggy, come out to the farm, and carry you off!" "no--oh, no, you must not do that. father would be so angry with you!" "you can't walk to bast donegal. it's six miles away." "let me think.--uncle abe would do anything i asked him--but he wouldn't have time to leave the hotel saturday morning. and i couldn't make him or aunty em understand that i was educated enough to take the examination. but there's the doc!" "of course!" cried fairchilds. "the doc isn't afraid of the whole county! shall i tell him you'll go if he'll come for you?" "yes!" "good! i'll undertake to promise for him that he'll be there!" "when father comes home from market and finds me gone!" tillie said--but there was exultation, rather than fear, in her voice. "when you show him your certificate, won't that appease him? when he realizes how much more you can earn by teaching than by working for your aunt, especially as he bore none of the expense of giving you your education? it was your own hard labor, and none of his money, that did it! and now i suppose he'll get all the profit of it!" fairchilds could not quite keep down the rising indignation in his voice. "no," said tillie, quietly, though the color burned in her face. "walter! i'm going to refuse to give father my salary if i am elected to a school. i mean to save my money to go to the normal--where miss margaret is." "so long as you are under age, he can take it from you, tillie." "if the school i teach is near enough for me to live at home, i'll pay my board. more than that i won't do." "but how are you going to help yourself?" "i haven't made up my mind, yet, how i'm going to do it. it will be the hardest struggle i've ever had--to stand out against him in such a thing," tillie continued; "but i will not be weak, i will not! i have studied and worked all these years in the hope of a year at the normal--with miss margaret. and i won't falter now!" before he could reply to her almost impassioned earnestness, they were startled by the sound of footsteps behind them in the woods--the heavy steps of men. involuntarily, they both stopped short, tillie with the feeling of one caught in a stolen delight; and fairchilds with mingled annoyance at the interruption, and curiosity as to who might be wandering in this unfrequented patch of woods. "i seen 'em go out up in here!" it was the voice of absalom. the answer came in the harsh, indignant tones of mr. getz. "next time i leave her go to a instytoot or such a columbus sallybration, she'll stay at home! wastin' time walkin' 'round in the woods with that dude teacher!--and on a week-day, too!" tillie looked up at fairchilds with an appeal that went to his heart. grimly he waited for the two. "so here's where you are!" cried mr. getz, striding up to them, and, before fairchilds could prevent it, he had seized tillie by the shoulder. "what you mean, runnin' off up here, heh? what you mean?" he demanded, shaking her with all his cruel strength. "stop that, you brute!" fairchilds, unable to control his fury, drew back and struck the big man squarely on the chest. getz staggered back, amazement at this unlooked-for attack for a moment getting the better of his indignation. he had expected to find the teacher cowed with fear at being discovered by a director and a director's son in a situation displeasing to them. "let the child alone, you great coward--or i 'll horsewhip you!" getz recovered himself. his face was black with passion. he lifted the horsewhip which he carried. "you'll horsewhip me--me, jake getz, that can put you off william penn to-morrow if i want! will you do it with this here? he demanded, grasping the whip more tightly and lifting it to strike--but before it could descend, fairchilds wrenched it out of his hand. "yes," he responded, "if you dare to touch that child again, you shameless dog!" tillie, with anguished eyes, stood motionless as marble, while absalom, with clenched fists, awaited his opportunity. "if i dare!" roared getz. "if i have dare to touch my own child!" he turned to tillie. "come along," he exclaimed, giving her a cuff with his great paw; and instantly the whip came down with stinging swiftness on his wrist. with a bellow of pain, getz turned on fairchilds, and at the same moment, absalom sprang on him from behind, and with one blow of his brawny arm brought the teacher to the ground. getz sprawled over his fallen antagonist and snatched his whip from him. "come on, absalom--we'll learn him oncet!" he cried fiercely. "we'll learn him what horsewhippin' is! we'll give him a lickin' he won't forget!" absalom laughed aloud in his delight at this chance to avenge his own defeat at the hands of the teacher, and with clumsy speed the two men set about binding the feet of the half-senseless fairchilds with absalom's suspenders. tillie felt herself spellbound, powerless to move or to cry out. "now!" cried getz to absalom, "git back, and i'll give it to him!" the teacher, stripped of his two coats and bound hand and foot, was rolled over on his face. he uttered no word of protest, though they all saw that he had recovered consciousness. the truth was, he simply recognized the uselessness of demurring. "warm him up, so he don't take cold!" shouted absalom--and even as he spoke, jake getz's heavy arm brought the lash down upon fairchilds's back. at the spiteful sound, life came back to tillie. like a wild thing, she sprang between them, seized her father's arm and hung upon it. "listen to me! listen! father! if you strike him again, i'll marry absalom to-morrow!" by inspiration she had hit upon the one argument that would move him. her father tried to shake her off, but she clung to his arm with the strength of madness, knowing that if she could make him grasp, even in his passionate anger, the real import of her threat, he would yield to her. "i'll marry absalom! i'll marry him to-morrow!" she repeated. "you darsent--you ain't of age! let go my arm, or i'll slap you ag'in!" "i shall be of age in three months! i'll marry absalom if you go on with this!" "that suits me!" cried absalom. "keep on with it, jake!" "if you do, i'll marry him to-morrow!" there was a look in tillie's eyes and a ring in her voice that her father had learned to know. tillie would do what she said. and here was absalom "siding along with her" in her unfilial defiance! jacob getz wavered. he saw no graceful escape from his difficulty. "look-ahere, tillie! if i don't lick this here feller, i'll punish you when i get you home!" tillie saw that she had conquered him, and that the teacher was safe. she loosed her hold of her father's arm and, dropping on her knees beside fairchilds began quickly to loosen his bonds. her father did not check her. "jake getz, you ain't givin' in that easy?" demanded absalom, angrily. "she'd up and do what she says! i know her! and i ain't leavin' her marry! you just wait"--he turned threateningly to tillie as she knelt on the ground--"till i get you home oncet!" fairchilds staggered to his feet, and drawing tillie up from the ground, he held her two hands in his as he turned to confront his enemies. "you call yourselves men--you cowards and bullies! and you!" he turned his blazing eyes upon getz, "you would work off your miserable spite on a weak girl--who can't defend herself! dare to touch a hair of her head and i'll break your damned head and every bone in your body! now take yourselves off, both of you, you curs, and leave us alone!" "my girl goes home along with me!" retorted the furious getz. "and you--you 'll lose your job at next board meetin', saturday night! so you might as well pack your trunk! here!" he laid his hand on tillie's arm, but fairchilds drew her to him and held his arm about her waist, while absalom, darkly scowling, stood uncertainly by. "leave her with me. i must talk with her. must, i say. do you hear me? she--" his words died on his lips, as tillie's head suddenly fell forward on his shoulder, and, looking down, fairchilds saw that she had fainted. xxii the doc concocts a plot "so you see i'm through with this place!" fairchilds concluded as, late that night, he and the doctor sat alone in the sitting-room, discussing the afternoon's happenings. "i was forced to believe," he went on, "when i saw jake getz's fearful anxiety and real distress while tillie remained unconscious, that the fellow, after all, does have a heart of flesh under all his brutality. he had never seen a woman faint, and he thought at first that tillie was dead. we almost had him on our hands unconscious!" "well, the faintin' saved tillie a row with him till he got her home oncet a'ready," the doctor said, as he puffed away at his pipe, his hands in his vest arms, his feet on the table, and a newspaper under them to spare the chenille table-cover. "yes. otherwise i don't know how i could have borne to see her taken home by that ruffian--to be punished for so heroically defending me!" "you bet! that took cheek, ain't?--fur that little girl to stand there and jaw jake getz--and make him quit lickin' you! by gum, that minds me of sceneries i've saw a'ready in the theayter! they most gener'ly faints away in a swoond that way, too. well, tillie she come round all right, ain't?--till a little while?" "yes. but she was very pale and weak, poor child!" fairchilds answered, resting his head wearily upon his palm. "when she became conscious, getz carried her out of the woods to his buggy that he had left near the school-house." "how did absalom take it, anyhow?" "he's rather dazed, i think! he doesn't quite know how to make it all out. he is a man of one idea--one at a time and far apart. his idea at present is that he is going to marry tillie." "yes, and i never seen a puntz yet where didn't come by what he set his stubborn head to!" the doctor commented. "it wonders me sometimes, how tillie's goin' to keep from marryin' him, now he's made up his mind so firm!" "tillie knows her own worth too well to throw herself away like that." "well, now i don't know," said the doctor, doubtfully. "to be sure, i never liked them puntzes, they're so damned thick-headed. dummness runs in that family so, it's somepin' surprisin'! dummness and stubbornness is all they got to 'em. but absalom he's so well fixed--tillie she might go furder and do worse. now there's you, teacher. if she took up with you and yous two got married, you'd have to rent. absalom he'd own his own farm." "now, come, doc," protested fairchilds, disgusted, "you know better--you know that to almost any sort of a woman marriage means something more than getting herself 'well fixed,' as you put it. and to a woman like tillie!" "yes--yes--i guess," answered the doctor, pulling briskly at his pipe. "it's the same with a male--he mostly looks to somepin besides a good housekeeper. there's me, now--i'd have took miss margaret--and she couldn't work nothin'. i tole her i don't mind if my wife is smart, so she don't bother me any." "you did, did you?" smiled fairchilds. "and what did the lady say to that?" "och, she was sorry!" "sorry to turn you down, do you mean?" "it was because i didn't speak soon enough," the doctor assured him. "she was promised a'ready to one of these here tony perfessers at the normal. she was sorry i hadn't spoke sooner. to be sure, after she had gave her word, she had to stick to it." he thoughtfully knocked the ashes from his pipe, while his eyes grew almost tender. "she was certainly, now, an allurin' female! "so now," he added, after a moment's thoughtful pause, "you think your game's played out here, heh?" "getz and absalom left me with the assurance that at the saturday-night meeting of the board i'd be voted out. if it depends on them--and i suppose it does--i'm done for. they'd like to roast me over a slow fire!" "you bet they would!" "i suppose i haven't the least chance?" "well, i don' know--i don' know. it would suit me wonderful to get ahead of jake getz and them puntzes in this here thing--if i anyways could! le' me see." he thoughtfully considered the situation. "the board meets day after to-morrow. there's six directors. nathaniel puntz and jake can easy get 'em all to wote to put you out, fur they ain't anyways stuck on you--you bein' so tony that way. now me, i don't mind it--them things don't never bother me any--manners and cleanness and them." "cleanness?" "och, yes; us we never seen any person where wasted so much time washin' theirself--except miss margaret. i mind missus used to say a clean towel didn't last miss margaret a week, and no one else usin' it! you see, what the directors don't like is your always havin' your hands so clean. now they reason this here way--a person that never has dirty hands is lazy and too tony." "yes?" "but me, i don't mind. and i'm swanged if i wouldn't like to beat out jake and nathaniel on this here deal! say! i'll tell you what. this here game's got fun in it fur me! i believe i got a way of doin' them fellers. i ain't tellin' you what it is!" he said, with a chuckle. "but it's a way that's goin' to work! i'm swanged if it ain't! you'll see oncet! you just let this here thing to me and you won't be chased off your job! i'm doin' it fur the sake of the fun i'll get out of seein' jake getz surprised! mebbe that old dutchman won't be wonderful spited!" "i shall be very much indebted to you, doctor, if you can help me, as it suits me to stay here for the present." "that's all right. fur one, there's adam oberholzer; he 'll be an easy guy when it comes to his wote. fur if i want, i can bring a bill ag'in' the estate of his pop, disceased, and make it 'most anything. his pop he died last month. now that there was a man"--the doctor settled himself comfortably, preparatory to the relation of a tale--"that there was a man that was so wonderful set on speculatin' and savin' and layin' by, that when he come to die a pecooliar thing happened. you might call that there thing phe-non-e-ma. it was this here way. when ole adam oberholzer (he was named after his son, adam oberholzer, the school director) come to die, his wife she thought she'd better send fur the evangelical preacher over, seein' as adam he hadn't been inside a church fur twenty years back, and, to be sure, he wasn't just so well prepared. oh, well, he was deef fur three years back, and churches don't do much good to deef people. but then he never did go when he did have his sound hearin'. many's the time he sayed to me, he sayed, 'i don't believe in the churches,' he sayed, 'and blamed if it don't keep me busy believin' in a gawd!' he sayed. so you see, he wasn't just what you might call a pillar of the church. one time he had such a cough and he come to me and sayed whether i could do somepin. 'you're to leave tobacco be,' i sayed. ole adam he looked serious. 'if you sayed it was caused by goin' to church,' he answered to me, 'i might mebbe break off. but tobacco--that's some serious,' he says. adam he used to have some notions about the bible and religion that i did think, now, was damned unushal. here one day when he was first took sick, before he got so deef yet, i went to see him, and the evangelical preacher was there, readin' to him that there piece of scripture where, you know, them that worked a short time was paid the same as them that worked all day. the preacher he sayed he thought that par'ble might fetch him 'round oncet to a death-bed conwersion. but i'm swanged if adam didn't just up and say, when the preacher got through, he says, 'that wasn't a square deal accordin' to my way of lookin' at things.' yes, that's the way that there feller talked. why, here oncet--" the doctor paused to chuckle at the recollection--"when i got there, reverend was wrestlin' with adam to get hisself conwerted, and it was one of adam's days when he was at his deefest. reverend he shouted in his ear, 'you must experience religion--and get a change of heart--and be conwerted before you die!' 'what d' you say?' adam he ast. then reverend, he seen that wouldn't work, so he cut it short, and he says wery loud, 'trust the lord!' now, ole adam oberholzer in his business dealin's and speculatin' was always darned particular who he trusted, still, so he looked up at reverend, and he says, 'is he a reliable party?' well, by gum, i bu'st right out laughin'! i hadn't ought to--seein' it was adam's death-bed--and reverend him just sweatin' with tryin' to work in his job to get him conwerted till he passed away a'ready. but i'm swanged if i could keep in! i just hollered!" the doctor threw back his head and shouted with fresh appreciation of his story, and fairchilds joined in sympathetically. "well, did he die unconverted?" he asked the doctor. "you bet! reverend he sayed afterwards, that in all his practice of his sacred calling he never had knew such a carnal death-bed. now you see," concluded the doctor, "i tended ole adam fur near two months, and that's where i have a hold on his son the school-directer." he laughed as he rose and stretched himself. "it will be no end of sport foiling jake getz!" fairchilds said, with but a vague idea of what the doctor's scheme involved. "well, doctor, you are our mascot--tillie's and mine!" he added, as he, too, rose. "what's that?" "our good luck." he held out an objectionably clean hand with its shining finger-nails. "good night, doc, and thank you!" the doctor awkwardly shook it in his own grimy fist. "good night to you, then, teacher." out in the bar-room, as the doctor took his nightly glass of beer at the counter, he confided to abe wackernagel that somehow he did, now, "like to see teacher use them manners of hisn. i'm 'most as stuck on 'em as missus is!" he declared. xxiii sunshine and shadow tillie's unhappiness, in her certainty that on saturday night the board would vote for the eviction of the teacher, was so great that she felt almost indifferent to her own fate, as she and the doctor started on their six-mile ride to east donegal. but when he presently confided to her his scheme to foil her father and absalom, she became almost hysterical with joy. "you see, tillie, it's this here way. two of these here directers owes me bills. now in drivin' you over to east donegal i'm passin' near to the farms of both of them directers, and i'll make it suit to stop off and press 'em fur my money. they're both of 'em near as close as jake getz! they don't like it fur me to press 'em to pay right aways. so after while i'll say that if they wote ag'in' jake and nathaniel, and each of 'em gets one of the other two directers to wote with him to leave teacher keep his job, i'll throw 'em the doctor's bill off! adam oberholzer he owes me about twelve dollars, and joseph kettering he owes me ten. i guess it ain't worth twelve dollars to adam and ten to joseph to run teacher off william penn!" "and do you suppose that they will be able to influence the other two--john coppenhaver and pete underwocht?" "when all them dollars depends on it, i don't suppose nothin'--i know. i'll put it this here way: 'if teacher ain't chased off, i'll throw you my doctor's bill off. if he is, you'll pay me up, and pretty damned quick, too!'" "but, doc," faltered tillie, "won't it be bribery?" "och, tillie, a body mustn't feel so conscientious about such little things like them. that's bein' too serious." "did you tell the teacher you were going to do this?" she uneasily asked. "well, i guess i ain't such a blamed fool! i guess i know that much, that he wouldn't of saw it the way _i_ see it. i tole him i was goin' to bully them directers to keep him in his job--but he don't know how i'm doin' it." "i'm glad he doesn't know," sighed tillie. "yes, he darsent know till it's all over oncet." the joy and relief she felt at the doctor's scheme, which she was quite sure would work out successfully, gave her a self-confidence in the ordeal before her that sharpened her wits almost to brilliancy. she sailed through this examination, which otherwise she would have dreaded unspeakably, with an aplomb that made her a stranger to herself. even that bugbear of the examination labeled by the superintendent, "general information," and regarded with suspicion by the applicants as a snare and a delusion, did not confound tillie in her sudden and new-found courage; though the questions under this head brought forth from the applicants such astonishing statements as that henry viii was chiefly noted for being "a great widower"; and that the mother of the gracchi was "probably mrs. gracchi." in her unwonted elation, tillie even waxed a bit witty, and in the quiz on "methods of discipline," she gave an answer which no doubt led the superintendent to mark her high. "what method would you pursue with a boy in your school who was addicted to swearing?" she was asked. "i suppose i should make him swear off!" said tillie, with actual flippancy. a neat young woman of the class, sitting directly in front of the superintendent, and wearing spectacles and very straight, tight hair, cast a shocked and reproachful look upon tillie, and turning to the examiner, said primly, "_i_ would organize an anti-swearing society in the school, and reward the boys who were not profane by making them members of it, expelling those who used any profane language." "and make every normal boy turn blasphemer in derision, i'm afraid," was the superintendent's ironical comment. when, at four o'clock that afternoon, she drove back with the doctor through the winter twilight, bearing her precious certificate in her bosom, the brightness of her face seemed to reflect the brilliancy of the red sunset glow on snow-covered fields, frozen creek, and farm-house windows. "bully fur you, matilda!" the doctor kept repeating at intervals. "now won't miss margaret be tickled, though! i tell you what, wirtue like hern gits its rewards even in this here life. she'll certainly be set up to think she's made a teacher out of you unbeknownst! and mebbe it won't tickle her wonderful to think how she's beat jake getz!" he chuckled. "of course you're writin' to her to-night, tillie, ain't you?" he asked. "i'd write her off a letter myself if writin' come handier to me." "of course i shall let her know at once," tillie replied; and in her voice, for the first time in the doctor's acquaintance with her, there was a touch of gentle complacency. "i'll get your letter out the tree-holler to-morrow morning, then, when i go a-past--and i can stamp it and mail it fur you till noon. then she'll get it till monday morning yet! by gum, won't she, now, be tickled!" "isn't it all beautiful!" tillie breathed ecstatically. "i've got my certificate and the teacher won't be put out! what did adam oberholzer and joseph kettering say, doc?" "i've got them fixed all right! just you wait, tillie!" he said mysteriously. "mebbe us we ain't goin' to have the laugh on your pop and old nathaniel puntz! you'll see! wait till your pop comes home and says what's happened at board meetin' to-night! golly! won't he be hoppin' mad!" "what is going to happen, doc?" "you wait and see! i ain't tellin' even you, tillie. i'm savin' it fur a surprise party fur all of yous!" "father won't speak to me about it, you know. he won't mention teacher's name to me." "then won't you find out off of him about the board meetin'?" the doctor asked in disappointment. "must you wait till you see me again oncet?" "he will tell mother. i can get her to tell me," tillie said. "all right. somepin's going to happen too good to wait! now look-ahere, tillie, is your pop to be tole about your certificate?" "i won't tell him until i must. i don't know how he'd take it. he might not let me get a school to teach. of course, when once i've got a school, he will have to be told. and then," she quietly added, "i shall teach, whether he forbids it or not." "to be sure!" heartily assented the doctor. "and leave him go roll hisself, ain't! i'll keep a lookout fur you and tell you the first wacancy i hear of." "what would i do--what should i have done in all these years, doc--if it hadn't been for you!" smiled tillie, with an affectionate pressure of his rough hand; and the doctor's face shone with pleasure to hear her. "you have been a good friend to me, doc." "och, that's all right, tillie. as i sayed, wirtue has its reward even in this here life. my wirtuous acts in standin' by you has gave me as much satisfaction as i've ever had out of anything! but now, tillie, about tellin' your pop. i don't suspicion he'd take it anyways ugly. a body'd think he'd be proud! and he hadn't none of the expense of givin' you your nice education!" "i can't be sure how he would take it, doc, so i would rather not tell him until i must." "all right. just what you say. but i dare tell missus, ain't?" "if she won't tell the girls, doc. it would get back to father, i'm afraid, if so many knew it." "i 'll tell her not to tell. she 'll be as pleased and proud as if it was manda or rebecca!" "poor aunty em! she is so good to me, and i'm afraid i've disappointed her!" tillie humbly said; but somehow the sadness that should have expressed itself in the voice of one under suspension from meeting, when speaking of her sin, was quite lacking. when, at length, they reached the getz farm, mr. getz met them at the gate, his face harsh with displeasure at tillie's long and unpermitted absence from home. "hello, jake!" said the doctor, pleasantly, as her father lifted her down from the high buggy. "i guess missus tole you how i heard tillie fainted away in a swoond day before yesterday, so this morning i come over to see her oncet--aunty em she was some oneasy. and i seen she would mebbe have another such a swoond if she didn't get a long day out in the air. it's done her wonderful much good--wonderful!" "she hadn't no need to stay all day!" growled mr. getz. "mom had all tillie's work to do, and her own too, and she didn't get it through all." "well, better let the work than have tillie havin' any more of them dangerous swoonds. them's dangerous, i tell you, jake! sometimes folks never comes to, yet!" mr. getz looked at tillie apprehensively. "you better go in and get your hot supper, tillie," he said, not ungently. before this forbearance of her father, tillie had a feeling of shame in the doctor's subterfuges, as she bade her loyal friend good night and turned to go indoors. "you'll be over to board meetin' to-night, ain't?" the doctor said to mr. getz as he picked up the reins. "to be sure! me and nathaniel puntz has a statement to make to the board that'll chase that tony dude teacher off his job so quick he won't have time to pack his trunk!" "is that so?" the doctor said in feigned surprise. "well, he certainly is some tony--that i must give him, jake. well, good night to yous! be careful of tillie's health!" getz went into the house and the doctor, chuckling to himself, drove away. tillie was in bed, but sleep was far from her eyes, when, late that night, she heard her father return from the board meeting. long she lay in her bed, listening with tense nerves to his suppressed tones as he talked to his wife in the room across the hall, but she could not hear what he said. not even his tone of voice was sufficiently enlightening as to how affairs had gone. in her wakefulness the night was agonizingly long; for though she was hopeful of the success of the doctor's plot, she knew that possibly there might have been some fatal hitch. at the breakfast-table, next morning, her father looked almost sick, and tillie's heart throbbed with unfilial joy in the significance of this. his manner to her was curt and his face betrayed sullen anger; he talked but little, and did not once refer to the board meeting in her presence. it was not until ten o'clock, when he had gone with some of the children to the evangelical church, that she found her longed-for opportunity to question her stepmother. "well," she began, with assumed indifference, as she and her mother worked together in the kitchen preparing the big sunday dinner, "did they put the teacher out?" "if they put him out?" exclaimed mrs. getz, slightly roused from her customary apathy. "well, i think they didn't! what do you think they done yet?" "i'm sure," said tillie, evidently greatly interested in the turnips she was paring, "i don't know." "they raised his salary five a month!" the turnips dropped into the pan, and tillie raised her eyes to gaze incredulously into the face of her stepmother, who, with hands on her hips, stood looking down upon her. "yes," went on mrs. getz, "that's what they done! a dumm thing like that! and after pop and nathaniel puntz they had spoke their speeches where they had ready, how teacher he wasn't fit fur william penn! and after they tole how he had up and sassed pop, and him a directer yet! and nathaniel he tole how absalom had heard off the doc how teacher he was a' unbeliever and says musin' is the same to him as prayin'! now think! such conwictions as them! and then, when the wote was took, here it come out that only pop and nathaniel puntz woted ag'in' teacher, and the other four they woted fur! and they woted to raise his salary five a month yet!" tillie's eyes dropped from her mother's face, her chin quivered, she bit her lip, and suddenly, unable to control herself, she broke into wild, helpless laughter. mrs. getz stared at her almost in consternation. never before in her life had she seen tillie laugh with such abandon. "what ails you?" she asked wonderingly. tillie could find no voice to answer, her slight frame shaking convulsively. "what you laughin' at, anyhow?" mrs. getz repeated, now quite frightened. "that--that wyandotte hen jumped up on the sill!" tillie murmured--then went off into a perfect peal of mirth. it seemed as though all the pent-up joy and gaiety of her childhood had burst forth in that moment. "i don't see nothin' in that that's anyways comical--a wyandotte hen on the window-sill!" said mrs. getz, in stupid wonder. "she looked so--so--oh!" tillie gasped, and wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron. "you don't take no int'rust in what i tole you all!" mrs. getz complained, sitting down near her stepdaughter to pick the chickens for dinner. "i'd think it would make you ashamed fur the way you stood up fur teacher ag'in' your own pop here last thursday--fur them four directers to go ag'in' pop like this here!" "what reasons did they give for voting for the teacher?" tillie asked, her hysterics subsiding. "they didn't give no reasons till they had him elected a'ready. then adam oberholzer he got up and he spoke how teacher learned the scholars so good and got along without lickin' 'em any (pop he had brung that up ag'in' teacher, but adam he sayed it was fur), and that they better mebbe give him five extry a month to make sure to keep such a kind man to their childern, and one that learnt 'em so good." tillie showed signs, for an instant, of going off into another fit of laughter. "what's ailin' you?" her mother asked in mystification. "i never seen you act so funny! you better go take a drink." tillie repressed herself and went on with her work. during the remainder of that day, and, indeed, through all the week that followed, she struggled to conceal from her father the exultation of her spirits. she feared he would interpret it as a rejoicing over his defeat, and there was really no such feeling in the girl's gentle heart. she was even moved to some faint--it must be confessed, very faint--pangs of pity for him as she saw, from day to day, how hard he took his defeat. apparently, it was to him a sickening blow to have his "authority" as school director defied by a penniless young man who was partly dependent upon his vote for daily bread. he suffered keenly in his conviction that the teacher was as deeply exultant in his victory as getz had expected to be. in these days, tillie walked on air, and to mrs. getz and the children she seemed almost another girl, with that happy vibration in her usually sad voice, and that light of gladness in her soft pensive eyes. the glorious consciousness was ever with her that the teacher was always near--though she saw him but seldom. this, and the possession of the precious certificate, her talisman to freedom, hidden always in her bosom, made her daily drudgery easy to her and her hours full of hope and happiness. deep as was tillie's impression of the steadiness of purpose in absalom's character, she was nevertheless rather taken aback when, on the sunday night after that horrible experience in the woods, her suitor stolidly presented himself at the farm-house, attired in his best clothes, his whole aspect and bearing eloquent of the fact that recent defeat had but made him more doggedly determined to win in the end. tillie wondered if she might not be safe now in dismissing him emphatically and finally; but she decided there was still danger lest absalom might wreak his vengeance in some dreadful way upon the teacher. her heart was so full of happiness that she could tolerate even absalom. only two short weeks of this brightness and glory, and then the blow fell--the blow which blackened the sun in the heavens. the teacher suddenly, and most mysteriously, resigned and went away. no one knew why. whether it was to take a better position, or for what other possible reason, not a soul in the township could tell--not even the doc. strange to say, fairchilds's going, instead of pleasing mr. getz, was only an added offense to both him and absalom. they had thirsted for vengeance; they had longed to humiliate this "high-minded dude"; and now not only was the opportunity lost to them, but the "job" they had determined to wrest from him was indifferently hurled back in their faces--he didn't want it! absalom and getz writhed in their helpless spleen. tillie's undiscerning family did not for an instant attribute to its true cause her sudden change from radiant happiness to the weakness and lassitude that tell of mental anguish. they were not given to seeing anything that was not entirely on the surface and perfectly obvious. three days had passed since fairchilds's departure--three days of utter blackness to tillie; and on the third day she went to pay her weekly visit to the tree-hollow in the woods where she was wont to place miss margaret's letters. on this day she found, to her amazement, two letters. her knees shook as she recognized the teacher's handwriting on one of them. there was no stamp and no post-mark on the envelop. he had evidently written the letter before leaving, and had left it with the doctor to be delivered to her. tillie had always been obliged to maneuver skilfully in order to get away from the house long enough to pay these weekly visits to the tree-hollow; and she nearly always read her letter from miss margaret at night by a candle, when the household was asleep. but now, heedless of consequences, she sat down on a snow-covered log and opened fairchilds's letter, her teeth chattering with more than cold. it was only a note, written in great haste and evidently under some excitement. it told her of his immediate departure for cambridge to accept a rather profitable private tutorship to a rich man's son. he would write to tillie, later, when he could. meanwhile, god bless her--and he was always her friend. that was all. he gave her no address and did not speak of her writing to him. tillie walked home in a dream. all that evening, she was so "dopplig" as finally to call forth a sharp rebuke from her father, to which she paid not the slightest heed. would she ever see him again, her heart kept asking? would he really write to her again? where was he at this moment, and what was he doing? did he send one thought to her, so far away, so desolate? did he have in any least degree the desire, the yearning, for her that she had for him? tillie felt a pang of remorse for her disloyalty to miss margaret when she realized that she had almost forgotten that always precious letter. when, a little past midnight, she took it from her dress pocket she noticed what had before escaped her--some erratic writing in lead on the back of the envelop. it was in the doctor's strenuous hand. "willyam pens as good as yoorn ive got them all promist but your pop to wote for you at the bored meating saterdy its to be a surprize party for your pop." xxiv the revolt of tillie at half-past seven o'clock on saturday evening, the school board once more convened in the hotel parlor, for the purpose of electing fairchilds's successor. "up till now," mr. getz had remarked at the supper-table, "i ain't been tole of no candidate applyin' fur william penn, and here to-night we meet to elect him--or her if she's a female." tillie's heart had jumped to her throat as she heard him, wondering how he would take it when they announced to him that the applicant was none other than his own daughter--whether he would be angry at her long deception, or gratified at the prospect of her earning so much money--for, of course, it would never occur to him that she would dare refuse to give him every cent she received. there was unwonted animation in the usually stolid faces of the school board to-night; for the members were roused to a lively appreciation of the situation as it related to jake getz. the doctor had taken each and every one of them into his confidence, and had graphically related to them the story of how tillie had "come by" her certificate, and the tale had elicited their partizanship for tillie, as for the heroine of a drama. even nathaniel puntz was enjoying the fact that he was to-night on the side of the majority. with tillie, they were in doubt as to how jake getz would receive the news. "is they a' applicant?" he inquired on his arrival. "why, to be sure," said nathaniel puntz. "what fur would it be worth while to waste time meetin' to elect her if they ain't none?" "then she's a female, is she?" "well, she ain't no male, anyways, nor no harvard gradyate, neither. if she was, _i_ wouldn't wote fur her!" "what might her name be?" "it's some such a french name," answered the doctor, who had carried in the lamp and was lingering a minute. "it would, now, surprise you, jake, if you heard it oncet." "is she such a foreigner yet?" getz asked suspiciously. "i mistrust 'em when they're foreigners." "well," spoke adam oberholzer, as the doctor reluctantly went out, "it ain't ten mile from here she was raised." "is she a gradyate? we hadn't ought to take none but a normal. we had _enough_ trouble!" "no, she ain't a normal, but she's got her certificate off the superintendent." "has any of yous saw her?" "och, yes, she's familiar with us," replied joseph kettering, the amishman, who was president of the board. "why ain't she familiar with me, then?" getz inquired, looking bewildered, as the president opened the ink-bottle that stood on the table about which they sat, and distributed slips of paper. "well, that's some different again, too," facetiously answered joseph kettering. "won't she be here to-night to leave us see her oncet?" "she won't, but her pop will," answered nathaniel puntz; and mr. getz vaguely realized in the expressions about him that something unusual was in the air. "what do we want with her _pop_?" he asked. "we want his _wote_!" answered adam oberholzer--which sally brought forth hilarious laughter. "what you mean?" demanded getz, impatient of all this mystery. "it's the daughter of one of this here board that we're wotin' fur!" mr. getz's eyes moved about the table. "why, none of yous ain't got a growed-up daughter that's been to school long enough to get a certificate." "it seems there's ways of gettin' a certificate without goin' to school. some girls can learn theirselves at home without even a teacher, and workin' all the time at farm-work, still, and even livin' out!" said mr. puntz. "i say a girl with industry like that would make any feller a good wife." getz stared at him in bewilderment. "the members of this board," said mr. kettering, solemnly, "and the risin' generation of the future, can point this here applicant out to their childern as a shinin' example of what can be did by industry, without money and without price--and it'll be fur a spur to 'em to go thou and do likewise." "are you so dumm, jake, you don't know yet who we mean?" nathaniel asked. "why, to be sure, don't i! none of yous has got such a daughter where lived out." "except yourself, jake!" the eyes of the board were fixed upon mr. getz in excited expectation. but he was still heavily uncomprehending. then the president, rising, made his formal announcement, impressively and with dignity. "members of canaan township school board: we will now proceed to wote fur the applicant fur william penn. she is not unknownst to this here board. she is a worthy and wirtuous female, and has a good moral character. we think she's been well learnt how to manage childern, fur she's been raised in a family where childern was never scarce. the applicant," continued the speaker, "is--as i stated a couple minutes back--a shining example of industry to the rising generations of the future, fur she's got her certificate to teach--and wery high marks on it--and done it all by her own unaided efforts and industry. members of canaan township school board, we are now ready to wote fur matilda maria getz." before his dazed wits could recover from the shock of this announcement, jake getz's daughter had become the unanimously elected teacher of william penn. the ruling passion of the soul of jacob getz manifested itself conspicuously in his reception of the revelation that his daughter, through deliberate and systematic disobedience, carried on through all the years of her girlhood, had succeeded in obtaining a certificate from the county superintendent, and was now the teacher-elect at william penn. the father's satisfaction in the possession of a child capable of earning forty dollars a month, his greedy joy in the prospect of this addition to his income, entirely overshadowed and dissipated the rage he would otherwise have felt. the pathos of his child's courageous persistency in the face of his dreaded severity, of her pitiful struggle with all the adverse conditions of her life,--this did not enter at all into his consideration of the case. it was obvious to tillie, as it had been to the school board on saturday night, that he felt an added satisfaction in the fact that this wonder had been accomplished without any loss to him either of money or of his child's labor. somehow, her father's reception of her triumph filled her heart with more bitterness than she had ever felt toward him in all the years of her hard endeavor. it was on the eve of her first day of teaching that his unusually affectionate attitude to her at the supper-table suddenly roused in her a passion of hot resentment such as her gentle heart had not often experienced. "i owe you no thanks, father, for what education i have!" she burst forth. "you always did everything in your power to hinder me!" if a bomb had exploded in the midst of them, mr. and mrs. getz could not have been more confounded. mrs. getz looked to see her husband order tillie from the table, or rise from his place to shake her and box her ears. but he did neither. in amazement he stared at her for a moment--then answered with a mildness that amazed his wife even more than tillie's "sassiness" had done. "i'd of left you study if i'd knowed you could come to anything like this by it. but i always thought you'd have to go to the normal to be fit fur a teacher yet. and you can't say you don't owe me no thanks--ain't i always kep' you?" "kept me!" answered tillie, with a scorn that widened her father's stare and made her stepmother drop her knife on her plate; "i never worked half so hard at aunty em's as i have done here every day of my life since i was nine years old--and she thought my work worth not only my 'keep,' but two dollars a week besides. when do you ever spend two dollars on me? you never gave me a dollar that i hadn't earned ten times over! you owe me back wages!" jake getz laid down his knife, with a look on his face that made his other children quail. his countenance was livid with anger. "owe you back wages!" he choked. "ain't you my child, then, where i begat and raised? don't i own you? what's a child fur? to grow up to be no use to them that raised it? you talk like that to me!" he roared. "you tell me i owe you back money! now listen here! i was a-goin' to leave you keep five dollars every month out of your forty. yes, i conceited i'd leave you have all that--five a month! now fur sassin' me like what you done, i ain't leavin' you have none the first month!" "and what," tillie wondered, a strange calm suddenly following her outburst, as she sat back in her chair, white and silent, "what will he do and say when i refuse to give him more than the price of my board?" her school-work, which began nest day, diverted her mind somewhat from its deep yearning for him who had become to her the very breath of her life. it was on the sunday night after her first week of teaching that she told absalom, with all the firmness she could command, that he must not come to see her any more, for she was resolved not to marry him. "who are you goin' to marry, then?" he inquired, unconvinced. "no one." "do you mean it fur really, that you'd ruther be a' ole maid?" "i'd rather be six old maids than the wife of a dutchman!" "what fur kind of a man do you want, then?" "not the kind that grows in this township." "would you, mebbe," absalom sarcastically inquired, "like such a dude like what--" "absalom!" tillie flashed her beautiful eyes upon him. "you are unworthy to mention his name to me! don't dare to speak to me of him--or i shall leave you and go up-stairs right away!" absalom sullenly subsided. when, later, he left her, she saw that her firm refusal to marry him had in no wise baffled him. this impression was confirmed when on the next sunday night, in spite of her prohibition, he again presented himself. tillie was mortally weary that night. her letter had not come, and her nervous waiting, together with the strain of her unwonted work of teaching, had told on her endurance. so poor absalom's reception at her hands was even colder than her father's greeting at the kitchen door; for since tillie's election to william penn, mr. getz was more opposed than ever to her marriage, and he did not at all relish the young man's persistency in coming to see her in the face of his own repeated warning. "tillie," absalom began when they were alone together after the family had gone to bed, "i thought it over oncet, and i come to say i'd ruther have you 'round, even if you didn't do nothin' but set and knit mottos and play the organ, than any other woman where could do all my housework fur me. i'll hire fur you, tillie--and you can just set and enjoy yourself musin', like what doc says book-learnt people likes to do." tillie's eyes rested on him with a softer and a kindlier light in them than she had ever shown him before; for such a magnanimous offer as this, she thought, could spring only from the fact that absalom was really deeply in love, and she was not a little touched. she contemplated him earnestly as he sat before her, looking so utterly unnatural in his sunday clothes. a feeling of compassion for him began to steal into her heart. "if i am not careful," she thought in consternation, "i shall be saying, 'yes,' out of pity." but a doubt quickly crept into her heart. was it really that he loved her so very much, or was it that his obstinacy was stronger than his prudence, and that if he could not get her as he wanted her,--as his housekeeper and the mother of numberless children,--he would take her on her own conditions? only so he got her--that was the point. he had made up his mind to have her--it must be accomplished. "absalom," she said, "i am not going to let you waste any more of your time. you must never come to see me again after to-night. i won't ever marry you, and i won't let you go on like this, with your false hope. if you come again, i won't see you. i'll go up-stairs!" one would have thought that this had no uncertain ring. but again tillie knew, when absalom left her, that his resolution not only was not shaken,--it was not even jarred. the weeks moved on, and the longed-for letter did not come. tillie tried to gather courage to question the doctor as to whether fairchilds had made any arrangement with him for the delivery of a letter to her. but an instinct of maidenly reserve and pride which, she could not conquer kept her lips closed on the subject. had it not been for this all-consuming desire for a letter, she would more keenly have felt her enforced alienation from her aunt, of whom she was so fond; and at the same time have taken really great pleasure in her new work and in having reached at last her long-anticipated goal. in the meantime, while her secret sorrow--like sir hudibras's rusting sword that had nothing else to feed upon and so hacked upon itself--seemed eating out her very heart, the letter which would have been to her as manna in the wilderness had fallen into her father's hands, and after being laboriously conned by him, to his utter confusion as to its meaning, had been consigned to the kitchen fire. mr. getz's reasons for withholding the letter from his daughter and burning it were several. in the first place, fairchilds was "an unbeliever," and therefore his influence was baneful; he was jacob getz's enemy, and therefore no fit person to be writing friendly letters to his daughter; he asked tillie, in his letter, to write to him, and this would involve the buying of stationery and wasting of time that might be better spent; and finally, he and tillie, as he painfully gathered from the letter, were "making up" to a degree that might end in her wanting to marry the fellow. mr. getz meant to tell tillie that he had received this letter; but somehow, every time he opened his lips to speak the words, the memory of her wild-cat behavior in defense of the teacher that afternoon in the woods, and her horribly death-like appearance when she had lain unconscious in the teacher's arms, recurred to him with a vividness that effectually checked him, and eventually led him to decide that it were best not to risk another such outbreak. so she remained in ignorance of the fact that fairchilds had again written to her. carlyle's "gospel of work" was indeed tillie's salvation in these days; for in spite of her restless yearning and loneliness, she was deeply interested and even fascinated with her teaching, and greatly pleased and encouraged with her success in it. at last, with the end of her first month at william penn, came the rather dreaded "pay-day"; for she knew that it would mean the hardest battle of her life. the forty dollars was handed to her in her schoolroom on friday afternoon, at the close of the session. it seemed untold wealth to tillie, who never before in her life had owned a dollar. she' did not risk carrying it all home with her. the larger part of the sum she intrusted to the doctor to deposit for her in a lancaster bank. when, at five o'clock, she reached home and walked into the kitchen, her father's eagerness for her return, that he might lay his itching palms on her earnings, was perfectly manifest to her in his unduly affectionate, "well, tillie!" she was pale, but outwardly composed. it was to be one of those supreme crises in life which one is apt to meet with a courage and a serenity that are not forthcoming in the smaller irritations and trials of daily experience. "you don't look so hearty," her father said, as she quietly hung up her shawl and hood in the kitchen cupboard. "a body'd think you'd pick up and get fat, now you don't have to work nothin', except mornings and evenings." "there is no harder work in the world, father, than teaching--even when you like it." "it ain't no work," he impatiently retorted, "to set and hear off lessons." tillie did not dispute the point, as she tied a gingham apron over her dress. her father was sitting in a corner of the room, shelling corn, with sammy and sally at his side helping him. he stopped short in his work and glanced at tillie in surprise, as she immediately set about assisting her mother in setting the supper-table. "you was paid to-day, wasn't you?" "yes." "well, why don't you gimme the money, then? where have you got it?" tillie drew a roll of bills from her pocket and came up to him. he held out his hand. "you know, tillie, i tole you i ain't givin' you none of your wages this month, fur sassin' me like what you done. but next month, if you're good-behaved till then, i'll give you mebbe five dollars. gimme here," he said, reaching for the money across the heads of the children in front of him. but she did not obey. she looked at him steadily as she stood before him, and spoke deliberately, though every nerve in her body was jumping. "aunty em charged the teacher fifteen dollars a month for board. that included his washing and ironing. i really earn my board by the work i do here saturdays and sundays, and in the mornings and evenings before and after school. but i will pay you twelve dollars a month for my board." she laid on his palm two five-dollar bills and two ones, and calmly walked back to the table. getz sat as one suddenly turned to stone. sammy and sally dropped their corn-cobs into their laps and stared in frightened wonder. mrs. getz stopped cutting the bread and gazed stupidly from her husband to her stepdaughter. tillie alone went on with her work, no sign in her white, still face of the passion of terror in her heart at her own unspeakable boldness. suddenly two resounding slaps on the ears of sammy and sally, followed by their sharp screams of pain and fright, broke the tense stillness. "who tole you to stop workin', heh?" demanded their father, fiercely. "leave me see you at it, do you hear? you stop another time to gape around and i 'll lick you good! stop your bawlin' now, this minute!" he rose from his chair and strode over to the table. seizing tillie by the shoulder, he drew her in froet of him. "gimme every dollar of them forty!" "i have given you all i have." "where are you got the others hid?" "i have deposited my money in a lancaster bank." jacob getz's face turned apoplectic with rage. "who took it to lancaster fur you?" "i sent it." "what fur bank?" "i prefer not to tell you that." "you perfer! i'll learn you perfer! who took it in fur you--and what fur bank? answer to me!" "father, the money is mine." "it's no such thing! you ain't but seventeen. and i don't care if you're eighteen or even twenty-one! you're my child and you 'll obey to me and do what i tell you!" "father, i will not submit to your robbing me, you can't force me to give you my earnings. if you could, i wouldn't teach at all!" "you won't submit! and i darsent rob you!" he spluttered. "don't you know i can collect your wages off the secretary of the board myself?" "before next pay-day i shall be eighteen. then you can't legally do that. if you could, i would resign. then you wouldn't even get your twelve dollars a month for my board. that's four dollars more than i can earn living out at aunty em's." beside himself with his fury, getz drew her a few steps to the closet where his strap hung, and jerking it from its nail, he swung out his arm. but tillie, with a strength born of a sudden fury almost matching his own, and feeling in her awakened womanhood a new sense of outrage and ignominy in such treatment, wrenched herself free, sprang to the middle of the room, and faced him with blazing eyes. "dare to touch me--ever again so long as you live!--and i'll kill you, i'll kill you!" such madness of speech, to ears accustomed to the carefully tempered converse of mennonites, amish, and dunkards, was in itself a wickedness almost as great as the deed threatened. the family, from the father down to six-year-old zephaniah, trembled to hear the awful words. "ever dare to touch me again so long as we both live--and i'll stab you dead!" mrs. getz shrieked. sally and sammy clung to each other whimpering in terror, and the younger children about the room took up the chorus. "tillie!" gasped her father. the girl tottered, her eyes suddenly rolled back in her head, she stretched out her hands, and fell over on the floor. once more tillie had fainted. xxv getz "learns" tillie as a drowning man clings to whatever comes in his way, tillie, in these weary days of heart-ache and yearning, turned with new intensity of feeling to miss margaret, who had never failed her, and their interchange of letters became more frequent. her father did not easily give up the struggle with her for the possession of her salary. finding that he could not legally collect it himself from the treasurer of the board, he accused his brother-in-law, abe wackernagel, of having taken it to town for her; and when abe denied the charge, with the assurance, however, that he "would do that much for tillie any day he got the chancet," mr. getz next taxed the doctor, who, of course, without the least scruple, denied all knowledge of tillie's monetary affairs. on market day, he had to go to lancaster city, and when his efforts to force tillie to sign a cheek payable to him had proved vain, his baffled greed again roused him to uncontrollable fury, and lifting his hand, he struck her across the cheek. tillie reeled and would have fallen had he not caught her, his anger instantly cooling in his fear lest she faint again. but tillie had no idea of fainting. "let me go," she said quietly, drawing her arm out of his clasp. turning quickly away, she walked straight out of the room and up-stairs to her chamber. her one change of clothing she quickly tied into a bundle, and putting on her bonnet and shawl, she walked down-stairs and out of the house. "where you goin'?" her father demanded roughly as he followed her out on the porch. she did not answer, but walked on to the gate. in an instant he had overtaken her and stood squarely in her path. "where you goin' to?" he repeated. "to town, to board at the store." he dragged her, almost by main force, back into the house, and all that evening kept a watch upon her until he knew that she was in bed. next morning, tillie carried her bundle of clothing to school with her, and at the noon recess she went to the family who kept the village store and engaged board with them, saying she could not stand the daily walks to and from school. when, at six o'clock that evening, she had not returned home, her father drove in to the village store to get her. but she locked herself in her bedroom and would not come out. in the next few weeks he tried every means of force at his command, but in vain; and at last he humbled himself to propose a compromise. "i'll leave you have some of your money every month, tillie,--as much as ten dollars,--if you'll give me the rest, still." "why should i give it to you, father? how would that benefit me?" she said, with a rather wicked relish in turning the tables on him and applying his life principle of selfishness to her own case. her father did not know how to meet it. never before in her life, to his knowledge, had tillie considered her own benefit before his and that of his wife and children. that she should dare to do so now seemed to knock the foundations from under him. "when i'm dead, won't you and the others inherit off of me all i've saved?" he feebly inquired. "but that will be when i'm too old to enjoy or profit by it." "how much do you want i should give you out of your wages every month, then?" "you can't give me what is not yours to give." "now don't you be sassin' me, or i'll learn you!" they were alone in her school-room on a late february afternoon, after school had been dismissed. tillie quickly rose and reached for her shawl and bonnet. she usually tried to avoid giving him an opportunity like this for bullying her, with no one by to protect her. "just stay settin'," he growled sullenly, and she knew from his tone that he had surrendered. "if you'll come home to board, i won't bother you no more, then," he further humbled himself to add. the loss even of the twelve dollars' board was more than he could bear. "it would not be safe," answered tillie, grimly. "och, it 'll be safe enough. i'll leave you be." "it would not be safe for you." "fur me? what you talkin'?" "if you lost your temper and struck me, i might kill you. that's why i came away." the father stared in furtive horror at the white, impassive face of his daughter. could this be tillie--his meek, long-suffering tillie? "another thing," she continued resolutely, for she had lost all fear of speaking her mind to him, "why should i pay you twelve dollars a month board, when i get my board at the store for six, because i wait on customers between times?" mr. getz looked very downcast. there was a long silence between them. "i must go now, father. this is the hour that i always spend in the store." "i'll board you fur six, then," he growled. "and make me work from four in the morning until eight or nine at night? it is easier standing in the store. i can read when there are no customers." "to think i brung up a child to talk to me like this here!" he stared at her incredulously. "the rest will turn out even worse," tillie prophesied with conviction, "unless you are less harsh with them. your harshness will drive every child you have to defy you." "i'll take good care none of the others turns out like you!" he threateningly exclaimed. "and you'll see oncet! you'll find out! you just wait! i tried everything--now i know what i'm doin'. it'll learn you!" in the next few weeks, as nothing turned up to make good these threats, tillie often wondered what her father had meant by them. it was not like him to waste time in empty words. but she was soon to learn. one evening the doctor came over to the store to repeat to her some rumors he had heard and which he thought she ought to know. "tillie! your pop's workin' the directers to have you chased off william penn till the april election a'ready!" "oh, doc!" tillie gasped, "how do you know?" "that's what the talk is. he's goin' about to all of 'em whenever he can handy leave off from his work, and he's tellin' 'em they had ought to set that example to onruly children; and most of 'em's agreein' with him. nathaniel puntz he agrees with him. absalom he talks down on you since you won't leave him come no more sundays, still. your pop he says when your teachin' is a loss to him instead of a help, he ain't leavin' you keep on. he says when you don't have no more money, you'll have to come home and help him and your mom with the work. nathaniel puntz he says this is a warnin' to parents not to leave their children have too much education--that they get high-minded that way and won't even get married." "but, doc," tillie pleaded with him in an agony of mind, "you won't let them take my school from me, will you? you'll make them let me keep it?" the doctor gave a little laugh. "by golly, tillie, i ain't the president of america! you think because i got you through oncet or twicet, i kin do anything with them directers, still! well, a body can't always get ahead of a set of stubborn-headed dutchmen--and with nathaniel puntz so wonderful thick in with your pop to work ag'in' you, because you won't have that dumm absalom of hisn!" "what shall i do?" tillie cried. "i can never, never go back to my old life again--that hopeless, dreary drudgery on the farm! i can't, indeed i can't! i won't go back. what shall i do?" "look-ahere, tillie!" the doctor spoke soothingly, "i'll do what i otherwise kin to help you. i'll do, some back-talkin' myself to them directers. but you see," he said in a troubled tone, "none of them directers happens to owe me no doctor-bill just now, and that makes it a little harder to persuade 'em to see my view of the case. now if only some of their wives would up and get sick for 'em and i could run 'em up a bill! but," he concluded, shaking his head in discouragement, "it's a wonderful healthy season--wonderful healthy!" in the two months that followed, the doctor worked hard to counteract mr. getz's influence with the board. tillie, too, missed no least opportunity to plead her cause with them, not only by direct argument, but by the indirect means of doing her best possible work in her school. but both she and the doctor realized, as the weeks moved on, that they were working in vain; for mr. getz, in his statements to the directors, had appealed to some of their most deep-rooted prejudices. tillie's filial insubordination, her "high-mindedness," her distaste for domestic work, so strong that she refused even to live under her father's roof--all these things made her unfit to be an instructor and guide to their young children. she would imbue the "rising generation" with her worldly and wrong-headed ideas. had tillie remained "plain," she would no doubt have had the championship of the two new mennonite members of the board. but her apostasy had lost her even that defense, for she no longer wore her nun-like garb. after her suspension from meeting and her election to william penn, she had gradually drifted into the conviction that colors other than gray, black, or brown were probably pleasing to the creator, and that what really mattered was not what she wore, but what she was. it was without any violent struggles or throes of anguish that, in this revolution of her faith, she quite naturally fell away from the creed which once had held her such a devotee. when she presently appeared in the vain and ungodly habiliments of "the world's people," the brethren gave her up in despair and excommunicated her. "no use, tillie," the doctor would report in discouragement, week after week; "we're up against it sure this time! you're losin' william penn till next month, or i'll eat my hat! a body might as well try to eat his hat as move them pig-headed dutch once they get sot. and they're sot on puttin' you out, all right! you see, your pop and nathaniel puntz they just fixed 'em! me and you ain't got no show at all." tillie could think of no way of escape from her desperate position. what was there before her but a return to the farm, or perhaps, at best, marriage with absalom? "to be sure, i should have to be reduced to utter indifference to my fate if i ever consented to marry absalom," she bitterly told herself. "but when it is a question between doing that and living at home, i don't know but i might be driven to it!" at times, the realization that there was no possible appeal from her situation did almost drive her to a frenzy. after so many years of struggle, just as she was tasting success, to lose all the fruits of her labor--how could she endure it? with the work she loved taken away from her, how could she bear the gnawing hunger at her heart for the presence of him unto whom was every thought of her brain and every throbbing pulse of her soul? the future seemed to stretch before her, a terrible, an unendurable blank. the first week of april was the time fixed for the meeting of the board at which she was to be "chased off her job"; and as the fatal day drew near, a sort of lethargy settled upon her, and she ceased to straggle, even in spirit, against the inevitable. "well, tillie," the doctor said, with a long sigh, as he came into the store at six o'clock on the eventful evening, and leaned over the counter to talk to the girl, "they're all conwened by now, over there in the hotel parlor. your pop and nathaniel puntz they're lookin' wonderful important. tour pop," he vindictively added, "is just chucklin' at the idea of gettin' you home under his thumb ag'in!" tillie did not speak. she sat behind the counter, her cheeks resting on the backs of her hands, her wistful eyes gazing past the doctor toward the red light in the hotel windows across the way. "golly! but i'd of liked to beat 'em out on this here game! but they've got us, tillie! they'll be wotin' you out of your job any minute now. and then your pop'll be comin' over here to fetch you along home! oh! if he wasn't your pop i c'd say somethin' real perfane about him." tillie drew a long breath; but she did not speak. she could not. it seemed to her that she had come to the end of everything. "look-ahere, tillie," the doctor spoke suddenly, "you just up and get ahead of 'em all--you just take yourself over to the millersville normal! you've got some money saved, ain't you?" "yes!" a ray of hope kindled in her eyes. "i have saved one hundred and twenty-five dollars! i should have more than that if i had not returned to the world's dress." "a hundred and twenty-five's plenty enough for a good starter at the millersville normal," said the doctor. "but," tillie hesitated, "this is april, and the spring term closes in three months. what should i do and where could i go after that? if i made such a break with father, he might refuse to take me home even if i had nowhere else to go. could i risk that?" the doctor leaned his head on his hand and heavily considered the situation. "i'm blamed if i dare adwise you, tillie. it's some serious adwisin' a young unprotected female to leave her pop's rooft to go out into the unbeknownst world," he said sentimentally. "to be sure, miss margaret would see after you while you was at the normal. but when wacation is here in june she might mebbe be goin' away for such a trip like, and then if you couldn't come back home, you'd be throwed out on the cold wide world, where there's many a pitfall for the onwary." "it seems too great a risk to run, doesn't it? there seems to be nothing--nothing--that i can do but go back to the farm," she said, the hope dying out of her eyes. "just till i kin get you another school, tillie," he consoled her. "i'll be lookin' out for a wacancy in the county for you, you bet!" "thank you, doc," she answered wearily; "but you know another school couldn't possibly be open to me until next fall--five months from now." she threw her head back upon the palm of her hand. "i'm so tired--so very tired of it all. what's the use of struggling? what am i struggling for?" "what are you struggling fur?" the doctor repeated. "why, to get shed of your pop and all them kids out at the getz farm that wears out your young life workin' for 'em! that's what! and to have some freedom and money of your own--to have a little pleasure now and ag'in! i tell you, tillie, i don't want to see you goin' out there to that farm ag'in!" "do you think i should dare to run away to the normal?" she asked fearfully. the doctor tilted back his hat and scratched his head. "leave me to think it over oncet, tillie, and till to-morrow mornin' a'ready i'll give you my answer. my conscience won't give me the dare to adwise you offhand in a matter that's so serious like what this is." "father will want to make me go out to the farm with him this evening, i am sure," she said; "and when once i am out there, i shall not have either the spirit or the chance to get away, i'm afraid." the doctor shook his head despondently. "we certainly are up ag'in' it! i can't see no way out." "there is no way out," tillie said in a strangely quiet voice. "doc," she added after an instant, laying her hand on his rough one and pressing it, "although i have failed in all that you have tried to help me to be and to do, i shall never forget to be grateful to you--my best and kindest friend!" the doctor looked down almost reverently at the little white hand resting against his dark one. suddenly tillie's eyes fixed themselves upon the open doorway, where the smiling presence of walter fairchilds presented itself to her startled gaze. "tillie! and the doc! well, it's good to see you. may i break in on your conference--i can see it '& important." he spoke lightly, but his voice was vibrant with some restrained emotion. at the first sight of him, tillie's hand instinctively crept up to feel if those precious curls were in their proper place. the care and devotion she had spent upon them during all these weary, desolate months! and all because a man--the one, only man--had once said they were pretty! alas, tillie, for your mennonite principles! and now, at sight of the dear, familiar face and form, the girl trembled and was speechless. not so the doctor. with a yell, he turned upon the visitor, grasped both his hands, and nearly wrung them off. "hang me, of i was ever so glad to see a feller like wot i am you. teacher," he cried in huge delight, "the country's saved! providence fetched you here in the nick of time! you always was a friend to tillie, and you kin help her out now!" walter fairchilds did not reply at first. he stood, gazing over the doctor's shoulder at the new tillie, transformed in countenance by the deep waters through which she had passed in the five months that had slipped round since he had gone out of her life; and so transformed in appearance by the dropping of her mennonite garb that he could hardly believe the testimony of his eyes. "is it--is it really you, tillie?" he said, holding out his hand. "and aren't you even a little bit glad to see me?" the familiar voice brought the life-blood back to her face. she took a step toward him, both hands outstretched,--then, suddenly, she stopped and her cheeks crimsoned. "of course we're glad to see you--very!" she said softly but constrainedly. "lemme tell you the news," shouted the doctor. "you 'll mebbe save tillie from goin' out there to her pop's farm ag'in! she's teacher at william penn, and her pop's over there at the board meetin' now, havin' her throwed off, and then he'll want to take her home to work herself to death for him and all them baker's dozen of children he's got out there! and tillie she don't want to go--and waste all her nice education that there way!" fairchilds took her hand and looked down into her shining eyes. "i hardly know you, tillie, in your new way of dressing!" "what--what brings you here?" she asked, drawing away her hand. "i've come from the millersville normal school with a letter for you from mrs. lansing," he explained, "and i've promised to bring you back with me by way of answer. "i am an instructor in english there now, you know, and so, of course, i have come to know your 'miss margaret,'" he added, in answer to tillie's unspoken question. the girl opened the envelop with trembling fingers and read: "my dear little mennonite maid: we have rather suddenly decided to go abroad in july--my husband needs the rest and change, as do we all; and i want you to go with me as companion and friend, and to help me in the care of the children. in the meantime there is much to be done by way of preparation for such a trip; so can't you arrange to come to me at once and you can have the benefit of the spring term at the normal. i needn't tell you, dear child, how glad i shall be to have you with me. and what such a trip ought to mean to you, who have struggled so bravely to live the life the almighty meant that you should live, you only can fully realize. you're of age now and can act for yourself. break with your present environment now, or, i'm afraid, tillie, it will be never. "come to me at once, and with the bearer of this note. with love, i am, as always, your affectionate "'miss margaret.'" when she had finished tillie looked up with brimming eyes. "doc," she said, "listen!" and she read the letter aloud, speaking slowly and distinctly that he might fully grasp the glory of it all. at the end the sweet voice faltered and broke. "oh, doc!" sobbed tillie, "isn't it wonderful!" the shaggy old fellow blinked his eyes rapidly, then suddenly relieved his feelings with an outrageous burst of profanity. with a rapidity bewildering to his hearers, his tone instantly changed again to one of lachrymose solemnity: "'gawd moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform!'" he piously repeated. "ain't, now, he does, tillie! och!" he exclaimed, "i got a thought! you go right straight over there to that there board meetin' and circumwent 'em! before they're got time to wote you off your job, you up and throw their old william penn in their dutch faces, and tell 'em be blowed to 'em! tell 'em you don't want their blamed old school--and you're goin' to europe, you are! to europe, yet!" he seized her hand as he spoke and almost pulled her to the store door. "do it, tillie!" cried fairchilds, stepping after them across the store. "present your resignation before they have a chance to vote you out! do it!" he said eagerly. tillie looked from one to the other of the two men before her, excitement sparkling in her eyes, her breath coming short and fast. "i will!" turning away, she ran down the steps, sped across the street, and disappeared in the hotel. the doctor expressed his overflowing feelings by giving fairchilds a resounding slap on the shoulders. "by gum, i'd like to be behind the skeens and witness jake getz gettin' fooled ag'in! this is the most fun i had since i got 'em to wote you five dollars a month extry, teacher!" he chuckled. "golly! i'm glad you got here in time! it was certainly, now," he added piously, "the hand of providence that led you!" xxvi tillie's last fight "we are now ready to wote fer the teacher fer william penn fer the spring term," announced the president of the board, when all the preliminary business of the meeting had been disposed of; "and before we perceed to that dooty, we will be glad to hear any remarks." the members looked at mr. getz, and he promptly rose to his feet to make the speech which all were expecting from him--the speech which was to sum up the reasons why his daughter should not be reelected for another term to william penn. as all these reasons had been expounded many times over in the past few months, to each individual school director, mr. getz's statements to-night were to be merely a more forcible repetition of his previous arguments. but scarcely had he cleared his throat to begin, when there was a knock on the door; it opened, and, to their amazement, tillie walked into the room. her eyes sparkling, her face flushed, her head erect, she came straight across the room to the table about which the six educational potentates were gathered. that she had come to plead her own cause, to beg to be retained at her post, was obviously the object of this intrusion upon the sacred privacy of their weighty proceedings. had that, in very truth, been her purpose in coming to them, she would have found little encouragement in the countenances before her. every one of them seemed to stiffen into grim disapproval of her unfilial act in thus publicly opposing her parent. but there was something in the girl's presence as she stood before them, some potent spell in her fresh girlish beauty, and in the dauntless spirit which shone in her eyes, that checked the words of stern reproof as they sprang to the lips of her judges. "john kettering,"--her clear, soft voice addressed the amish president of the board, adhering, in her use of his first name, to the mode of address of all the "plain" sects of the county,--"have i your permission to speak to the board?" "it wouldn't be no use." the president frowned and shook his head. "the wotes of this here board can't be influenced. there's no use your wastin' any talk on us. we're here to do our dooty by the risin' generation." mr. kettering, in his character of educator, was very fond of talking about "the rising generation." "and," he added, "what's right's right." "as your teacher at william penn, i have a statement to make to the board," tillie quietly persisted. "it will take me but a minute. i am not here to try to influence the vote you are about to take." "if you ain't here to influence our wotes, what are you here fer?" "that's what i ask your permission to tell the board." "well," john kettering reluctantly conceded, "i'll give you two minutes, then. go on. but you needn't try to get us to wote any way but the way our conscience leads us to." tillie's eyes swept the faces before her, from the stern, set features of her father on her left, to the mild-faced, long-haired, hooks-and-eyes amishman on her right. the room grew perfectly still as they stared at her in expectant curiosity; for her air and manner did not suggest the humble suppliant for their continued favor,--rather a self-confidence that instinctively excited their stubborn opposition. "she'll see oncet if she kin do with us what she wants," was the thought in the minds of most of them. "i am here," tillie spoke deliberately and distinctly, "to tender my resignation." there was dead silence. "i regret that i could not give you a month's notice, according to the terms of my agreement with you. but i could not foresee the great good fortune that was about to befall me." not a man stirred, but an ugly look of malicious chagrin appeared upon the face of nathaniel puntz. was he foiled in his anticipated revenge upon the girl who had "turned down" his absalom? mr. getz sat stiff and motionless, his eyes fixed upon tillie. "i resign my position at william penn," tillie repeated, "to go to europe for four months' travel with miss margaret." again she swept them with her eyes. her father's face was apoplectic; he was leaning forward, trying to speak, but he was too choked for utterance. nathaniel puntz looked as though a wet sponge had been dashed upon his sleek countenance. the other directors stared, dumfounded. this case had no precedent in their experience. they were at a loss how to take it. "my resignation," tillie continued, "must take effect immediately--to-night. i trust you will have no difficulty in getting a substitute." she paused--there was not a movement or a sound in the room. "i thank you for your attention." tillie bowed, turned, and walked across the room. not until she reached the door was the spell broken. with her hand on the knob, she saw her father rise and start toward her. she had no wish for an encounter with him; quickly she went out into the hall, and, in order to escape him, she opened the street door, stepped out, and closed it very audibly behind her. then hurrying in at the adjoining door of the bar-room, she ran out to the hotel kitchen, where she knew she would find her aunt. mrs. wackernagel was alone, washing dishes at the sink. she looked up with a start at tillie's hurried entrance, and her kindly face showed distress as she saw who it was; for, faithful to the rules, she would not speak to this backslider and excommunicant from the faith. but tillie went straight up to her, threw her arms about her neck, and pressed her lips to her aunt's cheek. "aunty em! i can't go away without saying good-by to you. i am going to europe! to europe, aunty em!" she cried. the words sounded unreal and strange to her, and she repeated them to make their meaning clear to herself. "miss margaret has sent for me to take me with her to europe!" she rapidly told her aunt all that had happened, and mrs. wackernagel's bright, eager face of delight expressed all the sympathy and affection which tillie craved from her, but which the mennonite dared not utter. "aunty em, no matter where i go or what may befall me, i shall never forget your love and kindness. i shall remember it always, always." aunty em's emotions were stronger, for the moment, than her allegiance to the rules, and her motherly arms drew the girl to her bosom and held her there in a long, silent embrace. she refrained, however, from kissing her; and presently tillie drew herself away and, dashing the tears from her eyes, went out of the house by the back kitchen door. from here she made her way, in a roundabout fashion, to the rear entrance of the store-keeper's house across the road, for she was quite sure that her father had gone into the store in search of her. cautiously stepping into the kitchen, she found fairchilds restlessly pacing the floor, and he greeted her return with a look of mingled pleasure and apprehension. "your father is out front, in the store, tillie," he whispered, coming close to her. "he's looking for you. he doesn't know i'm in town, of course. come outside and i 'll tell you our plan." he led the way out of doors, and they sought the seclusion of a grape-arbor far down the garden. "we'll leave it to the doc to entertain your father," fairchilds went on; "you will have to leave here with me to-night, tillie, and as soon as possible, for your father will make trouble for us. we may as well avoid a conflict with him--especially for your sake. for myself, i shouldn't mind it!" he smiled grimly. he was conscious, as his eyes rested on tillie's fair face under the evening light, of a reserve in her attitude toward him that was new to her. it checked his warm impulse to take her hands in his and tell her how glad he was to see her again. "how can we possibly get away to-night?" she asked him. "there are no stages until the morning." "we shall have to let the doc's fertile brain solve it for us, tillie. he has a plan, i believe. of course, if we have to wait until morning and fight it out with your father, then we'll have to, that's all. but i hope that may be avoided and that we may get away quietly." they sat in silence for a moment. suddenly fairchilds leaned toward her and spoke to her earnestly. "tillie, i want to ask you something. please tell me--why did you never answer my letters?" she lifted her startled eyes to his. "your letters?" "yes. why didn't you write to me?" "you wrote to me?" she asked incredulously. "i wrote you three times. you don't mean to tell me you never got my letters?" "i never heard from you. i would--i would have been so glad to!" "but how could you have missed getting them?" her eyes fell upon her hands clasped in her lap, and her cheeks grew pale. "my father," she half whispered. "he kept them from you?" "it must have been so." fairchilds looked very grave. he did not speak at once. "how can you forgive such things?" he presently asked. "one tenth of the things you have had to bear would have made an incarnate fiend of me!" she kept her eyes downcast and did not answer. "i can't tell you," he went on, "how bitterly disappointed i was when i didn't hear from you. i couldn't understand why you didn't write. and it gave me a sense of disappointment in you. i thought i must have overestimated the worth of our friendship in your eyes. i see now--and indeed in my heart i always knew--that i did you injustice." she did not look up, but her bosom rose and fell in long breaths. "there has not been a day," he said, "that i have not thought of you, and wished i knew all about you and could see you and speak with you--tillie, what a haunting little personality you are!" she raised her eyes then,--a soft fire in them that set his pulse to bounding. but before she could answer him they were interrupted by the sound of quick steps coming down the board walk toward the arbor. tillie started like a deer ready to flee, but fairchilds laid a reassuring hand upon hers. "it's the doc," he said. the faithful old fellow joined them, his finger on his lips to warn them to silence. "don't leave no one hear us out here! jake getz he's went over to the hotel to look fer tillie, but he'll be back here in a jiffy, and we've got to hurry on. tillie, you go on up and pack your clo'es in a walise or whatever, and hurry down here back. i'm hitchin' my buggy fer yous as quick as i kin. i'll leave yous borry the loan of it off of me till to-morrow--then, teacher, you kin fetch it over ag'in. ain't?" "all right, doc; you're a brick!" tillie sped into the house to obey the doctor's bidding, and fairchilds went with him across the street to the hotel stables. in the course of ten minutes the three conspirators were together again in the stable-yard behind the store, the doctor's horse and buggy ready before them. "father's in the store--i heard his voice," panted tillie, as fairchilds took her satchel from her and stowed it in the back of the buggy. "hurry on, then," whispered the doctor, hoarsely, pushing them both, with scant ceremony, into the carriage. "good-by to yous--and good luck! och, that's all right; no thanks necessary! i'm tickled to the end of my hair at gettin' ahead of jake getz! say, fairchilds," he said, with a wink, "this here mare's wonderful safe--you don't have to hold the reins with both hands! see?" and he shook in silent laughter at his own delicate and delicious humor, as he watched them start out of the yard and down the road toward millersville. for a space there was no sound but the rhythmic beat of hoofs and the rattle of the buggy wheels; but in the heart of the mennonite maid, who had fought her last battle for freedom and won, there was ineffable peace and content; and her happiness smiled from quivering lips and shone in her steadfast eyes. mr. abe wackernagel, of the new canaan hotel, was very fond, in the years that followed, of bragging to his transient guests of his niece who was the wife of "such a millersville normal perfessor--perfessor fairchilds." and mr. jake getz was scarcely less given to referring to his daughter "where is married to such a perfessor at the normal." "but what do i get out of it?" he was wont ruefully to add. "where do i come in, yet?--i where raised her since she was born, a'ready?" wieland; or the transformation an american tale by charles brockden brown from virtue's blissful paths away the double-tongued are sure to stray; good is a forth-right journey still, and mazy paths but lead to ill. advertisement. the following work is delivered to the world as the first of a series of performances, which the favorable reception of this will induce the writer to publish. his purpose is neither selfish nor temporary, but aims at the illustration of some important branches of the moral constitution of man. whether this tale will be classed with the ordinary or frivolous sources of amusement, or be ranked with the few productions whose usefulness secures to them a lasting reputation, the reader must be permitted to decide. the incidents related are extraordinary and rare. some of them, perhaps, approach as nearly to the nature of miracles as can be done by that which is not truly miraculous. it is hoped that intelligent readers will not disapprove of the manner in which appearances are solved, but that the solution will be found to correspond with the known principles of human nature. the power which the principal person is said to possess can scarcely be denied to be real. it must be acknowledged to be extremely rare; but no fact, equally uncommon, is supported by the same strength of historical evidence. some readers may think the conduct of the younger wieland impossible. in support of its possibility the writer must appeal to physicians and to men conversant with the latent springs and occasional perversions of the human mind. it will not be objected that the instances of similar delusion are rare, because it is the business of moral painters to exhibit their subject in its most instructive and memorable forms. if history furnishes one parallel fact, it is a sufficient vindication of the writer; but most readers will probably recollect an authentic case, remarkably similar to that of wieland. it will be necessary to add, that this narrative is addressed, in an epistolary form, by the lady whose story it contains, to a small number of friends, whose curiosity, with regard to it, had been greatly awakened. it may likewise be mentioned, that these events took place between the conclusion of the french and the beginning of the revolutionary war. the memoirs of carwin, alluded to at the conclusion of the work, will be published or suppressed according to the reception which is given to the present attempt. c. b. b. september , . chapter i i feel little reluctance in complying with your request. you know not fully the cause of my sorrows. you are a stranger to the depth of my distresses. hence your efforts at consolation must necessarily fail. yet the tale that i am going to tell is not intended as a claim upon your sympathy. in the midst of my despair, i do not disdain to contribute what little i can to the benefit of mankind. i acknowledge your right to be informed of the events that have lately happened in my family. make what use of the tale you shall think proper. if it be communicated to the world, it will inculcate the duty of avoiding deceit. it will exemplify the force of early impressions, and show the immeasurable evils that flow from an erroneous or imperfect discipline. my state is not destitute of tranquillity. the sentiment that dictates my feelings is not hope. futurity has no power over my thoughts. to all that is to come i am perfectly indifferent. with regard to myself, i have nothing more to fear. fate has done its worst. henceforth, i am callous to misfortune. i address no supplication to the deity. the power that governs the course of human affairs has chosen his path. the decree that ascertained the condition of my life, admits of no recal. no doubt it squares with the maxims of eternal equity. that is neither to be questioned nor denied by me. it suffices that the past is exempt from mutation. the storm that tore up our happiness, and changed into dreariness and desert the blooming scene of our existence, is lulled into grim repose; but not until the victim was transfixed and mangled; till every obstacle was dissipated by its rage; till every remnant of good was wrested from our grasp and exterminated. how will your wonder, and that of your companions, be excited by my story! every sentiment will yield to your amazement. if my testimony were without corroborations, you would reject it as incredible. the experience of no human being can furnish a parallel: that i, beyond the rest of mankind, should be reserved for a destiny without alleviation, and without example! listen to my narrative, and then say what it is that has made me deserve to be placed on this dreadful eminence, if, indeed, every faculty be not suspended in wonder that i am still alive, and am able to relate it. my father's ancestry was noble on the paternal side; but his mother was the daughter of a merchant. my grand-father was a younger brother, and a native of saxony. he was placed, when he had reached the suitable age, at a german college. during the vacations, he employed himself in traversing the neighbouring territory. on one occasion it was his fortune to visit hamburg. he formed an acquaintance with leonard weise, a merchant of that city, and was a frequent guest at his house. the merchant had an only daughter, for whom his guest speedily contracted an affection; and, in spite of parental menaces and prohibitions, he, in due season, became her husband. by this act he mortally offended his relations. thenceforward he was entirely disowned and rejected by them. they refused to contribute any thing to his support. all intercourse ceased, and he received from them merely that treatment to which an absolute stranger, or detested enemy, would be entitled. he found an asylum in the house of his new father, whose temper was kind, and whose pride was flattered by this alliance. the nobility of his birth was put in the balance against his poverty. weise conceived himself, on the whole, to have acted with the highest discretion, in thus disposing of his child. my grand-father found it incumbent on him to search out some mode of independent subsistence. his youth had been eagerly devoted to literature and music. these had hitherto been cultivated merely as sources of amusement. they were now converted into the means of gain. at this period there were few works of taste in the saxon dialect. my ancestor may be considered as the founder of the german theatre. the modern poet of the same name is sprung from the same family, and, perhaps, surpasses but little, in the fruitfulness of his invention, or the soundness of his taste, the elder wieland. his life was spent in the composition of sonatas and dramatic pieces. they were not unpopular, but merely afforded him a scanty subsistence. he died in the bloom of his life, and was quickly followed to the grave by his wife. their only child was taken under the protection of the merchant. at an early age he was apprenticed to a london trader, and passed seven years of mercantile servitude. my father was not fortunate in the character of him under whose care he was now placed. he was treated with rigor, and full employment was provided for every hour of his time. his duties were laborious and mechanical. he had been educated with a view to this profession, and, therefore, was not tormented with unsatisfied desires. he did not hold his present occupations in abhorrence, because they withheld him from paths more flowery and more smooth, but he found in unintermitted labour, and in the sternness of his master, sufficient occasions for discontent. no opportunities of recreation were allowed him. he spent all his time pent up in a gloomy apartment, or traversing narrow and crowded streets. his food was coarse, and his lodging humble. his heart gradually contracted a habit of morose and gloomy reflection. he could not accurately define what was wanting to his happiness. he was not tortured by comparisons drawn between his own situation and that of others. his state was such as suited his age and his views as to fortune. he did not imagine himself treated with extraordinary or unjustifiable rigor. in this respect he supposed the condition of others, bound like himself to mercantile service, to resemble his own; yet every engagement was irksome, and every hour tedious in its lapse. in this state of mind he chanced to light upon a book written by one of the teachers of the albigenses, or french protestants. he entertained no relish for books, and was wholly unconscious of any power they possessed to delight or instruct. this volume had lain for years in a corner of his garret, half buried in dust and rubbish. he had marked it as it lay; had thrown it, as his occasions required, from one spot to another; but had felt no inclination to examine its contents, or even to inquire what was the subject of which it treated. one sunday afternoon, being induced to retire for a few minutes to his garret, his eye was attracted by a page of this book, which, by some accident, had been opened and placed full in his view. he was seated on the edge of his bed, and was employed in repairing a rent in some part of his clothes. his eyes were not confined to his work, but occasionally wandering, lighted at length upon the page. the words "seek and ye shall find," were those that first offered themselves to his notice. his curiosity was roused by these so far as to prompt him to proceed. as soon as he finished his work, he took up the book and turned to the first page. the further he read, the more inducement he found to continue, and he regretted the decline of the light which obliged him for the present to close it. the book contained an exposition of the doctrine of the sect of camissards, and an historical account of its origin. his mind was in a state peculiarly fitted for the reception of devotional sentiments. the craving which had haunted him was now supplied with an object. his mind was at no loss for a theme of meditation. on days of business, he rose at the dawn, and retired to his chamber not till late at night. he now supplied himself with candles, and employed his nocturnal and sunday hours in studying this book. it, of course, abounded with allusions to the bible. all its conclusions were deduced from the sacred text. this was the fountain, beyond which it was unnecessary to trace the stream of religious truth; but it was his duty to trace it thus far. a bible was easily procured, and he ardently entered on the study of it. his understanding had received a particular direction. all his reveries were fashioned in the same mould. his progress towards the formation of his creed was rapid. every fact and sentiment in this book were viewed through a medium which the writings of the camissard apostle had suggested. his constructions of the text were hasty, and formed on a narrow scale. every thing was viewed in a disconnected position. one action and one precept were not employed to illustrate and restrict the meaning of another. hence arose a thousand scruples to which he had hitherto been a stranger. he was alternately agitated by fear and by ecstacy. he imagined himself beset by the snares of a spiritual foe, and that his security lay in ceaseless watchfulness and prayer. his morals, which had never been loose, were now modelled by a stricter standard. the empire of religious duty extended itself to his looks, gestures, and phrases. all levities of speech, and negligences of behaviour, were proscribed. his air was mournful and contemplative. he laboured to keep alive a sentiment of fear, and a belief of the awe-creating presence of the deity. ideas foreign to this were sedulously excluded. to suffer their intrusion was a crime against the divine majesty inexpiable but by days and weeks of the keenest agonies. no material variation had occurred in the lapse of two years. every day confirmed him in his present modes of thinking and acting. it was to be expected that the tide of his emotions would sometimes recede, that intervals of despondency and doubt would occur; but these gradually were more rare, and of shorter duration; and he, at last, arrived at a state considerably uniform in this respect. his apprenticeship was now almost expired. on his arrival of age he became entitled, by the will of my grand-father, to a small sum. this sum would hardly suffice to set him afloat as a trader in his present situation, and he had nothing to expect from the generosity of his master. residence in england had, besides, become almost impossible, on account of his religious tenets. in addition to these motives for seeking a new habitation, there was another of the most imperious and irresistable necessity. he had imbibed an opinion that it was his duty to disseminate the truths of the gospel among the unbelieving nations. he was terrified at first by the perils and hardships to which the life of a missionary is exposed. this cowardice made him diligent in the invention of objections and excuses; but he found it impossible wholly to shake off the belief that such was the injunction of his duty. the belief, after every new conflict with his passions, acquired new strength; and, at length, he formed a resolution of complying with what he deemed the will of heaven. the north-american indians naturally presented themselves as the first objects for this species of benevolence. as soon as his servitude expired, he converted his little fortune into money, and embarked for philadelphia. here his fears were revived, and a nearer survey of savage manners once more shook his resolution. for a while he relinquished his purpose, and purchasing a farm on schuylkill, within a few miles of the city, set himself down to the cultivation of it. the cheapness of land, and the service of african slaves, which were then in general use, gave him who was poor in europe all the advantages of wealth. he passed fourteen years in a thrifty and laborious manner. in this time new objects, new employments, and new associates appeared to have nearly obliterated the devout impressions of his youth. he now became acquainted with a woman of a meek and quiet disposition, and of slender acquirements like himself. he proffered his hand and was accepted. his previous industry had now enabled him to dispense with personal labour, and direct attention to his own concerns. he enjoyed leisure, and was visited afresh by devotional contemplation. the reading of the scriptures, and other religious books, became once more his favorite employment. his ancient belief relative to the conversion of the savage tribes, was revived with uncommon energy. to the former obstacles were now added the pleadings of parental and conjugal love. the struggle was long and vehement; but his sense of duty would not be stifled or enfeebled, and finally triumphed over every impediment. his efforts were attended with no permanent success. his exhortations had sometimes a temporary power, but more frequently were repelled with insult and derision. in pursuit of this object he encountered the most imminent perils, and underwent incredible fatigues, hunger, sickness, and solitude. the licence of savage passion, and the artifices of his depraved countrymen, all opposed themselves to his progress. his courage did not forsake him till there appeared no reasonable ground to hope for success. he desisted not till his heart was relieved from the supposed obligation to persevere. with his constitution somewhat decayed, he at length returned to his family. an interval of tranquillity succeeded. he was frugal, regular, and strict in the performance of domestic duties. he allied himself with no sect, because he perfectly agreed with none. social worship is that by which they are all distinguished; but this article found no place in his creed. he rigidly interpreted that precept which enjoins us, when we worship, to retire into solitude, and shut out every species of society. according to him devotion was not only a silent office, but must be performed alone. an hour at noon, and an hour at midnight were thus appropriated. at the distance of three hundred yards from his house, on the top of a rock whose sides were steep, rugged, and encumbered with dwarf cedars and stony asperities, he built what to a common eye would have seemed a summer-house. the eastern verge of this precipice was sixty feet above the river which flowed at its foot. the view before it consisted of a transparent current, fluctuating and rippling in a rocky channel, and bounded by a rising scene of cornfields and orchards. the edifice was slight and airy. it was no more than a circular area, twelve feet in diameter, whose flooring was the rock, cleared of moss and shrubs, and exactly levelled, edged by twelve tuscan columns, and covered by an undulating dome. my father furnished the dimensions and outlines, but allowed the artist whom he employed to complete the structure on his own plan. it was without seat, table, or ornament of any kind. this was the temple of his deity. twice in twenty-four hours he repaired hither, unaccompanied by any human being. nothing but physical inability to move was allowed to obstruct or postpone this visit. he did not exact from his family compliance with his example. few men, equally sincere in their faith, were as sparing in their censures and restrictions, with respect to the conduct of others, as my father. the character of my mother was no less devout; but her education had habituated her to a different mode of worship. the loneliness of their dwelling prevented her from joining any established congregation; but she was punctual in the offices of prayer, and in the performance of hymns to her saviour, after the manner of the disciples of zinzendorf. my father refused to interfere in her arrangements. his own system was embraced not, accurately speaking, because it was the best, but because it had been expressly prescribed to him. other modes, if practised by other persons, might be equally acceptable. his deportment to others was full of charity and mildness. a sadness perpetually overspread his features, but was unmingled with sternness or discontent. the tones of his voice, his gestures, his steps were all in tranquil unison. his conduct was characterised by a certain forbearance and humility, which secured the esteem of those to whom his tenets were most obnoxious. they might call him a fanatic and a dreamer, but they could not deny their veneration to his invincible candour and invariable integrity. his own belief of rectitude was the foundation of his happiness. this, however, was destined to find an end. suddenly the sadness that constantly attended him was deepened. sighs, and even tears, sometimes escaped him. to the expostulations of his wife he seldom answered any thing. when he designed to be communicative, he hinted that his peace of mind was flown, in consequence of deviation from his duty. a command had been laid upon him, which he had delayed to perform. he felt as if a certain period of hesitation and reluctance had been allowed him, but that this period was passed. he was no longer permitted to obey. the duty assigned to him was transferred, in consequence of his disobedience, to another, and all that remained was to endure the penalty. he did not describe this penalty. it appeared to be nothing more for some time than a sense of wrong. this was sufficiently acute, and was aggravated by the belief that his offence was incapable of expiation. no one could contemplate the agonies which he seemed to suffer without the deepest compassion. time, instead of lightening the burthen, appeared to add to it. at length he hinted to his wife, that his end was near. his imagination did not prefigure the mode or the time of his decease, but was fraught with an incurable persuasion that his death was at hand. he was likewise haunted by the belief that the kind of death that awaited him was strange and terrible. his anticipations were thus far vague and indefinite; but they sufficed to poison every moment of his being, and devote him to ceaseless anguish. chapter ii early in the morning of a sultry day in august, he left mettingen, to go to the city. he had seldom passed a day from home since his return from the shores of the ohio. some urgent engagements at this time existed, which would not admit of further delay. he returned in the evening, but appeared to be greatly oppressed with fatigue. his silence and dejection were likewise in a more than ordinary degree conspicuous. my mother's brother, whose profession was that of a surgeon, chanced to spend this night at our house. it was from him that i have frequently received an exact account of the mournful catastrophe that followed. as the evening advanced, my father's inquietudes increased. he sat with his family as usual, but took no part in their conversation. he appeared fully engrossed by his own reflections. occasionally his countenance exhibited tokens of alarm; he gazed stedfastly and wildly at the ceiling; and the exertions of his companions were scarcely sufficient to interrupt his reverie. on recovering from these fits, he expressed no surprize; but pressing his hand to his head, complained, in a tremulous and terrified tone, that his brain was scorched to cinders. he would then betray marks of insupportable anxiety. my uncle perceived, by his pulse, that he was indisposed, but in no alarming degree, and ascribed appearances chiefly to the workings of his mind. he exhorted him to recollection and composure, but in vain. at the hour of repose he readily retired to his chamber. at the persuasion of my mother he even undressed and went to bed. nothing could abate his restlessness. he checked her tender expostulations with some sternness. "be silent," said he, "for that which i feel there is but one cure, and that will shortly come. you can help me nothing. look to your own condition, and pray to god to strengthen you under the calamities that await you." "what am i to fear?" she answered. "what terrible disaster is it that you think of?" "peace--as yet i know it not myself, but come it will, and shortly." she repeated her inquiries and doubts; but he suddenly put an end to the discourse, by a stern command to be silent. she had never before known him in this mood. hitherto all was benign in his deportment. her heart was pierced with sorrow at the contemplation of this change. she was utterly unable to account for it, or to figure to herself the species of disaster that was menaced. contrary to custom, the lamp, instead of being placed on the hearth, was left upon the table. over it against the wall there hung a small clock, so contrived as to strike a very hard stroke at the end of every sixth hour. that which was now approaching was the signal for retiring to the fane at which he addressed his devotions. long habit had occasioned him to be always awake at this hour, and the toll was instantly obeyed. now frequent and anxious glances were cast at the clock. not a single movement of the index appeared to escape his notice. as the hour verged towards twelve his anxiety visibly augmented. the trepidations of my mother kept pace with those of her husband; but she was intimidated into silence. all that was left to her was to watch every change of his features, and give vent to her sympathy in tears. at length the hour was spent, and the clock tolled. the sound appeared to communicate a shock to every part of my father's frame. he rose immediately, and threw over himself a loose gown. even this office was performed with difficulty, for his joints trembled, and his teeth chattered with dismay. at this hour his duty called him to the rock, and my mother naturally concluded that it was thither he intended to repair. yet these incidents were so uncommon, as to fill her with astonishment and foreboding. she saw him leave the room, and heard his steps as they hastily descended the stairs. she half resolved to rise and pursue him, but the wildness of the scheme quickly suggested itself. he was going to a place whither no power on earth could induce him to suffer an attendant. the window of her chamber looked toward the rock. the atmosphere was clear and calm, but the edifice could not be discovered at that distance through the dusk. my mother's anxiety would not allow her to remain where she was. she rose, and seated herself at the window. she strained her sight to get a view of the dome, and of the path that led to it. the first painted itself with sufficient distinctness on her fancy, but was undistinguishable by the eye from the rocky mass on which it was erected. the second could be imperfectly seen; but her husband had already passed, or had taken a different direction. what was it that she feared? some disaster impended over her husband or herself. he had predicted evils, but professed himself ignorant of what nature they were. when were they to come? was this night, or this hour to witness the accomplishment? she was tortured with impatience, and uncertainty. all her fears were at present linked to his person, and she gazed at the clock, with nearly as much eagerness as my father had done, in expectation of the next hour. an half hour passed away in this state of suspence. her eyes were fixed upon the rock; suddenly it was illuminated. a light proceeding from the edifice, made every part of the scene visible. a gleam diffused itself over the intermediate space, and instantly a loud report, like the explosion of a mine, followed. she uttered an involuntary shriek, but the new sounds that greeted her ear, quickly conquered her surprise. they were piercing shrieks, and uttered without intermission. the gleams which had diffused themselves far and wide were in a moment withdrawn, but the interior of the edifice was filled with rays. the first suggestion was that a pistol was discharged, and that the structure was on fire. she did not allow herself time to meditate a second thought, but rushed into the entry and knocked loudly at the door of her brother's chamber. my uncle had been previously roused by the noise, and instantly flew to the window. he also imagined what he saw to be fire. the loud and vehement shrieks which succeeded the first explosion, seemed to be an invocation of succour. the incident was inexplicable; but he could not fail to perceive the propriety of hastening to the spot. he was unbolting the door, when his sister's voice was heard on the outside conjuring him to come forth. he obeyed the summons with all the speed in his power. he stopped not to question her, but hurried down stairs and across the meadow which lay between the house and the rock. the shrieks were no longer to be heard; but a blazing light was clearly discernible between the columns of the temple. irregular steps, hewn in the stone, led him to the summit. on three sides, this edifice touched the very verge of the cliff. on the fourth side, which might be regarded as the front, there was an area of small extent, to which the rude staircase conducted you. my uncle speedily gained this spot. his strength was for a moment exhausted by his haste. he paused to rest himself. meanwhile he bent the most vigilant attention towards the object before him. within the columns he beheld what he could no better describe, than by saying that it resembled a cloud impregnated with light. it had the brightness of flame, but was without its upward motion. it did not occupy the whole area, and rose but a few feet above the floor. no part of the building was on fire. this appearance was astonishing. he approached the temple. as he went forward the light retired, and, when he put his feet within the apartment, utterly vanished. the suddenness of this transition increased the darkness that succeeded in a tenfold degree. fear and wonder rendered him powerless. an occurrence like this, in a place assigned to devotion, was adapted to intimidate the stoutest heart. his wandering thoughts were recalled by the groans of one near him. his sight gradually recovered its power, and he was able to discern my father stretched on the floor. at that moment, my mother and servants arrived with a lanthorn, and enabled my uncle to examine more closely this scene. my father, when he left the house, besides a loose upper vest and slippers, wore a shirt and drawers. now he was naked, his skin throughout the greater part of his body was scorched and bruised. his right arm exhibited marks as of having been struck by some heavy body. his clothes had been removed, and it was not immediately perceived that they were reduced to ashes. his slippers and his hair were untouched. he was removed to his chamber, and the requisite attention paid to his wounds, which gradually became more painful. a mortification speedily shewed itself in the arm, which had been most hurt. soon after, the other wounded parts exhibited the like appearance. immediately subsequent to this disaster, my father seemed nearly in a state of insensibility. he was passive under every operation. he scarcely opened his eyes, and was with difficulty prevailed upon to answer the questions that were put to him. by his imperfect account, it appeared, that while engaged in silent orisons, with thoughts full of confusion and anxiety, a faint gleam suddenly shot athwart the apartment. his fancy immediately pictured to itself, a person bearing a lamp. it seemed to come from behind. he was in the act of turning to examine the visitant, when his right arm received a blow from a heavy club. at the same instant, a very bright spark was seen to light upon his clothes. in a moment, the whole was reduced to ashes. this was the sum of the information which he chose to give. there was somewhat in his manner that indicated an imperfect tale. my uncle was inclined to believe that half the truth had been suppressed. meanwhile, the disease thus wonderfully generated, betrayed more terrible symptoms. fever and delirium terminated in lethargic slumber, which, in the course of two hours, gave place to death. yet not till insupportable exhalations and crawling putrefaction had driven from his chamber and the house every one whom their duty did not detain. such was the end of my father. none surely was ever more mysterious. when we recollect his gloomy anticipations and unconquerable anxiety; the security from human malice which his character, the place, and the condition of the times, might be supposed to confer; the purity and cloudlessness of the atmosphere, which rendered it impossible that lightning was the cause; what are the conclusions that we must form? the prelusive gleam, the blow upon his arm, the fatal spark, the explosion heard so far, the fiery cloud that environed him, without detriment to the structure, though composed of combustible materials, the sudden vanishing of this cloud at my uncle's approach--what is the inference to be drawn from these facts? their truth cannot be doubted. my uncle's testimony is peculiarly worthy of credit, because no man's temper is more sceptical, and his belief is unalterably attached to natural causes. i was at this time a child of six years of age. the impressions that were then made upon me, can never be effaced. i was ill qualified to judge respecting what was then passing; but as i advanced in age, and became more fully acquainted with these facts, they oftener became the subject of my thoughts. their resemblance to recent events revived them with new force in my memory, and made me more anxious to explain them. was this the penalty of disobedience? this the stroke of a vindictive and invisible hand? is it a fresh proof that the divine ruler interferes in human affairs, meditates an end, selects, and commissions his agents, and enforces, by unequivocal sanctions, submission to his will? or, was it merely the irregular expansion of the fluid that imparts warmth to our heart and our blood, caused by the fatigue of the preceding day, or flowing, by established laws, from the condition of his thoughts? [*] * a case, in its symptoms exactly parallel to this, is published in one of the journals of florence. see, likewise, similar cases reported by messrs. merille and muraire, in the "journal de medicine," for february and may, . the researches of maffei and fontana have thrown some light upon this subject. chapter iii the shock which this disastrous occurrence occasioned to my mother, was the foundation of a disease which carried her, in a few months, to the grave. my brother and myself were children at this time, and were now reduced to the condition of orphans. the property which our parents left was by no means inconsiderable. it was entrusted to faithful hands, till we should arrive at a suitable age. meanwhile, our education was assigned to a maiden aunt who resided in the city, and whose tenderness made us in a short time cease to regret that we had lost a mother. the years that succeeded were tranquil and happy. our lives were molested by few of those cares that are incident to childhood. by accident more than design, the indulgence and yielding temper of our aunt was mingled with resolution and stedfastness. she seldom deviated into either extreme of rigour or lenity. our social pleasures were subject to no unreasonable restraints. we were instructed in most branches of useful knowledge, and were saved from the corruption and tyranny of colleges and boarding-schools. our companions were chiefly selected from the children of our neighbours. between one of these and my brother, there quickly grew the most affectionate intimacy. her name was catharine pleyel. she was rich, beautiful, and contrived to blend the most bewitching softness with the most exuberant vivacity. the tie by which my brother and she were united, seemed to add force to the love which i bore her, and which was amply returned. between her and myself there was every circumstance tending to produce and foster friendship. our sex and age were the same. we lived within sight of each other's abode. our tempers were remarkably congenial, and the superintendants of our education not only prescribed to us the same pursuits, but allowed us to cultivate them together. every day added strength to the triple bonds that united us. we gradually withdrew ourselves from the society of others, and found every moment irksome that was not devoted to each other. my brother's advance in age made no change in our situation. it was determined that his profession should be agriculture. his fortune exempted him from the necessity of personal labour. the task to be performed by him was nothing more than superintendance. the skill that was demanded by this was merely theoretical, and was furnished by casual inspection, or by closet study. the attention that was paid to this subject did not seclude him for any long time from us, on whom time had no other effect than to augment our impatience in the absence of each other and of him. our tasks, our walks, our music, were seldom performed but in each other's company. it was easy to see that catharine and my brother were born for each other. the passion which they mutually entertained quickly broke those bounds which extreme youth had set to it; confessions were made or extorted, and their union was postponed only till my brother had passed his minority. the previous lapse of two years was constantly and usefully employed. o my brother! but the task i have set myself let me perform with steadiness. the felicity of that period was marred by no gloomy anticipations. the future, like the present, was serene. time was supposed to have only new delights in store. i mean not to dwell on previous incidents longer than is necessary to illustrate or explain the great events that have since happened. the nuptial day at length arrived. my brother took possession of the house in which he was born, and here the long protracted marriage was solemnized. my father's property was equally divided between us. a neat dwelling, situated on the bank of the river, three quarters of a mile from my brother's, was now occupied by me. these domains were called, from the name of the first possessor, mettingen. i can scarcely account for my refusing to take up my abode with him, unless it were from a disposition to be an economist of pleasure. self-denial, seasonably exercised, is one means of enhancing our gratifications. i was, beside, desirous of administering a fund, and regulating an household, of my own. the short distance allowed us to exchange visits as often as we pleased. the walk from one mansion to the other was no undelightful prelude to our interviews. i was sometimes their visitant, and they, as frequently, were my guests. our education had been modelled by no religious standard. we were left to the guidance of our own understanding, and the casual impressions which society might make upon us. my friend's temper, as well as my own, exempted us from much anxiety on this account. it must not be supposed that we were without religion, but with us it was the product of lively feelings, excited by reflection on our own happiness, and by the grandeur of external nature. we sought not a basis for our faith, in the weighing of proofs, and the dissection of creeds. our devotion was a mixed and casual sentiment, seldom verbally expressed, or solicitously sought, or carefully retained. in the midst of present enjoyment, no thought was bestowed on the future. as a consolation in calamity religion is dear. but calamity was yet at a distance, and its only tendency was to heighten enjoyments which needed not this addition to satisfy every craving. my brother's situation was somewhat different. his deportment was grave, considerate, and thoughtful. i will not say whether he was indebted to sublimer views for this disposition. human life, in his opinion, was made up of changeable elements, and the principles of duty were not easily unfolded. the future, either as anterior, or subsequent to death, was a scene that required some preparation and provision to be made for it. these positions we could not deny, but what distinguished him was a propensity to ruminate on these truths. the images that visited us were blithsome and gay, but those with which he was most familiar were of an opposite hue. they did not generate affliction and fear, but they diffused over his behaviour a certain air of forethought and sobriety. the principal effect of this temper was visible in his features and tones. these, in general, bespoke a sort of thrilling melancholy. i scarcely ever knew him to laugh. he never accompanied the lawless mirth of his companions with more than a smile, but his conduct was the same as ours. he partook of our occupations and amusements with a zeal not less than ours, but of a different kind. the diversity in our temper was never the parent of discord, and was scarcely a topic of regret. the scene was variegated, but not tarnished or disordered by it. it hindered the element in which we moved from stagnating. some agitation and concussion is requisite to the due exercise of human understanding. in his studies, he pursued an austerer and more arduous path. he was much conversant with the history of religious opinions, and took pains to ascertain their validity. he deemed it indispensable to examine the ground of his belief, to settle the relation between motives and actions, the criterion of merit, and the kinds and properties of evidence. there was an obvious resemblance between him and my father, in their conceptions of the importance of certain topics, and in the light in which the vicissitudes of human life were accustomed to be viewed. their characters were similar, but the mind of the son was enriched by science, and embellished with literature. the temple was no longer assigned to its ancient use. from an italian adventurer, who erroneously imagined that he could find employment for his skill, and sale for his sculptures in america, my brother had purchased a bust of cicero. he professed to have copied this piece from an antique dug up with his own hands in the environs of modena. of the truth of his assertions we were not qualified to judge; but the marble was pure and polished, and we were contented to admire the performance, without waiting for the sanction of connoisseurs. we hired the same artist to hew a suitable pedestal from a neighbouring quarry. this was placed in the temple, and the bust rested upon it. opposite to this was a harpsichord, sheltered by a temporary roof from the weather. this was the place of resort in the evenings of summer. here we sung, and talked, and read, and occasionally banqueted. every joyous and tender scene most dear to my memory, is connected with this edifice. here the performances of our musical and poetical ancestor were rehearsed. here my brother's children received the rudiments of their education; here a thousand conversations, pregnant with delight and improvement, took place; and here the social affections were accustomed to expand, and the tear of delicious sympathy to be shed. my brother was an indefatigable student. the authors whom he read were numerous, but the chief object of his veneration was cicero. he was never tired of conning and rehearsing his productions. to understand them was not sufficient. he was anxious to discover the gestures and cadences with which they ought to be delivered. he was very scrupulous in selecting a true scheme of pronunciation for the latin tongue, and in adapting it to the words of his darling writer. his favorite occupation consisted in embellishing his rhetoric with all the proprieties of gesticulation and utterance. not contented with this, he was diligent in settling and restoring the purity of the text. for this end, he collected all the editions and commentaries that could be procured, and employed months of severe study in exploring and comparing them. he never betrayed more satisfaction than when he made a discovery of this kind. it was not till the addition of henry pleyel, my friend's only brother, to our society, that his passion for roman eloquence was countenanced and fostered by a sympathy of tastes. this young man had been some years in europe. we had separated at a very early age, and he was now returned to spend the remainder of his days among us. our circle was greatly enlivened by the accession of a new member. his conversation abounded with novelty. his gaiety was almost boisterous, but was capable of yielding to a grave deportment when the occasion required it. his discernment was acute, but he was prone to view every object merely as supplying materials for mirth. his conceptions were ardent but ludicrous, and his memory, aided, as he honestly acknowledged, by his invention, was an inexhaustible fund of entertainment. his residence was at the same distance below the city as ours was above, but there seldom passed a day without our being favoured with a visit. my brother and he were endowed with the same attachment to the latin writers; and pleyel was not behind his friend in his knowledge of the history and metaphysics of religion. their creeds, however, were in many respects opposite. where one discovered only confirmations of his faith, the other could find nothing but reasons for doubt. moral necessity, and calvinistic inspiration, were the props on which my brother thought proper to repose. pleyel was the champion of intellectual liberty, and rejected all guidance but that of his reason. their discussions were frequent, but, being managed with candour as well as with skill, they were always listened to by us with avidity and benefit. pleyel, like his new friends, was fond of music and poetry. henceforth our concerts consisted of two violins, an harpsichord, and three voices. we were frequently reminded how much happiness depends upon society. this new friend, though, before his arrival, we were sensible of no vacuity, could not now be spared. his departure would occasion a void which nothing could fill, and which would produce insupportable regret. even my brother, though his opinions were hourly assailed, and even the divinity of cicero contested, was captivated with his friend, and laid aside some part of his ancient gravity at pleyel's approach. chapter iv six years of uninterrupted happiness had rolled away, since my brother's marriage. the sound of war had been heard, but it was at such a distance as to enhance our enjoyment by affording objects of comparison. the indians were repulsed on the one side, and canada was conquered on the other. revolutions and battles, however calamitous to those who occupied the scene, contributed in some sort to our happiness, by agitating our minds with curiosity, and furnishing causes of patriotic exultation. four children, three of whom were of an age to compensate, by their personal and mental progress, the cares of which they had been, at a more helpless age, the objects, exercised my brother's tenderness. the fourth was a charming babe that promised to display the image of her mother, and enjoyed perfect health. to these were added a sweet girl fourteen years old, who was loved by all of us, with an affection more than parental. her mother's story was a mournful one. she had come hither from england when this child was an infant, alone, without friends, and without money. she appeared to have embarked in a hasty and clandestine manner. she passed three years of solitude and anguish under my aunt's protection, and died a martyr to woe; the source of which she could, by no importunities, be prevailed upon to unfold. her education and manners bespoke her to be of no mean birth. her last moments were rendered serene, by the assurances she received from my aunt, that her daughter should experience the same protection that had been extended to herself. on my brother's marriage, it was agreed that she should make a part of his family. i cannot do justice to the attractions of this girl. perhaps the tenderness she excited might partly originate in her personal resemblance to her mother, whose character and misfortunes were still fresh in our remembrance. she was habitually pensive, and this circumstance tended to remind the spectator of her friendless condition; and yet that epithet was surely misapplied in this case. this being was cherished by those with whom she now resided, with unspeakable fondness. every exertion was made to enlarge and improve her mind. her safety was the object of a solicitude that almost exceeded the bounds of discretion. our affection indeed could scarcely transcend her merits. she never met my eye, or occurred to my reflections, without exciting a kind of enthusiasm. her softness, her intelligence, her equanimity, never shall i see surpassed. i have often shed tears of pleasure at her approach, and pressed her to my bosom in an agony of fondness. while every day was adding to the charms of her person, and the stores of her mind, there occurred an event which threatened to deprive us of her. an officer of some rank, who had been disabled by a wound at quebec, had employed himself, since the ratification of peace, in travelling through the colonies. he remained a considerable period at philadelphia, but was at last preparing for his departure. no one had been more frequently honoured with his visits than mrs. baynton, a worthy lady with whom our family were intimate. he went to her house with a view to perform a farewell visit, and was on the point of taking his leave, when i and my young friend entered the apartment. it is impossible to describe the emotions of the stranger, when he fixed his eyes upon my companion. he was motionless with surprise. he was unable to conceal his feelings, but sat silently gazing at the spectacle before him. at length he turned to mrs. baynton, and more by his looks and gestures than by words, besought her for an explanation of the scene. he seized the hand of the girl, who, in her turn, was surprised by his behaviour, and drawing her forward, said in an eager and faultering tone, who is she? whence does she come? what is her name? the answers that were given only increased the confusion of his thoughts. he was successively told, that she was the daughter of one whose name was louisa conway, who arrived among us at such a time, who sedulously concealed her parentage, and the motives of her flight, whose incurable griefs had finally destroyed her, and who had left this child under the protection of her friends. having heard the tale, he melted into tears, eagerly clasped the young lady in his arms, and called himself her father. when the tumults excited in his breast by this unlooked-for meeting were somewhat subsided, he gratified our curiosity by relating the following incidents. "miss conway was the only daughter of a banker in london, who discharged towards her every duty of an affectionate father. he had chanced to fall into her company, had been subdued by her attractions, had tendered her his hand, and been joyfully accepted both by parent and child. his wife had given him every proof of the fondest attachment. her father, who possessed immense wealth, treated him with distinguished respect, liberally supplied his wants, and had made one condition of his consent to their union, a resolution to take up their abode with him. "they had passed three years of conjugal felicity, which had been augmented by the birth of this child; when his professional duty called him into germany. it was not without an arduous struggle, that she was persuaded to relinquish the design of accompanying him through all the toils and perils of war. no parting was ever more distressful. they strove to alleviate, by frequent letters, the evils of their lot. those of his wife, breathed nothing but anxiety for his safety, and impatience of his absence. at length, a new arrangement was made, and he was obliged to repair from westphalia to canada. one advantage attended this change. it afforded him an opportunity of meeting his family. his wife anticipated this interview, with no less rapture than himself. he hurried to london, and the moment he alighted from the stage-coach, ran with all speed to mr. conway's house. "it was an house of mourning. his father was overwhelmed with grief, and incapable of answering his inquiries. the servants, sorrowful and mute, were equally refractory. he explored the house, and called on the names of his wife and daughter, but his summons was fruitless. at length, this new disaster was explained. two days before his arrival, his wife's chamber was found empty. no search, however diligent and anxious, could trace her steps. no cause could be assigned for her disappearance. the mother and child had fled away together. "new exertions were made, her chamber and cabinets were ransacked, but no vestige was found serving to inform them as to the motives of her flight, whether it had been voluntary or otherwise, and in what corner of the kingdom or of the world she was concealed. who shall describe the sorrow and amazement of the husband? his restlessness, his vicissitudes of hope and fear, and his ultimate despair? his duty called him to america. he had been in this city, and had frequently passed the door of the house in which his wife, at that moment, resided. her father had not remitted his exertions to elucidate this painful mystery, but they had failed. this disappointment hastened his death; in consequence of which, louisa's father became possessor of his immense property." this tale was a copious theme of speculation. a thousand questions were started and discussed in our domestic circle, respecting the motives that influenced mrs. stuart to abandon her country. it did not appear that her proceeding was involuntary. we recalled and reviewed every particular that had fallen under our own observation. by none of these were we furnished with a clue. her conduct, after the most rigorous scrutiny, still remained an impenetrable secret. on a nearer view, major stuart proved himself a man of most amiable character. his attachment to louisa appeared hourly to increase. she was no stranger to the sentiments suitable to her new character. she could not but readily embrace the scheme which was proposed to her, to return with her father to england. this scheme his regard for her induced him, however, to postpone. some time was necessary to prepare her for so great a change and enable her to think without agony of her separation from us. i was not without hopes of prevailing on her father entirely to relinquish this unwelcome design. meanwhile, he pursued his travels through the southern colonies, and his daughter continued with us. louisa and my brother frequently received letters from him, which indicated a mind of no common order. they were filled with amusing details, and profound reflections. while here, he often partook of our evening conversations at the temple; and since his departure, his correspondence had frequently supplied us with topics of discourse. one afternoon in may, the blandness of the air, and brightness of the verdure, induced us to assemble, earlier than usual, in the temple. we females were busy at the needle, while my brother and pleyel were bandying quotations and syllogisms. the point discussed was the merit of the oration for cluentius, as descriptive, first, of the genius of the speaker; and, secondly, of the manners of the times. pleyel laboured to extenuate both these species of merit, and tasked his ingenuity, to shew that the orator had embraced a bad cause; or, at least, a doubtful one. he urged, that to rely on the exaggerations of an advocate, or to make the picture of a single family a model from which to sketch the condition of a nation, was absurd. the controversy was suddenly diverted into a new channel, by a misquotation. pleyel accused his companion of saying "polliciatur" when he should have said "polliceretur." nothing would decide the contest, but an appeal to the volume. my brother was returning to the house for this purpose, when a servant met him with a letter from major stuart. he immediately returned to read it in our company. besides affectionate compliments to us, and paternal benedictions on louisa, his letter contained a description of a waterfall on the monongahela. a sudden gust of rain falling, we were compelled to remove to the house. the storm passed away, and a radiant moon-light succeeded. there was no motion to resume our seats in the temple. we therefore remained where we were, and engaged in sprightly conversation. the letter lately received naturally suggested the topic. a parallel was drawn between the cataract there described, and one which pleyel had discovered among the alps of glarus. in the state of the former, some particular was mentioned, the truth of which was questionable. to settle the dispute which thence arose, it was proposed to have recourse to the letter. my brother searched for it in his pocket. it was no where to be found. at length, he remembered to have left it in the temple, and he determined to go in search of it. his wife, pleyel, louisa, and myself, remained where we were. in a few minutes he returned. i was somewhat interested in the dispute, and was therefore impatient for his return; yet, as i heard him ascending the stairs, i could not but remark, that he had executed his intention with remarkable dispatch. my eyes were fixed upon him on his entrance. methought he brought with him looks considerably different from those with which he departed. wonder, and a slight portion of anxiety were mingled in them. his eyes seemed to be in search of some object. they passed quickly from one person to another, till they rested on his wife. she was seated in a careless attitude on the sofa, in the same spot as before. she had the same muslin in her hand, by which her attention was chiefly engrossed. the moment he saw her, his perplexity visibly increased. he quietly seated himself, and fixing his eyes on the floor, appeared to be absorbed in meditation. these singularities suspended the inquiry which i was preparing to make respecting the letter. in a short time, the company relinquished the subject which engaged them, and directed their attention to wieland. they thought that he only waited for a pause in the discourse, to produce the letter. the pause was uninterrupted by him. at length pleyel said, "well, i suppose you have found the letter." "no," said he, without any abatement of his gravity, and looking stedfastly at his wife, "i did not mount the hill."--"why not?"--"catharine, have you not moved from that spot since i left the room?"--she was affected with the solemnity of his manner, and laying down her work, answered in a tone of surprise, "no; why do you ask that question?"--his eyes were again fixed upon the floor, and he did not immediately answer. at length, he said, looking round upon us, "is it true that catharine did not follow me to the hill? that she did not just now enter the room?"--we assured him, with one voice, that she had not been absent for a moment, and inquired into the motive of his questions. "your assurances," said he, "are solemn and unanimous; and yet i must deny credit to your assertions, or disbelieve the testimony of my senses, which informed me, when i was half way up the hill, that catharine was at the bottom." we were confounded at this declaration. pleyel rallied him with great levity on his behaviour. he listened to his friend with calmness, but without any relaxation of features. "one thing," said he with emphasis, "is true; either i heard my wife's voice at the bottom of the hill, or i do not hear your voice at present." "truly," returned pleyel, "it is a sad dilemma to which you have reduced yourself. certain it is, if our eyes can give us certainty that your wife has been sitting in that spot during every moment of your absence. you have heard her voice, you say, upon the hill. in general, her voice, like her temper, is all softness. to be heard across the room, she is obliged to exert herself. while you were gone, if i mistake not, she did not utter a word. clara and i had all the talk to ourselves. still it may be that she held a whispering conference with you on the hill; but tell us the particulars." "the conference," said he, "was short; and far from being carried on in a whisper. you know with what intention i left the house. half way to the rock, the moon was for a moment hidden from us by a cloud. i never knew the air to be more bland and more calm. in this interval i glanced at the temple, and thought i saw a glimmering between the columns. it was so faint, that it would not perhaps have been visible, if the moon had not been shrowded. i looked again, but saw nothing. i never visit this building alone, or at night, without being reminded of the fate of my father. there was nothing wonderful in this appearance; yet it suggested something more than mere solitude and darkness in the same place would have done. "i kept on my way. the images that haunted me were solemn; and i entertained an imperfect curiosity, but no fear, as to the nature of this object. i had ascended the hill little more than half way, when a voice called me from behind. the accents were clear, distinct, powerful, and were uttered, as i fully believed, by my wife. her voice is not commonly so loud. she has seldom occasion to exert it, but, nevertheless, i have sometimes heard her call with force and eagerness. if my ear was not deceived, it was her voice which i heard. "stop, go no further. there is danger in your path." the suddenness and unexpectedness of this warning, the tone of alarm with which it was given, and, above all, the persuasion that it was my wife who spoke, were enough to disconcert and make me pause. i turned and listened to assure myself that i was not mistaken. the deepest silence succeeded. at length, i spoke in my turn. who calls? is it you, catharine? i stopped and presently received an answer. "yes, it is i; go not up; return instantly; you are wanted at the house." still the voice was catharine's, and still it proceeded from the foot of the stairs. "what could i do? the warning was mysterious. to be uttered by catharine at a place, and on an occasion like these, enhanced the mystery. i could do nothing but obey. accordingly, i trod back my steps, expecting that she waited for me at the bottom of the hill. when i reached the bottom, no one was visible. the moon-light was once more universal and brilliant, and yet, as far as i could see no human or moving figure was discernible. if she had returned to the house, she must have used wondrous expedition to have passed already beyond the reach of my eye. i exerted my voice, but in vain. to my repeated exclamations, no answer was returned. "ruminating on these incidents, i returned hither. there was no room to doubt that i had heard my wife's voice; attending incidents were not easily explained; but you now assure me that nothing extraordinary has happened to urge my return, and that my wife has not moved from her seat." such was my brother's narrative. it was heard by us with different emotions. pleyel did not scruple to regard the whole as a deception of the senses. perhaps a voice had been heard; but wieland's imagination had misled him in supposing a resemblance to that of his wife, and giving such a signification to the sounds. according to his custom he spoke what he thought. sometimes, he made it the theme of grave discussion, but more frequently treated it with ridicule. he did not believe that sober reasoning would convince his friend, and gaiety, he thought, was useful to take away the solemnities which, in a mind like wieland's, an accident of this kind was calculated to produce. pleyel proposed to go in search of the letter. he went and speedily returned, bearing it in his hand. he had found it open on the pedestal; and neither voice nor visage had risen to impede his design. catharine was endowed with an uncommon portion of good sense; but her mind was accessible, on this quarter, to wonder and panic. that her voice should be thus inexplicably and unwarrantably assumed, was a source of no small disquietude. she admitted the plausibility of the arguments by which pleyel endeavoured to prove, that this was no more than an auricular deception; but this conviction was sure to be shaken, when she turned her eyes upon her husband, and perceived that pleyel's logic was far from having produced the same effect upon him. as to myself, my attention was engaged by this occurrence. i could not fail to perceive a shadowy resemblance between it and my father's death. on the latter event, i had frequently reflected; my reflections never conducted me to certainty, but the doubts that existed were not of a tormenting kind. i could not deny that the event was miraculous, and yet i was invincibly averse to that method of solution. my wonder was excited by the inscrutableness of the cause, but my wonder was unmixed with sorrow or fear. it begat in me a thrilling, and not unpleasing solemnity. similar to these were the sensations produced by the recent adventure. but its effect upon my brother's imagination was of chief moment. all that was desirable was, that it should be regarded by him with indifference. the worst effect that could flow, was not indeed very formidable. yet i could not bear to think that his senses should be the victims of such delusion. it argued a diseased condition of his frame, which might show itself hereafter in more dangerous symptoms. the will is the tool of the understanding, which must fashion its conclusions on the notices of sense. if the senses be depraved, it is impossible to calculate the evils that may flow from the consequent deductions of the understanding. i said, this man is of an ardent and melancholy character. those ideas which, in others, are casual or obscure, which are entertained in moments of abstraction and solitude, and easily escape when the scene is changed, have obtained an immoveable hold upon his mind. the conclusions which long habit has rendered familiar, and, in some sort, palpable to his intellect, are drawn from the deepest sources. all his actions and practical sentiments are linked with long and abstruse deductions from the system of divine government and the laws of our intellectual constitution. he is, in some respects, an enthusiast, but is fortified in his belief by innumerable arguments and subtilties. his father's death was always regarded by him as flowing from a direct and supernatural decree. it visited his meditations oftener than it did mine. the traces which it left were more gloomy and permanent. this new incident had a visible effect in augmenting his gravity. he was less disposed than formerly to converse and reading. when we sifted his thoughts, they were generally found to have a relation, more or less direct, with this incident. it was difficult to ascertain the exact species of impression which it made upon him. he never introduced the subject into conversation, and listened with a silent and half-serious smile to the satirical effusions of pleyel. one evening we chanced to be alone together in the temple. i seized that opportunity of investigating the state of his thoughts. after a pause, which he seemed in no wise inclined to interrupt, i spoke to him--"how almost palpable is this dark; yet a ray from above would dispel it." "ay," said wieland, with fervor, "not only the physical, but moral night would be dispelled." "but why," said i, "must the divine will address its precepts to the eye?" he smiled significantly. "true," said he, "the understanding has other avenues." "you have never," said i, approaching nearer to the point--"you have never told me in what way you considered the late extraordinary incident." "there is no determinate way in which the subject can be viewed. here is an effect, but the cause is utterly inscrutable. to suppose a deception will not do. such is possible, but there are twenty other suppositions more probable. they must all be set aside before we reach that point." "what are these twenty suppositions?" "it is needless to mention them. they are only less improbable than pleyel's. time may convert one of them into certainty. till then it is useless to expatiate on them." chapter v some time had elapsed when there happened another occurrence, still more remarkable. pleyel, on his return from europe, brought information of considerable importance to my brother. my ancestors were noble saxons, and possessed large domains in lusatia. the prussian wars had destroyed those persons whose right to these estates precluded my brother's. pleyel had been exact in his inquiries, and had discovered that, by the law of male-primogeniture, my brother's claims were superior to those of any other person now living. nothing was wanting but his presence in that country, and a legal application to establish this claim. pleyel strenuously recommended this measure. the advantages he thought attending it were numerous, and it would argue the utmost folly to neglect them. contrary to his expectation he found my brother averse to the scheme. slight efforts, he, at first, thought would subdue his reluctance; but he found this aversion by no means slight. the interest that he took in the happiness of his friend and his sister, and his own partiality to the saxon soil, from which he had likewise sprung, and where he had spent several years of his youth, made him redouble his exertions to win wieland's consent. for this end he employed every argument that his invention could suggest. he painted, in attractive colours, the state of manners and government in that country, the security of civil rights, and the freedom of religious sentiments. he dwelt on the privileges of wealth and rank, and drew from the servile condition of one class, an argument in favor of his scheme, since the revenue and power annexed to a german principality afford so large a field for benevolence. the evil flowing from this power, in malignant hands, was proportioned to the good that would arise from the virtuous use of it. hence, wieland, in forbearing to claim his own, withheld all the positive felicity that would accrue to his vassals from his success, and hazarded all the misery that would redound from a less enlightened proprietor. it was easy for my brother to repel these arguments, and to shew that no spot on the globe enjoyed equal security and liberty to that which he at present inhabited. that if the saxons had nothing to fear from mis-government, the external causes of havoc and alarm were numerous and manifest. the recent devastations committed by the prussians furnished a specimen of these. the horrors of war would always impend over them, till germany were seized and divided by austrian and prussian tyrants; an event which he strongly suspected was at no great distance. but setting these considerations aside, was it laudable to grasp at wealth and power even when they were within our reach? were not these the two great sources of depravity? what security had he, that in this change of place and condition, he should not degenerate into a tyrant and voluptuary? power and riches were chiefly to be dreaded on account of their tendency to deprave the possessor. he held them in abhorrence, not only as instruments of misery to others, but to him on whom they were conferred. besides, riches were comparative, and was he not rich already? he lived at present in the bosom of security and luxury. all the instruments of pleasure, on which his reason or imagination set any value, were within his reach. but these he must forego, for the sake of advantages which, whatever were their value, were as yet uncertain. in pursuit of an imaginary addition to his wealth, he must reduce himself to poverty, he must exchange present certainties for what was distant and contingent; for who knows not that the law is a system of expence, delay and uncertainty? if he should embrace this scheme, it would lay him under the necessity of making a voyage to europe, and remaining for a certain period, separate from his family. he must undergo the perils and discomforts of the ocean; he must divest himself of all domestic pleasures; he must deprive his wife of her companion, and his children of a father and instructor, and all for what? for the ambiguous advantages which overgrown wealth and flagitious tyranny have to bestow? for a precarious possession in a land of turbulence and war? advantages, which will not certainly be gained, and of which the acquisition, if it were sure, is necessarily distant. pleyel was enamoured of his scheme on account of its intrinsic benefits, but, likewise, for other reasons. his abode at leipsig made that country appear to him like home. he was connected with this place by many social ties. while there he had not escaped the amorous contagion. but the lady, though her heart was impressed in his favor, was compelled to bestow her hand upon another. death had removed this impediment, and he was now invited by the lady herself to return. this he was of course determined to do, but was anxious to obtain the company of wieland; he could not bear to think of an eternal separation from his present associates. their interest, he thought, would be no less promoted by the change than his own. hence he was importunate and indefatigable in his arguments and solicitations. he knew that he could not hope for mine or his sister's ready concurrence in this scheme. should the subject be mentioned to us, we should league our efforts against him, and strengthen that reluctance in wieland which already was sufficiently difficult to conquer. he, therefore, anxiously concealed from us his purpose. if wieland were previously enlisted in his cause, he would find it a less difficult task to overcome our aversion. my brother was silent on this subject, because he believed himself in no danger of changing his opinion, and he was willing to save us from any uneasiness. the mere mention of such a scheme, and the possibility of his embracing it, he knew, would considerably impair our tranquillity. one day, about three weeks subsequent to the mysterious call, it was agreed that the family should be my guests. seldom had a day been passed by us, of more serene enjoyment. pleyel had promised us his company, but we did not see him till the sun had nearly declined. he brought with him a countenance that betokened disappointment and vexation. he did not wait for our inquiries, but immediately explained the cause. two days before a packet had arrived from hamburgh, by which he had flattered himself with the expectation of receiving letters, but no letters had arrived. i never saw him so much subdued by an untoward event. his thoughts were employed in accounting for the silence of his friends. he was seized with the torments of jealousy, and suspected nothing less than the infidelity of her to whom he had devoted his heart. the silence must have been concerted. her sickness, or absence, or death, would have increased the certainty of some one's having written. no supposition could be formed but that his mistress had grown indifferent, or that she had transferred her affections to another. the miscarriage of a letter was hardly within the reach of possibility. from leipsig to hamburgh, and from hamburgh hither, the conveyance was exposed to no hazard. he had been so long detained in america chiefly in consequence of wieland's aversion to the scheme which he proposed. he now became more impatient than ever to return to europe. when he reflected that, by his delays, he had probably forfeited the affections of his mistress, his sensations amounted to agony. it only remained, by his speedy departure, to repair, if possible, or prevent so intolerable an evil. already he had half resolved to embark in this very ship which, he was informed, would set out in a few weeks on her return. meanwhile he determined to make a new attempt to shake the resolution of wieland. the evening was somewhat advanced when he invited the latter to walk abroad with him. the invitation was accepted, and they left catharine, louisa and me, to amuse ourselves by the best means in our power. during this walk, pleyel renewed the subject that was nearest his heart. he re-urged all his former arguments, and placed them in more forcible lights. they promised to return shortly; but hour after hour passed, and they made not their appearance. engaged in sprightly conversation, it was not till the clock struck twelve that we were reminded of the lapse of time. the absence of our friends excited some uneasy apprehensions. we were expressing our fears, and comparing our conjectures as to what might be the cause, when they entered together. there were indications in their countenances that struck me mute. these were unnoticed by catharine, who was eager to express her surprize and curiosity at the length of their walk. as they listened to her, i remarked that their surprize was not less than ours. they gazed in silence on each other, and on her. i watched their looks, but could not understand the emotions that were written in them. these appearances diverted catharine's inquiries into a new channel. what did they mean, she asked, by their silence, and by their thus gazing wildly at each other, and at her? pleyel profited by this hint, and assuming an air of indifference, framed some trifling excuse, at the same time darting significant glances at wieland, as if to caution him against disclosing the truth. my brother said nothing, but delivered himself up to meditation. i likewise was silent, but burned with impatience to fathom this mystery. presently my brother and his wife, and louisa, returned home. pleyel proposed, of his own accord, to be my guest for the night. this circumstance, in addition to those which preceded, gave new edge to my wonder. as soon as we were left alone, pleyel's countenance assumed an air of seriousness, and even consternation, which i had never before beheld in him. the steps with which he measured the floor betokened the trouble of his thoughts. my inquiries were suspended by the hope that he would give me the information that i wanted without the importunity of questions. i waited some time, but the confusion of his thoughts appeared in no degree to abate. at length i mentioned the apprehensions which their unusual absence had occasioned, and which were increased by their behaviour since their return, and solicited an explanation. he stopped when i began to speak, and looked stedfastly at me. when i had done, he said, to me, in a tone which faultered through the vehemence of his emotions, "how were you employed during our absence?" "in turning over the della crusca dictionary, and talking on different subjects; but just before your entrance, we were tormenting ourselves with omens and prognosticks relative to your absence." "catherine was with you the whole time?" "yes." "but are you sure?" "most sure. she was not absent a moment." he stood, for a time, as if to assure himself of my sincerity. then, clinching his hands, and wildly lifting them above his head, "lo," cried he, "i have news to tell you. the baroness de stolberg is dead?" this was her whom he loved. i was not surprised at the agitations which he betrayed. "but how was the information procured? how was the truth of this news connected with the circumstance of catharine's remaining in our company?" he was for some time inattentive to my questions. when he spoke, it seemed merely a continuation of the reverie into which he had been plunged. "and yet it might be a mere deception. but could both of us in that case have been deceived? a rare and prodigious coincidence! barely not impossible. and yet, if the accent be oracular--theresa is dead. no, no," continued he, covering his face with his hands, and in a tone half broken into sobs, "i cannot believe it. she has not written, but if she were dead, the faithful bertrand would have given me the earliest information. and yet if he knew his master, he must have easily guessed at the effect of such tidings. in pity to me he was silent." "clara, forgive me; to you, this behaviour is mysterious. i will explain as well as i am able. but say not a word to catharine. her strength of mind is inferior to your's. she will, besides, have more reason to be startled. she is wieland's angel." pleyel proceeded to inform me, for the first time, of the scheme which he had pressed, with so much earnestness, on my brother. he enumerated the objections which had been made, and the industry with which he had endeavoured to confute them. he mentioned the effect upon his resolutions produced by the failure of a letter. "during our late walk," continued he, "i introduced the subject that was nearest my heart. i re-urged all my former arguments, and placed them in more forcible lights. wieland was still refractory. he expatiated on the perils of wealth and power, on the sacredness of conjugal and parental duties, and the happiness of mediocrity. "no wonder that the time passed, unperceived, away. our whole souls were engaged in this cause. several times we came to the foot of the rock; as soon as we perceived it, we changed our course, but never failed to terminate our circuitous and devious ramble at this spot. at length your brother observed, 'we seem to be led hither by a kind of fatality. since we are so near, let us ascend and rest ourselves a while. if you are not weary of this argument we will resume it there.' "i tacitly consented. we mounted the stairs, and drawing the sofa in front of the river, we seated ourselves upon it. i took up the thread of our discourse where we had dropped it. i ridiculed his dread of the sea, and his attachment to home. i kept on in this strain, so congenial with my disposition, for some time, uninterrupted by him. at length, he said to me, "suppose now that i, whom argument has not convinced, should yield to ridicule, and should agree that your scheme is eligible; what will you have gained? nothing. you have other enemies beside myself to encounter. when you have vanquished me, your toil has scarcely begun. there are my sister and wife, with whom it will remain for you to maintain the contest. and trust me, they are adversaries whom all your force and stratagem will never subdue." i insinuated that they would model themselves by his will: that catharine would think obedience her duty. he answered, with some quickness, "you mistake. their concurrence is indispensable. it is not my custom to exact sacrifices of this kind. i live to be their protector and friend, and not their tyrant and foe. if my wife shall deem her happiness, and that of her children, most consulted by remaining where she is, here she shall remain." "but," said i, "when she knows your pleasure, will she not conform to it?" before my friend had time to answer this question, a negative was clearly and distinctly uttered from another quarter. it did not come from one side or the other, from before us or behind. whence then did it come? by whose organs was it fashioned? "if any uncertainty had existed with regard to these particulars, it would have been removed by a deliberate and equally distinct repetition of the same monosyllable, "no." the voice was my sister's. it appeared to come from the roof. i started from my seat. catharine, exclaimed i, where are you? no answer was returned. i searched the room, and the area before it, but in vain. your brother was motionless in his seat. i returned to him, and placed myself again by his side. my astonishment was not less than his." "well," said he, at length, "what think you of this? this is the self-same voice which i formerly heard; you are now convinced that my ears were well informed." "yes," said i, "this, it is plain, is no fiction of the fancy." we again sunk into mutual and thoughtful silence. a recollection of the hour, and of the length of our absence, made me at last propose to return. we rose up for this purpose. in doing this, my mind reverted to the contemplation of my own condition. "yes," said i aloud, but without particularly addressing myself to wieland, "my resolution is taken. i cannot hope to prevail with my friends to accompany me. they may doze away their days on the banks of schuylkill, but as to me, i go in the next vessel; i will fly to her presence, and demand the reason of this extraordinary silence." "i had scarcely finished the sentence, when the same mysterious voice exclaimed, "you shall not go. the seal of death is on her lips. her silence is the silence of the tomb." think of the effects which accents like these must have had upon me. i shuddered as i listened. as soon as i recovered from my first amazement, "who is it that speaks?" said i, "whence did you procure these dismal tidings?" i did not wait long for an answer. "from a source that cannot fail. be satisfied. she is dead." you may justly be surprised, that, in the circumstances in which i heard the tidings, and notwithstanding the mystery which environed him by whom they were imparted, i could give an undivided attention to the facts, which were the subject of our dialogue. i eagerly inquired, when and where did she die? what was the cause of her death? was her death absolutely certain? an answer was returned only to the last of these questions. "yes," was pronounced by the same voice; but it now sounded from a greater distance, and the deepest silence was all the return made to my subsequent interrogatories. "it was my sister's voice; but it could not be uttered by her; and yet, if not by her, by whom was it uttered? when we returned hither, and discovered you together, the doubt that had previously existed was removed. it was manifest that the intimation came not from her. yet if not from her, from whom could it come? are the circumstances attending the imparting of this news proof that the tidings are true? god forbid that they should be true." here pleyel sunk into anxious silence, and gave me leisure to ruminate on this inexplicable event. i am at a loss to describe the sensations that affected me. i am not fearful of shadows. the tales of apparitions and enchantments did not possess that power over my belief which could even render them interesting. i saw nothing in them but ignorance and folly, and was a stranger even to that terror which is pleasing. but this incident was different from any that i had ever before known. here were proofs of a sensible and intelligent existence, which could not be denied. here was information obtained and imparted by means unquestionably super-human. that there are conscious beings, beside ourselves, in existence, whose modes of activity and information surpass our own, can scarcely be denied. is there a glimpse afforded us into a world of these superior beings? my heart was scarcely large enough to give admittance to so swelling a thought. an awe, the sweetest and most solemn that imagination can conceive, pervaded my whole frame. it forsook me not when i parted from pleyel and retired to my chamber. an impulse was given to my spirits utterly incompatible with sleep. i passed the night wakeful and full of meditation. i was impressed with the belief of mysterious, but not of malignant agency. hitherto nothing had occurred to persuade me that this airy minister was busy to evil rather than to good purposes. on the contrary, the idea of superior virtue had always been associated in my mind with that of superior power. the warnings that had thus been heard appeared to have been prompted by beneficent intentions. my brother had been hindered by this voice from ascending the hill. he was told that danger lurked in his path, and his obedience to the intimation had perhaps saved him from a destiny similar to that of my father. pleyel had been rescued from tormenting uncertainty, and from the hazards and fatigues of a fruitless voyage, by the same interposition. it had assured him of the death of his theresa. this woman was then dead. a confirmation of the tidings, if true, would speedily arrive. was this confirmation to be deprecated or desired? by her death, the tie that attached him to europe, was taken away. henceforward every motive would combine to retain him in his native country, and we were rescued from the deep regrets that would accompany his hopeless absence from us. propitious was the spirit that imparted these tidings. propitious he would perhaps have been, if he had been instrumental in producing, as well as in communicating the tidings of her death. propitious to us, the friends of pleyel, to whom has thereby been secured the enjoyment of his society; and not unpropitious to himself; for though this object of his love be snatched away, is there not another who is able and willing to console him for her loss? twenty days after this, another vessel arrived from the same port. in this interval, pleyel, for the most part, estranged himself from his old companions. he was become the prey of a gloomy and unsociable grief. his walks were limited to the bank of the delaware. this bank is an artificial one. reeds and the river are on one side, and a watery marsh on the other, in that part which bounded his lands, and which extended from the mouth of hollander's creek to that of schuylkill. no scene can be imagined less enticing to a lover of the picturesque than this. the shore is deformed with mud, and incumbered with a forest of reeds. the fields, in most seasons, are mire; but when they afford a firm footing, the ditches by which they are bounded and intersected, are mantled with stagnating green, and emit the most noxious exhalations. health is no less a stranger to those seats than pleasure. spring and autumn are sure to be accompanied with agues and bilious remittents. the scenes which environed our dwellings at mettingen constituted the reverse of this. schuylkill was here a pure and translucid current, broken into wild and ceaseless music by rocky points, murmuring on a sandy margin, and reflecting on its surface, banks of all varieties of height and degrees of declivity. these banks were chequered by patches of dark verdure and shapeless masses of white marble, and crowned by copses of cedar, or by the regular magnificence of orchards, which, at this season, were in blossom, and were prodigal of odours. the ground which receded from the river was scooped into valleys and dales. its beauties were enhanced by the horticultural skill of my brother, who bedecked this exquisite assemblage of slopes and risings with every species of vegetable ornament, from the giant arms of the oak to the clustering tendrils of the honey-suckle. to screen him from the unwholesome airs of his own residence, it had been proposed to pleyel to spend the months of spring with us. he had apparently acquiesced in this proposal; but the late event induced him to change his purpose. he was only to be seen by visiting him in his retirements. his gaiety had flown, and every passion was absorbed in eagerness to procure tidings from saxony. i have mentioned the arrival of another vessel from the elbe. he descried her early one morning as he was passing along the skirt of the river. she was easily recognized, being the ship in which he had performed his first voyage to germany. he immediately went on board, but found no letters directed to him. this omission was, in some degree, compensated by meeting with an old acquaintance among the passengers, who had till lately been a resident in leipsig. this person put an end to all suspense respecting the fate of theresa, by relating the particulars of her death and funeral. thus was the truth of the former intimation attested. no longer devoured by suspense, the grief of pleyel was not long in yielding to the influence of society. he gave himself up once more to our company. his vivacity had indeed been damped; but even in this respect he was a more acceptable companion than formerly, since his seriousness was neither incommunicative nor sullen. these incidents, for a time, occupied all our thoughts. in me they produced a sentiment not unallied to pleasure, and more speedily than in the case of my friends were intermixed with other topics. my brother was particularly affected by them. it was easy to perceive that most of his meditations were tinctured from this source. to this was to be ascribed a design in which his pen was, at this period, engaged, of collecting and investigating the facts which relate to that mysterious personage, the daemon of socrates. my brother's skill in greek and roman learning was exceeded by that of few, and no doubt the world would have accepted a treatise upon this subject from his hand with avidity; but alas! this and every other scheme of felicity and honor, were doomed to sudden blast and hopeless extermination. chapter vi i now come to the mention of a person with whose name the most turbulent sensations are connected. it is with a shuddering reluctance that i enter on the province of describing him. now it is that i begin to perceive the difficulty of the task which i have undertaken; but it would be weakness to shrink from it. my blood is congealed: and my fingers are palsied when i call up his image. shame upon my cowardly and infirm heart! hitherto i have proceeded with some degree of composure, but now i must pause. i mean not that dire remembrance shall subdue my courage or baffle my design, but this weakness cannot be immediately conquered. i must desist for a little while. i have taken a few turns in my chamber, and have gathered strength enough to proceed. yet have i not projected a task beyond my power to execute? if thus, on the very threshold of the scene, my knees faulter and i sink, how shall i support myself, when i rush into the midst of horrors such as no heart has hitherto conceived, nor tongue related? i sicken and recoil at the prospect, and yet my irresolution is momentary. i have not formed this design upon slight grounds, and though i may at times pause and hesitate, i will not be finally diverted from it. and thou, o most fatal and potent of mankind, in what terms shall i describe thee? what words are adequate to the just delineation of thy character? how shall i detail the means which rendered the secrecy of thy purposes unfathomable? but i will not anticipate. let me recover if possible, a sober strain. let me keep down the flood of passion that would render me precipitate or powerless. let me stifle the agonies that are awakened by thy name. let me, for a time, regard thee as a being of no terrible attributes. let me tear myself from contemplation of the evils of which it is but too certain that thou wast the author, and limit my view to those harmless appearances which attended thy entrance on the stage. one sunny afternoon, i was standing in the door of my house, when i marked a person passing close to the edge of the bank that was in front. his pace was a careless and lingering one, and had none of that gracefulness and ease which distinguish a person with certain advantages of education from a clown. his gait was rustic and aukward. his form was ungainly and disproportioned. shoulders broad and square, breast sunken, his head drooping, his body of uniform breadth, supported by long and lank legs, were the ingredients of his frame. his garb was not ill adapted to such a figure. a slouched hat, tarnished by the weather, a coat of thick grey cloth, cut and wrought, as it seemed, by a country tailor, blue worsted stockings, and shoes fastened by thongs, and deeply discoloured by dust, which brush had never disturbed, constituted his dress. there was nothing remarkable in these appearances; they were frequently to be met with on the road, and in the harvest field. i cannot tell why i gazed upon them, on this occasion, with more than ordinary attention, unless it were that such figures were seldom seen by me, except on the road or field. this lawn was only traversed by men whose views were directed to the pleasures of the walk, or the grandeur of the scenery. he passed slowly along, frequently pausing, as if to examine the prospect more deliberately, but never turning his eye towards the house, so as to allow me a view of his countenance. presently, he entered a copse at a small distance, and disappeared. my eye followed him while he remained in sight. if his image remained for any duration in my fancy after his departure, it was because no other object occurred sufficient to expel it. i continued in the same spot for half an hour, vaguely, and by fits, contemplating the image of this wanderer, and drawing, from outward appearances, those inferences with respect to the intellectual history of this person, which experience affords us. i reflected on the alliance which commonly subsists between ignorance and the practice of agriculture, and indulged myself in airy speculations as to the influence of progressive knowledge in dissolving this alliance, and embodying the dreams of the poets. i asked why the plough and the hoe might not become the trade of every human being, and how this trade might be made conducive to, or, at least, consistent with the acquisition of wisdom and eloquence. weary with these reflections, i returned to the kitchen to perform some household office. i had usually but one servant, and she was a girl about my own age. i was busy near the chimney, and she was employed near the door of the apartment, when some one knocked. the door was opened by her, and she was immediately addressed with "pry'thee, good girl, canst thou supply a thirsty man with a glass of buttermilk?" she answered that there was none in the house. "aye, but there is some in the dairy yonder. thou knowest as well as i, though hermes never taught thee, that though every dairy be an house, every house is not a dairy." to this speech, though she understood only a part of it, she replied by repeating her assurances, that she had none to give. "well then," rejoined the stranger, "for charity's sweet sake, hand me forth a cup of cold water." the girl said she would go to the spring and fetch it. "nay, give me the cup, and suffer me to help myself. neither manacled nor lame, i should merit burial in the maw of carrion crows, if i laid this task upon thee." she gave him the cup, and he turned to go to the spring. i listened to this dialogue in silence. the words uttered by the person without, affected me as somewhat singular, but what chiefly rendered them remarkable, was the tone that accompanied them. it was wholly new. my brother's voice and pleyel's were musical and energetic. i had fondly imagined, that, in this respect, they were surpassed by none. now my mistake was detected. i cannot pretend to communicate the impression that was made upon me by these accents, or to depict the degree in which force and sweetness were blended in them. they were articulated with a distinctness that was unexampled in my experience. but this was not all. the voice was not only mellifluent and clear, but the emphasis was so just, and the modulation so impassioned, that it seemed as if an heart of stone could not fail of being moved by it. it imparted to me an emotion altogether involuntary and incontroulable. when he uttered the words "for charity's sweet sake," i dropped the cloth that i held in my hand, my heart overflowed with sympathy, and my eyes with unbidden tears. this description will appear to you trifling or incredible. the importance of these circumstances will be manifested in the sequel. the manner in which i was affected on this occasion, was, to my own apprehension, a subject of astonishment. the tones were indeed such as i never heard before; but that they should, in an instant, as it were, dissolve me in tears, will not easily be believed by others, and can scarcely be comprehended by myself. it will be readily supposed that i was somewhat inquisitive as to the person and demeanour of our visitant. after a moment's pause, i stepped to the door and looked after him. judge my surprize, when i beheld the self-same figure that had appeared an half hour before upon the bank. my fancy had conjured up a very different image. a form, and attitude, and garb, were instantly created worthy to accompany such elocution; but this person was, in all visible respects, the reverse of this phantom. strange as it may seem, i could not speedily reconcile myself to this disappointment. instead of returning to my employment, i threw myself in a chair that was placed opposite the door, and sunk into a fit of musing. my attention was, in a few minutes, recalled by the stranger, who returned with the empty cup in his hand. i had not thought of the circumstance, or should certainly have chosen a different seat. he no sooner shewed himself, than a confused sense of impropriety, added to the suddenness of the interview, for which, not having foreseen it, i had made no preparation, threw me into a state of the most painful embarrassment. he brought with him a placid brow; but no sooner had he cast his eyes upon me, than his face was as glowingly suffused as my own. he placed the cup upon the bench, stammered out thanks, and retired. it was some time before i could recover my wonted composure. i had snatched a view of the stranger's countenance. the impression that it made was vivid and indelible. his cheeks were pallid and lank, his eyes sunken, his forehead overshadowed by coarse straggling hairs, his teeth large and irregular, though sound and brilliantly white, and his chin discoloured by a tetter. his skin was of coarse grain, and sallow hue. every feature was wide of beauty, and the outline of his face reminded you of an inverted cone. and yet his forehead, so far as shaggy locks would allow it to be seen, his eyes lustrously black, and possessing, in the midst of haggardness, a radiance inexpressibly serene and potent, and something in the rest of his features, which it would be in vain to describe, but which served to betoken a mind of the highest order, were essential ingredients in the portrait. this, in the effects which immediately flowed from it, i count among the most extraordinary incidents of my life. this face, seen for a moment, continued for hours to occupy my fancy, to the exclusion of almost every other image. i had purposed to spend the evening with my brother, but i could not resist the inclination of forming a sketch upon paper of this memorable visage. whether my hand was aided by any peculiar inspiration, or i was deceived by my own fond conceptions, this portrait, though hastily executed, appeared unexceptionable to my own taste. i placed it at all distances, and in all lights; my eyes were rivetted upon it. half the night passed away in wakefulness and in contemplation of this picture. so flexible, and yet so stubborn, is the human mind. so obedient to impulses the most transient and brief, and yet so unalterably observant of the direction which is given to it! how little did i then foresee the termination of that chain, of which this may be regarded as the first link? next day arose in darkness and storm. torrents of rain fell during the whole day, attended with incessant thunder, which reverberated in stunning echoes from the opposite declivity. the inclemency of the air would not allow me to walk-out. i had, indeed, no inclination to leave my apartment. i betook myself to the contemplation of this portrait, whose attractions time had rather enhanced than diminished. i laid aside my usual occupations, and seating myself at a window, consumed the day in alternately looking out upon the storm, and gazing at the picture which lay upon a table before me. you will, perhaps, deem this conduct somewhat singular, and ascribe it to certain peculiarities of temper. i am not aware of any such peculiarities. i can account for my devotion to this image no otherwise, than by supposing that its properties were rare and prodigious. perhaps you will suspect that such were the first inroads of a passion incident to every female heart, and which frequently gains a footing by means even more slight, and more improbable than these. i shall not controvert the reasonableness of the suspicion, but leave you at liberty to draw, from my narrative, what conclusions you please. night at length returned, and the storm ceased. the air was once more clear and calm, and bore an affecting contrast to that uproar of the elements by which it had been preceded. i spent the darksome hours, as i spent the day, contemplative and seated at the window. why was my mind absorbed in thoughts ominous and dreary? why did my bosom heave with sighs, and my eyes overflow with tears? was the tempest that had just past a signal of the ruin which impended over me? my soul fondly dwelt upon the images of my brother and his children, yet they only increased the mournfulness of my contemplations. the smiles of the charming babes were as bland as formerly. the same dignity sat on the brow of their father, and yet i thought of them with anguish. something whispered that the happiness we at present enjoyed was set on mutable foundations. death must happen to all. whether our felicity was to be subverted by it to-morrow, or whether it was ordained that we should lay down our heads full of years and of honor, was a question that no human being could solve. at other times, these ideas seldom intruded. i either forbore to reflect upon the destiny that is reserved for all men, or the reflection was mixed up with images that disrobed it of terror; but now the uncertainty of life occurred to me without any of its usual and alleviating accompaniments. i said to myself, we must die. sooner or later, we must disappear for ever from the face of the earth. whatever be the links that hold us to life, they must be broken. this scene of existence is, in all its parts, calamitous. the greater number is oppressed with immediate evils, and those, the tide of whose fortunes is full, how small is their portion of enjoyment, since they know that it will terminate. for some time i indulged myself, without reluctance, in these gloomy thoughts; but at length, the dejection which they produced became insupportably painful. i endeavoured to dissipate it with music. i had all my grand-father's melody as well as poetry by rote. i now lighted by chance on a ballad, which commemorated the fate of a german cavalier, who fell at the siege of nice under godfrey of bouillon. my choice was unfortunate, for the scenes of violence and carnage which were here wildly but forcibly pourtrayed, only suggested to my thoughts a new topic in the horrors of war. i sought refuge, but ineffectually, in sleep. my mind was thronged by vivid, but confused images, and no effort that i made was sufficient to drive them away. in this situation i heard the clock, which hung in the room, give the signal for twelve. it was the same instrument which formerly hung in my father's chamber, and which, on account of its being his workmanship, was regarded, by every one of our family, with veneration. it had fallen to me, in the division of his property, and was placed in this asylum. the sound awakened a series of reflections, respecting his death. i was not allowed to pursue them; for scarcely had the vibrations ceased, when my attention was attracted by a whisper, which, at first, appeared to proceed from lips that were laid close to my ear. no wonder that a circumstance like this startled me. in the first impulse of my terror, i uttered a slight scream, and shrunk to the opposite side of the bed. in a moment, however, i recovered from my trepidation. i was habitually indifferent to all the causes of fear, by which the majority are afflicted. i entertained no apprehension of either ghosts or robbers. our security had never been molested by either, and i made use of no means to prevent or counterwork their machinations. my tranquillity, on this occasion, was quickly retrieved. the whisper evidently proceeded from one who was posted at my bed-side. the first idea that suggested itself was, that it was uttered by the girl who lived with me as a servant. perhaps, somewhat had alarmed her, or she was sick, and had come to request my assistance. by whispering in my ear, she intended to rouse without alarming me. full of this persuasion, i called; "judith," said i, "is it you? what do you want? is there any thing the matter with you?" no answer was returned. i repeated my inquiry, but equally in vain. cloudy as was the atmosphere, and curtained as my bed was, nothing was visible. i withdrew the curtain, and leaning my head on my elbow, i listened with the deepest attention to catch some new sound. meanwhile, i ran over in my thoughts, every circumstance that could assist my conjectures. my habitation was a wooden edifice, consisting of two stories. in each story were two rooms, separated by an entry, or middle passage, with which they communicated by opposite doors. the passage, on the lower story, had doors at the two ends, and a stair-case. windows answered to the doors on the upper story. annexed to this, on the eastern side, were wings, divided, in like manner, into an upper and lower room; one of them comprized a kitchen, and chamber above it for the servant, and communicated, on both stories, with the parlour adjoining it below, and the chamber adjoining it above. the opposite wing is of smaller dimensions, the rooms not being above eight feet square. the lower of these was used as a depository of household implements, the upper was a closet in which i deposited my books and papers. they had but one inlet, which was from the room adjoining. there was no window in the lower one, and in the upper, a small aperture which communicated light and air, but would scarcely admit the body. the door which led into this, was close to my bed-head, and was always locked, but when i myself was within. the avenues below were accustomed to be closed and bolted at nights. the maid was my only companion, and she could not reach my chamber without previously passing through the opposite chamber, and the middle passage, of which, however, the doors were usually unfastened. if she had occasioned this noise, she would have answered my repeated calls. no other conclusion, therefore, was left me, but that i had mistaken the sounds, and that my imagination had transformed some casual noise into the voice of a human creature. satisfied with this solution, i was preparing to relinquish my listening attitude, when my ear was again saluted with a new and yet louder whispering. it appeared, as before, to issue from lips that touched my pillow. a second effort of attention, however, clearly shewed me, that the sounds issued from within the closet, the door of which was not more than eight inches from my pillow. this second interruption occasioned a shock less vehement than the former. i started, but gave no audible token of alarm. i was so much mistress of my feelings, as to continue listening to what should be said. the whisper was distinct, hoarse, and uttered so as to shew that the speaker was desirous of being heard by some one near, but, at the same time, studious to avoid being overheard by any other. "stop, stop, i say; madman as you are! there are better means than that. curse upon your rashness! there is no need to shoot." such were the words uttered in a tone of eagerness and anger, within so small a distance of my pillow. what construction could i put upon them? my heart began to palpitate with dread of some unknown danger. presently, another voice, but equally near me, was heard whispering in answer. "why not? i will draw a trigger in this business, but perdition be my lot if i do more." to this, the first voice returned, in a tone which rage had heightened in a small degree above a whisper, "coward! stand aside, and see me do it. i will grasp her throat; i will do her business in an instant; she shall not have time so much as to groan." what wonder that i was petrified by sounds so dreadful! murderers lurked in my closet. they were planning the means of my destruction. one resolved to shoot, and the other menaced suffocation. their means being chosen, they would forthwith break the door. flight instantly suggested itself as most eligible in circumstances so perilous. i deliberated not a moment; but, fear adding wings to my speed, i leaped out of bed, and scantily robed as i was, rushed out of the chamber, down stairs, and into the open air. i can hardly recollect the process of turning keys, and withdrawing bolts. my terrors urged me forward with almost a mechanical impulse. i stopped not till i reached my brother's door. i had not gained the threshold, when, exhausted by the violence of my emotions, and by my speed, i sunk down in a fit. how long i remained in this situation i know not. when i recovered, i found myself stretched on a bed, surrounded by my sister and her female servants. i was astonished at the scene before me, but gradually recovered the recollection of what had happened. i answered their importunate inquiries as well as i was able. my brother and pleyel, whom the storm of the preceding day chanced to detain here, informing themselves of every particular, proceeded with lights and weapons to my deserted habitation. they entered my chamber and my closet, and found every thing in its proper place and customary order. the door of the closet was locked, and appeared not to have been opened in my absence. they went to judith's apartment. they found her asleep and in safety. pleyel's caution induced him to forbear alarming the girl; and finding her wholly ignorant of what had passed, they directed her to return to her chamber. they then fastened the doors, and returned. my friends were disposed to regard this transaction as a dream. that persons should be actually immured in this closet, to which, in the circumstances of the time, access from without or within was apparently impossible, they could not seriously believe. that any human beings had intended murder, unless it were to cover a scheme of pillage, was incredible; but that no such design had been formed, was evident from the security in which the furniture of the house and the closet remained. i revolved every incident and expression that had occurred. my senses assured me of the truth of them, and yet their abruptness and improbability made me, in my turn, somewhat incredulous. the adventure had made a deep impression on my fancy, and it was not till after a week's abode at my brother's, that i resolved to resume the possession of my own dwelling. there was another circumstance that enhanced the mysteriousness of this event. after my recovery it was obvious to inquire by what means the attention of the family had been drawn to my situation. i had fallen before i had reached the threshold, or was able to give any signal. my brother related, that while this was transacting in my chamber, he himself was awake, in consequence of some slight indisposition, and lay, according to his custom, musing on some favorite topic. suddenly the silence, which was remarkably profound, was broken by a voice of most piercing shrillness, that seemed to be uttered by one in the hall below his chamber. "awake! arise!" it exclaimed: "hasten to succour one that is dying at your door." this summons was effectual. there was no one in the house who was not roused by it. pleyel was the first to obey, and my brother overtook him before he reached the hall. what was the general astonishment when your friend was discovered stretched upon the grass before the door, pale, ghastly, and with every mark of death! this was the third instance of a voice, exerted for the benefit of this little community. the agent was no less inscrutable in this, than in the former case. when i ruminated upon these events, my soul was suspended in wonder and awe. was i really deceived in imagining that i heard the closet conversation? i was no longer at liberty to question the reality of those accents which had formerly recalled my brother from the hill; which had imparted tidings of the death of the german lady to pleyel; and which had lately summoned them to my assistance. but how was i to regard this midnight conversation? hoarse and manlike voices conferring on the means of death, so near my bed, and at such an hour! how had my ancient security vanished! that dwelling, which had hitherto been an inviolate asylum, was now beset with danger to my life. that solitude, formerly so dear to me, could no longer be endured. pleyel, who had consented to reside with us during the months of spring, lodged in the vacant chamber, in order to quiet my alarms. he treated my fears with ridicule, and in a short time very slight traces of them remained: but as it was wholly indifferent to him whether his nights were passed at my house or at my brother's, this arrangement gave general satisfaction. chapter vii i will not enumerate the various inquiries and conjectures which these incidents occasioned. after all our efforts, we came no nearer to dispelling the mist in which they were involved; and time, instead of facilitating a solution, only accumulated our doubts. in the midst of thoughts excited by these events, i was not unmindful of my interview with the stranger. i related the particulars, and shewed the portrait to my friends. pleyel recollected to have met with a figure resembling my description in the city; but neither his face or garb made the same impression upon him that it made upon me. it was a hint to rally me upon my prepossessions, and to amuse us with a thousand ludicrous anecdotes which he had collected in his travels. he made no scruple to charge me with being in love; and threatened to inform the swain, when he met him, of his good fortune. pleyel's temper made him susceptible of no durable impressions. his conversation was occasionally visited by gleams of his ancient vivacity; but, though his impetuosity was sometimes inconvenient, there was nothing to dread from his malice. i had no fear that my character or dignity would suffer in his hands, and was not heartily displeased when he declared his intention of profiting by his first meeting with the stranger to introduce him to our acquaintance. some weeks after this i had spent a toilsome day, and, as the sun declined, found myself disposed to seek relief in a walk. the river bank is, at this part of it, and for some considerable space upward, so rugged and steep as not to be easily descended. in a recess of this declivity, near the southern verge of my little demesne, was placed a slight building, with seats and lattices. from a crevice of the rock, to which this edifice was attached, there burst forth a stream of the purest water, which, leaping from ledge to ledge, for the space of sixty feet, produced a freshness in the air, and a murmur, the most delicious and soothing imaginable. these, added to the odours of the cedars which embowered it, and of the honey-suckle which clustered among the lattices, rendered this my favorite retreat in summer. on this occasion i repaired hither. my spirits drooped through the fatigue of long attention, and i threw myself upon a bench, in a state, both mentally and personally, of the utmost supineness. the lulling sounds of the waterfall, the fragrance and the dusk combined to becalm my spirits, and, in a short time, to sink me into sleep. either the uneasiness of my posture, or some slight indisposition molested my repose with dreams of no cheerful hue. after various incoherences had taken their turn to occupy my fancy, i at length imagined myself walking, in the evening twilight, to my brother's habitation. a pit, methought, had been dug in the path i had taken, of which i was not aware. as i carelessly pursued my walk, i thought i saw my brother, standing at some distance before me, beckoning and calling me to make haste. he stood on the opposite edge of the gulph. i mended my pace, and one step more would have plunged me into this abyss, had not some one from behind caught suddenly my arm, and exclaimed, in a voice of eagerness and terror, "hold! hold!" the sound broke my sleep, and i found myself, at the next moment, standing on my feet, and surrounded by the deepest darkness. images so terrific and forcible disabled me, for a time, from distinguishing between sleep and wakefulness, and withheld from me the knowledge of my actual condition. my first panics were succeeded by the perturbations of surprize, to find myself alone in the open air, and immersed in so deep a gloom. i slowly recollected the incidents of the afternoon, and how i came hither. i could not estimate the time, but saw the propriety of returning with speed to the house. my faculties were still too confused, and the darkness too intense, to allow me immediately to find my way up the steep. i sat down, therefore, to recover myself, and to reflect upon my situation. this was no sooner done, than a low voice was heard from behind the lattice, on the side where i sat. between the rock and the lattice was a chasm not wide enough to admit a human body; yet, in this chasm he that spoke appeared to be stationed. "attend! attend! but be not terrified." i started and exclaimed, "good heavens! what is that? who are you?" "a friend; one come, not to injure, but to save you; fear nothing." this voice was immediately recognized to be the same with one of those which i had heard in the closet; it was the voice of him who had proposed to shoot, rather than to strangle, his victim. my terror made me, at once, mute and motionless. he continued, "i leagued to murder you. i repent. mark my bidding, and be safe. avoid this spot. the snares of death encompass it. elsewhere danger will be distant; but this spot, shun it as you value your life. mark me further; profit by this warning, but divulge it not. if a syllable of what has passed escape you, your doom is sealed. remember your father, and be faithful." here the accents ceased, and left me overwhelmed with dismay. i was fraught with the persuasion, that during every moment i remained here, my life was endangered; but i could not take a step without hazard of falling to the bottom of the precipice. the path, leading to the summit, was short, but rugged and intricate. even star-light was excluded by the umbrage, and not the faintest gleam was afforded to guide my steps. what should i do? to depart or remain was equally and eminently perilous. in this state of uncertainty, i perceived a ray flit across the gloom and disappear. another succeeded, which was stronger, and remained for a passing moment. it glittered on the shrubs that were scattered at the entrance, and gleam continued to succeed gleam for a few seconds, till they, finally, gave place to unintermitted darkness. the first visitings of this light called up a train of horrors in my mind; destruction impended over this spot; the voice which i had lately heard had warned me to retire, and had menaced me with the fate of my father if i refused. i was desirous, but unable, to obey; these gleams were such as preluded the stroke by which he fell; the hour, perhaps, was the same--i shuddered as if i had beheld, suspended over me, the exterminating sword. presently a new and stronger illumination burst through the lattice on the right hand, and a voice, from the edge of the precipice above, called out my name. it was pleyel. joyfully did i recognize his accents; but such was the tumult of my thoughts that i had not power to answer him till he had frequently repeated his summons. i hurried, at length, from the fatal spot, and, directed by the lanthorn which he bore, ascended the hill. pale and breathless, it was with difficulty i could support myself. he anxiously inquired into the cause of my affright, and the motive of my unusual absence. he had returned from my brother's at a late hour, and was informed by judith, that i had walked out before sun-set, and had not yet returned. this intelligence was somewhat alarming. he waited some time; but, my absence continuing, he had set out in search of me. he had explored the neighbourhood with the utmost care, but, receiving no tidings of me, he was preparing to acquaint my brother with this circumstance, when he recollected the summer-house on the bank, and conceived it possible that some accident had detained me there. he again inquired into the cause of this detention, and of that confusion and dismay which my looks testified. i told him that i had strolled hither in the afternoon, that sleep had overtaken me as i sat, and that i had awakened a few minutes before his arrival. i could tell him no more. in the present impetuosity of my thoughts, i was almost dubious, whether the pit, into which my brother had endeavoured to entice me, and the voice that talked through the lattice, were not parts of the same dream. i remembered, likewise, the charge of secrecy, and the penalty denounced, if i should rashly divulge what i had heard. for these reasons, i was silent on that subject, and shutting myself in my chamber, delivered myself up to contemplation. what i have related will, no doubt, appear to you a fable. you will believe that calamity has subverted my reason, and that i am amusing you with the chimeras of my brain, instead of facts that have really happened. i shall not be surprized or offended, if these be your suspicions. i know not, indeed, how you can deny them admission. for, if to me, the immediate witness, they were fertile of perplexity and doubt, how must they affect another to whom they are recommended only by my testimony? it was only by subsequent events, that i was fully and incontestibly assured of the veracity of my senses. meanwhile what was i to think? i had been assured that a design had been formed against my life. the ruffians had leagued to murder me. whom had i offended? who was there with whom i had ever maintained intercourse, who was capable of harbouring such atrocious purposes? my temper was the reverse of cruel and imperious. my heart was touched with sympathy for the children of misfortune. but this sympathy was not a barren sentiment. my purse, scanty as it was, was ever open, and my hands ever active, to relieve distress. many were the wretches whom my personal exertions had extricated from want and disease, and who rewarded me with their gratitude. there was no face which lowered at my approach, and no lips which uttered imprecations in my hearing. on the contrary, there was none, over whose fate i had exerted any influence, or to whom i was known by reputation, who did not greet me with smiles, and dismiss me with proofs of veneration; yet did not my senses assure me that a plot was laid against my life? i am not destitute of courage. i have shewn myself deliberative and calm in the midst of peril. i have hazarded my own life, for the preservation of another, but now was i confused and panic struck. i have not lived so as to fear death, yet to perish by an unseen and secret stroke, to be mangled by the knife of an assassin was a thought at which i shuddered; what had i done to deserve to be made the victim of malignant passions? but soft! was i not assured, that my life was safe in all places but one? and why was the treason limited to take effect in this spot? i was every where equally defenceless. my house and chamber were, at all times, accessible. danger still impended over me; the bloody purpose was still entertained, but the hand that was to execute it, was powerless in all places but one! here i had remained for the last four or five hours, without the means of resistance or defence, yet i had not been attacked. a human being was at hand, who was conscious of my presence, and warned me hereafter to avoid this retreat. his voice was not absolutely new, but had i never heard it but once before? but why did he prohibit me from relating this incident to others, and what species of death will be awarded if i disobey? he talked of my father. he intimated, that disclosure would pull upon my head, the same destruction. was then the death of my father, portentous and inexplicable as it was, the consequence of human machinations? it should seem, that this being is apprised of the true nature of this event, and is conscious of the means that led to it. whether it shall likewise fall upon me, depends upon the observance of silence. was it the infraction of a similar command, that brought so horrible a penalty upon my father? such were the reflections that haunted me during the night, and which effectually deprived me of sleep. next morning, at breakfast, pleyel related an event which my disappearance had hindered him from mentioning the night before. early the preceding morning, his occasions called him to the city; he had stepped into a coffee-house to while away an hour; here he had met a person whose appearance instantly bespoke him to be the same whose hasty visit i have mentioned, and whose extraordinary visage and tones had so powerfully affected me. on an attentive survey, however, he proved, likewise, to be one with whom my friend had had some intercourse in europe. this authorised the liberty of accosting him, and after some conversation, mindful, as pleyel said, of the footing which this stranger had gained in my heart, he had ventured to invite him to mettingen. the invitation had been cheerfully accepted, and a visit promised on the afternoon of the next day. this information excited no sober emotions in my breast. i was, of course, eager to be informed as to the circumstances of their ancient intercourse. when, and where had they met? what knew he of the life and character of this man? in answer to my inquiries, he informed me that, three years before, he was a traveller in spain. he had made an excursion from valencia to murviedro, with a view to inspect the remains of roman magnificence, scattered in the environs of that town. while traversing the scite of the theatre of old saguntum, he lighted upon this man, seated on a stone, and deeply engaged in perusing the work of the deacon marti. a short conversation ensued, which proved the stranger to be english. they returned to valencia together. his garb, aspect, and deportment, were wholly spanish. a residence of three years in the country, indefatigable attention to the language, and a studious conformity with the customs of the people, had made him indistinguishable from a native, when he chose to assume that character. pleyel found him to be connected, on the footing of friendship and respect, with many eminent merchants in that city. he had embraced the catholic religion, and adopted a spanish name instead of his own, which was carwin, and devoted himself to the literature and religion of his new country. he pursued no profession, but subsisted on remittances from england. while pleyel remained in valencia, carwin betrayed no aversion to intercourse, and the former found no small attractions in the society of this new acquaintance. on general topics he was highly intelligent and communicative. he had visited every corner of spain, and could furnish the most accurate details respecting its ancient and present state. on topics of religion and of his own history, previous to his transformation into a spaniard, he was invariably silent. you could merely gather from his discourse that he was english, and that he was well acquainted with the neighbouring countries. his character excited considerable curiosity in this observer. it was not easy to reconcile his conversion to the romish faith, with those proofs of knowledge and capacity that were exhibited by him on different occasions. a suspicion was, sometimes, admitted, that his belief was counterfeited for some political purpose. the most careful observation, however, produced no discovery. his manners were, at all times, harmless and inartificial, and his habits those of a lover of contemplation and seclusion. he appeared to have contracted an affection for pleyel, who was not slow to return it. my friend, after a month's residence in this city, returned into france, and, since that period, had heard nothing concerning carwin till his appearance at mettingen. on this occasion carwin had received pleyel's greeting with a certain distance and solemnity to which the latter had not been accustomed. he had waved noticing the inquiries of pleyel respecting his desertion of spain, in which he had formerly declared that it was his purpose to spend his life. he had assiduously diverted the attention of the latter to indifferent topics, but was still, on every theme, as eloquent and judicious as formerly. why he had assumed the garb of a rustic, pleyel was unable to conjecture. perhaps it might be poverty, perhaps he was swayed by motives which it was his interest to conceal, but which were connected with consequences of the utmost moment. such was the sum of my friend's information. i was not sorry to be left alone during the greater part of this day. every employment was irksome which did not leave me at liberty to meditate. i had now a new subject on which to exercise my thoughts. before evening i should be ushered into his presence, and listen to those tones whose magical and thrilling power i had already experienced. but with what new images would he then be accompanied? carwin was an adherent to the romish faith, yet was an englishman by birth, and, perhaps, a protestant by education. he had adopted spain for his country, and had intimated a design to spend his days there, yet now was an inhabitant of this district, and disguised by the habiliments of a clown! what could have obliterated the impressions of his youth, and made him abjure his religion and his country? what subsequent events had introduced so total a change in his plans? in withdrawing from spain, had he reverted to the religion of his ancestors; or was it true, that his former conversion was deceitful, and that his conduct had been swayed by motives which it was prudent to conceal? hours were consumed in revolving these ideas. my meditations were intense; and, when the series was broken, i began to reflect with astonishment on my situation. from the death of my parents, till the commencement of this year, my life had been serene and blissful, beyond the ordinary portion of humanity; but, now, my bosom was corroded by anxiety. i was visited by dread of unknown dangers, and the future was a scene over which clouds rolled, and thunders muttered. i compared the cause with the effect, and they seemed disproportioned to each other. all unaware, and in a manner which i had no power to explain, i was pushed from my immoveable and lofty station, and cast upon a sea of troubles. i determined to be my brother's visitant on this evening, yet my resolves were not unattended with wavering and reluctance. pleyel's insinuations that i was in love, affected, in no degree, my belief, yet the consciousness that this was the opinion of one who would, probably, be present at our introduction to each other, would excite all that confusion which the passion itself is apt to produce. this would confirm him in his error, and call forth new railleries. his mirth, when exerted upon this topic, was the source of the bitterest vexation. had he been aware of its influence upon my happiness, his temper would not have allowed him to persist; but this influence, it was my chief endeavour to conceal. that the belief of my having bestowed my heart upon another, produced in my friend none but ludicrous sensations, was the true cause of my distress; but if this had been discovered by him, my distress would have been unspeakably aggravated. chapter viii as soon as evening arrived, i performed my visit. carwin made one of the company, into which i was ushered. appearances were the same as when i before beheld him. his garb was equally negligent and rustic. i gazed upon his countenance with new curiosity. my situation was such as to enable me to bestow upon it a deliberate examination. viewed at more leisure, it lost none of its wonderful properties. i could not deny my homage to the intelligence expressed in it, but was wholly uncertain, whether he were an object to be dreaded or adored, and whether his powers had been exerted to evil or to good. he was sparing in discourse; but whatever he said was pregnant with meaning, and uttered with rectitude of articulation, and force of emphasis, of which i had entertained no conception previously to my knowledge of him. notwithstanding the uncouthness of his garb, his manners were not unpolished. all topics were handled by him with skill, and without pedantry or affectation. he uttered no sentiment calculated to produce a disadvantageous impression: on the contrary, his observations denoted a mind alive to every generous and heroic feeling. they were introduced without parade, and accompanied with that degree of earnestness which indicates sincerity. he parted from us not till late, refusing an invitation to spend the night here, but readily consented to repeat his visit. his visits were frequently repeated. each day introduced us to a more intimate acquaintance with his sentiments, but left us wholly in the dark, concerning that about which we were most inquisitive. he studiously avoided all mention of his past or present situation. even the place of his abode in the city he concealed from us. our sphere, in this respect, being somewhat limited, and the intellectual endowments of this man being indisputably great, his deportment was more diligently marked, and copiously commented on by us, than you, perhaps, will think the circumstances warranted. not a gesture, or glance, or accent, that was not, in our private assemblies, discussed, and inferences deduced from it. it may well be thought that he modelled his behaviour by an uncommon standard, when, with all our opportunities and accuracy of observation, we were able, for a long time, to gather no satisfactory information. he afforded us no ground on which to build even a plausible conjecture. there is a degree of familiarity which takes place between constant associates, that justifies the negligence of many rules of which, in an earlier period of their intercourse, politeness requires the exact observance. inquiries into our condition are allowable when they are prompted by a disinterested concern for our welfare; and this solicitude is not only pardonable, but may justly be demanded from those who chuse us for their companions. this state of things was more slow to arrive on this occasion than on most others, on account of the gravity and loftiness of this man's behaviour. pleyel, however, began, at length, to employ regular means for this end. he occasionally alluded to the circumstances in which they had formerly met, and remarked the incongruousness between the religion and habits of a spaniard, with those of a native of britain. he expressed his astonishment at meeting our guest in this corner of the globe, especially as, when they parted in spain, he was taught to believe that carwin should never leave that country. he insinuated, that a change so great must have been prompted by motives of a singular and momentous kind. no answer, or an answer wide of the purpose, was generally made to these insinuations. britons and spaniards, he said, are votaries of the same deity, and square their faith by the same precepts; their ideas are drawn from the same fountains of literature, and they speak dialects of the same tongue; their government and laws have more resemblances than differences; they were formerly provinces of the same civil, and till lately, of the same religious, empire. as to the motives which induce men to change the place of their abode, these must unavoidably be fleeting and mutable. if not bound to one spot by conjugal or parental ties, or by the nature of that employment to which we are indebted for subsistence, the inducements to change are far more numerous and powerful, than opposite inducements. he spoke as if desirous of shewing that he was not aware of the tendency of pleyel's remarks; yet, certain tokens were apparent, that proved him by no means wanting in penetration. these tokens were to be read in his countenance, and not in his words. when any thing was said, indicating curiosity in us, the gloom of his countenance was deepened, his eyes sunk to the ground, and his wonted air was not resumed without visible struggle. hence, it was obvious to infer, that some incidents of his life were reflected on by him with regret; and that, since these incidents were carefully concealed, and even that regret which flowed from them laboriously stifled, they had not been merely disastrous. the secrecy that was observed appeared not designed to provoke or baffle the inquisitive, but was prompted by the shame, or by the prudence of guilt. these ideas, which were adopted by pleyel and my brother, as well as myself, hindered us from employing more direct means for accomplishing our wishes. questions might have been put in such terms, that no room should be left for the pretence of misapprehension, and if modesty merely had been the obstacle, such questions would not have been wanting; but we considered, that, if the disclosure were productive of pain or disgrace, it was inhuman to extort it. amidst the various topics that were discussed in his presence, allusions were, of course, made to the inexplicable events that had lately happened. at those times, the words and looks of this man were objects of my particular attention. the subject was extraordinary; and any one whose experience or reflections could throw any light upon it, was entitled to my gratitude. as this man was enlightened by reading and travel, i listened with eagerness to the remarks which he should make. at first, i entertained a kind of apprehension, that the tale would be heard by him with incredulity and secret ridicule. i had formerly heard stories that resembled this in some of their mysterious circumstances, but they were, commonly, heard by me with contempt. i was doubtful, whether the same impression would not now be made on the mind of our guest; but i was mistaken in my fears. he heard them with seriousness, and without any marks either of surprize or incredulity. he pursued, with visible pleasure, that kind of disquisition which was naturally suggested by them. his fancy was eminently vigorous and prolific, and if he did not persuade us, that human beings are, sometimes, admitted to a sensible intercourse with the author of nature, he, at least, won over our inclination to the cause. he merely deduced, from his own reasonings, that such intercourse was probable; but confessed that, though he was acquainted with many instances somewhat similar to those which had been related by us, none of them were perfectly exempted from the suspicion of human agency. on being requested to relate these instances, he amused us with many curious details. his narratives were constructed with so much skill, and rehearsed with so much energy, that all the effects of a dramatic exhibition were frequently produced by them. those that were most coherent and most minute, and, of consequence, least entitled to credit, were yet rendered probable by the exquisite art of this rhetorician. for every difficulty that was suggested, a ready and plausible solution was furnished. mysterious voices had always a share in producing the catastrophe, but they were always to be explained on some known principles, either as reflected into a focus, or communicated through a tube. i could not but remark that his narratives, however complex or marvellous, contained no instance sufficiently parallel to those that had befallen ourselves, and in which the solution was applicable to our own case. my brother was a much more sanguine reasoner than our guest. even in some of the facts which were related by carwin, he maintained the probability of celestial interference, when the latter was disposed to deny it, and had found, as he imagined, footsteps of an human agent. pleyel was by no means equally credulous. he scrupled not to deny faith to any testimony but that of his senses, and allowed the facts which had lately been supported by this testimony, not to mould his belief, but merely to give birth to doubts. it was soon observed that carwin adopted, in some degree, a similar distinction. a tale of this kind, related by others, he would believe, provided it was explicable upon known principles; but that such notices were actually communicated by beings of an higher order, he would believe only when his own ears were assailed in a manner which could not be otherwise accounted for. civility forbad him to contradict my brother or myself, but his understanding refused to acquiesce in our testimony. besides, he was disposed to question whether the voices heard in the temple, at the foot of the hill, and in my closet, were not really uttered by human organs. on this supposition he was desired to explain how the effect was produced. he answered, that the power of mimickry was very common. catharine's voice might easily be imitated by one at the foot of the hill, who would find no difficulty in eluding, by flight, the search of wieland. the tidings of the death of the saxon lady were uttered by one near at hand, who overheard the conversation, who conjectured her death, and whose conjecture happened to accord with the truth. that the voice appeared to come from the cieling was to be considered as an illusion of the fancy. the cry for help, heard in the hall on the night of my adventure, was to be ascribed to an human creature, who actually stood in the hall when he uttered it. it was of no moment, he said, that we could not explain by what motives he that made the signal was led hither. how imperfectly acquainted were we with the condition and designs of the beings that surrounded us? the city was near at hand, and thousands might there exist whose powers and purposes might easily explain whatever was mysterious in this transaction. as to the closet dialogue, he was obliged to adopt one of two suppositions, and affirm either that it was fashioned in my own fancy, or that it actually took place between two persons in the closet. such was carwin's mode of explaining these appearances. it is such, perhaps, as would commend itself as most plausible to the most sagacious minds, but it was insufficient to impart conviction to us. as to the treason that was meditated against me, it was doubtless just to conclude that it was either real or imaginary; but that it was real was attested by the mysterious warning in the summer-house, the secret of which i had hitherto locked up in my own breast. a month passed away in this kind of intercourse. as to carwin, our ignorance was in no degree enlightened respecting his genuine character and views. appearances were uniform. no man possessed a larger store of knowledge, or a greater degree of skill in the communication of it to others; hence he was regarded as an inestimable addition to our society. considering the distance of my brother's house from the city, he was frequently prevailed upon to pass the night where he spent the evening. two days seldom elapsed without a visit from him; hence he was regarded as a kind of inmate of the house. he entered and departed without ceremony. when he arrived he received an unaffected welcome, and when he chose to retire, no importunities were used to induce him to remain. the temple was the principal scene of our social enjoyments; yet the felicity that we tasted when assembled in this asylum, was but the gleam of a former sun-shine. carwin never parted with his gravity. the inscrutableness of his character, and the uncertainty whether his fellowship tended to good or to evil, were seldom absent from our minds. this circumstance powerfully contributed to sadden us. my heart was the seat of growing disquietudes. this change in one who had formerly been characterized by all the exuberances of soul, could not fail to be remarked by my friends. my brother was always a pattern of solemnity. my sister was clay, moulded by the circumstances in which she happened to be placed. there was but one whose deportment remains to be described as being of importance to our happiness. had pleyel likewise dismissed his vivacity? he was as whimsical and jestful as ever, but he was not happy. the truth, in this respect, was of too much importance to me not to make me a vigilant observer. his mirth was easily perceived to be the fruit of exertion. when his thoughts wandered from the company, an air of dissatisfaction and impatience stole across his features. even the punctuality and frequency of his visits were somewhat lessened. it may be supposed that my own uneasiness was heightened by these tokens; but, strange as it may seem, i found, in the present state of my mind, no relief but in the persuasion that pleyel was unhappy. that unhappiness, indeed, depended, for its value in my eyes, on the cause that produced it. it did not arise from the death of the saxon lady: it was not a contagious emanation from the countenances of wieland or carwin. there was but one other source whence it could flow. a nameless ecstacy thrilled through my frame when any new proof occurred that the ambiguousness of my behaviour was the cause. chapter ix my brother had received a new book from germany. it was a tragedy, and the first attempt of a saxon poet, of whom my brother had been taught to entertain the highest expectations. the exploits of zisca, the bohemian hero, were woven into a dramatic series and connection. according to german custom, it was minute and diffuse, and dictated by an adventurous and lawless fancy. it was a chain of audacious acts, and unheard-of disasters. the moated fortress, and the thicket; the ambush and the battle; and the conflict of headlong passions, were pourtrayed in wild numbers, and with terrific energy. an afternoon was set apart to rehearse this performance. the language was familiar to all of us but carwin, whose company, therefore, was tacitly dispensed with. the morning previous to this intended rehearsal, i spent at home. my mind was occupied with reflections relative to my own situation. the sentiment which lived with chief energy in my heart, was connected with the image of pleyel. in the midst of my anguish, i had not been destitute of consolation. his late deportment had given spring to my hopes. was not the hour at hand, which should render me the happiest of human creatures? he suspected that i looked with favorable eyes upon carwin. hence arose disquietudes, which he struggled in vain to conceal. he loved me, but was hopeless that his love would be compensated. is it not time, said i, to rectify this error? but by what means is this to be effected? it can only be done by a change of deportment in me; but how must i demean myself for this purpose? i must not speak. neither eyes, nor lips, must impart the information. he must not be assured that my heart is his, previous to the tender of his own; but he must be convinced that it has not been given to another; he must be supplied with space whereon to build a doubt as to the true state of my affections; he must be prompted to avow himself. the line of delicate propriety; how hard it is, not to fall short, and not to overleap it! this afternoon we shall meet at the temple. we shall not separate till late. it will be his province to accompany me home. the airy expanse is without a speck. this breeze is usually stedfast, and its promise of a bland and cloudless evening, may be trusted. the moon will rise at eleven, and at that hour, we shall wind along this bank. possibly that hour may decide my fate. if suitable encouragement be given, pleyel will reveal his soul to me; and i, ere i reach this threshold, will be made the happiest of beings. and is this good to be mine? add wings to thy speed, sweet evening; and thou, moon, i charge thee, shroud thy beams at the moment when my pleyel whispers love. i would not for the world, that the burning blushes, and the mounting raptures of that moment, should be visible. but what encouragement is wanting? i must be regardful of insurmountable limits. yet when minds are imbued with a genuine sympathy, are not words and looks superfluous? are not motion and touch sufficient to impart feelings such as mine? has he not eyed me at moments, when the pressure of his hand has thrown me into tumults, and was it possible that he mistook the impetuosities of love, for the eloquence of indignation? but the hastening evening will decide. would it were come! and yet i shudder at its near approach. an interview that must thus terminate, is surely to be wished for by me; and yet it is not without its terrors. would to heaven it were come and gone! i feel no reluctance, my friends to be thus explicit. time was, when these emotions would be hidden with immeasurable solicitude, from every human eye. alas! these airy and fleeting impulses of shame are gone. my scruples were preposterous and criminal. they are bred in all hearts, by a perverse and vicious education, and they would still have maintained their place in my heart, had not my portion been set in misery. my errors have taught me thus much wisdom; that those sentiments which we ought not to disclose, it is criminal to harbour. it was proposed to begin the rehearsal at four o'clock; i counted the minutes as they passed; their flight was at once too rapid and too slow; my sensations were of an excruciating kind; i could taste no food, nor apply to any task, nor enjoy a moment's repose: when the hour arrived, i hastened to my brother's. pleyel was not there. he had not yet come. on ordinary occasions, he was eminent for punctuality. he had testified great eagerness to share in the pleasures of this rehearsal. he was to divide the task with my brother, and, in tasks like these, he always engaged with peculiar zeal. his elocution was less sweet than sonorous; and, therefore, better adapted than the mellifluences of his friend, to the outrageous vehemence of this drama. what could detain him? perhaps he lingered through forgetfulness. yet this was incredible. never had his memory been known to fail upon even more trivial occasions. not less impossible was it, that the scheme had lost its attractions, and that he staid, because his coming would afford him no gratification. but why should we expect him to adhere to the minute? an half hour elapsed, but pleyel was still at a distance. perhaps he had misunderstood the hour which had been proposed. perhaps he had conceived that to-morrow, and not to-day, had been selected for this purpose: but no. a review of preceding circumstances demonstrated that such misapprehension was impossible; for he had himself proposed this day, and this hour. this day, his attention would not otherwise be occupied; but to-morrow, an indispensible engagement was foreseen, by which all his time would be engrossed: his detention, therefore, must be owing to some unforeseen and extraordinary event. our conjectures were vague, tumultuous, and sometimes fearful. his sickness and his death might possibly have detained him. tortured with suspense, we sat gazing at each other, and at the path which led from the road. every horseman that passed was, for a moment, imagined to be him. hour succeeded hour, and the sun, gradually declining, at length, disappeared. every signal of his coming proved fallacious, and our hopes were at length dismissed. his absence affected my friends in no insupportable degree. they should be obliged, they said, to defer this undertaking till the morrow; and, perhaps, their impatient curiosity would compel them to dispense entirely with his presence. no doubt, some harmless occurrence had diverted him from his purpose; and they trusted that they should receive a satisfactory account of him in the morning. it may be supposed that this disappointment affected me in a very different manner. i turned aside my head to conceal my tears. i fled into solitude, to give vent to my reproaches, without interruption or restraint. my heart was ready to burst with indignation and grief. pleyel was not the only object of my keen but unjust upbraiding. deeply did i execrate my own folly. thus fallen into ruins was the gay fabric which i had reared! thus had my golden vision melted into air! how fondly did i dream that pleyel was a lover! if he were, would he have suffered any obstacle to hinder his coming? blind and infatuated man! i exclaimed. thou sportest with happiness. the good that is offered thee, thou hast the insolence and folly to refuse. well, i will henceforth intrust my felicity to no one's keeping but my own. the first agonies of this disappointment would not allow me to be reasonable or just. every ground on which i had built the persuasion that pleyel was not unimpressed in my favor, appeared to vanish. it seemed as if i had been misled into this opinion, by the most palpable illusions. i made some trifling excuse, and returned, much earlier than i expected, to my own house. i retired early to my chamber, without designing to sleep. i placed myself at a window, and gave the reins to reflection. the hateful and degrading impulses which had lately controuled me were, in some degree, removed. new dejection succeeded, but was now produced by contemplating my late behaviour. surely that passion is worthy to be abhorred which obscures our understanding, and urges us to the commission of injustice. what right had i to expect his attendance? had i not demeaned myself like one indifferent to his happiness, and as having bestowed my regards upon another? his absence might be prompted by the love which i considered his absence as a proof that he wanted. he came not because the sight of me, the spectacle of my coldness or aversion, contributed to his despair. why should i prolong, by hypocrisy or silence, his misery as well as my own? why not deal with him explicitly, and assure him of the truth? you will hardly believe that, in obedience to this suggestion, i rose for the purpose of ordering a light, that i might instantly make this confession in a letter. a second thought shewed me the rashness of this scheme, and i wondered by what infirmity of mind i could be betrayed into a momentary approbation of it. i saw with the utmost clearness that a confession like that would be the most remediless and unpardonable outrage upon the dignity of my sex, and utterly unworthy of that passion which controuled me. i resumed my seat and my musing. to account for the absence of pleyel became once more the scope of my conjectures. how many incidents might occur to raise an insuperable impediment in his way? when i was a child, a scheme of pleasure, in which he and his sister were parties, had been, in like manner, frustrated by his absence; but his absence, in that instance, had been occasioned by his falling from a boat into the river, in consequence of which he had run the most imminent hazard of being drowned. here was a second disappointment endured by the same persons, and produced by his failure. might it not originate in the same cause? had he not designed to cross the river that morning to make some necessary purchases in jersey? he had preconcerted to return to his own house to dinner; but, perhaps, some disaster had befallen him. experience had taught me the insecurity of a canoe, and that was the only kind of boat which pleyel used: i was, likewise, actuated by an hereditary dread of water. these circumstances combined to bestow considerable plausibility on this conjecture; but the consternation with which i began to be seized was allayed by reflecting, that if this disaster had happened my brother would have received the speediest information of it. the consolation which this idea imparted was ravished from me by a new thought. this disaster might have happened, and his family not be apprized of it. the first intelligence of his fate may be communicated by the livid corpse which the tide may cast, many days hence, upon the shore. thus was i distressed by opposite conjectures: thus was i tormented by phantoms of my own creation. it was not always thus. i can ascertain the date when my mind became the victim of this imbecility; perhaps it was coeval with the inroad of a fatal passion; a passion that will never rank me in the number of its eulogists; it was alone sufficient to the extermination of my peace: it was itself a plenteous source of calamity, and needed not the concurrence of other evils to take away the attractions of existence, and dig for me an untimely grave. the state of my mind naturally introduced a train of reflections upon the dangers and cares which inevitably beset an human being. by no violent transition was i led to ponder on the turbulent life and mysterious end of my father. i cherished, with the utmost veneration, the memory of this man, and every relique connected with his fate was preserved with the most scrupulous care. among these was to be numbered a manuscript, containing memoirs of his own life. the narrative was by no means recommended by its eloquence; but neither did all its value flow from my relationship to the author. its stile had an unaffected and picturesque simplicity. the great variety and circumstantial display of the incidents, together with their intrinsic importance, as descriptive of human manners and passions, made it the most useful book in my collection. it was late; but being sensible of no inclination to sleep, i resolved to betake myself to the perusal of it. to do this it was requisite to procure a light. the girl had long since retired to her chamber: it was therefore proper to wait upon myself. a lamp, and the means of lighting it, were only to be found in the kitchen. thither i resolved forthwith to repair; but the light was of use merely to enable me to read the book. i knew the shelf and the spot where it stood. whether i took down the book, or prepared the lamp in the first place, appeared to be a matter of no moment. the latter was preferred, and, leaving my seat, i approached the closet in which, as i mentioned formerly, my books and papers were deposited. suddenly the remembrance of what had lately passed in this closet occurred. whether midnight was approaching, or had passed, i knew not. i was, as then, alone, and defenceless. the wind was in that direction in which, aided by the deathlike repose of nature, it brought to me the murmur of the water-fall. this was mingled with that solemn and enchanting sound, which a breeze produces among the leaves of pines. the words of that mysterious dialogue, their fearful import, and the wild excess to which i was transported by my terrors, filled my imagination anew. my steps faultered, and i stood a moment to recover myself. i prevailed on myself at length to move towards the closet. i touched the lock, but my fingers were powerless; i was visited afresh by unconquerable apprehensions. a sort of belief darted into my mind, that some being was concealed within, whose purposes were evil. i began to contend with those fears, when it occurred to me that i might, without impropriety, go for a lamp previously to opening the closet. i receded a few steps; but before i reached my chamber door my thoughts took a new direction. motion seemed to produce a mechanical influence upon me. i was ashamed of my weakness. besides, what aid could be afforded me by a lamp? my fears had pictured to themselves no precise object. it would be difficult to depict, in words, the ingredients and hues of that phantom which haunted me. an hand invisible and of preternatural strength, lifted by human passions, and selecting my life for its aim, were parts of this terrific image. all places were alike accessible to this foe, or if his empire were restricted by local bounds, those bounds were utterly inscrutable by me. but had i not been told by some one in league with this enemy, that every place but the recess in the bank was exempt from danger? i returned to the closet, and once more put my hand upon the lock. o! may my ears lose their sensibility, ere they be again assailed by a shriek so terrible! not merely my understanding was subdued by the sound: it acted on my nerves like an edge of steel. it appeared to cut asunder the fibres of my brain, and rack every joint with agony. the cry, loud and piercing as it was, was nevertheless human. no articulation was ever more distinct. the breath which accompanied it did not fan my hair, yet did every circumstance combine to persuade me that the lips which uttered it touched my very shoulder. "hold! hold!" were the words of this tremendous prohibition, in whose tone the whole soul seemed to be wrapped up, and every energy converted into eagerness and terror. shuddering, i dashed myself against the wall, and by the same involuntary impulse, turned my face backward to examine the mysterious monitor. the moon-light streamed into each window, and every corner of the room was conspicuous, and yet i beheld nothing! the interval was too brief to be artificially measured, between the utterance of these words, and my scrutiny directed to the quarter whence they came. yet if a human being had been there, could he fail to have been visible? which of my senses was the prey of a fatal illusion? the shock which the sound produced was still felt in every part of my frame. the sound, therefore, could not but be a genuine commotion. but that i had heard it, was not more true than that the being who uttered it was stationed at my right ear; yet my attendant was invisible. i cannot describe the state of my thoughts at that moment. surprize had mastered my faculties. my frame shook, and the vital current was congealed. i was conscious only to the vehemence of my sensations. this condition could not be lasting. like a tide, which suddenly mounts to an overwhelming height, and then gradually subsides, my confusion slowly gave place to order, and my tumults to a calm. i was able to deliberate and move. i resumed my feet, and advanced into the midst of the room. upward, and behind, and on each side, i threw penetrating glances. i was not satisfied with one examination. he that hitherto refused to be seen, might change his purpose, and on the next survey be clearly distinguishable. solitude imposes least restraint upon the fancy. dark is less fertile of images than the feeble lustre of the moon. i was alone, and the walls were chequered by shadowy forms. as the moon passed behind a cloud and emerged, these shadows seemed to be endowed with life, and to move. the apartment was open to the breeze, and the curtain was occasionally blown from its ordinary position. this motion was not unaccompanied with sound. i failed not to snatch a look, and to listen when this motion and this sound occurred. my belief that my monitor was posted near, was strong, and instantly converted these appearances to tokens of his presence, and yet i could discern nothing. when my thoughts were at length permitted to revert to the past, the first idea that occurred was the resemblance between the words of the voice which i had just heard, and those which had terminated my dream in the summer-house. there are means by which we are able to distinguish a substance from a shadow, a reality from the phantom of a dream. the pit, my brother beckoning me forward, the seizure of my arm, and the voice behind, were surely imaginary. that these incidents were fashioned in my sleep, is supported by the same indubitable evidence that compels me to believe myself awake at present; yet the words and the voice were the same. then, by some inexplicable contrivance, i was aware of the danger, while my actions and sensations were those of one wholly unacquainted with it. now, was it not equally true that my actions and persuasions were at war? had not the belief, that evil lurked in the closet, gained admittance, and had not my actions betokened an unwarrantable security? to obviate the effects of my infatuation, the same means had been used. in my dream, he that tempted me to my destruction, was my brother. death was ambushed in my path. from what evil was i now rescued? what minister or implement of ill was shut up in this recess? who was it whose suffocating grasp i was to feel, should i dare to enter it? what monstrous conception is this? my brother! no; protection, and not injury is his province. strange and terrible chimera! yet it would not be suddenly dismissed. it was surely no vulgar agency that gave this form to my fears. he to whom all parts of time are equally present, whom no contingency approaches, was the author of that spell which now seized upon me. life was dear to me. no consideration was present that enjoined me to relinquish it. sacred duty combined with every spontaneous sentiment to endear to me my being. should i not shudder when my being was endangered? but what emotion should possess me when the arm lifted aginst me was wieland's? ideas exist in our minds that can be accounted for by no established laws. why did i dream that my brother was my foe? why but because an omen of my fate was ordained to be communicated? yet what salutary end did it serve? did it arm me with caution to elude, or fortitude to bear the evils to which i was reserved? my present thoughts were, no doubt, indebted for their hue to the similitude existing between these incidents and those of my dream. surely it was phrenzy that dictated my deed. that a ruffian was hidden in the closet, was an idea, the genuine tendency of which was to urge me to flight. such had been the effect formerly produced. had my mind been simply occupied with this thought at present, no doubt, the same impulse would have been experienced; but now it was my brother whom i was irresistably persuaded to regard as the contriver of that ill of which i had been forewarned. this persuasion did not extenuate my fears or my danger. why then did i again approach the closet and withdraw the bolt? my resolution was instantly conceived, and executed without faultering. the door was formed of light materials. the lock, of simple structure, easily forewent its hold. it opened into the room, and commonly moved upon its hinges, after being unfastened, without any effort of mine. this effort, however, was bestowed upon the present occasion. it was my purpose to open it with quickness, but the exertion which i made was ineffectual. it refused to open. at another time, this circumstance would not have looked with a face of mystery. i should have supposed some casual obstruction, and repeated my efforts to surmount it. but now my mind was accessible to no conjecture but one. the door was hindered from opening by human force. surely, here was new cause for affright. this was confirmation proper to decide my conduct. now was all ground of hesitation taken away. what could be supposed but that i deserted the chamber and the house? that i at least endeavoured no longer to withdraw the door? have i not said that my actions were dictated by phrenzy? my reason had forborne, for a time, to suggest or to sway my resolves. i reiterated my endeavours. i exerted all my force to overcome the obstacle, but in vain. the strength that was exerted to keep it shut, was superior to mine. a casual observer might, perhaps, applaud the audaciousness of this conduct. whence, but from an habitual defiance of danger, could my perseverance arise? i have already assigned, as distinctly as i am able, the cause of it. the frantic conception that my brother was within, that the resistance made to my design was exerted by him, had rooted itself in my mind. you will comprehend the height of this infatuation, when i tell you, that, finding all my exertions vain, i betook myself to exclamations. surely i was utterly bereft of understanding. now had i arrived at the crisis of my fate. "o! hinder not the door to open," i exclaimed, in a tone that had less of fear than of grief in it. "i know you well. come forth, but harm me not. i beseech you come forth." i had taken my hand from the lock, and removed to a small distance from the door. i had scarcely uttered these words, when the door swung upon its hinges, and displayed to my view the interior of the closet. whoever was within, was shrouded in darkness. a few seconds passed without interruption of the silence. i knew not what to expect or to fear. my eyes would not stray from the recess. presently, a deep sigh was heard. the quarter from which it came heightened the eagerness of my gaze. some one approached from the farther end. i quickly perceived the outlines of a human figure. its steps were irresolute and slow. i recoiled as it advanced. by coming at length within the verge of the room, his form was clearly distinguishable. i had prefigured to myself a very different personage. the face that presented itself was the last that i should desire to meet at an hour, and in a place like this. my wonder was stifled by my fears. assassins had lurked in this recess. some divine voice warned me of danger, that at this moment awaited me. i had spurned the intimation, and challenged my adversary. i recalled the mysterious countenance and dubious character of carwin. what motive but atrocious ones could guide his steps hither? i was alone. my habit suited the hour, and the place, and the warmth of the season. all succour was remote. he had placed himself between me and the door. my frame shook with the vehemence of my apprehensions. yet i was not wholly lost to myself: i vigilantly marked his demeanour. his looks were grave, but not without perturbation. what species of inquietude it betrayed, the light was not strong enough to enable me to discover. he stood still; but his eyes wandered from one object to another. when these powerful organs were fixed upon me, i shrunk into myself. at length, he broke silence. earnestness, and not embarrassment, was in his tone. he advanced close to me while he spoke. "what voice was that which lately addressed you?" he paused for an answer; but observing my trepidation, he resumed, with undiminished solemnity: "be not terrified. whoever he was, he hast done you an important service. i need not ask you if it were the voice of a companion. that sound was beyond the compass of human organs. the knowledge that enabled him to tell you who was in the closet, was obtained by incomprehensible means. "you knew that carwin was there. were you not apprized of his intents? the same power could impart the one as well as the other. yet, knowing these, you persisted. audacious girl! but, perhaps, you confided in his guardianship. your confidence was just. with succour like this at hand you may safely defy me. "he is my eternal foe; the baffler of my best concerted schemes. twice have you been saved by his accursed interposition. but for him i should long ere now have borne away the spoils of your honor." he looked at me with greater stedfastness than before. i became every moment more anxious for my safety. it was with difficulty i stammered out an entreaty that he would instantly depart, or suffer me to do so. he paid no regard to my request, but proceeded in a more impassioned manner. "what is it you fear? have i not told you, you are safe? has not one in whom you more reasonably place trust assured you of it? even if i execute my purpose, what injury is done? your prejudices will call it by that name, but it merits it not. i was impelled by a sentiment that does you honor; a sentiment, that would sanctify my deed; but, whatever it be, you are safe. be this chimera still worshipped; i will do nothing to pollute it." there he stopped. the accents and gestures of this man left me drained of all courage. surely, on no other occasion should i have been thus pusillanimous. my state i regarded as a hopeless one. i was wholly at the mercy of this being. whichever way i turned my eyes, i saw no avenue by which i might escape. the resources of my personal strength, my ingenuity, and my eloquence, i estimated at nothing. the dignity of virtue, and the force of truth, i had been accustomed to celebrate; and had frequently vaunted of the conquests which i should make with their assistance. i used to suppose that certain evils could never befall a being in possession of a sound mind; that true virtue supplies us with energy which vice can never resist; that it was always in our power to obstruct, by his own death, the designs of an enemy who aimed at less than our life. how was it that a sentiment like despair had now invaded me, and that i trusted to the protection of chance, or to the pity of my persecutor? his words imparted some notion of the injury which he had meditated. he talked of obstacles that had risen in his way. he had relinquished his design. these sources supplied me with slender consolation. there was no security but in his absence. when i looked at myself, when i reflected on the hour and the place, i was overpowered by horror and dejection. he was silent, museful, and inattentive to my situation, yet made no motion to depart. i was silent in my turn. what could i say? i was confident that reason in this contest would be impotent. i must owe my safety to his own suggestions. whatever purpose brought him hither, he had changed it. why then did he remain? his resolutions might fluctuate, and the pause of a few minutes restore to him his first resolutions. yet was not this the man whom we had treated with unwearied kindness? whose society was endeared to us by his intellectual elevation and accomplishments? who had a thousand times expatiated on the usefulness and beauty of virtue? why should such a one be dreaded? if i could have forgotten the circumstances in which our interview had taken place, i might have treated his words as jests. presently, he resumed: "fear me not: the space that severs us is small, and all visible succour is distant. you believe yourself completely in my power; that you stand upon the brink of ruin. such are your groundless fears. i cannot lift a finger to hurt you. easier it would be to stop the moon in her course than to injure you. the power that protects you would crumble my sinews, and reduce me to a heap of ashes in a moment, if i were to harbour a thought hostile to your safety. thus are appearances at length solved. little did i expect that they originated hence. what a portion is assigned to you? scanned by the eyes of this intelligence, your path will be without pits to swallow, or snares to entangle you. environed by the arms of this protection, all artifices will be frustrated, and all malice repelled." here succeeded a new pause. i was still observant of every gesture and look. the tranquil solemnity that had lately possessed his countenance gave way to a new expression. all now was trepidation and anxiety. "i must be gone," said he in a faltering accent. "why do i linger here? i will not ask your forgiveness. i see that your terrors are invincible. your pardon will be extorted by fear, and not dictated by compassion. i must fly from you forever. he that could plot against your honor, must expect from you and your friends persecution and death. i must doom myself to endless exile." saying this, he hastily left the room. i listened while he descended the stairs, and, unbolting the outer door, went forth. i did not follow him with my eyes, as the moon-light would have enabled me to do. relieved by his absence, and exhausted by the conflict of my fears, i threw myself on a chair, and resigned myself to those bewildering ideas which incidents like these could not fail to produce. chapter x order could not readily be introduced into my thoughts. the voice still rung in my ears. every accent that was uttered by carwin was fresh in my remembrance. his unwelcome approach, the recognition of his person, his hasty departure, produced a complex impression on my mind which no words can delineate. i strove to give a slower motion to my thoughts, and to regulate a confusion which became painful; but my efforts were nugatory. i covered my eyes with my hand, and sat, i know not how long, without power to arrange or utter my conceptions. i had remained for hours, as i believed, in absolute solitude. no thought of personal danger had molested my tranquillity. i had made no preparation for defence. what was it that suggested the design of perusing my father's manuscript? if, instead of this, i had retired to bed, and to sleep, to what fate might i not have been reserved? the ruffian, who must almost have suppressed his breathing to screen himself from discovery, would have noticed this signal, and i should have awakened only to perish with affright, and to abhor myself. could i have remained unconscious of my danger? could i have tranquilly slept in the midst of so deadly a snare? and who was he that threatened to destroy me? by what means could he hide himself in this closet? surely he is gifted with supernatural power. such is the enemy of whose attempts i was forewarned. daily i had seen him and conversed with him. nothing could be discerned through the impenetrable veil of his duplicity. when busied in conjectures, as to the author of the evil that was threatened, my mind did not light, for a moment, upon his image. yet has he not avowed himself my enemy? why should he be here if he had not meditated evil? he confesses that this has been his second attempt. what was the scene of his former conspiracy? was it not he whose whispers betrayed him? am i deceived; or was there not a faint resemblance between the voice of this man and that which talked of grasping my throat, and extinguishing my life in a moment? then he had a colleague in his crime; now he is alone. then death was the scope of his thoughts; now an injury unspeakably more dreadful. how thankful should i be to the power that has interposed to save me! that power is invisible. it is subject to the cognizance of one of my senses. what are the means that will inform me of what nature it is? he has set himself to counterwork the machinations of this man, who had menaced destruction to all that is dear to me, and whose cunning had surmounted every human impediment. there was none to rescue me from his grasp. my rashness even hastened the completion of his scheme, and precluded him from the benefits of deliberation. i had robbed him of the power to repent and forbear. had i been apprized of the danger, i should have regarded my conduct as the means of rendering my escape from it impossible. such, likewise, seem to have been the fears of my invisible protector. else why that startling intreaty to refrain from opening the closet? by what inexplicable infatuation was i compelled to proceed? yet my conduct was wise. carwin, unable to comprehend my folly, ascribed my behaviour to my knowledge. he conceived himself previously detected, and such detection being possible to flow only from my heavenly friend, and his enemy, his fears acquired additional strength. he is apprized of the nature and intentions of this being. perhaps he is a human agent. yet, on that supposition his atchievements are incredible. why should i be selected as the object of his care; or, if a mere mortal, should i not recognize some one, whom, benefits imparted and received had prompted to love me? what were the limits and duration of his guardianship? was the genius of my birth entrusted by divine benignity with this province? are human faculties adequate to receive stronger proofs of the existence of unfettered and beneficent intelligences than i have received? but who was this man's coadjutor? the voice that acknowledged an alliance in treachery with carwin warned me to avoid the summer-house. he assured me that there only my safety was endangered. his assurance, as it now appears, was fallacious. was there not deceit in his admonition? was his compact really annulled? some purpose was, perhaps, to be accomplished by preventing my future visits to that spot. why was i enjoined silence to others, on the subject of this admonition, unless it were for some unauthorized and guilty purpose? no one but myself was accustomed to visit it. backward, it was hidden from distant view by the rock, and in front, it was screened from all examination, by creeping plants, and the branches of cedars. what recess could be more propitious to secrecy? the spirit which haunted it formerly was pure and rapturous. it was a fane sacred to the memory of infantile days, and to blissful imaginations of the future! what a gloomy reverse had succeeded since the ominous arrival of this stranger! now, perhaps, it is the scene of his meditations. purposes fraught with horror, that shun the light, and contemplate the pollution of innocence, are here engendered, and fostered, and reared to maturity. such were the ideas that, during the night, were tumultuously revolved by me. i reviewed every conversation in which carwin had borne a part. i studied to discover the true inferences deducible from his deportment and words with regard to his former adventures and actual views. i pondered on the comments which he made on the relation which i had given of the closet dialogue. no new ideas suggested themselves in the course of this review. my expectation had, from the first, been disappointed on the small degree of surprize which this narrative excited in him. he never explicitly declared his opinion as to the nature of those voices, or decided whether they were real or visionary. he recommended no measures of caution or prevention. but what measures were now to be taken? was the danger which threatened me at an end? had i nothing more to fear? i was lonely, and without means of defence. i could not calculate the motives and regulate the footsteps of this person. what certainty was there, that he would not re-assume his purposes, and swiftly return to the execution of them? this idea covered me once more with dismay. how deeply did i regret the solitude in which i was placed, and how ardently did i desire the return of day! but neither of these inconveniencies were susceptible of remedy. at first, it occurred to me to summon my servant, and make her spend the night in my chamber; but the inefficacy of this expedient to enhance my safety was easily seen. once i resolved to leave the house, and retire to my brother's, but was deterred by reflecting on the unseasonableness of the hour, on the alarm which my arrival, and the account which i should be obliged to give, might occasion, and on the danger to which i might expose myself in the way thither. i began, likewise, to consider carwin's return to molest me as exceedingly improbable. he had relinquished, of his own accord, his design, and departed without compulsion. "surely," said i, "there is omnipotence in the cause that changed the views of a man like carwin. the divinity that shielded me from his attempts will take suitable care of my future safety. thus to yield to my fears is to deserve that they should be real." scarcely had i uttered these words, when my attention was startled by the sound of footsteps. they denoted some one stepping into the piazza in front of my house. my new-born confidence was extinguished in a moment. carwin, i thought, had repented his departure, and was hastily returning. the possibility that his return was prompted by intentions consistent with my safety, found no place in my mind. images of violation and murder assailed me anew, and the terrors which succeeded almost incapacitated me from taking any measures for my defence. it was an impulse of which i was scarcely conscious, that made me fasten the lock and draw the bolts of my chamber door. having done this, i threw myself on a seat; for i trembled to a degree which disabled me from standing, and my soul was so perfectly absorbed in the act of listening, that almost the vital motions were stopped. the door below creaked on its hinges. it was not again thrust to, but appeared to remain open. footsteps entered, traversed the entry, and began to mount the stairs. how i detested the folly of not pursuing the man when he withdrew, and bolting after him the outer door! might he not conceive this omission to be a proof that my angel had deserted me, and be thereby fortified in guilt? every step on the stairs, which brought him nearer to my chamber, added vigor to my desperation. the evil with which i was menaced was to be at any rate eluded. how little did i preconceive the conduct which, in an exigence like this, i should be prone to adopt. you will suppose that deliberation and despair would have suggested the same course of action, and that i should have, unhesitatingly, resorted to the best means of personal defence within my power. a penknife lay open upon my table. i remembered that it was there, and seized it. for what purpose you will scarcely inquire. it will be immediately supposed that i meant it for my last refuge, and that if all other means should fail, i should plunge it into the heart of my ravisher. i have lost all faith in the stedfastness of human resolves. it was thus that in periods of calm i had determined to act. no cowardice had been held by me in greater abhorrence than that which prompted an injured female to destroy, not her injurer ere the injury was perpetrated, but herself when it was without remedy. yet now this penknife appeared to me of no other use than to baffle my assailant, and prevent the crime by destroying myself. to deliberate at such a time was impossible; but among the tumultuous suggestions of the moment, i do not recollect that it once occurred to me to use it as an instrument of direct defence. the steps had now reached the second floor. every footfall accelerated the completion, without augmenting, the certainty of evil. the consciousness that the door was fast, now that nothing but that was interposed between me and danger, was a source of some consolation. i cast my eye towards the window. this, likewise, was a new suggestion. if the door should give way, it was my sudden resolution to throw myself from the window. its height from the ground, which was covered beneath by a brick pavement, would insure my destruction; but i thought not of that. when opposite to my door the footsteps ceased. was he listening whether my fears were allayed, and my caution were asleep? did he hope to take me by surprize? yet, if so, why did he allow so many noisy signals to betray his approach? presently the steps were again heard to approach the door. an hand was laid upon the lock, and the latch pulled back. did he imagine it possible that i should fail to secure the door? a slight effort was made to push it open, as if all bolts being withdrawn, a slight effort only was required. i no sooner perceived this, than i moved swiftly towards the window. carwin's frame might be said to be all muscle. his strength and activity had appeared, in various instances, to be prodigious. a slight exertion of his force would demolish the door. would not that exertion be made? too surely it would; but, at the same moment that this obstacle should yield, and he should enter the apartment, my determination was formed to leap from the window. my senses were still bound to this object. i gazed at the door in momentary expectation that the assault would be made. the pause continued. the person without was irresolute and motionless. suddenly, it occurred to me that carwin might conceive me to have fled. that i had not betaken myself to flight was, indeed, the least probable of all conclusions. in this persuasion he must have been confirmed on finding the lower door unfastened, and the chamber door locked. was it not wise to foster this persuasion? should i maintain deep silence, this, in addition to other circumstances, might encourage the belief, and he would once more depart. every new reflection added plausibility to this reasoning. it was presently more strongly enforced, when i noticed footsteps withdrawing from the door. the blood once more flowed back to my heart, and a dawn of exultation began to rise: but my joy was short lived. instead of descending the stairs, he passed to the door of the opposite chamber, opened it, and having entered, shut it after him with a violence that shook the house. how was i to interpret this circumstance? for what end could he have entered this chamber? did the violence with which he closed the door testify the depth of his vexation? this room was usually occupied by pleyel. was carwin aware of his absence on this night? could he be suspected of a design so sordid as pillage? if this were his view there were no means in my power to frustrate it. it behoved me to seize the first opportunity to escape; but if my escape were supposed by my enemy to have been already effected, no asylum was more secure than the present. how could my passage from the house be accomplished without noises that might incite him to pursue me? utterly at a loss to account for his going into pleyel's chamber, i waited in instant expectation of hearing him come forth. all, however, was profoundly still. i listened in vain for a considerable period, to catch the sound of the door when it should again be opened. there was no other avenue by which he could escape, but a door which led into the girl's chamber. would any evil from this quarter befall the girl? hence arose a new train of apprehensions. they merely added to the turbulence and agony of my reflections. whatever evil impended over her, i had no power to avert it. seclusion and silence were the only means of saving myself from the perils of this fatal night. what solemn vows did i put up, that if i should once more behold the light of day, i would never trust myself again within the threshold of this dwelling! minute lingered after minute, but no token was given that carwin had returned to the passage. what, i again asked, could detain him in this room? was it possible that he had returned, and glided, unperceived, away? i was speedily aware of the difficulty that attended an enterprize like this; and yet, as if by that means i were capable of gaining any information on that head, i cast anxious looks from the window. the object that first attracted my attention was an human figure standing on the edge of the bank. perhaps my penetration was assisted by my hopes. be that as it will, the figure of carwin was clearly distinguishable. from the obscurity of my station, it was impossible that i should be discerned by him, and yet he scarcely suffered me to catch a glimpse of him. he turned and went down the steep, which, in this part, was not difficult to be scaled. my conjecture then had been right. carwin has softly opened the door, descended the stairs, and issued forth. that i should not have overheard his steps, was only less incredible than that my eyes had deceived me. but what was now to be done? the house was at length delivered from this detested inmate. by one avenue might he again re-enter. was it not wise to bar the lower door? perhaps he had gone out by the kitchen door. for this end, he must have passed through judith's chamber. these entrances being closed and bolted, as great security was gained as was compatible with my lonely condition. the propriety of these measures was too manifest not to make me struggle successfully with my fears. yet i opened my own door with the utmost caution, and descended as if i were afraid that carwin had been still immured in pleyel's chamber. the outer door was a-jar. i shut, with trembling eagerness, and drew every bolt that appended to it. i then passed with light and less cautious steps through the parlour, but was surprized to discover that the kitchen door was secure. i was compelled to acquiesce in the first conjecture that carwin had escaped through the entry. my heart was now somewhat eased of the load of apprehension. i returned once more to my chamber, the door of which i was careful to lock. it was no time to think of repose. the moon-light began already to fade before the light of the day. the approach of morning was betokened by the usual signals. i mused upon the events of this night, and determined to take up my abode henceforth at my brother's. whether i should inform him of what had happened was a question which seemed to demand some consideration. my safety unquestionably required that i should abandon my present habitation. as my thoughts began to flow with fewer impediments, the image of pleyel, and the dubiousness of his condition, again recurred to me. i again ran over the possible causes of his absence on the preceding day. my mind was attuned to melancholy. i dwelt, with an obstinacy for which i could not account, on the idea of his death. i painted to myself his struggles with the billows, and his last appearance. i imagined myself a midnight wanderer on the shore, and to have stumbled on his corpse, which the tide had cast up. these dreary images affected me even to tears. i endeavoured not to restrain them. they imparted a relief which i had not anticipated. the more copiously they flowed, the more did my general sensations appear to subside into calm, and a certain restlessness give way to repose. perhaps, relieved by this effusion, the slumber so much wanted might have stolen on my senses, had there been no new cause of alarm. chapter xi i was aroused from this stupor by sounds that evidently arose in the next chamber. was it possible that i had been mistaken in the figure which i had seen on the bank? or had carwin, by some inscrutable means, penetrated once more into this chamber? the opposite door opened; footsteps came forth, and the person, advancing to mine, knocked. so unexpected an incident robbed me of all presence of mind, and, starting up, i involuntarily exclaimed, "who is there?" an answer was immediately given. the voice, to my inexpressible astonishment, was pleyel's. "it is i. have you risen? if you have not, make haste; i want three minutes conversation with you in the parlour--i will wait for you there." saying this he retired from the door. should i confide in the testimony of my ears? if that were true, it was pleyel that had been hitherto immured in the opposite chamber: he whom my rueful fancy had depicted in so many ruinous and ghastly shapes: he whose footsteps had been listened to with such inquietude! what is man, that knowledge is so sparingly conferred upon him! that his heart should be wrung with distress, and his frame be exanimated with fear, though his safety be encompassed with impregnable walls! what are the bounds of human imbecility! he that warned me of the presence of my foe refused the intimation by which so many racking fears would have been precluded. yet who would have imagined the arrival of pleyel at such an hour? his tone was desponding and anxious. why this unseasonable summons? and why this hasty departure? some tidings he, perhaps, bears of mysterious and unwelcome import. my impatience would not allow me to consume much time in deliberation: i hastened down. pleyel i found standing at a window, with eyes cast down as in meditation, and arms folded on his breast. every line in his countenance was pregnant with sorrow. to this was added a certain wanness and air of fatigue. the last time i had seen him appearances had been the reverse of these. i was startled at the change. the first impulse was to question him as to the cause. this impulse was supplanted by some degree of confusion, flowing from a consciousness that love had too large, and, as it might prove, a perceptible share in creating this impulse. i was silent. presently he raised his eyes and fixed them upon me. i read in them an anguish altogether ineffable. never had i witnessed a like demeanour in pleyel. never, indeed, had i observed an human countenance in which grief was more legibly inscribed. he seemed struggling for utterance; but his struggles being fruitless, he shook his head and turned away from me. my impatience would not allow me to be longer silent: "what," said i, "for heaven's sake, my friend, what is the matter?" he started at the sound of my voice. his looks, for a moment, became convulsed with an emotion very different from grief. his accents were broken with rage. "the matter--o wretch!--thus exquisitely fashioned--on whom nature seemed to have exhausted all her graces; with charms so awful and so pure! how art thou fallen! from what height fallen! a ruin so complete--so unheard of!" his words were again choaked by emotion. grief and pity were again mingled in his features. he resumed, in a tone half suffocated by sobs: "but why should i upbraid thee? could i restore to thee what thou hast lost; efface this cursed stain; snatch thee from the jaws of this fiend; i would do it. yet what will avail my efforts? i have not arms with which to contend with so consummate, so frightful a depravity. "evidence less than this would only have excited resentment and scorn. the wretch who should have breathed a suspicion injurious to thy honor, would have been regarded without anger; not hatred or envy could have prompted him; it would merely be an argument of madness. that my eyes, that my ears, should bear witness to thy fall! by no other way could detestible conviction be imparted. "why do i summon thee to this conference? why expose myself to thy derision? here admonition and entreaty are vain. thou knowest him already, for a murderer and thief. i had thought to have been the first to disclose to thee his infamy; to have warned thee of the pit to which thou art hastening; but thy eyes are open in vain. o foul and insupportable disgrace! "there is but one path. i know you will disappear together. in thy ruin, how will the felicity and honor of multitudes be involved! but it must come. this scene shall not be blotted by his presence. no doubt thou wilt shortly see thy detested paramour. this scene will be again polluted by a midnight assignation. inform him of his danger; tell him that his crimes are known; let him fly far and instantly from this spot, if he desires to avoid the fate which menaced him in ireland. "and wilt thou not stay behind?--but shame upon my weakness. i know not what i would say.--i have done what i purposed. to stay longer, to expostulate, to beseech, to enumerate the consequences of thy act--what end can it serve but to blazon thy infamy and embitter our woes? and yet, o think, think ere it be too late, on the distresses which thy flight will entail upon us; on the base, grovelling, and atrocious character of the wretch to whom thou hast sold thy honor. but what is this? is not thy effrontery impenetrable, and thy heart thoroughly cankered? o most specious, and most profligate of women!" saying this, he rushed out of the house. i saw him in a few moments hurrying along the path which led to my brother's. i had no power to prevent his going, or to recall, or to follow him. the accents i had heard were calculated to confound and bewilder. i looked around me to assure myself that the scene was real. i moved that i might banish the doubt that i was awake. such enormous imputations from the mouth of pleyel! to be stigmatized with the names of wanton and profligate! to be charged with the sacrifice of honor! with midnight meetings with a wretch known to be a murderer and thief! with an intention to fly in his company! what i had heard was surely the dictate of phrenzy, or it was built upon some fatal, some incomprehensible mistake. after the horrors of the night; after undergoing perils so imminent from this man, to be summoned to an interview like this; to find pleyel fraught with a belief that, instead of having chosen death as a refuge from the violence of this man, i had hugged his baseness to my heart, had sacrificed for him my purity, my spotless name, my friendships, and my fortune! that even madness could engender accusations like these was not to be believed. what evidence could possibly suggest conceptions so wild? after the unlooked-for interview with carwin in my chamber, he retired. could pleyel have observed his exit? it was not long after that pleyel himself entered. did he build on this incident, his odious conclusions? could the long series of my actions and sentiments grant me no exemption from suspicions so foul? was it not more rational to infer that carwin's designs had been illicit; that my life had been endangered by the fury of one whom, by some means, he had discovered to be an assassin and robber; that my honor had been assailed, not by blandishments, but by violence? he has judged me without hearing. he has drawn from dubious appearances, conclusions the most improbable and unjust. he has loaded me with all outrageous epithets. he has ranked me with prostitutes and thieves. i cannot pardon thee, pleyel, for this injustice. thy understanding must be hurt. if it be not, if thy conduct was sober and deliberate, i can never forgive an outrage so unmanly, and so gross. these thoughts gradually gave place to others. pleyel was possessed by some momentary phrenzy: appearances had led him into palpable errors. whence could his sagacity have contracted this blindness? was it not love? previously assured of my affection for carwin, distracted with grief and jealousy, and impelled hither at that late hour by some unknown instigation, his imagination transformed shadows into monsters, and plunged him into these deplorable errors. this idea was not unattended with consolation. my soul was divided between indignation at his injustice, and delight on account of the source from which i conceived it to spring. for a long time they would allow admission to no other thoughts. surprize is an emotion that enfeebles, not invigorates. all my meditations were accompanied with wonder. i rambled with vagueness, or clung to one image with an obstinacy which sufficiently testified the maddening influence of late transactions. gradually i proceeded to reflect upon the consequences of pleyel's mistake, and on the measures i should take to guard myself against future injury from carwin. should i suffer this mistake to be detected by time? when his passion should subside, would he not perceive the flagrancy of his injustice, and hasten to atone for it? did it not become my character to testify resentment for language and treatment so opprobrious? wrapt up in the consciousness of innocence, and confiding in the influence of time and reflection to confute so groundless a charge, it was my province to be passive and silent. as to the violences meditated by carwin, and the means of eluding them, the path to be taken by me was obvious. i resolved to tell the tale to my brother, and regulate myself by his advice. for this end, when the morning was somewhat advanced, i took the way to his house. my sister was engaged in her customary occupations. as soon as i appeared, she remarked a change in my looks. i was not willing to alarm her by the information which i had to communicate. her health was in that condition which rendered a disastrous tale particularly unsuitable. i forbore a direct answer to her inquiries, and inquired, in my turn, for wieland. "why," said she, "i suspect something mysterious and unpleasant has happened this morning. scarcely had we risen when pleyel dropped among us. what could have prompted him to make us so early and so unseasonable a visit i cannot tell. to judge from the disorder of his dress, and his countenance, something of an extraordinary nature has occurred. he permitted me merely to know that he had slept none, nor even undressed, during the past night. he took your brother to walk with him. some topic must have deeply engaged them, for wieland did not return till the breakfast hour was passed, and returned alone. his disturbance was excessive; but he would not listen to my importunities, or tell me what had happened. i gathered from hints which he let fall, that your situation was, in some way, the cause: yet he assured me that you were at your own house, alive, in good health, and in perfect safety. he scarcely ate a morsel, and immediately after breakfast went out again. he would not inform me whither he was going, but mentioned that he probably might not return before night." i was equally astonished and alarmed by this information. pleyel had told his tale to my brother, and had, by a plausible and exaggerated picture, instilled into him unfavorable thoughts of me. yet would not the more correct judgment of wieland perceive and expose the fallacy of his conclusions? perhaps his uneasiness might arise from some insight into the character of carwin, and from apprehensions for my safety. the appearances by which pleyel had been misled, might induce him likewise to believe that i entertained an indiscreet, though not dishonorable affection for carwin. such were the conjectures rapidly formed. i was inexpressibly anxious to change them into certainty. for this end an interview with my brother was desirable. he was gone, no one knew whither, and was not expected speedily to return. i had no clue by which to trace his footsteps. my anxieties could not be concealed from my sister. they heightened her solicitude to be acquainted with the cause. there were many reasons persuading me to silence: at least, till i had seen my brother, it would be an act of inexcusable temerity to unfold what had lately passed. no other expedient for eluding her importunities occurred to me, but that of returning to my own house. i recollected my determination to become a tenant of this roof. i mentioned it to her. she joyfully acceded to this proposal, and suffered me, with less reluctance, to depart, when i told her that it was with a view to collect and send to my new dwelling what articles would be immediately useful to me. once more i returned to the house which had been the scene of so much turbulence and danger. i was at no great distance from it when i observed my brother coming out. on seeing me he stopped, and after ascertaining, as it seemed, which way i was going, he returned into the house before me. i sincerely rejoiced at this event, and i hastened to set things, if possible, on their right footing. his brow was by no means expressive of those vehement emotions with which pleyel had been agitated. i drew a favorable omen from this circumstance. without delay i began the conversation. "i have been to look for you," said i, "but was told by catharine that pleyel had engaged you on some important and disagreeable affair. before his interview with you he spent a few minutes with me. these minutes he employed in upbraiding me for crimes and intentions with which i am by no means chargeable. i believe him to have taken up his opinions on very insufficient grounds. his behaviour was in the highest degree precipitate and unjust, and, until i receive some atonement, i shall treat him, in my turn, with that contempt which he justly merits: meanwhile i am fearful that he has prejudiced my brother against me. that is an evil which i most anxiously deprecate, and which i shall indeed exert myself to remove. has he made me the subject of this morning's conversation?" my brother's countenance testified no surprize at my address. the benignity of his looks were no wise diminished. "it is true," said he, "your conduct was the subject of our discourse. i am your friend, as well as your brother. there is no human being whom i love with more tenderness, and whose welfare is nearer my heart. judge then with what emotions i listened to pleyel's story. i expect and desire you to vindicate yourself from aspersions so foul, if vindication be possible." the tone with which he uttered the last words affected me deeply. "if vindication be possible!" repeated i. "from what you know, do you deem a formal vindication necessary? can you harbour for a moment the belief of my guilt?" he shook his head with an air of acute anguish. "i have struggled," said he, "to dismiss that belief. you speak before a judge who will profit by any pretence to acquit you: who is ready to question his own senses when they plead against you." these words incited a new set of thoughts in my mind. i began to suspect that pleyel had built his accusations on some foundation unknown to me. "i may be a stranger to the grounds of your belief. pleyel loaded me with indecent and virulent invectives, but he withheld from me the facts that generated his suspicions. events took place last night of which some of the circumstances were of an ambiguous nature. i conceived that these might possibly have fallen under his cognizance, and that, viewed through the mists of prejudice and passion, they supplied a pretence for his conduct, but believed that your more unbiassed judgment would estimate them at their just value. perhaps his tale has been different from what i suspect it to be. listen then to my narrative. if there be any thing in his story inconsistent with mine, his story is false." i then proceeded to a circumstantial relation of the incidents of the last night. wieland listened with deep attention. having finished, "this," continued i, "is the truth; you see in what circumstances an interview took place between carwin and me. he remained for hours in my closet, and for some minutes in my chamber. he departed without haste or interruption. if pleyel marked him as he left the house, and it is not impossible that he did, inferences injurious to my character might suggest themselves to him. in admitting them, he gave proofs of less discernment and less candor than i once ascribed to him." "his proofs," said wieland, after a considerable pause, "are different. that he should be deceived, is not possible. that he himself is not the deceiver, could not be believed, if his testimony were not inconsistent with yours; but the doubts which i entertained are now removed. your tale, some parts of it, is marvellous; the voice which exclaimed against your rashness in approaching the closet, your persisting notwithstanding that prohibition, your belief that i was the ruffian, and your subsequent conduct, are believed by me, because i have known you from childhood, because a thousand instances have attested your veracity, and because nothing less than my own hearing and vision would convince me, in opposition to her own assertions, that my sister had fallen into wickedness like this." i threw my arms around him, and bathed his cheek with my tears. "that," said i, "is spoken like my brother. but what are the proofs?" he replied--"pleyel informed me that, in going to your house, his attention was attracted by two voices. the persons speaking sat beneath the bank out of sight. these persons, judging by their voices, were carwin and you. i will not repeat the dialogue. if my sister was the female, pleyel was justified in concluding you to be, indeed, one of the most profligate of women. hence, his accusations of you, and his efforts to obtain my concurrence to a plan by which an eternal separation should be brought about between my sister and this man." i made wieland repeat this recital. here, indeed, was a tale to fill me with terrible foreboding. i had vainly thought that my safety could be sufficiently secured by doors and bars, but this is a foe from whose grasp no power of divinity can save me! his artifices will ever lay my fame and happiness at his mercy. how shall i counterwork his plots, or detect his coadjutor? he has taught some vile and abandoned female to mimic my voice. pleyel's ears were the witnesses of my dishonor. this is the midnight assignation to which he alluded. thus is the silence he maintained when attempting to open the door of my chamber, accounted for. he supposed me absent, and meant, perhaps, had my apartment been accessible, to leave in it some accusing memorial. pleyel was no longer equally culpable. the sincerity of his anguish, the depth of his despair, i remembered with some tendencies to gratitude. yet was he not precipitate? was the conjecture that my part was played by some mimic so utterly untenable? instances of this faculty are common. the wickedness of carwin must, in his opinion, have been adequate to such contrivances, and yet the supposition of my guilt was adopted in preference to that. but how was this error to be unveiled? what but my own assertion had i to throw in the balance against it? would this be permitted to outweigh the testimony of his senses? i had no witnesses to prove my existence in another place. the real events of that night are marvellous. few, to whom they should be related, would scruple to discredit them. pleyel is sceptical in a transcendant degree. i cannot summon carwin to my bar, and make him the attestor of my innocence, and the accuser of himself. my brother saw and comprehended my distress. he was unacquainted, however, with the full extent of it. he knew not by how many motives i was incited to retrieve the good opinion of pleyel. he endeavored to console me. some new event, he said, would occur to disentangle the maze. he did not question the influence of my eloquence, if i thought proper to exert it. why not seek an interview with pleyel, and exact from him a minute relation, in which something may be met with serving to destroy the probability of the whole? i caught, with eagerness, at this hope; but my alacrity was damped by new reflections. should i, perfect in this respect, and unblemished as i was, thrust myself, uncalled, into his presence, and make my felicity depend upon his arbitrary verdict? "if you chuse to seek an interview," continued wieland, "you must make haste, for pleyel informed me of his intention to set out this evening or to-morrow on a long journey." no intelligence was less expected or less welcome than this. i had thrown myself in a window seat; but now, starting on my feet, i exclaimed, "good heavens! what is it you say? a journey? whither? when?" "i cannot say whither. it is a sudden resolution i believe. i did not hear of it till this morning. he promises to write to me as soon as he is settled." i needed no further information as to the cause and issue of this journey. the scheme of happiness to which he had devoted his thoughts was blasted by the discovery of last night. my preference of another, and my unworthiness to be any longer the object of his adoration, were evinced by the same act and in the same moment. the thought of utter desertion, a desertion originating in such a cause, was the prelude to distraction. that pleyel should abandon me forever, because i was blind to his excellence, because i coveted pollution, and wedded infamy, when, on the contrary, my heart was the shrine of all purity, and beat only for his sake, was a destiny which, as long as my life was in my own hands, i would by no means consent to endure. i remembered that this evil was still preventable; that this fatal journey it was still in my power to procrastinate, or, perhaps, to occasion it to be laid aside. there were no impediments to a visit: i only dreaded lest the interview should be too long delayed. my brother befriended my impatience, and readily consented to furnish me with a chaise and servant to attend me. my purpose was to go immediately to pleyel's farm, where his engagements usually detained him during the day. chapter xii my way lay through the city. i had scarcely entered it when i was seized with a general sensation of sickness. every object grew dim and swam before my sight. it was with difficulty i prevented myself from sinking to the bottom of the carriage. i ordered myself to be carried to mrs. baynton's, in hope that an interval of repose would invigorate and refresh me. my distracted thoughts would allow me but little rest. growing somewhat better in the afternoon, i resumed my journey. my contemplations were limited to a few objects. i regarded my success, in the purpose which i had in view, as considerably doubtful. i depended, in some degree, on the suggestions of the moment, and on the materials which pleyel himself should furnish me. when i reflected on the nature of the accusation, i burned with disdain. would not truth, and the consciousness of innocence, render me triumphant? should i not cast from me, with irresistible force, such atrocious imputations? what an entire and mournful change has been effected in a few hours! the gulf that separates man from insects is not wider than that which severs the polluted from the chaste among women. yesterday and to-day i am the same. there is a degree of depravity to which it is impossible for me to sink; yet, in the apprehension of another, my ancient and intimate associate, the perpetual witness of my actions, and partaker of my thoughts, i had ceased to be the same. my integrity was tarnished and withered in his eyes. i was the colleague of a murderer, and the paramour of a thief! his opinion was not destitute of evidence: yet what proofs could reasonably avail to establish an opinion like this? if the sentiments corresponded not with the voice that was heard, the evidence was deficient; but this want of correspondence would have been supposed by me if i had been the auditor and pleyel the criminal. but mimicry might still more plausibly have been employed to explain the scene. alas! it is the fate of clara wieland to fall into the hands of a precipitate and inexorable judge. but what, o man of mischief! is the tendency of thy thoughts? frustrated in thy first design, thou wilt not forego the immolation of thy victim. to exterminate my reputation was all that remained to thee, and this my guardian has permitted. to dispossess pleyel of this prejudice may be impossible; but if that be effected, it cannot be supposed that thy wiles are exhausted; thy cunning will discover innumerable avenues to the accomplishment of thy malignant purpose. why should i enter the lists against thee? would to heaven i could disarm thy vengeance by my deprecations! when i think of all the resources with which nature and education have supplied thee; that thy form is a combination of steely fibres and organs of exquisite ductility and boundless compass, actuated by an intelligence gifted with infinite endowments, and comprehending all knowledge, i perceive that my doom is fixed. what obstacle will be able to divert thy zeal or repel thy efforts? that being who has hitherto protected me has borne testimony to the formidableness of thy attempts, since nothing less than supernatural interference could check thy career. musing on these thoughts, i arrived, towards the close of the day, at pleyel's house. a month before, i had traversed the same path; but how different were my sensations! now i was seeking the presence of one who regarded me as the most degenerate of human kind. i was to plead the cause of my innocence, against witnesses the most explicit and unerring, of those which support the fabric of human knowledge. the nearer i approached the crisis, the more did my confidence decay. when the chaise stopped at the door, my strength refused to support me, and i threw myself into the arms of an ancient female domestic. i had not courage to inquire whether her master was at home. i was tormented with fears that the projected journey was already undertaken. these fears were removed, by her asking me whether she should call her young master, who had just gone into his own room. i was somewhat revived by this intelligence, and resolved immediately to seek him there. in my confusion of mind, i neglected to knock at the door, but entered his apartment without previous notice. this abruptness was altogether involuntary. absorbed in reflections of such unspeakable moment, i had no leisure to heed the niceties of punctilio. i discovered him standing with his back towards the entrance. a small trunk, with its lid raised, was before him in which it seemed as if he had been busy in packing his clothes. the moment of my entrance, he was employed in gazing at something which he held in his hand. i imagined that i fully comprehended this scene. the image which he held before him, and by which his attention was so deeply engaged, i doubted not to be my own. these preparations for his journey, the cause to which it was to be imputed, the hopelessness of success in the undertaking on which i had entered, rushed at once upon my feelings, and dissolved me into a flood of tears. startled by this sound, he dropped the lid of the trunk and turned. the solemn sadness that previously overspread his countenance, gave sudden way to an attitude and look of the most vehement astonishment. perceiving me unable to uphold myself, he stepped towards me without speaking, and supported me by his arm. the kindness of this action called forth a new effusion from my eyes. weeping was a solace to which, at that time, i had not grown familiar, and which, therefore, was peculiarly delicious. indignation was no longer to be read in the features of my friend. they were pregnant with a mixture of wonder and pity. their expression was easily interpreted. this visit, and these tears, were tokens of my penitence. the wretch whom he had stigmatized as incurably and obdurately wicked, now shewed herself susceptible of remorse, and had come to confess her guilt. this persuasion had no tendency to comfort me. it only shewed me, with new evidence, the difficulty of the task which i had assigned myself. we were mutually silent. i had less power and less inclination than ever to speak. i extricated myself from his hold, and threw myself on a sofa. he placed himself by my side, and appeared to wait with impatience and anxiety for some beginning of the conversation. what could i say? if my mind had suggested any thing suitable to the occasion, my utterance was suffocated by tears. frequently he attempted to speak, but seemed deterred by some degree of uncertainty as to the true nature of the scene. at length, in faltering accents he spoke: "my friend! would to heaven i were still permitted to call you by that name. the image that i once adored existed only in my fancy; but though i cannot hope to see it realized, you may not be totally insensible to the horrors of that gulf into which you are about to plunge. what heart is forever exempt from the goadings of compunction and the influx of laudable propensities? "i thought you accomplished and wise beyond the rest of women. not a sentiment you uttered, not a look you assumed, that were not, in my apprehension, fraught with the sublimities of rectitude and the illuminations of genius. deceit has some bounds. your education could not be without influence. a vigorous understanding cannot be utterly devoid of virtue; but you could not counterfeit the powers of invention and reasoning. i was rash in my invectives. i will not, but with life, relinquish all hopes of you. i will shut out every proof that would tell me that your heart is incurably diseased. "you come to restore me once more to happiness; to convince me that you have torn her mask from vice, and feel nothing but abhorrence for the part you have hitherto acted." at these words my equanimity forsook me. for a moment i forgot the evidence from which pleyel's opinions were derived, the benevolence of his remonstrances, and the grief which his accents bespoke; i was filled with indignation and horror at charges so black; i shrunk back and darted at him a look of disdain and anger. my passion supplied me with words. "what detestable infatuation was it that led me hither! why do i patiently endure these horrible insults! my offences exist only in your own distempered imagination: you are leagued with the traitor who assailed my life: you have vowed the destruction of my peace and honor. i deserve infamy for listening to calumnies so base!" these words were heard by pleyel without visible resentment. his countenance relapsed into its former gloom; but he did not even look at me. the ideas which had given place to my angry emotions returned, and once more melted me into tears. "o!" i exclaimed, in a voice broken by sobs, "what a task is mine! compelled to hearken to charges which i feel to be false, but which i know to be believed by him that utters them; believed too not without evidence, which, though fallacious, is not unplausible. "i came hither not to confess, but to vindicate. i know the source of your opinions. wieland has informed me on what your suspicions are built. these suspicions are fostered by you as certainties; the tenor of my life, of all my conversations and letters, affords me no security; every sentiment that my tongue and my pen have uttered, bear testimony to the rectitude of my mind; but this testimony is rejected. i am condemned as brutally profligate: i am classed with the stupidly and sordidly wicked. "and where are the proofs that must justify so foul and so improbable an accusation? you have overheard a midnight conference. voices have saluted your ear, in which you imagine yourself to have recognized mine, and that of a detected villain. the sentiments expressed were not allowed to outweigh the casual or concerted resemblance of voice. sentiments the reverse of all those whose influence my former life had attested, denoting a mind polluted by grovelling vices, and entering into compact with that of a thief and a murderer. the nature of these sentiments did not enable you to detect the cheat, did not suggest to you the possibility that my voice had been counterfeited by another. "you were precipitate and prone to condemn. instead of rushing on the impostors, and comparing the evidence of sight with that of hearing, you stood aloof, or you fled. my innocence would not now have stood in need of vindication, if this conduct had been pursued. that you did not pursue it, your present thoughts incontestibly prove. yet this conduct might surely have been expected from pleyel. that he would not hastily impute the blackest of crimes, that he would not couple my name with infamy, and cover me with ruin for inadequate or slight reasons, might reasonably have been expected." the sobs which convulsed my bosom would not suffer me to proceed. pleyel was for a moment affected. he looked at me with some expression of doubt; but this quickly gave place to a mournful solemnity. he fixed his eyes on the floor as in reverie, and spoke: "two hours hence i am gone. shall i carry away with me the sorrow that is now my guest? or shall that sorrow be accumulated tenfold? what is she that is now before me? shall every hour supply me with new proofs of a wickedness beyond example? already i deem her the most abandoned and detestable of human creatures. her coming and her tears imparted a gleam of hope, but that gleam has vanished." he now fixed his eyes upon me, and every muscle in his face trembled. his tone was hollow and terrible--"thou knowest that i was a witness of your interview, yet thou comest hither to upbraid me for injustice! thou canst look me in the face and say that i am deceived!--an inscrutable providence has fashioned thee for some end. thou wilt live, no doubt, to fulfil the purposes of thy maker, if he repent not of his workmanship, and send not his vengeance to exterminate thee, ere the measure of thy days be full. surely nothing in the shape of man can vie with thee! "but i thought i had stifled this fury. i am not constituted thy judge. my office is to pity and amend, and not to punish and revile. i deemed myself exempt from all tempestuous passions. i had almost persuaded myself to weep over thy fall; but i am frail as dust, and mutable as water; i am calm, i am compassionate only in thy absence.--make this house, this room, thy abode as long as thou wilt, but forgive me if i prefer solitude for the short time during which i shall stay." saying this, he motioned as if to leave the apartment. the stormy passions of this man affected me by sympathy. i ceased to weep. i was motionless and speechless with agony. i sat with my hands clasped, mutely gazing after him as he withdrew. i desired to detain him, but was unable to make any effort for that purpose, till he had passed out of the room. i then uttered an involuntary and piercing cry--"pleyel! art thou gone? gone forever?" at this summons he hastily returned. he beheld me wild, pale, gasping for breath, and my head already sinking on my bosom. a painful dizziness seized me, and i fainted away. when i recovered, i found myself stretched on a bed in the outer apartment, and pleyel, with two female servants standing beside it. all the fury and scorn which the countenance of the former lately expressed, had now disappeared, and was succeeded by the most tender anxiety. as soon as he perceived that my senses were returned to me, he clasped his hands, and exclaimed, "god be thanked! you are once more alive. i had almost despaired of your recovery. i fear i have been precipitate and unjust. my senses must have been the victims of some inexplicable and momentary phrenzy. forgive me, i beseech you, forgive my reproaches. i would purchase conviction of your purity, at the price of my existence here and hereafter." he once more, in a tone of the most fervent tenderness, besought me to be composed, and then left me to the care of the women. chapter xiii here was wrought a surprizing change in my friend. what was it that had shaken conviction so firm? had any thing occurred during my fit, adequate to produce so total an alteration? my attendants informed me that he had not left my apartment; that the unusual duration of my fit, and the failure, for a time, of all the means used for my recovery, had filled him with grief and dismay. did he regard the effect which his reproaches had produced as a proof of my sincerity? in this state of mind, i little regarded my languors of body. i rose and requested an interview with him before my departure, on which i was resolved, notwithstanding his earnest solicitation to spend the night at his house. he complied with my request. the tenderness which he had lately betrayed, had now disappeared, and he once more relapsed into a chilling solemnity. i told him that i was preparing to return to my brother's; that i had come hither to vindicate my innocence from the foul aspersions which he had cast upon it. my pride had not taken refuge in silence or distance. i had not relied upon time, or the suggestion of his cooler thoughts, to confute his charges. conscious as i was that i was perfectly guiltless, and entertaining some value for his good opinion, i could not prevail upon myself to believe that my efforts to make my innocence manifest, would be fruitless. adverse appearances might be numerous and specious, but they were unquestionably false. i was willing to believe him sincere, that he made no charges which he himself did not believe; but these charges were destitute of truth. the grounds of his opinion were fallacious; and i desired an opportunity of detecting their fallacy. i entreated him to be explicit, and to give me a detail of what he had heard, and what he had seen. at these words, my companion's countenance grew darker. he appeared to be struggling with his rage. he opened his lips to speak, but his accents died away ere they were formed. this conflict lasted for some minutes, but his fortitude was finally successful. he spoke as follows: "i would fain put an end to this hateful scene: what i shall say, will be breath idly and unprofitably consumed. the clearest narrative will add nothing to your present knowledge. you are acquainted with the grounds of my opinion, and yet you avow yourself innocent: why then should i rehearse these grounds? you are apprized of the character of carwin: why then should i enumerate the discoveries which i have made respecting him? yet, since it is your request; since, considering the limitedness of human faculties, some error may possibly lurk in those appearances which i have witnessed, i will briefly relate what i know. "need i dwell upon the impressions which your conversation and deportment originally made upon me? we parted in childhood; but our intercourse, by letter, was copious and uninterrupted. how fondly did i anticipate a meeting with one whom her letters had previously taught me to consider as the first of women, and how fully realized were the expectations that i had formed! "here, said i, is a being, after whom sages may model their transcendent intelligence, and painters, their ideal beauty. here is exemplified, that union between intellect and form, which has hitherto existed only in the conceptions of the poet. i have watched your eyes; my attention has hung upon your lips. i have questioned whether the enchantments of your voice were more conspicuous in the intricacies of melody, or the emphasis of rhetoric. i have marked the transitions of your discourse, the felicities of your expression, your refined argumentation, and glowing imagery; and been forced to acknowledge, that all delights were meagre and contemptible, compared with those connected with the audience and sight of you. i have contemplated your principles, and been astonished at the solidity of their foundation, and the perfection of their structure. i have traced you to your home. i have viewed you in relation to your servants, to your family, to your neighbours, and to the world. i have seen by what skilful arrangements you facilitate the performance of the most arduous and complicated duties; what daily accessions of strength your judicious discipline bestowed upon your memory; what correctness and abundance of knowledge was daily experienced by your unwearied application to books, and to writing. if she that possesses so much in the bloom of youth, will go on accumulating her stores, what, said i, is the picture she will display at a mature age? "you know not the accuracy of my observation. i was desirous that others should profit by an example so rare. i therefore noted down, in writing, every particular of your conduct. i was anxious to benefit by an opportunity so seldom afforded us. i laboured not to omit the slightest shade, or the most petty line in your portrait. here there was no other task incumbent on me but to copy; there was no need to exaggerate or overlook, in order to produce a more unexceptionable pattern. here was a combination of harmonies and graces, incapable of diminution or accession without injury to its completeness. "i found no end and no bounds to my task. no display of a scene like this could be chargeable with redundancy or superfluity. even the colour of a shoe, the knot of a ribband, or your attitude in plucking a rose, were of moment to be recorded. even the arrangements of your breakfast-table and your toilet have been amply displayed. "i know that mankind are more easily enticed to virtue by example than by precept. i know that the absoluteness of a model, when supplied by invention, diminishes its salutary influence, since it is useless, we think, to strive after that which we know to be beyond our reach. but the picture which i drew was not a phantom; as a model, it was devoid of imperfection; and to aspire to that height which had been really attained, was by no means unreasonable. i had another and more interesting object in view. one existed who claimed all my tenderness. here, in all its parts, was a model worthy of assiduous study, and indefatigable imitation. i called upon her, as she wished to secure and enhance my esteem, to mould her thoughts, her words, her countenance, her actions, by this pattern. "the task was exuberant of pleasure, and i was deeply engaged in it, when an imp of mischief was let loose in the form of carwin. i admired his powers and accomplishments. i did not wonder that they were admired by you. on the rectitude of your judgement, however, i relied to keep this admiration within discreet and scrupulous bounds. i assured myself, that the strangeness of his deportment, and the obscurity of his life, would teach you caution. of all errors, my knowledge of your character informed me that this was least likely to befall you. "you were powerfully affected by his first appearance; you were bewitched by his countenance and his tones; your description was ardent and pathetic: i listened to you with some emotions of surprize. the portrait you drew in his absence, and the intensity with which you mused upon it, were new and unexpected incidents. they bespoke a sensibility somewhat too vivid; but from which, while subjected to the guidance of an understanding like yours, there was nothing to dread. "a more direct intercourse took place between you. i need not apologize for the solicitude which i entertained for your safety. he that gifted me with perception of excellence, compelled me to love it. in the midst of danger and pain, my contemplations have ever been cheered by your image. every object in competition with you, was worthless and trivial. no price was too great by which your safety could be purchased. for that end, the sacrifice of ease, of health, and even of life, would cheerfully have been made by me. what wonder then, that i scrutinized the sentiments and deportment of this man with ceaseless vigilance; that i watched your words and your looks when he was present; and that i extracted cause for the deepest inquietudes, from every token which you gave of having put your happiness into this man's keeping? "i was cautious in deciding. i recalled the various conversations in which the topics of love and marriage had been discussed. as a woman, young, beautiful, and independent, it behoved you to have fortified your mind with just principles on this subject. your principles were eminently just. had not their rectitude and their firmness been attested by your treatment of that specious seducer dashwood? these principles, i was prone to believe, exempted you from danger in this new state of things. i was not the last to pay my homage to the unrivalled capacity, insinuation, and eloquence of this man. i have disguised, but could never stifle the conviction, that his eyes and voice had a witchcraft in them, which rendered him truly formidable: but i reflected on the ambiguous expression of his countenance--an ambiguity which you were the first to remark; on the cloud which obscured his character; and on the suspicious nature of that concealment which he studied; and concluded you to be safe. i denied the obvious construction to appearances. i referred your conduct to some principle which had not been hitherto disclosed, but which was reconcileable with those already known. "i was not suffered to remain long in this suspence. one evening, you may recollect, i came to your house, where it was my purpose, as usual, to lodge, somewhat earlier than ordinary. i spied a light in your chamber as i approached from the outside, and on inquiring of judith, was informed that you were writing. as your kinsman and friend, and fellow-lodger, i thought i had a right to be familiar. you were in your chamber, but your employment and the time were such as to make it no infraction of decorum to follow you thither. the spirit of mischievous gaiety possessed me. i proceeded on tiptoe. you did not perceive my entrance; and i advanced softly till i was able to overlook your shoulder. "i had gone thus far in error, and had no power to recede. how cautiously should we guard against the first inroads of temptation! i knew that to pry into your papers was criminal; but i reflected that no sentiment of yours was of a nature which made it your interest to conceal it. you wrote much more than you permitted your friends to peruse. my curiosity was strong, and i had only to throw a glance upon the paper, to secure its gratification. i should never have deliberately committed an act like this. the slightest obstacle would have repelled me; but my eye glanced almost spontaneously upon the paper. i caught only parts of sentences; but my eyes comprehended more at a glance, because the characters were short-hand. i lighted on the words summer-house, midnight, and made out a passage which spoke of the propriety and of the effects to be expected from another interview. all this passed in less than a moment. i then checked myself, and made myself known to you, by a tap upon your shoulder. "i could pardon and account for some trifling alarm; but your trepidation and blushes were excessive. you hurried the paper out of sight, and seemed too anxious to discover whether i knew the contents to allow yourself to make any inquiries. i wondered at these appearances of consternation, but did not reason on them until i had retired. when alone, these incidents suggested themselves to my reflections anew. "to what scene, or what interview, i asked, did you allude? your disappearance on a former evening, my tracing you to the recess in the bank, your silence on my first and second call, your vague answers and invincible embarrassment, when you, at length, ascended the hill, i recollected with new surprize. could this be the summerhouse alluded to? a certain timidity and consciousness had generally attended you, when this incident and this recess had been the subjects of conversation. nay, i imagined that the last time that adventure was mentioned, which happened in the presence of carwin, the countenance of the latter betrayed some emotion. could the interview have been with him? "this was an idea calculated to rouse every faculty to contemplation. an interview at that hour, in this darksome retreat, with a man of this mysterious but formidable character; a clandestine interview, and one which you afterwards endeavoured with so much solicitude to conceal! it was a fearful and portentous occurrence. i could not measure his power, or fathom his designs. had he rifled from you the secret of your love, and reconciled you to concealment and noctural meetings? i scarcely ever spent a night of more inquietude. "i knew not how to act. the ascertainment of this man's character and views seemed to be, in the first place, necessary. had he openly preferred his suit to you, we should have been impowered to make direct inquiries; but since he had chosen this obscure path, it seemed reasonable to infer that his character was exceptionable. it, at least, subjected us to the necessity of resorting to other means of information. yet the improbability that you should commit a deed of such rashness, made me reflect anew upon the insufficiency of those grounds on which my suspicions had been built, and almost to condemn myself for harbouring them. "though it was mere conjecture that the interview spoken of had taken place with carwin, yet two ideas occurred to involve me in the most painful doubts. this man's reasonings might be so specious, and his artifices so profound, that, aided by the passion which you had conceived for him, he had finally succeeded; or his situation might be such as to justify the secrecy which you maintained. in neither case did my wildest reveries suggest to me, that your honor had been forfeited. "i could not talk with you on this subject. if the imputation was false, its atrociousness would have justly drawn upon me your resentment, and i must have explained by what facts it had been suggested. if it were true, no benefit would follow from the mention of it. you had chosen to conceal it for some reasons, and whether these reasons were true or false, it was proper to discover and remove them in the first place. finally, i acquiesced in the least painful supposition, trammelled as it was with perplexities, that carwin was upright, and that, if the reasons of your silence were known, they would be found to be just." chapter xiv "three days have elapsed since this occurrence. i have been haunted by perpetual inquietude. to bring myself to regard carwin without terror, and to acquiesce in the belief of your safety, was impossible. yet to put an end to my doubts, seemed to be impracticable. if some light could be reflected on the actual situation of this man, a direct path would present itself. if he were, contrary to the tenor of his conversation, cunning and malignant, to apprize you of this, would be to place you in security. if he were merely unfortunate and innocent, most readily would i espouse his cause; and if his intentions were upright with regard to you, most eagerly would i sanctify your choice by my approbation. "it would be vain to call upon carwin for an avowal of his deeds. it was better to know nothing, than to be deceived by an artful tale. what he was unwilling to communicate, and this unwillingness had been repeatedly manifested, could never be extorted from him. importunity might be appeased, or imposture effected by fallacious representations. to the rest of the world he was unknown. i had often made him the subject of discourse; but a glimpse of his figure in the street was the sum of their knowledge who knew most. none had ever seen him before, and received as new, the information which my intercourse with him in valencia, and my present intercourse, enabled me to give. "wieland was your brother. if he had really made you the object of his courtship, was not a brother authorized to interfere and demand from him the confession of his views? yet what were the grounds on which i had reared this supposition? would they justify a measure like this? surely not. "in the course of my restless meditations, it occurred to me, at length, that my duty required me to speak to you, to confess the indecorum of which i had been guilty, and to state the reflections to which it had led me. i was prompted by no mean or selfish views. the heart within my breast was not more precious than your safety: most cheerfully would i have interposed my life between you and danger. would you cherish resentment at my conduct? when acquainted with the motive which produced it, it would not only exempt me from censure, but entitle me to gratitude. "yesterday had been selected for the rehearsal of the newly-imported tragedy. i promised to be present. the state of my thoughts but little qualified me for a performer or auditor in such a scene; but i reflected that, after it was finished, i should return home with you, and should then enjoy an opportunity of discoursing with you fully on this topic. my resolution was not formed without a remnant of doubt, as to its propriety. when i left this house to perform the visit i had promised, my mind was full of apprehension and despondency. the dubiousness of the event of our conversation, fear that my interference was too late to secure your peace, and the uncertainty to which hope gave birth, whether i had not erred in believing you devoted to this man, or, at least, in imagining that he had obtained your consent to midnight conferences, distracted me with contradictory opinions, and repugnant emotions. "i can assign no reason for calling at mrs. baynton's. i had seen her in the morning, and knew her to be well. the concerted hour had nearly arrived, and yet i turned up the street which leads to her house, and dismounted at her door. i entered the parlour and threw myself in a chair. i saw and inquired for no one. my whole frame was overpowered by dreary and comfortless sensations. one idea possessed me wholly; the inexpressible importance of unveiling the designs and character of carwin, and the utter improbability that this ever would be effected. some instinct induced me to lay my hand upon a newspaper. i had perused all the general intelligence it contained in the morning, and at the same spot. the act was rather mechanical than voluntary. "i threw a languid glance at the first column that presented itself. the first words which i read, began with the offer of a reward of three hundred guineas for the apprehension of a convict under sentence of death, who had escaped from newgate prison in dublin. good heaven! how every fibre of my frame tingled when i proceeded to read that the name of the criminal was francis carwin! "the descriptions of his person and address were minute. his stature, hair, complexion, the extraordinary position and arrangement of his features, his aukward and disproportionate form, his gesture and gait, corresponded perfectly with those of our mysterious visitant. he had been found guilty in two indictments. one for the murder of the lady jane conway, and the other for a robbery committed on the person of the honorable mr. ludloe. "i repeatedly perused this passage. the ideas which flowed in upon my mind, affected me like an instant transition from death to life. the purpose dearest to my heart was thus effected, at a time and by means the least of all others within the scope of my foresight. but what purpose? carwin was detected. acts of the blackest and most sordid guilt had been committed by him. here was evidence which imparted to my understanding the most luminous certainty. the name, visage, and deportment, were the same. between the time of his escape, and his appearance among us, there was a sufficient agreement. such was the man with whom i suspected you to maintain a clandestine correspondence. should i not haste to snatch you from the talons of this vulture? should i see you rushing to the verge of a dizzy precipice, and not stretch forth a hand to pull you back? i had no need to deliberate. i thrust the paper in my pocket, and resolved to obtain an immediate conference with you. for a time, no other image made its way to my understanding. at length, it occurred to me, that though the information i possessed was, in one sense, sufficient, yet if more could be obtained, more was desirable. this passage was copied from a british paper; part of it only, perhaps, was transcribed. the printer was in possession of the original. "towards his house i immediately turned my horse's head. he produced the paper, but i found nothing more than had already been seen. while busy in perusing it, the printer stood by my side. he noticed the object of which i was in search. "aye," said he, "that is a strange affair. i should never have met with it, had not mr. hallet sent to me the paper, with a particular request to republish that advertisement." "mr. hallet! what reasons could he have for making this request? had the paper sent to him been accompanied by any information respecting the convict? had he personal or extraordinary reasons for desiring its republication? this was to be known only in one way. i speeded to his house. in answer to my interrogations, he told me that ludloe had formerly been in america, and that during his residence in this city, considerable intercourse had taken place between them. hence a confidence arose, which has since been kept alive by occasional letters. he had lately received a letter from him, enclosing the newspaper from which this extract had been made. he put it into my hands, and pointed out the passages which related to carwin. "ludloe confirms the facts of his conviction and escape; and adds, that he had reason to believe him to have embarked for america. he describes him in general terms, as the most incomprehensible and formidable among men; as engaged in schemes, reasonably suspected to be, in the highest degree, criminal, but such as no human intelligence is able to unravel: that his ends are pursued by means which leave it in doubt whether he be not in league with some infernal spirit: that his crimes have hitherto been perpetrated with the aid of some unknown but desperate accomplices: that he wages a perpetual war against the happiness of mankind, and sets his engines of destruction at work against every object that presents itself. "this is the substance of the letter. hallet expressed some surprize at the curiosity which was manifested by me on this occasion. i was too much absorbed by the ideas suggested by this letter, to pay attention to his remarks. i shuddered with the apprehension of the evil to which our indiscreet familiarity with this man had probably exposed us. i burnt with impatience to see you, and to do what in me lay to avert the calamity which threatened us. it was already five o'clock. night was hastening, and there was no time to be lost. on leaving mr. hallet's house, who should meet me in the street, but bertrand, the servant whom i left in germany. his appearance and accoutrements bespoke him to have just alighted from a toilsome and long journey. i was not wholly without expectation of seeing him about this time, but no one was then more distant from my thoughts. you know what reasons i have for anxiety respecting scenes with which this man was conversant. carwin was for a moment forgotten. in answer to my vehement inquiries, bertrand produced a copious packet. i shall not at present mention its contents, nor the measures which they obliged me to adopt. i bestowed a brief perusal on these papers, and having given some directions to bertrand, resumed my purpose with regard to you. my horse i was obliged to resign to my servant, he being charged with a commission that required speed. the clock had struck ten, and mettingen was five miles distant. i was to journey thither on foot. these circumstances only added to my expedition. "as i passed swiftly along, i reviewed all the incidents accompanying the appearance and deportment of that man among us. late events have been inexplicable and mysterious beyond any of which i have either read or heard. these events were coeval with carwin's introduction. i am unable to explain their origin and mutual dependance; but i do not, on that account, believe them to have a supernatural origin. is not this man the agent? some of them seem to be propitious; but what should i think of those threats of assassination with which you were lately alarmed? bloodshed is the trade, and horror is the element of this man. the process by which the sympathies of nature are extinguished in our hearts, by which evil is made our good, and by which we are made susceptible of no activity but in the infliction, and no joy but in the spectacle of woes, is an obvious process. as to an alliance with evil geniuses, the power and the malice of daemons have been a thousand times exemplified in human beings. there are no devils but those which are begotten upon selfishness, and reared by cunning. "now, indeed, the scene was changed. it was not his secret poniard that i dreaded. it was only the success of his efforts to make you a confederate in your own destruction, to make your will the instrument by which he might bereave you of liberty and honor. "i took, as usual, the path through your brother's ground. i ranged with celerity and silence along the bank. i approached the fence, which divides wieland's estate from yours. the recess in the bank being near this line, it being necessary for me to pass near it, my mind being tainted with inveterate suspicions concerning you; suspicions which were indebted for their strength to incidents connected with this spot; what wonder that it seized upon my thoughts! "i leaped on the fence; but before i descended on the opposite side, i paused to survey the scene. leaves dropping with dew, and glistening in the moon's rays, with no moving object to molest the deep repose, filled me with security and hope. i left the station at length, and tended forward. you were probably at rest. how should i communicate without alarming you, the intelligence of my arrival? an immediate interview was to be procured. i could not bear to think that a minute should be lost by remissness or hesitation. should i knock at the door? or should i stand under your chamber windows, which i perceived to be open, and awaken you by my calls? "these reflections employed me, as i passed opposite to the summer-house. i had scarcely gone by, when my ear caught a sound unusual at this time and place. it was almost too faint and too transient to allow me a distinct perception of it. i stopped to listen; presently it was heard again, and now it was somewhat in a louder key. it was laughter; and unquestionably produced by a female voice. that voice was familiar to my senses. it was yours. "whence it came, i was at first at a loss to conjecture; but this uncertainty vanished when it was heard the third time. i threw back my eyes towards the recess. every other organ and limb was useless to me. i did not reason on the subject. i did not, in a direct manner, draw my conclusions from the hour, the place, the hilarity which this sound betokened, and the circumstance of having a companion, which it no less incontestably proved. in an instant, as it were, my heart was invaded with cold, and the pulses of life at a stand. "why should i go further? why should i return? should i not hurry to a distance from a sound, which, though formerly so sweet and delectable, was now more hideous than the shrieks of owls? "i had no time to yield to this impulse. the thought of approaching and listening occurred to me. i had no doubt of which i was conscious. yet my certainty was capable of increase. i was likewise stimulated by a sentiment that partook of rage. i was governed by an half-formed and tempestuous resolution to break in upon your interview, and strike you dead with my upbraiding. "i approached with the utmost caution. when i reached the edge of the bank immediately above the summer-house, i thought i heard voices from below, as busy in conversation. the steps in the rock are clear of bushy impediments. they allowed me to descend into a cavity beside the building without being detected. thus to lie in wait could only be justified by the momentousness of the occasion." here pleyel paused in his narrative, and fixed his eyes upon me. situated as i was, my horror and astonishment at this tale gave way to compassion for the anguish which the countenance of my friend betrayed. i reflected on his force of understanding. i reflected on the powers of my enemy. i could easily divine the substance of the conversation that was overheard. carwin had constructed his plot in a manner suited to the characters of those whom he had selected for his victims. i saw that the convictions of pleyel were immutable. i forbore to struggle against the storm, because i saw that all struggles would be fruitless. i was calm; but my calmness was the torpor of despair, and not the tranquillity of fortitude. it was calmness invincible by any thing that his grief and his fury could suggest to pleyel. he resumed-- "woman! wilt thou hear me further? shall i go on to repeat the conversation? is it shame that makes thee tongue-tied? shall i go on? or art thou satisfied with what has been already said?" i bowed my head. "go on," said i. "i make not this request in the hope of undeceiving you. i shall no longer contend with my own weakness. the storm is let loose, and i shall peaceably submit to be driven by its fury. but go on. this conference will end only with affording me a clearer foresight of my destiny; but that will be some satisfaction, and i will not part without it." why, on hearing these words, did pleyel hesitate? did some unlooked-for doubt insinuate itself into his mind? was his belief suddenly shaken by my looks, or my words, or by some newly recollected circumstance? whencesoever it arose, it could not endure the test of deliberation. in a few minutes the flame of resentment was again lighted up in his bosom. he proceeded with his accustomed vehemence-- "i hate myself for this folly. i can find no apology for this tale. yet i am irresistibly impelled to relate it. she that hears me is apprized of every particular. i have only to repeat to her her own words. she will listen with a tranquil air, and the spectacle of her obduracy will drive me to some desperate act. why then should i persist! yet persist i must." again he paused. "no," said he, "it is impossible to repeat your avowals of love, your appeals to former confessions of your tenderness, to former deeds of dishonor, to the circumstances of the first interview that took place between you. it was on that night when i traced you to this recess. thither had he enticed you, and there had you ratified an unhallowed compact by admitting him-- "great god! thou witnessedst the agonies that tore my bosom at that moment! thou witnessedst my efforts to repel the testimony of my ears! it was in vain that you dwelt upon the confusion which my unlooked-for summons excited in you; the tardiness with which a suitable excuse occurred to you; your resentment that my impertinent intrusion had put an end to that charming interview: a disappointment for which you endeavoured to compensate yourself, by the frequency and duration of subsequent meetings. "in vain you dwelt upon incidents of which you only could be conscious; incidents that occurred on occasions on which none beside your own family were witnesses. in vain was your discourse characterized by peculiarities inimitable of sentiment and language. my conviction was effected only by an accumulation of the same tokens. i yielded not but to evidence which took away the power to withhold my faith. "my sight was of no use to me. beneath so thick an umbrage, the darkness was intense. hearing was the only avenue to information, which the circumstances allowed to be open. i was couched within three feet of you. why should i approach nearer? i could not contend with your betrayer. what could be the purpose of a contest? you stood in no need of a protector. what could i do, but retire from the spot overwhelmed with confusion and dismay? i sought my chamber, and endeavoured to regain my composure. the door of the house, which i found open, your subsequent entrance, closing, and fastening it, and going into your chamber, which had been thus long deserted, were only confirmations of the truth. "why should i paint the tempestuous fluctuation of my thoughts between grief and revenge, between rage and despair? why should i repeat my vows of eternal implacability and persecution, and the speedy recantation of these vows? "i have said enough. you have dismissed me from a place in your esteem. what i think, and what i feel, is of no importance in your eyes. may the duty which i owe myself enable me to forget your existence. in a few minutes i go hence. be the maker of your fortune, and may adversity instruct you in that wisdom, which education was unable to impart to you." those were the last words which pleyel uttered. he left the room, and my new emotions enabled me to witness his departure without any apparent loss of composure. as i sat alone, i ruminated on these incidents. nothing was more evident than that i had taken an eternal leave of happiness. life was a worthless thing, separate from that good which had now been wrested from me; yet the sentiment that now possessed me had no tendency to palsy my exertions, and overbear my strength. i noticed that the light was declining, and perceived the propriety of leaving this house. i placed myself again in the chaise, and returned slowly towards the city. chapter xv before i reached the city it was dusk. it was my purpose to spend the night at mettingen. i was not solicitous, as long as i was attended by a faithful servant, to be there at an early hour. my exhausted strength required me to take some refreshment. with this view, and in order to pay respect to one whose affection for me was truly maternal, i stopped at mrs. baynton's. she was absent from home; but i had scarcely entered the house when one of her domestics presented me a letter. i opened and read as follows: "to clara wieland, "what shall i say to extenuate the misconduct of last night? it is my duty to repair it to the utmost of my power, but the only way in which it can be repaired, you will not, i fear, be prevailed on to adopt. it is by granting me an interview, at your own house, at eleven o'clock this night. i have no means of removing any fears that you may entertain of my designs, but my simple and solemn declarations. these, after what has passed between us, you may deem unworthy of confidence. i cannot help it. my folly and rashness has left me no other resource. i will be at your door by that hour. if you chuse to admit me to a conference, provided that conference has no witnesses, i will disclose to you particulars, the knowledge of which is of the utmost importance to your happiness. farewell. "carwin." what a letter was this! a man known to be an assassin and robber; one capable of plotting against my life and my fame; detected lurking in my chamber, and avowing designs the most flagitious and dreadful, now solicits me to grant him a midnight interview! to admit him alone into my presence! could he make this request with the expectation of my compliance? what had he seen in me, that could justify him in admitting so wild a belief? yet this request is preferred with the utmost gravity. it is not accompanied by an appearance of uncommon earnestness. had the misconduct to which he alludes been a slight incivility, and the interview requested to take place in the midst of my friends, there would have been no extravagance in the tenor of this letter; but, as it was, the writer had surely been bereft of his reason. i perused this epistle frequently. the request it contained might be called audacious or stupid, if it had been made by a different person; but from carwin, who could not be unaware of the effect which it must naturally produce, and of the manner in which it would unavoidably be treated, it was perfectly inexplicable. he must have counted on the success of some plot, in order to extort my assent. none of those motives by which i am usually governed would ever have persuaded me to meet any one of his sex, at the time and place which he had prescribed. much less would i consent to a meeting with a man, tainted with the most detestable crimes, and by whose arts my own safety had been so imminently endangered, and my happiness irretrievably destroyed. i shuddered at the idea that such a meeting was possible. i felt some reluctance to approach a spot which he still visited and haunted. such were the ideas which first suggested themselves on the perusal of the letter. meanwhile, i resumed my journey. my thoughts still dwelt upon the same topic. gradually from ruminating on this epistle, i reverted to my interview with pleyel. i recalled the particulars of the dialogue to which he had been an auditor. my heart sunk anew on viewing the inextricable complexity of this deception, and the inauspicious concurrence of events, which tended to confirm him in his error. when he approached my chamber door, my terror kept me mute. he put his ear, perhaps, to the crevice, but it caught the sound of nothing human. had i called, or made any token that denoted some one to be within, words would have ensued; and as omnipresence was impossible, this discovery, and the artless narrative of what had just passed, would have saved me from his murderous invectives. he went into his chamber, and after some interval, i stole across the entry and down the stairs, with inaudible steps. having secured the outer doors, i returned with less circumspection. he heard me not when i descended; but my returning steps were easily distinguished. now he thought was the guilty interview at an end. in what other way was it possible for him to construe these signals? how fallacious and precipitate was my decision! carwin's plot owed its success to a coincidence of events scarcely credible. the balance was swayed from its equipoise by a hair. had i even begun the conversation with an account of what befel me in my chamber, my previous interview with wieland would have taught him to suspect me of imposture; yet, if i were discoursing with this ruffian, when pleyel touched the lock of my chamber door, and when he shut his own door with so much violence, how, he might ask, should i be able to relate these incidents? perhaps he had withheld the knowledge of these circumstances from my brother, from whom, therefore, i could not obtain it, so that my innocence would have thus been irresistibly demonstrated. the first impulse which flowed from these ideas was to return upon my steps, and demand once more an interview; but he was gone: his parting declarations were remembered. pleyel, i exclaimed, thou art gone for ever! are thy mistakes beyond the reach of detection? am i helpless in the midst of this snare? the plotter is at hand. he even speaks in the style of penitence. he solicits an interview which he promises shall end in the disclosure of something momentous to my happiness. what can he say which will avail to turn aside this evil? but why should his remorse be feigned? i have done him no injury. his wickedness is fertile only of despair; and the billows of remorse will some time overbear him. why may not this event have already taken place? why should i refuse to see him? this idea was present, as it were, for a moment. i suddenly recoiled from it, confounded at that frenzy which could give even momentary harbour to such a scheme; yet presently it returned. at length i even conceived it to deserve deliberation. i questioned whether it was not proper to admit, at a lonely spot, in a sacred hour, this man of tremendous and inscrutable attributes, this performer of horrid deeds, and whose presence was predicted to call down unheard-of and unutterable horrors. what was it that swayed me? i felt myself divested of the power to will contrary to the motives that determined me to seek his presence. my mind seemed to be split into separate parts, and these parts to have entered into furious and implacable contention. these tumults gradually subsided. the reasons why i should confide in that interposition which had hitherto defended me; in those tokens of compunction which this letter contained; in the efficacy of this interview to restore its spotlessness to my character, and banish all illusions from the mind of my friend, continually acquired new evidence and new strength. what should i fear in his presence? this was unlike an artifice intended to betray me into his hands. if it were an artifice, what purpose would it serve? the freedom of my mind was untouched, and that freedom would defy the assaults of blandishments or magic. force was i not able to repel. on the former occasion my courage, it is true, had failed at the imminent approach of danger; but then i had not enjoyed opportunities of deliberation; i had foreseen nothing; i was sunk into imbecility by my previous thoughts; i had been the victim of recent disappointments and anticipated ills: witness my infatuation in opening the closet in opposition to divine injunctions. now, perhaps, my courage was the offspring of a no less erring principle. pleyel was for ever lost to me. i strove in vain to assume his person, and suppress my resentment; i strove in vain to believe in the assuaging influence of time, to look forward to the birth-day of new hopes, and the re-exaltation of that luminary, of whose effulgencies i had so long and so liberally partaken. what had i to suffer worse than was already inflicted? was not carwin my foe? i owed my untimely fate to his treason. instead of flying from his presence, ought i not to devote all my faculties to the gaining of an interview, and compel him to repair the ills of which he has been the author? why should i suppose him impregnable to argument? have i not reason on my side, and the power of imparting conviction? cannot he be made to see the justice of unravelling the maze in which pleyel is bewildered? he may, at least, be accessible to fear. has he nothing to fear from the rage of an injured woman? but suppose him inaccessible to such inducements; suppose him to persist in all his flagitious purposes; are not the means of defence and resistance in my power? in the progress of such thoughts, was the resolution at last formed. i hoped that the interview was sought by him for a laudable end; but, be that as it would, i trusted that, by energy of reasoning or of action, i should render it auspicious, or, at least, harmless. such a determination must unavoidably fluctuate. the poet's chaos was no unapt emblem of the state of my mind. a torment was awakened in my bosom, which i foresaw would end only when this interview was past, and its consequences fully experienced. hence my impatience for the arrival of the hour which had been prescribed by carwin. meanwhile, my meditations were tumultuously active. new impediments to the execution of the scheme were speedily suggested. i had apprized catharine of my intention to spend this and many future nights with her. her husband was informed of this arrangement, and had zealously approved it. eleven o'clock exceeded their hour of retiring. what excuse should i form for changing my plan? should i shew this letter to wieland, and submit myself to his direction? but i knew in what way he would decide. he would fervently dissuade me from going. nay, would he not do more? he was apprized of the offences of carwin, and of the reward offered for his apprehension. would he not seize this opportunity of executing justice on a criminal? this idea was new. i was plunged once more into doubt. did not equity enjoin me thus to facilitate his arrest? no. i disdained the office of betrayer. carwin was unapprized of his danger, and his intentions were possibly beneficent. should i station guards about the house, and make an act, intended perhaps for my benefit, instrumental to his own destruction? wieland might be justified in thus employing the knowledge which i should impart, but i, by imparting it, should pollute myself with more hateful crimes than those undeservedly imputed to me. this scheme, therefore, i unhesitatingly rejected. the views with which i should return to my own house, it would therefore be necessary to conceal. yet some pretext must be invented. i had never been initiated into the trade of lying. yet what but falshood was a deliberate suppression of the truth? to deceive by silence or by words is the same. yet what would a lie avail me? what pretext would justify this change in my plan? would it not tend to confirm the imputations of pleyel? that i should voluntarily return to an house in which honor and life had so lately been endangered, could be explained in no way favorable to my integrity. these reflections, if they did not change, at least suspended my decision. in this state of uncertainty i alighted at the hut. we gave this name to the house tenanted by the farmer and his servants, and which was situated on the verge of my brother's ground, and at a considerable distance from the mansion. the path to the mansion was planted by a double row of walnuts. along this path i proceeded alone. i entered the parlour, in which was a light just expiring in the socket. there was no one in the room. i perceived by the clock that stood against the wall, that it was near eleven. the lateness of the hour startled me. what had become of the family? they were usually retired an hour before this; but the unextinguished taper, and the unbarred door were indications that they had not retired. i again returned to the hall, and passed from one room to another, but still encountered not a human being. i imagined that, perhaps, the lapse of a few minutes would explain these appearances. meanwhile i reflected that the preconcerted hour had arrived. carwin was perhaps waiting my approach. should i immediately retire to my own house, no one would be apprized of my proceeding. nay, the interview might pass, and i be enabled to return in half an hour. hence no necessity would arise for dissimulation. i was so far influenced by these views that i rose to execute this design; but again the unusual condition of the house occurred to me, and some vague solicitude as to the condition of the family. i was nearly certain that my brother had not retired; but by what motives he could be induced to desert his house thus unseasonably i could by no means divine. louisa conway, at least, was at home and had, probably, retired to her chamber; perhaps she was able to impart the information i wanted. i went to her chamber, and found her asleep. she was delighted and surprized at my arrival, and told me with how much impatience and anxiety my brother and his wife had waited my coming. they were fearful that some mishap had befallen me, and had remained up longer than the usual period. notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, catharine would not resign the hope of seeing me. louisa said she had left them both in the parlour, and she knew of no cause for their absence. as yet i was not without solicitude on account of their personal safety. i was far from being perfectly at ease on that head, but entertained no distinct conception of the danger that impended over them. perhaps to beguile the moments of my long protracted stay, they had gone to walk upon the bank. the atmosphere, though illuminated only by the star-light, was remarkably serene. meanwhile the desirableness of an interview with carwin again returned, and i finally resolved to seek it. i passed with doubting and hasty steps along the path. my dwelling, seen at a distance, was gloomy and desolate. it had no inhabitant, for my servant, in consequence of my new arrangement, had gone to mettingen. the temerity of this attempt began to shew itself in more vivid colours to my understanding. whoever has pointed steel is not without arms; yet what must have been the state of my mind when i could meditate, without shuddering, on the use of a murderous weapon, and believe myself secure merely because i was capable of being made so by the death of another? yet this was not my state. i felt as if i was rushing into deadly toils, without the power of pausing or receding. chapter xvi as soon as i arrived in sight of the front of the house, my attention was excited by a light from the window of my own chamber. no appearance could be less explicable. a meeting was expected with carwin, but that he pre-occupied my chamber, and had supplied himself with light, was not to be believed. what motive could influence him to adopt this conduct? could i proceed until this was explained? perhaps, if i should proceed to a distance in front, some one would be visible. a sidelong but feeble beam from the window, fell upon the piny copse which skirted the bank. as i eyed it, it suddenly became mutable, and after flitting to and fro, for a short time, it vanished. i turned my eye again toward the window, and perceived that the light was still there; but the change which i had noticed was occasioned by a change in the position of the lamp or candle within. hence, that some person was there was an unavoidable inference. i paused to deliberate on the propriety of advancing. might i not advance cautiously, and, therefore, without danger? might i not knock at the door, or call, and be apprized of the nature of my visitant before i entered? i approached and listened at the door, but could hear nothing. i knocked at first timidly, but afterwards with loudness. my signals were unnoticed. i stepped back and looked, but the light was no longer discernible. was it suddenly extinguished by a human agent? what purpose but concealment was intended? why was the illumination produced, to be thus suddenly brought to an end? and why, since some one was there, had silence been observed? these were questions, the solution of which may be readily supposed to be entangled with danger. would not this danger, when measured by a woman's fears, expand into gigantic dimensions? menaces of death; the stunning exertions of a warning voice; the known and unknown attributes of carwin; our recent interview in this chamber; the pre-appointment of a meeting at this place and hour, all thronged into my memory. what was to be done? courage is no definite or stedfast principle. let that man who shall purpose to assign motives to the actions of another, blush at his folly and forbear. not more presumptuous would it be to attempt the classification of all nature, and the scanning of supreme intelligence. i gazed for a minute at the window, and fixed my eyes, for a second minute, on the ground. i drew forth from my pocket, and opened, a penknife. this, said i, be my safe-guard and avenger. the assailant shall perish, or myself shall fall. i had locked up the house in the morning, but had the key of the kitchen door in my pocket. i, therefore, determined to gain access behind. thither i hastened, unlocked and entered. all was lonely, darksome, and waste. familiar as i was with every part of my dwelling, i easily found my way to a closet, drew forth a taper, a flint, tinder, and steel, and, in a moment as it were, gave myself the guidance and protection of light. what purpose did i meditate? should i explore my way to my chamber, and confront the being who had dared to intrude into this recess, and had laboured for concealment? by putting out the light did he seek to hide himself, or mean only to circumvent my incautious steps? yet was it not more probable that he desired my absence by thus encouraging the supposition that the house was unoccupied? i would see this man in spite of all impediments; ere i died, i would see his face, and summon him to penitence and retribution; no matter at what cost an interview was purchased. reputation and life might be wrested from me by another, but my rectitude and honor were in my own keeping, and were safe. i proceeded to the foot of the stairs. at such a crisis my thoughts may be supposed at no liberty to range; yet vague images rushed into my mind, of the mysterious interposition which had been experienced on the last night. my case, at present, was not dissimilar; and, if my angel were not weary of fruitless exertions to save, might not a new warning be expected? who could say whether his silence were ascribable to the absence of danger, or to his own absence? in this state of mind, no wonder that a shivering cold crept through my veins; that my pause was prolonged; and, that a fearful glance was thrown backward. alas! my heart droops, and my fingers are enervated; my ideas are vivid, but my language is faint: now know i what it is to entertain incommunicable sentiments. the chain of subsequent incidents is drawn through my mind, and being linked with those which forewent, by turns rouse up agonies and sink me into hopelessness. yet i will persist to the end. my narrative may be invaded by inaccuracy and confusion; but if i live no longer, i will, at least, live to complete it. what but ambiguities, abruptnesses, and dark transitions, can be expected from the historian who is, at the same time, the sufferer of these disasters? i have said that i cast a look behind. some object was expected to be seen, or why should i have gazed in that direction? two senses were at once assailed. the same piercing exclamation of hold! hold! was uttered within the same distance of my ear. this it was that i heard. the airy undulation, and the shock given to my nerves, were real. whether the spectacle which i beheld existed in my fancy or without, might be doubted. i had not closed the door of the apartment i had just left. the stair-case, at the foot of which i stood, was eight or ten feet from the door, and attached to the wall through which the door led. my view, therefore, was sidelong, and took in no part of the room. through this aperture was an head thrust and drawn back with so much swiftness, that the immediate conviction was, that thus much of a form, ordinarily invisible, had been unshrowded. the face was turned towards me. every muscle was tense; the forehead and brows were drawn into vehement expression; the lips were stretched as in the act of shrieking, and the eyes emitted sparks, which, no doubt, if i had been unattended by a light, would have illuminated like the coruscations of a meteor. the sound and the vision were present, and departed together at the same instant; but the cry was blown into my ear, while the face was many paces distant. this face was well suited to a being whose performances exceeded the standard of humanity, and yet its features were akin to those i had before seen. the image of carwin was blended in a thousand ways with the stream of my thoughts. this visage was, perhaps, pourtrayed by my fancy. if so, it will excite no surprize that some of his lineaments were now discovered. yet affinities were few and unconspicuous, and were lost amidst the blaze of opposite qualities. what conclusion could i form? be the face human or not, the intimation was imparted from above. experience had evinced the benignity of that being who gave it. once he had interposed to shield me from harm, and subsequent events demonstrated the usefulness of that interposition. now was i again warned to forbear. i was hurrying to the verge of the same gulf, and the same power was exerted to recall my steps. was it possible for me not to obey? was i capable of holding on in the same perilous career? yes. even of this i was capable! the intimation was imperfect: it gave no form to my danger, and prescribed no limits to my caution. i had formerly neglected it, and yet escaped. might i not trust to the same issue? this idea might possess, though imperceptibly, some influence. i persisted; but it was not merely on this account. i cannot delineate the motives that led me on. i now speak as if no remnant of doubt existed in my mind as to the supernal origin of these sounds; but this is owing to the imperfection of my language, for i only mean that the belief was more permanent, and visited more frequently my sober meditations than its opposite. the immediate effects served only to undermine the foundations of my judgment and precipitate my resolutions. i must either advance or return. i chose the former, and began to ascend the stairs. the silence underwent no second interruption. my chamber door was closed, but unlocked, and, aided by vehement efforts of my courage, i opened and looked in. no hideous or uncommon object was discernible. the danger, indeed, might easily have lurked out of sight, have sprung upon me as i entered, and have rent me with his iron talons; but i was blind to this fate, and advanced, though cautiously, into the room. still every thing wore its accustomed aspect. neither lamp nor candle was to be found. now, for the first time, suspicions were suggested as to the nature of the light which i had seen. was it possible to have been the companion of that supernatural visage; a meteorous refulgence producible at the will of him to whom that visage belonged, and partaking of the nature of that which accompanied my father's death? the closet was near, and i remembered the complicated horrors of which it had been productive. here, perhaps, was inclosed the source of my peril, and the gratification of my curiosity. should i adventure once more to explore its recesses? this was a resolution not easily formed. i was suspended in thought: when glancing my eye on a table, i perceived a written paper. carwin's hand was instantly recognized, and snatching up the paper, i read as follows:-- "there was folly in expecting your compliance with my invitation. judge how i was disappointed in finding another in your place. i have waited, but to wait any longer would be perilous. i shall still seek an interview, but it must be at a different time and place: meanwhile, i will write this--how will you bear--how inexplicable will be this transaction!--an event so unexpected--a sight so horrible!" such was this abrupt and unsatisfactory script. the ink was yet moist, the hand was that of carwin. hence it was to be inferred that he had this moment left the apartment, or was still in it. i looked back, on the sudden expectation of seeing him behind me. what other did he mean? what transaction had taken place adverse to my expectations? what sight was about to be exhibited? i looked around me once more, but saw nothing which indicated strangeness. again i remembered the closet, and was resolved to seek in that the solution of these mysteries. here, perhaps, was inclosed the scene destined to awaken my horrors and baffle my foresight. i have already said, that the entrance into this closet was beside my bed, which, on two sides, was closely shrowded by curtains. on that side nearest the closet, the curtain was raised. as i passed along i cast my eye thither. i started, and looked again. i bore a light in my hand, and brought it nearer my eyes, in order to dispel any illusive mists that might have hovered before them. once more i fixed my eyes upon the bed, in hope that this more stedfast scrutiny would annihilate the object which before seemed to be there. this then was the sight which carwin had predicted! this was the event which my understanding was to find inexplicable! this was the fate which had been reserved for me, but which, by some untoward chance, had befallen on another! i had not been terrified by empty menaces. violation and death awaited my entrance into this chamber. some inscrutable chance had led her hither before me, and the merciless fangs of which i was designed to be the prey, had mistaken their victim, and had fixed themselves in her heart. but where was my safety? was the mischief exhausted or flown? the steps of the assassin had just been here; they could not be far off; in a moment he would rush into my presence, and i should perish under the same polluting and suffocating grasp! my frame shook, and my knees were unable to support me. i gazed alternately at the closet door and at the door of my room. at one of these avenues would enter the exterminator of my honor and my life. i was prepared for defence; but now that danger was imminent, my means of defence, and my power to use them were gone. i was not qualified, by education and experience, to encounter perils like these: or, perhaps, i was powerless because i was again assaulted by surprize, and had not fortified my mind by foresight and previous reflection against a scene like this. fears for my own safety again yielded place to reflections on the scene before me. i fixed my eyes upon her countenance. my sister's well-known and beloved features could not be concealed by convulsion or lividness. what direful illusion led thee hither? bereft of thee, what hold on happiness remains to thy offspring and thy spouse? to lose thee by a common fate would have been sufficiently hard; but thus suddenly to perish--to become the prey of this ghastly death! how will a spectacle like this be endured by wieland? to die beneath his grasp would not satisfy thy enemy. this was mercy to the evils which he previously made thee suffer! after these evils death was a boon which thou besoughtest him to grant. he entertained no enmity against thee: i was the object of his treason; but by some tremendous mistake his fury was misplaced. but how comest thou hither? and where was wieland in thy hour of distress? i approached the corpse: i lifted the still flexible hand, and kissed the lips which were breathless. her flowing drapery was discomposed. i restored it to order, and seating myself on the bed, again fixed stedfast eyes upon her countenance. i cannot distinctly recollect the ruminations of that moment. i saw confusedly, but forcibly, that every hope was extinguished with the life of catharine. all happiness and dignity must henceforth be banished from the house and name of wieland: all that remained was to linger out in agonies a short existence; and leave to the world a monument of blasted hopes and changeable fortune. pleyel was already lost to me; yet, while catharine lived life was not a detestable possession: but now, severed from the companion of my infancy, the partaker of all my thoughts, my cares, and my wishes, i was like one set afloat upon a stormy sea, and hanging his safety upon a plank; night was closing upon him, and an unexpected surge had torn him from his hold and overwhelmed him forever. chapter xvii i had no inclination nor power to move from this spot. for more than an hour, my faculties and limbs seemed to be deprived of all activity. the door below creaked on its hinges, and steps ascended the stairs. my wandering and confused thoughts were instantly recalled by these sounds, and dropping the curtain of the bed, i moved to a part of the room where any one who entered should be visible; such are the vibrations of sentiment, that notwithstanding the seeming fulfilment of my fears, and increase of my danger, i was conscious, on this occasion, to no turbulence but that of curiosity. at length he entered the apartment, and i recognized my brother. it was the same wieland whom i had ever seen. yet his features were pervaded by a new expression. i supposed him unacquainted with the fate of his wife, and his appearance confirmed this persuasion. a brow expanding into exultation i had hitherto never seen in him, yet such a brow did he now wear. not only was he unapprized of the disaster that had happened, but some joyous occurrence had betided. what a reverse was preparing to annihilate his transitory bliss! no husband ever doated more fondly, for no wife ever claimed so boundless a devotion. i was not uncertain as to the effects to flow from the discovery of her fate. i confided not at all in the efforts of his reason or his piety. there were few evils which his modes of thinking would not disarm of their sting; but here, all opiates to grief, and all compellers of patience were vain. this spectacle would be unavoidably followed by the outrages of desperation, and a rushing to death. for the present, i neglected to ask myself what motive brought him hither. i was only fearful of the effects to flow from the sight of the dead. yet could it be long concealed from him? some time and speedily he would obtain this knowledge. no stratagems could considerably or usefully prolong his ignorance. all that could be sought was to take away the abruptness of the change, and shut out the confusion of despair, and the inroads of madness: but i knew my brother, and knew that all exertions to console him would be fruitless. what could i say? i was mute, and poured forth those tears on his account, which my own unhappiness had been unable to extort. in the midst of my tears, i was not unobservant of his motions. these were of a nature to rouse some other sentiment than grief or, at least, to mix with it a portion of astonishment. his countenance suddenly became troubled. his hands were clasped with a force that left the print of his nails in his flesh. his eyes were fixed on my feet. his brain seemed to swell beyond its continent. he did not cease to breathe, but his breath was stifled into groans. i had never witnessed the hurricane of human passions. my element had, till lately, been all sunshine and calm. i was unconversant with the altitudes and energies of sentiment, and was transfixed with inexplicable horror by the symptoms which i now beheld. after a silence and a conflict which i could not interpret, he lifted his eyes to heaven, and in broken accents exclaimed, "this is too much! any victim but this, and thy will be done. have i not sufficiently attested my faith and my obedience? she that is gone, they that have perished, were linked with my soul by ties which only thy command would have broken; but here is sanctity and excellence surpassing human. this workmanship is thine, and it cannot be thy will to heap it into ruins." here suddenly unclasping his hands, he struck one of them against his forehead, and continued--"wretch! who made thee quicksighted in the councils of thy maker? deliverance from mortal fetters is awarded to this being, and thou art the minister of this decree." so saying, wieland advanced towards me. his words and his motions were without meaning, except on one supposition. the death of catharine was already known to him, and that knowledge, as might have been suspected, had destroyed his reason. i had feared nothing less; but now that i beheld the extinction of a mind the most luminous and penetrating that ever dignified the human form, my sensations were fraught with new and insupportable anguish. i had not time to reflect in what way my own safety would be effected by this revolution, or what i had to dread from the wild conceptions of a madman. he advanced towards me. some hollow noises were wafted by the breeze. confused clamours were succeeded by many feet traversing the grass, and then crowding into the piazza. these sounds suspended my brother's purpose, and he stood to listen. the signals multiplied and grew louder; perceiving this, he turned from me, and hurried out of my sight. all about me was pregnant with motives to astonishment. my sister's corpse, wieland's frantic demeanour, and, at length, this crowd of visitants so little accorded with my foresight, that my mental progress was stopped. the impulse had ceased which was accustomed to give motion and order to my thoughts. footsteps thronged upon the stairs, and presently many faces shewed themselves within the door of my apartment. these looks were full of alarm and watchfulness. they pryed into corners as if in search of some fugitive; next their gaze was fixed upon me, and betokened all the vehemence of terror and pity. for a time i questioned whether these were not shapes and faces like that which i had seen at the bottom of the stairs, creatures of my fancy or airy existences. my eye wandered from one to another, till at length it fell on a countenance which i well knew. it was that of mr. hallet. this man was a distant kinsman of my mother, venerable for his age, his uprightness, and sagacity. he had long discharged the functions of a magistrate and good citizen. if any terrors remained, his presence was sufficient to dispel them. he approached, took my hand with a compassionate air, and said in a low voice, "where, my dear clara, are your brother and sister?" i made no answer, but pointed to the bed. his attendants drew aside the curtain, and while their eyes glared with horror at the spectacle which they beheld, those of mr. hallet overflowed with tears. after considerable pause, he once more turned to me. "my dear girl, this sight is not for you. can you confide in my care, and that of mrs. baynton's? we will see performed all that circumstances require." i made strenuous opposition to this request. i insisted on remaining near her till she were interred. his remonstrances, however, and my own feelings, shewed me the propriety of a temporary dereliction. louisa stood in need of a comforter, and my brother's children of a nurse. my unhappy brother was himself an object of solicitude and care. at length, i consented to relinquish the corpse, and go to my brother's, whose house, i said, would need mistress, and his children a parent. during this discourse, my venerable friend struggled with his tears, but my last intimation called them forth with fresh violence. meanwhile, his attendants stood round in mournful silence, gazing on me and at each other. i repeated my resolution, and rose to execute it; but he took my hand to detain me. his countenance betrayed irresolution and reluctance. i requested him to state the reason of his opposition to this measure. i entreated him to be explicit. i told him that my brother had just been there, and that i knew his condition. this misfortune had driven him to madness, and his offspring must not want a protector. if he chose, i would resign wieland to his care; but his innocent and helpless babes stood in instant need of nurse and mother, and these offices i would by no means allow another to perform while i had life. every word that i uttered seemed to augment his perplexity and distress. at last he said, "i think, clara, i have entitled myself to some regard from you. you have professed your willingness to oblige me. now i call upon you to confer upon me the highest obligation in your power. permit mrs. baynton to have the management of your brother's house for two or three days; then it shall be yours to act in it as you please. no matter what are my motives in making this request: perhaps i think your age, your sex, or the distress which this disaster must occasion, incapacitates you for the office. surely you have no doubt of mrs. baynton's tenderness or discretion." new ideas now rushed into my mind. i fixed my eyes stedfastly on mr. hallet. "are they well?" said i. "is louisa well? are benjamin, and william, and constantine, and little clara, are they safe? tell me truly, i beseech you!" "they are well," he replied; "they are perfectly safe." "fear no effeminate weakness in me: i can bear to hear the truth. tell me truly, are they well?" he again assured me that they were well. "what then," resumed i, "do you fear? is it possible for any calamity to disqualify me for performing my duty to these helpless innocents? i am willing to divide the care of them with mrs. baynton; i shall be grateful for her sympathy and aid; but what should i be to desert them at an hour like this!" i will cut short this distressful dialogue. i still persisted in my purpose, and he still persisted in his opposition. this excited my suspicions anew; but these were removed by solemn declarations of their safety. i could not explain this conduct in my friend; but at length consented to go to the city, provided i should see them for a few minutes at present, and should return on the morrow. even this arrangement was objected to. at length he told me they were removed to the city. why were they removed, i asked, and whither? my importunities would not now be eluded. my suspicions were roused, and no evasion or artifice was sufficient to allay them. many of the audience began to give vent to their emotions in tears. mr. hallet himself seemed as if the conflict were too hard to be longer sustained. something whispered to my heart that havoc had been wider than i now witnessed. i suspected this concealment to arise from apprehensions of the effects which a knowledge of the truth would produce in me. i once more entreated him to inform me truly of their state. to enforce my entreaties, i put on an air of insensibility. "i can guess," said i, "what has happened--they are indeed beyond the reach of injury, for they are dead! is it not so?" my voice faltered in spite of my courageous efforts. "yes," said he, "they are dead! dead by the same fate, and by the same hand, with their mother!" "dead!" replied i; "what, all?" "all!" replied he: "he spared not one!" allow me, my friends, to close my eyes upon the after-scene. why should i protract a tale which i already begin to feel is too long? over this scene at least let me pass lightly. here, indeed, my narrative would be imperfect. all was tempestuous commotion in my heart and in my brain. i have no memory for ought but unconscious transitions and rueful sights. i was ingenious and indefatigable in the invention of torments. i would not dispense with any spectacle adapted to exasperate my grief. each pale and mangled form i crushed to my bosom. louisa, whom i loved with so ineffable a passion, was denied to me at first, but my obstinacy conquered their reluctance. they led the way into a darkened hall. a lamp pendant from the ceiling was uncovered, and they pointed to a table. the assassin had defrauded me of my last and miserable consolation. i sought not in her visage, for the tinge of the morning, and the lustre of heaven. these had vanished with life; but i hoped for liberty to print a last kiss upon her lips. this was denied me; for such had been the merciless blow that destroyed her, that not a lineament remained! i was carried hence to the city. mrs. hallet was my companion and my nurse. why should i dwell upon the rage of fever, and the effusions of delirium? carwin was the phantom that pursued my dreams, the giant oppressor under whose arm i was for ever on the point of being crushed. strenuous muscles were required to hinder my flight, and hearts of steel to withstand the eloquence of my fears. in vain i called upon them to look upward, to mark his sparkling rage and scowling contempt. all i sought was to fly from the stroke that was lifted. then i heaped upon my guards the most vehement reproaches, or betook myself to wailings on the haplessness of my condition. this malady, at length, declined, and my weeping friends began to look for my restoration. slowly, and with intermitted beams, memory revisited me. the scenes that i had witnessed were revived, became the theme of deliberation and deduction, and called forth the effusions of more rational sorrow. chapter xviii i had imperfectly recovered my strength, when i was informed of the arrival of my mother's brother, thomas cambridge. ten years since, he went to europe, and was a surgeon in the british forces in germany, during the whole of the late war. after its conclusion, some connection that he had formed with an irish officer, made him retire into ireland. intercourse had been punctually maintained by letters with his sister's children, and hopes were given that he would shortly return to his native country, and pass his old age in our society. he was now in an evil hour arrived. i desired an interview with him for numerous and urgent reasons. with the first returns of my understanding i had anxiously sought information of the fate of my brother. during the course of my disease i had never seen him; and vague and unsatisfactory answers were returned to all my inquires. i had vehemently interrogated mrs. hallet and her husband, and solicited an interview with this unfortunate man; but they mysteriously insinuated that his reason was still unsettled, and that his circumstances rendered an interview impossible. their reserve on the particulars of this destruction, and the author of it, was equally invincible. for some time, finding all my efforts fruitless, i had desisted from direct inquiries and solicitations, determined, as soon as my strength was sufficiently renewed, to pursue other means of dispelling my uncertainty. in this state of things my uncle's arrival and intention to visit me were announced. i almost shuddered to behold the face of this man. when i reflected on the disasters that had befallen us, i was half unwilling to witness that dejection and grief which would be disclosed in his countenance. but i believed that all transactions had been thoroughly disclosed to him, and confided in my importunity to extort from him the knowledge that i sought. i had no doubt as to the person of our enemy; but the motives that urged him to perpetrate these horrors, the means that he used, and his present condition, were totally unknown. it was reasonable to expect some information on this head, from my uncle. i therefore waited his coming with impatience. at length, in the dusk of the evening, and in my solitary chamber, this meeting took place. this man was our nearest relation, and had ever treated us with the affection of a parent. our meeting, therefore, could not be without overflowing tenderness and gloomy joy. he rather encouraged than restrained the tears that i poured out in his arms, and took upon himself the task of comforter. allusions to recent disasters could not be long omitted. one topic facilitated the admission of another. at length, i mentioned and deplored the ignorance in which i had been kept respecting my brother's destiny, and the circumstances of our misfortunes. i entreated him to tell me what was wieland's condition, and what progress had been made in detecting or punishing the author of this unheard-of devastation. "the author!" said he; "do you know the author?" "alas!" i answered, "i am too well acquainted with him. the story of the grounds of my suspicions would be painful and too long. i am not apprized of the extent of your present knowledge. there are none but wieland, pleyel, and myself, who are able to relate certain facts." "spare yourself the pain," said he. "all that wieland and pleyel can communicate, i know already. if any thing of moment has fallen within your own exclusive knowledge, and the relation be not too arduous for your present strength, i confess i am desirous of hearing it. perhaps you allude to one by the name of carwin. i will anticipate your curiosity by saying, that since these disasters, no one has seen or heard of him. his agency is, therefore, a mystery still unsolved." i readily complied with his request, and related as distinctly as i could, though in general terms, the events transacted in the summer-house and my chamber. he listened without apparent surprize to the tale of pleyel's errors and suspicions, and with augmented seriousness, to my narrative of the warnings and inexplicable vision, and the letter found upon the table. i waited for his comments. "you gather from this," said he, "that carwin is the author of all this misery." "is it not," answered i, "an unavoidable inference? but what know you respecting it? was it possible to execute this mischief without witness or coadjutor? i beseech you to relate to me, when and why mr. hallet was summoned to the scene, and by whom this disaster was first suspected or discovered. surely, suspicion must have fallen upon some one, and pursuit was made." my uncle rose from his seat, and traversed the floor with hasty steps. his eyes were fixed upon the ground, and he seemed buried in perplexity. at length he paused, and said with an emphatic tone, "it is true; the instrument is known. carwin may have plotted, but the execution was another's. that other is found, and his deed is ascertained." "good heaven!" i exclaimed, "what say you? was not carwin the assassin? could any hand but his have carried into act this dreadful purpose?" "have i not said," returned he, "that the performance was another's? carwin, perhaps, or heaven, or insanity, prompted the murderer; but carwin is unknown. the actual performer has, long since, been called to judgment and convicted, and is, at this moment, at the bottom of a dungeon loaded with chains." i lifted my hands and eyes. "who then is this assassin? by what means, and whither was he traced? what is the testimony of his guilt?" "his own, corroborated with that of a servant-maid who spied the murder of the children from a closet where she was concealed. the magistrate returned from your dwelling to your brother's. he was employed in hearing and recording the testimony of the only witness, when the criminal himself, unexpected, unsolicited, unsought, entered the hall, acknowledged his guilt, and rendered himself up to justice. "he has since been summoned to the bar. the audience was composed of thousands whom rumours of this wonderful event had attracted from the greatest distance. a long and impartial examination was made, and the prisoner was called upon for his defence. in compliance with this call he delivered an ample relation of his motives and actions." there he stopped. i besought him to say who this criminal was, and what the instigations that compelled him. my uncle was silent. i urged this inquiry with new force. i reverted to my own knowledge, and sought in this some basis to conjecture. i ran over the scanty catalogue of the men whom i knew; i lighted on no one who was qualified for ministering to malice like this. again i resorted to importunity. had i ever seen the criminal? was it sheer cruelty, or diabolical revenge that produced this overthrow? he surveyed me, for a considerable time, and listened to my interrogations in silence. at length he spoke: "clara, i have known thee by report, and in some degree by observation. thou art a being of no vulgar sort. thy friends have hitherto treated thee as a child. they meant well, but, perhaps, they were unacquainted with thy strength. i assure myself that nothing will surpass thy fortitude. "thou art anxious to know the destroyer of thy family, his actions, and his motives. shall i call him to thy presence, and permit him to confess before thee? shall i make him the narrator of his own tale?" i started on my feet, and looked round me with fearful glances, as if the murderer was close at hand. "what do you mean?" said i; "put an end, i beseech you, to this suspence." "be not alarmed; you will never more behold the face of this criminal, unless he be gifted with supernatural strength, and sever like threads the constraint of links and bolts. i have said that the assassin was arraigned at the bar, and that the trial ended with a summons from the judge to confess or to vindicate his actions. a reply was immediately made with significance of gesture, and a tranquil majesty, which denoted less of humanity than godhead. judges, advocates and auditors were panic-struck and breathless with attention. one of the hearers faithfully recorded the speech. there it is," continued he, putting a roll of papers in my hand, "you may read it at your leisure." with these words my uncle left me alone. my curiosity refused me a moment's delay. i opened the papers, and read as follows. chapter xix "theodore wieland, the prisoner at the bar, was now called upon for his defence. he looked around him for some time in silence, and with a mild countenance. at length he spoke: "it is strange; i am known to my judges and my auditors. who is there present a stranger to the character of wieland? who knows him not as an husband--as a father--as a friend? yet here am i arraigned as criminal. i am charged with diabolical malice; i am accused of the murder of my wife and my children! "it is true, they were slain by me; they all perished by my hand. the task of vindication is ignoble. what is it that i am called to vindicate? and before whom? "you know that they are dead, and that they were killed by me. what more would you have? would you extort from me a statement of my motives? have you failed to discover them already? you charge me with malice; but your eyes are not shut; your reason is still vigorous; your memory has not forsaken you. you know whom it is that you thus charge. the habits of his life are known to you; his treatment of his wife and his offspring is known to you; the soundness of his integrity, and the unchangeableness of his principles, are familiar to your apprehension; yet you persist in this charge! you lead me hither manacled as a felon; you deem me worthy of a vile and tormenting death! "who are they whom i have devoted to death? my wife--the little ones, that drew their being from me--that creature who, as she surpassed them in excellence, claimed a larger affection than those whom natural affinities bound to my heart. think ye that malice could have urged me to this deed? hide your audacious fronts from the scrutiny of heaven. take refuge in some cavern unvisited by human eyes. ye may deplore your wickedness or folly, but ye cannot expiate it. "think not that i speak for your sakes. hug to your hearts this detestable infatuation. deem me still a murderer, and drag me to untimely death. i make not an effort to dispel your illusion: i utter not a word to cure you of your sanguinary folly: but there are probably some in this assembly who have come from far: for their sakes, whose distance has disabled them from knowing me, i will tell what i have done, and why. "it is needless to say that god is the object of my supreme passion. i have cherished, in his presence, a single and upright heart. i have thirsted for the knowledge of his will. i have burnt with ardour to approve my faith and my obedience. "my days have been spent in searching for the revelation of that will; but my days have been mournful, because my search failed. i solicited direction: i turned on every side where glimmerings of light could be discovered. i have not been wholly uninformed; but my knowledge has always stopped short of certainty. dissatisfaction has insinuated itself into all my thoughts. my purposes have been pure; my wishes indefatigable; but not till lately were these purposes thoroughly accomplished, and these wishes fully gratified. "i thank thee, my father, for thy bounty; that thou didst not ask a less sacrifice than this; that thou placedst me in a condition to testify my submission to thy will! what have i withheld which it was thy pleasure to exact? now may i, with dauntless and erect eye, claim my reward, since i have given thee the treasure of my soul. "i was at my own house: it was late in the evening: my sister had gone to the city, but proposed to return. it was in expectation of her return that my wife and i delayed going to bed beyond the usual hour; the rest of the family, however, were retired. "my mind was contemplative and calm; not wholly devoid of apprehension on account of my sister's safety. recent events, not easily explained, had suggested the existence of some danger; but this danger was without a distinct form in our imagination, and scarcely ruffled our tranquillity. "time passed, and my sister did not arrive; her house is at some distance from mine, and though her arrangements had been made with a view to residing with us, it was possible that, through forgetfulness, or the occurrence of unforeseen emergencies, she had returned to her own dwelling. "hence it was conceived proper that i should ascertain the truth by going thither. i went. on my way my mind was full of these ideas which related to my intellectual condition. in the torrent of fervid conceptions, i lost sight of my purpose. some times i stood still; some times i wandered from my path, and experienced some difficulty, on recovering from my fit of musing, to regain it. "the series of my thoughts is easily traced. at first every vein beat with raptures known only to the man whose parental and conjugal love is without limits, and the cup of whose desires, immense as it is, overflows with gratification. i know not why emotions that were perpetual visitants should now have recurred with unusual energy. the transition was not new from sensations of joy to a consciousness of gratitude. the author of my being was likewise the dispenser of every gift with which that being was embellished. the service to which a benefactor like this was entitled, could not be circumscribed. my social sentiments were indebted to their alliance with devotion for all their value. all passions are base, all joys feeble, all energies malignant, which are not drawn from this source. "for a time, my contemplations soared above earth and its inhabitants. i stretched forth my hands; i lifted my eyes, and exclaimed, o! that i might be admitted to thy presence; that mine were the supreme delight of knowing thy will, and of performing it! the blissful privilege of direct communication with thee, and of listening to the audible enunciation of thy pleasure! "what task would i not undertake, what privation would i not cheerfully endure, to testify my love of thee? alas! thou hidest thyself from my view: glimpses only of thy excellence and beauty are afforded me. would that a momentary emanation from thy glory would visit me! that some unambiguous token of thy presence would salute my senses! "in this mood, i entered the house of my sister. it was vacant. scarcely had i regained recollection of the purpose that brought me hither. thoughts of a different tendency had such absolute possession of my mind, that the relations of time and space were almost obliterated from my understanding. these wanderings, however, were restrained, and i ascended to her chamber. "i had no light, and might have known by external observation, that the house was without any inhabitant. with this, however, i was not satisfied. i entered the room, and the object of my search not appearing, i prepared to return. "the darkness required some caution in descending the stair. i stretched my hand to seize the balustrade by which i might regulate my steps. how shall i describe the lustre, which, at that moment, burst upon my vision! "i was dazzled. my organs were bereaved of their activity. my eye-lids were half-closed, and my hands withdrawn from the balustrade. a nameless fear chilled my veins, and i stood motionless. this irradiation did not retire or lessen. it seemed as if some powerful effulgence covered me like a mantle. "i opened my eyes and found all about me luminous and glowing. it was the element of heaven that flowed around. nothing but a fiery stream was at first visible; but, anon, a shrill voice from behind called upon me to attend. "i turned: it is forbidden to describe what i saw: words, indeed, would be wanting to the task. the lineaments of that being, whose veil was now lifted, and whose visage beamed upon my sight, no hues of pencil or of language can pourtray. "as it spoke, the accents thrilled to my heart. "thy prayers are heard. in proof of thy faith, render me thy wife. this is the victim i chuse. call her hither, and here let her fall."--the sound, and visage, and light vanished at once. "what demand was this? the blood of catharine was to be shed! my wife was to perish by my hand! i sought opportunity to attest my virtue. little did i expect that a proof like this would have been demanded. "my wife! i exclaimed: o god! substitute some other victim. make me not the butcher of my wife. my own blood is cheap. this will i pour out before thee with a willing heart; but spare, i beseech thee, this precious life, or commission some other than her husband to perform the bloody deed. "in vain. the conditions were prescribed; the decree had gone forth, and nothing remained but to execute it. i rushed out of the house and across the intermediate fields, and stopped not till i entered my own parlour. "my wife had remained here during my absence, in anxious expectation of my return with some tidings of her sister. i had none to communicate. for a time, i was breathless with my speed: this, and the tremors that shook my frame, and the wildness of my looks, alarmed her. she immediately suspected some disaster to have happened to her friend, and her own speech was as much overpowered by emotion as mine. "she was silent, but her looks manifested her impatience to hear what i had to communicate. i spoke, but with so much precipitation as scarcely to be understood; catching her, at the same time, by the arm, and forcibly pulling her from her seat. "come along with me: fly: waste not a moment: time will be lost, and the deed will be omitted. tarry not; question not; but fly with me! "this deportment added afresh to her alarms. her eyes pursued mine, and she said, "what is the matter? for god's sake what is the matter? where would you have me go?" "my eyes were fixed upon her countenance while she spoke. i thought upon her virtues; i viewed her as the mother of my babes: as my wife: i recalled the purpose for which i thus urged her attendance. my heart faltered, and i saw that i must rouse to this work all my faculties. the danger of the least delay was imminent. "i looked away from her, and again exerting my force, drew her towards the door--'you must go with me--indeed you must.' "in her fright she half-resisted my efforts, and again exclaimed, 'good heaven! what is it you mean? where go? what has happened? have you found clara?" "follow me, and you will see," i answered, still urging her reluctant steps forward. "what phrenzy has seized you? something must needs have happened. is she sick? have you found her?" "come and see. follow me, and know for yourself." "still she expostulated and besought me to explain this mysterious behaviour. i could not trust myself to answer her; to look at her; but grasping her arm, i drew her after me. she hesitated, rather through confusion of mind than from unwillingness to accompany me. this confusion gradually abated, and she moved forward, but with irresolute footsteps, and continual exclamations of wonder and terror. her interrogations of "what was the matter?" and "whither was i going?" were ceaseless and vehement. "it was the scope of my efforts not to think; to keep up a conflict and uproar in my mind in which all order and distinctness should be lost; to escape from the sensations produced by her voice. i was, therefore, silent. i strove to abridge this interval by my haste, and to waste all my attention in furious gesticulations. "in this state of mind we reached my sister's door. she looked at the windows and saw that all was desolate--"why come we here? there is no body here. i will not go in." "still i was dumb; but opening the door, i drew her into the entry. this was the allotted scene: here she was to fall. i let go her hand, and pressing my palms against my forehead, made one mighty effort to work up my soul to the deed. "in vain; it would not be; my courage was appalled; my arms nerveless: i muttered prayers that my strength might be aided from above. they availed nothing. "horror diffused itself over me. this conviction of my cowardice, my rebellion, fastened upon me, and i stood rigid and cold as marble. from this state i was somewhat relieved by my wife's voice, who renewed her supplications to be told why we came hither, and what was the fate of my sister. "what could i answer? my words were broken and inarticulate. her fears naturally acquired force from the observation of these symptoms; but these fears were misplaced. the only inference she deduced from my conduct was, that some terrible mishap had befallen clara. "she wrung her hands, and exclaimed in an agony, "o tell me, where is she? what has become of her? is she sick? dead? is she in her chamber? o let me go thither and know the worst!" "this proposal set my thoughts once more in motion. perhaps what my rebellious heart refused to perform here, i might obtain strength enough to execute elsewhere. "come then," said i, "let us go." "i will, but not in the dark. we must first procure a light." "fly then and procure it; but i charge you, linger not. i will await for your return. "while she was gone, i strode along the entry. the fellness of a gloomy hurricane but faintly resembled the discord that reigned in my mind. to omit this sacrifice must not be; yet my sinews had refused to perform it. no alternative was offered. to rebel against the mandate was impossible; but obedience would render me the executioner of my wife. my will was strong, but my limbs refused their office. "she returned with a light; i led the way to the chamber; she looked round her; she lifted the curtain of the bed; she saw nothing. "at length, she fixed inquiring eyes upon me. the light now enabled her to discover in my visage what darkness had hitherto concealed. her cares were now transferred from my sister to myself, and she said in a tremulous voice, "wieland! you are not well: what ails you? can i do nothing for you?" "that accents and looks so winning should disarm me of my resolution, was to be expected. my thoughts were thrown anew into anarchy. i spread my hand before my eyes that i might not see her, and answered only by groans. she took my other hand between her's, and pressing it to her heart, spoke with that voice which had ever swayed my will, and wafted away sorrow. "my friend! my soul's friend! tell me thy cause of grief. do i not merit to partake with thee in thy cares? am i not thy wife?" "this was too much. i broke from her embrace, and retired to a corner of the room. in this pause, courage was once more infused into me. i resolved to execute my duty. she followed me, and renewed her passionate entreaties to know the cause of my distress. "i raised my head and regarded her with stedfast looks. i muttered something about death, and the injunctions of my duty. at these words she shrunk back, and looked at me with a new expression of anguish. after a pause, she clasped her hands, and exclaimed-- "o wieland! wieland! god grant that i am mistaken; but surely something is wrong. i see it: it is too plain: thou art undone--lost to me and to thyself." at the same time she gazed on my features with intensest anxiety, in hope that different symptoms would take place. i replied to her with vehemence-- "undone! no; my duty is known, and i thank my god that my cowardice is now vanquished, and i have power to fulfil it. catharine! i pity the weakness of thy nature: i pity thee, but must not spare. thy life is claimed from my hands: thou must die!" "fear was now added to her grief. 'what mean you? why talk you of death? bethink yourself, wieland: bethink yourself, and this fit will pass. o why came i hither! why did you drag me hither?' "i brought thee hither to fulfil a divine command. i am appointed thy destroyer, and destroy thee i must." saying this i seized her wrists. she shrieked aloud, and endeavoured to free herself from my grasp; but her efforts were vain. "surely, surely wieland, thou dost not mean it. am i not thy wife? and wouldst thou kill me? thou wilt not; and yet--i see--thou art wieland no longer! a fury resistless and horrible possesses thee--spare me--spare--help--help--" "till her breath was stopped she shrieked for help--for mercy. when she could speak no longer, her gestures, her looks appealed to my compassion. my accursed hand was irresolute and tremulous. i meant thy death to be sudden, thy struggles to be brief. alas! my heart was infirm; my resolves mutable. thrice i slackened my grasp, and life kept its hold, though in the midst of pangs. her eye-balls started from their sockets. grimness and distortion took place of all that used to bewitch me into transport, and subdue me into reverence. "i was commissioned to kill thee, but not to torment thee with the foresight of thy death; not to multiply thy fears, and prolong thy agonies. haggard, and pale, and lifeless, at length thou ceasedst to contend with thy destiny. "this was a moment of triumph. thus had i successfully subdued the stubbornness of human passions: the victim which had been demanded was given: the deed was done past recal. "i lifted the corpse in my arms and laid it on the bed. i gazed upon it with delight. such was the elation of my thoughts, that i even broke into laughter. i clapped my hands and exclaimed, 'it is done! my sacred duty is fulfilled! to that i have sacrificed, o my god! thy last and best gift, my wife!' "for a while i thus soared above frailty. i imagined i had set myself forever beyond the reach of selfishness; but my imaginations were false. this rapture quickly subsided. i looked again at my wife. my joyous ebullitions vanished, and i asked myself who it was whom i saw? methought it could not be catharine. it could not be the woman who had lodged for years in my heart; who had slept, nightly, in my bosom; who had borne in her womb, who had fostered at her breast, the beings who called me father; whom i had watched with delight, and cherished with a fondness ever new and perpetually growing: it could not be the same. "where was her bloom! these deadly and blood-suffused orbs but ill resemble the azure and exstatic tenderness of her eyes. the lucid stream that meandered over that bosom, the glow of love that was wont to sit upon that cheek, are much unlike these livid stains and this hideous deformity. alas! these were the traces of agony; the gripe of the assassin had been here! "i will not dwell upon my lapse into desperate and outrageous sorrow. the breath of heaven that sustained me was withdrawn and i sunk into mere man. i leaped from the floor: i dashed my head against the wall: i uttered screams of horror: i panted after torment and pain. eternal fire, and the bickerings of hell, compared with what i felt, were music and a bed of roses. "i thank my god that this degeneracy was transient, that he deigned once more to raise me aloft. i thought upon what i had done as a sacrifice to duty, and was calm. my wife was dead; but i reflected, that though this source of human consolation was closed, yet others were still open. if the transports of an husband were no more, the feelings of a father had still scope for exercise. when remembrance of their mother should excite too keen a pang, i would look upon them, and be comforted. "while i revolved these ideas, new warmth flowed in upon my heart--i was wrong. these feelings were the growth of selfishness. of this i was not aware, and to dispel the mist that obscured my perceptions, a new effulgence and a new mandate were necessary. "from these thoughts i was recalled by a ray that was shot into the room. a voice spake like that which i had before heard--'thou hast done well; but all is not done--the sacrifice is incomplete--thy children must be offered--they must perish with their mother!--'" chapter xx will you wonder that i read no farther? will you not rather be astonished that i read thus far? what power supported me through such a task i know not. perhaps the doubt from which i could not disengage my mind, that the scene here depicted was a dream, contributed to my perseverance. in vain the solemn introduction of my uncle, his appeals to my fortitude, and allusions to something monstrous in the events he was about to disclose; in vain the distressful perplexity, the mysterious silence and ambiguous answers of my attendants, especially when the condition of my brother was the theme of my inquiries, were remembered. i recalled the interview with wieland in my chamber, his preternatural tranquillity succeeded by bursts of passion and menacing actions. all these coincided with the tenor of this paper. catharine and her children, and louisa were dead. the act that destroyed them was, in the highest degree, inhuman. it was worthy of savages trained to murder, and exulting in agonies. who was the performer of the deed? wieland! my brother! the husband and the father! that man of gentle virtues and invincible benignity! placable and mild--an idolator of peace! surely, said i, it is a dream. for many days have i been vexed with frenzy. its dominion is still felt; but new forms are called up to diversify and augment my torments. the paper dropped from my hand, and my eyes followed it. i shrunk back, as if to avoid some petrifying influence that approached me. my tongue was mute; all the functions of nature were at a stand, and i sunk upon the floor lifeless. the noise of my fall, as i afterwards heard, alarmed my uncle, who was in a lower apartment, and whose apprehensions had detained him. he hastened to my chamber, and administered the assistance which my condition required. when i opened my eyes i beheld him before me. his skill as a reasoner as well as a physician, was exerted to obviate the injurious effects of this disclosure; but he had wrongly estimated the strength of my body or of my mind. this new shock brought me once more to the brink of the grave, and my malady was much more difficult to subdue than at first. i will not dwell upon the long train of dreary sensations, and the hideous confusion of my understanding. time slowly restored its customary firmness to my frame, and order to my thoughts. the images impressed upon my mind by this fatal paper were somewhat effaced by my malady. they were obscure and disjointed like the parts of a dream. i was desirous of freeing my imagination from this chaos. for this end i questioned my uncle, who was my constant companion. he was intimidated by the issue of his first experiment, and took pains to elude or discourage my inquiry. my impetuosity some times compelled him to have resort to misrepresentations and untruths. time effected that end, perhaps, in a more beneficial manner. in the course of my meditations the recollections of the past gradually became more distinct. i revolved them, however, in silence, and being no longer accompanied with surprize, they did not exercise a death-dealing power. i had discontinued the perusal of the paper in the midst of the narrative; but what i read, combined with information elsewhere obtained, threw, perhaps, a sufficient light upon these detestable transactions; yet my curiosity was not inactive. i desired to peruse the remainder. my eagerness to know the particulars of this tale was mingled and abated by my antipathy to the scene which would be disclosed. hence i employed no means to effect my purpose. i desired knowledge, and, at the same time, shrunk back from receiving the boon. one morning, being left alone, i rose from my bed, and went to a drawer where my finer clothing used to be kept. i opened it, and this fatal paper saluted my sight. i snatched it involuntarily, and withdrew to a chair. i debated, for a few minutes, whether i should open and read. now that my fortitude was put to trial, it failed. i felt myself incapable of deliberately surveying a scene of so much horror. i was prompted to return it to its place, but this resolution gave way, and i determined to peruse some part of it. i turned over the leaves till i came near the conclusion. the narrative of the criminal was finished. the verdict of guilty reluctantly pronounced by the jury, and the accused interrogated why sentence of death should not pass. the answer was brief, solemn, and emphatical. "no. i have nothing to say. my tale has been told. my motives have been truly stated. if my judges are unable to discern the purity of my intentions, or to credit the statement of them, which i have just made; if they see not that my deed was enjoined by heaven; that obedience was the test of perfect virtue, and the extinction of selfishness and error, they must pronounce me a murderer. "they refuse to credit my tale; they impute my acts to the influence of daemons; they account me an example of the highest wickedness of which human nature is capable; they doom me to death and infamy. have i power to escape this evil? if i have, be sure i will exert it. i will not accept evil at their hand, when i am entitled to good; i will suffer only when i cannot elude suffering. "you say that i am guilty. impious and rash! thus to usurp the prerogatives of your maker! to set up your bounded views and halting reason, as the measure of truth! "thou, omnipotent and holy! thou knowest that my actions were conformable to thy will. i know not what is crime; what actions are evil in their ultimate and comprehensive tendency or what are good. thy knowledge, as thy power, is unlimited. i have taken thee for my guide, and cannot err. to the arms of thy protection, i entrust my safety. in the awards of thy justice, i confide for my recompense. "come death when it will, i am safe. let calumny and abhorrence pursue me among men; i shall not be defrauded of my dues. the peace of virtue, and the glory of obedience, will be my portion hereafter." here ended the speaker. i withdrew my eyes from the page; but before i had time to reflect on what i had read, mr. cambridge entered the room. he quickly perceived how i had been employed, and betrayed some solicitude respecting the condition of my mind. his fears, however, were superfluous. what i had read, threw me into a state not easily described. anguish and fury, however, had no part in it. my faculties were chained up in wonder and awe. just then, i was unable to speak. i looked at my friend with an air of inquisitiveness, and pointed at the roll. he comprehended my inquiry, and answered me with looks of gloomy acquiescence. after some time, my thoughts found their way to my lips. such then were the acts of my brother. such were his words. for this he was condemned to die: to die upon the gallows! a fate, cruel and unmerited! and is it so? continued i, struggling for utterance, which this new idea made difficult; is he--dead! "no. he is alive. there could be no doubt as to the cause of these excesses. they originated in sudden madness; but that madness continues. and he is condemned to perpetual imprisonment." "madness, say you? are you sure? were not these sights, and these sounds, really seen and heard?" my uncle was surprized at my question. he looked at me with apparent inquietude. "can you doubt," said he, "that these were illusions? does heaven, think you, interfere for such ends?" "o no; i think it not. heaven cannot stimulate to such unheard-of outrage. the agent was not good, but evil." "nay, my dear girl," said my friend, "lay aside these fancies. neither angel nor devil had any part in this affair." "you misunderstand me," i answered; "i believe the agency to be external and real, but not supernatural." "indeed!" said he, in an accent of surprize. "whom do you then suppose to be the agent?" "i know not. all is wildering conjecture. i cannot forget carwin. i cannot banish the suspicion that he was the setter of these snares. but how can we suppose it to be madness? did insanity ever before assume this form?" "frequently. the illusion, in this case, was more dreadful in its consequences, than any that has come to my knowledge; but, i repeat that similar illusions are not rare. did you never hear of an instance which occurred in your mother's family?" "no. i beseech you relate it. my grandfather's death i have understood to have been extraordinary, but i know not in what respect. a brother, to whom he was much attached, died in his youth, and this, as i have heard, influenced, in some remarkable way, the fate of my grandfather; but i am unacquainted with particulars." "on the death of that brother," resumed my friend, "my father was seized with dejection, which was found to flow from two sources. he not only grieved for the loss of a friend, but entertained the belief that his own death would be inevitably consequent on that of his brother. he waited from day to day in expectation of the stroke which he predicted was speedily to fall upon him. gradually, however, he recovered his cheerfulness and confidence. he married, and performed his part in the world with spirit and activity. at the end of twenty-one years it happened that he spent the summer with his family at an house which he possessed on the sea coast in cornwall. it was at no great distance from a cliff which overhung the ocean, and rose into the air to a great height. the summit was level and secure, and easily ascended on the land side. the company frequently repaired hither in clear weather, invited by its pure airs and extensive prospects. one evening in june my father, with his wife and some friends, chanced to be on this spot. every one was happy, and my father's imagination seemed particularly alive to the grandeur of the scenery. "suddenly, however, his limbs trembled and his features betrayed alarm. he threw himself into the attitude of one listening. he gazed earnestly in a direction in which nothing was visible to his friends. this lasted for a minute; then turning to his companions, he told them that his brother had just delivered to him a summons, which must be instantly obeyed. he then took an hasty and solemn leave of each person, and, before their surprize would allow them to understand the scene, he rushed to the edge of the cliff, threw himself headlong, and was seen no more. "in the course of my practice in the german army, many cases, equally remarkable, have occurred. unquestionably the illusions were maniacal, though the vulgar thought otherwise. they are all reducible to one class, [*] and are not more difficult of explication and cure than most affections of our frame." this opinion my uncle endeavoured, by various means, to impress upon me. i listened to his reasonings and illustrations with silent respect. my astonishment was great on finding proofs of an influence of which i had supposed there were no examples; but i was far from accounting for appearances in my uncle's manner. ideas thronged into my mind which i was unable to disjoin or to regulate. i reflected that this madness, if madness it were, had affected pleyel and myself as well as wieland. pleyel had heard a mysterious voice. i had seen and heard. a form had showed itself to me as well as to wieland. the disclosure had been made in the same spot. the appearance was equally complete and equally prodigious in both instances. whatever supposition i should adopt, had i not equal reason to tremble? what was my security against influences equally terrific and equally irresistable? it would be vain to attempt to describe the state of mind which this idea produced. i wondered at the change which a moment had affected in my brother's condition. now was i stupified with tenfold wonder in contemplating myself. was i not likewise transformed from rational and human into a creature of nameless and fearful attributes? was i not transported to the brink of the same abyss? ere a new day should come, my hands might be embrued in blood, and my remaining life be consigned to a dungeon and chains. with moral sensibility like mine, no wonder that this new dread was more insupportable than the anguish i had lately endured. grief carries its own antidote along with it. when thought becomes merely a vehicle of pain, its progress must be stopped. death is a cure which nature or ourselves must administer: to this cure i now looked forward with gloomy satisfaction. my silence could not conceal from my uncle the state of my thoughts. he made unwearied efforts to divert my attention from views so pregnant with danger. his efforts, aided by time, were in some measure successful. confidence in the strength of my resolution, and in the healthful state of my faculties, was once more revived. i was able to devote my thoughts to my brother's state, and the causes of this disasterous proceeding. my opinions were the sport of eternal change. some times i conceived the apparition to be more than human. i had no grounds on which to build a disbelief. i could not deny faith to the evidence of my religion; the testimony of men was loud and unanimous: both these concurred to persuade me that evil spirits existed, and that their energy was frequently exerted in the system of the world. these ideas connected themselves with the image of carwin. where is the proof, said i, that daemons may not be subjected to the controul of men? this truth may be distorted and debased in the minds of the ignorant. the dogmas of the vulgar, with regard to this subject, are glaringly absurd; but though these may justly be neglected by the wise, we are scarcely justified in totally rejecting the possibility that men may obtain supernatural aid. the dreams of superstition are worthy of contempt. witchcraft, its instruments and miracles, the compact ratified by a bloody signature, the apparatus of sulpherous smells and thundering explosions, are monstrous and chimerical. these have no part in the scene over which the genius of carwin presides. that conscious beings, dissimilar from human, but moral and voluntary agents as we are, some where exist, can scarcely be denied. that their aid may be employed to benign or malignant purposes, cannot be disproved. darkness rests upon the designs of this man. the extent of his power is unknown; but is there not evidence that it has been now exerted? i recurred to my own experience. here carwin had actually appeared upon the stage; but this was in a human character. a voice and a form were discovered; but one was apparently exerted, and the other disclosed, not to befriend, but to counteract carwin's designs. there were tokens of hostility, and not of alliance, between them. carwin was the miscreant whose projects were resisted by a minister of heaven. how can this be reconciled to the stratagem which ruined my brother? there the agency was at once preternatural and malignant. the recollection of this fact led my thoughts into a new channel. the malignity of that influence which governed my brother had hitherto been no subject of doubt. his wife and children were destroyed; they had expired in agony and fear; yet was it indisputably certain that their murderer was criminal? he was acquitted at the tribunal of his own conscience; his behaviour at his trial and since, was faithfully reported to me; appearances were uniform; not for a moment did he lay aside the majesty of virtue; he repelled all invectives by appealing to the deity, and to the tenor of his past life; surely there was truth in this appeal: none but a command from heaven could have swayed his will; and nothing but unerring proof of divine approbation could sustain his mind in its present elevation. * mania mutabilis. see darwin's zoonomia, vol. ii. class iii. . . where similar cases are stated. chapter xxi such, for some time, was the course of my meditations. my weakness, and my aversion to be pointed at as an object of surprize or compassion, prevented me from going into public. i studiously avoided the visits of those who came to express their sympathy, or gratify their curiosity. my uncle was my principal companion. nothing more powerfully tended to console me than his conversation. with regard to pleyel, my feelings seemed to have undergone a total revolution. it often happens that one passion supplants another. late disasters had rent my heart, and now that the wound was in some degree closed, the love which i had cherished for this man seemed likewise to have vanished. hitherto, indeed, i had had no cause for despair. i was innocent of that offence which had estranged him from my presence. i might reasonably expect that my innocence would at some time be irresistably demonstrated, and his affection for me be revived with his esteem. now my aversion to be thought culpable by him continued, but was unattended with the same impatience. i desired the removal of his suspicions, not for the sake of regaining his love, but because i delighted in the veneration of so excellent a man, and because he himself would derive pleasure from conviction of my integrity. my uncle had early informed me that pleyel and he had seen each other, since the return of the latter from europe. amidst the topics of their conversation, i discovered that pleyel had carefully omitted the mention of those events which had drawn upon me so much abhorrence. i could not account for his silence on this subject. perhaps time or some new discovery had altered or shaken his opinion. perhaps he was unwilling, though i were guilty, to injure me in the opinion of my venerable kinsman. i understood that he had frequently visited me during my disease, had watched many successive nights by my bedside, and manifested the utmost anxiety on my account. the journey which he was preparing to take, at the termination of our last interview, the catastrophe of the ensuing night induced him to delay. the motives of this journey i had, till now, totally mistaken. they were explained to me by my uncle, whose tale excited my astonishment without awakening my regret. in a different state of mind, it would have added unspeakably to my distress, but now it was more a source of pleasure than pain. this, perhaps, is not the least extraordinary of the facts contained in this narrative. it will excite less wonder when i add, that my indifference was temporary, and that the lapse of a few days shewed me that my feelings were deadened for a time, rather than finally extinguished. theresa de stolberg was alive. she had conceived the resolution of seeking her lover in america. to conceal her flight, she had caused the report of her death to be propagated. she put herself under the conduct of bertrand, the faithful servant of pleyel. the pacquet which the latter received from the hands of his servant, contained the tidings of her safe arrival at boston, and to meet her there was the purpose of his journey. this discovery had set this man's character in a new light. i had mistaken the heroism of friendship for the phrenzy of love. he who had gained my affections, may be supposed to have previously entitled himself to my reverence; but the levity which had formerly characterized the behaviour of this man, tended to obscure the greatness of his sentiments. i did not fail to remark, that since this lady was still alive, the voice in the temple which asserted her death, must either have been intended to deceive, or have been itself deceived. the latter supposition was inconsistent with the notion of a spiritual, and the former with that of a benevolent being. when my disease abated, pleyel had forborne his visits, and had lately set out upon this journey. this amounted to a proof that my guilt was still believed by him. i was grieved for his errors, but trusted that my vindication would, sooner or later, be made. meanwhile, tumultuous thoughts were again set afloat by a proposal made to me by my uncle. he imagined that new airs would restore my languishing constitution, and a varied succession of objects tend to repair the shock which my mind had received. for this end, he proposed to me to take up my abode with him in france or italy. at a more prosperous period, this scheme would have pleased for its own sake. now my heart sickened at the prospect of nature. the world of man was shrowded in misery and blood, and constituted a loathsome spectacle. i willingly closed my eyes in sleep, and regretted that the respite it afforded me was so short. i marked with satisfaction the progress of decay in my frame, and consented to live, merely in the hope that the course of nature would speedily relieve me from the burthen. nevertheless, as he persisted in his scheme, i concurred in it merely because he was entitled to my gratitude, and because my refusal gave him pain. no sooner was he informed of my consent, than he told me i must make immediate preparation to embark, as the ship in which he had engaged a passage would be ready to depart in three days. this expedition was unexpected. there was an impatience in his manner when he urged the necessity of dispatch that excited my surprize. when i questioned him as to the cause of this haste, he generally stated reasons which, at that time, i could not deny to be plausible; but which, on the review, appeared insufficient. i suspected that the true motives were concealed, and believed that these motives had some connection with my brother's destiny. i now recollected that the information respecting wieland which had, from time to time, been imparted to me, was always accompanied with airs of reserve and mysteriousness. what had appeared sufficiently explicit at the time it was uttered, i now remembered to have been faltering and ambiguous. i was resolved to remove my doubts, by visiting the unfortunate man in his dungeon. heretofore the idea of this visit had occurred to me; but the horrors of his dwelling-place, his wild yet placid physiognomy, his neglected locks, the fetters which constrained his limbs, terrible as they were in description, how could i endure to behold! now, however, that i was preparing to take an everlasting farewell of my country, now that an ocean was henceforth to separate me from him, how could i part without an interview? i would examine his situation with my own eyes. i would know whether the representations which had been made to me were true. perhaps the sight of the sister whom he was wont to love with a passion more than fraternal, might have an auspicious influence on his malady. having formed this resolution, i waited to communicate it to mr. cambridge. i was aware that, without his concurrence, i could not hope to carry it into execution, and could discover no objection to which it was liable. if i had not been deceived as to his condition, no inconvenience could arise from this proceeding. his consent, therefore, would be the test of his sincerity. i seized this opportunity to state my wishes on this head. my suspicions were confirmed by the manner in which my request affected him. after some pause, in which his countenance betrayed every mark of perplexity, he said to me, "why would you pay this visit? what useful purpose can it serve?" "we are preparing," said i, "to leave the country forever: what kind of being should i be to leave behind me a brother in calamity without even a parting interview? indulge me for three minutes in the sight of him. my heart will be much easier after i have looked at him, and shed a few tears in his presence." "i believe otherwise. the sight of him would only augment your distress, without contributing, in any degree, to his benefit." "i know not that," returned i. "surely the sympathy of his sister, proofs that her tenderness is as lively as ever, must be a source of satisfaction to him. at present he must regard all mankind as his enemies and calumniators. his sister he, probably, conceives to partake in the general infatuation, and to join in the cry of abhorrence that is raised against him. to be undeceived in this respect, to be assured that, however i may impute his conduct to delusion, i still retain all my former affection for his person, and veneration for the purity of his motives, cannot but afford him pleasure. when he hears that i have left the country, without even the ceremonious attention of a visit, what will he think of me? his magnanimity may hinder him from repining, but he will surely consider my behaviour as savage and unfeeling. indeed, dear sir, i must pay this visit. to embark with you without paying it, will be impossible. it may be of no service to him, but will enable me to acquit myself of what i cannot but esteem a duty. besides," continued i, "if it be a mere fit of insanity that has seized him, may not my presence chance to have a salutary influence? the mere sight of me, it is not impossible, may rectify his perceptions." "ay," said my uncle, with some eagerness; "it is by no means impossible that your interview may have that effect; and for that reason, beyond all others, would i dissuade you from it." i expressed my surprize at this declaration. "is it not to be desired that an error so fatal as this should be rectified?" "i wonder at your question. reflect on the consequences of this error. has he not destroyed the wife whom he loved, the children whom he idolized? what is it that enables him to bear the remembrance, but the belief that he acted as his duty enjoined? would you rashly bereave him of this belief? would you restore him to himself, and convince him that he was instigated to this dreadful outrage by a perversion of his organs, or a delusion from hell? "now his visions are joyous and elate. he conceives himself to have reached a loftier degree of virtue, than any other human being. the merit of his sacrifice is only enhanced in the eyes of superior beings, by the detestation that pursues him here, and the sufferings to which he is condemned. the belief that even his sister has deserted him, and gone over to his enemies, adds to his sublimity of feelings, and his confidence in divine approbation and future recompense. "let him be undeceived in this respect, and what floods of despair and of horror will overwhelm him! instead of glowing approbation and serene hope, will he not hate and torture himself? self-violence, or a phrenzy far more savage and destructive than this, may be expected to succeed. i beseech you, therefore, to relinquish this scheme. if you calmly reflect upon it, you will discover that your duty lies in carefully shunning him." mr. cambridge's reasonings suggested views to my understanding, that had not hitherto occurred. i could not but admit their validity, but they shewed, in a new light, the depth of that misfortune in which my brother was plunged. i was silent and irresolute. presently, i considered, that whether wieland was a maniac, a faithful servant of his god, the victim of hellish illusions, or the dupe of human imposture, was by no means certain. in this state of my mind it became me to be silent during the visit that i projected. this visit should be brief: i should be satisfied merely to snatch a look at him. admitting that a change in his opinions were not to be desired, there was no danger from the conduct which i should pursue, that this change should be wrought. but i could not conquer my uncle's aversion to this scheme. yet i persisted, and he found that to make me voluntarily relinquish it, it was necessary to be more explicit than he had hitherto been. he took both my hands, and anxiously examining my countenance as he spoke, "clara," said he, "this visit must not be paid. we must hasten with the utmost expedition from this shore. it is folly to conceal the truth from you, and, since it is only by disclosing the truth that you can be prevailed upon to lay aside this project, the truth shall be told. "o my dear girl!" continued he with increasing energy in his accent, "your brother's phrenzy is, indeed, stupendous and frightful. the soul that formerly actuated his frame has disappeared. the same form remains; but the wise and benevolent wieland is no more. a fury that is rapacious of blood, that lifts his strength almost above that of mortals, that bends all his energies to the destruction of whatever was once dear to him, possesses him wholly. "you must not enter his dungeon; his eyes will no sooner be fixed upon you, than an exertion of his force will be made. he will shake off his fetters in a moment, and rush upon you. no interposition will then be strong or quick enough to save you. "the phantom that has urged him to the murder of catharine and her children is not yet appeased. your life, and that of pleyel, are exacted from him by this imaginary being. he is eager to comply with this demand. twice he has escaped from his prison. the first time, he no sooner found himself at liberty, than he hasted to pleyel's house. it being midnight, the latter was in bed. wieland penetrated unobserved to his chamber, and opened his curtain. happily, pleyel awoke at the critical moment, and escaped the fury of his kinsman, by leaping from his chamber-window into the court. happily, he reached the ground without injury. alarms were given, and after diligent search, your brother was found in a chamber of your house, whither, no doubt, he had sought you. his chains, and the watchfulness of his guards, were redoubled; but again, by some miracle, he restored himself to liberty. he was now incautiously apprized of the place of your abode: and had not information of his escape been instantly given, your death would have been added to the number of his atrocious acts. "you now see the danger of your project. you must not only forbear to visit him, but if you would save him from the crime of embruing his hands in your blood, you must leave the country. there is no hope that his malady will end but with his life, and no precaution will ensure your safety, but that of placing the ocean between you. "i confess i came over with an intention to reside among you, but these disasters have changed my views. your own safety and my happiness require that you should accompany me in my return, and i entreat you to give your cheerful concurrence to this measure." after these representations from my uncle, it was impossible to retain my purpose. i readily consented to seclude myself from wieland's presence. i likewise acquiesced in the proposal to go to europe; not that i ever expected to arrive there, but because, since my principles forbad me to assail my own life, change had some tendency to make supportable the few days which disease should spare to me. what a tale had thus been unfolded! i was hunted to death, not by one whom my misconduct had exasperated, who was conscious of illicit motives, and who sought his end by circumvention and surprize; but by one who deemed himself commissioned for this act by heaven; who regarded this career of horror as the last refinement of virtue; whose implacability was proportioned to the reverence and love which he felt for me, and who was inaccessible to the fear of punishment and ignominy! in vain should i endeavour to stay his hand by urging the claims of a sister or friend: these were his only reasons for pursuing my destruction. had i been a stranger to his blood; had i been the most worthless of human kind; my safety had not been endangered. surely, said i, my fate is without example. the phrenzy which is charged upon my brother, must belong to myself. my foe is manacled and guarded; but i derive no security from these restraints. i live not in a community of savages; yet, whether i sit or walk, go into crouds, or hide myself in solitude, my life is marked for a prey to inhuman violence; i am in perpetual danger of perishing; of perishing under the grasp of a brother! i recollected the omens of this destiny; i remembered the gulf to which my brother's invitation had conducted me; i remembered that, when on the brink of danger, the author of my peril was depicted by my fears in his form: thus realized, were the creatures of prophetic sleep, and of wakeful terror! these images were unavoidably connected with that of carwin. in this paroxysm of distress, my attention fastened on him as the grand deceiver; the author of this black conspiracy; the intelligence that governed in this storm. some relief is afforded in the midst of suffering, when its author is discovered or imagined; and an object found on which we may pour out our indignation and our vengeance. i ran over the events that had taken place since the origin of our intercourse with him, and reflected on the tenor of that description which was received from ludloe. mixed up with notions of supernatural agency, were the vehement suspicions which i entertained, that carwin was the enemy whose machinations had destroyed us. i thirsted for knowledge and for vengeance. i regarded my hasty departure with reluctance, since it would remove me from the means by which this knowledge might be obtained, and this vengeance gratified. this departure was to take place in two days. at the end of two days i was to bid an eternal adieu to my native country. should i not pay a parting visit to the scene of these disasters? should i not bedew with my tears the graves of my sister and her children? should i not explore their desolate habitation, and gather from the sight of its walls and furniture food for my eternal melancholy? this suggestion was succeeded by a secret shuddering. some disastrous influence appeared to overhang the scene. how many memorials should i meet with serving to recall the images of those i had lost! i was tempted to relinquish my design, when it occurred to me that i had left among my papers a journal of transactions in shorthand. i was employed in this manuscript on that night when pleyel's incautious curiosity tempted him to look over my shoulder. i was then recording my adventure in the recess, an imperfect sight of which led him into such fatal errors. i had regulated the disposition of all my property. this manuscript, however, which contained the most secret transactions of my life, i was desirous of destroying. for this end i must return to my house, and this i immediately determined to do. i was not willing to expose myself to opposition from my friends, by mentioning my design; i therefore bespoke the use of mr. hallet's chaise, under pretence of enjoying an airing, as the day was remarkably bright. this request was gladly complied with, and i directed the servant to conduct me to mettingen. i dismissed him at the gate, intending to use, in returning, a carriage belonging to my brother. chapter xxii the inhabitants of the hut received me with a mixture of joy and surprize. their homely welcome, and their artless sympathy, were grateful to my feelings. in the midst of their inquiries, as to my health, they avoided all allusions to the source of my malady. they were honest creatures, and i loved them well. i participated in the tears which they shed when i mentioned to them my speedy departure for europe, and promised to acquaint them with my welfare during my long absence. they expressed great surprize when i informed them of my intention to visit my cottage. alarm and foreboding overspread their features, and they attempted to dissuade me from visiting an house which they firmly believed to be haunted by a thousand ghastly apparitions. these apprehensions, however, had no power over my conduct. i took an irregular path which led me to my own house. all was vacant and forlorn. a small enclosure, near which the path led, was the burying-ground belonging to the family. this i was obliged to pass. once i had intended to enter it, and ponder on the emblems and inscriptions which my uncle had caused to be made on the tombs of catharine and her children; but now my heart faltered as i approached, and i hastened forward, that distance might conceal it from my view. when i approached the recess, my heart again sunk. i averted my eyes, and left it behind me as quickly as possible. silence reigned through my habitation, and a darkness which closed doors and shutters produced. every object was connected with mine or my brother's history. i passed the entry, mounted the stair, and unlocked the door of my chamber. it was with difficulty that i curbed my fancy and smothered my fears. slight movements and casual sounds were transformed into beckoning shadows and calling shapes. i proceeded to the closet. i opened and looked round it with fearfulness. all things were in their accustomed order. i sought and found the manuscript where i was used to deposit it. this being secured, there was nothing to detain me; yet i stood and contemplated awhile the furniture and walls of my chamber. i remembered how long this apartment had been a sweet and tranquil asylum; i compared its former state with its present dreariness, and reflected that i now beheld it for the last time. here it was that the incomprehensible behaviour of carwin was witnessed: this the stage on which that enemy of man shewed himself for a moment unmasked. here the menaces of murder were wafted to my ear; and here these menaces were executed. these thoughts had a tendency to take from me my self-command. my feeble limbs refused to support me, and i sunk upon a chair. incoherent and half-articulate exclamations escaped my lips. the name of carwin was uttered, and eternal woes, woes like that which his malice had entailed upon us, were heaped upon him. i invoked all-seeing heaven to drag to light and to punish this betrayer, and accused its providence for having thus long delayed the retribution that was due to so enormous a guilt. i have said that the window shutters were closed. a feeble light, however, found entrance through the crevices. a small window illuminated the closet, and the door being closed, a dim ray streamed through the key-hole. a kind of twilight was thus created, sufficient for the purposes of vision; but, at the same time, involving all minuter objects in obscurity. this darkness suited the colour of my thoughts. i sickened at the remembrance of the past. the prospect of the future excited my loathing. i muttered in a low voice, why should i live longer? why should i drag a miserable being? all, for whom i ought to live, have perished. am i not myself hunted to death? at that moment, my despair suddenly became vigorous. my nerves were no longer unstrung. my powers, that had long been deadened, were revived. my bosom swelled with a sudden energy, and the conviction darted through my mind, that to end my torments was, at once, practicable and wise. i knew how to find way to the recesses of life. i could use a lancet with some skill, and could distinguish between vein and artery. by piercing deep into the latter, i should shun the evils which the future had in store for me, and take refuge from my woes in quiet death. i started on my feet, for my feebleness was gone, and hasted to the closet. a lancet and other small instruments were preserved in a case which i had deposited here. inattentive as i was to foreign considerations, my ears were still open to any sound of mysterious import that should occur. i thought i heard a step in the entry. my purpose was suspended, and i cast an eager glance at my chamber door, which was open. no one appeared, unless the shadow which i discerned upon the floor, was the outline of a man. if it were, i was authorized to suspect that some one was posted close to the entrance, who possibly had overheard my exclamations. my teeth chattered, and a wild confusion took place of my momentary calm. thus it was when a terrific visage had disclosed itself on a former night. thus it was when the evil destiny of wieland assumed the lineaments of something human. what horrid apparition was preparing to blast my sight? still i listened and gazed. not long, for the shadow moved; a foot, unshapely and huge, was thrust forward; a form advanced from its concealment, and stalked into the room. it was carwin! while i had breath i shrieked. while i had power over my muscles, i motioned with my hand that he should vanish. my exertions could not last long; i sunk into a fit. o that this grateful oblivion had lasted for ever! too quickly i recovered my senses. the power of distinct vision was no sooner restored to me, than this hateful form again presented itself, and i once more relapsed. a second time, untoward nature recalled me from the sleep of death. i found myself stretched upon the bed. when i had power to look up, i remembered only that i had cause to fear. my distempered fancy fashioned to itself no distinguishable image. i threw a languid glance round me; once more my eyes lighted upon carwin. he was seated on the floor, his back rested against the wall, his knees were drawn up, and his face was buried in his hands. that his station was at some distance, that his attitude was not menacing, that his ominous visage was concealed, may account for my now escaping a shock, violent as those which were past. i withdrew my eyes, but was not again deserted by my senses. on perceiving that i had recovered my sensibility, he lifted his head. this motion attracted my attention. his countenance was mild, but sorrow and astonishment sat upon his features. i averted my eyes and feebly exclaimed--"o! fly--fly far and for ever!--i cannot behold you and live!" he did not rise upon his feet, but clasped his hands, and said in a tone of deprecation--"i will fly. i am become a fiend, the sight of whom destroys. yet tell me my offence! you have linked curses with my name; you ascribe to me a malice monstrous and infernal. i look around; all is loneliness and desert! this house and your brother's are solitary and dismantled! you die away at the sight of me! my fear whispers that some deed of horror has been perpetrated; that i am the undesigning cause." what language was this? had he not avowed himself a ravisher? had not this chamber witnessed his atrocious purposes? i besought him with new vehemence to go. he lifted his eyes--"great heaven! what have i done? i think i know the extent of my offences. i have acted, but my actions have possibly effected more than i designed. this fear has brought me back from my retreat. i come to repair the evil of which my rashness was the cause, and to prevent more evil. i come to confess my errors." "wretch!" i cried when my suffocating emotions would permit me to speak, "the ghosts of my sister and her children, do they not rise to accuse thee? who was it that blasted the intellects of wieland? who was it that urged him to fury, and guided him to murder? who, but thou and the devil, with whom thou art confederated?" at these words a new spirit pervaded his countenance. his eyes once more appealed to heaven. "if i have memory, if i have being, i am innocent. i intended no ill; but my folly, indirectly and remotely, may have caused it; but what words are these! your brother lunatic! his children dead!" what should i infer from this deportment? was the ignorance which these words implied real or pretended?--yet how could i imagine a mere human agency in these events? but if the influence was preternatural or maniacal in my brother's case, they must be equally so in my own. then i remembered that the voice exerted, was to save me from carwin's attempts. these ideas tended to abate my abhorrence of this man, and to detect the absurdity of my accusations. "alas!" said i, "i have no one to accuse. leave me to my fate. fly from a scene stained with cruelty; devoted to despair." carwin stood for a time musing and mournful. at length he said, "what has happened? i came to expiate my crimes: let me know them in their full extent. i have horrible forebodings! what has happened?" i was silent; but recollecting the intimation given by this man when he was detected in my closet, which implied some knowledge of that power which interfered in my favor, i eagerly inquired, "what was that voice which called upon me to hold when i attempted to open the closet? what face was that which i saw at the bottom of the stairs? answer me truly." "i came to confess the truth. your allusions are horrible and strange. perhaps i have but faint conceptions of the evils which my infatuation has produced; but what remains i will perform. it was my voice that you heard! it was my face that you saw!" for a moment i doubted whether my remembrance of events were not confused. how could he be at once stationed at my shoulder and shut up in my closet? how could he stand near me and yet be invisible? but if carwin's were the thrilling voice and the fiery visage which i had heard and seen, then was he the prompter of my brother, and the author of these dismal outrages. once more i averted my eyes and struggled for speech. "begone! thou man of mischief! remorseless and implacable miscreant! begone!" "i will obey," said he in a disconsolate voice; "yet, wretch as i am, am i unworthy to repair the evils that i have committed? i came as a repentant criminal. it is you whom i have injured, and at your bar am i willing to appear, and confess and expiate my crimes. i have deceived you: i have sported with your terrors: i have plotted to destroy your reputation. i come now to remove your errors; to set you beyond the reach of similar fears; to rebuild your fame as far as i am able. "this is the amount of my guilt, and this the fruit of my remorse. will you not hear me? listen to my confession, and then denounce punishment. all i ask is a patient audience." "what!" i replied, "was not thine the voice that commanded my brother to imbrue his hands in the blood of his children--to strangle that angel of sweetness his wife? has he not vowed my death, and the death of pleyel, at thy bidding? hast thou not made him the butcher of his family; changed him who was the glory of his species into worse than brute; robbed him of reason, and consigned the rest of his days to fetters and stripes?" carwin's eyes glared, and his limbs were petrified at this intelligence. no words were requisite to prove him guiltless of these enormities: at the time, however, i was nearly insensible to these exculpatory tokens. he walked to the farther end of the room, and having recovered some degree of composure, he spoke-- "i am not this villain; i have slain no one; i have prompted none to slay; i have handled a tool of wonderful efficacy without malignant intentions, but without caution; ample will be the punishment of my temerity, if my conduct has contributed to this evil." he paused.-- i likewise was silent. i struggled to command myself so far as to listen to the tale which he should tell. observing this, he continued-- "you are not apprized of the existence of a power which i possess. i know not by what name to call it. [*] it enables me to mimic exactly the voice of another, and to modify the sound so that it shall appear to come from what quarter, and be uttered at what distance i please. "i know not that every one possesses this power. perhaps, though a casual position of my organs in my youth shewed me that i possessed it, it is an art which may be taught to all. would to god i had died unknowing of the secret! it has produced nothing but degradation and calamity. "for a time the possession of so potent and stupendous an endowment elated me with pride. unfortified by principle, subjected to poverty, stimulated by headlong passions, i made this powerful engine subservient to the supply of my wants, and the gratification of my vanity. i shall not mention how diligently i cultivated this gift, which seemed capable of unlimited improvement; nor detail the various occasions on which it was successfully exerted to lead superstition, conquer avarice, or excite awe. "i left america, which is my native soil, in my youth. i have been engaged in various scenes of life, in which my peculiar talent has been exercised with more or less success. i was finally betrayed by one who called himself my friend, into acts which cannot be justified, though they are susceptible of apology. "the perfidy of this man compelled me to withdraw from europe. i returned to my native country, uncertain whether silence and obscurity would save me from his malice. i resided in the purlieus of the city. i put on the garb and assumed the manners of a clown. "my chief recreation was walking. my principal haunts were the lawns and gardens of mettingen. in this delightful region the luxuriances of nature had been chastened by judicious art, and each successive contemplation unfolded new enchantments. "i was studious of seclusion: i was satiated with the intercourse of mankind, and discretion required me to shun their intercourse. for these reasons i long avoided the observation of your family, and chiefly visited these precincts at night. "i was never weary of admiring the position and ornaments of the temple. many a night have i passed under its roof, revolving no pleasing meditations. when, in my frequent rambles, i perceived this apartment was occupied, i gave a different direction to my steps. one evening, when a shower had just passed, judging by the silence that no one was within, i ascended to this building. glancing carelessly round, i perceived an open letter on the pedestal. to read it was doubtless an offence against politeness. of this offence, however, i was guilty. "scarcely had i gone half through when i was alarmed by the approach of your brother. to scramble down the cliff on the opposite side was impracticable. i was unprepared to meet a stranger. besides the aukwardness attending such an interview in these circumstances, concealment was necessary to my safety. a thousand times had i vowed never again to employ the dangerous talent which i possessed; but such was the force of habit and the influence of present convenience, that i used this method of arresting his progress and leading him back to the house, with his errand, whatever it was, unperformed. i had often caught parts, from my station below, of your conversation in this place, and was well acquainted with the voice of your sister. "some weeks after this i was again quietly seated in this recess. the lateness of the hour secured me, as i thought, from all interruption. in this, however, i was mistaken, for wieland and pleyel, as i judged by their voices, earnest in dispute, ascended the hill. "i was not sensible that any inconvenience could possibly have flowed from my former exertion; yet it was followed with compunction, because it was a deviation from a path which i had assigned to myself. now my aversion to this means of escape was enforced by an unauthorized curiosity, and by the knowledge of a bushy hollow on the edge of the hill, where i should be safe from discovery. into this hollow i thrust myself. "the propriety of removal to europe was the question eagerly discussed. pleyel intimated that his anxiety to go was augmented by the silence of theresa de stolberg. the temptation to interfere in this dispute was irresistible. in vain i contended with inveterate habits. i disguised to myself the impropriety of my conduct, by recollecting the benefits which it might produce. pleyel's proposal was unwise, yet it was enforced with plausible arguments and indefatigable zeal. your brother might be puzzled and wearied, but could not be convinced. i conceived that to terminate the controversy in favor of the latter was conferring a benefit on all parties. for this end i profited by an opening in the conversation, and assured them of catharine's irreconcilable aversion to the scheme, and of the death of the saxon baroness. the latter event was merely a conjecture, but rendered extremely probable by pleyel's representations. my purpose, you need not be told, was effected. "my passion for mystery, and a species of imposture, which i deemed harmless, was thus awakened afresh. this second lapse into error made my recovery more difficult. i cannot convey to you an adequate idea of the kind of gratification which i derived from these exploits; yet i meditated nothing. my views were bounded to the passing moment, and commonly suggested by the momentary exigence. "i must not conceal any thing. your principles teach you to abhor a voluptuous temper; but, with whatever reluctance, i acknowledge this temper to be mine. you imagine your servant judith to be innocent as well as beautiful; but you took her from a family where hypocrisy, as well as licentiousness, was wrought into a system. my attention was captivated by her charms, and her principles were easily seen to be flexible. "deem me not capable of the iniquity of seduction. your servant is not destitute of feminine and virtuous qualities; but she was taught that the best use of her charms consists in the sale of them. my nocturnal visits to mettingen were now prompted by a double view, and my correspondence with your servant gave me, at all times, access to your house. "the second night after our interview, so brief and so little foreseen by either of us, some daemon of mischief seized me. according to my companion's report, your perfections were little less than divine. her uncouth but copious narratives converted you into an object of worship. she chiefly dwelt upon your courage, because she herself was deficient in that quality. you held apparitions and goblins in contempt. you took no precautions against robbers. you were just as tranquil and secure in this lonely dwelling, as if you were in the midst of a crowd. hence a vague project occurred to me, to put this courage to the test. a woman capable of recollection in danger, of warding off groundless panics, of discerning the true mode of proceeding, and profiting by her best resources, is a prodigy. i was desirous of ascertaining whether you were such an one. "my expedient was obvious and simple: i was to counterfeit a murderous dialogue; but this was to be so conducted that another, and not yourself, should appear to be the object. i was not aware of the possibility that you should appropriate these menaces to yourself. had you been still and listened, you would have heard the struggles and prayers of the victim, who would likewise have appeared to be shut up in the closet, and whose voice would have been judith's. this scene would have been an appeal to your compassion; and the proof of cowardice or courage which i expected from you, would have been your remaining inactive in your bed, or your entering the closet with a view to assist the sufferer. some instances which judith related of your fearlessness and promptitude made me adopt the latter supposition with some degree of confidence. "by the girl's direction i found a ladder, and mounted to your closet window. this is scarcely large enough to admit the head, but it answered my purpose too well. "i cannot express my confusion and surprize at your abrupt and precipitate flight. i hastily removed the ladder; and, after some pause, curiosity and doubts of your safety induced me to follow you. i found you stretched on the turf before your brother's door, without sense or motion. i felt the deepest regret at this unlooked-for consequence of my scheme. i knew not what to do to procure you relief. the idea of awakening the family naturally presented itself. this emergency was critical, and there was no time to deliberate. it was a sudden thought that occurred. i put my lips to the key-hole, and sounded an alarm which effectually roused the sleepers. my organs were naturally forcible, and had been improved by long and assiduous exercise. "long and bitterly did i repent of my scheme. i was somewhat consoled by reflecting that my purpose had not been evil, and renewed my fruitless vows never to attempt such dangerous experiments. for some time i adhered, with laudable forbearance, to this resolution. "my life has been a life of hardship and exposure. in the summer i prefer to make my bed of the smooth turf, or, at most, the shelter of a summer-house suffices. in all my rambles i never found a spot in which so many picturesque beauties and rural delights were assembled as at mettingen. no corner of your little domain unites fragrance and secrecy in so perfect a degree as the recess in the bank. the odour of its leaves, the coolness of its shade, and the music of its water-fall, had early attracted my attention. here my sadness was converted into peaceful melancholy--here my slumbers were sound, and my pleasures enhanced. "as most free from interruption, i chose this as the scene of my midnight interviews with judith. one evening, as the sun declined, i was seated here, when i was alarmed by your approach. it was with difficulty that i effected my escape unnoticed by you. "at the customary hour, i returned to your habitation, and was made acquainted by judith, with your unusual absence. i half suspected the true cause, and felt uneasiness at the danger there was that i should be deprived of my retreat; or, at least, interrupted in the possession of it. the girl, likewise, informed me, that among your other singularities, it was not uncommon for you to leave your bed, and walk forth for the sake of night-airs and starlight contemplations. "i desired to prevent this inconvenience. i found you easily swayed by fear. i was influenced, in my choice of means, by the facility and certainty of that to which i had been accustomed. all that i forsaw was, that, in future, this spot would be cautiously shunned by you. "i entered the recess with the utmost caution, and discovered, by your breathings, in what condition you were. the unexpected interpretation which you placed upon my former proceeding, suggested my conduct on the present occasion. the mode in which heaven is said by the poet, to interfere for the prevention of crimes, [**] was somewhat analogous to my province, and never failed to occur to me at seasons like this. it was requisite to break your slumbers, and for this end i uttered the powerful monosyllable, "hold! hold!" my purpose was not prescribed by duty, yet surely it was far from being atrocious and inexpiable. to effect it, i uttered what was false, but it was well suited to my purpose. nothing less was intended than to injure you. nay, the evil resulting from my former act, was partly removed by assuring you that in all places but this you were safe. * biloquium, or ventrilocution. sound is varied according to the variations of direction and distance. the art of the ventriloquist consists in modifying his voice according to all these variations, without changing his place. see the work of the abbe de la chappelle, in which are accurately recorded the performances of one of these artists, and some ingenious, though unsatisfactory speculations are given on the means by which the effects are produced. this power is, perhaps, given by nature, but is doubtless improvable, if not acquirable, by art. it may, possibly, consist in an unusual flexibility or exertion of the bottom of the tongue and the uvula. that speech is producible by these alone must be granted, since anatomists mention two instances of persons speaking without a tongue. in one case, the organ was originally wanting, but its place was supplied by a small tubercle, and the uvula was perfect. in the other, the tongue was destroyed by disease, but probably a small part of it remained. this power is difficult to explain, but the fact is undeniable. experience shews that the human voice can imitate the voice of all men and of all inferior animals. the sound of musical instruments, and even noises from the contact of inanimate substances, have been accurately imitated. the mimicry of animals is notorious; and dr. burney (musical travels) mentions one who imitated a flute and violin, so as to deceive even his ears. **--peeps through the blanket of the dark, and cries hold! hold!--shakespeare. chapter xxiii "my morals will appear to you far from rigid, yet my conduct will fall short of your suspicions. i am now to confess actions less excusable, and yet surely they will not entitle me to the name of a desperate or sordid criminal. "your house was rendered, by your frequent and long absences, easily accessible to my curiosity. my meeting with pleyel was the prelude to direct intercourse with you. i had seen much of the world, but your character exhibited a specimen of human powers that was wholly new to me. my intercourse with your servant furnished me with curious details of your domestic management. i was of a different sex: i was not your husband; i was not even your friend; yet my knowledge of you was of that kind, which conjugal intimacies can give, and, in some respects, more accurate. the observation of your domestic was guided by me. "you will not be surprized that i should sometimes profit by your absence, and adventure to examine with my own eyes, the interior of your chamber. upright and sincere, you used no watchfulness, and practised no precautions. i scrutinized every thing, and pried every where. your closet was usually locked, but it was once my fortune to find the key on a bureau. i opened and found new scope for my curiosity in your books. one of these was manuscript, and written in characters which essentially agreed with a short-hand system which i had learned from a jesuit missionary. "i cannot justify my conduct, yet my only crime was curiosity. i perused this volume with eagerness. the intellect which it unveiled, was brighter than my limited and feeble organs could bear. i was naturally inquisitive as to your ideas respecting my deportment, and the mysteries that had lately occurred. "you know what you have written. you know that in this volume the key to your inmost soul was contained. if i had been a profound and malignant impostor, what plenteous materials were thus furnished me of stratagems and plots! "the coincidence of your dream in the summer-house with my exclamation, was truly wonderful. the voice which warned you to forbear was, doubtless, mine; but mixed by a common process of the fancy, with the train of visionary incidents. "i saw in a stronger light than ever, the dangerousness of that instrument which i employed, and renewed my resolutions to abstain from the use of it in future; but i was destined perpetually to violate my resolutions. by some perverse fate, i was led into circumstances in which the exertion of my powers was the sole or the best means of escape. "on that memorable night on which our last interview took place, i came as usual to mettingen. i was apprized of your engagement at your brother's, from which you did not expect to return till late. some incident suggested the design of visiting your chamber. among your books which i had not examined, might be something tending to illustrate your character, or the history of your family. some intimation had been dropped by you in discourse, respecting a performance of your father, in which some important transaction in his life was recorded. "i was desirous of seeing this book; and such was my habitual attachment to mystery, that i preferred the clandestine perusal of it. such were the motives that induced me to make this attempt. judith had disappeared, and finding the house unoccupied, i supplied myself with a light, and proceeded to your chamber. "i found it easy, on experiment, to lock and unlock your closet door without the aid of a key. i shut myself in this recess, and was busily exploring your shelves, when i heard some one enter the room below. i was at a loss who it could be, whether you or your servant. doubtful, however, as i was, i conceived it prudent to extinguish the light. scarcely was this done, when some one entered the chamber. the footsteps were easily distinguished to be yours. "my situation was now full of danger and perplexity. for some time, i cherished the hope that you would leave the room so long as to afford me an opportunity of escaping. as the hours passed, this hope gradually deserted me. it was plain that you had retired for the night. "i knew not how soon you might find occasion to enter the closet. i was alive to all the horrors of detection, and ruminated without ceasing, on the behaviour which it would be proper, in case of detection, to adopt. i was unable to discover any consistent method of accounting for my being thus immured. "it occurred to me that i might withdraw you from your chamber for a few minutes, by counterfeiting a voice from without. some message from your brother might be delivered, requiring your presence at his house. i was deterred from this scheme by reflecting on the resolution i had formed, and on the possible evils that might result from it. besides, it was not improbable that you would speedily retire to bed, and then, by the exercise of sufficient caution, i might hope to escape unobserved. "meanwhile i listened with the deepest anxiety to every motion from without. i discovered nothing which betokened preparation for sleep. instead of this i heard deep-drawn sighs, and occasionally an half-expressed and mournful ejaculation. hence i inferred that you were unhappy. the true state of your mind with regard to pleyel your own pen had disclosed; but i supposed you to be framed of such materials, that, though a momentary sadness might affect you, you were impregnable to any permanent and heartfelt grief. inquietude for my own safety was, for a moment, suspended by sympathy with your distress. "to the former consideration i was quickly recalled by a motion of yours which indicated i knew not what. i fostered the persuasion that you would now retire to bed; but presently you approached the closet, and detection seemed to be inevitable. you put your hand upon the lock. i had formed no plan to extricate myself from the dilemma in which the opening of the door would involve me. i felt an irreconcilable aversion to detection. thus situated, i involuntarily seized the door with a resolution to resist your efforts to open it. "suddenly you receded from the door. this deportment was inexplicable, but the relief it afforded me was quickly gone. you returned, and i once more was thrown into perplexity. the expedient that suggested itself was precipitate and inartificial. i exerted my organs and called upon you to hold. "that you should persist in spite of this admonition, was a subject of astonishment. i again resisted your efforts; for the first expedient having failed, i knew not what other to resort to. in this state, how was my astonishment increased when i heard your exclamations! "it was now plain that you knew me to be within. further resistance was unavailing and useless. the door opened, and i shrunk backward. seldom have i felt deeper mortification, and more painful perplexity. i did not consider that the truth would be less injurious than any lie which i could hastily frame. conscious as i was of a certain degree of guilt, i conceived that you would form the most odious suspicions. the truth would be imperfect, unless i were likewise to explain the mysterious admonition which had been given; but that explanation was of too great moment, and involved too extensive consequences to make me suddenly resolve to give it. i was aware that this discovery would associate itself in your mind, with the dialogue formerly heard in this closet. thence would your suspicions be aggravated, and to escape from these suspicions would be impossible. but the mere truth would be sufficiently opprobrious, and deprive me for ever of your good opinion. "thus was i rendered desperate, and my mind rapidly passed to the contemplation of the use that might be made of previous events. some good genius would appear to you to have interposed to save you from injury intended by me. why, i said, since i must sink in her opinion, should i not cherish this belief? why not personate an enemy, and pretend that celestial interference has frustrated my schemes? i must fly, but let me leave wonder and fear behind me. elucidation of the mystery will always be practicable. i shall do no injury, but merely talk of evil that was designed, but is now past. "thus i extenuated my conduct to myself, but i scarcely expect that this will be to you a sufficient explication of the scene that followed. those habits which i have imbibed, the rooted passion which possesses me for scattering around me amazement and fear, you enjoy no opportunities of knowing. that a man should wantonly impute to himself the most flagitious designs, will hardly be credited, even though you reflect that my reputation was already, by my own folly, irretrievably ruined; and that it was always in my power to communicate the truth, and rectify the mistake. "i left you to ponder on this scene. my mind was full of rapid and incongruous ideas. compunction, self-upbraiding, hopelesness, satisfaction at the view of those effects likely to flow from my new scheme, misgivings as to the beneficial result of this scheme took possession of my mind, and seemed to struggle for the mastery. "i had gone too far to recede. i had painted myself to you as an assassin and ravisher, withheld from guilt only by a voice from heaven. i had thus reverted into the path of error, and now, having gone thus far, my progress seemed to be irrevocable. i said to myself, i must leave these precincts for ever. my acts have blasted my fame in the eyes of the wielands. for the sake of creating a mysterious dread, i have made myself a villain. i may complete this mysterious plan by some new imposture, but i cannot aggravate my supposed guilt. "my resolution was formed, and i was swiftly ruminating on the means for executing it, when pleyel appeared in sight. this incident decided my conduct. it was plain that pleyel was a devoted lover, but he was, at the same time, a man of cold resolves and exquisite sagacity. to deceive him would be the sweetest triumph i had ever enjoyed. the deception would be momentary, but it would likewise be complete. that his delusion would so soon be rectified, was a recommendation to my scheme, for i esteemed him too much to desire to entail upon him lasting agonies. "i had no time to reflect further, for he proceeded, with a quick step, towards the house. i was hurried onward involuntarily and by a mechanical impulse. i followed him as he passed the recess in the bank, and shrowding myself in that spot, i counterfeited sounds which i knew would arrest his steps. "he stopped, turned, listened, approached, and overheard a dialogue whose purpose was to vanquish his belief in a point where his belief was most difficult to vanquish. i exerted all my powers to imitate your voice, your general sentiments, and your language. being master, by means of your journal, of your personal history and most secret thoughts, my efforts were the more successful. when i reviewed the tenor of this dialogue, i cannot believe but that pleyel was deluded. when i think of your character, and of the inferences which this dialogue was intended to suggest, it seems incredible that this delusion should be produced. "i spared not myself. i called myself murderer, thief, guilty of innumerable perjuries and misdeeds: that you had debased yourself to the level of such an one, no evidence, methought, would suffice to convince him who knew you so thoroughly as pleyel; and yet the imposture amounted to proof which the most jealous scrutiny would find to be unexceptionable. "he left his station precipitately and resumed his way to the house. i saw that the detection of his error would be instantaneous, since, not having gone to bed, an immediate interview would take place between you. at first this circumstance was considered with regret; but as time opened my eyes to the possible consequences of this scene, i regarded it with pleasure. "in a short time the infatuation which had led me thus far began to subside. the remembrance of former reasonings and transactions was renewed. how often i had repented this kind of exertion; how many evils were produced by it which i had not foreseen; what occasions for the bitterest remorse it had administered, now passed through my mind. the black catalogue of stratagems was now increased. i had inspired you with the most vehement terrors: i had filled your mind with faith in shadows and confidence in dreams: i had depraved the imagination of pleyel: i had exhibited you to his understanding as devoted to brutal gratifications and consummate in hypocrisy. the evidence which accompanied this delusion would be irresistible to one whose passion had perverted his judgment, whose jealousy with regard to me had already been excited, and who, therefore, would not fail to overrate the force of this evidence. what fatal act of despair or of vengeance might not this error produce? "with regard to myself, i had acted with a phrenzy that surpassed belief. i had warred against my peace and my fame: i had banished myself from the fellowship of vigorous and pure minds: i was self-expelled from a scene which the munificence of nature had adorned with unrivalled beauties, and from haunts in which all the muses and humanities had taken refuge. "i was thus torn by conflicting fears and tumultuous regrets. the night passed away in this state of confusion; and next morning in the gazette left at my obscure lodging, i read a description and an offer of reward for the apprehension of my person. i was said to have escaped from an irish prison, in which i was confined as an offender convicted of enormous and complicated crimes. "this was the work of an enemy, who, by falsehood and stratagem, had procured my condemnation. i was, indeed, a prisoner, but escaped, by the exertion of my powers, the fate to which i was doomed, but which i did not deserve. i had hoped that the malice of my foe was exhausted; but i now perceived that my precautions had been wise, for that the intervention of an ocean was insufficient for my security. "let me not dwell on the sensations which this discovery produced. i need not tell by what steps i was induced to seek an interview with you, for the purpose of disclosing the truth, and repairing, as far as possible, the effects of my misconduct. it was unavoidable that this gazette would fall into your hands, and that it would tend to confirm every erroneous impression. "having gained this interview, i purposed to seek some retreat in the wilderness, inaccessible to your inquiry and to the malice of my foe, where i might henceforth employ myself in composing a faithful narrative of my actions. i designed it as my vindication from the aspersions that had rested on my character, and as a lesson to mankind on the evils of credulity on the one hand, and of imposture on the other. "i wrote you a billet, which was left at the house of your friend, and which i knew would, by some means, speedily come to your hands. i entertained a faint hope that my invitation would be complied with. i knew not what use you would make of the opportunity which this proposal afforded you of procuring the seizure of my person; but this fate i was determined to avoid, and i had no doubt but due circumspection, and the exercise of the faculty which i possessed, would enable me to avoid it. "i lurked, through the day, in the neighbourhood of mettingen: i approached your habitation at the appointed hour: i entered it in silence, by a trap-door which led into the cellar. this had formerly been bolted on the inside, but judith had, at an early period in our intercourse, removed this impediment. i ascended to the first floor, but met with no one, nor any thing that indicated the presence of an human being. "i crept softly up stairs, and at length perceived your chamber door to be opened, and a light to be within. it was of moment to discover by whom this light was accompanied. i was sensible of the inconveniencies to which my being discovered at your chamber door by any one within would subject me; i therefore called out in my own voice, but so modified that it should appear to ascend from the court below, 'who is in the chamber? is it miss wieland?" "no answer was returned to this summons. i listened, but no motion could be heard. after a pause i repeated my call, but no less ineffectually. "i now approached nearer the door, and adventured to look in. a light stood on the table, but nothing human was discernible. i entered cautiously, but all was solitude and stillness. "i knew not what to conclude. if the house were inhabited, my call would have been noticed; yet some suspicion insinuated itself that silence was studiously kept by persons who intended to surprize me. my approach had been wary, and the silence that ensued my call had likewise preceded it; a circumstance that tended to dissipate my fears. "at length it occurred to me that judith might possibly be in her own room. i turned my steps thither; but she was not to be found. i passed into other rooms, and was soon convinced that the house was totally deserted. i returned to your chamber, agitated by vain surmises and opposite conjectures. the appointed hour had passed, and i dismissed the hope of an interview. "in this state of things i determined to leave a few lines on your toilet, and prosecute my journey to the mountains. scarcely had i taken the pen when i laid it aside, uncertain in what manner to address you. i rose from the table and walked across the floor. a glance thrown upon the bed acquainted me with a spectacle to which my conceptions of horror had not yet reached. "in the midst of shuddering and trepidation, the signal of your presence in the court below recalled me to myself. the deed was newly done: i only was in the house: what had lately happened justified any suspicions, however enormous. it was plain that this catastrophe was unknown to you: i thought upon the wild commotion which the discovery would awaken in your breast: i found the confusion of my own thoughts unconquerable, and perceived that the end for which i sought an interview was not now to be accomplished. "in this state of things it was likewise expedient to conceal my being within. i put out the light and hurried down stairs. to my unspeakable surprize, notwithstanding every motive to fear, you lighted a candle and proceeded to your chamber. "i retired to that room below from which a door leads into the cellar. this door concealed me from your view as you passed. i thought upon the spectacle which was about to present itself. in an exigence so abrupt and so little foreseen, i was again subjected to the empire of mechanical and habitual impulses. i dreaded the effects which this shocking exhibition, bursting on your unprepared senses, might produce. "thus actuated, i stept swiftly to the door, and thrusting my head forward, once more pronounced the mysterious interdiction. at that moment, by some untoward fate, your eyes were cast back, and you saw me in the very act of utterance. i fled through the darksome avenue at which i entered, covered with the shame of this detection. "with diligence, stimulated by a thousand ineffable emotions, i pursued my intended journey. i have a brother whose farm is situated in the bosom of a fertile desert, near the sources of the leheigh, and thither i now repaired." chapter xxiv "deeply did i ruminate on the occurrences that had just passed. nothing excited my wonder so much as the means by which you discovered my being in the closet. this discovery appeared to be made at the moment when you attempted to open it. how could you have otherwise remained so long in the chamber apparently fearless and tranquil? and yet, having made this discovery, how could you persist in dragging me forth: persist in defiance of an interdiction so emphatical and solemn? "but your sister's death was an event detestable and ominous. she had been the victim of the most dreadful species of assassination. how, in a state like yours, the murderous intention could be generated, was wholly inconceivable. "i did not relinquish my design of confessing to you the part which i had sustained in your family, but i was willing to defer it till the task which i had set myself was finished. that being done, i resumed the resolution. the motives to incite me to this continually acquired force. the more i revolved the events happening at mettingen, the more insupportable and ominous my terrors became. my waking hours and my sleep were vexed by dismal presages and frightful intimations. "catharine was dead by violence. surely my malignant stars had not made me the cause of her death; yet had i not rashly set in motion a machine, over whose progress i had no controul, and which experience had shewn me was infinite in power? every day might add to the catalogue of horrors of which this was the source, and a seasonable disclosure of the truth might prevent numberless ills. "fraught with this conception, i have turned my steps hither. i find your brother's house desolate: the furniture removed, and the walls stained with damps. your own is in the same situation. your chamber is dismantled and dark, and you exhibit an image of incurable grief, and of rapid decay. "i have uttered the truth. this is the extent of my offences. you tell me an horrid tale of wieland being led to the destruction of his wife and children, by some mysterious agent. you charge me with the guilt of this agency; but i repeat that the amount of my guilt has been truly stated. the perpetrator of catharine's death was unknown to me till now; nay, it is still unknown to me." at that moment, the closing of a door in the kitchen was distinctly heard by us. carwin started and paused. "there is some one coming. i must not be found here by my enemies, and need not, since my purpose is answered." i had drunk in, with the most vehement attention, every word that he had uttered. i had no breath to interrupt his tale by interrogations or comments. the power that he spoke of was hitherto unknown to me: its existence was incredible; it was susceptible of no direct proof. he owns that his were the voice and face which i heard and saw. he attempts to give an human explanation of these phantasms; but it is enough that he owns himself to be the agent; his tale is a lie, and his nature devilish. as he deceived me, he likewise deceived my brother, and now do i behold the author of all our calamities! such were my thoughts when his pause allowed me to think. i should have bad him begone if the silence had not been interrupted; but now i feared no more for myself; and the milkiness of my nature was curdled into hatred and rancour. some one was near, and this enemy of god and man might possibly be brought to justice. i reflected not that the preternatural power which he had hitherto exerted, would avail to rescue him from any toils in which his feet might be entangled. meanwhile, looks, and not words of menace and abhorrence, were all that i could bestow. he did not depart. he seemed dubious, whether, by passing out of the house, or by remaining somewhat longer where he was, he should most endanger his safety. his confusion increased when steps of one barefoot were heard upon the stairs. he threw anxious glances sometimes at the closet, sometimes at the window, and sometimes at the chamber door, yet he was detained by some inexplicable fascination. he stood as if rooted to the spot. as to me, my soul was bursting with detestation and revenge. i had no room for surmises and fears respecting him that approached. it was doubtless a human being, and would befriend me so far as to aid me in arresting this offender. the stranger quickly entered the room. my eyes and the eyes of carwin were, at the same moment, darted upon him. a second glance was not needed to inform us who he was. his locks were tangled, and fell confusedly over his forehead and ears. his shirt was of coarse stuff, and open at the neck and breast. his coat was once of bright and fine texture, but now torn and tarnished with dust. his feet, his legs, and his arms were bare. his features were the seat of a wild and tranquil solemnity, but his eyes bespoke inquietude and curiosity. he advanced with firm step, and looking as in search of some one. he saw me and stopped. he bent his sight on the floor, and clenching his hands, appeared suddenly absorbed in meditation. such were the figure and deportment of wieland! such, in his fallen state, were the aspect and guise of my brother! carwin did not fail to recognize the visitant. care for his own safety was apparently swallowed up in the amazement which this spectacle produced. his station was conspicuous, and he could not have escaped the roving glances of wieland; yet the latter seemed totally unconscious of his presence. grief at this scene of ruin and blast was at first the only sentiment of which i was conscious. a fearful stillness ensued. at length wieland, lifting his hands, which were locked in each other, to his breast, exclaimed, "father! i thank thee. this is thy guidance. hither thou hast led me, that i might perform thy will: yet let me not err: let me hear again thy messenger!" he stood for a minute as if listening; but recovering from his attitude, he continued--"it is not needed. dastardly wretch! thus eternally questioning the behests of thy maker! weak in resolution! wayward in faith!" he advanced to me, and, after another pause, resumed: "poor girl! a dismal fate has set its mark upon thee. thy life is demanded as a sacrifice. prepare thee to die. make not my office difficult by fruitless opposition. thy prayers might subdue stones; but none but he who enjoined my purpose can shake it." these words were a sufficient explication of the scene. the nature of his phrenzy, as described by my uncle, was remembered. i who had sought death, was now thrilled with horror because it was near. death in this form, death from the hand of a brother, was thought upon with undescribable repugnance. in a state thus verging upon madness, my eye glanced upon carwin. his astonishment appeared to have struck him motionless and dumb. my life was in danger, and my brother's hand was about to be embrued in my blood. i firmly believed that carwin's was the instigation. i could rescue me from this abhorred fate; i could dissipate this tremendous illusion; i could save my brother from the perpetration of new horrors, by pointing out the devil who seduced him; to hesitate a moment was to perish. these thoughts gave strength to my limbs, and energy to my accents: i started on my feet. "o brother! spare me, spare thyself: there is thy betrayer. he counterfeited the voice and face of an angel, for the purpose of destroying thee and me. he has this moment confessed it. he is able to speak where he is not. he is leagued with hell, but will not avow it; yet he confesses that the agency was his." my brother turned slowly his eyes, and fixed them upon carwin. every joint in the frame of the latter trembled. his complexion was paler than a ghost's. his eye dared not meet that of wieland, but wandered with an air of distraction from one space to another. "man," said my brother, in a voice totally unlike that which he had used to me, "what art thou? the charge has been made. answer it. the visage--the voice--at the bottom of these stairs--at the hour of eleven--to whom did they belong? to thee?" twice did carwin attempt to speak, but his words died away upon his lips. my brother resumed in a tone of greater vehemence-- "thou falterest; faltering is ominous; say yes or no: one word will suffice; but beware of falsehood. was it a stratagem of hell to overthrow my family? wast thou the agent?" i now saw that the wrath which had been prepared for me was to be heaped upon another. the tale that i heard from him, and his present trepidations, were abundant testimonies of his guilt. but what if wieland should be undeceived! what if he shall find his acts to have proceeded not from an heavenly prompter, but from human treachery! will not his rage mount into whirlwind? will not he tare limb from limb this devoted wretch? instinctively i recoiled from this image, but it gave place to another. carwin may be innocent, but the impetuosity of his judge may misconstrue his answers into a confession of guilt. wieland knows not that mysterious voices and appearances were likewise witnessed by me. carwin may be ignorant of those which misled my brother. thus may his answers unwarily betray himself to ruin. such might be the consequences of my frantic precipitation, and these, it was necessary, if possible, to prevent. i attempted to speak, but wieland, turning suddenly upon me, commanded silence, in a tone furious and terrible. my lips closed, and my tongue refused its office. "what art thou?" he resumed, addressing himself to carwin. "answer me; whose form--whose voice--was it thy contrivance? answer me." the answer was now given, but confusedly and scarcely articulated. "i meant nothing--i intended no ill--if i understand--if i do not mistake you--it is too true--i did appear--in the entry--did speak. the contrivance was mine, but--" these words were no sooner uttered, than my brother ceased to wear the same aspect. his eyes were downcast: he was motionless: his respiration became hoarse, like that of a man in the agonies of death. carwin seemed unable to say more. he might have easily escaped, but the thought which occupied him related to what was horrid and unintelligible in this scene, and not to his own danger. presently the faculties of wieland, which, for a time, were chained up, were seized with restlessness and trembling. he broke silence. the stoutest heart would have been appalled by the tone in which he spoke. he addressed himself to carwin. "why art thou here? who detains thee? go and learn better. i will meet thee, but it must be at the bar of thy maker. there shall i bear witness against thee." perceiving that carwin did not obey, he continued; "dost thou wish me to complete the catalogue by thy death? thy life is a worthless thing. tempt me no more. i am but a man, and thy presence may awaken a fury which may spurn my controul. begone!" carwin, irresolute, striving in vain for utterance, his complexion pallid as death, his knees beating one against another, slowly obeyed the mandate and withdrew. chapter xxv a few words more and i lay aside the pen for ever. yet why should i not relinquish it now? all that i have said is preparatory to this scene, and my fingers, tremulous and cold as my heart, refuse any further exertion. this must not be. let my last energies support me in the finishing of this task. then will i lay down my head in the lap of death. hushed will be all my murmurs in the sleep of the grave. every sentiment has perished in my bosom. even friendship is extinct. your love for me has prompted me to this task; but i would not have complied if it had not been a luxury thus to feast upon my woes. i have justly calculated upon my remnant of strength. when i lay down the pen the taper of life will expire: my existence will terminate with my tale. now that i was left alone with wieland, the perils of my situation presented themselves to my mind. that this paroxysm should terminate in havock and rage it was reasonable to predict. the first suggestion of my fears had been disproved by my experience. carwin had acknowledged his offences, and yet had escaped. the vengeance which i had harboured had not been admitted by wieland, and yet the evils which i had endured, compared with those inflicted on my brother, were as nothing. i thirsted for his blood, and was tormented with an insatiable appetite for his destruction; yet my brother was unmoved, and had dismissed him in safety. surely thou wast more than man, while i am sunk below the beasts. did i place a right construction on the conduct of wieland? was the error that misled him so easily rectified? were views so vivid and faith so strenuous thus liable to fading and to change? was there not reason to doubt the accuracy of my perceptions? with images like these was my mind thronged, till the deportment of my brother called away my attention. i saw his lips move and his eyes cast up to heaven. then would he listen and look back, as if in expectation of some one's appearance. thrice he repeated these gesticulations and this inaudible prayer. each time the mist of confusion and doubt seemed to grow darker and to settle on his understanding. i guessed at the meaning of these tokens. the words of carwin had shaken his belief, and he was employed in summoning the messenger who had formerly communed with him, to attest the value of those new doubts. in vain the summons was repeated, for his eye met nothing but vacancy, and not a sound saluted his ear. he walked to the bed, gazed with eagerness at the pillow which had sustained the head of the breathless catharine, and then returned to the place where i sat. i had no power to lift my eyes to his face: i was dubious of his purpose: this purpose might aim at my life. alas! nothing but subjection to danger, and exposure to temptation, can show us what we are. by this test was i now tried, and found to be cowardly and rash. men can deliberately untie the thread of life, and of this i had deemed myself capable; yet now that i stood upon the brink of fate, that the knife of the sacrificer was aimed at my heart, i shuddered and betook myself to any means of escape, however monstrous. can i bear to think--can i endure to relate the outrage which my heart meditated? where were my means of safety? resistance was vain. not even the energy of despair could set me on a level with that strength which his terrific prompter had bestowed upon wieland. terror enables us to perform incredible feats; but terror was not then the state of my mind: where then were my hopes of rescue? methinks it is too much. i stand aside, as it were, from myself; i estimate my own deservings; a hatred, immortal and inexorable, is my due. i listen to my own pleas, and find them empty and false: yes, i acknowledge that my guilt surpasses that of all mankind: i confess that the curses of a world, and the frowns of a deity, are inadequate to my demerits. is there a thing in the world worthy of infinite abhorrence? it is i. what shall i say! i was menaced, as i thought, with death, and, to elude this evil, my hand was ready to inflict death upon the menacer. in visiting my house, i had made provision against the machinations of carwin. in a fold of my dress an open penknife was concealed. this i now seized and drew forth. it lurked out of view: but i now see that my state of mind would have rendered the deed inevitable if my brother had lifted his hand. this instrument of my preservation would have been plunged into his heart. o, insupportable remembrance! hide thee from my view for a time; hide it from me that my heart was black enough to meditate the stabbing of a brother! a brother thus supreme in misery; thus towering in virtue! he was probably unconscious of my design, but presently drew back. this interval was sufficient to restore me to myself. the madness, the iniquity of that act which i had purposed rushed upon my apprehension. for a moment i was breathless with agony. at the next moment i recovered my strength, and threw the knife with violence on the floor. the sound awoke my brother from his reverie. he gazed alternately at me and at the weapon. with a movement equally solemn he stooped and took it up. he placed the blade in different positions, scrutinizing it accurately, and maintaining, at the same time, a profound silence. again he looked at me, but all that vehemence and loftiness of spirit which had so lately characterized his features, were flown. fallen muscles, a forehead contracted into folds, eyes dim with unbidden drops, and a ruefulness of aspect which no words can describe, were now visible. his looks touched into energy the same sympathies in me, and i poured forth a flood of tears. this passion was quickly checked by fear, which had now, no longer, my own, but his safety for their object. i watched his deportment in silence. at length he spoke: "sister," said he, in an accent mournful and mild, "i have acted poorly my part in this world. what thinkest thou? shall i not do better in the next?" i could make no answer. the mildness of his tone astonished and encouraged me. i continued to regard him with wistful and anxious looks. "i think," resumed he, "i will try. my wife and my babes have gone before. happy wretches! i have sent you to repose, and ought not to linger behind." these words had a meaning sufficiently intelligible. i looked at the open knife in his hand and shuddered, but knew not how to prevent the deed which i dreaded. he quickly noticed my fears, and comprehended them. stretching towards me his hand, with an air of increasing mildness: "take it," said he: "fear not for thy own sake, nor for mine. the cup is gone by, and its transient inebriation is succeeded by the soberness of truth. "thou angel whom i was wont to worship! fearest thou, my sister, for thy life? once it was the scope of my labours to destroy thee, but i was prompted to the deed by heaven; such, at least, was my belief. thinkest thou that thy death was sought to gratify malevolence? no. i am pure from all stain. i believed that my god was my mover! "neither thee nor myself have i cause to injure. i have done my duty, and surely there is merit in having sacrificed to that, all that is dear to the heart of man. if a devil has deceived me, he came in the habit of an angel. if i erred, it was not my judgment that deceived me, but my senses. in thy sight, being of beings! i am still pure. still will i look for my reward in thy justice!" did my ears truly report these sounds? if i did not err, my brother was restored to just perceptions. he knew himself to have been betrayed to the murder of his wife and children, to have been the victim of infernal artifice; yet he found consolation in the rectitude of his motives. he was not devoid of sorrow, for this was written on his countenance; but his soul was tranquil and sublime. perhaps this was merely a transition of his former madness into a new shape. perhaps he had not yet awakened to the memory of the horrors which he had perpetrated. infatuated wretch that i was! to set myself up as a model by which to judge of my heroic brother! my reason taught me that his conclusions were right; but conscious of the impotence of reason over my own conduct; conscious of my cowardly rashness and my criminal despair, i doubted whether any one could be stedfast and wise. such was my weakness, that even in the midst of these thoughts, my mind glided into abhorrence of carwin, and i uttered in a low voice, o! carwin! carwin! what hast thou to answer for? my brother immediately noticed the involuntary exclamation: "clara!" said he, "be thyself. equity used to be a theme for thy eloquence. reduce its lessons to practice, and be just to that unfortunate man. the instrument has done its work, and i am satisfied. "i thank thee, my god, for this last illumination! my enemy is thine also. i deemed him to be man, the man with whom i have often communed; but now thy goodness has unveiled to me his true nature. as the performer of thy behests, he is my friend." my heart began now to misgive me. his mournful aspect had gradually yielded place to a serene brow. a new soul appeared to actuate his frame, and his eyes to beam with preternatural lustre. these symptoms did not abate, and he continued: "clara! i must not leave thee in doubt. i know not what brought about thy interview with the being whom thou callest carwin. for a time, i was guilty of thy error, and deduced from his incoherent confessions that i had been made the victim of human malice. he left us at my bidding, and i put up a prayer that my doubts should be removed. thy eyes were shut, and thy ears sealed to the vision that answered my prayer. "i was indeed deceived. the form thou hast seen was the incarnation of a daemon. the visage and voice which urged me to the sacrifice of my family, were his. now he personates a human form: then he was invironed with the lustre of heaven.-- "clara," he continued, advancing closer to me, "thy death must come. this minister is evil, but he from whom his commission was received is god. submit then with all thy wonted resignation to a decree that cannot be reversed or resisted. mark the clock. three minutes are allowed to thee, in which to call up thy fortitude, and prepare thee for thy doom." there he stopped. even now, when this scene exists only in memory, when life and all its functions have sunk into torpor, my pulse throbs, and my hairs uprise: my brows are knit, as then; and i gaze around me in distraction. i was unconquerably averse to death; but death, imminent and full of agony as that which was threatened, was nothing. this was not the only or chief inspirer of my fears. for him, not for myself, was my soul tormented. i might die, and no crime, surpassing the reach of mercy, would pursue me to the presence of my judge; but my assassin would survive to contemplate his deed, and that assassin was wieland! wings to bear me beyond his reach i had not. i could not vanish with a thought. the door was open, but my murderer was interposed between that and me. of self-defence i was incapable. the phrenzy that lately prompted me to blood was gone; my state was desperate; my rescue was impossible. the weight of these accumulated thoughts could not be borne. my sight became confused; my limbs were seized with convulsion; i spoke, but my words were half-formed:-- "spare me, my brother! look down, righteous judge! snatch me from this fate! take away this fury from him, or turn it elsewhere!" such was the agony of my thoughts, that i noticed not steps entering my apartment. supplicating eyes were cast upward, but when my prayer was breathed, i once more wildly gazed at the door. a form met my sight: i shuddered as if the god whom i invoked were present. it was carwin that again intruded, and who stood before me, erect in attitude, and stedfast in look! the sight of him awakened new and rapid thoughts. his recent tale was remembered: his magical transitions and mysterious energy of voice: whether he were infernal or miraculous, or human, there was no power and no need to decide. whether the contriver or not of this spell, he was able to unbind it, and to check the fury of my brother. he had ascribed to himself intentions not malignant. here now was afforded a test of his truth. let him interpose, as from above; revoke the savage decree which the madness of wieland has assigned to heaven, and extinguish for ever this passion for blood! my mind detected at a glance this avenue to safety. the recommendations it possessed thronged as it were together, and made but one impression on my intellect. remoter effects and collateral dangers i saw not. perhaps the pause of an instant had sufficed to call them up. the improbability that the influence which governed wieland was external or human; the tendency of this stratagem to sanction so fatal an error, or substitute a more destructive rage in place of this; the sufficiency of carwin's mere muscular forces to counteract the efforts, and restrain the fury of wieland, might, at a second glance, have been discovered; but no second glance was allowed. my first thought hurried me to action, and, fixing my eyes upon carwin i exclaimed-- "o wretch! once more hast thou come? let it be to abjure thy malice; to counterwork this hellish stratagem; to turn from me and from my brother, this desolating rage! "testify thy innocence or thy remorse: exert the powers which pertain to thee, whatever they be, to turn aside this ruin. thou art the author of these horrors! what have i done to deserve thus to die? how have i merited this unrelenting persecution? i adjure thee, by that god whose voice thou hast dared to counterfeit, to save my life! "wilt thou then go? leave me! succourless!" carwin listened to my intreaties unmoved, and turned from me. he seemed to hesitate a moment: then glided through the door. rage and despair stifled my utterance. the interval of respite was passed; the pangs reserved for me by wieland, were not to be endured; my thoughts rushed again into anarchy. having received the knife from his hand, i held it loosely and without regard; but now it seized again my attention, and i grasped it with force. he seemed to notice not the entrance or exit of carwin. my gesture and the murderous weapon appeared to have escaped his notice. his silence was unbroken; his eye, fixed upon the clock for a time, was now withdrawn; fury kindled in every feature; all that was human in his face gave way to an expression supernatural and tremendous. i felt my left arm within his grasp.-- even now i hesitated to strike. i shrunk from his assault, but in vain.-- here let me desist. why should i rescue this event from oblivion? why should i paint this detestable conflict? why not terminate at once this series of horrors?--hurry to the verge of the precipice, and cast myself for ever beyond remembrance and beyond hope? still i live: with this load upon my breast; with this phantom to pursue my steps; with adders lodged in my bosom, and stinging me to madness: still i consent to live! yes, i will rise above the sphere of mortal passions: i will spurn at the cowardly remorse that bids me seek impunity in silence, or comfort in forgetfulness. my nerves shall be new strung to the task. have i not resolved? i will die. the gulph before me is inevitable and near. i will die, but then only when my tale is at an end. chapter xxvi my right hand, grasping the unseen knife, was still disengaged. it was lifted to strike. all my strength was exhausted, but what was sufficient to the performance of this deed. already was the energy awakened, and the impulse given, that should bear the fatal steel to his heart, when--wieland shrunk back: his hand was withdrawn. breathless with affright and desperation, i stood, freed from his grasp; unassailed; untouched. thus long had the power which controuled the scene forborne to interfere; but now his might was irresistible, and wieland in a moment was disarmed of all his purposes. a voice, louder than human organs could produce, shriller than language can depict, burst from the ceiling, and commanded him--to hold! trouble and dismay succeeded to the stedfastness that had lately been displayed in the looks of wieland. his eyes roved from one quarter to another, with an expression of doubt. he seemed to wait for a further intimation. carwin's agency was here easily recognized. i had besought him to interpose in my defence. he had flown. i had imagined him deaf to my prayer, and resolute to see me perish: yet he disappeared merely to devise and execute the means of my relief. why did he not forbear when this end was accomplished? why did his misjudging zeal and accursed precipitation overpass that limit? or meant he thus to crown the scene, and conduct his inscrutable plots to this consummation? such ideas were the fruit of subsequent contemplation. this moment was pregnant with fate. i had no power to reason. in the career of my tempestuous thoughts, rent into pieces, as my mind was, by accumulating horrors, carwin was unseen and unsuspected. i partook of wieland's credulity, shook with his amazement, and panted with his awe. silence took place for a moment; so much as allowed the attention to recover its post. then new sounds were uttered from above. "man of errors! cease to cherish thy delusion: not heaven or hell, but thy senses have misled thee to commit these acts. shake off thy phrenzy, and ascend into rational and human. be lunatic no longer." my brother opened his lips to speak. his tone was terrific and faint. he muttered an appeal to heaven. it was difficult to comprehend the theme of his inquiries. they implied doubt as to the nature of the impulse that hitherto had guided him, and questioned whether he had acted in consequence of insane perceptions. to these interrogatories the voice, which now seemed to hover at his shoulder, loudly answered in the affirmative. then uninterrupted silence ensued. fallen from his lofty and heroic station; now finally restored to the perception of truth; weighed to earth by the recollection of his own deeds; consoled no longer by a consciousness of rectitude, for the loss of offspring and wife--a loss for which he was indebted to his own misguided hand; wieland was transformed at once into the man of sorrows! he reflected not that credit should be as reasonably denied to the last, as to any former intimation; that one might as justly be ascribed to erring or diseased senses as the other. he saw not that this discovery in no degree affected the integrity of his conduct; that his motives had lost none of their claims to the homage of mankind; that the preference of supreme good, and the boundless energy of duty, were undiminished in his bosom. it is not for me to pursue him through the ghastly changes of his countenance. words he had none. now he sat upon the floor, motionless in all his limbs, with his eyes glazed and fixed; a monument of woe. anon a spirit of tempestuous but undesigning activity seized him. he rose from his place and strode across the floor, tottering and at random. his eyes were without moisture, and gleamed with the fire that consumed his vitals. the muscles of his face were agitated by convulsion. his lips moved, but no sound escaped him. that nature should long sustain this conflict was not to be believed. my state was little different from that of my brother. i entered, as it were, into his thought. my heart was visited and rent by his pangs--oh that thy phrenzy had never been cured! that thy madness, with its blissful visions, would return! or, if that must not be, that thy scene would hasten to a close! that death would cover thee with his oblivion! what can i wish for thee? thou who hast vied with the great preacher of thy faith in sanctity of motives, and in elevation above sensual and selfish! thou whom thy fate has changed into paricide and savage! can i wish for the continuance of thy being? no. for a time his movements seemed destitute of purpose. if he walked; if he turned; if his fingers were entwined with each other; if his hands were pressed against opposite sides of his head with a force sufficient to crush it into pieces; it was to tear his mind from self-contemplation; to waste his thoughts on external objects. speedily this train was broken. a beam appeared to be darted into his mind, which gave a purpose to his efforts. an avenue to escape presented itself; and now he eagerly gazed about him: when my thoughts became engaged by his demeanour, my fingers were stretched as by a mechanical force, and the knife, no longer heeded or of use, escaped from my grasp, and fell unperceived on the floor. his eye now lighted upon it; he seized it with the quickness of thought. i shrieked aloud, but it was too late. he plunged it to the hilt in his neck; and his life instantly escaped with the stream that gushed from the wound. he was stretched at my feet; and my hands were sprinkled with his blood as he fell. such was thy last deed, my brother! for a spectacle like this was it my fate to be reserved! thy eyes were closed--thy face ghastly with death--thy arms, and the spot where thou liedest, floated in thy life's blood! these images have not, for a moment, forsaken me. till i am breathless and cold, they must continue to hover in my sight. carwin, as i said, had left the room, but he still lingered in the house. my voice summoned him to my aid; but i scarcely noticed his re-entrance, and now faintly recollect his terrified looks, his broken exclamations, his vehement avowals of innocence, the effusions of his pity for me, and his offers of assistance. i did not listen--i answered him not--i ceased to upbraid or accuse. his guilt was a point to which i was indifferent. ruffian or devil, black as hell or bright as angels, thenceforth he was nothing to me. i was incapable of sparing a look or a thought from the ruin that was spread at my feet. when he left me, i was scarcely conscious of any variation in the scene. he informed the inhabitants of the hut of what had passed, and they flew to the spot. careless of his own safety, he hasted to the city to inform my friends of my condition. my uncle speedily arrived at the house. the body of wieland was removed from my presence, and they supposed that i would follow it; but no, my home is ascertained; here i have taken up my rest, and never will i go hence, till, like wieland, i am borne to my grave. importunity was tried in vain: they threatened to remove me by violence--nay, violence was used; but my soul prizes too dearly this little roof to endure to be bereaved of it. force should not prevail when the hoary locks and supplicating tears of my uncle were ineffectual. my repugnance to move gave birth to ferociousness and phrenzy when force was employed, and they were obliged to consent to my return. they besought me--they remonstrated--they appealed to every duty that connected me with him that made me, and with my fellow-men--in vain. while i live i will not go hence. have i not fulfilled my destiny? why will ye torment me with your reasonings and reproofs? can ye restore to me the hope of my better days? can ye give me back catharine and her babes? can ye recall to life him who died at my feet? i will eat--i will drink--i will lie down and rise up at your bidding--all i ask is the choice of my abode. what is there unreasonable in this demand? shortly will i be at peace. this is the spot which i have chosen in which to breathe my last sigh. deny me not, i beseech you, so slight a boon. talk not to me, o my revered friend! of carwin. he has told thee his tale, and thou exculpatest him from all direct concern in the fate of wieland. this scene of havock was produced by an illusion of the senses. be it so: i care not from what source these disasters have flowed; it suffices that they have swallowed up our hopes and our existence. what his agency began, his agency conducted to a close. he intended, by the final effort of his power, to rescue me and to banish his illusions from my brother. such is his tale, concerning the truth of which i care not. henceforth i foster but one wish--i ask only quick deliverance from life and all the ills that attend it.-- go wretch! torment me not with thy presence and thy prayers.--forgive thee? will that avail thee when thy fateful hour shall arrive? be thou acquitted at thy own tribunal, and thou needest not fear the verdict of others. if thy guilt be capable of blacker hues, if hitherto thy conscience be without stain, thy crime will be made more flagrant by thus violating my retreat. take thyself away from my sight if thou wouldest not behold my death! thou are gone! murmuring and reluctant! and now my repose is coming--my work is done! chapter xxvii [written three years after the foregoing, and dated at montpellier.] i imagined that i had forever laid aside the pen; and that i should take up my abode in this part of the world, was of all events the least probable. my destiny i believed to be accomplished, and i looked forward to a speedy termination of my life with the fullest confidence. surely i had reason to be weary of existence, to be impatient of every tie which held me from the grave. i experienced this impatience in its fullest extent. i was not only enamoured of death, but conceived, from the condition of my frame, that to shun it was impossible, even though i had ardently desired it; yet here am i, a thousand leagues from my native soil, in full possession of life and of health, and not destitute of happiness. such is man. time will obliterate the deepest impressions. grief the most vehement and hopeless, will gradually decay and wear itself out. arguments may be employed in vain: every moral prescription may be ineffectually tried: remonstrances, however cogent or pathetic, shall have no power over the attention, or shall be repelled with disdain; yet, as day follows day, the turbulence of our emotions shall subside, and our fluctuations be finally succeeded by a calm. perhaps, however, the conquest of despair was chiefly owing to an accident which rendered my continuance in my own house impossible. at the conclusion of my long, and, as i then supposed, my last letter to you, i mentioned my resolution to wait for death in the very spot which had been the principal scene of my misfortunes. from this resolution my friends exerted themselves with the utmost zeal and perseverance to make me depart. they justly imagined that to be thus surrounded by memorials of the fate of my family, would tend to foster my disease. a swift succession of new objects, and the exclusion of every thing calculated to remind me of my loss, was the only method of cure. i refused to listen to their exhortations. great as my calamity was, to be torn from this asylum was regarded by me as an aggravation of it. by a perverse constitution of mind, he was considered as my greatest enemy who sought to withdraw me from a scene which supplied eternal food to my melancholy, and kept my despair from languishing. in relating the history of these disasters i derived a similar species of gratification. my uncle earnestly dissuaded me from this task; but his remonstrances were as fruitless on this head as they had been on others. they would have withheld from me the implements of writing; but they quickly perceived that to withstand would be more injurious than to comply with my wishes. having finished my tale, it seemed as if the scene were closing. a fever lurked in my veins, and my strength was gone. any exertion, however slight, was attended with difficulty, and, at length, i refused to rise from my bed. i now see the infatuation and injustice of my conduct in its true colours. i reflect upon the sensations and reasonings of that period with wonder and humiliation. that i should be insensible to the claims and tears of my friends; that i should overlook the suggestions of duty, and fly from that post in which only i could be instrumental to the benefit of others; that the exercise of the social and beneficent affections, the contemplation of nature and the acquisition of wisdom should not be seen to be means of happiness still within my reach, is, at this time, scarcely credible. it is true that i am now changed; but i have not the consolation to reflect that my change was owing to my fortitude or to my capacity for instruction. better thoughts grew up in my mind imperceptibly. i cannot but congratulate myself on the change, though, perhaps, it merely argues a fickleness of temper, and a defect of sensibility. after my narrative was ended i betook myself to my bed, in the full belief that my career in this world was on the point of finishing. my uncle took up his abode with me, and performed for me every office of nurse, physician and friend. one night, after some hours of restlessness and pain, i sunk into deep sleep. its tranquillity, however, was of no long duration. my fancy became suddenly distempered, and my brain was turned into a theatre of uproar and confusion. it would not be easy to describe the wild and phantastical incongruities that pestered me. my uncle, wieland, pleyel and carwin were successively and momently discerned amidst the storm. sometimes i was swallowed up by whirlpools, or caught up in the air by half-seen and gigantic forms, and thrown upon pointed rocks, or cast among the billows. sometimes gleams of light were shot into a dark abyss, on the verge of which i was standing, and enabled me to discover, for a moment, its enormous depth and hideous precipices. anon, i was transported to some ridge of aetna, and made a terrified spectator of its fiery torrents and its pillars of smoke. however strange it may seem, i was conscious, even during my dream, of my real situation. i knew myself to be asleep, and struggled to break the spell, by muscular exertions. these did not avail, and i continued to suffer these abortive creations till a loud voice, at my bed side, and some one shaking me with violence, put an end to my reverie. my eyes were unsealed, and i started from my pillow. my chamber was filled with smoke, which, though in some degree luminous, would permit me to see nothing, and by which i was nearly suffocated. the crackling of flames, and the deafening clamour of voices without, burst upon my ears. stunned as i was by this hubbub, scorched with heat, and nearly choaked by the accumulating vapours, i was unable to think or act for my own preservation; i was incapable, indeed, of comprehending my danger. i was caught up, in an instant, by a pair of sinewy arms, borne to the window, and carried down a ladder which had been placed there. my uncle stood at the bottom and received me. i was not fully aware of my situation till i found myself sheltered in the hut, and surrounded by its inhabitants. by neglect of the servant, some unextinguished embers had been placed in a barrel in the cellar of the building. the barrel had caught fire; this was communicated to the beams of the lower floor, and thence to the upper part of the structure. it was first discovered by some persons at a distance, who hastened to the spot and alarmed my uncle and the servants. the flames had already made considerable progress, and my condition was overlooked till my escape was rendered nearly impossible. my danger being known, and a ladder quickly procured, one of the spectators ascended to my chamber, and effected my deliverance in the manner before related. this incident, disastrous as it may at first seem, had, in reality, a beneficial effect upon my feelings. i was, in some degree, roused from the stupor which had seized my faculties. the monotonous and gloomy series of my thoughts was broken. my habitation was levelled with the ground, and i was obliged to seek a new one. a new train of images, disconnected with the fate of my family, forced itself on my attention, and a belief insensibly sprung up, that tranquillity, if not happiness, was still within my reach. notwithstanding the shocks which my frame had endured, the anguish of my thoughts no sooner abated than i recovered my health. i now willingly listened to my uncle's solicitations to be the companion of his voyage. preparations were easily made, and after a tedious passage, we set our feet on the shore of the ancient world. the memory of the past did not forsake me; but the melancholy which it generated, and the tears with which it filled my eyes, were not unprofitable. my curiosity was revived, and i contemplated, with ardour, the spectacle of living manners and the monuments of past ages. in proportion as my heart was reinstated in the possession of its ancient tranquillity, the sentiment which i had cherished with regard to pleyel returned. in a short time he was united to the saxon woman, and made his residence in the neighbourhood of boston. i was glad that circumstances would not permit an interview to take place between us. i could not desire their misery; but i reaped no pleasure from reflecting on their happiness. time, and the exertions of my fortitude, cured me, in some degree, of this folly. i continued to love him, but my passion was disguised to myself; i considered it merely as a more tender species of friendship, and cherished it without compunction. through my uncle's exertions a meeting was brought about between carwin and pleyel, and explanations took place which restored me at once to the good opinion of the latter. though separated so widely our correspondence was punctual and frequent, and paved the way for that union which can only end with the death of one of us. in my letters to him i made no secret of my former sentiments. this was a theme on which i could talk without painful, though not without delicate emotions. that knowledge which i should never have imparted to a lover, i felt little scruple to communicate to a friend. a year and an half elapsed when theresa was snatched from him by death, in the hour in which she gave him the first pledge of their mutual affection. this event was borne by him with his customary fortitude. it induced him, however, to make a change in his plans. he disposed of his property in america, and joined my uncle and me, who had terminated the wanderings of two years at montpellier, which will henceforth, i believe, be our permanent abode. if you reflect upon that entire confidence which had subsisted from our infancy between pleyel and myself; on the passion that i had contracted, and which was merely smothered for a time; and on the esteem which was mutual, you will not, perhaps, be surprized that the renovation of our intercourse should give birth to that union which at present subsists. when the period had elapsed necessary to weaken the remembrance of theresa, to whom he had been bound by ties more of honor than of love, he tendered his affections to me. i need not add that the tender was eagerly accepted. perhaps you are somewhat interested in the fate of carwin. he saw, when too late, the danger of imposture. so much affected was he by the catastrophe to which he was a witness, that he laid aside all regard to his own safety. he sought my uncle, and confided to him the tale which he had just related to me. he found a more impartial and indulgent auditor in mr. cambridge, who imputed to maniacal illusion the conduct of wieland, though he conceived the previous and unseen agency of carwin, to have indirectly but powerfully predisposed to this deplorable perversion of mind. it was easy for carwin to elude the persecutions of ludloe. it was merely requisite to hide himself in a remote district of pennsylvania. this, when he parted from us, he determined to do. he is now probably engaged in the harmless pursuits of agriculture, and may come to think, without insupportable remorse, on the evils to which his fatal talents have given birth. the innocence and usefulness of his future life may, in some degree, atone for the miseries so rashly or so thoughtlessly inflicted. more urgent considerations hindered me from mentioning, in the course of my former mournful recital, any particulars respecting the unfortunate father of louisa conway. that man surely was reserved to be a monument of capricious fortune. his southern journies being finished, he returned to philadelphia. before he reached the city he left the highway, and alighted at my brother's door. contrary to his expectation, no one came forth to welcome him, or hail his approach. he attempted to enter the house, but bolted doors, barred windows, and a silence broken only by unanswered calls, shewed him that the mansion was deserted. he proceeded thence to my habitation, which he found, in like manner, gloomy and tenantless. his surprize may be easily conceived. the rustics who occupied the hut told him an imperfect and incredible tale. he hasted to the city, and extorted from mrs. baynton a full disclosure of late disasters. he was inured to adversity, and recovered, after no long time, from the shocks produced by this disappointment of his darling scheme. our intercourse did not terminate with his departure from america. we have since met with him in france, and light has at length been thrown upon the motives which occasioned the disappearance of his wife, in the manner which i formerly related to you. i have dwelt upon the ardour of their conjugal attachment, and mentioned that no suspicion had ever glanced upon her purity. this, though the belief was long cherished, recent discoveries have shewn to be questionable. no doubt her integrity would have survived to the present moment, if an extraordinary fate had not befallen her. major stuart had been engaged, while in germany, in a contest of honor with an aid de camp of the marquis of granby. his adversary had propagated a rumour injurious to his character. a challenge was sent; a meeting ensued; and stuart wounded and disarmed the calumniator. the offence was atoned for, and his life secured by suitable concessions. maxwell, that was his name, shortly after, in consequence of succeeding to a rich inheritance, sold his commission and returned to london. his fortune was speedily augmented by an opulent marriage. interest was his sole inducement to this marriage, though the lady had been swayed by a credulous affection. the true state of his heart was quickly discovered, and a separation, by mutual consent, took place. the lady withdrew to an estate in a distant county, and maxwell continued to consume his time and fortune in the dissipation of the capital. maxwell, though deceitful and sensual, possessed great force of mind and specious accomplishments. he contrived to mislead the generous mind of stuart, and to regain the esteem which his misconduct, for a time, had forfeited. he was recommended by her husband to the confidence of mrs. stuart. maxwell was stimulated by revenge, and by a lawless passion, to convert this confidence into a source of guilt. the education and capacity of this woman, the worth of her husband, the pledge of their alliance which time had produced, her maturity in age and knowledge of the world--all combined to render this attempt hopeless. maxwell, however, was not easily discouraged. the most perfect being, he believed, must owe his exemption from vice to the absence of temptation. the impulses of love are so subtile, and the influence of false reasoning, when enforced by eloquence and passion, so unbounded, that no human virtue is secure from degeneracy. all arts being tried, every temptation being summoned to his aid, dissimulation being carried to its utmost bound, maxwell, at length, nearly accomplished his purpose. the lady's affections were withdrawn from her husband and transferred to him. she could not, as yet, be reconciled to dishonor. all efforts to induce her to elope with him were ineffectual. she permitted herself to love, and to avow her love; but at this limit she stopped, and was immoveable. hence this revolution in her sentiments was productive only of despair. her rectitude of principle preserved her from actual guilt, but could not restore to her her ancient affection, or save her from being the prey of remorseful and impracticable wishes. her husband's absence produced a state of suspense. this, however, approached to a period, and she received tidings of his intended return. maxwell, being likewise apprized of this event, and having made a last and unsuccessful effort to conquer her reluctance to accompany him in a journey to italy, whither he pretended an invincible necessity of going, left her to pursue the measures which despair might suggest. at the same time she received a letter from the wife of maxwell, unveiling the true character of this man, and revealing facts which the artifices of her seducer had hitherto concealed from her. mrs. maxwell had been prompted to this disclosure by a knowledge of her husband's practices, with which his own impetuosity had made her acquainted. this discovery, joined to the delicacy of her scruples and the anguish of remorse, induced her to abscond. this scheme was adopted in haste, but effected with consummate prudence. she fled, on the eve of her husband's arrival, in the disguise of a boy, and embarked at falmouth in a packet bound for america. the history of her disastrous intercourse with maxwell, the motives inducing her to forsake her country, and the measures she had taken to effect her design, were related to mrs. maxwell, in reply to her communication. between these women an ancient intimacy and considerable similitude of character subsisted. this disclosure was accompanied with solemn injunctions of secrecy, and these injunctions were, for a long time, faithfully observed. mrs. maxwell's abode was situated on the banks of the wey. stuart was her kinsman; their youth had been spent together; and maxwell was in some degree indebted to the man whom he betrayed, for his alliance with this unfortunate lady. her esteem for the character of stuart had never been diminished. a meeting between them was occasioned by a tour which the latter had undertaken, in the year after his return from america, to wales and the western counties. this interview produced pleasure and regret in each. their own transactions naturally became the topics of their conversation; and the untimely fate of his wife and daughter were related by the guest. mrs. maxwell's regard for her friend, as well as for the safety of her husband, persuaded her to concealment; but the former being dead, and the latter being out of the kingdom, she ventured to produce mrs. stuart's letter, and to communicate her own knowledge of the treachery of maxwell. she had previously extorted from her guest a promise not to pursue any scheme of vengeance; but this promise was made while ignorant of the full extent of maxwell's depravity, and his passion refused to adhere to it. at this time my uncle and i resided at avignon. among the english resident there, and with whom we maintained a social intercourse, was maxwell. this man's talents and address rendered him a favorite both with my uncle and myself. he had even tendered me his hand in marriage; but this being refused, he had sought and obtained permission to continue with us the intercourse of friendship. since a legal marriage was impossible, no doubt, his views were flagitious. whether he had relinquished these views i was unable to judge. he was one in a large circle at a villa in the environs, to which i had likewise been invited, when stuart abruptly entered the apartment. he was recognized with genuine satisfaction by me, and with seeming pleasure by maxwell. in a short time, some affair of moment being pleaded, which required an immediate and exclusive interview, maxwell and he withdrew together. stuart and my uncle had been known to each other in the german army; and the purpose contemplated by the former in this long and hasty journey, was confided to his old friend. a defiance was given and received, and the banks of a rivulet, about a league from the city, was selected as the scene of this contest. my uncle, having exerted himself in vain to prevent an hostile meeting, consented to attend them as a surgeon.--next morning, at sun-rise, was the time chosen. i returned early in the evening to my lodgings. preliminaries being settled between the combatants, stuart had consented to spend the evening with us, and did not retire till late. on the way to his hotel he was exposed to no molestation, but just as he stepped within the portico, a swarthy and malignant figure started from behind a column. and plunged a stiletto into his body. the author of this treason could not certainly be discovered; but the details communicated by stuart, respecting the history of maxwell, naturally pointed him out as an object of suspicion. no one expressed more concern, on account of this disaster, than he; and he pretended an ardent zeal to vindicate his character from the aspersions that were cast upon it. thenceforth, however, i denied myself to his visits; and shortly after he disappeared from this scene. few possessed more estimable qualities, and a better title to happiness and the tranquil honors of long life, than the mother and father of louisa conway: yet they were cut off in the bloom of their days; and their destiny was thus accomplished by the same hand. maxwell was the instrument of their destruction, though the instrument was applied to this end in so different a manner. i leave you to moralize on this tale. that virtue should become the victim of treachery is, no doubt, a mournful consideration; but it will not escape your notice, that the evils of which carwin and maxwell were the authors, owed their existence to the errors of the sufferers. all efforts would have been ineffectual to subvert the happiness or shorten the existence of the stuarts, if their own frailty had not seconded these efforts. if the lady had crushed her disastrous passion in the bud, and driven the seducer from her presence, when the tendency of his artifices was seen; if stuart had not admitted the spirit of absurd revenge, we should not have had to deplore this catastrophe. if wieland had framed juster notions of moral duty, and of the divine attributes; or if i had been gifted with ordinary equanimity or foresight, the double-tongued deceiver would have been baffled and repelled. historic highways of america volume historic highways of america volume pioneer roads and experiences of travelers (volume ii) by archer butler hulbert _with maps_ [illustration] the arthur h. clark company cleveland, ohio copyright, by the arthur h. clark company all rights reserved contents page preface i. the old northwestern turnpike ii. a journey in northern virginia iii. a pilgrim on braddock's road iv. the genesee road v. a traveler on the genesee road vi. the catskill turnpike vii. with dickens along pioneer roads illustrations i. part of a "map of the route between albany and oswego" (drawn about ; from original in british museum) ii. part of a "map of the grand pass from new york to montreal ... by thomas pownall" (drawn about ; from original in the british museum) iii. western new york in preface this volume is devoted to two great lines of pioneer movement, one through northern virginia and the other through central new york. in the former case the old northwestern turnpike is the key to the situation, and in the latter the famous genesee road, running westward from utica, was of momentous importance. a chapter is given to the northwestern turnpike, showing the movement which demanded a highway, and the legislative history which created it. then follow two chapters of travelers' experiences in the region covered. one of these is given to the _journal of thomas wallcutt_ ( ) through northern virginia and central pennsylvania. another chapter presents no less vivid descriptions from quite unknown travelers on the virginian roads. the genesee road is presented in chapter four as a legislative creation; the whole history of this famous avenue would be practically a history of central new york. to give the more vivid impression of personal experience a chapter is devoted to a portion of thomas bigelow's _tour to niagara falls _ over the genesee road in its earliest years, when the beautiful cities which now lie like a string of precious gems across this route were just springing into existence. for a chapter on the important "catskill turnpike," which gives much information of road-building in central new york, we are indebted to francis whiting halsey's _the old new york frontier_. the final chapter of the volume includes a number of selections from the spicy, brilliant descriptions of pioneer traveling in america which dickens left in his _american notes_, and a few pages describing an early journey on indian trails in missouri from charles augustus murray's _travels in north america_. a. b. h. marietta, ohio, january , . pioneer roads and experiences of travelers (volume ii) chapter i the old northwestern turnpike we have treated of three historic highways in this series of monographs which found a way through the appalachian uplift into the mississippi basin--braddock's, forbes's, and boone's roads and their successors. there were other means of access into that region. one, of which particular mention is to be made in this volume, dodged the mountains and ran around to the lakes by way of the mohawk river and the genesee country. various minor routes passed westward from the heads of the susquehanna--one of them becoming famous as a railway route, but none becoming celebrated as roadways. from central and southern virginia, routes, likewise to be followed by trunk railway lines, led onward toward the mississippi basin, but none, save only boone's track, became of prime importance. but while scanning carefully this mountain barrier, which for so long a period held back civilization on the atlantic seaboard, there is found another route that was historic and deserves mention as influencing the westward movement of america. it was that roadway so well known three-fourths of a century ago as the old northwestern turnpike, leading from winchester, virginia, to the ohio river at parkersburg, virginia, now west virginia, at the mouth of the little kanawha. the earliest history of this route is of far more interest than importance, for the subject takes us back once more to washington's early exploits and we feel again the fever of his wide dreams of internal communications which should make the virginia waterways the inlet and outlet of all the trade of the rising west. it has been elsewhere outlined how the cumberland road was the actual resultant of washington's hopes and plans. but it is in place in a sketch of the old northwestern turnpike to state that washington's actual plan of making the potomac river all that the erie canal and the cumberland road became was never even faintly realized. his great object was attained--but not by means of his partisan plans. it is very difficult to catch the exact old-time spirit of rivalry which existed among the american colonies and which always meant jealousy and sometimes bloodshed. in the fight between virginia officers in forbes's army in over the building of a new road through pennsylvania to fort duquesne, instead of following braddock's old road, is an historic example of this intense rivalry. a noted example, more easily explained, was the conflict and perennial quarrel between the connecticut and pennsylvania pioneers within the western extremity of the former colony's technical boundaries. that washington was a virginian is made very plain in a thousand instances in his life; and many times it is emphasized in such a way as must seem odd to all modern americans. at a stroke of a pen he shows himself to be the broadest of americans in his classic letter to benjamin harrison, ; in the next sentence he is urging virginia to look well to her laurels lest new york, through the hudson and mohawk, and pennsylvania, through the susquehanna and juniata, do what virginia ought to do through her potomac. the powerful appeal made in this letter was the result of a journey of washington's in the west which has not received all the attention from historians it perhaps deserves. this was a tour made in in the tangled mountainous region between the heads of the branches of the potomac and those of the monongahela.[ ] starting on his journey september , washington intended visiting his western lands and returning home by way of the great kanawha and new rivers, in order to view the connection which could be made there between the james and great kanawha valleys. indian hostilities, however, made it unwise for him to proceed even to the great kanawha, and the month was spent in northwestern virginia. on the second, washington reached leesburg, and on the third, berkeley; here, at his brother's (colonel charles washington's) he met a number of persons including general morgan. "... one object of my journey being," his _journal_ reads, "to obtain information of the nearest and best communication between the eastern & western waters; & to facilitate as much as in me lay the inland navigation of the potomack; i conversed a good deal with gen^l. morgan on this subject, who said, a plan was in contemplation to extend a road from winchester to the western waters, to avoid if possible an interference with any other state." it is to be observed that this was a polite way of saying that the road in contemplation must be wholly in virginia, which was the only state to be "interfered" with or be benefited. "but i could not discover," washington adds, "that either himself, or others, were able to point it out with precision. he [morgan] seemed to have no doubt but that the counties of freder^k., berkeley & hampshire would contribute freely towards the extension of the navigation of potomack; as well as towards opening a road from east to west." it should be observed that the only route across the mountains from northwestern virginia to the ohio river was braddock's road; for this road washington was a champion in , as against the central route forbes built straight west from bedford to fort duquesne.[ ] then, however, braddock's road, and even fort duquesne, was supposed to lie in virginia. but when the pennsylvania boundaries were fully outlined it was found that braddock's road lay in pennsylvania. washington now was seeking a new route to the west which would lie wholly in virginia. the problem, historically, presents several interesting points which cannot be expanded here. suffice it to say that washington was the valiant champion of braddock's road until he found it lay wholly in maryland and pennsylvania. gaining no satisfaction from his friends at berkeley, washington pushed on to one captain stroad's, out fourteen odd miles on the road to bath. "i held much conversation with him," the traveler records of his visit at stroad's, "the result ... was,--that there are two glades which go under the denomination of the great glades--one, on the waters of yohiogany, the other on those of cheat river; & distinguished by the name of the sandy creek glades.--that the road to the first goes by the head of patterson's creek[ ]--that from the acc^{ts}. he has had of it, it is rough; the distance he knows not.--that there is a way to the sandy creek glades from the great crossing of yohiogany (or braddocks road) [smithfield, pennsylvania] & a very good one; ..." at the town of bath washington met one colonel bruce who had traversed the country between the north branch (as that tributary of the potomac was widely known) and the monongahela. "from col^o. bruce ... i was informed that he had travelled from the north branch of potomack to the waters of yaughiogany, and monongahela--that the potom^k. where it may be made navigable--for instance where mcculloughs path crosses it, miles above the old fort [cumberland], is but about miles to a pretty large branch of the yohiogany ...--that the waters of sandy creek which is a branch of cheat river, which is a branch of monongahela, interlocks with these; and the country between, flat--that he thinks (in order to ev^d. [evade] passing through the state of pennsylvania) this would be an eligible road using the ten miles c^k. with a portage to the navigable waters of the little kanhawa; ..." this was the basis of washington's plan of internal communication from potomac; he now pressed forward to find if it were possible to connect the youghiogheny and north branch of the potomac, the youghiogheny and monongahela, and the monongahela and little kanawha. of course the plan was impossible, but the patient man floundered on through the foothills and mountains over what was approximately the course mentioned, the "mccullough's path" and sandy creek route from the potomac to the monongahela. in his explorations he found and traversed one of the earliest routes westward through this broken country immediately south of the well known resorts, oakland and deer park, on the baltimore and ohio railway. this was the "mccullough's" path already mentioned. having ascended the monongahela river from near brownsville, pennsylvania, washington, on september , arrived at a surveyor's office (the home of one pierpoint) eight miles southward along the dividing ridge between the monongahela and cheat rivers.[ ] on the twenty-fifth--after a meeting with various inhabitants of the vicinity--he went plunging eastward toward the north branch of the potomac "along the new road [which intersected braddock's road east of winding ridge] to sandy creek; & thence by mccullochs path to logstons [on the north branch of the potomac] and accordingly set of [off] before sunrise. within miles i came to the river cheat ab^t. miles from its mouth--.... the road from morgan town or monongahela c^t. house, is said to be good to this ferry [ice's]--distance ab^{t}. miles[ ] ... from the ferry the laurel hill[ ] is assended ... along the top of it the road continues.... after crossing this hill the road is very good to the ford of sandy creek at one james spurgeons,[ ] ... ab^t. miles from ice's ferry. at the crossing of this creek mccullocks path, which owes its origen to buffaloes, being no other than their tracks from one lick to another & consequently crooked & not well chosen, strikes off from the new road.... from spurgeon's to one lemons, which is a little to the right of mccullochs path, is reckoned miles, and the way not bad; but from lemons to the entrance of the yohiogany glades[ ] which is estimated miles more thro' a deep rich soil ... and what is called the briery mountain.[ ] ... at the entrance of the above glades i lodged this night, with no other shelter or cover than my cloak. & was unlucky enough to have a heavy shower of rain.... ^{th}.... passing along a small path ... loaded with water ... we had an uncomfortable travel to one charles friends[ ] about miles.... a mile before i came to friends, i crossed the great branch of yohiogany.... friend ... is a great hunter.... from friends i passed by a spring (distant miles) called archy's from a man of that name--crossed the backbone[ ] & descended into ryans glade.[ ]--thence by tho^s. logston's ... to the foot of the backbone, about miles ... across the ridge to ryans glade one mile and half ...--to joseph logstons - / miles ...--to the n^o. branch at mccullochs path miles[ ]--infamous road--and to tho^s. logstons more.... th. i left m^r. logston's ...--at ten miles i had ... gained the summit of the alligany mountain[ ] and began to desend it where it is very steep and bad to the waters of pattersons creek ... along the heads of these [tributaries], & crossing the main [patterson's] creek & mountain bearing the same name[ ] (on the top of which at one snails i dined) i came to col^o. abrah^m. hites at fort pleasant on the south branch[ ] about miles from logstons a little before the suns setting. my intention, when i set out from logstons, was to take the road to rumney [romney] by one parkers but learning from my guide (joseph logston) when i came to the parting paths at the foot of the alligany[ ] (ab^t. miles) that it was very little further to go by fort pleasant, i resolved to take that rout ... to get information...." this extract from washington's journal gives us the most complete information obtainable of a region of country concerning which it is difficult to secure even present-day information. the drift of the pioneer tide had been on north and south lines here; the first-comers into these mountains wandered up the monongahela and youghiogheny rivers and their tributaries. even as early as the old french war a few bold companies of men had sifted into the dark valleys of the cheat and youghiogheny.[ ] that it was a difficult country to reach is proved by the fact that certain early adventurers in this region were deserters from fort pitt. they were safe here! a similar movement up the two branches of the potomac had created a number of settlements there--far up where the waters ran clear and swift amid the mountain fogs. but there had been less communication on east and west lines. it is easy to assume that mcculloch's path was the most important route across the ragged ridges, from one glade and valley to another. it is entirely probable that the new road, to which washington refers, was built for some distance on the buffalo trace which (though the earlier route) branched from the new road. an old path ran eastward from dunkard's bottom of which washington says: "... being ... discouraged ... from attempting to return [to the potomac] by the way of dunkars bottom, as the path it is said is very blind & exceedingly grown up with briers, i resolved to try the other rout, along the new road ..." as quoted on page . the growth of such towns as cumberland and morgantown had made a demand for more northerly routes. the whole road-building idea in these parts in the last quarter of the eighteenth century was to connect the towns that were then springing into existence, especially morgantown and clarksburg with cumberland. washington's dream of a connected waterway was, of course, hopelessly chimerical, and after him no one pushed the subject of a highway of any kind between the east and the west through virginia. washington's own plans materialized in the potomac navigation company, and his highway, that should be a strong link in the chain of federal union between the improved potomac and the ohio, became the cumberland road; and it ran just where he did not care to see it--through maryland and pennsylvania. yet it accomplished his first high purpose of welding the union together, and was a fruit of that patriotic letter to governor harrison written a few days after washington pushed his way through the wet paths of the cheat and youghiogheny valleys in . these first routes across the mountains south of the cumberland road--in virginia--were, as noted, largely those of wild beasts. "it has been observed before," wrote washington in recapitulation, "to what fortuitous circumstances the paths of this country owe their being, & how much the ways may be better chosen by a proper investigation of it; ..." in many instances the new roads built hereabouts in later days were shorter than the earlier courses; however it remains true here, as elsewhere, that the strategic geographical positions were found by the buffalo and indian, and white men have followed them there unwaveringly with turnpike and railway. when washington crossed the north branch of the potomac on the th of october, at "mccullochs crossing," he was on the track of what should be, a generation later, the virginian highway across the appalachian system into the ohio basin. oddly enough virginia had done everything, it may truthfully be said, toward building braddock's road to the ohio in , and, in , had done as much as any colony toward building forbes's road. all told, virginia had accomplished more in the way of road-building into the old central west by than all other colonies put together. yet, as it turned out, not one inch of either of these great thoroughfares lay in virginia territory when independence was secured and the individual states began their struggle for existence in those "critical" after-hours. these buffalo paths through her western mountains were her only routes; they coursed through what was largely an uninhabited region, and which remains such today. yet it was inevitable that a way should be hewn here through virginia to the ohio; the call from the west, the hosts of pioneers, the need of a state way of communication, all these and more, made it sure that a virginia turnpike should cross the mountains. before that day arrived the cumberland road was proposed, built, and completed, not only to the ohio river, but almost to the western boundary of the state of ohio; its famous successor of another generation, the baltimore and ohio railway, was undertaken in . these movements stirred northern virginians to action and on the twenty-seventh of february, , the general assembly passed an act "to incorporate the north-western road company." sections , , , and of this act are as follows: " . _be it enacted by the general assembly of virginia_, that books shall be opened at the town of winchester, in frederick county, under the direction of josiah lockhart, william wood, george s. lane, abraham miller, and charles brent, or any two of them; at romney, in hampshire county, under the direction of william naylor, william donaldson, john m'dowell, robert sherrard, and thomas slane, or any two of them; at moorfield, in hardy county, under the direction of isaac van meter, daniel m'neil, benjamin fawcett, samuel m'machen, and john g. harness, or any two of them; at beverly, in randolph county, under the direction of eli butcher, squire bosworth, jonas crane, andrew crawford, and william cooper, or any two of them; at kingwood, in preston county, under the direction of william sigler, william johnson, william price, charles byrne, and thomas brown, or any two of them; at pruntytown, in harrison county, under the direction of abraham smith, frederick burdett, thomas gethrop, cornelius reynolds, and stephen neill, or any two of them; at clarksburg, in harrison county, under the direction of john l. sehon, john sommerville, john webster, jacob stealy, and phineas chapin, or any two of them; and at parkersburg, in wood county, under the direction of jonas beason, joseph tomlinson, tillinghast cook, james h. neal, and abraham samuels, or any two of them, for purpose of receiving subscriptions to a capital stock of seventy-five thousand dollars, in shares of twenty dollars, to be appropriated to the making of a road from winchester to some proper place on the ohio river, between the mouths of muskingum, and little kanawha rivers, according to the provisions of this act.... " . the proceedings of the first general meeting of the stockholders, shall be preserved with subsequent proceedings of the company, all of which shall be entered of record in well bound books to be kept for that purpose: and from and after the first appointment of directors, the said responsible subscribers, their heirs and assigns, shall be, and they are hereby declared to be, a body politic and corporate, by the name of 'the north western road company;' ... " . it shall be the duty of the principal engineer of the state, as soon as existing engagements will permit, to prescribe such plans or schemes for making the whole road, or the several parts or sections thereof, as he shall think best calculated to further its most proper and speedy completion, and to locate and graduate the same, or part or parts thereof, from time to time, make estimates of the probable cost of making each five miles, (or any shorter sections,) so located and graduated, and to make report thereof to the board of public works at such time or times as shall be convenient. " . the said president and directors shall, from time to time, make all contracts necessary for the completion of the said road, and shall require from subscribers equal advances and payments on their shares, and they shall have power to compel payments by the sale of delinquent shares, in such a manner as shall be prescribed by their by-laws, and transfer the same to purchasers: _provided_, that if any subscriber shall at any time be a contractor for making any part of the said road, or in any other manner become a creditor of the company, he shall be entitled to a proper set-off in the payment of his stock, or any requisition made thereon...."[ ] a mistake which doomed these plans to failure was in arbitrarily outlining a road by way of the important towns without due consideration of the nature of the country between them. the mountains were not to be thus mocked; even the buffalo had not found an east and west path here easily. as noted, the towns where subscriptions were opened were winchester, romney, moorefield, beverly, kingwood, pruntytown, clarksburg, and parkersburg. when the engineers got through hampshire county by way of mill creek gap in mill creek mountain and on into preston county, insurmountable obstacles were encountered and it was reported that the road would never reach kingwood. from that moment the north-western road company stock began to languish; only the intervention of the state saved the enterprise. however, in , a new and very remarkable act was passed by the virginia assembly organizing a road company that stands unique in a road-building age. this was "an act to provide for the construction of a turnpike road from winchester to some point on the ohio river." the governor was made president of the company and he with the treasurer, attorney-general, and second auditor constituted the board of directors. the st, d, and th sections of this interesting law are as follows: " . _be it enacted by the general assembly_, that the governor, treasurer, attorney general, and second auditor of the commonwealth for the time being, and their successors, are hereby constituted a body politic and corporate, under the denomination of 'the president and directors of the north-western turnpike road,' with power to sue and be sued, plead and be impleaded, and to hold lands and tenements, goods and chattels, and the same to sell, dispose of, or improve, in trust for the commonwealth, for the purposes hereinafter mentioned. and three of the said commissioners shall constitute a board for the transaction of such business as is hereby entrusted to them; of which board, when present, the governor shall be president: and they shall have power to appoint a clerk from without their own body, and make such distribution of their duties among themselves respectively, and such rules and regulations ... as to them may seem necessary.... " . _be it further enacted_, that the said president and directors of the north-western turnpike road be, and they are hereby empowered as soon as may be necessary for the purposes herein declared, to borrow on the credit of the state, a sum or sums of money not exceeding one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, and at a rate of interest not exceeding six per centum per annum.... " . _be it further enacted_, that the said president and directors, out of the money hereby authorized to be borrowed, shall cause to be constructed a road from the town of winchester, in the county of frederick, to some point on the ohio river, to be selected by the principal engineer. and for the purpose aforesaid, the principal engineer, as soon as may be after the passage of this act, shall proceed to lay out and locate the said road from the points above designated. he shall graduate the said road in such manner that the acclivity or declivity thereof shall in no case exceed five degrees. the width of the said road may be varied, so that it shall not exceed eighteen feet, nor be less than twelve feet. through level ground it shall be raised in the middle one-twenty-fourth part of its breadth, but in passing along declivities it may be flat. bridges, side ditches, gutters, and an artificial bed of stone or gravel, shall be dispensed with, except in such instances as the said principal engineer may deem them necessary...."[ ] other sections stipulated that the state had the right to survey any and all routes the engineers desired to examine, and that persons suffering by loss of land or otherwise could, if proper application was made within one year, secure justice in the superior or county courts; that the company appoint a superintendent who should have in charge the letting of contracts after such were approved by the company; that, as each stretch of twenty miles was completed, toll gates could be erected thereon, where usual tolls could be collected by the company's agents, the total sum collected to be paid into the state treasury; that the company had the right to erect bridges, or in case a ferry was in operation, to make the ferryman keep his banks and boats in good condition; that the company make annual reports to the state board of public works; and that the road be forever a public highway. the roadway was now soon built. not dependent upon the stock that might be taken in the larger towns, the road made peace with the mountains and was built through the southern part of preston county in , leaving kingwood some miles to the north. evansville was located in , and owes its rise to the great road. the route of the road is through hampshire, mineral, grant, garrett, preston, taylor, harrison, doddridge, ritchie, and wood counties, all west virginia save garrett which is in maryland. important as the route became to the rough, beautiful country which it crossed, it never became of national importance. being started so late in the century, the baltimore and ohio railway, which was completed to cumberland in , stopped in large part the busy scenes of the old northwestern turnpike. yet to the historic inquirer the old turnpike, so long forgotten by the outside world, lies where it was built; and can fairly be said to be a monument of the last of those stirring days when virginia planned to hold the west in fee. hundreds of residents along this road recall the old days with intense delight. true, the vast amount of money spent on the cumberland road was not spent on its less renowned rival to the south, but the cumberland road was given over to the states through which it ran; and, in many instances, was so neglected that it was as poor a road as some of its less pretentious rivals. a great deal of business of a national character was done on the northwestern turnpike. parkersburg became one of the important entrepôts in the ohio valley; as early as , we shall soon see, a pioneer traversing the country through which the northwestern turnpike's predecessor coursed, speaks of an awakening in the monongahela valley that cannot be considered less than marvelous. taking it through the years, few roads have remained of such constant benefit to the territory into which they ran, and today you will be told that no railway has benefited that mountainous district so much as this great thoroughfare. but in a larger sense than any merely local one, virginia counted on the northwestern turnpike to bind the state and connect its eastern metropolis with the great ohio valley. virginia had given up, on demand, her great county of kentucky when the wisdom of that movement was plain; at the call of the nation, she had surrendered the title her soldiers had given her to illinois and the beautifully fertile scioto valley in ohio. but after these great cessions she did not lose the rich monongahela country. it had been explored by her adventurers, settled by her pioneers--and virginia held dear to her heart her possessions along the upper ohio. in the days when the northwestern turnpike was created by legislative act, canals were not an assured success, and railways were only being dreamed of. and the promoters of canals and railways were considered insane when they hinted that the mountains could be conquered by these means of transportation. with all the vast need for improvements, the genius of mankind had never created anything better than the road and the cart; what hope was there that now suddenly america should surprise the world by overthrowing the axioms of the centuries past? and so, in the correct historical analysis, the northwestern turnpike must be considered virginia's attempt to compete successfully with maryland, pennsylvania, and new york, in securing for herself a commanding portion of the trade of the west. in all the legislative history of the origin of the northwestern turnpike, it is continually clear that its origin was of more than local character. it was actually the last roadway built from the seaboard to the west in the hope of securing commercial superiority; and its decline and decay marks the end of pioneer road-building across the first great american "divide." in a moment the completion of the erie canal assured the nation that freight could be transported for long distances at one-tenth the cost that had prevailed on the old land highways. soon after, the completion of the pennsylvania canal proved that the canal could successfully mount great heights--and virginia forgot her roads in her interest in canals. chapter ii a journey in northern virginia thomas wallcutt of massachusetts served through the revolutionary war as hospital steward and received in payment therefor one share in the ohio company.[ ] he went out to marietta in , and returned eastward by the half-known virginia route. his _journal_[ ] forms an interesting chapter of travel on american pioneer roads: "monday, march, .[ ] pleasant, clear, cold, and high winds. we were up before sunrise, and got some hot breakfast, coffee and toast; and captain prince, mr. moody, mr. skinner, captain mills and brother, mr. bent, &c., accompanied us over the river[ ] to sargent's or williams's, and took leave of us about nine o'clock, and we proceeded on our journey. we had gone but a little way when we found the path[ ] so blind that we could not proceed with certainty, and i was obliged to go back and get a young man to come and show us the way. when we had got back to our companions again, they had found the road, and we walked twenty miles this day. weather raw, chilly, and a little snow. the country after about five or six miles from the ohio is very broken and uneven, with high and sharp hills. "tuesday, march, . the weather for the most part of the day pleasant, but cold winds, northerly. the country very rough, the hills high and sharp.[ ] one third of the road must go over and on the ridges, and another third through the valleys. we walked this day about twenty-three or twenty-four miles, and slept near the forty-fourth or forty-fifth mile tree. "wednesday, march, . weather raw and moist. to-day we crossed several of the large creeks and waters that fall into the ohio. this occasioned a loss of much time, waiting for the horse to come over for each one, which he did as regularly as a man would. the country much the same, but rather better to-day, except that a great deal of the road runs along through the streams, and down the streams such a length with the many bridges that will be wanted, that it will be a vast expense, besides the risk and damage of being carried away every year by the floods. we had so much trouble in crossing these streams that at last we forded on foot. one of the largest in particular, after we had rode it several times, we waded it four or five times almost knee-deep, and after that a number of times on logs, or otherwise, without going in water. two of the streams, i doubt not, we crossed as often as twenty times each. we walked this day about fifteen miles. "thursday, march, . with much fatigue and pain in my left leg, we walked about fifteen miles to-day. they all walked better than i, and had got to carpenter's and had done their dinner about two o'clock when i arrived. they appear to be good farmers and good livers, have a good house, and seem very clever people. mr. c. is gone down the country. they have been a frontier here for fifteen years, and have several times been obliged to move away. i got a dish of coffee and meat for dinner, and paid ninepence each, for the doctor and me. we set off, and crossed the west branch of the monongahela over to clarksburgh. the doctor paid his own ferriage. we went to major robinson's, and had tea and meat, &c., for supper. i paid ninepence each, for the doctor and me. weather dull and unpleasant, as yesterday. "friday, march, . weather good and pleasant to-day. we set off before sunrise and got a little out of our road into the morgantown road, but soon got right again. we breakfasted at webb's mill, a good house and clever folks. had coffee, meat, &c.; paid sixpence each, for me and the doctor. lodged at wickware's, who says he is a yankee, but is a very disagreeable man for any country, rough and ugly, and he is very dear. i paid one shilling apiece for the doctor's and my supper, upon some tea made of mountain birch, perhaps black birch, stewed pumpkin, and sodden meat. appetite supplies all deficiencies. "saturday, march, . beautiful weather all day. set off not so early this morning as yesterday. the doctor paid his ferriage himself. mr. moore, a traveller toward his home in dunker's bottom, fayette county, pennsylvania, [?] set out with us. he seems a very mild, good-natured, obliging old gentleman, and lent me his horse to ride about two miles, while he drove his pair of steers on foot. the doctor and i being both excessively fatigued, he with a pain in his knee, and mine in my left leg, but shifting about, were unable to keep up with our company, and fell much behind them. met mr. carpenter on his return home. he appears to be a very clever man. when we had come to field's, i found mr. dodge had left his horse for us to ride, and to help us along, which we could not have done without. we got a dish of tea without milk, some dried smoked meat and hominy for dinner; and from about three o'clock to nine at night, got to ramsay's. seven miles of our way were through a new blazed path where they propose to cut a new road. we got out of this in good season, at sundown or before dark, into the wagon road, and forded cheat river on our horses. tea, meat, &c., for supper. old simpson and horton, a constable, had a terrible scuffle here this evening. "lord's day, march, . mr. dodge is hurrying to go away again. i tell him i must rest to-day. i have not written anything worth mention in my journal since i set out, until to-day, and so must do it from memory. i want to shave a beard seven days old, and change a shirt about a fortnight dirty; and my fatigue makes rest absolutely necessary. so take my rest this day, whether he has a mind to go or stay with us. eat very hearty of hominy or boiled corn with milk for breakfast, and boiled smoked beef and pork for dinner, with turnips. after dinner shaved and shirted me, which took till near night, it being a dark house, without a bit of window, as indeed there is scarce a house on this road that has any. "monday, march, . waited and got some tea for breakfast, before we set out. settled with ramsay, and paid him _d._ per meal, for five meals, and half-pint whiskey _d._ the whole came to eight shillings. weather very pleasant most of the day. we walked to brien's about half-past six o'clock, which they call twenty-four miles. we eat a little fried salt pork and bit of venison at friends',[ ] and then crossed the great youghiogeny. about two miles further on, we crossed the little _ditto_ at boyles's.... we walked about or near an hour after dark, and were very agreeably surprised to find ourselves at brien's instead of stackpole's, which is four miles further than we expected. eat a bit of indian bread, and the woman gave us each about half a pint of milk to drink, which was all our supper. "tuesday, march, . we were up this morning, and away about or before sunrise, and ascended the backbone of the alleghany, and got breakfast at williams's. i cannot keep up with my company. it took me till dark to get to davis's. messers. dodge and proctor had gone on before us about three miles to dawson's. we got some bread and butter and milk for supper, and drank a quart of cider. mr. davis was originally from ashford, county of windham, connecticut; has been many years settled in this country; has married twice, and got many children. his cider in a brown mug seemed more like home than any thing i have met with. "wednesday, march. we were up this morning before day, and were set off before it was cleverly light. got to dawson's, three miles, where messers. d. & p. lodged, and got some tea for breakfast, and set off in good season, the doctor and i falling behind. as it is very miry, fatiguing walking, and rainy, which makes extremely painful walking in the clay and mud, we could not keep up with d. we stopped about a mile and a half from the methodist meeting near the cross roads at cressops, and four from cumberland, and got some fried meat and eggs, milk, butter, &c., for dinner, which was a half pistareen each. after dinner the doctor and i walked into cumberland village about three o'clock, and put up at herman stitcher's or stidger's. we called for two mugs of cider, and got tea, bread and butter, and a boiled leg of fresh young pork for supper. the upper part of the county of washington has lately been made a separate county, and called alleghany, as it extends over part of that mountain, and reaches to the extreme boundary of maryland. the courts, it is expected, will be fixed and held at this place, cumberland, which will probably increase its growth, as it thrives pretty fast already. we supped and breakfasted here; paid _s._ for each, the doctor and me. pleasant fine weather this day. my feet exceedingly sore, aching, throbbing, and beating. i cannot walk up with my company. "thursday, march. paid mr. dodge _s._ advance. a very fine day. we stayed and got breakfast at stitcher's, and walked from about eight o'clock to twelve, to old town, and dined at jacob's, and then walked to dakins's to lodge, where we got a dish of indian or some other home coffee, with a fry of chicken and other meat for supper. this is the first meal i have paid a shilling l. m. for. the country very much broken and hilly, sharp high ridges, and a great deal of pine. about ... miles from old town, the north and south branches of the potomac join. we walked twenty-five miles to-day. "friday, march, . very fine weather again to-day. we walked twenty-four miles to mcfarren's in hancock, and arrived there, sun about half an hour high. mcfarren says this town has been settled about ten or twelve years, and is called for the man who laid it out or owned it, and not after governor hancock. it is a small but growing place of about twenty or thirty houses, near the bank of the potomac, thirty-five miles below old town, and five below fort cumberland; twenty-four above williamsport, and ninety-five above georgetown. we slept at mcfarren's, a so-so house. he insisted on our sleeping in beds, and would not permit sleeping on the floors. we all put our feet in soak in warm water this evening. it was recommended to us by somebody on the road, and i think they feel the better for it. "saturday, march. a very fine day again. we have had remarkably fine weather on this journey hitherto. but two days we had any rain, and then but little. we stayed and got breakfast at mcfarren's, and set out about eight o'clock, and walked about twenty-one miles this day to thompson's, about half a mile from buchanan's in the cove gap in the north mountain. my feet do not feel quite so bad this day, as they have some days. i expect they are growing stronger and fitter for walking every day, though it has cost me a great deal of pain, throbbing, beating, and aching to bring them to it. it seems the warm water last night did me some good. "lord's day, march, . up and away before sunrise, and walked to breakfast to mccracken's. he has been an officer in the continental army. i find it will not do for me to try any longer to keep up with my company, and as they propose going through reading, and we through philadelphia, we must part to-night or to-morrow. i conclude to try another seven miles, and if i cannot keep up, we part at semple's, the next stage. they got to semple's before me, and waited for me. i conclude to stay and dine here, and part with messrs. proctor and dodge. i am so dirty; my beard the ninth day old, and my shirt the time worn, that i cannot with any decency or comfort put off the cleaning any longer. i again overhauled the letters, as i had for security and care taken all into my saddle-bags. i sorted them and gave mr. dodge his, with what lay more direct in his way to deliver, and took some from him for boston and my route. "i paid mr. dodge three shillings more in addition to six shillings i had paid him before at the widow carrel's, according to our agreement at twelve shillings to philadelphia; and as we had gone together and he had carried our packs three hundred miles (wanting two), it was near the matter. he supposed i should do right to give him a shilling more. i told him as i had agreed with him at the rate of fifty pounds, when they did not weigh above thirty-five, and at the rate of going up to pitt instead of returning, which is but half price, i thought it was a generous price, and paid him accordingly as by agreement. we wished each other a good journey, and mr. proctor, the doctor, and i drank a cup of cider together. when we had got cleaned, a wagoner came along very luckily, and dined with us, and going our way, we put our packs in his wagon, and rode some to help. we gave him a quarter of a dollar for this half day and tomorrow. we got to carlisle in the evening and put up with adam at lutz's. "this carlisle is said to be extremely bad in wet weather. it probably is nearly & quite as bad as pittsburg, marietta, albany. i went to lutz's because adam puts up there, he being of his nation, but it is a miserable house, and adam says he is sorry he carried us there. the victuals are good, but they are dirty, rough, impolite. we supped on bread and milk, and lutz would insist on our sleeping in a bed and not on the floor; so we did so. "tuesday, march, . a pleasant day and the roads very much dried, so that the travelling is now comfortable. we dined at callender's in more fashion than since i left home. adam stopped at simpson's so long that it was dark when we got over the river to chambers's, where we stopped another half hour. set off about seven o'clock, and got to foot's about eleven. all abed, but adam got us a bit of bread and butter, and made us a fire in the stove, and we lay on the floor. "wednesday, march, . old foot is a crabbed.... he has been scolding and swearing at adam all this morning about something that i cannot understand. it has rained last night, and the roads are again intolerable. adam says he cannot go again until his father says the word, and that may not be this two or three days. but we cannot go and carry our packs on our backs now, the roads are so bad, and we should gain nothing to walk, but spend our strength to little or no purpose. we must wait for a wagon to go along our way, and join it, or wait for the roads to grow better. "carried our dirty things to wash; two shirts, two pairs stockings, and one handkerchief for me; two shirts, two pair stockings, and one pair trowsers for the doctor. went to several places to look for shoes for the doctor. he could not fit himself at the shoemakers, and bought a pair in a store for _s._ _d._ pennsylvania, or _s._ _d._ our currency. he went to henry moore's, the sign of the two highlanders. i drank a quart of beer and dined. old foot is a supervisor, and is gone to harrisburg to-day, to settle some of his business. "thursday, march, . the sun rises and shines out so bright to-day that i am in hopes the roads will be better, at least, when we go. old foot could not finish his business yesterday, and is gone again to-day. he is uncertain when he shall send adam forward to philadelphia, perhaps not until monday. it will not do for us to stay, if we can somehow get along sooner. time hangs heavy on our hands, but we do what we can to kill it. the doctor and i went down to moore's and dined together, which was a shilling l. m. apiece. we then came back to foot's and drank a pint of cider-royal together. the house is for the most part of the day filled with germans, who talk much, but we cannot understand them. we have coffee and toast, or meat for breakfast, and mush and milk for supper. our time is spent in the most irksome manner possible; eating and drinking, and sleeping and yawning, and attending to the conversation of these dutch. in the evening the house is crowded with the neighbors, &c., and for the ... old foot says, and adam too, that he will not go till monday. this is very discouraging. "friday, march, . a very dull prospect to-day. it rained very hard in the night, and continues to rain this morning. no wagons are passing, and none coming that we can hear of. we have no prospect now but to stay and go with adam on monday. we stay at home to-day and murder our time. we read mcfingal, or ballads, or whatever we can pick up. we had coffee and toast and fresh fried veal for breakfast, and ate heartily, and so we eat no dinner. the doctor goes out and buys us _d._ worth of cakes, and we get a half-pint of whiskey, which makes us a little less sad. in comes a man to inquire news, &c., of two men from muskingum. he had heard thompson's report, which had made so much noise and disquiet all through the country. he had three harrisburg papers with him, which give us a little relief in our dull and unwelcome situation. at dark there come in two men with a wagon and want lodging, &c. they stay this night, and with them we find an opportunity of going forward as far as lancaster, which we are determined to embrace. "saturday, march, . we stay and get a good breakfast before we set out, and agree to give mr. bailey _s._ l. m. for carrying our baggage. this is higher than anything it has cost us on the road in proportion, but we cannot help it. it is better than to waste so much time in a tavern. it rains steadily, and the road is all mush and water. before i get on a hundred rods i am half-leg deep in mire. set off about eight o'clock, and overtook the wagon about two miles ahead. however, it clears off before night, and the sun shines warm, and the roads mend fast. we made a stay in elizabethtown about two hours to feed and rest. the doctor and i had two quarts of beer and some gingerbread and buckwheat cakes for dinner. we got to colonel pedens to lodge, which is eighteen miles through an intolerable bad road, to-day. (elizabethtown, about fifty houses; middletown, about an hundred houses.) we paid our landlady this evening, as we are to start so early in the morning it would not do to wait till the usual time of getting up to pay then, and we have got nine miles to go to reach lancaster. "lord's day, march, . we started this morning at day dawn, and got to ---- at the black horse, four and a half miles to breakfast. the wagon went by us, and fed at shoop's. i left the doctor with them and to take care of the things, and walked into the town before them. stopped at gross's, the spread eagle, and left word for the doctor, which they never told him. i heard the bell ring for church just as i got here, which made me go into town after waiting some time for them. took leave of mr. bailey, &c. i went to the english episcopal church, and then went back to look for the doctor, and he looking for me; we were some time in chase, and missed each other. found we could not get served at the angel, so took our baggage and walked down to doersh's, who keeps the stage. got dinner here. shaved, shirted, put on my boots, and went out into town. stopped at the court-house and heard a methodist. walked further about; stopped and looked into the catholic chapel, and talked with the priest. looked into the churches, such as i could, and returned to tea at sundown. spent the remainder of the time till bed reading newspapers. washed my feet and went to bed just before ten. "monday, march, . after breakfast the doctor and i took a ramble about the town, to look at it and to inquire if we could find any wagon going to philadelphia, that we can get our baggage carried. the most likely place we can hear of is to go to the creek, about a mile from town. immediately after our walk we settled and paid, and set out at just eleven o'clock. paid toll over conestoga bridge, and stopped at locher's, at the indian king, two miles from lancaster, and drank a quart of beer. it was not good. dined at blesser's, on a cold meal, which was _d._ l. m. apiece. got to hamilton's at salsbury, a very good house; nineteen miles. this is more than i expected when i set out at eleven o'clock. a very good supper; rye mush and milk, cold corn beef, and apple pie on the table. but _d._ l. m. for supper and lodging apiece. we have had very good weather for travelling, and the roads are drying fast. in hopes that we shall find some wagon going on the philadelphia road, that we may get our packs carried part of the way. "tuesday, march, . we walked twenty-four miles this day, that is, from hamilton's to fahnstock's. very pleasant weather, suitable for travelling; not too warm nor too cold. my feet very tender and sore, but we keep along steady. got to fahnstock's, admiral warren, about eight o'clock. got some bread and milk for supper. the doctor had nothing but a pint of cider for his supper. we slept well, considering my being excessively fatigued. the post overtook us. "wednesday, march. stayed to breakfast this morning, which was very good, but i do not like the practice, at least i do not seem to need eating meat with breakfast every morning. i sometimes eat it two or three times a day because it is set before me, and it is the fashion to have meat always on the table. we dined about seven miles from philadelphia; crossed the schuylkill about sunset, and walked into town about dark. crossed the schuylkill over the floating bridge, and paid our toll, _d._ pennsylvania each." chapter iii a pilgrim on braddock's road a yellow letter, almost in tatters, lies before me written by one samuel allen to his father, mr. jason allen of montville, new london county, connecticut, from bellville, virginia,[ ] november , . bellville is in wood county, west virginia, eighteen miles by the ohio river from parkersburg. this letter, describing a journey from alexandria and cumberland to the ohio by way of "broadaggs [braddock's] old road," gives a picture of certain of the more pathetic phases of the typical emigrant's experience unequaled by any account we have met in print. incidentally, there is included a mention of the condition of the road and, what is of more interest, a clear glimpse into the ohio valley when the great rush of pioneers had begun after the signing of the treaty of greenville, the year before, which ended the indian war. "bellville w. va november the ^{th} . "honoured parents six months is allmost gone since i left n. london [new london, connecticut] & not a word have i heard from you or any of the family i have not heard wheather you are dead or alive, sick or well. when i heard that mr. backus had got home i was in hopes of recieving a letter by him. but his brother was here the other day and sayes that he left his trunk and left the letters that he had in the trunk, so i am still in hopes of having one yet. there is an opertunity of sending letters once every week only lodge a letter in the post-offis in n. london & in a short time it will be at belleville. the people that came with me has most all had letters from their friends in new england mr avory has had two or three letters from his brother one in fiften dayes after date all of whitch came by the waye of the male. "general putnam of muskingdom [marietta on the muskingum] takes the new london papers constantly every week "when we arrived to allexandria [alexandria, virginia] mr avory found that taking land cariag from there to the monongehaly would be less expence then it would be to go any farther up the potomac & less danger so he hired wagoners to carry the goods across the mountains to morgantown on the monongahaly about one hundred miles above pittsburg mr avorys expence in comeing was from n london to allexndria six dollars each for the passengers and two shillings & six pence for each hundred weight. from allexandria to morgantown was thirty two shillings and six pence for each hundred weight of women & goods the men all walked the hole of the way. i walked the hole distance it being allmost three hundred miles and we found the rode to be pritty good untill we came to the mountaing. crossing the blue mountain the monongehaly & the lorral mountains we found the roads to be verry bad. "you doubtless remember i rote in my last letter that prentice was taken ill a day or two before he continued verry much so untill the ^{th} of july when he began to gro wors the waggoner was hired by the hundred weight & could not stop unless i paid him for the time that he stoped & for the keeping of the horses that i could not affoard to do so we were obliged to keep on we were now on the allegany mountain & a most horrid rode the waggon golted so that i dare not let him ride so i took him in my arms and carried him all the while except once in a while mr davis would take him in his armes & carry him a spell to rest me. a young man that mr avory hired at allexandria a joiner whose kindness i shall not forgit he kep all the while with us & spared no panes to assist us in anything & often he would offer himself. our child at this time was verry sick & no medecal assistance could be had on this mountain on the morning of the ^{th} as we was at breackfast at the house of one mr tumblestone [tomlinson?] the child was taken in a fit our company had gone to the next house to take breakfast which was one mile on our way we were alone in the room & went & asked mrs tumblestone to come into the room she said she did not love to see a person in a fitt but she came into the room polly ask her if she new what was good for a child in a fitt she said no & immediately left the room & shut the door after her & came no more into the room when that fitt left him there came on another no person in the room but mr tumblestone who took but little notis of the child tho it was in great distress polly said she was afraid the child would die in one of them fitts mr tumblestone spoke in a verry lite manner and sayes with a smile it will save you the trouble of carrying it any farther if it does die we then bundled up the child and walked to the next house ware we come up with our company i had just seated myself down when the child was taken in a fitt again when that had left it it was immediately taken in another & as that went off we saw another coming on the man of the house gave it some drops that stoped the fitt he handed me a vial of the dropps--gave directions how to use them the child had no more fitts but seemed to be stuped all day he cried none at all but he kept a whining & scouling all the while with his eyes stared wide open his face and his eyes appeared not to come in shape as before when we took dinner it was six mile to the next house the waggoners said they could not git through thro that night we did not love to stay out for fear our child would die in the woods so we set off & left the waggons i took the child in my arms and we traveled on mr davis set off with us & carried the child above half of the time here we traveled up & down the most tedious hills as i ever saw & by nine oclock in the evening we came to the house the child continued stayed all the night the next morning at break of day i heard it make a strange noise i percieved it grew worse i got up and called up the women [who] ware with us the woman of the house got up & in two hours the child dyed polly was obliged to go rite off as soon as his eyes was closed for the waggoners would not stop i stayed to see the child burried i then went on two of the men that was with me were joiners & had their tools with them they stayed with me & made the coffin mr simkins [simpkins] the man of the house sent his negroes out & dug the grave whare he had burried several strangers that dyed a crossing the mountain his family all followed the corps to the grave black & white & appeared much affected. "when we returned to the house i asked mr simkins to give me his name & the name of the place he asked me the name of the child i told him he took his pen & ink & rote the following lines alligany county marriland july the ^{th} died john p allen at the house of john simkins at atherwayes bear camplain broadaggs old road half way between fort cumberland & uniontown.[ ] i thanked him for the kindness i had received from him he said i was verry welcome & he was verry sorry for my loss "we then proceeded on our journey & we soon overtook the waggons & that nite we got to the foot of the mountain we came to this mountain on the ^{th} of the month and got over it the ^{th} at night we left the city of allexandria on the potomac the ^{th} day of june & arrived at morgantown on the monongahely the ^{th} day of july "thus my dear pearents you see we are deprived of the child we brought with us & we no not whather the one we left is dead or alive. i beg you to rite & let me no polly cant bear her name mentioned without shedding tears if she is alive i hope you will spare no panes to give her learning. "when we arrived at morgantown the river was so lo that boats could not go down but it began to rain the same day that i got ther i was about one mile from there when it began to rain & from the ^d at night to the ^d in the morning it raised feet the logs came down the river so that it was dangerous for boats to go & on sunday the ^d in the evening the boats set off three waggons had not arrived but the river was loreing so fast that we dare not wate the goods was left with a merchant in that town to be sent when the river rises they have not come on yet one of my barrels & the brass cittle is yet behind "mr avory said while he was at morgantown that cattle were verry high down the river & them that wanted to by he thought had better by then he purchased some & i bought two cows and three calvs for myself & three cows for mrs hemsted & calves & a yoke of three year old stears. the next morning after the boats sailed i set off by land with the cattle & horses with john turner & jonathan prentice & arrived at bellvill the ^{th} of august & found it to be a verry rich & pleasant country we came to the ohio at wheeling crick one hundred miles belo pittsburg & about the same from morgantown we found the country settled the hole of the way from morgantown to wheeling & a verry pleasant road we saw some verry large & beautiful plantations here i saw richer land than i ever saw before large fields of corn & grane of a stout groath from wheeling to bellville it is a wilderness for the most of the way except the banks of the river this side----which is one hundred miles we found it verry difficult to get victules to eat. i drove fifty miles with one meal of victules through the wilderness & only a foot path & that was so blind that we was pestered to keep it we could drive but a little wayes in a day whenever night overtook us we would take our blankets & wrap around us & ly down on the ground we found some inhabitance along the river but they came on last spring & had no provisions only what they brought with them "the country is as good as it was represented to be & is seteling verry fast families are continually moveing from other parts into this beautiful country if you would give me all your intrest to go back there to live again it would be no temtation if you should sell your intrest there & lay your money out here in a short time i think you would be worth three or four times so much as you now are. it is incredible to tell the number of boats that goes down this river with familys a man that lives at redstone old fort on the monongehaly says that he saw last spring seventy boats go past in one day with familys moveing down the ohio. there is now at this place a number of familys that came since we did from sesquehanah there is now at this place eighty inhabitance. corn is going at .^s pr bushel by the quantity .^s -^d by the single bushel. there has been between two & three thousand bushels raised in bellville this season & all the settlements along the river as raised corn in proportion but the vast number of people that are moveing into this country & depending upon bying makes it scerce & much higher than it would be "there is three double the people that passes by here then there is by your house there is packets that passes from pittsburg to kentucky one from pittsburg to wheeling miles one from that to muskingdom miles one from that to gallipolees miles the french settlement opisite the big canawa [kanawha] & from that there is another to kentucky----of which goes & returns every week &----loaded with passengers & they carry the male mammy offered me some cloath for a jacket & if you would send it by mr woodward it would be very exceptible for cloaths is verry high here common flanel is ^s per yard & tow cloth is ^s ^d the woolves are so thick that sheep cannot be kept without a shephard they often catch our calvs they have got one of mine & one of mrs hemstid the latter they caught in the field near the houses i have often ben awoak out of my sleep by the howling of the wolves. "this is a fine place for eunice they ask ^s per yard for weaving tow cloth give my respects to betsey & eunice & tell them that i hope one of them will come with mr woodward when he comes on horses are very high in this country & if you have not sold mine i should be [glad] if you would try to send him on by mr. woodward. i dont think mr avory will be there this year or two & anything you would wish to send you nead not be affraid to trust to mr. woodwards hands for he is a verry careful & a verry honest man & what he says you may depend upon. "land is rising verry fast mr avory is selling his lots at dollars apeace he has sold three since we came here at that price we was so long a comeing & provisions so verry high that i had not any money left when i got here except what i paid for the cattle i bought i have worked for mr avory since i came here to the amount of sixteen dollars i paid him dollars before we left n london i am not in debt to him at preasent or any one else i have sot me up a small house and have lived in it upwards of a fortnight we can sell all our milk and butter milk at ^d per quart mr avory will give me three shillings per day for work all winter & find [furnish] me with victules or ^s & find myself i need not want for business i think i am worth more then i was when i came we have ben in verry good health ever since we left home. "general st clair who is now govener of the western teritoryes & general wilkinson with their adicongs [aid-de-camps] attended by a band of soldiers in uniform lodged at bellvill a few nights ago on their way from headquarters to philadelphia with amaracan coulours a flying "please to give my respects to george & james & tell them that if they want an interest this is the country for them to go to make it please to except of my kind love to yourselves & respects to all friends who may enquire do give my love to mr rogers & family & all my brothers and sisters & our only child lydia polly sends her love to you & all her old friends & neighbors your affectionate son samuel allen" the following is a translation of a letter written twelve years after washington's journey of , by eric bollman, a traveler through dunkard's bottom, to his brother lewis bollman, father of h. l. bollman of pittsburg: "from cumberland we have journeyed over the alleghany mountains in company with general irwin, of baltimore, who owns some , acres in this vicinity. the mountains are not so high and not so unproductive as i had imagined them to be. several points are rocky and barren, such as the laurel ridge, but even this with proper attention and ... european cultivation could be made productive. there are proportionately few such ranges as this, and for the greater part, the mountains are covered with fine timber. "we spent the first night at west port. up to this point, at the proper seasons, the potomac is navigable and could be made so quite a distance further. but even in the present state the land journey to the monongahela, which is navigable and flows into the ohio, is but a distance of miles.... "the road is not in a bad condition and could be made most excellent. this will, without doubt, be accomplished just as soon as the country is sufficiently inhabited, since there is no nearer way to reach the western waters. "the next day we dined with mr. m. mccartin, still higher up in the mountains. there are many settlements in this vicinity. we were entertained in a beautiful, cool, roomy house, surrounded by oat fields and rich meadows, where the sound of the bells told that cattle were pasturing near by. we dined from delicate china, had good knives, good forks, spoons, and other utensils. our hostess, a bright, handsome, healthy woman, waited upon us. after dinner, a charming feminine guest arrived on horseback; a young girl from the neighboring farm, of perhaps years of age, with such bashful eyes and such rosy cheeks, so lovely and attractive in manner that even coopley, our good mathematician, could not restrain his admiration. "this is the 'backwoods' of america, which the philadelphian is pleased to describe as a rough wilderness--while in many parts of europe, in westphalia, in the whole of hungary and poland, nowhere, is there a cottage to be found, which, taking all things together in consideration of the inhabitant, can be compared with the one of which i have just written. "four miles from this we reached the glades, one of the most remarkable features of these mountains and this land. these are broad stretches of land of many thousand acres, covered with dense forests; beyond this there is not a tree to be found, but the ground is covered knee-deep with grass and herbs, where both the botanist and the cattle find delicious food. many hundred head of cattle are driven yearly, from the south branch and other surrounding places, and entrusted to the care of the people who live here. what can be the cause of this strange phenomenon! one can only suppose that at one time these glades were covered with timber, which, overthrown by a mighty hurricane, gradually dried and fell into decay. but it would take too long to give the many reasons and arguments both for and against this supposition. "only lately have the indians ceased roving in this vicinity; which has done much to delay its cultivation, but now it is being cleared quite rapidly, and in a short time will, without doubt, become a fine place for pasturage. we spent the second night with one named boyle, an old hollander. early the next morning we could hear the howling of a wolf in the forest. "we breakfasted with tim friend, a hunter, who lived six miles further on. if ever adam existed he must have looked as this tim friend. i never saw such an illustration of perfect manhood. large, strong and brawny; every limb in magnificent proportion, energy in every movement and strength in every muscle, his appearance was the expression of manly independence, contentment and intelligence. his conversation satisfied the expectations which it awakened. with gray head, years old, of which he had lived in the mountains, and of an observing mind, he could not find it difficult to agreeably entertain people who wished for information. he is a hunter by profession. we had choice venison for breakfast, and there were around the house and near by a great number of deers, bears, panthers, etc. i cannot abstain from believing that the manly effort which must be put forth in the hunt, the boldness which it requires, the keen observation which it encourages, the dexterity and activity which are necessary to its success, act together more forcibly for the development of the physical and mental strength than any other occupation. "agriculture and cattle-raising, in their beginning produce careless customs and indolence; the mental faculties remain weak, the ideas limited, and the imagination, without counterpoise, extravagant. therefore we admire the wisdom and penetration of the north american indian, his sublime eloquence and heroic spirit in contrast to the asiatic shepherd, from whom we receive only simple arabic fables. the man, of whatever color he may be, is always that which the irresistible influence of his surroundings has formed him. we left our noble hunter and his large, attractive family unwillingly and followed a roadway to duncard's bottom, on cheat river. "we had ridden along uneventfully for about two hours. i was in advance, when joseph, who rode behind me, cried: 'take care, sir. take care. there is a rattlesnake.' it lay upon the road and my horse had almost stepped upon it, which would have proved a disastrous thing. joseph, a good active fellow, sprang instantly from his horse in order to kill it. the snake disappeared in the bushes and rattled. it sounded so exactly like the noise of a grasshopper that i did not think it could be anything else. joseph armed himself with a stout stick and heavy stone, followed the snake, found it, and killed it, but then jumped quickly back, for he saw close by another rattlesnake, which had coiled itself and was ready to spring at him. he hurried back again and killed the second. they were - / feet long and nine inches in circumference, in the thickest part of the body; one had nine rattles and the other five. we examined the poisonous fangs, took the rattles with us and hung the bodies on a tree. i had thought until now that the principle of life was as stubborn in a snake as in an eel, but found to my astonishment that a slight blow was sufficient to destroy it in this dangerous specimen. other observations touching upon natural history i must keep for future discussion. "we dined at duncard's bottom, crossed the cheat river in the afternoon, reached the monongahela valley, spent the night in a very comfortable blockhouse with mr. zinn, and arrived the next day at morgantown, on the monongahela. we spent a day and a half here and were pleasantly entertained by mr. reeder and william m. clary, and received much information, especially concerning sugar, maple trees and sugar making. from morgantown we went to the mouth of george creek, fayette county, pennsylvania. as it was afternoon when we reached here we were overtaken by night and compelled to spend the night in a small blockhouse with mr. mcfarlain. we found mr. mcfarlain a respectable, intelligent farmer, surrounded as usual, by a large and happy family. "directly after our arrival the table was set, around which the entire family assembled. this appears to be the usual custom in the united states with all people who are in some measure in good circumstances. one of the women, usually the prettiest, has the honor of presiding at table. there were good table appointments, fine china, and the simple feast was served with the same ceremony as in the most fashionable society of philadelphia. never, i believe, was there in any place more equality than in this. strangers who come at this time of day at once enter the family circle. this was the case with us. mr. mcfarlain told us much about his farm and the misfortunes with which he struggled when he first cultivated the place upon which he now lives. he has lived here years, a circumstance which is here very unusual, because the adventure loving nature, together with the wish to better their condition and the opportunity, has led many people to wander from place to place. "'but,' said mr. mcfarlain, when we made this observation, 'i have always believed there was truth in the saying, "a rolling stone gathers no moss." with labor and industry i have at last succeeded, and can still work as well as my sons.' "'oh,' said his wife, a jolly woman, 'he does not do much. the most he does is to go around and look at the work.' "'let him, let him,' interrupted the daughter, an energetic, pretty girl of perhaps years, who was serving the coffee. 'he worked hard when he was young.' and no girl of finer education could have said it with more charming naivete or with the appearance of more unaffected love. "after the evening meal the eldest son showed us to our bed-room. 'shall i close the window?' said he. 'i usually sleep here and always leave it open; it does not harm me, and dr. franklin advises it.' "the next morning when we came down we found the old farmer sitting on the porch reading a paper. upon the table lay 'morse's geography,' 'the beauty of the stars,' 'the vicar of wakefield,' and other good books. i have entered into particulars in my description of this family, because we were then only five miles from the home of gallatin, where the people are too often represented as rough, uncultured, good-for-nothings. it is not necessary to mention that all families here are not as this, yet it is something to find a family such as this, living on this side of the mountains, miles from the sea coast. we called upon mr. gallatin, but did not find him at home. geneva is a little place, but lately settled, at the junction of george creek and the monongahela. "from here we went to uniontown, the capital of fayette county, where we saw excellent land and redstone creek. we dined the following day in redstone or brownsville; journeyed to washington, the capital of the county of the same name, and arrived the following day in pittsburg. "of this city and its magnificent situation between two mighty rivers, the monongahela and the allegheny, i shall write you another time. from the window where i now sit, i have a view of the first named river, a half mile long. it is as broad as the thames in london. the bank on this side is high, but horizontal and level, covered with short grass, such as the sheep love, which reminds me of the rock at brighthelmstein. it is bordered with a row of locust trees. the bank on the other side is a chain of hills, thickly shaded with oak and walnut trees. the river flows quietly and evenly. boats are going back and forth; even now one is coming, laden with hides from illinois. the people on board are wearing clothes made of woolen bed blankets. they are laughing and singing after the manner of the french, yet as red as indians, and almost the antipodes of their fatherland. "from here to the mouth of the ohio it is , miles and , to the mouth of the mississippi. how enormous! how beautiful it is to see the dominion of freedom and common sense established. to see in these grand surroundings the development of good principle and the struggle toward a more perfect life; to admire the spirit of enterprise as it works toward a great plan, which seems to be in relation to the great plan which nature itself has followed, and at last to anticipate by a secret feeling, the future greatness and prosperity which lies before this growing country." two years later felix renick passed this way and includes in his account a vivid picture of the earliest sort of taverns in the west: "some of our neighbors who had served in dunmore's campaign in , gave accounts of the great beauty and fertility of the western country, and particularly the scioto valley, which inspired me with a desire to explore it as early as i could make it convenient. i accordingly set out from the south branch of potomac for that purpose, i think about the first of october, , in company with two friends, joseph harness and leonard stump, both of whom have long since gone hence. we took with us what provisions we could conveniently carry, and a good rifle to procure more when necessary, and further prepared ourselves to camp wherever night overtook us. having a long journey before us, we traveled slow, and reached clarksburgh the third night, which was then near the verge of the western settlements in virginia, except along the ohio river. among our first inquiries of our apparently good, honest, illiterate landlord, was whether he could tell us how far it was to marietta [ohio], and what kind of trace we should have? his reply was, 'o yes, i can do that very thing exactly, as i have been recently appointed one of the viewers to lay out and mark a road from here to marietta, and have just returned from the performance of that duty. the distance on a _straight line_ which we first run was seventy-five miles, but on our return we found and marked another line that was much _nearer_.' this theory to mr. harness and myself, each of us having spent several years in the study and practice of surveying, was entirely new: we however let it pass without comment, and our old host, to his great delight, entertained us till late in the evening, with a detailed account of the fine sport he and his associates had in their bear chases, deer chases, &c., while locating the road. we pursued our journey next morning, taking what our host called the nearest, and which he also said was much the best route. the marks on both routes being fresh and plain, the crooked and nearest route, as our host called it, frequently crossing the other, we took particular notice of the ground the straight line had to pass over, and after getting through we were disposed to believe that our worthy host was not so far wrong as might be supposed. the straight line crossing such high peaks of mountains, some of which were so much in the sugar-loaf form, that it would be quite as near to go round as over them. "the first night after leaving the settlement at clarksburgh, we camped in the woods; the next morning while our horses were grazing, we drew on our wallets and saddlebags for a snack, that we intended should pass for our breakfast, and set out. we had not traveled far before we unexpectedly came to a new improvement. a man had gone there in the spring, cleared a small field and raised a patch of corn, &c., staying in a camp through the summer to watch it to prevent its being destroyed by the wild animals. he had, a few days before we came along, called on some of his near neighbors on the ohio, not much more perhaps than thirty miles off, who had kindly came forth and assisted him in putting up a cabin of pretty ample size, into which he had moved bag and baggage. he had also fixed up a rock and trough, and exposed a clapboard to view, with some black marks on it made with a coal, indicating that he was ready and willing to accommodate those who pleased to favor him with a call. seeing these things, and although we did not in reality need any thing in his way, mr. harness insisted on our giving him a call, observing that any man that would settle down in such a wilderness to accommodate travelers ought to be encouraged. we accordingly rode up and called for breakfast, horse feed, &c. then let me say that as our host had just 'put the ball in motion,' was destitute of any helpmate whatever, (except a dog or two,) he had of course to officiate in all the various departments appertaining to a hotel, from the landlord down to the shoe-black on the one side, and from the landlady down to the dishwash on the other. the first department in which he had to officiate was that of the hostler, next that of the bar keeper, as it was then customary, whether called for or not, to set out a half pint of something to drink. the next, which he fell at with much alacrity, was that of the cook, by commencing with rolled up sleeves and unwashed hands and arms, that looked about as black and dirty as the bears' paws which lay at the cabin door, part of whose flesh was the most considerable item in our breakfast fare. the first operation was the mixing up some pounded corn meal dough in a little black dirty trough, to which the cleaner, and perhaps as he appeared to think him, the better half of himself, his dog, had free access before he was fairly done with it, and that i presume was the only kind of cleaning it ever got. while the dodgers were baking, the bear meat was frying, and what he called coffee was also making, which was composed of an article that grew some hundred or one thousand miles north of where the coffee tree ever did grow. you now have the bill of fare that we sat down to, and the manner in which it was prepared; but you must guess how much of it we ate, and how long we were at it. as soon as we were done we called for our bill, and here follows the items: breakfast fifty cents each, horses twenty-five each, half pint of whisky fifty cents. mr. harness, who had prevailed on us to stop, often heard of the wilderness hotel, and whenever mentioned, he always had some term of reproach ready to apply to the host and the dirty breakfast, though we often afterwards met with fare somewhat similar in all respects. "we camped two nights in the woods, and next day got to marietta where the land office was then kept by general putnam, and from his office we obtained maps of the different sections of country we wished to explore."[ ] chapter iv the genesee road the military importance of the mohawk valley and strategic portage at rome, new york, was emphasized in our study of portage paths.[ ] throughout the french and indian war and the revolutionary struggle the water route to the hudson from lake ontario, by way of the onondaga, lake oneida, wood creek, and the mohawk, was of great moment. but only because it was a route--a thoroughfare; not because the territory through which it coursed was largely occupied or of tremendous value. the french held the lakes and the english were constantly striving for foothold there. when fort oswego was built on the present site of oswego, the first step by the english was taken; the route had been the river route with a portage at fort williams (rome). when fort niagara was captured in by sir william johnson, the french were driven from the lakes; johnson's route to niagara was by lake ontario from oswego. it has been suggested that a volume of this series of monographs should be given to the campaigns of the english against fort niagara. these campaigns were made largely on waterways; they left no roads which became of any real importance in our national development. certain campaigns of the old french war left highways which have become of utmost significance; only of these routes and their story should this series be expected to treat. despite the two wars which had created busy scenes in the mohawk valley, no landward route connected it with niagara river and lake erie except the iroquois trail.[ ] no military road was built through the "long house of the iroquois." to gain the key of the western situation--niagara--the common route was to oswego. there were local roads along the lake shore, and these were used more or less by the troops. in the revolution no american general could get beyond fort stanwix by land. leger himself came up the oswego river to join burgoyne. [illustration: part of a "map of the route between albany and oswego" (_parts aa' and bb' belong opposite_) [_drawn about ; from original in british museum_]] as a consequence, the interior of new york was an almost unexplored wilderness at the end of the revolution in . with the opening of the genesee country by the various companies which operated there, a tide of immigration began to surge westward from the upper mohawk along the general alignment of the old-time iroquois trail. utica sprang up on the site of old fort schuyler, and marked the point of divergence of the new land route of civilization from the water route.[ ] this was about . in asa danworth erected his salt works at bogardus corners, now the city of syracuse. geneva, batavia, and buffalo mark the general line of the great overland route from utica and syracuse across new york. it followed very closely the forty-third meridian, dropping somewhat to reach buffalo. the great genesee road, as it was early known, began at old fort schuyler, as a western extremity of the mohawk valley road and later turnpike, and was built to the genesee river by a law passed march , . in a law was passed extending it to the western boundary of the state. it was legally known as the great genesee road and the main genesee road until . in that year the road passed into the hands of a turnpike company the legal name of which was "the president and directors of the seneca road company." the old name clung to the road however, and on the map here reproduced we find it called the "ontario and genesee turnpike road." it forms the main street of both the large cities through which it passes, syracuse and utica, and in both it is called "genesee street." the first act of legislation which created a genesee road from an indian trail read as follows: "_be it enacted by the people of the state of new york, represented in senate and assembly_ that israel chapin, michael myer, and othniel taylor shall be and hereby are appointed commissioners for the purpose of laying out and improving a public road or highway to begin at old fort schuyler on the mohawk river and to run from thence in a line as nearly straight as the situation of the country will admit to the cayuga ferry in the county of onondaga or to the outlet of the cayuga lake at the discretion of the said commissioners and from the said outlet of the cayuga lake or from the said cayuga ferry as the same may be determined on by the said commissioners in a line as nearly straight as the situation of the country will admit to the town of canadaquai and from thence in a line as nearly straight as possible to the settlement of canawagas on the genesee river. "_and be it further enacted_ that the said road shall be laid out six rods wide, but it shall not be necessary for the said commissioners to open and improve the same above four rods wide in any place thereof. and the whole of the said road when laid out, shall be considered as a public highway and shall not be altered by the commissioners of any town or country [county?] through which the same shall run. "_and be it further enacted_ that the treasurer of this state shall pay to the said commissioners or any two of them a sum or sums of money not exceeding in the whole the sum of six hundred pounds out of the monies in the treasury which have arisen or may arise from the sale of military lotts to be laid out and expended towards the opening and improving that part of the said road passing through the military lands. "_and be it further enacted_ that for the purpose of laying out opening and improving the remainder of the said road, the said treasurer shall pay unto the said commissioners or any two of them out of any monies in the treasury not otherwise appropriated at the end of the present session of the legislature a sum not exceeding fifteen hundred pounds which said sum shall be by them laid out and expended in making or improving the remainder of the said road as aforesaid. _provided_ that no larger proportion of the said sum of fifteen hundred pounds shall be appropriated towards the opening and improving of the said road in the county of ontario then in the county of herkemer. "_and be it further enacted_ that it shall and may be lawful to and for the said commissioners or any two of them to improve the said road by contract or otherwise as to them may appear the most proper. "_and be it further enacted_ that where any part of the said road shall be laid out through any inclosed or improved lands the owner or owners thereof shall be paid the value of the said lands so laid out into an highway with such damages as he, she or they may sustain by reason thereof which value and damages shall be settled and agreed upon by the said commissioners or any two of them and the parties interested therein, and if they cannot agree, then the value of the lands and damages shall be appraised by two justices of the peace, on the oaths of twelve freeholders not interested in paying or receiving any part of such appraisement, otherwise than in paying their proportion of the taxes for the contingent charges of the county which freeholders shall be summoned by any constable not otherwise interested than as aforesaid, by virtue of a warrant to be issued by the said two justices of the peace for that purpose, and the whole value of the said lands so laid out into an highway, and damages together with the costs of ascertaining the value of the said damages of the county in which the said lands shall be situated are levied collected and paid. "_and be it further enacted_ that each of the said commissioners shall be entitled to receive for their services the sum of sixteen shillings for every day they shall be respectively employed in the said business to be paid by the respective counties in which they shall so be employed which sums shall be raised levied and paid together with and in the same manner as the necessary and contingent charges of such county are raised levied and paid and that the said commissioners shall account with the auditor of this state for the monies they shall respectively receive from the treasurer of this state by virtue of this act on or before the first day of january one thousand seven hundred and ninety six."[ ] a law entitled "an act appropriating monies for roads in the county of onondaga and for other purposes therein mentioned," passed april , , contained the following concerning the genesee road: "_and be it further enacted_ that the said commissioners shall and they are hereby strictly enjoined to expend two thousand dollars of the said monies in repairing the highway and bridges thereon heretofore directed to be laid out by law and now commonly called the great genesee road from the eastern to the western bounds of the said county of onondaga and the residue of the money aforesaid to expend in the repair of such highways and the bridges thereon in the said county as will tend most extensively to benefit and accommodate the inhabitants thereof. "_and be it further enacted_ that it shall be the duty of the said commissioners and they are hereby strictly enjoined to cause all and every bridge which shall be constructed under their direction over any stream to be raised at least three feet above the water at its usual greatest height in the wettest season of the year and to construct every such bridge of the most durable and largest timber which can be obtained in its vicinity, and that wherever it can conveniently be done the road shall be raised in the middle so as to enable the water falling thereon freely to discharge therefrom and shall pursue every other measure which in their opinion will best benefit the public in the expenditure of the money committed to them."[ ] in an act, passed april , , supplementary to an "act for the better support of oneida, onondaga and cuyuga indians ...", it was ordered that from the proceeds of all sales of lands bought of the indians the surveyor-general should pay £ to the treasurer of herkimer county and a like amount to the treasurer of onondaga county; this money was ordered to be applied to "mending the highway commonly called the great genesee road and the bridges thereon."[ ] a law of the year following, , affords one of the interesting uses of the lottery in the development of american highways. it reads: "whereas it is highly necessary, that direct communications be opened and improved between the western, northern and southern parts of this state. therefore "_be it enacted by the people of the state of new york, represented in senate and assembly_, that for the purpose of opening and improving the said communications, the managers herein after named shall cause to be raised by three successive lotteries of equal value, the sum of forty-five thousand dollars. that out of the neat [net?] proceeds of the first lottery the sum of eleven thousand seven hundred dollars, and out of the neat proceeds of the third lottery, the further sum of two thousand two hundred dollars shall be and hereby is appropriated for opening and improving the road commonly called the great genesee road, in all its extent from old fort schuyler in the county of herkimer to geneva in the county of ontario...."[ ] the western movement to lake erie became pronounced at this time; the founders of connecticut's western reserve under general moses cleaveland emigrated in . the promoters of the genesee country were advertising their holdings widely. the general feeling that there was a further west which was fertile, if not better than even the mohawk and hudson valleys, is suggested in a law passed march , , which contained a clause concerning the extension of the genesee road: "_and be it further enacted_ that the commissioner appointed in pursuance of the act aforesaid, to open and improve the main genessee road, shall and he is hereby authorized and empowered to lay out and continue the main genessee road, from the genessee river westward to the extremity of the state. _provided nevertheless_, that none of the monies appropriated by the said act shall be laid out on the part of the road so to be continued; _and provided also_ that the said road shall be made at the expense of those who may make donations therefor."[ ] the mania which swept over the united states between and of investing money in turnpike and canal companies was felt early in new york. the success of the lancaster turnpike in pennsylvania was the means of foisting hundreds of turnpike-road companies on public attention and private pocket-books. by , new york state had at least one hundred and thirty-seven chartered roads, with a total mileage of four thousand five hundred miles, and capitalized at seven and a half millions. it is nothing less than remarkable that this thoroughfare from the mohawk to lake erie should have been incorporated as a turnpike earlier in point of time than any of the routes leading to it (by way either of the mohawk valley or cherry valley) from albany and the east. the seneca road company was incorporated april , . the mohawk turnpike and bridge company was incorporated three days later. the cherry valley routes came in much later. the genesee road was incorporated by the following act, april , : "an act to establish a turnpike road company for improving the state road from the house of john house in the village of utica, in the county of oneida, to the village of cayuga in the county of cayuga, and from thence to canadarque in the county of ontario. "_be it enacted by the people of the state of new york represented in senate and assembly_ that benjamin walker, charles williamson, jedediah sanger and israel chapin and all such persons as shall associate for the purpose of making a good and sufficient road in the form and manner herein after described from the house of john house ... observing as nearly the line of the present state [genesee] road as the nature of the ground will allow, shall be and are hereby made a corporation and body politic in fact and in name, by the name of 'the president and directors of the seneca road company'...."[ ] the road was to be under the management of nine directors and the capital stock was to be two thousand two hundred shares worth fifty dollars each. the directors were empowered to enter upon any lands necessary in building the road, specifications being made for appraisal of damages. the road was to "be six rods in width ... cleared of all timber excepting trees of ornament, and to be improved in the manner following, to wit, in the middle of the said road there shall be formed a space not less than twenty four feet in breadth, the center of which shall be raised fifteen inches above the sides, rising towards the middle by gradual arch, twenty feet of which shall be covered with gravel or broken stone fifteen inches deep in the center and nine inches deep on the sides so as to form a firm and even surface." tollgates were to be established when the road was in proper condition every ten miles; the rates of toll designated in this law will be of interest for comparative purposes: _tolls in on seneca turnpike, new york_ wagon, and two horses . - / each horse additional . cart, one horse . coach, or four wheeled carriage, two horses . each horse additional . carriage, one horse . - / each horse additional . cart, two oxen . each yoke additional . saddle or led horse . sled, between december and march . - / score of cattle . score of sheep or hogs . the old genesee road passed through as romantic and beautiful a land as heart could wish to see or know; but the road itself was a creation of comparatively modern days, in which seneca and mohawk were eliminated factors in the problem. here, near this road, a great experiment was made a few years after its building, when a canal was proposed and dug, amid fears and doubts on the part of many, from albany to buffalo. one of the first persons to advocate a water highway which would eclipse the land route, sent a number of articles on the subject to a local paper, whose editor was compelled to refuse to print more of them, because of the ridicule to which they exposed the paper! poor as the old road was in bad weather, people could not conceive of any better substitute. [illustration: part of a "map of the grand pass from new york to montreal ... by thos. pownall" [_drawn about ; from original in british museum_]] when the erie canal was being built, so poor were the roads leading into the region traversed by the canal, that contractors were compelled to do most of their hauling in winter, when the ground was frozen and sleds could be used on the snow. among the reasons given--as we shall see in a later monograph of this series--for delays in completing portions of the canal, was that of bad roads and the impossibility of sending heavy freight into the interior except in winter; and a lack of snow, during at least one winter, seriously handicapped the contractors. but when the erie canal was built, the prophecies of its advocates were fulfilled, as the rate per hundred-weight by canal was only one-tenth the rate charged by teamsters on the genesee road. the old "waggoners" who, for a generation, had successfully competed with the inland lock navigation company, could not compete with the erie canal, and it was indeed very significant that, when governor clinton and party made that first triumphal journey by canal-boat from buffalo to albany and new york--carrying a keg of lake erie water to be emptied into the atlantic ocean--they were not joyously received at certain points, such as schenectady, where the old methods of transportation were the principal means of livelihood for a large body of citizens. how delighted were the old tavern-keepers in central new york with the opening of the erie canal, on whose boats immigrants ate and slept? about as happy, we may say, as were the canal operators when a railway was built, hurrying travelers on at such a rapid pace that their destinations could be reached, in many cases, between meals! yet until the railway came, the fast mail-stages rolled along over the genesee road, keeping alive the old traditions and the old breed of horses. local business was vastly increased by the dawning of the new era; society adapted itself to new and altered conditions, and the old days when the genesee road was a highway of national import became the heritage of those who could look backward and take hope for the future, because they recognized better the advances that each new year had made. chapter v a traveler on the genesee road among the many records of travelers on the famous genesee road, that of timothy bigelow, as given in his _journal of a tour to niagara falls in the year _,[ ] approaches perhaps most nearly to the character of a description of the old highway which should be presented here: "july th. we proceeded [from albany] to schenectady to breakfast, fifteen miles, beale's tavern; a good house. a new turnpike is making from albany to this place; it is constructed in a very durable manner, with a pavement covered with hard gravel. that part which is completed is now an excellent road; the remainder will soon be equally good. it was not disagreeable to us to be informed that this road, and indeed all the other turnpikes, and most other recent works which we met with, which required uncommon ingenuity or labor, were constructed by yankees. "schenectady seems not to be a word fitted to common organs of speech. we heard it pronounced snacketady, snackedy, ksnackidy, ksnactady, snackendy, and snackady, which last is much the most common. to ballston, bromeling's, sixteen miles; a most excellent house. we found here about forty guests, but understood there were upwards of two hundred at aldrich's, mcmasters's, and the other boarding-houses near. bromeling himself has accommodations in the first style for one hundred and thirty persons. "we met with but few people here from massachusetts. mr. henry higginson and his wife, mr. bingham, the bookseller, and his family, were all we knew. the mineral water was not agreeable to us all upon the first experiment; but with others, and myself in particular, it was otherwise. it is remarkably clear and transparent; the fixed air, which is continually escaping from it, gives it a sparkling appearance, and a lively and full taste, not unlike to that of brisk porter or champagne wine, while one is actually drinking.... we slept at beals's. july th, we took the western stage in company with a mr. row, a gentleman from virginia, who was about to engage in trade at geneva, on the seneca lake. we crossed over to the north side of the mohawk soon after setting out, to schwartz's (still in schenectady), a poor house, seven miles; thence to pride's in amsterdam, nine miles. pride's is a handsome limestone house, built about fifty years since, as we were informed, by sir william johnson, for his son-in-law, guy johnson.... to abel's in amsterdam, situated on trapp's hill, opposite to the mouth of schoharie river and the old fort hunter, to dine. the prospect to the south-west is extensive and romantic, exhibits an agreeable mixture of hills and plains, diversified with extensive forests almost in a state of nature, and cultivated fields scarce less extensive, now covered with a rich harvest of ripening wheat. the prospect was the principal thing which we found in this place to recommend it. the tavern is a poor one, and our dinner of course was miserable. four miles to shepard's, in canajoharie, to sleep.... the mohawk in many places was shoal, and interrupted with so many islands and sand-banks that we were often at a loss to conceive how loaded boats could pass, and yet we saw several going up-stream with heavy loads.... july th. to carr's at little falls, to breakfast, twenty miles; a very good house. in this stage, we passed the east canada creek. observed for the very first time the cypress-tree. the gloomy, melancholy air of this tree, and the deep shade which it casts, resulting from the downward direction of its branches, as well as the form and color of its leaves, have very properly marked it out as emblematical of mourning. "on approaching the little falls, we observed undoubted marks of the operation of the water on rocks, now far out of their reach, particularly the round holes worn out [by] pebbles kept in a rotatory motion by the current, so common at all falls. it is certain that heretofore the falls must have been some ways further down stream, and have been much greater than they now are, and that the german flats, and other low grounds near the river above, must have been the bed of a lake. the falls occupy about half a mile. in some spots, the river is so crowded between rocks, that one might almost pass across it; in most places, however, it is broken into a number of streams by irregular masses of limestone rock. there is here a commodious canal for the passage of boats cut round these falls. the whole fall is fifty-four feet; and there are five locks, in each of which the fall is ten feet, besides the guard-lock, where it is four. the locks are constructed of hewn stone, and are of excellent workmanship; they are almost exactly upon the construction of those at the head of middlesex canal. most of the buildings in the neighborhood, as well as two beautiful bridges over the canal here, are also of limestone. carr and his wife are from albany, and are agreeable and genteel people. "to trowbridge's hotel, in utica, to dine. the house is of brick, large, commodious, and well attended. we found good fare here; in particular, excellent wine. from little falls to this is twenty-two miles. in this stage, we passed the german flats, an extensive and well-cultivated tract of internal land on both sides the mohawk. the town of german flats is on the south of the town of herkimer, opposite thereto, on the north side of the river. notwithstanding the celebrity of this spot for the excellence of its soil, we thought it not equal to that on connecticut river. having passed the west canada creek, the hills on both sides the river seem to subside, and open to the view an extensive and almost unbounded tract of level and fertile country, though of a much newer aspect than any we had seen before. [illustration: western new york in ] "at utica, we passed over to the southern side of the mohawk. the river here is about the size of the nashua, and from this place bends off to the north-west. we happened to pass the bridge as a batteau was coming up to a store at the end of it, to discharge its cargo. the water was so shoal that the batteau grounded before it could be brought to its proper place. a pair of horses were attached to its bows, and it was not without the assistance of several men, added to the strength of the horses, that it was got up to the landing-place at last. "morality and religion do not seem to have much hold of the minds of people in this region. instances of rudeness and profanity are to be met with in almost every place, but the people engaged in unloading the batteau were much more extravagantly and unnecessarily profane than is common. several persons also, whom i saw at little falls this morning, told me that they knew full well that adam could not have been the first man, or that he must have lived much longer ago than the scriptures declare, because they said it must be more than five thousand years for the mohawk to have broken through the rocks, as it has done at those falls. "utica was begun to be settled sixteen years ago, and is now a little city, and contains several elegant dwelling-houses, some of which are of brick, and a few of stone, together with a great number of stores and manufactories of different kinds. the lombardy poplar-tree is cultivated here in great abundance. the facility of transportation by means of the mohawk and hudson rivers on one side, and wood creek, oneida, and ontario lakes on the other, together with the extraordinary fertility of the adjacent country, must at no great distance of time make utica a place of great business and resort, and of course its population must rapidly increase. moses johnson, a broken trader, late of keene, now of manlius, a little above this place, whom we saw at trowbridge's, spoke of this country as not favorable for traders, and that a very few stores of goods would overstock the market. it is natural, however, for people in his situation to ascribe their misfortunes to anything rather than their own imprudence or misconduct, which others would probably consider as the true cause of them. mr. charles taylor and his father, whom we had overtaken at shepard's, we left at utica. "july th. to laird's in westmoreland, to breakfast, eleven miles; a very good house. our breakfast here was garnished with a dish of excellent honey. every thing in and about the house was neat, and we were particularly struck with the genteel and comely appearance of two young ladies, daughters of our landlord, one of whom, we were told, had attended a ball in the neighborhood, i think at paris, the evening before. this stage was over a tract of very fertile country, nearly level, but a little ascending; the growth was mostly of rock-maple and lime-tree. we passed a creek in new hartford, called sawguet, or sogwet, or sacada [sauquoit], and another in a corner of paris called kerry, or riscana, say oriskany. the whole country from utica to this place is thickly settled. the houses are mostly well built, and many of them handsome; very few log houses to be seen. young orchards are numerous and thrifty, and lombardy poplars line the road a great part of the way; and yet we saw not a single field which had not the stumps of the original forest trees yet remaining in it. honey is sent from hence to lake ontario, in barrels. "to shethar's in sullivan, eighteen miles, to dine; a good tavern. the face of the country is not so level here as about utica, though it cannot be called hilly, even here. in addition to the forest trees which we had before seen, we here found the shag-bark nut tree in abundance. in this stage, we passed through the oneida indian village.... in this stage, we also passed the skanandoa creek, the first water we met with which discharges itself into the ocean by the st. lawrence, as the oriskany was the last which pays tribute to the hudson. "we next passed the oneida creek, which unites with the skanandoa. the earth in some places here is of the same color with that on connecticut river, where the red freestone is found. in the oneida village, the fields are free from stumps, the first to be met that are so from utica to this place.... to tyler's in onondaga hollow, to sleep, twenty-one miles. the last sixteen miles are over a very hilly country; the canaseraga mountain, in particular, is four or five miles over, and very steep.... "the country, as we approached onondaga hollow, we found had been longer settled than nearer the oneida village, because the last cession of the oneidas on the west, and immediately contiguous to their present reservation, was made but six or eight years ago, whereas the country to the westward of that had begun to be settled some time before. the town of manlius, in particular, has the appearance of a flourishing settlement. this town is the first in the _military tract_, which is the lands given by the state of new york as a gratuity to the officers and soldiers of their line in the revolutionary army. as we were descending into the onondaga hollow, we saw to the north-westward the salina or onondaga lake.... "the onondaga creek, which is of a convenient size for a mill-stream, runs along the hollow from south to north, as do all the other streams in this country. this creek passes near the celebrated onondaga salt springs, which are situated about five or six miles northward from tyler's.... july th. rose at half past two o'clock, and proceeded to andrew's, at skaneateles, to breakfast, sixteen miles; a good tavern. the country is still hilly, but very fertile. the soil is deep,--a mixture of loam and clay. the roads here must be very bad in wet weather. it rained last night for the first time since we commenced our journey; and the horses' feet, in consequence thereof, slipped as if they were travelling on snow or ice. "rising out of onondaga hollow is a long and very steep hill. the road is constructed on the southern side of a precipice, in such a manner that, as you approach the top of the hill, you have a tremendous gulf on your left hand, at the bottom of which you hear the murmur of a brook fretting among the rocks, as it is passing on toward the onondaga creek, which it joins in the hollow. there is a kind of railing or fence, composed of logs secured with stakes or trees, which is all that prevents the passenger, and even the road itself, from falling to the bottom of the gulf. on the hill we found the embryo of a village. a court-house is already built, and the frame of a hotel is raised. the hotel, we were told, is to be kept by one brunson. it is an accommodation much needed by travellers on this road. "to harris's in cayuga, fifteen miles, to dine. we here had an excellent dinner of beefsteaks. mr. harris told us that they could keep beef fresh four or five days, in hot weather, by hanging it upon the trees--wrapping it in flannel--as high as was convenient. flannel is better to wrap it in than linen. "the village of cayuga is small, but pleasant and lively. it is in the township of marcellus, on the eastern bank of the cayuga lake, within one or two miles of its northern extremity. this lake is about two miles wide in general, and almost forty miles long. nearly north and south from the village, there are about fifteen miles of the lake in sight. the shores are mostly of hard land, except at the northern extremity, where there is a great deal of marsh, which is an unfavorable circumstance for the village, as it is not only disagreeable to the sight, but, i think, also to the smell. there is a wooden bridge across the lake, leading from cayuga village towards geneva, one mile long, wanting three roods. it suffered so much by shocks of the ice last winter, that in some places it is hardly safe to pass it. this forenoon we had passed the outlet of the owasco lake, but did not see the lake itself, which we were told was about a mile south of the road. the country hitherto is somewhat uneven, though by no means so much so as near the onondaga hollow. the soil, however, is excellent in many places, and is of a reddish color. "to powell's hotel in geneva, to sleep, sixteen miles; excellent accommodations. at harris's we had met with a mr. rees, a gentleman in trade at geneva, who took passage in the stage with us for that place. from this gentleman, whom we found very intelligent and communicative, we learned many particulars concerning the salt springs, discovered about five years since upon the cayuga outlet. these springs are about twelve miles below the cayuga bridge, and are on both sides the outlet: that on the western side is in the township of galen, and belongs to mr. rees and his partner in trade. these springs had long been known to the indians, but they had always been reserved in communicating their knowledge of the state of the country to the white settlers. it was not till most or all of those who lived near this outlet had died or moved away, except one, that he mentioned the existence of these springs; and for a reward he conducted some persons to the place where they are situated. the persons to whom he communicated this information endeavored to purchase the favored spot before the owner should be apprised of its inestimable value; but he accidentally obtained a knowledge of his good fortune, and of course refused to sell.... the road from cayuga to geneva is for a few miles along the southern or south-eastern side, and the rest along the northern or north-eastern side of the seneca outlet. the face of the country near the road is more level; but the soil is more sandy and uninviting than we had lately seen, till we approached near to geneva. the land there is excellent, as we were told it was, through all the tract which extends between the cayuga and seneca lakes. this tract rises in a kind of regular glacis from each lake, so that from the middle of it one can see both. it wants nothing but inhabitants and cultivation to make it an elysium. the seneca outlet flows into the lower end of the cayuga lake. towards its mouth there is a considerable fall, or rather rapid, which it is contemplated to lock, whereby a water communication will be opened between the two lakes. the stream is about half the size of the winnipiseogee, and has a bluish-white appearance. "we were within half a mile of geneva before we came in sight of the seneca lake. this charming sheet of water extends southerly from this place to catharine town, forty miles, being from two to four miles wide. there is not a foot of swamp or marsh on its borders, from one extremity to the other; but it is everywhere lined by a clear, gravelly beach, and the land rises from it with a very gentle and graceful ascent in every direction.... "not far from geneva are some of the indian orchards, which were cut down by general sullivan in his famous expedition, scarce less barbarous than those of the savages themselves. the trees now growing in these orchards sprouted from the roots of those which were cut down, and therefore grow in clusters, six or seven rising from one root. we saw indian fields here free from stumps, the only ones which are to the westward of utica, except those belonging to the oneidas. we were told that, at this season of the year, the wind at geneva blows constantly from the south in the forenoon, and from the north in the afternoon. we here quitted the stage, which runs no further than canandaigua, and hired an open dutch wagon and driver, and a single horse, to carry us to niagara.... the turnpike road ends at this place [canandaigua]. the whole length from albany is two hundred and six or seven miles: it may properly be called two turnpikes, which join each other at utica. a project is on foot for still extending the turnpike even to niagara, a direct course to which would not probably exceed one hundred miles. "mr. rees told us yesterday that he was engaged to proceed to-morrow with certain commissioners to mark out the course of the road, and that the proprietors will begin to work upon it next year. the road may not be very good property at first, but will probably soon become so, judging from the astonishing rapidity with which this country is settled. it is ascertained that one thousand families migrated hither during the last year, two thirds of whom were from new england. "to hall's in bloomfield, to sleep, twelve miles; very good house. we had an excellent supper and clean beds. the town of bloomfield has been settled about fifteen years, and is now in a flourishing state. here is a handsome new meeting-house with a tasty steeple. the vane on the steeple is rather whimsical. it is a flying angel, blowing a trumpet against the wind.... to hosmer's in hartford, to breakfast, twelve and a half miles. between bloomfield and this, we passed through charleston, which has but recently been reclaimed from the wilderness. it is perfectly flat, the soil is pretty good, though better, and more settled at some distance from the road than near it. the reason of cutting the road where it goes was because the country in that direction was open, when it was first explored, between this place and lake ontario, which is but twenty-eight miles distant, or to gerundegut [now toronto] bay, but twenty-two miles.... "hitherto we have found better roads since we left the turnpike than before, except that the bridges and causeways are mostly constructed with poles. hosmer, our landlord, is an intelligent man and keeps a good tavern. we had for breakfast good coffee, excellent tea, loaf sugar, mutton chop, waffles, berry pie, preserved berries, excellent bread, butter, and a salad of young onions. i mention the particulars, because some of the articles, or such a collection, were hardly to be expected in such a depth of wilderness. "to gansen's in southampton, twelve and a half miles, to dine. within about a mile of hosmer's, we passed the genesee river. the outlet of the conesus lake joins this river about a mile above, or to the south. where we crossed, there is a new bridge, apparently strong and well built; and yet the water last spring undermined one end of it, so that it has sunk considerably.... "gansen's is a miserable log house. we made out to obtain an ordinary dinner. our landlord was drunk, the house was crowded with a dozen workmen, reeking with rain and sweat, and we were, withal, constantly annoyed with the plaintive and frightful cries and screams of a crazy woman, in the next room. we hastened our departure, therefore, even before the rain had ceased. "to russell's in batavia, twelve miles, to sleep. one mile from gansen's, we crossed allen's creek, at buttermilk falls, where there are mills, and five miles further the chookawoonga creek, near the eastern transit line of the holland purchase. this line extends from the bounds of pennsylvania to lake ontario, a distance of near ninety-four miles. so far, the road was the worst of any we had seen; and none can be much worse and be passable for wheels. within six miles of batavia, the road is much better, and the land of a good quality, heavily timbered all the way, but especially near the settlement. it is but three years since this spot was first cleared, and it is now a considerable village. here is a large building, nearly finished, intended for a court-house, jail, and hotel, under the same roof. the street is perfectly level, and is already a good and smooth road. here is also an excellent mill, on a large and commodious scale, situated on the tonawanda creek, which is the first water we saw which passes over niagara falls. russell's is a poor tavern. we were told that our sheets were clean, for they had been slept in but a _few_ times since they were washed. "july d. to luke's in batavia, to breakfast, five miles. we intended to have stopped at mccracken's, one mile short of this, but we were told that we could not be accommodated. the exterior appearance of both houses was very much alike; they are log huts, about twelve feet square. luke's consisted of a single room, with a small lean-to behind, which served for a kitchen. it contained scarce any furniture, not even utensils enough to serve us comfortably for breakfast.... "it was but eighteen months since luke began a settlement here, and he was the first who made the attempt between batavia and vandevener's, a distance of eighteen miles, though in that distance now there are several huts. taverns like luke's are not uncommon in this vicinity; almost every hut we saw had a sign hung out on a pole or stump, announcing that it was an inn. perhaps such complete poverty did not exist in them all as we found at luke's, yet, judging from external appearances, the difference could not be great. "we passed the tonawanda near batavia court-house, and then kept along its southern bank to this place. the woods are full of new settlers. axes were resounding, and the trees literally falling about us as we passed. in one instance, we were obliged to pass in a field through the smoke and flame of the trees which had lately been felled and were just fired. "to vandevener's in willink, thirteen miles. we had intended only to dine here; but by reason of a thunder shower, and the temptation of comfortable accommodations, we concluded not to proceed till next day. our last stage was through the batavia woods, famed for their horrors, which were not abated by our having been informed at russell's, that not far from here a white man had lately been killed by the indians. we found the road much better than we had anticipated; the last four miles were the worst. a little labor would make the road all very good, at least in dry weather. there is another way to come from batavia here; but it is six miles further, and probably little or no better than this. "it was but three years since vandevener began here. he at first built a log house, but he has now a two-story framed house, adjoining that. his whole territory is five hundred acres, one hundred of which he has already got under improvement.... "july d. to ransom's in erie, to breakfast, fourteen miles. ransom came from great barrington in massachusetts, and settled here last september.... the last three miles from ellicott's creek to ransom's is a new road cut through a thick wood, and is as bad as any part of the road through the batavia woods. "to crow's at buffalo creek, eight miles. in this stage, we passed the four mile creek. half the distance from ransom's was over open country, ... in which many young chestnut-trees are just sprouting from the ground. the rest of our way was through a thick wood, where the growth is the same kind as in the interior of massachusetts.... "from buffalo we passed along the beach of lake erie, to the ferry across its outlet on the niagara river, at black rock, so called, three miles...." chapter vi the catskill turnpike so few writers have paid any attention to the influence of roads in the development of our country that it is a great pleasure to find in francis whiting halsey's _the old new york frontier_,[ ] a chapter on the old catskill turnpike; through the kindness of the author it is possible to present here this story of that strategic highway of old new york: "before the revolutionary war something of a road had been cut through the woods from otsego lake southward along the susquehanna, and other primitive roads led to and from the lake; but these highways had almost disappeared during the later years of the war, when nature had done her effective work of reclamation. the one leading from the lake southward was improved in as far as hartwick, and others were speedily taken in hand. further down the river efforts were made to establish convenient communication with the hudson, and out of this grew a road which eventually became the great highway for a large territory. it was called the catskill turnpike, and had its terminus on the susquehanna at wattles's ferry.[ a] "this road, as a turnpike, properly dates from , but the road itself is much older. its eastern end had been opened long before the revolution with a terminus in the charlotte valley. it seems then to have been hardly more than a narrow clearing through the forest, what farmers call a 'wood road,' or frontiersman a 'tote road.' it served as a convenient route to the susquehanna, because much shorter than the older route by the mohawk valley. over this road on horseback in , came colonel staats long morris and his wife, the duchess of gordon. "after the war demands rose for a better road, and one was soon undertaken with its terminus at wattles's ferry. this terminus appears to have been chosen because the river here was deep enough to permit the use of 'battoes' during the low water that prevailed in summer. by the summer of the road was in passable condition. alexander harper and edward paine in february, , declared that they had been to 'a very great expense in opening the roads from catskill and the hudson to the susquehanna river.' in the same year a petition was filed for a road 'from the ouleout to kyuga lake.' the road to cayuga lake (ithaca) made slow progress, and in general jacob morris addressed to governor clinton a letter which shows that it was then still to be undertaken. early in the state had taken the road to catskill in charge. in august, g. gelston made up from surveys a map from catskill 'running westerly to the junction of the ouleout creek with the susquehanna river.' the country had been previously explored for the purpose by james barker and david laurence.[ ] "in sluman wattles charged his cousin, nathaniel wattles, £ , _s._ for 'carting three barrells from your house to catskill,' £ for 'five days work on the road,' and shillings for 'inspecting road.' besides nathaniel wattles, menad hunt was interested in the work, and in the two men appealed to the state to be reimbursed for money paid out above the contract price.[ ] during this year the father of the late dr. samuel h. case, of oneonta, emigrated to the upper ouleout from colchester, conn., with his seven brothers. they drove cattle and sheep ahead of them, and consumed eight days in making the journey from the hudson river. solomon martin went over the road in the same year, using sluman wattles's oxen, for which he was charged £ , _s._ he went to catskill, and was gone fifteen days. this road was only twenty-five feet wide. in a regular weekly mail-route was established over it. "these are among the many roads which were opened in the neighborhood before the century closed--before the catskill turnpike, as a turnpike, came into existence. nearly every part of the town of unadilla, then embracing one-third of otsego county, had been made accessible before the year . the pioneers had taken up lands all through the hill country. but the needs of the settlers had not been fully met. all over the state prevailed similar conditions. the demands that poured in upon state and town authorities for road improvements became far in excess of what could be satisfied. everywhere fertile lands had been cleared and sown to grain, but the crops were so enormous that they could neither be consumed at home nor transported to market elsewhere. professor mcmaster says that 'the heaviest taxes that could have been laid would not have sufficed to cut out half the roads or build half the bridges that commerce required. "out of this condition grew the policy of granting charters to turnpike companies, formed by well-to-do land-owners, who undertook to build roads and maintain them in proper condition for the privilege of imposing tolls. men owning land and possessed of ready money, were everywhere eager to invest in these enterprises. they not only saw the promise of dividends, but ready sales for their lands. at one time an amount of capital almost equal to the domestic debt of the nation when the revolution closed was thus employed throughout the country. by the year , no fewer than roads had been chartered in new york state alone, with a total length of , miles and a total capital of $ , , . about one-third of this mileage was eventually completed. "eight turnpikes went out from albany, and five others joined catskill, kingston, and newburg with the susquehanna and delaware rivers. the earliest of these five, and one of the earliest in the state, was the catskill and susquehanna turnpike, that supplanted the primitive state road to wattles's ferry. the old course was changed in several localities, the charter permitting the stockholders to choose their route. among the names in the charter were john livingston, caleb benton (a brother of stephen benton), john kortright, sluman wattles, and solomon martin. the stock was limited to $ , in shares of $ each. "the road ran through lands owned by the stockholders. little regard was had for grades, as travellers well know. the main purpose was to make the land accessible and marketable. the road was completed in , and soon became a famous highway to central new york, and the navigable susquehanna, and so remained for more than a quarter of a century. it was in operation four years earlier than the great western turnpike, connecting albany with buffalo and running through cherry valley. spafford in described it as 'the appian way turnpike,' in which it seems the pride felt in it, likened as it thus was to one of the best roads ever built by man--that roman highway which still does service after the lapse of more than , years. in one sense this turnpike was like a roman road: it followed straight lines from point to point regardless of hills, obstacles being squarely faced and defied by these modern men as by the old romans. "ten toll-gates were set up along the line, with the rates as follows: for twenty sheep and hogs, eight cents; for twenty horses and cattle, twenty cents; for a horse and rider, five cents; for a horse and chaise, twelve and one-half cents; for a coach or chariot, twenty-five cents; for a stage or wagon, twelve and one-half cents. in , caleb benton, who lived in catskill, was president of the corporation, and in the stage business of the road was granted as a monopoly to david bostwick, stephen benton, lemuel hotchkiss, and terence donnelly. two stages were to be kept regularly on the road, the fare to be five cents per mile. a stage that left catskill wednesday morning reached unadilla friday night, and one that left unadilla sunday reached catskill tuesday. the most prosperous period for the road was the ten years from to . "two years after the road was built, dr. timothy dwight, president of yale college, during one of his regular vacation journeys, passed over it and stopped at unadilla. he has left a full record of the journey. dr. dwight, accustomed long to the comforts of life in new england, had no sooner crossed the state line from massachusetts to new york than he observed a change. the houses became ordinary and ill repaired, and very many of them were taverns of wretched appearance. "for sixteen or eighteen miles, he saw neither church nor school-house. catskill contained about houses, and much of the business was done by barter. the turnpike to the susquehanna he described as a 'branch of the greenwood turnpike from hartford to albany, commencing from canaan in connecticut and passing to wattles's ferry on the susquehanna. thence it is proposed to extend it to the county of trumbull on the southern shore of lake erie.' the road he thought 'well made.' "connecticut families were found settled along the line. now he came upon 'a few lonely plantations recently begun upon the road,' and then 'occasionally passed a cottage, and heard the distant sound of an axe and of a human voice. all else was grandeur, gloom and solitude.' at last after many miles of riding he reached a settlement 'for some miles a thinly built village, composed of neat, tidy houses,' in which everything 'indicated prosperity.' this was franklin. coming down the ouleout, the country, he said, 'wore a forbidding aspect, the houses being thinly scattered and many of them denoted great poverty.' "when dr. dwight reached wattles's ferry, the more serious trials of his journey began. all the privations of life in a new country which he had met on the road from catskill at last had overtaxed his patience, and he poured forth his perturbed spirit upon this infant settlement. when he made a second visit a few years later he liked the place much better. his first impressions are chronicled at some length. he says: "'when we arrived at the susquehanna we found the only inn-keeper, at the eastern side of the river, unable to furnish us a dinner. to obtain this indispensable article we were obliged therefore to cross the river. the ferry-boat was gone. the inhabitants had been some time employed in building a bridge, but it was unfinished and impassable. there was nothing left us, therefore, but to cross a deep and rapid ford. happily the bottom was free from rocks and stones.' "dr. dwight appears to have found no satisfactory stopping-place in unadilla, and proceeds to say: "'about four miles from the ferry we came to an inn kept by a scotchman named hanna. within this distance we called at several others, none of which could furnish us a dinner. i call them inns because this name is given them by the laws of the state, and because each of them hangs out a sign challenging this title. but the law has nicknamed them, and the signs are liars. "'it is said, and i suppose truly, that in this state any man who will pay for an inn-keeper's license obtains one of course. in consequence of this practice the number of houses which bear the appellation is enormous. too many of them are mere dramshops of no other use than to deceive, disappoint and vex travellers and to spread little circles of drunkenness throughout the state. a traveller after passing from inn to inn in a tedious succession finds that he can get nothing for his horse and nothing for himself.' "the remedy he prescribed for this was to license 'only one inn where there are five or six.' the evil was general. in the people of meredith made a formal and vigorous protest against the growth of intemperance and crime as caused by public houses. there were ten hotels in that town alone, besides a number of distilleries. many citizens banded themselves in behalf of order and decency, and their protest abounded in an energy of language that would have delighted the soul of dr. dwight. of his further experience at mr. hanna's hotel, he says: "'we at length procured a dinner and finding no house at a proper distance where we could be lodged concluded to stay where we were. our fare was indeed bad enough, but we were sheltered from the weather. our inn-keeper besides furnishing us with such other accommodations as his home afforded, added to it the pleasures of his company and plainly considered himself as doing us no small favor. in that peculiar situation in which the tongue vibrates with its utmost ease and celerity, he repeated to us a series of anecdotes dull and vulgar in the extreme. yet they all contained a seasoning which was exquisite, for himself was in every case the hero of the tale. to add to our amusement, he called for the poems of allan ramsay and read several of them to us in what he declared to be the true scottish pronunciation, laughing incessantly and with great self-complacency as he proceeded.' "dr. dwight remarks that 'a new turnpike road is begun from the ferry and intended to join the great western road either at cayuga bridge or canandaigua. this route will furnish a nearer journey to niagara than that which is used at present.' we see from this what were the plans of that day, as to the future central highway of new york state. of unadilla dr. dwight says: "'that township in which we now were is named unadilla and lies in the county of otsego. it is composed of rough hills and valleys with a handsome collection of intervales along the susquehanna. on a remarkably ragged eminence immediately north-west of the river, we saw the first oaks and chestnuts after leaving the neighborhood of catskill. the intervening forests were beach, maple, etc. the houses in unadilla were scattered along the road which runs parallel with the river. the settlement is new and appears like most others of a similar date. rafts containing each from twenty to twenty-five thousand feet of boards are from this township floated down the susquehanna to baltimore. unadilla contained in eight hundred and twenty-three inhabitants.'[ ] "on september , , dr. dwight left mr. hanna's inn and rode through to oxford. the first two miles of the way along the susquehanna were 'tolerably good and with a little labor capable of being excellent.' he continues: "'we then crossed the unadilla, a river somewhat smaller but considerable longer (sic) than the susquehanna proper, quite as deep and as difficult to be forded. our course to the river was south-west. we then turned directly north along the banks of the unadilla, and travelling over a rugged hill, passed through a noble cluster of white pines, some of which though not more than three feet in diameter, were, as i judged, not less than feet in height. no object in the vegetable world can be compared with this.' "eleven years later, dr. dwight again passed over the turnpike on his way to utica. 'the road from catskill to oxford,' he said, 'i find generally bad, as having been long neglected. the first twenty miles were tolerable, the last twenty absolutely intolerable.' after noting that in franklin 'religion had extensively prevailed,' he wrote: "'unadilla is becoming a very pretty village. it is built on a delightful ground along the susquehanna and the number of houses, particularly of good ones, has much increased. a part of the country between this and oxford is cultivated; a considerable part of it is still a wilderness. the country is rough and of a high elevation.' "in some reminiscences[ ] which my father wrote in , he described the scenes along this road that were familiar to him in boyhood at kortright-- to . the road was then in its most prosperous period. it was not uncommon for one of the hotels, which marked every few miles of the route, to entertain thirty or forty guests at a time. the freight wagons were huge in size, drawn by six and eight horses, and had wheels with wide tires. stages drawn by four and six horses were continually in use. not infrequently came families bound for ohio, where they expected to settle--some of these connecticut people, who helped to plant the western reserve settlements. this vast traffic brought easy prosperity to the people along the turnpike and built up towns and villages. my father records the success of the rev. mr. mcauley's church at kortright--a place that has now retrograded so that it is only a small hamlet, just capable of retaining a post office. but mr. mcauley's church at one time, more than sixty years ago, had five hundred members, and was said to be the largest church society west of the hudson valley. "a change occurred with the digging of the erie canal and the building of the erie railway. morever, in was built a turnpike from north kortright through the charlotte valley to oneonta. the white man having tried a route of his own over the hills, reverted to the route which the red man had marked out for him ages before. much easier was the grade by this river road, and this fact exercised a marked influence on the fortunes of the settlements along the olden line. freight wagons were drawn off and sent by the easier way. stages followed the new turnpike and the country between wattles's ferry and kortright retrograded as rapidly as it had formerly improved.[ ] "the building of the catskill turnpike really led to the founding of unadilla village on its present site. it had confined to this point a growth which otherwise would probably have been distributed among other points along the valley. here was a stopping-place, with a river to be crossed, horses to be changed, and new stages taken, and here had been established the important market for country produce of noble & hayes. unadilla became what might be called a small but thriving inland river port. here lumber was sawed and here it came from mills elsewhere for shipment along with farm products to baltimore. here grain was ground, and here were three prosperous distilleries. "the building of the turnpike along the charlotte was not the only blow that came to the western portion of the catskill road. another and permanent one came to the whole length of the turnpike when the erie canal was built, followed later by the erie railroad. otsego county, in , had reached a population of , , but with the erie canal in operation it ceased to grow. at the present time the showing is considerably less than it was in , and yet several villages have made large increases, the increase in oneonta being probably tenfold. "contemporary with the erie canal was an attempt to provide the susquehanna with a canal. it became a subject of vast local interest from cooperstown to the interior of pennsylvania. the scheme included a railway, or some other method of reaching the erie canal from the head of otsego lake. colonel de witt clinton, jr., son of the governor, made a survey as far as milford, and found that in nine miles there was a fall of thirty feet, and that at unadilla the fall from the lake was feet, while in miles from the lake it was feet. in a new survey showed that miles out of were already navigable, the remaining distance requiring a canal. some seventy locks would be needed and sixty-five dams. judge page, while a member of congress, introduced a bill to aid slack-water navigation from cooperstown to tide-water. it was his opinion that the failure of the bill was due to the spread of railroads. "with the ushering in of the great railroad era, the susquehanna valley saw started as early as many railroad projects which could save it from threatened danger. their aim was to connect the upper susquehanna with the hudson at catskill, and the mohawk at canajoharie. none ever got beyond the charter stage. strenuous efforts were afterward made to bring the erie from the ancient cookoze (deposit) to the susquehanna at a point above oghwaga, but this also failed. "indeed it was not until after the civil war that any railroad reached the headwaters of the susquehanna; but it was an agreeable sign of the enterprise which attended the men of and following years that at the period when the earliest railroad in this state, and one of the earliest on this continent, had just been built from albany to schenectady, serious projects existed for opening this valley to the outer world. even the great erie project languished long in consequence of business depression. it was not until that it was completed as far as middletown, and not until that it reached dunkirk. "not even to the erie was final supremacy on this frontier assured, but the upper susquehanna lands, more than those through which the erie ran, were doomed to a condition of isolation. nature itself had decreed that the great route of transportation in new york state was to run where the great trail of the iroquois for centuries had run--through the mohawk valley. along that central trail from albany, 'the eastern door,' to buffalo, 'the western door of the long house,' the course of empire westward was to take its way." chapter vii with dickens along pioneer roads some of the most interesting descriptions of pioneer traveling are from the racy pages of charles dickens's _american notes_, a volume well known to every reader. no description of early traveling in america would be complete, however, without including a number of these extremely witty, and, in some instances, extremely pathetic descriptions of conditions that obtained in virginia and ohio in dickens's day. the following description of a negro driver's manipulation of reins, horses, and passengers may be slightly exaggerated, but undoubtedly presents a typical picture of southern stage driving: "soon after nine o'clock we come to potomac creek, where we are to land; and then comes the oddest part of the journey. seven stage-coaches are preparing to carry us on. some of them are ready, some of them are not ready. some of the drivers are blacks, some whites. there are four horses to each coach, and all the horses, harnessed or unharnessed, are there. the passengers are getting out of the steamboat, and into the coaches, the luggage is being transferred in noisy wheel-barrows; the horses are frightened, and impatient to start; the black drivers are chattering to them like so many monkeys; and the white ones whooping like so many drovers: for the main thing to be done in all kinds of hostlering here, is to make as much noise as possible. the coaches are something like the french coaches, but not nearly so good. in lieu of springs, they are hung on bands of the strongest leather. there is very little choice or difference between them; and they may be likened to the car portion of the swings at an english fair, roofed, put upon axle-trees and wheels, and curtained with painted canvas. they are covered with mud from the roof to the wheel-tire, and have never been cleaned since they were first built. "the tickets we have received on board the steamboat are marked no. , so we belong to coach no. . i throw my coat on the box, and hoist my wife and her maid into the inside. it has only one step, and that being about a yard from the ground, is usually approached by a chair: when there is no chair, ladies trust in providence. the coach holds nine inside, having a seat across from door to door, where we in england put our legs: so that there is only one feat more difficult in the performance than getting in, and that is getting out again. there is only one outside passenger, and he sits upon the box. as i am that one, i climb up; and while they are strapping the luggage on the roof, and heaping it into a kind of tray behind, have a good opportunity of looking at the driver. "he is a negro--very black indeed. he is dressed in a coarse pepper-and-salt suit excessively patched and darned (particularly at the knees), grey stockings, enormous unblacked high-low shoes, and very short trousers. he has two odd gloves: one of parti-coloured worsted, and one of leather. he has a very short whip, broken in the middle and bandaged up with string. and yet he wears a low-crowned, broad-brimmed, block hat: faintly shadowing forth a kind of insane imitation of an english coachman! but somebody in authority cries 'go ahead!' as i am making these observations. the mail takes the lead in a four-horse wagon, and all the coaches follow in procession: headed by no. . "by the way, whenever an englishman would cry 'all right!' an american cries 'go ahead!' which is somewhat expressive of the national character of the two countries. "the first half mile of the road is over bridges made of loose planks laid across two parallel poles, which tilt up as the wheels roll over them: and in the river. the river has a clayey bottom and is full of holes, so that half a horse is constantly disappearing unexpectedly, and can't be found again for some time. "but we get past even this, and come to the road itself, which is a series of alternate swamps and gravel-pits. a tremendous place is close before us, the black driver rolls his eyes, screws his mouth up very round, and looks straight between the two leaders, as if he were saying to himself, 'we have done this often before, but _now_ i think we shall have a crash.' he takes a rein in each hand; jerks and pulls at both; and dances on the splashing board with both feet (keeping his seat, of course) like the late lamented ducrow on two of his fiery coursers. we come to the spot, sink down in the mire nearly to the coach windows, tilt on one side at an angle of forty-five degrees, and stick there. the insides scream dismally; the coach stops; the horses flounder; all the other six coaches stop; and their four-and-twenty horses flounder likewise: but merely for company, and in sympathy with ours. then the following circumstances occur. "black driver (to the horses). 'hi!' nothing happens. insides scream again. black driver (to the horses). 'ho!' horses plunge, and splash the black driver. gentleman inside (looking out). 'why, what on airth--' gentleman receives a variety of splashes and draws his head in again, without finishing his question or waiting for an answer. black driver (still to the horses). 'jiddy! jiddy!' horses pull violently, drag the coach out of the hole, and draw it up a bank; so steep, that the black driver's legs fly up into the air, and he goes back among the luggage on the roof. but he immediately recovers himself, and cries (still to the horses), 'pill!' no effect. on the contrary, the coach begins to roll back upon no. , which rolls back upon no. , which rolls back upon no. , and so on, until no. is heard to curse and swear, nearly a quarter of a mile behind. black driver (louder than before). 'pill!' horses make another struggle to get up the bank, and again the coach rolls backward. black driver (louder than before). 'pe-e-e-ill!' horses make a desperate struggle. black driver (recovering spirits). 'hi! jiddy, jiddy, pill!' horses make another effort. black driver (with great vigour). 'ally loo! hi. jiddy, jiddy. pill. ally loo!' horses almost do it. black driver (with his eyes starting out of his head). 'lee, dere. lee, dere. hi. jiddy, jiddy. pill. ally loo. lee-e-e-e-e!' "they run up the bank, and go down again on the other side at a fearful pace. it is impossible to stop them, and at the bottom there is a deep hollow, full of water. the coach rolls frightfully. the insides scream. the mud and water fly about us. the black driver dances like a madman. suddenly we are all right by some extraordinary means, and stop to breathe. "a black friend of the black driver is sitting on a fence. the black driver recognizes him by twirling his head round and round like a harlequin, rolling his eyes, shrugging his shoulders, and grinning from ear to ear. he stops short, turns to me, and says: "'we shall get you through sa, like a fiddle, and hope a please you when we get you through sa. old 'ooman at home sir:' chuckling very much. 'outside gentleman sa, he often remember old 'ooman at home sa,' grinning again. "'aye aye, we'll take care of the old woman. don't be afraid.' "the black driver grins again, but there is another hole, and beyond that, another bank, close before us. so he stops short: cries (to the horses again) 'easy. easy den. ease. steady. hi. jiddy. pill. ally. loo!' but never 'lee!' until we are reduced to the very last extremity, and are in the midst of difficulties, extrication from which appears to be all but impossible. "and so we do the ten miles or thereabouts in two hours and a half; breaking no bones though bruising a great many; and in short getting through the distance, 'like a fiddle.' "this singular kind of coaching terminates at fredericksburgh, whence there is a railway to richmond...." dickens, the student of human nature, surely found vast material for inspection and observation in our american coaches. the drivers particularly attracted his attention as we have seen; their philosophical indifference to those under their charge as well as their anxieties on certain occasions caused him to marvel. the stage-drivers of dickens's day were marvels and offer character studies as unique as they were interesting. for the general air of conscienceless indifference on the part of drivers, and exasperated verbosity of passengers, perhaps no sketch of dickens is more to the point than the following which describes, with lasting flavor, a ride from york, pennsylvania, to harrisburg: "we left baltimore by another railway at half-past eight in the morning, and reached the town of york, some sixty miles off, by the early dinner-time of the hotel which was the starting-place of the four-horse coach, wherein we were to proceed to harrisburg. "this conveyance, the box of which i was fortunate enough to secure, had come down to meet us at the railroad station, and was as muddy and cumbersome as usual. as more passengers were waiting for us at the inn-door, the coachman observed under his breath, in the usual self-communicative voice, looking the while at his mouldy harness, as if it were to that he was addressing himself: "'i expect we shall want _the big_ coach.' "i could not help wondering within myself what the size of this big coach might be, and how many persons it might be designed to hold; for the vehicle which was too small for our purpose was something larger than two english heavy night coaches, and might have been the twin-brother of a french diligence. my speculations were speedily set at rest, however, for as soon as we had dined, there came rumbling up the street, shaking its sides like a corpulent giant, a kind of barge on wheels. after much blundering and backing, it stopped at the door: rolling heavily from side to side when its other motion had ceased, as if it had taken cold in its damp stable, and between that, and the having been required in its dropsical old age to move at any faster pace than a walk, were distressed by shortness of wind. "'if here ain't the harrisburg mail at last, and dreadful bright and smart to look at too,' cried an elderly gentleman in some excitement, 'darn my mother!' "i don't know what the sensation of being darned may be, or whether a man's mother has a keener relish or disrelish of the process than anybody else; but if the endurance of this mysterious ceremony by the old lady in question had depended on the accuracy of her son's vision in respect to the abstract brightness and smartness of the harrisburg mail, she would certainly have undergone its infliction. however, they booked twelve people inside; and the luggage (including such trifles as a large rocking-chair, and a good-sized dining-table), being at length made fast upon the roof, we started off in great state. "at the door of another hotel, there was another passenger to be taken up. "'any room, sir?' cries the new passenger to the coachman. "'well there's room enough,' replies the coachman, without getting down, or even looking at him. "'there an't no room at all, sir,' bawls a gentleman inside. which another gentleman (also inside) confirms, by predicting that the attempt to introduce any more passengers 'won't fit nohow.' "the new passenger, without any expression of anxiety, looks into the coach, and then looks up at the coachman: 'now, how do you mean to fix it?' says he, after a pause: 'for i _must_ go.' "the coachman employs himself in twisting the lash of his whip into a knot, and takes no more notice of the question: clearly signifying that it is anybody's business but his, and that the passengers would do well to fix it, among themselves. in this state of things, matters seem to be approximating to a fix of another kind, when another inside passenger in a corner, who is nearly suffocated, cries faintly, "'i'll get out.' "this is no matter of relief or self-congratulation to the driver, for his immoveable philosophy is perfectly undisturbed by anything that happens in the coach. of all things in the world, the coach would seem to be the very last upon his mind. the exchange is made, however, and then the passenger who has given up his seat makes a third upon the box, seating himself in what he calls the middle: that is, with half his person on my legs, and the other half on the driver's. "'go a-head cap'en,' cries the colonel, who directs. "'go-lang!' cries the cap'en to his company, the horses, and away we go. "we took up at a rural bar-room, after we had gone a few miles, an intoxicated gentleman who climbed upon the roof among the luggage, and subsequently slipping off without hurting himself, was seen in the distant perspective reeling back to the grog-shop where we had found him. we also parted with more of our freight at different times, so that when we came to change horses, i was again alone outside. "the coachmen always change with the horses, and are usually as dirty as the coach. the first was dressed like a very shabby english baker; the second like a russian peasant; for he wore a loose purple camlet robe with a fur collar, tied round his waist with a parti-coloured worsted sash; grey trousers; light blue gloves; and a cap of bearskin. it had by this time come on to rain very heavily, and there was a cold damp mist besides, which penetrated to the skin. i was very glad to take advantage of a stoppage and get down to stretch my legs, shake the water off my great-coat, and swallow the usual anti-temperance recipe for keeping out the cold.... "we crossed this river [susquehanna] by a wooden bridge, roofed and covered in on all sides, and nearly a mile in length. it was profoundly dark; perplexed, with great beams, crossing and recrossing it at every possible angle; and through the broad chinks and crevices in the floor, the rapid river gleamed, far down below, like a legion of eyes. we had no lamps; and as the horses stumbled and floundered through this place, towards the distant speck of dying light, it seemed interminable. i really could not at first persuade myself as we rumbled heavily on, filling the bridge with hollow noises, and i held down my head to save it from the rafters above, but that i was in a painful dream; for i have often dreamed of toiling through such places, and as often argued, even at the time, 'this cannot be reality.' "at length, however, we emerged upon the streets of harrisburg...." coachmen are further described by dickens during his stagecoach trip from cincinnati to columbus in ohio: "we often stop to water at a roadside inn, which is always dull and silent. the coachman dismounts and fills his bucket, and holds it to the horses' heads. there is scarcely any one to help him; there are seldom any loungers standing round; and never any stable-company with jokes to crack. sometimes, when we have changed our team, there is a difficulty in starting again, arising out of the prevalent mode of breaking a young horse; which is to catch him, harness him against his will, and put him in a stage-coach without further notice: but we get on somehow or other, after a great many kicks and a violent struggle; and jog on as before again. "occasionally, when we stop to change, some two or three half-drunken loafers will come loitering out with their hands in their pockets, or will be seen kicking their heels in rocking-chairs, or lounging on the window sill, or sitting on a rail within the colonnade: they have not often anything to say though, either to us or to each other, but sit there idly staring at the coach and horses. the landlord of the inn is usually among them, and seems, of all the party, to be the least connected with the business of the house. indeed he is with reference to the tavern, what the driver is in relation to the coach and passengers: whatever happens in his sphere of action, he is quite indifferent, and perfectly easy in his mind. "the frequent change of coachmen works no change or variety in the coachman's character. he is always dirty, sullen, and taciturn. if he be capable of smartness of any kind, moral or physical, he has a faculty of concealing it which is truly marvellous. he never speaks to you as you sit beside him on the box, and if you speak to him, he answers (if at all) in monosyllables. he points out nothing on the road, and seldom looks at anything: being, to all appearance, thoroughly weary of it, and of existence generally. as to doing the honours of his coach, his business, as i have said, is with the horses. the coach follows because it is attached to them and goes on wheels: not because you are in it. sometimes, towards the end of a long stage, he suddenly breaks out into a discordant fragment of an election song, but his face never sings along with him: it is only his voice, and not often that. "he always chews and always spits, and never encumbers himself with a pocket-handkerchief. the consequences to the box passenger, especially when the wind blows toward him, are not agreeable." hiring a special express coach at columbus, dickens and his party went on to sandusky on lake erie alone. his description of the rough, narrow corduroy road is unequaled and no one but dickens could have penned such a thrilling picture of the half-conquered woodland and its spectral inhabitants: "there being no stage-coach next day, upon the road we wished to take, i hired 'an extra,' at a reasonable charge, to carry us to tiffin, a small town from whence there is a railroad to sandusky. this extra was an ordinary four-horse stage-coach, such as i have described, changing horses and drivers, as the stage-coach would, but was exclusively our own for the journey. to ensure our having horses at the proper stations, and being incommoded by no strangers, the proprietors sent an agent on the box, who was to accompany us all the way through; and thus attended, and bearing with us, besides, a hamper full of savoury cold meats, and fruit, and wine; we started off again, in high spirits, at half-past six o'clock next morning, very much delighted to be by ourselves, and disposed to enjoy even the roughest journey. "it was well for us, that we were in this humour, for the road we went over that day, was certainly enough to have shaken tempers that were not resolutely at set fair, down to some inches below stormy. at one time we were all flung together in a heap at the bottom of the coach, and at another we were crushing our heads against the roof. now, one side was down deep in the mire, and we were holding on to the other. now, the coach was lying on the tails of the two wheelers; and now it was rearing up in the air, in a frantic state, with all four horses standing on the top of an insurmountable eminence, looking coolly back at it, as though they would say 'unharness us. it can't be done.' the drivers on these roads, who certainly get over the ground in a manner which is quite miraculous, so twist and turn the team about in forcing a passage, corkscrew fashion, through the bogs and swamps, that it was quite a common circumstance on looking out of the window, to see the coachman with the ends of a pair of reins in his hands, apparently driving nothing, or playing at horses, and the leaders staring at one unexpectedly from the back of the coach, as if they had some idea of getting up behind. a great portion of the way was over what is called a corduroy road, which is made by throwing trunks of trees into a marsh, and leaving them to settle there. the very slightest of the jolts with which the ponderous carriage fell from log to log, was enough, it seemed, to have dislocated all the bones in the human body. it would be impossible to experience a similar set of sensations, in any other circumstances, unless perhaps in attempting to go up to the top of st. paul's in an omnibus. never, never once, that day, was the coach in any position, attitude, or kind of motion to which we are accustomed in coaches. never did it make the smallest approach to one's experience of the proceedings of any sort of vehicle that goes on wheels. "still, it was a fine day, and the temperature was delicious, and though we had left summer behind us in the west, and were fast leaving spring, we were moving towards niagara and home. we alighted in a pleasant wood towards the middle of the day, dined on a fallen tree, and leaving our best fragments with a cottager, and our worst with the pigs (who swarm in this part of the country like grains of sand on the sea-shore, to the great comfort of our commissariat in canada), we went forward again, gaily. "as night came on, the track grew narrower and narrower, until at last it so lost itself among the trees, that the driver seemed to find his way by instinct. we had the comfort of knowing, at least, that there was no danger of his falling asleep, for every now and then a wheel would strike against an unseen stump with such a jerk, that he was fain to hold on pretty tight and pretty quick to keep himself upon the box. nor was there any reason to dread the least danger from furious driving, inasmuch as over that broken ground the horses had enough to do to walk; as to shying, there was no room for that; and a herd of wild elephants could not have run away in such a wood, with such a coach at their heels. so we stumbled along, quite satisfied. "these stumps of trees are a curious feature in american travelling. the varying illusions they present to the unaccustomed eye as it grows dark, are quite astonishing in their number and reality. now, there is a grecian urn erected in the centre of a lonely field; now there is a woman weeping at a tomb; now a very comonplace old gentleman in a white waist-coat, with a thumb thrust into each arm-hole of his coat; now a student poring on a book; now a crouching negro; now, a horse, a dog, a cannon, an armed man; a hunch-back throwing off his cloak and stepping forth into the light. they were often as entertaining to me as so many glasses in a magic lantern, and never took their shapes at my bidding, but seemed to force themselves upon me, whether i would or no; and strange to say, i sometimes recognized in them counterparts of figures once familiar to me in pictures attached to childish books, forgotten long ago. "it soon became too dark, however, even for this amusement, and the trees were so close together that their dry branches rattled against the coach on either side, and obliged us all to keep our heads within. it lightened too, for three whole hours; each flash being very bright, and blue, and long; and as the vivid streaks came darting in among the crowded branches, and the thunder rolled gloomily above the tree tops, one could scarcely help thinking that there were better neighbourhoods at such a time than thick woods afforded. "at length, between ten and eleven o'clock at night, a few feeble lights appeared in the distance, and upper sandusky, an indian village, where we were to stay till morning, lay before us." dickens's description of his visit to "looking-glass prairie" from st. louis is full of amusement, and contains many vivid pictures of pioneer roads and taverns in the mississippi valley: "as i had a great desire to see a prairie before turning back from the furthest point of my wanderings; and as some gentlemen of the town had, in their hospitable consideration, an equal desire to gratify me; a day was fixed, before my departure, for an expedition to the looking-glass prairie, which is within thirty miles of the town. deeming it possible that my readers may not object to know what kind of thing such a gipsy party may be at that distance from home, and among what sort of objects it moves, i will describe the jaunt.... "i may premise that the word prairie is variously pronounced _paraaer_, _parearer_, and _paroarer_. the latter mode of pronunciation is perhaps the most in favour. we were fourteen in all, and all young men: indeed it is a singular though very natural feature in the society of these distant settlements, that it is mainly composed of adventurous persons in the prime of life, and has very few grey heads among it. there were no ladies: the trip being a fatiguing one: and we were to start at five o'clock in the morning punctually.... "at seven o'clock ... the party had assembled, and were gathered round one light carriage, with a very stout axletree; one something on wheels like an amateur carrier's cart; one double phaeton of great antiquity and unearthly construction; one gig with a great hole in its back and a broken head; and one rider on horseback who was to go on before. i got into the first coach with three companions; the rest bestowed themselves in the other vehicles; two large baskets were made fast to the lightest; two large stone jars in wicker cases, technically known as demi-johns, were consigned to the 'least rowdy' of the party for safe keeping; and the procession moved off to the ferry-boat, in which it was to cross the river bodily, men, horses, carriages, and all as the manner in these parts is. "we got over the river in due course, and mustered again before a little wooden box on wheels, hove down all aslant in a morass, with 'merchant tailor' painted in very large letters over the door. having settled the order of proceeding, and the road to be taken, we started off once more and began to make our way through an ill-favoured black hollow, called, less expressively, the american bottom.... "we had a pair of very strong horses, but travelled at the rate of little more than a couple of miles an hour, through one unbroken slough of black mud and water. it had no variety but in depth. now it was only half over the wheels, now it hid the axletree, and now the coach sank down in it almost to the windows. the air resounded in all directions with the loud chirping of the frogs, who, with the pigs (a coarse, ugly breed, as unwholesome-looking as though they were the spontaneous growth of the country), had the whole scene to themselves. here and there we passed a log hut; but the wretched cabins were wide apart and thinly scattered, for though the soil is very rich in this place, few people can exist in such a deadly atmosphere. on either side of the track, if it deserve the name, was the thick 'bush;' and everywhere was stagnant, slimy, rotten, filthy water. "as it is the custom in these parts to give a horse a gallon or so of cold water whenever he is in a foam with heat, we halted for that purpose, at a log inn in the wood, far removed from any other residence. it consisted of one room, bare-roofed and bare-walled of course, with a loft above. the ministering priest was a swarthy young savage, in a shirt of cotton print like bed-furniture, and a pair of ragged trousers. there were a couple of young boys, too, nearly naked, lying idly by the well; and they, and he, and _the_ traveller at the inn, turned out to look at us.... "when the horses were swollen out to about twice their natural dimensions (there seems to be an idea here, that this kind of inflation improves their going), we went forward again, through mud and mire, and damp, and festering heat, and brake and bush, attended always by the music of the frogs and pigs, until nearly noon, when we halted at a place called belleville. "belleville was a small collection of wooden houses, huddled together in the very heart of the bush and swamp.... the criminal court was sitting, and was at that moment trying some criminals for horse-stealing; with whom it would most likely go hard: for live stock of all kinds being necessarily very much exposed in the woods, is held by the community in rather higher value than human life; and for this reason, juries generally make a point of finding all men indicted for cattle-stealing, guilty, whether or no. the horses belonging to the bar, the judge, and witnesses, were tied to temporary racks set up roughly in the road; by which is to be understood, a forest path, nearly knee-deep in mud and slime. "there was an hotel in this place which, like all hotels in america, had its large dining-room for the public table. it was an odd, shambling, low-roofed out-house, half cowshed and half kitchen, with a coarse brown canvas table-cloth, and tin sconces stuck against the walls, to hold candles at supper-time. the horseman had gone forward to have coffee and some eatables prepared, and they were by this time nearly ready. he had ordered 'wheat-bread and chicken fixings,' in preference to 'corn-bread and common doings.'[ ] the latter kind of refection includes only pork and bacon. the former comprehends broiled ham, sausages, veal cutlets, steaks, and such other viands of that nature as may be supposed, by a tolerably wide poetical construction, 'to fix' a chicken comfortably in the digestive organs of any lady or gentleman.... "from belleville, we went on, through the same desolate kind of waste, and constantly attended, without the interval of a moment, by the same music; until, at three o'clock in the afternoon, we halted once more at a village called lebanon to inflate the horses again, and give them some corn besides: of which they stood much in need. pending this ceremony, i walked into the village, where i met a full sized dwelling-house coming down-hill at a round trot, drawn by a score or more of oxen. the public-house was so very clean and good a one, that the managers of the jaunt resolved to return to it and put up there for the night, if possible. this course decided on, and the horses being well refreshed, we again pushed forward, and came upon the prairie at sunset. "it would be difficult to say why, or how--though it was possibly from having heard and read so much about it--but the effect on me was disappointment. looking towards the setting sun, there lay, stretched out before my view, a vast expanse of level ground; unbroken, save by one thin line of trees, which scarcely amounted to a scratch upon the great blank; until it met the glowing sky, wherein it seemed to dip: mingling with its rich colours, and mellowing in its distant blue. there it lay, a tranquil sea or lake without water, if such a simile be admissible, with the day going down upon it; a few birds wheeling here and there; and solitude and silence reigning paramount around. but the grass was not yet high; there were bare black patches on the ground; and the few wild flowers that the eye could see, were poor and scanty. great as the picture was, its very flatness and extent, which left nothing to the imagination, tamed it down and cramped its interest. i felt little of that sense of freedom and exhilaration which a scottish heath inspires, or even our english downs awaken. it was lonely and wild, but oppressive in its barren monotony. i felt that in traversing the prairies, i could never abandon myself to the scene, forgetful of all else; as i should do instinctively, were the heather underneath my feet, or an iron-bound coast beyond; but should often glance towards the distant and frequently-receding line of the horizon, and wish it gained and passed. it is not a scene to be forgotten, but it is scarcely one, i think (at all events, as i saw it), to remember with much pleasure, or to covet the looking-on again, in after life. "we encamped near a solitary log-house, for the sake of its water, and dined upon the plain. the baskets contained roast fowls, buffalo's tongue (an exquisite dainty, by the way), ham, bread, cheese, and butter; biscuits, champagne, sherry; lemons and sugar for punch; and abundance of rough ice. the meal was delicious, and the entertainers were the soul of kindness and good humour. i have often recalled that cheerful party to my pleasant recollection since, and shall not easily forget, in junketings nearer home with friends of older date, my boon companions on the prairie. returning to lebanon that night, we lay at the little inn at which we had halted in the afternoon. in point of cleanliness and comfort it would have suffered by no comparison with any village ale-house, of a homely kind, in england.... "after breakfast, we started to return by a different way from that which we had taken yesterday, and coming up at ten o'clock with an encampment of german emigrants carrying their goods in carts, who had made a rousing fire which they were just quitting, we stopped there to refresh. and very pleasant the fire was; for, hot though it had been yesterday, it was quite cold to-day, and the wind blew keenly. looming in the distance, as we rode along, was another of the ancient indian burial-places, called the monks' mound; in memory of a body of fanatics of the order of la trappe, who founded a desolate convent there, many years ago, when there were no settlers within a thousand miles, and were all swept off by the pernicious climate: in which lamentable fatality, few rational people will suppose, perhaps, that society experienced any very severe deprivation. "the track of to-day had the same features as the track of yesterday. there was the swamp, the bush, the perpetual chorus of frogs, the rank unseemly growth, the unwholesome steaming earth. here and there, and frequently too, we encountered a solitary broken-down waggon, full of some new settler's goods. it was a pitiful sight to see one of these vehicles deep in the mire; the axletree broken; the wheel lying idly by its side; the man gone miles away, to look for assistance; the woman seated among their wandering household gods with a baby at her breast, a picture of forlorn, dejected patience; the team of oxen crouching down mournfully in the mud, and breathing forth such clouds of vapour from their mouths and nostrils, that all the damp mist and fog around seemed to have come direct from them. "in due time we mustered once again before the merchant tailor's, and having done so, crossed over to the city in the ferry-boat: passing, on the way, a spot called bloody island, the duelling-ground of st. louis, and so designated in honour of the last fatal combat fought there, which was with pistols, breast to breast. both combatants fell dead upon the ground; and possibly some rational people may think of them, as of the gloomy madmen on the monks' mound, that they were no great loss to the community." for purposes of comparison, the following description of experiences in later times with indian trails of the west will be of interest. much that has been deduced from a study of our pioneer history and embodied in the preceding pages finds strong confirmation here; in earlier days, with forests covering the country, the trails were more like roads than in the open prairies of the west; but, as will be seen, many laws governed the earlier and the later indian thoroughfares, alike. i quote from the hon. charles augustus murray's memoirs, written three-quarters of a century ago, of a tour in missouri: "on the th we pursued our course, north by east: this was not exactly the direction in which i wished to travel, but two considerations induced me to adopt it at this part of the journey. in the first place, it enabled me to keep along the dividing ridge; an advantage so great, and so well understood by all prairie travellers, that it is worth making a circuit of several miles a day to keep it; and the indian trails which we have crossed since our residence in the wilderness, convince me that the savages pay the greatest attention to this matter. in a wide extent of country composed of a succession of hills and ridges, it is evident there must be a great number of steep banks, which offer to an inexperienced traveller numerous obstacles, rendering his own progress most toilsome, and that of loaded packhorses almost impossible. if these ridges all ran in parallel lines, and were regular in their formation, nothing would be more simple than to get upon the summit of one, and keep it for the whole day's journey: but such is not the case; they constantly meet other ridges running in a transverse direction; and, of course, large dips and ravines are consequent upon that meeting. the 'dividing ridge' of a district is that which, while it is, as it were, the back-bone of the range of which it forms a part, heads at the same time all the transverse ravines, whether on the right or on the left hand, and thereby spares to the traveller an infinity of toilsome ascent and descent. "i have sometimes observed that an indian trail wound through a country in a course perfectly serpentine, and appeared to me to travel three miles when only one was necessary. it was not till my own practical experience had made me attend more closely to this matter, that i learnt to appreciate its importance. i think that the first quality in a guide through an unknown range of rolling prairie, is having a good and a quick eye for hitting off the 'dividing ridge;' the second, perhaps, in a western wilderness, is a ready and almost intuitive perception (so often found in an indian) of the general character of a country, so as to be able to bring his party to water when it is very scarce.... a few miles farther we crossed an old indian trail i think it was of a pawnee party, for it bore north by west ... it had not been a war-party, as was evident from the character of the trail. a war-party leaves only the trail of the horses, or, of course, if it be a foot party, the still slighter tracks of their own feet; but when they are on their summer hunt, or migrating from one region to another, they take their squaws and children with them, and this trail can always be distinguished from the former, by two parallel tracks about three and a half feet apart, not unlike those of a light pair of wheels: these are made by the points of the long curved poles on which their lodges are stretched, the thickest or butt ends of which are fastened to each side of the pack-saddle, while the points trail behind the horse; in crossing rough or boggy places, this is often found the most inconvenient part of an indian camp equipage.... i was fortunate enough to find an indian trail bearing north by east, which was as near to our destined course as these odious creeks would permit us to go. we struck into it, and it brought us safely, though not without difficulty, through the tangled and muddy bottom in which we had been involved: sometimes a horse floundered, and more than once a pack came off; but upon the whole we had great reason to congratulate ourselves upon having found this trail, by which we escaped in two hours from a place which would, without its assistance, probably have detained us two days. i was by no means anxious to part with so good a friend, and proceeded some miles upon this same trail; it was very old and indistinct, especially in the high and dry parts of the prairie. i left my horse with the rest of the party and went on foot, in order that i might more easily follow the trail, which became almost imperceptible as we reached an elevated district of table-land, which had been burned so close that i very often lost the track altogether for fifty yards. if a fire takes place on a prairie where there is already a distinct trail, it is as easy to follow it, if not more so than before; because the short and beaten grass offering no food to the fire, partly escapes its fury, and remains a green line upon a sea of black; but if the party making the trail pass over a prairie which is already burnt, in the succeeding season when the new grass has grown, it can scarcely be traced by any eye but that of an indian.... after we had travelled five hours ... i found that the trail which we had been following, merged in another and a larger one, which appeared to run a point to the west of north. this was so far out of our course that i hesitated whether i should not leave it altogether; but, upon reflection, i determined not to do so ... if i attempted to cross the country farther to the eastward, without any trail, i should meet with serious difficulties and delays.... i therefore struck into it, and ere long the result justified my conjecture; for we came to a wooded bottom or valley, which was such a complete jungle, and so extensive, that i am sure, if we had not been guided by the trail, we could not have made our way through it in a week. as it was, the task was no easy one; for the trail, though originally large, was not very fresh, and the weeds and branches had in many places so overgrown it, that i was obliged to dismount and trace it out on foot. it wound about with a hundred serpentine evolutions to avoid the heavy swamps and marshes around us; and i repeatedly thought that, if we lost it, we never should extricate our baggage: even with its assistance, we were obliged frequently to halt and replace the packs, which were violently forced off by the branches with which they constantly came in contact ... 'where on earth is he taking us now?--why we are going back in the same direction as we came!' i turned round and asked the speaker (a comrade) ... to point with his finger to the quarter which he would make for if he were guiding the party to fort leavenworth. he did so; and i took out my compass and showed him that he was pointing south-west, _i.e._ to santa fé and the gulf of california: so completely had the poor fellow's head become puzzled by the winding circuit we had made in the swamp."[ ] footnotes: [ ] washington's _journal_ sept. nd to oct. th, . [ ] _historic highways of america_, vol. v, ch. . [ ] this creek rises in hardy county, virginia, and flows northeastward through hampshire county, entering the north branch of the potomac river about eight miles southeast of cumberland, maryland. [ ] union township, monongalia county, west virginia. [ ] oliphant's iron furnace, union township? [ ] the mountainous boundary line between monongalia and preston counties. [ ] bruceton's mills, grant township, preston county, west virginia? [ ] southwestern corner of maryland, some twenty miles north of oakland. [ ] briery mountain runs northeast through the eastern edge of preston county, bounding dunkard bottom on the east as cheat river bounds it on the west. [ ] the friends were the earliest pioneers of garrett county, john friend coming in bringing six sons among whom was this charles. the sons scattered about through the valley of the youghiogheny, charles settling near the mouth of sang run, which cuts through winding ridge mountain and joins the youghiogheny about fifteen miles due north from oakland. washington, moving eastward on mcculloch's path probably passed through this gap in winding ridge. a present-day road runs parallel with winding ridge from friendsville (named from this pioneer family) southward to near altamont, which route seems to have been that pursued by mcculloch's path. see scharf's _history of western maryland_, vol. ii, p. ; _atlas of maryland_ (baltimore, ), pp. - ; war atlas - , _house miscellaneous documents_, vol. iv, part , no. , d cong. st sess. - , plate cxxxvi. [ ] great back bone mountain, garrett county, maryland, on which, at altamont, the baltimore and ohio railway reaches its highest altitude. it was about here that washington now crossed it, probably on the watershed between youghiogheny and potomac waters west of altamont. [ ] ryan's glade no. , garrett county. [ ] this point is pretty definitely determined in the journal. we are told that the mouth of stony river (now stony creek) was four miles below mcculloch's crossing. this would locate the latter near the present site of fort pendleton, garrett county, maryland, the point where the old northwestern turnpike crossed the north branch. [ ] greeland gap, grant county, west virginia. [ ] knobby mountain. [ ] near moorefield, hardy county, west virginia. [ ] mt. storm, grant county. the old northwestern turnpike bears northeast from here to claysville, burlington and romney. washington's route was southwest along the line of the present road to moorefield. evidently the buffalo trace bore southwest on the watershed between stony river and abraham's creek--white's _west virginia atlas_ ( ), p. . bradley's _map of united states_ ( ) shows a road from morgantown to romney; also a "western fort" at the crossing-place of the youghiogheny. [ ] dunkard's bottom, in portland township, preston county, west virginia, was settled about by dr. thomas eckarly and brothers who traversed the old path to fort pleasant on south branch.--thwaites's edition of withers's _chronicles of border warfare_ ( ), pp. - . [ ] _laws of virginia_ ( - ), pp. - . [ ] _laws of virginia_ ( ), pp. - ; _journal of the senate ... of virginia_ ( - ), p. . [ ] see _historic highways of america_, vol. ix, pp. - . [ ] _journal of thomas wallcutt in _, edited by george dexter (_proceedings of the massachusetts historical society_, october, ). [ ] the journal begins at the ohio company's settlement at marietta, ohio. [ ] they crossed the ohio river to the present site of williamstown, west virginia, named from the brave and good pioneer isaac williams. [ ] the monongahela trail; see _historic highways of america_, vol. ii, pp. - . [ ] for an early ( ) map of this region that is reasonably correct, see herman böye's _map of virginia_ in massachusetts historical society library. [ ] near friendsville, maryland--named in honor of the old pioneer family; see note , _ante_; cf. corey's map of virginia in his _american atlas_ ( ), d edition; also samuel lewis's _map of virginia_ ( ). [ ] bellville was the earlier flinn's station, virginia.--s. p. hildreth's _pioneer history_, p. . [ ] the author has, for several years, been looking for an explanation of this interesting obituary; "broadaggs" is, clearly, a corruption of "braddock's." of "atherwayes" no information is at hand; it was probably the name of a woodsman who settled here--for "bear camplain" undoubtedly means a "bare _campagne_," or clearing. the word _campagne_ was a common one among american pioneers. cf. harris's _tour_, p. . a spot halfway between cumberland and uniontown would be very near the point where the road crossed the pennsylvania state-line. [ ] a reminiscent letter written in for the _american pioneer_ (vol. i, pp. - ). [ ] _historic highways of america_, vol. vii, pp. - . [ ] _historic highways of america_, vol. ii, pp. - . [ ] the iroquois trail likewise left the river valley at this spot. [ ] _laws of new york_, , ch. xxix. [ ] _laws of new york_, , ch. xxvi. [ ] _id._, ch. xxxix. [ ] _laws of new york_, , ch. lx. [ ] _laws of new york_, , ch. xxvi. [ ] _laws of new york_, - , ch. lxxviii. [ ] boston, , pp. - . [ ] published by charles scribner's sons, . [ a] this name long since was abandoned. on the opposite side of the river, however, a new settlement grew up under the name of unadilla, the beginnings of which date about . see the same author's "the pioneers of unadilla village" (unadilla, ).--halsey. [ ] state land papers.--halsey. [ ] sluman wattles's account book.--halsey. [ ] dr. dwight's figures are for the township, not for the village, which was then a mere frontier hamlet, of perhaps one hundred souls.--halsey. [ ] "reminiscences of village life and of panama and california from to ," by gains leonard halsey, m. d. published at unadilla.--halsey. [ ] a stage line, however, for long years afterward supplied these settlements with a means of communication with unadilla, and it is within the memory of many persons still calling themselves young that for a considerable series of years, trips twice a week were regularly made by henry s. woodruff. after mr. woodruff's death a large and interesting collection of coaches, sleighs, and other stage relics remained upon his premises--the last survival of coaching times on the catskill turnpike, embracing a period of three-quarters of a century.--halsey. [ ] see _historic highways of america_, vol. xi, p. , _note_. [ ] _travels in north america_ (london, ), vol. ii, pp. - . * * * * * transcriber's notes: . passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. . obvious errors in spelling and punctuation have been corrected. . footnotes have been moved to the end of the main text body. . images have been moved from the middle of a paragraph to the closest paragraph break. . carat character (^) followed by a single letter or a set of letters in curly brackets is indicative of subscript in the original book. distributed proofreaders team note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) mary at the farm and book of recipes compiled during her visit among the "pennsylvania germans" by edith m. thomas with illustrations we love our pennsylvania, grand old keystone state; land of far famed rivers, and rock-ribbed mountains great. with her wealth of "dusky diamonds" and historic valleys fair, proud to claim her as our birthplace; land of varied treasures rare. preface the incidents narrated in this book are based on fact, and, while not absolutely true in every particular, the characters are all drawn from real life. the photographs are true likenesses of the people they are supposed to represent, and while in some instances the correct names are not given (for reasons which the reader will readily understand), the various scenes, relics, etc., are true historically and geographically. the places described can be easily recognized by any one who has ever visited the section of pennsylvania in which the plot (if it can really be called a plot) of the story is laid. many of the recipes given mary by pennsylvania german housewives, noted for the excellence of their cooking, have never appeared in print. the author. this book is dedicated to my friends with gratitude for their many helpful kindnesses. [illustration] "he who has a thousand friends, has never a one to spare." the housekeeper's symphony "to do the best that i can, from morn till night. and pray for added strength with coming light; to make the family income reach alway, with some left over for a rainy day; to do distasteful things with happy face, to try and keep the odds and ends in place. to smile instead of frown at fate, which placed me in a family always late for meals; to do the sewing, mending and the thousand small things always near at hand, and do them always with a cheerful heart, because in life they seem to be my part; to know the place of everything and keep it there, to think, to plan, to cook, to sweep, to brew, to bake, to answer questions, to be the mainspring of the family clock. (or that effect) and see that no tick, tock is out of time or tune, or soon or late, this is the only symphony which i can ever hope to operate." marion wiley. contents i mary's letter received at clear spring farm ii mary's arrival at the farm iii schuggenhaus township iv john landis v the old farm-house and garden vi mary confides in "aunt sarah" and gives her views on suffrage for women vii professor schmidt viii uses of an old-fashioned wardrobe ix poetry and pie x sibylla linsabigler xi new colonial rag rugs xii mary imitates navajo blankets xiii "the girls' camp fire" organized by mary xiv mary makes "violet and rose leaf" beads xv mary and elizabeth visit sadie singmaster xvi the old parlor made beautiful (modernized) xvii an old song evening xviii a visit to the "pennsylvania palisades" xix mary is taught to make pastry, patties and rosenkuchcen xx old potteries and decorated dishes xxi the value of wholesome, nutritious food xxii a variety of cakes evolved from one recipe xxiii the old "taufschien" xxiv the old store on the ridge road xxv an elbadritchel hunt xxvi the old shanghai rooster xxvii a "potato pretzel" xxviii faithful service xxix mary, ralph, jake and sibylla visit the allentown fair xxx fritz schmidt explores durham cave xxxi mary's marriage illustrations mary aunt sarah the old spring house the old mill wheel the old mill old corn crib the new red barn the old farm-house ralph jackson rocky valley professor schmidt frau schmidt old time patch-work quilts old time patch-work home-made rag carpet a hit-and-miss rug a brown and tan rug a circular rug imitation of navajo blankets rug with design rug with swastika in centre home manufactured silk prayer rug elizabeth schmidt--"laughing water" articles in the old parlor before it was modernized other articles in the old parlor before it was modernized palisades, or narrows of nockamixon the canal at the narrows the narrows, or pennsylvania palisades top rock ringing rocks of bucks county, pennsylvania high falls big rock at rocky dale the old towpath at the narrows old earthenware dish igraffito plate old plates fund in aunt sarah's corner cupboard old style lamps old taufschien the old store on ridge road catching elbadritchels old egg basket at the farm a potato pretzel loaf of rye bread a "brod corvel," or bread basket church which sheltered liberty bell in - liberty bell tablet durham cave the woodland stream polly schmidt an old-fashioned bucks county bake-oven [illustration: mary] chapter i. mary's letters received at clear spring farm. one morning in early spring, john landis, a pennsylvania german farmer living in schuggenhaus township, bucks county, on opening his mail box, fastened to a tree at the crossroads (for the convenience of rural mail carriers) found one letter for his wife sarah, the envelope addressed in the well-known handwriting of her favorite niece, mary midleton, of philadelphia. [illustration] a letter being quite an event at "clear spring" farm, he hastened with it to the house, finding "aunt sarah," as she was called by every one (great aunt to mary), in the cheery farm house kitchen busily engaged kneading sponge for a loaf of rye bread, which she carefully deposited on a well-floured linen cloth, in a large bowl for the final raising. carefully adjusting her glasses more securely over the bridge of her nose, she turned at the sound of her husband's footsteps. seeing the letter in his hand she inquired: "what news, john?" quickly opening the letter handed her, she, after a hasty perusal, gave one of the whimsical smiles peculiar to her and remarked decisively, with a characteristic nod of her head: "john, mary midleton intends to marry, else why, pray tell me, would she write of giving up teaching her kindergarten class in the city, to spend the summer with us on the farm learning, she writes, to keep house, cook, economize and to learn how to get the most joy and profit from life?" "well, well! mary is a dear girl, why should she not think of marrying?" replied her husband; "she is nineteen. quite time, i think, she should learn housekeeping--something every young girl should know. we should hear of fewer divorces and a less number of failures of men in business, had their wives been trained before marriage to be good, thrifty, economical housekeepers and, still more important, good homemakers. to be a helpmate in every sense of the word is every woman's duty, i think, when her husband works early and late to procure the means to provide for her comforts and luxuries and a competency for old age. write mary to come at once, and under your teaching she may, in time, become as capable a housekeeper and as good a cook as her aunt sarah; and, to my way of thinking, there is none better, my dear." praise from her usually reticent husband never failed to deepen the tint of pink on aunt sarah's still smooth, unwrinkled, youthful looking face, made more charming by being framed in waves of silvery gray hair, on which the "hand of time," in passing, had sprinkled some of the dust from the road of life. in size, sarah landis was a little below medium height, rather stout, or should i say comfortable, and matronly looking; very erect for a woman of her age. her bright, expressive, gray eyes twinkled humorously when she talked. she had developed a fine character by her years of unselfish devotion to family and friends. her splendid sense of humor helped her to overcome difficulties, and her ability to rise above her environment, however discouraging their conditions, prevented her from being unhappy or depressed by the small annoyances met daily. she never failed to find joy and pleasure in the faithful performance of daily tasks, however small or insignificant. aunt sarah attributed her remarkably fine, clear complexion, seldom equalled in a woman of her years, to good digestion and excellent health; her love of fresh air, fruit and clear spring water. she usually drank from four to five tumblerfuls of water a day. she never ate to excess, and frequently remarked: "i think more people suffer from over-eating than from insufficient food." an advocate of deep breathing, she spent as much of her time as she could spare from household duties in the open air. [illustration: aunt sarah] sarah landis was not what one would call beautiful, but good and whole-souled looking. to quote her husband: "to me sarah never looks so sweet and homelike when all 'fussed up' in her best black dress on special occasions, as she does when engaged in daily household tasks around home, in her plain, neat, gray calico dress." this dress was always covered with a large, spotlessly clean, blue gingham apron of small broken check, and she was very particular about having a certain-sized check. the apron had a patch pocket, which usually contained small twists or little wads of cord, which, like "the old ladies in cranford," she picked up and saved for a possible emergency. one of aunt sarah's special economies was the saving of twine and paper bags. the latter were always neatly folded, when emptied, and placed in a cretonne bag made for that purpose, hanging in a convenient corner of the kitchen. aunt sarah's gingham apron was replaced afternoons by one made from fine, lonsdale cambric, of ample proportions, and on special occasions she donned a hemstitched linen apron, inset at upper edge of hem with crocheted lace insertion, the work of her own deft fingers. aunt sarah's aprons, cut straight, on generous lines, were a part of her individuality. sarah landis declared: "happiness consists in giving and in serving others," and she lived up to the principles she advocated. she frequently quoted from the "sons of martha," by kipling: "lift ye the stone or cleave the wood, to make a path more fair or flat, not as a ladder from earth to heaven, not as an altar to any creed, but simple service, simply given, to his own kind in their human need." "i think this so fine," said aunt sarah, "and so true a sentiment that i am almost compelled to forgive kipling for saying 'the female of the species is more deadly than the male.'" aunt sarah's goodness was reflected in her face and in the tones of her voice, which were soft and low, yet very decided. she possessed a clear, sweet tone, unlike the slow, peculiar drawl often aiding with the rising inflection peculiar to many country folk among the "pennsylvania germans." the secret of aunt sarah's charm lay in her goodness. being always surrounded by a cheery atmosphere, she benefited all with whom she came in contact. she took delight in simple pleasures. she had the power of extracting happiness from the common, little every-day tasks and frequently remarked, "don't strive to live without work, but to find more joy in your work." her opinions were highly respected by every one in the neighborhood, and, being possessed of an unselfish disposition, she thought and saw good in every one; brought out the best in one, and made one long to do better, just to gain her approval, if for no higher reward. sarah landis was a loyal friend and one would think the following, by mrs. craik, applied to her: "oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort, of feeling safe with a person--having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are--chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away." she was never so happy as when doing an act of kindness for some poor unfortunate, and often said. "if 'twere not for god and good people, what would become of the unfortunate?" and thought like george mcdonald, "if i can put one touch of rosy sunset into the life of any man or woman (i should add child) i shall feel that i have worked with god." aunt sarah's sweet, lovable face was the first beheld by many a little, new-born infant; her voice, the first to hush its wailing cries as she cuddled it up to her motherly breast, and oft, with loving hands, softly closed the lids over eyes no longer able to see; whom the gracious master had taken into his keeping. one day i overheard aunt sarah quote to a sorrowing friend these fine, true lines from longfellow's "resignation": "let us be patient, these severe afflictions not from the ground arise, but celestial benedictions assume the dark disguise." [illustration: the old spring house] chapter ii. mary's arrival at the farm. the day preceding that of mary's arrival at the farm was a busy one for aunt sarah, who, since early morning, had been preparing the dishes she knew mary enjoyed. pans of the whitest, flakiest rolls, a large loaf of sweetest nut-brown, freshly-baked "graham bread," of which mary was especially fond; an array of crumb-cakes and pies of every description covered the well-scrubbed table in the summer kitchen, situated a short distance from the house. a large, yellow earthenware bowl on the table contained a roll of rich, creamy "smier kase" just as it had been turned from the muslin bag, from which the "whey" had dripped over night; ready to be mixed with cream for the supper table. pats of sweet, freshly-churned butter, buried in clover blossoms, were cooling in the old spring-house near by. the farm house was guiltless of dust from cellar to attic. aunt sarah was a model housekeeper; she accomplished wonders, yet never appeared tired or flurried as less systematic housekeepers often do, who, with greater expenditure of energy, often accomplish less work. she took no unnecessary steps; made each one count, yet never appeared in haste to finish her work. said aunt sarah, "the lack of system in housework is what makes it drudgery. if young housekeepers would sit down and plan their work, then do it, they would save time and labor. when using the fire in the range for ironing or other purposes, use the oven for preparing dishes of food which require long, slow cooking, like baked beans, for instance. bake a cake or a pudding, or a pan of quickly-made corn pone to serve with baked beans, for a hearty meal on a cold winter day. a dish of rice pudding placed in the oven requires very little attention, and when baked may be placed on ice until served. if this rule be followed, the young housewife will be surprised to find how much easier will be the task of preparing a meal later in the day, especially in hot weather." * * * * * the day following, john landis drove to the railroad station, several miles distant, to meet his niece. as mary stepped from the train into the outstretched arms of her waiting uncle, many admiring glances followed the fair, young girl. her tan-gold naturally wavy, masses of hair rivaled ripened grain. the sheen of it resembled corn silk before it has been browned and crinkled by the sun. her eyes matched in color the exquisite, violet-blue blossoms of the chicory weed. she possessed a rather large mouth, with upturned corners, which seemed made for smiles, and when once you had been charmed with them, she had made an easy conquest of you forever. there was a sweet, winning personality about mary which was as impossible to describe as to resist. one wondered how so much adorable sweetness could be embodied in one small maid. but mary's sweetness of expression and charming manner covered a strong will and tenacity of purpose one would scarcely have believed possible, did they not have an intimate knowledge of the young girl's disposition. her laugh, infectious, full of the joy of living, the vitality of youth and perfect health and happiness, reminded one of the lines: "a laugh is just like music for making living sweet." seated beside her uncle in the carriage, mary was borne swiftly through the town out into the country. it was one of those preternaturally quiet, sultry days when the whole universe appears lifeless and inert, free from loud noise, or sound of any description, days which we occasionally have in early spring or summer, when the stillness is oppressive. frequently at such times there is borne to the nostrils the faint, stifling scent of burning brush, indicating that land is being cleared by the forehanded, thrifty farmer for early planting. often at such times, before a shower, may be distinctly heard the faintest twitter and "peep, peep" of young sparrows, the harsh "caw, caw" of the crow, and the song of the bobolink, poised on the swaying branch of a tall tree, the happiest bird of spring; the dozy, drowsy hum of bees; the answering call of lusty young chanticleers, and the satisfied cackle of laying hens and motherly old biddies, surrounded by broods of downy, greedy little newly-hatched chicks. the shrill whistle of a distant locomotive startles one with its clear, resonant intonation, which on a less quiet day would pass unnoticed. mary, with the zest of youth, enjoyed to the full the change from the past months of confinement in a city school, and missed nothing of the beauty of the country and the smell of the good brown earth, as her uncle drove swiftly homeward. "uncle john," said mary, "'tis easy to believe god made the country." "yes," rejoined her uncle, "the country is good enough for me." "with the exception of the one day in the month, when you attend the 'shriners' meeting' in the city," mischievously supplemented mary, who knew her uncle's liking for the masonic lodge of which he was a member, "and," she continued, "i brought you a picture for your birthday, which we shall celebrate tomorrow. the picture will please you, i know. it is entitled, 'i love to love a mason, 'cause a mason never tells.'" they passed cultivated farms. inside many of the rail fences, inclosing fields of grain or clover, were planted numberless sour cherry trees, snowy with bloom, the ground underneath white with fallen petals. the air was sweet with the perfume of the half-opened buds on the apple trees in the near-by orchards and rose-like pink blossoms of the "flowering" crab-apple, in the door yards. swiftly they drove through cool, green, leafy woods, crossing a wooden bridge spanning a small stream, so shallow that the stones at the bottom were plainly to be seen. a loud splash, as the sound of carriage wheels broke the uninterrupted silence, and a commotion in the water gave evidence of the sudden disappearance of several green-backed frogs, sunning themselves on a large, moss-grown rock, projecting above the water's edge; from shady nooks and crevices peeped clusters of early white violets; graceful maidenhair ferns, and hardier members of the fern family, called "brake," uncurled their graceful, sturdy fronds from the carpet of green moss and lichen at the base of tree trunks, growing along the water's edge. partly hidden by rocks along the bank of the stream, nestled a few belated cup-shaped anemones or "wind flowers," from which most of the petals had blown, they being one of the earliest messengers of spring. through the undergrowth in the woods, in passing, could be seen the small buds of the azalea or wild honeysuckle, "sheep's laurel," the deep pink buds on the american judas tree, trailing vines of "tea berry," and beneath dead leaves one caught an occasional glimpse of fragrant, pink arbutus. in marshy places beside the creek, swaying in the wind from slender stems, grew straw-colored, bell-shaped blossoms of "adder's tongue" or "dog tooth violet," with their mottled green, spike-shaped leaves. in the shadow of a large rock grew dwarf huckleberry bushes, wild strawberry vines, and among grasses of many varieties grew patches of white and pink-tinted alsatian clover. leaving behind the spicy, fragrant, "woodsy" smell of wintergreen, birch and sassafras, and the faint, sweet scent of the creamy, wax-like blossoms of "mandrake" or may apple, peeping from beneath large, umbrella-like, green leaves they emerged at last from the dim, cool shadows of the woods into the warm, bright sunlight again. almost before mary realized it, the farm house could be seen in the distance, and her uncle called her attention to his new, red barn, which had been built since her last visit to the farm, and which, in her uncle's estimation, was of much greater importance than the house. mary greeted with pleasure the old landmarks so familiar to her on former visits. they passed the small, stone school house at the crossroads, and in a short time the horses turned obediently into the lane leading to the barn a country lane in very truth, a tangle of blackberry vines, wild rose bushes, by farmers called "pasture roses," interwoven with bushes of sumach, wild carrots and golden rod. mary insisted that her uncle drive directly to the barn, as was his usual custom, while she was warmly welcomed at the farm house gate by her aunt. as her uncle led away the horses, he said, "i will soon join you, mary, 'to break of our bread and eat of our salt,' as they say in the 'shrine.'" on their way to the house, mary remarked: "i am so glad we reached here before dusk. the country is simply beautiful! have you ever noticed, aunt sarah, what a symphony in green is the yard? look at the buds on the maples and lilacs--a faint yellow green--and the blue-green pine tree near by; the leaves of the german iris are another shade; the grass, dotted with yellow dandelions, and blue violets; the straight, grim, reddish-brown stalks of the peonies before the leaves have unfolded, all roofed over with the blossom-covered branches of pear, apple and 'german prune' trees. truly, this must resemble paradise!" "yes," assented her aunt, "i never knew blossoms to remain on the pear trees so long a time. we have had no 'blossom shower' as yet to scatter them, but there will be showers tonight, i think, or i am no prophet. i feel rain in the atmosphere, and sibylla said a few moments ago she heard a 'rain bird' in the mulberry tree." "aunt sarah," inquired mary, "is the rhubarb large enough to use?" "yes, indeed, we have baked rhubarb pies and have had a surfeit of dandelion salad or 'salat,' as our neighbors designate it. your uncle calls 'dandelion greens' the farmers' spring tonic; that and 'celadine,' that plant you see growing by the side of the house. later in the season it bears small, yellow flowers not unlike a very small buttercup blossom, and it is said to be an excellent remedy for chills and fevers, and it tastes almost as bitter as quinine. there are bushels of dandelion blossoms, some of which we shall pick tomorrow, and from them make dandelion wine." "and what use will my thrifty aunt make of the blue violets?" mischievously inquired mary. "the violets," replied her aunt, "i shall dig up carefully with some earth adhering to their roots and place them in a glass bowl for a centrepiece on the table for my artistic and beauty-loving niece; and if kept moist, you will be surprised at the length of time they will remain 'a thing of beauty' if not 'a joy forever.' and later, mary, from them i'll teach you to make violet beads." "aunt sarah, notice that large robin endeavoring to pull a worm from the ground. do you suppose the same birds return here from the south every summer?" "certainty, i do." "that old mulberry tree, from the berries of which you made such delicious pies and marmalade last summer, is it dead?" "no; only late about getting its spring outfit of leaves." chapter iii. schuggenhaus township. "schuggenhaus," said sarah landis, speaking to her niece, mary midleton, "is one of the largest and most populous townships in bucks county, probably so named by the early german settlers, some of whom, i think, were my father's ancestors, as they came originally from zweibrucken, germany, and settled in schuggenhaus township. schuggenhaus is one of the most fertile townships in bucks county and one of the best cultivated; farming is our principal occupation, and the population of the township today is composed principally of the descendants of well-to-do germans, frequently called 'pennsylvania dutch.'" "i have often heard them called by that name," said mary. "have you forgotten, aunt sarah, you promised to tell me something interesting about the first red clover introduced in bucks county?" "red clover," replied her aunt, "that having bright, crimson-pink heads, is the most plentiful and the most common variety of clover; but knowing how abundantly it grows in different parts of the country at the present time, one would scarcely have believed, in olden times, that it would ever be so widely distributed as it now is. "one reason clover does so well in this country is that the fertilization of the clover is produced by pollenation by the busy little bumble-bee, who carries the pollen from blossom to blossom, and clover is dependent upon these small insects for fertilization, as without them clover would soon die out." "i admire the feathery, fuzzy, pink-tipped, rabbit-foot clover," said mary; "it is quite fragrant, and usually covered with butterflies. it makes such very pretty bouquets when you gather huge bunches of it." [illustration: the old mill wheel] "no, mary, i think you are thinking of alsatian clover, which is similar to white clover. the small, round heads are cream color, tinged with pink; it is very fragrant and sweet and grows along the roadside and, like the common white clover, is a favorite with bees. the yellow hop clover we also find along the roadside. as the heads of clover mature, they turn yellowish brown and resemble dried hops; sometimes yellow, brown and tan blossoms are seen on one branch. the cultivation of red clover was introduced here a century ago, and when in bloom the fields attracted great attention. being the first ever grown in this part of bucks county, people came for miles to look at it, the fence around the fields some days being lined with spectators, i have been told by my grandfather. i remember when a child nothing appeared to me more beautiful than my father's fields of flax; a mass of bright blue flowers. i also remember the fields of broom-corn. just think! we made our own brooms, wove linen from the flax raised on our farm and made our own tallow candles. mary, from what a thrifty and hard-working lot of ancestors you are descended! you inherit from your mother your love of work and from your father your love of books. your father's uncle was a noted shakespearean scholar." many old-time industries are passing away. yet sarah landis, was a housewife of the old school and still cooked apple butter, or "lodt varrik," as the germans call it; made sauerkraut and hard soap, and naked old-fashioned "german" rye bread on the hearth, which owed its excellence not only to the fact of its being hearth baked but to the rye flour being ground in an old mill in a near-by town, prepared by the old process of grinding between mill-stones instead of the more modern roller process. this picture of the old mill, taken by fritz schmidt, shows it is not artistic, but, like most articles of german manufacture, the mill was built more for its usefulness than to please the eye. [illustration: the old mill] "aunt sarah, what is pumpernickel?" inquired mary, "is it like rye bread?" "no, my dear, not exactly, it is a dark-colored bread, used in some parts of germany. professor schmidt tells me the bread is usually composed of a mixture of barley flour and rye flour. some i have eaten looks very much like our own brown bread. pumpernickel is considered a very wholesome bread by the germans--and i presume one might learn to relish it, but i should prefer good, sweet, home-made rye bread. i was told by an old gentleman who came to this country from germany when a boy, that pumpernickel was used in the german army years ago, and was somewhat similar to 'hard tack,' furnished our soldiers in the civil war. but i cannot vouch for the truth of this assertion." "aunt sarah," said mary later, "frau schmidt tells me the professor sends his rye to the mill and requests that every part of it be ground without separating--making what he calls 'whole rye flour,' and from this frau schmidt bakes wholesome, nutritious bread which they call 'pumpernickel,' she tells me she uses about one-third of this 'whole rye flour' to two-thirds white bread flour when baking bread, and she considers bread made from this whole grain more wholesome and nutritious than the bread made from our fine rye flour." chapter iv. john landis. the bucks county farmer, john landis, rather more scholarly in appearance than men ordinarily found in agricultural districts, was possessed of an adust complexion, caused by constant exposure to wind and weather; tall and spare, without an ounce of superfluous fat; energetic, and possessed of remarkable powers of endurance. he had a kindly, benevolent expression; his otherwise plain face was redeemed by fine, expressive brown eyes. usually silent and preoccupied, and almost taciturn, yet he possessed a fund of dry humor. an old-fashioned democrat, his wife was a republican. he usually accompanied aunt sarah to her church, the methodist, although he was a member of the german reformed, and declared he had changed his religion to please her, but change his politics, never. a member of the masonic lodge, his only diversion was an occasional trip to the city with a party of the "boys" to attend a meeting of the "shriners." aunt sarah protested. "the idea, john, at your age, being out so late at night and returning from the city on the early milk train the following morning, and then being still several miles from home. it's scandalous!" he only chuckled to himself; and what the entertainment had been, which was provided at lulu temple, and which he had so thoroughly enjoyed, was left to her imagination. his only remark when questioned was: "sarah, you're not in it. you are not a 'shriner.'" and as john had in every other particular fulfilled her ideal of what constitutes a good husband, sarah, like the wise woman she was, allowed the subject to drop. a good, practical, progressive farmer, john landis constantly read, studied and pondered over the problem of how to produce the largest results at least cost of time and labor. his crops were skillfully planted in rich soil, carefully cultivated and usually harvested earlier than those of his neighbors. one summer he raised potatoes so large that many of them weighed one pound each, and new potatoes and green peas, fresh from the garden, invariably appeared on aunt sarah's table the first of july, and sometimes earlier. i have known him to raise cornstalks which reached a height of thirteen feet, which were almost equaled by his wife's sunflower stalks, which usually averaged nine feet in height. aunt sarah, speaking one day to mary, said: "your uncle john is an unusually silent man. i have heard him remark that when people talk continuously they are either _very_ intelligent or tell untruths." he, happening to overhear her remark, quickly retorted: "the man who speaks a dozen tongues, when all is said and done, don't hold a match to him who knows how to keep still in one." when annoyed at his wife's talkativeness, her one fault in her husband's eyes, if he thought she had a fault, he had a way of saying, "alright, sarah, alright," as much as to say "that is final; you have said enough," in his peculiar, quick manner of speaking, which aunt sarah never resented, he being invariably kind and considerate in other respects. john landis was a successful farmer because he loved his work, and found joy in it. while not unmindful of the advantages possessed by the educated farmer of the present day, he said, "'tis not college lore our boys need so much as practical education to develop their efficiency. while much that we eat and wear comes out of the ground, we should have more farmers, the only way to lower the present high cost of living, which is such a perplexing problem to the housewife. there is almost no limit to what might be accomplished by some of our bright boys should they make agriculture a study. luther burbank says, 'to add but one kernel of corn to each ear grown in this country in a single year would increase the supply five million bushels.'" chapter v. the old farm house and garden. the old unpainted farm house, built of logs a century ago, had changed in the passing years to a grayish tint. an addition had been built to the house several years before aunt sarah's occupancy, the sober hue of the house harmonized with the great, gnarled old trunk of the meadow willow near-by. planted when the house was built, it spread its great branches protectingly over it. a wild clematis growing at the foot of the tree twined its tendrils around the massive trunk until in late summer they had become an inseparable part of it, almost covering it with feathery blossoms. [illustration: old corn crib] [illustration: the new barn] near by stood an antique arbor, covered with thickly-clustering vines, in season bending with the weight of "wild-scented" grapes, their fragrance mingling with the odor of "creek mint" growing near by a small streamlet and filling the air with a delicious fragrance. the mint had been used in earlier years by aunt sarah's grandfather as a beverage which he preferred to any other. from a vine clambering up the grape arbor trellies, in the fall of the year, hung numerous orange-colored balsam apples, which opened, when ripe, disclosing bright crimson interior and seeds. these apples, aunt sarah claimed, if placed in alcohol and applied externally, possessed great medicinal value as a specific for rheumatism. [illustration: the old farm house] a short distance from the house stood the newly-built red barn, facing the pasture lot. on every side stretched fields which, in summer, waved with wheat, oats, rye and buckwheat, and the corn crib stood close by, ready for the harvest to fill it to overflowing. beside the farm house door stood a tall, white oleander, planted in a large, green-painted wooden tub. near by, in a glazed earthenware pot, grew the old-fashioned lantana plant, covered with clusters of tiny blossoms, of various shades of orange, red and pink. in flower beds outlined by clam shells which had been freshly whitewashed blossomed fuchsias, bleeding hearts, verbenas, dusty millers, sweet clove-scented pinks, old-fashioned, dignified, purple digitalis or foxglove, stately pink princess feather, various brilliant-hued zinnias, or more commonly called "youth and old age," and as gayly colored, if more humble and lowly, portulacas; the fragrant white, star-like blossoms of the nicotiana, or "flowering tobacco," which, like the yellow primrose, are particularly fragrant at sunset. geraniums of every hue, silver-leaved and rose-scented; yellow marigolds and those with brown, velvety petals; near by the pale green and white-mottled leaves of the plant called "snow on the mountain" and in the centre of one of the large, round flower beds, grew sturdy "castor oil beans," their large, copper-bronze leaves almost covering the tiny blue forget-me-nots growing beneath. near the flower bed grew a thrifty bush of pink-flowering almonds; not far distant grew a spreading "shrub" bush, covered with fragrant brown buds, and beside it a small tree of pearly-white snowdrops. sarah landis loved the wholesome, earthy odors of growing plants and delighted in her flowers, particularly the perennials, which were planted promiscuously all over the yard. i have frequently heard her quote: "one is nearer god's heart in a garden than any place else on earth." and she would say, "i love the out-of-door life, in touch with the earth; the natural life of man or woman." inside the fence of the kitchen garden were planted straight rows of both red and yellow currants, and several gooseberry bushes. in one corner of the garden, near the summer kitchen, stood a large bush of black currants, from the yellow, sweet-scented blossoms of which aunt sarah's bees, those "heaven instructed mathematicians," sucked honey. think of aunt sarah's buckwheat cakes, eaten with honey made from currant, clover, buckwheat and dandelion blossoms! her garden was second to none in bucks county. she planted tomato seeds in boxes and placed them in a sunny window, raising her plants early; hence she had ripe tomatoes before any one else in the neighborhood. her peas were earlier also, and her beets and potatoes were the largest; her corn the sweetest; and, as her asparagus bed was always well salted, her asparagus was the finest to be had. through the centre of the garden patch, on either side the walk, were large flower beds, a blaze of brilliant color from early spring, when the daffodils blossomed, until frost killed the dahlias, asters, scarlet sage, sweet williams, canterbury bells, pink and white snapdragon, spikes of perennial, fragrant, white heliotrope; blue larkspur, four o'clocks, bachelor buttons and many other dear, old-fashioned flowers. the dainty pink, funnel-shaped blossoms of the hardy swamp "rose mallow'" bloomed the entire summer, the last flowers to be touched by frost, vying in beauty with the pink monthly roses planted near by. children who visited aunt sarah delighted in the small jerusalem cherry tree, usually covered with bright, scarlet berries, which was planted near the veranda, and they never tired pinching the tiny leaves of the sensitive plant to see them quickly droop, as if dead, then slowly unfold and straighten as if a thing of life. visitors to the farm greatly admired the large, creamy-white lily-like blossoms of the datura. farthest from the house were the useful herb beds, filled with parsley, hoarhound, sweet marjoram, lavender, saffron, sage, sweet basil, summer savory and silver-striped rosemary or "old man," as it was commonly called by country folk. tall clusters of phlox, a riot of color in midsummer, crimson-eyed, white and rose-colored blossoms topping the tall steins, and clusters of brilliant-red bergamot near by had been growing, from time immemorial, a cluster of green and white-striped grass, without which no door yard in this section of bucks county was considered complete in olden times. near by, silvery plumes of pampas grass gently swayed on their reed-like stems. even the garden was not without splashes of color, where, between rows of vegetables, grew pale, pink-petaled poppies, seeming to have scarcely a foothold in the rich soil. but the daintiest, sweetest bed of all, and the one that mary enjoyed most, was where the lilies of the valley grew in the shade near a large, white lilac bush. here, on a rustic bench beneath an old apple tree, stitching on her embroidery, she dreamed happy dreams of her absent lover, and planned for the life they were to live together some day, in the home he was striving to earn for her by his own manly exertions; and she assiduously studied and pondered over aunt sarah's teaching and counsel, knowing them to be wise and good. a short distance from the farm house, where the old orchard sloped down to the edge of the brook, grew tall meadow rue, with feathery clusters of green and white flowers; and the green, gold-lined, bowl-shaped blossoms of the "cow lily," homely stepsisters of the fragrant, white pond lily, surrounded by thick, waxy, green leaves, lazily floated on the surface of the water from long stems in the bed of the creek, and on the bank a carpet was formed by golden-yellow, creeping buttercups. in the side yard grew two great clumps of iris, or, as it is more commonly called, "blue flag." its blossoms, dainty as rare orchids, with lily-like, violet-veined petals of palest-tinted mauve and purple. on the sunny side of the old farm house, facing the east, where at early morn the sun shone bright and warm, grew aunt sarah's pansies, with velvety, red-brown petals, golden-yellow and dark purple. they were truly "heart's ease," gathered with a lavish hand, and sent as gifts to friends who were ill. the more she picked the faster they multiplied, and came to many a sick bed "sweet messengers of spring." if aunt sarah had a preference for one particular flower, 'twas the rose, and they well repaid the time and care she lavished on them. she had pale-tinted blush roses, with hearts of deepest pink; rockland and prairie and hundred-leaf roses, pink and crimson ramblers, but the most highly-prized roses of her collection were an exquisite, deep salmon-colored "marquis de sinety" and an old-fashioned pink moss rose, which grew beside a large bush of mock-orange, the creamy blossoms of the latter almost as fragrant as real orange blossoms of the sunny southland. not far distant, planted in a small bed by themselves, grew old-fashioned, sweet-scented, double petunias, ragged, ripple, ruffled corollas of white, with splotches of brilliant crimson and purple, their slender stems scarcely strong enough to support the heavy blossoms. in one of the sunniest spots in the old garden grew aunt sarah's latest acquisition. "the butterfly bush," probably so named on account of its graceful stems, covered with spikes of tiny, lilac-colored blossoms, over which continually hovered large, gorgeously-hued butterflies, vying with the flowers in brilliancy of color, from early june until late summer. aunt sarah's sunflowers, or "sonnen blume," as she liked to call them, planted along the garden fence to feed chickens and birds alike, were a sight worth seeing. the birds generally confiscated the larger portion of seeds. a pretty sight it was to see a flock of wild canaries, almost covering the tops of the largest sunflowers, busily engaged picking out the rich, oily seeds. aunt sarah loved the golden flowers, which always appeared to be nodding to the sun, and her sunflowers were particularly fine, some being as much as fifty inches in circumference. a bouquet of the smaller ones was usually to be seen in a quaint, old, blue-flowered, gray jar on the farm house veranda in summertime. earlier in the season blossoms of the humble artichoke, which greatly resemble small sunflowers, or large yellow daisies, filled the jar. failing either of these, she gathered large bouquets of golden-rod or wild carrot blossoms, both of which grew in profusion along the country lanes and roadside near the farm. but the old gray jar never held a bouquet more beautiful than the one of bright, blue "fringed gentians," gathered by aunt sarah in the fall of the year, several miles distant from the farm. chapter vi. mary confides in aunt sarah and gives her views on suffrage for women. "there's no deny'n women are foolish, god a'mighty made them to match the men." a short time after her arrival at the farm mary poured into the sympathetic ear of aunt sarah her hopes and plans. her lover, ralph jackson, to whom she had become engaged the past winter, held a position with the philadelphia electric company, and was studying hard outside working hours. his ambition was to become an electrical engineer. he was getting fair wages, and wished mary to marry him at once. she confessed she loved ralph too well to marry him, ignorant as she was of economical housekeeping and cooking. mary, early left an orphan, had studied diligently to fit herself for a kindergarten teacher, so she would be capable of earning her own living on leaving school, which accounted for her lack of knowledge of housework, cooking, etc. aunt sarah, loving mary devotedly, and knowing the young man of her choice to be clean, honest and worthy, promised to do all in her power to make their dream of happiness come true. learning from mary that ralph was thin and pale from close confinement, hard work and study, and of his intention of taking a short vacation, she determined he should spend it on the farm, where she would be able to "mother him." "you acted sensibly, mary," said her aunt, "in refusing to marry ralph at the present time, realizing your lack of knowledge of housework and inability to manage a home. neither would you know how to spend the money provided by him economically and wisely, and, in this age of individual efficiency, a business knowledge of housekeeping is almost as important in making a happy home as is love. i think it quite as necessary that a woman who marries should understand housekeeping in all its varied branches as that the man who marries should understand his trade or profession; for, without the knowledge of means to gain a livelihood (however great his love for a woman), how is the man to hold that woman's love and affection unless he is able by his own exertions to provide her with necessities, comforts, and, perhaps, in later years, luxuries? and in return, the wife should consider it her duty and pleasure to know how to do her work systematically; learn the value of different foods and apply the knowledge gained daily in preparing them; study to keep her husband in the best of health, physically and mentally. then will his efficiency be greater and he will be enabled to do his 'splendid best' in whatever position in life he is placed, be he statesman or hod-carrier. what difference, if an honest heart beat beneath a laborer's hickory shirt, or one of fine linen? 'one hand, if it's true, is as good as another, no matter how brawny or rough.' mary, do not think the trivial affairs of the home beneath your notice, and do not imagine any work degrading which tends to the betterment of the home. remember, 'who sweeps a room as for thy law, makes that and the action fine.' "our lives are all made up of such small, commonplace things and this is such a commonplace old world, mary. 'the commonplace earth and the commonplace sky make up the commonplace day,' and 'god must have loved common people, or he would not have made so many of them.' and, what if we are commonplace? we cannot all be artists, poets and sculptors. yet, how frequently we see people in commonplace surroundings, possessing the soul of an artist, handicapped by physical disability or lack of means! we are all necessary in the great, eternal plan. 'tis not good deeds alone for which we receive our reward, but for the performance of duty well done, in however humble circumstances our lot is cast. is it not lord houghton who says: 'do not grasp at the stars, but do life's plain, common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things of life.' i consider a happy home in the true sense of the word one of the greatest of blessings. how important is the work of the housemother and homemaker who creates the home! there can be no happiness there unless the wheels of the domestic machinery are oiled by loving care and kindness to make them run smoothly, and the noblest work a woman can do is training and rearing her children. suffrage, the right of woman to vote; will it not take women from the home? i am afraid the home will then suffer in consequence. will man accord woman the same reverence she has received in the past? should she have equal political rights? a race lacking respect for women would never advance socially or politically. i think women could not have a more important part in the government of the land than in rearing and educating their children to be good, useful citizens. in what nobler work could women engage than in work to promote the comfort and well-being of the ones they love in the home? i say, allow men to make the laws, as god and nature planned. i think women should keep to the sphere god made them for--the home. said gladstone, 'woman is the most perfect when most womanly.' there is nothing, i think, more despicable than a masculine, mannish woman, unless it be an effeminate, sissy man. dr. clarke voiced my sentiments when he said: 'man is not superior to woman, nor woman to man. the relation of the sexes is one of equality, not of better or worse, of higher and lower. the loftiest ideal of humanity demands that each shall be perfect in its kind and not be hindered in its best work. the lily is not inferior to the rose, nor the oak superior to the clover; yet the glory of the lily is one and the glory of the oak is another, and the use of the oak is not the use of the clover.' "this present-day generation demands of women greater efficiency in the home than ever before. and mary, many of the old-time industries which i had been accustomed to as a girl have passed away. electricity and numerous labor-saving devices make household tasks easier, eliminating some altogether. when housekeeping you will find time to devote to many important questions of the day which we old-time housekeepers never dreamed of having. considerable thought should be given to studying to improve and simplify conditions of the home-life. it is your duty. obtain books; study food values and provide those foods which nourish the body, instead of spending time uselessly preparing dainties to tempt a jaded appetite. don't spoil ralph when you marry him. give him good, wholesome food, and plenty of it; but although the cooking of food takes up much of a housekeeper's time, it is not wise to allow it to take up one's time to the exclusion of everything else. mary, perhaps my views are old-fashioned. i am not a 'new woman' in any sense of the word. the new woman may take her place beside man in the business world and prove equally as efficient, but i do not think woman should invade man's sphere any more than he should assume her duties." "aunt sarah, i am surprised to hear you talk in that manner about woman's sphere," replied mary, "knowing what a success you are in the home, and how beautifully you manage everything you undertake. i felt, once you recognized the injustice done woman in not allowing them to vote, you would feel differently, and since women are obliged to obey the laws, should they not have a voice in choosing the lawmakers? when you vote, it will not take you out of the home. you and uncle john will merely stop on your way to the store, and instead of uncle john going in to write and register what he thinks should be done and by whom it should be done, you too will express your opinion. this will likely be twice a year. by doing this, no woman loses her womanliness, goodness or social position, and to these influences the vote is but another influence. i know there are many things in connection with the right of equal suffrage with what you do not sympathize. "aunt sarah, let me tell you about a dear friend of mine who taught school with me in the city. emily taught a grammar grade, and did not get the same salary the men teachers received for doing the same work, which i think was unfair. emily studied and frequently heard and read about what had been done in colorado and other states where women vote. she got us all interested, and the more we learned about the cause the harder we worked for it. emily married a nice, big, railroad man. they bought a pretty little house in a small town, had three lovely children and were very happy. more than ever as time passed emily realized the need of woman's influence in the community. it is true, i'll admit, aunt sarah, housekeeping and especially home-making are the great duties of every woman, and to provide the most wholesome, nourishing food possible for the family is the duty of every mother, as the health, comfort and happiness of the family depend so largely on the _common sense_ (only another name for efficiency) and skill of the homemaker, and the wise care and though she expends on the preparation of wholesome, nutritious food in the home, either the work of her own hands or prepared under her direction. you can _not_ look after these duties without getting _outside_ of your home, especially when you live like emily, in a town where the conditions are so different from living as you do on a farm in the country. milk, bread and water are no longer controlled by the woman in her home, living in cities and towns; and just because women want to look out for their families they should have a voice in the larger problems of municipal housekeeping. to return to emily, she did not bake her own bread, as you do, neither did she keep a cow, but bought milk and bread to feed the children. wasn't it her duty to leave the home and see where these products were produced, and if they were sanitary? and, knowing the problem outside the home would so materially affect the health, and perhaps lives, of her children, she felt it her distinctive duty to keep house in a larger sense. when the children became old enough to attend school, emily again took up her old interest in schools. she began to realize how much more just it would be if an equal number of women were on the school board." "but what did the husband think of all this?" inquired aunt sarah, dubiously. "oh, tom studied the case, too, at first just to tease emily, but he soon became as enthusiastic as emily. he said, 'the first time you are privileged to vote, emily, i will hire an automobile to take you to the polls in style.' but poor emily was left alone with her children last winter. tom died of typhoid fever. contracted it from the bad drainage. they lived in a town not yet safeguarded with sewerage. now emily is a taxpayer as well as a mother, and she has no say as far as the town and schools are concerned. there are many cases like that, where widows and unmarried women own property, and they are in no way represented. and think of the thousands and thousands of women who have no home to stay in and no babies to look after." "mercy, mary! do stop to take breath. i never thought when i started this subject i would have an enthusiastic suffragist with whom to deal." "i am glad you started the subject, aunt sarah, because there is so much to be said for the cause. i saw you glance at the clock and i see it is time to prepare supper. but some day i'm going to stop that old clock and bring down some of my books on 'woman's suffrage' and you'll he surprised to hear what they have done in states where equal privileges were theirs. i am sure 'twill not be many years before every state in the union will give women the right of suffrage." * * * * * after mary retired that evening aunt sarah had a talk with her john, whom she knew needed help on the farm. as a result of the conference, mary wrote to ralph the following day, asking him to spend his vacation on the farm as a "farm hand." needless to say, the offer was gladly accepted by ralph, if for no other reason than to be near the girl he loved. ralph came the following week--"a strapping big fellow," to quote uncle john, being several inches over six feet. "all you need, young chap," said mary's uncle, "is plenty of good, wholesome food of sarah's and mary's preparing, and i'll see that you get plenty of exercise in the fresh air to give you an appetite to enjoy it, and you'll get a healthy coat of tan on your pale cheeks before the summer is ended." ralph jackson, or "jack," as he was usually called by his friends, an orphan like mary, came of good, old quaker stock, his mother having died immediately after giving birth to her son. his father, supposed to be a wealthy contractor, died when ralph was seventeen, having lost his fortune through no fault of his own, leaving ralph penniless. ralph jackson possessed a good face, a square, determined jaw, sure sign of a strong will and quick temper; these berserker traits he inherited from his father; rather unusual in a quaker. he possessed a head of thick, coarse, straight brown hair, and big honest eyes. one never doubted his word, once it had been given. 'twas good as his bond. this trait he inherited also from his father, noted for his truth and integrity. ralph was generous to a fault. when a small boy he was known to take off his shoes and give them to a poor little italian (who played a violin on the street for pennies) and go home barefoot. ralph loved mary devotedly, not only because she fed him well at the farm, as were his forefathers, the "cave men," fed by their mates in years gone by, but he loved her first for her sweetness of disposition and lovable ways; later, for her quiet unselfishness and lack of temper over trifles--so different from himself. when speaking to mary of his other fine qualities, aunt sarah said: "ralph is a manly young fellow; likeable, i'll admit, but his hasty temper is a grave fault in my eyes." mary replied, "don't you think men are very queer, anyway, aunt sarah? i do, and none of us is perfect." [illustration: ralph jackson] to mary, ralph's principal charm lay in his strong, forceful way of surmounting difficulties, she having a disposition so different. mary had a sweet, motherly way, seldom met with in so young a girl, and this appealed to ralph, he having never known "mother love," and although not at all inclined to be sentimental, he always called mary his "little mother girl" because of her motherly ways. [illustration: rocky valley] "well," continued mary's aunt, "a quick temper is one of the most difficult faults to overcome that flesh is heir to, but ralph, being a young man of uncommon good sense, may in time curb his temper and learn to control it, knowing that unless be does so it will handicap him in his career. still, a young girl will overlook many faults in the man she loves. mary, ere marrying, one should be sure that no love be lacking to those entering these sacred bonds. 'tis not for a day, but for a lifetime, to the right thinking. marriage, as a rule, is too lightly entered into in this twentieth century of easy divorces, and but few regard matrimony in its true holy relation, ordained by our creator. if it be founded on the tower of enduring love and not ephemeral passion, it is unassailable, lasting in faith and honor until death breaks the sacred union and annuls the vows pledged at god's holy altar." "well," replied mary, as her aunt paused to take breath, "i am sure of my love for ralph." "god grant you may both be happy," responded her aunt. "mary, did you ever hear this persian proverb? you will understand why i have so much to say after hearing it." "'says a proverb of persia provoking mirth; when this world was created by order divine. ten measures of talk were put down on the earth, and the woman took nine.'" speaking to mary of life on the farm one day, ralph laughingly said: "i am taught something new every day. yesterday your uncle told me it was 'time to plant corn when oak leaves were large as squirrels' ears.'" ralph worked like a trojan. in a short time both his hands and face took on a butternut hue. he became strong and robust. mary called him her "cave man," and it taxed the combined efforts of aunt sarah and mary to provide food to satisfy the ravenous appetite mary's "cave man" developed. and often, after a busy day, tired but happy, mary fell asleep at night to the whispering of the leaves of the carolina poplar outside her bedroom window. but country life on a farm has its diversions. one of mary's and ralph's greatest pleasures after a busy day at the farm was a drive about the surrounding country early summer evenings, frequently accompanied by either elizabeth or pauline schmidt, their nearest neighbors. one of the first places visited by them was a freak of nature called "rocky valley," situated at no great distance from the farm. [illustration: professor schmidt] chapter vii professor schmidt. a small country place named "five oaks," a short distance from "clear spring" farm, was owned by a very worthy and highly-educated, but rather eccentric, german professor. he came originally from heidelberg, but had occupied the position of professor of german for many years in a noted university in a near by town. a kind, warm-hearted, old-fashioned gentleman was the professor; a perfect lord chesterfield in manners. very tall, thin almost to emaciation, although possessed of excellent health; refined, scholarly looking: a rather long, hooked nose, faded, pale-blue eyes; snowy, flowing "lord dundreary" whiskers, usually parted in the centre and twisted to a point on either side with the exceedingly long, bony fingers of his well-kept, aristocratic-looking white hands. he had an abrupt, quick, nervous manner when speaking. a fringe of thin, white hair showed at the lower edge of the black silk skull cap which he invariably wore about home, and in the absence of this covering for his bald head, he would not have looked natural to his friends. the professor always wore a suit of well-brushed, "shiny" black broadcloth, and for comfort old-fashioned soft kid "gaiters," with elastic in the sides. he was a man with whom one did not easily become acquainted, having very decided opinions on most subjects. he possessed exquisite taste, a passionate love of music, flowers and all things beautiful; rather visionary, poetical and a dreamer; he was not practical, like his wife; warm-hearted, impulsive, energetic frau schmidt, who was noted for her executive abilities. i can imagine the old professor saying as mohammed has been quoted as saying, "had i two loaves, i would sell one and buy hyacinths to feed my soul." impulsive, generous to a fault, quick to take offense, withal warm-hearted, kind and loyal to his friends, he was beloved by the students, who declared that "old snitzy" always played fair when he was obliged to reprimand them for their numerous pranks, which ended sometimes, i am obliged to confess, with disastrous results. the dignified old professor would have raised his mild, blue, spectacled eyes in astonishment had he been so unfortunate as to have overheard the boys, to whom he was greatly attached, call their dignified preceptor by such a nickname. the professor's little black-eyed german wife, many years younger than her husband, had been, before her marriage, teacher of domestic science in a female college in a large city. "she was a most excellent housekeeper," to quote the professor, and "a good wife and mother." the family consisted of "fritz," a boy of sixteen, with big, innocent, baby-blue eyes like his father, who idolized his only son, who was alike a joy and a torment. fritz attended the university in a near-by town, and was usually head of the football team. he was always at the front in any mischief whatever, was noted for getting into scrapes innumerable through his love of fun, yet he possessed such a good-natured, unselfish, happy-go-lucky disposition that one always forgave him. black-eyed, red-cheeked elizabeth was quick and impulsive, like her mother. a very warm and lasting friendship sprung up between merry elizabeth and serious mary midleton during mary's summer on the farm, although not at all alike in either looks or disposition, and elizabeth was mary's junior by several years. the third, last and least of the professor's children was pauline, or "pollykins," as she was always called by her brother fritz, the seven-year-old pet and baby of the family. a second edition of fritz, the same innocent, questioning, violet-blue eyes, fair complexion, a kissable little mouth and yellow, kinky hair, she won her way into every one's heart and became greatly attached to mary, who was usually more patient with the little maid (who, i must confess, was sometimes very willful) than was her sister elizabeth. mary, who had never been blessed with a sister, dearly loved children, and thought small "polly" adorable, and never wearied telling her marvelous fairy tales. [illustration: frau schmidt] chapter viii. uses of an old-fashioned wardrobe. shortly after mary's advent at the farm she one day said: "aunt sarah, the contents of this old trunk are absolutely worthless to me; perhaps they may be used by you for carpet rags." "mary midleton!" exclaimed aunt sarah, in horrified tones, "you extravagant girl. i see greater possibilities in that trunk of partly-worn clothing than, i suppose, a less economically-inclined woman than i ever would have dreamed of." mary handed her aunt two blue seersucker dresses, one plain, the other striped. "they have both shrunken, and are entirely too small for me," said mary. "well," said her aunt, considering, "they might be combined in one dress, but you need aprons for kitchen work more useful than those little frilly, embroidered affairs you are wearing. we should make them into serviceable aprons to protect your dresses. mary, neatness is an attribute that every self-respecting housewife should assiduously cultivate, and no one can be neat in a kitchen without a suitable apron to protect one from grime, flour and dust." "what a pretty challis dress; its cream-colored ground sprinkled over with pink rose buds!" mary sighed. "i always did love that dress, aunt sarah, 'twas so becoming, and he--he--admired it so!" "and he, can do so still," replied aunt sarah, with a merry twinkle in her kind, clear, gray eyes, "for that pale-green suesine skirt, slightly faded, will make an excellent lining, with cotton for an interlining, and pale green germantown yarn with which to tie the comfortable. at small cost you'll have a dainty, warm spread which will be extremely pretty in the home you are planning with him. i have several very pretty-old-style patchwork quilts in a box in the attic which i shall give you when you start housekeeping. that pretty dotted, ungored swiss skirt will make dainty, ruffled sash curtains for bedroom windows. mary, sometimes small beginnings make great endings; if you make the best of your small belongings, some day your homely surroundings will be metamorphosed into what, in your present circumstances, would seem like extravagant luxuries. an economical young couple, beginning life with a homely, home-made rag carpet, have achieved in middle age, by their own energy and industry, carpets of tapestry and rich velvet, and costly furniture in keeping; but, never--never, dear, are they so valued, i assure you, as those inexpensive articles, conceived by our inventive brain and manufactured by our own deft fingers during our happy springtime of life when, with our young lover husband, we built our home nest on the foundation of pure, unselfish, self-sacrificing love." aunt sarah sighed; memory led her far back to when she had planned her home with her lover, john landis, still her lover, though both have grown gray together, and shared alike the joys and sorrows of the passing years. aunt sarah had always been the perfect "housemother" or "haus frau," as the germans phrase it, and on every line of her matured face could be read an anxious care for the family welfare. truly could it be said of her, in the language of henry ward beecher: "whoever makes home seem to the young dearer and happier is a public benefactor." aunt sarah said earnestly to mary, "i wish it were possible for me to impart to young, inexperienced girls, about to become housewives and housemothers, a knowledge of those small economics, so necessary to health and prosperity, taught me by many years of hard work, mental travail, experience and some failures. in this extravagant twentieth century economy is more imperative than formerly. we feel that we need so much more these days than our grandmothers needed; and what we need, or feel that we need, is so costly. the housemother has larger problems today than yesterday. "every husband should give his wife an allowance according to his income, so that she will be able to systematize her buying and occasionally obtain imperishable goods at less cost. being encouraged thus to use her dormant economical powers; she will become a powerful factor in the problem of home-making along lines that will essentially aid her husband in acquiring a comfortable competency, if not a fortune. then she will have her husband's interest truly at heart; will study to spend his money carefully, and to the best advantage; and she herself, even, will be surprised at the many economies which will suggest themselves to save his hard-earned money when she handles that money herself, which certainly teaches her the saving habit and the value of money. "the majority of housewives of today aren't naturally inclined to be extravagant or careless. it is rather that they lack the knowledge and experience of spending money, and spending it to the best advantage for themselves and their household needs. "'tis a compulsory law in england, i have heard, to allow a wife pin money, according to a man's means. 'tis a most wise law. to a loyal wife and mother it gives added force, dignity and usefulness to have a sufficient allowance and to be allowed unquestioningly to spend that money to her best ability. her husband, be he a working or professional man, would find it greatly to his advantage in the home as well as in his business and less of a drain on his bank account should he give his wife a suitable allowance and trust her to spend it according to her own intelligence and thrift. "child, many a man is violently prejudiced against giving a young wife money; many allow her to run up bills, to her hurt and to his, rather than have her, even in her household expenditure, independent of his supervision. i sincerely hope, dear, that your intended, ralph jackson, will be superior to this male idiosyncrasy, to term it mildly, and allow you a stated sum monthly. the home is the woman's kingdom, and she should be allowed to think for it, to buy for it, and not to be cramped by lack of money to do as she thinks best for it." "but, aunt sarah, some housewives are so silly that husbands cannot really be blamed for withholding money from them and preventing them from frittering it away in useless extravagance." "mary, wise wives should not suffer for those who are silly and extravagant. i don't like to be sarcastic, but with the majority of the men, silliness appeals to them more than common sense. men like to feel their superiority to us. however, though inexperienced, mary, you aren't silly or extravagant, and ralph could safely trust you with his money. it makes a woman so self-respecting, puts her on her mettle, to have money to do as she pleases with, to be trusted, relied upon as a reasoning, responsible being. a man, especially a young husband, makes a grave mistake when he looks upon his wife as only a toy to amuse him in his leisure moments and not as one to be trusted to aid him in his life work. a trusted young housewife, with a reasonable and regular allowance at her command, be she ever so inexperienced, will soon plan to have wholesome, nutritious food at little cost, instead of not knowing until a half hour before meal time what she will serve. she would save money and the family would be better nourished; nevertheless, i would impress it on the young housewife not to be too saving or practice too close economy, especially when buying milk and eggs, as there is nothing more nutritious or valuable. a palatable macaroni and cheese; eggs or a combination of eggs and milk, are dishes which may be substituted occasionally, at less expense, for meat. a pound of macaroni and cheese equals a pound of steak in food value. take time and trouble to see that all food be well cooked and served, both in an attractive and appetizing manner. buy the cheaper cuts of stewing meats, and by long, slow simmering, they will become sweet and tender and of equal nutritive value as higher priced sirloins and tenderloins. "but, mary, i've not yet finished that trunk and its contents. that slightly-faded pink chambray i'll cut up into quilt blocks. made up with white patches, and quilted nicely, a pretty quilt lined with white, will be evolved. i have such a pretty design of pink and white called the 'winding way,' very simple to make. the beauty of the quilt consists altogether in the manner in which the blocks are put together, or it might be made over the pattern called 'the flying dutchman.' from that tan linen skirt may be made a laundry bag, shoe pocket, twine bag, a collar bag and a table runner, the only expense being several skeins of green embroidery silk, and a couple yards of green cord to draw the bags up with, and a couple of the same-hued skirt braids for binding edges, and," teasingly, "mary, you might embroider ralph jackson's initials on the collar and laundry bag." [illustration: a- pine tree quilt a- tree of life a- pineapple a- enlarged block of winding way quilt a- lost rose in the wilderness a- tree quilt] mary blushed rosily red and exclaimed in an embarrassed manner, most bewitchingly, "oh!" aunt sarah laughed. she thought to have mary look that way 'twas worth teasing her. "well, mary, we can in leisure moments, from that coarse, white linen skirt which you have discarded, make bureau scarfs, sideboard cover, or a set of scalloped table mats to place under hot dishes on your dining-room table. i will give you pieces of asbestos to slip between the linen mats when finished. they are a great protection to the table. you could also make several small guest towels with deep, hemstitched ends with your initials on. you embroider so beautifully, and the drawn work you do is done as expertly as that of the mexican women." "oh, aunt sarah, how ingenious you are." "and, mary, your rag carpet shall not be lacking. we shall tear up those partly-worn muslin skirts into strips one-half inch in width, and use the dyes left over from dyeing easter eggs. i always save the dye for this purpose, they come in such pretty, bright colors. the rags, when sewed together with some i have in the attic, we'll have woven into a useful carpet for the home you are planning.' "oh! aunt sarah," exclaimed mary, "do you mean a carpet like the one in the spare bedroom?" "yes, my dear, exactly like that, if you wish." "indeed i do, and i think one like that quite good enough to have in a dining-room. i think it so pretty. it does not look at all like a common rag carpet." "no, my dear, it is nothing very uncommon. it is all in the way it is woven. instead of having two gay rainbow stripes about three inches wide running through the length of the carpet, i had it woven with the ground work white and brown chain to form checks. then about an inch apart were placed two threads of two shades of red woolen warp, alternating with two threads of two shades of green, across the whole width, running the length of the carpet. it has been greatly admired, as it is rather different from that usually woven. all the rag carpets i found in the house when we moved here, made by john's mother, possessed very wide stripes of rainbow colors, composed of shaded reds, yellows, blues and greens. you can imagine how very gorgeous they were, and so very heavy. many of the country weavers use linen chain or warp instead of cotton, and always use wool warp for the stripes." "aunt sarah, i want something so very much for the colonial bedroom i should like to have when i have a home of my very own." "what is it, dear? anything, e'en to the half of my kingdom," laughingly replied her aunt. "why, i'd love to have several rag rugs like those in your bedroom, which you call 'new colonial' rugs." "certainly, my dear. they are easily made from carpet rags. i have already planned in my mind a pretty rag rug for you, to be made from your old, garnet merino shirtwaist, combined with your discarded cravenette stormcoat. "and you'll need some pretty quilts, also," said her aunt. "i particularly admire the tree quilts," said mary. "you may have any one you choose; the one called 'tree of paradise,' another called 'pineapple design,' which was originally a border to 'fleur de lis' quilt or 'pine tree,' and still another called 'tree of life,' and 'the lost rose in the wilderness.'" "they are all so odd," said mary, "i scarcely know which one i think prettiest." "all are old-fashioned quilts, which i prize highly," continued her aunt. "several i pieced together when a small girl, i think old-time patchwork too pretty and useful an accomplishment to have gone out of fashion. "you shall have a small stand cover like the one you admired so greatly, given me by aunt cornelia. it is very simple, the materials required being a square of yard-wide unbleached muslin. in the centre of this baste a large, blue-flowered handkerchief with cream-colored ground, to match the muslin. turn up a deep hem all around outside edge; cut out quarter circles of the handkerchief at each of four corners; baste neatly upon the muslin, leaving a space of muslin the same width as the hem around each quarter circle; briarstitch all turned-in edges with dark-blue embroidery silk, being washable, these do nicely as covers for small tables or stands on the veranda in summertime." "aunt sarah," ecstatically exclaimed mary, "you are a wizard to plan so many useful things from a trunk of apparently useless rags. what a treasure uncle has in you. i was fretting about having so little to make my home attractive, but i feel quite elated at the thought of having a carpet and rugs already planned, besides the numerous other things evolved from your fertile brain." aunt sarah loved a joke. she held up an old broadcloth cape. "here is a fine patch for ralph jackson's breeches, should he ever become sedentary and need one." mary reddened and looked almost offended and was at a loss for a reply. [illustration: a- fleur delys quilt a- oak leaf quilt a- one block of fleur delys quilt a- winding way quilt a- tulip quilt a- flower pot quilt] greatly amused, aunt sarah quoted ex-president roosevelt: "'tis time for the man with the patch to come forward and the man with the dollar to step back,'" and added, "never mind, mary, your ralph is such an industrious, hustling young man that he will never need a patch to step forward, i prophesy that with such a helpmeet and 'haus frau' as you, mary, he'll always be most prosperous and happy. kiss me, dear." mary did so, and her radiant smile at such praise from her honored relative was beautiful to behold. [illustration: old rag carpet] chapter ix. poetry and pie. "aunt sarah," questioned mary one day, "do you mind if i copy some of your recipes?" "certainly not, my dear," replied her aunt. "and i'd like to copy some of the poems, also, i never saw any one else have so much poetry in a book of cooking recipes." "perhaps not," replied her aunt, "but you know, mary, i believe in combining pleasure with my work, and our lives are made up of poetry and prose, and some lives are so very prosy. many times when too tired to look up a favorite volume of poems, it has rested me to turn the pages of my recipe book and find some helpful thought, and a good housewife will always keep her book of recipes where it may be readily found for reference. i think, mary, the poem 'pennsylvania,' by lydia m.d. o'neil, a fine one, and i never tire of reading it over and over again. i have always felt grateful to my old schoolmaster. professor t----, for teaching me, when a school girl, to love the writing of longfellow, whittier, bryant, tennyson and other well-known poets. i still, in memory, hear him repeat 'thanatopsis,' by bryant and 'the builders,' by longfellow. the rhymes of the 'fireside poet' are easily understood, and never fail to touch the heart of common folk. i know it appears odd to see so many of my favorite poems sandwiched in between old, valued cooking recipes, but, mary, the happiness of the home life depends so largely on the food we consume. on the preparation and selection of the food we eat depends our health, and on our health is largely dependent our happiness and prosperity. who is it has said, 'the discovery of a new dish makes more for the happiness of man than the discovery of a star'? so, dearie, you see there is not such a great difference between the one who writes a poem and the one who makes a pie. i think cooking should be considered one of the fine arts--and the woman who prepares a dainty, appetizing dish of food, which appeals to the sense of taste, should be considered as worthy of praise as the artist who paints a fine picture to gratify our sense of sight. i try to mix all the poetry possible in prosaic every-day life. we country farmers' wives, not having the opportunities of our more fortunate city sisters, such as witnessing plays from shakespeare, listening to symphony concerts, etc., turn to 'the friendship of books,' of which washington irving writes: 'cheer us with the true friendship, which never deceived hope nor deserted sorrow.'" "yes," said mary, "but remember, aunt sarah, chautauqua will be held next summer in a near-by town, and, as uncle john is one of the guarantors, you will wish to attend regularly and will, i know, enjoy hearing the excellent lectures, music and concerts." "yea," replied her aunt, "chautauqua meetings will commence the latter part of june, and i will expect you and ralph to visit us then. i think chautauqua a godsend to country women, especially farmers' wives; it takes them away from their monotonous daily toil and gives them new thoughts and ideas." "i can readily understand, aunt sarah, why the poem, 'life's common things,' appeals to you; it is because you see beauty in everything. aunt sarah, where did you get this very old poem, 'the deserted city'?" "why, that was given me by john's uncle, who thought the poem fine." "sad is the sight, the city once so fair! an hundred palaces lie buried there; her lofty towers are fallen, and creepers grow o'er marbled dome and shattered portico. "once in the gardens, lovely girls at play, culled the bright flowers, and gently touched the spray; but now wild creatures in their savage joy tread down the flowers and the plants destroy. "by night no torches in the windows gleam; by day no women in their beauty beam; the smoke has ceased--the spider there has spread his snares in safety--and all else is dead." "indeed, it is a 'gem,'" said mary, after slowly reading aloud parts of several stanzas. "yes," replied her aunt, "professor schmidt tells me the poem was written by kalidasa (the shakespeare of hindu literature), and was written years before goldsmith gave us his immortal work, 'the deserted village.'" "i like the poem, 'abou ben adhem and the angel,'" said mary, "and i think this true by henry ward beecher:" "'do not be troubled because you have not great virtues, god made a million spears of grass where he made one tree; the earth is fringed and carpeted not with forests but with grasses, only have enough of little virtues and common fidelities, and you need not mourn because you are neither a hero nor a saint.' "this is a favorite little poem of mine, aunt sarah. i'll just write it on this blank page in your book." there's a little splash of sunshine and a little spot of shade, always somewhere near, the wise bask in the sunshine, but the foolish choose the shade. the wise are gay and happy, on the foolish, sorrow's laid, and the fault's their own, i fear. for the little splash of sunshine and the little spot of shade are here for joint consumption, for comparison are made; we're all meant to be happy, not too foolish or too staid. and the right dose to be taken is some sunshine mixed with shade. "aunt sarah, i see there is still space on this page to write another poem, a favorite of mine. it is called, 'be strong,' by maltbie davenport." be strong! we are not here to play, to dream, to drift; we have hard word to do, and loads to lift, shun not the struggle; face it, 'tis god's gift. be strong! say not the days are evil--who's to blame? and fold the hands and acquiesce--oh, shame! stand up, speak out, and bravely, in god's name. be strong! it matters not how deep intrenched the wrong, how hard the battle goes, the day how long; faint not, fight on! tomorrow comes the song, life's common things. how lovely are life's common things. when health flows in the veins; the golden sunshine of the days when phoebus holds the reins; the floating clouds against the blue; the fragrance of the air; the nodding flowers by the way; the green grass everywhere; the feathery beauty of the elm, with graceful-swaying boughs. where nesting songbirds find a home and the night wind sighs and soughs; the hazy blue of distant hill, with wooded slope and crest; the crimson sky when low at night the sun sinks in the west; the thrilling grandeur of the storm, the lightning's vivid flash, the mighty rush of wind and rain, the thunder's awful crash. and then the calm that follows storm, and rainbow in the sky; the rain-washed freshness of the earth-- a singing bird near by. and oh, the beauty of the night! its hush, its thrill, its charm; the twinkling brilliance of its stars; its tranquil peace and calm. oh, loving fatherhood of god to give us every day the lovely common things of life to brighten all the way! (susan m. perkins, in the boston transcript) abou ben adhem and the angel. abou ben adhem--may his tribe increase-- awoke one night from a deep dream of peace and saw, within the moonlight of his room, making it rich and like a lily in bloom, an angel writing in a book of gold. exceeding peace had made ben adhem bold, and to the presence in the room he said: "what writest thou?" the vision raised his head, and with a look made of all sweet accord, answered: "the names of those who love the lord." "and is mine one?" said abou. "nay, not so," replied the angel. abou spoke low, but cheerily still, and said, "i pray thee, then, write me as one that loves his fellow-men." the angel wrote and vanished. the next night it came again, with a great, wakening light, and showed the names whom love of god had blessed, and, lo! ben adhem's name led all the rest. leigh hunt. chapter x. sibylla linsabigler. a very original character was sibylla linsabigler, who had been a member of the landis household several years. she was aunt sarah's only maid servant, but she disliked being referred to as a servant, and when she overheard "fritz" schmidt, as he passed the landis farm on his way to the creek for a days fishing, call to mary: "miss midleton, will you please send the butter over with the servant today, as i shall not return home in time for dinner" sibylla said, "i ain't no servant. i'm hired girl what does that make out if i do work here? pop got mad with me 'cause i wouldn't work at home no more for him and mom without they paid me. they got three more girls to home yet that can do the work. my pop owns a big farm and sent our 'chon' to the college, and it's mean 'fer' him not to give us girls money for dress, so i work out, 'taint right the way us people what has to work are treated these days," said sibylla to herself, as she applied the broom vigorously to the gay-flowered carpet in the landis parlor. "because us folks got to work ain't no reason why them tony people over to the perfessor's should call me a 'servant.' i guess i know i milk the cows, wash dishes, scrub floors, and do the washin' and ir'nin' every week, but i'm no 'servant,' i'm just as good any day as that good-fer-nothin' perfesser's son," continued sibylla, growing red in the face with indignation. "didn't i hear that worthless scamp, fritz schmidt, a-referrin' to me and a-sayin' to miss midleton fer the 'servant' to bring over the butter? betch yer life this here 'servant' ain't a-goin' to allow eddicated people to make a fool of her. first chance i get i'll give that perfesser a piece of my mind." sibylla's opportunity came rather unexpectedly. the gentle, mild-mannered professor was on good terms with his sturdy, energetic neighbor, john landis, and frequently visited him for a neighborly chat. on this particular day he called as usual and found sibvlla in the mood described. "good afternoon, sibylla," said the professor, good-naturedly. "how are you today?" "i'd be a whole lot better if some people weren't so smart," replied sibylla, venting her feelings on the broom. "should think a perfesser would feel himself too big to talk to a 'servant'." "on the contrary, my dear girl, i feel honored. i presume you are not feeling as well as usual. what makes you think it is condescension for me to address you?" asked the genial old man, kindly. "well, since you ask me, i don't mind a-tellin' you. yesterday your son insulted me, i won't take no insult from nobody, i am just as good as what you are, even if i hain't got much book larnin'." with this deliverance, sibylla felt she had done full justice to the occasion and would have closed the interview abruptly had not the professor, with a restraining hand, detained her. "we must get to the bottom of this grievance, sibylla. i am sure there is some mistake somewhere. what did my son say?" "well, if you want to know," replied the irate domestic, 'i'll tell you. he called me a 'servant.' i know i'm only a working girl, but your son nor nobody else ain't got no right to abuse me by callin' me a 'servant'." "ah! i see. you object to the term 'servant' being applied to you," said the professor, comprehendingly. "the word 'servant' is distasteful to you. you feel it is a disgrace to be called a servant. i see! i see!" in a fatherly way, the old man resumed: "in a certain sense we are all servants. the history of human achievements is a record of service. the men and women who have helped the world most were all servants--servants to humanity. the happiest man is he who serves. god calls some men to sow and some to reap; some to work in wood and stone; to sing and speak. work is honorable in all, regardless of the capacity in which we serve. there is no great difference, after all, between the ordinary laborer and the railroad president; both are servants, and the standard of measurement to be applied to each man is the same. it is not so much a question of station in life as it is the question of efficiency. best of all, work is education. there is culture that comes without college and university. he who graduates from the college of hard work is as honorable as he who takes a degree at yale or harvard; for wisdom can be found in shop and foundry, field and factory, in the kitchen amid pots and kettles, as well as in office and school. the truly educated man is the man who has learned the duty and responsibility of doing something useful, something helpful, something to make this old world of ours better and a happier place in which to live. the word 'servant,' sibylla, is a beautiful one, rightly understood. the greatest man who ever lived was a servant. all his earthly ministry was filled with worthy deeds. when man pleaded with him to rest, he answered: 'my father worketh hitherto, and i work.' when one of christ's followers desired to express the true nature of his work and office, he called himself a servant. he used a word, 'doulos,' which means, in the greek language, a slave or a bond-servant. by the word 'doulos' he meant to say that his mission in life was to work, to do good, to serve. this man was a great preacher, but it is possible for any one to become a 'doulos' in so far as he is willing to serve god and his fellowman. you see, sibylla, the spirit of christian work and brotherly love is the spirit of 'doulos.' the word has been transformed by service and unselfish devotion to duty. great men who have blessed the world, and good and noble women who have helped to uplift humanity, have done it through service. it is just as honorable to bake well, and cook well, and to do the humblest daily tasks efficiently, as it is to play well on the piano and talk fluently about the latest books." at the conclusion of the professor's little talk on the dignity of labor, a new light shone in sibylla's eyes and a new thought gripped her soul. the spirit of "doulos" had displaced her antipathy toward the word servant. "i'll take that butter over to the professer's home right away," she said, to herself. before leaving sibylla, the professor quoted from the "toiling of felix," by henry vandyke: "hewing wood and drawing water, splitting stones and cleaving sod, all the dusty ranks of labour, in the regiment of god, march together toward his triumph, do the task his hands prepare; honest toil is holy service, faithful work is praise and prayer." they who work without complaining, do the holy will of god. heaven is blest with perfect rest, but the blessing of earth is toil. sibylla linsabigler was a healthy, large-boned, solidly-built, typical "pennsylvania german" girl. her clear, pinkish complexion looked as if freshly scrubbed with soap and water. a few large, brown freckles adorned the bridge of her rather broad, flat nose. she possessed red hair and laughing, red-brown eyes, a large mouth, which disclosed beautiful even, white teeth when she smiled, extraordinary large feet and hands, strong, willing and usually good-natured, although possessed of a quick temper, as her red hair indicated. kind-hearted to a fault, she was of great assistance to aunt sarah, although she preferred any other work to that of cooking or baking. she kept the kitchen as well as other parts of the house, to quote aunt sarah, "neat as a pin," and did not object to any work, however hard or laborious, as long as she was not expected to do the thinking and planning. she was greatly attached to both aunt sarah and mary, but stood rather in awe of john landis, who had never spoken a cross word to her in the three years she had lived at the farm. sarah landis, knowing sibylla to be an honest, industrious girl, appreciated her good qualities, thought almost as much of sibylla as if she had been her daughter, and treated her in like manner, and for this reason, if for no other, she received willing service from the girl. sibylla, a swift worker at all times, never finished work so quickly as on wednesday and saturday evenings, when she "kept company" with jake crouthamel. "chake," as sibylla called him, was a sturdy, red-faced young farmer, all legs and arms. he appeared to be put together loosely at the joints, like a jumping-jack, and never appeared at ease in his ill-fitting "store clothes." he usually wore gray corduroy trousers and big cowhide boots, a pink and white striped shirt and red necktie. sibylla did not notice his imperfections, and thought him handsome as a greek god. jake, an honest, industrious young fellow, worked on a near-by farm, owned his own carriage, and had the privilege of using one of the farm horses when he wished, so he and sibylla frequently took "choy rides," as sibylla called them. jake crouthamel was usually called "boller-yockel," this name having been accorded him on account of his having delivered to a purchaser a load of hay largely composed of rag-weed. the man called him an old "boller-yockel," and the name had clung to jake for years. chapter xi. "new colonial" rag rugs. several days had elapsed since that on which mary's aunt had planned to use the contents of her trunk to such good advantage, when mary, coming into the room where her aunt was busily engaged sewing, exclaimed: "don't forget, auntie, you promised to teach me to crochet rag rugs!" [illustration: a "hit-and-miss" rug] "indeed, i've not forgotten, and will make my promise good at once," said aunt sarah. "we shall need quantities of carpet rags cut about one-half inch in width, the same as those used for making rag carpet. of course, you are aware, mary, that heavier materials should be cut in narrower strips than those of thinner materials. you will also require a long, wooden crochet needle, about as thick as an ordinary wooden lead pencil, having a hook at one end, similar to a common bone crochet needle, only larger. for a circular rug, crochet about twelve stitches (single crochet) over one end of a piece of candle wick or cable cord; or, lacking either of these, use a carpet rag of firm material; then draw the crocheted strip into as small a circle as possible, fasten and crochet round and round continuously until finished. the centre of a circular or oblong rug may be a plain color, with border of colored light and dark rags, sewed together promiscuously, called 'hit and miss.' [illustration: a brown and tan rug] "or you might have a design similar to a 'pin-wheel' in centre of the circular rug, with alternate stripes, composed of dark and light-colored rags." "i'd like one made in that manner from different shades that harmonize, browns and tans, for instance," said mary. "you may easily have a rug of that description," continued her aunt. "with a package of brown dye, we can quickly transform some light, woolen carpet rags i possess into pretty shades of browns and tans." [illustration: rug] "for a circular rug, with design in centre resembling a pin-wheel, commence crocheting the rug same as preceding one. crochet three rows of one color, then mark the rug off into four parts, placing a pin to mark each section or quarter of the rug. at each of four points crochet one stitch of a contrasting shade. crochet once around the circle, using a shade similar to that of the centre of rug for design, filling in between with the other shade. for the following row, crochet two stitches beneath the one stitch (not directly underneath the stitch, but one stitch beyond), filling in between with the other color. the third row, add three stitches beneath the two stitches in same manner as preceding row, and continue, until design in centre is as large as desired, then crochet 'hit or miss' or stripes. do not cut off the carpet rags at each of the four points after crocheting stitches, but allow each one to remain and crochet over them, then pick up on needle and crochet every time you require stitches of contrasting shade. then crochet several rows around the rug with different shades until rug is the required size. the under side should be finished off as neatly as the right, or upper side. mary, when not making a design, sew the rags together as if for weaving carpet. when crocheting circular rugs, occasionally stretch the outside row to prevent the rug from curling up at edges when finished, as it would be apt to do if too tightly crocheted. if necessary, occasionally add an extra stitch. avoid also crocheting it too loosely, as it would then appear like a ruffle. the advantage of crocheting over a heavy cord is that the work may be easily drawn up more tightly if too lose." chapter xii. mary imitates navajo blankets. on her return from an afternoon spent at professor schmidt's, mary remarked to aunt sarah, "for the first time in my life i have an original idea!" "do tell me child, what it is!" "the 'new colonial' rag rugs we have lately finished are fine, but i'd just love to have a navajo blanket like those owned by professor schmidt; and i intend to make a rag rug in imitation of his navajo blanket." "yes," answered her aunt, "i have always greatly admired them myself, especially the large gray one which covers the professor's own chair in the library. the professor brought them with him when he returned from 'cutler's ranch' at rociada, near las vegas, new mexico, where he visited his nephew, poor raymond, or rather, i should say, fortunate raymond, an only child of the professor's sister. a quiet, studious boy, he graduated at the head of his class at an early age, but he inherited the weak lungs of his father, who died of consumption. raymond was a lovable boy, with a fund of dry humor and wit--the idol of his mother, who, taking the advice of a specialist, accompanied her boy, as a last resort, to new mexico, where, partly owing to his determination to get well, proper food and daily rides on the mesa, on the back of his little pinto pony, he regained perfect health, and today is well, happily married and living in pasadena, california, so i have been told by frau schmidt, who dearly loves the boy." "but mary, forgive an old woman for rambling away from the subject in which you are interested--navajo blankets. ever since we planned to make a rug with a swastika in the centre, i nave been trying to evolve from my brain (and your uncle john says my bump of inventiveness is abnormally large) a navajo rag rug for the floor of the room you intend to furnish as ralph's den, in the home you are planning. well, my dear, a wooden crochet hook in your deft fingers will be the magic wand which will perform a miracle and transform into navajo blankets such very commonplace articles as your discarded gray eiderdown kimona, and a pair of your uncle's old gray trousers, which have already been washed and ripped by sibylla, to be used for making carpet rags. these, combined with the gray skirt i heard you say had outlived its day of usefulness, will furnish the background of the rug. the six triangles in the centre of the rug, also lighter stripes at each end of the rug, we will make of that old linen chair-cover and your faded linen skirt, which you said i might use for carpet rags; and, should more material be needed, i have some old, gray woolen underwear in my patch bag, a gray-white, similar to the real navajo. the rows of black with which we shall outline the triangles may be made from those old, black, silk-lisle hose you gave me, by cutting them round and round in one continuous strip. heavy cloth should be cut in _very_ narrow strips. sibylla will do that nicely; her hands are more used to handling large, heavy shears than are yours. the linen-lawn skirt you may cut in strips about three-fourths of an inch in width, as that material is quite thin. i would sew rags of one color together like carpet rags, not lapping the ends more than necessary to hold them together. the rug will be reversible, both sides being exactly alike when finished. i should make the rug about fifty-three stitches across. this will require about six and one-fourth yards of carpet rags, when sewed together, to crochet once across. i think it would be wise to cut all rags of different weight materials before commencing to crochet the rug, so they may be well mixed through. i will assist you with the work at odd moments, and in a short time the rug will be finished." the rug, when finished, was truly a work of art, and represented many hours of labor and thought. but mary considered it very fascinating work, and was delighted with the result of her labor--a rug the exact imitation of one of the professor's genuine indian navajo blankets, the work of her own hands, and without the expenditure of a penny. mary remarked: "i do not think all the triangles in my rug are the exact size of the paper pattern you made me, aunt sarah. the two in the centre appear larger than the others." "well," remarked her aunt, "if you examine closely the blankets owned by professor schmidt, you will find the on the ones woven by navajo indians are not of an equal size." 'tis said navajo blankets and serapes will become scarce and higher in price in the future, on account of the numerous young indians who have been educated and who prefer other occupations to that of weaving blankets, as did their forefathers; and the present disturbance in mexico will certainly interfere with the continuance of this industry for a time. [illustration: imitation of navajo blanket] [illustration: rug with design] "mary, while you have been planning your navajo rug, i have been thinking how we may make a very attractive as well as useful rug. you remember, we could not decide what use to make of your old, tan cravenette stormcoat? i have been thinking we might use this, when cut into carpet rags, for the principal part of the rug, and that old, garnet merino blouse waist might be cut and used for the four corners of a rug, and we might have gay stripes in the centre of the rug to form a sort of design, and also put gay stripes at each end of the rug. "and you might crochet a rug, plain 'hit or miss,' of rather bright-colored rags." "yes," said mary, "i think i will crochet a swastika in the centre of a rug, as you suggest, of bright orange, outlined with black, and a stripe of orange edged with black at each end of the rug to match the centre. don't you think that would be pretty, aunt sarah?" [illustration: "hit-or-miss" rug with swastika centre] "yes indeed, but mary, don't you think the swastika would show more distinctly on a rug with a plain background?" "perhaps it would," replied mary, "but i think i'll crochet one of very gayly-colored rags, with a swastika in the centre." [illustration: a "prayer rug" of silk scraps.] "aunt sarah," said mary, "do tell me how that pretty little rug composed of silk scraps is made." "oh, that _silk_ rug; 'twas given me by aunt cornelia, who finished it while here on a visit from new york. i never saw another like it, and it has been greatly admired. although possessed of an ordinary amount of patience, i don't think i'll ever make one for myself. i don't admire knitted rugs of any description, neither do i care for braided rugs. i think the crocheted ones prettier. but, mary, this small silk rug is easily made should you care to have one. i will commence knitting one for you at once. you will then find a use for the box of bright-colored silks you possess, many of which are quite too small to be used in any other manner. professor schmidt calls this a 'prayer rug.' he said: 'this rug, fashioned of various bright-hued silks of orange, purple and crimson, a bright maze of rich colors, without any recognizable figure or design, reminds me of the description of the 'prayer carpet' or rugs of the mohammedans. they are composed of rich-hued silks of purple, ruby and amber. 'tis said their delicacy of shade is marvelous and was suggested by the meadows of variegated flowers.' but this is a digression; you wished directions for making the rug. "use tiny scraps of various bright-hued silks, velvets and satins, cut about - / inches long and about one-half inch in width. ends should always be cut slanting or bias; never straight. all you will require besides the silk scraps, will be a ball of common cord or twine, or save all cord which comes tied around packages, as i do, and use that and two ordinary steel knitting needles. when making her rug, aunt cornelia knitted several strips a couple of inches in width and the length she wished the finished rug to be. the strips when finished she sewed together with strong linen thread on the wrong side of the rug. she commenced the rug by knitting two rows of the twine or cord. (when i was a girl we called this common knitting 'garter stitch.') then, when commencing to knit third row, slip off first stitch onto your other needle; knit one stitch, then lay one of the tiny scraps of silk across or between the two needles; knit one stitch with the cord. this holds the silk in position. then fold or turn one end of silk back on the other piece of silk and knit one stitch of cord to hold them in place, always keeping silk on one side, on the top of rug, as this rug is not reversible. continue in this manner until one row is finished. then knit once across plain with cord, and for next row lay silk scraps in and knit as before. always knit one row of the cord across plain after knitting in scraps of silk, as doing this holds them firmly in position. of course, mary, you will use judgment and taste in combining light and dark, bright and dull colors. also, do not use several scraps of velvet together. use velvet, silk and satin alternately. should any scraps of silk be longer than others after knitting, trim off evenly so all will be of uniform size. when her rug was finished, aunt cornelia spread it, wrong side uppermost, on an unused table, covered it with a thick boiled paste, composed of flour and water, allowed it to dry thoroughly, then lined the rug with a heavy piece of denim. this was done to prevent the rug from curling up at edges, and caused it to lie flat on floor; but i think i should prefer just a firm lining or foundation of heavy burlap or denim." "thank you, aunt sarah, for your explicit directions. i cannot fail to know just how to knit a silk rug, should i ever care to do so. i think the work would be simply fascinating." chapter xiii. the girls' campfire, organized by mary. one day in early june, when all nature seemed aglow with happiness, we find mary earnestly discussing with elizabeth schmidt the prosaic, humdrum life of many of the country girls, daughters of well-to-do farmers in the vicinity. "i wish," said mary, wrinkling her forehead thoughtfully, "i could think of some new interest to introduce into their lives; some way of broadening their outlook; anything to bring more happiness into their commonplace daily toil; something good and helpful for them to think about." all at once mary, who was not usually demonstrative, clapped her hands, laughed gleefully and said: "i have it, elizabeth. the very thing! suppose we start a 'girls' campfire,' right here in the country? i don't think we shall have any trouble to organize." "and you, because you understand all about it, will be the guardian," said elizabeth. at first mary demurred, but, overcome by elizabeth's pleading, finally gave a reluctant consent. they then made out a list of the girls they thought might be willing to join, mary promising to write at once for a handbook. they separated, elizabeth to call to see the girls, and mary to interview their parents. their efforts were rewarded with surprisingly gratifying results, for many of the girls had read about the "campfire girls" and were anxious to become members. * * * * * one afternoon, several weeks later, had you gone into the old apple orchard, at the farm, you would have seen thirteen eager young girls, ranging in age from fourteen to sixteen, listening intently to mary, who was telling them about the "campfire girls." what she told them was something like this: "now girls, we are going to have a good time. some of our good times will be play and some work. when you join, you will become a 'wood gatherer,' and after three months' successful work, if you have met certain qualifications, you will be promoted to the rank of 'fire maker.' later on, when you come to realize what it means to be a 'torch bearer,' you will be put in that rank. the first law which you learn to follow is one which you must apply to your daily life. it is: seek beauty, give service, pursue knowledge, be trustworthy, hold on to health, glorify work, be happy. 'the camp fire' has meant so much to girls i have known, for their betterment, and has been so helpful in many ways, you surely will never regret becoming a member of the organization, or be anything but happy if you keep their laws. there will be no dues, except what is collected for good times, and no expense except the cost of your ceremonial costume, epaulettes and honor beads. the latter are quite inexpensive. the honors are divided into several classes, and for each honor a bead is given as a symbol of your work. a special colored bead is given for each class. we shall meet about once every week. the monthly meeting is called the 'council fire.' i will tell you later about the 'wohelo' ceremony. by the way, girls, 'wohelo' stands for work, health and love. you see, the word is composed of the first two letters of each word." the girls appeared to be greatly interested, and mary felt very much encouraged. some of the girls left to talk it over with the homefolks, while others, wishing to learn more of the organisation, plied mary with numerous questions. finally, in desperation, she said: "girls, i will read you the following from the 'camp fire girls' handbook, which i received this morning:" 'the purpose of this organization is to show that the common things of daily life are the chief means of beauty, romance and adventure; to aid in the forming of habits making for health and vigor, the out-of-door habit and the out-of-door spirit; to devise ways of measuring and creating standards to woman's work, and to give girls the opportunity to learn how to "keep step," to learn team work, through doing it; to help girls and women serve the community, the larger home, in the same way they have always served the individual home; to give status and social recognition to the knowledge of the mother, and thus restore the intimate relationship of mothers and daughters to each other.' "well, girls," said mary, as she laid aside the book, "i think you all understand what a benefit this will be to you, and i will do all in my power to help you girls, while i am at the farm this summer. it is too late to tell you any more today. the information i have given you will suffice for the present. three cheers for our camp fire! which will be under way in two months, i trust." * * * * * the members of "shawnee" camp fire held their first council fire, or ceremonial meeting, the second week in july. the girls, all deeply interested, worked hard to secure honors which were awarded for engaging in domestic duties well known to the home, for studying and observing the rules of hygiene and sanitation, and for learning and achievements in various ways. they held weekly meetings and studied diligently to win the rank of fire maker. a girl, when she joins, becomes a wood gatherer; she then receives a silver ring. the weeks pass swiftly by, and it is time for another camp fire. the girls selected as their meeting place for this occasion farmer druckenmuller's peach orchard, to which they walked, a distance of about three miles from the home of elizabeth schmidt. they left about two o'clock in the afternoon, intending to return home before nightfall, a good time being anticipated, as they took with them lunch and materials for a corn-roast. the peach orchard in question, covering many acres, was situated at the foot of a low hill. between the two flowed an enchanting, fairy-like stream, the cultivated peach orchard on one side, and on the opposite side the forest-like hill, covered with an abundance of wild flowers. when the afternoon set for the council fire arrived, had you happened to meet the fifteen merry, chattering girls, accompanied by two older girls, mary and lucy robbins (the country school teacher), as chaperones, wending their way to the orchard, you, without a doubt, would have smiled and a question might naturally have arisen regarding their sanity. they certainly possessed intelligent faces, but why those queer-shaped indian dresses? and such an awkward length for a young girl's dress! and why was their hair all worn hanging in one braid over each shoulder, with a band over the forehead? why so many strings of gaudy beads around their necks? these questions may all be answered in one single sentence: the girls are dressed in ceremonial costume. [illustration: elizabeth schmidt "laughing water"] a great many delays along the way were caused by girls asking the names of the different wild flowers and weeds they noticed in passing. one of the girls stopped to examine a prickly-looking plant about two feet high, with little, blue flowers growing along the stem, and asked if any one knew the name of it. they were about to look it up in a small "flower guide" owned by one of the girls, when some one said: "why, that is a weed called 'vipers bougloss,'" they also found cardinal flower, thorn apple, monkey flower and jewel-weed in abundance, wild sunflower, ginseng, early golden rod, "joe-pie-weed," marshallow, black cohosh and purple loose-trifle. the girls also noticed various birds. on a tall tree one of the girls espied a rose-breasted grosbeak, rare in this part of bucks county. they all stopped and watched for a short time a white-bellied nut-hatch. the girls were startled as a scarlet tanger flew past to join his mate, and they at last reached their rendezvous, the orchard. by half-past three they were all seated in a circle waiting for the ceremonies to begin. mary midleton, their guardian, stepped to the front, saying: "sunflower, light the fire." sunflower, through several months of daily attainment, had become a fire-maker and was very proud of the fire-maker's bracelet she was entitled to wear. sunflower was given that name because she always looked on the bright side of everything; she looked like a sunflower, too, with her tanned face and light, curly hair. all the girls had symbolical names given them. "lark" was so named because of her sweet voice and because she loved to sing; "sweet tooth," on account of her love for candy; "quick silver," because she was quick, bright and witty; "great buffalo," a girl who was very strong; elizabeth schmidt, "laughing water," so named because she laughed and giggled at everybody and everything; "babbling brook," because it seemed an utter impossibility for her to stop talking; "burr," because she sticks to ideas and friends; "faith," quiet and reserved; "comet," comes suddenly and brings a lot of light; "black hawk," always eager at first, but inclined to let her eagerness wear off: "pocahontas," because she never can hurry; "ginger foot," a fiery temper, "gypsy," so named on account of her black hair; "bright eyes," for her bright, blue eyes; "rainbow," for her many ways, and because she is pretty. as "sunflower" took the matches and knelt by the pile of wood and lighted the fire, she recited the ode to the fire: "oh, fire! long years ago, when our fathers fought with great beasts, you were their protector. from the cruel cold of winter you saved. when they needed food, you changed the flesh of beasts into savory meat for them. through all ages your mysterious flame has been a symbol of the great spirit to them. tonight we light this fire in remembrance of the great spirit who gave you to us." then the girls sang the chant or chanted: wohelo for aye, wohelo for aye, wohelo for aye, wohelo for work, wohelo for health, wohelo, wohelo for love. then they recited the wood-gatherer's desire: "it is my desire to be a campfire girl and keep the law of the camp fire, which is 'to seek beauty, give service, pursue knowledge, be trustworthy, hold onto health, glorify work, be happy,'" none had yet attained the highest rank, that of torch bearer, won by still greater achievement, the camp having been organized so recently. their motto was "the light which has been given to me, i desire to pass undimmed to others." "gypsy," the secretary, then read the "count" for the last meeting and called the roll, and the girls handed in the list of honors they had won in the last month. some amused themselves playing games, while others gathered more wood. at five o'clock the corn and white and sweet potatoes were in the fire roasting. a jolly circle of girls around the fire were busily engaged toasting "weiners" for the feast, which was finally pronounced ready to be partaken of. the hungry girls "fell to" and everything eatable disappeared as if by magic; and last, but not least, was the toasting of marshmallows, speared on the points of long, two-pronged sticks (broken from near-by trees), which were held over the fire until the marshmallows turned a delicate color. when everything had been eaten, with the exception of several cardboard boxes, corn cobs and husks, the girls quickly cleared up. then, seated around the fire, told what they knew of indian legends and folklore. noticing the sun slowly sinking in the west, they quickly gathered together their belongings and started homeward singing, "my country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty." thus broke up the second council fire, and in the heart of each girl was the thought of how much the campfire was helping them to love god and his works. chapter xiv. mary makes "violet" and "rose leaf" beads. "aunt sarah," exclaimed mary one day, "you promised to tell me exactly how you made those 'rose beads' you have." "yes, my dear, and you must make the beads before the june roses are gone. the process is very simple. if you would have them very sweet, get the petals of the most fragrant roses. i used petals of the old-fashioned, pink 'hundred leaf' and 'blush roses.' gather a quantity, for you will need them all. grind them to a pulp in the food chopper, repeat several times and place the pulp and juice into an _iron_ kettle or pan. this turns the pulp black, which nothing but an iron kettle will do; cook, and when the consistency of dough it is ready to mold into beads. take a bit of the dough, again as large as the size you wish your beads to be when finished, as they shrink in size when dried, and make them of uniform size, or larger ones for the centre of the necklace, as you prefer. roll in the palms of your hands, until perfectly round, stick a pin through each bead, then stick the pins into a bake board. be careful the bead does not touch the board, as that would spoil its shape. allow the beads to remain until perfectly dry. if they are to have a dull finish, leave as they are. if you wish to polish them, take a tiny piece of vaseline on the palm of the hand and rub them between the palms until the vaseline is absorbed. then string them on a linen thread. keep in a closed box to preserve their fragrance. those i showed you, mary, i made many years ago, and the scent of the roses clings 'round them still.'" "did you know, mary, that beads may be made from the petals of the common wild blue violet in exactly the same manner as they are made from rose leaves?" "no, indeed, but i don't think the making of beads from the petals of roses and violets as wonderful as the beads which you raise in the garden. those shiny, pearl-like seeds or beads of silvery-gray, called 'job's tears,' which grow on a stalk resembling growing corn; and to think professor schmidt raised those which elizabeth strung on linen thread, alternately with beads, for a portiere in their sitting-room." "yes, my dear, the beads must be pierced before they become hard; later they should be polished. did you ever see them grow, mary? the beads or 'tears' grow on a stalk about fifteen inches high and from the bead or 'tear' grows a tiny, green spear resembling oats. they are odd and with very little care may he grown in a small garden." "they certainly are a curiosity," said mary. chapter xv. mary and elizabeth visit sadie singmaster. farmer landis, happening to mention at the breakfast table his intention of driving over to the "ax handle factory" to obtain wood ashes to use as a fertilizer, his wife remarked, "why not take mary with you, john? she can stop at singmaster's with a basket of carpet rags for sadie. i've been wanting to send them over for some time." turning to mary, she said: "poor little, crippled sadie! on account of a fall, which injured her spine, when a small child, she has been unable to walk for years. she cuts and sews carpet rags, given her by friends and neighbors, and from their sale to a carpet weaver in a near-by town, helps her widowed mother eke out her small income." "i'd love to go see her," said mary. elizabeth schmidt also expressed her willingness to go, when asked, saying: "i am positive mother will add her contribution to the carpet rags for sadie, i do pity her so very much." "yes," said mary's aunt, "she is poor and proud. she will not accept charity, so we persuade her to take carpet rags, as we have more than we can possibly use." on reaching the singmaster cottage, the girls alighted with their well-filled baskets, mary's uncle driving on to the "ax handle factory," promising to call for the girls on his return. the sad, brown eyes of sadie, too large for her pinched, sallow face, shone with pleasure at sight of the two young girls so near her own age, and she smiled her delight on examining the numerous bright-colored patches brought by them. thinking the pleasure she so plainly showed might appear childish to the two girls, she explained: "i do get so dreadfully tired sewing together so many dull homely rags. i shall enjoy making balls of these pretty, bright colors." "sadie," mary inquired, "will you think me inquisitive should i ask what the carpet weaver pays you for the rags when you have sewed and wound them into balls?" "certainly not," replied sadie. "four cents a pound is what he pays me. it takes two of these balls to make a pound," and she held up a ball she had just finished winding. "is _that all_ you get?" exclaimed elizabeth. "have you ever made rag rugs?" inquired mary. "no, i have never even seen one. are they anything like braided mats?" "yes, they are somewhat similar to them, but i crochet mine and think them prettier. i have made several, with aunt sarah's assistance. i'll come over and teach you to make them one of these days, should you care to learn, and i'm positive you will find ready sale for them. in fact, i've several friends in the city who have admired the ones i have, and would like to buy rugs for the colonial rooms they are furnishing. sadie, can you crochet?" "oh, yes. i can do the plain stitch very well." "that is all that will be necessary. you will become very much interested in inventing new designs, it is very fascinating work, and it will be more remunerative than sewing carpet rags. aunt sarah will send you more carpet rags if you require them, and should you wish dull colors of blue or pink, a small package of dye will transform white or light-colored rags into any desired shade, to match the furnishings of different rooms. i think the crocheted rugs much prettier than the braided ones, which are so popular in the 'nutting' pictures, and the same pretty shades may be used when rugs are crocheted." when farmer landis came for the girls, he found them too busily engaged talking to hear his knock at the door. during the drive home mary could think and talk of nothing but sadie singmaster, and the rugs she had promised to teach her to make at an early day. elizabeth, scarcely less enthusiastic, said: "i've a lot of old things i'll give her to cut up for carpet rags." reaching home, mary could scarcely wait an opportunity to tell aunt sarah all her plans for sadie's betterment. when she finally did tell her aunt, she smiled and said: "mary, i'm not surprised. you are always planning to do a kind act for some one. you remind me of the lines, 'if i can live,' by helen hunt jackson." and she repeated the following for mary: if i can live. if i can live to make some pale face brighter and to give a second luster to some tear-dimmed eye, or e'en impart one throb of comfort to an aching heart, or cheer some wayworn soul in passing by; if i can lend a strong hand to the fallen, or defend the right against a single envious strain, my life, though bare, perhaps, of much that seemeth dear and fair to us of earth, will not have been in vain. the purest joy, most near to heaven, far from earth's alloy, is bidding cloud give way to sun and shine; and 'twill be well if on that day of days the angels tell of me, she did her best for one of thine. chapter xvi. old parlor made beautiful (modernized). when john landis came into possession of "clear spring" farm, where his mother had lived during her lifetime, she having inherited it from her father, the rooms of the old farm house were filled with quaint, old-fashioned furniture of every description. "aunt sarah," on coming to the farm to live, had given a personal touch and cheery, homelike look to every room in the house, with one exception, the large, gloomy, old-fashioned parlor, which was cold, cheerless and damp. she confessed to mary she always felt as if john's dead-and-gone ancestors' ghostly presences inhabited the silent room. the windows were seldom opened to allow a ray of sunlight to penetrate the dusk with which the room was always enveloped, except when the regular weekly sweeping day arrived; when, after being carefully swept and dusted, it was promptly closed. a room every one avoided, aunt sarah was very particular about always having fresh air and sunlight in every other part of the house but his one room. the old fireplace had been boarded up many years before aunt sarah's advent to the farm, so it could not be used. one day mary noticed, while dusting the room (after it had been given a thorough sweeping by sibylla, aunt sarah's one maid servant), that the small, many-paned windows facing the east, at one end of the parlor, when opened, let in a flood of sunshine; and in the evening those at the opposite end of the long room gave one a lovely view of the setting sun--a finer picture than any painted by the hand of a master. mary easily persuaded her aunt to make some changes in the unlivable room. she suggested that they consult her uncle about repapering and painting the room and surprise him with the result when finished. aunt sarah, who never did things by halves, said: "mary, i have long intended 'doing over' this room, but thought it such a great undertaking. now, with your assistance, i shall make a sweep of these old, antiquated heirlooms of a past generation. this green carpet, with its gorgeous bouquets of roses, we shall have combined with one of brown and tan in the attic. your uncle shall take them with him when he drives to town and have them woven into pretty, serviceable rugs for the floor." "and, oh! aunt sarah," cried mary, "do let's have an open fireplace. it makes a room so cheery and 'comfy' when the weather gets colder, on long winter evenings, to have a fire in the grate. i saw some lovely, old brass andirons and fender in the attic, and some brass candlesticks there also, which will do nicely for the mantel shelf over the fireplace. i'll shine 'em up, and instead of this hideously-ugly old wall paper with gay-colored scrawley figures, aunt sarah, suppose we get an inexpensive, plain, tan felt paper for drop ceiling and separate it from the paper on the side wall, which should be a warm, yellow-brown, with a narrow chestnut wood molding. then this dull, dark, gray-blue painted woodwork; could any one imagine anything more hideously ugly? it gives me the 'blues' simply to look at it. could we not have it painted to imitate chestnut wood? and don't you think we might paint the floor around the edges of the rug to imitate the woodwork? just think of those centre panels of the door painted a contrasting shade of pale pink. the painter who did this work certainly was an artist. a friend of mine in the city, wishing to use rugs instead of carpets on her floors, and not caring to go to the expense of laying hardwood floors, gave the old floors a couple of coats of light lemon, or straw-colored paint, then stained and grained them a perfect imitation of chestnut, at small expense. the floors were greatly admired when finished, and having been allowed to dry thoroughly after being varnished, proved quite durable. i will write to my friend at once and ask her exactly how her floors were treated." "now, mary, about this old-style furniture. the old grandfather clock standing in the corner, at the upper end of the room, i should like to have remain. it is one hundred and fifty years old and belonged to my folks, and, although old-fashioned, is highly valued by me." "of course," said mary, "we'll certainly leave that in the room." "also," said aunt sarah, "allow the old cottage organ and large, old-fashioned bookcase belonging to your uncle to remain. he has frequently spoken of moving his bookcase into the next room, when he was obliged to come in here for books, of which he has quite a valuable collection." [illustration: a- seed wreath a- wax fruit a- old parlor mantel a- old clock a- boquet of hair flowers ] "oh," said mary, "no need of that. we will move uncle john in here, near the bookcase, when we get our room fixed up. aunt sarah, we will leave that old-fashioned table, also, with one leaf up against the wall, and this quaint, little, rush-bottomed rocker, which i just dote on." "why, dear," exclaimed aunt sarah, "there are several chairs to match it in the attic, which you may have when you start housekeeping for your very own. and," laughingly, said her aunt, "there is another old, oval, marble-topped table in the attic, containing a large glass case covering a basket of wax fruit, which you may have." "no, aunt sarah," said mary, "i don't believe i want the fruit, but i will accept your offer of the table. well, aunt sarah, i know you won't have this old, black what-not standing in the corner of the room. i do believe it is made of spools, strung on wire, as supports for the shelves; then all painted black, imitation of ebony, i suppose. it must have been made in the black age, at the same time the old corner cupboard was painted, as uncle john told me he scraped off three different layers of paint before doing it over, and one was black. it was originally made of cherry. it certainly looks fine now, with those new brass hinges and pretty, old-fashioned glass knobs." "yes, mary," replied her aunt, "and there is an old corner cupboard in the attic which belonged to my father, that you may have, and, with a very little labor and expense, ralph can make it look as well as mine. it has only one door and mine possesses two." "aunt sarah," exclaimed mary, "you are a dear! how will i ever repay you for all your kindness to me?" "by passing it on to some one else when you find some one needing help," said aunt sarah. "such a collection of odd things, aunt sarah, as are on this what-not i never saw. old ambrotypes and daguerreotypes of gone and forgotten members of the 'freinshoft,' as you sometimes say. i don't believe you know any of them." "yes, the red plush frame on the mantel shelf contains a picture of john's uncle, a fine-looking man, but he possessed 'wanderlust' and has lived in california for many years. "oh, you mean the picture on the mantel standing near those twin gilded china vases, gay with red and blue paint?" "yes; and that small china and gilt stand with little bowl and pitcher was given me when a small child." "suppose i bring a basket and we will fill it with articles from the mantel and what-not," said mary, "and carry them all to the attic, until you have a rummage sale some day. we'll burn these 'everlasting' and 'straw' flowers, and pampas grass, and this large apple stuck full of cloves. here is a small china dog and a little china basket with a plaited china handle decorated with gilt, and tiny, pink-tinted china roses. and these large, glass marbles containing little silver eagles inside; also this small, spun-glass ship and blue-and-pink-striped glass pipe. aunt sarah, some of your ancestors must have attended a glass blowers' exhibition in years past." "this branch of white coral, these large snail shells (when a child i remember holding them to my ear to hear a noise resembling the roar of the ocean), and this small basket, fashioned of twigs and tendrils of grape vine, then dipped in red sealing wax, certainly is a good imitation of coral, and this plate, containing a miniature ship composed of green postage stamps, we will place in your corner cupboard." "and, aunt sarah, i suppose this deep, glass-covered picture frame containing a bouquet of hair flowers, most wonderfully and fearfully made, was considered a work of art in days past and gone, as was also the crescent in a frame on the opposite side of the room, composed of flowers made of various seeds of grain and garden vegetables. those daisies, made of cucumber seeds with grains of red corn for centres, and those made of tiny grains of popcorn with a watermelon seed in centre, are cute. the latter look like breastpins with a circle of pearls around the edge. and this glass case on the table, containing a white cross, covered with wax tube roses, ivy leaves and fuchsias drooping from the arms of the cross, sparkling with diamond dust! the band of green chenille around its base matches the mat underneath, composed of green zephyr of different shades, knitted, then raveled to imitate moss, i suppose; and, no doubt, this marble-topped table has stood here for fifty years, in this same spot, for the express purpose of holding this beautiful (?) work of art." "the hair flowers and the seed wreath were made by john's sister," replied aunt sarah. "aunt sarah," exclaimed mary, "i've an original idea. this oval, marble-topped table has such strong, solid legs of black walnut, suppose we remove the marble slab and have a large, circular top made of wood at the planing mill? wait; i'll get my tape measure. about thirty-two inches in diameter will do. the new top we shall stain to match the walnut frame, and it could be easily fastened to the table with a couple of screws; and, after the marble top has been well scoured, we'll use it in the kitchen as a bake board on which to roll out pie crust." her aunt as usual acquiesced to all mary's suggestions. "you're a dear, aunt sarah!" exclaimed mary, as she gave her a hug, "and i'll embroider big, yellow daisies with brown centres of french knots on gray linen for a new table cover. won't they look just sweet?" "yes, mary, and i'll buy a large, new lamp with a pretty shade, as i feel sure your uncle will like to sit here evenings to read his papers and farm journals." "and don't forget the shriners' little magazine, _the crescent_, which amuses him so greatly. aunt sarah, i do wish those stiff, starchy-looking, blue-white nottingham lace curtains at the windows had grown yellow with age. they would be ever so much prettier and softer looking, and they are such a pretty, neat design, too." "oh!" replied her aunt, "that may be easily remedied. i'll just dip them into a little weak liquid coffee and that will give them a creamy tint, and take out the stiffness." "now," said mary, "what shall we do with these stiff, ugly, haircloth-covered chairs and sofa?" "why," replied aunt sarah, "we shall buy cretonne or art cloth, in pretty shades of brown and tan or green, to harmonize with the wall paper, and make slip covers for them all. we could never think of dispensing with the sofa. it is a very important article of furniture in german households. the hostess usually gives the person of greatest distinction among her guests the place of honor beside her on the sofa." "these chairs have such strong, well-made, mahogany frames it would be a pity not to use them. now," continued mary, "about the pictures on the wall. can't we consign them all to the attic? we might use some of the frames. i'll contribute unframed copies of 'the angelus' and 'the gleaners,' by millet; and i think they would fit into these plain mahogany frames which contain the very old-fashioned set of pictures named respectively 'the lovers,' 'the declaration,' 'the lovers' quarrel' and 'the marriage.' they constitute a regular art gallery. i'll use a couple of the frames for some small colonial and apple blossom pictures i have, that i just love, by wallace nutting. mine are all unframed; 'maiden reveries,' 'a canopied roof' and a 'ton of bloom,' i think are sweet. those branches of apple trees, covered with a mass of natural-looking pink blossoms, are exquisite." "yes," remarked aunt sarah, "they look exactly like our old baldwin, winesap and cider apple trees in the old, south meadow in the spring. and, mary, we'll discard those two chromos, popular a half century ago, of two beautiful cherubs called respectively, 'wide awake' and 'fast asleep,' given as premiums to a popular magazine. i don't remember if the magazine was 'godey's,' 'peterson's' or 'home queen'; they have good, plain, mahogany frames which we can use." "and, aunt sarah," said mary, "we can cut out the partition in this large, black-walnut frame, containing lithograph pictures of general george washington, 'the father of his country' (we are informed in small letters at the bottom of the picture), and of general andrew jackson, 'the hero of new orleans.' both men are pictured on horseback, on gayly-caparisoned, prancing white steeds, with scarlet saddle cloth, edged with gold bullion fringe. the generals are pictured clad in blue velvet coats with white facings of cloth or satin vest and tight-fitting knee breeches, also white and long boots reaching to the knee. gold epaulettes are on their shoulders, and both are in the act of lifting their old-fashioned continental hats, the advancing army showing faintly in the background. how gorgeously they are arrayed! we will use this frame for the excellent, large copy you have of 'the doctor' and the pictured faces of the german composers--beethoven, wagner, mendelssohn, haydn, schubert and mozart, which i have on a card with a shaded brown background, will exactly fit into this plain frame of narrow molding, from which i have just removed the old cardboard motto, 'no place like home,' done with green-shaded zephyr in cross-stitch." [illustration: a- an old sampler a- old woven basket a- wax cross a- old spinning wheel] "now, mary, with the couple of comfortable rockers which i intend purchasing, i think we have about finished planning our room." "if you are willing, aunt sarah, i should like to make some pretty green and brown cretonne slips to cover those square sofa pillows in place of the ones made of small pieces of puffed silk and the one of colored pieces of cashmere in log cabin design, i do admire big, fat, plain, comfortable pillows, for use instead of show. and we must have a waste paper basket near the table beside uncle john's chair. i shall contribute green satin ribbon for an immense bow on the side of the basket. oh! aunt sarah! you've forgotten all about this odd, woven basket, beside the what-not, filled with sea shells. i don't care for the shells, but the basket would make a lovely sewing basket." "you may have the basket, mary, if you like it. it came from panama, or perhaps it was bought at aspinwall by john's uncle, many years ago, when he came home on a visit from california, by way of the isthmus, to visit old friends and relatives. john's mother always kept it standing on the floor in one corner of the room beside the what-not." "aunt sarah, why was straw ever put under this carpet?" "the straw was put there, my dear, to save the carpet, should the boards on the floor be uneven. my mother was always particular about having _cut rye straw_, because it was softer and finer than any other. it was always used in those days instead of the carpet linings we now have. i remember sometimes, when the carpet had been newly laid, in our home, immediately after house cleaning time, the surface of the floor looked very odd; full of bumps and raised places in spots, until frequent walking over it flattened down the straw. this room happens to have a particularly good, even floor, as this part of the house was built many years later than the original, old farm house, else it would not do to have it painted." "aunt sarah, may i have the old spinning wheel in the attic? i'd love to furnish an old colonial bedroom when i have a home of my very own. i'll use the rag carpet you made me for the floor, the old-fashioned, high-post bed uncle john said i might have, and the 'new colonial' rugs you taught me to make. "yes, my dear, and there is another old grandfather's clock in the attic which you may have; and a high-boy also, for which i have no particular use." "aunt sarah, we shall not put away this really beautiful old sampler worked in silk by uncle john's grandmother when a girl of nine years. it is beautifully done, and is wonderful, i think. and what is this small frame containing a yellowed piece of paper cut in intricate designs, presumably with scissors?" "look on the back of the picture and see what is written there, my dear," said her aunt. mary slowly read: "'this is the only picture i owned before my marriage. i earned the money to buy it by gathering wheat heads.'" "it belonged to my grandmother," said aunt sarah. "in old times, after the reapers had left the field, the children were allowed to gather up the wheat remaining, and, i suppose, grandmother bought this picture with the money she earned herself, and considered it quite a work of art in her day. it is over one hundred years old." chapter xvii. an old song evening. aunt sarah and mary spent few idle moments while carrying out their plans for "doing over" the old parlor. finally, 'twas finished. mary breathed a sigh of satisfaction as the last picture was hung on the wall. she turned to her aunt, saying, "don't you think the room looks bright, cheery and livable?" "yes," replied her aunt, "and what is more essential, homey, i have read somewhere, 'a woman's house should be as personal a matter as a spider's web or a snail's shell; and all the thought, toil and love she puts into it should be preserved a part of its comeliness and homelikeness forever, and be her monument to the generations.'" "well, aunt sarah," replied mary, "i guess we've earned our monument. the air that blows over the fields, wafted in from the open window, is sweet with the scent of grain and clover, and certainly is refreshing. i'm dreadfully tired, but so delighted with the result of our labors. now we will go and 'make ready,' as sibylla says, before the arrival of ralph from the city. i do hope the ice cream will be frozen hard. the sunshine sponge cake, which i baked from a recipe the professor's wife gave me, is light as a feather. 'tis ralph's favorite cake. let's see; besides ralph there are coming all the schmidts, lucy robbins, the school teacher, and sibylla entertains her jake in the kitchen. i promised to treat him to ice cream; sibylla was so good about helping me crack the ice to use for freezing the cream. we shall have an 'old song evening' that will amuse every one." quite early, as is the custom in the country, the guests for the evening arrived; and both mary and aunt sarah felt fully repaid for their hard work of the past weeks by the pleasure john landis evinced at the changed appearance of the room. the professor's wife said, "it scarcely seems possible to have changed the old room so completely." aunt sarah replied, "paint and paper do wonders when combined with good taste, furnished by mary." during the evening one might have been forgiven for thinking professor schmidt disloyal to the mother country (he having been born and educated in heidelberg) had you overheard him speaking to ralph on his favorite subject, the "pennsylvania german." during a lull in the general conversation in the room mary heard the professor remark to ralph: "the pennsylvania germans are a thrifty, honest and industrious class of people, many of whom have held high offices. the first germans to come to america as colonists in pennsylvania were, as a rule, well to do. experts, when examining old documents of colonial days, after counting thousands of signatures, found the new york 'dutch' and the pennsylvania 'germans' were above the average in education in those days. their dialect, the so-called 'pennsylvania german' or 'dutch,' as it is erroneously called by many, is a dialect which we find from the tauber grund to frankfurt, a.m. as the german language preponderated among the early settlers, the language of different elements, becoming amalgamated, formed a class of people frequently called 'pennsylvania dutch'." professor harbaugh, d.d., has written some beautiful poems in pennsylvania german which an eminent authority, professor kluge, a member of the freiburg university, germany, has thought worthy to be included among the classics. they are almost identical with the poems written by nadler in heidelberger mundart, or dialect. mary, who had been listening intently to the professor, said, when he finished talking to ralph: "oh, please, do repeat one of professor harbaugh's poems for us." he replied, "i think i can recall several stanzas of 'das alt schulhaus an der krick.' another of professor harbaugh's poems, and i think one of the sweetest i have ever read, is 'heemweeh.' both poems are published in his book entitled 'harbaugh's harfe,' in pennsylvania german dialect, and possess additional interest from the fact that the translations of these poems, in the latter part of the same book, were made by the author himself." "oh, do repeat all that you remember of both the poems," begged mary. the professor consented, saying: "as neither you nor mr. jackson understand the pennsylvania german dialect, i shall translate them for you, after repeating what i remember. 'heemweeh' means homesickness, but first i shall give you 'das alt schulhaus an der krick'." [a]das alt schulhaus an der krick. heit is 's 'xactly zwansig johr, dass ich bin owwe naus; nau bin ich widder lewig z'rick un schteh am schulhaus an d'r krick, juscht neekscht an's dady's haus. ich bin in hunnert heiser g'west, vun marbelstee' un brick, un alles was sie hen, die leit, dhet ich verschwappe eenig zeit for's schulhaus an der krick. * * * * * der weisseech schteht noch an der dhier-- macht schatte iwwer's dach: die drauwerank is ah noch grie'-- un's amschel-nescht--guk juscht mol hi'-- o was is dess en sach! * * * * * do bin ich gange in die schul, wo ich noch war gans klee'; dort war der meeschter in seim schtuhl, dort war sei' wip, un dort sei' ruhl,-- ich kann's noch alles sch'. die lange desks rings an der wand-- die grose schieler drum; uf eener seit die grose mad, un dort die buwe net so bleed-- guk, wie sie piepe rum! * * * * * oh horcht, ihr leit, wu nooch mir lebt, ich schreib eich noch des schtick: ich warn eich, droll eich, gebt doch acht, un memmt uf immer gut enacht, des schulhaus an der krick! [footnote a: from "harbaugh's harfe." published by the publication and sunday school board of the reformed church, philadelphia, pa. used by permission.] the old school-house at the creek. today it is just twenty years, since i began to roam; now, safely back, i stand once more, before the quaint old school-house door, close by my father's home. i've been in many houses since, of marble built, and brick; though grander far, their aim they miss, to lure heart's old love from this old school-house at the creek. * * * * * the white-oak stands before the door, and shades the roof at noon; the grape-vine, too, is fresh and green; the robin's nest!--ah, hark!--i ween that is the same old tune! * * * * * 'twas here i first attended school, when i was very small; there was the master on his stool, there was his whip and there his rule-- i seem to see it all. the long desks ranged along the walls, with books and inkstands crowned; here on this side the large girls sat, and there the tricky boys on that-- see! how they peep around! * * * * * ye, who shall live when i am dead-- write down my wishes quick-- protect it, love it, let it stand, a way-mark in this changing land-- that school-house at the creek. heemweh. ich wees net was die ursach is-- wees net, warum ich's dhu: 'n jedes johr mach ich der weg der alte heemet zu; hab weiter nix zu suche dort-- kee' erbschaft un kee' geld; un doch treibt mich des heemgefiehl so schtark wie alle welt; nor'd schtart ich ewe ab un geh, wie owe schun gemeldt. wie nacher dass ich kumm zum ziel, wie schtarker will ich geh, for eppes in mei'm herz werd letz un dhut m'r kreislich weh. der letschte hiwel schpring ich nuf; un ep ich drowe bin, schtreck ich mich uf so hoch ich kann un guk mit luschte hin; ich seh's alt schtee'haus dorch die beem, un wott ich war schunm drin. * * * * * wie gleich ich selle babble beem, sie schtehn wie brieder dar; un uf'm gippel--g'wiss ich leb! hockt alleweil 'n schtaar! 's gippel biegt sich--guk, wie's gaunscht-- 'r hebt sich awer fescht; ich seh sei' rothe fliegle plehn, wann er sei' feddere wescht; will wette, dass sei' fraale hot uf sellem baam 'n nescht! * * * * * guk! werklich, ich bin schier am haus!-- wie schnell geht doch die zeit! wann m'r so in gedanke geht. so wees m'r net wie weit. dort is d'r schhap, die walschkornkrip, die seiderpress dort draus; dort is die scheier, un dort die schpring-- frisch quellt des wasser raus; un guk! die sehm alt klapbord-fens, un's dheerle vor'm haus. * * * * * zwee blatz sin do uf dare bortsch, die halt ich hoch in acht, bis meines lebens sonn versinkt in schtiller dodtes-nacht! wo ich vum alte vaterhaus 's erscht mol bin gange fort. schtand mei' mammi weinend da, an sellem rigel dort: un nix is mir so heilig nau als grade seller ort. * * * * * was macht's dass ich so dort hi' guk, an sell end vun der bank! weescht du's? mei' herz is noch net dodt, ich wees es, got sei dank! wie manchmal sass mai dady dort, am summer-nochmiddag, die hande uf der schoos gekreizt, sei schtock bei seite lag. was hot er dort im schtille g'denkt? wer mecht es wisse--sag? home-sick ness. i know not what the reason is: where'er i dwell or roam, i make a pilgrimage each year, to my old childhood home. have nothing there to give or get-- no legacy, no gold-- yet by some home-attracting power i'm evermore controlled; this is the way the homesick do, i often have been told. * * * * * as nearer to the spot i come more sweetly am i drawn; and something in my heart begins to urge me faster on. ere quite i've reached the last hilltop-- you'll smile at me, i ween!-- i stretch myself high as i can, to catch the view serene-- the dear old stone house through the trees with shutters painted green! * * * * * how do i love those poplar trees; what tall and stalely things! see! on the top of one just now a starling sits and sings. he'll fall!--the twig bends with his weight! he likes that danger best. i see the red upon his wings,-- dark shining is the rest. i ween his little wife has built on that same tree her nest. * * * * * see! really i am near the house; how short the distance seems! there is no sense of time when one goes musing in his dreams. there is the shop--the corn-crib, too-- the cider-press--just see! the barn--the spring with drinking cup hung up against the tree. the yard-fence--and the little gate just where it used to be. * * * * * two spots on this old friendly porch i love, nor can forget, till dimly in the night of death my life's last sun shall set! when first i left my father's house, one summer morning bright, my mother at that railing wept till i was out of sight! now like a holy star that spot shines in this world's dull night. * * * * * what draws my eye to yonder spot-- that bench against the wall? what holy mem'ries cluster there, my heart still knows them all! how often sat my father there on summer afternoon; hands meekly crossed upon his lap, he looked so lost and lone, as if he saw an empty world, and hoped to leave it soon. at the conclusion of his recital, mary heartily thanked the professor, and, at his request, obediently seated herself at the old, but still sweet-toned cottage organ, and expressed her willingness to play any old-time songs or hymns requested, and saying, "i know aunt sarah's favorite," commenced playing, "my latest sun is sinking fast," followed by "this old-time religion," "jesus, lover of my soul," "one of the sweet old chapters," "silver threads among the gold" and the sweet old hymn, "in the summer land of song," by fanny crosby. at john landis' request, she played and sang "auld lang syne." "when you and i were young, maggie," "old folks at home" and "old black joe." lucy robbins, when asked for her favorites, replied; "in the gloaming," "the old, old home'" "the lost chord" and "better bide a wee." the professor then asked his daughter elizabeth to give them the music of a song from german volkslied, or folk song, with the words of which all except mary and ralph were familiar. professor schmidt sang in his high, cracked voice to elizabeth's accompaniment the words of the german song, beginning: du, du liegest mir in herzen du, du liegst mir in sinn du, du machst mir viel schmerzen weist nicht wie gut ich dir binn ja, ja, ja, ja, du weist nicht wie gut ich dir bin. the young folks all joined in the chorus. fritz schmidt asked elizabeth to play "polly wolly doodle" for little pollykins, which frit sang with gusto. fritz then sang the rollicking german song, "lauderbach," to an accompaniment played by mary, and followed by singing "johnny schmoker," with appropriate gestures in the chorus commencing "my pilly, willy wink, das is mein fifa," etc., ending with "my fal, lal, lal, my whach, whach, das ist mein doodle soch," which he emphasised by shrugging his shoulders, to the no small enjoyment of the young folks, who thought the silly, old german song no end of fun. this was followed by a favorite college song, "mandalay," by fritz. then elizabeth schmidt played and sang a pretty little german song called "meuhlen rad," meaning the mill wheel, taught her by her mother. meuhlen rad. in einen kuhlen grunde da steht ein meuhlen rad; mein libste ist versch wunden, die dort gewhoned hat; sie sat mir treu versprochen, gab ihr ein ring dabei; sie hat die treu gebrochen, das ringlein sprang entzwei. she translated it for the benefit of ralph and mary: "in a cool, pleasant spot, stands a mill. my loved one, who lived there, has disappeared. she promised to be true to me, and i gave her a ring. she broke her promise and the ring broke in two." fritz then caught his little sister pauline around the waist and waltzed her to one end of the long room, saying: "mary, play the piece, 'put on your old gray bonnet,' and pollykins and i will do the cakewalk for you." polly, who had become quite a proficient little dancer under her sister's teaching, was very willing to do her share in the evening's entertainment, and it was pronounced a decided success. mary then said, "i'll play my favorite schottische, composed by our old friend, the professor. i have not yet procured a copy of his latest piece of music, 'the passing of the dahlias.' i think it is still with the publishers." mary, after playing "rock of ages," left the room to see about serving refreshments, when elizabeth schmidt took her place at the instrument. after playing "the rosary," she turned to ralph, who had been greatly amused by the german songs on the program, all of which were quite new to him, and said: "what shall i play for you?" he replied, "'my little irish rose'--no, i mean 'the river shannon.'" "don't you mean 'that grand old name called mary?'" mischievously inquired fritz schmidt, who could not refrain from teasing ralph, which caused a laugh at his expense, as all present were aware of his love for mary. elizabeth, to cover ralph's confusion, quickly replied: "i'll play my favorite, 'the end of a perfect day.'" the party was pronounced a success, and broke up at a late hour for country folks. before leaving, mary's uncle said: "now, let's sing 'home, sweet home,' and then all join in singing that grand old hymn, 'my country, 'tis of thee,' to the new tune by our friend, the bucks county editor." [illustration: palasades or narrows of nockamixon] chapter xviii. a visit to the "pennsylvania palisades," as the "narrows" of the delaware river are called. all hailed with delight aunt sarah's proposal that the schmidt and landis families, on the fourth of july, drive over to the narrows, visit aunt sarah's old home at nockamixon, and see the "ringing rocks" and "high falls," situated a short distance from the rocks, near which place picnics were frequently held. john landis readily agreed to the proposed plan, saying, "the meadow hay and clover are cut, and i'll not cut the wheat until the fifth day of july." the third of july was a busy day at both farm houses, preparing savory food of every description with which to fill hampers for the next day's outing. small polly schmidt was so perfectly happy, at the thought of a proposed picnic, she could scarcely contain herself, and as her sister elizabeth said, "did nothing but get in every one's way." little polly, being easily offended, trudged over to the landis farm to see mary, with whom she knew she was a great favorite. the morning of the fourth dawned bright and clear. quite early, while the earth was still enveloped in a silvery mist, and on the lattice work of filmy cobwebs, spun over weeds and grass, dewdrops, like tiny diamonds, sparkled and glistened, until dissolved by the sun's warm rays, the gay party left home, for the "palisades" were quite a distance from the farm, to drive being the only way of reaching the place, unless one boarded the gasoline motorcar, called the "cornfield express" by farmers living in the vicinity of schuggenhaus township. there is something indescribably exhilarating about starting for an early drive in the country before sunrise on a bright, clear morning in midsummer, when "the earth is awaking, the sky and the ocean, the river and forest, the mountain and plain." who has not felt the sweet freshness of early morning before "the sunshine is all on the wing" or the birds awaken and begin to chatter and to sing? there is a hush over everything; later is heard the lowing of cattle, the twitter of birds and hum of insect life, proclaiming the birth of the new day. passing an uncultivated field, overgrown with burdock, wild carrots, mullein, thistle and milk weed, mary alighted and gathered some of the pods of the latter, inclosing imitation of softest down, which she used later for filling sofa pillows. "look at those pretty wild canaries!" exclaimed aunt sarah, "yellow as gold, swinging on the stem of a tall weed." "professor schmidt, can you tell me the name of that weed?" questioned mary. "i have always admired the plant, with its large leaves and long, drooping racemes of crimson seeds. "that," replied the professor, "is a foreign plant, a weed called equisetum from 'equi,' a horse, and 'setum'--tail. the country folk hereabout call it 'horsetail.' it belongs to the crptogamous or flowerless plants. there are only four specimens of this plant in america. i, too, have always greatly admired the plant." the professor was quite a noted botanist. there were few flowers, plants or weeds of which he was ignorant of the name or medicinal value. another bird lazily picked seeds from the thistle blossoms. "see," exclaimed aunt sarah, "one bird has a spear of grass in its mouth!" "yellow star grass," said the professor, "with which to make a nest. they never mate until the last of june, or first part of july. the tiny, little robbers ate up nearly all my sunflower seeds in the garden last summer." "well," replied mary, "you know, professor, the birds must have food. they are the farmer's best friend. i hope you don't begrudge them a few sunflower seeds, i love birds. i particularly admire the 'baltimore oriole,' with their brilliant, orange-colored plumage; they usually make their appearance simultaneously with the blossoms in the orchard in the south meadow; or so aunt sarah tells me. i love to watch them lazily swinging on the high branches of tall trees. on the limb of a pear tree in the orchard one day, i saw firmly fastened, a long, pouch-like nest, woven with rare skill. securely fastened to the nest by various colored pieces of twine and thread was one of smaller size, like a lean-to added to a house, as if the original nest had been found too small to accommodate the family of young birds when hatched. the oriole possesses a peculiar, sweet, high-whistled trill, similar to this--'la-la-la-la,' which always ends with the rising inflection." fritz schmidt, who had been listening intently to mary, gravely remarked, "an oriole built a nest on a tall tree outside my bedroom window, and early every morning, before the family arise, i hear it sing over and over again what sounds exactly like 'lais die beevil!' which translated means 'read your bible'." "even the birds are 'dutch,' i believe, in bucks county," said fritz. "i think these must be german mennonites, there being quite a settlement of these honest, god-fearing people living on farms at no great distance from our place." [illustration: the canal at the narrows] as they drove along the country road, parallel with the delaware river, just before reaching the narrows. mary was greatly attracted by the large quantities of yellow-white "sweet clover," a weed-like plant found along the delaware river, growing luxuriantly, with tall, waving stems two to four feet high. the clover-like flowers, in long, loose racemes, terminating the branches, were so fragrant that, like the yellow evening primrose, the scent was noticeable long before one perceived the flowers. and, strange to tell, sweet clover was never known to grow in this locality until the seed was washed up on the bank of the river some ten or twelve years previous to the date of my story, when the delaware river was higher than it was ever before known to be. "the first place we shall visit," said aunt sarah, "will be my grandmother's old home, or rather, the ruins of the old home. it passed out of our family many years ago; doors and windows are missing and walls ready to tumble down. you see that old locust tree against one side the ruined wall of the house?" and with difficulty she broke a branch from the tree saying, "look, see the sharp, needle-shaped thorns growing on the branch! they were used by me when a child to pin my dolls' dresses together. in those days, pins were too costly to use; and look at that large, flat rock not far distant from the house! at the foot of that rock, when a child of ten, i buried the 'schild krote family' dolls, made from punk (when told i was too big a girl to play with dolls). i shed bitter tears, i remember. alas! the sorrows of childhood are sometimes deeper than we of maturer years realize." "why did you give your family of dolls such an odd name, aunt sarah?" questioned mary. "i do not remember," replied her aunt. "schild krote is the german name for turtle. i presume the name pleased my childish fancy." "suppose we visit my great-great-grandfather's grave in the near-by woods. i think i can locate it, although so many years have passed since i last visited it." passing through fields overgrown with high grass, wild flowers and clover, they came to the woods. surprising to say, scarcely any underbrush was seen, but trees everywhere--stately lebanon cedars, spruce and spreading hemlock, pin oaks, juniper trees which later would be covered with spicy, aromatic berries; also beech trees. witch hazel and hazel nut bushes grew in profusion. john landis cut a large branch from a sassafras tree to make a new spindle on which to wind flax, for aunt sarah's old spinning wheel (hers having been broken), remarking as he did so, "my mother always used a branch of sassafras wood, having five, prong-like branches for this purpose, when i was a boy, and she always placed a piece of sassafras root with her dried fruit." the professor's wife gathered an armful of yarrow, saying, "this is an excellent tonic and should always be gathered before the flowers bloom. i wonder if there is any boneset growing anywhere around here." boneset, a white, flowering, bitter herb, dearly beloved and used by the professor's wife as one of the commonest home remedies in case of sickness, and equally detested by both fritz and pauline. [illustration: the narrows or pennsylvania palisades] mary gathered a bouquet of wild carrot, or "queen anne's lace," with its exquisitely fine, lace-like flowers with pale green-tinted centres. mary's uncle could not agree with her in praise of the dainty wild blossoms. he said: "mary, i consider it the most detested weed with which i am obliged to contend on the farm." [illustration: top rock] after quite a long, tiresome walk in the hot sun, they discovered the lonely grave, covered with a slab of granite surrounded by a small iron railing and read the almost illegible date--"seventeen hundred and forty." ralph said, "if he ever sighed for a home in some vast wilderness, his wish is granted." it certainly was a lonely grave in the deep woods, and gave all the members of the party a sad and eerie feeling as they wended their way out into the sunlight again, to the waiting carriages, and were soon driving swiftly along the narrows, as they have been called from time immemorial by the inhabitants, although i prefer the name of pennsylvania palisades, as they are sometimes called. said professor schmidt: "numerous tourists visit the narrows every year. the narrows are said to resemble somewhat the palisades on the hudson. i have seen, the latter and think these greatly resemble them and are quite as interesting and picturesque." "the name narrows is derived from the fact that at this place the delaware river has forced itself through the rocky barrier," continued the professor, "hedged in on one side by cliffs of perpendicular rock, three hundred feet high, extending some distance along the river, leaving scarcely room at some places for the river and the canal. some quite rare plants grow here, said to be found in few other localities in the united states. you see the highest flat rock along the narrows? it is called 'top rock' and rises to a height of more than three hundred feet. we shall drive around within a short distance of it; then, after passing a small house, we are obliged to walk across a field of ploughed ground; follow the well-beaten path between trees and undergrowth, and 'top rock' is before us. stepping upon the high ledge of rock projecting out over the road beneath, we discover it may also be reached by following a precipitous path and clinging to bushes and trees, but none of the party venture. recently the body of a man who had been searching for rare birds' eggs on the side of this self-same rock was found dead on the path below the rocks. what caused his fall is not known. no wonder aunt sarah says it makes her dizzy when you boys skip stones across the river while standing on the rock." the beautiful view of the delaware river and the scenery on the opposite side was something long to be remembered. while the party were going into raptures over the beautiful sight, professor schmidt turned to mary and remarked: "in those rocks which rise in perpendicular bluffs, several hundred feet above the level of the river, are evidence that prehistoric man may have inhabited the caves in these same walls of rock along the delaware. from implements and weapons found, it does not require any great effort of imagination to believe the 'cave man' dwelt here many centuries ago." fritz schmidt was much interred in his father's conversation, and from that time on called ralph jackson mary's "cave man." leaving top rock, the party wended their way back to the waiting carriages in the road, and drove to the "ringing or musical rocks." they had been informed that their nearest approach to the rocks was to drive into the woods to reach them. passing a small shanty at the roadside, where a sign informed the passerby that soft drinks were to be obtained, the party dismounted and found, to their surprise, a small pavilion had been erected with bench, table and numerous seats composed of boards laid across logs, where camp meetings had formerly been held. as the large trees furnished shade, and a spring of fresh water was near by, they decided to "strike" camp and have lunch before going farther into the woods. aunt sarah and the professor's wife spread a snowy cloth over the rough wooden table, quickly unpacked the hampers, and both were soon busily engaged preparing sandwiches of bread, thinly sliced, pink cold ham and ground peanuts, fried chicken and beef omelette; opening jars of home-made pickles, raspberry jam and orange marmalade. "oh!" said pauline, "i'm so hungry for a piece of chocolate cake. let me help shell the eggs, so we can soon have dinner." "here's your fresh spring water," called fritz, as he joined the party, a tin pail in his hand, "we had such an early breakfast, i'm as hungry as a bear." the party certainly did full justice to the good things provided with a lavish hand by frau schmidt and aunt sarah. all were in high spirits. the professor quoted from the rubaiyat of omar khayyam-- here with a loaf of bread beneath the bough. a flask of wine, a book of verse and thou, beside me singing in the wilderness, and wilderness is paradise enow. ralph cast a look at marry, unnoticed by any one else, as much as to say, "the old tentmaker voiced my sentiments." [illustration: ringing rocks of bridgton township bucks county. pa.] [illustration: high falls] after the hampers had been repacked and stowed away in the carriages, they with the horses were left in the shade while the party walked to "high falls," at no great distance from the camp. "high falls," a beautiful waterfall about thirty feet high and fifty feet wide, is situated several hundred feet east of the ringing rocks. the water, before dashing below, passes over a large, solid, level floor of rock. after gazing at the falls and picturesque surroundings, they searched through the woods for the ringing rocks, a peculiar formation of rocks of irregular shape and size, branching out from a common centre in four directions. the rocks vary in size from a few pounds to several tons in weight. arriving there, aunt sarah said: "ralph, you will now find use for the hammer which i asked you to bring." ralph struck different rocks with the hammer, and fritz schmidt struck rocks with other pieces of rock, and all gave a peculiar metallic sound, the tones of each being different. the rocks are piled upon each other to an unknown depth, not a particle of earth being found between them, and not a bush or spear of grass to be seen. they occupy a space of about four and a half acres and are a natural curiosity well worth seeing. the young folks scrambled over the rocks for a time, and, having made them ring to their hearts' content, were satisfied to return to camp and supper. [illustration: big rock at rocky dale] "not far distant from high falls," said john landis, when all were comfortably seated near the table, with a sandwich in hand, "is a place called roaring rocks, also a freak of nature. i remember, when a boy, i always went there in the fall of the year, after the first hard frost, to pick persimmons. the water could he distinctly heard running underneath the rocks at a considerable depth." ralph jackson remarked to aunt sarah: "i never imagined there were so many interesting, natural features right here in bucks county." "oh, yes," exclaimed the impressible fritz schmidt, "we have a few things besides pigs and potatoes." "yes, ralph," said the professor, "there are still several places of interest you will like to see. 'stony garden' is another very interesting freak of nature. it is about two and a half miles from the small town of 'snitzbachsville,' as fritz calls the hamlet, and 'tis a wild spot. about an acre is covered with trap rock. the stones are of odd shapes and sizes and appear as if thrown into the forest in the wildest confusion. no earth or vegetation is found about them. 'tis said the rocks are similar to those found at fingal's cave, ireland, and also at the palisades on the hudson, and are not found anywhere else in this section of the country." "and ralph," said fritz, "i want to show you 'big rock,' at avondale, where a party of us boys camped one summer for two weeks. oh! but i remember the good pies given us by a farmer's wife who sold us milk and eggs, and who lived just across the fields from our camp." "i think," said john landis, "it is time we began hitching up our horses and starting for home. we have a long drive before us, and, therefore, must make an early start. sarah, get the rest of the party together and pack up your traps." at that moment the professor came in sight with an armful of ferns, the rich loam adhering to their roots, and said: "i'm sure these will grow." later he planted them on a shady side of the old farm house at "five oaks," where they are growing today. professor schmidt, after a diligent search, had found clinging to a rock a fine specimen of "seedum rhodiola," which he explained had never been found growing in any locality in the united states except maine. little pauline, with a handful of flowers and weeds, came trotting after mary, who carried an armful of creeping evergreen called partridge berry, which bears numerous small, bright, scarlet berries later in the season. ralph walked by her side with a basket filled to overflowing with quantities of small ferns and rock moss, with which to border the edge of the waiter on which mary intended planting ferns; tree moss or lichens, hepaticas, wild violets, pipsissewa or false wintergreen, with dark green, waxy leaves veined with a lighter shade of green; and wild pink geraniums, the foliage of which is prettier than the pink blossoms seen later, and they grow readily when transplanted. aunt sarah had taught mary how to make a beautiful little home-made fernery. by planting these all on a large waiter, banking moss around the edges to keep them moist and by planting them early, they would be growing finely when taken by her to the city in the fall of the year--a pleasant reminder of her trip to the "narrows" of the delaware river. frau schmidt brought up the rear, carrying huge bunches of mint, pennyroyal and the useful herb called "quaker bonnet." [illustration: the old towpath at the narrows] driving home at the close of the day, the twinkling lights in farm house windows they swiftly passed, were hailed with delight by the tired but happy party, knowing that each one brought them nearer home than the one before. to enliven the drowsy members of the party, fritz schmidt sang the following to the tune of "my old kentucky home," improvising as he sang: the moon shines bright on our "old bucks county home," the meadows with daisies are gay, the song of the whipporwill is borne on the breeze, with the scent of the new mown hay. oh! the narrows are great with their high granite peaks, and ringing rocks for ages the same; but when daylight fades and we're tired and cold, there's no place like "hame, clear alt hame." the last lingering rays of the sun idealized the surrounding fields and woods with that wonderful afterglow seen only at the close of day. the saffron moon appeared to rise slowly from behind the distant tree-tops, and rolled on parallel with them, and then ahead, as if to guide them on their way, and the stars twinkled one by one from out the mantle of darkness which slowly enveloped the earth. the trees they swiftly passed, when the moonbeams touched them, assumed gigantic, grotesque shapes in the darkness. mary quoted from a favorite poem, "the huskers," by whittier: 'till broad and red as when he rose, the sun sank down at last, and, like a merry guest's farewell, the day in brightness passed. and lo! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream and pond, flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond. slowly o'er the eastern sea bluffs, a milder glory shone, and the sunset and the moon-rise were mingled into one! as thus into the quiet night, the twilight lapsed away, and deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay. from many a brown, old farm house and hamlet without name, their milking and their home tasks done, the merry huskers came. "you mean 'the merry picknickers came,'" said fritz schmidt, as mary finished, "and here we are at home. good night, all." chapter xix. mary is taught to make pastry, patties and "rosen kuchen." mary's aunt taught her to make light, flaky pastry and pies of every description. in this part of bucks county a young girl's education was considered incomplete without a knowledge of pie-making. some of the commonest varieties of pies made at the farm were "rivel kuchen," a pie crust covered with a mixture of sugar, butter and flour crumbled together; "snitz pie," composed of either stewed dried apples or peaches, finely mashed through a colander, sweetened, spread over a crust and this covered with a lattice-work of narrow strips of pastry laid diamond-wise over the top of the pie; "crumb" pies, very popular when served for breakfast, made with the addition of molasses or without it; cheese pies, made of "smier kase;" egg custard, pumpkin and molasses pie. pies were made of all the different fruits and berries which grew on the farm. when fresh fruits were not obtainable, dried fruits and berries were used. pie made from dried, sour cherries was an especial favorite of farmer landis, and raisin or "rosina" pie, as it was usually called at the farm, also known as "funeral" pie, was a standby at all seasons of the year, as it was invariably served at funerals, where, in old times, sumptuous feasts were provided for relatives and friends, a regular custom for years among the "pennsylvania germans," and i have heard aunt sarah say, "in old times, the wives of the grave-diggers were always expected to assist with the extra baking at the house where a funeral was to be held." it would seem as if bucks county german housewives did not like a dessert without a crust surrounding it. the pennsylvania german farmers' wives, with few exceptions, serve the greatest variety of pies at a meal of any class of people i know; not alone as a dessert at twelve o'clock dinner, but frequently serve several different varieties of pie at breakfast and at each meal during the day. no ill effects following the frequent eating of pie i attribute to their active life, the greater part of which, during the day, was usually spent in the open air, and some credit may he due the housewife for having acquired the knack of making _good_ pie crust, which was neither very rich nor indigestible, if such a thing be possible. the combination of fruit and pastry called pie is thought to be of american invention. material for pies at a trifling cost were furnished the early settlers in bucks county by the large supply of fruit and vegetables which their fertile farms produced, and these were utilized by the thrifty german housewives, noted for their wise management and economy. the professor's wife taught mary to make superior pastry, so flaky and tender as to fairly melt in one's mouth; but mary never could learn from her the knack of making a dainty, crimped edge to her pies with thumb and forefinger, although it looked so very simple when she watched "frau schmidt" deftly roll over a tiny edge as a finish to the pie. mary laughingly told the professor's wife (when speaking of pies) of the brilliant remark she made about lard, on first coming to the farm. her aunt sarah, when baking pies one day, said to her, "look, mary, see this can of snowy lard, rendered from pork, obtained from our fat pigs last winter!" "why, aunt sarah!" exclaimed mary, "is lard made from pork fat? i always thought lard was made from milk and butter was made from cream." the professor's wife possessed, besides a liking for pies, the german's fondness for anything pertaining to fritters. she used a set of "wafer and cup irons" for making "rosen kuchen," as she called the flat, saucer-like wafer; and the cup used for serving creamed vegetables, salads, etc., was similar to pattie cases. "the 'wafer and cup irons,'" said frau schmidt, "were invented by a friend of mine, also a teacher and an excellent cook, besides; she gave me several of her original recipes, all to be served on wafers or in patties. you shall have a set of the irons when you start housekeeping. mary. you will be surprised at the many uses you will find for them. they are somewhat similar to rosette irons, but i think them an improvement. they are pieces of fluted steel fastened to a long handle and one is cup-shaped. this latter is particularly fine for making patties. then the cup may be filled and served on saucer-like wafers, which i call 'rosen kuchen,' or the 'rosen kuchen' may be simply dusted with a mixture consisting of one cup of sugar, one teaspoonful of cinnamon and a quarter teaspoonful of powdered cardamon seed, and served on a plate, as dainty cakes or wafers." aunt sarah, when cooking fritters, always used two-thirds lard and one-third suet for deep frying, but "frau schmidt" taught mary to use a good brand of oil for this purpose, as she thought food fried in oil more digestible and wholesome than when fried in lard. the patties or wafers were easily made. "frau schmidt" placed the long-handled iron in hot fat, the right temperature for frying fritters. when the iron was heated she quickly and carefully wiped off any surplus fat, then at once dipped the hot wafer iron into a bowl containing the batter she had prepared (the recipe for which she gave mary), then dipped the iron into the hot fat; when the batter had lightly browned she gently dropped it from the iron onto brown paper, to absorb any fat which might remain. these are quickly and easily prepared and, after a few trials, one acquires proficiency. pattie cases or cup-shapes are made in a similar manner. they are not expensive and may be kept several weeks in a cool, dry place. when wanted for table use, place in a hot oven a few minutes to reheat. they make a dainty addition to a luncheon by simply dusting the "rosen kuchen" with pulverised sugar. creamed vegetables of any variety may be served on them by placing a spoon of cream dressing on top of each, over which grate yolk of hard boiled egg; or use as a foundation on which to serve salads; or serve fruit on them with whipped cream. the patties or cups may be used to serve creamed chicken, oysters, or sweetbreads if no sugar be used in the batter. these pattie cases are exactly like those sold at delicatessen counters, in city stores, and are considered quite an addition to a dainty luncheon. they are rather expensive to buy, and we country housewives cannot always procure them when wanted, and they may be made at home with a small amount of labor and less expense. "the germans make fritters of almost everything imaginable," continued the professor's wife. "one day in early spring i saw a german neighbor gathering elderberry blossoms, of which she said she intended making fritters. i asked her how they were made, being curious, i will confess. she sent me a plate of the fritters and they were delicious. i will give you her recipe should you care for it. mary, have you ever eaten a small, sweet wafer called 'zimmet waffle?' my mother made them at christmas time, in germany. should i be able to procure a small 'waffle,' or i should call it wafer, iron, in the city, i will teach you how they are made. i think them excellent. my mother made a cake dough similar to that of pound cake. to one portion she added cinnamon, to the other chocolate, and the last portion was flavored with vanilla. a piece of dough the size of a small marble was placed in the wafer iron, which was then pressed together and held over the fire in the range, by a long handle, until the wafer was crisp and brown. they are delicious and will keep indefinitely." the professor's wife finished speaking to mary, and turned to her daughter elizabeth, saying, "it is time i mix the dough if we are to have 'boova shenkel' for dinner today. i see the potatoes have steamed tender." "oh, goody!" said pauline, "i just love 'boova shenkel!'" "then," said her mother, "run down into the cellar and get me three eggs for them, and mary, i'll write off the recipe for you, if you wish it, as i feel sure you'll like them as well as pauline. and elizabeth, dust powdered sugar over this plate of 'rosen kuchen,' and you, mary and pauline, leave this hot kitchen and have lunch out in the 'espalier,' as your father calls it." "i think," said mary to elizabeth, after they were seated in the shade, prepared to enjoy the "rosen kuchen," "this little, natural, home-grown summer-house is the oddest and prettiest little place i've ever seen." "yes," assented elizabeth, "father said he made it as nearly like as possible to a large one at weisbaden, no great distance from his old home in germany. he says the 'frauer esche,' meaning weeping ash, at weisbaden, had tables and benches placed beneath spreading branches of the tree, and picnics were frequently held there. this one was made by the larger branches of the weeping ash, turning downward, fastened by pieces of leather to a framework nailed to the top of posts in the ground, about two yards apart, surrounding the tree. the posts, you notice, are just a little higher than an ordinary man, and when the leaves thickly cover the tops and sides, protecting one from the sun's rays, it is an ideal summer-house. we frequently sit here evenings and afternoons; mother brings her sewing and pauline her doll family, which, you know, is quite numerous." "i never saw a summer-house at all like it," said mary. the professor's wife not only taught mary the making of superior pastry and the cooking of german dishes, but what was of still greater importance, taught her the value of different foods; that cereals of every description, flour and potatoes, are starchy foods; that cream, butter, oil, etc., are fat foods; that all fruits and vegetables contain mineral matter; and that lean meat, eggs, beans, peas and milk are muscle-forming foods. these are things every young housekeeper should have a knowledge of to be able to plan nourishing, wholesome, well-balanced meals for her family. and not to serve at one time a dish of rice, cheese and macaroni, baked beans and potatoes. serve instead with one of these dishes fruit, a vegetable or salad. she said, "beans have a large percentage of nutriment and should be more commonly used." she also said graham and corn bread are much more nutritious than bread made from fine white flour, which lacks the nutritious elements. indian corn is said to contain the largest amount of fat of any cereal. it is one of our most important cereal foods and should be more commonly used by housewives; especially should it be used by working men whose occupation requires a great amount of physical exercise. particularly in cold weather should it be frequently served, being both cheap and wholesome. the professor's wife laughingly remarked to mary, "when i fry fritters or 'fast nacht' cakes, fritz and pauline usually assist such a large number of them in disappearing before i have finished baking, i am reminded of 'doughnutting time,' by j.w. foley. have you never read the poem? i sometimes feel that it must have been written by me." [a]"doughnutting time." wunst w'en our girl wuz makin' pies an' doughnuts--'ist a lot-- we stood around with great, big eyes, 'cuz we boys like 'em hot; and w'en she dropped 'em in the lard, they sizzled 'ist like fun, and w'en she takes 'em out, it's hard to keep from takin' one. and 'en she says: "you boys'll get all spattered up with grease." and by-um-by she says she'll let us have 'ist one apiece; so i took one for me, and one for little james mcbride, the widow's only orfunt son, 'ats waitin' there outside. an' henry, he took one 'ist for himself an' nellie flynn, 'at's waitin' at the kitchen door and dassent to come in, becuz her mother told her not; and johnny, he took two, 'cus amey brennan likes 'em hot, 'ist like we chinnern do. 'en henry happened 'ist to think he didn't get a one for little ebenezer brink, the carpet beater's son, who never gets 'em home, becuz he says, he ain't quite sure, but thinks perhaps the reason wuz, his folkeses are too poor. an 'en i give my own away to little willie biggs 'at fell down his stairs one day, an' give him crooked legs, 'cuz willie always seems to know w'en our girl's goin' to bake. he wouldn't ast for none. oh, no! but, my! he's fond of cake. so i went back an' 'en i got another one for me, right out the kittle smokin' hot, an' brown as it could be; an' john he got one, too, becuz he give his own to clare, an' w'en our girl she looked, there wuz 'ist two small doughnuts there. my! she wuz angry w'en she looked an' saw 'ist them two there, an' says she knew 'at she had cooked a crock full an' to spare; she says it's awful 'scouragin' to bake and fret an' fuss, an' w'en she thinks she's got 'em in the crock, they're all in us. [footnote a: the poem "doughnutting time," from "boys and girls," published by e.p. dutton, by permission of the author, james w. foley.] * * * * * * * the professor's wife gave mary what she called her most useful recipe. she said, "mary, this recipe was almost invaluable to me when i was a young housekeeper and the strictest economy was necessary. sift into a bowl, one cup of flour, one even teaspoonful of baking powder (i use other baking powders occasionally, but prefer 'royal'), then cut through the flour either one tablespoonful of butter or lard, add a pinch of salt, and mix into a soft dough with about one-half cup of sweet milk. mix dough quickly and lightly, handling as little as possible. drop large spoonfuls of the batter in muffin pans and bake in a quick oven for tea biscuits; or, sift flour thickly over the bread board, turn out the dough, roll several times in the flour, give one quick turn with the rolling-pin to flatten out dough, and cut out with small cake cutter, (i prefer using a small, empty tin, / pound baking powder can, to cut out cakes.) place close together in an agate pan and bake, or bake in one cake in a pie tin and for shortcake; or place spoonfuls of the dough over veal or beef stew and potatoes or stewed chicken, and cook, closely covered, about fifteen minutes. of course, you will have sufficient water in the stew pan to prevent its boiling away before the pot-pie dumplings are cooked, and, of course, you know, mary, the meat and potatoes must be almost ready to serve when this dough is added. then i frequently add one teaspoonful of sugar to the batter and place spoonfuls over either freshly stewed or canned sour cherries, plums, rhubarb or apples. in fact, any tart fruit may be used, and steam, closely covered, or place large tablespoonful of any fruit, either canned or stewed, in small custard cups, place tablespoonfuls of batter on top and steam or bake, and serve with either some of the stewed fruit and fruit juice, sugar and cream, or any sauce preferred." "the varieties of puddings which may be evolved from this one formula," continued the professor's wife, "are endless, and, mary, i should advise you to make a note of it. this quantity of flour will make enough to serve two at a meal, and the proportions may be easily doubled if you wish to serve a large family." "then, mary, i have a recipe taken from the 'farmers' bulletin' for dumplings, which i think fine. you must try it some time. your aunt sarah thinks them 'dreadfully extravagant.' they call for four teaspoonfuls of baking powder to two cups of flour, but they are perfect puff balls, and this is such a fast age, why not use more baking powder if an advantage? i am always ready to try anything new i hear about." "yes," replied mary, "i just love to try new recipes, i will experiment with the dumplings one of these days. aunt sarah says i will never use half the recipes i have; but so many of them have been given me by excellent and reliable old bucks county cooks, i intend to copy them all in a book, and keep for reference after i leave the farm." chapter xx. old potteries and decorated dishes. one day, looking through the old corner cupboard, mary exclaimed, "aunt sarah, you certainly possess the finest collection of quaint old china dishes i have ever seen. i just love those small saucers and cups without handles; yes, and you have plates to match decorated with pinkish, lavender peacock feathers, and those dear little cups and saucers, decorated inside with pink and outside with green flowers, are certainly odd; and this queerly-shaped cream jug, sugar bowl and teapot, with pale green figures, and those homely plates, with dabs of bright red and green, they surely must be very old!" [illustration: old earthenware dish] "yes, dear, they all belonged to either john's mother or mine. all except this one large, blue plate, which is greatly valued by me, as it was given me many years ago by a dear old friend, mary butler, a descendant of one of the oldest families in wyoming valley, whose, forefathers date back to the time of the 'wyoming massacre,' about which so much has been written in song and story. "the very oddest plates in your collection are those two large earthenware dishes, especially that large circular dish, with sloping sides and flat base, decorated with tulips." [illustration: sgraffito plate manufactured by one of the oldest pennsylvania german potterers in ] "yes, mary, and it is the one i value most highly. it is called sgraffito ware. a tulip decoration surrounds a large red star in the centre of the plate. this belonged to my mother, who said it came from the headman pottery at rockhill township, about the year . i know of only two others in existence at the present time; one is in a museum in the city of philadelphia and the other one is in the bucks county historical society at doylestown, pa. the other earthenware plate you admire, containing marginal inscription in german which when translated is 'this plate is made of earth, when it breaks the potter laughs,' is the very oldest in my collection, the date on it, you see, is . those curved, shallow earthenware pie plates, or 'poi schissel,' as they are frequently called in this part of bucks county, i value, even if they are quite plain and without decoration, as they were always used by my mother when baking pies, and i never thought pies baked in any other shaped dish tasted equally as good as hers. these pie plates were manufactured at one of the old potteries near her home. all the old potters have passed away, and the buildings have crumbled to the ground. years ago, your mother and i, when visiting the old farm where the earlier years of our childhood were passed, stopped with one of our old-time friends, who lived directly opposite the old herstine pottery, which was then in a very dilapidated condition; it had formerly been operated by cornelius herstine (we always called him 'neal' herstine)." [illustration: old plates found in aunt sarah's corner cupboard] "together we crossed the road, forced our way through tangled vines and underbrush, and, peering through windows guiltless of glass, we saw partly-finished work of the old potters crumbling on the ground. the sight was a sad one. we realized the hand of time had crumbled to dust both the potter and his clay. still nearer my old home was the mcentee pottery. from earliest childhood our families were friends. we all attended the 'crossroads' school, where years later a more modern brick structure was built, under the hill; not far distant from 'the narrows' and the 'ringing rocks.' yes, mary, my memory goes back to the time when the mcentee pottery was a flourishing industry, operated by three brothers, john, patrick and michael. when last i visited them but few landmarks remained." "was there a pottery on your father's farm, aunt sarah?" inquired mary. "no. the nearest one was the mcentee pottery, but the grandson of the old man who purchased our old farm at my father's death had a limekiln for the purpose of burning lime, and several miles distant, at the home of my uncle, was found clay suitable for the manufacture of bricks. only a few years ago this plant was still in operation. my father's farm was situated in the upper part of bucks county, in what was then known as the nockamixon swamp, and at one time there were in that neighborhood no less than seven potteries within two miles of each other." "why," exclaimed mary, "were there so many potteries in that locality?" "'twas due, no doubt, to the large deposits of clay found there, well suited to the manufacture of earthenware. the soil is a clayey loam, underlaid with potter's clay. the old german potters, on coming to this country, settled mostly in eastern pennsylvania, in the counties of bucks and montgomery. the numerous small potteries erected by the early settlers were for the manufacture of earthenware dishes, also pots of graded sizes. these were called nests, and were used principally on the farm for holding milk, cream and apple-butter. jugs and pie plates were also manufactured. the plates were visually quite plain, but they produced occasionally plates decorated with conventionalized tulips, and some, more elaborate, contained besides figures of animals, birds and flowers. marginal inscriptions in english and german decorate many of the old plates, from which may be learned many interesting facts concerning the life and habits of the early settlers. i think, judging from the inscriptions i have seen on some old plates, it must have taxed the ingenuity of the old german potters to think up odd, original inscriptions for their plates." "aunt sarah, how was sgraffito ware made? is it the same as slip-decorated pottery?" "no, my dear, the two are quite different. the large plate you so greatly admired is called sgraffito or scratched work, sometimes called slip engraving. it usually consists of dark designs on a cream-colored ground. after the plates had been shaped over the mold by the potter, the upper surface was covered by a coating of white slip, and designs were cut through this slip to show the earthenware underneath. this decoration was more commonly used by the old potters than slip decorating, which consisted in mixing white clay and water until the consistency of cream. the liquid clay was then allowed to run slowly through a quill attached to a small cup, over the earthenware (before burning it in a kiln) to produce different designs. the process is similar to that used when icing a cake, when you allow the icing to run slowly from a pastry tube to form fanciful designs. i have watched the old potters at their work many a time when a child. the process employed in the manufacture of earthenware is almost the same today as it was a century ago, but the appliances of the present day workmen are not so primitive as were those of the old german potters. mary, a new pottery works has been started quite lately in the exact locality where, over one hundred years ago, were situated the dichl and headman potteries, where my highly-prized, old sgraffito plate was manufactured. i hear the new pottery has improved machinery for the manufacture of vases, flower pots, tiles, etc. they intend manufacturing principally 'spanish tiles' from the many acres of fine clay found at that place. the clay, it is said, burns a beautiful dark, creamy red. as you are so much interested in this subject, mary, we shall visit this new pottery some day in the near future, in company with your uncle john. it is no great distance from the farm. quite an interesting story i have heard in connection with a pottery owned by a very worthy quaker in a near-by town may interest you, as your father was a philadelphia quaker and ralph's parents were quakers also." [illustration: a- schmutz amschel] [illustration: a- antiquated tin lantern] [illustration: a- schmutz amschel] [illustration: a- fluid lamp] [illustration: a- candle mould] "yes, indeed, aunt sarah! i'd love to hear the story." "this quaker sympathized with the colored race, or negroes, in the south. this was, of course, before slavery was abolished. you don't remember that time, mary, you are too young. it is only history to you, but i lived it, and when the slaves ran away from their owners and came north to philadelphia they were sent from there, by sympathizers, to this quaker, who kept an underground station. the slaves were then placed, under his direction, in a high 'pot wagon,' covered with layers or nests of earthenware pots of graduated sizes. i heard the driver of one of these pot wagons remark one time that when going down a steep hill, he put on the brake and always held his breath until the bottom of the hill was reached, fearing the pots might all be broken. the wagon-load containing earthenware and slaves was driven to stroudsburg, where the pots were delivered to a wholesale customer. here the runaways were released from their cramped quarters and turned over to sympathizing friends, who assisted them in reaching canada and safety. i have frequently met the fine-looking, courtly old gentleman who owned the pottery, and old zacariah mast, the skilled german potter whom he employed. they were for many years familiar figures in the little quaker town, not many miles distant. both passed away many years ago." mary, who still continued her explorations of the corner cupboard, exclaimed: "oh! aunt sarah! here is another odd, old plate, way back on the lop shelf, out of sight." "yes, dear, that belonged to your uncle john's mother. it has never been used and was manufactured over one hundred years ago at an old pottery in bedminister township, bucks county. some of those other quaint, old-fashioned plates also belonged to john's mother. your uncle loves old dishes and especially old furniture; he was so anxious to possess his grandfather's old 'solliday' clock. in the centre of the face of the clock a hand indicated the day of the month and pictures of two large, round moons on the upper part of the clock's face (resembling nothing so much as large, ripe peaches) represented the different phases of the moon. if new moon, or the first or last quarter, it appeared, then disappeared from sight. it was valued highly, being the last clock made by the old clockmaker; but john never came into possession of it, as it was claimed by an elder sister. i value the old clock which stands in the parlor because 'twas my mother's, although it is very plain. this old cherry, corner cupboard was made for my grandmother by her father, a cabinetmaker, as a wedding gift, and was given me by my mother. did you notice the strong, substantial manner in which it is made? it resembles mission furniture." "do tell me, aunt, what this small iron boat, on the top shelf, was ever used for? it must be of value, else 'twould not occupy a place in the cupboard with all your pretty dishes." "yes, dearie, 'twas my grandmother's lamp, called in old times a 'schmutz amschel' which, translated, means a grease robin, or bird. i have two of them. i remember seeing my grandmother many a time, when the 'amschel' was partly filled with melted lard or liquid fat, light a piece of lamp wick hanging over the little pointed end or snout of the lamp. the lamp was usually suspended from a chain fastened to either side. a spike on the chain was stuck into the wall, which was composed of logs. this light, by the way, was not particularly brilliant, even when one sat close beside it, and could not be compared with the gas and electric lights of our present day and generation. that was a very primitive manner of illumination used by our forefathers. "mary, did you notice the gayly-decorated, old-fashioned coffee pot and tea caddy in the corner cupboard? they belonged to my grandmother; also that old-fashioned fluid lamp, used before coal-oil or kerosene came into use; and that old, perforated tin lantern also is very ancient. "mary, have you ever read the poem, the potter and the clay?' no? then read it to me, dear, i like it well; 'tis a particular favorite of mine, i do not remember by whom it was written." the potter and the clay. (jeremiah xviii - .) the potter wrought a work in clay, upon his wheel; he moulded it and fashioned it, and made it feel, in every part, his forming hand, his magic skill, until it grew in beauty fair beneath his will. when lo! through some defect, 'twas marred and broken lay, its fair proportions spoiled, and it but crumbling clay; oh, wondrous patience, care and love, what did he do? he stooped and gathered up the parts and formed anew. he might have chosen then a lump of other clay on which to show his skill and care another day, but no; he formed it o'er again, as seemed him good; and who has yet his purpose scanned, his will withstood? learn thou from this a parable of god's great grace toward the house of israel, his chosen race; he formed them for his praise; they fell and grieved him sore, but he will yet restore and bless them evermore. and what he'll do for israel, he'll do for thee; oh soul, so marred and spoiled by sin, thou yet shall see that he has power to restore, he will receive, and thou shall know his saving grace, only believe. despair not, he will form anew thy scattered life, and gather up the broken parts, make peace from strife; only submit thou to his will of perfect love, and thou shall see his fair design in heaven above. chapter xxi. the value of wholesome, nutritious food. "yes, my dear," said frau schmidt (continuing a conversation which had occurred several days previously between herself and mary), "we will have more healthful living when the young housewife of the present day possesses a knowledge of different food values (those food products from which a well-balanced meal may be prepared) for the different members of her household. she should endeavor to buy foods which are most nourishing and wholesome; these need not necessarily consist of the more expensive food products. cheaper food, if properly cooked, may have as fine a flavor and be equally as nutritious as that of higher price. "and, mary, when you marry and have a house to manage, if possible, do your own marketing, and do not make the mistake common to so many young, inexperienced housewives, of buying more expensive food than, your income will allow. some think economy in purchasing food detrimental to their dignity and to the well-being of their families; often the ones most extravagant in this respect are those least able to afford it. frequently the cause of this is a lack of knowledge of the value of different foods. the housewife with a large family and limited means should purchase cheaper cuts of meat, which become tender and palatable by long simmering. combine them with different vegetables, cooked in the broth, and serve as the principal dish at a meal, or occasionally serve dumplings composed of a mixture of flour and milk, cooked in the broth, to extend the meat flavor. frequently serve a dish of rice, hominy, cornmeal and oatmeal, dried beans and peas. these are all nutritious, nourishing foods when properly cooked and attractively served. and remember, mary, to always serve food well seasoned. many a well-cooked meal owes its failure to please to a lack of proper seasoning. this is a lesson a young cook must learn. neither go to the other extreme and salt food too liberally. speaking of salt, my dear, have you read the poem, 'the king's daughters,' by margaret vandegrift? if not, read it, and then copy it in your book of recipes." "the king's daughters." the king's three little daughters, 'neath the palace window straying, had fallen into earnest talk that put an end to playing; and the weary king smiled once again to hear what they were saying; "it is i who love our father best," the eldest daughter said; "i am the oldest princess," and her pretty face grew red; "what is there none can do without? i love him more than bread." then said the second princess, with her bright blue eyes aflame; "than bread, a common thing like bread! thou hast not any shame! glad am i, it is i, not thou, called by our mother's name; i love him with a better love than one so tame as thine, more than--oh! what then shall i say that is both bright and fine? and is not common? yes, i know. i love him more than wine." then the little youngest daughter, whose speech would sometimes halt, for her dreamy way of thinking, said, "nay, you are both in fault. 'tis i who love our father best, i love him more than salt." shrill little shrieks of laughter greeted her latest word, as the two joined hands exclaiming. "but this is most absurd!" and the king, no longer smiling, was grieved that he had heard, for the little youngest daughter, with her eyes of steadfast grey, could always move his tenderness, and charm his care away; "she grows more like her mother dead," he whispered day by day, "but she is very little and i will find no fault, that while her sisters strive to see who most shall me exalt, she holds me nothing dearer than a common thing like salt." the portly cook was standing in the courtyard by the spring, he winked and nodded to himself, "that little quiet thing knows more than both the others, as i will show the king." that afternoon, at dinner, there was nothing fit to eat. the king turned angrily away from soup and fish and meat, and he found a cloying sweetness in the dishes that were sweet; "and yet," he muttered, musing, "i cannot find the fault; not a thing has tasted like itself but this honest cup of malt." said the youngest princess, shyly: "dear father, they want salt." a sudden look of tenderness shone on the king's dark face, as he sat his little daughter in the dead queen's vacant place, and he thought: "she has her mother's heart; ay, and her mother's grace; great love through channels will find its surest way. it waits not state occasions, which may not come or may; it comforts and it blesses, hour by hour, and day by day." chapter xxii. a variety of cakes evolved from one "aunt sarah," questioned mary one day, "will you tell me how it is possible to evolve a number of cakes from one recipe?" "certainly i will, my dear," said her aunt. "for instance, take the simple recipe from which i have for years baked layer cake. you may have other recipes given you, equally as good, but i feel positive none better. the cake made from this recipe is not rich enough to be unwholesome, but a good, reliable, inexpensive, easily-made cake, with which i have never had a failure. "the recipe, as you know, consists of - / cups of granulated sugar, / cup of a mixture of butter and sweet lard (or use all butter), / cup sweet milk, cups flour and teaspoonfuls baking powder. eggs. "the simplest manner of baking this cake is in two square cake pans. when baked, take from pans and ice each cake with a boiled chocolate icing and put together as a layer cake, or ice each cake with a plain, boiled white icing and, when this is cold, you may spread over top of each cake unsweetened chocolate, which has been melted over steam after being grated. when cake is to be served, cut in diamonds or squares. or add to the batter cup of chopped hickory nut meats, bake in layers and cut in squares. "for a chocolate loaf cake, add two generous tablespoonfuls of unsweetened melted chocolate to the batter just before baking. if you wish a chocolate layer cake, use the same batter as for the chocolate loaf cake, bake in two layer pans and put together with white boiled icing. "or, add to this same batter one scant teaspoonful of cinnamon, ginger, / teaspoonful of grated nutmeg and cloves, a cup of raisins or dried currants, and you have a small fruit cake. "or, add a small quantity of thinly-shaved citron to the original recipe, flavor with lemon, bake in a loaf and spread a white icing flavored with lemon extract over top of cake, and you have a lemon cake. "or, add chocolate and spices to one-half the batter (about one-half as much chocolate and spices as were used in batter for fruit cake) and place spoonfuls of the light and dark batter alternately in a cake pan, until all batter has been used, and you will have a cheap, old-fashioned marble cake. "or, bake cake over original recipe, in two-layer pans, placing between layers either tart jelly, a creamy cornstarch filling, grated cocoanut, apple cream filling, or you might even use half the recipe given for the delicious icing or filling for lady baltimore cake. "lastly, bake small cakes from this same recipe. mary, you should have small pans for baking these delicious little cakes, similar to those i possess, which i ordered made at the tinsmith's. i took for a pattern one frau schmidt loaned me. they are the exact size of one-quarter pound boxes of royal baking powder. cut the box in three pieces of equal height, and your cakes will be equally as large in diameter as the baking powder box, but only one-third as high. i think i improved on frau schmidt's cake tins, as hers were all separate, i ordered twelve tins, similar to hers, to be fastened to a piece of sheet iron. i had two of these iron sheets made, containing twenty-four little pans. i place a generous tablespoonful of the batter in each of the twenty-four small pans, and cakes rise to the top of pans. usually i have batter remaining after these are filled. ice all the cake except the top with a white boiled icing or chocolate icing. these small cakes keep exceedingly well, and are always liked by young folks and are particularly nice for children's parties". "speaking of cakes, aunt sarah," said mary, "have you ever used swansdown cake flour? i have a friend in the city who uses it for making the most delicious angel cake, and she gave me a piece of gold cake made over a recipe in 'cake secrets,' which comes with the flour, and it was fine. i'll get a package of the flour for you the first time i go to the city. the flour resembles a mixture of ordinary flour and cornstarch. it is not a prepared flour, to be used without baking powder, and you use it principally for baking cakes. i have the recipe for both the gold and angel cakes, with the instructions for baking same. they are as follows:" angel cake. "for the angel cake, use one even cupful of the whites of egg (whites of either eight large or nine small eggs); a pinch of salt, if added when beating eggs, hastens the work. one and one-quarter cups granulated sugar, cup of iglehart's swansdown cake flour. sift flour once, then measure and sift three times. beat whites of eggs about half, add / teaspoonful of cream of tartar then beat whites of eggs until they will stand of their own weight. add sugar, then flour, not by stirring, but by folding over and over, until thoroughly mixed. flavor with / teaspoonful of vanilla or a few drops of almond extract. as much care should be taken in baking an angel food cake as in mixing. bake in an ungreased patent pan. place the cake in an oven that is just warm enough to know there is a fire inside the range. let the oven stay just warm through until the batter has raised to the top of the cake pan, then increase the heat gradually until the cake is well browned over. if by pressing the top of the cake with the finger it will spring back without leaving the impression of the finger, the cake is done through. great care should be taken that the oven is not too hot to begin with, as the cake will rise too fast and settle or fall in the baking. it should bake in from to minutes' time. when done, invert the pan and let stand until cold before removing it. should you see cake browning before it rises to top of pan, throw your oven door open and let cold air rush in and cool your oven instantly. be not afraid. the cold air will not hurt the cake. two minutes will cool any oven. watch cake closely. don't be afraid to open oven door every three or four minutes. this is the only way to properly bake this cake. when cake has raised above top of pan, increase your heat and finish baking rapidly. baking too long dries out the moisture, makes it tough and dry. when cake is done it begins to shrink. let it shrink back to level of pan. watch carefully at this stage and take out of oven and invert immediately. rest on centre tube of pan. let hang until perfectly cold, then take cake carefully from pan. when baking angel cake always be sure the oven bakes good brown under bottom of cake. if cake does not crust under bottom it will fall out when inverted and shrink in the fall." "i never invert my pans of angel cake on taking them from oven," said mary's aunt, "as the cakes are liable to fall out even if the pan is not greased. i think it safer to allow the pans containing the cakes to stand on a rack and cool without inverting the pan. "suppose, mary, we bake a gold cake over the recipe from 'cake secrets,' as eggs are plentiful; but we haven't any swansdown flour. i think we will wait until we get it from the city." gold cake. yolks of eggs; - / cups granulated sugar, / cup of butter, / cup water, - / cups of swansdown cake flour, heaping teaspoonfuls of baking powder, / teaspoonful lemon extract. sift flour once, then measure. add baking powder and sift three times. cream butter and sugar thoroughly; beat yolks to a stiff froth; add this to creamed butter and sugar, and stir thoroughly through. add flavor, add water, then flour. stir very hard. place in a slow oven at once. will bake in from to minutes. invert pan immediately it is taken from oven. mary, this batter may also be baked in layers with any kind of filling desired. the angel cake receipt is very similar to an original recipe frau schmidt gave me; she uses cornstarch instead of swansdown flour and she measures the eggs in a cup instead of taking a certain number; she thinks it more exact. "aunt sarah, did you know frau schmidt, instead of using flour alone when baking cakes, frequently uses a mixture of flour and cornstarch? she sifts together, several times, six cups of flour and one cup of cornstarch, and uses this instead of using flour alone. "i dearly love the professor's wife--she's been so very good to me," exclaimed mary. "yes," replied her aunt, "she has very many lovable qualities." mary's liking for bright, energetic frau schmidt was not greater than the affection bestowed on mary by the professor's wife, who frequently entertained mary with tales of her life when a girl in germany, to all of which mary never tired listening. one aunt, a most estimable woman, held the position of valued and respected housekeeper and cook for the lord mayor of the city wherein she resided. another relative, known as "schone anna," for many years kept an inn named "the four seasons," noted for the excellent fare served by the fair chatelaine to her patrons. the inn was made famous by members of the king's household stopping there while in the town during the summer months, which was certainly a compliment to her good cooking. one of the things in which she particularly excelled was potato cakes raised with yeast. frau schmidt had been given a number of these valuable recipes by her mother, all of which she offered to mary. one recipe she particularly liked was "fast nacht cakes," which the professor's wife baked always without fail on shrove tuesday (or "fast nacht" day), the day before the beginning of lent. this rule was as "unchangeable as the law of medes and persians," and it would have been a very important event, indeed, which would have prevented the baking of these toothsome delicacies on that day. chapter xxiii. the old "taufschien." [illustration: birth and christening certificate old taufschien] aunt sarah had long promised to show mary her grandmother's "taufschien," and she reverently handled the large old family bible, which contained between its sacred pages the yellowed paper, being the birth and christening certificate of her grandmother, whom we read was born in , in nockamixon township, was confirmed in , and was married in to the man who was later aunt sarah's grandfather. the old certificate was signed by a german reformed minister named wack, who history tells us was the first young man of that denomination to be ordained to the ministry in america. folded with this "taufschien" is another which has never been filled out. this is printed in german. pictures of women, perhaps they are intended to represent angels, with golden wings, clothed in loose-flowing crimson drapery and holding harps in their hands; birds with gayly-colored plumage of bluish green, crimson and yellow, perched on branches of what presumably represent cherry trees, also decorate the page. religious hymns printed on the "taufschiens," encircled with gay stripes of light blue and yellow, dotted with green, further embellish them. on one we read: "infinite joy or endless woe, attend on every breath; and yet, how unconcerned we go upon the brink of death." "mary, this old 'taufschien' of my grandmother's is one of my most cherished possessions. would you like to see your uncle's old deed, which he came into possession of when he inherited the farm from his father?" carefully unfolding the stiff old parchment or pigskin deed, yellowed and brown spotted with age, mary could faintly decipher the writing wherein, beautifully written, old-fashioned penmanship of two hundred years ago stated that a certain piece of land in bucks county, beginning at a chestnut oak, north to a post; then east to a large rock, and on the south unsettled land, which in later years was conveyed to john landis. "this deed," said mary's aunt, "was given in , nearly two hundred years ago, by john, thomas and richard penn, sons of william penn by his second marriage, which occurred in america. his eldest son, john penn, you have no doubt heard, was called 'the american,' he having been born in this country before william penn's return to europe, where he remained fifteen years, as you've no doubt heard." at the bottom of the deed a blue ribbon has been slipped through cuts in the parchment, forming a diamond which incloses what is supposed to be the signature of thomas penn. "aunt sarah, i am not surprised that you value this old deed of the farm and these 'taufschiens' of your grandmother i should frame them, so they may be preserved by future generations." chapter xxiv. the old store on the ridge road. aunt sarah found in mary a willing listener when talking of the time in years past when her grandfather kept a small "country store" on the ridge road in bucks county. she also remembered, when a child of ten, accompanying her grandfather on one of his trips when he drove to philadelphia to purchase goods for his store. "they had no trolley cars in those days?" asked mary. "no, my dear, neither did they have steam cars between the different towns and cities as we have now." "at grandfather's store could be bought both groceries and dry goods. the surrounding farmers' wives brought to the store weekly fresh print butter, eggs, pot cheese and hand-case, crocks of apple-butter, dried sweet corn, beans, cherries, peach and apple 'snitz,' taking in exchange sugar, starch, coffee, molasses, etc. my father tapped his sugar maples and mother cooked down the syrup until thick, and we used that in place of molasses. they also took in exchange shaker flannel, nankeen, indigo blue and 'simpson' gray calico, which mother considered superior to any other, both for its washing and wearing qualities. the farmers who came occasionally to the store to shop for different members of the family frequently bought whole pieces of calico of one pattern, and," affirmed aunt sarah, "i knew of one farmer who bought several whole pieces of one pattern with rather large figures on a dark wine ground, resembling somewhat the gay figures on an old paisley shawl. he said 'twas a good, serviceable color, and more economical to buy it all alike, and remarked: 'what's the difference, anyway? calico is calico.' from the same piece of calico his wife made dresses, aprons and sunbonnets for herself and daughters, shirts for the farmer and his sons (the boys were young, fortunately), and patchwork quilts and comfortables from the remainder." "rather monotonous, i should think," said mary. "i am surprised his wife did not make him wear coat and trousers made from the same piece of calico." [illustration: the old store on ridge road] "the dry goods," continued aunt sarah, "retained the scent of coffee, cheese and dried fruits some time after being purchased but no one minded that in those days. i still remember how perfectly wonderful to me when a child appeared the large, wide-mouthed glass jars containing candy. there were red and white striped mint sticks, striped yellow and white lemon sticks and hoarhound and clear, wine-colored sticks striped with lines of white, flavored with anise-seed. one jar contained clear lemon-colored 'sour balls,' preferred by us children on account of their lasting qualities, as also were the jujubees, which resembled nothing so much as gutta percha, and possessed equally as fine flavor; also pink and yellow sugar-frosted gumdrops. in a case at one end of the counter were squares of thick white paper covered with rows of small pink, also white, 'peppermint buttons,' small sticks, two inches in length, of chewing gum in waxed paper, a white, tasteless, crystalline substance resembling paraffine. what longing eyes i frequently cast at the small scalloped cakes of maple sugar, prohibitive as regards cost. they sold for a nickel, am i was always inordinately fond of maple sugar, but the price was prohibitive. i seldom possessed more than a penny to spend in those days, and not always that. father raised a large family, money was never plentiful, and we relished the plain, cheap candies usually sold in those days more than many children of the present day do the finest and most expensive cream chocolates, to many of whom in this extravagant age a dollar is not valued more highly than was a penny by us in years gone by. and 'candy secrets!' i don't believe you know what they are like. i've not seen any for years. they were small, square pieces of taffy-like candy, wrapped in squares of gilt or silver paper, inclosing a small strip of paper containing a couple of sentimental lines or jingle. later came 'french secrets.' they consisted of a small oblong piece of candy about an inch in length, wrapped in tissue paper of different colors, having fringed ends, twisted together at either end. these also inclosed a tiny strip of paper containing a line or two. small, white candy hearts contained the words in pink letters, 'little sweetheart,' 'i love you,' 'name the day,' etc. these were invariably distributed among the young folks at small parties and created no end of merriment." "mary, old as i am, i still remember the delight i experienced when a little, rosy-cheeked urchin surreptitiously passed me around the corner of my desk at the old 'cross roads school' a 'secret,' with the words, 'do you love me?' my grandmother always kept a supply of hoarhound and peppermint lozenges in her knitting basket to give us children should we complain of hoarseness. my, but 'twas astonishing to hear us all cough until grandmother's supply of mints was exhausted. i think. mary, i must have had a 'sweet tooth' when a child, as my recollections seem to be principally about the candy kept in my grandfather's store. i suppose in those early days of my childhood candy appealed to me more than anything else, as never having had a surfeit of sweets, candy to me was a rare treat. i remember, mary, when a little child, my thrifty mother, wishing to encourage me to learn to knit my own stockings, she, when winding the skein of german yarn into a ball, occasionally wound a penny in with the yarn. i was allowed to spend the penny only after i had knitted the yarn and the penny had fallen from the ball. what untold wealth that penny represented! and planning how to spend it was greater pleasure still. many a pair of long old-fashioned, dark blue and red-striped stockings, were finished more quickly than otherwise would have been done without the promised reward. i became proficient in knitting at an early age," continued aunt sarah; "a truly feminine occupation, and as i one time heard a wise old physician remark, 'soothing to the nerves,' which i know to be true, having knitted many a worry into the heel of a sock. i learned at an early age the value of money, and once having acquired the saving habit, it is not possible to be wasteful in later life." chapter xxv. an elbadritchel hunt. fritz schmidt, like many another bucks county boy, had frequently heard the rural tale of a mythical bird called the "elbadritchel," supposed to be abroad, particularly on cold, dark, stormy nights, when the wind whistled and blew perfect gales around exposed corners of houses and barns. 'twas a common saying among "pennsylvania germans," at such times, "'tis a fine night to catch 'elbadritchels.'" [illustration: catching elbadritchels] for the information of those who may not even have heard of this remarkable creature, it is described as being a cross between a swallow, a goose and a lyre bird. have you ever seen an "elbadritchel?" no one has to my certain knowledge, so i cannot vouch for the truth of this description of it. fritz schmidt had never taught to question the truth of the tale. so, when one cold, stormy night several boys from neighboring farms drove up to the schmidt homestead and asked fritz to join them in a hunt for "elbadritchels," he unhesitatingly agreed to make one of the number, unaware that he had been selected as the victim of a practical joke, and, as usual, was one of the jolliest of the crowd. they drove through a blinding downpour of rain and dismounted on reaching a lonely hill about three miles distant. they gave fritz a bag to hold. it was fashioned of burlap and barrel hoops, inside of which they placed a lighted candle, and fritz was instructed how to hold it in order to attract the "elbadritchel." they also gave him a club with which to strike the bird when it should appear. the boys scampered off in different directions, ostensibly to chase up the birds, but in reality they clambered into the waiting wagon and were rapidly driven home, leaving fritz alone awaiting the coming of the "elbadritchel." when fritz realized the trick played on him, his feelings may be better imagined than described. he trudged home, cold and tired, vowing vengeance on the boys, fully resolved to get even with them. chapter xxvi the old shanghai rooster. much of aunt sarah's spare time was devoted to her chickens, which fully repaid her for the care given them. she was not particular about fancy stock, but had quite a variety--white leghorns, brown leghorns, big, fat, motherly old brahma hens that had raised a brood of as many as thirty-five little chicks at one time, a few snow-white, large plymouth rocks and some gray barred one. the _latter_ she _liked_ particularly because she said they were much, more talkative than any of the others; they certainly did appear to chatter to her when she fed them. she gave them clean, comfortable quarters, warm bran mash on cold winter mornings, alternating with cracked corn and "scratch feed" composed of a mixture of cracked corn, wheat and buckwheat, scattered over a litter of dried leaves on the floor of the chicken house, so they were obliged to work hard for their food. [illustration: old egg basket] a plentiful supply of fresh water was always at hand, as well as cracked oyster shell. she also fed the chickens all scraps from the table, cutting all meat scraps fine with an old pair of scissors hung conveniently in the kitchen. she was very successful with the little chicks hatched out when she "set" a hen and the yield of eggs from her hens was usually greater and the eggs larger in size than those of any of her neighbors. this i attribute to her excellent care of them, generous diet, but principally to the fact of the elimination of all the roosters among the flock during the season between the "first of may and december first," with one exception. "brigham," an immensely large, old, red shanghai rooster, a most pompous and dignified old chap. a special pet of aunt sarah's, she having raised him from a valuable "setting" of eggs given her, and as the egg from which "brigham," as he was called, emerged, was the only one of the lot which proved fertile, he was valued accordingly and given a longer lease of life than the other roosters, and was usually either confined or allowed to roam outside the chicken yard during the summer months; in the winter, being a swift runner, he usually gobbled up two shares of food before the hens arrived. that accounted for his great size. the old rooster was also noted for his loud crowing. one day in early spring, john landis came into the house hurriedly, saying, "sarah, your old shanghai rooster is sick." "yes," answered his wife, "i missed hearing him crow this morning; he is usually as regular as an alarm clock." she hurried to the barnyard, picked up poor brigham, wrapped him carefully in a piece of blanket and laid him in a small shed. the next morning she was awakened by the lusty crowing of brigham, who was apparently as well as ever. the next day the same thing happened. aunt sarah found him, as she supposed, in a dying condition, and the following morning he was fully recovered. it was quite puzzling until one day john landis came into the kitchen laughing heartily and said, "sarah, i am sorry to inform you of the intemperate habits of your pet, brigham. he is a most disreputable old fellow, and has a liking for liquor. he has been eating some of the brandied cherries which were thrown into the barnyard when the jug containing them was accidentally broken at house cleaning time. "well, sarah, old brigham was not sick at all--only 'ingloriously' drunk." in the fall of the same year aunt sarah spied brigham one day on top of one of the cider barrels in the shed busily engaged eating the pummace which issued from the bung-hole of the barrel. john landis, on hearing of brigham's last escapade, decided, as the rooster was large as an ordinary-turkey, to serve him roasted at mary's wedding. fritz schmidt remarked one day in the presence of sibylla: "chickens must possess some little intelligence; they know enough to go to bed early. yes, and without an 'alarm clock,' too, sibylla, eh?" she walked away without a word to fritz. the alarm clock was a sore subject with her, and one about which she had nothing to say. sibylla had never quite forgiven fritz for the prank played on her. he, happening to hear john landis tell sibylla a certain hour he thought a proper time for jake crouthamel to take his departure sunday evenings, fritz conceived the brilliant (?) idea of setting the alarm clock to "go off" quite early in the evening. he placed the clock at the head of the stairs, and in the midst of an interesting conversation between the lovers the alarm sounded with a loud, whizzing noise, which naturally made quick-tempered sibylla very angry. she said on seeing fritz the next morning: "it was not necessary to set the 'waker' to go off, as i know enough to send 'chake' home when it's time." fritz, happening to tell the story to the editor of a small german mennonite paper, edited in a near-by town, it was printed in that paper in german, which caused sibylla, on hearing it, to be still more angry at the professor's son. chapter xxvii. "a potato pretzel." in the early part of september mary's aunt suggested she try to win the prize offered at the farmers' picnic in a near-by town for the best "raised potato cake." aunt sarah's rye bread invariably captured first prize, and she proposed sending both bread and cake with sibylla and jake, who never missed picnic or fair within a radius of one hundred miles. [illustration: "potato pretzel"] mary set a sponge the evening of the day preceding that of the picnic, using recipe for "perfection potato cake," which aunt sarah considered her best recipe for raised cakes, as 'twas one used by her mother for many years. on the day of the picnic, mary arose at five o'clock, and while her aunt was busily engaged setting sponge for her loaf of rye bread, mary kneaded down the "potato cake" sponge, set to rise the previous evening, now rounded over top of bowl and light as a feather. she filled a couple of pans with buns, molded from the dough, and set them to rise. she then, under her aunt's direction, fashioned the "pretzel" as follows: she placed a piece of the raised dough on a large, well-floured bake board, rolled it over and over with both hands until a long, narrow roll or strip was formed about the width of two fingers in thickness and placed this strip carefully on the baking sheet, which was similar to the one on which aunt sarah baked rye bread; shaped the dough to form a figure eight ( ) or pretzel, allowing about two inches of space on either side of baking sheet to allow for raising. she then cut a piece of dough into three portions, rolled each as thick as a finger, braided or plaited the three strips together and placed carefully on top of the figure eight, or pretzel, not meeting by a space of about two inches. this braided piece on the top should not be quite as thick as bottom or first piece of the pretzel. she then rolled three small pieces of dough into tiny strips or rolls the size of small lead pencils, wound them round and round and round into small scrolls, moistened the lower side with water to cause them to adhere, and placed them on the dividing line between the two halves of the figure eight. she placed an old china coffee cup without a handle, buttered on outside, in centre of each half of the figure eight, which kept the pretzel from spreading over the pan. with a small, new paint brush she brushed over the top of pretzel and buns, a mixture, consisting of one yolk of egg, an equal quantity of cream or milk (which should be lukewarm so as not to chill the raised dough) and one tablespoon of sugar. this causes the cakes, etc., to be a rich brown when baked, a result to be obtained in no other manner. when the pretzel was raised and had doubled in size 'twas baked in a moderately hot oven. mary's surprise and delight may easily be imagined when sibylla, on her return from the picnic, handed her the prize she had won, a two-pound box of chocolates, remarking, "mary, you and aunt sarah both got a prize--her's is in the box what jake's got." the box on being opened by aunt sarah contained a very pretty, silver-plated soup ladle, the prize offered for the best loaf of rye bread. "aunt sarah," inquired mary one day, "do you think it pays a housekeeper to bake her own bread?" [illustration: the old store on ridge road] "certainly, it pays, my dear. from a barrel of flour may be baked three hundred or more one-pound loaves of bread; should you pay five cents a loaf, the bread which may be made from one barrel of flour if bought from a bake shop would cost you fifteen dollars. now, you add to the cost of a barrel of flour a couple of dollars for yeast, salt, etc., which altogether would not possibly be more than ten dollars, and you see the housewife has saved five dollars. it is true it is extra work for the housewife, but good, wholesome bread is such an important item, especially in a large family, i should advise the thrifty housekeeper to bake her own bread and bake less pie and cake, or eliminate less important duties, to be able to find time to bake bread. from the bread sponge may be made such a number of good, plain cakes by the addition of currants or raisins, which are more wholesome and cheaper than richer cakes." "i think what you say is true, aunt sarah," said mary. "frau schmidt always bakes her own bread, and she tells me she sets a sponge or batter for white bread, and by the addition of graham flour, cornmeal or oatmeal, always has a variety on her table with a small expenditure of time and money." [illustration: a "brod corvel" or bread basket] chapter xxviii. faithful service. the home-making instinct was so strongly developed in mary that her share in the labor of cooking and baking became a pleasure. occasionally she had failures--what inexperienced cook has not?--yet they served only to spur her on to fresh efforts. she had several small scars on her wrist caused by her arm coming in contact with the hot oven when baking. she laughingly explained: "one bar on my arm represents that delicious 'brod torte' which frau schmidt taught me to bake; the other one i acquired when removing the sponge cake from the oven which uncle john said 'equaled aunt sarah's' (which i consider highest praise), and the third bar i received when taking from the oven the 'lemon meringue,' ralph's favorite pie, which he pronounced 'fine, almost too good to eat.'" mary was as proud of her scars as a young, non-commissioned officer of the chevron on his sleeve, won by deeds of valor. the lessons mary learned that summer on the farm while filling her hope chest and preparing her mind for wifehood were of inestimable value to her in later years. she learned not only to bake, brew and keep house, but from constant association with her aunt she acquired a self-poise, a calm, serene manner, the value of which is beyond price in this swift, restless age. one day, while having a little heart-to-heart talk with mary, her aunt said: "my dear, never allow an opportunity to pass for doing a kind act. if ever so small, it may cheer some sad, lonely heart. don't wait to do _big things_. the time may never come. if only a kind word, speak it at once. kind words cost so little, and we should all be more prodigal with them; and to a tired, sad, discouraged soul, a kind word or act means so very much; and who is there that has not at some time in life known sorrow and felt the need of sympathy? were our lives all sunshine we could not feel in touch with sorrowing friends. how natural it is for our hearts to go out in sympathy to the one who says 'i have suffered.' give to your friend the warm hand-clasp and cheery greeting' which cost us nothing in the giving. 'tis the little lifts which help us over stones in our pathway through life. we think our cross the heaviest when, did we but know the weight of others, we'd not willingly exchange; and remember mary, 'there are no crown-bearers in heaven that were not cross-bearers below.' have you ever read the poem, 'the changed cross?' no? well, i will give it to you to copy in your book of recipes. should you ever, in future years, feel your cross too heavy to bear, read the poem. how many brave, cheery little women greet us with a smile as they pass. but little do we or any one realize that instead of a song in their hearts the smiles on their lips conceal troubles the world does not suspect, seeking to forget their own sorrows while doing kindly acts for others. they are the real heroes whom the world does not reward with medals for bravery, 'to stand with a smile upon your face against a stake from which you cannot get away, that, no doubt, is heroic; but the true glory is not resignation to the inevitable. to stand unchained, with perfect liberty to go away, held only by the higher claims of duty, and let the fire creep up to the heart, that is heroism.' ah! how many good women have lived faithful to duty when 'twould have been far easier to have died!" "faithful over a few things." matt. xxv: . it may seem to you but a trifle, which you have been called to do; just some humble household labor, away from the public view, but the question is, are you faithful, and striving to do your best, as in sight of the blessed master, while leaving to him the rest? it may be but a little corner, which you have been asked to fill; what matters it, if you are in it, doing the master's will? doing it well and faithfully, and doing it with your might; not for the praise it may bring you, but because the thing is right. in the sight of man you may never win anything like success; and the laurel crown of the victor may never your temples press; if only you have god's approval, 'twill not matter what else you miss, his blessing is heaven beginning, his reward will be perfect bliss. be faithful in every service, obedient to every call; ever ready to do his bidding, whether in great things or small; you may seem to accomplish little, you may win the praise of none; but be sure you will win his favor, and the master's great "well done." and when at his blessed coming, you stand at his judgment seat; he'll remember your faithful service and his smile will be oh! so sweet! he will bid you a loving welcome, he'll make you to reign for aye, over great things and o'er many, with him, through eternal day. "the changed cross." it was a time of sadness, and my heart, although it knew and loved the better part, felt wearied with the conflict and the strife, and all the needful discipline of life. and while i thought on these as given to me, my trial tests of faith and love to be, it seemed as if i never could be sure that faithful to the end i should endure. and thus, no longer trusting to his might, who says, "we walk by faith and not by sight"; doubting and almost yielding to despair, the thought arose--my cross i cannot bear. far heavier its weight must surely be than those of others which i daily see; oh! if i might another burden choose, methinks i should not fear my crown to lose. a solemn silence reigned on all around, e'en nature's voices uttered not a sound; the evening shadows seemed of peace to tell, and sleep upon my weary spirit fell. a moment's pause and then a heavenly light beamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight; angels on silvery wings seemed everywhere, and angels' music filled the balmy air. then one more fair than all the rest to see-- one to whom all the others bowed the knee-- came gently to me as i trembling lay, and, "follow me!" he said, "i am the way." then speaking thus, he led me far above, and there, beneath a canopy of love, crosses of divers shapes and sizes were seen, larger and smaller than my own had been. and one there was, most beauteous to behold, a little one, with jewels set in gold; ah! this methought, i can with comfort wear, for it will be an easy one to bear. and so, the little cross i quickly took, but all at once, my frame beneath it shook; the sparkling jewels fair were they to see, but far too heavy was their weight for me. "this may not be," i cried, and looked again to see if there was any here could ease my pain; but one by one i passed them slowly by, till on a lovely one i cast my eye. fair flowers around its sculptured form entwined, and grace and beauty seemed in it combined; wondering, i gazed and still i wondered more, to think so many should have passed it o'er. but oh! that form so beautiful to see, soon made its hidden sorrows known to me; thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors fair; sorrowing, i said. "this cross i may not bear." and so it was with each and all around, not one to suit my need could there be found; weeping, i laid each heavy burden down, as my guide gently said: "no cross, no crown." at length to him i raised my saddened heart, he knew its sorrows, bid its doubts depart; "be not afraid," he said, "but trust in me, my perfect love shall now be shown to thee." and then with lightened eyes and willing feet, again i turned my earthly cross to meet; with forward footsteps, turning not aside for fear some hidden evil might betide. and there, in the prepared, appointed way, listening to hear, and ready to obey, a cross i quickly found of plainest form, with only words of love inscribed thereon. with thankfulness, i raised it from the rest, and joyfully acknowledged it the best; the only one of all the many there that i could feel was good for me to bear. and while i thus my chosen one confessed, i saw a heavenly brightness on it rest; and as i bent my burden to sustain, i recognized my own old cross again. but, oh! how different did it seem to be! now i had learned its preciousness to see; no longer could i unbelievingly say: "perhaps another is a better way." oh, no! henceforth my own desire shall be that he who knows me best should choose for me, and so whate'er his love sees good to send, i'll trust its best, because he knows the end. and when that happy time shall come of endless peace and rest, we shall look back upon our path and say: "it was the best." chapter xxix. mary, ralph, jake and sibylla visit the allentown fair. late in september jake and sibylla drove to the allentown fair. it was "big thursday" of fair week. they started quite early, long before ralph jackson, who had come from the city the day previous, to take mary to the fair, had arisen. [illustration: second church building sheltered liberty bell, - . photographed from the print of an old wood cut used in a german newspaper in the year ] mary, while appreciating sibylla's good qualities, never failed to be amused at her broad "pennsylvania german" dialect. the morning of the "fair," mary arose earlier than usual to allow sibylla and jake to get an early start, as it was quite a distance from the farm to the fair grounds. as they were about to drive away, sibylla, alighting from the carriage, said, "i forgot my 'schnupftuch.'" returning with it in her hand, she called, as she climbed into jake's buggy, "gut-by, mary, it looks fer rain." "yes" said jake, "i think it gives rain before we get back yet. the cornfodder in the barn this morning was damp like it had water on it." and said mary, "the fragrance of the flowers was particularly noticeable early this morning." jake, as it happened, was no false prophet. it did rain before evening. later in the day, mary and ralph drove to a near-by town, leaving horse and carriage at the hotel until their return in the evening, and boarded a train for allentown. on arriving there, they decided to walk up hamilton street, and later take a car out to the fair grounds. as they sauntered slowly up the main street, mary noticed a small church built between two large department stores and stopped to read a tablet on the church, which informed the passerby that "this is to commemorate the concealment of the liberty bell during the revolutionary war. this tablet was erected by the liberty bell chapter of the daughters of the revolution." the first zion's reformed church was founded in . in front of the church a rough block of granite, erected to the memory of john jacob mickley, contained the following inscription: "in commemoration of the saving of the liberty bell from the british in . under cover of darkness and with his farm team, he, john mickley, hauled the liberty bell from independence hall, philadelphia, through the british lines, to bethlehem, where the wagon broke down. the bell was transferred to another wagon, brought to allentown, placed beneath the floor of the _second_ church building of zion's reformed church, where it remained secreted nearly a year. this _tablet_ was placed by the order of the assembly of the commonwealth of pennsylvania, june nd, , under the auspices of the pennsylvania daughters of the revolution." this was all very interesting to a girl who had been born and reared in philadelphia; one who in earliest childhood had been taught to love and venerate the "old bell." ralph was quite as interested in reading about the old bell as was mary, and said; "did you know that the city of philadelphia purchased the state house property, which included the bell, in , in consideration of the sum of seventy thousand dollars? no building is ever to be erected on the ground inside the wall on the south side of the state house, but it is to remain a public green and walk forever?" [illustration] "no," replied mary, "i did not know that. i don't think we will see anything of greater interest than this at the fair." "i understand," said ralph, "this is the third church building built on this site, where the original church stood in which the bell was secreted." mary, possessing a fair share of the curiosity usually attributed to the "female of the species," on noticing the church door standing ajar, asked ralph to step inside with her, thinking to find the caretaker within; but no one was visible. a deep silence reigned in the cool, dim interior of the house of god. one could almost feel the silence, 'twas so impressive. slowly they walked up the wide church aisle and stood before the quaint baptismal font. a stray sunbeam glancing through one of the beautiful, variously-colored memorial windows, lighted up the pictured saint-like faces over the chancel, making them appear as if imbued with life. mary softly whispered to ralph, as if loath to profane the sacredness of the place by loud talking, "i seem to hear a voice saying, 'the lord is in his holy temple.'" quietly retracing their steps, they, without meeting any one, emerged into the bright sunlight and were soon in the midst of the turmoil and traffic incident to the principal business street of a city. the young folks boarded a trolley and in a short time reached the fair grounds, which offered many attractions to ralph as well as mary. the latter was interested in the fine display of needlework, fruits, flowers and vegetables of unusual size. aunt sarah's bread won a prize. a blue ribbon attached to frau schmidt's highly-prized, old-fashioned, patchwork quilt, showed it to be a winner. ralph, being interested in the pens of fancy chickens, prize cattle, etc., mary reluctantly left the woman's department of fancy work, and other interesting things, and accompanied him. on their way to the outlying cattle sheds they noticed two lovers sitting on a bench. upon a second glance they were convinced that it was jake and sibylla. jake, beaming with happiness, said, "sibylla vos side by me yet?" they were busily engaged eating a lunch consisting of rolls with hot "weiners" between the two halves, or, as jake called them, "doggies," munching pretzels and peanuts between sips of strong coffee, both supremely happy. a yearly visit to the allentown fair on "big thursday," was _the event_ in their dull, prosaic lives. [illustration: durham cave] chapter xxx. fritz schmidt explores durham cave. it appeared to be nothing new for fritz schmidt to get into trouble; rather the contrary. one day in early fall, after the first frost, he, in company with a number of boys, drove to durham, not many miles distant from his home, in search of persimmons, the crop of which, on account of the severity of the preceding winter, old farmers had predicted would be exceedingly heavy. fritz did not tell the boys of his intention to explore a cave which he had been told was in the neighborhood, thinking it would be a good joke to explore the cave first, then tell the boys later of his adventure. the old gentleman from whom fritz gained his information relative to the cave aroused the boy's curiosity by saying, "very many years ago, a skeleton was found in durham cave and one of the bones, on examination, proved to be the thigh bone of a human being. how he came there, or the manner of his death, was never known." a large room in the cave is known as "queen esther's drawing room," where, tradition has it "queen esther," or catharine montour, which was her rightful name, at one time inhabited this cave with some of her indian followers. fritz accidentally stumbled upon the mouth of the cave. none of the other boys being in sight, fritz quickly descended into the cave, which was dark as night. by lighting a second match as quickly as one was burned, he explored quite a distance, when, accidentally dropping his box of matches, the burning match in his hand, at the same moment, flickered faintly, then went out, leaving fritz in darkness. imagine the feelings of the boy, as he groped unsuccessfully on the floor of the cavern for the lost match box. finally, he gave up in despair. fritz was not a cowardly boy, but while searching for the matches, he, without thinking, had turned around several times, lost his bearings and knew not in which direction to go to reach the opening of the cave. he heard strange noises which he imagined were bats flopping their wings. there appeared to be something uncanny about the place, and fritz devoutly wished himself out in the sunshine, when a quotation he had frequently heard his father use came into his mind: "more things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of." so fritz knelt down and prayed as he had been taught to pray at his mother's knee, but more earnestly than he had ever prayed before in his life, that god would help him find his way out of the cave, believing that his prayer would be answered. and who shall say it was not answered? for, stumbling onward in the darkness, not knowing if he were coming toward the cave's entrance or going in the opposite direction, he eventually hailed with joy a faint streak of light which he followed, and it soon brought him to the mouth of the cave. he was surprised on joining his companions to find they had not been alarmed at his absence. he had been in the cave only thirty minutes, but to him it had seemed hours. fritz says to this day he has a horror of durham cave or "the devil's hole," as it was formerly called. [illustration: the woodland stream] chapter xxxi. mary's marriage. his vacation ended, after a busy season at the farm, ralph jackson returned to his work in the city, strong and robust. he had acquired the coat of tan which mary's uncle had predicted. physically strong as the "cave man" of old, he felt capable of moving mountains, and as was natural, he being only a human man, longed for the mate he felt god had intended should one day be his, as men have done since our first gardener, adam, and will continue to do until the end of time. when visiting the farm, an event which occurred about every two weeks, ralph constantly importuned mary to name an early day for their marriage. mary, with a young girl's impulsiveness, had given her heart unreservedly into the keeping of ralph jackson, her first sweetheart. mary was not naturally cold or unresponsive, neither was she lacking in passion. she had had a healthy girlhood, and a wholesome home life. she had been taught the conventional ideals of the marriage relations that have kept the race strong throughout the centuries. mary possessed great strength of character and fine moral courage. frequently, not wishing to show her real feeling for the young man; too well poised to be carried off into the wrong channel, defended and excused by many over-sentimental and light-headed novelists of the day, she sometimes appeared almost indifferent to the impetuous youth with warm, red blood leaping in his veins, who desired so ardently to possess her. mary's aunt had taught her the sanctity of parenthood, also that women are not always the weaker sex. there are times when they must show their superiority to "mere man" in being the stronger of the two, mentally if not physically, and ralph jackson knew when he called mary "wife" she would endow him with all the wealth of her pure womanhood, sacredly kept for the clean-souled young man, whose devotion she finally rewarded by promising to marry him the second week in october. sibylla linsabigler, a good but ignorant girl, accustomed to hearing her elder brothers speak slightingly regarding the sanctity of love and marriage, was greatly attached to mary, whom she admired exceedingly, and looked up to almost as a superior being. she unconsciously imitated many of mary's ways and mannerisms, and sought to adopt her higher ideals of life and standard of morals. one sunday, as jake crouthamel was spending the evening with sibylla, as was his usual custom, he attempted some slight familiarity, which annoyed sibylla greatly. jake, noticing the young girl's displeasure at his action, remarked, "i think me sibylla, you are stuck up yet" (a grave fault in the bucks county farm hand's opinion). "no, chake," sibylla replied, "i ain't, but mary, she say a man gives a girl more respect what keeps herself to herself before she is married, and i lofe you chake and want that you respect me if we marry." fritz and elizabeth schmidt, on hearing the news of mary's approaching marriage, promptly begged the privilege of decorating the old farm house parlor for the expected ceremony. they scoured the surrounding woods and countryside for decorations; along old stone fences and among shrubbery by the roadside they gathered large branches of bitter sweet. its racemes of orange-colored fruit, which later in the season becomes beautiful, when the orange gives place to a brilliant red, the outer covering of the berry turns back upon the stems, forming one of the prettiest pictures imaginable in late autumn. they also gathered branches of feathery wild clematis, which, after the petals had fallen, resembled nothing so much as a cluster of apple seeds, each seed tipped with what appeared like a tiny osprey feather. from the woods near the farm they gathered quantities of trailing ground pine and rainbow-tinted leaves from the numerous brilliant scarlet and yellow maples, which appeared brighter in contrast to the sober-hued trees of shellbark, oak and chestnut. [illustration: polly schmidt.] the wedding gifts sent to mary were odd, useful and numerous. the campfire girls, to whom she became endeared, gave her a "kitchen shower," consisting of a clothes basket (woven by an old basketmaker from the willows growing not far distant), filled to overflowing with everything imaginable that could possibly be useful to a young housekeeper, from the half dozen neatly-hemmed linen, blue ribbon tied, dish clothes, to really handsome embroidered articles from the girls to whom she had given instructions in embroidery during the past summer. sibylla's wedding present to mary was the work of her own strong, willing hands, and was as odd and original as useful. 'twas a "door mat" made from corn husks, braided into a rope, then sewed round and round and formed into an oval mat. mary laughingly told sibylla she thought when 'twas placed on her kitchen doorstep she'd ask every one to please step over it, as it was too pretty to be trod on, which greatly pleased the young girl, who had spent many hours of loving thought and labor on the simple, inexpensive gift. mary received from professor schmidt a small but excellent copy of one of the world's most famous pictures, "the night watch," painted by rembrandt, in . "my dear," said the old professor, "i saw what _was said to be_ the original of this painting, the property of queen wilhelmina of holland, at the st. louis exposition in . it was in a small, separate building. the size of the picture was fifteen feet by twenty feet. it is the largest and best known of rembrandt's works. it acquired the wrong title of 'night watch' in a period when, owing to the numerous coats of varnish and the effect of smoke and dust, it had gotten so dark in appearance that only the most lucid parts could be discerned. nowadays, nobody doubts that the light falling from the left on the boisterous company is that of the sun. the musketeers are remarching out of the high archway of their hall, crossing the street in front of it, and going up a bridge. the architecture of the building is a product of rembrandt's imagination. the steps, also, which we see the men descending, were put there simply to make those at the back show out above those in the front ranks. the march out was to be above all a portrait group. sixteen persons had each paid their contributions, a hundred guilders on the average, to have their likenesses transmitted to posterity, and every one of them was therefore to be fully visible." "it is certainly a wonderful picture," said mary, "and while i have seen few pictures painted by old masters, i think, even with my limited knowledge of art, i cannot fail to appreciate this excellent copy, and i thank you heartily. professor, and shall always be reminded of you when i look at this copy of a great work." mary would not go empty-handed to ralph at her marriage. her "hope chest" in the attic was full to overflowing, and quite unique in itself, as it consisted of an old, in fact ancient, wooden dough-tray used in times past by aunt sarah's grandmother. beside it stood a sewing table, consisting of three discarded broom handles supporting a cheese-box cover, with wooden cheese-box underneath for holding mary's sewing; stained brown and cretonne lined. mary valued it as the result of the combined labor of herself and ralph jackson. a roll of new, home-made rag carpet, patchwork quilts and "new colonial" rugs, jars of fruit, dried sweet corn, home-made soap, crocks of apple butter, jellies, jams and canned vegetables all bore evidence of mary's busy summer at the farm. the day of mary's marriage, the twelfth of october, dawned clear and bright, sunshine warm as a day in june. in the centre of the gayly-decorated old farm house parlor, wearing a simple, little, inexpensive dress of soft, creamy muslin, we find mary standing beside ralph, who is looking supremely satisfied and happy, although a trifle pale and nervous, listening to the solemn words of the minister. ralph's "i will" sounded clearly and distinctly through the long room. mary, with a sweet, serious, faraway look in her blue eyes, repeated slowly after the minister, "i promise to love, honor and"--then a long pause. she glanced shyly up at the young man by her side as if to make sure he was worth it, then in a low, clear tone, added, "obey." ralph jackson certainly deserved the appellation "cave man" given him by fritz schmidt. he was considerably more than six feet in height, with broad, square shoulders, good features, a clear brain and a sound body. he had never used intoxicants of any description. he sometimes appeared quite boyish in his ways, for on account of his matured look and great size he was frequently judged to be older than he really was. aunt sarah had provided a bounteous repast for the few friends assembled, and while looking after the comfort of her guests tears dimmed the kindly, gray eyes at the thought of parting from mary. small polly schmidt, as flower girl at the wedding, was so excited she scarcely knew if she should laugh or cry, and finally compromised by giving mary what she called a "bear hug," much to mary's amusement. fritz gravely said: "allow me to congratulate you, mr. jackson," and turning to mary, "i wish you a beautiful and happy life, mrs. jackson." mary blushed becomingly on hearing her new name for the first time. bidding farewell to friends, mary and ralph, accompanied by her uncle, were driven by "chake" to the depot in a near-by town, where they boarded the train for the little, newly-furnished home in the suburbs of philadelphia, the deed of which was mary's wedding gift from her uncle, in appreciation of her faithful service on the farm during the summer and for the brightness she had brought into his life and the lives of those with whom she had come in contact, as every one at the farm had felt the captivating charm and winning sweetness of the young girl. as the train came in sight, the old gentleman, in a voice husky with emotion, bade the young couple, just starting the journey of life together, an affectionate farewell, and repeated solemnly, almost as a benediction, "es salamu aleikum." [illustration] mary's collection of recipes small economies, "left-overs" or "iverich bleibst" as aunt sarah called them. "the young housewife," said aunt sarah to mary, in a little talk on small economies in the household, "should never throw away pieces of hard cheese. grate them and keep in a cool, dry place until wanted, then spread lightly over the top of a dish of macaroni, before baking; or sprinkle over small pieces of dough remaining after baking pies, roll thin, cut in narrow strips like straws, and bake light brown in a hot oven, as 'cheese straws.'" wash and dry celery tips in oven, and when not wished for soup they may be used later for seasoning. the undesirable outer leaves of a head of lettuce, if fresh and green, may be used if cut fine with scissors, and a german salad dressing added. the heart of lettuce should, after washing carefully, be placed in a piece of damp cheese cloth and put on ice until wanted, then served at table "au natural," with olive oil and vinegar or mayonnaise dressing to suit individual taste. should you have a large quantity of celery, trim and carefully wash the roots, cut them fine and add to soup as flavoring. almost all vegetables may be, when well cooked, finely mashed, strained, and when added to stock, form a nourishing soup by the addition of previously-cooked rice or barley. add small pieces of meat, well-washed bones cut from steaks or roasts, to the stock pot. small pieces of ham or bacon (left-overs), also bacon or ham _gravy_ not thickened with flour may be used occasionally, when making german salad dressing for dandelion, endive, lettuce or water cress, instead of frying fresh pieces of bacon. [illustration: an old fashioned bucks county bake oven] it is a great convenience, also economical, to keep a good salad dressing on hand, and when the white of an egg is used, the yolk remaining may he added at once to the salad dressing (previously prepared). mix thoroughly, cook a minute and stand away in a cool place. young housekeepers will be surprised at the many vegetables, frequently left-overs, from which appetizing salads may be made by the addition of a couple tablespoonfuls of mayonnaise, besides nut meats, lettuce, watercress, celery and fruit, all of which may be used to advantage. a good potato salad is one of the cheapest and most easily prepared salads. a german dressing for dandelions, lettuce or potatoes may be prepared in a few minutes by adding a couple of tablespoonfuls of salad dressing (which the forehanded housewife will always keep on hand) to a little hot ham or bacon gravy. stirring it while hot over the salad and serving at once. a cup of mashed potatoes, left over from dinner, covered and set aside in a cool place, may be used the next day, with either milk or potato water, to set a sponge for "dutch cake," or cinnamon buns with equally good results as if they had been freshly boiled (if the potatoes be heated luke-warm and mashed through a sieve); besides the various other ways in which cold boiled potatoes may be used. fruit juices or a couple tablespoonfuls of tart jelly or preserved fruit may be added to mincemeat with advantage. housewives should make an effort to give their family good, plain, nourishing, wholesome food. the health of the family depends so largely on the quality of food consumed. when not having time, strength or inclination to bake cake, pies or puddings, have instead good, sweet, home-made bread and fruit; if nothing else, serve stewed fruit or apple sauce. omit meat occasionally from the bill of fare and serve instead a dish of macaroni and cheese and fruit instead of other dessert. serve a large, rich, creamy rice pudding for the children's lunch. when eggs are cheap and plentiful make simple custards, old-fashioned cornmeal puddings, tapioca, bread puddings and gelatine with fruits. these are all good, wholesome, and not expensive, and in summer may be prepared in the cool of the early morning with small outlay of time, labor or money. plan your housework well the day before and have everything in readiness. the pudding may be placed in the oven and baked white preparing breakfast, economizing coal and the time required for other household duties. every wife and mother who does her own housework and cooking these days (and their number is legion) knows the satisfaction one experiences, especially in hot weather, in having dinner and luncheon planned and partly prepared early in the morning before leaving the kitchen to perform other household tasks. another small economy of aunt sarah's was the utilizing of cold mashed potatoes in an appetizing manner. the mashed potatoes remaining from a former meal were put through a small fruit press or ricer to make them light and flaky. to one heaped cup of mashed potatoes (measured before pressing them through fruit press) she added / cup of soft, stale bread crumbs, / cup of flour sifted with / teaspoonful of baking powder. mix in lightly with a fork yolk of one egg, then the stiffly beaten white, seasoned with salt and a little minced onion or parsley, or both. with well-floured hands she molded the mixture into balls the size of a shelled walnut, dropped into rapidly boiling water and cooked them uncovered from to minutes, then skimmed them from the water and browned in a pan with a little butter and served on platter with meat, a pot roast or beef preferred. from the above quantity of potatoes was made five potato balls. the many uses of stale bread never waste stale bread, as it may be used to advantage in many ways. the young housewife will be surprised at the many good, wholesome and appetizing dishes which may be made from stale bread, with the addition of eggs and milk. take a half dozen slices of stale bread of equal size and place in a hot oven a few minutes to become crisped on the outside so they may be quickly toasted over a hot fire, a delicate brown. butter them and for breakfast serve with a poached egg on each slice. a plate of hot, crisp, nicely-browned and buttered toast is always a welcome addition to the breakfast table. serve creamed asparagus tips on slices of toast for luncheon. the economical housewife carefully inspects the contents of her bread box and refrigerator every morning before planning her meals for the day, and is particular to use scraps of bread and left-over meat and vegetables as quickly as possible. especially is this necessary in hot weather. never use any food unless perfectly sweet and fresh. if otherwise, it is unfit for use. loaves of bread which have become stale can be freshened if wrapped in a damp cloth for a few minutes, then remove and place in a hot oven until heated through. for a change, toast slices of stale bread quite crisp and serve a plate of hot, plain toast at table, to be eaten broken in small pieces in individual bowls of cold milk. still another way is to put the stiffly-beaten white of an egg on the centre of a hot, buttered slice of toast, carefully drop the yolk in the centre of the beaten white and place in hot oven a few minutes to cook. serve with a bit of butter on top, season with pepper and salt. serve at once. another way to use stale bread is to toast slices of bread, spread with butter, pour over cup of hot milk, in which has been beaten egg and a pinch of salt. serve in a deep dish. or a cup of hot milk may be poured over crisply-toasted slices of buttered bread, without the addition of an egg. "brod grummella" in a bowl containing cup of soft bread crumbs pour cup of sweet milk, then add the slightly-beaten yolks of three eggs, a little pepper and salt, then the stiffly-beaten whites of the three eggs. place in a fry-pan a tablespoonful of butter and of lard or drippings; when quite hot pour the omelette carefully in the pan. when it begins to "set" loosen around the edges and from the bottom with a knife. when cooked turn one side over on the other half, loosen entirely from the pan, then slide carefully on a hot platter and serve at once. garnish with parsley. croutons and crumbs still another way is to make croutons. cut stale bread into small pieces, size of dice, brown in hot oven and serve with soup instead of serving crackers. small pieces of bread that cannot be used otherwise should be spread over a large pan, placed in a moderate oven and dried until crisp. they may then be easily rolled fine with a rolling-pin or run through the food chopper and then sifted, put in a jar, stood in a dry place until wanted, but not in an air-tight jar. tie a piece of cheese-cloth over the top of jar. these crumbs may be used for crumbing eggplant, oysters, veal cutlets or croquettes. all should be dipped in beaten white of eggs and then in the crumbs, seasoned with salt and pepper, then floated in a pan of hot fat composed of / lard and / suet. all except veal cutlets. they should be crumbed, not floated in deep fat, but fried slowly in a couple tablespoonfuls of butter and lard. also fry fish in a pan of hot fat. shad is particularly fine, prepared in this manner (when not baked). cut in small pieces, which when breaded are floated in hot fat. if the fat is the right temperature when the fish is put in, it absorbs less fat than when fried in a small quantity of lard and butter. "zweibach" cut wheat bread in slices not too thin. place in a warm, not hot, oven, and allow it to remain until thoroughly dry and crisp. place in a toaster or a wire broiler over a hot fire and toast a golden brown and allow it to remain in the oven until toasted. keep in cool place until used. zweibach is considered more wholesome than fresh bread. "german" egg bread cut stale bread into slices about / inch thick. cut slices in half, and soak for a few minutes, turning frequently, in the following mixtures: pint of sweet milk, eggs, teaspoonful flour mixed smooth with a little of the cold milk and a pinch of salt. fry half dozen slices of thinly-sliced bacon in a pan. put bacon, when fried, in oven to keep hot. dip the slices of soaked bread in fine, dried bread crumbs and fry quickly in the bacon fat (to which has been added one tablespoon of butter) to a golden brown. serve at once on the same platter with the bacon, or instead of using bacon fat, fry the crumbed bread in sweet drippings, or a tablespoonful each of lard and butter. this is an appetizing and wholesome breakfast or luncheon dish, served with a tart jelly, either currant or grape. creamed toast partly fill a large tureen with slices of crisply-browned and buttered toast. (slices of bread which have become dry and hard may be used for this dish.) when ready to serve, not before, pour over the toasted slices quart of hot milk to which teaspoonful of flour or cornstarch has been added, after being mixed smoothly with a little cold milk or water and cooked a few minutes until thick as cream. add also a pinch of salt. if milk is not plentiful, prepare one pint of milk and dip each slice of toasted bread quickly in a bowl of hot water; place in a deep dish and quickly pour over the hot milk, to which a tablespoonful of butter has been added, and serve at once. bread and rolls bread, called the "staff of life," on account of its nutritive value, should head the list of foods for human consumption. bread making should stand first in the "science of cooking," as there is no one food upon which the comfort, health and well-being of the average family so largely depends as upon good bread. there is absolutely no reason why the housewife of the present day should not have good, sweet, wholesome, home-made bread, if good yeast, good flour and common-sense are used. the milk or water used to mix with flour for making bread sponge should be lukewarm. if too hot, the loaves will be full of holes and coarse grained. if too cold the bread, chilled, will not rise as it should have done had the liquid used been the right temperature. good bread may be made by using milk, potato water or whey (drained from thick sour milk), and good bread may be made by simply using lukewarm water. i prefer a mixture of milk and water to set sponge. milk makes a fine-grained, white bread, but it soon dries out and becomes stale. bread rises more slowly when milk is used. when mashed potatoes are used, the bread keeps moist a longer time. should you wish extra fine, white, delicate bread, add one cup of sweet cream to the liquid when setting sponge. when milk is used the dough is slower in rising, but makes a creamy-looking and fine-flavored bread. when one fleischman yeast cake is used in any recipe the ordinary half-ounce cake of compressed yeast is intended, twenty-eight cakes in a pound. these are usually kept in a large refrigerator in a temperature of degrees and should not be kept longer in the home than three days in summer or six days in winter, and should always be kept in a cool place until used, if the cook would have success when using. use the best hard, spring wheat flour obtainable for baking bread, or any sponge raised with yeast, as this flour contains a greater quantity of gluten and makes bread of high nutritive value. winter wheat maybe used for cake-making and for baking pastry with excellent results, although costing less than spring wheat. always sift flour before using, when setting sponge for bread. when mixing sponge use one quart liquid to about three pounds of flour. "aunt sarah" always cut several gashes with a sharp knife on top of loaves when ready to be placed in oven. she also made several cuts across the top of loaves with a hot knife when set to rise to allow gas to escape. if an impression made on a loaf of bread with the finger remains, the bread is light. if the dent disappears, then the loaf is not light enough to be placed in the oven; give it more time to rise. an experienced cook, noted for the excellence and size of her loaves of bread, said she always inverted a pail over the pan containing loaves of bread when set to rise, and allowed the bread to remain covered after being placed in the oven. loaves will rise to a greater height if this is done. remove the covering to allow loaves to brown a short time before taking them from the oven. "aunt sarah" frequently placed four loaves in her large roasting pan, covered the pan, when set to rise, and allowed the cover to remain until loaves were nearly baked. she brushed the top and sides of loaves with melted butter when set to rise to allow of their being broken apart easily. a more crusty loaf is secured by placing each loaf singly in medium-sized bread tins. aunt sarah considered fleischman's compressed yeast the best commercial yeast in use, both quick and reliable, but thought better bread was never made than that made by her mother, as she had been taught to make it in years past, by the old-fashioned and slower "sponge method." she was invariably successful in making sweet, wholesome bread in that manner. she used home-made potato yeast or "cornmeal yeast cakes," under different names, always with good results. good bread may be made either by the old-fashioned "sponge" method or "straight." sponge method consists of a batter mixed from liquid yeast (usually home-made potato yeast is used) and a small part of the flour required for making the bread. this batter was usually set to rise at night and mixed up in the centre of a quantity of flour, in an old-fashioned wooden dough tray. the following morning enough flour was kneaded in to form a dough, and when well-raised and light, this dough was formed into loaves and placed in pans for the final rising. the more easily and more quickly made "straight" dough, when using fleischman's compressed yeast, is mixed in the morning and all the ingredients necessary are added at one time. it is then set to rise and, when the dough has doubled in bulk, it is kneaded down and when risen to once and half its size, shaped into loaves, placed in pans to rise and, when risen to top of pans, bake. better bread may be made from flour not freshly milled. flour should be kept in a dry place; it improves with moderate age. stand flour in a warm place to dry out several hours before using if you would have good bread. when baking bread the heat of the oven should not be _too great_ at _first_, or the outside of the bread will harden too quickly and inside the loaves will not be thoroughly baked before the crust is thick and dark. the temperature of the oven and time required for baking depend upon the size of the loaves, yet the bread should be placed in rather a quick oven, one in which the loaves should brown in about fifteen minutes, when the heat may be reduced, finishing the baking more slowly. small biscuits and rolls can stand a much hotter oven and quicker baking than large loaves, which must be heated slowly, and baked a longer time. a one-pound loaf should bake about one hour. on being taken from the oven, bread should be placed on a sieve, so that the air can circulate about it until it is thoroughly cooled. in the _farmers' bulletin_, we read: "the lightness and sweetness depend as much on the way bread is made as on the materials used." the greatest care should be used in preparing and baking the dough and in cooking and keeping the finished bread. though good housekeepers agree that light, well-raised bread can readily be made, with reasonable care and attention, heavy, badly-raised bread is unfortunately very common. such bread is not palatable and is generally considered to be unwholesome, and probably more indigestion has been caused by it than by any other badly-cooked food. as compared with most meats and vegetables, bread has practically no waste and is very completely digested, but it is usually too poor in proteins to be fittingly used as the sole article of diet, but when eaten with due quantities of other food, it is invaluable and well deserves its title of "staff of life." when the housewife "sets" bread sponge to rise over night, she should mix the sponge or dough quite late, and early in the morning mold it at once into shapely-looking loaves (should the sponge have had the necessary amount of flour added the night before for making a stiff dough). being aware of the great nutritive value of raisins and dried currants, aunt sarah frequently added a cup of either one or the other, well-floured, to the dough when shaping into loaves for the final rising. aunt sarah frequently used a mixture of butter and lard when baking on account of its being more economical, and for the reason that a lesser quantity of lard may be used; the shortening qualities being greater than that of butter. the taste of lard was never detected in her bread or cakes, they being noted for their excellence, as the lard she used was home-rendered, almost as sweet as dairy butter, free from taste or odor of pork. she always beat lard to a cream when using it for baking cakes, and salted it well before using, and i do not think the small quantity used could be objected to on hygienic principles. i have read "bread baking" is done once every three or four weeks, no oftener, in some of the farm houses of central europe, and yet stale bread is there unknown. their method of keeping bread fresh is to sprinkle flour into a large sack and into this pack the loaves, taking care to have the top crusts of bread touch each other. if they have to lie bottom to bottom, sprinkle flour between them. swing the sack in a dry place. it must swing and there must be plenty of flour between the loaves. it sounds more odd than reasonable, i confess. "bucks county" hearth-baked rye bread (as made by aunt sarah) quart sweet milk (scalded and cooled). tablespoonful lard or butter. table spoonsful sugar. / tablespoonful salt. cup wheat flour. quarts rye flour (this includes the one cup of wheat flour). fleischman yeast cake or cup of potato yeast. [illustration: "bucks county" rye bread] pour quart of luke-warm milk in a bowl holding quarts. add butter, sugar and salt, - / quarts rye flour and cup of yeast, or one fleischman's yeast cake, dissolved in a little lukewarm water. beat thoroughly, cover with cloth, and set in a warm place to rise about three hours, or until it almost reaches the top of bowl. when light, stir in the remaining - / quarts of rye flour, in which one cup of wheat is included; turn out on a well-floured bake board and knead about twenty minutes. shape dough into one high, round loaf, sprinkle flour _liberally_ over top and sides of loaf, and place carefully into the clean bowl on top of a _well-floured_ cloth. cover and set to rise about one hour, when it should be light and risen to top of bowl. turn the bowl containing the loaf carefully upside down on the centre of a hot sheet iron taken from the hot oven and placed on top of range. a tablespoonful of flour should have been sifted over the sheet iron before turning the loaf out on it. remove cloth from dough carefully after it has been turned from bowl and place the sheet iron containing loaf _immediately in the hot oven_, as it will then rise at once and not spread. bake at least sixty minutes. bread is seldom baked long enough to be wholesome, especially graham and rye bread. when baked and still hot, brush the top of loaf with butter and wash the bottom of loaf well with a cloth wrung out of cold water, to soften the lower, hard-baked crust. wrap in a damp cloth and stand aside to cool where the air will circulate around it. always set rye bread to rise early in the morning of the same day it is to be baked, as rye sponge sours more quickly than wheat sponge. the bread baked from this recipe has the taste of bread which, in olden times, was baked in the brick ovens of our grandmother's day, and that bread was unexcelled. i know of what i am speaking, having watched my grandmother bake bread in an old-fashioned brick oven, and have eaten hearth-baked rye bread, baked directly on the bottom of the oven, and know, if this recipe be closely followed, the young housewife will have sweet, wholesome bread. some germans use kumel or caraway seed in rye bread. aunt sarah's loaves of rye bread, baked from the above recipe, were invariably - / inches high, - / inches in diameter and inches in circumference and always won a blue ribbon at country fairs and farmers' picnics. in the oven of aunt sarah's range was always to be found a piece of sheet iron inches in length by inches in width. the three edges of the sheet iron turned down all around to a depth of half an inch, the two opposite corners being cut off about a half inch, to allow of its being turned down. it is a great convenience for young housewives to possess two of these sheet-iron tins, or "baking sheets," when baking small cakes or cookies, as being raised slightly from the bottom of the oven, cakes are less liable to scorch and bake more evenly. one sheet may be filled while baking another sheetful of cakes. in this manner a large number of cakes may be baked in a short time. this baking sheet was turned the opposite way, upside down, when baking a loaf of rye bread on it, and when the loaf of bread was partly baked the extra baking sheet was slipped under the bottom of the one containing the loaf, in case the oven was quite hot, to prevent the bottom of the bread scorching. wheat bread may be baked in the same manner as rye bread, substituting wheat flour for rye. these baking sheets may be made by any tinsmith, and young housewives, i know, would not part with them, once they realize how invaluable they are for baking small cakes on them easily and quickly. "frau schmidts" good white bread (sponge method) to one quart of potato water, drained from potatoes which were boiled for mid-day dinner, she added about / cup of finely-mashed hot potatoes and stood aside. about four o'clock in the afternoon she placed one pint of lukewarm potato water and mashed potatoes in a bowl with / cup of granulated sugar and / a dissolved fleischman's yeast cake, beat all well together, covered with a cloth and stood in a warm place until light and foamy. about nine o'clock in the evening she added the reserved pint of (lukewarm) potato water and / tablespoonful of salt to the yeast sponge, with enough warmed, well-dried flour to stiffen, and kneaded it until dough was fine-grained. she also cut through the dough frequently with a sharp knife. when the dough was elastic and would not adhere to molding-board or hands, she placed it in a bowl, brushed melted lard or butter over top to prevent a crust forming, covered warmly with a cloth and allowed it to stand until morning. frau schmidt always rose particularly early on bake day, for fear the sponge might fall or become sour, if allowed to stand too long. she molded the dough into four small loaves, placed it in pans to rise until it doubled its original bulk. when light she baked it one hour. bread made according to these directions was fine-grained, sweet and wholesome. she always cut several gashes across top of loaf with a sharp knife when loaves were set to rise, to allow gas to escape. excellent "graham bread" at . a.m. place in a quart measure / cup of sweet cream and - / cups of milk, after being scalded ( quart all together). when lukewarm, add fleischman yeast cake, dissolved in a little of the luke warm milk, tablespoonfuls sugar and tablespoonful salt. add cups each of white bread flour and cups of graham flour (in all cups or - / quarts of flour). mix well together and stand in a warm place, closely covered, a couple of hours, until well-risen. then stir sponge down and add about - / cups each of graham and of white flour. (sponge for graham bread should not be quite as stiff as a sponge prepared from white flour.) set to rise again for an hour, or longer; when light, stir down sponge and turn on to a well-floured board. knead well, divide into four portions, mold into four small, shapely loaves, brush with soft butter, place in well-greased pans, set to rise, and in about one hour they should be ready to put in a moderately-hot oven. bake about fifty minutes. graham bread should be particularly well-baked. brush loaves, when baked, with butter, which makes a crisp crust with a nutty flavor. should cream not be available, one quart of scalded milk, containing one tablespoonful of butter, may be used with good results. if cream be used with the milk, no shortening is required in the bread. bread is considered more wholesome when no shortening is used in its preparation. graham bread (an old recipe) cups sour milk cups sweet milk or water. teaspoon soda (salaratus) graham flour. / cup molasses. tablespoonful melted butter. pinch of salt. stiffen about as thick as ordinary molasses cake. bake at once. "mary's" recipe for wheat bread cup sweet milk (scalded). cup cold water. cake fleischman's yeast (dissolved in a small quantity of luke-warm water). - / teaspoonfuls sugar. rounded teaspoonful salt. tablespoonful butter. flour, about - / quarts. this makes good bread and, as bread is apt to chill if set over night in a cold kitchen, or sour if allowed to stand over night in summer, set this sponge early in the morning. stiffen with flour and knead about minutes; place the dough in a covered bowl in a warm place to rise about two hours and when well-risen and light, knead and stand one hour. then mold into shapely loaves, place in pans, brush tops of loaves with melted butter, and when doubled in bulk, in about minutes put in an oven which is so hot you can hold your hand in only while you count thirty, or if a little flour browns in the oven in about six minutes, it is hot enough for bread. the oven should be hot enough to brown the bread slightly five minutes after being put in. medium-sized loaves of bread require from / of an hour to one hour to bake. when bread is sufficiently baked it can be told by turning the loaf over and rapping with the knuckles on the bottom of the loaf. if it sounds hollow, it is thoroughly baked, and should be taken from the oven. stand loaves up on end against some object, where the air can circulate around them, and brush a little butter over the top to soften the crust. an authority on the chemistry of foods cautious housewives against cooling loaves of bread too rapidly after taking from the oven, and i should like to add a word of caution against eating fresh breads of any kind. bread should be baked at least twelve hours before being eaten. the sponge for this bread was set at o'clock in the morning; bread was baked at . . from pint of liquid, cake of yeast and about - / quarts of flour were made two loaves of bread. more yeast is required to raise a sponge containing sugar, eggs and shortening than is required to raise bread sponge containing only liquid, flour and yeast. "frau schmidts" easily-made graham bread should you care to have a couple of loaves of graham bread instead of all-wheat, take a generous cup of the above sponge before it is stiffened beyond a thick batter, and add one tablespoonful of brown sugar or molasses, stiffen with graham flour (not quite as stiff as when making wheat bread), rub butter or lard on top of dough, cover and set in a warm place to rise. when light, mold into one small loaf (never make graham bread into large loaves), place in oblong pan, cover, let stand until light, about - / hours, when it should have doubled in size; put in oven and bake thoroughly. when the loaf is taken from the oven, brush butter over the top. this keeps the crust moist. if a wholesome loaf of "corn bread" is wished, use fine, yellow, granulated cornmeal to stiffen the sponge instead of graham flour; do not make dough too stiff. whole-wheat bread pint boiling water. pint sweet milk. / fleischman's yeast cake dissolved in luke-warm water. / tablespoon salt. flour. when the milk and water are lukewarm add the yeast cake and salt. then add enough whole wheat flour to make a thin batter. let stand in a warm place three or four hours. then stir in as much wheat flour (whole wheat) as can be stirred in well with a large spoon, and pour into well-greased pans. let rise to double its bulk; then bake from three-fourths to one hour, according to the size of the loaves. this quantity makes three loaves. nut bread cups graham flour. cup wheat flour. teaspoons baking powder. cup chopped english walnuts. cup sugar. small teaspoon "mapleine" flavoring (if liked). / cup milk. pinch salt. / cup floured raisins (seeded). put in a good-sized bread pan and bake on hour in a moderate oven. strange as it may seem, this bread is lighter and better if allowed to stand a half hour before being placed in the oven to bake. frau schmidts "quick bread" the professor's wife seldom used any liquid except water to set a sponge for bread. she seldom used any shortening. she taught mary to make bread by the following process, which she considered superior to any other. from the directions given, housewives may think more time devoted to the making of a couple of loaves of bread than necessary; also, that too great a quantity of yeast was used; but the bread made by "frau schmidt" was excellent, quickly raised and baked. the whole process consumed only about four hours' time, and how could time be more profitably spent than in baking sweet, crusty loaves of bread, even in these strenuous days when the efficient housekeeper plans to conserve strength, time and labor? first, two fleischman's compressed yeast cakes were placed in a bowl and dissolved with tablespoonfuls of luke-warm water; she then added cup of lukewarm water, / tablespoonful of sugar and / teaspoonful of salt and stirred all well together. the bowl containing this yeast foam was allowed to stand in a warm place, closely covered, one hour. at the end of that time the yeast mixture should be light and foamy. it was then poured into the centre of a bowl containing about - / cups of _warmed_ flour, mixing the foamy yeast with a _portion_ of the flour to make a soft sponge, leaving a wall of flour around the inside edge of bowl, as our grandmothers used to do in olden times when they mixed a sponge for bread of liquid flour and yeast, in one end of the old-fashioned wooden "dough tray," using a wooden stick or small paddle for stirring together the mixture. the bowl containing the sponge was placed in a warm place to rise. in about or minutes / cup of lukewarm water was added to the sponge, stirring in all the outside wall of flour until a dough, the proper consistency for bread, was formed. the dough was turned out on the molding board and given a couple of quick, deft turns with the hands for several minutes, then placed in the bowl and again set to rise in a warm place, free from draughts, for or minutes. when light, with hands slightly greased with butter, she kneaded the dough a short time, until smooth and elastic, divided the dough into two portions, placed each loaf in warmed, well-greased bread pans and stood in a warm place about / hour. then turned the contents of bread pans onto bake-board, one at a time. cut each loaf into three portions, rolled each piece into long, narrow strips with the palms of the hands. pinched ends of the three strips together and braided or plaited them into a braid almost the length of bread pan. placed each braided loaf in a bread pan and set to raise as before. when well-raised, brush the top of loaves with melted butter. bake about three-quarters of an hour in a moderately-hot oven. an old-fashioned way of testing the heat of the oven was to hold the hand in the oven while counting thirty. should one be unable to bear the heat of oven a longer time, then the temperature was correct for baking bread. should one be able to allow the hand to remain in the oven a longer time, the heat of the oven should be increased. as a result of carefully following these minute directions, even an inexperienced housewife should have sweet, wholesome bread. frau schmidt insisted that rolling portions of dough separately before combining in a loaf, as for braided loaves, caused the bread to have a finer texture than if just shaped into round loaves. an "oatmeal loaf" for a loaf of oatmeal bread, place cup of crushed oats, or common oatmeal, in a bowl, pour over / cup of hot milk. when luke warm, add cup of sponge, or batter, reserved from that raised over night for making loaves of white bread; teaspoonful butter, teaspoonful sugar and / teaspoonful salt, and about scant cups of white flour. knead a few minutes, set to rise in a warm place, closely covered, about one hour or until doubled in bulk. then knead down and form into a shapely loaf, place in a pan, brush melted butter over lop (this improves crust), and when raised, doubled in bulk (in about one hour), place in a moderately hot oven and bake from to minutes. raisins may be added to this loaf, if liked. mary preferred this oatmeal loaf to graham bread. the sponge or batter from which this oatmeal-loaf was made had been prepared in the following manner: to - / cups of luke-warm potato water was added teaspoonful of sugar, cake of yeast; when dissolved, add - / cups of white bread flour. beat all together well, stand closely-covered in a warm place until the following morning. from one cup of this sponge was made one oatmeal loaf, and to the other cup of sponge white flour was added for a loaf of white bread or rolls. aunt sarah's white bread (sponge method) prepare the following "yeast sponge" at noon, the day preceding that on which you bake bread: place in a bowl (after the mid-day meal) quart of potato water (containing no salt), in which potatoes were boiled; also two medium-sized, finely-mashed potatoes, tablespoonful of sugar and, when luke warm, add cup of good home-made or baker's yeast. mix all well together; then divide this mixture and pour each half into each of two -quart glass fruit jars. place covers tightly on jars and shake each jar well, to mix yeast and potato-water thoroughly. stand yeast in a warm place near the kitchen range over night. jars should be _covered only_ with a napkin. the sponge should become light and foamy. in the morning use this freshly-prepared yeast to set sponge for bread. when preparing to set bread, place in a large bowl pint of potato water, tablespoonful of sugar, pint of the yeast sponge, / teaspoonful of salt, and use about pounds of sifted flour, well-dried and warmed. knead from to minutes, until a stiff dough is formed. the dough should be fine-grained and elastic and not stick to bake board. place dough in the bowl to rise; this should lake about four hours. when well-risen and light knead down and set to rise again, about - / hours. when light, mold into three large, shapely loaves; place in pans and allow to stand one hour. when loaves have doubled in bulk, are very light and show signs of cracking, invert a pan over top of loaves (if that was not done when loaves were put in pans), and place in a rather hot oven to bake. brush melted butter over loaves of bread when set to rise, it will cause bread to have a crisp crust when baked. the old-fashioned way of testing the heat of an oven was to hold the hand in the oven, if possible, while one counted thirty. the pint of yeast remaining in jar may be kept in a cool place one week, and may be used during this time in making fresh "yeast foam." this should always be prepared the day before baking bread. always prepare double the quantity of "yeast foam." use half to set bread, and reserve half for next baking. bread baked from this recipe has frequently taken first prize at county fairs and farmers' picnics. when baking bread, the oven should be quite hot when bread is first placed therein, when the bread should rise about an inch; then the heat of the oven should he lessened and in a half hour a brown crust should begin forming; and during the latter part of the hour (the time required for baking an ordinary-sized loaf) the heat of the oven should be less, causing the bread to bake slowly. should the heat of the oven not be great enough, when the loaves are placed within for baking, then poor bread would be the result. this method of making bread will insure most satisfactory results, although more troublesome than ordinary methods. recipe for "pulled bread" take a vienna loaf of bread, twelve-hours old, cut away all the crust with a clean-cut knife, then break away gently (with your fingers only) small finger-lengths of the bread, place in a moderate oven and brown a golden brown, and it is ready to serve. 'tis said six loaves will be required for one pound of this pulled bread. 'tis easily prepared in the home, but quite costly, when purchased. many people prefer "pulled bread" to fresh bread, as it is more wholesome. aunt sarah's "hutzel brod" pounds dried pears. pounds dried prunes. quarts juice of fruit and water. pound dried currants. pound seeded raisins. pound blanched and shredded almonds. pound chopped english walnut meats. - / ounces finely-shredded citron. - / ounces orange peel. / ounce chopped figs. ounce ground cinnamon. / ounce ground cloves. - / ounces anise seed. pounds flour (warmed and sifted). cakes compressed yeast. - / cups sugar. large tablespoon butter. tablespoon salt. tablespoons brandy or sherry. the whole recipe will make loaves of bread. this delicious german bread was usually made by "aunt sarah" one week before christmas. it may be kept two weeks, and at the end of that time still be good. it is rather expensive as regards fruit and nuts, but as no eggs are used, and a very small quantity of butter; and as bread containing fruit is so much more wholesome than rich fruit cake. i think american housewives would do well to bake this german bread occasionally. mary took one-fourth the quantity of everything called for in the recipe, except yeast. she used / of a cake of fleischman's yeast and / of each of the other ingredients, and from these baked three loaves of bread. the prunes and pears should be covered with cold water at night and allowed to stand until the following morning, when, after stewing until tender, the juice should be drained from the fruit and water added to the fruit-juice to measure two quarts. remove pits from prunes, cut pears and prunes in small pieces; stand aside. clean currants and raisins, blanch and shred almonds, chop walnut meats, citron, orange peel and figs; add cinnamon, cloves and anise seed. mix together flour and one quart of the fruit juice; add the compressed yeast cakes (dissolved in a little warm water), knead well, set a sponge as for ordinary bread; when raised, add the remaining quart of fruit juice, sugar, butter and salt. a small quantity of brandy or sherry may be added, but if not liked, fruit juice may be substituted. add the remaining ingredients, and knead thoroughly. allow dough to raise from two to three hours and when light form into loaves and allow to stand an hour, when bake. this quantity of dough should be made into twelve small loaves. should the flour and liquid used be warmed before mixing, the dough will raise more quickly. it simplifies the work if the fruits and nuts be prepared the day before the bread is baked. aunt sarah's white bread and rolls quart potato water. mashed potato. tablespoonful butter or lard. tablespoonful sugar. fleischman yeast cake, or cup good yeast. / tablespoonful salt. flour to stiffen (about three quarts). at o'clock in the evening put in a large bowl the mashed potato, the quart of luke-warm potato water (water in which potatoes were boiled for dinner), butter or sweet lard, sugar, salt, and mix with flour into a batter, to which add the fleischman's or any good yeast cake, dissolved in a little luke-warm water. beat well and stir in flour until quite stiff, turn out on a well-floured bake-board and knead well about minutes, until the dough is smooth, fine-grained and elastic, and does not stick lo the bake-board or hands. chop a knife through the dough several times; knead and chop again. this makes the bread finer and closer-grained, or, so aunt sarah thought. knead in all the flour necessary when first mixing the bread. when sufficiently kneaded, form into a large, round ball of dough, rub all over with soft lard, or butter, to prevent forming a crust on top and keep from sticking to bowl, and set to rise, closely-covered with a cloth and blanket, in a warm place until morning. in the morning the bread should be very light, doubled in quantity. take out enough dough for an ordinary loaf, separate this into three parts, roll each piece with the hand on the bake-board into long, narrow pieces. pinch the three pieces together at one end and braid, or plait, into a narrow loaf. brush over top with melted butter; set to rise in a warm place in a bread pan, closely-covered, until it doubles in size--or, if preferred, mold into ordinary-shaped loaves, and let rise until doubled in size, when bake in a moderately-hot oven with steady heat. frequently, when the "twist" loaves of bread were quite light and ready to be placed in the oven, aunt sarah brushed the tops with yolk of egg, or a little milk, then strewed "poppy seeds" thickly over. the poppy seeds give an agreeable flavor to the crust of the bread. aunt sarah's raised rolls (from bread dough) a portion of the white bread dough may be made into raised rolls. these rolls are excellent without additional shortening, or, in fact, without anything else being added. mold pieces of the bread dough into balls the size of a walnut; roll each piece flat with the rolling pin, dip in melted butter, fold and place close together in a bake pan. let rise _very_ light, then bake about minutes in a very hot oven. if a teaspoonful of flour browns in about two minutes in the oven, it is the right temperature for rolls. clover-leaf rolls take pieces of the bread dough, the size of a walnut, cut into three pieces, mold with the hand into round balls the size of small marbles; dip each one in melted butter, or butter and lard, and place three of these in each gem pan. (these pans may be bought six or twelve small pans fastened together, and are much more convenient than when each one must be handled separately when baking). allow small rolls to become _very light_, bake in a hot oven, and you will find them excellent. dipping the rolls in melted butter makes them crisp. serve hot, or place in a hot oven a few minutes until heated through, if served after they have become cold. "polish" rye bread (as made in bucks county) this excellent, nutritious bread, is made from the whole-ground grain. every part of the grain is used in the flour, when ground. to bake this bread, sift together one quart of this "whole-ground" rye flour and two quarts of white-bread flour. early in the morning of the day on which bread is to be baked, prepare a thick batter, or sponge, consisting of one quart of potato water (or the same quantity of luke-warm, scalded milk, or a mixture of the two); add one tablespoonful of a mixture of lard and butter and two boiled, mashed potatoes. two tablespoonfuls of sugar, one-half tablespoonful of salt and one fleischman's compressed yeast cake, dissolved in a small quantity of water; add about five cups of the mixed, sifted flour, beat the batter well, and stand in a warm place, covered, from one and a half to two hours. when well-risen and light, stir in balance of flour gradually, until all except one cup has been added; then turn onto a bake-board and knead well. this sponge should not be quite as stiff as for wheat bread. turn the dough onto a clean, well-floured cloth in a large bowl, set to rise and bake according to directions for baking "hearth-baked rye bread" or, if preferred, form into loaves, place in bread pans and, when light, bake. perfect breakfast rolls one quart of scalded milk, when lukewarm, add the following: / cup of butter and lard (mixed), egg, tablespoonful of sugar, teaspoonful of salt and fleischman's yeast cake; add flour to form a thick batter; beat all thoroughly. mix the above at . p.m., stand in a warm place, closely-covered, over night. the following morning add more flour; dough should not be mixed quite as stiff as for bread. allow it to raise in a warm place. when well-risen, place on bread board, roll, cut into small biscuits; dip each biscuit in melted butter, fold together, place in pans a distance apart, and when they have doubled in size, bake in a hot oven. "an old recipe" for good bread this country cook invariably baked good bread and always used potato-water in preference to any other liquid for setting sponge. she stood aside water, in which potatoes had been boiled for dinner (usually about one quart or less) and added two finely-mashed potatoes. about or o'clock in the afternoon of the day _before_ that on which she intended baking bread, she dissolved one cake of yeast (she used the small cornmeal commercial yeast cakes, sold under different names, such as national, magic, etc.) in a half-cup of luke-warm water, added / teaspoon of salt and sufficient warmed, well-dried flour to make a thin batter. she placed all in a bowl and stood it in a warm place, closely-covered, until about o'clock in the evening, when she added this sponge, which should be light and foamy, to the potato water, which should be lukewarm. she also added tablespoon of salt and enough flour to make a rather thick batter. heat thoroughly and allow this sponge to stand, well-covered, in a warm place until morning, when add tablespoon sugar, tablespoon butter or lard and warmed flour enough to make a stiff dough. turn out on the bread board and knead for about twenty minutes, until the dough does not stick to the hands. place stiffened dough into howl; allow it to rise until bulk is doubled. mold into loaves, adding as little extra flour as possible. cut several gashes on top of loaves, brush with melted butter, place in bread pans, and when loaves have doubled in bulk, place in moderately hot oven and bake about one hour. steamed brown bread place in a bowl / cup graham flour and / cup of yellow, granulated cornmeal. sift into this / cup of white flour, teaspoonful of baking powder and / teaspoonful of salt. mix all ingredients together to form a batter by adding cup of sour milk, in which has been dissolved / teaspoonful of soda. then add tablespoonfuls of molasses. pour into a well-greased quart can (the tin cans in which coffee is frequently sold will answer nicely), cover closely, place in a kettle of boiling water, steam about three hours; stand in oven a short time after being steamed. cut in slices and serve as bread, or, by the addition of raisins or currants, and a little grated nutmeg or other flavoring, a very appetizing and wholesome pudding may be served hot, with sugar and cream or any pudding sauce preferred. a wholesome bread (made from bran) place in a bowl cups of clean bran and cups of white flour, sifted with teaspoonfuls of baking powder, teaspoonful of salt, tablespoonful of melted butter. mix into a soft batter with cups of sweet milk; add / cup of molasses. fill two layer cake pans and bake in a hot oven about minutes. this is so easily and quickly made. the young housewife may mix, when commencing to prepare lunch, and when the meal is ready to serve the bread will be baked, and it is an excellent laxative. frau schmidt's "hutzel brod" quart dried pears. pint of pear juice. fleischman's yeast cake. scant cup brown sugar. eggs. / teaspoonful soda. pound of soaked raisins. / cup of a mixture of lard and butter. teaspoonful of fennel seed. pinch of salt. teaspoonfuls of ground cinnamon. flour to stiffen, as for ordinary bread. cover one quart of dried pears with cold water and cook slowly about minutes until they have cooked tender, but not soft (the night before the day on which the bread is to be baked). then drain the juice from stewed pears, which should measure pint; when lukewarm, add yeast cake, dissolved in a small quantity of lukewarm water, and about cups of flour and a pinch of salt. stand, closely-covered, in a warm place over night to raise. the following morning, add / teaspoonful of baking soda, dissolved in a little warm water, to counteract any acidity of batter. cream together sugar, butter and lard, add eggs one at a time, men the well-floured, diced pears, also raisins, cinnamon and fennel seed, and enough flour to stiffen as for ordinary bread. knead well, let rise; it will require some time, as the fruit retards the raising process. when light, turn onto a bake-board, cut into four portions, mold into four shapely loaves, place in pans, brush with melted butter and when quite light, place in a moderate oven and bake one hour. this bread will keep well several weeks, if kept in a tin cake box. this recipe is much simpler than aunt sarah's recipe for making "hutzel brod," but bread made from this recipe is excellent. "aunt sarah's" quickly-made brown bread cups of buttermilk, or thick, sour milk. / cup of sugar. / cup of molasses. tablespoonful of melted butter. egg. teaspoonful of soda. / teaspoonful of salt. - / cups of graham flour. / cup of white flour, sifted with / teaspoonful of baking powder. the egg was placed in a bowl, and not beaten separately; sugar and butter were creamed together, before being added; then mix in salt and molasses, and gradually add buttermilk, in which the soda had been dissolved; then add white and graham flour, / cups of raisins may be added, if liked. bake in a bread pan in a moderately hot oven. "stirred" oatmeal bread early in the morning cup of oatmeal porridge, left over from that which had been cooked for breakfast, was placed in a bowl and added gradually cups of scalded, luke-warm milk, tablespoon of a mixture of lard and butter, / cup new orleans molasses and one fleischman's yeast cake, dissolved in a little of the milk; stir in about cups of bread flour and stand in a warm place about - / hours to rise; then add - / cups more of bread flour and teaspoonful of salt. stir well with a spoon, and pour into three small bread tins; let rise, when well-risen, bake about / of an hour in a moderately hot oven. this is a delicious and wholesome bread and no kneading is necessary. - / cups of the cooked oatmeal might be used, then use less white bread flour when mixing. nut and raisin bread cups buttermilk, or sour milk. / cup brown sugar, cups graham flour. cup wheat flour. teaspoonful of soda, dissolved in a little of the milk. teaspoonful of baking powder, sifted with the wheat flour. mix all together, add one cup of seeded raisins, / cup of ground peanuts and / cup chopped walnut meats. bake in an ordinary bread pan. "saffron" raisin bread for this old-fashioned, "country" bread, set a sponge in the evening, consisting of cup of luke-warm water, fleischman's compressed yeast cake and tablespoonfuls of saffron water, obtained by steeping / tablespoonful of dried saffron flowers in a small quantity of boiling water a short time. use about cups of flour to stiffen the sponge. cover bowl containing sponge and stand in a warm place until morning, when add the following: / cup of soft a sugar, / cup lard and / cup of butter (beaten to a cream); then add one egg. beat again and add this mixture to the well-risen sponge. add also / cup of seeded raisins and about - / cups of flour. the dough should be almost as stiff as ordinary bread dough. set to rise about one hour. then divide the dough and mold into two shapely loaves. place in oblong bread pans. let rise about - / hours. brush melted butter over top of loaves and bake in a moderately hot oven, as one would bake ordinary bread. this bread is a rich, golden yellow, with a distinctive, rather bitter, saffron flavor, well-liked by some people; saffron is not unwholesome. "speaking of saffron bread," said john landis, to his niece, mary, "i am reminded of the lines i was taught when quite a small boy:" "wer will gute kuchen haben, der muss sieben sachen haben; eier, butter un schmalz, milch, zucker un mehl; un saffron mach die kuchen gehl." "of course, mary, you do not understand what that means. i will translate it for you. 'who would have good cakes, he must have seven things--eggs, butter and lard, milk, sugar and flour, and saffron makes the cakes yellow.'" raised rolls quarts of sifted flour. pint of boiled milk (lukewarm). tablespoon sugar. / cup butter and lard, mixed. / cake compressed yeast, or / cup yeast. teaspoon salt. at o'clock p.m. set sponge with half or three-fourths of the flour and all the other ingredients. about o'clock in the evening, knead well, adding the balance of the flour. cover and let stand in a warm place until morning. in the morning, roll out about / of an inch thick, cut into small rolls, place in baking pans far enough apart so they will not touch, and when raised quite light, bake. or, take the same ingredients as above (with one exception; take one whole cake of compressed yeast), dissolved in half a cup of luke-warm water, and flour enough to make a thin batter. do this at . in the morning and let rise until o'clock; then knead enough flour in to make a soft dough, as soft as can be handled. stand in a warm place until . , roll out quite thin; cut with small, round cake-cutter and fold over like a pocketbook, putting a small piece of butter the size of a pea between the folds; set in a warm place until . , or until very light; then bake a delicate brown in a hot oven. if made quite small, rolls may be made from this dough. to cause rolls of any kind to have a rich, brown glaze, when baked, before placing the pan containing them in the oven, brush over the top of each roll the following mixture, composed of--yolk of egg, tablespoon of milk, and teaspoon of sugar. "grandmother's" fine raised biscuits quart scalded milk (lukewarm). / cup of butter, or a mixture of butter and lard. / cup of sugar. teaspoonful of salt. fleischman's yeast cakes. whites of eggs. flour. quite early in the morning dissolve the two yeast cakes in a little of the milk; add these, with one-half the quantity of sugar and salt in the recipe, to the remainder of the quart of milk; add also cups of flour to form the yeast foam. beat well and stand in a warm place, closely-covered, one hour, until light and foamy. beat the sugar remaining and the butter to a cream; add to the yeast foam about to cups of flour, and the stiffly-beaten whites of the two eggs. turn out on a well-floured bread board and knead about five minutes. place in a bowl and let rise again (about one hour or longer) until double in bulk, when roll out about one inch in thickness. cut small biscuits with a / pound royal baking powder can. brush tops of biscuits with a mixture consisting of yolk of one egg, a teaspoonful of sugar and a little milk; this causes the biscuits to have a rich brown crust when baked. place biscuits on pans a short distance apart, let rise until doubled in bulk; bake in a rather quick oven. from this recipe was usually made biscuits. one-half of this recipe would be sufficient for a small family. mary's aunt taught her the possibilities of what she called a "dutch" sponge--prepared from one fleischman's yeast cake. and the variety a capable housewife may give her family, with the expenditure of a small amount of time and thought. about o'clock in the evening mary's aunt placed in a bowl cups of potato water (drained from potatoes boiled for dinner). in this she dissolved one fleischman's yeast cake, stirred into this about cups of well-warmed flour, beat thoroughly for about ten minutes. allowed this to stand closely covered in a warm place over night. on the following morning she added to the foamy sponge - / cups lukewarm, scalded milk, in which had been dissolved tablespoonful of a mixture of butter and lard, generous tablespoonfuls of sugar and teaspoonful of salt. about - / cups of well-dried and warmed flour; she stirred in a part of the flour, then added the balance. kneaded well a short time, then set to raise closely covered in a warm place - / to hours. when dough was light it was kneaded down in bowl and allowed to stand about one hour, and when well risen she placed cups of light bread sponge in a bowl, and stood aside in warm place; this later formed the basis of a "farmers' pound cake," the recipe for which may be found among recipes for "raised cakes." from the balance of dough, or sponge, after being cut into portions, she molded from the one portion small turn-over rolls, which were brushed with melted butter, folded together and placed on tins a distance apart and when _very_ light baked in a quick oven. from another portion of the sponge was made a twist or braided loaf. and to the remaining portion of dough was added / cup of currants or raisins, and this was called a "currant" or "raisin loaf," which she served for dinner the following day. the rolls were placed in the oven of the range a few minutes before breakfast and served hot, broken apart and eaten with maple syrup or honey and the delicious "farmers' pound cake" was served for supper. aunt sarah baked these on ironing day. the kitchen being unusually warm, as a result of the extra heat required in the range for heating flatirons, caused the dough to rise more quickly than otherwise would have been the case. stirred bread frau schmidt thought bread more easily digested and wholesome if ingredients of a loaf be stirred together instead of kneaded. this is the method she taught mary. she poured into a bowl cups of luke-warm water, added cake of fleischman's yeast, dissolved in a little of the water; sifted in gradually about - / cups of flour, added tablespoonful of sugar, / teaspoonful of salt, mixed all well together with a spoon until a stiff dough was formed, which she molded into two shapely loaves, handling as little as possible; placed in bread pans, allowed to stand several hours to raise, and when light baked. mary said, "this bread may be more wholesome than old-fashioned bread, which has been kneaded, but i prefer aunt sarah's bread, well-kneaded, fine-grained and sweet," but, she continued, "i will make an exception in favor of aunt sarah's 'stirred oatmeal' bread, which, i think, fine." potato biscuits at o'clock in the morning place in a bowl cup of finely-mashed (boiled) potatoes (the cup of left-over mashed potatoes may be used as a matter of economy). add cup of potato water (the water drained from boiled potatoes), in which / cake of fleischman's yeast had been dissolved, add cup of flour and teaspoon of sugar. stand in a warm place to raise, from to - / hours. at the expiration of that time add to the foamy sponge large tablespoonful of butter or lard, egg and / teaspoonful of salt, beaten together before adding. add about cups of flour, beat thoroughly and allow to raise another hour; then roll out the dough about inch in thickness and cut into small biscuits, dip each one in melted butter and place on pans, a short distance apart, stand about one hour to raise, when bake in a rather hot oven. these potato biscuits are particularly nice when freshly baked, and resemble somewhat biscuits made from baking powder. from this recipe was made two dozen biscuits. aunt sarah's potato yeast medium-sized potatoes. tablespoons sugar. tablespoons salt. quart water. grate the raw potatoes quickly, so they will not discolor, pour over the grated potato the quart of boiling water, add salt and sugar, cook several minutes until the consistency of boiled starch, let cool, and when lukewarm add cup of good yeast. stir all together in a crock, cover and let stand in a warm place three or four hours, when it is foamy and rises to top of crock, stir down several times, then fill glass fruit jars, cover and stand away in a cool place until needed. this yeast will keep about ten days. use one cup to about three pounds of flour, or one quart of liquid, when setting sponge for bread. save one cup of this yeast to start fresh yeast with. perfection potato cakes cup of boiled mashed potatoes. cup sweet milk. cup water in which fleischman yeast cake was dissolved. cups soft a sugar. / cup butter and lard mixed. eggs. a little salt. about cups of flour. cream the sugar, butter and eggs together. add mashed potatoes, milk and cup of water containing yeast, alternately with the flour, until about cups of flour have been used, making a dough as stiff as can be stirred with a spoon. stand, covered, in a warm place by the range until morning. these should be set to rise about nine o'clock in the evening. the following morning take pieces of the dough, on a well-floured bake board; roll about one inch thick, to fit in pie tins, place in pie tins to raise; when doubled in bulk spread with melted butter and sprinkle sugar thickly over top and bake in a moderately hot oven until lightly browned on top. this quantity of dough makes six cakes. instead of brushing the cakes with above mixture, place in a bowl / cup of soft a sugar, / cup flour, a tiny pinch of salt and baking powder each and tablespoonfuls of butter (not melted), mix all together as crumbly as possible, then the crumbs were sprinkled thickly over tops of cakes, which had been brushed with a mixture of milk and sugar. place cakes in oven when raised; bake minutes. this recipe was given mary by an old "bucks county" cook, noted for the excellence of her raised cakes. mary's recipe for cinnamon buns early in the morning mix a sponge or batter consisting of / cup of potato water (water drained from boiled potatoes) and / cup of lukewarm, scalded milk, one fleischman's compressed yeast cake, dissolved in the / cup of lukewarm potato water, teaspoonful sugar, pinch of salt and about - / cupfuls of warmed flour. stand this sponge in a warm place, closely covered, about / of an hour, to raise. at the end of that time add to the light, well-risen sponge, the following: tablespoonfuls of a mixture of lard and butter, and / cup of soft a sugar, creamed together. add one large egg. beat well. lastly, add about cupfuls of flour. mix all together thoroughly, and let raise again about - / hours. divide the well-risen sponge into four portions. roll each piece with rolling-pin into lengthwise pieces about / inch thick and spread with one tablespoonful of melted butter, scant tablespoonfuls of brown sugar, dust over this a small quantity of cinnamon, and tablespoonful of dried currants. shape into a long, narrow roll with the hands, on a well-floured bake-board. cut each roll into five pieces. pinch one end of each piece together and place each bun, cut side down, a short distance apart, in an iron pan which has been well greased, having brushed a little melted butter and a sprinkling of sugar over pan. allow these to rise in a warm place as before, about - / hours, until quite light, as having the extra sugar, butter and currants added retards their rising as quickly as would plain biscuits. bake to minutes in a moderate oven. from this quantity of material was made cinnamon buns. "kleina kaffe kuchen" (little coffee cakes) scant / cup lard and butter. cups sifted flour. whole eggs and the yolks of more. tablespoons sugar. / cup cream. / milk. fleischman's yeast cake. / teaspoon salt. the yeast cake was dissolved in the / cup lukewarm milk, a couple tablespoons of flour were added and mixed into a batter, and stood in a warm place to rise. the butter and sugar were stirred to a cream, salt was added, the eggs were beaten in, one at a time, next was added the sponge containing the yeast, the lukewarm cream, and the sifted flour. grease slightly warmed gem pans, sift a little flour over them, fill two-thirds full with the soft dough, set in a warm place to rise to tops of pans, and when quite light bake in a medium hot oven about minutes. the oven should be hot enough to allow them to rise quickly. put something underneath the pans in the oven to prevent bottom of cakes from burning. these may be set about o'clock in the morning if cakes are wished for lunch at noon. these are not cheap, as this quantity makes only cakes, but they are light as puffballs. the professor's wife served them when she gave a "kaffee klatch." she doubled the recipe, baked the cakes in the morning, and placed them in the oven to heat through before serving. the cakes should be broken apart, not cut. the cakes made from this recipe are particularly fine. grossmutter's potato cakes cup hot mashed potatoes. - / cups sugar. scant cup butter and lard. cup home-made yeast or yeast cake dissolved in cup lukewarm water. eggs. flour. at o'clock in the afternoon set to rise the following: one cup of sugar and one cup of hot mashed potatoes; when lukewarm add one cup of flour and one cup of yeast; beat all together, stand in a warm place to rise and at o'clock in the evening cream together cup of a mixture of lard and butter, cup of sugar, eggs and pinch of salt; add the sponge and beat well. stir as stiff as you can stir it with a large spoon, cover, set in a warm place to rise until morning, when roll out some of the dough into cakes about one inch thick, put in pie tins to rise, and when light, make half a dozen deep impressions on top of each cake with the forefinger, spread with melted butter and strew light-brown sugar thickly over top, or mix together cup sugar, butter size of an egg, tablespoons flour, tablespoons boiling water, beat well and spread the mixture on cakes just before placing in oven. bake the cakes about minutes in a moderate oven. this is a very old recipe used by aunt sarah's grandmother, and similar to the well-known german cakes called "schwing felders." aunt sarah's "bread dough" cake cup bread dough. egg. / cup soft a sugar. tablespoon lard or butter. / teaspoon soda. when her bread dough was raised and ready to put in the pans she placed a cupful of it in a bowl and added the egg, sugar, butter, soda (dissolved in a little hot water); some dried raisins or currants, and just enough flour so it might be handled easily. put in a small agate pan four inches deep, let rise until light, dust pulverized sugar over top and bake about or minutes in a moderate oven. double the materials called for, using _cups_ of well-risen bread dough or sponge, and you will have a good-sized cake. good, cheap dutch cakes to a bowl containing cup of scalded milk, add tablespoonful of lard and cup of sugar. when lukewarm add yeast cake (fleischman's), dissolved in cup of lukewarm water, and about cups of good flour. set to rise at night about nine o'clock, the next morning roll out pieces about one and a half inches thick, to fit in medium-sized pie tins. set in a warm place to rise. when light, brush top with melted butter and strew sugar thickly over and bake from to minutes in a moderately hot oven. these cakes are _inexpensive_ and _good_; _no eggs_ or _butter_ being used. recipe for "light cakes" (given mary by a farmer's wife) in the evening mix a sponge consisting of / cup of mashed potatoes, / cup sugar, cup of yeast or cake of fleischman's yeast dissolved in a cup of lukewarm water; / cup of a mixture of butter and lard and a pinch of salt and flour to thicken until batter is quite thick. stand in a warm place, closely covered, until morning, when add eggs and / cup of sugar and flour to stiffen as thick as sponge can be stirred with a spoon. set to rise; when light roll out one inch thick, place in pie tins, brush tops with melted butter and brown sugar, set to rise, and, when well risen, bake. butter "schimmel" place in a mixing bowl cups of warm, mashed potatoes and add / of a cup of shortening (a mixture of lard and butter), (or use aunt sarah's substitute for butter); one cup of a sugar and teaspoonful salt. beat all to a cream. when lukewarm, add eggs and either yeast cake dissolved in cup of lukewarm water, or cup of potato yeast; use about cups of flour to make a thin batter. set to raise over night or early in the morning. when well risen add about cups of flour. make about as stiff a dough as can be stirred well with a mixing spoon. place soft dough on a bake-board; roll out into a sheet about one-half inch thick; cut into squares about the size of a common soda cracker; bring each of the four corners together in the centre like an envelope; pinch together; place a small piece of butter (about one-eighth teaspoonful) on the top where the four corners join. stand in a warm place to rise. when well risen and light place in the oven. when baked, take from oven, and while hot dip all sides in melted butter and dust granulated or pulverized sugar over top. these are not as much trouble to prepare as one would suppose from the directions for making. the same dough may be cut in doughnuts with a tin cutter and fried in hot fat after raising, or the dough may be molded into small, round biscuits if preferred, and baked in oven. "bucks county" doughnuts about nine o'clock in the evening a batter was mixed composed of the following: cup milk. cup hot water. teaspoonful of sugar. cup yeast (or one cake of fleischman's yeast dissolved in one cup of lukewarm water). pinch of salt. - / cups of flour. stand in a warm place until morning. then add / cup of butter and - / cups of soft a sugar, creamed together, and from to cups of flour. the dough should be as stiff as can be stirred with a spoon. set to rise in a warm place; when light and spongy, roll out on a well-floured bake-board and cut into round cakes with a hole in the centre. let rise again, and when well risen fry a golden brown in deep fat and sift over pulverized sugar. this recipe will make doughnuts. these are good and economical, as no eggs are used in this recipe. extra fine "quaker bonnet" biscuits for these quaint-looking, delicious biscuits, a sponge was prepared consisting of: pink milk. eggs. / cup mixture butter and lard. yeast cake (fleischman's). about cups flour. set to rise early in the morning. when well risen (in about hours), roll dough into a sheet about / inch in thickness, cut with a half-pound baking powder can into small, round biscuits, brush top of each one with melted butter (use a new, clean paint brush for this purpose), place another biscuit on top of each one of these, and when raised very light and ready for oven brush top of each biscuit with a mixture consisting of half of one yolk of egg (which had been reserved from the ones used in baking), mixed with a little milk. biscuits should have been placed on a baking sheet some distance apart, let rise about one hour until quite light, then placed in a quick but not _too hot_ an oven until baked a golden brown on top. mary gave these the name of "quaker bonnet" biscuits, as the top biscuit did not raise quite as much as the one underneath and greatly resembled the crown of a quaker bonnet. from this quantity of dough was made three dozen biscuits. these are not cheap, but extra fine. bucks county cinnamon "kuchen" explicit directions for the making of these excellent raised cakes was given mary by an old, experienced pennsylvania german cook. they were prepared from the following recipe: early in the morning pint of milk was scalded. when lukewarm, add - / cups of flour and cake of fleischman's compressed yeast (which had been dissolved in tablespoonful of lukewarm water). beat the mixture well. cover and stand in a warm place to rise. when well risen, which should be in about hours, add the following mixture, composed of / cup of sugar and / cup of butter, creamed together; / teaspoonful of salt; egg was beaten into the mixture, and about cups of flour were added, enough to make a dough as stiff as can be stirred with a spoon. dough should not be as stiff as for bread. let stand about hour. when well risen and light, divide into four portions. roll out each piece of dough to thickness of one inch. place cakes in medium-sized pie tins and allow them to stand about one hour. when well risen, doubled in bulk, make half dozen deep impressions on top of each cake with the forefinger. brush top of each cake with / tablespoonful of melted butter. sprinkle over tablespoonfuls of soft a sugar and sift over a little pulverized cinnamon, if liked, just before placing cakes in oven. bake cakes from to minutes in a moderately hot oven. from this dough may be made four cakes. excellent biscuits may also be made from this same dough, by simply moulding it into small biscuits and place in a pan some distance apart. let rise and brush tops of biscuits with a mixture composed of a part of an egg yolk, a tablespoonful of milk and / teaspoonful sugar. this causes the biscuits to have a rich, brown color when baked. the sponge from which these cakes or biscuits were made was mixed and set to rise at o'clock in the morning, and the baking was finished at o'clock. sponge should be set to rise in a warm room. if these directions are carefully followed the housewife will invariably have good results. always use hard spring wheat for bread or biscuits, raised with yeast; and winter wheat, which costs less, will answer for making cake and pastry. in cold weather always warm flour before baking, when yeast is used for baking raised cakes. soft a sugar or a very light brown is to be preferred to granulated. moravian sugar cakes at o'clock p.m. set a sponge or batter, consisting of cup of mashed potatoes, cups of sugar, cup of sweet milk, scalded and cooled, / cake of yeast, dissolved in cup of lukewarm water, eggs / cup of a mixture of lard and butter, add cups of flour, beat well, stand in a warm place to raise; at o'clock add about cups of flour. stand until morning in a warm place, near the range. the following morning turn out on a floured bake-board, roll out cakes one inch thick, place in pie tins, when ready for the oven; punch half a dozen small holes in the top of cakes, in which place small bits of butter. sprinkle sugar over liberally and cinnamon if liked. bake in a moderate oven. mary's potato cakes cup freshly-boiled mashed potatoes. cup scalded sweet milk. cup sugar. flour about cups. cake fleischman's yeast. eggs. / cup butter and lard mixed. / cup potato water. at o'clock in the morning mary mixed a sponge consisting of a cup of mashed potatoes, cup scalded milk, / cup sugar, - / cups of flour and the cake of fleischman's yeast, dissolved in half a cup of lukewarm potato water. this was set to rise in a warm place near the range for several hours until light. then she creamed together / cup of sugar, eggs and / cup of butter and lard, or use instead the "substitute for butter." added the creamed sugar, butter and eggs to the well-risen sponge and about - / cups of flour. sift a couple of tablespoons of flour over top of sponge, and set to rise again about - / hours. when light, take cut pieces of the sponge on a well-floured bread-board, knead for a minute or two, then roll out with a rolling-pin inlo pieces about one inch thick, place in well-greased small pie tins, over which a dust of flour has been sifted, set to rise about - / hours. when light and ready for oven brush top with milk, strew crumbs over or brush with melted butter and strew sugar over top; after punching half dozen holes in top of each cake, bake in a moderately hot oven from to minutes until a rich brown, when cakes should be baked. five potato cakes may be made from this sponge, or four cakes and one pan of biscuits if preferred. use soft "a" sugar rather than granulated for these cakes, and old potatoes are superior to new. or when these same cakes were raised, ready to be placed in the oven, mary frequently brushed the tops of cakes with melted butter, strewing over the following: cup of flour mixed with / cup of sugar and yolk of egg, and a few drops of vanilla. this mixture rubbed through a coarse sieve and scattered over cakes mary called "streusel kuchen." german raisin cake (raised with yeast) place in a bowl cup of milk, scalded and cooled until lukewarm; add tablespoonful of sugar and dissolve one cake of yeast in the milk. mix in cup of flour and stand in a warm place to raise / of an hour. then cream together in a separate bowl / cup soft "a" sugar, / cup of butter or "butter substitute," add egg and a pinch of salt; stir in - / cups of flour, / cup of well-floured raisins, and / teaspoonful of vanilla flavoring. add the yeast mixture and allow it to raise about hours longer. at the expiration of that time turn the well-risen sponge out on a floured bake-board. after giving the dough several deft turns on the board with the hand, place in a well-greased fruit cake pan, which has been dusted with flour. stand pan containing cake in a warm place, let rise until very light, probably - / hours, when brush the top of cake with a small quantity of a mixture of milk and sugar. sift pulverized sugar thickly over top. place the cake in a moderately hot oven, so the cake may finish rising before commencing to brown on the top. bake about minutes. "kaffee krantz" (coffee wreath) cup sugar. / cup butter and lard. eggs. pint milk. fleischman's yeast cake. cups flour. cream together the sugar, butter, lard and eggs, add the milk, which has been scalded and allowed to cool; flour, and yeast cake, dissolved in a half cup of lukewarm water; beat well. set this sponge to rise in a warm place, near the range, as early as possible in the morning. this will take about - / hours to rise. when the sponge is light add about cups more of flour. the dough, when stiff as can be stirred with a spoon, will be right. take about cups of this sponge out on a well-floured bake-board, divide in three pieces, and braid and form into a wreath or "krantz," or they may be made out into flat cakes and baked in pie tins after they have been raised and are light. sprinkle sugar thickly over top after brushing with milk containing a little sugar, before placing in oven. these should rise in about - / hours. place in a moderately hot oven and bake from to minutes. this recipe frau schmidt translated from the german language for mary's especial benefit. this coffee wreath is particularly fine if small pieces of crushed rock candy be sprinkled liberally over the top and blanched almonds stuck a couple of inches apart over the top just before placing the cake in the oven, after the cakes had been brushed with a mixture of milk and sugar. "mondel krantz" or almond cake (as made by frau schmidt) pint sweet milk. / cup sugar. eggs. yeast cake or cup yeast. / cup butter. tablespoons rock candy. orange. tablespoons chopped almonds. flour. set to rise early in the morning. to the scalded milk, when lukewarm, add the yeast and flour enough to make a batter, cover, set to rise until light, near the range, which will take several hours. then add the sugar, butter and eggs beaten to a cream, grated rind and juice of orange, a couple tablespoons finely-chopped almonds, and add enough flour to make a soft dough, as stiff as can be stirred with a spoon; set to rise again, and when light, divide the dough in two portions, from which you form two wreaths. roll half the dough in three long strips on the floured bake-board with the hands, then braid them together. place a large coffee cup or bowl inverted on the centre of a large, round or oval, well-greased pan, lay the wreath around the bowl. the bowl in the centre of the pan prevents the dough from running together and forming a cake. brush the top of the wreath with a little milk, containing teaspoon of sugar, over the top of the wreath, stick blanched, well-dried almonds, and strew thickly with crushed rock candy or very coarse sugar. let rise until light, then bake. this makes two quite large wreaths. the professor's wife told mary when she gave her this recipe, this almond wreath was always served at the breakfast table on christmas morning at the home of her parents in germany, and was always baked by her mother, who gave her this recipe, and it was found on the breakfast table of frau schmidt christmas morning as regularly as was made "fast nacht kuchen" by aunt sarah every year on "shrove tuesday," the day before the beginning of the lenten season. the professor's wife's recipe for "dutch cakes" tablespoons of butter or lard. eggs. cup "soft a" sugar. / yeast cake. pint milk. / teaspoonful of salt. flour. she scalded the milk, added butter and eggs, well beaten, when the milk was lukewarm, then added yeast, dissolved in a little lukewarm water, sugar, salt and flour to make a thin batter. beat all together five minutes, stood the batter, closely covered, in a warm place, over night. in the morning, added flour to make a soft dough, kneaded lightly for ten minutes, placed in bowl and set to rise again. when light, she rolled out dough one inch in thickness, placed in pie tins, and when raised a second time spread over the cakes the following mixture before placing in oven: cup sugar, tablespoonfuls of flour, tablespoonfuls of boiling water and butter size of an egg, beaten well together. bake minutes. "farmers' pound cake" (as aunt sarah called this) place in a bowl cups of light, well-raised bread sponge (when all flour necessary had been added and loaves were shaped ready to be placed in bread pan for final rising). cream together / cup of a mixture of lard and butter, add eggs, first yolks then stiffly beaten whites, also add - / cups soft a sugar. add to the cups of bread sponge in bowl and beat well until fully incorporated with the dough, then add / cup of lukewarm milk, in which had been dissolved / teaspoonful of salaratus. beat all together until mixture is smooth and creamy, then add cups of bread flour and / teaspoon of lemon flavoring. beat well and add - / cups of either currants or raisins, dusted with flour. pour mixture into an agate pudding dish (one holding quarts, about - / inches in depth and inches in circumference). stand in a warm place to hours to raise; when raised to top of pan place in a moderately hot oven and bake about minutes, when, taken from oven, dust with pulverized sugar thickly over top of cake. this cake should be large as an old-fashioned fruit cake, will keep moist some time in a tin cake box, but is best when freshly baked. german "coffee bread" / cup sugar / cup butter cup hot milk yeast cake eggs - / cups flour. as aunt sarah taught mary to bake this, it was fine. she creamed together in a bowl the sugar and butter, poured the hot milk over this, and when lukewarm, added the compressed yeast cake, dissolved in / cup of lukewarm water. she then added two small, well-beaten eggs, about - / cups flour, or enough to make a stiff _batter_, and / teaspoonful salt. beat thoroughly, cover and set to rise in a warm place about - / hours or until doubled in bulk. this was set to rise quite early in the morning. when light, beat thoroughly and with a spoon spread evenly on top of well-greased, deep pie tins, which have been sprinkled with a little flour. spread the crumbs given below over the top of cakes, cover and let rise minutes and bake a rich brown in moderate oven. for the crumbs, mix together in a bowl heaped cup of fine, soft, stale bread crumbs, - / tablespoonfuls light brown sugar, / of a teaspoonful cinnamon, pinch of salt, / cup of blanched and chopped almonds, and tablespoonfuls of soft butter. this sponge or dough should be unusually soft when mixed, as the crumbs sink into the dough and thicken it. add only the quantity of flour called for in recipe. "fast nacht kuchen" (doughnuts) tablespoons honey. / quart milk. quarts flour. yeast cake. / cup butter. eggs. without fail, every year on shrove tuesday, or "fast nacht," the day before the beginning of lent, these cakes were made. quite early in the morning, or the night before, the following sponge was set to rise: the lukewarm, scalded milk, mixed into a smooth batter with quart of flour; add fleischman's yeast cake, dissolved in a very little water. beat well together, set in a warm place to rise over night, or several hours, and when light, add the following, which has been creamed together: eggs, butter and lard, a little flour and the honey. beat well, and then add the balance of the flour, reserving a small quantity to flour the board later. set to rise again, and when quite light roll out on a well-floured board, cut into circles with a doughnut cutter, cut holes in the centre of cakes, let rise, and then fry in deep fat; dust with pulverised sugar and cinnamon, if liked. these are regular german doughnuts, and are never very sweet. if liked sweeter, a little sugar may be added. from this batter mary made "fried cakes," or "fast nacht kuchen," as the germans call them. she also made from the same dough one dozen cinnamon buns and two dutch cakes. the dough not being very sweet, she sprinkled rivels composed of sugar, flour and butter, generously over the top of the "dutch cakes." the dough for doughnuts, or fried cakes, should always have a little more flour added than dough for "dutch cakes" or buns; baked in the oven. if _too soft_, they will absorb fat while frying. "kaffee kuchen" (coffee cake) cups milk. heaped cup soft a sugar. / cup butter and lard. egg. fleischman's yeast cake. flour. these german coffee cakes should be set to rise either early in the morning or the night before being baked. scald cups sweet milk and set aside to cool. cream together in a bowl heaped cup of a sugar, / cup butter and lard and the yolk of egg. add this to the lukewarm milk alternately with - / cups flour and the yeast cake dissolved in / cup lukewarm water. beat all together, and, lastly, add the stiffly-beaten white of egg. cover and set in a warm place to rise over night, or, if set to rise in the morning, stand about - / hours until light. put an extra cup of flour on the bake-board, take out large spoonfuls of the dough, mix in just enough flour to roll out into flat cakes, spread on well-greased pie tins, stand in a warm place until light, about - / hours. when the cakes are ready for the oven, brush melted butter over the top, strew thickly with brown sugar, or spread rivels over top, composed of / cup sugar, / cup flour and tablespoonfuls of butter, crumbled together. strew these over the cakes just before placing them in the oven of range. "streusel kuchen" for these german-raised cakes, take / cup mashed potatoes and / cup of potato water, / cup lard and butter mixed, creamed with / cup sugar. mix with these ingredients about - / cups of flour and cup of yeast. set this sponge to rise at night in a warm place, well covered. the next morning add to the light, well-risen sponge, eggs, / cup sugar and about - / cups flour. let stand in a warm place until light. then roll out pieces size of a plate, one inch thick; place on well-greased pie tins, let rise, and when light and ready for the oven brush over tops with melted butter and strew over the tops of cakes the following: mix cup of flour, / cup of sugar and yolk of egg. flavor with a few drops of vanilla (or use vanilla sugar, which is made by placing several vanilla beans in a jar of sugar a short time, which flavors sugar). rub this mixture of flour, sugar and yolk of egg through a coarse sieve and strew over tops of cakes. or, this same recipe may be used by taking, instead of cup of yeast, one fleischman yeast cake, dissolved in cup of lukewarm water. instead of sponge being set to rise the night before the day on which the cakes are to be baked, the sponge might be set early in the morning of the same day on which they are to be baked--exactly in the same manner as if sponge was set the night before; when light, add eggs, sugar and balance of flour to sponge, and proceed as before. muffins, biscuits, griddle cakes and waffles use scant cup of liquid to good cup of flour, usually, for "griddle cake" batter. use baking powder with sweet milk, heaping teaspoonful of royal baking powder is equivalent to teaspoonful of cream of tartar and / teaspoonful of salaratus (baking soda) combined. use either baking powder or salaratus and cream of tartar combined, when using sweet milk. use teaspoonful of baking soda to pint of sour milk. allow a larger quantity of baking powder when no eggs are used. have all materials cold when using baking powder. when milk is only slightly sour, use a lesser quantity of soda and a small quantity of baking powder. sally lunn (as aunt sarah made it) as "aunt sarah" made this, it required cup of sweet milk, eggs, tablespoonful of butter, tablespoonfuls of sugar, flour to make a stiff batter, about - / cups (almost three cups) of flour sifted with scant teaspoonfuls of baking powder. served immediately when taken from the oven, this is an excellent substitute for bread for lunch. aunt sarah's recipe for "johnny cake" one and one half cups of sour milk, / cup of shortening, a mixture of lard and butter, - / tablespoonfuls of sugar, cups of yellow cornmeal, cup of white bread flour, egg, teaspoon of soda, dissolved in a little hot water, a little salt. mix all together, add the stiffly-beaten white of egg last. pour batter in an oblong bread tin, bake about minutes in a quick oven. granulated corn meal was used for this cake. mary's breakfast muffins cups sifted flour. teaspoon salt. teaspoon sugar. tablespoon butter and lard. / cake fleischman's yeast. eggs. cups boiled milk. place the flour, salt, sugar, butter, lard and yeast cake, dissolved in water, in a bowl and mix well; then add the eggs and milk, which should be lukewarm. set to rise in a warm place over night. in the morning do not stir at all, but carefully place tablespoonfuls of the light dough into warm, well-greased gem pans, let stand a short time, until quite light, then bake in a hot oven to minutes and serve hot for breakfast. these should be light and flakey if made according to directions. rice muffins cup cold boiled rice. yolk of egg and white beaten separately. teaspoon sugar. / teaspoon salt. cup sweet milk. cups flour. teaspoonfuls baking powder. put the rice, yolk of egg, sugar and salt in a bowl and beat together; then add teacup sweet milk alternately with the flour, in which has been sifted the baking powder. add the stiffly-beaten white of egg; bake in muffin pans in hot oven. this makes about fifteen muffins. indian pone beat together, in the following order, eggs, tablespoonful of white sugar, - / cups of sweet milk, teaspoonful of salt; to which add cup of granulated yellow corn meal and cups of white flour, sifted, with scant teaspoonfuls of royal baking powder. lastly, add tablespoonful of melted (not hot) butter. pour batter in bread pan and bake in a hot oven to minutes. serve hot. do not cut with a knife when serving, but break in pieces. when the stock of bread is low this quickly-prepared corn bread or "pone" is a very good substitute for bread, and was frequently baked by mary at the farm. mary's aunt taught her to make a very appetizing pudding from the left-over pieces of corn bread, which, when crumbled, filled cup heaping full; over this was poured cups of sweet milk; this was allowed to stand until soft; when add large egg (beaten separately), a generous tablespoonful of sugar, a couple of tablespoonfuls of raisins, a pinch of salt; mix well, pour into a small agate pudding pan, grate nutmeg over the top, and bake in a moderate oven hour or a less time. serve with sugar and cream. "pfannkuchen" (pancakes) four eggs, whites and yolks were beaten separately, tablespoonfuls of milk, were added; teaspoonful of chopped parsley; mix lightly together, add salt to season. place tablespoonfuls of butter in a fry pan. when butter has melted, pour mixture carefully into pan. when cooked, sprinkle over a small quantity of finely minced parsley. roll like a "jelly roll." place on a hot platter and serve at once, cut in slices. "extra fine" baking powder biscuits one quart of flour was measured; after being sifted, was placed in a flour sifter, with heaping teaspoonfuls of royal baking powder and teaspoonful of salt. sift flour and baking powder into a bowl, cut through this mixture tablespoonful of butter and lard each, and mix into a soft dough, with about cup of sweet milk. egg should have been added to the milk before mixing it with the flour. reserve a small quantity of the yolk of egg, and thin with a little milk. brush this over the top of biscuits before baking. turn the biscuit dough onto a floured bake-board. pat out about one inch thick. cut into rounds with small tin cake cutter. place a small bit of butter on each biscuit and fold together. place a short distance apart on baking tins and bake in a quick oven. "flannel" cakes, made from sour milk one pint of sour milk, eggs (beaten separately), a little salt, large teaspoon of melted butter, teaspoonful of molasses, good teaspoon of soda, sifted with enough flour to make a smooth batter. beat hard and then add the yolks and the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. bake small cakes on a hot, well-greased griddle. serve with honey or maple syrup. "flannel" cakes with baking powder sift together in a bowl pint of flour, teaspoon of salt, teaspoons of royal baking powder, mixed to a smooth batter, with about pint of sweet milk. add two yolks of eggs, tablespoon of melted butter. lastly, add the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. teaspoon of baking molasses added makes them brown quickly. bake on a hot griddle, well greased. frau schmidt's recipe for waffles one pint of sour milk, quart of sweet milk, teaspoon salt, tablespoon butter, whites of three eggs and yolks of two and teaspoon of baking soda, and flour to make a rather thin batter. beat the two yolks of the eggs until light and creamy, then add / teaspoon of baking powder, little flour, then the sour milk with soda dissolved in it, stirring all the time. then add tablespoon of melted or softened butter, then the sweet milk; beat well; and lastly, add the stiffly-beaten whites of the three eggs. bake in hot waffle iron. "crumb" corn cakes one pint of stale bread crumbs (not fine, dried crumbs), covered with pint of sour milk. let stand over night. in the morning add tablespoon of butter, yolks of eggs and a little salt, / teaspoon of salaratus (good measure), / cup of granulated corn meal, to which add a couple of tablespoons of bread flour, enough to fill up the cup. stir all well together, add the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs and drop with a tablespoon on a hot, greased griddle. make the cakes small, as they do not turn quite as easily as do buckwheat cakes. this makes about two dozen cakes. these are good. "grandmother's" recipe for buttermilk waffles mix to a smooth batter, cups of sour buttermilk, cups of flour, and add tablespoon of melted butter, teaspoon salt, tablespoon of molasses. add the well-beaten yolks of eggs, - / teaspoonfuls of baking soda, dissolved in a little hot water. lastly, add the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. place about tablespoonfuls of the batter on hot, well-greased waffle irons. if buttermilk cannot be procured, sour milk may be used with good results, providing the milk is quite sour. from this quantity of batter may be made twelve waffles. serve with maple syrup or honey. bread griddle cakes to pint of sour milk add about slices of stale bread and allow the bread to soak in this mixture over night. in the morning beat up smoothly with egg yolk, teaspoonful of soda, a pinch of salt and enough cornmeal and white flour, in equal quantities, to make a moderately thin batter. lastly, add the stiffly-beaten white of egg, bake on a hot griddle. cakes should be small in size, as when baked cakes are less readily turned than other batter cakes. these cakes are economical and good. never fail "flannel" cakes cups thick sour milk (quite sour). tablespoonfuls sweet milk. egg. / teaspoonful salt. cups flour. teaspoonful baking soda (good measure). pour the milk in a bowl, add yolk of egg. sift together flour, baking soda and salt, four times. beat all well together. then add the stiffly-beaten white of egg, and bake at once on a hot griddle, using about two tablespoonfuls of the batter for a cake. serve with butter and maple syrup or a substitute. this recipe, given mary by an old, reliable cook, was unfailing as to results, if recipe be closely followed. the cakes should be three-fourths of an inch thick, light as a feather, and inside, fine, like bread, not "doughy," as cakes baked from richer batters frequently are. from this recipe was made eighteen cakes. waffles made from sweet milk and baking powder sift together quart of flour, teaspoonfuls of baking powder and / teaspoonful of salt. mix into a batter, a little thicker than for griddle cakes, with sweet milk; add yolks of eggs, tablespoonfuls of melted butter; lastly, stir in lightly the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. bake on a hot, well-greased waffle iron and serve with maple syrup. "bucks county" buckwheat cakes about o'clock noon dissolve cake of yeast (the small, round or square cornmeal cakes) in pint of lukewarm water. add to this tablespoonful wheat flour, tablespoonful yellow cornmeal, and enough good buckwheat flour to make a thin batter. set in a warm place near the range to rise. about or o'clock in the evening add this sponge to quart and pint of lukewarm potato water (water drained from boiled potatoes), tablespoonful of mashed potatoes added improves the cakes; add salt. they need considerable. stir in enough buckwheat flour to make quite a stiff batter, beat hard and set to rise, covered, in a warm place over night. the next morning add teaspoonful salaratus, dissolved in a little hot water; tablespoonful of baking molasses and a little warm milk, to thin the batter; or water will answer. the batter should be thin enough to pour. let stand a short time, then bake on a hot griddle. half this quantity will be enough for a small family. then use only / teaspoonful salaratus. bake golden brown on hot griddle. serve with honey or maple syrup. if this recipe for buckwheat cakes is followed, you should have good cakes, but much of their excellence depends on the flour. buy a small quantity of flour and try it before investing in a large quantity, as you cannot make good cakes from a poor brand of flour. delicious corn cakes one cup of sweet milk heated to boiling point; stir in heaping tablespoonfuls yellow, granulated cornmeal; add a tablespoonful of butter or lard and salt to taste. as soon as the mixture has cooled, stir in tablespoonful of wheat flour. if the batter should be too thick, stir in enough cold, sweet milk to make it run easily from the spoon. add heaping teaspoonful of royal baking powder. drop spoonfuls on hot, greased griddle, and bake. this quantity makes cakes enough to serve three people, about sixteen small cakes. this is an economical recipe, as no eggs are used. rice waffles (as aunt sarah made them.) add tablespoonful of butter and tablespoonful lard to cup of cold, boiled rice; yolks of eggs, the whites beaten separately and added last; cups of flour, teaspoonful salt and teaspoonfuls baking powder, sifted together; teaspoonful of sugar and teaspoonful of molasses, and enough sweet milk to make a thin batter. bake in hot waffle irons. with these serve either maple syrup or a mixture of sugar and cinnamon. "german" egg-pancakes (not cheap) these truly delicious pancakes were always baked by "aunt sarah" when eggs were most plentiful. for them she used, cup flour, fresh eggs, / cup milk. the yolks of eggs were broken into a bowl and lightly beaten. then milk and flour were added gradually to form a smooth batter. lastly, the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs were added. large spoonfuls were dropped on a hot, well-greased griddle, forming small cakes, which were served as soon as baked. these cakes require no baking powder. their lightness depends entirely on the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. "frau schmidt's" griddle cake recipe the professor's wife gave mary this cheap and good recipe for griddle cakes: pint of quite sour, thick milk; beat into this thoroughly even teaspoon of baking soda, / teaspoon each of salt and sugar and cups of flour, to which had been added tablespoon of granulated cornmeal and rounded teaspoon of baking powder before sifting. no eggs were used by the professor's wife in these cakes, but mary always added yolk of egg to the cakes when she baked them. mary's recipe for "corn cake" cup of white flour. / cup cornmeal (yellow granulated cornmeal). cup of sweet milk. teaspoonfuls baking powder. tablespoonful sugar. / teaspoonful salt. tablespoonful butter. tablespoonful lard. egg. sift together flour, salt and baking powder, sugar, and add / cup of granulated, yellow cornmeal. mix with cup milk, beaten egg, and the tablespoonfuls of butter and lard. beat thoroughly. add a tablespoonful more of flour if not as stiff as ordinary cake batter. pour in well-greased bread tin and bake about minutes in a hot oven. aunt sarah's delicious cream biscuits place in a flour sifter cups of flour, teaspoonfuls baking powder, / teaspoonful of salt and / teaspoonful of sugar. sift twice; stir together / cup of sweet milk and / cup of thick, sweet cream. quickly mix all together, cutting through flour with a knife, until a soft dough is formed, mixing and handling as little as possible. drop spoonfuls into warmed muffin tins and bake at once in a hot oven. serve hot. these are easily and quickly made, no shortening other than cream being used, and if directions are closely followed will be flakey biscuits when baked. aunt sarah was always particular to use pastry flour when using baking powder, in preference to higher-priced "hard spring wheat," which she used only for the making of bread or raised cakes, in which yeast was used. mary's muffins cups of flour. even teaspoonfuls of baking powder. tablespoonfuls of sugar. cup of sweet milk. eggs. tablespoonful of butter. sift flour and baking powder in a bowl; add tablespoonful of sugar and a pinch of salt; add the yolks of eggs to the cup of milk, and mix with the flour and baking powder; lastly, add the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. place large spoonfuls of the batter in small gem pans. bake in a hot oven minutes. these muffins are fine. corn muffins (as made by "frau schmidt") eggs. - / tablespoonfuls of sugar. cup of granulated yellow cornmeal. - / cups of sweet milk. cups of white flour. teaspoonfuls of baking powder. tablespoonful melted butter. a pinch of salt beat together eggs and sugar, add milk and cornmeal and the white flour, sifted, with baking powder and salt; add the tablespoonful of melted butter. bake minutes in warmed gem pans, in a hot oven. mary's aunt taught her to utilize any left-over muffins by making a very appetizing pudding from them called "indian sponge" pudding, the recipe for which may be found among pudding recipes. strawberry shortcake (as frau schmidt made it) pint of flour. teaspoonfuls of baking powder. - / tablespoonfuls of butter or lard. egg. / teaspoon of salt. milk or water. sift together flour, baking powder and salt, and cut butter or lard through the flour. add beaten egg to about cup of sweet milk, and add gradually to the flour, cutting through it with a knife until a soft dough is formed, mixing and handling as little as possible. divide the dough into two portions, roll out one portion quickly and place on a large pie tin; spread the top of cake with softened (not melted) butter, lay the other cake on top and bake in a quick oven. when baked and still hot, the cakes may be easily separated without cutting; when, place between layers, and, if liked, on top of the cake, crushed, sweetened strawberries. "frau" schmidt thought a crushed banana added to the strawberries an improvement. serve the hot shortcake with sweet cream and sugar. or, the recipe for baking a plain (not rich) layer cake might be used instead of the above. when baked and cooled, spread between the layers the following: to the stiffly-beaten white of egg, add cup of sugar; beat well. then add cup of crushed strawberries. beat all together until the consistency of thick cream. serve cold. perfection waffles sift together cups of flour, teaspoonfuls of baking soda and teaspoonful of salt, four times. separate fresh eggs. place the yolks in an earthenware mixing bowl. beat well with a spoon. then add - / cups of sour milk or sour buttermilk and / cup of sour cream, and teaspoonful of melted butter. mix a smooth batter with the sifted flour and soda. lastly, add the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. mix the batter quickly and thoroughly. bake on a hot, well-greased waffle iron and serve at once. the waffles may be buttered as soon as baked and sugar sifted over, or a saucer containing a mixture of cinnamon and sugar, or a small jug of maple syrup may be served with them. twelve waffles were made from this recipe. recipe for making "baking powder" sift together three times (through a fine sieve) tablespoonfuls of cream of tartar, tablespoonfuls of baking soda (salaratus), tablespoonfuls of flour. cornstarch may be substituted for flour. this latter ingredient is used to keep the cream of tartar and soda separate and dry, as soda is made from salt and will absorb moisture. this recipe for making a pure baking powder was given mary by fran schmidt, who had used it for years with good results. fritters, croquettes, dumplings and crullers when cooking any article to be immersed in fat use about this proportion: pounds of sweet lard to of suet, which had been previously tried out. it is cheaper, also more wholesome, to use part suet than to use all lard. save all pieces of left-over fat, either raw or cooked, from steaks, roasts, bacon or ham. cut all up into small pieces and place in a pan in the oven until tried out, or put in a double boiler and stand over boiling water until fat is tried out. strain and stand aside to be used as drippings. to clarify this fat, pour boiling water over, let cook a short time, strain and stand away in a cool place, when a cake of solid fat will form on top, which may be readily removed and used as drippings, or it may be added to the kettle of fat used for deep frying. always strain fat carefully after frying croquettes, fritters, etc. should the frying fat become dark add to the can of soap fat the economical housewife is saving. return the clear-strained fat to the cook pot, cover carefully, stand aside in a cool place, and the strained fat may be used times without number for frying. the housewife will find it very little trouble to fry fritters, croquettes, etc., in deep fat, if the fat is always strained immediately after using, and returned to the cook pot, kept especially for this purpose. stand on the hot range when required and the fat will heat in a few minutes, and if the fat is the right temperature, food cooked in it should not be at all greasy. when the housewife is planning to fry fritters or croquettes she should, if possible, crumb the articles to be fried several hours before frying, and stand aside to become perfectly cold. when the fat for frying is so hot a blue smoke arises, drop in the fritters or croquettes, one at a time, in order not to chill the fat or plunge a frying basket, containing only a couple of fritters at a time, in the hot fat, as too many placed in the fat at one time lowers the temperature too quickly and causes the fritters to be greasy and soggy. to test the fat before dropping in the fritters, if a small piece of bread is dropped in the fat and browns in about one minute the fat is the right temperature for frying fritters, and fritters fried at the correct temperature should be a rich brown and not at all greasy. when removing fritters from hot fat place on coarse brown paper to absorb any remaining fat. fritters composed of vegetables, or oysters, should be served on a platter garnished with parsley, and fritters composed of fruit, should have pulverized sugar sifted over them liberally. should a small piece of bread brown in the fat while you count twenty, fat is the correct temperature for frying croquettes, but is too hot for frying crullers or any food not previously cooked. kartoffle balla (potato balls) boil until tender, medium-sized (not pared) potatoes; when quite cold remove parings and grate them; fry one finely-chopped onion in a little butter until a yellow-brown; add this, also egg, to the potatoes, season with salt and pepper and add flour enough to mold into balls; use only flour enough to hold the mixture together. the chopped onion may be omitted, and instead, brown small, dice-like pieces of bread in a little butter, shape dumplings into balls the size of walnuts, place a teaspoonful of the browned bread crumbs in the centre of each and add also a little chopped parsley. drop the dumplings in salted boiling water and cook uncovered from to minutes. when dumplings rise to the top they should be cooked sufficiently, when remove from kettle with a skimmer to a platter; cut dumplings in half and strew over them bread crumbs, browned in butter. "boova shenkel" for this excellent "pennsylvania german" dish, which i am positive has never before been published, take - / pounds of stewing meat (beef preferred), season with salt and pepper and cook slowly several hours until tender. for the filling for the circles of dough, take medium-sized white potatoes, pared and thinly sliced, steamed until tender; then add seasoning to taste of salt and pepper, tablespoonfuls of butter, tablespoonfuls of finely-minced parsley and finely-chopped onion (small); lastly, add eggs, lightly beaten together, to the mixture. allow this to stand while the pastry is being prepared in the following manner: pastry--sift into a bowl - / cups of flour, teaspoonfuls of baking powder and / teaspoonful of salt, generous teaspoonful of lard and of butter. cut through the flour, mix with water into a dough as for pie crust. roll thin, cut into about ten circles, and spread some of the mixture on each circle of dough. press two opposite edges together like small, three-cornered turnover pies; drop these on to the hot meat and broth in the cook pot, closely covered. cook slowly from to minutes. before serving the "boova shenkel" pour over the following: cut slices of stale bread into dice and brown in a pan containing large tablespoonful of butter and a couple tablespoonfuls of fat (which had been skimmed from top of broth before "boova shenkel" had been put in cook pot), add about / cup of milk to diced, browned bread; when hot, pour over the "boova shenkel" and serve with the meat on a large platter. rice balls with cheese place cups of cold, boiled rice, well drained, in a bowl and add / cup of grated cheese, a little salt, / cup flour and the stiffly-beaten white of one egg. mix all together and mold into balls about the size of a small egg, with a little of the flour; then roll them in fine, dried bread crumbs, and stand away until perfectly cold. when preparing for lunch, beat the yolk of the egg with a little milk, dip the rice balls into this, then into fine, dried bread crumbs, drop in deep fat and fry a golden brown. drain on brown paper and serve, garnished with parsley. "kartoffle klose" one quart of cold, boiled, skinned potatoes, grated. (boil without paring the day before they are to be used, if possible.) put into a frying pan tablespoonful of butter, finely-minced onion (small onion), and fry until a light brown. remove from fire and mix with this: heaped tablespoonfuls flour, tablespoonful of finely-cut parsley, eggs (whites beaten separately), and slices of bread, cut fine. add grated potatoes and bread crumbs, alternately, mixing together lightly with a fork; add the other ingredients, season well with salt and pepper, form into round balls the size of a walnut and drop into a stew-pan of boiling, salted water, containing a teaspoon of butter. do not cover the stew-pan while they are cooking. as soon as the dumplings rise to the top, skim one out and cut in half to see if it is cooked through. they should take from to minutes to cook. skim out of the boiling water on a platter. cut each dumpling in half, pour over them bread crumbs browned in a pan containing a little lard and butter, and serve. the onion may be omitted and only finely-chopped parsley used, if desired, or use both. or place the halved dumplings in pan containing a little lard and butter and chopped onion (if the latter is liked), and brown on each side, then serve. rice croquettes (and lemon sauce) boil cup of well-washed rice in or cups of rapidly-boiling water, until tender. the rice, when cooked and drained, should fill cups. prepare a cream sauce of pint of milk, heaping tablespoonfuls of flour and tablespoons of butter and egg yolks. stir in cups of flaky, cooked rice, while rice is still hot. when the mixture has cooled, mold into small cone shapes with the hands, stand aside until perfectly cold. dip the croquettes into the whites of eggs, then roll them in fine, dried bread crumbs and fry in deep fat. if a cube of bread browns in the fat in a little longer time than a half minute, the fat is the right temperature. eighteen croquettes were made from this quantity of rice. lemon sauce--to serve with rice croquettes, cream together / cup of sugar, tablespoonful of butter, egg, cups of boiling water was added and all cooked together until the mixture thickened. when cooled slightly add the juice and grated rind of one lemon. serve in a separate bowl, and pass with the croquettes. corn oysters slice off tips of kernels from cobs of corn and scrape down corn-pulp from cobb with a knife. to pint of pulp add eggs, heaping tablespoonfuls of flour, / teaspoonful of salt and a pinch of cayenne pepper and of black pepper; add the yolks of eggs, then stir in lightly the stiffly-beaten white of eggs and flour. fry in only enough butter to prevent them sticking to the pan. drop into pan by spoonfuls size of an ordinary fried oyster, brown on both sides and serve hot. banana fritters from one banana was made fritters. the banana was halved, cut lengthwise and then cut cross-wise. the batter will do for all fruits, clams, corn or oysters. make a sauce of the liquor, mixed with same quantity of milk, with a tablespoon of butter added, chopped parsley and flour to thicken. when making oyster or clam fritters use same rule as for fruit fritters, using clam juice and milk instead of all milk. for the "fritter batter," sift together pint of flour, teaspoonfuls baking powder and a pinch of salt. stir slowly into it a pint of milk, then the well-beaten yolks of eggs, and, lastly, the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. beat hard for a few minutes and fry at once in smoking hot fat. orange sections make delicious fritters, or halves of fresh or canned peaches may be used. allow the bananas to stand one-quarter hour in a dish containing a small quantity of lemon juice and sugar before putting them in the batter. lay the slices of bananas or sections of orange in the batter, then take up a tablespoonful of the batter with one slice of banana for each fritter, drop into hot fat one at a time, and fry a golden brown. sift pulverized sugar over and serve hot. if a small piece of bread browns in one minute in the fat it is the right temperature to fry any previously uncooked food. parsnip fritters scrape and boil or parsnips in salted water until tender and drain. if old parsnips, cut out the centre, as it is tough and woody. mash parsnips fine, add egg yolk (white beaten separately), and added last a little salt, large tablespoonful flour, / teaspoonful baking powder, mold into small cakes, dredge with flour, and fry quickly to a golden brown in a tablespoonful of butter and one of drippings. serve at once. aunt sarah's "schnitz and knopf" this is an old-fashioned "pennsylvania german" favorite. the end of a ham bone, containing a very little meat, was placed in a large kettle with a small quantity of water, with "schnitz," or sliced, sweet, dried apples, which had been dried without removing the parings. when the apples were cooked tender in the ham broth; dumplings, composed of the following, were lightly dropped on top of the apples and broth and cooked, closely covered, from to minutes. do not uncover kettle the first ten minutes. when dumplings have cooked place them with the "schnitz" on a large platter, and serve at once. a very old recipe for dumplings, or "knopf" one and one-half quarts of flour was sifted with - / tablespoonfuls of royal baking powder, teaspoonful of butter was cut through the flour in small bits, egg was beaten and enough milk or water added to the egg to mix the flour into quite a soft dough. sometimes instead of molding the dough into balls large spoonfuls were placed over the apples. aunt sarah had used this recipe for many years. this is a very old recipe, and from it was made a larger quantity than ordinary housekeepers usually require. half the quantity, about - / pints of flour to - / tablespoonfuls of baking powder, mixed according to the directions given in the first part of recipe, would be about the correct proportions for a family of ordinary size. aunt sarah frequently substituted sour cherries and a teaspoonful of butter was added instead of ham and "schnitz." dumplings prepared from this recipe may be dropped on stewed chicken and broth and cooked or steamed, make an excellent pot-pie. should there be more dough mixed than required for dumplings, place a panful in the oven and bake as biscuits. more baking powder is required when dough is steamed or boiled than when baked in the oven. "kartoffle kuklein" (potato fritters or boofers) place in a bowl cups grated, pared, _raw_ potatoes; drain off any liquid formed, then add small onion, also grated; large egg or small eggs, salt and pepper, tablespoonful chopped parsley, / teaspoonful baking powder (good measure), and a couple tablespoonfuls of flour to thicken just enough to make the fritters hold together; then drop by spoonfuls in deep, hot fat, and fry a rich brown. the fritters form into odd shapes a trifle larger than a fried oyster, when dropped in the fat. should the fritter batter separate when dropped in the fat, add more flour, but if too much flour is added they are not as good as when a lesser quantity is used. drain the fritters on brown paper and garnish the platter upon which they are served with parsley. mary's uncle was very fond of these fritters. he preferred them to fried oysters, and always called them "potato boofers." i would not answer for the wholesomeness of these fritters. in fact, i do not think any fried food particularly wholesome. rosettes, wafers and rosenkuchen (as made by frau schmidt) prepare a batter from the following: cup of sweet milk. eggs. pinch of salt. cup of flour, good measure. gradually mix the flour with the milk to form a smooth batter, free from lumps. add yolks, then the slightly-beaten whites of eggs. fasten the long handle to a wafer iron, shaped like a cup or saucer, and stand it in hot fat, a mixture of / lard and / suet, or oil; when heated, remove at once, and dip quickly into the batter, not allowing the batter to come over top of the wafer iron. then return it to the hot fat, which should cover the wafer iron, and in about or seconds the wafer should be lightly browned, when the wafer may be easily removed from the iron on to a piece of brown paper to absorb any fat which may remain. this amount of batter should make about forty wafers. on these wafers may be served creamed oysters, vegetables, chicken or fruit. when using the wafers as a foundation on which to serve fruit, whipped cream is a dainty adjunct. one teaspoonful of sugar should then be added to the wafer batter. these wafers may be kept several weeks, when by simply placing them in a hot oven a minute before serving they will be almost as good as when freshly cooked. or the wafers may be served as a fritter by sifting over them pulverized sugar and cinnamon. "bairische dampfnudeln" these delicious bavarian steamed dumplings are made in this manner: cake of fleischman's compressed yeast was dissolved in a cup of lukewarm milk, sift pint of flour into a bowl, add teaspoonful of sugar and teaspoonful of salt. mix the flour with another cup of lukewarm milk, egg and the dissolved yeast cake and milk (two cups of milk were used altogether). work all together thoroughly, adding gradually about - / cups of flour to form a soft dough. do not mix it too stiff. cover the bowl with a cloth; stand in a warm place until it has doubled the original bulk. flour the bread board and turn out dough and mold into small biscuits or dumplings. let these rise for half an hour, butter a pudding pan and place dumplings in it, brushing tops with melted butter. pour milk in the pan around the dumplings to about two-thirds the depth of the dumplings; set pan on inverted pie tin in oven and bake a light brown. serve with any desired sauce or stewed fruit. or, after the shaped dough has raised, drop it in a large pot of slightly-salted boiling water, allowing plenty of room for them to swell and puff up, and boil continuously, closely covered, for minutes. this quantity makes about small dumplings. should you not wish so many, half the quantity might be molded out, placed in a greased pie tin, and when light, which takes half an hour, bake in a moderately hot oven, and you will have light biscuits for lunch. the thrifty german hausfraus make fritters of everything imaginable, and sometimes unimaginable. mary was told one day by a german neighbor how she prepared a fritter she called: "heller bluther kuklein" she gathered elderberry blossoms, rinsed off the dust, and when free from moisture dipped the blossoms into fritter batter, holding the stem ends, then dropped them into hot fat, and when golden brown, drained a minute on coarse, brown paper before serving, dusted them with powdered sugar; cinnamon may also be dusted over if liked. mary pronounced them "fine," after tasteing, and said: "they certainly are a novelty." perhaps something like this suggested the rosette iron, as it is somewhat similar. apyl kuklein (apple fritters) pare and core large tart apples. cut each apple into about round slices and allow the sliced apples to lie a couple of hours in a dish containing tablespoonfuls of brandy, mixed with a half teaspoonful of cinnamon and a half teaspoonful of sugar. drain the sliced apples, then a few at a time should be dropped in the following batter, composed of: cup of flour sifted with / teaspoonful of royal baking powder, / teaspoonful of salt, add the yolks of eggs and cup of milk to form a smooth batter, then add the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. fry light brown, in deep, hot fat, and sift over powdered sugar. "fried apples" are an appetizing garnish for pork chops; the apples should be cored, _not pared_, but should be sliced, and when cut the slices should resemble round circles, with holes in the centre. allow the sliced apples to remain a short time in a mixture of cinnamon and brandy, dry on a napkin, and fry in a pan, containing a couple of tablespoonfuls of sweet drippings and butter. dumplings made from "bread sponge" aunt sarah's raised dumplings from bread sponge were greatly relished at the farm. when bread sponge, which had been set to rise early in the morning, and all flour necessary for loaves of bread had been added and loaves were being shaped to place in bread tins, aunt sarah reserved an amount of sponge sufficient for one loaf of bread, added a little extra salt, shaped them into small balls, size of a lemon, placed them on a well-floured board some distance apart to raise; when light (at o'clock, if the dinner hour was . ), she carefully dropped the light balls of dough into a large pot of rapidly boiling, slightly salted water, covered closely, and boiled about minutes, (do not have more than one layer of the dumplings in cook pot, and do not place too close together; allow room for them to expand.) test by tearing one apart with a fork. serve at once, and serve with a roast, to be eaten with gravy, with butter, or they may be eaten as a dessert, with jelly or maple syrup. aunt sarah frequently added an equal quantity of fine, dried bread crumbs and flour and a little extra salt to a thin batter of bread sponge (before all the flour required for bread had been added), made about as stiff a dough as for ordinary loaves of bread; molded them into balls. when sufficiently raised, boiled them either in water or meat broth in the same manner as she prepared dumplings; made _only_ of _flour_. this is a small economy, using _bread crumbs_ in place of _flour_, and these are delicious if prepared according to directions. remember to have a large quantity of rapidly boiling water in which to cook the dumplings, not to allow water to stop boiling an instant and to keep cook pot closely covered for minutes before removing one, and breaking apart to see if cooked through. these are particularly nice served with stewed apricots. "leber klose" or liver dumplings boil a good-sized soup bone for several hours in plenty of water, to which add salt and pepper to taste and several small pieces of celery and sprigs of parsley to flavor stock. strain the broth or stock into a good-sized cook pot and set on stove to keep hot. for the liver dumplings, scrape a half pound of raw beef liver with a knife, until fine and free from all veins, etc. place the scraped liver in a large bowl, cut three or four good-sized onions into dice, fry a light brown, in a pan containing tablespoonful of lard and butter mixed. cut into dice / to a whole loaf of bread (about quarts). beat eggs together, add cup of sweet milk, season well with salt and pepper, and mix all together with large cup of flour. if not moist enough to form into balls when mixed together, add more milk. keep the mixture as soft as possible or the dumplings will be heavy. flour the hands when shaping the balls, which should be the size of a shelled walnut. stand the pot containing stock on the front of the stove, where it will boil, and when boiling, drop in the dumplings and boil, uncovered, for minutes. when cooked, take the dumplings carefully from the stock on to a large platter, pour the stock over the dumplings and serve. these are excellent, but a little troublesome to make. one-half this quantity would serve a small family for lunch. frau schmidt's "old recipe for schnitz and knopf" place a cook pot on the range, containing the end piece of a small ham; partly cover with water. this should be done about three hours before serving, changing the water once. soak sweet, unpared, sliced, dried apples over night in cold water. in the morning cook the dried apples (or schnitz) in a small quantity of the ham broth, in a separate stew-pan, until tender. remove ham from broth one-half hour before serving. sweeten the broth with a small quantity of brown sugar, and when the broth commences to boil add raised dumplings of dough, which had been shaped with the hands into round balls about the size of an ordinary biscuit. cook minutes. do not uncover the cook-pot after the dumplings have been dropped into the broth until they have cooked the required length of time. when the dumplings have cooked a sufficient time carefully remove to a warm platter containing the cooked apple schnitz. thicken the broth remaining with a little flour, to the consistency of cream. pour over the dumplings and serve at once. dumplings--at . in the evening set a sponge consisting of cup of lukewarm milk, tablespoonful sugar, tablespoonful of butter, egg, / of an yeast cake, add flour enough to form a sponge (as stiff as may be stirred with a mixing spoon). set to raise in a warm place over night. in the morning add more flour to the risen sponge until nearly as stiff as for bread. form into round dumplings, place on a well-floured bake-board to rise slowly. twenty-five minutes before serving drop dumplings into the hot broth in a large cook-pot. there should be only one layer of dumplings, otherwise they will be heavy. "brod knodel," or bread dumplings cups of stale bread (cut like dice). / cup of flour. / teaspoonful baking powder. / cup milk. tablespoonfuls butter. egg. teaspoonful of finely-minced parsley. / teaspoonful finely-minced onion (if liked). pinch of salt. place two cups of diced bread in a bowl and pour over / cup of milk. (reserve cup of diced bread, which brown in tablespoonful of butter, to be added to the mixture later.) allow milk and bread to stand or minutes; then add tablespoonful of melted butter, egg, flour and baking powder, and salt; fried, diced bread and parsley, and mix all together. with well-floured hands form the mixture into balls size of a walnut, and drop at once into rapidly boiling salted water and cook minutes. stew pan should be closely covered. when cooked, remove to platter with perforated skimmer, and serve at once, or drop dumplings into a pan containing tablespoonful of melted butter, and brown on all sides before serving. "german" pot pie to serve a family of six or seven, place pounds of beef and pork chops, cut in small pieces, in a cook-pot. season with a little chopped onion, pepper and salt. this should be done about three or four hours before dinner. one hour before serving prepare the dough for pot pie. pare white potatoes, slice and dry on a napkin, sift cups of flour with teaspoonful of baking-powder, pinch of salt, cut through the sifted flour, level tablespoonful of shortening. moisten dough with egg and enough milk to make dough stiff enough to handle. (almost cup of milk, including the egg.) cut off a small piece of dough, size of a small teacup, roll thin and take up plenty of flour on both sides. take up all flour possible. cut this dough into four portions or squares. have the meat more than covered with water, as water cooks away. place a layer of potatoes on meat (well seasoned), then the pared potatoes and small pieces of dough alternately, never allowing pieces of dough to lap; place potatoes between. roll the last layer out in one piece, size of a pie plate, and cover top layer of potatoes with it. cover closely and cook three-quarters of an hour from the time it commences to boil. then turn out carefully on a platter and serve at once. "zwetchen dampfnudeln" (prune dumplings) in the evening a sponge was prepared with yeast for bread. all the flour required to stiffen the dough for loaves of bread being added at this time. the bread sponge was stood in a warm place to rise over night. in the morning, when shaping the dough into loaves, stand aside about one pint of the bread dough. later in the morning form the pint of dough into small balls or dumplings, place on a well-floured bake board and stand in a warm place until doubled in size. then drop the dumplings into a cook pot containing stewed prunes, a small quantity of water, a little sugar and lemon peel, if liked. the dried prunes had been soaked over night in cold water, and allowed to simmer on the range in the morning. the prune juice should be hot when the dumplings are added. cook dumplings one-half hour in a closely covered cook-pot and turn out carefully on to a warmed platter, surrounded by prune juice and prunes. green corn fritters grate pulp from six cars of corn; with a knife scrape down the pulp into a bowl, add eggs, beaten separately, a couple tablespoonfuls of milk, large tablespoonful of flour, / teaspoonful of baking powder and a pinch of salt. drop with a spoon on a well-greased griddle. the cakes should be the size of a silver half dollar. bake brown on either side and serve hot. these should not be fried as quickly as griddle cakes are fried, as the corn might then not be thoroughly cooked. "mouldasha" (parsley pies) mash and season with butter and salt half a dozen boiled white potatoes, add a little grated onion and chopped parsley. sift together in a bowl cup of flour, teaspoonful baking powder and a little salt. add a small quantity of milk to one egg if not enough liquid to mix into a soft dough. roll out like pie crust, handling as little as possible. cut into small squares, fill with the potato mixture, turn opposite corners over and pinch together all around like small, three-cornered pies. drop the small triangular pies into boiling, salted water a few minutes, or until they rise to top; then skim out and brown them in a pan containing a tablespoonful each of butter and lard. i have known some germans who called these "garden birds." stale bread crumbs, browned in butter, may be sprinkled over these pies when served. serve hot. these are really pot pie or dumplings with potato filling. mary's aunt always called these "mouldasha." where she obtained the name or what its meaning is, the writer is unable to say. inexpensive drop crullers cream together cup sugar and egg, then add one cup of milk alternately with cups of flour, sifted with teaspoonfuls of baking powder. add / teaspoonful of vanilla and enough flour to make a stiff batter. take about / a teaspoonful of the batter at a time and drop into boiling hot fat, and brown on both sides; then drain on coarse, brown paper and, when cool, dust with pulverized sugar. these cakes are cheap and good, and as no shortening is used are not rich. do not make cakes too large, as they then will not cook through readily. batter baked with gravy the professor's wife gave mary this recipe, given her by an englishwoman. the recipe was liked by her family, being both economical and good. when serving roast beef for dinner, before thickening the gravy, take out about half a cup of liquid from the pan and stand in a cool place until the day following. reheat the roast remaining from previous day, pour the half cup of liquid in an iron fry pan, and when hot pour the following batter in the pan with the fat and bake in a moderately hot oven about minutes. or the batter may be poured in pan about minutes before meat has finished roasting. the batter was composed of cup of flour, sifted with small teaspoonful of baking powder and / teaspoonful of salt, mixed smooth with cup of sweet milk. add well-beaten eggs. when baked cut in small pieces, surround the meat on platter, serve instead of potatoes with roast. the addition of baked dough extends the meat flavor and makes possible the serving of a smaller amount of meat at a meal. "german" sour cream crullers one cup sugar, cup sour cream, eggs, tablespoonfuls of butter, teaspoonful soda, pinch of salt. about - / cups of flour. (use extra flour to dredge the bake-board when rolling out crullers.) this is a very good recipe for crullers, in which the economical housewife may use the cup of cream which has turned sour. this necessitates using less shortening, which otherwise would be required. cream together sugar, butter, add yolks of eggs. dissolve the soda in a small quantity of sour cream. mix cream alternately with the flour. add pinch of salt. add just enough flour to roll out. cut with small doughnut cutter with hole in centre. fry in hot fat. dust with pulverized sugar. "grandmother's" doughnuts cream together cup sugar and teaspoonfuls butter, / a grated nutmeg, and a pinch of salt. add eggs, beaten without separating yolks from whites, and cup of sweet milk. then add cups of flour (or quart), prepared as follows: measure quart of unsifted flour and sift twice with generous teaspoonfuls of baking powder. use this to thicken the batter sufficiently to roll out and use about extra cup of flour to flour the bake-board. turn out one-half the quantity of dough on to a half cup of flour on the bake-board. roll out dough half an inch thick. cut out with round cutter, with hole in centre, and drop into deep, hot fat. use / lard and / suet for deep frying; it is cheaper and more wholesome than to use all lard. when fat is hot enough to brown a small piece of bread while you count , it is the correct temperature for doughnuts. the dough should be as soft as can be handled. when cakes are a rich brown, take from fat, drain well on coarse, brown paper, and when cool dust with pulverized sugar and place in a covered stone jar. never use fat as hot for frying doughnuts as that used for frying croquettes, but should the fat not be hot the doughnuts would be greasy. these doughnuts are excellent if made according to recipe. fine "drop crullers" cream together - / cups pulverized sugar, eggs, add cup sweet milk, / teaspoonful of salt, - / cups of flour, sifted after measuring with teaspoonfuls of baking powder. drop teaspoonfuls of this carefully into boiling fat. they should resemble small balls when fried. batter must not be too stiff, but about the consistency of a cup-cake batter. boil them in a mixture of cinnamon and sugar when all have been fried. soups and chowders stock is the basis of all soups made from meat, and is really the juice of the meat extracted by long and gentle simmering. in making stock for soup always use an agate or porcelain-lined stock pot. use one quart of cold water to each pound of meat and bone. use cheap cuts of meat for soup stock. excellent stock may be made from bones and trimmings of meat and poultry. wash soup bones and stewing meat quickly in cold water. never allow a roast or piece of stewing meat to lie for a second in water. aunt sarah did not think that wiping meat with a damp cloth was all that was necessary (although many wise and good cooks to the contrary). place meat and soup bones in a stock pot, pour over the requisite amount of soft, cold water to extract the juice and nutritive quality of the meat; allow it to come to a boil, then stand back on the range, where it will just simmer for or hours. then add a sliced onion, several sprigs of parsley, small pieces of chopped celery tops, well-scraped roots of celery, and allow to simmer three-quarters of an hour longer. season well with salt and pepper, level teaspoonful of salt will season quart of soup. strain through a fine sieve, stand aside, and when cool remove from lop the solid cake of fat which had formed and use for frying after it has been clarified. it is surprising to know the variety of soups made possible by the addition of a small quantity of vegetables or cereals to stock. a couple tablespoonfuls of rice or barley added to well-seasoned stock and you have rice or barley soup. a small quantity of stewed, sweet corn or noodles, frequently "left-overs," finely diced or grated carrots, potatoes, celery or onions, and you have a vegetable soup. strain the half can of tomatoes, a "left-over" from dinner, add a tablespoonful of butter, a seasoning of salt and pepper, thicken to a creamy consistency with a little cornstarch, add to cup of soup stock, serve with croutons of bread or crackers, and you have an appetizing addition to dinner or lunch. the possibilities for utilizing left-overs are almost endless. the economically-inclined housewife will be surprised to find how easily she may add to the stock pot by adding left-over undesirable pieces of meat and small quantities of vegetables. one or two spoonfuls of cold left-over oatmeal may also be added to soup with advantage, occasionally. always remove the cake of fat which forms on top of soup as soon as cooled, as soup will turn sour more quickly if it is allowed to remain. if soup stock be kept several days in summer time, heat it each day to prevent souring. pieces of celery, onion, parsley, beans and peas may all be added to soup to make it more palatable. also fine noodles. the yolk of a hard-boiled egg dropped into the soup kettle and heated through, allowing one for each plate of soup served, is a quick and appetizing addition to a soup of plain broth or consomme. vegetable soup slice thinly potatoes, carrots, turnips, the undesirable parts of heads of celery, stalks of parsley and onions. cook the onions in a little butter until they turn a yellow brown, then add the other ingredients. season well with salt and black pepper, also a pinch of red pepper. put all together in a stew-pan, cover with three quarts of water, stand on range and simmer about three hours. strain soup into stew-pan, place on range, and when hot add marklose balls. marklose balls take marrow from uncooked beef soup bones, enough to fill tablespoons, cut fine, add eggs, teaspoonful grated onion to flavor, pepper and salt, stiffen with cup of bread crumbs, shape into balls size of marbles, drop into hot broth and cook uncovered from to minutes. aunt sarah purchased two good-sized soup bones containing considerable meat. after extracting tablespoonfuls of marrow from the uncooked bones, she put the bones in a stew-pan with a couple of quarts of water, a large onion, chopped fine, and a piece of celery, and cooked for several hours, then skimmed off scum which arises on top of broth, removed the soup bones and meat and added a couple of tablespoonfuls of grated carrot, pepper and salt to taste, cooked a short time, and then added the marrow balls, a little chopped parsley and a couple of tablespoonfuls of boiled rice. two tablespoonfuls of marrow will make about balls, with the addition of crumbs, eggs, etc. egg balls for soup mash the yolks of hard-boiled eggs fine and smooth with a little soft butter. beat the white of egg, and add with about tablespoonfuls of flour, salt and pepper. mix all together. use a little flour to mold the mixture into balls the size of quite small marbles. do not make too stiff. drop these into hot broth or soup and cook about five minutes. this quantity will make small balls. "suppee schwangen" mary was taught to make these by the professor's wife. she beat together either or raw eggs, / cup flour, tablespoonful butter, a little salt, and just enough milk to thin the mixture enough so it may be dropped by half teaspoonfuls into hot soup stock or broth. cook these small dumplings about minutes. serve in soup broth. cream of oyster bouillon put two dozen oysters through food chopper, cook oyster liquor and oysters together five minutes, heat pint milk and tablespoon flour, mixed smooth with a little cold milk, and tablespoonful butter. let come to a boil, watching carefully that it does not burn. pour all together when ready to serve. serve in bouillon cups with crackers. this recipe was given mary by a friend in philadelphia, who thought it unexcelled. german noodle soup place about pounds of cheap stewing beef in a cook-pot with sufficient water and cook several hours, until meat is quite tender; season with salt and pepper. about an hour before serving chop fine medium-sized potatoes and onions and cook in broth until tender. ten or fifteen minutes before serving add noodle. to prepare noodles, break fresh eggs in a bowl, fill / an egg shell with cold water, add the eggs, and mix with flour as stiff as can conveniently be handled. add a little salt to flour. divide dough into sheets, roll on bake-board, spread on cloth a short time and let dry, but not until too brittle to roll into long, narrow rolls. cut this with a sharp knife into thin, thread-like slices, unroll, drop as many as wished into the stew-pan with the meat and cook about or minutes. place the meat on a platter and serve the remainder in soup plates. the remaining noodles (not cooked) may be unrolled and dried and later cooked in boiling salted water, drained and placed in a dish and browned butter, containing a few soft, browned crumbs, poured over them when served. the very fine noodles are generally served with soup and the broad or medium-sized ones served with brown butter germans usually serve with a dish of noodles, either stewed, dried prunes, or stewed raisins. both are palatable and healthful. cream of celery cook large stalk of celery, also the root cut up in dice, in pint of water, / hour or longer. mash celery and put through a fine sieve. add pint of scalded milk, and thicken with a tablespoonful of flour, mixed with a little cold milk. add tablespoonfuls of butter, pepper and salt, and simmer a few minutes. just before serving add a cup of whipped cream. serve with the soup, small "croutons" of bread. oyster stew rinse a stew-pan with cold water, then put in pint of milk and let come to a boil. heat oysters in a little oyster liquor a few minutes, until the oysters curl up around the edges, then add the oysters to one-half the hot milk, add a large tablespoonful of butter, season well with salt and pepper, and when serving the stew add the half pint of boiling hot milk remaining. this quantity makes two small stews. serve crackers and pickled cabbage. when possible use a mixture of sweet cream and milk for an oyster stew instead of all milk. an old cook told mary she always moistened half a teaspoonful of cornstarch and added to the stew just before removing from the range to cause it to have a creamy consistency. clam broth clam broth may be digested usually by the most delicate stomach. it can be bought in cans, but the young housewife may like to know how to prepare it herself. strain the juice from one-half dozen clams and save. remove objectionable parts from clams, cut in small pieces, add / pint of cold water and the clam juice, let cook slowly about minutes, strain and season with pepper and salt, a little butter and milk, and serve hot. turkey soup take broken-lip bones and undesirable pieces of roast turkey, such as neck, wings and left-over pieces of bread filling, put in stew-pot, cover with water, add pieces of celery, sliced onion and parsley, cook several hours, strain, and to the strained liquor add a couple tablespoonfuls of boiled rice, season with salt and pepper and serve. some of the cold turkey might also be cut in small pieces and added to the soup. cream of pea soup cook quarter peck of green peas until very tender, reserve one-half cup, press the remainder through a sieve with the water in which they were boiled. season with salt and pepper. mix tablespoonful of flour, tablespoonful of butter with cup of hot milk. mix flour smooth with a little cold milk before heating it. cook all together a few minutes, then add the one cup of peas reserved. if soup is too thick add a small quantity of milk or water. tomato soup one quart of canned tomatoes, tablespoonful sugar, onion, and a sprig of parsley, cut fine, and carrot and cloves. stew until soft enough to mash through a fine, wire sieve. place one quart of sweet milk on the stove to boil. mix large tablespoonful of cornstarch smooth, with a little cold milk, and stir into the hot milk. add large tablespoonful of butler and / teaspoonful (good measure) of soda. let cook one minute, until it thickens, add teaspoonful of salt. do not add the milk to the strained tomatoes until ready to serve. then serve at once. frau schmidts clam soup chop clams fine, add enough water to the clam broth to measure one quart, cook all together about minutes; add pints of scalding hot milk, season with - / tablespoonfuls butter and salt and pepper to taste. serve crackers with the soup. clam chowder cut / pound of rather "fat" smoked bacon in tiny pieces the size of dice; fry until brown and crisp. take fresh clams, after having drained a short time in a colander, run through a food chopper and place in ice chest until required. pour the liquor from the clams into an agate stew-pan; add medium-sized potatoes and medium-sized onions, all thinly sliced; also add the crisp bits of bacon and fat, which had fried out from the bacon, to the clam juice. cook all together slowly or simmer or hours. add water to the clam liquor occasionally as required. ten or fifteen minutes before serving add cup of hot water and the chopped clams (clam juice if too strong is liable to curdle milk). allow clams to cook in the clam broth to minutes. boil quarts of sweet milk, and when ready to serve add the hot milk to the chowder, also teaspoonful of chopped parsley. one-half this quantity will serve a small family. serve crisp crackers and small pickels, and this chowder, served with a dessert, makes an inexpensive, nourishing lunch. brown potato chowder put a pint of diced, raw potatoes in a stew-pan over the fire, cover with quart of water, to which a pinch of salt has been added. cook until tender, but not fine, then add water so that the water in the stew-pan will still measure one quart should some have boiled away. place a small iron fry-part on the range, containing tablespoonful of sweet lard; when melted, it should measure about tablespoonfuls. then add tablespoonfuls of flour, a pinch of salt and stir constantly, or rather mash the flour constantly with a spoon, being careful not to allow it to scorch, until a rich brown; add this to the diced potatoes and the quart of water in which they were boiled, stir until the consistency of thick cream, or like clam chowder. should there be a few, small lumps of the browned flour not dissolved in the chowder, they will not detract from the taste of it; in fact, some are very fond of them. perhaps some folks would prefer this, more like a soup; then add more hot water and thin it, but be careful to add more seasoning, as otherwise it would taste flat and unpalatable. very few people know the _good flavor_ of _browned flour_. it has a flavor peculiarly its own, and does not taste of lard at all. i would never advocate _any_ seasoning except butter, but advise economical housewives to try this, being very careful not to scorch the flour and fat while browning. a mixture of butter and lard may be used in which to brown the flour should there be a prejudice against the use of lard alone. bean chowder another palatable, cheap and easily prepared dish is called bean chowder. small soup beans were soaked over night in cold water. pour off, add fresh water and cook until tender. then add browned flour (same as prepared for potato chowder) and the water in which the beans were cooked. when ready to serve, the beans were added. more water may be added until broth is thin enough for soup, then it would be called "brown bean soup." bouillon buy a soup bone, cook with a chopped onion, one stalk of celery and a sprig of parsley until meat falls from bone. season with salt and pepper. strain the broth into a bowl and stand aside until perfectly cold. then remove the cake of fat formed on top of soup and add it to drippings for frying. the broth may be kept several days if poured into a glass jar and set on ice. when wanted to serve, heat pint of broth, add tablespoonfuls of cream to yolks of eggs. stir well. pour boiling hot broth over the cream and yolks of eggs and serve at once in bouillon cups. serve crackers also. do not cook mixture after cream and yolks of eggs have been added. this is very nourishing. farmer's rice one and one-half quarts of milk, poured into a double boiler and placed on the range to heat. one cup of flour was placed in a bowl; into the flour raw egg was dropped and stirred with a knife until mixed, then rubbed between the fingers into fine rivels. it may take a little _more_ flour; the rivels should be dry enough to allow of being rubbed fine. when the milk commences to boil drop the rivels in by handfuls, slowly, stirring constantly. salt to taste. let cook minutes. eat while hot, adding a small piece of butter as seasoning. this should be a little thicker than ordinary rice soup. philadelphia "pepper pot" this recipe for far-famed "philadelphia pepper pot" was given mary by a friend living in the quaker city, a good cook, who vouched for its excellence: the ingredients consist of the following: knuckle of veal. pounds of plain tripe. pounds of honeycomb tripe. large onion, bunch of pot-herbs. medium-sized potatoes. bay leaf--salt and cayenne pepper to season. / pound of beef suet--and flour for dumplings. the day before you wish to use the "pepper pot" procure pounds of plain tripe and pounds of honeycomb tripe. wash thoroughly in cold water place in a kettle. cover with cold water and boil eight hours; then remove tripe from water, and when cold cut into pieces about / of an inch square. the day following get a knuckle of veal, wash and cover with cold water--about three quarts--bring slowly to the simmering point, skimming off the scum which arises, simmer for three hours. remove the meat from the bones, cut into small pieces, strain broth and return it to the kettle. add a bay leaf, one large onion, chopped, simmer one hour; then add four medium-sized potatoes, cut like dice, and add to the broth. wash a bunch of pot-herbs, chop parsley (and add last), rub off the thyme leaves, cut red pepper in half and add all to broth; then add meat and tripe and season with salt; _if liked hot_, use a pinch of cayenne pepper. for the dumplings, take cup of beef suet, chopped fine, cups flour, pinch of salt, mix well together and moisten with enough cold water to allow of their being molded or rolled into tiny dumplings, the size of a small marble. flour these well to prevent sticking together. when all are prepared drop into soup, simmer a few minutes, add parsley and serve at once. german vegetable soup take potatoes, half the quantity of onions, carrots, turnips, cabbage and a stalk of celery, cut up into dice-shaped pieces, place all in a stew-pan and cover with a couple quarts of hot water. let cook about two hours, until all the vegetables are tender, then add tablespoonful of butter, a large cup of milk, and about a tablespoonful of flour mixed smooth with a little cold milk, cook a few minutes, add a tablespoonful minced parsley, and serve. a cheap rice and tomato soup take one pint of rice water which has been drained from one cupful of rice boiled in - / quarts of water minutes (the rice to be used in other ways), and after the rice has drained in a sieve add to the rice water cup stewed, strained tomatoes (measure after being strained), teaspoonful butter, teaspoonful flour mixed with a little cold water, salt, pepper, and tablespoonful of the cooked rice, and you have a palatable soup, as the water in which the rice was boiled is said to be more nutritious than the rice. fish, clams and oyster (boned shad) how many young cooks know how to bone a shad? it is a very simple process, and one becomes quite expert after one or two trials. and it fully repays one for the extra time and trouble taken, in the satisfaction experienced by being able to serve fish without bones. with a sharp knife cut the fish open along the back bone on the outside of the fish, but do not cut through the bone, then carefully cut the fish loose along the back bone on each side, cut the centre bone away with the smaller bones branching out on each side attached. cut the shad into sizable pieces after being washed in cold water and dried on a cloth to take up all the moisture. dip pieces of fish into white of egg containing a teaspoonful of water, roll in fine, dried bread crumbs, season with salt and pepper, drop in hot fat, and fry a rich brown. serve on a platter, surrounded by a border of parsley. some small portions of the fish will adhere to the bones, however carefully the fish has been boned. the meat may be picked from the bones after cooking in salt water until tender. flake the fish, and either make it into small patties or croquettes. shad roe should be parboiled first and then dredged with flour on both sides and fried in drippings or a little butter. croquettes of cold, cooked fish shred or flake cold, cooked fish, which has been carefully picked from bones. to cups of fish add an equal amount of mashed potatoes, a small half cup of cold milk, tablespoonful butter, yolk of egg, lightly beaten, teaspoonful of chopped parsley, season with salt and pepper. mix all well together, and when cold, form in small croquettes. dip into white of egg containing tablespoonful of water, roll in fine, dried bread crumbs and fry in hot fat. shad, salmon, codfish, or any kind of fish may be prepared this way, or prepare same as "rice croquettes," substituting-fish for rice. shad roe shad roe should be carefully taken from the fish, allowed to stand in cold water, to which a pinch of salt has been added, for a few minutes, then dropped in boiling water, cooked a short time and drained. dredge with flour and fry slowly in a couple tablespoonfuls of butter and lard or drippings until a golden brown. be particular not to serve them rare. serve garnished with parsley. or the shad roe may be parboiled, then broken in small pieces, mixed with a couple of lightly beaten eggs and scrambled in a fry-pan, containing a couple of tablespoonfuls of butter and sweet drippings. serve at once. garnish with parsley or water cress. scalloped oysters take about fresh oysters. place a layer of oysters in a baking dish alternately with fine, dried crumbs, well seasoned with pepper and salt and bits of butter, until pan is about two-thirds full. have a thick layer of bread crumbs for the top, dotted with bits of butter. pour over this half a cup or less of strained oyster liquor and small cup of sweet milk. place in oven and bake from to minutes. deviled oysters dozen oysters. cup rich milk. tablespoonfuls flour. yolks of raw eggs. generous tablespoonful butter. tablespoonful finely-minced parsley. drain oysters in a colander and chop rather coarsely. mix flour smooth with a little cold milk. place the remainder of the milk in a saucepan on the range. when it commences to boil add the moistened flour and cook until the mixture thickens, stirring constantly to prevent burning, or cook in a double boiler. add yolks of eggs and butter, / teaspoonful salt and / teaspoonful of black pepper and a pinch of cayenne pepper. then add chopped oysters, stir all together a few minutes until oysters are heated through. then turn into a bowl and stand aside in a cool place until a short time before they are to be served. (these may be prepared early in the morning and served at six o'clock dinner.) then fill good-sized, well-scrubbed oyster shells with the mixture, sprinkle the tops liberally with fine-dried, well-seasoned bread crumbs. (seasoned with salt and pepper.) place the filled shells on muffin tins to prevent their tipping over; stand in a hot oven about ten minutes, until browned on top, when they should be heated through. serve at once in the shells. handle the hot shells with a folded napkin when serving at table. this quantity fills thirteen oyster shells. serve with the oysters small pickles, pickled cabbage or cranberry sauce as an accompaniment. planked shad after eating planked shad no one will wish to have it served in any other manner, as no other method of preparing fish equals this. for planked shad, use an oak plank, at least two inches thick, three inches thick is better. planks for this purpose may be bought at a department store or procured at a planing mill. place plank in oven several days before using to season it. always heat the plank in oven about minutes before placing fish on it, then have plank _very hot_. split a nicely-cleaned shad down the back, place skin side down, on hot plank, brush with butter and sprinkle lightly with pepper and salt. put plank containing shad on the upper grating of a hot oven of coal range and bake about minutes. baste frequently with melted butter. the shad should be served on the plank, although not a very sightly object, but it is the proper way to serve it. the flavor of shad, or, in fact, of any other fish, prepared in this manner is superior to that of any other. fish is less greasy and more wholesome than when fried. should an oak plank not be obtainable, the shad may be placed in a large roasting pan and baked in oven. cut gashes across the fish about two inches apart, and place a teaspoonful of butter on each. bake in oven from to minutes. serve on a warmed platter, garnished with parsley, and have dinner plates warmed when serving fish on them. do not wash the plank with soap and water after using, but instead rub it over with sandpaper. broiled mackerel when fish has been cleaned, cut off head and scrape dark skin from inside. soak salt mackerel in cold water over night, skin side up, always. in the morning; drain, wipe dry and place on a greased broiler, turn until cooked on both sides. take up carefully on a hot platter, pour over a large tablespoonful of melted butter and a little pepper, or lay the mackerel in a pan, put bits of butter on top, and set in a hot oven and bake. garnish with parsley. codfish balls soak codfish several hours in cold water. cook slowly or simmer a short time. remove from fire, drain, and when cold squeeze out all moisture by placing the flaked fish in a small piece of cheese-cloth. to one cup of the flaked codfish add an equal quantity of warm mashed potatoes, yolk of egg, tablespoonful of milk and a little pepper. roll into small balls with a little flour. dip in white of egg and bread crumbs, and when quite cold fry in deep fat. garnish with parsley. fried oysters procure fine, large, fresh oysters for frying. drain in a colander carefully, look over, and discard any pieces of shell. roll each oyster in fine, dried bread crumbs, well seasoned with salt and pepper, then dip them in a lightly-beaten egg, and then in bread crumbs. allow them to stand several hours in a cool place before frying. place a few oysters at one time in a wire frying basket, and immerse in smoking hot fat. should too great a number of oysters be placed in the fat at one time it would lower the temperature of the fat and cause the oysters to become greasy. drain the oysters when fried on heavy, brown paper, to absorb any remaining fat, and serve at once. for all deep frying use two-thirds lard and one-third suet, as suet is considered to be more wholesome and cheaper than lard. two items to be considered by the frugal housewife. if fat for deep frying is the right temperature a crust is at once formed, and the oysters do not absorb as great a quantity of fat as when fried in only enough butter and drippings to prevent scorching, as they must then be fried more slowly. serve pickled cabbage and tomato catsup when serving fried oysters. panned oysters aunt sarah always prepared oysters in this manner to serve roast turkey. at the very last minute, when the dinner was ready to be served, she placed freshly-opened oysters, with their liquor, in a stew-pan over a hot fire. the minute they were heated through and commenced to curl up, she turned them in a hot colander to drain a minute, then turned the oysters into a stew-pan containing two large tablespoonfuls of hot, melted butter, and allowed them to remain in the hot butter one minute, shaking the pan lo prevent scorching, seasoned them with salt and pepper, and turned all into a heated dish and sent to the table at once. these are easily prepared and are more wholesome than fried oysters. oysters steamed in the shell place well-scrubbed shells, containing fresh oysters, in a deep agate pan, which will fit in a kettle containing a small amount of boiling water. cover very closely until the shells open easily. these may be served in the shell with hot, melted butter, in a side dish, or they may be removed from the shell to a hot bowl and seasoned with hot butter, salt and pepper. a recipe given mary for "oyster cocktail" to tablespoonfuls of tomato catsup add / tablespoonful of grated horseradish, / tablespoonful of lemon juice, / teaspoonful of tabasco sause, / tablespoonful of vinegar, saltspoonful of salt. stand on ice one hour at least. to serve--the freshly-opened oysters on half shell were placed on a plate, in the centre of which was placed a tiny glass goblet containing a small quantity of the mixture, into which the oysters were dipped before being eaten. oyster croquettes boil oysters five minutes, drain. when cold, cut into small pieces, add / cup of bread crumbs and mix all together with a thick cream sauce composed of / cup of cream or milk thickened with flour, to which add large tablespoonful of butter; season with salt, a dash of red pepper and teaspoonful of finely-minced parsley. stand this mixture on ice until quite cold and firm enough to form into small croquettes. dip in egg and bread crumbs and fry in deep fat until a golden brown. serve at once on a platter garnished with sprigs of parsley from these ingredients was made croquettes. frau schmidts way of serving "oyster cocktails" place in a bowl tablespoonfuls of tomato catsup, teaspoonful of grated horseradish, tablespoonfuls of very finely cut celery juice and pulp of lemons. season with salt and pepper. mix this with oysters which have been cut in small pieces. serve in halves of lemons, from which the pulp has been carefully removed. place on ice a short time before serving. crisp crackers should be served at the same time this is served. salmon loaf one can of salmon, from which all bones have been removed, cup of cracker crumbs, / cup of milk, tablespoonful of butter, which had been melted; eggs beaten, salt and pepper to season. mix all together, bake in a buttered pudding dish one-half hour or until browned on top. serve hot. creamed salmon a half cup of canned salmon, a left-over from lunch the preceding day, may be added to double the quantity of cream dressing, and when heated through and served on crisply-toasted slices of stale bread, make a tasty addition to any meal. of course, it is not necessary to tell even unexperienced housewives never under any circumstances allow food to stand in tins in which it was canned; do not ever stand food away in tin; use small agateware dishes, in which food, such as small quantities of left-overs, etc, may be reheated. never use for cooking agate stew-pans, from the inside of which small parties have been chipped, as food cooked in such a vessel might become mixed with small particles of glazing, and such food when eaten would injure the stomach. oyster canapes cup cream. tablespoonfuls of bread crumbs. tablespoonful of butter. dozen stewing oysters. season with paprika, tiny pinch of nutmeg and salt. boil the cream, add bread crumbs and butter. chop oysters fine, add seasoning. serve hot in pattie cups or on toast. serve small pickles or olives. good dish for chafing dish. meat every young housewife should be taught that simmering is more effective than violent boiling, which converts water into useless steam. even a tough, undesirable piece of "chuck" or "pot roast" may be made more tender and palatable by long-continued simmering than it would be if put in rapidly boiling water and kept boiling at that rate. meat may be made more tender also by being marinated; that is, allowing the meat to stand for some time in a mixture of olive oil and vinegar before cooking it. in stewing most meats a good plan is to put a large tablespoonful of finely-minced beef suet in the stew-pan; when fried out, add a little butter, and when sizzling hot add the meat, turn and sear on both sides to retain the juice in the meat, then add a little hot water and let come to a boil; then stand where the meat will just simmer but not slop cooking for several hours. the meat then should be found quite tender. cheaper cuts of meat, especially, require long, slow cooking or simmering to make them tender, but are equally as nutritious as high-priced meats if properly prepared. to quote from _the farmers' bulletin_: "the number of appetizing dishes which a good cook can make out of the meat 'left over' is almost endless. undoubtedly more time and skill are required in their preparation than in the simple cooking of the more expensive cuts. the real superiority of a good cook lies not so much in the preparation of expensive or fancy dishes as in the attractive preparation of inexpensive dishes for every day. in the skillful combination of flavors. some housewives seem to have a prejudice against economizing. if the comfort of the family does not suffer and the meals are kept as varied and appetizing as when they cost more, with little reason for complaint, surely it is not beneath the dignity of any family to avoid useless expenditure, no matter how generous its income. and the intelligent housekeeper should take pride in setting a good table." this is such an excellent article, and so ably written and true, that i feel it would be to the advantage of every young housewife to read and profit by it. "sauergebratens" or german pot roast buy about three pounds of beef, as for an ordinary pot roast. place in a large bowl. boil vinegar (or, if vinegar is too sharp, add a little water, a couple of whole cloves and a little allspice); this should cover the piece of meat. vinegar should be poured over it hot; let stand a couple of days in a cool place uncovered; turn it over occasionally. when wanted to cook, take from the vinegar and put in a stew-pan containing a little hot fried-out suet or drippings in which has been sliced onions. let cook, turn occasionally, and when a rich brown, stir in a large tablespoonful of flour, add - / cups of hot water, cover and cook slowly for two or three hours, turning frequently. half an hour before serving add small pared potatoes, and when they have cooked tender, serve meat, gravy and potatoes on a large platter. the writer knew an old gentleman who had moved to the city from a "bucks county farm" when a boy, who said that he'd walk five miles any day for a dish of the above as his mother had prepared it in former years. mary was surprised at the amount of valuable information to be obtained from the different _farmers' bulletins_ received at the farm, on all subjects of interest to housewives, and particularly farmers' wives. all books were to be had free for the asking. the dishes mary prepared from recipes in the _farmers bulletin_ on "economical use of meat in the home," were especially liked at the farm, particularly "stewed shin of beef" and "hungarian goulash" (a hungarian dish which has come to be a favorite in the united states). hungarian goulash pounds top round of beef. onion. a little flour. bay leaves. ounces salt pork. whole cloves. cups of tomatoes. peppercorns. stalk celery. blade mace. cut the beef into -inch pieces and sprinkle with flour. fry the salt pork until a light brown; add the beef and cook slowly for about thirty-five minutes, stirring occasionally. cover with water and simmer about two hours. season with salt and pepper or paprika. from the vegetables and spices a sauce is made as follows: cook in sufficient water to cover for minutes; then rub through a sieve, and add to some of the stock in which the meat was cooked. thicken with flour, using tablespoonfuls (moistened with cold water) to each cup of liquid, and season with salt and paprika. serve the meat on a platter with the sauce poured over it. potatoes, carrots and green peppers cooked until tender and cut into small pieces or narrow strips are usually sprinkled over the dish when served, and noodles may be arranged in a border upon the platter. broiled steak when buying beefsteak for broiling, order the steak cut inch to - / inches thick. place the steak on a well-greased, hot broiler and broil over a clear, hot fire, turning frequently. it will take about ten minutes to broil a steak -inch thick. when steak is broiled place on a hot platter, season with butter, pepper and salt, and serve at once. serve rare or otherwise, but serve _at once_. broil-steak unseasoned, as salt extracts juice from meat. steak, particularly, loses its savoriness if not served _hot_. what to a hungry man is more nutritious and appetizing than a perfectly broiled, rare, juicy, steak, served hot? and not a few young and inexperienced cooks serve thin steaks, frequently overdone or scorched, containing about the same amount of nourishment a piece of leather would possess, through lack of knowledge of knowing just how. often, unconsciously. i will admit; yet it is an undiluted fact, that very many young housewives are indirectly the cause of their husbands suffering from the prevailing "american complaint," dyspepsia, and its attendant evils. and who that has suffered from it will blame the "grouchy man" who cannot well be otherwise. so, my dear "mrs. new wife," be warned in time, and always remember how near to your husband's heart lies his stomach, and to possess the former you should endeavor to keep the latter in good condition by preparing, and serving, nourishing, well-cooked food. stewed shin of beef pounds of shin of beef. medium-sized onion. whole clove and bay leaf. sprig of parsley. - / tablespoonfuls flour. - / tablespoonfuls of butler or savory drippings. small slice of carrot. / tablespoonful of salt. / teaspoonful of pepper. quarts boiling water. have the butcher cut the bone in several pieces. put all the ingredients but the flour and butter in a stew-pan and bring to a boil. set the pan where the liquid will just simmer for six hours, or after boiling for five or ten minutes put all into the fireless cooker for eight or nine hours. with the butter, flour and / cup of the clear soup from which the fat has been removed make a brown sauce. to this add the meat and marrow removed from the bone. heat and serve. the remainder of the liquid in which the meat has been cooked may be used for soup. hamburg steak take the tough ends of two sirloin steaks and one tablespoonful of kidney suet, run through a food chopper; season with pepper and salt, form into small cakes, dredge lightly with flour, fry quickly, same manner steak is fried, turning frequently. the kidney fat added prevents the hamburg steak being dry and tasteless. "a tender, juicy broiled steak, flaky baked potatoes, a good cup of coffee and sweet, light, home-made bread, a simple salad or fruit, served to a hungry husband would often prevent his looking for an affinity," said aunt sarah to her niece mary. meat stew with dumplings stew. pounds of a cheap cut of beef. cups of potatoes cut into small pieces. / cup each of turnips and carrots cut into / -inch cubes. / an onion chopped. / cup of flour. season with salt and pepper. cut the meat into small pieces, removing the fat. fry out the fat and brown the meat in it. when well browned, cover with boiling water. boil for five minutes and then cook in a lower temperature until meat is done. if tender, this will require about three hours on the stove, or five hours in the fireless cooker. add carrots, onions, turnips and pepper and salt during the last hour of cooking, and the potatoes fifteen minutes before serving. thicken with the flour diluted with cold water. serve with dumplings. if this dish is made in the tireless cooker the mixture must be reheated when the vegetables are put in. such a stew may also be made of mutton. if veal or pork is used the vegetables may be omitted or simply a little onion used. sometimes for variety the browning of the meat is dispensed with. when white meat, such as chicken, veal or fresh pork is used, the gravy is often made rich with cream or milk thickened with flour. dumplings. cups of flour. teaspoons (level) of baking powder. / cup of milk or a little more if needed. / teaspoonful of salt. teaspoonfuls of butter. mix and sift the dry ingredients. work in butter with the tips of the fingers. add milk gradually, roll out to thickness of half inch. cut with biscuit cutter. place in a buttered steamer over a kettle of hot water and cook from to minutes. if the dumplings are cooked with the stew enough liquid should be removed to allow of their being placed directly upon the meat and vegetables. sometimes the dough is baked and served as biscuits, over which the stew is poured. if the stew is made with chicken or veal it is termed a fricassee. this recipe tells of such an economical way of extending the meat flavor that i think every young housewife should know it. mary copied it from _the farmers' bulletin_, an article on the "economical use of meat in the home." the dumplings, as she prepared them from this recipe, were regular fluff balls, they were so light and flaky. i would add, the cook-pot should be closely covered while cooking or steaming these dumplings, and the cover should not be raised for the first ten minutes. a lesser quantity of baking powder might be used with equally good results, but these dumplings are certain to be light and flaky. a larger quantity of baking powder should be used when dough is steamed or boiled than if dough is baked, if one expects good results. extending the meat flavor mary learned, through reading _the farmers' bulletin_, different methods of extending the meat flavor through a considerable quantity of material, which would otherwise be lacking in distinctive taste, one way to serve the meat with dumplings, generally in the dish with it; to combine the meat with crusts, as in meat pies or meat rolls, or to serve the meat on toast or biscuits. borders of rice, hominy or mashed potatoes are examples of the same principles, applied in different ways. by serving some preparation of flour, rice, hominy or other food, rich in starch, with the meat, we get a dish which in itself approaches nearer to the balanced ration than meat alone, and one in which the meat flavor is extended through a large amount of the material. the measurements given in the above recipes call for a level spoonful or a level cup, as the case may be. in many american families meat is eaten two or three times a day. in such cases, the simplest way of reducing the meat bill would be to cut down the amount used, either by serving it less often or by using less at a time. deficiency of protein need not be feared, when one good meat dish a day is served, especially if such nitrogenous materials as eggs, milk, cheese and beans are used instead. in localities where fish can be obtained fresh and cheap, it might well be more frequently substituted for meat for the sake of variety as well as economy. ingenious cooks have many ways of "extending the flavor" of meat; that is, of combining a small quantity with other materials to make a large dish as in meat pies, stews and similar dishes. the foregoing information may be useful to other young, prospective housekeepers who may never have read "the very instructive articles on the economical use of meat in the home,' in the _farmers' bulletin_." preparing a pot roast when buying a pot roast, "aunt sarah" selected a thick, chunky piece of meat, weighing several pounds, and a small piece of beef suet which she cut into small bits, placed pan containing them on hot range, added a small, sliced onion, and when fat was quite hot she added the quickly rinsed piece of meat, and quickly seared it to retain the juice; added cup of hot water, a sprig of parsley, seasoning of salt and pepper; cooked a short time, then allowed it to stand on the range closely covered, where it would simmer gently several hours; turning the meat frequently, adding a small amount of water occasionally, as the broth was absorbed by the meat. an inexperienced cook will be surprised to find how tender, palatable, and equally nutritious, an inexpensive cut of meat may become by slow simmering. when the pot roast has become tender, remove from the broth and place on a _hot platter_; this latter is a small item, but dishes may be quickly heated in a hot oven and meat and vegetables are more appetizing if served hot on warmed plates. "forgive this digression; i fear the pot roast will cool even on a warmed platter." after removing the meat from the pan add a large tablespoonful of flour, moistened with a small quantity of cold water, to the broth in the pan for gravy; cook until thickened, strain sliced onion and parsley from the broth, add seasoning of salt and pepper, serve on the platter with the meat; the onion added, gives the gravy a fine flavor and causes it to be a dark, rich brown in color. stuffed breast of veal rub the piece of meat with salt, pepper, ginger and minced onion. prepare a stuffing as for chicken of crumbled, stale bread, etc., or soak pieces of stale bread in cold water. squeeze dry and season with a little minced onion, parsley, a little melted butter, salt and pepper, and moisten all with one egg. fill the breast of veal with this stuffing, sew together, place in roasting pan with a small quantity of water, to which a tablespoonful of butter has been added. roast in a moderately hot oven until well done, basting frequently. "gedampftes rinderbrust" take breast of beef or veal, without fat or bones, quickly rinse off meat and wipe with a cloth. place in a stew-pot with one chopped onion, one sliced tomato, a bay leaf, season with pepper and salt, add a small quantity of hot water, cook, closely covered, several hours. to be tender this meat requires long, slow cooking, when it cooks and browns at the same time. strain the broth and thicken for gravy and pour around the meat on platter when serving. "paprikash" two pounds of veal, from leg, cut into small pieces for stewing; good-sized onions, cut rather fine; measure about / cup of sweet lard, place onions in pan with some of this lard and fry a light brown. add meat and cook meat and onions together about one-half hour, adding lard gradually until all is used and the meat is golden brown. then cover with water and stew, closely covered, about two hours or longer, until meat is ready to serve; then add more water until meat is covered. season with salt and paprika. add about three tablespoonfuls of vinegar (not too sour; cook must judge this by tasting); then add / pint of sweet cream. thicken gravy with flour mixed smooth with a little water. place on platter surrounded with gravy. with this was always served baked or steamed sweet potatoes. beef stew three pounds of the cheaper cut of beef, cut in pieces a couple inches square; brown in a stew-pan, with a sliced onion, a sprig of parsley and a coupe tablespoonfuls of sweet drippings or suet; cook a few minutes, add a little water, and simmer a couple of hours; add sliced turnips and a few medium-sized potatoes. should there he a larger quantity of broth than required to serve with the meat and vegetables, a cup or more of the broth may form the basis of a palatable soup for lunch the following day. savory beef roll three and one-half pounds raw beef, or a mixture of beef and veal may be used, run through a food chopper. a cheap cut of meat may be used if, before chopping, all pieces of gristle are trimmed off. place the chopped meat in a bowl, add tablespoonfuls of fine, dried bread crumbs, tablespoonful of pepper, - / tablespoonfuls of salt. taste the meat before adding all the seasoning specified, as tastes differ. add raw eggs, tablespoonfuls of sweet milk or cream, tablespoonfuls of butter, a little sweet marjoram or minced parsley. mix all together and mold into two long, narrow rolls, similar to loaves of bread. place tablespoonful each of drippings and butter in a large fry-pan on the range. when heated, place beef rolls in, and when seared on both sides add a small quantity of hot water. place the pan containing meat in a hot oven and bake one hour. basting the meat frequently improves it. when catering to a small family serve one of the rolls hot for dinner; serve gravy, made by thickening broth in pan with a small quantity of flour. serve the remaining roll cold, thinly sliced for lunch, the day following. veal cutlets use either veal chops or veal cutlets, cut in small pieces the size of chops; pound with a small mallet, sprinkle a little finely-minced onion on each cutlet, dip in beaten egg and bread crumbs, well seasoned with salt and pepper. place a couple tablespoonfuls of a mixture of butter and sweet drippings in a fry-pan; when hot, lay in the breaded cutlets and fry slowly, turning frequently and watching carefully that they do not scorch. these take a longer time to fry than does beefsteak. when a rich brown and well cooked take up the cutlets on a heated platter and serve, garnished with parsley. meat "snitzel" cut - / pounds of thick veal steak into small pieces, dredge with flour, season with salt and pepper, and fry brown in a pan containing bacon fat (fat obtained by frying several slices of fat, smoked bacon). remove the meat from the pan, add a couple tablespoonfuls of flour to the remaining fat stir until browned, then pour in the strained liquor from a pint can of tomatoes. add one slice of onion and one carrot, then return the meat to the sauce; cover closely and simmer three-quarters of an hour. when the meat is tender, place on a hot platter, add a pinch of red pepper to the sauce and a little more salt if required, and strain over the meat on the platter. this was a favorite dish of mary's uncle, and he said she knew how to prepare it to perfection. sirloin steaks procure sirloin steaks, - / inches thick, and a small piece of suet. cut the tenderloin from each steak, and as much more of the steak as required for one meal. place the finely-cut suet in a hot fry-pan; this should measure tablespoonful when tried out, add one teaspoonful of butter, when the fat is very hot and a blue smoke arises place pieces of steak, lightly dredged with flour, in the pan of hot fat, place only one piece at a time in the fat; sear the meat on one side, then turn and sear on the other side; then place the other pieces of meat in the pan and continue in the same manner, turning the steak frequently. the hot butter and suet sear the steak, thus the juice of the meat is retained, making the meat more palatable; season with salt and pepper, place on a hot platter and serve at once. meat balls chop meat fine; beef, chicken, lamb or veal; mince a small onion and fry in a tablespoonful of butler; add a tablespoonful of flour, the yolk of one egg, the chopped meat and a little broth, gravy, or milk to moisten, salt and pepper. stir all together and turn the whole mixture into dish to cool. when cool, shape with well-floured hands into balls the size of a shelled walnut. dip in beaten white of egg, then into bread crumbs, and fry in deep fat until crisp and brown. place only three or four meat balls in a frying basket at one time. too many at a time chills the fat; but if plunged in boiling hot fat, then a crust is formed at once over the outside, which prevents the grease from penetrating. when the meat balls are browned nicely, lay them on brown paper to absorb any grease that may adhere to them. to try whether the fat is the right temperature, drop a small piece of bread in it, and if it browns while you count twenty, the fat is hot enough for any form of croquettes. garnish with parsley or watercress. veal loaf three pounds raw veal, chopped fine; teaspoonful salt, teaspoonful pepper, tablespoonfuls butter, raw eggs, tablespoonfuls water. mix all together with tablespoonfuls fine, rolled, dried bread crumbs and mold into a long, narrow loaf. roll the loaf in two extra tablespoonfuls of bread crumbs. place in a hot pan, pour tablespoonfuls melted butter over the top, and bake in hot oven two hours or less, basting frequently. slice thinly when cold. should the veal loaf be served hot thicken the broth with flour and serve this gravy with it. sweetbreads (breaded) place sweetbreads in cold water, to which / teaspoonful salt has been added, for a short time, then drain and put over the fire with hot water. cook ten minutes. drain and stand aside in a cool place until wanted. remove stringy parts, separate into small pieces about the sue of an oyster, dip in beaten white of egg and then in bread crumbs. put in a pan containing a little hot butter and drippings and fry light brown. serve hot. garnish platter with parsley. fried liver and bacon have _beef_ liver cut in slices about one inch thick; quickly rinse and wipe dry. remove the thin skin on the edge and cut out all the small, tough fibres. if liver from a _young_ beef it can scarcely be told from calves' liver when cooked, and is considerably cheaper. fry a dozen slices of fat bacon in a pan until crisp and brown. take from the pan on a warm platter and place in oven. put the pieces of liver, well dredged with flour, into the pan containing the hot bacon fat, also a little butter, and fry slowly until well done, but not hard and dry. turn frequently and season with salt and pepper. take the liver from the pan, add one tablespoonful of flour to the fat remaining in the pan, stir until smooth and brown, then add about one cup of sweet milk or water, stir a few minutes until it thickens and season with salt and pepper. should the liver be a little overdone, put it in the pan with the gravy, cover and let stand where it will just simmer a few minutes, then turn all on a hot platter and serve the bacon on a separate dish. beefsteak served with peas fry quickly a large sirloin steak. place in the oven, on a warm platter. add a large tablespoonful of butter to the fry pan, also a can of sifted peas, which have been heated and drained, season with pepper and salt, shake pan to prevent burning and when hot turn on to platter containing steak and serve at once. this makes an appetizing luncheon dish. creamed "dried beef" put a tablespoonful of butter in a frying pan, add / cup of chipped beef cut fine and brown it in the butter, then add / cup of water. let stand and simmer for a short time, then add a cup of sweet milk, thicken to the consistency of thick cream by adding tablespoonful of flour mixed smooth with a small quantity of cold milk, season with salt and pepper. this is an economical way of using small pieces of dried beef not sightly enough to be served on the table. serve with baked potatoes for lunch, or pour over slices of toasted bread, or over poached eggs for an appetizing breakfast dish. creamed sweetbreads parboil sweetbreads in water minutes. remove stringy parts and dry on a napkin. separate the sweetbreads into small pieces with a _silver knife_, never use _steel_, put in a stewpan with enough cream to cover, add butter, pepper and salt to taste. flour enough to thicken a little, let all come to a boil. fill small pattie shells with the mixture and serve hot. meat croquettes cups finely chopped meat (beef or veal). tablespoonful butter. tablespoonfuls flour (or a little more flour). tablespoonfuls chopped parsley. scant cup of milk. put milk on to boil. mix flour smooth with a little cold milk before adding to boiling milk, add the butter and cook all together until a creamy consistency, then add the chopped meat well seasoned with salt and pepper and the chopped parsley. mix well and let cool. shape into croquettes, dip in white of egg and bread crumbs. let stand until perfectly cold, then fry brown, in deep hot fat. chicken, beef, veal and mutton may be prepared in the same manner. when dipping croquettes, tablespoonful of water may be added to the white of egg and tablespoonfuls of water if the whole of the egg is used. use the whites of eggs for dipping croquettes if possible. croquettes may be made the day before wanted, and placed in a refrigerator or cool place. croquettes should be cold before frying. stewed rabbit after the rabbit has been skinned, and carefully cleaned, wash quickly and let stand over night in cold water to which salt has been added; also a pinch of red pepper. place on the range in the morning (in a stew-pan with fresh warm water). when it comes to a boil, drain off, add one pint of hot water containing two sliced onions and a little ginger. this prevents the flavor of wild game, objectionable to some. when the meat has cooked tender, drain, dust pieces with flour, and brown quickly in a pan containing a couple tablespoonfuls of hot lard, butter, or drippings. if you wish the meat of the rabbit white, add a thin slice of lemon to the water when cooking meat. roast lamb select leg or loin, or if a larger roast is wanted, leg and loin together. carefully rinse the piece of meat. place in pan, dust lightly with pepper. have the oven hot and place pan in without putting water in pan. brown on one side, then turn and brown on the other. then put about / cup of water in roasting pan, and if oven is too hot, leave door open for a few minutes. allow minutes for each pound of lamb. "gefullte rinderbrust," or stuffed breast of beef take a fillet of beef, rub both sides well with a mixture of finely chopped onion, minced parsley, salt and pepper. then spread over the fillet a small quantity of raw, chopped, well-seasoned meat, roll together and tie. place in a stew pan with a small quantity of water, cook closely covered until tender. serve with gravy. fried peppers with pork chops dust four or five pork chops with flour and fry in a pan, not too quickly. when nicely browned, remove to a warm chop plate and stand in warming oven while preparing the following: slice or cut in small pieces four good-sized, sweet, red peppers and a half teaspoon of finely chopped hot pepper, add to the fat remaining in the pan in which the chops were fried, and cook about ten minutes, until peppers are tender (stirring them frequently). when sufficiently cooked, add one tablespoon of vinegar, pepper and salt to taste, cook one minute longer and serve on the same dish with the chops. boiled ham when preparing to cook a ham, scrape, wash and trim it carefully. place ham in a large cook pot or boiler, partly cover with cold water, let come to a boil, then move back on range where the water will merely simmer, just bubble gently around the edge of the boiler. a medium sized ham should be tender in five or six hours. when a fork stuck into the ham comes out readily, the ham is cooked. take from the boiler and skin carefully, removing all the discolored portions of the smoked end, stick dozen whole cloves into the thick fat, and sprinkle a couple tablespoonfuls of brown sugar and fine bread crumbs over top. place in a very hot oven a short time, until the fat turns a golden brown. watch carefully to see that it does not scorch. when cold, slice thin and serve. aunt sarah frequently added a pint of cider to the water in which the ham was boiled. she said this improved the flavor of the ham. sliced ham when about to fry a slice of uncooked ham, do young housewives know how very much it improves the flavor of the ham if it is allowed to stand for ten or fifteen minutes in a platter containing a large teaspoonful of sugar and a little cold water? turn several times, then wipe quite dry with a clean cloth and fry in a pan containing a little hot drippings and a very little butter (one-half teaspoonful) just enough to prevent its sticking to the pan. do not fry as quickly as beefsteak. after a slice of ham has been cut from a whole ham, if lard be spread over the end of ham from which the slice has been cut, it will prevent the cut place from becoming mouldy. roast pork place pork roast in a covered roasting pan containing a small cup of hot water, season with pepper and salt and sweet marjoram and sprinkle a little powdered sage over it, and stand in a very hot oven. after the meat has been roasting for a half hour, have less heat in your oven, allow about minutes to every pound of pork, or longer if necessary, but be sure it is _well done_. when served, _underdone_ pork is very unwholesome and unappetizing. when meat is sufficiently roasted, pour off all the fat in the pan except a small quantity, to which add / cup of boiling water, pepper and salt and serve. serve baked apples or apple sauce with pork. pork chops dip pork chops in egg, then into bread crumbs to which has been added salt, pepper, and a very little sage and sweet marjoram. some prefer chops simply dredged with flour. fry about minutes or until cooked through and nicely browned, but not scorched. 'tis said, "the frying of chops in a perfect manner is the test of a good cook." home-made sausage nine pounds of fresh pork (lean and fat intermixed as it comes). cut meat in small pieces, run through a meat cutter. sprinkle over the finely chopped meat tablespoonfuls salt, tablespoonfuls of black pepper, tablespoonfuls of powdered sage if bought at a chemist's. aunt sarah used but three tablespoonfuls of her own home-grown sage, as the flavor was much stronger than dried sage. some folks add tablespoonfuls of summer savory, but aunt sarah did not care for the flavor. cloves, mace and nutmeg may also be added if one likes highly-spiced food. this is a matter of taste. a good plan is to season the small pieces of meat before chopping, as this distributes the seasoning through the sausage. fill well cleaned casings, with the finely chopped meat. or form sausage into small pats, fry brown on both sides and serve with home-made buckwheat cakes. aunt sarah's method of keeping sausage to keep sausage one year, take sausage which has been put in casings (skins in long links) and cook until heated through in a fry pan half filled with hot water. take sausage from the water, cut in -inch length pieces (stick sausage with prongs of a fork, to prevent skins bursting) and fry brown on both sides, as if preparing it for the table. place, while hot in quart jars, fill jars as compactly as possible, then pour the hot fat remaining in pan over top. seal air-tight and it will keep well one year if jars are perfectly air-tight. souse two pig's feet, weighing together about - / pounds. after thoroughly cleansing with a vegetable brush, place in a stewpan and cover with cold water. allow water to come to a boil then move stew-pan to place on range where contents will cook slowly for a number of hours, or until the meat is loosened from the bones, then strain liquid, which should measure a scant three cups. (if a lesser quantity of liquid, add hot water until you have the required amount.) add also tablespoonfuls of sharp cider vinegar, about / teaspoonful of salt and a dust of black pepper. pour this mixture over the meat, which should have been separated from bones, allowing a few smaller bones to remain with the meat, which should have been placed in a bowl with several thin slices of lemon, if liked. stand bowl in a cool place over night or until the "souse" is of a jelly-like consistency. when cold, remove any surplus grease from the top of "souse." turn it from the bowl on to a platter. serve cold. garnish with thin slices of lemon and sprigs of parsley. this will furnish about - / pounds of souse. utilizing cold meat "left-overs" small pieces of cold roast beef, veal or steak may all be utilized by being put through the food chopper. to cup of finely-chopped cold meat add / cup of stale bread, which has soaked for a few minutes in cold water. the water having been squeezed from the bread, it was added to the meat, as was also a small quantity of finely-minced onion or parsley, and either the yolk or while of egg and a seasoning of salt and pepper. add left-over gravy, to cause the mixture to be soft enough to form into small rolls or cakes, and fry in a pan containing a couple tablespoonfuls of sweet drippings. mashed potatoes may be substituted for the bread with equally good results. the meat mixture may be formed into small cone shapes, dipped in egg, then rolled in fine bread crumbs and fried in deep fat. very appetizing sandwiches may he made from cold pieces of fried ham, run through food chopper. spread this on thinly-sliced, buttered bread, with a dish of prepared mustard, spread over the prepared ham. small bits of boiled ham, which cannot be sliced, may also be used in this manner. the fat was cut from left-over pieces of roast beef (place a couple of tablespoonfuls of fat in a pan on the range until the fat has fried out), then add a little finely-minced onion and the beef cut in pieces the size of a small marble, brown in the fat a few minutes, then add a small quantity of vinegar and water, and thicken to the consistency of cream (with a little flour moistened with cold water, before being added). this aunt sarah made frequently, being a frugal housewife, and called "salmagundi." fowl--roast chicken or turkey singe the fowl, after it has been picked; then with a small vegetable brush quickly scrub it well, with luke-warm water. do not let it lie in the water. when perfectly clean rinse in cold water, wipe dry, cut out the oil sack, remove craw from neck, draw the fowl, being careful not to break the gall in the process, as that would cause the meat, as well as giblets, to have a bitter taste. take out the lungs, the spongy red pieces lying in crevices near the bones of the back, and pour cold water through the fowl until you have thoroughly rinsed and chilled it, and no blood remains inside. i think fowls should be rinsed thoroughly inside and outside with cold water (many good cooks to the contrary). wipe the inside of the fowl perfectly dry with a clean cloth, and it is ready for the "filling." separate the liver and heart from entrails and cut open the piece containing the gizzard; wash the outer part, and put the giblets on to cook with a little hot water; if wanted to use with the filling. if the fowl is wanted to cook or steam the day following, do not cut in pieces and let stand in water over night, as i have known some quite good cooks to do, as that draws the flavor from the meat and makes it tasteless. if the giblets are not to be cooked and added to dressing, place them inside the fowl, tie feet together, and hang up in a cool place until wanted. when serving a turkey dinner with its accompaniments one finds so many things to be attended to in the morning, especially if the fowl is cooked on a sunday. it will be found a great help to the cook to have the turkey or chicken stuffed with bread filling the day before it is to be roasted, ready to pop in the oven in the morning. bread filling as aunt sarah prepared it chop the cold, cooked liver, heart and gizzard into tiny dice; add this to a bowl containing one quart of crumbled stale bread, seasoned with teaspoonful of salt, / teaspoonful pepper, / of a small, finely-minced onion, / teaspoonful sweet marjoram and a teaspoonful of chopped parsley. stir into the crumbs tablespoonfuls of melted butter, moisten all with one egg beaten with tablespoonfuls of milk. sir all together lightly with a fork. fill the body of the chicken, put a couple of spoonfuls of this dressing into the space from which the craw was taken, tie the neck with a cord, sew up the fowl with a darning needle and cord, after filling it. (always keep a pair of scissors hanging from a nail conveniently near the sink in your kitchen, as it saves many steps.) the secret of _good filling_ is not to have it _too moist_, and to put the filling into the fowl _very lightly_; on no account press it down when placing it in the fowl, as that will cause the best of filling to be heavy and sodden. rather put less in, and fill a small cheese cloth bag with what remains, and a short time before the fowl has finished roasting, lay the bag containing the dressing on top of fowl until heated through, then turn out on one side of platter and serve with the fowl. instead of the chopped giblets, add dozen oysters to the dressing, or a few chestnuts boiled tender, mashed and seasoned with butter, pepper and salt and added to the crumbled bread. this makes a pleasant change. do not use quite as many crumbs if chestnuts or oysters are added. place fowl in covered roasting pan, put a couple of pieces of thinly-sliced bacon on the breast of fowl, put two cups of hot water in the pan and set in a very hot oven for the first half hour, then reduce the heat and baste frequently. an ordinary eight-pound turkey takes from two to three hours to roast; a chicken takes about twenty minutes to the pound. when the fowl has been sufficiently roasted, remove from pan to a hot platter. pour off some of the fat in the pan and add a small quantity of milk to the broth remaining. thicken with flour, for gravy, season with salt and pepper and sprinkle one teaspoonful chopped parsley over gravy after being poured into the gravy boat ready to serve. the yolk of one egg added makes a richer gravy to serve with chicken. fried chicken with cream gravy cut one small spring chicken in pieces, dip each piece in a batter composed of beaten egg, cup of milk, a pinch of salt, / teaspoonful of baking powder, sifted with flour enough to form a batter. dip the pieces of chicken in this batter, one at a time, and fry slowly in a pan containing a couple tablespoonfuls of hot butter and lard, until a golden brown. place the fried chicken on a platter. make a gravy by adding to the fat remaining in the pan-- cup of milk, tablespoonful of corn starch. allow this to brown and thicken. then pour the gravy over the chicken and serve garnished with parsley or watercress. stewed or steamed chicken cut a nicely cleaned chicken into nine pieces. (do not separate the meat from the breast-bone until it has been cooked.) put in a cook pot and partly cover with boiling water. add one small onion and a sprig of parsley, and let simmer about - / hours, or until tender. if an old fowl it will take about one hour longer. add salt and pepper. strain the broth, if very fat, remove a part from broth. after separating the white meat from the breast-bone, put all the meat on a platter. add / cup of sweet milk to the strained broth, thicken with a couple tablespoonfuls of flour, mixed smooth with a little cold water. let come to a boil, and add one teaspoonful of chopped parsley. pour the chicken gravy over the platter containing the meat, or serve it in a separate bowl. or you may quickly brown the pieces of stewed chicken which have been sprinkled with flour in a pan containing a little sweet drippings or butter. should the chicken not be a very fat one, add yolk of one egg to the gravy. or, instead of stewing the chicken, place in the upper compartment of a steamer, and steam until tender and serve. the day following that on which stewed or steamed chicken was served, small undesirable left-over pieces of the chicken were added (after being picked from the bones) to the gravy remaining from the day before, heated thoroughly and poured hot over a platter containing small baking powder biscuits broken in half or slices of toasted bread, which is economical, extending the meat flavor. vegetables--white potatoes potatoes are one of the most valuable of vegetables. white potatoes, after being pared, should be put in a stew-pan over the fire with a little boiling water, but not enough to cover them. the water should be kept boiling continuously. about thirty minutes from the time they commence boiling will be the time required for cooking potatoes of ordinary size. it spoils potatoes to have the water stop boiling even for a short time. add half a teaspoonful of salt to the potatoes when partly boiled and when cooked sufficiently drain the water from them at _once_ and sprinkle a little salt over the dry potatoes. close the lid of the stew-pan tightly, give it a quick shake, when the potatoes will he found dry and flaky. mash fine with a potato masher, adding a tablespoonful of butter and a couple tablespoonfuls of milk. let stand a minute on the hot range to heat the milk, then beat all together with a fork until creamy. add more salt if necessary. that is quite important, as potatoes require considerable salt. cover the potatoes with a cloth. never allow to stand with the lid of the stew-pan over them, as it will draw moisture. serve white potatoes as soon as possible after being cooked, as they are not appetizing when allowed to stand any length of time. baked potatoes all young housewives may not know "that there is more real food value in potatoes baked 'in their jackets' than is found in preparing this well-known tuber in any other way." the secret of a good baked potato lies in having a hot oven, but not too hot. scrub good sized potatoes, or, for a change, they may be pared before baking, place in a hot oven, and bake about minutes, when they should be a snowy, flaky mass inside the skins, palatable and wholesome. when fully baked they should fed soft to the touch when pressed. take from oven, pinch one end of potato to break the skin to allow the gas to escape. always break open a baked potato. never cut with a knife. medium-sized potatoes, pared, cut in half lengthwise, and baked in a hot oven to minutes, until the outside of the potato is a light brown, make a pleasant change from boiled potatoes. when baked the proper length of time and served at once, the inside of potato should be light and flaky. the housewife should occasionally serve rice or macaroni and omit potatoes from the bill of fare, especially in the spring of the year. potatoes should always be served as soon as baked, if possible. potatoes may be baked in less than a half hour in a gas oven. various ways of using small potatoes early in the season when small, early potatoes are more plentiful and cheaper than large ones, the young housewife will be able to give her family a change, while practicing economy, as there are various ways of using small potatoes to advantage. first, new potatoes, if about the size of marbles, may be scraped, boiled in salted water, and served with a thin cream dressing, sprinkled liberally with chopped parsley, or the boiled potatoes, while still hot, may be quickly browned in a pan containing a couple tablespoonfuls of hot drippings or butter. they are much better prepared in this manner if the potatoes are put in the hot fat while still warm. or the small boiled potatoes may be cut in thin slices, browned in a couple tablespoonfuls of butter or drippings and two eggs beaten together stirred over the potatoes a few minutes before they are ready to serve. the small potatoes may also be scraped and dropped in hot, deep fat and fried like fritters. when possible, the small potatoes should be well cleansed with a vegetable brush and boiled without paring. they may then be easily skinned after they are cooked. some of the more important ingredients are lost when potatoes are pared, and it is also more economical to boil them before paring. the cold boiled potatoes may be cut up and used for potato salad, or thinly sliced after being skinned and placed in a baking dish alternately with a cream sauce consisting of milk, butter and flour, and seasoned with salt and pepper, having the first and last layer cream sauce. sprinkle bread crumbs liberally over the top, dot with hits of butter and bake in a moderate oven about minutes until the top is nicely browned. serve in the dish in which they were baked. or peel one-half dozen medium-sized raw potatoes, cut into small, narrow strips about / inch wide, dry on a napkin and fry in very hot, deep fat about six minutes, then lift from fat, drain, sprinkle salt over and serve hot. these are a nice accompaniment to broiled steak. peel and slice, or cut in dice, or cold boiled potatoes, cut into in a stew-pan with tablespoonfuls of butter, salt and pepper to season, heat all together, shaking pan occasionally. add / cup of cream, sprinkle a small teaspoonful of parsley over and serve hot. instead of slicing or dicing cold boiled potatoes (in the usual manner) to be fried, if they be cut in lengthwise sections like an orange (one potato should make about pieces) and fried quickly in enough hot fat to prevent burning, they can scarcely be distinguished from raw potatoes cut in the same manner and fried in deep fat, and are much easier to prepare. they should be served at once. another manner of preparing potatoes is to slice raw potatoes as thinly as possible on a "slaw-cutter," place in a fry-pan with a couple of tablespoonfuls of a mixture of butter and sweet drippings. watch carefully, as they should be fried quickly over a hot fire, turning frequently. when brown, serve at once. raw _sweet_ potatoes cut about as thick as half a section of an orange, fried in a couple tablespoonfuls of a mixture of sweet drippings and butter, prove a change, occasionally. scalloped potatoes in a baking dish place layers of pared, thinly sliced, raw white potatoes. season with a very little salt and pepper and scatter over small bits of butter. a very little finely minced onion or parsley may be added if liked. to quart of the sliced potatoes use a scant half pint of milk, which should almost cover the potatoes. either sift over the top tablespoon of flour or tablespoons of fine, dried bread crumbs and bits of butter; place in hot oven and bake about / of an hour, until top is browned nicely and potatoes are cooked through. old potatoes are particularly good prepared in this manner. candied sweet potatoes place in an agate pudding dish pared and halved (lengthwise) raw sweet potatoes. scatter over them three tablespoons of sugar, large tablespoons of butter cut in small bits, and about / a cup (good measure) of water. stand in a hot oven and bake about / of an hour. baste frequently with the syrup formed in the bottom of the dish. the potatoes when baked should look clear and the syrup should be as thick as molasses. serve in the dish in which they were baked. should the oven of the range not be very hot, the dish containing the potatoes may be placed on top the range and cooked about minutes before placing in oven to finish baking. sweet potato croquettes to pint of hot mashed potatoes, or cold boiled ones may be used, squeezed through a fruit press; add tablespoon of butter, pinch of salt, eggs, whites beaten separately. when cool, form into small cone-shapes, dip in bread crumbs, then into egg, then into crumbs again, and fry in deep fat. drain on paper and serve on platter garnished with parsley. potato chips aunt sarah's way of making particularly fine potato chips: she pared six large white potatoes, one at a time. as she wished to slice them to fry, she rinsed the potatoes, rolled them on a clean cloth to dry them. she sliced the potatoes thinly on a "slaw" cutter. she patted the sliced potatoes between old linen napkins, until all moisture was absorbed, then dropped them into hot fat, consisting of two-thirds lard and one-third suet. place only one layer of potatoes at a time in the fat. the chips quickly turn light brown; then remove with a perforated skimmer to a colander lined with coarse brown paper, to absorb any remaining fat. should the fat be the right temperature, the chips will be entirely free from grease. dust salt over the chips while hot. she _never_ allowed chips to stand in salt water, as many cooks do. she usually made potato chips when frying doughnuts, and always fried potato chips first; after frying doughnuts in the fat fry several large slices of potato in it, as the potato clarifies it. six large, thinly sliced potatoes will make about five quarts of potato chips when fried and may be kept several weeks in a dry place. the potato chips may be re-heated by placing in a hot oven a few minutes before serving. fried eggplant pare the egg-plant, cut in slices one-half inch thick, sprinkle salt on slices; let stand under heavy weight several hours. wipe slices dry with a napkin and dip in a mixture of white of one egg, and one tablespoon of water, then dip them in fine rolled bread crumbs and fry a rich brown in deep fat. drain and serve. catsup should always be served with eggplant. baked "stuffed peppers" place a fry-pan on stove containing about two tablespoonfuls of butter, add a couple of finely chopped sweet peppers and a finely minced small onion. let all simmer on stove. measure the chopped pepper and add an equal amount of finely crumbled bread. season with salt and pepper and fill (well-washed) peppers from which the stem and seeds have been removed. stand the peppers in a bake dish containing a small amount of water. place in a hot oven about twenty-five minutes, or until peppers are tender. serve hot. chili (as prepared in new mexico) place hot peppers (well-washed) from which seeds have been removed into a bake dish containing a very little hot water. stand in a hot oven until tender and skins turn a yellow brown, turning them over occasionally. remove the outside skin, chop fine, add a small quantity of finely minced onion, pepper and salt and enough vinegar to moisten. if sweet peppers are used add a pinch of cayenne pepper. serve as a relish in place of pickles or chow-chow. this recipe was given marry by a friend who had lived in mexico. the outside skin of the peppers may be more readily removed if upon being removed from the oven the peppers are sprinkled with water, then covered with a cloth and allowed to steam a short time. baked cabbage a half head of cabbage was cut into small pieces and cooked in hot salted water until cabbage was tender. the water was drained from the boiled cabbage, which was placed in an agate pudding dish alternately with cream sauce composed of one cup of milk; one small tablespoonful of flour, tablespoonfuls of butter, seasoned with salt and pepper. sprinkle a few crumbs and place bits of the butter over top. bake in oven about minutes and serve hot. this dish is almost equal to cauliflower in flavor, especially if after the cabbage has cooked ten or fifteen minutes the water is drained from it and fresh substituted. and it is said, "cauliflower is only cabbage with a college education." crimson creamed beets cut all except two inches from the tops of beets. scrub thoroughly with a vegetable brush, then pour scalding water over beets. when perfectly cleansed, place in a cook-pot, partly cover with boiling water, stand on range and when beets have cooked tender remove outside skin. strain and stand aside one cup of water in which beets were boiled, which should be dark wine color. when beets are to be served to the one cup of strained beet juice add one tablespoonful of sugar, one-fourth cup of not _very sharp_ vinegar. add one teaspoon of butter. thicken this liquid with one and one-fourth tablespoonfuls of a mixture of corn starch and flour. when cooked to the consistency of cream add the quartered beets, season with pepper and salt, stand on back part of range a few minutes, serve hot. to three cups of the quartered beets use one and one-half cups of cream dressing. buttered beets wash young beets, cut off tops. boil one hour or until tender, one tablespoonful of sugar having been added to the water in which beets were boiled. rub off skins, cut in quarters, strew over them one tablespoon of butter cut in small pieces, stand in oven just long enough for the butter to melt. or cut the beets in slices one-fourth of an inch thick and while still warm place in a bowl and pour over them half a cup of hot vinegar and water to which had been added one tablespoonful of sugar, a pinch of salt and pepper; serve cold. pickled mangelwurzel a vegetable in taste, similar to very sweet, red beets in shape, greatly resembling carrots. wash the mangelwurzel and place in a stew-pan with boiling water and cook until tender (allow about an inch of top to remain when preparing to cook). skin the mangelsurzel, slice and pour over the following, which has been heated in a stew-pan over the fire: one cup of vinegar and water combined, one tablespoonful of sugar, one teaspoonful of salt, a dust of pepper. stand aside until cold then serve. or serve hot like buttered beets. some "bucks county" farmers raise mangelwurzel simply to feed to their cattle, but aunt sarah preferred them when young and tender to beets, and always raised them for her table. german steamed cabbage cut one-half head of cabbage fine on a slaw cutter. place in a stew-pan over fire, with about four tablespoonfuls of water, one tablespoonful of butter, a couple tablespoonfuls of flour, one teaspoonful of sugar and a pinch of salt. cover and steam twenty minutes. then add three tablespoons of vinegar. stir in one beaten egg. cover and let stand where it will keep hot until ready to serve. bean "snitzel" place in a pan on the range one tablespoon of diced, smoked bacon, fry a few minutes, watch closely it does not scorch. add one tablespoonful of sweet lard, when hot, add four thinly sliced, medium-sized onions and four chopped tomatoes and - / quarts of string beans, cut in inch lengths. season with salt and a pinch of red pepper. simmer all together three hours. after cooking one hour add about one cup of hot water, stirring occasionally to prevent scorching, add a little more water if necessary; when beans are tender and ready to serve there should be a small quantity of liquid, resembling tomato sauce, with the beans. boiled spinach wash one-half peck of spinach thoroughly through a half dozen waters, until free from sand. place in a stew-pan containing a small quantity of _boiling_ water and one teaspoon of butter. cook until tender, drain, chop fine. place a large tablespoonful of butter in stew-pan and when hot add chopped spinach, season with salt and pepper; serve in a warmed dish, garnished with either chopped or sliced hard boiled eggs. a german cook, noted for the fine flavor of her cooked spinach and green peas, said her secret consisted in adding a teaspoon of butter to the vegetables while cooking. fried onions and potatoes another way of utilizing left-over cold boiled potatoes particularly relished by "pennsylvania germans," whose liking for the humble onion is proverbial, is to fry onions with potatoes in a fry-pan containing a couple tablespoonfuls of sweet drippings and butter; when heated place a half dozen thinly sliced cold boiled potatoes, half the quantity of thinly sliced raw onions, well seasoned with pepper and salt, cover and steam for ten or fifteen minutes, when uncover and fry until light brown; serve at once. or the thinly-sliced onions, after skins have been removed, may be sliced thinly across the onion, placed in a fry-pan and partly covered with boiling water; stand on hot range and steam, closely covered, about fifteen minutes, or until onions are tender, then drain off water, should any remain, add a small tablespoonful of butter, salt and pepper to season, fry quickly a light brown; pan should be uncovered. serve at once with liver or bacon. onions are considered more wholesome prepared in this manner than if fried. steamed asparagus (fine) wash asparagus and cut off about an inch of the tough ends, scrape off thin skin. place pieces of asparagus tips (all in one direction) in the top part of perforated section of a double boiler. fill lower part of steamer with hot water and steam about three-quarters of an hour or less time, until tender. the fine flavor of the vegetable is retained when steamed. when cooked tender turn out on a hot platter and pour cream sauce over the tips, or the cream sauce may be served separately, or the asparagus may be served on freshly toasted slices of bread, over which the cream sauce should be poured. "pasture" mushrooms all the members of the landis family unanimously agreed in declaring the dish "frau schmidt" taught sarah landis to prepare from the delicious edible fungi, known as "pasture" mushrooms (gathered by professor schmidt from rich, wind-swept pastures early in the fall of the year until the coming of frost) were good enough to tickle the palate of an epicure. sarah landis was very particular to use _none_ unless pronounced _edible mushrooms_, and not poisonous toad-stools, by professor schmidt, who was a recognized authority. said the professor, "the edible variety may be easily recognized by one having a knowledge of the vegetable. the cap may be readily peeled, and the flesh of the 'pasture' mushroom, when cut or broken, changes in color to a pale rose pink, and they possess many other distinctive features, easily recognized, when one has made a study of them." the following is the manner in which the mushrooms were prepared by fran schmidt: steamed mushrooms. one-half pound or about twenty-four small mushrooms were peeled, washed carefully in cold water, placed in a small stew-pan containing two generous tablespoonfuls of butter, covered closely and allowed to simmer or steam for twenty minutes in butter and liquid, drawn from the mushrooms by steaming, then uncover and allow liquid in sauce-pan and mushrooms to cook about ten minutes longer, then sprinkle two teaspoonfuls of flour over the mushrooms, brown a minute, stir into this / cup of milk, or enough to make a sauce the consistency of cream, season well with salt and pepper to taste. have ready prepared six crisply toasted and buttered slices of stale bread. place four mushrooms and a couple of tablespoonfuls of the mushroom sauce on each slice of bread and serve hot. the combination of toast and mushrooms results in a particularly fine flavor. stewed tomatoes scald ripe tomatoes by pouring boiling water over them and allowing them to stand a few minutes. skin them and cut in small pieces. place in a stew-pan with tablespoonful of butter, season _well_ with pepper and salt, cook about minutes, add / teaspoonful of sugar and thicken with teaspoonful of flour mixed smooth with a little water. let cook a few minutes, then serve. if tomatoes are very tart a small pinch of baking soda, added when cooked, will counteract acidity. sweet corn sweet corn on the cob should be cooked as soon as possible after taking it from stalk, as after being removed it soon loses its sweetness. do not remove the husk until it is to be boiled. place corn in a kettle of rapidly boiling water, not salted; rather add a pinch of sugar if corn is not as sweet as liked. cover the kettle to prevent steam escaping. do not use a _large quantity of water_. corn is sweeter if steamed. boil from ten to fifteen minutes. if corn is not cooked in that time, it should be used uncooked for corn fritters, as corn if _not_ young and tender may be grated and from it excellent corn fritters may be made. fried tomatoes with cream sauce cut large, solid, ripe tomatoes in half-inch slices; one ordinary tomato makes slices. dredge thickly with flour. fry several slices of bacon in an iron pan, take bacon from pan when fried and put in warming oven. lay the well-floured slices of tomatoes in hot bacon fat and one tablespoon of butter and fry brown on both sides. serve on hot platter with bacon. or fry slices of well floured tomato in pan containing just enough butter and drippings to keep them from sticking to the bottom of pan, over a hot fire. fry quickly, browning on each side. season with salt and pepper. if the tomatoes are very sour, sprinkle a _very little_ sugar over them before frying. when brown, lift the tomatoes carefully from pan and place in a circle around the inside edge of a warm chop plate, add a lump of butter to the pan and a small half cup of sweet milk. let come to a boil, thicken with a little flour mixed smoothly with a little cold milk, and cook until the consistency of thick cream. season with salt and pour in centre of chop plate, surrounded with fried slices of tomatoes. dust pepper over top and serve hot. this is a delicious way of serving tomatoes. or slices of the fried tomatoes may be served on slices of crisply toasted bread over which place a couple tablespoons of the cream dressing. baked "stuffed tomatoes" wash a half dozen ripe red tomatoes. cut the top from each and remove about the half of the inside of tomato. sprinkle a very tiny pinch of sugar in each. this small quantity of sugar is not noticed, but counteracts the acidity of the tomato. to one and one-half cups of soft bread crumbs add one small finely minced onion and season highly with salt and pepper, also add one teaspoon of chopped parsley. mix all together and fill the tomatoes with the mixture. place a small bit of butter on each tomato. place in a bake dish containing a half cup of water, a piece of butter, one teaspoonful of sugar, a sprig of parsley and pepper and salt to season. stand in a hot oven and bake from to minutes. the centres which were removed from tomatoes may be utilized in various ways. canned tomatoes--fried place in a bowl a half pint of canned tomatoes, one-fourth teaspoon of sugar and season with salt and pepper. add about four tablespoonfuls of flour sifted with one-half teaspoon of baking powder and one tablespoon of butter. use only flour enough to hold the mixture together when fried. drop spoonfuls some distance apart in a fry-pan containing several tablespoons of hot lard, butter, suet or drippings. fry on both sides and serve hot. in winter, when the housewife is unable to obtain fresh tomatoes, she will find this dish a good substitute to serve occasionally. "bucks county" baked beans put one quart of small soup beans to soak over night in cold water to cover. in the morning drain the beans, cover with boiling water, add one tablespoonful of molasses and cook until tender, but not too soft. drain. do not use this water. put the beans in an earthen bake dish. in the centre of the bake dish place one pound of clean, scored smoked bacon, and pour over the beans the water in which the bacon had been simmering for an hour. add water, if not enough, to almost cover the beans, salt and pepper to taste. place in oven and bake about three hours, or until beans are tender and a rich brown on top. add more hot water if beans bake dry, until the last half hour, then allow the water to cook away. serve stewed tomatoes, baked apples or apple sauce as an accompaniment to baked beans. this is not a recipe for "boston baked beans." just a "plain country recipe," but it will be found very satisfactory. if part of a dish of beans remain after a meal, re-heat the day following in "tomato sauce." aunt sarah always baked a pan of corn bread or johnny cake, to serve hot with baked beans. when the housewife serves a dish of baked beans at a meal, serve also a quart of stewed tomatoes. the day following a "tomato sauce" may be quickly prepared by adding a well-cooked carrot and an onion to the "left-over" tomatoes. press all through a coarse sieve, adding a little water if too thick; re-heat beans in this; serve hot. a delicious "cream of tomato soup" may be prepared by substituting milk or cream to which a small pinch of baking soda has been added, omitting the beans. cooked hominy wash one cup of hominy through several waters. (the grains should resemble kernels of corn.) cover with cold water and stand in a cool place over night. in the morning, drain. place the hominy in an agate pudding dish holding quarts, cover with boiling water, add more water as the grains swell and water boils away, and teaspoonful of salt. the hominy should be placed on the range to cook early in the morning on the day it is to be served and continue cooking slowly until late afternoon, when all the water should have been absorbed and each grain should be large, white and flaky. the dish should be about three-quarters full. a half hour before serving the hominy, at a six o'clock dinner, add a generous tablespoonful of butter and about / of a cup of hot milk and stand on back of range until served. this is a remarkably cheap, wholesome and appetizing dish if served properly and is easily prepared. grated "parsnip cakes" scrape, then grate enough raw parsnips to fill two cups, put in a bowl and add the yolk of one egg, pinch of salt, tablespoonful of milk, tablespoonful of flour, lastly add the stiffly-beaten white of egg. form into small round cakes, dust with flour and fry brown on both sides in a pan containing a tablespoonful of butter and one of drippings. or these may be crumbed and fried in deep fat. these are much finer flavored than if parsnips had been cooked before being fried. to make "sauer kraut" cut heads of cabbage in half, after trimming off outside leaves. cut out centres or hearts, cut cabbage fine on a regular old-fashioned cabbage cutter, which has a square box on top of cutter to hold the pieces of cabbage when being pushed back and forth over the cutter. if not possible to procure this, use small slaw cutter for the purpose. partly fill a large pan with the cut cabbage, and mix enough salt, with the hands, through the cut cabbage to be palatable when tasted, no more. this was the rule taught aunt sarah by her grandmother, and always followed by her. then put the salted cabbage into a wooden cask or small tub to the depth of several inches. pound the cabbage down well with a long-handled, heavy, wooden mallet, something like a very large wooden potato masher. then mix another panful of finely cut cabbage, lightly salted, into the tub and pound down well, as before. continue in this manner until the tub is partly filled with cabbage, pounding down well at the last until the liquid formed by the cabbage and salt rises above the cabbage. cover the kraut with a layer of large, clean cabbage or grape leaves, then cover top with a clean piece of muslin cloth, place a round, clean board on top and put a well-scrubbed, heavy stone on the board to weight it down. stand the tub in a warm place several days, to ferment. when fermentation begins, the liquor rises over the top of the board. remove the scrum which rises to top, in about six days, and stand in a cool part of the cellar after washing stone and cloth with cold water, return to top of kraut and in two weeks the sauer kraut will be ready to use. should the sauer kraut require extra liquid at any time, add one quart of water in which has been dissolved two teaspoonfuls of salt. squeeze the sauer kraut quite dry when taking it from the brine to cook. boil about two quarts of the sauer kraut several hours with a piece of fresh pork and a little water until the pork is thoroughly cooked through, when the sauer kraut should be cooked tender. some prefer "frankfurters" cooked with the kraut instead of pork, and others do not care for the german dish without the accompaniment of drop dumplings. serve mashed potatoes and simple dessert with sauer kraut. aunt sarah taught mary to save the hearts of the cabbage usually thrown aside when making sauer kraut. the hearts were trimmed all one size, like small triangles. she cooked them in salted water until tender, drained them and served with a cream dressing, and they had much the flavor of a dish of cauliflower. frau schmidt always placed several tart apples among her sauer kraut when making it, and thought it improved the flavor of the kraut; gave it a "winey" flavor, obtained in no other manner. a sour apple, cored and cooked with sauer kraut is considered by some cooks an improvement. the apple, of course, is not eatable. aunt sarah _never_ placed apples with her sauer kraut. dumplings to serve with sauer kraut for these dumplings, egg was broken into a bowl and well beaten. then a pinch of salt was added and / cup of sweet milk. enough flour was added to make a soft dough, and one tablespoonful of baking powder was sifted with a very little flour into the batter, then a little more flour was added to make the dough the right consistency. form the dough into small balls, handling as little as possible. drop on top of the hot cooked "sauer kraut" in cook-pot on range and boil, closely covered, about minutes. aunt sarah taught mary to cook green vegetables, peas, spinach, etc., in a stew-pan _uncovered_, if she wished them to retain their natural color. also, that old potatoes may be freshened by being allowed to stand a short time in cold water before being cooked, but they should not stand too long a time in cold water, as it draws the starch from them and causes them to be tasteless, and to lose part of their nourishing qualities. also that one teaspoonful of salt will usually season one quart of vegetables, to be put in when the vegetables begin to cook. cauliflower, cabbage, lettuce and watercress should stand in a pan containing water and a little vinegar for a half hour. this will cause insects to drop to the bottom of the pan. changing the water on cabbage and onions when partly cooked will improve their flavor. parsley dried to preserve its green color young housewives possessing a bed of parsley in their kitchen gardens, wishing to preserve it for use during the winter, may like to know how aunt sarah taught mary to dry it in a manner to preserve its bright green color. she washed the parsley in cold water and while still moist placed it on agate pans and dried it _quickly_ in a _very hot_ oven. watch carefully as it scorches easily. place the parsley when dried, in tin cans covered to exclude the dust. time required to cook vegetables bake good-sized potatoes in oven about minutes. smaller potatoes require less time to bake. boil ordinary sized potatoes to minutes. _steam_ asparagus from to minutes. boil young beets about minutes or longer. old beets, two hours, or until tender. green corn on cob about or minutes. cauliflower, minutes. cabbage, to minutes. turnips and carrots, minutes. string beans, minutes to hours. lima beans, minutes to hour. onions about hour. squash about minutes. parsnips, to minutes. sweet potatoes, good size, minutes. spinach, minutes. tomatoes, minutes. salt should be added to the water when boiling potatoes, carrots, cabbage, parsnips, turnips and onions, even if liquid in which they were boiled is drained from them after being cooked, before being seasoned. add a small pinch of baking soda to the water in which string beans are boiled, and they will cook tender in less time. especially should this be done if the beans are not young and tender. common "cream sauce" young housekeepers will be surprised to learn of the various attractive, appetizing dishes which may be prepared by combining them with a "cream sauce." after cooking vegetables until tender in salted water, they should be drained and served with a cream sauce poured over. the art of making a smooth, creamy sauce of the proper consistency is easily acquired. a good rule for "common cream sauce" is cup of milk, water, or meat broth, thickened with tablespoonful to - / tablespoonfuls of flour, or a combination of flour and cornstarch. mix flour, or cornstarch, with a small quantity of cold milk or water, to a smooth paste, before adding it to liquid; add, usually, one tablespoonful of butter. place the mixture in a saucepan and cook until the consistency of cream, add / teaspoonful of salt just before removing from the fire, and dust pepper over when serving. when mixing gravy to serve with roast beef or veal, omit butter. for a thick sauce use either or tablespoonfuls of flour and the same amount of butter. this thick sauce may be used to mix with meat for croquettes in the proportion of cup of sauce to cups of chopped cold roast lamb, beef, veal or chicken. should a richer sauce be desired, add or more yolks of eggs to the cream sauce. some of the numerous dishes which might be served by the young housewife to vary the daily bill of fare by the addition of "cream sauce," are: small, new potatoes, cauliflower, onions, cabbage asparagus tips, thinly sliced carrots, celery, mushrooms, fish, oysters, chicken, veal and sweetbreads. all of these, when coked, may be served on slices of toasted bread, or served in pattie-cases, with cream sauce, or served simply with cream sauce. preparation of savory gravies the art of preparing savory gravies and sauces is more important in connection with the serving of the cheaper meats than in connection with the cooking of the more expensive cuts. there are a few general principles underlying the making of all sauces or gravies, whether the liquid used is water, milk, stock, tomato juice or some combination of these. for ordinary gravy, level tablespoonfuls of flour or - / tablespoonfuls of cornstarch, or arrow root, is sufficient to thicken a cup of liquid. this is true excepting in recipes where the flour is browned. in this case, about / tablespoonful more should be allowed, for browned flour does not thicken so well as unbrowned. the fat used may be butter or the drippings from the meat, the allowance being tablespoonfuls to a cup of liquid. the easiest way to mix the ingredients is to heat the fat, add the flour and cook until the mixture ceases to bubble, and then to add the liquid. this is a quick method and by using it there is little danger of getting a lumpy gravy. many persons, however, think it is not a wholesome method, and prefer the old-fashioned one of thickening the gravy by means of flour mixed with a little cold water. (aunt sarah was one who thought thus.) the latter method is not "practicable for brown gravies," to quote the _farmers' bulletin_. the _farmers' bulletin_ further adds: "considering the large amount of discussion about the digestibility of fried food and of gravies made by heating flour in fat, a few words on the subject at this point may not be out of order. it is difficult to see how heating the fat before adding the flour can be unwholesome, unless the cook is unskillful enough to heat the fat so high that it begins to scorch. overheated fat, as has already been pointed out, contains an acrid, irritating substance called 'acrolein,' which may readily be considered to be unwholesome. it is without doubt the production of this body by overheating which has given fried food its bad name. there are several ways of varying the flavor of gravies and sauces. one should be especially mentioned here. the _flavor of browned flour_--the good flavor of browned flour is often overlooked. if flour is cooked in fat, until it is a dark brown color, a distinctive and very agreeable flavor is obtained. "this flavor combines very well with that of currant jelly, and a little jelly added to a brown gravy is a great improvement. the flavor of this should not be combined with that of onions or other highly-flavored vegetables." butter, cheese and suet--a substitute for butter this formula for preparing a good, sweet, wholesome substitute for butter to be used for baking and frying was given aunt sarah by a thrifty german hausfrau, who prepared and used it in her large family many years. aunt sarah always kept a supply on hand. it was made as follows: pounds of fine solid kidney suet. pounds of clean pork fat. pounds of butter. the suet cut in small pieces was put in a large boiler of water, boiled until all was melted, and the fat extracted from the suet. it was then all poured through a fine sieve into a vessel containing hot water (the larger the quantity of hot water the finer the fat will be). stand aside to become cold and solid. the boiling process prevents the peculiar taste which _fried_ lard and suet usually possess. treat the pork fat in a similar manner. allow the suet and pork fat to stand until the following morning, when remove the solid fat from the boiler of water, wipe off all moisture and add both pork fat and suet fat to the melted butter, which had been prepared in the following manner: the butter was melted in a porcelain lined boiler and allowed to cook until all salt and other foreign substance had settled and the butter had the appearance of clear oil. at this point the butter should be watched carefully, as when settled it might quickly boil over, when you would be liable to lose your butter, besides suffering serious consequences. now the liquid butter, suet and pork fat are all put together into a large boiler and allowed to melt together on the back part of the range. this will probably be done in the morning. after the noon meal is finished move the boiler containing fat to front part of range; let come to a boil, skimming it occasionally as it boils up. it needs close watching now, the fat being liable to cook over the top of boiler, when the "fat" will surely be "in the fire." carefully pour into stone crock, and it may be kept for months in a cool place. the fat which has been first poured off the top, if it has been carefully skimmed, will keep longest. the last taken from the boiler should be put in a stone crock to use first. this may be prepared in lesser quantities, or a smaller quantity of butter might be used to mix with the lard and suet. although the preparation is to be preferred composed of equal quantities of butter, lard and suet, adding milk to the first water in which the suet is boiled is quite an improvement. after filling the crocks with the fat, take the boiled-out suet and hard scraps and settlings of butter remaining and go through the same process and you will have a small jar of cooking fat for immediate use. a little trouble to do this, i admit, but one is well paid by having good, sweet, inexpensive cooking fat. i should advise a young housekeeper to experiment with one pound each of clarified suet and pork fat after it is rendered, and one pound of butter before attempting the preparation of a larger quantity. butter--as it was made at the farm, by "aunt sarah" aunt sarah strained fresh, sweet milk into small, brown earthenware crocks kept for this purpose, scrupulously clean. the crocks were kept in the spring-house or cellar in summer (in cold weather the milk should be kept in a warmer place to allow cream to form on the top of the milk). when the cream was thick and sour she skimmed the cream from off the top of milk every day, stirring the cream well together every time she added fresh cream to that on hand. aunt sarah churned twice a week; sour cream should not be kept a longer time than one week. the churn was scalded with boiling water, then rinsed with cold water; this prevented the butter adhering to the churn. the cream should be at a temperature of degrees when put in the churn, but this would be almost too cold in winter. in very hot weather the temperature of the cream should be degrees. aunt sarah tested the cream with a small dairy tube thermometer. she churned steadily and usually had butter "come" in about minutes, but should the cream he too cold or too warm it would be necessary to churn a longer time. if the cream is too warm, stand vessel containing cream on ice; if too cold, stand in a warm place near the range. when the sour cream had been churned a certain length of time and granules of butter had formed, she drained off the buttermilk and poured water over the granules of butter. water should be two degrees colder than the buttermilk. after churning a few minutes the lump of butter was removed from the churn, placed in a bowl, washed thoroughly several times in very cold water, until no buttermilk remained. the butter was worked thoroughly, with a wooden paddle, until all buttermilk had been extracted. one small tablespoonful of salt was added to each pound of butter. she worked the butter well, to incorporate the salt, and molded it into shape. aunt sarah did not knead the butter, but smoothed it down, then lifted it up from the large, flat, wooden bowl in which it was molded. when the butter was to be molded into _small shapes_, she scalded the small wooden molds, then dipped them into cold water before using; this prevented the butter adhering to the molds. before commencing to churn butter, aunt sarah was particular to have her hands scrupulously clean. all the utensils used were washed in hot water, then rinsed in cold water, both hands and utensils. she frequently wrapped small pats of freshly-churned butter in small squares of clean cheese-cloth and placed in a stone crock with a cover. placed in the crock was usually, with the butter, a bunch of sweet clover blossoms, which imparted to the butter a delicious flavor. "smier-kase" or cottage cheese stand a pan containing three quarts of milk in a warm place until it becomes sour and quite thick. stand the pan containing the thick milk on the back part of the range, where it will heat gradually but not cook. when the "whey" separates from the curd in the centre and forms around the edges it is ready to use. should the sour milk become _too hot_ on the range, or _scald_, the curds, or smier-kase, will not become soft and creamy. when the curd has separated from the "whey," pour the contents of the pan into a cheese-cloth bag and hang in the open air to drip for several hours, when it should be ready to use. from three quarts of sour milk you should obtain one good pound of smier-kase. to prepare it for the table place one-half the quantity in a bowl and add one teaspoonful of softened butter, a pinch of salt and mix as smoothly as possible. or the smier-kase may be molded into small rolls, and a small quantity of finely-chopped pimento added. this will keep fresh several days if kept in a cool cellar or refrigerator. uses of "sweet drippings" and suet for deep frying mary was taught to use lard and kidney suet combined. the latter had been tried out by cutting suet in small pieces. the suet, in an iron pan, was placed in a moderately hot oven until fat was tried out. to prevent suet when rendered having a taste of tallow, place in the upper part of boiler, over one containing hot water, and stand on a hot range until all is tried out, or melted, instead of putting it in oven. strain into a jar and stand aside in a cool place until wanted. take one-third of this tried-out suet to two-thirds lard when frying croquettes, oysters, cruellers or fritters. suet contains food value equal to that of lard and food fried in this fat, combined with lard, is more wholesome than if fried in lard alone--if any food fried in fat _ever is_ wholesome. and suet is more economical than lard if rendered at home. mary was taught by her aunt to save all the trimmings from steaks, fat left over from roasts, boiled ham, sausage, bacon fat, etc. when different fats have been tried out, to clarify them, add to every pound and a half of combined fat or drippings a half cup of boiling water and a pinch of baking soda. boil until water evaporates and fat is clear. strain into a bowl and keep in a cool place. clean, sweet drippings are preferred by most cooks to lard for many purposes. all young housewives do not know that ham or bacon fat may be substituted for half the shortening called for in many recipes for molasses cakes (where spices are used) with good results. also that the grease rendered from clean fat of chickens, which greatly resembles butter when tried out and cold, may be combined with an equal quantity of other shortening in making cakes in which spices are used. the difference in the taste of cake made from this fat, if rendered sweet and clean, will not be noticed. equal parts of ham or bacon fat, pork chops or sausage fat, combined with butter, are excellent for frying cornmeal mush, eggs, sweet potatoes, egg bread and calves' liver. also sliced tomatoes have a particularly fine flavor if fried in bacon fat. should fat removed from top of stock pot have a flavor of vegetables, pour boiling water over, strain and stand aside to cool; then remove the clean cake of fat on top of the water and add to bowl of drippings. this is one of the small economies which will, i think, appeal to the frugal young housewife. if possible, procure an iron pot for deep frying. after using, strain the fat remaining, adding sediment in the bottom of cook-pot to the can of soap fat; then return the clean, strained fat to the cook pot. keep in a cool place, closely covered, and if careful not to scorch the fat. it may be used over and over again, and croquettes, etc., may be prepared in a few moments by simply heating the kettle of fat in which to fry them. aunt sarah frequently filled small glass jars with rendered mutton suet, scented with violet essence, to be used for chapped lips and hands. eggs--"eierkuchen" or omelette for this excellent omelette or "eierkuchen," as aunt sarah called it, she used the following: fresh eggs. cup sweet milk. level tablespoonfuls of flour. she placed on the range a small fry pan (size of a tea plate), containing one tablespoonful of butter. she then placed tablespoonfuls of flour in a bowl, mixed smoothly with a portion of the cup of milk, then added the three yolks of eggs which had been lightly beaten and the balance of the milk and a pinch of salt. lastly, she stirred in lightly the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. poured all into the warmed fry-pan and placed it in a moderately hot oven until lightly browned on top. the omelette when cooked should be light and puffy, and remain so while being served. double the omelette together on a hot platter and sprinkle finely chopped parsley over the top. serve immediately. hard boiled eggs eggs to be hard boiled should be carefully placed in boiling water and cooked minutes from the time the water commences to boil again. if cooked a longer time, the white of egg will look dark and the outer part of yolk will not be a clear yellow, as it should, to look appetizing when served. soft boiled eggs the quicker way to prepare eggs is to drop them in a stew-pan containing boiling water, and let boil - / to minutes, when the white part of the egg should be "set" and the yolk soft, but a soft boiled egg is said to be more easily digested if dropped into a stew-pan of rapidly boiling water; remove the stew-pan of boiling water the minute the eggs have been put in from the front part of the range to a place where the water will keep hot, but not allow the eggs to boil. let the eggs remain in the hot water from to minutes. on breaking the egg open, the yolk will be found soft, and the white of the egg a soft, jelly-like consistency. this latter is the way aunt sarah taught mary. an egg and tomato omelette beat the yolks of three eggs until light, then add three tablespoonfuls of water. beat the whites of the eggs separately. turn the stiffly-beaten whites of the eggs into the bowl containing the yolks of eggs and water. stir lightly together and add a pinch of salt. turn all into a small fry-pan containing a generous tablespoonful of butter and cook on top of stove until the eggs are set, then place the pan containing omelette in a hot oven and finish cooking. when cooked, turn out on a hot platter and spread over the top the following, which was prepared while the omelette was cooking. in a small fry-pan place a tablespoonful of finely-chopped bacon. when fried brown add half a small tomato, finely chopped, / of an onion, chopped fine, and a little chopped green pepper. cook all together for a short time and season with salt and pepper. after spreading the mixture on the omelette, fold over and serve on a hot platter. this recipe had been given frau schmidt years before by a friend and she used no other for making omelette. always make small omelettes. they are more satisfactory. use a small pan no larger than a small tea plate, and, if wished, make two small, rather than one large one. always serve immediately. mushroom omelette place the yolks of three eggs in a bowl and beat until light. add a teaspoonful of cream and / teaspoonful of flour mixed together; / cup of chopped mushrooms, salt and pepper and a dust of baking powder. lastly, the stiffly-beaten whites of the eggs. turn into a pan containing two tablespoonfuls of melted butter, stand on range a few minutes until eggs are set, then finish cooking in a hot oven. serve at once. a few cold, steamed mushrooms (left-overs), if finely chopped, and added to a plain omelette or roast, will improve the flavor. a clam omelette two eggs beaten separately, scant cup of milk, tablespoonful of flour, clams run through a food-chopper. place in a bowl the tablespoon of flour and mix smooth with a little of the milk. then add the two yolks of eggs and beat well together. add the milk, salt and pepper, the chopped clams, and lastly the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs, and add a trifle more flour, if necessary. drop a couple of tablespoons at a time in a large fry-pan containing a couple of tablespoons of butter or drippings. they spread out about the size of a small saucer. fry as many at a time as the pan will conveniently hold without running together. turn when browned lightly on one side, and when the other side has cooked fold together and serve at once. garnish with parsley. these are very easily made for luncheon, and are very nice served with fried chicken. deviled eggs boil half a dozen eggs until hard. remove shells, cut in halves, mash the yolks to a smooth paste with about / teaspoon mixed mustard, teaspoon softened butter, pepper and salt to taste. some like a small quantity of cold boiled minced ham added. when ingredients are well mixed, press enough of this mixture into the cup-shaped whites of eggs to form a rounding top. serve on a platter of parsley. to boil eggs uniformly, they should be placed in a wire basket and plunged into boiling water and boiled not longer than to minutes from time water commences to boil, then pour cold water over and shell them. eggs in cream sauce four eggs, boiled hard, cut in halves lengthwise, then across, each egg cut in four pieces. a cream sauce was made using / cups sweet milk, - / tablespoons flour, generous tablespoon of butter, seasoned with salt. after letting milk come to a boil and adding flour mixed smoothly with a little cold milk or water, add butter and cook until a thick creamy consistency, then add the quartered eggs to sauce. stand a few minutes until heated through. pour the creamed eggs over four or five slices of nicely-toasted bread. sprinkle a little finely-chopped parsley and a pinch of pepper over top and serve at once. this is a delicious and quickly prepared luncheon dish. a very wholesome and digestible way to prepare an egg is to put yolk and white of a fresh egg together in a bowl, beat lightly, pour over the egg a pint of rich milk, which has been heated to the boiling point. add a pinch of salt. stir constantly while slowly adding the milk. the hot milk should slightly cook the egg. eat slowly with crackers or toasted bread. aunt sarah's method of preserving eggs with liquid water glass aunt sarah for many years preserved eggs in water glass, or soluble glass, also known as "sodium silicate," a thick liquid about the consistency of molasses. it is not expensive and may easily be procured at any drug store. she used the water glass in the proportion of quarts of water to one pint of the water glass. the water glass, although in liquid form, is usually sold by the pound, and - / pounds equals one pint. the water should always he boiled and allowed to cool before combining with the water glass. she was particular to use none but perfectly clean, fresh eggs. she placed the eggs, narrow end down, in an earthenware crock which had been well scalded and cooled. when the water glass had been thoroughly mixed through the water she poured the mixture over the eggs in the crock. a stronger solution might be used to preserve the eggs, but aunt sarah declared she used eggs for baking cake which were good at the expiration of a year, which had been preserved in a mixture of quarts of water to a pint of water glass, and she considered this proportion perfectly reliable. so i do not see the need of using a large quantity of the water glass, although many recipes call for a mixture of one pint of water glass to only quarts of water. fresh eggs may be added daily until the crock is filled, having the mixture at least one inch above the last layer of eggs. it is best not to wash the eggs before packing, as this removes the natural mucilaginous coating on the outside of the shell. place clean, fresh eggs carefully into the crock containing the water glass and water, with a long-handled spoon to avoid cracking the shell. stand the crock containing eggs in a cool place, cover with a cloth tied over top of crock, avoiding frequent change of temperature; they should keep one year. the water glass solution may become cloudy, and resemble a soft-soap mixture, but this is a natural condition and does not affect the eggs. april is considered the best month for packing eggs. infertile eggs are to be preferred to others. carefully remove the eggs from the water glass mixture with a long-handled spoon when wanted to use, as the shells are sometimes not quite as hard as when placed in the crock. the eggs may be used for cooking, baking, in fact, for any purpose except soft-boiled but should you wish to boil them, a tiny puncture should be made in the shell of these eggs before boiling. ten quarts of water to one pint of water glass will cover about or dozen eggs. to test fresh eggs. place an egg in a tumbler, fill tumbler with cold water. if eggs are fresh they will remain in the bottom of tumbler. if not strictly fresh the egg will float on the top, or near the top of tumbler of water. salads--aunt sarah's salad dressing for this she used pint of sour cream, - / tablespoonfuls of flour, - / tablespoonfuls of mustard (pulverized dry mustard), eggs, / cup butter (or / cup of olive oil may be used instead, if liked), / cup good sour vinegar, / teaspoonful of black pepper and a pinch of red pepper (cayenne), salt to taste, / teaspoonful of sugar. place in a bowl the - / tablespoonfuls of flour with the same quantity of mustard; mix smoothly with a little of the sour cream. then add the eggs, beaten in one at a time, or use, instead, the yolks of five eggs. when using the whites for angel cake or any white cake aunt sarah usually made salad dressing from the remaining yolks of eggs. add the sour cream and vinegar, salt and pepper. mix all well together and strain through a fine sieve and cook in a double boiler over hot water until a creamy consistency. pour in glass jars. this dressing will keep well on ice or in a cool place for two weeks. if too thick, thin with a little vinegar, water or milk when using it. about / of a cup of this dressing was used for mixing with cup of the meat of cold, cooked chicken in making chicken salad. the white meat of chicken was cut in dice and / cup of celery was also cut in small pieces, a couple of hard boiled eggs, cut in dice, were added and the whole was carefully mixed with the salad dressing. cold boiled veal or pork may be used instead of chicken for salad. potato salad was sometimes prepared by using a small quantity of this dressing, adding, also, minced onion, parsley and celery. hot slaw was prepared by heating a couple of tablespoonfuls of the salad dressing and mixing with shredded cabbage. or use as a dressing for lettuce when not served "au natural" with olive oil and vinegar at the table. should very _thick_, sour cream be used in making "aunt sarah's salad dressing," use a mixture of sour cream and sweet milk, instead of all sour cream. "dutch" cucumber salad thinly slice one large green cucumber and one medium-sized onion (if liked). sprinkle over about one teaspoonful of salt. allow to stand a short time, then place in a piece of cheese-cloth and squeeze out all the moisture possible. place cucumbers, when drained, in the dish in which they are to be served, add a couple tablespoonfuls of sour vinegar, mix well. then pour over enough thick sour cream to half cover and a dust of pepper. cucumbers are considered less unwholesome, prepared in this manner. carrot salad aunt sarah pared and cut - / cups of uncooked carrots in thin strips, not much larger than common match sticks, and cooked in salted water until tender. when drained, pour over them a couple of tablespoonfuls of vinegar. allowed to stand until cold. when ready to prepare the salad she drained off vinegar remaining. lined a salad bowl with lettuce leaves or parsley, placed inside this a border of halved or sliced cold hard-boiled eggs; mixed the carrots lightly with salad dressing, placed them in the centre of the bowl and served ice cold. this is a particularly delicious, as well as an appetizing looking, salad. i have never eaten this elsewhere than at aunt sarah's home. "an old recipe" for chicken salad two dressed chickens were cooked tender. when cold, meat was removed from bones and cut in dice (not too fine). cut half the amount of celery you have of meat into small pieces. dressing for salad was composed of the following: three well-beaten yolks of eggs. pour over these pint of boiling hot cider vinegar, stand on back of range to thicken. place in a bowl freshly boiled and finely mashed white potatoes, add tablespoonful of dry mustard, teaspoonfuls of olive oil, tablespoonful of salt, tablespoonful of pepper. mix all well together, then add the thickened vinegar. beat together until creamy and stand aside until chilled. drop the three whites of eggs in hot water, remove when cooked, chop fine and when cold add to the chicken meat and celery. pour the dressing over all the ingredients, stir lightly with a fork and stand in a cold place until chilled before serving. german potato salad boil one dozen small potatoes without paring. remove the skin and cut potatoes size of dice, also a small onion, finely minced. put small pieces of bacon in a pan and fry brown and crisp. add a large tablespoonful of vinegar and a pinch of salt. pour the hot bacon fat and vinegar over the diced potatoes, toss them up lightly with a fork and serve hot. german turnip salad this is the manner in which aunt sarah made turnip salad: she pared and sliced thin on a slaw cutter large, solid turnips, put them in a stew-pan which she placed on the range, adding about / cup hot water, teaspoonful of butter and / teaspoonful of sugar (no more). she covered the stew-pan closely and steamed about half an hour until the turnips were tender. then mixed together teaspoonful of flour with tablespoonful of vinegar and yolk of one egg. this was poured over the stewed turnips, just allowed to come to a boil, then removed from the fire. add a little salt and serve hot. german salad dressing for dandelion, watercress, endive or lettuce, a dressing was made thus: the leaves of vegetables used for salad, after being carefully rinsed and looked over, were cut fine, and the following dressing poured over hot and served at once. a small quantity of bacon was finely minced and fried crisp. to about tablespoonfuls of bacon and fat after being fried, tablespoonfuls of vinegar and of sour cream, were added pepper and salt and a very little flour mixed with cold water, to make it the consistency of cream. the yolk of one raw egg may be added to the dressing if liked. an easier way for the busy housewife to do is to simply add a couple of tablespoonfuls of aunt sarah's salad dressing, add also a small quantity of water, flour and fried, diced bacon; serve hot at once. mary's potato salad a bowl of cold, boiled, diced or thinly-sliced potatoes, three hard boiled eggs, also diced, and about half the quantity of celery chopped in half-inch pieces, and a little minced onion, just enough to give a suspicion of its presence. she mixed all together lightly with a silver fork and mixed through some of the following salad dressing, which is fine for anything requiring a cold salad dressing. mary's salad dressing one tablespoonful of flour, tablespoonful of mustard, cups of sweet or sour cream, tablespoonful of sugar, / cup of good sharp vinegar, yolks of four eggs, small teaspoonful of salt. omit sugar when using the dressing for potato or chicken salad. this salad dressing may also be used for lettuce. "fruit" salad dressing three tablespoonfuls of olive oil to - / tablespoonfuls of vinegar. season with salt and pepper. use this quantity for pint of salad. grape fruit salad cut the pulp from one grape fruit into small pieces, add an equal amount of chopped apples, a few english walnuts chopped coarsely. serve on lettuce leaves with fruit salad dressing. this recipe was given mary by a friend who knew her liking for olive oil. grape fruit is delicious, served cut in halves with the addition to each half; of a couple tablespoonfuls of pineapple juice, a tablespoonful of orange juice or tiny pieces of orange pulp, topped with a marachino cherry. a small quantity of sugar should have been added. the sections of grape fruit should each have been cut loose from the white skin inclosing pulp with a small knife or scissors. a good, inexpensive salad dressing tablespoonful flour. tablespoonful butter. tablespoonful mustard. / tablespoonful sugar. teaspoonful salt. egg. / cup milk. / cup vinegar. use a double boiler, put in it the first five articles, stir together until smooth; add the well-beaten egg and the milk. let cook, stirring hard. then add vinegar, and beat all with an egg-beater until the mixture is smooth and creamy. let cool before using. aunt sarah frequently used this salad dressing over sliced, cold, hard boiled eggs when other salad materials were not plentiful. serve on lettuce leaves. imitation lobster salad a bowl was lined with crisp lettuce leaves, over this was spread a layer of cold boiled potatoes, cut in dice, a little finely minced onion, a layer of chopped celery, another layer of diced potatoes, then a layer of sliced tomatoes and one hard boiled egg, thinly sliced. pour a good salad dressing over and serve ice cold. "german" horseradish sauce a sauce to serve with boiled meat was prepared by aunt sarah in the following manner: she put half a cup of milk in a stew-pan, let come to a boil, added one large tablespoonful of cracker crumbs, large teaspoonful of butter, large tablespoonfuls of freshly grated horseradish, seasoned with pepper and salt. also a pinch of salt, sugar and pepper added to grated horseradish, then thinned with vinegar, is an excellent accompaniment to cold meat. mayonnaise dressing in which olive oil is used before making this dressing for salads, mary placed a large soup plate or a shallow bowl in the refrigerator, also a bottle of olive oil and two egg yolks. all should be quite cold. put the yolks on the cold plate, add / teaspoonful of salt, the same of mustard. mix well and then, with a fork, stir or blend the olive oil into it drop by drop. after about / cup of oil has been blended in, add lemon juice, a drop or two at a time. then more oil, and when it becomes very thick add more lemon juice. a pint or even more oil may, with care, be blended into two yolks. care must be taken not to mix oil in too fast, or the egg and oil will separate, making a mixture resembling curdled custard. if this should happen, take another plate, another egg yolk, and begin over again, blending a drop or two at a time in the curdled mixture. then add more oil and lemon juice as before. mustard dressing to serve with sliced tomatoes two tablespoonfuls mustard, tablespoonful of sugar, / cup cream, tablespoon salt, yolks of two eggs and / cup of vinegar. beat all well together, first mixing the mustard until smooth with a small quantity of cream, then add the other ingredients. (mary used only tablespoonful of mustard, and substituted tablespoonful of flour instead of the second tablespoonful of mustard and thought it improved the dressing.) this mustard dressing may also be served at table, to be eaten with lettuce. chicken salad the meat of one boiled chicken cut in small pieces, three-fourths as much celery, also cut in small pieces. three hard boiled eggs cut in dice. take teaspoonfuls salt, teaspoonfuls pepper, teaspoonfuls mustard, cup of sweet cream and raw egg. use vinegar to thin the mustard. beat the raw egg, add to cream, egg and butter (mash yolks of hard boiled eggs and butter together). mix all the ingredients together and cook until it thickens (all except chicken meat, celery and hard boiled whites of eggs, which should be placed in a large bowl after cutting in small pieces). the salad dressing should he put in another bowl and stood on ice until cold, then mix the salad dressing carefully through the chicken meat, celery, etc., one hour before using. cover with a plate until ready to serve. or "aunt sarah's salad dressing" could be used over the chicken, celery, etc. this is a very old but an excellent recipe used by aunt sarah's mother for many years. pepper hash chop fine with a knife, but do not shred with a slaw cutter, pint of finely chopped cabbage, adding teaspoonful of salt, teaspoonfuls of sugar, teaspoonful of whole mustard seed, / a chopped red, sweet pepper, a pinch of red cayenne pepper and / pint of vinegar. mix all well together and serve with fried oysters, oyster stew and deviled oysters. this "pepper hash" is delicious if a couple tablespoonfuls of thick cream be added just before serving. should very sour cider vinegar be used in this recipe, the housewife will, of course, dilute it with water. german bean salad use small green or yellow string-beans, which snap when broken, called by some "snap beans." string them carefully. (if quite small and tender this should not be necessary.) rub well with the hands through several waters. this removes the strong bean taste. have your kettle half filled with boiling water on the range over a brisk fire. put a tablespoon of butter in the water, add beans by handfuls until all are in and cook until tender. turn the beans in a colander to drain. when cool add a chopped onion, salt and pour enough good vinegar over to cover, and allow to stand two days, when strain vinegar from beans. boil vinegar, add water if vinegar is quite sour and pour hot over the beans. fill quart glass jars with the beans and pour vinegar over, within an inch of top of jar; pour pure olive oil over top of beans, screw on jar covers tightly and stand in a cool place until wanted to use. in the winter, when fresh salads were scarce, aunt sarah opened a can of these beans. if they were very sour she poured cold water over, allowed to stand an hour, drained and added a little fresh olive oil. every one called her "bean salat," as the pennsylvania germans call it, delicious. the instructions regarding the preparing and cooking of string beans for salad will answer for beans used as a vegetable, omitting vinegar, of course. there is a great difference in the manner of cooking vegetables. aunt sarah always added an onion and a sprig of parsley when cooking beans to serve as a vegetable. meat salads to quote from the _farmers' bulletin_: "whether meat salads are economical or not depends upon the way in which the materials are utilized. if in chicken salad, for example, only the white meat of chicken, especially bought for the purpose, and only the expensive inside stems of expensive celery are used, it can hardly be cheaper than plain chicken. but, if portions of meat left over from a previous serving are mixed with celery grown at home, they certainly make an economical dish, and one very acceptable to most persons. cold roast pork or tender veal, in fact, any white meat, can be utilized in the same way. apples cut into cubes may be substituted for part of the celery. many cooks consider that with the apple the salad takes the dressing better than with the celery alone. many also prefer to marinate (_i.e._, mix with a little oil and vinegar) the meat and celery or celery and apples before putting on the final dressing, which may be either mayonnaise or a good boiled dressing." celery should not be allowed to stand in water. to keep fresh until used it should be wrapped in a piece of damp cheese-cloth and placed in an ice box or cool cellar. lettuce should be broken apart, carefully rinsed, and put loosely in a piece of damp cheese-cloth and placed on ice to crisp before using. beverages--coffee scald coffee pot well before using (never use metal). place in it five tablespoons ground coffee. (a good coffee is made from a mixture of two-thirds java to one-third mocha.) beat up with the ground coffee one whole egg. should the housewife deem this extravagant, use only the white of one egg, or peel off the white skin lining inside of egg shells and use. add three tablespoons cold water and mix well together. stand on range to heat; when hot add one quart of _freshly-boiled_ hot water. allow coffee to boil to top of coffee pot three times (about eight minutes), pour over one tablespoon cold water to settle. stand a few minutes where it will keep hot, not boil. place a generous tablespoon of sweet thick cream in each cup and pour coffee through a strainer over it. always serve hot. a larger or smaller amount of coffee may be used, as different brands of coffee vary in strength and individual tastes differ, but five tablespoons of coffee, not too coarsely ground and not pulverized, to one quart of water, will be the correct proportions for good coffee. use cream and you will have a delicious, rich, brown beverage not possible when milk is used. better coffee may be made if whole grains of roasted coffee be bought, reheated in oven and freshly ground whenever used, rather finely ground but not pulverized. coffee, when ground for any length of time, loses strength. if coffee is ground when purchased, always keep it in closely covered cans until used. or buy green coffee berries and roast them in oven; when coffee has been roasted, stir one whole raw egg through the coffee berries; when dry, place in covered cans, then no egg will be needed when preparing coffee. as a substitute for cream, use yolk of fresh egg mixed with a couple tablespoonfuls of milk. cocoa mix four tablespoonfuls of cocoa to a smooth paste with one cup of boiling water. add one more cup boiling water and boil fifteen or twenty minutes. add four tablespoonfuls of sugar, then add cups of hot boiled milk. a few drops of essence of vanilla improves the flavor. add a couple tablespoonfuls whipped cream on top of each cup when serving, or, instead of cream, place a marshmallow in each cup before pouring in cocoa. this quantity is for six cups of cocoa. chocolate one square of baker's unsweetened chocolate shaved thinly or grated, mixed to a smooth paste with cup of boiling water. boil from fifteen to twenty minutes. add cup of boiling milk and even tablespoonfuls of sugar. flavor with a few drops of vanilla, if liked, and add whipped cream to each cup when serving. this is for cups of chocolate. boiled water it sometimes becomes necessary to boil drinking water, which usually has a flat, insipid taste. do young housewives know it is said that after water has been boiled and when quite cool if a bottle be half filled and shaken well the water will become aerated, and have the taste of fresh spring water? tea to make tea always scald the teapot, which should be agate, earthenware or china, never metal. always use water that has been _freshly_ boiled, and use it boiling hot. never, under any circumstances, boil tea, as tannin is then extracted from the leaves, and the tea will have a bitter taste. do not allow tea to stand any length of time unless strained from tea leaves. use one teaspoon of tea for each cup, unless liked stronger, when add one extra teaspoon to each three cups of tea. some contend that tea is better, if at first a small quantity of boiling water is poured over the leaves, allowing it to steep three minutes--then pour over the remaining quantity of boiling water and let stand about four minutes, when it is ready to serve with cream and sugar, if liked. should any tea remain after serving do not throw away, but strain at once from tea leaves and when cool place in a glass jar in refrigerator to be used as iced tea. iced tea for two quarts of delicious iced tea, place in an agate teapot one generous tablespoon of good tea (never buy a cheap, inferior grade of tea). pour over the tea leaves one quart of freshly boiled, scalding hot water; let stand five minutes, keep hot (not boil), strain from the leaves into a pitcher, then pour over the tea leaves another quart of hot water, allow it to stand a few minutes, then strain as before. add the juice of one lemon and sugar to taste. when cooled stand on ice and add chipped ice to tumblers when serving. puddings to boil a pudding in a bag, dip the bag, which should be made of thick cotton or linen, in hot water, dredge the inside well with flour before putting batter into the bag. when the pudding has boiled a long enough time, dip the bag quickly in cold water, and the pudding will turn out easily. allow five large eggs to quart of milk usually to make custard solid enough to keep its shape when turned from the mold. one teaspoonful of extract will flavor one quart. always stand individual cups in a pan partly filled with hot water. place pan containing custard cups in a moderate oven and bake slowly forty minutes. always sift flour over beef suet when chopping it to be used in puddings. pour boiling water over pecans (nuts), allow to stand several hours. when cracked, the shell may be easily removed, leaving the nuts whole. blanch almonds by pouring boiling water over them. allow them to stand a short time, when the brown skin may be easily removed. dry thoroughly by standing in a rather cool oven, then put in glass jars and they are ready to use. almonds are used particularly by the germans in various ways. one hausfrau adds chopped almonds to cooked oatmeal for her children's breakfast and they are frequently used as an ingredient; also to decorate the tops of raised cakes. when dried currants and raisins are bought by the frugal housewife they are quickly washed in cold water, carefully picked over, then turned on to a sieve to drain. raisins are seeded, then spread over pans, placed in a warm oven about minutes, then spread on a plate and allowed to stand in a dry place for several days. when thoroughly dried place in glass jars and stand aside until required. currants or raisins should always be well floured before adding to cake or pudding. the "german hausfrau" usually serves stewed prunes or raisins with a dish of noodles or macaroni. rice pudding one of the simplest and cheapest of desserts depends partly on the quality of the ingredients used, but chiefly on the manner of making for its excellence. if prepared according to directions, you will have a pudding both rich and creamy. use quart of good sweet milk (do not use either skimmed milk or water), tablespoonfuls of whole uncoated rice (no more), - / tablespoonfuls of sugar, pinch of salt, vanilla or almond flavoring. wash the rice well, mix all together in a pudding dish, bake from - / to hours in an oven with a slow, even heat. when a skin forms on the top of the pudding, carefully stir through the rice. do this frequently. this gives the pudding a rich, creamy consistency. when grains of rice are tender allow pudding to brown over top and serve either hot or cold. raisins may be added, if liked, or raisins may be stewed separately and served with the rice, which many think a great improvement to the pudding. many think rice pudding should always be flavored with grated nutmeg. aunt sarah, while using nutmeg flavoring in various other dishes, never used it for her rice pudding. when mixing a boiled pudding aunt sarah frequently substituted a large tablespoon of fine dried bread crumbs instead of the same amount of flour. she said, "'twas a small economy," and, she thought, "the pudding's improved" by the use of bread crumbs. frau schmidt's apple dumplings prepare a syrup of cup sugar, cups of hot water and tablespoon of butter. pour all into an agate pudding dish. add to this syrup heaping cups of pared, sliced sour apples. let all come to a boil. for the dumplings, sift together one cup of flour and two even teaspoons of baking powder. add a pinch of salt. mix into a soft dough or batter with about / cup of sweet milk or cream. drop six or eight spoonfuls of this batter into the boiling syrup on top of apples. cover closely and cook on top of range twenty minutes without uncovering. serve hot. these dumplings should be light as puff balls. peaches may be substituted for apples and are delicious. caramel custard (as mary prepared it) pint of milk. eggs. / cup granulated sugar. melt / cup of sugar in an iron pan on stove and allow it to brown. add a part of the hot milk, stirring constantly until brown sugar is dissolved. add balance of the pint of hot milk. stir all together, then stand aside to cool. when cold, add eggs and bake in oven in custard cups. stand cups in hot water while baking. aunt sarah's bread pudding pour quart of boiling milk over - / pints of soft bread crumbs. put the mixture into a buttered pudding dish with teaspoonful salt. cover closely with a plate and let stand about half an hour. at the end of that time beat into it three eggs, teaspoonful lemon extract, and beat until perfectly smooth. bake in a moderately hot oven three-quarters of an hour. serve with the following sauce: tablespoonfuls pulverized sugar, tablespoonfuls butter, tablespoonful lemon juice. beat all together to a cream; when it is ready to serve. no sugar is needed in this pudding if this sweet sauce is used. steamed bread pudding place cup of fine dried bread crumbs in a bowl. pour over the crumbs cups of milk and allow to stand a short time. beat together eggs and scant / cup sugar, add tablespoon of butter. mix all the ingredients together thoroughly; then add / cup of chopped raisins, which have been seeded and floured. pour the batter in the well-buttered top part of a double boiler over hot water. steam about - / to hours. serve hot with sauce used for cottage pudding, or serve with sugar and cream. an economical bread and apple pudding into a well-buttered pudding dish put a layer of sliced sour apples. on the top of these a layer of stale bread crumbs with small bits of butter and sugar sprinkled over them, more sliced apples and bread crumbs, having the crumbs for the top layer. to about three apples use cup of bread crumbs, / cup sugar, piece of butter size of walnut and bake in oven until apples are tender. serve with cream. cup custards quart of sweet milk. large eggs. tablespoons sugar. grated nutmeg or vanilla flavoring. scald milk. beat whites of eggs separately. add milk when cooled to the beaten yolks. add sugar and flavoring. stir in stiffly beaten whites of eggs, pour into custard cups, stand them in a dripping pan half filled with boiling water. stand the pan in a moderate oven about twenty minutes, or until custard is "set." this quantity fills about eight small custard cups. the water surrounding the custard cups should not be allowed to boil, but the custard should cook slowly. grate nutmeg thickly over top of each custard before placing in the oven. scalding the milk before using improves the custard. frau schmidt's graham pudding sift into a bowl / cup of pastry flour and teaspoonful of baking powder. add cup graham flour, pinch of salt and / cup granulated sugar. mix all thoroughly, then add / cup of finely chopped kidney suet. add cup of seedless raisins mixed with one extra tablespoonful of white flour. mix into a batter with cup of sweet milk, to which add yolk of one egg. lastly, add the stiffly beaten white of egg. flavor with either a little grated nutmeg or essence of vanilla. make a strong, unbleached muslin bag by inches. pour the batter into the bag, which had been previously dipped in cold water, the inside of the bag sifted over with flour, and tie bag at top with a string, allowing room for the pudding to swell. place the bag in the perforated compartment of a steamer, over boiling water, and boil continuously - / hours, or longer, without removing lid of steamer oftener than absolutely necessary. serve graham pudding hot with sauce used for "cottage pudding," or serve simply with sugar and cream, or a sauce may be served composed of / cup of pulverized sugar, creamed with / cup of butter. add tablespoonful of lemon juice or flavor with vanilla. stand sauce in a cool place a short time and serve cold on hot pudding. sponge bread pudding place - / cups of soft stale (either white or graham) bread crumbs in a pudding dish. pour cups of hot milk over the crumbs, cover with a plate and allow it to stand about thirty minutes, then add yolks of eggs, / teaspoonful of salt, tablespoonful of sugar and grated yellow rind of orange or lemon for flavoring. beat the mixture until perfectly smooth, add the stiffly beaten whites of two eggs. bake in a moderately hot oven. serve hot with the following sauce: sauce. three large tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar and tablespoonful of butter were beaten together until smooth and creamy, teaspoonful of lemon juice was added. the sauce, when quite cold, was served with the warm pudding. aunt sarah's cottage pudding cream together cup of sugar, tablespoonfuls of butter, egg, white beaten separately, and added last, cup of sweet milk, pinch of salt, cups of flour, sifted with heaping teaspoonfuls of royal baking powder, / cup of dried currants, well floured. add stiffly beaten white of egg. bake in a small oblong bread pan. sauce. one cup of milk, / cup of water, large teaspoonful of butter, a scant tablespoonful of flour moistened with a small quantity of water, before adding. sweeten to taste, add / teaspoonful of grated nutmeg. cook all together a few minutes, allow the mixture to partly cool, then stir in the yolk of one egg; stand on stove to heat, but not to cook. serve hot over freshly baked, warm cottage pudding, cut in squares. apple "strudel" aunt sarah pared and quartered six medium-sized tart apples, placed in the bottom of an agate pudding dish, poured over them one cup of hot water and tablespoonfuls of sugar. she allowed this to stand on the range and cook while she mixed the following dough. into a bowl she sifted pint of flour with teaspoons baking powder, one teaspoonful of sugar, a little salt. cut tablespoonful of butter through the flour. lightly mixed all together into a soft dough with about / cup sweet milk. should she have a left-over yolk of egg, that was added to the milk. she rolled dough out lightly on the bread board, cut vents in the crust to allow steam to escape and spread it over the top of the dish containing the hot apples; placed in a hot oven to bake until light brown on top. serve with sugar and cream. aunt sarah called this "apple strudel," but the german recipe for "apple strudel," handed down by her grandmother, was quite different. an ordinary noodle dough was made, placed on a clean cloth on the table and rolled as thin as tissue paper. small bits of butter were scattered over this, covered with tart apples, thinly sliced, sprinkled with cinnamon, sugar and chopped raisins, rolled up and baked in the oven until brown on top, basting frequently with a thin syrup composed of sugar, butter and water. "lemon meringue" pudding pint of milk. / cup of sugar cup bread crumbs. juice and grated rind of one lemon. eggs. / cup of butter. tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar used for top. soak the bread crumbs in milk. beat the butter and sugar together. add yolks of eggs, soaked bread crumbs and grated lemon rind and about / of the juice of the lemon. bake in a buttered pudding dish until firm, then cover the pudding with a meringue composed of the stiffly beaten whites of eggs, tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar and the remaining lemon juice. place in oven to brown. stand on ice; serve cold. suet pudding cup suet, chopped fine. cup sugar. cup sweet milk. eggs. teaspoonful cinnamon. cup raisins. cup currants. cups flour sifted with teaspoonfuls baking powder. steam - / hours, then place in oven two or three minutes. this quantity will partly fill three empty -pound baking powder cans; allowing room to swell. these puddings are equally as good as when freshly prepared if placed in a steamer a short time before serving until heated through. sauce for suet pudding. one cup of pulverized sugar and large tablespoonful of butter creamed together. one teaspoonful of vanilla. add one whole egg or the yolks of two eggs, or the whites of two eggs, whichever you happen to have. steamed fruit pudding cup sweet milk. cup chopped suet. cup molasses. cup raisins. teaspoonful soda dissolved in a little water. teaspoonful salt. sauce for pudding. a small quantity of cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg, and a _very little_ clove. flour to make a batter a little thicker than that of ordinary cake. steam about hours. this pudding is also inexpensive and equally as good as the former recipe. beat egg very light, add cup brown sugar, teaspoonful vanilla. beat all together until creamy. serve at once. cornmeal pudding scald quart of sweet milk. while hot stir in tablespoonfuls of cornmeal, tablespoonfuls of flour mixed smooth with a little cold milk. add tablespoonful of butter. let cool. then add to the mixture / cup sugar, / cup molasses, well-beaten egg, / teaspoonful of ginger, / teaspoonful cinnamon, / pint cold milk, a small pinch of soda and / cup of floured, seeded raisins. bake hours in a moderate oven. serve with sugar and cream. huckleberry pudding two eggs and small cup of granulated sugar creamed together. four tablespoonfuls of cold water. add cup of sifted flour containing teaspoonful of baking powder, and cup of huckleberries, pitted cherries, or raisins and bake. serve with milk or any sauce liked. this recipe was given mary by a friend, who called it her emergency pudding, as it may be easily and quickly prepared from canned sour cherries from which liquid has been drained, or any tart fruit, when fresh fruit is not in season. tapioca custard four tablespoonfuls of pearl tapioca soaked in cold water over night. the next morning drain the tapioca, boil quart of sweet milk, beat the yolks of eggs light, stir them into the tapioca, adding tablespoonfuls of sugar. beat all together and gradually add the hot milk. return to the fire and stir until it commences to boil. take from the range and pour in a glass dish. flavor with teaspoonful of vanilla. whip the whites of the eggs to a standing froth and stir into the cooling pudding when cold stand on ice until ready to serve. one-half cup of shredded cocoanut may be added if liked. delicious baked peach pudding for the dough place in a bowl pint of flour sifted with teaspoonfuls of royal baking powder and a pinch of salt. cut through this a scant / cup of butter. mix this with sufficient sweet milk to make a soft dough. roll out dough half an inch thick, cut in strips and in case whole, ripe, pared peaches, leaving top and bottom of the peach exposed. or solid canned peaches may be used. put two halves of peach together and place a strip of dough around the peach. pinch dough well together, place in a bake dish. prepare a syrup of cups of sugar and cup of water. let come to a boil, pour around the dumplings and bake a half hour in a moderately hot oven. these are delicious. the recipe was given mary by a friend who was an excellent cook. from this dough may also be baked excellent biscuits. caramel custard place pint of milk on the range in a double boiler. melt half a cup of sugar in an iron pan over the fire until a golden brown. when melted add four tablespoonfuls of boiling water. allow mixture to cook one minute, then add it to the milk. remove from the fire and add teaspoonful of vanilla. when cool stir in well-beaten eggs with tablespoonfuls of sugar. pour the mixture in a small pudding dish. stand in a pan of boiling water, place in oven to bake until a jelly-like consistency. when cooled serve plain or with whipped cream. "aunt sarah's" rhubarb pudding remove skin from stalks of rhubarb, wash and cut into half-inch pieces a sufficient quantity to half fill a medium-sized agate or earthenware pudding dish. place in a stew-pan on range, cook slowly with a couple tablespoons of sugar and a very small amount of water. sift together in a bowl pint of flour, - / teaspoons of baking powder and a pinch of salt. with a knife cut through the flour tablespoonfuls of butter, moisten with one beaten egg and sufficient milk added to make a soft dough or batter. drop tablespoons of this thick batter over top of dish containing hot stewed rhubarb. place at once in a hot oven, bake quickly until crust is a light brown. serve on individual dishes, placing over each a couple tablespoonfuls of the following sauce. the combined flavor of rhubarb and vanilla is delicious. vanilla sauce for rhubarb pudding. beat egg very light, add cup of light brown sugar and teaspoon of vanilla flavoring. beat all together until foamy. serve at once, cold, on the hot pudding. rice custard add cup of cold boiled rice to cups of sweet milk, mix together slowly. add / cup sugar, the well-beaten yolks of eggs, let all cook together a few minutes. remove custard from the fire and pour over the stiffly-beaten whites of two eggs. beat well with an egg-beater. place in a glass dish and serve cold. mary's cup pudding (from stale bread) one quart of finely _crumbled stale bread_ (not dried crumbs). fill buttered cups two-thirds full of crumbs and pour over the following custard, composed of one pint of milk and three eggs. allow to stand a few minutes, then place the cups in a pan partly filled with hot water, place the pan in a moderately hot oven and bake thirty minutes. no sugar is required in this pudding if the following sweet sauce be served with it: sauce for pudding. mix one tablespoonful of cornstarch with a half cup of sugar. pour over one cup of boiling water, add one generous teaspoonful of butter. cook all together until clear, take from the fire and add one well-beaten egg and one teaspoonful of vanilla. serve hot. "buckwheat minute" pudding pour three cups of milk in a stew-pan, place on range and let come to a boil. then stir slowly into the boiling milk - / cups of buckwheat flour and / teaspoonful of salt. keep stirring constantly until a thick mush. serve at once with sugar and cream. i have never eaten this pudding anywhere except in "bucks county." it is cheap, quickly and easily prepared and well liked by many country folk in bucks county. peach tapioca one cup of tapioca soaked in quart of cold water several hours. place in stew-pan, set on stove and cook until clear. add sugar to taste and pint can of peaches. boil two or three minutes, remove from range and pour into the dish in which it is to be served. stand aside to cool. aunt sarah's plain boiled pudding one cup of beef suet chopped fine or run through a food-chopper, / cup sour milk, egg, teaspoonful soda, pinch of salt. / cup sugar, teaspoonful cinnamon, cup raisins, seeded and floured. flour enough to make as stiff as ordinary cake batter. boil or steam in a muslin bag three hours. this is a very inexpensive and good pudding. dust a small quantity of flour over suet before chopping. serve with the following sauce: pudding sauce. one large tablespoonful of butter, teacup water, / teacup milk, scant tablespoonful of flour, grated nutmeg to flavor. sweeten to taste, add a pinch of salt. cook and let cool. beat up yolk of egg, add to sauce, stand on back of stove to heat, not cook. serve hot over the pudding. apple tapioca pour pint of cold water over / cup tapioca. allow to stand until the following morning, when cook until clean. slice tart apples. place in bottom of pudding dish, strew sugar over, then pour over the tapioca; place over this a layer of thinly sliced apples over which dust sugar. place in oven and bake until the apples are cooked. serve with sugar and cream. several thin slices of lemon added before baking impart a fine flavor. steamed walnut pudding place in a bowl / cup butter and cup of granulated sugar. beat to a cream. add yolks of eggs and / cup of syrup molasses or maple syrup, in which had been dissolved teaspoonful baking soda. then add cup sweet milk, alternately, with about - / cups flour, / cup of walnut meats, run through food-chopper or crushed with rolling pin, / cup of seeded raisins, / teaspoonful ground cinnamon, / teaspoonful grated nutmeg, / teaspoonful ground cloves, a pinch of salt and the stiffly beaten whites of the two eggs. the batter should be placed in two empty one-pound tin coffee cans, about two-thirds full, covered tightly with lid and placed in a pot of boiling water which should be kept boiling constantly for three hours; when steamed the pudding should almost fill the cans. if the cans were well buttered and flour sifted over, the pudding when steamed may be easily removed to a platter. slice and serve hot with the following sauce: beat one cup of pulverized sugar to a cream with heaping tablespoonfuls of butter. add white of one egg (unbeaten). beat all together until creamy. add / of a teaspoonful of lemon extract and stand sauce in a cold place or on ice one hour before serving on slices of hot pudding. this is a delicious pudding. "cornmeal sponge" pudding crumble cold corn muffins, or corn cake, a quantity sufficient to fill two cups. soak in quart of sweet milk three or four hours, then add well-beaten eggs, tablespoonfuls of sugar and a pinch of salt. beat all well together. place in a pan and bake hour in a moderately hot oven. serve hot with whipped cream and sugar or with a sauce made by beating to a cream a heaping tablespoonful of butter, cup of granulated sugar, egg and a very little vanilla flavoring. mary's corn starch pudding - / quarts of milk. eggs. heaping tablespoonfuls of corn starch. scant cup of sugar. teaspoonful of vanilla. pour milk in a double boiler and place on range to cook. moisten cornstarch with a little cold milk and add to remainder of the milk when boiling hot. stir thoroughly, then beat yolk of eggs and sugar until light, stir in stiffly beaten whites and when all are mixed stir into the scalding milk. let come to a boil again and add vanilla or almond flavoring. pour into individual molds to cool. serve cold with a spoonful of jelly or preserved strawberry with each serving. apple johnny cake (served as a pudding) this is a good, cheap, wholesome pudding. cup corn meal. tablespoonfuls of sugar. teaspoonful of soda. tablespoonful of melted butter. / teaspoonful of salt. / cup flour. cup sour milk. mix batter together as you would for cake, then add pared, thinly sliced, tart apples to the batter. stir all together. bake in a quick oven in a bread pan and serve hot with cold cream and sugar. raisins may be substituted for apples if preferred. a good and cheap "tapioca pudding" soak over night in cold water even tablespoonfuls of pearl tapioca. in the morning add tapioca to one quart of milk, tablespoonfuls of sugar, a pinch of salt. grate nutmeg over top. bake in a moderate oven about three hours, stirring occasionally. "gotterspeise" partly fill an earthenware pudding dish with pieces of sponge cake or small cakes called "lady fingers;" cut up with them a few macaroons. place one pint of wine over fire to heat, add to the wine the following mixture, composed of spoonful of cornstarch mixed smooth with a little water, yolks of eggs and spoonfuls of sugar. mix all together and stir until thickened. pour the thickened mixture over the cake. when cooled cover with the stiffly-beaten whites of the eggs, spread sliced almonds thickly over top and brown in oven a few minutes. serve cold. spanish cream half a box of knox gelatine, quart of milk, eggs. put gelatine in milk, let stand hour to dissolve. set over fire to boil, then add beaten yolks of eggs with cup granulated sugar. remove from fire while adding this. stir well. return to range and let boil. stand aside to cool. beat whites of eggs to a froth and beat into custard when cooled. pour into a glass dish in which it is to be served. stand in a cold place and serve with cream. graham pudding one cup of molasses, egg, cup sweet milk, / teaspoonful soda, teaspoonful of salt, tablespoonful brown sugar, cup raisins, - / cups graham flour. mix all ingredients together. steam three hours. "pennsylvania" plum pudding (for thanksgiving day) one cup milk, eggs, cup molasses, / teaspoonful nutmeg, / teaspoonful salt, teaspoonfuls baking powder, cup bread crumbs, / cup corn meal, cup chopped beef suet, / cup finely minced citron, cup seeded raisins, / cup currants. flour to make a stiff batter. steam fully three hours, turn from the mold, strew chopped almonds over top. serve pudding hot with sauce for which recipe is given. aunt sarah invariably served this pudding on thanksgiving day, and all preferred it to old-fashioned "english plum pudding." sauce for pudding. cream together cup of pulverized sugar, scant / cup of butter, beat whites of eggs in, one at a time, and one teaspoonful of lemon flavoring; stand on ice a short time before serving. serve sauce very cold. "slice" bread pudding line the sides of a pudding dish holding two quarts with seven slices of stale bread from which crust had been removed. beat together eggs, tablespoonfuls of sugar and cups of sweet milk (and add the juice and grated rind of one lemon, or half a grated nutmeg). pour in the centre of pudding dish. with a spoon dip some of the custard over each slice of bread. bake about minutes and serve hot with the following sauce: one cup of water, / cup milk, teaspoonful butter, scant tablespoonful of flour mixed smooth with a little water before adding it. sweeten to taste, add grated nutmeg or vanilla to flavor. cook all together, then add the yolk of one egg. place on stove a minute to heat. add a pinch of salt. serve hot over the pudding in individual dishes. cereals--oatmeal porridge oatmeal to be palatable and wholesome should be thoroughly cooked, that is, steamed over a hot fire two hours or longer. use a double boiler of agateware. place in the upper half of the boiler about cups of water and stand directly over the hottest part of the range. when the water boils furiously, and is full of little bubbles (not before), stir into the boiling water about cups of oatmeal (if porridge is liked rather thick), and about teaspoonful of salt. (tastes differ regarding the thickness of porridge.) let stand directly on the front of the range, stirring only enough to prevent scorching, and cook ten minutes, then stand upper part of double boiler over the lower compartment, partly filled with boiling water; cover closely and let steam from two to three hours. in order to have the oatmeal ready to serve at early breakfast the following morning, put oatmeal on to cook about five o'clock in the evening, while preparing supper, and allow it to stand and steam over boiling water until the fire in the range is dampened off for the night. allow the oatmeal to stand on range until the following morning, when draw the boiler to front part of range, and when breakfast is ready (after removing top crust formed by standing), turn the oatmeal out on a dish and serve with rich cream and sugar, and you will have a good, wholesome breakfast dish with the flakes distinct, and a nutty flavor. serve fruit with it, if possible. a good rule for cooking oatmeal is in the proportion of - / cups of water to cup of oatmeal. the cereals which come ready prepared are taking the place of the old-time standby with which mothers fed their growing boys. if you wish your boys to have muscle and brawn, feed them oats. to quote an old physician, "if horses thrive on oats, why not boys who resemble young colts?" for example, look at the hardy young scot who thrives and grows hearty and strong on his oatmeal "porritch." chopped almonds, dates or figs may be added to oatmeal to make it more palatable. use cup measuring / pint for measuring cereals as well as every other recipe calling for one cup in this book. cooked rice boil cup of whole, thoroughly cleansed, uncoated rice in quarts of rapidly boiling water (salted) about minutes, or until tender, which can be tested by pressing a couple of grains of rice between the fingers. do not stir often while boiling. when the rice is tender turn on to a sieve and drain; then put in a dish and place in the oven, to dry off, with oven door open, when the grains should be whole, flaky, white and tempting, not the soggy, unappetizing mass one often sees. serve rice with cream and sugar. some prefer brown sugar and others like crushed maple sugar with it. or rice may be eaten as a vegetable with salt and butter. rice is inexpensive, nutritious and one of the most easily digested cereals, and if rightly cooked, an appetizing looking food. it is a wonder the economical housewife does not serve it oftener on her table in some of the numerous ways it may be prepared. as an ingredient of soup, as a vegetable, or a pudding, croquettes, etc., the wise housekeeper will cook double the amount of rice needed and stand half aside until the day following, when may be quickly prepared rice croquettes, cheese balls, etc. on the day following that on which rice has been served, any cold boiled rice remaining may be placed in a small bake dish with an equal quantity of milk, a little sugar and flavoring, baked a short time in oven and served with a cup of stewed, seeded raisins which have slowly steamed, covered with cold water, on the back of the range, until soft and plump. corn meal mush place on the range a cook-pot containing cups of boiling water (good measure). sift in slowly cups of yellow granulated corn meal, stirring constantly while adding the meal, until the mixture is smooth and free from lumps. add - / level teaspoonfuls of salt and / teaspoonful of sugar, and cook a short time, stirring constantly, then stand where the mush will simmer, or cook slowly for four or five hours. serve hot, as a porridge, adding / teaspoonful of butter to each individual bowl of hot mush and serve with it cold milk or cream. should a portion of the mush remain after the meal, turn it at once, while still hot, in an oblong pan several inches in depth, stand until quite cold. cut in half-inch slices, sift flour over each slice and fry a golden brown in a couple tablespoonfuls of sweet drippings and butter. or dip slices of mush in egg and bread crumbs and fry brown in the same manner. some there are who like maple syrup or molasses served with fried mush. this proportion of corn meal and water will make porridge of the proper consistency and it will be just right to be sliced for frying when cold. long, slow cooking makes corn meal much more wholesome and palatable, and prevents the raw taste of cornmeal noticeable in mush cooked too quickly. the small quantity of sugar added is not noticed, but improves the flavor of the mush. macaroni in early spring, when the family tire of winter foods and it is still too early for vegetables from the home garden, and the high price of early forced vegetables in the city markets prevent the housewife, of limited means from purchasing, then the resourceful, economical housewife serves macaroni and rice in various ways and makes appetizing dishes of the fruits she canned and preserved for winter use, combined with tapioca and gelatine. milk and eggs tide her over the most difficult time of the year for young, inexperienced cooks. when the prices of early vegetables soar beyond the reach of her purse, then she should buy sparingly of them and of meat, and occasionally serve, instead, a dish of macaroni and cheese, or rice and cheese, and invest the money thus saved in fruit; dried fruits, if fresh fruits are not obtainable. macaroni is such a nutritious food that it should be used frequently by the young housewife as a substitute for meat on the bill of fare. also occasionally serve a dish of baked beans or a dish composed of eggs, or milk combined with eggs, instead of the more expensive meat dish, all equally useful as muscle-builders, and cheaper than meat. the wise housewife will learn which foods furnish heat for the body and those which produce fat and energy, and those which are muscle-builders, and endeavor to serve well-balanced meals of the foods belonging to the three classes and thus with fruit and vegetables she will make wise provision for her family. baked macaroni and cheese put cups or / pound of macaroni (either the long sticks broken in pieces or the "elbow" macaroni, as preferred) in a kettle holding several quarts of rapidly boiling, salted water, and cook about minutes, or until tender. drain in a colander and allow cold water to run over it for several seconds. this prevents the macaroni sticking together. place the macaroni in a buttered baking dish and pour over a hot "cream sauce" composed of cup of milk and cup of water, tablespoonfuls of flour, even tablespoonfuls of butter and a pinch of salt. (too much salt is apt to curdle the milk.) spread over the top of macaroni about tablespoonfuls of grated cheese, or, if preferred, sprinkle over the top tablespoonfuls of well-seasoned dried bread crumbs and small bits of butter. stand the bake-dish containing the macaroni in a hot oven ten or fifteen minutes, until lightly browned on top. serve hot in the dish in which it was baked. stewed tomatoes are a nice accompaniment to this dish. double the quantity of macaroni may be cooked at one time and a part of it kept on ice; the following day serve in tomato sauce, thus utilizing any left-over tomatoes. the macaroni may be cooked while the housewife is using the range, early in the morning. drain the macaroni in a colander and stand aside in a cool place. it may be quickly prepared for six o'clock dinner by pouring over a hot cream sauce and grated cheese and quickly browning in the oven. or the macaroni, when cooked tender in salt water, may be quickly served by pouring over it a hot cream sauce, before the macaroni has become cold. serve at once. housewives should be particular when buying macaroni to get a brand made from good flour. cakes--cake-making sift flour and baking powder together several times before adding to cake batter. aunt sarah usually sifted flour and baking powder together four times for cakes. flour should always be sifted before using. baking powder should be sifted through the flour dry. salaratus (or baking soda) should, usually, be dissolved before using in a teaspoonful of hot water, unless stated otherwise. cream of tartar should be sifted with the flour. flour should be added gradually and batter stirred as little as possible afterwards, unless directions are given to the contrary. much beating after flour has been added is apt to make cake tough. cake will be lighter if baked slowly at first after it has raised increase heat slowly so it will brown nicely on top. the batter, if heated slowly, will rise evenly. this does not mean a cool oven. to prevent cakes sticking to pans, grease pans well with lard, and sift a little flour lightly over pan. use baking powder with sweet milk. saleratus is always used with sour milk. use teaspoonful of saleratus to pint of sour milk. cream of tartar and saleratus combined may be used with sweet milk instead of baking powder. one heaping teaspoonful of royal baking powder is equivalent to teaspoonful of cream of tartar and / teaspoonful of saleratus combined. either baking powder or a combination of saleratus and cream of tartar may be used in a cake in which sweet milk is used. usually take - / to scant teaspoonfuls of baking powder to two cups of flour. saleratus should be used alone with sour milk. put baking molasses in a stew-pan over fire and allow it to just come to boil; cool before using it. it will not sour as quickly in warm weather, and the cake baked from it will have a better flavor. the cup used in measuring ingredients for cakes holds exactly one-half pint. all cakes are improved by the addition of a pinch of salt. when lard is used instead of butter, beat to a cream and salt well. in mixing cakes, beat butter and sugar together until light and creamy, then add the beaten yolks of eggs, unless stated otherwise as for angel cake, etc., then the flavoring, then mix in the flour and liquid alternately. the baking powder, flour and salt should have been sifted together three or four times before being added. lastly, fold in lightly the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. fruit well dredged with flour should be added last, if used. cool the oven if too hot for baking cakes by placing a pan containing cold water in the top rack of oven. sponge cake particularly is improved by doing this, as it makes the cake moist. stir sponge cake as little as possible after adding flour, as too much stirring then will make cake tough. sift flour several times before using for sponge cake, as tins causes the flour to become lighter. layer cake, and most small cakes, require a quick oven. the oven door should not be opened for minutes after cake has been placed in oven. rich cakes, loaf cakes and fruit cakes must bake long and slowly. the richer the cake, the slower the heat required in baking. to test the oven, if the hand can bear the heat of the oven or seconds, the oven then is the right temperature. after placing a loaf cake in oven do not open the oven door for minutes. if oven be not hot enough, the cake will rise, then fall and be heavy. angel cake, sunshine cake and sponge cake require a moderate oven. raisins and dried currants should be washed and dried before using in cake. all fruit should be dredged with flour before being added to cake. citron may be quickly and easily prepared by cutting on a slaw cutter or it may be grated before being added to cake. when a recipe calls for butter the size of an egg it means two tablespoonfuls. a tablespoonful of butter, melted, means the butter should be measured first, then melted. aunt sarah frequently used a mixture of butter and lard in her cakes for economy's sake, and a lesser quantity may be used, as the shortening quality of lard is greater than that of butter. when substituting lard for butter, she always beat the lard to a cream before using it and salt it well. if raisins and currants are placed in oven of range a few minutes to become warmed before being added to cake, then rolled in flour, they will not sink to bottom of cake when baked. frau schmidt's lemon cake - / cups sugar. / cup butter and lard. small eggs or large ones. / cup sweet milk. cups flour. / teaspoonful saleratus. teaspoonful cream of tartar. grated yellow rind and juice of half a lemon. beat sugar and butter to a cream and add the yolks of eggs. add the milk, then the flour and cream of tartar and saleratus; and the flavoring. lastly, the stiffly-beaten whites of eggs. this makes one loaf cake. the original of this recipe was a very old one which frau schmidt had used many years. every ingredient in the old recipe was doubled, except the eggs, when five were used. mary thought this cake fine and from the recipe, when she used half the quantity of everything, she baked a fine loaf cake, and from the original recipe was made one good sized loaf and one layer cake. thinly sliced citron added to this cake is a great improvement. fine "krum kuchen" one cup sugar, / cup butter and lard, mixed; cups flour and teaspoonfuls of baking powder, eggs, / cup sweet milk. crumb together with the hands the sugar, butter, flour and baking powder sifted together. take out / cup of these crumbs to be scattered over top of cake. to the remainder add the yolks of the eggs, well beaten, and the sweet milk, and lastly the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. put the mixture in a well-greased pan (a deep custard pie tin will answer), scatter the half cup of crumbs reserved over top of cake and bake about / of an hour in a rather quick oven. when cake is baked, sprinkle over teaspoonful of melted butter and dust top with cinnamon. aunt sarah's "quick dutch cakes" she creamed together cup of sugar, tablespoonful of lard, tablespoonful of butter and added - / cups of luke-warm milk. add cups flour (good measure), sifted with three scant teaspoonfuls of baking powder. add a half cup of raisins, seeded and cut in several pieces, if liked, but the cakes are very good without. spread in two pans and sprinkle sugar and cinnamon on top and press about five small dabs of butter on top of each cake. put in oven and bake at once. these are a very good substitute for "raised dutch cakes," and are much more quickly and easily-made and, as no eggs are used, are quite cheap and very good. a reliable layer cake - / cups granulated sugar. eggs. / cup butter and lard mixed. (use all butter if preferred.) / cup sweet milk. cups flour sifted with teaspoonfuls royal baking powder. cream together sugar and shortening. add yolks of eggs, beating well, as each ingredient is added. then add milk and flour alternately, and lastly the stiffly beaten white of eggs. stir all together. bake in two square layer pans, and put together with chocolate or white icing. or ice the cakes when cold and cut in squares. boiled icing boil together cup of granulated sugar and tablespoonfuls boiling water ten or twelve minutes, or until a small quantity dropped from spoon spins a thread. stir this into the stiffly-beaten white of one egg until thick and creamy. flavor with lemon, almond or vanilla flavoring and spread on cake. dip knife in hot water occasionally when spreading icing on cake. a delicious icing is composed of almonds blanched and pounded to a paste. add a few drops of essence of bitter almonds. dust the top of the cake lightly with flour, spread on the almond paste and when nearly dry cover with ordinary icing. dry almonds before pounding them in mortar, and use a small quantity of rose water. a few drops only should be used of essence of bitter almonds to flavor icing or cake. a pinch of baking powder added to sugar when making boiled icing causes the icing to become more creamy, or add a pinch of cream of tartar when making boiled icing. or, when a cake iced with "boiled icing" has become cold, spread on top of icing unsweetened, melted chocolate. this is a delicious "cream chocolate icing." a delicious "spice layer cake" cups light brown sugar. cup chopped raisins. eggs. cup sour milk. / cup butter. cups flour. teaspoonful each of soda, cloves, cinnamon, allspice and a little grated nutmeg. cream sugar and butter together, add yolks of eggs, then the sour milk in which the soda has been dissolved, flour and spices, and lastly stir in the stiffly beaten white of eggs. bake in two-layer pans. icing two cups sugar, / cup of milk or cream, tablespoonfuls of butter. boil until it forms a soft ball when a small quantity is dropped in water, and flavor with vanilla. beat until cold and spread between layers of cake. also on top and sides. an inexpensive cocoa cake this is a decidedly good cake and no eggs are required. cream together cup brown sugar, / cup butter. add cup of sour milk, - / cups flour, then sift over - / tablespoonfuls of cocoa. add level teaspoonful saleratus, dissolved in a little of the sour milk, and teaspoonful vanilla. bake in a small loaf. use the following icing: / cup of grated chocolate, / cup milk, / cup sugar, boiled together until thick, and spread on cake. aunt sarah's walnut gingerbread / cup of new orleans molasses. cup of light brown sugar. / cup of shortening (composed of butter, lard and sweet drippings). / teaspoonful of ginger, cinnamon and cloves each. teaspoonfuls of baking soda (saleratus), sifted with - / cups flour. cup boiling water. eggs. beat to a cream the sugar and shortening in a bowl; add molasses, then pour over all one cup of boiling water. beat well. add flour, soda and spices, all sifted together. beat into this the two unbeaten eggs (one at a time), then add about / of a cup of coarsely chopped _black walnut_ meats or the same quantity of well-floured raisins may be substituted for the walnut meats. the cakes may be baked in muffin pans. in that case fill pans about two-thirds full. the above quantity makes eighteen. they can also be baked in a pan as a loaf cake. this cake is excellent, and will keep fresh several days. these cakes taste similar to those sold in an atlantic city bake-shop which have gained a reputation for their excellence. aunt sarah's "german crumb cakes" baked in crusts cups flour. - / heaping teaspoonfuls baking powder. cups sugar (soft a or light brown). / cup lard and butter mixed. eggs. cup sweet milk. pinch of salt. flavoring--vanilla or grated orange rind. line three small pie tins with pie crust. sift together into a bowl the flour and baking powder and add light brown or a sugar, and the butter, lard and salt. rub this all together with the hands until well mixed and crumbly. take out cupful of these crumbs and stand aside. add to the rest of the mixture the yolks of eggs, whites being beaten separately and added last. add slowly cup of sweet milk. mix it in gradually until the mixture is creamed, then add a small quantity of grated orange peel, lemon or vanilla flavoring. lastly, stir in the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. pour the mixture into each one of the three unbaked crusts, then sprinkle the cup of crumbs thickly over the tops. bake in a moderate oven. these are very good, cheap cakes for breakfast or lunch. "sour cream" molasses cake / cup molasses. cup sugar. / cup thick sour cream. / cup sour milk. / cup finely chopped peanuts. egg. teaspoonful soda dissolved in little hot water. - / cups flour. cup seeded raisins. mix together like ordinary cake. bake in a fruit cake pan in a slow oven about forty minutes. this excellent cake requires no shortening, as cream is used. economy cake egg. cup sweet milk. cup granulated sugar. cups flour. / cup butter. teaspoonfuls baking powder. cream together sugar and yolk of egg, then beat into this mixture the butter and add the milk. then stir the flour, a small quantity at a time, into the mixture, keeping it smooth and free from lumps. add the stiffly beaten white of egg. use any flavoring or spice preferred. bake in a quick oven. this is not simply a very cheap cake, but a decidedly good one, and made from inexpensive materials. follow the recipe exactly or the cake may be too light and too crumbly if too much baking powder is used, or heavy if too much butter is used. by varying the flavor and baking in different forms it is as good as a number of more expensive recipes. it makes three layers of any kind of layer cake, or bake in gem pans. ginger cake / cup brown sugar. egg. / cup lard. large cups flour. / cup new orleans molasses. tablespoonfnl of ginger. teaspoonful soda dissolved in half cup lukewarm water. beat sugar and lard to a cream, then beat in the yolk of egg, molasses and flour and soda dissolved in water. lastly, add the stiffly-beaten white of egg. bake minutes in hot oven. a very economical german clove cake place in a stew-pan the following ingredients: cup brown sugar. cup cold water. cups seeded raisins. / cup sweet lard, or a mixture of lard and butter. / grated nutmeg. teaspoonfuls cinnamon. / teaspoonful ground cloves. pinch of salt. boil all together three minutes. when cold add i teaspoonful of soda dissolved in a little hot water. add about - / cups flour sifted with / teaspoonful of baking powder. bake in a loaf in a moderately hot oven about thirty minutes. this cake is both good and economical, as no butter, eggs or milk are used in its composition. the recipe for making this excellent, cheap cake was bought by aunt sarah at a "cake and pie" sale. she was given permission to pass it on. icing. small cup pulverized sugar. tablespoonfuls of cocoa. mix smooth with a very little boiling water. spread over cake. cake icing for various cakes cook together cups of granulated sugar, - / cups of water a little less than minutes. just before it reaches the soft ball stage, beat in quickly marshmallows; when dissolved and a thick, creamy mass, spread between layers and on top of cake. this is a delicious creamy icing when made according to directions. if sugar and water be cooked one minute too long, the icing becomes sugary instead of creamy. one-half the above quantity will ice the top of a cake nicely. mary's recipe for "hot milk" sponge cake for this cake was used: cups granulated sugar. eggs. - / cups flour. - / teaspoonfuls of baking powder. cup boiling hot milk. separate the eggs, place yolks in a bowl, add the sugar and beat until creamy. add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs alternately with the sifted flour and baking powder; lastly add the cup of boiling hot milk; should the milk not be rich, add one teaspoon of butter to the hot milk. the cake batter should be thin as griddle cake batter, pour into a tube pan and place at once in a _very moderate_ oven; in about minutes increase the heat and in about minutes more the cake, risen to the top of pan, should have commenced to brown on top. bake from to minutes more in a moderately hot oven with steady heat; when baked the top of the cake should be a light fawn color and texture of cake light and fine grained. mary was told by her aunt that any sponge cake was improved by the addition of a teaspoon of butter, causing the sponge cake to resemble pound cake in texture. cheap "molasses ginger bread" cup new orleans molasses. cup sugar. / cup shortening (lard and butter mixed). cup hot water. large teaspoonful soda dissolved in the one cup of hot water. teaspoonful of ginger. / teaspoonful of cinnamon. quart of flour. stir sugar and shortening together. add molasses, beat all thoroughly, then add hot water and flour. stir hard. bake in two layer pans in quick oven about minutes. use cake while fresh. aunt sarah's extra fine large sponge cake cups granulated sugar. - / cups of flour. / cup of boiling water. large eggs. even teaspoonfuls baking powder. teaspoonful lemon juice. put whites of eggs in a large mixing bowl and beat very stiff. add sugar (sifted times), then add the well-beaten yolks, flour (sifted times with baking powder), add lemon juice. lastly, add the hot water. bake about minutes in a tube pan in a moderately hot oven with a steady heat. stand a pan of hot water in the upper rack of oven if the oven is quite hot. it improves the cake and causes it to be more moist. this is an excellent sponge cake and easily made, although the ingredients are put together the opposite way cakes are usually mixed, with the exception of angel cake. when this cake was taken from oven, powdered sugar was sifted thickly over the top. use cup holding / pint, as in all other cake recipes. angel cake--aunt sarah's recipe mary was taught by her aunt, when preparing a dish calling for yolks of eggs only, to place the white of eggs not used in a glass jar which she stood in a cold place or on ice. when she had saved one even cupful she baked an angel cake over the following recipe: one heaping cup of pulverized sugar (all the cup will hold), was sifted times. one cup of a mixture of pastry flour and corn starch (equal parts) was also sifted times. the whole was then sifted together times. the one cupful of white of eggs was beaten very stiff. when about half beaten, sprinkle over the partly-beaten eggs one scant teaspoonful of cream of tartar, then finish beating the whites of eggs. flavor with almond or vanilla. then carefully sift into the stiffly beaten whites of eggs sugar, flour and corn starch. fold into the whites of eggs rather than stir. aunt sarah always baked this cake in a small, oblong bread pan. this cake should be baked in a _very_ moderate oven, one in which the hand might be held without inconvenience while counting one hundred; the oven should be just hot enough for one to know there was fire in the range. do not open the oven door for minutes, then increase the heat a little; if not too hot, open the oven door a moment to cool and bake slowly for about minutes. aunt sarah's good and cheap "country fruit cake" cup butter and lard, mixed. eggs. cup new orleans molasses. cup sour milk. pound dried currants. / pound thinly sliced citron. teaspoonfuls baking soda. cups flour. pounds raisins, seeded. a little grated nutmeg, ginger, cinnamon and a very small quantity of cloves. bake in one large fruit cake pan or in two good sized pans about - / hours. this cake should not be kept as long a time as a more expensive fruit cake, but may be kept several weeks. this was aunt sarah's best recipe for an excellent, inexpensive fruit cake. a "sponge custard" cake eggs. cups granulated sugar. cups flour. teaspoonful baking soda. cup cold water. juice of lemon. teaspoonfuls of cream of tartar and pinch of salt. beat eggs well, then sift in sugar and half of flour in which cream of tartar has been mixed. dissolve the soda in a little water and add also the lemon juice and lastly add the balance of flour. bake in layer cake pans two inches deep. custard boil pint of sweet milk and add to it, stirring constantly, the following mixture: two tablespoonfuls corn starch, mixed with a little water before boiling, cup of sugar and well-beaten egg. allow all to cook a few minutes in a double boiler about minutes. split the sponge cakes when baked and put custard between when cooled. grandmother's excellent "old recipe" for marble cake light part. - / cups granulated sugar. scant cup butter or a mixture of butter and lard. whites of eggs. cup milk. scant cups flour sifted with teaspoons of baking powder. flavor with essence of lemon. dark part. yolks of eggs. / cup of a mixture of butter and lard. / cup milk (scant measure). / cup brown sugar. tablespoon of molasses. tablespoons of cinnamon. tablespoon of cloves. one cup or a little more flour sifted with one teaspoon of baking powder. place spoonfuls of the dark and light batter alternately in a cake pan until all has been used. bake in a moderately hot oven from to minutes. from this recipe may be made two good sized cakes. i should advise using one-half the quantity for both dark and light part of cake called for in recipe, which would make one good sized cake. should this whole recipe be used, the cake baked from it would be of the size of a very large fruit cake. mary's molasses cakes she creamed together cup of light brown sugar and tablespoonfuls of butter. then added cup of new orleans molasses. the molasses had been allowed to come to a boil, then cooled. she sifted into the mixture cups of flour alternately with cup of sweet milk in which even teaspoonfuls of soda had been dissolved. she beat all well together, then added yolk of one large egg, and lastly the stiffly beaten white of the egg. beat the mixture again and bake in square layer cake pans in a hot oven about minutes. this is an excellent cake if directions are closely followed. chocolate icing for molasses cake. boil scant half cup water with cup sugar until it spins a thread, or forms a soft, firm ball in cold water. pour slowly over the stiffly beaten white of egg, beating while it is being poured. melt squares or ounces of unsweetened chocolate by standing the bowl containing it in hot water. add teaspoonful hot water to chocolate. stir the egg and sugar mixture slowly into the melted chocolate. beat until stiff enough to spread on cake. hickory nut cake - / cups sugar. / cup butter. / cup milk. whites of eggs. cup hickory nut meats, chopped. cups flour sifted with teaspoonfuls baking powder. mix together as ordinary cake. bake in a loaf. "light brown" sugar cake three cupfuls of light brown sugar, / cup of sweet lard and yolk of one egg creamed together until light. then add - / cups sour milk alternately with cups of flour and - / teaspoonfuls of cinnamon; - / teaspoonfuls of ginger, / teaspoonful of cloves and half of a grated nutmeg, tablespoonful of thinly shaved or grated citron is an improvement to cake, but may be omitted. beat all together, then add teaspoonful of soda dissolved in a small quantity of the sour milk. lastly, add the stiffly beaten white of one egg and one cup seeded raisins dredged with a little flour. put the cake batter in a large, well-greased fruit cake pan, lined with paper which had been greased and a trifle of flour sifted over, and bake in an oven with a steady heat about one hour and fifteen minutes. this is a very good, _inexpensive_ cake and will keep moist some time if kept in a tin cake box. the fruit might be omitted, but it improves the cake. "angel food" layer cake cup and tablespoonfuls granulated sugar. - \ cups flour. cup and tablespoonfuls scalded milk. teaspoonfuls baking powder. pinch of salt. whites of eggs. place milk in top part of double boiler and heat to boiling point. sift dry ingredients together four times and then pour in the hot milk and stir well together. lastly, add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. fold them in lightly, but do not beat. the batter will be quite thin. do not grease the tins. no flavoring is used. bake in two square layer tins, put together with any icing preferred. bake in a moderate oven. this is a good, economical cake to bake when yolks of eggs have been used for other purposes. mary's chocolate cake one-half cup of brown sugar, / cup of sweet milk and / cup of grated, unsweetened chocolate. boil all together until thick as cream; allow it to cool. mix / cup of butter with / cup of brown sugar. add two beaten eggs, / of a cup of sweet milk and vanilla flavoring to taste. beat this into the boiled mixture and add cups of flour sifted with teaspoonfuls of baking powder. bake in three layers and put together with chocolate icing, or cocoa filling. cocoa filling. - / cups pulverized sugar. tablespoonful butter, melted. - / tablespoonfuls cocoa. place all the ingredients in a bowl and mix to a smooth paste with cold coffee. flavor with vanilla and spread on cake. tins cocoa filling should not be boiled. a cheap orange cake eggs. - / cupfuls sugar. large tablespoonful butter. cup milk. cups flour sifted with teaspoonfuls baking powder. juice and grated yellow rind of half an orange. bake in moderate oven in loaf or layers. if a loaf cake, ice top and sides with the following icing: - / cupfuls pulverized sugar, tablespoonful warm water and grated rind and juice of half an orange. mix all together to a cream and spread over cake. frau schmidt's molasses cake pint of new orleans molasses. / cup butter and lard, mixed. eggs. cup sour milk good teaspoonfuls soda. cups flour. grated rind of orange. bake in a long dripping pan, cut out in square pieces, or it may be baked in a large pan used for fruit cake. it will fill two medium sized cake pans. apple sauce cake / cup butter (generous measure). cup light brown sugar. cup apple sauce (not sweetened). level teaspoonful soda. cups flour. teaspoonful cinnamon. / teaspoonful cloves. small nutmeg, grated. pinch of salt. cup raisins. cream together butter, sugar and spices. add apple sauce and flour. (dissolve the soda in apple sauce.) add a cup of seeded raisins or raisins and currants, if preferred. this recipe may be doubled when it makes a very good, cheap fruit cake, as no eggs are required, and it both looks and tastes like a dark fruit cake. icing. one cup pulverized sugar, piece of butter size of a walnut. moisten with a little water and spread on cake. "schwarz" cake this delicious black chocolate or "schwarz" cake, as aunt sarah called it, was made from the following recipe: - / cups of sugar. / cup butter. / cup sweet milk. even teaspoon of soda (saleratus). eggs. teaspoonful of vanilla. cups flour. - / teaspoon of royal baking powder. before mixing all the above ingredients place in a stewpan on the range / cup of grated chocolate and / cup sweet milk; allow them to come to a boil, then stand this mixture aside to cool and add to the cake mixture later. cream together sugar and butter, add yolk of eggs; soda dissolved in the milk, then add flour and baking powder sifted together alternately with the stiffly beaten white of eggs. then beat in last the chocolate and milk mixture which has cooled. bake in layer cake pans. use the following chocolate filling: / cup sugar. / cup milk. yolk of one egg. / teaspoon of corn starch (good measure). / cake of baker's unsweetened chocolate. boil all together until quite thick and spread between layers of cake. apple cream cake cups sugar. tablespoonfuls butter. cup sweet milk. cups flour. eggs. teaspoonfuls royal baking powder. add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs last and bake in two layers. flavor with lemon or vanilla. apple cream filling for cake. beat white of egg very stiff. add cup of granulated sugar and beat well. quickly grate one raw apple into the egg and sugar, add the juice of / lemon and beat minutes, when it will be light and foamy. this icing is soft and creamy. coarsely chopped nut meats may be added if liked. cake must be eaten with a fork, but is delicious. a "half pound" cake cream together / pound of sugar and / pound of butter. beat into this the eggs separately, until five eggs have been used. add flour and small teaspoonful of baking powder. bake in a moderate oven about minutes; / pound of flour is used in this cake. this cake is extra fine. a delicious icing (not cheap). stir to a cream a half cup butter, - / cups pulverized sugar, tablespoonful milk and teaspoonful vanilla. it is then ready to use for icing a cake. cocoanut layer cake cups sugar. / cup butter and lard, mixed. eggs (yolks only). cup milk. cups flour, sifted several times with the teaspoonfuls cream of tartar and teaspoonful soda (saleratus). mix like an ordinary cake. the filling. to the stiffly beaten whites of eggs add cup of pulverized sugar. spread this on each one of the layers of the cake and on top. strew a half of a grated cocoanut over. to the other half of grated cocoanut add tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar and strew over top of the cake. gold layer cake yolks of eggs. / cup butter. large cup granulated sugar. / cup sweet milk. - / cups flour. heaping teaspoonfuls baking powder. cream sugar and butter, add yolks. beat well, then add milk and flour. stir all together and bake in square pans in a hot oven. sunshine sponge cake cup granulated sugar. whites of small fresh eggs and yolks. / cup of flour, or scant cup of flour. / teaspoonful cream of tartar and a pinch of salt. beat the yolks of eggs thoroughly, then beat the whites about half; add cream of tartar and beat until very stiff. stir in sugar sifted lightly through your flour sifter. then add beaten yolks, stir thoroughly, sift the flour five times. the last time sift into the batter, stirring only enough to incorporate the flour. bake in a tube pan from to minutes in a very moderate oven. this is a particularly fine cake, but a little difficult to get just right. place cake in a cool oven; when cake has risen turn on heat. this cake should be baked same as an angel cake. an inexpensive dark "chocolate layer cake" cup sugar. / cup butter. eggs. / cup sweet milk. cups flour sifted with teaspoonfuls baking powder. / cup chocolate. grate the chocolate, mix with / cup of milk and yolk of egg, sweeten to taste; cook the chocolate; when cooled add to the above mixture. bake in three layer tins. put white boiled icing between the layers. the boiled icing recipe will be found on another page. angel cake eggs (whites only). - / cups granulated sugar (sifted times). cup flour (sifted times). teaspoonful cream of tartar. teaspoonful vanilla. place white of eggs in a large bowl and beat about half as stiff as you wish them to be when finished beating. add cream of tartar, sprinkle it over the beaten whites of eggs lightly, and then beat until very stiff. sift in sugar, then flour very lightly. fold into the batter, rather than stir, with quick, even strokes with spoon. put quickly in tube pan, bake in moderate oven from to minutes. do not open oven door for first minutes after cake has been placed in oven. if cake browns before it rises to top of pan open oven door two minutes; when cake has risen to top of pan finish baking quickly. the moment cake shrinks back to level of pan remove from oven. this is an old, reliable recipe given mary by her aunt, who had baked cake from it for years. mary's chocolate loaf (made with sour milk) cups brown sugar. / cup lard and butter, mixed. eggs. / cup baker's chocolate, melted. / cup sour milk. / cup warm water. teaspoonful vanilla. pinch of salt. teaspoonful saleratus. cups flour. dissolve the saleratus in a little vinegar or warm water. mix as an ordinary loaf cake. inexpensive sunshine cake eggs. cup granulated sugar. cup sifted flour. beat whites of eggs very stiff and stir in thoroughly, then fold the flour, stirring only just enough to mix it in. if stirred too much, the cake will be tough. bake in a tube pan. this is a delicious cake if carefully made according to directions. no butter or baking powder is used. bake in a very moderate oven at first, gradually adding more heat until cake is baked. mary's recipe for orange cake grate outside rind of orange into a bowl; - / cups sugar and / cup butter and lard, mixed. cream all together. add yolks of three eggs, cup of sweet milk, - / cups flour, sifted with - / teaspoonfuls of baking powder. lastly, add the stiffly beaten whites of the eggs. bake in two layers. filling for orange cake. grated rind and juice of half an orange, half the white of one egg, beaten stiff. add pulverized sugar until stiff enough to spread between cakes and on top. (about two cups of sugar were used.) roll jelly cake cup granulated sugar. - / cups flour. egg yolks. pinch of salt. / cup boiling water. large teaspoonful baking powder. the yolks of eggs left from making "pennsylvania dutch kisses" may be used for this cake by the addition of an extra yolk of egg. beat the yolks quite light, then add the sugar and beat until light and frothy. add the flour sifted with the baking powder and salt. lastly, add the half cup of boiling water. bake in a rather quick oven from to minutes in two square layer cake pans. cover cakes first ten minutes until they have risen. when baked turn cakes out of pans on to a cloth. take one at a time from the oven, spread as quickly as possible with a tart jelly, either currant or grape, and roll as quickly as possible, as when the cakes become cool they cannot be rolled without breaking. roll up in a cloth and when cool and ready to serve slice from end of roll. these cakes are very nice when one is successful, but a little difficult to get just right. aunt sarah's cinnamon cake cup sugar. cups flour. egg. - / teaspoons baking powder piece of butter the size of egg. pinch of salt. cup milk. a little grated nutmeg. beat the butter to a cream and gradually add the sugar. then add the unbeaten egg and beat all together thoroughly. add milk and flour and beat hard for five minutes. add baking powder, salt and nutmeg. pour into two small greased pie-tins and before putting in oven sprinkle sugar and cinnamon over top. this is an excellent breakfast cake, easily and quickly made. "gelb kuchen" mary's aunt taught her to make this exceptionally fine cake, yellow as gold, in texture resembling an "angel cake," from the following ingredients: the whites of eggs, yolks of eggs, / cup of fine, granulated sugar, / cup of high-grade flour, / teaspoonful of cream of tartar (good measure), a few drops of almond extract or / teaspoonful of vanilla. mix ingredients together in the following manner: sift sugar and flour separately times. beat yolks of eggs until light, add sugar to yolks of eggs and beat to a cream. the whites of eggs were placed in a separate bowl and when partly beaten the cream of tartar was sifted over and the whites of eggs were then beaten until dry and frothy. the stiffly beaten whites of eggs were then added alternately with the flour to the yolks and sugar. carefully fold in, do not beat. add flavoring, pour batter in a small, narrow bread tin, previously brushed with lard, over which flour had been dusted. the cake when baked may be readily removed from the tin after it has cooled. bake cake in a very moderate oven about minutes. after cake has been in oven or minutes increase heat of oven. an extra fine, large cake may be baked from this recipe if double the quantity of ingredients are used. devil's food cake cups brown sugar. / cup butter and lard, mixed. eggs. / cup boiling water. ounces baker's chocolate. cups flour. teaspoonful soda. / cup sour cream or milk. cream butter and sugar and add yolks of eggs; then sour milk into which the soda has been dissolved. add hot water, then the eggs. bake in layers or loaf. ice with boiled chocolate icing. if a little of the sour milk is saved until last, the soda dissolved in that, and then added to the cake batter, it will give a brick red appearance. this is an excellent cake. a cheap cocoanut layer cake cream together cup sugar, / cup butter, egg (white of egg beaten separately), add / cup milk, cups flour sifted with teaspoonfuls baking powder. the stiffly beaten white of egg added last. bake in two layers. for the filling, to put between layers, beat the white of one egg to a stiff, dry froth; add one tablespoonful of sugar, mix together, spread between layers of cake and on top and over this strew freshly grated cocoanut grate cocoanut intended for cake the day before using. after it has been grated toss up lightly with a fork and stand in a cool place to dry out before using. lady baltimore cake cup butter. cups sugar. - / cups flour. cup sweet milk. whites of eggs. level teaspoonfuls baking powder sifted with the flour. teaspoonful rosewater. mix in the usual way and bake in three layers. icing for cake. dissolve cups of sugar in a cup of boiling water. cook until it spins a thread, about ten or twelve minutes. take from fire and pour over three stiffly beaten whites of eggs, then add a cup of nut meats (blanched and chopped almonds). one cup of chopped raisins may also be added if liked. stir until thick and creamy. allow cake to get cold before icing. one-half this recipe for icing will be sufficient for an ordinary cake. an inexpensive "white fruit cake" cups sugar. eggs. lb. seeded raisins. cup milk. cup butter. lb. currants. lb. chopped almonds. flavor with almond extract. cups flour sifted with teaspoonfuls of royal baking powder. / lb. figs. / lb. citron. beat to a cream sugar, butter and yolks of eggs. then add milk and flour alternately and fruit and almonds. lastly, add stiffly beaten whites of eggs. flour fruit before adding. chop figs. cut citron fine or shave it thin. this is a cheaper recipe than the one for a "christmas fruit cake," but this is a very good cake. a good and cheap "white cake" cups sugar. / cup butter and lard, mixed. cup milk. add a few drops of almond flavoring. cups flour. teaspoonfuls baking powder. whites of five eggs. cream together the butter and sugar, add flour sifted with baking powder alternately with the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. the five yolks of eggs left from baking white cake may be used when making salad dressing. use five yolks instead of three whole eggs, as called for in recipe for salad dressing. chocolate icing (very good) one-quarter cup grated, unsweetened chocolate, / cup milk, half a cup sugar. boil all together until thick and creamy. this quantity will be sufficient to ice the top of one ordinary cake. spread icing on cake before icing cools. when this icing is used for layer cake, double the recipe. tip-top cake lb. granulated sugar. cup butter. cup milk. eggs. lb. chopped raisins. (citron may be used instead of raisins.) / a nutmeg, grated. scant cups of flour. teaspoonfuls baking powder. mix together same as ordinary cake and bake in a loaf. this aunt sarah considered one of her finest cake recipes. she had used it for years in her family. the friend who gave this recipe to aunt sarah said: "a couple of tablespoonfuls of brandy will improve the cake." orange cake grate the yellow outside rind of orange into a bowl. add - / cups sugar and / cups butter and beat to a cream. then add yolks of eggs. then stir in cup milk, - / cups flour with heaping teaspoonfuls baking powder. lastly, add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. bake in three layers. filling. use the white of one egg, the grated rind and juice of large orange and enough pulverized sugar to stiffen. spread between layers. cheap sponge cake - / cups granulated sugar. eggs. - / cups flour. tablespoonfuls boiling water. - / teaspoonfuls baking powder. pinch of salt; flavor to suit taste. cream yolks and sugar thoroughly, then add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs, then flour, then boiling water. bake in a tube pan about minutes. this is a very easily made cake, which seldom fails and was bought with a set of "van dusen cake pans," which aunt sarah said: "she'd used for many years and found invaluable." caramel cake and icing - / cups pulverized sugar, cup of butter, cups flour, / cup of corn starch, teaspoons of baking powder sifted through flour and corn starch, cup of milk, the whites of eggs. mix like ordinary cake. bake as a loaf cake. ice top the following: cup of light brown sugar, / cup milk, / tablespoonful of butter, / teaspoonful of vanilla. cook all together until a soft ball is formed when dropped in water. beat until creamy and spread on top of cake. a white cake sift together, three times, the following: cup of flour. cup of sugar (granulated). even teaspoonfuls of baking powder. scald one cup of milk and pour hot over the above mixture. beat well. fold into the mixture, carefully, the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. flavor with a few drops of almond extract. bake in a _moderate oven_, exactly as you would bake an angel cake. this is a delicious, light, flaky cake, if directions are closely followed, but a little difficult to get just right. "dutch" currant cake (no yeast used) eggs. cups sugar. cup butter. cup milk. / teaspoonful baking soda. teaspoonful cream of tartar. teaspoonful cinnamon. / teaspoonful grated nutmeg. cup dried currants. to - / cups flour. make about as stiff as ordinary cake mixture. the butter, sugar and yolks of eggs were creamed together. cinnamon and nutmeg were added. milk and flour added alternately, stirring flour in lightly; sift cream of tartar in with the flour. add the baking soda dissolved in a very little water, then add the well-floured currants, and lastly add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. bake in a large cake pan, generally used for fruit cake or bake two medium-sized cakes. bake slowly in a moderately hot oven. these cakes keep well, as do most german cakes. an "old recipe" for coffee cake cups flour. cup sugar. cup raisins. cup of liquid coffee. cup lard. cup molasses. tablespoonful saleratus. spices to taste. mix like any ordinary cake. this is a very old recipe of aunt sarah's mother. the cup used may have been a little larger than the one holding a half pint, used for measuring ingredients in all other cake recipes. a cheap brown sugar cake cup brown sugar. i tablespoonful lard. cup cold water. pinch of salt. cups raisins. / teaspoonful cloves. teaspoonful cinnamon. boil all together three minutes, cool, then add teaspoonful of soda and / teaspoonful of baking powder sifted with cups of flour. frau schmidt's "german christmas cake" cream together in a bowl half a pound of pulverized sugar and half a pound of butter; then add yolks of five eggs, grated lemon rind, pint of milk, - / pounds of flour sifted with teaspoonfuls of baking powder, teaspoonfuls of vanilla extract. bake at once in a moderately hot oven. mary baked an ordinary-sized cake by using one-half of this recipe. the cake was fine grained, similar to a pound cake, although not quite as rich, and she added a couple tablespoonfuls of thinly shaved citron to the batter before baking. this is a particularly fine cake. "aunt sarah's" shellbark layer cake - / cups sugar. / cup butter. / cup water. eggs. - / teaspoonfuls baking powder. flour to stiffen. save out white of one egg for icing. bake cake in three layers. chop cup of hickory nut meats and add to the last layer of cake before putting in pan to bake. use the cake containing nut meats for the middle layer of cake. put layers together with white boiled icing. imperial cake (baked for mary's wedding) pound sugar. pound butter. / pound flour. pound raisins, seeded. pound almonds. / pound thinly shaved citron. lemon. nutmeg. eggs. mix ingredients as for pound cake. a fine cake, but expensive. a light fruit cake (for christmas) pound butter, scant measure. pound pulverized sugar. pound flour (full pound). eggs. pound english walnut kernels. pound raisins. / lb. citron, candied orange and lemon peel. cup brandy. teaspoonful baking powder. bake - / to hours. this is an excellent cake. english cake (similar to a white fruit cake) eggs. the weight of eggs in sugar. the weight of eggs in flour. cup raisins. cup currants. the weight of eggs in butter. / teaspoonful baking powder. tablespoonfuls of brandy. / cup finely shaved citron. / cup english walnut or shellbark meats. small quantity of candied orange and lemon peel. this recipe was given mary by an english friend, an excellent cook and cake-baker, who vouches for its excellence. grandmother's fruit cake (baked for mary's wedding) pound butter. pound sugar. pound flour. pounds raisins. pounds currants. spices of all kinds. / pound thinly sliced citron. eggs. tablespoonful molasses. cup sour milk. teaspoonful soda. mix together in ordinary manner. cream butter and sugar, add yolks of eggs, sour milk and soda; add flour alternately with stiffly beaten whites of eggs. lastly, the well-floured fruit. bake two hours in a moderate oven. this quantity makes one very large cake, or two medium sized ones, and will keep one year. line inside of pan with well-greased heavy paper to prevent bottom of cake baking too hard. aunt sarah never cut this cake until one month from time it was baked, as it improves with age and may be kept one year. an old recipe for pound cake cream together / pound butter and pound sugar and yolks of eggs. then add whites of eggs well beaten alternately with pound of sifted flour. bake in a moderate oven with a steady heat. the bottom of pan should be lined with well-greased paper. "bucks county" molasses cakes (baked in pastry) place in a bowl cup of new orleans molasses and / of a cup of sweet milk. add teaspoonful of baking _soda_. (for this cake aunt sarah was always particular to use the _cow_-brand soda), dissolved in a very little hot water. aunt sarah always used b.t. babbitt's saleratus for other purposes. stir all ingredients together well, then add gradually three even cups of flour, no more, and beat hard. the cake mixture should not be very thick. pour into three medium-sized pie-tins lined with pastry and bake in a moderately hot oven. these are good, cheap breakfast cakes, neither eggs nor shortening being used. brod torte (bread tart) six yolks of eggs and cup sugar, creamed together. beat about minutes. add teaspoonful allspice, teaspoonful cloves, cup baker's chocolate, which had been grated, melted and cooled; cup stale rye bread crumbs, crushed fine with rolling-pin. lastly, add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs, a pinch of salt and / teaspoonful of baking powder sifted over the batter. put into a small cake pan and bake half an hour in a moderate oven. when eggs are cheap and plentiful this is an economical cake, as no flour is used. it is a delicious cake and resembles an ordinary chocolate cake. a delicious chocolate cake / cake of baker's unsweetened chocolate (grated). cup granulated sugar. / cup milk. teaspoonful vanilla. / cup butter. - / to cups flour. eggs. teaspoonfuls baking powder. boil together chocolate, sugar and milk. add butter and when cool add yolk of eggs; then the flour, flavoring and stiffly beaten whites of eggs. beat all thoroughly and bake in a loaf or layers. chocolate icing boil together tablespoonfuls grated chocolate, / cup granulated sugar, tablespoonfuls milk, egg. when the mixture begins to thicken and look creamy, spread on cake. if baked in layers, ice on top and between the two layers. a white cocoanut cake cream together / cup butter and cups sugar. add whites of eggs, cup milk, teaspoonful cream of tartar, / teaspoonful soda sifted with cups flour and grated cocoanut. bake in a loaf. this is an excellent old recipe of aunt sarah's. a potato cake (no yeast required) cream together: cup of sugar. / cup lard and butter, mixed. yolk of eggs. / cup pulverized cocoa. / cup of creamed mashed potatoes, cold. a little ground cinnamon and grated nutmeg. a few drops of essence of vanilla. / cup of sweet milk. / cup finely chopped nut meats. one teaspoonful of baking powder sifted with one cup of flour added to the batter alternately with the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. bake in two layers, in a moderately hot oven. ice top and put layers together with white icing. this is a delicious, if rather unusual cake. a citron cake / cup butter. cup sugar. eggs. tablespoonfuls water. / pound of thinly shaved citron. - / cups flour. - / teaspoonfuls baking powder. several drops of almond flavoring. bake in a loaf in a moderate oven about minutes after mixing ingredients together as for any ordinary cake. this is a very good cake. aunt amanda's spice "kuchen" cup butter. cups granulated sugar. cup of a mixture of sour milk and cream. eggs. teaspoonful soda. / teaspoonful cloves. teaspoonful cinnamon. / teaspoonful nutmeg. teaspoonful vanilla extract. tablespoonfuls cocoa. cups flour. mix all like any ordinary cake. from one-half this recipe was baked an ordinary sized loaf cake. a good, cheap chocolate cake one cup of flour, teaspoonful of baking powder and cup of granulated sugar were sifted together. two eggs were broken into a cup, also large tablespoonful of melted butter. fill up the cup with sweet milk, beat all ingredients well together. flavor with vanilla and add extra tablespoonfuls of flour to the mixture. bake in two layer cake pans. place the following mixture between the two layers: / cup of grated chocolate, / cup sugar and / cup of liquid coffee. cook together a short time until the consistency of thick cream, then spread between layers. an ice cream cake two cups of pulverized sugar, cup of butter, cup sweet milk, whites of eggs, teaspoonful soda, teaspoonfuls of cream of tartar, cups of flour. from same proportions of everything, only using the yolks instead of whites of eggs, may be made a yellow cake, thus having two good sized layer cakes with alternate layers of white and yellow. put cakes together with white icing. this was an old recipe of aunt sarah's mother, used when cream of tartar and soda took the place of baking powder. small sponge cakes for these small cakes take eggs, cup of sugar and / cup of flour and / teaspoonful of baking powder, a pinch of salt, flavor with lemon. beat yolks of eggs separately, then add sugar and beat to a cream, then add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs alternately with the sifted flour and baking powder; add a pinch of salt and flavoring. bake in small muffin tins in a very moderate oven. small cakes and cookies--"aunt sarah's" little lemon cakes cups granulated sugar. eggs (not separated, but added one at a time to the sugar and shortening which had been creamed together). scant cup butter and lard, mixed. teaspoonfuls baking powder. pinch of salt tablespoonful sweet milk. grated rind of lemons and juice of one. stiffen the dough with about - / cups flour and use about extra cup of flour to dredge the bake-board when rolling out dough and for sifting over the greased baking sheets so the cakes will come off readily. roll dough very thin and cut in any desired shape. from this recipe may be made small cakes. the baking sheet (for which i gave measurements in bread recipe) holds of these small round cakes. do all young housewives know that if dough for small cakes be mixed the day before baking and stood in a cool place, the cakes can be cut out more easily and the dough may be rolled thinner, and as less flour may then be used, the cakes will be richer? aunt sarah always cut these cakes with a small round or heart-shaped cutter and when all were on the baking sheet she either placed a half of an english walnut meat in the centre of each cake or cut out the centre of each small cake with the top of a pepper box lid before baking them. oatmeal crisps - / cups rolled oats (oatmeal). tablespoonful melted butter. / cup sugar. teaspoonful baking powder. large eggs. pinch of salt. beat eggs, add salt and sugar, mix baking powder with oats and stir all together. drop from a teaspoon on to flat pan or sheet iron, not too close together, as they spread. flatten very thin with a knife dipped in cold water and bake in a moderate oven a light brown. these cakes are fine and easily made. did you not know differently, you would imagine these cakes to be macaroons made from nuts, which they greatly resemble. aunt sarah's ginger snaps cup molasses, cup sugar, cup of a mixture of lard and butter, egg, teaspoonful of ginger, teaspoonful of cinnamon, / a grated nutmeg, teaspoonful of soda dissolved in teaspoonful of vinegar. about cups of flour should be added. dough should be stiff enough to roll out very thin, and the cakes may be rolled thinner than would be possible otherwise, should the cake-dough stand aside over night, or on ice for several hours, until thoroughly chilled. cut cakes small with an ordinary cake cutter and bake in a quick oven. these are excellent and will remain crisp some time if kept in a warm, dry place. german "lebkuchen" this is a recipe for good, old-fashioned "german christmas cakes," from which aunt sarah's mother always baked. she used: pound dark brown sugar. whole eggs and yolks of more. / pound citron finely shaved on a "slaw-cutter." / pound english walnut meats (chopped fine). quart flour sifted with teaspoonfuls of baking powder. mix well together. do not roll thin like ginger snaps, but about a half inch thick. cut out about size of a large coffee cup. bake in a moderate oven and when cold ice the cakes with the following icing: icing for german lebkuchen. boil cups of sugar and / cup of water seven minutes. pour over the stiffly beaten whites of three eggs; ice the cakes. place cakes in a tin box when icing has become cold and these will keep quite a long time. i have eaten high-priced, imported lebkuchen no better than those made from this recipe. grandmother's molasses cakes one quart of new orleans molasses, eggs, butter size of an egg. place all together in a stew-pan on range, allow it to come to boil, stirring constantly, and when cool stir in one tablespoonful of saleratus dissolved in a very little vinegar, and about pounds of flour. do not have cake dough too stiff. dough should stand until the following day. roll out at least / inch thick. cut cakes as large around as an ordinary coffee cup or cut with a knife into small, oblong pieces, a little larger than half a common soda cracker. bake in a moderate oven. should too much flour be used, cakes will be hard and dry instead of soft and spongy. this very old and excellent recipe had belonged to the grandmother of sarah landis. cakes similar to the ones baked from this recipe, also those baked from recipe for "honey cakes," were sold in large sheets marked off in oblong sections, seventy years ago, and at that time no "vendue," or public sale, in certain localities throughout bucks county, was thought complete unless in sound of the auctioneer's voice, on a temporary stand, these cakes were displayed on the day of "the sale," and were eagerly bought by the crowd which attended such gatherings. angel cakes (baked in gem pans) the whites of four eggs should be beaten very stiff and when partly beaten sprinkle over / teaspoonful of cream of tartan finish beating egg whites and sift in slowly / cup of fine granulated sugar, then sift / cup of flour (good measure). flavor with a few drops of almond flavoring. bake in small gem pans, placing a tablespoonful of butter in each. sift pulverized sugar over tops of cakes. bake minutes in a _very_ moderate oven. the recipe for these dainty little cakes was given mary by a friend who, knowing her liking for angel cake, said these were similar in taste. "almond brod" three-fourths cup sugar, eggs, - / tablespoonfuls olive oil cups flour, / teaspoonfuls baking powder, / cup sweet almonds, pinch of salt. a couple of drops of almond extract. in a bowl place / cup of granulated sugar. add well-beaten eggs, cups of flour sifted with - / teaspoonfuls of baking powder and a pinch of salt. mix all well together. add cup whole (blanched) almonds and - / tablespoonfuls of good olive oil. knead the dough thoroughly. do not have dough too stiff. divide the dough into four equal parts, roll each portion of dough on a _well-floured_ bake board into long, narrow rolls. place the four rolls on a baking sheet over which flour had been previously sifted. place the rolls a short distance apart and bake in a quick oven about twenty minutes or until light brown on top. on removing the baking sheet from the oven cut rolls at once, while the almonds are still warm, into two-inch pieces. from this recipe was made thirty pieces of almond bread. the olive oil, used as shortening, is not tasted when baked. these are a very good little cake, and not bread, as their name would lead one to suppose. "grossmutter's" honey cakes one quart of boiled honey (if possible procure the honey used by bakers, as it is much cheaper and superior for this purpose than the clear, strained honey sold for table use). add to the warm honey two generous tablespoonfuls of butter, yolks of four eggs, two ounces of salaratus (baking soda), dissolved in a very small quantity of vinegar, just enough to moisten the salaratus. add just enough flour to enable one to stir well with a spoon. work the dough a half hour and allow it to stand until the following day, when cut cakes from the dough which had been rolled out on the bake-board one-half inch thick. the dough should be only just stiff enough to roll out, as should the dough be _too soft_ the cakes will become hard and crisp, instead of light and spongy, and if too great a quantity of flour is added the cakes will not be good. as the thickening qualities of flour differ, the exact amount required cannot be given. when about to cut out cakes, the bake-board should be well-floured. cut the cakes the size of the top of a large coffee-cup, or roll out in one-half inch thick on a well-floured baking sheet and mark in small, oblong sections with a knife, they may then be easily broken apart when baked. these cakes should he baked in a moderately hot oven and not a _hot oven_. these are the real, old-time honey cakes as made by aunt sarah's grandmother on a "bucks county" farm, and mary's aunt informed her she still remembered in her earlier days having bought these cakes at "bucks county" sales or "vendues," as they were then designated. lemon wafers or drop cakes eggs. / pound butter. / pound sugar. / pound flour. pinch of salt. flavor with lemon essence. mix the same as other small cakes. drop spoonfuls quite a distance apart on the cold pan or tin on which they are to be baked as the dough spreads. these are very thin, delicious wafers when baked. frau schmidt's sugar cookies cup lard and butter, mixed. cups granulated sugar, and eggs, all creamed together; then add teaspoon soda (mix with a little sour milk). flavor with vanilla. beat all well together. add flour enough that they may be rolled out, no more. flour bake-board well; cut dough with cake cutter into small round cakes and bake in a rather quick oven. this recipe will make a large number of cakes if dough be rolled thin as a wafer. frau schmidt was able to keep these cakes some time--under lock and key. if cake dough be mixed one day and allowed to stand over night, cakes may be rolled out much more easily and cut thinner. almond macaroons (as prepared by mary) three eggs (whites only), / pound of pulverized sugar, / pound of almond paste (which may be bought ready prepared). beat eggs very stiff, add other ingredients. drop teaspoonfuls on a baking sheet and bake in a moderate oven or minutes. macaroons prepared from this recipe are delicious and resemble those sold by confectioners. "honig kuchen" (honey cakes) two pounds of flour, / pound of butter, / pound of almonds, pounds of honey in liquid form, the grated yellow rind of one lemon, / teaspoonful of cloves, / teaspoonful of cinnamon, ounce of hartshorn, dissolved in a small quantity of water. boil together honey and butter, remove from fire, and when mixture has cooled add the hartshorn, coarsely chopped almonds and flour. allow this mixture to stand several days, roll out / inch thick. cut in small round cakes, place a whole almond in centre of each cake. bake a light brown in a moderate oven. frau schmidt's molasses snaps two cups of new orleans molasses, cup of lard, tablespoonful of ginger, teaspoonful of cinnamon, / teaspoonful of cloves, / a grated nutmeg, tablespoonful of saleratus dissolved in a small quantity of hot water. add enough flour to form a _very_ stiff dough. stand dough aside until the following day, when roll out very thin on a well-floured bake-board. cut with a small round cake cutter and bake in a hot oven. these are good, cheap small cakes. hickory nut cakes one cup of hickory nut meals, cup of pulverized sugar, egg, a pinch of salt, teaspoons of flour. mix all ingredients together. drop small pieces on a sheet-iron and bake. "lebkuchen" (as the professor's wife made them) two pounds of sugar, large eggs, / pound of almonds (shelled), / pound of citron, / of a pound each of candied orange and lemon peel, the grated yellow rind of one lemon, teaspoonfuls of cinnamon, teaspoonful allspice, about pounds flour. separate the eggs. cream the yolks of eggs and sugar well together. then add the almonds (which have been blanched by pouring boiling water over them, when the skins may be readily removed), the citron and lemon peel chopped fine. then add level teaspoonful of different spices. then add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs, alternately, with the sifted flour. the recipe called for two pounds of flour, but "frau" schmidt said; "she was never able to use the whole amount, so she added just enough flour to prevent the mixture spreading when dropped on the baking sheet by tablespoonfuls." fruit jumbles two cups sugar, eggs (beaten separately), cup butter, cup milk, - / cups flour, teaspoonfuls baking powder, / of nutmeg, grated, cup currants. mix all together and bake in a broad, shallow pan. this is similar to spanish bun. when cake is cooled, but not cold, cut in two-inch squares or diamonds before removing from the pan in which the cake was baked. brown "pfeffernussen" for these german cakes frau schmidt used the following: pounds of flour, pounds of sugar syrup, / teaspoonful of black pepper, / pound of lard, / teaspoon of cardamom powder, / pound of butter, / teaspoonful of cloves, / pound of brown sugar and eggs. use as much "hirschhorn salz" as can be placed on the point of a knife ("hirschhorn salz" translated is carbonate of ammonia and is used for baking purposes). allow the syrup to heat on the range. skim off the top. when syrup has cooled mix all ingredients together and stand aside for one week or longer, when form the dough into small balls size of a hickory nut. place on greased pans and bake half hour in a slow oven. small oatmeal cakes cream together - / cups of light brown sugar, / cup of lard and butter, mixed, and the yolk of one egg. add / cup of hot water and / teaspoonful of saleratus (baking soda) dissolved in a little boiling water; add - / cups of oatmeal the stiffly beaten white of egg and - / cups of white flour. mix all together. dredge the bake board with flour, roll thin. cut out with a small round cake cutter. sift a little flour over the well-greased baking sheets, on which place cakes and bake in a moderately hot oven. frau schmidt's recipe for "german" almond slices / pound sugar, / pound butter. / pound of seeded raisins (chopped). / pound blanched and chopped almonds. teaspoonful cinnamon, teaspoonful of allspice. grated rind and juice of lemon. cakes german sweet chocolate, grated. whole eggs and extra whites of eggs. teaspoons baking powder, cups flour. tablespoon vanilla, tablespoons of brandy. cream butter and sugar, add eggs, one at a time. then add all the ingredients. mix with flour. flour bake board and take a handful of dough and roll with the hands in shape of a sausage roll. this quantity of dough makes eight rolls. place on greased baking sheets a short distance apart, so they will not touch when being baked. bake them in a _warm_, not hot, oven. take from the oven when baked and cut while still warm into small slices across the roll. slices should be about three-quarters of an inch wide. cover the three sides with the following icing: beat together until smooth and creamy cupful of sweet cream, adding enough confectioners' sugar to make it spread. you may expedite the work by preparing raisins and almonds the day before. the professor's wife always served these almond cakes with coffee when she gave a "kaffee klatch" to her country friends. "july ann's" ginger snaps two cups of molasses (new orleans), cup of light brown sugar, egg, tablespoonful of soda, tablespoonfuls of vinegar, tablespoonful of ginger and about - / cups of flour. place molasses and sugar in a sauce-pan on the range, cook together until sugar is dissolved, no longer. mix the soda and vinegar and when foamy add to the sugar and molasses with a portion of the required amount of flour; then add the egg and the flour remaining. turn dough out on a well-floured bake-beard, roll out into a thin sheet and cut out small cakes with a tin cutter. bake in a moderately hot oven. no shortening of any kind was used in these cakes. one hundred cakes were baked from the above ingredients. cocoanut cookies three cups of sugar, cup of butter, eggs, cup of sweet milk, cup of grated cocoanut, teaspoonfuls of baking powder. mix all together, sift flour with baking powder, add flour to form a dough just stiff enough to roll out, no more. cut with a small tin cake cutter into round cakes and bake. chocolate cookies two cups of white sugar, cup of grated, unsweetened chocolate, eggs, / cup of butter, teaspoonfuls of baking powder. flavor with vanilla. mix together sugar, butter and eggs, add melted chocolate and flour to stiffen, just enough flour being used to allow of their being cut with a cake cutter. the baking powder should have been sifted with a small amount of flour before adding. small "belsnickel" christmas cakes cups "a" sugar. pinch of salt. cup melted butter. teaspoonful baking soda. eggs. about cups of flour. mix in just enough flour so the cake dough may be rolled out quite thin on a floured board, using as little flour as possible. cut out small cakes and bake lightly in a moderately hot oven. the butter, when melted, should fill one cup; pour it over the two cups of sugar in a bowl and beat until smooth and creamy; add the eggs, beating one at a time into the mixture. sift the teaspoonful of baking soda several times through the flour before adding to the cake mixture. stand this dough in a cold place one hour at least before cutting out cakes. no flavoring is used. sift granulated sugar thickly over cakes before placing them in oven to bake. from these ingredients were made over one hundred cakes. one-half this recipe might be used for a small family. the cakes keep well in a dry, cool place. this old recipe of aunt sarah's mother derived its name "belsnickel" from the fact that the belsnickels, who invariably visited the houses of "bucks county" farmers on christmas eve, were always treated to some of these delicious little christmas cakes. "pennsylvania dutch" kisses one cup of pulverized sugar, whites of eggs, heaping cup of nut meats (mary used hickory nut meats), a pinch of salt. to the very stiffly beaten whites of eggs add sugar, salt and lastly the nut meats. drop teaspoonfuls of this batter on a greased, floured baking tin. bake in a moderate oven. little crumb cakes for these small cakes aunt sarah creamed together / cup of granulated sugar, / cup butter. one quite large egg was used. the egg yolk was added to the creamed sugar and butter and thoroughly beaten, then scant / cup of milk was added, and one heaping cup of fine dried bread crumbs sifted with / teaspoonful of baking powder and / cup of finely chopped or rolled _black_ walnut meats. lastly, add the stiffly beaten white of egg. flavor with grated nutmeg. bake in small muffin pans in a moderate oven. this makes nine small cakes. no flour is used in these cakes, but, instead of flour, bread crumbs are used. delicious vanilla wafers (as mary made them) / pound of butter. / pound of flour. / pound of sugar. eggs. cream together butter and sugar, add yolks of eggs, beat well, then add stiffly beaten whites of eggs and flour alternately. flavor with essence of vanilla, drop from spoon on to _cold_ iron pan, not too close together, as the cakes will spread. bake quickly in a hot oven until outer edge of cakes have browned. macaroons (as aunt sarah made them) one-half pound of almonds, blanched and chopped fine, / pound of pulverized sugar, whites of eggs. place sugar and almonds in a pan on the range, until colored a light yellow-brown. beat whites of eggs very stiff, mix all ingredients together, then drop with a spoon on tins waxed with bees' wax, and bake in a quick oven. "springerles" (german christmas cakes) eggs. pound sifted pulverized sugar quarts flour, sifted twice. small teaspoonfuls baking powder. beat whites and yolks of eggs separately, mix with sugar and beat well. add flour until you have a smooth dough. roll out pieces of dough, which should be half an inch thick. press the dough on a floured form or mold, lift the mold, cut out the cakes thus designed and let lie until next day on a floured bread board. the next day grease pans well, sprinkle anise seed over the pans in which the cakes are to be baked; lay in cakes an inch apart and bake in a moderate oven to a straw color. the form used usually makes six impressions or cakes - / inches square, leaving the impression of a small figure or flower on surface when dough is pressed on form. oatmeal cookies cup sugar. cup butter and lard, mixed (scant measure). cup chopped nut meats. cup chopped raisins. eggs, beaten separately, whites added last. teaspoonful baking soda dissolved in tablespoonfuls sour milk. teaspoonful vanilla. little grated nutmeg. cups oatmeal (uncooked). cups white flour. drop with tablespoon on well-greased baking sheet over which has been sifted a little flour. bake in rather quick oven. this recipe makes small cakes. peanut biscuits sift together cups flour and teaspoonfuls baking powder. add egg, / cup sugar, / cup peanuts and pecan nut meats, mixed (run through food-chopper), / cup sweet milk, / teaspoonful salt. beat sugar and yolk of egg together add milk, stiffly beaten white of egg, chopped nut meats and flour, alternately. add salt. place a large spoonful in each of well-greased gem pans. allow to stand in pans about minutes. bake half an hour. plain cookies / cup butter. tablespoonfuls milk. cup sugar. / teaspoonful grated nutmeg. eggs. / cup chopped walnut meats. cups flour. teaspoonfuls baking powder. cream butter and sugar, add milk slowly, add well-beaten eggs. beat well, add flour and baking powder, sifted together. roll thin. cut with a small cake cutter any desired. walnut rocks cream together - / cups of sugar, / cup of butter, a small teaspoonful of salt. dissolve teaspoonful of soda in tablespoonfuls of warm water, two eggs. sift cups of flour, add teaspoonful of ginger, teaspoonful of cloves, / teaspoonful of grated nutmeg, pound of english walnuts, pound of seeded raisins. drop by teaspoon on a cold sheet iron and bake in a moderate oven. these are excellent. cinnamon wafers (as made by aunt sarah) eggs / pound sugar. / pound butter. pound flour. mix like ordinary cake. divide this into three parts. flavor one part with vanilla, with chocolate and the other with cinnamon. these latter will be darker than the first. place a piece of dough as large as a small marble in a small hot, well-greased waffle or wafer iron. press two sides of iron together, which flattens out cake, and hold by a long handle over fire, turning it over occasionally until cakes are baked. the cake, when baked, is a delicious, thin, rich wafer, about the size of half a common soda cracker. i have never eaten these christmas cakes at any place excepting at aunt sarah's. the wafer iron she possessed was brought by her grandmother from germany. the waffle or wafer irons might be obtained in this country. zimmet waffles (as made by frau schmidt) / pound butter. / ounce cinnamon. / pound sugar. eggs. flour. work together and form into small balls. place in hot buttered wafer irons, hold over fire and bake. this is an old german recipe which frau schmidt's grandmother used. "braune lebkuchen" pounds sugar syrup. / pound granulated sugar. / pound butter. / pound coarsely chopped almonds. grate yellow part of one lemon rind. / ounce cinnamon. / ounce cloves. drachm of powdered cardamom. ounce of hartshorn, dissolved in a little milk. place syrup in stew-pan on range to heat, add butter, almonds, spices, etc. remove from range, stir in flour gradually. use about cups of flour. when cool add the dissolved hartshorn. allow the cake dough to stand in a warm place eight to ten days before baking. then place a portion of the cake dough on a greased baking sheet which has been sprinkled lightly with flour, roll cake dough out on the sheet about / inch in thickness; place in a _very moderate_ oven. when well dried out and nicely browned on top cut the sheets into small squares, the size of ordinary soda crackers. this is a very old recipe given mary by frau schmidt. peanut cookies one pint of roasted peanuts, measured, after being shelled. rub off the brown skin, run through a food-chopper. cream together tablespoonfuls of butter, cup of sugar. add eggs, tablespoonfuls of milk, / teaspoonful of salt and the chopped peanuts. add flour to make a soft dough. roll out on a floured board, cut with a small cake cutter and bake in a moderate oven. this recipe was given mary by a friend living in allentown. pies--flaky pie crust have all the materials cold when making pastry. handle as little as possible. place in a bowl - / cups flour, / teaspoonful salt and cup good, sweet lard. cut through with a knife into quite small pieces and mix into a dough with a little less than a half cup of cold water. use only enough water to make dough hold together. this should be done with a knife or tips of the fingers. the water should be poured on the flour and lard carefully, a small quantity at a time, and never twice at the same place. be careful that the dough is not too moist. press the dough with the hands into a lump, but do not knead. take enough of the dough for one pie on the bake board, roll lightly, always in one direction, line greased pie tins and fill crust. if fruit pies, moisten the edge of the lower crust, cover with top crust, which has been rolled quite thin. a knife scraped across the top crust several times before placing over pie causes the crust to have a rough, flaky, rich-looking surface when baked. cut small vents in top crust to allow steam to escape. pinch the edges of fruit pies well together to prevent syrup oozing out. if you wish light, flaky pie crust, bake in a hot oven. if a sheet of paper placed in oven turns a delicate brown, then the oven is right for pies. the best of pastry will be a failure if dried slowly in a cool oven. when baking a crust for a tart to be filled after crust has been baked, always prick the crust with a fork before putting in oven to bake. this prevents the crust forming little blisters. aunt sarah always used for her pies four even cups of flour, / teaspoonful baking powder and one even cup of sweet, _rich, home-made lard_, a pinch of salt with just enough cold water to form a dough, and said her pies were rich enough for any one. they certainly were rich and flaky, without being greasy, and she said, less shortening was necessary when baking powder was used. to cause her pies to have a golden brown color she brushed tops of pies with a mixture of egg and milk or milk and placed immediately in a hot oven. mary noticed her aunt frequently put small dabs of lard or butter on the dough used for top crust of pies before rolling crust the desired size when she wished them particularly rich. aunt sarah always used pastry flour for cake and pie. a smooth flour which showed the impression of the fingers when held tightly in the hand (the more expensive "bread flour") feels like fine sand or granulated sugar, and is a stronger flour and considered better for bread or raised cakes in which yeast is used, better results being obtained by its use alone or combined with a cheaper flour when baking bread. aunt sarah's lemon pie this is a good, old-fashioned recipe for lemon pie, baked with two crusts, and not expensive. grate the yellow outside rind from one lemon, use juice and pulp, but not the white part of rind; mix with small cups of sugar, then add cup of water and cup of milk, and large tablespoonful of corn starch, moistened with a little of the one cup of water. the yolks of eggs were added. mix all ingredients and add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs. this quantity will fill three small pastry crusts. the mixture will measure nearly one quart. pour into the three crusts, moisten edges of pies, place top crusts on each pie. pinch edges of crust together and bake in hot oven. the professor's wife's superior pastry for superior pastry use - / cups flour, cup lard, / teaspoonful salt and about / cup of cold water, or three scant tablespoonfuls. put cup of flour on the bake board, sprinkle salt over, chop / cup of sweet lard through the flour with a knife, until the pieces are about the size of a cherry. moisten with about / cup of ice cold water. cut through the flour and lard with a knife, moistening a little of the mixture at a time, until you have a soft dough, easily handled. roll out lightly the size of a tea plate. take / of the lard remaining, put small dabs at different places on the dough (do not spread the lard over), then sprinkle over / of the remaining half cup of flour and roll the dough into a long, narrow roll, folding the opposite ends in the centre of the roll. roll out lightly (one way), then add lard and flour; roll and repeat the process until flour and lard have all been used. the pastry may be set aside in a cold place a short time before using. if particularly fine pastry is required, the dough might be rolled out once more, using small dabs of butter instead of lard, same quantity as was used of lard for one layer, then dredged thickly with flour and rolled over and over, and then ends folded together, when it should be ready to use. when wanted to line pie-tins, cut pieces off one end of the roll of dough and roll out lightly. the layers should show plainly when cut, and the pastry should puff nicely in baking, and be very rich, crisp and flaky. when preparing crusts for custards, lemon meringues and pies having only one crust, cut narrow strips of pastry about half an inch wide, place around the upper edge or rim of crust and press the lower edge of the strip against the crust; make small cuts with a knife about / inch apart, all around the edge of this extra crust, to cause it to look flaky when baked. this makes a rich pie crust. a very good crust may be made by taking the same proportions as used for superior pastry, placing - / to cups flour on the bake board, add salt, cut / cup lard through the flour, moistening with water. roll out crust and line pie-tins or small patty pans for tarts. this pastry is not quite as fine and smooth as the other, but requires less time and trouble to make. the professor's wife taught mary to make this pastry, but mary never could learn from her the knack of making a dainty, crimped, rolled-over edge to her pies, which she made easily with a deft twist of her thumb and forefinger. mary's lemon meringue (made with milk) line two large pie-tins with pie crust, prick with a fork before placing crusts in oven to bake. when baked stand aside to cool while you prepare the following filling: the juice and grated rind of lemon, pint sweet milk, cup sugar, yolks of three eggs, tablespoonfuls flour, butter size of a walnut. cream together sugar, flour, yolks of eggs, then add lemon, mix well then add to the scalded milk on the range and cook until thick. let cool, but do not allow to become quite cold, spread on the two crusts, which have been baked. when quite cold add tablespoonfuls of sugar to the stiffly beaten whites of the three eggs, spread on top of pies, sift tablespoonful pulverized sugar on top of meringue and set in a quick oven until fawn color. serve cold. when mixing pie dough, should you have mixed more than needed at one time, line _agate_ pie-tins with crust (never stand away in tin). they may be kept several days in a cool place and used later for crumb cakes or custards. or a crust might be baked and used later for lemon meringues, etc. apple tart line pie-tins with rich pie crust, sift over each tablespoonful flour and tablespoonfuls sugar. place on the crust enough good, tart baking apples, which have been pared, cored, halved and placed (flat surface down) on the crust. put bits of butter over the top and between the apples, about large tablespoonful altogether, and sprinkle about tablespoonfuls of sugar over, add about tablespoonful of cold water when pies are ready to place in oven. these pies should be baked in a very hot oven. when apples are soft take pies from oven and serve one pie, hot; stand the other one aside until quite cold. to the stiffly beaten white of one egg add one tablespoonful sugar. stir together and place a spoonful on the top of each half of apple and place in oven until meringue has browned and serve pie cold. peach tarts may be made in a similar manner, omitting the meringue and substituting peaches for apples. raisin or "rosina" pie "rosina" pie, as aunt sarah called it, was composed of lemon, egg, cup sugar, tablespoonful flour, cup large, blue, seeded raisins. cover the raisins with one cup of cold water; let soak two hours. cream egg and sugar together, add juice and grated rind of one quite small lemon, or half a large one. mix the tablespoonful of flour smooth with a little cold water, add to the mixture, then add raisins and to the water in which they were soaked add enough water to fill the cup and cook until the mixture thickens. when cool fill pie-tins with the mixture, bake with upper and under crust about minutes in hot oven. aunt sarah used a _generous_ tablespoonful of flour for this pie. "snitz" pie cover a bowlful of well-washed dried apples with cold water and allow to soak over night. the following morning cook until tender and mash through a colander. if quite thick a small quantity of water should be added. season with sugar to taste. some apples require more sugar than others. add cinnamon, if liked. aunt sarah never used any spices in these pies. bake with two crusts or place strips cross-wise over the pie of thinly rolled dough, like lattice work. these are typical "bucks county" pies. mary's recipe for plain pumpkin pie line a pie-tin, one holding cups of liquid, with rich pastry. for the filling for pie mix together the following: cup of steamed pumpkin, which had been mashed through a colander, egg, beaten separately, tablespoonful of flour, - / tablespoonfuls of sugar, / teaspoonful of salt, / teaspoonful of grated nutmeg, same of ginger, - / cups of milk (scant measure). the mixture should measure exactly cups, after adding milk. pour this mixture into the pastry-lined pie-tin and bake in a moderate oven until top of pie is a rich brown. chocolate pie melt one square of baker's unsweetened chocolate, or / cup of powdered cocoa, mix with this / cup of granulated sugar and / cup of corn starch. when well mixed add yolks of eggs, a pinch of salt, cups of milk; cook all together in a double boiler until thickened. when cool flavor with vanilla. fill pastry-lined pie crust with the mixture. beat the whites of eggs to a froth, mix with a couple tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar, spread on top of pie, stand in oven until light brown. "pebble dash" or shoo-fly pie aunt sarah made these to perfection and called them "pebble dash" pie. they are not really pies, they resemble cakes, but having a crust we will class them with pies. she lined three small sized pie-tins with rich pie crust. for the crumbs she placed in a bowl cups of flour, cup brown sugar and / cup of butter and lard, mixed and rubbed all together with the hands, not smooth, but in small rivels. for the liquid part she used cup baking molasses, cup hot water, teaspoonful baking soda dissolved in a few drops of vinegar and stirred this into the molasses and water. she divided the liquid among the three pans, putting one-third in each crust, over which she sprinkled the crumbs. bake one-half hour in a moderate oven. these have the appearance of molasses cakes when baked. vanilla crumb "crusts" cook together a short time / cup molasses, egg, tablespoonful flour, cup sugar, cups cold water. moisten the flour with a little cold water before adding to the other ingredients. when cooled add teaspoonful of vanilla. pour this mixture in the bottom of each of four common sized pie-tins, lined with pastry, and sprinkle over the following crumbs: the crumbs (for vanilla crumb crusts). two cups flour, / cup butter and lard, mixed, / teaspoonful soda and cup sugar, rubbed together with the hands to form crumbs. scatter these crumbs over the four pies. these are not thick pies, but simply what the recipe calls them--vanilla "crusts." "kasha kuchen" or cherry cake aunt sarah sometimes filled the bottom crusts of two small pies (either cheese pie or plain custard) with a layer of fresh cherries and poured the custard over the top of the cherries and baked same as a plain custard pie. aunt sarah might be called extravagant by some, but she always made egg desserts when eggs were cheap and plentiful, in the spring. in winter she baked pies and puddings in which a fewer number of eggs were used and substituted canned and dried fruits for fresh ones. in summer she used fresh fruit when in season, ice cream and sherbets. she never indulged in high-priced, unseasonable fruits--thought it an extravagance for one to do so, and taught mary "a wise expenditure in time means wealth." for banana custard pie she substituted sliced banana for cherries on top of pie. "rivel kuchen" place in a bowl cup flour, / cup sugar (good measure), / cup butter and lard, or all butter is better (scant measure). some like a little grating of nutmeg, especially if part lard is used. mix or crumb the ingredients well together with the hands to form small lumps, or rivels. line pie-tins with a rich pastry crust and strew the rivels thickly over and bake in a quick oven. a couple tablespoons of molasses spread over the crumbs is liked by some. this is a favorite pie or cake of many pennsylvania germans. aunt sarah's lemon meringue two cups of water, - / cups of sugar, rounding tablespoonfuls of corn starch, eggs, tablespoonful of butter, small lemons. mix the water, sugar and corn starch dissolved in a little cold water, pour in sauce-pan, place on range and stir mixture until thickened. beat separately the yolks of eggs and the whites of , then add both to the above mixture. remove from the fire, add the juice of two small lemons and grated rind of one; add butter. fill two previously baked pastry shells with the cooled mixture. beat the remaining whites of egg (another white of an egg added improves the appearance of the pie.) add one tablespoonful of pulverized sugar to each egg used; place the stiffly beaten whites of egg rockily over tops of pies stand in oven until a delicate shade of brown. this is a delicious pie. a country batter pie line two medium-sized pie-tins with pastry crust in which pour the following mixture, composed of / cup of granulated sugar and one egg, creamed together; then add / cup of cold water and the grated yellow rind and juice of one lemon. for the top of pies: cream together cup of sugar, / cup of lard and egg, then add / cup of sour milk alternately with - / cups of flour, sifted with / teaspoonful of baking soda and / teaspoonful of cream of tartar. place / of this mixture on top of each pie. bake in oven. pumpkin pie (aunt sarah's recipe) the best pumpkin for pie is of a deep orange yellow with a rough, warty surface. remove the soft, spongy pulp and seeds of the pumpkin, pare and cut into small pieces. steam until tender. put in a colander to drain, then mash through colander with wooden potato masher. for one deep pie allow one pint of the stewed pumpkin, beat in eggs, one at a time, / teaspoonful salt, teaspoonful ginger, / teaspoonful grated nutmeg, / teaspoonful cinnamon, / cup sugar, scant pint milk. beat all together. this mixture should barely fill a quart measure. pour in a deep pie-tin lined with rich crust, grate nutmeg over the top of pie and bake from to minutes in a moderate oven. have the oven rather hot when the pie is first put in to bake and then reduce the heat, else the filling in the pie will boil and become watery. if liked, two tablespoonfuls of brandy may be added to the mixture before filling the crust. in that case, use two tablespoonfuls less of milk. white potato custard (aunt sarah's recipe) boil one medium-sized potato, mash fine, add large tablespoonful of butter and a generous / cup sugar. beat to a cream. when the mixture has cooled add yolks of eggs, / cup sweet milk and grated rind and juice of half a lemon. lastly, stir in the stiffly beaten whites of the two eggs. bake in a medium-sized pie-tin with one crust in a moderately hot oven about minutes, until a rich brown on top. this is a delicious pie and would puzzle a "bucks county lawyer" to tell of what it is composed. "rhubarb custard" pie two cups of rhubarb, uncooked, do not skin it, cut in half-inch pieces. cream together cup of sugar, tablespoonful of cornstarch, eggs (reserve white of one egg). add the cups of rhubarb to this mixture and place all in a pie-tin lined with pastry. place in oven and bake until rhubarb is tender. remove from oven and when pie has cooled spread over it the stiffly beaten white of the egg, to which had been added one tablespoonful of sugar. place pie in oven and brown a light fawn color. "lemon apple" pie grate the yellow rind from a lemon (discard the white part of rind), grate the remainder of the lemon, also pare and grate apple. add - / cups of sugar, then add well-beaten eggs. pour this mixture into large pie-tin lined with rich pastry; place on a top crust, pinch edges, moistened with water, together; bake in an oven with a steady heat. when pie has baked sift pulverized sugar thickly over top and serve cold. from these materials was baked a fair sized pie. green currant pie line a pie-tin with rich pastry; place oil this crust tablespoonfuls of flour and tablespoonfuls of sugar; then add cups of well-washed and stemmed green currants, previously mixed with tablespoonful of cornstarch, moistened with a small quantity of cold water. add cup of sugar (from which had been taken the tablespoonfuls placed on crust;) add tablespoonfuls of water; cover with a top crust, cut small vents in crust, bake in a moderate oven. when crust loosens from side of pan the pie should be sufficiently baked. a country "molasses" pie place in a mixing bowl / cup flour (generous measure), / cup granulated sugar, generous tablespoonful of butter. crumble all together with the hands until quite fine. then to / cup of new orleans (baking) molasses add / cup of boiling water and / teaspoonful of soda (saleratus). beat together the molasses, water and soda until the mixture is foamy and rises to top of cup. then pour into a medium-sized pie-tin, lined with pie crust (the pie-tin should not be small or the mixture, when baking, will rise over top of pan). sprinkle the prepared crumbs thickly over the molasses mixture and with a spoon distribute the crumbs well through the mixture. bake in a moderate oven from to minutes and you will have the old-fashioned pie your grandmother used to bake. when her baking finished, she had dough remaining for an extra crust. children always called this "molasses candy pie," as 'twas quite different from the "molasses cake batter" usually baked in crusts. a mock cherry pie this pie was composed of / cup of chopped cranberries, / cup of seeded and chopped raisins, / cup of sugar, / cup of cold water, tablespoonful of flour, teaspoonful of vanilla all together and bake with two crusts. aunt sarah's custard pie line an agate pie-pan (one used especially for custards two inches in depth, holding exactly one quart) with a rich pastry. break five large eggs in a bowl, heat lightly with an egg-beater and add / cup of sugar. boil cups of sweet milk, pour over the eggs and sugar, add teaspoonful of butter and a pinch of salt, / teaspoonful of vanilla. the mixture should fill a one-quart measure. when the custard has cooled, pour either into the deep pie-pan, lined with pastry, holding one quart, or into two ordinary pie-tins holding one pint each. place the custard pie in a quick oven, that the crust may bake before the custard soaks into the crust; then allow oven to cool and when the custard is "set" (which should be in about minutes) remove from the oven and serve cold. the custard should be the consistency of thick jelly. scalding the milk produces a richer custard. plain rhubarb pie line a pie-tin with rich crust, skin rhubarb and cut into half-inch pieces a sufficient quantity to fill cups. mix together cup of sugar and / cup of flour. place a couple tablespoonfuls of this on the bottom crust of pie. mix sugar and flour remaining with cups of rhubarb and fill the crust. moisten the edge of crust with water, place on top crust, press two edges of crust together (having cut small vents in top crust to allow steam to escape). bake in a moderate oven about minutes, when top crust has browned pie should be baked. mary's cream pie bake crusts in each of two pie-tins. for filling, pint of milk, generous tablespoonful of corn starch, tablespoonfuls of sugar, yolks of eggs (well beaten), teaspoonful of vanilla. cook all together until mixture thickens and when cooled put in the two baked crusts. mix the stiffly beaten whites of two eggs with two tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar and spread over cream filling in pies and brown lightly in oven. always prick the lower crust of a pie carefully with a fork to allow the air to escape; this will prevent blisters forming in the crusts baked before filling crusts with custards. apple custard pie to cup of hot apple sauce (unsweetened) add a tiny pinch of baking soda, tablespoonful of butter, cup of sugar, grated rind and juice of half a lemon or orange, egg yolks, / cup of sweet cream and large teaspoonful of corn starch. line a pie-tin with pastry, pour in this mixture and bake. when the pie has cooled spread over top a meringue composed of the two stiffly beaten whites of eggs and two tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar flavored with a little grated orange or lemon peel. brown top of pie in oven. lemon pie with crumbs place in a bowl cup (good measure) of soft, crumbled stale bread. pour over this one cup of boiling water, add teaspoonful (good measure) of butter and beat until smooth, then add cup of sugar, the grated rind and juice of lemon and the beaten yolks of eggs. this mixture should measure about pint. pour into a pie-tin lined with rich pastry and bake. when cold spread over a meringue made of the stiffly beaten whites of the eggs and tablespoonfuls of granulated sugar. place in the oven until the meringue is a light fawn color and serve cold. aunt sarah's butter scotch pie boil together cup brown sugar and tablespoons butter until a soft, wax-like consistency. mix together heaping teaspoons flour, yolk of egg and cup of milk. beat until smooth; stir this into the sugar and butter mixture and cook until thick. flavor with lemon or vanilla, pour into baked crust and spread over top the beaten white of egg to which has been added tablespoon sugar and brown in oven. green tomato mince meat one peck of green tomatoes, chopped fine; lemons, seeded raisins, pounds of granulated sugar, cup of vinegar, teaspoonful of cloves, - / tablespoonfuls of nutmeg, tablespoonful of cinnamon. cook tomatoes - / hours, then add the other ingredients and cook all together minutes. a small quantity of grated orange peel, finely minced citron, cider, brandy or canned fruit juice may be added to improve the flavor of the mince meat. fill air-tight jars with the hot mixture and screw on jar-tops. this mince meat may be prepared in season when tomatoes are plentiful; is both good and cheap and is a splendid substitute for old-fashioned mince meat. orange meringue (a pie) into a bowl grate the yellow outside rind of a large, juicy orange; add the juice and pulp, but not any of the tough part enclosing sections. add tablespoonful of lemon juice, cup of granulated sugar, which had been beaten to a cream with tablespoonfuls of butter, the yolks of eggs, large tablespoonfuls of corn starch, mixed smoothly with a little cold water, and cup of boiling water. cook all together until thickened and when cool spread on a rather large pie-tin, lined with a baked crust of superior pastry. add to the stiffly beaten whites of eggs tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar. place meringue over top of pie and place in oven until a light fawn color. grandmother's recipe for "mince meat" the day preceding that on which mince meat is to be prepared, boil pounds of beef. to the well-cooked, finely-chopped meat add pounds of tart apples, chopped into coarse bits; pounds of finely-chopped suet, pounds of large blue raisins, seeded; pounds of dried, cleaned currants, / pound of finely-shaved citron, tablespoonfuls of cinnamon, tablespoonful of cloves, tablespoonful of grated nutmeg, small tablespoonful of salt, pint of baking molasses, pint of brandy or cider which had been boiled down. mix all well together, add more spices, if liked, also juice of orange or lemon. place all ingredients in a large preserving kettle, allow the mixture to heat through. fill glass jars, seal and stand away until used. add more cider, should it he required, when baking pies. "twentieth century" mince meat two pounds lean beef (uncooked), chopped fine, / pound beef suet, shredded. put the beef and suet in a large stone jar, pour over it / of a quart of whiskey. let stand covered with a lid for a week, then add pounds large, seeded raisins, pounds sultana raisins, pounds currants, / pound citron, juice and grated rind of oranges and of lemons, teaspoonful salt, tablespoon ground cinnamon, grated nutmegs, / teaspoon ground allspice, pound sugar. let stand two weeks, then it is ready to use. when you wish to bake pies take out as much of the mince meat as you wish to use and add chopped apples, two parts of mince meat to one part chopped apples, and add more sugar if not as sweet as liked. if too thick, add a little sherry wine and water, mixed. fill bottom crust with some of the mixture, cover with top crust and bake. there must be just enough liquor in the jar to cover the meat, as that preserves it. this seems like a large quantity of liquor to use, but much of the strength evaporates in baking, so that only an agreeable flavor remains; that is, to those who like liquor in mince meat; some people do not. others there are who think mince meat not good unless made with something stronger than cider. mince pies made by this recipe are excellent. this recipe was given mary by a friend, a noted housekeeper and cook. a "dutch" recipe for pumpkin pie line a medium-sized pie-tin with pastry. cover the crust thickly with thinly-sliced, uncooked pumpkin, cut in inch lengths. place on the pumpkin tablespoonful of syrup molasses, tablespoonful of vinegar, tablespoonful flour and sweeten with sugar to taste, dust over the top a little ground cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg; cover pie with a top crust and bake in a moderately hot oven. when baked the pumpkin filling in the pie should resemble diced citron and the pie have somewhat the flavor of green tomato pie. (the vinegar may be omitted and the result be a very good pie.) mary's cocoanut custard pie line two medium-sized pie-tins with rich pastry and bake. for the custard filling: egg yolks, cups granulated sugar, quart of milk. cook all together, then add tablespoonful of corn starch and one of flour (moistened with a little cold water before adding). cook all together until the mixture thickens. flavor with one teaspoonful of vanilla. allow the mixture to cool. grate one good-sized cocoanut, mix half of it with the custard and fill into the two crusts. spread over the tops of the two pies the stiffly beaten whites of the three eggs to which you have added a small quantity of sugar. over this sprinkle the remaining half of the grated cocoanut, stand in the oven a few minutes, until top of pie is lightly browned. grape pie pulp the grapes. place pulp in a stew-pan and cook a short time. when tender mash pulp through a sieve to remove seeds. add skins to pulp. add one scant cup of sugar and rounded teaspoonful of butter. line a pie plate with rich pastry, sprinkle over one tablespoonful of flour. pour in the grape mixture and sift another tablespoonful of flour over the top of mixture and cover with a top crust in which vents have been cut, to allow the steam to escape, and bake in a hot oven. allow two small cups of grapes to one pie. sour cherry pie one quart of cherries, / cup of flour for juicy sour cherries, (scant measure of flour), - / cups sugar. pit the cherries, saving cherry juice. mix together sugar and flour and place about / of this on a pie-tin lined with pastry. fill with cherries and juice and sprinkle remaining sugar and flour over. bake with an upper crust, having vents cut in to allow steam to escape. aunt sarah's strawberry pie make a rich crust, line a pie-tin and fill with clean, hulled strawberries. allow one quart to each pie. sweeten to taste; sprinkle a generous handful of flour over the berries, having plenty of flour around the inside edge of pie. use / cup of flour all together. cut a teaspoonful of butter into small bits over top of berries, cover with top crust with vents cut in to allow steam to escape, pinch edges of crust together to prevent juice escaping from pie, and bake. florendine pie to apples, cooked soft and mashed fine (after having been pared and cored) add the yolk of one egg (well beaten) one minute before removing the cooked apple from the range. then add small cup of sugar, a piece of butter the size of a hickory nut, teaspoonful of flour; flavor with either lemon or vanilla. line a pie-tin with rich pastry crust. pour in the mixture and bake in a quick oven. this makes a delicious old-fashioned dessert. aunt sarah's cheese cake prepare the following for one cheese cake, to be baked in a pie-tin lined with pastry crust: one heaping cup of rich, creamy "smier kase," or cottage cheese, was placed in a bowl, finely mashed with a spoon until free from lumps. then mixed smooth with tablespoonfuls of sweet milk, tablespoonful of softened butter was added, a pinch of salt, about / cup of sugar, - / table spoonfuls of flour (measure with an ordinary silver tablespoon). one large egg was beaten into the mixture when it was smooth and creamy, cup of milk was added. after adding all the different ingredients the mixture should measure about - / cups and should be very thin. pour the mixture into a pastry-lined pie-tin. this is one of the most delicious pies imaginable, if directions given are closely followed. bake in a moderately hot oven until cheese custard is "set" and nicely browned on top, then allow the oven door to remain open about five minutes before removing the "pie," as i should call it, but bucks county farmers' wives, when speaking of them, invariably say "cheese cakes." should the housewife possess "smier kase," _not_ rich and creamy, use instead of the one tablespoonful of sweet milk, one tablespoonful of sweet cream. "frau schmidt's" lemon pie grated yellow rind and juice of one lemon, cup of sugar, cup of molasses, egg, butter, size of a walnut; tablespoonful of corn starch, / cup of water. cream together the butter, sugar and egg, add the corn starch moistened with a little cold water, add grated rind and juice of one lemon, molasses, and lastly add water. cook all ingredients together. when cool fill or small pie-tins lined with rich pastry; cover with top crust and bake. pickles--spiced cucumbers medium-sized cucumbers. medium-sized onions. red peppers. green peppers. pare cucumbers, then cut in inch lengths. slice onions and peppers quite thin. place all in a large earthenware bowl and sprinkle over about / cup of table salt; mix all well together, let stand four or five hours, when place in a colander; cover with a plate and drain off all the salt water possible or squeeze through a cheese-cloth bag. boil together for minutes the following; quart of vinegar, tablespoonful of cloves, teaspoonful of turmeric powder (dissolved in a little of the vinegar) and scant cup of sugar. add the cucumbers, peppers and onions to the hot vinegar. let come to a boil and allow all to boil two minutes, then place in sterilised jars and seal. mixed sauce to serve with meats yolks of eggs. / cup sugar. tablespoonful mixed yellow mustard. tablespoonful olive oil. teaspoonful salt. tablespoonful vinegar with flavor of peppers. thin with vinegar and boil until thick. add teaspoonful of grated horseradish. to flavor vinegar cover finely-cut green and red peppers with vinegar and allow all to stand about hours, then strain and use the vinegar. pepper relish chop fine sweet red peppers, sweet green peppers and small onions. put all in a bowl and cover with boiling water and let stand five minutes. drain off, cover again with boiling water and let stand ten minutes. then place in an agate colander or muslin bag and let drain over night. the following morning add quart of good sour vinegar, - / cups sugar, even teaspoonfuls salt and boil minutes. while hot fill air-tight jars. this is excellent. pickled red cabbage shred red cabbage, not too fine, and sprinkle liberally with salt. stand in a cool place hours. then press all moisture from the cabbage, having it as dry as possible; stand the earthen bowl containing the cabbage in the sun for a couple of hours. take a sufficient quantity of vinegar to cover the cabbage. a little water may be added to the vinegar if too sour. add cup sugar to a gallon of vinegar and a small quantity of celery seed, pepper, mace, allspice and cinnamon. boil all about five minutes and pour at once over the cabbage. the hot vinegar will restore the bright red color to the cabbage. keep in stone jar. mustard pickles cucumbers, quart of small onions, peppers, heads of cauliflower, cups of sugar, or less; celery or celery seed, quarts of good vinegar, / pound of ground yellow mustard, tablespoonful turmeric powder, / cup of flour. the seeds were removed from the cucumbers and cucumbers were cut in inch-length pieces, or use a few medium-sized cucumbers cut in several pieces and some quite small cucumbers. (the quantity of cucumbers when measured should be the same as if the larger ones had been used.) one quart of small whole onions, peppers, red, green and yellow, two of each, cut in small pieces. place all together in an agate preserving kettle and let stand in salt water over night. in the morning put on the range, the vegetables in agate kettle, let boil a few minutes, then drain well. take three quarts of good vingar, cups of sugar, if liked quite sweet; teaspoons of either celery seed or celery cut in small pieces. put the vinegar, sugar and celery in a preserving kettle, stand on stove and let come to a boil; then add the other ingredients. when boiling have ready a half pound of ground mustard, / cup of flour, tablespoon of turmeric powder, all mixed to a smooth paste with a little water. cook until the mixture thickens. add all the other ingredients and boil until tender. stir frequently to prevent scorching. can while hot in glass air-tight jars. aunt sarah's cucumber pickles always use the cucumbers which come late in the season for pickles. cut small green cucumbers from vine, leaving a half-inch of stem. scrub with vegetable brush, place in a bowl and pour over a brine almost strong enough to float an egg; / cup of salt to seven cups of cold water is about the right proportion. allow them to stand over night in this brine. drain off salt water in the morning. heat a small quantity of the salt water and pour over small onions which have been "skinned." use half the quantity of onions you have of cucumbers, or less. allow the onions to stand in hot salt water on back of range a short time. heat cup of good sharp cider vinegar, if too sour, add / cup of water, also add teaspoonful of sugar, a couple of whole cloves; add cucumbers and onions (drained from salt water, after piercing each cucumber several times with a silver fork). place a layer at a time in an agate stew-pan containing hot vinegar. allow them to remain a few minutes until heated through, when fill heated glass jars with cucumbers and onions; pour hot vinegar over until jars are quite full. place rubbers on jars and screw on tops. these pickles will be found, when jars are opened in six months' time, almost as crisp and fine as when pickles are prepared, when taken fresh from the vines in summer. allow jars to stand hours, when screw down tops again. press a knife around the edge of jar tops before standing away to be sure the jars are perfectly air-tight. "rot pfeffers" filled with cabbage cut the tops from the stem end of twelve sweet (not hot) red peppers or "rot pfeffers," as aunt sarah called them. carefully remove seeds, do not break outside shell of peppers. cut one head of cabbage quite fine on a slaw-cutter; add to the cabbage even tablespoonful of fine salt, tablespoonfuls of whole yellow mustard seed (a very small amount of finely shredded, hot, red pepper may be added if liked quite peppery). mix all together thoroughly, fill peppers with this mixture, pressing it rather tightly into the shells; place tops on pepper cases, tie down with cord. place upright in stone jar, in layers; cover with cold vinegar. if vinegar is very strong add a small quantity of water. tie heavy paper over top of jar and stand away in a cool place until used. these may be kept several months and will still be good at the end of that time. an old recipe for spiced pickles small cucumbers. oz. of allspice. gallons vinegar. / pound of black pepper. quarts salt. oz cloves. ounces of alum. horseradish to flavor. add sugar according to strength of vinegar. place cucumbers and pieces of horseradish in alternate layers in a stone jar, then put salt over them and cover with boiling water. allow pickles to stand hours in this brine, then pour off brine and wash pickles in cold water. boil spices and vinegar together and pour over the pickles. in two weeks they will be ready to use. pickles made over this recipe are excellent. aunt sarah's recipe for chili sauce large red tomatoes. medium-sized onions. sweet peppers (green or red). cup sugar. scant tablespoonfuls salt. - / cups vinegar (cider vinegar). tie in a small cheese cloth bag the following: large teaspoonful whole allspice. large teaspoonful whole cloves. about the same quantity of stick cinnamon. chop tomatoes, onions and peppers rather finely; add vinegar, sugar and salt and the bag of spices and cook slowly about - / hours. fill air-tight glass jars with the mixture while hot. this is a particularly fine recipe of aunt sarah's. this quantity will fill five pint jars. canned tomatoes may be used when fresh ones are not available. tomato catsup - / peck ripe tomatoes, washed and cut in small pieces; also four large onions, sliced. stew together until tender enough to mash through a fine sieve, reject seeds. this quantity of tomato juice should, when measured, be about four good quarts. put tomato juice into a kettle on range, add one pint of vinegar, / teaspoon cayenne pepper, - / tablespoons sugar, - / tablespoons salt; place in a cheese cloth bag ounce of whole black pepper, ounce whole cloves, ounce allspice, ounce yellow mustard seed and add to catsup. boil down one-half. bottle and seal while boiling hot. boil bottles and corks before bottling catsup. pour melted sealing-wax over corks to make them air-tight, unless self-sealing bottles are used. pickled beets one cup of sharp vinegar, cup of water, tablespoonfuls of sugar, whole cloves and a pinch of black, and one of red pepper. heat all together and pour over beets which have been sliced after being boiled tender and skins removed, and pack in glass jars which have been sterilized and if jars are air-tight these keep indefinitely. marmalades, preserves and canned fruits young housewives, if they would be successful in "doing up fruit," should be very particular about sterilizing fruit jars, both tops and rubbers, before using. heat the fruit to destroy all germs, then seal in air-tight jars while fruit is scalding hot. allow jars of canned fruit or vegetables to stand until perfectly cold. then, even should you think the tops perfectly tight, you will probably be able to give them another turn. carefully run the dull edge of a knife blade around the lower edge of jar cap to cause it to fit tightly. this flattens it close to the rubber, making it air-tight. to sterilize jars and tops, place in a pan of cold water, allow water to come to a boil and stand in hot water one hour. for making jelly, use fruit, under-ripe. it will jell more easily, and, not being as sweet as otherwise, will possess a finer flavor. for jelly use an equal amount of sugar to a pint of juice. the old rule holds good--a pound of sugar to a pint of juice. cook fifteen to twenty minutes. fruit juice will jell more quickly if the sugar is heated in the oven before being added. for preserving fruit, use about / of a pound of sugar to pound of fruit and seal in air-tight glass jars. for canning fruit, use from / to / the quantity of sugar that you have of fruit. when making jelly, too long cooking turns the mixture into a syrup that will not jell. cooking fruit with sugar too long a time causes fruit to have a strong, disagreeable flavor. apples, pears and peaches were pared, cut in quarters and dried at the farm for winter use. sour cherries were pitted, dried and placed in glass jars, alternately with a sprinkling of granulated sugar. pieces of sassafras root were always placed with dried apples, peaches, etc. "frau" schmidt's recipe for apple butter for this excellent apple butter take gallons of cider, bucket of "schnitz" (sweet apples were always used for the "schnitz"), - / pounds of brown sugar and ounce of allspice. the cider should be boiled down to one-half the original quantity before adding the apples, which had been pared and cored. cider for apple butter was made from sweet apples usually, but if made from sour apples pounds of sugar should be used. the apple butter should be stirred constantly. when cooked sufficiently, the apple butter should look clear and be thick as marmalade and the cider should not separate from the apple butter. frau schmidt always used "paradise" apples in preference to any other variety of apple for apple butter. cranberry sauce a delicious cranberry sauce, or jelly, was prepared by "aunt sarah" in the following manner: carefully pick over and wash quart of cranberries, place in a stew-pan with cups of water; cook quickly a few moments over a hot fire until berries burst open, then crush with a potato-masher. press through a fine sieve or a fruit press, rejecting skin and seeds. add pound of sugar to the strained pulp in the stew-pan. return to the fire and cook two or three minutes only. long, slow cooking destroys the fine flavor of the berry, as does brown sugar. pour into a bowl, or mold, and place on ice, or stand in a cool place to become cold before serving, as an accompaniment to roast turkey, chicken or deviled oysters. preserved "yellow ground cherries" remove the gossamer-like covering from small yellow "ground cherries" and place on range in a stew-pan with sugar. (three-fourths of a pound of sugar to one pound of fruit.) cook slowly about minutes, until the fruit looks clear and syrup is thick as honey. seal in pint jars. these cherries, which grow abundantly in many town and country gardens without being cultivated, make a delicious preserve and a very appetizing pie may be made from them also. aunt sarah said she preferred these preserved cherries to strawberries. frau schmidt preferred the larger "purple" ground cherries, which, when preserved, greatly resembled "guava" jelly in flavor. "wunderselda" marmalade this was composed of quarts of the pulp and juice combined of ripe kieffer pears, which had been pared and cored, (measured after being run through a food chopper.) the grated yellow rind and juice of five medium-sized tart oranges, and - / cups granulated sugar. cook all together about forty minutes, until a clear amber colored marmalade. watch closely and stir frequently, as the mixture scorches easily. this quantity will fill about twenty small jelly tumblers. if the marmalade is to be kept some time, it should be put into air-tight glass jars. the recipe for this delicious jam was original with the professor's wife, and fritz schmidt, being particularly fond of the confection, gave it the name "wunderselda," as he said "'twas not 'served often.'" aunt sarah's spiced pears bartlett pears may be used, pared and cut in halves and core and seeds removed, or small sweet seckel pears may be pared. left whole, allow stems to remain, weigh, and to pounds of either variety of pear take one pint of good cider vinegar, pounds granulated sugar, a small cheese cloth bag containing several tablespoonfuls of whole cloves and the same amount of stick cinnamon, broken in pieces; all were placed in a preserving kettle and allowed to come to a boil. then the pears were added and cooked until tender. the fruit will look clear when cooked sufficiently. remove from the hot syrup with a perforated spoon. fill pint glass jars with the fruit. stand jars in a warm oven while boiling syrup until thick as honey. pour over fruit, in jars, and seal while hot. peach marmalade thinly pare ripe peaches. cut in quarters and remove pits. place peaches in a preserving kettle with / cup of water; heat slowly, stirring occasionally. when fruit has become tender mash not too fine and to every three pounds of peaches (weighed before being cooked) allow - / pounds of granulated sugar. cook sugar and fruit together about three-quarters of an hour, stirring frequently, until marmalade looks clear. place in pint glass, air-tight jars. aunt sarah always preferred the "morris white," a small, fine flavored, white peach, which ripened quite late in the fall, to any other variety from which to make preserves and marmalade. aunt sarah's ginger pears pounds of fruit. lemons. / pound of ginger root. pounds of sugar. cup water. use a hard, solid pear, not over ripe. pare and core the fruit and cut into thin slivers. use juice of lemons and cut the lemon rind into long, thin strips. place all together in preserving kettle and cook slowly one hour, or until the fruit looks clear. should the juice of fruit not be thick as honey, remove fruit and cook syrup a short time, then add fruit to the syrup. when heated through, place in pint jars and seal. this quantity will fill four pint jars and is a delicious preserve. pear and pineapple marmalade ripe pineapples, quarts kieffer pears. pounds granulated sugar. both pears and pineapples should be pared and eyes removed from the latter. all the fruit should be run through food-chopper using all the juice from fruit. mix sugar with fruit and juice and cook, stirring constantly until thick and clear. (watch closely, as this scorches easily if allowed to stand a minute without stirring.) pour into glass pint jars and seal while hot. any variety of pear may be used, but a rather hard, solid pear is to be preferred. a recipe given mary which she found delicious. grape butter separate pulp and skins of grapes. allow pulp to simmer until tender, then mash through a sieve and reject seeds. add pulp to skins. take / pound of sugar to one pound of fruit. cook until thick, seal in air-tight jars. canned sour cherries for pies pit cherries and cover with cold water and let stand over night. drain in the morning. to heaping cups of pitted cherries take level cups of sugar, / cup water. put all together into stew-pan on range, cook a short time, then add teaspoonful of corn starch mixed with a little cold water and stir well through the cherries; let come to a boil, put in jars and seal. this quantity fills five pint jars. this is the way one country housekeeper taught mary to can common _sour_ cherries for pies and she thought them fine. candied orange peel cut orange peel in long, narrow strips, cover with cold water and boil minutes. pour off water, cover with cold water and boil another minutes, then drain and take equal weight of peel and sugar. let simmer hour, then dip slices in granulated sugar. stand aside to cool. aunt sarah's "cherry marmalade" pitted, red sour cherries were weighed, put through food-chopper, and to each pound of cherries and juice add / pound of granulated sugar. cook about minutes until syrup is thick and fruit looks clear. fill marmalade pots, cover with parafine when cool, or use pint glass jars and seal. one is sure of fruit keeping if placed in air-tight jars. aunt sarah's quince honey pour quart of water, good measure, in an agate stew-pan on the range with three pounds of granulated sugar. when boiling add large, grated quinces, after paring them. grate all but the core of quinces. boil from to minutes, until it looks clear. pour into tumblers. when cold, cover and stand away until used. pickled peaches twelve pounds of peaches, quart of vinegar, pounds brown sugar. rub the fuzz from the peaches. do not pare them. stick half a dozen whole cloves in each peach. add spices to taste, stick-cinnamon, whole doves and mace. put spices in a small cheese cloth bag and do not remove the bag, containing spices, when putting away the peaches. scald sugar, vinegar and spices together and pour over the peaches. cover closely and stand away. do this twice, one day between. the third time place all together in a preserving kettle. cook a few minutes, then place fruit in jars, about three-quarters filled. boil down the syrup until about one-quarter has boiled away, pour over the peaches, hot, and seal in air-tight jars. this is an old and very good recipe used by "aunt sarah" many years. currant jelly always pick currants for jelly before they are "dead ripe," and never directly after a shower of rain. wash and pick over and stem currants. place in a preserving kettle five pounds of currants and / cup of water; stir until heated through then mash with a potato masher. turn into a jelly bag, allow drip, and to every pint of currant juice add one pound of granulated sugar; return to preserving kettle. boil twenty minutes, skim carefully, pour into jelly glasses. when cold cover tops of glasses with melted parafine. pineapple honey pineapple honey was made in a similar manner to quince honey, using one large grated pineapple to one quart of cold water and three pounds of sugar. boil minutes. preserved pineapple pare the pineapples, run through a food chopper, weigh fruit, and to every pound of fruit add three-quarters of a pound of sugar. mix sugar and fruit together and stand in a cool place over night. in the morning cook until fruit is tender and syrup clear; skim top of fruit carefully; fill jars and seal. grape conserve wash and drain ten pounds of ripe grapes, separate the skins from the pulp, stew pulp until soft, mash through a sieve, reject seeds. place pulp and skins in a preserving kettle, add a half pound of seeded raisins and juice and pulp of oranges. measure and add to every quart of this / of a quart of sugar. cook slowly, until the consistency of jam. a cup of coarsely-chopped walnut meats may be added, if liked, a few minutes before removing jam from the range. fill pint jars and seal. mary's recipe for rhubarb jam skin and cut enough rhubarb in half-inch pieces to weigh three pounds. add / cup cold water and pounds of granulated sugar, and the grated yellow rind and juice of large oranges. cook all together, stirring occasionally to prevent scorching, a half hour, or until clear. this is a delicious jam. apple sauce when making apple sauce, cut good, tart apples in halves after paring them, cut out the cores, then cook, quickly as possible, in half enough boiling water to cover them. cover the stew-pan closely. this causes them to cook more quickly, and not change color. watch carefully that they do not scorch. when apples are tender, turn into sieve. should the apples be quite juicy and the water drained from the apples measure a half pint, add a half pound of sugar, cook or minutes, until it jells, and you have a glass of clear, amber-colored jelly. add teaspoonful of butter and sugar to taste to the apple sauce, which has been mashed through the sieve. apple sauce made thus should be almost the color of the apples before cooking. if the apple sauce is not liked thick, add some of the strained apple juice instead of making jelly; as some apples contain more juice than others. rhubarb marmalade (as frau schmidt made it) cut rhubarb into small pieces, put in stew-pan with just enough water to prevent sticking fast. when cooked tender, mash fine with potato masher, and to three cups of rhubarb, measured before stewing, add cup of granulated sugar, also dozen almonds which had been blanched and cut as fine as possible, and stewed until tender, then added to hot rhubarb and sugar. cook all together a short time. serve either hot or cold. a large quantity may be canned for winter use. the addition of almonds gave the marmalade a delicious flavor a good marmalade may be made by adding the juice and thinly shaved outside peel of several lemons to rhubarb. put all together in kettle on range with sugar. cook over a slow fire until proper consistency. turn into jars and leave uncovered until day following, when cover and seal air-tight. grape fruit marmalade for this marmalade take large grape fruit, large oranges and lemon. after thoroughly washing the outside of fruit, slice all as thinly as possible, rejecting the seeds. measure and add three times as much water as you have fruit. let all stand over night. the next morning boil minutes, stand over night again, in a large bowl or agate preserving kettle. the next morning add pound (scant measure) of sugar to each pint of the mixture and boil until it jells. this is delicious if you do not object to the slightly bitter taste of the grape fruit. put in tumblers, cover closely with paraffin. this quantity should fill tumblers, if a large grape fruit is used. orange marmalade slice whole oranges very thin and cut in short pieces after washing them. save the seeds. to each pound of sliced oranges add pints of cold water and let stand hours. then boil all together until the chipped rinds are tender. all the seeds should be put in a muslin bag and boiled with the oranges. allow all to stand together until next day, then remove the bag of seeds, and to every pound of boiled fruit add a half pound of sugar. boil continuously, stirring all the time, until the chips are quite clear and the syrup thick as honey on being dropped on a cold dish. the grated rind and juice of lemons will improve the taste of marmalade if added at last boiling. when cooked sufficiently the marmalade should be clear. pour at once into glass jars and cover closely. cherry relish after sour cherries have been pitted, weigh them and cover with vinegar and let stand hours. take from the vinegar and drain well, then put into stone crocks in layers, with sugar, allowing pound of sugar to pound of cherries. stir twice each day for ten days, then fill air-tight jars and put away for winter use. these are an excellent accompaniment to a roast of meat. canned peaches when canning peaches make a syrup composed of cup of sugar to cups of water. place in preserving kettle and when sugar has dissolved cook thinly pared peaches, either sliced or cut in halves, in the hot syrup until clear, watching closely that they do not cook too soft. place carefully in glass jars, pour hot syrup over and seal in jars. aunt sarah also, occasionally, used a wash-boiler in which to can fruit. she placed in it a rack made of small wooden strips to prevent the jars resting on the bottom of the boiler; filled the jars with uncooked fruit or vegetables, poured over the jars of fruit hot syrup and over the vegetables poured water, placed the jars, uncovered, in the boiler; water should cover about half the height of jars. boil until contents of jars are cooked, add boiling syrup to fill fruit jars and screw the tops on tightly. pear conserve use pounds of pears, not too soft or over-ripe, cut like dice. cover with water and boil until tender, then add pounds of sugar. peel oranges, cut in dice the night before using; let diced orange peel stand, covered with cold water until morning. then cook until orange peel is tender. add this to the juice and pulp of the two oranges. add one pound of seeded raisins and cook all together until thick honey. put in glass jars and seal. lemon honey the juice of lemons, mixed with cups of sugar. add eggs, beating in at a time. add cups of water and tablespoonfuls of butter. cook all together minute, until thick as honey. canned string beans aunt sarah used no preservative when canning beans. she gathered the beans when quite small and tender, no thicker than an ordinary lead-pencil, washed them thoroughly, cut off ends and packed them into quart glass jars, filled to overflowing with cold water. placed jar tops on lightly, and stood them in wash boiler in the bottom of which several boards had been placed. filled wash boiler with luke warm water about two-thirds as high as tops of jars, cooked continuously three to four hours after water commenced to boil. then carefully lifted jars from wash boiler, added boiling water to fill jars to overflowing, screwed on cover and let stand until perfectly cold, when give jar tops another turn with the hand when they should be air-tight. a good plan is to run the dull edge of a knife around the outer edge of the jar to be sure it fits close to the rubber, and will not admit air. beans canned in this manner should keep indefinitely. preserved "german prunes" or plums after washing fruit, piece each plum several times with a silver fork, if plums be preserved whole. this is not necessary if pits are removed. weigh fruit and to each pound of plums take about / pound of granulated sugar. place alternate layers of plums and sugar in a preserving kettle, stand on the back of range three or four hours, until sugar has dissolved, then draw kettle containing sugar and plums to front of range and boil so minutes. remove scum which arises on top of boiling syrup. place plums in glass jars, pour boiling syrup over and seal. a good rule is about four pounds of sugar to five pounds of plums. should plums cook soft in less than minutes, take from syrup with a perforated skimmer, place in jars and cook syrup until as thick as honey; then pour over fruit and seal up jars. bucks county apple butter a genuine old-fashioned recipe for apple butter, as "aunt sarah" made it at the farm. a large kettle holding about five gallons was filled with sweet cider. this cider was boiled down to half the quantity. the apple butter was cooked over a wood fire, out of doors. the cider was usually boiled down the day before making the apple butter, as the whole process was quite a lengthy one. fill the kettle holding the cider with apples, which should have been pared and cored the night before at what country folks call an "apple bee," the neighbors assisting to expedite the work. the apples should be put on to cook as early in the morning as possible and cooked slowly over not too hot a fire, being stirred constantly with a long-handled "stirrer" with small perforated piece of wood on one end. there is great danger of the apple butter burning if not carefully watched and constantly stirred. an extra pot of boiling cider was kept near, to add to the apple butter as the cider boiled away. if cooked slowly, a whole day or longer will be consumed in cooking. when the apple butter had almost finished cooking, about the last hour, sweeten to taste with sugar (brown sugar was frequently used). spices destroy the true apple flavor, although aunt sarah used sassafras root, dug from the near-by woods, for flavoring her apple butter, and it was unexcelled. the apple butter, when cooked sufficiently, should be a dark rich color, and thick like marmalade, and the cider should not separate from it when a small quantity is tested on a saucer. an old recipe at the farm called for gallons of cider to buckets of cider apples, and to gallons of apple butter pounds of sugar were used. pour the apple butter in small crocks used for this purpose. cover the top of crocks with paper, place in dry, cool store-room, and the apple butter will keep several years. in olden times sweet apples were used for apple butter, boiled in sweet cider, then no sugar was necessary. small brown, earthen pots were used to keep this apple butter in, it being only necessary to tie paper over the top. dozens of these pots, filled with apple butter, might have been seen in aunt sarah's store-room at the farm at one time. canned tomatoes when canning red tomatoes select those which ripen early in the season, as those which ripen later are usually not as sweet. wash the tomatoes, pour scalding water over, allow them to stand a short time, when skins may be easily removed. cut tomatoes in several pieces, place over fire in porcelain-lined preserving kettle and cook about minutes, or until an orange-colored scum rises to the top. fill perfectly clean sterilised jars with the hot tomatoes fill quickly before they cool. place rubber and top on jar, and when jars have become perfectly cold (although they may, apparently, have been perfectly air-tight), the tops should be given another turn before standing away for the winter; failing to do this has frequently been the cause of inexperienced housewives' ill success when canning tomatoes. also run the dull edge of a knife blade carefully around the top of jar, pressing down the outer edge and causing it to fit more closely. aunt sarah seldom lost a jar of canned tomatoes, and they were as fine flavored as if freshly picked from the vines. she was very particular about using only new tops and rubbers for her jars when canning tomatoes. if the wise housewife takes these precautions, her canned tomatoes should keep indefinitely. aunt sarah allowed her jars of tomatoes to stand until the day following that on which the tomatoes were canned, to be positively sure they were cold, before giving the tops a final turn. stand away in a dark closet. euchered peaches twelve pounds of pared peaches (do not remove pits), pounds of sugar and gill of vinegar boiled together a few minutes, drop peaches into this syrup and cook until heated through, when place peaches in air-tight jars, pour hot syrup over and seal. aunt sarah's method of canning corn three quarts of sweet corn cut from the cob, cup of sugar / cup of salt and pint of cold water. place these ingredients together in a large bowl; do this early in the morning and allow to stand until noon of the same day; then place all together in a preserving kettle on the range and cook twenty minutes. fill glass jars which have been sterilized. the work of filling should be done as expeditiously as possible; be particular to have jar-tops screwed on tightly. when jars have become cool give tops another turn, to be positive they are air-tight before putting away for the winter. when preparing this canned corn for the table, drain all liquid from the corn when taken from the can, pour cold water over and allow to stand a short time on the range until luke-warm. drain and if not _too_ salt, add a small quantity of fresh water, cook a few minutes, season with butter, add a couple tablespoonfuls of sweet milk; serve when hot. this canned corn possesses the flavor of corn freshly cut from the cob. sarah landis had used this recipe for years and 'twas seldom she lost a can. dried sweet corn in season when ears of sweet corn are at their best for cooking purposes, boil double the quantity necessary for one meal, cut off kernels and carefully scrape remaining pulp from cob. spread on agate pans, place in a hot oven a short time (watch closely) and allow it to remain in a cooled oven over night to dry. when perfectly dry place in bags for use later in the season. when the housewife wishes to prepare dried corn for the table, one cup of the dried corn should be covered with cold water and allowed to stand until the following day, when place in a stew-pan on the range and simmer slowly several hours; add / teaspoonful of sugar, tablespoonful of butter, salt and pepper. this corn aunt sarah considered sweeter and more wholesome than canned corn and she said "no preservatives were used in keeping it." when chestnuts were gathered in the fall of the year, at the farm, they were shelled as soon as gathered, then dried and stored away for use in the winter. aunt sarah frequently cooked together an equal amount of chestnuts and dried corn; the combination was excellent. the chestnuts were soaked in cold water over night. the brown skin of the chestnuts may be readily removed after being covered with boiling water a short time. preserved cherries aunt sarah's preserved cherries were fine, and this was her way of preparing them: she used pound of granulated sugar to quart of pitted cherries. she placed the pitted cherries on a large platter and sprinkled the sugar over them. she allowed them to stand several hours until the cherries and sugar formed a syrup on platter. she then put cherries, sugar and juice all together in a preserving kettle, set on range, and cooked minutes. she then skimmed out the cherries and boiled the syrup minutes longer, then returned the cherries to syrup. let come to a boil. she then removed the kettle from the fire, spread all on a platter and let it stand in the hot sun two successive days, then put in glass air-tight jars or in tumblers and covered with paraffin. a combination of cherries and strawberries preserved together is fine, and, strange to say, the flavor of strawberries predominates. a fine flavored preserve is also made from a combination of cherries and pineapple. frozen desserts--aunt sarah's frozen "fruit custard" one tablespoonful of granulated gelatine soaked in enough milk to cover. place cups of sugar and / cup of milk in a stew-pan on the range and boil until it spins a thread; that is, when a little of the syrup is a thread-like consistency when dripped from a spoon. allow it to cool. add dissolved gelatine and quart of sweet cream. one box of strawberries, or the same amount of any fruit liked, may be added to the mixture; freeze as ordinary ice cream. this dessert as prepared by aunt sarah was delicious as any ice cream and was used by her more frequently than any other recipe for a frozen dessert. sherbet frau schmidt gave mary this simple recipe for making any variety of sherbet: cups of sugar, tablespoonful of flour, mixed with the sugar and boiled with quart of water; when cold, add quart of any variety of fruit. freeze in same manner as when making ice cream. ice cream--a simple recipe given mary when preparing this ice cream mary used the following: three cups of cream and cup of milk, egg and cup of pulverized sugar (were beaten together until light and creamy). this, with teaspoonful of vanilla flavoring, was added to the milk and cream. the cream should be scalded in warm weather. the egg and sugar should then be added to the scalded milk and cream, stirring them well together. when the mixture has cooled, strain it into the can of the freezer. three measures of cracked ice to one of salt should be used. the ice and salt, well-mixed, were packed around the freezer. the crank was turned very slowly the first ten minutes, until the mixture had thickened, when it was turned more rapidly until the mixture was frozen. frau schmidt's ice cream this recipe for ice cream is simple and the ice cream is good. a boiled custard was prepared, consisting of quart of milk, eggs, between and cups of granulated sugar. when the custard coated the spoon she considered it cooked sufficiently. removed from the fire. when cold she beat into the custard quart of rich cream and teaspoonful of vanilla, turned the mixture into the freezer, packed outside tub with ice and salt. it was frozen in the ordinary manner. maple parfait for this rich, frozen dessert mary beat eggs lightly, poured slowly over them cup of hot maple syrup, cooked in a double boiler, stirring until very thick. she strained it, and when cold added pint of cream. she beat all together, poured into a mold, packed the mold in ice and salt, and allowed it to stand hours. this is a very rich frozen dessert, too rich to be served alone. it should be served with lemon sherbet or frozen custard with a lemon flavoring, as it is better served with a dessert less rich and sweet. ice cream made by beating with paddle this recipe for a delicious and easily prepared ice cream was given mary by a friend living in philadelphia and is not original. she found the ice cream excellent and after having tried the recipe used no other. a custard was made of quart of scalded milk, eggs, cups of sugar. the eggs were beaten light, then sugar was added, then the hot milk was poured over and all beaten together. she put all in a double boiler and stirred about ten minutes, until thick and creamy. a small pinch of soda was added to prevent curdling. when the custard was perfectly cold she stirred in three cups of sweet, cold cream, flavored with either vanilla or almond flavoring, and beat all together five minutes, then turned the mixture into the freezer, packed well with pounded ice and coarse salt. she covered the freezer with the ice and salt and threw a heavy piece of old carpet or burlap over the freezer to exclude the air. she let it stand one hour, then carefully opened the can containing the cream, not allowing any salt to get in the can. with a long, thin-handled knife she scraped down the frozen custard from the sides of the freezer, and with a thin wooden paddle beat it hard and fast for about five minutes. this made the cream fine and smooth. any fruit may now be added, and should be mixed in before the cream is covered. the cream should be beaten as quickly as possible and covered as soon as the fruit has been added. aunt sarah usually made peach ice cream when peaches were in season. fine ripe peaches were pared and pitted, then finely mashed, small cups of sugar being added to a pint of mashed peaches. she allowed the peach mixture to stand one hour before adding to the beaten cream. when the mashed peaches had been added to the cream, she fastened the lid and drained off part of the water in outer vessel, packed more ice and salt about the can in the freezer, placed a weight on top to hold it down, covered closely with a piece of old carpet to exclude the air, left it stand three or four hours. the beating was all the labor required. the dasher or crank was not turned at all when making the ice cream, and when frozen it was delicious. mary was told by her aunt of a friend in a small town, with a reputation for serving delicious ice cream, who always made ice cream by beating with a paddle, instead of making it by turning a crank in a freezer. aunt sarah's recipe for frozen custard one quart of rich, sweet milk, tablespoons of corn starch, eggs, cup of sugar, small tablespoon of vanilla. cook the milk in a double boiler, moisten corn starch with a little milk. stir it into the hot milk until it begins to thicken. beat sugar and eggs together until creamy, add to the hot milk, cook a minute, remove from fire, add the vanilla, and when cool freeze. crush the ice into small pieces, for the finer the ice the quicker the custard will freeze, then mix the ice with a fourth of the quantity of coarse rock salt, about pounds ice and pounds salt will be required to pack sides and cover top of a four-quart freezer. place can in tub, mix and fill in ice and salt around the can, turn the crank very slowly until the mixture is thoroughly chilled. keep hole in top of tub open. when mixture is cold, turn steadily until it turns rather hard. when custard is frozen, take out inside paddle, close the freezer, run off the salt water, repack and allow to stand several hours. at the end of that time it is ready to serve. pineapple cream this is a delicious dessert, taught mary by aunt sarah. she used quart sweet cream, - / cups sugar, beaten together. it was frozen in an ice cream freezer. she then pared and cut the eyes from one ripe pineapple and flaked the pineapple into small pieces with a silver fork, sprinkled sugar over and let it stand until sugar dissolved. she then stirred this into the frozen cream and added also the beaten white of one egg. packed ice and salt around freezer and allowed it to stand several hours before using. mary's aunt always cooked pineapple or used canned pineapple with a rich syrup when adding fruit before the cream was frozen. mary's recipe for peach cream mary made ice cream when peaches were plentiful; she used quart of sweet cream, sweetened to taste (about cups sugar) and quarts of ripe peaches mashed and sweetened before adding to cream. freeze in ordinary manner. if peaches were not fine flavored, she added a little almond flavoring. lemon sherbet this is the way frau schmidt taught mary to make this dessert. she used for the purpose quart of water, lemons, tablespoons gelatine, large cups sugar. she soaked the gelatine in about cup of water. she squeezed out the juice of lemons, rejecting seeds and pulp. she allowed a cup of water out of the quart to soak the gelatine. this mixture was put in an ice cream freezer and frozen. frau schmidt's frozen custard - / quarts milk. cups sugar. eggs. - / tablespoonfuls of flour. scald the milk in a double boiler. moisten flour (she preferred _flour_ to corn starch for this purpose) with a small quantity of cold milk, and stir into the scalded milk. beat together egg yolks and sugar until light and creamy, then add the stiffly beaten whites of eggs and stir all into the boiling milk. cool thoroughly, flavor with vanilla and freeze as you would ice cream. when partly frozen crushed strawberries or peaches may be added in season. a little more sugar should then he added to the fruit, making a dessert almost equal to ice cream. in winter one cup of dried currants may be added, also one tablespoonful of sherry wine, if liked. caramel ice cream scald one pint of sweet milk in a double boiler. stir into it one cup of sugar and one rounded tablespoonful of flour, which had been mixed smoothly with a small quantity of the milk before scalding. add two eggs which had been beaten together until light and creamy. at the same time the milk was being scalded, a fry-pan containing one cup of granulated sugar was placed on the range; this should be watched carefully, on account of its liability to scorch. when sugar has melted it will be brown in color and liquid, like molasses, and should then be thoroughly mixed with the foundation custard. cook the whole mixture ten minutes and stand aside to cool; when perfectly cold add a pinch of salt, one quart of sweet cream, and freeze in the ordinary manner. cherry sherbet aunt sarah taught mary to prepare this cheap and easily made dessert of the various berries and fruits as they ripened. currants, strawberries, raspberries and cherries were used. they were all delicious and quickly prepared. the ice for freezing was obtained from a near-by creamery. the cherries used for this were not the common, sour pie cherries, so plentiful usually on many "bucks county farms," but a fine, large, red cherry, not very sour. when about to prepare cherry sherbet, mary placed over the fire a stew-pan containing quart of boiling water and pound of granulated sugar. boiled this together minutes. she added tablespoonful of granulated gelatine which had been dissolved in a very little cold water. when the syrup had cooled, she added the juice of half a lemon and quart of pitted cherries, mixed all together. poured it in the ice cream freezer, packed around well with coarse salt and pounded ice. she used part salt to parts ice. she turned the crank slowly at first, allowed it to stand a few minutes, then increased the speed. when the mixture was firm she removed the dasher. she allowed the water to remain with the ice and salt, as the ice-cold water helped to freeze it. she filled in ice and salt around the can in the freezer and on top of the can; covered the top of the freezer with a piece of old carpet and allowed it to stand a couple of hours, when it was ready to serve. almost any fruit or fruit juice, either fresh or canned, may be made into a delicious dessert by this rule. one quart of boiling water and pound of sugar boiled together to form a syrup, then add quart of juice or fruit and juice to measure exactly one quart. mix together according to directions and freeze. grape sherbet grape sherbet was made in this manner: the grapes were washed, picked from the stems and placed in a stew-pan over the fire. when hot remove from the fire and mash with a potato-masher and strain through a jelly bag, as if preparing to make jelly. boil together pound of granulated sugar and quart of water, about minutes. while hot add pint of grape juice and teaspoonful of granulated gelatine, which had been dissolved in a very little cold water, to the hot syrup. when the mixture was partly frozen add the stiffly beaten white of egg and tablespoonful of pulverized sugar, beaten together. all were stirred together, covered and stood away until cold. then placed in a freezer, iced as for ice cream, and frozen in the same manner as for cherry sherbet. the juice of all berries or fruits may be extracted in the same manner as that of grapes. wines and syrups--unfermented grape juice to pounds of stemmed concord grapes add quart of water, allow them to simmer on range until grapes have become soft. strain through a piece of cheese-cloth, being careful to press only the juice through, not the pulp of the grapes. return the grape juice to the preserving kettle and add / of a pound of sugar. allow the juice to just commence to boil, as cooking too long a time spoils the flavor of the juice. bottle at once, while juice is hot. bottles must be sterilized and air-tight if you expect grape juice to keep. cover corks with sealing wax. vinegar made from strawberries "aunt sarah" landis possessed the very finest flavored vinegar for cooking purposes, and this is the way it was made. she having a very plentiful crop of fine strawberries one season, put quarts of very ripe, mashed strawberries in a five-gallon crock, filled the crock with water, covered the top with cheese-cloth and allowed it to stand in a warm place about one week, when it was strained, poured into jugs and placed in the cellar, where it remained six months, perhaps longer, when it became very sharp and sour, and had very much the appearance of white wine with a particularly fine flavor. this was not used as a beverage, but as a substitute for cider in cooking. boiled cider for mince pies in autumn, when cider was cheap and plentiful on the farm, quarts of cider was boiled down to one, or, in this proportion, for use in mince meat during the winter. a quantity prepared in this manner, poured while hot in air-tight jars, will keep indefinitely. lemon syrup boil two cups of granulated sugar and one cup of water together for a few minutes until the sugar is dissolved, then add the juice of six well-scrubbed, medium-sized lemons; let come to a boil and add the grated yellow rind of three of the lemons. be careful not to use any of the white skin of the lemons, which is bitter. put in air-tight glass jars. this quantity fills one pint jar. a couple tablespoonfuls added to a tumbler partly filled with water and chipped ice makes a delicious and quickly prepared drink on a hot day. egg nogg add to the stiffly beaten white of one egg the slightly beaten yolk of egg. pour into glass tumbler, fill with cold sweet milk, sweeten with sugar to taste and a little grated nutmeg on top or a tablespoonful of good brandy. this is excellent for a person needing nourishment, and may be easily taken by those not able to take a raw egg in any other form. the egg nogg will be more easily digested if sipped slowly while eating a cracker or slice of crisply toasted bread. rose wine gather one quart of rose leaves, place in a bowl, pour over one quart of boiling water, let stand nine days, then strain, and to each quart of strained liquid add one pound of granulated sugar. allow to stand until next day, when sugar will be dissolved. pour into bottles, cork tightly, stand away for six months before using. aunt sarah had some which had been keeping two years and it was fine. dandelion wine four good quarts of dandelion blossoms, four pounds of sugar, six oranges, five lemons. wash dandelion blossoms and place them in an earthenware crock. pour five quarts of boiling water over them and let stand hours. then strain through a muslin bag, squeezing out all moisture from dandelions. put the strained juice in a deep stone crock or jug and add to it the grated rind and juice of the six oranges and five lemons. tie a piece of cheese-cloth over the top of jug and stand it in a warm kitchen about one week, until it begins to ferment. then stand away from stove in an outer kitchen or cooler place, not in the cellar, for three months. at the end of three months put in bottles. this is a clear, amber, almost colorless liquid. a pleasant drink of medicinal value. aunt sarah always used this recipe for making dandelion wine, but mary preferred a recipe in which yeast was used, as the wine could be used a short time after making. dandelion wine (made with yeast) four quarts of dandelion blossoms. pour over them four quarts of boiling water; let stand hours, strain and add grated rind and juice of two oranges and two lemons, four pounds of granulated sugar and two tablespoonfuls of home-made yeast. let stand one week, then strain and fill bottles. grape fruit punch two cups of grape juice, cups of water, - / cups of sugar, juice of lemons and oranges, sliced oranges, bananas and pineapples. serve the punch in sherbet glasses, garnished with marachino cherries. a substitute for maple syrup a very excellent substitute for maple syrup to serve on hot griddle cakes is prepared from pounds of either brown or white sugar and - / cups of water, in the following manner: place the stew-pan containing sugar and water on the back part of range, until sugar dissolves, then boil from to minutes, until the mixture thickens to the consistency of honey. remove from the range and add a few drops of vanilla or "mapleine" flavoring. a tiny pinch of cream of tartar, added when syrup commences to boil, prevents syrup granulating; too large a quantity of cream of tartar added to the syrup would cause it to have a sour taste. salted almonds or peanuts blanch pounds of shelled almonds or peanuts (the peanuts, of course, have been well roasted) by pouring quart of boiling water over them. allow them to stand a short time. drain and pour cold water over them, when the skin may be easily removed. place in a cool oven until dry and crisp. put a small quantity of butter into a pan. when hot, throw in the nuts and stir for a few minutes, sprinkle a little salt over. many young cooks do not know that salted peanuts are almost equally as good as salted almonds and cheaper. peanuts should always be freshly roasted and crisp. peanut butter when peanuts have been blanched, are cold, dry and crisp, run them through a food chopper. do not use the _very finest_ cutter, as that makes a soft mass. or they may be crushed with a rolling pin. season with salt, spread on thinly-sliced, buttered bread. they make excellent sandwiches. or run peanuts through food chopper which has an extra fine cutter especially for this purpose. the peanuts are then a thick, creamy mass. thin this with a small quantity of olive oil, or melted butter, if preferred. season with salt and you have "peanut butter," which, spread on slices of buttered bread, makes a delicious sandwich, and may frequently take the place of meat sandwiches. nuts, when added to salads, bread or cake, add to their food value. a club sandwich on a thinly-cut slice of toasted bread lay a crisp lettuce leaf and a thin slice of broiled bacon. on that a slice of cold, boiled chicken and a slice of ripe tomato. place a spoonful of mayonnaise on the tomato, on this a slice of toasted bread. always use stale bread for toast and if placed in a hot oven a minute before toasting it may be more quickly prepared. candies-walnut molasses taffy place cups of new orleans molasses and / cup of brown sugar in a stew-pan on the range and cook; when partly finished cooking (this may be determined by a teaspoonful of the mixture forming a soft ball when dropped in water), add tablespoonful of flour, moistened with a small quantity of water, and cook until a teaspoonful of the mixture becomes brittle when dropped in cold water; at this stage add scant teaspoonful of baking soda (salaratus). stir, then add cup of coarsely chopped black walnut meats; stir all together thoroughly, and pour into buttered pans to become cool. cocoanut creams grate medium-sized cocoanut, place in a bowl, add pounds of confectioners' sugar, mix with the cocoanut; then add the stiffly beaten white of egg and teaspoonful of vanilla; knead this as you would bread for or minutes. if the cocoanut is a large or a dry one, about / pound more sugar will be required. shape the mixture into small balls, press halves of english walnut meats into each ball, or have them plain, if preferred. stand aside in a cool place a half hour. melt a half cake of baker's unsweetened chocolate, add a half teaspoonful of paraffin, roll the small balls in this chocolate mixture until thoroughly coated. place on waxed paper to dry. from the ingredients in this recipe was made pounds of candy. fudge (as made by mary) two cups of granulated sugar, cup of sweet milk, / cup of butter, / cake or squares of baker's unsweetened chocolate. cook all together until when tried in water it forms a soft ball. remove from fire, flavor with vanilla, beat until creamy, pour in buttered pan and when cooled cut in squares. a delicious "chocolate cream" candy place in an agate stew-pan cups of granulated sugar, cup of sweet milk, butter size of an egg. cook all together until it forms a soft ball when a small quantity is dropped into cold water. then beat until creamy. add a half a cup of any kind of chopped nut meats. spread on an agate pie-tin and stand aside to cool. for the top layer take cup of sugar, / cup milk and butter size of an egg, small squares of a cake of baker's unsweetened chocolate. cook together until it forms a soft ball in water. beat until creamy. add half a teaspoonful of vanilla, spread over top of first layer of candy and stand away until it hardens and is quite cold. mary's recipe for molasses taffy four tablespoonfuls new orleans molasses, tablespoonfuls sugar, tablespoonfuls water, teaspoonfuls butter, teaspoonful vanilla. boil all together until it becomes brittle when a small quantity is dropped in water. pour the mixture into buttered pans and when cool enough to handle, pull with the hands until a light creamy yellow shade. pull into long, thin strips, cut into small pieces with scissors. this taffy is fine if boiled a long enough time to become crisp and brittle, and you will be surprised at the quantity this small amount of sugar and molasses will make. recipe for making hard soap without boiling to make hard soap without boiling, empty a can of "lewis perfumed lye" (or any other good, reliable brand of lye) into a stone jar with tablespoonful powdered borax. add - / pints of cold water to the lye. stir until dissolved. be very careful not to allow any of the lye to touch hands or face. wear old gloves when emptying can and stirring lye. stand the dissolved lye in a cool place. the tin cans containing the fat to be used for soap (which have accumulated, been tried out, strained, and put in empty tin cans at different times) should be placed in the oven of range for a few minutes. when warm they may be turned out readily into a large stew-pan. put over fire and when all has dissolved and melted, strain through cheese-cloth bag into an agate dish pan. when weighed you should - / pounds of clear fat. a recipe telling exact quantity of fat and lye usually comes with can of lye. when temperature of fat is degrees by your thermometer (luke-warm), the lye should have been allowed to stand about hour from the time it was dissolved. it should then be the right temperature to mix with strained, luke-warm fat or grease not over degrees by thermometer. now slowly pour the dissolved lye over the fat (a half cup of ammonia added improves soap), stir together until lye and grease are thoroughly incorporated, and the mixture drops from the stirrer like honey. the soap may be scented by adding a few drops of oil of cloves, if liked. stir the mixture with a small wooden paddle or stick. stir slowly from to minutes, not longer, or the lye and fat may separate. pour all into a large agate dish pan lined with a piece of clean muslin. throw an old piece of carpet over the top and stand near the range until evening, when, if made early in the morning, a solid cake of soap, weighing - / pounds, may be turned out on a bake-board (previously covered with brown paper) and cut into pieces of good hard soap. lay the pieces of soap in a basket, cover to protect from dust, and stand in a warm room to dry thoroughly before using. soap made according to these directions should be solid and almost as white as ivory if the fat used has not been scorched. this soap is excellent for scrubbing and laundry purposes. the greater length of time the soap is kept, the better it will become. the grease used may be clarified by adding water and cooking a short time. stand away and when cool remove fat from top, wiping off any moisture that may appear. soap-making is a _small economy_. of course, the young housewife will not use for soap _any fat_ which could be utilized for frying, etc., but she will be surprised to find, when she once gets the saving habit, how quickly she will have the quantity of fat needed for a dollar's worth of soap by the small outlay of the price of a can of lye, not counting her work. the young, inexperienced housewife should be careful not to use too small a stew-pan in which to heat the fat, and should not, under any circumstance, leave the kitchen while the fat is on the range, as grave results might follow carelessness in this respect. to imitate chestnut wood before painting the floor it was scrubbed thoroughly with the following: one-half cup of "household ammonia" added to four quarts of water. the floor, after being well scrubbed with this, was wiped up with pure, clean water and allowed to get perfectly dry before painting. for the ground color, or first coat of paint on the floor, after the cracks in floor had been filled with putty or filler, mix together five pounds of white lead, one pint of turpentine and about a fourth of a pound of yellow ochre, add tablespoon of japan dryer. this should make one quart of paint a light tan or straw color, with which paint the floor and allow it to dry twenty-four hours, when another coat of the same paint was given the floor and allowed to dry another twenty-four hours, then a graining color, light oak, was used. this was composed of one pint of turpentine, one teaspoon of graining color and two tablespoons of linseed oil, and tablespoon of japan dryer, all mixed together. this was about the color of coffee or chocolate. when the wood had been painted with this graining color, before drying, a fine graining comb was passed lightly over to imitate the grain of wood. this was allowed to dry twenty-four hours, when a coat of floor varnish was given. the room was allowed to dry thoroughly before using. the imitation of natural chestnut was excellent. measures and weights when a recipe calls for one cup of anything, it means one even cup, holding one-half pint, or two gills. one cup is equal to four wine glasses. one wine glass is equal to four tablespoons of liquid, or one-quarter cup. two dessertspoonfuls equal one tablespoonful. six tablespoonfuls of liquid equal one gill. two tablespoonfuls dry measure equal one gill. two gills equal one cup. two cups, or four gills, equal one pint. four cups of flour weigh one pound and four cups of flour equal one quart. one even cup of flour is four ounces. two cups (good measure) of granulated sugar weigh one pound and measure one pint. two cups butter equal one pound. a pint of liquid equals one pound. a cup of milk or water is ounces. two tablespoonfuls liquid equal one ounce. one salt spoonful is / teaspoonful. four tablespoonfuls equal one wine glass. piece of butter size of an egg equals two ounces, or two tablespoons. a tablespoonful of butter melted means the butter should be first measured then melted. one even tablespoonful of unmelted butter equals one ounce. one tablespoonful sugar, good measure, equals one ounce. ordinary silver tablespoon was used for measuring, not a large mixing spoon. cooking schedule to use with the oven thermometer of a gas stove _to cook_-- _cook for_-- bread, white ° minutes biscuit, small ° minutes biscuit, large ° minutes beef, roast rare ° minutes per pound beef, roast well done ° minutes per pound { fruit ° hours { sponge ° minutes cake { loaf ° minutes { layer ° minutes { cookies ° minutes chickens ° hours custards ° to ° minutes duck ° hours fish ° to ° hour ginger bread ° to ° minutes halibut ° to ° minutes lamb ° hours mutton, rare ° to ° minutes per pound mutton, well done ° minutes per pound pie crust ° minutes pork ° to ° - / hours potatoes ° hour { bread ° to ° hour { plum ° to ° hour puddings { rice ° to ° minutes { tapioca ° to ° minutes rolls ° to ° minutes turkeys ° hours veal ° - / hours when a teacher of "domestic science," the professor's wife was accustomed to using a pyrometer, or oven thermometer, to determine the proper temperature for baking. she explained its advantages over the old-fashioned way of testing the oven to mary and gave her a copy of the "cooking schedule," to put in her recipe book, which mary found of great assistance, and said she would certainly have a range with an oven thermometer should she have a home of her own, and persuaded aunt sarah to have one placed in the oven door of her range. the end. index to recipes page small economies, "left-overs" or "iverich bleibst" the many uses of stale bread "brod grummella" "croutons" and crumbs "zweibach" german egg bread creamed toast bread and rolls "bucks county" hearth-baked rye bread frau schmidt's good white bread (sponge method) excellent graham bread graham bread (an old recipe) "mary's" recipe for wheat bread frau schmidt's easily-made graham bread whole wheat bread nut bread "frau" schmidt's "quick bread" an "oatmeal loaf" "aunt sarah's" white bread (sponge method) recipe for pulled bread aunt sarah's "hutzel brod" aunt sarah's white bread and rolls aunt sarah's raised rolls clover-leaf rolls "polish" rye bread (as baked in bucks county) perfect breakfast rolls an old recipe for good bread steamed brown bread a wholesome bread (made from bran) "frau" schmidt's "hutzel brod" aunt sarah's "quickly made brown bread" "stirred" oatmeal bread nut and raisin bread "saffron" raisin bread raised rolls "grandmother's" pine raised biscuits "stirred" bread potato biscuits aunt sarah's potato yeast raised cakes "perfection" potato cakes mary's recipe for cinnamon buns "kleina kaffe kuchen" "grossmutter's" potato cakes aunt sarah's "bread dough" cake "good, cheap" dutch cakes recipe for "light cakes" (given to mary by a farmer's wife) butter "schimmel" "bucks county" doughnuts extra fine "quaker bonnet" biscuits bucks county cinnamon "kuchen" moravian sugar cakes "mary's" potato cakes "german" raisin cake "kaffee krantz" (coffee wreath) "mondel krantz" the professor's wife's recipe for dutch cakes farmer's pound cake german "coffee bread" "fast nacht kuchen" (doughnuts) "kaffee kuchen" (coffee cake) "streusel kuchen" muffins, biscuits, griddle cakes and waffles sally lunn (as aunt sarah made it) aunt sarah's recipe for "johnny cake" "mary's" breakfast muffins rice muffins indian pone "pfannkuchen" (pancakes) "extra fine" baking powder biscuits "flannel" cakes made from sour milk "flannel" cakes with baking powder frau schmidt's recipe for waffles "crumb" corn cakes grandmother's recipe for buttermilk waffles "bread" griddle cakes never fail "flannel" cakes waffles made from sweet milk and baking powder "bucks county" buckwheat cakes delicious corn cakes rice waffles (as aunt sarah made them) "german" egg-pancakes (not cheap) "frau schmidt's" griddle cake recipe mary's recipe for corn cakes aunt sarah's delicious cream biscuits mary's muffins "corn muffins" (as made by frau schmidt) strawberry short cake (as frau schmidt made it) perfection waffles recipe for making "baking powder" fritters, croquettes, dumplings and crullers "kartoffle balla" (potato balls) "boova shenkel" rice balls with cheese "kartoffle klose" rice croquets (and lemon sauce) corn oysters banana fritters parsnip fritters aunt sarah's "schnita and knopf" a very old recipe for "knopf" (or dumplings) "kartoffle kuklein" (potato fritter or boofers) rosettes, wafers and rosenkuehen "bairische dampfnudein" "heller bluther kuklein" "apyl kuklein" (apple fritters) dumplings made from "bread sponge" "leber klose" (liver dumplings) frau schmidt's "old recipe for schnitz and knopf" "brod knodel," or bread dumplings "german" pot pie "zwelchen dampfnudeln" green corn fritters "mouldasha" (parsley pies) inexpensive drop crullers batter baked with gravy "german" sour cream crullers grandmother's doughnuts fine "drop crullers" soups and chowders vegetable soup "marklose" balls for soup egg balls for soup "suppee schwangen" cream of oyster bouillon "german" noodle soup cream of celery oyster stew clam broth turkey soup cream of pea soup tomato soup "frau" schmidt's clam soup clam chowder brown potato chowder bean chowder bouillon "farmer's" rice philadelphia "pepperpot" "german" vegetable soup a cheap rice and tomato soup fish, clams and oysters boned shad croquettes of cold cooked fish shad roe scalloped oysters deviled oysters planked shad broiled mackerel codfish bails fried oysters panned oysters oysters steamed in the shell a recipe given mary for "oyster cocktail" oyster croquettes frau schmidt's way of serving "oyster cocktails" salmon loaf creamed salmon oyster canapes meat "sauergebratens" (german pot roast) "hungarian goulash" broiled steak stewed shin of beef hamburg steak meat stew with dumplings extending the meat flavor preparing a pot roast stuffed breast of veal "gedampftes rinderbrust" "paprikash" beef stew savory beef roll veal cutlets meat "snitzel" sirloin steaks meat balls veal loaf sweet breads (breaded) fried "liver and bacon" beef steak served with peas creamed "dried beef" creamed sweetbreads meat croquettes stewed rabbit roast lamb "gefullte rinderbrust" (stuffed breast of beef) german style fried peppers with pork chops boiled ham sliced ham roast pork pork chops "home-made" sausage aunt sarah's method of keeping sausage souse utilizing cold meat "left-overs" fowl roast chicken or turkey bread filling (as aunt sarah prepared it) fried chicken with cream gravy stewed or steamed chicken vegetables white potatoes baked potatoes various ways of using small potatoes scalloped potatoes candied sweet potatoes sweet potato croquettes potato chips fried eggplant baked stuffed peppers chili (as prepared in new mexico) baked cabbage crimson creamed beets buttered beets pickled "mangelwurzel" german steamed cabbage bean "snitzel" boiled spinach fried onions and potatoes steamed asparagus (pine) pasture mushrooms steamed mushrooms (delicious) stewed tomatoes sweet corn fried tomatoes with "cream sauce" baked "stuffed tomatoes" "canned tomatoes," fried or (tomato fritters) "bucks county" baked beans cooked hominy grated parsnip cakes to make "sauer kraut" dumplings to serve with "sauer kraut" parsley dried to preserve its _green_ color time required to cook vegetables common cream sauce preparation of savory gravies the good flavor of "browned flour" butter, cheese and suet a substitute for butter (as aunt sarah prepared it) "butter"--as it was made at the farm, "by aunt sarah" "smier kase," or cottage cheese uses of sweet drippings and suet eggs "eierkuchen," or omelette hard boiled eggs soft boiled eggs an egg and tomato omelette mushroom omelette a clam omelette deviled eggs eggs in cream sauce aunt sarah's method of preserving eggs in "water glass" to test fresh eggs salads aunt sarah's salad dressing dutch cucumber salad carrot salad "an old recipe" for chicken salad german potato salad german turnip salad "german" salad dressing mary's potato salad mary's recipe for salad dressing "fruit" salad dressing grape fruit salad "a good, inexpensive" salad dressing imitation "lobster salad" "german" horseradish sauce mayonnaise dressing (in which olive oil is used) mustard dressing to serve with sliced tomatoes chicken salad pepper hash german bean salad meat salads beverages coffee cocoa chocolate boiled water tea iced tea puddings rice pudding frau schmidt's apple dumplings "caramel custard" as mary prepared it aunt sarah's bread pudding "steamed" bread pudding an economical "bread and apple pudding" cup custards frau schmidt's graham pudding "sponge" bread pudding (sauce) aunt sarah's cottage pudding (sauce) apple "strudel" "lemon meringue" pudding suet pudding (sauce) steamed fruit pudding (sauce) cornmeal pudding huckleberry pudding tapioca custard delicious baked peach pudding caramel custard "aunt sarah's" rhubarb pudding "vanilla sauce" for rhubarb pudding rice custard "mary's" cup pudding (from stale bread) (sauce) "buckwheat minute" pudding peach tapioca aunt sarah's plain boiled pudding pudding sauce apple tapioca steamed walnut pudding "cornmeal sponge" pudding mary's corn starch pudding apple johnny cake (served as a pudding) a good and cheap tapioca pudding "gotterspeise" spanish cream graham pudding "pennsylvania" plum pudding (for thanksgiving day) (sauce) "slice" bread pudding cereals oatmeal porridge cooked rice cornmeal mush macaroni baked macaroni and cheese cakes cake making frau schmidt's lemon cake fine "krum kuchen" aunt sarah's "quick dutch cakes" a reliable layer cake boiled icing a delicious "spice layer cake" (icing) an inexpensive cocoa cake aunt sarah's walnut gingerbread aunt sarah's "german crumb cakes" baked in crusts "sour cream" molasses cake economy cake ginger cake a very economical german clove cake (icing) cake icing for various cakes mary's recipe for "hot milk sponge" cake cheap "molasses gingerbread" aunt sarah's extra fine large sponge cake angel cake (aunt sarah's recipe) aunt sarah's good and cheap "country fruit cake" a "sponge custard" cake custard grandmother's excellent "old" recipe for marble cake mary's molasses cakes chocolate icing for molasses cake hickory nut cake "light brown" sugar cake "angel food" layer cake mary's chocolate cake cocoa filling a cheap orange cake frau schmidt's molasses cake apple sauce cake icing "schwarz" cake (and chocolate filling) apple cream cake apple cream pilling for cake a "half pound" cake a delicious icing (not cheap) cocoanut layer cake the filling gold layer cake sunshine sponge cake an inexpensive dark "chocolate layer cake" angel cake mary's chocolate loaf (made with sour milk) inexpensive sunshine cake mary's recipe for orange cake and filling for cake roll jelly cake aunt sarah's cinnamon cake gelb kuchen (yellow cake) devil's food cake a cheap cocoanut layer cake lady baltimore cake and icing an inexpensive "white fruit cake" a good and cheap "white cake" chocolate icing (very good) tip-top cake orange cake and filling cheap sponge cake caramel cake and icing a white cake "dutch" currant cake (no yeast used) an "old recipe" for coffee cake a "cheap" brown sugar cake fran schmidt's "german christmas cake" aunt sarah's "shellbark layer cake" imperial cake (baked for mary's wedding) a light fruit cake (for christmas) english cake (similar to a white fruit cake) grandmother's fruit cake (baked for mary's wedding) an old recipe for pound cake "bucks county" molasses cakes (baked in pastry) "brod torte" a delicious chocolate cake chocolate icing a white cocoanut cake a potato cake (no yeast required) a citron cake aunt amanda's spice "kuchen" a good, cheap chocolate cake an tee cream cake small sponge cakes small cakes and cookies "aunt sarah's" little lemon cakes oatmeal crisps aunt sarah's ginger snaps german "lebkuchen" (icing) grandmother's molasses cakes angel cakes (baked in gem pans) "almond brod" "grossmutter's" honey cakes lemon wafers or drop cakes frau schmidt's sugar cookies almond macaroons "honig kuchen" (honey cakes) frau schmidt's molasses snaps hickory nut cakes "lebkuchen" fruit jumbles brown pfeffernussen small oatmeal cakes frau schmidt's recipe for "german" almond slices "july ann's" ginger snaps cocoanut cookies chocolate cookies small "belsnickel" christmas cakes "pennsylvania dutch" kisses little crumb cakes delicious vanilla wafers (as mary made them) macaroons (as aunt sarah made them) "springerles" (german christmas cakes) oatmeal cookies peanut biscuits plain cookies walnut rocks cinnamon wafers (as aunt sarah made them) zimmet waffles (as made by frau schmidt) "braune lebkuchen" peanut cookies pies flaky pie crust aunt sarah's lemon pie the professor's wife's superior pastry mary's lemon meringue (made with milk) apple tart raisin or "rosina" pie snitz pie mary's recipe for "plain pumpkin" pies chocolate pie "pebble dash," or shoo fly pie (as aunt sarah made it) vanilla crumb "crusts" (the crumbs for crusts) "kasha kuchen" or cherry cake "rivel kuchen" aunt sarah's lemon meringue a country batter pie pumpkin pie (aunt sarah's recipe) white potato custard (aunt sarah's recipe) "rhubarb custard" pie "lemon apple" pie green currant pie a country "molasses" pie a mock cherry pie aunt sarah's custard pie plain rhubarb pie mary's cream pie apple custard pie lemon pie with crumbs aunt sarah's butter scotch pie green tomato mince meat orange meringue (a pie) grandmother's recipe for "mince meat" "twentieth century" mince meat a "dutch" recipe for pumpkin pie mary's cocoanut custard pie grape pie sour cherry pie aunt sarah's "strawberry" pie "florendine" pie aunt sarah's "cheese cake," or pie "frau" schmidt's lemon pie pickles spiced cucumbers mixed sauce to serve with meats pepper relish pickled red cabbage mustard pickles aunt sarah's cucumber pickles "rot pfeffers" filled with cabbage an old recipe for spiced pickles aunt sarah's recipe for "chili sauce" tomato catsup pickled beets marmalades, preserves and canned fruits "frau" schmidt's recipe for apple butter cranberry sauce preserved "yellow ground cherries" "wunderselda" marmalade aunt sarah's spiced pears peach marmalade aunt sarah's ginger pears pear and pieapple marmalade grape butter canned sour cherries candied orange peel aunt sarah's "cherry marmalade" aunt sarah's "quince honey" pickled peaches currant jelly pineapple honey preserved pineapple grape conserve mary's recipe for rhubarb jam apple sauce rhubarb marmalade as "frau schmidt" made it grape fruit marmalade orange marmalade cherry "relish" canned peaches pear conserve lemon honey canned string beans preserved "german prunes" or plums "bucks county" apple butter canned tomatoes euchered peaches aunt sarah's method of canning corn dried sweet corn preserved cherries frozen desserts aunt sarah's frozen "fruit custard" sherbet ice cream (a simple recipe given mary) frau schmidt's ice cream maple parfait ice cream made by beating with paddle aunt sarah's recipe for frozen custard pineapple cream mary's recipe for peach cream lemon sherbet frau schmidt's frozen custard caramel ice cream cherry sherbet grape sherbet wines and syrups unfermented grape juice vinegar made from strawberries boiled cider for mince pies lemon syrup egg nogg rose wine dandelion wine dandelion wine (made with yeast) grape fruit punch a substitute for maple syrup salted almonds or peanuts peanut butter a club sandwich candies walnut molasses taffy cocoanut creams fudge (as made by mary) a delicious chocolate cream candy mary's recipe for molasses taffy recipe for making hard soap without boiling to imitate chestnut wood measures and weights cooking schedule transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). a caret (^) is used to indicate that the character following it is printed as superscript, such as y^e. printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained. [illustration: junction of frankstown and luckahoe branches of the juniata below alexandria.] history of the early settlement of the juniata valley: embracing an account of the early pioneers, and the trials and privations incident to the settlement of the valley, predatory incursions, massacres, and abductions by the indians during the french and indian wars, and the war of the revolution, &c. by u. j. jones. philadelphia: published by henry b. ashmead, george st., above eleventh. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by u. j. jones, in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states for the eastern district of pennsylvania. stereotyped by l. johnson and co. philadelphia. dedication. to major b. f. bell, bell's mills, blair county, pennsylvania. dear sir:--i hope your well-known modesty will not be shocked when your eyes encounter this notice. in dedicating to you the fruits of my first historical labors in the field of literature, allow me to say that i am governed by reasons that will justify me. in the first place, i may cite your well-known and often-expressed veneration and esteem for the memory of the brave old pioneers of our valley, their heroic deeds, and their indomitable energy and perseverance, under the most discouraging circumstances, in turning the unbroken wilderness into "a land flowing with milk and honey." secondly, you are the son of one of those self-same old pioneers, (now in his grave,) who, if not a direct actor in some of the scenes portrayed in the pages following, lived while they were enacted, and trod upon the ground where many of them occurred, while the actors in them were his friends and his neighbors. manifold, indeed, were the changes he witnessed during a long and useful career; but the common lot of humanity was his, and he now "sleeps the sleep that knows no waking," where once the lordly savage roamed, and made the dim old woods echo with his whoop, many, many years ago. lastly, it was through your encouragement that i undertook the task; and it was through your kind and liberal spirit that i was enabled to make it any thing more than an _unpublished_ history, unless i chose to let others reap the benefit of my labors. these things, sir, you may look upon as _private_, but i cannot refrain from giving them publicity, since i acknowledge that your liberality has entailed upon me a deeper debt of gratitude than i can repay by merely dedicating my work to you. allow me, therefore, to dedicate to you, as a small token of my esteem for you, the "history of the early settlement of the juniata valley." if there is any thing in it to interest the present generation and enlighten posterity, i am willing to divide the honor and glory of its paternity with you, for i am neither afraid nor ashamed to confess that, although i _wrote_ the _history_, it was through your generosity that i was enabled to _publish_ the _book_. a careful perusal of the work will, no doubt, convince you that i have labored studiously to make it interesting, not only to the resident of the valley, but to the general reader, who must admit that, if i have failed, it has not been for lack of the best exertions on my part. in conclusion, should the book prove a failure, and not come up to the expectations of my friends, you can console yourself with the reflection that you made a mistake by inciting the wrong man to an undertaking for which he was unqualified. a pleasant reflection! i have said, that, as you were the _originator_ of the book, you should share all the _honor_ that might arise from it. i will be more magnanimous still; if the history proves a mere catchpenny swindle, let the odium and execrations of a humbugged public fall upon the author. hollidaysburg, pa., _nov._ . preface. the design, object, and aim of the following pages can be summed up without any circumlocution. some ten or twelve years ago, a large volume of "historical collections of pennsylvania" was published by sherman day, which gave a brief history, among others, of the counties composing the valley of the juniata. this work was followed by a compilation, by i. d. rupp, esq., entitled "a history of northumberland, huntingdon, mifflin, centre, union, clinton, juniata, and columbia counties." the last, as far as our valley was concerned, was almost a reprint of the first, with some few additions gleaned from the colonial records and the archives of the state. both these works were most liberally subscribed for; in fact, the compilation of the counties had upwards of a _thousand_ subscribers in huntingdon county (blair not then formed) alone! the inducements held out, in order to gain such an extensive list, were, that the works would be graphic histories of the _early_ settlement of this country. in this they signally failed. true, here and there they gave an account of some early occurrence; but they were exceedingly brief, lacked detail, and in many instances were found grossly inaccurate. of course, they gave universal dissatisfaction, because the subscribers looked for a faithful record of the stirring events which occurred when this portion of the land of penn was "the dark and bloody ground." the descendants of many who figured in the trials incident to the settlement of the valley are still living. the fireside recitals of these events made them "as familiar as household words" among those who are now fast passing away; but they search _all_ histories in vain to find a faithful account of more than a moiety of the struggles, trials, and personal adventures of the pioneers, as well as the many cold-blooded indian massacres and depredations which spread desolation through the land, and laid waste the homes and firesides of so many who located in what was then a wilderness. let me not be understood as attempting to deny the merits of the works of which i have spoken. as _modern_ histories, giving accounts, or rather descriptions, of the country as it was at the time they were issued, they were faithful records. indeed, i will do mr. rupp the justice to say that i consider his compilation all it professes to be, according to his preface, in which he says: "a full and minute history of these counties can only be expected after a greater accumulation of historical facts is extant for that purpose." the facts necessary to give a minute history of the early settlement of the juniata have been accessible, although it must be admitted that those who could give them from reliable personal recollections have nearly all passed into "the valley and the shadow of death." some ten or twelve years ago, judge m'cune, judge adams, michael maguire, and edward bell, esq., met at the mansion of the latter gentleman, in antes township, blair county, by invitation. these were all old settlers, whose memories dated back to the struggle of the infant colonies for freedom; and most vividly did they recollect the indian butcheries when brave old england paid a stipulated price for rebel scalps. the reunion of these veterans was an epoch in their lives, for they had been children together, had travelled the same rugged path, and, with stalwart frames, sinewy arms, and willing hearts, had earned for themselves names, reputation, and earthly competence. well may we conjecture that, in fighting the battle of life over again in story, some interesting incidents were related. during this reunion, a history of the early settlement of the upper end of the valley was written, and the manuscript transmitted to the historical society of pennsylvania, in the expectation that it would be published in some of their works. this, however, never was done; and when application was made to the society for a return of the manuscript, it was either lost or mislaid. since then, one by one, these old patriots have passed from time to eternity, and the woods and valleys that knew them for three-quarters of a century shall know them no more. with them would, in all probability, have been buried many important facts, had not the author of these pages called upon the last survivor, michael maguire, in october last, and taken down, at length, all his early recollections. the time was most opportune, for he was even then upon his deathbed. the sands of a long life were evidently ebbing fast, and he knew it, for he gave it as his solemn conviction that the proposed recital of the past was the last he should ever make to mortal man. although enfeebled by age, and his body wasting away, his intellect was vigorous and unclouded, and his memory fresh as it was fourscore years ago. indeed, i soon found that he had the most retentive memory of any man i ever knew, because, in narrating incidents, he gave days, dates, and names, with such ease as almost to stagger belief. of course, to him i am mainly indebted for the material of that part of the history treating of the upper end of the valley, especially the occurrences between and . mr. m. died on the th inst. from a manuscript memoir of e. bell, esq., i have also been enabled to glean some useful information. he commenced it a short time before his death, and it is to be deeply regretted that a violent attack of rheumatism in the hand compelled him to abandon the work after writing some six or eight pages. i am also indebted to a number of persons for information that has been of value to me, whose names will be mentioned in another place in the work. if this volume fails to meet the expectations of those kind friends who have interested themselves in my behalf, it will not be for lack of zeal or perseverance on my part. i am free to confess that the language of the book is not clothed in that attractive garb which makes books popular in the age we live in; but then it must be remembered that i am not, worthy reader, submitting to your judgment a romance, but a history, based upon immutable and undying truths. u. j. jones. hollidaysburg, _nov._ . contents. page chapter i. the aborigines of the valley--their habits and customs chapter ii. history of the early settlers chapter iii. juniata island--an indian paradise--rev. david brainerd--the early settlers, hulings, watts, and baskins--indian battles--remarkable escape of mrs. hulings chapter iv. indian towns along the juniata--lost creek valley discovered--mexico first settled by capt. james patterson, in --indian attack upon settlers at the house of william white--massacre of white--capture of john riddle--his release from captivity, etc. chapter v. early settlers at licking creek--relics of an indian battle--house of robert campbell attacked--james campbell wounded and taken prisoner--scout sent from sherman's creek--encounter with indians at buffalo creek--five of the scout killed, etc. chapter vi. tuscarora valley--its early settlement--its mounds and its forts, massacres, etc. chapter vii. fort granville--old indian town--early settlers--captain jacobs-- assault and capture of the fort, etc. chapter viii. organization of mifflin county--dispute with huntingdon county about the boundary line--riot at lewistown, etc. chapter ix. kishicoquillas valley--the shawnee chief kishicokelas--the mingo chief logan chapter x. colonel john armstrong's expedition against kittaning--list of the killed and wounded--delaware chiefs, captain jacobs and shingas, etc. chapter xi. old indian town--indian paths--aughwick--murder of john armstrong and party--captain jack, the wild hunter of the juniata--george crogan, etc. chapter xii. raystown branch--early settlement of raystown--general forbes's expedition--colonels washington and boquet--colonel armstrong's letter--smith and his "black boys"--bloody run--robbery--indian massacres--revolutionary lieutenants of bedford county, etc. chapter xiii. raystown branch, continued--murder of sanders and his family-- englishman and his wife taken prisoners--felix skelly and mrs. elder taken captives--their return, etc. chapter xiv. standing stone, ancient and modern--murder of felix donnelly and his son francis, etc. chapter xv. trials of the early settlers--their forts and other means of defence, etc. chapter xvi. the early settlers--old hart, the indian trader chapter xvii. the continental mills of the valley chapter xviii. the cove--early settlement by dunkards--indian massacres and captivities--massacre of ullery and hammond--a resistant dunkard, etc. chapter xix. tommy coleman, the indian-fighter--surprise of the dunkard murderers, etc. chapter xx. sinking valley--the lead mines--fort roberdeau--indian murder and heroic conduct of a woman--encounter with a savage--massacre of roller and bebault, etc. chapter xxi. tories of the valley--their unfortunate expedition to join the indians at kittaning--captain john weston, the tory leader--captain thomas blair--capture of the brothers hicks--hanging a tory--narrow escape of two of weston's men, etc. chapter xxii. the tory hare--murder of loudenslager--abduction and murder of mrs. eaton and children--treatment of hare by the settlers, etc. chapter xxiii. moses donaldson--capture and murder of his wife and two children chapter xxiv. depredations at the mouth of spruce creek--murder of levi hicks-- scalping of his child chapter xxv. stone valley--mccormick's fort--murder of mrs. houston and james mcclees--a dealer in grain of the olden time chapter xxvi. tuckahoe--murder of john guilliford chapter xxvii. early settlement of scotch valley--the moore family--massacre of william moore--indian shot by a boy, etc. chapter xxviii. woodcock valley--massacre of elder--the breckenridge family--fight with, and destruction of, captain phillips's scout by the indians-- cruel massacre of ten men chapter xxix. water street--the beatty family--captain simonton--massacre of the dean family--captivity of john simonton, etc. chapter xxx. hollidaysburg--the holliday family--death of lieutenant holliday at the battle of brandywine--massacre of a portion of william holliday's family--john holliday, etc. chapter xxxi. old indian town of frankstown--indian burial-places--massacre of the bedford scout, etc. chapter xxxii. shaver's creek--mysterious death of old shaver--heroic conduct of two children--abduction of miss ewing and miss mccormick--peter crum, the last victim of the savages, etc. chapter xxxiii. warrior ridge--warrior's mark--job chillaway, shaney john, and captain logan, the last red men in the juniata valley chapter xxxiv. conclusion appendix. the valley as it is early settlement of the juniata valley. chapter i. the aborigines of the valley--their habits and their customs. when the persevering and adventurous anglo-saxon first entered the wilds of the juniata, his eye, as far as it could reach, beheld nothing but a dense forest; but his quick penetration observed its natural beauties, its advantages, and the fertility of its soil. hence he did not long stand upon the crest of the tuscarora mountain, debating the advantages to be derived from making it his home, or the risk he was taking upon himself in doing so, but plunged boldly down into the valley and called it his own. he found it peopled with dusky warriors and their families, who received him with open arms; and the golden hues of hope for the future lightened his cares, and made his privations no longer a burden. on the banks of the beautiful river the majestic stag trod, a very monarch; and the pellucid stream, from the bubbling brooks that formed it, to its mouth, was filled with the noble salmon and sportive trout, with little to molest them; for the indians did not possess the penchant for indiscriminate slaughter of game which characterized their successors. they held that the land was given to human beings by the good _manitou_ for a dwelling-place, and not for the purpose of being broken up and cultivated for game. the fish and game were also a free gift from the same spirit, for the support of his people. hence hunting and fishing for more than what would supply immediate and absolute wants were held in supreme contempt by the red man. the indians found in the valley, when the whites first invaded it, belonged to three or four tribes--the delawares, monseys, shawnees, and probably the tuscaroras; all of whom, with the exception of the latter, belonged to one of the eight great indian confederations scattered over the land, from the rocky mountains to what they called, in their figurative language, the rising of the sun. these indians called themselves the _lenni lenape_, or "original people," of which the delawares and monseys were by far the most numerous of the tribes settled in the valley. the shawnees, a restless, lawless, and ferocious band, were threatened with extermination by a powerful foe in florida, when they came to pennsylvania and craved the protection of the _lenapes_, which was granted to them, and they were permitted to settle upon the lands of the delawares. the delaware indians soon discovered that the shawnees were quarrelsome and treacherous neighbors, and their company not desirable. notice was given them to quit, and they settled upon the flats of the susquehanna, near wilkesbarre, and from thence they found their way to the juniata; and there is little doubt but that they were first and foremost in the depredations committed during the french and indian wars, as well as during the american revolution. the tuscaroras did not claim to belong to the _lenape_ tribes, yet a large portion of them lived in their territory. they came from the south, and joined the _aquanuschioni_, or "united people," known in history as the six nations. as they did not speak the language of either the "united people" or the "original people," it would appear that they were people on their own account, enjoying a sort of roving commission to hunt the lands and fish the streams of any of "their cousins," as they styled all other tribes. the conoy indians settled in the valley in . they left the delaware on the strength of a promise made them by the proprietary government that they should be remunerated. the debt, however, we presume, must have been repudiated, for we find that an indian orator named _arruehquay_, of the six nations, made application to governor hamilton, during a "talk" in philadelphia on the st of july, , for something for them. the governor, quite as much of an adept at wheedling the savages as the proprietors themselves, returned the conoy wampum, and "talked" the seneca orator out of the belief that they owed the conoys a single farthing, in consequence of their having left their land and settled among the nations of the juniata of their own free will and accord. he ruled out the conoy claim, and confirmed his opinion by sending them a string of government wampum. whether this satisfied the conoys or not does not appear upon the record. we think not--at least we should not suppose that they were half as well satisfied as the six nation deputies, who carried away, among other plunder, a quantity of tobacco and pipes, fifty ruffled shirts, and a gross and a half of brass jewsharps! the nanticokes settled about the mouth of the juniata in or , and in after years spread westward toward the ohio. this portion of the tribe, when it first came to the juniata, was not very formidable; but it increased and became powerful. a number of mengues, mingoes, or iroquois, of the six nations, settled a few years afterward in kishacoquillas valley, now mifflin county. of all the savages in the valley, the mingoes were probably the most peaceably disposed, although it is a well-attested fact that they were a brave and warlike band. the fathers of the principal chiefs of the mingoes, settled in the juniata valley, had been _partially_ (if we may use the term) christianized by the teachings of the moravian missionaries, heckwelder, zinzendorf, and loskiel; and this may account for their desire to live on terms of amity and friendship with their pale-faced brethren. as the delawares, or lenapes, claimed to be the original people, we must come to the conclusion that they came toward the east before the iroquois. they probably came from a northern direction, while the united people worked their way from the northwest to the northeast. to call these men original people, in the sense in which they applied it, may have been right enough; but to apply the term to them of _original_, as occupants of the country, is a misnomer, not only according to their own oral traditions, but according to the most indubitable evidence of antiquarians and geologists. the traditions of the _lenapes_ were, in effect, that their ancestors were a mighty band of fierce warriors, who came from the setting of the sun, part of the way by canoes, and the balance of the way over land,--through dense forests, beautiful valleys, over lofty mountains. in their triumphant march they met but one foe, whom they trampled under their feet as the buffalo does the grass under his hoofs, and that this weak and effeminate foe was entirely exterminated. these traditions, vague as they are, and as all oral traditions forever must be, have certainly a foundation in fact. drake, whose indian history is regarded as the most reliable, gives it as his opinion, formed only after all the facts could be collected and all the traditions fully digested, that the indians originally came from asia, by way of behring's straits. the patient investigations made by antiquarians have long since settled the fact, to the entire satisfaction of most people, that a race did exist in this country prior to the advent and on the arrival of the indians. the relics of this race, consisting of vases, pipes, earthenware, etc., found during the last century, indicate not only a race entirely different from the indians, but one much farther advanced in civilization. the indians, however, it would appear, either scorned their handicraft, or never took time to examine thoroughly the habits of these people before they exterminated them in order to possess their country. these relics bear a marked resemblance to those dug from ruins in egypt, as well as those found in peru. in fact, the vases, and some of the earthenware, bear such a strong resemblance to the peruvian antiquities, that it is the settled conviction of some that the earlier settlers of both north and south america were identical, and that the original stock was a tribe of egyptians. some writers have asserted that these early inhabitants were non-resistants. this is most unquestionably an error. the traditions of the indians say that their ancestors fought many battles before they conquered the country; but that they _always_ were victorious. of course, this might be mere vain boasting by the indians of their ancestors' prowess and skill in war, and such we would look upon it, if their oral history was not strengthened by the fact that, on the banks of the miami, muskingum, kanawha, and ohio rivers, ancient fortifications, or at least well-defined traces of them, have been found. nor is this all; tolerably well-executed implements, evidently intended for warlike purposes, have been taken from mounds, as well as many unmistakable stone arrow-heads. whether this anterior race existed to any considerable extent along the juniata we are not prepared to say; but that some of them once lived here is more than probable, although antiquarians have failed to extend their researches to the valley. among the evidences to induce the belief that these ancients once occupied our land, we shall refer to the most prominent, leaving the reader to make his own deductions. when the excavation for the pennsylvania canal was going on, a laborer dug up, near newport, a stone shaped like a greek cross. the formation of the stone bore unmistakable evidence that it was not a mere freak of nature. this attracted attention, and the stone was thoroughly cleansed, when the transverse was found to contain hieroglyphics, plainly marked with some sharp pointed instrument. persons who saw it supposed that the french might have given it to the indians, and that they used it for a purpose similar to that for which the standing stone was used, and that they brought it from canada to the juniata. this supposition was based upon the formation of the stone; but, strange to say, the hieroglyphics bore no resemblance to any thing pertaining to the modern indians. it _may_, therefore, have belonged to the anterior race, and the person who shaped it may have been utterly ignorant of the fact that it was the symbol of the christian religion. the cross was sent to philadelphia to be submitted to the inspection of the _savans_ of the historical society, but was lost on the way; at all events, it never reached its intended destination. speaking on the subject of antiquities with a physician some years ago,--probably the late dr. coffey,--he informed us that a skeleton was dug up near frankstown, which he did not believe belonged to any of the tribes of indians whose mounds are scattered so profusely along the juniata. he arrived at this conclusion from numerous personal observations he made. in the first place, the body retained a portion of dried withered flesh, and portions of papyrus or bark-cloth enveloped the body, so that it must have undergone some species of embalming before sepulture. embalming was unknown to the indians. secondly, the body was in a horizontal position, north and south, whereas the indians always buried in a sitting posture, with the face to the east. and, finally, the body was buried alone, while the indian method was to have one common grave for all who died for years. some articles were found when the skeleton was exhumed; but they were so much corroded as to be useless even for scientific investigation. in breaking up a piece of new ground in kishacoquillas valley some twenty-five, or probably thirty, years ago, traces of a well-defined wall were discovered, which was traced, and found to enclose about an acre of ground. although the stones that formed this wall were the ordinary stones found along the stream, fashioned and shaped by the great architect of the world himself, it is certain that human hands placed them in the position in which they were found. the whole thing was destroyed before any mention was made of it. in addition to these evidences, we have heard of arrow-heads and pottery being dug up in other sections of the valley; but, taking it for granted that they were all indian relics, no effort was ever made to have a thorough investigation of their origin. how long this continent was occupied by the indians found here on the arrival of the northmen is a mooted point, on which no two historians can agree. the indian method of computing time by moons is rather vague to base a calculation upon. those who contend that they originated from one of the lost tribes of israel, endeavor to prove that they have been here for many centuries; while others, basing their calculations upon the usual increase of the human family, think that the numbers found here on the discovery of the continent would indicate that they had been here but three or four centuries. this we think a reasonable conclusion, for it is an undisputed fact that the indians, previous to the advent of the whites, multiplied quite as rapidly as their civilized brethren; while the tender care and solicitude they evinced for children and aged people induces the belief that the deaths among them were not in proportion as one to six to the births. we now come to the religious belief of the savages found in the juniata valley. the general impression of persons who have not read indian history is that they were idolaters. such, however, is not the fact. they worshipped no "graven image." their belief was based upon a supreme good and an evil _manitou_ or spirit, and their subordinates,--the former of which they worshipped, while the anger of the latter was appeased by propitiatory offerings or sacrifices. it is true they had images, in the form of a head carved out of wood, which represented the good _manitou_, and which they wore around their necks as a talisman against disease and to insure success in great undertakings; but even loskiel, who spent a long time among them as a missionary, makes no mention of their worshipping their inanimate gods. their worship generally consisted of sacrificial feasts, sometimes by the entire tribe, and at other times by single families. in the fall they invariably had a sort of general harvest-home gathering, when bear's-meat and venison were served up,--the universal custom being to eat all prepared. when provisions were scarce, such an arrangement was no doubt satisfactory; but we can well imagine that when there was an undue proportion of meats to guests the custom must have proved exceedingly irksome. after the meal, the monotonous drum and the calabash with pebbles were brought out, and those who had not gorged themselves to repletion joined in the dance. one of the chiefs usually chanted a hymn, or rather song, of irregular measure, in praise of the _manitous_, and extolling the heroic deeds of the ancestors of the tribes. a second religious performance consisted of a sacred dance, in which the men alone appeared, in almost a state of nudity, with their bodies covered with pipe-clay. this was probably a dance of humble contrition. a third feast, or religious observance, consisted of some ten or a dozen of the oldest men and women of a tribe enveloping themselves in deer-skins, standing with their faces to the east, and petitioning the good _manitou_ to bless all their benefactors. there were other religious rites and sacrifices, which can be of little general interest to the reader, such as a sacrificial feast in honor of fire, another to propitiate the _manitou_ before going to war, &c. we shall, therefore, conclude this part of the subject by giving the story of an old trader who traded through the valley in . of course we did not get it direct from his own lips, for he has been dead and in his grave for many years; but, even if we did get it second-hand, it is nevertheless true. some time in the spring of , the old trader, whose name has now escaped our memory, received a pressing invitation to visit standing stone a day or two before the first full moon in september, as a grand feast was to come off at that time, which would be attended by six or eight tribes. the trader, foreseeing the chance of brisk barter, brought a large quantity of goods from lancaster, on pack-horses, and arrived a day or two before the sports commenced. he found preparations made for a large company; and he accordingly pitched his tent on the hill, while the wigwams of the indians stood upon the flat near the mouth of stone creek. on the day on which the feast was to commence, the trader was awakened at an early hour by the loud whoops of the savages already arriving to take part in the ceremonies. the day wore on; and when the sun reached the zenith a thousand warriors and their squaws, in their best attire, had gathered upon the greensward. at the hour of twelve o'clock precisely, a chief, whom the trader supposed to be at least a hundred years of age, arose from the ground, while all the rest retained a cross-legged, sitting posture. the trader understood enough of the delaware language to ascertain that the feast was one which took place every hundred moons, to render thanks to the _manitou_ for preserving them a great people. after congratulating the different tribes, and welcoming them to this friendly reunion, an immense pipe was brought into the arena, which passed from mouth to mouth, each man taking but a single whiff. of course the women formed the outer circle, and took no further part in the proceedings than merely looking on. two half-grown lads followed the big pipe with a small bag of _kinnikinique_, and ever and anon replenished the bowl. this consumed an hour, during which time there was profound silence. the old sachem then arose, and said the balance of the day would be given up to festivities. the assemblage broke up into small parties, and as each tribe had their medicine-men, musicians, and prophets along, the tum tum of the drum and the wild chant were soon heard, and the dusky sons and daughters of the forest went into the dance of the gay and light-hearted with a thousand times more vigor than the beau and belle of the modern ball-room. many of the indians called upon the trader, and were anxious to barter for "_lum_;" but, notwithstanding that he had five kegs of rum, and the most friendly feeling existed between himself and the tribes, he refused to deal. in fact, he was a prudent man, and did not consider it altogether safe. the festivities of the day and part of the night were kept up with dancing, singing, and howling. the, next day, religious exercises followed; and on the third a very solemn and impressive ceremony was to take place, to wind up the meeting, at which the trader was urgently invited to be present, and in an evil moment gave his consent to do so. accordingly he sold all of his barrels or kegs of rum, packed up the balance of his goods, and started his pack-horse train to aughwick, himself and horse alone remaining behind. at the appointed time in the evening for the feast, a large fire of dry wood was built, and the savages commenced dancing around it, howling, and throwing their bodies into the most violent contortions, first stepping three or four feet forward, with the body inclined in the same direction; then, throwing the body backward, moved on, keeping time with the drum and the chant. as one party got tired, or probably roasted out, they danced away, and another set took their places. when the fire burnt fiercest, and the lurid flame lit the surrounding hills, a wild chorus was sung in unison that might have been heard for miles. this, the trader was told, was the _loud_ hymn of adoration. he did not dispute the assertion. the rum he had sold the indians began to work, and the old fox was enjoying some funny scenes not set down in the bills of the day. occasionally a chief, under the wild influence of the _fire-water_, would make a misstep and tramp upon the burning coals. to see him quitting in a hurry afforded the trader an infinite deal of amusement. at length the pile was reduced to coals, when an indian brought forth from a wigwam a live dog, and threw him upon the burning embers. another and another followed, until ten dogs were thrown upon the fire. of course they tried to escape, but the indians hemmed them in so completely that this was a matter of impossibility. they set up a dreadful howl, but the indians drowned the canine noise by another stave of their loud chorus. the odor of the roasting dogs did not sit well upon the trader's stomach, and, bidding adieu to his immediate acquaintances, he expressed a determination to leave for aughwick. this his friends would not permit, and insisted most vehemently that he should see the end of it. as he had seen considerable fun, he thought he might wait and see it out, as the carcasses of the dogs would soon be consumed. in this, however, he was mistaken, for the medicine-men drew them from the fire, placed them upon wooden platters, and cut them into pieces. five or six of them carried them around among the auditory, offering to each chief a piece, who not only took it, but eagerly ate it. the conclusion of this feast we give in the trader's own words:-- "at last they came where i was sitting, among the only sober chiefs in the party. the stench of the half-roasted dogs was awful. one of them came with his trencher to me, and offered me a piece,--a choice piece, too, as i was an invited guest, being a piece of the most unclean part of the entrails. 'thank'ee,' said i; 'never dine on dog.' but this did not satisfy them. one of the prophets, laboring under the effects of about a quart of my rum, insisted on me eating what was offered to me. i again declined, when one of the chiefs informed me that it was a very sacred feast, and unless i partook of my allotted portion i would highly insult the indians, and some of those intoxicated might deprive me of my scalp. the thing was no longer a joke, and i seized the piece of dog entrail and put it in my mouth, in hopes of spitting it out; but they watched me so close that by one mighty effort i managed to swallow it. i did not wait to see the end of the feast; i had my portion, and thought i might as well retire. i started in the direction of aughwick, and every half mile the nauseous dog served every purpose of a powerful emetic. i was a much sicker man next day than if i had drank a gallon of my own rum; and, in all my dealings with the red men, i took particular care never again to be present at any dog feast!" of the social and general character of the savages we have many contradictions. heckwelder, the old moravian missionary, whose innate goodness found "tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and god in every thing," intimated that some of their social habits, such as their tender solicitude for infants and the great deference and respect they paid to the aged, were noble traits in their character. loskiel says that "in common life and conversation, the indians observed great decency. they usually treated one another, and strangers, with kindness and civility, and without empty compliments. in the converse of both sexes, the greatest decency and propriety were observed. they were sociable and friendly. difference of rank, with all its consequences, was not to be found among the indians. they were equally noble and free. the only difference consisted in wealth, age, dexterity, courage, and office." their hospitality to strangers knew no bounds. in some instances it was carried to extremes. an indian who would not hospitably entertain a stranger under his roof, and attend to all his wants as far as lay within his power, was held in supreme contempt by all his acquaintances. indeed, the offence was deemed so grievous, that the offender was not only detested and abhorred by all, but liable to revenge from the person to whom the common and acknowledged rights of hospitality were denied. lying, cheating, and stealing, as well as adultery and fornication, were deemed scandalous offences, and were punished. they did not exist to any great extent until the parent of them--drunkenness--was introduced by the white man. to these commendable traits in a savage people there were sad offsets. the savage was cruel and exceedingly bloodthirsty. he never forgave a premeditated injury; and if no opportunity offered to avenge himself, he enjoined upon his descendants, "even to the third and fourth generation," to revenge him. a hatred once formed against an enemy could only be quenched with his blood. he would treasure up a wrong for years, and it would rankle in his heart until he got his enemy into his power, when flaying, roasting, or killing by inches, was not too cruel a death to mete out to him. nay, more than this,--in their wars neither age, sex, nor condition, were taken into consideration; and the proud warrior who sang the great and heroic deeds of his ancestors for a thousand moons was not too proud to carry in his belt the scalp of an innocent babe! but then the savage was untutored, and it unquestionably was a part of his religion to put to death an enemy by the most cruel torture; neither did he expect any other treatment if he fell into the hands of a foe. in ordinary life, there undoubtedly was some honor in the indian, but in war no trait of it was perceptible in his composition. to slay an enemy while asleep, or destroy him by any stratagem, was a feat to boast of, and claimed quite as much glory as if it had been accomplished by the prowess of arms. to shoot an enemy from ambuscade, or lure him to destruction by treachery that would be branded as most infamous among civilized nations, were looked upon as exceedingly cunning by the indians. as a general thing, they professed to abhor war among themselves, and only declared it when aggravating circumstances absolutely demanded;--that the question was deliberately debated by the tribe, and if, after mature deliberation, a majority of the chiefs and captains favored a war, speedy preparation was made for it; a red hatchet or club was sent to the offending tribe, or one of them was caught, scalped, and a war-club, painted red, laid by his side. hostilities were then commenced, and the war waged with the greatest fury until one or the other party succumbed. [illustration: scene east of patterson.] now it happens that _professions_ do not always accord with _practice_, and in this case we are quite sure they did not. the whole tenor and bearing of the savages must lead us to believe that there was no avenue open to the aspiring indian to attain honor and distinction, except through feats of arms and daring; and it is only too true that he shared the common weakness of humanity in loving the "pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious warfare." the proof of this is that some of their most bloody conflicts were caused by the most trivial circumstances. that they had many fierce and sanguinary struggles among themselves is well authenticated. a battle almost of extermination was once fought between two tribes at juniata,--now known as duncan's island,--within the memory of many indians who were living when the whites settled among them. this island must have been a famous battle-ground--a very waterloo--in its day. when the canal was in progress of construction, hundreds of skeletons were exhumed; and to this day stone arrow-heads can be found upon almost any part of the island. the indian traditions also chronicle a fierce battle between two tribes near millerstown; another in tuscarora, and another at standing stone. the truth on which these traditions are based is made evident by the fact that at those places, for years, indian war-relics have been found. there existed for years the most intense and bitter feuds between the six nations and the lenape indians, commonly called the delawares. how long the feud existed, or how many bloody conflicts they had to gain the ascendency, cannot now, either by tradition or record, be made reliable history. from the best information we can gather, it is highly probable that these confederations had buried the hatchet a short time previous to the landing of penn. and we may also readily assume that the final declaration of peace was sued for by the delawares; for the iroquois always boasted that they had reduced them to the _condition of women_ by their superior bravery and skill in war. this the delawares denied, and declared that "by treaty and voluntary consent they had agreed to act as mediators and peacemakers among the other great nations; and to this end they had consented to lay aside entirely the implements of war, and to hold and to keep bright the chain of peace. this, among individual tribes, was the usual province of women. the delawares, therefore, alleged that they were _figuratively_ termed women on this account." this cunningly-devised story the delawares palmed upon the missionary heckwelder while he labored among them, and he was disposed to give them great credit. the iroquois, having formed an early alliance with the dutch on the hudson, received fire-arms, and by the liberal use of them soon brought refractory tribes out of their confederation to terms, and reduced others to vassalage, and exacted from them an annual tribute or an acknowledgment of fealty, permitting them, on such conditions, to occupy certain hunting-grounds; and there must, therefore, have been at least _some_ truth in the allegation of the iroquois that the delawares were "conquered by their arms, and were compelled to this humiliating concession as the only means of averting impending destruction." it is said, however, that the delawares were finally enabled to throw off this galling yoke, through the influence of zeedyusung, a powerful chief, who extorted from the iroquois an acknowledgment of their independence at a treaty held at tioga in . "the humiliation of tributary nations was, however, tempered with a paternal regard for their interests in all negotiations with the whites; and care was taken that no trespasses should be committed on their rights, and that they should be justly dealt with." so says the record; and yet we find that the sachems of the six nations, who had evidently learned from the whites both the use and abuse of money, in july, , at albany, sold all the lands in the state, not previously purchased, "lying southwest of a line beginning one mile above the mouth of penn's creek, and running northwest-by-west to the western boundary of the state." this sold the land from under the feet of the delawares, shawnees, and monseys, of the juniata valley, notwithstanding the six nations had guaranteed it to them forever as a sacred hunting-ground. this act of treachery on the part of the iroquois, and the insatiate appetite of the proprietors to add broad acres to their extensive domain, caused many of these homeless tribes to go over to the french, and, as a writer truly adds, "the blood of braddock's soldiers was added to the price of the land." but to return to the original settlement of the valley. the indians unquestionably received the white adventurers with open arms, and extended to them such a hearty welcome as must have banished all fears for the future. the savages looked upon the death-dealing rifle with superstitious awe; and the saw, the axe, the plane, and other implements of handicraft in the possession of the whites, made them a high order of beings, endowed with peculiar gifts by the great spirit, in the eyes of the indians, and their persons were regarded as sacred. they shared with them their rude huts, and left nothing undone within their power to render them comfortable. and for this noble and magnanimous conduct on the part of the indian, what return did the white man make? such a one only, we regret to say, as makes no bright page in their history. they were taught all the vices of civilization, but to teach them its virtues was deemed a work of supererogation. the ignorant indian and his primitive habits were treated with disdain, and he was deemed a fit subject for robbery whenever opportunity offered--this more especially by the lawless, who considered themselves out of the reach of government and its officers. a gradual encroachment upon the indian's sacred hunting-grounds, and the refusal of the white man to look upon him as any thing but a degraded being or to associate with him on an equality, soon taught the indian that he had taken into fellowship the crafty white man only to enable him to suck out his existence by his superior skill and his subtle cunning. the keen penetration of the savage soon discovered the position he occupied by the side of his white brother. smarting under the indignities offered, and foreseeing the degradation to which he would be subjected in time, the red man and the white man did not long dwell together in unity. while the latter commenced tilling the land and surrounding himself with the comforts of civilization, the former fled before him to the mountains and valleys where he was monarch of the land,--where the council-fire could blaze, the green-corn dance and song be heard, and the calumet of peace be smoked without the presence of the white man. yet, with all the encroachments upon their rights by the settlers, the indians exercised great forbearance. they knew the warlike appliances in the power of the proprietary government; hence they repeatedly declared their wish to "keep bright the chain of friendship;"--in less figurative language, they did not want to go to war. no depredations were committed upon the whites, of any consequence, before the french tampered with them and the six nations perfidiously sold the land they had given "their cousins" as a sacred hunting-ground. nor even then, although the aggravation was great, did all the indians leave the valley to join the french. many who were friendly toward the proprietary government remained until war broke out between the colonies and great britain; and some few peaceably-disposed fragments of tribes even lingered in the valley until the close of the revolutionary war. during the french and indian war, and at its close, many of the indians returned, and lived for some years in the valley unmolested. but in - the footprints of the white man were seen in their paths, and civilization began to crowd them. the white adventurers crowded so thick upon them, that, after the war of , the greater portion of them left; nor did they return again until , when they appeared as allies to the british crown, to massacre and scalp the unprotected frontier-men. to stimulate them to this inhuman warfare, the british not only impressed it upon them that they were redressing grievances, but they actually paid them a stipulated price for every scalp, of child as well as adult, brought to the canadian frontier. the indians who figured in the predatory incursions from to were probably delawares, monseys, nanticokes, shawnees, and tuscaroras; but they were then only known as delawares, all other titles having been merged into that of the most powerful tribe. that these tribes were the ones who committed most of the depredations, we judge from the fact that the elder chiefs and captains emigrated to the canadian frontier from the juniata valley, and consequently knew every foot of the valley, from the base of the alleghany mountains to the very mouth of the river. chapter ii. history of the early settlers. it appears from all authentic evidence that white traders ventured into the valley as early as , but always left again after transacting their business. it was about the year that bold and daring men pushed into the valley with the evident determination of making it their home. they were nearly all scotch-irish,--a hardy race of devout christians, whose ancestors had been persecuted in the north of scotland, by charles i., and driven to the north of ireland, and who, fearful of the provisions of the schism bill, in their turn fled from ireland to america, between the years and . the first of them located near or about the line (then in dispute) between maryland and pennsylvania. logan, the secretary of the province, who was probably an adherent to the religion professed by the proprietors, was very much annoyed at the scotch-irish assumption and maintenance of "squatter's rights." in a letter to the provincial government, in , he said, "they (the scotch-irish and scotch) have generally taken up the western lands; and as they rarely approach me to propose to purchase, i look upon them as bold and indigent strangers, giving as their excuse, when challenged for titles, that we had solicited for colonists, and they had come accordingly." notwithstanding this, they were not molested, for they were exempted from the payment of rents by an ordinance passed in , in consequence of their being frontier-men, and forming a cordon of defence to the colony. logan, it must be admitted, had no friendly feeling toward the new comers. in he stated that they had taken possession of one thousand acres of land, resolutely sat down and improved it without having any right to it, and he expressed himself much at a loss to determine how to dispossess them. on this occasion he admitted that among them were a number of germans. in , logan wrote to the government, or probably the proprietors, complaining of the scotch-irish, in an audacious and disorderly manner, possessing themselves of the whole of conestoga manor, of fifteen thousand acres, being the best land in the country. in doing this by force, they alleged that it was against the laws of god and nature that so much land should be idle while so many christians wanted it to labor on and raise their bread. they were finally dispossessed by the sheriff and his posse, and their cabins, to the number of thirty, were burned. these men apparently held in contempt the sham purchases of penn from the indians; asserted that the treaties by which the lands were secured to the proprietors were nothing more than downright farces; and they justified their course by assuming that if the penn family had a right to "_fillibuster_" on an extensive scale, the same right to enjoy enough land to support their families should not be denied them. if the disciples of george fox, by craft and cunning, could obtain from the indians thousands upon thousands of acres of land by a royal grant and the presentation of baubles that shamed the idea of a purchase, the disciples of john calvin thought they had an equal right to possess themselves of at least a portion of the acres wrested by stratagem from the indians. they considered the penns usurpers and pretenders, and despised their feudal prerogatives which gave them pomp and circumstance, and refused to pay them the quit-rents, which enabled them to rule by deputy, and riot in the luxury of aristocratic life in england, rather than adopt the unostentatious manners of the new world. logan's successor was richard peters. he, too, was deeply devoted to the proprietors, and used his utmost exertions to get quit-rents out of the squatters. failing to do so peaceably, he went to marsh creek, then in lancaster county, for the express purpose of dispossessing them, and measuring the lands of the manor. this occurred in . the squatters assembled in great force, notwithstanding the secretary was accompanied by the sheriff and a magistrate, and forbade peters to proceed. on his refusal, the chain was broken, and demonstrations of a riot made, whereupon the surveying party retired. the settlers were afterward indicted, but the matter was compromised by the secretary granting them leases on very favorable terms. from the counties of chester and lancaster, these settlers gradually worked their way to the west, and about the kittochtinny valley was tolerably well settled. the influx of emigrants from europe--embracing irish, scotch, scotch-irish, german, and a few english--was so great, that it followed, as a matter of course, that the juniata valley was in its turn soon invaded. there, in all probability, the proprietors would have suffered them to remain, as they knew little of, and cared less, about the land; but the indians made complaint of the aggressions. the six nations took the matter in hand, and declared that usurping the lands they had guaranteed to their cousins, the delawares, as a sacred hunting-ground, was a breach of faith, and that the settlers must be removed; or, if the settlers persisted in their encroachments, the delawares would take up the hatchet against them. only too glad to get rid of their settlers in the lower counties, the government made little effort to remove them from the indian lands. true, to satisfy the indians, they issued proclamations warning squatters to keep off these lands, under certain penalties which they knew could not be executed. these usurpations of land, and the contumely with which the settlers treated the indians, at length threatened serious consequences. the delawares, as well as the six nations, made complaints such as could not be misunderstood. the proprietors, at length alarmed at the probable consequences of letting their squatters usurp the lands or hunting-grounds of the indians, sent peters and others to dispossess them. the following is secretary peters's report, sent to governor hamilton in :-- to james hamilton, esq., governor of pennsylvania. may it please your honor, mr. weiser and i having received your honor's orders to give information to the proper magistrates against all such as had presumed to settle on the lands beyond the kittochtinny mountains not purchased of the indians, in contempt of the laws repeatedly signified by proclamations, and particularly by your honor's last one, and to bring them to a legal conviction, lest for want of their removal a breach should ensue between the six nations of indians and this province, we set out on tuesday, the th of may, , for the new county of cumberland, where the places on which the trespassers had settled lay. at mr. croghan's we met with five indians,--three from shamokin, two of which were sons of the late shickcalamy, who transact the business of the six nations with this government; two were just arrived from alleghany, viz., one of the mohawk's nation, called aaron, and andrew montour, the interpreter at ohio. mr. montour telling us he had a message from the ohio indians and twightwees to this government, and desiring a conference, one was held on the th of may last, in the presence of james galbreath, george croghan, william wilson, and hermanus alricks, esqrs., justices of the county of cumberland; and when mr. montour's business was done, we, with the advice of the other justices, imparted to the indians the design we were assembled upon; at which they expressed great satisfaction. another conference was held, at the instance of the indians, in the presence of mr. galbreath and mr. croghan, before mentioned, wherein they expressed themselves as follows:-- "brethren,--we have thought a great deal of what you imparted to us, that ye were come to turn the people off who are settled over the hills; we are pleased to see you on this occasion; and, as the council of onondago has this affair exceedingly at heart, and it was particularly recommended to us by the deputies of the six nations when they parted from us last summer, we desire to accompany you. but we are afraid, notwithstanding the care of the governor, that this may prove like many former attempts. the people will be put off now, and next year come again; and if so, the six nations will no longer bear it, but do themselves justice. to prevent this, therefore, when you shall have turned the people off, we recommend it to the governor to place two or three faithful persons over the mountains who may be agreeable to him and us, with commissions empowering them immediately to remove every one who may presume after this to settle themselves, until the six nations shall agree to make sale of their land." to enforce this they gave a string of wampum, and received one in return from the magistrates, with the strongest assurances that they would do their duty. on tuesday, the twenty-second of may, matthew dill, george croghan, benjamin chambers, thomas wilson, john finley, and james galbreath, esqrs., justices of the said county of cumberland, attended by the under-sheriff, came to big juniata, situate at the distance of twenty miles from the mouth thereof, and about ten miles north from the blue hills--a place much esteemed by the indians for some of their best hunting-ground; and there they found five cabins or log-houses; one possessed by william white, another by george cahoon, another not quite yet finished, in possession of david hiddleston, another possessed by george and william galloway, and another by andrew lycon. of these persons, william white and george and william galloway, david hiddleston, and george cahoon, appeared before the magistrates, and, being asked by what right or authority they had possessed themselves of those lands and erected cabins thereon, they replied, by no right or authority, but that the land belonged to the proprietaries of pennsylvania. they then were asked whether they did not know that they were acting against the law, and in contempt of frequent notices given them by the governor's proclamation? they said they had seen one such proclamation, and had nothing to say for themselves, but craved mercy. hereupon the said william white, george and william galloway, david hiddleston, and george cahoon, being convicted by said justices on their view, the under-sheriff was charged with them, and he took william white, david hiddleston, and george cahoon into custody; but george and william galloway resisted, and having got at some distance from the under-sheriff, they called to us, "you may take our lands and houses, and do what you please with them; we deliver them to you with all our hearts, but we will not be carried to jail!" the next morning, being wednesday, the twenty-third of may, the said justices went to the log-house or cabin of andrew lycon, and finding none there but children, and hearing that the father and mother were expected soon, and william white and others offering to become security jointly and severally, and to enter into recognisance as well for andrew's appearance at court and immediate removal as for their own, this proposal was accepted, and william white, david hiddleston, and george cahoon entered into a recognisance of one hundred pounds, and executed bonds to the proprietaries in the sum of five hundred pounds, reciting that they were trespassers, and had no manner of right, and had delivered possession to me for the proprietaries. when the magistrates went to the cabin or log-house of george and william galloway, (which they had delivered up as aforesaid the day before, after they were convicted, and were flying from the sheriff,) all the goods belonging to the said george and william were taken out, and the cabin being quite empty, i took possession thereof for the proprietaries; and then a conference was held what should be done with the empty cabin; and after great deliberation, all agreed that if some cabins were not destroyed, they would tempt the trespassers to return again, or encourage others to come there should these trespassers go away; and so what was doing would signify nothing, since the possession of them was at such a distance from the inhabitants, could not be kept for the proprietaries; and mr. weiser also giving it as his opinion that, if all the cabins were left standing, the indians would conceive such a contemptible opinion of the government that they would come themselves in the winter, murder the people, and set their houses on fire. on these considerations the cabin, by my order, was burnt by the under-sheriff and company. then the company went to the house possessed by david hiddleston, who had entered into bond as aforesaid; and he having voluntarily taken out all the things which were in the cabin, and left me in possession, that empty and unfurnished cabin was likewise set on fire by the under-sheriff, by my order. the next day, being the twenty-fourth of may, mr. weiser and mr. galbreath, with the under-sheriff and myself, on our way to the mouth of the juniata called at andrew lycon's, with intent only to inform him that his neighbors were bound for his appearance and immediate removal, and to caution him not to bring him or them into trouble by a refusal; but he presented a loaded gun to the magistrates and sheriff; said he would shoot the first man that dared to come nigher. on this he was disarmed, convicted, and committed to the custody of the sheriff. this whole transaction happened in the sight of a tribe of indians who had by accident in the night time fixed their tent on that plantation; and lycon's behavior giving them great offence, the shickcalamies insisted on our burning the cabin, or they would do it themselves. whereupon every thing was taken out of it, (andrew lycon all the while assisting,) and, possession being delivered to me, the empty cabin was set on fire by the under-sheriff, and lycon was carried to jail. mr. benjamin chambers and mr. george croghan had about an hour before separated from us; and on meeting them again in cumberland county, they reported to me they had been at sheerman's creek, or little juniata, situate about six miles over the blue mountain, and found there james parker, thomas parker, owen mckeib, john mcclare, richard kirkpatrick, james murray, john scott, henry gass, john cowan, simon girtee, and john kilough, who had settled lands and erected cabins or log-houses thereon; and having convicted them of the trespass on their view, they had bound them, in recognisances of the penalty of one hundred pounds, to appear and answer for their trespasses on the first day of the next county court of cumberland, to be held at shippensburgh; and that the said trespassers had likewise entered into bonds to the proprietaries, in five hundred pounds penalty, to remove off immediately, with all their servants, cattle, and effects, and had delivered possession of their houses to mr. george stevenson for the proprietaries' use; and that mr. stevenson had ordered some of the meanest of those cabins to be set on fire, where the families were not large nor the improvements considerable. on monday, the twenty-eighth of may, we were met at shippensburgh by samuel smith, william maxwell, george croghan, benjamin chambers, william allison, william trent, john finley, john miller, hermanus alricks, and james galbreath, esquires, justices of cumberland county, who informed us that the people in the tuscarora path, in big cove, and at aucquick, would submit. mr. weiser most earnestly pressed that he might be excused any further attendance, having abundance of necessary business to do at home; and the other magistrates, though with much reluctance, at last consenting, he left us. on wednesday, the thirtieth of may, the magistrates and company being detained two days by rain, proceeded over the kittochtinny mountains and entered into the tuscarora path or path valley, through which the road to alleghany lies. many settlements were formed in this valley, and all the people were sent for, and the following persons appeared, viz.: abraham slach, james blair, moses moore, arthur dunlap, alexander mccartie, david lewis, adam mccartie, felix doyle, andrew dunlap, robert wilson, jacob pyatt, jr., william ramage, reynolds alexander, robert baker, john armstrong, and john potts; who were all convicted by their own confession to the magistrates of the like trespasses with those at sheerman's creek, and were bound in the like recognisances to appear at court, and bonds to the proprietaries to remove with all their families, servants, cattle, and effects; and having voluntarily given possession of their houses to me, some ordinary log-houses, to the number of eleven, were burnt to the ground; the trespassers, most of them cheerfully, and a very few of them with reluctance, carrying out all their goods. some had been deserted before, and lay waste. at aucquick, peter falconer, nicholas de long, samuel perry, and john charleton, were convicted on the view of the magistrates, and having entered into like recognisances and executed the like bonds, charleton's cabin was burnt, and fire set to another that was just begun, consisting only of a few logs piled and fastened to one another. the like proceedings at big cove (now within bedford county) against andrew donnaldson, john macclelland, charles stewart, james downy, john macmean, robert kendell, samuel brown, william shepperd, roger murphy, robert smith, william dickey, william millican, william macconnell, james campbell, william carrell, john martin, john jamison, hans patter, john maccollin, james wilson, and john wilson; who, coming before the magistrates, were convicted on their own confession of the like trespasses, as in former cases, and were all bound over in like recognisances and executed the like bond to the proprietaries. three waste cabins of no value were burnt at the north end of the cove by the persons who claimed a right to them. the little cove (in franklin county) and the big and little conolloways being the only places remaining to be visited, as this was on the borders of maryland, the magistrates declined going there, and departed for their homes. about the year or , one frederick star, a german, with two or three more of his countrymen, made some settlements at the place where we found william white, the galloways, and andrew lycon, on big juniata, situate at the distance of twenty miles from the mouth thereof, and about ten miles north of the blue hills,--a place much esteemed by the indians for some of their best hunting ground; which (german settlers) were discovered by the delawares at shamokin to the deputies of the six nations as they came down to philadelphia in the year , to hold a treaty with this government; and they were disturbed at, as to inquire with a peculiar warmth of governor thomas if these people had come there by the orders or with the privilege of the government; alleging that, if it was so, this was a breach of the treaties subsisting between the six nations and the proprietor, william penn, who in the most solemn manner engaged to them not to suffer any of the people to settle lands till they had purchased from the council of the six nations. the governor, as he might with great truth, disowned any knowledge of those persons' settlements; and on the indians insisting that they should be immediately thrown over the mountains, he promised to issue his proclamation, and, if this had no effect, to put the laws in execution against them. the indians, in the same treaty, publicly expressed very severe threats against the inhabitants of maryland for settling lands for which they had received no satisfaction, and said that if they would not do them justice they would do justice to themselves, and would certainly have committed hostilities if a treaty had not been under foot between maryland and the six nations, under the mediation of governor thomas; at which the indians consented to sell lands and receive a valuable consideration for them, which put an end to the danger. the proprietaries were then in england; but observing, on perusing the treaty, with what asperity they had expressed themselves against maryland, and that the indians had just cause to complain of the settlements at juniata, so near shamokin, they wrote to their governor, in very pressing terms, to cause those trespassers to be immediately removed; and both the proprietaries and governor laid these commands on me to see this done, which i accordingly did in june, , the governor having first given them notice by a proclamation served on them. at that time none had presumed to settle at a place called the big cove--having this name from its being enclosed in the form of a basin by the southernmost range of the kittochtinny hills and tuscarora hills; which last end here, and lose themselves in other hills. this big cove is about five miles north of the temporary line, and not far west of the place where the line terminated. between the big cove and the temporary line lies the little cove,--so called from being likewise encircled with hills; and to the west of the little cove, toward potowmec, lie two other places, called the big and little conollaways, all of them situate on the temporary line, and all of them extended toward the potowmec. in the year or information was likewise given that people were beginning to settle in those places, some from maryland and some from this province. but as the two governments were not then on very good terms, the governor did not think proper to take any other notice of these settlements than to send the sheriff to serve his proclamation on them, though they had ample occasion to lament the vast inconveniences which attend unsettled boundaries. after this the french war came on, and the people in those parts, taking advantage of the confusion of the times, by little and little stole into the great cove; so that at the end of the war it was said thirty families had settled there; not, however, without frequent prohibitions on the part of the government, and admonitions of the great danger they run of being cut off by the indians, as these settlements were on lands not purchased of them. at the close of the war, mr. maxwell, one of the justices of lancaster county, delivered a particular message from this government to them, ordering their removal, that they might not occasion a breach with the indians, but it had no effect. these were, to the best of my remembrance, all the places settled by pennsylvanians in the unpurchased part of the province, till about three years ago, when some persons had the presumption to go into path valley or tuscarora gap, lying to the east of the big cove, and into a place called aucquick, lying to the northward of it; and likewise into a place called sheerman's creek, lying along the waters of juniata, and is situate east of the path valley, through which the present road goes from harris's ferry to alleghany; and lastly, they extended their settlements to big juniata; the indians all this while repeatedly complaining that their hunting-ground was every day more and more taken from them; and that there must infallibly arise quarrels between their warriors and these settlers, which would in the end break the chain of friendship, and pressing in the most importunate terms their speedy removal. the government in sent the sheriff and three magistrates, with mr. weiser, into these places to warn the people; but they, notwithstanding, continued their settlements in opposition to all this; and, as if those people were prompted by a desire to make mischief, settled lands no better, nay not so good, as many vacant lands within the purchased parts of the province. the bulk of these settlements were made during the administration of president palmer; and it is well known to your honor, though then in england, that his attention to the safety of the city and the lower counties would not permit him to extend more care to places so remote. finding such a general submission, except the two galloways and andrew lycon, and vainly believing the evil would be effectually taken away, there was no kindness in my power which i did not do for the offenders. i gave them money where they were poor, and telling them they might go directly on any part of the two millions of acres lately purchased of the indians; and where the families were large, as i happened to have several of my own plantations vacant, i offered them to stay on them rent free, till they could provide for themselves: then i told them that if after all this lenity and good usage they would dare to stay after the time limited for their departure, no mercy would be shown them, but that they would feel the rigor of the law. it may be proper to add that the cabins or log-houses which were burnt were of no considerable value; being such as the country people erect in a day or two, and cost only the charge of an entertainment. richard peters. july , . from this summary proceeding originated the name of the place called the burnt cabins, the locality of which is pointed out to the traveller to this day. that these ejected tenants _at will_ did not remain permanently ejected from the fertile valley of the juniata is evident from the fact that their descendants, or many of them, of the third and fourth generations, are now occupying the very lands they were driven from. in july, , the government was thrown into alarm by the rumor that a mr. delany had, while speaking of the removal of the trespassers on the unpurchased lands northwest of the kittochtinny hills, said, "that if the people of the great and little coves would apply to maryland they might have warrants for their lands; and if those of the tuscarora path valley would apply to virginia, he did not doubt but they might obtain rights there." petitions were sent to the council from the residents of the coves, in which it was set forth that they did not wish to be either in the province of maryland or virginia, and prayed permission to remain, until the boundary of the provinces was determined, on the lands purchased from the indians. this proposition was not accepted, and was only followed up by proclamations imposing severe penalties upon trespassers. this was deemed absolutely necessary by governor hamilton, for the french were assuming a menacing attitude along the frontier, and it was necessary, at all hazards, to preserve the alliance of the indians. the provincial government was strong enough to drive the settlers out of the valley, but immeasurably too weak to keep them out. this brought about the treaty at albany in , to which we have previously alluded. thomas and richard penn, seeing the government unable to remove the squatters permanently, in consequence of the feelings of the people being with the latter, bought from the sachems the very considerable slice of land in which was included the valley of the juniata, for the trifling consideration of £ . this was supposed to act as a healing balm for the trespasses upon their hunting-grounds, and at the same time the penns undoubtedly entertained the idea that they could realize a handsome profit in re-selling the lands at an advanced price to those who occupied them, as well as to european emigrants constantly arriving and anxious to purchase. the indian chiefs and sachems who were not present at this treaty were highly indignant, and pronounced the whole transaction a gross fraud; and those who were present at the treaty declared they were outwitted by misrepresentations, and grossly defrauded. conrad weiser, the indian interpreter, in his journal of a conference at aughwick, stated that the dissatisfaction with the purchase of was general. the indians said they did not understand the points of the compass, and if the line was so run as to include the west branch of susquehanna, they would never agree to it. according to smith's laws, vol. xxi., p. , "the land where the shawnee and ohio indians lived, and the hunting-grounds of the delawares, the nanticokes, and the tutelos, were all included." so decided and general was the dissatisfaction of the indians, that, in order to keep what few remained from being alienated, the proprietors found it necessary to cede back to them, at a treaty held in easton, in october, , all the land lying north and west of the alleghany mountains within the province. the restoration, however, came too late to effect much good. but even the lands west of the alleghany mountains were not sacred to the indians, mountainous as they were and unfertile as they were deemed; for westward the squatter went, gradually encroaching upon the red men's last reserve, until he finally settled in their midst. these aggressions were followed by the usual proclamations from the government, but they had little or no effect in preventing the bold adventurers from crossing the alleghany mountains and staking out farms in the valley of the conemaugh. this continued for a number of years, until the government, wearied by unavailing efforts to keep settlers from indian lands, caused a stringent law to be passed by council in february, , when it was enacted "that if any person settled upon the unpurchased lands neglected or refused to remove from the same within thirty days after they were required so to do by persons to be appointed for that purpose by the governor or by his proclamation, or, having so removed, should return to such settlement, or the settlement of any other person, with or without a family, to remain and settle on such lands, or if any person after such notice resided and settled on such lands, every such person so neglecting or refusing to remove, or returning to settle as aforesaid, or that should settle after the requisition or notice aforesaid, being legally convicted, _was to be punished with death without the benefit of clergy_." there is no evidence on record that the provision of this act was ever enforced, although it was openly violated. it was succeeded by laws a little more lenient, making fine and imprisonment the punishment in lieu of the death-penalty "without the benefit of clergy." neither does the record say that the coffers of the provincial treasury ever became plethoric with the collection of fines paid by trespassers. during the indian wars of - , many of the inhabitants of the valley fled to the more densely populated districts for safety. up to this time few forts were built for defence, and the settlers dreaded the merciless warfare of the savages. the restoration of peace in the latter year brought a considerable degree of repose to the long harassed colonies. the turbulent indians of the ohio buried the hatchet in october, , on the plains of muskingum, which enabled the husbandman to reassume his labors and to extend his cultivation and improvements. the prosperity of pennsylvania increased rapidly; and those who were compelled by indian warfare to abandon their settlements rapidly returned to them. the juniata valley, and especially the lower part of it, gained a considerable accession of inhabitants in the shape of sturdy tillers of the soil and well-disposed christian people. for a time the scotch-irish presbyterians maintained rule in religion; but, about , german lutherans, irish catholics, and some few dunkards and other denominations, found their way to the valley. meeting-houses were built, stockade forts erected, and communities of neighbors formed for mutual protection, without regard to religious distinctions. the first settlements of the upper portion of the valley were not effected until between and . true, there was here and there an isolated family, but the danger of being so near the kittaning path was deemed too hazardous. it was in the upper part of the valley, too, that most of the massacres took place between and , as the lower end of it was too thickly populated and too well prepared for the marauders to permit them to make incursions or commit depredations. chapter iii. juniata island--an indian paradise--rev. david brainerd among the savages--the early settlers, hulings, watts, and baskins--indian battles--remarkable escape of mrs. hulings, etc. juniata island--now called duncan's island, in consequence of the duncan family being the proprietors for many years--is formed by the confluence of the juniata and susquehanna. stretching northward, it presents a lovely and fertile plain, surrounded by gorgeous and romantic scenery, surpassed by few places in the state. this must have been a very paradise for the sons of the forest. facing to the west, before them lay their beautiful hunting-grounds; facing to the south, the eye rested upon the "long crooked river," over whose rippling bosom danced the light bark canoe, and whose waters were filled with the choicest of fish. with such blessings within their reach, the inhabitants of the juniata island should have been superlatively happy, and probably would, had it not been for the internal feuds which existed among the tribes. although the wigwams of two distinct tribes dotted the island on the arrival of the white man, social intercourse and the most friendly terms of intimacy existed between them. they were the shawnees and the conoys. then, too, it betokened a peaceable spot, and yet it had been a famous indian battle-ground in its day. the traditions speak of a battle fought many years ago, between the delawares and the cayugas, on this island, when the gullies ran red with blood of mighty warriors, and the bones of a thousand of them were entombed in one common grave upon the battle-field. both tribes suffered severely. the delawares, although they lost the most braves, and were ultimately driven from the field, fought with the most savage desperation; but the cayugas had the advantage in point of numbers, and some of them used fire-arms, then totally unknown to the delawares. the first adventurers who went up the susquehanna were indian traders, who took up articles for traffic in canoes. fascinated by the beautiful scenery of the country, and impressed with the idea that corn and fruits grew upon the island spontaneously, these traders did not fail to give it a name and reputation; and curiosity soon prompted others to visit the "big island," as they called it. some of them soon went so far as to contemplate a settlement upon it. this, however, the indians would not permit; they were willing to trade at all times with them, but the island was a kind of reservation, and on no condition would they permit the pale-faces to share it with them. even had they suffered white men to settle among them, none would have repented the act, as a rash step, more bitterly than the white men themselves; for the shawnees were a treacherous nation, and exceedingly jealous of any innovations upon their rights or the customs of their fathers. still, the island became settled at an early day. the roving shawnees pushed their way westward, and the prejudices of those who took their place were probably overcome by presents of guns, ammunition, tobacco, and _fire-water_. the rev. david brainerd, a devout and pious missionary, visited the island in , in the spring while going up the river, and in the fall while returning. his object was to convert the indians, which he found quite as hopeless a task as did heckwelder and loskiel, who preceded him with the same object in view. during his peregrinations brainerd kept a journal, which, together with his life, was published by the american tract society. from this journal we extract the following, in order to give his views of savage life, as well as an interesting account of what he saw and heard at the island:-- sept. .--visited the indians again at juneauta island, and found them almost universally very busy in making preparations for a great sacrifice and dance. had no opportunity to get them together in order to discourse with them about christianity, by reason of their being so much engaged about their sacrifice. my spirits were much sunk with a prospect so very discouraging, and specially seeing i had this day no interpreter but a pagan, who was as much attached to idolatry as any of them, and who could neither speak nor understand the language of these indians; so that i was under the greatest disadvantages imaginable. however, i attempted to discourse privately with some of them, but without any appearance of success; notwithstanding, i still tarried with them. the valuable interpreter was probably a delaware indian, who was a visitor to take part in the dance and sacrifice, while the inhabitants of the island were shawnees, who originally came from the south, and their languages were entirely dissimilar. brainerd calls them "pagans" and "idolaters." this is a charge the indians used to combat most vehemently. they most unquestionably had small images carved out of wood to represent the deity; yet they repudiated the idea of worshipping the wood, or the wooden image, merely using it as a symbol through which to worship the unseen spirit. if such was the fact, they could not well be called pagans in the common acceptation of the term. the journal goes on to say:-- in the evening they met together, nearly one hundred of them, and danced around a large fire, having prepared ten fat deer for the sacrifice. the fat of the inwards they burnt in the fire while they were dancing, which sometimes raised the flame to a prodigious height, at the same time yelling and shouting in such a manner that they might easily have been heard two miles or more. they continued their sacred dance nearly all night; after which they ate the flesh of the sacrifice, and so retired each one to his own lodging. making a burnt-offering of the deer-fat to illuminate the dance, and to make a meat-offering to the insatiate indian appetite, after undergoing such fatigues, of the roasted venison, had not much idolatry in it. unconnected with any religious ceremony, such a proceeding might have been considered rational, and coming altogether within the meaning of the masonic principle which recognises "refreshment after labor." mr. brainerd continues:-- lord's-day, sep. .--spent the day with the indians on the island. as soon as they were well up in the morning, i attempted to instruct them, and labored for that purpose to get them together, but soon found they had something else to do; for near noon they gathered together all their powaws, or conjurors, and set about half a dozen of them playing their juggling tricks and acting their frantic, distracted postures, in order to find out why they were then so sickly upon the island, numbers of them being at that time disordered with a fever and bloody flux. in this exercise they were engaged for several hours, making all the wild, ridiculous, and distracted motions imaginable; sometimes singing, sometimes howling, sometimes extending their hands to the utmost stretch and spreading all their fingers: they seemed to push with them as if they designed to push something away, or at least to keep it off at arm's-end; sometimes stroking their faces with their hands, then spouting water as fine as mist; sometimes sitting flat on the earth, then bowing down their faces to the ground; then wringing their sides as if in pain and anguish, twisting their faces, turning up their eyes, grunting, puffing, &c. this looks more like idolatry than sacrificing ten fat deer and dancing by the light of their burning fat. yet, if curing disease by powwowing, incantation, or the utterance of charms, can be considered idolatry, we are not without it even at this late day. we need not go out of the juniata valley to find professing christians who believe as much in cures wrought by charms as they do in holy writ itself. "their monstrous actions tended to excite ideas of horror, and seemed to have something in them, as i thought, peculiarly suited to raise the devil, if he could be raised by any thing odd, ridiculous, and frightful. some of them, i could observe, were much more fervent and devout in the business than others, and seemed to chant, whoop, and mutter, with a degree of warmth and vigor as if determined to awaken and engage the powers below. i sat at a small distance, not more than thirty feet from them, though undiscovered, with my bible in my hand, resolving, if possible, to spoil their sport and prevent their receiving any answers from the infernal world, and there viewed the whole scene. they continued their hideous charms and incantations for more than three hours, until they had all wearied themselves out, although they had in that space of time taken several intervals of rest; and at length broke up, i apprehend, without receiving any answer at all." very likely they did not; but is it not most singular that a man with the reputation for piety and learning that brainerd left behind him should arm himself with a bible to spoil the spirit of the indians, in case their incantations should raise the demon of darkness, which, it would really appear, he apprehended? in speaking of the shawnee indians, or "shawanose," as they were then called, he stigmatizes them as "drunken, vicious, and profane." what their profanity consisted of he does not say. according to all indian historians, the indians had nothing in their language that represented an oath. brainerd goes on to say of the shawnees:-- their customs, in various other respects, differ from those of the other indians upon this river. they do not bury their dead in a common form, but let their flesh consume above the ground, in close cribs made for that purpose. at the end of a year, or sometimes a longer space of time, they take the bones, when the flesh is all consumed, and wash and scrape them, and afterward bury them with some ceremony. their method of charming or conjuring over the sick seems somewhat different from that of the other indians, though in substance the same. the whole of it, among these and others, perhaps, is an imitation of what seems, by naaman's expression, ( kings v. ,) to have been the custom of the ancient heathen. it seems chiefly to consist of their "striking their hands over the deceased," repeatedly stroking them, "and calling upon their god," except the spurting of water like a mist, and some other frantic ceremonies common to the other conjurations which i have already mentioned. in order to give mr. brainerd's impression of their customs, as well as an interesting account of a "medicine-man" who possessed rather singular religious opinions, we shall close with his journal, with another paragraph:-- when i was in this region in may last, i had an opportunity of learning many of the notions and customs of the indians, as well as observing many of their practices. i then travelled more than one hundred and thirty miles upon the river, above the english settlements, and in that journey met with individuals of seven or eight distinct tribes, speaking as many different languages. but of all the sights i ever saw among them, or indeed anywhere else, none appeared so frightful or so near akin to what is usually imagined of _infernal powers_, none ever excited such images of terror in my mind, as the appearance of one who was a devout and zealous reformer, or rather restorer of what he supposed was the ancient religion of the indians. he made his appearance in his _pontifical garb_, which was a coat of _bear-skins_, dried with the hair on, and hanging down to his toes; a pair of bear-skin stockings, and a great _wooden_ face, painted, the one half black, the other half tawny, about the color of an indian's skin, with an extravagant mouth, but very much awry; the face fastened to a bear-skin cap, which was drawn over his head. he advanced toward me with the instrument in his hand which he used for music in his idolatrous worship, which was a dry tortoise-shell with some corn in it, and the neck of it drawn on to a piece of wood, which made a very convenient handle. as he came forward, he beat his tune with the rattle, and danced with all his might, but did not suffer any part of his body, not so much as his fingers, to be seen. no one would have imagined, from his appearance or actions, that he could have been a human creature, if they had not had some intimation of it otherwise. when he came near me, i could not but shrink away from him, although it was then noonday, and i knew who it was, his appearance and gestures were so prodigiously frightful. he had a house consecrated to religious uses, with divers images cut upon the several parts of it. i went in, and found the ground beaten almost as hard as a rock with their frequent dancing upon it. i discoursed with him about christianity. some of my discourse he seemed to like, but some of it he disliked extremely. he told me that god had taught him his religion, and that he never would turn from it, but wanted to find some who would join heartily with him in it; for the indians, he said, were grown very degenerate and corrupt. he had thoughts, he said, of leaving all his friends, and travelling abroad, in order to find some who would join with him; for he believed that god had some good people somewhere, who felt as he did. he had not always, he said, felt as he now did; but had formerly been like the rest of the indians, until about four or five years before that time. then, he said, his heart was very much distressed, so that he could not live among the indians, but got away into the woods, and lived alone for some months. at length, he said, god comforted his heart, and showed him what he should do; and since that time he had known god and tried to serve him, and loved all men, be they who they would, so as he never did before. he treated me with uncommon courtesy, and seemed to be hearty in it. i was told by the indians that he opposed their drinking strong liquor with all his power; and that if at any time he could not dissuade them from it by all he could say, he would leave them, and go crying into the woods. it was manifest that he had a set of religious notions, which he had examined for himself and not taken for granted upon bare tradition; and he relished or disrelished whatever was spoken of a religious nature, as it either agreed or disagreed with _his standard_. while i was discoursing, he would sometimes say, "now that i like; so god has taught me," &c.; and some of his sentiments seemed very just. yet he utterly denied the existence of a devil, and declared there was no such creature known among the indians of old times, whose religion he supposed he was attempting to revive. he likewise told me that departed souls went _southward_, and that the difference between the good and bad was this: that the former were admitted into a beautiful town with spiritual walls, and that the latter would forever hover around these walls in vain attempts to get in. he seemed to be sincere, honest, and conscientious, in his own way, and according to his own religious notions, which was more than ever i saw in any other pagan. i perceived that he was looked upon and derided among most of the indians as a _precise zealot_, who made a needless noise about religious matters; but i must say that there was something in his temper and disposition which looked more like true religion than any thing i ever observed among other heathens. if brainerd was not grossly imposed upon, the indian was a remarkable man, and his code of ethics might be used with profit by a great many persons now treading the paths of civilization and refinement. but it is more than probable that he had based the groundwork of his religion on what he had learned from the moravian missionaries. in the ensuing summer brainerd again ascended the susquehanna, where he contracted disease by exposure, and died in the fall. the earliest permanent white settler upon the island was a gentleman named hulings, who located near the mouth of the juniata, over which, in after years, he established a ferry; and, after travel increased and the traders took their goods up the rivers on pack-horses, he built a sort of causeway, or bridge, for the passage of horses, at the upper end of the island. he settled on the island in . he was followed by another adventurer, named watts, who staked out a small patch of land, with the view of farming it. it was already cleared, and he purchased it from the indians. the children of these families intermarried, and their descendants to this day own the greater portion of the island. a few years after the settlement of watts and hulings, a gentleman named baskin came from below, and settled near the point of the island. he was an enterprising man, and had no sooner erected himself a temporary shelter than he established a ferry across the susquehanna. the ferry became profitable, and baskin realized a fortune out of it. it was a sort of heirloom in the family for several generations, until the state improvements were built, when a bridge was erected. baskin's ferry was known far and wide; and there are still some descendants of the name residing, or who did reside a few years ago, where the ferry crossed. shortly after braddock's defeat, the country was greatly alarmed by rumors that the french and indians were coming down the susquehanna in great numbers, with the avowed intention of slaughtering the british colonists and laying waste all their habitations. nor was this rumor without foundation; for the massacres already committed up the susquehanna seemed fully to justify the apprehension. travel along the river was suspended, and a portion of the settlers fled to paxton. hulings abandoned his ferry, and, with a convoy of friendly delaware indians, he went to fort duquesne, where he immediately purchased land, with the view of settling permanently. there, however, he found little more peace and quiet than he enjoyed at the island. the country was rife with alarms of indian depredations, and the settlers were in constant dread of an attack which they could not repel. hulings became dissatisfied, because the exchange had disappointed all his reasonable expectations, and he determined to return. to this end he disposed of his land for £ --land which now composes the heart of the city of pittsburg, and could not be purchased for £ , , . in company with another party of friendly indians on their way to the east, he returned to the island, re-established his ferry, built himself a house at the bridge, and for some years lived in security. about , accounts of indian depredations above again alarmed the lower settlements; but mr. hulings paid no attention to them, until a large number of them were seen but a short distance above the island, encamped upon a piece of table-land. in great haste he packed up a few of his most valuable articles, and, putting his wife and child upon a large black horse, took them to the point, so as to be ready to fly the moment the savages made their appearance. at this place there was a half-fallen tree, from the branches of which an excellent view of his house, as well as of the path beyond it, could be obtained. here hulings watched for some time, hoping that if the indians did come down, and find his house abandoned, they would go up the juniata. suddenly it occurred to hulings that in his haste he had left some valuable keepsakes, and he returned forthwith alone. after reconnoitering for some time, he entered the house, and was somewhat surprised to find an indian tinkering at his gun-lock. the savage was unable to shoot, and, as hulings was a man of powerful frame, he feared to make a personal attack upon him. both appeared to be ready to act upon the defensive, but neither was willing to risk an attack. in the mean time, the reconnoitering and parleying of hulings had taken up so much time that mrs. hulings became alarmed, and concluded that her husband had been murdered. without a thought of the danger, she took her child upon the horse before her, plunged him into the susquehanna, and the noble charger carried them safely to the other shore--a distance of nearly a mile, and at a time, too, when the river was unusually high! such an achievement in modern times would make a woman a heroine, whose daring would be extolled from one end of the land to the other. soon after this extraordinary feat, mr. hulings arrived, and he, in turn, became alarmed at the absence of his wife; but he soon saw her making a signal on the other side, and, immediately unmooring a canoe at the mouth of the juniata, he got into it and paddled it over. it was the only canoe in the neighborhood,--an old one left by baskin when he fled. hulings had scarcely rejoined his wife before he saw the flames shooting up from the old log ferry-house, and the savages dancing around it, brandishing their weapons; but they were out of harm's way, and succeeded in reaching paxton the same day. in a year or so they returned, and ended their days on the island. reference is made by historians to a battle fought between the whites and indians on the island in . the old inhabitants, too, spoke of one, but we could ascertain nothing definite on the subject. no mention whatever is made of it in the colonial records. after this period but few of the roving bands or war-parties ever came down either the susquehanna or the juniata as far as the island. the massacre of the conestoga indians inspired the up-country savages with so much terror that they deemed it certain death to go near the settlement of the paxton boys. by the time the revolution commenced, the neighborhood of the mouth of the juniata was thickly populated, and the inhabitants had within their reach ample means of defence; so that the savages in the employ of the british prudently confined their operations to the thickly-settled frontier. chapter iv. indian towns along the juniata--lost creek valley discovered--mexico first settled by captain james patterson in --indian attack upon settlers at the house of william white--massacre of white--capture of a lad named john riddle--his release from captivity, etc. [for the facts on which the two chapters following are based we are indebted to a gentleman named andrew banks, an old resident of lost creek valley, juniata county. he was born near york, and settled near his late place of residence in , and was nearly eighty-nine years of age when we called upon him early in december, . we found him enjoying the evening of a long and well-spent life, with his sense of hearing somewhat impaired, but his intellect and memory both good. he was a man of considerable intelligence, and we found him quite willing to give all he knew of the past worthy of record. he died about the last of the same month.] the river, from the island to newport, is hemmed in by mountains; and while it afforded excellent territory for hunting, fishing, and trapping, it held out no inducements for the indians to erect their lodges along it. the first indian village above the mouth of the river was located on the flat, a short distance above where the town of newport now is. another was located at the mouth of a ravine a little west of millerstown. at the former place the cahoons, hiddlestons, and others were settled, who were ejected, and had their cabins burnt by secretary peters. after the purchase of these lands at albany, in , both these towns were destroyed, and the indians went to ohio. lost creek valley, unquestionably one of the most beautiful valleys in the juniata region, was entered by some indian traders as early as . they found it occupied by two or three indian settlements, and they made a successful barter with the aborigines. the next year they essayed to revisit the place, but were unable to find it. the following summer they found it again; hence arose the name of the _lost_ creek. there is no record of any massacres by the indians in this valley, and the impression is that they left it about , some going toward the frontier, and others to the head of tuscarora valley. the first settlement on the river, in what now constitutes juniata county, was made in , by an adventurous scotch-irishman known as captain james patterson. he came across the country from cumberland county, accompanied by some five or six others, most of whom settled very near to where mexico now stands. patterson was a bold and fearless man; and he had not long resided in his new location before the indians of the neighborhood both hated and feared him. he and his companions cleared the land on both sides of the river, built two large log-houses, and pierced them with loopholes, so that they might defend themselves from any attacks the savages might make. patterson soon became aware of the fact that his reckless daring, especially in braving the proclamations of the proprietors in settling upon unpurchased indian lands, had inspired the indians with fear; hence he did not condescend to make an effort to purchase from the indians, or even build a fort for the protection of his little colony. in addition to his recklessness, he possessed a good share of cunning, that on many occasions served his purpose. for instance, he used to keep a target, the centre of which was riddled with bullets, leaning against a tree. whenever he found a party of friendly indians approaching, he used to stand under his door and blaze away at the target, but always stop when the indians were near the house. the indians would invariably examine the target, measure the distance--about four hundred feet--with the eye, and conclude among themselves that patterson would be an exceedingly tough customer in a fight! his reputation for shooting obtained for him among the delawares the name of "big shot." patterson was a very bold squatter, and staked off for himself a large body of land, declaring that providence had designed it for the use of christian people to raise food upon, and not for indian war-dances. but, with all his fancied security and his contemptuous opinion of the "cowardly red-skins," they put him to his trumps at last. in the year they no longer visited his settlement on the friendly mission of bartering furs and venison for rum and tobacco, but they commenced prowling about in small parties, painted for war, armed with the rifle--the use of which they had already acquired--and exceedingly dangerous-looking knives and tomahawks. patterson became alarmed, and, actuated by a settled conviction that "discretion" was the better part of valor, himself and his companions crossed the tuscarora mountain and took refuge in sherman's valley. a few years after he returned, but he found his land parcelled, and occupied by others, who held deeds of purchase for it from the proprietory government. nothing daunted, however, he took possession of another piece of land, and commenced cultivating it, without going through the land-office formula of obtaining a legal title for it. he was a man of some intelligence, and held in supreme contempt the penn family and their treaties with the indians. he declared that the albany treaty did not give them a shadow of right to the land; and, as it was not considered morally wrong for the penns to wheedle the indians out of millions of acres of land for the paltry sum of £ , he did not see any wrong in his cheating the penn family out of a farm. for some years peace and quiet reigned in the neighborhood; but in the spring of the red man again lifted the hatchet, and the settlers were thrown into awe and consternation. constant rumors were afloat of their depredations, and at length a scouting party returned with the unwelcome intelligence that a body of shawnees were encamped in tuscarora valley. as speedily as possible, all the movable effects were placed upon pack-horses, and the settlers, by extremely cautious manoeuvering, succeeded in escaping safely, and again took up their residence in sherman's valley. the spring having been exceedingly favorable, the grain crop was ready to cut early in july, and a party was formed by the settlers, and some few others, to go back and assist each other in getting in their harvest. on their arrival they set vigorously to work; and, no traces of savages being perceptible, in their anxiety to get in the grain they appeared to forget them, notwithstanding each man carried with him his trusty rifle wheresoever he went. on sunday, while resting from their labors, some ten or twelve shawnee indians approached the house of william white, where all the settlers were spending the sabbath. they crawled up to the house unperceived, and fired a volley through the open door, killing mr. white and wounding some of his family. the wildest consternation seized upon the party within, and, in the great confusion which followed, all escaped by the back-door except william riddle. some swam the river; others escaped in different directions. riddle did not see a son of his, aged about twelve years, escape; and, without probably being conscious of what he was doing, walked toward the front-door, where a savage fired at him. the muzzle of the gun was so near riddle's face that the discharge literally filled it with gunpowder. the ball grazed, but did not injure him. at the moment the savage discharged his rifle, riddle was tripped by something upon the floor, and fell. the indians took it for granted that both were killed, and set up a loud shout of victory. while holding a consultation about their future movements, riddle jumped up suddenly and ran. several indians fired, and for a short distance pursued him; but he soon distanced the fleetest runner among them. the marauders then returned, and, after scalping mr. white, plundered the house of all the ammunition they could find, some few other trifling articles, and then set fire to it. on taking their departure from the place, from a high bluff near the house they discovered riddle's son, who was trying to conceal himself in a rye-field. they captured him and took him along with them. in order to give an account of his captivity, we shall be compelled to defer an account of the further depredations of the same band until the next chapter. some years after peace was restored--the precise year not known, but supposed to have been in ,--riddle started for the frontier in search of his son. this was a time of almost profound peace, which followed the numerous massacres of the few preceding years, and a time, too, when the indians had been taught some severe lessons, and were disposed to act friendly toward the whites. riddle travelled on horseback, and passed numerous indian villages, but could hear no tidings of his son until he came upon an encampment of shawnee indians near lake erie. as he neared the village, he saw the warriors returning from the chase, and among them a youthful-looking brave with an eagle-feather waving on his cap, and all the paraphernalia of a young chief decorating his person. his bearing erect, his step firm, he trod the path with a proud and haughty air. but a single glance sufficed for riddle to recognise in the youthful warrior his son john. dismounting from his horse, he sprang forward and attempted to throw himself into his arms; but, strange to say, his _advances were repulsed_! even when the lad was convinced that he was riddle's offspring, he refused to go with him, but declared his determination to remain with the tribe. during the few years that he had been among the sons of the forest, he had most thoroughly imbibed their habits and a strong love for their wild and romantic life. the chase, the woods, the council-fires and the wigwams, the canoe and the dance of the squaws, were enchantment to him, in the enjoyment of which he lost all recollections of home or his parents; and when his father declared that he would use a parent's prerogative to force him to accompany him, young riddle, almost frantic with despair, called upon his warrior friends to interfere in his behalf. but the indians, fearful of the consequences that might result from any interference of the kind, acknowledged riddle's right to reclaim his son, since the red man and the white man had smoked the pipe of peace. it was, therefore, with great reluctance that john riddle prepared to depart immediately. he took a hasty farewell of his warrior companions, and, mounting behind his father, they turned their faces toward the valley of the juniata. mr. riddle, with commendable zeal and a great deal of prudence, put as much ground between him and the shawnee village, before nightfall, as possible. he pitched his tent for the night on the edge of a thicket, and partook of some provisions which he had in his saddle-bag; and, after talking for an hour or two, they stretched themselves before the fire to sleep. young riddle appeared resigned, and had even conversed gayly and cheerfully with his father; but the old man had his misgivings, and he feared that treachery was hidden beneath this semblance of cheerfulness. the consequence was that he lay awake for hours; but at length the fatigues of the day overcame him, and he sank into a deep sleep, from which he did not awake until the sun was up, and then only to find that his son had fled! the emotions of a father under such circumstances may be imagined, but certainly they cannot well be described. a man of less energy would have given up the object of his mission as hopeless, and returned home. not so, however, with riddle, for he hastened back to the indian village, and asked the indians sternly for his son. unused or unwilling to dissemble, they frankly told him that he was in the council-house, and demanded their protection; that he had eaten, drank, and smoked, with the red man, and that he was unwilling to acknowledge a pale-face as a father or a brother. this highly incensed riddle, and he declared that if his son were not delivered up to him, he would bring the forces from the nearest fort and exterminate them; and, further, that, if any injury befell him, his friends, who knew his mission, would follow and avenge him. a council was immediately called, and the subject debated. the young warriors of the village were determined that young riddle should remain among them at all hazards; but the counsel of the older chiefs, who evidently foresaw what would follow, prevailed, and young riddle was again placed in charge of his father. the old man, profiting by experience, took his son to a frontier fort, and from thence home, reasoning with him all the way on the folly of adopting the life of a savage. riddle grew to manhood, and reared a large family in walker township, all of whom many years ago went to the west. he is represented by mr. banks as having been a quiet and inoffensive man, except when he accidentally indulged in the too free use of "_fire-water_." it was then that all the characteristics of the red man manifested themselves. "on such occasions his eye flashed, and all his actions betokened the wily savage." chapter v. early settlers at licking creek--relics of an indian battle--house of robert campbell attacked--james campbell wounded and taken prisoner--scout sent from sherman's creek--encountered indians at buffalo creek--five of the scout killed, etc. the neighborhood of the mouth of licking creek was settled about . the first settler was hugh hardy, a scotch-irishman, who located about a mile from the mouth of the creek. he was followed by families named castner, wilson, law, scott, grimes, and sterrit, all scotch-irish, and the last two traders in indian goods. at the time of their advent at licking creek, the indians were exceedingly friendly, and pointed out to them a famous battle-ground near the creek. the oral tradition of the battle preserved by them was as follows:--on the one side of the creek was a village of the delawares, on the other a village of the tuscaroras. both tribes lived in harmony--hunted on the same grounds, seated themselves around the same council-fires, and smoked in common the pipe of peace, and danced the green-corn dance together beneath the pale rays of the mellow harvest-moon. these amicable relations might have existed for years, had not a trivial incident brought about a sad rupture. some indian children at play on the bank of the creek commenced quarrelling about a grasshopper. high words led to blows. the women of the respective tribes took up their children's quarrel, and in turn the wives' quarrel was taken up by the men. a bloody and most sanguinary battle was the result. the struggle was long and fierce, and hundreds of warriors, women, and children, fell beneath the deadly tomahawk or by the unerring arrow. to this day, relics, such as arrow-heads, pipes, and human bones, are found upon the spot where tradition says the battle occurred. the "grasshopper war" was long held up by the sachems as a terrible warning to any tribe about to embroil itself in a bootless war. some historians assert that there was once a fort at the mouth of licking creek, called fort campbell, all traces of which are now obliterated. such was not the case. robert campbell owned the largest house in the settlement, which was pierced with loopholes for defence similar to that belonging to patterson. the settlers had also been driven away, and had returned to reap their harvest. on the sabbath referred to in the preceding chapter, while the harvesters were gathered in the house of campbell, and immediately after the massacre at patterson's, the same hand of indians stealthily approached the house of campbell and fired a volley at the inmates. several persons were wounded, but there is no authentic record of any one being killed. james campbell was shot through the wrist, and taken prisoner. he was taken to the frontier, probably to lake erie, and returned in a year or eighteen months afterward. but the particulars attending his captivity were never published, neither could we find any person who knew any thing about the matter further than that he was captured, and returned again to his home. immediately after the indians had discharged their rifles, one of them sprang into the house, and with uplifted tomahawk approached a bed on which a man named george dodds was resting. fortunately for dodds, his rifle was within reach, which he immediately grasped and fired at the savage, wounding him in the groin. the indian retreated, and dodds made his way up-stairs, and through an opening in the roof he escaped, went direct to sherman's valley, and spread the alarm. this same band of marauders proceeded up tuscarora valley, laying waste the country as they went. in the dusk of the evening, they came to the house of william anderson. they shot down the old man, who was seated by the table with the open bible upon his lap, and also killed and scalped his son and a young woman--an adopted daughter of mr. anderson. two brothers named christy, and a man named graham, neighbors of mr. anderson, hearing the guns firing, conjectured that the indians had attacked him; and, their own means of defence being inadequate, they fled, and reached sherman's valley about midnight. their arrival spread new terror, and a volunteer force of twelve men was soon raised to go over to the valley to succor the settlers. this force consisted of three brothers named robinson, john graham, charles elliot, william and james christy, daniel miller, john elliot, edward mcconnel, william mccallister, and john nicholson. fearing that the savages would murder men engaged in harvesting farther up the valley, they endeavored to intercept them by crossing through bigham's gap early on monday morning. they had no sooner entered the valley than they discovered traces of the enemy. houses were pillaged, and some razed to the ground. at one place they had killed four hogs and a number of fowls, which they had roasted by a fire, fared sumptuously and dined leisurely. at graham's there were unmistakable signs that they had been joined by another party, and that the entire force must number at least twenty-five indians. from their tracks, too, it was evident that they had crossed the tuscarora mountain by way of run gap. the dread to encounter such a force would have deterred almost any small body of men; but the robinsons, who appeared to be leaders of the party, were bold, resolute back-woodsmen, inured to hardship, toil, and danger, and, without taking time to reflect, or even debate, upon the probability of being attacked by the enemy from ambuscade, they pushed forward rapidly to overtake the savages. at the cross-roads, near buffalo creek, the savages fired upon the party from an ambuscade of brush, and killed five. william robinson was shot in the abdomen with buckshot; still he managed to follow buffalo creek for half a mile. john elliot, a mere lad of seventeen, discharged his rifle at an indian, and then ran. the indian pursued him, but, fearing the boy would get off, he dropped his rifle, and followed with tomahawk alone. elliot, perceiving this, threw some powder into his rifle at random, inserted a ball in the muzzle, and pushed it in as far as he could with his finger; then, suddenly turning around, he shot the indian in the breast. the indian gave a prolonged scream, and returned in the direction of his band. there is little doubt but that the indian was killed; but, agreeably to their custom, his companions either concealed the body or took it with them. elliot went but a short distance before he overtook william robinson, who was weltering in his blood upon the ground, and evidently in the agonies of death. he begged elliot to carry him off, as he had a great horror of being scalped. elliot told him it was utterly impossible for him to lift him off the ground, much less carry him. robinson then said-- "take my gun, and save yourself. and if ever you have an opportunity to shoot an indian with it, _in war or peace_, do so, for my sake." there is no record of the fact that he obeyed the dying injunction of his friend; but he did with the rifle what was more glorious than killing ignorant savages; he carried it for five years in the continental army, and battled with it for the freedom of his country. how many of his majesty's red-coats it riddled before the flag of freedom floated over the land, is only known to the god of battles. the body of robinson was not found by the indians. during the action thomas robinson stood still, sheltered by a tree, until all his companions had fled. he fired a third time, in the act of which two or three indians fired, and a bullet shattered his right arm. he then attempted to escape, but was hotly pursued by the indians, one of whom shot him through the side while in the act of stooping to pass a log. he was found scalped and most shockingly mutilated. john graham died while sitting upon a log, a short distance from the scene of action. charles elliot and mcconnel escaped, and crossed buffalo creek, but they were overtaken and shot just as they were in the act of ascending the bank. their bodies were found in the creek. these bloody murders caused the greatest alarm in the neighborhood. the indians, flushed with success, manifested no disposition to leave; and the inhabitants of the sparsely-settled country fled toward the lower end of sherman's valley, leaving all behind them. a party of forty men, armed and organized and well-disciplined, marched in the direction of the juniata for the purpose of burying the dead and slaying the indians; but when they came to buffalo creek, they were so terrified at the sight of the slaughtered whites and probably exaggerated stories of the strength of the enemy, that the commander ordered a return. he called it _prudent_ to retire; some of his men called it _cowardly_. the name of the valiant captain could not be ascertained. captain dunning went up the valley from carlisle with a posse, determined to overtake and punish the savages if possible. before his arrival, however, some five or six men conceived the rash idea of giving the indians battle, and attacked them while in a barn. the attack was an exceedingly ill-judged affair, for but few indians were wounded, and none killed. they bounded out with great fury, and shot the entire party but one, who managed to escape. those who were killed were alexander logan and his son john, charles coyle, and william hamilton. bartholomew davis made his escape, and at logan's house overtook captain dunning and his command. judging that the indians would visit logan's for plunder, captain dunning ambuscaded his men, and in a very short time the savages came, boldly, and entirely unconscious of impending danger. they were greeted by a volley from dunning's men, and but a short engagement followed. three or four indians fell at the first fire; and the rest, dismayed, fled in consternation toward the mountain, and were not pursued. thus it will be perceived that a large number of most cruel and cold-blooded murders were committed by these marauders before they were checked, simply because in treachery and cunning the white men could not cope with them. chapter vi. tuscarora valley--its early settlers--its mounds and its forts-- massacres, etc. tuscarora path valley, as it was formerly called, is one of the most fertile and beautiful within the juniata range. it embraces an extent of probably thirty miles in length, beginning in franklin county, and ending at the river at perrysville, in juniata county. the name of "path" was given to it in consequence of the old western indian path running through it nearly its entire length. tuscarora, in its day, must have been a famous place for the indians. its great natural advantages, and the abundance of game it contained, must alone have rendered it an attractive place, independent of the fact that it was the regular highway between the east and the west, where the warrior, the politician, and the loafer, could lie in the "umbrageous grots and caves of cool recess," before the wigwam door, and hear from travellers all the news astir worthy of their profound attention. tradition, however, speaks of battles among them; for they would fight among themselves, and that, too, with all the relentless fury that characterized their warfare with the whites. but of these battles said to be fought in the valley the tradition is so vague and unsatisfactory that we omit any further mention of them. there are two mounds in the valley,--one of them near its head, the other some twelve or fourteen miles from its mouth, at or near a place, we believe, now called academia. some persons who examined this mound about twenty years ago tried to make it appear that it had been enclosed in a fortification, as they averred that they had discovered fragments of a wall. this was probably a wrong conclusion, as a burial-place would not likely be within a fortification. if the mound was once enclosed within a wall for protection, it was an act that stands without a parallel in indian history. near the lower mound is an academy; and during the last ten years the students used their leisure hours in exhuming the bones and searching for relics, so that by this time, probably, but a mere visible trace of it is left. the first settlers in tuscarora were samuel bigham, robert hagg, and james and john grey,--all scotch. they came from cumberland county about the year , or probably . they were in search of a location for permanent settlement. the valley pleased them so well that they immediately staked out farms; and, notwithstanding the indians of the valley treated them with apparent hospitality, they took the precaution to build themselves a fort for defence, which was named bigham's fort. by the year several other persons had settled in tuscarora, among them george woods and a man named innis. some time in the spring of , john grey and innis went to carlisle with pack-horses, for the purpose of procuring groceries. on their return, while descending the mountain, in a very narrow defile, grey's horse, frightened at a bear which crossed the road, became unmanageable and threw him off. innis, anxious to see his wife and family, went on; but grey was detained for nearly two hours in righting his pack. as far as his own personal safety was concerned, the detention was a providential one, for he just reached the fort in time to see the last of it consumed. every person in it had either been massacred or taken prisoners by the indians. he examined the charred remains of the bodies inside of the fort, but he could find none that he could bring himself to believe were those of his family. it subsequently appeared that his wife and his only daughter, three years of age, george woods, innis's wife and three children, and a number of others, had been carried into captivity. they were taken across the alleghany to the old indian town of kittaning, and from thence to fort duquesne, where they were delivered over to the french. woods was a remarkable man, and lived to a good old age, and figured somewhat extensively afterward in the history of both bedford and alleghany counties. he took his captivity very little to heart, and even went so far as to propose marriage to mrs. grey while they were both prisoners in the fort. the french commander, in apportioning out the prisoners, gave woods to an old indian named john hutson, who removed him to his own wigwam. but george proving neither useful nor ornamental to hutson's establishment, and as there was no probability of any of his friends paying a ransom for him--inasmuch as he had neither kith nor kin,--he opened negotiations with george to let him off. the conditions made and entered into between the two were that the aforesaid george woods should give to the aforesaid john hutson an annuity of ten pounds of tobacco, until death should terminate the existence of either of the parties named. this contract was fulfilled until the massacre of the bedford scout, when harry woods, a lieutenant of the scout, and son of george woods, recognised among the most active of the savages the son of john hutson, who used to accompany his father to bedford, where harry woods had often seen him. it is hardly necessary to add that old hutson never called upon woods after that for his ransom annuity. woods was a surveyor by profession, and assisted in laying out the city of pittsburg, one of the principal streets of which bears his name, or, at least, was named after him, notwithstanding it is called "wood" instead of woods street. mr. woods, after he removed to bedford, became a useful and influential citizen. he followed his profession, and most of the original surveys in the upper end of the juniata valley were made by him. he reared a large family, and his descendants are still living. one of his daughters was married to ross, who was once a candidate for the office of governor of the state. he lived to a good old age, and died amid the deep regrets of a most extended circle of acquaintances. mrs. grey and her daughter were given to some indians, who took them to canada. in the ensuing fall john grey joined colonel armstrong's expedition against kittaning, in hopes of recapturing, or at least gaining some intelligence of, his family. failing to do this, he returned home, broken in health and spirits, made his will, and died. the will divided the farm between his wife and daughter, in case they returned from captivity. if the daughter did not return, a sister was to have her half. about a year after the fort was burnt, mrs. grey, through the connivance of some traders, managed to escape from bondage, and reached her home in safety, but, unfortunately, was compelled to leave her daughter behind her. she proved her husband's will and took charge of the property. the treaty of brought a large number of captive children to philadelphia to be recognised and claimed by their friends. mrs. grey attended, in hopes of finding her child; but she was unsuccessful. there remained one child unclaimed, about the same age as mrs. grey's; and some person, who evidently knew the provisions of the will, hinted to her the propriety of taking the child to save the property. she did so, and in the year , the heirs of the sister, having received some information as to the identity of the child, brought suit for the land. the trial was a novel one, and lasted from to , a period of forty-five years, when it was decided in favor of the heirs and against the captive. innis remained among the indians until the treaty. his wife escaped a short time previous. two of her children she recovered in philadelphia, but a third had been drowned by the savages on their way to some place in canada. by the exposure it became sick and very weak, and, to rid themselves of any further trouble with it, they put it under the ice. when the captive children were at philadelphia, some person had taken one of innis's, and he had considerable difficulty to recover it. had it not been for a private mark by which he proved it, the person who had it in charge would probably never have surrendered it. the indians of tuscarora, before the french war, were on terms of great intimacy with the whites. they used to meet at the fort, and shoot mark, and, when out of lead, would go to the mouth of the valley, and return with lead ore, almost pure. lead was a valuable article, and difficult to transport; hence the settlers were anxious to discover the location of the mine. many a warrior was feasted and liquored until he was blind drunk, under a promise of divulging the precise whereabouts of the lead mine. its discovery, if it contained any quantity of ore, would have realized any man a speedy fortune in those days; but, in spite of indian promises and the most thorough search for years, the lead mines of tuscarora were never found, and probably never will be until it is occupied by another race of cunning indians. the fort burnt down in was rebuilt some four years afterward, through the exertions of ralph sterrit, an old indian trader. his son william was born in bigham's fort, and was the first white child born in tuscarora valley. at the time of burning the first fort, sterrit was absent with his family. it is related of ralph sterrit, that, one day, while sitting outside of the second fort, a wayworn indian came along, who was hungry, thirsty, and fatigued. sterrit was a humane man, and called the savage in, gave him bread and meat, a drink of rum, and some tobacco, and sent him on his way rejoicing. the circumstance had entirely passed out of sterrit's mind, when, one night in the spring of , when the indians had again commenced hostilities, the inmates of the fort were alarmed by a noise at the gate. sterrit looked out, and by the light of the moon discovered that it was an indian. the alarm was spread, and some of the more impetuous were for shooting him down as a spy. sterrit, more cool than the others, demanded of the indian his business. the indian, in few words, reminded him of the circumstance above narrated, and for the hospitality extended to him he had come to warn the white man of impending danger. he said that the indians were as "plenty as pigeons in the woods," and that even then they had entered the valley, and, before another moon, would be at the fort, carrying with them the firm determination to murder, scalp, and burn, all the whites in their path. the alarm was sounded, and it was soon determined, in consequence of the weakness of the fort, to abandon it. nearly all the settlers of the valley were in it; but the number stated by the savage completely overawed them, so that they set to work immediately packing upon horses their most valuable effects, and long before daylight were on their way to cumberland county. the indians came next night, and, after reconnoitering for a long time, approached the fort, which, much to their astonishment, they found evacuated. however, to show the settlers that they had been there, they burnt down the fort, and, on a cleared piece of ground in front of it, they laid across the path a war-club painted red--a declaration of war to the death against the whites. the benevolent act of sterrit, in relieving the weary and hungry indian, was the means of saving the lives of eighty persons. chapter vii. fort granville--old indian town--the early settlers--captain jacobs--assault on and capture of the fort. previous to the settlement by the whites, the flat on which the eastern part of lewistown now stands was an indian town of considerable importance. it was the outlet of a large and fertile valley, through which ran a north-western indian path, and in which dwelt five or six tribes, who found this the natural outlet to the juniata. the council-house stood upon the east side of the creek, near its mouth, and the line of wigwams stretched toward the north. the first white settlers in this neighborhood came from the conecocheague, by way of aughwick. they consisted of arthur buchanan and his two sons, and three other families, all scotch-irish. buchanan was a man of great energy, and very fond of roving in the woods, far from the haunts of men. he was the master-spirit of the party, and with great self-reliance pitched his tent opposite the indian village, on the west bank of the creek. he then called upon the indians, and signified his intention to purchase land. they were at first unwilling to sell; but captain jacobs, (as buchanan christened the chief, in consequence of his close resemblance to a burly german in cumberland county,) who was the head chief, having been liberally plied with liquor, decided that buchanan should have the much-coveted land. what was paid for it never transpired, but it is more than probable that the remainder of the contents of buchanan's rum-keg, a few trinkets, and some tobacco, made him owner of the soil. this was in . captain jacobs had always professed great friendship toward the british colonists; but he was among the very first won over by the french. he became very much dissatisfied with buchanan, more especially as the latter had induced a number of his friends and acquaintances to come there and settle. by this means the lands of jacobs were encroached upon, which greatly roused his temper; and one day, without deigning to give an explanation of any kind, the indians destroyed their town and left. this was a movement the settlers did not understand; neither did they like it, for it seemed to forebode no good. after a very brief consultation among them, they resolved forthwith to build a fort for protection. they had for a time noticed a growing coldness on the part of jacobs and his warriors, and, fearful that they might come down the valley, joined by other bands, and massacre the people, fort granville was erected with as much despatch as possible. it was located about a mile above lewistown, in order to be near a large spring. contrary to expectations, the indians did not come, and things generally prospered about fort granville settlement during the summer and winter of . in the spring of the indians made their appearance in kishicoquillas valley, in considerable numbers; and parties of roving tribes in search of scalps and plunder, emboldened by the success of the french and indians the year previous, sometimes came down to the mouth of the creek, but, unable to ascertain the power of resistance concentrated within the fort, they never made an attack upon it. these incursions, however, became so frequent, that in the summer of the settlers only left the fort when necessity demanded it. finally, succor reached them in july. the government despatched lieutenant armstrong from cumberland county with a militia force to protect them while engaged in taking in their harvest, and, directly after his arrival, hearing of the exposed condition of the people in tuscarora, armstrong sent a portion of his command, with lieutenant faulkner, in order to guard them while reaping their grain. in the absence of the latter, on or about the d of july, (the indians having ascertained the strength of the garrison,) some sixty or seventy warriors, painted and equipped for battle, appeared before the fort and insolently challenged the settlers to combat. the commander pretended to treat the challenge with contempt, though in truth he was considerably alarmed at the prospect of an attack. the indians fired at one man, and wounded him. he happened to be outside, but got into the fort without sustaining any serious injury. the indians divided themselves into small parties and started off in different directions. one of these parties killed a man named baskins, a short distance from the river, burnt his house, and carried his wife and children into captivity. another party took hugh carrol and his family prisoners. on the th of july, captain edward ward had command of fort granville, with a company regularly enlisted and in the pay of the province. he went, with all of his men but twenty-four, to sherman's valley, to protect the settlers while harvesting. the enemy soon ascertained this, and on the first of august, according to the affidavit of john hogan, then and there taken prisoner, (colonial records, vol. vii. p. ,) one hundred indians and fifty frenchmen made an attack upon the fort. they assaulted the works during the entire afternoon and part of the night without gaining any advantage. about midnight the enemy got below the bank of the river, and by a deep ravine they approached close enough to the fort to set fire to it before they were observed. the fire soon spread, and through an aperture made the indians shot lieutenant armstrong, and wounded some two or three others who were endeavoring to put out the fire. the french commander ordered a suspension of hostilities, and offered quarter to all who would surrender, on several occasions; but armstrong would not surrender on any condition. he was certainly a brave man, and held out nobly almost against hope. peter walker, who was in the fort at the time and taken prisoner, after his escape from kittaning gave an account of the capture of the fort to general john armstrong. he said that "of the enemy not less than one hundred and twenty returned, all in health, except one frenchman, shot through the shoulder by lieutenant armstrong, a little before his death, as the frenchman was erecting his body out of the hollow to throw pine-knots on the fire made against the fort; and of this number there were about a dozen of french, who had for their interpreter one mcdowell, a scotchman." there appears to be a discrepancy between the statements of hogan and walker in regard to the number engaged in the assault, but it is quite likely that the latter's estimate is correct. general armstrong, in his letter to robert hunter morris, goes on to say:-- this mcdowell told walker they designed very soon to attack fort shirley with four hundred men. captain jacobs said he could take any fort that would catch fire, and would make peace with the english when they had learned him to make gunpowder. mcdowell told walker they had two indians killed in the engagement; but captains armstrong and ward, whom i ordered on their march to fort shirley to examine every thing at granville and send a list of what remained among the ruins, assure me that they found some parts of eight of the enemy burnt, in two different places, the joints of them being scarcely separated; and part of their shirts found, through which there were bullet-holes. to secrete these from the prisoners was doubtless the reason why the french officer marched our people some distance from the fort before he gave orders to burn the barracks, &c. walker says that some of the germans flagged very much on the second day, and that the lieutenant behaved with the greatest bravery to the last, despising all the terrors and threats of the enemy whereby they often urged him to surrender. though he had been near two days without water, but little ammunition left, the fort on fire, and the enemy situate within twelve or fourteen yards of the fort, under the natural bank, he was as far from yielding as when at first attacked. a frenchman in our service, fearful of being burned up, asked leave of the lieutenant to treat with his countrymen in the french language. the lieutenant answered, "the first word of french you speak in this engagement, i'll blow your brains out!" telling his men to hold out bravely, for the flame was falling, and he would soon have it extinguished; but he soon after received the fatal ball. col. rec., vol. vii. p. . directly after armstrong fell, a man named turner opened the gates and admitted the enemy. a soldier named brandon, who had been shot through the knee, approached the french, told them he was a roman catholic, and would go with them. his faith, however, availed him little; for, as soon as it was discovered that he was not in marching condition, one of the indians clove his skull with a tomahawk. the soldiers, who loved their lieutenant, asked permission to bury him; but the inhuman french officer refused, although they offered to do it in a very few minutes where they had raised clay to stay the progress of the flames. the indians were under the command of captain jacobs and shingas, but the name of the gallant french officer has not been preserved. the prisoners taken were twenty-two soldiers, three women, and several children. for fear of being overtaken by the provincial forces, they made forced marches to kittaning. when they arrived there, they pitched upon turner to make a terrible example of. in front of the council-house they planted a stake painted black, and to this they tied him; and, after having heated several old gun-barrels red-hot, they danced around him, and, every minute or two, seared and burned his flesh. without knowing but what such might be their own fate, the prisoners were compelled to look at the heart-rending sight, and listen to the shrieks and groans of the victim, without daring to utter a word. after tormenting him almost to death, the indians scalped him, and then held up an indian lad, who ended his sufferings by laying open his skull with a hatchet. some of the prisoners made their escape, and others were restored to their friends; but some few of the soldiers were never heard of again, having probably shared the fate of turner. one of the prisoners, named girty, returned in a wounded condition. when he escaped, he was followed by two indians to the head-waters of blacklick, where they attempted to re-capture him; but in the fight that followed he slew one of the indians, and the other ran. he scalped the one he killed, and took his scalp to aughwick. the women and children were recovered, by the first exchange of prisoners that took place, in . chapter viii. organization of mifflin county--dispute with huntingdon county about the boundary line--riot in lewistown, etc. [note.--it was not the author's original intention to publish any thing of modern occurrence in the juniata valley, but to confine himself exclusively to its early history; but several friends in lewistown made a particular request that we should insert an account of the dispute arising from the boundary question, and the riot of . the latter has been repeatedly published. still, as it occurred sixty-four years ago, and few, if any, living witnesses of the occurrence are to be found, it may be as well to preserve the record.] shortly after mifflin county was formed, in , an attempt was made to run the boundary line,--a proceeding which gave rise to great excitement and came very near ending in riot and bloodshed. the bone of contention was a strip of disputed territory claimed by both huntingdon and mifflin counties; and we are under the impression that a majority of those residing in the territory in dispute favored the mifflin county cause. they were mostly irish; and, since the wars were over and no enemy to fight, were ever ready, with true irish _hospitality_, to take a brush with their neighbors. accordingly, when the sheriff of huntingdon came into the disputed territory to serve a process upon a man, a party congregated at an irish tavern, and, lying in wait for the sheriff, arrested and carried him to lewistown and committed him to jail. he sued out a _habeas corpus_, and the judge discharged him. filled with wrath, the sheriff went home swearing vengeance. he soon summoned a posse in huntingdon, for the avowed purpose of taking his man at all hazards, and proceeded to the disputed territory. the people, aware of his coming, fired signal guns, and soon met in great numbers. the sheriff and his posse fortunately took a different route, which alone prevented riot and bloodshed. the boundary question was soon after settled amicably. [illustration: scene on the river below m'veytown.] the riot of , however, was a more serious affair. it will be remembered that in those days the military spirit in the juniata valley ran very high, though we are free to acknowledge that it has sadly degenerated since then. a gentleman named bryson had been appointed an associate judge by the governor. previous to his appointment, he held the office of brigade inspector; and, in his official capacity, refused to commission two colonels elected by their regiments, but in their stead commissioned two men of his own selection. this he had a right to do under the existing militia law; nevertheless, the men composing the regiments looked upon it as a most unwarrantable assumption of power in thus setting at defiance the expressed will of the majority, and they resolved that judge bryson should not enjoy his office. the following copy of a letter published in a paper in york, pennsylvania, from the district attorney, is a full history of the case: on monday, the th of september, , the hon. w. brown, james bryson, and james armstrong, esquires, met in the fore-noon, in order to open the court and proceed to business; but thomas beale, esq., one of the associate judges, not having arrived, their honors waited until three o'clock in the afternoon; at which time he arrived, and was requested to proceed with them and the officers of the court to the court-house. he declined going, and the procession moved on to the court-house, where the judges' commissions were read, the court opened, and the officers and the attorneys of the court sworn in, and the court adjourned till ten o'clock next morning. about nine o'clock, while preparing business to lay before the grand-jury, i received information that a large body of men were assembled below the long narrows, at david jordan's tavern, on the juniata, and were armed with guns, swords, and pistols, with an avowed intention to proceed to lewistown and seize judge bryson on the bench, and drag him from his seat, and march him off before them, and otherwise ill-treat him. this information was instantly communicated to messrs. brown, bryson, and armstrong, the judges, who agreed with me that samuel edminton, esq., the prothonotary, judge beale, ---- stewart, esq., ---- bell, esq., should, with george wilson, esq., the sheriff of mifflin county, proceed and meet the rioters. and the sheriff was commanded to inquire of them their object and intention; and, if hostile, to order them to disperse, and tell them that the court was not alarmed at their proceedings. two hours after this the court opened, and a grand-jury was impanelled. a fife was heard playing, and some guns fired, and immediately the mob appeared, marching toward the court-house, with three men on horseback in front, having the gentlemen that had been sent to meet them under guard in the rear; all of whom, on their arrival at lewistown, they permitted to go at large, except the sheriff, whom four of their number kept a guard over. the court ordered me, as the representative of the commonwealth, to go and meet them, remonstrate against their proceedings, and warn them of their danger; which order was obeyed. but all endeavors were in vain, the mob crying out, "march on! march on! draw your sword on him! ride over him!" i seized the reins of the bridle that the principal commander held, viz., ---- wilson, esq., brother of the sheriff aforesaid, who was well mounted and well dressed, with a sword, and, i think, two pistols belted around him; a cocked-hat, and one or two feathers in it. he said he would not desist, but at all events proceed and take judge bryson off the bench, and march him down to the narrows, to the judge's farm, and make him sign a written paper that he would never sit there as a judge again. the mob still crying out, "march on! march on!" he drew his sword, and told me he must hurt me unless i would let go the reins. the crowd pushed forward and nearly pressed me down; one of them, as i learned afterward, a nephew of judge beale, presented his pistol at my breast, with a full determination to shoot me. i let the reins go, and walked before them until i arrived at the stairs on the outside of the court-house, when judge armstrong met me, and said, "since nothing else will do, let us defend the stairs." we instantly ascended, and mr. hamilton, and the gentlemen of the bar, and many citizens; and the rioters, headed by william wilson, colonel walker, and colonel holt, came forward, and the general cry was, "march on, damn you; proceed and take him!" judge armstrong replied, "you damned rascals, come on; we will defend the court and ourselves; and before you shall take judge bryson you shall kill me and many others, which seems to be your intention, and which you may do!" at this awful moment, one holt seized judge armstrong by the arm with intent to pull him down the stairs, but he extricated himself. holt's brother then got a drawn sword and put it into his hands, and damned him to run the rascal through; and wilson drew his sword on me with great rage, and young beale his sword, and cocked his pistol, and presented it. i told them they might kill me, but the judge they could not, nor should they take him; and the words "fire away!" shouted through the mob. i put my hand on his shoulder, and begged him to consider where he was, who i was, and reflect but for a moment. i told him to withdraw the men, and appoint any two or three of the most respectable of his people to meet me in half an hour and try to settle the dispute. he agreed, and with difficulty got them away from the court-house. mr. hamilton then went with me to mr. alexander's tavern, and in wilson and walker came, and also sterrett; who i soon discovered to be their chief counsellor. proposals were made by me that they should return home, offer no insult to judge bryson or the court, and prefer to the governor a decent petition, stating their grievances, (if they had any,) that might be laid before the legislature; and that, in the mean time, the judge should not sit on the bench of this court. they seemed agreed, and our mutual honor to be pledged; but sterrett, who pretended not to be concerned, stated that great delay would take place, that injuries had been received which demanded instant redress, and objected to the power of the governor as to certain points proposed. at this moment young beale and holt came up, the former with arms, and insisted on wilson's joining them, and broke up the conference. i followed, and on the field, among the rioters, told wilson, "your object is that judge bryson leave the bench and not sit on it this court." he and walker said "yes." "will you promise to disperse and go home, and offer him no insult?" he said, "yes;" and our mutual honor was then pledged for the performance of this agreement. mr. hamilton proceeded to the court, told the judge, and he left his seat and retired. i scarce had arrived until the fife began to play, and the whole of the rioters came on to the court-house, then headed by wilson. i met them at the foot of the stairs, and told them the judge was gone, in pursuance of the agreement, and charged them with a breach of the word and forfeiture of honor; and walker said it was so, but he could not prevail on them. wilson said he would have the judge, and attempted going up the stairs. i prevented him, and told him he should not, unless he took off his military accoutrements. he said he had an address to present, and complied with my request, and presented it, signed "the people." young beale, at the moment i was contending with wilson, cocked and presented his pistol at my breast, and insisted that wilson and all of them should go; but on my offering to decide it by combat with him, he declined it; and by this means they went off swearing, and said that they were out-generalled. the next day, colonel m'farland, with his regiment, came down and offered to defend the court, and addressed it; the court answered, and stated that there was no occasion, and thanked him. judge bryson read a paper, stating the ill-treatment he received, and mentioned that no fear of danger prevented him from taking and keeping his seat; but that he understood an engagement had been entered into by his friends that he should not, and on that account only he was prevented. the court adjourned until two o'clock that day, and were proceeding to open it, with the sheriff, coroner, and constable in front, when they observed that judge beale was at the house of one con. they halted, and requested the sheriff to wait on him and request him to walk with them. he returned, and said the judge would not walk or sit with bryson, and addressed judge bryson with warmth, who replied to it in a becoming manner. the sheriff struck at him, and kicked also. judge armstrong seized the sheriff, and commanded the peace, and took the sheriff's rod from him; the coroner took his place, and the sheriff was brought up before the court. i moved he might be committed to gaol; and his mittimus being written and signed, the court ordered the coroner and gaoler to take him, and he submitted. the court adjourned. after night the drum beat, and holt collected about seventy men, who repeatedly huzzaed, crying out "liberty or death;" and he offered to rescue the sheriff, but the sheriff refused. at ten o'clock at night i was informed expresses were sent down the narrows, to collect men to rescue the sheriff, and major edmiston informed me he was sorry for his conduct, and offered to beg the court's pardon and to enter into recognisance. i communicated this to the judges brown and armstrong, and requested they would write to the gaoler to permit him to come down. they did, and the sheriff came with major edmiston, begged pardon of every member of the court but judge bryson, who was not present, and entered into recognisance to appear at next sessions. the next day near three hundred were assembled below the narrows, and i prevailed on some gentlemen to go down and disperse them; and upon being assured the sheriff was out of gaol, they returned to their respective homes, and the court have finished all business. nothing further requiring the attendance of the grand-jury, the court dismissed them and broke up. i must not omit to inform that judge beale had declared, during the riot, in court, that he would not sit on the bench with judge bryson, and that both he and said stewart appeared to countenance the rioters, and are deeply concerned. i must now close the narrative with saying that, owing to the spirit and firmness of judge armstrong and the whole of the bar, i was enabled to avert the dreadful blow aimed at judge bryson, and to keep order and subordination in court; and unless the most vigorous measures are exerted soon, it will be impossible ever to support the laws of the state in that county, or punish those who dare transgress. the excise law is execrated by the banditti; and, from every information, i expect the collection of the revenue will be opposed. i am happy to add, the dispute, which originated by a mistake, between huntingdon and mifflin counties, is happily closed in the most amicable manner, without any prosecution in mifflin. i am, sir, your most obedient, john clark, dy. st. attorney. _to_ thomas smith, _esq., president of the court of mifflin county._ the following is another account of the affair, and evidently written by a friend of the offending judge:-- _carlisle, september ._ at a period when the general voice of the people proclaims the excellence of the federal government, and the state of pennsylvania in particular is anticipating every blessing from a constitution so conformable to it, an alarming sedition, together with a most daring turbulent temper, has unhappily manifested itself in the county of mifflin. the governor has lately appointed samuel bryson, esquire, second associate judge of the court of common pleas of that county. this gentleman, having been lieutenant of the county of mifflin, had excited the determined enmity of two men who were ambitious of being colonels of militia, and against the commissioning of whom (as unfit persons) mr. bryson, as county lieutenant, had made representations. enraged at the promotion of judge bryson, and unhappily yielding to the impulse of the most unjustifiable passions, one william wilson, brother to the sheriff of mifflin county, and one david walker, levied a considerable force, and marched at the head of about forty armed men, with a fife playing, to lewistown, with the avowed determination to seize upon the person of judge bryson whilst on the bench, drag him from thence, oblige him to resign his commission, and compel him to march many miles along the rugged narrows of juniata river. secresy marked this unexampled treasonable riot. it was not known at lewistown until about an hour before the insurgents appeared. justice stuart, who had been lately commissioned, and who is a very worthy man, had been imprisoned in the morning by four men who belonged to the party of the rioters. they attempted to make him engage his word that he would not give information; but he refused. ignorant of the private movers of this daring and turbulent procedure, it was agreed by judges brown and armstrong, and other gentlemen, to request the sheriff of the county and judge beale, who were presumed to have influence over them, together with the prothonotary of the county, to represent the illegality and imprudence of their conduct, and prevail on them if possible, to return. no advantage has been derived from this step. mr. edmiston, the prothonotary, was insulted; the sheriff was taken into a mock imprisonment; and judge beale soon after adopted a part which evinced that little real exertion could have been expected from him in quieting this disturbance. the court was sitting when this armed force, levying war against the state, with a fife playing, marched resolutely forward. at this juncture judge bryson asked judge beale if it was not likely they would stop; to which the other replied that they never would whilst such a rascal sat upon the bench. mr. clark and mr. hamilton, two attorneys of the court, at the desire of some of the judges, remonstrated with mr. wilson, who was on horseback and within a few paces of the court-house, at the head of the troops, respecting his conduct. mr. wilson was dressed in a military style, with a cockade in his hat, and was armed with a horseman's sword and pistols. he declared his intention was to oblige mr. bryson to resign his commission and go down the narrows with him and his men. he was warned by the gentlemen of the danger of the attempt; he observed that nothing would divert him from his purpose, and immediately drew his sword and marched to storm the court-room, where judge armstrong and others were stationed at the door. the two gentlemen who had addressed wilson ran to the steps in front of the force, where they found a number of persons on the stairs. the rioters followed, with a cry of "liberty or death!" mr. armstrong halloed out repeatedly, "villains, come on, but you shall first march over my dead body before you enter." this resolution, seconded by the circumstance of the gentlemen above mentioned, and a number of other persons, keeping their ground on the stairs, (although once or twice some called to the rioters to fire,) seemed to stagger the resolution of wilson. at this moment a gentleman proposed to him that if he would disarm, he might have admittance into the court-room. to this he seemed immediately to accede. the troops were filed off to a short distance. it was then agreed that a meeting should take place in half an hour with the leaders of the party. messrs. clark and hamilton, with the assent of some members of the court, met messrs. william wilson, david walker, and william sterrett, who appeared on behalf of the rioters. entertaining hopes of preserving the person of mr. bryson from injury, it was thought prudent to promise, if the party would disperse, that mr. bryson would not sit during that week on the bench. during this conference, mr. wilson offered no other charge against mr. bryson but what respected the militia commissions for him and mr. walker; but it was not until after much discourse that the leaders of the troops could be convinced that an extorted resignation would not avail. when they saw the futility of this idea, it was long insisted that mr. bryson should go with them down the narrows. mr. wilson, in contravention of the agreement, marched the troops to the court-house. in the meantime, judge bryson had sent for a horse and effected his escape. it was then mr. william sterrett exclaimed, with an oath, "we are out-generalled!" an address was presented by mr. wilson to the court, who went in unarmed, signed "the people." it was in the handwriting, as is supposed, of mr. sterrett. it congratulated the other judges upon their appointments, but mentioned and avowed their design in coming armed to the court to force the dismission of judge bryson. mr. beale, one of the most active of the rioters, armed with a sword and pistols slung around him, wished to force his way into the court-room, but was prevented by mr. clark. four armed men surrounded the person of the sheriff. under this delusive imprisonment, all intercourse of conversation with him was prohibited. in the evening, the rioters departed in a turbulent, straggling manner, generally intoxicated. at night, one corran, who had been very active in raising men, was drowned, together with his horse, in a mill-dam, about one mile and a half from the town. about twelve or one o'clock the next day, judge bryson returned. soon afterward, col. james mcfarland, with about seventy militia on horseback, appeared in support of the court and the laws. at three o'clock, judges brown, bryson, and armstrong, preceded by the sheriff, prepared to open the court. the sheriff was sent with a message to judge beale, informing him that the judges waited for him to join them in proceeding to the court-house. his reply was that he would not go whilst mr. bryson was with them. the judges had not walked more than a few paces, followed by the attorneys and citizens, when the sheriff, with his rod of office in his hand, suddenly stopped, and demanded of mr. bryson if he had said any thing injurious of him. mr. bryson made a very moderate reply; notwithstanding, he was immediately assaulted by the sheriff, and received a kick in the same leg which had been shattered by a ball at the battle of germantown. the sheriff was immediately taken into custody. the coroner received the sheriff's rod, and undertook to go before the judges to court. there the sheriff refused to give any recognisance for his appearance at the next court, and was therefore committed to jail. colonel mcfarland presented an address to the judges on behalf of himself and the militia under his command, mentioning his abhorrence of the proceedings which had taken place, and offering, at the hazard of their lives, to protect the court. to which the following answer was returned:-- "the judges of the court of common pleas of the county of mifflin are very sensible of the laudable zeal of colonel mcfarland and the militia now under arms, subject to his command, in support of the laws and government of pennsylvania, and particularly for the purpose of protecting this court from injury and insult. they trust that the daring mob who, being armed, assembled yesterday and assaulted the court, threatening the lives of the members, are now too conscious of the magnitude of their offence and the spirit of the citizens of this county to repeat their attack. measures are preparing to vindicate the dignity of our insulted laws, and to bring to a just punishment the atrocious offenders and their abettors, who have brought disgrace upon the county and trampled upon the most sacred rights of the community. the court, therefore, sir, return you thanks for the support which you and the militia under your command have with so much alacrity brought to the aid of the administration of justice in this county; but being of opinion that all danger from these infatuated men has ceased, we do not think it necessary that your attendance should be longer continued." after which judge bryson, standing at the bar, spoke the following words:-- "fellow-citizens:--it is not my intention to resume my seat on the bench during this term. i do not decline it from any apprehension of the mob who yesterday assaulted the court and marked me for their vengeance. supported by my country, by every virtuous citizen, and a consciousness of my integrity, i have nothing to fear; but understanding that some gentlemen, anxious for my personal safety, entered into an engagement with the leaders of the banditti that i should not sit as judge during this court, my respect for these gentlemen is my sole and only motive for making this declaration." colonel mcfarland, after this, thanked the militia in the following terms:-- "colonel mcfarland returns his thanks to the militia of his regiments who now attend in support of the laws of their country. he is particularly indebted to captain robert johnston and captain john brown, for their extraordinary vigilance in collecting the men of their respective companies upon a notice given to them so late as last night after twelve o'clock. he has no doubt but that the same zeal which has distinguished the militia under his command upon this occasion will always be as honorably manifested, should this county ever be so unhappy as to be disgraced by a similar necessity." soon after which, the militia, having been discharged by the court, returned home. the evening of the day was replete with alarms. one holt, who thought he had cause of complaint respecting a militia commission, assembled a body of men to the amount of about forty. they paraded a considerable time with sound of drum. at length, at eight o'clock, they appeared before the prison-door, with an intention to break it and enlarge the sheriff. mr. sterrett then appeared, and informed them that the sheriff thanked his friends for their intention to serve him, but this is not a proper period; or words to that effect. about nine o'clock, several persons, having long applied to the sheriff without success, prevailed on him at length to give a recognisance to appear at the next court to answer for the assault and battery on judge bryson. happily, the sheriff, in this instance, relinquished a system which was collecting new horrors and threatened to involve in new scenes of guilt a number of the inhabitants. great numbers in tuscarora valley and its vicinity prepared the following day to march and liberate the sheriff, and probably to demolish the court-house and prison. the news of his release arrived in time to stop the progress of those infatuated men, who appear to have lost sight of the social compact, and whose felicity seems to lie in scenes of tumult, disorder, and licentiousness. it is to be hoped, however, that government, when it comes to enforce the laws, will contemplate the ignorance and delusion of these unfortunate men, and that mercy will so far temper the prosecution as that it will not be extended to a capital charge; yet it is indispensably necessary that they be taught that genuine liberty consists in the power of doing every thing which is not prohibited by the laws, and that the exercise of an unbounded licentiousness which threatens the dissolution of society itself must receive a punishment in some degree commensurate to the greatness of the offence. how far mr. bryson's representations to the governor against messrs. wilson, walker, and holt, have been founded in a just estimate of the characters of these men, cannot be elucidated here; but it would appear to afford the highest evidence of its propriety that they were the principals in this most unexampled riot. chapter ix. kishicoquillas valley--the shawnee chief kishicokelas--the mingo chief logan. among the many valleys composing the juniata valley, or, indeed, among all the fine and productive valleys of the state, few, if any, can surpass kishicoquillas. its outlet is at lewistown, from whence it stretches west a distance of nearly thirty miles, varying in breadth from two to four miles. after the treaty of fort stanwix, the whites returned to the neighborhood of granville, and some of them commenced exploring the valley. the land was then included in what was termed the new purchase, and was in the market. the land-office was opened in , and the first actual settler in the valley was judge brown. old kishicokelas was a shawnee chief, on terms of friendship with the whites. with the buchanans he was very intimate, and gave them early intimation of the impending danger, which enabled them to escape. while the delawares and most of his own tribe went over to the french in a body, kishicokelas remained loyal to the proprietary government; and, although they made him splendid offers at the time they corrupted jacobs, he rejected them all, and declared that no earthly consideration could induce him to lift the hatchet against the sons of onas. it is to be regretted that historians never made mention of kishicokelas, except incidentally. he was the fast friend of the old chief shickalemy, who resided at fort augusta, and it is probable that he was converted by some of the moravian missionaries. he died in , as appears by a letter directed to his sons, as follows:-- "_philadelphia, june , ._ "i am obliged to you for your letter by our good friend, john shickcalamy. your father's letter and present were received by the late governor hamilton, who acquainted me with it; and i intended, at a time when less engaged by public business, to have sent you my acknowledgments and answer. "i heartily condole with you on the loss of your aged father, and mingle my tears with yours, which however i would now have you wipe away with the handkerchief herewith sent. "as a testimony of love the proprietors and this government retain for the family of kishycoquillas, you will be pleased to accept of the present which is delivered to john shickcalamy for your use. "may the great spirit confer on you health and every other blessing. continue your affection for the english and the good people of this province, and you will always find them grateful. "i am your assured friend, "robert h. morris." soon after the treaty at albany,--probably in ,--settlers, who had heard of the beauty and fertility of kishicoquillas valley, flocked thither for the purpose of locating lands. few locations, however, were effected, for the indians of the valley, with the exception of the chief kishicokelas and his immediate followers, were opposed to it, and threw every obstacle, short of downright murder, in the way of the new-comers. there is no positive evidence that any murders were committed in kishicoquillas at that period, but the savages certainly did every thing in their power to menace and harass the settlers, in order to induce them to relinquish the design of settling upon what they still considered their lands. the following letter from colonel armstrong to governor morris gives some information of the trials these early settlers were subjected to:-- "_carlisle, may , ._ "this day i received a letter from my brother, who is laying out lands for the settlers in the new purchase, giving an account of three indians, very much painted, who last week robbed and drove off several settlers from the valley of kishicoquillas. one of the indians, by his skulking position, seemed as if he designed secretly to have shot, but, the white man discovering him, escaped. they took three horses, three or four guns, and some cash. 'tis said they robbed another man up juniata. "to-morrow i am to set out for kishicoquillas, there to decide some controversies, and thence to proceed to susquehanna, near shamokin, where i expect to meet conrad weiser. if he is there, he may, by the assistance of the shickcalamies, be of use in regard to those robberies. "i am, sir, yours, &c., "john armstrong." colonel armstrong did go to shamokin, where he met shickalemy, and induced him to use his influence in behalf of the settlers in the new purchase; but shickalemy's labors were lost, for he could effect nothing among the savages of kishicoquillas, and the settlers were forced to fly for protection to fort granville; nor did they or any other whites venture into the valley until some time in . shickalemy, or shickellimus, as he was sometimes called, was a cayuga chief, of the six nations, and for many years resided at fort augusta, on the susquehanna, where sunbury now stands. he was converted to christianity by the moravian missionaries about , and was, to the day of his death, the firm and steadfast friend of the english colonists. to his exertions, in a great measure, may be traced the cause why none of the six nations on the susquehanna joined the french, and why a portion of the delawares spurned the most tempting offers of the french agents and remained loyal to the colonists. shickalemy attended numerous treaties in philadelphia, during which he was kindly entertained by james logan, the secretary of the province. the chief esteemed him so highly that he named his second son after him, on his return from one of these treaties, and immediately had him, as well as two other sons, baptized with christian rites by the moravians. in , shickalemy paid a visit to the old chief kishicokelas, for the purpose of adopting some conciliatory measures to prevent the indians of the valley from committing depredations upon the settlers. on this occasion he was accompanied by his sons, john and james logan. the latter, probably charmed with the beauty of the valley, soon after the demise of kishicokelas settled in the valley which bore the name of his father's friend. he built himself a cabin (not a wigwam) by the side of a fine limestone spring, whose pure waters gushed out of a small hill-side in the very heart of the valley, where his sole pursuit was hunting. this was logan, the mingo chief, whose name is perpetuated by counties, towns, townships, valleys, paths, mountains, and even hotels, and which will live in history, probably, to the end of time. there is no evidence that he had a family at the time he resided in kishicoquillas; neither was he a chief at that time, for he lived away from his tribe, and what little intercourse he held with his fellow-men was with the whites, to whom he bartered venison and deer-skins for such articles as he stood in need of. he maintained himself solely by hunting, and was passionately fond of it. a gentleman who saw logan at standing stone, in or , described him to mr. maguire as "a fine-looking, muscular fellow, apparently about twenty-eight years of age. he weighed about two hundred pounds, had a full chest, and prominent and expansive features. his complexion was not so dark as that of the juniata indians, and his whole actions showed that he had had some intercourse with the whites." this noble specimen of the red men, unfortunately, had the failing common to his kind: he would indulge in intoxicating liquors to excess on nearly every occasion that offered. when sober, he was dignified and reserved, but frank and honest; when intoxicated, he was vain, boastful, and extremely foolish. judge brown, a short time previous to his death, in the course of a conversation with r. p. maclay, esq., about logan, said:-- "the first time i ever saw that spring, (logan's,) my brother, james reed, and myself, had wandered out of the valley in search of land, and, finding it very good, we were looking about for springs. about a mile from this we started a bear, and separated to get a shot at him. i was travelling along, looking about on the rising ground for the bear, when i came suddenly upon the spring; and, being dry, and more rejoiced to find so fine a spring than to have killed a dozen bears, i set my rifle against a bush, and rushed down the bank, and laid down to drink. upon putting my head down, i saw reflected in the water, on the opposite side, the shadow of a tall indian. i sprang to my rifle, when the indian gave a yell, whether for peace or war i was not just then sufficiently master of my faculties to determine; but upon my seizing my rifle and facing him, he knocked up the pan of his gun, threw out the priming, and extended his open palm toward me in token of friendship. after putting down our guns, we again met at the spring, and shook hands. this was logan--the best specimen of humanity i ever met with, either _white_ or _red_. he could speak a little english, and told me there was another white hunter a little way down the stream, and offered to guide me to his camp. there i first met your father, (samuel maclay.) we remained together in the valley for a week, looking for springs and selecting lands, and laid the foundation of a friendship which never has had the slightest interruption. "we visited logan at his camp, at logan's spring, and your father and he shot at a mark, for a dollar a shot. logan lost four or five rounds, and acknowledged himself beaten. when we were about to leave him, he went into his hut and brought out as many deer-skins as he had lost dollars, and handed them to mr. maclay, who refused to take them, alleging that he had been his guest, and did not come to rob him; that the shooting had only been a trial of skill, and the bet merely nominal. logan drew himself up with great dignity, and said, 'me bet to make you shoot your best; me gentleman, and me take your dollar if me beat.' so he was obliged to take the skins, or affront our friend, whose nice sense of honor would not permit him to receive even a horn of powder in return. "the next year," said judge brown, "i brought my wife up, and camped under a big walnut-tree on the bank of tea creek, until i had built a cabin near where the mill now stands, and i have lived in the valley ever since. poor logan" (and the tears chased each other down his cheeks) "soon after went into the alleghany, and i never saw him again." many other characteristic anecdotes are given of logan, the publication of which in these pages would answer no very desirable end. in looking over the few pages of manuscripts left by the late edward bell, esq., we find mention made of "captain logan, an indian friendly to the whites." this confirmed us in the belief that there were two logans. "logan, the mingo chief," left kishicoquillas valley in ; while captain logan resided in the upper end of huntingdon county at that time, and a few years afterward in logan's valley, in blair county. when the revolution broke out, he moved toward the mountain, in the neighborhood of chickalacamoose, near what is now clearfield. he served as a spy for the settlers, and rendered them valuable service. he was an iroquois or mingo indian, too, and a chief; whereas logan, the mingo, was no chief until he removed to ohio after his relatives were murdered and he took up the hatchet against the whites. this explanation is necessary, because many people of huntingdon and blair counties are under the impression that the captain logan who resided in tuckahoe as late as , and logan, the mingo chief, were one and the same person. logan, in consequence of kishicoquillas becoming too thickly populated, and the game becoming proportionately scarce, emigrated to ohio, where he settled at the mouth of yellow creek, thirty miles above wheeling. there he was joined by his surviving relatives and some cayugas from fort augusta, and a small indian village of log-huts was built up. heckwelder, who must have seen him previous to settling at yellow creek, speaks of him as follows:-- about the year , logan was introduced to me by an indian friend, as son of the late reputable chief shikelemus, and as a friend to the white people. in the course of conversation, i thought him a man of superior talents than indians generally were. the subject turning on vice and immorality, he confessed his too great share of this, especially his fondness for liquor. he exclaimed against the white people for imposing liquors upon the indians. he otherwise admired their ingenuity; spoke of gentlemen, but observed the indians unfortunately had but few of these neighbors, &c. he spoke of his friendship to the white people, wished always to be a neighbor to them, intended to settle on the ohio, below big beaver; was (to the best of my recollection) then encamped at the mouth of this river, (beaver;) urged me to pay him a visit. i was then living at the moravian town on this river, in the neighborhood of cuskuskee. in april, , while on my passage down the ohio for muskingum, i called at logan's settlement, where i received every civility i could expect from such of the family as were at home. indian reports concerning logan, after the death of his family, ran to this: that he exerted himself during the shawnees war (then so called) to take all the revenge he could, declaring he had lost all confidence in the white people. at the time of the negotiation, he declared his reluctance to lay down the hatchet, not having (in his opinion) yet taken ample satisfaction; yet, for the sake of the nation, he would do it. his expression, from time to time, denoted a deep melancholy. life, said he, had become a torment to him; he knew no more what pleasure was; he thought it had been better if he had never existed. report further states that he became in some measure delirious; declared he would kill himself; went to detroit, and, on his way between that place and miami, was murdered. in october, , while a prisoner, on my way to detroit, i was shown the spot where this was said to have happened. that logan's temper should have soured on the murder of his relatives and friends, after the friendship he had always extended to the whites, is not at all strange. these murders changed his nature from a peaceable indian to a most cruel and bloodthirsty savage. revenge stimulated him to the most daring deeds; and how many innocent white men, women, and children, he ushered into eternity to appease his wrath, is only known to him "whose eye seeth all things." his people--some say his family, but it never was ascertained that he had any--were murdered in may, . some roving indians had committed depredations in the neighborhood, and the settlers, highly incensed, determined to drive them out of the neighborhood. to this end, about thirty men, completely armed, and under the command of daniel greathouse, without knowing the character and disposition of logan and his friends, made a descent upon the village and destroyed it, and killed twelve and wounded six or eight of the indians. among the former was logan's sister and a son of kishicokelas. logan was absent, at the time of the occurrence, on a hunting expedition. on his return, as soon as he saw the extent of the injury done him, he buried the dead, cared for the wounded, and, with the remnant of his band, went into ohio, joined the shawnees, and fought during their war against the whites with the most bitter and relentless fury. in the autumn of , the indians, getting some very rough usage, and fearing that the powerful army of lord dunmore would march upon and exterminate them, sued for peace. lord dunmore sent a belt of wampum to all the principal chiefs, and, among the rest, one to logan, inviting them to a treaty. logan refused to attend the council, but sent the following speech by an interpreter, in a belt of wampum. the treaty was held under an oak-tree, near circleville, ohio, and it was there that the eloquent and purely indian speech which rendered logan's name immortal was read, and brought tears to the eyes of many of the sturdy pioneers assembled:-- "i appeal," says logan, "to any white man to say if he ever entered logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat; if he came naked and cold, and i clothed him not. during the last long and bloody war, logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate of peace. such was my love for the whites that my countrymen, as they passed, said, 'logan is the friend of the whites.' i had thought of living among you, but for the injuries of one man. captain cressap, last spring, in cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of logan, not sparing even my women and children. there runs not one drop of my blood in any living creature. this called on me for revenge. i have sought it; i have killed many; i have fully glutted my vengeance. for my country, i rejoice in the beams of peace. but do not harbor the thought that mine is the joy of fear. logan never felt fear. he will not turn on his heel to save his life. who is there to mourn for logan? not one!" the authorship of this speech was attributed to thomas jefferson, but he most emphatically denied it, as did others who were present at the treaty. with respect to captain cressap, logan was doubtless misinformed. it is true captain cressap was a daring frontier-man, who considered it an obligation imposed upon him by the creator to slay indians, but he was altogether innocent of the charge made against him by logan. the massacre in question, when the facts were known after dunmore's treaty, was deeply deplored, and the wanton butchery of cressap execrated. cressap's friends, however, would not suffer the stigma of an inhuman act, of which he was not guilty, to be fixed upon him; so they procured all the evidence to be had in the case, and fixed the disreputable deed upon daniel greathouse and his followers. a number of affidavits to that effect were made by men who accompanied greathouse, and published a year or two after the treaty; others in , when the subject was revived and freely discussed. seeing the great disadvantages the indians labored under in trying to cope with well-armed and disciplined troops, and believing that his revenge was far from being satiated, it is quite likely that logan became partially insane, as heckwelder avers; but it is quite certain that he became a misanthrope, and for a long time refused to mingle with human beings. at length he plunged into deep excesses, and all he could earn, by the most skilful use of the rifle, went to gratify his inordinate thirst for strong drink. the once proud and noble mingo chief gradually descended the scale of dignified manhood, outlived his greatness, and was killed in a drunken brawl. sorry are we to say this, in the face of the _romance_ of history; nevertheless it is true. we had the statement from an old ohio pioneer, nearly twenty years ago. chapter x. col. john armstrong's expedition against kittaning--list of the killed and wounded--delaware chiefs, captain jacobs and shingas. the following account of the famous expedition against the indian town of kittaning we deem worthy of being recorded, not only because the companies of captains potter and steel belonged to the juniata valley, but on account of its being an interesting detail of an important event in the early settlement of the country. the expedition was planned and carried out with great secresy, for the sole purpose of punishing the indians engaged in the juniata valley massacres, and who it was known had their head-quarters at kittaning, where the chief instigators of all the mischief, shingas and captain jacobs, lived. the command was intrusted to colonel john armstrong, a brave and prudent officer, and the forces consisted of seven companies. he left fort shirley (aughwick, huntingdon county) on the th of august, , and on the d of september came up with the advanced party at "beaver dams, a few miles from frankstown, on the north branch of the juniata." this junction of the forces occurred on the flat where gaysport now stands, where the little army struck the celebrated trail known as the kittaning path. in his official account of the expedition, dated at fort littleton, september , , colonel armstrong says:-- we were there [at the beaver dams] informed that some of our men, having been out upon a scout, had discovered the tracks of two indians about three miles this side of the alleghany mountain and but a few miles from the camp. from the freshness of the tracks, their killing of a cub bear, and the marks of their fires, it seemed evident they were not twenty-four hours before us, which might be looked upon as a particular providence in our favor that we were not discovered. next morning we decamped, and in two days came within fifty miles of the kittaning. it was then adjudged necessary to send some persons to reconnoitre the town, and to get the best intelligence they could concerning the situation and position of the enemy; whereupon an officer, with one of the pilots and two soldiers, were sent off for that purpose. the day following we met them on their return, and they informed us that the roads were entirely clear of the enemy, and that they had the greatest reason to believe they were not discovered; but from the rest of the intelligence they gave it appeared they had not been nigh enough the town, either to perceive the true situation of it, the number of the enemy, or in what way it might most advantageously be attacked. we continued our march, in order to get as near the town as possible that night, so as to be able to attack it next morning about daylight; but, to our great dissatisfaction, about nine or ten o'clock at night one of our guides came and told us that he perceived a fire by the road-side, at which he saw two or three indians, a few perches distant from our front; whereupon, with all possible silence, i ordered the rear to retreat about one hundred perches, in order to make way for the front, that we might consult how we could best proceed without being discovered by the enemy. soon after, the pilot returned a second time, and assured us, from the best observations he could make, there were not above three or four indians at the fire, on which it was proposed that we should immediately surround and cut them off; but this was thought too hazardous, for, if but one of the enemy had escaped, it would have been the means of discovering the whole design; and the light of the moon, on which depended our advantageously posting our men and attacking the town, would not admit of our staying until the indians fell asleep; on which it was agreed to leave lieutenant hogg, with twelve men and the person who first discovered the fire, with orders to watch the enemy, but not to attack them, till break of day, and then, if possible, to cut them off. it was also agreed (we believing ourselves to be but about six miles from the town) to leave the horses, many of them being tired, with what blankets and other baggage we then had, and to take a circuit off the road, which was very rough and incommodious on account of the stones and fallen timber, in order to prevent our being heard by the enemy at the fire place. this interruption much retarded our march, but a still greater loss arose from the ignorance of our pilot, who neither knew the true situation of the town nor the best paths that led thereto; by which means, after crossing a number of hills and valleys, our front reached the river ohio [alleghany] about one hundred perches below the main body of the town, a little before the setting of the moon, to which place, rather than by the pilot, we were guided by the beating of the drum and the whooping of the warriors at their dance. it then became us to make the best use of the remaining moonlight; but, ere we were aware, an indian whistled in a very singular manner, about thirty perches from our front, in the foot of a corn-field; upon which we immediately sat down, and, after passing silence to the rear, i asked one baker, a soldier, who was our best assistant, whether that was not a signal to the warriors of our approach. he answered "no," and said it was the manner of a young fellow's calling a squaw after he had done his dance, who accordingly kindled afire, cleaned his gun, and shot it off before he went to sleep. all this time we were obliged to lie quiet and lurk, till the moon was fairly set. immediately after, a number of fires appeared in different places in the corn-field, by which baker said the indians lay, the night being warm, and that these fires would immediately be out, as they were only designed to disperse the gnats. by this time it was break of day, and the men, having marched thirty miles, were mostly asleep. the time being long, the three companies of the rear were not yet brought over the last precipice. for these some proper hands were immediately despatched; and the weary soldiers being roused to their feet, a proper number, under sundry officers, were ordered to take the end of the hill at which we then lay, and march along the top of the said hill at least one hundred perches, and so much farther (it then being daylight) as would carry them opposite the upper part, or at least the body, of the town. for the lower part thereof and the corn-field, presuming the warriors were there, i kept rather the larger number of men, promising to postpone the attack in that part for eighteen or twenty minutes, until the detachment along the hill should have time to advance to the place assigned them--in doing of which they were a little unfortunate. the time being elapsed, the attack was begun in the corn-field, and the men, with all expedition possible, despatched through the several parts thereof, a party being also despatched to the houses, which were then discovered by the light of the day. captain jacobs immediately then gave the war-whoop, and, with sundry other indians, as the english prisoners afterward told, cried the white men were at last come, they would then have scalps enough; but, at the same time, ordered their squaws and children to flee to the woods. our men, with great eagerness, passed through and fired in the corn-field, where they had several returns from the enemy, as they also had from the opposite side of the river. presently after, a brisk fire began among the houses, which from the house of captain jacobs was returned with a great deal of resolution, to which place i immediately repaired, and found that from the advantage of the house and portholes sundry of our people were wounded and some killed; and, finding that returning the fire upon the house was ineffectual, i ordered the contiguous houses to be set on fire, which was performed by sundry of the officers and soldiers with a great deal of activity, the indians always firing whenever an object presented itself, and seldom missing of wounding or killing some of our people--from which house, in moving about to give the necessary orders and directions, i received a wound with a large musket-ball in the shoulders. sundry persons, during the action, were ordered to tell the indians to surrender themselves prisoners, but one of the indians in particular answered and said he was a man, and would not be a prisoner; upon which he was told, in indian, he would be burnt. to this he answered he did not care, for he would kill four or five before he died; and, had we not desisted from exposing ourselves, they would have killed a great many more, they having a number of loaded guns by them. as the fire began to approach and the smoke grew thick, one of the indian fellows, to show his manhood, began to sing. a squaw in the same house, and at the same time, was heard to cry and make a noise, but for so doing was severely rebuked by the man; but by-and-by, the fire being too hot for them, two indian fellows and a squaw sprang out and made for the corn-field, who were immediately shot down by our people then surrounding the houses. it was thought captain jacobs tumbled himself out at a garret or cockloft window at which he was shot--our prisoners offering to be qualified to the powder-horn and pouch there taken off him, which they say he had lately got from a french officer in exchange for lieutenant armstrong's boots, which he carried from fort granville, where the lieutenant was killed. the same prisoners say they are perfectly assured of his scalp, as no other indians there wore their hair in the same manner. they also say they know his squaw's scalp by a particular _bob_, and also know the scalp of a young indian called the king's son. before this time, captain hugh mercer, who, early in the action, was wounded in the arm, had been taken to the top of a hill above the town,--to whom a number of the men and some of the officers were gathered, from whence they had discovered some indians pass the river and take the hill, with an intention, as they thought, to surround us and cut off our retreat, from whom i had sundry pressing messages to leave the houses and retreat to the hills, or we should all be cut off. but to this i would by no means consent until all the houses were set on fire. though our spreading upon the hills appeared very necessary, yet did it prevent our researches of the corn-field and river-side, by which means sundry scalps were left behind, and doubtless some squaws, children, and english prisoners, that otherwise might have been got. during the burning of the houses, which were near thirty in number, we were agreeably entertained with a quick succession of charged guns gradually firing off as reached by the fire, but much more so with the vast explosion of sundry bags and large kegs of gunpowder, wherewith almost every house abounded; the prisoners afterward informing us that the indians had frequently said they had a sufficient stock of ammunition for ten years' war with the english. with the roof of captain jacobs's house, when the powder blew up, was thrown the leg and thigh of an indian, with a child of three or four years old, to such a height that they appeared as nothing, and fell in an adjoining corn-field. there was also a great quantity of goods burnt, which the indians had received in a present but ten days before from the french. by this time i had proceeded to the hill, to have my wound tied up and the blood stopped, where the prisoners which in the morning had come to our people informed me that that very day two bateaux of frenchmen, with a large party of delaware and french indians, were to join captain jacobs at the kittaning, and to set out early the next morning to take fort shirley, or, as they called it, george crogan's fort; and that twenty-four warriors, who had lately come to the town, were set out the evening before, for what purpose they did not know,--whether to prepare meat, to spy the fort, or to make an attack on some of our back inhabitants. soon after, upon a little reflection, we were convinced these warriors were all at the fire we had discovered but the night before, and began to doubt the fate of lieutenant hogg and his party. from this intelligence of the prisoners,--our provisions being scaffolded some thirty miles back, except what were in the men's haversacks, which were left, with the horses and blankets, with lieutenant hogg and his party,--and having a number of wounded people then on hand, by the advice of the officers it was thought imprudent then to wait for the cutting down the corn-field, (which was before designed,) but immediately to collect our wounded and force our march back in the best manner we could; which we did, by collecting a few indian horses to carry off our wounded. from the apprehension of being waylaid and surrounded, (especially by some of the woodsmen,) it was difficult to keep the men together, our march, for sundry miles, not exceeding two miles an hour; which apprehensions were heightened by the attempt of a few indians, who, for some time after the march, fired upon each wing and immediately ran off; from whom we received no other damage but one of our men being wounded through both legs. captain mercer--being wounded, was induced, as we have every reason to believe, by some of his men, to leave the main body, with his ensign, john scott, and ten or twelve men, they being heard to tell him that we were in great danger, and that they could take him into the road a nigh way--is probably lost, there being yet no account of him, and the most of the men come in. a detachment was sent back to bring him, but could not find him; and upon the return of the detachment it was generally reported he was seen, with the above number of men, to take a different road. upon our return to the place where the indian fire had been discovered the night before, we met with a sergeant of captain mercer's company, and two or three other of his men, who had deserted us that morning, immediately after the action at the kittaning. these men, on running away, had met with lieutenant hogg, who lay wounded in two different parts of his body by the road-side. he there told them of the fatal mistake of the pilot, who had assured us there were but three indians, at the most, at the fire place; but when he came to attack them that morning, according to orders, he found a number considerably superior to his, and believes they killed or mortally wounded three of them the first fire, after which a warm engagement began, and continued for above an hour, when three of his best men were killed and himself twice wounded. the residue fleeing off, he was obliged to squat in a thicket, where he might have lain securely until the main body had come up, if this cowardly sergeant and others that fled with him had not taken him away. they had marched but a short space when four indians appeared, on which these deserters began to flee. the lieutenant then, notwithstanding his wounds, as a brave soldier, urged and commanded them to stand and fight, which they all refused. the indians pursued, killing one man and wounding the lieutenant a third time, through the belly, of which he died in a few hours, but, having some time before been put on horseback, rode some miles from the place of action. this last attack of the indians upon lieutenant hogg and the deserters was by the before-mentioned sergeant represented to us quite in a different light, he telling us that there was a far larger number of the indians there than appeared to them, and that he and the men with him had fought five rounds; that he had there seen the lieutenant and sundry others killed and scalped, and had also discovered a number of indians throwing themselves before us, and insinuated a great deal of such stuff as threw us into much confusion; so that the officers had a great deal to do to keep the men together, but could not prevail upon them to collect what horses and other baggage the indians had left after the conquest of lieutenant hogg and the party under his command in the morning, except a few of the horses, which some of the bravest of the men were prevailed on to collect; so that from the mistake of the pilot who spied the indians at the fire, and the cowardice of the said sergeant and other deserters, we here sustained a considerable loss of our horses and baggage. it is impossible to ascertain the exact number of the enemy killed in the action, as some were destroyed by fire, and others in different parts of the corn-field; but, upon a moderate computation, it is generally believed there cannot be less than thirty or forty killed and mortally wounded, as much blood was found in sundry parts of the corn-field, and indians seen in several places crawl into the woods on hands and feet,--whom the soldiers in pursuit of others then overlooked, expecting to find and scalp them afterward,--and also several killed and wounded in crossing the river. on beginning our march back, we had about a dozen of scalps and eleven english prisoners; but now we find that four or five of the scalps are missing, part of which were lost on the road, and part in possession of those men who, with captain mercer, separated from the main body, with whom went also four of the prisoners, the other seven being now at this place, where we arrived on sunday night, not being separated or attacked through our whole march by the enemy, though we expected it every day. upon the whole, had our pilots understood the true situation of the town and the paths leading to it, so as to have posted us at a convenient place where the disposition of the men and the duty assigned to them could have been performed with greater advantage, we had, by divine assistance, destroyed a much greater number of the enemy, recovered more prisoners, and sustained less damage, than what we at present have. but though the advantage gained over this our common enemy is far from being satisfactory to us, yet we must not despise the smallest degrees of success that god is pleased to give, especially at a time of such general calamity, when the attempts of our enemies have been so prevalent and successful. i am sure there was the greatest inclination to do more, had it been in our power, as the officers and most of the soldiers, throughout the whole action, exerted themselves with as much activity and resolution as could be expected. our prisoners inform us the indians have for some time past talked of fortifying at the kittaning and other towns. the following is a list of the killed and wounded, returned in colonel armstrong's official report of the expedition:-- lieutenant-colonel john armstrong's company.--_killed_--thomas power, john m'cormick. _wounded_--lieutenant-colonel armstrong, james caruthers, james strickland, thomas foster. captain hamilton's company.--_killed_--john kelly. captain mercer's company.--_killed_--john baker, john mccartney, patrick mullen, cornelius mcginnis, theophilus thompson, dennis kilpatrick, bryan carrigan. _wounded_--richard fitzgibbons. _missing_--captain hugh mercer, ensign john scott, emanuel minskey, john taylor, john francis phillips, robert morrow, thomas burk, philip pendergrass. captain armstrong's company.--_killed_--lieutenant james hogg, james anderson, holdcraft stringer, edward obrians, james higgins, john lasson. _wounded_--william findley, robert robinson, john ferrol, thomas camplin, charles o'neal. _missing_--john lewis, william hunter, william barker, george appleby, anthony grissy, thomas swan. captain ward's company.--_killed_--william welch. _wounded_--ephraim bratton. _missing_--patrick myers, lawrence donnahow, samuel chambers. captain potter's company.--_wounded_--ensign james potter, andrew douglass. captain steel's company.--_missing_--terence cannaherry. total killed, ; wounded, ; missing, . all the missing, with one or two exceptions, reached their homes, and nearly all of the wounded recovered. the loss on the part of the colonists was severe, when we consider that they had three hundred and fifty men engaged in the action, while the indian force did not consist of over one hundred warriors. the ignorance of the pilot, and the great error of some of the officers in persisting in trying to dislodge the enemy from the houses by discharge of fire-arms, was no doubt the direct cause of the death of many of the brave men; for all must admit that the expedition was well planned, and admirably carried out, as far as circumstances would permit. in speaking of the horrible indian massacres which followed the defeat of braddock, drake, in his indian history, says:-- shingas and captain jacobs were supposed to have been the principal instigators of them, and a reward of seven hundred dollars was offered for their heads. it was at this period that the dead bodies of some of the murdered and mangled were sent from the frontiers to philadelphia, and hauled about the streets, to inflame the people against the indians, and also against the quakers, to whose mild forbearance was attributed a laxity in sending out troops. the mob surrounded the house of assembly, having placed the dead bodies at its entrance, and demanded immediate succor. at this time, the above reward was offered. king shingas, as he was called by the whites, (who is noticed in the preceding paragraph,) but whose proper name was _shingask_, which is interpreted _bog-meadow_, was the greatest delaware warrior at that time. heckwelder, who knew him personally, says, "were his war exploits all on record, they would form an interesting document, though a shocking one." conococheague, big cove, sherman's valley, and other settlements along the frontier, felt his strong arm sufficiently to attest that he was a "bloody warrior,"--cruel his treatment, relentless his fury. his person was small, but in point of courage, activity, and savage prowess, he was said to have never been exceeded by any one. in , when washington was on his expedition to fight the french on the ohio, (alleghany,) shingas had his house at kittaning. king shingas was at fort duquesne when lieutenant armstrong destroyed kittaning; but there is no doubt whatever that captain jacobs fell in the engagement, notwithstanding hans hamilton, in a letter to the council, dated at fort lyttleton, april , , said, "indian isaac hath brought in the scalp of captain jacobs." this indian isaac claimed, and we believe received, the reward offered for killing and scalping captain jacobs, and yet captain jacobs lived to do a great deal of mischief before his scalp fell into the hands of the english colonists. not only was captain jacobs a great warrior, but it would appear that all his family connections were indians of note. in a letter from colonel stephen to colonel armstrong, it is stated, on the authority of a returned captive from muskingum, that a son of captain jacobs is killed, and a cousin of his, about seven foot high, called young jacob, at the destroying of kittaning, and it is thought a noted warrior by the name of the sunfish, as many of them were killed that we know nothing of. there is no doubt that armstrong's return did not embrace half the actual loss of the enemy, including women and children; but it was a mistake in stephen or his informant to include the warrior sunfish among the slain, for he was a hale old chief in . chapter xi. old indian town--indian paths--aughwick--murder of john armstrong and party--captain jack, the wild hunter of the juniata--george crogan, etc. as we ascend the river, the nearer we approach the base of the alleghany mountains the fewer places we find even mentioned in quite early history. on the flat eight or nine miles west of lewistown, near a large spring, stood an old shawnee town. it is mentioned as early as , in a report of the number of indians accompanying the deposition of some traders. the town was called _ohesson_, on the "choniata," and supposed to be sixty miles distant from the susquehanna. as this is indian computation, some allowance must be made, for in the same connection we notice the indian town of _assunnepachla_ set down as being distant one hundred miles from ohesson by water and fifty miles by land. assunnepachla was the indian name of frankstown; and no person, by following the most sinuous windings of the river, can make the distance to lewistown over eighty miles. these places were probably never visited by any but indian traders previous to braddock's defeat, and the consequence is that we are without any record of ohesson, which was evidently destroyed and abandoned at an early day. assunnepachla, however, stood for many years, but it lost its name before it became a place of importance to the whites. aughwick, it is said, had the honor of receiving the first white settlers, in , that came within the present limits of huntingdon county. of course, they were in search of choice lands, and there is reason to believe they found them, too, notwithstanding the proprietors and their man peters, in a year thereafter, ousted them by burning their cabins over their heads. aughwick valley is in the extreme southern part of huntingdon county, and, if not a regular continuation of the tuscarora valley, is at least one of the chain of valleys through whose entire length ran the celebrated indian path from kittaning to philadelphia,--the great western highway for footmen and pack-horses. this path, traces of which can yet be plainly seen in various places, and especially in the wilds of the mountains, must have been a famous road in its day. it commenced at kittaning, on the alleghany river, and crossed the alleghany mountains in a southeastern direction, the descent on the eastern slope being through a gorge, the mouth of which is five or six miles west of hollidaysburg, at what is well known as kittaning point. from this it diverged in a southern direction until it led to the flat immediately back of hollidaysburg, from thence east, wound round the gorge back of the presbyterian graveyard, and led into frank's old town. from thence it went through what is now called scotch valley, canoe valley, and struck the river at water street. from thence it led to alexandria, crossed the river, and went into hartsog valley; from thence to woodcock valley; from woodcock valley, across the broadtop mountain, into aughwick; from thence into the tuscarora valley, and from thence into sherman's valley, by sterritt's gap. at kittaning point, this path, although it is seldom that the foot of any one but an occasional hunter or fisher treads it, is still the same path it was when the last dusky warrior who visited the juniata valley turned his face to the west, and traversed it for the last time. true, it is filled up with weeds in summer-time, but the indentation made by the feet of thousands upon thousands of warriors and pack-horses which travelled it for an unknown number of years are still plainly visible. we have gone up the kittaning gorge two or three miles, repeatedly, and looked upon the ruins of old huts, and the road, which evidently never received the impression of a wagon-wheel, and were forcibly struck with the idea that it must once have been traversed, without knowing at the time that it was the famous kittaning trail. in some places, where the ground was marshy, close to the run, the path is at least twelve inches deep, and the very stones along the road bear the marks of the iron-shod horses of the indian traders. two years ago, we picked up, at the edge of the run, a mile up the gorge, two gun-flints,--now rated as relics of a past age. at the time we supposed that some modern nimrod lost them. now, however, we incline to the belief that they fell from the pocket of some weary soldier in armstrong's battalion, who lay down upon the bank of the brook to slake his thirst, nearly a hundred years ago. the path can be traced in various other places, but nowhere so plain as in the kittaning gorge. this is owing to the fact that one or two other paths led into it, and no improvement has been made in the gorge east of "hart's sleeping place," along the line of the path. aughwick was an indian town, located probably near where shirleysburg now stands, and for a long time was an important frontier post. the name of the place figures extensively in the colonial records, first as a place where many conferences were held, and afterward as fort shirley. previous to actual settlers coming into the juniata valley, every inch of it was known to the traders--or, at least, every indian town in it; and how long they trafficked with the red men before actual settlers came is unknown. thus, for instance, six or seven years before the settlement of aughwick, a trader named john armstrong, and his two servant-men, were murdered at what is now jack's narrows, in huntingdon county. as there are several narrows along the juniata, we should have been at a loss to locate the scene of the murder, had we not accidentally noticed in the archives a calculation of distances by john harris, wherein he says--"from aughwick to jack armstrong's narrows--so called from his being there murdered,--eight miles." at the time of the massacre, the british colonists and the indians were on the most friendly terms of intimacy, and armstrong was a man of some standing and influence, so that the murder (the first one of so atrocious a nature in that region) created the most intense excitement. along with armstrong, his servant-men, james smith and woodward arnold, were also murdered. the charge was laid to a delaware indian, named musemeelin, and two companions. seven white men and five indians searched for the bodies, found and buried them. the indian was arrested and taken to lancaster, and from there removed to philadelphia for trial, but whether convicted or not the record does not say. _allumoppies_, king of the delawares, shickallemy, and a number of other indians of standing and influence, were brought before the council in philadelphia, when the friends of armstrong produced the following affidavit of those who searched for the bodies:-- _paxton, april , ._ the deposition of the subscribers testifieth and saith, that the subscribers, having a suspicion that john armstrong, trader, together with his men, james smith and woodward arnold, were murdered by the indians, they met at the house of joseph chambers, in paxton, and there consulted to go to shamokin, to consult with the delaware king and shickcalimy, and there council what they should do concerning the affair. whereupon the king and council ordered eight of their men to go with the deponents to the house of james berry, in order to go in quest of the murdered persons; but that night they came to the said berry's house three of the eight indians ran away; and the next morning these deponents, with the five indians that remained, set out on their journey, peaceably, to the last supposed sleeping-place of the deceased; and upon their arrival, these deponents dispersed themselves, in order to find out the corpse of the deceased; and one of the deponents, named james berry, a small distance from the aforesaid sleeping-place, came to a white-oak tree, which had three notches on it, and close by said tree he found a shoulder-bone, which the deponent does suppose to be john armstrong's,--and that he himself was eaten by the indians,--which he carried to the aforesaid sleeping-place, and showed it to his companions, one of whom handed it to the said five indians to know what bone it was; and they, after passing different sentiments upon it, handed it to a delaware indian, who was suspected by the deponents; and they testify and say that as soon as the indian took the bone in his hand his nose gushed out with blood, and he directly handed it to another. from whence these deponents steered along a path, about three or four miles, to the narrows of juniata, where they suspected the murder to have been committed; and where the alleghany road crosses the creek these deponents sat down, in order to consult on what measures to take to proceed on a discovery. whereupon most of the white men, these deponents, crossed the creek again, and went down the creek, and crossed into an island, where these deponents had intelligence the corpse had been thrown; and there they met the rest of the white men and indians who were in company, and there consulted to go farther down the creek in quest of the corpse. and these deponents further say, they ordered the indians to go down the creek on the other side; but they all followed these deponents at a small distance, except one indian, who crossed the creek again; and soon after these deponents, seeing some bald eagles and other fowls, suspected the corpse to be thereabouts, and then lost sight of the indians, and immediately found one of the corpses, which these deponents say was the corpse of james smith, one of said armstrong's men; and directly upon finding the corpse these deponents heard three shots of guns, which they had great reason to think were the indians their companions, who had deserted from them; and in order to let them know that they had found the corpse these deponents fired three guns, but to no purpose, for they never saw the indians any more. and about a quarter of a mile down the creek they saw more bald eagles, whereupon they made down toward the place, where they found another corpse (being the corpse of woodworth arnold, the other servant of said armstrong) lying on a rock, and then went to the former sleeping-place, where they had appointed to meet the indians; but saw no indians, only that the indians had been there, and cooked some victuals for themselves and had gone off. and that night, the deponents further say, they had great reason to suspect that the indians were then thereabouts, and intended to do them some damage; for a dog these deponents had with them barked that night, which was remarkable, for the said dog had not barked all the time they were out till that night, nor ever since, which occasioned these deponents to stand upon their guard behind the trees, with their guns cocked, that night. next morning these deponents went back to the corpses, which they found to be barbarously and inhumanly murdered by very gashed, deep cuts on their hands with a tomahawk, or such like weapon, which had sunk into their skulls and brains; and in one of the corpses there appeared a hole in his skull near the cut, which was supposed to be with a tomahawk, which hole these deponents do believe to be a bullet-hole. and these deponents, after taking as particular view of the corpses as their melancholy condition would admit, they buried them as decently as their circumstances would allow, and returned home to paxton,--the alleghany road to john harris's, thinking it dangerous to return the same way they went. and further these deponents say not. these same deponents, being legally qualified before me, james armstrong, one of his majesty's justices of the peace for the county of lancaster, have hereunto set their hands in testimony thereof. james armstrong. alexander armstrong, thomas mckee, francis ellis, john florster, william baskins, james berry, john watt, james armstrong, david denny. after the foregoing facts had been elicited, a regular indian talk was had upon the matter, when shickallemy gave the following as a true version of every thing connected with the massacre:-- brother the governor:-- we have been all misinformed on both sides about the unhappy accident. musemeelin has certainly murdered the three white men himself, and, upon the bare accusation of neshaleeny's son, was seized and made a prisoner. our cousins, the delaware indians, being then drunk, in particular allumoppies, never examined things, but made an innocent person prisoner, which gave a great deal of disturbance among us. however, the two prisoners were sent, and by the way, in going down the river, they stopped at the house of james berry. james told the young man, "i am sorry to see you in such a condition; i have known you from a boy, and always loved you." then the young man seemed to be very much struck to the heart, and said, "i have said nothing yet, but i will tell all; let all the indians come up, and the white people also; they shall hear it;" and then told musemeelin, in the presence of the people, "now i am going to die for your wickedness; you have killed all the three white men. i never did intend to kill any of them." then musemeelin, in anger, said, "it is true, i have killed them. i am a man, you are a coward. it is a great satisfaction to me to have killed them; i will die for joy for having killed a great rogue and his companions." upon which the young man was set at liberty by the indians. we desire therefore our brother the governor will not insist to have either of the two young men in prison or condemned to die; it is not with indians as with white people, to put people in prison on suspicion or trifles. indians must first be found guilty of a cause; then judgment is given and immediately executed. we will give you faithfully all the particulars, and at the ensuing treaty entirely satisfy you; in the mean time, we desire that good friendship and harmony continue, and that we may live long together is the hearty desire of your brethren the indians of the united six nations present at shamokin. the following is what shickcalamy declared to be the truth of the story concerning the murder of john armstrong, woodworth arnold, and james smith, from the beginning to the end, to wit:-- that musemeelin owing some skins to john armstrong, the said armstrong seized a horse of the said musemeelin and a rifle-gun; the gun was taken by james smith, deceased. some time last winter musemeelin met armstrong on the river juniata, and paid all but twenty shillings, for which he offered a neck-belt in pawn to armstrong, and demanded his horse, and james armstrong refused it, and would not deliver up the horse, but enlarged the debt, as his usual custom was; and after some quarrel the indian went away in great anger, without his horse, to his hunting-cabin. some time after this, armstrong, with his two companions, on their way to ohio, passed by the said musemeelin's hunting-cabin; his wife only being at home, she demanded the horse of armstrong, because he was her proper goods, but did not get him. armstrong had by this time sold or lent the horse to james berry. after musemeelin came from hunting, his wife told him that armstrong was gone by, and that she had demanded the horse of him, but did not get him; and, as is thought, pressed him to pursue and take revenge of armstrong. the third day, in the morning, after james armstrong was gone by, musemeelin said to the two young men that hunted with him, "come, let us go toward the great hills to hunt bears;" accordingly they went all three in company. after they had gone a good way, musemeelin, who was foremost, was told by the two young men that they were out of their course. "come you along," said musemeelin; and they accordingly followed him till they came to the path that leads to the ohio. then musemeelin told them he had a good mind to go and fetch his horse back from armstrong, and desired the two young men to come along. accordingly they went. it was then almost night, and they travelled till next morning. musemeelin said, "now they are not far off. we will make ourselves black; then they will be frightened, and will deliver up the horse immediately; and i will tell jack that if he don't give me the horse i will kill him;" and when he said so, he laughed. the young men thought he joked, as he used to do. they did not blacken themselves, but he did. when the sun was above the trees, or about an hour high, they all came to the fire, where they found james smith sitting; and they also sat down. musemeelin asked where jack was. smith told him that he was gone to clear the road a little. musemeelin said he wanted to speak with him, and went that way, and after he had gone a little distance from the fire, he said something, and looked back laughing, but, he having a thick throat, and his speech being very bad, and their talking with smith hindering them from understanding what he said, they did not mind it. they being hungry, smith told them to kill some turtles, of which there were plenty, and they would make some bread by-and-by, and would all eat together. while they were talking, they heard a gun go off not far off, at which time woodworth arnold was killed, as they learned afterward. soon after, musemeelin came back and said, "why did you not kill that white man, according as i bid you? i have laid the other two down." at this they were surprised; and one of the young men, commonly called jimmy, ran away to the river-side. musemeelin said to the other, "how will you do to kill catawbas, if you cannot kill white men? you cowards! i'll show you how you must do;" and then, taking up the english axe that lay there, he struck it three times into smith's head before he died. smith never stirred. then he told the young indian to call the other, but he was so terrified he could not call. musemeelin then went and fetched him, and said that two of the white men were killed, he must now go and kill the third; then each of them would have killed one. but neither of them dared venture to talk any thing about it. then he pressed them to go along with him; he went foremost. then one of the young men told the other, as they went along, "my friend, don't you kill any of the white people, let him do what he will; i have not killed smith; he has done it himself; we have no need to do such a barbarous thing." musemeelin being then a good way before them, in a hurry, they soon saw john armstrong sitting upon an old log. musemeelin spoke to him and said, "where is my horse?" armstrong made answer and said, "he will come by-and-by; you shall have him." "i want him now," said musemeelin. armstrong answered, "you shall have him. come, let us go to that fire," (which was at some distance from the place where armstrong sat,) "and let us talk and smoke together." "go along, then," said musemeelin. "i am coming," said armstrong, "do you go before, musemeelin; do you go foremost." armstrong looked then like a dead man, and went toward the fire, and was immediately shot in his back by musemeelin, and fell. musemeelin then took his hatchet and struck it into armstrong's head, and said, "give me my horse, i tell you." by this time one of the young men had fled again that had gone away before, but he returned in a short time. musemeelin then told the young men they must not offer to discover or tell a word about what had been done, for their lives; but they must help him to bury jack, and the other two were to be thrown into the river. after that was done, musemeelin ordered them to load the horses and follow toward the hill, where they intended to hide the goods. accordingly they did; and, as they were going, musemeelin told them that, as there were a great many indians hunting about that place, if they should happen to meet with any they must be killed to prevent betraying them. as they went along, musemeelin going before, the two young men agreed to run away as soon as they could meet with any indians, and not to hurt anybody. they came to the desired place; the horses were unloaded, and musemeelin opened the bundles, and offered the two young men each a parcel of goods. they told him that as they had already sold their skins, and everybody knew they had nothing, they would certainly be charged with a black action were they to bring any goods to the town, and therefore would not accept of any, but promised nevertheless not to betray him. "now," says musemeelin, "i know what you were talking about when you stayed so far behind." the two young men being in great danger of losing their lives--of which they had been much afraid all that day--accepted of what he offered to them, and the rest of the goods they put in a heap and covered them from the rain, and then went to their hunting-cabin. musemeelin, unexpectedly finding two or three more indians there, laid down his goods, and said he had killed jack armstrong and taken pay for his horse, and should any of them discover it, that person he would likewise kill, but otherwise they might all take a part of the goods. the young man called jimmy went to shamokin, after musemeelin was gone to bury the goods, with three more indians, with whom he had prevailed; one of them was neshaleeny's son, whom he had ordered to kill james smith; but these indians would not have any of the goods. some time after the young indian had been in shamokin, it was whispered about that some of the delaware indians had killed armstrong and his men. a drunken indian came to one of the tudolous houses at night and told the man of the house that he could tell him a piece of bad news. "what is that?" said the other. the drunken man said, "some of our delaware indians have killed armstrong and his men, which if our chiefs should not resent, and take them up, i will kill them myself, to prevent a disturbance between us and the white people, our brethren." next morning shickcalamy and some other indians of the delawares were called to assist allumoppies in council; when shickcalamy and allumoppies got one of the tudolous indians to write a letter to me, to desire me to come to shamokin in all haste--that the indians were very much dissatisfied in mind. this letter was brought to my house by four delaware indians, sent express; but i was then in philadelphia, and when i came home and found all particulars mentioned in this letter, and that none of the indians of the six nations had been down, i did not care to meddle with delaware indian affairs, and stayed at home till i received the governor's orders to go, which was about two weeks after. allumoppies was advised by his council to employ a _conjuror_, or prophet, as they call it, to find out the murderer. accordingly he did, and the indians met. the _seer_, being busy all night, told them in the morning to examine such and such a one that was present when armstrong was killed, naming the two young men. musemeelin was present. accordingly, allumoppies, quitheyquent, and thomas green, an indian, went to him that had fled first, and examined him. he told the whole story very freely. then they went to the other, but he would not say a word, and they went away and left him. the three indians returned to shickcalamy and informed them of what discovery they had made, when it was agreed to secure the murderers and deliver them up to the white people. then a great noise arose among the delaware indians, and some were afraid of their lives and went into the woods. not one cared to meddle with musemeelin and the other that could not be prevailed on to discover any thing, because of the resentment of their families; but they being pressed by shickcalamy's son to secure the murderers, otherwise they would be cut off from the chain of friendship, four or five of the delawares made musemeelin and the other young man prisoners, and tied them both. they lay twenty-four hours, and none would venture to conduct them down, because of the great division among the delaware indians; and allumoppies, in danger of being killed, fled to shickcalamy and begged his protection. at last shickcalamy's son, jack, went to the delawares,--most of them being drunk, as they had been for several days,--and told them to deliver the prisoners to alexander armstrong, and they were afraid to do it; they might separate their heads from their bodies and lay them in the canoe, and carry them to alexander to roast and eat them; that would satisfy his revenge, as he wants to eat indians. they prevailed with the said jack to assist them; and accordingly he and his brother, and some of the delawares, went with two canoes and carried them off. conrad weiser, in a letter to a friend, dated heidelberg, , adverts to an interesting incident which occurred at the conclusion of this interview at shamokin. he says, "two years ago i was sent by the governor to shamokin, on account of the unhappy death of john armstrong, the indian trader, ( .) after i had performed my errand, there was a feast prepared, to which the governor's messengers were invited. there were about one hundred persons present, to whom, after we had in great silence devoured a fat bear, the eldest of the chiefs made a speech, in which he said, that by a great misfortune three of the brethren, the white men, had been killed by an indian; that, nevertheless, the sun was not set, (meaning there was no war;) it had only been somewhat darkened by a small cloud, which was now done away. he that had done evil was like to be punished, and the land remain in peace; therefore he exhorted his people to thankfulness to god; and thereupon he began to sing with an awful solemnity, but without expressing any words; the others accompanying him with great earnestness of fervor, spoke these words: 'thanks, thanks be to thee, thou great lord of the world, in that thou hast again caused the sun to shine, and hast dispersed the dark cloud! the indians are thine.'" among the first settlers in aughwick valley was captain jack, certainly one of the most noted characters of his day. he flourished about aughwick between and , when, with two or three companions, he went to the juniata and built himself a cabin near a beautiful spring. his sole pursuit, it would appear, was hunting and fishing; by which he procured the means of subsistence for his family. there was a mystery about him which no person ever succeeded in fathoming, and even his companions never learned his history or his real name. he was a man of almost herculean proportions, with extremely swarthy complexion. in fact, he was supposed by some to be a half-breed and by others a quadroon. colonel armstrong, in a letter to the governor, called him the "half-indian." the truth of it, however, is that he was a white man, possessing a more than ordinary share of intelligence for a backwoodsman, but his early history is altogether shrouded in mystery. it appears that in the summer of captain jack and his companions were on a fishing excursion. returning late in the evening, jack found his cabin in ruins and his wife and two children murdered. from that moment he became an altered man, quit the haunts of men, and roamed the woods alone, sleeping in caves, hollow logs, or wherever he could find a shelter. the loss of his family, no doubt, crazed him for a time, as he did not appear among the settlers until the fall of . in the interim, however, he was frequently seen, and, we may add, frequently __, by the savages, but he studiously avoided all intercourse with his fellow-men. if we may judge of his subsequent career, there is every reason to believe that on the discovery of the wrongs done him by the savages he made a vow to devote the balance of his life to slaying indians. if he did, right faithfully was his vow kept, for his fame spread far and wide among the red-skins, and many a one bit the dust by his trusty rifle and unerring aim. the settlers about aughwick, as well as those in path valley and along the river, frequently found dead savages, some in a state of partial decay, and others with their flesh stripped by the bald-eagles and their bones bleaching in the sun on the spot where jack's rifle had laid them low. on one occasion captain jack had concealed himself in the woods by the side of the aughwick path, where he lay in wait for a stray indian. presently a painted warrior, with a red feather waving from his head and his body bedizened with gewgaws recently purchased from a trader, came down the path. a crack from captain jack's rifle, and the savage bounded into the air and fell dead without a groan in the path. it appears that three others were in company, but had tarried at a spring, who, on hearing the discharge of the rifle, under the impression that their companion had shot a deer or bear, gave a loud "whoop." captain jack immediately loaded, and when the indians came up to the dead body jack again shot, and killed a second one. the indians then rushed into the thicket, and one of them, getting a glimpse of jack, shot at him, but missed him. the wild hunter, seeing that the chances were desperate, jumped out and engaged in a hand-to-hand encounter--the fourth savage being only armed with a tomahawk. he soon despatched the third one by beating his brains out with his rifle; but the fourth one, an athletic fellow, grappled, and a long and bloody fight with knives followed, and only ceased when both were exhausted by the loss of blood. the indian managed to get away, and left the black hunter the victor on the field of battle. weak and faint as jack was, he scalped the three savages, fixed their scalps upon bushes overhanging the path, and then, without deigning to touch their gewgaws or their arms, he managed to work his way to the settlement, where his wounds, consisting of eight or ten stabs, were dressed. the settlers, then squatters, cared little about the loss of the indians, since they deemed it right for captain jack to wreak his vengeance on any and every savage whom chance should throw in his way; and so little did they care about the proprietors knowing their whereabouts that no report of the case was ever made to the government of this combat. it is said that one night the family of an irishman named moore, residing in aughwick, was suddenly awakened by the report of a gun. this unusual circumstance at such a late hour in the night caused them to get up to discover the cause; and on opening the door they found a dead indian lying upon the very threshold. by the feeble light which shone through the door they discovered the dim outline of the wild hunter, who merely said "i have saved your lives," and then plunged into the dark ravine and disappeared. with an eye like the eagle, an aim that was unerring, daring intrepidity, and a constitution that could brave the heat of summer as well as the frosts of winter, he roamed the valley like an uncaged tiger, the most formidable foe that ever crossed the red man's path. various were the plans and stratagems resorted to by the indians to capture him, but they all proved unavailing. he fought them upon their own ground, with their own weapons, and against them adopted their own merciless and savage mode of warfare. in stratagem he was an adept, and in the skilful use of the rifle his superior probably did not exist in his day and generation. these qualifications not only made him a terror to the indians, but made him famous among the settlers, who for their own protection formed a scout, or company of rangers, and tendered to captain jack the command, which he accepted. this company was uniformed like indians, with hunting-shirts, leather leggings, and moccasins, and, as they were not acting under sanction of government, styled themselves "captain jack's hunters." all the _hunting_ done, however, after securing game to supply their wants, was probably confined to _hunting_ for scalps of indians; and, as it was a penal offence then to occupy the hunting-grounds of the juniata valley, much more so to shed the blood of any of the savages, it is not likely that the _hunters_ ever furnished the quaker proprietors with an official list of the "killed and wounded." these exploits gave captain jack a number of names or sobriquets in the absence of his real name; he was known as the "black rifle," "black hunter," "wild hunter of the juniata," &c. on one occasion, with his band, he followed a party of marauding indians to the conococheague, and put them to rout. this act reached the authorities in philadelphia, and governor hamilton granted him a sort of irregular roving commission to hold in check the unfriendly indians of the frontier. with this authority he routed the savages from the cove and several other places, and the general fear he inspired among them no doubt prevented a deal of mischief in the juniata valley. early in june, captain jack offered the services of himself and his band of hunters to government to accompany braddock on his expedition against fort duquesne. his merits were explained to braddock by george crogan, who said, "they are well armed, and are equally regardless of heat or cold. they require no shelter for the night, _and ask no pay_." this generous offer on the part of captain jack was not accepted by braddock, because, as he alleged, "the proffered services were coupled with certain stipulations to which he could not consent." what these stipulations were was not mentioned. it is presumed, however, that captain jack wished his company to go as a volunteer force, free from the restraints of a camp life which a rigid disciplinarian like braddock would be likely to adopt. braddock had already accepted the services of a company of indians under george crogan, and, as he wished to gain laurels for himself and his troops by achieving a victory over the french and indians by open european fighting, his own selfishness probably prompted him to refuse the assistance of any more who adopted the skulking indian mode of warfare. he did not live, however, to discover his error. hazzard, in his pennsylvania register, in speaking of the non-acceptance of captain jack's offer, says, "it was a great misfortune for braddock that he neglected to secure the services of such an auxiliary." very true; for such men as jack's hunters would never have suffered themselves to be fired upon by an ambuscaded enemy or an enemy hid away in a ravine. they would not have marched over the hill with drums beating and colors flying, in pride and pomp, as if enjoying a victory not yet won; but they would have had their scouts out, the enemy and his position known, and the battle fought without any advantages on either side; and in such an event it is more than probable that victory would have crowned the expedition. of the final end of captain jack we have nothing definite. one account says he went to the west; another that he died an old man in , having lived the life of a hermit after the end of the war of . it is said that his bones rest near the spring, at the base of the mountain bearing his name; and this we are inclined to believe. the early settlers of the neighborhood believed that captain jack came down from the mountain every night at twelve o'clock to slake his thirst at his favorite spring; and half a century ago we might readily have produced the affidavits of twenty respectable men who had seen the black hunter in the spirit roaming over the land that was his in the flesh. the present generation, however, knows little about the wild hunter. still, though he sleeps the sleep that knows no waking, and no human being who ever saw him is above the sod now, the towering mountain, a hundred miles in length, bearing his name, will stand as an indestructible monument to his memory until time shall be no more. george crogan figured extensively about aughwick for many years, both before and after fort shirley was built. he was an irishman by birth, and came to the colony probably as early as , and soon after took up the business of an indian trader. at first he located at harris's trading-house, on the susquehanna, and from thence moved over the river into cumberland county, some eight miles from his first place of abode. from there he made excursions to path valley and aughwick, and finally to the ohio river by way of the old bedford trail. his long residence among the indians not only enabled him to study indian character thoroughly, but he acquired the language of both the delaware and shawnee tribes, and was of great use to the proprietary government; but we incline to the opinion that his services were illy requited. his first letter, published in the colonial records, is dated "may y^e th, ," and is directed to richard peters. it was accompanied by a letter from the six nations, some wampum, and a french scalp, taken somewhere on lake erie. in a letter from governor hamilton to governor hardy, dated th july, , in speaking of crogan, who was at one time suspected of being a spy in the pay of the french, hamilton says:--"there were many indian traders with braddock--crogan among others, who acted as a captain of the indians under a warrant from general braddock, and i never heard of any objections to his conduct in that capacity. for many years he had been very largely concerned in the ohio trade, was upon that river frequently, and had a considerable influence among the indians, speaking the language of several nations, and being very liberal, or rather profuse, in his gifts to them, which, with the losses he sustained by the french, who seized great quantities of his goods, and by not getting the debts due to him from the indians, he became bankrupt, and since has lived at a place called aughwick, in the back parts of this province, where he generally had a number of indians with him, for the maintenance of whom the province allowed him sums of money from time to time, but not to his satisfaction. after this he went, by my order, with these indians, and joined general braddock, who gave the warrant i have mentioned. since braddock's defeat, he returned to aughwick, where he remained till an act of assembly was passed here granting him a freedom from arrest for ten years. this was done that the province might have the benefit of his knowledge of the woods and his influence among the indians; and immediately thereupon, while i was last at york, a captain's commission was given to him, and he was ordered to raise men for the defence of the western frontier, which he did in a very expeditious manner, but not so frugally as the commissioners for disposing of the public money thought he might have done. he continued in the command of one of the companies he had raised, and of fort shirley, on the western frontier, about three months; during which time he sent, by my direction, indian messengers to the ohio for intelligence, but never produced me any that was very material; and, having a dispute with the commissioners about some accounts between them, in which he thought himself ill-used, he resigned his commission, and about a month ago informed me that he had not received pay upon general braddock's warrant, and desired my recommendation to general shirley; which i gave him, and he set off directly for albany; and i hear he is now at onondago with sir william johnston." crogan settled permanently in aughwick in , and built a stockade fort, and must have been some kind of an agent among the indians, disbursing presents to them for the government. in december of that year he wrote to secretary peters, stating the wants of his indians, and at the same time wrote to governor morris as follows:-- "_may it please your honor_:-- "i am oblig^d to advertize the inhabitance of cumberland county in y^r honour's name, nott to barter or sell spiretus liquers to the indians or any person to bring amongst them, to prevent y^e indians from spending there cloase, tho' i am oblig^d to give them a kag now and then my self for a frolick, but that is atended with no expence to y^e government, nor no bad consequences to y^e indians as i do itt butt onst a month. i hope your honour will approve of this proceeding, as i have don itt to prevent ill consequences atending y^e indians if they should be kept always infleam^d with liquors." in september, , notwithstanding the precautions taken by the government to conciliate the indians by profuse presents, and immediately after conrad weiser, the indian interpreter, and crogan, had held a conference at aughwick, which it was supposed had terminated satisfactorily to all parties concerned, an indian, named israel, of the six nations, after leaving the conference, perpetrated a brutal murder in tuscarora valley. the following is crogan's report of it to government:-- _aughwick, september , ._ _may it please your honor_:-- since mr. weiser left this, an indian of the six nations, named israel, killed one joseph cample, an indian trader, at the house of one anthony thompson, at the foot of the tuscarora valley, near parnall's knob. as soon as i heard it i went down to thompson's, and took several of the chiefs of the indians with me, when i met william maxwell, esq. the indian made his escape before i got there. i took the qualification of the persons who were present at the murder, and delivered them to mr. maxwell, to be sent to your honor, with the speech made by the chiefs of the indians on that occasion, which i suppose your honor has received. i have heard many accounts from ohio since mr. weiser left this, all of which agree that the french have received a reinforcement of men and provision from canada to the fort. an indian returned yesterday to this place whom i had sent to the fort for intelligence; he confirms the above accounts, and further says there were about sixty french indians had come while he stayed there, and that they expected better than two hundred more every day. he says that the french design to send those indians with some french, in several parties, to annoy the back settlements, which the french say will put a stop to any english forces marching out this fall to attack them. this indian likewise says that the french will do their endeavor to have the half-king scarrayooday, captain montour, and myself, killed this fall. this indian, i think, is to be believed, if there can be any credit given to what an indian says. he presses me strongly to leave this place, and not live in any of the back parts. the scheme of sending several parties to annoy the back settlements seems so much like french policy that i can't help thinking it true. i hear from colonel innes that there certainly have been some french indians at the camp at wills's creek, who fired on the sentry in the dead of the night. if the french prosecute this scheme, i don't know what will become of the back parts of cumberland county, which is much exposed. the back parts of virginia and maryland are covered by the english camp, so that most of the inhabitants are safe. i would have written to your honor before now on this head; i only waited the return of this indian messenger, whose account i really think is to be depended on. the indians here seem very uneasy at their long stay, as they have heard nothing from the governor of virginia nor of your honor since mr. weiser went away; nor do they see the english making any preparations to attack the french, which seems to give them a great deal of concern. i believe several of the indians will soon go to the six nation country, and then, i suppose, the rest will be obliged to fall in with the french. if this happens, then all the back settlements will be left to the mercy of an outrageous enemy. i beg your honor's pardon for mentioning the consequences which must certainly attend the slow motion of the english government, as they are well known to your honor, and i am sensible your honor had done all in your power for the security of those parts. i hope as soon as his honor, governor morris, is arrived, i shall hear what is to be done with those indians. i assure your honor it will not be in my power to keep them together much longer. i am your honor's most humble and most obedient servant, geo. crogan. the indian israel was arrested, taken to philadelphia, and tried, but, in consequence of the critical situation of affairs, the french having tampered with the six nations until they were wavering, he was let off, returned to his tribe, and the matter smoothed over as best it could under the circumstances. the number of indians under crogan at braddock's defeat was thirty; but what part they performed on that eventful day was not recorded. that crogan and his indians were of some service would appear from the fact that the assembly passed a law exempting him from arrests--for debt, it is supposed--for ten years, and commissioning him a captain in the colonial service. the supposition that crogan was a spy in the pay of the french was based upon the idea that he was a roman catholic, inasmuch as he was born in dublin. his loyalty was first brought into question by governor sharpe, in december, , who wrote to governor hamilton, informing him that the french knew every move for defence made in the colonies, and asked his opinion of crogan. in answer, governor hamilton said:-- i observe what you say of mr. crogan; and, though the several matters of which you have received information carry in them a good deal of suspicion, and it may be highly necessary to keep a watchful eye upon him, yet i hope they will not turn out to be any thing very material, or that will effect his faithfulness to the trust reposed in him, which, at this time, is of great importance and a very considerable one. at present i have no one to inquire of as to the truth of the particulars mentioned in yours but mr. peters, who assures me that mr. crogan has never been deemed a roman catholic, nor does he believe that he is one, though he knows not his education, which was in dublin, nor his religious profession. whatever mr. crogan's religious faith may have been, he paid much less attention to it than he did to indian affairs; and that he was deeply devoted to the proprietary government is evident from his subsequent career. to keep the indians loyal, he advanced many presents to them, as appears by governor morris's letter to governor hardy, for which he never was reimbursed; and the company of indians he commanded was fitted out at his own expense; and it was the attempt to get what he advanced on that occasion that led to his quarrel with the commissioners and his resignation. from philadelphia he went to onondago, in september, , and soon after was appointed deputy-agent of indian affairs by sir william johnston. on his arrival in philadelphia, his appointment was announced to the council by governor denny. "the council, knowing mr. crogan's circumstances, was not a little surprised at the appointment, and desired to see his credentials;" which he produced, and again took an active part in indian affairs. after the french had evacuated fort duquesne, in , crogan resided for a time in fort pitt. from there he went down the river, was taken prisoner by the french, and taken to detroit. from thence he returned to new york, where he died in . on the th of october, , the reigning chief of aughwick, called _tanacharrisan_, or half-king, died at paxton. in communicating his death to the governor, john harris said:-- those indians that are here blame the french for his death, by bewitching him, as they had a conjurer to inquire into the cause a few days before he died; and it is his opinion, together with his relations, that the french have been the cause of their great man's death, by reason of his striking them lately; for which they seem to threaten immediate revenge, and desire me to let it be known. the loss of the half-king must have been a severe affliction to his tribe, for it appears by a letter of crogan's that he was compelled to "wipe away their tears to the amount of thirty pounds fourteen shillings:" scarroyady[ ] succeeded the half-king in the administration of affairs at aughwick. he was a brave and powerful chief, and possessed the most unbounded influence among the indians. governor morris, in a speech, previously approved by council, made to scarroyady and some indians accompanying him, said:-- [ ] as the indians could not pronounce the letter _r_, it is probable that the names having such letters in were bestowed by the whites, or corrupted by them. "brethren:--for the encouragement of you and all who will join you in the destruction of our enemies, i propose to give the following bounties or rewards, viz.: for every male indian prisoner above twelve years old that shall be delivered at any of the government's forts or towns, one hundred and fifty dollars. "for every female indian prisoner or male prisoner of twelve years old and under, delivered as above, one hundred and thirty dollars. "for the scalp of every male indian of above twelve years old, one hundred and thirty dollars. "for the scalp of every indian woman, fifty dollars." let this fixed price for scalps not stand upon the pages of history as a stigma against the peaceable and non-resistant quakers of the province; for, at the time these bounties were offered, john and thomas penn had abjured the habits, customs, and religion of that people. fort shirley was built in aughwick valley in the fall of , and the winter following crogan resigned his commission, after which the command was given to captain hugh mercer. tradition says that one or two very serious battles were fought in aughwick, after fort shirley was erected; but the accounts of them are so vague that we can give nothing like reliable information touching them. in january, , two indians named lackin, brothers, who professed to be friendly, came to what was then still called crogan's fort. the commander of the fort made them some few trifling presents, and plied them well with rum, when they promised to bring in a large number of prisoners and scalps. on leaving the fort, they fell in with a soldier, whom they invited to accompany them a short distance and they would give him some rum. to this the soldier assented, and, after getting out of sight of the fort, one of them suddenly turned and stabbed the soldier in the side with a scalping-knife. a man passing at the time of the occurrence immediately alarmed the garrison, and a posse of thirteen men sallied out; but when they came up near the indians the latter suddenly turned and fired upon the soldiers, wounding one of them in the thigh. the savages were then surrounded, and one of them shot; the other they attempted to take to the fort alive, but he acted so outrageously that one of the soldiers beat his brains out with the stock of his musket. the lackins were rather worthless fellows, and it required no wampum, or even coin, to dry up the tears of their friends. fort shirley was abandoned for a while after the burning of fort granville, by order of governor morris, but the importance of the point prevented it from standing idle long. we hear of some few murders committed near the three springs of the valley at a later day, but no attack was made in the neighborhood during the second indian war, as the entire valley was well protected by the friendly indians of the six nations. the delawares and shawnees, or at least a great portion of them, left the valley in - - , and before all had disappeared. but to the friendly indian the beautiful aughwick was a favorite haunt until the anglo-saxon fairly ploughed and harrowed him out of his home and his hunting-grounds. the last of the six nations left aughwick for cattaraugus in . chapter xii. raystown branch--early settlement of raystown--general forbes's expedition--colonels washington and boquet--colonel armstrong's letter--smith and his black boys--bloody run--robbery--indian massacres--revolutionary lieutenants of bedford county, etc. the earliest settlement on the _raystown_ branch of the juniata was made by a man named ray, in , who built three cabins near where bedford now stands. in the province agreed to open a wagon-road from fort louden, in cumberland county, to the forks of the youghiogheny river. for this purpose three hundred men were sent up, but for some cause or other the project was abandoned. this road was completed in , when the allied forces of virginia, maryland, and pennsylvania marched against fort duquesne, under general john forbes. about the same year the fort was built at raystown, and called fort bedford. colonels boquet and washington first marched to bedford with the advance, and were followed by general forbes, who had been detained by illness at carlisle. the successful troops that put to rout the french without striking a blow, amounting to men, were reviewed, where bedford now stands, a little over _ninety-seven_ years ago. of the triumphant march and the bloodless victory of general forbes and colonels boquet and washington there is little use in speaking here, more than incidentally mentioning that, profiting by the dear-bought experience at braddock's defeat, the suggestion of washington to fight the savages after their own manner was adopted, and, after defeating them in several skirmishes, the indians fled before them like chaff before the wind, and when they reached fort duquesne the name and the fort alone remained. the latter was preserved, but the former was speedily changed to fort pitt. colonel armstrong, whose name has already frequently appeared, served as a captain in the expedition under general forbes against fort duquesne. it may also be as well to remember that colonel washington, as well as the virginians generally, jealous of the pennsylvanians gaining a footing in the monongahela country, violently opposed the cutting of the road from raystown to the mouth of the yough, and urged strongly upon forbes the propriety of using the old braddock trail. the decision of general forbes procured for the people of pennsylvania a wagon-road over the alleghany at least twenty years before the inhabitants would have entertained the idea of so formidable an undertaking. armstrong wrote to richard peters, under date of "raystown, october , ," from whose letter we extract the following:-- since our quixotic expedition you will, no doubt, be greatly perplexed about our fate. god knows what it may be; but, i assure you, the better part of the troops are not at all dismayed. the general came here at a critical and seasonable juncture; he is weak, but his spirit is good and his head clear, firmly determined to proceed as far as force and provisions will admit, which, through divine favor, will be far enough. the road to be opened from our advanced post is not yet fully determined, and must be further reconnoitered: 'tis yet a query whether the artillery will be carried forward with the army when within fifteen or twenty miles of the fort or not. the order of march and line of battle is under consideration, and there are many different opinions respecting it. upon this the general will have a conference with the commanders of the sundry corps. about four thousand five hundred are yet fit for duty, five or six hundred of which may be laid to the account of keeping of different posts, sickness, accidents, &c. we know not the number of the enemy, but they are greatly magnified, by report of sundry of the people with major grant, to what we formerly expected. the virginians are much chagrined at the opening of the road through this government, and colonel washington has been a good deal sanguine and obstinate upon the occasion; but the presence of the general has been of great use on this as well as other accounts. we hear that three hundred wagons are on the road. if this month happens to be dry weather, it will be greatly in our favor. my people are in general healthy, and are to be collected together immediately, except such as are posted on the communication and in the artillery. many of them will be naked by the end of the campaign, but i dare not enter upon clothing them, not knowing who or how many of the troops may be continued. colonel b----t is a very sensible and useful man; notwithstanding, had not the general come up, the consequences would have been dangerous. please to make my compliments to mr. allen, and, if you please, show him this letter, as i have not a moment longer to write. about the last of this month will be the critical hour. every thing is vastly dear with us, and the money goes like old boots. the enemy are beginning to kill and carry off horses, and every now and then scalp a wandering person. i leave this place to-day, as does colonel boquet and some pieces of the artillery. in , fort bedford was the principal depôt for military stores between carlisle and fort pitt. in order to strengthen it, the command was given to captain ourry, and the small stockades at the juniata crossing and stony creek were abandoned and the force concentrated at bedford. by this means two volunteer companies were formed to guard the fort, which, besides being a refuge for the distressed families for ten or fifteen miles around, contained vast quantities of ammunition and other government stores. in , colonel boquet again passed up the raystown branch with two regiments of regulars and a large convoy of military stores, to relieve the beleaguered garrison at fort pitt. he found matters in a deplorable condition at fort bedford. the indians, although they had never made an attack upon the fort, had for weeks been hovering around the frontier settlements, and had killed, scalped, or taken prisoner, no less than eighteen persons. this induced colonel boquet to leave two companies of his army at bedford. the names of the persons killed or taken prisoners at that time are not recorded, and, we regret to say, few of any of the particulars connected therewith have been preserved. the town of bedford was laid out by john lukens, the surveyor-general, in , and took its name (in honor of the duke of bedford) from the fort. the town for many years was the most prominent point between carlisle and pittsburg. the county was formed out of cumberland, in , and embraced a vast extent of territory, from which huntingdon, mifflin, cambria, somerset, westmoreland, fulton, and indiana, were subsequently taken. during the revolutionary war, the town of bedford proper, as well as the surrounding country, was so well settled that the indians kept a respectful distance. on yellow creek, one of the tributaries of raystown branch, settlements were made at an early day; also in the great cove. during the revolution, colonel john piper, of yellow creek, was the lieutenant-colonel of the county, and george ashman lieutenant, and james martin, edward combs, and robert culbertson, were sub-lieutenants. colonel james smith, whose narrative has been published in several works, was taken by the indians in , near bedford. he was taken to fort duquesne, and was there when the victorious frenchmen and savages returned with the scalps and plunder taken from braddock's vanquished army. after undergoing some severe trials, such as running the gauntlet, &c., smith was taken to ohio, and, after a ceremony of baptizing, painting, and hair-pulling, he was adopted, as a warrior "in good standing," into the conowaga tribe. no other resort being left, as a measure of self-defence he adopted the manners and customs of the tribe, and wandered over the west with them until an opportunity offered to escape; which did not occur until he reached montreal, in , when he obtained his freedom in the general exchange of prisoners which took place. in , smith figured conspicuously in bedford county, as the leader of the celebrated band of "_black boys_," whose singular and summary administration of justice bore a marked affinity to the code sometimes adopted by that worthy disseminator of criminal jurisprudence in the west,--"judge lynch." of the exploits of the famous black boys smith speaks as follows:-- shortly after this ( ) the indians stole horses and killed some people on the frontiers. the king's proclamation was then circulating, and set up in various public places, prohibiting any person from trading with the indians until further orders. notwithstanding all this, about the st of march, , a number of wagons, loaded with indian goods and warlike stores, were sent from philadelphia to henry pollens, conococheague; and from thence seventy pack-horses were loaded with these goods, in order to carry them to fort pitt. this alarmed the country, and mr. william duffield raised about fifty armed men, and met the pack-horses at the place where mercersburg now stands. mr. duffield desired the employers to store up their goods and not proceed until further orders. they made light of this, and went over the north mountain, where they lodged in a small valley called the great cove. mr. duffield and his party followed after, and came to their lodging, and again urged them to store up their goods. he reasoned with them on the impropriety of their proceedings and the great danger the frontier inhabitants would be exposed to if the indians should now get a supply. he said as it was well known that they had scarcely any ammunition, and were almost naked, to supply them now would be a kind of murder, and would be illegally trading at the expense of the blood and treasure of the frontiers. notwithstanding his powerful reasoning, these traders made game of what he said, and would only answer him by ludicrous burlesque. when i beheld this, and found that mr. duffield could not compel them to store up their goods, i collected ten of my old warriors that i had formerly disciplined in the indian way, went off privately after night, and encamped in the woods. the next day, as usual, we blacked and painted, and waylaid them near sideling hill. i scattered my men about forty rods along the side of the road, and ordered every two to take a tree, and about eight or ten rods between each couple, with orders to keep a reserved fire--one not to fire until his comrade had loaded his gun. by this means we kept a constant slow fire upon them, from front to rear. we then heard nothing of these traders' merriment or burlesque. when they saw their pack-horses falling close by them, they called out, "pray, gentlemen, what would you have us to do?" the reply was, "collect all your loads to the front, and unload them in one place; take your private property, and immediately retire." when they were gone, we burnt what they left, which consisted of blankets, shirts, vermilion, lead, beads, wampum, tomahawks, scalping-knives, &c. the traders went back to fort louden, and applied to the commanding officer there, and got a party of highland soldiers, and went with them in quest of the robbers, as they called us; and, without applying to a magistrate or obtaining any civil authority, but purely upon suspicion, they took a number of creditable persons, (who were chiefly not anyway concerned in this action,) and confined them in the guard-house in fort louden. i then raised three hundred riflemen, marched to fort louden, and encamped on a hill in sight of the fort. we were not long there until we had more than double as many of the british troops prisoners in our camp as they had of our people in the guard-house. captain grant, a highland officer who commanded fort louden, then sent a flag of truce to our camp, where we settled a cartel and gave them above two for one; which enabled us to redeem all our men from the guard-house without further difficulty. this exploit of the _black boys_ is supposed to have given bloody run its name. soon after, some british officer wrote an account of the affair and transmitted it to london, where it was published, and from which the following is an extract. "the convoy of eighty horses, loaded with goods, chiefly on his majesty's account, as presents to the indians, and part on account of indian traders, were surprised in a narrow and dangerous defile in the mountains by a body of armed men. a number of horses were killed, and the whole of the goods were carried away by the plunderers. _the rivulet was dyed with blood, and ran into the settlement below, carrying with it the stain of crime upon its surface._" notwithstanding smith's narrative may have been read by a majority of our readers, we cannot resist the temptation of transferring another graphic picture of frontier life from his work. he says:-- in the year , the indians again made incursions on the frontiers; yet the traders continued carrying goods and warlike stores to them. the frontiers took the alarm, and a number of persons collected, destroyed, and plundered, a quantity of their powder, lead, &c., in bedford county. shortly after this, some of these persons, with others, were apprehended and laid in irons in the guard-house in fort bedford, on suspicion of being the perpetrators of this crime. though i did not altogether approve of the conduct of this new club of black boys, yet i concluded that they should not lie in irons in the guard-house or remain in confinement by arbitrary or military power. i resolved, therefore, if possible, to release them, if they even should be tried by the civil law afterward. i collected eighteen of my old black boys that i had seen tried in the indian war, &c. i did not desire a large party, lest they should be too much alarmed at bedford, and accordingly be prepared for us. we marched along the public road in daylight, and made no secret of our design. we told those whom we met that we were going to take fort bedford, which appeared to them a very unlikely story. before this, i made it known to one william thompson, a man whom i could trust, and who lived there. him i employed as a spy, and sent him along on horseback before, with orders to meet me at a certain place near bedford one hour before day. the next day, a little before sunset, we encamped near the crossings of juniata, about fourteen miles from bedford, and erected tents, as though we intended staying all night; and not a man in my company knew to the contrary save myself. knowing that they would hear this in bedford, and wishing it to be the case, i thought to surprise them by stealing a march. as the moon rose about eleven o'clock, i ordered my boys to march, and we went on, at the rate of five miles an hour, until we met thompson at the place appointed. he told us that the commanding officer had frequently heard of us by travellers, and had ordered thirty men upon guard. he said they knew our number, and only made game of the notion of eighteen men coming to rescue the prisoners; but they did not expect us until toward the middle of the day. i asked him if the gate was open. he said it was then shut, but he expected they would open it, as usual, at daylight, as they apprehended no danger. i then moved my men privately up under the banks of the juniata, where we lay concealed about one hundred yards from the fort gate. i had ordered the men to keep a profound silence until we got into it. i then sent off thompson again to spy. at daylight he returned and told us that the gate was open, and three sentinels were standing upon the wall; that the guards were taking a morning dram, and the arms standing together in one place. i then concluded to rush into the fort, and told thompson to run before me to the arms. we ran with all our might; and, as it was a misty morning, the sentinels scarcely saw us until we were within the gate and took possession of the arms. just as we were entering, two of them discharged their guns, though i do not believe they aimed at us. we then raised a shout, which surprised the town, though some of them were well pleased with the news. we compelled a blacksmith to take the irons off the prisoners, and then we left the place. this, i believe, was the first british fort in america that was taken by what they call american rebels. for this exploit smith was arrested, and, in the scuffle which attended the arrest--for he made a powerful resistance,--one of his captors was shot. he was taken to carlisle and tried for murder; but, having the sympathies of the people with him, he was triumphantly acquitted. he afterward filled several important stations, and for a time served as a colonel in the revolutionary army in new jersey. in he moved to kentucky, and joined mcintosh in his efforts against the savages. he had evidently imbibed the habits of frontier life so thoroughly that the strict routine of military discipline and its restraints were totally unsuited to his ideas of fighting. after the year , numerous robberies were committed near bedford. the robbers taking the precaution to blacken their faces, all their crimes, as well as many others, were charged upon smith's black boys, until they were looked upon as a band of outlaws. under date of january , , john frazer and george woods wrote from bedford to governor penn, as follows:-- _may it please your honor_:-- the many robberies that have lately been committed in the eastern parts of this county oblige us to trouble you with this letter. there are a number of people, who, we suspect, now reside at or near the sideling hill, that have been guilty of several highway-robberies, and have taken from different people--travelling on the public road between this place and carlisle--considerable sums of money; in particular, a certain james mccashlan, of this place, hath made oath before us that he has been robbed of twenty-two pounds and a silver watch. we have already done our endeavor to apprehend the robbers, but have not succeeded, as there can be no positive proof made who they are, on account of their blacking themselves, which renders it impossible for any person robbed to discover or know who are the perpetrators. we, therefore, pray your honor would take this matter into consideration, and grant us such relief as your honor may seem most reasonable for the safety of the public in general, and in particular for the inhabitants of this county. these magistrates labored under the conviction that the highwaymen were none else than a portion of smith's gang of black boys; or else why ask government for aid to disperse a few robbers, when men, arms, and ammunition, were plenty in bedford? the letter of frazer and woods was accompanied by an affidavit from mccashlan, setting forth that he was robbed, and that he had cause to suspect "a certain john gibson and william paxton" of committing the robbery. these were two of smith's black boys; but it subsequently appeared that a couple of independent footpads had relieved mr. mccashlan of his pounds and watch, and not a party of the regular black boys, who, no doubt, had sins enough of their own to answer for, without having all the depredations committed in the county placed to their account. although we spared no effort to get some account of the indian massacres near bedford during the revolution, we failed, and must content ourself--if we do not our readers--by giving the two following, which we copy from mr. day's "historical collections:"-- about december, , a number of families came into the fort from the neighborhood of johnstown. among them were samuel adams, one thornton, and bridges. after the alarm had somewhat subsided, they agreed to return to their property. a party started with pack-horses, reached the place, and, not seeing any indians, collected their property and commenced their return. after proceeding some distance, a dog belonging to one of the party showed signs of uneasiness and ran back. bridges and thornton desired the others to wait while they would go back for him. they went back, and had proceeded but two or three hundred yards when a body of indians, who had been lying in wait on each side of the way, but who had been afraid to fire on account of the number of the whites, suddenly rose up and took them prisoners. the others, not knowing what detained their companions, went back after them. when they arrived near the spot the indians fired on them, but without doing any injury. the whites instantly turned and fled, excepting samuel adams, who took a tree, and began to fight in the indian style. in a few minutes, however, he was killed, but not without doing the same fearful service for his adversary. he and one of the indians shot at and killed each other at the same moment. when the news reached the fort a party volunteered to visit the ground. when they reached it, although the snow had fallen ankle-deep, they readily found the bodies of adams and the indian, the face of the latter having been covered by his companions with adams's hunting-shirt. a singular circumstance also occurred about that time in the neighborhood of the alleghany mountain. a man named wells had made a very considerable improvement, and was esteemed rather wealthy for that region. he, like others, had been forced with his family from his house, and had gone for protection to the fort. in the fall of the year, he concluded to return to his place and dig his crop of potatoes. for that purpose, he took with him six or seven men, an irish servant girl to cook, and an old plough-horse. after they had finished their job, they made preparations to return to the fort the next day. during the night, wells dreamed that on his way to his family he had been attacked and gored by a bull; and so strong an impression did the dream make that he mentioned it to his companions, and told them that he was sure some danger awaited them. he slept again, and dreamed that he was about to shoot a deer, and, when cocking his gun, the main-spring broke. in his dream he thought he heard distinctly the crack of the spring when it broke. he again awoke, and his fears were confirmed, and he immediately urged his friends to rise and get ready to start. directly after he arose he went to his gun to examine it, and, in cocking it, the main-spring snapped off. this circumstance alarmed them, and they soon had breakfast, and were ready to leave. to prevent delay, the girl was put on the horse and started off, and, as soon as it was light enough, the rest followed. before they had gone far, a young dog, belonging to wells, manifested much alarm, and ran back to the house. wells called him, but, after going a short distance, he invariably ran back. not wishing to leave him, as he was valuable, he went after him, but had gone only a short distance toward the house, when five indians rose from behind a large tree that had fallen, and approached him with extended hands. the men who were with him fled instantly, and he would have followed, but the indians were so close that he thought it useless. as they approached him, however, he fancied the looks of a very powerful indian, who was nearest him, boded no good, and being a swift runner, and thinking it "neck or nothing" at any rate, determined to attempt an escape. as the indian approached, he threw at him his useless rifle, and dashed off toward the woods in the direction his companions had gone. instead of firing, the indians commenced a pursuit, for the purpose of making him a prisoner, but he outran them. after running some distance, and when they thought he would escape, they all stopped and fired at once, and every bullet struck him, but without doing him much injury or retarding his flight. soon after this he saw where his companions concealed themselves, and, as he passed, he begged them to fire on the indians, and save him; but they were afraid, and kept quiet. he continued his flight, and, after a short time, overtook the girl with the horse. she quickly understood his danger, and dismounted instantly, urging him to take her place, while she would save herself by concealment. he mounted, but without a whip, and for want of one could not get the old horse out of a trot. this delay brought the indians upon him again directly, and as soon as they were near enough they fired--and this time with more effect, as one of the balls struck him in the hip and lodged in his groin. but this saved his life; it frightened the horse into a gallop, and he escaped, although he suffered severely for several months afterward. the indians were afterward pursued, and surprised at their morning meal; and, when fired on, four of them were killed, but the other, though wounded, made his escape. bridges, who was taken prisoner near johnstown when adams was murdered, saw him come to his people, and describes him as having been shot through the chest, with leaves stuffed in the bullet-holes to stop the bleeding. the first white child born in raystown was william frazer. when the revolution broke out, bedford county furnished two companies, a greater portion of one of the companies being recruited in what now constitutes huntingdon and blair counties. among these were a man named mcdonald, another named fee, from the mouth of raystown branch, and george weston, a brother of the tory shot at kittaning, and a man named cluggage. the town of bedford was for a long time the residence of general a. st. clair and a number of others who subsequently figured prominently in the affairs of the nation. for pure patriotism and a willingness to spend their blood and treasure for the cause of liberty, as well as the defence of their brethren on the confines of the county, few towns could excel bedford, which reflected such credit upon them as will be remembered by the grateful descendants of the frontier-men when history fails to do them justice. chapter xiii. raystown branch, continued--murder of sanders and his family-- englishman and wife taken prisoners--felix skelly and mrs. elder taken captives--their return, etc. the country between the mouth of the raystown branch of the juniata and what is called the crossings was thinly settled prior to the revolution. the land, and general appearance of things, did not strike settlers very favorably; hence it may be assumed that it was only taken up about , when the new-comers from the eastern counties had already taken up the choice tracts lying contiguous to the river. the first depredation committed on the branch, near its mouth, by the savages, occurred in may, . a band of roving indians were known to be in the country, as several robberies had occurred in hartslog valley, at houses belonging to men who with their families were forted either at lytle's or at huntingdon. a scout had ranged the entire frontier in search of these depredators, but could not find them. they were seen in woodcock valley, and information immediately conveyed to the commander at the fort in huntingdon. a scout was sent to woodcock valley, but got upon the wrong trail, as the indians had crossed the terrace mountain, where, it appears, they divided into two parties. one of them went to the house of one sanders, on the branch; and just as the family were seating themselves at the table to eat dinner, five of the savages bounded in, and killed sanders, his wife, and three children. an englishman and his wife, whose names are not recollected, were in the house at the time, both of whom begged for their lives, declared they were loyal to the king, and would accompany them. the indians agreed to take them along as prisoners, notwithstanding at that period scalps commanded nearly as high a price as prisoners. the englishman and his wife were taken to montreal. the day following the above massacre, the other party of savages, who it appears had taken the country nearer the juniata to range through, made their appearance at the house of a mrs. skelly, who was sick in bed at the time, and her nearest neighbor, mrs. elder, being there on a visit. it was a beautiful may-day sabbath afternoon, when mrs. elder prepared to go home, and felix skelly, the son, agreed to accompany her part of the way. they had gone probably a hundred rods through a meadow, when mrs. elder noticed a savage, partly concealed behind some elder-bushes. she stopped suddenly, and told felix, who had got a little in advance, to return, as there were indians about. skelly said he thought not, and advised her to come on, or it would be night before he could return. mrs. elder stood still, however, and soon saw the figure of the indian so plainly as not to be mistaken, when she screamed to felix to run, and, when in the act of turning around, a savage sprang from behind an elder bush into the path, and seized her by the hair. another seized skelly, and in a moment the shout of victory went up, and three or four more indians came from their places of concealment. finding themselves captives, and unable to remedy matters, they submitted with a good grace. fortunately for them, the warrior who had command of the party could speak a little english, and was a little more humane than the generality of savages of the day. he gave mrs. elder positive assurance that no harm should befall her. he would not, however, give the same assurance to skelly. they took up their line of march over the terrace mountain, crossed over to the base of the alleghany, avoiding as much as possible the white settlements, and crossed the mountain by the kittaning path. skelly, although but seventeen years of age, was an athletic fellow, well built, and weighed in the neighborhood of one hundred and eighty pounds. the indians, noticing his apparent strength, and in order probably to tire him so that he would make no effort to escape, loaded him down with the plunder they had taken in hartslog valley. in addition to this, they found on the alleghany mountains some excellent wood for making bows and arrows, a quantity of which they cut and bound together, and compelled skelly to carry. mrs. elder was obliged to carry a long-handled frying-pan, which had been brought all the way from germany by a dunkard family, and had, in all probability, done service to three or four generations. of course, mrs. elder, burdened with this alone, made no complaint. at length the party reached an indian town on the alleghany river, where it was determined that a halt should take place in order to recruit. one of the indians was sent forward to apprise the town of their coming; and on their entering the town they found a large number of savages drawn up in two lines about six feet apart, all armed with clubs or paddles. skelly was relieved of his load and informed that the performance would open by his being compelled to run the gauntlet. skelly, like a man without money at one o'clock who has a note to meet in the bank before three, felt the importance and value of _time_; so, walking leisurely between the lines, he bounded off at a speed that would have done credit to a greyhound, and reached the far end without receiving more than one or two light blows. he was then exempt, as no prisoner was compelled to undergo the same punishment twice. the indians, disappointed by the fleetness of skelly, expected to more than make up for it in pummelling mrs. elder; but in this they reckoned without their host. the word was given for her to start, but the warrior who had captured her demurred, and not from disinterested motives, either, as will presently appear. his objections were overruled, and it was plainly intimated that she must conform to the custom. seeing no method of avoiding it, mrs. elder, armed with the long-handled pan, walked between the lines with a determined look. the first savage stooped to strike her, and in doing so his scant dress exposed his person, which mrs. elder saw, and anticipated his intention by dealing him a blow on the exposed part which sent him sprawling upon all-fours. the chiefs who were looking on laughed immoderately, and the next four or five, intimidated by her heroism, did not attempt to raise their clubs. another of them, determined to have a little fun, raised his club; but no sooner had he it fairly poised than she struck him upon the head with the frying-pan in such a manner as in all likelihood made him see more stars than ever lit the "welkin dome." the indians considered her an amazon, and she passed through the lines without further molestation; but, as she afterward said, she "did it in a hurry." the squaws, as soon as she was released, commenced pelting her with sand, pulling her hair, and offering her other indignities, which she would not put up with, and again had recourse to her formidable weapon--the long-handled pan. lustily she plied it, right and left, until the squaws were right glad to get out of her reach. in a day or two the line of march for detroit was resumed, and for many weary days they plodded on their way. after the first day's journey, the warrior who had captured mrs. elder commenced making love to her. her comely person had smitten him; her courage had absolutely fascinated him, and he commenced wooing her in the most gentle manner. she had good sense enough to appear to lend a willing ear to his plaintive outpourings, and even went so far as to intimate that she would become his squaw on their arrival at detroit. this music was of that kind which in reality had "charms to soothe the savage," and matters progressed finely. one night they encamped at a small indian village on the bank of a stream in ohio. near the town was an old deserted mill, in the upper story of which skelly and the rest of the male prisoners were placed and the door bolted. that evening the indians had a grand dance and a drunken revel, which lasted until after midnight. when the revel ended, skelly said to his comrades in captivity that he meant to escape if possible. he argued that if taken in the attempt he could only be killed, and he thought a cruel death by the savages would be his fate, at all events, at the end of the journey. they all commenced searching for some means of egress, but none offered, save a window. the sash was removed, when, on looking out into the clear moonlight, to their horror they discovered that they were immediately over a large body of water, which, formed the mill-dam, the distance to it being not less than sixty feet. they all started back but skelly. he, it appears, had set his heart upon a determined effort to escape, and he stood for a while gazing upon the water beneath him. every thing was quiet; not a breath of air was stirring. the sheet of water lay like a large mirror, reflecting the pale rays of the moon. in a minute skelly formed the desperate determination of jumping out of the mill-window. "boys," whispered he, "i am going to jump. the chances are against me; i may be killed by the fall, recaptured by the savages and killed, or starve before i reach a human habitation; but then i _may escape_, and, if i do, i will see my poor mother, if she is still alive, in less than ten days. with me, it is freedom from this captivity _now_, or death." so saying, he sprang from the window-sill, and, before the affrighted prisoners had time to shrink, they heard the heavy plunge of skelly into the mill-dam. they hastened to the window, and in an instant saw him emerge from the water unharmed, shake himself like a spaniel, and disappear in the shadow of some tall trees. the wary savage sentinels, a few minutes after the plunge, came down to ascertain the noise, but skelly had already escaped. they looked up at the window, concluded that the prisoners had amused themselves by throwing something out, and returned to their posts. the sufferings of skelly were probably among the most extraordinary ever endured by any mortal man. he supposed that he must have walked at least forty miles before he stopped to rest. he was in a dense forest, and without food. the morning was hazy, and the sun did not make its appearance until about ten o'clock, when, to his dismay, he found he was bearing nearly due south, which would lead him right into the heart of a hostile savage country. after resting a short time, he again started on his way, shaping his course by the sun northeast, avoiding all places which bore any resemblance to an indian trail. that night was one that he vividly remembered the balance of his life. as soon as it was dark, the cowardly wolves that kept out of sight during the day commenced howling, and soon got upon his track. the fearful proximity of the ravenous beasts, and he without even so much as a knife to defend himself, drove him almost to despair, when he discovered a sort of cave formed by a projecting rock. this evidently was a wolf's den. the hole was quite small, but he forced his body through it, and closed the aperture by rolling a heavy stone against it. soon the wolves came, and the hungry pack, like a grand chorus of demons, kept up their infernal noise all night. to add to the horrors of his situation, he began to feel the pangs of both hunger and thirst. with the break of day came relief, for his cowardly assailants fled at dawn. he ventured out of the den, and soon resolved to keep on the lowlands. after digging up some roots, which he ate, and refreshing himself at a rivulet, he travelled on until after nightfall, when he came upon the very edge of a precipice, took a step, and fell among five indians sitting around the embers of a fire. uninjured by the fall, he sprang to his feet, bounded off in the darkness before the indians could recover from their surprise, and made good his escape. in this way he travelled on, enduring the most excruciating pains from hunger and fatigue, until the fourth day, when he struck the alleghany river in sight of fort pitt; at which place he recruited for a week, and then returned home by way of bedford, in company with a body of troops marching east. his return created unusual gladness and great rejoicing, for his immediate friends mourned him as one dead. mrs. elder gave a very interesting narrative on her return, although she did not share in the sufferings of skelly. she was taken to detroit, where she lived in the british garrison in the capacity of a cook. from there she was taken to montreal and exchanged, and reached home by way of philadelphia. felix skelly afterward moved to the neighborhood of wilmore, in cambria county, where he lived a long time, and died full of years and honors. chapter xiv. standing stone, ancient and modern--murder of felix donnelly and his son francis, etc. as an indian post of ancient date, none is more universally known than "standing stone," where huntingdon now stands. the very earliest traders could never ascertain by indian tradition how long it had been a village, but that it dated back to a very remote period may be judged from the fact that the land on the flat between stone creek and huntingdon was under cultivation one hundred and five years ago. it was used as one extensive corn-field, with the exception of that portion lying near the mouth of the creek, where the indian town stood, and where also was a public ground, used on great occasions for councils or dances. the standing stone--that is, the _original_ stone--was, according to john harris, fourteen feet high and six inches square. it stood on the right bank of stone creek, near its mouth, and in such a position as to enable persons to see it at a considerable distance, either from up or down the river. about this self-same standing stone there still exist contradictory opinions. these we have endeavored to ascertain; and, after weighing them carefully, we have come to the conclusion that no person now living ever saw part or parcel of the _original_ stone, notwithstanding dr. henderson delivered what some are disposed to believe a portion of it to the historical society of pennsylvania. the original standing stone, we are induced to believe, in addition to serving a similar capacity to that of a guide-board at a cross-road, was the official record of the tribe. on it, no doubt, were engraved all the important epochs in its history,--its wars, its mighty deeds, its prowess in battle, and its skill in the chase. it might, too, have served as a sacred tablet to the memory of many a noble chief who fell by the arrow of an enemy. these things were, no doubt, in cabalistic characters; and, although each inscription may have been small, its meaning may have taken in almost an unbounded scope, as indian brevity generally does. this stone was once the cause of a war. the tuscaroras, residing some thirty or forty miles down the river,--probably in tuscarora valley,--wished to declare war against the tribe at standing stone, for some real or fancied insult, and for this purpose sent them repeated war-messages, which the tribe at the stone refused to give ear to, knowing as they did the strength and power of the enemy. taking advantage of the absence of a large part of the tribe on a hunt, the tuscaroras, in great force, came upon the village, captured the stone, and carried it off. immediately after the return of the warriors, the entire available war-force was despatched after the depredators, who were soon overtaken. a bloody conflict ensued, and the trophy was recaptured and carried back in triumph. dr. barton, it is said, discovered that the word _oneida_ meant "standing stone," in the language of the southern indians.[ ] the _oneida_ tribe of the iroquois had a tradition that their forefathers came from the south; consequently, the tribe at standing stone may have been part of the oneida tribe instead of delawares, as was generally supposed. the tuscaroras, according to history, came from the south and became one of the iroquois confederation in . the language of the two tribes in question, although not identical, bore a strong affinity to each other. hence we may surmise that the characters upon the stone were understood by the tuscaroras, and that it possessed, in their eyes, sufficient value to move it some forty or fifty miles, under what we should call disadvantageous circumstances, especially when it is known that stones of a better finish could have been found anywhere along the juniata river. [ ] morgan, in his "league of the iroquois," gives it a different interpretation. there is no doubt at all but what the original stone was removed by the indians and taken with them in or , for it is a well-ascertained fact that the indians in the valley, with some few exceptions, (aughwick, for instance,) joined the french in the above years. the first survey of the land on which huntingdon now stands was made by mr. lukens, in behalf of a claimant named crawford, in . it is therein named as "george crogan's improvement." it is not improbable that crogan may have claimed the improved fields and site of the deserted village, but that he ever made any improvement beyond probably erecting a trading-post there is a matter of some doubt. his whole history proves that he was no _improving_ man. on the second stone erected were found the names of john and charles lukens, thomas smith, and a number of others, with dates varying from to , cut or chiselled. this stone was most unquestionably erected, by some of the men whose names it bore, on the same spot where the original stone stood, but was subsequently removed to or near where the old court-house in huntingdon formerly stood. this position it occupied for many years, and might still stand as a monument of the past, had not some vandal taken it into his head to destroy it. one piece of it still remains in a wall of the foundation of a house in huntingdon. the old indian graveyard (and an extensive one it must have been) was on the high ground, near where the present presbyterian church stands. to the credit of the huntingdon folks be it said, they have never permitted a general exhumation of the bones of the indians, to fill scientific cabinets, gratify the morbid appetites of the curious, or even to satisfy the less objectionable zeal of the antiquarian. the few white settlers who lived at the stone, in , partially erected a stockade fort; but before the spring of they were forced to abandon it, as well as their houses, and fly to carlisle for protection. when the settlers returned, in , the fort still stood, though partially decayed. immediately on the breaking out of the war of the revolution, the fort was rebuilt on a more extended scale by the few inhabitants of the town and surrounding country. it was located near where the court-house now stands, immediately on the bluff, and, according to the traces of it discovered by the present generation, must have covered ten acres of ground. it was strongly built; and, when the savages were in the midst of their depredations, it was the only reliable refuge--before the erection of the lead mine fort, in sinking valley--for all the people residing as far west as the base of the alleghany mountains. no actual attempt was ever made against standing stone fort; neither were there ever any indians seen, except on two or three occasions, very close to it. a party of lurking savages were once surprised and shot at by a number of scouts on the hill where the graveyard now stands; but they made good their escape without any injury being done. at another time, by a display of cool courage, as well as shrewdness, that would do any general credit, the commander of the fort unquestionably saved the place from total annihilation. one morning a large body of savages appeared upon the ridge on the opposite side of the river, and, by theirmanoeuvering, it was clearly evident that they meditated an attack, which, under the circumstances, must have proved disastrous to the settlers, for not more than ten men able to bear arms were in the fort at the time--the majority having left on a scouting expedition. the commander, with judgment that did him infinite credit, marshalled his men, and paraded them for half an hour in such a manner as to enable the indians to see a constant moving of the middle of the column, but neither end of it, while the drums kept up a constant clatter. in addition to this, he ordered all the women out, armed them with frying-pans, brooms, or whatever he could lay his hands upon, and marched them about the enclosure after the same manner in which he did the men. the enemy could only make out the dim outlines of the people and hear the noise. the stratagem succeeded, and, after a very short council of war, the indians disappeared. among those who figured about standing stone, at the beginning of the revolution, were the bradys. hugh brady's name appears in some of the old title-deeds; and the father of sam. brady (rendered famous by r. b. mccabe, esq.) lived at the mouth of the little run opposite huntingdon. within the walls of standing stone fort, general hugh brady and a twin-sister were born. all the bradys went to the west branch of the susquehanna during the revolution. hugh entered the army at an early age, and, step by step, rose from the ranks to the exalted position he occupied at the time of his death. a characteristic anecdote is related of him. at one time he was lying ill at erie, and his physician told him he could not survive. "let the drums beat," said he; "my knapsack is swung, and hugh brady is ready to march!" he recovered, however, and died only a few years ago, at sunbury. the only massacre by indians in the immediate vicinity of standing stone occurred on the th of june, , at what was then known as the "big spring," two miles west of the fort. in consequence of hostile bands of indians having been seen at a number of places in the neighborhood, and the general alarm which followed, people commenced flocking to the forts from every direction. on the day above named, felix donnelly and his son francis, and bartholomew maguire and his daughter, residing a short distance from the mouth of shaver's creek, placed a number of their movable effects upon horses, and, with a cow, went down the river, for the purpose of forting at standing stone. jane maguire was in advance, driving the cow, and the donnellys and maguire in the rear, on the horses. when nearly opposite the big spring, an indian fired from ambuscade and killed young donnelly. his father, who was close to him, caught him, for the purpose of keeping him upon the horse. maguire urged the old man to fly, but he refused to leave his son. maguire then rode to his side, and the two held the dead body of francis. while in this position, three indians rushed from their ambuscades with terrific yells, and fired a volley, one bullet striking felix donnelly, and the other grazing maguire's ear, carrying away a portion of his hair. the bodies of both the donnellys fell to the ground, and maguire rode forward, passing (probably without noticing her) his daughter. the indians, after scalping the murdered men, followed jane, evidently with the intention of making a prisoner of her. the fleetest of them overtook her, and grasped her by the dress, and with uplifted tomahawk demanded her to surrender; but she struggled heroically. the strings of her short-gown gave way, and by an extraordinary effort she freed herself, leaving the garment in the hand of the savage; then, seizing the cow's tail, she gave it a twist, which started the animal running, and gave her an impetus which soon enabled her to pass her father. the savage still followed, but in the mean time maguire had recovered from the consternation caused by the massacre, and immediately aimed his rifle at the indian, when the latter took shelter behind a tree. at this juncture, a number of men who were pitching quoits at cryder's mill, on the opposite side of the river, who had heard the firing and the whoops of the savages, put off in a canoe to engage the indians; but they were soon discovered, and the indian, shaking jane maguire's short-gown derisively at them, disappeared. the men, doubtful as to the number of the enemy, returned to the mill, to await the arrival of a greater force. maguire and his daughter reached the fort in a state better imagined than described. the garrison was soon alarmed, and a number of armed men started in pursuit of the savages. at the mill they were joined by the men previously mentioned; and, although every exertion was made in their power, they could not get upon their trail, and the pursuit was abandoned. the dead bodies of the donnellys were taken to standing stone, and buried upon what was then vacant ground; but the spot where they now rest is pointed out in a garden in the heart of the borough of huntingdon. jane maguire, who certainly exhibited a very fair share of the heroism of the day in her escape from the savage, afterward married a man named dowling, and moved to raystown branch, where she reared a family of children, some of whom are still living. opposite the mouth of the raystown branch lived colonel fee, an active and energetic man during the revolution. he was in captain blair's expedition against the tories, and for a while served as a private in the army. his widow (a sister of the late thomas jackson, of gaysport) is still living, at the advanced age of eighty-seven years, and to her we are indebted for much valuable information in the construction of these pages. the cryders, too, are worthy of a special notice. they consisted of a father, mother, and seven sons. they built a mill at the big spring, which served for the people of standing stone and the surrounding country. they were all men suitable for the times--rugged and daring. a majority of them were constantly in service during the war of the revolution, either as frontier-men, scouts, or fort guards. michael cryder, the father, used to spend his days at his mill and his nights at the fort during the troublesome times, and it was himself and five of his sons who accomplished the then extraordinary achievement of running the first ark-load of flour down the juniata river. the standing stone is frequently mentioned in the archives, but its name is mostly coupled with rumors, grossly exaggerated, of attacks by tories, &c. there is no doubt whatever but that great distress, principally arising from a want of provisions, prevailed there during the war. when the alarms were most frequent, and council had been importuned time and again to send provisions to standing stone, as well as men for its defence, and munitions, a circular was issued to the county lieutenants, dated july , , from which we extract the following:-- it is proper to acquaint you that colonel broadhead's regiment, now on a march to pittsburg, is ordered by the board of war to the standing stone; and we have ordered three hundred militia from cumberland, and two hundred from york, to join them. this promise to the ear of the affrighted settlers was broken to the hope. only seventy of the cumberland militia were taken to the standing stone, and thirty of them soon after removed to garrison the lead mine fort. huntingdon was laid out previous to the commencement of hostilities--probably in ,--but it retained the name of stone town for many years. with the exception of frankstown, it is the oldest town on the juniata. on the formation of the county, in , it took the same name. the county, during the late war with great britain, furnished three full companies; and, although it once was the stronghold of tories, we can now safely say that it stands among the most patriotic in the state. [illustration: scene below williamsburg.] chapter xv. trials of the early settlers--their forts, and other means of defence. the first outbreak of the war in found the frontier inhabitants few in number and without arms. living in a remote part of the state, where no invading foe would be likely to come, many young and vigorous men went forward and joined the army. this fancied security, however, proved a sad delusion to the frontier-men; and the absence of any regular means of defence was only severely felt when the savages came down from the mountain, ripe for rapine, blood, and theft. the fact that the northwestern savages had allied themselves to the english was only fully realized by the residents of the juniata valley when the painted warriors came down the kittaning war path, and commenced their infernal and atrocious work by scalping women and innocent babes. the first alarm and panic over, people collected together and consulted about some means of defence. the more prudent were in favor of abandoning their farms and retiring to some of the eastern settlements, which many did, especially after it was discovered that so many of the king's subjects were likely to remain loyal instead of joining the cause of the patriots. the more daring would not agree to abandon their homes, but at once pledged themselves to defend their firesides at the risk of their lives. to this end, in the fall of , and in the spring of , a number of fortifications were commenced, the farms abandoned, or partially so, and the inhabitants assumed an attitude of defence. these forts were generally stockades, built of logs or puncheons, with loop-holes made to flare on the outside, in order to bring rifles to bear in several directions. the first of these forts was built near where mccahen's mill now stands, which was called fetter's or frankstown, about a mile above hollidaysburg. a barn on the flat opposite the second lock, a mile below hollidaysburg, was turned into a fort and called holliday's. it was an old barn, but very large, and belonged to one peter titus. through the energy of mr. holliday and a few others, it was made comfortable, but not deemed very secure. these forts served for the families in what was termed the frankstown district, comprising not only frankstown, but all the surrounding country. in canoe valley a fort was built, called lowry's fort, but it was small and inconvenient; and the house of matthew dean, a mile farther up, was also turned into a temporary fortress in . these served the people of canoe valley and water street. the people of hartslog valley erected a fort south of alexandria, on cannon's mill-run, called lytle's. a large and substantial garrison, called hartsock's fort, was built in woodcock valley, which served for the people of that valley and also for the residents of the middle of the cove. the inhabitants of the lower end of the cove, and along clover creek, forted at the house of captain phillips, some two or three miles above where williamsburg now stands, which was turned into a temporary fortress. anderson's fort was erected where petersburg now stands, while along shaver's creek there were two others--one at general mcelery's, and the other at alexander mccormick's, toward stone creek. the latter was merely a house fortified without additional buildings, as was also the house of captain e. rickets, in warrior's mark. forts were also built at dunning's creek, and on the raystown branch, while the forts at standing stone and bedford were enlarged and improved. the year following, a very substantial fort was built at the residence of jacob roller, in sinking valley, to accommodate the large influx of people into the valley. in the fall of , fort roberdeau, or as it was better known, the lead mine fort, in sinking valley, was completed. it was the largest as well as the best-defended post on the frontier. it was built under the superintendence of general roberdeau, and occupied by major cluggage, with a regular company from cumberland county. on the ramparts two cannon were mounted, and in the fortress there were plenty of small-arms and ammunition. this fort was strengthened by government. lead was exceedingly scarce, and a high value was attached to it; and, fearing that the mines might fall into the hands of the enemy, the most vigilant watch was kept and the most rigid military discipline enforced. during the summer of , very few depredations were committed; but in the following year, as succeeding chapters will show, the incursions and massacres of the indians were so bold and cruel that the utmost consternation prevailed, and business was in a great measure suspended. the settlers managed to get their sowing done in both fall and spring, but much was sowed that never was reaped. to add to their deplorable condition, the horrors of starvation were constantly staring them in the face. in order to get in crops, it was necessary to have the reapers guarded and sentinels posted at each corner of a field, while half-grown boys followed in the very footsteps of the laborers, carrying their rifles loaded and primed for defence. by such means they managed to get a scant supply of grain. the cattle were suffered to graze at large, for seldom, if ever, any of them were molested. hogs, too, were suffered to run at large in the woods, feeding upon roots and acorns. when meat was wanted, a party ran down a hog or heifer, butchered it, and took it to the fort. as for such luxuries as coffee, tea, sugar, &c., they were among the missing, and little cared for. it is not, we hope, to the discredit of any of the best men in the juniata valley now, to say that their fathers were born in forts and rocked in sugar-troughs, and their grandfathers wore entire suits, including shoes, made of buckskin, lived sometimes on poor fare, and short allowance at that. they were the men whose sinewy arms hewed down the monarchs of the forest, and, with shovel, hoe, plough, and pick, that we might enjoy the bounties of mother earth when they were mouldering in the bosom thereof, made "waste places glad" and the wilderness to blossom like the rose. hallowed be their names! but, while we raise the tuneful lay to sing psalms of praise to the glorious old pioneers who by hardship and toil have entailed such blessings upon us, is it not a melancholy reflection to think that in but a few succeeding generations the scanty pages of _ancient_ histories alone will be the monuments to chronicle their deeds? chapter xvi. the early settlers--old hart, the indian trader, etc. we have been unable to procure any thing like a full and complete list of the early settlers of the entire valley; yet we deem it necessary to give what we have procured, as a necessary adjunct to our work. it will be perceived that many of the names are familiar, and the descendants are still scattered profusely over this section of the country, as well as the union. mr. bell, in his memoir, states that, at the time of his earliest recollection, between the stone (huntingdon) and the mountain, the pioneers had principally settled along the streams. the prevailing religion was the presbyterian, although there were lutherans and roman catholics, "and probably as many who professed no religion at all as all the other denominations put together." in addition to those whose names have already appeared, or will appear hereafter, we may incidentally mention, as early settlers about lewistown, the mcclays, mcnitts, and millikin; west of lewistown, along the river, the junkins, wilsons, bratton, and stackpoles. [illustration: hart's watering place.] at huntingdon, ludwig sills, benjamin elliot, abraham haynes, frank cluggage, mr. allabaugh, and mr. mcmurtrie; west of huntingdon, in the neighborhood of shaver's creek, samuel anderson, bartholomew maguire, general mcelevy, mccormick, and donnelly. of course, this place was settled at a later day than the country farther east. the first house erected where alexandria now stands was located near a spring, and was built and occupied by two young scotchmen, named matthew neal and hugh glover, as a kind of trading-post. they dealt in goods generally, and in whiskey particularly. the natural consequences of a free indulgence in the latter were fights innumerable, "even in them days," and the place received the euphonious title of "battle swamp," which clung to it for many years. near that place, at what was called "charles's fording of the big juniata," was the celebrated log which gave rise to the name of the valley. charles caldwell lived in the neighborhood--was the oldest settler, and the only one residing within two miles of "battle swamp." in what then constituted the valley--say in --lived john tussey, robert caldwell, and edward rickets, on the banks of the little juniata. on the main stream, or what was then termed the frankstown branch, on the northwest side, resided john bell, william travis, james dean, moses donaldson, and thomas johnston. on the southwest bank resided john mitchell and peter grafius. george jackson lived on the banks of the little juniata, probably a mile from the mouth of shaver's creek; and a mile farther up lived jacob and josiah minor. in the neighborhood of water street and canoe valley, john and matthew dean, jacob roller, john bell, lowry, beattys, moreheads, simonton, vanzant, john sanders, samuel davis, edward milligan. near frankstown, and in it, lazarus lowry, the moores, alexander mcdowell. west of frankstown, joseph mccune, mclntyre, john mckillip, mcroberts, and john crouse. most of the latter lived along where the reservoir now is--the building of which destroyed the old mccune and mcroberts farms. on the flat, west of frankstown, lived peter titus and john carr; in the loop, a. robinson and w. divinny; john long, near where jackson's farm now is; foster, where mccahen's mill now stands; and a little distance farther west, david bard, a presbyterian preacher; thomas and michael coleman, michael wallack, james hardin, a mr. hileman, and david torrence, in the neighborhood of where altoona now stands. of course, this list does not comprise all the old settlers, nor probably even a majority of them, but we copy a portion of the names from mr. bell's memoir. a number of them were given to us by maguire, and some were found in an old ledger, belonging to lazarus lowry when he kept store in frankstown in . the man hart, whose name is perpetuated, in connection with his log, by the valley we have spoken of, was an old german, who followed the occupation of trading among the indians. he was probably the first permanent white settler along the juniata west of the standing stone; and, long before he settled, he crossed and recrossed the alleghany mountains, by the old war-path, with his pack-horses. "john hart's sleeping place" is mentioned, in , by john harris, in making an estimate of the distance between the rivers susquehanna and alleghany. hart's sleeping place is about twelve miles from the junction of the burgoon and kittaning buns, and still retains its name. when he took up his residence along the river, he hewed down an immense tree, and turned it into a trough, out of which he fed his horses and cattle; hence the name, "hart's log." it is stated that upon one occasion, when hart was an old man, some savages came into his settlement on a pillaging excursion. they knew hart, and went to his cabin, but he happened to be from home. on his log they left a tomahawk, painted red, and a small piece of slate upon which rude hieroglyphics were drawn--one resembling an indian with a bundle upon his back, over whose head were seven strokes and whose belt was filled with scalps. in front of this drawing was the sun rising, and behind them a picture of the moon. on hart's return, he soon found that indians had been about. the meaning of the articles left he could readily decipher. the red hatchet upon the log signified that indians were about, but to him they laid down the hatchet. the picture of the rising sun signified that they were going to the east. the strokes indicated the number of warriors, and the bundle and scalps intimated that they would both plunder and murder. the moon signified that they would return at night. hart, although he felt safe under such an assurance, had no desire to encounter the red-skins; so he scratched upon the reverse of the slate the outline of a _heart_, and laid by the side of it a pipe--which, interpreted, meant, "hart smokes with you the pipe of peace," and left. on his return next day he found the indians had returned, and passed the night at his log, where they had left a quantity of pewter platters, mugs, &c. it afterward appeared that they had been at several houses, but the inmates had fled. from one they stole a quantity of silver money, and at the house of a dunkard they stole the pewter-ware. at the log they attempted to run the metal into bullets, but, finding it a failure, they probably left the heavy load in disgust. [illustration: tub mill at barre force, little juniata.] chapter xvii. the continental mills of the valley. among the vicissitudes incident to the settlement of the valley was a very serious one, in the shape of sometimes an absolute want of flour--not always owing to a lack of grain, but the want of mills. especially did this operate seriously during the revolution. the few mills at such great distances apart rendered it necessary for parties of neighbors to join in company, arm themselves, and go to mill together--all waiting until the grain was turned into flour. the want of adequate machinery prevented the erection of mills, and those that were built prior to the revolution, and during the continuance of the war, could scarcely do the requisite amount of work for the country, sparsely as it was settled. to look at some of the old gearing and machinery in use then would only confirm the adage that "necessity is the mother of invention." the late edward bell, of blair county, who rose to competence by his own indomitable energy and perseverance, and commanded the esteem and respect of all who knew him, once boasted to us that the first shoes he ever wore he made for himself in fort lowry. "and," said he, "i made them so well that i soon became shoemaker to the fort. there is no doubt but that i could have followed the business to advantage; but i never liked it, so i served a regular apprenticeship to the millwrighting." it is to this circumstance, then, that we are indebted for the following unique description of the old continental mill, which still stands at j. green & company's (formerly dorsey's) forge, on the little juniata, in huntingdon county. it was built before the revolution,--as near as can be ascertained, in ,--by jacob and josiah minor. mr. bell, in his manuscript, says:-- it was a curious piece of machinery when i first saw it. the house was about twelve feet high, and about fourteen feet square, made of small poles and covered with clapboards. there was neither floor nor loft in it. the husk was made of round logs built into the wall; the water or tub wheel was some three feet in diameter, and split boards driven into the sides of the shaft made the buckets. the shaft had a gudgeon in the lower end and a thing they called a spindle in the upper end, and was not dressed in any way between the claws. the stones were about two feet four or six inches in diameter, and not thick, and in place of a hoop they had cut a buttonwood-tree that was hollow and large enough to admit the stones, and sawed or cut it off to make the hoop. the hopper was made of clapboards, and a hole near the eye of the stone answered for the dampsil, with a pin driven in it, which struck the shoe every time the stone revolved. the meal-trough, made out of part of a gun, completed the grinding fixtures. the bolting-chest was about six feet long, two and half feet wide, and four feet high, made of live-wood puncheons, split, hewed, and jointed to hold flour, with a pair of deer-skins sewed together to shut the door. there was not one ounce of iron about the chest or bolting-reel. it had a crank or handle on one end, made of wood--the shaft, ribs, and arms, of the same material; and the cloth was leona muslin, or lining that looked like it. rather a one-horse concern for our day and generation! and its capacity must have been about as one to one thousand, when compared with the mills of the present age. we should like to see how some of the people of the valley _now_ would relish bread baked from flour bolted through leona muslin! it might do for dyspepsia; indeed, we doubt whether such a disease was known in the valley at so early a day. the mill of which mr. bell speaks, although it may have been the first in his neighborhood, was by no means the first driven by the waters of the juniata. william patterson erected a mill, where millerstown now stands, as early as , which, however, was carried off by a flood a year or so after it was in operation. the first mill in the upper valley was built on yellow creek, by the squatters, previous to the edict of the penn family which destroyed the cabins; but in what year, or by whom built, or what its ultimate fate was, we are unable to say. the second mill in the valley was built where spang's mill now stands, in blair county, then considered a part of the cove. it was erected by a man named jacob neff, a dunkard. this mill was burned down during the revolution by the indians, but speedily rebuilt, and stood for many years thereafter. the third was the "tub" mill, of which mr. bell gives a description. the term _tub_ was applied to it in consequence of the peculiar formation of the water-wheel. nearly all the mills of those days were worked with a tub-wheel. directly after, a mill was erected by a mr. fetter, near where mccahen's mill now stands, near hollidaysburg. no traces whatever are left of it. about the same period, two brothers, named beebault, built a mill, almost the counterpart of the minor mill, at the mouth of spruce creek. relics of this mill stood until within a few years. the next was a small mill built by a man named armitage, at mill creek, below huntingdon. nathaniel garrard built one in woodcock valley, about six miles from huntingdon. another was built in the vicinity of frankstown; another near where martha forge, in the gap, now stands. cryder's mill, above huntingdon, was finished about . these were all the mills that existed in the upper end of the valley prior to the revolution. although small, they were evidently of immense value--people having sometimes been compelled to travel some forty miles to obtain their services. the vestiges of _all_ are gone, like shadows that have passed away, save the old continentaller described by mr. bell. it alone stands, a relic of the past. chapter xviii. the cove--early settlement by dunkards--indian massacres and captives--massacre of ullery--a resistant dunkard, etc. "the great cove, little cove, and canolloways," are mentioned frequently in government papers as far back as , indian traders having penetrated them at a much earlier date than that; yet they only figure prominently from that period. the great cove, now known as morrison's, commences at pattonsville, in bedford county, and ends at williamsburg, on the juniata--bounded by dunning's and lock mountains on the west, and tussey mountain on the east. for fertile limestone land, beautiful scenery, and splendid farms, few valleys in the state equal--none surpass--morrison's cove. the earliest settlement of the cove was effected by scotch-irish, as early as ; but they shared the fate of the burnt-cabin folks when secretary peters answered the prayers of the indians, and were expelled. nothing daunted, however, many of them returned, and commenced improving; that, too, before the scions of "father onus" had acquired the right, title, and interest, to all and singular these fine lands, for the munificent sum of £ ! the greater portion of the beautiful valley, however, was almost unexplored until the penns made the new purchase. about , a colony of dunkards took up the southern portion of the cove, and their descendants hold possession of it to this day. they have unquestionably the finest farms, as well as the most fertile land, in the state; and right glad should we be to end _their_ portion of the chapter by saying so, or even by adding that for thrift and economy they stand unsurpassed; but a sense of candor compels us to speak of them as they are,--"nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice." in the first place, let it be understood that we are in no particle indebted to them for one iota of the blessings of government we enjoy. they are strict non-resistants; and in the predatory incursions of the french and indians, in - , and, in fact, during all the savage warfare, they not only refused to take up arms to repel the savage marauders and prevent the inhuman slaughter of women and children, but they refused in the most positive manner to pay a dollar to support those who were willing to take up arms to defend their homes and their firesides, until wrung from them by the stern mandates of the law, from which there was no appeal. they did the same thing when the revolution broke out. there was a scarcity of men. sixty able-bodied ones among them might readily have formed a cordon of frontier defence, which could have prevented many of the indian massacres which took place between and , and more especially among their own people in the cove. but not a man would shoulder his rifle; they were _non-resistants_! they might, at least, have furnished money, for they always had an abundance of that, the hoarding of which appeared to be the sole aim and object of life with them. but, no; not a dollar! they occupied neutral ground, and wished to make no resistance. again; they might have furnished supplies. and they _did_ furnish supplies to those who were risking their lives to repel the invaders,--but it was only when the almighty dollar accompanied the demand. after the massacre of thirty of them, in less than forty-eight hours, colonel piper, the lieutenant-colonel of bedford county, made a stirring appeal to them. but it was of no avail; they were non-resistants, and evidently determined to remain such. of the peculiar religious tenets of these primitive people we do not profess to know any thing; hence our remarks are unbiassed. we are solely recording historical facts. as a curious anomaly in the history of the present generation, it may be stated that, although they perform that part of the compact between government and a good citizen which relates to paying taxes, _they never vote_, neither can the most seductive persuasions of politicians bring them to the polls. like their forefathers, they are non-resistant--producers, but non-consumers. during the indian wars of , quite a number of murders were committed in the cove, and many captives taken, but the particulars are too vague for history. although we made every effort to ascertain the names of some of the massacred and the circumstances attending their massacre, we signally failed. it may, therefore, be supposed that, in the absence of any record, there is no other method of ascertaining facts extant. during the great cove massacre, among others carried into captivity was the family of john martin. this incursion was indeed a most formidable one, led by the kings shingas and beaver in person. how many were killed there is no living witness to tell; neither can we conjecture the number of prisoners taken. the following petition was sent by john martin to council:-- _august , ._ the humble petition of your most obedient servant sheweth, sir, may it pleas your excellancy, hearing me in your clemancy a few words. i, one of the bereaved of my wife and five children, by savage war at the captivity of the great cove, after many & long journeys, i lately went to an indian town, viz., tuskaroways, miles beyond fort pitts, & entrested in co^l. bucquits & co^l. croghan's favor, so as to bear their letters to king beaver & cap^t. shingas, desiring them to give up one of my daughters to me, whiles i have yet two sons & one other daughter, if alive, among them--and after seeing my daughter with shingas he refused to give her up, and after some expostulating with him, but all in vain, he promised to deliver her up with the other captives to y^r excellency. sir, y^r excellency's most humble serv^t, humbly & passionately beseeches y^r beningn compassion to interpose y^r excellencies beneficent influence in favor of y^r excellencies most obedient & dutiful serv^t. john martin. after the march of general forbes from raystown, and immediately preceding it, no indian depredations were committed in the cove up to the commencement of hostilities between the colonies and great britain. the indians in the french interest were constantly on the alert; and their spies prowling on the outskirts did not fail to report at head-quarters the arrival at raystown of colonel boquet and his army, the formidable bearing and arms of which convinced the savages that it was prudent to keep within the bounds of the french power. the first indian depredations of the revolution in the juniata valley were committed in november, . a large body of indians--not less than thirty--armed with british rifles, ammunition, tomahawks, scalping-knives, and all other murderous appliances they were capable of using, came into the settlement with the avowed intention of gathering scalps for his britannic majesty's officers at detroit. their coming was not unlooked-for, but the settlers were unprepared for them. the constant rumors afloat that a large body of savages, british, and tories, were coming, struck the people with so much panic that there was no effort made to give any such force as might come a warlike reception, but their energies were concentrated in measures of defence. the first indian depredators, or at least the greater portion of them, were seen at a camp-fire by a party of hunters; and if the proper exertions had been made to cut them off, few other outrages would have followed. the supposition is that there were two parties of about fifteen each, who met at or near neff's mill, in the cove. on their way thither, the one party killed a man named hammond, who resided along the juniata, and the other party killed a man named ullery, who was returning from neff's mill on horseback. they also took two children with them as prisoners. the alarm was spread among the inhabitants, and they fled to the nearest forts with all despatch; and on this first expedition they would have had few scalps to grace their belts, had the dunkards taken the advice of more sagacious people, and fled too; this, however, they would not do. they would follow but half of cromwell's advice:--they were willing to put their "trust in god," but they would not "keep their powder dry." in short, it was a compound they did not use at all. the savages swept down through the cove with all the ferocity with which a pack of wolves would descend from the mountain upon a flock of sheep. some few of the dunkards, who evidently had a latent spark of love of life, hid themselves away; but by far the most of them stood by and witnessed the butchery of their wives and children, merely saying, "_gottes wille sei gethan_."[ ] how many dunkard scalps they carried to detroit cannot now be, and probably never has been, clearly ascertained,--not less than thirty, according to the best authority. in addition to this, they loaded themselves with plunder, stole a number of horses, and under cover of night the triumphant warriors marched bravely away. [ ] "god's will be done." this sentence was so frequently repeated by the dunkards during the massacre, that the indians must have retained a vivid recollection of it. during the late war with great britain, some of the older indians on the frontier were anxious to know of the huntingdon volunteers whether the "_gotswiltahns_" still resided in the cove. of course our people could not satisfy them on such a vague point. thomas smith and george woods, both, we believe, justices of the peace at the time, wrote to president wharton as follows:-- _november , ._ gentlemen:--the present situation of this country is so truly deplorable that we should be inexcusable if we delayed a moment in acquainting you with it. an indian war is now raging around us in its utmost fury. before you went down they killed one man at stony creek; since that time they have killed five on the mountain, over against the heads of dunning's creek, killed or taken three at the three springs, wounded one, and killed some children by frankstown; and had they not providentially been discovered in the night, and a party gone out and fired on them, they would, in all probability, have destroyed a great part of that settlement in a few hours. a small party went out into morrison's cove scouting, and unfortunately divided; the indians discovered one division, and out of eight killed seven and wounded the other. in short, a day hardly passes without our hearing of some new murder; and if the people continue only a week longer to fly as they have done for a week past, cumberland county will be a frontier. from morrison's, crayl's, and friend's coves, dunning's creek, and one-half of the glades, they are fled or forted; and, for all the defence that can be made here, the indians may do almost what they please. we keep out ranging-parties, in which we go out by turns; but all that we can do in that way is but weak and ineffectual for our defence, because one-half of the people are fled: those that remain are too busily employed in putting their families and the little of their effects that they can save and take into some place of safety, so that the whole burden falls upon a few of the frontier inhabitants, for those who are at a distance from danger have not as yet offered us any assistance. we are far from blaming the officers of the militia because they have not ordered them out, for if they had, they really can be of little or no service, not only for the foregoing reasons, but also for these:--not one man in ten of them is armed. if they were armed, you are sensible, take the country through, there is not one fourth man that is fit to go against indians, and it might often happen that in a whole class there might not be a single person who is acquainted with the indians' ways of the woods; and if there should be a few good men, and the rest unfit for that service, those who are fit to take the indians in their own way could not act with the same resolution and spirit as if they were sure of being properly supported by men like themselves. the consequence would be that the indians, after gaining an advantage over them, would become much more daring and fearless, and drive all before them. a small number of select men would be of more real service to guard the frontiers than six times that number of people unused to arms or the woods. it is not for us to dictate what steps ought to be taken, but some steps ought to be taken without the loss of an hour. the safety of your country, of your families, of your property, will, we are convinced, urge you to do every thing in your power to put the frontiers in some state of defence. suppose there were orders given to raise about one hundred rangers, under the command of spirited officers, who were well acquainted with the woods and the indians and could take them in their own way. they could be raised instantly, and we are informed there are a great number of rifles lying in carlisle useless, although the back country is suffering for the want of arms. it was a fatal step that was taken last winter in leaving so many guns when the militia came from camp; about this place, especially, and all the country near it, they are remarkably distressed for the want of guns, for when the men were raised for the army you know we procured every gun that we could for their use. the country reflect hard on us now for our assiduity on those occasions, as it now deprives them of the means of defence. but this is not the only instance in which we hear reflections which are not deserved. the safety of our country then loudly called on us to send all the arms to the camp that could be procured, and it now as loudly calls on us to entreat that we may be allowed some as soon as possible, as also some ammunition; as that which was intrusted to our care is now almost delivered out to the officers who are fortifying, and what remains of it is not fit for rifles. we need not repeat our entreaties that whatever is done may be done as soon as possible, as a day's delay may be the destruction of hundreds. we are, in haste, gentlemen, your most obedient, humble servants, george woods. thomas smith. bedford, _november , _. the persons mentioned as having been killed belonged mostly to the cove; but the number was greatly exaggerated, as in fact but two were killed and one wounded. the other five escaped, and did not return until after the report of their death had gone abroad. the names of the killed we could not ascertain. the band of indians, after the dunkard massacre, worked their way toward the kittaning war-path, leaving behind them some few stragglers of their party whose appetite for blood and treasure had not been satiated. among others, an old and a young indian stopped at neff's mill. neff was a dunkard; but he was a single exception so far as resistance was concerned. he had constantly in his mill his loaded rifle, and was ready for any emergency. he had gone to his mill in the morning without any knowledge of indians being in the neighborhood, and had just set the water-wheel in motion, when he discovered the two indians lurking, within a hundred yards, in a small wood below the mill. without taking much time to deliberate how to act, he aimed through the window, and deliberately shot the old indian. in an instant the young indian came toward the mill, and neff ran out of the back door and up the hill. the quick eye of the savage detected him, and he fired, but missed his aim. nothing daunted by the mishap, the savage followed up the cleared patch, when both, as if by instinct, commenced reloading their rifles. they stood face to face, not forty yards apart, on open ground, where there was no possible chance of concealment. the chances were equal: he that loaded first would be victor in the strife, the other was doomed to certain death. they both rammed home the bullet at the same time--with what haste may well be conjectured. this was a critical juncture, for, while loading, neither took his eye off the other. they both drew their ramrods at the same instant, but the intense excitement of the moment caused the indian to balk in drawing his, and the error or mishap proved fatal, because neff took advantage of it, and succeeded in priming and aiming before the indian. the latter, now finding the muzzle of neff's rifle bearing upon him, commenced a series of very cunning gyrations and contortions to destroy his aim or confuse him, so that he might miss him or enable him to prime. to this end, he first threw himself upon his face; then, suddenly rising up again, he jumped first to the right, then to the left, then fell down again. neff, not the least put off his guard, waited until the indian arose again, when he shot him through the head. neff, fearing that others might be about, left the mill and started to the nearest settlement. a force was raised and the mill revisited; but it was found a heap of smouldering cinders and ashes, and the dead bodies of the indians had been removed. it is altogether likely that the rear of the savage party came up shortly after neff had left, fired the mill, and carried away their slain companions. for the part neff took in the matter he was excommunicated from the dunkard society. nevertheless, he rebuilt his mill; but the dunkards, who were his main support previously, refused any longer to patronize him, and he was eventually compelled to abandon the business. on the th of may, , a band of marauding savages entered the cove and murdered a man, woman, and two children, and took one man prisoner, within a mile of the fort of john piper, who was then colonel of the county. names or particulars could not be ascertained. at another time--period not remembered--several prisoners were taken. the name of the cove was changed from the "great cove" to "morrison's cove," in honor of a mr. morris, as early as . chapter xix. tommy coleman, the indian fighter--surprise of the dunkard murderers, etc. among all the early pioneers of the upper end of the juniata valley none was better known to the indians than thomas coleman. his very name inspired them with terror; and, in all their marauding, they carefully avoided his neighborhood. he was, emphatically, an indian-hater,--the great aim and object of whose life appeared to be centred in the destruction of indians. for this he had a reason--a deep-seated revenge to gratify, a thirst that all the savage blood in the land could not slake,--superinduced by one of the most cruel acts of savage atrocity on record. it appears that the coleman family lived on the west branch of the susquehanna at an early day. their habitation, it would also appear, was remote from the settlements; and their principal occupation was hunting and trapping in winter, boiling sugar in spring, and tilling some ground they held during the summer. where they originally came from was rather a mystery; but they were evidently tolerably well educated, and had seen more refined life than the forest afforded. nevertheless, they led an apparently happy life in the woods. there were three brothers of them, and, what is not very common nowadays, they were passionately attached to each other. early in the spring,--probably in the year ,--while employed in boiling sugar, one of the brothers discovered the tracks of a bear, when it was resolved that the elder two should follow and the younger remain to attend to the sugar-boiling. the brothers followed the tracks of the bear for several hours, but, not overtaking him, agreed to return to the sugar-camp. on their arrival, they found the remains of their brother boiled to a jelly in the large iron kettle! a sad and sickening sight, truly; but the authors of the black-hearted crime had left their sign-manual behind them,--an old tomahawk, red with the gore of their victim, sunk into one of the props which supported the kettle. they buried the remains as best they could, repaired to their home, broke up their camp, abandoned their place a short time after, and moved to the juniata valley. their first location was near the mouth of the river; but gradually they worked their way west, until they settled somewhere in the neighborhood of the mouth of spruce creek, on the little juniata, about the year . a few years after, the two brothers, thomas and michael, the survivors of the family, moved to the base of the mountain, in what now constitutes logan township, near where altoona stands, which then was included within the frankstown district. these men were fearless almost to a fault; and on the commencement of hostilities, or after the first predatory incursion of the savages, it appears that thomas gave himself up solely to hunting indians. he was in all scouting parties that were projected, and always leading the van when danger threatened; and it has very aptly, and no doubt truly, been said of coleman, that when no parties were willing to venture out he shouldered his rifle and ranged the woods alone in hopes of occasionally picking up a stray savage or two. that his trusty rifle sent many a savage to eternity there is not a shadow of doubt. _he_, however, never said so. he was never known to acknowledge to any of his most intimate acquaintances that he had ever killed an indian; and yet, strange as it may seem, he came to the fort on several occasions with rather ugly wounds upon his body, and his knife and tomahawk looked as if they had been used to some purpose. occasionally, too, a dead savage was found in his tracks, but no one could tell who killed him. for such reserve mr. coleman probably had his own motives; but that his fights with the savages were many and bloody is susceptible of proof even at this late day. we may incidentally mention that both the colemans accompanied captain blair's expedition to overtake the tories, and thomas was one of the unfortunate "bedford scout." to show how well thomas was known, and to demonstrate clearly that he had on sundry occasions had dealings with some of the savages without the knowledge of his friends, we may state that during the late war with great britain, on the canadian frontier, a great many indians made inquiries about "_old coley_;" and especially one, who represented himself as being a son of shingas, pointed out to some of captain allison's men, who were from huntingdon county, a severe gash on his forehead, by which he said he should be likely to remember "coley" for the balance of his life. in the fall of , fetter's fort was occupied by some twenty-five men capable of bearing arms, belonging to the frankstown district. among these were both the colemans, their own and a number of other settler's families. the indians who had murdered the dunkards, it appears, met about a mile east of kittaning point, where they encamped, (the horses and plunder having probably been sent on across the mountain,) in order to await the arrival of the scattered forces. thomas and michael coleman and michael wallack had left fetter's fort in the morning for the purpose of hunting deer. during the day, snow fell to the depth of some three or four inches; and in coming down the gap, coleman and his party crossed the indian trail, and discovered the moccasin tracks, which they soon ascertained to be fresh. it was soon determined to follow them, ascertain their force, and then repair to the fort and give the alarm. they had followed the trail scarcely half a mile before they saw the blaze of the fire and the dusky outlines of the savages seated around it. their number, of course, could not be made out, but they conjectured that there must be in the neighborhood of thirty; but, in order to get a crack at them, thomas coleman made his companions promise not to reveal their actual strength to the men in the fort. accordingly they returned and made report--once, for a wonder, not exaggerated, but rather underrated. the available force, amounting to sixteen men, consisting of the three above named, edward milligan, samuel jack, william moore, george fetter, john fetter, william holliday, richard clausin, john mcdonald, and others whose names are not recollected, loaded their rifles and started in pursuit of the savages. by the time they reached the encampment, it had grown quite cold, and the night was considerably advanced; still some ten or twelve indians were seated around the fire. cautiously the men approached, and with such silence that the very word of command was given in a whisper. when within sixty yards, a halt was called. one indian appeared to be engaged in mixing paint in a pot over the fire, while the remainder were talking,--probably relating to each other the incidents attending their late foray. their rifles were all leaning against a large tree, and thomas coleman conceived the bold design of approaching the tree, although it stood but ten feet from the fire, and securing their arms before attacking them. the achievement would have been a brilliant one, but the undertaking was deemed so hazardous that not a man would agree to second him in so reckless and daring an enterprise. it was then agreed that they all should aim, and at the given word fire. coleman suggested that each man should single out a particular savage to fire at; but his suggestion was lost upon men who were getting nervous by beginning to think their situation somewhat critical. aim--we will not call it deliberate--was taken, the word "_fire_!" was given, and the sharp report of the rifles made the dim old woods echo. some three or four of the savages fell, and those who were sitting around the fire, as well as those who were lying upon the ground, instantly sprang to their feet and ran to the tree where their rifles stood. in the mean time, coleman said-- "quick! quick! boys, load again! we can give them another fire before they know where we are!" but, on looking around, he was surprised to find nobody but wallack and holliday left to obey his order! the number proving unexpectedly large, the majority became frightened, and ran for the fort. the indians, in doubt as to the number of their assailants, took an early opportunity to get out of the light caused by the fire and concealed themselves behind trees, to await the further operations of this sudden and unexpected foe. coleman, wallack, and holliday, deeming themselves too few in number to cope with the indians, followed their friends to fetter's fort. early the next morning, all the available force of the fort started in pursuit of the indians. of course, they did not expect to find them at the encampment of the night previous; so they took provisions and ammunition along for several days' scout, in order, if possible, to overtake the savages before they reached their own country. to this end, coleman was appointed to the command, and the march was among those denominated by military men as _forced_. when they reached the scene of the previous night's work, the evidence was plain that the savages had departed in the night. this the hunters detected by signs not to be mistaken by woodsmen; there was not a particle of fire left, and the coals retained no warmth. the tracks of the savages west of the fire, too, showed that they conformed to those east of the fire, in appearance, whereas, those made by the hunters in the morning looked quite differently. it was then evident that the indians had a start of some six or eight hours. on the spot where the fire had been the small earthen paint-pot was found, and in it a portion of mixed paint. near the fire, numerous articles were picked up:--several scalping-knives, one of which the owner was evidently in the act of sharpening when the volley was fired, as the whetstone was lying by its side; several tomahawks, a powder-horn, and a number of other trifling articles. the ground was dyed with blood, leaving no doubt remaining in regard to their execution the night previous. they had both _killed and wounded_,--but what number was to remain to them forever a mystery, for they carried both dead and wounded with them. this was a singular trait in savage character. they never left the body of a dead or wounded warrior behind them, if by any possible human agency it could be taken with them. if impossible to move it far, they usually buried it, and concealed the place of burial with leaves; if in an enemy's country, they removed the remains, even if in a state of partial decay, on the first opportunity that offered. to prevent the dead body of a brave from falling into the hands of an enemy appeared with them a religious duty paramount even to sepulture. as an evidence of this, sam brady, the celebrated indian-fighter, once waylaid and shot an old indian on the susquehanna who was accompanied by his two sons, aged respectively sixteen and eighteen years. the young indians ran when their father fell, and brady left the body and returned home. next morning, having occasion to pass the place, he found the body gone, and by the tracks he ascertained that it had been removed by the lads. he followed them forty miles before he overtook them, bearing their heavy burden with the will of sturdy work-horses. brady had set out with the determination of killing both, but the sight so affected him that he left them to pursue their way unharmed; and he subsequently learned that they had carried the dead body one hundred and sixty miles. brady said that was the only chance in his life to kill an indian which he did not improve. it may be that filial affection prompted the young savages to carry home the remains of their parents; nevertheless, it is known that the dead bodies of indians--ordinary fighting-men--were carried, without the aid of horses, from the juniata valley to the indian burial-ground at kittaning, and that too in the same time it occupied in making their rapid marches between the two points. but to return to our party. after surveying the ground a few moments, they followed the indian trail--no difficult matter, seeing that it was filled with blood--until they reached the summit of the mountain, some six or eight miles from the mouth of the gap. here a consultation was held, and a majority decided that there was no use in following them farther. coleman, however, was eager to continue the chase, and declared his willingness to follow them to their stronghold, kittaning. this issue, successful though it was, did not fail to spread alarm through the sparsely-settled country. people from the neighborhood speedily gathered their families into the fort, under the firm impression that they were to be harassed by savage warfare not only during the winter, but as long as the revolutionary struggle was to continue. however, no more indians appeared; this little cloud of war was soon dispelled, and the people betook themselves to their homes before the holidays of , where they remained during the winter without molestation. it is said of old tommy coleman--but with what degree of truth we are unable to say--that, about twenty years ago, hearing of a delegation of indians on their way to washington, he shouldered his trusty old rifle, and went to hollidaysburg. there, hearing that they had gone east on the canal packet, he followed them some three miles down the towing-path, for the express purpose of having a crack at one of them. this story--which obtained currency at the time, and is believed by many to this day--was probably put into circulation by some one who knew his inveterate hatred of indians. an acquaintance of his informs us that he had business in town on the day on which the indians passed through; hence his appearance there. his gun he always carried with him, even on a visit to a near neighbor. that he inquired about the indians is true; but it was merely out of an anxiety to see whether they looked as they did in days of yore. his business led him to frankstown, but that business was not to shoot indians; for, if he still cherished any hatred toward the race, he had better sense than to show it on such an occasion. he died at his residence, of old age, about fifteen years ago, beloved and respected by all. peace to his ashes! [illustration: arch spring.] chapter xx. sinking valley--the lead mines--fort roberdeau--indian murder, and heroic conduct of a woman--encounter with a savage--murder of roller and bebault, etc. one of the most prominent points in pennsylvania, during the revolution, was sinking valley, owing, in a great measure, to the fact that it had a fort, under military discipline,--where the sentry marched upon ramparts, where the reveille aroused the inmates at the dawn of day, and where people felt secure in the immediate presence of muskets with bristling bayonets, a pair of cannon, and an abundance of ammunition, and where, for a long time, the greater part of the lead used by the continental army was procured. there is every reason to believe that the lead mines of sinking valley were known to the french as early as . although they searched extensively for minerals, it is not probable that they ventured as far into the penn lands as sinking valley, unless the secret of the existence of the mines had been imparted to them by the indians. the indians of the juniata, after they had acquired the use of fire-arms, could always procure an abundance of lead. this, they said, they procured--almost pure--on a ridge, near where mifflintown now stands, in kishicoquillas valley; and also at the foot, or in one of the ravines, of the mountain. with true indian craft, the warriors kept the precise location of the lead mines a secret. the scarcity of lead, in early days, made it a valuable commodity to the settlers; and many an indian's jug was filled with whiskey on promise of showing the lead mines--promises that were always "kept to the ear, but broken to the hope." it is, therefore, pretty evident that all the lead-ore the savages displayed was procured in sinking valley;--if they obtained any at other places along the juniata, the mines have not yet been discovered, and not for the lack of many thorough searches for them, either. the supposition that the french had been prospecting extensively in sinking valley many years ago is based upon the fact that, previous to roberdeau's erecting the fort, several old drifts or openings were discovered, as well as an irregular trench, extending from the upper to the lower lead mines,--a distance of nearly six miles. the vestiges of this trench are still visible, and there is no question but what the digging of it and the immense amount of labor necessary for its construction was performed in the full confidence that they would be rewarded by the discovery of a silver mine, or, at least, an inexhaustible bed of pure lead-ore. the fact that lead-ore existed in sinking valley was ascertained by the settlers about , and the consequence was that a number of persons took up their residence there, but without purchasing lands. the certainty of the existence of lead, and the fabulous stories of the existence of various other precious metals, induced the proprietary family to reserve it to themselves, and to that end george woods surveyed it for them a short time previous to the revolution. the earliest accounts we have of any permanent settlers in sinking valley bears date of . there is a well-authenticated story of an occurrence that once took place in , but neither names nor dates have been transmitted. mr. maguire had frequently heard the woman's name mentioned, who became quite a heroine, and lived in sinking valley until some time during the revolution; but it had slipped his memory. the story was that a man occupied a cabin in the upper end of the valley, and one day left it to go to the mouth of the bald eagle, leaving his wife and child at home. no savages had been in the neighborhood for some time, and, in fact, no friendly indians either, except some few who resided in what is now known as tuckahoe valley. fortunately, the man possessed two rifles, both of which he loaded, placed one over the chimney-piece, the other upon his shoulder, and departed on his errand. while the woman was busy attending to her household affairs, she saw two indians, partly concealed by some bushes in front of the house. in an instant she took down the loaded gun, and watched their motions through the window. in a few minutes both of them stealthily approached the house, when she pointed the gun at the foremost savage and fired; the bullet striking him in the breast, he fell to rise no more. the other savage came directly toward the house, when the woman, still retaining in her grasp the rifle, ascended a ladder to the loft, where she stood with the gun in an attitude of defiance. the quick eye of the indian detected her movements, and he followed, but with the usual caution of a savage; and when his head reached the opening, he peered into the dark garret to see his intended victim. grasping one of the puncheons which composed the floor with one hand, he attempted to draw up his rifle with the other, when a discharge followed, and he fell lifeless to the floor. the woman, more dead than alive with fear, remained for a time in the loft, but, hearing no noise, she at length ventured down-stairs, and at the foot of the ladder found the savage perfectly dead, lying in a pool of blood. she took her child out of the cradle, and started for the mouth of the bald eagle, but fortunately met her husband but a few rods from the house. all things taken into consideration, and especially the fact that the woman had never pulled the trigger of a gun before, this was probably one of the most heroic acts on record. the nearest neighbors were summoned, and, on examining into the matter, it was concluded that, after the first indian had been shot, the second one immediately cocked his rifle, and that while ascending the ladder the trigger must have been touched by a twig on the hickory rung of the ladder. the bullet had struck him under the chin, passed through his tongue, and lodged in his brain. his death was certainly an interposition of providence in behalf of the woman and her infant child. [illustration: the cave in sinking valley.] sinking valley proper never could have been much of a resort of the indians, for no traces of the existence of any villages in it have ever been discovered, neither have any relics ever been found or exhumed in it, that we can hear of, with the exception of some few arrow-heads and a skull, found near the arch springs. the attention of council was called to the existence of lead in sinking valley in a letter from major-general john armstrong to president wharton, dated yorktown, d february, . he says:-- as at present there appears to be a scarcity of the important article of lead, and it is certain a mr. harman husbands, now a member of assembly for our state, has some knowledge of a lead mine situated in a certain tract of land not far from frankstown, formerly surveyed for the use of the proprietary family. general gates, president of the board of war, having signified his earnest desire to see and converse with mr. husbands on the subject of the mine, and being greatly hurried with business, i have, at his instance, undertaken the present line, that you would please to use your influence with the house of assembly and with mr. husbands, that he, as soon as possible, may be spared to concert with the board of war on the best measures for making a trial of and deriving an early supply from that source. the general is of opinion with me, that the mine ought to--or may at least for the present--be seized by and belong to the state; and that private persons, who, without right, may have sat down on that reserved tract, should neither prevent the use of the lead nor be admitted to make a monopoly of the mine. i am of opinion that a few faithful laborers may be sufficient to make the experiment, and that the lieutenant of the county, or some other good man, may be serviceable in introducing the business. i cannot doubt the compliance of the honorable assembly and council. p.s.--it may be proper that a summary consideration be first taken, whether the state will make the effort alone or leave it to the conduct of the board of war; that, at any rate, the salutary effects, if any, may be gained to the public. the water-carriage is a great thing. _query_--whether the ore should be run into portable bars at the bank, or at middleton? at the writing of the above, some few persons had found their way to the mines, raised small quantities of ore, and smelted it; but their operations were contracted for want of tools and the proper appliances for smelting. they confined themselves to such ore as was on or near the surface, and made small oven furnaces, and smelted with charcoal. the council soon took the suggestion of general armstrong in hand; and it was resolved to give the general superintendence of the mining operations to general daniel roberdeau, then a member of congress, who went forward to carlisle to make the necessary arrangements. from that place he wrote to president wharton, on the th of april, , as follows:-- the confidence the honorable the representatives of our state have placed in me by a resolve, together with the pressing and indispensable necessity of a speedy supply of lead for the public service, induced me to ask leave of absence of congress to proceed with workmen to put their business into a proper train, and have reached this place on that errand; and, having collected men and materials, and sent them forward this day, propose to follow them to-morrow. my views have been greatly enlarged since i left york on the importance of the undertaking and hazard in prosecuting it, for the public works here are not furnished with an ounce of lead but what is in fixed ammunition; on the other hand, the prevailing opinion of people, as i advance into the country, of indian depredations shortly to commence, might not only deter the workmen i stand in need of, but affright the back settlers from their habitations, and leave the country exposed and naked. to give confidence to one and the other, i have drawn out of the public stores here twenty-five stand of arms and a quantity of gun-powder, and intended to proceed this morning, but was applied to by john caruthers, esq., lieutenant of the county, and william brown, commissary of provisions for the militia, who advised me on the subject of their respective departments, and, by the account they gave of the orders from your honorable board to them as to calling out and supplying the militia, i find the state is guarding against the incursions of the savages. this confirmed me in a preconceived intention of erecting a stockade fort in the neighborhood of the mine i am about to work, if i could stir up the inhabitants to give their labor in furnishing an asylum for their families in case of imminent danger, and thus prevent the evacuation of the country. mr. caruthers, convinced of the necessity of the work for the above purposes, condescendingly offered one company of the militia, which he expected would consist of about forty men, under my command, to co-operate in so salutary a business,--as it consisted with the orders of council respecting the station, being only a deviation of a very few miles,--and that one other company, of about the same number, should also join me, for the greater expedition, until the pleasure of council was known, which he presumed might coincide with such dispositions, otherwise it might be deranged by an immediate express; and, that the pleasure of council might be known without delay, i give this intelligence. if these measures are for the good of the public wheel, [weal,] i hope to be honored with a confirmation, and orders to the militia to exert themselves in carrying the design into immediate execution; if otherwise, i rely on the well-known candor of council that i shall not be suspected of any sinister design in leaning to an offer freely made as above, from, i believe, the best motives, much less that i have presumed to interfere with the arrangements of council, as this early notice is full proof to the contrary, as the whole is in their power as much as if nothing had passed between the lieutenant and myself. i have only to add, on this subject, that your design of patrolling-parties of good riflemen shall be encouraged by me. the commissary, mr. brown, being destitute of money, i would have spared it out of my small stock, but that, by my interference, dollars--all he asked--was supplied by a public officer here; but further sums will, he said, be soon necessary, and he expressed much concern for the scarcity of provisions. i was advised very lately, by judge mckean, of a quantity of salted beef in the neighborhood of harris's ferry; and before i left york, i applied to him by letter to advise me of the quantity and quality, with a design to purchase, as i intended to employ a much greater number of men than are already employed at the lead mine, to carry on the business with vigor. if council should think proper to order a quantity of said provisions up the juniata for the militia, i should be glad of being favored with what i want through the same channel. i intend to build such a fort as, with sufficient provisions, under the smile of providence, would enable me to defend it against any number of indians that might presume to invest it. if i am not prevented, by an opportunity of serving the state eminently by a longer stay in the wilderness, i purpose to return to my duty in congress in about three weeks. will council favor me with the exemption of a number of men, not exceeding twenty,--if i cannot be supplied by the adjutant-general, who has orders co-extensive with my want of smelters and miners from deserters from the british army,--to suffer such to come to this part of the country, contrary to a preceding order? if council should think such a measure of exemption for the public good, i should be glad to receive their orders on that head. i would not intrude my sentiments on council, but am of opinion that, besides the supplying of provisions to the militia in bedford, it is very important that the intended stockade should be seasonably furnished with that article; therefore, if it should not be thought advisable to improve the above hint, that the provisions already mentioned in the neighborhood of harris's should be left unnoticed until i shall have an opportunity of furnishing my own supplies from that stock. if i shall be advised by mr. mckean, it is in my offer. my landing is at water street, in [on the] juniata; but i could, on notice, receive any supply from standing stone. in the mean time, the persons employed went forward to the mines, and, under the direction of a scotch miner named lowrie, commenced sinking shafts and raising ore at the upper mine. general roberdeau arrived at standing stone after the tory expedition to kittaning, being, as it would appear, his second visit; the first was a mere tour of observation. from this point he wrote as follows to john carothers:-- _standing stone, april , ._ sir:--the enclosed was put into my hands, to be forwarded to you by express. the intelligence it contains is abundantly confirmed by several persons i have examined, both fugitives from the frontiers and some volunteers that have returned for an immediate supply of ammunition and provisions, to be sent forward to sinking spring valley, as the troops will be obliged to quit the service except they are supplied without delay. want of arms prevents those who would turn out. i shall furnish what i brought from carlisle as soon as they come forward; but it is very unfortunate that these arms, and the ammunition, which is coming by water, have been retarded by contrary wind, and probably the lowness of the water. to remedy this, i have despatched two canoes this morning to meet them on the way. i am giving mr. brown, who is here, every assistance in my power; but your aid is greatly wanted to stimulate the militia, and furnish arms, ammunition, pack-horses, and every thing necessary in your line of duty. the insurgents from this neighborhood, i am informed, are about thirty. one of them (hess) has been taken, and confession extorted, from which it appears that this banditti expect to be joined by three hundred men from the other side the alleghany; reports more vague mention one thousand whites and savages. the supply of provisions for so great a number renders it improbable; but, in answer to this, i have been informed by the most credible in this neighborhood, that strangers, supposed to be from detroit, have been this winter among the disaffected inhabitants, and have removed with them. if you have authority to call out the militia, in proportion to the exigence of the times, i think it of great importance that a considerable number of men should be immediately embodied and sent forward to meet the enemy; for it cannot be expected that the volunteers will long continue in service, and i find that the recruiting the three companies goes on too slowly to expect a seasonable supply from them of any considerable number. if you have not authority to call the necessary aid of militia, you, no doubt, will apply to the honorable the council, and may furnish them with my sentiments, and to the board of war for arms and ammunition. with ten men here, under the command of lieutenant cluggage, in continental service until the st of december next, i intend to move forward as soon as the arms, ammunition, and other things come forward, to afford an escort to sinking spring valley, where i shall be glad to meet as great a number of militia as you will station there, to enable me to erect a stockade, to secure the works so necessary to the public service and give confidence to the frontier inhabitants, by affording an asylum for their women and children. these objects, i doubt not, you will think worthy your immediate attention and utmost exertion, which, i can assure you,--making the fullest allowance for the timidity of some and credulity of others,--is a very serious matter; for without immediate aid the frontiers will be evacuated, for all that i have been able to say has been of no avail with the fugitives i have met on the roads,--a most distressing sight, of men, women, and children, flying through fear of a cruel enemy. i am, respectfully, sir, your most obedient, humble servant, daniel roberdeau. the enclosure spoken of in roberdeau's letter was a note from robert smith to robert cluggage, of which the following is a copy:-- sir:--be pleased to send expresses to lieutenant carothers by the first opportunity, to give him some account of insurrections on the south mountain, and likewise to inspect very closely into who is abroad at this time and upon what occasion, as there is a suspicion, by information, of other insurrections rising in other parts of the county of cumberland; and in so doing you will oblige your friend to serve, robert smith. _april , ._ the letter of gen. roberdeau, as well as smith's, were sent to president wharton by lieutenant carothers, enclosed in another of his own dated at carlisle, on the th of april. previous to this, however, he sent a letter to the council, dated on the th, in which he speaks of the deplorable condition of the frontier and the constant alarms from the tories. he said:-- the marching classes of the fifth battalion i have been obliged to send up to sinking valley and bald eagle, which will amount to near seventy privates. the frontiers in those parts have been greatly alarmed of late by a number of tories who have banded together, threatening vengeance to all who have taken the oath of allegiance to the states. this moment i have received an express from kishicoquillas for a supply of arms, and that colonel mcelevy, of bedford county, came there express himself, with an account that a body of tories, near three hundred and twenty, in and above standing stone, had collected themselves together and driven a number of the inhabitants from standing stone town. immediately colonel buchanan and colonel brown marched off with a few men who could be got equipped, and we are waiting with patience the issue. general roberdeau wrote to council on the th of april, after captain blair's return, as follows:-- _sinking spring valley, april , ._ sir:--i have little more time to refer you to the enclosed examination, taken in great haste, but correct as it respects the testimony. the confiscation of the effects of the disaffected in these parts is very irregular, and the brutality offered to the wives and children of some of them, as i have been informed, in taking from them even their wearing apparel, is shocking. i wish the magistrates were furnished with the late law respecting confiscation, and that they were more capable ministers of justice; the one i have seen is such a specimen of the popular election of these officers as i expected. i am happy to inform you that a very late discovery of a new vein promises the most ample supply; but i am very deficient in workmen. mr. glen is with me, to direct the making and burning of bricks, and is to come up to build a furnace, by which time i expect to be in such forwardness as to afford an ample supply to the army. the want of provision i dread notwithstanding the active endeavors of mr. brown, for it is scarcely to be got; therefore i beg leave to refer you to a hint on this subject in my letter from carlisle. of forty militia, i have, at most, seven with me, which retards building a stockade to give confidence to the inhabitants, who were all on the wing before i reached this. i send richard weston, under guard, to carlisle jail, to wait your orders. he is conducted by lieutenant john means, of the militia. the inhabitants are hunting the other insurgents, and hope they will all be taken, but wish any other the trouble of examining them, as my hands are full. i am, with respectful salutations to council, sir, y^r most ob^t, humb^l serv^t, dan^l roberdeau. the general speaks of the tory hess (in his first letter) as if he had been forced to confess. this is an error. hess made a voluntary confession after the return of captain blair, and after some of blair's men had partially hung him and let him off. the statement that mcelevy _reported_ at kishicoquillas that three hundred and twenty tories had driven off some of the inhabitants of standing stone town is no doubt true enough, but no such occurrence ever took place. the fears of the people no doubt prompted mcelevy to exaggerate, in order to get aid forthwith. shortly after the arrival of buchanan and brown at standing stone, the blair expedition returned, so that their services were not required. general roberdeau complained of the manner in which confiscations were conducted. he was grossly misinformed. the facts in the case are simply these:--on the receipt of the news of the disasters met by the tories at kittaning, many of the tory families fled, leaving every thing behind them. these articles, even if wearing apparel was included, could not well escape confiscation unless they were pitched into the street. there is no instance on record of the women and children of tories having any thing like wearing-apparel taken from them. if such acts were committed, they were without the sanction of the officers or the people, by outlaws who lived by plunder, who may be found in any community, and for whose acts most assuredly the patriots should not have been held accountable. general roberdeau's stay at the mines must have been brief. the next we hear of him is in a letter to vice-president bryan, dated at york, on the th of may of the same year. the direction of affairs at the mines was probably left in the hands of lowrie and cluggage. it is altogether uncertain how long the mines were carried on by government, but not longer, probably, than till the fall of ; and what the total yield of lead was during that time we cannot ascertain. in one place in the records we find an order forwarded to one of the sub-lieutenants of the county for five hundred pounds; and we also hear that quantities were issued to the militia at sundry times. there must have been some kind of a bargain existing between government and roberdeau for taking out the lead, for, in a letter to vice-president bryan for some pay due him, he says, "my late engagement in the lead-works has proved a moth to my circulating cash, and obliged me to make free with a friend in borrowing." he also says, in a letter to president reed, bearing date november , :-- sir:--permit me to ask the favor of you to make my request known to the honorable board of your presidence that they would be pleased this day to order me payment for the ten hundred pounds of lead delivered to your order some months ago. the price of that article is so enormous that i should blush to make a demand, but my necessity keeps equal pace with the rapid depreciation of our money; and particularly as i purpose leaving the city to-morrow, dependence has been had on the money in question, for my advances are insupportably great, for my defected purpose of supplying lead to continent, which, entirely through default of congress in not furnishing the necessary defences, has been entirely stopped, as the honorable the assembly have been informed. after the most diligent inquiry, i cannot find less than six dollars per pound demanded for lead by the quantity,--a price which, mr. peters just now informed me, the board of war was willing to give. this epistle near about fixes the time of the abandonment of the mines; and it also shows that lead commanded rather an exorbitant price at that time--payable, of course, in continental funds. in , sinking spring valley contained, according to an anonymous writer, "sixty or seventy families, living in log-houses." the principal portion of these were foreigners, who were taken there to work the mines. after roberdeau's project had fallen to the ground, in consequence of the scarcity of the ore and the immense expense of mining and melting it, these miners attempted for a while to carry on operations for themselves. their close proximity to the indians, and the fact that several incursions were made into the valley by the savages in search of plunder and scalps, made those men, unused to border life, quit, and seek refuge in the atlantic cities. the fort was evacuated by the government militia. nevertheless it was still a place of refuge, and was used by the settlers of sinking valley and bald eagle up to the close of the war. in , jacob roller, jr., and a man named bebault, were massacred by indians in sinking valley. few particulars of this massacre are known, and many contradictory stories still exist in regard to it. we give mr. maguire's version of it, but would at the same time state that he did not vouch for the authenticity of it, as he gathered it from the exaggerated rumors that in those days followed the recital of current events. roller, it appears was an active and energetic frontier-man, bold, fearless, and daring; and the common belief was that his unerring rifle had ended the days of many a red-skin. be that as it may, however, it is certain that the indians knew him, and marked him out for a victim long before they succeeded in despatching him. several small roving bands were in the habit of coming down into the valley after the mines were abandoned; but no favorable opportunity offered for a long time to kill roller. on one occasion, four of the settlers had met at roller's house for the purpose of going on a hunt for deer. early in the morning, when just ready to start, roller heard the breaking of a twig near his cabin. he peered out into the deep gloom of the misty morning, and discovered three indians crouching near an oak-tree. it was very evident that the indians had not been close enough to the house to ascertain the number within, and the inmates were in a state of doubt as to the number of savages. profound silence was observed, and it was resolved to shoot from the window as soon as the light was sufficiently strong to render their aim certain. the indians were evidently waiting for roller to come out of his house. at length, when they thought the proper time had come, the settlers gathered at the window, and thrust out their rifles as silently as possible. the quick eyes of the savages saw, even by the hazy light, that there were too many muzzles to belong to one man, and they took to the woods with all the speed they could command, leaving behind them a quantity of venison and dried corn, and a british rifle. on another occasion, roller had an encounter with a single indian in the woods, which probably stands unparalleled in the history of personal encounters between a savage and a white man. roller left home about seven o'clock in the morning, in search of deer. he had ranged along the edge of the mountain an hour or two, when he heard a rifle-shot but a short distance from him, and a minute had scarcely elapsed before a wounded doe came in the direction where he stood. to shoot it was but the work of an instant, because he supposed that one of his neighbors had wounded it; for the thought of the presence of indians never entered his head. yet it appears that it was an indian who fired. the indian mistook the crack of boiler's rifle for that of a companion left at the base of the mountain. under this impression, the indian, anxious to secure the doe, and roller, intent on bleeding her, both neglected one of the first precautions of the day,--viz.: to reload their rifles. roller was leaning over the doe, when he heard the crust of the snow breaking in a thicket near him. he jumped to his feet, and was confronted by the indian,--a tall, muscular fellow, who was quite as large as roller. the savage, well aware of the fact that neither of the rifles were loaded, and probably satisfied in meeting "a foeman worthy of his steel," deliberately placed his gun against a tree by the side of roller's, and, drawing his tomahawk, he cast a glance of savage delight at the white man before him, which seemed to imply that he would soon show him who was the better man of the two. roller, anticipating his intentions, drew his tomahawk and stood on the defensive. the savage made a spring, when roller jumped aside, and the indian passed. the latter suddenly wheeled, when roller struck him upon the elbow of the uplifted hand, and the hatchet fell. fearing to stoop to regain it, the savage drew his knife, and turned upon roller. they clinched, and a fearful struggle ensued. roller held the savage's right arm, so as to render useless his knife, while the indian grasped firmly the hand in which roller held his hatchet, and in this manner they struggled until they were both tripped by the carcass of the doe; still both retained their hold. roller fortunately grasped his knife, lying beside the doe, with his left hand, and thrust it into the side of the indian. the struggle now became terrible, and by one powerful effort the savage loosened himself and sprang to his feet; but roller was as quick as he was. in attempting to close again, the savage stabbed roller in the shoulder and in the arm. roller had dropped his hatchet in regaining his feet, and the combat was now a deadly one with knives. they cut and thrust at each other until their buckskin hunting-shirts were literally cut into ribbons and the crusted snow was dyed with their blood. at length, faint with the loss of blood, the combat ceased, by mutual consent, as it were, and the indian, loosening himself from roller's grasp, took his rifle and disappeared. roller stanched, with frozen snow and some tow, the only dangerous wound he had, and managed to reach his home. he was stabbed in four or five places, and it was some weeks before he fully recovered from his wounds. the skeleton of the savage, with his rifle by his side, was found the succeeding summer on the top of warrior ridge. the time of roller's death is not positively known. mr. maguire thought it was in the fall of . from subsequent evidences, three indians came down the mountain, avoiding the fort of jacob roller, sr., which was located at the head of sinking valley, and passed on down through the valley to the house of bebault, whom they tomahawked and scalped. from thence they went to the house of jacob roller, jr., who was alone at the time, his family being at his father's fort. he was murdered and scalped while at work in his corn-field. his absence from the fort at night created alarm, and early next morning a party went down to his house to see if any thing had befallen him. while searching for him, one of the men discovered blood on the bars, which soon led to the discovery of his body in the field. from the footprints in the ground, it was plain that the murder had been committed by two men and a boy between twelve and fourteen years of age. roller had been shot and scalped, his head shockingly mangled with a tomahawk, and the region of his heart was gashed with a dozen cuts and stabs made by a sharp scalping-knife. the inference was that, after shooting roller, the men induced the lad to tomahawk and stab him. in other words, they gave him a lesson in butchery and courage. bebault was found shot and scalped, although still alive,--a shocking spectacle to look upon. he was so much exhausted by the loss of blood as to be unable to give any account of the transaction. the bodies of both were taken to the fort and buried, and, as soon as possible, a large party, consisting of the rollers, beattys, rickets, &c, started in pursuit. they followed the trail for nearly fifty miles, but at last lost it, and were compelled to return without overtaking the murderers. every settler knew roller, and his death cast a universal gloom over the valley. the manner of it alarmed the settlement to such an extent that such fall crops as were still out were suffered to rot upon the field, as no force could be spared from the forts, and people would no longer risk their lives to the mercy of the marauders. jacob roller, jr., was the oldest of seven brothers, all powerful fellows, and active frontier-men. there are quite a number of the descendants of the seven brothers, who reside in various places,--some in the west, but probably a majority of them at williamsburg, or in the neighborhood of springfield furnace, in blair county. richard b. mccabe, esq., in a series of reminiscences of old times, published in , while speaking of the lead mines in sinking valley, said:-- the upper lead mine, as it is called, on the lands now belonging to a german family of the name of crissman, exhibits but the traces of former excavation, and trifling indications of ore. the lower one, about a mile in direct distance from the little juniata, was worked within my remembrance, under the superintendence of a mr. sinclair, a scotch miner from the neighborhood of carron iron-works, in the "land o' cakes." the mine was then owned by two gentlemen named musser and wells. the former, i think, lived and died in lancaster county. mr. wells was probably a philadelphian. three shafts were sunk to a great depth on the side of a limestone-hill. a drift was worked into the bowels of the hill, possibly a hundred yards, six feet high, and about the same width. this was expensive. no furnace or other device for melting the ore was ever erected at this mine. considerable quantities of the mineral still lie about the pit's mouth. the late mr. h----, of montgomery county, who had read much and practised some in mining, (so far as to sink some thousand dollars,) visited this mine in , in company with another gentleman and myself, and expressed an opinion that the indications were favorable for a good vein of the mineral. but the vast mines of lead in the west, such as mine a barton and the galena, where the manufacture of lead can be so much more cheaply carried on, must forever prevent a resumption of the business in sinking valley, unless, indeed, some _disinterested patriot_ shall procure the adoption of a _tariff of protection_ for the lead-manufacturer of the happy valley. notwithstanding mr. mccabe's prediction implied that the lead mines of sinking valley would in all probability never be worked again, some enterprising individuals from new york prospected at the upper mine so late as , and soon found, as they supposed, sufficient encouragement to sink shafts. accordingly, several were sunk, the german heirs agreeing to take a certain percentage on all ore raised. a regular company was organized, and, for a while, the "sinking valley lead mining company" stock figured among the bulls and bears of wall street, in new york. extensive furnaces for smelting, and other operations on a large scale, were _talked_ of; but suddenly, one very fine day, the ore, like the yankee's horse, "_gin eout_;" the superintendent left, the miners followed, and the stock depreciated so rapidly that it could have been purchased for about one cent on the dollar. latterly, we have heard nothing whatever of the lead mining company. there is unquestionably lead-ore still left at the upper mine; but, in order to make the mining operations pay, foreign wars must create a demand at increased prices. the people of sinking valley long entertained the idea that stores of mineral wealth still existed in it; and a legend was current that a man from the city of philadelphia, on the strength of a letter from amsterdam, came there to seek for a portion of it in the shape of a canoe-load of bullion, buried by two men many years ago. the person who searched found some of the guide-marks pointed out to him, but he did not reach the bullion. the treasure, it is generally believed to this day by the older residents, was found by a mr. isett, while engaged in digging a mill-race. this belief was based upon the fact that, previous to digging the race, mr. isett was poor, but became wealthy and abandoned the digging of the race before it was half completed. we have incidentally mentioned the name of a scotch miner taken to sinking valley by general roberdeau, named lowrie. he was the head of an illustrious line of descendants, some of whom have figured in congress, at the bar, on the bench, and in the pulpit. one of the present supreme judges of pennsylvania is a grandson of the old scotch miner, and nearly all of the name in the union are his lineal descendants. truly may it be said that sinking valley was once a place of note. chapter xxi. tories of the valley--their unfortunate expedition to join the indians at kittaning--captain john weston, the tory leader--captain thomas blair--capture of the brothers hicks--hanging a tory--narrow escape of two of weston's men, etc. a successful rebellion is a revolution; an unsuccessful attempt at revolution is a rebellion. hence, had the canadians been successful in their attempt to throw off the british yoke in , the names of the leaders would have embellished the pages of history as heroes and patriots, instead of going down to posterity as convicts transported to the penal colonies of england. had the efforts of the cubanos to revolutionize the island of cuba been crowned with success, the cowardly "_fillibusteros_" would have rated as brave men, and, instead of perishing ignominiously by the infamous garrote and starving in the dismal dungeons of spain, they would now administer the affairs of state, and receive all the homage the world pays to great and successful warriors. on the other hand, had the revolution in texas proved a failure, burleson, lamar, houston, and others, who carved their names upon the scroll of fame as generals, heroes, and statesmen, would either have suffered the extreme penalty of the mexican law, or at least occupy the stations of obscure adventurers, with all the odium which, like the poisoned shirt of nessus, clings to those who are unsuccessful in great enterprises. the same may be said of the american revolution. if those who pledged their "lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor," to make the colonies independent of all potentates and powers on earth, had lost the stake, the infamy which now clings to the memory of the tories would be attached to that of the rebels, notwithstanding the latter fought in a glorious cause, endured the heats of summer and braved the peltings of the winter's storms, exhausted their means, and shed their blood, for the sacred cause in which they were engaged. for this reason, we should not attach too much infamy to the tories _merely_ because they took sides with england; but their subsequent acts, or at least a portion of them, were such as to leave a foul blot upon their names, even had victory perched upon the cross of st. george. the american people, after the revolution, while reposing on the laurels they had won, might readily have overlooked and forgiven weak and timid men who favored the cause of the crown under the firm conviction that the feeble colonies could never sever themselves from the iron grasp of england; but when they remembered the savage barbarities of the tories, they confiscated the lands of all who were attainted with treason, drove them from the country, and attached black and undying infamy to their names. to some it may appear strange--nevertheless it is true--that, in , the upper end of the juniata valley contained nearly as many tories as it did patriots. this is not a very agreeable admission to make by one who has his home in the valley; nevertheless, some of the acts of these tories form a part of the history of the time of which we write, and must be given with the rest. let it be understood, however, that, as some of the descendants of those men, who unfortunately embraced the wrong side, are still alive and in our midst, we suppress names, because we not only believe it to be unprincipled in the extreme to hold the son responsible for the sins and errors of the fathers, but we think there is not a man in the valley now who has not patriotic blood enough in his veins to march in his country's defence at a moment's warning, if occasion required it. the great number of tories in what now constitutes huntingdon county may, in a great measure, be attributed to the fact, that, living as they did upon the frontier, they had no idea of the strength or numbers composing the "rebel" army, as they called it. they knew the king's name to be "a tower of strength;" and they knew, too, the power and resources of england. their leaders were shrewd men, who excited the fears of the king's followers by assuring them that the rebels would soon be worsted, and all of them gibbeted. the most of these tories, according to edward bell, resided in aughwick, hare's valley, on the raystown branch, in woodcock valley, at standing stone, shaver's creek, warrior's mark, and canoe creek. they held secret meetings, generally at the house of john weston, who resided a mile and a half west of water street, in canoe valley. all their business was transacted with the utmost secresy; and those who participated in their meetings did so under an oath of "allegiance to the king and death to the rebels." these meetings were frequently attended by tory emissaries from detroit, who went there advised of all the movements of the british about the lakes; and it is thought that one of these men at length gave them a piece of intelligence that sealed the doom of a majority of them. it appears that a general plan was formed to concentrate a large force of indians and tories at kittaning, then cross the mountain by the indian path, and at burgoon's gap divide,--one party march through the cove and conococheague valleys, the other to follow the juniata valley, and form a junction at lancaster, killing all the inhabitants on their march. the tories were to have for their share in this general massacre all the fine farms on the routes, and the movable property was to be divided among the indians. it would seem, however, that providence frustrated their plans. they elected john weston their captain, and marched away in the dead of night, without drums or colors, to join the savages in a general massacre of their neighbors, early in the spring of --all being well armed with rifles furnished by the british emissaries, and abundance of ammunition. they took up the line of march--avoiding all settlements--around brush mountain, and travelled through the path to kittaning. when near the fort, weston sent forward two men to announce their coming. the savages, to the number of ten or twelve, accompanied the messengers; and when they met the tories, weston ordered his men to "present arms." the order proved a fatal one; for the indians, ever suspecting treachery, thought they had been entrapped, and, without any orders, fired a volley among the tories, and killed weston and some eight, or probably ten, of his men, then turned and ran toward the town. the disheartened tories fled in every direction as soon as their leader fell. although these tories marched from the settlements under cover of night, and with the greatest possible caution, all their movements were watched by an indian spy in the employ of major cluggage. this spy was a cayuga chief, known as captain logan, who resided in the valley at the time,--subsequently at an indian town called chickalacamoose, where the village of clearfield now stands. he knew the mission of the tories, and he soon reported their departure through the settlements. of course, the wildest and most exaggerated stories were soon set afloat in regard to the number constituting weston's company, as well as those at kittaning ready to march. colonel piper, of yellow creek, george woods, of bedford, and others, wrote to philadelphia, that two hundred and fifty tories had left standing stone, to join the indians, for the purpose of making a descent upon the frontier,--a formidable number to magnify out of thirty-four; yet such was the common rumor. the greatest terror and alarm spread through the settlements, and all the families, with their most valuable effects, were taken to the best forts. general roberdeau, who had the command of the forces in the neighborhood, had left standing stone a short time previous, leaving major cluggage in command. the latter was appealed to for a force to march after weston. this he could not do, because his command was small, and he was engaged in superintending the construction of the fort at sinking valley, the speedy completion of which was not only demanded to afford protection to the people, but to guard the miners, who were using their best exertions to fill the pressing orders of the revolutionary army for lead. cluggage was extremely anxious to have weston and his command overtaken and punished, and for this purpose he tendered to captain thomas blair, of path valley, the command of all who wished to volunteer to fight the tories. the alarm was so general, that, in forty-eight hours after weston's departure, some thirty-five men were ready to march. twenty of them were from path valley, and the remainder were gathered up between huntingdon--or standing stone, as it was then still called--and frankstown.[ ] at canoe valley the company was joined by gersham and moses hicks, who went to act in the double capacity of scouts and interpreters. they were brothers, and had--together with the entire family--been in captivity among the indians for some six or seven years. they were deemed a valuable acquisition. [ ] it is to be regretted that mr. maguire was so feeble, when giving us an account of this expedition, that we feared to ask him for a repetition of the names of captain blair's command. he knew the names of all of them, but he mentioned them in such rapid succession that we only remember brotherton, jones, moore, smith, two brothers named hicks, nelson, coleman, wallack, fee, gano, ricketts, caldwell, moore, holliday, and one of the rollers. captain blair pushed on his men with great vigor over the mountain, by way of the kittaning trail; and when he arrived where the path crosses the head-waters of blacklick, they were suddenly confronted by two of captain weston's tories, well known to some of blair's men, who, on the impulse of the moment, would have shot them down, had it not been for the interference of captain blair, who evidently was a very humane man. these men begged for their lives most piteously, and declared that they had been grossly deceived by weston, and then gave captain blair a true statement of what had occurred. finding that providence had anticipated the object of their mission, by destroying and dispersing the tories, captain blair ordered his men to retrace their steps for home. night coming upon them, they halted and encamped near where loretto now stands. here it was found that the provisions had nearly run out. the men, on the strength of the reported destruction of weston, were in high spirits, built a large fire, and passed the night in hilarity, although it was raining and exceedingly disagreeable. at the dawn of day, gersham and moses hicks started out in search of game for breakfast, for some of the men were weak and disheartened for the want of food. these wood-rangers travelled three miles from the camp without anticipating any danger whatever, when gersham shot a fine elk, which, in order to make the load as light as possible, the brothers skinned and disemboweled, shouldered the hind-quarters, and were ready to return to the camp, when five indians suddenly came upon them and took them prisoners. they were again captives, and taken to detroit, from which place they did not return until after peace was declared. these men unquestionably saw and experienced enough of indian life to fill an interesting volume. in the mean time, the company becoming impatient at the continued absence of the hicks, several small parties were formed to go in search of them. one of these parties fell in with three indians, and several shots were exchanged without injuring any person. the indians took to the woods, and the men returned to the camp. the other party found the place where the elk had been skinned, and took the remains to the camp; the meat was speedily roasted and divided among the men, and the line of march again taken up. the certain capture of the guides, and the indians seen by the party in search of them, induced the belief that a larger body of them than they wished to encounter in their half-famished condition was in the neighborhood, considerably accelerated their march. the sufferings endured by these men, who were drenched by torrents of rain and suffered the pangs of hunger until they reached the settlements on the east side of the mountain, were such as can be more readily imagined than described. but they all returned, and, though a portion of them took sick, they all eventually recovered, and probably would have been ready at any time to volunteer for another expedition, even with the terrors of starvation or the scalping-knife staring them in the face. the tories who, through the clemency of captain blair, escaped shooting or hanging, did not, it seems, fare much better; for they, too, reached the settlements in an almost famished condition. fearing to enter any of the houses occupied, they passed the brush mountain into canoe valley, where they came to an untenanted cabin, the former occupants having fled to the nearest fort. they incautiously set their rifles against the cabin, entered it, and searched for food, finding nothing, however, but part of a pot of boiled mush and some lard. in their condition, any thing bearing resemblance to food was a god-send, and they fell vigorously to work at it. while engaged in appeasing their appetite, samuel moore and a companion,--probably jacob roller, sr., if we mistake not,--who were on a hunting expedition, happening to pass the cabin, saw the rifles, and immediately secured them, when mr. moore walked in with his gun cocked, and called upon the tories to surrender; which peremptory order they cheerfully complied with, and were marched to holliday's fort. on the way thither, one of them became insolent, and informed moore and his companion that in a short time they would repent arresting them. this incensed roller, and, being an athletic man, when they arrived at the fort he fixed a rope to the tory's neck, rove it over a beam, and drew him up. moore, fortunately, was a more humane man, and persuaded his companion to desist. they were afterward taken to bedford; but whether ever tried or not, we have not been able to ascertain. captain blair's men, while passing through what is now known as pleasant valley, or the upper end of tuckahoe, on their return, paid a visit to a tory named john hess, who, it is said, was armed, and waiting the return of weston to join his company. they found hess in his house, from which they took him to a neighboring wood, bent down a hickory sapling and fastened the branches of it around his neck, and, at a given signal, let him swing. the sight was so shocking, and his struggles so violent, that the men soon repented, and cut him down before he was injured to any extent. it appears from that day he was a tory no longer, joined the rangers, and did good service for his country. his narrow escape must have wrought his conversion. the tories who escaped the fatal error of the indians at kittaning never returned to their former homes. it was probably as well that they did not, for their coming was anxiously looked for, and their greeting would unquestionably have been as _warm_ a one as powder and ball could have been capable of giving. most of them made their way to fort pitt, and from thence toward the south. they eventually all sent for their families; but "the land [of the juniata valley] that knew them once knew them no more forever!" captain blair, whom we have frequently mentioned, soon after or about the close of the war moved to what is known as the mouth of blair's gap, west of hollidaysburg, where john walker now lives. he was an energetic man, and, by his untiring exertions, succeeded in getting a pack-horse road cut through his gap at an early day. his son, captain john blair, a prominent and useful citizen, flourished for many years at the same place. his usefulness and standing in the community made him probably the most conspicuous man of his day in this section; and, when huntingdon county was divided, his old friends paid a tribute to his memory in giving the new county his name. [illustration: mill creek.] chapter xxii. the tory hare--murder of loudenslager--abduction and murder of mrs. eaton and children--treatment of hare by the settlers, etc. during the troubles which followed immediately after the declaration of war, a great many depredations were committed by the tories, that were invariably charged to the indians. as we have stated in the preceding chapter, the patriots and the tories, in point of numbers, were about equally divided in many of the settlements of what now constitutes huntingdon county; yet the victims of tory wrongs could not for a long time bring themselves to believe that they were inflicted by their neighbors. barns and their valuable contents were laid in ashes, cattle were shot or poisoned, and all charged to the indians, although scouts were constantly out, but seldom, if ever, got upon their trail. in a small isolated valley, about a mile south of jack's narrows, lived a notorious tory named jacob hare. we could not ascertain what countryman hare was, nor any thing of his previous history. he owned a large tract of land, which he was exceedingly fearful of losing. hence he remained loyal to the king, under the most solemn conviction, no doubt, that the struggle would terminate in favor of the crown. he is represented as having been a man of little intelligence, brutal and savage, and cowardly in the extreme. although he did not take up arms positively against the colonists, he certainly contributed largely to aid the british in crushing them. a short time previous to the weston tory expedition, a young man named loudenslager, who resided in the upper end of kishicoquillas, left his home on horseback, to go to huntingdon, where major cluggage was enlisting men to guard the lead mines of sinking valley. it was young loudenslager's intention to see how things looked, and, if they suited, he would join cluggage's command and send his horse home. as he was riding leisurely along near the head of the valley, some five or six indians, accompanied by a white man, appeared upon an eminence, and three of them, including the white man, fired at him. three buckshot and a slug lodged in his thigh, and one bullet whistled past his ear, while one of the buckshot struck the horse. the animal took fright, and started off at a full gallop. loudenslager, although his thigh-bone was shattered and his wound bled so profusely that he left a trail of blood in his wake, heroically clung to his horse until he carried him to the standing stone fort. weak and faint from the loss of blood, when he got there he was unable to move, and some of the people carried him in and cared for him as well as they could; but he was too much exhausted to give any account of the occurrence. after some restoratives were applied, he rallied, and gave a statement of the affair. his description of the white man in company with the indians was so accurate, that the people knew at once that hare, if not the direct author, was the instigator, of this diabolical outrage. loudenslager, for want of good medical attendance or an experienced surgeon, grew worse, and the commander, to alleviate his sufferings if possible, placed him in a canoe, and despatched him, accompanied by some men, on his way to middletown,--then the nearest point of any importance; but he died after the canoe had descended the river but a few miles. the excitement occasioned by the shooting of young loudenslager was just at its height when more bad news was brought to standing stone fort. on the same day, the same party that shot loudenslager went to the house of mr. eaton, (though probably unaccompanied by hare,) in the upper end of the same valley; but, not finding any men about the house,--mr. eaton being absent,--they took captives mrs. eaton and her two children, and then set fire to all the buildings. the work of devastation was on the point of being completed when mr. eaton reached his home. he did not wait to see his house entirely reduced to ashes, but rode to standing stone as fast as his horse could carry him, and spread the alarm. the exasperated people could hardly muster sufficient patience to hear the particulars before they started in pursuit of the enemy. they travelled with all the speed that energetic and determined men could command, scouring the country in every direction for a period of nearly a week, but heard no tidings of mrs. eaton and her children, and were forced to give her up as lost. this aroused the wrath of the settlers, and many of them were for dealing out summary punishment to hare as the instigator; but, in the absence of proof, he was not even brought to trial for the loudenslager murder, of which he was clearly guilty. the act, however, put people upon their guard; the most notorious known tory in the county had openly shown his hand, and they knew what to expect of him. mr. eaton--broken-hearted, and almost distracted--hunted for years for his wife and children; and, as no tidings could be had of them, he was at last reluctantly forced to believe that the savages had murdered them. nor was he wrong in his conjecture. some years afterward the blanched skeletons of the three were found by some hunters in the neighborhood of warrior's mark. the identity of the skeletons was proved by some shreds of clothing--which were known to belong to them--still clinging to their remains. when captain blair's rangers, or that portion of them raised in path valley, came across to the juniata, they had an old drum, and--it is fair to infer, inasmuch as the still-house then seemed to be a necessary adjunct of civilization--sundry jugs of whiskey accompanying them. at jack's narrows lived a burly old german, named peter vandevender, who, hearing the noise, came to his door in his shirt-sleeves, with a pipe in his mouth. "waas ter tuyfel ish ter meaning of all dish?" inquired old vandevender. "we are going to hunt john weston and his tories," said one of the men. "hunt dories, eh? well, captin plair, chust you go ant hunt chack hare. he ish te tamtest dory in bennsylvania. he dold weshton ash he would half a gompany to help him after he come mit ter inchins." what vandevender told blair was probably true to the letter; for one of the inducements held out to the tories to accompany weston was that they would be reinforced by all the tories in the county as soon as the first blow was struck; but he was _not_ raising a company. he was too cowardly to expose himself to the danger attending such a proceeding. as soon as vandevender had communicated the foregoing, the company, with great unanimity, agreed to pay hare a visit forthwith. the drum was laid aside, and the volunteers marched silently to his house. a portion of them went into the house, and found hare, while blair and others searched the barn and outbuildings to find more of the tories. on the arrival of captain blair at the house, some of his men, in a high state of excitement, had a rope around hare's neck, and the end of it thrown over a beam, preparatory to hanging him. blair interposed, and with great difficulty prevented them from executing summary vengeance upon the tory. in the mean time, one of the men sharpened his scalping-knife upon an iron pot, walked deliberately up to hare, and, while two or three others held him, _cut both his ears off close to his head_! the tory, during these proceedings, begged most piteously for his life--made profuse promises to surrender every thing he had to the cause of liberty; but the men regarded his pleadings as those of a coward, and paid no attention to them, and, after cropping him, marched back to vandevender's on their route in search of weston. on their arrival at the standing stone, they communicated to the people at the fort what they had done. the residents at the stone only wanted a piece of information like this to inflame them still more against hare, and, expressing regrets that he had not been killed, they immediately formed a plot to go down and despatch him. but there were tories at the stone. hare soon got wind of the affair, placed his most valuable effects upon pack-horses, and left the country. the failure of weston's expedition, and the treatment and flight of hare, compelled many tories, who had openly avowed their sentiments, to leave this section of the country, while those who were suspected were forced into silence and inactivity, and many openly espoused the cause of the colonies. still, many remained who refused to renounce their allegiance to the king, and claimed to stand upon neutral ground. those who had taken up arms against great britain, however, declared that there were but two sides to the question, and no neutral ground;--that those who were not for them were against them. hare was declared and proclaimed an "attainted traitor," and his property was confiscated and sold. who became the purchaser we could not ascertain; but, after peace was declared and the treaty between the united states and great britain ratified, hare returned, and claimed the benefit of that part of the treaty which restored their possessions to all those of his majesty's subjects that had not taken up arms against the colonists. as there was no direct evidence that he killed loudenslager, congress was compelled to purchase back and restore his property to him. he lived and died on his farm. the venerable mrs. armitage, the mother-in-law of senator cresswell, of hollidaysburg, remembers seeing him when she was quite young and he an old man. she says he used to conceal the loss of his ears by wearing his hair long. during life he was shunned, and he died unregretted; but, we are sorry to say, his name is perpetuated: the place in which he lived, was cropped, and died, and is still called hare's valley. the people of huntingdon should long since have changed it, and blotted from their memory a name linked to infamy and crime. chapter xxiii. moses donaldson--capture and murder of his wife and two children. moses donaldson lived in hartslog settlement, where hatfield's iron-works are now located, near alexandria. in , after the first indian outrages had been committed, the neighboring settlers met, and resolved for their better protection to build a stockade fort somewhere near the river. after the building was decided upon, the location became a subject of contention--one party wanting the fort at lytle's, another at donaldson's, and for a while party strife ran high. lytle, however, succeeded in out-generalling donaldson,--not because his location was the most eligible, but simply because he was the most popular man. the fort was built at lytle's, under donaldson's protest, who declared that he never would go into it,--that if danger threatened he would fort at standing stone,--a vow he religiously kept, at the expense of the loss of his wife and two children, we regret to say. he continued living at his own house until the spring of , when indian alarms became so frequent that he removed his family to huntingdon. in a short time the fears of the people were somewhat lulled, and most of them returned to their homes again. mr. donaldson, finding his farm-work pressing, returned to his home about the first of june, and prepared to make hay. on the th of the month, a girl who was after cows discovered in anderson's bottom, near the mouth of shaver's creek, an encampment of some five or six indians. without their discovering her, she made her way back and communicated the intelligence, and the news was soon circulated among the settlers. the five indians were considered the advance of a large party; otherwise they might readily have been cut off by a dozen resolute men. instead of making the least effort to ascertain the number of the savages, the people fled to the forts in the utmost consternation. on the same evening, a convoy of canoes landed at the mouth of shaver's creek, and the soldiers stopped at an old inn on the bank of the creek. they had taken a load of supplies to water street landing for the lead mine fort, and were returning with lead-ore, consigned to middletown for smelting. the state of affairs was laid before the commander of the convoy, and mr. anderson prevailed upon him to stay a day or two, until the alarm had subsided. on the afternoon of the th, donaldson was warned that the indians had been seen a second time, and advised to fort at lytle's without delay. this he refused to do point-blank, but immediately packed up, put his family into a canoe, and started for huntingdon. when he reached the mouth of shaver's creek, he tied the canoe to the root of a tree at the bank of the creek, and went up to transact some business with mr. anderson, accompanied by his oldest child--a lad nine or ten years of age,--leaving his wife and two younger children in the canoe. after an absence of half an hour, the boy returned to the canoe; but, as he came in sight of it, he observed a number of indians taking his mother and the children out of it. he hastened back to the inn and told the soldiers, but they considered it a fabrication, and paid no attention to what he said. from thence he hastened to anderson's and told his father, who immediately followed him, and found it only too true that his family had been abducted--that, too, within the hearing, and almost within sight, of twelve soldiers. donaldson went to the inn, and appealed to the commandant to start his force in immediate pursuit. this, however, was found totally impracticable, as they had been making a sort of holiday by getting drunk, and were unfit for duty of any kind; which was to be regretted, for the timely notice of the outrage would easily have enabled them, had they been in condition, to overtake the savages. early next morning the soldiers started in pursuit in one direction, and the people of the settlement formed into a strong party and went in another, and in this manner the entire country was scoured. toward evening a bonnet belonging to one of the children was found in a rye-field, near where the maguire farm now stands, which indicated the direction the savages had taken. next day the search was resumed and continued until night; but no tidings whatever could be obtained of the route the savages had taken, and they were finally obliged to give them up as lost. several years elapsed before their fate was known. thomas johnston and peter crum, while hunting up spruce creek, probably a mile and a half from its mouth, came upon the camp of a friendly indian family, near whose wigwam an old woman was engaged in boiling sugar, and who informed them that she had long been waiting for some white hunters to come up, as she had something to show them. she then led the way, and, half a mile off, showed them the skeletons of a grown person and two children. this news was communicated to mr. donaldson, and he had the skeletons taken to shaver's creek, with a view of interring them. but here a new difficulty arose. mr. eaton had not yet recovered his family, abducted from kishicoquillas valley, and there was no reason why these skeletons might not be those of his family. the matter was finally determined by a weaver, who testified to a piece of mrs. donaldson's short-gown, found near her remains. when we reflect over this act of savage atrocity, we are free to confess that we look upon it as one of the most inhuman and revolting on record. the woman, with her two children, taken to a neighboring wood, and there, in all probability, tomahawked and scalped in succession,--the children witnessing the agony of the dying mother, or perhaps the mother a witness to the butchery of her helpless offspring,--the very recital chills the blood. the son, who accompanied his father to anderson's, died at a very advanced age, at or near lock haven, a year or two ago. william donaldson, of hollidaysburg, is a son of moses donaldson by a second wife. chapter xxiv. depredations at the mouth of spruce creek--murder of levi hicks-- scalping of his child. we have already mentioned the hicks family in a preceding chapter, and incidentally mentioned their captivity for a number of years among the indians. we have made the most unremitting exertions, yet we have failed to ascertain any thing like a satisfactory account of this remarkable family. the name of gersham hicks figures in miner's "history of wyoming" as an indian guide, while in the archives he is noticed as an indian interpreter, previous to the war of the revolution. where they were taken, or when released, is not positively known. one thing, however, is quite certain: that is, that they made themselves masters of both the habits and language of many of the indians. mrs. fee thinks they came to water street immediately after their release from captivity, and settled there. during their captivity they imbibed the indian habit to such a degree that they wore the indian costume, even to the colored eagle-feathers and little trinkets which savages seem to take so much delight in. gersham and moses were unmarried, but levi, the elder, brought with him a half-breed as his wife, by whom he had a number of children. they all settled at water street, and commenced the occupation of farming. subsequently, levi rented from the bebaults the tub-mill at or near the mouth of spruce creek. [illustration: tunnel on the pennsylvania central road at the mouth of spruce creek.] when the indian troubles commenced in the spring of , he was repeatedly urged to go either to lytle's or lowry's fort, and let the mill stand until the alarm had subsided. hicks, however, obstinately refused, declaring that he was safe. it is thus apparent that he relied upon his intimate knowledge of the indian character and language for safety, in case any of the marauders should find their way to what he looked upon as a sort of an out-of-the-way place,--a fatal case of misplaced confidence, notwithstanding it was asserted that the fall previous a party had attacked his cabin, and that, on his addressing them in their own language, they had desisted. on the th of may, , hicks started his mill in the morning, as was his usual custom, and then repaired to breakfast. while in the house he procured a needle and thread, returned to the mill, replenished the hopper, and then seated himself near the door and commenced mending a moccasin. he had been occupied at this but a minute or two before he heard a rustling in the bushes some ten or fifteen yards in front of him. the idea of there being indians in the vicinity never entered his head; nobody had seen or heard of any in the settlement. consequently, in direct violation of an established custom, he walked forward to ascertain the cause of the commotion in the bushes, leaving his rifle leaning against the mill. he advanced but one or two steps before he was shot through the heart. his wife, who was in the house at the time, hearing the report, ran to the door, and in an instant comprehended how matters stood. she opened the back door, ran down the river to a fording, crossed over, and, with all the speed she could command, hastened over the mountain to lytle's fort. near alexandria she met a man on horseback, who, noticing her distracted condition, demanded what the matter was. she explained as best she could, when the man turned back and rode rapidly toward the fort to apprise the people of what had occurred. it was then that the woman fairly recovered her senses, and, on looking around for the first time, she noticed her little son, about ten years old, who had followed her. the sight of him reminded her of her family of children at home, at the mercy of the savages, and all the mother's devotion was aroused within her. she picked up her boy, and, exhausted as she was, hastened toward the fort with him. as it subsequently appeared, one of the children of mrs. hicks,--a girl between three and four years of age,--directly after her escape, went out to see her father, just while the savages were in the act of scalping him. she was too young to comprehend the act clearly, but, seeing the blood about his head, she commenced crying, and screamed, "my pappy! my pappy! what are you doing to my poor pappy?" one of the indians drew his tomahawk from his belt and knocked the child down, after which he scalped it; and, without venturing to the house, the savages departed. mrs. hicks reached the fort, and the news of the murder soon spread over the country, but the usual delays occurred in getting up a scout to follow the marauders. some declared their unwillingness to go unless there was a large force, as the depredators might only be some stragglers belonging to a large party; others, that their rifles were out of order; and others again pleaded sickness. in this way the day slipped around, and in the mean time the savages got far beyond their reach, even in case the scout could have been induced to follow them. next morning, however, a party mustered courage and went over to the mill, where they found hicks scalped on the spot where he fell, and his rifle gone. the inside of the house presented one of the saddest spectacles ever witnessed in the annals of savage atrocities. two of the children were lying upon the floor crying, and the infant in the cradle, for the want of nourishment had apparently cried until its crying had subsided into the most pitiful moanings; while the little girl that had been scalped sat crouched in a corner, gibbering like an idiot, her face and head covered with dry clotted blood! of course, considering the start the indians had, it was deemed useless to follow them; so they buried hicks near the mill, and removed the family to the fort. it may seem a little singular, nevertheless it is true, that the child, in spite of its fractured skull and the loss of its scalp, actually recovered, and lived for a number of years after the outrage, although its wounds were never dressed by a physician. it was feeble-minded, however, owing to the fracture. as no other family resided near the mill, no person could be induced to take it after hicks was murdered, and it stood idle for years. the murder of hicks created the usual amount of alarm, but no depredations followed in the immediate neighborhood for some time after his death. chapter xxv. stone valley--mccormick's fort--murder of mrs. houston and james mcclees--a dealer in grain of the olden time. in consequence of the rumors so rife in of the country being filled with indians, the people of stone valley, north of huntingdon, determined to build a fort. while concerting the measures for its erection, a mr. mccormick stated that, inasmuch as the population of the valley was not very large, and the labor and expense attending the erection of a fortress very great, he would agree that his house should be put into repair, pierced for defence, and that the people should fort with him. this proposition was eagerly accepted by the people, who went willingly to work; and in a very short time his house was converted into fort mccormick, into which nearly all the settlers of stone valley fled at once. among others who took up their residence there was an old lady named houston, who had resided some seven miles up the valley. she was a very amiable old lady, though somewhat garrulous, for which some of the settlers were disposed to ridicule her. it appears she had a small patch of flax out, which gave her more trouble than a hundred acres of wheat would occasion some men. she was constantly lamenting the certain loss of her flax, until the very word flax got to be a byword. as the time for pulling the flax approached, the old woman importuned every man in the fort to accompany her to her house only for a day, but her appeals were all in vain; some declared they would not go so far from the fort for a ten-acre field of flax, while an old soldier intimated that he would be pretty sure to be _flaxed_ if he went. in short, her request was treated as a jest. nevertheless, the old woman indulged some sort of a vague hope that somebody would help her out of her difficulty, and she continued talking about the flax. one morning, about the middle of august, a number of men were seated in front of the fort, when some one started the ever laughable theme of the old woman's flax-patch; and, while conversing with the usual levity upon the old woman's trials, a young man, named james mcclees, joined the party. after listening to them some time, he got up and said-- "boys, it is bad enough to be too cowardly to help the old woman gather her flax; to ridicule her misfortune is a shame." "if you think it is cowardly, why don't you go and help her pull it?" said one of the men, who was evidently piqued at what had been said. "that is just my intention," said he. "mrs. houston, get ready, and i'll go with you to pull your flax." the dream was at last to be realized, and the old woman's heart was overflowing with gratitude. in a few moments she was ready. mcclees shouldered his rifle, and the two departed--alas! to return no more. mcclees was but eighteen years of age, but extremely well-proportioned, and his vocabulary knew no such word as fear. sad fate, that his noble and generous impulses should have been the means of cutting him off in the very flower of youth! of the manner of his death there was no living witness to speak; but on and around his body, when found, there were unmistakable signs of such actions as are supposed to speak as plain as words. both had promised to return to the fort in the evening, or the evening following at farthest. the first evening passed, and they came not; the second evening, and still no sign of them. this created alarm, and the necessary arrangements were made to go in search of them. as soon as the ordinary duty of the morning was performed, as many armed men as it was deemed safe to spare were sent up the valley. when they arrived at mrs. houston's house they found all quiet, and no signs of either mrs. houston or mcclees having been there. they then started up the hill-side, toward the flax-patch; but before they reached it they found the dead body of mrs. houston. she had been killed apparently by cuts from a hatchet on the forehead, and her scalp was taken off. the flax was untouched, which rendered it probable that she was attacked and killed while on her way to the patch. a hundred yards farther on lay mcclees, literally covered with blood, and stabbed and cut in every part of his body. as there were no bullet-wounds upon him, it was evident that the fight was a hand-to-hand encounter, and the struggle must have been a long, fearful, and bloody one. that mcclees had sold his life dearly was also very apparent. his rifle was gone; but by his side lay his knife, bloody, and the point broken off. near him lay a tomahawk, also bloody, and the ground was clotted with blood for a circuit of twenty yards. in addition to these, eagle-feathers, beads, and shreds of buckskin, were found lying about where the struggle had taken place. the nature of this fearful fight could only be guessed at by these tokens; but the true state of it was revealed in a few years after; for within a mile of where the struggle took place, on the bench of the mountain, two hunters found the remains of three indians covered with bark. the supposition was that mcclees had been attacked by five of them, and killed two outright and mortally wounded a third before they despatched him. a hero such as this brave youth proved himself in that desperate encounter certainly deserved a better fate. in concluding our reminiscences of stone valley we cannot omit giving an anecdote, characteristic of the times, told us by an old friend. far up stone creek lived an old gentleman named o'burn. in , being a thrifty farmer, he raised nearly a thousand bushels of wheat. the year following, times became very hard--wheat was high, and commanded a price which placed it almost beyond the reach of poor men. the fact that o'burn had a large quantity of wheat attracted to his house numerous customers; and the manner in which he dealt with them may be inferred from the following:-- a man reputed to be rich rode up to his house, when mr. o'burn made his appearance in the doorway. "mr. o'burn, have you any wheat?" "plenty of it. have you the money to pay for it?" "certainly." "a horse to carry it, and bags to put it in, i see." "oh, yes; every thing," said the stranger. "well, then," replied o'burn, "you can go to big valley for your wheat; mine is for people who have no money to pay, no bags to put it in, and no horses to carry it off!" we regret to say that the race of o'burns became extinct some years ago. chapter xxvi. tuckahoe--murder of john guilliford. in the valley of tuckahoe, stretching from altoona to the mouth of the bald eagle, there were some depredations committed, but never any of a very serious nature, except upon one occasion. the cause of this can be traced, in a great measure, to the fact that thomas and michael coleman and michael wallack lived in the upper end of the valley. these men were so well known and so much feared by the indians, that, although the kittaning path, leading to the bald eagle valley, ran directly through tuckahoe, they always avoided it, for fear of finding those old and experienced hunters ambuscaded along their route. besides, captain logan, a friendly chief, lived for some years in what is now known as logan's valley. he was also known and feared, and he was constantly on the watch to guard against the incursions of hostile savages. add to this the fact that the valley was thinly populated, and the risk attending the hunting for scalps immeasurably great, small roving parties, on but two or three occasions, made their appearance in tuckahoe. in the fall of , two savages took captive two children while at play, near a cabin located somewhere in the neighborhood of where mr. hutchinson now lives. thomas coleman happened to be out hunting, and saw them come up the path. each one was carrying a child, but neither of them had fire-arms, so that he felt quite at ease. from behind the tree where he stood, he might easily have shot one of the savages, but he would not run the risk for fear of hitting the child; so, waiting until they had passed him, he jumped into the path, levelled his gun at them, and shouted "_surrender_!" the affrighted savages dropped the children and disappeared in the woods. on another occasion they entered the valley, stole three horses, and set fire to a stable. a number of pioneers tracked them through the old war-path to the top of the mountain; which was quite as far as it was prudent to venture, as that was considered the line dividing the white settlements from the indian country. the only massacre in tuckahoe ever committed by the savages took place in the summer of . a man named john guilliford cleared a small patch of land a short distance south of where blair furnace now stands, and erected his cabin near where john trout's house is. in the spring of , he abandoned his ground and cabin after the first alarm of indian depredations, and sought safety in fetter's fort. in the course of the summer, after the alarm had somewhat subsided, guilliford went down to see how his crops were progressing. his body was found the same day by coleman and milligan. it was lying at the threshold of his cabin door; so that, in all probability, he was shot just as he was coming out of his house. coleman and milligan dug a grave near the hut, and buried him as he was, without a coffin. the most remarkable feature about this murder was that guilliford was not scalped. when we remember that scalps were paid for at the british garrison at detroit, the omission to scalp guilliford appears almost inexplicable. coleman and milligan went in search of the indians, but did not succeed in getting upon their trail. chapter xxvii. early settlement of scotch valley--the moore family--massacre of william moore--indian shot by a boy, etc. the moore family, whose name is identified with scotch valley as the original settlers, came to this country probably about the year , from scotland. it consisted of samuel moore, his seven sons and two daughters,--viz.: daniel, william, john, samuel, james, david, joseph, elizabeth, and jane. their first stopping-place in the interior was in kishicoquillas valley, where the hardy scots commenced clearing land; but the yield not being such as they were led to expect, the two elder brothers, daniel and william, were sent abroad by the old patriarch to look for better land and more of it. accordingly, they shaped their course westward, prospecting as they went, until they reached what is now known as scotch valley. how they found their way to that place, an unbroken wilderness, five miles from the nearest human habitation, or what the inducements were for stopping there, were puzzling questions _then_. let the reader _now_ look at the fine farms of scotch valley, and he will see that, in selecting the spot, the moores were actuated by a sagacity that enabled them to see those fine lands blooming like the rose in the future. they immediately occupied a large tract of land, built a cabin, and commenced clearing. the year following they went to kishicoquillas, and brought on the father and the remainder of the family. beneath their sturdy blows the giant oaks fell, and the wilderness was turned into fields of waving grain, and they soon had a home that made them even forget the highlands of scotland. when the war broke out they were all stanch republicans, active and energetic men, and were foremost in all measures of defence for the frontier. william moore, second son of samuel, a useful man, loved and respected by all who knew him, met his death at the hands of an indian, in august, . it appears that one morning two of their horses were missing, when william and a lad named george mccartney, about fourteen years of age, started in pursuit of them--as a matter of course not neglecting the caution of the day, to take their rifles with them. at that time two paths led to fetter's fort from scotch valley,--one by way of frankstown, through adam holliday's farm, fording the river near where the plank-road bridge now crosses south of hollidaysburg; the other led through the flat, back of the presbyterian graveyard, and north of hollidaysburg. this was the most direct route; but, in order to make a thorough research, they went by way of the river road, and reached fetter's fort without obtaining any tidings of the missing animals. after remaining at the fort a short time, they started on their way home by the back or direct road. no indians having been seen in the country for some time, they travelled on with a feeling of entire security, and never for a moment entertained the remotest idea of coming in contact with savages. when they came to a pile of drift-wood,--in what is now known as mccahen's bottom, half a mile west of hollidaysburg,--while moore was in the act of trying to get over the drift, he was shot by an indian from an ambuscade. the bullet entered his back, passed through the left ventricle of the heart, and he fell dead against the drift. mccartney, who was some distance off, on the impulse of the moment commenced running. in the mean time the indian had come from his place of concealment, and, seeing him, drew his tomahawk and followed. mccartney soon finding that the savage was the fleetest, and must overtake him, cocked his gun while running, suddenly wheeled, and aimed at the indian. this unexpected defence from a mere boy rather took the indian by surprise, and he jumped behind a tree, and mccartney did the same, still keeping the aim ready to shoot in case the indian moved from the cover of the tree. while in this position, the indian commenced loading his rifle, and, after ramming home the powder, he accidentally dropped his ramrod, which he stooped to pick up; in doing which he exposed his posterior, which mccartney took advantage of, and fired. the indian gave a scream of mingled rage and pain, dropped his rifle, and ran, picking up leaves on his way, which he endeavored to thrust into the bullet-hole to stanch the blood. young mccartney, satisfied with the exploit, and thankful that his life had been spared, did not pursue the savage. his first impulse was to do so; but fearing that the chase might lead him into an encampment of the enemy, since it invariably turned out that where there was one more were not far off, he returned with all despatch to fetter's fort. the men at the fort had heard both shots, but supposed that moore and mccartney had started game of some kind; consequently, they were unprepared for any news of the kind. fortunately, there happened to be a very large force at fetter's at the time, and, under the impression that there must be more indians in the neighborhood, a strong, experienced force at once started out. when they arrived at the drift, they found the body of moore, stark in death, leaning against it, with his rifle grasped in his uplifted hands, as if in the very act of trying to climb over. his body was removed to the fort by some of the men, while the remainder commenced searching for the indian. by his blood they tracked him nearly a mile up the run, and even found a place where he had evidently stopped to wash the blood off; but at length they lost all traces of his trail. they continued their march, however, to gap run, in order to ascertain whether there was any fresh indian trail. in their conjectures that there were other indians near they were not mistaken. half a mile west of where hutchinson's mill now stands, they found traces of a fresh encampment of a very large party, whose trail they followed several miles up the kittaning war-path; but they soon abandoned all hope of overtaking them, and returned to the fort. the dead body of the indian shot by mccartney was found, some time afterward, by a mr. hileman, up kittaning run, where he had secreted himself by the side of a log, under some bushes, and completely covered himself with brush and leaves previous to giving up the ghost, in order to prevent the whites from finding his body. the ruling passion was strong even in death! his rifle, which was kept at fetter's, as a trophy, was a brass-barrelled smooth-bore, with the british coat of arms stamped upon it,--conclusive evidence that the entire savage band had been armed and equipped by his majesty's officers at detroit, and were on a scalp-hunting expedition. during the troubles of - , when the frontier-men fled before the assaults and merciless massacres of the indians, the moores returned to their former residence in kishicoquillas. but the restless scots did not remain away from their farm long. some of them returned in a year; but the old patriarch, samuel, did not return until after the surrender of cornwallis. he was then accompanied by a colony of scotchmen, consisting of the crawfords, irwins, fraziers, stewarts, and macphersons, and others, constituting from twenty-five to thirty persons. the late mr. maguire, then quite a lad, was at shaver's creek when they passed on their way west. they were all in full highland costume, with bonnet and kilt, armed with claymores and queen anne muskets. he had seen indians before, but never any highlanders, and, while listening to their gaelic dialect, he wondered to himself what tribe they belonged to. these men settled in the upper end of the valley; hence the name--"scotch valley." by their sinewy arms and sturdy blows the oaks of the forest fell, and by their unremitting toil to gain a home in the new world they encountered and triumphed over the most formidable obstacles, until the valley--its natural soil taken into consideration--became one of the finest of its size in the country. the moore family were the first persons who conceived the idea of running arks down the river from frankstown. this they accomplished successfully before the close of the last century, and afterward engaged in running flat-boats between frankstown and middletown. of the third generation of the moore family but three remain in this vicinity,--viz.: t. b. moore, in hollidaysburg; jesse moore, at the old homestead, in scotch valley; and johnston moore, in ebensburg. others, however, live in the west; and the fourth generation, whose number we are not able to compute, are scattered over the union. the descendants of the men who wound their way up the juniata, in highland costume, nearly three-quarters of a century ago, with all their worldly possessions upon pack-horses, are also numerous; and many of them have risen to wealth and eminence by their own unaided exertions. chapter xxviii. woodcock valley--massacre of elder--the breckenridge family--fight with, and destruction of, captain phillips's scout by the indians--cruel massacre of ten men. woodcock valley, located north of huntingdon, is one of the oldest-settled valleys in the county. in the days of indian depredations, it was a favorite haunt of the savage, whose great war-path from the west to the east went through a part of it. the first murder committed in it during the revolutionary struggle occurred at coffey run, near the present residence of mr. entriken. the victim was a man named elder, the husband of the woman mentioned in a preceding chapter as having been carried a captive to detroit by the indians. as there is no living witness who was present, the circumstances connected with his massacre are merely traditionary. he was on his way home in company with richard shirley, when he was shot and scalped; in which condition he was found by a scouting party a day or two after the occurrence. this was in , and the same year a number of captives were taken from the valley; but the accounts are so vague that we can give no reliable data. the breckenridge family lived about three miles south-east of mcconnelstown, on the road which now leads from huntingdon to bedford, on the farm at present occupied by ludwig hoover. the family consisted of the father, mother, two sons,--john and thomas, aged respectively eighteen and sixteen years,--a girl aged fourteen, another aged three years, and an infant at the breast. they had, during the alarms of massacres, forted at hartsock's fort, which was almost in sight of their farm; but in the spring of , the alarm having in a great measure subsided, they, as well as the rest of the settlers, went home, and the fort was abandoned, under the full impression that they would have no further use for it,--that indian depredations were ended. in this they were most signally mistaken. in july--probably about the middle of the month,--one morning, directly after breakfast, the sons, john and thomas, started in search of a horse that had broken from his enclosure the night previous. after they had gone, the old lady occupied herself in her household duties, while the oldest daughter repaired to the spring-house in the meadow,--a distance of probably five hundred yards from the house,--for the purpose of churning. while engaged in this occupation, she was suddenly confronted by five indians. probably overcome by fright, she made no effort to escape, but screamed at the top of her voice. the father, without suspecting the real cause of the difficulty, started, unarmed, in the direction of the spring-house, and when within twenty yards of it a bullet from one of the indian rifles struck him, and he fell dead in the path. mrs. breckenridge was looking out of the window at the time, and, fearing that their next move would be in the direction of the house, she snatched the infant out of the cradle, and, taking in her arms the other child, escaped. instinctively she took the path toward standing stone,--a direction in which the indians were not likely to follow. she pursued the path along crooked run for a few miles, and then sank exhausted upon the ground. as soon as she rallied, she endeavored to continue her way to the stone; but to her dismay she found that she had wandered from the path and was lost. in this condition, she wandered about the woods with her children the whole day and the entire night. next day, the oldest child complained bitterly of hunger, when the mother fortunately came to a rye-field. the rye was just beginning to head, in spots, and she gathered a number of heads, rubbed out the kernels, and gave them to the child. as the operation was a tedious one, in consequence of the scarcity of the grain, she took off her under-garment, wrapped up the infant and laid it down, and went to work to procure sufficient to appease the appetite of the child, and while so engaged she unconsciously wandered a considerable distance from the infant. john and thomas returned to the house with the horses late in the afternoon; and, seeing their father and sister murdered, believed that the mother, with the other children, had either met the same fate or been carried into captivity. they lost no time in making their way to standing stone fort, where they communicated the sad intelligence. by that time it was nearly dark, and entirely too late to make any further effort; but at the dawn of day, next morning, a posse of men went to breckenridge's house, where the murdered father and daughter lay, and, while part of the people employed themselves in removing the bodies preparatory to burial, another party scoured the country in search of the mother, being encouraged to do so by seeing her tracks leading toward crooked run. late in the afternoon they found her, at the edge of the rye-field, leading her child; but the anguish she had endured had in a measure unsettled her mind, and she was unable to tell where she had left the infant. it was deemed advisable to remove her to the fort. by next day, she had so far recovered as to be able to state that she left the infant in the field; whereupon a party set out, and returned with it in the evening. the infant had apparently not suffered a great deal, except from the annoyance of flies. _its entire face was fly-blown_; and yet, strange to say, she recovered, grew to be a strong, healthy woman, got married, and was the mother of isaac b. meek, esq., formerly a member of the legislature from centre county, and, we are told, died but a few years ago. john breckenridge became a distinguished presbyterian preacher. mr. maguire was under the impression that he located among his relatives in kentucky; but dr. junkin, of hollidaysburg, whose knowledge of church history cannot be questioned, informs us that he officiated for many years in the first presbyterian church ever built in washington city. woodcock valley was the scene of the massacre of captain phillips's scout,--one of the most cruel and cold-blooded murders on record,--a massacre which hurried into eternity ten as brave men as ever ranged the woods of the juniata valley. the following is colonel piper's official report of the massacre, made to president reed. it contains no particulars, and is also inaccurate; nevertheless, we deem it worthy of a place, as it bears an official stamp. we copy it from the archives of :-- _bedford county, august , ._ sir:--your favor of the third of june, with the blank commissions, have been duly received; since which we have been anxiously employed in raising our quota of pennsylvania volunteers, and at the same time defending our frontiers. but, in our present shattered situation, a full company cannot be expected from this county, when a number of our militia companies are entirely broken up and whole townships laid waste, so that the communication betwixt our upper and lower districts is entirely broken, and our apprehensions of immediate danger are not lessened, but greatly aggravated by a most alarming stroke. captain phillips, an experienced, good woodman, had engaged a company of rangers for the space of two months, for the defence of our frontiers, was surprised at his fort on sunday, the th of july, when the captain, with eleven of his company, were all taken and killed. when i received the intelligence, which was the day following, i marched, with only ten men, directly to the place, where we found the house burnt to ashes, with sundry indian tomahawks that had been lost in the action, but found no person killed at that place; but, upon taking the indian tracks, within about one half-mile we found ten of captain phillips's company, with their hands tied, and murdered in the most cruel manner. this bold enterprise so alarmed the inhabitants that our whole frontiers were upon the point of giving way; but, upon application to the lieutenant of cumberland county, he hath sent to our assistance one company of the pennsylvania volunteers, which, with the volunteers raised in our own county, hath so encouraged the inhabitants that they seem determined to stand it a little longer. we hope our conduct will receive your approbation; and you'll please to approve it by sending your special order to our county commissioner to furnish these men with provisions and other necessaries until such times as other provisions can be made for our defence. as colonel smith will deliver this, i beg leave to recommend you to him, as he is very capable to give full satisfaction to you, in every particular, of our present circumstances. i have the honor to be, with all due respect, your excellency's most ob't and very humble servant, john piper. overlooking the fact that colonel piper, in this semi-official statement, did not even condescend to mention the name of a single one of the brave men who fell by the hands of the ruthless savages, is it not a little strange that the whole report should be filled with gross inaccuracies, not the least of which is that captain phillips was killed, when it is notorious that he returned after the war--having been taken prisoner,--and people are still living in the valley who saw him many years after the massacre of his scout? captain phillips, previous to the disaster, resided near what is now williamsburg. he was a man of some energy, and a skilful and experienced woodman. he had made a temporary fortress of his house, to guard against savage incursions, and his usefulness in protecting the frontier was duly appreciated by the settlers. through the influence of some of the most prominent men about clover creek, colonel piper was induced to give mr. phillips a captain's commission, with authority to raise a company of rangers to serve for two months, as it was known that there was a large body of savages somewhere in the valley, unmistakeable traces of their presence having been seen at many places along the river. captain phillips commenced recruiting men immediately on the reception of his commission; but, owing to the fact that it was just the beginning of harvest, he met with very little success. by the th of july, , he had but ten men collected; but with these he determined to scout through woodcock valley and the cove, in order to protect the farmers in harvesting their grain. to this end he distributed ammunition and provisions, and the party marched from the cove across the mountain. on entering the valley, they found most of the houses abandoned, but no signs of indians. late on saturday evening they arrived at the house of one frederick heater, which had been abandoned by its owner. the house had been pierced with loopholes, to serve as a temporary fortress in case of necessity, but the proprietor, unable to find sufficient men to garrison it, had fled to hartsock's fort. at this house captain phillips determined to remain over sunday. the entire force consisted of captain phillips, his son elijah, aged fourteen years, philip skelly, hugh skelly, p. and t. sanders, richard shirley, m. davis, thomas gaitrell, daniel kelly, and two men whose names are no longer remembered. after partaking of their supper they all stretched themselves out on the floor and slept soundly until morning. while preparing their morning meal, one of the skellys happened to open the door, when he discovered that the house was surrounded by indians. a glance sufficed to show captain phillips how matters stood. there were not less than sixty indians, and among them two white men, dressed, decorated, and painted, the same as the savages. the captain at first supposed they were marauders, and would probably not stop; but the hope was most delusive. a small shower of rain having fallen the day previous, this savage war-party had tracked phillips and his men to the very door of heater's house. phillips commanded the utmost silence, and awaited with breathless anxiety the further movements of the enemy. through the window he discovered the savages grouped upon an eminence--some ten of them armed with rifles, and the remainder with bows and arrows--in consultation. directly one of the savages fired his rifle, which was evidently a _ruse_ to draw the men from the house; but it did not succeed. at last one of the indians ventured within rifle-range of the house, when gaitrell, unable to resist the temptation, thrust the muzzle of his rifle through one of the loopholes, fired, and shot him through the left shoulder. the war-whoop was then raised, and the savages ran to and fro for a while, concealing themselves behind trees, some seventy yards from the house, under the impression probably that an immediate action would take place. no further demonstrations being made by the rangers, the indians waited but a short time until, at a preconcerted signal, they fired a volley at the door and window of the house, both of which were riddled by the bullets, but no person was injured. the scout, in this agony of suspense, surrounded by a large body of savages, with the greatest bravery stood at the loopholes, and whenever a savage showed himself within rifle-range he was shot at. in this manner two were killed and two wounded. the indians, in the mean time, continued firing at the door and window; and in this way the fight continued until about the middle of the afternoon, when philip skelly shot the chief through the left cheek at a distance of nearly a hundred yards. this so exasperated the indians that they raised the war-whoop a second time, loud and fierce, and appeared determined to have vengeance. at this juncture an occurrence took place which seems almost incredible; yet captain phillips, whose statement we are giving, vouched for the truth of it, and he was unquestionably a man of veracity. davis had the muzzle of his rifle out of a loop-hole, and was intently watching for a chance to shoot, when he felt a sudden jarring of the rifle. he withdrew it, and found a sharp-pointed, tapering hickory arrow driven into the muzzle so tight that it took the combined efforts of four men to withdraw it. whether this new method of spiking a gun was intentional or not, it illustrated most forcibly the wonderful power of the indian over the bow--whether he fired at the rifle or the loop-hole. the indians, finding it impossible to dislodge the rangers from what appeared a stronghold in every sense of the word, by all stratagems yet used, affixed dry leaves and other combustible matter to arrows, set fire to them, and lodged them upon the roof of the house, which soon was on fire in two or three places. the men carried up all the water in the house, and subdued the flames from the inside; but the water was soon exhausted, and a fresh volley of the fire-arrows set the roof in a blaze, and there were no longer means within their reach to quench the destructive element. still the rangers stood at the loopholes, even when the upper part of the house was all on fire. certain death stared them in the face; they dared not go out of the house, for they would expose the weakness of their force and meet instant destruction as soon as they passed over the threshold; on the other hand, the fire above them was raging, and they did not know what moment they would be buried beneath the burning timbers. and yet the men never flinched. but, at last, captain phillips, seeing the desperate strait to which they were reduced, cried for quarter, and told the savages that he would surrender, on condition that his men should be treated as prisoners and not injured. to this the indians assented, and the men escaped from the house just in time to save their lives from fire, but only to meet a death equally shocking. the spokesman for the indians--one of the white renegades--demanded, in the first place, that all their arms should be delivered up. to this the men readily agreed; and they handed their rifles and knives to the savages. the next demand was that they should suffer themselves to be pinioned, in order that none might escape. this degrading proposition met no favor with the men; but they were compelled to submit, and their hands were secured behind their backs by strong thongs. in this condition they started--as the indians said--for kittaning; but, after getting half a mile from the house, some five or six of the indians, who had captain phillips and his son in charge, continued on their route, while the remainder ordered a halt. the ten men were then tied to as many saplings, and two or three volleys of arrows were fired into them. the fate of the scout was not known until tuesday. some persons passing heater's house on monday morning, seeing it in ruins, carried the news to hartsock's fort. an express was sent to colonel piper, who arrived on the ground with a small force late on tuesday. about the house they found a number of tomahawks, knives, and other articles, which indicated that an action had taken place; but the fate of the men could not be conjectured. finally, some one discovered the tracks, and proposed following them, which they did, and found the men at the place designated, each man with from three to five arrows sticking in him. some of them had not been killed outright, and it was apparent that their struggles to get loose must have been most desperate. kelly was one of these, who, in his efforts to free himself, had buried the thong in the flesh of his arm. all of the men were scalped. they were buried on the spot where they appeased the savage appetite for blood; and their mouldering bones still repose there, without even the rudest of stones to commemorate the sad event or perpetuate their memory. phillips, in consequence of his rank, was taken prisoner, as at that time officers brought to the british garrison commanded an excellent price. himself and son were taken to detroit, and from thence to montreal, and did not reach their home until peace was declared. some of the friends of the persons massacred were disposed to find fault with captain phillips, especially as the massacre was so general and yet he and his son had escaped. of course, phillips not being present to defend himself, the talk was so much on one side that some went so far as to stigmatize him as a traitor and a coward. on his return, he gave the true version of the affair; and it must be admitted by all that, under the circumstances, he did all that a brave officer could do to save the lives of his men. their fate weighed heavily on his mind for the balance of his life; and in the thought of their untimely end he forgot all the sufferings and privations he endured while a prisoner in the camp of the enemy. chapter xxix. water street--the beatty family--captain simonton--massacre of the dean family--captivity of john simonton, etc. water street is an old place, and was settled prior to the revolution. a stream of water from the canoe mountain, supposed to be the arch spring of sinking valley, passes down a ravine and empties into the juniata at this place. for some distance through a narrow defile, the road passed directly through the bed of this stream,--a circumstance which induced the settlers to call it water street when the original settlement was made. this for a long time was an important point, being the canoe-landing for the interior country. hence the name of canoe valley, applied to the country now known as catharine township, in blair county. at this place was general roberdeau's landing, where he received his stores for the lead mines, and where he shipped the lead-ore to be taken to middletown for smelting. the number of persons living about water street and in the lower end of canoe valley, during the revolution, was fully as great as at the present day. among the first settlers was patrick beatty. he was the father of seven sons, regular flowers of the forest, who never would fort during all the troubles, and who cared no more for an indian than they did for a bear. they lived in a cabin about a mile west of water street. it is related of john, the oldest son, that, coming through the woods one day, near his home, he met two indians in his path. they both aimed at him, but by successful dodging he prevented them from shooting, and reached the house. he found one of his brothers at home; and the two, seizing their rifles, started out after the indians, and followed them sixty miles, frequently getting sight of them, but never within shooting distance. the indians knew the beattys, and feared them, for a more daring and reckless party of young fellows never existed in the valley. it is a remarkable coincidence that of the beattys there were seven brothers, seven brothers of the cryders, seven of the ricketts, seven of the rollers, and seven of the moores,--constituting the most formidable force of active and daring frontier-men to be found between standing stone and the base of the mountain. in the winter of or the spring of , lowry's fort was erected, about two and a half or three miles west of water street, for the protection of the settlers of water street and canoe valley. although built upon lowry's farm, captain simonton was by unanimous consent elected the commander. thus, during the year and the greater part of , the people divided their time between the fort and their farms, without any molestation from the savages. occasionally an alarm of indian depredations sent the entire neighborhood to the fort in great haste; but just so soon as the alarm had subsided they all went to their farms again. some few of the neighbors, for some reason or other, would not fort at lowry's; whether because they apprehended no danger, or because they felt quite as secure at home, we have no means of knowing. among these was matthew dean, esq., one of the most influential men in canoe valley, who lived but half a mile from the fort. his reason for not forting there, however, arose from an old personal animosity existing between himself and lowry, and not from any fancied security at his own house, for he had several times, during the alarms of , made preparations to remove his family to huntingdon. in the fall of , on a sunday evening, captain simonton and his wife, and his son john, a lad eight years of age, paid a visit to dean's house. they spent the evening in conversation on the ordinary topics of the day, in the course of which captain simonton told dean that he had heard of indians having been seen in sinking valley, and that if any thing more of them was heard it would be advisable for them to fort. dean gave it as his opinion that the rumor was false, and that there was no cause for alarm, much less forting. the family of mr. dean consisted of himself, his wife, and eight children, with the prospect of another being added to the family in a day or two. the last words mrs. dean spoke to mrs. simonton were to have her shoes ready, as she might send for her before morning. when the simontons were ready to start, the lad john was reluctant to go; and at the request of mrs. dean he was allowed to stay with their children until morning, at which time mrs. simonton promised to visit her neighbor. in the morning, as soon as breakfast was over, dean, with his two boys and two oldest girls, went to a cornfield for the purpose of breaking it up preparatory to sowing rye in it. the boys managed the plough, while the girls made what was called "steps," or holes between the corn-hills, where the plough could not be brought to bear. mr. dean had taken his rifle with him, and, after directing the work for a while, he saw large numbers of wild pigeons flying in the woods adjoining the field, and he went to shoot some of them. he had been in the woods but a short time when he happened to look in the direction of his house, and saw smoke issuing from it, when he immediately went to his children and informed them of it. by that time the volume of smoke had so increased that they were satisfied the house was on fire, and they all started for home at their utmost speed. in the mean time mrs. simonton, according to promise, came over to dean's house. she, too, saw the smoke some distance off, and by the time she reached the gate, which was simultaneously with the arrival of the family from the corn-field, the house was in a sheet of flame. up to this time no one had supposed that the fire was the work of indians. mrs. simonton saw a little girl, about eight years of age, lying upon the steps, scalped; but she did not notice its being scalped,--merely supposing that the child had a red handkerchief tied around its head, and had fallen asleep where it lay. but when she went into the gate to get the child out, and the blood gushed up between the boards on which she trod, the fearful reality burst upon her mind; then she thought about her own little son, and for a while was almost frantic. news of the disaster was conveyed to the fort, and in a few hours the entire neighborhood was alarmed. a strong force, headed by the beattys, started in pursuit, and got upon the track of the savages, but could not find them. they even waylaid the gap through which the war-path ran; but all to no purpose, for they got clear of the settlements by some other route. captain simonton, at the time of the outrage, was at minor's mill, getting a grist ground. on his return, he heard the news at water street, when he threw the bag of flour from the horse, and rode as fast as the animal could carry him to the scene of the disaster, where he arrived in a state of mind bordering closely upon madness--for he passionately loved his little boy--just as the neighbors were taking the roasted and charred remains of mrs. dean and her three children out of the ashes. one of the neighbors so engaged was a daughter of mr. beatty, now mrs. adams, still living in gaysport, at a very advanced age, who gave us a graphic account of the occurrence. the remains taken out were joined together, and the skeletons of mrs. dean and her three children could be recognised; but no bones were found to conform to the size of simonton's son. the dean girls then recollected that, when last seen, he was playing near the front door with the little girl. it was then suggested that he might be killed, and that his body was perhaps lying somewhere near the house; but a most thorough search revealed nothing of the kind, and it was only too evident that the indians had carried the child into captivity. the murder of the deans was the cause of universal regret, for they were known and respected by every person in the upper end of the juniata valley, and it did not fail to spread consternation into every settlement, even where people thought themselves beyond the reach of the merciless and bloodthirsty savages. the reason why simonton's child was carried into captivity, instead of being murdered and scalped, was believed to be because the indians knew the child and expected that simonton would follow them and pay liberally for his ransom. the remains of the deans were buried, and the family bore up as well as they could under the sad infliction; but it was some years before matthew dean fairly recovered from the blow. the descendants of the dean family are numerous--a majority of them living in the neighborhood of williamsburg, blair county. one of the young girls in the cornfield at the time of the massacre married a mr. caldwell, and was the mother of david caldwell, at present one of the associate judges of blair county. captain simonton never became reconciled to the loss of his son. he made all the inquiries he could; wrote to government, and even went from his home as far as to chillicothe, ohio, to attend a treaty; but all to no purpose: he could obtain no tidings of him. while there, he caused proclamation to be made to the indians, offering a reward of £ for any information as to his whereabouts, or £ for his recovery. this was a munificent sum for the ransom of a mere boy, considering the financial condition of the country; and the indians promised to find him, if possible. a year after his return home, the final treaty for the delivery of prisoners was held in the miami valley. again captain simonton undertook the journey--then a more formidable undertaking than traversing half the union would be now. but he was again doomed to bitter disappointment. the children were brought forward, but none bore the slightest resemblance to his lost boy. so the captain returned to his home, bereft of all hope. the last feeble prop was gone, and simonton was as near being a broken-hearted man as any one could well be without giving way entirely to despair. when the late war with great britain broke out, huntingdon county, notwithstanding it had more than its proportion of tories in the time of the revolution, furnished three companies to go to the canadian frontier. in captain moses canan's company were two, probably three, of captain simonton's sons. they knew they had a brother abducted by the indians, but it never occurred to either of them that they should ever see him. the companies of captains allison, canan, and vandevender, encamped in cattaraugus, new york,--a country then occupied by the seneca indians. these indians were neutral at that time, although they favored the american cause and readily furnished supplies to the soldiers. among them was a white man, who appeared to hold a very prominent position. he owned lands, cattle, horses, lived in a well-constructed house, and was married to a squaw, by whom he had several children. this was the long-lost john simonton. after captain canan's company had left, two men belonging to vandevender's company, originally from water street, commenced talking about this white man among the indians; and both of them agreed that he bore a most striking resemblance to the simonton boys. next day, happening to meet him in front of his own house, one of them accosted him with the somewhat abrupt question of "what is your name?" he answered, in broken english, "john sims." "are you from the juniata?" continued the man. "i think i am," was simonton's reply. "do you remember any thing of the country?" "i remember my father, who used to have two big fires, and large barrels, in which he stirred with a long pole." this answer satisfied them. old captain simonton had a small distillery, and the man remembered the process of distilling very correctly. "wouldn't you like to go to your old house and see your relatives?" inquired one of the men. he answered that he should like very much to do so, but that he was so much of an indian that he doubted whether his presence would afford much satisfaction to his friends. on being told that some of his brothers were in one of the companies, he was so much affected that he shed tears, and expressed great anxiety to see them. he evidently felt himself degraded, and saw between himself and his brothers an insurmountable barrier, built up by upward of thirty years of life among the savages; and yet he longed to see them. while talking to the men, his wife took him away, and he was not seen again by them while they remained there. his wife had a powerful influence over him, and she used it to the best advantage; for she really began to suspect that the men had traced his origin. poor old captain simonton!--he never lived to learn the fate of the boy he so much doated upon. one of the sons of captain simonton--a very old man--still lives several miles west of hollidaysburg. chapter xxx. hollidaysburg--the holliday family--death of lieutenant holliday at the battle of brandywine--massacre of a portion of william holliday's family--john holliday, etc. william and adam holliday, cousins, emigrated from the north of ireland about , and settled in the neighborhood of the manor, in lancaster county. the feuds which existed between the irish and german emigrants, as well as the unceasing efforts of the proprietary agents to keep emigrants from settling upon their lands, induced the hollidays to seek a location farther west. conococheague suggested itself to them as a suitable place, because it was so far removed from philadelphia that the proprietors could not well dispossess them; and, the line never having been established, it was altogether uncertain whether the settlement was in pennsylvania or maryland. besides, it possessed the advantage of being tolerably well populated. accordingly, they settled on the banks of the conococheague, and commenced clearing land, which they purchased and paid for soon after the survey. during both the french and indian wars of - and the war of - the hollidays were in active service. at the destruction of kittaning, william holliday was a lieutenant in colonel armstrong's company, and fought with great bravery in that conflict with the savages. the hollidays were emphatically frontier-men; and on the restoration of peace in , probably under the impression that the conococheague valley was becoming too thickly populated, they disposed of their land, placed their families and effects upon pack-horses, and again turned their faces toward the west. they passed through aughwick, but found no unappropriated lands there worthy of their attention. from thence they proceeded to the standing stone, but nothing offered there; nor even at frankstown could they find any inducement to stop; so they concluded to cross the mountain by the kittaning path and settle on the alleghany at or near kittaning. william knew the road, and had noticed fine lands in that direction. [illustration: chimney rocks opposite hollidaysburg.] however, when they reached the place where hollidaysburg now stands, and were just on the point of descending the hill toward the river, adam halted, and declared his intention to pitch his tent and travel no farther. he argued with his cousin that the indian titles west of the mountains were not extinguished; and if they bought from the indians, they would be forced, on the extinguishment of their titles, to purchase a second time, or lose their lands and live in constant dread of the savages. although william had a covetous eye on the fine lands of the alleghany, the wise counsel of adam prevailed, and they dismounted and prepared to build a temporary shelter. when adam drove the first stake into the ground he casually remarked to william, "whoever is alive a hundred years after this will see a tolerable-sized town here, and this will be near about the middle of it." this prediction has been verified to the letter long before the expiration of the allotted time. in a day or two after a shelter had been erected for the families, william crossed the river to where gaysport now stands, for the purpose of locating. the land, however, was too swampy, and he returned. next day he crossed again, and found a ravine, south of where he had been prospecting, which appeared to possess the desired qualifications; and there he staked out a farm,--the one now owned by mr. j. r. crawford. through this farm the old frankstown and johnstown road ran for many years,--the third road constructed in pennsylvania crossing the alleghany mountains. these lands belonged to the new purchase, and were in the market at a very low price, in order to encourage settlers on the frontier. accordingly, adam holliday took out a warrant for acres, comprising all the land upon which hollidaysburg now stands. the lower or southern part was too marshy to work; so mr. holliday erected his cabin near where the american house now stands, and made a clearing on the high ground stretching toward the east. in the mean time, william holliday purchased of mr. peters acres of land, which embraced the present crawford and jackson farms and a greater part of gaysport. some years after, finding that he had more land than he could conveniently cultivate, he disposed of nearly one-half of his original purchase to his son-in-law, james somerville. adam holliday, too, having a large lot of land, disposed of a portion of it to lazarus lowry. thus matters progressed smoothly for a time, until, unfortunately, a scotchman, named henry gordon, in search of lands, happened to see and admire his farm. gordon was a keen, shrewd fellow, and in looking over the records of the land-office he discovered a flaw or informality in adam's grant. he immediately took advantage of his discovery, and took out a patent for the land. litigation followed, as a matter of course. gordon possessed considerable legal acumen, and had withal money and a determined spirit. the case was tried in the courts below and the courts above,--decided sometimes in favor of one party and sometimes in favor of the other, but eventually resulted in gordon wresting from adam holliday and lazarus lowry all their land. this unfortunate circumstance deeply afflicted mr. holliday, for he had undoubtedly been grossly wronged by the adroitness and cunning of gordon; but relief came to him when he least expected it. when the war broke out, gordon was among the very first to sail for europe; and soon after the council proclaimed him an attainted traitor, and his property was confiscated and brought under the hammer. the circumstances under which he had wrested the property from holliday were known, so that no person would bid, which enabled him to regain his land at a mere nominal price. he then went on and improved, and built a house on the bank of the river, near where the bridge connects the boroughs of hollidaysburg and gaysport. the very locust-trees that he planted seventy-eight years ago, in front of his door, are still standing. during the alarms and troubles which followed in the course of the war, adam holliday took a conspicuous part in defending the frontier. he aided, first, in erecting fetter's fort, and afterward expended his means in turning titus's stable into a fort. this fort was located on the flat, nearly opposite the second lock below hollidaysburg, and the two served as a place of refuge for all the settlers of what was then merely called the upper end of frankstown district. he also, with his own money, purchased provisions, and through his exertions arms and ammunition were brought from the eastern counties. his courage and energy inspired the settlers to make a stand at a time when they were on the very point of flying to cumberland county. in december, , mr. holliday visited philadelphia for the purpose of securing a part of the funds appropriated to the defence of the frontier. the following letter to president wharton was given to him by colonel john piper, of bedford county:-- _bedford county, december , ._ sir:--permit me, sir, to recommend to you, for counsel and direction, the bearer, mr. holliday, an inhabitant of frankstown, one of the frontier settlements of our county, who has, at his own risk, been extremely active in assembling the people of that settlement together and in purchasing provisions to serve the militia who came to their assistance. as there was no person appointed either to purchase provisions or to serve them out, necessity obliged the bearer, with the assistance of some neighbors, to purchase a considerable quantity of provisions for that purpose, by which the inhabitants have been enabled to make a stand. his request is that he may be supplied with cash not only to discharge the debts already contracted, but likewise to enable him to lay up a store for future demand. i beg leave, sir, to refer to the bearer for further information, in hopes you will provide for their further support. their situation requires immediate assistance. i am, sir, with all due respect, your excellency's most obedient humble servant, john piper. mr. holliday's mission was successful; and he returned with means to recruit the fort with provisions and ammunition, and continued to be an active and energetic frontier-man during all the indian troubles which followed. notwithstanding the distracted state of society during the revolution, william holliday devoted much time and attention to his farm. his family, consisting of his wife, his sons john, william, patrick, adam, and a lunatic whose name is not recollected, and his daughter janet, were forted at holliday's fort; and it was only when absolute necessity demanded it that they ventured to the farm to attend to the crops, after the savage marauders so boldly entered the settlements. james, who we believe was next to the eldest of william holliday's children, joined the continental army soon after the war broke out. he is represented as having been a noble-looking fellow, filled with enthusiasm, who sought for, and obtained without much difficulty, a lieutenant's commission. he was engaged in several battles, and conducted himself in such a manner as to merit the approbation of his senior officers; but he fell gloriously at brandywine, while the battle was raging, pierced through the heart by a musket-ball. he was shot by a hessian, who was under cover, and who had, from the same place, already dispatched a number of persons. but this was his last shot; for a young virginian, who stood by the side of holliday when he fell, rushed upon the hessian, braving all danger, and hewed him to pieces with his sword before any defence could be made. the death of young holliday was deeply lamented by his companions-in-arms, for he was brave and generous, and had not a single enemy in the line. his friends, after the battle, buried him near the spot where he fell; and it is doubtful whether even now a hillock of greensward is raised to his memory. about the beginning of the year , the indians along the frontier, emboldened by numerous successful depredations, came into bedford county--within the boundaries of which holliday's fort then was--in such formidable bands that many of the inhabitants fled to the eastern counties. the hollidays, however, and some few others, tarried, in the hope that the executive council would render them aid. the following petition, signed by william holliday and others, will give the reader some idea of the distress suffered by the pioneers; it was drawn up on the th of may, :-- _to the honorable president and council_:-- the indians being now in the county, the frontier inhabitants being generally fled, leaves the few that remains in such a distressed condition that pen can hardly describe, nor your honors can only have a faint idea of; nor can it be conceived properly by any but such as are the subjects thereof; but, while we suffer in the part of the county that is most frontier, the inhabitants of the interior part of this county live at ease and safety. and we humbly conceive that by some immediate instruction from council, to call them that are less exposed to our relief, we shall be able, under god, to repulse our enemies, and put it in the power of the distressed inhabitants to reap the fruits of their industry. therefore, we humbly pray you would grant us such relief in the premises as you in your wisdom see meet. and your petitioners shall pray, etc. n.b.--there is a quantity of lead at the mines (sinking valley) in this county council may procure for the use of said county, which will save carriage, and supply our wants with that article, which we cannot exist without at this place; and our flints are altogether expended. therefore, we beg council would furnish us with those necessaries as they in their wisdom see cause. p.s.--please to supply us with powder to answer lead. (signed) william holliday, _p.m._ thomas coulter, _sheriff_. richard j. delapt, _captain_. sam. davidson. the prayer of these petitioners was not speedily answered, and holliday's fort was evacuated soon after. the council undoubtedly did all in its power to give the frontiers support; but the tardy movements of the militia gave the savages confidence, and drove the few settlers that remained almost to despair. eventually relief came, but not sufficient to prevent indian depredations. at length, when these depredations and the delays of the council in furnishing sufficient force to repel these savage invasions had brought matters to such a crisis that forbearance ceased to be a virtue, the people of the neighborhood moved their families to fort roberdeau, in sinking valley, and fetter's fort, and formed themselves into scouting parties, and by these means protected the frontier and enabled the settlers to gather in their crops in ; still, notwithstanding their vigilance, small bands of scalp-hunters occasionally invaded the county, and, when no scalps were to be found, compromised by stealing horses, or by laying waste whatever fell in their way. in , when continental money was so terribly depreciated that it took, in the language of one of the old settlers, "seventeen dollars of it to buy a quart of whiskey," government was in too straitened a condition to furnish this frontier guard with ammunition and provisions, so that the force was considerably reduced. small scouting parties were still kept up, however, to watch the savages, who again made their appearance in the neighborhood in the summer, retarding the harvest operations. about the middle of july, the scouts reported every thing quiet and no traces of indians in the county. accordingly, mr. holliday proceeded to his farm, and, with the aid of his sons, succeeded in getting off and housing his grain. early in august, mr. holliday, accompanied by his sons patrick and adam and his daughter janet, then about fourteen years of age, left fort roberdeau for the purpose of taking off a second crop of hay. on their arrival at the farm they went leisurely to work, and mowed the grass. the weather being extremely fine, in a few days they began to haul it in on a rudely-constructed sled, for in those primitive days few wagons were in use along the frontiers. they had taken in one load, returned, and filled the sled again, when an acquaintance named mcdonald, a scotchman, came along on horseback. he stopped, and they commenced a conversation on the war. william holliday was seated upon one of the horses that were hitched to the sled, his two sons were on one side of him, and his daughter on the opposite side. all of the men, as was customary then, were armed with rifles. while this conversation was going on, and without the slightest previous intimation, a volley was suddenly fired from a thicket some sixty or seventy yards off, by which patrick and adam were instantly killed and the horse shot from under mr. holliday. the attack was so sudden and unexpected that a flash of lightning and a peal of thunder from a cloudless sky could not have astonished him more. the echoes of the indian rifles had scarcely died away before the indians themselves, to the number of eight or ten, with a loud "_whoop_!" jumped from their place of concealment, some brandishing their knives and hatchets and others reloading their rifles. appalled at the shocking tragedy, and undecided for a moment what course to pursue, holliday was surprised to see mcdonald leap from his horse, throw away his rifle, run toward the indians, and, with outstretched arms, cry "brother! brother!" which it appears was a cry for quarter which the savages respected. holliday, however, knew too much of the savage character to trust to their mercy--more especially as rebel scalps commanded nearly as good a price in british gold in canada as prisoners; so on the impulse of the moment he sprang upon mcdonald's horse and made an effort to get his daughter up behind him. but he was too late. the indians were upon him, and he turned into the path which led down the ravine. the yells of the savages frightened the horse, and he galloped down the path; but even the clattering of his hoofs did not drown the dying shrieks of his daughter, who was most barbarously butchered with a hatchet. in a state of mind bordering on distraction, holliday wandered about until nearly dark, when he got upon the brush mountain trail, on his way to sinking valley. his mind, however, was so deeply affected that he seemed to care little whither he went; and, the night being exceedingly dark, the horse lost the trail and wandered about the mountain for hours. just at daybreak mr. holliday reached the fort, haggard and careworn, without hat or shoes, his clothes in tatters and his body lacerated and bleeding. he did not recognise either the fort or the sentinel on duty. he was taken in, and the fort alarmed, but it was some time before he could make any thing like an intelligible statement of what had occurred the day previous. without waiting for the particulars in detail, a command of fifteen men was despatched to holliday's farm. they found the bodies of patrick and adam precisely where they fell, and that of janet but a short distance from the sled, and all scalped. as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made, the bodies of the slain were interred on the farm; and a rude tombstone still marks the spot where the victims of savage cruelty repose. this was a sad blow to mr. holliday; and it was long before he recovered from it effectually. but the times steeled men to bear misfortunes that would now crush and annihilate the bravest. the scotchman mcdonald, whom we have mentioned as being present at the holliday massacre, accompanied the savages, as he afterward stated, to the miami valley, where he adopted their manners and customs, and remained with them until the restoration of peace enabled him to escape. he returned to the valley of the juniata; but he soon found that holliday had prejudiced the public mind against him by declaring the part he took at the time of the massacre to have been cowardly in the extreme, notwithstanding that the cowardice of mcdonald actually saved holliday's life, by affording him means to escape. the people generally shunned mcdonald, and he led rather an unenviable life; yet we might suppose, taking all the circumstances into consideration, that, in illustrating the axiom that "self-preservation is the first law of nature," he did nothing more than any man, with even less prudence than a canny scotchman, would have done. but any thing having the least squinting toward cowardice was deemed a deadly sin by the pioneers, and mcdonald soon found it necessary to seek a home somewhere else. after the declaration of peace, or, rather, after the ratification of the treaty, gordon came back to pennsylvania and claimed his land under its stipulation. he had no difficulty in proving that he had never taken up arms against the colonies, and congress agreed to purchase back his lands. the commissioners to adjust claims, after examining the lands, reported them worth sixteen dollars an acre; and this amount was paid to adam holliday, who suddenly found himself the greatest monied man in this county--having in his possession sixteen or seventeen thousand dollars. adam holliday lived to a good old age, and died at his residence on the bank of the river, in . he left two heirs--his son john, and a daughter married to william reynolds. after the estate was settled up, it was found that john holliday was the richest man in this county. he married the daughter of lazarus lowry, of frankstown, in , and in he left for johnstown, where he purchased the farm, and all the land upon which johnstown now stands, from a dr. anderson, of bedford. fearing the place would never be one of any importance, john holliday, in a few years, sold out to peter livergood for eight dollars an acre, returned to hollidaysburg, and entered into mercantile pursuits. william holliday, too, died at a good old age, and lies buried on his farm by the side of his children, who were massacred by the indians. in the ordinary transmutation of worldly affairs, the lands of both the old pioneers passed out of the hands of their descendants; yet a beautiful town stands as a lasting monument to the name, and the descendants have multiplied until the name of holliday is known not only in pennsylvania, but over the whole union. [note.--there are several contradictory accounts in existence touching the massacre of the holliday children. our account of it is evidently the true version, for it was given to us by mr. maguire, who received it from mr. holliday shortly after the occurrence of the tragedy. it may be as well here to state that the original hollidays were irish-men and presbyterians. it is necessary to state this, because we have heard arguments about their religious faith. some avow that they were catholics, and as an evidence refer to the fact that william called one of his offspring "patrick." without being able to account for the name of a saint so prominent in the calendar as patrick being found in a presbyterian family, we can only give the words of mr. maguire, who said:-- "i was a catholic, and old billy and adam holliday were presbyterians; but in those days we found matters of more importance to attend to than quarrelling about religion. we all worshipped the same god, and some of the forms and ceremonies attending church were very much alike, especially in , when the men of all denominations, in place of hymn-books, prayer-books, and bibles, carried to church with them loaded rifles!" it may be as well to state here also that the mcdonald mentioned had two brothers--one a daring frontier-man, the other in the army,--so that the reader will please not confound them.] chapter xxxi. old indian town of frankstown--indian burial-places--massacre of the bedford scout, etc. frankstown is probably the oldest place on the juniata river--traders having mentioned it as early as . the indian town was located at the mouth of a small run, near where mccune's mill now stands, and at one time contained a considerable number of inhabitants. the indian name of the place was _assunepachla_, which signifies a meeting of many waters, or the place where the waters join. this would seem to be an appropriate name, since, within a short distance of the place, the river is formed by what was then known as the frankstown branch, the beaver dam branch, the brush run, and the small run near mccune's mill. the name of frankstown was given it by the traders. harris, in his report of the distances between the susquehanna and the alleghany, called it "frank (stephen's) town." the general impression is that the town was named by the traders in honor of an old chief named frank. this, however, is an error. it was named after an old german indian trader named stephen franks, who lived cotemporaneously with old hart, and whose post was at this old indian town. the truth of this becomes apparent when we remember that the indians could not pronounce the _r_ in their language; hence no chief was likely to bear the name of frank at that early day. old franks, being a great friend of the indians, lived and died among them, and it was after his death that one of the chiefs took his name; hence arose the erroneous impression that the name was given to the town in honor of the chief. [illustration: eastern reservoir from catfish tavern.] how long assunepachla was an indian settlement cannot be conjectured, but, unquestionably, long before the indians of the valley had any intercourse with the whites. this is evidenced by the fact that where the town stood, as well as on the flat west of the town, relics of rudely-constructed pottery, stone arrow-heads, stone hatchets, &c., have repeatedly been found until within the last few years. the use of stone edge-tools was abandoned as soon as the savages obtained a sight of a superior article,--probably as early as . the first were brought to the valley by indians, who had received them as presents from the proprietary family. it is stated that the first brought to assunepachla cost a special trip to philadelphia. three chiefs, having seen hatchets and knives at standing stone, were so fascinated with their utility that they resolved to have some. accordingly they went to work at trapping; and in the fall, each with an immense load of skins, started on foot for philadelphia, where they arrived after a long and fatiguing march. they soon found what they wanted at the shop of an englishman; but, being unable to talk english, they merely deposited their furs upon the counter and pointed to the tomahawks and knives. this indicated trade; and the englishman, after a critical examination of their skins, which he found would yield him not less than £ , threw them carelessly under the counter, and gave them a hatchet and a knife each. with these the savages were about to depart, well satisfied; but the trader suddenly bethinking himself of the possibility of their falling in with the interpreters, and their ascertaining the manner in which they had been swindled, called them back, and very generously added three clasp-knives and a quantity of brass jewelry. with these they wended their way back, proud as emperors of their newly-acquired weapons. never did chiefs enter a place with more pomp and importance than our warriors. the very dogs barked a welcome, and the indians came forth from their wigwams to greet the great eastern travellers. their hatchets, knives, and trinkets passed from hand to hand, and savage encomiums were lavished unsparingly upon them; but when their practicability was tested, the climax of savage enthusiasm was reached. the envied possessors were lions: they cut, hewed, and scored, just because they could. but--alas for all things mutable!--their glory was not destined to last long. the traders soon appeared with the same kind of articles, and readily exchanged for half a dozen skins what the warriors had spent a season in trapping and a long journey to procure. on the point of chimney ridge, near wert's farm, below hollidaysburg, was an indian burial-place, and another on the small piece of table-land near the mouth of brush run. at both places skeletons of mighty chiefs and all-powerful warriors have been ruthlessly torn from their places of sepulture by the plough, and many other relics have been exhumed. the greater portion of the warriors residing at frankstown went to ohio in , and took up the hatchet for their "brothers," the french, and against _onus_, or their father penn. this act, the colonial government persuaded itself to believe, was altogether mercenary on the part of the savages. the real cause, as we have already stated, was the dissatisfaction which followed the purchase of the juniata valley by the penns, for a few paltry pounds, from the iroquois, at albany, in . the town of frankstown still continued to be a prominent indian settlement until the army of general forbes passed up the raystown branch, when the spies sent out brought such exaggerated reports of the warlike appearance and strength of the army that the settlement was entirely broken up, and the warriors, with their squaws, pappooses, and movable effects, crossed the alleghany by the kittaning war-path, and bade adieu to the valley which they were only too well convinced was no longer their own. the remains of their bark huts, their old corn-fields, and other indications of their presence, were in existence until after the beginning of the present century. on the flat, several white settlers erected their cabins at an early day, and a few near the old town, and others where the town of frankstown now stands. during the revolution, as we have stated, a stable erected by peter titus was turned into a fortress. in summer, the location of the fort can still be traced by the luxuriant growth of vegetation upon it. this fort was called holliday's fort. the fort at fetter's, a mile west of hollidaysburg, was known as the frankstown garrison. in those days there was no such place as hollidaysburg, and the frankstown district took in a scope of country which now serves for five or six very large townships; in short, every place was frankstown within a radius of at least ten miles. holliday's fort was a mere temporary affair; while the frankstown garrison was a substantial stockade, manned and provisioned in such a manner that a thousand savages could by no possible means have taken it. it never was assaulted except upon one occasion, and then the red-skins were right glad to beat a retreat before they were able to fire a gun. near this fort occurred the massacre of the bedford scout. this was unquestionably the most successful savage sortie made upon the whites in the valley during the revolution; and, as some of the bravest and best men of bedford county fell in this massacre, it did not fail to create an excitement compared to which all other excitements that ever occurred in the valley were perfect calms. we shall, in the first place, proceed to give the first report of the occurrence, sent by george ashman, one of the sub-lieutenants of the county, to arthur buchanan, at kishicoquillas. ashman says:-- sir:--by an express this moment from frankstown, we have the bad news. as a party of volunteers from bedford was going to frankstown, a party of indians fell in with them this morning and killed thirty of them. only seven made their escape to the garrison of frankstown. i hope that you'll exert yourself in getting men to go up to the stone; and pray let the river-people know, as they may turn out. i am, in health, geo. ashman. of course colonel ashman was not near the place, and his despatch to buchanan is, as a natural consequence, made up from the exaggerated reports that were carried to him at the instance of the affrighted people residing in the vicinity where the massacre occurred. the following is the official report, transmitted by ashman to president reed:-- _bedford county, june , ._ sir:--i have to inform you that on sunday, the third of this instant, a party of the rangers under captain boyd, eight in number, with twenty-five volunteers under captain moore and lieutenant smith, of the militia of this county, had an engagement with a party of indians (said to be numerous) within three miles of frankstown, where seventy-five of the cumberland militia were stationed, commanded by captain james young. some of the party running into the garrison, acquainting captain young of what had happened, he issued out a party immediately, and brought in seven more, five of whom are wounded, and two made their escape to bedford,--eight killed and scalped,--captain boyd, captain moore, and captain dunlap missing. captain young, expecting from the enemy's numbers that his garrison would be surrounded, sent express to me immediately; but, before i could collect as many volunteers as was sufficient to march to frankstown with, the enemy had returned over the alleghany hill. the waters being high, occasioned by heavy rains, they could not be pursued. this county, at this time, is in a deplorable situation. a number of families are flying away daily ever since the late damage was done. i can assure your excellency that if immediate assistance is not sent to this county that the whole of the frontier inhabitants will move off in a few days. colonel abraham smith, of cumberland, has just informed me that he has no orders to send us any more militia from cumberland county to our assistance, which i am much surprised to hear. i shall move my family to maryland in a few days, as i am convinced that not any one settlement is able to make any stand against such numbers of the enemy. if your excellency should please to order us any assistance, less than three hundred will be of but little relief to this county. ammunition we have not any; and the cumberland militia will be discharged in two days. it is dreadful to think what the consequence of leaving such a number of helpless inhabitants may be to the cruelties of a savage enemy. please to send me by the first opportunity three hundred pounds, as i cannot possibly do the business without money. you may depend that nothing shall be wanting in me to serve my country as far as my abilities. i have the honor to be your excellency's most obedient, humble servant, george ashman, _lieut. bedford county_. it would appear that even a man holding an official station is liable to gross mistakes. in this instance, ashman, who lived remote from the scene of the disaster, was evidently misled by the current rumors, and such he transmitted; for there are still persons alive, who lived at the time of the occurrence in the immediate vicinity, who pronounce ashman's statement as erroneous, and who give an entirely different version of the affair. the seventy cumberland county militia, under strict military discipline, were sent first to standing stone, and afterward to frankstown, early in the spring of . they were under the command of colonel albright and captain young, and were sent with a view to waylaying the gaps of the alleghany mountains, and preventing any savages from coming into the valley. instead of doing so, however, they proved themselves an inefficient body of men, with dilatory officers, who chose rather the idle life of the fort than scouting to intercept the savages. in fact, these men, in the service and pay of the supreme executive council of the state to protect the frontier, were never one solitary cent's worth of advantage to the inhabitants. such a force, one would suppose, would have inspired the people with confidence, and been fully able to cope with or repel the largest war-party of savages that ever trod the kittaning war-path during the revolutionary struggle. notwithstanding the presence of this large body of men, stationed as it were almost at the mouth of the gap through which the indians entered the valley, the depredations of the savages were almost of daily occurrence. the inefficiency of the cumberland militia, who either could not or would not check the marauders, at length exasperated the settlers to such an extent that they resolved to form themselves into a scouting party, and range through the county for two months. this project was favored by colonel ashman, and he agreed to furnish a company of rangers to join them. the enrolment of volunteers by captain moore, of scotch valley, assisted by his lieutenant, a mr. smith, from the vicinity of frankstown, proceeded; and on the second of june, , these men met at holliday's fort, then abandoned for want of provisions. there they were joined by the rangers, under command of captain boyd and lieutenant harry woods, of bedford, but, instead of there being a company, as the volunteers were led to expect, there were but eight men and the two officers above named. from holliday's fort they marched to fetter's, where they contemplated spending the sabbath. it was their intention to march through the kittaning gap to an old state road, (long since abandoned,) from thence to pittsburg, and home by way of bedford. while debating the matter and making the necessary arrangements, two spies came in and reported that they had come upon an indian encampment near hart's sleeping place, which had apparently been just abandoned, as the fire was still burning; that, from the number of bark huts, the savages must number from twenty-five to thirty. this raised quite a stir in the camp, as the scouts evidently were eager for the fray. the officers, who were regular woodsmen, and knew that the indians would not venture into the settlement until the day following, were confident of meeting them near the mouth of the gap and giving them battle. they at once tendered to colonel albright the command of the expedition; but he refused to accept it. they then importuned him to let a portion of his men, who were both anxious and willing, accompany them; but this, too, he refused. nothing daunted, however, the rangers and the volunteers arose by daybreak on sunday morning, put their rifles in condition, eat their breakfast, and, with five days' provisions in their knapsacks, started for the mountain. we sincerely regret that the most strenuous effort on our part to procure a list of this scout proved futile. here and there we picked up the names of a few who were in it; but nothing would have given us greater pleasure than to insert a full and correct list of these brave men. in addition to the officers named, we may mention the following privates:--james somerville, the two colemans, two hollidays, two brothers named jones, a man named grey, one of the beattys, michael wallack, and edward milligan. the path led close along the river, and the men marched in indian file, as the path was narrow. when they reached the flat above where temperance mill now stands, and within thirty rods of the mouth of sugar run, the loud warwhoop rang upon the stillness of the sabbath morning; a band of savages rose from the bushes on the left-hand side of the road, firing a volley at the same time, by which fifteen of the brave scout were stretched dead in the path. the remainder fled, in consternation, in every direction,--some over the river in the direction of frankstown, others toward fetter's fort. a man named jones, one of the fleetest runners, reached the fort first. to screen the scout from the odium of running, he reported the number of the enemy so large that albright refused to let any of his command go to the relief of the unfortunate men. as the colemans were coming to the fort, they found the other jones lying behind a log for the purpose of resting, as he said. coleman advised him to push on to the fort, which he promised to do. captain young at length started out with a party to bring in the wounded. the man jones was found resting behind the log, but the rest was a lasting one; he was killed and scalped. another man, who had been wounded, was also followed a short distance and killed and scalped,--making, in all, seventeen persons who fell by this sad and unlooked-for event. in addition to the seventeen killed, five were wounded, who were found concealed in various places in the woods and removed to the fort. some reached the fort in safety, others were missing,--among the latter, harry woods, james somerville, and michael wallack. it appears that these three men started over the river, and ran up what is now known as o'friel's ridge, hotly pursued by a single savage. woods and wallack were in front, and somerville behind, when the moccasin of the latter became untied. he stooped down to fix it, as it was impossible to ascend the steep hill with the loose moccasin retarding his progress. while in this position, the indian, with uplifted tomahawk, was rapidly approaching him, when woods turned suddenly and aimed with his empty rifle[ ] at the indian. this caused the savage to jump behind a tree scarcely large enough to cover his body, from which he peered, and recognised woods. [ ] woods shot an indian. his rifle was the only one discharged in what colonel ashman termed an "engagement." "no hurt woods!" yelled the indian; "no hurt woods!" this indian happened to be the son of the old indian hutson, to whom george woods of bedford paid a small annual stipend in tobacco, for delivering him from bondage. hutson had frequently taken his son to bedford, and it was by this means that he had become acquainted with harry and readily recognised him. woods, although he recognised hutson, had been quite as close to indians as he cared about getting; so the three continued their route over the ridge, and by a circuitous tramp reached the fort in the afternoon. many years afterward, long after the war, when woods lived in pittsburg, he went down to the alleghany river to see several canoe-loads of indians that had just arrived from above. he had scarcely reached the landing when one of the chiefs jumped out, shook him warmly by the hand, and said-- "woods, you run like debble up juniata hill." it was hutson--by this time a distinguished chief in his tribe. the fate of the unfortunate scout was soon known all over the country, expresses having been sent in every direction. on monday morning captain young again went out with a small party to bury the dead, and many of them were interred near the spot where they fell; while others, after the men got tired of digging graves, were merely covered with bark and leaves, and left on the spot to be food for the wolves, which some of the bodies unquestionably became, as jones sought for that of his brother on tuesday, and found nothing but the crushed remains of some bones. in , a young man in the employ of mr. burns exhumed one of these skeletons with the plough. it was found near the surface of the earth, on the bank of the river. the skull was perforated with a bullet-hole, and was in a remarkable state of preservation, although it had been in the ground uncoffined for a period of _seventy-one years_! it was placed in the earth again. immediately after the news of the massacre was spread, the people from standing stone and other places gathered at fetter's; and on the tuesday following a party of nearly one hundred men started in pursuit of the indians. colonel albright was solicited to accompany this force with his command and march until they overtook the enemy; but he refused. the men went as far as hart's sleeping place, but they might just as well have remained at home; for the savages, with the scalps of the scout dangling from their belts, were then far on their way to detroit. when the firing took place, it was plainly heard at the fort; and some of the men, fully convinced that the scout had been attacked, asked colonel albright to go out with his command to their relief. he merely answered by saying that he "knew his own business." for his part in the matter, he gained the ill-will of the settlers, and it was very fortunate that his time expired when it did. the settlers were not much divided in opinion as to whether he was a rigid disciplinarian or a _coward_. men, arms, and ammunition, in abundance followed this last outrage; but it was the last formidable and warlike incursion into the juniata valley. [illustration: old bridge near petersburg.] chapter xxxii. shaver's creek--mysterious death of old shaver--heroic conduct of two children--abduction of miss ewing and miss mccormick--peter crum, the last victim of the savages, etc. the original settlement at shaver's creek was made in , by an old gentleman named shaver. he was followed by anderson, maguire, the donnelleys, and some few others. old shaver met his death in a most singular manner. one evening he left his home just at twilight, for the purpose of putting his horse into a pasture-field. he did not return; but his absence created no special alarm, as this was before the war, and before any savages had appeared in the valley with murderous intent. next morning, however, his family not finding him, a search was instituted, and his body, minus the head, was found in a lane near the pasture-field. this was regarded as a most mysterious murder, and would have been charged to the indians at once, had they ever been known to take a man's head off on any previous occasion. but as they always found the scalp to answer their purpose, and never encumbered themselves with the head, people shrewdly suspected that the indians had nothing to do with the murder. the family offered a reward of £ for the head; and, although the country was searched in every direction, it never was found. the most active and energetic man in the shaver's creek settlement during the revolutionary war was samuel anderson. he succeeded, mainly by his own exertions and the aid of a few neighbors on the creek and the little juniata, in erecting a block-house fort on the flat near the mouth of the creek, which was more or less occupied while the war continued; and it is but a few years since the last vestiges of this old fort were swept away by a freshet. the fort itself never was assailed; and it just happens to strike us forcibly at this time as a singular fact that the indians, during the revolutionary war, always kept clear of the forts. whether they did not understand the nature of them, or feared the numbers usually congregated in them, we do not pretend to say; but they always kept at a respectful distance from them. anderson's fort, like the others, was frequently disturbed by alarms--sometimes real and sometimes false. an amusing instance of a false alarm at anderson's fort was given the writer. in , all manner of rumors and reports were afloat. everybody was forted, and the indians formed the entire subject of conversation. one afternoon, a half-witted, cowardly fellow was sent up the path to bring the cows to the fort. he had been out about fifteen minutes when he returned, looking wild and haggard, and almost out of breath, declaring that the indians were coming down the creek in full force. in an instant the whole fort was in commotion: men seized their rifles, dogs barked, children screamed, and everybody swore that the audacious savages should have a warm reception. the entire force of the garrison rallied out to a hill, and, with cocked rifles, awaited the appearance of the enemy on the brow. lo! he came; but, instead of indians, the alarm was suddenly quieted by the appearance of _three cows_! a mock court-martial was ordered to try the half-witted chap for raising a false alarm, and the jokers of the fort convicted him and passed sentence of death upon him. the joke came near proving fatal to the poor fellow, who for a long time could not be divested of the idea that he was to be shot. in , one of the most remarkable cases on record occurred up shaver's creek. the particulars are vague; but of the actual occurrence of what we are about to relate there is no doubt whatever--the circumstance having been mentioned to us by two or three persons. late in the fall of that year, two boys, aged respectively eight and ten years, while engaged at play near a house in the neighborhood of manor hill, were taken captive by two lurking savages, who came suddenly upon them, and immediately started in the direction of the mountain. after travelling some eight miles, they halted, built a fire in the woods, leaned their rifles against a tree, and cooked some dried venison, of which they all partook. after the meal, one of them drew from his pouch a canteen filled with whiskey, which they drank at short intervals until it was entirely drained of its contents. by that time they had become very garrulous and very brave. they told war-stories, sang war-songs, danced war-dances, and challenged the whole settlement to mortal combat. the other indian then pulled out his canteen, also filled with fire-water, which was consumed in like manner; but, by the time it was drank, their mirth and boasting gave way to the stupor of inordinate intoxication, and, wrapping their blankets around them, they stretched themselves before the fire, and were soon in a deep sleep. the eldest boy, who had feigned sleep some time previous, now got up and shook the younger, who also got upon his feet. he then took one of the rifles, cocked it, and rested it on a log, with the muzzle within a few inches of the head of one of the savages, and then motioned the younger boy to hold it. he then got the other rifle, and in like manner placed its muzzle near the head of the other savage. so far, the whole proceeding had been carried on by pantomimic action, and not a word spoken; but, every thing being now in readiness, the boy whispered "_now!_" and both rifles went off at the same time. the elder boy killed his man outright; but the weight of the butt of the rifle in the hands of the younger threw the muzzle up, and he merely tore his face very badly. the wounded savage attempted to rise, but, before he could do so, the boys commenced running for home; nor did they stop until they reached it, which was at two o'clock in the morning and just as a party had assembled to go in search of them. their story was soon told; but so incredible did it appear that no person believed them. instead of giving credit to their narrative of improbabilities, the parents were inclined to whip them and send them to bed, for getting lost in the woods and then lying about it. next day, however, they persisted so strongly in their statement, and told such a straightforward story, that at length a party of some six or eight persons agreed to go to the place, providing the children accompanied them. to this they readily assented; and the anxiety they manifested to go soon removed all doubt as to the truth of their statement. in due time they reached the spot, where they found a dead indian, the two rifles and canteens; but the wounded savage was missing. where he had lain there was a pool of blood; and, as it was probable that he had not gone far, a proposition was made to search for him, which was about being acted upon, when one of the men noticed blood upon the trunk of the tree under which they stood, which caused him to look up, and among its top branches he saw the wounded savage. the frightful wound upon his face awakened the pity of some of the men, and they proposed getting him down; but an old ranger, who was in the party, swore that he had never had a chance at an indian in his life, especially a treed one; that he would rather lose his life than miss the opportunity of shooting him; and, before an effort could be made to prevent it, the savage received a ball through his brain, came crashing down through the limbs of the tree, and fell by the side of his dead companion. their bodies were not disturbed; but their rifles were carried home, and given to the boys, who kept them as trophies of the event. this daring and heroic act on the part of children so young illustrates most forcibly the kind of material people were made of who flourished in "the days that tried men's souls." in , miss elizabeth ewing and miss mccormick were abducted by the indians, between shaver's creek and stone valley. they had been to the former place, and were returning home by a path, when they were surprised and taken prisoners by a small band of roving indians. it was late in october, at a time when no suspicion was entertained that the indians would ever again enter the valley. none had been seen or heard of for months, and all the alarms and fears of savages had subsided; hence their absence was little thought of until they had been several days gone. it was then deemed entirely too late to send a force to recapture them. when captured, they had some bread with them, which they scattered along the path they took, in hopes that if their friends followed it would give them a clue to the route they took. the wily savages detected the stratagem, and took the bread from them. they next broke the bushes along the path; but the indians saw the object of this, too, and compelled them to desist. they then travelled for seven days, through sleet, rain, and snow, until they reached the lake, where miss mccormick was given as a present to an old indian woman who happened to take a fancy to her. miss ewing was taken to montreal, where, fortunately for her, an exchange of prisoners took place soon after, and she was sent to philadelphia, and from thence made her way home. from her mr. mccormick learned the fate of his daughter--her communication being the first word of intelligence he had received concerning her. he soon made his arrangements to go after her. the journey was a long one, especially by the route he proposed to take,--by way of philadelphia and new york; nevertheless, the love he bore his daughter prompted him to undertake it cheerfully. after many days' travelling he arrived at the place where miss ewing and miss mccormick parted; but, alas! it was only to realize painfully the restless and migratory character of the indians, who had abandoned the settlement and gone into the interior of canada. again he journeyed on, until he finally reached the place where the tribe was located, and found his daughter in an indian family, treated as one of the family, and subject to no more menial employment than indian women generally. the meeting of father and daughter, which neither expected, must have been an affecting one--a scene that may strike the imagination more vividly than pen can depict it. mr. mccormick made immediate arrangements to take his daughter with him; but, to his surprise, the indians objected. alone, and, as it were, in their power, he was at a loss what course to pursue, when he bethought himself of the power of money. that was the proper chord to touch; but the ransom-money asked was exorbitantly large. the matter was finally compromised by mr. mccormick paying nearly all the money in his possession, retaining barely enough to defray their expenses; after which they went on their way rejoicing, and, after a weary journey, reached their home in safety. it may be as well to mention that miss mccormick was a sister to robert mccormick, sr., long a resident of hollidaysburg, who died a year or two ago in altoona, and the aunt of william, robert, and alexander mccormick, now residents of altoona. and now we come to the last indian massacre in the valley of the juniata. it occurred on the left bank of the little juniata, near the farm of george jackson, in the latter part of august, . at that time there was a regular force of militia in the garrison at huntingdon, another at shaver's creek, and another at fetter's. the indians were well aware of this, for they constantly kept themselves advised by spies of the progress of affairs in the valley. the settlers, feeling secure in the presence of the militia, abandoned the forts and went to their farms. during the summer of , the alarms were so few that people began to consider the days of their trials and tribulations as passed away; but it appears that it was ordained that another black crime should be added to the long catalogue of indian cruelties. one evening george jackson, hearing a noise in a corn-field adjoining his house, went to the door to ascertain the cause. dark as the night was, he made out the figures of two men, who he thought were stealing corn, or at least about no good; so he let loose his dogs--a hound and a bull-dog--upon them. the hound gave tongue, and both started directly into the field, where they bayed for some time; but the men did not quit the field. in ten minutes the dogs returned, and mr. jackson found that the skull of the bull-dog had been wounded with a tomahawk. this circumstance led him to suspect the real character of the intruders, and he went into his house, took down his rifle, and returned to the porch. the light which shone out of the door when jackson opened it revealed the position of affairs to the indians, and they ran to the other end of the corn-field, closely pursued by the hound. peter crum, a worthy man, well known and highly respected by all the settlers in the neighborhood, was a near neighbor of jackson's. he had rented the minor tub mill, and on the morning after the above occurrence he went to the mill a little before daylight and set it going, then raised a net he had placed in the stream the night before; after which he started leisurely on his way home to get his breakfast. in his left hand he carried a string of fish, and over his right shoulder his rifle; for, notwithstanding the great security people felt, they were so much in the habit of constantly having a rifle for a travelling companion, that many of the old pioneers carried it on all occasions during the remainder of their lives. when crum reached the bend of the river, a mile below his mill, at a time when an attack from indians would probably have been the last thing he would have thought of, he heard the sharp crack of a rifle, and on looking around saw two indians on the hill-side. he dropped his fish, and opened the pan of his rifle to look at the priming, when he noticed that he was shot through the right thumb--at least it was so conjectured. catching a glimpse of one of the indians, he attempted to fire, but the blood of his wound had saturated the priming. the indians noticed his unavailing effort to shoot, and, probably thinking that he was trying to intimidate them with an empty gun, jumped into the road. one of them, it appeared, was armed with a rifle, the other with a heavy war-club. the latter, it is supposed, approached him from behind, and dealt him a blow upon the skull, which felled him, and the blow was evidently followed up until the entire back part of his head was crushed in the most shocking manner, after which they scalped him, and disappeared. when found, (which was supposed to be within two hours after the murder,) crum was lying with his face to the ground, his rifle by his side, and the indian war-club, clotted with blood and brains, lying across his body,--a sad sight for his wife, who was among the first on the spot after the tragedy. this murder, committed in open daylight on a frequented road, in the very heart of a thickly-populated country, did not fail to produce the most intense excitement, and a party of rangers started at once after the marauders. they soon got upon their trail, and followed them to the top of the mountain, getting sight of them several times; but they were always out of rifle-range. they knew they were pursued, and took such a route as the rangers could not follow, and so eluded them, and carried in triumph to the british garrison at detroit the last scalp taken by the red men in the juniata valley. [illustration: pulpit rocks, warrior ridge.] chapter xxxiii. warrior ridge--warrior's mark--job chillaway, shaney john, and captain logan, the last red men in the juniata valley. warrior ridge, between alexandria and huntingdon, derives its name from an indian path which ran along the summit of it. the pulpit rocks, not unlike the altars of the druids, shaped into fantastic forms by the hand of nature, as well as the wild romantic scenery around them, at once suggest the idea of a place of meeting of the warriors,--a spot where the councils of the brave were held, with the greensward of the mountain for a carpet and the blue vault of heaven for a canopy. were we not so well aware of the fact that the indians preferred the lowlands of the valleys for places of abode, we could almost fancy the neighborhood of pulpit rocks to have been a glorious abiding-place; but of the occurrences and events that took place on the ridge we are in hopeless ignorance. had some indian historian of an early day transmitted to posterity, either by written or oral tradition, one-half the events of warrior ridge, we might add considerable interest to these pages; but as it is, we must content ourself, if not our readers, with this brief notice of the famous warrior ridge. warrior's mark was another celebrated place for the indians. it lies upon a flat piece of table-land, and is just the kind of a place where savages would be likely to meet to debate measures of great importance and to concoct schemes for their future movements. the name of the place originated from the fact of certain oak-trees in the vicinity having a crescent or half-moon cut upon them with hatchets, so deep that traces can still be seen of them, or, at least, could be some years ago. the signification of them was known to the indians alone; but it is evident that some meaning was attached to them, for, during the revolution, every time a band of savages came into the valley one or more fresh warrior marks were put upon the trees. the indian town stood upon the highway or path leading from kittaning, through penn's valley, to the susquehanna. it was still considerable of a village when the white men first settled in the neighborhood, but immediately on the breaking out of the revolution the indians destroyed it, and moved to ohio, and at this day there is not a trace of its existence left. the first white settlers in warrior's mark were the ricketts family. they were all wild, roving fellows, who loved the woods better than civilization; and their whole occupation, over and above tilling a very small patch of land, appeared to be hunting for wild game. their arrival was followed by two or three other families; and when the indian troubles commenced, the house of ricketts was converted into a fortress, and the men turned their attention to protecting the frontier. one of them--captain elijah ricketts--became quite an active and prominent man. we have no record of any murder ever having been committed in the immediate vicinity of warrior's mark. several captives were taken from thence, either in or , but were exchanged and found their way back; we are, however, without particulars, either as to their names, capture, or release. the three last indians in the valley were job chillaway, a delaware, shaney john, a mingo, and captain logan, a cayuga. they were all friendly to the whites, and served the cause of liberty in the capacity of spies. job chillaway is represented by the late e. bell, esq., in his ms., as a tall, muscular man, with his ears cut so as to hang pendant like a pair of ear-rings. he was employed as early as by the colonial government as a spy, and his name is frequently mentioned in the archives. levi trump, in writing to governor denny, from fort augusta, on april , , when the french were using their most powerful exertions to swerve the six nations from their fealty to the colony, says:-- job chillaway, a delaware indian, arrived here on the th inst., and brought with him a message from a grand council of the six nations held near onondaga, to king teedyuscung, informing him that deputies from said council would soon be at wyoming. on what errand they did not say; but job says he thinks it his duty to inform his brothers what he knows of the affair:--that he was present at the opening of this council; which was by four chiefs, of different nations, singing the war-song and handing round an uncommonly large war-belt; that one of them, after some time, said: "what shall we do? here is a hatchet from our fathers, to strike our brothers; and here is another from our brothers, to strike our fathers. i believe 'twill be best for us to do as we have done heretofore; that is, cast them both away." in , chillaway still remained loyal to the colony, although nearly all of his tribe had taken up the hatchet against the english. colonel james irvine, under date of november , , writes from "ensign kerns," near fort allen, to john penn, as follows:-- sir:--on the th instant job chillaway arrived here, being sent by papunchay[ ] to inform us that he and about twenty-five indians (women and children included) were on their way from weyalusing. the day after job's arrival he delivered a string of wampum, and the following message in behalf of himself, papunchay, john curtis, &c., which he desired might be transmitted to your honor, viz.: [ ] papunchay was the chief of the last of the delaware warriors who remained loyal,--the great body having, by , gone over to the french. "brother:-- "we are very glad that you have taken pity on us, according to the promises you made us since we had any correspondence together. "brother,--we are glad to hear you have pointed out two ways to us,--one to our brother, sir william johnson, the other to you. our hearts incline toward you, the governor of philadelphia. "brother,--take pity on us, and keep the road open, that we may pass without being hurt by your young men. "brother,--point out the place where you intend to settle us, and we shall be glad, let that be where it will." job informed us that there were fifteen muncy warriors, who, for three nights before he left papunchay, encamped close by their encampment. how far they intended to proceed, or what were their intentions, he could not find out. as it was expected that papunchay was near the frontiers, colonel clayton marched with fifty men, (mostly volunteers,) on the th inst., with job chillaway, in hopes of surprising the warriors. we were out three days without discovering either them or papunchay. what hath detained the latter we know not. job hath desired me to wait for them at this place a few days longer. on their arrival here, i purpose to conduct them to philadelphia, unless i receive orders to the contrary from your honor. whether papunchay continued loyal after is not known; but chillaway was a spy, in the employ of asher clayton, at lehigh gap, as late as may, . about , he made his way to the juniata valley. he first located near the mouth of the little juniata; but as soon as settlements were made by the whites he went up spruce creek; but there, too, the footprints of the white invader were soon seen, and he removed to the mountain, where hunting was good. he continued for many years after the revolution to bring venison down into the settlements to trade off for flour and bread. in his old age he exhibited a passion for strong drink, and by the white man's baneful _fire-water_ he fell. he was found dead in his cabin, by some hunters, about the close of the last century. of shaney john not much is known. he came to the valley probably about the same time chillaway did, and the two were boon-companions for many years. shaney john moved to the indian town called the bald eagle's nest, nearly opposite milesburg, centre county, where he died. the most prominent friendly indian that ever resided in the valley, however, was captain logan. this, of course, was not his proper name, but a title bestowed upon him by the settlers. he is represented as having been a noble and honorable indian, warm in his attachment to a friend, but, like all indians, revengeful in his character. a kindness and an insult alike remained indelibly stamped upon the book and page of his memory; and to make a suitable return for the former he would have laid down his life--shed the last drop of his heart's blood. he was a man of medium height and heavy frame; notwithstanding which he was fleet of foot and ever on the move. he came to the valley before chillaway did, and settled with his family in the little valley east of martin bell's furnace, which is still known as logan's valley. he had previously resided on the susquehanna, where he was the captain of a brave band of warriors; but, unfortunately, in some engagement with another tribe, he had an eye destroyed by an arrow from the enemy. this was considered a mark of disgrace, and he was deposed; and it was owing to that cause that he abandoned his tribe and took up his residence in the juniata valley. one day, while hunting, he happened to pass the beautiful spring near the mouth of the bald eagle--now in the heart of tyrone city. the favorable location for both hunting and fishing, as well as the charming scenery, fascinated logan; and he built himself a wigwam, immediately above the spring, to which he removed his family. here he lived during the revolutionary war, not altogether inactive, for his sympathies were on the side of liberty. during that time he formed a strong attachment to captain ricketts, of warrior's mark, and they became fast friends. it was to ricketts that captain logan first disclosed the plot of the tories under john weston; and edward bell gave it as his firm conviction that logan was among the indians who shot down weston and his men on their arrival at kittaning. although logan had learned to read from the moravian missionaries when quite a lad, he knew very little of the formula of land purchases; so he failed to make a regular purchase of the spot on which his cabin stood, the consequence of which was that, after the war, some envious white man bought the land and warned the friendly savage off. logan was too proud and haughty to contest the matter, or even bandy words with the intruder; so he left, and located at chickalacamoose, where clearfield now stands, on the west branch of the susquehanna. captain logan continued visiting the valley, and especially when any of his friends among the pioneers died. on such occasions he generally discarded his red and blue eagle-feathers, and appeared in a plain suit of citizens' clothes. but at length logan came no more. the great spirit called him to a happier hunting-ground; and all that is mortal of him--unless his remains have been ruthlessly torn from the bosom of mother earth--lies beneath the sod, near the mouth of chickalacamoose creek. it is to be regretted that more of his history has not been preserved, for, according to all accounts of him, he possessed many noble traits of character. unlike logan the mingo chief, captain logan the cayuga chief had no biographer like thomas jefferson to embellish the pages of history with his eloquence. well may we say, "the evil that men do lives after them, while the good is oft interred with their bones." chapter xxxiv. conclusion. pushing the light canoe on the lagoons in search of fish and lassoing the wild horse on the pampas of the south, chasing the buffalo on the boundless prairies and hunting the antlered stag in the dense forests of the west, is now the indian's occupation; and there he may be found, ever shunning the haunts of civilization. the delaware indians have been exterminated, and their very name (_lenni lenape_) blotted from existence, save where it appears upon the pages of history. of the shawnees, once the powerful warlike tribe that was known and feared from the seaboard to the lakes, but a few degenerate families reside in the far west. of the great confederation of the iroquois but a remnant exists to remind us of its former greatness, its councils, its wars, and its "talks." they reside in western new york, in a semi-civilized but degraded state, and are but sorry representatives of the once proud and stately warriors the crack of whose sharp and unerring rifles made the woods ring, and whose canoes danced upon the waves of the blue juniata more than a hundred years ago. but they are all gone, and the bones of their ancestors are the only relics which they have left behind them. the hand of the same inscrutable providence that suffered them to march as mighty conquerors from the west to the east, crushing out the existence of a weaker people in their triumphant march, stayed them, blighted them in the noonday of their glory, and, like the receding waves of the sea, drove them back in the direction whence they came, where they scattered, and the ties which bound them together as tribes dissolved even as would ice beneath the rays of a tropical sun. the reader of the foregoing pages may sometimes think it strange that the savages committed so many depredations with impunity, killed, scalped, or carried so many into captivity, while but comparatively few of the marauders were destroyed. the cause of this can be easily explained. the savages always made covert attacks. as will be remembered, very few massacres occurred in the valley by open attack,--nearly all their depredations being committed while in ambuscade or when they had a foe completely in their power. their incursions were always conducted with great caution, and no sooner did they strike a decisive blow than they disappeared. to guard against their ferocity was impossible; to follow them was equally futile. the settlers were too few in number to leave one force at home to guard against them and to send another in pursuit of them; for, during the revolution, the belief was prevalent that a large force was ever ready to descend into the valley, and that the incursions of a few were only stratagems to lure the settlers to destruction by following them to where a large number were concealed. it was frequently proposed to send a strong force to waylay the gaps of the mountain; but the settlers refused to trust the protection of their families to the raw militia sent by government to defend the frontier. in extremely aggravating cases, men, driven to desperation, followed the savages to the verge of the indian settlements; but they never got beyond the summit of the alleghany mountains without feeling as if they were walking directly into the jaws of death, for no one could otherwise than momentarily expect a shower of rifle-balls from the enemy in ambuscade. the want of men, ammunition, and other things, were known to and taken advantage of by the indians; but when an abundance of these things was brought to the frontier they prudently kept out of the way, for their sagacity instinctively taught them what they might expect if they fell into the hands of the settlers. but it may here be remarked that the savage mode of warfare, which by them was deemed fair and honorable,--such as scalping or maiming women and children,--was held in the utmost horror and detestation by people who professed to be christians; and they equally detested shooting from ambuscade as an act fit for savages alone to be guilty of. it was only the more reckless and desperate of the community that would consent to fight the savages after their own mode of warfare. it is, therefore, but a simple act of justice to the memory of the pioneers to say that the savages did not go unpunished through any fear or lack of zeal on their part. their concentrated energies were used to check the frequent invasions, and many of them spent their last dollar to protect the defenceless frontier; yet it is to be deeply regretted that in those primitive days they lacked the knowledge of properly applying the power within their reach. but they, too, are all gone! "each forever in his narrow cell is laid." beneath their kindred dust the rude forefathers of the valley sleep. we have endeavored to give a succinct account of the trials and sufferings of many of them; but, doubtless, much remains untold, which the recording angel alone has possession of. while we reflect upon the fact that it was through the privations and hardships _they_ endured that _we_ enjoy the rich blessings of the beautiful and teeming valley, let us hope that they are enjoying a peace they knew not on earth, in that valley "where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest." appendix. the valley as it is. the preceding pages fulfil the original intention of presenting to the public, as far as possible, a "history of the _early_ settlement of the juniata valley." its modern history, fraught with rare incidents, is left to the pen of some future enterprising historian, who may collect the incidents necessary to construct it when but a moiety of the generation (still numerous) who know the valley and its multifarious changes for half a century past shall be dwellers in our midst. still, such prospect shall not deter us from giving a synopsis of the history of the valley as it is, not promising, however, to make the record complete, or even notice in detail the growth and progress of the valley during the last thirty years. when the early settlers were apprised of the fact that some of the more enterprising contemplated cutting a pack-horse road over the alleghany mountains, through blair's gap, they shook their heads ominously, and declared that the task was one which could not be accomplished. but it _was_ accomplished; and, after its completion, it was not many years until the pack-horse track was transformed into a wagon-road. people were well satisfied with this arrangement; for no sooner was there a good road along the river than some daring men commenced taking produce to the east, by the use of arks, from the frankstown branch, the raystown branch, and the little juniata. with these advantages, a majority of the inhabitants labored under the impression that they were keeping pace with the age; but others, endowed with a fair share of that progressive spirit which characterizes the american people, commenced agitating the project of making a turnpike between huntingdon and blairsville. the old fogies of the day gave this innovation the cold shoulder, spoke of the immense cost, and did not fail to count the expense of travelling upon such a road. but little were their murmurings heeded by the enterprising men of the valley. the fast friend of the turnpike was mr. blair, of blair's gap, west of hollidaysburg. his influence was used in the halls of the legislature until he injured his political standing; nevertheless, he persevered until the company was chartered, and he soon had the satisfaction of seeing the turnpike road completed. once built, it was found to be rather a desirable institution, and its value soon removed all opposition to it. anon came the startling proposition of building a canal along the juniata, and a railroad over the alleghany mountains, to connect the waters of the juniata and the conemaugh. to men of limited information the project seemed vague and ill-defined; while knowing old fogies shook their heads, and declared that a canal and a turnpike both could not be sustained, and that, if the former could accomplish the wonders claimed for it, the teams that carried goods between philadelphia and pittsburg in the short space of from fifteen to twenty days would be compelled to suspend operations! but the opposition to the canal was too insignificant to claim notice; and when the building of it was once commenced an improvement mania raged. the stately and learned engineer, moncure robinson, was brought all the way from england to survey the route for the portage road. like a very colossus of _roads_, he strode about the mountain, and his nod and beck, like that of imperial cæsar upon his throne, was the law, from which there was no appeal. by dint of long labor, and at a vast expense to the commonwealth, he demonstrated clearly that a road could be built across the mountain, and rendered practicable by the use of ten inclined planes. alas! for the perishable nature of glory! moncure robinson had hardly time to reach his home, and boast of the honor and fame he achieved in the new world, before a yankee engineer discovered that a railroad could be built across the alleghany mountain without the use of a single plane! of course, then he was thought a visionary, and that not a quarter of a century ago; yet now we have two railroads crossing the mountain without the use of a plane, and the circumstance appears to attract no other remark than that of ineffable disgust at the old fogies who could not make a road to cross the apalachian chain without the tedious operation of being hoisted up and lowered down by stationary engines. the era of "flush times" in the valley must have been when the canal was building. splendid fortunes were made, and vast sums of money sunk, by the wild speculations which followed the advent of the contractors and the sudden rise of property lying along the river. as an instance of the briskness of the times in the valley when the canal was building, an old settler informs us that frankstown at that time contained fourteen stores, five taverns, and four roulette tables. at present, we believe, it contains but two or three stores, one tavern, and no gambling apparatus to relieve the reckless of their surplus change. the completion of the canal was the great event of the day, and the enthusiasm of the people could scarcely be kept within bounds when the ponderous boats commenced ploughing the ditch. this will be readily believed by any one who will read the papers published at the time. from a paper printed in lewistown on the th of november, , we learn that a packet-boat arrived at that place from mifflin on the thursday previous, and departed again next day, having on board a number of members of the legislature, as well as citizens and strangers. the editor, in speaking of the departure, enthusiastically says:--"the boat was drawn by two white horses, when she set off in fine style, with the 'star-spangled banner' flying at her head, and amid the roar of cannon, the shouts of the populace, and the cheering music of the band which was on board." reader, this was a little over twenty-six years ago; and the jubilee was over a packet capable of accomplishing the mighty task of carrying some forty or fifty passengers at the rate of about four miles an hour. the climax of joy, however, appears to have been reached by the editor of the _huntingdon gazette_, on the th of july, , when he became jubilant over the launch of a canal-boat, and gave vent to the following outburst:--"what! a canal-boat launched in the vicinity of huntingdon! had any one predicted an event of this kind some years back, he, in all probability, would have been yclept a wizard, or set down as _beside himself_!" these gushings of intensified joy, although they serve to amuse now, do not fail to convey a useful lesson. let us not glory too much over the demon scream of the locomotive as it comes rattling through the valley, belching forth fire and smoke, or the miraculous telegraph which conveys messages from one end of the union to the other with the rapidity with which a lover's sigh would be wafted from the indies to the pole; for who knows but that the succeeding generation, following in the footsteps made by the universal law of progress, will astonish the world with inventions not dreamed of in our philosophy, which will throw our electric-telegraphs and railroads forever in the shade? for eighteen years, with the exception of the winter months, the canal packet held sway in the juniata valley, carrying its average of about thirty passengers a day from the east to the west, and _vice versâ_. when hoar old winter placed an embargo upon the canal craft, travel used to dwindle down to such a mere circumstance that a rickety old two-horse coach could easily carry all the passengers that offered. who among us that has arrived at the age of manhood does not recollect the packet-boat, with its motley group of passengers, its snail pace, its consequential captain, and its non-communicative steersman, who used to wake the echoes with the "to-to-to-to-toit" of his everlasting horn and his hoarse cry of "lock ready?" the canal-packet was unquestionably a great institution in its day and generation, and we remember it with emotions almost akin to veneration. right well do we remember, too, how contentedly people sat beneath the scorching rays of a broiling sun upon the packet, as it dragged its slow length along the sinuous windings of the canal at an average speed of three and a half or four miles an hour; and yet the echo of the last packet-horn has scarcely died away when we see the self-same people standing upon a station-house platform, on the verge of despair because the cars happen to be ten minutes behind time, or hear them calling down maledictions dire upon the head of some offending conductor who refuses to jeopardize the lives of his passengers by running faster than thirty miles an hour! at length, after the canal had enjoyed a sixteen years' triumph, people began to consider it a "slow coach;" and, without much debate, the business-men of philadelphia resolved upon a railroad between harrisburg and pittsburg. the project had hardly been fairly determined upon before the picks and shovels of the "corkonians" and "fardowns" were brought into requisition; but, strange to say, this giant undertaking struck no one as being any thing extraordinary. it was looked upon as a matter of course, and the most frequent remarks it gave rise to were complaints that the making of the road did not progress rapidly enough to keep pace with the progress of the age. and, at length, when it was completed, the citizens of lewistown did not greet the arrival of the first train with drums, trumpets, and the roar of cannon; neither did any huntingdon editor exclaim, in a burst of enthusiasm, on the arrival of the train there, "what! nine railroad cars, with six hundred passengers, drawn through huntingdon by a locomotive! if any person had predicted such a result some years ago, he would have been yclept a wizard, or set down as one _beside himself_." the pennsylvania railroad once finished, although it failed to create the surprise and enthusiasm excited by the canal, did not fail to open up the valley and its vast resources. independent of the great advantage of the road itself, let us see what followed in the wake of this laudable enterprise. the railroad created the towns of altoona, fostoria, tipton, and tyrone; its presence caused the building of three plank roads, and the opening of extensive coal and lumber operations in the valley, and kindred enterprises that might never have been thought of. nor is this all. a rage for travel by railroad has been produced by the pennsylvania company; and there is good reason to believe that it will increase until at least three more roads tap the main artery in the juniata valley,--the railroad from tyrone to clearfield, from the same place to lock haven, and from spruce creek to lewisburg. these roads will unquestionably be built, and at no remote period. the pennsylvania road has now facilities for doing business equal to those of any road of the same length in the world; and, when a second track is completed, it is destined, for some years at least, to enjoy a monopoly of the carrying trade between pittsburg and philadelphia. much as we regret it, for the sake of the commonwealth which expended her millions without any thing like an adequate return, the canal is rapidly falling into disuse, and we see, with deep regret, that it has become entirely too slow for the age in which we live. with all the vitality forced into it that can be, we confess we can see no opposition in it to the road but such as is of the most feeble kind; yet all will agree that this opposition, trifling as it is, should continue to exist until such a time as other routes shall be opened between these points, and healthy competition established. but let us not dwell too much upon our modes of transit through the valley, lest the historian of a hundred years hence will find our remarks a fitting theme for ridicule, and laugh at us because we speak in glowing terms of a single railroad, and that road with but a single track for more than half its distance! in order to give the reader a little insight into the progress which has been made in the valley, let us turn statistician for a time, with the understanding, however, that we shall not be held responsible for the accuracy of dates. less than twenty-six years ago, george law sat upon the left bank of the juniata, two miles west of williamsburg, cutting stones for building two locks at that place. now the aforesaid law is supposed to be worth the snug little sum of six millions of dollars, and not long since was an aspirant for the presidential chair! thirty years ago, when frankstown was a place of some note, hollidaysburg contained but a few scattered cabins. in fact, twenty years ago it was "to fortune and to fame unknown;" yet it now contains a population (including that of gaysport) that will not fall much short of four thousand. less than twenty-five years ago, dr. p. shoenberger, while returning from baltimore with $ , in cash, fell in with the celebrated robber lewis on the broad top mountain. the intention of lewis, as he afterward acknowledged, was to rob him; but the doctor, although he was unacquainted with his fellow-traveller, had his suspicions awakened, and, by shrewd manoeuvering, succeeded in giving him the slip. had the $ , in question fallen into the hands of the robber, dr. shoenberger would have been bankrupt, and the probability is that he would have lived and died an obscure individual. instead of that, however, the money freed him from his embarrassments, and he died, but a few years ago, worth between four and five millions of dollars--more than one-half of which he accumulated by manufacturing iron in the valley of the juniata. less than sixteen years ago, a gentleman named zimmerman was a bar-keeper at the hotel of walter graham, esq., at yellow springs, in blair county, afterward a "mud-boss" on the pennsylvania canal, and subsequently a teamster at alleghany furnace. at the present day the said samuel zimmerman owns hotels, palaces, a bank of issue, farms, stocks, and other property, at niagara falls, in canada, which swell his income to $ , per annum. he is but thirty-eight years of age. should he live the length of time allotted to man, and his wealth steadily increase, at the end of threescore-and-ten years he can look upon ordinary capitalists, who have only a few millions at command, as men of limited means. let it not he presumed, however, that we notice these capitalists from any adoration of their wealth or homage to the men, but merely because their history is partially identified with the valley, and to show in what a singular manner the blind goddess will sometimes lavish her favors; for hundreds of men without money, but with brighter intellects and nobler impulses than ever were possessed by zimmerman, law, or shoenberger, have gone down to the grave "unwept, unhonored, and unsung," in the juniata valley. neither will the soughing of the west wind, as it sweeps through the valley, disturb their repose any more than it will that of the _millionaires_ when resting from "life's fitful fever" in their splendid mausoleums. less than ten years ago a railroad from huntingdon to broad top was deemed impracticable. since then, or, we may say, within the last four years, a substantial railroad has been built, reaching from the borough of huntingdon to hopewell, in bedford county, a distance of thirty-one miles; and the cars are now engaged in bringing coal from a region which, but a few years ago, was unexplored. in addition to the main track, there is a branch, six miles in length, extending to shoup's run. the coal-field contains eighty square miles of territory; and from the openings made at shoup's run and six mile run semi-bituminous coal has been taken the quality of which cannot be surpassed by any coal-fields in the world. along the line of the road quite a number of villages have sprung up. the first is worthington, some thirteen miles from huntingdon. the next is saxton, twenty-six miles from huntingdon. coalmont is the name of a flourishing village growing up on shoup's run, about a mile below the lowest coal-veins yet opened. barret is located about two miles farther up; and broad top city is located upon the summit of the mountain, at the terminus of the shoup's run branch, at which place a large three-story stone hotel has been built, and a number of lots disposed of, on which purchasers are bound to build during the summer of . less than eight years ago the author of these pages, while on a gunning expedition, travelled over the ground where altoona now stands. it was then almost a barren waste. a few fields, a solitary log farm-house and its out-buildings, and a school-house, alone relieved the monotony of the scene; yet now upon this ground stands a town with between three and four thousand inhabitants, where the scream of the engine is heard at all hours of the day and night,--where the roar of fires, the clang of machinery, and the busy hum of industry, never cease from the rising to the setting of the sun, and where real estate commands a price that would almost seem fabulous to those not acquainted with the facts. but of this enough. let us now proceed to examine the products of the valley. the lower end of it is a grain-growing region, the upper an iron-producing country; and it is owing to the mineral resources alone that the valley maintains the position it does and boasts of the wealth and population it now possesses. the juniata iron has almost a worldwide reputation; yet we venture to say that many of our own neighbors know little about the immense amount of capital and labor employed in its manufacture. the following is a list of the iron establishments in the valley:-- bedford county. name. location. owner. bloomfield furnace middle woodbury john w. duncan. lemnos furnace hopewell john king & co. lemnos forge hopewell john king & co. bedford forge hopewell john king & co. bedford foundry and machine-shop. bedford michael bannon. keagy's foundry woodbury snowden & blake. west providence foundry bloody run george baughman. blair county. name. location. owner. alleghany furnace logan township elias baker. blair furnace logan township h.n. burroughs. elizabeth furnace antes township martin bell. bald eagle furnace snyder township lyon, shorb & co. etna furnace and forge catharine township isett, keller & co. springfield furnace woodberry township d. good & co. rebecca furnace houston township e.h. lytle. sarah furnace greenfield township d. mccormick. gap furnace juniata township e.f. shoenberger. frankstown furnace frankstown a. & d. moore. harriet furnace alleghany township blair co. coal & iron co. hollidaysburg furnace gaysport watson, white & co. chimney rock furnace hollidaysburg gardener, osterloh & co. gaysport furnace gaysport smith & caldwell. portage works (rolling-mill, &c.) duncansville j. higgins & co. maria forges (two) juniata township j.w. duncan. lower maria forge juniata township d. mccormick. gap forge juniata township musselman & co. elizabeth forge antes township john bell. tyrone forges (two) snyder township lyon, shorb & co. cove forge woodberry township j. royer. franklin forge woodberry township d.h. royer. cold spring forge antes township isett & co. alleghany forge alleghany township e.h. lytle. hollidaysburg foundry and machine-shop hollidaysburg j.r. mcfarlane & co. gaysport foundry and gaysport mclanahan, watson & co. machine-shop tyrone foundry tyrone city j.w. mattern & co. williamsburg foundry williamsburg loncer & hileman. martinsburg foundry martinsburg crawford & morrow. penn'a railroad foundry altoona penna. railroad co. duncansville foundry duncansville mr. gibboney. axe and pick factory alleghany township j. colclesser. huntingdon county. name. location. owner. huntingdon furnace franklin township g.k. & j.h. shoenberger. monroe furnace jackson township george w. johnston & co. greenwood furnace jackson township a. & j. wright. rough and ready furnace hopewell township wood, watson & co. paradise furnace tod township trexler & co. mill creek furnace brady township irvin, green & co. edward furnace shirley township beltzhoover & co. rockhill furnace cromwell township isett, wigton & co. matilda furnace and forge springfield township shiffler & son. coleraine forges (two) franklin township lyon, shorb & co. stockdale forge franklin township john s. isett. ---- forge franklin township g.k. & j.h. shoenberger elizabeth forge franklin township martin gates's heirs. rolling mill and puddling forge porter township s. hatfield & son. juniata rolling mill and forge west township b. lorenz, (lessee.) barre forge porter township joseph green & co. alexandria foundry j. grafius. water street foundry job plympton. spruce creek foundry h.l. trawly. petersburg foundry h. orlady. huntingdon foundry j.m. cunningham & co. shirleysburg foundry john lutz. eagle foundry tod township j. & d. hamilton. mifflin county. name. location. owner. lewistown furnace lewistown etting, graff & co. hope furnace granville township w.w. happer & co. matilda furnace wayne township w. righter. brookland furnace mcveytown huntingdon, robison & co. brookland rolling mill mcveytown huntingdon, robison & co. freedom forge derry township j.a. wright & co. juniata foundry and machine-shop lewistown zeigler & willis. logan foundry lewistown a. marks & co. mcveytown foundry mcveytown faxon & co. axe factory near reedsville a. mann. plough foundry near reedsville j. & m. taylor. in addition to these, there may be some few foundries in juniata and perry counties, but no furnaces or forges in that portion of them which lies in the valley proper. it may be as well here to mention that the furnace of watson, white & co. is just completed; the chimney rock furnace will be completed during the summer of , as well as the furnace of messrs. smith & caldwell, in gaysport. these three furnaces follow the discovery of immense fossil ore-veins immediately back of hollidaysburg, which are supposed to extend, in irregular strata, from the river east as far as the basin extends. in addition to this, in the loop,--a basin lying between points of the cove mountain, south of frankstown,--mines capable of the most prolific yield have also been opened. the ore, smelted with coke, is said to produce the best iron in market, and commands a ready sale at excellent prices. from the discoveries of ore-deposits already made, and those that will follow future explorations, it is but reasonable to infer that, during the next four or five years, the number of furnaces will be considerably augmented; and at this time there is a project on foot for building an extensive rolling-mill and nail-factory at hollidaysburg. the foregoing list of iron establishments numbers seventy-three, (and we are by no means certain that we have enumerated all,) and employ some six or seven thousand men, directly or indirectly, and the capital invested cannot possibly fall far short of five millions of dollars. and all this vast source of wealth and happiness is drawn from the bosom of mother earth in a valley a little over a hundred miles in length. we say it boldly, and challenge contradiction, that the iron-mines of the juniata valley have yielded more clear profit, and entailed more blessings upon the human family, than ever the same extent of territory did in the richest diggings of california. but, great as the valley is, unquestionably half its resources have not yet been developed. along the base of the mountain are vast seams of coal that have never been opened, and forests of the finest timber, which only await capital and enterprise to show the real extent of our coal and lumber region. of the extent of the ore-fields of the valley no man can form any conception. time alone can tell. yet we are not without hope that ore will be found in such quantities, before the present generation shall have passed away, as shall make the valley a second wales in its iron operations. from de bow's census compendium of we copy the following, set down as an accurate statement of the amount of capital, hands employed, and amount produced, in all the counties of the valley, by manufactures, in that year:-- counties. capital. hands employed. amount produced. bedford $ , $ , blair , , , , huntingdon , , , , mifflin , , juniata , , perry , , ---------- ---- ---------- total $ , , $ , , this is manifestly an error; for we are satisfied that more capital and hands were employed in the iron business alone in , leaving out perry county, only a portion of which belongs to the valley proper. the gatherers of the statistics evidently did not enumerate the wood-choppers, charcoal-burners, teamsters, ore-diggers, and others, who labor for furnaces. yet, granting that the statistics of the manufactures of the valley, as given in the census report, are correct, and we deduct a tenth for manufactures other than iron, we are still correct; for since then new furnaces, forges, and foundries have been built, the capacity of old ones greatly enlarged, and many that were standing idle in are now in successful operation. in altoona alone, since then, hands find steady employment in working up the juniata iron at the extensive machine-shops and foundries of the pennsylvania railroad company. the following shows the population in , and in , together with the number of dwellings:-- counties. pop. in . pop. in . dwellings. bedford , , , blair, (formed out of huntingdon and bedford, ) -- , , huntingdon , , , mifflin , , , juniata , , , perry , , , ------- ------- ------ total , , , if we add to bedford the inhabitants taken from it to form fulton county, we shall find that the population increased , in the valley, between and . this may be rated as an ordinary increase. to the same increase, between and , we may add the extraordinary increase caused by the building of the pennsylvania and the broad top railroads, which, we think, will increase the population to double what it was in by the time the next census is taken. the number of dwellings in the valley, it will be observed, amounted, in , to , . since then, five hundred buildings have been erected in altoona, one hundred and fifty in tyrone, five hundred in the towns and villages along the line of the broad top road, a hundred along the line of the pennsylvania road, while the towns of hollidaysburg, huntingdon, mcveytown, lewistown, mifflin, and newport, and, in fact, all the villages in the valley, have had more or less buildings erected during the past five years. a corresponding number erected during the next five years will, we venture to predict, bring the census return of buildings up to , . let it also be remembered that the increase of population between and was made when the mania for moving to the west was at its height; when more people from the juniata located in iowa, wisconsin, illinois, and indiana, than will leave us during the next twenty years, unless some unforeseen cause should transpire that would start a fresh tide of western emigration. the fact that many who have taken up their residences in the far west would most willingly return, if they could, has opened the eyes of the people, in a measure; and many have become convinced that a man who cannot live and enjoy all the comforts of life on a fine pennsylvania farm can do little better upon the prairies of iowa or the ague-shaking swamps of indiana. as an evidence that money may be made at home here by almost any pursuit, attended with perseverance, we may incidentally mention that a gentleman near frankstown, who owns a small farm,--probably one hundred and sixty acres,--not only kept his family comfortable during the last year, but netted $ clear profit, being half the amount of the original purchase. is there a farm of the same size in iowa that produced to its owner so large a sum over and above all expenses? but, more than this, we can safely say, without fear of contradiction, that every acre of cultivated land in the juniata valley has, during the last two years, netted as much as the same amount of land in the most fertile and productive western state in the union. a large proportion of the people who have located in the west, actuated by that ruling passion of the human family--the accumulation of money, (mostly for dissipated heirs to squander,)--are engaged in speculating in lands. now, we venture to say that the increase in the price of some of the lands in the juniata valley will vie with the rapid rise in the value of western lands; and we are prepared to maintain our assertions with the proof. some years ago a gentleman in huntingdon county took a tract of timber-land, lying at the base of the mountain in blair county, for a debt of some four or five hundred dollars. the debt was deemed hopelessly bad, and the land little better than the debt itself. right willingly would the new owner have disposed of it for a trifle, but no purchaser could be found. anon the railroad was built, and a number of steam saw-mills were erected on lands adjoining the tract in question, when the owner found a ready purchaser at $ cash. a gentleman in gaysport, in the summer of , purchased twelve acres of ground back of hollidaysburg for seven hundred dollars. this sum he netted by the sale of the timber taken off it preparatory to breaking it up for cultivation. after owning it just one year, he disposed of it for $ ! a gentleman in hollidaysburg, in the fall of , bought three hundred and eighty acres of ground, adjoining the frankstown ore bank, for three hundred and eighty dollars. the undivided half of this land was sold on the d of february, , for $ , showing an increase in value of about per cent. in fifteen months; and yet the other half could not be purchased for $ . by this the land speculator will see that it is not necessary for him to go to the far west to pursue his calling while real estate rises so rapidly in value at home. within a few years past, the juniata country has been made a summer resort by a portion of the denizens of philadelphia, baltimore, and pittsburg. from either city it is reached after but a few hours' travel. the romantic scenery, the invigorating air, and the pure water of the mountains, are attractions that must eventually outweigh those of fashionable watering-places, with their customary conventional restraints. the hotels erected along the line of the pennsylvania railroad are admirably adapted, and have been built with a view to accommodate city-folks who wish to ruralize during the summer months. prominent among them we may mention the patterson house, kept by general bell; the house, kept by mrs. c. c. hemphill, at the lewistown station; the keystone hotel, at spruce creek, kept by colonel r. f. haslett; the city hotel, tyrone city; the large hotel at tipton; the logan house, in altoona; the two large hotels lately erected at cresson, by dr. jackson, (capable of accommodating five hundred guests;) and riffle's mansion house at the summit. in addition to these, all the larger towns contain excellent hotels. in short, we may say that the hotels of the valley, collectively, cannot be surpassed by country hotels anywhere. the valley is not without its natural curiosities to attract the attention of the man of leisure. the arch spring and the cave in sinking valley are probably among the greatest curiosities to be found in any country. the spring gushes from an opening arched by nature in such force as to drive a mill, and then sinks into the earth again. the subterranean passage of the water can be traced for some distance by pits or openings, when it again emerges, runs along the surface among rocky hills, until it enters a large cave, having the appearance of an immense tunnel. this cave has been explored as far as it will admit--some four hundred feet,--where there is a large room, and where the water falls into a chasm or vortex, and finds a subterranean passage through canoe mountain, and emerges again at its southern base, along which it winds down to water street and empties into the river. another of these subterranean wonders is a run back of tyrone city, where it sinks into the base of a limestone ridge, passes beneath a hill, and makes its appearance again at the edge of the town. the most remarkable spring, however, is one located on the right bank of the river, some seven miles below hollidaysburg. the peculiar feature about this spring is the fact that it ebbs and flows with the same regularity the tides do. the admirer of natural curiosities may arrive at it when it is brimming full or running over with the purest of limestone water; yet in a short time the water will commence receding, and within an hour or two the hole in the ground alone remains. then a rumbling noise is heard up the hill-side, and soon the water pours down until the spring is again overflowed. in the town of williamsburg, on the property of john k. neff, esq., there is a remarkable spring. it throws out a volume of water capable of operating a first-class mill, together with other machinery, although the distance from the spring to the river does not exceed the eighth of a mile. at spang's mill, in blair county, is by far the largest spring in the upper end of the valley. it has more the appearance of a small subterranean river breaking out at the hill-side than that of a spring. it is about three hundred yards long, varying in width from one hundred to one hundred and fifty feet. the water has a bluish-green tinge, and is so exceedingly pure that a drop of it placed under a microscope would show fewer animalculæ than a drop of river-water would after being filtered. formerly it contained thousands upon thousands of the finest brook trout; but of late years the number has been considerably diminished by the sportsmen who could obtain permission from mr. spang to entice them from their element with the tempting fly. a hundred feet from what is considered the end of the spring, there is a large grist-mill driven by its waters, which empty into the eastern reservoir of the pennsylvania canal, after traversing a distance of about three miles. within two miles from the head of the spring, its waters furnish motive-power to two grist-mills, a saw-mill, and four forges. as a singular circumstance in connection with this subject, we may mention that, within the memory of some of the older inhabitants, a considerable stream of water ran through the upper end of middle woodbury township, bedford county; but the spring at the head of it gave out, as well as several other springs which fed it, and now scarcely any traces of it remain. in facilities for teaching the rising generation the counties composing the valley are not behind any of their sister counties in the state, as the common school report for proves. ever mindful of the giver of all good and his manifold mercies to mankind, the people of the juniata region have reared fully as many temples to the worship of almighty god as the same number of inhabitants have done in any land where the light of the gospel shines. the following table, compiled from the census statistics, shows the number of churches in :-- --------------+-------+-----+----------+-------+-------+-----+----- sects. |bedford|blair|huntingdon|mifflin|juniata|perry|total --------------+-------+-----+----------+-------+-------+-----+----- baptist | | | | | | | christian | | | | | | | congregational| | | | | | | episcopal | | | | | | | free | | | | | | | friends | | | | | | | german | | | | | | | reformed | | | | | | | lutheran | | | | | | | mennonite | | | | | | | methodist | | | | | | | moravian | | | | | | | presbyterian | | | | | | | roman | | | | | | | catholic | | | | | | | tunker | | | | | | | union | | | | | | | minor sects | | | | | | | --------------+-------+-----+----------+-------+-------+-----+----- total | | | | | | | --------------+-------+-----+----------+-------+-------+-----+----- during the six years that have elapsed since the above statistics were taken, quite a number of new churches have been erected--probably not less than twenty. of this number four have been erected in altoona and three in tyrone city alone. and now, worthy reader, our voluntarily-assumed task is ended. as we glance over the pages of our work, we are made painfully aware of the fact that many of the narratives given are too brief to be very interesting. this is owing altogether to the fact that we chose to give unvarnished accounts as we received them, broken and unconnected, rather than a connected history garnished with drafts from the imagination. in thus steering clear of the shoals of fiction,--on which so many historians have wrecked,--we conceive that we have only done our duty to those who suggested to us this undertaking. we are strongly impressed with the idea that a history of the early settlement of the valley should have been written a quarter of a century ago. then it might have made a volume replete with all the stirring incidents of the times, for at that period many of the actors in the trials and struggles endured were still among us, and could have given details; while we were compelled to glean our information from persons on the brink of the grave, whose thoughts dwelt more upon the future than on the past. the modern history of the valley will be a subject for the pen of the historian a quarter of a century hence. we have given him a hint of some occurrences during the last half century; and for further particulars, during the next twenty-five years, we would refer him to the twenty newspapers published in the seven counties, from whose columns alone he will be able to compile an interesting history, sparing himself the trouble of searching among books, papers, and old inhabitants, for incidents that, unfortunately, never were recorded. the future of the valley no man knoweth. we even tax the yankee characteristic in vain when we attempt to guess its future. many yet unborn may live to see the fires of forges and furnaces without number illuminating the rugged mountains, and hear the screams of a thousand steam-engines. they may live, too, to see the day when population shall have so increased that the noble stag dare no longer venture down from the mountain to slake his thirst at the babbling brook, and when the golden-hued trout, now sporting in every mountain-stream, shall be extinct. but, before that time, there is reason to believe that the present generation, including your historian, will have strutted upon the stage the brief hour allotted to them, performed life's pilgrimage, and, finally, arrived at stereotyped by l. johnson & co. philadelphia. produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) transcriber's note minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. printer errors have been changed and are listed at the end. all other inconsistencies are as in the original. characters that could not be displayed directly in latin- are transcribed as follows: _ - italics ^ - superscript yale historical manuscripts i published under the direction of the department of history from the income of the frederick john kingsbury memorial fund a journey to ohio in as recorded in the journal of margaret van horn dwight edited with an introduction by max farrand new haven yale university press copyright, , by yale university press printed in the united states of america first published, october, second printing, december, third printing, december, fourth printing, april, fifth printing, october, all rights reserved. this book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publishers. introduction "if it be true that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true that a good play needs no epilogue;" and rosalind might well have added that a good story needs no prologue. the present journal is complete in itself, and it is such a perfect gem, that it seems a pity to mar its beauty by giving it any but the simplest setting. there are many readers, however, with enough human interest to wish to know who rosalind really was, and to be assured that she "married and lived happily ever after." that is the reason for this introduction. margaret van horn dwight was born on december , . she was the daughter of doctor maurice william dwight, a brother of president timothy dwight of yale, and margaret (dewitt) dwight. the death of her father in , and the subsequent marriage of her mother, was probably the reason for margaret dwight being taken by her grandmother, mary edwards dwight, a daughter of jonathan edwards, who trained her as her own child in her family in northampton. the death of her grandmother, february , , was the occasion of her going to live in new haven in the family of her aunt, elizabeth dwight, who had married william walton woolsey, and whose son was president theodore woolsey. three years later, in , margaret dwight left new haven to go to her cousins in warren, ohio. it was doubtless there that she met mr. bell, whom she married, december , , a year after her arrival. william bell, jr., was born in ireland, february , , and after he was a wholesale merchant in pittsburgh. the family genealogy formally records that margaret dwight bell became the mother of thirteen children, that she died on october , , and that she was "a lady of remarkable sweetness and excellence, and devotedly religious." family tradition adds a personal touch in relating that her home was a center of hospitality and that she herself was active and very vivacious. the journal of the rough wagon trip to ohio in was evidently kept by margaret dwight in fulfilment of a promise to her cousin, elizabeth woolsey, to whom it was sent as soon as the journey was over. a good many years later the journal was given to a son of the author, and the original is now in the possession of a granddaughter, miss katharine reynolds wishart of waterford, pennsylvania. it has been well cared for and is in excellent condition, except that the first two pages are missing. this is of less importance from the fact that two independent copies had been made. the text of the journal here printed is taken from the original manuscript, and is reproduced as accurately as typographical devices permit. max farrand. a journey to ohio milford friday eve. at capt pond's. shall i commence my journal, my dear elizabeth, with a description of the pain i felt at taking leave of all my friends, or shall i leave you to imagine?--the afternoon has been spent by me in the most painful reflections & in almost total silence by my companions- i have thought of a thousand things unsaid, a thousand kindnesses unpaid with thanks that i ought to have remembered more seasonably; and the neglect of which causes me many uneasy feelings- my neglecting to take leave of sally, has had the same effect- i hope she did not feel hurt by it, for it proceeded from no want of gratitude for her kindness to me. i did not imagine parting with any friend could be so distressing as i found leaving your mama. i did not know till then, how much i loved her & could i at that moment have retraced my steps! but it was too late to repent-- deacon wolcott & his wife are very kind, obliging, people, & miss wolcott is a very pleasant companion, i do not know what i should do without her. we came on to butler's this afternoon & i came immediately down to uncle pond's & drank tea. miss w. came with me & both uncle & aunt invited her to stay and sleep with me, which she accordingly did. cousin patty has been with me, to say good bye, to all my friends, & to-morrow we proceed to stamford. sat. night, d. nash's inn. middlesex- we had a cold, unsociable ride today, each one of us being occupied in thinking of the friends we had left behind & of the distance, which was every moment increasing, between them & us. mrs w has left an aged father in the last stages of consumption, that was a sufficient excuse for silence on her part. mr w. made several attempts to dispel & by kind words & _phebeish_[a] looks but without success; he appears to be a very fond husband. we stopt to _eat oats_ at a tavern in fairfield, west farms, an old lady came into the room where miss w. (whose name, by the way, is susan, not hannah, sally, or abby) & we were sitting. "well! gals where are you going?" "to new connecticut" "you bant tho- to new connecticut? why what a long journey! do you ever expect to get there? how far is it?" "near miles" "well gals, you gals & your husbands with you?" "no ma'am"- "not got your husbands! well i don't know- they say there's wild indians there!" the poor woman was then call'd out to her daughter (the mistress of the house) who she told us has been ill five months with a swelling & she had come that afternoon to see it _launch'd_ by the physicians who were then in the house-- she went out but soon return'd & told us they were "cutting her poor child all to pieces"- she did not know but she should as lieve see a wild indian as to see that scene over again-- i felt very sorry for the poor old lady- i could not help smiling at the comparison. the country we pass thro' till we are beyond n. york, i need not describe to you, nor indeed could i; for i am attended by a very unpleasant tho' not uncommon, companion- one to whom i have bow'd in subjection ever since i left you-pride-- it has entirely prevented my seeing the country lest i should be known-- you will cry "for shame" & so did i but it did no good- i could neither shame nor reason it away, & so i suppose it will attend me to the mountains, then i am sure it will bid me adieu- "for you know the proverb" 'pride dwelleth not among the mountains'- i don't certainly know where this proverb is to be found, but julia can tell you- for if i mistake not it is on the next page to "there is nothing sweet" &c- i do not find it so unpleasant riding in a waggon as i expected-nor am i very much fatigued with it- but four weeks to ride all the time, is fatigueing to think of- we came on to nash's tavern where we found no company excepting one gentleman who looks like a d^r susannah (m^r nash's granddaughter) says he is a "particular bit" one who likes good eating & a great deal of waiting upon, better than he likes to pay for it- here we stay over the sabbath. footnotes: [footnote a: for the description at the word _phebeish_, the reader is referred to miss julia.] sunday eve-- this morning susannah came & invited us to attend meeting- we at first refused but i afterwards chang'd my mind, & "took a notion" (as susannah told her friends to whom she did me the honour to introduce me) to go- so taking an apple to eat on the road we set out for the church- it was "situated on an eminence" but was a small old wooden building-the minister; who i found was brother to m^r fisher, susannah told me was not very well liked by some "he hadn't so good a gait to deliver his sermons as some," but she believ'd he was a very serious good man- she then gave me his history but i cannot spend time to give it to you- - the sermon had nothing very striking in it but if i had time i would write you the text heads &c just to let you see i remember it, though i fear it has done me no good for i heard it like a stranger and did not realize that i was interested in it _at_ all- i was entirely of susannah's opinion respecting the preacher, for i thought his "gait to deliver" was better than his voice, for he has a most terrible _nasal twang_--before we got home at noon, i had found out the squire & half the parish, susannah's history & many other _interesting_ things which i have almost forgotten--i saw or well dress'd good looking girls, & as many young men answering the first part of the description, one of whom was chorister- & another, from the resemblance he bears them, i imagine must be brother to miss haines or the n york sexton---- i went all day to meeting & am now very tir'd, for our walk was a very long one, i should think almost miles each way which would make almost miles for one poor sermon---- october - monday- cook's inn--county west chester-- i never will go to new connecticut with a _deacon_ again, for we put up at every byeplace in the country to _save expence_- it is very grating to my pride to go into a tavern & furnish & cook my own provision- to ride in a wagon &c &c- but that i can possibly get along with- but to be oblig'd to pass the night in such a place as we are now in, just because it is a little cheaper, is more than i am willing to do- i should even rather drink clear rum out of the wooden bottle after the deacon has drank & wip'd it over with his band, than to stay here another night-- the house is very small & very dirty- it serves for a tavern, a store, & i should imagine hog's pen stable & every thing else- the air is so impure i have scarcely been able to swallow since i enter'd the house- the landlady is a fat, dirty, ugly looking creature, yet i must confess very obliging- she has a very suspicious countenance & i am very afraid of her- she seems to be master, as well as mistress & storekeeper, & from the great noise she has been making directly under me for this half hour, i suspect she has been "stoning the raisins & watering the rum"- all the evening there has been a store full of noisy drunken fellows, yet m^r wolcott could not be persuaded to bring in but a small part of the baggage, & has left it in the waggon before the door, as handy as possible- miss w's trunk is in the bar-room unlock'd the key being broken today- it contains a bag of money of her father's, yet she could not persuade him to bring it up stairs-- i feel so uneasy i cannot sleep & had therefore rather write than not this hour- some one has just gone below stairs after being as i suppos'd in bed this some time- for what purpose i know not-unless to go to our trunks or waggon- the old woman, (for it was her who went down,) tells me i must put out my candle so good night---- tuesday morn--i went to bed last night with fear & trembling, & feel truly glad to wake up & find myself alive & well- if our property is all safe, we shall have double cause to be thankful-- the old woman kept walking about after i was in bed, & i then heard her in close confab with her husband a long time-- our room is just large enough to contain a bed a chair & a very small stand- our bed has one brown sheet & one pillow- the sheet however appear'd to be clean, which was more than we got at nash's- there we were all oblig'd to sleep in the same room without curtains or any other screen- & our sheets there were so dirty i felt afraid to sleep in them- we were not much in favor at our first arrival there; but before we left them, they appear'd quite to like us- & i don't know why they should not, for we were all very clever, notwithstanding we rode in a waggon-- m^rs nash said she should reckon on't to see us again (miss w & me) so i told her that in years she might expect to see me- she said i should never come back alone, that i would certainly be married in a little while- but i am now more than ever determin'd not to oblige myself to spend my days there, by marrying should i even have an opport^y-- i am oblig'd to write every way so you must not wonder at the badness of the writing- i am now in bed & writing in my lap- susan has gone to see if our baggage is in order-- i hear the old woman's voice talking to the good deacon- & an "i beg your pardon" comes out at every breath almost--oh i cannot bear to see her again she is such a disgusting object-- the men have been swearing & laughing in the store under me this hour- & the air of my room is so intolerable, that i must quit my writing to go in search of some that is _breathable_- i don't know how far i shall be oblig'd to go for it- but there is none very near i am certain-- having a few moments more to spare before we set out, with my book still in my lap, i hasten to tell you we found everything perfectly safe, & i believe i wrong'd them all by suspicions--the house by day light looks worse then ever- every kind of thing in the room where they live- a chicken half pick'd hangs over the door- & pots, kettles, dirty dishes, potatoe barrels- & every thing else- & the old woman- it is beyond my power to describe her- but she & her husband & both very kind & obliging- it is as much as a body's life is worth to go near them-- the air has already had a medicinal effect upon me-- i feel as if i had taken an emetic- & should stay till night i most certainly should be oblig'd to take my bed, & that would be certain death-- i did not think i could eat in the house- but i did not dare refuse- the good deacon nor his wife did not mind it, so i thought i must not-- the old creature sits by eating, & we are just going to my great joy so good bye, good bye till to-night---- tuesday noon- ferry house near state prison- it has been very cold & dusty riding to day-- we have met with no adventure yet, of any kind-- we are now waiting at the ferry house to cross the river as soon as wind & tide serve- the white waves foam terribly how we shall get across i know not, but i am in great fear- if we drown there will be an end of my journal---- hobuck, wednesday morn-buskirck's inn-- after waiting or hours at the ferry house, we with great difficulty cross'd the ferry & i, standing brac'd against one side of the boat involuntarily endeavouring to balance it with my weight & groaning at every fresh breeze as i watch'd the side which almost dipt in the water- & the ferrymen swearing at every breath- m^r, m^{rs} & miss wolcott viewing the city and vainly wishing they had improv'd the time of our delay to take a nearer view---- at length we reach'd this shore almost frozen- the ferry is a mile & an half wide-- i was too fatigued to write last night & soon after we came retired to bed- we were again oblig'd all to sleep in one room & in dirty sheets- but pass'd the night very comfortably--if good wishes have any influence, we shall reach our journey's end in peace- for we obtain them from everyone-- the morning is pleasant & we are soon to ride----m^{rs} buskirck the landlady, i should imagine is about years of age & she sits by with a three year old child in her lap- she wears a long ear'd cap & looks so old i thought she must be grandmother till i enquir'd-- springfield-new jersey- pierson's inn-wed^y-pm oclock- "what is every body's business is no body's" for instance- it is nobody's business where we are going, yet every body enquires- every toll gatherer & child that sees us---- i am almost discouraged- we shall never get to new connecticut or any where else, at the rate we go on- we went but eleven miles yesterday & to day-- our waggon wants repairing & we were oblig'd to put up for the night at about oclock.---- i think the country so far, much pleasanter than any part of connecticut we pass'd thro'-but the turnpike roads are not half as good- the deacon & his family complain most bitterly of the gates & toll bridges- tho' the former is very good-natur'd with his complaints-- also the tavern expenses are a great trouble- as i said before i will never go with a deacon again- for we go so slow & so cheap, that i am almost tir'd to death. the horses walk, walk hour after hour while m^r w sits _reckoning his expenses_ & forgetting to drive till some of us ask when we shall get there?- then he remembers the longer we are on the road the more _expensive_ it will be, & whips up his horses--and when erastus the son, drives, we go still slower for fear of hurting the horses-- since i left you i have conceived such an aversion for doctors & the words, expense, expensive, cheap & expect, that i do not desire ever to see the one (at least to need them) or hear the others again, in my life-- i have just found out that elizabeth town is but miles off & have been to the landlord to enquire if i cannot possibly get there & he encourages me a little, i cannot write more till i am certain- oh if i can but see my brother! after a long crying spell, i once more take up my pen to tell you i cannot go,- there is no chair or side saddle to be got, & i will, by supposing him at new york, try to content myself- to describe my disappointment would be impossible--it is such an agravation of my pain, to know myself so near & then not see him-- i have the greater part of the time till now, felt in better spirits than i expected-my journal has been of use to me in that respect----i did not know but i should meet with the same fate that a cousin of m^r hall's did, who like me, was journeying to a new, if not a western country- she was married on her way & prevented from proceeding to her journey's end- there was a man to day in camptown where we stopt to eat, not oats but gingerbread, who enquired, or rather _expected_ we were going to the hio- we told him yes & he at once concluded it was to get husbands- he said winter was coming on & he wanted a wife & believ'd he must go there to get him one- i concluded of course the next thing would be, a proposal to miss w or me to stay behind to save trouble for us both; but nothing would suit him but a rich widow, so our hopes were soon at an end- disappointment is the lot of man & we may as well bear them with a good grace- this thought restrain'd my tears at that time, but has not been able to since-- what shall i do? my companions say they shall insist upon seeing my journal & i certainly will not show it to them, so i told them i would bring it with me the first time i came to henshaw (the place where they live) & read it to them; but i shall do my utmost to send it to you before i go- that would be a sufficient excuse for not performing my promise which must be conditional--i will not insist upon your reading this thro' my dear elizabeth & i suspect by this time you feel quite willing to leave it unread further- i wish i could make it more interesting-- i write just as i feel & think at the moment & i feel as much in haste to write every thing that occurs, as if you could know it the moment it was written- i must now leave you to write to my brother, for if i cannot see him i will at least write him- i cannot bear the idea of leaving the state without once more seeing him-- i hope next to write you from miles hence at least--poor susan feels worse to night than me, & m^{rs} wolcott to cheer us, tells us what we have yet to expect- this you may be sure has the desir'd effect & raises our spirits at once-- friday morn- chester n j. we left springfield yesterday about nine oclock & came on to chester about miles from spring^d----patience & perseverance will get us to n c in time-but i fear we shall winter on our way there, for instead of four weeks, i fear we shall be four times four---- we found an excellent tavern here compar'd with any we have yet found, & we had for the first time clean sheets to sleep in- we pass'd thro' morristown yesterday, & small villages- one called chatham i do not know the names of the others-- it is very hilly in n jersey, & what is very strange, we appear almost always to be going up hill, but like the squirrel, never rise inches higher- the hills look very handsomely at a little distance,- but none of them are very high---- m^r & m^{rs} wolcott, after telling us every thing dreadful, they could think of, began encouraging us by changing sides & relating the good as well as the bad- they are sure i shall like warren better than i expect & think i shall not regret going in the least---- the weather yesterday was very pleasant, & is this morning also- we wish to reach easton to day, but i am sure we shall not, for it is miles distant- or hundred miles appears like a short journey to me now- indeed i feel as if i could go almost any distance- my courage & spirits & both very good--one week is already gone of the -- i wish i could fly back to you a few minutes while we are waiting---- mansfield-n j-sat-morn october - we yesterday travell'd the worst road you can imagine- over mountains & thro' vallies- we have not i believe, had rods of level ground the whole day- and the road some part of it so intolerably bad on every account, so rocky & so gullied, as to be almost impassable- miles this side morristown, we cross'd a mountain call'd schyler or something like it- we walk'd up it, & m^{rs} w told us it was a little like some of the mountains only not half so bad--indeed every difficulty we meet with is compar'd to something worse that we have yet to expect- we found a house built in the heart of the mountain near some springs- in a romantic place-whether the springs are medicinal or not, i do not know- but i suspect they are, & that the house is built for the accommodation of those who go to them- for no human creature, i am sure, would wish to live there- opposite the house are stairs on the side of the mountain & a small house resembling a bathing house, at the head of them-- soon after we cross'd the mountain, we took a wrong road, owing to the neglect of those whose duty it is to erect guide boards, & to some awkward directions given-- this gave us a great deal of trouble, for we were oblig'd in order to get right again, to go across a field where the stones were so large & so thick that we scarcely touch'd the ground the whole distance- at last the road seem'd to end in a hogs pen, but we found it possible to get round it, & once more found ourselves right again- we met very few people, yet the road seem'd to have been a great deal travelled- one young man came along & caus'd us some diversion, for he eyed us very closely & then enter'd into conversation with m^r w who was walking a little forward-he told him he should himself set out next week for pittsburg- & we expect to see him again before we get there-- erastus enquir'd the road of him & he said we must go the same way he did; so we follow'd on till we put up for the night; he walking his horse all the way & looking back at the waggon-as soon as we came to the inn he sat on his horse at the door till he saw us all quietly seated in the house & then rode off- which of us made a conquest i know not, but i am sure one of us did----we have pass'd thro' but towns in n j- but several small villages- dutch valley, between some high hills & the mountain- batestown, where we stopt to _bait_-& some others- all too small to deserve a name- at last we stopt at mansfield at an inn kept by philip fits (a little f). we found it kept by young women, whom i thought _amazoons_- for they swore & flew about "like _witches_" they talk & laugh'd about their sparks &c &c till it made us laugh so as almost to affront them- there was a young woman visiting them who reminded me of lady di spanker-for sprung from the ground to her horse with as much agility as that lady could have done-- they all took their pipes before tea---- one of them appears to be very unhappy- i believe she has a very cross husband if she is married- she has a baby & a pretty one-- their manners soften'd down after a while & they appear to be obliging & good natur'd---- pennsylvania- saturday eve- miles from bethlehem- hanover- oct ^{th} before i write you anything i will tell you where & how we are- we are at a dutch tavern almost crazy- in one corner of the room are a set of dutchmen talking singin & laughing in dutch so loud, that my brain is almost turn'd- they one moment catch up a fiddle & i expect soon to be pulled up to dance- i am so afraid of them i dare hardly stay in the house one night; much less over the sabbath- i cannot write so good night-- sunday morn- i have hesitated a long time whether i ought to write or not, & have at length concluded i may as well write as anything else, for i cannot read or listen to deacon w who is reading- for i am almost distracted. we have determin'd (or rather m^r w has & we must do as he says) to spend the sabbath among these wicked wretches- it would not be against my conscience to ride to day rather than stay here, for we can do no good & get none- & how much harm they may do us i know not- but they look as if they had sufficient inclination to do us evil-- sunday eve- sundown- i can wait no longer to write you, for i have a great deal to say- i should not have thought it possible to pass a sabbath in our country among such a dissolute vicious set of wretches as we are now among--i believe at least dutchmen have been here to day to smoke, drink, swear, pitch cents, almost dance, laugh & talk dutch & stare at us- they come in, in droves young & old- black & white- women & children- it is dreadful to see so many people that you cannot speak to or understand-- they are all high dutch, but i hope not a true specimen of the pennsylvanians generally-- just as we set down to tea, in came a dozen or two of women, each with a child in her arms, & stood round the room- i did not know but they had come in a body to claim me as one of their kin, for they all resemble me- but as they said nothing to me, i concluded they came to see us _yankees_, as they would a learned pig-- the women dress in striped linsey woolsey petticoats & short gowns not inches in length- they look very strangely- the men dress much better- they put on their best cloaths on sunday, which i suppose is their only holiday, & "keep it up" as they call it-- a stage came on from bethlehem & stopt here, with girls & a well dress'd _fellow_ who sat between them an arm round each-- they were probably going to the next town to a dance or a frolic of some kind-for the driver, who was very familiar with them, said he felt just right for a frolic-- i suspect more liquor has been sold to day than all the week besides-- the children have been calling us yankees (which is the only english word they can speak) all day long-whether it was meant as a term of derision or not, i neither know nor care- of this i am sure, they cannot feel more contempt for me than i do for them;-tho' i most sincerely pity their ignorance & folly- there seems to be no hope of their improvement as they will not attend to any means- after saying so much about the people, i will describe our yesterday's ride- but first i will describe our last nights lodging- susan & me ask'd to go to bed- & mrs w spoke to m^r riker the landlord-(for no woman was visible)- so he took up a candle to light us & we ask'd m^{rs} w to go up with us, for we did not dare go alone- when we got into a room he went to the bed & open'd it for us, while we were almost dying with laughter, & then stood waiting with the candle for us to get into bed- but m^{rs} w- as soon as she could speak, told him she would wait & bring down the candle & he then left us- i never laugh'd so heartily in my life- our bed to sleep on was straw, & then a feather bed for covering- the pillows contain'd nearly a single handful of feathers, & were cover'd with the most curious & dirty patchwork, i ever saw-we had one bedquilt & one sheet- i did not undress at all, for i expected dutchmen in every moment & you may suppose slept very comfortably in that expectation----m^r & m^{rs} w, & another woman slept in the same room- when the latter came to bed, the man came in & open'd her bed also, after we were all in bed in the middle of the night, i was awaken'd by the entrance of three dutchmen, who were in search of a bed- i was almost frightened to death- but m^r w at length heard & stopt them before they had quite reach'd our bed- before we were dress'd the men were at the door- which could not fasten, looking at us- i think _wild indians_ will be less terrible to me, than these creatures- nothing vexes me more than to see them set & look at us & talk in dutch and laugh-- now for our ride- after we left mansfield, we cross'd the longest hills, and the worst road, i ever saw- two or three times after riding a little distance on turnpike, we found it fenced across & were oblig'd to turn into a wood where it was almost impossible to proceed- large trees were across, not the road for there was none, but the only place we could possibly ride- it appear'd to me, we had come to an end of the habitable part of the globe- but all these difficulties were at last surmounted, & we reach'd the delaware- the river where it is cross'd, is much smaller than i suppos'd- the bridge over it is elegant i think-- it is covered & has windows each side-- as soon as we pass'd the bridge, we enter'd easton, the first town in pennsylvania- it is a small but pleasant town- the houses are chiefly small, & built of stone- very near together- the meeting house, bank, & i think, market, are all of the same description- there are a few very handsome brick houses, & some wooden buildings--from easton, we came to bethlehem, which is miles distant from it- m^r w. went a mile out of his way, that we might see the town- it contains almost entirely dutch people-- the houses there are nearly all stone- but like easton it contains some pretty brick houses- it has not half as many stores as easton---- the meeting house is a curious building-it looks like a castle- i suppose it is stone,- the outside is plaister'd- we left our waggon to view the town- we did not know whether the building was a church or the moravian school, so we enquir'd of or men who only answer'd in dutch- m^r & m^{rs} w were purchasing bread, & susan & i walk'd on to enquire- we next saw a little boy on horseback, & he could only say "me cannot english" but he i believe, spoke to another, for a very pretty boy came near us & bow'd & expecting us to speak, which we soon did; & he pointed out the school & explained the different buildings to us as well as he was able; but we found it difficult to understand him, for he could but just "english"- we felt very much oblig'd to him, though we neglected to tell him so- he is the only polite dutchman small or great, we have yet seen; & i am unwilling to suppose him a _dutchman_. the school buildings are low, long stone houses- the stone houses are not at all handsome- but rather ugly--where we stopt to bait yesterday, we found another waggon containing a widow jackson, her sons & a daughter in law- they enquir'd where we were going & told us they were going to the same place & immediately join'd our party- we were sorry as we did not wish an addition to our party, & thought by not travvelling on sunday we should lose their company, but rather than lose ours, they wait till monday-they are very clever people apparently, & we may possibly be benefited by them before we end our journey--we now find the benefit of having our own provision- for i would not eat anything we could get here. monday morn-october - it rains & we shall have a dismal day i am afraid-m^r w's harness last night was very much injur'd by being chew'd to pieces by a cow- i have broken my parasol handle a little, but it will not much injure it-i have a bad cold to day- which i know not how i have taken- i more than ever wish to reach warren-- pennsylvania- monday-eve- a dutchman's inn- i dont know where. palks county-or some thing like it-- we have only pass'd thro' small towns to day, allenstown & kluztown- the former is about miles from hannover, where we spent the sabbath, & from bethlehem- before we enter'd the town, we cross'd the lehi in places- it was not deep, & we forded it to save time & _expence_- it runs i believe through bethlehem or at the side of it & is a very small river- allentown is not a pleasant place-the houses are almost all stone- it contains small stone churches- we went into a store, where i bought me a coarse tooth comb for cents- i should never get accustom'd to the pensylvania currency- it diverts me to hear them talk of their fippenny bits (as they pronounce it) & their eleven penny bits-- kluztown is but a few miles from allentown-it has but one short street which is very thickly built with stone & log houses-- it is rather a dirty street & not more pleasant than the others stone is used for everything in this state- the barns & houses are almost entirely built of it- i imagine the dutch pride themselves on building good barns, for a great many of than are very elegant- they are & stories high, have windows & one or . i saw with blinds- they are larger & handsomer than most of the houses- the dutch women are all out as we pass, dressing flax, picking up apples &c &c-the dress of the women grows worse & worse-we find them now with very short petticoats, no short gown & barefoot-- the country is not pleasant, at least does not appear so as we ride thro' it at all- i should think the land must be good as we see large fields of grain very frequently- there does not appear to be as much fruit as in n y & n j--we saw immense quantities of apples in each of those states, particularly n j- there would be thousands of bushels at the cider presses, & still the trees would be borne down with them-- the roads in this state are pretty good, where, dame nature has not undertaken to pave them- but she has so much other business on hand that she has never learn'd to pave, & makes a wretched hand at it- i wish she could be persuaded to leave it to art for the future; for we are very great sufferers for her work- it is quite amusing to see the variety of paintings on the innkeeper's signs- i saw one in n j with tho^s jeff'^{ns} head & shoulders & his name above it- to day i saw gen g washington- his name underneath- gen putnam riding down the steps at horseneck- one sign was merely little kegs hanging down one after the other- they have the sun rising, setting, & at meridian, here a full moon, a new moon, the moon & stars around her, the lion & unicorn "fighting &c", & every thing else that a dutchman has ever seen or heard of- i do not believe one of them has wit enough to invent any thing, even for a sign----several of these creatures sit by jabbering dutch so fast, that my brain is turn'd & my thoughts distracted, & i wonder i have been able to write a word- if you find it unintelligible you must not wonder or blame me- a dozen will talk at once & it is really intolerable- i wish uncle porter was here-how can i live among them weeks? we have come about miles to day- it rain'd a very little this morning & the rest of the day has been quite pleasant tho' somewhat cold- tomorrow we pass thro' reading-- wednesday oct^ber ^st highdleburg-penn- we pass'd through reading yesterday which is one of the largest & prettiest towns i have seen-we stopt about hours in the town, & i improved my time in walking about to see it- i went into the stores enquiring for a scissor case- almost every one could talk english- but i believe the greatest part of them were dutch people- as soon as we left reading, we cross'd the schuylkill- it was not deeper than the lehi, & we rode thro' it in our waggon. a bridge was begun over it, but the man broke & was unable to finish it- it would have been an excellent one had it been completed- it is now grown over with grass & serves as a walk for the ladies---- we put up for the night at leonard shaver's tavern-he is a dutchman, but has one of the most agreeable women for his wife i have seen in this state-i was extremely tir'd when we stopt, & went immediately to bed after tea- & for the first time for a long while, undress'd me & had a comfortable nights rest- we are oblig'd to sleep every & any way- at most of the inns now---- my companions were all disturb'd by the waggoners who put up here & were all night in the room below us, eating, drinking, talking, laughing & swearing- poor m^r w- was so disturb'd that he is not well this morning, & what is more unpleasant to us, is not good natur'd, & m^rs w has been urging him this half hour, to eat some breakfast- he would only answer "i shan't eat any"-but at length swallow'd some in sullen silence- but is in a different way preparing to ride-- if i were going to be married i would give my _intended_, a gentle emetic, or some such thing to see how he would bear being sick a little- for i could not coax a husband as i would a child, only because he was a little sick & a great deal cross- i trust i shall never have the trial- i am sure i should never bear it with temper & patience. m^r w is i believe a very pious good man, but not naturally pleasant temper'd- religion however, has corrected it in a great degree, but not wholly overcome it- m^{rs} w- is an amiable sweet temper'd woman, as i ever saw; the more i know her, the better i love her- susan is a charming girl-but erastus is rather an obstinate boy- he feels superiour to his father & every one else, in wisdom--m^{rs} jackson is a clever woman i believe, but i have a prejudice against her which i cannot overcome- she is very inquisitive and very communicative- she resembles moll lyman or rather crazy moll of northampton in her looks- she has considerable property & feels it very sensibly- her youngest son is almost eighteen & has his wife with him, who is not quite as old- they have been married months, & are a most loving couple- i cannot help thinking whenever i see them together, of "love i sophia?" &c-- her name is eliza & his, john-- the other son is a very obliging but not a very polish'd young man- i like them all better than at first---- wednesday eve- miller's town- penn- oct- ^{st} we have come miles to day, & just begin to shorten the distance between pittsburgh & us, & to increase it between phildelphy (as the dutchmen call it,) & us- it has for a long time been miles to pitts^g & to phil^{hia}- but is now to one & more than to the other-- it began snowing this morning which rendered our ride more unpleasant than before- m^r w has continued just as he was in the morning- scarcely a word has been spoken by any of us- i never felt more low spirited & discouraged in my life- we have pass'd through little towns to day- moyerstown & the other i don't know the name of- we also pass'd thro lebanon which appear'd to be a town of considerable size & pleasant- we did not stop at all in it- the other towns were merely one short dirty street- this town is one street only, but a tolerably pretty one- there are a number of good houses in it- we have once more got among people of our own nation & language- & they appear very clever-- harrisburg- p- thursday- eve-november- ^{st} - it has been snowing fast all the afternoon & we found it very difficult travelling & were oblig'd to put up just in the edge of the town- it was m^r w's intention to cross the susquehannah which is the other side the town- we shall not pass thro' it- we cross'd the sweet arrow, a little river about miles from the susquehannah-- we cross'd it in our waggon-m^r jeremiah rees is our landlord- his wife is sick with a fever arising from the hives at first- he has a sister who seems to take the direction of the female part of the business- she is a strange creature- friday morn- i have been very much diverted at hearing some part of her history which she told last night, after drinking a little too much i suppose-she says she has property if she is not married- she had her fortune told a short time since- & was told to think of a certain gentleman living about miles off- which she did, & thought so hard that a drop of blood fell from her nose- she was telling m^{rs} jackson of this & ask'd how far she was going- being told about miles- well she said she really believ'd her oldest son was the young man she was to have, for he looks just like the one she thought of- the young man will be quite flatter'd no doubt---- we are all in tolerably good spirits notwithstanding we are unable to proceed on our journey- it still continues snowing, & we shall stay here till tomorrow morning & how much longer i do not know---- there was a cockfighting in the house last night & a great many of the "finest young men in the town" got so intoxicated as to be unable to get home without assistance---- m. v. d. sunday eve- east pensboro' township- p- we left m^r rees' yesterday ten oclock- & after waiting some time at the ferry house, cross'd the susquehanna with considerable difficulty- the river is a mile wide & so shallow that the boat would scrape across the large stones so as almost to prevent it from proceeding- we only came miles- the riding was awful- & the weather so cold that i thought i should perish riding miles- this will do well for us, miles in days- we were to have seen the mountains yesterday, but are miles from it-- i should like to have staid at m^r rees' till we reach home if it was possible, notwithstanding we had like to have all lost our characters there- while we were at breakfast, the black wench miss'd nearly dollars of money, & very impudently accused us with taking it, in rather an indirect manner-- i felt at first very angry, but anger soon gave place to pity for the poor girls loss- it was money she had been saving for a long time that she might get enough to buy her a dress- but she left it about very carelessly in the closet where any one might have taken it who was so disposed-- but had i been inclined to steal, i could not have stolen from a poor black girl- i would rather have given her as much- i never felt so queerly in my life- to be suspected of theft was so new & unexpected to me, that i was wholly unprepar'd for it-- we went to m^r rees & begg'd him to take some method to satisfy the girl we were innocent but we could not prevail on him to, tho' we really wish'd it-he gave the girl a severe scolding & desir'd us not to remember it against them, or to suffer ourselves to be made a moment uneasy by it, & both himself and m^rs rees were extremely sorry any thing of the kind had happen'd- the girl continued crying & assuring us her money had been safe all summer till then & nobody had been near it but us- i, nor any of us had any doubt that the landlord's sister, whom i before mention'd, had taken it- she had the day before or ninepences in her shoes, & when m^r w ventur'd to ask her if she had not taken it to tease the wench, she swore by every thing she had not touch'd it- she said it was fashionable for ladies to carry money in their shoes- i suppose she had long been eyeing it, & thought then would be a good opper^ty to take it but did not intend it should be discover'd till we were gone & unable to defend ourselves from the charge which she then meant to make against us-- she is so worthless a character in every respect, that i am certain she could be guilty of stealing upon occasion-- she was very fond of telling what ladies, like _her_ & _me_, did & wore-- she is between & y^{rs} of age- it was an honour i was not very tenacious of, to be rank'd with her ladyship-the money was not found before we left there & i suppose the poor girl feels as certain some one of us have it, as that she has lost it- should i ever return this way i would call & enquire about it- i hope it will be found with babby (for that is the creatures name)-- we put up for the sabbath at a tavern where none but the servants deign to look at us- when i am with such people, my proud spirit rises & i feel superior to them all-- i believe no regard is paid to the sabbath any where in this state- it is only made a holiday of-- so much swearing as i have heard amongst the pensylvanians both men & women i have never heard before during my whole life- i feel afraid i shall become so accustom'd to hearing it, as to feel no uneasiness at it. harrisburgh is a most dissipated place i am sure- & the small towns seem to partake of the vice & dissipation of the great ones-- i believe m^{rs} jackson has cast her eyes on susan or me for a daughter in law- for my part, though i feel very well disposed toward the young man, i had not thought of _making a bargain_ with him, but i have jolted off most of my high notions, & perhaps i may be willing to descend from a judge to a blacksmith- i shall not absolutely determine with respect to him till i get to warren & have time to look about me & compare him with the judges dobson & stephenson- it is clever to have two or three strings to ones bow-- but in spite of my prejudices, they are _very clever_-- among my list of _cast offs_, i would rank dutchmen, a pensylvania waggoner, ditto gentlemen- for their prophanity- & a slut- the words, landlord & lady, terrible,- get married,- get a husband-&c &c-- i do not find it as easy to write a journal as i had hoped- for we are seldom favour'd with any more than the barroom, & there is always as many men as the room will hold besides our party, & there is nine of us- so you may judge whether i find it difficult or not- i frequently begin a sentence & forget how to finish it,- for the conversation grows so loud, that i am oblig'd to listen to it & write between whiles- i sometimes get quite discouraged & think i will not try again, but i take too much pleasure in writing, to give it up willingly-- miles west of carlisle- penn-monday nov- ^{th}- we came but a little peice as the dutchmen say, to day, & are in a most curious place to night- if possible i will describe it- it is a log hut built across the road from the tavern, for _movers-_ that the landlord need not be _bother'd_ with them-- had it been possible for our horses to have reached another inn we should not have staid with the cross old dutch fellow-we have a good fire, a long dirty table, a few boards nailed up for a closet, a dozen long boards in one side & as many barrels in the other- benches to sit on, two bottomless chairs, & a floor containing dirt enough to plant potatoes-- the man says he has been so bother'd with movers, that he has taken down his sign, for he does not need his tavern to live-- if we had a mind to stay we might but if we chose to go on he had no objection-- cross old witch- i had rather have walk'd miles than stay, but the poor horses could not-- we are going to sleep on the floor all in a room together in the old stile without bothering the old scamp, for any thing-mrs jackson has beds-- if i did not feel provok'd with the wretch i should rest comfortably- tues- morn- the old man i believe feels a little asham'd of his treatment of us & was going to make some apology, but concluded by saying with a forced laugh, that if we ever came there again, he would treat us just so- he may if has oppor^{ty}-- tuesday night- nov- ^{th}- we have only counted miles to day although the riding has been much better than for several days past- we stopt in shippenburgh at noon- the town contains only one street a mile & a half in length & very thickly built- the street is some part of it pleasant, & some part dirty-- i saw in it a handsome young gentleman who was both a dutchman & pennsylvanian, yet in an hour & half i did not hear him make use of a single oath or prophane word- it was a remarkable instance, the only one i have known, & i could not but remark it- prophanity is the characteristic of a pennsylvanian---- we are miles from strasburgh & the mountains, & one of our horses is ill, owing to erastus giving him too many oats- erastus is master rather than his father, & will do as he pleases for all any one- he is a stubborn fellow, & so impudent to his mother & sister, that i have no patience with him-- we are not as bless'd as the israelites were, for our shoes wax old & our cloaths wear out-- i don't know that mine will last till i get there---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- wed- morn- last night susan & i went to bed early, as we slept ill the night before- we expected to get good beds & were never so disappointed- we were put in an old garret that had holes in the roof big enough to crawl through- our bed was on the floor, harder it appear'd to me, than boards could be- & dirty as possible- a dirty feather bed our only covering- after lying an hour or two, we complain'd to m^{rs} wolcott who applied to the landlady for a bedstead, but could only obtain leave for us to sleep on one bed with another over us- i slept wretchedly & feel very little like climbing a mountain--m^r & m^{rs} w could not sleep at all & got up at about eleven oclock-- she had good beds in the house or i would not have complained so much-- jennyauter-p--wednesday oclock p m-between brothers---- this morning we cross'd the first mountain call'd first brother, & are in an inn between the first & second brother; the latter we are soon to ascend-the first m-n is - / miles over,- better road than we expected- but bad enough to tire the horses almost to death- we met & were overtaken by a number of people-- we all walk'd the whole distance over- i did not stop at all to rest till i reach'd the top- i was then oblig'd to wait for some of them to overtake me, as i had outwalk'd them all. it is not a little fatiguing to walk up a long mountain i find--when we had nearly reach'd the foot of it, we heard some music in the valey below, & not one of us could imagine from what it proceeded; but soon found it was from the bells of a waggoner- he had twelve bells on the collars of his horses, (not sleigh bells) & they made a great variety of sounds which were really musical at a distance-- we found at the tavern where we are now, or rather they came after us, a m^r beach, & his wife who was confin'd nine days after she set out on her journey, with a little son-it is just a fortnight since she was confin'd, & this morning she ventur'd to set out on her journey again- they came from morristown- n j- & are going to some part of the ohio, much farther than we are going. m^{rs} b- appears to be a very pretty woman & quite a lady- her father & mother, a sister & little children, set out with them, but were oblig'd to leave them & go on, as soon as m^{rs} b was confin'd- i feel afraid she will catch her death, tho' every care is taken to render her journey safe & comfortable-- she & babe are both very well now-- fannitsburg- penn- m^callen's inn-wednesday night- nov- ^{th}- we have over come mountains to day- & are between the ^d & ^d brothers- we walked over it-i have walked about miles to day & feel as much fatigued as i have almost ever been in my life- it was _long_ miles over- we met a number of waggons on it- but no other travellers- this is a very small but pretty place- the first m-ns are very near each other- the ^{th} is or miles distant--they are higher than i expected, & make a formidable appearance- it has been very smoky all day- i am so tir'd i can neither think or write, so good night---- thursday morn- we had a good nights rest, but i am so lame i can scarcely walk this morning- i have a mountain to walk over, notwithstanding-- m^r w's horses grow so dull that he expects to be oblig'd to put up for a few days, & we are all almost discouraged--the weather looks stormy & where we shall get to or what we shall do, i cannot imagine--the jacksons enquire about the road & the mountains &c &c, of every one they see, & get such different & contradictory answers from each one, that it perplexes & discourages us all- i wish they would be contented to wait patiently till time & experience inform them what they cannot find out any other way- m^r w says i have now an oppor^{ty} to experience the truth of a text of scripture which says "all men are liars"- i found that out long ago- & this journey confirms the truth of it. peach orchard, p- thursday night-phelps' tavern-- i do not feel to night, my dear elizabeth, as if i should ever see you again- mountains & more hundreds of miles part us; & tho' i cannot give up the idea of returning, i cannot think of traversing this road again- if i live to return i will wait till the new turnpike is finished-- we cross'd the last brother this morning, & found the greater part of it, better than the other two- but about rods near the top it was excessively steep-- we found a house at the foot of the steepest part- a woman & her sons live there & keep cakes & beer-- the woman told us she had no husband at _present_--i suppose, she has one in expectation--on the first mountain, i found some sweet williams-- we stopt at noon, at a dismal looking log hut tavern- the landlady (i hate the word but i must use it,) talk'd about bigotry, bigotted notions, liberty of conscience &c- she did not look as if she knew the meaning of conscience, much less of bigotry-- all this afternoon we have been walking over young mountains, distant relations of the brothers, but not half as clever- i was so lame & so tir'd that for an hour i did not know but i must set down & die- i could not ride- the road was so bad, it was worse than walking- i would not tell you all this, if you were to receive this before it is all over---- it rain'd a very little all day, but just at night it began to rain very fast, & i expected we should all catch our death, walking thro' mud & mire, with no umbrella, or but one that would not cover us all- we were wet thro before we reach'd this dreadful place where we now are-- the woman is cross & the man sick---- friday night- it rain'd all day yesterday, & such a shocking place as this is, i never saw- a dozen waggoners are here, some half drunk & no place for us to stay in but our waggons or a little chamber with squares of glass in it- with scarcely room to sit or stand-- saturday morn---- i am now in despair, it continues raining faster than ever- the house full of drunken prophane wretches, the old woman cross as a witch- we have nothing to eat & can get nothing but some slapjacks at a baker's some distance off, & so stormy we cannot get there---- m^{rs} jackson frets all the time, i wish they would go on & leave us, we should do as well again---- m^r beach & his wife & child & the woman who is with them, are here, & the house is full- m^{rs} beach rode in all the rain thursday, but took no cold & bears it well as any one- it rains most dreadfully & they say it is the clearing off shower- oh, if it only proves so---- "oh had i the wings of a dove, how soon would i meet you again"- we have never found the wretches indelicate till last evening, but while we were at tea, they began talking & singing in a most dreadful manner---- we are miles from sidling hill, the next mountain, & a mile & a half from this, there is a creek which we must cross, that is so rais'd by the rain, as to render it impossible to pass it---- saturday night- our "clearing up shower" has lasted all day with unabated violence,-- just at sunset we had a pretty hard thunder shower, & at dusk there was clear sky visible & the evening star shone bright as possible, but now it is raining fast again--after giving an emetic i would take a long journey with my _intended_, to try his patience---- mine is try'd sorely now- i wish you could just take a peep at me-my frock is wet & dirty a quarter of a yard high, only walking about the house- i have been in my chamber almost the whole day, but was oblig'd to go down just at night to eat, & look at the sky- i was very much frighten'd by a drunken waggoner, who came up to me as i stood by the door waiting for a candle, he put his arm round my neck, & said something which i was too frighten'd to hear- it is the first time the least insult has been offer'd to any of us- one waggoner very civilly offer'd to take susan or me, on to pitts^g in his waggon if we were not like to get there till spring- it is not yet determin'd which shall go with him-- one waggon in crossing the creek this afternoon, got turn'd over & very much injur'd-- we have concluded the reason so few are willing to return from the western country, is not that the country is so good, but because the journey is so bad-- m^r w. has gone to & from there, times, but thinks this will be the last time- poor susan groans & sighs & now then sheds a few tears-i think i exceed her in patience & fortitude----m^{rs} wolcott is a woman of the most perfect equanimity i ever saw- she is a woman of great feeling & tenderness, but has the most perfect command over her feelings- she is not _own_ mother to these children, but she is a very good one---- i have learn'd elizabeth, to eat raw _pork_ & drink whisky-dont you think i shall do for a new country? i shall not know how to do either when i end my journey, however- we have almost got out of the land of dutchmen, but the waggoners are worse---- the people here talk curiously, they all reckon instead of expect-- youns is a word i have heard used several times, but what it means i don't know, they use it so strangely-- m^r rees used to exclaim at any thing wonderful, "only look at that now"-- "i reckon you are going into the back countries" is now our usual salutation from every one---- susan is in bed for want of some employment & i will join her, after telling you, it has really clear'd off now, & the moon is shining in full splendor.- i hope to-morrows sun will deign to smile upon us- it is long since we have seen it---- i expect to be oblig'd to go thro' a process of fire & brimstone at my journeys end & shall feel thankful, if that will remedy all the evils arising from dirty beds &c-- i find no necessity for even that yet, but i fear i shall soon----good night---- sunday oclock p m- we left the inn this morning in the hope of getting a _little piece_ on our way, but have only reach'd the baker's, half a mile from where we set out- the creek is so high we cannot cross it yet- an old man & his wife live here, & appear to be very kind clever people, & what is more than we have found before, they appear to regard the sabbath- they are methodists- this is a small log hut, but clean & comfortable- there are no waggoners here-- i shall be oblig'd to colour my frock i believe, for it attracts the attention of those creatures so much, that i dare not go in sight of them scarcely- i often think of the lines your mama repeated to us "in silk, &c" sunday night. about sunset, we left the baker's & came down to the creek, but found it was impossible to get over the waggon, & the road was so intolerable between the place we had left & the creek, that we could not go back, & what to do, it took a long time to determine; but at length m^r w concluded we had better come over to a dirty tavern this side, & let erastus sleep in the wagon-- the stream runs so fast, that we did not dare cross it alone, as there was nothing but a log to cross on; so the waggoners & our own party, were oblig'd to lead & pilot us, over the stream & thro' a most shocking place as i ever saw- the men were all very civil- they are waiting this line is the shape of a pensylvania waggon-- with of us---- we fare their the rest waggons, like worse & worse, & still m^r w- & his wife, tell us this is nothing to what will come- i do not fully believe them, for we cannot endure much more & live--susan & young m^{rs} jackson have been quite unwell all day-- i never felt in better health, & my spirits are pretty good, considering all things-- we are not able to get beds here, & are to sleep on the floor to night- there is another family here, with several little children-- they say there has been a _heap_ of people moving this fall;- i don't know exactly how many a heap is, or a _sight_ either, which is another way of measuring people-- i would be _apt_ to think it was a _terrible_ parcel, to use the language of the people round me---- i have such an enormous appetite the whole time, that i have been in some fear of starving- for food of every kind, is very scarce with us- money will not procure it, & nothing else i am sure, will- for they love money better than life, if possible-- sabbaths we have pass'd on the road, & i suppose or more will pass before we get among people who "remember the sabbath day to keep it holy"-- we find no books to read, only at the bakers to day i found part of a bible, a methodist hymn book & a small book containing an account of the progress of methodism throughout the country; in letters from ministers & others----we left m^r beach & family, at the tavern we left to day-- i hope tomorrow to write you from a comfortable place or miles at least from the next mountain-- monday morn- we have now i think met with as bad as can befal us-- never, never did i pass such a night---- we could get no bed & for a long time expected to be oblig'd to set up all night- but we could get no room nor fire to stay by, & the landlady was so kind as to give up her bed to us; so m^rs w & susan went to bed there, while i went to bed with m^rs jackson in another room- i took off my frock & boots, & had scarcely lain down, when one of the wretches came into the room & lay down by me on the outside of the bed- i was frighten'd almost to death & clung to m^{rs} jackson who did not appear to mind it- & i lay for a quarter of an hour crying, & scolding & trembling, begging of him to leave me-at last, when persuaded i was in earnest, he begg'd of me not to take it amiss, as he intended no harm & only wish'd to become acquainted with me-- a good for nothing brute, i wonder what he suppos'd i was- i don't know of any thought word or action of mine that could give him reason to suppose i would authorise such abominable insolence---- the man & his wife, who are here, & their family, john jackson & his wife, & m^{rs} jackson, were all in the room-the moment he left the room, i put on my frock & was going in to m^{rs} w & susan, but i could not get to them without going thro' the room where all the waggoners were, & m^{rs} jackson did not think it safe, so i got on another part of the bed where none of them could come near me, & had been there about minutes when m^{rs} w & susan came into the room both crying, & as much frighten'd as i had been, for one of the creatures had been into their room, & they could scarcely get him out- m^r w- was in the waggon, & the landlord was so afraid of these wag^gs that he did not dare stay in his own house, for they threaten'd to put him into the creek, if he did not continue giving them liquor- i wish they had put him in- a mean sneaking fellow!-- his poor wife was then oblig'd to bear it all, & she was very much distress'd on our account- she was not to blame for any thing that happen'd, for as long as her husband suffer'd it, she could not prevent it-at last m^{rs} w- went to bed with m^{rs} jackson & me, & susan lay down with john & his wife- we lay but a few minutes, when one of them came into our room again crawling on his hands & knees- m^{rs} w & i sprung & run out into the mud in our stocking feet & were going to call m^r w.- but the creatures came out to us & begg'd us not to, & pledg'd their honor (of which you may suppose they possess'd a great share) that we should not be disturb'd more- & tenderness for m^r w- who we knew would be sick to day if depriv'd of rest, at length determin'd us to go back; but we did not go to bed again till just morning, when some of us slept nearly or quite an hour- which was every wink of sleep we could obtain during the whole night- the fellows were all but one, very still afterwards- indeed there was but who made any disturbance, & only one of those was very bad- but one, was a complete child of the evil one- the vilest, worst, most blasphemous wretch, that ever liv'd-- m^r w- came back to the house before oclock, & this morning, threaten'd them with a prosecution- they are quite angry- they are in the employ of this man who is moving; he is a merchant & they carry his goods to pitts^g-- nov^{br}- ^{th} monday night- nail shop-on the ^{th} mountain we have got - / miles on our journey to day, & now it rains again-- if i could describe to you our troubles from roads, waggoners & creeks, i would,- but it is impossible-- the waggoners set out just before we did & the bad one being foremost has taken all the pains in his power to hinder our progress, by driving as slow as possible & stopping every other moment- the road was too narrow to pass them, unless they would turn out for us- all but one did, but he swore he would not- we came by them as they stopp'd at noon, & put up to night at an inn on the mountain, out of the direct road, where we should peaceably pass the night- but the waggoners have follow'd us, & the house is full- they are not in our room-- our party now consists of m^{rs} jackson's, m^r beach's & m^r w's familys-- the woman who is with m^r beach, is such a foolish old creature, that we are all out of patience with her----she is aunt to them, i believe---- if i were to choose, i would never have company on a long journey- such company at least- our chairs here are taken from us for the waggoners---- our road over the mountains, has not even a good prospect to render it pleasant-- i have been repeating to susan all day, "comfort damsel &c"- m^{rs} jackson is scolding because she has no chair to set on.- m^r w- tells her, "fret not thyself because of evil doers"---- there is another impassable creek a head, & a hundred waggons waiting to cross it- our prospect brightens fast-dont you think so? good night-- tuesday eve- nov- ^{th}- miles east of bedford- penn- we have at length escap'd the waggoners & mr beach- the former did not trouble us last night at all in the night- when we went to bed they watch'd us narrowly, & after we were in bed we heard them talking about us, enquiring of each other where we slept &c- we were in the room with m^r & m^{rs} wolcott, directly over the room they were in, but still i felt afraid of them- the worst one is quite mad, & says he intends if possible, to give us more trouble than he has done already- the other is quite asham'd of his conduct & i suspect would be willing to make any amends in his power- he told this to m^{rs} jackson who is much too familiar with them, & i believe it was owing entirely to that, that they conducted so- for the rest of us always avoid even the sight of them, as much as possible; & much more any conversation with them-- we got up very early indeed & set out before breakfast, because the horses could have no hay, & we have got quite out of their reach--we cross'd a little stream call'd the juniaatta- i spell the names as they are pronounced, but i do not spell them right, i am sure, nor can i find out how they are spelt many of them- the river is long & narrow- it takes a winding course thro' the mountains, & is a very pretty stream-- we rode some distance on its banks, & the road been tolerable, it would have been pleasant- i have said so much about the badness of the roads that you will hardly believe me when i tell you we seen some of the worst to day we have ever found- & some, as good as any in this state---- i should not have suppos'd it possible for any thing to pass it- m^{rs} w said it seem'd like going into the lower regions, but i had always an idea, that road was smooth & easy- i am sure if it was as bad as that, it would have fewer travellers-we went down however till we came to a lower region-it was really awful-- we saw some men to day, mending the roads- i did not think a pennsylvanian ever touch'd a road or made a bridge, for we are oblig'd to ride thro' every stream we come to-we have been nearly miles to day; & have been oblig'd to walk up hill, till we are all very tir'd- i felt too much so to write, but i am unwilling to omit it- we are now, comfortably & quietly seated, in a private house- i only wish now, we could get rid of what company we have left- but that we cannot do---- wednesday night. a private house- miles w- of bedford we cross'd the juniaatta again to day, with a great deal of trouble, after waiting on its banks about hours- it is astonishing how the last week's rain, rais'd every stream & overflow'd every place-the like here, has not been known for years it is said-- a waggoner last week, with horses, was drown'd crossing a creek- he was advis'd by those who were by, not to venture- & answer'd "he would be damn'd to hell if he did not cross it"- he made the attempt & in a few minutes was sent into eternity, & probably to that awful place---- it has been raining very fast this afternoon, & we put up at a little log hut, a few miles west of bedford- we came about miles to day- the house is very small & there is scarcely room to move- thursday night-- allegany m^{tn} nov- - we have had a warm & pleasant day till towards night, when it began to rain, as it has done every day for a fortnight- we are now at a tavern half a mile from the top of the allegany mt-this mountain is miles over- at the highest part of it is a most beautiful prospect of mountains- or ridges one after the other-- we clamber'd up a high rock near to the highest part, but found the prospect little better than the one from the road- i wish i could describe it to you- we have had no prospect of any consequence from any of the mountains before- i have been quite disappointed at not seeing any--we found winter green berrys in abundance on it-i pick'd a sprig of ivy from the top, which i will send you- call it laurel & preserve it, as it came from the very _backbone of america_, as they all tell us--we have walk'd a great deal to day, & indeed we are oblig'd to every day, for the whole country seems one continued m^{tn}- i thought we had reach'd the top of this, for we began to descend a little; but we have half a mile more to ascend yet---- this house is full of travvellers & wag'^{nrs} but all are very peacable-there is a curiosity in the house- a young lady who has come from n connecticut _unmarried_-- after staying in warren a year--a thing i never before heard of, & had begun to think impossible. i feel quite encouraged by it- & do not believe the place as dangerous as is generally reported---- i find in every family a _paggy_- every body is dutch-- the children & girls, are all very much attracted by my little black buttons, & the manner in which my frock is made-& the wag'^{rs} by the colour of it- there will be little of it left by the time i get to warren, for it is almost gone-- friday night- allegany m^{tn}-- after a comfortable nights rest, we set out on foot to reach the height of the m^{tn}- it rain'd fast for a long time, & at length began snowing- we found the roads bad past description,- worse than you can possibly imagine- large stones & deep mud holes every step of the way- we were oblig'd to walk as much as we possibly could, as the horses could scarcely stir the waggon the mud was so deep & the stones so large---- it has grown so cold that i fear we shall all perish tomorrow- we suffer'd with cold excessively, to day- from what i have seen and heard, i think the state of ohio will be well fill'd before winter,-waggons without number, every day go on- one went on containing _forty_ people- we almost every day, see them with or - one stopt here to night with -- we are at a baker's, near a tavern which is fill'd with movers & waggoners- it is a comfortable place, but rather small- one old man has been in examining my writing, & giving his opinion of it in dutch, to a young fellow who was with him- he said he could not read a word of any thing-- he found fault with the ink, but commended the straitness & facility with which i wrote- in english- i was glad he had not on his specs---- we came but miles to day, & are yet on the allegany- it is up hill almost all the way down the mountains-- i do not know when we are down them for my part--_i'm thinking_ as they say here, we shall be oblig'd to winter on it, for i _reckon_ we shall be unable to proceed on our journey, on account of roads, weather, &c-- we are on the old pennsylvania road- the glade road is said to be ten times worse than this-that is utterly impossible- we thought we should escape the waggoners this way; but find as many of them as ever- they are a very great annoyance---- what would the old man say hereto?-- i am very tir'd, so good night-- saturday eve- miles from laurel hill-penn- we came but or miles to day, & are now near the ^{th} mountain- in a tavern fill'd with half drunken noisy waggoners-- one of them lies singing directly before the fire; proposing just now to call for a song from the young ladies---- i can neither think nor write he makes so much noise with his _love songs_; i am every moment expecting something dreadful & dare not lay down my pen lest they should think me listening to them- they are the very worst wretches that ever liv'd, i do believe,--i am out of all patience with them- the whole world nor any thing in it, would tempt me to stay in this state three months- i dislike everything belonging to it--i am not so foolish as to suppose there are no better people in it than those we have seen; but let them be ever so good, i never desire to see any of them----we overtook an old waggoner whose waggon had got set in the mud, & i never heard a creature swear so- & whipt his horses till i thought they would die--i could not but wonder at the patience and forbearance of the almighty, whose awful name was so blasphem'd-- we also overtook a young _doctor_-who is going with his father to mad river in the state of ohio---- he has been studying physic in new jersey,- but appears to be an uneducated man from the language he makes use of----i believe both himself & his father are very clever- i heard them reproving a swearer-- he dresses smart, & was so polite as to assist us in getting over the mud-- susan & i walk'd on before the waggon as usual, & he overtook us and invited us into the house & call'd for some brandy sling- we did not drink, which he appear'd not to like very well, & has scarcely spoken to us since---- he thinks himself a gentleman of the _first chop_, & takes the liberty of coining words for himself- speaking of the people in this state, he said they were very ignorant & very _superstitionary_ --perhaps you have heard the word before- i never did-- sunday morn- we had good beds last night, contrary to my expectation,- and we are going on our journey this morning- it is extremely cold & very bad riding or walking- m^r w- has been so long detain'd by bad weather & riding, that he thinks himself justifiable in riding on the sabbath- i thought so some time ago-- sunday noon- we are on the top of laurel hill, the ^{th} mountain-- we women & girls, have walk'd between & miles this morning-- we left the waggons getting along very slowly, & came on to a house to warm us- it is a log hut & full of children, as is every one we come to-- the wind whistles about us, & it looks very much like snow---- one waggon got set this morning, & hinder'd us this long time-- the young doctor & his father are still in company with us-- the former, who has got over his pouting fit, leaves his father to drive,- while he walks on with the ladies- he is not with us just now-- he has not conquer'd the antipathy i bear a young physician-- or rather a _young doctor_-- how little it seems like the sabbath-- i would not write if i could do any thing else-- but i can not even think good thoughts---- sunday eve-- nov- ^{th}-- foot of laurel hill--penn-- i wish my dear elizabeth, you could be here for half an hour, & hear the strangest man talk, that you or i ever saw in this world-- he is either mad or a fool-- i don't know which, but he looking over me & telling me i _can_ make a writer-- he is the most rating, ranting fellow-- i wish you could hear him----i begin to think him mad-- his name is smith-- he & his wife are journeying either to new orleans or the ohio---- i never was more diverted than to hear him (he is certainly crazy-- repeating a prayer & a sermon & forty other things in a breath) talk about the dutchmen in pennsylvania-- he & his wife came amongst them one evening & stopt at several houses to get entertainment, but was sent on by each one to the tavern-- he began by stating his religious tenets, & at length after every body & thing was created, he says the _under gods_ (of whom he supposes there were a great number) took some of the skum & stir'd it up, & those fellows came out--or rather hell boil'd over & they were form'd of the skum----i believe he has been studying all his life for hard words & pompous speeches, & he rattled them off at a strange rate-- his language is very ungrammatical--but the jacksons are all in raptures with him--they cannot understand his language (nor indeed could any one else) & therefore concluded he must be very learned- their observations are almost as diverting as his conversation- i could make them believe in ten minutes, that i was a girl of great larnin-if i were to say over kermogenious- heterogenious & a few such words without any connection--no matter if i do but bring them in some how-- we are over the ^{th} mountain & at an inn at the foot of it- this m^{tn} is called worse than any of them- it is only about miles over- we have only come to day, & i have not been in the waggon- the horses once or twice got set, & cast &c- we have had a deal of bad luck-- there is a great many travellers here-the house is full---- the young d^r told me he was married, to day-- i like him rather better than i did, before, & ventured to walk on a mile or two with him- he gave me the history of his courtship &c-and some information respecting the part of ohio he is going to, that was quite interesting-- susan chose to ride down the hill, & i outwalk'd m^{rs} w, so we were quite alone till we reach'd this house- m^{rs} jackson & eliza had gone on before us, and i every moment expected to overtake them, but did not see them till we got here-- i am very tir'd & have laughed myself into a headache; so i can write no more to night. monday morn- last night we were again cheated out of our beds, & oblig'd to pass the night as we could, & that was most uncomfortably- i was quite unwell with the headache, & had waited for a bed an hour & a half longer than i felt able to set up; & when i found i could get none, i had a long crying spell-- this morning i feel almost sick-- m^r w-is so much afraid of making trouble, that he will wait till every body else is served, & let them cheat him out of his eyes, & say nothing. our party here consists of english, irish, german, & americans- of the first- of the second- of the third- & a house full of the last-- this strange man is an everlasting talker- he knows every body & every thing about them- he has been repeating one of m^r pierpont edwards' speeches to me- & one of m^r hilhouse's-not one second elapses between his words-he is a very pompous fellow & takes great pains to display what he does know- he has been a schoolmaster-& now i suspect is crazy & running away with a girl he calls his wife- but who seems to be nobody---- it rain'd very fast last night- & is more muddy than ever-- monday night- a mile west of the mountains- rejoice with me my dear elizabeth, that we are at length over all the mountains, so call'd-- i do not suppose we shall be much better off than we were before, as it respects roads- for i had just as lieve go over a mountain, as to go over the same distance of any part of the road we have had this fortnight or three weeks- but it sounds well to say we are over the mountains-- we cross'd chesnut ridge, the th & last m^{tn} this afternoon- it is miles over-- miles we have come to day-- there is a pretty prospect of hills as you come down the m^{tn}- one house on the top of it-- we have taken a great deal of pains to get rid of company to day, by going forward & staying behind- but it is an _unpossibility_ (m^r newington) i am more out of patience than ever-- we came on to the ^{th} tavern after we got down,- because we thought those behind us, would stop sooner- m^{rs} jackson & her tribe were with us-but we thought all the rest were out of the reach of us- this is a little hut, one window in front- but it is neat & comfortable inside, & we were all quietly seated round the fire, congratulating ourselves on our escape, when in came the young doctor- i thought we should all scream out- m^{rs} jackson told him she thought we had lost him- he said he lik'd not to have found us- i wish with all my heart, they had got fast in the mud a little while. the rattlebrain'd fellow is not here, to talk us to death-- he pass'd us on the road, singing & screaming, advising us to go back & learn hog latin- alias german- or dutch-- we are now miles from pitt---- nov^{br} ^{st} tuesday night-a mile from greensburg-penn- we have had better roads to day, but only came miles-- last night we had good beds, but were oblig'd to sleep in the room with the d^r & his father-m^r & m^{rs} w- of course, as we have determin'd not to sleep out of their room again-- the landlord & his wife were extremely clever- they gave us a great many apples & some cherry bounce- such treatment, after being refus'd even the privilege of getting any victuals,- as we were the night before, was very welcome-- the landlord has been a waggoner-"only look at that now"-a clever waggoner! i cannot but think his cleverness (is there such a word?) came after he gave up his waggon---- after riding a little way, we overtook m^r smith again, & found he had been fighting with a waggoner, who began to insult him, by calling him a damn'd yankee-before they ended m^r s- whipt of them- i was glad they got whipt, for almost every one deserves it-- m^r s- lamented we were not there to see the fun- he declar'd, or rather swore, he would not leave us again, but would stand by and fight for all- he lets his wife ride alone, & he walks on to talk to every one that will listen to him-- as for the d^r, he is "nothing but a pester"- susan & i took a great deal of pains to go either before or behind to get rid of his company, but it does no good, for he will either wait, or walk faster- i had a great mind to ask him, if he expected to lose his wife soon-we pass'd thro greensburg, a pretty little town, situated on a high hill- the other waggons had gone on, & were bating in the town- but m^r w- did not stop, so the d^r follow'd on & left his father, & waited at another place for us to bait- we were only able to come a mile farther, as the horses fail'd-the rest of the company had gone on, expecting us to follow- the d^r came in here with us & i thought intended to stay, by his actions, but he at length walk'd on to join the rest of his company-- we have escap'd hearing m^r s- talk, which i would not be oblig'd to do for pence an hour- wednesday morn- i have not spent so pleasant an evening this long time as the last- will you believe me, when i tell you we heard some waggoners conversing upon religious subjects- instead of swearing & cursing- one is an irish waggoner, & appears to be sensible, well inform'd man- & what is more, has read his bible- clever waggoners! i think i will never condemn a whole race again- i can now, even believe it possible to find a clever dutchman in pennsylvania. i hope we shall lose all our company this morning- but i expect they will wait for us- this is a good tavern- we have had sun shine for days past- the weather, as it respects heat & cold, is very variable- but it invariably rains every day-- thursday morn- sewel's tavern-versailes-township- yesterday morning, we did not set out till quite late, but had the good fortune to overtake all our company within an hour or two, & were oblig'd once more to put up with them- we had also, a considerable addition to our party-- we were oblig'd to walk a great deal, & just at night, i happen'd to be on before the waggon some distance & prevented m^r w- from stopping at a private house, which we pass'd- i did not think of his wishing it till m^{rs} j-mentioned it, i then set out to return, but saw the waggon coming & sat down on a log- we did not reach a tavern till some time after dark- & m^r w-got hurt & his waggon got set-, & he feels unpleasantly towards me, & thinks me the whole cause of his trouble-- the whole family feel & treat me differently this morning, & i can not think myself to blame- for we are oblig'd to walk almost all the time, & if we are behind the waggon m^r w- always is angry-- m^{rs} w- susan & i, were oblig'd to walk, till we found a house, & if the young d^r had not been with us, i don't know but we should have pass'd the night in the woods - but he was so good as to assist us - the gentlemen all reach'd the tavern before us, & when m^r w- came & told his trouble, they very kindly went back & assisted him-- there were but two beds to be had, so m^r smith gave up his place to me, & m^r & m^{rs} w took the other-- the gentlemen were very noisy all night, as they could not lie down-- i am much better pleas'd with m^r & m^{rs} smith, than i was before- he is a lawyer- & i believe knows more, than i at first suspected-- he is a great talker, & has a story for everything- we came miles yesterday-- to day i am so dreadfully lame that every step i take, almost brings tears- my feet are sore with walking- nov- - friday morn- turtle creek-penn- one misfortune follows another, and i fear we shall never reach our journey's end-- yesterday we came about miles-- after coming down an awful hill, we were oblig'd to cross a creek; but before we quite came to it, the horses got mired, & we expected every moment one of them would die-but erastus held his head out of water, while m^r w-was attempting to unharness them, & m^{rs} w- & susan were on the bank, calling for help-- i sat by, to see the horse breathe his last; but was happily disappointed in my expectation-- no assistance could be got- till m^r w- waded though the water, & then men with horses came over-- we came to this inn, & m^r w- thought it best to stay till this morning- all our company have gone on- m^r smith invited me to ride with his wife, on to pitts'^g- & i on some accounts, wish i had accepted his invitation-indeed i could scarcely get beside it-- we found a gentleman (doctor i presume by his looks-) here, who was very sociable & staid an hour with us- he appear'd to be a man of good information & considerable politeness-- we found the landlord very good natur'd & obliging, & his wife directly the contrary-- we find the men generally, much more so than their wives-- we are miles from pitt----& here like to be- the landlord offers to keep susan & me, till spring, & let the old folks go on-- we got into the slough of despond yesterday-& are now at the foot of the hill difficulty- which is half a mile long- one waggon is already fast in the mud on it- & m^r w- is afraid to attempt it himself--i think i will winter here---- friday eve- miles past pitts'^g- penn- this morning we set out once more & proceeded miles- it was snowing very fast, & one of our horses was taken sick & could scarcely get that little distance-m^r w- was oblig'd to whip it almost every step to keep it from lying down-- we could not ride at all & stopt at the first tavern we came to--we are afraid the horse will die & then what will become of us?---- i am more than ever discouraged- sat-morn- our horse is better & we are going to set out again---- nov^{br} - saturday night- - / miles beyond pittsburg- just as we were getting into the waggon this morning, m^r w- found he had left his great coat miles back, & went back on foot after it, while we proceeded to pitts- which we reach'd about noon-- m^r w- came about an hour after---- after getting well warm, susan & i were going out to view the town, when m^r w- came & hurried us away, as he wished to cross the river before night- from the little we did see of the town, i was extremely disappointed at its appearance- it is not one half as large as i suppos'd- but i am unable to give you any account of it, from my own observation-- it is situated at the confluence of the rivers, the alleghany, & monongahela- the town suffer'd very much by the flood- one house floated down the river- its inhabitants were in the upper part of it calling for assistance-none could be render'd & what became of them i did not learn- i believe it is not known- it was late before we could cross the river (alleghany) & we came on but miles & a half to a very good tavern- the man & his wife are both good natur'd--we found the road to day, better than for a long time-- we left almost all the stones when we cross'd the last mountain- & to day i believe we have cross'd the last hills of any consequence- we are now- "on the banks of the pleasant ohio"---- sunday eve- it has been all day & still is, raining another flood i fear- all the men in the neighborhood came here to keep the sabbath by drinking whiskey &c &c- but no swearing-- i sat reading very quietly & one of them came & desir'd to look over me- i very much doubted whether he could read, but he convinc'd me he could by his observations, which were given with such a tobacco breath as almost suffocated me- he was not more than half shaved, & could read without spelling more than half the words- for he would read a page & half in an hour, nearly-- there is a sweet little boy here about years old- he has been writing with me some time & talks so much to me that i am as slow writing as this man was reading-- this is the th sabbath since i left you-- we have lost our company--i quite want to see some of them again-- wednesday nov- - miles from greersburg-penn- i have had no opport^y of writing you for days-before now- we set out in the rain on monday, & came on miles- to a hut- with a sign up call'd a tavern- & such a place!- i found the people belong'd to a very ancient & noble family- they were first & second cousins to his _satanic majesty_- i could but wonder that he should suffer them to lead so laborious a life, for they are among his most faithful friends & subjects-- probably they are more useful to him in that station, by increasing the number of his subjects-- their dwelling resembles that of their royal cousin- for it is very dark & gloomy & only lighted by a great fire- no one who is once caught in it, ever wishes to be again-- the man is only related by marriage to his lordship---- wednesday eve-- the house had only one room in it-- there was a number of travellers & we got but one bed- that was straw or something harder- the pillow case had been on or years i _reckon_, so i pin'd over my handkerchief- & put night gown over my frock--we rose an hour before day break, got breakfast & set out in the snow for another hut- we rode several miles on the northern bank of the ohio- we saw a very large rock containing a great many names-we added ours to the number-- the road was at the foot of a very high hill or mountain, & so near the river, there was scarcely room for a waggon- i rode in constant fear, for the bank down to the river, was very high and steep-- we came on miles, to beaver town, on tuesday- we cross'd the big beaver, a stream which empties into the ohio- it is generally, fordable, but is at present so rais'd by the rain, that a flat is used-- we found a very good inn at beaver town; & soon after supper, judge austin & a m^r weatherby (merchant-) of warren, came in--not dobson nor stephenson)-- i felt as glad to see them & as well acquainted with them in a few minutes, as if we had all our lives been neighbors--the judge, resembles d^r goodsel in his looks:- but is older & larger- m^r weatherby looks like t. devereaux--they both, told me they were sorry m^r edwards did not know i was on the road, that he might have sent an horse after me-- they were on their way to pitt^g but judge a, had some idea of returning immediately back to warren, & they had a mind to hire a horse & have me return with him, but m^r wolcott objected-- i can guess his reason for it, but i will not write it-- i very much wish'd it, as i fear i shall be oblig'd to walk a good part of the way- m^r w- says it would not hurt any of us to walk miles every day of our lives- i told him i should not like to walk it in stormy weather, as we are now oblig'd to; but he said it would not hurt me if i shouldn't-- i have already worn out my boots almost entirely, with walking-- m^r w- is a very strange man- i don't know what to make of him --i shall be so thankful to get thro'- & then if i am caught with a deacon of any name, again, i shall deserve to suffer-- we are within miles of warren, & to be unable to get there under or days, is perfectly tantalizing-- we came - / miles to day, & are at a very comfortable inn, just in the edge of greersburg- we expected to get a little further, to hart's tavern quite in the town: & there i hop'd to see judge austin again, & i determin'd at any rate to accept his offer of getting me a horse, & go directly on with him, for i do not intend to walk miles a day till we get there, if i can help it- even if it will not hurt me-- i won't take the _good_ deacon's word for that. the horses are really tir'd out & out, & every day by the time we get miles they will stop & it is extremely difficult to get them on at all- but it is so _expensive_ hiring a horse to go on, that as long as the waggon alone, can be drawn or miles a day, it will not be done--but i feel provoked, as you will easily see, so i will write no more on this subject---- i am so anxious to end my journey, that i have lost all interest about the country i pass through-- it snows or rains every day, constantly-- i think in good weather, the ride from warren to pitts^g must be pleasant- if that were at present the case, my journal would be as much more interesting, as my journey would be pleasanter-- i am quite tir'd of both, but still so habituated to them, that i think it will seem very strange for a few days after i end them, (if i _live_ after that time) not to run out the waggon as soon as i have eaten my breakfast--& not to have my journal in my work-bag to fill it up-- it is very troublesome i assure you-- i fear it will be worn out before you get it- it is already very dirty, & so badly written you will never read half of it-- thursday eve- miles as usual has been our days ride-- i have not walk'd my miles, but i walk'd as much as i could- we are in a comfortable house before an excellent fire- it is snowing very fast-- saturday- p m- warren- after so long a time-- friday morning we set out early with the hope of getting to youngstown at night & to warren to night, but miles from y----n, the horses were so tir'd they would not stir, so we stopt at a private house for the night, an hour before sun down-- we had been in the house but a little time, when susan look'd out & told me she thought there was some one after me, & i soon saw m^r edwards & horses-- "i was never so happy i think"-- i ran out to meet him- he came in & set a while, & just at dark we started for youngstown-- m^r edwards insisted upon susan's going with us, so she rode behind him, and i rode the single horse-- we reach'd _cousin_ joseph woodbridge's about the middle of the eve-- they got us a good supper & gave us a bed-- m^{rs} w- is a very pretty woman (i mean pleasing)- they have children, & appear to be very well off, (you understand me) & happy-- they live in a very comfortable log house, pleasantly situated-a cousin in this country, is not to be slighted i assure you- i would give more for one in this country, than for in old connecticut-- this morning m^{rs} todd came over to see us, & urg'd us to stay & spend the day with her-- but spite of her solicitations, we set out for warren soon after breakfast--my horse was extremely dull & we did not get here till near oclock-- cousin louisa was as happy to see me as i could wish, & i think i shall be very happy & contented-- the town is pleasanter than i expected- the house better- & the children as fine--cousin has alter'd very little, in any way--i found a m^rs waldo here just going to connecticut, & lest i should not have another opport^y, i intend sending this by them, without even time to read it over & correct it-- i _am_ asham'd of it my dear elizabeth, & were it not for my promise to you, i don't know that i should dare to send it-- i will write your mama by mail, i have not time for a letter now--my very best love to every body-- i have a great deal more to say, but no more time than just to tell you, i am ever & most affect^{ly} yours- m v d---- let no one see this but your own family-- * * * * * transcriber's note the following changes have been made to the text: page vi: "doutbless" changed to "doubtless". page : "to night" changed to "to-night". page : "the appear" changed to "they appear". page : "where we going" changed to "where we were going". page : "but is is an" changed to "but it is an". http://www.archive.org/details/somepersonalremi thom some personal reminiscences of service in the cavalry of the army of the potomac. by colonel hampton s. thomas. reprinted from "the united service," january, . philadelphia: l. r. hamersly & co. . _some personal reminiscences of service in the cavalry of the army of the potomac._ at the earnest solicitation of my many military friends, i have thrown together some reminiscences of my personal experience as a cavalryman during the late war of the rebellion. though my four years of campaigning began with a three months' tour of tramping with the "dough-boys" under general patterson in the spring and early summer of , the latter was only a prolonged picnic. two days before i was mustered out of the ninth pennsylvania infantry i enrolled myself in the first pennsylvania cavalry, and soon discovered that i was more fitted for riding a horse than for trudging through the slush and mud with a heavy "harper's ferry" musket on my shoulder. i will pass over the tedious instructions of the school of the trooper, mounted and dismounted, and begin my reminiscences as a full-fledged yankee cavalryman. the first pennsylvania cavalry, which originally belonged to the pennsylvania reserve corps, began its experience as a fighting regiment in a skirmish and charge near dranesville, virginia, on november , , and, strange to relate, the first man killed was our assistant surgeon, dr. alexander. the regiment's first experience of heavy firing was in the battle of dranesville, on december . this engagement was fought by a brigade of the pennsylvania reserve corps, commanded by general e. o. c. ord, my regiment supporting eastman's battery. the enemy had the same number of regiments and guns that we had, and their commanding officer was general j. e. b. stuart, but ord outgeneraled him and gave us the victory, the rebels retreating from the field. the campaign of the spring of showed what some, at least, of the cavalry did before general hooker offered his liberal reward for a "dead cavalryman."[ ] those who served in the army of the potomac will remember that from the fall of to the summer of the cavalry were for the most part scattered about and used as escorts, strikers, dog-robbers, and orderlies for all the generals and their numerous staff officers from the highest in rank down to the second lieutenants. the cavalry force under general george d. bayard, then colonel of my regiment, consisting of the first new jersey, second new york, and first pennsylvania cavalry regiments, was the first brigade organized in that branch of the service in the united states army. the campaign began with easy marches to catlett's station, on the orange and alexandria railroad, and scouting to warrenton and rappahannock station. [ ] in this connection it may be well to quote the following extract from an article in the _century magazine_ of may, , by colonel william f. fox, entitled "the chances of being hit in battle": "the muster-out rolls of the various mounted commands show that there were ten thousand five hundred and ninety-six 'dead cavalrymen' who were killed in action during the war, of whom six hundred and seventy-one were officers, the proportionate loss of officers being greater than in the infantry." on the morning of the th of april we left catlett's station and moved in the direction of falmouth. in this movement we were supported by a brigade of infantry commanded by general augur. on the morning of the th, about three o'clock, we charged upon the heights of falmouth, drove the enemy from their position, and captured the quaint old town, but we were unable to save the bridge spanning the river, as the enemy had set fire to the end on the fredericksburg side. this was my first experience in a mounted charge of any consequence. in this engagement i was acting as assistant adjutant-general for bayard, with the rank of first lieutenant. the success of our cavalry engagement gave bayard his star and promoted me to the rank of captain and the command of a squadron. after a tour of scouting and picketing along the rappahannock river south of fredericksburg, we were assigned to general mcdowell's corps of observation, which was composed of three divisions of infantry,--mccall's, shields's, and king's. the operations of this corps were intended to serve either as a protection to the city of washington or as a reinforcement to mcclellan on the peninsula. about june the cavalry took the advance on the telegraph road leading towards richmond, and reached the forks of a road near hanover court-house, to which place mcclellan's patrols came. while we who were in the advance-guard were congratulating ourselves upon getting under the right wing of mcclellan's army without a fight, our hopes were suddenly blasted by the following order sent to "capt. hamp. thomas, commanding advance-guard: sir,--you will return with your command as rapidly as possible. don't blow your horses if you can help it. cross over to falmouth and receive further instructions. (signed) g. d. b., b. g." when we reached fredericksburg we noticed considerable excitement. general shields's division had gone, the first new jersey and first pennsylvania cavalry and four companies of the "bucktails" were on the march northward, and the balance of our brigade of cavalry was left with king's and mccall's divisions. upon reporting to general bayard, we learned the cause of all this rapid marching. the authorities at washington had become frightened at stonewall jackson's movement against general banks, who was in the shenandoah valley. this scattering of general mcdowell's strong corps was fatal to general mcclellan's plans while he was on the peninsula. then commenced one of the wildest marches i ever experienced. day and night we marched through heavy rain-storms, over the mountains and swimming swollen streams. the last ten miles were made in one hour and twenty minutes, and we lost several horses foundered after crossing the shenandoah river. we reached strasburg, in the valley, on june , just in time to cut off the rear of jackson's army. we had a running fight all the way up the valley until we reached harrisonburg, where we had a very severe engagement,--our two regiments of cavalry and the four companies of "bucktails" against a division of rebel infantry. the first new jersey cavalry lost its colonel and several officers captured, and the "bucktails," colonel kane and captain fred. taylor captured. the rebels lost heavily in killed and wounded, among the former being general turner ashby. general fremont's command, which had crossed over from the kanawha valley, joined us at harrisonburg the next day, when we moved towards port republic. here fremont's men had a very sharp engagement at cross keys on june . our cavalry were only lookers-on in this fight, but jackson succeeded in checking our forces with his rear-guard, while the head of his column crossed the bridge at port republic, driving away shields's advance, which had passed up the luray valley expecting to cut him off. they were too late, however, in reaching that point, for jackson had slipped away and moved his men down to richmond by rail, taking the same position which we were to have taken on mcclellan's right flank. the result was the change of base, with all its hard fighting, hard marching, and heavy losses, to the james river at harrison's landing. we then began a long and weary march down the valley, over rivers and mountains, to the vicinity of culpeper court-house. on our arrival there came the order for general bayard's cavalry to report to the head-quarters of the army of northern virginia, j. pope commanding, with head-quarters in the saddle. it took twenty wagons to haul that saddle! we were assigned to picket and scouting duty, our lines stretching from raccoon ford to barnett's ford, on the rapidan, a distance of fifteen miles. on the night of august our pickets were driven in a short distance from the river, and on the morning of the th commenced what is known as the battle of cedar mountain. in that engagement general bayard showed the finest order of generalship. with four regiments of cavalry he held jackson's whole command of eighteen thousand men at bay from a.m. until p.m. this movement of bayard's was made in echelons of squadrons, single-rank formation, and gave the idea to the enemy that we had about ten thousand men in his front. the men of crawford's and hartsuff's brigades will bear witness to the tenacity with which our cavalry held on until they came to our relief. to relate an incident of what cavalrymen could do before a reward was offered for a dead one: during the afternoon a battery of four guns belonging to general banks's command was left in a very exposed position. in front of these guns was an open field, and on the other side some woods in which a brigade of rebel infantry had formed in regimental front, four lines deep, and was moving out to capture the battery. general banks asked general bayard if the guns could be saved. bayard, taking in the situation, ordered major falls, of the first pennsylvania cavalry, to charge his battalion upon the enemy's infantry. the charge was made, but only one company succeeded in reaching the enemy. some men of the company passed through the lines and returned, while the balance of the battalion was repulsed before reaching the open field. the captain of the company was wounded in five places, the second lieutenant killed,--in fact, the company came near being wiped out of existence; and when the first lieutenant, warren l. holbrook, came to rally the remnant of his company he found but a corporal's guard. knowing the modesty of that gallant officer, i take the liberty of mentioning his name. eighty-eight horses were left dead on the field. the celebrated charge of the eighth pennsylvania cavalry at chancellorsville is familiar to all; but this charge of the first pennsylvania cavalry even excelled that in boldness, for when the eighth pennsylvania cavalry made its charge it was in column of fours and in the woods, and it came upon the enemy unexpectedly. but the first pennsylvania cavalrymen at cedar mountain saw what was in their front: a clear, open field and death staring them in the face,--cannon in front of them and cannon to the left of them,--and theirs was a feat at arms not unlike the charge of the earl of cardigan and his six hundred, made immortal by tennyson.[ ] [ ] the charge of the eighth pennsylvania cavalry was made historical by general pleasonton's official report after the battle of chancellorsville. reports like that sometimes cover up a multitude of blunders and give credit only to those who are killed. they also sometimes make great newspaper generals of their authors, and the millions who read the newspapers at home thus get their impressions as to who are the great fighters at the front. we remained in the vicinity of the battle-ground of cedar mountain, taking up our old positions, until the th of august, when the great game of chess between lee and pope commenced, lee trying to capture washington before mcclellan could transport his troops from the peninsula to the defense of our capital, while we were trying to close the gaps in the mountains. our cavalry did some sharp fighting during this backward movement of pope's. but there was no opportunity for us to attack the enemy's cavalry in mass until we arrived, on the th, on the open plains to the south of rappahannock station. here bayard formed his squadrons for a general attack. the enemy advanced a brigade of cavalry upon us, and they were met by the first new jersey, first pennsylvania, first rhode island, and second new york cavalry regiments, with sabres drawn. we drove them back to culpeper, and this check of their cavalry caused their infantry columns to halt and go into position, while we moved leisurely back, giving our infantry and trains time to cross the several fords of the rappahannock river. a few nights afterwards there was a terrific storm of thunder, lightning, and rain. it was impossible to recognize a person an arm's length away, and yet we received orders to move rapidly up the river road to sulphur springs, and thence by way of warrenton to thoroughfare gap. the storm, however, delayed us until the next morning, when we resumed our march, and reached thoroughfare gap on the evening of august , but too late by one hour, for jackson had slipped through ahead of us. we captured about six hundred of his stragglers and a very important dispatch from longstreet to him, informing him that he would be through early next morning. this information was sent to head-quarters, and general rickett's division was sent to our support. bayard's cavalry kept longstreet's corps back for six hours, and they were no doubt long ones to jackson, who was then at manassas. on the morning of august my regiment took position between bull run bridge and groveton. being in the advance with my squadron, i was ordered to deploy as skirmishers and develop the enemy, who were soon found, for they opened a battery upon me, and this was, i think, the beginning of the great battle of second bull run. my squadron remained in this position all that day, with instructions to keep a sharp lookout on jackson's right and report results to general reynolds. my squadron at this time numbered ninety-five men, all armed with carbines, revolvers, and sabres. general bayard received orders that evening to mass his cavalry on the open ground to the left of the gainesville pike and prepare for a grand charge and night attack on jackson's right flank. bayard, knowing that my men were familiar with that flank, sent me orders to retire quietly and report to him at the burnt chimneys, near the bull run bridge. this having been done, we were taken along the flank of the brigade to the head of the column and were told what we were expected to do,--to lead the charge and strike directly for the enemy's artillery, destroy its usefulness, if possible, and come out at the point where we had been picketing during the day, while bayard was to lead the brigade in person down the right and left centres of the main lines. the signal for this charge was to be three artillery shots over our heads at intervals of one minute each, and when the third shot was fired i was to move at a walk to within a short distance of the rebel skirmish line, then hurl my squadron in column of platoons upon the enemy, sweeping along their extreme right. imagine the thoughts that passed through my mind,--home, mother, sisters, brothers, and sweetheart all jumbled in my head at once. the suspense was awful! the men were admonished to follow their leader, and if he should fall to continue on and carry out his orders. the first shot was fired; then came a long delay. wondering what could be the cause of this, i rose in my saddle, looked to the rear, and found that all the supports had retired and that we had been left alone. suddenly bayard rode up to me and, with choked voice, said, "thank god, you are saved! the orders have been countermanded, and you can take up your old position over on the left." i must acknowledge that tears trickled down my cheeks while i was on the way to my old position. what would have been the result had this charge been made? directly in our front, as we discovered next day, was a deep gully or washout, though bayard had been assured that it was a clear, open field. here would have been another "sunken road" as at waterloo, and perhaps another victor hugo writing of the charge, while we poor souls would have been hurled to death, trampled beneath the hoofs of the horses of those who followed us. on the afternoon of the last day of the battle of second bull run i observed that the enemy were massing a large body of troops in front of our extreme left, and i sent several verbal messages to that effect by trustworthy non-commissioned officers to general bayard, who was near general pope. i began sending these messages between three and four o'clock, and my last one was to inform him that the enemy had placed four batteries of artillery in position, that i had counted twenty-eight sets of colors, that more troops were moving into position, and that if the enemy made an attack, they would strike the pennsylvania reserves on the left and rear. when the sergeant who carried this message returned, he told me that general pope remarked to general bayard, "oh, that officer don't know his business. he don't know what he is talking about. tell the fool that those people he sees are general porter's men forming on the right of the enemy." i felt very much annoyed at this, and i don't deny that i used some very strong language about my superior officer, though most of it was done mentally. however, i rode rapidly over to general reynolds, informed him of the fact, and persuaded him to come and see for himself. one glance was sufficient for him. he dashed back to his division and changed front to the left to meet the attack. those who were in the pennsylvania reserves at that time can testify that the movement to the left was hardly finished when the heavy column i had again and again reported burst upon them, crushing their left back upon and through our artillery, leaving the guns in the hands of the enemy. i have often wondered _who_ was the fool,--the general or the captain. my squadron rode along the flank of this charging column of the enemy, and expended nearly all of its carbine ammunition upon it. they paid no more attention to us, however, than if we were so many gnats flying in the air. in my opinion the final repulse of the enemy was chiefly due to a small brigade of regular infantry. it seemed to me that every line that came in their front was wiped out. their firing was done with coolness and precision; their commanding officer had them well in hand. it was a scene well worthy of the pencil of an artist; but we did not have that kind of people with us when such opportunities occurred. i crossed the bull run bridge with these regulars between sundown and dark. at that time the enemy seemed to be retiring very rapidly, as though they were retreating from the field. i thought at the time that we should have been pursuing them instead of retiring. but orders had to be obeyed. i joined my regiment next morning near centreville, my squadron having been held for picket duty that night near the bridge. general bayard and i had several conversations afterwards about what i have stated. he always cautioned me to be careful in my language about what i knew, as doubtless there would be an investigation concerning the battle, and he wanted me to corroborate him in case he should be called upon to testify before a court of inquiry. but the brave soldier was called to a higher court before his testimony could be taken, and until now i have remained silent upon the subject. after the battle our cavalry brigade retired to the defenses of washington, and remained there for six weeks, when we again took up the line of march, joining mcclellan's army (which had recrossed the potomac after antietam) between the bull run mountains and the blue ridge. we continued on in the advance, skirmishing and charging daily, and never halted until we arrived at rappahannock station, on a cold, stormy night in november, my squadron capturing a large picket post of the enemy and saving the railroad bridge. here we received the news that mcclellan had been relieved and burnside placed in command of the army of the potomac. soon we again took up the line of march and moved rapidly towards fredericksburg. in the battle of fredericksburg the cavalry took a peculiar part. it is not generally known that bayard's cavalry was used for the purpose of developing the enemy's artillery and infantry in front of franklin's crossing, but such was the fact. an english officer who, if i remember rightly, was a volunteer aide on general lee's staff, in an article published in _blackwood's magazine_, referred in complimentary terms to the manner in which my squadron manoeuvred across the railroad, and for its bold advance upon the enemy's lines. i may be mistaken, but i have always given to thomas martin, a private in my company ("m"), the credit of having unhorsed general maxcy gregg. observing a general officer, as i thought, about two hundred yards in my front, looking at us through his field-glass, martin and i dismounted, and standing between our two horses, martin rested his carbine on my shoulder, and the instant he fired i noticed the mounted officer fall from his saddle. i afterwards learned that general gregg was killed on that part of the field, and about that time. in all my experience, from my baptism of fire at falling waters on july , , down to jetersville, april , , i never was under such a terrific fire of shot, shell, and musketry as in this movement in general franklin's front. the shot and shell seemed to make the atmosphere blue. our loss in men was very small, but in horses large. poor martin was wounded and made a cripple for life. in this battle of fredericksburg fell mortally wounded my beau-ideal of a cavalry general. quick to act, brave to a fault, careful of his men, and dearly beloved by his whole command was general george d. bayard, the sheridan of our army in the early days of the war. his last words to his adjutant-general (captain h. c. weir) were, "give my compliments to general burnside, and say that i desire colonel dave gregg to command my cavalry," and then he expired. a few days after this our old stand-by, general david mcm. gregg, assumed command of our brigade. he was well dubbed "old reliable." he proved himself to be the stonewall of our cavalry corps. early in the year the cavalry was organized into a corps under the command of general stoneman, the first division under general pleasonton, the second under general averell, and the third under general gregg. our duties during the winter were not very arduous. on april an order came from the war department detailing me for duty as inspector-general on the staff of general gregg. on april we moved out of camp, crossed the rappahannock and rapidan rivers, pushed boldly into the enemy's country, and soon came back faster than we went. as a stupid failure "stoneman's raid" was a complete success. our only accomplishments were the burning of a few canal-boats on the upper james river (at columbia), some bridges, hen-roosts, and tobacco-houses. this campaign of stoneman's put a damper upon bayard's old cavalry command. many times have i had a quiet laugh when remembering conversations with brother officers about our new corps commander, who promised to show general hooker a few dead cavalrymen. his career, however, was happily soon cut short, and he was succeeded by general pleasonton, who, afterwards, at gettysburg, according to his own account, offered to give general meade a lesson as to how to make a great general out of himself. under the new leadership came the cavalry battle of brandy station, or fleetwood, as it is called by the rebels. this was the beginning of the gettysburg campaign. early in june information was received at head-quarters that the rebel cavalry corps, numbering about twelve thousand men, was to be reviewed on the th by general robert e. lee at culpeper court-house. lee expected great achievements from this mounted force, for it was composed of the flower and pick of the "southern chivalry," the eyes and ears of the grand army he was about to lead into maryland and pennsylvania. now came a good chance to pile up dead cavalrymen. on june , the day after this grand review, general buford crossed his division at beverly ford early in the morning, intending to attack the enemy's cavalry in front, while gregg's and duffie's (formerly averell's) divisions crossed farther down, at kelly's ford, to attack it in the rear. this movement was not intended to bring on a general engagement between the two armies, but merely to find out what was up, and at the same time to take the conceit out of the rebel cavalry. whole regiments came together with tremendous shocks, we using our sabres with effect, while the rebels used their revolvers, crying out to us, "put up your sabres; draw your pistols and fight like gentlemen!" at one time the dust was so thick that we could not tell friend from foe. this hand-to-hand business continued on and off for about a couple of hours, when we retired from the field at our leisure, unfollowed. many a brave man fell that day; some of them in, and beyond, the rebel batteries. the first new jersey lost heavily; their colonel, percy wyndham, was wounded, lieutenant-colonel broderick and major shelmire killed, and captain sawyer and others captured. broderick's body was found with a sabre sticking through it, and at his side lay a dead rebel with broderick's sabre through his body also. general gregg was so unfortunate as to lose three guns of the sixth new york light battery through the recklessness of colonel percy wyndham, who commanded my brigade. the latter had ordered the battery to follow the first new jersey cavalry in a charge, and go into position on the crest of fleetwood hill, to the left of the barbour house. just as the guns were swung into position and unlimbered the enemy made a countercharge, driving back a broken squadron of the first new jersey and a detachment of the first pennsylvania cavalry, both of which passed through the battery to the rear. the men in charge of the limbers were swept back in the confusion. the dust was so thick it was almost impossible to tell a reb from a yank. i sent my orderly to the rear to find the limbers and have the guns taken back to their original position, in the open field, to the right of brandy station. in a few moments two squadrons of the first maryland cavalry came trotting through the dust, and i asked the commanding officer where he was going. he replied that he was ordered forward to support the battery. i told him to follow me at a gallop, or there would not be any battery to support. as we emerged from the dust we could see the cannoneers dragging the guns by hand down the hill, followed by a large body of the enemy firing their revolvers. we at once charged the enemy, clearing the crest of the hill, and driving them back through their own battery. by this time there was but a small squad left of the first maryland, for they had drifted in all directions through the heavy clouds of dust. i took back at a gallop the few of us who kept together, and began searching for the guns. i found the pieces, but lost the marylanders. after keeping me waiting a long time my orderly came back, stating that he could not find the limbers, and reported that colonel wyndham was wounded, that he could not find the brigade, and could not tell who was in command of it. i was so chagrined about the predicament in which the battery was placed that i gave vent to my feeling so forcibly as to be noticed by the brave cannoneers, who gave three cheers, and said they would remain and be captured along with their guns. i said, "no, men, none of that kind of medicine for me. i will try and find help for you." the guns had been drawn down to the base of the hill, and while i was trying to collect some men together for the purpose of having them hauled away, a heavy column of rebel cavalry came charging around the corner of the house, with their battle-flag in advance. one of the guns happened to have a round of canister in it. the sergeant in command of the piece pointed it towards the charging column, fired, and repulsed them, within forty yards of us. the head of this column was badly cut up, leaving a number of horses and men, and the battle-flag, on the slope of the hill. the sergeant ran up the hill to pick up the rebel colors, and was within a few yards of them, when the head of the first maine cavalry came dashing past the spot in pursuit of the enemy. one of the men wheeled his horse, dismounted, picked up the colors, and rode off, the sergeant of the gun losing his prize. seeing general kilpatrick near the first maine (that regiment being in his brigade), i rode over to him and begged him to rescue the abandoned guns. his answer was, "to hell with them! let gregg look out for his own guns." i implored him not to be so selfish, but to come on and help us out of our scrape, but his reply was, "no! damned if i will." i then rode back and told the few cannoneers that were left to save themselves by crossing the railroad, and to go over to the woods, where they would find some of our infantry. i remained with the guns, in hopes of our command returning for them, until another column of rebel cavalry came trotting down the hill towards me, capturing the pieces without a struggle. not wishing to be on too intimate terms with my southern friends, i politely raised my cap to them and rapidly rode away. general gregg was not aware of the loss of the guns until late in the day, when i told him of it, and he was very much annoyed to think that such a thing could happen, and so unnecessarily, and he be in entire ignorance of the matter. to give an idea as to how the authorities at richmond felt about this battle, on the day of the engagement i picked up the _richmond inquirer_, fresh from richmond, containing an article extolling the confederate cavalry, calling it the flower and chivalry of the south. a few days afterwards i read another article, and a very mournful one it was, wondering who was to blame for its broken condition, and exclaiming what an outrage it was that tailors and shoemakers mounted on horses should be permitted to come upon their chivalry and treat them in so unseemly a manner. after this engagement we were kept busy scouting in all directions upon the rear and flank of our army, constantly watching along the slopes of the blue ridge and bull run mountains. on june the cavalry corps, still under general pleasonton, was consolidated into two divisions under generals buford (first) and gregg (second). at aldie, near a gap in the bull run mountains, on june , the corps, with gregg in the advance, met the rebel cavalry again, and drove them back in the direction of middleburg, and again on the th drove them beyond it. in these engagements we lost heavily, for the rebels fought behind stone fences, dismounted, while we attacked them mounted. nevertheless the "tailors and shoemakers" were too much for the "chivalry," and they were compelled to fall back to upperville. here, on the st, gregg and buford made a combined attack, charging over stone walls and ditches, capturing many prisoners, and driving the rebel cavalry through ashby's gap into the shenandoah valley, shutting them out from a view of the movements of our army. we held these people back until the main body of the army of the potomac had crossed the potomac into maryland. then we moved back to aldie, through the bull bun mountains and northward to edwards ferry, on the potomac, which we crossed on the afternoon of june , and marched direct to frederick city, maryland. while there, on june , a new division (the third) was formed out of general stahl's cavalry, and general kilpatrick placed in command of it, with custer and farnsworth, just commissioned as brigadier-generals, in command of brigades. poor farnsworth only lived a few days to enjoy his star, falling at the head of his brigade at gettysburg.[ ] [ ] it was the general opinion among us cavalrymen that farnsworth was murdered through a foolish and reckless order of his division commander. farnsworth's brigade was ordered to charge mounted down a wooded hill covered with large round bowlders, with a stone fence at the bottom, behind which lay the enemy's infantry. farnsworth, thinking there was a mistake, hesitated, when his superior asked if he was afraid to charge the enemy, for if so, he, the superior, would charge his brigade for him. farnsworth, with a look of scorn and contempt, ordered his men forward, and fell dead at the stone wall, while the portion of his command which be took with him was cut to pieces. we spent the next day near frederick scouting in all directions. during the night of june we resumed the march towards westminster. at daybreak next morning we charged the town, struck stuart's rear-guard, and took a number of rebel prisoners. we continued on to manchester and hanover junction, from which latter place huey's brigade was sent back to guard the wagon-train. thence we marched towards hanover and gettysburg. these movements of ours forced the rebel cavalry to keep well off to our right, and prevented them from knowing what our infantry were doing or where their own army was. now for the right flank at gettysburg. histories and poems had been written about this great battle and maps published, utterly ignoring our services, until at last we of the cavalry had to cry "halt." nor did we hear anything from our government historian, colonel batchelder, except about the first and the second and the third day's fights, the round tops, the emmittsburg road, culp's hill, cemetery hill, seminary ridge, and john burns, but nothing about the cavalry. and here i must return thanks to the comte de paris and to his able assistant, colonel john p. nicholson, who in their investigations went more thoroughly into the history of the battle than any previous historians, for it was they who were instrumental in bringing to the notice of the world what we always knew to be the case, that the cavalry under the command of general gregg were the means of saving the army of the potomac at the time pickett was moving up to the "high-water mark" of the rebellion. the rebel general j. e. b. stuart came upon the field early on the morning of july , with about seven thousand mounted men under him. after he had made disposition of his command on or near the stallsmith farm, about three miles east of gettysburg, he caused several random shots to be fired in various directions. this firing no doubt was prearranged with lee, signaling that his position was favorable and that he was ready to move in conjunction with pickett to strike our infantry in rear. colonel mcintosh, on whose brigade staff i was serving, concluded that something was up, and, having relieved a portion of custer's michigan brigade, he ordered an advance of our line dismounted. this movement of mcintosh's brought on the engagement before stuart expected, and exposed his whole design. gregg, seeing the situation, recalled custer, who had previously received orders to move over to the left flank of our army near round top. he then put in position all of his artillery, under cover of a wheat-field, ordering the guns to be double-shotted with canister and await his further orders. our dismounted lines were refused in the centre, in front of the artillery, forming an inverse wedge. after we had held them back for about an hour, heavy bodies of the rebel cavalry burst into view over a rise of ground. they came on in magnificent style. it was terribly grand to witness. in two parallel columns, charging in squadron front, little knowing what was awaiting them, they came on, yelling and looking like demons. canister and percussion-shell were poured into them until they reached within one hundred yards of our guns. then our bold custer came dashing over the field at the head of the first michigan cavalry, with his yellow locks flying and his long sabre brandishing through the air. he looked like a fiend incarnate, the fire of battle burning in his eyes. in the mean time the dismounted men poured in a withering fire with their carbines upon both flanks of the rebel columns. what a sight this was! the enemy's horses climbing over each other, rearing and plunging, many of their men being struck in the back by the fore feet of the horses in their rear. then mcintosh and his staff charged with their orderlies, sabring right and left. such a horrible din it was, amid the clashing of sabres and continuous roll of the small-arms and the curses and demands to surrender. i do not wish to be egotistical, but will quote from an account of the fight: "for minutes, which seemed like hours, the confederate column stood its ground. captain thomas, of the staff, seeing that a little more was needed to turn the tide, cut his way over to the woods on the right, where he knew he could find hart, who had remounted his squadron of the first new jersey. in the mêlée, near the colors, was an officer of high rank, and the two headed the squadron for that part of the fight. they came within reach of him with their sabres, and then it was that wade hampton was wounded." captain william e. miller, of the third pennsylvania cavalry, and captain hart, from the right of the field, charged their squadrons through the rear portion of the columns, and the former almost reached the rebel batteries. the desperate charging of these two squadrons seemed to me to turn the tide of battle. in this charge of hart's squadron was another gallant though modest cavalryman, lieutenant edward h. parry, who as a staff officer rode side by side with me in many severe engagements. eventually the rebel cavalry were driven from the field never to return except as guests of the victors, twenty-three years after the battle, and as citizens of a country they tried to destroy. it is not difficult to conjecture what would have been the result had these seven thousand cavalrymen succeeded in reaching the baltimore pike, striking the reserve artillery and trains at the moment when pickett was moving up to the assault of cemetery ridge. on the night of july our brigade moved over to the left of the army to picket in front of round top. i will never forget that night. it was raining hard and so dark that we were compelled to use lanterns to remove the dead and dying out of our way, fearing our horses would crush them under their feet. the moans of the dying were horrible. sometimes i imagine i can still hear their voices ringing in my ears. it was awful! then commenced the race after lee's defeated army. for a few days we had with us "beau" neill's brigade of the sixth corps, but on july we cut loose from them, marched to boonsborough, where we rejoined general gregg and one of the other brigades of our division, and, pushing rapidly to harper's ferry, crossed over the potomac on the th, with our head-quarters' band playing "i wish i was in dixie." next day the two brigades moved out to shepherdstown and encountered the rebel cavalry again, fighting dismounted behind stone walls and fences all day. an officer of the signal corps sent us a report that all of lee's army had crossed over to our side of the river and that we were being surrounded by the enemy. consequently, when night came, we made a hasty retreat to harper's ferry. a singular thing about this fight was that while we did not claim any victory, and left all our killed and wounded behind in charge of our surgeons, when the latter rejoined us a few days afterwards they told us that the rebels had commenced their retreat even before we did, also leaving their killed and wounded in charge of their surgeons. that, it is believed, was the only drawn fight the cavalry of both armies ever had--where each abandoned the field to the other--during the four years' contest. our line of march southward was over the same ground as that traversed by mcclellan in after antietam. nothing much of note occurred. we did not get a fair chance at the rebel cavalry again until we arrived, on september , in the neighborhood of culpeper court-house. here gregg made a mounted attack, driving the rebel cavalry fifteen miles. while we of the staff were placing the regiments in position for this mounted charge i was ordered to find a cover for the sixth ohio cavalry, and took them into a heavy piece of oak timber near the edge of the open country. while i was reporting to general gregg how our lines were formed he observed the sixth ohio breaking and coming back through the woods in great disorder. he at once ordered me to stop and re-form them, but i soon became demoralized myself when i felt the belligerent end of a hornet upon my cheek. the brave old colonel (steedman) of the sixth ohio said that they could stand all the shot and shell the d--d rebels could give them, but not a hornets' nest. thus were some of the bravest of our soldiers ignominiously put to flight. and here let me call attention to another instance of the way in which some of our generals gained reputation. when gregg made his dashing attack upon the enemy at culpeper court-house our brigade, being on the left of his line, made a half-wheel, swept down on the flank of the enemy, and drove away the cannoneers from their battery as well as its supports. while we were busy in front in pursuit of these people, having passed the guns, a brigadier-general commanding one of the other divisions, with his staff and orderlies, rode up and had the guns quietly hauled off the field. a few days after this i bought a copy of a new york paper, with a flaming header in large type, announcing the gallant and desperate charge of kilpatrick's cavalry division, and how its commander had led it in person and captured a battery from the rebels. general gregg, with his usual modesty, never protested, and we who had done the capturing were the only ones who did the growling for him. there is nothing like newspaper glory for promotion in time of war, and there were only too many of such newspaper generals among us. gregg would never permit a newspaper correspondent about his command, and hence our division was not appreciated, outside of army circles, as it should have been. in the month of october came our retrograde movement to centreville and fairfax, and another great cavalry charge was witnessed between culpeper court-house and brandy station, where we repulsed a fearful onslaught of the rebel cavalry and drove them back upon their infantry supports. after we had crossed over to the north side of the rappahannock we had a severe dismounted engagement, and during the day, which was election day in ohio, the troops belonging to that state voted for state candidates. i was detailed to personally superintend the voting in the sixth ohio cavalry. we relieved one company at a time for the purpose, then sent them back to the front and retired the next, and so on until the whole regiment had voted. i doubt if many of the "statesmen" of the present day would care to mix in "practical politics" under similar circumstances. a few days after this i was severely hurt at bristow station and sent to hospital for ninety days. upon my return to the front great changes had taken place. general torbert was in command of the first division, "old stand-by" gregg retaining his own, the second, and general wilson in command of the third division, with "cavalry sheridan" in command of the corps. on may , , gregg's division moved out from its winter quarters at warrenton, marched to the rappahannock at kelly's ford, and crossed over to ely's ford on the rapidan. we forced our way over the river, taking the advance of the second corps into "the wilderness" until we came to todd's tavern on the brock road. there we were dismounted and moved to the left and front of a division of the second corps which was hotly engaged, and we pressed back the right of the rebel line. during this contest a gay-looking first lieutenant of the engineer corps from general meade's staff came up to me, asked if i was captain thomas, and said that gregg and sheridan had sent him out there to me so that i might show him a cavalry charge if we should have one. a few moments afterwards an officer reported to me that general davies, my brigade commander, on whose staff i was serving, and two of his officers had just been captured by the enemy. learning the direction in which they had been taken, i took a mounted squadron of the first new jersey, the nearest at hand, and said to the gay lieutenant, "now is your chance for a charge." we dashed through the enemy to the rescue of our friends, the lieutenant far in advance of us all, and recaptured them. this officer afterwards distinguished himself as a general in the cavalry during the latter part of the war and on the mexican frontier. the dashing mackenzie, for he it was, afterwards called me his godfather for giving him his first baptism in a cavalry charge. after our division had been relieved by the second corps, general sheridan, with his command, cut loose for a short time from the army of the potomac and went on his successful raid around lee's army, destroying the latter's communication with richmond. while on this raid--at beaver dam station, on the fredericksburg and richmond railroad--custer captured a train of cars loaded with some of our infantry who had been taken prisoners a few days before in the wilderness, and they expressed their delight by singing, "ain't we glad to get out of the wilderness?" our division remained as rear-guard, while the advance were destroying trains, stores, and railroads. on the morning after the capture of beaver dam station, and just as day was breaking, i called up one of the orderlies, who was a barber, to shave me. he jumped to earn his quarter, while i looked around among my brother officers who were sleeping and chuckled to myself in having stolen a march on them. the barber had taken the beard from off one side of my face when the enemy opened two batteries upon us, the shells passing directly over our quarters. such a scramble as we had to get to our horses, and i only half-shaved! the joke was turned upon me, and i did not have the balance finished until noon. we again fought the rebel cavalry at yellow tavern on may and gave them a severe thrashing, capturing some of their artillery and many prisoners. in this engagement the great rebel cavalry chieftain, general j. e. b. stuart, was mortally wounded while rallying his men. during the attack in our front my brigade was having a lively time of it in the rear. we were being pestered all day by a regiment of rebel cavalry, and general davies sent two of his staff back to look after his extreme rear and watch these troublesome people, for they were very annoying to our column. at last our opportunity came. we observed them preparing for a mounted charge. quickly dismounting the rear-guard, we placed them in ambush on either side of a sunken road. the brave fellows came boldly on, but not one of them returned. they were all killed, wounded, or captured. we continued our marching and fighting until we came into the defenses of richmond on the brook road, a broad highway leading into the city. here were required skill, good generalship, and a cool head, but "cavalry sheridan" was equal to the occasion. we fought front, flanks, and rear against infantry and cavalry, repulsing charge after charge, killing two rebel generals and scores of their men. oh, how we prayed for room to make a mounted charge, but could not! at one time our situation was critical, and some of us became a little nervous. for a while general sheridan seemed at a loss what to do, and suggested that general gregg mount his division and try to break through the enemy's lines, so as to draw off the forces attacking our other two divisions, and thus allow wilson's command to cross the chickahominy, and that he (gregg) rejoin the army of the potomac the best way he could, leaving his artillery with sheridan and the rest of the corps. gregg, however, concluded to hold fast where he was. then we dismounted some more regiments and advanced our lines on the flanks and rear. the enemy thinking we intended to make a general attack, concluded to anticipate it by a countercharge, which they did, just as we wanted them to do, and they were repulsed all along the lines. while we held the flanks and rear, custer, with his michiganders and their spencer carbines, drove the enemy from the front and built a bridge across the chickahominy at meadow bridges, by which we succeeded in getting all of our artillery over. we then retired without molestation. this proved that we had given the rebels a severe drubbing, and in sight, too, of the spires of the rebel capital. we then marched on until we reached butler's army, and encamped on the banks of the james river at haxhall's landing, remaining there two days to replenish our supplies of rations, forage, and ammunition. while at haxhall's i got out my fishing-lines with the intention of having a catfish supper, for catfish were plenty in the river. during the excitement of catching the fish i noticed one of my lines drawn taut. i began pulling it up, and said to captain parry, who was with me, "i guess i have a whale this time," when behold! a water-logged torpedo came to the surface with a large catfish twisted around one of the blocks. no one could have dropped anything quicker than i did that combination of catfish and torpedo, and pulled for shore. in the mean time parry was having a good laugh at my expense. out in front of me was a picket boat, and the officer hailed me to know what was the matter. when i told him, he passed word to the rear, and said, "hold on to your line; the captain will come in his gig." i was curious to know how the captain could run a gig on water, and the crew of the boat laughed very heartily at my ignorance. i gave the whole business to the captain, and shortly after received from him in return a nice case of the "ardent." we rejoined the army of the potomac near spottsylvania court-house on may , and then took the advance again until we arrived at hawes' shops. here, on the th, we were attacked by cavalry and infantry, and fought dismounted for five hours, driving the enemy from the field. in this engagement i think we piled up more dead rebels than in any other of our fights during the whole war. a few days afterwards general grant made his head-quarters on our battle-ground, but was forced to move them on account of the stench arising from the dead bodies which were still unburied. the next day after the fight at hawes' shops we moved to the left around bethesda church, witnessing the pennsylvania reserve corps' hard contest with the enemy at that place. on the following day we arrived at cold harbor just in the nick of time to prevent the enemy's infantry from taking an old line of breastworks. we repulsed several of their charges, and held our ground until relieved by general "baldy" smith's command, which was very slow in coming to our relief from west point, on the york river. after being relieved by general smith's command we mounted, moved by the left, and were constantly engaged with the enemy until we reached bottoms' bridge, where we took our stand to await all comers. after resting a couple of days, sheridan took two of his divisions and commenced another long march for the relief of general hunter, who was supposed to be at lynchburg, or in its vicinity. at trevellian station, on the lynchburg and richmond railroad, on june , we butted against the rebel cavalry corps and a division of infantry. these people gave us a good shaking up, but we captured several hundred prisoners, and learning from them that hunter had retreated over the mountains and that they had been sent by rail to overtake us, sheridan concluded that he had better get back home. so we gathered up our slightly wounded, and came back by the way of the spottsylvania battle-ground, the column marching past the famous tree that was cut down by musket-balls in the bloody angle. we made a rapid and circuitous march, and arrived at the white house landing, on the pamunkey river. here we found an immense wagon-train waiting for us to guard it over the country to the james river. in performing this duty general sheridan displayed great generalship, preserving the trains and delivering them safely inside of our lines. during the movement gregg's cavalry division covered the rear and flank next to the enemy. about the time sheridan was parking the train on the banks of the james we were attacked at saint mary's church, on june , by a superior force of the enemy, composed of mounted and dismounted cavalry and one division of infantry. we came together like two battering-rams, then backed off for vantage-ground, and went at each other again and again. this unequal engagement continued all day and until night spread its protecting mantle over us. we then retired within our lines near wilcox's landing. this retreat would never have happened had it not been that sheridan and the other division were in entire ignorance of what was going on in their rear, for the enemy had captured all dispatches sent to him by gregg, several officers and men being taken prisoners while performing this messenger duty. our losses in killed, wounded, and captured upon the field were very heavy. but we did well, considering that the numbers opposed to us were three or four to one, and did not lose a single wheel, though we were pretty severely knocked about. the cavalry corps were, on june , ferried across the james river to the south side, and we moved up towards petersburg, taking position on the left and rear of our army at that point. during the months of july and august, sheridan was kept very busy marching his cavalry from the left of the army of the potomac over to the right of the army of the james and back again. in every one of these movements we were hotly engaged dismounted, and struck some severe blows, invariably killing some general officer belonging to the enemy. on one of these occasions, after moving over to the right, sheridan was ordered to embark two of his divisions upon transports, and instead of going up the james he went down, crossed the bay and went up the potomac to washington, and thence to the shenandoah valley. the history of his succeeding campaign is familiar to all. gregg's division remained with the army of the potomac, covering its left and rear, taking the advance in all reconnoissances in force made by the army. during one of the engagements at ream's station, colonel chamberlain, of the first massachusetts cavalry, was wounded in the arm by a "tree-frog," or sharp-shooter. i asked him why he was limping around in such a funny manner. his reply was, "damn it, tommy, if you were wounded in the arm you would limp too." we saw the fellow who fired the shot and ran some men to the bottom of the tree. chamberlain gave the order to fire, when down came mr. tree-frog looking like a bundle of rags. in this same engagement mahone's division was repulsed three times by the first district of columbia cavalry, dismounted. this regiment was composed of maine men and was shortly afterwards consolidated with the first maine cavalry. it was armed with the henry rifle (sixteen-shooter), and was composed of veterans who could not be excelled for coolness and bravery. its position at ream's station, on august , was on the left of a new division of the second corps. a german brigade in this division deliberately abandoned a new line of intrenchments with seven guns, leaving their loaded muskets standing up against the earthworks. some of our dismounted cavalrymen used these muskets as long as they could find ammunition for them. general hancock and general gregg were present in person, for they were anxious to save the guns, and the slaughter in mahone's division must have been terrible, as the repeating rifles wiped out line after line. no supports coming, the cavalry was compelled to give way when mahone made his fourth charge, capturing the guns of the second corps. in the last charge my horse was killed and i was severely injured, and was sent home for thirty days in consequence. returning to the front on october , i was relieved from staff duty and ordered to take command of my regiment, now composed of reenlisted veterans who had passed through the furnace of war from to . in the latter part of october our brigade did some very effective work in the engagement at the davis farm, on the left and rear of our lines at petersburg. general fitz-hugh lee threw his whole command upon us, compelling our brigade to change front three times, but we repulsed him at every point, driving him from the field. we did not know what force we were engaged with until we captured the adjutant-general of young's brigade. that handsome officer remarked to general davies that it was fearfully bad weather for moving about and for cavalry fighting. davies replied, "yes, you people were not contented in your camps, but must come out here for a fight, and i guess you got one." the adjutant-general, noticing the troops his people were fighting, asked general davies how many brigades he had under him. upon being informed that there was but one brigade of five regiments, he exclaimed, "impossible! why, we had three brigades against you." he was then started for the rear, apparently much chagrined. a few days after this gregg's division was ordered out to join the second corps in a reconnoissance in force to the left of our army, beyond hatcher's run. these reconnoissances were generally accompanied by generals grant and meade in person, and our engagements with the enemy sometimes resulted in a heavy battle. during this particular movement the first pennsylvania veteran cavalry covered the rear of our division, while the first maine cavalry was in the advance, forcing a crossing at some creek. general gregg was anxious to connect with hancock's left flank, but as he could only move his division in columns of twos through the dense woods, the movement was very slow. during its execution we were attacked by a brigade of rebel cavalry, commanded by general (now senator) butler, of south carolina. for a full half-hour the enemy had a soft thing of it, throwing shot and shell into us without our being able to reply. but gregg could not bother with side issues at that critical moment, so he ordered the first pennsylvania cavalry "to take care of those people," as he expressed it. the attack of this small regiment on the flank of the rebels was so sudden that the latter were glad to escape with their guns. the officers and men of the first pennsylvania were highly elated over their success, and felt proud of themselves, for they were but a handful in comparison with the number they had attacked and driven away. the first maine cavalry were just as successful in their attack in front as we were in the rear. during the month of november we made another movement to our left. my regiment was on picket duty when the order came to move to the front, but it was soon relieved and ordered to report to the brigade. upon our arrival at the front, and as we were passing the head of general crawford's division, general gregg gave orders for his division to dismount and advance on foot. from what i could glean from a conversation with one of his staff, crawford evidently had orders to close the interval between gregg's right and the rest of the fifth corps. those who have witnessed a division of cavalry dismounting and going into action on foot know what a demoralizing effect it has on those in the rear, for the led horses are generally sent back at a gallop to re-form and advance quietly, following up their various commands. while this retrograde movement of dismounted horses was being made, general crawford yelled to one of his staff, and sent him off with his compliments to general warren, to say that the cavalry were repulsed, and they would trample his men to death if he attempted to make the movement ordered. i began to expostulate with the general, but it was of no use, so i ordered my regiment forward at a gallop, dismounted, and went into action. my dismounted horses no doubt increased the demoralization of the "dough-boys." during this same month of november, general gregg moved his cavalry division out to stony creek station, driving the enemy off and capturing and destroying the stores which had been accumulated there in great quantities. among the articles was a cask filled with sorghum molasses. some of the men turned it up on end, drove in the head, and began filling their canteens with its sweet contents. most of them were too short to reach over, when along came a tall yankee of the first maine cavalry, with half a dozen canteens, and brushed the little fellows away as though they were so many flies. i noticed a consultation among these little fellows, when they suddenly made a rush, seized the big fellow by the legs, lifted him up and sent him head-foremost into the cask and turned it over. it was as much as i could do to save the poor fellow from being smothered to death. we rolled him down the hill into the creek, where he washed himself off, and when he came up, he said in his nasal tone of voice, "warn't that the durnedst trick you ever hearn tell of?" in the month of december, gregg's cavalry division was ordered to take the advance of the fifth corps and cover the country while the infantry were tearing up and destroying the weldon railroad. we reached a point named the "three rivers," and had a very sharp brush with the enemy, losing several officers and men. upon the return march our cavalry took a road running parallel with the one that our infantry were on, the enemy following us closely. on this homeward march, while in the advance, i witnessed the sickening sight of some of our men lying dead with their hearts and private parts cut out and thrust in their mouths. these atrocities were supposed to have been committed by citizens of the neighborhood out "bushwhacking." the poor fellows who met with such horrible treatment had become intoxicated from the large quantity of apple-jack found in that section of the country, and were murdered in cold blood. that raid was known as the "apple-jack raid." during the month of january, , my regiment was doing picket duty on the left and rear of our main lines. one day, noticing a number of hogs running loose in the woods in our front, i gave permission for some of the men to go out and kill them. soon afterwards one of the videttes sent in word that two of the men were captured by the rebels. i quickly mounted a squadron and went off at a gallop, knowing well that there was but one place where the rebels could cross the stream below lee's mill, we being on the inside circuit. i pushed rapidly for that point. upon our arrival i noticed a few fresh tracks of horses that had crossed towards us, but had not returned. i then made preparations for the arrival of the squad with their prisoners. we waited perhaps half an hour, when the squad came in view with their two prisoners, each carrying a dead hog. the poor fellows were staggering under their heavy loads, and their captors were twitting them about being pork butchers. my men were entirely concealed on either side of the stream. we remained quiet until the whole party had reached the middle between the banks, when i gave the signal to my men to arise and cover the party with their carbines. it was like a dramatic tableau to witness the look of consternation upon the faces of the party, for there was no escape for them. as for the two butchers, it was laughable to look at them. they began looking around to ascertain if it was fun or earnest, when they espied me, and both hogs dropped from their shoulders into the water, and the two men fell against the bank, yelling for us to give their captors a volley. i then ordered the rebels to advance one at a time, dismount, and take off their arms. i asked my two men who it was that had suggested that they should carry the hogs, and they pointed to the sergeant and one other man. these two were ordered to pick up the pork and move back, under charge of the two that were recaptured, to the picket reserve. as the command was moving out for the return, some wag in the squadron remarked to the rebel sergeant, "how do you like that for a movement by inversion?" in the month of march an order came from general head-quarters directing me to take my regiment, with a trusted scout, and proceed to the head of the blackwater swamp, when we would find a body of marauders composed of deserters from both armies. these men had been murdering our pickets nightly for what plunder they could get from the dead bodies. my orders were to destroy these scoundrels. the orders were carried out to the very letter. on my return to camp, after six days and nights of hard marching, a leave of absence for ten days was sent me without application on my part. i took advantage of the furlough and went home. upon my arrival there, i found awaiting me a personal telegram from general sheridan, who had rejoined the army of the potomac that same morning with the other two divisions of the cavalry corps, having marched overland from the head of the shenandoah valley. this dispatch directed me to take the first train and come to the front as rapidly as possible, and upon my arrival at city point to assume command of all the newly-remounted men there and join my division on the march. though i had just arrived home i obeyed the order and took the first train for washington, went directly to the war department, showed my dispatch, and was at once sent to annapolis on a special engine. i then took a dispatch-boat in company with colonel comstock, of general grant's staff, arrived at city point on the morning of the st of march, and joined our division at dinwiddie court-house in time to take part in the engagement of that day. the next day came the battle of five forks. here sheridan threw his whole cavalry corps upon the enemy, with the exception of my brigade. as for my own regiment, we had all the fighting we wanted in keeping the enemy from getting around on sheridan's left and rear. in this battle whole brigades went into action mounted and dismounted, the mounted men dashing over breastworks as though they were mere piles of dirt, and capturing prisoners by the thousand. while in conversation with general w. h. f. lee, who was taken prisoner, he told me that he was in the act of sighting a cannon to sweep along that portion of the works where the fifth corps were piling over when he heard a voice saying, "surrender, you rebel son of a gun!" and looking up there he saw one of our cavalrymen astride a mule, with his revolver between the mule's ears, reaching over in the act of pulling trigger. in a few seconds the earth-work was filled with our mounted cavalry. the much-abused army mule, after all, was of some service besides hauling heavy loads. on the following day, april , our cavalry struck the south side railroad and continued in pursuit of lee's retreating army. richmond and petersburg fell on the d, and these good tidings seemed to give new life to both men and horses. on we pressed until we reached jetersville, on the danville railroad, on april . about one o'clock that night, as we lay to horse, the first pennsylvania cavalry was ordered to mount and report to general sheridan at once. under sheridan's fly i found general crook (who was now in command of gregg's old division) and general davies looking over a map. i was shown the position where the enemy were supposed to be, near amelia court-house, and was instructed to proceed with my regiment about two or three miles in advance of our brigade, press through all small detachments, and attack the enemy's wagon-train at daylight. we reached some high ground just as the sun was rising, and below at our feet lay the whole rebel army in line of battle, apparently sound asleep. it was a beautiful sight to look upon. here instructions were given to the men that when the charge was sounded by the bugles they should yell like demons and tell all the rebels they met, particularly the officers, that sheridan and all his cavalry corps were upon them. this regiment with its three hundred veterans charged through a number of outlying commands, destroying about three hundred wagons, cutting out twelve hundred head of horses and mules, capturing eight hundred prisoners, eleven rebel battle-flags, and a bright, new spick-and-span battery of armstrong field-guns, which shortly before had been presented by the ladies of liverpool to the corporation of the city of richmond. we held our ground and captures until general davies came to our relief, which he did very promptly. let me relate an amusing incident. between daylight and sunrise i observed a body of rebel cavalry holding paines' cross-roads. in a house by the roadside there resided an episcopal clergyman. the gentleman came out, stood at his gate, and looked first at us, then at his friends. he had a gold watch in his hand, as though looking at the time of day. i ordered two squadrons to charge the rebels and clear the road, and while they were performing that duty we advanced the balance of the command, halting in front of our religious friend, when the following conversation took place: "good-morning." "good-morning, sir." "you are the first live yankee cavalry commander i have seen since the war commenced." my reply was, "then you are not a pupil of general hooker's." he laughingly said "no," and then he asked, hearing the firing of the small-arms of the charging squadrons, "are you going to have a battle here? if so, how long will it last?" my reply was, "no, sir; we will move on." i then asked him why he kept his watch in his hand. his reply was, "i thought i would time you to find out how soon you would be driven off the sacred soil of the immortal washington." i moved away, smiling at the old rector's loyalty to the father of his country, when i heard a scuffle behind me. upon looking around i observed my own orderly seizing the watch and saying, "we will tell you the time when the johnnies stop running." then he dashed away before i could stop him to return the stolen watch. all of our captures from the enemy, except the battle-flags and the watch, were turned over, by order of general davies, to the tenth new york cavalry, and we then proceeded as rapidly as possible to join the main command. the first pennsylvania cavalry joined the brigade and resumed the fighting, for the rebels were very sore over the captures and were trying hard to retake their guns, but we succeeded in getting back to jetersville safely. about five o'clock that afternoon, april , the first pennsylvania cavalry were standing to horse, when sheridan, crook, and a number of other general officers, both infantry and cavalry, came riding up to examine the captured battle-flags. among the colors was one presented to general fitz-hugh lee by his lady friends of richmond, which, by the way, i made a present to general davies. the enemy, seeing these officers around the colors, sounded the charge and came upon us with a rush. sheridan ordered me to mount my men and check the enemy until he could send in more regiments to my support. then ensued a phenomenal display of shooting-stars by daylight, for the generals all scattered to their various commands. we mounted and charged the enemy and commenced a hand-to-hand fight, using pistols, sabres, and clubbed carbines. the heaviest of the fighting was around our colors. the brave old color-sergeant of the first pennsylvania cavalry, antoine wolf, carrying aloft the colors of his regiment in one hand, and with his sabre in the other cutting his way right and left, followed close at my horse's heels. many a good trooper fell in the track made by us that day. that was my sixth and last charge during the engagement, and i lost a horse killed in every charge. while lying under my horse with my leg shattered by a carbine-ball, colonel janeway, at the head of the first new jersey, passed by at full charge, saying, "cheer up, tommy, we are here with you," then instantly exclaimed, "my god!" and fell dead from his saddle but twenty feet from me. our brigade started that morning with sixteen field officers, and at sundown but one was left, the other fifteen having been either killed or wounded. after i was wounded i turned my command over to captain holbrook, who led it through several charges on the th, th, and th of april. he had the satisfaction of planting the regiment across lee's front on the lynchburg pike, with its colors in the middle of the road, there to witness the surrender of the rebel army. this ended my experience as a cavalryman. and now i trust that i will be excused when i say that we cavalrymen soon taught the other arms of the service to respect us and stopped that old slurring remark, "here comes the cavalry back; now there is going to be a fight." although we were criticised sharply at the beginning of the war, yet at its close we of all the branches of the service proved ourselves the most efficient under the command of that prince among soldiers, "cavalry sheridan." colonel hampton s. thomas. [frontispiece: "'i have a present for you--a sister'" see p. ] dr. lavendar's people by margaret deland author of "old chester tales" illustrated by lucius hitchcock new york and london harper & brothers publishers copyright, , by harper & brothers. _all rights reserved._ published october, . to dr. francis b. harrington these stories are dedicated contents the apotheosis of the reverend mr. spangler the note the grasshopper and the ant amelia "an exceeding high mountain" at the stuffed-animal house illustrations "i have a present for you--a sister'" . . . . . . _frontispiece_ "david's head swam" "she always came into the library to say good-night to him" "lurched forward into a chair, breathing loudly" "mrs. barkley rose, tapping the table with alarming loudness" "miss lydia, watching him, grew paler and paler" "there she turned and looked back" "thomas dilworth got on his feet and swore" "'what is the name of the kind person?'" "she knelt down, as usual, at the big chintz-covered winged chair" miss harriet was leaning forward "'a happy sleep,' miss annie repeated" the apotheosis of the reverend mr. spangler i miss ellen baily kept school in the brick basement of her old frame house on main street. the children used to come up a flagstone path to the side door, and then step down two steps into an entry. two rooms opened on this entry; in one the children sat at small, battered desks and studied; in the other miss baily heard their lessons, sitting at a table covered with a red cloth, which had a white grecian fret for a border and smelled of crumbs. on the wall behind her was a faded print of "belshazzar's feast"; in those days this was probably the only feasting the room ever saw--although on a thin-legged sideboard there were two decanters (empty) and a silver-wire cake-basket which held always three apples. both rooms looked out on the garden--the garden and, in fine weather, _mr. david baily!_ ... ah, me--what it was, in the dreary stretches of mental arithmetic, to look across the flower-beds and see mr. david--tall and dark and melancholy--pacing up and down, sometimes with a rake, oftener with empty hands; always with vague, beautiful eyes fixed on some inner vision of heart-broken memory. miss ellen's pupils were confident of this vision because of a tombstone in the burial-ground which recorded the death of maria hastings, at the romantic age of seventeen; and, as everybody in old chester knew, mr. baily had been in love with this same seventeen-year-old maria. to be sure, it was thirty years ago; but that does not make any difference, "_in real love_," as any school-girl can tell you. so, when david baily paced up and down the garden paths or sat in the sunshine under the big larch we all knew that he was thinking of his bereavement. in the opinion of the older girls, grief had wrecked mr. david's life; he had intended to be a clergyman, but had left the theological school because his eyes gave out. "he cried himself nearly blind," the girls told each other with great satisfaction. after that he tried one occupation after another, but somehow failed in each; which was proof of a delicacy of constitution induced by sorrow. furthermore, he seemed pursued by a cruel fortune--"fate," the girls called it. elderly, unromantic old chester did not use this fine word, but it admitted pursuing disaster. for instance: there was the time that david undertook the charge of a private library in upper chester, and three months afterwards the owner sold it! then mr. hays found a job for him, and just as he was going to work he was laid up with rheumatism. and again tom dilworth got him a place as assistant book-keeper; and david, after innumerable tangles on his balance-sheet, was obliged to say, frankly, that he had no head for figures. but he was willing to do anything else--"_any_ honest work that is not menial," he said, earnestly. and tom said, why, yes, of course, only he'd be darned if he knew what to suggest. but he added, in conjugal privacy, that david ought to be hided for not turning his hand to something. "why doesn't he try boot-blacking? only, i suppose, he'd say he couldn't make the change correctly. he doesn't know whether two and two make five or three--like our ned." "why, they make four, tom," said mrs. dilworth. and thomas stared at her, and said, "you don't say so!" there had been no end of such happenings; "and none of them my brother's fault," miss ellen told the sympathetic older girls, who glanced sideways at mr. david and wished that they might die and be mourned as mr. david mourned maria. the fact was, the habit of failure had fastened upon poor david; and in the days when miss ellen's school was in its prime (before the new people told our parents that her teaching was absurdly inadequate), he was depending on his sister for his bread-and-butter. that miss ellen supported him never troubled the romantic souls of miss ellen's pupils any more than it troubled miss ellen--or mr. david. "why shouldn't she?" the girls would have demanded if any such rudely practical question had been asked; "he is so delicate, _and he has a broken heart!_" so that was how it happened that the pupils were able to have palpitating glimpses of him, walking listlessly about the garden, or dozing in a sunny window over an old magazine, or doing some pottering bit of carpentering for miss ellen, but never losing his good looks or the grieved melancholy of his expression. miss ellen had been teaching for twenty years. it is useless to deny that, unless one has a genius for imparting knowledge, teaching is a drudgery. it was drudgery to ellen baily, but she never slighted it on that account. she was conscientious about the number of feet in the highest mountain in the world; she saw to it that her pupils could repeat the sovereigns of england backward. besides these fundamentals, the older girls had natural philosophy every friday; it was not, perhaps, necessary that young ladies should know that the air was composed of two gases (the girls who had travelled and seen the lighted streets of towns knew what gas was), nor that rubbing a cat's fur the wrong way in the dark would produce electric sparks--such things were not necessary. but they were interesting, and, as mrs. barkley said, if they did not go too far and lead to scepticism, they would do no harm. however, miss ellen counteracted any sceptical tendencies by reading aloud, every saturday morning, bishop cummings on the revelation, so that even dr. lavendar was not wiser than miss ellen's girls as to what st. john meant by "a time, and a time, and a half of a time," or who the four beasts full of eyes before and behind stood for. for accomplishments, there was fine sewing every wednesday afternoon; and on mondays, with sharply pointed pencils, we copied trees and houses from neat little prints; also, we had lessons upon the piano-forte, so there was not one of us who, when she left miss ellen's, could not play at least three pieces, viz., "the starlight valse," "the maiden's prayer," and "the last rose of summer." ah, well, one may smile. compared to what girls know nowadays, it is, of course, very absurd. but, all the same, miss ellen's girls knew some things of which our girls are ignorant: reverence was one; humility was another; obedience was a third. and poor, uneducated folk (compared with our daughters) that we of old chester may be, we are, if i mistake not, glad that we were taught a certain respect for our own language, which, though it makes the tongue of youth to-day almost unintelligible, does give us a joy in the wells of english undefiled which our children do not seem to know; and for this, in our dull old chester way, we are not ungrateful. however, this may all be sour grapes.... at any rate, for twenty painstaking years miss ellen's methods fed and clothed mr. david. then came the winter of dr. lavendar's illness, and the temporary instalment of the reverend mr. spangler, and ellen baily realized that there were other things in the world than david's food and clothes. dr. lavendar, cross, unbelieving, protesting, was to be hustled down south by sam wright; and the day before he started mr. spangler appeared. that was early in february, and dr. lavendar was to come back the first of may. "not a day sooner," said sam wright. "i'll come when i see fit," said dr. lavendar. he didn't believe in this going away, he said. "home is the best place to be sick in. the truth is, willy king doesn't want me to die on his hands--it would hurt his business," said dr. lavendar, wickedly; "i know him!" but to mr. spangler dr. lavendar said other things about willy, and sam wright, too; in fact, about all of them. and he pulled out his big, red silk pocket-handkerchief with a trembling flourish and wiped his eyes. "i don't deserve it," he said. "i'm a dogmatic old fogy, and i won't let the new people have their jimcrackery; and i preach old sermons, and i've had a cold in my head for three months. and yet, look at 'em: a purse, if you please! and sam wright is going down with me. sam ought to be ashamed of himself to waste his time; he's a busy man. no, sir; i don't deserve it. and, if you take my advice, you'll pray the lord that your people will treat you as you don't deserve." mr. spangler, a tall, lean man, very correctly dressed, who was depended upon in the diocese as a supply, made notes solemnly while dr. lavendar talked; but he sighed once or twice, patiently, for the old man was not very helpful. mr. spangler wanted to know what sunday-school teachers could be relied upon, and whether the choir was very thin-skinned, and which of the vestry had chips on their shoulders. "none of 'em. i knocked 'em all off, long ago," said dr. lavendar. "don't you worry about that. speak your mind." "i have," said mr. spangler, coughing delicately, "an iron hand when i once make up my mind in regard to methods; firmness is, i think, a clergyman's duty, and duty, i hope, is my watchword; but i think it best to canvass a matter thoroughly before making up my mind." "it is generally wise to do so," said dr. lavendar, very meekly. "of course," mr. spangler said, kindly, "you belong to a somewhat older period, and do not, perhaps, realize the value of our modern ways of dealing with a parish--i mean in regard to firmly carrying out one's own ideas. i suppose these good people do pretty much as they please, so far as you are concerned?" "perhaps they do," said dr. lavendar, very, very meekly. "so, not wishing to offend, i will ask a few questions: i have heard that the parish is perhaps a little old-fashioned in regard to matters of ritual? i have wondered whether my cassock would be misunderstood?" "cassock?" said dr. lavendar. "bless your heart, wear a pea-jacket if it helps you to preach the word. it will only be for ten sundays," he added, hopefully. the reverend mr. spangler smiled at that; and when he smiled one saw that his face, though timid, was kind. so dr. lavendar, growling and scolding, fussing about danny and his little blind horse goliath, and mr. spangler's comfort, was bundled off; and mr. spangler settled down in the shabby rectory. his iron will led him to preach in his surplice, and it was observed that a silver cross dangled from his black silk fob. "but it's only for ten weeks," said old chester, and asked him to tea, and bore with him, and did nothing more severe than smile when he bowed in the creed--smile, and perhaps stand up a little straighter itself. this, of the real old chester. of course the new people were pleased; and one or two of the younger folk liked it. miss ellen baily was not young, but she liked the surplice better than dr. lavendar's black gown and bands, and the sudden sparkle of the cross when mr. spangler knelt gave her a pang of pleasure. david, too, was not displeased. to be sure, david was rarely stirred to anything so positive as pleasure. but at least he made no objections to the cross; and he certainly brightened up when, on saturday afternoon, mr. spangler called. he even talked of gambier, to which he had gone for a year, and of which, it appeared, the clergyman was an alumnus. miss ellen had a pile of compositions on the table beside her, and she glanced at one occasionally so that she might not seem to expect any share in the conversation. but, all the same, mr. spangler noticed her. he was not drawn to the brother; still, he talked to him about their college, for mr. spangler believed that being agreeable was just as much a clergyman's duty as was changing the bookmarks for advent or lent; and duty, as mr. spangler often said, was his watchword. furthermore, he was aware that his kindness pleased the silent, smiling woman seated behind the pile of compositions. it pleased her so much that that night, after david had gone to bed, she went over to mrs. barkley's to talk about her caller. "well, ellen baily," mrs. barkley said, briskly, as miss baily came into the circle of lamplight by the parlor-table, "so you had a visitor to-day? i saw him, cross and all." "it was a very small one," miss baily protested, "and only silver." "would you have had it diamonds?" demanded mrs. barkley, in a deep bass. "oh, well; it doesn't really matter; there are only nine more sundays. but sam wright says he shall mention it when he writes to dr. lavendar." "i suppose dr. lavendar saw it before he went away," ellen said, with some spirit. "well, if he doesn't take his religion out in crosses, i suppose it's all right. but he's not a very active laborer in the vineyard. i suppose you know about him?" "why, no," ellen said; "nothing except that he supplies a good deal." "supplies? yes, because his mother left him a house in mercer, and enough to live on in a small way; so he likes supplying better than taking a charge where he'd have to work hard and couldn't have his comforts." "why doesn't he take a charge where he could have his comforts?" "can't get the chance," mrs. barkley explained, briefly. "not enough of a preacher. and, besides, he likes his ease in zion. rachel spangler's old house, and her mary ann, and his father's library, and--well, the flesh-pots of mercer!--and supplying, just enough to buy him his ridiculous buttoned-up coats. that's what he likes. i suppose he uses the same old sermons over and over. doesn't ever have to write a new one. however, he's here, and maybe old chester will do him good. ellen baily, did you know that we have a new-comer in old chester? a widow. i don't like widows. her name's smily. foolish name! she's staying at the stuffed animal house. she's harriet hutchinson's cousin, and she's come down on her for a visit." "maybe she'll make her a present when she goes away," said ellen, hopefully. "present! she needs to have presents made to her. she hasn't a cent but what her husband's brother gives her. he's a school-teacher, i understand; and you know yourself, ellen baily, how much a school-teacher can do in that way?" miss ellen sighed. "well," proceeded mrs. barkley, "i just thought i'd tell you about her, because if we all invite her to tea, turn about, it will be a relief to harriet--(she isn't well, that girl; i'm really uneasy about her). and i guess the smily woman won't object to old chester food, either," said mrs. barkley, complacently. "i've asked her for tuesday evening, and i thought i'd throw in mr. spangler and get him off my mind." "david likes him so much," miss ellen began. "does he?" said mrs. barkley. "well, tell him to come; he can talk to mr. spangler. i'm afraid i might hurt the man's feelings if i had to do all the talking. i seem to do that sometimes. did you ever notice, ellen, that the truth always hurts people's feelings? but i knew his mother, so i don't want to do anything to wound him. i won't ask you, ellen; i don't like five at table. but just tell david to come, will you?" and miss baily promised, gratefully. david was not often asked out in old chester. ii the supper at mrs. barkley's was a great occasion to david baily. right after dinner he went up to the garret, and ellen heard him shuffling about overhead, moving trunks. after a while he came down, holding something out to his sister. "guess i'll wear this," he said, briefly. it was an old black velvet waistcoat worked with small silk flowers, pink and blue and yellow. "i haven't seen gentlemen wear those waistcoats lately," miss ellen said, doubtfully. mr. david spread the strange old garment across his narrow breast, and regarded himself in the mirror above the mantel. "father wore it," he said. then he retired to his own room. when he reappeared he wore the waistcoat. his old black frock-coat, shiny on the shoulders and with very full skirts, hung so loose in front that the flowered velvet beneath was not conspicuous; but mr. david felt its moral support when, at least ten minutes before the proper time, he started for mrs. barkley's. his hostess, putting on her best cap before her mirror, glanced down from her window as he came up the path. "ellen ought not to have sent him so early," she said, with some irritation. "emily!" she called, in her deep voice, "just go to the front door and tell mr. baily to go home. i'm not ready for him. or he can sit in the parlor and wait if he wants to. but he can't talk to me." emily, a mournful, elderly person, sought, out of regard for her own feelings, to soften her mistress's message; but david instantly retreated to walk up and down the street, keeping his eye on mrs. barkley's house, so that he could time his return by the arrival of mr. spangler. "he'll come at the right hour, i presume," he said to himself. just then he saw mrs. smily stepping delicately down the street, her head on one side, and a soft, unchanging smile on her lips. as they met she minced a little in her step, and said: "dear me! i'm afraid i've made a mistake. i'm looking for mrs. barkley's residence." "mrs. barkley resides here," said mr. david, elegantly. she looked up into his sad, dark eyes with a flurried air. "dear me," she said, "i fear i am late." "oh, not _late_," said poor david. "perhaps we might walk up and down for a minute longer?" mrs. smily, astonished but flattered, tossed her head, and said, well, she didn't know about _that_! but, all the same, she turned, and they walked as far as the post-office. "i'm afraid you are very attentive to the ladies," mrs. smily said, coquettishly, when david had introduced himself; and david, who had never heard a flirtatious word (unless from maria), felt a sudden thrill and a desire to reply in kind. but from lack of experience he could think of nothing but the truth. he had been too early, he said, and had come out to wait for mr. spangler--"and you, ma'am," he added, in a polite after-thought. but his hurried emphasis made mrs. smily simper more than ever. she shook her finger at him and said: "come, come, sir!" and david's head swam. [illustration: "david's head swam"] at that moment mr. spangler, buttoned to his chin in a black waistcoat, came solemnly along, and, with his protection, david felt he could face mrs. barkley. but, indeed, she met her three guests with condescension and kindness. "they are all fools in their different ways," she said to herself, "but one must be kind to them." so she made mrs. smily sit down in the most comfortable chair, and pushed a footstool at her. then she told mr. spangler, good-naturedly, that she supposed he found old chester very old-fashioned. "don't you be trying any candles on us," she threatened him, in a jocular bass. as for david, she paid no attention to him except to remark that she supposed time didn't count with him. but her bushy eyebrows twitched in a kindly smile when she said it. then she began to talk about dr. lavendar's health. "it is a great trial to have him away," she said. "dear me! i don't know what we will do when the lord takes him. i wish he might live forever. clergymen are a poor lot nowadays." "why, i heard," said mrs. smily, "that he didn't give entire satisfaction." "what!" cried mrs. barkley. "who has been talking nonsense to you? some of the new people, i'll be bound." mrs. smily, very much frightened, murmured that no doubt she was mistaken. wild horses would not have drawn from her that she had heard annie shields that was, say that dr. lavendar had deliberately advised some one she knew to be bad; and that he had refused to help a very worthy man to study for the ministry; and that the ferrises said he ought to be tried for heresy (or something) because he married oscar king to their runaway niece; and that he would not give a child back to its repentant (and perfectly respectable) mother--"and a mother's claim is the holiest thing on earth," mrs. smily said--and that he had encouraged miss lydia sampson in positively _wicked_ extravagance. after hearing these things, mrs. smily had her opinion of dr. lavendar; but that was no reason why she should let mrs. barkley snap her head off. so she only murmured that no doubt she had made a mistake. "i think you have," said mrs. barkley, dryly; and rose and marshalled her company in to supper. "she's a perfect fool," she told herself, "but i hope the lord will give me grace to hold my tongue." perhaps the lord gave her too much grace, for, for the rest of the evening, she hardly spoke to mrs. smily; she even conversed with david rather than look in her direction. for the most part the conversation was a polite exchange of views upon harmless topics between mrs. barkley and mr. spangler, during which mrs. smily cheered up and murmured small ejaculations to david baily. she told him that she was scared nearly to death of the stuffed animals at miss harriet's house. "they make me just scream!" she said. david protectingly assured her that they were harmless. "but they are so dreadful!" mrs. smily said. "isn't it strange that my cousin likes to--to do that to animals? it isn't quite ladylike, to my mind." mr. baily thought to himself how ladylike it was in mrs. smily to object to taxidermy. he noticed, too, that she ate almost nothing, which also seemed very refined. it occurred to him that such a delicate creature ought not to go home alone; the lane up to miss harriet's house was dark with overhanging trees, and, furthermore, half-way up the hill it passed the burial-ground. in a burst of fancy david saw himself near the low wall of the cemetery, protecting mrs. smily, who was shivering in her ladylike way at the old head-stones over in the grass. he began (in his own mind) a reassuring conversation: "there are no such things as spectres, ma'am. i assure you there is no occasion for fear." and at these manly words she would press closer to his side. (and this outside the burial-ground--oh, maria, maria!) but this flight of imagination was not realized, for later emily announced that miss harriet's augustine had come for mrs. smily. "did she bring a lantern?" demanded mrs. barkley. "that lane is too dark except for young folks." augustine had a lantern, and was waiting with it at the front door for her charge; so there was no reason for mr. david to offer his protection. he and mr. spangler went away together, and david twisted his head around several times to watch the spark of light jolting up the hill towards the burial-ground and the stuffed-animal house. when the two men said good-night, mr. spangler had a glimpse of a quickly opened door and heard an eager voice--"come in, dear brother. did you have a delightful evening?" "how pleasing to be welcomed so affectionately!" said the reverend mr. spangler to himself. iii the gentle warmth of that welcome lingered persistently in mr. spangler's mind. "i suspect that she _kissed_ him," he said to himself; and a little dull red crept into his cheeks. miss ellen, dark-eyed, gentle, with soft lips, made mr. spangler suddenly think of a spray of heliotrope warm in the sunshine. "that is a very poetical thought," he said, with a sense of regret that it probably could not be utilized in a sermon. but when he entered the study he banished poetry, because he had a letter to write. it was in answer to an offer of the secretaryship of a church publishing-house in a western city. dr. lavendar, it appeared, had mentioned mr. spangler's name to one mr. horatius brown, stating that in his opinion mr. spangler was just the man for the place--"exact, painstaking, conscientious," mr. brown quoted in his letter; but forbore to add dr. lavendar's further remark that mr. spangler would never embarrass the management by an original idea. "he'll pick up pins as faithfully as any man i know," said dr. lavendar, "and that's what you religious newspapers want, i believe?" mr. spangler was not without a solemn pride in being thus sought out by the ecclesiastical business world, especially when he reflected upon the salary which mr. brown was prepared to offer; but acceptance was another matter. to leave his high calling for mere business! a business, too, which would involve exact hours and steady application;--compared with that, and with the crude, smart bustle of the western city, the frugal leisure of his placid days in mercer assumed in his mind the sanctity of withdrawal from the world, and his occasional preaching took on the glow of missionary zeal. "no," said mr. spangler, "mercenary considerations do not move me a hair's-breadth." mr. spangler did not call his tranquil life in mercer, his comfortable old house, his good cook, his old friends, his freedom from sermon-writing, mercenary considerations. on the contrary, he assured himself that his "circumstances were far from affluent; but i must endure hardness!" he used to add cheerfully. and very honestly his declination seemed to him something that heaven would place to his credit. so he wrote to the publishing-house that he had given the proposition his most prayerful consideration, but that he believed that it was his duty to still labor at the sacred desk--and duty was, he hoped, the watchword of his life. and he was mr. brown's "obedient servant and brother in christ--augustus spangler." then he settled down in dr. lavendar's armchair by the fire in the study; but he did not read the ecclesiastical paper which every week fed his narrow and sincere mind. instead he wondered how often dr. lavendar called upon his female parishioners. would twice in a fortnight be liable to be misunderstood? mr. spangler was terribly afraid of being misunderstood. then he had a flash of inspiration: he ought, as rector, to visit the schools. that was only proper and could not possibly be misunderstood. "for an interest in educational affairs is part of a priest's duty," mr. spangler reflected. if he was right, it must be admitted that dr. lavendar was very remiss. so far as we children could remember, he had never visited miss ellen's school and listened to recitations and heard us speak our pieces. whether that was because he did not care enough about us to come, or because he saw us at collect class and sunday-school and church, and in the street and at the post-office and at home, until he knew us all by heart, so to speak, may be decided one way or the other; but certainly when mr. spangler came, and sat through one morning, and told us stories, and said we made him think of a garden of rosebuds, and took up so much of miss ellen's time that she could not hear the mental arithmetic, it was impossible not to institute comparisons. indeed, some hearts were (for the moment) untrue to mr. david. when miss ellen called on us to speak our pieces, we were so excited and breathless that, for my part, i could not remember the first line of "bingen on the rhine," and had to look quickly into the fourth reader; but before i could begin, lydia wright started in with "excelsior," and she got all the praise; though i'm sure i--well, never mind! but dr. lavendar wouldn't have praised one girl so that all the others wanted to scratch her! all that first half, the pupils, bending over their copy-books, writing, "_courtesy to inferiors is true gentility_," glanced at the visitor sideways, and if they caught his eye, looked down, blushing to the roots of their hair--which was not frizzled, if you please, or hanging over their eyes like the locks of skye-terriers, but parted and tied with a neat ribbon bow on the tops of all the small heads. but mr. spangler did not look often at the pupils; instead he conversed in a low voice with miss ellen. nobody could hear what he said, but it must have been very interesting, for when miss ellen suddenly looked at the clock she blushed, and brought her hand hurriedly down on the bell on her desk. it was ten minutes after the hour for recess! for the rest of that day miss ellen baily moved and looked as one in a dream. her brother, however, did not seem to notice her absent-mindedness. indeed, he was as talkative as she was silent. "sister," he said, as they sat at tea, "i need a new hat. one with a blue band about it might be--ah--becoming." "blue is a sweet color," said miss ellen, vaguely. "mrs. smily remarked to me that before her affliction made it improper, she was addicted to the color of blue." "was she?" ellen said, absently. "don't you think," david said, after a pause, "that my coat is somewhat shabby? you bought it, you may remember, the winter of the long frost." "is it?" miss ellen said. "yes; and the style is obsolete, i think. not that i am a creature of fashion, but i do not like to be conspicuous in dress." "you are not that, dear david," miss ellen protested. "on sunday i often think nobody looks as handsome as you." david blushed. "you are partial, ellen." "no, i'm not," cried miss ellen, coming out of her reveries. "only yesterday i heard some one say that you were very fine-looking." "who said it?" "never mind," ellen said, gayly. "do tell me, sister," he entreated; "that's a good girl." "it was somebody whose opinion you care a great deal about." "i think you might tell me," said mr. david, aggrieved. "not that i care, because it isn't true, and was only said to please you. people know how to get round you, ellen. but i'd just like to know." "guess," said miss ellen. "well, was it--mrs. smily?" "oh, dear, no! it was somebody very important in old chester. it was mrs. barkley." "oh," said mr. david. "a compliment from her means so much, you know," miss ellen reminded him. david was silent. "but all the same," ellen said, "you do need a coat, dear brother. i'm afraid i've been selfish not to notice it." mr. david made no reply. miss ellen beamed at him. "you always look well, in my eyes: but it pleases me to have you well dressed, too." "well, then, to please you, i'll dress up," said mr. david, earnestly. iv "does not mr. baily take any part whatever in his sister's work?" mr. spangler said. he was calling upon mrs. barkley, and the conversation turned upon the guests whom he had met at the tea-party. "that is a very foolish question," said mrs. barkley; "but of course you don't know poor david, or you wouldn't have asked it. david means well, but he has no mind. still, he has tried, poor fellow." then she recited the story of david's failures. "there is really nothing that he is capable of doing," she ended, thoughtfully; "though i think, if his eyes hadn't given out, he might have made a good minister. for david is a pious man, and he likes to visit." a faint red came into mr. spangler's cheeks; although he had been in old chester nearly a month, he had not yet become acclimated to mrs. barkley. the watchword of duty made him call, but he closed her front door behind him with an emphasis which was not dutiful. "that's done!" he said; and thought to himself how much pleasanter than parochial visits were educational matters. mr. spangler felt their importance so deeply that he spent two more mornings watching miss ellen's pupils work out examples on the blackboard and hearing them read, turn about, in the fourth reader. in fact, the next month was a pretty happy time for miss ellen's girls. "i skipped to the bottom of the page in 'catiline's reply,'" lydia wright said, giggling, "and she never knew it!" the girls were tremendously interested but not very sympathetic, for "she's so dreadfully old!" they told each other. had miss ellen been maria's age and had a beau (by this time they called mr. spangler miss ellen's beau, the impudent little creatures!), how different it would have been! but miss ellen was forty. "did you ever know anything so perfectly absurd?" said the older girls. and the second-class girls said they certainly never did. so when mr. spangler came and listened to recitations we poked one another, and put out our tongues behind our readers, and made ourselves extremely obnoxious--if dear miss ellen had had the eyes to see it, which, indeed, she had not. she was very absent in those days; but she did her work faithfully, and saw to david's new coat, and asked mrs. smily to tea, not only to help out miss harriet at the stuffed-animal house, but because david told her a piteous tale of mrs. smily's loneliness and general forlornness. david had had it directly from mrs. smily herself, and had been greatly moved by it; she had told him that this was a sad and unfriendly world. "but i am sure your brother-in-law's family is much attached to you?" david said, comfortingly. then poor mrs. smily suddenly began to cry. "yes; but i am afraid i can't live at my brother-in-law's any longer. his wife is--is tired of me," said the poor little creature. david was thunderstruck. "tired? of you! oh, impossible!" then she opened her poor foolish heart to him. and david was so touched and interested that he could hardly wait to get home to pour it all into ellen's ears. ellen was very sympathetic, and made haste to ask mrs. smily to tea; and when she came was as kind and pitiful as only dear, kind ellen could be. but perhaps she took mrs. smily's griefs a little less to heart than she might have done had she heard the tale a month before. just then she was in the whirl of old chester hospitality; she was asked out three times in one week to meet the supply!--and by that time the supply had reached the point of hoping that he was going to meet miss ellen. yet, as mr. spangler reflected, this was hardly prudent on his part. "for i might become interested," he said to himself, and frowned and sighed. now, as everybody knows, the outcome of "interest" is only justified by a reasonable affluence. "and," augustus spangler reminded himself, "my circumstances are not affluent." indeed, that warm, pleasant old house in mercer, and mary ann, and his books, and those buttoned-up coats needed every penny of his tiny income. "therefore," said mr. spangler, "it is my duty to put this out of my head with an iron hand." but, all the same, ellen baily was like a spray of heliotrope. for a week, the second week in april, while old chester softened into a mist of green, and the crown-imperials shook their clean, bitter fragrance over the bare beds in the gardens--for that week mr. spangler thought often of his income, but oftener of miss ellen. reason and sentiment wrestled together in his lazy but affectionate heart; and then, with a mighty effort, sentiment conquered.... "it seems," said mr. spangler, nervously, "a little premature, but my sojourn in old chester is drawing to a close; i shall not tarry more than another fortnight; so i felt, my dear friend, that i must, before seeking other fields of usefulness, tell you what was in my mind--or may i say heart?" "you are very kind," ellen baily said, breathlessly. .... mr. spangler had invited miss ellen to walk with him on saturday afternoon at four. now, as everybody knows in old chester, when a gentleman invites you to walk out with him, you had better make up your mind whether it is to be "yes" or "no" before you start. as for poor ellen, she did not have to make up her mind; it was made up for her by unconquerable circumstances. if she should "seek other fields of usefulness," she could not take david with her. it was equally clear that she could not leave him behind her. where would he find his occasional new coat, or even the hat with the blue band, if there were no school in the basement? compared to love-making and romance, how sordid are questions about coats! yet, before starting on that saturday-afternoon walk, poor, pretty miss ellen, tying the strings of her many-times retrimmed bonnet under her quivering chin, asked them, and could find no answer except that if he should "say anything," why, then, she must say "no"; but, of course, he wasn't going to say anything. so she tied her washed and ironed brown ribbons into a neat bow, and started down the street with the reverend mr. spangler. david baily, watching them from the gate, ruminated over obvious possibilities. mrs. barkley had opened his eyes to the fact that mr. spangler "was taking notice," and david was not without a certain family pride in a ministerial proposal. "he'll do it this afternoon," said david; and went pottering back into the empty school-room to mend a bench that ellen told him needed a nail or two. but the room was still and sunny, and ellen's chair was comfortable; and sitting there to think about the bench, he nodded once or twice, and then dozed for an hour. when he awoke it seemed best to mend the bench the next day; then, yawning, and staring vacantly out of the window, he saw mrs. smily, and it seemed only friendly to go out and tell her (confidentially) what was going to happen. "it will make quite a difference to you, won't it?" mrs. smily said. "oh," david said, blankly, "that hadn't occurred to me. however," he added, with a little sigh, "my sister's happiness is my first thought." mrs. smily clasped her hands. "mr. baily, i do think you are real noble!" she said. mr. david stood very erect. "oh, you mustn't flatter me, ma'am." "mr. baily, i never flatter," mrs. smily said, gravely. "i don't think it's right." and david thought to himself how noble mrs. smily was. indeed, her nobility was so much in his mind that, strangely enough, he quite forgot ellen's exciting afternoon. he remembered it the next morning, but when he essayed a little joke and a delicate question, the asperity with which the mild ellen answered him left him gaping with astonishment. evidently mr. spangler had not spoken. david would have been less (or more) than a human brother if he had not smiled a very little at that. "ellen expected it," he said to himself. "well, i did myself, and so did mrs. barkley." it never occurred to him that the reverend mr. spangler might also have had expectations which left him disappointed and mortified. yet when a gentleman of mr. spangler's age--one, too, whose income barely suffices for his own comfort, and who, added to this, has had his doubts whether the celibacy of the clergy may not be a sacrament of grace--when such a gentleman does make up his mind to offer himself--to offer himself, moreover, to a lady no longer in her first youth, who is pleasing perhaps to the eye, but not, certainly, excessively beautiful, and whose fortune is merely (and most meritoriously, of course) in her character and understanding--it is a blow to pride to be refused. mr. spangler found it hard to labor at the sacred desk that morning; yet no one would have thought it, to see the fervor with which, as old chester said, he "went through his performances." but he read the service, hot at heart and hoping that miss baily observed how intensely his attention was fixed on things above. when he stood in the chancel waiting for the collection-plates, and saying, in a curious sing-song, absolutely new to old chester, "_zaccheus stood forth, and said, behold, lord--_" his glance, roving over the congregation, rested once on ellen baily, and was as carefully impersonal as though she were only a part of the pew in which she sat. miss ellen thrilled at that high indifference; it occurred to her that even had david's circumstances been different, she could scarcely have dared to accept the hand of this high creature. "_--the half of all my goods--_" said mr. spangler. yes, it was inconceivable, considering what he was offering her, that ellen baily could let her brother stand in the way! all that long, pleasant spring sunday, augustus spangler was very bitter. all that week he was distinctly angry. he said to himself that he was glad that dr. lavendar was soon to return; he would, after making his report of the parish, shake the dust of old chester from off his feet as witness against miss baily, and depart. by the next sunday he had ceased to be angry, but his pride was still deeply wounded. by wednesday he had softened to melancholy; he was able to say that it all came from her sense of duty. unreasonable, of course, but still duty. then, on thursday, suddenly, he was startled by a question in his own mind: was it unreasonable? if she gave up her teaching--"what would that fellow live on?" that was a very bad moment to the reverend mr. spangler. pride vanished in honest unhappiness. he began to think again about his income; he had known that to marry a wife meant greater economy; but sacrifices had not seemed too difficult considering that that wife was to be miss ellen baily. but if the wife must be miss baily _plus_--"that fellow"! "it is out of the question," said poor mr. spangler, and arose and paced up and down the study. he was very miserable; and the more miserable he became, the more in love he knew himself to be. "but it is madness to think of the matter further," he told himself, sternly--"madness!" yet he kept on thinking of it--or of miss ellen's dark eyes, and her smile, and the way her hair curled in little rings about her temples. "but it's impossible--impossible!" he said. then, absently, he made some calculations: to meet the support of david baily he would have to have an increase of so much in his income or a decrease of so much in his expenses. "madness!" said augustus spangler, firmly. "but how her eyes crinkle up when she smiles!" yet it took another day before the real man conquered. his expenses should be decreased, _and david should live with them_. yes, it would mean undeniable pinching; he must give up this small luxury and that; his mary ann could not broil his occasional sweetbread; and the occasional new book must be borrowed from the library, not purchased for his own shelves. he must push about to get more supplying. he had meant to come down one step when he got married; well, he would have to come down two--yes, or three. but he would have miss baily. and warmed with this tender thought, he sat down, then and there, at nearly midnight, and wrote miss ellen a letter. it was a beautiful letter, full of most beautiful sentiments expressed with great elegance and gentility. it appreciated miss ellen's devotion to her family, and acknowledged that a sense of duty was a part of the character of a christian female. it protested that it was far from the reverend mr. spangler to interfere with that sense of duty; on the contrary, he would share it; nay more, he would assist it, for duty was, he hoped, the watchword of his life. if miss baily would consent to become his wife, mr. baily, he trusted, would make his home with his sister. mr. spangler may have been addicted to petticoats (in his own toilet) and given to candles and other emblems of the scarlet woman, but his letter, beneath its stilted phrase, was an honest, manly utterance, and ellen baily read it, thrilling with happiness and love. that was friday, and she had only time to read those thin, blue pages and thrust them into the bosom of her dress, when it was time to go to school and hear her girls declare that the amazon was the largest river in south america; but we might have said it was the largest river in pennsylvania, and miss ellen would have gone on smiling at us. at recess we poured out into the garden, eager to say, "goodness! do you suppose he's popped?" the older girls were especially excited, but they took their usual furtive look about the garden before sitting down on the steps to eat their luncheons. alas, he was not there! "perhaps," said lydia wright, "he has gone to the tomb." this, for the moment, was deliciously saddening; but, after all, real live love-making, even of very old people, is more fascinating than dead romance. through the open window we could see miss ellen sitting at her desk, writing. there were some sheets of blue paper spread out in front of her, and she would glance at them, and then write a little, and then glance back again, and smile, and write. but she did not look troubled, or "cross," as the girls called it; so we knew it could not be an exercise that she was correcting. but when she came out to us, and said, in a sweet, fluttered voice, "children, will one of you take this letter to the post-office?" we knew what it meant--for it was addressed to the reverend mr. spangler. how we all ran with it to the post-office!--giggling and palpitating and sighing as our individual temperaments might suggest. in fact, i know one girl who squeezed a tear out of each eye, she was so moved. when we came back, there was miss baily still sitting at her desk, her cheek on one hand, her smiling eyes fastened on those sheets of blue paper. "gracious," said the girls, "what a long recess!" and told each other to be quiet and not remind her to ring the bell. then suddenly something happened.... an old carry-all came shambling along the road; there were two people in it, and one of them leaned over from the back seat and said to the driver: "this is my house. stop here, please." the girls, clustering like pigeons on the sunny doorstep, began to fold up their luncheon-boxes, and look sidewise, with beating hearts, towards the gate--for it was _he_! how graceful he was--how elegant in his manners! ah, if our mothers had bidden us have manners like mr. david!--but they never did. they used to say, "try and behave as politely as miss maria welwood," or, "i hope you will be as modest in your deportment as miss sally smith." and there was this model before our eyes. it makes my heart beat now to remember how he got out of that rattling old carriage and turned and lifted his hat to a lady inside, and gave her his hand (ah, me!) and held back her skirts as she got out, and bowed again when she reached the ground. she was not much to look at; she was only the lady who was visiting at the stuffed-animal house, and she was dressed in black, and her bonnet was on one side. they stood there together in the sunshine, and mr. david felt slowly in all his pockets; then he turned to us, sitting watching him with beating hearts. "little girls," he said--he was near-sighted, and, absorbed as he always was with sorrow, we never expected him to know our names--"little girls, one of you, go in and ask my sister for two coach fares, if you please." we rose in a body and swarmed back into the school-room--just as miss ellen with a start looked at the clock and put out her hand to ring the bell. "mr. david says, please, ma'am, will you give him money for two coach fares?" miss ellen, rummaging in her pocket for her purse, said: "yes, my love. will you take this to my brother?" just why she followed us as we ran out into the garden with her purse perhaps she hardly knew herself. but as she stood in the doorway, a little uncertain and wondering, mr. david led the shabby, shrinking lady up to her. "my dear ellen," he said, "i have a present for you--a _sister_." then the little, shabby lady stepped forward and threw herself on miss ellen's shoulder. "a sister?" ellen baily said, bewildered. "we were married this morning in upper chester," said mr. david, "and i have brought her home. now we shall all be so happy!" v that evening dr. lavendar came home. of course all the real old chester was on hand to welcome him. when the stage came creaking up to the tavern steps, the old white head was bare, and the broad-brimmed shabby felt hat was waving tremulously in the air. "here i am," said dr. lavendar, clambering down stiffly from the box-seat. "what mischief have you all been up to?" there was much laughing and hand-shaking, and dr. lavendar, blinking very hard, and flourishing his red silk pocket-handkerchief, clapped mr. spangler on the shoulder. "didn't i tell you about 'em? didn't i tell you they were the best people going? but we mustn't let 'em know it; makes 'em vain," said dr. lavendar, with great show of secrecy. "and look here, sam wright! you fellows may congratulate yourselves. spangler here has had a fine business offer made him, haven't you, mr. spangler? and it's just your luck that you got him to supply for you before he left this part of the country. a little later he wouldn't have looked at old chester. hey, spangler?" "oh, that's settled," mr. spangler said. "i declined--" "oh," said dr. lavendar, "have you? well, i'm sorry for 'em." and augustus spangler smiled as heartily as anybody. he had a letter crushed up in his hand; he had read it walking down from the post-office to the tavern, and now he was ready to say that old chester was the finest place in the world. he could hardly wait to get dr. lavendar to himself in the rectory before telling him his great news and giving him a little three-cornered note from ellen baily which had been enclosed in his own letter. "well, well, _well_," said dr. lavendar. he had put on a strange dressing-gown of flowered cashmere and his worsted-work slippers, and made room for his shaggy old danny in his leather chair, and lighted his pipe. "now tell us the news!" he said. and was all ready to hear about the sunday-school teachers, and the choir, and sam wright's protestantism, and many other important things. but not at all:-- "_i'm engaged to be married._" "well, well, well," said dr. lavendar, blinking and chuckling with pleasure; then he read ellen's little note. "i had to tell you myself," ellen wrote him, "because i am so happy." and then there were a dozen lines in which her heart overflowed to this old friend. "dear child, dear child," he murmured to himself. to no one but dr. lavendar--queer, grizzled, wrinkled old dr. lavendar, with never a romance or a love-affair that anybody had ever heard of--could miss ellen have showed her heart. even mr. spangler did not know that heart as dr. lavendar did when he finished ellen's little letter.--and dr. lavendar didn't tell. "i am so happy," said miss ellen. dr. lavendar may have looked at mr. spangler and wondered at the happiness. but, after all, wonder, on somebody's part, is a feature of every engagement. and if the wonder is caused only by the man's coat, and not by his character, why be distressed about it? mr. spangler was an honest man; if his mind was narrow, it was at least sincere; if his heart was timid, it was very kind; if his nature was lazy, it was clean and harmless. so why shouldn't ellen baily love him? and why shouldn't dr. lavendar bubble over with happiness in ellen's happiness? "she's the best girl in the world," he told mr. spangler. "i congratulate you. she's a good child--a good child." mr. spangler agreed, in a somewhat solemn manner. "but david--how about david?" "my house shall always be open to mrs. spangler's relatives," said mr. spangler, with christian pride. "you are a good fellow, spangler," dr. lavendar said; and listened, chuckling, to mr. spangler's awkward and correct expressions of bliss. for indeed he was very happy, and talked about miss ellen's virtues (which so eminently qualified her to become his wife), as fatuously as any lover could. "hi, you, danny," said dr. lavendar, after half an hour of it, "stop growling." "there's somebody at the door," said augustus spangler, and went into the entry to see who it was. he came back with a letter, which he read, standing by the table; then he sat down and looked white. dr. lavendar, joyously, was singing to himself: "'ten-cent jimmy and his minions cannot down the woolly horse.' "spangler, we must drink to your very good health and prospects. let's have mary bring the glasses." "i fear," said mr. spangler--he stopped, his voice unsteady. "i regret--" "hullo!" said dr. lavendar, looking at him over his spectacles; "what's wrong?" "i'm extremely sorry to say," said poor mr. spangler, "that--it can't be." "a good glass of wine," said dr. lavendar, "never hurt--" "i refer," said mr. spangler, sighing, "to my relations with miss ellen baily." dr. lavendar looked at him blankly. "i have just received a letter," the poor man went on, "in which she informs me that it can never be." his lip trembled, but he held himself very straight and placed the letter in his breast-pocket with dignity. "spangler, what are you talking about?" "it appears," said mr. spangler, "that her brother--" "fiddlesticks!" said dr. lavendar. "has ellen started up some fantastic conscientiousness? spangler, women's consciences are responsible for much unhappiness in this world. but i won't have it in my parish! i'll manage ellen; trust me." he pulled at his pipe, which had gone out in these moments of agitation. "i tell you, sir," he said, striking a match on the bottom of his chair, "these saintly, self-sacrificing women do a fine work for the devil, if they only knew it, bless their hearts." "you misapprehend," said mr. spangler, wretchedly; and then told miss ellen's news. it was brief enough, this last letter; there was no blame of david; indeed, he had displayed, miss baily said, "a true chivalry; but of course--" "of course," said mr. spangler. but dr. lavendar broke out so fiercely that danny squeaked and jumped down out of the chair. "upon my word; upon my word, spangler, what were you thinking of to let it go on? if i had been at home, it would never--upon my _word_!" this was one of the times that dr. lavendar felt the limitations of his office in regard to language. mr. spangler, his elbows on his knees, his chin on hands, was staring miserably at the floor. "i shall, i trust, meet it in the proper spirit," he said. dr. lavendar nodded. "of course," he said. "fortunately, she is dealing with a man who has backbone--perhaps." mr. spangler sighed. "i regret to say that her presence in her school under the circumstances does seem imperative." dr. lavendar lighted his pipe. "do you mean on account of money, spangler?" "the support of mr. david baily and this--this _female_, must be met, i suppose, by miss baily's school." "you are not so situated that you--" began dr. lavendar, delicately. "my circumstances," said augustus spangler, "are not affluent. i have my residence in mercer; and i supply, as you know. but my income barely suffices for one. four--would be out of the question." dr. lavendar looked at ellen's little, happy note, lying half open on the table. "poor old jack-donkey of a david!" he groaned. "his selfishness," said augustus spangler, between his teeth, his voice suddenly trembling with anger, "is perfectly incomprehensible to me--perfectly incomprehensible! i endeavor always to exercise charity in judging any human creature; but--really, _really_!" "it isn't selfishness as much as silliness. david hasn't mind enough to be deliberately selfish. the poor fellow never thought. he never has thought. ellen has always done the thinking for the family. well, the harm's done. but, spangler--" the old man stopped and glanced sharply at the forlorn and angry man opposite him. yes, he certainly seemed very unhappy;--and as for ellen! dr. lavendar could not bear that thought. "spangler, i'll stand by you. i won't let her offer you up as well as herself. there must be some way out." mr. spangler shook his head hopelessly. "the support of four persons on my small stipend is impossible." "spangler, my boy!" said dr. lavendar, suddenly, "there is a way out. what an old fool i am not to have thought of it! my dear fellow"--dr. lavendar leaned over and tapped mr. spangler's knee, chuckling aloud--"_that secretaryship_!" "secretaryship?" mr. spangler repeated, vaguely. "you declined it? i know. but i don't believe brown's got a man yet. i heard from him on another matter, yesterday, and he didn't say he had. anyway, it's worth trying for. we can telegraph him to-morrow," said dr. lavendar, excitedly. mr. spangler stared at him in bewilderment. "but," he said, breathlessly, "i--i don't think--i fear i am not fit." he felt as if caught in a sudden wind; his face grew red with agitation. "i declined it!" he ended, gasping. "fit?" said dr. lavendar. "my dear man, what fitness is needed? there's nothing to it, spangler, i assure you." dr. lavendar was very much in earnest; he sat forward on the edge of his chair and gesticulated with his pipe. "don't be too modest, my boy." "business entails such responsibilities," mr. spangler began, in a frightened voice. "oh, but this is mere routine," dr. lavendar interrupted; "they want a clergyman--somebody with tact. there's a good deal of church politics in it, i suppose, and they've got to have somebody who would never step on anybody's toes." "i would never do that," said mr. spangler, earnestly, "but--" "no," said dr. lavendar, abruptly, his voice changing--"no, spangler, you never would." then he was silent for a moment, pulling on his pipe, wondering perhaps, in spite of himself, at ellen. "no, you never would. you see, you are just the man for the place. brown said they wanted somebody who was presentable; he said they didn't need any particular abil--i mean any particular business ability." "but," said mr. spangler, "to give up my sacred calling--" "spangler, come now! you don't 'call' very loudly, do you? there, my dear boy, let an old fellow have his joke. i merely mean you don't preach as often as if you had a regular parish. and you can supply, you know, there just as well as here." "the master's service is my first consideration," said augustus spangler. dr. lavendar looked at him over his spectacles. "mr. spangler, the christian business-man serves the master just as well as we do." "i should wish to reflect," said mr. spangler. "of course." "miss baily would, i fear, object to going so far away." "if the place is still open, i'll manage ellen," said dr. lavendar; but he looked at mr. spangler narrowly. "and your own entreaties will, of course, weigh with her if you show determination. i think you told me you were pretty determined?" "i have," said mr. spangler, "an iron will; but that would not justify me in insisting if miss baily--" his voice trailed off; it rose before him--the far-off, bustling city, the office, the regular hours, the people whose toes must not be stepped upon, the letters to write and read, the papers to file, all the exact minutiae the position involved. and his comfortable old house? his leisure? his ease? and mary ann? mary ann would never consent to go so far! "i--i really--" he began. dr. lavendar frowned. "mr. spangler, i would not seem to urge you. ellen is too dear to us for that. but if you appreciate her as i suppose you do--" "i do indeed!" broke in poor augustus spangler, fervently. "the way is probably open to you." "but--" said mr. spangler, and then broke out, with marked agitation; "i--i really don't see how i could possibly--" yet even as he spoke he thought of ellen's sweet eyes. "good heavens!" said mr. spangler, passionately; "what shall i do?" but dr. lavendar was silent. mr. spangler got up and began to walk about. "my affection and esteem," he said, almost weeping, "are unquestioned. but there are other considerations." dr. lavendar said nothing. "it is a cruel situation," said mr. spangler. dr. lavendar looked down at his pipe. there was a long silence. augustus spangler walked back and forth. dr. lavendar said never a word. "a man must consider his own fitness for such a position," mr. spangler said, pleadingly. "perhaps," dr. lavendar observed, mildly, "ellen's affections are not very deeply engaged? it will be better so." "but they are!" cried mr. spangler. "i assure you that they are! and i--i was so happy," said the poor man; and sniffed suddenly, and tried to find the pocket in his coat-tails. dr. lavendar looked at him out of the corner of his eye. mr. spangler stood stock-still; he opened and shut his hands, his lips were pressed hard together. he seemed almost in bodily pain, for a slight moisture stood out on his forehead. he was certainly in spiritual pain. the ideal of sacrifice was being born in mr. spangler's soul. his mild, kind, empty face grew almost noble; certainly it grew very solemn. "dr. lavendar," he said, in a low voice, "_i will do it._" dr. lavendar was instantly on his feet; there was a grip of the hand, and, for a moment, no words. "i'll telegraph mr. brown," said mr. spangler, breathlessly. "so will i!" said dr. lavendar. mr. spangler was scarlet with heroism. "it means giving up my house and my very congenial surroundings, and i fear mary ann will feel too old to accompany me; but with--with ellen!" "she's worth six mary anns, whoever mary ann may be," said dr. lavendar. "you may have thought me hesitant," said mr. spangler, "but i felt that i must weigh the matter thoroughly." "why, certainly, man. it was your duty to think what was best for ellen." "exactly," mr. spangler said, getting his breath again, and beginning to feel very happy. "and duty is, i hope, my watchword; but i had to reflect," he ended, a little uncomfortably. but dr. lavendar would not let him be uncomfortable. they sat down again, and dr. lavendar filled another pipe, and until long after midnight they talked things over--the allowance to be made to david and his bride, the leasing of the house in mercer, the possible obduracy of mary ann, and, most of all, the fine conduct of the reverend mr. spangler. but when they had said good-night, dr. lavendar sat awhile longer by his fireside, his pipe out, his old white head on his breast. "the minute i get back," he said to himself after a while, sheepishly--"the minute i get back i poke my finger into somebody else's pie. but i think 'twas right: ellen loves him; and he's not a bad man.--and brown don't want brains." then he chuckled and got up, and blew out the lamp. the note i of course everybody in old chester knew that there was something queer about mary gordon's marriage--not the mere fact of the man, queer as he was; for, to old chester's ideas, he was very queer.... a "travelling-man," to begin with--and the gordons had a line of scholars and professional men behind them--a drummer, if you please. in theory, old chester was religiously democratic; it plumed itself upon its christian humility, and every sunday it publicly acknowledged that old chesterians were like the rest of humanity to the extent of being miserable sinners. but, all the same, that mary gordon should marry a "person" of that sort-- "dear me!" said old chester. however, travelling-men may be worthy; they need not necessarily use perfumery or put pomade upon their shiny, curly, black hair. but mr. algernon keen was obviously not worthy, and he was saturated with perfumery, and his black, curly hair was sleek with oil. furthermore, he was very handsome: his lips were weak and pouting and red; his eyes liquid and beautiful; his plump cheeks slightly pink. one may believe that such physical characteristics do not imply moral qualities; but only youth has such a belief. when one has lived a little while in the world, one comes to know that a human soul prisoned in such pretty flesh is piteously hampered. yet mary gordon, meeting this poor creature by chance, fell deeply in love with him. of course such falling in love was queer--it was inexplainable; for mary was a nice girl--not, of course, of the caliber of some old chester girls; she had not the mind of alice gray nor the conscience of sally smith; but she was a quiet, biddable, good child--at least so far as anybody knew. but nobody knew much about her. in the first place, the gordons lived just far enough out of old chester to miss its neighborliness. mary was not often seen in town, and in her own home her brother alex's loud personality crushed her into a colorless silence. her father did not crush her--he merely did not notice her; but he was fond of her--at least he had the habit of indifferent affection. she always came into the library to say good-night to him; and he, sitting by the fire in a big, winged chair, a purple silk handkerchief spread over his white locks, to keep off possible draughts, would turn his cheek up to her mechanically; but the soft touch of her lips never made him lift his eyes from his book. she never kissed alex good-night; she was openly afraid of him. alex was rude to her and made her wait on him, throwing her a curt "thank you" once in a while, generally coupled with some sarcastic reference to her slowness or stupidity--for, indeed, the child was both slow and stupid. perhaps, had she been loved-- but no one can tell now how that would have been. at any rate, there was a pathetic explanation of loneliness to account for the fact that she was drawn to this algernon keen, who had nothing to recommend him except a cheap and easy kindliness that cost him no effort and was bestowed on everybody. [illustration: "she always came into the library to say good-night to him"] of course the two men, her father and brother, refused to consider keen as mary's suitor at all. alex nearly had a fit over it; in his rage and mortification he took all old chester into his confidence. he went to the tavern--this was the day after mary had, trembling and crying, told her little love affair to her father and begged his consent--alex went to the tavern and ordered the snickering, perfumed youth out of town. "well, i guess not," said algy. "this town doesn't belong to you, does it?" alex stammered with passion: "if--if you dare to address miss gordon again, i'll--i'll--i'll horsewhip you," he said, his pale eyes bulging from his crimsoning face. "i guess mary has a right to let me talk to her if she wants to; this is a free country," the other blustered. and alex, loudly, on the tavern steps, cursed him for a skunk, a-- well, old chester was never able to quote alex. he came to his senses after this dreadful exhibition of himself, and was horribly mortified. but post-mortification cannot undo the deed, and before night everybody in old chester knew that mary gordon had fallen in love with--"the person who brings samples to tommy dove's apothecary shop." old chester was truly sorry for mary; "for," as mrs. barkley said, "love's love, whether it's suitable or not; and mary has such a lonely life, poor child! well, it will take time for her to get over it." it seemed to take a good deal of time. that winter she grew pale and was often ill. the poor little thing seemed to creep into her shell to brood over her blighted hopes. once she was downright sick for a week, and mr. gordon sent for william king. willy said at first that mary had something on her mind (which certainly mary's family did not need to be told). "i believe she's thinking about that scoundrel yet," said alex. "but she has just got to understand that we'll never allow it, willy. you may as well make that clear to her, and let her get over her moping." william king looked thoughtful and said he would call again. however, any of us old chester girls could have enlightened the doctor. "mary was pining away for her lover;" that was all there was to it. but the lover never appeared, being engaged in offering samples of pomade and perfumery to apothecary stores in other regions. and then, suddenly, the queer thing happened.... the _globe_ announced: "married--by dr. lavendar, mary gordon to algernon keen"--and the date, which was the night before. "_what!_" said old chester at the breakfast-table, and gaped out of its windows to see mary, crying very much, get into the stage, not at her father's house, but at the tavern door, if you please, and drive away with the person. what did it mean? "was alex at home? did he consent?" demanded old chester; for alex had been away from home for a week. by noon it was decided that alex had consented; for it came out that he had returned to old chester the previous afternoon, and with him, shrinking into the corner of the stage, was mr. algy keen. "get out," alex said to him when the stage drew up at the gordon house. the man got out, shambling and stumbling, with a furtive look over his shoulder, for alex gordon walked behind him to the front door, his right hand gripped upon his walking-stick, his left clinched at his side. "he kep' just behind the feller," the stage-driver told van horn at the tavern afterwards--"just behind him, like as if he was afraid the feller'd run away from him. but the feller, he stopped right at the steps, and he turned around, and he says, 'mind you,' he says (mad as a hatter)--'mind you,' he says, 'i'm not _brought_, i've _come_';--whatever that means," the stage-driver ruminated. so much old chester knew the day after mary gordon's wedding. and it naturally sought to know a little more. "i suppose her father feels it very much?" ventured mrs. barkley to dr. lavendar. "any man feels the marriage of his only girl," said dr. lavendar, briefly. and mrs. barkley held her tongue. but mrs. drayton, who was just then anxious about her soul and found it necessary to consult dr. lavendar as to the unpardonable sin--mrs. drayton was not so easily squelched. "my jean says that the gordon's rachel told her that alex brought the man into the house by the ear, and then sent her for you, running, and--" "she didn't bring me into the house by the ear," said dr. lavendar. "but why, do you suppose, was it all so sudden?" said mrs. drayton; "it almost looks--" "how do you know it was sudden?" said dr. lavendar. "well, my jean said--" "it may have been sudden to jean," said the old man; "possibly mary had not taken jean into her confidence. some folks don't confide in servants, you know." but mrs. drayton was proof against so delicate a thrust. "well, i only hope she won't repent at her leisure;--if there's nothing but haste to repent of. if there's anything else--" "i'll say good-day, mrs. drayton," interrupted dr. lavendar; "and as for your question about the unpardonable sin, ma'am, why, just be ready to forgive other folks and you needn't be afraid of the unpardonable sin for yourself." he took his hat and stick and went thumping down-stairs. in the hall he met william king going up to see the invalid, and said, with a gasp: "willy, my boy, a good, honest murderer is easier to deal with than some milder kinds of wrong-doing." "dr. lavendar," said william, "i'd rather have a patient with small-pox than treat some lighter ills that i could name." as for mrs. drayton, she told her daughter that dr. lavendar was very unspiritual, and did not understand the distress of a sensitive temperament. "even the slightest error fills me with remorse," said mrs. drayton. "dear me! i should think mary gordon would know what remorse is--for, of course, there is only one thing to think." ii old chester thought the one thing. no evasions of dr. lavendar's, no miserable silence on the part of the disgraced father and the infuriated brother, could banish that one thought. but nothing definite was known. "although," as everybody said to everybody else, "of course, dr. lavendar knows the whole thing, and probably willy king does, too." if they did, they kept their knowledge to themselves. but dr. lavendar went often to the gordon house that winter. "they're pretty lonely, those two men," he told willy once--perhaps six months afterwards. "would either of them have softened if the baby had lived, do you think, sir?" william said. and dr. lavendar shook his head. "perhaps her father might. but alex will never forgive her, i'm afraid." and alex never did forgive her--not even when she died, as, happily, she did six or seven years later. she died; and life closed over the miserable little tragedy as water closes, rippling, over some poor, broken thing flung into its depths. "_thank god!_" alex said, when he heard she was gone. "you may thank god for her," dr. lavendar said, turning upon him sternly, "but ask mercy for yourself, because this door of opportunity is shut upon you forever." dr. lavendar had brought them the news. they did not ask how it had come to him; it was enough to hear it. the two men, mary's father and brother, listened while he told them, briefly: "she died yesterday. the funeral will be to-morrow, at twelve." "thank god!" alex said, hoarsely, and lifted his hand and cursed the man who had dishonored them. and dr. lavendar turned upon him in solemn anger. "your opportunity is gone--so far as she is concerned. there yet remains, however, the poor, foolish sinner whom she loved--" "damn him!" said alex. "_--and who loved her._" old mr. gordon dropped his face in his hands and groaned. "who loved her," dr. lavendar repeated. "for that, at least, he cannot be indifferent to us, whatever he has made us suffer." neither of his listeners spoke. it was growing dark in the long room, walled to the ceiling with books and lighted only by a fire sputtering in the grate. mr. gordon, sitting in his big, winged chair close to the hearth, said, after a long pause: "you said--to-morrow, edward? where?" "in mercer. i shall go up on the morning stage." again the silence fell. alex got up and walked to the window and looked out. "why didn't you bring danny in, dr. lavendar?" he said, carelessly; "the little brute will freeze out there in your buggy. i'll call him in." he turned to leave the room, and then stopped. "alexander, _sit down_," said dr. lavendar. alex sat down with involuntary quickness; then he threw his legs out in front of him and thrust his hands down into his pockets. "dr. lavendar, this is our affair. i'm obliged to you for your kind intentions; but this is our affair. you've told your news, and we have listened respectfully--if i should say gladly you might be shocked. so i only say respectfully. but you have spoken; we have listened. that is all there is to it. the thing is finished. the book is closed. i say thank god! i don't know what my father says. if he takes my advice, for i've been a good son to him; i never gave him any cause to be ashamed;--if he takes my advice, he'll forget the whole affair. that's what i mean to do. the book is closed. i shall never think of it again." he got up and walked about with affectation of vast indifference. "alex, you will probably never think of anything else," dr. lavendar said, half pitifully; and then, sternly, again: "i can't make you accept the opportunity that still is open to you; but i will point it out to you: come up to mercer to-morrow with your father and me." "mercer!" the younger man cried out, furiously; "you mean to see her buried? to dance on her grave and pull the man out and spit in his face and--" he stopped, his face suddenly purpling, his light eyes staring and rolling; then he stumbled and jerked himself together, and lurched forward into a chair, breathing loudly. the two old men, trembling with horror, ran to him. "oh, edward," john gordon said--"oh, edward, why did you rouse him? he can't speak of it, he can't think of it. alex--there!--we'll say no more about it." [illustration: "lurched forward into a chair, breathing loudly"] alex stared at them with glassy eyes, in silence; his father kept bemoaning himself and imploring his old friend to say no more. "you won't speak of it again, edward? he goes out of his head with rage. promise me not to speak of it any more." "no, john; no," dr. lavendar said, sadly; and as alex's eyes cleared into bewildered consciousness, the old minister stood a little aside while the father helped the son to his feet and led him away. when he came back, shuffling feebly down the long, darkening room, dr. lavendar was still sitting by the fire. "he's quiet now; i--i think he's ashamed. i hope so. but he won't come out of his room." dr. lavendar nodded. john gordon spread his purple handkerchief over his white locks, with shaking hands, and then sat down, tumbling back in his chair in a forlorn heap. "edward," he said, feebly, "tell me about it. it was on thursday? had she been sick long?" then, in a low voice, "she--didn't lack for comforts?" "no; i think not. the man was as tender with her as--as you might have been. she was sick--i mean in bed--two weeks. she had been ailing for a long time; you remember i spoke to you about it about a month ago. and again last week." "you--saw her?" "yes." "more than once?" "oh, many times," dr. lavendar said, simply; "many times, of course." john gordon put out his hand; dr. lavendar shook it silently. then suddenly the old man broke out, in weak, complaining anger: "he wouldn't let me write to her. i would have sent her some money. he wouldn't hear of it. he was awful, edward. i--i didn't dare." dr. lavendar was silent. it had grown so dark that he could not see the father's face. suddenly, from behind the leafless trees at the foot of the garden, a smouldering yellow glow of sunset broke across the gloom of the room, and touched the purple cowl and the veined hands covering the aged face. dr. lavendar sighed. "what can i do, edward? i can't go to-morrow. you see i can't." "yes, you can, john." "he would die; he'd have another attack. his heart is bad, edward." "oh, i'm afraid it is, i'm afraid it is. but john, you do your duty. never mind alex's heart. that isn't your affair." "oh, i couldn't possibly go--not possibly," the father protested, nervously. the glow died out. the room grew dusk and then dark. mr. gordon got up and reached to the mantel-shelf for a spill. "mary used to make the spills for me," he said, vaguely. "now our rachel does it, and she doesn't half bend the end over." he lighted the spill, the little flame flickering upon his poor old face peering out from under his purple handkerchief. "oh, alex ought not to be so hard. i would go with you to-morrow, edward, but i can't, you know. i can't." then, with a shaking hand, he took off the ground-glass globe and lighted the tall lamp that stood among a litter of papers on the library-table. "you see how it is, edward, don't you? i can't possibly go." "you will be sorry if you don't, john." "i'll be sorry anyhow," he burst out. "i'm always sorry. i've been sorry all my life. my children are my sorrow." iii algy keen, his face swollen with crying, his black hair limp and uncurled, sat on the edge of the bed in the back room of a dingy mercer lodging-house. the windows had been left open after mary had been taken away, so that the room was cold; and there were still two chairs facing each other,--a certain distance apart. the room was in dreary order, and there was the scent of flowers in the chill air. the bed was tumbled, for the forlorn man had dropped down upon it to rest. but he was too tired to rest, and was sitting up again, dangling his stockinged feet on the shabby carpet and talking to dr. lavendar. he snuffled, and his poor, weak lips shook, and he rubbed the back of his trembling hand across his nose. algy had had broken nights for a fortnight, and the last three days and nights of mary's life he had almost no sleep at all; these two days when she lay dead in their bare room he had slept and wept and slept again; and now, when he and dr. lavendar had come back from the funeral, he sat on the edge of the bed and whimpered with weakness and grief. "well, sir, she was a good girl," he said. "i don't care what anybody says, she was a good girl. i ain't saying that things was just right, to begin with. but that wasn't mary's fault. no; she was a good girl. and her folks treated her bad. they'd always treated her mean bad. my goodness! if they'd 'a' let me come to see her respectable, as you would any of your lady friends, 'stead of skulkin' 'round--... _i can't stand the smell of those flowers_," he broke out, in a high, crying voice; "i left them all out there at the cemetery, and i smell them here--i smell them here," he moaned, trembling. "i like to smell them," dr. lavendar said. "they mean the old friendship for mary. mrs. king sent them. she's our doctor's wife in old chester. she always liked mary." "i don't see how she could help it," algy said, his face crumpling with tears. "well, she was a good girl. and she was a good wife, sir, too. i tell you, you never saw a better wife. i used to come home tired, and there'd be my slippers out for me. yes, sir; she never missed it. and she was always pleasant, too; you mayn't call just being pleasant, religion, but i--" "i do," dr. lavendar interposed. "well, so do i," algy said, his face lightening a little. "i call it a better religion than her folks showed. well, now, sir, i loved mary"--he stopped and cried, openly--"i loved her (i didn't need that hell-hound of a brother to come after me)--yes, i was just as fond of her; and yet there was times when i come home at night--not--not quite--well, maybe a little--you know?" "yes," said dr. lavendar. "but, my god, sir, mary was pleasant. it isn't every woman that would be pleasant then, is it?" "no, it isn't, algy." "course, next day she'd tell me i done wrong. (she never told me so at the time--mary had sense.) and i always said: 'well, yes, mary, that's so. and i'll never do it again.' but she was pleasant. course i don't mean she was lively. she used to remember--well, that we'd made a mistake. _you_ know? and she used to kind a brood on it. she talked to you considerably about it, i guess. she said you comforted her. she said you said that maybe her--her mistake had brought her to be kind o' more religious--saved her, as you might say." "i said that she had come to know her saviour through his forgiveness." "i don't think mary needed any forgiveness," the poor husband said, with tearful resentment; "i think her folks needed it." "i'm sorry for them," dr. lavendar said. "they have got to remember that they might have been kinder. that's a hard thing to have to remember." the young man nodded. "i hope they'll remember it, hard!" "they will," said dr. lavendar, sighing. "i spent my last cent on mary," algernon rambled on. "i got her a good coffin--a stylish coffin. the plate was solid silver. the man wanted me to take a plated one. i says 'no,' i says; 'i don't get plated things for my wife if it takes my last cent.' well, it just about took it. but i don't care. her people threw her off, and i did for her. i spent my last cent." "you took her from them in the first place, algernon," the old minister said. "don't forget that you sinned." "well, you said she was forgiven," the other broke out, angrily. "i guess god's more easy than some people." "he is." "well, then," algy said, resentfully; "what's the use of talking?" dr. lavendar was silent. "i don't begrudge a cent i spent on her," algy went on. "i had laid by $ to set up a place of my own here in mercer. at least, it wasn't me; i'm not one to save much; it was mary did it. but these last eight months have taken it all, 'cause i 'ain't done hardly any work; couldn't be away from her on the road, you know; so we had to live on that money. i could 'a' got a cheaper coffin; but i wouldn't. as for the doctor, i got the best in town. i don't believe in economizing on your wife. and i paid him. i paid him $ yesterday morning, though it seems high, considering he didn't cure her. but i wasn't going to let mary get buried owing the doctor. and i paid for the coffin. 'spot cash,' i says to the man, 'make it spot cash, and name your figure.' he took off $ . well, how much do you suppose i've got left now, dr. lavendar, out of $ ? just $ , sir. i don't care; i don't begrudge mary a cent. i thought the coffin looked handsome, didn't you?--_oh, i wish somebody had 'a' moved those chairs when we were gone!_" he cried, his voice shrill and breaking. dr. lavendar got up and pushed one of the chairs back against the wall and brought the other to algy's side. the young man laid his hand on it and began to cry. iv "no, i suppose you don't care to hear about it, john. but i want to tell you; so i guess you'll listen to please me?" john gordon said nothing. "it isn't a long story," dr. lavendar said, and told him briefly of the funeral. when he ended there was silence. then, "john," dr. lavendar said. "yes, edward." "the man is in need." "what's that to me?" the other burst out. "much," said dr. lavendar; "it gives you a chance." "you mean a chance to give him some money?" said the other. "good god! to pay the scoundrel for what he did to us? edward, you don't understand human nature." "he spent his last cent making mary comfortable, john. she told me so herself." "i will never give that--creature one penny of my clean money." dr. lavendar said nothing. the older man bent forward, shivering, and stirred the fire. the coal broke into sputtering fragments and the flames roared up into the soot. "alex would never listen to giving him any money." "don't ask him to listen to it. haven't you got your own check-book?" "let him rot. that's what alex says." "i don't believe it's what you say, john, because he was good to mary;--and you were not." mr. gordon groaned. "well, i won't give him anything; i'll lend it, possibly." dr. lavendar frowned and got up. mr. gordon put out a trembling, detaining hand. "edward, you don't understand.... how much do you want for him?" "he had saved about $ to go into some business. it's all gone." "well, i won't give it to him," the other repeated, with feeble sharpness; "i'll lend it--to please you." "i'm sorry you haven't a better motive." john gordon got up and went over to his library-table and fumbled about in one of the drawers for his check-book. "i'm a fool," he said, fretfully; "i don't know but what i'm worse. lending money to-- but you say he was good to her? poor mary! oh!" he ended, half to himself, "i don't know why alex is so hard." then he took his quill and began to scrawl his check. "i'd rather see him starve," he said. "no, you wouldn't," dr. lavendar said, calmly. "well, there! take it! get a receipt." "johnny, think better of it." "you needn't take it if you don't want to," the other said, sullenly. dr. lavendar took it, and john gordon called after him, "you won't tell alex?" dr. lavendar shook his head and sighed. as he drove home he said to himself that a loan was better than nothing. "but, danny, my boy," he added, "what a chance he had! well, he'll take it yet--he'll take it yet. the trouble with me, daniel, is, i'm in too much of a hurry to make folks good. i must reform." danny blinked a grave agreement, and dr. lavendar, dropping his shortcomings joyfully from his mind, began to sing to himself: "oh! what has caused this great commotion--motion--motion our country through?" when, however, a day or two later, dr. lavendar went up to mercer to take the check to algernon keen, he found to his astonishment that it was not so easy to secure to his old friend even the smaller and meaner opportunity of lending, much less giving. at first, algernon looked at him open-mouthed. "_him_--offering to lend money to--?" his astonishment robbed him of words. then into his poor, shallow face came the first keen touch of shame. but instantly he was ashamed of his shame,--ashamed, like so many of us strange human creatures, of the stirring of god within him. he didn't want their dirty money, he said. they thought themselves so good, they couldn't stomach mary. well, then, they were too good for him to touch their money. his voice shook with angry grief. his bitterness was genuine, even though he used it to hide that first regenerative pang of shame. no; dr. lavendar could take their money back to them. "i spent my last cent, just about, on mary," he said; "and i didn't begrudge it, either." "i'm sure you didn't begrudge it." algy's weak mouth shook and his eyes filled; he turned away and stared out of the window. "he better have offered to lend her some money than me," he said. "i bet he's glad she's dead." (dr. lavendar thought of alex.) "he wants to help you now for her sake," he said. "i don't want his money," the younger man insisted, brokenly; "he let her die." "i think that it would please her to have you take it." "i don't want to be under obligations to those people," algernon said, doggedly. "if mr. gordon has your note, it's business." algy hesitated. "i suppose he thinks i'd never pay it back?" "if he takes your note, it looks as if he expected to be repaid." "it's treating me white, i'll say that," algernon said. and again his face reddened slowly to his forehead and he would not meet dr. lavendar's eye. "but i don't want their favors," he cried, threateningly. "it's business, if you give your note," dr. lavendar repeated. "come, algernon, let her father do something for her sake. and as for you--it's a chance to play the man; don't you see that?" algy caught his breath. "damn!--if i borrowed his money i'd pay it--i'd pay it, if it took the blood out of me." "i will make your feeling clear to him," dr. lavendar said. "let's make out the note now, algy." the old man got up and hunted about for pen and paper. "here's a prescription blank," he said; "that will do." an ink-bottle stood on the narrow mantel-shelf, a rusty pen corroding in its thickening depths; but dr. lavendar, in a very small, shaky old hand, managed to scrawl that "algernon keen, for value received, promised to pay to john gordon--" --"in a year," algy broke in; "i ain't going to have it run but a year--and put in the interest, sir. i'll have no favors from 'em. i'll pay interest; i'll pay six per cent.--like anybody else would." --"and interest on same," dr. lavendar added. "now, you sign here, algy. there! that will please mary." "oh, my!" said algernon, his poor, red-rimmed eyes filling--"oh, my! my! what will i do without her?" v the next day dr. lavendar carried the note back to old john gordon, who took it, his mouth tightening, and glanced at it in silence. then he shuffled over to a safe in the corner of his library and pulled out a japanned tin box. dr. lavendar watched him fumble with the combination lock, holding the box up to catch the light, and shaking it a little until the lid clicked open. "he'll never pay it," john gordon said. "he'll try to," dr. lavendar said; "but it's doubtful, of course. he's a sickly fellow, and he hasn't much gumption. but if there's any good in him, your trusting him will bring it out." "there isn't any good in him," the other said, violently. and that was the last they said about it; for the time algernon keen dropped out of their lives. he set up his little store in mercer, and struggled along, advertising his samples of perfumery and pomade upon his own person; trying to drink a little less, for mary's sake; whimpering with loneliness and sick-headache in his grimy room in the hotel where mary had died; and never forgetting for a day that promise to pay on the back of the prescription paper in john gordon's possession. but when the year came round, on the d of december, he had not a cent in hand to meet his obligation. and that was why dr. lavendar heard of him again. would the doctor--this on perfumed paper, ruled, and with gilt edges--would the doctor "ask him if he would extend?" algernon could pay the interest now; but that was all he could do. he wasn't in very good shape, he said. he'd been in the hospital for a month, and had had to hire a salesman. "i guess he cheated me; he was a kind of fancy talker, and got me to let him buy some stock; he got off his slice, i bet." that was the reason, algy said, that he could not make any payment on the principal. but he was going to introduce a new article for the lips (no harmful drugs in it), called rosebloom--first-class thing; and he expected he'd do first rate with it. and in another year he'd surely pay that note. it hung over him, he said, like a ton. "i guess he don't want it paid any more than i want to pay it," algy ended, simply. of course dr. lavendar asked for an extension, and got it, though john gordon's lip curled. "i never expected to hear from him or his note again," he said. "probably his honesty won't last over another year." dr. lavendar went up to mercer to see algy, and they talked things over in the store between the calls of two customers. algy's hair was sleek and curly as before, for business is business; but he looked draggled and forlorn; his color had gone and he was thinner, and there were lines on his forehead, and his bright, hazel eyes, kind and shallow as those of some friendly animal, had come into their human birthright of worry. "it's this note that takes the spunk out of me," he said. "if i could only get it paid! then i'd hire a house and have the shop in front. i've thought some i'd get married, too. it's hard on your digestion living in one of these here cheap hotels. but i can't get over thinking of mary. i don't seem to relish other ladies. i suppose they're all right; but mary was so pleasant." and his eyes reddened. "and, anyway, it would cost more to keep a wife, and i don't propose to spend money that way. _he's_ treated me white, i'll say that for him; and i propose to show him--dr. lavendar, i haven't drunk too much only three times in the last year--honest, i haven't. i thought you'd think that would please mary?" "i'm sure it does," said dr. lavendar. "i suppose you think," the drummer said, sheepishly, "that it was pretty darned foolish to drop three times?" "i think pretty soon it won't be even three times," dr. lavendar declared; "but it's hard work; i know it is." algernon looked at him eagerly. "you know how it is yourself, maybe?" "well, i never happened to want to take too much," dr. lavendar said, gently; "if i had, it would have been hard, i'm sure." "well, you bet," algy told him, knowingly. then they talked the business over, and dr. lavendar clapped algy on the shoulder and said he believed he'd have that house and shop yet. "rosebloom may be a gold-mine," said dr. lavendar. then he gave algy some advice about the window display, and suggested a little gas-jet on the counter where gentlemen might light their cigars; and he told algy what brand he smoked himself, and recommended it, in spite of its price. algy smacked his thigh at that, and said dr. lavendar had the making of a smart business man in him. indeed, algy felt so cheered that he opened his show-case and displayed a box of his new cosmetic. "look here, doctor," he said, earnestly; "i'll give you a box. yes--yes! i will. i'd just as lief as not. you maybe wouldn't want to use it yourself; gentlemen don't, often. but give it to one of your lady friends. do, now, doctor. it don't cost me much of anything--and i'm sure you've been kind to me." and dr. lavendar accepted the lip-salve, and thanked algy warmly; then he said that the picture on the lid of the tight-waisted lady was very striking. "that's so!" cried algy. "she's a beauty. she makes me think of mary." algernon had presented dr. lavendar with a cigar, and the old minister was smoking it in great comfort, his feet on the base of a rusty, melon-shaped iron stove; algy was leaning back against the counter, his elbows on the show-case behind him. "dr. lavendar," he said, looking at the toe of his boot, "i--got something on my mind." "well, off with it, quick as you can." "i've been thinking about the day of judgment." "ho!" said dr. lavendar. "well, sir, i get to thinking: if everybody's sins are to be read out loud before all the world--standing up, rows and rows and rows of 'em. can't see the end of 'em--so many. i kind a' hate to think that mary might hear--things about me." "well, keen," said dr. lavendar, slowly, "i don't believe it will be that way." he hesitated a little. after all, it is a risk to take away even a false belief, unless you can put a true one in its place. algy stopped looking at the toe of his boot. "_what!_" said he. "now just look at it," said dr. lavendar. "who would be the better for that kind of publicity? good people wouldn't like it; it would pain them. you say yourself that mary wouldn't like to hear that you did wrong three times." "no; she wouldn't," algernon said. "wicked people might enjoy it," dr. lavendar ruminated, "but--" --"but god don't cater to the wicked?" algy finished, quickly. "that's just it," said dr. lavendar. "he doesn't. but i tell you what it is, algy, it is painful enough to just have your saviour tell you your sins when you're sitting all alone--or, maybe, lying awake in the dark; that's a dreadful time to hear them. it's worse than having rows of people listening." algernon nodded. "maybe you're right," he said, sighing. the birth of a soul is a painful process. but when he went away dr. lavendar's eyes were full of hope. and he grew more hopeful when, as the next year came round and algernon again asked for extension, he was able to carry back, not only the note and the interest to john gordon, but a payment of $ . what that $ meant of self-denial and perseverance dr. lavendar knew almost as well as algy himself. "i don't know whether you meant it, john," he said, as the old man took the note and locked it up in the japanned box--"i don't know that it was your intention, but i believe the responsibility of debt is going to make a man of mary's husband." "debt doesn't generally work that way," mr. gordon said. "no; it doesn't. but he maketh the wrath of man to praise him, once in a while, johnny." "it's nothing to me. i'm done with him." "'if the court knows itself, which it think it do,'" said dr. lavendar, chuckling, "you're just beginning with him." "i'd rather have him decent, if that's what you mean. but i despise him." "i don't," said dr. lavendar. "i tell you, john, we're poor, limited critters, you and i. we felt that no good could possibly come out of nazareth. i must confess that when i got you to send him that money i was thinking more of the benefit to you than any effect it might have on him. i thought he didn't amount to two cents. to my shame i say it. but i was blind as a bat; the lord had sent him a great experience--_mary's death_. well, it was like a clap of thunder on a dark night; the lightning showed up a whole landscape i didn't know. there was honesty; and there was perseverance; and there was love, mind you, most of all. love! i tell you, johnny, only the lord knows what is lying in the darkness of human nature. in fact," said dr. lavendar, reflectively, "as i get older there is nothing more constantly astonishing to me than the goodness of the bad;--unless it is the badness of the good. but that's not so pleasant. no, sir; i don't despise mr. keen." nor did he despise algy when the note had to be extended still again, although again algy was ready not only with the interest, but with $ . of the principal. vi as algernon struggled along with rosebloom and cheap cigars and bright red and green perfumed soaps, the debt was lessened and lessened; and the back of the note was almost covered with extensions, yet only $ had been paid off. in spite of himself john gordon grew interested; he would not have admitted it for the world, but he wanted to hear about dr. lavendar's annual visits to mercer; and dr. lavendar used to drive out to smoke a pipe with him and tell him what algy had said and done. one day--it was seven years after the note had been drawn--a clear, heartless winter day, with a cold, high wind that made the old minister look so blue that john gordon mixed a glass of whiskey-and-water and made him drink it before they began to talk--that day mr. gordon went so far as to ask a question about algy. "has he given you anything more for your complexion, edward?" he said, with a faint grin. "he gave me a smelling-bottle this time. i handed it over to mary, and told her not to let me get a sniff of it; and she said, 'sakes! it's beautiful!' but i'll tell you something he said, johnny: he said that his debt to you was a millstone round his neck. and yet the truth is, it's a life-buoy!" john gordon looked at the soiled, crumpled paper, with its dates of extensions, and smiled grimly. "well, i won't deprive him of his life-buoy." "the store is doing pretty well," dr. lavendar went on--and stopped, because alex entered. "whose store is doing pretty well," he asked, civilly enough--for alex. "algernon keen's," said dr. lavendar. alex's face changed; he looked from one to the other of the old men by the fire, and he saw his father's hand open and close nervously. but he restrained himself until their visitor had gone. he even went out into the sharp, bright wind and unhitched dr. lavendar's little blind horse goliath, backing the buggy close to the steps and helping the old man in with what politeness he could muster. then he hurried back into the library to his father. "i should like to know, sir," he said, standing up with his back to the fire, his legs, in their big, mud-stained top-boots, wide apart, his hands under his coat-tails--"i should like to know, sir, why dr. lavendar sees fit to refer to a subject which is most offensive to us?" he fixed his motionless, pale eyes on his father, shrinking back in the winged chair. "i don't know--i don't know," said john gordon. then, suddenly, he put out his hand and caught at the crumpled note on the table beside him and put it in his pocket. instantly suspicion flamed into alex's eyes. his face turned dully red, almost purple. he made a step forward as though to interpose and grasp at the paper, restrained himself, and said, with laborious politeness: "if that is a note, sir--i thought i saw indorsements of interest--sha'n't i put it into the safe for you?" "i won't trouble you, alex." alex stood silent; then suddenly he struck the table with his fist: "my god! i believe you've been lending money to that--to that--" mr. gordon began to shake very much. "did dr. lavendar presume to ask you to lend money to--to--" mr. gordon passed his hand over his lips; then he said, faintly, "no; he didn't." alex, like a boat brought suddenly up into the wind, stammered uncertainly. "oh; i--i--thought--" and then suspicion broke out again. "has the creature asked you for a loan?" "no," mr. gordon said. and alex gaped at him, silenced. yet he was certain that that strip of paper had some connection with algernon keen. "i beg your pardon," he said; "i thought for an instant that you were dickering with the man who seduced your daughter. i am sure i beg your pardon for the thought," he ended, with elaborate and ironical courtesy, for his father's obvious agitation assured him that he was right. "i only felt that if it was his note, it must be kept carefully--carefully." he smiled in a deadly way he had, and opened and shut his hand as though he would close it on the hilt of a knife. "but, of course, i was mistaken. you would press it if you had his note--although 'sue a beggar.' and, besides, if we had got as far as lending him money, we would be asking him to dinner next." mr. gordon cringed. "so i beg your pardon," alex ended, sardonically. "very well--very well," his father said; and got up and began to potter about among his books, as much as to say that the subject was ended. "it _is_ a note," alex said to himself, and smiled.... so far the creature had gone scot-free. in these days of lawfully accepted dishonor revenge is not talked about. but perhaps it would come to his hand. not the revenge of the instincts--not the shedding of blood, man fashion; but the revenge of inflicting misery. not much of a revenge, of course, but the best that he could get. and so he smiled to himself.... he said no more at the time; but months later his father realized that the incident was not forgotten when alex said, suddenly, sneering: "so your son-in-law is prospering in his business? i saw his establishment to-day in mercer. if he owes you any money he will be able to pay cash. i congratulate you, sir." old mr. gordon made no reply. he was very feeble that autumn. willy king told alex that another attack of bronchitis would be the end. "he can't stand it," said dr. king. "i'd take him south, alex, if i were you." alex did not like to leave his mill in upper chester, but, as he told willy, he was a good son, and always did his duty to his father. "i play dominoes with him every night," he said;--so he would take the old man south, though to go and come would keep him from business almost a week. it was then that john gordon told dr. lavendar that alex suspected him of lending money to mr. keen. "and if i die," he said, "alex will squeeze the poor devil--he'll squeeze him till he ruins him. i--i suppose i'm a great fool, but i almost thought maybe, sometime, i'd destroy that note, edward?" dr. lavendar chuckled: "i knew you'd come to it, johnny; but--" he stopped and ruminated. "you've come to it; so that's all right. but do you know--i don't believe he can do without it quite yet awhile." "poor devil!" john gordon said again, kindly. "well, i'll let him gnaw on it awhile longer. i suppose he'll want another extension?" "probably," said dr. lavendar. "he is just holding his own this year; he will be able to pay the interest, he told me, but not very much more." extension was necessary, as dr. lavendar had foreseen; and when he wrote to mr. gordon about it the old man replied in obvious fear of his son. the note was in his safe, he said; edward knew where it was; it was in the japanned box. "but i don't care to ask alex to get it," he explained. "he doesn't know of its existence; so i'll give you power of attorney to see to it. you'd better just have ezra barkley put it in shape for you, because it will be necessary to go up to the house and open the safe to get it and put it back again. alex is never at home until late in the afternoon, but rachel is there and will let you in. you'll find some very good monongahela in the chimney closet." then he added the combinations of the locks on the safe and the japanned box. "stick that in, ezra, will you, about going up to the house?" dr. lavendar said. and ezra stuck it in solemnly, and then held his pen between his teeth and blotted his paper. "it is estimated," he observed, through his shut teeth, "that the amount of ink used in the united states of america, in signatures to wills, since the year when the independence of the colonies was declared, would be sufficient in bulk to float a--" "well, ezra," said dr. lavendar, chuckling, "this paper seems rather liberal. suppose i take some cash out of the safe to repair the roof of the vestry? it leaks like a sieve." "your construction of liberality is at fault, sir," mr. ezra corrected him, gently; "this paper defines just exactly what you may do, up to the moment when the principal reclaims the paper--or dies." "well, i hope he won't reclaim it, or die, either, till he gets an affair we are both interested in patched up," dr. lavendar said; then he listened politely while mr. ezra told him how many times the word "ink" occurred in holy writ. dr. lavendar went away with his power of attorney in his pocket. and when he sent it to john gordon to sign, he seemed to take it for granted that he and mr. gordon were equally interested in the development and well-being of mary's husband. he said in his letter such things as, "you'll make a man of him yet;" and, "your patience has given the best elements in him time to come out." dr. lavendar had a perfectly unreasonable way of imputing good motives to people; the consequence was he was not very much astonished when they displayed goodness. he was not astonished when, some two months later, another letter came from old mr. gordon, saying that on the whole he thought the note had better not run any longer. "i am going to forgive him his debt," mary's father wrote, in a feeble scrawl; "and i'll be obliged to you if you will go up to my house and get that note and send it to me. i'm pretty shaky on my pins, and i don't want to run risks, so i wish you'd tear the signature out and burn it before you mail the note. i'll send it along to mr. keen. i mean to write to him and tell him i think he is honest, anyway. the fact is, i half respect the poor fellow. it's been a long winter, and i can't say i'm much better. willy king doesn't know everything. these doctors are too confoundedly ready to send a man away from home. i should have been just as well off in old chester. _be sure and destroy that signature_." dr. lavendar read this letter joyfully, but without surprise. "i'm glad he didn't take my advice and let it go on any longer," he said to himself; "i guess i'll risk the effect on algy now." then he wondered if there would be any danger of meeting alex if he went up to the house right after dinner. "i can't manage it this morning," he said to himself. "i've got to go and see mrs. drayton. well, i wish the lord would see fit to cure her--or something." so he went plodding out into a still, gray february day, and called on mrs. drayton, and stopped at the post-office to hear the news, and then went home to his dinner. "ye're not going out _again_?" his mary cried, in shrill remonstrance, when in the afternoon she saw him muffle himself up for the drive out into the country; "it's beginning to snow!" "i am," said dr. lavendar; "and see you have a good supper for me when i get back." he got into his buggy, buttoning the apron up in front of him, for it was a wet snow. he had on a shabby old fur cap, which he pulled well down over his forehead, furrowed by other people's sins and troubles; but his eyes peered from under it as bright and happy as a squirrel's. his little blind horse pulled slowly and comfortably up the hill, stopping to get his breath on a shaky bridge over a run. in the silence of the snow dr. lavendar did not hear the stage coming down the hill until it was almost on the bridge; then he had to pull over to let it pass. as he did so the single passenger inside rapped on the window, and then opened it and thrust his head out, calling to the driver to stop. "dr. lavendar! you have heard, i suppose? very sad. a great shock. of course i'm going on at once to bring the body back. it is difficult to get off at this season, but a son has a sacred duty." alex's pale eyes were bulging from his red, excited face. "what news?" dr. lavendar said. "you don't mean--alex! john isn't--your father isn't--" "my father is dead," alex said, with ponderous solemnity. "it is a great grief, of course; but i trust i shall be properly resigned. his age rendered such an event not altogether unexpected." dr. lavendar could not speak; but as the stage-driver began to gather up his reins from the steaming backs of his horses, he said, brokenly: "wait--wait. tell me about it, alex; your father and i have been friends all our lives." alex told him briefly: he had just had a despatch; his father had died that morning; he had been less well for a fortnight. "i had a letter from him this morning," alex said, "in which he referred to his health--" "so had i--so had i." "i cannot get back with the body for six days--three to go, three to come," alex said, "but i will be obliged if you will arrange for the obsequies next thursday." "yes, yes. i will make any arrangements for you," dr. lavendar said. he took out his big red silk pocket-handkerchief and blew his nose with a trembling flourish. "we were boys together; your father was the big boy, you know; i was the youngster. but we were great friends. alex, i am afraid my own grief has made me forgetful of yours; but you have had a loss, my boy--a great loss." "very much so--very much so," alex agreed, with a proper sigh, and pulled up the window of the stage, then lowered it abruptly: "oh, dr. lavendar, are you going on as far up as--as _my_ house?" "as _your_ house?" dr. lavendar repeated. "oh--oh yes; i didn't understand. yes, i am." "would it inconvenience you," alex said, "to stop there? i am going to ask mr. ezra barkley to come up at once and put seals on various things. i am the sole executor, as well as the heir, of course; but i sha'n't be able to attend to things for a week; and the forms of law must be observed. if you could be on hand when barkley is there--not that i do not trust him." dr. lavendar stared at him blankly; for an intelligent man, alex was sometimes a great fool. but he only nodded gravely, and said he would stop at the house and wait for mr. ezra; alex signed to the driver, and the stage went rolling noiselessly on into the storm. when, at the foot of the hill, alex glanced back through the little oblong of bubbly glass in the leather curtain of the coach, he saw dr. lavendar's buggy standing motionless where he had passed it on the bridge; then the snow hid it. under the bridge the creek ran swiftly between edges of ice that here and there had caught a dipping branch and held it prisoner, or had spread in agate curves--snow white, clear black, faint white again--around a stone in mid-stream. on the black current, silent except for a murmurous rush of bubbles under the ice, the snowflakes melted instantly, myriads of them--hurrying, hurrying, hurrying; then, as they touched the water, gone. dr. lavendar, in the buggy, sat looking down at them: "_in an instant--in the twinkling of an eye, we shall be changed._" ... "he was my oldest friend." ("was": with what an awful promptitude the mind adjusts itself to "he _was_"!) yet as he sat there, peering out over the top of the apron and making, heavily, those plans familiar to every clergyman, dr. lavendar did not really believe that the plans were for johnny. the snow fell with noiseless steadiness; the top of the buggy was white; thimbles of down heaped themselves on the hubs, tumbling off when the horse moved restlessly a step forward or backed a little and stamped. suddenly goliath shook himself, for the snow was cold upon his shaggy back, and the harness clattered and the shafts rattled. dr. lavendar drew a long breath. "g'on!" he said. and goliath went on with evident relief. he knew the road well, and turned in at the gordon gateway, as a matter of course. when he stopped at the front steps, the door opened and rachel stood there, her eyes red. "sam will take him round to the stable, sir," she said, as sam shambled out from the back of the house to stand at goliath's head. "oh, my! sir; i suppose you've heard?" "yes, rachel; i've heard," the old man said, unbuttoning the apron and climbing out. rachel took his hand and wept audibly. "i knew he'd never come back; he was marked for death. i've lived here eighteen years, and i always said it was a privilege to work for a gentleman like him." "yes--yes," he said, kindly. he was plainly agitated, and rachel saw that he was trembling. "course you feel it, sir, being about of an age," she said, sympathetically. "dr. lavendar, sir, won't you have a glass of something?" with the hospitality of an old servant, she would have opened the little closet in the chimney-breast, but he checked her. "not yet; not now, rachel. leave me here awhile by myself, my girl. i'll come out to the kitchen and see you before i go. when mr. barkley comes, ask him to step into the library." "yes, sir," rachel said, obediently; and went away sniffling and sighing. dr. lavendar stood looking about him at the emptiness of the room: the winged chair, with the purple silk handkerchief hanging over the back; the table heaped with books; the fire drowsing in the grate; the old safe in the corner by the window. outside, the snow drove past, blotting the landscape. ezra would probably arrive within a half-hour; he had better get the note before he came. then there need be no explanations. when mr. ezra came in he found the old minister sitting by the fire, quite calm again, and even cheerful. "yes," he said, in answer to the lawyer's very genteel expressions of sympathy--"yes, i'll miss him. we were boys together. he used to call me bantam. i hadn't thought of it for years." "nicknames," said mr. ezra, "were used by the ancients as long ago as b.c." "well, i'm not as ancient as b.c.," said dr. lavendar, "but i called him storkey; i can't imagine why, for he was only an inch and a half taller; he always said it was two inches, but it wasn't. it was an inch and a half." "we are here," said mr. ezra, pulling off his gloves and coughing politely, "for indeed a solemn and an affecting task. it is my duty, sir, to seal the effects of the deceased, so that they may be delivered, intact, to the executor." dr. lavendar nodded. "in all my professional career i have never happened to be called upon for this especial duty. it is quite unusual. but alex seemed to think it necessary. alex is a good son." "so he says," said dr. lavendar. "are you aware, sir," proceeded mr. ezra, producing from his bag the paraphernalia of his office, "that such is the incredible celerity of bees (belonging to the _hymenoptera_) that they can within twenty-four hours manufacture four thousand cells in the comb? this interesting fact is suggested by the use of wax for sealing." dr. lavendar watched him in a silence so deep that he hardly heard the harmless stream of statistics; but at last he was moved to say, with his kind, old smile, "how _can_ you know so many things, ezra?" "in my profession," mr. ezra explained, "it is necessary to keep the mind up to the greatest agility; i, therefore, exercise it frequently in matters of memory." he lit a candle and held his wax sputtering in the flame. "i recall," he said, "with painful interest, that at one of our recent meetings i had the honor of drawing the power of attorney for you, from the deceased." "so you did," said dr. lavendar. "did you ever reflect," said mr. barkley, "that should that power be used after the death of the donor, to carry out a wish of said donor, expressed an hour, nay, a moment, before the instant of dissolution--such act would be an offence in the eye of the law?" "i've always thought the law ought to put on spectacles, ezra," said dr. lavendar; "it has mighty poor eyesight once in a while." mr. barkley was shocked. "the law, lavendar, is the deepest expression of the human sense of justice!" "but, ezra," dr. lavendar said, suddenly attentive, "that is very interesting. i remember you referred to the lapsing of the power of attorney when you made out that paper for me; but i didn't quite understand. do you mean that carrying out, now, directions given before the death of my old friend would be against the law? suppose he had asked me--last week, perhaps, to destroy--well, say that old account-book there on the table, couldn't i do it to-day?" "dr. lavendar, you do not, i fear, apprehend the majesty of the law! why," said mr. ezra, standing up, very straight and solemn, "such a deed--" "but suppose i didn't want--suppose johnny didn't want, for reasons of his own, to have anybody--say, even his executor--see that account-book; suppose it might be put to some bad purpose--used to injure some third person (of course that is an absurd supposition, but it will do for an illustration); if he had asked me last week to destroy it, do you mean to say, ezra, i couldn't destroy it to-day?--just because he happened to die this morning!" "my dear sir," said mr. ezra, "such conduct on your part would be perilously near a criminal offence." dr. lavendar whistled. "well, ezra, i won't destroy it." "i hope not, sir--i hope not, indeed," cried mr. ezra. dr. lavendar laughed; he had the impulse to turn round and wink at johnny, to take him into the joke. but it was only for an instant, and his face fell quickly into puzzled lines. "a moment's reflection," mr. ezra continued, "will convince you, dr. lavendar, that the aforesaid account-book is now the property, not of the deceased, but of the estate. its destruction would be the destruction of property belonging to the heirs. furthermore, your belief that the herein before mentioned account-book might be put to an improper use, for the injury of a third person--such belief would no more justify you in destroying it than would your belief in its unfairness towards said third person justify you in destroying a will." dr. lavendar thrust out his lower lip and stared at him, frowning. "yes," he said, slowly--"yes; i see. i did not quite understand. but i see." mr. ezra solemnly began to pour forth a stream of statistics; he referred to the case of buckley vs. grant, and even mentioned chapter and page of _purdon's digest_ where dr. lavendar could find further enlightenment. dr. lavendar may have listened, but he made no comment; he sat staring silently at the old purple handkerchief on the top of john's chair. when mr. ezra had finished his work and his statistics, the two men shook hands; then dr. lavendar said good-bye to rachel and climbed into his buggy, buttoning the apron high up in front of him; the lawyer mounted his horse, and they plodded off into the snow, single file. but dr. lavendar's eyes, under his old fur cap, had lost their squirrel-like brightness.... so algy's note belonged to the estate; and the estate belonged to alex; and alex was the executor. and upon alex gordon his father's intentions in regard to algy's note would make no more impression than the flakes of snow on running water. a vision of alex's mean and cruel mouth, his hard, light eyes, motionless as a snake's in his purpling face, made dr. lavendar wince. the note--the poor, shabby, worn note,--that stood for the best there was in algy, that stood for perseverance and honesty and courage; the note, which had weighed so heavily that he had had to stand up in his pitiful best manhood to bear it: the note that john had meant to "forgive"--alex would use to humiliate and torture and destroy. under the pressure which he would bring to bear that note would be poor algy's financial, and perhaps his moral, ruin. "and if i had not objected, john would have cancelled it," dr. lavendar thought, frowning and blinking under his fur cap. he saw the smoking flax quenched, the bruised reed broken; he saw algy turning venomously upon his enemy--for he knew him well enough to know that his code of defence would not include any conventional delicacy; he saw the new and hardly won integrity crumbling under the assault of alex's legal wickedness. dr. lavendar groaned to himself. alex could, lawfully, murder algernon keen's soul. when mary saw the old minister come into the house she was much displeased. "there, now, look at him," she scolded; "white as a sheet. what did i tell you? i'll bet ye he won't eat them corn dodgers, and i never made 'em finer." it must be admitted that mary was right. dr. lavendar did not eat much supper. he went shuffling back to his study, danny slinking at his heels; but for once he did not notice his little, grizzled friend. when he got into his flowered cashmere dressing-gown and put on his slippers and stirred his fire, he sat a long time with his pipe in his hand, forgetting to light it. when he did light it, it went out, unnoticed. once danny tried to scramble into his chair, but, receiving no encouragement, curled up on the rug. the fire burned low and smouldered into ashes; just one sullen, red coal blinked in a corner of the grate; dr. lavendar watched this red spot fixedly for a long time. indeed, it was well on towards twelve before he suddenly reached over for the bellows and a couple of sticks, and, bending down, stirred and blew until the sticks caught and the cinders began to sparkle under the ashes. this disturbed danny, who sat up, displeased and yawning. but when at last the flames broke out, sputtering and snapping, and caught a piece of paper--a shabby, creased piece of paper covered with dates--caught it, ran over it, curling it into brittle blackness, and then whirled it, a flimsy, crumbling ghost, up the chimney, dr. lavendar's face shone with a light that was not only from the fire. "ha, danny, you scoundrel," he said, cheerfully, "i guess you are _particeps criminis_!" then he went over to his study-table and rooted about for a thin, shabby, blue book, over which he pored for some time, stopping once or twice to make some calculations on the back of an envelope, then turning to the book again. he covered the envelope with his small, neat figuring, and turned it over to begin on the other side--and started: "johnny's letter!" he said. but when the calculations were made, the rest was easy enough: first, his check-book and his pen. (at the check he looked with some pride. "daniel," he said, "look at that, sir. you never saw so much money in your life; and neither did i--over my own signature.") next, a letter to alex gordon: "my dear alexander,--i owe your father's estate to the amount of the enclosed check. no papers exist in regard to it, as the matter was between ourselves. i will ask you for a receipt. yours truly, "edward lavendar." the grasshopper and the ant i when william rives and lydia sampson quarrelled and broke their engagement, old chester said that they were lucky to fall out two weeks before their wedding-day instead of two weeks after it. of course, old chester said many other things: it said it had always known they could never get along. william, who had very little money, was careful and thrifty, as every young man ought to be; lydia, who was fairly well off, was lavish and no housekeeper. "what could you expect?" demanded old chester. old chester never knew exactly what the trouble between them had been, for they kept their own counsel; but it had its suspicions: it had something to do with william's father's will. by some legal quibble the orphan's court awarded to william a piece of property which everybody knew old mr. rives supposed he had left to his daughter amanda. lydia thought (at least old chester thought she thought) that william would, as a matter of course, at once turn the field over to his sister. but william did no such thing. and, after all, why should he? the field was his; the law allowed it, the court awarded it. why should he present a field to amanda? old chester said this thoughtfully, looking at william with a sort of respectful regret. very likely lydia's regret was not respectful. lydia was always so outspoken. however, it was all surmise. about the time that amanda did not get the field the engagement was broken--and you can put two and two together if you like. as for old chester, it said that it pitied poor, dear lydia; and it was no wonder william left town after the rupture, because, naturally, he would be ashamed to show his face. but then it also said it pitied poor, dear william, and it should think lydia would be ashamed to show her face; for, of course, her obstinacy made the trouble--and a young female ought not to be obstinate, ought not, in fact, to have opinions on such matters. legal affairs, said old chester, should be left to the gentlemen. in fact, old chester said every possible thing for and against them both; but gradually, as years passed, conflicting opinions settled down to the "poor lydia" belief. this was, probably, for two reasons: first, because william had never seen fit to come back to old chester, and that, quite apart from his conduct to his lady-love, was a reason for distrust; and, secondly, lydia had, somehow, become old chester's one really poor person--that is, in a genteel walk of life. after the crumbling of the sampson fortune, old chester had to plan for lydia, and take care of her, and give her its "plain sewing"; so, naturally, william was reprobated. besides, she may have quarrelled and broken her engagement two weeks before her wedding, but all these years afterwards she had been faithful to the memory of love! old chester knew this, for the simple reason that miss lydia, during all these years, had kept in her sitting-room a picture of william rives, adorned with a sprig of box; furthermore, it knew (heaven knows how!) that she kissed this slender, tight-waisted picture every night before she went to bed. of course, old chester softened! lydia may have broken her engagement and all that, but she kept his picture, and she kissed it every night. "but he ought to be ashamed of himself," said old chester--"that is, if he is alive." then it added, reflectively, that he must be dead, for he had never returned to old chester. yet as time went on people forgot even to disapprove of william; they had enough to do to take care of poor lydia, "for she is certainly very poor--and very peculiar," said old chester, sighing. "peculiar!" said martha king; "i call it something worse than peculiar to spend money that ought to go towards rent on a present for rachel king's anna. she gave that child a picture-book. i'm sure _i_ can't afford to go round giving children picture-books. i told her so flatly and frankly. and then it was so trying, because, right on top of my scolding, she gave me a present--a cup all painted with roses, and marked 'friendship's gift,' in gilt. i didn't want it; i could have shaken her," mrs. king ended, helplessly. it was not only martha whose patience was tried by miss lydia; the experience was common to all old chester. even dr. lavendar had felt the human impulse to shake her. when he had, very delicately, asked "as an old friend, the privilege of assisting her," it was exasperating to have a lamp-shade made of six porcelain intaglios set in a tin frame come to him the next day, with the "respectful compliments of l.s." but somehow, when, beaming at him from under her shabby bonnet, miss lydia had asked him if he liked that preposterous shade, he could not speak his mind,--at least to her. he spoke it mildly to mrs. barkley. "we must restrain her; she brought me $ for zenanna missions yesterday." "what did you do?" mrs. barkley said, sympathetically. "i made her take it back. i pointed out that her first duty was to her landlord." "her landlord has some duties to her," mrs. barkley said, angrily. "the stairs are just crumbling to pieces, and that chimney is dreadful. she says that davis said the flue would have to be rebuilt, and maybe the whole chimney. he couldn't be sure about that, but he thought it probable. he said it would cost $ to put all the things in repair--floor and roof and everything. but he would do it for $ , considering. he thinks the flue has broken down inside somehow. she might burn up some night; and then," said mrs. barkley, in a deep bass, "how would that smith person feel?" "he says," dr. lavendar explained, "that by the terms of the lease the tenant is to make repairs." mrs. barkley snorted. "and how is poor lydia to make repairs? she hasn't two cents to bless herself with. i told him so." mrs. barkley's face grew very red at the recollection of her interview with mr. smith (he was one of the new smiths, of course). "i don't mix philanthropy and business," he had said; "the lease says the tenant shall make repairs. and, besides, i do not wish to be more attractive than i am. with that chimney, some other landlord may win her affections. without it, she will never desert mr. micawber." "i am not acquainted with your friend mr. micawber," said mrs. barkley, "neither, i am sure, is miss sampson; and if you will allow me to say so, sir, we do not in old chester consider it delicate to refer to the affections of an unmarried female." upon which mr. smith laughed immoderately. (none of the new people had any manners.) "so there is no use asking him to do anything," mrs. barkley told dr. lavendar. "the only thing i can think of," the old minister said, "is that we all join together and give her the price davis named, as a present." "eighty-five dollars!" mrs. barkley exclaimed, startled; "that's a good deal of money--" "well, yes; it is. but something has got to be done." "and to take up a collection for lydia! it's--charity." "it isn't taking up a collection," dr. lavendar protested, stoutly. "and it isn't charity. miss lydia's friends have a right to make her a present if they feel like it." mrs. barkley agreed, doubtfully. "mrs. dale would contribute, i'm sure," said dr. lavendar. "and perhaps the miss ferises." "i wouldn't like to ask them." "don't ask 'em. offer them the chance." "no," mrs. barkley insisted; "they've no right. they are not really her friends. lydia doesn't call them by their first names." but she went away very much encouraged and full of this project of a present for poor lydia, who, happily, had no idea that she was "poor" lydia. she was not poor to herself (except, of course, in purse, which is a small matter). she lived in a shabby and dilapidated cottage at the smith gates, and every month squeezed out a few dollars rent to mr. smith; she was sorry for the smiths, for they were new people; but she always spoke kindly to them, for she never looked down on anybody. so, as far as position went, she was not "poor." she had no relations living, but she called all old chester of her generation by its first name; so, as to friendship, there was nothing "poor" about her. and, most of all, she was not "poor," but very rich, in her capacity for interest. now, no one who has an interest is poor; and miss lydia had a hundred interests. a hundred? she had as many interests as there were people in the world or joys or sorrows in old chester; so she was really very rich.... of course, there are different degrees of this sort of wealth: there are folk who have to manufacture their interests; with deliberation they are philanthropic or artistic or intellectual, or even, if hard put to it, they are amused. such persons may be said to be in fairly comfortable circumstances, although they live anxiously and rather meagrely, because they know well that when interest gives out they are practically without the means to support life. below this manufacturing class come the really destitute--the poor creatures who do not care vitally for anything and who are without the spiritual muscle to manufacture an interest. these pathetic folk are occasionally made self-supporting by a catastrophe--grief or even merely some uncomfortable surgery in regard to their bank account may give them a poor kind of interest; but too often they exist miserably--sometimes, with every wish gratified, helplessly poor. above the manufacturing class comes the aristocracy, to which miss lydia sampson belonged, the class which is positively rolling in wealth. every morning these favored creatures arise with a zest for living. you hear them singing before breakfast; at the table they are full of eager questions: is it going to rain? no; it is a fair day; delightful!--for it might have rained. and the sun will bring up the crocuses. and this was the day a neighbor was to go to town. will she go? when will she come back? how pleasant that the day is pleasant! and it will be good for the sick people, too. and the moment the eager, simple mind turns to its fellows, sick or well, the field of interest widens to the sky-line of souls. to sorrow in the sorrows of tom and dick and harry and their wives, to rejoice in their joys--what is better than that? and then, all one's own affairs are so vital: the record of the range of the thermometer, the question of turning or not turning an alpaca skirt, the working out of a game of solitaire--these things are absorbing experiences. no wonder we who are poor, or even we who work hard at philanthropy or art or responsibility to manufacture our little interests--no wonder we envy such sky-blue natures. certainly there were persons in old chester who envied miss lydia; at least, they envied her her unfailing joyousness--but they never envied her her empty purse. which was like envying a rose its color, but despising the earth from which by some divine chemistry the color came. miss lydia's eyes might smart from the smoke puffing out into her room, but she was able to laugh at the sight of her bleared visage in the narrow mirror over the mantel. nor did the fact that the mirror was mottled and misty with age, the frame tarnished almost to blackness, cause her the slightest pang. what difference does it make in this world of life and death and joy and sorrow, if things are shabby? the fact is, the secret of happiness is the _sense of proportion_; eliminate, by means of that sense, trouble about the unimportant, and we would all be considerably happier than kings. miss lydia possessed this heaven-born sense, as well as the boundless wealth of interest (for to him that hath shall be given). "i don't want to brag," she used to say, "but i've got my health and my friends; so what on earth more do i want?" and one hesitated to point out a little thing like a shabby mirror, or even a smoky chimney. when the chimney smoked, miss lydia merely took her rocking-chair and her sewing out into a small room that served as a kitchen--and then what difference did the smoking make? and as it turned out, one shadowy april day, it was the best thing she could have done, because, when dr. lavendar dropped in to see her, she could make him a cup of tea at once, without having to leave him alone. she was a little, bustling figure, rather dusty and moth-eaten, with a black frizette, always a little to one side, and eager, gentle, blue eyes. "what's the news?" she said. she had given dr. lavendar an apple, and put on the kettle, and taken up her hemming. "i never saw anybody so fond of sewing," the old man ruminated, eating his apple. "i believe you'd sew in your grave." "i believe i would. dear me! i am so sorry for the poor women who don't like to sew. amelia dilworth told me that mrs. neddy can't bear to take a needle in her hand. so milly does ned's mending just as she did before he was married." "aren't you sorry for the poor men that don't like to sew?" dr. lavendar said, looking about for a place to deposit his core--("oh, drop it on the floor; i'll sweep it up sometime," miss lydia told him; but he disposed of it by eating it). "well, as for sewing," said miss lydia, "it's my greatest pleasure. why, when i get settled down to sew, my mind roves over the whole earth. i don't want to brag, but i don't believe anybody enjoys herself more than i do when i'm sewing. if you won't tell, i'll tell you something, dr. lavendar." "i won't tell." "well, then: sunday used to be an awful day to me. i couldn't sew, and so i couldn't think. and i really couldn't go to church all day. so i just bought some beautiful, fine nainsook and cut out my shroud. and i work on that sundays, because a shroud induces serious thoughts." "i should think it might," said dr. lavendar. "you don't think it's wrong, do you?" she asked, anxiously; and added, joyously, "i'm embroidering the whole front. i declare i don't know what i'll do when i get it done." "embroider the whole back." "well, yes. i can do that," miss lydia assented. "there! there's your tea." dr. lavendar took his tea and stirred it thoughtfully. "miss lydia," he said, and looked hard at the tea, "what do you suppose? mr. william rives--" dr. lavendar stopped and drank some tea. "how many years ago was it that he went away from old chester? i don't exactly remember." "it was thirty-one years ago," she said; she put down her own cup of tea and stared at him. "what were you going to say about him, sir?" "well, only," said dr. lavendar, scraping the sugar from the bottom of his cup, "only that--" "there! my goodness! i'll give you another lump," cried miss lydia; "don't wear my spoon out. what about him, sir?" dr. lavendar explained that he had come back on the stage from mercer the night before with a strange gentleman--"stout man," dr. lavendar said, "with a black wig. i was rooting about in my pocket-book for a stamp--i wanted to post a letter just as we were leaving mercer; and this gentleman very politely offered me one. i took it. then i looked at him, and there was something familiar about him. i asked him if we had not met before, and he told me who he was. he has changed a good deal." miss lydia drank her tea excitedly. "where is he going to stay? is he well? has he come back rich?" she hoped so. william was so industrious, he deserved to be rich. she ran into the smoky front room and brought out his picture, regarding it with affectionate interest. "did you know i was engaged to him, years ago, dr. lavendar? we thought it best to part. but--" she stopped and looked at the picture, and a little color came into her face. but in another moment she was chattering her birdlike questions. "i declare," dr. lavendar said, at last, "you are the youngest person of my acquaintance." miss lydia laughed. "i hope you don't think it's wrong to be young?" she said. "wrong?" said dr. lavendar; "it's wrong not to be young. i'd be ashamed not to be young. my body's old, but that's not my fault. i'm not to blame for an old body, but i would be to blame for an old soul. an old soul is a shameful thing. mind, now, don't let me catch you getting old!" and then he said good-bye, and left her sitting by the stove. she turned her skirt back over her knees to keep it from scorching and held the picture in her left hand and warmed the palm of the right; then in her right hand and warmed the left. then she put it down on her knees and warmed both hands and smiled. ii when mrs. barkley heard the news of the wanderer's return, she hurried to dr. lavendar's study. "do you suppose we need go on with the present?" she demanded, excitedly. "why not?" said dr. lavendar. mrs. barkley looked conscious. "i only thought, perhaps--maybe--mr. rives--" "william rives's presence in old chester won't improve draughts, will it?" dr. lavendar said, crossly. and that was all she could get out of him. meantime, old chester began to kill the fatted calf. mr. rives liked fatted calves; and, furthermore, he had prudently arranged with van horne at the tavern for a cash credit for each meal at which he was not present. "for why," he had said, reasonably enough, "should i pay for what i don't get?" so he went cheerfully wherever he was bidden. old chester approved of him as a guest, for, though talkative, he was respectful in his demeanor, and he did not, so old chester said, "put on airs." he was very stout, and he wore a black wig that curled all around the back of his neck; his eyes were somewhat dull, but occasionally they glanced out keenly over his fat cheeks. he had a very small mouth and a slight, perpetual smile that gave his face a rather kindly look, and his voice was mild and soft. he had come back rich (his shabby clothes to the contrary); "and poor lydia is so poor," said old chester; "perhaps--" and then it paused and smiled, and added that "it would be strange, after all these years, _if_--" when somebody said something like this to dr. lavendar he grew very cross. "preposterous!" he said. "i should feel it my duty to prevent anything so dreadful." and there were romantic hearts in old chester who were displeased with him for this remark. mrs. drayton said it showed that he could not understand love; "though he can't be blamed for that, as he never married. still," said mrs. drayton, "he ought to have married. i don't want to make any accusations, _but i always look with suspicion on an unmarried gentleman_." mrs. barkley did not go as far as that, but she did say to herself that dr. lavendar was unromantic. "dear me!" she confided to jane jay--"if anything _should_ happen! well, i'd be glad to do anything i could to bring it about." and mrs. barkley, who had not only the courage but the audacity of her convictions, invited the parted lovers to tea, so they met for the first time at her house. mrs. barkley was the last person one would accuse of being romantic, and yet dr. lavendar saw fit to stop at her door that morning and say, "matches are dangerous playthings, ma'am!" and mrs. barkley grew very red, and said that she couldn't imagine what he meant. however, the party went off well enough. miss jane jay, who made a conscious fourth, expected some quiverings and blushings; but that was because she was young--comparatively. if she had been older she would have known better. age, with shamefaced relief, has learned the solvent quality of time. it is this quality which makes possible the contemplation of certain embarrassing heavenly reunions--where explanations of consolation must be made.... thirty-one years of days, days full of personal concerns and interests, had blurred and softened and finally almost blotted out that one fierce day of angry parting; those thirty-one years of days had made this man and woman able to meet with a sort of calm, good-natured interest in each other. miss lydia--her black frizette over one smiling eye, her hands encased in white cotton gloves, a new ribbon at the throat of her very old alpaca--called him "william," with the most commonplace friendliness. he began with "miss sampson," but ended before supper was over with her first name, and even, once, just as they were going home, with "lydy," at which she did start and blink for an instant, and jane jay thought a faint color came into her cheek. however, he did not offer to walk home with her, but bowed politely at mrs. barkley's gate, and would have betaken himself to the tavern had not mrs. barkley, when he was half-way across the street, called after him. there was a flutter of uncertainty in her voice, for those words of dr. lavendar's (which she did not understand) "stuck," she said to herself, "in her crop." mr. rives came back and paused in the moonlight, looking up at mrs. barkley standing in the doorway. "i should be pleased, sir," she said, "to have a few words with you." "certainly, ma'am," said mr. rives, in his soft voice, and followed her into the parlor. "sit down," said mrs. barkley. william rives sat down thoughtfully. a tall lamp on the heavy, claw-footed table emitted a feeble light through its ground-glass globe, and mrs. barkley stared at it a moment, as though for inspiration; then she said, in a deep bass: "mr. rives, i thought you might be interested in a certain little project. some of us have thought that we would collect--a--a small sum--" mr. rives bowed; his smiling lips suddenly shut tight. "perhaps you have not heard that our old friend lydia sampson is in reduced circumstances; and some of us thought that a small present of money-- "ah--" said mr. rives. mrs. barkley felt the color come up into her face at that small, cold sound. "lydia is very poor," she blurted out. "really?" murmured mr. rives, with embarrassment; and fell to stroking his beaver hat carefully. then he added that he deeply regretted mrs. barkley's information. "i knew you would," she said, in a relieved voice. "lydia is a dear girl. so kind and so uncomplaining! and--and faithful in her affections, william." "ah!" said mr. rives again; his smile never changed, but his eyes were keen. "yes," mrs. barkley said, boldly. "why, william--i don't know that i ought to tell you, but do you remember a sketch of yourself that you gave her in--in other days? william, she has kept it ever since. it hangs in her parlor, (horrid, smoky room!) and she keeps a sprig of fresh box stuck in the frame." "really?" said mr. rives; and his face grew a little redder. "that's all," mrs. barkley said, abruptly. "now go. i just thought i'd mention it." "yes," said mr. rives; then added that it was a beautiful night, and politely bowed himself out. "but he didn't say anything about giving anything," mrs. barkley told dr. lavendar the next day. and whatever romantic hopes she may have had withered under the blighting touch of such indifference. iii mrs. barkley's hopes withered and then revived; for as she climbed the hill to the stuffed-animal house a day or two later whom should she see wandering through the graveyard (of all places!) but lydia and william. "of course, i pretended not to see them," she told harriet hutchinson, "but i believe they've begun to take notice." they had not seen her; the graveyard was on the crest of the hill, and the road lay below the bank and the stone wall, wherein were set two or three iron doors streaked and eaten with rust, each with its name and its big ring-bolt. there was a bleached fringe of dead grass along the top of the wall, but the bank above was growing green in the april sunshine. there were many trees in this older part of the cemetery, and even now, when the foliage was hardly more than a mist, the tombs and low mounds and old headstones were dappled with light shadows. miss lydia and william had met here, by some chance; and mrs. barkley, climbing the road before it dipped below the bank, had caught sight of them just where the slope broke into sunshine beyond the trees. behind them, leaning sidewise over a sunken grave, was a slate headstone, its base deep in a thatch of last year's grass; there were carved cherubs on the corners, and the inscription was blurred with lichen. a still older tomb, a slab of granite on four pedestals, made a seat for miss lydia. she had been deciphering its crumbling inscription: "mr. amos sm ... sr. born ...... die ... may th, aged "base body, thou art faint and weak-- (how the sweet moments roll!) a mortal paleness on thy cheek, but glory in thy soul!" william, reading it, had remarked that he thought people lived longer nowadays. "don't you?" he added, anxiously. "we live long enough," miss lydia said. "i don't want to live too long." "you can't live too long," he told her, with his sharp smile. miss lydia laughed and looked down at the crumbling stone. "i think sixty-eight was just about long enough. i'm like dr. lavendar; he says he 'wants to get up from the banquet of life _still hungry_.' that's the way i feel. i don't want to lose my appetite for life by getting too much of it." "i couldn't get too much," mr. rives said, nervously. "let us proceed. this place is--is not cheerful. i like cheerfulness. you always seem cheerful, lydy?" "course i am," she said, getting up. "why shouldn't i be? i haven't a care in the world." "you don't say so!" said william rives. "i was under the impression that your circumstances--" "my circumstances?" said miss lydia. "bless you! i haven't any. father didn't leave much of anything. i had $ , but cousin robinson invested it and lost it. he felt so badly, i was just distressed about him." "he should have been prosecuted!" mr. rives said, angrily. miss lydia shook her head in horrified protest, but she beamed at him from under her black frizette, grateful for his sympathy. "i remember," he said, thoughtfully, "that you were always light-hearted. i recall your once telling me that you began to sing as soon as you got up in the morning." "oh yes," miss lydia said, simply. "i always sing the morning hymn. you know the morning hymn, william? "'awake, my soul, and with the sun thy daily course of duty run--'" william nodded. "vocal exercises (if in tune and not too loud) are always cheerful," he said. gossiping thus of simple things, they walked back to lydia's house and sat down in her parlor. there william told her, with a sort of whimper, that his health was bad. "i sent for willy king--he is so young, he ought not to charge the full fee. i remember him as a very impudent boy," mr. rives said, growing red at some memory of william's youth; "however, he seems a respectable young man." "oh, indeed he is," said miss lydia; "he is a dear, good boy. i hope he is doing you good?" she ended, with eager kindness. "yes, i think so," he said, anxiously. and then he gave his symptoms with a detail that made poor miss lydia get very red. "and i don't sleep very well," he ended, sighing. "willy told me to try repeating the kings of england backward, but i couldn't remember them; so it didn't do any good." "when i don't sleep," said miss lydia, "i just count my blessings. that's a splendid thing to do, because you fall asleep before you get to the end of 'em." william sighed. "the kings of england was a foolish prescription; yet i paid willy $ . for that call. still, i must say i think he is doing me good; but he recommends many expensive things--perhaps because he is young. he wished me to hire a vehicle and drive every day. now just think of the expense of such a thing! i suggested to him that instead of hiring a conveyance, i would go out with him in his buggy whenever he calls. he is a very young man to treat an important case," william ended, sighing. then he asked lydia about her health, with an exactness which she thought very kind. "yes, i'm always well; and _so_ sorry for the poor people who are sick," she said. "you are a good nurse, aren't you, lydy?" he asked. "i'm always glad when i can do anything for a sick person. i'm so sorry for 'em," miss lydia said, kindly. "and you are economical, aren't you, lydy?" mr. rives inquired, in his mild voice, "and not fond of dress?" "bless you!" said lydia, "how can i be anything but economical? and as for being fond of dress--i'm fond of my old dresses, william." "that is an excellent trait," said william rives, solemnly. then, catching sight of his own portrait--the slim, anæmic young person in a stock and tight-waisted coat, with very small feet and very large hat, he got up to look at it. "i--have changed a little," he said, doubtfully. "it's more becoming to be heavier," miss lydia said. and this remark gave him such obvious satisfaction that when he went away his perpetual smile had deepened into positive heartiness. it was after this talk that he finally added his offering to the "present" which just then was occupying old chester's attention. "and how much do you suppose i got out of him?" mrs. barkley asked dr. lavendar. "_$ . !_" however, other friends were more liberal, and by the end of may the $ (grown now into the round sum of $ ) was ready for miss lydia. a little silk bag, with a scrap of paper twisted about its ribbon drawing-string, was thrust one evening by an unknown hand into miss lydia's door. in it were twenty five-dollar gold pieces. "from old friends," dr. lavendar had written on the scrap of paper. "sha'n't we say--'for repairs'?" mrs. barkley asked, doubtfully. "no," dr. lavendar declared; "i'd rather say 'to buy curl-papers.' of course she'll use it for repairs; but we mustn't dictate." nobody saw miss lydia gasp when she opened the bag, and sit down, and then cry and laugh, but probably every friendly heart in old chester was busy imagining the scene, for every friend had contributed. they had all done it in their different ways--and how character confesses itself in this matter of giving! ... mrs. dale, who gave the largest sum, did it with calm, impersonal kindness. martha king said that she had so many calls upon her charity that she couldn't give much, but was glad to do what she could. miss harriet hutchinson said it was a first-rate idea, and she was obliged to mrs. barkley for letting her have a hand in it; as for mrs. drayton, she said it was a great trial not to contribute, but she could not do so conscientiously. "_i_ make such things a matter of prayer," she said; "some do not. i do not judge them. i never judge any one. but i take all such matters to the throne of grace, and as a result i feel that such things are injurious to a poor person, and so i must deny myself the pleasure of charity." william rives said that he would be pleased to contribute, and mrs. barkley had a moment of intense excitement when she read his check--$ . but her emotion only lasted until she put on her spectacles. and yet, when lydia, sitting at the kitchen table, wiped her eyes and counted her gold by the light of a candle in a hooded candlestick, she felt, somehow, william's hand in it. for, by this time, william's friendliness was beyond any question. he came to see her every other day, and he told her all his symptoms and talked of his loneliness and forlornness until they were both moved to tears. "poor william!" she said, her eyes overflowing with sympathy. "well, i'm glad you have plenty of money, anyhow. it would be hard to be poor and have bad health, too." "but i haven't plenty of money," william said, with agitation. "how did you get such an idea? i haven't!" and then miss lydia was sorrier for him than ever. "although," she said, cheerfully, "poverty is the last thing to worry about. look at me. i don't want to brag, but i'm always contented, and i'll tell you why: _i don't want things_. don't want things, and then you're not unhappy without 'em." "oh, lydy, that's so true," mr. rives said, earnestly. "i'm so glad you feel that way." and he began to call every day. "it's plain to be seen what's going to happen," said mrs. barkley, excitedly, and whispered her hopes (in secret) to almost everybody in old chester--except dr. lavendar. he became very ill-tempered the moment she approached the subject. but she was jocose, in a deep bass, to miss lydia herself; and miss lydia did not pretend to misunderstand. she reddened and laughed; but her eyes were not clear; there was a puzzled look at the back of them. still, when she sat and looked at her gold the puzzle lightened, and her face, under her black frizette--in her excitement fallen sidewise over one ear--softened almost to tears. "william is kind," she said to herself. and, indeed, at that very moment william was referring to her in most kindly terms. he was sitting in mrs. barkley's gloomy parlor, on the edge of the horse-hair sofa, and mrs. barkley was regarding him with romantic interest. "i have been much saddened, ma'am," he was saying, "to observe the destitution of miss lydia sampson." mrs. barkley beamed. was he going to do something, after all? she spoke in an amiable bass, twitching her heavy eyebrows. "our little gift, which has gone to her to-night, will make her more comfortable. i could wish it had been larger," she ended, and looked sidewise at mr. rives, who bowed and regretted that it was not larger. he then coughed behind his hand. "mrs. barkley, i wish to approach a subject of some delicacy." ("he _is_ going to do something," she thought, excitedly; "or perhaps he means marriage!") "mrs. barkley, in past years there were passages of affection between miss sampson and myself" (mrs. barkley bowed; her heart began to glow with that warmth which stirs the oldest of us at the sight of a lover). "we were younger in those days, ma'am," william said, in his soft voice. "oh no!" she protested, politely. "why, you are very well preserved, i'm sure." "yes," said william, "i am. yet i am not as young as i once was." this drifting away from miss lydia disturbed mrs. barkley. she lowered her chin and glared at him over her spectacles, saying, in a rumbling bass: "neither is lydia; and it's hard for her to be destitute in her old age." "just so," mr. rives said, eagerly--"exactly. she is not as young as she once was, which, for many reasons, is desirable. but i think she is healthy?" "why, yes," mrs. barkley admitted; "but i don't know that that makes it easier to be poor." "but i infer that poverty has taught her economy?" william rives said. "yes; but poverty is a hard teacher." "but thorough--thorough!" said mr. rives; "and some people will learn of no other." mrs. barkley was growing impatient; she gave up marriage and thought of a pension. "yes," said william; "she is economical, and has good health, and is fond of old clothes, and is kind-hearted, and doesn't have any wants. excellent traits--excellent. i have looked very carefully at the items of expense in regard to a housekeeper or nurse." mrs. barkley stared at him in bewilderment. was he going to offer lydia a position as housekeeper? she was fairly dizzy with this seesaw of possibilities; and she was perplexed, too, for, after all, badly as lydia needed assistance, propriety must be considered, and certainly this housekeeping project was of doubtful propriety. "because you know you are neither of you very old," she explained. mr. rives looked disturbed. "yes, we are," he said, sharply. "quite old enough. i would not wish a youthful wife, for--many reasons. there might be--results, which would interfere with my comfort. no, lydia is no longer young; yet she is sufficiently robust to make me extremely comfortable." the light was breaking slowly on mrs. barkley. her face flushed; she sat up very straight and tapped the table with her thimble. "the expense of an extra person is not very considerable, is it?" mr. rives said, doubtfully. "it was in regard to this that i wished to consult you." "not more than the wages of a housekeeper or a nurse," mrs. barkley said, in a restrained voice. "exactly!" cried mr. rives--"granted that her health is good." mrs. barkley opened and closed her lips. her impulse to show him the door battled with her common-sense. after all, it would mean a home for lydia; it would mean comfort and ease and absence from worry--plus, of course, mr. rives. but if lydia liked him, that wouldn't make any difference. and she must like him--her faithfulness to the picture proved it--and he was an agreeable person; amiable, too, mrs. barkley thought, for he always smiled when he spoke. "would you live in old chester?" she managed to say, after a pause. "yes." "you would build, i suppose?" mrs. barkley said, trying, in the confusion of her thoughts, to make time. "no," mr. rives said; "we would reside in lydia's present abode." "_in lydia's house_? you couldn't!--why, it would be impossible!" mrs. barkley, her mouth open with astonishment, saw, suddenly, that this project was not comfort plus william, but william minus comfort. "you couldn't! the chimney in the parlor is dreadful; it smokes whenever the wind is from the west." "but, as i understand, lydia has been provided with the means of mending the chimney?" william said, anxiously. at this the rein broke. mrs. barkley rose, tapping the table with alarming loudness and glaring down at her guest. "william rives, i have been a perfect fool. but you are worse--you are a mean person. i'd rather live with a murderer than a mean man!" [illustration: "mrs. barkley rose, tapping the table with alarming loudness"] mr. rives was unmoved. his little, steely smile never wavered; he rose also, bowed, and said: "possibly miss sampson does not agree with you. i will bid you good-night, ma'am." "i was a perfect fool," she said again, as the door closed softly behind him. but william rives was no fool.... he said to himself that it behooved him to see miss lydia before mrs. barkley had a chance to impart to her those impolite views regarding himself. and that was why, as she was still sitting at her kitchen table, twinkling with happiness over the kindness of her world and piling her gold pieces in a little leaning tower, william knocked at the door. miss lydia threw an apron over the small, glittering heap and ran to let her caller in. when she saw who it was she whipped off the apron to display her wealth; the tears stood in her eyes, and her happy heart burst into words: "how good people are! just think--$ ! why, it takes my breath away--" "it is a large sum of money," william said, solemnly, touching the gold with respectful fingers. "i would suggest a bank until you pay for the mending of your chimney. and you will get some interest if you defer payment for ninety days." "mending my chimney?" miss lydia said, thoughtfully. "well--that wouldn't take nearly all this." william's face brightened. "you are right to be prudent, lydia," he said. "i admire prudence in a female; but still, masons and carpenters--in fact, all persons of that sort,--are--thieves!" then he coughed delicately. "lydia," he said, "i--i have been thinking--" "yes?" said miss lydia, calmly. "we are so situated--each alone, that perhaps we might--we might, ah--marry--to our mutual advantage?" "_marry?_" "yes," william said, earnestly; "i should be pleased to marry, lydy. i need a home. my health is not very good, and i need a home. you need a home, also." "indeed i don't!" she said; "i've got a home, thank you." "i haven't," william said; and lydia's blue eyes softened. "i am not very strong," he said ("though i see no reason why i should not live to old age); but i want a home. won't you take me, lydy?" miss lydia frowned and sighed. "i am very well satisfied as i am," she said; "but perhaps that is a selfish way to look at it." "yes, it is," he told her, earnestly; "and you didn't use to be selfish, lydia." miss lydia sighed again. "i suppose i could make you comfortable, william." "do take me, lydy," he entreated. and somehow or other, before she quite knew it, she had consented. as soon as the word was spoken, william arose with alacrity. "i don't like to be out in the night air," he said, "so i'll say good-night, lydy. and, lydy--shall we, for the moment, keep this to ourselves?" "oh yes," said miss lydia, getting very red, "i'd rather, for the present." then, smiling and friendly, she went out with him, bare-headed, to the gate. there william hesitated, swallowed once, rubbed his hands nervously, and then suddenly gave her a kiss. miss lydia sampson jumped. "oh!" she said; and again, "_oh!_" and then she ran back into the house, her eyes wet and shining, her face flushed to her forehead. she sat down by the table and put her hands over her eyes; she laughed, in a sort of sob, and her breath came quickly. "i hadn't thought of it--that way," she whispered to herself. and somehow, as she sat there by her kitchen table, she began to think of it that way--miss lydia was very young! ... oh, she would try and make him happy; she would try and be more orderly; she would try to be good, since her heavenly father had given back to her the old happiness. and that night she did not bid the picture good-night. mr. rives was himself not without emotion. it was many years, he reflected, since his lips had touched those of a female, and the experience was agreeable--so agreeable that he wished to repeat it as soon as possible; and, furthermore, he felt anxious to know that lydia had put the gold in a safe place. but when he called the next day he was a little late, because, as he explained to miss lydia, he had had to wait for the mail. she met him with a new look in her innocent, eager eyes, and her face was shy and red. as she sat sewing, listening vaguely, she would glance at him now and then, as if, until now, she had not seen him since that day of parting, thirty-one years ago--the thirty-one years which had blotted amanda's field from her memory. the old happiness, like a tide long withdrawn, was creeping back, rising and rising, until it was overflowing in her eyes. this puffy gentleman, with his tight, smiling mouth, was the william of her youth--and she had never known it until last night! she had thought of him during the last month or two only as an old friend who needed the care which her kind heart prompted her to give; and lo! suddenly he was the lover who would care for her. "i was sorry, my dear lydia, to be late," said mr. rives, in his soft voice; "i was detained by waiting for the mail." miss lydia said, brightly, that it didn't matter. "but it was worth waiting for," william assured her. "i have done a good piece of business. (not that it will make me richer; i have so many obligations to meet!) but it was a fortunate stroke." "that is good," said miss lydia. "a female in a distant city, where i own a poor little bit of real estate--nothing of any value, lydia; i am a poor man--" "that's no difference," she told him, softly. "--this female, a widow, and foolish (as widows always are)," william said, with a little giggle, "asked me to sell her a house i owned. she wished, for some reason, to purchase in that locality. i named the market price. i did so, by letter, a fortnight ago. i believe she thought it high; but that was her affair. she would have to sell certain securities to purchase it, she said. but as i wrote her--'my dear madam, that's your business.'" mr. rives laughed a little. miss lydia looked up, smiling and interested. "yes," said mr. rives--"i didn't urge it. i never urge, because then i can't be blamed if things go wrong. but i held my price. that is always good policy--not to drop a dollar on price. so she's bought it. she made a payment yesterday to bind the sale. not that i feel any richer, for i must immediately apply the money to the purchase of other things." "that's nice," miss lydia said. "i guess it is," william agreed; "i happen to know that a boiler factory is to be erected on the rear lot." "but will she like that--the poor widow?" miss lydia said. mr. rives laughed comfortably. "ah, lydy, my dear, in business we do not ask such questions before making a sale. _i_ like it. in three months that bit of property will have shrunk to an eighth of its selling price to-day." mr. rives's eyes twinkled with satisfaction. "but--_william!_" said miss lydia. suddenly she grew pale. "william," she said, "it seems to me you ought to have told the poor widow." "lydia, a lady cannot understand business," william said, with kindly condescension, but with a slight impatience. "don't you see, if i had told her, she would not have made the purchase?" miss lydia was silent, stroking the gathers of her cambric with a shaking needle. then she said, in a low voice, "i suppose she wouldn't." william nodded encouragingly. "you'll learn, lydia. a married lady learns much of business methods through her husband. though they don't profit by it, i notice; widows are always foolish. not that--that you will be likely to be--to be foolish," he ended, hastily, frowning very much. lydia went on sewing in silence. the color did not come back into her face, which caused william to ask her anxiously how she was. "you are sure you are healthy, lydia, aren't you?" he said. miss lydia, without looking at him, said she was. when he had gone, she stopped sewing and glanced about her in a frightened way; then she put her hands over her eyes and drew in her breath, and once she shivered. she sat there for a long time. after a while she got up and went over to the picture of mr. william rives and stood looking at it; and as she looked her poor, terrified eyes quieted into tears and she straightened the bit of box with a tender hand, and then she suddenly bent down and kissed the slim gentleman behind the misty glass. the next day when she met her lover she was cheerful enough. it was at the front door of the tavern; dr. lavendar was there, too, waiting for the morning stage for mercer. "well! well! so i am going to have company, am i?" he said, for miss lydia was waiting for it, too. her bonnet was on one side, her shabby jacket, fading from black to green on the shoulders, was split at the elbow seams, and the middle finger of each glove was worn through; but her eyes were shining with pleasure. "yes," she said, nodding; "i'm going." her presence seemed to be a surprise to mr. rives, who had strayed forth from the breakfast-room to see the stage start. "you are going to mercer?" he said, his small smile fading into an astonished question. "yes," miss lydia said, laughing, and suddenly she gave a little jump of happiness. "i haven't been to mercer for nine years. oh, dear! isn't it just delightful!" "but, why?" william persisted, in an amazed aside. "oh, that's the secret!" cried miss lydia, clambering into the stage; "you'll know sometime." "i suppose you wish to arrange for the alterations of your house?" william said; "but considering the stage fares back and forth-- oh, there is dr. lavendar." he came round to the other side of the stage, smiling very much. "well, sir, good-morning! good-morning, sir!" "hello," dr. lavendar said. mr. rives rubbed his hands. "i--i was about to say, dr. lavendar--that little matter between us--it's of no importance, of course; quite at your convenience, sir; i don't mean to press you--but at your convenience, sir." "what are you talking about?" dr. lavendar said, with a puzzled blink. "well," william said, smiling, "there's no haste, only i thought i'd just remind you. i'm always business-like myself; and that little matter of accommodation--" dr. lavendar stared at him. "i am afraid i'm a stupid old fellow; i don't understand." the stage-driver gathered up his reins; miss lydia nodded joyously on the back seat, the two other passengers frowned at the delay; so william rives made haste to explain: "merely, sir, the stamp i had the pleasure of lending you. but pray don't incommode yourself; i merely remind you; it's of no--" dr. lavendar pulled out his shabby leather pocket-book, his hands fairly trembling with haste, and produced the stamp; then he pulled the door to, and as the stage sagged forward and went tugging up the hill, he turned his astonished eyes on miss lydia. she had grown very pale, but she said nothing, only looking out of the window and rubbing her little cotton gloves hard together. "would you have asked him for a receipt?" dr. lavendar said, under his breath, chuckling. but when she tried to answer him, there was something in her face that turned dr. lavendar grave. the stage jolted on; the two other passengers chatted, then one fell asleep and the other read an almanac. suddenly miss lydia turned sharply round. "it just kills me!" she said. "nonsense!" dr. lavendar told her. "he is a man of business, and i'm a forgetful old codger. i knew william, and i ought to have remembered." but miss lydia's face had fallen into such drawn and anxious lines that dr. lavendar had to do his best to cheer her. he began to ask questions: how long was it since she had been in mercer? was she going to call on friends? was she going to shop? "i believe you ladies always want to shop?" said dr. lavendar, kindly. and somehow miss lydia brightened up. yes; she was going to shop! it was a secret: she couldn't tell dr. lavendar yet, but he should know about it first of all. she was so happy, so important, so excited, that her pain at william's business-like ways seemed forgotten; and when in mercer they separated at the stage house, she went bustling off into the sunshine, waving a shabby cotton glove at him, and crying, "i haven't a minute to lose!" dr. lavendar stood still and shook his head. "pity," he said--"pity, pity. but i suppose it can't be helped. there's no use telling william about her; he must see it. and there's no use telling her about william; she must see it. no--no use. but it's a pity--a pity." which shows that dr. lavendar had reached that degree of wisdom which knows that successful interference in love affairs must come from the inside, not from the outside. he did not see miss lydia again until they met in the afternoon at the stage house, and for a minute he did not recognize her. she came running and panting, laden with bundles, to the coach door. indeed, she was so hurried that one of her innumerable packages, a long, slim bundle, slipped from her happy, weary arms, and, hitting the iron drop-step, crashed into fragments and splashed her dress with its contents. "oh! that's one of my bottles of catawba," said miss lydia. "dear, dear! well, never mind; i'll order another." the fragrance of the wine soaking her gloves and the front of her faded dress, filled the stage (in which they were the only passengers), and miss lydia joyously licked the two bare finger-tips. "too bad!" she said; "but accidents will happen." dr. lavendar helped her pile her bundles on the front seat, and then he unhooked the swinging strap so that certain parcels could be put on the middle bench. miss lydia leaned back with a happy sigh. "the rest will come down to-morrow," she said. "the _rest_?" said dr. lavendar. "oh, i've just got to tell somebody!" she said. "promise you won't tell?" "i won't tell," he assured her. "well," said miss lydia, "look here--do you see that?" she tore a little hole in a long, flat package, and dr. lavendar saw a gleam of blue. "that's a dress. yes, a blue silk dress--for myself. i'm afraid it was selfish to get a thing just for myself, but that and a pair of white kid gloves and some lace are all i did get; and i've wanted a silk dress, a blue silk dress, ever since i got poor." dr. lavendar looked at her and at the hole in the package, and at her again. "lydia!" he said, "is it possible that you--? _lydia!_" he ended, speechless with consternation. "the other things are all for the party." "the--party?" "presents!" she said, rubbing her hands. "oh, dear! i'm so tired! and i'm so happy! oh, nobody was ever so happy. the party (that's the secret) is to be next thursday a week; that gives me time to make my dress. i ordered the cake in mercer. all pink-and-white icing--perfectly lovely! and i have a present for everybody. here's a work-basket for martha king. and i have a bird-cage and a canary for dear willy (that is to come down to-morrow; i really couldn't carry everything). and i've got a knitted shawl for maria welwood, and a cloak for her dear rose--that was rather expensive, but it's always cheap to get the best. and a cornelian breast-pin for alice gray. and a roman sash for poor little mary gordon; she seems to me such a forlorn child--no mother, and that rough alex for a brother. and--well; oh, dear! i'm so excited i can hardly remember--a book for mr. ezra; a book for mrs. dale. books are safe presents, don't you think?" dr. lavendar groaned. "and a picture for rachel king--that's it; that square bundle. so pretty!--a little girl saying her prayers; sweet!--it's like her anna. and a box of candy for sally smith's little brothers; and a pair of agate cuff-buttons for sally--" she was moving her packages about as she checked them off, and she looked round at dr. lavendar with a sigh of pure joy. he could not speak his distracted thought. "oh, you mustn't see that," she cried, suddenly pushing a certain package under the others with great show of secrecy; and dr. lavendar groaned again. "i think a party with presents for everybody will be very unusual, don't you?" she asked, heaping her bundles up carefully; two more fingers had burst through her cotton gloves, and as she leaned forward a button snapped off her jacket. "i don't want to brag," she said, "but i think it will be as nice a party as we have ever had in old chester." "but, lydia, my dear," dr. lavendar said, gently, "i am afraid it is extravagant, isn't it, to try to give us all so much pleasure? and is a blue silk frock very--well, serviceable, i believe, you ladies call it?" "no, indeed it isn't," she said, with sudden, pathetic passion. "_that's why i got it_. i never, since i was a girl, have had anything that wasn't serviceable." "but," dr. lavendar said, "i rather hoped you would see your way clear to making your house a little more comfortable?" "why, but i'm perfectly comfortable," she assured him; "and even if i was not, i'd rather, just for once in my life, have my party and give my presents. oh, just once in a lifetime! i'd rather," she said, and her eyes snapped with joy--"i'd rather have next thursday night, and my house as it is, than just comfort all the rest of my days. comfort! what's comfort?" "well, lydia, it's a good deal to some of us," dr. lavendar said. and then his eyes narrowed. "lydia, my dear--does mr. rives know about this?" miss lydia, counting her packages over, said, absently, "no; it is to be a surprise to william." "if i am not mistaken," said dr. lavendar, "it will be a very great surprise to william." and then he fell into troubled thought; but as he thought his face brightened. it brightened so much that by the time they reached old chester he was as joyously excited about the party as was miss lydia herself, who made him a thousand confidences about her dress and her presents and the food which would be offered to her guests. his joyousness had not abated when, the next morning, mrs. barkley presented herself, breathless, at the rectory. "i think," said she, in an awful bass, sitting up very straight and glaring at dr. lavendar, "that this is the most terrible thing that ever happened." "there are worse things," said dr. lavendar. "_i_ know of nothing worse," mrs. barkley said, with dreadful composure. "you may. you know what the unregenerate human heart may do. i do not. this is the worst. what will people say? what will mrs. dale say? it must be stopped! she ran in this morning and told me in confidence. she came, she said, to know if she could borrow my teaspoons next thursday week. i said she could, of course; but i suppose i looked puzzled; i couldn't imagine--then she confessed. she said you knew, but no one else. then, before i came to my senses, she ran out. i came here at once to say that you must stop it." "in the first place," said dr. lavendar, thrusting his hands down into his dressing-gown pockets, "i couldn't stop it. in the second place, i haven't the right to stop it. and in the third place, i wouldn't stop it if i could." "dr. lavendar!" "i am delighted with the plan. we need gayety in old chester; _i think we'll get it_. i hope she'll have uncle davy in, with his fiddle, and we'll have a reel. mrs. barkley, will you do me the honor?" it came over mrs. barkley, with a sudden chill, that there was something the matter with dr. lavendar. "i have calculated," said the old minister, chuckling, "that miss lydia has in hand, at present, about $ . of our $ . this sum i trust she will give to foreign missions. the need is great. i shall bring it to her attention." "dr. lavendar," said mrs. barkley; and paused. "ma'am?" "i don't understand you, sir." dr. lavendar looked at her and smiled. iv and so the night of old chester's festivity approached. miss lydia's invitations were delivered the morning of the day, but a rumor of the party was already in the air. there had been some shakings of the head and one or two frowns. "it will cost her at least $ ," said martha king, "and she could get a new bonnet with that." "it's her way of thanking us for her present," said the doctor, "and a mighty nice way, too. i'm going. i'll wear my white waistcoat." mrs. drayton said, calmly, that it was dishonest. "the money was given to her for one purpose. to ask people to tea, and have even only cake and lemonade, is spending it for another purpose. it will cost her at least $ . . not a large sum, compared with the whole amount donated in charity. but the principle is the same. i always look for the principle--it is a christian's duty. and i could not face my maker if i ever failed in duty." then mrs. dale's comment ran from lip to lip: "miss lydia has a right to do as she pleases with her own; if she invites me to tea, i shall go with pleasure." when the rumor reached william rives's ears he turned pale, but he made no comment. "but i came to ask you about it, lydy," he said. this was wednesday evening, and william stood at the front door; miss lydia was on the step above him. "i won't ask you to come in, william," she said, "i'm so busy--if you'll excuse me." "i am always gratified," said william, "when a female busies herself in household affairs, so i will not interrupt you. i came for two purposes: first, to inquire when you intend to begin the improvements upon your house; and, secondly, to say that i hope i am in error in regard to this project of a supper that i hear you are to give." "why?" said lydia. "because," william said, with his sharp, neat smile, "a supper is not given without expense. though i approve of hospitality, and make a point of accepting it, yet i am always conscious that it costs money. i cannot but calculate, as i see persons eating and drinking, the amount of money thus consumed, and i often wonder at my hosts. i say to myself, as i observe a guest drink a cup of tea, 'two cents.' such thoughts (which must present themselves to every practical man) are painful. and such a supper as i hear you mean to give would involve many cups of tea." "twenty-seven," said miss lydia. "and is there to be cake also?" said william, breathlessly. "there is," said miss lydia; "a big one, with a castle in pink-and-white icing on it--beautiful!" william was stricken into silence; then he said, shaking his head, "do you really mean it, lydy?" "i do, william." mr. rives sighed. "well," he said--"well, i regret it. but, lydy, we might utilize the occasion? refreshment is always considered genteel at a marriage. why not combine your supper with our wedding? we can be married to-morrow night. dr. lavendar is coming, i presume? i can get the license in the morning." miss lydia was silent; the color came into her face, and she put her hand up to her lips in a frightened way. "oh, i--don't know," she faltered. "i--i am not--not ready--" "oh," william urged, "never mind about being ready; i should be the last to wish you to go to any of the foolish expense of dress customary on such occasions. yes, lydy, it is an opportunity. do agree, my dear; we will save money by it." miss lydia drew in her breath; she was very pale; then suddenly she nodded. "well, yes," she said. "i will, if you want to, william. yes, i will." "i will communicate with dr. lavendar," said mr. rives, joyfully, "and ask him to hold himself in readiness, but not to speak of it outside." miss lydia nodded, and, closing the door, went back to her engrossing affairs. presents and a party and a wedding--no wonder the poor little soul was white and dizzy with excitement! long will old chester remember that occasion: the little house, lighted from garret to cellar; candles in every possible spot; flowers all about; the mantel-piece heaped with bundles; william king's bird-cage hanging in the window; uncle davy's fiddle twanging in the kitchen; and miss lydia in front of the smoky fireplace, banked now with larkspurs and peonies--miss lydia in a light, bright blue silk dress trimmed with lace; miss lydia in white kid gloves, buttoned with one button at the wrist, and so tight that the right glove split across the back when she began to shake hands. oh, it was a great moment.... no wonder she was pale with excitement! ... she was very pale when william rives arrived--arrived, and stood dumfounded!--staring at miss lydia; staring at the packages which were now finding their way into astonished hands; staring at the refreshment-table between the windows, at the great, frosted cake, at the bottles of catawba, at mrs. barkley's spoons stuck into tall glasses of wine jelly. mr. rives stood staring at these things, his small eyes starting out upon his purpling cheeks, and as he stared, miss lydia, watching him, grew paler and paler. [illustration: "miss lydia, watching him, grew paler and paler"] then, suddenly, william, stealthily, step by step, began to back out of the room. in the doorway he shouldered mrs. barkley, and, wheeling, turned upon her a ferocious face: "_and i contributed $ . --_" but as he retreated and retreated, the color returned to miss lydia's cheek. she had almost stopped breathing as he stood there; but when he finally disappeared, she broke out into the full joyousness of the occasion. the opening of each present was like a draught of wine to her, the astounded or angry thanks went to her head; she rubbed her hands until the left glove split also; and then uncle davy's fiddle began in good earnest, and she bustled about, running and laughing, and arranging partners for the reel. yes, it was a great occasion. old chester talked of it for months; not even william rives's most unexpected and unexplainable departure the next day on the morning stage could divert the appalled, excited, disapproving interest that lasted the year out. not even miss lydia's continued faithfulness to the portrait, which had condoned so many offences in the past, could soften old chester's very righteous indignation. there were, it must be admitted, one or two who professed that they did not share the disapproval of all right-thinking persons; one was, if you please, mr. smith! (he was one of the new smiths, so one might expect anything from him.) he had not been invited to the party, but when he heard of it he roared with most improper mirth. "well done!" he said. "by jove! what a game old party. well done! the money was champagne on an empty stomach; of course, she got drunk. it would have been cheaper to have bought a bottle of the genuine article and shut herself up for twenty-four hours. well, it's worth the cost of a new chimney. i'll put her repairs through, dr. lavendar--unless you want to get up another present?" and then he roared again. very ill-bred man he was. dr. lavendar said that there would not be another present. he said miss lydia had a right, in his opinion, to spend her money as she chose; but there would not be another present. and then he walked home, blinking and smiling. "smith's a good fellow," he said to himself, "if he is one of the new folks. but what i'd like to know is: _did lydia think $ a low price?_" amelia i the exception that proved old chester's rule as to the subjection of youth was found in the household of mr. thomas dilworth. when the dilworth children (at least the two girls) hung about their father when he came home at night or teased and scolded and laughed at him at their friendly breakfast-table, an observer might have thought himself miles away from old chester and its well-brought-up youth. the way those girls talk to thomas dilworth! "where will it end?" said old chester, solemnly. for instance, the annual joke in the dilworth family was that father had been in love with mother for as many years as she was old, less so many minutes. now, imagine old chester children indulging in such familiarities! yet on mrs. dilworth's birthday this family witticism was always in order: "father, how long have you been mother's beau?" and thomas, rosy, handsome, looking at least ten years younger than his amelia, would say: "well, let's see: forty-one years" (or two or three, as the case might be), "eleven months, twenty-nine days, twenty-three hours, and forty minutes; she was twenty minutes old when i first laid eyes on her, and during those twenty minutes i was heart-whole." but mrs. dilworth, smiling vaguely behind her coffee-cups, would protest: "i never heard anything about it, tom, until you were sixteen." and then the girls would declare that they must be told just what father said when he was sixteen and mother was twelve. but thomas drew the line at that. "come! come! you mustn't talk about love-making. as for marrying, i don't mean to let you girls get married at all. and ned here had better not let me catch him thinking of such nonsense until he's twenty-five. he can get married (if i like the girl) when he is twenty-eight." "you got married at twenty-two, sir," edwin demurred. "if you can find a woman like your mother, you can get married at twenty-two. but you can't. they don't make 'em any more. so you've got to wait. and remember, i've decided not to let mary and nancy get married, ever. i don't propose to bring up a brace of long-legged girls, and clothe 'em and feed 'em and pay their doctors' bills, and then, just as they get old enough to amount to anything and quit being nuisances, hand 'em over to another fellow. no, sir! you've got to stay at home with me. do you understand?" the girls screamed at this, and flung themselves upon him to kiss him and pull his hair. no wonder old chester was shocked. yet, in spite of such happenings, thomas and amelia dilworth were of the real old chester. they were not tainted with _newness_--that sad dispensation of providence which had to be borne by such people as the macks or the hayeses, or those very rich (but really worthy) smiths. the dilworths were not new; yet their three children had the training--or the lack of training--that made the hayes children and their kind a subject for old chester's prayers. "who can say what the result of milly dilworth's negligence will be?" mrs. drayton said, sighing, to dr. lavendar; who only reminded her that folks didn't gather thistles of figs--generally speaking. but in spite of dr. lavendar's optimism, it was a queer household, according to old chester lights.... in the first place, the father and mother were more unlike than is generally considered to be matrimonially safe. amelia was a dear, good soul, but, as miss helen hayes said once, "with absolutely no mind"; while thomas dilworth was eminently level-headed, although very fond (so mrs. drayton said) of female society. and it must be admitted that thomas had more than once caused his milly a slight pang by such fondness. but at least he was never conscious that he had done so--and milly never told him. (but mrs. drayton said that that was something she could not forgive in a married gentleman. "my dear husband," said mrs. drayton, "has never wandered from me, even in imagination.") added to conjugal incongruity was this indifference on the part of thomas and his wife to the training of the children. the three young dilworths were allowed to grow up exactly as they pleased. it had worked well enough with mary and nancy, who were good girls, affectionate and sensible--so sensible that nancy, when she was eighteen, had practically taken the housekeeping out of her mother's hands; and mary, at sixteen, looked out for herself and her affairs most successfully. with edwin the dilworth system had not been so satisfactory. he was conceited (though that is only to be expected of the male creature at nineteen) and rather selfish; and he had an unlovely reserve, in which he was strikingly unlike his father, who overflowed with confidences. this, and other unlikeness, was, no doubt, the reason that there were constant small differences between them. and mrs. dilworth--vague, gentle soul!--was somehow unable to smooth the differences over as successfully as most mothers do. now, smoothing things over is practically a profession to mothers of families. but milly dilworth had never succeeded in it. in the first place, she had no gift of words; the more she felt, the more inexpressive she became; but, worst of all, she had, poor woman, not the slightest sense of humor. now, in dealing with husbands and children (especially with husbands), though you have the tongues of men--which are thought to be more restrained than those of women--and though you have the gift of prophecy (a common gift of wives) and understand all mysteries--say, of housekeeping--and though you give your body to be used up and worn out for their sakes, yet all these things profit you nothing if you have no sense of humor. and milly dilworth had none. that was why she could not understand. she loved, in her tender, undemonstrative way, her shy, unpractical, secretive edwin and her two capable girls; she loved, with the single, silent passion of her soul, her generous, selfish, light-hearted tom, who took her wordless worship as unconsciously and simply as he took the air he breathed; she loved them all. but she did not pretend to understand them. thus she stood always a little aside, watching and loving, and wondering sometimes in her simple way; but often suffering, as people with no sense of humor are apt to suffer. dear, dull, gentle milly! no one could remember a harsh word of hers, or mean deed, or a little judgment. no wonder dr. lavendar felt confident that there would be no thistles in her household. thomas dilworth had the same comfortable conviction, especially in regard to his girls. "now, milly, honestly," he used to say, "apart from the fact that they are ours, don't you really think they are the nicest girls in old chester?" milly would admit, in her brief way, that they were good children. "and edwin means all right," the father would assure himself; and then add that he couldn't understand their boy--"at least, i suppose he's ours? willy king says so. i have thought perhaps he was a changeling, put into the cradle the first day." "but, tom," milly would protest, anxiously, "neddy couldn't be a changeling. he was never out of my sight for the first week--not even to be taken out of the room to be shown to people. besides, he has your chin and my eyes." "well, if you really think so?" thomas would demur. and mrs. dilworth always said, earnestly, that she was sure of it. still, in spite of eyes and chin, ned's unpracticalness was an anxiety to his father, and his uncommunicativeness a constant irritation. thomas himself was ready to share anything he possessed, money or opinions or hopes, with any friend, almost with any acquaintance. "i don't want to know anybody's business," he used to say; "i'm not inquisitive, milly; you know i'm not. but i hate hiding things! why shouldn't he say where he's going when he goes out in the evening? sneaking off, as if he were ashamed." "he just doesn't think of it," the mother would say, trying to smooth it over. "well, he ought to think of it," the father would grumble, eager to be smoothed. but milly found it harder to reconcile her husband to their boy's indifference to business than to his reserves. "he sees fit to look down on the hardware trade," tom told his wife, angrily. "'well, sir,' i said to him the other day, 'it's given you your bread-and-butter for nineteen years; yes--and your fiddle, too, and your everlasting music lessons.' and i'll tell you what, milly, a man who looks down on his business will find his business looking down on him. and it's a good business--it's a darned good business. if ned doesn't have the sense to see it, he had better go and play his fiddle and hold out his hat for pennies." milly looked anxiously sympathetic. "i don't know what is going to become of him," thomas went on. "when you come to provide for three out of the hardware business, nobody gets very much." mrs. dilworth was silent. "i was talking about him to dr. lavendar yesterday, and he said: 'oh, he'll fall in love one of these days, and he'll see that fiddling won't buy his wife her shoe-strings; then he'll take to the hardware business,' dr. lavendar said. it's all very well to talk about his falling in love and taking to business; but if he falls in love, i'll have another mouth to fill. and maybe more," he added, grimly. "not for a year, anyway," his wife said, hopefully. "and, besides, i don't think neddy's thinking of such a thing." "i hope not, at his age." "you were engaged when you were nineteen." "my dear, i wasn't ned." mrs. dilworth was silent. "the packards telegraphed to-day that they wouldn't take that reaper," tom dilworth said. milly seemed to search for words of sympathy, but before she found them tom began to talk of something else; he never waited for his wife's replies, or, indeed, expected them. he was so constituted that he had to have a listener; and during all their married life she had listened. when she replied, she was a sounding-board, echoing back his own opinions; when she was silent, he took her silence to mean agreement. tom used to say that his milly wasn't one of the smart kind; he didn't like smartness in a woman, anyway; but she had darned good sense;--for, like the rest of us, thomas dilworth had a deep belief in the intelligence of the people who agreed with him.... "i have a great mind," he rambled on, "to go up to the hayeses'. you know that note is due on the th, and i believe i'll have to ask him to extend it. i hate to do it, but packard has upset my calculations, and i'll have to get an extension, or else sell something out; and just now i don't like to do that." "very well," she said. it was her birthday--the one day in the year that her thomas remembered that he had been in love with her for so many years, months, days, hours, minutes--a fact she never for one day in the year forgot. but she could no more have reminded him of the day than she could have flown. she was constitutionally inexpressive. tom began to whistle: [illustration: music fragment] but broke off to say, "well, since you advise it, i'll see hayes"; then he gave her a kiss, and immediately forgot her--as completely as he had forgotten his supper or any other comfortable and absolutely necessary thing. then he lighted his cigar and started for the hayeses'. ii "and who do you suppose i found there?" he said, when he got home, well on towards eleven o'clock, an hour so dissipated for old chester that milly was broad awake in silent anxiety. "why, ned, if you please! he was talking to hayes's daughter helen. she seems a mighty nice girl, milly. i packed young edwin off at nine; he was boring miss helen to death. boys have no sense about such things. can't you give him a hint that women of twenty-five don't care for little boys' talk? by-the-way, she talks mighty well herself. after i settled my business with hayes, we got to discussing the president's letter; she had just read it." "do you mean to say _that the president has written to helen hayes_?" cried mrs. dilworth, sitting up in bed in her astonishment. thomas roared, and began to pull his boots. "why, they are regular correspondents! didn't you know it?" "no! i hadn't the slightest idea--tom, you're joking?" "my dear, you can't think i am capable of joking? but, milly, look here, i'll tell you one thing: she was mighty sensible about ned. she thinks there's a good deal to him--" "i don't need helen hayes to tell me that," said ned's mother. tom, who never paused for his wife's reply, was whistling joyfully: [illustration: music fragment] helen hayes had been very comforting to him; he had protested, when ned reluctantly departed, that a boy never knew when to clear out; and miss helen had pouted, and said ned shouldn't be scolded; "i wouldn't let him 'clear out'--so there!" few women of thirty-two can be cunning successfully, but tom thought miss helen very cunning. "i just perfectly love to hear him talk about his music," she said. "he can't talk about anything else," ned's father said. "that's the trouble with him." "the trouble with him? why, that's the beauty of him," said miss hayes, with enthusiasm; and thomas said to himself that she was a mighty good-looking girl. the rose-colored lamp-shade cast a soft light on a face that was not quite so young as was the frock she wore--rose-colored also, with much yellowish lace down the front. it was very unlike milly's dresses--dark, good woollens, made rather tight, for milly, short and stout and forty-three, aspired (for her thomas's sake) to a figure,--which is always a pity at forty-three. furthermore, helen hayes's hands, very white and heavy with shining rings, lay in lovely idleness in her lap; and that is so much more restful in a woman's hands than to be fussing with sewing "or everlasting darning," thomas thought. in fact, what with her lovely idleness and her praise of his boy, tom dilworth thought he had rarely seen so pleasing a young woman. "though she's not so very young, after all; she must be twenty-five," he told his wife. "she'll never see thirty again." "well, she's a mighty nice girl," thomas said. except to look pretty, miss helen hayes had done nothing to produce this impression, for she had contradicted mr. dilworth up and down about ned. "he has genius, you know." "you mean his fiddle?" tom said, incredulously. "i mean his music. we'll hear of him one of these days." "i don't care much whether we ever hear from his music," he said, "but i wish i could hear that he was applying himself to business." "business!" cried helen hayes. "what is business compared to art?" thomas looked over at mr. hayes in astonishment, for in those days, in old chester, this particular sort of talk had not been heard; the older man sneered and changed his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. miss hayes did not get much sympathy from her family. but she went on with pretty dogmatism: "you see, in a man like your son--" "a man! he's only twenty, my dear young lady." "in a _man_, sir! like your son--genius is the thing to consider; and you owe it to the world to let genius have its fullest play. don't bring pegasus down to plough old chester cornfields. why, it seems to me," said helen hayes, "that he ought to be allowed to just soar. we common folk ought to do the ploughing." "thunder an' guns!" said tom dilworth. "i don't care if he can't be sure that two and two make four," cried miss helen (thomas, bubbling into aggrieved confidence on this sore subject, had alleged this against his son); "he can put four notes together that open the gates of heaven. and he'll distinguish himself in music, because his father's son is bound to have tremendous perseverance and energy." old mr. hayes snorted and spat into the fire; but miss helen's look when she said "his father's son" made mr. thomas dilworth simper. "that girl has sense," he said to himself as he walked home at a quarter to eleven. but he only told mrs. dilworth that she had better hint to ned to be a little more backward in coming forward. "that hayes girl is nice to him on our account," said tom, "but he needn't bore her to death. milly, why don't you have one of those pink wrappers? she had one on to-night. loose, you know, and trimmed down the front." "a wrapper isn't very suitable for company," mrs. dilworth said, briefly. "it didn't matter with you, because you're an old married man; but she oughtn't to go round in wrappers when neddy's there." "why, it was a sort of party dress--all lace and stuff. i wish you had one like it. as for ned, he's a babe; and her wrapper thing was perfectly proper, of course. can't you ask her for the pattern?" and then thomas went to sleep and dreamed of a large order for galvanized buckets; but his milly lay awake a long time, wondering how she could get a pink dress; pleased, in her silent way, that tom should be thinking about her clothes; but with a slow resentment gathering in her heart that helen hayes's clothes should have suggested his thought. "and pink isn't my color," she thought, a vision of her own mild, red face rising in her mind. still, a fresh pink lawn--"that's always pretty," milly dilworth said to herself, earnestly. iii tom dilworth's boy was a curious _sport_ from the family stock. he did, indeed, look down on the hardware business, but not much more than on any business, although galvanized utensils were perhaps a little more hideous than most things. business in itself did not interest him. money-making was sordid folly, he said; because, "what do you want money for? isn't it to buy food and clothes and shelter? well, you can't eat more food than enough; you can only wear one suit of clothes at a time; and an eight-foot cell is all the shelter that is necessary." "eight-foot--_grandmother!_" his father would retort; "you'll inventory that lot of spades, young man, and dry up." and ned, with shrinking hands and ears that shuddered at the hideous screech of scraping shovels, would make out his inventory with loathing. his mother was not impatient or contemptuous with him--she could not have been that to any one; she simply could not understand what he meant when he spouted upon the folly of wealth (for, like most shy people, he occasionally burst into orations upon his theories), or when he set off some fireworks of scepticism borrowed from mr. ezra barkley, or undertook (when thomas was not present) to prove his father's politics entirely wrong. on such occasions nancy would say, "oh, ned, _do_ be quiet!" and mary would yawn openly. as for his music, nobody cared about it, except, perhaps, his mother. "but i must say, neddy, i like a tune," she would say, mildly, after edwin had tucked his violin under his chin and poured out all his young soul in what was a true and simple passion. "a tune!" poor ned said, and groaned. "mother, i wish you wouldn't call me that ridiculous name." "i'll try not to, neddy, dear," she would promise, anxiously; and ned would groan again. with such a family circle, one can fancy what it was to the lad when quite by accident he found a friend. it was the summer that he was twenty, that once, coming back in the stage with him from mercer, miss helen hayes showed a keen interest in something he said; then she asked a question or two; and when, hesitating, waiting for the laugh which did not come, he began to talk, she listened. oh, the joy of finding a listener! she looked at him, as they sat on the slippery leather seat of the old stage, with soft, intelligent eyes, her slightly faded prettiness giving a touch of charm to the high and flattering gravity of her manner. when she asked him to bring his violin sometime and play to her, the boy could almost have wept with joy. he made haste to work off several of his dearest and most shocking phrases, which she took with deep seriousness: a whale's throat is not large enough to swallow a man--therefore the biblical account is false, etc., etc. "in fact," said ned, "if i could have a half-hour's straight conversation with dr. lavendar, i could prove to him the falsity of most of the old testament." helen hayes was shocked; she regretted mr. dilworth's scepticism with almost tearful warmth; yet she realized that a powerful mind must search for truth, above all. she wished, however, that he would read such and such a book. "i can't argue with you myself," she said--"you are far too clever for my poor little reasoning powers." it was in april that edwin entered into this experience of feminine sympathy; and by mid-summer, at the time when mr. thomas dilworth also found miss helen hayes so remarkably intelligent, the boy was absorbed in his new emotion of friendship. he never spoke of it at home, hence his father's astonishment at finding him at the hayeses'. and when, a week later, he found him a second time, tom dilworth was much perplexed. "i dropped in on my way back from the store," he told his wife, "and there was that boy. i said to miss helen that she really must not let him bother her. i told her he was a blatherskite, and she must just tell him to dry up if he talked too much." "tom, i don't think you ought to talk that way about neddy," mrs. dilworth said. "he's a dear boy." "he may be a dear boy, but he is a great donkey," ned's father said, dryly; "and i think it is very good in helen hayes to put up with him. i can see she does it on my account. milly, why don't you ask her to come to supper, sometime? i like to talk to her; she's got brains, that girl. and she's good-looking, too. ask her to tea, and have waffles and fried chicken, and some of that fluffy pink stuff the children are so fond of, for dessert." "she's not much of a child," said mrs. dilworth, her face growing slowly red. "she's thirty-two if she's a day." "my dear, she has aged rapidly; you said thirty a month ago. i like the pink stuff myself, and i'm nearly fifty. i bet the hayeses don't have anything better at their house." milly softened at that. where is the middle-aged housekeeper who does not soften at being told that her pink stuff is better than anything the hayeses can produce? yet tom's talk of miss helen's brains pierced through her vagueness and bit into her heart and mind; and she could not forget that he had called the girl good-looking. "girl!" said mrs. dilworth. she was standing before the small swinging glass on her high bureau, looking at herself critically; then she slipped back and locked her door; then took a hand-glass and stood sidewise to look again. her hair was drawn tightly from her temples and twisted into a hard knot at the back of her head; she remembered that the hayes girl wore high rats, which were very fashionable, and had a large curl at one side of her waterfall. "but it's pinned on," milly said to herself; "anyway, mine's my own." then she pulled her cap farther forward (in those days mothers of families began to wear caps when they were thirty) and looked in the glass again: helen hayes did not have a double chin. "she's a skinny thing," milly said to herself. yet she knew, bitterly, that she would rather be skinny than see those cruel lines, like gathers on a drawing-string, puckering the once round neck below the chin. and her forehead: she wondered whether if, every day, she stroked it forty-two times, she could smooth out the wrinkles?--those wrinkles that stood for the tender and anxious thought of all her married life! she had heard of getting rid of wrinkles in that way. "it would take a good deal of time," she thought, doubtfully. still, she might try it--with the door locked. these reflections did not, however, interfere with the invitation which thomas had suggested. milly had her opinion of a middle-aged woman who wore wrappers in public; but if tom wanted her and her wrappers, he should have them. he should have anything in the world he desired, if she could procure it. had he desired miss hayes hashed on toast, milly would have done her best to set the dainty dish before her king. and no doubt poor miss helen in this form would have given mrs. dilworth more personal satisfaction than did her presence at tom's side (for the invitation was promptly accepted) in some trailing white thing, her eyes fixed on her host's face, intent, apparently, upon any word he might utter. watching that absorbed and flattering gaze, milly grew more and more silent. she heard their eager talk, and her mild eyes grew round and full of pain with the sense of being left out; for miss hayes, though patient with her hostess, and even kind in a condescending way, hardly spoke to her. once when, her heart up in her throat, mrs. dilworth ventured a comment, it seemed only to amuse thomas and his guest--and she did not know why. "this morning," tom said, "i was h'isting up a big bunch of galvanized buckets to our loft with a fall and tackle, and all of a sudden the strap slipped, and the whole caboodle just whanged down on the pavement--" "o-o-o-o!" said helen hayes, putting her hands over her ears with dramatic girlishness. "it was terrific, and just at that moment up came dr. lavendar. well, of course i couldn't express my feelings--" "poor mr. dilworth!" "--he came up, and gave me a rap with his stick. 'thomas,' he said (you know how his eyes twinkle!)--'thomas, this is the most profane silence i ever heard.'" everybody laughed, except milly and edwin, the latter remarking that he didn't see anything funny in that. at which miss hayes said to him, under her breath, "oh, you superior people are so contemptuous of our frivolity!" and ned blushed with satisfaction, and murmured, "why, no; i'm not superior, i'm sure." as for milly, with obvious effort and getting very red, she said that she didn't see how silence could be profane. "as long as you didn't say anything, you conquered your spirit," she added, faintly. and then they all (except edwin) laughed again. after that she made no attempt to be taken into the gayety about her, but her heart burned within her. the next morning at breakfast some words struggled out: "you'd think she was a young thing, she laughs so. and she's nearly thirty-five." "how time flies!" said tom, chuckling. and then, to everybody's astonishment, the mute edwin spoke up, and said that as for age it was a matter of the soul and not of the body. "some people are always young," said edwin. "dr. lavendar is, and you are, father--" "thank you, grave and reverend seignior." "--and mother," continued the candid youth, "has always been old. haven't you, mother?" "true, for you, my boy," said the father; "your mother has the wisdom of the family." milly dilworth's face grew dully red to the roots of her hair; a wave of anger rose up in her inarticulate heart. they called her old, these two. she could hardly see her plate for tears. edwin, however, was so thrilled by the elegance of his sentiment that he was eager to repeat it to miss hayes; but, somehow, he always had difficulty in introducing the subject of age. when he did succeed in getting in his little speech, she said that he impressed her very much when he said things like that. "your insight is wonderful," she murmured, looking at him with something like awe in her eyes. (miss helen was never cunning with ned.) "i guess you're the only person that thinks so," ned said; "at home they're always making fun of me." "my friend," she said, gravely, "what else can you expect? you are an eagle in a pigeon's nest. i don't mean to criticise your family, but you know as well as i that you are--different. you are an inspiration to me," she ended. and ned blushed with joy. it certainly is inspiring to be told you are an inspiration.... mr. thomas dilworth did not blush when he learned that mentally he was the most stimulating person that miss hayes had ever met; but he had an agreeable consciousness of his superiority, which he made no effort to conceal from his wife. he never made any effort to conceal anything from milly, not even that fondness for female society which mrs. drayton had deplored. and by-and-by milly's tears began to lie very near the surface. they never gathered and fell, but perhaps they dropped one by one on her heart, leaving their imprint of patiently accepted pain. at this time she thought of her own mental deficiencies very constantly. her mind had no flexibility, and she reached conclusions only by toilsome processes; but once reached, they were apt to be permanent. her slow reasoning at this time led her to conclude that her thomas was not to blame because he admired some one who was cleverer than she. "why, he'd be foolish not to," she thought, sadly. but this eminently reasonable conclusion did not save mrs. dilworth from turning white and red with misery, when, for instance, her husband observed that he had had to take down two bars of the gordon fence, so that miss hayes could go home across lots. then thomas chuckled, and added that helen hayes was the brightest woman he knew. he did not go on to tell of his walk in the october dusk, and miss helen's arch appeal to him for instruction on a certain political point on which she was ignorant. thomas had instructed her so fully and volubly, while she looked at him with her reverent gaze, that it had grown dark; and that was why he had to take her home across lots. thomas had not mentioned these details; he merely said he thought miss helen hayes a bright woman--the brightest, to be exact, that he knew. and yet his milly went into the kitchen pantry and hid her face in the roller behind the door and sobbed. well, of course! it's very absurd. a fat, wordless woman, who ought to be darning her children's stockings, it's very absurd for her to be weeping into a roller because her man, who has loved her for forty-three years, eleven months, twenty-nine days, twenty-three hours, and forty minutes--her man, to whom she is as absolutely necessary as his old slippers or his shabby old easy-chair--because this man does not think her the brightest woman he knows. but absurd as it is, it is suffering. the woman of faithful heart who has been left behind mentally by her husband is a tragic figure, even if she is at the same time a little ridiculous--poor soul! her futile, panting efforts to catch up; her brave, pitiful blunders; her antics of imitation; her foolish pink lawn frocks--of course they are funny; but the midnight tears are not funny, nor the prinking (behind locked doors), nor the tightened dresses, nor the stealthy reading to "improve the mind"--that poor, anxious, limited mind which knows only its duty to its dearest and best. these things mean the pain--a hopeless pain--of the recognition of limitations. what did it matter that once a year tom announced that he had loved his amelia for so many years, months, days, hours, and minutes?--he did not talk to her about the president's letter! but he talked to helen hayes about it. and yet she was a pale thing. "she never had my color," poor milly thought; "and they say she doesn't get along well at home. and she's no housekeeper. mrs. hayes herself told me she was just real useless about the house. i can't understand it." of course she could not understand it. what feminine mind ever understood why uselessness attracts a sensible man? it is so foolish that even the most foolish woman cannot explain it. as the autumn closed in on old chester, nobody in the family noticed milly dilworth's heavier look and deeper silence. tom himself was more talkative than usual; business had been good, and he was going to get something handsome out of a deal he had gone into with hayes. this took him often to the hayeses' house; and after the two men had had their talk, miss helen was to be found at the parlor fireside, very arch and eager with questions, but most of all so respectful of tom's opinions. his amelia was respectful of his opinions, too, but in such a different way. perhaps just at this time thomas dilworth pitied himself a little--the middle-aged husband does pity himself once in a while. perhaps he sighed--certainly he whistled. there is no doubt that mrs. drayton would have felt he was wandering from his amelia--at least in imagination. and yet tom was as settled and grounded in love for his middle-aged wife as he ever had been. this, however, cannot be understood by those who do not know that the male creature, good and honest and faithful as he may be, is at heart a mormon. "i declare," tom said, coming home at twelve o'clock at night--"i declare i feel younger." milly was silent. then tom began to whistle: [illustration: music fragment] then he broke off to say that he didn't think that helen hayes was over-happy at home. "the hayeses are commonplace people, and she is very superior. i guess they don't get along well." milly thought to herself that when a girl didn't get along with her own mother it didn't speak well for the girl; but she did not say so. but thomas went on to declare that he didn't know what to make of ned. "hanging round the hayeses till i'm ashamed of him! why doesn't he know better? i never bored a woman to death when i was his age." and his wife thought, in heavy silence, that there were other people who hung round the hayeses. however, thomas made his feeling so clear to his son that during the winter ned was never seen at the hayeses' on the same evening that his father was there. but there was an hour in the afternoon, from five to six, when the boy was free and thomas was busy with his spades and buckets;--but you can't look after a boy every minute. iv poor amelia, in her bedroom, in the chilly december dusk, sopped her eyes with cold water and looked in the glass. "i _mustn't_ cry any more," she said to herself, despairingly--"they're so red now!" a door opened down-stairs, and there was a burst of laughter; and mrs. dilworth, in the cold twilight, went on sopping her eyes. tom and the girls evidently didn't need her. "they could get along just as well without me. and if the lord would take me, tom could--could--so he could--" her soul was dumb, even to itself; but she knew what it was that tom "could" do. and she knew it without bitterness. like every other woman whose love for her husband has in it the maternal element (and most good women's love has this element), she had always felt that if she died thomas ought to marry again; but this simple creature went one ahead of that rather elementary feeling, and specified: she was willing to have him marry _her_. "if the lord would only remove me," said poor milly, looking miserably in the glass at her plump figure, which showed no indications of removal. her eyes were hopelessly red; she didn't see how she could possibly go down to supper. but of course she had to go down. the mother of a family and the mistress of one servant must go down to supper, no matter what the condition of her eyes may be. she slunk into her seat behind her teacups, and scarcely dared to look about her noisy, hungry circle, still less at her thomas, who was smiling to himself, but who did not share his amusement with his family. still, when he suddenly said something about the refreshment of talking to intelligent people, it was not hard to guess the direction of his thoughts. "it sharpens your brains up," said thomas. "i was going to suggest, milly, that you should ask helen hayes to tea again; but she's got company; and when they leave she's going off to make a visit to some of her relations, she tells me." amelia's mild lips tightened silently. so they had been together again. her hand shook as she poured out another cup of tea for her thomas, who took that moment to say, with all a husband's candor, that she was getting fatter than ever. "i thought you were starving yourself to get thin, milly?" he said, smiling. milly smiled, too, faintly; but she was saying to herself: "what did they talk about? how long were they together? oh, if i could only be taken away!" it would be interesting to follow the processes of a mind like mrs. dilworth's: how did a wife and mother of children reach the point of feeling that her family would be better off without her? anybody in old chester could have told her such a belief was folly, and wicked folly at that. but it seemed just plain reason to milly dilworth: "i'm not necessary to anybody. thomas likes somebody younger. he can't marry her because i'm alive; he could marry her (and she would be good to the children) if i were not here. but i _am_!" she would end, hopelessly. morning after morning, as she went about her household duties, or when before tea she sat in her little, old rocking-chair, mending the family stockings, she used to break herself against the hopelessness of the situation: she was there; and unless the lord would remove her (any other sort of removal was impossible to her devout imagination) tom could not have what he wanted--yes, and needed, too. for it was at this period that mrs. dilworth recognized, what most wives of men do recognize at one time or another, that although being a wife and mother is the only vocation of a married woman, being a husband and father is only one of many vocations of a married man. hence the companionship of an eminently worthy wife is almost never enough for the male creature. when this harsh truth burst upon milly, she wiped her eyes on the stocking she was mending and groaned aloud. but she did not rail against the fact, nor did she attempt to deny it; wherein she showed a superfeminine intelligence. she only said to herself that thomas could not have what he wanted while she was alive; yet she couldn't, it seemed, die, although she was so miserable that she didn't know how she lived! it was at this point that she began to make wild schemes to relieve the situation: suppose she asked that hayes girl to come and make them a visit? but no--a man wants more than to just look at a pretty girl across the table. suppose she went away herself and made a visit, and asked miss helen hayes to come and keep house for her? (like all good wives, milly had no hesitation in offering up another woman to the pleasure of her lord.) no; people would talk about tom if she did that.... the amount of it was, poor milly, although she did not know it, was really planning that thomas should have two wives at the same time--and, dear me! how that would simplify things! there would be the old, sensible, matter-of-fact wife to mend his stockings and order his good dinner and nurse him through the indigestion consequent upon the dinner--the old, anxious wife, who has had the children and reared them, who has planned and economized and toiled with him, who has borne the burden and heat of the day at his side--the prosaic wife, who gives, unasked, such good advice. every one will admit that this elderly person has been, and (to a limited degree) still is, a necessity to every thomas. but sometimes thomas thinks, in his simple way, that it would be pleasant to have the luxuries as well as the necessities of life; to have, for instance, a young wife--a pretty wife, clever and light-hearted and gayly tyrannical; a wife who never knew enough to advise anybody, who should be a relaxation and a refreshment, _and just a little bit of a fool_; for, as every intelligent (unmarried) woman knows, men like fools; feminine fools. of course the trouble is that if you supply a wife for two sides of a man's character--for utility, so to speak, and for diversion--he may, not unreasonably, demand that every side and angle and facet of his jewel-like nature have its own feminine setting. that was probably solomon's idea. well, well! the time is not yet for this reasonable arrangement; and it is possible that trade in galvanized buckets will never warrant its extensive existence. but all this is very frivolous compared to the reality of this poor woman's pain, a pain that finally evolved a plan which, although less picturesque than the harem, was of the same grade in the eye of the law, though, curiously enough, not in her own eye. she could not, as she expressed it to herself, be dead, so that her thomas might have his wish; _but he could think she was dead_. when this extraordinary idea came into milly dilworth's head, she felt as one imprisoned in darkness who sees, far off, the glimmer of daylight. he "could think she was dead!" and if he thought so, of course there could be nothing wrong in his marrying "_her_." (miss hayes's moral status did not enter into milly's calculations.) the light in her darkness dazzled poor milly at first, and the way was not clear. it took two weeks of further thought to decide upon the step, and then to evolve its details; but one need not go into them as milly did.... as she sat at her work, day after day, she thought her plan out slowly and toilsomely. at first she kept balking at the enormity of it. then some chance word would betray tom's admiration for brains, and she would beat and spur her mind up to her project again.... and at last she accepted it.... once accepted, the thing was settled. her mind had about as much flexibility as a bar of lead, and there was no changing it. it only remained to decide upon the details. this she did slowly and painfully. each step was planned, each contingency arranged for. and by-and-by the day came to act. the night before, at supper, mrs. dilworth, her hands stumbling among her teacups, said, faintly, "i'm going over to the other side of the river to-morrow to order some chickens from mrs. kensy." "that kensy house is right by the railroad station," ned said, scowling; "i don't believe she has any hens." "yes, she has, neddy," said mrs. dilworth. edwin frowned blackly. "i do wish you wouldn't call me by that absurd name, mother." "i keep forgetting, neddy dear." edwin held up his hands despairingly. "what are you two people talking about?" demanded thomas. "i'm going to walk over, across the ice, to the bend, to-morrow," said milly. "walk!" her husband protested. "what do you walk for? it's cold as greenland on the ice, and, besides, they were cutting at the pool by the bend; you don't want to go that way, milly. take the stage round." mrs. dilworth crumbled a piece of bread with shaking fingers, and said nothing. "what time are you going, mother?" inquired edwin. "in the afternoon, about four." "why, you went there only two days ago," edwin said, irritably. "i saw you on the back road carting a big bundle." "it would have been more to the point if you'd done the carting for your mother," tom dilworth said, sharply. his wife paled suddenly at that word about a bundle, but the subject was not pursued. edwin said, grumbling, that he didn't see what possessed his mother to choose such an hour. "it's too dark for a lady to be out," edwin protested. "too dark for a--_grandmother_!" his father said. "don't you criticise your mother, young man." and then he added: "look out for the places where the men were cutting, milly. it hasn't frozen over yet." and mrs. dilworth said, after a pause, "i know." that night was a misery of dreams that the deed was done, broken by wakings desperate with the knowledge that it was yet to do. in the morning she seemed to have lost all power of words; she bore her husband's reproaches that ned was late for breakfast; she went about her household duties; she watched the girls start for school (she did not kiss them; demonstrations of affection had never been possible to this dumb breast; but she stared after them with haggard eyes); and through it all she hardly uttered a word; when she did speak, it seemed as though she had to break, by agonizing effort, some actual lock upon her lips. when the girls had gone she looked about for her eldest; but ned was not to be found. "i never knew him to go to the store before breakfast," she thought, miserably. his father, pulling on his coat in the hall, said that ned was getting industrious to go to his work so early! his wife was silent. when he started, whistling cheerfully, [illustration: music fragment] she watched him from the window, straining her eyes until he was out of sight. then she went up-stairs to her bedroom, and, opening his closet door, leaned her head against one of his coats, trembling very much. afterwards she wandered about the house in aimless, restless waiting for ned. in the course of the morning tom sent over to inquire why the boy had not come to the store. milly told the messenger to tell mr. dilworth that mr. edwin was not at home. "say i thought he was at the store," she said. "i'll give him his father's message when he comes in to dinner." but he did not come in to dinner; and minute by minute the afternoon ticked itself away. she had said to herself that she must start about four, before nancy and mary got home from school. "it must be so that it would be dark when i was coming back," she reminded herself. "if i leave here at four, and get my bundle from mrs. kensy at five, it would be pretty dark by the time i would be going home. mrs. kensy will tell them that it was dark." at four edwin had not appeared; milly, having no imagination, had no anxiety; she merely gave up, patiently, the hope of a wordless good-bye. but she kept looking for him; and when she finally put on her things, she paused and turned back to the window, to look once more towards old chester; but there was no sign of ned. it did not occur to her to postpone her plan; her mind, run into the mould of sacrifice, had hardened into rigidity. so at last, miserably, the tears running down her face, she stepped out into the cold and went down through the garden to the river. there she turned and looked back, with dumb passion in her eyes; the firelight was winking from the parlor windows and all the warm commonplace of life seemed to beckon her. she put her muff up to wipe her eyes, but she made no prayer or farewell; her silence had reached her soul by that time. [illustration: "there she turned and looked back"] it was very cold; the ice was rough, and the wind had blown the dry snow about in light drifts and ripples, so that walking was not difficult. she trudged out, up towards the bend, skirting the place where the men had been cutting. they had gone home now, and the ice about the black, open space of water was quite deserted. the wind came keenly down the river, blowing an eddy of snow before it; the bleak sky lay like lead over the woods along the shore. there was not a house in sight. amelia dilworth looked furtively about her; then she bent down and scraped at the snow on the edge of the ice, as one might do who, in the water, was struggling for a hold upon it. after that, for a long time, she stood there, looking dumbly at the current running, black and silent, between the edges of the ice. at last, her hand over her mouth to check some inarticulate lament, she stooped again, and put her little black muff on the broken snow close to the water. when she reached mrs. kensy's she was quite calm. she said briefly that she had come to order some chickens; "--and i'll take that bundle i asked you to keep for me." the woman brought it, and milly tucked her fingers through the stout strings she had tied so carefully a few days before. when she would open it in the woods, and put on the new dress and shawl and the heavy veil that it held, and then, in the dark, take the half-past-five train, no one would know that thomas dilworth's wife had fled away into another state. they would find the muff, and they would think--there would be only one thing to think. "i want the chickens for sunday," she said; "please send them over on saturday." then it came into her mind with a little gush of happiness that she would pay for them on the spot, instead of having the bill sent to tom, as was her custom; she had drawn a sum of money from the bank a fortnight ago--a small sum, but her own; now it was all in her purse; she would buy tom's sunday dinner out of her little fund. except to leave him, it was the last thing she would ever do for him. she put her hand into her pocket--and chilled all over. then stood blankly looking at the woman; then plunged her hand down again into her pocket; then exclaimed under her breath; then tore her bag open and fumbled distractedly among brushes and night-gown and slippers; then pulled her pocket wrong side out with trembling fingers. "_my purse!_" she said, breathlessly. then she searched everything again. "it ain't any difference," mrs. kensy protested. "i must have left it at home. i can't go back for it. it is too late." "what for?" said mrs. kensy. "the--the train." "oh, you was going on, was you?" mrs. kensy said. "well, i can let you have the price of a ticket a little ways." but mrs. dilworth, with shaking hands, pulled everything out of her bag, shook her skirts, fumbled in the bosom of her dress, ran out and searched the garden-path, strained her eyes across the snow on the river--all in vain. "oh, my!" she said, faintly. "but i can lend you the price of a ticket, ma'am," mrs. kensy said again. "no matter," mrs. dilworth said, dully. "i'll go home." even as she spoke she heard the train tooting faintly far up the valley. she sat down, feeling suddenly sick. v there was nothing to do but to go home. she remembered now how in her agitated watching for her son she had put her purse down on the corner of her bureau--and left it there. yes; there was nothing to do but go back. "i can start to-morrow," she said to herself. but in the sick reaction of the moment she knew that she could never start again; her purpose had been shattered by the blow. she took her bundle--the bundle that meant flight and disguise and self-sacrifice, and that stood for the shrewdness which is so characteristic of the kind of stupidity which forgets the purse--and went stumbling down in the darkness to the river. she said to herself that she must get her muff; and she thought heavily that it would be pretty hard to carry so many things across the ice. she was numb with the shock of interrupted ecstasy. she could not feel even mortification--only fatigue. she was so tired that, seeing in the darkness a hurrying figure approaching her, she did not recognize her husband until he was almost upon her. "_milly_? my god! milly!" he had her muff in his hand, and as he reached her he caught at her shoulder and shook her roughly. "milly--i thought--i thought--" he stammered with agitation. "i found this muff, and i thought it was yours; and neddy's gone, too, and i thought--both of you--" "neddy _gone_?" she repeated, dully. she stood still on the ice, trying to get her wits together. "he's disappeared. he isn't in town. he went out early this morning. to skate, i suppose. nora saw him from her window; at about six, she says. and this open water"--she felt him quiver at her side--"and then this muff--" "no!" she said. "i--i made a mistake." she did not take in the words about ned. "but where is he? nobody's seen him. i suppose i'm a fool, but i'm uneasy. i came to meet you because i thought you might know. but when i saw this muff--it is yours, milly, isn't it?--i got into a panic about you, too." "why," she said--"it's mine; yes. i--i left it--i suppose. neddy wasn't with me. did you think he was with me? i don't understand," she ended, bewildered. "he hasn't been at home all day," her husband said, "nor in town, either." and then he repeated the story, while she looked at him, slow understanding dawning in her eyes. "neddy--gone! where?" "but that's what i don't know," the father said. and his wife, dazed still, but awake to the trouble in his voice, began to comfort him, alarm rising slowly in her own heart like an icy wave. "maybe he went to see somebody in upper chester?" "but he doesn't know anybody at upper chester. of course it's possible. only--you gave me such a fright, milly!" mrs. dilworth put her hand over her mouth and trembled. "however, i guess he's all right, as you say. i guess we'll find him at home when we get back. it's lucky i came to meet you, because i can lug your things for you. how did you drop your muff, dear? here, take it; your hands must be cold. oh, milly, you gave me an awful fright--it was right on the very edge of the ice; those confounded cutters hadn't put up any ropes. you do really think there's no reason to be uneasy about ned?" "no," she said. her knees shook; she had to pause to swallow before she spoke. oh, what if he should find her out? as she trudged along at his side in the cold darkness she said to herself, with a sickening sense of apprehension, that if he found her out she should die. then as her mind cleared she tried in her brief way to encourage him about their boy; yet, as they drew nearer home and she saw again the firelit windows, she began to awaken to the situation: neddy had gone out to skate; at six, did nora say? of course he might have stopped to see somebody in upper chester; only neddy never went to see anybody anywhere--except (amelia dilworth had forgotten her!)--except that hayes girl--and she wasn't at home. yes, it was strange; and worrying, perhaps. but she only repeated, as they went hurrying up to the back door, that she was sure neddy was all right. but she held her breath to listen for his voice haranguing his sisters in the sitting-room. instead, the two girls came running out to meet them. "oh, father, did you find ned? oh, here's mother; she'll know where he is." "mother, i'm sort of scared about him," mary whispered. "he's gone to see some friend," the mother said, and her brevity, so agonizing to her, seemed to reassure the others. "he hasn't any friend except miss helen hayes," nancy said, "and she went away last week." "maybe he's gone to hunt her up," mary said, giggling, and her father told her to be quiet. "it's thoughtless in him to be so late. but your mother isn't worried, so i guess we needn't be. your mother says there is not the slightest cause for anxiety, and she knows." "come to supper," amelia said, her heart sinking; and the commonplace suggestion cheered them all, although tom dilworth did not like to lose the assurance of his wife's presence, even to have her go up-stairs to take off her bonnet, and went with her, saying again, decidedly, that there was, as she said, no possible reason for uneasiness, and that he himself hadn't a particle of anxiety. "but i'll give that boy a piece of my mind for worrying you so. why, milly, what a fat pocket-book! where did you get so much money, my dear? i didn't know the hardware trade was so prosperous. look here, milly--it is pretty late, honestly?" she took her purse out of his hands, her own trembling. for a moment she could not speak, and leaned forward to look into the swinging glass and make pretence of untying a knot in her bonnet-strings. "oh, he'll come home soon," she said. in spite of assurances, the tea-table was not very cheerful--the girls stopped short in the middle of a sentence to listen for a step on the porch. tom got up twice to look out of the window. mrs. dilworth thought she heard the gate slam, and held her breath; but no ned appeared. the evening was endlessly long. tom pretended to read his newspaper, and kept his eye on one spot for five minutes at a time. at ten he packed the girls off to bed; at eleven he was walking up and down the room; at twelve he told his wife to go to bed; but somehow or other he went himself, while she sat up, "to let the boy in." you can make excuses for this sort of lateness up to a certain point; but it is curious that at about . in the morning the excuses all give out. tom dilworth got up and dressed. "something has happened, milly," he said, brokenly. his wife put her arms around him, trying to comfort him. "if miss hayes was only at home," she said, "maybe she would have some idea of his plans. he might have told her. and she could tell us what to do." "who?" said tom--"that hayes girl? maybe so. i hadn't thought of her. no, i don't believe she'd be any help. she hasn't got much sense in that kind of way." such ages and ages was milly away from her great experience of jealousy that she felt no relief at this bald betrayal. together they went out onto the porch, listening, and straining their eyes. the moon was just going down; it was very cold; far off a dog barked. but there was no human sound. the two haggard people went shivering back into the hall, where a candle burned dimly in the glass bell hanging at the foot of the stairs. "something has certainly happened," tom said again. "oh, milly, you are always so calm and i go all to pieces." he leaned his elbow against the wall and hid his face in his arm. his wife heard him groan. "and--i've been hard on him sometimes," he said. she took his hand and kissed it silently. poor tom went to pieces more than once in the days that followed--dreadful days of panic and despair. old chester, aroused at daybreak by the terrified father, decided at once that the boy was drowned; but everybody stood ready to help the stricken parents with hopeful words to the contrary, words which rang as hollow to thomas and his wife as to the well-meaning liars. it was on wednesday that he had disappeared. on friday they dragged the river through the open holes; on saturday, blew up the ice and dragged all the way down to the second bend. that night nancy and mary crept away to cry in their own room; tom sat with his head buried in his arms; his wife knelt beside him, touching him sometimes with a quiet hand, but never speaking. dr. lavendar came in and put his hand on tom's shoulder for a minute, and then went away. the firelight slipped flickering about the room; sometimes the coal in the grate snapped and chuckled, and a spurt of flame shone on the two suddenly aged faces. and then into the silent room came, with hurried, shamefaced triumph--edwin. "i--i'm afraid you've been anxious--" "he ought to have written," said another voice, breathless and uncertain, and breaking into nervous laughter. "it is naughty in him to have forgotten. i--i told him so." thomas dilworth lifted his head and stared, silently; but his wife broke out into wild laughter and streaming tears; she ran and threw herself on edwin's breast, her throat strangling with sobs. "oh--she's found neddy! she has brought him back to us!--she has found him! oh, miss hayes, god bless you--god bless you! oh, where did you find him?" miss hayes opened her lips--then bit the lower one, and stood, scarlet. "i meant to write," edwin began to explain--"of course i meant to write, but--" "oh, dear mrs. dilworth," helen's fluttering voice took up the excuse, "you must forgive him"--she came as though to put her arms about ned's mother. "after all, a bridegroom, you know--" milly lifted her head from edwin's shoulder and gaped at her. "bridegroom?" thomas dilworth got on his feet and swore. miss helen hayes--or, no; mrs. edwin dilworth--came and hung upon his arm. [illustration: "thomas dilworth got on his feet and swore"] "you won't mind very much? you'll forgive him? we couldn't tell, because--because papa would have interfered; but i knew your dear, kind heart. mrs. dilworth, i have so revered mr. dilworth!--that was one reason i said _yes_. you'll let me be your little girl, mr. dilworth?" "little--_grandmother_!" said tom dilworth; and burst into a roar of laughter; then stopped, and said through his set teeth to his son, "you scoundrel!" "thomas--don't!" the mother entreated. "he has come back." "he'd better have stayed away!" thomas said, furiously, in all the anger of suddenly relieved pain. "oh, dear mrs. dilworth," helen murmured, "forgive us! he ought to have written--i ought to have reminded him. but--_you_ understand? i know you do. just these first beautiful days, one forgets everything." "well, i tell you i meant to write," ned persisted, doggedly. "but mother put me all out by going over to the bend in the afternoon. i was going to take that train, and of course i couldn't; kensy's house is right there by the station. and i had to take the morning train instead; and it put me all out. i had to get up so early i forgot to take any clothes," he added, resentfully. "it wasn't my fault." "not your fault?" his father said, and then turned to his wife, almost with a sob. "milly, can he be our boy, this sneak?" "yes; yes, he is, tom; indeed he is, dear. and he just forgot; he didn't mean anything wrong." milly was almost voluble, and she was crying hard. and then she looked at the woman who had brought him back--the faded, anxious, simpering woman, who for once had no words ready. milly looked at her, and suddenly opened her arms and took her son's elderly wife to her heart. "oh, you poor woman," she said, "how unhappy you must have been at home!" helen looked at her blankly, then dropped her head down on the kind shoulder, and milly felt her quiver. "she's fifty!" tom said, trembling with anger. "how the devil a son of mine can be such a jack--" "tom, dear! there now, _don't_," the mother said; "he's at home. just think; he's at home! and we thought--we thought--" her voice broke. "we'll all love you, miss hayes--i mean helen," she whispered to the sobbing woman. then, with a sort of gasp, she put her daughter-in-law's arms aside gently, and went over and kissed her husband. as for thomas dilworth, after the first shock of anger and mortification had passed, and the young couple had finally settled themselves upon the disgusted bounty of the respective fathers, he used to whistle incessantly a certain song much in vogue at the time: "i hanker to spank her, now i'm her papa!" "an exceeding high mountain" i robert gray's first wife, alys (old chester had hard work to swallow her name; "but it's better than any of your silly 'ie's,'" said old chester)--this first mrs. gray was a good deal of a trial to everybody. she was not only "new," but foreign; not only foreign, but indifferent to old chester. indeed, it took all old chester's politeness and christian forbearance to invite mrs. robert gray to tea--with the certainty that the invitation would be declined. she was an english girl whom robert met somewhere in switzerland--a heavy-eyed, silent creature, certainly a very beautiful woman, but most inefficient and sickly; and there were so many nice, sensible girls in old chester! (however, there is no use saying things like that: as if a man ever married a girl because she was sensible!) yet young gray certainly needed a sensible wife; his wealth was limited to character and good manners, plus a slender income as tutor in the female academy in upper chester. excellent things, all; but a wife with sense (and money) would have been an agreeable addition to his circumstances. whereas, this very beautiful english girl was a penniless governess, left stranded in germany by an employer, who had, apparently, got tired of her. robert gray had met the poor, frightened creature, who was taking her wandering way back to england, and married her, frantic with rage at the way she had been treated. when he brought her home, he was so madly in love that he probably did not half appreciate old chester's patience with her queer ways. but the fact was, that for the few months she lived, she was so miserable that old chester could not help being patient, and forgiving her her half-sullen indifference, and her silence, and her distaste for life--even in old chester! for in spite of robert's adoration, in spite of all the ready friendliness about her, in spite of the birth of a baby girl, she seemed, as it were, to turn her face to the wall. she died when the child was about a week old. died, the doctor said, only because, so far as he could see, she did not care to live. "you ought to try to get better for the baby's sake," said miss rebecca jones, who had come in to help nurse her. and the poor girl frowned and shook her head, the heavy, white lids falling over her dark eyes. "i don't like it." and rebecca (who had too much good sense to be shocked by the vagaries of a sick woman) said, decidedly: "oh, you'll learn to like her. come, now, just try!" but she did not seem to try; even though robert, kneeling with his arm under her pillow, holding her languid hand to his lips, said, sobbing, "oh, alys, alys--for god's sake--don't leave me--" then she opened her beautiful eyes and looked at him solemnly. "robert," she said, "i am sorry. i am--sorry. i--am--" "what for, precious?" he entreated; "sorry for what? to leave me? oh, alys, then live, live, dear!" "i--am--" she began; and then her voice trailed into eternity. miss rebecca jones hung about the house for a few days, to make the poor gentleman comfortable; then he was left alone with the child (purchased at so dreadful a cost) and one servant, and his daily work of teaching the polite languages at the female academy. miss rebecca's hard face softened whenever she thought of him; but all she could do for him was to go often to see the poor seven-months baby--which seemed for a time inclined to follow its mother. now it must be understood at once that rebecca jones was not a schemer, or a mean or vulgar woman. she was merely a hard-headed, honest-hearted product of years of public-school teaching, with a passion for truth and no grace in telling it. she was sorry for mr. gray, and sorry for the poor baby, who was being allowed, she said to herself, to grow up every which way; and sorry for the comfortless house left to the care of what she called "an uneducated servant-girl." so, after school, and on saturday mornings, she used to go over to mr. gray's house and bustle about to the bettering of several things. indeed, old mr. jones told her more than once that he didn't know what that there widower would do without her. and rebecca said, truthfully enough, that she didn't know, either. and when she said it her heart warmed with something more than pity. as for robert gray, dazed and absent, trying to do his duty at the academy during the day, and coming home at night to look blankly at his child, he, too, did not know what he would have done that first year without miss rebecca's efficient kindness. he was so centred in his grief, and also of so gentle a nature, that he took the kindness as simply as a child might have done. like many another sweet-minded man, he had not the dimmest idea of the possible effect of his rather courtly manner and his very delicate courtesy upon a woman of slightly different class, whose life had been starved of everything romantic or beautiful. he became to sharp-tongued miss rebecca jones a vision of romance; and, somehow, quite suddenly, about eighteen months after his wife's death, he discovered that he was going to marry her. in his startled astonishment, he realized that he had himself led up to her avowal of willingness by some talk about her kindness. perhaps she had misunderstood his words; if she had, robert gray was not the man to offer an explanation.... however, after the first shock of being accepted, he was gently explicit: "i realize that the child ought to have the care of a good woman, and therefore i--" "i'll do my duty by her," rebecca said. "i want her brought up to love and reverence her mother. i want her brought up to be like her. it is for the child's sake that i--i marry again. i speak thus frankly, miss rebecca, because i so entirely respect you that i could not be anything but frank." rebecca's square face flushed over the high cheek-bones to the gaunt forehead and the sparse hair; then her eyes looked passionately into his. "i understand. yes; i understand. and i will be good to your child, mr. gray." and so he married her; and, when you come to think of it, it was a very sensible thing to do. even old chester said he was very sensible. a man of thirty, with a baby--of course he ought to marry again! "but why on earth," said old chester, "when there are so many girls of his own class!--not but what rebecca jones is a very worthy person." meanwhile, rebecca, with hard conscientiousness, set herself to bring the child up. she trained her, and disciplined her, and made a painful point of talking to her about the first mrs. gray, according to her promise to teach her to "love and reverence her mother." the discipline sometimes made robert gray wince; but it was wise, and never unkind; so he never interfered;--but he left the room when it was going on. once he said, nervously: "i scarcely think, mrs. gray, that it is necessary to be quite so severe?" "she must be made a good child," rebecca answered. "i am not afraid that she will not be a good child," robert gray said; "she is her mother's daughter." "well, she is her father's daughter, too," rebecca declared, briefly. and her husband, shrinking, said: "light is stronger than darkness; alice's mother was a creature of light. i am not afraid of her inheritance of darkness." as for rebecca, she went away and shut herself up in the garret. "'creature of light!'" she said, sitting on the floor under the rafters, and leaning her head on an old horsehair-covered trunk wherein were packed away mr. gray's winter flannels--"well, i am a good wife to him, if i ain't a 'creature of light.'" yes, she was a good wife.... how carefully she put his flannels away in may; how prudently she planned his food; how she managed to make the two ends of his little income meet--yes, and lap over, so that every summer he could go away from her for a two months' vacation in the woods! not once did he find a button lacking; not once had he put on a clean pair of stockings and then pulled them off because of a hole in the heel. can our lords say as much, my mistresses? i trow not! yes, a good wife: that lovely being who left the world with a faint, unfinished regret upon her pitiful lips could never have made him so comfortable. indeed, the whole household revolved upon robert's comfort. every domestic arrangement had reference to his well-being. that he did not become intolerably selfish was not rebecca's fault, for, like many good wives, she was absolutely without conscience in the matter of self-sacrifice; but robert escaped spiritual corruption, thanks to his own very gentle nature and his absolute unconsciousness of the situation. perhaps, too, rebecca's tongue mitigated the spoiling process. she never spared him what she considered to be the truth about himself or alice. but her truthfulness stopped here; she spared the dead, perforce. for what could she say ill of that beautiful creature whose only wrong-doing lay in dying? but she knew, with shame, that she would have liked to speak ill of her--in which reprehensible impulse to remove a fellow-being from a pedestal, rebecca showed herself singularly like the rest of us. in this bleak air of unselfishness and truth-telling, robert gray became more and more aloof. gradually he retreated quite into his past, doing his daily work at the academy--where successive classes of young ladies adored him for his gentle manners and his mild, brown eyes--and living very harmlessly with his memories, which he kept fresh and fragrant by sharing them with alys's daughter, who, it must be admitted, being young and human, was not always intensely interested; but rebecca had trained her too well for alice ever to show any weariness. robert kept his little collection of pictures and photographs of his first wife shut behind the curtained doors of an old secretary. if his second wife found him standing, his hands clasped behind him, his eyes wandering from one lovely presentment to another, he never displayed an embarrassed consciousness, but he shut the doors. he accepted rebecca's devotion respectfully; he was never impolite, still less unkind; in fact, in all their married life he had never, she used to tell herself, spoken unkindly save once; and then his words were nothing more dreadful than, "we will not discuss it, if you please, mrs. gray." at first he had, very gently, made some grammatical suggestions; and she had profited by them, though, being a true pennsylvanian, she never mastered "shall" and "will," nor did she lose the pennsylvania love for the word 'just'; to the end of her days, rebecca was 'just tired out'; or 'just real glad'; or 'just as busy as could be.' grammar, however, was as far as robert gray went in any personal relation. he addressed her, in his courteous voice (always a little timidly), as "mrs. gray"; and he kept as much as possible out of her way. meantime, rebecca (remembering why he had married her) did her duty by the child, and never failed to mention, in her hard voice, that alice must try to grow up like her mother. "make me a good girl," alice used to say in her sleepy prayers every night--"make me a good girl, like my dear mother." once, of her own accord, the child added, "and make me pretty like her, too." rebecca, listening to the little figure at her knee, said, sternly, when alice got up and began to climb into the big four-poster: "don't be vain. don't ask god for foolish things. beauty is foolish and favor is deceitful. just ask him to make you as good as your mother was." and, indeed, it must be admitted that the child did not inherit her mother's wonderful beauty. at first her father had expected it; he used to take liberties with his horace, and say: "o filia pulchra matre pulchriore." but as alice grew older, robert gray had to admit that the dead woman had taken her beauty away with her. the child had just a pleasant face; eyes that were gray or blue, as it happened; a commonplace nose, and uncompromisingly red hair. in those days red hair was thought to be a mortifying affliction, and poor, plain alice shed many tears over the rough, handsome shock of hair that broke into curls about her forehead and all around the nape of her pretty, white neck. ii but in spite of red hair, and what old chester religiously believed to be its accompanying temper, alice gray was a lovable girl, and at twenty, behold, she had a lover; indeed, she had more than one (not counting dr. lavendar); but alice never gave a thought to anybody but luther metcalf. luther was a good boy, old chester said; but added that he would never set the river on fire. certainly he did not use his incendiary opportunity; he had a small printing-office, and he owned and edited old chester's weekly newspaper, the _globe_; but neither the news nor the editorial page ever startled or displeased the oldest or the youngest inhabitant. the _globe_ confined itself to carefully accredited cuttings from exchanges; it had a poet's corner, and it gave, politely, any old chester news that could be found; besides this, it devoted the inner sheet to discreet advertisements, widely spaced to take up room. all old chester subscribed for it, and spoke of it respectfully, because it was a newspaper; and snubbed its editor, because he was one of its own boys--and without snubbing boys are so apt to put on airs! poor luther was never tempted to put on airs; he was too hard-worked and too anxious about his prospects. he and alice were to get married when he and the _globe_ were out of debt; for his father had left him a mortgage on the office building, as well as an unpaid-for press. when luther was particularly low-spirited, he used to tell alice it would take him five years to pay his debts; and, to tell the truth, that was an optimistic estimate, for the _globe_ and the printing-office together did very little more than pay the interest on the notes and luther's board. so, when they became engaged, waiting was what they looked forward to, for, of course, robert gray could not help them; it was all rebecca could do to stretch his salary to cover the expenses of their own household. but the two young people were happy enough, except when luther talked about five years of waiting. "we've been engaged two years already," he said, moodily; "i don't want to be another case of andrew steele." "i'm not afraid," alice said. "why, if you get the new job press, and get that mercer work, think how much that will help!" "well," luther said, "yes; but if i get the press, there's another debt. and if i don't get it, i can't get the work; so there it is. a vicious circle." this question of the purchase of a new press, before the old press had been paid for, was a very serious and anxious one. "i wish father could help," alice said--they were walking home from wednesday-evening lecture, loitering in the moonlight, and wishing the way were twice as long. "oh, i wouldn't think of such a thing," the young man declared; "we'll pull out somehow. he's gone off to the woods, hasn't he?" "yes, he went this morning; he's so pleased to get away! he won't be back till the academy opens." "i suppose he hates to leave you, though," lute said. "yes, but i can see that the getting away is a great relief. i keep his pictures dusted, and take the flowers up to the cemetery for him; so he knows things are not neglected." "but," luther said, thoughtfully, "i think she's sorry to have him go?" "oh yes; sorry, i suppose," alice admitted. "she's fond of him--in her way." "then why--" luther began. "my dear, she's _jealous_ of my mother." "oh, alice!" "well, you know," alice explained, "my mother was so beautiful--and poor mrs. gray! but i must say, lute, she's the justest person i know. she's always told me that my mother was perfect. and of course she was; but when you're jealous, it isn't so easy to acknowledge things like that." "but i don't see how you can be jealous of the dead," luther ruminated. "oh, _i_ do! i could be jealous of some girl who was dead, if you'd loved her, lute." and then the boy put his arm round her, and they kissed each other there in the shadows of the locust-trees overhanging a garden wall. "i'm so glad there isn't anybody, dead or alive," alice said, happily; "though i'd rather have her alive than dead. if she were alive, you'd have quarrelled with her, and stopped loving her. but if she were dead, she would keep on being perfect. yes; i'd rather marry a man who had been--been _divorced_," said alice, lowering her voice, because the word was hardly considered proper in old chester, "than a man whose wife was dead, because he would always be thinking what an angel she was and what a sinner i was." "he would think you were an angel," the boy told her, blushing at his own fervency. but the fervency died on his ardent young lips when they got into the house and sat decorously in the parlor with mrs. gray. rebecca was sewing, her hard, square face a little harder than usual. mr. gray had gone away on that annual fishing-trip--gone, with a look of relief growing in his eyes even as he stepped into the stage and pulled the door to behind him; pulled it hurriedly, as though he feared she would follow. then, baring his head politely, he had looked out of the window and said: "good-bye. you will send for me should you, by any chance, need me. i trust you will be very well." "i don't know that i have ever had to interrupt your fishing-trip with any of my needs," rebecca had answered, briefly. she spoke only the truth; she never had interfered with any pleasure of his; and yet robert gray had winced, as if he had not liked her words. now, alone, in the parlor, darning his stockings, she wondered why. she never said anything but the simple truth; but he looked at her sometimes as a dog looks who expects a blow. he was truthful himself, but he never seemed to care much to hear the truth, she thought, heavily. once he told her that truth was something more than a statement of fact. the statement of a fact may be a lie, he had said, smiling whimsically; and rebecca used to wonder how a fact could be a lie? she recalled the time when, with brief accuracy, she had mentioned to him in what condition of ragged neglect she had found his wardrobe after the "creature of light" had left him; and how he had seemed to shrink not from the shiftless dead, but from her. and she remembered painfully that one unkindness: she had told him that, to her mind, not even the weakness of death was quite an excuse for saying you didn't like your own baby; and he had said, with a terrible look, "we will not discuss it, if you please, mrs. gray." she had never spoken of it again; but his look had burned into her poor, narrow, sore mind; she thought of it now, moodily, as she sat alone, her heart following him on his journey. if his first wife had only not been so perfect, she said to herself, she could have borne it better; if she had had a bad temper, even, it would have been something. but she had often heard robert tell alice that her mother had an "angelic temper." rebecca wished humbly she herself could be pleasanter. "i don't feel unpleasant inside; but i seem to talk so," she thought, helplessly. she was thinking of this when the two young people came in; and looking up over her spectacles, she said, coldly: "did you remember to wipe your feet, luther? you are careless about that. alice, i found a flower on my daphne; you can carry the pot up to the cemetery when you go." "yes, ma'am," alice said. she took up her sewing (for rebecca would not have idle hands about); sometimes she glanced at luther, sitting primly in the corner of the sofa, and once caught his eye and smiled; but there were no sheep's-eyes or sweet speeches. they were old chester young people, and such things would have been considered improper; just as sitting by themselves would have been thought not only indecorous, but selfish. "oh, alice," luther said, suddenly, "i meant to ask you; wasn't your mother's name spelled 'alys'?" "yes. why?" "well, it's such an unusual name that it struck my attention when i saw it in the paper." "what about it?" alice asked. "oh, dear, why didn't father spell me 'alys' instead of 'alice'? it's so much prettier!" "prettiness isn't everything; and 'alice' is a sensible name," rebecca said. "don't criticise your father." "it was an advertisement in one of the _globe's_ exchanges," luther explained. "i was scissoring things, and the name caught my eye. it was information wanted. of course it's just a coincidence, but it's queer, because--here it is," said the editor of the _globe_, fumbling in his pocket. "i cut it out and meant to show it to you, but i forgot." then he read, slowly, "_information wanted of one alys winton--_" "why, but winton was my mother's name!" cried alice. "_--one alys winton, who married sometime in ; husband thought to be an american, name unknown. she (or a child of hers, born in ) is requested to communicate with amos hughes, attorney at law,_" etc. alice stared, open-mouthed. "why, lute!" she said--"why, but that must be my mother!" lute shook his head. "i don't think there's anything in it. do you, mrs. gray?" "might be," she said, briefly. alice took the crumpled cutting, and holding it under the lamp, read it through to herself. "but, lute, really and truly," she said, "it is queer. perhaps some of my mother's rich relations have left her a fortune! then we could pay off the mortgage. only i'm afraid my mother hadn't any rich relations--or poor ones, either. i never heard of any. did you, mrs. gray?" "no," rebecca said. "she was a governess, you know, lute, in some horrid english family; the wife didn't like her, and she discharged my poor little mother; then the family went off and left her all alone in germany. perfectly abominable!" "don't be unjust, alice; you don't know anything about it," mrs. gray said. "she was very young. perhaps she couldn't teach the children to suit their parents. though it was unkind to leave her unprovided for," she added, with painful fairness. "i guess it was!" cried alice. "oh, how angry father gets when he talks about it! he says she was in such terror, poor little thing, when he met her. and yet she was very forgiving, father says. he says she wrote and told the gentleman that she was married. _i_ wouldn't have. i'd have let him think i'd starved, so he would have suffered remorse--the wretch!" "i hope you would not have been so foolish or so selfish," her step-mother said. "you see, she had no relations to turn to," alice explained to luther; "if father hadn't come, dear knows what would have become of her." "i suppose she could have earned an honest living, like anybody else," mrs. gray said. "well, anyway," alice said, thoughtfully, "this advertisement is queer. she had no relations that father ever heard of; but there might be some one. what do you think, mrs. gray?" "there might be," rebecca said. she thought to herself that it was very probable; that first wife had brought robert gray beauty and love; it only needed that she should bring him money to make it all perfect. in her bleak mind a window of imagination suddenly opened, and she had a vision of what wealth would mean to her husband, coming as a gift from those dead hands. she set her lips, and said: "better find out about it, luther. write to the man and say that a person of that name before her marriage, died here in old chester, leaving a child--and don't keep your hands in your pockets; it's bad manners." "do you really think it is worth while, ma'am?" luther said, incredulously. "of course it is," said alice. "suppose it should be some inheritance? such things do happen." "in story-books," lute said. "well, then i'd like to be in a story-book," alice said, sighing. "just think, lute, we might pay for the press and pay off the mortgage!" "golly!" said lute. then they fell to making all sorts of plans, gayly, each tripping the other up with the prosaic reminder of improbability. "or, if it _should_ be anything," luther said, "it won't be more than $ ." "well, that's something; it will meet two monthly payments on the press." "it will pay for a diamond-ring for you," lute said. "nonsense! we'll buy father a horse." "and who will buy the oats?" rebecca said. "i could give you a big oleander, mrs. gray," alice told her, smiling. "you could put the money in the bank, like a sensible girl," rebecca said, severely. "don't speak of this outside, either of you. mr. gray wouldn't wish his wife's name talked about." "and don't let's write anything about it to him," alice said; "let's have it a surprise!--if there is anything in it; only, of course, there isn't anything," she ended, sighing. "but you might write to the man, lute." "of course there isn't anything," lute agreed, sensibly. "i'll write if you want me to; but i wouldn't build on it, ally," he said, as he got up to go. and when he paused a minute in the darkness on the porch, he added, softly, "if you get rich, maybe you won't want a poor printer?" and she laughed, and said, "maybe i won't!" then he kissed her just under her left ear, and said, "money isn't everything, ally." iii money isn't everything, but it has so much to do with most things that even a dim, story-book vision of it stirred alice's imagination. luther, having no imagination, dismissed the vision from his mind after writing a letter to "amos hughes, attorney at law." indeed, luther had more practical things to think of than possible legacies, poor fellow. his balance-sheet for that month of june was very dark. more than once, after the office was closed for the day, he sat at his desk in his shirt-sleeves, hot and tired and grimy, poring over his ledger by the light of a swinging lamp. alice grew worried about his pallor and the hollows in his cheeks; but there was nothing she could do, though she chafed against her helplessness to help, and revolved all sorts of schemes in her impractical girl-mind. indeed, she went so far as to pour out her heart to dr. lavendar, in the hope that he could make some suggestion. she found the old man sitting in the wistaria arbor near his beehives, smoking peacefully, and throwing sticks to danny, who needed exercise and scrambled after them into the tall grass, bringing them back with fatiguing alacrity. "look here, sir," said dr. lavendar, "don't find 'em so quick. i'm worn out pitching them." then alice gray came down between the box borders and said she wanted his advice; and dr. lavendar, glancing up at her, saw an uncertain lip and heard a catch in her voice; whereupon he told her to give danny a run. "the scoundrel has kept me working for the last half-hour," he complained. when she came back, flushed and laughing, and sat down on the arbor step, her voice was quite steady; so he listened placidly to her story. "you want to get some work to help lute, do you, good-for-nothing?" "yes," alice said, eagerly. "oh, dr. lavendar, _can_ you think of anything? i wanted to go into the office and learn to set type, but mrs. gray--" "well?" "mrs. gray said i had better learn to keep house economically. she said father wouldn't like it." "mrs. gray would always think first of what your father would like." alice scratched lines in the gravel with one of danny's sticks. "i suppose she would," she admitted. "and what did lute say?" "oh, he wouldn't listen to it. but i thought maybe you could make him, dr. lavendar?" "i?" said dr. lavendar. "no, thank you. do you think i'd rob the boy?" "rob him?" "of his self-respect; a boy wants to stand on his own legs; he doesn't want a girl propping him up. you let lute alone. he'll manage. and you're young yet, anyhow. it won't hurt ye to wait. mrs. gray is right. you learn to be as good a housekeeper as she is; and though you mayn't put money into lute's pocket before you're married, you'll not be taking it out after you're married." alice sighed. "oh, i wish i could help lute; i wish i had a lot of money." "a lot of sense is better," dr. lavendar said, chuckling. "oh, you women! you steal a man's unselfishness and self-respect, and you put it down to love. love? you're a pack of thieves, the lot of you. you ought to be prosecuted. i'd do it, if i had time. hey, danny! bite her; she's like all the rest of 'em." alice hugged him, and defended herself. "you're just an old bachelor; you don't appreciate us." "appreciate ye? i appreciate you. maybe that's why i'm an old bachelor." but though he discouraged alice's projects for assisting luther, dr. lavendar went plodding up the printing-office stairs the next morning. luther, emerging from behind a press, brightened at the sight of his caller, and ushered him into a small closet which he called his private office; and when dr. lavendar asked him to print some more missionary-meeting notices, he said he would put them in at cost price. "don't you do it!" said dr. lavendar, thumping the floor with his umbrella. "look here; i'll have to teach you the first principles of business: make your profit--and don't go to 'pauperizing the church,' sir. there's too much of that sort of thing," he added, with reminiscent crossness. "some scalawag of a bookseller wrote and offered to sell me books at thirty-three per cent. discount because i was a parson. there's no more reason why a parson should get a discount than a policeman. i told him so. i tell you so. print those slips, and _print 'em better than you did the last lot_! do you hear that? you forgot a comma on the second line. how's business, lute?" lute's face fell. then they talked things over, to the boy's great comfort; and at the end of the talk lute straightened his shoulders and drew a good breath. "by george! sir, if hanging on does it, i'll hang on--" he stopped, and looked round, in answer to a knock. "well?" he said, impatiently. but the gentleman who stood in the doorway was not rebuffed. "are you mr. metcalf, the editor of the _globe_?" "yes, sir," said luther. "i called in relation to an advertisement"--luther was instantly alert, and dr. lavendar, scenting a customer, was about to withdraw--"an advertisement in a new york paper, requesting information of a certain person--" "what!" cried luther. "i had forgotten all about it." "my name is carter. i am from the office of mr. amos hughes. messrs. pritchett, carver, and pritchett, solicitors at law, of london, are our principals. the advertisement was in relation to a person called alys winton." luther, stumbling in his astonishment over his words, began to explain. "mrs. gray is dead," he ended. "and alice is her daughter; isn't she, dr. lavendar? she asked me to write to you." "well, well; this is very interesting," said dr. lavendar. "i hope your object in seeking to obtain information is to benefit this young lady? she's one of my children." mr. carter, still standing in the doorway, smiled, and said, "do i understand that this miss alice is the daughter of the person named alys winton?" "yes," said dr. lavendar. "you can easily satisfy yourself on that point by consulting my parish records." "and her mother is the lady you advertised for!" cried luther. the boy was red with excitement. it was just as alice said--a story-book. and they could get married right away! for it would be a lot of money--perhaps $ ; people in england didn't advertise for information of a person dead for twenty-two years for any small amount; well, even if it were $ , they could get married; even if it were $ . "how m--" he began, and stopped; of course that was not a proper question. "alice's mother is the lady you advertised about," he said, lamely. "well, that does not follow, young gentleman; but the coincidence of the name was of sufficient interest for our firm to feel that i might, perhaps, just look into it. there may be dozens of alys wintons, you know." "oh," said luther, so blankly that dr. lavendar laughed. "perhaps before beginning at the beginning you might save time by looking at the end," he said to the lawyer. "if you will step over to my church, you will see that our little alice here is the daughter of mr. robert gray and a lady named alys winton." "a very good idea, sir. you, i infer, are a clergyman in this place? ah, yes; just so. lavendar? ah, yes. i shall be pleased to look at the records, as you suggest, sir." luther, rather abashed, longing to accompany them, stood waiting for an invitation. but none came. dr. lavendar went pounding down the stairs, followed by mr. carter, and lute heard them talking about the roughness of the road from mercer over which mr. carter had come on the morning stage. "confound the road!" said lute to himself. "hi! davidson! i'm going out. the first page is all made up; you can close up the fourth." then he dashed down the creaking stairs and out into the hot sunshine. he had a glimpse up the street of the church, and dr. lavendar bending down fumbling with the key of the vestry door; it was evident that luther's presence was not considered necessary. "i don't care," the boy said to himself, joyously, and started at a swinging pace out over the hill. "i'll be the one to tell her, anyhow!" his face was all aglow. as he hurried along he made calculations as to the rent of the little house. to be sure, he was reckoning on alice's money; but the boy was so honest, and so in love, that he had no mean self-consciousness of that kind. "_we can get married!_" he had no room for any other thought. mrs. gray was sitting on the back porch shelling pease; there was a grape trellis running out from the porch roof, and under it the shadows lay cool and pleasant on the damp flagstones. rebecca, absorbed in the lulling snap of pods, looked up, frowning, at the noisy interruption, for the young man burst in, breathless, swinging his cap, his eyes shining. "oh, mrs. gray, where's alice? oh, my, such news! i never was so excited in my life!" "that is not saying much," rebecca told him; "you've not had a very exciting life. alice is in the dining-room. alice! come out here. here's luther. he says he never was so excited in his life; and i hope he won't be again, for he has upset my bucket of pods." luther, full of apologies, began to pick them up. "i'm so sorry, but i was so dreadfully excited--" "dreadful is a large word," rebecca said. "i doubt whether either you or i have ever seen anything 'dreadful' in our lives. don't exaggerate, luther." "yes, ma'am," lute said. "oh, there's alice! _alice!_" he stood up, his hands full of pods, his face red. "oh, alice, what do you suppose has happened? you'll never guess!" "the advertisement man!" cried alice. luther's face fell a little, and he laughed. "well, you're pretty smart. yes, it is--" "_what?_" said rebecca gray. as for alice, she whirled out on the cool flags and jumped up and down. "oh, lute, tell us--tell us! what does he say? has he sent some money? oh, how much is it? oh, lute, we'll pay for the press. lute, is it--is it $ ? tell us; hurry, hurry!" upon which lute began to subside. "well, it isn't quite--i mean, he didn't--he hasn't said just exactly how much. i mean, of course, i suppose, it isn't certain; but i'm sure there isn't a particle of doubt; only--" "now, lute, begin at the beginning and tell us." alice sat down breathlessly beside her step-mother, and began mechanically to shell the pease. "don't," rebecca said; "i will do my own work. you'd better get your table-cloth and finish that darning." her face had grown quite pale; she saw the fabric of her life crumbling at the base; if, through that first wife, money should come into the family, what use for her patient economies? what use for her existence? that first wife, yet more perfect, would crowd her further from her husband's life. in her heart, used to the long, dull ache of unloved years, rose up a murderous hatred of the dead woman. at first she hardly heard luther's story, but as it went on she began to listen and the pain in her tightened throat of unshed tears lessened. it might not be. as this mr. carter said, there might be dozens of alys wintons. her hands, motionless after the first shock, went at their work again. "you're the daughter of a lady of that name," she said, coldly; "but she may not be the lady they want. better not count on it." alice looked rather blank for a moment; and then she burst into even more than luther's confidence. "do you suppose it will be $ ? oh, lute, just think, we'll pay for the new press right down!" "no, we won't, either," lute said, stoutly. "i'm not going to let you spend your money on printing-presses." "nonsense!" alice cried, laughing and stamping her foot. rebecca frowned and looked at her over her glasses. "don't be unlady-like, alice." "no, 'm," alice said; and then she laughed at her own excitement; "it may be only $ ." "it may be nothing at all," rebecca gray said, and got up and took her pan and bucket and went into the house. it seemed to her that if she had to hear any more of alys winton she would speak out and say some dreadful thing about her. but what could she say with any kind of truth? what could she say ill of that poor creature, so beloved and so harmless? for, after all, though a woman ought to see that a man's buttons are sewed on, you can't say that mere shiftlessness is a sin. besides, she was sick for those few months. "perhaps if my health hadn't been good, i would have been careless myself," rebecca thought, with painful justice. but she went up-stairs to her own room and locked the door. she felt sure that it was as alice and luther said: there would be money, and she would be of still less consequence to her husband; for what did robert gray, nervously polite, really care for her economies and her good housekeeping? "not _that_!" she said to herself, bitterly. iv "you will stay and have dinner with me," dr. lavendar had told the lawyer, hospitably, "and then goliath and i will take you up the hill to mr. gray's house." and so, in the early afternoon, goliath brought mr. carter to the grays' door. alice, who was on the porch, insisted that dr. lavendar should come in, too; she leaned into the buggy to whisper, joyously, "if it is anything nice, i want you to hear it." but for once dr. lavendar did not laugh and give her a kiss and call her his good-for-nothing; he got out silently, and followed mr. carter into the parlor, where luther and mrs. gray were awaiting them. there was a tense feeling of expectation in the air. the two young people were together on the sofa, smiling and laughing, with small, whispered jokes of presses and diamond-rings and mortgages. rebecca sat by the table, her worn hands in a trembling grip in her lap; she sat very upright, and was briefer and curter than ever, and she looked most of the time at the floor. "you have been informed of my errand, madam?" said mr. carter. "it is unfortunate that mr. gray is not at home, but perhaps you may be able to give us some information on certain points, which will at least instruct me as to whether the facts in the case warrant further reference to him for confirmation. i will ask a few questions, if you please?" "go on," rebecca said. "the late mrs. gray, the mother of this young lady," said mr. carter--"do you happen to know her nationality?" "english." "ah, yes. just so. and do you know the date of her marriage to mr. gray?" rebecca gave it. "if any facts in regard to her occur to you--" the lawyer began. "i've heard mr. gray say that she was a governess in the family of a mr. urquhart," rebecca said; and added, "they discharged her in berlin." mr. carter, glancing at a memorandum, his face keen with interest, said, eagerly, "pray proceed, madam." "i don't know much more; mr. gray met her in interlaken. they were married three weeks afterwards." "ah, switzerland? that explains; there was no record of a marriage at the embassy. can you tell me anything of the parentage of the lady?" "her father's name was george winton," alice broke in, "and they lived in a place called medfield. he was a clergyman. her mother's name was alys, too. father has a prayer-book belonging to my grandmother; it has her name in it, and my mother's. would you like to see it, sir?", "exceedingly," mr. carter said; and while alice ran to get the book, he studied his memorandum so closely that no one dared to ask him a question, if, indeed, any one wanted to. rebecca had answered him dully, looking out of the window part of the time, part of the time at the floor. dr. lavendar, on the other side of the room, his hands on the head of his cane, sat silently staring down at the carpet, his face heavy and rather stern. lute, radiant, twirled his cap in his hands, and resolutely held his tongue. alice, as she handed the prayer-book to mr. carter, stopped on her way back to luther and squeezed dr. lavendar's hand. "isn't it wonderful?" she whispered; and he shook his head a little impatiently. "go and sit down, my dear," he said. mr. carter, glancing at the name on the flyleaf, looked at his notes again and then at alice, "and this young lady--can she give me the date of her birth?" there was a little laugh, and luther and alice gave it together, eagerly. there were two or three more questions, and then mr. carter folded his memorandum and slipped it within its rubber band with a snap; then he smiled. rebecca looked at him drearily. "of course," he said, addressing himself to her, "a question of identity cannot be decided offhand; it is necessary to have certain affidavits which the surviving husband of the deceased (who is asserted to be the person in question) would be obliged, legally, to furnish. i think, however, that i am not going beyond the line of discretion and propriety if i say that _if_ mr. robert gray can produce such proofs (which i think i am not unwarranted in saying i believe he can)--_if_ he can, then this young lady is the heir to a very considerable fortune. i think, in point of fact, i have the right to say that, if (as i have said before) these proofs are forthcoming, the amount to be paid to the daughter of alys winton is £ ." rebecca gray put her hand to her mouth and stared blindly at the floor. dr. lavendar thrust out his lower lip and frowned. as for alice, she laughed aloud, then burst out crying. "oh, _lute_!" she said, tremulously; and, somehow, the two children found themselves holding hands. "it's--it's so much!" she faltered. "five thousand pounds is--is $ , !" the boy said, turning pale. there was a pause; no one seemed to know just what to say. then lute, suddenly: "is it your mother's father that left it to you, alice?" she turned to mr. carter, drawing in her breath like a child. "is it?" "ah--no," he answered, briefly. "but i didn't know my mother had any relations?" alice said, in a dazed way; "i thought father said--i'm sure he said--she hadn't any relations? perhaps--perhaps it is a mistake, after all?" "the testator was not a relative of the alys winton in question," mr. carter said. he glanced uneasily at dr. lavendar, who lifted his head and looked at him searchingly. "it will be best to make further explanations to mr. gray," mr. carter said, hurriedly. "but who has left the money to me--if it is to me?" alice said, bewildered. "can't i ask that? what is the name of the kind person? i think i might ask that." [illustration: "'what is the name of the kind person?'"] "the name of the testator was urquhart," mr. carter said, "but--but, you know, my dear young lady, the identity is not yet legally authenticated; so--therefore--perhaps--i think, dr. lavendar, i had best go now? i think you mentioned that the stage leaves at four?" "urquhart?" alice said; "the man who was so unkind? oh, lute, i suppose he repented. oh, how astonished father will be! he'll have to forgive him now." "it's a pretty late repentance," luther said, with a chuckle; "and how did he know about you, alice? i don't see why he should leave you money, even if he was a brute to your mother. still," said the boy, gayly, "i guess we won't complain?" "gracious!" cried alice, "that is queer. well, he _was_ a kind person!" rebecca gray stared, frowning, at the lawyer. "he knew--this urquhart--that she had a child?" she said, slowly. mr. carter was gathering up his papers. "yes," he said--"yes; he--knew it." "what?" said rebecca, in a very low voice--"_what?_" "in view of the fact that, legally, the matter is still undecided," mr. carter said, hurriedly, "perhaps we need not take this point up? at all events, not here." "sir," said rebecca, "why does mr. urquhart leave £ to robert gray's daughter?" "he was sorry he was unkind to my mother," alice said, her voice quivering. ("oh, lute, $ , !") "alice," her step-mother said, in a loud, harsh voice, "you had better leave the room. luther, go with alice, please." the two young people, bewildered, got up with blank faces, and with obvious reluctance obeyed. "but why should i be sent out, lute?" alice said, hotly, when they were in the hall. "it's my money--if i'm the person." luther stopped, and stood, frowning. on the boy's open, honest face came a perplexed look. but alice said again, in injured tones, that she didn't know what mrs. gray meant. in the parlor the three elders looked at each other in silence. mrs. gray had risen, and stood leaning forward, her trembling hands flat on the table. "i don't--understand," she said. "mr. carter," said dr. lavendar, "certain remarks of yours on our way up here made me apprehensive. i see that my friend, mrs. gray, is also--apprehensive. i would suggest that you have a few words with her alone. i will leave you." "no," rebecca said; "hear the end of it." her hard face was red and hot. "why does mr. urquhart leave the child of robert gray £ ? why?" "it is as i think you surmise, madam," john carter said, gravely. rebecca recoiled, with a broken exclamation of horror. dr. lavendar drew in his breath. "oh, my poor robert!" he said. "it is so stated in the will," the lawyer went on; "there is no disguising it; nor, as far as i can see, can it be hidden from the legatee. the directions for finding this heir make the thing explicit. the testator states that he received information of the expected birth of his child _after_ the marriage of the person in question, who did not mention her married name--hence our difficulty in tracing her." rebecca, her eyes narrowing into a cruel smile, sat down and rocked backward and forward in her chair. "dreadful--dreadful--dreadful!" she said, aloud, exultantly. v. the last quarter of an hour, packed with tragic revelation, lost mr. carter the stage. "i hope you will put up at the rectory, sir," dr. lavendar said, as they drove away from robert gray's door. "i thank you, sir," said mr. carter. then they fell into silence--mr. carter from politeness, dr. lavendar from horror. he was going back in his memory with painful effort; but it was all very vague.... he had hardly known her; she had been ill for those months that she had been in old chester, and she had made it very clear that she did not care to see people. he thought of her beautiful, sullen face; of robert gray's passionate devotion; of old chester's silent disapproval.... he groaned to himself, and john carter looked at him sidewise. after supper at the rectory, they sat down to smoke in heavy silence; mr. carter respected the old man's distress, but wondered if he should not have been more comfortable with van horn at the tavern. the glowing july day had darkened into rainy night, with a grumble of thunder back among the hills; but in the midst of a sudden downpour they heard footsteps on the path, and then some one pushed open the hall door, and flapped a wet umbrella on the steps before entering. a minute later luther metcalf stood, hesitating, on the study threshold. "dr. lavendar--" the old man got up hurriedly. "yes, lute. come into the dining-room. you will excuse me, sir?" he said to mr. carter. he put his hand on lute's arm, in a friendly grip, for there was a break in the boy's voice. "i know about it," lute said. they sat down at the dining-room table; lute swallowed hard, and pulled with trembling fingers at his hatband; he did not lift his eyes. "and--and i want you to tell her not to take it." "how is she, lute?" "i haven't seen her. she wouldn't come down-stairs. she sent me a little note," luther said, taking it out of his breast-pocket, and then putting it back again tenderly. "'course i won't pay any attention to it." "saying she'd release you, i suppose?" "yes; but that's nothing. i'll make her understand the minute i see her. but, dr. lavendar, i don't want that--that money!" the boy ended, almost with a sob. "i want you to tell her not to take it." dr. lavendar was silent. "at first i thought--i couldn't help thinking--we could get married right off. we could get married and have a home of our own; you know, we'd be rich people with all that money. and i suppose, honestly, that as things are now, there's no chance of our getting married for a good while. but i--i tell you what, sir. i'd rather never get married than--than touch that money!" dr. lavendar nodded. "you won't let her, sir? you'll make her give it back?" "my dear boy, i can't 'make' alice do anything. the money is hers." "oh, but dr. lavendar, won't you go and talk to her? it may be a temptation to her, just as it was to me, for a minute. we could just make the office hum, sir. we could put it right on its feet; we could have a real daily. i know she'll think of that. _i_ just thought we could get married. but alice will think about helping the office, and me." "of course the money would bring ease to her father--" dr. lavendar stopped abruptly. "oh, my _god_!" lute said, and dropped his head on his arms. "bring ease to--to the family," dr. lavendar ended lamely. "you know mr. gray won't touch it," lute burst out; "and i can't let alice, either. dr. lavendar, i thought maybe you'd let me hitch goliath up and drive you out to the house?" "not to-night, lute. alice has got to be alone. poor child, poor child! yes; we've all of us got to meet the devil alone. temptation is a lonely business, lute. to-morrow i'll go, of course. did you answer her note?" "oh yes; right off. i just said, 'don't be foolish,' and--and some other things. i didn't tell her we mustn't take the money, because i hadn't thought of it then. mrs. gray said she wouldn't come out of her room. oh, just think of her, all by herself!" luther bent over and fumbled with his shoelace; when he looked up, dr. lavendar pretended not to see his eyes. when the boy went away, dr. lavendar went back to the study and asked john carter some legal questions: suppose he had not found this child, what would have become of the money? suppose the child should now decline to take it, what then? "well," said mr. carter, smiling, "as a remote contingency, i suppose i might reply that it would revert to the residuary estate. but did you ever know anybody decline £ , dr. lavendar?" "never knew anybody who had the chance," dr. lavendar said; "but there's no telling what human critters will do." "they won't do that," said john carter. what a long night it was, of rain and wind and dreadful thought! ... rebecca had told alice, with kindness, but with such a grip upon herself lest exultation should tremble in her voice, that she seemed harsher than ever. then she told lute. he pleaded that alice would speak to him, and mrs. gray had gone to the girl's room and bidden her come down-stairs. "come, alice. you must control yourself. come down and talk to luther." alice shook her head. "i'll--write him a note." mrs. gray carried the note back to lute, and brought up the answer, which alice read silently. rebecca watched her; and then, with an effort, she said: "alice, remember we are not to judge. we don't understand. we must not judge. good-night." she opened the door, and then looked at the child, seated, speechless, with blank eyes, on the edge of the bed. "good-night, alice. i--i'm sorry for you, poor girl!" and she came back hastily and kissed her. at that, even in her daze of horror, a glimmer of astonishment came into alice's face. but she did not look up or speak. when it grew dark, she began mechanically to get ready for bed; she knelt down, as usual, at the big chintz-covered winged chair and began to say her prayers, her mind blind as to her own words: "bless dear father--" then she cried out, suddenly and dreadfully, and covered her poor, shamed head with her arms, and prayed no more. then came a long fit of crying, and then a dreary calm. afterwards, as the night shut in with rain and rumble of thunder, the shame lightened a little, for, though she could not read it in the darkness, she held lute's little note against her lips and kissed it, and cried over it, and said his words over to herself, and felt that at any rate there was one bright spot in it all: lute would never have any more anxieties. of robert gray she thought pitifully, but with not much understanding. oh, dreadful, dreadful! but he had loved his wife so much (so the child thought) he would surely forgive her. not knowing how little forgiveness counts for when a star goes out. sometimes, sitting there on the floor, listening to the rain, she slept; then woke, with a numb wonder, which darkened into cruel understanding. _shame; shame_--but lute wouldn't be worried any more; lute would be rich. [illustration: "she knelt down, as usual, at the big chintz-covered winged chair"] so the night passed.... rebecca gray did not sleep. when the house was still she went up-stairs, eager to be alone. she shut her bedroom door softly; then she put her brass candlestick on the high bureau and looked about her.... everything seemed strange. here was her old-fashioned bed with its four mahogany posts like four slender obelisks; there was the fine darn in the valance of the tester; the worn strip of carpet on which she had knelt every night for all these twenty years; it was all the same, but it was all different, all unfamiliar. the room was suddenly the room where that woman had died; the old four-poster was the bed of that heartbreaking night, with sheets rumpling under a wandering hand and pillows piled beneath a beautiful, dying head; not her own bed, smooth and decorous and neat, with her own fine darn in the tester valance. she did not know the room as it was now; she did not know herself; nor robert; nor that--that--_that woman_. she sat down, suddenly a little faint with the effort of readjusting a belief of twenty-two years. "she was a wicked woman," she said, out loud; and her astounded face stared back at her from the dim mirror over the mantel-piece. after a while she got up and began to walk back and forth; sometimes she drew a deep breath; once she laughed. "a wicked woman!" ... now he would know. now he would see. and he would loathe her. he would hate her. he would--her lip drooped suddenly from its fierce, unconscious smile; he would--suffer. yes; suffer, of course. but that couldn't be helped. just at first he would suffer. then he would hate her so much that he would not suffer. not suffer? it came over her with a pang that there is no suffering so dreadful as that which comes with hating. however, she could not help that. truth was truth! all the years of her hungry wifehood rose up, eager for revenge; her mind went hurriedly, with ecstasy, over the contrast; her painful, patient, conscientious endeavor to do her best for him. her self-sacrifice, her actual deprivations--"i haven't had a new bonnet for--for four years!" she thought; and her lip quivered at the pitifulness of so slight a thing. but it was the whole tenor of her life. _she_ had no vacations in the mountains; she would have liked new valances, but she spent hours in darning her old ones to save his money; she had turned her black silk twice; she had only had two black silks in twenty years. all the great things she had done, all the petty things she had suffered, rose up in a great wave of merit before her; and against it--what? hideous deceit! oh, how he would despise the creature! then she winced; he would--suffer? well, she couldn't help that. it was the truth, and he had got to face it. she was walking up and down, whispering to herself, a sobbing laugh on her lips, when suddenly, as she passed the mirror, she had a dim, crazy vision of herself that struck her motionless. a moment later she took the candle, and with one hand clutching for support at the high mantel-shelf--for her knees were shaking under her--held it close to the glass and peered into the black depths. her pale, quivering face, ravaged with tears, stared back at her, like some poor ghost more ugly even than in life. "_a wicked woman._" yes--yes--yes; and he would have to know it. but when he knew it, what then? if his eyes opened to sin, would they open to-- "i have tried to make him comfortable," she said, faintly. suddenly she put the candle down and sank into a chair, covering her face with her poor, gaunt hands.... and so the night passed.... the dawn was dim and rainy. it was about four o'clock that alice, sitting on the floor, sleeping heavily, her head on the cushion of the chair, started, bewildered, at the noise of the opening door. rebecca, in her gray dressing-gown, one hand shielding the flare of her candle, came abruptly into the room. "alice," she said, harshly, and stopped by the empty bed; then her eyes found the figure on the floor ("you ought to be in bed"), she said, in a brief aside; then: "alice, i've been thinking it over. you can't take that money." "i don't understand," alice said, confused with sleep and tears. "you can't take that money. if you do, your father would have to know. and he never must--he never must." alice pulled herself up from the floor and sat down in her big chair. "not take the money?" she said, in a dazed way; "but it's mine." "that's why you needn't take it. thank god it was left to you, not just to 'her heirs.' alice, i've gone all over it. i--i wanted you to take it"--rebecca's voice broke; "yes, i--did." "well, it's mine," alice repeated, bewildered. rebecca struck her hands together. "yours not to take! don't you see? you can save your father." alice, cringing, dropped her head on her breast with a broken word. "don't be a fool," the older woman said, trembling. "he's been your father ever since you were born. and it would be a pretty return for his love to tell him--" alice burst out crying; her step-mother softened. "i am sorry for you, you poor girl. but, oh, alice, think, _think_ of your father!" she clasped her hands and stood, trembling; she took a step forward, almost as if she would kneel. "if he would feel so dreadfully," alice said, at last, "why--we needn't tell him where the money comes from." "now, alice, that is absurd. of course he would know. he would have to know. a girl doesn't inherit £ without her father's knowing where it comes from. and, anyway, mr. carter said that mr. gray would have to make a statement and swear to it. of course he would--know." "do you mean you don't want me to have it at all?" alice said, blankly. "i've just explained it to you," rebecca said, her voice harsh with anxiety. "you _can't_ have it." "but it's my money; i have a right to it. and it would make all the difference in the world to lute. if he is going to take a girl--like me, he ought to have the money, anyhow." "and kill your father?" rebecca said. "alice! don't you see, he must go on believing that she is"--her voice grew suddenly tender--"that she is 'a creature of light?'" "i want lute to have the money," alice said. "alice!" the other exclaimed, with dismay, "don't you think of your father at all? and--for your mother's sake." alice was silent; then, in a hard voice, "i don't like her." "oh!" rebecca cried, and shivered. there was a pause; then she said, faintly, "for your own sake?" alice looked up sullenly. "nobody need know; we would only say it had been left to--her. nobody would know." suddenly, as she spoke, despite the plain face and the red hair, alice looked like her mother. rebecca stepped back with a sort of shock. alice, crying a little, got up and began to pull down her hair and braid it, with unsteady fingers. her step-mother watched her silently; then she turned to go away; then came back swiftly, the tears running down her face. "oh, alice, it is my fault! i've had you twenty-two years, and yet you are like-- see, alice, child; give her a chance to be kind to him, in you. oh, i--i don't know how to say it; i mean, let her have a chance! oh--don't you see what i mean? she said she was sorry!" all the harshness had melted out of rebecca's face; she was nothing but gentleness, the tears falling down her cheeks, her voice broken with love. "alice, be good, dear. be good. be good. and i--i _will_ be pleasanter, alice; i'll try, indeed; i'll try--" vi "well," said mr. amos hughes, a week later, in the cool dusk of dr. lavendar's study, just before tea, "this is a most extraordinary situation, sir!" "will ye have a pipe?" said dr. lavendar, hospitably. john carter, his feet well apart, his back to the fireless grate, his hands thrust down into his pockets, said, looking over at his partner: "amos, dr. lavendar once remarked to me that there was no telling what human critters would do." dr. lavendar chuckled. "very true," amos hughes admitted, putting one fat knee over the other; "but i must say that i never before knew a human critter throw away £ ." "i'm sorry you haven't had better acquaintances," said dr. lavendar. "i have. i'm not in the least surprised at this child's behavior. mr. carter, are you looking for anything? you'll find a decanter on the sideboard in the next room, sir. this is a pretty good world, mr. amos hughes; i've lived in it longer than you have, so you'll take my word for it. it's a pretty good old world, and miss alice gray has simply decided to do the natural and proper thing. why, what else could she do?" "i could mention at least one other thing," said mr. carter. "extraordinary situation! but i suppose the residuary legatees won't make any objection," murmured amos hughes. dr. lavendar rapped on the table with the bowl of his pipe. "my dear sir, would you have a girl, for a paltry £ , break her father's heart?" "her father?" "mr. gray would not, in my judgment, survive such a revelation," said dr. lavendar, stiffly. "may i ask one question?" john carter said. "g'on," said dr. lavendar. "what i would like to know is: how did you bring miss gray to look at the thing in this way?" "i didn't bring her," said dr. lavendar, indignantly; "her heavenly father brought her. look here, sir; this business of the law is all very well, and necessary, i suppose, in its way, but let me tell you, it's a dangerous business. you see so much of the sin of human nature that you get to thinking human nature has got to sin. you are mistaken, sir; it has got to be decent. we are the children of god, sir. i beg that you'll remember that--and then you won't be surprised when a child like our alice does the right thing. surprise is confession, mr. carter." mr. carter laughed, and apologized as best he could for his view of human nature; and dr. lavendar was instantly amicable and forgiving. he took mr. amos hughes's warning, that he should, as a matter of duty, lay very clearly before the young lady the seriousness of what she proposed to do, and not until he had exhausted every argument would he permit her to sign the papers of release which (as a matter of precaution) he had prepared. "she's of age," said amos hughes, "and nobody can say that she has not a right to refuse to proceed further in the matter. but i shall warn her." "'course, man," said dr. lavendar; "that's your trade." and so the evening came, and the three men went up to robert gray's house. it was a long evening. more than once dr. lavendar trembled as he saw the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them spread before his child's eyes. but he said no word, and once, sternly, he laid his hand on rebecca's arm to check some word of hers. "let her alone," he said. it was eleven o'clock before there came a moment of solemn silence. alice bent over a paper, which john carter had read aloud to her, and signed her name. luther and rebecca and dr. lavendar witnessed the signature. then rebecca gray took the girl in her arms. "that young man has got something to him," mr. amos hughes said, as they went back to the rectory. "if you could put some printing in his way, it would be a favor to me," said dr. lavendar. "i shouldn't wonder if i could," the lawyer said. "the girl is a fine creature, poor child," said mr. carter. "gentlemen," said dr. lavendar, "they are both good children, and they have behaved well; but there's somebody else, let me tell you!" however, he did not tell them. perhaps he kept his opinion for robert gray's ears, for once he said, smiling, in rebecca's presence: "robert, this wife of yours is a noble woman." mr. gray, a little surprised, said, politely, looking with kind eyes at rebecca, "mrs. gray is a very good wife, sir." and rebecca went up and hid herself in the garret and cried with joy. at the stuffed-animal house i willy king's buggy, splashed to the top of the hood with mud and sagging sidewise on its worn old springs, came pulling up the hill past the burial-ground. the doctor himself, curled in one corner, rested a leg on the dash-board and hung his reins on the hook over his head. he was very sleepy, for he had been up until three with an old woman who thought she was sick, and he had been routed out of bed again at five because she told her family that she was going to die. william king was not given to sarcasm, but he longed to say to the waiting relatives, "there is no hope!--she'll live." instead, he looked seriously sympathetic and kept his thoughts to himself. when he got home to breakfast, his wife told him how foolish he was to take so much trouble. "there's nothing the matter with mrs. drayton," said mrs. king; "and i should tell her so, flatly and frankly. it would do her good." william said that he would like another cup of coffee. "it wouldn't be good for you," said his martha; "you are drinking too much coffee. you can have shells if you want to. shall i have some shells warmed up?" william said "no," and went trudging off to his office; and then, at ten, started on his round of calls, his old buggy still unwashed from the morning jaunt to the hypochondriac's death-bed. the day was still and sunny, the road quite deserted and full of pleasant shadows under the may foliage. but the sleepy doctor saw it all through half-closed eyes, and yawned, and rested one plump leg on the dash-board, and let the reins hang swaying from the hook in the roof of the bug-pry. then, suddenly, his mare stopped and william opened his eyes. "caught you napping, willy!" said a loud, hearty voice. and the doctor sat up and drew his leg in and laughed. "well, miss harriet, how do you know but what i was worrying over a case?" "much worrying you do, young man!" she sat down on a log on the road-bank and smiled at him. she was a big, vigorous woman with a fresh, brown face and a keen, kind eye. she had a gun in her hand, and a rabbit's white tail stuck out of the hunting-wallet slung over her shoulder. she had broken through the underbrush on the hill-side just as willy's buggy jogged into the shadow of a sycamore that stretched its mottled arms over the deserted road. "willy," she went on, in her loud, cheerful voice, "do you doctor-men smile at one another when you meet, like the augurs, because you fool us so easily with your big words? you call a scratched finger an 'abrasion of the epidermis'--and then you send a bill. and, bless me! what a serious air you put on at a minute's notice!--i saw you pull your leg in, willy. come, now; you were in my sunday-school class--why don't you just admit to me that that piercing look over your eye-glasses is one of the tricks of the trade? i won't tell." william king chuckled. "you just get a touch of lumbago, miss harriet, and you'll believe in my tricks." "lumbago!" said his reviler. "not i; a day's shooting would cure it quicker than a barrel of your pills." "been shooting this morning?" "no; i set a trap in dawson's hollow." she pulled out the rabbit and held it up. "not a bone broken. handsome, isn't he? poor little thing!" william looked at the soft, furry creature, limp in the big brown hand, with critical appreciation. "yes, beautiful. miss annie didn't find him, to let him out?" the hunter's face changed to amused impatience. "willy, she opened three traps last week. and she was so shrewd about it; you would never believe how clever she is. of course it's no use to scold." "of course not. what excuse does she make?" "oh, just the same thing: 'sister, it hurts me to think they can't get out.'" "poor thing!" said the doctor. "i have tried to make her promise not to interfere with the traps. you know, if i could once get a promise out of her i would be all right; annie never broke a promise in her life. but she is too shrewd to be led into it. she always says, 'i'm the oldest, and you mustn't order me round.' it would be funny if it weren't so provoking." "poor thing!" said the doctor again. "she follows me and takes the bait out of the traps once in a while; but she prefers to let things go. and she is certainly wonderfully bright about it," miss harriet said. "now, why can't she be sensible in other things?" "well, you know she has always been about twelve; it's the young head on old shoulders." "i must tell you her last performance," miss harriet said. "you know that picture of aunt gordon that hung in the dining-room? dreadful thing! i never saw the poor woman, but i believe she wasn't quite as ugly as that portrait, though alex looks just like her, dr. lavendar says; and alex is dreadfully ugly, with those pale eyes of his. well, i happened to say--it was last tuesday, at tea, and matty barkley was there: 'that picture of aunt gordon is awful! i can't bear it.' of course i never thought of it again, until i came home the next day--and what do you suppose?" willy began to grin. "yes! she had got up on a chair, if you please, and cut it out of the frame and slashed it all to pieces." "well done!" said willy king, slapping his thigh. "no such thing. it was ugly, but it was a family portrait." "what did she say?" "oh, she had her excuse.... willy, i can't understand her mind; it is so unreasonably reasonable: 'sister, you said you couldn't bear it, so what was the use of having it?' after all, that was sense, william." "so it was," said the doctor, and unhooked his reins and nodded. "well," he said-- but miss harriet laughed awkwardly. "wait a minute, can't you? it won't kill anybody to do without a pill for five minutes." "well, no, i suppose it won't," william admitted; "but with a view to getting home in time for dinner--" "oh, let martha wait. willy, you are the meekest being--let her wait. tell her you'll have your dinner when you're good and ready." "martha is only concerned on my own account," the loyal william protested. "well, i'm not going to keep you long," his old friend said, roughly; "i--i just want to ask you a question." her face grew suddenly a dull red. "not that i believe in your pills and potions--just please remember that. but i suppose you do know a little something." "i could diagnose a scratched finger," said the doctor, meekly. "well--" she said, and looked at the lock of her rifle; "there's nothing in the world the matter with me, but--" "you don't look like a confirmed invalid," the doctor assured her. "no!--do i?" she said, eagerly. "i really am very well, william--very well. dear me, when i get home after a round of my traps (when annie hasn't teased me by letting things out) and eat a good dinner, and sit down with a taxidermy magazine, i--i wouldn't thank king george to be my uncle. yes, i am _very_ well." her emphasis had in it a certain agitation that caught the doctor's eye. "your out-of-door life is calculated to keep you well," he said. miss harriet got up and thrust the rabbit back into the pouch at her side. "of course; and, anyhow, i'm not the sick kind. imagine me shut up between four walls! i should be like sterne's starling. do you remember?--'i want to get out, i want to get out.' no, there's nothing the matter with me. absolutely nothing." she did look very well, the big, brown woman, towering up at the road-side, with her rifle in her hand and the good color in her cheeks and lips. yet her eyes had a worn look, william thought. "pain somewhere," said the doctor to himself. "you know, i don't believe in your pills and truck," she insisted, frowning. "of course not," he assured her easily. "come, now, miss harriet, what's wrong?" "nothing, i tell you," she said, sharply; and then, with impatient brevity, she spoke of some special discomfort which had annoyed her. "it began about six months ago." "probably you've taken cold," william king said, and then he asked a question or two. she answered with irritable flippancy: "now don't put on airs, willy. there's no use trying to impress me; i know you. remember, you were in my sunday-school class." "why didn't you make a better boy of me, then? you had your chance. miss harriet, would you mind coming into my office and just letting me look you over? come, now, why shouldn't i get a job out of you for once? here you tackle me on the road-side and get an opinion for nothing." she chuckled, but retorted that she hated doctors and their offices. "i'm not that drayton cat," she said, "always wanting a doctor to fuss over me. no, you can give me a pill right here--though i haven't a bit of faith in it." "i wouldn't waste a good pill on you," the doctor defended himself. "you've got to come and see me." but when she had promised to come, and william, slapping a rein down on the mare's flank, was jogging along under the sycamore branches, he did not fall into his pleasant drowse again. "she looks so well," he said to himself, "she must be all right--" ii miss harriet's house, called by old chester children "the stuffed-animal house," was on the hill-road a stone's-throw beyond the burial-ground. it was of weather-worn brick, and its white lintels, carved in thin festoons of fruit and flowers, were nearly hidden by ivy that stretched dark figures over the marble, and, thickening with the years across the tops of the windows, made the rooms within dim with wavering leaf shadows. a brick path, damp and faintly green with moss, ran down to a green gate set in a ragged privet hedge that was always dusty and choked with dead twigs. the house itself was so shaded by horse-chestnuts that grass refused to grow in the door-yard. a porch shadowed the front door, which opened into a dark, square hall, full of dim figures that hung from the ceiling and stood in cases against the walls. a dusty crocodile stretched overhead, almost the width of the hall; a shark, with varnished belly splitting a little under one fin and showing a burst of cotton, lurked in a dim corner; over the parlor door a great snake, coiled about a branch, looked down with glittering, yellow eyes; and along the walls were cases of very beautiful birds, their plumage dulled now, for it was forty years since miss harriet's father had made his collection. but all around the hall were glistening eyes that stared and stared, until sometimes an old chester child, clinging to a mother's protecting hand, felt sure they moved, and that in another moment the crocodile's jaws would snap together, or the eagle's wings would flap horribly in the darkness. yet there was an awful joy to old chester youth in being allowed to accompany a mother when she made a polite call on miss harriet. this hall, that was dark and still and full of the smell of dead fur and feathers and some acrid preservative, had all the fascination of horror. if we were very good we were allowed to walk from case to case with old miss annie, while our mothers sat in the parlor and talked to miss harriet. miss annie could not tell us much of the creatures in the cases, and for all she used to laugh and giggle just as we did, she never really knew how to play that the hall was a desert island and the wild beasts were lurking in the forest to fall upon us. "it isn't a forest, it's our front hall," miss annie would say; "and you must do what i tell you, because i'm the oldest, and i don't want to play desert island. but i'll show you my chickens," she would add, with eager politeness. sometimes, if miss annie were not in the room, we would hear miss harriet tell some story about her mischievousness, and our mothers would sigh and smile and say, "poor dear!" our mothers never said "poor dear!" about us when we did such things. if one of us old chester children had spoken out in church as miss harriet said miss annie did once, and told dr. lavendar that he was telling a story when he read in the morning lesson that the serpent talked to eve--"because," said miss annie, "snakes can't talk"--if we had done such a dreadful thing, we should have been taken home and whipped and sent to bed without any supper, and probably the whole of the third chapter of genesis to learn by heart. we should not have been "poor things!" this was very confusing to old chester youth until we grew older and understood. then, instead of being puzzled, we shrunk a little and stayed close to our mothers, listening to miss harriet's stories of miss annie with strange interest and repulsion, or staring furtively at the little old woman, who laughed often and had a way of running about like a girl, and of smoothing back her gray hair from her temples with a fluttering gesture, and of putting up her lip and crying when she was angry or frightened or when she saw anything being hurt. miss annie could never bear to see anything hurt; she would not let us kill spiders, and she made us walk in the grass instead of on the brick path, because the ants came up between the bricks, and she was afraid we would step on them. "annie is very kind-hearted," miss harriet used to tell our mothers. "she can't bear my traps." miss harriet's traps were her passion; her interest in taxidermy had come to her from her father, and though she had not been able to add anything of real value to mr. hutchinson's collection, her work was thoroughly well done; and she even made a fair sum of money each year by sending her squirrels and doves to town for the christmas trade. but more important than the money was the wholesome out-of-door life her little business entailed, which had given her her vigorous body and sane mind. she needed both to live with this gray-haired woman, whose mind was eleven or twelve years old. it was not a bad mind for eleven or twelve, willy king used to say. old miss annie had a sort of crude common-sense; she could reason and determine as well as any other twelve-year-old child--indeed, with an added shrewdness of experience that sixty years of bodily age made inevitable. she knew, innocently, much of life that other children were guarded from knowing; she knew death, too, but with no horror--perhaps as we were meant to know it--something as natural as life itself, and most of all as a release from pain. for old annie knew pain and feared it as only the body in which the soul is not awake can fear it. she wept at the sight of blood and moaned when she heard a squirrel squeak in the trap; she shivered with passionate expectation of relief when miss harriet's kindly chloroform brought peace to fluttering wings or beating claws. when some soft, furry creature, hurt in the trap, relaxed into happy sleep in the thick, sweet smell that came out of miss harriet's big bottle, miss annie would laugh for joy, the tears of misery still wet upon her wrinkled cheeks. "don't come into my shop," miss harriet used to say, laughing and impatient, when miss annie would follow her into the room in the barn where she did her work--"don't come in here, and then you won't see things that hurt your feelings." but annie, smoothing her hair back from her temples with a curious, girlish gesture, would only shake her head and sidle closer to her sister, the young, guileless eyes in the withered face full of protest and appeal. her horror of pain lost miss harriet many a fine specimen; for, in her pity for the trapped creatures, annie, noiselessly, like some indian hunter, used to follow on her sister's footsteps through the woods, lifting the baits out of the traps, or if she found a snared creature unhurt, letting it go, and then creeping home, frightened at miss harriet's anger, which, if she discovered the old child's naughtiness, fell like a thunderbolt, and then cleared into patient amusement, as a black shower brightens into sunshine. the big, kind woman with a man's mind could not be angry at this poor creature; so she did her duty by her and tried not to think about her. she went her way, and set her traps, and prepared her few specimens, brushing annie or any other annoyance aside with careless good-nature. "don't think about unpleasant things," she used to say, in her loud, cheerful voice. "the trouble with you doctors and ministers," she told dr. lavendar, "is that you make people think about their insides. it's stomachs with willy and souls with you. nobody ought to know that they have a stomach or a soul. i don't. a tree don't. and there isn't an oak in old chester that isn't pleasanter than mrs. drayton. yet she's always fussing about her insides--spiritual and material." "it's when you don't have 'em that you fuss," dr. lavendar said; "the trouble isn't too much soul, it's too little. and i guess it's the same with stomachs." "then you say mrs. drayton has no soul?" miss harriet said, pleasantly. "i never said anything of the sort," said dr. lavendar. as for miss harriet, she went on to willy king's office, prepared, as usual, to make him as uncomfortable as she could. but she never put willy out. her flings at his profession tickled him immensely, and if now and then the good, honest william practised, as miss harriet said, a few of the tricks of his trade, he was not averse to sharing their humor with some one who could appreciate it. "so you have that drayton cat on your hands again?" miss harriet said, plumping herself down in william's own chair in front of his office table so that she could pick up and examine what she called his "riffraff." ("do open your windows, william. i don't see how you can be so shut up. po-o-o! how can people live so much in-doors?") "well," said william, doing as he was bid, "she enjoys my visits and i enjoy her checks. i don't complain." "that's like the profession," said miss harriet; "you put your hands in our pockets whenever you get a chance. well, you'll get nothing out of my pocket, william, for there's nothing in it." "miss harriet," said william, chuckling--"you won't tell anybody, will you? but mrs.--well, i won't name names; that's not professional--" "call her a 'female,'" said miss harriet. "well, a female sent for me on tuesday, in a dreadful hurry; i must come, 'right off! quick!' i was just sitting down to breakfast, but of course i ran--" "martha must have been pleased?" "i ran; and arrived, winded. there was--the female, at _her_ breakfast. 'oh,' she said, 'doctor, the baby has slept right through from six last night, and he hasn't wakened up yet. i am afraid there is something the matter with his little brain.'" "william, if you didn't say that there was something the matter with _her_ little brain--" "i didn't," william said, grimly, "because she hasn't any. now, miss harriet, let's talk about yourself; it's pleasanter." "oh, there was not the slightest occasion to come to see you. but i said i would, and here i am. i suppose you'll send me a bill as long as my arm. do you have a system of charges, willy? so much for a look over your glasses? so much for that solemn cough? i suppose you grade all your tricks. now work off the most expensive ones on me; i propose to get the worth of my money, young man." "thought you said you weren't going to pay any bills?" william reminded her; and then refused to be side-tracked any longer, but asked question after question, bringing her up once or twice with a sharp turn. "don't joke now, please, miss harriet. be as exact as you can. is this condition thus, or so--?" and when he got through with his questions, he took up the joking rather heavily. "you're so faithless about pills," he said, "that i'm not going to give you any." "what! no pills?" said miss harriet. william king laughed awkwardly. "not a pill! i don't see any condition which warrants them: but--" "what did i tell you? there's nothing the matter, and you just dragged me here to give your office a busy look." "i didn't suppose you'd see through it," said willy king. "but, miss harriet, i--i don't feel _quite_ satisfied. i--do you know i've a great mind to get a man in mercer to look you over? i want you to go up with me to-morrow and see him." "nonsense!" "no, truly," he said; "i am not satisfied, miss harriet." "but what do you mean?" she insisted, sharply. "there's nothing the matter with me. you said yourself i didn't need any medicine. give me some opiate to stop this--this discomfort when it comes on, and i'll be all right." "you can't bear opiates," he said, bluntly; "your heart won't stand them. don't you remember the time you broke your ankle and i tried morphine--a baby dose--to give you some relief? you gave me a scare, i can tell you." miss harriet was silent. then: "i've known my heart wasn't right for two years. but--" "oh, your heart doesn't give me any concern--if you don't take liberties with it. perhaps it isn't quite as good as it was thirty years ago, but--" "ah, i lost it to you then, willy. you were a sweet little fellow when you came into my class. do you remember once when--" "miss harriet, you've got to go to mercer with me to-morrow," william king interrupted, quietly. "i hope there's nothing much out of the way. i hope not. i--i believe not. but i'm not sure. we'll go up and see greylord and find out. he'll give you some pills, maybe," he ended, and laughed and got up. "now i'm off to the cat, miss harriet." and miss harriet, to her astonishment, found herself dismissed before she had made the boy tell her what he was afraid of. "he _is_ a boy," she said to herself. "of course he wouldn't be apt to know what was the matter. i ought to have gone to see some mercer man to begin with. i remember when willy was born." iii when they came out of the mercer doctor's door william king's fresh face had gone white, but miss harriet walked smiling. at the foot of the steps the doctor paused and stood an instant leaning on the hand-rail, as though for support and to get his breath. miss harriet looked at him with concern. "why, willy!" she said. "miss harriet," william said, hoarsely, "he may be mistaken. it's perfectly possible that he is mistaken." "i guess not, willy," she said, simply. "come, now, don't be such a wet string." she struck him a friendly blow on the shoulder that made the doctor take a quick step forward to keep his balance; but it gave him the grip upon himself that for a single instant he had lost. "and, anyhow," he said, "even if he is right, it may not develop. i've known a case where it was checked for two years; and then the patient died of small-pox." "pleasant alternative," said miss harriet; she was smiling, her face full of color, her shoulders back, her head up. "come, willy, let's have a spree. here we are for a day, and martha's at home. we'll have a good dinner, and we'll do something interesting. _hurrah!_" said harriet hutchinson. and the doctor could do no less than fall into step at that martial note and march at her side proudly. and by some spiritual contagion his courage met hers like the clash of swords. they went to get their good dinner, and miss harriet ate it with appetite. afterwards she declared they would go to the circus. "it's in town; i saw the tents. i haven't been to a circus for forty years," she said; "but i know just how the pink lemonade tastes. you've got to treat, willy." "i'll throw in pea-nuts," said william king; and with that they left the restaurant and went sauntering along the hot, grimy street in the direction of the open lots beyond the blast-furnaces, where, under a deep june sky, dazzling even though it was smudged by coils of smoke, were stretched the circus tents, brave with flags and slapping and billowing in a joyous wind. william king held on to his hat and looked at the great, white clouds, domed and shining, piled all along the west. "we'll get a shower, i'm afraid, miss harriet." "well, take a pill, willy, and then it won't hurt you," she told him, with a laugh that belonged to the sun and wind, to the flags whipping out on their halyards and the signs of the side-shows bellying from their guy-ropes, to the blare of music and the eager circus crowd--that crowd that never changes with changing generations. still there is the old man gaping with excited eyes; still the lanky female in spectacles; the cross elder sister afraid of crushing her fresh skirts; the little boy absorbed in thought; the little girl who would like to ride on the shetland pony when the clown offers any miss in the audience an opportunity. we know them all, and doubtless they know us, the patronizing, amused on-lookers, who suddenly become as eager and absorbed as any graybeard or child in the crowd. we know the red boxes, too, where men with hard faces and wearied eyes shout mechanically the same words of vociferous invitation to the side-shows. children, pulled along by their elders, would stop, open-mouthed, before these men; but somehow they never see the wild man or the fat lady. ah, the regret for the unseen side-shows!--the lady with the snakes; the skeleton man; the duel between the educated hyena and his trainer--that hyena of whom the man in the red box speaks with such convincing enthusiasm. "_i have been_," cries the strident voice--"_i have been connected with circuses all my life--all my life, ladies and gentlemen!--and i give you my sacred word of honor that this is the most magnificent specimen of the terrible grave-robbing hyena that i have ever seen!_" why did we never see that hyena? why, why did we always hurry on to the main tent? it is the pang that even paradise must know, of the lost experience of earth--or perhaps of hell. "we ought to see the fat lady," said dr. king. "i'm afraid we'll be late," miss harriet objected, eagerly. so they pushed on with the impatient, good-natured crowd. the smell of tan-bark and matted pelts and stale pea-nut shells came in a gust as they jostled under the flap of the outer tent and found themselves inside the circle of gilded cages. "shall we go right in and get our seats?" william said. "what! and not look at the animals? willy, you're crazy. i want to feed the elephants. why, there are a lot of them, six or seven." so they trudged around the ring, their feet sinking deep into the loose, trampled earth. miss harriet poked the monkeys clinging to the grating of their car, with her big umbrella, and examined the elephant's hide with professional interest. "imagine curing that proboscis," she said. and then they stopped in front of a miserable, magnificent lion, turning, turning, turning in a cage hardly more than his own length. miss harriet drew in her breath. "it's being trapped that is so awful, willy. the consciousness that _you can't get out_. it isn't the--the pain of it; it's being trapped." william king, looking at the poor tawny creature of the desert and free winds and life that dealt death with passion, blinked suddenly behind his glasses. "but you trap things yourself," he protested, a moment afterwards. "oh, but i don't keep 'em trapped; i kill 'em," she defended herself. "i couldn't keep things shut up. i'd be as bad as annie if i saw any living creature that wasn't free to get out-of-doors." and then she pushed on to the next cage, and the next; then suddenly feared that they would not get good seats if they wasted any more time among the animals. "for we won't have any reserved doings," she said. "i want to sit on those boards that i sat on forty years ago." she was as excited as she might have been forty years ago; and pushed ahead into the big tent, dragging william by the hand, and climbing up tier after tier, to get a good view of the ring. when they sat down, she made haste to spread open the flimsy pink sheet of the programme with its pale type, and read to william, in a loud, ecstatic voice, just what was going to happen: "_display no. . gigantic pageantric prelude--presenting equitational exercises, hippo-dramatical revivals, pachydermical aggregations--the only terpsichorean pachyderms ever taught to tread the mazes of the quadrille._ "_display no. . claire st. jeal and her company--the loveliest daughters of italy, and world-famous bareback equestriennes--_" "you are sure you are not getting tired?" william king interrupted. "tired?" she repeated, scornfully. "william, as matty barkley would say, you are a perfect fool. why should i be tired? i feel first rate--never better. i wouldn't thank king george to be my uncle! i've wanted to come to the circus for years. willy, what will your wife say?" "nothing," said william, significantly. at which miss harriet laughed until the tears stood in her eyes. "william, you have more sense than i gave you credit for. but i am not sure that, as your sunday-school teacher, i ought not to tell you to confess. hullo! look what's coming." flare of banners! prancing horses! roman soldiers in rumbling gold-and-crimson chariots! elephants bearing, throned upon their backs, goddesses of liberty and queens of beauty! miss harriet was leaning forward, her lips parted with excitement. william king looked at her and drew in his breath. [illustration: "miss harriet was leaning forward"] "'not more than six months;' god grant not!--i wish it might not be more than two." "willy, read what comes next," she said, shoving the programme at him; "i can't stop looking." the canvas was darkening a little overhead, so that william had to put on his glasses and hold the printed sheet at arm's-length to decipher the blurred, smudged text sufficiently to say that "mademoiselle orinda, queen of the flying trapeze, would give her marv--" "william--what shall i do about annie?" miss harriet said. "you know we will all take care of miss annie," he said, tenderly; "and--" "oh, willy, there's the red lemonade," she interrupted, standing up and beckoning with her crumpled programme. "did you ever see so deadly a drink? you forgot the pea-nuts," she reminded him, reproachfully. and when william secured his hot, brown-paper bag, she ate the pea-nuts and watched the changing wonders of the ring with intent eyes. she laughed aloud at the clown's endeavors to ride a kicking donkey, and when the educated dogs carried one another about in a wheelbarrow she applauded generously. "they are wonderful!" she said. william king looked at her keenly; it was all real. miss harriet was incapable of pretence. the brilliant day, that had showed between lacings of the tent like strings of sapphires, had dimmed and dimmed; and by-and-by, unnoticed at first, there was the drip of rain. here and there an umbrella was raised, and once or twice a bedraggled man or woman led out a reluctant child--"for i ain't a-goin' to have you catch your death of cold for no trained elephants," a mother said, decidedly, pulling a whining boy from beside miss harriet. "perhaps," ventured the doctor, "we really ought to go. i can't have you 'catch your death of cold,' miss harriet." "i won't die of a cold, william," she said, her eyes narrowing. and william swore at himself under his breath, but said, with clumsy jocularity: "well, not if i can help it. but i don't know why you should be so sure; it might give you bronchitis for a year." "i won't have bronchitis for a year," miss harriet said, gazing at the clowns. and william king swore at himself again. the rain increased to a downpour; little streams at first dripped, then poured, upon the thinning benches. the great centre pole was streaming wet; the clown stood in a puddle, and the red triangle on his chalk-white forehead melted into a pink smear. "really, miss harriet," william said, anxiously, "i'm afraid--" "if you're afraid for yourself, i'll go," she said; "but we ought to wait for the grand concert. (ah! there's the man with the red balloons. if you had a half-dozen children, willy, as you ought to have, i'd buy him out.) well, are you sugar or salt, to be so scared of a drop of rain?" she did not look afraid of rain herself when she got up and pushed past the scattered spectators, her hair glistening with drops, her cheeks red, her eyes clear. "william," she said, when they got outside and were hurrying along to catch the stage for old chester--"william, that has done me good. i feel superbly. do you know, i haven't had an instant's pain since i first spoke of the thing to you? that's three days entirely free. why, such a thing hasn't happened in--in three months. just think of that--entirely free. william, i'll cheat you doctor-men yet." she looked at him with glowing courage. "i feel so well," she said. she held out her hand, there in the rain on the black cinder-path, and william king struck his into it with a sort of shout. "hurrah!" he said, as she had said when they had come out from hearing the sentence in the mercer doctor's office. the long ride home in the stage, in which they were the only passengers, was perhaps a descending scale.... at first they talked of the circus. "i liked the man and the bear best," william said. "oh, he wasn't as fine as that beautiful lady in pink petticoats who rode the fat, white horse. did you ever see a horse with so broad a back, willy? why, i could have ridden him myself." "he would need a broad back," william said; and miss harriet told him to hold his tongue and not be impudent. the rain was pattering on the roof and streaming down the windows, and in the dark, damp cavern of the stage they could not see each other's face very well; but the stretches of tense silence in the circus talk made william king's heart beat heavily, although he burst out gayly that the afternoon had brought back his youth. "miss harriet, when you were a child, didn't you always want to poke around under the seats when it was over and find things? william rives once found five cents. but william would find five cents in the desert of sahara. i never had his luck, but i was confident that watches were dropped freely by the spectators." "of course," cried miss harriet. "or diamond-rings. my fancy led me towards diamond-rings. but i suppose you never knew the envy of the ladies' clothes? dear me--those petticoats!" "the ring-master's boots were very bitter to me; but my greatest desire was--" "willy," miss harriet said, hoarsely, "i don't want anybody to know." "of course not," william king said. "why should they? we may hold this thing at bay for--" "we will hold it at bay," she said, with passion. "i will! i _will_! do you hear me?" willy king murmured something inarticulately; his eyes suddenly smarted. the ride to old chester seemed to him interminable; and when, after wandering snatches of talk about the circus, the stage at last drew up at the green gate in miss harriet's privet hedge, his nerves were tense and his face haggard with fatigue. at home, at his belated supper-table, his good martha was very severe with him. "you oughtn't to allow yourself to get so tired; it's wrong. you could just as well as not have ordered your things by mail. i must say, william, flatly and frankly, that a doctor ought to have more sense. i hope there was nobody in the stage you knew to talk you to death?" "miss harriet came down," william said, "but she hadn't much to say." "i suppose she went to buy some of her horrid supplies?" martha said. "i can't understand that woman--catching things in traps. how would she like to be caught in a trap? i asked her once--because i am always perfectly frank with people. 'how would you like to be caught in a trap, miss harriet?' i said. and she said, 'oh, annie would let me out.' you never can get a straight answer out of harriet hutchinson." "my dear, i'll take another cup of tea. stronger, please." "my dear, strong tea isn't good for you," martha said. iv when miss harriet woke the next morning the blue june day was flooding her room. at first she could not remember.... what was the something behind her consciousness? it came in an instant. "_trapped_," she said, aloud, and turned her head to see miss annie at her bedside. "what is trapped, sister?" said miss annie, her little old face crumpling with distress. "i am," harriet said; and laughed at the absurdity of telling annie in such a fashion. but of course there was no use in telling annie. she couldn't understand, and all that there was for her to know, the ultimate fact, she would find out soon enough. the younger sister felt a sick distaste of dealing with this poor mind; she wanted to be kind to annie; she had always wanted to be kind to her--but she didn't want her round, that was all. and so she sent her off, patiently and not ungently: "don't bother me, annie, that's a good girl. no--i don't want any roses; take them away. no--i don't want to look at pictures. you go away now, that's a good girl." and the wrinkled child obeyed meekly. but she told the deaf augustine that harriet was cross. "i'm the oldest, and she oughtn't to order me round," she whimpered. poor miss annie was constantly being told to be a good girl and go away, in the days that followed--days, to miss harriet, of that amazement and self-concentration which belong to such an experience as hers. there had been no leading up to this knowledge that had come to her--no gradual preparation of apprehension or suspicion. the full speed of living had come, _crash!_ against the fact of dying. the recoil, the pause, the terrible astonishment of that moment when life, surging ahead with all his banners flying, flings himself in an instant against the immovable face of death--leaves the soul dazed by the shock--dazed, and unbelieving. "_it cannot be._" that is the first clear thought. it is impossible; there is a mistake somewhere. a day ago, an hour ago, death was lying hidden far, far off in the years. sometime, of course, he would arrive--solemn, inevitable, but beneficent, or at least serene. he would send soft warnings before him--faint tollings of fatigue, vague mists of sunset shadows. the soul will be ready for him when he comes then; will even welcome him, for after a while life grows a little tired and is ready to grasp that cool hand and rest. we all know how to meet death then, with dignity and patience. but to meet him to-morrow--to-day, even, when we are full of our own business, of our own urgent affairs--the mere interruption of it is maddening. across the solemnity of the thought comes with grotesque incongruity an irritated consciousness of the _inconvenience_ of dying. as for harriet hutchinson--"i don't believe it," she said to herself, that first morning. and then, breathlessly, "why, i can't--die!" she was not afraid, as one counts fear, but she was absorbed; for there is a dreadful and curiously impersonal interest in the situation that takes possession of the mind in moments like this. no wonder she could not think about annie. she could not think about anything except that that man in mercer had said that in a very short time-- "why, but it's perfectly ridiculous!" she told herself; "it _can't_ be. i'm not sick--" as she lay there in her bed that morning, after she had sent miss annie away, she lifted her hand--a large hand, with strong, square fingers, brown with weather and rough with her work, and looked at it curiously. it was a little thin--she had not noticed that before; but there it was, eager, vital, quick to grip and hold, life in every line. and it would be--still? no; she did not believe it. and, besides, it couldn't be, it mustn't be. she had a hundred things to do. she must do them; she couldn't suddenly--_stop_. life surged up in a great wave of passionate determination. she got up, eager to go on living, and to deny, deny, deny! it was the old human experience which is repeated and repeated until life can learn the fulfilment of death. poor life, beaten by the whips of pain, it takes so long sometimes to learn its lesson! in those weeks that followed--weeks of refusal, and then struggle, and then acceptance, and last of all adjustment--miss harriet found old annie's companionship almost intolerable. she was very unreasonable with her, very harsh even; but all she asked was solitude, and solitude annie would not give. she ran at her sister's heels like a dog; sat looking at her with frightened eyes in the bad hours that came with relentlessly increasing frequency; came whimpering to her bedside on those exhausted mornings when harriet would scourge her poor body onto its feet and announce that she was going out. "these four walls smother me," she used to say; "i must get out-of-doors." sometimes it seemed as if the big, kind nature that had borne the pin-pricks so patiently all these years had reached the breaking-point, and another day or another hour of poor old annie's foolish love would cause it to burst out in frantic anger: "it hurts, sister?" "yes, annie; but never mind. if i could only get out-of-doors i wouldn't mind." "oh, sister, don't let it hurt." "can't help it, annie. now, don't think about it, that's a good girl. maybe i can get out to-morrow a little while." "but i can't bear it." "got to, my dear. come, now, run away. go and see your chickens." "sister, i can't bear it." "annie, you drive me wild. augustine--oh, she can't hear. _augustine!_ you must take miss annie away. annie, if you say another word--" "i'm the oldest and i have a right to talk. why don't you smell your big bottle? when the squirrels smell it they are not hurt." "well, i'm not a squirrel. annie, if you stay another minute, i'll--i'll-- oh, for heaven's sake, let me alone!" she could stand it, she told herself, if she was alone. for though she finally accepted the fact, her own weakness she could not accept. "i am ashamed," she told william king, angrily. "but there's nothing to be ashamed of," willy king protested, in his kind way. "dear miss harriet--" "hold your tongue. nothing to be ashamed of? i guess if your body had put your soul in a corner, with its face to the wall--i guess you'd be ashamed. yesterday i--i-- well, never mind. but my body got me down, i tell you--got my soul down. isn't that something to be ashamed of? don't be an ass, william. i'm ashamed." it was this consciousness of her own weakness that made her hold herself aloof from her friends. in those days people did not have trained nurses; they nursed one another. it was not skilful nursing; it frequently was not wise, as we count wisdom to-day; but it was very tender and loving, and it was very bracing. in these softer times, when we run so easily to relief from pain, we do not feel the presence of the professional nurse a check upon our weakness; if we suffer, we are willing that this skilful, noiseless machine, who will know exactly how to relieve us, shall see the suffering. we are neither mortified nor humiliated by our lack of endurance or of courage. but in old chester, when we were ill, and some friend or relative came to sit by our bedside, we had--for their sakes--to make an effort to control ourselves. if the effort failed, our souls blushed. miss harriet would not run the risk of failure; her body, as she said, got the better of her soul when she was alone; it should not have the chance to humiliate her publicly; so, roughly, she refused the friendly assistance so eagerly offered: "thank you; augustine can look after me. i don't want anybody. and besides, i'm perfectly comfortable. (william, i won't have anybody. do you understand? it's bad enough to disgrace myself in my own eyes; i won't have matty barkley sit and look on.)" and william king put people off as well as he could: "i go in two or three times a day, just to say how do you do; and miss annie is about and can bring her anything she needs. and augustine is very faithful. of course, she is deaf as a post, but she seems to know what miss harriet wants." so the situation was accepted. "here i am," she told the doctor, grimly, "dying like a rat in a hole. if i could only get out-of-doors!--or if i had anything to do!--i think it's the having nothing to do that is the worst. but i'll tell you one thing, willy--i won't be pitied. don't have people mourning over me, or pretending that i'm going to get well. they know better, and so do i." those who dared to pity her or who ventured some futile friendly lie about recovery were met by the fiercest impatience. "how do i feel? very well, thank you. and if i didn't, i hope i wouldn't say so. i hope i'm well enough bred not to ask or answer questions about feelings. there is nothing in the world so vulgar," she said, and braced herself to one or another imprudence that grieved and worried all the kind hearts that stood by, eager to show their love. "it breaks my heart to see her, and there's nothing anybody can do for her," mrs. barkley told dr. lavendar, snuffling and wiping her eyes. "she positively turned rachel king out of the house; and maria welwood cried her eyes out yesterday because she was so sharp with her when maria said she was sorry she had had a bad night and hoped she'd soon feel better." the old man nodded silently. "poor miss harriet!" he said. "don't say 'poor miss harriet!' to her. dr. lavendar, harriet and i have been friends since we were put into short dresses--and she spoke to me to-day in a way--! well, of course, i shall go back; but i was ready to say i wouldn't. and she treats poor old annie outrageously." dr. lavendar nodded again. he himself had seen her several times, but she had never let him be personal: "was mrs. drayton still gossiping about her soul?" "wasn't it nearly time to get a new carpet for the chancel?" etc., etc. it was her way of defending herself--and dr. lavendar understood. so he only brought her his kindly gossip or his church news, and he never looked at her mournfully; but neither did he ever once refer to a possible recovery--that poor, friendly pretence that so tries the soul absorbed in its own solemn knowledge! but in the afternoon, after his talk with mrs. barkley, the old man went plodding up the hill to the stuffed-animal house, with tender and relentless purpose in his face. it was a serene september day, full of pulsing light and fragrant with the late mowing. william king's mare was hitched to a post by the green gate in the hedge, and the doctor was giving her a handful of grass as dr. lavendar came up. "how is miss harriet, willy?" the old man said. william climbed into the buggy and flicked with his whip at the ironweed by the road-side. "oh--about the same. dr. lavendar, it's cruel--it's cruel!" "what's cruel, william?" "i can't give her any opiate--to amount to anything." "why?" "her heart." "but you can't let her suffer!" "if i stopped the suffering," the doctor said, laconically, "it would be murder." "you mean--" "depressants, to amount to anything, would kill her." dr. lavendar looked up into the sky silently. willy king gathered up the reins. "and annie?" dr. lavendar said. "she is just a poor, frantic child. i can't make her understand why miss harriet shouldn't have two powders, when one 'sugar,' as she calls it, gives her a little comfort for a little while. she says, 'harriet wouldn't let a squirrel stay hurt.' miss harriet says she told her the other day that she wasn't a squirrel; but it didn't seem to make any difference to miss annie. she has a queer elemental reasonableness about her, hasn't she? well, i must go. dr. lavendar, i--i hope you won't mind if i say that perhaps--i mean she doesn't want anybody to refer to--to anything religious." "william," said the old man, mildly, "if you can mention anything which is not religious to a woman who is going to die within a very few weeks, i will consider it." and william king had the grace to blush and stammer something about miss harriet's hating anything personal. dr. lavendar listened silently; then he went on up the path to the stuffed-animal house. old miss annie let him into the darkened hall, a burst of western sunshine flooding in behind him and making the grim, dead creatures dart out of their shadows for a moment, and sink back into them again when the door was shut. the old child had been crying, for miss harriet had turned her out of her room, and so he had to sit there in the hall, under the shark, and try to comfort her and bid her go out and see her chickens. but for once miss annie would not be diverted: "harriet wants to go out-of-doors, and she can't. and she is hurt; and willy king won't give her sugar in a paper to stop the hurting. he is wicked." "by-and-by," said dr. lavendar, "harriet will fall asleep and not be hurt any more." "not till she is dead," miss annie said; "augustine told me so." "i meant that," dr. lavendar said, stroking the poor, gray head grovelling against his knee. "then why didn't you say so? it is a story to say sleep when you mean dead." "i ought to have said dead," he acknowledged, gently, "so that you could understand. but i want you to remember that death is a happy sleep. will you remember that?" "a happy sleep," miss annie repeated; "yes; i will remember. _a happy sleep._" she lifted her head from his knee and smiled. "i'll go and see my chickens," she said. [illustration: "'a happy sleep,' miss annie repeated"] and dr. lavendar took his way up-stairs, past the cases of birds, to miss harriet's room. she received him with elaborate cheerfulness. as for dr. lavendar, he lost no time in pretence. "miss harriet," he said, "i am not going to stay and talk and tire you. you've seen people enough to-day--" "i'm not tired in the least." "but i have a word to say to you." she looked at him angrily. "i would rather not talk about myself, dr. lavendar, please." "i don't want to talk about yourself," he said. her face cleared a little. "that's a relief. i was afraid you were going to talk to me about 'preparing,' and so forth." a sudden smile twinkled into dr. lavendar's old eyes. "my dear miss harriet, you've been 'preparing' for fifty years--or is it fifty-one? i've lost count, harriet. no; you haven't got anything to do about dying; dying is not your business. in fact, i sometimes think it never is our business. our business is living. dying is god's affair." "i haven't any business, that's the worst of it," miss harriet said, bitterly. "i've nothing to do--nothing to do but just lie here and wait. i don't mind dying; but to be here in this trap, waiting. and i've always been so busy, i don't know how to do nothing." "that's what i wanted to say to you. there is something you can do. in fact, there's something you must do." "something i must do?" miss harriet said, puzzled. "my dear friend, you must meet this affliction; you can't escape; we can't save you from it. but there is one thing you can do: you can try to spare the pain of it to other people. set yourself, miss harriet, to make it as easy as you can for those who stand by." harriet hutchinson looked at him in amazement. no pity? no condolences? nothing but the high charge to spare others. "you mean my temper?" she said at last, slowly. "yes," said dr. lavendar. miss harriet blushed hotly. "it is bad; i know it's bad. but--" "mine would be worse," said dr. lavendar, thoughtfully. "but look out for it, harriet. it's getting ahead of you." miss harriet nodded. "you're right." "you see, when you are out of temper it shows you are suffering; and that's hard for us to bear--not the temper, of course, but the knowledge. so you've got to spare us, harriet. understand?" "i understand." "it will be hard work for you," he said, cheerfully; and somehow the words meant, not pity, but "_shoulder arms!_" for an instant they gazed, eye to eye--the woman devoured by pain, the old man with his calm demand; and then the soul of her rose with a shout. what! there was something left for her to do? she need not merely sit still and die? she need not wait idly for the end? it was a splendid summons to the mind--a challenge to the body that had dogged and humiliated the soul, that had wrung from her good-humored courage irritability and unjust anger, that had dragged her pride in the dust of shame, yes, even--even (alone, and in the dark), but even of tears. "_make it as easy as possible for those that stand by._" some might say that that austere command was the lash of the whip; but to miss harriet it was the rod and the staff. the spartan old man had suddenly revealed to her that as long as the body does not compel the soul, there is no shame. as long as she could hold her tongue, she said to herself, she need not be ashamed. let the body whimper as it may, if the soul is silent it is master. miss harriet saw before her, not humiliation and idleness and waiting, but fierce struggle.... and it was a struggle. it was no easy thing to be amiable when good maria welwood wept over her; or when martha king told her, flatly and frankly, that she was doing very wrong not to make more effort to eat; or even when mrs. dale hoped that she had made her peace with heaven. "heaven had better try to make its peace with me, considering," said miss harriet, grimly; but when she saw how she had shocked mrs. dale, she made haste to apologize. "i didn't mean it, of course. but i am nervous, and say things to let off steam." such an admission meant much from miss harriet, and it certainly soothed mrs. dale. but most of all, harriet hutchinson forbade her body to dictate to her soul when miss annie hung whimpering about her with frantic persistence of pity. never in all their years together had miss harriet shown such tenderness to annie as now, when the poor old child's mere presence was maddening to her. for annie could think of nothing but the pain which could not be hidden, and her incessant entreaty was that it should be stopped. "wouldn't you rather be dead, sister?" "yes, annie." "well, then, be dead." "i can't, annie. now let us talk of something else. tell me what the black hen did when the speckled hen stole her nest." annie joyously told her story, as she had told it dozens of times before; while harriet hutchinson turned her face to the wall. annie sat on her heels on the floor beside the bed, rocking back and forth, and talking: "and so the speckled hen flew off. sister, i'll get you your big bottle?" no answer. "sister, don't you want to smell the bottle?" "no, annie. no--no--_no_! oh, annie, don't you want to go and see your chickens?" "why not?" "because it wouldn't be right, annie." "why wouldn't it be right, sister?" "because," said harriet hutchinson--"because i suppose that's one of the things that would 'make it harder for those that stand by.'" "i don't understand," poor old annie said, timidly. "well, annie, that's the only reason i know of. oh, annie, annie! it is the only reason there is; it is the root of its being wrong." ... and then the long moan. when miss annie heard that sound she shivered all over; it was the elemental protest of the flesh, which cannot understand the regal and unconquered soul. those were hard days for willy king, what with his affection and his sympathy and his daily struggles with miss annie; "for she is frantic," he told dr. lavendar. they were walking up the hill together in the late afternoon. miss harriet had sent for the old man, on whom now she leaned even more than on william king, for dr. lavendar gave her granite words instead of willy's tenderer sympathy. "she insists that i shall give miss harriet something--'stuff out of harriet's bottle,' she says. i suppose she means chloroform. i wish to god i could." "god will do his own work, william." "yes, sir; but it's such a waste--this courage that fairly breaks our hearts." "waste! william, what are you talking about? we are every one of us richer for it. i told her so yesterday." "well," said william king, thoughtfully, "perhaps so; in this case we are richer, i admit. but suppose it were a baby that was suffering--or a dog? only, we wouldn't let the dog suffer. dr. lavendar, one of these days--you and i won't live to see it, but one of these days--" "there is miss annie now," said dr. lavendar. "why--look at her!" the old woman came fluttering down the path towards the green gate in the privet hedge; she was smoothing her hair back from her temples, with her strange, girlish gesture, and she was smiling, but there was a new and solemn age in her face that made the two men look at each other, startled and wondering. "dr. lavendar! willy!" she said, her voice breaking with joy, "harriet is dead--oh, harriet is dead!" they stopped short in the pathway. "what--what?" stammered william king. "oh, harriet is dead!" the old woman said; "and i'm so happy." she came and leaned on the closed gate at the foot of the path, smiling up into their faces. "she isn't hurt any more. oh, i can breathe, i can breathe, now," said miss annie, laying her withered hands upon her throat and drawing a deep breath. "when?" said the doctor. "oh, just a little while ago. as soon as she got dead i opened the windows and let the air blow in; she likes the wind when she isn't hurt." william king said, suddenly, "_my god!_" and turned and ran up the path, into the house, into the room, where, indeed, there was no more hurting. "annie," dr. lavendar said, "were you with her?" "yes," miss annie said. "harriet was hurt very much. but when she smelled her bottle she stopped being hurt." dr. lavendar leaned against the gate, his breath wavering; then he sat down on the grass, and rested his forehead on his hands clasped on the top of his stick. he was unable to speak. miss annie came out into the road and looked at him curiously. after a while he said, feebly, "annie, tell me about it." "willy wouldn't give harriet sugar in a paper to stop the hurting. and harriet said she couldn't get her bottle. she said it would be wrong for her to get it." dr. lavendar lifted his head with a quick gesture of relief. "what! harriet, didn't get it herself?" "oh no," miss annie said. "i got it. and i went into harriet's room. harriet's eyes were shut, and she was--was moaning," said miss annie, shivering. "so i put some stuff out of the bottle on a towel and held it for harriet to smell. and harriet opened her eyes and looked frightened, and she said, 'no, no!' and i said, 'yes; i'm the oldest and you must do what i say.' and she said, 'augustine! augustine!' but augustine can't hear. and i held it down and i said, 'you won't be hurt any more.' and harriet pushed it away and said 'no.' and then she shut her eyes. and after a while she didn't say anything more. and i held it, oh, a long time. and then i looked, and harriet's eyes were shut. and now she's dead! and it doesn't hurt any more. you come and look at her, and you'll see it doesn't hurt any more. now she wouldn't thank king george to be her uncle! oh, she's dead," said miss annie, nodding her head and laughing; "a happy sleep." she was standing there in the dusty road in front of him, telling the story, her hands behind her, rocking slightly backward and forward, like a child repeating a lesson. the long afternoon shadows stretched from the trees across the road, and, swaying lightly, flecked her gray head with sunshine. "annie," said dr. lavendar, "come here and sit beside me." she came, happily enough, and let him take her hand and hold it, patting it softly for a moment before he spoke. "annie, it was not right to give harriet the stuff out of the bottle; our heavenly father stops the hurting when he thinks best. so it does not please him for us to do it when we think best." "but willy gave harriet one sugar in a paper, and that stopped it a little," miss annie said, puzzled; "and if he stopped it a little, why shouldn't it all be stopped?" the obvious logic of the poor mind admitted of no answer--certainly no argument. dr. lavendar said, gravely, stroking the hand, as wrinkled as his own: "it was not right, my child. you will believe me when i say so? and i do not want any one to know that you did a thing that was not right. so i want you to promise me now that you will not tell any one that you did it. will you promise me?" "willy knows it, i guess," miss annie said. dr. lavendar was silent. just what had william heard her say? only that miss harriet was "dead." "i am pretty sure that willy doesn't know it," he said, slowly. "and i am quite sure he would prefer not to know it; so you mustn't tell him. but you can't understand about that, annie. you'll just have to believe me. will you promise me?" "why, yes," miss annie said, indifferently, smiling up at the moving leaves. "oh, harriet isn't hurt now!" dr. lavendar trembled with anxiety. "i want a solemn promise, annie. what do the children do when they make a solemn promise?" miss annie was instantly interested. "why, they cross their breast and say 'honest and true'; don't you know?" ... "well, then," said dr. lavendar, slowly, "you will make a promise to me in that way." he stood up and took her hand, his face very pale. "promise me that never, so long as you live, will you tell any one--any one, annie--that you made harriet fall asleep by giving her the big bottle to smell. now, make the promise, annie." miss annie slowly crossed her breast. "i promise," she said, in a low voice; her eyes, widening with awe, were fixed on his face. "i promise: "honest and true, black and black and blue, lay me down and cut me in two-- if i do." "_amen!_" said dr. lavendar; and took off his hat, and stood looking up into the sky, his lip trembling. "father," he said, "i don't even say 'forgive her!' she is thy little child." and then they stood for a moment hand in hand in the sunny silence. the end by onoto watanna a japanese nightingale. a love story of japan. full-page drawings in color and unique decorative color borders on every page, by the well-known japanese artist genjiro yeto. crown vo, ornamented cloth, deckel edges, gilt top (in a box), $ . net. there could not easily be a more charming volume to look at than this, nor a more delightfully appealing romance to read.--_new york world_. an idyl of the author's homeland, delicate in fancy and dainty in expression.--_public opinion_. the author and the artist together have produced a charming work of art, as thoroughly imbued with the japanese spirit as a bit of old satsuma.--_buffalo express_. "a japanese nightingale" is one of the daintiest and most exquisite of love stories; ... indeed, so exquisite is her art, and so delightful the humor of her pages, that more than one critic has spoken of the story as "a japanese kentucky cardinal."--_new york journal_. it is full of poetry and charm.--_current literature_. a delicious vein of humor runs through the story, especially in the love scenes, and the style is distinct with the lyrical delicacy of japanese thought.--_brooklyn eagle_. harper & brothers, publishers new york and london _the above work will be sent by mail to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of the price_. (_postage cents._) by robert w. chambers the maid-at-arms. illustrated by howard chandler christy. post vo, ornamented cloth, $ . . mr. chambers has long since won a most enviable position among contemporary novelists. the great popular success of "cardigan" makes this present novel of unusual interest to all readers of fiction. it is a stirring novel of american life in days just after the revolution. it deals with the conspiracy of the great new york land-owners and the subjugation of new york province to the british. it is a story with a fascinating love interest, and is alive with exciting incident and adventure. some of the characters of "cardigan" reappear in this new novel. harper & brothers, publishers new york and london _the above work will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of the price_. historic highways of america volume [illustration: a milestone on braddock's road [_see page , note _]] historic highways of america volume pioneer roads and experiences of travelers (volume i) by archer butler hulbert _with illustrations_ [illustration] the arthur h. clark company cleveland, ohio copyright, by the arthur h. clark company all rights reserved contents page preface i. the evolution of highways: from indian trail to turnpike ii. a pilgrim on the pennsylvania road iii. zane's trace and the maysville pike iv. pioneer travel in kentucky illustrations i. a milestone on braddock's road _frontispiece_ ii. indian travail iii. old conestoga freighter iv. earliest style of log tavern v. widow mcmurran's tavern (scrub ridge, pennsylvania road) vi. bridge on which zane's trace crossed the muskingum river at zanesville, ohio vii. pioneer view of houses at fort cumberland, maryland preface the first chapter of this volume presents an introduction to the two volumes of this series devoted to pioneer roads and experiences of travelers. the evolution of american highways from indian trail to macadamized road is described; the lancaster turnpike, the first macadamized road in the united states, being taken as typical of roads of the latter sort. an experience of a noted traveler, francis baily, the eminent british astronomer, is presented in chapter two. the third chapter is devoted to the story of zane's trace from virginia to kentucky across ohio, and its terminal, the famous maysville pike. it was this highway which precipitated president jackson's veto of the internal improvement bill of , one of the epoch-making vetoes in our economic history. the last chapter is the vivid picture of kentucky travel drawn by judge james hall in his description of "the emigrants," in _legends of the west_. the illustrations in this volume have been selected to show styles of pioneer architecture and means of locomotion, including types of earliest taverns, bridges, and vehicles. a. b. h. marietta, ohio, december , . pioneer roads and experiences of travelers (volume i) chapter i the evolution of highways: from indian trail to turnpike we have considered in this series of monographs the opening of a number of historic roads and the part they played in the development of the most important phases of early american history. but our attitude has been that of one asking, why?--we have not at proper length considered all that would be contained in the question, how? it will be greatly to our purpose now to inquire into the methods of road-making, and outline, briefly, the evolution of the first trodden paths to the great highways of civilization. from one aspect, and an instructive one, the question is one of width; few, if any, of our roads are longer than those old "threads of soil"--as holland called the indian trails; braddock's road was not longer than the trail he followed; even the cumberland road could probably have been followed its entire length by a parallel indian path or a buffalo trace. but braddock's road was, in its day, a huge, broad track, twelve feet wide; and the cumberland road exceeded it in breadth nearly fifty feet. so our study may be pursued from the interesting standpoint of a widening vista; the belt of blue above our heads grows broader as we study the widening of the trail of the indian. to one who has not followed the trails of the west or the northland, the experience is always delightful. it is much the same delight as that felt in traversing a winding woodland road, intensified many fold. the incessant change of scenery, the continued surprises, the objects passed unseen yet not unguessed, those half-seen through a leafy vista amid the shimmering green; the pathway just in front very plain, but twenty feet beyond as absolutely hidden from your eyes as though it were a thousand miles away--such is the romance of following a trail. one's mind keeps as active as when looking at niagara, and it is lulled by the lapsing of those leaves as if by the roar of that cataract. yet the old trail, unlike our most modern roads, kept to the high ground; even in low places it seemed to attempt a double-bow knot in keeping to the points of highest altitude. but when once on the hills, the vista presented varied only with the altitude, save where hidden by the foliage. we do not choose the old "ridge roads" today for the view to be obtained, and we look continually up while the old-time traveler so often looked down. as we have hinted, elsewhere, many of our pioneer battles--those old battles of the trails--will be better understood when the position of the attacking armies is understood to have been on lower levels, the rifles shooting upward, the enemy often silhouetted against the very sky-line. [illustration: indian travail] but the one characteristic to which, ordinarily, there was no exception, was the narrowness of these ancient routes. the indian did not travel in single file because there was advantage in that formation; it was because his only routes were trails which he never widened or improved; and these would, ordinarily, admit only of one such person as broke them open. true, the indians did have broader trails; but they were very local in character and led to maple-sugar orchards or salt wells. from such points to the indian villages there ran what seemed not unlike our "ribbon roads"--the two tracks made by the "travail"--the two poles with crossbar that dragged on the ground behind the indian ponies, upon which a little freight could be loaded. in certain instances such roads as these were to be found running between indian villages and between villages and hunting grounds. they were the roads of times of peace. the war-time trails were always narrow and usually hard--the times of peace came few and far between. as we have stated, so narrow was the trail, that the traveler was drenched with water from the bushes on either hand. and so "blind"--to use a common pioneer word--were trails when overgrown, that they were difficult to find and more difficult to follow. though an individual indian frequently marked his way through the forest, for the benefit of others who were to follow him or for his own guidance in returning, the indian trails in native state were never blazed. thus, very narrow, exceedingly crooked, often overgrown, worn a foot or more into the ground, lay the routes on which white men built roads which have become historic. let us note the first steps toward road-building, chronologically. the first phase of road-making (if it be dignified by such a title) was the broadening of the indian path by the mere passing of wider loads over it. the beginning of the pack-horse era was announced by the need of greater quantities of merchandise and provisions in the west to which these paths led. the heavier the freight tied on either side of the pack-horse, the more were the bushes bruised and worn away, and the more the bed of the trail was tracked and trampled. the increasing of the fur-trade with the east at the beginning of the last half of the eighteenth century necessitated heavier loads for the trading ponies both "going in" and "coming out"--as the pioneers were wont to say. up to this time, so far as the present writer's knowledge goes, the indian never lifted a finger to make his paths better in any one respect; it seems probable that, oftentimes, when a stream was to be crossed, which could not be forded, the indian bent his steps to the first fallen tree whose trunk made a natural bridge across the water. that an indian never felled such a tree, it is impossible to say; but no such incident has come within my reading. it seems that this must have happened and perhaps was of frequent occurrence. our first picture, then, of a "blind" trail is succeeded by one of a trail made rougher and a little wider merely by use; a trail over which perhaps the agents of a croghan or a gist pushed westward with more and more heavily-loaded pack-horses than had been customarily seen on the trails thither. of course such trails as began now to have some appearance of roads were very few. as was true of the local paths in massachusetts and connecticut and virginia, so of the long trails into the interior of the continent, very few answered all purposes. probably by three routes, running through southwestern pennsylvania, central pennsylvania, and central new york, were worn deep and broad. by broad of course we mean that, in many places, pack-horses could meet and pass without serious danger to their loads. but there were, probably, only these three which at this time answered this description. and the wider and the harder they became, the narrower and the softer grew scores of lesser trails which heretofore had been somewhat traversed. it is not surprising that we find the daring missionary zeisberger going to the allegheny river like a beast on all fours through overgrown trails, or that washington, floundering in the fall of along the upper monongahela and cheat rivers, was compelled to give up returning to the south branch (of the potomac) by way of the ancient path from dunkards bottom. "as the path it is said is very blind & exceedingly grown up with briers," wrote washington, september , , in his journal, "i resolved to try the other rout, along the new road to sandy creek; ..." this offers a signal instance in which an ancient route had become obsolete. yet the one washington pursued was not an appian way: "... we started at dawning of day, and passing along a small path much enclosed with weeds and bushes, loaded with water from the overnights rain & the showers which were continually falling, we had an uncomfortable travel...."[ ] such was the "new road." the two great roads opened westward by the armies of washington, braddock, and forbes, whose history has been dealt with at length in this series, were opened along the line of trails partially widened by the pack-horses of the ohio company's agents (this course having been first marked out by thomas cresap) and those of the pennsylvania traders. another route led up the mohawk, along the wide iroquois trail, and down the onondaga to the present oswego; this was a waterway route primarily, the two rivers (with the portage at rome) offering more or less facilities for shipping the heavy baggage by batteaus. it was a portage path from the hudson to lake ontario; the old landward trail to niagara not being opened by an army.[ ] yet braddock's road, cut in , was quite filled up with undergrowth in as we have noted. it was "a brush wood, by the sprouts from the old stumps."[ ] in those primeval forests a road narrowed very fast, and quickly became impassable if not constantly cared for. the storms of a single fall or spring month and the heavy clouds of snow on the trees in winter kept the ground beneath well littered with broken limbs and branches. here and there great trees were thrown by the winds across the traveled ways. and so a military road over which thousands may have passed would become, if left untouched, quite as impassable as the blindest trail in a short time. other indian trails which armies never traversed became slightly widened by agents of land companies, as in the case of boone blazing his way through cumberland gap for richard henderson. for a considerable distance the path was widened, either by boone or martin himself, to captain joseph martin's "station" in powell's valley. thousands of traces were widened by early explorers and settlers who branched off from main traveled ways, or pushed ahead on an old buffalo trail; the path just mentioned, which washington followed, was a buffalo trail, but had received the name of an early pioneer and was known as "mcculloch's path." but our second picture holds good through many years--that trail, even though armies had passed over it, was still but a widened trail far down into the early pioneer days. though wagons went westward with braddock and forbes, they were not seen again in the alleghenies for more than twenty-five years. these were the days of the widened trails, the days of the long strings of jingling ponies bearing patiently westward salt and powder, bars of bended iron, and even mill-stones, and bringing back to the east furs and ginseng. of this pack-saddle era--this age of the widened trail--very little has been written, and it cannot be passed here without a brief description. in doddridge's _notes_ we read: "the acquisition of the indispensable articles of salt, iron, steel and castings presented great difficulties to the first settlers of the western country. they had no stores of any kind, no salt, iron, nor iron works; nor had they money to make purchases where these articles could be obtained. peltry and furs were their only resources before they had time to raise cattle and horses for sale in the atlantic states. every family collected what peltry and fur they could obtain throughout the year for the purpose of sending them over the mountains for barter. in the fall of the year, after seeding time, every family formed an association with some of their neighbors, for starting the little caravan. a master driver was to be selected from among them, who was to be assisted by one or more young men and sometimes a boy or two. the horses were fitted out with pack-saddles, to the latter part of which was fastened a pair of hobbles made of hickory withes--a bell and collar ornamented their necks. the bags provided for the conveyance of the salt were filled with feed for the horses; on the journey a part of this feed was left at convenient stages on the way down, to support the return of the caravan. large wallets well filled with bread, jerk, boiled ham, and cheese furnished provision for the drivers. at night, after feeding, the horses, whether put in pasture or turned out into the woods, were hobbled and the bells were opened [unstuffed].... each horse carried [back] two bushels of alum salt, weighing eighty-four pounds to the bushel." another writer adds: "the caravan route from the ohio river to frederick [maryland] crossed the stupendous ranges of the ... mountains.... the path, _scarcely two feet wide_, and travelled by horses in single file, roamed over hill and dale, through mountain defile, over craggy steeps, beneath impending rocks, and around points of dizzy heights, where one false step might hurl horse and rider into the abyss below. to prevent such accidents, the bulky baggage was removed in passing the dangerous defiles, to secure the horse from being thrown from his scanty foothold.... the horses, with their packs, were marched along in single file, the foremost led by the leader of the caravan, while each successive horse was tethered to the pack-saddle of the horse before him. a driver followed behind, to keep an eye upon the proper adjustment of the packs." the pennsylvania historian rupp informs us that in the revolutionary period "five hundred pack-horses had been at one time in carlisle [pennsylvania], going thence to shippensburg, fort loudon, and further westward, loaded with merchandise, also salt, iron, &c. the pack-horses used to carry bars of iron on their backs, crooked over and around their bodies; barrels or kegs were hung on each side of these. colonel snyder, of chambersburg, in a conversation with the writer in august, , said that he cleared many a day from $ to $ in crooking or bending iron and shoeing horses for western carriers at the time he was carrying on a blacksmith shop in the town of chambersburg. the pack-horses were generally led in divisions of or horses, carrying about two hundred weight each ...; when the bridle road passed along declivities or over hills, the path was in some places washed out so deep that the packs or burdens came in contact with the ground or other impending obstacles, and were frequently displaced." though we have been specifically noticing the alleghenies we have at the same time described typical conditions that apply everywhere. the widened trail was the same in new england as in kentucky or pennsylvania--in fact the same, at one time, in old england as in new england. travelers between glasgow and london as late as found no turnpike till within a hundred miles of the metropolis. elsewhere they traversed narrow causeways with an unmade, soft road on each side. strings of pack-horses were occasionally passed, thirty or forty in a train. the foremost horse carried a bell so that travelers in advance would be warned to step aside and make room. the widened pack-horse routes were the main traveled ways of scotland until a comparatively recent period. "when lord herward was sent, in , from ayrshire to the college at edinburgh, the road was in such a state that servants were frequently sent forward with poles to sound the depths of the mosses and bogs which lay in their way. the mail was regularly dispatched between edinburgh and london, on horseback, and went in the course of five or six days." in the sixteenth century carts without springs could not be taken into the country from london; it took queen henrietta four days to traverse watling street to dover. of one of queen elizabeth's journeys it is said: "it was marvelous for ease and expedition, for such is the perfect evenness of the new highway that her majesty left the coach only once, while the hinds and the folk of baser sort lifted it on their poles!" a traveler in an english coach of said: "this travel hath soe indisposed mee, yt i am resolved never to ride up againe in ye coatch." thus the widened trail or bridle-path, as it was commonly known in some parts, was the universal predecessor of the highway. it needs to be observed, however, that winter travel in regions where much snow fell greatly influenced land travel. the buffalo and indian did not travel in the winter, but white men in early days found it perhaps easier to make a journey on sleds in the snow than at any other time. in such seasons the bridle-paths were, of course, largely followed, especially in the forests; yet in the open, with the snow a foot and more in depth, many short cuts were made along the zig-zag paths and in numerous instances these short cuts became the regular routes thereafter for all time. an interesting instance is found in the "narrative of andrew j. vieau, sr.:" "this path between green bay [wisconsin] and milwaukee was originally an indian trail, and very crooked; but the whites would straighten it by cutting across lots each winter with their jumpers [rude boxes on runners], wearing bare streaks through the thin covering [of snow], to be followed in the summer by foot and horseback travel along the shortened path."[ ] this form of traveling was, of course, unknown save only where snow fell and remained upon the ground for a considerable time. throughout new york state travel on snow was common and in the central portion of the state, where there was much wet ground in the olden time, it was easier to move heavy freight in the winter than in summer when the soft ground was treacherous. even as late as the building of the erie canal in the second and third decades of the nineteenth century--long after the building of the genesee road--freight was hauled in the winter in preference to summer. in the annual report of the comissioners of the erie canal, dated january , , we read that the roads were so wretched between utica and syracuse in the summer season that contractors who needed to lay up a supply of tools, provisions, etc., for their men, at interior points, purchased them in the winter before and sent the loads onward to their destinations in sleighs.[ ] one of the reasons given by the erie canal commissioners for delays and increased expenses in the work on the canal in , in their report delivered to the legislature february , , was that the absence of snow in central new york in the winter of - prevented the handling of heavy freight on solid roads; "no hard snow path could be found."[ ] the soft roads of the summer time were useless so far as heavy loads of lumber, stone, lime, and tools were concerned. no winter picture of early america is so vivid as that presented by the eccentric evans of new hampshire, who, dressed in his esquimau suit, made a midwinter pilgrimage throughout the country lying south of the great lakes from albany to detroit in .[ ] his experiences in moving across the middle west with the blinding storms, the mountainous drifts of snow, the great icy cascades, the hurrying rivers, buried out of sight in their banks of ice and snow, and the far scattered little settlements lost to the world, helps one realize what traveling in winter meant in the days of the pioneer. the real work of opening roads in america began, of course, on the bridle-paths in the atlantic slope. in a measure was passed in the massachusetts bay colony reading: "whereas the highways in this jurisdiction have not been laid out with such conveniency for travellers as were fit, nor as was intended by this court, but that in some places they are felt too straight, and in other places travelers are forced to go far about, it is therefore, ordered, that all highways shall be laid out before the next general court, so as may be with most ease and safety for travelers; and for this end every town shall choose two or three men, who shall join with two or three of the next town, and these shall have power to lay out the highways in each town where they may be most convenient; and those which are so deputed shall have power to lay out the highways where they may be most convenient, notwithstanding any man's propriety, or any corne ground, so as it occasion not the pulling down of any man's house, or laying open any garden or orchard; and in common [public] grounds, or where the soil is wet or miry, they shall lay out the ways the wider, as six, or eight, or ten rods, or more in common grounds." with the establishment of the government in the province of new york in the following regulation for road-making was established, which also obtained in pennsylvania until william penn's reign began: "in all public works for the safety and defence of the government, or the necessary conveniencies of bridges, highways, and common passengers, the governor or deputy governor and council shall send warrents to any justice, and the justices to the constable of the next town, or any other town within that jurisdiction, to send so many laborers and artificers as the warrent shall direct, which the constable and two others or more of the overseers shall forthwith execute, and the constable and overseers shall have power to give such wages as they shall judge the work to deserve, provided that no ordinary laborer shall be compelled to work from home above one week together. no man shall be compelled to do any public work or service unless the press [impressment] be grounded upon some known law of this government, or an act of the governor and council signifying the necessity thereof, in both which cases a reasonable allowance shall be made." a later amendment indicates the rudeness of these early roads: "the highways to be cleared as followeth, viz., the way to be made clear of standing and lying trees, at least ten feet broad; all stumps and shrubs to be cut close by the ground. the trees marked yearly on both sides--sufficient bridges to be made and kept over all marshy, swampy, and difficult dirty places, and whatever else shall be thought more necessary about the highways aforesaid." in pennsylvania, under penn, the grand jury laid out the roads, and the courts appointed overseers and fence-viewers, but in the townships were given the control of the roads. eight years later the county roads were put in the hands of the county justices, and king's highways in the hands of the governor and his council. each county was ordered to erect railed bridges at its expense over rivers, and to appoint its own overseers and fence-viewers. even the slightest mention of these laws and regulations misrepresents the exact situation. up to the time of the revolutionary war it can almost be said that nothing had been done toward what we today know as road-building. many routes were cleared of "standing and lying trees" and "stumps and shrubs" were cut "close by the ground"--but this only widened the path of the indian and was only a faint beginning in road-building. the skiff, batteau, and horse attached to a sleigh or sled in winter, were the only, common means of conveying freight or passengers in the colonies at this period. we have spoken of the path across the alleghenies in as being but a winding trace; save for the roughness of the territory traversed it was a fair road for its day, seek where the traveler might. in this case, as in so many others, the history of the postal service in the united states affords us most accurate and reliable information concerning our economic development. in the year mentioned, , the mail between new york and philadelphia was carried only once a week in summer and twice a month in winter. forty years later there were only eighteen hundred odd miles of post roads in the whole united states. at that time ( ) only five mails a week passed between new york and philadelphia. it may be said, loosely, that the widened trail became a road when wheeled vehicles began to pass over it. carts and wagons were common in the atlantic seaboard states as early and earlier than the revolution. it was at the close of that war that wagons began to cross the alleghenies into the mississippi basin. this first road was a road in "the state of nature." nothing had been done to it but clearing it of trees and stumps. yet what a tremendous piece of work was this. it is more or less difficult for us to realize just how densely wooded a country this was from the crest of the alleghenies to the seaboard on the east, and from the mountains to central indiana and kentucky on the west. the pioneers fought their way westward through wood, like a bullet crushing through a board. every step was retarded by a live, a dying, or a dead branch. the very trees, as if dreading the savage attack of the white man on the splendid forests of the interior, held out their bony arms and fingers, catching here a jacket and there a foot, in the attempt to stay the invasion of their silent haunts. these forests were very heavy overhead. the boughs were closely matted, in a life-and-death struggle for light and air. the forest vines bound them yet more inextricably together, until it was almost impossible to fell a tree with out first severing the huge arms which were bound fast to its neighbors. this dense overgrowth had an important influence over the pioneer traveler. it made the space beneath dark; the gloom of a real forest is never forgotten by the "tenderfoot" lumberman. the dense covering overhead made the forests extremely hot in the dog days of summer; no one can appreciate what "hot weather" means in a forest where the wind cannot descend through the trees save those who know our oldest forests. what made the forests hot in summer, on the other hand, tended to protect them from winter winds in cold weather. yet, as a rule, there was little pioneer traveling in the allegheny forests in winter. from may until november came the months of heaviest traffic on the first widened trails through these gloomy, heated forest aisles. it can be believed there was little tree-cutting on these first pioneer roads. save in the laurel regions of the allegheny and cumberland mountains, where the forest trees were supplanted by these smaller growths, there was little undergrowth; the absence of sunlight occasioned this, and rendered the old forest more easily traversed than one would suppose after reading many accounts of pioneer life. the principal interruption of travelers on the old trails was in the form of fallen trees and dead wood which had been brought to the ground by the storms. with the exception of the live trees which were blown over, these forms of impediment to travel were not especially menacing; the dead branches crumbled before an ax. the trees which were broken down or uprooted by the winds, however, were obstructions difficult to remove, and tended to make pioneer roads crooked, as often perhaps as standing trees. we can form some practical notion of the dangerous nature of falling trees by studying certain of the great improvements which were early projected in these woods. the allegheny portage railway over the mountains of huntingdon county, pennsylvania, and the erie canal in central new york, both offer illustrations to the point. the portage track was sent through an unbroken, uninhabited forest wilderness from hollidaysburg to johnstown in the twenties. in order to render the inclines safe from falling trees and breaking branches, a swath through the woods was cut one hundred and twenty feet wide.[ ] the narrow trellis of the inclines scaled the mountain in the center of this avenue; wide as it was, a tree fifty feet long could have swept it away like paper. the erie canal was to be forty feet in width; a clean sixty foot aisle was opened through the forests before the digging could begin. of course nothing like this could be done for pioneer highways; when the states began to appropriate money for state roads, then the pioneer routes were straightened by cutting some trees. it was all the scattered communities could do before this period to keep the falling trees and branches from blocking the old roads. travelers wound in and out on one of the many tracks, stumbling, slipping, grinding on the roots, going around great trees that had not been removed, and keeping to the high ground when possible, for there the forest growth was less dense. the question immediately arises, what sort of vehicle could weather such roads? first in the van came the great clumsy cart, having immensely high and solid wooden wheels. these were obtained either by taking a thin slice from the butt of the greatest log that could be found in good condition, or by being built piecemeal by rude carpenters. these great wheels would go safely wherever oxen could draw them, many of their hubs being three feet from the ground. thus the body of the cart would clear any ordinary brook and river at any ford which horses or oxen could cross. no rocks could severely injure such a massy vehicle, at the rate it usually moved, and no mere rut could disturb its stolid dignity. like the oxen attached to it, the pioneer cart went on its lumbering way despising everything but bogs, great tree boles and precipices. these creaking carts could proceed, therefore, nearly on the ancient bridle-path of the pack-horse age. on the greater routes westward the introduction of wheeled vehicles necessitated some changes; now and then the deep-worn passage-way was impassable, and detours were made which, at a later day, became the main course. here, where the widened trail climbed a steeper "hog-back" than usual, the cart-drivers made a roundabout road which was used in dry weather. there, where the old trail wound about a marshy piece of ground in all weathers, the cart-drivers would push on in a straight line during dry seasons. thus the typical pioneer road even before the day of wagons was a many-track road and should most frequently be called a route--a word we have so frequently used in this series of monographs. each of the few great historic roads was a route which could have been turned into a three, four, and five track course in very much the same way as railways become double-tracked by uniting a vast number of side-tracks. the most important reason for variation of routes was the wet and dry seasons; in the wet season advantage had to be taken of every practicable altitude. the indian or foot traveler could easily gain the highest eminence at hand; the pack-horse could reach many but not all; the "travail" and cart could reach many, while the later wagon could climb only a few. in dry weather the low ground offered the easiest and quickest route. as a consequence every great route had what might almost be called its "wet" and "dry" roadways. in one of the early laws quoted we have seen that in wet or miry ground the roads should be laid out "six, eight, or ten rods [wide]," though elsewhere ten or twelve feet was considered a fair width for an early road. as a consequence, even before the day of wagons, the old routes of travel were often very wide, especially in wet places; in wet weather they were broader here than ever. but until the day of wagons the track-beds were not so frequently ruined. of this it is now time to speak. by we may believe the great freight traffic by means of wagons had fully begun across the alleghenies at many points. it is doubtful if anywhere else in the united states did "wagoning" and "wagoners" become so common or do such a thriving trade as on three or four trans-allegheny routes between and . the atlantic ocean and the rivers had been the arteries of trade between the colonies from the earliest times. the freight traffic by land in the seaboard states had amounted to little save in local cases, compared with the great industry of "freighting" which, about , arose in baltimore and philadelphia and concerned the then central west. this study, like that of our postal history, throws great light on the subject in hand. road-building, in the abstract, began at the centers of population and spread slowly with the growth of population. for instance, in revolutionary days philadelphia was, as it were, a hub and from it a number of important roads, like spokes, struck out in all directions. comparatively, these were few in number and exceedingly poor, yet they were enough and sufficiently easy to traverse to give washington a deal of trouble in trying to prevent the avaricious country people from treacherously feeding the british invaders. these roads out from philadelphia, for instance, were used by wagons longer distances each year. beginning back at the middle of the eighteenth century it may be said that the wagon roads grew longer and the pack-horse routes or bridle-paths grew shorter each year. the freight was brought from the seaboard cities in wagons to the end of the wagon roads and there transferred to the pack-saddles. referring to this era we have already quoted a passage in which it is said that five hundred pack-horses have been seen at one time at carlisle, pennsylvania. for a longer period than was perhaps true elsewhere, carlisle was the end of the wagon road westward. a dozen bridle-paths converged here. here all freight was transferred to the strings of patient ponies. loudon, pennsylvania, was another peculiar borderland depot later on. it will be remembered that when richard henderson and party advanced to kentucky in they were able to use wagons as far as captain joseph martin's "station" in powell's valley. at that point all freight had to be transferred to the backs of ponies for the climb over the cumberlands. in the days of marcus whitman, who opened the first road across the rocky mountains, fort laramie, wyoming, was the terminus of wagon travel in the far west. thus pioneer roads unfolded, as it were, joint by joint, the rapidity depending on the volume of traffic, increase of population, and topography. [illustration: old conestoga freighter] the first improvement on these greater routes, after the necessary widening, was to enable wagons to avoid high ground. here and there wagons pushed on beyond the established limit, and, finding the way not more desperate than much of the preceding "road," had gone on and on, until at last wagons came down the western slopes of the alleghenies, and wagon traffic began to be considered possible--much to the chagrin of the cursing pack-horse men. no sooner was this fact accomplished than some attention was paid to the road. the wagons could not go everywhere the ponies or even the heavy carts had gone. they could not climb the steep knolls and remain on the rocky ridges. the lower grounds were, therefore, pursued and the wet grounds were made passable by "corduroying"--laying logs closely together to form a solid roadbed. so far as i can learn this work was done by everybody in particular and nobody in general. those who were in charge of wagons were, of course, the most interested in keeping them from sinking out of sight in the mud-holes. when possible, such places were skirted; when high or impassable ground prevented this, the way was "corduroyed." we have spoken of the width of old-time bridle-paths; with the advent of the heavy freighter these wide routes were doubled and trebled in width. and, so long as the roadbeds remained in a "state of nature," the heavier the wagon traffic, the wider the roads became. we have described certain great tracks, like that of braddock's road, which can be followed today even in the open by the lasting marks those plunging freighters made in the soft ground. they suggest in their deep outline what the old wagon roads must have been; yet it must be remembered that only what we may call the main road is visible today--the innumerable side-tracks being obliterated because not so deeply worn. in a number of instances on braddock's road plain evidence remains of these side-tracks. judging then from this evidence, and from accounts which have come down to us, the introduction of the freighter with its heavier loads and narrower wheels turned the wide, deeply worn bridle-paths and cart tracks into far wider and far deeper courses. the corduroy road had a tendency to contract the route, but even here, where the ground was softest, it became desperate traveling. where one wagon had gone, leaving great black ruts behind it, another wagon would pass with greater difficulty leaving behind it yet deeper and yet more treacherous tracks. heavy rains would fill each cavity with water, making the road nothing less than what in illinois was known as a "sloo." the next wagoner would, therefore, push his unwilling horses into a veritable slough, perhaps having explored it with a pole to see if there was a bottom to be found there. in some instances the bottoms "fell out," and many a reckless driver has lost his load in pushing heedlessly into a bottomless pit. in case a bottom could be found the driver pushes on; if not, he finds a way about; if this is not possible he throws logs into the hole and makes an artificial bottom over which he proceeds. we can hardly imagine what it meant to get stalled on one of the old "hog wallow" roads on the frontier. true, many of our country roads today offer bogs quite as wide and deep as any ever known in western virginia or pennsylvania; and it is equally true that roads were but little better in the pioneer era on the outskirts of philadelphia and baltimore than far away in the mountains. it remains yet for the present writer to find a sufficiently barbarous incident to parallel one which occurred on the old york (new york) road just out of philadelphia, in which half a horse's head was pulled off in attempting to haul a wagon from a hole in the road. "jonathan tyson, a farmer of years of age [in ], of abington, saw, at years of age, much difficulty in going to the city [philadelphia on york road]: a dreadful mire of blackish mud rested near the present rising sun village.... he saw there the team of mr. nickum, of chestnut hill, stalled; and in endeavoring to draw out the forehorse with an iron chain to his head, it slipped and tore off the lower jaw, and the horse died on the spot. there was a very bad piece of road nearer to the city, along the front of the norris estate. it was frequent to see there horses struggling in mire to their knees. mr. tyson has seen thirteen lime wagons at a time stopped on the york road, near logan's hill, to give one another assistance to draw through the mire; and the drivers could be seen with their trowsers rolled up, and joining team to team to draw out; at other times they set up a stake in the middle of the road to warn off wagons from the quicksand pits. sometimes they tore down fences, and made new roads through the fields."[ ] if such was the case almost within the city limits of philadelphia, it is not difficult to realize what must have been the conditions which obtained far out on the continental routes. it became a serious problem to get stalled in the mountains late in the day; assistance was not always at hand--indeed the settlements were many miles apart in the early days. many a driver, however, has been compelled to wade in, unhitch his horses, and spend the night by the bog into which his freight was settling lower and lower each hour. fortunate he was if early day brought assistance. sometimes it was necessary to unload wholly or in part, before a heavy wagon, once fairly "set," could be hauled out. around such treacherous places ran a vast number of routes some of which were as dangerous--because used once too often--as the central track. in some places detours of miles in length could be made. a pilot was needed by every inexperienced person, and many blundering wiseacres lost their entire stock of worldly possessions in the old bogs and "sloos" and swamps of the "west." a town in indiana was "very appropriately" named mudholes, a name that would have been the most common in the country a century ago if only descriptive names had been allowed.[ ] the condition of pioneer roads did, undoubtedly, influence the beginnings of towns and cities. on the longer routes it will be found that the steep hills almost invariably became the sites of villages because of physical conditions. "long-a-coming," a new jersey village, bore a very appropriate name.[ ] the girls of sussex, england, were said to be exceedingly long-limbed, and a facetious wag affirmed the reason to be that the sussex mud was so deep and sticky that in drawing out the foot "by the strength of the ancle" the muscles, and then the bones, of the leg were lengthened! in when prince george of denmark went to meet charles the seventh of spain traveling by coach, he traveled at the rate of nine miles in six hours--a tribute to the strength of sussex mud. charles augustus murray, in his _travels in north america_, leaves us a humorous account of the mud-holes in the road from the potomac to fredericksburg, maryland, and his experience upon it: "on the th of march i quitted washington, to make a short tour in the districts of virginia adjacent to the james river; comprising richmond, the present capital, williamsburgh, the former seat of colonial government, norfolk, and other towns. "the first part of the journey is by steam-boat, descending the potomac about sixty miles. the banks of this river, after passing mount vernon, are uninteresting, and i did not regret the speed of the champion, which performed that distance in somewhat less than five hours; but this rate of travelling was amply neutralized by the movement of the stage which conveyed me from the landing-place to fredericsburgh. i was informed that the distance was only twelve miles, and i was weak enough (in spite of my previous experience) to imagine that two hours would bring me thither, especially as the stage was drawn by six good nags, and driven by a lively cheerful fellow; but the road bade defiance to all these advantages--it was, indeed, such as to compel me to laugh out-right, notwithstanding the constant and severe bumping to which it subjected both the intellectual and sedentary parts of my person. "i had before tasted the sweets of mud-holes, huge stones, and remnants of pine-trees standing and cut down; but here was something new, namely, a bed of reddish-coloured clay, from one to two feet deep, so adhesive that the wheels were at times literally not visible in any one spot from the box to the tire, and the poor horses' feet sounded, when they drew them out (as a fellow-traveller observed), like the report of a pistol. i am sorry that i was not sufficiently acquainted with chemistry or mineralogy to analyze that wonderful clay and state its constituent parts; but if i were now called upon to give a receipt for a mess most nearly resembling it, i would write, 'recipe--(nay, i must write the ingredients in english, for fear of taxing my latin learning too severely)-- ordinary clay lb. do. pitch lb. bird-lime oz. putty oz. glue lb. red lead, or _colouring_ matter oz. fiat haustus--ægrot. terq. quaterq. quatiend.' "whether the foregoing, with a proper admixture of hills, holes, stumps, and rocks, made a satisfactory _draught_ or not, i will refer to the unfortunate team--i, alas! can answer for the effectual application of the second part of the prescription, according to the joe miller version of 'when taken, to be well shaken!' "i arrived, however, without accident or serious bodily injury, at fredericsburgh, having been _only_ three hours and a half in getting over the said twelve miles; and, in justice to the driver, i must say that i very much doubt whether any crack london whip could have driven those horses over that ground in the same time: there is not a sound that can emanate from human lungs, nor an argument of persuasion that can touch the feelings of a horse, that he did not employ, with a perseverance and success which commanded my admiration." fancy these wild, rough routes which, combined, often covered half an acre, and sometimes spread out to a mile in total width, in freezing weather when every hub and tuft was as solid as ice. how many an anxious wagoner has pushed his horses to the bitter edge of exhaustion to gain his destination ere a freeze would stall him as completely as if his wagon-bed lay on the surface of a "quicksand pit." a heavy load could not be sent over a frozen pioneer road without wrecking the vehicle. yet in some parts the freight traffic had to go on in the winter, as the hauling of cotton to market in the southern states. such was the frightful condition of the old roads that four and five yoke of oxen conveyed only a ton of cotton so slowly that motion was almost imperceptible; and in the winter and spring, it has been said, with perhaps some tinge of truthfulness, that one could walk on dead oxen from jackson to vicksburg. the bull-skin road of pioneer days leading from the pickaway plains in ohio to detroit was so named from the large number of cattle which died on the long, rough route, their hides, to exaggerate again, lining the way. in our study of the ohio river as a highway it was possible to emphasize the fact that the evolution of river craft indicated with great significance the evolution of social conditions in the region under review; the keel-boat meant more than canoe or pirogue, the barge or flat-boat more than the keel-boat, the brig and schooner more than the barge, and the steamboat far more than all preceding species. we affirmed that the change of craft on our rivers was more rapid than on land, because of the earlier adaptation of steam to vessels than to vehicles. but it is in point here to observe that, slow as were the changes on land, they were equally significant. the day of the freighter and the corduroy road was a brighter day for the expanding nation than that of the pack-horse and the bridle-path. the cost of shipping freight by pack-horses was tremendous. in , during the whiskey insurrection in western pennsylvania, the cost of shipping goods to pittsburg by wagon ranged from five to ten dollars per hundred pounds; salt sold for five dollars a bushel, and iron and steel from fifteen to twenty cents per pound in pittsburg. what must have been the price when one horse carried only from one hundred and fifty to two hundred and fifty pounds? the freighter represented a growing population and the growing needs of the new empire in the west. the advent of the stagecoach marked a new era as much in advance of the old as was the day of the steamboat in advance of that of the barge and brig of early days. the social disturbance caused by the introduction of coaches on the pioneer roads of america gives us a glimpse of road conditions at this distant day to be gained no other way. a score of local histories give incidents showing the anger of those who had established the more important pack-horse lines across the continent at the coming of the stage. coaches were overturned and passengers were maltreated; horses were injured, drivers were chastised and personal property ruined. even while the cumberland road was being built the early coaches were in danger of assault by the workmen building the road, incited, no doubt, by the angry pack-horse men whose profession had been eclipsed. it is interesting in this connection to look again back to the mother-country and note the unrest which was occasioned by the introduction of stagecoaches on the bridle-paths of england. early coaching there was described as destructive to trade, prejudicial to landed interests, destructive to the breed of horses,[ *] and as an interference with public resources. it was urged that travelers in coaches got listless, "not being able to endure frost, snow or rain, or to lodge in the fields!" riding in coaches injured trade since "most gentlemen, before they travelled in coaches, used to ride with swords, belts, pistols, holsters, portmanteaus, and hat-cases, which, in these coaches, they have little or no occasion for: for, when they rode on horseback, they rode in one suit and carried another to wear when they came to their journey's end, or lay by the way; but in coaches a silk suit and an indian gown, with a sash, silk stockings, and beaver hats, men ride in and carry no other with them, because they escape the wet and dirt, which on horseback they cannot avoid; whereas in two or three journeys on horseback, these clothes and hats were wont to be spoiled; which done, they were forced to have new very often, and that increased the consumption of the manufacturers; which travelling in coaches doth in no way do." if the pack-horse man's side of the question was not advocated with equally marvelous arguments in america we can be sure there was no lack of debate on the question whether the stagecoach was a sign of advancement or of deterioration. for instance, the mails could not be carried so rapidly by coach as by a horseman; and when messages were of importance in later days they were always sent by an express rider. the advent of the wagon and coach promised to throw hundreds of men out of employment. business was vastly facilitated when the freighter and coach entered the field, but fewer "hands" were necessary. again, the horses which formerly carried the freight of america on their backs were not of proper build and strength to draw heavy loads on either coach or wagon. they were ponies; they could carry a few score pounds with great skill over blind and ragged paths, but they could not draw the heavy wagons. accordingly hundreds of owners of pack-horses were doomed to see an alarming deterioration in the value of their property when great, fine coach horses were shipped from distant parts to carry the freight and passenger loads of the stagecoach day. the change in form of american vehicles was small but their numbers increased within a few years prodigiously. nominally this era must be termed that of the macadamized road, or roads made of layers of broken stone like the cumberland road. these roads were wider than any single track of any of the routes they followed, though thirty feet was the average maximum breadth. to a greater degree than would be surmised, the courses of the old roads were followed. it has been said that the cumberland road, though paralleling braddock's road from cumberland to laurel hill, was not built on its bed more than a mile in the aggregate. after studying the ground i believe this is more or less incorrect; for what we should call braddock's route was composed of many roads and tracks. one of these was a central road; the cumberland road may have been built on the bed of this central track only a short distance, but on one of the almost innumerable side-tracks, detours, and cut-offs, for many miles. at great meadows, for instance, it would seem that the cumberland road was separated from braddock's by the width of the valley; yet as you move westward you cross the central track of braddock's road just before reaching braddock's grave. may not an old route have led from great meadows thither on the same hillside where we find the cumberland road today? the crookedness of these first stable roads, like many of the older streets in our cities,[ ] indicates that the old corduroy road served in part as a guide for the later road-makers. it is a common thing in the mountains, either on the cumberland or pennsylvania state roads, to hear people say that had the older routes been even more strictly adhered to better grades would have been the result. a remarkable and truthful instance of this (for there cannot, in truth, be many) is the splendid way braddock's old road sweeps to the top of laurel hill by gaining that strategic ridge which divides the heads of certain branches of the youghiogheny on the one hand and cheat river on the other near washington's rock. the cumberland road in the valley gains the same height (laurel hill) by a longer and far more difficult route. the stagecoach heralded the new age of road-building, but these new macadamized roads were few and far between; many roadways were widened and graded by states or counties, but they remained dirt roads; a few plank roads were built. the vast number of roads of better grade were built by one of the host of road and turnpike companies which sprang up in the first half of the nineteenth century. specific mention of certain of these will be made later. confining our view here to general conditions, we now see the indian trail at its broadest. while the roads, in number, kept up with the vast increase of population, in quality they remained, as a rule, unchanged. traveling by stage, except on the half dozen good roads then in existence, was, in , far more uncomfortable than on the bridle-path on horseback half a century previous. it would be the same today if we could find a vehicle as inconvenient as an old-time stagecoach. in our "experiences of travelers" we shall give pictures of actual life on these pioneer roads of early days. a glimpse or two at these roads will not be out of place here. the route from philadelphia to baltimore is thus described by the _american annual register_ for : "the roads from philadelphia to baltimore exhibit, for the greater part of the way, an aspect of savage desolation. chasms to the depth of six, eight, or ten feet occur at numerous intervals. a stagecoach which left philadelphia on the th of february, , took five days to go to baltimore. [twenty miles a day]. the weather for the first four days was good. the roads are in a fearful condition. coaches are overturned, passengers killed, and horses destroyed by the overwork put upon them. in winter sometimes no stage sets out for two weeks." little wonder that in , when president and mrs. adams tried to get to washington from baltimore, they got lost in the maryland woods! harriet martineau, with her usual cleverness, thus touches upon our early roads: "... corduroy roads appear to have made a deep impression on the imaginations of the english, who seem to suppose that american roads are all corduroy. i can assure them that there is a large variety in american roads. there are the excellent limestone roads ... from nashville, tennessee, and some like them in kentucky.... there is quite another sort of limestone road in virginia, in traversing which the stage is dragged up from shelf [catch-water] to shelf, some of the shelves sloping so as to throw the passengers on one another, on either side alternately. then there are the rich mud roads of ohio, through whose deep red sloughs the stage goes slowly sousing after rain, and gently upsetting when the rut on one or the other side proves to be of a greater depth than was anticipated. then there are the sandy roads of the pine barrens ... the ridge road, running parallel with a part of lake ontario.... lastly there is the corduroy road, happily of rare occurrence, where, if the driver is merciful to his passengers, he drives them so as to give them the association of being on the way to a funeral, their involuntary sobs on each jolt helping the resemblance; or, if he be in a hurry, he shakes them like pills in a pill-box. i was never upset in a stage but once ...; and the worse the roads were, the more i was amused at the variety of devices by which we got on, through difficulties which appeared insurmountable, and the more i was edified at the gentleness with which our drivers treated female fears and fretfulness."[ ] perhaps it was of the virginian roads here mentioned that thomas moore wrote: "dear george! though every bone is aching, after the shaking i've had this week, over ruts and ridges, and bridges, made of a few uneasy planks, in open ranks over rivers of mud, whose names alone would make the knees of stoutest man knock."[ ] david stevenson, an english civil engineer, leaves this record of a corduroy road from lake erie to pittsburg: "on the road leading from pittsburg on the ohio to the town of erie on the lake of that name, i saw all the varieties of forest road-making in great perfection. sometimes our way lay for miles through extensive marshes, which we crossed by corduroy roads, ...; at others the coach stuck fast in the mud, from which it could be extricated only by the combined efforts of the coachman and passengers; and at one place we travelled for upwards of a quarter of a mile through a forest flooded with water, which stood to the height of several feet on many of the trees, and occasionally covered the naves of the coach-wheels. the distance of the route from pittsburg to erie is miles, which was accomplished in forty-six hours ... although the conveyance ... carried the mail, and stopped only for breakfast, dinner, and tea, but there was considerable delay caused by the coach being once upset and several times mired."[ ] "the horrible corduroy roads again made their appearance," records captain basil hall, "in a more formidable shape, by the addition of deep, inky holes, which almost swallowed up the fore wheels of the wagon and bathed its hinder axle-tree. the jogging and plunging to which we were now exposed, and occasionally the bang when the vehicle reached the bottom of one of these abysses, were so new and remarkable that we tried to make a good joke of them.... i shall not compare this evening's drive to trotting up or down a pair of stairs, for, in that case, there would be some kind of regularity in the development of the bumps, but with us there was no wavering, no pause, and when we least expected a jolt, down we went, smack! dash! crash! forging, like a ship in a head-sea, right into a hole half a yard deep. at other times, when an ominous break in the road seemed to indicate the coming mischief, and we clung, grinning like grim death, to the railing at the sides of the wagon, expecting a concussion which in the next instant was to dislocate half the joints in our bodies, down we sank into a bed of mud, as softly as if the bottom and sides had been padded for our express accommodation." the first and most interesting macadamized road in the united states was the old lancaster turnpike, running from philadelphia to lancaster, pennsylvania. its position among american roads is such that it deserves more than a mere mention. it has had several historians, as it well deserves, to whose accounts we are largely indebted for much of our information.[ ] the charter name of this road was "the philadelphia and lancaster turnpike road company;" it was granted april , , and the work of building immediately began. the road was completed in at a cost of four hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars. when the subscription books were opened there was a tremendous rush to take the stock. the money raised for constructing and equipping this ancient highway with toll houses and bridges, as well as grading and macadamizing it, was by this sale of stock. in the lancaster _journal_ of friday, february , , the following notice appeared: "that agreeable to a by-law of stockholders, subscriptions will be opened at the company's office in philadelphia on wednesday, the tenth of february next, for one hundred additional shares of capital stock in said company. the sum to be demanded for each share will be $ , with interest at six per cent. on the different instalments from the time they are severally called for, to be paid by original stockholders; one hundred dollars thereof to be paid at time of subscribing, and the remainder in three equal payments, at , and days, no person to be admitted to subscribe more than one share on the same day. by order of the board. william govett, secretary." "when location was fully determined upon," writes mr. witmer, "as you will observe, today, a more direct line could scarcely have been selected. many of the curves which are found at the present time did not exist at that day, for it has been crowded and twisted by various improvements along its borders so that the original constructors are not responsible. so straight, indeed, was it from initial to terminal point that it was remarked by one of the engineers of the state railroad, constructed in (and now known as the pennsylvania railroad), that it was with the greatest difficulty that they kept their line off of the turnpike, and the subsequent experiences of the engineers of the same company verify the fact, as you will see. today there is a tendency, wherever the line is straightened, to draw nearer to this old highway, paralleling it in many places for quite a distance, and as it approaches the city of philadelphia, in one or two instances they have occupied the old road bed entirely, quietly crowding its old rival to a side, and crossing and recrossing it in many places. "you will often wonder as you pass over this highway, remembering the often-stated fact by some ancient wagoner or stage-driver (who today is scarcely to be found, most of them having thrown down the reins and put up for the night), that at that time there were almost continuous lines of conestoga wagons, with their feed troughs suspended at the rear and the tar can swinging underneath, toiling up the long hills (for you will observe there was very little grading done when that roadway was constructed), and you wonder how it was possible to accommodate so much traffic as there was, in addition to stagecoaches and private conveyances, winding in and out among these long lines of wagons. but you must bear in mind that the roadway was very different then from what it is at the present time. "the narrow, macadamized surface, with its long grassy slope (the delight of the tramp and itinerant merchant, especially when a neighboring tree casts a cooling shadow over its surface), which same slope becomes a menace to belated and unfamiliar travelers on a dark night, threatening them with an overturn into what of more recent times is known as the summer road, did not exist at that time, but the road had a regular slope from side ditch to center, as all good roads should have, and conveyances could pass anywhere from side to side. the macadam was carefully broken and no stone was allowed to be placed on the road that would not pass through a two-inch ring. a test was made which can be seen today about six miles east of lancaster, where the roadway was regularly paved for a distance of one hundred feet from side to side, with a view of constructing the entire line in that way. but it proved too expensive, and was abandoned. day, in his history, published in ,[ ] makes mention of the whole roadway having been so constructed, but i think that must have been an error, as this is the only point where there is any appearance of this having been attempted, and can be seen at the present time when the upper surface has been worn off by the passing and repassing over it." the placing of tollgates on the lancaster pike is thus announced in the lancaster _journal_, previously mentioned, where the following notice appears: "the public are hereby informed that the president and managers of the philadelphia and lancaster turnpike road having perfected the very arduous and important work entrusted by the stockholders to their direction, have established toll gates at the following places on said road, and have appointed a toll gatherer at each gate, and that the rates of toll to be collected at the several gates are by resolution of the board and agreeable to act of assembly fixed and established as below. the total distance from lancaster to philadelphia is miles. gate no. -- miles w from schuylkill, collect miles gate no. -- miles w from schuylkill, collect miles gate no. -- miles w from schuylkill, collect miles gate no. -- miles w from schuylkill, collect miles gate no. -- - / miles w from schuylkill, collect miles gate no. -- miles w from schuylkill, collect miles gate no. -- - / miles w from schuylkill, collect miles gate no. -- - / miles w from schuylkill, collect miles gate no. --witmer's bridge, collect miles." there is also in the same journal, bearing date january , , the following notice: "sec. . and be it further enacted, by authority of aforesaid, that no wagon or other carriage with wheels the breadth of whose wheels shall not be four inches, shall be driven along said road between the first day of december and the first day of may following in any year or years, with a greater weight thereon than two and a half tons, or with more than three tons during the rest of the year; that no such carriage, the breadth of whose wheels shall not be seven inches, or being six inches or more shall roll at least ten inches, shall be drawn along said road between the said day of december and may with more than five tons, or with more than five and a half tons during the rest of the year; that no carriage or cart with two wheels, the breadth of whose wheels shall not be four inches, shall be drawn along said road with a greater weight thereon than one and a quarter tons between the said first days of december and may, or with more than one and a half tons during the rest of the year; no such carriage, whose wheels shall be of the breadth of seven inches shall be driven along the said road with more than two and one half tons between the first days of december and may, or more than three tons during the rest of the year; that no such carriage whose wheels shall not be ten inches in width shall be drawn along the said road between the first days of december and may with more than three and a half tons, or with more than four tons the rest of the year; that no cart, wagon or carriage of burden whatever, whose wheels shall not be the breadth of nine inches at least, shall be drawn or pass in or over the said road or any part thereof with more than six horses, nor shall more than eight horses be attached to any carriage whatsoever used on said road, and if any wagon or other carriage shall be drawn along said road by a greater number of horses or with a greater weight than is hereby permitted, one of the horses attached thereto shall be forfeited to the use of said company, to be seized and taken by any of their officers or servants, who shall have the privilege to choose which of the said horses they may think proper, excepting the shaft or wheel horse or horses, provided always that it shall and may be lawful for said company by their by-laws to alter any and all of the regulations here contained respecting burdens or carriages to be drawn over the said road and substituting other regulations, if on experience such alterations should be found conducive of public good." there were regular warehouses or freight stations in the various towns through which the lancaster pike passed, mr. witmer leaves record, where experienced loaders or packers were to be found who attended to filling these great curving wagons, which were elevated at each end and depressed in the centre; and it was quite an art to be able to so pack them with the various kinds of merchandise that they would carry safely, and at the same time to economize all the room necessary; and when fully loaded and ready for the journey it was no unusual case for the driver to be appealed to by some one who wished to follow horace greeley's advice and "go west," for permission to accompany him and earn a seat on the load, as well as share his mattress on the barroom floor at night by tending the lock or brake. mr. witmer was told by one of the largest and wealthiest iron masters of pittsburg that his first advent to the smoky city was on a load of salt in that capacity. "in regard to the freight or transportation companies," continues the annalist, "the line wagon company was the most prominent. stationed along this highway at designated points were drivers and horses, and it was their duty to be ready as soon as a wagon was delivered at the beginning of their section to use all despatch in forwarding it to the next one, thereby losing no time required to rest horses and driver, which would be required when the same driver and horses took charge of it all the way through. but, like many similar schemes, what appeared practical in theory did not work well in practice. soon the wagons were neglected, each section caring only to deliver it to the one succeeding, caring little as to its condition, and soon the roadside was encumbered with wrecks and breakdowns and the driver and horses passed to and fro without any wagon or freight from terminal points of their sections, leaving the wagons and freight to be cared for by others more anxious for its removal than those directly in charge. so it was deemed best to return to the old system of making each driver responsible for his own wagon and outfit. "a wagoner, next to a stagecoach-driver, was a man of immense importance, and they were inclined to be clannish. they would not hesitate to unite against landlord, stage-driver or coachman who might cross their path, as in a case when a wedding party was on its way to philadelphia, which consisted of several gigs. these were two-wheeled conveyances, very similar to our road-carts of the present day, except that they were much higher and had large loop springs in the rear just back of the seat; they were the fashionable conveyance of that day. when one of the gentlemen drivers, the foremost one (possibly the groom), was paying more attention to his fair companion than his horses, he drove against the leaders of one of the numerous wagons that were passing on in the same direction. it was an unpardonable offense and nothing short of an encounter in the stable yard or in front of the hotel could atone for such a breach of highway ethics. at a point where the party stopped to rest before continuing their journey the wagoners overtook them and they immediately called on the gentleman for redress. but seeing a friend in the party they claimed they would excuse the culprit on his friend's account; the offending party would not have it so, and said no friend of his should excuse him from getting a beating if he deserved it, and i have no doubt he prided himself on his muscular abilities also. however it was peaceably arranged and each pursued his way without any blood being shed or bones broken. that was one of the many similar occurrences which happened daily, many not ending so harmlessly. "the stage lines were not only the means of conveying the mails and passengers, but of also disseminating the news of great events along the line as they passed. the writer remembers hearing it stated that the stage came through from philadelphia with a wide band of white muslin bound around the top, and in large letters was the announcement that peace had been declared, which was the closing of the second war with great britain, known as the war of . what rejoicing it caused along the way as it passed!" [illustration: earliest style of log tavern] the taverns of this old turnpike were typical. of them mr. moore writes: "independent of the heavy freighting, numerous stage lines were organized for carrying passengers. as a result of this immense traffic, hotels sprung up all along the road, where relays of horses were kept, and where passengers were supplied with meals. here, too, the teamsters found lodging and their animals were housed and cared for over night. the names of these hotels were characteristic of the times. many were called after men who had borne conspicuous parts in the revolutionary war that had just closed--such as washington, warren, lafayette, and wayne, while others represented the white and black horse, the lion, swan, cross keys, ship, etc. they became favorite resorts for citizens of their respective neighborhoods, who wished at times to escape from the drudge and ennui of their rural homes and gaze upon the world as represented by the dashing stages and long lines of conestoga wagons. here neighbor met neighbor--it was the little sphere in which they all moved, lived and had their being. they sipped their whisky toddies together, which were dispensed at the rate of three cents a single glass, or for a finer quality, five for a spanish quarter, with the landlord in, was asked; smoked cigars that were retailed four for a cent--discussed their home affairs, including politics, religion and other questions of the day, and came just as near settling them, as the present generation of men, that are filling their places, required large supplies and made convenient home markets for the sale of butter, eggs, and whatever else the farmers had to dispose of." in our history of the cumberland road the difference between a wagonhouse and a tavern was emphasized. mr. witmer gives an incident on the lancaster turnpike which presents vividly the social position of these two houses of entertainment: "it was considered a lasting disgrace for one of the stage taverns to entertain a wagoner and it was sure to lose the patronage of the better class of travel, should this become known. the following instance will show how carefully the line was drawn. in the writer's native village, about ten miles east of this city [lancaster], when the traffic was unusually heavy and all the wagon taverns were full, a wagoner applied to the proprietor of the stage hotel for shelter and refreshment, and after a great deal of consideration on his part and persuasion on the part of the wagoner he consented, provided the guest would take his departure early in the morning, before there was any likelihood of any aristocratic arrivals, or the time for the stage to arrive at this point. as soon as he had taken his departure the hostlers and stable boys were put to work to clean up every vestige of straw or litter in front of the hotel that would be an indication of having entertained a wagoner over night!" the later history of the turnpike has been sketched by mr. moore as follows: "the turnpike company had enjoyed an uninterrupted era of prosperity for more than twenty-five years. during this time the dividends paid had been liberal--sometimes, it is said, exceeding fifteen per cent of the capital invested. but at the end of that time the parasite that destroys was gradually being developed. another, and altogether new system of transportation had been invented--a railroad--and which had already achieved partial success in some places in europe. it was about the year that this new method of transportation began to claim the serious attention of the progressive business men throughout the state. the feeling that some better system than the one in use must be found was fed and intensified by the fact that new york state was then constructing a canal from albany to the lakes; that when completed it would give the business men of new york city an unbroken water route to the west.... "with the completion of the entire pennsylvania canal system to pittsburg, in , the occupation of the famous old conestoga teams was gone.[ ] the same may also be said of the numerous lines of the stages that daily wended their way over the turnpike. the changes wrought were almost magical. everyone who rode patronized the cars; and the freight was also forwarded by rail. the farmers, however, were not ruined as they had maintained they would be. their horses, as well as drivers, were at once taken into the railway service and employed in drawing cars from one place to another. it was simply a change of vocation, and there still remained a market for grain, hay, straw and other produce of the farm. "the loss sustained by the holders of turnpike stock, however, was immeasurable. in a comparative sense, travel over the turnpike road was suspended. receipts from tolls became very light and the dividends, when paid, were not only quite diminutive, but very far between. "the officers of the pennsylvania railroad company have always been noted for their foresight, as well as shrewdness in protecting the business interests of their organization--and none have given more substantial evidence of these traits than its present chief officer, mr. alexander cassatt. in the year the horse cars had been extended as far west as the centennial buildings and it became apparent in a year or two thereafter that they might be still further extended over the turnpike in the direction of paoli and thus become an annoying competitor for the local travel, which had been carefully nurtured and built up by the efforts of the railroad company. under the leadership of mr. cassatt a company was organized to purchase the road. when all the preliminaries had been arranged a meeting of the subscribers to the purchasing fund was held on the twentieth day of april, . the turnpike was purchased from fifty-second street to paoli, about seventeen miles, for the sum of twenty thousand dollars. in the following june a charter was secured for the 'lancaster avenue improvement company,' and mr. cassatt was chosen president. the horse railroad was thus shut off from a further extension over the old turnpike. the new purchasers rebuilt the entire seventeen miles and there is today probably no better macadam road in the united states, nor one more scrupulously maintained than by 'the lancaster avenue improvement company.' some parts of the turnpike road finally became so much out of repair that the traveling public refused to longer pay the tolls demanded. this was the case on that portion of the road lying between paoli and exton, a distance of some eight and a half miles. it traversed parts of the townships of willistown and east and west whiteland, in chester county and upon notice of abandonment being served in upon the supervisors of these townships, those officials assumed the future care of the road. the turnpike was also abandoned from the borough of coatesville to the lancaster county line, a distance of about eight and one-half miles. this left only that portion of the turnpike lying between exton station and the borough of coatesville, a distance of some ten miles, under control of the old company, and upon which tollgates were maintained. the road was in a wretched repair and many persons driving over it refused to pay when tolls were demanded. the company, however, continued to employ collectors and gather shekels from those who were willing to pay and suffering those to pass who refused. "thus the old company worried along and maintained its organization until , when the 'philadelphia and west chester traction company,' made its appearance. this company thought it saw an opportunity to extend the railroad west over the turnpike at least as far as downingtown, and possibly as far as the borough of coatesville. terms were finally agreed upon with the president of the turnpike company, and all the rights, titles and interests in the road then held by the original turnpike company, and which embraced that portion lying between exton and the borough of coatesville, were transferred to mr. a. m. taylor, as trustee, for ten dollars per share. the original issue was twelve hundred shares. it was estimated that at least two hundred shares would not materialize, being either lost or kept as souvenirs. the length of the road secured was about ten miles. the disposition of the old road may be enumerated as follows: sold to hestonville railroad $ , to lancaster and williamstown turnpike company , to lancaster avenue improvement company , to a. m. taylor, trustee (estimated) , -- ------ total miles sold total purchase money received $ , abandoned paoli to exton - / coatesville to lancaster company line - / ------ total miles abandoned "the distance from coatesville to philadelphia, via whitford, a station on the pennsylvania railroad ten miles east of coatesville, thence to west chester and over the electric road, is somewhat less than by the pennsylvania railroad. immediately after the purchase, mr. taylor announced that it was the intention of his company to extend their road to downingtown, and, possibly, to coatesville. but a charter for a trolley road does not carry with it the right of eminent domain. upon investigation, mr. taylor discovered that the pennsylvania railroad company owned property on both sides of the purchased turnpike, and that without the consent of that organization a trolley road could not be laid over the turnpike. he further discovered that at a point west of downingtown the railroad company, in connection with one of its employees, owned a strip of land extending from the valley hill on the north to the valley hill on the south. the proposed extension of the trolley road, therefore, had to be abandoned. "as the turnpike road could not be used by the new purchasers for the purposes intended, it was a useless and annoying piece of property in their hands. a petition has already [ ] been filed in the court of quarter sessions of chester county looking toward having the road condemned. judge hemphill has appointed jurors to view the said turnpike road and fix the damages that may be due the present owners. whatever damages may finally be agreed upon the county of chester must pay, and the supervisors of the different townships through which the road passes will thereafter assume its care. this will probably be the last official act in which the title of the old organization will participate. 'men may come and men may go,' and changes be made both in ownership and purposes of use, but whatever the future may have in store for this grand old public highway, the basic principle will always be: 'the old philadelphia and lancaster turnpike;' and as such forever remain a lasting monument to the courageous, progressive, and patriotic men whose capital entered into and made its construction possible." the principal rivals of the macadamized roads were the plank roads. the first plank road in america was built at toronto, canada, in - , during sir francis bond head's governorship. it was an experiment and one darcy boulton is said to have been the originator of the plan.[ *] in this method of road-building was introduced into the united states, syracuse, new york, possessing the first plank road this side the canadian border. in fifteen years there were two thousand one hundred and six miles of these roads in new york state alone, and the system had spread widely through the more prosperous and energetic states. usually these roads were single-track, the track being built on the left hand side of the roadway; the latter became known as the "turn-out." the planks, measuring eight inches by three, were laid on stringers, these, in turn, resting on a more or less elaborately made bed. the average cost of plank roads in new york was a trifle less than two thousand dollars per mile. it will be remembered that the cumberland road cost on the average over ten thousand dollars per mile in maryland and pennsylvania, and three thousand four hundred dollars per mile west of the ohio river. its estimated cost per mile, without bridging, was six thousand dollars. it was natural, therefore, that plank roads should become popular--for the country was still a "wooden country," as the pioneers said. it was argued that the cost was "infinitely less--that it [plank road] is easier for the horse to draw upon--and that such a road costs less for repairs and is more durable than a macadam road.... on the salina and central road, a few weeks back, for a wager, a team [two horses] brought in, without any extraordinary strain, six tons of iron from brewerton, a distance of twelve miles, to syracuse [new york].... indeed, the farmer does not seem to make any calculations of the weight taken. he loads his wagon as best he can, and the only care is not to exceed the quantity which it will carry; whether the team can draw the load, is not a consideration...." such arguments prevailed in the day when timber was considered almost a nuisance, and plank roads spread far and wide. few who were acquainted with primitive conditions have left us anything vivid in the way of descriptions of roads and road-making. "the pioneers of our state," wrote calvin fletcher, in an exceedingly interesting paper read before the indiana centennial association, july , , "found indian trails, which, with widening, proved easy lines of travel. many of these afterward became fixtures through use, improvement, and legislation.... next to the hearty handshake and ready lift at the handspike, where neighbors swapped work at log-rollings, was the greeting when, at fixed periods, all able-bodied men met to open up or work upon the roads. my child-feet pattered along many of the well-constructed thoroughfares of today when they were only indistinct tracings--long lines of deadened trees, deep-worn horse paths, and serpentine tracks of wabbling wagon wheels. the ever-recurring road-working days and their cheerful observance, with time's work in rotting and fire's work in removing dead tree and stump, at last let in long lines of sunshine to dry up the mud, to burn up the miasma, and to bless the wayfarer to other parts, as well as to disclose what these pioneer road-makers had done for themselves by opening up fields in the forests.... to perfect easily and naturally these industries requires three generations. the forests must be felled, logs rolled and burned, families reared, and in most cases the land to be paid for. when this is accomplished a faithful picture would reveal not only the changes that had been wrought, but a host of prematurely broken down men and women, besides an undue proportion resting peacefully in country graveyards. a second generation straightens out the fields at odd corners, pulls the stumps, drains the wet spots, and casting aside the sickle of their father, swings the cradle over broader fields; and even trenches upon the plans of the third generation by pushing the claim of the reaper, the mower and the thresher.... the labor of the three generations in road-making i class as follows: to the first generation belonged locating the roads and the clearing the timber from them. the wet places would become miry and were repaired by the use of logs.... the roots and stumps caused many holes, called chuck holes, which were repaired by using brush and dirt--with the uniform result that at each end of the corduroy or brush repairs, a new mud or chuck hole would be formed in time; and thus until timber and brush became exhausted did the pioneer pave the way for the public and himself to market, to court, and to elections. the second generation discovered a value in the inexhaustible beds of gravel in the rivers and creeks, as well as beneath the soil. roadbeds were thrown up, and the side ditches thus formed contributed to sound wheeling. legislation tempted capital to invest and tollgates sprang up until the third generation removed them and assumed the burden of large expenditures from public funds for public benefit. "and thus have passed away the nightmare of the farmer, the traveller, the mover and the mail-carrier--a nightmare that prevailed nine months of the year.... an experience of a trip from indianapolis to chicago in march, , by mail stage is pertinent. it took the first twenty-four hours to reach kirklin, in boone county; the next twenty-four to logansport, the next thirty-six to reach south bend. a rest then of twenty-four hours on account of high water ahead; then thirty-six hours to chicago--five days of hard travel in mud or on corduroy, or sand.... in the summer passenger coaches went through, but when wet weather came the mud wagon was used to carry passengers and mail, and when the mud became too deep the mail was piled into crates, canvas-covered, and hauled through. this was done also on the national [cumberland], the madison, the cincinnati, the lafayette and the bloomington roads." the _corvée_, or required work on the roads of france, has been given as one of the minor causes of the social unrest which reached its climax in the french revolution. american peasants had no such hardship according to an anonymous rhymester: oh, our life was tough and tearful, and its toil was often fearful, and often we grew faint beneath the load. but there came a glad vacation and a sweet alleviation, when we used to work our tax out on the road. when we used to work our tax out, then we felt the joys of leisure, and we felt no more the prick of labor's goad; then we shared the golden treasure of sweet rest in fullest measure, when we used to work our tax out on the road. the macadam and plank roads saw the indian trail at its widest and best. the railway has had a tendency to undo even such advances over pioneer roads as came in the heyday of macadam and plank roads. we have been going backward since rather than forward. the writer has had long acquaintance with what was, in , the first turnpike in ohio--the warren and ashtabula road; it was probably a far better route in than in . by worrying the horse you can not make more than four miles an hour over many parts of it. one ought to go into training preparatory to a carriage drive over either the cumberland or the pennsylvania road across the alleghenies. as the trail was widened it grew better, but once at its maximum width it was eclipsed as an avenue by the railway and, exceptions aside, has since deteriorated. every foot added in width, however, has contained a lesson in american history; every road, as we have said, indicates a need; and the wider the road, it may be added, the greater the need. an expanding nation, in a moment's time, burst westward through these narrow trails, and left them standing as open roadways. few material objects today suggest to our eyes this marvelous movement. these old routes with their many winding tracks, the ponderous bridges and sagging mile-posts,[ ] are relics of those momentous days. chapter ii a pilgrim on the pennsylvania road the following chapter is from francis baily's volume, _a journal of a tour in unsettled parts of north america_. it is an account of a journey in from philadelphia to pittsburg over the pennsylvania road treated of in volume v of this series. francis baily was an english scientist of very great reputation. it is to be doubted whether there is another account of a journey as far west as mr. baily's record takes us (cincinnati, ohio) written at so early a date by an equally famous foreign scholar and scientist. the route pursued was the old state road begun in running through pennsylvania from chambersburg, bedford, and greensburg to pittsburg. mr. baily's itinerary is by ancient taverns, most of which have passed from recollection. from pittsburg he went with a company of pioneers down the ohio river to their new settlement near cincinnati. in his experiences with these friends he gives us a vivid picture of pioneer travel north of the ohio river. "there being no turnpikes in america, the roads are, of course, very bad in winter, though excellent in summer. i waited at baltimore near a week before i could proceed on my journey, the roads being rendered impassable. there is, at present, but one turnpike-road on the continent, which is between lancaster and philadelphia,[ ] a distance of sixty-six miles, and is a masterpiece of its kind; it is paved with stone the whole way, and overlaid with gravel, so that it is never obstructed during the most severe season. this practice is going to be adopted in other parts of that public-spirited state [pennsylvania], though none of the other states have yet come into the measure. "from baltimore to philadelphia are ninety-eight miles; between which places there is no want of conveyance, as there are three or four stages run daily. in one of these i placed myself on the morning of _march rd, _. a description of them perhaps would be amusing. the body of the carriage is closed in, about breast high; from the sides of which are raised six or eight small perpendicular posts, which support a covering--so that it is in fact a kind of open coach. from the top are suspended leather curtains, which may be either drawn up in fine weather, or let down in rainy or cold weather; and which button at the bottom. the inside is fitted up with four seats, placed one before the other; so that the whole of the passengers face the horses; each seat will contain three passengers; and the driver sits on the foremost, under the same cover with the rest of the company. the whole is suspended on springs; and the way to get into it is _in front_, as if you were getting into a covered cart. this mode of travelling, and which is the only one used in america, is very pleasant as you enjoy the country much more agreeably than when imprisoned in a close coach, inhaling and exhaling the same air a thousand times over, like a cow chewing the cud; but then it is not quite so desirable in disagreeable weather.[ ] "we had not proceeded far on our journey before we began to encounter some of those inconveniences to which every person who travels in this country _in winter time_ is exposed. the roads, which in general were very bad, would in some places be impassable, so that we were obliged to get out and walk a considerable distance, and sometimes to 'put our shoulders to the wheel;' and this in the most unpleasant weather, as well as in the midst of mire and dirt. however, we did manage to get twelve miles to breakfast; and after that, to a little place called bush, about thirteen miles farther, to dinner; and about nine o'clock at night we came to _havre de grace_, about twelve miles further, to supper; having walked nearly half the way up to our ancles in mud, in a most inclement season. havre de grace is a pretty little place, most delightfully situated on the banks of the susquehannah river, which at this place is about a quarter of a mile broad; it is about a couple of miles above the mouth of the river, where it empties into the chesapeak bay; a fine view of which you have from the town. an excellent tavern is kept here by mr. barney ... and which is frequented by parties in the shooting season, for the sake of the wild fowl with which the susquehannah so plentifully abounds; the canvass-back, a most delicious bird, frequents this river.... next morning we got ferried across the river, and, breakfasting at the tavern on the other side, proceeded on our journey, encountering the same difficulties we had done the preceding day. about three miles from barney's is a little place, called principio, situated in a highly romantic country, where there is a large foundry for cannon and works for boring them, situated in a valley surrounded by a heap of rocks; the wheels of the works are turned by a stream of water running over some of these precipices. about three miles from this is another delightful place, called charleston; i mean with respect to its _situation_; as to the town itself, it does not seem to improve at all, at which i very much wonder, as it is most advantageously situated at the head of the chesapeak, of which and the country adjoining it commands a full and most charming view. we got about nine miles farther, to a town called elkton, to dinner. this place has nothing in it to attract the attention of travellers. i shall therefore pass it by, to inform you that we intended getting to newport, about eighteen miles, to sleep. it was four o'clock before we started; and we had not proceeded far on these miserable roads, ere night overtook us; and, as the fates would have it, our unlucky coachman drove us into a miry bog; and, in spite of all our endeavours, we could not get the coach out again; we were therefore obliged to _leave it there, with the whole of the baggage, all night_; and were driven to the necessity of seeking our way in the dark to the nearest house, which was about a mile and a half off; there, getting ourselves cleaned and a good supper, we went to bed. next morning we found everything just as we left it; and, getting another coach, we proceeded on our journey, and, dining at chester, got to philadelphia about nine o'clock in the evening, completely tired of our ride, having been three days and three nights on the road. "i would not have been thus particular, but i wished to give you a specimen of the american mode of travelling, though you will understand that these difficulties are to be met with only at that season of the year when the frost breaks up, and the roads get sadly out of order; for in summer time nothing can be more agreeable, expeditious, and pleasant. the fare from baltimore to philadelphia is dollars, or s., and the customary charges on the road are / dollar for breakfast, dollar for dinner, wine not included, / dollar for supper, and / dollar for beds. these are their general prices, and they charge the same whatever they provide for you. by this, you will observe that travelling in these settled parts of the country is about as expensive as in england. "the country between baltimore and philadelphia is of a _clayey_ nature, mixed with a kind of gravel; yet still, in the hands of a skilful farmer, capable of yielding good produce. the land on each side of the road, and back into the country, was pretty well cultivated, and (though winter) bore marks of industry and economy. hedges are not frequent; but instead of them they place split logs angular-wise on each other, making what they call a "worm fence," and which is raised about five feet high. this looks very slovenly, and, together with the stumps of trees remaining in all the new-cleared plantations, is a great _desight_ to the scenery of the country.... from newark to new york is about nine miles, and the greatest part of the road is over a large swamp, which lies between and on each side of the pasaik and hackinsac rivers. over this swamp they have made a causeway, which trembles the whole way as you go over it,[ ] and shows how far the genius and industry of man will triumph over natural impediments. "to new york, which is ninety-six miles from philadelphia, we were a day and a half in coming. the roads were not so bad as when we came from baltimore. our fare was dollars, and the charges on the road the same as between baltimore and philadelphia:--viz., / dollar breakfast, dollar dinner, / dollar supper, and / dollar lodging.... the inhabitants of new york are very fond of music, dancing, and plays; an attainment to excellence in the former has been considerably promoted by the frequent musical societies and concerts which are held in the city, many of the inhabitants being very good performers. as to dancing, there are two assembly-rooms in the city, which are pretty well frequented during the winter season; private balls are likewise not uncommon. they have two theatres, one of which is lately erected, and is capable of containing a great number of persons; there is an excellent company of comedians, who perform here in the winter. but the amusement of which they seem most passionately fond is that of sleighing, which is riding on the snow in what _you_ call _a sledge_, drawn by two horses. it is astonishing to see how anxiously persons of all ages and both sexes look out for a good fall of snow, that they may enjoy their favourite amusement; and when the happy time comes, to see how eager they are to engage every sleigh that is to be hired. parties of twenty or thirty will sometimes go out of town in these vehicles towards evening, about six or eight miles, when, having sent for a fiddler, and danced till they are tired, they will return home again by moonlight, or, perhaps more often, by _day_ light. whilst the snow is on the ground no other carriages are made use of, either for pleasure or service. the productions of the earth are brought to market in sleighs; merchandise is draughted about in sleighs; coaches are laid by, and the ladies and gentlemen mount the _silent_ car, and nothing is heard in the streets but the tinkling[ ] of bells.... i set off on the _ st_ of _september, _, to make a tour of the western country,--that land of paradise, according to the flattering accounts given by imlay and others. wishing to go to the new city of washington, _we_[ ] took our route through philadelphia and baltimore, which i have already described. i shall not trouble you with any further remarks, excepting that as the season was just the reverse of what it was when i passed through this country last, it presented quite a different appearance from what i described to you in my former letters. besides, there was none of that inconvenience from bad roads, so terrible to a traveller in the winter. on the contrary, we went on with a rapidity and safety equal to any mode of travelling in england. "from baltimore to the new city of washington is forty-five miles, where we arrived on the _ th_ of _october_ following. the road is well furnished with taverns, which in general are good, at least as good as can be expected in this part of the world. close to washington is a handsome town called georgetown; in fact, it will form part of the new city; for, being so near the site intended for it, and being laid out nearly on the same plan, its streets will be only a prolongation of the streets laid out for the city of washington: so it will in course of time lose its name of georgetown, and adopt the general one of washington. much in the same manner the small places formerly separated from the metropolis of england have lost their name, and fallen under the general denomination of london. "georgetown is situated on a hill close to the river potomak; it presents a beautiful view from the surrounding country, of which also it commands a fine prospect. it is a seaport town, and some of their vessels are employed in the london trade. there are stages run daily between this place and baltimore, for which you pay four dollars. there are also stages to and from alexandria, a handsome and flourishing town situated on the potomak, lower down the stream, and about eight miles off; for which you pay a fare of three quarters of a dollar. we put up at the federal arms whilst we were there. it is a good inn, but their charges are most extravagantly high.... at about half-past one, _october th_, we started on our journey over the allegany mountains to pittsburgh.[ ] about fourteen miles on the road is a pretty little town called montgomery court house;[ ] it contains some good houses, but the streets are narrow. about seven miles further is a little settlement, formed a few years back by captain lingham, called middlebrook. captain lingham has a house on the road, near a mill, which he has erected; and here (following the example of many of his brother officers) he has retired from the toils and bustle of war, to spend his days in the enjoyments of a country life. we arrived here about six o'clock; the sun was just setting, yet there was time to go another stage; but, as we got into a part of the country where _taverns_[ ] were not very frequent, we proposed stopping here this night. accordingly, putting our horses up at a little tavern, (which, together with four or five more houses, composed the whole of the settlement,) we had a comfortable supper and went to bed. about half-past six the next morning we started from this place, and stopped, about seven miles on the road, at an old woman's of the name of roberts.[ ] this old woman (whose house, i believe, was the only one we saw on the road) acts at times in the capacity of a tavern-keeper: that is, a person travelling that way, and straitened for provisions, would most probably find something there for himself and his horse. the old lady was but just up when we called; her house had more the appearance of a hut than the habitation of an hostess, and when we entered there was scarcely room to turn round. we were loath to stop here; but there not being any other house near, we were obliged to do it, both for the sake of ourselves and our horses. we soon made her acquainted with our wants, and she, gathering together a few sticks, (for her fire was not yet lighted,) and getting a little meal and some water, mixed us up some cakes, which were soon dressed at the fire, and then all sitting down at the table, and having mixed some tea in a little pot, we enjoyed a very comfortable breakfast. the poor old woman, who was a widow, seemed to live in a deal of distress: the whole of her living was acquired by furnishing accommodation to travellers. when we were sitting over the fire, and partaking of our meal-cakes with this old woman, it brought to mind the story of elijah and the widow, (i kings, chap, xvii.,) particularly where she answers him with, 'as the lord thy god liveth, i have not a cake, but one handful of meal in a barrel, and a little oil in a cruse: and, behold, i am gathering two sticks, that i may go in and dress it for me and my son, that we may eat it, and die.' the appositeness of our situations rendered this passage very striking, and made me look upon my hostess in a more favourable point of view than when i first saw her. i gave her something to render her situation more comfortable and happy. "leaving this lonely habitation, we continued on our journey, and crossing the sinecocy [monocacy?] river, about eleven miles on the road, we reached fredericktown, about four miles farther, at twelve o'clock. this is a large flourishing place, contains a number of good houses, and is a place of great trade, owing to its being the thoroughfare to the western country of pennsylvania and the ohio. there is a large manufactory of rifle-guns carried on here; but so great is the demand for them, that we could not meet with one in the whole place: they sell in general from to dollars each, according to their style of being mounted. the tavern where we stopped was kept by mrs. kemble: it is a tolerably good house. after dinner we left this place, and after going about three or four miles, we arrived at the foot of the appalachian mountains. and here let me stop a little to make a few observations on the face of the country we have just passed over. from georgetown to this place, it almost wholly consists of a sandy, gravelly soil, with difficulty repaying the husbandman for the trouble of tilling it. the face of the country is very uneven, being a constant succession of hill and dale. little towns or villages are scattered over the country at the distance of seven or eight miles, which communicate with each other by roads which are almost inaccessible during the winter and spring months. our charges on this part of the road were half a dollar each for breakfast and dinner and supper, without any distinction of fare. if our table were spread with all the profusion of american luxury, such as ham, cold beef, fried chicken, &c. &c., (which are not uncommon for breakfast in this part of the world), or whether we sat down to a dish of tea and hoe-cake, our charge was all the same. the accommodations we met with on the road were pretty well, considering the short time this country has been settled, and the character and disposition of its inhabitants, which are not those of the most polished nations, but a character and disposition arising from a consciousness of independence, accompanied by a spirit and manner highly characteristic of this consciousness. it is not education alone that forms this character of the americans: it stands upon a firmer basis than this. the means of subsistence being so easy in the country, and their dependence on each other consequently so trifling, that spirit of servility to those above them so prevalent in european manners, is wholly unknown to them; and they pass their lives without any regard to the smiles or the frowns of men in power. "nearly the whole of the way from georgetown to fredericktown we preserved a distant view of the allegany mountains, at whose feet we were now arrived. they presented to us one general bluff appearance, extending as far as our eye could see from the north-east to the south-west. our approach to them was in a line perpendicular to that of their extension, so that they seemed to bid defiance to our progress. the _allegany mountains_ is a name given to a range of several ridges of mountains stretching from vermont to carolina, of which one ridge alone is properly called the allegany mountain. these ridges are nearly miles in width; and the middle one, or the allegany, forms the backbone of the rest. the ridge which first presented itself to our view, is called in howell's map the south mountain. the road (which here began to be very rocky and stony) is carried over the least elevated part of the mountain, and from its summit we beheld that beautiful limestone valley so recommended by brissot. on our descent from this mountain, we entered on one of the finest tracts of land in all america. the celebrated valley, which lies between this and the next ridge of mountains, extends from the susquehanna on the north to winchester on the south, is richly watered by several navigable streams, and is capable of producing every article which is raised in the neighbouring countries in the greatest abundance. it is inhabited chiefly by germans and dutch, who are an industrious race of men and excellent farmers. their exertions have made this valley (bounded on each side by barren and inhospitable mountains) assume the appearance of a highly cultivated country, abounding in all the conveniences and some of the luxuries of life. besides a general appearance of comfortable farms scattered over the face of the country, it can boast of several large and populous towns, which keep up a connexion with the cities on the atlantic, and supply the interior of this mountainous country with the produce of distant nations. it was dark before we descended from this mountain; but we had not proceeded far in the valley when we came to a little place called boone's-town, where we were glad to rest ourselves and horses after the fatigues of so rough a road. boone's-town is eight miles from fredericktown: it has not been settled above three or four years. we met with a very good tavern and excellent accommodations. "from boone's-town, the next morning (_sunday, october th, _) we passed through funk's-town, which is another new-settled place; and immediately on leaving this, hagar's-town presented itself to our view, about two miles off: here we arrived to breakfast. hagar's-town[ ] is a large flourishing place, and contains some good houses. the streets are narrow, and, agreeably to a barbarous custom which they have in laying out new towns in america, the court-house is built in the _middle_ of the principal street, which is a great obstruction to the passage, as well as being of an uncouth appearance. this place is situated on a fine plain, and, like frederick's-town, is a place of great trade, and also a manufactory for rifle-guns, of which we bought two at twenty dollars each. here is a paper published weekly; and assemblies are held here during the winter. there is also a great deal of horse-racing in the neighbourhood at stated seasons. we put up at the indian queen, kept by ragan: it is a good house and much frequented. "from hagar's-town we proceeded on to greencastle, which is a poor little place, but lately settled, and consisting of a few log-houses built along the road. we stopped at one of these houses, which they called the tavern, kept by one lawrence; it was a poor miserable place. we were obliged to unsaddle our horses, put them into the stable, and feed them ourselves; and then, having got something to eat and refreshed ourselves, we got out of this place as soon as we could. greencastle is eleven miles from hagar's-town; and we had to go eleven miles farther that evening to mr. lindsay's, whom we had engaged at baltimore to carry some goods to pittsburgh in his waggons. his house lay at some distance from the road we were going, so that we struck across the woods to approach it; and, after having missed our way once or twice, we struck on a road which took us down to his house. here we were hospitably entertained for two days by mr. lindsay and his father-in-law, mr. andrews, who have a very excellent farm, and live very comfortably in the truly american style. the place at which he resides is called the _falling springs_; for what reason they are called _falling_ springs i cannot conceive; they _rise_ from under an old tree, and the stream does not proceed three hundred yards before it turns a cyder-mill; and a little farther on turns a grist-mill. these mills belong to mr. andrews, as also does a large quantity of the land around; for in this country _all_ the farmers are landholders; mr. and mrs. andrews are irish; and they and their family are all settled in the neighbourhood. their children are all brought up in industry, and have their time fully employed in performing the different necessary duties of the house and farm. nevertheless, they appear to live very happy and comfortable. "_tuesday, october th, ._--about eleven o'clock this morning we set off from mr. andrews's, in company with a party of several of the neighbouring farmers who were going to chambersburgh to vote at an election. chambersburgh is about three miles from mr. andrews's, and is a large and flourishing place, not inferior to frederick's-town or hagar's-town; being, like them, on the high road to the western country, it enjoys all the advantages which arise from such a continual body of people as are perpetually emigrating thither. i have seen ten and twenty waggons at a time in one of these towns, on their way to pittsburgh and other parts of the ohio, from thence to descend down that river to kentucky. these waggons are loaded with the clothes and necessaries of a number of poor emigrants, who follow on foot with their wives and families, who are sometimes indulged with a ride when they are tired, or in bad weather. in this manner they will travel and take up their abode in the woods on the side of the road, like the gypsies in our country, taking their provisions with them, which they dress on the road's side, as occasion requires. "about thirteen miles from chambersburgh, which we left in the afternoon, is a place called the _mill_,[ ] which is kept by some dutchmen. we understood it was a tavern, but were disappointed; however, as it was now dark, and no tavern on the road for some distance, we were under the necessity of begging a lodging here, which was granted us at last with the greatest reluctance. here we had rather an unfavourable specimen of dutch manners. we were _kindly_ directed to take our horses to the stables, and take care of them ourselves, which we accordingly did; and, returning to the house, i was witness to a kind of meal i had never before experienced. first of all, some sour milk was warmed up and placed on the table. this at any other time would probably have made us sick; but having fasted nearly the whole day, and seeing no appearance of anything else likely to succeed it, we devoured it very soon; particularly as the whole family (of which there were seven or eight) partook of it likewise; all of us sitting round _one_ large bowl, and dipping our spoons in one after another. when this was finished a dish of stewed pork was served up, accompanied with some hot pickled cabbage, called in this part of the country "warm slaw." this was devoured in the same hoggish manner, every one trying to help himself first, and two or three eating off the same plate, and all in the midst of filth and dirt. after this was removed a large bowl of cold milk and bread was put on the table, which we partook of in the same manner as the first dish, and in the same disorder. the spoons were immediately taken out of the greasy pork dish, and (having been just cleaned by passing through the _mouth_) were put into the milk; and that, with all the _sang froid_ necessarily attending such habitual nastiness. our _table_, which was none of the cleanest (for as to _cloth_, they had none in the house), was placed in the middle of the room, which appeared to me to be the receptacle of all the filth and rubbish in the house; and a fine large fire, which blazed at one end, served us instead of a candle. "wishing to go to bed as soon as possible (though, by the by, we did not expect that our accommodations would be any of the most agreeable), we requested to be shown to our room, when, lo! we were ushered up a ladder, into a dirty place, where a little hole in the wall served for a window, and where there were four or five beds as dirty as need be. these beds did not consist (as most beds do) of blankets, sheets, &c., but were truly in the dutch style, being literally nothing more than one feather bed placed on another, between which we were to creep and lie down. the man, after showing us this our place of destination, took the candle away, and left us to get in how we could, which we found some difficulty in doing at first; however, after having accomplished it, we slept very soundly till morning, when we found we had passed the night amongst the whole family, men, women, and children, who had occupied the other beds, and who had come up after we had been asleep. we got up early in the morning from this inhospitable and filthy place, and, saddling our horses, pursued our journey. [illustration: widow mcmurran's tavern, scrub ridge, pennsylvania road] "_october th, ._--at ten o'clock we arrived at mcconnell's-town, in cove valley (thirteen miles), having first passed over a high ridge called, in howell's map, the north mountain; and here we left that beautiful valley, which is enriched by so many streams, and abounds with such a profusion of the conveniences of life; a country than which, if we except kentucky, is not to be found a more fertile one in the whole of the united states. "on our descent from the north mountain we caught, through every opening of the woods, the distant view of mcconnell's, whose white houses, contrasted with the _sea_ of woods by which it was surrounded, appeared like an island in the ocean. our near approach to it, however, rendered it not quite so pleasing an object; for it consisted but of a few log-houses, built after the american manner, without any other ornament than that of being whitened on the _outside_. there was a pretty good tavern kept here by a dutchwoman, where we stopped to breakfast; and, leaving this place, we crossed a hill called scrubheath, at the end of which was whyle's tavern (ten miles): we did not stop, but went to the top of sideling hill (two miles), where there is a tavern kept by skinner, where we dined. sideling hill is so called from the road being carried over this ridge, _on the side of the hill_, the whole way; it is very steep in ascent, and towards the top appears very tremendous on looking down. "from this tavern to the junietta, a branch of the susquehannah river, is eight miles. the hill terminates at the river, and the road down to it is a narrow winding path, apparently cleft out of the mountain. it so happened that when we came to this defile, a travelling man with a number of packhorses had just entered it before us; and as it was impossible for us to pass them, we were obliged to follow them down this long winding passage to the river, at their own pace, which, poor animals, was none of the speediest. the sun, though not set, had been long hid from us by the neighbouring mountains, and would not lend us one ray to light us on our melancholy path. we fell into conversation with our fellow-traveller, and found that he had been to philadelphia, where he had purchased a number of articles necessary to those who live in this part of the country, and which he was going to dispose of in the best manner possible. the gloominess of our path, and the temper of mind i happened to be then in, threw me into reflections on a comparison of this man's state with my own. at length a distant light broke me from my reverie, and indicated to us a near prospect of our enlargement from this obscure path; and the first thing that presented itself to our view was the junietta river, which, flowing with a gentle stream between two very steep hills, covered with trees to the very top, the sun just shining, and enlightening the opposite side, though hid to us, presented one of the most enchanting and romantic scenes i ever experienced. from this place to hartley's tavern is eight miles, and this we had to go before night. it was sunset before we had reached the summit of the opposite hill of the river. from this hill we beheld ourselves in the midst of a mountainous and woody country; the junietta winding and flowing on each side of us at the foot of the hill; the distant mountains appearing in all the _wildness of majesty_, and extending below the horizon. the moon had just begun to spread her silver light; and by her assistance we were enabled to reach our destined _port_. the road, which was carried along the side of a tremendously high hill, seemed to threaten us with instant death, if our horses should make a false step. embosomed in woods, on a lonely path, we travelled by the kind light of the moon till near eight o'clock, when we reached our place of destination. it was a very comfortable house, kept by one hartley, an englishman, and situated in a gap of the mountains, called in this part of the country warrior's gap, and which affords an outlet or passage for the junietta river, which here is a fine gentle stream. the country just about here was very mountainous; yet our landlord had got a very pleasant spot cleared and cultivated, and which furnished him with the principal necessaries of life. finding this an agreeable place, we stopped here three days, and went up into the mountains to shoot; but, being very young hands at this diversion, we were always unsuccessful. "on _saturday, october th_, we set off from hartley's about eleven o'clock, and proceeded to redford (six miles), which is a pleasant place, and agreeably situated, and contains a great many houses. the town is supplied with water from the neighbouring hills; conveyed in pipes to each house, and to a public place in the middle of the town. we left this place about half-past twelve, and proceeded to ryan's tavern, at the foot of the allegany mountain (eleven miles). here we dined; and after dinner, we proceeded up the mountain, the top of which we reached about five o'clock; and here i was surprised to find a number of little streams of water flowing through some as fine land as is to be met with in the united states, and abounding with fish. this appearance upon the top of so high a mountain is not a little remarkable; but i have since found it to be the case in other ridges of mountains which i have passed over. we intended to have gone on to webster's this evening, but the weather proving so bad, we called at a little house on the road, in order to stop during the night. but we were informed that they could not accommodate us; however, they directed us to a person about a mile off, where they thought we could get accommodated; accordingly, striking across the woods, we proceeded to this house, and, after some little trouble, and in a very tempestuous night, we found it out, and here took up our abode for the night. our landlord's name was statler, and his residence is about eight miles from ryan's. here we found a very comfortable habitation, and very good accommodation; and though situated at the top of the highest ridge of mountains, we experienced not only the comforts, but also some of the luxuries of life. from the stone which forms the base of this mountain they make mill-stones, which are sent to all parts of the country, and sell from fifteen to twenty and thirty dollars a pair. land sells on these mountains for two dollars an acre. we found this so comfortable a place, that we stopped here to breakfast the next morning (_october th_), and then we proceeded to webster's, at a place called stoystown (nine miles), where there is a good tavern, and where we stopped to bait our horses. about a mile before we came to webster's we passed over stoney creek, which has a great many different branches, and rather large, but most of them were dry, owing partly to the season, and partly to their lying so very high. about nine miles further we stopped at murphy's, where we baited our horses; but the habitation was so uncomfortable, and their accommodations so miserable, that we could get nothing for ourselves; we were therefore obliged to defer till the evening taking any refreshment. on leaving this place we crossed laurel hill, which is near nine miles long, and which is the highest ridge of the apalachian mountains: it is rather a ridge upon a ridge, than a mountain by itself, as it rises upon the allegany ridge. the perpendicular height of this ridge is , feet; and in crossing it we were not a little incommoded by the cold winds and rain which generally infest the summit. this, together with the badness of the roads (being nothing but large loose stones), made it one of the most unpleasant rides i ever experienced. it was near dark before we descended this mountain; and we had then to go three miles to a poor miserable hut, where we were obliged to spend the night amidst the whole family and some other travellers, all scattered about in the same room. "about half-past six the next morning (_october th, _) we set out from king's, and crossing chestnut ridge, we arrived at letty bean's to breakfast (seven and a half miles). after crossing chestnut ridge we took our leave of the apalachian mountains, having passed miles over them, from the blue ridge to chestnut ridge. these mountains are for the most part very stony and rocky, yet have a great quantity of fine land on them, even on their very summits. the roads which are carried over them are much better than i expected; and if from the tops of them you can (through an opening of the trees) gain a view of the surrounding country, it appears like a sea of woods; and all those hills which appeared very high in our passing over them, are lost in one wide plane, extending as far as the eye can reach, at least fifty or sixty miles, presenting a view not only novel, but also highly majestic. at other times, when you get between the declivities of the mountains, they appear in all the wildness of nature, forming the most romantic scenery the imagination can picture. it is not to be supposed, that immediately on leaving the apalachian mountains the country subsides into a smooth level; on the contrary, for several miles, both on the eastern and western side, the country is very hilly, not to say sometimes mountainous; and it is said that the western side of the mountains is feet above the level of the eastern side. "from the foot of the mountains to pittsburgh is about forty miles, and here we arrived to dinner on the _ th october_, having gone, during our route, about miles from philadelphia. the accommodations we met with were, upon the whole, tolerably good; at least, such as a person (considering the country he was travelling in) might bear with: charges rather high. it cost us, together with our horses, two dollars a day each. the common charges on the eastern side of the mountains were:--for breakfast, dinner, and supper, / dollar each; oats, cents. per gallon. on the western side, dinner and supper were charged sometimes s., sometimes s. d., and breakfasts, d., (pennsylvania currency). for breakfast we generally used to have coffee, and buck-wheat cakes, and some fried venison or broiled chicken, meat being inseparable from an american breakfast; and whatever travellers happened to stop at the same place, sat down at the same table, and partook of the same dishes, whether they were poor, or whether they were rich; no distinction of persons being made in this part of the country.... "the waggons which come over the allegany mountains from the atlantic states, (bringing dry goods and foreign manufactures for the use of the back-country men,) return from this place generally empty; though sometimes they are laden with deer and bear skins and beaver furs, which are brought in by the hunters, and sometimes by the indians, and exchanged at the stores for such articles as they may stand in need of." passing down the ohio river mr. baily proceeded with a pioneer party the leader of which, mr. heighway, was about to found a town on the banks of the little miami river in ohio. leaving the river at the newly located village of columbia, ohio, the party pushed on northward. mr. baily accompanied them out of curiosity, and his record is of utmost interest. "_saturday, march th, _,--the two waggons started, accompanied with a guide to conduct them through the wilderness, and three or four pioneers to clear the road of trees where there might be occasion; and on "_monday, march th_,--dr. bean and myself started about noon, accompanied by several others in the neighbourhood; some of whom were tempted by curiosity, and others with a prospect of settling there. we were mounted on horses, and had each a gun; and across our saddles we had slung a large bag, containing some corn for our horses, and provision for ourselves, as also our blankets: the former was necessary, as the grass had not yet made its appearance in the woods. we kept the road as long as we could; and when that would not assist us any farther, we struck out into the woods; and towards sundown found ourselves about twenty miles from columbia. here, having spied a little brook running at the bottom of a hill, we made a halt, and kindling a fire, we fixed up our blankets into the form of a tent, and having fed both ourselves and our horses, we laid ourselves down to rest; one of us, by turns, keeping watch, lest the indians should come and steal our horses. the next morning,-- "_tuesday, march th_,--as soon as it was light, we continued our journey, and towards the middle of the day overtook our friend h.,[ ] almost worn out with fatigue. the ground was so moist and swampy, and he had been obliged to come through such almost impassable ways, that it was with difficulty the horses could proceed; they were almost knocked up; his waggons had been over-turned twice or thrice;--in fact, he related to us such a dismal story of the trials both of patience and of mind which he had undergone, and i verily believe if the distance had been much greater, he would either have sunk under it, or have formed his settlement on the spot. we encouraged him with the prospect of a speedy termination, and the hopes of better ground to pass over; and with this his spirits seemed to be somewhat raised. we all encamped together this night, and made ourselves as happy and as comfortable as possible. my friend h. seemed also to put on the new man; and from this, and from his being naturally of a lively turn, we found that it was a great deal the want of society which had rendered him so desponding, and so out of spirits; for after we had cooked what little refreshment we had brought with us, and finished our repast, he sang us two or three good songs, (which he was capable of doing in a masterly style,) and seemed to take a pleasure in delaying as long as he could that time which we ought to have devoted to rest. as to my own part, i regarded the whole enterprise in a more philosophic point of view; and i may say with the spectator, i considered myself as a silent observer of all that passed before me; and could not but fancy that i saw in this little society before me the counterpart of the primitive ages, when men used to wander about in the woods with all their substance, in the manner that the present race of tartars do at this day. i could not but think that i saw in miniature the peregrinations of abraham, or �neas, &c., &c. "the next morning, _wednesday, march th_, by day-light, our cavalcade was in motion; and some of the party rode on first to discover the spot, for we were travelling without any other guide than what little knowledge of the country the men had acquired by hunting over it. i could not but with pleasure behold with what expedition the pioneers in front cleared the way for the waggon; there were but three or four of them, and they got the road clear as fast as the waggon could proceed. whilst we were continuing on at this rate, we observed at some distance before us, a human being dart into the woods, and endeavour to flee from us. ignorant what this might mean, we delayed the waggons, and some of us went into the woods and tracked the footsteps of a man for some little distance, when suddenly a negro made his appearance from behind some bushes, and hastily inquired whether there were any indians in our party, or whether we had met with any. the hideousness of the man's countenance, (which was painted with large red spots upon a black ground,) and his sudden appearance, startled us at first; but soon guessing his situation, we put him beyond all apprehension, and informed him he was perfectly safe. he then began to inform us that he had been a prisoner among the indians ever since the close of the last american war; and that he had meditated his escape ever since he had been in their hands, but that never, till now, had he been able to accomplish it.... "we could not but look upon the man with an eye of pity and compassion, and after giving him something to pursue his journey with, and desiring him to follow our track to columbia, we separated. at about three or four o'clock the same afternoon, we had the satisfaction of seeing the little miami river. here we halted, (for it was on the banks of this river that the town was laid out,) and we were soon joined by our other companions, who had proceeded on first, and who informed us that they had recognized the spot about half a mile higher up the river. we accordingly went on, and got the goods all out of the waggons that night, so that they might return again as soon as they thought proper. and here we could not but congratulate our friend h. upon his arrival at the seat of his new colony." chapter iii zane's trace and the maysville pike in the study of the ohio river as a highway of immigration and commerce it was emphasized that in earliest pioneer days the ascent of the river was a serious and difficult problem. this was true, indeed, not on the ohio alone, but on almost every river of importance in the united states. of course brawny arms could force a canoe through flood-tides and rapids; but, as a general proposition, the floods of winter, with ice floating fast amid-stream and clinging in ragged blocks and floes along the shore, and the droughts of summer which left, even in the ohio, great bars exposed so far to the light that the river could be forded here and there by children, made even canoe navigation well-nigh impossible. for other craft than light canoes navigation was utterly out of the question in the dry seasons and exceedingly dangerous on the icy winter floods at night--when the shore could not be approached. such conditions as these gave origin to many of our land highways. where pioneer homes were built beside a navigable river it was highly important to have a land thoroughfare leading back to the "old settlements" which could be traversed at all seasons. many of our "river roads" came into existence, not because the valleys offered the easiest courses for land travel, but because pioneer settlements were made on river banks, and, as the rivers were often worthy of the common french name "embarras," land courses were necessary. in the greater rivers this "homeward track," so to speak, frequently abandoned the winding valley and struck straight across the interior on the shortest available route. the founding of kentucky in the lower ohio valley offers a specific instance to illustrate these generalizations, and brings us to the subject of a thoroughfare which was of commanding importance in the old west. we have elsewhere dealt at length with the first settlement of kentucky, making clear the fact that the great road blazed by boone through cumberland gap was the most important route in kentucky's early history. the growth of the importance of the ohio river as a thoroughfare and its final tremendous importance to kentucky and the entire west has also been reviewed. but, despite this importance, the droughts of summer and the ice-torrents of winter made a landward route from kentucky to pennsylvania and the east an absolute necessity. even when the river was navigable, the larger part of the craft which sailed it before were not capable of going up-stream. heavy freight could be "poled" and "cordelled" up in the keel-boat and barge, but for all other return traffic, both freight and passenger, the land routes from kentucky north and east were preferable. for many years the most available messenger and mail route from cincinnati, vincennes, and louisville was over boone's wilderness road through cumberland gap. but, as the eighteenth century neared its close, the large population of western pennsylvania and northwestern virginia made necessary better routes from the upper ohio valley across the alleghenies; in turn, the new conditions demanded a route up the ohio valley from kentucky to pennsylvania. in our survey of indian thoroughfares, a slight path known as the mingo trail is mentioned as leading across eastern ohio from mingo bottom near the present steubenville, on the ohio river, to the neighborhood of zanesville on the muskingum river.[ ] mingo bottom was a well-known indian camping-place; the name is preserved in the railway junction thereabouts, mingo junction. a distinct watershed offers thoroughfare southwesterly across to the muskingum, and on this lay the old trail. the termini of this earliest known route were near two early settlements of whites; mingo bottom lies eight or nine miles north of wheeling, one of the important stations in the days of border warfare. the mingo trail, swinging southward a little, became the route of white hunters and travelers who wished to cross what is now eastern ohio. the muskingum river terminus of the trail was wills town, as far down the muskingum from zanesville as mingo bottom was above wheeling on the ohio. it is altogether probable that a slight trace left the wills town trail and crossed the muskingum at the mouth of licking river--the present site of zanesville. if a trail led thence westwardly toward the famed pickaway plains, it is recorded on none of our maps. we know, therefore, of only the mingo trail, running, let us say loosely, from wheeling, west virginia, to zanesville, ohio, which could have played any part in forming what soon became known as the first post road in all the territory northwest of the river ohio. with the close of the indian war and the signing of the treaty of greenville in , the american possession of the northwest was placed beyond question. a flood of emigrants at once left the eastern states for the central west, and the return traffic, especially in the form of travelers and private mail packets, from kentucky and cincinnati, began at once to assume significant proportions, and congress was compelled to facilitate travel by opening a post route two hundred and twenty-six miles in length from the upper to the lower ohio. accordingly, the following act: "_an act to authorize ebenezer zane[ ] to locate certain lands in the territory of the united states northwest of the river ohio_" was passed by congress and approved may , : "_be it enacted, &c._, that, upon the conditions hereinafter mentioned, there shall be granted to ebenezer zane three tracts of land, not exceeding one mile square each, one on the muskingum river, one on hockhocking river, and one other on the north bank of scioto river, and in such situations as shall best promote the utility of a road to be opened by him on the most eligible route between wheeling and limestone,[ ] to be approved by the president of the united states, or such person as he shall appoint for that purpose; _provided_, such tracts shall not interfere with any existing claim, location, or survey; nor include any salt spring, nor the lands on either side of the river hockhocking at the falls thereof. "sec. . _and be it further enacted_, that upon the said zane's procuring, at his own expense, the said tracts to be surveyed, in such a way and manner as the president of the united states shall approve, and returning into the treasury of the united states plats thereof, together with warrents granted by the united states for military land bounties, to the amount of the number of acres contained in the said three tracts; and also, producing satisfactory proof, by the first day of january next, that the aforesaid road is opened, and ferries established upon the rivers aforesaid, for the accommodation of travellers, and giving security that such ferries shall be maintained during the pleasure of congress; the president of the united states shall be, and he hereby is, authorized and empowered to issue letters patent, in the name and under the seal of the united states, thereby granting and conveying to the said zane, and his heirs, the said tracts of land located and surveyed as aforesaid; which patents shall be countersigned by the secretary of state, and recorded in his office: _provided always_, that the rates of ferriage, at such ferries, shall, from time to time, be ascertained [inspected] by any two of the judges of the territory northwest of the river ohio, or such other authority as shall be appointed for that purpose. "approved may , ."[ ] zane evidently went at once to work opening the road to kentucky, his brother jonathan, and son-in-law john mcintire, assisting largely in the work. the path was only made fit for horsemen, particularly mail-carriers. it is probable that the task was not more difficult than to cut away small trees on an indian trace. it is sure that for a greater part of the distance from the ohio to the muskingum the mingo trail was followed, passing near the center of belmont, guernsey and muskingum counties. the route to the southwest from that point through perry, fairfield, pickaway, ross, richland, adams, and brown counties may or may not have followed the path of an indian trace. no proof to the contrary being in existence, it is most reasonable to suppose that this, like most other pioneer routes, did follow a more or less plainly outlined indian path. the new road crossed the muskingum at the present site of the town well named zanesville, the hocking at lancaster, the scioto at chillicothe, and the ohio at aberdeen, ohio, opposite the old-time limestone, kentucky. [illustration: bridge on which zane's trace crossed the muskingum river at zanesville, ohio] one george sample was an early traveler on this national road; paying a visit from the east to the ohio country in , he returned homeward by way of zane's trace or the maysville road, as the route was variously known. after purchasing a farm on brush creek, adams county, ohio, and locating a homeless emigrant on it, mr. sample "started back to pennsylvania on horseback" according to his recorded recollections written in ;[ ] "as there was no getting up the river at that day.[ ] in our homeward trip we had very rough fare when we had any at all; but having calculated on hardships, we were not disappointed. there was one house (treiber's) on lick branch, five miles from where west union[ ] now is." trebar--according to modern spelling--opened a tavern on his clearing in or , but at the time of sample's trip his house was not more public than the usual pioneer's home where the latch-string was always out.[ ] "the next house," continues mr. sample, "was where sinking spring or middle-town is now.[ ] the next was at chillicothe, which was just then commenced. we encamped one night at massie's run, say two or three miles from the falls of paint creek, where the trace then crossed that stream. from chillicothe to lancaster the trace then went through the pickaway plains. there was a cabin some three or four miles below the plains, and another at their eastern edge, and one or two more between that and lancaster. here we staid the third night. from lancaster we went next day to zanesville, passing several small beginnings. i recollect no improvement between zanesville and wheeling, except a small one at the mouth of indian wheeling creek, opposite to wheeling. in this space we camped another night. from wheeling we went home pretty well." the matter of ferriage was a most important item on pioneer roads as indicated by the act of congress quoted. the court of general quarter sessions met at adamsville, adams county, december , , and made the following the legal rates of ferriage across the scioto and ohio rivers, both of which zane's trace crossed: _scioto river:_ man and horse - / cents. single - / " wagon and team " horned cattle (each) - / " _ohio river:_ man and horse - / " single - / " wagon and team $ . horned cattle - / " [ ] no sooner was zane's trace opened than the government established a mail route between wheeling and maysville and lexington. for the real terminus of the trace was not by any means at little maysville; an ancient buffalo route and well-worn white man's road led into the interior of kentucky from maysville, known in history as the maysville road and maysville pike. on the ohio side this mail route from wheeling and lexington was known by many titles in many years; it was the limestone road, the maysville pike, the limestone and chillicothe road, and the zanesville pike; the maysville and zanesville turnpike was constructed between zanesville and the ohio river. at zanesville the road today is familiarly known as the maysville pike while in kentucky it is commonly called the zanesville pike. "when the indian trail gets widened, graded and bridged to a good road," wrote emerson, "there is a benefactor, there is a missionary, a pacificator, a wealth-bringer, a maker of markets, a vent for industry."[ ] the little road here under consideration is unique among american highways in its origin and in its history. it was demanded, not by war, but by civilization, not for exploration and settlement but by settlements that were already made and in need of communion and commerce. it was created by an act of congress as truly as the cumberland road, which soon should, in part, supersede it. and finally it was on the subject of the maysville turnpike that the question of internal improvement by the national government was at last decided when, in , president jackson signed that veto which made the name of maysville a household word throughout the united states. in , after a delay which created great suspense in the west, the cumberland road at last leaped the ohio river at wheeling. zane's trace, now a wide, much-traveled avenue, offered a route westward to zanesville which could be but little improved upon. the blazed tree gave way to the mile-stone and the pannier and saddle-bag to the rumbling stagecoach and the chaise. it is all a pretty, quiet picture and its story is totally unlike that of boone's rough path over the cumberlands. for settlements sprang up rapidly in this land of plenty; we have seen that there were beginnings at chillicothe and zanesville when sample passed this way in . by , zane's lots at the crossing of the hockhocking (first known as new lancaster, and later as lancaster--from the town of that name in pennsylvania) were selling; his terms and inducements to settlers, especially mechanics, are particularly interesting.[ ] as intimated, the kentucky division of the maysville pike--leading from the ohio river through washington, paris, and lexington--became famous in that it was made a test case to determine whether or not the government had the right to assist in the building of purely state (local) roads by taking shares in local turnpike companies. this much-mooted question was settled once for all by president andrew jackson's veto of "a bill authorizing a subscription of stock in the maysville, washington, paris, and lexington turnpike road company," which was passed by the house february , . it read:[ ] "_be it enacted by the senate and house of representatives of the united states of america in congress assembled_, that the secretary of the treasury be, and he is hereby, authorized and directed to subscribe, in the name and for the use of the united states, for fifteen hundred shares of the capital stock of the maysville, washington, paris, and lexington turnpike road company, and to pay for the same at such times, and in such proportions, as shall be required of, and paid by, the stockholders generally, by the rules and regulations of the aforesaid company, to be paid out of any money in the treasury, not otherwise appropriated: _provided_, that not more than one-third part of the sum, so subscribed for the use of the united states, shall be demanded in the present year, nor shall any greater sum be paid on the shares so subscribed for, than shall be proportioned to assessments made on individual or corporate stockholders. "sec. . _and be it further enacted_, that the said secretary of the treasury shall vote for the president and directors of the aforesaid company, according to such number of shares as the united states may, at any time, hold in the stock thereof, and shall receive upon the said stock the proportion of the tolls which shall, from time to time, be due to the united states for the shares aforesaid, and shall have and enjoy, in behalf of the united states, every other right of stockholder in said company." in his first annual message to congress, dated december , , president jackson stated plainly his attitude to the great question of internal improvements. "as ... the period approaches when the application of the revenue to the payment of [national] debt will cease, the disposition of the surplus will present a subject for the serious deliberation of congress.... considered in connection with the difficulties which have heretofore attended appropriations for purposes of internal improvement, and with those which this experience tells us will certainly arise whenever power over such subjects may be exercised by the general government, it is hoped that it may lead to the adoption of some plan which will reconcile the diversified interests of the states and strengthen the bonds which unite them.... to avoid these evils it appears to me that the most safe, just, and federal disposition which could be made of the surplus revenue would be its apportionment among the several states according to their ratio of representation, and should this measure not be found warranted by the constitution that it would be expedient to propose to the states an amendment authorizing it."[ ] in his veto of the maysville road bill president jackson quoted the above paragraphs from his annual message, and, after citing both madison's and monroe's positions as to internal improvements of pure local character, continues: "the bill before me does not call for a more definate opinion upon the particular circumstances which will warrent appropriations of money by congress to aid works of internal improvement, for although the extention of the power to apply money beyond that of carrying into effect the object for which it is appropriated has, as we have seen, been long claimed and exercised by the federal government, yet such grants have always been professedly under the control of the general principle that the works which might be thus aided should be 'of a general, not local, national, not state,' character. a disregard of this distinction would of necessity lead to the subversion of the federal system. that even this is an unsafe one, arbitrary in its nature, and liable, consequently, to great abuses, is too obvious to require the confirmation of experience. it is, however, sufficiently definate and imperative to my mind to forbid my approbation of any bill having the character of the one under consideration. i have given to its provisions ... reflection ... but i am not able to view it in any other light than as a measure of purely local character; or, if it can be considered national, that no further distinction between the appropriate duties of the general and state governments need be attempted, for there can be no local interest that may not with equal propriety be denominated national. it has no connection with any established system of improvements; is exclusively within the limits of a state, starting at a point on the ohio river and running out miles to an interior town, and even as far as the state is interested conferring partial instead of general advantages. "considering the magnitude and importance of the power, and the embarrassments to which, from the very nature of the thing, its exercise must necessarily be subjected, the real friends of internal improvement ought not to be willing to confide it to accident and chance. what is properly _national_ in its character or otherwise is an inquiry which is often extremely difficult of solution.... "if it be the wish of the people that the construction of roads and canals should be conducted by the federal government, it is not only highly expedient, but indispensably necessary, that a previous amendment of the constitution, delegating the necessary power and defining and restricting its exercise with reference to the sovereignty of the states, should be made. the right to exercise as much jurisdiction as is necessary to preserve the works and to raise funds by the collection of tolls to keep them in repair can not be dispensed with. the cumberland road should be an instructive admonition of the consequences of acting without this right. year after year contests are witnessed, growing out of efforts to obtain the necessary appropriations for completing and repairing this useful work. whilst one congress may claim and exercise the power, a succeeding one may deny it; and this fluctuation of opinion must be unavoidably fatal to any scheme which from its extent would promote the interests and elevate the character of the country.... "that a constitutional adjustment of this power upon equitable principles is in the highest degree desirable can scarcely be doubted, nor can it fail to be promoted by every sincere friend to the success of our political institutions."[ ] the effect of jackson's veto was far-reaching. it not only put an end to all thought of national aid to such local improvements as the maysville turnpike, but deprived such genuinely national promotions as the baltimore and ohio railway of all hope of national aid. "president jackson had strongly expressed his opposition to aiding state enterprises and schemes of internal improvement by appropriations from the central government," records a historian of that great enterprise; "from whatever source the opposition may have come, the [baltimore and ohio railway] company recognized that it must not hope for aid from the national government."[ ] the significance of jackson's veto could not be more strongly presented. chapter iv pioneer travel in kentucky the following interesting and vivid picture of early travel in kentucky is taken from judge james hall's _legends of the west_ (philadelphia, ); though largely a work of fiction, such descriptions as these are as lifelike as the original picture. the place at which the party landed was a small village on the bank of the [ohio] river, distant about fifty miles from a settlement in the interior to which they were destined. "here we are on dry land once more," said the englishman as he jumped ashore; "come, mr. logan, let us go to the stage-house and take our seats." logan smiled, and followed his companion. "my good friend," said edgarton, to a tall, sallow man in a hunting-shirt, who sat on a log by the river with a rifle in his lap, "can you direct us to the stage-house?" "well, i can't say that i can." "perhaps you do not understand what we want," said edgarton; "we wish to take seats in a mail-coach for ----." "well, stranger, it's my sentimental belief that there isn't a coach, male or female, in the county." "this fellow is ignorant of our meaning," said edgarton to logan. "what's that you say, stranger? i _spose maybe_ you think i never _seed_ a coach? well, it's a free country, and every man has a right to think what he pleases; but i reckon i've saw as many of _them are fixens_ as any other man. i was raised in tennessee. i saw general jackson once riding in the elegantest carriage that ever mortal man _sot_ his eyes on--with glass winders to it like a house, and _sort o'_ silk _curtings_. the harness was mounted with silver; it was _drawd_ by four blooded nags, and _druv_ by a mighty likely _nigger_ boy." the travellers passed on, and soon learned that there was indeed no stage in the country. teams and carriages of any kind were difficult to be procured; and it was with some difficulty that two stout wagons were at last hired to carry mr. edgarton's movables, and a _dearborn_ obtained to convey his family, it being agreed that one of the gentlemen should drive the latter vehicle while the other walked, alternately. arrangements were accordingly made to set out the next morning. the settlement in which mr. edgarton had judiciously determined to pitch his tent, and enjoy the healthful innocence and rural felicity of the farmer's life, was new; and the country to be traversed to reach it entirely unsettled. there were two or three houses scattered through the wilderness on the road, one of which the party might have reached by setting out early in the morning, and they had determined to do so. but there was so much fixing and preparing to be done, so much stowing of baggage and packing of trunks, such momentous preparations to guard against cold and heat, hunger and thirst, fatigue, accident, robbery, disease, and death, that it was near noon before the cavalcade was prepared to move. even then they were delayed some minutes longer to give mr. edgarton time to oil the screws and renew the charges of his double-barrel gun and pocket-pistols. in vain he was told there were no highwaymen in america. his way lay chiefly through uninhabited forests; and he considered it a fact in natural history, as indisputable as any other elementary principle, that every such forest has its robbers. after all, he entirely neglected to put flints in his bran new locks instead of the wooden substitutes which the maker had placed there to protect his work from injury; and thus "doubly armed," he announced his readiness to start with an air of truly comic heroism. when they began their journey, new terrors arose. the road was sufficiently plain and firm for all rational purposes; that is to say, it _would do_ very well for those who only wanted to get along, and were content to make the best of it. it was a mere path beaten by a succession of travellers. no avenue had been cut for it through the woods; but the first pioneers had wound their way among the trees, avoiding obstacles by going round them, as the snake winds through the grass, and those who followed had trodden in their footsteps, until they had beaten a smooth road sufficiently wide to admit the passage of a single wagon. on either side was the thick forest, sometimes grown up with underbrush to the margin of the _trace_, and sometimes so open as to allow the eye to roam off to a considerable distance. above was a dense canopy of interwoven branches. the wild and lonesome appearance, the deep shade, the interminable gloom of the woods, were frightful to our travellers. the difference between a wild forest in the simple majesty of nature, and the woodlands of cultivated countries, is very great. in the latter the underbrush has been removed by art or destroyed by domestic animals; the trees as they arrive at their growth are felled for use, and the remainder, less crowded, assume the spreading and rounded form of cultivated trees. the sunbeams reach the soil through the scattered foliage, the ground is trodden by grazing animals, and a hard sod is formed. however secluded such a spot may be, it bears the marks of civilization; the lowing of cattle is heard, and many species of songsters that hover round the habitations of men, and are never seen in the wilderness, here warble their notes. in the western forests of america all is grand and savage. the truth flashes instantly upon the mind of the observer, with the force of conviction, that nature has been carrying on her operations here for ages undisturbed. the leaf has fallen from year to year; succeeding generations of trees have mouldered, spreading over the surface layer upon layer of decayed fibre, until the soil has acquired an astonishing depth and an unrivalled fertility. from this rich bed the trees are seen rearing their shafts to an astonishing height. the tendency of plants towards the light is well understood; of course, when trees are crowded closely together, instead of spreading, they shoot upwards, each endeavouring, as it were, to overtop his neighbours, and expending the whole force of the vegetative powers in rearing a great trunk to the greatest possible height, and then throwing out a top like an umbrella to the rays of the sun. the functions of vitality are carried on with vigor at the extremities, while the long stem is bare of leaves or branches; and when the undergrowth is removed nothing can exceed the gloomy grandeur of the elevated arches of foliage, supported by pillars of majestic size and venerable appearance. the great thickness and age of many of the trees is another striking peculiarity. they grow from age to age, attaining a gigantic size, and then fall, with a tremendous force, breaking down all that stands in their downward way, and heaping a great pile of timber on the ground, where it remains untouched until it is converted into soil. mingled with all our timber are seen aspiring vines, which seem to have commenced their growth with that of the young trees, and risen with them, their tops still flourishing together far above the earth, while their stems are alike bare. the undergrowth consists of dense thickets, made up of the offspring of the larger trees, mixed with thorns, briers, dwarfish vines, and a great variety of shrubs. the ground is never covered with a firm sward, and seldom bears the grasses, or smaller plants, being covered from year to year with a dense mass of dried and decaying leaves, and shrouded in eternal shade. such was the scene that met the eyes of our travellers, and had they been treated to a short excursion to the moon they would scarcely have witnessed any thing more novel. the wide-spread and trackless ocean had scarcely conveyed to their imaginations so vivid an impression of the vast and solitary grandeur of nature, in her pathless wildernesses. they could hardly realize the expectation of travelling safely through such savage shades. the path, which could be seen only a few yards in advance, seemed continually to have terminated, leaving them no choice but to retrace their steps. sometimes they came to a place where a tree had fallen across the road, and edgarton would stop under the supposition that any further attempt to proceed was hopeless--until he saw the american drivers forsaking the track, guiding their teams among the trees, crushing down the young saplings that stood in their way, and thus winding round the obstacle, and back to the road, often through thickets so dense, that to the stranger's eye it seemed as if neither man nor beast could penetrate them. sometimes on reaching the brink of a ravine or small stream, the bridge of logs, which previous travellers had erected, was found to be broken down, or the ford rendered impassable; and the wagoners with the same imperturbable good nature, and as if such accidents were matters of course, again left the road, and seeking out a new crossing-place, passed over with scarcely the appearance of difficulty. once they came to a sheet of water, extending as far as the eye could reach, the tall trees standing in it as thickly as upon the dry ground, with tufts of grass and weeds instead of the usual undergrowth. "is there a ferry here?" inquired edgarton. "oh no, sir, it's nothing but _a slash_." "what's that?" "why, sir, jist a sort o' swamp." "what in the world shall we do?" "we'll jist put right ahead, sir; there's no dif-_fick_-ulty; it's nice good driving all about here. it's sort o' muddy, but there's good bottom to it all the way." on they went. to edgarton it was like going to sea; for no road could be seen; nothing but the trackless surface of the water; but instead of looking down, where his eye could have penetrated to the bottom, he was glancing forward in the vain hope of seeing dry land. generally the water was but a few inches deep, but sometimes they soused into a hole; then edgarton groaned and the ladies screamed; and sometimes it got gradually deeper until the hubs of the wheels were immersed, and the englishman then called to the wagoners to stop. "don't be afeard, sir," one of them replied, "it is not bad; why this ain't nothing; it's right good going; it ain't a-going to swim your horse, no how." "anything seems a good road to you where the horse will not have to swim," replied the englishman surlily. "why, bless you," said the backwoodsman, "this ain't no part of a priming to places that i've seed afore, no how. i've seed race paths in a worse fix than this. don't you reckon, stranger, that if my team can drag this here heavy wagon, loaded down with plunder, you can sartainly get along with that _ar_ little carry-all, and nothing on the face of the _yeath_ to tote, but jist the women and children?" they had but one such swamp to pass. it was only about half a mile wide, and after travelling that far through the water, the firm soil of the woods, which before seemed gloomy, became cheerful by contrast; and edgarton found at last, that however unpleasant such travelling may be to those who are not accustomed to it, it has really no dangers but such as are imaginary. as the cavalcade proceeded slowly, the ladies found it most pleasant to walk wherever the ground was sufficiently dry. mrs. edgarton and the children might be seen sauntering along, and keeping close to the carriage, for fear of being lost or captured by some nondescript monster of the wild, yet often halting to gather nosegays of wild flowers, or to examine some of the many natural curiosities which surrounded them.... the sun was about to set when the wagoners halted at an open spot, covered with a thick carpet of short grass, on the margin of a small stream of clear water. on inquiring the reason, mr. edgarton was assured that this was the best _campground_ on the route, and as there was no house within many miles, it was advisable to make arrangements for passing the night there. "impossible!" exclaimed the european gentleman; "what! lie on the ground like beasts! we shall all catch our death of cold!" "i should never live through the night," groaned his fair partner.... "don't let us stay here in the dark, papa," cried the children. logan expressed the opinion that an encampment might be made quite comfortable, and the sentimental julia declared that it would be "delightful!" edgarton imprecated maledictions on the beggarly country which could not afford inns for travellers, and wondered if they expected a gentleman to nestle among the leaves like robin hood's foresters.... this storm, like other sudden gusts, soon blew over, and the party began in earnest to make the best of a bad business by rendering their situation as comfortable as possible. the wagoners, though highly amused at the fears of their companions, showed great alacrity and kindness in their endeavours to dissipate the apprehensions and provide for the comfort of foreigners; and, assisted by mr. logan, soon prepared a shelter. this was made by planting some large stakes in the ground, in the form of a square, filling up the sides and covering the tops with smaller poles, and suspending blankets over and around it, so as to form a complete enclosure. mrs. edgarton had a carpet taken from the wagons and spread on the ground; on this the beds were unpacked and laid, trunks were arranged for seats, and the emigrants surprised at finding themselves in a comfortable apartment, became as merry as they had been before despondent. a fire was kindled and the teakettle boiled, and there being a large store of bread and provisions already prepared, an excellent repast was soon placed before them, and eaten with the relish produced by severe exercise. the night had now closed in, but the blaze of a large fire and the light of several candles threw a brilliant gleam over the spot and heightened the cheerfulness of the evening meal. the arrangements for sleeping were very simple. the tent, which had been divided into two apartments by a curtain suspended in the middle, accommodated all of mr. edgarton's household: logan drew on his greatcoat, and spreading a single blanket on the ground, threw himself down with his feet to the fire; the teamsters crept into their wagons, and the several parties soon enjoyed that luxury which, if shakspeare may be believed, is often denied to the "head that wears a crown." the light of the morning brought with it cheerfulness and merriment. refreshed from the fatigues of the preceding day, inspired with new confidence, and amused by the novelties that surrounded them, the emigrants were in high spirits. breakfast was hastily prepared, and the happy party, seated in a circle on the grass, enjoyed their meal with a keen relish. the horses were then harnessed and the cavalcade renewed its march. the day was far advanced when they began to rise to more elevated ground than that over which they had travelled. the appearance of the woods was sensibly changed. they were now travelling over a high upland tract with a gently-waving surface, and instead of the rank vegetation, the dense foliage and gloomy shades by which they had been surrounded, beheld woodlands composed of smaller trees thinly scattered and intermingled with rich thickets of young timber. the growth though thick was low, so that the rays of the sun penetrated through many openings, and the beaten path which they pursued was entirely exposed to the genial beams. groves of the wild apple, the plum, and the cherry, now in full bloom, added a rich beauty to the scene and a delightful fragrance to the air. but the greatest natural curiosity and the most attractive scenic exhibitions of our western hemisphere was still in reserve; and a spontaneous expression of wonder and delight burst from the whole party, as they emerged from the woods and stood on the edge of _a prairie_. they entered a long vista, carpeted with grass, interspersed with numberless flowers, among which the blue violet predominated; while the edges of the forest on either hand were elegantly fringed with low thickets loaded with blossoms--those of the plum and cherry of snowy whiteness, and those of the crab-apple of a delicate pink. above and beyond these were seen the rich green, the irregular outline, and the variegated light and shade of the forest. as if to produce the most beautiful perspective, and to afford every variety of aspect, the vista increased in width until it opened like the estuary of a great river into the broad prairie, and as our travellers advanced the woodlands receded on either hand, and sometimes indented by smaller avenues opening into the woods, and sometimes throwing out points of timber, so that the boundary of the plain resembled the irregular outline of a shore as traced on a map. [illustration: pioneer view of houses at fort cumberland, maryland] delighted with the lovely aspect of nature in these the most tasteful of her retreats, the party lingered along until they reached the margin of the broad prairie, where a noble expanse of scenery of the same character was spread out on a larger scale. they stood on a rising ground, and beheld before them a vast plain, undulating in its surface so as to present to the eye a series of swells and depressions, never broken nor abrupt, but always regular, and marked by curved lines. here and there was seen a deep ravine or drain, by which the superfluous water was carried off, the sides of which were thickly set with willows. clumps of elm and oak were scattered about far apart like little islands; a few solitary trees were seen, relieving the eye as it wandered over the ocean-like surface of this native meadow. it so happened that a variety of accidents and delays impeded the progress of our emigrants, so that the shadows of evening began to fall upon them, while they were yet far from the termination of their journey, and it became necessary again to seek a place of repose for the night. the prospect of encamping again had lost much of its terrors, but they were relieved from the contemplation of this last resource of the houseless, by the agreeable information that they were drawing near the house of a farmer who was in the habit of "accommodating travellers." it was further explained that mr. goodman did not keep a public-house, but that he was "well off," "had houseroom enough, and plenty to eat," and that "_of course_," according to the hospitable customs of the country, he entertained any strangers who sought shelter under his roof. thither they bent their steps, anticipating from the description of it a homestead much larger and more comfortable than the cheerless-looking log-cabins which had thus far greeted their eyes, and which seemed to compose the only dwellings of the population. on arriving at the place, they were a little disappointed to find that the abundance of _houseroom_ which had been promised them was a mere figure of speech, an idiomatic expression by a native, having a comparative signification. the dwelling was a log house, differing from others only in being of a larger size and better construction. the logs were hewed and squared instead of being put up in their original state, with the bark on; the apertures were carefully closed, and the openings representing windows, instead of being stopped when urgent occasion required the exclusion of the atmosphere, by hats, old baskets, or cast-off garments, were filled with glass, in imitation of the dwellings of more highly civilized lands. the wealth of this farmer, consisting chiefly of the _plenty to eat_ which had been boasted, was amply illustrated by the noisy and numerous crowd of chickens, ducks, turkeys, pigs, and cattle, that cackled, gobbled, and grunted about the house, filling the air with social though discordant sounds, and so obstructing the way as scarcely to leave room for the newly-arrived party to approach the door. as the cavalcade halted, the foremost driver made the fact known by a vociferous salutation. "hal-low! who keeps house?" a portly dame made her appearance at the door, and was saluted with,-- "how de do, ma'am--all well, ma'am?" "all right well, thank you, sir." "here's some strangers that wants lodging; can we get to stay all night with you?" "well, i don't know; _he's_ not at home, and i harly know what to say." "i'll answer for _him_," replied the driver, who understood distinctly that the pronoun used so emphatically by the good lady alluded to her inferior moiety; "he wouldn't turn away strangers at this time of day when the chickens is jist goin to roost. we've ben a travellin all day, and our critters is mighty tired and hungry, as well as the rest of us." "well," said the woman, very cheerfully, "i reckon you can stay; if you can put up with such fare as we have, you are very welcome. my man will be back soon; he's only jist gone up to town." the whole party were now received into the dwelling of the backwoodsman by the smiling and voluble hostess, whose assiduous cordiality placed them at once at their ease in spite of the plain and primitive, and to them uncomfortable aspect of the log house. indeed, nothing could be more uninviting in appearance to those who were accustomed only to the more convenient dwellings of a state of society farther advanced in the arts of social life. it was composed of two large apartments or separate cabins, connected by an area or space which was floored and roofed, but open at the sides, and which served as a convenient receptacle to hang saddles, bridles, and harness, or to stow travellers' baggage, while in fine weather it served as a place in which to eat or sit. in the room into which our party was shown there was neither plastering nor paper, nor any device of modern ingenuity to conceal the bare logs that formed the sides of the house, neither was there a carpet on the floor, nor any furniture for mere ornament. the absence of all superfluities and of many of the conveniences usually deemed essential in household economy was quite striking. a table, a few chairs, a small looking-glass, some cooking utensils, and a multitudinous array of women's apparel, hung round on wooden pins, as if for show, made up the meagre list, whether for parade or use, with the addition of several bedsteads closely ranged on one side of the room, supporting beds of the most plethoric and dropsical dimensions, covered with clean cotton bedding, and ostentatiously tricked out with gaudy, parti-colored quilts. the "man" soon made his appearance, a stout, weatherbeaten person, of rough exterior, but not less hospitably disposed than his better half, and the whole household were now actively astir to furnish forth the evening's repast, nor was their diligent kindness, nor the inquisitive though respectful cross-examination which accompanied it, at all diminished when they discovered that their guests were english people. soon the ample fire-place, extending almost across one end of the house, was piled full of blazing logs; the cries of affrighted fowls and other significant notes of preparation announced that active operations were commenced in the culinary department. an array of pots and kettles, skillets, ovens, and frying-pans, covered the hearth, and the astonished travellers discovered that the room they occupied was not only used as a bedchamber, but "served them for parlour, and kitchen, and hall." we shall not attempt to describe the processes of making bread, cooking meat and vegetables, and preparing the delightful beverage of the evening meal, a portion of which took place in the presence of the surprised and amused guests, while other parts were conducted under a shed out of doors. a large table was soon spread with clean linen, and covered with a profusion of viands such as probably could not be found on the board of the mere peasant or labouring farmer in any other part of the world.[ ] coffee was there, with sweet milk and buttermilk in abundance; fried chickens, venison, and ham: cheese, sweetmeats, pickles, dried fruit, and honey; bread of wheat and corn, hot biscuits and cakes, with fresh butter; all well prepared and neat, and all pressed upon the hungry travellers with officious hospitality. had the entertainment been furnished in regal style at some enchanted castle by invisible hands, the guests could scarcely have been more surprised by the profusion and variety of the backwoods repast, so far did the result produced exceed the apparent means afforded by the desolate-looking and scantily-furnished cabin. if our worthy travellers were surprised by the novelties of backwoods _inn_-hospitality which thus far had pressed upon them, how much was their wonder increased when the hour for retiring arrived, and the landlady apologized for being obliged to separate guests from their hosts. "our family is so large," said the woman, "that we have to have two rooms. i shall have to put all of you strangers into a room by yourselves." the party were accordingly conducted into the other apartment, which was literally filled with arrangements for sleeping, there being several bedsteads, each of which was closely curtained with sheets, blankets, and coverlids hung around it for the occasion, while the whole floor was strewed with pallets. here mr. edgarton and his whole party, including logan and the teamsters, were expected to sleep. a popular poet, in allusion to this patriarchal custom, impertinently remarks, some cavillers object to sleep with fellow-travellers. and on this occasion the objection was uttered vehemently, the ladies declaring that martyrdom in any shape would be preferable to lodging thus like a drove of cattle. unreasonable as such scruples might have seemed, they were so pertinaciously adhered to on the one side, and so obstinately resisted by the exceedingly difficult nature of the case on the other, that there is no knowing to what extremities matters might have gone, had not a compromise been effected by which logan and the wagon-drivers were transferred into the room occupied by the farmer's family, while the edgartons, the sister, the maid, the greyhound, the pug-dog, and the parrot, remained sole occupants of the apartment prepared for them. footnotes: [ ] _diary of george washington, sept. to oct. , ._ [ ] cf. "journal of lieut. robert parker," _the pennsylvania magazine_, vol. xxvii, no. , pp. - . [ ] _historic highways of america_, vol. v, p. . [ ] _wisconsin historical collections_, vol. xi, p. . [ ] _public documents relating to the new york canals_ (new york, ), p. . [ ] _id._, pp. - . [ ] _a pedestrious tour_, by estwick evans. [ ] _historic highways of america_, vol. xiii, ch. . [ ] watson's _annals of philadelphia_, vol. i, p. . [ ] see "hulme's journal" in w. cobbett's _a year's residence in the united states_ ( ), p. . [ ] d. hewett's _american traveller_ ( ), p. . [ *] it is curious to note that while the introduction of coaches is said here to be injurious to the breed of horses, macaulay, a century or so later, decried the passing of the coach and the old coaching days because this, too, meant the destruction of the breed of horses!--see _historic highways of america_, vol. x, p. . [ ] florida avenue is said to have been the first street laid out on the present site of washington, d. c. as it is the most crooked of all the streets and avenues this is easy to believe. [ ] _retrospect of western travel_, vol. i, pp. - . [ ] moore's notes are as follows: on "ridges" (line ): "what mr. weld [an english traveler in america] says of the national necessity of balancing or trimming the stage, in passing over some of the wretched roads in america, is by no means exaggerated. 'the driver frequently had to call to the passengers in the stage to lean out of the carriage, first on one side, then on the other, to prevent it from oversetting in the deep ruts, with which the road abounds. "now, gentlemen, to the right!" upon which the passengers all stretched their bodies half out of the carriage to balance on that side. "now, gentlemen, to the left!" and so on.'--_weld's travels._" on "bridges" (line ): "before the stage can pass one of these bridges the driver is obliged to stop and arrange the loose planks, of which it is composed, in the manner that best suits his ideas of safety, and as the planks are again disturbed by the passing of the coach, the next travelers who arrive have, of course, a new arrangement to make. mahomet, as sale tells us, was at some pains to imagine a precarious kind of bridge for the entrance of paradise, in order to enhance the pleasures of arrival. a virginia bridge, i think, would have answered his purpose completely." [ ] _sketch of the civil engineering of north america_, pp. - . [ ] "the oldest turnpike in pennsylvania," by edward b. moore, in philadelphia _press_ or delaware county _american_, june , ; and "the old turnpike," by a. e. witmer in _lancaster county historical society papers_, vol. ii (november, ), pp. - . [ ] sherman day, _historical collections of the state of pennsylvania_ (philadelphia, ). [ ] the rise of the pennsylvania canal and railway system will be treated in chapter four of _historic highways of america_, vol. xiii. [ *] for these and other facts concerning plank roads we are indebted to w. kingsford's _history, structure and statistics of plank roads_ ( ). [ ] the frontispiece to this volume represents a mile-stone which was erected beside braddock's old road, near frostburg, maryland, during the revolutionary war. on the reverse side it bears the legend, "our countrys rights we will defend." on the front these words can be traced: "[ ?] miles to fort cumberland miles to capt smith's inn & bridge by crossings. [smithfield, pennsylvania] the best road to redstone old fort m." the stone was once taken away for building purposes and broken; the town authorities of frostburg ordered it to be cemented, returned and set up on its old-time site. [ ] the lancaster turnpike. [ ] "in these stages," as brissot [jean pierre brissot de warville, _new travels in the united states_ (london, )] observes, "you meet with men of all professions. the member of congress is placed by the side of the shoemaker who elected him; they fraternise together, and converse with familiarity. you see no person here take upon him those important airs which you too often meet with in england."--baily. [ ] it consists of several layers of large logs laid longitudinally, and parallel to each other, and covered at the top with earth.--baily. [ ] the sleighs not making any noise when in motion over the snow, the horses are obliged by law to have little bells fastened around their necks, to warn foot-passengers of their approach.--baily. [ ] i was in company with a gentleman of the name of heighway, who was going down to the northwestern settlement to form a plantation.--baily. see p. . [ ] by d. hewett's _american traveller_, the principal points on the washington-pittsburg route are given as follows: distance. montgomery c. h. . clarksburg . monocasy river . fredericktown . hagerstown . pennsylvania state line . m'connell'stown . junietta river . bedford . stoyestown . summit of laurel hill . greensburg . pittsburg . total . [ ] mr. hewett gives this note of montgomery c. h.: "this village is also called rockville. there is an extremely bad turnpike from washington to this place, so much so, that the man who keeps the toll house, _after_ having taken toll, recommends travellers to go the _ola road_."--p. . [ ] all the inns and public-houses on the road are called taverns.--baily. [ ] clarksburg. [ ] hagar's-town is ten miles from boone's-town.--baily. [ ] mcdowell's mill. [ ] mr. heighway, an englishman who settled now at waynesville, warren county, ohio.--_history of warren county, ohio_ (chicago, ), p. . [ ] _historic highways of america_, vol. ii, p. . [ ] the patriot-pioneer of wheeling, the first settlement on the ohio river below pittsburg, which he founded in , and where he lived until . he was born in virginia in . [ ] the importance of the historic _entrepôt_ limestone mason county, kentucky (later named maysville from one of its first inhabitants) has been suggested in volume ix of this series (pp. , , ). it was the most important entrance point into kentucky on its northeastern river shore-line. what it was in earliest days, because of the buffalo trail into the interior, it remained down through the earlier and later pioneer era to the time of the building of the trunk railway lines. [ ] _united states statutes at large, private laws - , inclusive_, p. . [ ] _american pioneer_, vol. i, p. . [ ] an exaggerated statement, yet much in accord with the truth, as we have previously observed. [ ] county seat of adams county, ohio. [ ] evans and stivers, _history of adams county, ohio_, p. . [ ] wilcoxon's clearing, sinking spring, highland county, ohio.--_id._, p. . [ ] _id._, p. . [ ] _society and solitude_, essay on "civilization," pp. - . [ ] see graham's _history of fairfield and perry counties, ohio_, pp. - . [ ] _bills & resolutions, house reps., st sess., st cong., part , & ' _, h. r., p. . [ ] richardson's _messages and papers of the presidents_, vol. ii, pp. , . [ ] _id._, pp. - . [ ] reizenstein's "the economic history of the baltimore and ohio railroad," _johns hopkins studies in historical and political science_, fifteenth series, vii-viii, p. . [ ] i cannot resist the opportunity of nailing to the counter a wretched fabrication of some traveller, who represents himself as dismounting at a western house of entertainment, and inquiring the price of a dinner. the answer is, "well, stranger--with wheat bread and chicken fixens, it would be fifty cents, but with corn bread and common doins, twenty-five cents." the slang here used is of the writer's own invention. no one ever heard in the west of "chicken fixens," or "common doins." on such occasions, the table is spread with everything that the house affords, or with whatever may be convenient, according to the means and temper of the entertainers. a meal is a meal, and the cost is the same, whether it be plentiful or otherwise.--hall. * * * * * transcriber's notes: . passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. . obvious errors in spelling and punctuation have been corrected. . footnotes have been moved to the end of the main text body. . images have been moved from the middle of a paragraph to the closest paragraph break. university, and alev akman. the quaker colonies, a chronicle of the proprietors of the delaware volume in the chronicles of america series by sydney g. fisher new haven: yale university press toronto: glasgow, brook & co. london: humphrey milford oxford university press contents i. the birth of pennsylvania ii. penn sails for the delaware iii. life in philadelphia iv. types of the population v. the troubles of penn and his sons vi. the french and indian war vii. the decline of quaker government viii. the beginnings of new jersey ix. planters and traders of southern jersey x. scotch covenanters and others in east jersey xi. the united jerseys xii. little delaware xiii. the english conquest bibliography the quaker colonies chapter i. the birth of pennsylvania in , the year after charles ii was restored to the throne of england, william penn was a seventeen-year-old student at christ church, oxford. his father, a distinguished admiral in high favor at court, had abandoned his erstwhile friends and had aided in restoring king charlie to his own again. young william was associating with the sons of the aristocracy and was receiving an education which would fit him to obtain preferment at court. but there was a serious vein in him, and while at a high church oxford college he was surreptitiously attending the meetings and listening to the preaching of the despised and outlawed quakers. there he first began to hear of the plans of a group of quakers to found colonies on the delaware in america. forty years afterwards he wrote, "i had an opening of joy as to these parts in the year at oxford." and with america and the quakers, in spite of a brief youthful experience as a soldier and a courtier, william penn's life, as well as his fame, is indissolubly linked. quakerism was one of the many religious sects born in the seventeenth century under the influence of puritan thought. the foundation principle of the reformation, the right of private judgment, the quakers carried out to its logical conclusion; but they were people whose minds had so long been suppressed and terrorized that, once free, they rushed to extremes. they shocked and horrified even the most advanced reformation sects by rejecting baptism, the doctrine of the trinity, and all sacraments, forms, and ceremonies. they represented, on their best side, the most vigorous effort of the reformation to return to the spirituality and the simplicity of the early christians. but their intense spirituality, pathetic often in its extreme manifestations, was not wholly concerned with another world. their humane ideas and philanthropic methods, such as the abolition of slavery, and the reform of prisons and of charitable institutions, came in time to be accepted as fundamental practical social principles. the tendencies of which quakerism formed only one manifestation appeared outside of england, in italy, in france, and especially in germany. the fundamental quaker idea of "quietism," as it was called, or peaceful, silent contemplation as a spiritual form of worship and as a development of moral consciousness, was very widespread at the close of the reformation and even began to be practiced in the roman catholic church until it was stopped by the jesuits. the most extreme of the english quakers, however, gave way to such extravagances of conduct as trembling when they preached (whence their name), preaching openly in the streets and fields--a horrible thing at that time--interrupting other congregations, and appearing naked as a sign and warning. they gave offense by refusing to remove their hats in public and by applying to all alike the words "thee" and "thou," a form of address hitherto used only to servants and inferiors. worst of all, the quakers refused to pay tithes or taxes to support the church of england. as a result, the loathsome jails of the day were soon filled with these objectors, and their property melted away in fines. this contumacy and their street meetings, regarded at that time as riotous breaches of the peace, gave the government at first a legal excuse to hunt them down; but as they grew in numbers and influence, laws were enacted to suppress them. some of them, though not the wildest extremists, escaped to the colonies in america. there, however, they were made welcome to conditions no less severe. the first law against the quakers in massachusetts was passed in , and between that date and four of the sect were hanged, one of them a woman, mary dyer. though there were no other hangings, many quakers were punished by whipping and banishment. in other colonies, notably new york, fines and banishment were not uncommon. such treatment forced the quakers, against the will of many of them, to seek a tract of land and found a colony of their own. to such a course there appeared no alternative, unless they were determined to establish their religion solely by martyrdom. about the time when the massachusetts laws were enforced, the principal quaker leader and organizer, george fox ( - ), began to consider the possibility of making a settlement among the great forests and mountains said to lie north of maryland in the region drained by the delaware and susquehanna rivers. in this region lay practically the only good land on the atlantic seaboard not already occupied. the puritans and dutch were on the north, and there were catholic and church of england colonies on the south in maryland and virginia. the middle ground was unoccupied because heretofore a difficult coast had prevented easy access by sea. fox consulted josiah coale, a quaker who had traveled in america and had seen a good deal of the indian tribes, with the result that on his second visit to america coale was commissioned to treat with the susquehanna indians, who were supposed to have rights in the desired land. in november, , coale reported to fox the result of his inquiries: "as concerning friends buying a piece of land of the susquehanna indians i have spoken of it to them and told them what thou said concerning it; but their answer was, that there is no land that is habitable or fit for situation beyond baltimore's liberty till they come to or near the susquehanna's fort." * nothing could be done immediately, the letter went on to say, because the indians were at war with one another, and william fuller, a maryland quaker, whose cooperation was deemed essential, was absent. * james bowden's "history of the friends in america," vol. i, p. this seems to have been the first definite movement towards a quaker colony. reports of it reached the ears of young penn at oxford and set his imagination aflame. he never forgot the project, for seventeen is an age when grand thoughts strike home. the adventurousness of the plan was irresistible--a home for the new faith in the primeval forest, far from imprisonment, tithes, and persecution, and to be won by effort worthy of a man. it was, however, a dream destined not to be realized for many a long year. more was needed than the mere consent of the indians. in the meantime, however, a temporary refuge for the sect was found in the province of west jersey on the delaware, which two quakers had bought from lord berkeley for the comparatively small sum of pounds. of this grant william penn became one of the trustees and thus gained his first experience in the business of colonizing the region of his youthful dreams. but there was never a sufficient governmental control of west jersey to make it an ideal quaker colony. what little control the quakers exercised disappeared after ; and the land and situation were not all that could be desired. penn, though also one of the owners of east jersey, made no attempt to turn that region into a quaker colony. besides west jersey the quakers found a temporary asylum in aquidneck, now rhode island. * for many years the governors and magistrates were quakers, and the affairs of this island colony were largely in their hands. quakers were also prominent in the politics of north carolina, and john archdale, a quaker, was governor for several years. they formed a considerable element of the population in the towns of long island and westchester county but they could not hope to convert these communities into real quaker commonwealths. * this rhode island colony should be distinguished from the settlement at providence founded by roger williams with which it was later united. see jones, "the quakers in the american colonies," p. , note. the experience in the jerseys and elsewhere very soon proved that if there was to be a real quaker colony, the british crown must give not only a title to the land but a strong charter guaranteeing self-government and protection of the quaker faith from outside interference. but that the british government would grant such valued privileges to a sect of schismatics which it was hunting down in england seemed a most unlikely event. nothing but unusual influence at court could bring it about, and in that quarter the quakers had no influence. penn never forgot the boyhood ideal which he had developed at college. for twenty years he led a varied life--driven from home and whipped by his father for consorting with the schismatic; sometimes in deference to his father's wishes taking his place in the gay world at court; even, for a time, becoming a soldier, and again traveling in france with some of the people of the court. in the end, as he grew older, religious feeling completely absorbed him. he became one of the leading quaker theologians, and his very earnest religious writings fill several volumes. he became a preacher at the meetings and went to prison for his heretical doctrines and pamphlets. at last he found himself at the age of thirty-six with his father dead, and a debt due from the crown of , pounds for services which his distinguished father, the admiral, had rendered the government. here was the accident that brought into being the great quaker colony, by a combination of circumstances which could hardly have happened twice. young penn was popular at court. he had inherited a valuable friendship with charles ii and his heir, the duke of york. this friendship rested on the solid fact that penn's father, the admiral, had rendered such signal assistance in restoring charles and the whole stuart line to the throne. but still , pounds or $ , , the accumulation of many deferred payments, was a goodly sum in those days, and that the crown would pay it in money, of which it had none too much, was unlikely. why not therefore suggest paying it instead in wild land in america, of which the crown had abundance? that was the fruitful thought which visited penn. lord berkeley and lord carteret had been given new jersey because they had signally helped to restore the strait family to the throne. all the more therefore should the stuart family give a tract of land, and even a larger tract, to penn, whose father had not only assisted the family to the throne but had refrained so long from pressing his just claim for money due. so the crown, knowing little of the value of it, granted him the most magnificent domain of mountains; lakes, rivers, and forests, fertile soil, coal, petroleum, and iron that ever was given to a single proprietor. in addition to giving penn the control of delaware and, with certain other quakers, that of new jersey as well, the crown placed at the disposal of the quakers , square miles of most valuable, fertile territory, lacking only about three thousand square miles of being as large as england and wales. even when cut down to , square miles by a boundary dispute with maryland, it was larger than ireland. kings themselves have possessed such dominions, but never before a private citizen who scorned all titles and belonged to a hunted sect that exalted peace and spiritual contemplation above all the wealth and power of the world. whether the obtaining of this enormous tract of the best land in america was due to what may be called the eternal thriftiness of the quaker mind or to the intense desire of the british government to get rid of these people--at any cost might be hard to determine. penn received his charter in , and in it he was very careful to avoid all the mistakes of the jersey proprietary grants. instead of numerous proprietors, penn was to be the sole proprietor. instead of giving title to the land and remaining silent about the political government, penn's charter not only gave him title to the land but a clearly defined position as its political head, and described the principles of the government so clearly that there was little room for doubt or dispute. it was a decidedly feudal charter, very much like the one granted to lord baltimore fifty years before, and yet at the same time it secured civil liberty and representative government to the people. penn owned all the land and the colonists were to be his tenants. he was compelled, however, to give his people free government. the laws were to be made by him with the assent of the people or their delegates. in practice this of course meant that the people were to elect a legislature and penn would have a veto, as we now call it, on such acts as the legislature should pass. he had power to appoint magistrates, judges, and some other officers, and to grant pardons. though, by the charter, proprietor of the province, he usually remained in england and appointed a deputy governor to exercise authority in the colony. in modern phrase, he controlled the executive part of the government and his people controlled the legislative part. pennsylvania, besides being the largest in area of the proprietary colonies, was also the most successful, not only from the proprietor's point of view but also from the point of view of the inhabitants. the proprietorships in maine, new hampshire, new jersey, and the carolinas were largely failures. maryland was only partially successful; it was not particularly remunerative to its owner, and the crown deprived him of his control of it for twenty years. penn, too, was deprived of the control of pennsylvania by william iii but for only about two years. except for this brief interval ( - ), penn and his sons after him held their province down to the time of the american revolution in , a period of ninety-four years. a feudal proprietorship, collecting rents from all the people, seems to modern minds grievously wrong in theory, and yet it would be very difficult to show that it proved onerous in practice. under it the people of pennsylvania flourished in wealth, peace, and happiness. penn won undying fame for the liberal principles of his feudal enterprise. his expenses in england were so great and his quitrents always so much in arrears that he was seldom out of debt. but his children grew rich from the province. as in other provinces that were not feudal there were disputes between the people and the proprietors; but there was not so much general dissatisfaction as might have been expected. the proprietors were on the whole not altogether disliked. in the american revolution, when the people could have confiscated everything in pennsylvania belonging to the proprietary family, they not only left them in possession of a large part of their land, but paid them handsomely for the part that was taken. after penn had secured his charter in , he obtained from the duke of york the land now included in the state of delaware. he advertised for colonists, and began selling land at pounds for five thousand acres and annually thereafter a shilling quitrent for every hundred acres. he drew up a constitution or frame of government, as he called it, after wide and earnest consultation with many, including the famous algernon sydney. among the penn papers in the historical society of pennsylvania is a collection of about twenty preliminary drafts. beginning with one which erected a government by a landed aristocracy, they became more and more liberal, until in the end his frame was very much like the most liberal government of the other english colonies in america. he had a council and an assembly, both elected by the people. the council, however, was very large, had seventy-two members, and was more like an upper house of the legislature than the usual colonial governor's council. the council also had the sole right of proposing legislation, and the assembly could merely accept or reject its proposals. this was a new idea, and it worked so badly in practice that in the end the province went to the opposite extreme and had no council or upper house of the legislature at all. penn's frame of government contained, however, a provision for its own amendment. this was a new idea and proved to be so happy that it is now found in all american constitutions. his method of impeachment by which the lower house was to bring in the charge and the upper house was to try it has also been universally adopted. his view that an unconstitutional law is void was a step towards our modern system. the next step, giving the courts power to declare a law unconstitutional, was not taken until one hundred years after his time. with the advice and assistance of some of those who were going out to his colony he prepared a code of laws which contained many of the advanced ideas of the quakers. capital punishment was to be confined to murder and treason, instead of being applied as in england to a host of minor offenses. the property of murderers, instead of being forfeited to the state, was to be divided among the next of kin of the victim and of the criminal. religious liberty was established as it had been in rhode island and the jerseys. all children were to be taught a useful trade. oaths in judicial proceedings were not required. all prisons were to be workhouses and places of reformation instead of dungeons of dirt, idleness, and disease. this attempt to improve the prisons inaugurated a movement of great importance in the modern world in which the part played by the quakers is too often forgotten. penn had now started his "holy experiment," as he called his enterprise in pennsylvania, by which he intended to prove that religious liberty was not only right, but that agriculture, commerce, and all arts and refinements of life would flourish under it. he would break the delusion that prosperity and morals were possible only under some one particular faith established by law. he, would prove that government could be carried on without war and without oaths, and that primitive christianity could be maintained without a hireling ministry, without persecution, without ridiculous dogmas or ritual, sustained only by its own innate power and the inward light. chapter ii. penn sails for the delaware the framing of the constitution and other preparations consumed the year following penn's receipt of his charter in . but at last, on august , , he set sail in the ship welcome, with about a hundred colonists. after a voyage of about six weeks, and the loss of thirty of their number by smallpox, they arrived in the delaware. june would have been a somewhat better month in which to see the rich luxuriance of the green meadows and forests of this beautiful river. but the autumn foliage and bracing air of october must have been inspiring enough. the ship slowly beat her way for three days up the bay and river in the silence and romantic loneliness of its shores. everything indicated richness and fertility. at some points the lofty trees of the primeval forest grew down to the water's edge. the river at every high tide overflowed great meadows grown up in reeds and grasses and red and yellow flowers, stretching back to the borders of the forest and full of water birds and wild fowl of every variety. penn, now in the prime of life, must surely have been aroused by this scene and by the reflection that the noble river was his and the vast stretches of forests and mountains for three hundred miles to the westward. he was soon ashore, exploring the edge of his mighty domain, settling his government, and passing his laws. he was much pleased with the swedes whom he found on his land. he changed the name of the little swedish village of upland, fifteen miles below philadelphia, to chester. he superintended laying out the streets of philadelphia and they remain to this day substantially as he planned them, though unfortunately too narrow and monotonously regular. he met the indians at philadelphia, sat with them at their fires, ate their roasted corn, and when to amuse him they showed him some of their sports and games he renewed his college days by joining them in a jumping match. then he started on journeys. he traveled through the woods to new york, which then belonged to the duke of york, who had given him delaware; he visited the long island quakers; and on his return he went to maryland to meet with much pomp and ceremony lord baltimore and there discuss with him the disputed boundary. he even crossed to the eastern shore of the chesapeake to visit a quaker meeting on the choptank before winter set in, and he describes the immense migration of wild pigeons at that season, and the ducks which flew so low and were so tame that the colonists knocked them down with sticks. most of the winter he spent at chester and wrote to england in high spirits of his journeys, the wonders of the country, the abundance of game and provisions, and the twenty-three ships which had arrived so swiftly that few had taken longer than six weeks, and only three had been infected with the smallpox. "oh how sweet," he says, "is the quiet of these parts, freed from the anxious and troublesome solicitations, hurries and perplexities of woful europe." as the weeks and months passed, ships kept arriving with more quakers, far exceeding the migration to the jerseys. by summer, penn reported that sail had arrived within the past year, houses had been built in philadelphia, and about farms had been laid out round the town. it is supposed that about immigrants had arrived. this was a more rapid development than was usual in the colonies of america. massachusetts and virginia had been established slowly and with much privation and suffering. but the settlement of philadelphia was like a summer outing. there were no dangers, the hardships were trifling, and there was no sickness or famine. there was such an abundance of game close at hand that hunger and famine were in nowise to be feared. the climate was good and the indians, kindly treated, remained friendly for seventy years. it is interesting to note that in that same year, , in which penn and his friends with such ease and comfort founded their great colony on the delaware, the french explorers and voyageurs from canada, after years of incredible hardships, had traversed the northern region of the great lakes with their canoes and had passed down the mississippi to its mouth, giving to the whole of the great west the name of louisiana, and claiming it for france. already la salle had taken his fleet of canoes down the mississippi river and had placed the arms of france on a post at its mouth in april, , only a few months before penn reached his newly acquired colony. thus in the same year in which the quakers established in pennsylvania their reign of liberty and of peace with the red men, la salle was laying the foundation of the western empire of despotic france, which seventy years afterwards was to hurl the savages upon the english colonies, to wreck the quaker policy of peace, but to fail in the end to maintain itself against the free colonies of england. while they were building houses in philadelphia, the settlers lived in bark huts or in caves dug in the river bank, as the early settlers in new jersey across the river had lived. pastorius, a learned german quaker, who had come out with the english, placed over the door of his cave the motto, "parva domus, sed amica bonis, procul este profani," which much amused penn when he saw it. a certain mrs. morris was much exercised one day as to how she could provide supper in the cave for her husband who was working on the construction of their house. but on returning to her cave she found that her cat had just brought in a fine rabbit. in their later prosperous years they had a picture of the cat and the rabbit made on a box which has descended as a family heirloom. doubtless there were preserved many other interesting reminiscences of the brief camp life. these quakers were all of the thrifty, industrious type which had gone to west jersey a few years before. men of means, indeed, among the quakers were the first to seek refuge from the fines and confiscations imposed upon them in england. they brought with them excellent supplies of everything. many of the ships carried the frames of houses ready to put together. but substantial people of this sort demanded for the most part houses of brick, with stone cellars. fortunately both brick clay and stone were readily obtainable in the neighborhood, and whatever may have been the case in other colonies, ships loaded with brick from england would have found it little to their profit to touch at philadelphia. an early description says that the brick houses in philadelphia were modeled on those of london, and this type prevailed for nearly two hundred years. it was probably in june, , that penn made his famous treaty with the indians. no documentary proof of the existence of such a treaty has reached us. he made, indeed, a number of so-called treaties, which were really only purchases of land involving oral promises between the principals to treat each other fairly. hundreds of such treaties have been made. the remarkable part about penn's dealings with the indians was that such promises as he made he kept. the other quakers, too, were as careful as penn in their honorable treatment of the red men. quaker families of farmers and settlers lived unarmed among them for generations and, when absent from home, left children in their care. the indians, on their part, were known to have helped white families with food in winter time. penn, on his first visit to the colony, made a long journey unarmed among the indians as far as the susquehanna, saw the great herds of elk on that river, lived in indian wigwams, and learned much of the language and customs of the natives. there need never be any trouble with them, he said. they were the easiest people in the world to get on with if the white men would simply be just. penn's fair treatment of the indians kept pennsylvania at peace with them for about seventy years--in fact, from until the outbreak of the french and indian wars, in . in its critical period of growth, pennsylvania was therefore not at all harassed or checked by those indian hostilities which were such a serious impediment in other colonies. the two years of penn's first visit were probably the happiest of his life. always fond of the country, he built himself a fine seat on the delaware near bristol, and it would have been better for him, and probably also for the colony, if he had remained there. but he thought he had duties in england: his family needed him; he must defend his people from the religious oppression still prevailing; and lord baltimore had gone to england to resist him in the boundary dispute. one of the more narrow-minded of his faith wrote to penn from england that he was enjoying himself too much in his colony and seeking his own selfish interest. influenced by all these considerations, he returned in august, , and it was long before he saw pennsylvania again--not, indeed, until october, , and then for only two years. chapter iii. life in philadelphia the rapid increase of population and the growing prosperity in pennsylvania during the life of its founder present a striking contrast to the slower and more troubled growth of the other british colonies in america. the settlers in pennsylvania engaged at once in profitable agriculture. the loam, clay, and limestone soils on the pennsylvania tide of the delaware produced heavy crops of grain, as well as pasture for cattle and valuable lumber from its forests. the pennsylvania settlers were of a class particularly skilled in dealing with the soil. they apparently encountered none of the difficulties, due probably to incompetent farming, which beset the settlers of delaware, whose land was as good as that of the pennsylvania colonists. in a few years the port of philadelphia was loading abundant cargoes for england and the great west india trade. after much experimenting with different places on the river, such as new castle, wilmington, salem, burlington, the quakers had at last found the right location for a great seat of commerce and trade that could serve as a center for the export of everything from the region behind it and around it. philadelphia thus soon became the basis of a prosperity which no other townsite on the delaware had been able to attain. the quakers of philadelphia were the soundest of financiers and men of business, and in their skillful hands the natural resources of their colony were developed without setback or accident. at an early date banking institutions were established in philadelphia, and the strongest colonial merchants and mercantile firms had their offices there. it was out of such a sound business life that were produced in revolutionary times such characters as robert morris and after the revolution men like stephen girard. pennsylvania in colonial times was ruled from philadelphia somewhat as france has always been ruled from paris. and yet there was a difference: pennsylvania had free government. the germans and the scotch-irish outnumbered the quakers and could have controlled the legislature, for in out of a population of , the quakers were only about , ; and yet the legislature down to the revolution was always confided to the competent hands of the quakers. no higher tribute, indeed, has ever been paid to any group of people as governors of a commonwealth and architects of its finance and trade. it is a curious commentary on the times and on human nature that these quaker folk, treated as outcasts and enemies of good order and religion in england and gradually losing all their property in heavy fines and confiscations, should so suddenly in the wilderness prove the capacity of their "holy experiment" for achieving the best sort of good order and material success. they immediately built a most charming little town by the waterside, snug and pretty with its red brick houses in the best architectural style. it was essentially a commercial town down to the time of the revolution and long afterwards. the principal residences were on water street, the second street from the wharves. the town in those days extended back only as far as fourth street, and the state house, now independence hall, an admirable instance of the local brick architecture, stood on the edge of the town. the pennsylvania hospital, the first institution of its kind to be built in america, was situated out in the fields. through the town ran a stream following the line of the present dock street. its mouth had been a natural landing place for the first explorers and for the indians from time immemorial. here stood a neat tavern, the blue anchor, with its dovecotes in old english style, looking out for many a year over the river with its fleet of small boats. along the wharves lay the very solid, broad, somber, quaker-like brick warehouses, some of which have survived into modern times. everywhere were to be found ships and the good seafaring smell of tar and hemp. ships were built and fitted out alongside docks where other ships were lading. a privateer would receive her equipment of guns, pistols, and cutlasses on one side of a wharf, while on the other side a ship was peacefully loading wheat or salted provisions for the west indies. everybody's attention in those days was centered on the water instead of inland on railroads as it is today. commerce was the source of wealth of the town as agriculture was the wealth of the interior of the province. every one lived close to the river and had an interest in the rise and fall of the tide. the little town extended for a mile along the water but scarcely half a mile back from it. all communication with other places, all news from the world of europe came from the ships, whose captains brought the letters and the few newspapers which reached the colonists. an important ship on her arrival often fired a gun and dropped anchor with some ceremony. immediately the shore boats swarmed to her side; the captain was besieged for news and usually brought the letters ashore to be distributed at the coffeehouse. this institution took the place of the modern stock exchange, clearing house, newspaper, university, club, and theater all under one roof, with plenty to eat and drink besides. within its rooms vessels and cargoes were sold; before its door negro slaves were auctioned off; and around it as a common center were brought together all sorts of business, valuable information, gossip, and scandal. it must have been a brilliant scene in the evening, with the candles lighting embroidered red and yellow waistcoats, blue and scarlet coats, green and black velvet, with the rich drab and mouse color of the prosperous quakers contrasting with the uniforms of british officers come to fight the french and indian wars. sound, as well as color, had its place in this busy and happy colonial life. christ church, a brick building which still stands the perfection of colonial architecture had been established by the church of england people defiantly in the midst of heretical quakerdom. it soon possessed a chime of bells sent out from england. captain budden, who brought them in his ship myrtilla, would charge no freight for so charitable a deed, and in consequence of his generosity every time he and his ship appeared in the harbor the bells were rung in his honor. they were rung on market days to please the farmers who came into town with their wagons loaded with poultry and vegetables. they were rung muffled in times of public disaster and were kept busy in that way in the french and indian wars. they were also rung muffled for franklin when it was learned that while in london he had favored the stamp act--a means of expressing popular opinion which the newspapers subsequently put out of date. the severe quaker code of conduct and peaceful contemplation contains no prohibition against good eating and drinking. quakers have been known to have the gout. the opportunities in philadelphia to enjoy the pleasures of the table were soon unlimited. farm, garden, and dairy products, vegetables, poultry, beef, and mutton were soon produced in immense quantity and variety and of excellent quality. john adams, coming from the "plain living and high thinking" of boston to attend the first meeting of the continental congress in philadelphia, was invited to dine with stephen collins, a typical quaker, and was amazed at the feast set before him. from that time his diary records one after another of these "sinful feasts," as he calls them. but the sin at which he thus looks askance never seems to have withheld him from a generous indulgence. "drank madeira at a great rate," he says on one occasion, "and took no harm from it." madeira obtained in the trade with spain was the popular drink even at the taverns. various forms of punch and rum were common, but the modern light wines and champagne were not then in vogue. food in great quantity and variety seems to have been placed on the table at the same time, with little regard to formal courses. beef, poultry, and mutton would all be served at one dinner. fruit and nuts were placed on the table in profusion, as well as puddings and desserts numerous and deadly. dinners were served usually in the afternoon. the splendid banquet which adams describes as given to some members of the continental congress by chief justice chew at his country seat was held at four in the afternoon. the dinner hour was still in the afternoon long after the revolution and down to the times of the civil war. other relics of this old love of good living lasted into modern times. it was not so very long ago that an occasional householder of wealth and distinction in philadelphia could still be found who insisted on doing his own marketing in the old way, going himself the first thing in the morning on certain days to the excellent markets and purchasing all the family supplies. philadelphia poultry is still famous the country over; and to be a good judge of poultry was in the old days as much a point of merit as to be a good judge of madeira. a typical philadelphian, envious new yorkers say, will still keep a line of depositors waiting at a bank while he discourses to the receiving teller on what a splendid purchase of poultry he had made that morning. early in the last century a wealthy leader of the bar is said to have continued the old practice of going to market followed by a negro with a wheelbarrow to bring back the supplies. not content with feasting in their own homes, the colonial philadelphians were continually banqueting at the numerous taverns, from the coach and horses, opposite the state house, down to the penny pot inn close by the river. at the coach and horses, where the city elections were usually held, the discarded oyster shells around it had been trampled into a hard white and smooth floor over which surged the excited election crowds. in those taverns the old fashion prevailed of roasting great joints of meat on a turnspit before an open fire; and to keep the spit turning before the heat little dogs were trained to work in a sort of treadmill cage. in nothing is this colonial prosperity better revealed than in the quality of the country seats. they were usually built of stone and sometimes of brick and stone, substantial, beautifully proportioned, admirable in taste, with a certain simplicity, yet indicating a people of wealth, leisure, and refinement, who believed in themselves and took pleasure in adorning their lives. not a few of these homes on the outskirts of the city have come down to us unharmed, and cliveden, stenton, and belmont are precious relics of such solid structure that with ordinary care they will still last for centuries. many were destroyed during the revolution; others, such as landsdowne, the seat of one of the penn family, built in the italian style, have disappeared; others were wiped out by the city's growth. all of them, even the small ones, were most interesting and typical of the life of the times. the colonists began to build them very early. a family would have a solid, brick town house and, only a mile or so away, a country house which was equally substantial. sometimes they built at a greater distance. governor keith, for example, had a country seat, still standing though built in the middle of the eighteenth century, some twenty-five miles north of the city in what was then almost a wilderness. penn's ideal had always been to have philadelphia what he called "a green country town." probably he had in mind the beautiful english towns of abundant foliage and open spaces. and penn was successful, for many of the philadelphia houses stood by themselves, with gardens round them. the present walnut was first called pool street; chestnut was called winn street; and market was called high street. if he could have foreseen the enormous modern growth of the city, he might not have made his streets so narrow and level. but the fault lies perhaps rather with the people for adhering so rigidly and for so long to penn's scheme, when traffic that he could not have imagined demanded wider streets. if he could have lived into our times he would surely have sent us very positive directions in his bluff british way to break up the original rectangular, narrow plan which was becoming dismally monotonous when applied to a widely spread-out modern city. he was a theologian, but he had a very keen eye for appearances and beauty of surroundings. chapter iv. types of the population the arrival of colonists in pennsylvania in greater numbers than in delaware and the jerseys was the more notable because, within a few years after pennsylvania was founded, persecution of the quakers ceased in england and one prolific cause of their migration was no more. thirteen hundred quakers were released from prison in by james ii; and in , when william of orange took the throne, toleration was extended to the quakers and other protestant dissenters. the success of the first quakers who came to america brought others even after persecution ceased in england. the most numerous class of immigrants for the first fifteen or twenty years were welsh, most of whom were quakers with a few baptists and church of england people. they may have come not so much from a desire to flee from persecution as to build up a little welsh community and to revive welsh nationalism. in their new surroundings they spoke their own welsh language and very few of them had learned english. they had been encouraged in their national aspirations by an agreement with penn that they were to have a tract of , acres where they could live by themselves. the land assigned to them lay west of philadelphia in that high ridge along the present main line of the pennsylvania railroad, now so noted for its wealthy suburban homes. all the important names of townships and places in that region, such as wynnewood, st. davids, berwyn, bryn mawr, merion, haverford, radnor, are welsh in origin. some of the welsh spread round to the north of philadelphia, where names like gwynedd and penllyn remain as their memorials. the chester valley bordering the high ridge of their first settlement they called duffrin mawr or great valley. these welsh, like so many of the quakers, were of a well-to-do class. they rapidly developed their fertile land and, for pioneers, lived quite luxuriously. they had none of the usual county and township officers but ruled their welsh barony, as it was called, through the authority of their quaker meetings. but this system eventually disappeared. the welsh were absorbed into the english population, and in a couple of generations their language disappeared. prominent people are descended from them. david rittenhouse, the astronomer, was welsh on his mother's side. david lloyd, for a long time the leader of the popular party and at one time chief justice, was a welshman. since the revolution the welsh names of cadwalader and meredith have been conspicuous. the church of england people formed a curious and decidedly hostile element in the early population of pennsylvania. they established themselves in philadelphia in the beginning and rapidly grew into a political party which, while it cannot be called very strong in numbers, was important in ability and influence. after penn's death, his sons joined the church of england, and the churchmen in the province became still stronger. they formed the basis of the proprietary party, filled executive offices in the government, and waged relentless war against the quaker majority which controlled the legislature. during penn's lifetime the churchmen were naturally opposed to the whole government, both executive and legislative. they were constantly sending home to england all sorts of reports and information calculated to show that the quakers were unfit to rule a province, that penn should be deprived of his charter, and that pennsylvania should be put under the direct rule of the king. they had delightful schemes for making it a strong church of england colony like virginia. one of them suggested that, as the title to the three lower counties, as delaware was called, was in dispute, it should be taken by the crown and given to the church as a manor to support a bishop. such an ecclesiastic certainly could have lived in princely state from the rents of its fertile farms, with a palace, retinue, chamberlains, chancellors, feudal courts, and all the appendages of earthly glory. for the sake of the picturesqueness of colonial history it is perhaps a pity that this pious plan was never carried out. as it was, however, the churchmen established themselves with not a little glamour and romance round two institutions, christ church for the first fifty years, and after that round the old college of philadelphia. the reverend william smith, a pugnacious and eloquent scotchman, led them in many a gallant onset against the "haughty tribe" of quakers, and he even suffered imprisonment in the cause. he had a country seat on the schuylkill and was in his way a fine character, devoted to the establishment of ecclesiasticism and higher learning as a bulwark against the menace of quaker fanaticism; and but for the coming on of the revolution he might have become the first colonial bishop with all the palaces, pomp, and glory appertaining thereunto. in spite of this opposition, however, the quakers continued their control of the colony, serenely tolerating the anathemas of the learned churchmen and the fierce curses and brandished weapons of the presbyterians and scotch-irish. curses and anathemas were no check to the fertile soil. grist continued to come to the mill; and the agricultural products poured into philadelphia to be carried away in the ships. the contemplative quaker took his profits as they passed; enacted his liberalizing laws, his prison reform, his charities, his peace with the savage indians; allowed science, research, and all the kindly arts of life to flourish; and seemed perfectly contented with the damnation in the other world to which those who flourished under his rule consigned him. in discussing the remarkable success of the province, the colonists always disputed whether the credit should be given to the fertile soil or to the liberal laws and constitution. it was no doubt due to both. but the obvious advantages of penn's charter over the mixed and troublesome governmental conditions in the jerseys, penn's personal fame and the repute of the quakers for liberalism then at its zenith, and the wide advertising given to their ideas and penn's, on the continent of europe as well as in england, seem to have been the reasons why more people, and many besides quakers, came to take advantage of that fertile soil. the first great increase of alien population came from germany, which was still in a state of religious turmoil, disunion, and depression from the results of the reformation and the thirty years' war. the reaction from dogma in germany had produced a multitude of sects, all yearning for greater liberty and prosperity than they had at home. penn and other quakers had made missionary tours in germany and had preached to the people. the germans do not appear to have been asked to come to the jerseys. but they were urged to come to pennsylvania as soon as the charter was obtained; and many of them made an immediate response. the german mind was then at the height of its emotional unrestraint. it was as unaccustomed to liberty of thought as to political liberty and it produced a new sect or religious distinction almost every day. many of these sects came to pennsylvania, where new small religious bodies sprang up among them after their arrival. schwenkfelders, tunkers, labadists, new born, new mooners, separatists, zion's brueder, ronsdorfer, inspired, quietists, gichtelians, depellians, mountain men, river brethren, brinser brethren, and the society of the woman in the wilderness, are names which occur in the annals of the province. but these are only a few. in lancaster county alone the number has at different times been estimated at from twenty to thirty. it would probably be impossible to make a complete list; some of them, indeed, existed for only a few years. their own writers describe them as countless and bewildering. many of them were characterized by the strangest sort of german mysticism, and some of them were inclined to monastic and hermit life and their devotees often lived in caves or solitary huts in the woods. it would hardly be accurate to call all the german sects quakers, since a great deal of their mysticism would have been anything but congenial to the followers of fox and penn. resemblances to quaker doctrine can, however, be found among many of them; and there was one large sect, the mennonites, who were often spoken of as german quakers. the two divisions fraternized and preached in each other's meetings. the mennonites were well educated as a class and pastorius, their leader, was a ponderously learned german. most of the german sects left the quakers in undisturbed possession of philadelphia, and spread out into the surrounding region, which was then a wilderness. they and all the other germans who afterwards followed them settled in a half circle beginning at easton on the delaware, passing up the lehigh valley into lancaster county, thence across the susquehanna and down the cumberland valley to the maryland border, which many of them crossed, and in time scattered far to the south in virginia and even north carolina, where their descendants are still found. these german sects which came over under the influence of penn and the quakers, between the years and , formed a class by themselves. though they may be regarded as peculiar in their ideas and often in their manner of life, it cannot be denied that as a class they were a well-educated, thrifty, and excellent people and far superior to the rough german peasants who followed them in later years. this latter class was often spoken of in pennsylvania as "the church people," to distinguish them from "the sects," as those of the earlier migration were called. the church people, or peasantry of the later migration, belonged usually to one of the two dominant churches of germany, the lutheran or the reformed. those of the reformed church were often spoken of as calvinists. this migration of the church people was not due to the example of the quakers but was the result of a new policy which was adopted by the british government when queen anne ascended the throne in , and which aimed at keeping the english people at home and at filling the english colonies in america with foreign protestants hostile to france and spain. large numbers of these immigrants were "redemptioners," as they were called; that is to say, they were persons who had been obliged to sell themselves to the shipping agents to pay for their passage. on their arrival in pennsylvania the captain sold them to the colonists to pay the passage, and the redemptioner had to work for his owner for a period varying from five to ten years. no stigma or disgrace clung to any of these people under this system. it was regarded as a necessary business transaction. not a few of the very respectable families of the state and some of its prominent men are known to be descended from redemptioners. this method of transporting colonists proved a profitable trade for the shipping people, and was soon regularly organized like the modern assisted immigration. agents, called "newlanders" and "soul-sellers," traveled through germany working up the transatlantic traffic by various devices, some of them not altogether creditable. pennsylvania proved to be the most attractive region for these immigrants. some of those who were taken to other colonies finally worked their way to pennsylvania. practically none went to new england, and very few, if any, to virginia. indeed, only certain colonies were willing to admit them. another important element that went to make up the pennsylvania population consisted of the scotch-irish. they were descendants of scotch and english presbyterians who had gone to ireland to take up the estates of the irish rebels confiscated under queen elizabeth and james i. this migration of protestants to ireland, which began soon after , was encouraged by the english government. towards the middle of the seventeenth century the confiscation of more irish land under cromwell's regime increased the migration to ulster. many english joined the migration, and scotch of the lowlands who were largely of english extraction, although there were many gaelic or celtic names among them. these are the people usually known in english history as ulstermen--the same who made such a heroic defense of londonderry against james ii, and the same who in modern times have resisted home rule in ireland because it would bury them, they believe, under the tyranny of their old enemies, the native irish catholic majority. they were more thrifty and industrious than the native irish and as a result they usually prospered on the irish land. at first they were in a more or less constant state of war with the native irish, who attempted to expel them. they were subsequently persecuted by the church of england under charles i, who attempted to force them to conform to the english established religion. such a rugged schooling in ireland made of them a very aggressive, hardy people, protestants of the protestants, so accustomed to contests and warfare that they accepted it as the natural state of man. these ulstermen came to pennsylvania somewhat later than the first german sects; and not many of them arrived until some years after . they were not, like the first germans, attracted to the colony by any resemblance of their religion to that of the quakers. on the contrary they were entirely out of sympathy with the quakers, except in the one point of religious liberty; and the quakers were certainly out of sympathy with them. nearly all the colonies in america received a share of these settlers. wherever they went they usually sought the frontier and the wilderness; and by the time of the revolution, they could be found upon the whole colonial frontier from new hampshire to georgia. they were quite numerous in virginia, and most numerous along the edge of the pennsylvania wilderness. it was apparently the liberal laws and the fertile soil that drew them to pennsylvania in spite of their contempt for most of the quaker doctrines. the dream of their life, their haven of rest, was for these scotch-irish a fertile soil where they would find neither irish "papists" nor church of england; and for this reason in america they always sought the frontier where they could be by themselves. they could not even get on well with the germans in pennsylvania; and when the germans crowded into their frontier settlements, quarrels became so frequent that the proprietors asked the ulstermen to move farther west, a suggestion which they were usually quite willing to accept. at the close of the colonial period in pennsylvania the quakers, the church of england people, and the miscellaneous denominations occupied philadelphia and the region round it in a half circle from the delaware river. outside of this area lay another containing the germans, and beyond that were the scotch-irish. the principal stronghold of the scotch-irish was the cumberland valley in southern pennsylvania west of the susquehanna, a region now containing the flourishing towns of chambersburg, gettysburg, carlisle, and york, where the descendants of these early settlers are still very numerous. in modern times, however, they have spread out widely; they are now to be found all over the state, and they no longer desire so strongly to live by themselves. the ulstermen, owing to the circumstances of their earlier life, had no sympathy whatever with the quaker's objection to war or with his desire to deal fairly with the indians and pay them for their land. as presbyterians and calvinists, they belonged to one of the older and more conservative divisions of the reformation. the quaker's doctrine of the inward light, his quietism, contemplation, and advanced ideas were quite incomprehensible to them. as for the indians, they held that the old testament commands the destruction of all the heathen; and as for paying the savages for their land, it seemed ridiculous to waste money on such an object when they could exterminate the natives at less cost. the ulstermen, therefore, settled on the indian land as they pleased, or for that matter on any land, and were continually getting into difficulty with the pennsylvania government no less than with the indians. they regarded any region into which they entered as constituting a sovereign state. it was this feeling of independence which subsequently prompted them to organize what is known as the whisky rebellion when, after the revolution, the federal government put a tax on the liquor which they so much esteemed as a product, for corn converted into whisky was more easily transported on horses over mountain trails, and in that form fetched a better price in the markets. after the year , when the quaker method of dealing with the indians no longer prevailed, the scotch-irish lived on the frontier in a continual state of savage warfare which lasted for the next forty years. war, hunting the abundant game, the deer, buffalo, and elk, and some agriculture filled the measure of their days and years. they paid little attention to the laws of the province, which were difficult to enforce on the distant frontier, and they administered a criminal code of their own with whipping or "laced jacket," as they called it, as a punishment. they were jacks of all trades, weaving their own cloth and making nearly everything they needed. they were the first people in america to develop the use of the rifle, and they used it in the back country all the way down into the carolinas at a time when it was seldom seen in the seaboard settlements. in those days, rifles were largely manufactured in lancaster, pennsylvania, and there were several famous gunsmiths in philadelphia. some of the best of these old rifles have been preserved and are really beautiful weapons, with delicate hair triggers, gracefully curved stocks, and quaint brass or even gold or silver mountings. the ornamentation was often done by the hunter himself, who would melt a gold or silver coin and pour it into some design which he had carved with his knife in the stock. the revolution offered an opportunity after the ulstermen's heart, and they entered it with their entire spirit, as they had every other contest which involved liberty and independence. in fact, in that period they played such a conspicuous part that they almost ruled philadelphia, the original home of the quakers. since then, spread out through the state, they have always had great influence, the natural result of their energy, intelligence, and love of education. nearly all these diverse elements of the pennsylvania population were decidedly sectional in character. the welsh had a language of their own, and they attempted, though without success, to maintain it, as well as a government of their own within their barony independent of the regular government of the province. the germans were also extremely sectional. they clung with better success to their own language, customs, and literature. the scotch-irish were so clannish that they had ideas of founding a separate province on the susquehanna. even the church of england people were so aloof and partisan that, though they lived about philadelphia among the quakers, they were extremely hostile to the quaker rule and unremittingly strove to destroy it. all these cleavages and divisions in the population continue in their effects to this day. they prevented the development of a homogeneous population. no exact statistics were taken of the numbers of the different nationalities in colonial times; but franklin's estimate is probably fairly accurate, and his position in practical politics gave him the means of knowing and of testing his calculations. about the year he estimated the population as one-third quaker, one-third german, and one-third miscellaneous. this gave about , or , to each of the thirds. provost smith, of the newly founded college, estimated the quakers at only about , . but his estimate seems too low. he was interested in making out their numbers small because he was trying to show the absurdity of allowing such a small band of fanatics and heretics to rule a great province of the british empire. one great source of the quaker power lay in the sympathy of the germans, who always voted on their side and kept them in control of the legislature, so that it was in reality a case of two-thirds ruling one-third. the quakers, it must be admitted, never lost their heads. unperturbed through all the conflicts and the jarring of races and sects, they held their position unimpaired and kept the confidence and support of the germans until the revolution changed everything. the varied elements of population spread out in ever widening half circles from philadelphia as a center. there was nothing in the character of the region to stop this progress. the country all the way westward to the susquehanna was easy hill, dale, and valley, covered by a magnificent growth of large forest trees--oaks, beeches, poplars, walnuts, hickories, and ash--which rewarded the labor of felling by exposing to cultivation a most fruitful soil. the settlers followed the old indian trails. the first westward pioneers seem to have been the welsh quakers, who pushed due west from philadelphia and marked out the course of the famous lancaster road, afterwards the lancaster turnpike. it took the line of least resistance along the old trail, following ridges until it reached the susquehanna at a spot where an indian trader, named harris, established himself and founded a post which subsequently became harrisburg, the capital of the state. for a hundred years the lancaster road was the great highway westward, at first to the mountains, then to the ohio, and finally to the mississippi valley and the great west. immigrants and pioneers from all the new england and middle states flocked out that way to the land of promise in wagons, or horseback, or trudging along on foot. substantial taverns grew up along the route; and habitual freighters and stage drivers, proud of their fine teams of horses, grew into characters of the road. when the pennsylvania railroad was built, it followed the same line. in fact, most of the lines of railroad in the state follow indian trails. the trails for trade and tribal intercourse led east and west. the warrior trails usually led north and south, for that had long been the line of strategy and conquest of the tribes. the northern tribes, or six nations, established in the lake region of new york near the headwaters of the delaware, the susquehanna, and the ohio, had the advantage of these river valleys for descending into the whole atlantic seaboard and the valley of the mississippi. they had in consequence conquered all the tribes south of them as far even as the carolinas and georgia. all their trails of conquest led across pennsylvania. the germans in their expansion at first seem to have followed up the schuylkill valley and its tributaries, and they hold this region to the present day. gradually they crossed the watershed to the susquehanna and broke into the region of the famous limestone soil in lancaster county, a veritable farmer's paradise from which nothing will ever drive them. many quaker farmers penetrated north and northeast from philadelphia into bucks county, a fine rolling and hilly wheat and corn region, where their descendants are still found and whence not a few well-known philadelphia families have come. the quaker government of pennsylvania in almost a century of its existence largely fulfilled its ideals. it did not succeed in governing without war; but the war was not its fault. it did succeed in governing without oaths. an affirmation instead of an oath became the law of pennsylvania for all who chose an affirmation; and this law was soon adopted by most american communities. it succeeded in establishing religious liberty in pennsylvania in the fullest sense of the word. it brought christianity nearer to its original simplicity and made it less superstitious and cruel. the quakers had always maintained that it was a mistake to suppose that their ideas would interfere with material prosperity and happiness; and they certainly proved their contention in pennsylvania. to quaker liberalism was due not merely the material prosperity, but prison reform and the notable public charities of pennsylvania; in both of which activities, as in the abolition of slavery, the quakers were leaders. original research in science also flourished in a marked degree in colonial pennsylvania. no one in those days knew the nature of thunder and lightning, and the old explanation that they were the voice of an angry god was for many a sufficient explanation. franklin, by a long series of experiments in the free quaker colony, finally proved in that lightning was electricity, that is to say, a manifestation of the same force that is produced when glass is rubbed with buckskin. he invented the lightning rod, discovered the phenomenon of positive and negative electricity, explained the action of the leyden jar, and was the first american writer on the modern science of political economy. this energetic citizen of pennsylvania spent a large part of his life in research; he studied the gulf stream, storms and their causes, waterspouts, whirlwinds; and he established the fact that the northeast storms of the atlantic coast usually move against the wind. but franklin was not the only scientist in the colony. besides his three friends, kinnersley, hopkinson, and syng, who worked with him and helped him in his discoveries, there were david rittenhouse, the astronomer, john bartram, the botanist, and a host of others. rittenhouse excelled in every undertaking which required the practical application of astronomy, he attracted attention even in europe for his orrery which indicated the movements of the stars and which was an advance on all previous instruments of the kind. when astronomers in europe were seeking to have the transit of venus of observed in different parts of the world, pennsylvania alone of the american colonies seems to have had the man and the apparatus necessary for the work. rittenhouse conducted the observations at three points and won a world-wide reputation by the accuracy and skill of his observations. the whole community was interested in this scientific undertaking; the legislature and public institutions raised the necessary funds; and the american philosophical society, the only organization of its kind in the colonies, had charge of the preparations. the american philosophical society had been started in philadelphia in . it was the first scientific society to be founded in america, and throughout the colonial period it was the only society of its kind in the country. its membership included not only prominent men throughout america, such as thomas jefferson, who were interested in scientific inquiry, but also representatives of foreign nations. with its library of rare and valuable collections and its annual publication of essays on almost every branch of science, the society still continues its useful scientific work. john bartram, who was the first botanist to describe the plants of the new world and who explored the whole country from the great lakes to florida, was a pennsylvania quaker of colonial times, farmer born and bred. thomas godfrey, also a colonial pennsylvanian, was rewarded by the royal society of england for an improvement which he made in the quadrant. peter collinson of england, a famous naturalist and antiquarian of early times, was a quaker. in modern times john dalton, the discoverer of the atomic theory of colorblindness, was born of quaker parents, and edward cope, of a well-known philadelphia quaker family, became one of the most eminent naturalists and paleontologists of the nineteenth century, and unaided discovered over a third of the three thousand extinct species of vertebrates recognized by men of science. in the field of education, lindley murray, the grammarian of a hundred years ago, was a quaker. ezra cornell, a quaker, founded the great university in new york which bears his name; and johns hopkins, also a quaker, founded the university of that name in baltimore. pennsylvania deserves the credit of turning these early scientific pursuits to popular uses. the first american professorship of botany and natural history was established in philadelphia college, now the university of pennsylvania. the first american book on a medical subject was written in philadelphia by thomas cadwalader in ; the first american hospital was established there in ; and the first systematic instruction in medicine. since then philadelphia has produced a long line of physicians and surgeons of national and european reputation. for half a century after the revolution the city was the center of medical education for the country and it still retains a large part of that preeminence. the academy of natural sciences founded in philadelphia in by two inconspicuous young men, an apothecary and a dentist, soon became by the spontaneous support of the community a distinguished institution. it sent out two arctic expeditions, that of kane and that of hayes, and has included among its members the most prominent men of science in america. it is now the oldest as well as the most complete institution of its kind in the country. the franklin institute, founded in philadelphia in , was the result of a similar scientific interest. it was the first institution of applied science and the mechanic arts in america. descriptions of the first patents issued by the united states government are to be found only on the pages of its journal, which is still an authoritative annual record. apart from their scientific attainments, one of the most interesting facts about the quakers is the large proportion of them who have reached eminence, often in occupations which are supposed to be somewhat inconsistent with quaker doctrine. general greene, the most capable american officer of the revolution, after washington, was a rhode island quaker. general mifflin of the revolution was a pennsylvania quaker. general jacob brown, a bucks county pennsylvania quaker, reorganized the army in the war of . and restored it to its former efficiency. in the long list of quakers eminent in all walks of life, not only in pennsylvania but elsewhere, are to be found john bright, a lover of peace and human liberty through a long and eminent career in british politics; john dickinson of philadelphia, who wrote the famous farmer's letters so signally useful in the american revolution; whittier, the american poet, a quaker born in massachusetts of a family converted from puritanism when the quakers invaded boston in the seventeenth century; and benjamin west, a pennsylvania quaker of colonial times, an artist of permanent eminence, one of the founders of the royal academy in england and its president in succession to sir joshua reynolds. wherever quakers are found they are the useful and steady citizens. their eminence seems out of all proportion to their comparatively small numbers. it has often been asked why this height of attainment should occur among a people of such narrow religious discipline. but were the quakers really narrow, or were they any more narrow than other rigorously self-disciplined people: spartans, puritans, soldiers whose discipline enables them to achieve great results? all discipline is in one sense narrow. quaker quietude and retirement probably conserved mental energy instead of dissipating it. in an age of superstition and irrational religion, their minds were free and unhampered, and it was the dominant rational tone of their thought that enabled science to flourish in pennsylvania. chapter v. the troubles of penn and his sons the material prosperity of penn's holy experiment kept on proving itself over and over again every month of the year. but meantime great events were taking place in england. the period of fifteen years from penn's return to england in , until his return to pennsylvania at the close of the year of , was an eventful time in english history. it was long for a proprietor to be away from his province, and penn would have left a better reputation if he had passed those fifteen years in his colony, for in england during that period he took what most americans believe to have been the wrong side in the revolution of . penn was closely tied by both interest and friendship to charles ii and the stuart family. when charles ii died in and his brother, the duke of york, ascended the throne as james ii, penn was equally bound to him, because among other things the duke of york had obtained penn's release in from imprisonment for his religious opinions. he became still more bound when one of the first acts of the new king's reign was the release of a great number of people who had been imprisoned for their religion, among them thirteen hundred quakers. in addition to preaching to the quakers and protecting them, penn used his influence with james to secure the return of several political offenders from exile. his friendship with james raised him, indeed, to a position of no little importance at court. he was constantly consulted by the king, in whose political policy he gradually became more and more involved. james was a roman catholic and soon perfected his plans for making both church and state a papal appendage and securing for the crown the right to suspend acts of parliament. penn at first protested, but finally supported the king in the belief that he would in the end establish liberty. in his earlier years, however, penn had written pamphlets arguing strenuously against the same sort of despotic schemes that james was now undertaking; and this contradiction of his former position seriously injured his reputation even among his own people. part of the policy of james was to grant many favors to the quakers and to all other dissenting bodies in england, to release them from prison, to give them perfect freedom of worship, and to remove the test laws which prevented them from holding office. he thus hoped to unite them with the roman catholics in extirpating the church of england and establishing the papacy in its place. but the dissenters and nonconformists, though promised relief from sufferings severer than it is possible perhaps now to appreciate, refused almost to a man this tempting bait. even the quakers, who had suffered probably more than the others, rejected the offer with indignation and mourned the fatal mistake of their leader penn. all protestant england united in condemning him, accused him of being a secret papist and a jesuit in disguise, and believed him guilty of acts and intentions of which he was probably entirely innocent. this extreme feeling against penn is reflected in macaulay's "history of england," which strongly espouses the whig side; and in those vivid pages penn is represented, and very unfairly, as nothing less than a scoundrel. in spite of the attempts which james made to secure his position, the dissenters, the church of england, and penn's own quakers all joined heart and soul in the revolution of , which quickly dethroned the king, drove him from england, and placed the prince of orange on the throne as william iii. penn was now for many years in a very unfortunate, if not dangerous, position, and was continually suspected of plotting to restore james. for three years he was in hiding to escape arrest or worse, and he largely lost the good will and affection of the quakers. meantime, since his departure from pennsylvania in the summer of , that province went on increasing in population and in pioneer prosperity. but penn's quitrents and money from sales of land were far in arrears, and he had been and still was at great expense in starting the colony and in keeping up the plantation and country seat he had established on the delaware river above philadelphia. troublesome political disputes also arose. the council of eighteen members which he had authorized to act as governor in his absence neglected to send the new laws to him, slighted his letters, and published laws in their own name without mentioning him or the king. these irregularities were much exaggerated by enemies of the quakers in england. the council was not a popular body and was frequently at odds with the assembly. penn thought he could improve the government by appointing five commissioners to act as governor instead of the whole council. thomas lloyd, an excellent quaker who had been president of the council and who had done much to allay hard feeling, was fortunately the president of these commissioners. penn instructed them to act as if he himself were present, and at the next meeting of the assembly to annul all the laws and reenact only such as seemed proper. this course reminds us of the absolutism of his friend, king james, and, indeed, the date of these instructions ( ) is that when his intimacy with that bigoted monarch reached its highest point. penn's theory of his power was that the frame or constitution of government he had given the province was a contract; that, the council and assembly having violated some of its provisions, it was annulled and he was free, at least for a time, to govern as he pleased. fortunately his commissioners never attempted to carry out these instructions. there would have been a rebellion and some very unpleasant history if they had undertaken to enforce such oriental despotism in pennsylvania. the five commissioners with thomas lloyd at their head seem to have governed without seriously troublesome incidents for the short term of two years during which they were in power. but in thomas lloyd, becoming weary of directing them, asked to be relieved and is supposed to have advised penn to appoint a single executive instead of commissioners. penn accordingly appointed captain john blackwell, formerly an officer in cromwell's army. blackwell was not a quaker but a "grave, sober, wise man," as penn wrote to a friend, who would "bear down with a visible authority vice and faction." it was hoped that he would vigorously check all irregularities and bring penn better returns from quitrents and sales of land. but this new governor clashed almost at once with the assembly, tried to make them pass a militia law, suggested that the province's trade to foreign countries was illegal, persecuted and arrested members of the assembly, refused to submit new laws to it, and irritated the people by suggesting the invalidity of their favorite laws. the quaker assembly withstood and resisted him until they wore him out. after a year and one month in office he resigned at penn's request or, according to some accounts, at his own request. at any rate, he expressed himself as delighted to be relieved. as a puritan soldier he found himself no match for a peaceable quaker assembly. penn again made the council the executive with thomas lloyd as its president. but to the old causes of unrest a new one was now added. one george keith, a quaker, turned heretic and carried a number of pennsylvania quakers over to the church of england, thereby causing great scandal. the "lower counties" or territories, as the present state of delaware was then called, became mutinous, withdrew their representatives from the council, and made william markham their governor. this action together with the keithian controversy, the disturbances over blackwell, and the clamors of church of england people that penn was absent and neglecting his province, that the quakers would make no military defense, and that the province might at any time fall into the hands of france, came to the ears of king william, who was already ill disposed toward penn and distrusted him as a jacobite. it seemed hardly advisable to allow a jacobite to rule a british colony. accordingly a royal order suspended penn's governmental authority and placed the province under benjamin fletcher, governor of new york. he undertook to rule in dictatorial fashion, threatening to annex the province to new york, and as a consequence the assembly had plenty of trouble with him. but two years later, , the province was returned to penn, who now appointed as governor william markham, who had served as lieutenant-governor under fletcher. markham proceeded to be high-handed with the assembly and to administer the government in the imperialistic style of fletcher. but the assembly soon tamed him and in actually worried out of him a new constitution, which became known as markham's frame, proved much more popular than the one penn had given, and allowed the assembly much more power. markham had no conceivable right to assent to it and penn never agreed to it; but it was lived under for the next four years until penn returned to the province. while it naturally had opponents, it was largely regarded as entirely valid, and apparently with the understanding that it was to last until penn objected to it. penn had always been longing to return to pennsylvania and live there for the rest of his life; but the terrible times of the revolution of in england and its consequences had held him back. those difficulties had now passed. moreover, william iii had established free government and religious liberty. no more quakers were imprisoned and penn's old occupation of securing their protection and release was gone. in the autumn of he sailed for pennsylvania with his family and, arriving after a tedious three months' voyage, was well received. his political scrapes and mistakes in england seemed to be buried in the past. he was soon at his old enjoyable life again, traveling actively about the country, preaching to the quakers, and enlarging and beautifying his country seat, pennsbury, on the delaware, twenty miles above philadelphia. as roads and trails were few and bad he usually traveled to and from the town in a barge which was rowed by six oarsmen and which seemed to give him great pride and pleasure. two happy years passed away in this manner, during which penn seems to have settled, not however without difficulty, a great deal of business with his people, the assembly, and the indian tribes. unfortunately he got word from england of a bill in parliament for the revocation of colonial charters and for the establishment of royal governments in their place. he must needs return to england to fight it. shortly before he sailed the assembly presented him with a draft of a new constitution or frame of government which they had been discussing with him and preparing for some time. this he accepted, and it became the constitution under which pennsylvania lived and prospered for seventy-five years, until the revolution of . this new constitution was quite liberal. the most noticeable feature of it was the absence of any provision for the large elective council or upper house of legislation, which had been very unpopular. the assembly thus became the one legislative body. there was incidental reference in the document to a governor's council, although there was no formal clause creating it. penn and his heirs after his death always appointed a small council as an advisory body for the deputy governor. the assembly was to be chosen annually by the freemen and to be composed of four representatives from each county. it could originate bills, control its own adjournments without interference from the governor, choose its speaker and other officers, and judge of the qualifications and election of its own members. these were standard anglo-saxon popular parliamentary rights developed by long struggles in england and now established in pennsylvania never to be relaxed. finally a clause in the constitution permitted the lower counties, or territories, under certain conditions to establish home rule. in the territories took advantage of this concession and set up an assembly of their own. immediately after signing the constitution, in the last days of october, , penn sailed for england, expecting soon to return. but he became absorbed in affairs in england and never saw his colony again. this was unfortunate because pennsylvania soon became a torment to him instead of a great pleasure as it always seems to have been when he lived in it. he was a happy present proprietor, but not a very happy absentee one. the church of england people in pennsylvania entertained great hopes of this proposal to turn the proprietary colonies into royal provinces. under such a change, while the quakers might still have an influence in the legislature, the crown would probably give the executive offices to churchmen. they therefore labored hard to discredit the quakers. they kept harping on the absurdity of a set of fanatics attempting to govern a colony without a militia and without administering oaths of office or using oaths in judicial proceedings. how could any one's life be safe from foreign enemies without soldiers, and what safeguard was there for life, liberty, and property before judges, jurors, and witnesses, none of whom had been sworn? the churchmen kept up their complaints for along time, but without effect in england. penn was able to thwart all their plans. the bill to change the province into a royal one was never passed by parliament. penn returned to his court life, his preaching, and his theological writing, a rather curious combination and yet one by which he had always succeeded in protecting his people. he was a favorite with queen anne, who was now on the throne, and he led an expensive life which, with the cost of his deputy governor's salary in the colony, the slowness of his quitrent collections, and the dishonesty of the steward of his english estates, rapidly brought him into debt. to pay the government expense of a small colonial empire and at the same time to lead the life of a courtier and to travel as a preacher would have exhausted a stronger exchequer than penn's. the contests between the different deputy governors, whom penn or his descendants sent out, and the quaker legislature fill the annals of the province for the next seventy years, down to the revolution. these quarrels, when compared with the larger national political contests of history, seem petty enough and even tedious in detail. but, looked at in another aspect, they are important because they disclose how liberty, self-government, republicanism, and many of the constitutional principles by which americans now live were gradually developed as the colonies grew towards independence. the keynote to all these early contests was what may be called the fundamental principle of colonial constitutional law or, at any rate, of constitutional practice, namely, that the governor, whether royal or proprietary, must always be kept poor. his salary or income must never become a fixed or certain sum but must always be dependent on the annual favor and grants of a legislature controlled by the people. this belief was the foundation of american colonial liberty. the assemblies, not only in pennsylvania but in other colonies, would withhold the governor's salary until he consented to their favorite laws. if he vetoed their laws, he received no salary. one of the causes of the revolution in was the attempt of the mother country to make the governors and other colonial officials dependent for their salaries on the government in england instead of on the legislatures in the colonies. so the squabbles, as we of today are inclined to call them, went on in pennsylvania--provincial and petty enough, but often very large and important so far as the principle which they involved was concerned. the legislature of pennsylvania in those days was a small body composed of only about twenty-five or thirty members, most of them sturdy, thrifty quakers. they could meet very easily anywhere--at the governor's house, if in conference with him, or at the treasurer's office or at the loan office, if investigating accounts. beneath their broad brim hats and grave demeanor they were as anglo-saxon at heart as robin hood and his merry men, and in their ninety years of political control they built up as goodly a fabric of civil liberty as can be found in any community in the world. the dignified, confident message from a deputy governor, full of lofty admonitions of their duty to the crown, the province, and the proprietor, is often met by a sarcastic, stinging reply of the assembly. david lloyd, the welsh leader of the anti-proprietary party, and joseph wilcox, another leader, became very skillful in drafting these profoundly respectful but deeply cutting replies. in after years, benjamin franklin attained even greater skill. in fact, it is not unlikely that he developed a large measure of his world famous aptness in the use of language in the process of drafting these replies. the composing of these official communications was important work, for a reply had to be telling and effective not only with the governor but with the people who learned of its contents at the coffeehouse and spread the report of it among all classes. there was not a little good-fellowship in their contests; and franklin, for instance, tells us how he used to abuse a certain deputy governor all day in the assembly and then dine with him in jovial intercourse in the evening. the assembly had a very convenient way of accomplishing its purposes in legislation in spite of the opposition of the british government. laws when passed and approved by the deputy governor had to be sent to england for approval by the crown within five years. but meanwhile the people would live under the law for five years, and, if at the end of that time it was disallowed, the assembly would reenact the measure and live under it again for another period. the ten years after penn's return to england in were full of trouble for him. money returns from the province were slow, partly because england was involved in war and trade depressed, and partly because the assembly, exasperated by the deputy governors he appointed, often refused to vote the deputy a salary and left penn to bear all the expense of government. he was being rapidly overwhelmed with debt. one of his sons was turning out badly. the manager of his estates in england and ireland, philip ford, was enriching himself by the trust, charging compound interest at eight per cent every six months, and finally claiming that penn owed him , pounds. ford had rendered accounts from time to time, but penn in his careless way had tossed them aside without examination. when ford pressed for payment, penn, still without making any investigation, foolishly gave ford a deed in fee simple of pennsylvania as security. afterwards he accepted from ford a lease of the province, which was another piece of folly, for the lease could, of course, be used as evidence to show that the deed was an absolute conveyance and not intended as a mortgage. this unfortunate business ford kept quiet during his lifetime. but on his death his widow and son made everything public, professed to be the proprietors of pennsylvania, and sued penn for pounds rent in arrears. they obtained a judgment for the amount claimed and, as penn could not pay, they had him arrested and imprisoned for debt. for nine months he was locked up in the debtors' prison, the "old bailey," and there he might have remained indefinitely if some of his friends had not raised enough money to compromise with the fords. isaac norris, a prominent quaker from pennsylvania, happened at that time to be in england and exerted himself to set penn free and save the province from further disgrace. after this there was a reaction in penn's favor. he selected a better deputy governor for pennsylvania. he wrote a long and touching letter to the people, reminding them how they had flourished and grown rich and free under his liberal laws, while he had been sinking in poverty. after that conditions improved in the affairs of penn. the colony was better governed, and the anti-proprietary party almost disappeared. the last six or eight years of penn's life were free from trouble. he had ceased his active work at court, for everything that could be accomplished for the quakers in the way of protection and favorable laws had now been done. penn spent his last years in trying to sell the government of his province to the crown for a sum that would enable him to pay his debts and to restore his family to prosperity. but he was too particular in stipulating that the great principles of civil and religious liberty on which the colony had been established should not be infringed. he had seen how much evil had resulted to the rights of the people when the proprietors of the jerseys parted with their right to govern. in consequence he required so many safeguards that the sale of pennsylvania was delayed and delayed until its founder was stricken with paralysis. penn lingered for some years, but his intellect was now too much clouded to make a valid sale. the event, however, was fortunate for pennsylvania, which would probably otherwise have lost many valuable rights and privileges by becoming a crown colony. on july , , penn died at the age of seventy-four. his widow became proprietor of the province, probably the only woman who ever became feudal proprietor of such an immense domain. she appointed excellent deputy governors and ruled with success for eight years until her death in . in her time the ocean was free from enemy cruisers, and the trade of the colony grew so rapidly that the increasing sales of land and quitrents soon enabled her to pay off the mortgage on the province and all the rest of her husband's debts. it was sad that penn did not live to see that day, which he had so hoped for in his last years, when, with ocean commerce free from depredations, the increasing money returns from his province would obviate all necessity of selling the government to the crown. with all debts paid and prosperity increasing, penn's sons became very rich men. death had reduced the children to three--john, thomas, and richard. of these, thomas became what may be called the managing proprietor, and the others were seldom heard of. thomas lived in the colony nine years-- to --studying its affairs and sitting as a member of the council. for over forty years he was looked upon as the proprietor. in fact, he directed the great province for almost as long a time as his father had managed it. but he was so totally unlike his father that it is difficult to find the slightest resemblance in feature or in mind. he was not in the least disposed to proclaim or argue about religion. like the rest of his family, he left the quakers and joined the church of england, a natural evolution in the case of many quakers. he was a prosperous, accomplished, sensible, cool-headed gentleman, by no means without ability, but without any inclination for setting the world on fire. he was a careful, economical man of business, which is more than can be said of his distinguished father. he saw no visions and cared nothing for grand speculations. thomas penn, however, had his troubles and disputes with the assembly. they thought him narrow and close. perhaps he was. that was the opinion of him held by franklin, who led the anti-proprietary party. but at the same time some consideration must be given to the position in which penn found himself. he had on his hands an empire, rich, fertile, and inhabited by liberty-loving anglo-saxons and by passive germans. he had to collect from their land the purchase money and quitrents rapidly rolling up in value with the increase of population into millions of pounds sterling, for which he was responsible to his relatives. at the same time he had to influence the politics of the province, approve or reject laws in such a way that his family interest would be protected from attack or attempted confiscation, keep the british crown satisfied, and see that the liberties of the colonists were not impaired and that the people were kept contented. it was not an easy task even for a clear-headed man like thomas penn. he had to arrange for treaties with the indians and for the purchase of their lands in accordance with the humane ideas of his father and in the face of the scotch-irish thirst for indian blood and the french desire to turn the savages loose upon the anglo-saxon settlements. he had to fight through the boundary disputes with connecticut, maryland, and virginia, which threatened to reduce his empire to a mere strip of land containing neither philadelphia nor pittsburgh. the controversy with connecticut lasted throughout the colonial period and was not definitely settled till the close of the revolution. the charter of connecticut granted by the british crown extended the colony westward to the pacific ocean and cut off the northern half of the tract afterwards granted to william penn. in pursuance of what they believed to be their rights, the connecticut people settled in the beautiful valley of wyoming. they were thereupon ejected by force by the proprietors of pennsylvania; but they returned, only to be ejected again and again in a petty warfare carried on for many years. in the summer of , the people of the valley were massacred by the iroquois indians. the history of this connecticut boundary dispute fills volumes. so does the boundary dispute with maryland, which also lasted throughout the colonial period; the dispute with virginia over the site of pittsburgh is not so voluminous. all these controversies thomas penn conducted with eminent skill, inexhaustible patience, and complete success. for this achievement the state owes him a debt of gratitude. thomas penn was in the extraordinary position of having to govern as a feudal lord what was virtually a modern community. he was exercising feudal powers three hundred years after all the reasons for the feudal system had ceased to exist; and he was exercising those powers and acquiring by them vast wealth from a people in a new and wild country whose convictions, both civil and religious, were entirely opposed to anything like the feudal system. it must certainly be put down as something to his credit that he succeeded so well as to retain control both of the political government and his family's increasing wealth down to the time of the revolution and that he gave on the whole so little offense to a high-strung people that in the revolution they allowed his family to retain a large part of their land and paid them liberally for what was confiscated. the wealth which came to the three brothers they spent after the manner of the time in country life. john and richard do not appear to have had remarkable country seats. but thomas purchased in the fine english estate of stoke park, which had belonged to sir christopher hatton of queen elizabeth's time, to lord coke, and later to the cobham family. thomas's son john, grandson of the founder, greatly enlarged and beautified the place and far down into the nineteenth century it was one of the notable country seats of england. this john penn also built another country place called pennsylvania castle, equally picturesque and interesting, on the isle of portland, of which he was governor. chapter vi. the french and indian war there was no great change in political conditions in pennsylvania until about the year . the french in canada had been gradually developing their plans of spreading down the ohio and mississippi valleys behind the english colonies. they were at the same time securing alliances with the indians and inciting them to hostilities against the english. but so rapidly were the settlers advancing that often the land could not be purchased fast enough to prevent irritation and ill feeling. the scotch-irish and germans, it has already been noted, settled on lands without the formality of purchase from the indians. the government, when the indians complained, sometimes ejected the settlers but more often hastened to purchase from the indians the land which had been occupied. "the importance of the british plantations in america," published in , describes the indians as peaceful and contented in pennsylvania but irritated and unsettled in those other colonies where they had usually been ill-treated and defrauded. this, with other evidence, goes to show that up to that time penn's policy of fairness and good treatment still prevailed. but those conditions soon changed, as the famous walking purchase of clearly indicated. the walking purchase had provided for the sale of some lands along the delaware below the lehigh on a line starting at wrightstown, a few miles back from the delaware not far above trenton, and running northwest, parallel with the river, as far as a man could walk in a day and a half. the indians understood that this tract would extend northward only to the lehigh, which was the ordinary journey of a day and a half. the proprietors, however, surveyed the line beforehand, marked the trees, engaged the fastest walkers and, with horses to carry provisions, started their men at sunrise. by running a large part of the way, at the end of a day and a half these men had reached a point thirty miles beyond the lehigh. the delaware indians regarded this measurement as a pure fraud and refused to abandon the minisink region north of the lehigh. the proprietors then called in the assistance of the six nations of new york, who ordered the delawares off the minisink lands. though they obeyed, the delawares became the relentless enemies of the white man and in the coming years revenged themselves by massacres and murder. they also broke the control which the six nations had over them, became an independent nation, and in the french wars revenged themselves on the six nations as well as on the white men. the congress which convened at albany in was an attempt on the part of the british government to settle all indian affairs in a general agreement and to prevent separate treaties by the different colonies; but the pennsylvania delegates, by various devices of compass courses which the indians did not understand and by failing to notify and secure the consent of certain tribes, obtained a grant of pretty much the whole of pennsylvania west of the susquehanna. the indians considered this procedure to be another gross fraud. it is to be noticed that in their dealings with penn they had always been satisfied, and that he had always been careful that they should be duly consulted and if necessary be paid twice over for the land. but his sons were more economical, and as a result of the shrewd practices of the albany purchase the pennsylvania indians almost immediately went over in a body to the french and were soon scalping men, women, and children among the pennsylvania colonists. it is a striking fact, however, that in all the after years of war and rapine and for generations afterwards the indians retained the most distinct and positive tradition of penn's good faith and of the honesty of all quakers. so persistent, indeed, was this tradition among the tribes of the west that more than a century later president grant proposed to put the whole charge of the nation's indian affairs in the hands of the quakers. the first efforts to avert the catastrophe threatened by the alliance of the red man with the french were made by the provincial assemblies, which voted presents of money or goods to the indians to offset similar presents from the french. the result was, of course, the utter demoralization of the savages. bribed by both sides, the indians used all their native cunning to encourage the bribers to bid against each other. so far as pennsylvania was concerned, feeling themselves cheated in the first instance and now bribed with gifts, they developed a contempt for the people who could stoop to such practices. as a result this contempt manifested itself in deeds hitherto unknown in the province. one tribe on a visit to philadelphia killed cattle and robbed orchards as they passed. the delegates of another tribe, having visited philadelphia and received pounds as a present, returned to the frontier and on their way back for another present destroyed the property of the interpreter and indian agent, conrad weiser. they felt that they could do as they pleased. to make matters worse, the assembly paid for all the damage done; and having started on this foolish business, they found that the list of tribes demanding presents rapidly increased. the shawanoes and the six nations, as well as the delawares, were now swarming to this new and convenient source of wealth. whether the proprietors or the assembly should meet this increasing expense or divide it between them, became a subject of increasing controversy. it was in these discussions that thomas penn, in trying to keep his family's share of the expense as small as possible, first got the reputation for closeness which followed him for the rest of his life and which started a party in the province desirous of having parliament abolish the proprietorship and put the province under a governor appointed by the crown. the war with the french of canada and their indian allies is of interest here only in so far as it affected the government of pennsylvania. from this point of view it involved a series of contests between the proprietors and the crown on the one side and the assembly on the other. the proprietors and the crown took advantage of every military necessity to force the assembly into a surrender of popular rights. but the assembly resisted, maintaining that they had the same right as the british commons of having their money bills received or rejected by the governor without amendment. whatever they should give must be given on their own terms or not at all; and they would not yield this point to any necessities of the war. when governor morris asked the assembly for a war contribution in , they promptly voted , pounds. this was the same amount that virginia, the most active of the colonies in the war, was giving. other colonies gave much less; new york, only pounds, and maryland pounds. morris, however, would not assent to the assembly's bill unless it contained a clause suspending its effect until the king's pleasure was known. this was an attempt to establish a precedent for giving up the assembly's charter right of passing laws which need not be submitted to the king for five years and which in the meantime were valid. the members of the assembly very naturally refused to be forced by the necessities of the war into surrendering one of the most important privileges the province possessed. it was, they said, as much their duty to resist this invasion of their rights as to resist the french. governor morris, besides demanding that the supply of , pounds should not go into force until the king's pleasure was known, insisted that the paper money representing it should be redeemable in five years. this period the assembly considered too short; the usual time was ten years. five years would ruin too many people by foreclosures. moreover, the governor was attempting to dictate the way in which the people should raise a money supply. he and the king had a right to ask for aid in war; but it was the right of the colony to use its own methods of furnishing this assistance. the governor also refused to let the assembly see the instructions from the proprietors under which he was acting. this was another attack upon their liberties and involved nothing less than an attempt to change their charter rights by secret instructions to a deputy governor which he must obey at his peril. several bills had recently been introduced in the english parliament for the purpose of making royal instructions to governors binding on all the colonial assemblies without regard to their charters. this innovation, the colonists felt, would wreck all their liberties and turn colonial government into a mere despotism. the assemblies of all the colonies have been a good deal abused for delay in supporting the war and meanness in withholding money. but in many instances the delay and lack of money were occasioned by the grasping schemes of governors who saw a chance to gain new privileges for the crown or a proprietor or to weaken popular government by crippling the powers of the legislatures. the usual statement that the pennsylvania assembly was slow in assisting the war because it was composed of quakers is not supported by the facts. the pennsylvania assembly was not behind the rest. on this particular occasion, when their large money supply bill could not be passed without sacrificing their constitutional rights, they raised money for the war by appointing a committee which was authorized to borrow pounds on the credit of the assembly. other contests arose over the claim of the proprietors that their estates in the province were exempt from taxation for the war or any purpose. one bill taxing the proprietary estates along with others was met by thomas penn offering to subscribe pounds, as a free gift to the colony's war measures. the assembly accepted this, and passed the bill without taxing the proprietary estates. it turned out, however, to be a shrewd business move on the part of thomas penn; for the pounds was to be collected out of the quitrents that were in arrears, and the payment of it was in consequence long delayed. the thrifty thomas had thus saddled his bad debts on the province and gained a reputation for generosity at the same time. pennsylvania, though governed by quakers assisted by noncombatant germans, had a better protected frontier than maryland or virginia; no colony, indeed, was at that time better protected. the quaker assembly did more than take care of the frontier during the war; it preserved at the same time constitutional rights in defense of which twenty-five years afterwards the whole continent fought the revolution. the quaker assembly even passed two militia bills, one of which became law, and sent rather more than the province's full share of troops to protect the frontiers of new york and new england and to carry the invasion into canada. general braddock warmly praised the assistance which pennsylvania gave him because, he said, she had done more for him than any of the other colonies. virginia and maryland promised everything and performed nothing, while pennsylvania promised nothing and performed everything. commodore spy thanked the assembly for the large number of sailors sent his fleet at the expense of the province. general shirley, in charge of the new england and new york campaigns, thanked the assembly for the numerous recruits; and it was the common opinion at the time that pennsylvania had sent more troops to the war than any other colony. in the first four years of the war the province spent for military purposes , pounds sterling, which was a very considerable sum at that time for a community of less than , people. quakers, though they hate war, will accept it when there is no escape. the old story of the quaker who tossed a pirate overboard, saying, "friend, thee has no business here," gives their point of view better than pages of explanation. quaker opinion has not always been entirely uniform. in revolutionary times in philadelphia there was a division of the quakers known as the fighting quakers, and their meeting house is still pointed out at the corner of fourth street and arch. they even produced able military leaders: colonel john dickinson, general greene, and general mifflin in the continental army, and, in the war of , general jacob brown, who reorganized the army and restored its failing fortunes after many officers had been tried and found wanting. there was always among the quakers a rationalistic party and a party of mysticism. the rationalistic party prevailed in pennsylvania all through the colonial period. in the midst of the worst horrors of the french and indian wars, however, the conscientious objectors roused themselves and began preaching and exhorting what has been called the mystical side of the faith. many extreme quaker members of the assembly resigned their seats in consequence. after the revolution the spiritual party began gaining ground, partly perhaps because then the responsibilities of government and care of the great political and religious experiment in pennsylvania were removed. the spiritual party increased so rapidly in power that in a split occurred which involved not a little bitterness, ill feeling, and litigation over property. this division into two opposing camps, known as the hicksites and the orthodox, continues and is likely to remain. quaker government in pennsylvania was put to still severer tests by the difficulties and disasters that followed braddock's defeat. that unfortunate general had something over two thousand men and was hampered with a train of artillery and a splendid equipment of arms, tools, and supplies, as if he were to march over the smooth highways of europe. when he came to drag all these munitions through the depths of the pennsylvania forests and up and down the mountains, he found that he made only about three miles a day and that his horses had nothing to eat but the leaves of the trees. washington, who was of the party, finally persuaded him to abandon his artillery and press forward with about fifteen hundred picked men. these troops, when a few miles from fort duquesne (now pittsburgh), met about six hundred indians and three hundred french coming from the fort. the english maintained a close formation where they were, but the french and indians immediately spread out on their flanks, lying behind trees and logs which provided rests for their rifles and security for their bodies. this strategy decided the day. the english were shot down like cattle in a pen, and out of about fifteen hundred only four hundred and fifty escaped. the french and indian loss was not much over fifty. this defeat of braddock's force has become one of the most famous reverses in history; and it was made worse by the conduct of dunbar who had been left in command of the artillery, baggage, and men in the rear. he could have remained where he was as some sort of protection to the frontier. but he took fright, burned his wagons, emptied his barrels of powder into the streams, destroyed his provisions, and fled back to fort cumberland in maryland. here the governors of pennsylvania and virginia as well as the pennsylvania assembly urged him to stay. but, determined to make the british rout complete, he soon retreated to the peace and quiet of philadelphia, and nothing would induce him to enter again the terrible forests of pennsylvania. the natural result of the blunder soon followed. the french, finding the whole frontier of pennsylvania, maryland, and virginia abandoned, organized the indians under french officers and swept the whole region with a devastation of massacre, scalping, and burning that has never been equaled. hurons, potawatomies, ojibways, ottawas, mingoes, renegades from the six nations, together with the old treaty friends of penn, the delawares and shawanoes, began swarming eastward and soon had killed more people than had been lost at braddock's defeat. the onslaught reached its height in september and october. by that time all the outlying frontier settlers and their families had been killed or sent flying eastward to seek refuge in the settlements. the indians even followed them to the settlements, reached the susquehanna, and crossed it. they massacred the people of the village of gnadenhutten, near bethlehem on the lehigh, and established near by a headquarters for prisoners and plunder. families were scalped within fifty miles of philadelphia, and in one instance the bodies of a murdered family were brought into the town and exhibited in the streets to show the inhabitants how near the danger was approaching. nothing could be done to stem the savage tide. virginia was suffering in the same way: the settlers on her border were slaughtered or were driven back in herds upon the more settled districts, and washington, with a nominal strength of fifteen hundred who would not obey orders, was forced to stand a helpless spectator of the general flight and misery. there was no adequate force or army anywhere within reach. the british had been put to flight and had gone to the defense of new england and new york. neither pennsylvania nor virginia had a militia that could withstand the french and their red allies. they could only wait till the panic had subsided and then see what could be done. one thing was accomplished, however, when the pennsylvania assembly passed a quaker militia law which is one of the most curious legal documents of its kind in history. it was most aptly worded, drafted by the master hand of franklin. it recited the fact that the province had always been ruled by quakers who were opposed to war, but that now it had become necessary to allow men to become soldiers and to give them every facility for the profession of arms, because the assembly though containing a quaker majority nevertheless represented all the people of the province. to prevent those who believed in war from taking part in it would be as much a violation of liberty of conscience as to force enlistments among those who had conscientious scruples against it. nor would the quaker majority have any right to compel others to bear arms and at the same time exempt themselves. therefore a voluntary militia system was established under which a fighting quaker, a presbyterian, an episcopalian, or anybody, could enlist and have all the military glory he could win. it was altogether a volunteer system. two years afterwards, as the necessities of war increased, the quaker assembly passed a rather stringent compulsory militia bill; but the governor vetoed it, and the first law with its volunteer system remained in force. franklin busied himself to encourage enlistments under it and was very successful. though a philosopher and a man of science, almost as much opposed to war as the quakers and not even owning a shotgun, he was elected commander and led a force of about five hundred men to protect the lehigh valley. his common sense seems to have supplied his lack of military training. he did no worse than some professional soldiers who might be named. the valley was supposed to be in great danger since its village of gnadenhutten had been burned and its people massacred. the moravians, like the quakers, had suddenly found that they were not as much opposed to war as they had supposed. they had obtained arms and ammunition from new york and had built stockades, and franklin was glad to find them so well prepared when he arrived. he built small forts in different parts of the valley, acted entirely on the defensive, and no doubt checked the raids of the indians at that point. they seem to have been watching him from the hilltops all the time, and any rashness on his part would probably have brought disaster upon him. after his force had been withdrawn, the indians again attacked and burned gnadenhutten. the chain of forts, at first seventeen, afterwards increased to fifty, built by the assembly on the pennsylvania frontier was a good plan so far as it went, but it was merely defensive and by no means completely defensive, since indian raiding parties could pass between the forts. they served chiefly as refuges for neighboring settlers. the colonial troops or militia, after manning the fifty forts and sending their quota to the operations against canada by way of new england and new york, were not numerous enough to attack the indians. they could only act on the defensive as franklin's command had done. as for the rangers, as the small bands of frontiersmen acting without any authority of either governor or legislature were called, they were very efficient as individuals but they accomplished very little because they acted at widely isolated spots. what was needed was a well organized force which could pursue the indians on their own ground so far westward that the settlers on the frontier would be safe. the only troops which could do this were the british regulars with the assistance of the colonial militia. two energetic efforts to end the war without aid from abroad were made, however, one by the pacific quakers and the other by the combatant portion of the people. both of these were successful so far as they went, but had little effect on the general situation. in the summer of , the quakers made a very earnest effort to persuade the two principal pennsylvania tribes, the delawares and shawanoes, to withdraw from the french alliance and return to their old friends. these two tribes possessed a knowledge of the country which enabled them greatly to assist the french designs on pennsylvania. chiefs of these tribes were brought under safe conducts to philadelphia, where they were entertained as equals in the quaker homes. such progress, indeed, was made that by the end of july a treaty of peace was concluded at easton eliminating those two tribes from the war. this has sometimes been sneered at as mere quaker pacifism; but it was certainly successful in lessening the numbers and effectiveness of the enemy. the other undertaking was a military one, the famous attack upon kittanning conducted by colonel john armstrong, an ulsterman from carlisle, pennsylvania, and the first really aggressive officer the province had produced. the indians had two headquarters for their raids into the province, one at logstown on the ohio a few miles below fort duquesne, and the other at kittanning or, as the french called it, attique, about forty miles northeast. at these two points they assembled their forces, received ammunition and supplies from the french, and organized their expeditions. as kittanning was the nearer, armstrong in a masterly maneuver took three hundred men through the mountains without being discovered and, by falling upon the village early in the morning, he effected a complete surprise. the town was set on fire, the indians were put to flight, and large quantities of their ammunition were destroyed. but armstrong could not follow up his success. threatened by overwhelming numbers, he hastened to withdraw. the effect which the fighting and the quaker treaty had on the frontier was good. incursions of the savages were, at least for the present, checked. but the root of the evil had not yet been reached, and the indians remained massed along the ohio, ready to break in upon the people again at the first opportunity. the following year, , was the most depressing period of the war. the proprietors of pennsylvania took the opportunity to exempt their own estate from taxation and throw the burden of furnishing money for the war upon the colonists. under pressure of the increasing success of the french and indians and because the dreadful massacres were coming nearer and nearer to philadelphia, the quaker assembly yielded, voted the largest sum they had ever voted to the war, and exempted the proprietary estates. the colony was soon boiling with excitement. the churchmen, as friends of the proprietors, were delighted to have the estates exempted, thought it a good opportunity to have the quaker assembly abolished, and sent petitions and letters and proofs of alleged quaker incompetence to the british government. the quakers and a large majority of the colonists, on the other hand, instead of consenting to their own destruction, struck at the root of the churchmen's power by proposing to abolish the proprietors. and in a letter to isaac norris, benjamin franklin, who had been sent to england to present the grievances of the colonists, even suggested that "tumults and insurrections that might prove the proprietary government unable to preserve order, or show the people to be ungovernable, would do the business immediately." turmoil and party strife rose to the most exciting heights, and the details of it might, under certain circumstances, be interesting to describe. but the next year, , the british government, by sending a powerful force of regulars to pennsylvania, at last adopted the only method for ending the war. confidence was at once restored. the pennsylvania assembly now voted the sufficient and, indeed, immense sum of one hundred thousand pounds, and offered a bounty of five pounds to every recruit. it was no longer a war of defense but now a war of aggression and conquest. fort duquesne on the ohio was taken; and the next autumn fort pitt was built on its ruins. then canada fell, and the french empire in america came to an end. canada and the great west passed into the possession of the anglo-saxon race. chapter vii. the decline of quaker government when the treaty of peace was signed in , extinguishing france's title to canada and turning over canada and the mississippi valley to the english, the colonists were prepared to enjoy all the blessings of peace. but the treaty of peace had been made with france, not with the red man. a remarkable genius, pontiac, appeared among the indians, one of the few characters, like tecumseh and osceola, who are often cited as proof of latent powers almost equal to the strongest qualities of the white race. within a few months he had united all the tribes of the west in a discipline and control which, if it had been brought to the assistance of the french six years earlier, might have conquered the colonies to the atlantic seaboard before the british regulars could have come to their assistance. the tribes swept westward into pennsylvania, burning, murdering, and leveling every habitation to the ground with a thoroughness beyond anything attempted under the french alliance. the settlers and farmers fled eastward to the towns to live in cellars, camps, and sheds as best they could. * fortunately the colonies retained a large part of the military organization, both men and officers, of the french war, and were soon able to handle the situation. detroit and niagara were relieved by water; and an expedition commanded by colonel bouquet, who had distinguished himself under general forties, saved fort pitt. * for an account of pontiac's conspiracy, see "the old northwest" by frederic a. ogg (in "the chronicles of america"). at this time the scotch-irish frontiersmen suddenly became prominent. they had been organizing for their own protection and were meeting with not a little success. they refused to join the expedition of regular troops marching westward against pontiac's warriors, because they wanted to protect their own homes and because they believed the regulars to be marching to sure destruction. many of the regular troops were invalided from the west indies, and the scotch-irish never expected to see any of them again. they believed that the salvation of pennsylvania, or at least of their part of the province, depended entirely upon themselves. their increasing numbers and rugged independence were forming them also into an organized political party with decided tendencies, as it afterwards appeared, towards forming a separate state. the extreme narrowness of the scotch-irish, however, misled them. the only real safety for the province lay in regularly constituted and strong expeditions, like that of bouquet, which would drive the main body of the savages far westward. but the scotch-irish could not see this; and with that intensity of passion which marked all their actions they turned their energy and vengeance upon the quakers and semicivilized indians in the eastern end of the colony. their preachers, who were their principal leaders and organizers, encouraged them in denouncing quaker doctrine as a wicked heresy from which only evil could result. the quakers had offended god from the beginning by making treaties of kindness with the heathen savages instead of exterminating them as the scripture commanded: "and when the lord thy god shall deliver them before thee, thou shalt smite them and utterly destroy them; thou shalt make no covenant with them, nor show mercy unto them." the scripture had not been obeyed; the heathen had not been destroyed; on the contrary, a systematic policy of covenants, treaties, and kindness had been persisted in for two generations, and as a consequence, the ulstermen said, the frontiers were now deluged in blood. they were particularly resentful against the small settlement of indians near bethlehem, who had been converted to christianity by the moravians, and another little village of half civilized basketmaking indians at conestoga near lancaster. the scotch-irish had worked themselves up into a strange belief that these small remnants were sending information, arms, and ammunition to the western tribes; and they seemed to think that it was more important to exterminate these little communities than to go with such expeditions as bouquet's to the west. they asked the governor to remove these civilized indians and assured him that their removal would secure the safety of the frontier. when the governor, not being able to find anything against the indians, declined to remove them, the scotch-irish determined to attend to the matter in their own fashion. bouquet's victory at bushy run, much to the surprise of the scotch-irish, stopped indian raids of any seriousness until the following spring. but in the autumn there were a few depredations, which led the frontiersmen to believe that the whole invasion would begin again. a party of them, therefore, started to attack the moravian indians near bethlehem; but before they could accomplish their object, the governor brought most of the indians down to philadelphia for protection. even there they were narrowly saved from the mob, for the hostility against them was spreading throughout the province. soon afterwards another party of scotch-irish, ever since known as the "paxton boys," went at break of day to the village of the conestoga indians and found only six of them at home--three men, two women, and a boy. these they instantly shot down, mutilated their bodies, and burned their cabins. as the murderers returned, they related to a man on the road what they had done, and when he protested against the cruelty of the deed, they asked, "don't you believe in god and the bible?" the remaining fourteen inhabitants of the village, who were away selling brooms, were collected by the sheriff and put in the jail at lancaster for protection. the paxtons heard of it and in a few days stormed the jail, broke down the doors, and either shot the poor indians or cut them to pieces with hatchets. this was probably the first instance of lynch law in america. it raised a storm of indignation and controversy; and a pamphlet war persisted for several years. the whole province was immediately divided into two parties. on one side were the quakers, most of the germans, and conservatives of every sort, and on the other, inclined to sympathize with the scotch-irish, were the eastern presbyterians, some of the churchmen, and various miscellaneous people whose vindictiveness towards all indians had been aroused by the war. the quakers and conservatives, who seem to have been the more numerous, assailed the scotch-irish in no measured language as a gang of ruffians without respect for law or order who, though always crying for protection, had refused to march with bouquet to save fort pitt or to furnish him the slightest assistance. instead of going westward where the danger was and something might be accomplished, they had turned eastward among the settlements and murdered a few poor defenseless people, mostly women and children. franklin, who had now returned from england, wrote one of his best pamphlets against the paxtons, the valorous, heroic paxtons, as he called them, prating of god and the bible, fifty-seven of whom, armed with rifles, knives, and hatchets, had actually succeeded in killing three old men, two women, and a boy. this pamphlet became known as the "narrative" from the first word of its title, and it had an immense circulation. like everything franklin wrote, it is interesting reading to this day. one of the first effects of this controversy was to drive the excitable scotch-irish into a flame of insurrection not unlike the whisky rebellion, which started among them some years after the revolution. they held tumultuous meetings denouncing the quakers and the whole proprietary government in philadelphia, and they organized an expedition which included some delegates to suggest reforms. for the most part, however, it was a well equipped little army variously estimated at from five hundred to fifteen hundred on foot and on horseback, which marched towards philadelphia with no uncertain purpose. they openly declared that they intended to capture the town, seize the moravian indians protected there, and put them to death. they fully expected to be supported by most of the people and to have everything their own way. as they passed along the roads, they amused themselves in their rough fashion by shooting chickens and pigs, frightening people by thrusting their rifles into windows, and occasionally throwing some one down and pretending to scalp him. in the city there was great excitement and alarm. even the classes who sympathized with the scotch-irish did not altogether relish having their property burned or destroyed. great preparations were made to meet the expedition. british regulars were summoned. eight companies of militia and a battery of artillery were hastily formed. franklin became a military man once more and superintended the preparations. on all sides the quakers were enlisting; they had become accustomed to war; and this legitimate chance to shoot a scotch-irish presbyterian was too much for the strongest scruples of their religion. it was a long time, however, before they heard the end of this zeal; and in the pamphlet war which followed they were accused of clamorously rushing to arms and demanding to be led against the enemy. it is amusing now to read about it in the old records. but it was serious enough at the time. when the scotch-irish army reached the schuylkill river and found the fords leading to the city guarded, they were not quite so enthusiastic about killing quakers and indians. they went up the river some fifteen miles, crossed by an unopposed ford, and halted in germantown ten miles north of philadelphia. that was as far as they thought it safe to venture. several days passed, during which the city people continued their preparations and expected every night to be attacked. there were, indeed, several false alarms. whenever the alarm was sounded at night, every one placed candles in his windows to light up the streets. one night when it rained the soldiers were allowed to shelter themselves in a quaker meeting house, which for some hours bristled with bayonets and swords, an incident of which the presbyterian pamphleteers afterwards made much use for satire. on another day all the cannon were fired to let the enemy know what was in store for him. finally commissioners with the clever, genial franklin at their head, went out to germantown to negotiate, and soon had the whole mighty difference composed. the scotch-irish stated their grievances. the moravian indians ought not to be protected by the government, and all such indians should be removed from the colony; the men who killed the conestoga indians should be tried where the supposed offense was committed and not in philadelphia; the five frontier counties had only ten representatives in the assembly while the three others had twenty-six--this should be remedied; men wounded in border war should be cared for at public expense; no trade should be carried on with hostile indians until they restored prisoners; and there should be a bounty on scalps. while these negotiations were proceeding, some of the scotch-irish amused themselves by practicing with their rifles at the weather vane, a figure of a cock, on the steeple of the old lutheran church in germantown--an unimportant incident, it is true, but one revealing the conditions and character of the time as much as graver matters do. the old weather vane with the bullet marks upon it is still preserved. about thirty of these same riflemen were invited to philadelphia and were allowed to wander about and see the sights of the town. the rest returned to the frontier. as for their list of grievances, not one of them was granted except, strange and sad to relate, the one which asked for a scalp bounty. the governor, after the manner of other colonies, it must be admitted, issued the long desired scalp proclamation, which after offering rewards for prisoners and scalps, closed by saying, "and for the scalp of a female indian fifty pieces of eight." william penn's indian policy had been admired for its justice and humanity by all the philosophers and statesmen of the world, and now his grandson, governor of the province, in the last days of the family's control, was offering bounties for women's scalps. franklin while in england had succeeded in having the proprietary lands taxed equally with the lands of the colonists. but the proprietors attempted to construe this provision so that their best lands were taxed at the rate paid by the people on their worst. this obvious quibble of course raised such a storm of opposition that the quakers, joined by classes which had never before supported them, and now forming a large majority, determined to appeal to the government in england to abolish the proprietorship and put the colony under the rule of the king. in the proposal to make pennsylvania a crown colony there was no intention of confiscating the possessions of the proprietors. it was merely the proprietary political power, their right to appoint the governor, that was to be abolished. this right was to be absorbed by the crown with payment for its value to the proprietors; but in all other respects the charter and the rights and liberties of the people were to remain unimpaired. just there lay the danger. an act of parliament would be required to make the change and, having once started on such a change, parliament, or the party in power therein, might decide to make other changes, and in the end there might remain very little of the original rights and liberties of the colonists under their charter. it was by no means a wise move. but intense feeling on the subject was aroused. passionate feeling seemed to have been running very high among the steady quakers. in this new outburst the quakers had the scotch-irish on their side, and a part of the churchmen. the germans were divided, but the majority enthusiastic for the change was very large. there was a new alignment of parties. the eastern presbyterians, usually more or less in sympathy with the scotch-irish, broke away from them on this occasion. these presbyterians opposed the change to a royal governor because they believed that it would be followed by the establishment by law of the church of england, with bishops and all the other ancient evils. although some of the churchmen joined the quaker side, most of them and the most influential of them were opposed to the change and did good work in opposing it. they were well content with their position under the proprietors and saw nothing to be gained under a royal governor. there were also not a few people who, in the increase of the wealth of the province, had acquired aristocratic tastes and were attached to the pleasant social conditions that had grown up round the proprietary governors and their followers; and there were also those whose salaries, incomes, or opportunities for wealth were more or less dependent on the proprietors retaining the executive offices and the appointments and patronage. one of the most striking instances of a change of sides was the case of a philadelphia quaker, john dickinson, a lawyer of large practice, a man of wealth and position, and of not a little colonial magnificence when he drove in his coach and four. it was he who later wrote the famous "farmer's letters" during the revolution. he was a member of the assembly and had been in politics for some years. but on this question of a change to royal government, he left the quaker majority and opposed the change with all his influence and ability. he and his father-in-law, isaac norris, speaker of the assembly, became the leaders against the change, and franklin and joseph galloway, the latter afterwards a prominent loyalist in the revolution, were the leading advocates of the change. the whole subject was thoroughly thrashed out in debates in the assembly and in pamphlets of very great ability and of much interest to students of colonial history and the growth of american ideas of liberty. it must be remembered that this was the year , on the eve of the revolution. british statesmen were planning a system of more rigorous control of the colonies; and the advisability of a stamp tax was under consideration. information of all these possible changes had reached the colonies. dickinson foresaw the end and warned the people. franklin and the quaker party thought there was no danger and that the mother country could be implicitly trusted. dickinson warned the people that the british ministry were starting special regulations for new colonies and "designing the strictest reformations in the old." it would be a great relief, he admitted, to be rid of the pettiness of the proprietors, and it might be accomplished some time in the future; but not now. the proprietary system might be bad, but a royal government might be worse and might wreck all the liberties of the province, religious freedom, the assembly's control of its own adjournments, and its power of raising and disposing of the public money. the ministry of the day in england were well known not to be favorably inclined towards pennsylvania because of the frequently reported willfulness of the assembly, on which the recent disturbances had also been blamed. if the king, ministry, and parliament started upon a change, they might decide to reconstitute the assembly entirely, abolish its ancient privileges, and disfranchise both quakers and presbyterians. the arguments of franklin and galloway consisted principally of assertions of the good intentions of the mother country and the absurdity of any fear on the part of the colonists for their privileges. but the king in whom they had so much confidence was george iii, and the parliament which they thought would do no harm was the same one which a few months afterwards passed the stamp act which brought on the revolution. franklin and galloway also asserted that the colonies like massachusetts, the jerseys, and the carolinas, which had been changed to royal governments, had profited by the change. but that was hardly the prevailing opinion in those colonies themselves. royal governors could be as petty and annoying as the penns and far more tyrannical. pennsylvania had always defeated any attempts at despotism on the part of the penn family and had built up a splendid body of liberal laws and legislative privileges. but governors with the authority and power of the british crown behind them could not be so easily resisted as the deputy governors of the penns. the assembly, however, voted--twenty-seven to three--with franklin and galloway. in the general election of the autumn, the question was debated anew among the people and, though franklin and galloway were defeated for seats in the assembly, yet the popular verdict was strongly in favor of a change, and the majority in the assembly was for practical purposes unaltered. they voted to appeal to england for the change, and appointed franklin to be their agent before the crown and ministry. he sailed again for england and soon was involved in the opening scenes of the revolution. he was made agent for all the colonies and he spent many delightful years there pursuing his studies in science, dining with distinguished men, staying at country seats, and learning all the arts of diplomacy for which he afterwards became so distinguished. as for the assembly's petition for a change to royal government, franklin presented it, but never pressed it. he, too, was finally convinced that the time was inopportune. in fact, the assembly itself before long began to have doubts and fears and sent him word to let the subject drop; and amid much greater events it was soon entirely forgotten. chapter viii. the beginnings of new jersey new jersey, scheyichbi, as the indians called it, or nova caesarea, as it was called in the latin of its proprietary grant, had a history rather different from that of other english colonies in america. geographically, it had not a few attractions. it was a good sized dominion surrounded on all sides but one by water, almost an island domain, secluded and independent. in fact, it was the only one of the colonies which stood naturally separate and apart. the others were bounded almost entirely by artificial or imaginary lines. it offered an opportunity, one might have supposed, for some dissatisfied religious sect of the seventeenth century to secure a sanctuary and keep off all intruders. but at first no one of the various denominations seems to have fancied it or chanced upon it. the puritans disembarked upon the bleak shores of new england well suited to the sternness of their religion. how different american history might have been if they had established themselves in the jerseys! could they, under those milder skies, have developed witchcraft, set up blue laws, and indulged in the killing of quakers? after a time they learned about the jerseys and cast thrifty eyes upon them. their seafaring habits and the pursuit of whales led them along the coast and into delaware bay. the puritans of new haven made persistent efforts to settle the southern part of jersey, on the delaware near salem. they thought, as their quaint old records show, that if they could once start a branch colony in jersey it might become more populous and powerful than the new haven settlement and in that case they intended to move their seat of government to the new colony. but their shrewd estimate of its value came too late. the dutch and the swedes occupied the delaware at that time and drove them out. puritans, however, entered northern jersey and, while they were not numerous enough to make it a thoroughly puritan community, they largely tinged its thought and its laws, and their influence still survives. the difficulty with jersey was that its seacoast was a monotonous line of breakers with dangerous shoal inlets, few harbors, and vast mosquito infested salt marshes and sandy thickets. in the interior it was for the most part a level, heavily forested, sandy, swampy country in its southern portions, and rough and mountainous in the northern portions. even the entrance by delaware bay was so difficult by reason of its shoals that it was the last part of the coast to be explored. the delaware region and jersey were in fact a sort of middle ground far less easy of access by the sea than the regions to the north in new england and to the south in virginia. there were only two places easy of settlement in the jerseys. one was the open region of meadows and marshes by newark bay near the mouth of the hudson and along the hackensack river, whence the people slowly extended themselves to the seashore at sandy hook and thence southward along the ocean beach. this was east jersey. the other easily occupied region, which became west jersey, stretched along the shore of the lower delaware from the modern trenton to salem, whence the settlers gradually worked their way into the interior. between these two divisions lay a rough wilderness which in its southern portion was full of swamps, thickets, and pine barrens. so rugged was the country that the native indians lived for the most part only in the two open regions already described. the natural geographical, geological, and even social division of new jersey is made by drawing a line from trenton to the mouth of the hudson river. north of that line the successive terraces of the piedmont and mountainous region form part of the original north american continent. south of that line the more or less sandy level region was once a shoal beneath the ocean; afterwards a series of islands; then one island with a wide sound behind it passing along the division line to the mouth of the hudson. southern jersey was in short an island with a sound behind it very much like the present long island. the shoal and island had been formed in the far distant geologic past by the erosion and washings from the lofty pennsylvania mountains now worn down to mere stumps. the delaware river flowed into this sound at trenton. gradually the hudson end of the sound filled up as far as trenton, but the tide from the ocean still runs up the remains of the old sound as far as trenton. the delaware should still be properly considered as ending at trenton, for the rest of its course to the ocean is still part of old pensauken sound, as it is called by geologists. the jerseys originated as a colony in . in west jersey passed into the control of the quakers. in east jersey came partially under quaker influence. in august, , charles ii seized new york, new jersey, and all the dutch possessions in america, having previously in march granted them to his brother the duke of york. the duke almost immediately gave to lord berkeley and sir george carteret, members of the privy council and defenders of the stuart family in the cromwellian wars, the land between the delaware river and the ocean, and bounded on the north by a line drawn from latitude degrees on the hudson to latitude degrees minutes on the delaware. this region was to be called, the grant said, nova caesarea, or new jersey. the name was a compliment to carteret, who in the cromwellian wars had defended the little isle of jersey against the forces of the long parliament. as the american jersey was then almost an island and geologically had been one, the name was not inappropriate. berkeley and carteret divided the province between them. in an exact division was attempted, creating the rather unnatural sections known as east jersey and west jersey. the first idea seems to have been to divide by a line running from barnegat on the seashore to the mouth of pensauken creek on the delaware just above camden. this, however, would have made a north jersey and a south jersey, with the latter much smaller than the former. several lines seem to have been surveyed at different times in the attempt to make an exactly equal division, which was no easy engineering task. as private land titles and boundaries were in some places dependent on the location of the division line, there resulted much controversy and litigation which lasted down into our own time. without going into details, it is sufficient to say that the acceptable division line began on the seashore at little egg harbor at the lower end of barnegat bay and crossed diagonally or northwesterly to the northern part of the delaware river just above the water gap. it is known as the old province line, and it can be traced on any map of the state by prolonging, in both directions, the northeastern boundary of burlington county. west jersey, which became decidedly quaker, did not remain long in the possession of lord berkeley. he was growing old; and, disappointed in his hopes of seeing it settled, he sold it, in , for one thousand pounds to john fenwick and edward byllinge, both of them old cromwellian soldiers turned quakers. that this purchase was made for the purpose of affording a refuge in america for quakers then much imprisoned and persecuted in england does not very distinctly appear. at least there was no parade of it. but such a purpose in addition to profit for the proprietors may well have been in the minds of the purchasers. george fox, the quaker leader, had just returned from a missionary journey in america, in the course of which he had traveled through new jersey in going from new york to maryland. some years previously in england, about , he had made inquiries as to a suitable place for quaker settlement and was told of the region north of maryland which became pennsylvania. but how could a persecuted sect obtain such a region from the british crown and the government that was persecuting them? it would require powerful influence at court; nothing could then be done about it; and pennsylvania had to wait until william penn became a man with influence enough in to win it from the crown. but here was west jersey, no longer owned directly by the crown and bought in cheap by two quakers. it was an unexpected opportunity. quakers soon went to it, and it was the first quaker colonial experiment. byllinge and fenwick, though turned quakers, seem to have retained some of the contentious cromwellian spirit of their youth. they soon quarreled over their respective interests in the ownership of west jersey; and to prevent a lawsuit, so objectionable to quakers, the decision was left to william penn, then a rising young quaker about thirty years old, dreaming of ideal colonies in america. penn awarded fenwick a one-tenth interest and four hundred pounds. byllinge soon became insolvent and turned over his nine-tenths interest to his creditors, appointing penn and two other quakers, gawen lawrie, a merchant of london, and nicholas lucas, a maltster of hertford, to hold it in trust for them. gawen lawrie afterwards became deputy governor of east jersey. lucas was one of those thoroughgoing quakers just released from eight years in prison for his religion. * * myers, "narratives of early pennsylvania, west jersey, and delaware", p. . fenwick also in the end fell into debt and, after selling over one hundred thousand acres to about fifty purchasers, leased what remained of his interest for a thousand years to john edridge, a tanner, and edmund warner, a poulterer, as security for money borrowed from them. they conveyed this lease and their claims to penn, lawrie, and lucas, who thus became the owners, as trustees, of pretty much all west jersey. this was william penn's first practical experience in american affairs. he and his fellow trustees, with the consent of fenwick, divided the west jersey ownership into one hundred shares. the ninety belonging to byllinge were offered for sale to settlers or to creditors of byllinge who would take them in exchange for debts. the settlement of west jersey thus became the distribution of an insolvent quaker's estate among his creditor fellow religionists. although no longer in possession of a title to land, fenwick, in , went out with some quaker settlers to delaware bay. there they founded the modern town of salem, which means peace, giving it that name because of the fair and peaceful aspect of the wilderness on the day they arrived. they bought the land from the indians in the usual manner, as the swedes and dutch had so often done. but they had no charter or provision for organized government. when fenwick attempted to exercise political authority at salem, he was seized and imprisoned by andros, governor of new york for the duke of york, on the ground that, although the duke had given jersey to certain individual proprietors, the political control of it remained in the duke's deputy governor. andros, who had levied a tax of five per cent on all goods passing up the delaware, now established commissioners at salem to collect the duties. this action brought up the whole question of the authority of andros. the trustee proprietors of west jersey appealed to the duke of york, who was suspiciously indifferent to the matter, but finally referred it for decision to a prominent lawyer, sir william jones, before whom the quaker proprietors of west jersey made a most excellent argument. they showed the illegality, injustice, and wrong of depriving the jerseys of vested political rights and forcing them from the freeman's right of making their own laws to a state of mere dependence on the arbitrary will of one man. then with much boldness they declared that "to exact such an unterminated tax from english planters, and to continue it after so many repeated complaints, will be the greatest evidence of a design to introduce, if the crown should ever devolve upon the duke, an unlimited government in old england." prophetic words which the duke, in a few years, tried his best to fulfill. but sir william jones deciding against him, he acquiesced, confirmed the political rights of west jersey by a separate grant, and withdrew any authority andros claimed over east jersey. the trouble, however, did not end here. both the jerseys were long afflicted by domineering attempts from new york. penn and his fellow trustees now prepared a constitution, or "concessions and agreements," as they called it, for west jersey, the first quaker political constitution embodying their advanced ideas, establishing religious liberty, universal suffrage, and voting by ballot, and abolishing imprisonment for debt. it foreshadowed some of the ideas subsequently included in the pennsylvania constitution. all these experiences were an excellent school for william penn. he learned the importance in starting a colony of having a carefully and maturely considered system of government. in his preparations some years afterwards for establishing pennsylvania he avoided much of the bungling of the west jersey enterprise. a better organized attempt was now made to establish a foothold in west jersey farther up the river than fenwick's colony at salem. in the ship kent took out some rather well-to-do quakers, about as fine a company of broadbrims, it is said, as ever entered the delaware. some were from yorkshire and london, largely creditors of byllinge, who were taking land to satisfy their debts. they all went up the river to raccoon creek on the jersey side, about fifteen miles below the present site of philadelphia, and lived at first among the swedes, who had been in that part of jersey for some years and who took care of the new arrivals in their barns and sheds. these quaker immigrants, however, soon began to take care of themselves, and the weather during the winter proving mild, they explored farther up the river in a small boat. they bought from the indians the land along the river shore from oldman's creek all the way up to trenton and made their first settlements on the river about eighteen miles above the site of philadelphia, at a place they at first called new beverly, then bridlington, and finally burlington. they may have chosen this spot partly because there had been an old dutch settlement of a few families there. it had long been a crossing of the delaware for the few persons who passed by land from new york or new england to maryland and virginia. one of the dutchmen, peter yegon, kept a ferry and a house for entertaining travelers. george fox, who crossed there in , describes the place as having been plundered by the indians and deserted. he and his party swam their horses across the river and got some of the indians to help them with canoes. other quaker immigrants followed, going to salem as well as to burlington, and a stretch of some fifty miles of the river shore became strongly quaker. there are not many american towns now to be found with more of the old-time picturesqueness and more relics of the past than salem and burlington. settlements were also started on the river opposite the site afterwards occupied by philadelphia, at newton on the creek still called by that name; and another a little above on cooper's creek, known as cooper's ferry until . since then it has become the flourishing town of camden, full of shipbuilding and manufacturing, but for long after the revolution it was merely a small village on the jersey shore opposite philadelphia, sometimes used as a hunting ground and a place of resort for duelers and dancing parties from philadelphia. the newton settlers were quakers of the english middle class, weavers, tanners, carpenters, bricklayers, chandlers, blacksmiths, coopers, bakers, haberdashers, hatters, and linen drapers, most of them possessed of property in england and bringing good supplies with them. like all the rest of the new jersey settlers they were in no sense adventurers, gold seekers, cavaliers, or desperadoes. they were well-to-do middle class english tradespeople who would never have thought of leaving england if they had not lost faith in the stability of civil and religious liberty and the security of their property under the stuart kings. with them came servants, as they were called; that is, persons of no property, who agreed to work for a certain time in payment of their passage, to escape from england. all, indeed, were escaping from england before their estates melted away in fines and confiscations or their health or lives ended in the damp, foul air of the crowded prisons. many of those who came had been in jail and had decided that they would not risk imprisonment a second time. indeed, the proportion of west jersey immigrants who had actually been in prison for holding or attending quaker meetings or refusing to pay tithes for the support of the established church was large. for example, william bates, a carpenter, while in jail for his religion, made arrangements with his friends to escape to west jersey as soon as he should be released, and his descendants are now scattered over the united states. robert turner, a man of means, who settled finally in philadelphia but also owned much land near newton in west jersey, had been imprisoned in england in , again in , again in , and some of his property had been taken, again imprisoned in and more property taken; and many others had the same experience. details such as these make us realize the situation from which the quakers sought to escape. so widespread was the quaker movement in england and so severe the punishment imposed in order to suppress it that fifteen thousand families are said to have been ruined by the fines, confiscations, and imprisonments. not a few jersey quakers were from ireland, whither they had fled because there the laws against them were less rigorously administered. the newton settlers were joined by quakers from long island, where, under the english law as administered by the new york governors, they had also been fined and imprisoned, though with less severity than at home, for nonconformity to the church of england. on arriving, the west jersey settlers suffered some hardships during the year that must elapse before a crop could be raised and a log cabin or house built. during that period they usually lived, in the indian manner, in wigwams of poles covered with bark, or in caves protected with logs in the steep banks of the creeks. many of them lived in the villages of the indians. the indians supplied them all with corn and venison, and without this indian help, they would have run serious risk of starving, for they were not accustomed to hunting. they had also to thank the indians for having in past ages removed so much of the heavy forest growth from the wide strip of land along the river that it was easy to start cultivation. these quaker settlers made a point of dealing very justly with the indians and the two races lived side by side for several generations. there is an instance recorded of the indians attending with much solemnity the funeral of a prominent quaker woman, esther spicer, for whom they had acquired great respect. the funeral was held at night, and the indians in canoes, the white men in boats, passed down cooper's creek and along the river to newton creek where the graveyard was, lighting the darkness with innumerable torches, a strange scene to think of now as having been once enacted in front of the bustling cities of camden and philadelphia. some of the young settlers took indian wives, and that strain of native blood is said to show itself in the features of several families to this day. many letters of these settlers have been preserved, all expressing the greatest enthusiasm for the new country, for the splendid river better than the thames, the good climate, and their improved health, the immense relief to be away from the constant dread of fines and punishment, the chance to rise in the world, with large rewards for industry. they note the immense quantities of game, the indians bringing in fat bucks every day, the venison better than in england, the streams full of fish, the abundance of wild fruits, cranberries, hurtleberries, the rapid increase of cattle, and the good soil. a few details concerning some of the interesting characters among these early colonial quakers have been rescued from oblivion. there is, for instance, the pleasing picture of a young man and his sister, convinced quakers, coming out together and pioneering in their log cabin until each found a partner for life. there was john haddon, from whom haddonfield is named, who bought a large tract of land but remained in england, while his daughter elizabeth came out alone to look after it. a strong, decisive character she was, and women of that sort have always been encouraged in independent action by the quakers. she proved to be an excellent manager of an estate. the romance of her marriage to a young quaker preacher, estaugh, has been celebrated in mrs. maria child's novel "the youthful emigrant." the pair became leading citizens devoted to good works and to quaker liberalism for many a year in haddonfield. it was the ship shields of hull, bringing quaker immigrants to burlington, of which the story is told that in beating up the river she tacked close to the rather high bank with deep water frontage where philadelphia was afterwards established; and some of the passengers remarked that it was a fine site for a town. the shields, it is said, was the first ship to sail up as far as burlington. anchoring before burlington in the evening, the colonists woke up next morning to find the river frozen hard so that they walked on the ice to their future habitations. burlington was made the capital of west jersey, a legislature was convened and laws were passed under the "concessions" or constitution of the proprietors. salem and burlington became the ports of the little province, which was well under way by , when penn came out to take possession of pennsylvania. the west jersey people of these two settlements spread eastward into the interior but were stopped by a great forest area known as the pines, or pine barrens, of such heavy growth that even the indians lived on its outer edges and entered it only for hunting. it was an irregularly shaped tract, full of wolves, bear, beaver, deer, and other game, and until recent years has continued to attract sportsmen from all parts of the country. starting near delaware bay, it extended parallel with the ocean as far north as the lower portion of the present monmouth county and formed a region about seventy-five miles long and thirty miles wide. it was roughly the part of the old sandy shoal that first emerged from the ocean, and it has been longer above water than any other part of southern jersey. the old name, pine barrens, is hardly correct because it implies something like a desert, when as a matter of fact the region produced magnificent forest trees. the innumerable visitors who cross southern jersey to the famous seashore resorts always pass through the remains of this old central forest and are likely to conclude that the monotonous low scrub oaks and stunted pines on sandy level soil, seen for the last two or three generations, were always there and that the primeval forest of colonial times was no better. but that is a mistake. the stunted growth now seen is not even second growth but in many cases fourth or fifth or more. the whole region was cut over long ago. the original growth, pine in many places, consisted also of lofty timber of oak, hickory, gum, ash, chestnut, and numerous other trees, interspersed with dogwood, sassafras, and holly, and in the swamps the beautiful magnolia, along with the valuable white cedar. devries, who visited the jersey coast about , at what is supposed to have been beesley's or somer's point, describes high woods coming down to the shore. even today, immediately back of somer's point, there is a magnificent lofty oak forest accidentally preserved by surrounding marsh from the destructive forest fires; and there are similar groves along the road towards pleasantville. in fact, the finest forest trees flourish in that region wherever given a good chance. even some of the beaches of cape may had valuable oak and luxuriant growths of red cedar; and until a few years ago there were fine trees, especially hollies, surviving on wildwood beach. the jersey white cedar swamps were, and still are, places of fascinating interest to the naturalist and the botanist. the hunter or explorer found them scattered almost everywhere in the old forest and near its edges, varying in size from a few square yards up to hundreds of acres. they were formed by little streams easily checked in their flow through the level land by decaying vegetation or dammed by beavers. they kept the water within the country, preventing all effects of droughts, stimulating the growth of vegetation which by its decay, throughout the centuries, was steadily adding vegetable mold or humus to the sandy soil. this process of building up a richer soil has now been largely stopped by lumbering, drainage, and fires. while there are many of these swamps left, the appearance of numbers of them has largely changed. when the white men first came, the great cedars three or four feet in diameter which had fallen centuries before often lay among the living trees, some of them buried deep in the mud and preserved from decay. they were invaluable timber, and digging them out and cutting them up became an important industry for over a hundred years. in addition to being used for boat building, they made excellent shingles which would last a lifetime. the swamps, indeed, became known as shingle mines, and it was a good description of them. an important trade was developed in hogshead staves, hoops, shingles, boards, and planks, much of which went into the west indian trade to be exchanged for rum, sugar, molasses, and negroes. * * between the years and ' , the cedar swamps of the county [cape may] were mostly located; and the amount of lumber since taken from them is incalculable, not only as an article of trade, but to supply the home demand for fencing and building material in the county. large portions of these swamps have been worked a second and some a third time, since located. at the present time [ ] there is not an acre of original growth of swamp standing, having all passed away before the resistless sway of the speculator or the consumer. "beesley's "sketch of cape may" p. . the great forest has long since been lumbered to death. the pines were worked for tar, pitch, resin, and turpentine until for lack of material the industry passed southward through the carolinas to florida, exhausting the trees as it went. the christmas demand for holly has almost stripped the jersey woods of these trees once so numerous. destructive fires and frequent cutting keep the pine and oak lands stunted. thousands of dollars' worth of cedar springing up in the swamps are sometimes destroyed in a day. but efforts to control the fires so destructive not only to this standing timber but to the fertility of the soil, and attempts to reforest this country not only for the sake of timber but as an attraction to those who resort there in search of health or natural beauty, have not been vigorously pushed. the great forest has now, to be sure, been partially cultivated in spots, and the sand used for large glass-making industries. small fruits and grapes flourish in some places. at the northern end of this forest tract the health resort known as lakewood was established to take advantage of the pine air. a little to the southward is the secluded brown's mills, once so appealing to lovers of the simple life. checked on the east by the great forest, the west jersey quakers spread southward from salem until they came to the cohansey, a large and beautiful stream flowing out of the forest and wandering through green meadows and marshes to the bay. so numerous were the wild geese along its shores and along the maurice river farther south that the first settlers are said to have killed them for their feathers alone and to have thrown the carcasses away. at the head of navigation of the cohansey was a village called cohansey bridge, and after bridgeton, a name still borne by a flourishing modern town. lower down near the marsh was the village of greenwich, the principal place of business up to the year , with a foreign trade. some of the tea the east india company tried to force on the colonists during the revolution was sent there and was duly rejected. it is still an extremely pretty village, with its broad shaded streets like a new england town and its old quaker meeting house. in fact, not a few new englanders from connecticut, still infatuated with southern jersey in spite of the rebuffs received in ancient times from dutch and swedes, finally settled near the cohansey after it came under control of the more amiable quakers. there was also one place called after fairfield in connecticut and another called new england town. the first churches of this region were usually built near running streams so that the congregation could procure water for themselves and their horses. of one old presbyterian church it used to be said that no one had ever ridden to it in a wheeled vehicle. wagons and carriages were very scarce until after the revolution. carts for occasions of ceremony as well as utility were used before wagons and carriages. for a hundred and fifty years the horse's back was the best form of conveyance in the deep sand of the trails and roads. this was true of all southern jersey. pack horses and the backs of indian and negro slaves were the principal means of transportation on land. the roads and trails, in fact, were so few and so heavy with sand that water travel was very much developed. the indian dugout canoe was adopted and found faster and better than heavy english rowboats. as the province was almost surrounded by water and was covered with a network of creeks and channels, nearly all the villages and towns were situated on tidewater streams, and the dugout canoe, modified and improved, was for several generations the principal means of communication. most of the old roads in new jersey followed indian trails. there was a trail, for example, from the modern camden opposite philadelphia, following up cooper's creek past berlin, then called long-a-coming, crossing the watershed, and then following great egg harbor river to the seashore. another trail, long used by the settlers, led from salem up to camden, burlington, and trenton, going round the heads of streams. it was afterwards abandoned for the shorter route obtained by bridging the streams nearer their mouths. this old trail also extended from the neighborhood of trenton to perth amboy near the mouth of the hudson, and thus, by supplementing the lower routes, made a trail nearly the whole length of the province. as a quaker refuge, west jersey never attained the success of pennsylvania. the political disturbances and the continually threatened loss of self-government in both the jerseys were a serious deterrent to quakers who, above all else, prized rights which they found far better secured in pennsylvania. in , when the two jerseys were united into one colony under a government appointed by the crown, those rights were more restricted than ever and all hopes of west jersey becoming a colony under complete quaker control were shattered. under governor cornbury, the english law was adopted and enforced, and the quakers were disqualified from testifying in court unless they took an oath and were prohibited from serving on juries or holding any office of trust. cornbury's judges wore scarlet robes, powdered wigs, cocked hats, gold lace, and side arms; they were conducted to the courthouse by the sheriff's cavalcade and opened court with great parade and ceremony. such a spectacle of pomp was sufficient to divert the flow of quaker immigrants to pennsylvania, where the government was entirely in quaker hands and where plain and serious ways gave promise of enduring and unmolested prosperity. the quakers had altogether thirty meeting houses in west jersey and eleven in east jersey, which probably shows about the proportion of quaker influence in the two jerseys. many of them have since disappeared; some of the early buildings, to judge from the pictures, were of wood and not particularly pleasing in appearance. they were makeshifts, usually intended to be replaced by better buildings. some substantial brick buildings of excellent architecture have survived, and their plainness and simplicity, combined with excellent proportions and thorough construction, are clearly indicative of quaker character. there is a particularly interesting one in salem with a magnificent old oak beside it, another in the village of greenwich on the cohansey farther south, and another at crosswicks near trenton. in west jersey near mount holly was born and lived john woolman, a quaker who became eminent throughout the english speaking world for the simplicity and loftiness of his religious thought as well as for his admirable style of expression. his "journal," once greatly and even extravagantly admired, still finds readers. "get the writings of john woolman by heart," said charles lamb, "and love the early quakers." he was among the quakers one of the first and perhaps the first really earnest advocate of the abolition of slavery. the scenes of west jersey and the writings of woolman seem to belong together. possibly a feeling for the simplicity of those scenes and their life led walt whitman, who grew up on long island under quaker influence, to spend his last years at camden, in west jersey. his profound democracy, which was very quaker-like, was more at home there perhaps than anywhere else. chapter ix. planters and traders of southern jersey most of the colonies in america, especially the stronger ones, had an aristocratic class, which was often large and powerful, as in the case of virginia, and which usually centered around the governor, especially if he were appointed from england by the crown or by a proprietor. but there was very little of this social distinction in new jersey. her political life had been too much broken up, and she had been too long dependent on the governors of new york to have any of those pretty little aristocracies with bright colored clothes, and coaches and four, flourishing within her boundaries. there seems to have been a faint suggestion of such social pretensions under governor franklin just before the revolution. he was beginning to live down the objections to his illegitimate birth and toryism and by his entertainments and manner of living was creating a social following. there is said also to have been something a little like the beginning of an aristocracy among the descendants of the dutch settlers who had ancestral holdings near the hudson; but this amounted to very little. class distinctions were not so strongly marked in new jersey as in some other colonies. there grew up in southern jersey, however, a sort of aristocracy of gentlemen farmers, who owned large tracts of land and lived in not a little style in good houses on the small streams. the northern part of the province, largely settled and influenced by new englanders, was like new england a land of vigorous concentrated town life and small farms. the hilly and mountainous nature of the northern section naturally led to small holdings of land. but in southern jersey the level sandy tracts of forest were often taken up in large areas. in the absence of manufacturing, large acreage naturally became, as in virginia and maryland, the only mark of wealth and social distinction. the great landlord was looked up to by the lesser fry. the quaker rule of discountenancing marrying out of meeting tended to keep a large acreage in the family and to make it larger by marriage. a quaker of broad acres would seek for his daughter a young man of another landholding quaker family and would thus join the two estates. there was a marked difference between east jersey and west jersey in county organization. in west jersey the people tended to become planters; their farms and plantations somewhat like those of the far south; and the political unit of government was the county. in east jersey the town was the starting point and the county marked the boundaries of a collection of towns. this curious difference, the result of soil, climate, and methods of life, shows itself in other states wherever south and north meet. illinois is an example, where the southern part of the state is governed by the county system, and the northern part by the town system. the lumberman, too, in clearing off the primeval forest and selling the timber, usually dealt in immense acreage. some families, it is said, can be traced steadily proceeding southward as they stripped off the forest, and started sawmills and gristmills on the little streams that trickled from the swamps, and like beavers making with their dams those pretty ponds which modern lovers of the picturesque are now so eager to find. a good deal of the lumbering in the interior pines tract was carried on by persons who leased the premises from owners who lived on plantations along the delaware or its tributary streams. these operations began soon after . wood roads were cut into the pines, sawmills were started, and constant use turned some of these wood roads into the highways of modern times. there was a speculative tinge in the operations of this landed aristocracy. like the old tobacco raising aristocracy of virginia and maryland, they were inclined to go from tract to tract, skinning what they could from a piece of deforested land and then seeking another virgin tract. the roughest methods were used; wooden plows, brush harrows, straw collars, grapevine harness, and poor shelter for animals and crops; but were the virginia methods any better? in these operations there was apparently a good deal of sudden profit and mushroom prosperity accompanied by a good deal of debt and insolvency. in this, too, they were like the virginians and carolinians. there seem to have been also a good many slaves in west jersey, brought, as in the southern colonies, to work on the large estates, and this also, no doubt, helped to foster the aristocratic feeling. the best days of the jersey gentlemen farmers came probably when they could no longer move from tract to tract. they settled down and enjoyed a very plentiful, if rude, existence on the products of their land, game, and fish, amid a fine climate--with mosquitoes enough in summer to act as a counterirritant and prevent stagnation from too much ease and prosperity. after the manner of colonial times, they wove their own clothes from the wool of their own sheep and made their own implements, furniture, and simple machinery. there are still to be found fascinating traces of this old life in out-of-the-way parts of southern jersey. to run upon old houses among the jersey pines still stored with latin classics and old editions of shakespeare, addison, or samuel johnson, to come across an old mill with its machinery, cogwheels, flywheels, and all, made of wood, to find people who make their own oars, and the handles of their tools from the materials furnished by their own forest, is now unfortunately a refreshment of the spirit that is daily becoming rarer. this condition of material and social self-sufficiency lasted in places long after the revolution. it was a curious little aristocracy--a very faint and faded one, lacking the robustness of the far southern type, and lacking indeed the real essential of an aristocracy, namely political power. moreover, although there were slaves in new jersey, there were not enough of them to exalt the jersey gentlemen farmers into such self-sufficient lords and masters as the virginian and carolinian planters became. to search out the remains of this stage of american history, however, takes one up many pleasant streams flowing out of the forest tract to the delaware on one side or to the ocean on the other. this topographical formation of a central ridge or watershed of forest and swamp was a repetition of the same formation in the delaware peninsula, which like southern jersey had originally been a shoal and then an island. the jersey watershed, with its streams abounding in wood duck and all manner of wild life, must have been in its primeval days as fascinating as some of the streams of the florida cypress swamps. toward the ocean, wading river, the mullica, the tuckahoe, great egg; and on the delaware side the maurice, cohansey, salem creek, oldman's, raccoon, mantua, woodberry, timber, and the rancocas, still possess attraction. some of them, on opposite sides of the divide, are not far apart at their sources in the old forest tract; so that a canoe can be transported over the few miles and thus traverse the state. one of these trips up timber creek from the delaware and across only eight miles of land to the headwaters of great egg harbor river and thence down to the ocean, thus cutting south jersey in half, is a particularly romantic one. the heavy woods and swamps of this secluded route along these forest shadowed streams are apparently very much as they were three hundred years ago. the water in all these streams, particularly in their upper parts, owing to the sandy soil, is very clean and clear and is often stained by the cedar roots in the swamps a clear brown, sometimes almost an amber color. one of the streams, the rancocas, with its many windings to mount holly and then far inland to brown's mills, seems to be the favorite with canoemen and is probably without an equal in its way for those who love the indian's gift that brings us so close to nature. the spread of the quaker settlements along delaware bay to cape may was checked by the maurice river and its marshes and by the great cedar swamp which crossed the country from delaware bay to the ocean and thus made of the cape may region a sort of island. the cape may region, it is true, was settled by quakers, but most of them came from long island rather than from the settlements on the delaware. they had followed whale fishing on long island and in pursuit of that occupation some of them had migrated to cape may where whales were numerous not far off shore. the leading early families of cape may, the townsends, stillwells, corsons, leamings, ludlams, spicers, and cresses, many of whose descendants still live there, were quakers of the long island strain. the ancestor of the townsend family came to cape may because he had been imprisoned and fined and threatened with worse under the new york government for assisting his fellow quakers to hold meetings. probably the occasional severity of the administration of the new york laws against quakers, which were the same as those of england, had as much to do as had the whales with the migration to cape may. this quaker civilization extended from cape may up as far as great egg harbor where the great cedar swamp joined the seashore. quaker meeting houses were built at cape may, galloway, tuckahoe, and great egg. all have been abandoned and the buildings themselves have disappeared, except that of the cape may meeting, called the old cedar meeting, at seaville; and it has no congregation. the building is kept in repair by members of the society from other places. besides the quakers, cape may included a number of new haven people, the first of whom came there as early as under the leadership of george lamberton and captain turner, seeking profit in whale fishing. they were not driven out by the dutch and swedes, as happened to their companions who attempted to settle higher up the river at salem and the schuylkill. about one-fifth of the old family names of cape may and new haven are similar, and there is supposed to be not a little new england blood not only in cape may but in the neighboring counties of cumberland and salem. while the first new haven whalers came to cape may in , it is probable that for a long time they only sheltered their vessels there, and none of them became permanent settlers until about . scandinavians contributed another element to the population of the cape may region. very little is definitely known about this settlement, but the swedish names in cape may and cumberland counties seem to indicate a migration of scandinavians from wilmington and tinicum. great egg harbor, which formed the northern part of the cape may settlement, was named from the immense numbers of wild fowl, swans, ducks, and water birds that formerly nested there every summer and have now been driven to canada or beyond. little egg harbor farther up the coast was named for the same reason as well as egg island, of three hundred acres in delaware bay, since then eaten away by the tide. the people of the district had excellent living from the eggs as well as from the plentiful fowl, fish, and oysters. some farming was done by the inhabitants of cape may; and many cattle, marked with brands but in a half wild state, were kept out on the uninhabited beaches which have now become seaside summer cities. some of the cattle were still running wild on the beaches down to the time of the civil war. the settlers "mined" the valuable white cedar from the swamps for shingles and boards, leaving great "pool holes" in the swamps which even today sometimes trap the unwary sportsman. the women knitted innumerable mittens and also made wampum or indian money from the clam and oyster shells, an important means of exchange in the indian trade all over the colonies, and even to some extent among the colonists themselves. the cape may people built sloops for carrying the white cedar, the mittens, oysters, and wampum to the outside world. they sold a great deal of their cedar in long island, rhode island, and connecticut. philadelphia finally became their market for oysters and also for lumber, corn, and the whalebone and oil. their sloops also traded to the southern colonies and even to the west indies. they were an interesting little community, these cape may people, very isolated and dependent on the water and on their boats, for they were completely cut off by the great cedar swamp which stretched across the point and separated them from the rest of the coast. this troublesome swamp was not bridged for many years; and even then the roads to it were long, slow, and too sandy for transporting anything of much bulk. next above cape may on the coast was another isolated patch of civilization which, while not an island, was nevertheless cut off on the south by great egg harbor with its river and marshes, and on the north by little egg harbor with the mullica river and its marshes extending far inland. the people in this district also lived somewhat to themselves. to the north lay the district which extended to sandy hook, also with its distinct set of people. the people of the cape became in colonial times clever traders in various pursuits. although in one sense they were as isolated as islanders, their adventurous life on the sea gave them breadth of view. by their thrift and in innumerable shrewd and persistent ways they amassed competencies and estates for their families. aaron leaming, for example, who died in , left an estate of nearly $ , , . some kept diaries which have become historically valuable in showing not only their history but their good education and the peculiar cast of their mind for keen trading as well as their rigid economy and integrity. one character, jacob spicer, a prosperous colonial, insisted on having everything made at home by his sons and daughters--shoes, clothes, leather breeches, wampum, even shoe thread--calculating the cost of everything to a fraction and economizing to the last penny of money and the last second of time. yet in the course of a year he used "fifty-two gallons of rum, ten of wine, and two barrels of cyder." apparently in those days hard labor and hard drinking went well together. the cape may people, relying almost entirely on the water for communication and trade, soon took to piloting vessels in the delaware river, and some of them still follow this occupation. they also became skillful sailors and builders of small craft, and it is not surprising to learn that jacocks swain and his sons introduced, in , the centerboard for keeping flat-bottomed craft closer to the wind. they are said to have taken out a patent for this invention and are given the credit of being the originators of the idea. but the device was known in england in , was introduced in massachusetts in the same year, and may have been used long before by the dutch. the need of it, however, was no doubt strongly impressed upon the cape may people by the difficulties which their little sloops experienced in beating home against contrary winds. some of them, indeed, spent weeks in sight of the cape, unable to make it. one sloop, the nancy, seventy-two days from demarara, hung off and on for forty-three days from december , , to february , , and was driven off fifteen times before she finally got into hereford inlet. sometimes better sailing craft had to go out and bring in such distressed vessels. the early boats were no doubt badly constructed; but in the end apprenticeship to dire necessity made the cape may sailors masters of seamanship and the windward art. * * stevens, "history of cape may county," pp. , ; kelley, "american yachts" ( ), p. . wilson, the naturalist, spent a great deal of time in the cape may region, because of the great variety of birds to be found there. southern types, like the florida egret, ventured even so far north, and it was a stopping place for migrating birds, notably woodcock, on their northern and southern journeys. men of the stone age had once been numerous in this region, as the remains of village plats and great shell heaps bore witness. it was a resting point for all forms of life. that much traveled, adventurous gentleman of the sea, captain kidd, according to popular legend, was a frequent visitor to this coast. in later times, beginning in , the cape became one of the earliest of the summer resorts. the famous commodore decatur was among the first distinguished men to be attracted by the simple seaside charm of the place, long before it was destroyed by wealth and crowds. year by year he used to measure and record at one spot the encroachment of the sea upon the beach. where today the sea washes and the steel pier extends, once lay cornfields. for a hundred years it was a favorite resting place for statesmen and politicians of national eminence. they traveled there by stage, sailing sloop, or their own wagons. people from baltimore and the south more particularly sought the place because it was easily accessible from the head of chesapeake bay by an old railroad, long since abandoned, to newcastle on the delaware, whence sail-or steamboats went to cape may. this avoided the tedious stage ride over the sandy jersey roads. presidents, cabinet officers, senators, and congressmen sought the invigorating air of the cape and the attractions of the old village, its seafaring life, the sailing, fishing, and bathing on the best beach of the coast. congress hall, their favorite hotel, became famous, and during a large part of the nineteenth century presidential nominations and policies are said to have been planned within its walls. chapter x. scotch covenanters and others in east jersey east jersey was totally different in its topography from west jersey. the northern half of the state is a region of mountains and lakes. as part of the original continent it had been under the ice sheet of the glacial age and was very unlike the level sands, swamps, and pine barrens of west jersey which had arisen as a shoal and island from the sea. the only place in east jersey where settlement was at all easy was along the open meadows which were reached by water near the mouth of the hudson, round newark bay, and along the hackensack river. the dutch, by the discoveries of henry hudson in , claimed the whole region between the hudson and the delaware. they settled part of east jersey opposite their headquarters at new york and called it pavonia. but their cruel massacre of some indians who sought refuge among them at pavonia destroyed the prospects of the settlement. the indians revenged themselves by massacring the dutch again and again, every time they attempted to reestablish pavonia. this kept the dutch out of east jersey until , when they succeeded in establishing bergen between newark bay and the hudson. the dutch authority in america was overthrown in by charles ii, who had already given all new jersey to his brother the duke of york. colonel richard nicolls commanded the british expedition that seized the dutch possessions; and he had been given full power as deputy governor of all the duke of york's vast territory. meantime the new england puritans seem to have kept their eyes on east jersey as a desirable region, and the moment the connecticut puritans heard of nicolls' appointment, they applied to him for a grant of a large tract of land on newark bay. in the next year, , he gave them another tract from the mouth of the raritan to sandy hook; and soon the villages of shrewsbury and middletown were started. meantime, however, unknown to nicolls, the duke of york in england had given all of new jersey to lord berkeley and sir george carteret. as has already been pointed out, they had divided the province between them, and east jersey had fallen to carteret, who sent out, with some immigrants, his relative philip carteret as governor. governor carteret was of course very much surprised to find so much of the best land already occupied by the excellent and thrifty yankees. as a consequence, litigation and sometimes civil war over this unlucky mistake lasted for a hundred years. many of the yankee settlers under the nicolls grant refused to pay quitrents to carteret or his successors and, in spite of a commission of inquiry from england in and a chancery suit, they held their own until the revolution of extinguished all british authority. there was therefore from the beginning a strong new england tinge in east jersey which has lasted to this day. governor carteret established a village on newark bay which still bears the name elizabeth, which he gave it in honor of the wife of the proprietor, and he made it the capital. there were also immigrants from scotland and england. but puritans from long island and new england continued to settle round newark bay. by virtue either of character or numbers, new englanders were evidently the controlling element, for they established the new england system of town government, and imposed strict connecticut laws, making twelve crimes punishable with death. soon there were flourishing little villages, newark and elizabeth, besides middletown and shrewsbury. the next year piscatawa and woodbridge were added. newark and the region round it, including the oranges, was settled by very exclusive puritans, or congregationalists, as they are now called, some thirty families from four connecticut towns--milford, guilford, bradford, and new haven. they decided that only church members should hold office and vote. governor carteret ruled the colony with an appointive council and a general assembly elected by the people, the typical colonial form of government. his administration lasted from to his death in ; and there is nothing very remarkable to record except the rebellion of the new englanders, especially those who had received their land from nicolls. such independent connecticut people were, of course, quite out of place in a proprietary colony, and, when in the first collection of quitrents was attempted, they broke out in violent opposition, in which the settlers of elizabeth were prominent. in they elected a revolutionary assembly of their own and, in place of the deputy governor, appointed as proprietor a natural son of carteret. they began imprisoning former officers and confiscating estates in the most approved revolutionary form and for a time had the whole government in their control. it required the interference of the duke of york, of the proprietors, and of the british crown to allay the little tempest, and three years were given in which to pay the quitrents. after the death of sir george carteret in , his province of east jersey was sold to william penn and eleven other quakers for the sum of pounds. colonies seem to have been comparatively inexpensive luxuries in those days. a few years before, in , penn and some other quakers had, as has already been related, gained control of west jersey for the still smaller sum of one thousand pounds and had established it as a quaker refuge. it might be supposed that they now had the same purpose in view in east jersey, but apparently their intention was to create a refuge for presbyterians, the famous scotch covenanters, much persecuted at that time under charles ii, who was forcing them to conform to the church of england. penn and his fellow proprietors of east jersey each chose a partner, most of them scotchmen, two of whom, the earl of perth and lord drummond, were prominent men. to this mixed body of quakers, other dissenters, and some papists, twenty-four proprietors in all, the duke of york reconfirmed by special patent their right to east jersey. under their urging a few scotch covenanters began to arrive and seem to have first established themselves at perth amboy, which they named from the scottish earl of perth and an indian word meaning "point." this settlement they expected to become a great commercial port rivaling new york. curiously enough, robert barclay, the first governor appointed, was not only a scotchman but also a quaker, and a theologian whose "apology for the true christian divinity" ( ) is regarded to this day as the best statement of the original quaker doctrine. he remained in england, however, and the deputies whom he sent out to rule the colony had a troublous time of it. that quakers should establish a refuge for presbyterians seems at first peculiar, but it was in accord with their general philanthropic plan to help the oppressed and suffering, to rescue prisoners and exiles, and especially to ameliorate the horrible condition of people confined in the english dungeons and prisons. many vivid pictures of how the scotch covenanters were hunted down like wild beasts may be found in english histories and novels. when their lives were spared they often met a fate worse than death in the loathsome dungeons into which thousands of quakers of that time were also thrust. a large part of william penn's life as a courtier was spent in rescuing prisoners, exiles, and condemned persons of all sorts, and not merely those of his own faith. so the undertaking to make of jersey two colonies, one a refuge for quakers and the other a refuge for covenanters, was natural enough, and it was a very broad-minded plan for that age. in , a few years after the quaker control of east jersey began, a new and fiercer persecution of the covenanters was started in the old country, and shortly afterwards monmouth's insurrection in england broke out and was followed by a most bloody proscription and punishment. the greatest efforts were made to induce those still untouched to fly for refuge to east jersey; but, strange to say, comparatively few of them came. it is another proof of the sturdiness and devotion which has filled so many pages of history and romance with their praise that as a class the covenanters remained at home to establish their faith with torture, martyrdom, and death. in the duke of york ascended the throne of england as james ii, and all that was naturally to be expected from such a bigoted despot was soon realized. the persecutions of the covenanters grew worse. crowded into prisons to die of thirst and suffocation, shot down on the highways, tied to stakes to be drowned by the rising tide, the whole calvinistic population of scotland seemed doomed to extermination. again they were told of america as the only place where religious liberty was allowed, and in addition a book was circulated among them called "the model of the government of the province of east jersey in america." these efforts were partially successful. more covenanters came than before, but nothing like the numbers of quakers that flocked to pennsylvania. the whole population of east jersey--new englanders, dutch, scotch covenanters, and all--did not exceed five thousand and possibly was not over four thousand. some french huguenots, such as came to many of the english colonies after the revocation of the edict of nantes of , were added to the east jersey population. a few went to salem in west jersey, and some of these became quakers. in both the jerseys, as elsewhere, they became prominent and influential in all spheres of life. there was a decided dutch influence, it is said, in the part nearest new york, emanating from the bergen settlement in which the dutch had succeeded in establishing themselves in after the indians had twice driven them from pavonia. many descendants of dutch families are still found in that region. many dutch characteristics were to be found in that region throughout colonial times. many of the houses had dutch stoops or porches at the door, with seats where the family and visitors sat on summer evenings to smoke and gossip. long dutch spouts extended out from the eaves to discharge the rain water into the street. but the prevailing tone of east jersey seems to have been set by the scotch presbyterians and the new england congregationalists. the college of new jersey, afterward known as princeton, established in , was the result of a movement among the presbyterians of east jersey and new york. all these elements of east jersey, scotch covenanters, connecticut puritans, huguenots, and dutch of the dutch reformed church, were in a sense different but in reality very much in accord and congenial in their ideas of religion and politics. they were all sturdy, freedom-loving protestants, and they set the tone that prevails in east jersey to this day. their strict discipline and their uncompromising thrift may now seem narrow and harsh; but it made them what they were; and it has left a legacy of order and prosperity under which alien religions and races are eager to seek protection. in its foundation the quakers may claim a share. the new king, james ii, was inclined to reassume jurisdiction and extend the power of the governor of new york over east jersey in spite of his grant to sir george carteret. in fact, he desired to put new england, new york, and new jersey under one strong government centered at new york, to abolish their charters, to extinguish popular government, and to make them all mere royal dependencies in pursuance of his general policy of establishing an absolute monarchy and a papal church in england. the curse of east jersey's existence was to be always an appendage of new york, or to be threatened with that condition. the inhabitants now had to enter their vessels and pay duties at new york. writs were issued by order of the king putting both the jerseys and all new england under the new york governor. step by step the plans for amalgamation and despotism moved on successfully, when suddenly the english revolution of put an end to the whole magnificent scheme, drove the king into exile, and placed william of orange on the throne. the proprietaries of both jerseys reassumed their former authority. but the new york assembly attempted to exercise control over east jersey and to levy duties on its exports. the two provinces were soon on the eve of a little war. for twelve or fifteen years east jersey was in disorder, with seditious meetings, mob rule, judges and sheriffs attacked while performing their duty, the proprietors claiming quitrents from the people, the people resisting, and the british privy council threatening a suit to take the province from the proprietors and make a crown colony of it. the period is known in the history of this colony as "the revolution." under the threat of the privy council to take over the province, the proprietors of both east and west jersey surrendered their rights of political government, retaining their ownership of land and quitrents, and the two jerseys were united under one government in . its subsequent history demands another chapter. chapter xi. the united jerseys the quaker colonists grouped round burlington and salem, on the delaware, and the scotch covenanters and new england colonists grouped around perth amboy and newark, near the mouth of the hudson, made up the two jerseys. neither colony had a numerous population, and the stretch of country lying between them was during most of the colonial period a wilderness. it is now crossed by the railway from trenton to new york. it has always been a line of travel from the delaware to the hudson. at first there was only an indian trail across it, but after there was a road, and after a stage route. in , while still separated by this wilderness, the two jerseys were united politically by the proprietors voluntarily surrendering all their political rights to the crown. the political distinction between east jersey and west jersey was thus abolished; their excellent free constitutions were rendered of doubtful authority; and from that time to the revolution they constituted one colony under the control of a royal governor appointed by the crown. the change was due to the uncertainty and annoyance caused for their separate governments when their right to govern was in doubt owing to interference on the part of new york and the desire of the king to make them a crown colony. the original grant of the duke of york to the proprietors berkeley and carteret had given title to the soil but had been silent as to the right to govern. the first proprietors and their successors had always assumed that the right to govern necessarily accompanied this gift of the land. such a privilege, however, the crown was inclined to doubt. william penn was careful to avoid this uncertainty when he received his charter for pennsylvania. profiting by the sad example of the jerseys, he made sure that he was given both the title to the soil and the right to govern. the proprietors, however, now surrendered only their right to govern the jerseys and retained their ownership of the land; and the people always maintained that they, on their part, retained all the political rights and privileges which had been granted them by the proprietors. and these rights were important, for the concessions or constitutions granted by the proprietors under the advanced quaker influence of the time were decidedly liberal. the assemblies, as the legislatures were called, had the right to meet and adjourn as they pleased, instead of having their meetings and adjournments dictated by the governor. this was an important right and one which the crown and royal governors were always trying to restrict or destroy, because it made an assembly very independent. this contest for colonial rights was exactly similar to the struggle of the english parliament for liberty against the supposed right of the stuart kings to call and adjourn parliament as they chose. if the governor could adjourn the assembly when he pleased, he could force it to pass any laws he wanted or prevent its passing any laws at all. the two jersey assemblies under their quaker constitutions also had the privilege of making their own rules of procedure, and they had jurisdiction over taxes, roads, towns, militia, and all details of government. these rights of a legislature are familiar enough now to all. very few people realize, however, what a struggle and what sacrifices were required to attain them. the rest of new jersey colonial history is made up chiefly of struggles over these two questions--the rights of the proprietors and their quitrents as against the people, and the rights of the new assembly as against the crown. there were thus three parties, the governor and his adherents, the proprietors and their friends, and the assembly and the people. the proprietors had the best of the change, for they lost only their troublesome political power and retained their property. they never, however, received such financial returns from the property as the sons of william penn enjoyed from pennsylvania. but the union of the jerseys seriously curtailed the rights enjoyed by the people under the old government, and all possibility of a quaker government in west jersey was ended. it was this experience in the jerseys, no doubt, that caused william penn to require so many safeguards in selling his political rights in pennsylvania to the crown that the sale was, fortunately for the colony, never completed. the assembly under the union met alternately at perth amboy and at burlington. lord cornbury, the first governor, was also governor of new york, a humiliating arrangement that led to no end of trouble. the executive government, the press, and the judiciary were in the complete control of the crown and the governor, who was instructed to take care that "god almighty be duly served according to the rites of the church of england, and the traffic in merchantable negroes encouraged." cornbury contemptuously ignored the assembly's right to adjourn and kept adjourning it till one was elected which would pass the laws he wanted. afterwards the assemblies were less compliant, and, under the lead of two able men, lewis morris of east jersey and samuel jennings, a quaker of west jersey, they stood up for their rights and complained to the mother country. but cornbury went on fighting them, granted monopolies, established arbitrary fees, prohibited the proprietors from selling their lands, prevented three members of the assembly duly elected from being sworn, and was absent in new york so much of the time that the laws went unexecuted and convicted murderers wandered about at large. in short, he went through pretty much the whole list of offenses of a corrupt and good-for-nothing royal governor of colonial times. the union of the two colonies consequently seemed to involve no improvement over former conditions. at last, the protests and appeals of proprietors and people prevailed, and cornbury was recalled. quieter times followed, and in new jersey had the satisfaction of obtaining a governor all her own. the new york governor had always neglected jersey affairs, was difficult of access, made appointments and administered justice in the interests of new york, and forced jersey vessels to pay registration fees to new york. amid great rejoicing over the change, the crown appointed the popular leader, lewis morris, as governor. but by a strange turn of fate, when once secure in power, he became a most obstinate upholder of royal prerogative, worried the assembly with adjournments, and, after cornbury, was the most obnoxious of all the royal governors. the governors now usually made burlington their capital and it became, on that account, a place of much show and interest. the last colonial governor was william franklin, an illegitimate son of benjamin franklin, and he would probably have made a success of the office if the revolution had not stopped him. he had plenty of ability, affable manners, and was full of humor and anecdote like his father, whom he is said to have somewhat resembled. he had combined in youth a fondness for books with a fondness for adventure, was comptroller of the colonial post office and clerk of the pennsylvania assembly, served a couple of campaigns in the french and indian wars, went to england with his father in , was admitted to the english bar, attained some intimacy with the earl of bute and lord fairfax, and through the latter obtained the governorship of new jersey in . the people were at first much displeased at his appointment and never entirely got over his illegitimate birth and his turning from whig to tory as soon as his appointment was secured. but he advanced the interests of the colony with the home government and favored beneficial legislation. he had an attractive wife, and they entertained, it is said, with viceregal elegance, and started a fine model farm or country place on the north shore of the rancocas not far from the capital at burlington. franklin was drawing the province together and building it up as a community, but his extreme loyalist principles in the revolution destroyed his chance for popularity and have obscured his reputation. though the population of new jersey was a mixed one, judged by the very distinct religious differences of colonial times, yet racially it was thoroughly anglo-saxon and a good stock to build upon. at the time of the revolution in the people numbered only about , , indicating a slow growth; but when the first census of the united states was taken, in , they numbered , . the natural division of the state into north and south jersey is marked by a line from trenton to jersey city. the people of these two divisions were quite as distinct in early times as striking differences in environment and religion could make them. even in the inevitable merging of modern life the two regions are still distinct socially, economically, and intellectually. along the dividing line the two types of the population, of course, merged and here was produced and is still to be found the jerseyman of the composite type. trenton, the capital of the state, is very properly in the dividing belt. it was named after william trent, a philadelphia merchant who had been speaker of the pennsylvania assembly and who became chief justice of new jersey. long ages before white men came trenton seems to have been a meeting place and residence of the indians or preceding races of stone age men. antiquarians have estimated that fifty thousand stone implements have been found in it. as it was at the head of tidewater, at the so-called falls of the delaware, it was apparently a center of travel and traffic from other regions. from the top of the bluff below the modern city of trenton there was easy access to forests of chestnut, oak, and pine, with their supplies of game, while the river and its tributary creeks were full of fish. it was a pleasant and convenient place where the people of prehistoric times apparently met and lingered during many centuries without necessarily having a large resident population at any one time. trenton was so obviously convenient and central in colonial times that it was seriously proposed as a site for the national capital. princeton university, though originating, as we have seen, among the presbyterians of north jersey, seems as a higher educational institution for the whole state to belong naturally in the dividing belt, the meeting place of the two divisions of the colony. the college began its existence at elizabeth, was then moved to newark, both in the strongly presbyterian region, and finally, in , was established at princeton, a more suitable place, it was thought, because far removed from the dissipation and temptation of towns, and because it was in the center of the colony on the post road between philadelphia and new york. though chartered as the college of new jersey, it was often called nassau hall at princeton or simply "princeton." in it became known officially as princeton university. it was a hard struggle to found the college with lotteries and petty subscriptions here and there. but presbyterians in new york and other provinces gave aid. substantial assistance was also obtained from the presbyterians of england and scotland. in the old pamphlets of the time which have been preserved the founders of the college argued that higher education was needed not only for ministers of religion, but for the bench, the bar, and the legislature. the two new england colleges, harvard and yale, on the north, and the virginia college of william and mary on the south, were too far away. there must be a college close at hand. at first most of the graduates entered the presbyterian ministry. but soon in the short time before the revolution there were produced statesmen such as richard stockton of new jersey, who signed the declaration of independence; physicians such as dr. benjamin rush of philadelphia; soldiers such as "light horse" harry lee of virginia; as well as founders of other colleges, governors of states, lawyers, attorney-generals, judges, congressmen, and indeed a very powerful assemblage of intellectual lights. nor should the names of james madison, aaron burr, and jonathan edwards be omitted. east jersey with her new england influence attempted something like free public schools. in west jersey the quakers had schools. in both jerseys, after some private neighborhood schools were started, independent of religious denominations. the west jersey quakers, self-cultured and with a very effective system of mental discipline and education in their families as well as in their schools, were not particularly interested in higher education. but in east jersey as another evidence of intellectual awakening in colonial times, queen's college, afterward known as rutgers college, was established by the dutch reformed church in , and was naturally placed, near the old source of dutch influence, at new brunswick in the northerly end of the dividing belt. new jersey was fortunate in having no indian wars in colonial times, no frontier, no point of hostile contact with the french of canada or with the powerful western tribes of red men. like rhode island in this respect, she was completely shut in by the other colonies. once or twice only did bands of savages cross the delaware and commit depredations on jersey soil. this colony, however, did her part in sending troops and assistance to the others in the long french and indian wars; but she had none of the pressing danger and experience of other colonies. her people were never drawn together by a common danger until the revolution. in jersey colonial homes there was not a single modern convenience of light, heat, or cooking, and none of the modern amusements. but there was plenty of good living and simple diversion--husking bees and shooting in the autumn, skating and sleighing in the winter. meetings and discussions in coffeehouses and inns supplied in those days the place of our modern books, newspapers, and magazines. jersey inns were famous meeting places. everybody passed through their doors--judges, lawyers, legislators, politicians, post riders, stage drivers, each bringing his contribution of information and humor, and the slaves and rabble stood round to pick up news and see the fun. the court days in each county were holidays celebrated with games of quoits, running, jumping, feasting, and discussions political and social. at the capital there was even style and extravagance. governor belcher, for example, who lived at burlington, professed to believe that the quaker influences of that town were not strict enough in keeping the sabbath, so he drove every sunday in his coach and four to philadelphia to worship in the presbyterian church there and saw no inconsistency in his own behavior. almanacs furnished much of the reading for the masses. the few newspapers offered little except the barest chronicle of events. the books of the upper classes were good though few, and consisted chiefly of the classics of english literature and books of information and travel. the diaries and letters of colonial native jerseymen, the pamphlets of the time, and john woolman's "journal," all show a good average of education and an excellent use of the english language. samuel smith's "history of the colony of nova-casaria, or new jersey," written and printed at burlington and published there in the year , is written in a good and even attractive style, with as intelligent a grasp of political events as any modern mind could show; the type, paper, and presswork, too, are excellent. smith was born and educated in this same new jersey town. he became a member of council and assembly, at one time was treasurer of the province, and his manuscript historical collections were largely used by robert proud in his "history of pennsylvania." the early houses of new jersey were of heavy timbers covered with unpainted clapboards, usually one story and a half high, with immense fireplaces, which, with candles, supplied the light. the floors were scrubbed hard and sprinkled with the plentiful white sand. carpets, except the famous old rag carpets, were very rare. the old wooden houses have now almost entirely disappeared; but many of the brick houses which succeeded them are still preserved. they are of simple well-proportioned architecture, of a distinctive type, less luxuriant, massive, and exuberant than those across the river in pennsylvania, although both evidently derived from the christopher wren school. the old jersey homes seem to reflect with great exactness the simple feeling of the people and to be one expression of the spirit of jersey democracy. there were no important seats of commerce in this province. exports of wheat, provisions, and lumber went to philadelphia or new york, which were near and convenient. the jersey shores near the mouth of the hudson and along the delaware, as at camden, presented opportunities for ports, but the proximity to the two dominating ports prevented the development of additional harbors in this part of the coast. it was not until after the revolution that camden, opposite philadelphia, and jersey city, opposite new york, grew into anything like their present importance. there were, however, a number of small ports and shipbuilding villages in the jerseys. it is a noticeable fact that in colonial times and even later there were very few jersey towns beyond the head of tidewater. the people, even the farmers, were essentially maritime. the province showed its natural maritime characteristics, produced many sailors, and built innumerable small vessels for the coasting and west india trade--sloops, schooners, yachts, and sailboats, down to the tiniest gunning boat and sneak box. perth amboy was the principal port and shipbuilding center for east jersey as salem was for west jersey. but burlington, bordentown, cape may, and trenton, and innumerable little villages up creeks and channels or mere ditches could not be kept from the prevailing industry. they built craft up to the limit of size that could be floated away in the water before their very doors. plentifully supplied with excellent oak and pine and with the admirable white cedar of their own forests, very skillful shipwrights grew up in every little hamlet. a large part of the capital used in jersey shipbuilding is said to have come from philadelphia and new york. at first this capital sought its profit in whaling along the coast and afterwards in the trade with the west indies, which for a time absorbed so much of the shipping of all the colonies in america. the inlets and beaches along the jersey coast now given over to summer resorts were first used for whaling camps or bases. cape may and tuckerton were started and maintained by whaling; and as late as , it is said, there were still signs of the industry on long beach. except for the whaling, the beaches were uninhabited--wild stretches of sand, swarming with birds and wild fowl, without a lighthouse or lifesaving station. in the revolution, when the british fleet blockaded the delaware and new york, little egg, the safest of the inlets, was used for evading the blockade. vessels entered there and sailed up the mullica river to the head of navigation, whence the goods were distributed by wagons. to conceal their vessels when anchored just inside an inlet, the privateersmen would stand slim pine trees beside the masts and thus very effectively concealed the rigging from british cruisers prowling along the shore. along with the whaling industry the risks and seclusion of the inlets and channels developed a romantic class of gentlemen, as handy with musket and cutlass as with helm and sheet, fond of easy, exciting profits, and reaping where they had not sown. they would start legally enough, for they began as privateersmen under legal letters of marque in the wars. but the step was a short one to a traffic still more profitable; and for a hundred years jersey customs officers are said to have issued documents which were ostensibly letters of marque but which really abetted a piratical cruise. piracy was, however, in those days a semi-legitimate offense, winked at by the authorities all through the colonial period; and respectable people and governors and officials of new york and north carolina, it is said, secretly furnished funds for such expeditions and were interested in the profits. chapter xii. little delaware delaware was the first colony to be established on the river that bears this name. it went through half a century of experiences under the dutch and swedes from to , and then eighteen years under the english rule of the duke of york, from whom it passed into the hands of william penn, the quaker. the dutch got into it by an accident and were regarded by the english as interlopers. and the swedes who followed had no better title. the whole north atlantic seaboard was claimed by england by virtue of the discoveries of the cabots, father and son; but nearly a hundred years elapsed before england took advantage of this claim by starting the virginia colony near the mouth of the chesapeake bay in . and nearly a quarter of a century more elapsed before englishmen settled on the shores of massachusetts bay. those were the two points most accessible to ships and most favorable for settlement. the middle ground of the delaware and hudson regions was not so easily entered and remained unoccupied. the mouth of the delaware was full of shoals and was always difficult to navigate. the natural harbor at the mouth of the hudson was excellent, but the entrance to it was not at first apparent. into these two regions, however, the dutch chanced just after the english had effected the settlement of jamestown in virginia. the dutch had employed an englishman named henry hudson and sent him in in a small ship called the half moon to find a passage to china and india by way of the arctic ocean. turned back by the ice in the arctic, he sailed down the coast of north america, and began exploring the middle ground from the virginia settlement, which he seems to have known about; and, working cautiously northward along the coast and feeling his way with the lead line, he soon entered delaware bay. but finding it very difficult of navigation he departed and, proceeding in the same careful way up along the coast of new jersey, he finally entered the harbor of new york and sailed up the hudson far enough to satisfy himself that it was not the desired course to china. this exploration gave the dutch their claim to the delaware and hudson regions. but though it was worthless as against the english right by discovery of the cabots, the dutch went ahead with their settlement, established their headquarters and seat of government on manhattan island, where new york stands today, and exercised as much jurisdiction and control as they could on the delaware. their explorations of the delaware, feeling their way up it with small light draft vessels among its shoals and swift tides, their travels on land--shooting wild turkeys on the site of the present busy town of chester--and their adventures with the indians are full of interest. the immense quantities of wild fowl and animal and bird life along the shores astonished them; but what most aroused their cupidity was the enormous supply of furs, especially beaver and otter, that could be obtained from the indians. furs became their great, in fact, their only interest in the delaware. they established forts, one near cape henlopen at the mouth of the river, calling it fort oplandt, and another far up the river on the jersey side at the mouth of timber creek, nearly opposite the present site of philadelphia, and this they called fort nassau. fort oplandt was destroyed by the indians and its people were massacred. fort nassau was probably occupied only at intervals. these two posts were built mainly to assist the fur trade, and any attempts at real settlement were slight and unsuccessful. meantime about the year the swedes heard of the wonderful opportunities on the delaware. the swedish monarch, gustavus adolphus, a man of broad ambitions and energetic mind, heard about the delaware from willem usselinx, a merchant of antwerp who had been actively interested in the formation of the dutch west india company to trade in the dutch possessions in america. having quarreled with the directors, usselinx had withdrawn from the netherlands and now offered his services to sweden. the swedish court, nobles, and people, all became enthusiastic about the project which he elaborated for a great commercial company to trade and colonize in asia, africa, and america. * but the plan was dropped because, soon after , gustavus adolphus led his country to intervene on the side of the protestants in the thirty years' war in germany, where he was killed three years later at the battle of lutzen. but the desire aroused by usselinx for a swedish colonial empire was revived in the reign of his infant daughter, christina, by the celebrated swedish chancellor, oxenstierna. * see "willem usselinx," by j. f. jameson in the "papers of the american historical association," vol. ii. an expedition, which actually reached the delaware in , was sent out under another dutch renegade, peter minuit, who had been governor of new netherland and after being dismissed from office was now leading this swedish enterprise to occupy part of the territory he had formerly governed for the dutch. his two ships sailed up the delaware and with good judgment landed at the present site of wilmington. at that point a creek carrying a depth of over fourteen feet for ten miles from its mouth flowed into the delaware. the dutch had called this creek minquas, after the tribe of indians; the swedes named it the christina after their infant queen; and in modern times it has been corrupted into christiana. they sailed about two and a half miles through its delta marshes to some rocks which formed a natural wharf and which still stand today at the foot of sixth street in wilmington. this was the plymouth rock of delaware. level land, marshes, and meadows lay along the christina, the remains of the delta which the stream had formed in the past. on the edge of the delta or moorland, rocky hills rose, forming the edge of the piedmont, and out of them from the north flowed a fine large stream, the brandywine, which fell into the christina just before it entered the delaware. here in the delta their engineer laid out a town, called christinaham, and a fort behind the rocks on which they had landed. a cove in the christina made a snug anchorage for their ships, out of the way of the tide. they then bought from the indians all the land from cape henlopen to the falls of the delaware at trenton, calling it new sweden and the delaware new swedeland stream. the people of delaware have always regarded new sweden as the beginning of their state, and peter minuit, the leader of this swedish expedition, always stands first on the published lists of their governors. on their arrival in the river in the spring of , the swedes found no evidences of permanent dutch colonization. neither fort oplandt nor fort nassau was then occupied. they always maintained that the dutch had abandoned the river, and that it was therefore open to the swedes for occupation, especially after they had purchased the indian title. it was certainly true that the dutch efforts to plant colonies in that region had failed; and since the last attempt by de vries, six years had elapsed. on the other hand, the dutch contended that they had in that time put fort nassau in repair, although they had not occupied it, and that they kept a few persons living along the jersey shore of the river, possibly the remains of the nassau colony, to watch all who visited it. these people had immediately notified the dutch governor kieft at new amsterdam of the arrival of the swedes, and he promptly issued a protest against the intrusion. but his protest was neither very strenuous nor was it followed up by hostile action, for sweden and holland were on friendly terms. sweden, the great champion of protestant europe, had intervened in the thirty years' war to save the protestants of germany. the dutch had just finished a similar desperate war of eighty years for freedom from the papal despotism of spain. dutch and swedes had, therefore, every reason to be in sympathy with each other. the swedes, a plain, strong, industrious people, as william penn aptly called them, were soon, however, seriously interfering with the dutch fur trade and in the first year, it is said, collected thirty thousand skins. if this is true, it is an indication of the immense supply of furbearing animals, especially beaver, available at that time. for the next twenty-five years dutch and swedes quarreled and sometimes fought over their respective claims. but it is significant of the difficulty of retaining a hold on the delaware region that the swedish colonists on the christina after a year or two regarded themselves as a failure and were on the point of abandoning their enterprise, when a vessel, fortunately for them, arrived with cattle, agricultural tools, and immigrants. it is significant also that the immigrants, though in a swedish vessel and under the swedish government, were dutchmen. they formed a sort of separate dutch colony under swedish rule and settled near st. george's and appoquinimink. immigrants apparently were difficult to obtain among the swedes, who were not colonizers like the english. at this very time, in fact, englishmen, puritans from connecticut, were slipping into the delaware region under the leadership of nathaniel turner and george lamberton, and were buying the land from the indians. about sixty settled near salem, new jersey, and some on the schuylkill in pennsylvania, close to fort nassau--an outrageous piece of audacity, said the dutch, and an insult to their "high mightinesses and the noble directors of the west india company." so the schuylkill english were accordingly driven out, and their houses were burned. the swedes afterwards expelled the english from salem and from the cohansey, lower down the bay. later the english were allowed to return, but they seem to have done little except trade for furs and beat off hostile indians. the seat of the swedish government was moved in from the christina to tinicum, one of the islands of the schuylkill delta, with an excellent harbor in front of it which is now the home of the yacht clubs of philadelphia. here they built a fort of logs, called fort gothenborg, a chapel with a graveyard, and a mansion house for the governor, and this remained the seat of swedish authority as long as they had any on the river. from here governor printz, a portly irascible old soldier, said to have weighed "upwards of pounds and taken three drinks at every meal," ruled the river. he built forts on the schuylkill and worried the dutch out of the fur trade. he also built a fort called nya elfsborg, afterward elsinboro, on the jersey side below salem. by means of this fort he was able to command the entrance to the river and compelled every dutch ship to strike her colors and acknowledge the sovereignty of sweden. some he prevented from going up the river at all; others he allowed to pass on payment of toll or tribute. he gave orders to destroy every trading house or fort which the dutch had built on the schuylkill, and to tear down the coat of arms and insignia which the dutch had placed on a post on the site of philadelphia. the swedes now also bought from the indians and claimed the land on the jersey side from cape may up to raccoon creek, opposite the modern chester. the best place to trade with the indians for furs was the schuylkill river, which flowed into the delaware at a point where philadelphia was afterwards built. there were at that time indian villages where west philadelphia now stands. the headwaters of streams flowing into the schuylkill were only a short distance from the headwaters of streams flowing into the susquehanna, so that the valley of the schuylkill formed the natural highway into the interior of pennsylvania. the route to the ohio river followed the schuylkill for some thirty or forty miles, turned up one of its tributaries to its source, then crossed the watershed to the head of a stream flowing into the susquehanna, thence to the juniata, at the head of which the trail led over a short divide to the head of the conemaugh, which flowed into the allegheny, and the allegheny into the ohio. some of the swedes and dutch appear to have followed this route with the indians as early as . the ohio and allegheny region was inhabited by the black minquas, so called from their custom of wearing a black badge on their breast. the ohio, indeed, was first called the black minquas river. as the country nearer the delaware was gradually denuded of beaver, these black minquas became the great source of supply and carried the furs, over the route described, to the schuylkill. the white minquas lived further east, round chesapeake and delaware bays, and, though spoken of as belonging by language to the great iroquois or six nation stock, were themselves conquered and pretty much exterminated by the six nations. the black minquas, believed to be the same as the eries of the jesuit relations, were also practically exterminated by the six nations. * * myers, "narratives of early pennsylvania", pp. - . the furs brought down the schuylkill were deposited at certain rocks two or three miles above its mouth at bartram's gardens, now one of the city parks of philadelphia. on these rocks, then an island in the schuylkill, the swedes built a fort which completely commanded the river and cut the dutch off from the fur trade. they built another fort on the other side of bartram's gardens along the meadow near what is now gibson's point; and governor printz had a great mill a couple of miles away on cobb's creek, where the old blue bell tavern has long stood. these two forts protected the mill and the indian villages in west philadelphia. one would like to revisit the delaware of those days and see all its wild life and game, its islands and shoals, its virgin forests as they had grown up since the glacial age, untouched by the civilization of the white man. there were then more islands in the river, the water was clearer, and there were pretty pebble and sandy beaches now overlaid by mud brought down from vast regions of the valley no longer protected by forests from the wash of the rains. on a wooded island below salem, long since cut away by the tides, the pirate blackhead and his crew are said to have passed a winter. the waters of the river spread out wide at every high tide over marshes and meadows, turning them twice a day for a few hours into lakes, grown up in summer with red and yellow flowers and the graceful wild oats, or reeds, tasseled like indian corn. at christinaham, in the delta of the christina and the brandywine, the tide flowed far inland to the rocks on which minuit's swedish expedition landed, leaving one dry spot called cherry island, a name still borne by a shoal in the river. fort christina, on the edge of the overflowed meadow, with the rocky promontory of hills behind it, its church and houses, and a wide prospect across the delta and river, was a fair spot in the old days. the indians came down the christina in their canoes or overland, bringing their packs of beaver, otter, and deer skins, their tobacco, corn, and venison to exchange for the cloth, blankets, tools, and gaudy trinkets that pleased them. it must often have been a scene of strange life and coloring, and it is difficult today to imagine it all occurring close to the spot where the pennsylvania railroad station now stands in wilmington. when doughty peter stuyvesant became governor of new netherland, he determined to assert dutch authority once more on the south river, as the delaware was called in distinction from the hudson. as the swedes now controlled it by their three forts, not a dutch ship could reach fort nassau without being held up at fort elfsborg or at fort christina or at the fort at tinicum. it was a humiliating situation for the haughty spirit of the dutch governor. to open the river to dutch commerce again, stuyvesant marched overland in through the wilderness, with one hundred and twenty men and, abandoning fort nassau, built a new fort on a fine promontory which then extended far out into the river below christina. today the place is known as new castle; the dutch commonly referred to it as sandhoeck or sand point; the english called it grape vine point. stuyvesant named it fort casimir. the tables were now turned: the dutch could retaliate upon swedish shipping. but the swedes were not so easily to be dispossessed. three years later a new swedish governor named rising arrived in the river with a number of immigrants and soldiers. he sailed straight up to fort casimir, took it by surprise, and ejected the dutch garrison of about a dozen men. as the successful coup occurred on trinity sunday, the swedes renamed the place fort trinity. the whole population--dutch and swede, but in mostly swede--numbered only persons. before the arrival of rising there had been only seventy. it seems a very small number about which to be writing history; but small as it was their "high mightinesses," as the government of the united netherlands was called, were determined to avenge on even so small a number the insult of the capture of fort casimir. drums, it is said, were beaten every day in holland to call for recruits to go to america. gunners, carpenters, and powder were collected. a ship of war was sent from holland, accompanied by two other vessels whose names alone, great christopher and king solomon, should have been sufficient to scare all the swedes. at new amsterdam, stuyvesant labored night and day to fit out the expedition. a french privateer which happened to be in the harbor was hired. several other vessels, in all seven ships, and six or seven hundred men, with a chaplain called megapolensis, composed this mighty armament gathered together to drive out the handful of poor hardworking swedes. a day of fasting and prayer was held and the almighty was implored to bless this mighty expedition which, he was assured, was undertaken for "the glory of his name." it was the absurdity of such contrasts as this running all through the annals of the dutch in america that inspired washington irving to write his infinitely humorous "history of new york from the beginning of the world to the end of the dutch dynasty," by "diedrich knickerbocker." it is difficult for an anglo-saxon to take the dutch in america seriously. what can you do with a people whose imagination allowed them to give such names to their ships as weigh scales, spotted cow, and the pear tree? so irving described the taking of fort casimir in mock heroic manner. he describes the marshaling of the dutch hosts of new york by families, the van grolls of anthony's nose, the brinkerhoffs, the van kortlandts, the van bunschotens of nyack and kakiat, the fighting men of wallabout, the van pelts, the say dams, the van dams, and all the warriors of hellgate "clad in their thunder-and-lightning gaberdines," and lastly the standard bearers and bodyguards of peter stuyvesant, bearing the great beaver of the manhattan. "and now commenced the horrid din, the desperate struggle, the maddening ferocity, the frantic desperation, the confusion and self-abandonment of war. dutchman and swede commingled, tugged, panted, and blowed. the heavens were darkened with a tempest of missives. bang! went the guns; whack! went the broadswords; thump! went the cudgels; crash! went the musket-stocks; blows, kicks, cuffs, scratches, black eyes and bloody noses swelling the horrors of the scene! thick, thwack, cut and hack, helter-skelter, higgledy-piggledy, hurly-burly, heads-over-heels, rough-and-tumble! dunder and blixum! swore the dutchmen; splitter and splutter! cried the swedes. storm the works! shouted hardkoppig peter. fire the mine! roared stout rising--tantarar-ra-ra! twanged the trumpet of antony van corlear;--until all voice and sound became unintelligible,--grunts of pain, yells of fury, and shouts of triumph mingling in one hideous clamor. the earth shook as if struck with a paralytic stroke; trees shrunk aghast, and withered at the sight; rocks burrowed in the ground like rabbits; and even christina creek turned from its course, and ran up a hill in breathless terror!" as a matter of fact, the fort surrendered without a fight on september , . it was thereupon christened new amstel, afterwards new castle, and was for a long time the most important town on the delaware. this achievement put the dutch in complete authority over the swedes on both sides of the river. the swedes, however, were content, abandoned politics, secluded themselves on their farms, and left politics to the dutch. trade, too, they left to the dutch, who, in their effort to monopolize it, almost killed it. this conquest by their high mightinesses also ended the attempts of the new englanders, particularly the people of new haven, to get a foothold in the neighborhood of salem, new jersey, for which they had been struggling for years. they had dreams of a great lake far to northward full of beaver to which the delaware would lead them. their efforts to establish themselves survived in one or two names of places near salem, as, for example, new england creek, and new england channel, which down almost into our own time was found on charts marking one of the minor channels of the bay along the jersey shore. they continued coming to the river in ships to trade in spite of restrictions by the dutch; and some of them in later years, as has been pointed out, secured a foothold on the cohansey and in the cape may region, where their descendants are still to be found. chapter xiii. the english conquest it is a curious fact that the ancestor of the numerous beekman family in new york, after whom beekman street is named, was for a time one of the dutch governors on the delaware who afterwards became the sheriff of esopus, new york. his successor on the delaware had some thoughts of removing the capital down to odessa on the appoquinimink, when an event long dreaded happened. in , war broke out between england and holland, long rivals in trade and commerce, and all the dutch possessions in the new world fell an easy prey to english conquerors. a british fleet took possession of new amsterdam, which surrendered without a struggle. but when two british men of war under sir robert carr appeared before new amstel on the delaware, governor d'hinoyossa unwisely resisted; and his untenable fort was quickly subdued by a few broadsides and a storming party. this opposition gave the conquering party, according to the custom of the times, the right to plunder; and it must be confessed that the english soldiers made full use of their opportunity. they plundered the town and confiscated the land of prominent citizens for the benefit of the officers of the expedition. after the english conquest on the delaware, not a few of the dutch migrated to maryland, where their descendants, it is said, are still to be found. some in later years returned to the delaware, where on the whole, notwithstanding the early confiscations, english rule seemed to promise well. the very first documents, the terms of surrender both on the delaware and on the hudson, breathed an air of anglo-saxon freedom. everybody was at liberty to come and go at will. hollanders could migrate to the delaware or to new york as much as before. the dutch soldiers in the country, if they wished to remain, were to have fifty acres of land apiece. this generous settlement seemed in striking contrast to the pinching, narrow interference with trade and individual rights, the seizures and confiscations for private gain, all under pretense of punishment, bad enough on the delaware but worse at new amsterdam, which had characterized the rule of the dutch. the duke of york, to whom delaware was given, introduced trial by jury, settled private titles, and left undisturbed the religion and local customs of the people. but the political rule of the duke was absolute as became a stuart. he arbitrarily taxed exports and imports. executive, judicial, and legislative powers were all vested in his deputy governor at new york or in creatures appointed and controlled by him. it was the sort of government the duke hoped to impose upon all great britain when he should come to the throne, and he was trying his 'prentice hand in the colonies. a political rebellion against this despotism was started on the delaware by a man named konigsmarke, or the long finn, aided by an englishman, henry coleman. they were captured and tried for treason, their property was confiscated, and the long finn branded with the letter r, and sold as a slave in the barbados. they might be called the first martyrs to foreshadow the english revolution of which ended forever the despotic reign of the stuarts. the swedes continued to form the main body of people on the delaware under the regime of the duke of york, and at the time when william penn took possession of the country in their settlements extended from new castle up through christina, marcus hook, upland (now chester), tinicum, kingsessing in the modern west philadelphia, passyunk, wicaco, both in modern philadelphia, and as far up the river as frankford and pennypack. they had their churches at christina, tinicum, kingsessing, and wicaco. the last, when absorbed by philadelphia, was a pretty little hamlet on the river shore, its farms belonging to a swedish family called swanson whose name is now borne by one of the city's streets. across the river in new jersey, opposite chester, the swedes had settlements on raccoon creek and round swedesboro. these river settlements constituted an interesting and from all accounts a very attractive scandinavian community. their strongest bond of union seems to have been their interest in their lutheran churches on the river. they spread very little into the interior, made few roads, and lived almost exclusively on the river or on its navigable tributaries. one reason they gave for this preference was that it was easier to reach the different churches by boat. there were only about a thousand swedes along the delaware and possibly five hundred of dutch and mixed blood, together with a few english, all living a life of abundance on a fine river amid pleasing scenery, with good supplies of fish and game, a fertile soil, and a wilderness of opportunity to the west of them. all were well pleased to be relieved from the stagnant despotism of the duke of york and to take part in the free popular government of william penn in pennsylvania. they became magistrates and officials, members of the council and of the legislature. they soon found that all their avenues of trade and life were quickened. they passed from mere farmers supplying their own needs to exporters of the products of their farms. descendants of the swedes and dutch still form the basis of the population of delaware. * there were some finns at marcus hook, which was called finland; and it may be noted in passing that there were not a few french among the dutch, as among the germans in pennsylvania, huguenots who had fled from religious persecution in france. the name jaquette, well known in delaware, marks one of these families, whose immigrant ancestor was one of the dutch governors. in the ten or dozen generations since the english conquest intermarriage has in many instances inextricably mixed up swede, dutch, and french, as well as the english stock, so that many persons with dutch names are of swedish or french descent and vice versa, and some with english names like oldham are of dutch descent. there has been apparently much more intermarriage among the different nationalities in the province and less standing aloof than among the alien divisions of pennsylvania. * swedish names anglicized are now found everywhere. gostafsson has become justison and justis. bond has become boon; hoppman, hoffman; kalsberg, colesberry; wihler, wheeler; joccom, yocum; dahlbo, dalbow; konigh, king; kyn, keen; and so on. then there are also such names as wallraven, hendrickson, stedham, peterson, matson, talley, anderson, and the omnipresent rambo, which have suffered little, if any, change. dutch names are also numerous, such as lockermans, vandever, van dyke, vangezel, vandegrift, alricks, statts, van zandt, hyatt, cochran (originally kolchman), vance, and blackstone (originally blackenstein). after the english conquest some irish presbyterians or scotch-irish entered delaware. finally came the quakers, comparatively few in colonial times but more numerous after the revolution, especially in wilmington and its neighborhood. true to their characteristics, they left descendants who have become the most prominent and useful citizens down into our own time. at present wilmington has become almost as distinctive a quaker town as philadelphia. "thee" and "thou" are frequently heard in the streets, and a surprisingly large proportion of the people of prominence and importance are quakers or of quaker descent. many of the neat and pleasant characteristics of the town are distinctly of quaker origin; and these characteristics are found wherever quaker influence prevails. wilmington was founded about by thomas willing, an englishman, who had married into the swedish family of justison. he laid out a few streets on his wife's land on the hill behind the site of old fort christina, in close imitation of the plan of philadelphia, and from that small beginning the present city grew, and was at first called willingtown. * william shipley, a pennsylvania quaker born in england, bought land in it in , and having more capital than willing, pushed the fortunes of the town more rapidly. he probably had not a little to do with bringing quakers to wilmington; indeed, their first meetings were held in a house belonging to him until they could build a meeting house of their own in . * some years later in a borough charter granted by penn, the name was changed to wilmington in honor of the earl of wilmington. both shipley and willing had been impressed with the natural beauty of the situation, the wide view over the level moorland and green marsh and across the broad river to the jersey shore, as well as by the natural conveniences of the place for trade and commerce. wilmington has ever since profited by its excellent situation, with the level moorland for industry, the river for traffic, and the first terraces or hills of the piedmont for residence; and, for scenery, the brandywine tumbling through rocks and bowlders in a long series of rapids. the custom still surviving in wilmington of punishing certain classes of criminals by whipping appears to have originated in the days of willing and shipley, about the year , when a cage, stocks, and whipping-post were erected. they were placed in the most conspicuous part of the town, and there the culprit, in addition to his legal punishment, was also disciplined at the discretion of passers-by with rotten eggs and other equally potent encouragements to reform. these gratuitous inflictions, not mentioned in the statute, as well as the public exhibition of the prisoner were abolished in later times and in this modified form the method of correction was extended to the two other counties. sometimes a cat-o'nine-tails was used, sometimes a rawhide whip, and sometimes a switch cut from a tree. nowadays, however, all the whipping for the state is done in wilmington, where all prisoners sentenced to whipping in the state are sent. this punishment is found to be so efficacious that its infliction a second time on the same person is exceedingly rare. the most striking relic of the old swedish days in wilmington is the brick and stone church of good proportions and no small beauty, and today one of the very ancient relics of america. it was built by the swedes in to replace their old wooden church, which was on the lower land, and the swedish language was used in the services down to the year , when the building was turned over to the church of england. old peter minuit, the first swedish governor, may possibly have been buried there. the swedes built another pretty chapel--gloria dei, as it was called--at the village of wicaco, on the shore of the delaware where philadelphia afterwards was established. the original building was taken down in , and the present one was erected on its site partly with materials from the church at tinicum. it remained swedish lutheran until , when, like all the swedish chapels, it became the property of the church of england, between which and the swedish lutheran body there was a close affinity, if not in doctrine, at least in episcopal organization. * the old brick church dating from , on the main street of wilmington, is an interesting relic of the colonial scotch-irish presbyterians in delaware, and is now carefully preserved as the home of the historical society. * clay's "annals of the swedes", pp. , - . after delaware had been eighteen years under the duke of york, william penn felt a need of the west side of the river all the way down to the sea to strengthen his ownership of pennsylvania. he also wanted to offset the ambitions of lord baltimore to extend maryland northward. penn accordingly persuaded his friend james, the duke of york, to give him a grant of delaware, which penn thereupon annexed to pennsylvania under the name of the territories or three lower counties. the three counties, new castle, kent, and sussex, * are still the counties of delaware, each one extending across the state and filling its whole length from the hills of the brandywine on the pennsylvania border to the sands of sussex at cape henlopen. the term "territory" has ever since been used in america to describe an outlying province not yet given the privileges of a state. instead of townships, the three delaware counties were divided into "hundreds," an old anglo-saxon county method of division going back beyond the times of alfred the great. delaware is the only state in the union that retains this name for county divisions. the three lower counties were allowed to send representatives to the pennsylvania assembly; and the quakers of delaware have always been part of the yearly meeting in philadelphia. * the original names were new castle, jones's, and hoerekill, as it was called by the dutch, or deal. in , after having been a part of pennsylvania for twenty years, the three lower counties were given home rule and a legislature of their own; but they remained under the governor of pennsylvania until the revolution of . they then became an entirely separate community and one of the thirteen original states. delaware was the first state to adopt the national constitution, and rhode island, its fellow small state, the last. having been first to adopt the constitution, the people of delaware claim that on all national occasions or ceremonies they are entitled to the privilege of precedence. they have every reason to be proud of the representative men they sent to the continental congress, and to the senate in later times. agriculture has, of course, always been the principal occupation on the level fertile land of delaware; and it is agriculture of a high class, for the soil, especially in certain localities, is particularly adapted to wheat, corn, and timothy grass, as well as small fruits. that section of land crossing the state in the region of delaware city and middleton is one of the show regions in america, for crops of wheat and corn. farther south, grain growing is combined with small fruits and vegetables with a success seldom attained elsewhere. agriculturally there is no division of land of similar size quite equal to delaware in fertility. its sand and gravel base with vegetable mold above is somewhat like the southern jersey formation, but it is more productive from having a larger deposit of decayed vegetation. the people of delaware have, indeed, very little land that is not tillable. the problems of poverty, crowding, great cities, and excessive wealth in few hands are practically unknown among them. the foreign commerce of wilmington began in with the building of a brig named after the town, and was continued successfully for a hundred years. at wilmington there has always been a strong manufacturing interest, beginning with the famous colonial flour mills at the falls of the brandywine, and the breadstuffs industry at newport on the christina. with the brandywine so admirably suited to the water-power machinery of those days and the christina deep enough for the ships, wilmington seemed in colonial times to possess an ideal combination of advantages for manufacturing and commerce. the flour mills were followed in by the du pont powder works, which are known all over the world, and which furnished powder for all american wars since the revolution, for the crimean war in europe, and for the allies in the great war. "from the hills of brandywine to the sands of sussex" is an expression the people of delaware use to indicate the whole length of their little state. the beautiful cluster of hills at the northern end dropping into park-like pastures along the shores of the rippling red clay and white clay creeks which form the deep christina with its border of green reedy marshes, is in striking contrast to the wild waste of sands at cape henlopen. yet in one way the brandywine hills are closely connected with those sands, for from these very hills have been quarried the hard rocks for the great breakwater at the cape, behind which the fleets of merchant vessels take refuge in storms. the great sand dunes behind the lighthouse at the cape have their equal nowhere else on the coast. blown by the ocean winds, the dunes work inland, overwhelming a pine forest to the tree tops and filling swamps in their course. the beach is strewn with every type of wreckage of man's vain attempts to conquer the sea. the life saving service men have strange tales to tell and show their collections of coins found along the sand. the old pilots live snugly in their neat houses in pilot row, waiting their turns to take the great ships up through the shoals and sands which were so baffling to henry hudson and his mate one hot august day of the year . the indians of the northern part of delaware are said to have been mostly minquas who lived along the christiana and brandywine, and are supposed to have had a fort on iron hill. the rest of the state was inhabited by the nanticokes, who extended their habitations far down the peninsula, where a river is named after them. they were a division or clan of the delawares or leni lenapes. in the early days they gave some trouble; but shortly before the revolution all left the peninsula in strange and dramatic fashion. digging up the bones of their dead chiefs in , they bore them away to new abodes in the wyoming valley of pennsylvania. some appear to have traveled by land up the delaware to the lehigh, which they followed to its source not far from the wyoming valley. others went in canoes, starting far down the peninsula at the nanticoke river and following along the wild shore of the chesapeake to the susquehanna, up which they went by its eastern branch straight into the wyoming valley. it was a grand canoe trip--a weird procession of tawny, black-haired fellows swinging their paddles day after day, with their freight of ancient bones, leaving the sunny fishing grounds of the nanticoke and the choptank to seek a refuge from the detested white man in the cold mountains of pennsylvania. bibliographical note a large part of the material for the early history of pennsylvania is contained of course in the writings and papers of the founder. the "life of william penn" by s. m. janney ( ) is perhaps the most trustworthy of the older biographies but it is a dull book. a biography written with a modern point of view is "the true william penn" by sydney g. fisher ( ). mrs. colquhoun grant, a descendant of penn has published a book with the title "quaker and courtier: the life and work of william penn" ( ). the manuscript papers of penn now in the possession of the historical society of pennsylvania, together with much new material gathered in england, are soon to be published under the able editorship of albert cook myers. there is a vast literature on the history of quakerism. the "journal of george fox" ( ), penn's "brief account of the rise and progress of the people called quakers" ( ), and robert barclay's "apology for the true christian divinity" ( ) are of first importance for the study of the rise of the society of friends. among the older histories are j.j. gurney's "observations on the religious peculiarities of the society of friends" ( ), james bowden's "history of the society of friends in america," vols. ( - ), and s.m. janney's "history of the religious society of friends," vols. ( - ). two recent histories are of great value: w. c. braithwaite, "the beginnings of quakerism" ( ) and rufus m. jones, "the quakers in the american colonies" ( ). among the older histories of penn's province are "the history of pennsylvania in north america," vols. ( - ), written by robert proud from the quaker point of view and of great value because of the quotations from original documents and letters, and "history of pennsylvania from its discovery by europeans to the declaration of independence in " ( ) by t. f. gordon, largely an epitome of the debates of the pennsylvania assembly which recorded in its minutes in fascinating old-fashioned english the whole history of the province from year to year. franklin's "historical review of the constitution and government of pennsylvania from its origin" ( ) is a storehouse of information about the history of the province in the french and indian wars. much of the history of the province is to be found in the letters of penn, franklin, logan, and lloyd, and in such collections as samuel hazard's "register of pennsylvania," vols. ( - ), "colonial records," vols. ( - ), and "pennsylvania archives" ( -). a vast amount of material is scattered in pamphlets, in files of colonial newspapers like the "pennsylvania gazette," in the publications of the historical society of pennsylvania, and in the "pennsylvania magazine of history and biography" ( -). recent histories of the province have been written by isaac sharpless, "history of quaker government in pennsylvania," vols. ( - ), and by sydney g. fisher, "the making of pennsylvania" ( ) and "pennsylvania, colony and commonwealth" ( ). a scholarly "history of proprietary government in pennsylvania" has been published by william r. shepherd in the "columbia university studies" ( ) and the "relations of pennsylvania with the british government, - " ( ) have been traced with painstaking care by winfred t. root. concerning the racial and religious elements in pennsylvania the following books contribute much valuable information: a. b. faust, "the german element in the united states," vols. ( ); a. c. myers, "immigration of the irish quakers into pennsylvania, - " ( ); s. w. pennypacker, "settlement of germantown, pennsylvania, and the beginning of german immigration to north america" ( ); j. f. sachse, "the german pietists of provincial pennsylvania, - " ( ), and "the german sectarians of pennsylvania, - ," vols. ( - ); l. o. kuhns, "the german and swiss settlements of colonial pennsylvania" ( ); h. j. ford, "the scotch-irish in america" ( ); t. a. glenn, "merion in the welsh tract" ( ). the older histories of new jersey, like those of pennsylvania, contain valuable original material not found elsewhere. among these samuel smith's "the history of the colony of nova casaria, or new jersey" ( ) should have first place. e. b. o'callaghan's "history of new netherland," vols. ( ), and j. r. brodhead's "history of the state of new york," vols. ( , ) contain also information about the jerseys under dutch rule. other important works are: w. a. whitehead's "east jersey under the proprietary governments" (new jersey historical society "collections," vol. , ), and "the english in east and west jersey" in winsor's "narrative and critical history of america," vol. iii, l. q. c. elmer's "the constitution and government of the province and state of new jersey" (new jersey historical society collections, vols. iii and vii, and .) special studies have been made by austin scott, "influence of the proprietors in the founding of new jersey" ( ), and by h. s. cooley, "study of slavery in new jersey" ( ), both in the johns hopkins university "studies;" also by e. p. tanner, "the province of new jersey" ( ) and by e. j. fisher, "new jersey as a royal province, - " ( ) in the columbia university "studies." several county histories yield excellent material concerning the life and times of the colonists, notably isaac mickle's "reminiscences of old gloucester" ( ) and l. t. stevens's "the history of cape may county" ( ) which are real histories written in scholarly fashion and not to be confused with the vulgar county histories gotten up to sell. the dutch and swedish occupation of the lands bordering on the delaware may be followed in the following histories: benjamin ferris, "a history of the original settlements of the delaware" ( ); francis vincent, "a history of the state of delaware" ( ); j. t. scharf, "history of delaware, - ," vols. ( ); karl k. s. sprinchorn, kolonien nya sveriges historia ( ), translated in the "pennsylvania magazine of history and biography," vols. vii and viii. in volume iv of winsor's "narrative and critical history of america" is a chapter contributed by g. b. keen on "new sweden, or the swedes on the delaware." the most recent minute work on the subject is "the swedish settlements on the delaware," vols. ( ) by amandus johnson. [transcriber's note: in appendix i in the original publication the "original latin" and "english translation" are show side by side.] calvert and penn; or the growth of civil and religious liberty in america, as disclosed in the planting of maryland and pennsylvania: [illustration] a discourse by brantz mayer, delivered in philadelphia before the pennsylvania historical society, april, . "se mai turba il ceil sereno "fosco vel di nebbia impura, "quando il sol gli squarcia il seno, "piu sereno il ciel si fa. "rea, discordia, invidia irata "fuga il tempo, e nuda splende. "vincitrice e vendicata. "l'offuscata verita." printed for the pennsylvania historical society by john d toy baltimore calvert and penn. it is a venerable and beautiful rite which commands the chinese not only to establish in their dwellings a hall of ancestors, devoted to memorials of kindred who are dead, but which obliges them, on a certain day of every year, to quit the ordinary toils of life and hasten to the tombs of their forefathers, where, with mingled services of festivity and worship, they pass the hours in honoring the manes of those whom they have either loved or been taught to respect for their virtues. this is a wholesome and ennobling exercise of the memory. it teaches neither a blind allegiance to the past, nor a superstitious reverence for individuals; but it is a recognition of the great truth that no man is a mere isolated being in the great chain of humanity, and that, while we are not selfishly independent of the past, so also, by equal affinity, we are connected with and control the fate of those who are to succeed us in the drama of the world. the time that merges in eternity, sinks like a drop in the ocean, but the deeds of that time, like the drop in the deep, are again exhaled and fitted for new uses; so that although the time be dead, the acts thereof are immortal--for the achieved action never perishes. that which was wrought, in innocence or wrong, is eternal in its results or influences. this reflection inculcates a profound lesson of our responsibility. it teaches us the value of assembling to look over the account of the past; to separate the good from the false; to winnow the historical harvest we may have reaped; to survey the heavens, and find our place on the ocean after the storm. and if such conduct is correct in the general concerns of private life, how much more is it proper when we remember the duty we owe to the founders of great principles,--to the founders of great states,--of great states that have grown into great nations! in this aspect the principle rises to a dignity worthy our profoundest respect. history is the garnered treasure of the past, and it is from the glory or shame of that past, that nations, like individuals, take heart for the coming strife, or sink under irresistible discouragement. is it not well, then, that we, the people of this large country, divided as we are in separate governments, should assemble, at proper seasons, to celebrate the foundations of our time-honored commonwealths; and, while each state casts its annual tribute on the altar of our country, each should brighten its distinctive symbols, before it merges their glory in that great constellation of american nations, which, in the political night that shrouds the world, is the only guiding sign for unfortunate but hopeful humanity! * * * * * when the reformation in england destroyed the supremacy of the roman church, and the court set the example of a new faith, it may readily be supposed, that the people were sorely taxed when called on to select between the dogmas they had always cherished, and those they were authoritatively summoned to adopt. the age was not one either of free discussion or of printing and publication. oral arguments, and not printed appeals, were the only means of reaching the uncultivated minds of the masses, and even of a large portion of the illiterate gentry and aristocracy. if we reflect, with what reverence creeds are, even now, traditionally inherited in families, we must be patient with their entailed tenure in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. the soul of nations cannot be purged of its ancestral faith by acts of parliament. there may be submission to law, external indifference, hypocritical compliance, but, that implicit adoption and correspondent honest action, which flow from conscientious belief, must spring from sources of very different sanctity. when the world contained only one great christian church, the idea of union betwixt that church and the state, was not fraught with the disgusts or dangers that now characterize it. there were then no sects. all were agreed on one faith, one ritual, one interpretation of god's law, and one infallible expositor; nor was it, perhaps, improper that this law--thus ecclesiastically expounded and administered in perfect national unity of faith--should be the rule of civil and political, as well as of religious life. indeed, it is difficult, even now, to separate the ideas; for, inasmuch as god's law is a law of life, and not a mere law of death--inasmuch as it controls all our relations among ourselves and thus defines our practical duty to the almighty--it is difficult, i repeat, to define wherein the law of man should properly differ from the law of god. mere morality--mere political morality,--is nothing but a bastard policy, or another name for expediency, unless it conforms in all its motives, means and results, to religion. in truth, morality, social as well as political, to be vital and not hypocritical, must be religion put into practical exercise. this is the simple, just, and wise reconciliation of religion and good government, which i humbly believe to be, ever and only, founded upon christianity. but it was a sad mistake in other days, to confound a primitive christianity and the dogmas of a historical church. unfortunately for the ancient union of church and state, this great identification of the true christian action of the civil and ecclesiastical bodies, was but a mere fiction, so far as religion was concerned, and a fact, only so far as power was interested. christianity ever has remained, and ever will remain, the same radiant unit; but a church, with irresponsible power--a church which, at best, is but an aggregation of human beings, with all the passions, as well as all the virtues of our race--soon, necessarily, abandons the purity of its early time, and grows into a vast hierarchy, which, founding its claims to authority on divine institution, sways the world, sometimes for good and sometimes for evil, with a power suited to the asserted omnipotence of its origin. but the idea of honest union between church and state was naturally destroyed, in the minds of all right thinking persons, from the moment that there was a secession from the church of rome. the very idea, i assert, was destroyed; for the catholic princes and the sects into which protestants divided themselves, began an internecine war, which, in effect, not only forever obliterated supremacy from the vocabulary of ecclesiastical power, but almost destroyed, by disgracing, the religion in whose name it perpetrated its remorseless cruelties. the social as well as religious anarchy consequent upon the reformation, was soon discerned by the statesmen of england, who took council with prudent ecclesiastics, and, under the authority of law, erected the church of england. in this new establishment they endeavored to substitute for romanism, a new ecclesiastical system, which, by its concessions to the ancient faith, its adoption of novel liberalities, its compromises and its purity, might contain within itself, sufficient elements upon which the adherents of rome might gracefully retreat, and to which the reformers might either advance or become reconciled. this scheme of legislative compromise for a national religion, was doubtless, not merely designed as an amiable neutral ground for the spiritual wants of the people, but as the nucleus of an institution which would gradually, if not at once, transfer to the royalty of england, that spiritual authority which its sovereigns had found it irksome to bear or to control when wielded by the pope. the architects of this modern faith were not wrong in their estimate of the english people, for, perhaps, the great body of the nation willingly adopted the new scheme. yet there were bitter opponents both among the catholics and calvinists, whose extreme violence admitted no compromise, either with each other, or with the church of england. for them there was no resource but in dumbness or rebellion; and, as many a lip opened in complaint or attempted seduction, the legislature originated that charitable and reconciling system of disabilities and penalties, which a pliant judiciary was not slow in enforcing with suitable rigor. while the puritan could often fairly yield a sort of abstinent conformity which saved him from penalties, the roman catholic, who adhered faithfully and conscientiously to his ancestral church, made no compromise with his allegiance. accordingly, on him, the unholy and intolerant law fell with all its persecuting bane. "about the middle of the reign of queen elizabeth there arose among the calvinists, a small body, who bore nearly the same relation to them, which they bore to the great body of the reformed; these were ultra puritans, as they were ultra protestants. these persons deemed it their religious duty to separate themselves entirely from the church, and, in fact, to war against it. the principle upon which they founded themselves, was, that there should be no national church at all, but that the whole nation should be cast in a multitude of small churches or congregations, each self-governed, and having only, as they believed, the officers of which we read in the new testament,--pastor, teacher, elder and deacon."[ ] * * * * * such was the ecclesiastical and political aspect of england, and of a part of scotland, about the period when the first james ascended the british throne. as there is nothing that so deeply concerns our welfare as the rights and duties of our soul, it is not at all singular to find how quickly men became zealous in the assertion of their novel privileges, as soon as they discovered that there were two ways of interpreting god's law, or, at least, two modes of worshiping him,--one wrapped in gorgeous ceremonial, the other stripped in naked simplicity,--and that the right to this interpretation or worship was not only secured by law, but was inherent in man's nature. personal interests may be indolently neglected or carelessly pursued. it is rare to see men persecute each other about individual rights or properties. yet, such is not the case when a right or an interest is the religious property of a multitude. then, community of sentiment or of risk, bands them together in fervent support, and when the thing contended for is based on conscience and _eternal_ interest, instead of personal or _temporary_ welfare, we behold its pursuit inflame gradually from a principle into a passion,--from passion into persecution, until at length, what once glimmered in holy zeal, blazes in bigoted fanaticism. thus, all persecutors may not, originally, be bad men, though their practices are wicked. the very liberty of conscience which freemen demand, must admit this to be possible in the conduct of those who differ from us most widely in faith and politics. religious conscience, therefore, is the firmest founder of the right of forming and asserting free opinions; and when it has securely established the great fact of religious freedom, it at once, as an immediate consequence, realizes political freedom, which is nothing but the individual right independently to control our personal destinies, as well as to shape our conscientious spiritual destinies. the right of free judgment asserts that christianity put into vital exercise, in our social or national relations, is, in fact, the essence of pure democracy. it is liberty of action that produces responsibility--it is equal responsibility that makes us _one_ before the law. to teach man the humility and equality of his race, _as rights_; and to illustrate the glorious lesson that from the cottage and cabin have sprung the intellects that filled the world with light, it pleased the almighty to make a stable the birth-place of our redeemer, and a manger his lowly cradle! * * * * * when the valiant men of olden times had checked the corporate system of theology in england and germany, and established their right, at least, _to think_ for themselves; and when the reformation had subsequently received a countercheck in germany, england and france,--the stalwart, independent worshippers, who could no longer live peacefully together within their native realms, began to cast about for an escape from the persecutions of non-conformity and the mean "tyranny of incapacitation." the reformation was the work of the early part of the sixteenth century. the close of the fifteenth had been signalized by the discovery of america, and by the opening of a maritime communication with india. the east, though now accessible by water, was still a far distant land. the efforts of all navigators, even when blundering on our continent, were, in truth, not to find a new world, but to reach one already well known for the richness of its products, and the civilization of its people. but distant as it was, it presented no field for colonization. it was the temporary object of mercantile and maritime enterprise, and although colonial lodgments were impracticable on its far off shores, it nevertheless permitted the establishment of factories which served, in the unfrequent commerce of those ages, as almost regal intermediaries between europe and asia. but the western world was both nearer, and, for a while, more alluring to avarice and enterprise. it was not a civilized, populous, and warlike country like the east, but it possessed the double temptation of wealth and weakness. the fertility of the west indies, the reports of prodigious riches, the conquests of cortez and pizzaro, the emasculated semi-civilization of the two empires, which, with a few cities and royal courts, combined the anomaly of an almost barbarous though tamely tributary people--had all been announced throughout europe. yet, the bold, brave and successful spaniard of those days contrived for a long while to reap the sole benefit of the discovery. what he effected was done by _conquest_. _colonization_, which is a gradual settlement, either under enterprise or persecution, was to follow. the conquest and settlement of the southern part of this continent are so well known, that it is needless for me to dwell on them; but it is not a little singular that the very first effort at what may strictly be called colonization, within the present acknowledged limits of the united states, was owing to the spirit of persecution which was so rife in europe. the bull of the pope, in its division of the world, had assigned america to spain. florida, which had been discovered by ponce de leon, and the present coast of our republic on the gulf of mexico, were not, in the sixteenth century, disputed with spain by any other nation. spain claimed, however, under the name of florida, the whole sea-coast as far as newfoundland and even to the remotest north, so that, so far as _asserted_ ownership was involved, the whole of our coast was spanish domain. the poor, persecuted, weather-beaten huguenots of france, had been active in plans of colonization for escape from the mingled imbecility and terrorism of charles ix. they saw that it was not well to stay in the land of their birth. the admiral de coligny, one of the ablest leaders of the french protestants, was zealous in his efforts to found a gallic empire of his fellow subjects and sufferers on this continent. he desired, at least, a refuge for them; and in , entrusted to john ribault, of dieppe, the command of an expedition to the american shores. the first soil of this virgin hemisphere that was baptised by the tread of refugees flying from the terrors of the future hero of st. bartholomew--of men who were seeking freedom from persecution for the sake of their religion--was that of south carolina. ribault first visited st. john's river, in florida, and then slowly coasted the low shores northward, until he struck the indenture where hilton-head island, and hunting and st. helen's islands are divided by the entrance into the ocean of broad river at port royal. it was a beautiful region, where venerable oaks shadowed a luxuriant soil, while the mild air, delicious with the fragrance of forest-flowers, forever diffused a balmy temperature, free alike from the fire of the tropics and the frost of the north. here, in this pleasant region, he built fort carolina, and landed his humble colony of twenty persons who were to keep possession of the chosen land. but frenchmen are not precisely at home in the wilderness. they require the aggregation of large villages or cities. the frenchman is a social being, and regret for the loss of civil comforts soon spoils his vivacious temper, and fills him with discontent. accordingly, dissensions broke forth in the colony soon after the departure of ribault for france; and, most of the dissatisfied colonists, finding their way back to europe as best they could, the settlement was broken up forever. yet, coligny was not to be thwarted. in , he again resolved to colonize florida, and entrusted laudonnière--a seaman rather than a soldier, who had already visited the american coasts,--with three ships which had been conceded by the king. an abundance of colonists, not disheartened by the failure of their predecessors, soon offered for the voyage, and, after a passage of sixty days, the eager adventurers hailed the american coast. they did not go to the old site, marked as it was by disaster, but nestled on the embowered banks of the beautiful st. john's, or, as it was then known--"the river of may." but the french of that era, when in pursuit of qualified self-government or of any principle, either civil or religious, were not unlike their countrymen of the present time. they found it difficult to make enthusiasm subordinate to the mechanism of progress, and to restrain the elastic vapor which properly directed gives energy to humanity, but which heedlessly handled destroys what it should impel or guide. religious enthusiasm is not miraculously fed by ravens in the wilderness. coligny's emigrants were improvident or careless settlers. their supplies wasted. they were not only gratified by the sudden relief from royal oppression, but the removal of a weight, gave room for the display of that secret avarice, which, more or less, possesses the hearts of all men. they had heard of the spaniard's success, and were seized with a passion for sudden wealth. they became discontented with the toil of patient labor and slow accretion. mutiny ripened into rebellion. a party compelled laudonnière to suffer it to embark for mexico; but its two vessels were soon employed in piratical enterprises against the spaniards. some of the reckless insurgents fell into the hands of the men they assailed, and were made prisoners and sold as slaves, while the few who escaped, were, on their return, executed by orders of laudonnière. the main body of the colonists who had either remained true to their duty or were kept in subjection, had, meanwhile, become greatly disheartened by these occurrences and by the failing supplies of their settlement, when they were temporarily relieved by the arrival of the celebrated english adventurer--sir john hawkins. ribault soon after came out from france to take command, and brought with him new emigrants, seeds, animals, agricultural implements, and fresh supplies of every kind. these occurrences, it will be recollected, took place in florida, within the ancient claim of spain. it is true that the country was a wilderness; but spain still asserted her dominion, though no beneficial use had been made of the neglected forest and tangled swamp. at this epoch, a certain pedro melendez de aviles--a coarse, bold, bloody man, who signalized himself in the wars in holland against the protestants, and was renowned in spanish america for deeds which, even in the loose law of that realm, had brought him to justice, was then hanging about the court of philip ii. in search of plunder or employment. he perceived a tempting "mission" of combined destruction and colonization in the french protestant settlement in florida; and, accordingly, a compact was speedily made between himself and his sovereign, by which he was empowered, in consideration of certain concessions and rights, to invade florida with at least five hundred men, and to establish the spanish authority and catholic religion. an expedition, numbering under its banner more than twenty-five hundred persons, was soon prepared. after touching, with part of these forces, on the florida coast, in the neighborhood of the present river matanzas, the adventurer sailed in quest of the luckless huguenots, whose vessels were soon descried escaping seaward from a combat for which they were unprepared. for a while, melendez pursued them, but abandoning the chase, steered south once more, and entering the harbor on the coast he had just before visited, laid the foundations of that quaint old spanish town of st. augustine, which is the parent of civic civilization on our continent. ribault, meanwhile, who had put to sea with his craft, lost most of his vessels in a sudden storm on the coast, though the greater part of his companions escaped. but melendez, whose ships suffered slightly from this tempest, had no sooner placed his colonists in security, at st. augustine, than he set forth with a resolute band across the marshy levels which intervened between his post and the st. john's. with savage fury the reckless spaniard fell on the huguenots. the carnage was dreadful. it seems to have been rather slaughter than warfare. the huguenots, unprepared for battle, little dreamed that the wars of the old world would be transferred to the new, and vainly imagined that human passion could find victims enough for its malignity without crossing the dangerous seas. full two hundred fell. many fled to the forest. a few surrendered, and were slain. some escaped in two french vessels that fortunately still lingered in the harbor. the wretches who had been providentially saved from the wreck, were next followed and found by this castilian monster. "let them surrender their flags and arms," said he, "and thus placing themselves at my discretion, i may do with them what god in his mercy desires!" yet, as soon as they yielded, they were bound and marched through the forest to st. augustine, and, as they approached the fort which had been hastily raised on the level shores, the sudden blast of a trumpet was the signal for the musketeers to pour into the crowd a volley that laid them dead on the spot. it was asserted that these victims of reliance on spanish mercy, were massacred, "not as frenchmen, but as lutherans;"--and thus, about nine hundred protestant human beings, were the first offering on the soil of our present union to the devilish fanaticism of the age. but the bloody deed was not to go unrevenged. a bold gascon, dominic de gourgues, in , equipped three ships and set sail for florida. he swooped down suddenly, like a falcon on the forts at the mouth of the st. john's, and putting the occupants to the sword, hanged them in the forest, inscribing over their dangling corpses, this mocking reply to the taunt at the lutherans: "i do this not as unto spaniards and sailors, but as unto murderers, robbers and traitors!" the revenge was merciless; and thus terminated the first chapter in the history of religious liberty in america. blood stained the earliest meeting between catholic and protestant on the present soil of our union! * * * * * the power of spain, the unattractiveness of our coast, the indifferent climate, and the failure to find wealthy native nations to plunder, kept the northern part of our continent in the back ground for the greater part of a century after the voyages of columbus and cabot. there were discouragements at that time for mercantile or maritime enterprise, which make us marvel the more at the energy of the men who with such slender vessels and knowledge of navigation, tempted the dangers of unknown seas. emigration from land to land, from neighboring country to neighboring country, was, at that epoch, a formidable enterprise; what then must we think of the hardihood, or compulsion, which could either tempt or drive men, not only over conterminous boundaries, but across distant seas? feudal loyalty and the strong tie of family, bound them not only to their local homes, but to their native land. the lusty sons of labor were required to till the soil, while their stalwart brethren, clad in steel, were wandering on murderous errands, over half of europe, fighting for protestantism or catholicity. adventure, then, in the shape of colonization, must hardly be thought of, from the inland states of the old world; and, even from the maritime nations, with the exception of spain and portugal, we find nothing worthy of record, save the fisheries on the banks, the small settlements of the french in acadia and along the st. lawrence, and the holy efforts of catholic missionaries among the northern indians. if we did not know their zeal to have been christian, it might almost be considered romantic. soon after the return of de gourgues from his revengeful exploit, the report of the daring deed and its provocation, was spread over europe, and excited the people's attention to america more eagerly than ever. among those who were attracted to the subject, was a british gentleman, whose character and misfortunes have always engaged my sincere admiration. sir walter raleigh was the natural offspring of the remarkable age in which he lived. we owe him our profoundest respect, for it was sir walter who gave the first decided impulse to our race's beneficial enjoyment of this continent. it was his fortune to live at a time of great and various action. the world was convulsed with the throes of a new civilization, and the energy it exhibited was consequent upon its long repose. it was an age of transition. it was an age of coat and corselet--of steel and satin--of rudeness and refinement,--in which the antique soldier was melting into the modern citizen. it was the twilight of feudalism. baronial strongholds were yielding to municipal independence. learning began to teach its marvels to the masses; warfare still called chivalrous men to the field; a spirited queen, surrounded by gallant cavaliers, sat on a dazzling throne; adventurous commerce armed splendid navies and nursed a brood of hardy sailors; while the mysterious new world invited enterprise to invade its romantic and golden depths. it was peculiarly an age of thought and action; and is characterized by a vitality which is apparent to all who recollect its heroes, statesmen, philosophers and poets. sir walter raleigh was destined, by his deeds and his doom, to bring this northern continent, which we are now enjoying, into prominent notice. he was the embodiment of the boyhood of our new world. in early life he had been a soldier, but the drift of his genius led him into statesmanship. he was a well known favorite of the virgin queen. a spirit of adventure bore him across the atlantic, where, if the occasion had offered, he would have rivalled cortez in his courageous hardihood, and outstripped him in his lukewarm humanity. he became a courtier; and, mingling in the intrigues of the palace, according to the morals of the age, was soon too great a favorite with his sovereign to escape the dislike of men who beheld his sudden rise with envy. from the palace he passed to prison; and, scorning the idleness which would have rusted so active an intellect, he prepared that remarkable history of the world, wherein he concentrated a mass of rare learning, curious investigation, and subtle thought, which demonstrate the comprehensive and yet minute character of his wonderful mind. a volume of poems shows how sweetly he could sing. the story of his battles, discloses how bravely he could fight. the narrative of his voyages proves the boldness of his seamanship. the calmness of his prison life teaches us the manly lesson of endurance. the devotion of his wife, denotes how deeply he could love; while his letters to that cherished woman--those domestic records in which the heart divulges its dearest secrets--teem with proofs of his affection and christianity. indeed, the gallantry of his courtiership; the foresight of his statecraft; the splendid dandyism of his apparel; the wild freedom and companionship of his forest life, show how completely the fop and the forager, the queenly pet and loyal subject, the author and the actor, the noble and the democrat, the soldier and the scholar, were, in the age of elizabeth and james, blent in one man, and that man--sir walter raleigh. do we not detect in this first adventurous and practical patron of north america, many of the seemingly discordant qualities which mingle so commonly in the versatile life of our own people? if the calendar of courts had its saints, like the calendar of the church, well might sir walter have been canonized as protector of the broad realm for which the brutal james made him a martyr to the jealousy and fear of spain.[ ] queen elizabeth was the first british sovereign who built up that maritime power of england which has converted her magnificent island--dot as it is, in the waste of the sea--into the wharf of the world. she was no friend of the spaniards, and she had men in her service who admired spanish galeons. wealth, realized in coin, and gold or silver, in bulk, were tempting merchandize in frail vessels, which sailors, half pirate, half privateer, might easily deliver of their burden. it was easier to rob than to mine; and, while spain performed the labor in the bowels of the earth, england took the profit as a prize on the sea! such were some of the elements of maritime success, which weakened spain by draining her colonial wealth, while it enriched her rival and injured the catholic sovereign. yet, in the ranks of these adventurers, there were men of honest purpose; and, among the first whose designs of colonization on this continent were unquestionably conceived in a spirit of discovery and speculation, was the half brother of sir walter raleigh--sir humphrey gilbert. but sir humphrey, while pursuing his northern adventures, was unluckily lost at sea, and sir walter took up the thread where his relative dropped it. i regret that i have not time to pursue this subject, and can only say that his enterprises were, doubtless, the germ of that colonization, which, by degrees, has filled up and formed our union. you will remember the striking difference between colonization from england, and the colonization from other nations of ancient and modern times. the short, imperfect navigation of the greeks, along the shores and among the islands of their inland sea, made colonization rather a diffusive overflow, than an adventurous transplanting of their people. they were urged to this oozing emigration either by personal want, by the command of law, or by the oracles of their gods, who doubtless spoke under the authority of law. where the national religion was a unit in faith, there was no persecution to drive men off, nor had the spirit of adventure seized those primitive classics with the zeal of "annexation" that animated after ages. the roman colonies were massive, military progresses of population, seeking to spread national power by conquest and permanent encampment. portugal and spain, mingled avarice and dominion in their conquests or occupation of new lands. the french protestants were, to a great extent, prevented by the bigotry of their home government, as well as by foreign jealousy, from obtaining a sanctuary in america. france drove the refugees chiefly into other european countries, where they established their manufacturing industry; and thus, fanaticism kept out of america laborious multitudes who would have pressed hard on the british settlements. in the islands, a small trade and the investment of money, rather than the desire to acquire fortune by personal industry, were the motives of the early and regular emigration of frenchmen. the dutch, devoted to trade, generally located themselves where they "have just room enough to manifest the miracles of frugality and diligence."[ ] thus, wherever we trace mankind abandoning its home, in ancient or modern days, we find a selfish motive, a superstitious command, a love of wealth, a lust of power, or a spirit of robbery, controlling the movement. the first adventurous effort towards the realization of actual settlement on this continent, was, as we have seen, made by the persecuted huguenots, and was, probably, an attempt rather to fly from oppression, than to establish religious freedom. the first english settlement, also, was founded more upon speculation than on any novel or exalted principle. there was a quest of gold, a desire for land, and an honest hope of improving personal fortunes. virginia had been a charter government, but, in , it was merged in the royal government. the crown reassumed the dominion it had granted to others. virginia, in the first two decades of the seventeenth century, although exhibiting some prosperous phases, was nothing more than a delicate off-shoot from the british stock, somewhat vigorous for its change to virgin soil, but likely to bear the same fruit as its parent tree. virginia was a limb timidly transplanted,--not a branch torn off, and flung to wither or to fertilize new realms by its decay. this continent, with all that a century and a half of maritime coasting had done for it, was but thinly sprinkled with settlements, which bore the same proportion to the vast continental wilderness that single ships or small squadrons bear to the illimitable sea. but the spirit of adventure, the desire for refuge, the dream of liberty, were soon to plant the seeds of a new civilization in the western world. * * * * * henry viii, founder of the english church, as he had, whilom, been, defender of the roman faith, was no friend of toleration; but the rigor of his system was somewhat relaxed during the reign of the sixth edward. mary, daughter of henry, and sister of edward, re-constructed the great ancestral church, and the world is hardly divided in opinion as to the character of her reign. elizabeth re-established the church that had been founded by her father; and her successor james i of england and vi of scotland,--the protestant son of a catholic mother,--while he openly adhered to the church of his realm, could not avoid some exhibitions of coquettish tenderness for the faith of his slaughtered parent. but, amid all these changes, there was one class upon which the wrath of the church of england and of the church of rome, met in accordant severity;--this was the puritan and ultra puritan sect,--to which i have alluded at the commencement of this discourse,--whose lot was even more disastrous under the protestant elizabeth, than under the catholic mary. the remorseless courts of her commissioners, who inquisitorially tried these religionists by interrogation on oath, imprisoned them, if they remained lawfully silent and condemned them if they honestly confessed! a congregation of these sectaries had existed for some time on the boundaries of lincoln, nottingham and york, under the guidance of richard clifton and john robinson, the latter of whom was a modest, polished, and learned man. this christian fold was organized about ; but worried by ceaseless persecution, it fled to holland, where its members, fearing they would be absorbed in the country that had entertained them so hospitably, resolved in to remove to that portion of the great american wilderness, known as north virginia. such, in the chronology of our continent, was the first decisive emigration of our parent people to the new world, _for the sake of opinion_. it is neither my purpose, nor is it necessary, to sketch the subsequent history of this new england emigration, or of the followers, who swelled it into colonial significance. its great characteristic, seems to me, to have been, an unalterable will to worship god according to _its_ own sectarian ideas, and to afford an equal right and protection to all who thought as _it_ did, or were willing to conform to its despotic and anchoritic austerity. it is not very clear, what were its notions of abstract political liberty; yet there can be very little doubt what its practical opinions of equality must have been, when we remember the common dangers, duties, and interests of such a band of emigrants on the dreary, ice-bound, savage haunted, coasts of massachusetts. "_when adam delved, and eve span, pray who was then the gentleman?_" may well be asked of a community which for so long a time, had been the guest of foreigners, and now saw the first great human and divine law of liberty and equality, taught by the compulsion of labor and mutual protection, on a strip of land between the sea and the forest. the colonists were literally reduced to first principles; they were stripped of the comforts, pomps, ambitions, distinctions, of the old world, and they embraced the common destiny of a hopeful future in the new.[ ] they had been persecuted for their opinions, but that did not make them tolerant of the opinions of their persecutors. it was better, then, that oppressor and oppressed should live apart in both hemispheres; and thus, in sincerity, if not in justice, their future history exhibits many bad examples of the malign spirit from which they fled in europe. if they were, essentially, republicans, their democracy was limited to a political and religious equality of puritan sectarianism;--it had not ripened into the democracy of an all embracing christianity.[ ] these occurrences took place during the reign of the prince who united the scottish and english thrones. at the court of james, and in his intimate service, during nearly the whole period of his sovereignty, was a distinguished personage, who, though his name does not figure grandly on the page of history, was deeply interested in the destiny of our continent. sir george calvert, was descended from a noble flemish family, which emigrated and settled in the north of england, where, in , the founder of maryland was born. after taking his bachelor's degree at oxford and travelling on the continent, he became, at the age of twenty-five, private secretary to sir robert cecil, the lord treasurer--afterwards the celebrated earl of salisbury. in , he appears as one of the patentees named in the new charter then granted to the virginia company. after the death of his ministerial patron, he was honored with knighthood and made clerk of the crown to the privy council. this brought him closely to the side of his sovereign. in , he was appointed one of the secretaries of state, and was then, also, elected to parliament; first for his native yorkshire, and subsequently for oxford. he continued in office, under james, as secretary of state, until near that monarch's death, and resigned in . born in the church of england, sir george, had, in the course of his public career, become a roman catholic. with the period or the means of his conversion from the court-faith to an unpopular creed, we have now no concern. fuller, in his "worthies of england," asserts that calvert resigned in consequence of his change of religion;--other writers, relying, perhaps, more on the _obiter dicta_ of memoirs and history, believe that his convictions as to faith had changed some years before. be that, however, as it may, the resignation, and its alleged cause which was well known to his loving master, james, produced no ill feeling in that sovereign. he retired in unpersecuted peace. he was even honored by the retention of his seat at the privy council;--the king bestowed a pension for his faithful services;--regranted him, in fee simple, lands which he previously held by another tenure; and, finally, created him lord baron of baltimore, in ireland.[ ] whilst sir george was in office, his attention, it seems, had been early directed towards america; and in , he is still mentioned in a list of the members of the virginia company. soon after, he became concerned in the plantation of newfoundland, and finally, obtained a patent for it, to him and his heirs, as absolute lord and proprietary, with all the royalties of a count palatine. we must regret that the original, or a copy of this grant for the province of avalon, in newfoundland, has not been recently seen, or, if discovered, transmitted to this country. here, sir george built a house; spent £ , in improvements; removed his family to grace the new principality; manned ships, at his own charge, to relieve and guard the british fisheries from the attacks of the french; but, at length, after a residence of some years, and an ungrateful return from the soil and climate, he abandoned his luckless enterprise. yet, it was soil and climate alone that disheartened the northern adventurer:--he had not turned his back on america. in he repaired to virginia, in which he had been so long concerned, and was most ungraciously greeted by the protestant royalists, with an offer of the test-oaths of allegiance and supremacy. sir george, very properly refused the challenge, and departed with his followers from the inhospitable james river, where the bigotry of prelacy denied him a foothold within the fair region he had partly owned. but, before he returned to england, he remembered that virginia was now a royal province and no longer the property of corporate speculation;--he recollected that there were large portions of it still unoccupied by white men, and that there were bays and rivers, pouring, sea-like, to the ocean, of which grand reports had come to him when he was one of the committee of the council for the affairs of the plantations. accordingly, when he left the james river, he steered his keel around the protecting peninsula of old point comfort, and ascending the majestic chesapeake, entered its tributary streams, and laid, in imagination, at least, the foundations of maryland. his examination of the region being ended, calvert went home to england, and in , obtained the grant of maryland from charles i, the son of his royal patron and friend. the charter, which is said to have been the composition of sir george, did not, however, pass the seals until after the death of its author; but was issued to his eldest son and heir, cecilius, on the th of june, . the life of sir george had been one of uninterrupted personal and political success; his family was large, united and happy; if he did not inherit wealth, he, at least, contrived to secure it; and, although his conscience taught him to abandon the faith of his fathers, his avowal of the change had been the signal for princely favors instead of political persecution. here the historic connexion of the _first_ lord baltimore with maryland ends. the real work of plantation was the task of cecilius, the first actual lord proprietary, and of leonard calvert, his brother, to whom, in the following year, the heir of the family intrusted the original task of colonial settlement. if anything was done by sir george, in furtherance of the rights, liberties, or interests of humanity, so far as the foundation of maryland is concerned, it was unquestionably effected anterior to this period, for we have no authority to say, that after his death, his children were mere executors of previous designs, or, that what was then done, was not the result of their own provident liberality. i think there can be no question that the charter was the work of sir george. that, at least, is his property; and he must be responsible for its defects, as well as entitled to its glory.[ ] i presume it is hardly necessary for me to say what manner of person the king was, whom calvert had served so intimately during nearly a whole reign. james is precisely the historical prodigy, to which a reflective mind would suppose the horrors of his parentage naturally gave birth. in royal chronology he stands between two axes,--the one that cleft the ivory neck of his beautiful mother--the other that severed the irresolute but refined head of his son and heir. his father, doubtless, had been deeply concerned in the shocking murder of his mother's second husband. cradled on the throne of scotland; educated for kingship by strangers; the ward of a regency; the shuttle-cock of ambitious politicians; the hope and tool of two kingdoms,--james lived during an age in which the struggle of opinion and interest, of prerogative and privilege, of human right and royal power, of glimmering science and superstitious quackery, might well have bewildered an intellect, brighter and calmer than his. the english people, who were yet in the dawn of free opinions, but who, with the patience that has always characterized them, were willing to obey any symbol of order,--may be said, rather to have tolerated than honored his pedantry in learning, his kingcraft in state, his petulance in authority, and his manifold absurdities, which, while they made him tyrannical, deprived him of the dignity that sometimes renders even a tyrant respectable. you will readily believe that a man like george calvert found it sometimes difficult to serve such a sovereign, in intimate state relations. in private life he might not have selected him for a friend or a companion. but james was his king; the impersonation of british royalty and nationality. in serving him, he was but true to england; and, even in that task, it, no doubt, often required the whole strength of his heart's loyalty, to withstand the follies of the royal buffoon. calvert, i think, was not an enthusiast, but, emphatically, a man of his time. his time was not one of reform, and he had no brave ambition to be a reformer. accustomed to the routine of an observing and technical official life, he was, essentially a practical man, and dealt, in politics, exclusively with the present. endowed, probably, with but slender imagination, he found little charm or flavor in excursive abstractions. his maxim may perhaps have been--"_quieta ne movete_,"--the motto of moderate or cautions men who live in disturbed times, preceding or succeeding revolutions, and think it better-- "---- to bear those ills we have "than fly to others that we know not of!" yet, with all these characteristics, no one will hesitate to believe that calvert was a bold and resolute person, when it is recollected that he visited the wilderness of the new world in the seventeenth century, and projected therein the formation of a british province. but, in truth, our materials for his biography are extremely scant. he died at the very moment when america's chief interest in him began. he belonged to the court party, as distinguished from the country party. he is known to have been a zealous supporter of the "supremacy of authority." he held, that "america, having been acquired by conquest, was subject, exclusively, to the control of royal prerogative." he was the defender of the court in its diplomacy; and, ultra as james was in his monarchical doctrines, there can be little doubt that he would have dismissed calvert from office, had there not been concord between the crown and its servant, as to the policy, if not the justice, of the toryism they both professed. but let us not judge that century by the standards of this. that would be writing history from a false point. let us not condemn rulers who seem to be despotic in historic periods of transition--in periods of mutual intolerance and distrust--in periods when men know nothing, from practical experience, of the capacity of mankind for self government.[ ] the charter which sir george calvert framed, and the successor of james granted, was precisely the one we might justly suppose such a subject, and such a sovereign would prepare and sign. it invested the lord proprietary with all the royal rights, enjoyed by the bishop of durham, within the county palatine of durham. he was the source of justice. he was the fountain of honor, and allowed to decorate meritorious provincials with whatever titles and dignities he should appoint. he had the power to establish feudalism and all its incidents. he was not merely the founder and filler of office, but he was also the sole executive. he might erect towns, boroughs and cities;--he might pardon offences and command the forces. as ecclesiastical head of the province, he had the right to found churches, and was entitled to their advowsons.[ ] in certain cases he had the dangerous privilege of issuing ordinances, which were to have the force of sovereign decrees. in fact, allegiance to england, was alone preserved, and the lord proprietary became an autocrat, with but two limitations: st, the laws were to be enacted by the proprietary, with the advice and approbation of the free men, or free-holders or their deputies,--the "_liberi homines_" and "_liberi tenentes_," spoken of in the charter;--and nd, "no interpretation" of the charter was "to be made whereby god's holy rights and the true christian religion, _or_ the allegiance due to us," (the king of england,) "our heirs and successors, may, in any wise, suffer by change, prejudice or diminution." christianity and the king--i blush to unite such discordant names--were protected in equal co-partnership.[ ] the first of these reserved privileges of the people, the lord proprietary cecilius understood, to mean, that _he_ had the exclusive privilege of proposing laws, and that the free-men, or free-holders of his province, could only accept or reject his propositions. these laws of the province were not to be submitted to the king for his approval, nor had he the important _right of taxation_, which was expressly relinquished. in the early legislation of maryland, this supposed exclusive right of proposing laws by the proprietary, was soon tested by mutual rejections, both by the legislative assembly and by cecilius, of the acts, which each had separately passed or prepared. but the other clause, touching "god's holy rights and the true christian religion," was one, in regard to the practical interpretation of which, i apprehend, there was never a moment's doubt in the mind either of the people or of the proprietary. it is a radiant gem in the antique setting of the charter. it is the glory of calvert. it is the utter obliteration of prejudice among all who professed christianity. toleration was unknown in the old world; but this was more than toleration, for it declared freedom at least to _christians_,--yet it was not perfect freedom, for it excluded that patient and suffering race--that chosen people--who, to the disgrace even of republican maryland, within my recollection, were bowed down by political disabilities. i am aware that many historians consider the religious freedom of maryland as originating in subsequent legislation, and claim the act of as the statute of toleration. i do not agree with them. sir george calvert had been a protestant;--he became a catholic. as a catholic, he came to virginia, and in the colony where he sought to settle, he found himself assailed, for the first time in his life, by protestant virulence and incapacitation. he was now, himself, about to become a lord proprietor. the sovereign who granted his charter was a protestant, and moreover, the king of a country whose established religion was protestant. the protestant monarch, of course, could not _grant_ anything which would compromise him with his protestant subjects; yet the catholic nobleman, who was to take the beneficiary charter, could not _receive_, from his protestant master, a grant which would assail the conscience of co-religionists over whom he was, in fact, to be a sovereign. in england, the king had no right to interfere with the church of england; but in america, which was a vacant, royal domain, his paramount authority permitted him to abolish invidious ecclesiastical distinctions. calvert, the catholic, must have been less than a man, if he forgot his fellow sufferers and their disabilities when he drew his charter. his protestant recollections taught him the vexations of catholic trials, while his catholic observation informed him sharply of protestant persecution. sectarianism was already rampant across the atlantic.[ ] the two british lodgments, in virginia and new england, were obstinately sectarian. virginia was episcopalian; new england was puritan;--should maryland be founded as an exclusively protestant province, or an exclusively catholic settlement? it is evident that either would be impossible:--the latter, because it would have been both impolitic and probably illegal; and the former because it would have been a ridiculous anomaly to force a converted catholic, to govern a colony wherein his own creed was not tolerated by a fundamental and unalterable law. it is impossible to conceive that the faith of calvert and the legal religion of charles, did not enter into their deliberations, when they discussed the charter; and, doubtless, both subject and sovereign justly decided to make "the land of mary," which the protestant charles baptised in honor of his catholic queen, a free soil for christianity. it was calvert's duly and interest to make charles tolerant of catholic christianity; nor could he deny to others the immunity he demanded for himself and his religious brethren. the language of the charter, therefore, seems explicit and incapable of any other meaning. there were multitudes of catholics in england, who would be glad to take refuge in a region where they were to be free from disabilities, and could assert their manhood. the king, moreover, secured for his catholic subjects a quiet, but chartered banishment, which still preserved their allegiance. at the court there was much leaning towards the church of rome. it was rather fashionable to believe one way, and conform another. the queen was zealous in her ancestral faith; and her influence over the king, colored more than one of his acts. had calvert gone to the market place, and openly proclaimed, that a protestant king, by a just charter of neutrality, had established an american sanctuary for catholics, and invited them thither under the banner of the cross, one of his chief objects, must have been at once defeated; for intolerance would have rallied its parties against the project, and the dream of benevolence would have been destroyed for ever. if by the term, "god's holy rights and the true christian religion," the charter meant, _the church of england_, then, _ex vi termini_, catholicity could never have been tolerated in maryland; and yet it is unquestionable that the original settlement was made under catholic auspices--blessed by catholic clergymen--and acquiesced in by protestant followers. was it not wise, therefore, to shield conscience in maryland, under the indefinite but unsectarian phraseology of "god's holy rights and the true christian religion?"[ ] * * * * * so far, then, for the basis of the charter, and for the action of sir george calvert. after his death, the planting of the colony took place under the administration of cecilius, who, remaining in europe, dispatched his brother leonard to america to carry out his projects. if the personal history of the calverts is scant, the history of the early days of maryland is scarcely less so; but the industry of antiquarians, and the researches of a learned catholic clergyman, have brought to light two documents which disclose much of the religious and business character of the settlement. the work entitled:--"a relation of maryland," which was published in london in , and gave the first account of the planting of the province, is a minute, mercantile, statistical, geographical and descriptive narrative of the landing and locating of the adventurers who set sail in , and of their genial intercourse with the aborigines. if i had time, it would be pleasing to sum up the facts of this historical treasure, which was evidently prepared under the direction of cecilius, lord baltimore, if not actually written by him. it is full of the spirit of careful, honest enterprise; and exhibits, i think, conclusively, the fact that the design of calvert, in establishing this colony, was mainly the creation of a great estate, manorial and agricultural, whose ample revenues should, at all times, supply the needs of his ten children and their descendants. the other document to which i refer, is a manuscript discovered some years ago, by the rev. mr. mcsherry, in the archives of the college of the propaganda, at rome, and exhibits the zeal with which the worthy jesuits, whom lord baltimore sent forth with the first settlers, applied themselves to the christianization of the savages. it presents some beautiful pictures of the simple life of these devotees. it shows that, in maryland, the first step was _not_ made in crime; and that the earliest duty of the governor, was not only to conciliate the indian proprietors, but to purchase the land they were willing to resign. nor was this all; there was provident care for the soul as well as the soil of the savage. there is something rare in the watchful forethought which looks not only to the present gain or future prospects of our fellow men, which takes heed not only of the personal rights and material comforts of the race it is displacing, but guards the untutored savage, and consigns him to the vigilance of instructed piety. this "narrative of father white," and the jesuits' letters, preserved in the college at georgetown, portray the zeal with which the missionaries, in their frail barks, thridded the rivers, coves and inlets of our chesapeake and patapsco;--how they raised the cross, under the shadow of which the first landing was effected;--how they set up their altars in the wigwams of the indians, and sought, by simplicity, kindness and reason, to reach and save the indian. in maryland, persecution was dead at the founding;--prejudice, even, was forbidden. the cruelties of spanish planting were unknown in our milder clime. no violence was used, to convert or to appropriate, and thus, the symbol of salvation, was properly raised on the green isle of st. clement, as an emblem of the peace and good will, which the proprietary desired should sanctify his enterprise.[ ] i think there ran be no doubt that this adventure had the double object of affording an exile's refuge to calvert's co-religionists, as well as of promoting the welfare of his family. it was designed for land-holders and laborers. it was a manorial, planting colony. its territory was watered by two bays, several large rivers, and innumerable streams. its fertile lands and thick forests, invited husbandmen, while its capacious coasts tempted the hardy fisherman. and so it is, that in the arms which were prepared for the proprietary government, the baronial shield of the calvert family, dropped, in america, its two supporting leopards, and received in their stead, on either side, a fisherman and a farmer. "crescite et multiplicamini,"--its motto,--was a watchword of provident thrift. * * * * * forty-nine years after the charter was granted to lord baltimore, king charles ii issued a patent, for a magnificent patrimony in america, to william penn. but what a change, in that half century, had passed over the world! a catalogue of the events that took place, in great britain alone, is a history of the growth of opinion and of the people. charles's efforts to overthrow the presbyterian church in scotland, and to enforce episcopacy, brought on the war with the stern enthusiasts of that country. laud, in the church, and the earl of strafford, in the cabinet, kept the king in a constant passion of royal and ecclesiastical power. strafford fell, and the civil war broke out. cromwell towered up suddenly, on the bloody field, and was victorious over the royalists. the king perished on the scaffold. cromwell became lord protector. anon, the commonwealth fell; the stuarts were restored, and charles ii ascended the throne;--but amid all these perilous acts of political and religious fury, the world of thought had been stirred by the speeches and writings, of taylor, algernon sydney, hampden, and milton. as the people gradually felt their power they learned to know their rights, and, although they went back from republicanism to royalty, they did so, perhaps, only to save themselves from the anarchy that ever threatens a nation while freeing itself from feudal traditions. besides these political and literary phases of the time, there had been added to the catholic, episcopal, and puritan sects, a _new_ element of religious power, which was destined to produce a slow but safe revolution among men. an humble shoemaker, named george fox, arose and taught that "every man was complete in himself; he stood in need of no alien help; the light was free of all control,--above all authority external to itself. each human being, man or woman, was supreme." the christian denomination called quakers, or more descriptively--"friends,"--- thus obtained a hearing and a standing among all serious persons who thought religion a thing of life as well as of death. quakerism, with such fundamental principles of equality in constant practice, became a social polity. if the quaker was a democrat, he was so because the "inner light" of his christianity made him one, and he dared not disobey his christianity. he recognized no superiors, for his conscience taught him to deny any privileges to claimed superiority. but the quaker added to his system, an element which, hitherto, was unknown in the history of sects;--he was a man of peace. it is not to be supposed that any royal or ecclesiastical government would allow such radical doctrines to pass unnoticed, in the midst of a society which was ever greedy for new teachings. the quaker, therefore, soon participated in the persecutions which prelacy thought due to liberal christianity. but persecution of the friend, was the friend's best publication, for he answered persecution, not by recantation, but by peaceful endurance. combative resistance, in religious differences, always gives the victor a right, or at least, an excuse, to slay. but quakerism, a system of personal and religious independence and peace,--became slowly successful by the _vis inertiæ_ of passive resistance. all other sects were, more or less, combative;--quakerism was an obstinate rock, which stood, in rooted firmness, amid a sea of strife:--the billows of faction raged around it and broke on its granite surface, but they wasted themselves--_not_ the rock! and this is a most important fact in the history of religion in its development of society. all other sects lost caste, power or material, either by aggression or by fighting. but the quaker said to the prelate, the puritan, and the catholic, you may annoy us by public trials, by denial of justice, by misrepresentation, by imprisonment, by persecution, by the stake,--yet we shall stand immovable on two principles, which deny that god is glorified by warfare--especially for opinion. our principles are, equality and peace--in the church and in the world. equality is to make us humble and good citizens. peace is to convert this den of human tigers into a fold, wherein by simply performing our duties to each other and to god, we may prepare ourselves for the world of spirits. you can persecute--_we_ can suffer. who shall tire first? we will be victorious by the firmness that bears your persecutions; and those very persecutions, while they publish your shame, shall proclaim our principles as well as our endurance. they knew, from the history of charles st, that the worst thing to be done with a bad king was to kill him; for, if the axe metamorphosed that personage into a martyr, the prison could never extinguish the light of truth in the doctrines of quakerism![ ] * * * * * you will pardon me, gentlemen, for having detained you so long in discussing the foundation of maryland. the planting of your own state is familiar to you. it has been thoroughly treated in the writings of your proud, watson, gordon, du ponceau, tyson, fisher, wharton, reed, ingraham, armstrong and many others. can it be necessary for me to say a word, in philadelphia, of the history of william penn;--of him, who, as a lawgiver and executive magistrate,--a practical, pious, quaker,--_first_ developed in state affairs, and reduced to practice, the liberty and equality enjoined by his religion and founded on liberal christianity;--of him who _first_ taught mankind the sublime truth, that-- "beneath the rule of men entirely great "the pen _is mightier than the sword? behold_ "the arch-enchanter's wand,--itself a nothing! "but taking sorcery from the master hand "to paralyse the cesars! _take away the sword_, "_states can be saved without it!_" it would be idle to detail the facts of his life or government, for, not only have pennsylvanians recorded and dwelt upon them until they are household lessons, but they have been favorite themes for french, british, italian, german and spanish philosophers and historians. * * * * * it was penn to whom the charter of was granted, half a century after the patent issued to cecilius calvert. the instrument itself, has many of the features of the maryland grant; but it is well known that the absolute powers it bestowed on the proprietary, were only taken by him in order that he might do as he pleased in the formation of a new state, whose principles of freedom and peace, might, first in the world's history, practically assume a national aspect. i shall not recount the democratic liberalities of his system, as it was matured by his personal efforts and advice. original, as he unquestionably was, in genius; bold as he was in resisting the pomp of the world, at a time when its vanities sink easiest and most corruptingly into the heart,--we may nevertheless, say, that the deeds and history of his time, as well as of the previous fifty years, had a large share in moulding his character. in william penn, the crude germs of religious originality, which, in fox, were struggling, and sometimes almost stifling for utterance, found their first, ablest, and most accomplished expounder. he gave them refinement and respectability. his intimacy with algernon sidney taught him the value of introducing those principles into the doctrines of government;--and thus, he soon learned that when political rights grow into the sanctity of religious duties, they receive thereby a vitality which makes them irresistible. penn, in this wise, become an expanded embodiment of fox and sidney; and, appropriating their mingled faith and polity, discarded every thing that was doctrinal and not practical, and realized, in government, their united wisdom. nobly _in his age_, did he declare: "i know what is said by the several admirers of monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy, which are the rule of one, of a few, and of the many, and are the three common ideas of government when men discourse on that subject. but i choose to solve the controversy with this small distinction, and it belongs to all three:--_any government is free to the people under it, whatever be the frame, where the laws rule and the people are a party to those laws; and more than this is tyranny, oligarchy, and confusion._"[ ] in these historical illustrations, i have striven to show that primitive christianity was the basis of equal rights and responsibilities. the alleged defence of this christianity, in the land of its birth, gave rise to "holy wars," in which feudalism and chivalry originated. feudalism was the source of the strictest military dependence, as well as of manifold social perversions. the knight expanded into a lord,--the subject commoner dwindled to a soldier or a serf. thus feudalism and a great historical church, grew up in aristocratic co-partnership over the bodies and souls of mankind, until the one, by the omnipotence of its spiritual authority, ripened into an universal hierarchy, while the other, by the folly of its "divine right," decayed into a temporal despotism that fell at the first blow of the heads-man's axe. the reformation and revolution broke the enchanter's wand; and, when the cloud passed from the bloody stage, instead of seeing before us a magician full of the glories of his art and almost deceived himself, by the splendor of his incantations, we beheld a meagre and pitiful creature, who though blind and palsied, still retained for a while, the power of witch-like mischief. but his reign was not lasting. the stern puritan,--the pioneer of independence,--advanced with his remorseless weapon,--while quietly, in his shadow, followed the calm and patient friend, sowing the seed of peace and good-will in the furrows plowed by the steel of his unrelenting predecessor. and thus again, after ages of corrupt and desolating perversion, the selfish heart of man came humbly back to its original faith that liberal christianity is the true basis of enlightened freedom, and the only foundation of good and lasting government. * * * * * the bleak winds of march were blowing in maryland, when calvert conciliated and purchased from the indians at saint mary's; but autumn was "laying here and there "a fiery finger on the leaves," when penn, also, established a perfect friendship with the savages at shackamaxon.[ ] calvert, a protestant officer of the crown, became a catholic, and, retiring to private life, was rewarded by his king, with a pension, estates, and an american principality;--penn, the son of a british admiral, and who is only accurately known to us by a portrait which represents him _in armor_, began life as an adherent of the church of england, and having conscientiously, doffed the steel for the simple garb of quakerism, was persecuted, not only by his government but his parent. calvert took the grant of a feudal charter, and asserting all its legislative and baronial powers, sought to fasten its chinese influence, in feudal fixedness, on his colonists;--but penn, knowing that feudalism was an absurdity, in the necessary equality of a wilderness, embraced his great authority in order "to leave himself and his successors no power of doing mischief, so that the will of one man might not hinder the good of a whole community."[ ] calvert seems to have thought of english or irish emigration alone;--penn, did not confine himself to race, but sought for support from the continent as well as from britain.[ ] calvert was ennobled for his services;--penn rejected a birthright which might have raised him to the peerage. calvert's public life was antecedent to his american visit--penn's was almost entirely subsequent to the inception of his "holy experiment." calvert laid the foundations of a mimic kingdom;--penn, with the power of a prince, stripped himself of authority. the one was naturally an aristocrat of james's time; the other, quite as naturally, a democrat of the transition age of sidney. calvert imagined that mankind stood still; but, penn believed, that mankind _ever_ moves, or, that like an army under arms, when not marching, it is marking time. while to calvert is due the honor of a considerable religious advance on his age, as developed in his charter,--penn is to be revered for the double glory of civil and _perfect_ religious liberty. calvert mitigated man's lot by toleration;--penn expanded the germ of toleration into unconditional freedom. calvert was the founder of a planting province, mainly agricultural, and creative of all the manorial dependencies;--but penn seems to have heartily cherished the idea of a great city, and of the commerce it was to gather and develope from a wilderness over which it was to stand as guardian sentinel. as farming was the chief interest of the one, trading, became, also, a favorite of the other; and thus, while the _transient_ trader visited, supplied, and left the native indian free,--the _permanent_ planter settled forever on his "hunting grounds," and drove him further into the forest. calvert recognized the law of war;--penn made peace a fundamental institution. they both felt that civilized nations have a double and concurrent life,--material and spiritual;--but calvert sought rather to develop one, while penn addressed himself to the care of both. calvert's idea was to open a new land by old doctrines, and to form his preserving amber around a worthless fly;--but penn's pennsylvania was to crystalize around the novel and lucid nucleus of freedom. calvert supposed that america was to be a mere reflex of britain, and that the heart of his native island would pulsate here; but penn, seeing that the future population of america, like the soil of the mississippi valley, would be an alluvial deposit from the overflow of european civilization, thought it right to plant a new doctrine of human rights, which would grow more vigorously for its transplanting and culture. * * * * * the germs of civil and religious freedom may be found elsewhere in the foundation of american provinces and colonies. i know they are claimed for the cabin of the mayflower, the rock of plymouth, and the sands of rhode island. but i think that william penn is justly entitled to the honor of adopting them on principle, after long and patient reflection, as the seed of his people, and thus, of having taken from their introduction by him into this country, all the disparagement of originating either in discontent or accident. his plan was the offspring of beautiful design, and not the gypsey child of chance or circumstance. history is to man what water is to the landscape,--it mirrors, but distorts in its reflection, and the great founder of pennsylvania has suffered from this temporary distortion. but, at length, the water will become still, and the image will be perfect. penn is one of those majestic figures that loom up on the waste of time, in the same eternal permanence and simple grandeur in which the pyramids rise in relief from the sands of egypt. let no arab displace a single stone! appendix no. i. it is singular that the clause in the xxii section of charles ist's charter to lord baltimore, relating to the interpretation of that instrument in regard to religion, has never been accurately translated, but that all commentators have, hitherto, followed the version given by bacon. i shall endeavor to demonstrate the error. the following parallel passages exhibit the original latin, and bacon's adopted translation: original latin. the nd section of the charter of maryland, copied from bacon's laws, wherein it was adopted from an attested copy from the original record remaining in the chapel of rolls in : "section xxii. et si fortè imposterum contingat dubitationes aliquas quæstiones circa verum sensum et intellectum alicujus verbi clausulæ vel sententiæ in hâe presenti charta nostrâ contentæ generari eam semper et in omnibus interpretationem adhiberi et in quibuscunque curiis et prætoriis nostris obtinere volumus præcipimus et mandamus quæ præfato modò baroni de baltimore hæredibus et assignatis suis benignior utilior et favorabilior esse judicabitur proviso semper quod nulla fiat interpretatio per quam sacro-sancta dei et vera christiana religio aut ligeantia nobis hæredibus et successoribus nostris debita immutatione prejudicio vel dispendio in aliquo patiantur:" &c. &c. english translation. translation of the nd section of the charter, from bacon's laws of maryland, wherein it is copied from an old translation published by order of the lower house in the year : "section xxii. and if, peradventure, hereafter it may happen that any doubts or questions should arise concerning the true sense and meaning of any word, clause or sentence contained in this our present charter, we will, charge, and command, that interpretation to be applied, always, and in all things, and in all our courts and judicatories whatsoever, to obtain which shall be judged to be more beneficial, profitable and favorable to the aforesaid now baron of baltimore, his heirs and assigns: provided always that no interpretation thereof be made whereby god's holy and true christian religion, or the allegiance due to us, our heirs and successors, may, in any wise, suffer by change, prejudice or diminution:" &c. &c. it will be noticed that this _latin_ copy, according to the well known ancient usage in such papers, is not punctuated, so that we have no guidance, for the purpose of translation, from that source. the translation of this section as far as the words: "_proviso semper quod nulla fiat interpretatio_," &c. is sufficiently correct; but the whole of the final clause, should in my opinion, be rendered thus:-- "provided always that no interpretation thereof be made, whereby god's holy rights _and_ the true christian religion, or the allegiance due to us our heirs or successors, may, in any wise suffer by change, prejudice or diminution." let me offer my reasons for this alteration: st, this new translation harmonizes with the evident grammatical construction of the latin sentence, and is the easiest as well as most natural. the common version, given by bacon: "god's holy _and_ true christian religion,"--is grossly pleonastic, if not nonsensical. among christians, "god's religion," can of course, only be the "christian religion;" and, with equal certainty, it is not only a "true" religion, but a "holy" one! nd, the word _sacrosanctus_, always conveys the idea of a _consecrated inviolability, in consequence of inherent rights and privileges_. in a dictionary, _contemporary with the charter_, i find the following definition,--_in verbo sacrosanctus._ "sacrosanctus: apud ciceronem dicebatur id quod interposito jurejurando sanctum, et institutum erat idem etiam significat ac sanctus, _santo_. _tribunus plebis dicebatur sacrosanctus, quia eum nefas erat attingere, longè diviniori ratione catholici appellamus ecclesiam romanam sacrosanctam._ calpinus parvus;--seu dictionarium cæsaris calderini mirani: _venetiis_, ." cicero, _in catil_: . .--uses the phrase--"possessiones sacrosanctæ," in this sense; and so does livy in the epithet,--"sacrosancta potestas," as applied to the tribuneship; and, in the sentence,--"ut plebi sui magistratus essent sacrosanctæ." from the last sentence, in the definition given in the venetian dictionary of , which i have cited in italics, it will be seen that the epithet had a peculiarly catholic signification _in its appropriation_ by the roman church. d, i contend that "_sacrosancta_" does not qualify "_religio_," but agrees with _negotia_, or some word of similar import, understood; and thus the phrase--"_sacrosancta dei_"--forms a distinct branch of the sentence. if the translation given in bacon is the true one, the positions of the words "sacrosancta" and "dei" should be reversed, for their present collocation clearly violates accurate latin construction. in that case, "_dei_" being subject to the government of "_religio_," ought to precede "_sacrosancta_," which would be appurtenant to "_religio_," while "_et_," which would then couple the two adjectives instead of the two members of the sentence, should be placed immediately between them, without the interposition of any word to disunite it either from "_sacrosancta_" or "_vera_." if my translation be correct, then the collocation of all the words in the original latin of the charter, is proper. if "_sacrosancta_" is a neuter adjective agreeing with "_negotia_," understood,--and "_et_" conjoins members of sentences, then the whole clause is obedient to a positive law of latin verbal arrangement. leverett says: "the genitive is elegantly put before the noun which governs it with one or more words between; _except_ when the genitive is _governed by a neuter adjective_, in which case, _it must_ be _placed after it_." th, again:--if "_et_" joins "_sacrosancta_" and "_vera_," which, thereby, qualify the same noun, there are _then_ only two nominatives in the latin sentence of the charter, viz: "_religio_" and "_ligcantia_." now these nouns, being coupled by the disjunctive conjunction "_aut_," must have the verb agreeing with them _separately_ in the singular. but, as "_patiantur_" happens to be in the plural, the author of the charter must either have been ignorant of one of the simplest grammar rules, or have designed to convey the meaning i contend for. i must acknowledge the aid and confirmation i have received, in examining this matter, from the very competent scholarship of my friend mr. knott, assistant librarian of the maryland historical society. appendix no. ii. the scope of my discourse is confined to the illustration of _principles_ either announced, or acted on, in the _founding_ of maryland and pennsylvania. i have contended that sir george calvert, the _first_ lord baltimore, so framed the charter which was granted by charles i, that, without express concessions, the general character of its language in regard to religious rights, would secure liberty of conscience to christians. i: .--language can scarcely be more perspicuously comprehensive, than in the phrase: "god's holy rights and the true christian religion." under such a clause, _in the charter_, no particular church could set up a claim for its exclusive christianity. there was no mention, in the instrument, of "the established church," or, of "the church of england." the catholic could not deny the episcopalian's christianity; the episcopalian could not deny the catholic's, nor could the puritan question the christianity of either. all professed faith in christ. each of the three great sects might contend that its _form_ of worship, or interpretation of the bible, was the correct one; but all came lawfully under the great generic class of christians. and, while the political government of the colonists was to be conducted by a catholic magistrate, in a province belonging to a catholic lord,--the _interpretation_ of the law of religious rights was to be made, not by the laws of england, but exclusively under the paramount law of the provincial charter. by that document the broad "rights of god," and "the true christian religion," could not "suffer by change, prejudice or diminution." this view is strengthened by a clause in the th section of the charter, by which the king granted lord b. "the patronages and advowsons of all _churches_ which, _with the increasing worship and_ religion of christ, (_crescenti christi cultu et religione_,") should be built within his province. the right of _advowson_, being thus bestowed on the lord proprietary, for _all christian churches_; his majesty, then, goes on, empowering lord b. to erect and found churches, chapels, &c. and _to cause_ them to be dedicated "_according to the ecclesiastical laws of our kingdom of england_." the general right of advowson, and the particular privilege, conceded to a catholic, of causing the consecration of episcopal churches, are _separate_ powers and ought not to be confounded by a hasty reader of the charter. i think there can hardly be a fair doubt that the interpretation i give to the nd clause is the one assigned to it by the immigrants from the earliest colonial movement in . we may assert, therefore, the fact, that religious freedom was offered and secured for christians, in the province of maryland, from the very beginning. ii: .--we must recollect that under the english statutes, _adherents of the national church required no protection_; they were free in the exercise of their faith; but catholics and puritans were not so happily situated, and, accordingly, they sought, in the new world an exemption from the disabilities and persecutions they experienced at home. can it be credited, that, under such vexations, the catholic lord baltimore would have drawn a charter, or, his catholic son and successor, sent forth a colony, under a catholic governor, when the fundamental law, under which alone he exercised his power, did not secure liberty to him and his co-religionists? it is simply necessary to ask the question, in order to demonstrate the absurdity of such a supposition. iii: .--if we show, then, that catholic conscience was untrammeled in maryland, i think we may fairly assume the general ground as satisfactorily proved. what was, briefly, the first movement of this sect, under the lord proprietary's auspices? when lord cæcilius was planning his colonial expedition in , one of his earliest cares was to apply to the order of jesus for clergymen to attend the catholic planters and settlers, and to convert the natives. accordingly, under the sanction of the superior, father white joined the emigrants, _although, under previous persecutions in england, he had been sent into perpetual banishment, to return from which subjected the culprit to the penalty of death_! these facts are set forth, at page of the nd volume of challoner's memoirs. historia anglo-bavara, s. j. rev. dr. oliver's collections illustrative of the scotch, english and irish jesuits, page , and in the essay on the early maryland missions, by mr. b. u. campbell. fathers andrew white and john altham, and two lay brothers, named john knowles and thomas gervase, accompanied the first expedition, and were active agents in consecrating the possession of the soil, and converting _protestant immigrants_ as well as heathen natives. the colony, therefore, cannot properly be called a protestant one, when its _only_ spiritual guides were catholics; and consequently if it was more of a catholic than a protestant emigration, it must, by legal necessity, have been free from the moment it quitted the shores of england. if the catholic was free, all were free. iv: .--our next authority, in regard to the _early interpretation_ of religious rights in maryland, is found in a passage in chalmers's political annals, page . "in the oath," says he, "taken by the governor and council, _between_ the years and , there was the following clause, which ought to be administered to the rulers of every country. 'i will not, by myself or any other, directly or indirectly, trouble, molest or discountenance, any person professing to believe in jesus christ, for or on account of his religion.'" this shows, that "belief in jesus christ," under the constitutional guaranty of the charter, anterior to the enactment of any colonial law by the maryland assembly, secured sects from persecution. the language of the oath, which was doubtless promulgated by the lord proprietor, is as broad as the language of the charter. the statement of chalmers has been held to be indefinite as to whether the oath was taken _from_ to , or, whether it was taken in some years _between_ those dates; but, if the historian did not mean to say that it had been administered _first_ in , and continued afterwards, why would he not have specified any other, as the beginning year, as well as ? the objection seems rather hypercritical than plausible. chalmers was too accurate a writer to use dates so loosely, and inasmuch as he was an old maryland lawyer and custodian of the maryland provincial papers, he had the best opportunity to designate the precise date. a governor's oath was a regular and necessary official act. no one can doubt that an oath was required of that personage in maryland; and the oath in question, is precisely such an one as protestant settlers, in that age, might naturally expect from a catholic magistrate, who, (even from motives of the humblest policy,) would be willing to grant to others what he was anxious to secure for himself. if ever there was a proper time for perfect toleration, it was at this moment, when a catholic became, _for the first time in history_, a sovereign prince of the _first province_ of the british empire! mr. chalmers could not have confounded the oath whose language he cites, with other oaths which the reader will find cited in the nd volume of bozman's history of maryland, at pages , , . the oath prepared for stone in , appears to have been an augmented edition of the one quoted by chalmers, and is so different in parts of its phraseology as well as items, that it cannot have been mistaken by the learned annalist. bancroft, mcmahon, tyson, c. f. mayer and b. u. campbell, adopt his statement as true. v: .--in regard to the early _practice of maryland_ tribunals, on the subject of tolerance, we have a striking case in . in that year a certain _catholic_, named william lewis, was arraigned before the governor, secretary, &c., for _abusive language to protestants_. lewis confessed, that, coming into a room where francis gray and robert sedgrave, servants of captain cornwaleys, were reading, he heard them recite passages so that he should hear them, that were reproachful to his religion, "viz: that the pope was anti-christ, and the jesuits anti-christian ministers, &c: he told them it was a falsehood and came from the devil, and that he that writ it was an instrument of the devil, and so he would approve it!" the court found the culprit "guilty of a very offensive speech in calling the protestant ministers, the ministers of the devil," and of "exceeding his rights, in forbidding them to read a lawful book." in consequence of this "offensive language," and other "unreasonable disputations, in point of religion, tending to the disturbance of the peace and quiet of the colony, committed by him, _against a public proclamation set forth to prohibit all such disputes_," lewis was fined and remanded into custody until he gave security for future good behaviour.[ ] thus, four years, only, after the settlement, the liberty of conscience was vindicated by a recorded judicial sentence, and "unreasonable disputations in point of religion," rebuked by a catholic governor in the person of a catholic offender. there could scarcely be a clearer evidence of impartial and tolerant sincerity. the decision, moreover, is confirmatory of the fact that the governor had taken such an oath as chalmers cites, in the previous year, ; especially as there had _already been a "proclamation to prohibit disputes_!" vi: .--at the _first efficient_ general assembly of the colony, which was held in this year, only two acts were passed, though thirty-six other bills were twice read and engrossed, but not finally ripened into laws. the second of the two acts that were passed, contains a section asserting that "holy church, _within this province_, shall have all her rights and liberties;" thus securing the rights of catholics;--while the first of the thirty-six incomplete acts was one, which we know only by _title_, as "an act for _church liberties_." it was to continue in force until the end of the next general assembly, and then, with the lord proprietary's consent, to be perpetual. although we have no means of knowing the extent of the proposed "church liberties," we may suppose that the proposed enactment was general, in regard to all christian sects besides the catholics. vii: .--at the session of , an act for "church liberties" _was passed_ on the d october, and confirmed, as a perpetual law, in the first year of the accession of charles calvert, d lord baltimore, in . this act also declares that "holy church, within this province, shall have and enjoy all her rights, liberties and franchises, wholly and without blemish." thus, in , legislation had already settled opinion as to the rights of catholics and protestants. instead of the early catholics seeking to contract the freedom of other sects, their chief aim and interest seem to have been to secure their own. i consider the acts i have cited rather as mere declaratory statutes, than as necessary original laws. viii: .--in this year, an assembly, believed to have been composed of a protestant majority, passed the act which has been lauded as the source of religious toleration. it is "an act concerning religion," and, in my judgment, is less tolerant than the charter or the governor's oath, inasmuch as it included unitarians in the same category with blasphemers and those who denied our saviour jesus christ, punishing all alike, with confiscation of goods and the pains of _death_. this was the epoch of the trial and execution of charles i, and of the establishment of the commonwealth. ix: .--the celebrated act i have just noticed, however, was passed fifteen years after the original settlement, which exceeds the period comprised in the actual _founding_ of maryland. besides this, the political and religious aspect of england was changing, and the influence of the home-quarrel was beginning to be felt across the atlantic. in , during the mastery of cromwell, religious freedom was destroyed: puritanism became paramount; papacy and prelacy were denounced by law; and freedom was assured only to puritans, and such as professed "faith in god by jesus christ, though differing in judgment, from the doctrine or worship publicly held forth." x. it has been alleged that the clause in the maryland charter securing "god's holy rights and the true christian religion," is only an incorporation into lord baltimore's instrument, of certain clauses contained in the early charters of virginia. if the reader will refer to the st volume of henning's statutes at large, he will find all those documents in english, but _unaccompanied by the original latin_. thus, we have no means of judging the _accuracy of the translation_, or _identity of language_ in the maryland and virginia instruments. adopting, however, for the present, the translation given by henning, we find no coincidence of phraseology either to justify the suspicion of a mere copy, or to subject our charter to the _limitations_ contained in the virginia patents. disabilities are to be construed strictly in law, and our charter is not to be interpreted by another, but stands on its own, independent, context and manifest signification. the first virginia charter or patent was issued to sir thomas gates and others, april th, , in the th year of james's english reign. among the "articles, orders, instructions," &c., set down for virginia, th nov., ,--(though nothing is said about restrictions in religion, while the preamble commends the noble work of propagating the christian religion among infidel savages,)--is the following clause:--"and we doe specallie ordaine, charge, and require the presidents and councills," (of the two colonies of virginia,) "respectively, within their severall limits and precincts, that they with all diligence, care and respect, doe provide, that the _true word and service of god and christian faith_, be preached, planted and used, not only within every of the said severall colonies and plantations, but alsoe, as much as they may, among the salvage people which doe or shall adjoine unto them, or border upon them, _according to the_ doctrine, rights, _and_ religion, _now professed and established within our realme of england_."--_ st henning_, . the second charter or patent, dated d may, , th "james i," was issued to the treasurer and company for virginia, and in its xxix section, declares: "and lastly, because the principal effect, which we can desire or expect of this action, is the conversion and reduction of the people in those parts unto the _worship of god and christian religion, in which respect we should be loath, that any person be permitted to pass, that we suspected to affect the superstitions of the church of rome_; we do hereby declare that it is our will and pleasure that none be permitted to pass in any voyage, from time to time, to be made unto the said country, but such as shall first have taken the oath of supremacy;" &c., &c.--_ st henning_, . the third charter of james the i, in the th year of his english reign, was issued th march, - to the treasurer and company for virginia. the xiith section empowers certain officers to administer the _oath of supremacy and allegiance_, to "all and every persons which shall at any time or times hereafter go or pass to said colony of virginia." the instructions to governor wyatt, of th of july, , direct him:--"_to keep up the religion of the church of england, as near as may be_," &c., &c.--_ st henning._ all these extracts, it will be observed, contain _limitations_ and _restrictions_, either explicitly _in favor_ of the english church, or _against_ the, so called, "superstitions of the church of rome." the maryland charter shows no such narrow clauses, and consequently, is justly free from any connexion, _in interpretation_, with the virginia instruments. besides this, we do not know that the language of the original latin of the virginia charters, is the same as ours, and, therefore, it would be "reasoning in a circle," or, "begging the question," if we translated the maryland charter into the exact language of the virginian. the phraseology--"god's holy rights and the true christian religion,"--_unlimited in the maryland patent_,--was a distinct assertion of broad equality to all professing to believe in jesus christ. it was not subject to any sectarian restriction, and formed the basis of religious liberty in maryland, until it was undermined during the puritan intolerance in . correspondence. hall of the historical society of pennsylvania,} philadelphia, _april th, _. } dear sir: we have been appointed a committee to communicate to you the following resolution passed at a meeting of the historical society held this evening: "resolved, that the thanks of the historical society, are hereby returned to mr. brantz mayer, of baltimore, for his very able and eloquent address, delivered before it, on thursday evening, the th instant; and that messrs. tyson, fisher, coates and armstrong, be appointed a committee to transmit this resolution to mr. mayer, and request a copy of the address for publication." permit us to express the pleasure we derived from the delivery of your discourse, and, also, the hope that you will comply with the society's request. we remain, with great respect, your obedient servants, job r. tyson, j. francis fisher, b. h. coates, edw. armstrong. to mr. brantz mayer, baltimore. baltimore, _ th april, _. gentlemen: i am much obliged to the pennsylvania historical society, for the complimentary resolution it was pleased to pass in relation to the discourse i delivered before it on the th of this month. in compliance with your request, i place a copy of the address at your disposal; and, while thanking you for the courtesy with which you have communicated the vote of your colleagues, i have the honor to be, your most obedient servant, brantz mayer. to messieurs job r. tyson, } j. francis fisher,} committee, &c. &c. &c. b. h. coates, } edw. armstrong, } footnotes: [ ] mr. joseph hunter's "collections concerning the early history of the founders of new plymouth." london, : no of his critical and historical tracts, p. . [ ] it is believed by historians that sir walter raleigh fell a victim to the intrigues of spain at the court of james. his american adventures and hardihood were dangerous to the spanish empire. a small pamphlet entitled: a new description of virginia, published in london in , a reprint of which is possessed by the virginia historical society, shows how the prophetic fears of the spaniard, even at that early time, conjured up the warning phantom of anglo-saxon "_annexation._" "it is well known," says the pamphlet, "that our english plantations have had little countenance; nay, that our statesmen, (when time was,) had store of gundemore's gold," (meaning gondomar, spanish minister at james's court)--"_to destroy_ and discountenance the plantation of virginia; and he effected it, in great part, by dissolving the company, wherein most of the nobility, gentry, corporate cities, and most merchants of england, were interested and engaged; after the expense of some hundred of thousands of pounds; for gundemore did affirm to his friends, that he had commission from his master"--(the king of spain,)--"to destroy that plantation. for, said he, should they thrive and go on increasing, as they have done under that popular lord of southampton, _my master's west indies_, and his mexico, _would shortly be visited by sea and by land, from those planters in virginia_." generals scott and taylor--both sons of virginia--have verified, in the nineteenth century, the foresight of the cautious statesman of the seventeenth. _see virginia his. reg. vol. . p. ._ [ ] dr. miller's "history philosophically illustrated," vol . p. . [ ] "men who have to count, miserly, the kernels of corn for their daily bread, and to till their ground, staggering through weakness from the effect of famine, can do but little in settling the metaphysics of faith, or in counting frames, and gauging the exercises of their feelings. grim necessity of hunger looks morbid sensibility out of countenance."--_rev. dr. g. b. cheever's edition of the journal of the pilgrims;-- : p. ._ [ ] "the new england puritans, though themselves refugees from religions intolerance, and martyrs, as they supposed, to the cause of religious freedom, practiced the same intolerance to those who were so unfortunate as to differ from them. in , roger williams was banished from the massachusetts colony for differences of religious opinions with the civil powers. this was the next year after the arrival of the maryland colony. in , fifteen years later, a baptist received thirty lashes at the whipping post, in boston, for his peculiar faith; and nine years later, three persons suffered death by the common hangman, in the same place, for their adherence to the sect of quakers."--_rev. dr. burnap's life of leonard calvert, in sparks's am. biog. nd series, vol. ix. p. , boston, ._ on the th sept. , these n. england puritans, passed a law of banishment against anabaptists; in , another law, imposing the same punishment, was passed against heresy and error; in , the order of jesuits came in for a share of intolerance;--its members were inhibited from entering the colony; if they came in, heedless of the law, they were to be banished, and if they returned after banishment, they were to be _put to death_. on the th of october , the celebrated law was enacted against "the cursed sect of heretics lately risen up in the world, which are commonly called quakers:"--by its decrees, captains of vessels who introduced these religionists, knowingly, were to be fined or imprisoned; "quaker books or writings containing their devilish opinions," were not to be brought into the colony, under a penalty; while quakers who came in, were to be committed to the house of correction, kept constantly at work, not allowed to speak, and severely whipped, on their entrance into this sanctuary!--see original acts, _hazard's his. coll. , pp. , , , _. [ ] see mr. john p. kennedy's discourse on the life and character of sir george calvert, and the reviews thereof, with mr k's reply, on this question of religion, in the u. s. catholic magazine, . since the publication of mr. kennedy's discourse and the reviews of it, in , i have met with an english work published in london in , _attributed_ to bishop goodman, entitled an "account of the court of james the first." in vol. , p. , he says: "the third man who was thought to gain by the spanish match was secretary calvert; and as he was the _only secretary employed in the spanish match_, so undoubtedly he did what good offices he could therein, for religion's sake, _being infinitely addicted to the roman catholic faith, having been converted thereto by count gondemar and count arundel, whose daughter secretary calvert's son had married; and, as it was said, the secretary did usually catechise his own children, so to ground them in his own religion; and in his best room having an altar set up, with chalice, candlesticks, and all other ornaments, he brought all strangers thither, never concealing anything, as if his whole joy and comfort had been to make open profession of his religion_." as the prelate was a _contemporary_, this statement, founded, as it may be, on report, is of considerable importance. fuller, also, was a contemporary though thirty years younger than calvert. the spanish match, alluded to, was on the carpet as early as , and was broken off in the beginning of . it was probably during this period that lord arundel and the spanish minister influenced the mind of sir george as to religion. [ ] mr. chalmers, in his hist. of the revolt of the am. col. b. ch. , says that the charter of maryland was a _literal copy_ from the prior patent of avalon; but of this we are unable to judge, as he neither cites his authority nor indicates the depository of the avalon charter. if the maryland charter is an _exact_ transcript of the avalon document, it is interesting to know the fact, as calvert may have been a protestant, when the latter was issued. bozman states an authority for its date, as of , which would indicate that this document may still probably be found in the british museum. if it was issued in , it was granted a year before, fuller says, calvert resigned because he had become a catholic. in all likelihood, however, sir george was not converted in a day!--_see bozman hist. maryland ed. , vol. p. et seq. in note._ [ ] the baron von raumer, in his hist. of the xvi and xvii centuries, vol. , p. , quoting from tillieres, says of calvert: "he is an honorable, sensible well-minded man, courteous towards strangers, full of respect towards embassadors, zealously intent on the welfare of england; but by reason of all these good qualities, entirely without consideration or influence." the only original work or tract by which we know the character of sir george calvert's mind is "the answer to tom tell-troth, the practise of princes and the lamentations of the kirke, _written by lord baltimore, late secretary of state_." london, _printed _:--a copy of which, in ms., is in the collections of the maryland hist. soc. this is a quaint specimen of pedantic politics and toryism--larded with latin quotations, and altogether redolent of james's court. it was addressed to charles i, and shows the author's intimate acquaintance with the political history and movements of the continental powers. we may judge calvert's politics by the following passage in which he _commends_ the doctrines of his old master:-- "king james," says he, "in his oration to the parliament, , used these words _very judiciattie_; kings and kingdoms were before parliaments; the parliament was never called for the purpose to meddle with complaints against the king, the church, or state matters, but _ad consultandum de rebus arduis, nos et regnum nostrum concernantibus_; as the writ will inform you. i was never the cause, nor guiltie of the election of my sonne by the bohemians, neither would i be content that any other king should dispute whether i am a lawful king or no, and to tosse crowns like tennis-balls." [ ] it may seem strange, that, being a catholic, he still had the right of advowson or of presentation to protestant episcopal churches; but it was not until the act of st william and mary, chapter , that parliament interfered with the right of catholics to present to religious benefices. that act vested the presentations belonging to catholics in the universities. an act passed th anne, was of a similar disabling character.--_butler's hist. mem. vol. , pp. , , ._ [ ] see appendix no. , in regard to the erroneous translation of this clause from the latin, that has hitherto been adopted from bacon's laws of maryland. [ ] as an illustration of this feeling, i will quote a passage showing how it fared with marylanders in massachusetts in . "the dove," one of the vessels of the first colonists to maryland, was dispatched to massachusetts with a cargo of corn to exchange for fish. she carried a friendly letter from calvert and another from harvey, but the magistrates were suspicious of a people who "_did set up mass openly_." some of the crew were accused of reviling the inhabitants of massachusetts as "holy brethren," "the members," &c., and just as the ship was about to sail; _the supercargo, happening on shore, was arrested in order to compel the master to give up the culprits_. the proof failed, and the vessel was suffered to depart, but not without a special charge to the master "_to bring no more such disordered persons!_"--_hildreth hist. u. s., vol. , _. [ ] see appendix no. . [ ] in order to illustrate the spirit in which the region for the first settlement at st. mary's was acquired, i will quote from a ms. copy of "a relation of maryland, ," now in my possession: "to make his entrie peaceable and safe, he thought fit to present ye werowance and wisoes of the town (so they call ye chief men of accompt among them,) with some english cloth (such as is used in trade with ye indians,) axes, hoes, and knives, which they accepted verie kindlie, and freely gave consent toe his companie that hee and they should dwell in one part of their towne, and reserved the other for themselves: and those indians that dwelt in that part of ye towne which was allotted for ye english, freely left them their houses and some corne that they had begun to plant: it was also agreed between them that at ye end of ye harvest they should have ye whole towne, which they did accordinglie. and they made mutuall promises to each other to live peaceably and friendlie together, and if any injury should happen to be done, on any part, that satisfaction should be made for ye same; and thus, on ye daie of march, a. d. , ye gouernour took possession of ye place, and named ye _towne--saint marie's_. "there was an occasion that much facilitated their treatie with these indians which was this: the susquehanocks (a warlike people that inhabit between chesapeake bay and delaware bay) did usuallie make warres and incursions upon ye neighboring indians, partly for superioritie, partly for to gett their women, and what other purchase they could meet with; which the indians of _yoacomaco_ fearing, had, ye yeere before our arivall there, made a resolution, for there safetie, to remove themselves higher into ye countrie, where it was more populous, and many of them where gone there when ye english arrived." at potomac, father altham,--according to father white's latin ms. in the maryland hist. soc. col.--informed the guardian of the king that _we_ (the clergy) had not come thither for war, but for the sake of benevolence,--that we might imbue a rude race with the principles of civilization, and open a way to heaven, as well as to impart to them the advantages enjoyed by distant regions. the prince signified that we had come acceptably. the interpreter was one of the virginia protestants. when the father, for lack of time, could not continue his discourse, and promised soon to return: "i will that it should be so," said archihau--"our table shall be one; my men shall hunt for you; all things shall be in common between us." the werowance of pautuxent visited the strangers, and when he was about departing, used the following language, as recorded in the ms. relation of maryland of : "i love ye english so well that if they should goe about to kill me, if i had so much breath as to speak, i would command ye people not to revenge my death; for i know they would not doe such a thinge except it was through mine own default." see also mr. b. u. campbell's admirable sketch of the early missions to maryland, read before the md. hist. soc. th jan. , and subsequently printed in the u.s. catholic magazine. [ ] in william penn's second reply to a committee of the house of lords appointed in , he declares that those who cannot comply with laws, through tenderness of conscience, should not "revile or conspire against the government, _but with christian humility and patience tire out all mistakes against us_, and wait their better information, who, we believe, do as undeservedly as severely treat us." [ ] preface to frame of government, april, . [ ] those who desire to know the precise character of the celebrated elm-tree treaty, should read the memoir on its history, in vol. , part , p. of the memoirs of the pennsylvania hist. soc., written by the late mr. du ponceau, and mr. joshua francis fisher. it is one of the finest specimen of minute, exhaustive, historical analysis, with which i am acquainted. these gentlemen, prove, i think, conclusively, that the treaty was altogether one of amity and friendship, and was entirely unconnected with the purchase of lands. [ ] janney's life of penn, . [ ] see nd bozman hist. md. p. --note xliii, conditions, &c. [ ] d bozman, , and orig. ms. in md. his. soc. [illustration: university of delaware library] prison memoirs of an anarchist by alexander berkman new york mother earth publishing association published september, second edition, graphic press, new york to all those who in and out of prison fight against their bondage "but this i know, that every law that men have made for man, since first man took his brother's life, and the sad world began, but straws the wheat and saves the chaff with a most evil fan." oscar wilde [illustration: alexander berkman photo by marcia stein] as introductory i wish that everybody in the world would read this book. and my reasons are not due to any desire on my part that people should join any group of social philosophers or revolutionists. i desire that the book be widely read because the general and careful reading of it would definitely add to true civilization. it is a contribution to the writings which promote civilization; for the following reasons: it is a human document. it is a difficult thing to be sincere. more than that, it is a valuable thing. to be so, means unusual qualities of the heart and of the head; unusual qualities of character. the books that possess this quality are unusual books. there are not many deliberately autobiographical writings that are markedly sincere; there are not many direct human documents. this is one of these few books. not only has this book the interest of the human document, but it is also a striking proof of the power of the human soul. alexander berkman spent fourteen years in prison; under perhaps more than commonly harsh and severe conditions. prison life tends to destroy the body, weaken the mind and pervert the character. berkman consciously struggled with these adverse, destructive conditions. he took care of his body. he took care of his mind. he did so strenuously. it was a moral effort. he felt insane ideas trying to take possession of him. insanity is a natural result of prison life. it always tends to come. this man felt it, consciously struggled against it, and overcame it. that the prison affected him is true. it always does. but he saved himself, essentially. society tried to destroy him, but failed. if people will read this book carefully it will tend to do away with prisons. the public, once vividly conscious of what prison life is and must be, would not be willing to maintain prisons. this is the only book that i know which goes deeply into the corrupting, demoralizing psychology of prison life. it shows, in picture after picture, sketch after sketch, not only the obvious brutality, stupidity, ugliness permeating the institution, but, very touching, it shows the good qualities and instincts of the human heart perverted, demoralized, helplessly struggling for life; beautiful tendencies basely expressing themselves. and the personality of berkman goes through it all; idealistic, courageous, uncompromising, sincere, truthful; not untouched, as i have said, by his surroundings, but remaining his essential self. what lessons there are in this book! like all truthful documents it makes us love and hate our fellow men, doubt ourselves, doubt our society, tends to make us take a strenuous, serious attitude towards life, and not be too quick to judge, without going into a situation painfully, carefully. it tends to complicate the present simplicity of our moral attitudes. it tends to make us more mature. the above are the main reasons why i should like to have everybody read this book. but there are other aspects of the book which are interesting and valuable in a more special, more limited way; aspects in which only comparatively few persons will be interested, and which will arouse the opposition and hostility of many. the russian nihilistic origin of berkman, his anarchistic experience in america, his attempt on the life of frick--an attempt made at a violent industrial crisis, an attempt made as a result of a sincere if fanatical belief that he was called on by his destiny to strike a psychological blow for the oppressed of the community--this part of the book will arouse extreme disagreement and disapproval of his ideas and his act. but i see no reason why this, with the rest, should not rather be regarded as an integral part of a human document, as part of the record of a life, with its social and psychological suggestions and explanations. why not try to understand an honest man even if he feels called on to kill? there, too, it may be deeply instructive. there, too, it has its lessons. read it not in a combative spirit. read to understand. do not read to agree, of course, but read to see. hutchins hapgood. contents chapter page part i: the awakening and its toll i. the call of homestead ii. the seat of war iii. the spirit of pittsburgh iv. the attentat v. the third degree vi. the jail vii. the trial part ii: the penitentiary i. desperate thoughts ii. the will to live iii. spectral silence iv. a ray of light v. the shop vi. my first letter vii. wingie viii. to the girl ix. persecution x. the yegg xi. the route sub rosa xii. "zuchthausbluethen" xiii. the judas xiv. the dip xv. the urge of sex xvi. the warden's threat xvii. the "basket" cell xviii. the solitary xix. memory-guests xx. a day in the cell-house xxi. the deeds of the good to the evil xxii. the grist of the prison-mill xxiii. the scales of justice xxiv. thoughts that stole out of prison xxv. how shall the depths cry? xxvi. hiding the evidence xxvii. love's dungeon flower xxviii. for safety xxix. dreams of freedom xxx. whitewashed again xxxi. "and by all forgot, we rot and rot" xxxii. the deviousness of reform law applied xxxiii. the tunnel xxxiv. the death of dick xxxv. an alliance with the birds xxxvi. the underground xxxvii. anxious days xxxviii. "how men their brothers maim" xxxix. a new plan of escape xl. done to death xli. the shock at buffalo xlii. marred lives xliii. "passing the love of woman" xliv. love's daring xlv. the bloom of "the barren staff" xlvi. a child's heart-hunger xlvii. chum xlviii. last days part iii: the workhouse part iv: the resurrection illustrations alexander berkman (frontispiece) the author at the time of the homestead strike western penitentiary of pennsylvania facsimile of prison letter "zuchthausbluethen" cell ranges the tunnel part i the awakening and its toll [illustration] chapter i the call of homestead i clearly every detail of that day is engraved on my mind. it is the sixth of july, . we are quietly sitting in the back of our little flat--fedya and i--when suddenly the girl enters. her naturally quick, energetic step sounds more than usually resolute. as i turn to her, i am struck by the peculiar gleam in her eyes and the heightened color. "have you read it?" she cries, waving the half-open newspaper. "what is it?" "homestead. strikers shot. pinkertons have killed women and children." she speaks in a quick, jerky manner. her words ring like the cry of a wounded animal, the melodious voice tinged with the harshness of bitterness--the bitterness of helpless agony. i take the paper from her hands. in growing excitement i read the vivid account of the tremendous struggle, the homestead strike, or, more correctly, the lockout. the report details the conspiracy on the part of the carnegie company to crush the amalgamated association of iron and steel workers; the selection, for the purpose, of henry clay frick, whose attitude toward labor is implacably hostile; his secret military preparations while designedly prolonging the peace negotiations with the amalgamated; the fortification of the homestead steel-works; the erection of a high board fence, capped by barbed wire and provided with loopholes for sharpshooters; the hiring of an army of pinkerton thugs; the attempt to smuggle them, in the dead of night, into homestead; and, finally, the terrible carnage. i pass the paper to fedya. the girl glances at me. we sit in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. only now and then we exchange a word, a searching, significant look. ii it is hot and stuffy in the train. the air is oppressive with tobacco smoke; the boisterous talk of the men playing cards near by annoys me. i turn to the window. the gust of perfumed air, laden with the rich aroma of fresh-mown hay, is soothingly invigorating. green woods and yellow fields circle in the distance, whirl nearer, close, then rush by, giving place to other circling fields and woods. the country looks young and alluring in the early morning sunshine. but my thoughts are busy with homestead. the great battle has been fought. never before, in all its history, has american labor won such a signal victory. by force of arms the workers of homestead have compelled three hundred pinkerton invaders to surrender, to surrender most humbly, ignominiously. what humiliating defeat for the powers that be! does not the pinkerton janizary represent organized authority, forever crushing the toiler in the interest of the exploiters? well may the enemies of the people be terrified at the unexpected awakening. but the people, the workers of america, have joyously acclaimed the rebellious manhood of homestead. the steel-workers were not the aggressors. resignedly they had toiled and suffered. out of their flesh and bone grew the great steel industry; on their blood fattened the powerful carnegie company. yet patiently they had waited for the promised greater share of the wealth they were creating. like a bolt from a clear sky came the blow: wages were to be reduced! peremptorily the steel magnates refused to continue the sliding scale previously agreed upon as a guarantee of peace. the carnegie firm challenged the amalgamated association by the submission of conditions which it knew the workers could not accept. foreseeing refusal, it flaunted warlike preparations to crush the union under the iron heel. perfidious carnegie shrank from the task, having recently proclaimed the gospel of good will and harmony. "i would lay it down as a maxim," he had declared, "that there is no excuse for a strike or a lockout until arbitration of differences has been offered by one party and refused by the other. the right of the workingmen to combine and to form trades-unions is no less sacred than the right of the manufacturer to enter into association and conference with his fellows, and it must sooner or later be conceded. manufacturers should meet their men _more than half-way_." with smooth words the great philanthropist had persuaded the workers to indorse the high tariff. every product of his mills protected, andrew carnegie secured a reduction in the duty on steel billets, in return for his generous contribution to the republican campaign fund. in complete control of the billet market, the carnegie firm engineered a depression of prices, as a seeming consequence of a lower duty. but _the market price of billets was the sole standard of wages in the homestead mills_. the wages of the workers must be reduced! the offer of the amalgamated association to arbitrate the new scale met with contemptuous refusal: there was nothing to arbitrate; the men must submit unconditionally; the union was to be exterminated. and carnegie selected henry c. frick, the bloody frick of the coke regions, to carry the program into execution. must the oppressed forever submit? the manhood of homestead rebelled: the millmen scorned the despotic ultimatum. then frick's hand fell. the war was on! indignation swept the country. throughout the land the tyrannical attitude of the carnegie company was bitterly denounced, the ruthless brutality of frick universally execrated. * * * * * i could no longer remain indifferent. the moment was urgent. the toilers of homestead had defied the oppressor. they were awakening. but as yet the steel-workers were only blindly rebellious. the vision of anarchism alone could imbue discontent with conscious revolutionary purpose; it alone could lend wings to the aspirations of labor. the dissemination of our ideas among the proletariat of homestead would illumine the great struggle, help to clarify the issues, and point the way to complete ultimate emancipation. * * * * * my days were feverish with anxiety. the stirring call, "labor, awaken!" would fire the hearts of the disinherited, and inspire them to noble deeds. it would carry to the oppressed the message of the new day, and prepare them for the approaching social revolution. homestead might prove the first blush of the glorious dawn. how i chafed at the obstacles my project encountered! unexpected difficulties impeded every step. the efforts to get the leaflet translated into popular english proved unavailing. it would endanger me to distribute such a fiery appeal, my friend remonstrated. impatiently i waived aside his objections. as if personal considerations could for an instant be weighed in the scale of the great cause! but in vain i argued and pleaded. and all the while precious moments were being wasted, and new obstacles barred the way. i rushed frantically from printer to compositor, begging, imploring. none dared print the appeal. and time was fleeting. suddenly flashed the news of the pinkerton carnage. the world stood aghast. the time for speech was past. throughout the land the toilers echoed the defiance of the men of homestead. the steel-workers had rallied bravely to the defence; the murderous pinkertons were driven from the city. but loudly called the blood of mammon's victims on the hanks of the monongahela. loudly it calls. it is the people calling. ah, the people! the grand, mysterious, yet so near and real, people.... * * * * * in my mind i see myself back in the little russian college town, amid the circle of petersburg students, home for their vacation, surrounded by the halo of that vague and wonderful something we called "nihilist." the rushing train, homestead, the five years passed in america, all turn into a mist, hazy with the distance of unreality, of centuries; and again i sit among superior beings, reverently listening to the impassioned discussion of dimly understood high themes, with the oft-recurring refrain of "bazarov, hegel, liberty, chernishevsky, _v naród_." to the people! to the beautiful, simple people, so noble in spite of centuries of brutalizing suffering! like a clarion call the note rings in my ears, amidst the din of contending views and obscure phraseology. the people! my greek mythology moods have often pictured him to me as the mighty atlas, supporting on his shoulders the weight of the world, his back bent, his face the mirror of unutterable misery, in his eye the look of hopeless anguish, the dumb, pitiful appeal for help. ah, to help this helplessly suffering giant, to lighten his burden! the way is obscure, the means uncertain, but in the heated student debate the note rings clear: to the people, become one of them, share their joys and sorrows, and thus you will teach them. yes, that is the solution! but what is that red-headed misha from odessa saying? "it is all good and well about going to the people, but the energetic men of the deed, the rakhmetovs, blaze the path of popular revolution by individual acts of revolt against--" * * * * * "ticket, please!" a heavy hand is on my shoulder. with an effort i realize the situation. the card-players are exchanging angry words. with a deft movement the conductor unhooks the board, and calmly walks away with it under his arm. a roar of laughter greets the players. twitted by the other passengers, they soon subside, and presently the car grows quiet. i have difficulty in keeping myself from falling back into reverie. i must form a definite plan of action. my purpose is quite clear to me. a tremendous struggle is taking place at homestead: the people are manifesting the right spirit in resisting tyranny and invasion. my heart exults. this is, at last, what i have always hoped for from the american workingman: once aroused, he will brook no interference; he will fight all obstacles, and conquer even more than his original demands. it is the spirit of the heroic past reincarnated in the steel-workers of homestead, pennsylvania. what supreme joy to aid in this work! that is my natural mission. i feel the strength of a great undertaking. no shadow of doubt crosses my mind. the people--the toilers of the world, the producers--comprise, to me, the universe. they alone count. the rest are parasites, who have no right to exist. but to the people belongs the earth--by right, if not in fact. to make it so in fact, all means are justifiable; nay, advisable, even to the point of taking life. the question of moral right in such matters often agitated the revolutionary circles i used to frequent. i had always taken the extreme view. the more radical the treatment, i held, the quicker the cure. society is a patient; sick constitutionally and functionally. surgical treatment is often imperative. the removal of a tyrant is not merely justifiable; it is the highest duty of every true revolutionist. human life is, indeed, sacred and inviolate. but the killing of a tyrant, of an enemy of the people, is in no way to be considered as the taking of a life. a revolutionist would rather perish a thousand times than be guilty of what is ordinarily called murder. in truth, murder and _attentat_[ ] are to me opposite terms. to remove a tyrant is an act of liberation, the giving of life and opportunity to an oppressed people. true, the cause often calls upon the revolutionist to commit an unpleasant act; but it is the test of a true revolutionist--nay, more, his pride--to sacrifice all merely human feeling at the call of the people's cause. if the latter demand his life, so much the better. [ ] an act of political assassination. could anything be nobler than to die for a grand, a sublime cause? why, the very life of a true revolutionist has no other purpose, no significance whatever, save to sacrifice it on the altar of the beloved people. and what could be higher in life than to be a true revolutionist? it is to be a _man_, a complete man. a being who has neither personal interests nor desires above the necessities of the cause; one who has emancipated himself from being merely human, and has risen above that, even to the height of conviction which excludes all doubt, all regret; in short, one who in the very inmost of his soul feels himself revolutionist first, human afterwards. * * * * * such a revolutionist i feel myself to be. indeed, far more so than even the extreme radicals of my own circle. my mind reverts to a characteristic incident in connection with the poet edelstadt. it was in new york, about the year . edelstadt, one of the tenderest of souls, was beloved by every one in our circle, the _pioneers of liberty_, the first jewish anarchist organization on american soil. one evening the closer personal friends of edelstadt met to consider plans for aiding the sick poet. it was decided to send our comrade to denver, some one suggesting that money be drawn for the purpose from the revolutionary treasury. i objected. though a dear, personal friend of edelstadt, and his former roommate, i could not allow--i argued--that funds belonging to the movement be devoted to private purposes, however good and even necessary those might be. the strong disapproval of my sentiments i met with this challenge: "do you mean to help edelstadt, the poet and man, or edelstadt the revolutionist? do you consider him a true, active revolutionist? his poetry is beautiful, indeed, and may indirectly even prove of some propagandistic value. aid our friend with your private funds, if you will; but no money from the movement can be given, except for direct revolutionary activity." * * * * * "do you mean that the poet is less to you than the revolutionist?" i was asked by tikhon, a young medical student, whom we playfully dubbed "lingg," because of his rather successful affectation of the celebrated revolutionist's physical appearance. "i am revolutionist first, man afterwards," i replied, with conviction. "you are either a knave or a hero," he retorted. * * * * * "lingg" was quite right. he could not know me. to his _bourgeois_ mind, for all his imitation of the chicago martyr, my words must have sounded knavish. well, some day he may know which i am, knave or revolutionist. i do not think in the term "hero," for though the type of revolutionist i feel myself to be might popularly be so called, the word has no significance for me. it merely means a revolutionist who does his duty. there is no heroism in that: it is neither more nor less than a revolutionist should do. rakhmetov did more, too much. in spite of my great admiration for chernishevsky, who had so strongly influenced the russian youth of my time, i can not suppress the touch of resentment i feel because the author of "what's to be done?" represented his arch-revolutionist rakhmetov as going through a system of unspeakable, self-inflicted torture to prepare himself for future exigencies. it was a sign of weakness. does a real revolutionist need to prepare himself, to steel his nerves and harden his body? i feel it almost a personal insult, this suggestion of the revolutionist's mere human clay. no, the thorough revolutionist needs no such self-doubting preparations. for i know _i_ do not need them. the feeling is quite impersonal, strange as it may seem. my own individuality is entirely in the background; aye, i am not conscious of any personality in matters pertaining to the cause. i am simply a revolutionist, a terrorist by conviction, an instrument for furthering the cause of humanity; in short, a rakhmetov. indeed, i shall assume that name upon my arrival in pittsburgh. * * * * * the piercing shrieks of the locomotive awake me with a start. my first thought is of my wallet, containing important addresses of allegheny comrades, which i was trying to memorize when i must have fallen asleep. the wallet is gone! for a moment i am overwhelmed with terror. what if it is lost? suddenly my foot touches something soft. i pick it up, feeling tremendously relieved to find all the contents safe: the precious addresses, a small newspaper lithograph of frick, and a dollar bill. my joy at recovering the wallet is not a whit dampened by the meagerness of my funds. the dollar will do to get a room in a hotel for the first night, and in the morning i'll look up nold or bauer. they will find a place for me to stay a day or two. "i won't remain there long," i think, with an inward smile. * * * * * we are nearing washington, d. c. the train is to make a six-hour stop there. i curse the stupidity of the delay: something may be happening in pittsburgh or homestead. besides, no time is to be lost in striking a telling blow, while public sentiment is aroused at the atrocities of the carnegie company, the brutality of frick. yet my irritation is strangely dispelled by the beautiful picture that greets my eye as i step from the train. the sun has risen, a large ball of deep red, pouring a flood of gold upon the capitol. the cupola rears its proud head majestically above the pile of stone and marble. like a living thing the light palpitates, trembling with passion to kiss the uppermost peak, striking it with blinding brilliancy, and then spreading in a broadening embrace down the shoulders of the towering giant. the amber waves entwine its flanks with soft caresses, and then rush on, to right and left, wider and lower, flashing upon the stately trees, dallying amid leaves and branches, finally unfolding themselves over the broad avenue, and ever growing more golden and generous as they scatter. and cupola-headed giant, stately trees, and broad avenue quiver with new-born ecstasy, all nature heaves the contented sigh of bliss, and nestles closer to the golden giver of life. * * * * * at this moment i realize, as perhaps never before, the great joy, the surpassing gladness, of being. but in a trice the picture changes. before my eyes rises the monongahela river, carrying barges filled with armed men. and i hear a shot. a boy falls to the gangplank. the blood gushes from the centre of his forehead. the hole ploughed by the bullet yawns black on the crimson face. cries and wailing ring in my ears. i see men running toward the river, and women kneeling by the side of the dead. the horrible vision revives in my mind a similar incident, lived through in imagination before. it was the sight of an executed nihilist. the nihilists! how much of their precious blood has been shed, how many thousands of them line the road of russia's suffering! inexpressibly near and soul-kin i feel to those men and women, the adored, mysterious ones of my youth, who had left wealthy homes and high station to "go to the people," to become one with them, though despised by all whom they held dear, persecuted and ridiculed even by the benighted objects of their great sacrifice. clearly there flashes out upon my memory my first impression of nihilist russia. i had just passed my second year's gymnasium examinations. overflowing with blissful excitement, i rushed into the house to tell mother the joyful news. how happy it will make her! next week will be my twelfth birthday, but mother need give me no present. i have one for her, instead. "mamma, mamma!" i called, when suddenly i caught her voice, raised in anger. something has happened, i thought; mother never speaks so loudly. something very peculiar, i felt, noticing the door leading from the broad hallway to the dining-room closed, contrary to custom. in perturbation i hesitated at the door. "shame on you, nathan," i heard my mother's voice, "to condemn your own brother because he is a nihilist. you are no better than"--her voice fell to a whisper, but my straining ear distinctly caught the dread word, uttered with hatred and fear--"a _palátch_."[ ] [ ] hangman. i was struck with terror. mother's tone, my rich uncle nathan's unwonted presence at our house, the fearful word _palátch_--something awful must have happened. i tiptoed out of the hallway, and ran to my room. trembling with fear, i threw myself on the bed. what has the _palátch_ done? i moaned. "_your_ brother," she had said to uncle. her own youngest brother, my favorite uncle maxim. oh, what has happened to him? my excited imagination conjured up horrible visions. there stood the powerful figure of the giant _palátch_, all in black, his right arm bare to the shoulder, in his hand the uplifted ax. i could see the glimmer of the sharp steel as it began to descend, slowly, so torturingly slowly, while my heart ceased beating and my feverish eyes followed, bewitched, the glowing black coals in the _palátch's_ head. suddenly the two fiery eyes fused into a large ball of flaming red; the figure of the fearful one-eyed cyclop grew taller and stretched higher and higher, and everywhere was the giant--on all sides of me was he--then a sudden flash of steel, and in his monster hand i saw raised a head, cut close to the neck, its eyes incessantly blinking, the dark-red blood gushing from mouth and ears and throat. something looked ghastly familiar about that head with the broad white forehead and expressive mouth, so sweet and sad. "oh, maxim, maxim!" i cried, terror-stricken: the next moment a flood of passionate hatred of the _palátch_ seized me, and i rushed, head bent, toward the one-eyed monster. nearer and nearer i came,--another quick rush, and then the violent impact of my body struck him in the very centre, and he fell, forward and heavy, right upon me, and i felt his fearful weight crushing my arms, my chest, my head.... "sasha! sashenka! what is the matter, _golubchik_?" i recognize the sweet, tender voice of my mother, sounding far away and strange, then coming closer and growing more soothing. i open my eyes. mother is kneeling by the bed, her beautiful black eyes bathed in tears. passionately she showers kisses upon my face and hands, entreating: "_golubchik_, what is it?" "mamma, what happened to uncle maxim?" i ask, breathlessly watching her face. her sudden change of expression chills my heart with fear. she turns ghostly white, large drops of perspiration stand on her forehead, and her eyes grow large and round with terror. "mamma!" i cry, throwing my arms around her. her lips move, and i feel her warm breath on my cheek; but, without uttering a word, she bursts into vehement weeping. "who--told--you? you--know?" she whispers between sobs. * * * * * the pall of death seems to have descended upon our home. the house is oppressively silent. everybody walks about in slippers, and the piano is kept locked. only monosyllables, in undertone, are exchanged at the dinner-table. mother's seat remains vacant. she is very ill, the nurse informs us; no one is to see her. the situation bewilders me. i keep wondering what has happened to maxim. was my vision of the _palátch_ a presentiment, or the echo of an accomplished tragedy? vaguely i feel guilty of mother's illness. the shock of my question may be responsible for her condition. yet there must be more to it, i try to persuade my troubled spirit. one afternoon, finding my eldest brother maxim, named after mother's favorite brother, in a very cheerful mood, i call him aside and ask, in a boldly assumed confidential manner: "maximushka, tell me, what is a nihilist?" "go to the devil, _molokossoss_[ ] you!" he cries, angrily. with a show of violence, quite inexplicable to me, maxim throws his paper on the floor, jumps from his seat, upsetting the chair, and leaves the room. [ ] literally, milk-sucker. a contemptuous term applied to inexperienced youth. * * * * * the fate of uncle maxim remains a mystery, the question of nihilism unsolved. i am absorbed in my studies. yet a deep interest, curiosity about the mysterious and forbidden, slumbers in my consciousness, when quite unexpectedly it is roused into keen activity by a school incident. i am fifteen now, in the fourth grade of the classic gymnasium at kovno. by direction of the ministry of education, compulsory religious instruction is being introduced in the state schools. special classes have been opened at the gymnasium for the religious instruction of jewish pupils. the parents of the latter resent the innovation; almost every jewish child receives religious training at home or in _cheidar_.[ ] but the school authorities have ordered the gymnasiasts of jewish faith to attend classes in religion. [ ] schools for instruction in jewish religion and laws. the roll-call at the first session finds me missing. summoned before the director for an explanation, i state that i failed to attend because i have a private jewish tutor at home, and,--anyway, i do not believe in religion. the prim director looks inexpressibly shocked. "young man," he addresses me in the artificial guttural voice he affects on solemn occasions. "young man, when, permit me to ask, did you reach so profound a conclusion?" his manner disconcerts me; but the sarcasm of his words and the offensive tone rouse my resentment. impulsively, defiantly, i discover my cherished secret. "since i wrote the essay, 'there is no god,'" i reply, with secret exultation. but the next instant i realize the recklessness of my confession. i have a fleeting sense of coming trouble, at school and at home. yet somehow i feel i have acted like a _man_. uncle maxim, the nihilist, would act so in my position. i know his reputation for uncompromising candor, and love him for his bold, frank ways. "oh, that is interesting," i hear, as in a dream, the unpleasant guttural voice of the director. "when did you write it?" "three years ago." "how old were you then?" "twelve." "have you the essay?" "yes." "where?" "at home." "bring it to me to-morrow. without fail, remember." his voice grows stern. the words fall upon my ears with the harsh metallic sound of my sister's piano that memorable evening of our musicale when, in a spirit of mischief, i hid a piece of gas pipe in the instrument tuned for the occasion. "to-morrow, then. you are dismissed." the educational board, in conclave assembled, reads the essay. my disquisition is unanimously condemned. exemplary punishment is to be visited upon me for "precocious godlessness, dangerous tendencies, and insubordination." i am publicly reprimanded, and reduced to the third class. the peculiar sentence robs me of a year, and forces me to associate with the "children" my senior class looks down upon with undisguised contempt. i feel disgraced, humiliated. * * * * * thus vision chases vision, memory succeeds memory, while the interminable hours creep towards the afternoon, and the station clock drones like an endless old woman. iii over at last. "all aboard!" on and on rushes the engine, every moment bringing me nearer to my destination. the conductor drawling out the stations, the noisy going and coming produce almost no conscious impression on my senses. seeing and hearing every detail of my surroundings, i am nevertheless oblivious to them. faster than the train rushes my fancy, as if reviewing a panorama of vivid scenes, apparently without organic connection with each other, yet somehow intimately associated in my thoughts of the past. but how different is the present! i am speeding toward pittsburgh, the very heart of the industrial struggle of america. america! i dwell wonderingly on the unuttered sound. why in america? and again unfold pictures of old scenes. * * * * * i am walking in the garden of our well-appointed country place, in a fashionable suburb of st. petersburg, where the family generally spends the summer months. as i pass the veranda, dr. semeonov, the celebrated physician of the resort, steps out of the house and beckons to me. "alexander ossipovitch," he addresses me in his courtly manner, "your mother is very ill. are you alone with her?" "we have servants, and two nurses are in attendance," i reply. "to be sure, to be sure," the shadow of a smile hovers about the corners of his delicately chiseled lips. "i mean of the family." "oh, yes! i am alone here with my mother." "your mother is rather restless to-day, alexander ossipovitch. could you sit up with her to-night?" "certainly, certainly," i quickly assent, wondering at the peculiar request. mother has been improving, the nurses have assured me. my presence at her bedside may prove irksome to her. our relations have been strained since the day when, in a fit of anger, she slapped rose, our new chambermaid, whereupon i resented mother's right to inflict physical punishment on the servants. i can see her now, erect and haughty, facing me across the dinner-table, her eyes ablaze with indignation. "you forget you are speaking to your mother, al-ex-an-der"; she pronounces the name in four distinct syllables, as is her habit when angry with me. "you have no right to strike the girl," i retort, defiantly. "you forget yourself. my treatment of the menial is no concern of yours." i cannot suppress the sharp reply that springs to my lips: "the low servant girl is as good as you." i see mother's long, slender fingers grasp the heavy ladle, and the next instant a sharp pain pierces my left hand. our eyes meet. her arm remains motionless, her gaze directed to the spreading blood stain on the white table-cloth. the ladle falls from her hand. she closes her eyes, and her body sinks limply to the chair. anger and humiliation extinguish my momentary impulse to rush to her assistance. without uttering a word, i pick up the heavy saltcellar, and fling it violently against the french mirror. at the crash of the glass my mother opens her eyes in amazement. i rise and leave the house. * * * * * my heart beats fast as i enter mother's sick-room. i fear she may resent my intrusion: the shadow of the past stands between us. but she is lying quietly on the bed, and has apparently not noticed my entrance. i sit down at the bedside. a long time passes in silence. mother seems to be asleep. it is growing dark in the room, and i settle down to pass the night in the chair. suddenly i hear "sasha!" called in a weak, faint voice. i bend over her. "drink of water." as i hold the glass to her lips, she slightly turns away her head, saying very low, "ice water, please." i start to leave the room. "sasha!" i hear behind me, and, quickly tiptoeing to the bed, i bring my face closely, very closely to hers, to catch the faint words: "help me turn to the wall." tenderly i wrap my arms around the weak, emaciated body, and an overpowering longing seizes me to touch her hand with my lips and on my knees beg her forgiveness. i feel so near to her, my heart is overflowing with compassion and love. but i dare not kiss her--we have become estranged. affectionately i hold her in my arms for just the shadow of a second, dreading lest she suspect the storm of emotion raging within me. caressingly i turn her to the wall, and, as i slowly withdraw, i feel as if some mysterious, yet definite, something has at the very instant left her body. in a few minutes i return with a glass of ice water. i hold it to her lips, but she seems oblivious of my presence. "she cannot have gone to sleep so quickly," i wonder. "mother!" i call, softly. no reply. "little mother! mamotchka!" she does not appear to hear me. "dearest, _golubchick_!" i cry, in a paroxysm of sudden fear, pressing my hot lips upon her face. then i become conscious of an arm upon my shoulder, and hear the measured voice of the doctor: "my boy, you must bear up. she is at rest." iv "wake up, young feller! whatcher sighin' for?" bewildered i turn around to meet the coarse, yet not unkindly, face of a swarthy laborer in the seat back of me. "oh, nothing; just dreaming," i reply. not wishing to encourage conversation, i pretend to become absorbed in my book. how strange is the sudden sound of english! almost as suddenly had i been transplanted to american soil. six months passed after my mother's death. threatened by the educational authorities with a "wolf's passport" on account of my "dangerous tendencies"--which would close every professional avenue to me, in spite of my otherwise very satisfactory standing--the situation aggravated by a violent quarrel with my guardian, uncle nathan, i decided to go to america. there, beyond the ocean, was the land of noble achievement, a glorious free country, where men walked erect in the full stature of manhood,--the very realization of my youthful dreams. and now i am in america, the blessed land. the disillusionment, the disappointments, the vain struggles!... the kaleidoscope of my brain unfolds them all before my view. now i see myself on a bench in union square park, huddled close to fedya and mikhail, my roommates. the night wind sweeps across the cheerless park, chilling us to the bone. i feel hungry and tired, fagged out by the day's fruitless search for work. my heart sinks within me as i glance at my friends. "nothing," each had morosely reported at our nightly meeting, after the day's weary tramp. fedya groans in uneasy sleep, his hand groping about his knees. i pick up the newspaper that had fallen under the seat, spread it over his legs, and tuck the ends underneath. but a sudden blast tears the paper away, and whirls it off into the darkness. as i press fedya's hat down on his head, i am struck by his ghastly look. how these few weeks have changed the plump, rosy-cheeked youth! poor fellow, no one wants his labor. how his mother would suffer if she knew that her carefully reared boy passes the nights in the.... what is that pain i feel? some one is bending over me, looming unnaturally large in the darkness. half-dazed i see an arm swing to and fro, with short, semicircular backward strokes, and with every movement i feel a sharp sting, as of a lash. oh, it's in my soles! bewildered i spring to my feet. a rough hand grabs me by the throat, and i face a policeman. "are you thieves?" he bellows. mikhail replies, sleepily: "we russians. want work." "git out o' here! off with you!" quickly, silently, we walk away, fedya and i in front, mikhail limping behind us. the dimly lighted streets are deserted, save for a hurrying figure here and there, closely wrapped, flitting mysteriously around the corner. columns of dust rise from the gray pavements, are caught up by the wind, rushed to some distance, then carried in a spiral upwards, to be followed by another wave of choking dust. from somewhere a tantalizing odor reaches my nostrils. "the bakery on second street," fedya remarks. unconsciously our steps quicken. shoulders raised, heads bent, and shivering, we keep on to the lower bowery. mikhail is steadily falling behind. "dammit, i feel bad," he says, catching up with us, as we step into an open hallway. a thorough inspection of our pockets reveals the possession of twelve cents, all around. mikhail is to go to bed, we decide, handing him a dime. the cigarettes purchased for the remaining two cents are divided equally, each taking a few puffs of the "fourth" in the box. fedya and i sleep on the steps of the city hall. * * * * * "pitt-s-burgh! pitt-s-burgh!" the harsh cry of the conductor startles me with the violence of a shock. impatient as i am of the long journey, the realization that i have reached my destination comes unexpectedly, overwhelming me with the dread of unpreparedness. in a flurry i gather up my things, but, noticing that the other passengers keep their places, i precipitately resume my seat, fearful lest my agitation be noticed. to hide my confusion, i turn to the open window. thick clouds of smoke overcast the sky, shrouding the morning with sombre gray. the air is heavy with soot and cinders; the smell is nauseating. in the distance, giant furnaces vomit pillars of fire, the lurid flashes accentuating a line of frame structures, dilapidated and miserable. they are the homes of the workers who have created the industrial glory of pittsburgh, reared its millionaires, its carnegies and fricks. the sight fills me with hatred of the perverse social justice that turns the needs of mankind into an inferno of brutalizing toil. it robs man of his soul, drives the sunshine from his life, degrades him lower than the beasts, and between the millstones of divine bliss and hellish torture grinds flesh and blood into iron and steel, transmutes human lives into gold, gold, countless gold. the great, noble people! but is it really great and noble to be slaves and remain content? no, no! they are awakening, awakening! chapter ii the seat of war contentedly peaceful the monongahela stretches before me, its waters lazily rippling in the sunlight, and softly crooning to the murmur of the woods on the hazy shore. but the opposite bank presents a picture of sharp contrast. near the edge of the river rises a high board fence, topped with barbed wire, the menacing aspect heightened by warlike watch-towers and ramparts. the sinister wall looks down on me with a thousand hollow eyes, whose evident murderous purpose fully justifies the name of "fort frick." groups of excited people crowd the open spaces between the river and the fort, filling the air with the confusion of many voices. men carrying winchesters are hurrying by, their faces grimy, eyes bold yet anxious. from the mill-yard gape the black mouths of cannon, dismantled breastworks bar the passages, and the ground is strewn with burning cinders, empty shells, oil barrels, broken furnace stacks, and piles of steel and iron. the place looks the aftermath of a sanguinary conflict,--the symbol of our industrial life, of the ruthless struggle in which the _stronger_, the sturdy man of labor, is always the victim, because he acts _weakly_. but the charred hulks of the pinkerton barges at the landing-place, and the blood-bespattered gangplank, bear mute witness that for once the battle went to the _really strong, to the victim who dared_. a group of workingmen approaches me. big, stalwart men, the power of conscious strength in their step and bearing. each of them carries a weapon: some winchesters, others shotguns. in the hand of one i notice the gleaming barrel of a navy revolver. "who are you?" the man with the revolver sternly asks me. "a friend, a visitor." "can you show credentials or a union card?" presently, satisfied as to my trustworthiness, they allow me to proceed. in one of the mill-yards i come upon a dense crowd of men and women of various types: the short, broad-faced slav, elbowing his tall american fellow-striker; the swarthy italian, heavy-mustached, gesticulating and talking rapidly to a cluster of excited countrymen. the people are surging about a raised platform, on which stands a large, heavy man. i press forward. "listen, gentlemen, listen!" i hear the speaker's voice. "just a few words, gentlemen! you all know who i am, don't you?" "yes, yes, sheriff!" several men cry. "go on!" "yes," continues the speaker, "you all know who i am. your sheriff, the sheriff of allegheny county, of the great commonwealth of pennsylvania." "go ahead!" some one yells, impatiently. "if you don't interrupt me, gentlemen, i'll go ahead." "s-s-sh! order!" the speaker advances to the edge of the platform. "men of homestead! it is my sworn duty, as sheriff, to preserve the peace. your city is in a state of lawlessness. i have asked the governor to send the militia and i hope--" "no! no!" many voices protest. "to hell with you!" the tumult drowns the words of the sheriff. shaking his clenched fist, his foot stamping the platform, he shouts at the crowd, but his voice is lost amid the general uproar. "o'donnell! o'donnell!" comes from several sides, the cry swelling into a tremendous chorus, "o'donnell!" i see the popular leader of the strike nimbly ascend the platform. the assembly becomes hushed. "brothers," o'donnell begins in a flowing, ingratiating manner, "we have won a great, noble victory over the company. we have driven the pinkerton invaders out of our city--" "damn the murderers!" "silence! order!" "you have won a big victory," o'donnell continues, "a great, significant victory, such as was never before known in the history of labor's struggle for better conditions." vociferous cheering interrupts the speaker. "but," he continues, "you must show the world that you desire to maintain peace and order along with your rights. the pinkertons were invaders. we defended our homes and drove them out; rightly so. but you are law-abiding citizens. you respect the law and the authority of the state. public opinion will uphold you in your struggle if you act right. now is the time, friends!" he raises his voice in waxing enthusiasm, "now is the time! welcome the soldiers. they are not sent by that man frick. they are the people's militia. they are our friends. let us welcome them as friends!" applause, mixed with cries of impatient disapproval, greets the exhortation. arms are raised in angry argument, and the crowd sways back and forth, breaking into several excited groups. presently a tall, dark man appears on the platform. his stentorian voice gradually draws the assembly closer to the front. slowly the tumult subsides. "don't you believe it, men!" the speaker shakes his finger at the audience, as if to emphasize his warning. "don't you believe that the soldiers are coming as friends. soft words these, mr. o'donnell. they'll cost us dear. remember what i say, brothers. the soldiers are no friends of ours. i know what i am talking about. they are coming here because that damned murderer frick wants them." "hear! hear!" "yes!" the tall man continues, his voice quivering with emotion, "i can tell you just how it is. the scoundrel of a sheriff there asked the governor for troops, and that damned frick paid the sheriff to do it, i say!" "no! yes! no!" the clamor is renewed, but i can hear the speaker's voice rising above the din: "yes, bribed him. you all know this cowardly sheriff. don't you let the soldiers come, i tell you. first _they_'ll come; then the blacklegs. you want 'em?" "no! no!" roars the crowd. "well, if you don't want the damned scabs, keep out the soldiers, you understand? if you don't, they'll drive you out from the homes you have paid for with your blood. you and your wives and children they'll drive out, and out you will go from these"--the speaker points in the direction of the mills--"that's what they'll do, if you don't look out. we have sweated and bled in these mills, our brothers have been killed and maimed there, we have made the damned company rich, and now they send the soldiers here to shoot us down like the pinkerton thugs have tried to. and you want to welcome the murderers, do you? keep them out, i tell you!" amid shouts and yells the speaker leaves the platform. "mcluckie! 'honest' mcluckie!" a voice is heard on the fringe of the crowd, and as one man the assembly takes up the cry, "'honest' mcluckie!" i am eager to see the popular burgess of homestead, himself a poorly paid employee of the carnegie company. a large-boned, good-natured-looking workingman elbows his way to the front, the men readily making way for him with nods and pleasant smiles. "i haven't prepared any speech," the burgess begins haltingly, "but i want to say, i don't see how you are going to fight the soldiers. there is a good deal of truth in what the brother before me said; but if you stop to think on it, he forgot to tell you just one little thing. the _how_? how is he going to do it, to keep the soldiers out? that's what i'd like to know. i'm afraid it's bad to let them in. the blacklegs _might_ be hiding in the rear. but then again, it's bad _not_ to let the soldiers in. you can't stand up against 'em: they are not pinkertons. and we can't fight the government of pennsylvania. perhaps the governor won't send the militia. but if he does, i reckon the best way for us will be to make friends with them. guess it's the only thing we can do. that's all i have to say." the assembly breaks up, dejected, dispirited. chapter iii the spirit of pittsburgh i like a gigantic hive the twin cities jut out on the banks of the ohio, heavily breathing the spirit of feverish activity, and permeating the atmosphere with the rage of life. ceaselessly flow the streams of human ants, meeting and diverging, their paths crossing and recrossing, leaving in their trail a thousand winding passages, mounds of structure, peaked and domed. their huge shadows overcast the yellow thread of gleaming river that curves and twists its painful way, now hugging the shore, now hiding in affright, and again timidly stretching its arms toward the wrathful monsters that belch fire and smoke into the midst of the giant hive. and over the whole is spread the gloom of thick fog, oppressive and dispiriting--the symbol of our existence, with all its darkness and cold. this is pittsburgh, the heart of american industrialism, whose spirit moulds the life of the great nation. the spirit of pittsburgh, the iron city! cold as steel, hard as iron, its products. these are the keynote of the great republic, dominating all other chords, sacrificing harmony to noise, beauty to bulk. its torch of liberty is a furnace fire, consuming, destroying, devastating: a country-wide furnace, in which the bones and marrow of the producers, their limbs and bodies, their health and blood, are cast into bessemer steel, rolled into armor plate, and converted into engines of murder to be consecrated to mammon by his high priests, the carnegies, the fricks. * * * * * the spirit of the iron city characterizes the negotiations carried on between the carnegie company and the homestead men. henry clay frick, in absolute control of the firm, incarnates the spirit of the furnace, is the living emblem of his trade. the olive branch held out by the workers after their victory over the pinkertons has been refused. the ultimatum issued by frick is the last word of caesar: the union of the steel-workers is to be crushed, completely and absolutely, even at the cost of shedding the blood of the last man in homestead; the company will deal only with individual workers, who must accept the terms offered, without question or discussion; he, frick, will operate the mills with non-union labor, even if it should require the combined military power of the state and the union to carry the plan into execution. millmen disobeying the order to return to work under the new schedule of reduced wages are to be discharged forthwith, and evicted from the company houses. ii in an obscure alley, in the town of homestead, there stands a one-story frame house, looking old and forlorn. it is occupied by the widow johnson and her four small children. six months ago, the breaking of a crane buried her husband under two hundred tons of metal. when the body was carried into the house, the distracted woman refused to recognize in the mangled remains her big, strong "jack." for weeks the neighborhood resounded with her frenzied cry, "my husband! where's my husband?" but the loving care of kind-hearted neighbors has now somewhat restored the poor woman's reason. accompanied by her four little orphans, she recently gained admittance to mr. frick. on her knees she implored him not to drive her out of her home. her poor husband was dead, she pleaded; she could not pay off the mortgage; the children were too young to work; she herself was hardly able to walk. frick was very kind, she thought; he had promised to see what could be done. she would not listen to the neighbors urging her to sue the company for damages. "the crane was rotten," her husband's friends informed her; "the government inspector had condemned it." but mr. frick was kind, and surely he knew best about the crane. did he not say it was her poor husband's own carelessness? she feels very thankful to good mr. frick for extending the mortgage. she had lived in such mortal dread lest her own little home, where dear john had been such a kind husband to her, be taken away, and her children driven into the street. she must never forget to ask the lord's blessing upon the good mr. frick. every day she repeats to her neighbors the story of her visit to the great man; how kindly he received her, how simply he talked with her. "just like us folks," the widow says. she is now telling the wonderful story to neighbor mary, the hunchback, who, with undiminished interest, hears the recital for the twentieth time. it reflects such importance to know some one that had come in intimate contact with the iron king; why, into his very presence! and even talked to the great magnate! "'dear mr. frick,' says i," the widow is narrating, "'dear mr. frick,' i says, 'look at my poor little angels--'" a knock on the door interrupts her. "must be one-eyed kate," the widow observes. "come in! come in!" she calls out, cheerfully. "poor kate!" she remarks with a sigh. "her man's got the consumption. won't last long, i fear." a tall, rough-looking man stands in the doorway. behind him appear two others. frightened, the widow rises from the chair. one of the children begins to cry, and runs to hide behind his mother. "beg pard'n, ma'am," the tall man says. "have no fear. we are deputy sheriffs. read this." he produces an official-looking paper. "ordered to dispossess you. very sorry, ma'am, but get ready. quick, got a dozen more of--" there is a piercing scream. the deputy sheriff catches the limp body of the widow in his arms. iii east end, the fashionable residence quarter of pittsburgh, lies basking in the afternoon sun. the broad avenue looks cool and inviting: the stately trees touch their shadows across the carriage road, gently nodding their heads in mutual approval. a steady procession of equipages fills the avenue, the richly caparisoned horses and uniformed flunkies lending color and life to the scene. a cavalcade is passing me. the laughter of the ladies sounds joyous and care-free. their happiness irritates me. i am thinking of homestead. in mind i see the sombre fence, the fortifications and cannon; the piteous figure of the widow rises before me, the little children weeping, and again i hear the anguished cry of a broken heart, a shattered brain.... and here all is joy and laughter. the gentlemen seem pleased; the ladies are happy. why should they concern themselves with misery and want? the common folk are fit only to be their slaves, to feed and clothe them, build these beautiful palaces, and be content with the charitable crust. "take what i give you," frick commands. why, here is his house! a luxurious place, with large garden, barns, and stable. that stable there,--it is more cheerful and habitable than the widow's home. ah, life could be made livable, beautiful! why should it not be? why so much misery and strife? sunshine, flowers, beautiful things are all around me. that is life! joy and peace.... no! there can be no peace with such as frick and these parasites in carriages riding on our backs, and sucking the blood of the workers. fricks, vampires, all of them--i almost shout aloud--they are all one class. all in a cabal against _my_ class, the toilers, the producers. an impersonal conspiracy, perhaps; but a conspiracy nevertheless. and the fine ladies on horseback smile and laugh. what is the misery of the people to _them?_ probably they are laughing at me. laugh! laugh! you despise me. i am of the people, but you belong to the fricks. well, it may soon be our turn to laugh.... * * * * * returning to pittsburgh in the evening, i learn that the conferences between the carnegie company and the advisory committee of the strikers have terminated in the final refusal of frick to consider the demands of the millmen. the last hope is gone! the master is determined to crush his rebellious slaves. chapter iv the attentat the door of frick's private office, to the left of the reception-room, swings open as the colored attendant emerges, and i catch a flitting glimpse of a black-bearded, well-knit figure at a table in the back of the room. "mistah frick is engaged. he can't see you now, sah," the negro says, handing back my card. i take the pasteboard, return it to my case, and walk slowly out of the reception-room. but quickly retracing my steps, i pass through the gate separating the clerks from the visitors, and, brushing the astounded attendant aside, i step into the office on the left, and find myself facing frick. for an instant the sunlight, streaming through the windows, dazzles me. i discern two men at the further end of the long table. "fr--," i begin. the look of terror on his face strikes me speechless. it is the dread of the conscious presence of death. "he understands," it flashes through my mind. with a quick motion i draw the revolver. as i raise the weapon, i see frick clutch with both hands the arm of the chair, and attempt to rise. i aim at his head. "perhaps he wears armor," i reflect. with a look of horror he quickly averts his face, as i pull the trigger. there is a flash, and the high-ceilinged room reverberates as with the booming of cannon. i hear a sharp, piercing cry, and see frick on his knees, his head against the arm of the chair. i feel calm and possessed, intent upon every movement of the man. he is lying head and shoulders under the large armchair, without sound or motion. "dead?" i wonder. i must make sure. about twenty-five feet separate us. i take a few steps toward him, when suddenly the other man, whose presence i had quite forgotten, leaps upon me. i struggle to loosen his hold. he looks slender and small. i would not hurt him: i have no business with him. suddenly i hear the cry, "murder! help!" my heart stands still as i realize that it is frick shouting. "alive?" i wonder. i hurl the stranger aside and fire at the crawling figure of frick. the man struck my hand,--i have missed! he grapples with me, and we wrestle across the room. i try to throw him, but spying an opening between his arm and body, i thrust the revolver against his side and aim at frick, cowering behind the chair. i pull the trigger. there is a click--but no explosion! by the throat i catch the stranger, still clinging to me, when suddenly something heavy strikes me on the back of the head. sharp pains shoot through my eyes. i sink to the floor, vaguely conscious of the weapon slipping from my hands. "where is the hammer? hit him, carpenter!" confused voices ring in my ears. painfully i strive to rise. the weight of many bodies is pressing on me. now--it's frick's voice! not dead?... i crawl in the direction of the sound, dragging the struggling men with me. i must get the dagger from my pocket--i have it! repeatedly i strike with it at the legs of the man near the window. i hear frick cry out in pain--there is much shouting and stamping--my arms are pulled and twisted, and i am lifted bodily from the floor. police, clerks, workmen in overalls, surround me. an officer pulls my head back by the hair, and my eyes meet frick's. he stands in front of me, supported by several men. his face is ashen gray; the black beard is streaked with red, and blood is oozing from his neck. for an instant a strange feeling, as of shame, comes over me; but the next moment i am filled with anger at the sentiment, so unworthy of a revolutionist. with defiant hatred i look him full in the face. "mr. frick, do you identify this man as your assailant?" frick nods weakly. * * * * * the street is lined with a dense, excited crowd. a young man in civilian dress, who is accompanying the police, inquires, not unkindly: "are you hurt? you're bleeding." i pass my hand over my face. i feel no pain, but there is a peculiar sensation about my eyes. "i've lost my glasses," i remark, involuntarily. "you'll be damn lucky if you don't lose your head," an officer retorts. chapter v the third degree i the clanking of the keys grows fainter and fainter; the sound of footsteps dies away. the officers are gone. it is a relief to be alone. their insolent looks and stupid questions, insinuations and threats,--how disgusting and tiresome it all is! a sense of complete indifference possesses me. i stretch myself out on the wooden bench, running along the wall of the cell, and at once fall asleep. i awake feeling tired and chilly. all is quiet and dark around me. is it night? my hand gropes blindly, hesitantly. something wet and clammy touches my cheek. in sudden affright i draw back. the cell is damp and musty; the foul air nauseates me. slowly my foot feels the floor, drawing my body forward, all my senses on the alert. i clutch the bars. the feel of iron is reassuring. pressed close to the door, my mouth in the narrow opening, i draw quick, short breaths. i am hot, perspiring. my throat is dry to cracking; i cannot swallow. "water! i want water!" the voice frightens me. was it i that spoke? the sound rolls up; it rises from gallery to gallery, and strikes the opposite corner under the roof; now it crawls underneath, knocks in the distant hollows, and abruptly ceases. "holloa, there! whatcher in for?" the voice seems to issue at once from all sides of the corridor. but the sound relieves me. now the air feels better; it is not so difficult to breathe. i begin to distinguish the outline of a row of cells opposite mine. there are dark forms at the doors. the men within look like beasts restlessly pacing their cages. "whatcher in for?" it comes from somewhere alongside. "can't talk, eh? 'sorderly, guess." what am i in for? oh, yes! it's frick. well, i shall not stay _here_ long, anyhow. they will soon take me out--they will lean me against a wall--a slimy wall like this, perhaps. they will bandage my eyes, and the soldiers there.... no: they are going to hang me. well, i shall be glad when they take me out of here. i am so dry. i'm suffocating.... ... the upright irons of the barred door grow faint, and melt into a single line; it adjusts itself crosswise between the upper and side sills. it resembles a scaffold, and there is a man sinking the beam into the ground. he leans it carefully against the wall, and picks up a spade. now he stands with one foot in the hole. it is the carpenter! he hit me on the head. from behind, too, the coward. if he only knew what he had done. he is one of the people: we must go to them, enlighten them. i wish he'd look up. he doesn't know his real friends. he looks like a russian peasant, with his broad back. what hairy arms he has! if he would only look up.... now he sinks the beam into the ground; he is stamping down the earth. i will catch his eye as he turns around. ah, he didn't look! he has his eyes always on the ground. just like the _muzhik_. now he is taking a few steps backward, critically examining his work. he seems pleased. how peculiar the cross-piece looks. the horizontal beam seems too long; out of proportion. i hope it won't break. i remember the feeling i had when my brother once showed me the picture of a man dangling from the branch of a tree. underneath was inscribed, _the execution of stenka razin_. "didn't the branch break?" i asked. "no, sasha," mother replied, "stenka--well, he weighed nothing"; and i wondered at the peculiar look she exchanged with maxim. but mother smiled sadly at me, and wouldn't explain. then she turned to my brother: "maxim, you must not bring sashenka such pictures. he is too young." "not too young, mamotchka, to learn that stenka was a great man." "what! you young fool," father bristled with anger, "he was a murderer, a common rioter." but mother and maxim bravely defended stenka, and i was deeply incensed at father, who despotically terminated the discussion. "not another word, now! i won't hear any more of that peasant criminal." the peculiar divergence of opinion perplexed me. anybody could tell the difference between a murderer and a worthy man. why couldn't they agree? he must have been a good man, i finally decided. mother wouldn't cry over a hanged murderer: i saw her stealthily wipe her eyes as she looked at that picture. yes, stenka razin was surely a noble man. i cried myself to sleep over the unspeakable injustice, wondering how i could ever forgive "them" the killing of the good stenka, and why the weak-looking branch did not break with his weight. why didn't it break?... the scaffold they will prepare for me might break with my weight. they'll hang me like stenka, and perhaps a little boy will some day see the picture--and they will call me murderer--and only a few will know the truth--and the picture will show me hanging from.... no, they shall not hang me! my hand steals to the lapel of my coat, and a deep sense of gratification comes over me, as i feel the nitro-glycerine cartridge secure in the lining. i smile at the imaginary carpenter. useless preparations! i have, myself, prepared for the event. no, they won't hang me. my hand caresses the long, narrow tube. go ahead! make your gallows. why, the man is putting on his coat. is he done already? now he is turning around. he is looking straight at me. why, it's frick! alive?... my brain is on fire. i press my head against the bars, and groan heavily. alive? have i failed? failed?... ii heavy footsteps approach nearer; the clanking of the keys grows more distinct. i must compose myself. those mocking, unfriendly eyes shall not witness my agony. they could allay this terrible uncertainty, but i must seem indifferent. would i "take lunch with the chief"? i decline, requesting a glass of water. certainly; but the chief wishes to see me first. flanked on each side by a policeman, i pass through winding corridors, and finally ascend to the private office of the chief. my mind is busy with thoughts of escape, as i carefully note the surroundings. i am in a large, well-furnished room, the heavily curtained windows built unusually high above the floor. a brass railing separates me from the roll-top desk, at which a middle-aged man, of distinct irish type, is engaged with some papers. "good morning," he greets me, pleasantly. "have a seat," pointing to a chair inside the railing. "i understand you asked for some water?" "yes." "just a few questions first. nothing important. your pedigree, you know. mere matter of form. answer frankly, and you shall have everything you want." his manner is courteous, almost ingratiating. "now tell me, mr. berkman, what is your name? your real name, i mean." "that's my real name." "you don't mean you gave your real name on the card you sent in to mr. frick?" "i gave my real name." "and you are an agent of a new york employment firm?" "no." "that was on your card." "i wrote it to gain access to frick." "and you gave the name 'alexander berkman' to gain access?" "no. i gave my real name. whatever might happen, i did not want anyone else to be blamed." "are you a homestead striker?" "no." "why did you attack mr. frick?" "he is an enemy of the people." "you got a personal grievance against him?" "no. i consider him an enemy of the people." "where do you come from?" "from the station cell." "come, now, you may speak frankly, mr. berkman. i am your friend. i am going to give you a nice, comfortable cell. the other--" "worse than a russian prison," i interrupt, angrily. "how long did you serve there?" "where?" "in the prison in russia." "i was never before inside a cell." "come, now, mr. berkman, tell the truth." he motions to the officer behind my chair. the window curtains are drawn aside, exposing me to the full glare of the sunlight. my gaze wanders to the clock on the wall. the hour-hand points to v. the calendar on the desk reads, july-- --saturday. only three hours since my arrest? it seemed so long in the cell.... "you can be quite frank with me," the inquisitor is saying. "i know a good deal more about you than you think. we've got your friend rak-metov." with difficulty i suppress a smile at the stupidity of the intended trap. in the register of the hotel where i passed the first night in pittsburgh, i signed "rakhmetov," the name of the hero in chernishevsky's famous novel. "yes, we've got your friend, and we know all about you." "then why do you ask me?" "don't you try to be smart now. answer my questions, d'ye hear?" his manner has suddenly changed. his tone is threatening. "now answer me. where do you live?" "give me some water. i am too dry to talk." "certainly, certainly," he replies, coaxingly. "you shall have a drink. do you prefer whiskey or beer?" "i never drink whiskey, and beer very seldom. i want water." "well, you'll get it as soon as we get through. don't let us waste time, then. who are your friends?" "give me a drink." "the quicker we get through, the sooner you'll get a drink. i am having a nice cell fixed up for you, too. i want to be your friend, mr. berkman. treat me right, and i'll take care of you. now, tell me, where did you stop in pittsburgh?" "i have nothing to tell you." "answer me, or i'll--" his face is purple with rage. with clenched fist he leaps from his seat; but, suddenly controlling himself, he says, with a reassuring smile: "now be sensible, mr. berkman. you seem to be an intelligent man. why don't you talk sensibly?" "what do you want to know?" "who went with you to mr. frick's office?" impatient of the comedy, i rise with the words: "i came to pittsburgh alone. i stopped at the merchants' hotel, opposite the b. and o. depot. i signed the name rakhmetov in the register there. it's a fictitious name. my real name is alexander berkman. i went to frick's office alone. i had no helpers. that's all i have to tell you." "very good, very good. take your seat, mr. berkman. we're not in any hurry. take your seat. you may as well stay here as in the cell; it's pleasanter. but i am going to have another cell fixed up for you. just tell me, where do you stay in new york?" "i have told you all there is to tell." "now, don't be stubborn. who are your friends?" "i won't say another word." "damn you, you'll think better of it. officers, take him back. same cell." * * * * * every morning and evening, during three days, the scene is repeated by new inquisitors. they coax and threaten, they smile and rage in turn. i remain indifferent. but water is refused me, my thirst aggravated by the salty food they have given me. it consumes me, it tortures and burns my vitals through the sleepless nights passed on the hard wooden bench. the foul air of the cell is stifling. the silence of the grave torments me; my soul is in an agony of uncertainty. chapter vi the jail i the days ring with noisy clamor. there is constant going and coming. the clatter of levers, the slamming of iron doors, continually reverberates through the corridors. the dull thud of a footfall in the cell above hammers on my head with maddening regularity. in my ears is the yelling and shouting of coarse voices. "cell num-ber ee-e-lev-ven! to court! right a-way!" a prisoner hurriedly passes my door. his step is nervous, in his look expectant fear. "hurry, there! to court!" "good luck, jimmie." the man flushes and averts his face, as he passes a group of visitors clustered about an overseer. "who is that, officer?" one of the ladies advances, lorgnette in hand, and stares boldly at the prisoner. suddenly she shrinks back. a man is being led past by the guards. his face is bleeding from a deep gash, his head swathed in bandages. the officers thrust him violently into a cell. he falls heavily against the bed. "oh, don't! for jesus' sake, don't!" the shutting of the heavy door drowns his cries. the visitors crowd about the cell. "what did he do? he can't come out now, officer?" "no, ma'am. he's safe." the lady's laugh rings clear and silvery. she steps closer to the bars, eagerly peering into the darkness. a smile of exciting security plays about her mouth. "what has he done, officer?" "stole some clothes, ma'am." disdainful disappointment is on the lady's face. "where is that man who--er--we read in the papers yesterday? you know--the newspaper artist who killed--er--that girl in such a brutal manner." "oh, jack tarlin. murderers' row, this way, ladies." ii the sun is slowly nearing the blue patch of sky, visible from my cell in the western wing of the jail. i stand close to the bars to catch the cheering rays. they glide across my face with tender, soft caress, and i feel something melt within me. closer i press to the door. i long for the precious embrace to surround me, to envelop me, to pour its soft balm into my aching soul. the last rays are fading away, and something out of my heart is departing with them.... but the lengthening shadows on the gray flagstones spread quiet. gradually the clamor ceases, the sounds die out. i hear the creaking of rusty hinges, there is the click of a lock, and all is hushed and dark. * * * * * the silence grows gloomy, oppressive. it fills me with mysterious awe. it lives. it pulsates with slow, measured breathing, as of some monster. it rises and falls; approaches, recedes. it is misery asleep. now it presses heavily against my door. i hear its quickened breathing. oh, it is the guard! is it the death watch? his outline is lost in the semi-darkness, but i see the whites of his eyes. they stare at me, they watch and follow me. i feel their gaze upon me, as i nervously pace the floor. unconsciously my step quickens, but i cannot escape that glint of steel. it grimaces and mocks me. it dances before me: it is here and there, all around me. now it flits up and down; it doubles, trebles. the fearful eyes stare at me from a hundred depressions in the wall. on every side they surround me, and bar my way. i bury my head in the pillow. my sleep is restless and broken. ever the terrible gaze is upon me, watching, watching, the white eyeballs turning with my every movement. iii the line of prisoners files by my cell. they walk in twos, conversing in subdued tones. it is a motley crowd from the ends of the world. the native of the western part of the state, the "pennsylvania dutchman," of stolid mien, passes slowly, in silence. the son of southern italy, stocky and black-eyed, alert suspicion on his face, walks with quick, nervous step. the tall, slender spaniard, swarthy and of classic feature, looks about him with suppressed disdain. each, in passing, casts a furtive glance into my cell. the last in the line is a young negro, walking alone. he nods and smiles broadly at me, exposing teeth of dazzling whiteness. the guard brings up the rear. he pauses at my door, his sharp eye measuring me severely, critically. "you may fall in." the cell is unlocked, and i join the line. the negro is at my side. he loses no time in engaging me in conversation. he is very glad, he assures me, that they have at last permitted me to "fall in." it was a shame to deprive me of exercise for four days. now they will "call de night-dog off. must been afeared o' soocide," he explains. his flow of speech is incessant; he seems not a whit disconcerted by my evident disinclination to talk. would i have a cigarette? may smoke in the cell. one can buy "de weed" here, if he has "de dough"; buy anything 'cept booze. he is full of the prison gossip. that tall man there is jack tinford, of homestead--sure to swing--threw dynamite at the pinkertons. that little "dago" will keep jack company--cut his wife's throat. the "dutchy" there is "bugs"--choked his son in sleep. presently my talkative companion volunteers the information that he also is waiting for trial. nothing worse than second degree murder, though. can't hang him, he laughs gleefully. "his" man didn't "croak" till after the ninth day. he lightly waves aside my remark concerning the ninth-day superstition. he is convinced they won't hang him. "can't do't," he reiterates, with a happy grin. suddenly he changes the subject. "wat am yo doin' heah? only murdah cases on dis ah gal'ry. yuh man didn' croak!" evidently he expects no answer, immediately assuring me that i am "all right." "guess dey b'lieve it am mo' safe foah yo. but can't hang yo, can't hang yo." he grows excited over the recital of his case. minutely he describes the details. "dat big niggah, guess 'e t'ot i's afeared of 'm. he know bettah now," he chuckles. "dis ah chile am afeared of none ov'm. ah ain't. 'gwan 'way, niggah,' ah says to 'm; 'yo bettah leab mah gahl be.' an' dat big black niggah grab de cleaveh,--we's in d'otel kitchen, yo see. 'niggah, drop dat,' ah hollos, an' he come at me. den dis ah coon pull his trusty li'lle brodeh," he taps his pocket significantly, "an' ah lets de ornery niggah hab it. plum' in de belly, yassah, ah does, an' he drop his cleaveh an' ah pulls mah knife out, two inches, 'bout, an' den ah gives it half twist like, an' shoves it in 'gen." he illustrates the ghastly motion. "dat bad niggah neveh botheh _me_ 'gen, noh nobody else, ah guess. but dey can't hang me, no sah, dey can't, 'cause mah man croak two weeks later. ah's lucky, yassah, ah is." his face is wreathed in a broad grin, his teeth shimmer white. suddenly he grows serious. "yo am strikeh? no-o-o? not a steel-woikeh?" with utter amazement. "what yo wan' teh shoot frick foah?" he does not attempt to disguise his impatient incredulity, as i essay an explanation. "afeared t' tell. yo am deep all right, ahlick--dat am yuh name? but yo am right, yassah, yo am right. doan' tell nobody. dey's mos'ly crooks, dat dey am, an' dey need watchin' sho'. yo jes' membuh dat." * * * * * there is a peculiar movement in the marching line. i notice a prisoner leave his place. he casts an anxious glance around, and disappears in the niche of the cell door. the line continues on its march, and, as i near the man's hiding place, i hear him whisper, "fall back, aleck." surprised at being addressed in such familiar manner, i slow down my pace. the man is at my side. "say, berk, you don't want to be seen walking with that 'dinge.'" the sound of my shortened name grates harshly on my ear. i feel the impulse to resent the mutilation. the man's manner suggests a lack of respect, offensive to my dignity as a revolutionist. "why?" i ask, turning to look at him. he is short and stocky. the thin lips and pointed chin of the elongated face suggest the fox. he meets my gaze with a sharp look from above his smoked-glass spectacles. his voice is husky, his tone unpleasantly confidential. it is bad for a white man to be seen with a "nigger," he informs me. it will make feeling against me. he himself is a pittsburgh man for the last twenty years, but he was "born and raised" in the south, in atlanta. they have no use for "niggers" down there, he assures me. they must be taught to keep their place, and they are no good, anyway. i had better take his advice, for he is friendly disposed toward me. i must be very careful of appearances before the trial. my inexperience is quite evident, but he "knows the ropes." i must not give "them" an opportunity to say anything against me. my behavior in jail will weigh with the judge in determining my sentence. he himself expects to "get off easy." he knows some of the judges. mostly good men. he ought to know: helped to elect one of them; voted three times for him at the last election. he closes the left eye, and playfully pokes me with his elbow. he hopes he'll "get before that judge." he will, if he is lucky, he assures me. he had always had pretty good luck. last time he got off with three years, though he nearly killed "his" man. but it was in self-defence. have i got a chew of tobacco about me? don't use the weed? well, it'll be easier in the "pen." what's the pen? why, don't i know? the penitentiary, of course. i should have no fear. frick ain't going to die. but what did i want to kill the man for? i ain't no pittsburgh man, that he could see plain. what did i want to "nose in" for? help the strikers? i must be crazy to talk that way. why, it was none of my "cheese." didn't i come from new york? yes? well, then, how could the strike concern me? i must have some personal grudge against frick. ever had dealings with him? no? sure? then it's plain "bughouse," no use talking. but it's different with his case. it was his partner in business. he knew the skunk meant to cheat him out of money, and they quarreled. did i notice the dark glasses he wears? well, his eyes are bad. he only meant to scare the man. but, damn him, he croaked. curse such luck. his third offence, too. do i think the judge will have pity on him? why, he is almost blind. how did he manage to "get his man"? why, just an accidental shot. he didn't mean to-- the gong intones its deep, full bass. "all in!" the line breaks. there is a simultaneous clatter of many doors, and i am in the cell again. iv within, on the narrow stool, i find a tin pan filled with a dark-brown mixture. it is the noon meal, but the "dinner" does not look inviting: the pan is old and rusty; the smell of the soup excites suspicion. the greasy surface, dotted here and there with specks of vegetable, resembles a pool of stagnant water covered with green slime. the first taste nauseates me, and i decide to "dine" on the remnants of my breakfast--a piece of bread. * * * * * i pace the floor in agitation over the conversation with my fellow-prisoners. why can't they understand the motives that prompted my act? their manner of pitying condescension is aggravating. my attempted explanation they evidently considered a waste of effort. not a striker myself, i could and should have had no interest in the struggle,--the opinion seemed final with both the negro and the white man. in the purpose of the act they refused to see any significance,--nothing beyond the mere physical effect. it would have been a good thing if frick had died, because "he was bad." but it is "lucky" for me that he didn't die, they thought, for now "they" can't hang me. my remark that the probable consequences to myself are not to be weighed in the scale against the welfare of the people, they had met with a smile of derision, suggestive of doubt as to my sanity. it is, of course, consoling to reflect that neither of those men can properly be said to represent the people. the negro is a very inferior type of laborer; and the other--he is a _bourgeois_, "in business." he is not worth while. besides, he confessed that it is his third offence. he is a common criminal, not an honest producer. but that tall man--the homestead steel-worker whom the negro pointed out to me--oh, _he_ will understand: he is of the real people. my heart wells up in admiration of the man, as i think of his participation in the memorable struggle of homestead. he fought the pinkertons, the myrmidons of capital. perhaps he helped to dynamite the barges and drive those hessians out of town. he is tall and broad-shouldered, his face strong and determined, his body manly and powerful. he is of the true spirit; the embodiment of the great, noble people: the giant of labor grown to his full stature, conscious of his strength. fearless, strong, and proud, he will conquer all obstacles; he will break his chains and liberate mankind. v next morning, during exercise hour, i watch with beating heart for an opportunity to converse with the homestead steel-worker. i shall explain to him the motives and purpose of my attempt on frick. he will understand me; he will himself enlighten his fellow-strikers. it is very important _they_ should comprehend my act quite clearly, and he is the very man to do this great service to humanity. he is the rebel-worker; his heroism during the struggle bears witness. i hope the people will not allow the enemy to hang him. he defended the rights of the homestead workers, the cause of the whole working class. no, the people will never allow such a sacrifice. how well he carries himself! erect, head high, the look of conscious dignity and strength-- "cell num-b-ber fi-i-ve!" the prisoner with the smoked glasses leaves the line, and advances in response to the guard's call. quickly i pass along the gallery, and fall into the vacant place, alongside of the steel-worker. "a happy chance," i address him. "i should like to speak to you about something important. you are one of the homestead strikers, are you not?" "jack tinford," he introduces himself. "what's your name?" he is visibly startled by my answer. "the man who shot frick?" he asks. an expression of deep anxiety crosses his face. his eye wanders to the gate. through the wire network i observe visitors approaching from the warden's office. "they'd better not see us together," he says, impatiently. "fall in back of me. then we'll talk." pained at his manner, yet not fully realizing its significance, i slowly fall back. his tall, broad figure completely hides me from view. he speaks to me in monosyllables, unwillingly. at the mention of homestead he grows more communicative, talking in an undertone, as if conversing with his neighbor, the sicilian, who does not understand a syllable of english. i strain my ear to catch his words. the steel-workers merely defended themselves against armed invaders, i hear him say. they are not on strike: they've been locked out by frick, because he wants to non-unionize the works. that's why he broke the contract with the amalgamated, and hired the damned pinkertons two months before, when all was peace. they shot many workers from the barges before the millmen "got after them." they deserved roasting alive for their unprovoked murders. well, the men "fixed them all right." some were killed, others committed suicide on the burning barges, and the rest were forced to surrender like whipped curs. a grand victory all right, if that coward of a sheriff hadn't got the governor to send the militia to homestead. but it was a victory, you bet, for the boys to get the best of three hundred armed pinkertons. he himself, though, had nothing to do with the fight. he was sick at the time. they're trying to get the pinkertons to swear his life away. one of the hounds has already made an affidavit that he saw him, jack tinford, throw dynamite at the barges, before the pinkertons landed. but never mind, he is not afraid. no pittsburgh jury will believe those lying murderers. he was in his sweetheart's house, sick abed. the girl and her mother will prove an alibi for him. and the advisory committee of the amalgamated, too. they know he wasn't on the shore. they'll swear to it in court, anyhow-- abruptly he ceases, a look of fear on his face. for a moment he is lost in thought. then he gives me a searching look, and smiles at me. as we turn the corner of the walk, he whispers: "too bad you didn't kill him. some business misunderstanding, eh?" he adds, aloud. could he be serious, i wonder. does he only pretend? he faces straight ahead, and i am unable to see his expression. i begin the careful explanation i had prepared: "jack, it was for you, for your people that i--" impatiently, angrily he interrupts me. i'd better be careful not to talk that way in court, he warns me. if frick should die, i'd hang myself with such "gab." and it would only harm the steel-workers. they don't believe in killing; they respect the law. of course, they had a right to defend their homes and families against unlawful invaders. but they welcomed the militia to homestead. they showed their respect for authority. to be sure, frick deserves to die. he is a murderer. but the mill-workers will have nothing to do with anarchists. what did i want to kill him for, anyhow? i did not belong to the homestead men. it was none of my business. i had better not say anything about it in court, or-- the gong tolls. "all in!" vi i pass a sleepless night. the events of the day have stirred me to the very depths. bitterness and anger against the homestead striker fill my heart. my hero of yesterday, the hero of the glorious struggle of the people,--how contemptible he has proved himself, how cravenly small! no consciousness of the great mission of his class, no proud realization of the part he himself had acted in the noble struggle. a cowardly, overgrown boy, terrified at to-morrow's punishment for the prank he has played! meanly concerned only with his own safety, and willing to resort to lying, in order to escape responsibility. the very thought is appalling. it is a sacrilege, an insult to the holy cause, to the people. to myself, too. not that lying is to be condemned, provided it is in the interest of the cause. all means are justified in the war of humanity against its enemies. indeed, the more repugnant the means, the stronger the test of one's nobility and devotion. all great revolutionists have proved that. there is no more striking example in the annals of the russian movement than that peerless nihilist--what was his name? why, how peculiar that it should escape me just now! i knew it so well. he undermined the winter palace, beneath the very dining-room of the tsar. what debasement, what terrible indignities he had to endure in the rôle of the servile, simple-minded peasant carpenter. how his proud spirit must have suffered, for weeks and months,--all for the sake of his great purpose. wonderful man! to be worthy of your comradeship.... but this homestead worker, what a pigmy by comparison. he is absorbed in the single thought of saving himself, the traitor. a veritable judas, preparing to forswear his people and their cause, willing to lie and deny his participation. how proud i should be in his place: to have fought on the barricades, as he did! and then to die for it,--ah, could there be a more glorious fate for a man, a real man? to serve even as the least stone in the foundation of a free society, or as a plank in the bridge across which the triumphant people shall finally pass into the land of promise? a plank in the bridge.... in the _most_.[ ] what a significant name! how it impressed me the first time i heard it! no, i saw it in print, i remember quite clearly. mother had just died. i was dreaming of the new world, the land of freedom. eagerly i read every line of "american news." one day, in the little kovno library--how distinctly it all comes back to me--i can see myself sitting there, perusing the papers. must get acquainted with the country. what is this? "anarchists hanged in chicago." there are many names--one is "most." "what is an anarchist?" i whisper to the student near by. he is from peter,[ ] he will know. "s--sh! same as nihilists." "in free america?" i wondered. [ ] russian for "bridge." [ ] popular abbreviation of st. petersburg. how little i knew of america then! a free country, indeed, that hangs its noblest men. and the misery, the exploitation,--it's terrible. i must mention all this in court, in my defence. no, not defence--some fitter word. explanation! yes, my explanation. i need no defence: i don't consider myself guilty. what did the warden mean? fool for a client, he said, when i told him that i would refuse legal aid. he thinks i am a fool. well, he's a _bourgeois_, he can't understand. i'll tell him to leave me alone. he belongs to the enemy. the lawyers, too. they are all in the capitalist camp. i need no lawyers. they couldn't explain my case. i shall not talk to the reporters, either. they are a lying pack, those journalistic hounds of capitalism. they always misrepresent us. and they know better, too. they wrote columns of interviews with most when he went to prison. all lies. i saw him off myself; he didn't say a word to them. they are our worst enemies. the warden said that they'll come to see me to-morrow. i'll have nothing to say to them. they're sure to twist my words, and thus impair the effect of my act. it is not complete without my explanation. i shall prepare it very carefully. of course, the jury won't understand. they, too, belong to the capitalist class. but i must use the trial to talk to the people. to be sure, an _attentat_ on a frick is in itself splendid propaganda. it combines the value of example with terroristic effect. but very much depends upon my explanation. it offers me a rare opportunity for a broader agitation of our ideas. the comrades outside will also use my act for propaganda. the people misunderstand us: they have been prejudiced by the capitalist press. they must be enlightened; that is our glorious task. very difficult and slow work, it is true; but they will learn. their patience will break, and then--the good people, they have always been too kind to their enemies. and brave, even in their suffering. yes, very brave. not like that fellow, the steel-worker. he is a disgrace to homestead, the traitor.... * * * * * i pace the cell in agitation. the judas-striker is not fit to live. perhaps it would be best they should hang him. his death would help to open the eyes of the people to the real character of legal justice. legal justice--what a travesty! they are mutually exclusive terms. yes, indeed, it would be best he should be hanged. the pinkerton will testify against him. he saw jack throw dynamite. very good. perhaps others will also swear to it. the judge will believe the pinkertons. yes, they will hang him. the thought somewhat soothes my perturbation. at least the cause of the people will benefit to some extent. the man himself is not to be considered. he has ceased to exist: his interests are exclusively personal; he can be of no further benefit to the people. only his death can aid the cause. it is best for him to end his career in the service of humanity. i hope he will act like a man on the scaffold. the enemy should not gloat over his fear, his craven terror. they'll see in him the spirit of the people. of course, he is not worthy of it. but he must die like a rebel-worker, bravely, defiantly. i must speak to him about it. the deep bass of the gong dispels my reverie. vii there is a distinct sense of freedom in the solitude of the night. the day's atmosphere is surcharged with noisome anxiety, the hours laden with impending terrors. but the night is soothing. for the first time i feel alone, unobserved. the "night-dog has been called off." how refinedly brutal is this constant care lest the hangman be robbed of his prey! a simple precaution against suicide, the warden told me. i felt the naïve stupidity of the suggestion like the thrust of a dagger. what a tremendous chasm in our mental attitudes! his mind cannot grasp the impossibility of suicide before i have explained to the people the motive and purpose of my act. suicide? as if the mere death of frick was my object! the very thought is impossible, insulting. it outrages me that even a _bourgeois_ should so meanly misjudge the aspirations of an active revolutionist. the insignificant reptile, frick,--as if the mere man were worth a terroristic effort! i aimed at the many-headed hydra whose visible representative was frick. the homestead developments had given him temporary prominence, thrown this particular hydra-head into bold relief, so to speak. that alone made him worthy of the revolutionist's attention. primarily, as an object lesson; it would strike terror into the soul of his class. they are craven-hearted, their conscience weighted with guilt,--and life is dear to them. their strangling hold on labor might be loosened. only for a while, no doubt. but that much would be gained, due to the act of the _attentäter_. the people could not fail to realize the depth of a love that will give its own life for their cause. to give a young life, full of health and vitality, to give all, without a thought of self; to give all, voluntarily, cheerfully; nay, enthusiastically--could any one fail to understand such a love? but this is the first terrorist act in america. the people may fail to comprehend it thoroughly. yet they will know that an anarchist committed the deed. i will talk to them from the courtroom. and my comrades at liberty will use the opportunity to the utmost to shed light on the questions involved. such a deed must draw the attention of the world. this first act of voluntary anarchist sacrifice will make the workingmen think deeply. perhaps even more so than the chicago martyrdom. the latter was preëminently a lesson in capitalist justice. the culmination of a plutocratic conspiracy, the tragedy of lacked the element of voluntary anarchist self-sacrifice in the interests of the people. in that distinctive quality my act is initial. perhaps it will prove the entering wedge. the leaven of growing oppression is at work. it is for us, the anarchists, to educate labor to its great mission. let the world learn of the misery of homestead. the sudden thunderclap gives warning that beyond the calm horizon the storm is gathering. the lightning of social protest-- * * * * * "quick, ahlick! plant it." something white flutters between the bars. hastily i read the newspaper clipping. glorious! who would have expected it? a soldier in one of the regiments stationed at homestead called upon the line to give "three cheers for the man who shot frick." my soul overflows with beautiful hopes. such a wonderful spirit among the militia; perhaps the soldiers will fraternize with the strikers. it is by no means an impossibility: such things have happened before. after all, they are of the people, mostly workingmen. their interests are identical with those of the strikers, and surely they hate frick, who is universally condemned for his brutality, his arrogance. this soldier--what is his name? iams, w. l. iams--he typifies the best feeling of the regiment. the others probably lack his courage. they feared to respond to his cheers, especially because of the colonel's presence. but undoubtedly most of them feel as iams does. it would be dangerous for the enemy to rely upon the tenth pennsylvania. and in the other homestead regiments, there must also be such noble iamses. they will not permit their comrade to be court-martialed, as the colonel threatens. iams is not merely a militia man. he is a citizen, a native. he has the right to express his opinion regarding my deed. if he had condemned it, he would not be punished. may he not, then, voice a favorable sentiment? no, they can't punish him. and he is surely very popular among the soldiers. how manfully he behaved as the colonel raged before the regiment, and demanded to know who cheered for "the assassin of mr. frick," as the imbecile put it. iams stepped out of the ranks, and boldly avowed his act. he could have remained silent, or denied it. but he is evidently not like that cowardly steel-worker. he even refused the colonel's offer to apologize. brave boy! he is the right material for a revolutionist. such a man has no business to belong to the militia. he should know for what purpose it is intended: a tool of capitalism in the enslavement of labor. after all, it will benefit him to be court-martialed. it will enlighten him. i must follow the case. perhaps the negro will give me more clippings. it was very generous of him to risk this act of friendship. the warden has expressly interdicted the passing of newspapers to me, though the other prisoners are permitted to buy them. he discriminates against me in every possible way. a rank ignoramus: he cannot even pronounce "anarchist." yesterday he said to me: "the anachrists are no good. what do they want, anyhow?" i replied, angrily: "first you say they are no good, then you ask what they want." he flushed. "got no use for them, anyway." such an imbecile! not the least sense of justice--he condemns without knowing. i believe he is aiding the detectives. why does he insist i should plead guilty? i have repeatedly told him that, though i do not deny the act, i am innocent. the stupid laughed outright. "better plead guilty, you'll get off easier. you did it, so better plead guilty." in vain i strove to explain to him: "i don't believe in your laws, i don't acknowledge the authority of your courts. i am innocent, morally." the aggravating smile of condescending wisdom kept playing about his lips. "plead guilty. take my advice, plead guilty." * * * * * instinctively i sense some presence at the door. the small, cunning eyes of the warden peer intently through the bars. i feel him an enemy. well, he may have the clipping now if he wishes. but no torture shall draw from me an admission incriminating the negro. the name rakhmetov flits through my mind. i shall be true to that memory. "a gentleman in my office wishes to see you," the warden informs me. "who is he?" "a friend of yours, from pittsburgh." "i know no one in pittsburgh. i don't care to see the man." the warden's suave insistence arouses my suspicions. why should he be so much interested in my seeing a stranger? visits are privileges, i have been told. i decline the privilege. but the warden insists. i refuse. finally he orders me out of the cell. two guards lead me into the hallway. they halt me at the head of a line of a dozen men. six are counted off, and i am assigned to the seventh place. i notice that i am the only one in the line wearing glasses. the warden enters from an inner office, accompanied by three visitors. they pass down the row, scrutinizing each face. they return, their gaze fixed on the men. one of the strangers makes a motion as if to put his hand on the shoulder of the man on my left. the warden hastily calls the visitors aside. they converse in whispers, then walk up the line, and pass slowly back, till they are alongside of me. the tall stranger puts his hand familiarly on my shoulder, exclaiming: "don't you recognize me, mr. berkman? i met you on fifth avenue, right in front of the telegraph building."[ ] [ ] the building in which the offices of the carnegie company were located. "i never saw you before in my life." "oh, yes! you remember i spoke to you--" "no, you did not," i interrupt, impatiently. "take him back," the warden commands. i protest against the perfidious proceeding. "a positive identification," the warden asserts. the detective had seen me "in the company of two friends, inspecting the office of mr. frick." indignantly i deny the false statement, charging him with abetting the conspiracy to involve my comrades. he grows livid with rage, and orders me deprived of exercise that afternoon. * * * * * the warden's rôle in the police plot is now apparent to me. i realize him in his true colors. ignorant though he is, familiarity with police methods has developed in him a certain shrewdness: the low cunning of the fox seeking its prey. the good-natured smile masks a depth of malice, his crude vanity glorying in the successful abuse of his wardenship over unfortunate human beings. this new appreciation of his character clarifies various incidents heretofore puzzling to me. my mail is being detained at the office, i am sure. it is impossible that my new york comrades should have neglected me so long: it is now over a week since my arrest. as a matter of due precaution, they would not communicate with me at once. but two or three days would be sufficient to perfect a _deckadresse_.[ ] yet not a line has reached me from them. it is evident that my mail is being detained. [ ] a "disguise" address, to mask the identity of the correspondent. my reflections rouse bitter hatred of the warden. his infamy fills me with rage. the negro's warning against the occupant of the next cell assumes a new aspect. undoubtedly the man is a spy; placed there by the warden, evidently. little incidents, insignificant in themselves, add strong proof to justify the suspicion. it grows to conviction as i review various circumstances concerning my neighbor. the questions i deemed foolish, prompted by mere curiosity, i now see in the light of the warden's rôle as volunteer detective. the young negro was sent to the dungeon for warning me against the spy in the next cell. but the latter is never reported, notwithstanding his continual knocking and talking. specially privileged, evidently. and the warden, too, is hand-in-glove with the police. i am convinced he himself caused the writing of those letters he gave me yesterday. they were postmarked homestead, from a pretended striker. they want to blow up the mills, the letter said; good bombs are needed. i should send them the addresses of my friends who know how to make effective explosives. what a stupid trap! one of the epistles sought to involve some of the strike leaders in my act. in another, john most was mentioned. well, i am not to be caught with such chaff. but i must be on my guard. it is best i should decline to accept mail. they withhold the letters of my friends, anyhow. yes, i'll refuse all mail. * * * * * i feel myself surrounded by enemies, open and secret. not a single being here i may call friend; except the negro, who, i know, wishes me well. i hope he will give me more clippings,--perhaps there will be news of my comrades. i'll try to "fall in" with him at exercise to-morrow.... oh! they are handing out tracts. to-morrow is sunday,--no exercise! viii the lord's day is honored by depriving the prisoners of dinner. a scanty allowance of bread, with a tincupful of black, unsweetened coffee, constitutes breakfast. supper is a repetition of the morning meal, except that the coffee looks thinner, the tincup more rusty. i force myself to swallow a mouthful by shutting my eyes. it tastes like greasy dishwater, with a bitter suggestion of burnt bread. exercise is also abolished on the sacred day. the atmosphere is pervaded with the gloom of unbroken silence. in the afternoon, i hear the creaking of the inner gate. there is much swishing of dresses: the good ladies of the tracts are being seated. the doors on murderers' row are opened partly, at a fifteen-degree angle. the prisoners remain in their cells, with the guards stationed at the gallery entrances. all is silent. i can hear the beating of my heart in the oppressive quiet. a faint shadow crosses the darksome floor; now it oscillates on the bars. i hear the muffled fall of felt-soled steps. silently the turnkey passes the cell, like a flitting mystery casting its shadow athwart a troubled soul. i catch the glint of a revolver protruding from his pocket. suddenly the sweet strains of a violin resound in the corridor. female voices swell the melody, "nearer my god to thee, nearer to thee." slowly the volume expands; it rises, grows more resonant in contact with the gallery floor, and echoes in my cell, "nearer to thee, to thee." the sounds die away. a deep male voice utters, "let us pray." its metallic hardness rings like a command. the guards stand with lowered heads. their lips mumble after the invisible speaker, "our father who art in heaven, give us this day our daily bread.... forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that trespass against us----" "like hell you do!" some one shouts from the upper gallery. there is suppressed giggling in the cells. pellmell the officers rush up the stairs. the uproar increases. "order!" yells and catcalls drown the warden's voice. doors are violently opened and shut. the thunder of rattling iron is deafening. suddenly all is quiet: the guards have reached the galleries. only hasty tiptoeing is heard. the offender cannot be found. the gong rings the supper hour. the prisoners stand at the doors, cup in hand, ready to receive the coffee. "give the s---- of b---- no supper! no supper!" roars the warden. sabbath benediction! the levers are pulled, and we are locked in for the night. ix in agitation i pace the cell. frick didn't die! he has almost recovered. i have positive information: the "blind" prisoner gave me the clipping during exercise. "you're a poor shot," he teased me. the poignancy of the disappointment pierces my heart. i feel it with the intensity of a catastrophe. my imprisonment, the vexations of jail life, the future--all is submerged in the flood of misery at the realization of my failure. bitter thoughts crowd my mind; self-accusation overwhelms me. i failed! failed!... it might have been different, had i gone to frick's residence. it was my original intention, too. but the house in the east end was guarded. besides, i had no time to wait: that very morning the papers had announced frick's intended visit to new york. i was determined he should not escape me. i resolved to act at once. it was mainly his cowardice that saved him--he hid under the chair! played dead! and now he lives, the vampire.... and homestead? how will it affect conditions there? if frick had died, carnegie would have hastened to settle with the strikers. the shrewd scot only made use of frick to destroy the hated union. he himself was absent, he could not be held accountable. the author of "triumphant democracy" is sensitive to adverse criticism. with the elimination of frick, responsibility for homestead conditions would rest with carnegie. to support his rôle as the friend of labor, he must needs terminate the sanguinary struggle. such a development of affairs would have greatly advanced the anarchist propaganda. however some may condemn my act, the workers could not be blind to the actual situation, and the practical effects of frick's death. but his recovery.... yet, who can tell? it may perhaps have the same results. if not, the strike was virtually lost when the steel-workers permitted the militia to take possession of homestead. it afforded the company an opportunity to fill the mills with scabs. but even if the strike be lost,--our propaganda is the chief consideration. the homestead workers are but a very small part of the american working class. important as this great struggle is, the cause of the whole people is supreme. and their true cause is anarchism. all other issues are merged in it; it alone will solve the labor problem. no other consideration deserves attention. the suffering of individuals, of large masses, indeed, is unavoidable under capitalist conditions. poverty and wretchedness must constantly increase; it is inevitable. a revolutionist cannot be influenced by mere sentimentality. we bleed for the people, we suffer for them, but we know the real source of their misery. our whole civilization, false to the core as it is, must be destroyed, to be born anew. only with the abolition of exploitation will labor gain justice. anarchism alone can save the world. these reflections somewhat soothe me. my failure to accomplish the desired result is grievously exasperating, and i feel deeply humiliated. but i shall be the sole sufferer. properly viewed, the merely physical result of my act cannot affect its propagandistic value; and that is, always, the supreme consideration. the chief purpose of my _attentat_ was to call attention to our social iniquities; to arouse a vital interest in the sufferings of the people by an act of self-sacrifice; to stimulate discussion regarding the cause and purpose of the act, and thus bring the teachings of anarchism before the world. the homestead situation offered the psychologic social moment. what matter the personal consequences to frick? the merely physical results of my _attentat_? the conditions necessary for propaganda are there: the act is accomplished. as to myself--my disappointment is bitter, indeed. i wanted to die for the cause. but now they will send me to prison--they will bury me alive.... involuntarily my hand reaches for the lapel of my coat, when suddenly i remember my great loss. in agony, i live through again the scene in the police station, on the third day after my arrest.... rough hands seize my arms, and i am forced into a chair. my head is thrust violently backward, and i face the chief. he clutches me by the throat. "open your mouth! damn you, open your mouth!" everything is whirling before me, the desk is circling the room, the bloodshot eyes of the chief gaze at me from the floor, his feet flung high in the air, and everything is whirling, whirling.... "now, doc, quick!" there is a sharp sting in my tongue, my jaws are gripped as by a vise, and my mouth is torn open. "what d'ye think of _that_, eh?" the chief stands before me, in his hand the dynamite cartridge. "what's this?" he demands, with an oath. "candy," i reply, defiantly. x how full of anxiety these two weeks have been! still no news of my comrades. the warden is not offering me any more mail; he evidently regards my last refusal as final. but i am now permitted to purchase papers; they may contain something about my friends. if i could only learn what propaganda is being made out of my act, and what the girl and fedya are doing! i long to know what is happening with them. but my interest is merely that of the revolutionist. they are so far away,--i do not count among the living. on the outside, everything seems to continue as usual, as if nothing had happened. frick is quite well now; at his desk again, the press reports. nothing else of importance. the police seem to have given up their hunt. how ridiculous the chief has made himself by kidnaping my friend mollock, the new york baker! the impudence of the authorities, to decoy an unsuspecting workingman across the state line, and then arrest him as my accomplice! i suppose he is the only anarchist the stupid chief could find. my negro friend informed me of the kidnaping last week. but i felt no anxiety: i knew the "silent baker" would prove deaf and dumb. not a word, could they draw from him. mollock's discharge by the magistrate put the chief in a very ludicrous position. now he is thirsting for revenge, and probably seeking a victim nearer home, in allegheny. but if the comrades preserve silence, all will be well, for i was careful to leave no clew. i had told them that my destination was chicago, where i expected to secure a position. i can depend on bauer and nold. but that man e., whom i found living in the same house with nold, impressed me as rather unreliable. i thought there was something of the hang-dog look about him. i should certainly not trust him, and i'm afraid he might compromise the others. why are they friendly, i wonder. he is probably not even a comrade. the allegheny anarchists should have nothing in common with him. it is not well for us to associate with the _bourgeois_-minded. * * * * * my meditation is interrupted by a guard, who informs me that i am "wanted at the office." there is a letter for me, but some postage is due on it. would i pay? "a trap," it flits through my mind, as i accompany the overseer. i shall persist in my refusal to accept decoy mail. "more letters from homestead?" i turn to the warden. he quickly suppresses a smile. "no, it is postmarked, brooklyn, n. y." i glance at the envelope. the writing is apparently a woman's, but the chirography is smaller than the girl's. i yearn for news of her. the letter is from brooklyn--perhaps a _deckadresse_! "i'll take the letter, warden." "all right. you will open it here." "then i don't want it." i start from the office; when the warden detains me: "take the letter along, but within ten minutes you must return it to me. you may go now." i hasten to the cell. if there is anything important in the letter, i shall destroy it: i owe the enemy no obligations. as with trembling hand i tear open the envelope, a paper dollar flutters to the floor. i glance at the signature, but the name is unfamiliar. anxiously i scan the lines. an unknown sympathizer sends greetings, in the name of humanity. "i am not an anarchist," i read, "but i wish you well. my sympathy, however, is with the man, not with the act. i cannot justify your attempt. life, human life, especially, is sacred. none has the right to take what he cannot give." * * * * * i pass a troubled night. my mind struggles with the problem presented so unexpectedly. can any one understanding my motives, doubt the justification of the _attentat_? the legal aspect aside, can the morality of the act be questioned? it is impossible to confound law with right; they are opposites. the law is immoral: it is the conspiracy of rulers and priests against the workers, to continue their subjection. to be law-abiding means to acquiesce, if not directly participate, in that conspiracy. a revolutionist is the truly moral man: to him the interests of humanity are supreme; to advance them, his sole aim in life. government, with its laws, is the common enemy. all weapons are justifiable in the noble struggle of the people against this terrible curse. the law! it is the arch-crime of the centuries. the path of man is soaked with the blood it has shed. can this great criminal determine right? is a revolutionist to respect such a travesty? it would mean the perpetuation of human slavery. no, the revolutionist owes no duty to capitalist morality. he is the soldier of humanity. he has consecrated his life to the people in their great struggle. it is a bitter war. the revolutionist cannot shrink from the service it imposes upon him. aye, even the duty of death. cheerfully and joyfully he would die a thousand times to hasten the triumph of liberty. his life belongs to the people. he has no right to live or enjoy while others suffer. * * * * * how often we had discussed this, fedya and i. he was somewhat inclined to sybaritism; not quite emancipated from the tendencies of his _bourgeois_ youth. once in new york--i shall never forget--at the time when our circle had just begun the publication of the first jewish anarchist paper in america, we came to blows. we, the most intimate friends; yes, actually came to blows. nobody would have believed it. they used to call us the twins. if i happened to appear anywhere alone, they would inquire, anxiously, "what is the matter? is your chum sick?" it was so unusual; we were each other's shadow. but one day i struck him. he had outraged my most sacred feelings: to spend twenty cents for a meal! it was not mere extravagance; it was positively a crime, incredible in a revolutionist. i could not forgive him for months. even now,--two years have passed,--yet a certain feeling of resentment still remains with me. what right had a revolutionist to such self-indulgence? the movement needed aid; every cent was valuable. to spend twenty cents for a single meal! he was a traitor to the cause. true, it was his first meal in two days, and we were economizing on rent by sleeping in the parks. he had worked hard, too, to earn the money. but he should have known that he had no right to his earnings while the movement stood in such need of funds. his defence was unspeakably aggravating: he had earned ten dollars that week--he had given seven into the paper's treasury--he needed three dollars for his week's expenses--his shoes were torn, too. i had no patience with such arguments. they merely proved his _bourgeois_ predilections. personal comforts could not be of any consideration to a true revolutionist. it was a question of the movement; _its_ needs, the first issue. every penny spent for ourselves was so much taken from the cause. true, the revolutionist must live. but luxury is a crime; worse, a weakness. one could exist on five cents a day. twenty cents for a single meal! incredible. it was robbery. poor twin! he was deeply grieved, but he knew that i was merely just. the revolutionist has no personal right to anything. everything he has or earns belongs to the cause. everything, even his affections. indeed, these especially. he must not become too much attached to anything. he should guard against strong love or passion. the people should be his only great love, his supreme passion. mere human sentiment is unworthy of the real revolutionist: he lives for humanity, and he must ever be ready to respond to its call. the soldier of revolution must not be lured from the field of battle by the siren song of love. great danger lurks in such weakness. the russian tyrant has frequently attempted to bait his prey with a beautiful woman. our comrades there are careful not to associate with any woman, except of proved revolutionary character. aye, her mere passive interest in the cause is not sufficient. love may transform her into a delilah to shear one's strength. only with a woman consecrated to active participation may the revolutionist associate. their perfect comradeship would prove a mutual inspiration, a source of increased strength. equals, thoroughly solidaric, they would the more successfully serve the cause of the people. countless russian women bear witness--sophia perovskaya, vera figner, zassulitch, and many other heroic martyrs, tortured in the casemates of schlüsselburg, buried alive in the petropavlovka. what devotion, what fortitude! perfect comrades they were, often stronger than the men. brave, noble women that fill the prisons and _étapes_, tramp the toilsome road.... the siberian steppe rises before me. its broad expanse shimmers in the sun's rays, and blinds the eye with white brilliancy. the endless monotony agonizes the sight, and stupefies the brain. it breathes the chill of death into the heart, and grips the soul with the terror of madness. in vain the eye seeks relief from the white monster that slowly tightens his embrace, and threatens to swallow you in his frozen depth.... there, in the distance, where the blue meets the white, a heavy line of crimson dyes the surface. it winds along the virgin bosom, grows redder and deeper, and ascends the mountain in a dark ribbon, twining and wreathing its course in lengthening pain, now disappearing in the hollow, and again rising on the height. behold a man and a woman, hand in hand, their heads bent, on their shoulders a heavy cross, slowly toiling the upward way, and behind them others, men and women, young and old, all weary with the heavy task, trudging along the dismal desert, amid death and silence, save for the mournful clank, clank of the chains.... * * * * * "get out now. exercise!" * * * * * as in a dream i walk along the gallery. the voice of my exercise mate sounds dully in my ears. i do not understand what he is saying. does he know about the nihilists, i wonder? "billy, have you ever read anything about nihilists?" "sure, berk. when i done my last bit in the dump below, a guy lent me a book. a corker, too, it was. let's see, what you call 'em again?" "nihilists." "yes, sure. about some nihirists. the book's called aivan strodjoff." "what was the name?" "somethin' like that. aivan strodjoff or strogoff." "oh, you mean ivan strogov, don't you?" "that's it. funny names them foreigners have. a fellow needs a cast-iron jaw to say it every day. but the story was a corker all right. about a rooshan patriot or something. he was hot stuff, i tell you. overheard a plot to kill th' king by them fellows--er--what's you call 'em?" "nihilists?" "yep. nihilist plot, you know. well, they wants to kill his nibs and all the dookes, to make one of their own crowd king. see? foxy fellows, you bet. but aivan was too much for 'em. he plays detective. gets in all kinds of scrapes, and some one burns his eyes out. but he's game. i don't remember how it all ends, but--" "i know the story. it's trash. it doesn't tell the truth about--" "oh, t'hell with it! say, berk, d'ye think they'll hang me? won't the judge sympathize with a blind man? look at me eyes. pretty near blind, swear to god, i am. won't hang a blind man, will they?" the pitiful appeal goes to my heart, and i assure him they will not hang a blind man. his eyes brighten, his face grows radiant with hope. why does he love life so, i wonder. of what value is it without a high purpose, uninspired by revolutionary ideals? he is small and cowardly: he lies to save his neck. there is nothing at all wrong with his eyes. but why should _i_ lie for his sake? my conscience smites me for the moment of weakness. i should not allow inane sentimentality to influence me: it is beneath the revolutionist. "billy," i say with some asperity, "many innocent people have been hanged. the nihilists, for instance--" "oh, damn 'em! what do _i_ care about 'em! will they hang _me_, that's what i want to know." "may be they will," i reply, irritated at the profanation of my ideal. a look of terror spreads over his face. his eyes are fastened upon me, his lips parted. "yes," i continue, "perhaps they will hang you. many innocent men have suffered such a fate. i don't think you are innocent, either; nor blind. you don't need those glasses; there is nothing the matter with your eyes. now understand, billy, i don't want them to hang you. i don't believe in hanging. but i must tell you the truth, and you'd better be ready for the worst." gradually the look of fear fades from his face. rage suffuses his cheeks with spots of dark red. "you're crazy! what's the use talkin' to you, anyhow? you are a damn anarchist. i'm a good catholic, i want you to know that! i haven't always did right, but the good father confessed me last week. i'm no damn murderer like you, see? it was an accident. i'm pretty near blind, and this is a christian country, thank god! they won't hang a blind man. don't you ever talk to _me_ again!" xi the days and weeks pass in wearying monotony, broken only by my anxiety about the approaching trial. it is part of the designed cruelty to keep me ignorant of the precise date. "hold yourself ready. you may be called any time," the warden had said. but the shadows are lengthening, the days come and go, and still my name has not appeared on the court calendar. why this torture? let me have over with it. my mission is almost accomplished,--the explanation in court, and then my life is done. i shall never again have an opportunity to work for the cause. i may therefore leave the world. i should die content, but for the partial failure of my plans. the bitterness of disappointment is gnawing at my heart. yet why? the physical results of my act cannot affect its propagandistic value. why, then, these regrets? i should rise above them. but the gibes of officers and prisoners wound me. "bad shot, ain't you?" they do not dream how keen their thoughtless thrusts. i smile and try to appear indifferent, while my heart bleeds. why should i, the revolutionist, be moved by such remarks? it is weakness. they are so far beneath me; they live in the swamp of their narrow personal interests; they cannot understand. and yet the croaking of the frogs may reach the eagle's aerie, and disturb the peace of the heights. * * * * * the "trusty" passes along the gallery. he walks slowly, dusting the iron railing, then turns to give my door a few light strokes with the cat-o'-many-tails. leaning against the outer wall, he stoops low, pretending to wipe the doorsill,--there is a quick movement of his hand, and a little roll of white is shot between the lower bars, falling at my feet. "a stiff," he whispers. indifferently i pick up the note. i know no one in the jail; it is probably some poor fellow asking for cigarettes. placing the roll between the pages of a newspaper, i am surprised to find it in german. from whom can it be? i turn to the signature. carl nold? it's impossible; it's a trap! no, but that handwriting,--i could not mistake it: the small, clear chirography is undoubtedly nold's. but how did he smuggle in this note? i feel the blood rush to my head as my eye flits over the penciled lines: bauer and he are arrested; they are in the jail now, charged with conspiracy to kill frick; detectives swore they met them in my company, in front of the frick office building. they have engaged a lawyer, the note runs on. would i accept his services? i probably have no money, and i shouldn't expect any from new york, because most--what's this?--because most has repudiated the act-- the gong tolls the exercise hour. with difficulty i walk to the gallery. i feel feverish: my feet drag heavily, and i stumble against the railing. "is yo sick, ahlick?" it must be the negro's voice. my throat is dry; my lips refuse to move. hazily i see the guard approach. he walks me to the cell, and lowers the berth. "you may lie down." the lock clicks, and i'm alone. * * * * * the line marches past, up and down, up and down. the regular footfall beats against my brain like hammer strokes. when will they stop? my head aches dreadfully--i am glad i don't have to walk--it was good of the negro to call the guard--i felt so sick. what was it? oh, the note! where is it? the possibility of loss dismays me. hastily i pick the newspaper up from the floor. with trembling hands i turn the leaves. ah, it's here! if i had not found it, i vaguely wonder, were the thing mere fancy? the sight of the crumpled paper fills me with dread. nold and bauer here! perhaps--if they act discreetly--all will be well. they are innocent; they can prove it. but most! how can it be possible? of course, he was displeased when i began to associate with the autonomists. but how can that make any difference? at such a time! what matter personal likes and dislikes to a revolutionist, to a most--the hero of my first years in america, the name that stirred my soul in that little library in kovno--most, the bridge of liberty! my teacher--the author of the _kriegswissenschaft_--the ideal revolutionist--he to denounce me, to repudiate propaganda by deed? it's incredible! i cannot believe it. the girl will not fail to write to me about it. i'll wait till i hear from her. but, then, nold is himself a great admirer of most; he would not say anything derogatory, unless fully convinced that it is true. yet--it is barely conceivable. how explain such a change in most? to forswear his whole past, his glorious past! he was always so proud of it, and of his extreme revolutionism. some tremendous motive must be back of such apostasy. it has no parallel in anarchist annals. but what can it be? how boldly he acted during the haymarket tragedy--publicly advised the use of violence to avenge the capitalist conspiracy. he must have realized the danger of the speech for which he was later doomed to blackwell's island. i remember his defiant manner on the way to prison. how i admired his strong spirit, as i accompanied him on the last ride! that was only a little over a year ago, and he is just out a few months. perhaps--is it possible? a coward? has that prison experience influenced his present attitude? why, it is terrible to think of most--a coward? he who has devoted his entire life to the cause, sacrificed his seat in the reichstag because of uncompromising honesty, stood in the forefront all his life, faced peril and danger,--_he_ a coward? yet, it is impossible that he should have suddenly altered the views of a lifetime. what could have prompted his denunciation of my act? personal dislike? no, that was a matter of petty jealousy. his confidence in me, as a revolutionist, was unbounded. did he not issue a secret circular letter to aid my plans concerning russia? that was proof of absolute faith. one could not change his opinion so suddenly. moreover, it can have no bearing on his repudiation of a terrorist act. i can find no explanation, unless--can it be?--fear of personal consequences. afraid _he_ might be held responsible, perhaps. such a possibility is not excluded, surely. the enemy hates him bitterly, and would welcome an opportunity, would even conspire, to hang him. but that is the price one pays for his love of humanity. every revolutionist is exposed to this danger. most especially; his whole career has been a duel with tyranny. but he was never before influenced by such considerations. is he not prepared to take the responsibility for his terrorist propaganda, the work of his whole life? why has he suddenly been stricken with fear? can it be? can it be?... my soul is in the throes of agonizing doubt. despair grips my heart, as i hesitatingly admit to myself the probable truth. but it cannot be; nold has made a mistake. may be the letter is a trap; it was not written by carl. but i know his hand so well. it is his, his! perhaps i'll have a letter in the morning. the girl--she is the only one i can trust--she'll tell me-- my head feels heavy. wearily i lie on the bed. perhaps to-morrow ... a letter.... xii "your pards are here. do you want to see them?" the warden asks. "what 'pards'?" "your partners, bauer and nold." "my comrades, you mean. i have no partners." "same thing. want to see them? their lawyers are here." "yes, i'll see them." of course, i myself need no defence. i will conduct my own case, and explain my act. but i shall be glad to meet my comrades. i wonder how they feel about their arrest,--perhaps they are inclined to blame me. and what is their attitude toward my deed? if they side with most-- my senses are on the alert as the guard accompanies me into the hall. near the wall, seated at a small table, i behold nold and bauer. two other men are with them; their attorneys, i suppose. all eyes scrutinize me curiously, searchingly. nold advances toward me. his manner is somewhat nervous, a look of intense seriousness in his heavy-browed eyes. he grasps my hand. the pressure is warm, intimate, as if he yearns to pour boundless confidence into my heart. for a moment a wave of thankfulness overwhelms me: i long to embrace him. but curious eyes bore into me. i glance at bauer. there is a cheerful smile on the good-natured, ruddy face. the guard pushes a chair toward the table, and leans against the railing. his presence constrains me: he will report to the warden everything said. i am introduced to the lawyers. the contrast in their appearance suggests a lifetime of legal wrangling. the younger man, evidently a recent graduate, is quick, alert, and talkative. there is an air of anxious expectancy about him, with a look of semitic shrewdness in the long, narrow face. he enlarges upon the kind consent of his distinguished colleague to take charge of my case. his demeanor toward the elder lawyer is deeply respectful, almost reverential. the latter looks bored, and is silent. "do you wish to say something, colonel?" the young lawyer suggests. "nothing." he ejects the monosyllable sharply, brusquely. his colleague looks abashed, like a schoolboy caught in a naughty act. "you, mr. berkman?" he asks. i thank them for their interest in my case. but i need no defence, i explain, since i do not consider myself guilty. i am exclusively concerned in making a public statement in the courtroom. if i am represented by an attorney, i should be deprived of the opportunity. yet it is most vital to clarify to the people the purpose of my act, the circumstances-- the heavy breathing opposite distracts me. i glance at the colonel. his eyes are closed, and from the parted lips there issues the regular respiration of sound sleep. a look of mild dismay crosses the young lawyer's face. he rises with an apologetic smile. "you are tired, colonel. it's awfully close here." "let us go," the colonel replies. * * * * * depressed i return to the cell. the old lawyer,--how little my explanation interested him! he fell asleep! why, it is a matter of life and death, an issue that involves the welfare of the world! i was so happy at the opportunity to elucidate my motives to intelligent americans,--and he was sleeping! the young lawyer, too, is disgusting, with his air of condescending pity toward one who "will have a fool for a client," as he characterized my decision to conduct my own case. he may think such a course suicidal. perhaps it is, in regard to consequences. but the length of the sentence is a matter of indifference to me: i'll die soon, anyway. the only thing of importance now is my explanation. and that man fell asleep! perhaps he considers me a criminal. but what can i expect of a lawyer, when even the steel-worker could not understand my act? most himself-- with the name, i recollect the letters the guard had given me during the interview. there are three of them; one from the girl! at last! why did she not write before? they must have kept the letter in the office. yes, the postmark is a week old. she'll tell me about most,--but what is the use? i'm sure of it now; i read it plainly in nold's eyes. it's all true. but i must see what she writes. how every line breathes her devotion to the cause! she is the real russian woman revolutionist. her letter is full of bitterness against the attitude of most and his lieutenants in the german and jewish anarchist circles, but she writes words of cheer and encouragement in my imprisonment. she refers to the financial difficulties of the little commune consisting of fedya, herself, and one or two other comrades, and closes with the remark that, fortunately, i need no money for legal defence or attorneys. the staunch girl! she and fedya are, after all, the only true revolutionists i know in our ranks. the others all possess some weakness. i could not rely on them. the german comrades,--they are heavy, phlegmatic; they lack the enthusiasm of russia. i wonder how they ever produced a reinsdorf. well, he is the exception. there is nothing to be expected from the german movement, excepting perhaps the autonomists. but they are a mere handful, quite insignificant, kept alive mainly by the most and peukert feud. peukert, too, the life of their circle, is chiefly concerned with his personal rehabilitation. quite natural, of course. a terrible injustice has been done him.[ ] it is remarkable that the false accusations have not driven him into obscurity. there is great perseverance, aye, moral courage of no mean order, in his survival in the movement. it was that which first awakened my interest in him. most's explanation, full of bitter invective, suggested hostile personal feeling. what a tremendous sensation i created at the first jewish anarchist conference by demanding that the charges against peukert be investigated! the result entirely failed to substantiate the accusations. but the mostianer were not convinced, blinded by the vituperative eloquence of most. and now ... now, again, they will follow, as blindly. to be sure, they will not dare take open stand against my act; not the jewish comrades, at least. after all, the fire of russia still smolders in their hearts. but most's attitude toward me will influence them: it will dampen their enthusiasm, and thus react on the propaganda. the burden of making agitation through my act will fall on the girl's shoulders. she will stand a lone soldier in the field. she will exert her utmost efforts, i am convinced. but she will stand alone. fedya will also remain loyal. but what can he do? he is not a speaker. nor the rest of the commune circle. and most? we had all been so intimate.... it's his cursed jealousy, and cowardice, too. yes, mostly cowardice--he can't be jealous of me now! he recently left prison,--it must have terrorized him. the weakling! he will minimize the effect of my act, perhaps paralyze its propagandistic influence altogether.... now i stand alone--except for the girl--quite alone. it is always so. was not "he" alone, my beloved, "unknown" grinevitzky, isolated, scorned by his comrades? but his bomb ... how it thundered... [ ] joseph peukert, at one time a leading anarchist of austria, was charged with betraying the german anarchist neve into the hands of the police. neve was sentenced to ten years' prison. peukert always insisted that the accusation against him originated with some of his political enemies among the socialists. it is certain that the arrest of neve was not due to calculated treachery on the part of peukert, but rather to indiscretion. i was just a boy then. let me see,--it was in . i was about eleven years old. the class was assembling after the noon recess. i had barely settled in my seat, when the teacher called me forward. his long pointer was dancing a fanciful figure on the gigantic map of russia. "what province is that?" he demanded. "astrakhan." "mention its chief products." products? the name chernishevsky flitted through my mind. he was in astrakhan,--i heard maxim tell mother so at dinner. "nihilists," i burst out. the boys tittered; some laughed aloud. the teacher grew purple. he struck the pointer violently on the floor, shivering the tapering end. suddenly there broke a roll of thunder. one--two-- with a terrific crash, the window panes fell upon the desks; the floor shook beneath our feet. the room was hushed. deathly pale, the teacher took a step toward the window, but hastily turned, and dashed from the room. the pupils rushed after him. i wondered at the air of fear and suspicion on the streets. at home every one spoke in subdued tunes. father looked at mother severely, reproachfully, and maxim was unusually silent, but his face seemed radiant, an unwonted brilliancy in his eye. at night, alone with me in the dormitory, he rushed to my bed, knelt at my side, and threw his arms around me and kissed me, and cried, and kissed me. his wildness frightened me. "what is it, maximotchka?" i breathed softly. he ran up and down the room, kissing me and murmuring, "glorious, glorious! victory!" between sobs, solemnly pledging me to secrecy, he whispered mysterious, awe-inspiring words: will of the people--tyrant removed--free russia.... xiii the nights overwhelm me with the sense of solitude. life is so remote, so appallingly far away--it has abandoned me in this desert of silence. the distant puffing of fire engines, the shrieking of river sirens, accentuate my loneliness. yet it feels so near, this monster life, huge, palpitating with vitality, intent upon its wonted course. how unmindful of myself, flung into the darkness,--like a furnace spark belched forth amid fire and smoke into the blackness of night. the monster! its eyes are implacable; they watch every gate of life. every approach they guard, lest i enter back--i and the others here. poor unfortunates, how irritated and nervous they are growing as their trial day draws near! there is a hunted look in their eyes; their faces are haggard and anxious. they walk weakly, haltingly, worn with the long days of waiting. only "blackie," the young negro, remains cheerful. but i often miss the broad smile on the kindly face. i am sure his eyes were moist when the three italians returned from court this morning. they had been sentenced to death. joe, a boy of eighteen, walked to the cell with a firm step. his brother pasquale passed us with both hands over his face, weeping silently. but the old man, their father--as he was crossing the hallway, we saw him suddenly stop. for a moment he swayed, then lurched forward, his head striking the iron railing, his body falling limp to the floor. by the arms the guards dragged him up the stairway, his legs hitting the stone with a dull thud, the fresh crimson spreading over his white hair, a glassy torpor in his eyes. suddenly he stood upright. his head thrown back, his arms upraised, he cried hoarsely, anguished, "o santa maria! sio innocente inno--" the guard swung his club. the old man reeled and fell. "ready! death-watch!" shouted the warden. "in-no-cente! death-watch!" mocked the echo under the roof. * * * * * the old man haunts my days. i hear the agonized cry; its black despair chills my marrow. exercise hour has become insupportable. the prisoners irritate me: each is absorbed in his own case. the deadening monotony of the jail routine grows unbearable. the constant cruelty and brutality is harrowing. i wish it were all over. the uncertainty of my trial day is a ceaseless torture. i have been waiting now almost two months. my court speech is prepared. i could die now, but they would suppress my explanation, and the people thus remain ignorant of my aim and purpose. i owe it to the cause--and to the true comrades--to stay on the scene till after the trial. there is nothing more to bind me to life. with the speech, my opportunities for propaganda will be exhausted. death, suicide, is the only logical, the sole possible, conclusion. yes, that is self-evident. if i only knew the date of my trial,--that day will be my last. the poor old italian,--he and his sons, they at least know when they are to die. they count each day; every hour brings them closer to the end. they will be hanged here, in the jail yard. perhaps they killed under great provocation, in the heat of passion. but the sheriff will murder them in cold blood. the law of peace and order! i shall not be hanged--yet i feel as if i were dead. my life is done; only the last rite remains to be performed. after that--well, i'll find a way. when the trial is over, they'll return me to my cell. the spoon is of tin: i shall put a sharp edge on it--on the stone floor--very quietly, at night-- "number six, to court! num-ber six!" did the turnkey call "six"? who is in cell six? why, it's _my_ cell! i feel the cold perspiration running down my back. my heart beats violently, my hands tremble, as i hastily pick up the newspaper. nervously i turn the pages. there must be some mistake: my name didn't appear yet in the court calendar column. the list is published every monday--why, this is saturday's paper--yesterday we had service--it must be monday to-day. oh, shame! they didn't give me the paper to-day, and it's monday--yes, it's monday-- the shadow falls across my door. the lock clicks. "hurry, to court!" chapter vii the trial the courtroom breathes the chill of the graveyard. the stained windows cast sickly rays into the silent chamber. in the sombre light the faces look funereal, spectral. anxiously i scan the room. perhaps my friends, the girl, have come to greet me.... everywhere cold eyes meet my gaze. police and court attendants on every side. several newspaper men draw near. it is humiliating that through them i must speak to the people. "prisoner at the bar, stand up!" the commonwealth of pennsylvania--the clerk vociferates--charges me with felonious assault on h. c. frick, with intent to kill; felonious assault on john g. a. leishman; feloniously entering the offices of the carnegie company on three occasions, each constituting a separate indictment; and with unlawfully carrying concealed weapons. "do you plead guilty or not guilty?" i protest against the multiplication of the charges. i do not deny the attempt on frick, but the accusation of having assaulted leishman is not true. i have visited the carnegie offices only-- "do you plead guilty or not guilty?" the judge interrupts. "not guilty. i want to explain--" "your attorneys will do that." "i have no attorney." "the court will appoint one to defend you." "i need no defence. i want to make a statement." "you will be given an opportunity at the proper time." impatiently i watch the proceedings. of what use are all these preliminaries? my conviction is a foregone conclusion. the men in the jury box there, they are to decide my fate. as if they could understand! they measure me with cold, unsympathetic looks. why were the talesmen not examined in my presence? they were already seated when i entered. "when was the jury picked?" i demand. "you have four challenges," the prosecutor retorts. the names of the talesmen sound strange. but what matter who are the men to judge me? they, too, belong to the enemy. they will do the master's bidding. yet i may, even for a moment, clog the wheels of the juggernaut. at random, i select four names from the printed list, and the new jurors file into the box. the trial proceeds. a police officer and two negro employees of frick in turn take the witness stand. they had seen me three times in the frick office, they testify. they speak falsely, but i feel indifferent to the hired witnesses. a tall man takes the stand. i recognize the detective who so brazenly claimed to identify me in the jail. he is followed by a physician who states that each wound of frick might have proved fatal. john g. a. leishman is called. i attempted to kill him, he testifies. "it's a lie!" i cry out, angrily, but the guards force me into the seat. now frick comes forward. he seeks to avoid my eye, as i confront him. the prosecutor turns to me. i decline to examine the witnesses for the state. they have spoken falsely; there is no truth in them, and i shall not participate in the mockery. "call the witnesses for the defence," the judge commands. i have no need of witnesses. i wish to proceed with my statement. the prosecutor demands that i speak english. but i insist on reading my prepared paper, in german. the judge rules to permit me the services of the court interpreter. "i address myself to the people," i begin. "some may wonder why i have declined a legal defence. my reasons are twofold. in the first place, i am an anarchist: i do not believe in man-made law, designed to enslave and oppress humanity. secondly, an extraordinary phenomenon like an _attentat_ cannot be measured by the narrow standards of legality. it requires a view of the social background to be adequately understood. a lawyer would try to defend, or palliate, my act from the standpoint of the law. yet the real question at issue is not a defence of myself, but rather the _explanation_ of the deed. it is mistaken to believe _me_ on trial. the actual defendant is society--the system of injustice, of the organized exploitation of the people." the voice of the interpreter sounds cracked and shrill. word for word he translates my utterance, the sentences broken, disconnected, in his inadequate english. the vociferous tones pierce my ears, and my heart bleeds at his meaningless declamation. "translate sentences, not single words," i remonstrate. with an impatient gesture he leaves me. "oh, please, go on!" i cry in dismay. he returns hesitatingly. "look at my paper," i adjure him, "and translate each sentence as i read it." the glazy eyes are turned to me, in a blank, unseeing stare. the man is blind! "let--us--continue," he stammers. "we have heard enough," the judge interrupts. "i have not read a third of my paper," i cry in consternation. "it will do." "i have declined the services of attorneys to get time to--" "we allow you five more minutes." "but i can't explain in such a short time. i have the right to be heard." "we'll teach you differently." i am ordered from the witness chair. several jurymen leave their seats, but the district attorney hurries forward, and whispers to them. they remain in the jury box. the room is hushed as the judge rises. "have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed upon you?" "you would not let me speak," i reply. "your justice is a farce." "silence!" in a daze, i hear the droning voice on the bench. hurriedly the guards lead me from the courtroom. "the judge was easy on you," the warden jeers. "twenty-two years! pretty stiff, eh?" part ii the penitentiary [illustration: western penitentiary of pennsylvania--main building] chapter i desperate thoughts i "make yourself at home, now. you'll stay here a while, huh, huh!" as in a dream i hear the harsh tones. is the man speaking to me, i wonder. why is he laughing? i feel so weary, i long to be alone. now the voice has ceased; the steps are receding. all is silent, and i am alone. a nameless weight oppresses me. i feel exhausted, my mind a void. heavily i fall on the bed. head buried in the straw pillow, my heart breaking, i sink into deep sleep. * * * * * my eyes burn as with hot irons. the heat sears my sight, and consumes my eyelids. now it pierces my head; my brain is aflame, it is swept by a raging fire. oh! i wake in horror. a stream of dazzling light is pouring into my face. terrified, i press my hands to my eyes, but the mysterious flow pierces my lids, and blinds me with maddening torture. "get up and undress. what's the matter with you, anyhow?" the voice frightens me. the cell is filled with a continuous glare. beyond, all is dark, the guard invisible. "now lay down and go to sleep." silently i obey, when suddenly all grows black before my eyes. a terrible fear grips my heart. have i gone blind? i grope for the bed, the wall ... i can't see! with a desperate cry i spring to the door. a faint click reaches my tense ear, the streaming lightning burns into my face. oh, i can see! i can see! "what t' hell's the matter with you, eh? go to sleep. you hear?" quiet and immovable i lie on the bed. strange horrors haunt me.... what a terrible place this must be! this agony---- i cannot support it. twenty-two years! oh, it is hopeless, hopeless. i must die. i'll die to-night.... with bated breath i creep from the bed. the iron bedstead creaks. in affright i draw back, feigning sleep. all remains silent. the guard did not hear me. i should feel the terrible bull's-eye even with closed lids. slowly i open my eyes. it is dark all around. i grope about the cell. the wall is damp, musty. the odors are nauseating.... i cannot live here. i must die. this very night.... something white glimmers in the corner. cautiously i bend over. it is a spoon. for a moment i hold it indifferently; then a great joy overwhelms me. now i can die! i creep back into bed, nervously clutching the tin. my hand feels for my heart. it is beating violently. i will put the narrow end of the spoon over here--like this--i will force it in--a little lower--a steady pressure--just between the ribs.... the metal feels cold. how hot my body is! caressingly i pat the spoon against my side. my fingers seek the edge. it is dull. i must press it hard. yes, it is very dull. if i only had my revolver. but the cartridge might fail to explode. that's why frick is now well, and i must die. how he looked at me in court! there was hate in his eyes, and fear, too. he turned his head away, he could not face me. i saw that he felt guilty. yet he lives. i didn't crush him. oh, i failed, i failed.... "keep quiet there, or i'll put you in the hole." the gruff voice startles me. i must have been moaning. i'll draw the blanket over my head, so. what was i thinking about? oh, i remember. he is well, and i am here. i failed to crush him. he lives. of course, it does not really matter. the opportunity for propaganda is there, as the result of my act. that was the main purpose. but i meant to kill him, and he lives. my speech, too, failed. they tricked me. they kept the date secret. they were afraid my friends would be present. it was maddening the way the prosecuting attorney and the judge kept interrupting me. i did not read even a third of my statement. and the whole effect was lost. how that man interpreted! the poor old man! he was deeply offended when i corrected his translation. i did not know he was blind. i called him back, and suffered renewed torture at his screeching. i was almost glad when the judge forced me to discontinue. that judge! he acted as indifferently as if the matter did not concern him. he must have known that the sentence meant death. twenty-two years! as if it is possible to survive such a sentence in this terrible place! yes, he knew it; he spoke of making an example of me. the old villain! he has been doing it all his life: making an example of social victims, the victims of his own class, of capitalism. the brutal mockery of it--had i anything to say why sentence should not be passed? yet he wouldn't permit me to continue my statement. "the court has been very patient!" i am glad i told him that i didn't expect justice, and did not get it. perhaps i should have thrown in his face the epithet that sprang to my lips. no, it was best that i controlled my anger. else they would have rejoiced to proclaim the anarchists vulgar criminals. such things help to prejudice the people against us. we, criminals? we, who are ever ready to give our lives for liberty, criminals? and they, our accusers? they break their own laws: they knew it was not legal to multiply the charges against me. they made six indictments out of one act, as if the minor "offences" were not included in the major, made necessary by the deed itself. they thirsted for blood. legally, they could not give me more than seven years. but i am an anarchist. i had attempted the life of a great magnate; in him capitalism felt itself attacked. of course, i knew they would take advantage of my refusal to be legally represented. twenty-two years! the judge imposed the maximum penalty on each charge. well, i expected no less, and it makes no difference now. i am going to die, anyway. i clutch the spoon in my feverish hand. its narrow end against my heart, i test the resistance of the flesh. a violent blow will drive it between the ribs.... one, two, three--the deep metallic bass floats upon the silence, resonant, compelling. instantly all is motion: overhead, on the sides, everything is vibrant with life. men yawn and cough, chairs and beds are noisily moved about, heavy feet pace stone floors. in the distance sounds a low rolling, as of thunder. it grows nearer and louder. i hear the officers' sharp command, the familiar click of locks, doors opening and shutting. now the rumbling grows clearer, more distinct. with a moan the heavy bread-wagon stops at my cell. a guard unlocks the door. his eyes rest on me curiously, suspiciously, while the trusty hands me a small loaf of bread. i have barely time to withdraw my arm before the door is closed and locked. "want coffee? hold your cup." between the narrow bars, the beverage is poured into my bent, rusty tin can. in the semi-darkness of the cell the steaming liquid overflows, scalding my bare feet. with a cry of pain i drop the can. in the dimly-lit hall the floor looks stained with blood. "what do you mean by that?" the guard shouts at me. "i couldn't help it." "want to be smart, don't you? well, we'll take it out of you. hey, there, sam," the officer motions to the trusty, "no dinner for a , you hear!" "yes, sir. yes, sir!" "no more coffee, either." "yes, sir." the guard measures me with a look of scornful hatred. malice mirrors in his face. involuntarily i step back into the cell. his gaze falls on my naked feet. "ain't you got no shoes?" "yes." "ye-e-s! can't you say 'sir'? got shoes?" "yes." "put 'em on, damn you." his tongue sweeps the large quid of tobacco from one cheek to the either. with a hiss, a thick stream of brown splashes on my feet. "damn you, put 'em on." * * * * * the clatter and noises have ceased; the steps have died away. all is still in the dark hall. only occasional shadows flit by, silent, ghostlike. ii "forward, march!" the lung line of prisoners, in stripes and lockstep, resembles an undulating snake, wriggling from side to side, its black-and-gray body moving forward, yet apparently remaining in the same spot. a thousand feet strike the stone floor in regular tempo, with alternate rising and falling accent, as each division, flanked by officers, approaches and passes my cell. brutal faces, repulsive in their stolid indifference or malicious leer. here and there a well-shaped head, intelligent eye, or sympathetic expression, but accentuates the features of the striped line: coarse and sinister, with the guilty-treacherous look of the ruthlessly hunted. head bent, right arm extended, with hand touching the shoulder of the man in front, all uniformly clad in horizontal black and gray, the men seem will-less cogs in a machine, oscillating to the shouted command of the tall guards on the flanks, stern and alert. * * * * * the measured beat grows fainter and dies with the hollow thud of the last footfall, behind the closed double door leading into the prison yard. the pall of silence descends upon the cell-house. i feel utterly alone, deserted and forsaken amid the towering pile of stone and iron. the stillness overwhelms me with almost tangible weight. i am buried within the narrow walls; the massive rock is pressing down upon my head, my sides. i cannot breathe. the foul air is stifling. oh, i can't, i can't live here! i can't suffer this agony. twenty-two years! it is a lifetime. no, it's impossible. i must die. i will! now! * * * * * clutching the spoon, i throw myself on the bed. my eyes wander over the cell, faintly lit by the light in the hall: the whitewashed walls, yellow with damp--the splashes of dark-red blood at the head of the bed--the clumps of vermin around the holes in the wall--the small table and the rickety chair--the filthy floor, black and gray in spots.... why, it's stone! i can sharpen the spoon. cautiously i crouch in the corner. the tin glides over the greasy surface, noiselessly, smoothly, till the thick layer of filth is worn off. then it scratches and scrapes. with the pillow i deaden the rasping sound. the metal is growing hot in my hand. i pass the sharp edge across my finger. drops of blood trickle down to the floor. the wound is ragged, but the blade is keen. stealthily i crawl back into bed. my hand gropes for my heart. i touch the spot with the blade. between the ribs--here--i'll be dead when they find me.... if frick had only died. so much propaganda could be made--that damned most, if he hadn't turned against me! he will ruin the whole effect of the act. it's nothing but cowardice. but what is he afraid of? they can't implicate him. we've been estranged for over a year. he could easily prove it. the traitor! preached propaganda by deed all his life--now he repudiates the first _attentat_ in this country. what tremendous agitation he could have made of it! now he denies me, he doesn't know me. the wretch! he knew me well enough and trusted me, too, when together we set up the secret circular in the _freiheit_ office. it was in william street. we waited for the other compositors to leave; then we worked all night. it was to recommend me: i planned to go to russia then. yes, to russia. perhaps i might have done something important there. why didn't i go? what was it? well, i can't think of it now. it's peculiar, though. but america was more important. plenty of revolutionists in russia. and now.... oh, i'll never do anything more. i'll be dead soon. they'll find me cold--a pool of blood under me--the mattress will be red--no, it will be dark-red, and the blood will soak through the straw.... i wonder how much blood i have. it will gush from my heart--i must strike right here--strong and quick--it will not pain much. but the edge is ragged--it may catch--or tear the flesh. they say the skin is tough. i must strike hard. perhaps better to fall against the blade? no, the tin may bend. i'll grasp it close--like this--then a quick drive--right into the heart--it's the surest way. i must not wound myself--i would bleed slowly--they might discover me still alive. no, no! i must die at once. they'll find me dead--my heart--they'll feel it--not beating--the blade still in it--they'll call the doctor--"he's dead." and the girl and fedya and the others will hear of it--she'll be sad--but she will understand. yes, she will be glad--they couldn't torture me here--she'll know i cheated them--yes, she.... where is she now? what does she think of it all? does she, too, think i've failed? and fedya, also? if i'd only hear from her--just once. it would be easier to die. but she'll understand, she-- "git off that bed! don't you know the rules, eh? get out o' there!" horrified, speechless, i spring to my feet. the spoon falls from my relaxed grip. it strikes the floor, clinking on the stone loudly, damningly. my heart stands still as i face the guard. there is something repulsively familiar about the tall man, his mouth drawn into a derisive smile. oh, it's the officer of the morning! "foxy, ain't you? gimme that spoon." the coffee incident flashes through my mind. loathing and hatred of the tall guard fill my being. for a second i hesitate. i must hide the spoon. i cannot afford to lose it--not to this brute-- "cap'n, here!" i am dragged from the cell. the tall keeper carefully examines the spoon, a malicious grin stealing over his face. "look, cap'n. sharp as a razor. pretty desp'rate, eh?" "take him to the deputy, mr. fellings." iii in the rotunda, connecting the north and south cell-houses, the deputy stands at a high desk. angular and bony, with slightly stooped shoulders, his face is a mass of minute wrinkles seamed on yellow parchment. the curved nose overhangs thin, compressed lips. the steely eyes measure me coldly, unfriendly. "who is this?" the low, almost feminine, voice sharply accentuates the cadaver-like face and figure. the contrast is startling. "a ." "what is the charge, officer?" "two charges, mr. mcpane. layin' in bed and tryin' soocide." a smile of satanic satisfaction slowly spreads over the deputy's wizened face. the long, heavy fingers of his right hand work convulsively, as if drumming stiffly on an imaginary board. "yes, hm, hm, yes. a , two charges. hm, hm. how did he try to, hm, hm, to commit suicide?" "with this spoon, mr. mcpane. sharp as a razor." "yes, hm, yes. wants to die. we have no such charge as, hm, hm, as trying suicide in this institution. sharpened spoon, hm, hm; a grave offence. i'll see about that later. for breaking the rules, hm, hm, by lying in bed out of hours, hm, hm, three days. take him down, officer. he will, hm, hm, cool off." i am faint and weary. a sense of utter indifference possesses me. vaguely i am conscious of the guards leading me through dark corridors, dragging me down steep flights, half undressing me, and finally thrusting me into a black void. i am dizzy; my head is awhirl. i stagger and fall on the flagstones of the dungeon. * * * * * the cell is filled with light. it hurts my eyes. some one is bending over me. "a bit feverish. better take him to the cell." "hm, hm, doctor, he is in punishment." "not safe, mr. mcpane." "we'll postpone it, then. hm, hm, take him to the cell, officers." "git up." my legs seem paralyzed. they refuse to move. i am lifted and carried up the stairs, through corridors and halls, and then thrown heavily on a bed. * * * * * i feel so weak. perhaps i shall die now. it would be best. but i have no weapon! they have taken away the spoon. there is nothing in the cell that i could use. these iron bars--i could beat my head against them. but oh! it is such a horrible death. my skull would break, and the brains ooze out.... but the bars are smooth. would my skull break with one blow? i'm afraid it might only crack, and i should be too weak to strike again. if i only had a revolver; that is the easiest and quickest. i've always thought i'd prefer such a death--to be shot. the barrel close to the temple--one couldn't miss. some people have done it in front of a mirror. but i have no mirror. i have no revolver, either.... through the mouth it is also fatal.... that moscow student--russov was his name; yes, ivan russov--he shot himself through the mouth. of course, he was foolish to kill himself for a woman; but i admired his courage. how coolly he had made all preparations; he even left a note directing that his gold watch be given to the landlady, because--he wrote--after passing through his brain, the bullet might damage the wall. wonderful! it actually happened that way. i saw the bullet imbedded in the wall near the sofa, and ivan lay so still and peaceful, i thought he was asleep. i had often seen him like that in my brother's study, after our lessons. what a splendid tutor he was! i liked him from the first, when mother introduced him: "sasha, ivan nikolaievitch will be your instructor in latin during vacation time." my hand hurt all day; he had gripped it so powerfully, like a vise. but i was glad i didn't cry out. i admired him for it; i felt he must be very strong and manly to have such a handshake. mother smiled when i told her about it. her hand pained her too, she said. sister blushed a little. "rather energetic," she observed. and maxim felt so happy over the favorable impression made by his college chum. "what did i tell you?" he cried, in glee; "ivan nikolaievitch _molodetz_![ ] think of it, he's only twenty. graduates next year. the youngest alumnus since the foundation of the university. _molodetz_!" but how red were maxim's eyes when he brought the bullet home. he would keep it, he said, as long as he lived: he had dug it out, with his own hands, from the wall of ivan nikolaievitch's room. at dinner he opened the little box, unwrapped the cotton, an i showed me the bullet. sister went into hysterics, and mamma called max a brute. "for a woman, an unworthy woman!" sister moaned. i thought he was foolish to take his life on account of a woman. i felt a little disappointed: ivan nikolaievitch should have been more manly. they all said she was very beautiful, the acknowledged belle of kovno. she was tall and stately, but i thought she walked too stiffly; she seemed self-conscious and artificial. mother said i was too young to talk of such things. how shocked she would have been had she known that i was in love with nadya, my sister's chum. and i had kissed our chambermaid, too. dear little rosa,--i remember she threatened to tell mother. i was so frightened, i wouldn't come to dinner. mamma sent the maid to call me, but i refused to go till rosa promised not to tell.... the sweet girl, with those red-apple cheeks. how kind she was! but the little imp couldn't keep the secret. she told tatanya, the cook of our neighbor, the latin instructor at the gymnasium. next day he teased me about the servant girl. before the whole class, too. i wished the floor would open and swallow me. i was so mortified. [ ] clever, brave lad. * * * * * ... how far off it all seems. centuries away. i wonder what has become of her. where is rosa now? why, she must be here, in america. i had almost forgotten,--i met her in new york. it was such a surprise. i was standing on the stoop of the tenement house where i boarded. i had then been only a few months in the country. a young lady passed by. she looked up at me, then turned and ascended the steps. "don't you know me, mr. berkman? don't you really recognize me?" some mistake, i thought. i had never before seen this beautiful, stylish young woman. she invited me into the hallway. "don't tell these people here. i am rosa. don't you remember? why, you know, i was your mother's--your mother's maid." she blushed violently. those red cheeks--why, certainly, it's rosa! i thought of the stolen kiss. "would i dare it now?" i wondered, suddenly conscious of my shabby clothes. she seemed so prosperous. how our positions were changed! she looked the very _barishnya_,[ ] like my sister. "is your mother here?" she asked. "mother? she died, just before i left." i glanced apprehensively at her. did she remember that terrible scene when mother struck her? "i didn't know about your mother." her voice was husky; a tear glistened in her eye. the dear girl, always generous-hearted. i ought to make amends to her for mother's insult. we looked at each other in embarrassment. then she held out a gloved hand. very large, i thought; red, too, probably. "good-bye, _gospodin_[ ] berkman," she said. "i'll see you again soon. please don't tell these people who i am." i experienced a feeling of guilt and shame. _gospodin_ berkman--somehow it echoed the servile _barinya_[ ] with which the domestics used to address my mother. for all her finery, rosa had not gotten over it. too much bred in, poor girl. she has not become emancipated. i never saw her at our meetings; she is conservative, no doubt. she was so ignorant, she could not even read. perhaps she has learned in this country. now she will read about me, and she'll know how i died.... oh, i haven't the spoon! what shall i do, what shall i do? i can't live. i couldn't stand this torture. perhaps if i had seven years, i would try to serve the sentence. but i couldn't, anyhow. i might live here a year, or two. but twenty-two, twenty-two years! what is the use? no man could survive it. it's terrible, twenty-two years! their cursed justice--they always talk of law. yet legally i shouldn't have gotten more than seven years. legally! as if _they_ care about "legality." they wanted to make an example of me. of course, i knew it beforehand; but if i had seven years--perhaps i might live through it; i would try. but twenty-two--it's a lifetime, a whole lifetime. seventeen is no better. that man jamestown got seventeen years. he celled next to me in the jail. he didn't look like a highway robber, he was so small and puny. he must be here now. a fool, to think he could live here seventeen years. in this hell--what an imbecile he is! he should have committed suicide long ago. they sent him away before my trial; it's about three weeks ago. enough time; why hasn't he done something? he will soon die here, anyway; it would be better to suicide. a strong man might live five years; i doubt it, though; perhaps a very strong man might. _i_ couldn't; no, i know i couldn't; perhaps two or three years, at most. we had often spoken about this, the girl, fedya, and i. i had then such a peculiar idea of prison: i thought i would be sitting on the floor in a gruesome, black hole, with my hands and feet chained to the wall; and the worms would crawl over me, and slowly devour my face and my eyes, and i so helpless, chained to the wall. the girl and fedya had a similar idea. she said she might bear prison life a few weeks. i could for a year, i thought; but was doubtful. i pictured myself fighting the worms off with my feet; it would take the vermin that long to eat all my flesh, till they got to my heart; that would be fatal.... and the vermin here, those big, brown bedbugs, they must be like those worms, so vicious and hungry. perhaps there are worms here, too. there must be in the dungeon: there is a wound on my foot. i don't know how it happened. i was unconscious in that dark hole--it was just like my old idea of prison. i couldn't live even a week there: it's awful. here it is a little better; but it's never light in this cell,--always in semidarkness. and so small and narrow; no windows; it's damp, and smells so foully all the time. the walls are wet and clammy; smeared with blood, too. bedbugs--augh! it's nauseating. not much better than that black hole, with my hands and arms chained to the wall. just a trifle better,--my hands are not chained. perhaps i could live here a few years: no more than three, or may be five. but these brutal officers! no, no, i couldn't stand it. i want to die! i'd die here soon, anyway; they will kill me. but i won't give the enemy the satisfaction; they shall not be able to say that they are torturing me in prison, or that they killed me. no! i'd rather kill myself. yes, kill myself. i shall have to do it--with my head against the bars--no, not now! at night, when it's all dark,--they couldn't save me then. it will be a terrible death, but it must be done.... if i only knew about "them" in new york--the girl and fedya--it would be easier to die then.... what are they doing in the case? are they making propaganda out of it? they must be waiting to hear of my suicide. they know i can't live here long. perhaps they wonder why i didn't suicide right after the trial. but i could not. i thought i should be taken from the court to my cell in jail; sentenced prisoners usually are. i had prepared to hang myself that night, but they must have suspected something. they brought me directly here from the courtroom. perhaps i should have been dead now-- [ ] young lady. [ ] mister. [ ] lady. "supper! want coffee? hold your tin!" the trusty shouts into the door. suddenly he whispers, "grab it, quick!" a long, dark object is shot between the bars into the cell, dropping at the foot of the bed. the man is gone. i pick up the parcel, tightly wrapped in brown paper. what can it be? the outside cover protects two layers of old newspaper; then a white object comes to view. a towel! there is something round and hard inside--it's a cake of soap. a sense of thankfulness steals into my heart, as i wonder who the donor may be. it is good to know that there is at least one being here with a friendly spirit. perhaps it's some one i knew in the jail. but how did he procure these things? are they permitted? the towel feels nice and soft; it is a relief from the hard straw bed. everything is so hard and coarse here--the language, the guards.... i pass the towel over my face; it soothes me somewhat. i ought to wash up--my head feels so heavy--i haven't washed since i got here. when did i come? let me see; what is to-day? i don't know, i can't think. but my trial--it was on monday, the nineteenth of september. they brought me here in the afternoon; no, in the evening. and that guard--he frightened me so with the bull's-eye lantern. was it last night? no, it must have been longer than that. have i been here only since yesterday? why, it seems such a long time! can this be tuesday, only tuesday? i'll ask the trusty the next time he passes. i'll find out who sent this towel too. perhaps i could get some cold water from him; or may be there is some here-- my eyes are growing accustomed to the semi-darkness of the cell. i discern objects quite clearly. there is a small wooden table and an old chair; in the furthest corner, almost hidden by the bed, is the privy; near it, in the center of the wall opposite the door, is a water spigot over a narrow, circular basin. the water is lukewarm and muddy, but it feels refreshing. the rub-down with the towel is invigorating. the stimulated blood courses through my veins with a pleasing tingle. suddenly a sharp sting, as of a needle, pricks my face. there's a pin in the towel. as i draw it out, something white flutters to the floor. a note! with ear alert for a passing step, i hastily read the penciled writing: be shure to tare this up as soon as you reade it, it's from a friend. we is going to make a break and you can come along, we know you are on the level. lay low and keep your lamps lit at night, watch the screws and the stools they is worse than bulls. dump is full of them and don't have nothing to say. so long, will see you tomorrow. a true friend. i read the note carefully, repeatedly. the peculiar language baffles me. vaguely i surmise its meaning: evidently an escape is being planned. my heart beats violently, as i contemplate the possibilities. if i could escape.... oh, i should not have to die! why haven't i thought of it before? what a glorious thing it would be! of course, they would ransack the country for me. i should have to hide. but what does it matter? i'd be at liberty. and what tremendous effect! it would make great propaganda: people would become much interested, and i--why, i should have new opportunities-- the shadow of suspicion falls over my joyous thought, overwhelming me with despair. perhaps a trap! i don't know who wrote the note. a fine conspirator i'd prove, to be duped so easily. but why should they want to trap me? and who? some guard? what purpose could it serve? but they are so mean, so brutal. that tall officer--the deputy called him fellings--he seems to have taken a bitter dislike to me. this may be his work, to get me in trouble. would he really stoop to such an outrage? these things happen--they have been done in russia. and he looks like a _provocateur_, the scoundrel. no, he won't get me that way. i must read the note again. it contains so many expressions i don't understand. i should "keep my lamps lit." what lamps? there are none in the cell; where am i to get them? and what "screws" must i watch? and the "stools,"--i have only a chair here. why should i watch it? perhaps it's to be used as a weapon. no, it must mean something else. the note says he will call to-morrow. i'll be able to tell by his looks whether he can be trusted. yes, yes, that will be best. i'll wait till to-morrow. oh, i wish it were here! chapter ii the will to live i the days drag interminably in the semidarkness of the cell. the gong regulates my existence with depressing monotony. but the tenor of my thoughts has been changed by the note of the mysterious correspondent. in vain i have been waiting for his appearance,--yet the suggestion of escape has germinated hope. the will to live is beginning to assert itself, growing more imperative as the days go by. i wonder that my mind dwells upon suicide more and more rarely, ever more cursorily. the thought of self-destruction fills me with dismay. every possibility of escape must first be exhausted, i reassure my troubled conscience. surely i have no fear of death--when the proper time arrives. but haste would be highly imprudent; worse, quite unnecessary. indeed, it is my duty as a revolutionist to seize every opportunity for propaganda: escape would afford me many occasions to serve the cause. it was thoughtless on my part to condemn that man jamestown. i even resented his seemingly unforgivable delay in committing suicide, considering the impossible sentence of seventeen years. indeed, i was unjust: jamestown is, no doubt, forming his plans. it takes time to mature such an undertaking: one must first familiarize himself with the new surroundings, get one's bearings in the prison. so far i have had but little chance to do so. evidently, it is the policy of the authorities to keep me in solitary confinement, and in consequent ignorance of the intricate system of hallways, double gates, and winding passages. at liberty to leave this place, it would prove difficult for me to find, unaided, my way out. oh, if i possessed the magic ring i dreamed of last night! it was a wonderful talisman, secreted--i fancied in the dream--by the goddess of the social revolution. i saw her quite distinctly: tall and commanding, the radiance of all-conquering love in her eyes. she stood at my bedside, a smile of surpassing gentleness suffusing the queenly countenance, her arm extended above me, half in blessing, half pointing toward the dark wall. eagerly i looked in the direction of the arched hand--there, in a crevice, something luminous glowed with the brilliancy of fresh dew in the morning sun. it was a heart-shaped ring cleft in the centre. its scintillating rays glorified the dark corner with the aureole of a great hope. impulsively i reached out, and pressed the parts of the ring into a close-fitting whole, when, lo! the rays burst into a fire that spread and instantly melted the iron and steel, and dissolved the prison walls, disclosing to my enraptured gaze green fields and woods, and men and women playfully at work in the sunshine of freedom. and then ... something dispelled the vision. oh, if i had that magic heart now! to escape, to be free! may be my unknown friend will yet keep his word. he is probably perfecting plans, or perhaps it is not safe for him to visit me. if my comrades could aid me, escape would be feasible. but the girl and fedya will never consider the possibility. no doubt they refrain from writing because they momentarily expect to hear of my suicide. how distraught the poor girl must be! yet she should have written: it is now four days since my removal to the penitentiary. every day i anxiously await the coming of the chaplain, who distributes the mail.--there he is! the quick, nervous step has become familiar to my ear. expectantly i follow his movements; i recognize the vigorous slam of the door and the click of the spring lock. the short steps patter on the bridge connecting the upper rotunda with the cell-house, and pass along the gallery. the solitary footfall amid the silence reminds me of the timid haste of one crossing a graveyard at night. now the chaplain pauses: he is comparing the number of the wooden block hanging outside the cell with that on the letter. some one has remembered a friend in prison. the steps continue and grow faint, as the postman rounds the distant corner. he passes the cell-row on the opposite side, ascends the topmost tier, and finally reaches the ground floor containing my cell. my heart beats faster as the sound approaches: there must surely be a letter for me. he is nearing the cell--he pauses. i can't see him yet, but i know he is comparing numbers. perhaps the letter is for me. i hope the chaplain will make no mistake: range k, cell , number a . something light flaps on the floor of the next cell, and the quick, short step has passed me by. no mail for me! another twenty-four hours must elapse before i may receive a letter, and then, too, perhaps the faint shadow will not pause at my door. ii the thought of my twenty-two-year sentence is driving me desperate. i would make use of any means, however terrible, to escape from this hell, to regain liberty. liberty! what would it not offer me after this experience? i should have the greatest opportunity for revolutionary activity. i would choose russia. the mostianer have forsaken me. i will keep aloof, but they shall learn what a true revolutionist is capable of accomplishing. if there is a spark of manhood in them, they will blush for their despicable attitude toward my act, their shameful treatment of me. how eager they will then be to prove their confidence by exaggerated devotion, to salve their guilty conscience! i should not have to complain of a lack of financial aid, were i to inform our intimate circles of my plans regarding future activity in russia. it would be glorious, glorious! s--sh-- it's the chaplain. perhaps he has mail for me to-day.... may be he is suppressing letters from my friends; or probably it is the warden's fault: the mailbag is first examined in his office.--now the chaplain is descending to the ground floor. he pauses. it must be cell getting a letter. now he is coming. the shadow is opposite my door,--gone! "chaplain, one moment, please." "who's calling?" "here, chaplain. cell k." "what is it, my boy?" "chaplain, i should like something to read." "read? why, we have a splendid library, m' boy; very fine library. i will send you a catalogue, and you can draw one book every week." "i missed library day on this range. i'll have to wait another week. but i'd like to have something in the meantime, chaplain." "you are not working, m' boy?" "no." "you have not refused to work, have you?" "no, i have not been offered any work yet." "oh, well, you will be assigned soon. be patient, m' boy." "but can't i have something to read now?" "isn't there a bible in your cell?" "a bible? i don't believe in it, chaplain." "my boy, it will do you no harm to read it. it may do you good. read it, m' boy." for a moment i hesitate. a desperate idea crosses my mind. "all right, chaplain, i'll read the bible, but i don't care for the modern english version. perhaps you have one with greek or latin annotations?" "why, why, m' boy, do you understand latin or greek?" "yes, i have studied the classics." the chaplain seems impressed. he steps close to the door, leaning against it in the attitude of a man prepared for a long conversation. we talk about the classics, the sources of my knowledge, russian schools, social conditions. an interesting and intelligent man, this prison chaplain, an extensive traveler whose visit to russia had impressed him with the great possibilities of that country. finally he motions to a guard: "let a come with me." with a suspicious glance at me, the officer unlocks the door. "shall i come along, chaplain?" he asks. "no, no. it is all right. come, m' boy." past the tier of vacant cells, we ascend the stairway to the upper rotunda, on the left side of which is the chaplain's office. excited and alert, i absorb every detail of the surroundings. i strive to appear indifferent, while furtively following every movement of the chaplain, as he selects the rotunda key from the large bunch in his hand, and opens the door. passionate longing for liberty is consuming me. a plan of escape is maturing in my mind. the chaplain carries all the keys--he lives in the warden's house, connected with the prison--he is so fragile--i could easily overpower him--there is no one in the rotunda--i'd stifle his cries--take the keys-- "have a seat, my boy. sit down. here are some books. look them over. i have a duplicate of my personal bible, with annotations. it is somewhere here." with feverish eyes i watch him lay the keys on the desk. a quick motion, and they would be mine. that large and heavy one, it must belong to the gate. it is so big,--one blow would kill him. ah, there is a safe! the chaplain is taking some books from it. his back is turned to me. a thrust--and i'd lock him in.... stealthily, imperceptibly, i draw nearer to the desk, my eyes fastened on the keys. now i bend over them, pretending to be absorbed in a book, the while my hand glides forward, slowly, cautiously. quickly i lean over; the open book in my hands entirely hides the keys. my hand touches them. desperately i clutch the large, heavy bunch, my arm slowly rises-- "my boy, i cannot find that bible just now, but i'll give you some other book. sit down, my boy. i am so sorry about you. i am an officer of the state, but i think you were dealt with unjustly. your sentence is quite excessive. i can well understand the state of mind that actuated you, a young enthusiast, in these exciting times. it was in connection with homestead, is it not so, m' boy?" * * * * * i fall back into the chair, shaken, unmanned. that deep note of sympathy, the sincerity of the trembling voice--no, no, i cannot touch him.... iii at last, mail from new york! letters from the girl and fedya. with a feeling of mixed anxiety and resentment, i gaze at the familiar handwriting. why didn't they write before? the edge of expectancy has been dulled by the long suspense. the girl and the twin, my closest, most intimate friends of yesterday,--but the yesterday seems so distant in the past, its very reality submerged in the tide of soul-racking events. there is a note of disappointment, almost of bitterness, in the girl's letter. the failure of my act will lessen the moral effect, and diminish its propagandistic value. the situation is aggravated by most. owing to his disparaging attitude, the germans remain indifferent. to a considerable extent, even the jewish revolutionary element has been influenced by him. the twin, in veiled and abstruse russian, hints at the attempted completion of my work, planned, yet impossible of realization. i smile scornfully at the "completion" that failed even of an attempt. the damningly false viewpoint of the girl exasperates me, and i angrily resent the disapproving surprise i sense in both letters at my continued existence. i read the lines repeatedly. every word drips bitterness into my soul. have i grown morbid, or do they actually presume to reproach me with my failure to suicide? by what right? impatiently i smother the accusing whisper of my conscience, "by the right of revolutionary ethics." the will to live leaps into being peremptorily, more compelling and imperative at the implied challenge. no, i will struggle and fight! friend or enemy, they shall learn that i am not so easily done for. i will live, to escape, to conquer! chapter iii spectral silence the silence grows more oppressive, the solitude unbearable. my natural buoyancy is weighted down by a nameless dread. with dismay i realize the failing elasticity of my step, the gradual loss of mental vivacity. i feel worn in body and soul. the regular tolling of the gong, calling to toil or meals, accentuates the enervating routine. it sounds ominously amid the stillness, like the portent of some calamity, horrible and sudden. unshaped fears, the more terrifying because vague, fill my heart. in vain i seek to drown my riotous thoughts by reading and exercise. the walls stand, immovable sentinels, hemming me in on every side, till movement grows into torture. in the constant dusk of the windowless cell the letters dance before my eyes, now forming fantastic figures, now dissolving into corpses and images of death. the morbid pictures fascinate my mind. the hissing gas jet in the corridor irresistibly attracts me. with eyes half shut, i follow the flickering light. its diffusing rays form a kaleidoscope of variegated pattern, now crystallizing into scenes of my youth, now converging upon the image of my new york life, with grotesque illumination of the tragic moments. now the flame is swept by a gust of wind. it darts hither and thither, angrily contending with the surrounding darkness. it whizzes and strikes into its adversary, who falters, then advances with giant shadow, menacing the light with frenzied threats on the whitewashed wall. look! the shadow grows and grows, till it mounts the iron gates that fall heavily behind me, as the officers lead me through the passage. "you're home now," the guard mocks me. i look back. the gray pile looms above me, cold and forbidding, and on its crest stands the black figure leering at me in triumph. the walls frown upon me. they seem human in their cruel immobility. their huge arms tower into the night, as if to crush me on the instant. i feel so small, unutterably weak and defenceless amid all the loneliness,--the breath of the grave is on my face, it draws closer, it surrounds me, and shuts the last rays from my sight. in horror i pause.... the chain grows taut, the sharp edges cut into my wrist. i lurch forward, and wake on the floor of the cell. * * * * * restless dream and nightmare haunt the long nights. i listen eagerly for the tolling of the gong, bidding darkness depart. but the breaking day brings neither hope nor gladness. gloomy as yesterday, devoid of interest as the to-morrows at its heels, endlessly dull and leaden: the rumbling carts, with their loads of half-baked bread; the tasteless brown liquid; the passing lines of striped misery; the coarse commands; the heavy tread; and then--the silence of the tomb. why continue the unprofitable torture? no advantage could accrue to the cause from prolonging this agony. all avenues of escape are closed; the institution is impregnable. the good people have generously fortified this modern bastille; the world at large may sleep in peace, undisturbed by the anguish of calvary. no cry of tormented soul shall pierce these walls of stone, much less the heart of man. why, then, prolong the agony? none heeds, none cares, unless perhaps my comrades,--and they are far away and helpless. helpless, quite helpless. ah, if our movement were strong, the enemy would not dare commit such outrages, knowing that quick and merciless vengeance would retaliate for injustice. but the enemy realizes our weakness. to our everlasting shame, the crime of chicago has not yet been avenged. _vae victis!_ they shall forever be the victims. only might is respected; it alone can influence tyrants. had we strength,--but if the judicial murders of failed to arouse more than passive indignation, can i expect radical developments in consequence of my brutally excessive sentence? it is unreasonable. five years, indeed, have passed since the haymarket tragedy. perhaps the people have since been taught in the bitter school of oppression and defeat. oh, if labor would realize the significance of my deed, if the worker would understand my aims and motives, he could be roused to strong protest, perhaps to active demand. ah, yes! but when, when will the dullard realize things? when will he open his eyes? blind to his own slavery and degradation, can i expect him to perceive the wrong suffered by others? and who is to enlighten him? no one conceives the truth as deeply and clearly as we anarchists. even the socialists dare not advocate the whole, unvarnished truth. they have clothed the goddess of liberty with a fig-leaf; religion, the very fountain-head of bigotry and injustice, has officially been declared _privatsache_. henceforth these timid world-liberators must be careful not to tread upon the toes of prejudice and superstition. soon they will grow to _bourgeois_ respectability, a party of "practical" politics and "sound" morality. what a miserable descent from the peaks of nihilism that proclaimed defiance of all established institutions, _because_ they were established, hence wrong. indeed, there is not a single institution in our pseudo-civilization that deserves to exist. but only the anarchists dare wage war upon all and every form of wrong, and they are few in number, lacking in power. the internal divisions, too, aggravate our weakness; and now, even most has turned apostate. the jewish comrades will be influenced by his attitude. only the girl remains. but she is young in the movement, and almost unknown. undoubtedly she has talent as a speaker, but she is a woman, in rather poor health. in all the movement, i know of no one capable of propaganda by deed, or of an avenging act, except the twin. at least i can expect no other comrade to undertake the dangerous task of a rescue. the twin is a true revolutionist; somewhat impulsive and irresponsible, perhaps, with slight aristocratic leanings, yet quite reliable in matters of revolutionary import. but he would not harbor the thought. we held such queer notions of prison: the sight of a police uniform, an arrest, suggested visions of a bottomless pit, irrevocable disappearance, as in russia. how can i broach the subject to the twin? all mail passes through the hands of the censor; my correspondence, especially--a long-timer and an anarchist--will be minutely scrutinized. there seems no possibility. i am buried alive in this stone grave. escape is hopeless. and this agony of living death--i cannot support it.... chapter iv a ray of light i yearn for companionship. even the mere sight of a human form is a relief. every morning, after breakfast, i eagerly listen for the familiar swish-swash on the flagstones of the hallway: it is the old rangeman[ ] "sweeping up." the sensitive mouth puckered up in an inaudible whistle, the one-armed prisoner swings the broom with his left, the top of the handle pressed under the armpit. [ ] prisoner taking care of a range or tier of cells. "hello, aleck! how're you feeling to-day?" he stands opposite my cell, at the further end of the wall, the broom suspended in mid-stroke. i catch an occasional glance of the kind blue eyes, while his head is in constant motion, turning to right and left, alert for the approach of a guard. "how're you, aleck?" "oh, nothing extra." "i know how it is, aleck, i've been through the mill. keep up your nerve, you'll be all right, old boy. you're young yet." "old enough to die," i say, bitterly. "s--sh! don't speak so loud. the screw's got long ears." "the screw?" a wild hope trembles in my heart. the "screw"! the puzzling expression in the mysterious note,--perhaps this man wrote it. in anxious expectancy, i watch the rangeman. his back turned toward me, head bent, he hurriedly plies the broom with the quick, short stroke of the one-armed sweeper. "s--sh!" he cautions, without turning, as he crosses the line of my cell. i listen intently. not a sound, save the regular swish-swash of the broom. but the more practiced ear of the old prisoner did not err. a long shadow falls across the hall. the tall guard of the malicious eyes stands at my door. "what you pryin' out for?" he demands. "i am not prying." "don't you contradict me. stand back in your hole there. don't you be leanin' on th' door, d'ye hear?" down the hall the guard shouts: "hey you, cripple! talkin' there, wasn't you?" "no, sir." "don't you dare lie to me. you was." "swear to god i wasn't." "w-a-all, if i ever catch you talkin' to that s---- of a b----, i'll fix you." * * * * * the scratching of the broom has ceased. the rangeman is dusting the doors. the even strokes of the cat-o'-nine-tails sound nearer. again the man stops at my door, his head turning right and left, the while he diligently plies the duster. "aleck," he whispers, "be careful of that screw. he's a ----. see him jump on me?" "what would he do to you if he saw you talking to me?" "throw me in the hole, the dungeon, you know. i'd lose my job, too." "then better don't talk to me." "oh, i ain't scared of him. he can't catch _me_, not he. he didn't see me talkin'; just bluffed. can't bluff _me_, though." "but be careful." "it's all right. he's gone out in the yard now. he has no biz in the block,[ ] anyhow, 'cept at feedin' time. he's jest lookin' for trouble. mean skunk he is, that cornbread tom." [ ] cell-house. "who?" "that screw fellings. we call him cornbread tom, b'cause he swipes our corn dodger." "what's corn dodger?" "ha, ha! toosdays and satoordays we gets a chunk of cornbread for breakfast. it ain't much, but better'n stale punk. know what punk is? not long on lingo, are you? punk's bread, and then some kids is punk." he chuckles, merrily, as at some successful _bon mot_. suddenly he pricks up his ears, and with a quick gesture of warning, tiptoes away from the cell. in a few minutes he returns, whispering: "all o. k. road's clear. tom's been called to the shop. won't be back till dinner, thank th' lord. only the cap is in the block, old man mitchell, in charge of this wing. north block it's called." "the women are in the south block?" "nope. th' girls got a speshal building. south block's th' new cell-house, just finished. crowded already, an' fresh fish comin' every day. court's busy in pittsburgh all right. know any one here?" "no." "well, get acquainted, aleck. it'll give you an interest. guess that's what you need. i know how you feel, boy. thought i'd die when i landed here. awful dump. a guy advised me to take an interest an' make friends. i thought he was kiddin' me, but he was on the level, all right. get acquainted, aleck; you'll go bugs if you don't. must vamoose now. see you later. my name's wingie." "wingie?" "that's what they call me here. i'm an old soldier; was at bull run. run so damn fast i lost my right wing, hah, hah, hah! s'long." * * * * * eagerly i look forward to the stolen talks with wingie. they are the sole break in the monotony of my life. but days pass without the exchange of a word. silently the one-armed prisoner walks by, apparently oblivious of my existence, while with beating heart i peer between the bars for a cheering sign of recognition. only the quick wink of his eye reassures me of his interest, and gives warning of the spying guard. by degrees the ingenuity of wingie affords us more frequent snatches of conversation, and i gather valuable information about the prison. the inmates sympathize with me, wingie says. they know i'm "on th' level." i'm sure to find friends, but i must be careful of the "stool pigeons," who report everything to the officers. wingie is familiar with the history of every keeper. most of them are "rotten," he assures me. especially the captain of the night watch is "fierce an' an ex-fly."[ ] only three "screws" are on night duty in each block, but there are a hundred overseers to "run th' dump" during the day. wingie promises to be my friend, and to furnish "more pointers bymby." [ ] fly or fly-cop, a detective. chapter v the shop i i stand in line with a dozen prisoners, in the anteroom of the deputy's office. humiliation overcomes me as my eye falls, for the first time in the full light of day, upon my striped clothes. i am degraded to a beast! my first impression of a prisoner in stripes is painfully vivid: he resembled a dangerous brute. somehow the idea is associated in my mind with a wild tigress,--and i, too, must now look like that. the door of the rotunda swings open, admitting the tall, lank figure of the deputy warden. "hands up!" the deputy slowly passes along the line, examining a hand here and there. he separates the men into groups; then, pointing to the one in which i am included, he says in his feminine accents: "none crippled. officers, take them, hm, hm, to number seven. turn them over to mr. hoods." "fall in! forward, march!" my resentment at the cattle-like treatment is merged into eager expectation. at last i am assigned to work! i speculate on the character of "number seven," and on the possibilities of escape from there. flanked by guards, we cross the prison yard in close lockstep. the sentinels on the wall, their rifles resting loosely on crooked arm, face the striped line winding snakelike through the open space. the yard is spacious and clean, the lawn well kept and inviting. the first breath of fresh air in two weeks violently stimulates my longing for liberty. perhaps the shop will offer an opportunity to escape. the thought quickens my observation. bounded north, east, and south by the stone wall, the two blocks of the cell-house form a parallelogram, enclosing the shops, kitchen, hospital, and, on the extreme south, the women's quarters. "break ranks!" we enter number seven, a mat shop. with difficulty i distinguish the objects in the dark, low-ceilinged room, with its small, barred windows. the air is heavy with dust; the rattling of the looms is deafening. an atmosphere of noisy gloom pervades the place. the officer in charge assigns me to a machine occupied by a lanky prisoner in stripes. "jim, show him what to do." considerable time passes, without jim taking the least notice of me. bent low over the machine, he seems absorbed in the work, his hands deftly manipulating the shuttle, his foot on the treadle. presently he whispers, hoarsely: "fresh fish?" "what did you say?" "you bloke, long here?" "two weeks." "wotcher doin'?" "twenty-one years." "quitcher kiddin'." "it's true." "honest? holy gee!" the shuttle flies to and fro. jim is silent for a while, then he demands, abruptly: "wat dey put you here for?" "i don't know." "been kickin'?" "no." "den you'se bugs." "why so?" "dis 'ere is crank shop. dey never put a mug 'ere 'cept he's bugs, or else dey got it in for you." "how do _you_ happen to be here?" "me? de god damn ---- got it in for me. see dis?" he points to a deep gash over his temple. "had a scrap wid de screws. almost knocked me glimmer out. it was dat big bull[ ] dere, pete hoods. i'll get even wid _him_, all right, damn his rotten soul. i'll kill him. by god, i will. i'll croak 'ere, anyhow." [ ] guard. "perhaps it isn't so bad," i try to encourage him. "it ain't, eh? wat d'_you_ know 'bout it? i've got the con bad, spittin' blood every night. dis dust's killin' me. kill you, too, damn quick." as if to emphasize his words, he is seized with a fit of coughing, prolonged and hollow. the shuttle has in the meantime become entangled in the fringes of the matting. recovering his breath, jim snatches the knife at his side, and with a few deft strokes releases the metal. to and fro flies the gleaming thing, and jim is again absorbed in his task. "don't bother me no more," he warns me, "i'm behind wid me work." every muscle tense, his long body almost stretched across the loom, in turn pulling and pushing, jim bends every effort to hasten the completion of the day's task. the guard approaches. "how's he doing?" he inquires, indicating me with a nod of the head. "he's all right. but say, hoods, dis 'ere is no place for de kid. he's got a twenty-one spot."[ ] [ ] sentence. "shut your damned trap!" the officer retorts, angrily. the consumptive bends over his work, fearfully eyeing the keeper's measuring stick. as the officer turns away, jim pleads: "mr. hoods, i lose time teachin'. won't you please take off a bit? de task is more'n i can do, an' i'm sick." "nonsense. there's nothing the matter with you, jim. you're just lazy, that's what you are. don't be shamming, now. it don't go with _me_." at noon the overseer calls me aside. "you are green here," he warns me, "pay no attention to jim. he wanted to be bad, but we showed him different. he's all right now. you have a long time; see that you behave yourself. this is no playhouse, you understand?" as i am about to resume my place in the line forming to march back to the cells for dinner, he recalls me: "say, aleck, you'd better keep an eye on that fellow jim. he is a little off, you know." he points toward my head, with a significant rotary motion. ii the mat shop is beginning to affect my health: the dust has inflamed my throat, and my eyesight is weakening in the constant dusk. the officer in charge has repeatedly expressed dissatisfaction with my slow progress in the work. "i'll give you another chance," he cautioned me yesterday, "and if you don't make a good mat by next week, down in the hole you go." he severely upbraided jim for his inefficiency as instructor. as the consumptive was about to reply, he suffered an attack of coughing. the emaciated face turned greenish-yellow, but in a moment he seemed to recover, and continued working. suddenly i saw him clutch at the frame, a look of terror spread over his face, he began panting for breath, and then a stream of dark blood gushed from his mouth, and jim fell to the floor. the steady whir of the looms continued. the prisoner at the neighboring machine cast a furtive look at the prostrate form, and bent lower over his work. jim lay motionless, the blood dyeing the floor purple. i rushed to the officer. "mr. hoods, jim has--" "back to your place, damn you!" he shouted at me. "how dare you leave it without permission?" "i just--" "get back, i tell you!" he roared, raising the heavy stick. i returned to my place. jim lay very still, his lips parted, his face ashen. slowly, with measured step, the officer approached. "what's the matter here?" i pointed at jim. the guard glanced at the unconscious man, then lightly touched the bleeding face with his foot. "get up, jim, get up!" the nerveless head rolled to the side, striking the leg of the loom. "guess he isn't shamming," the officer muttered. then he shook his finger at me, menacingly: "don't you ever leave your place without orders. remember, you!" after a long delay, causing me to fear that jim had been forgotten, the doctor arrived. it was mr. rankin, the senior prison physician, a short, stocky man of advanced middle age, with a humorous twinkle in his eye. he ordered the sick prisoner taken to the hospital. "did any one see the man fall?" he inquired. "this man did," the keeper replied, indicating me. while i was explaining, the doctor eyed me curiously. presently he asked my name. "oh, the celebrated case," he smiled. "i know mr. frick quite well. not such a bad man, at all. but you'll be treated well here, mr. berkman. this is a democratic institution, you know. by the way, what is the matter with your eyes? they are inflamed. always that way?" "only since i am working in this shop." "oh, he is all right, doctor," the officer interposed. "he's only been here a week." mr. rankin cast a quizzical look at the guard. "you want him here?" "y-e-s: we're short of men." "well, _i_ am the doctor, mr. hoods." then, turning to me, he added: "report in the morning on sick list." iii the doctor's examination has resulted in my removal to the hosiery department. the change has filled me with renewed hope. a disciplinary shop, to which are generally assigned the "hard cases"--inmates in the first stages of mental derangement, or exceptionally unruly prisoners--the mat shop is the point of special supervision and severest discipline. it is the best-guarded shop, from which escape is impossible. but in the hosiery department, a recent addition to the local industries. i may find the right opportunity. it will require time, of course; but my patience shall be equal to the great object. the working conditions, also, are more favorable: the room is light and airy, the discipline not so stringent. my near-sightedness has secured for me immunity from machine work. the deputy at first insisted that my eyes were "good enough" to see the numerous needles of the hosiery machine. it is true, i could see them; but not with sufficient distinctness to insure the proper insertion of the initial threads. to admit partial ability would result, i knew, in being ordered to produce the task; and failure, or faulty work, would be severely punished. necessity drove me to subterfuge: i pretended total inability to distinguish the needles. repeated threats of punishment failing to change my determination, i have been assigned the comparatively easy work of "turning" the stockings. the occupation, though tedious, is not exacting. it consists in gathering the hosiery manufactured by the knitting machines, whence the product issues without soles. i carry the pile to the table provided with an iron post, about eighteen inches high, topped with a small inverted disk. on this instrument the stockings are turned "inside out" by slipping the article over the post, then quickly "undressing" it. the hosiery thus "turned" is forwarded to the looping machines, by which the product is finished and sent back to me, once more to be "turned," preparatory to sorting and shipment. * * * * * monotonously the days and weeks pass by. practice lends me great dexterity in the work, but the hours of drudgery drag with heavy heel. i seek to hasten time by forcing myself to take an interest in the task. i count the stockings i turn, the motions required by each operation, and the amount accomplished within a given time. but in spite of these efforts, my mind persistently reverts to unprofitable subjects: my friends and the propaganda; the terrible injustice of my excessive sentence; suicide and escape. my nights are restless. oppressed with a nameless weight, or tormented by dread, i awake with a start, breathless and affrighted, to experience the momentary relief of danger past. but the next instant i am overwhelmed by the consciousness of my surroundings, and plunged into rage and despair, powerless, hopeless. thus day succeeds night, and night succeeds day, in the ceaseless struggle of hope and discouragement, of life and death, amid the externally placid tenor of my pennsylvania nightmare. chapter vi my first letter i direct to box a , allegheny city, pa., october th, . dear sister:[ ] it is just a month, a month to-day, since my coming here. i keep wondering, can such a world of misery and torture be compressed into one short month?... how i have longed for this opportunity! you will understand: a month's stay is required before we are permitted to write. but many, many long letters i have written to you--in my mind, dear sonya. where shall i begin now? my space is very limited, and i have so much to say to you and to the twin.--i received your letters. you need not wait till you hear from me: keep on writing. i am allowed to receive all mail sent, "of moral contents," in the phraseology of the rules. and i shall write whenever i may. dear sonya, i sense bitterness and disappointment in your letter. why do you speak of failure? you, at least, you and fedya, should not have your judgment obscured by the mere accident of physical results. your lines pained and grieved me beyond words. not because you should write thus; but that you, even you, should _think_ thus. need i enlarge? true morality deals with motives, not consequences. i cannot believe that we differ on this point. i fully understand what a terrible blow the apostasy of wurst[ ] must have been to you. but however it may minimize the effect, it cannot possibly alter the fact, or its character. this you seem to have lost sight of. in spite of wurst, a great deal could have been accomplished. i don't know whether it has been done: your letter is very meagre on this point. yet it is of supreme interest to me. but i know, sonya,--of this one thing, at least, i am sure--you will do all that is in your power. perhaps it is not much--but the twin and part of orchard street[ ] will be with you. why that note of disappointment, almost of resentment, as to tolstogub's relation to the darwinian theory?[ ] you must consider that the layman cannot judge of the intricacies of scientific hypotheses. the scientist would justly object to such presumption. i embrace you both. the future is dark; but, then, who knows?... write often. tell me about the movement, yourself and friends. it will help to keep me in touch with the outside world, which daily seems to recede further. i clutch desperately at the thread that still binds me to the living--it seems to unravel in my hands, the thin skeins are breaking, one by one. my hold is slackening. but the sonya thread, i know, will remain taut and strong. i have always called you the immutable. alex. [ ] the girl; also referred to as sonya, musick, and sailor. [ ] john most. [ ] orchard street--the hall in which the first jewish anarchist gatherings were held in new york. an allusion to the aid of the jewish comrades. [ ] tolstogub--the author's russian nickname. the expression signifies the continued survival of the writer. [illustration: facsimile of prison letter, reduced one-third] ii i posted the letter in the prisoners' mail-box when the line formed for work this morning. but the moment the missive left my hands, i was seized with a great longing. oh, if some occult means would transform me into that slip of paper! i should now be hidden in that green box--with bated breath i'd flatten myself in the darkest recess, and wait for the chaplain to collect the mail.... my heart beats tumultuously as the wild fancy flutters in my brain. i am oblivious of the forming lines, the sharp commands, the heavy tread. automatically i turn the hosiery, counting one, two, one pair; three, four, two pair. whose voice is it i hear? i surely know the man--there is something familiar about him. he bends over the looping machines and gathers the stockings. now he is counting: one, two, one pair; three, four, two pair. just like myself. why, he looks like myself! and the men all seem to think it is i. ha, ha, ha! the officer, also. i just heard him say, "aleck, work a little faster, can't you? see the piles there, you're falling behind." he thinks it's i. what a clever substitution! and all the while the real "me" is snugly lying here in the green box, peeping through the keyhole, on the watch for the postman. s-sh! i hear a footstep. perhaps it is the chaplain: he will open the box with his quick, nervous hands, seize a handful of letters, and thrust them into the large pocket of his black serge coat. there are so many letters here--i'll slip among them into the large pocket--the chaplain will not notice me. he'll think it's just a letter, ha, ha! he'll scrutinize every word, for it's the letter of a long-timer; his first one, too. but i am safe, i'm invisible; and when they call the roll, they will take that man there for me. he is counting nineteen, twenty, ten pair; twenty-one, twenty-two.... what was that? twenty-two--oh, yes, twenty-two, that's my sentence. the imbeciles, they think i am going to serve it. i'd kill myself first. but it will not be necessary, thank goodness! it was such a lucky thought, this going out in my letter. but what has become of the chaplain? if he'd only come--why is he so long? they might miss me in the shop. no, no! that man is there--he is turning the stockings--they don't know i am here in the box. the chaplain won't know it, either: i am invisible; he'll think it's a letter when he puts me in his pocket, and then he'll seal me in an envelope and address--i must flatten myself so his hand shouldn't feel--and he'll address me to sonya. he'll not know whom he is sending to her--he doesn't know who she is, either--the _deckadresse_ is splendid--we must keep it up. keep it up? why? it will not be necessary: after he mails me, we don't need to write any more--it is well, too--i have so much to tell sonya--and it wouldn't pass the censor. but it's all right now--they'll throw the letters into the mail-carrier's bag--there'll be many of them--this is general letter day. i'll hide in the pile, and they'll pass me through the post-office, on to new york. dear, dear new york! i have been away so long. only a month? well, i must be patient--and not breathe so loud. when i get to new york, i shall not go at once into the house--sonya might get frightened. i'll first peep in through the window--i wonder what she'll be doing--and who will be at home? yes, fedya will be there, and perhaps claus and sep. how surprised they'll all be! sonya will embrace me--she'll throw her arms around my neck--they'll feel so soft and warm-- "hey, there! are you deaf? fall in line!" dazed, bewildered, i see the angry face of the guard before me. the striped men pass me, enveloped in a mist. i grasp the "turner." the iron feels cold. chills shake my frame, and the bundle of hosiery drops from my hand. "fall in line, i tell you!" "sucker!" some one hisses behind me. "workin' after whistle. 'fraid you won't get 'nough in yer twenty-two spot, eh? you sucker, you!" chapter vii wingie the hours at work help to dull the acute consciousness of my environment. the hosiery department is past the stage of experiment; the introduction of additional knitting machines has enlarged my task, necessitating increased effort and more sedulous application. the shop routine now demands all my attention. it leaves little time for thinking or brooding. my physical condition alarms me: the morning hours completely exhaust me, and i am barely able to keep up with the line returning to the cell-house for the noon meal. a feeling of lassitude possesses me, my feet drag heavily, and i experience great difficulty in mastering my sleepiness. * * * * * i have grown indifferent to the meals; the odor of food nauseates me. i am nervous and morbid: the sight of a striped prisoner disgusts me; the proximity of a guard enrages me. the shop officer has repeatedly warned me against my disrespectful and surly manner. but i am indifferent to consequences: what matter what happens? my waning strength is a source of satisfaction: perhaps it indicates the approach of death. the thought pleases me in a quiet, impersonal way. there will be no more suffering, no anguish. the world at large is non-existent; it is centered in me; and yet i myself stand aloof, and see it falling into gradual peace and quiet, into extinction. * * * * * back in my cell after the day's work, i leave the evening meal of bread and coffee untouched. my candle remains unlit. i sit listlessly in the gathering dusk, conscious only of the longing to hear the gong's deep bass,--the three bells tolling the order to retire. i welcome the blessed permission to fall into bed. the coarse straw mattress beckons invitingly; i yearn for sleep, for oblivion. * * * * * occasional mail from friends rouses me from my apathy. but the awakening is brief: the tone of the letter is guarded, their contents too general in character, the matters that might kindle my interest are missing. the world and its problems are drifting from my horizon. i am cast into the darkness. no ray of sunshine holds out the promise of spring. * * * * * at times the realization of my fate is borne in upon me with the violence of a shock, and i am engulfed in despair, now threatening to break down the barriers of sanity, now affording melancholy satisfaction in the wild play of fancy.... existence grows more and more unbearable with the contrast of dream and reality. weary of the day's routine, i welcome the solitude of the cell, impatient even of the greeting of the passing convict. i shrink from the uninvited familiarity of these men, the horizontal gray and black constantly reviving the image of the tigress, with her stealthy, vicious cunning. they are not of _my_ world. i would aid them, as in duty bound to the victims of social injustice. but i cannot be friends with them: they do not belong to the people, to whose service my life is consecrated. unfortunates, indeed; yet parasites upon the producers, less in degree, but no less in kind than the rich exploiters. by virtue of my principles, rather than their deserts, i must give them my intellectual sympathy; they touch no chord in my heart. only wingie seems different. there is a gentle note about his manner that breathes cheer and encouragement. often i long for his presence, yet he seldom finds opportunity to talk with me, save sundays during church service, when i remain in the cell. perhaps i may see him to-day. he must be careful of the block captain, on his rounds of the galleries, counting the church delinquents.[ ] the captain is passing on the range now. i recognize the uncertain step, instantly ready to halt at the sight of a face behind the bars. now he is at the cell. he pencils in his note-book the number on the wooden block over the door, a . [ ] inmates of catholic faith are excused from attending protestant service, and _vice versa_. "catholic?" he asks, mechanically. then, looking up, he frowns on me. "you're no catholic, berkman. what d'you stay in for?" "i am an atheist." "a what?" "an atheist, a non-believer." "oh, an infidel, are you? you'll be damned, shore 'nough." the wooden stairs creak beneath the officer's weight. he has turned the corner. wingie will take advantage now. i hope he will come soon. perhaps somebody is watching-- "hello, aleck! want a piece of pie? here, grab it!" "pie, wingie?" i whisper wonderingly. "where do you get such luxuries?" "swiped from the screw's poke, cornbread tom's dinner-basket, you know. the cheap guy saved it after breakfast. rotten, ain't he?" "why so?" "why, you greenie, he's a stomach robber, that's what he is. it's _our_ pie, aleck, made here in the bakery. that's why our punk is stale, see; they steals the east[ ] to make pies for th' screws. are you next? how d' you like the grub, anyhow?" [ ] yeast. "the bread is generally stale, wingie. and the coffee tastes like tepid water." "coffee you call it? he, he, coffee hell. it ain't no damn coffee; 'tnever was near coffee. it's just bootleg, aleck, bootleg. know how't's made?" "no." "well, i been three months in th' kitchen. you c'llect all the old punk that the cons dump out with their dinner pans. only the crust's used, see. like as not some syph coon spit on 't. some's mean enough to do't, you know. makes no diff, though. orders is, cut off th' crusts an' burn 'em to a good black crisp. then you pour boiling water over it an' dump it in th' kettle, inside a bag, you know, an' throw a little dirty chic'ry in--there's your _coffee_. i never touch th' rotten stuff. it rooins your stummick, that's what it does, aleck. you oughtn't drink th' swill." "i don't care if it kills me." "come, come, aleck. cheer up, old boy. you got a tough bit, i know, but don' take it so hard. don' think of your time. forget it. oh, yes, you can; you jest take my word for't. make some friends. think who you wan' to see to-morrow, then try t' see 'm. that's what you wan' to do, aleck. it'll keep you hustlin'. best thing for the blues, kiddie." for a moment he pauses in his hurried whisper. the soft eyes are full of sympathy, the lips smile encouragingly. he leans the broom against the door, glances quickly around, hesitates an instant, and then deftly slips a slender, delicate hand between the bars, and gives my cheek a tender pat. involuntarily i step back, with the instinctive dislike of a man's caress. yet i would not offend my kind friend. but wingie must have noticed my annoyance: he eyes me critically, wonderingly. presently picking up the broom, he says with a touch of diffidence: "you are all right, aleck. i like you for 't. jest wanted t' try you, see?" "how 'try me,' wingie?" "oh, you ain't next? well, you see--" he hesitates, a faint flush stealing over his prison pallor, "you see, aleck, it's--oh, wait till i pipe th' screw." poor wingie, the ruse is too transparent to hide his embarrassment. i can distinctly follow the step of the block captain on the upper galleries. he is the sole officer in the cell-house during church service. the unlocking of the yard door would apprise us of the entrance of a guard, before the latter could observe wingie at my cell. i ponder over the flimsy excuse. why did wingie leave me? his flushed face, the halting speech of the usually loquacious rangeman, the subterfuge employed to "sneak off,"--as he himself would characterize his hasty departure,--all seem very peculiar. what could he have meant by "trying" me? but before i have time to evolve a satisfactory explanation, i hear wingie tiptoeing back. "it's all right, aleck. they won't come from the chapel for a good while yet." "what did you mean by 'trying' me, wingie?" "oh, well," he stammers, "never min', aleck. you are a good boy, all right. you don't belong here, that's what _i_ say." "well, i _am_ here; and the chances are i'll die here." "now, don't talk so foolish, boy. i 'lowed you looked down at the mouth. now, don't you fill your head with such stuff an' nonsense. croak here, hell! you ain't goin' t'do nothin' of the kind. don't you go broodin', now. you listen t'me, aleck, that's your friend talkin', see? you're so young, why, you're just a kid. twenty-one, ain't you? an' talkin' about dyin'! shame on you, shame!" his manner is angry, but the tremor in his voice sends a ray of warmth to my heart. impulsively i put my hand between the bars. his firm clasp assures me of returned appreciation. "you must brace up, aleck. look at the lifers. you'd think they'd be black as night. nit, my boy, the jolliest lot in th' dump. you seen old henry? no? well, you ought' see 'im. he's the oldest man here; in fifteen years. a lifer, an' hasn't a friend in th' woild, but he's happy as th' day's long. an' you got plenty friends; true blue, too. i know you have." "i have, wingie. but what could they do for me?" "how you talk, aleck. could do anythin'. you got rich friends, i know. you was mixed up with frick. well, your friends are all right, ain't they?" "of course. what could they do, wingie?" "get you pard'n, in two, three years may be, see? you must make a good record here." "oh, i don't care for a pardon." "wha-a-t? you're kiddin'." "no, wingie, quite seriously. i am opposed to it on principle." "you're sure bugs. what you talkin' 'bout? principle fiddlesticks. want to get out o' here?" "of course i do." "well, then, quit your principle racket. what's principle got t' do with 't? your principle's 'gainst get-tin' out?" "no, but against being pardoned." "you're beyond me, aleck. guess you're joshin' me." "now listen, wingie. you see, i wouldn't apply for a pardon, because it would be asking favors from the government, and i am against it, you understand? it would be of no use, anyhow, wingie." "an' if you could get a pard'n for the askin', you won't ask, aleck. that's what you mean?" "yes." "you're hot stuff, aleck. what they call you, narchist? hot stuff, by gosh! can't make you out, though. seems daffy. lis'n t' me, aleck. if i was you, i'd take anythin' i could get, an' then tell 'em to go t'hell. that's what _i_ would do, my boy." he looks at me quizzically, searchingly. the faint echo of the captain's step reaches us from a gallery on the opposite side. with a quick glance to right and left, wingie leans over toward the door. his mouth between the bars, he whispers very low: "principles opposed to a get-a-way, aleck?" the sudden question bewilders me. the instinct of liberty, my revolutionary spirit, the misery of my existence, all flame into being, rousing a wild, tumultuous beating of my heart, pervading my whole being with hope, intense to the point of pain. i remain silent. is it safe to trust him? he seems kind and sympathetic-- "you may trust me, aleck," wingie whispers, as if reading my thoughts. "i'm your friend." "yes, wingie, i believe you. my principles are not opposed to an escape. i have been thinking about it, but so far--" "s-sh! easy. walls have ears." "any chance here, wingie?" "well, it's a damn tough dump, this 'ere is; but there's many a star in heaven, aleck, an' you may have a lucky one. hasn't been a get-a-way here since paddy mcgraw sneaked over th' roof, that's--lemme see, six, seven years ago, 'bout." "how did he do it?" i ask, breathlessly. "jest irish luck. they was finishin' the new block, you know. paddy was helpin' lay th' roof. when he got good an' ready, he jest goes to work and slides down th' roof. swiped stuff in the mat shop an' spliced a rope together, see. they never got 'im, either." "was he in stripes, wingie?" "sure he was. only been in a few months." "how did he manage to get away in stripes? wouldn't he be recognized as an escaped prisoner?" "_that_ bother you, aleck? why, it's easy. get planted till dark, then hold up th' first bloke you see an' take 'is duds. or you push in th' back door of a rag joint; plenty of 'em in allegheny." "is there any chance now through the roof?" "nit, my boy. nothin' doin' _there_. but a feller's got to be alive. many ways to kill a cat, you know. remember the stiff[ ] you got in them things, tow'l an' soap?" [ ] note. "you know about it, wingie?" i ask, in amazement. "do i? he, he, you little--" the click of steel sounds warning. wingie disappears. chapter viii to the girl direct to box a , allegheny city, pa., november , . my dear sonya: it seems an age since i wrote to you, yet it is only a month. but the monotony of my life weights down the heels of time,--the only break in the terrible sameness is afforded me by your dear, affectionate letters, and those of fedya. when i return to the cell for the noon meal, my step is quickened by the eager expectation of finding mail from you. about eleven in the morning, the chaplain makes his rounds; his practiced hand shoots the letter between the bars, toward the bed or on to the little table in the corner. but if the missive is light, it will flutter to the floor. as i reach the cell, the position of the little white object at once apprises me whether the letter is long or short. with closed eyes i sense its weight, like the warm pressure of your own dear hand, the touch reaching softly to my heart, till i feel myself lifted across the chasm into your presence. the bars fade, the walls disappear, and the air grows sweet with the aroma of fresh air and flowers,--i am again with you, walking in the bright july moonlight.... the touch of the _velikorussian_ in your eyes and hair conjures up the volga, our beautiful _bogatir_,[ ] and the strains of the _dubinushka_,[ ] trembling with suffering and yearning, float about me.... the meal remains untouched. i dream over your letter, and again i read it, slowly, slowly, lest i reach the end too quickly. the afternoon hours are hallowed by your touch and your presence, and i am conscious only of the longing for my cell,--in the quiet of the evening, freed from the nightmare of the immediate, i walk in the garden of our dreams. and the following morning, at work in the shop, i pass in anxious wonder whether some cheering word from my own, my real world, is awaiting me in the cell. with a glow of emotion i think of the chaplain: perhaps at the very moment your letter is in his hands. he is opening it, reading. why should strange eyes ... but the chaplain seems kind and discreet. now he is passing along the galleries, distributing the mail. the bundle grows meagre as the postman reaches the ground floor. oh! if he does not come to my cell quickly, he may have no letters left. but the next moment i smile at the childish thought,--if there is a letter for me, no other prisoner will get it. yet some error might happen.... no, it is impossible--my name and prison number, and the cell number marked by the chaplain across the envelope, all insure the mail against any mistake in delivery. now the dinner whistle blows. eagerly i hasten to the cell. there is nothing on the floor! perhaps on the bed, on the table.... i grow feverish with the dread of disappointment. possibly the letter fell under the bed, or in that dark corner. no, none there,--but it can't be that there is no mail for me to-day! i must look again--it may have dropped among the blankets.... no, there is no letter! * * * * * thus pass my days, dear friend. in thought i am ever with you and fedya, in our old haunts and surroundings. i shall never get used to this life, nor find an interest in the reality of the moment. what will become of me, i don't know. i hardly care. we are revolutionists, dear: whatever sacrifices the cause demands, though the individual perish, humanity will profit in the end. in that consciousness we must find our solace. alex. [ ] brave knight--affectionately applied to the great river. [ ] folk-song. _sub rosa_, last day of november, . beloved girl: i thought i would not survive the agony of our meeting, but human capacity for suffering seems boundless. all my thoughts, all my yearnings, were centered in the one desire to see you, to look into your eyes, and there read the beautiful promise that has filled my days with strength and hope.... an embrace, a lingering kiss, and the gift of lingg[ ] would have been mine. to grasp your hand, to look down for a mute, immortal instant into your soul, and then die at your hands, beloved, with the warm breath of your caress wafting me into peaceful eternity--oh, it were bliss supreme, the realization of our day dreams, when, in transports of ecstasy, we kissed the image of the social revolution. do you remember that glorious face, so strong and tender, on the wall of our little houston street hallroom? how far, far in the past are those inspired moments! but they have filled my hours with hallowed thoughts, with exulting expectations. and then you came. a glance at your face, and i knew my doom to terrible life. i read it in the evil look of the guard. it was the deputy himself. perhaps you had been searched! he followed our every moment, like a famished cat that feigns indifference, yet is alert with every nerve to spring upon the victim. oh, i know the calculated viciousness beneath that meek exterior. the accelerated movement of his drumming fingers, as he deliberately seated himself between us, warned me of the beast, hungry for prey.... the halo was dissipated. the words froze within me, and i could meet you only with a vapid smile, and on the instant it was mirrored in my soul as a leer, and i was filled with anger and resentment at everything about us--myself, the deputy (i could have throttled him to death), and--at you, dear. yes, sonya, even at you: the quick come to bury the dead.... but the next moment, the unworthy throb of my agonized soul was stilled by the passionate pressure of my lips upon your hand. how it trembled! i held it between my own, and then, as i lifted my face to yours, the expression i beheld seemed to bereave me of my own self: it was you who were i! the drawn face, the look of horror, your whole being the cry of torture--were _you_ not the real prisoner? or was it my visioned suffering that cemented the spiritual bond, annihilating all misunderstanding, all resentment, and lifting us above time and place in the afflatus of martyrdom? mutely i held your hand. there was no need for words. only the prying eyes of the catlike presence disturbed the sacred moment. then we spoke--mechanically, trivialities.... what though the cadaverous deputy with brutal gaze timed the seconds, and forbade the sound of our dear russian,--nor heaven nor earth could violate the sacrament sealed with our pain. the echo accompanied my step as i passed through the rotunda on my way to the cell. all was quiet in the block. no whir of loom reached me from the shops. thanksgiving day: all activities were suspended. i felt at peace in the silence. but when the door was locked, and i found myself alone, all alone within the walls of the tomb, the full significance of your departure suddenly dawned on me. the quick had left the dead.... terror of the reality seized me and i was swept by a paroxysm of anguish-- i must close. the friend who promised to have this letter mailed _sub rosa_ is at the door. he is a kind unfortunate who has befriended me. may this letter reach you safely. in token of which, send me postal of indifferent contents, casually mentioning the arrival of news from my brother in moscow. remember to sign "sister." with a passionate embrace, your sasha. [ ] louis lingg, one of the chicago martyrs, who committed suicide with a dynamite cartridge in a cigar given him by a friend. chapter ix persecution i suffering and ever-present danger are quick teachers. in the three months of penitentiary life i have learned many things. i doubt whether the vague terrors pictured by my inexperience were more dreadful than the actuality of prison existence. in one respect, especially, the reality is a source of bitterness and constant irritation. notwithstanding all its terrors, perhaps because of them, i had always thought of prison as a place where, in a measure, nature comes into its own: social distinctions are abolished, artificial barriers destroyed; no need of hiding one's thoughts and emotions; one could be his real self, shedding all hypocrisy and artifice at the prison gates. but how different is this life! it is full of deceit, sham, and pharisaism--an aggravated counterpart of the outside world. the flatterer, the backbiter, the spy,--these find here a rich soil. the ill-will of a guard portends disaster, to be averted only by truckling and flattery, and servility fawns for the reward of an easier job. the dissembling soul in stripes whines his conversion into the pleased ears of the christian ladies, taking care he be not surprised without tract or bible,--and presently simulated piety secures a pardon, for the angels rejoice at the sinner's return to the fold. it sickens me to witness these scenes. the officers make the alternative quickly apparent to the new inmate: to protest against injustice is unavailing and dangerous. yesterday i witnessed in the shop a characteristic incident--a fight between johnny davis and jack bradford, both recent arrivals and mere boys. johnny, a manly-looking fellow, works on a knitting machine, a few feet from my table. opposite him is jack, whose previous experience in a reformatory has "put him wise," as he expresses it. my three months' stay has taught me the art of conversing by an almost imperceptible motion of the lips. in this manner i learned from johnny that bradford is stealing his product, causing him repeated punishment for shortage in the task. hoping to terminate the thefts, johnny complained to the overseer, though without accusing jack. but the guard ignored the complaint, and continued to report the youth. finally johnny was sent to the dungeon. yesterday morning he returned to work. the change in the rosy-cheeked boy was startling: pale and hollow-eyed, he walked with a weak, halting step. as he took his place at the machine, i heard him say to the officer: "mr. cosson, please put me somewhere else." "why so?" the guard asked. "i can't make the task here. i'll make it on another machine, please, mr. cosson." "why can't you make it here?" "i'm missing socks." "ho, ho, playing the old game, are you? want to go to th' hole again, eh?" "i couldn't stand the hole again, mr. cosson, swear to god, i couldn't. but my socks's missing here." "missing hell! who's stealing your socks, eh? don't come with no such bluff. nobody can't steal your socks while i'm around. you go to work now, and you'd better make the task, understand?" late in the afternoon, when the count was taken, johnny proved eighteen pairs short. bradford was "over." i saw mr. cosson approach johnny. "eh, thirty, machine thirty," he shouted. "you won't make the task, eh? put your coat and cap on." fatal words! they meant immediate report to the deputy, and the inevitable sentence to the dungeon. "oh, mr. cosson," the youth pleaded, "it ain't my fault, so help me god, it isn't." "it ain't, eh? whose fault is it; mine?" johnny hesitated. his eyes sought the ground, then wandered toward bradford, who studiously avoided the look. "i can't squeal," he said, quietly. "oh, hell! you ain't got nothin' to squeal. get your coat and cap." johnny passed the night in the dungeon. this morning he came up, his cheeks more sunken, his eyes more hollow. with desperate energy he worked. he toiled steadily, furiously, his gaze fastened upon the growing pile of hosiery. occasionally he shot a glance at bradford, who, confident of the officer's favor, met the look of hatred with a sly winking of the left eye. once johnny, without pausing in the work, slightly turned his head in my direction. i smiled encouragingly, and at that same instant i saw jack's hand slip across the table and quickly snatch a handful of johnny's stockings. the next moment a piercing shriek threw the shop into commotion. with difficulty they tore away the infuriated boy from the prostrate bradford. both prisoners were taken to the deputy for trial, with senior officer cosson as the sole witness. impatiently i awaited the result. through the open window i saw the overseer return. he entered the shop, a smile about the corners of his mouth. i resolved to speak to him when he passed by. "mr. cosson," i said, with simulated respectfulness, "may i ask you a question?" "why, certainly, burk, i won't eat you. fire away!" "what have they done with the boys?" "johnny got ten days in the hole. pretty stiff, eh? you see, he started the fight, so he won't have to make the task. oh, i'm next to _him_ all right. they can't fool me so easy, can they, burk?" "well, i should say not, mr. cosson. did you see how the fight started?" "no. but johnny admitted he struck bradford first. that's enough, you know. 'brad' will be back in the shop to-morrow. i got 'im off easy, see; he's a good worker, always makes more than th' task. he'll jest lose his supper. guess he can stand it. ain't much to lose, is there, burk?" "no, not much," i assented. "but, mr. cosson, it was all bradford's fault." "how so?" the guard demanded. "he has been stealing johnny's socks." "you didn't see him do 't." "yes, mr. cosson. i saw him this--" "look here, burk. it's all right. johnny is no good anyway; he's too fresh. you'd better say nothing about it, see? my word goes with the deputy." * * * * * the terrible injustice preys on my mind. poor johnny is already the fourth day in the dreaded dungeon. his third time, too, and yet absolutely innocent. my blood boils at the thought of the damnable treatment and the officer's perfidy. it is my duty as a revolutionist to take the part of the persecuted. yes, i will do so. but how proceed in the matter? complaint against mr. cosson would in all likelihood prove futile. and the officer, informed of my action, will make life miserable for me: his authority in the shop is absolute. the several plans i revolve in my mind do not prove, upon closer examination, feasible. considerations of personal interest struggle against my sense of duty. the vision of johnny in the dungeon, his vacant machine, and bradford's smile of triumph, keep the accusing conscience awake, till silence grows unbearable. i determine to speak to the deputy warden at the first opportunity. several days pass. often i am assailed by doubts: is it advisable to mention the matter to the deputy? it cannot benefit johnny; it will involve me in trouble. but the next moment i feel ashamed of my weakness. i call to mind the much-admired hero of my youth, the celebrated mishkin. with an overpowering sense of my own unworthiness, i review the brave deeds of hippolyte nikitich. what a man! single-handed he essayed to liberate chernishevsky from prison. ah, the curse of poverty! but for that, mishkin would have succeeded, and the great inspirer of the youth of russia would have been given back to the world. i dwell on the details of the almost successful escape, mishkin's fight with the pursuing cossacks, his arrest, and his remarkable speech in court. sentenced to ten years of hard labor in the siberian mines, he defied the russian tyrant by his funeral oration at the grave of dmokhovsky, his boldness resulting in an additional fifteen years of _kátorga_.[ ] minutely i follow his repeated attempts to escape, the transfer of the redoubtable prisoner to the petropavloskaia fortress, and thence to the terrible schlüsselburg prison, where mishkin braved death by avenging the maltreatment of his comrades on a high government official. ah! thus acts the revolutionist; and i--yes, i am decided. no danger shall seal my lips against outrage and injustice. [ ] hard labor in the mines. * * * * * at last an opportunity is at hand. the deputy enters the shop. tall and gray, slightly stooping, with head carried forward, he resembles a wolf following the trail. "mr. mcpane, one moment, please." "yes." "i think johnny davis is being punished innocently." "you think, hm, hm. and who is this innocent johnny, hm, davis?" his fingers drum impatiently on the table; he measures me with mocking, suspicious eyes. "machine thirty, deputy." "ah, yes; machine thirty; hm, hm, reddy davis. hm, he had a fight." "the other man stole his stockings. i saw it, mr. mcpane." "so, so. and why, hm, hm, did you see it, my good man? you confess, then, hm, hm, you were not, hm, attending to your own work. that is bad, hm, very bad. mr. cosson!" the guard hastens to him. "mr. cosson, this man has made a, hm, hm, a charge against you. prisoner, don't interrupt me. hm, what is your number?" "a ." "mr. cosson, a makes a, hm, complaint against the officer, hm, in charge of this shop. please, hm, hm, note it down." both draw aside, conversing in low tones. the words "kicker," "his kid," reach my ears. the deputy nods at the overseer, his steely eyes fastened on me in hatred. ii i feel helpless, friendless. the consolation of wingie's cheerful spirit is missing. my poor friend is in trouble. from snatches of conversation in the shop i have pieced together the story. "dutch" adams, a third-timer and the deputy's favorite stool pigeon, had lost his month's allowance of tobacco on a prize-fight bet. he demanded that wingie, who was stakeholder, share the spoils with him. infuriated by refusal, "dutch" reported my friend for gambling. the unexpected search of wingie's cell discovered the tobacco, thus apparently substantiating the charge. wingie was sent to the dungeon. but after the expiration of five days my friend failed to return to his old cell, and i soon learned that he had been ordered into solitary confinement for refusing to betray the men who had trusted him. the fate of wingie preys on my mind. my poor kind friend is breaking down under the effects of the dreadful sentence. this morning, chancing to pass his cell, i hailed him, but he did not respond to my greeting. perhaps he did not hear me, i thought. impatiently i waited for the noon return to the block. "hello, wingie!" i called. he stood at the door, intently peering between the bars. he stared at me coldly, with blank, expressionless eyes. "who are you?" he whimpered, brokenly. then he began to babble. suddenly the terrible truth dawned on me. my poor, poor friend, the first to speak a kind word to me,--he's gone mad! chapter x the yegg i weeks and months pass without clarifying plans of escape. every step, every movement, is so closely guarded, i seem to be hoping against hope. i am restive and nervous, in a constant state of excitement. conditions in the shop tend to aggravate my frame of mind. the task of the machine men has been increased; in consequence, i am falling behind in my work. my repeated requests for assistance have been ignored by the overseer, who improves every opportunity to insult and humiliate me. his feet wide apart, arms akimbo, belly disgustingly protruding, he measures me with narrow, fat eyes. "oh, what's the matter with you," he drawls, "get a move on, won't you, burk?" then, changing his tone, he vociferates, "don't stand there like a fool, d'ye hear? nex' time i report you, to th' hole you go. that's _me_ talkin', understand?" often i feel the spirit of cain stirring within me. but for the hope of escape, i should not be able to bear this abuse and persecution. as it is, the guard is almost overstepping the limits of my endurance. his low cunning invents numerous occasions to mortify and harass me. the ceaseless dropping of the poison is making my days in the shop a constant torture. i seek relief--forgetfulness rather--in absorbing myself in the work: i bend my energies to outdo the efforts of the previous day; i compete with myself, and find melancholy pleasure in establishing and breaking high records for "turning." again, i tax my ingenuity to perfect means of communication with johnny davis, my young neighbor. apparently intent upon our task, we carry on a silent conversation with eyes, fingers, and an occasional motion of the lips. to facilitate the latter method, i am cultivating the habit of tobacco chewing. the practice also affords greater opportunity for exchanging impressions with my newly-acquired assistant, an old-timer, who introduced himself as "boston red." i owe this development to the return of the warden from his vacation. yesterday he visited the shop. a military-looking man, with benevolent white beard and stately carriage, he approached me, in company with the superintendent of prison manufactures. "is this the celebrated prisoner?" he asked, a faint smile about the rather coarse mouth. "yes, captain, that's berkman, the man who shot frick." "i was in naples at the time. i read about you in the english papers there, berkman. how is his conduct, superintendent?" "good." "well, he should have behaved outside." but noticing the mountain of unturned hosiery, the warden ordered the overseer to give me help, and thus "boston red" joined me at work the next day. * * * * * my assistant is taking great pleasure in perfecting me in the art of lipless conversation. a large quid of tobacco inflating his left cheek, mouth slightly open and curved, he delights in recounting "ghost stories," under the very eyes of the officers. "red" is initiating me into the world of "de road," with its free life, so full of interest and adventure, its romance, joys and sorrows. an interesting character, indeed, who facetiously pretends to "look down upon the world from the sublime heights of applied cynicism." "why, red, you can talk good english," i admonish him. "why do you use so much slang? it's rather difficult for me to follow you." "i'll learn you, pard. see, i should have said 'teach' you, not 'learn.' that's how they talk in school. have i been there? sure, boy. gone through college. went through it with a bucket of coal," he amplifies, with a sly wink. he turns to expectorate, sweeping the large shop with a quick, watchful eye. head bent over the work, he continues in low, guttural tones: "don't care for your classic language. i can use it all right, all right. but give me the lingo, every time. you see, pard, i'm no gun;[ ] don't need it in me biz. i'm a yegg." [ ] professional thief. "what's a yegg, red?" "a supercilious world of cheerful idiots applies to my kind the term 'tramp.'" "a yegg, then, is a tramp. i am surprised that you should care for the life of a bum." a flush suffuses the prison pallor of the assistant. "you are stoopid as the rest of 'em," he retorts, with considerable heat, and i notice his lips move as in ordinary conversation. but in a moment he has regained composure, and a good-humored twinkle plays about his eyes. "sir," he continues, with mock dignity, "to say the least, you are not discriminative in your terminology. no, sir, you are not. now, lookee here, pard, you're a good boy, but your education has been sadly neglected. catch on? don't call me that name again. it's offensive. it's an insult, entirely gratuitous, sir. indeed, sir, i may say without fear of contradiction, that this insult is quite supervacaneous. yes, sir, that's _me_. i ain't no bum, see; no such damn thing. eliminate the disgraceful epithet from your vocabulary, sir, when you are addressing yours truly. i am a yagg, y--a--double g, sir, of the honorable clan of yaggmen. some spell it y--e--double g, but i insist on the a, sir, as grammatically more correct, since the peerless word has no etymologic consanguinity with hen fruit, and should not be confounded by vulgar misspelling." "what's the difference between a yegg and a bum?" "all the diff in the world, pard. a bum is a low-down city bloke, whose intellectual horizon, sir, revolves around the back door, with a skinny hand-out as his center of gravity. he hasn't the nerve to forsake his native heath and roam the wide world, a free and independent gentleman. that's the yagg, me bye. he dares to be and do, all bulls notwithstanding. he lives, aye, he lives,--on the world of suckers, thank you, sir. of them 'tis wisely said in the good book, 'they shall increase and multiply like the sands of the seashore,' or words to that significant effect. a yagg's the salt of the earth, pard. a real, true-blood yagg will not deign to breathe the identical atmosphere with a city bum or gaycat. no, sirree." i am about to ask for an explanation of the new term, when the quick, short coughs of "red" warn me of danger. the guard is approaching with heavy, measured tread, head thrown back, hands clasped behind,--a sure indication of profound self-satisfaction. "how are you, reddie?" he greets the assistant. "so, so." "ain't been out long, have you?" "two an' some." "that's pretty long for you." "oh, i dunno. i've been out four years oncet." "yes, you have! been in columbus[ ] then, i s'pose." [ ] the penitentiary at columbus, ohio. "not on your life, mr. cosson. it was sing sing." "ha, ha! you're all right, red. but you'd better hustle up, fellers. i'm putting in ten more machines, so look lively." "when's the machines comin', mr. cosson?" "pretty soon, red." the officer passing on, "red" whispers to me: "aleck, 'pretty soon' is jest the time i'll quit. damn his work and the new machines. i ain't no gaycat to work. think i'm a nigger, eh? no, sir, the world owes me a living, and i generally manage to get it, you bet you. only mules and niggers work. i'm a free man; i can live on my wits, see? i don't never work outside; damme if i'll work here. i ain't no office-seeker. what d' i want to work for, eh? can you tell me _that_?" "are you going to refuse work?" "refuse? me? nixie. that's a crude word, that. no, sir, i never refuse. they'll knock your damn block off, if you refuse. i merely avoid, sir, discriminately end with steadfast purpose. work is a disease, me bye. one must exercise the utmost care to avoid contagion. it's a regular pest. _you_ never worked, did you?" the unexpected turn surprises me into a smile, which i quickly suppress, however, observing the angry frown on "red's" face. "you bloke," he hisses, "shut your face; the screw'll pipe you. you'll get us in th' hole for chewin' th' rag. whatcher hehawin' about?" he demands, repeating the manoeuvre of pretended expectoration. "d'ye mean t' tell me you work?" "i am a printer, a compositor," i inform him. "get off! you're an anarchist. i read the papers, sir. you people don't believe in work. you want to divvy up. well, it is all right, i'm with you. rockefeller has no right to the whole world. he ain't satisfied with that, either; he wants a fence around it." "the anarchists don't want to 'divvy up,' red. you got your misinformation--" "oh, never min', pard. i don' take stock in reforming the world. it's good enough for suckers, and as holy writ says, sir, 'blessed be they that neither sow nor hog; all things shall be given unto them.' them's wise words, me bye. moreover, sir, neither you nor me will live to see a change, so why should i worry me nut about 't? it takes all my wits to dodge work. it's disgraceful to labor, and it keeps me industriously busy, sir, to retain my honor and self-respect. why, you know, pard, or perhaps you don't, greenie, columbus is a pretty tough dump; but d'ye think i worked the four-spot there? not me; no, sirree!" "didn't you tell cosson you were in sing sing, not in columbus?" "'corse i did. what of it? think i'd open my guts to my lord bighead? i've never been within thirty miles of the york pen. it was hail columbia all right, but that's between you an' i, savvy. don' want th' screws to get next." "well, red, how did you manage to keep away from work in columbus?" "manage? that's right, sir. 'tis a word of profound significance, quite adequately descriptive of my humble endeavors. just what i did, buddy. i managed, with a capital m. to good purpose, too, me bye. not a stroke of work in a four-spot. how? i had billie with me, that's me kid, you know, an' a fine boy he was, too. i had him put a jigger on me; kept it up for four years. there's perseverance and industry for you, sir." "what's 'putting a jigger on'?" "a jigger? well, a jigger is--" the noon whistle interrupts the explanation. with a friendly wink in my direction, the assistant takes his place in the line. in silence we march to the cell-house, the measured footfall echoing a hollow threat in the walled quadrangle of the prison yard. ii conversation with "boston red," young davis, and occasional other prisoners helps to while away the tedious hours at work. but in the solitude of the cell, through the long winter evenings, my mind dwells in the outside world. friends, the movement, the growing antagonisms, the bitter controversies between the _mostianer_ and the defenders of my act, fill my thoughts and dreams. by means of fictitious, but significant, names, russian and german words written backward, and similar devices, the girl keeps me informed of the activities in our circles. i think admiringly, yet quite impersonally, of her strenuous militancy in championing my cause against all attacks. it is almost weak on my part, as a terrorist of russian traditions, to consider her devotion deserving of particular commendation. she is a revolutionist; it is her duty to our common cause. courage, whole-souled zeal, is very rare, it is true. the girl. fedya, and a few others,--hence the sad lack of general opposition in the movement to most's attitude.... but communications from comrades and unknown sympathizers germinate the hope of an approaching reaction against the campaign of denunciation. with great joy i trace the ascending revolutionary tendency in _der arme teufel_. i have persuaded the chaplain to procure the admission of the ingenious robert reitzel's publication. all the other periodicals addressed to me are regularly assigned to the waste basket, by orders of the deputy. the latter refused to make an exception even in regard to the _knights of labor journal_. "it is an incendiary anarchist sheet," he persisted. * * * * * the arrival of the _teufel_ is a great event. what joy to catch sight of the paper snugly reposing between the legs of the cell table! tenderly i pick it up, fondling the little visitor with quickened pulse. it is an animate, living thing, a ray of warmth in the dreary evenings. what cheering message does reitzel bring me now? what beauties of his rich mind are hidden to-day in the quaint german type? reverently i unfold the roll. the uncut sheet opens on the fourth page, and the stirring paean of hope's prophecy greets my eye,-- gruss an alexander berkman! for days the music of the dawn rings in my ears. again and again recurs the refrain of faith and proud courage, schon rüstet sich der freiheit schaar zur heiligen entscheidungschlacht; es enden "zweiundzwanzig" jahr' vielleicht in e i n e r sturmesnacht! but in the evening, when i return to the cell, reality lays its heavy hand upon my heart. the flickering of the candle accentuates the gloom, and i sit brooding over the interminable succession of miserable days and evenings and nights.... the darkness gathers around the candle, as i motionlessly watch its desperate struggle to be. its dying agony, ineffectual and vain, presages my own doom, approaching, inevitable. weaker and fainter grows the light, feebler, feebler--a last spasm, and all is utter blackness. three bells. "lights out!" alas, mine did not last its permitted hour.... * * * * * the sun streaming into the many-windowed shop routs the night, and dispels the haze of the fire-spitting city. perhaps my little candle with its bold defiance has shortened the reign of darkness,--who knows? perhaps the brave, uneven struggle coaxed the sun out of his slumbers, and hastened the coming of day. the fancy lures me with its warming embrace, when suddenly the assistant startles me: "say, pard, slept bad last night? you look boozy, me lad." surprised at my silence, he admonishes me: "young man, keep a stiff upper lip. just look at me! permit me to introduce to you, sir, a gentleman who has sounded the sharps and flats of life, and faced the most intricate network, sir, of iron bars between york and frisco. always acquitted himself with flying colors, sir, merely by being wise and preserving a stiff upper lip; see th' point?" "what are you driving at, red?" "they'se goin' to move me down on your row,[ ] now that i'm in this 'ere shop. dunno how long i shall choose to remain, sir, in this magnificent hosiery establishment, but i see there's a vacant cell next yours, an' i'm goin' to try an' land there. are you next, me bye? i'm goin' to learn you to be wise, sonny. i shall, so to speak, assume benevolent guardianship over you; over you and your morals, yes, sir, for you're my kid now, see?" [ ] gallery. "how, your kid?" "how? my kid, of course. that's just what i mean. any objections, sir, as the learned gentlemen of the law say in the honorable courts of the blind goddess. you betcher life she's blind, blind as an owl on a sunny midsummer day. not in your damn smoky city, though; sun's ashamed here. but 'way down in my kentucky home, down by the suanee river, sua-a-nee-ee riv--" "hold on, red. you are romancing. you started to tell me about being your 'kid'. now explain, what do you mean by it?" "really, you--" he holds the unturned stocking suspended over the post, gazing at me with half-closed, cynical eyes, in which doubt struggles with wonder. in his astonishment he has forgotten his wonted caution, and i warn him of the officer's watchful eye. "really, alex; well, now, damme, i've seen something of this 'ere round globe, some mighty strange sights, too, and there ain't many things to surprise me, lemme tell you. but _you_ do, alex; yes, me lad, you do. haven't had such a stunnin' blow since i first met cigarette jimmie in oil city. innocent? well, i should snicker. he was, for sure. never heard a ghost story; was fourteen, too. well, i got 'im all right, ah right. now he's doin' a five-bit down in kansas, poor kiddie. well, he certainly was a surprise. but many tempestuous billows of life, sir, have since flown into the shoreless ocean of time, yes, sir, they have, but i never got such a stunner as you just gave me. why, man, it's a body-blow, a reg'lar knockout to my knowledge of the world, sir, to my settled estimate of the world's supercilious righteousness. well, damme, if i'd ever believe it. say, how old are you, alex?" "i'm over twenty-two, red. but what has all this to do with the question i asked you?" "everythin', me bye, everythin'. you're twenty-two and don't know what a kid is! well, if it don't beat raw eggs, i don't know what does. green? well, sir, it would be hard to find an adequate analogy to your inconsistent immaturity of mind; aye, sir, i may well say, of soul, except to compare it with the virtuous condition of green corn in the early summer moon. you know what 'moon' is, don't you?" he asks, abruptly, with an evident effort to suppress a smile. i am growing impatient of his continuous avoidance of a direct answer. yet i cannot find it in my heart to be angry with him; the face expressive of a deep-felt conviction of universal wisdom, the eyes of humorous cynicism, and the ludicrous manner of mixing tramp slang with "classic" english, all disarm my irritation. besides, his droll chatter helps to while away the tedious hours at work; perhaps i may also glean from this experienced old-timer some useful information regarding my plans of escape. "well, d'ye know a moon when you see 't?" "red" inquires, chaffingly. "i suppose i do." "i'll bet you my corn dodger you don't. sir, i can see by the tip of your olfactory organ that you are steeped in the slough of densest ignorance concerning the supreme science of moonology. yes, sir, do not contradict me. i brook no sceptical attitude regarding my undoubted and proven perspicacity of human nature. how's that for classic style, eh? that'll hold you down a moment, kid. as i was about to say when you interrupted--eh, what? you didn't? oh, what's the matter with you? don't yer go now an' rooin the elegant flight of my rhetorical pegasus with an insignificant interpolation of mere fact. none of your lip, now, boy, an' lemme develop this sublime science of moonology before your wondering gaze. to begin with, sir, moonology is an exclusively aristocratic science. not for the pretenders of broad street and fifth avenue. nixie. but for the only genuine aristocracy of de road, sir, for the pink of humankind, for the yaggman, me lad, for yours truly and his clan. yes, sirree!" "i don't know what you are talking about." "i know you don't. that's why i'm goin' to chaperon you, kid. in plain english, sir, i shall endeavor to generate within your postliminious comprehension a discriminate conception of the subject at issue, sir, by divesting my lingo of the least shadow of imperspicuity or ambiguity. moonology, my marktwainian innocent, is the truly christian science of loving your neighbor, provided he be a nice little boy. understand now?" "how can you love a boy?" "are you really so dumb? you are not a ref boy, i can see that." "red, if you'd drop your stilted language and talk plainly, i'd understand better." "thought you liked the classic. but you ain't long on lingo neither. how can a self-respecting gentleman explain himself to you? but i'll try. you love a boy as you love the poet-sung heifer, see? ever read billy shakespeare? know the place, 'he's neither man nor woman; he's punk.' well, billy knew. a punk's a boy that'll...." "what!" "yes, sir. give himself to a man. now we'se talkin' plain. savvy now, innocent abroad?" "i don't believe what you are telling me, red." "you don't be-lie-ve? what th' devil--damn me soul t' hell, what d' you mean, you don't b'lieve? gee, look out!" the look of bewilderment on his face startles me. in his excitement, he had raised his voice almost to a shout, attracting the attention of the guard, who is now hastening toward us. "who's talkin' here?" he demands, suspiciously eyeing the knitters. "you, davis?" "no, sir." "who was, then?" "nobody here, mr. cosson." "yes, they was. i heard hollerin'." "oh, that was me," davis replies, with a quick glance at me. "i hit my elbow against the machine." "let me see 't." the guard scrutinizes the bared arm. "wa-a-ll," he says, doubtfully, "it don't look sore." "it hurt, and i hollered." the officer turns to my assistant: "has he been talkin', reddie?" "i don't think he was, cap'n." pleased with the title, cosson smiles at "red," and passes on, with a final warning to the boy: "don't you let me catch you at it again, you hear!" * * * * * during the rest of the day the overseers exercise particular vigilance over our end of the shop. but emboldened by the increased din of the new knitting machinery, "red" soon takes up the conversation again. "screws can't hear us now," he whispers, "'cept they's close to us. but watch your lips, boy; the damn bulls got sharp lamps. an' don' scare me again like that. why, you talk so foolish, you make me plumb forget myself. say, that kid is all to the good, ain't he? what's his name, johnny davis? yes, a wise kid all right. just like me own billie i tole you 'bout. he was no punk, either, an' don't you forget it. true as steel, he was; stuck to me through my four-spot like th' bark to a tree. say, what's that you said, you don't believe what i endeavored so conscientiously, sir, to drive into your noodle? you was only kiddin' me, wasn't you?" "no, red, i meant it quite seriously. you're spinning ghost stories, or whatever you call it. i don't believe in this kid love." "an' why don't you believe it?" "why--er--well, i don't think it possible." "_what_ isn't possible?" "you know what i mean. i don't think there can be such intimacy between those of the same sex." "ho, ho! _that's_ your point? why, alex, you're more of a damfool than the casual observer, sir, would be apt to postulate. you don't believe it possible, you don't, eh? well, you jest gimme half a chance, an i'll show you." "red, don't you talk to me like that," i burst out, angrily. "if you--" "aisy, aisy, me bye," he interrupts, good-naturedly. "don't get on your high horse. no harm meant, alex. you're a good boy, but you jest rattle me with your crazy talk. why, you're bugs to say it's impossible. man alive, the dump's chuckful of punks. it's done in every prison, an' on th' road, everywhere. lord, if i had a plunk for every time i got th' best of a kid, i'd rival rockefeller, sir; i would, me bye." "you actually confess to such terrible practices? you're disgusting. but i don't really believe it, red." "confess hell! i confess nothin'. terrible, disgusting! you talk like a man up a tree, you holy sky-pilot." "are there no women on the road?" "pshaw! who cares for a heifer when you can get a kid? women are no good. i wouldn't look at 'em when i can have my prushun.[ ] oh, it is quite evident, sir, you have not delved into the esoteric mysteries of moonology, nor tasted the mellifluous fruit on the forbidden tree of--" [ ] a boy serving his apprenticeship with a full-fledged tramp. "oh, quit!" "well, you'll know better before _your_ time's up, me virtuous sonny." * * * * * for several days my assistant fails to appear in the shop on account of illness. he has been "excused" by the doctor, the guard informs me. i miss his help at work; the hours drag heavier for lack of "red's" companionship. yet i am gratified by his absence. his cynical attitude toward woman and sex morality has roused in me a spirit of antagonism. the panegyrics of boy-love are deeply offensive to my instincts. the very thought of the unnatural practice revolts and disgusts me. but i find solace in the reflection that "red's" insinuations are pure fabrication; no credence is to be given them. man, a reasonable being, could not fall to such depths; he could not be guilty of such unspeakably vicious practices. even the lowest outcast must not be credited with such perversion, such depravity. i should really take the matter more calmly. the assistant is a queer fellow; he is merely teasing me. these things are not credible; indeed, i don't believe they are possible. and even if they were, no human being would be capable of such iniquity. i must not suffer "red's" chaffing to disturb me. chapter xi the route sub rosa march , . girl and twin: i am writing with despair in my heart. i was taken to pittsburgh as a witness in the trial of nold and bauer. i had hoped for an opportunity--you understand, friends. it was a slender thread, but i clung to it desperately, prepared to stake everything on it. it proved a broken straw. now i am back, and i may never leave this place alive. i was bitterly disappointed not to find you in the courtroom. i yearned for the sight of your faces. but you were not there, nor any one else of our new york comrades. i knew what it meant: you are having a hard struggle to exist. otherwise perhaps something could be done to establish friendly relations between rakhmetov and mr. gebop.[ ] it would require an outlay beyond the resources of our own circle; others cannot be approached in this matter. nothing remains but the "inside" developments,--a terribly slow process. this is all the hope i can hold out to you, dear friends. you will think it quite negligible; yet it is the sole ray that has again and again kindled life in moments of utmost darkness.... i did not realize the physical effects of my stay here (it is five months now) till my return from court. i suppose the excitement of being on the outside galvanized me for the nonce.... my head was awhirl; i could not collect my thoughts. the wild hope possessed me,--_pobeg_! the click of the steel, as i was handcuffed to the deputy, struck my death-knell.... the unaccustomed noise of the streets, the people and loud voices in the courtroom, the scenes of the trial, all absorbed me in the moment. it seemed to me as if i were a spectator, interested, but personally unconcerned, in the surroundings; and these, too, were far away, of a strange world in which i had no part. only when i found myself alone in the cell, the full significance of the lost occasion was borne in upon me with crushing force. but why sadden you? there is perhaps a cheerier side, now that nold and bauer are here. i have not seen them yet, but their very presence, the circumstance that somewhere within these walls there are _comrades_, men who, like myself, suffer for an ideal--the thought holds a deep satisfaction for me. it brings me closer, in a measure, to the environment of political prisoners in europe. whatever the misery and torture of their daily existence, the politicals--even in siberia--breathe the atmosphere of solidarity, of appreciation. what courage and strength there must be for them in the inspiration radiated by a common cause! conditions here are entirely different. both inmates and officers are at loss to "class" me. they have never known political prisoners. that one should sacrifice or risk his life with no apparent personal motives, is beyond their comprehension, almost beyond their belief. it is a desert of sordidness that constantly threatens to engulf one. i would gladly exchange places with our comrades in siberia. the former _podpoilnaya_[ ] was suspended, because of the great misfortune that befell my friend wingie, of whom i wrote to you before. this dove will be flown by mr. tiuremshchick,[ ] an old soldier who really sympathizes with wingie. i believe they served in the same regiment. he is a kindly man, who hates his despicable work. but there is a family at home, a sick wife--you know the old, weak-kneed tale. i had a hint from him the other day: he is being spied upon; it is dangerous for him to be seen at my cell, and so forth. it is all quite true; but what he means is, that a little money would be welcome. you know how to manage the matter. leave no traces. i hear the felt-soled step. it's the soldier. i bid my birdie a hasty good-bye. sasha. [ ] reading backward, _pobeg_; russian for "escape." [ ] _sub rosa_ route. [ ] russian for "guard." chapter xii "zuchthausbluethen" i a dense fog rises from the broad bosom of the ohio. it ensnares the river banks in its mysterious embrace, veils tree and rock with sombre mist, and mocks the sun with angry frown. within the house of death is felt the chilling breath, and all is quiet and silent in the iron cages. only an occasional knocking, as on metal, disturbs the stillness. i listen intently. nearer and more audible seem the sounds, hesitating and apparently intentional i am involuntarily reminded of the methods of communication practiced by russian politicals, and i strive to detect some meaning in the tapping. it grows clearer as i approach the back wall of the cell, and instantly i am aware of a faint murmur in the privy. is it fancy, or did i hear my name? "halloa!" i call into the pipe. the knocking ceases abruptly. i hear a suppressed, hollow voice: "that you, aleck?" "yes. who is it?" "never min'. you must be deaf not to hear me callin' you all this time. take that cott'n out o' your ears." "i didn't know you could talk this way." "you didn't? well, you know now. them's empty pipes, no standin' water, see? fine t' talk. oh, dammit to--" the words are lost in the gurgle of rushing water. presently the flow subsides, and the knocking is resumed. i bend over the privy. "hello, hello! that you, aleck?" "git off that line, ye jabberin' idiot!" some one shouts into the pipe. "lay down, there!" "take that trap out o' the hole." "quit your foolin', horsethief." "hey, boys, stop that now. that's me, fellers. it's bob, horsethief bob. i'm talkin' business. keep quiet now, will you? are you there, aleck? yes? well, pay no 'tention to them dubs. 'twas that crazy southside slim that turned th' water on--" "who you call crazy, damn you," a voice interrupts. "oh, lay down, slim, will you? who said you was crazy? nay, nay, you're bugs. hey, aleck, you there?" "yes, bob." "oh, got me name, have you? yes, i'm bob, horsethief bob. make no mistake when you see me; i'm big bob, the horsethief. can you hear me? it's you, aleck?" "yes, yes." "sure it's you? got t' tell you somethin'. what's your number?" "a ." "right you are. what cell?" " k." "an' this is me, big bob, in--" "windbag bob," a heavy bass comments from above. "shut up, curley, i'm on th' line. i'm in f, aleck, top tier. call me up any time i'm in, ha, ha! you see, pipe's runnin' up an' down, an' you can talk to any range you want, but always to th' same cell as you're in, cell , understand? now if you wan' t' talk to cell , to shorty, you know--" "i don't want to talk to shorty. i don't know him, bob." "yes, you do. you list'n what i tell you, aleck, an' you'll be all right. that's me talkin', big bob, see? now, i say if you'd like t' chew th' rag with shorty, you jest tell me. tell brother bob, an' he'll connect you all right. are you on? know who's shorty?" "no." "yo oughter. that's carl, carl nold. know _him_, don't you?" "what!" i cry in astonishment. "is it true, bob? is nold up there on your gallery?" "sure thing. cell ." "why didn't you say so at once? you've been talking ten minutes now. did you see him?" "what's your hurry, aleck? _you_ can't see 'im; not jest now, anyway. p'r'aps bimeby, mebbe. there's no hurry, aleck. _you_ got plenty o' time. a few years, _rather_, ha, ha, ha!" "hey, there, horsethief, quit that!" i recognize "curley's" deep bass. "what do you want to make the kid feel bad for?" "no harm meant, curley," bob returns, "i was jest joshin' him a bit." "well, quit it." "you don' min' it, aleck, do you?" i hear bob again, his tones softened, "i didn' mean t' hurt your feelin's. i'm your friend, aleck, you can bet your corn dodger on that. say, i've got somethin' for you from shorty, i mean carl, you savvy?" "what have you, bob?" "nixie through th' hole, ain't safe. i'm coffee-boy on this 'ere range. i'll sneak around to you in the mornin', when i go t' fetch me can of bootleg. now, jiggaroo,[ ] screw's comin'." [ ] look out. ii the presence of my comrades is investing existence with interest and meaning. it has brought to me a breeze from the atmosphere of my former environment; it is stirring the graves, where lie my soul's dead, into renewed life and hope. the secret exchange of notes lends color to the routine. it is like a fresh mountain streamlet joyfully rippling through a stagnant swamp. at work in the shop, my thoughts are engrossed with our correspondence. again and again i review the arguments elucidating to my comrades the significance of my _attentat_: they, too, are inclined to exaggerate the importance of the purely physical result. the exchange of views gradually ripens our previously brief and superficial acquaintance into closer intimacy. there is something in carl nold that especially attracts me: i sense in him a congenial spirit. his spontaneous frankness appeals to me; my heart echoes his grief at the realization of most's unpardonable behavior. but the ill-concealed antagonism of bauer is irritating. it reflects his desperate clinging to the shattered idol. presently, however, a better understanding begins to manifest itself. the big, jovial german has earned my respect; he braved the anger of the judge by consistently refusing to betray the man who aided him in the distribution of the anarchist leaflet among the homestead workers. on the other hand, both carl and henry appreciate my efforts on the witness stand, to exonerate them from complicity in my act. their condemnation, as acknowledged anarchists, was, of course, a foregone conclusion, and i am gratified to learn that neither of my comrades had entertained any illusions concerning the fate that awaited them. indeed, both have expressed surprise that the maximum revenge of the law was not visited upon them. their philosophical attitude exerts a soothing effect upon me. carl even voices satisfaction that the sentence of five years will afford him a long-needed vacation from many years of ceaseless factory toil. he is facetiously anxious lest capitalist industry be handicapped by the loss of such a splendid carpenter as henry, whom he good-naturedly chaffs on the separation from his newly affianced. * * * * * the evening hours have ceased to drag: there is pleasure and diversion in the correspondence. the notes have grown into bulky letters, daily cementing our friendship. we compare views, exchange impressions, and discuss prison gossip. i learn the history of the movement in the twin cities, the personnel of anarchist circles, and collect a fund of anecdotes about albrecht, the philosophic old shoemaker whose diminutive shop in allegheny is the center of the radical _inteligenzia_. with deep contrition bauer confesses how narrowly he escaped the rôle of my executioner. my unexpected appearance in their midst, at the height of the homestead struggle, had waked suspicion among the allegheny comrades. they sent an inquiry to most, whose reply proved a warning against me. unknown to me, bauer shared the room i occupied in nold's house. through the long hours of the night he lay awake, with revolver cocked. at the first sign of a suspicious move on my part, he had determined to kill me. the personal tenor of our correspondence is gradually broadening into the larger scope of socio-political theories, methods of agitation, and applied tactics. the discussions, prolonged and often heated, absorb our interest. the bulky notes necessitate greater circumspection; the difficulty of procuring writing materials assumes a serious aspect. every available scrap of paper is exhausted; margins of stray newspapers and magazines have been penciled on, the contents repeatedly erased, and the frayed tatters microscopically covered with ink. even an occasional fly-leaf from library books has been sacrilegiously forced to leave its covers, and every evidence of its previous association dexterously removed. the problem threatens to terminate our correspondence and fills us with dismay. but the genius our faithful postman, of proud horsethieving proclivities, proves equal to the occasion: bob constitutes himself our commissary, designating the broom shop, in which he is employed, as the base of our future supplies. the unexpected affluence fills us with joy. the big rolls requisitioned by "horsethief" exclude the fear of famine; the smooth yellow wrapping paper affords the luxury of larger and more legible chirography. the pride of sudden wealth germinates ambitious projects. we speculate on the possibility of converting our correspondence into a magazinelet, and wax warm over the proposed list of readers. before long the first issue of the _zuchthausblüthen_[ ] is greeted with the encouraging approval of our sole subscriber, whose contribution surprises us in the form of a rather creditable poem on the blank last page of the publication. elated at the happy acquisition, we unanimously crown him _meistersinger_, with dominion over the department of poetry. soon we plan more pretentious issues: the outward size of the publication is to remain the same, three by five inches, but the number of pages is to be enlarged; each issue to have a different editor, to ensure equality of opportunity; the readers to serve as contributing editors. the appearance of the _blüthen_ is to be regulated by the time required to complete the circle of readers, whose identity is to be masked with certain initials, to protect them against discovery. henceforth bauer, physically a giant, is to be known as "g"; because of my medium stature, i shall be designated with the letter "m"; and nold, as the smallest, by "k."[ ] the poet, his history somewhat shrouded in mystery, is christened "d" for _dichter_. "m," "k," "g," are to act, in turn, as editor-in-chief, whose province it is to start the _blüthen_ on its way, each reader contributing to the issue till it is returned to the original editor, to enable him to read and comment upon his fellow contributors. the publication, its contents growing transit, is finally to reach the second contributor, upon whom will devolve the editorial management of the following issue. [ ] prison blossoms. [ ] initial of the german _klein_, small. the unique arrangement proves a source of much pleasure and recreation. the little magazine is rich in contents and varied in style. the diversity of handwriting heightens the interest, and stimulates speculation on the personality of our increasing readers-contributors. in the arena of the diminutive publication, there rages the conflict of contending social philosophies; here a political essay rubs elbows with a witty anecdote, and a dissertation on "the nature of things" is interspersed with prison small-talk and personal reminiscence. flashes of unstudied humor and unconscious rivalry of orthography lend peculiar charm to the unconventional editorials, and waft a breath of josh billings into the manuscript pages. [illustration: special spring edition of the z. blüthen.] but the success of the _zuchthausblüthen_ soon discovers itself a veritable frankenstein, which threatens the original foundation and aims of the magazinelet. the popularity of joint editorship is growing at the cost of unity and tendency; the bard's astonishing facility at versification, coupled with his jules vernian imagination, causes us grave anxiety lest his untamable pegasus traverse the limits of our paper supply. the appalling warning of the commissary that the improvident drain upon his resources is about to force him on a strike, imperatively calls a halt. we are deliberating policies of retrenchment and economy, when unexpectedly the arrival of two homestead men suggests an auspicious solution. iii the presence of hugh f. dempsey and robert j. beatty, prominent in the knights of labor organization, offers opportunity for propaganda among workers representing the more radical element of american labor. accused of poisoning the food served to the strike-breakers in the mills, dempsey and beatty appear to me men of unusual type. be they innocent or guilty, the philosophy of their methods is in harmony with revolutionary tactics. labor can never be unjust in its demands: is it not the creator of all the wealth in the world? every weapon may be employed to return the despoiled people into its rightful ownership. is not the terrorizing of scabbery, and ultimately of the capitalist exploiters, an effective means of aiding the struggle? therefore dempsey and beatty deserve acclaim. morally certain of their guilt, i respect them the more for it, though i am saddened by their denial of complicity in the scheme of wholesale extermination of the scabs. the blackleg is also human, it is true, and desires to live. but one should starve rather than turn traitor to the cause of his class. moreover, the individual--or any number of them--cannot be weighed against the interests of humanity. * * * * * infinite patience weaves the threads that bring us in contact with the imprisoned labor leaders. in the ceaseless duel of vital need against stupidity and malice, caution and wit are sharpened by danger. the least indiscretion, the most trifling negligence, means discovery, disaster. but perseverance and intelligent purpose conquer: by the aid of the faithful "horsethief," communication with dempsey and beatty is established. with the aggressiveness of strong conviction i present to them my views, dwelling on the historic rôle of the _attentäter_ and the social significance of conscious individual protest. the discussion ramifies, the interest aroused soon transcending the limits of my paper supply. presently i am involved in a correspondence with several men, whose questions and misinterpretations regarding my act i attempt to answer and correct with individual notes. but the method proves an impossible tax on our opportunities, and "kgm" finally decide to publish an english edition of the _zuchthausblüthen_. the german magazinelet is suspended, and in its place appears the first issue of the _prison blossoms_. chapter xiii the judas "ah, there, sporty!" my assistant greets me in the shop. "stand treat on this festive occasion?" "yes, red. have a chew," i reply with a smile, handing him my fresh plug of tobacco. his eyes twinkle with mischievous humor as he scrutinizes my changed suit of dark gray. the larger part of the plug swelling out his cheek, he flings to me the remnant across the table, remarking: "don't care for't. take back your choo, i'll keep me honor,--your plug, i mean, sonny. a gentleman of my eminence, sir, a natural-born navigator on the high seas of social life,--are you on, me bye?--a gentleman, i repeat, sir, whose canoe the mutations of all that is human have chucked on this here dry, thrice damned dry latitude, sir, this nocuous plague-spot of civilization,--say, kid, what t' hell am i talkin' about? damn if i ain't clean forgot." "i'm sure i don't know, red." "like hell you don't! it's your glad duds, kid. offerin' _me_ a ch-aw tob-b-bac-co! christ, i'm dyin' for a drop of booze. this magnificent occasion deserves a wetting, sir. and, say, aleck, it won't hurt your beauty to stretch them sleeves of yours a bit. you look like a scarecrow in them high-water pants. ain't old sandy the king of skinners, though!" "whom do you mean, red?" "who i mean, you idjot! who but that skunk of a warden, the honorable captain edward s. wright, if you please, sir. captain of rotten old punks, that's what he is. you ask th' screws. he's never smelt powder; why, he's been _here_ most o' his life. but some o' th' screws been here longer, borned here, damn 'em; couldn't pull 'em out o' here with a steam engine, you couldn't. they can tell you all 'bout the cap, though. old sandy didn' have a plugged nickel to his name when he come 'ere, an' now the damn stomach-robber is rich. reg'lar gold mine this dump's for 'im. only gets a lousy five thousan' per year. got big fam'ly an' keeps carriages an' servants, see, an' can 'ford t' go to europe every year, an' got a big pile in th' bank to boot, all on a scurvy five thousan' a year. good manager, ain't he? a reg'lar church member, too, damn his rotten soul to hell!" "is he as bad as all that, red?" "is he? a hypocrite dyed in th' wool, that's what he is. plays the humanitarian racket. he had a great deal t' say t' the papers why he didn't believe in the brutal way iams was punished by that homestead colonel--er--what's 'is name?" "colonel streator, of the tenth pennsylvania." "that's the cur. he hung up private iams by the thumbs till th' poor boy was almost dead. for nothin', too. suppose you remember, don't you? iams had called for 'three cheers for the man who shot frick,' an' they pretty near killed 'im for 't, an' then drummed 'im out of th' regiment with 'is head half shaved." "it was a most barbarous thing." "an' that damn sandy swore in th' papers he didn't believe in such things, an' all th' while th' lyin' murderer is doin' it himself. not a day but some poor con is 'cuffed up' in th' hole. that's th' kind of humanitarian _he_ is! it makes me wild t' think on 't. why, kid, i even get a bit excited, and forget that you, young sir, are attuned to the dulcet symphonies of classic english. but whenever that skunk of a warden is the subject of conversation, sir, even my usually imperturbable serenity of spirit and tranquil stoicism are not equal to 'patience on a monument smiling at grief.' watch me, sonny, that's yours truly spielin'. why, look at them dingy rags of yours. i liked you better in th' striped duds. they give you the hand-me-downs of that nigger that went out yesterday, an' charge you on th' books with a bran' new suit. see where sandy gets his slice, eh? an' say, kid, how long are you here?" "about eight months, red." "they beat you out o' two months all right. suppose they obey their own rules? nit, sir. you are aware, my precious lamb, that you are entitled to discard your polychromic vestments of zebra hue after a sojourn of six months in this benevolent dump. i bet you that fresh fish at the loopin' machine there, came up 'ere some days ago, _he_ won't be kept waitin' more'n six months for 'is black clothes." i glance in the direction of the recent arrival. he is a slender man, with swarthy complexion and quick, shifting eye. the expression of guilty cunning is repelling. "who is that man?" i whisper to the assistant. "like 'im, don't you? permit me, sir, to introduce to you the handiwork of his maker, a mealy-mouthed, oily-lipped, scurvy gaycat, a yellow cur, a snivelling, fawning stool, a filthy, oozy sneak, a snake in the grass whose very presence, sir, is a mortal insult to a self-respecting member of my clan,--mr. patrick gallagher, of the honorable pinkerton family, sir." "gallagher?" i ask, in astonishment. "the informer, who denounced dempsey and beatty?" "the very same. the dirty snitch that got those fellows railroaded here for seven years. dempsey was a fool to bunch up with such vermin as gallagher and davidson. he was master workman of some district of the knights of labor. why in hell didn't he get his own men to do th' job? goes to work an' hires a brace of gaycats; sent 'em to the scab mills, you savvy, to sling hash for the blacklegs and keep 'im posted on the goings on, see? s'pose you have oriented yourself, sir, concerning the developments in the culinary experiment?" "yes. croton oil is supposed to have been used to make the scabs sick with diarrhoea." "make 'em sick? why, me bye, scores of 'em croaked. i am surprised, sir, at your use of such a vulgar term as diarrhoea. you offend my aestheticism. the learned gentlemen who delve deeply into the bowels of earth and man, sir, ascribed the sudden and phenomenal increase of unmentionable human obligations to nature, the mysterious and extravagant popularity of the houses of ill odor, sir, and the automatic obedience to their call, as due entirely to the dumping of a lot o' lousy bums, sir, into filthy quarters, or to impurities of the liquid supply, or to--pardon my frankness, sir--to intestinal effeminacy, which, in flaccid excitability, persisted in ill-timed relaxation unseemly in well-mannered christians. some future day, sir, there may arise a poet to glorify with beauteous epic the heroic days of the modern bull run--an' i kin tell you, laddie, they run and kept runnin', top and bottom--or some lyric bard may put to hudibrastic verse--watch me climbin' th' parnassus, kid--the poetic feet, the numbers, the assonance, and strain of the inspiring days when croton oil was king. yes, sirree; but for yours truly, me hand ain't in such pies; and moreover, sir, i make it an invariable rule of gentlemanly behavior t' keep me snout out o' other people's biz." "dempsey may be innocent, red." "well, th' joory didn't think so. but there's no tellin'. honest t' god, aleck, that rotten scab of a gallagher has cast the pale hue of resolution, if i may borrow old billy shake's slang, sir, over me gener'ly settled convictions. you know, in the abundant plenitude of my heterogeneous experience with all sorts and conditions of rats and gaycats, sir, fortified by a natural genius of no mean order, of vintage, damme if i ever run across such an acute form of confessionitis as manifested by the lout on th' loopin' machine there. you know what he done yesterday?" "what?" "sent for th' distric' attorney and made another confesh." "really? how do you know?" "night screw's a particular fren' o' mine, kid. i shtands in, see? the mick's a reg'lar yahoo, can't hardly spell 'is own name. he daily requisitions upon my humble but abundant intelligence, sir, to make out his reports. catch on, eh? i've never earned a hand-out with more dignified probity, sir. it's a cinch. last night he gimme a great slice of corn dodger. it was a , i tell you, an' two hard boiled eggs and half a tomato, juicy and luscious, sir. didn't i enjoy it, though! makes your mouth water, eh, kid? well, you be good t' me, an' you kin have what i got. i'll divvy up with you. we-ll! don' stand there an' gape at me like a wooden injun. has the unexpected revelation of my magnanimous generosity deprived you of articulate utterance, sir?" the sly wink with which he emphasizes the offer, and his suddenly serious manner, affect me unpleasantly. with pretended indifference, i decline to share his delicacies. "you need those little extras for yourself, red," i explain. "you told me you suffer from indigestion. a change of diet now and then will do you good. but you haven't finished telling me about the new confession of gallagher." "oh, you're a sly one, aleck; no flies on you. but it's all right, me bye, mebbe i can do somethin' for you some day. i'm your friend, aleck; count on me. but that mutt of a gallagher, yes, sirree, made another confession; damme if it ain't his third one. ever hear such a thing? i got it straight from th' screw all right. i can't make the damn snitch out. unreservedly i avow, sir, that the incomprehensible vacillations of the honorable gentleman puzzle me noodle, and are calculated to disturb the repose of a right-thinking yagg in the silken lap of morpheus. what's 'is game, anyhow? shall we diagnoze the peculiar mental menstruation as, er--er--what's your learned opinion, my illustrious colleague, eh? what you grinnin' for, four eyes? it's a serious matter, sir; a highly instructive phenomenon of intellectual vacuity, impregnated with the pernicious virus of pinkertonism, sir, and transmuted in the alembic of carnegie alchemy. a judicious injection of persuasive germs by the sagacious jurisconsults of the house of dempsey, and lo! three brand-new confessions, mutually contradictory and exclusive. does that strike you in th' right spot, sonny?" "in the second confession he retracted his accusations against dempsey. what is the third about, red?" "retracts his retraction, me bye. guess why, aleck." "i suppose he was paid to reaffirm his original charges." "you're not far off. after that beauty of a judas cleared the man, sandy notified reed and knox. them's smart guys, all right; the attorneys of the carnegie company to interpret madame justicia, sir, in a manner--" "i know, red," i interrupt him, "they are the lawyers who prosecuted me. even in court they were giving directions to the district attorney, and openly whispering to him questions to be asked the witnesses. he was just a figurehead and a tool for them, and it sounded so ridiculous when he told the jury that he was not in the service of any individual or corporation, but that he acted solely as an officer of the commonwealth, charged with the sacred duty of protecting its interests in my prosecution. and all the time he was the mouthpiece of frick's lawyers." "hold on, kid. i don't get a chance to squeeze a word in edgewise when you start jawin'. think you're on th' platform haranguing the long-haired crowd? you can't convert _me_, so save your breath, man." "i shouldn't want to convert you, red. you are intelligent, but a hopeless case. you are not the kind that could be useful to the cause." "glad you're next. got me sized up all right, eh? well, me saintly bye, i'm johnny-on-the-spot to serve the cause, all right, all right, and the cause is me, with a big m, see? a fellow's a fool not t' look out for number one. i give it t' you straight, aleck. what's them high-flown notions of yours--oppressed humanity and suffering people--fiddlesticks! there you go and shove your damn neck into th' noose for the strikers, but what did them fellows ever done for you, eh? tell me that! they won't do a darned thing fer you. catch _me_ swinging for the peo-pul! the cattle don't deserve any better than they get, that's what _i_ say." "i don't want to discuss these questions with you, red. you'll never understand, anyhow." "git off, now. you voice a sentiment, sir, that my adequate appreciation of myself would prompt me to resent on the field of honor, sir. but the unworthy spirit of acerbity is totally foreign to my nature, sir, and i shall preserve the blessed meekness so becoming the true christian, and shall follow the bidding of the master by humbly offering the other cheek for that chaw of th' weed i gave you. dig down into your poke, kid." i hand him the remnant of my tobacco, remarking: "you've lost the thread of our conversation, as usual, red. you said the warden sent for the carnegie lawyers after gallagher had recanted his original confession. well, what did they do?" "don't know what _they_ done, but i tole you that the muttonhead sent for th' district attorney the same day, an' signed a third confesh. why, dempsey was tickled to death, 'cause--" he ceases abruptly. his quick, short coughs warn me of danger. accompanied by the deputy and the shop officer, the warden is making the rounds of the machines, pausing here and there to examine the work, and listen to the request of a prisoner. the youthfully sparkling eyes present a striking contrast to the sedate manner and seamed features framed in grayish-white. approaching the table, he greets us with a benign smile: "good morning, boys." casting a glance at my assistant, the warden inquires: "your time must be up soon, red?" "been out and back again, cap'n," the officer laughs. "yes, he is, hm, hm, back home." the thin feminine accents of the deputy sound sarcastic. "didn't like it outside, red?" the warden sneers. a flush darkens the face of the assistant. "there's more skunks out than in," he retorts. the captain frowns. the deputy lifts a warning finger, but the warden laughs lightly, and continues on his rounds. we work in silence for a while. "red" looks restive, his eyes stealthily following the departing officials. presently he whispers: "see me hand it to 'im, aleck? he knows i'm on to 'im, all right. didn't he look mad, though? thought he'd burst. sobered 'im up a bit. pipe 'is lamps, kid?" "yes. very bright eyes." "bright eyes your grandmother! dope, that's what's th' matter. think i'd get off as easy if he wasn't chuck full of th' stuff? i knowed it the minute i laid me eyes on 'im. i kin tell by them shinin' glimmers and that sick smile of his, when he's feelin' good; know th' signals, all right. always feelin' fine when he's hit th' pipe. that's th' time you kin get anythin' you wan' of 'im. nex' time you see that smirk on 'im, hit 'im for some one t' give us a hand here; we's goin' t' be drowned in them socks, first thing you know." "yes, we need more help. why didn't _you_ ask him?" "me? me ask a favor o' the damn swine? not on your tintype! you don' catch me to vouchsafe the high and mighty, sir, the opportunity--" "all right, red. i won't ask him, either." "i don't give a damn. for all i care, aleck, and--well, confidentially speaking, sir, they may ensconce their precious hosiery in the infundibular dehiscence of his nibs, which, if i may venture my humble opinion, young sir, is sufficiently generous in its expansiveness to disregard the rugosity of a stocking turned inside out, sir. do you follow the argument, me bye?" "with difficulty, red," i reply, with a smile. "what are you really talking about? i do wish you'd speak plainer." "you do, do you? an' mebbe you don't. got to train you right; gradual, so to speak. it's me dooty to a prushun. but we'se got t' get help here. i ain't goin' t' kill meself workin' like a nigger. i'll quit first. d' you think--s-s-ss!" the shop officer is returning. "damn your impudence, red," he shouts at the assistant. "why don't you keep that tongue of yours in check?" "why, mr. cosson, what's th' trouble?" "you know damn well what's the trouble. you made the old man mad clean through. you ought t' know better'n that. he was nice as pie till you opened that big trap of yourn. everythin' went wrong then. he gave me th' dickens about that pile you got lyin' aroun' here. why don't you take it over to th' loopers, burk?" "they have not been turned yet," i reply. "what d' you say? not turned!" he bristles. "what in hell are you fellows doin', i'd like t' know." "we're doin' more'n we should," "red" retorts, defiantly. "shut up now, an' get a move on you." "on that rotten grub they feed us?" the assistant persists. "you better shut up, red." "then give us some help." "i will like hell!" the whistle sounds the dinner hour. chapter xiv the dip for a week "boston red" is absent from work. my best efforts seem ineffectual in the face of the increasing mountain of unturned hosiery, and the officer grows more irritable and insistent. but the fear of clogging the industrial wheel presently forces him to give me assistance, and a dapper young man, keen-eyed and nervous, takes the vacant place. "he's a dip,"[ ] johnny davis whispers to me. "a top-notcher," he adds, admiringly. [ ] pickpocket. i experience a tinge of resentment at the equality implied by the forced association. i have never before come in personal contact with a professional thief, and i entertain the vaguest ideas concerning his class. but they are not producers; hence parasites who deliberately prey upon society, upon the poor, mostly. there can be nothing in common between me and this man. * * * * * the new helper's conscious superiority is provoking. his distant manner piques my curiosity. how unlike his scornful mien and proudly independent bearing is my youthful impression of a thief! vividly i remember the red-headed kolya, as he was taken from the classroom by a fierce gendarme. the boys had been missing their lunches, and kolya confessed the theft. we ran after the prisoner, and he hung his head and looked frightened, and so pale i could count each freckle on his face. he did not return to school, and i wondered what had become of him. the terror in his eyes haunted my dreams, the brown spots on his forehead shaping themselves into fiery letters, spelling the fearful word _vor_.[ ] [ ] thief. "that's a snap," the helper's voice breaks in on my reverie. he speaks in well-modulated tones, the accents nasal and decided. "you needn't be afraid to talk," he adds, patronizingly. "i am not afraid," i impatiently resent the insinuation. "why should i be afraid of you?" "not of me; of the officer, i meant." "i am not afraid of him, either." "well, then, let's talk about something. it will help while away the time, you know." his cheerful friendliness smooths my ruffled temper. the correct english, in striking contrast with the peculiar language of my former assistant, surprises me. "i am sorry," he continues, "they gave you such a long sentence, mr. berkman, but--" "how do you know my name?" i interrupt. "you have just arrived." "they call me 'lightning al'," he replies, with a tinge of pride. "i'm here only three days, but a fellow in my line can learn a great deal in that time. i had you pointed out to me." "what do you call your line? what are you here for?" for a moment he is silent. with surprise i watch his face blush darkly. "you're a dead give-away. oh, excuse me, mr. berkman," he corrects himself, "i sometimes lapse into lingo, under provocation, you know. i meant to say, it's easy to see that you are not next to the way--not familiar, i mean, with such things. you should never ask a man what he is in for." "why not?" "well, er--" "you are ashamed." "not a bit of it. ashamed to fall, perhaps,--i mean, to be caught at it--it's no credit to a gun's rep, his reputation, you understand. but i'm proud of the jobs i've done. i'm pretty slick, you know." "but you don't like to be asked why you were sent here." "well, it's not good manners to ask such questions." "against the ethics of the trade, i suppose?" "how sarcastic we can be, mr. berkman. but it's true, it's not the ethics. and it isn't a trade, either; it's a profession. oh, you may smile, but i'd rather be a gun, a professional, i mean, than one of your stupid factory hands." "they are honest, though. honest producers, while you are a thief." "oh, there's no sting in that word for _me_. i take pride in being a thief, and what's more, i _am_ an a number one gun, you see the point? the best dip in the states." "a pickpocket? stealing nickels off passengers on the street cars, and--" "me? a hell of a lot _you_ know about it. take me for such small fry, do you? i work only on race tracks." "you call it work?" "sure. damned hard work, too. takes more brains than a whole shopful of your honest producers can show." "and you prefer that to being honest?" "do i? i spend more on gloves than a bricklayer makes in a year. think i'm so dumb i have to slave all week for a few dollars?" "but you spend most of your life in prison." "not by a long shot. a real good gun's always got his fall money planted,--i mean some ready coin in case of trouble,--and a smart lawyer will spring you most every time; beat the case, you know. i've never seen the fly-cop you couldn't fix if you got enough dough; and most judges, too. of course, now and then, the best of us may fall; but it don't happen very often, and it's all in the game. this whole life is a game, mr. berkman, and every one's got his graft." "do you mean there are no honest men?" i ask, angrily. "pshaw! i'm just as honest as rockefeller or carnegie, only they got the law with them. and i work harder than they, i'll bet you on that. i've got to eat, haven't i? of course," he adds, thoughtfully, "if i could be sure of my bread and butter, perhaps--" * * * * * the passing overseer smiles at the noted pickpocket, inquiring pleasantly: "how're you doin', al?" "tip-top, mr. cosson. hope you are feeling good to-day." "never better, al." "a friend of mine often spoke to me about you, mr. cosson." "who was that?" "barney. jack barney." "jack barney! why, he worked for me in the broom shop." "yes, he did a three-spot. he often said to me, 'al, it you ever land in riverside,' he says, 'be sure you don't forget to give my best to mr. cosson, mr. ed. cosson,' he says, 'he's a good fellow.'" the officer looks pleased. "yes, i treated him white, all right," he remarks, continuing on his rounds. "i knew he'd swallow it," the assistant sneers after him. "always good to get on the right side of them," he adds, with a wink. "barney told me about him all right. said he's the rottenest sneak in the dump, a swell-head yap. you see, mr. berkman,--may i call you aleck? it's shorter. well, you see, aleck, i make it a point to find things out. it's wise to know the ropes. i'm next to the whole bunch here. that jimmy mcpane, the deputy, he's a regular brute. killed his man, all right. barney told me all about it; he was doing his bit, then,--i mean serving his sentence. you see, aleck," he lowers his voice, confidentially, "i don't like to use slang; it grows on one, and every fly-cop can spot you as a crook. it's necessary in my business to present a fine front and use good english, so i must not get the lingo habit. well, i was speaking of barney telling me about the deputy. he killed a con in cold blood. the fellow was bughouse, d. t., you know; saw snakes. he ran out of his cell one morning, swinging a chair and hollering 'murder! kill 'em!' the deputy was just passing along, and he out with his gat--i mean his revolver, you know--and bangs away. he pumped the poor loony fellow full of holes; he did, the murderer. killed him dead. never was tried, either. warden told the newspapers it was done in self-defence. a damn lie. sandy knew better; everybody in the dump knew it was a cold-blooded murder, with no provocation at all. it's a regular ring, you see, and that old warden is the biggest grafter of them all; and that sky-pilot, too, is an a fakir. did you hear about the kid born here? before your time. a big scandal. since then the holy man's got to have a screw with him at sunday service for the females, and i tell you he needs watching all right." the whistle terminates the conversation. chapter xv the urge of sex sunday night: my new cell on the upper gallery is hot and stuffy; i cannot sleep. through the bars, i gaze upon the ohio. the full moon hangs above the river, bathing the waters in mellow light. the strains of a sweet lullaby wander through the woods, and the banks are merry with laughter. a girlish cadence rings like a silvery bell, and voices call in the distance. life is joyous and near, terribly, tantalizingly near,--but all is silent and dead around me. for days the feminine voice keeps ringing in my ears. it sounded so youthful and buoyant, so fondly alluring. a beautiful girl, no doubt. what joy to feast my eye on her! i have not beheld a woman for many months: i long to hear the soft accents, feel the tender touch. my mind persistently reverts to the voice on the river, the sweet strains in the woods; and fancy wreathes sad-toned fugues upon the merry carol, paints vision and image, as i pace the floor in agitation. they live, they breathe! i see the slender figure with the swelling bosom, the delicate white throat, the babyish face with large, wistful eyes. why, it is luba! my blood tingles violently, passionately, as i live over again the rapturous wonder at the first touch of her maiden breast. how temptingly innocent sounded the immodest invitation on the velvety lips, how exquisite the suddenness of it all! we were in new haven then. one by one we had gathered, till the little new york commune was complete. the girl joined me first, for i felt lonely in the strange city, drudging as compositor on a country weekly, the evenings cold and cheerless in the midst of a conservative household. but the girl brought light and sunshine, and then came the twin and manya. luba remained in new york; but manya, devoted little soul, yearned for her sister, and presently the three girls worked side by side in the corset factory. all seemed happy in the free atmosphere, and luba was blooming into beautiful womanhood. there was a vague something about her that now and then roused in me a fond longing, a rapturous desire. once--it was in new york, a year before--i had experienced a sudden impulse toward her. it seized me unheralded, unaccountably. i had called to try a game of chess with her father, when he informed me that luba had been ill. she was recovering now, and would be pleased to see me. i sat at the bedside, conversing in low tones, when i noticed the pillows slipping from under the girl's head. bending over, i involuntarily touched her hair, loosely hanging down the side. the soft, dark chestnut thrilled me, and the next instant i stooped and stealthily pressed the silken waves to my lips. the momentary sense of shame was lost in the feeling of reverence for the girl with the beautiful hair, that bewildered and fascinated me, and a deep yearning suddenly possessed me, as she lay in exquisite disarray, full of grace and beauty. and all the while we talked, my eyes feasted on her ravishing form, and i felt envious of her future lover, and hated the desecration. but when i left her bedside, all trace of desire disappeared, and the inspiration of the moment faded like a vision affrighted by the dawn. only a transient, vague inquietude remained, as of something unattainable. then came that unforgettable moment of undreamed bliss. we had just returned from the performance of _tosca_, with sarah bernhardt in her inimitable rôle. i had to pass through luba's room on my way to the attic, in the little house occupied by the commune. she had already retired, but was still awake. i sat down on the edge of the bed, and we talked of the play. she glowed with the inspiration of the great tragedienne; then, somehow, she alluded to the _décolleté_ of the actresses. "i don't mind a fine bust exposed on the stage," i remarked. "but i had a powerful opera glass: their breasts looked fleshy and flabby. it was disgusting." "do you think--mine nice?" she asked, suddenly. for a second i was bewildered. but the question sounded so enchantingly unpremeditated, so innocently eager. "i never--let me see them," i said, impulsively. "no, no!" she cried, in aroused modesty; "i can't, i can't!" "i wont look, luba. see, i close my eyes. just a touch." "oh, i can't, i'm ashamed! only over the blanket, please, sasha," she pleaded, as my hand softly stole under the covers. she gripped the sheet tightly, and my arm rested on her side. the touch of the firm, round breast thrilled me with passionate ecstasy. in fear of arousing her maidenly resistance, i strove to hide my exultation, while cautiously and tenderly i released the coverlet. "they are very beautiful, luba," i said, controlling the tremor of my voice. "you--like them, really, sasha?" the large eyes looked lustrous and happy. "they are greek, dear," and snatching the last covering aside, i kissed her between the breasts. "i'm so glad i came here," she spoke dreamily. "were you very lonesome in new york?" "it was terrible, sasha." "you like the change?" "oh, you silly boy! don't you know?" "what, luba?" "i wanted _you_, dear." her arms twined softly about me. i felt appalled. the girl, my revolutionary plans, flitted through my mind, chilling me with self-reproach. the pale hue of the attained cast its shadow across the spell, and i lay cold and quiet on luba's breast. the coverlet was slipping down, and, reaching for it, my hand inadvertently touched her knee. "sasha, how _can_ you!" she cried in alarm, sitting up with terrified eyes. "i didn't mean to, luba. how could you _think_ that of me?" i was deeply mortified. my hand relaxed on her breast. we lay in silent embarrassment. "it is getting late, sasha." she tenderly drew my head to her bosom. "a little while yet, dear," and again the enchantment of the virgin breasts was upon me, and i showered wild kisses on them, and pressed them passionately, madly, till she cried out in pain. "you must go now, dear." "good night, luba." "good night, dearest. you haven't kissed me, sashenka." i felt her detaining lips, as i left. * * * * * in the wakeful hours of the night, the urge of sex grows more and more insistent. scenes from the past live in my thoughts; the cell is peopled with familiar faces. episodes long dead to memory rise animated before me; they emerge from the darkest chambers of my soul, and move with intense reality, like the portraits of my sires come to life in the dark, fearful nights of my childhood. pert masha smiles at me from her window across the street, and a bevy of girls pass me demurely, with modestly averted gaze, and then call back saucily, in thinly disguised voices. again i am with my playmates, trailing the schoolgirls on their way to the river, and we chuckle gleefully at their affright and confusion, as they discover the eyes glued to the peep-holes we had cut in the booth. inwardly i resent nadya's bathing in her shirt, and in revenge dive beneath the boards, rising to the surface in the midst of the girls, who run to cover in shame and terror. but i grow indignant at vainka who badgers the girls with "tsiba,[ ] tsiba, ba-aa!" and i soundly thrash kolya for shouting nasty epithets across the school yard at little nunya, whom i secretly adore. [ ] goat: derisively applied to schoolgirls. * * * * * but the note of later days returns again and again, and the scenes of youth recede into their dim frames. clearer and more frequently appear sonya and luba, and the little sweetheart of my first months in america. what a goose she was! she would not embrace me, because it's a great sin, unless one is married. but how slyly she managed to arrange kissing games at the sunday gatherings at her home, and always lose to me! she must be quite a woman now, with a husband, children ... quickly she flits by, the recollection even of her name lost in the glow of anarchist emotionalism and the fervent enthusiasm of my orchard street days. there flames the light that irradiates the vague longings of my russian youth, and gives rapt interpretation to obscurely pulsating idealism. it sheds the halo of illuminating justification upon my blindly rebellious spirit, and visualizes my dreams on the sunlit mountains. the sordid misery of my "greenhorn" days assumes a new aspect. ah, the wretchedness of those first years in america!... and still time's woof and warp unroll the tapestry of life in the new world, its joys and heart-throbs. i stand a lone stranger, bewildered by the flurry of castle garden, yet strong with hope and courage to carve my fate in freedom. the tsar is far away, and the fear of his hated cossacks is past. how inspiring is liberty! the very air breathes enthusiasm and strength, and with confident ardor i embrace the new life. i join the ranks of the world's producers, and glory in the full manhood conferred by the dignity of labor. i resent the derision of my adopted country on the part of my family abroad,--resent it hotly. i feel wronged by the charge of having disgraced my parents' respected name by turning "a low, dirty workingman." i combat their snobbishness vehemently, and revenge the indignity to labor by challenging comparison between the old and the new world. behold the glory of liberty and prosperity, the handiwork of a nation that honors labor!... the loom of time keeps weaving. lone and friendless, i struggle in the new land. life in the tenements is sordid, the fate of the worker dreary. there is no "dignity of labor." sweatshop bread is bitter. oppression guards the golden promise, and servile brutality is the only earnest of success. then like a clarion note in the desert sounds the call of the ideal. strong and rousing rolls the battle-cry of revolution. like a flash in the night, it illumines my groping. my life becomes full of new meaning and interest, translated into the struggle of a world's emancipation. fedya joins me, and together we are absorbed in the music of the new humanity. * * * * * it is all far, far--yet every detail is sharply etched upon my memory. swiftly pass before me the years of complete consecration to the movement, the self-imposed poverty and sacrifices, the feverish tide of agitation in the wake of the chicago martyrdom, the evenings of spirited debate, the nights of diligent study. and over all loom the fridays in the little dingy hall in the ghetto, where the handful of russian refugees gather; where bold imprecations are thundered against the tyranny and injustice of the existing, and winged words prophesy the near approach of a glorious dawn. beshawled women, and men, long-coated and piously bearded, steal into the hall after synagogue prayers, and listen with wondering eyes, vainly striving to grasp the strange jewish, so perplexedly interspersed with the alien words of the new evangel. how our hearts rejoice, as, with exaggerated deference, we eagerly encourage the diffident questioner, "do you really mean--may the good lord forgive me--there is no one in heaven above?"... late in the evening the meeting resolves into small groups, heatedly contending over the speaker's utterances, the select circle finally adjourning to "the corner." the obscure little tea room resounds with the joust of learning and wit. fascinating is the feast of reason, impassioned the flow of soul, as the passage-at-arms grows more heated with the advance of the night. the alert-eyed host diplomatically pacifies the belligerent factions, "gentlemen, gentlemen, s-sh! the police station is just across the street." there is a lull in the combat. the angry opponents frown at each other, and in the interim the austrian student in his mellow voice begins an interminable story of personal reminiscence, apropos of nothing and starting nowhere, but intensely absorbing. with sparkling eyes he holds us spellbound, relating the wonderful journey, taking us through the nevsky in st. petersburg, thence to the caucasus, to engage in the blood-feuds of the tcherkessi; or, enmeshed in a perilous flirtation with an albanian beauty in a moslem harem, he descants on the philosophy of mohammed, imperceptibly shifting the scene to the nile to hunt the hippopotamus, and suddenly interrupting the amazing adventures by introducing an acquaintance of the evening, "my excellent friend, the coming great italian virtuoso, from odessa, gentlemen. he will entertain us with an aria from _trovatore_." but the circle is not in a musical mood: some one challenges the student's familiarity with the moslem philosophy, and the twin hints at the gossiped intimacy of the austrian with christian missionaries. there are protestations, and loud clamor for an explanation. the student smilingly assents, and presently he is launched upon the chinese sea, in the midst of a strange caravan, trading tea at yachta, and aiding a political to escape to vladivostok.... the night pales before the waking sun, the twin yawns, and i am drowsy with-- "cof-fee! want coffee? hey, git up there! didn't you hear th' bell?" chapter xvi the warden's threat i the dying sun grows pale with haze and fog. slowly the dark-gray line undulates across the shop, and draws its sinuous length along the gloaming yard. the shadowy waves cleave the thickening mist, vibrate ghostlike, and are swallowed in the yawning blackness of the cell-house. "aleck, aleck!" i hear an excited whisper behind me, "quick, plant it. the screw's goin' t' frisk[ ] me." [ ] search. something small and hard is thrust into my coat pocket. the guard in front stops short, suspiciously scanning the passing men. "break ranks!" the overseer approaches me. "you are wanted in the office, berk." the warden, blear-eyed and sallow, frowns as i am led in. "what have you got on you?" he demands, abruptly. "i don't understand you." "yes, you do. have you money on you?" "i have not." "who sends clandestine mail for you?" "what mail?" "the letter published in the anarchist sheet in new york." i feel greatly relieved. the letter in question passed through official channels. "it went through the chaplain's hands," i reply, boldly. "it isn't true. such a letter could never pass mr. milligan. mr. cosson," he turns to the guard, "fetch the newspaper from my desk." the warden's hands tremble as he points to the marked item. "here it is! you talk of revolution, and comrades, and anarchism. mr. milligan never saw _that_, i'm sure. it's a nice thing for the papers to say that you are editing--from the prison, mind you--editing an anarchist sheet in new york." "you can't believe everything the papers say." i protest. "hm, this time the papers, hm, hm, may be right," the deputy interposes. "they surely didn't make the story, hm, hm, out of whole cloth." "they often do," i retort. "didn't they write that i tried to jump over the wall--it's about thirty feet high--and that the guard shot me in the leg?" a smile flits across the warden's face. impulsively i blurt out: "was the story inspired, perhaps?" "silence!" the warden thunders. "you are not to speak, unless addressed, remember. mr. mcpane, please search him." the long, bony fingers slowly creep over my neck and shoulders, down my arms and body, pressing in my armpits, gripping my legs, covering every spot, and immersing me in an atmosphere of clamminess. the loathsome touch sickens me, but i rejoice in the thought of my security: i have nothing incriminating about me. suddenly the snakelike hand dips into my coat pocket. "hm, what's this?" he unwraps a small, round object. "a knife, captain." "let me see!" i cry in amazement. "stand back!" the warden commands. "this knife has been stolen from the shoe shop. on whom did you mean to use it?" "warden, i didn't even know i had it. a fellow dropped it into my pocket as we--" "that'll do. you're not so clever as you think." "it's a conspiracy!" i cry. he lounges calmly in the armchair, a peculiar smile dancing in his eyes. "well, what have you got to say?" "it's a put-up job." "explain yourself." "some one threw this thing into my pocket as we were coming--" "oh, we've already heard that. it's too fishy." "you searched me for money and secret letters--" "that will do now. mr. mcpane, what is the sentence for the possession of a dangerous weapon?" "warden," i interrupt, "it's no weapon. the blade is only half an inch, and--" "silence! i spoke to mr. mcpane." "hm, three days, captain." "take him down." * * * * * in the storeroom i am stripped of my suit of dark gray, and again clad in the hateful stripes. coatless and shoeless, i am led through hallways and corridors, down a steep flight of stairs, and thrown into the dungeon. * * * * * total darkness. the blackness is massive, palpable,--i feel its hand upon my head, my face. i dare not move, lest a misstep thrust me into the abyss. i hold my hand close to my eyes--i feel the touch of my lashes upon it, but i cannot see its outline. motionless i stand on one spot, devoid of all sense of direction. the silence is sinister; it seems to me i can hear it. only now and then the hasty scrambling of nimble feet suddenly rends the stillness, and the gnawing of invisible river rats haunts the fearful solitude. slowly the blackness pales. it ebbs and melts; out of the sombre gray, a wall looms above; the silhouette of a door rises dimly before me, sloping upward and growing compact and impenetrable. the hours drag in unbroken sameness. not a sound reaches me from the cell-house. in the maddening quiet and darkness i am bereft of all consciousness of time, save once a day when the heavy rattle of keys apprises me of the morning: the dungeon is unlocked, and the silent guards hand me a slice of bread and a cup of water. the double doors fall heavily to, the steps grow fainter and die in the distance, and all is dark again in the dungeon. the numbness of death steals upon my soul. the floor is cold and clammy, the gnawing grows louder and nearer, and i am filled with dread lest the starving rats attack my bare feet. i snatch a few unconscious moments leaning against the door; and then again i pace the cell, striving to keep awake, wondering whether it be night or day, yearning for the sound of a human voice. utterly forsaken! cast into the stony bowels of the underground, the world of man receding, leaving no trace behind.... eagerly i strain my ear--only the ceaseless, fearful gnawing. i clutch the bars in desperation--a hollow echo mocks the clanking iron. my hands tear violently at the door--"ho, there! any one here?" all is silent. nameless terrors quiver in my mind, weaving nightmares of mortal dread and despair. fear shapes convulsive thoughts: they rage in wild tempest, then calm, and again rush through time and space in a rapid succession of strangely familiar scenes, wakened in my slumbering consciousness. exhausted and weary i droop against the wall. a slimy creeping on my face startles me in horror, and again i pace the cell. i feel cold and hungry. am i forgotten? three days must have passed, and more. have they forgotten me?... * * * * * the clank of keys sends a thrill of joy to my heart. my tomb will open--oh, to see the light, and breathe the air again.... "officer, isn't my time up yet?" "what's your hurry? you've only been here one day." the doors fall to. ravenously i devour the bread, so small and thin, just a bite. only _one_ day! despair enfolds me like a pall. faint with anguish, i sink to the floor. ii the change from the dungeon to the ordinary cell is a veritable transformation. the sight of the human form fills me with delight, the sound of voices is sweet music. i feel as if i had been torn from the grip of death when all hope had fled me,--caught on the very brink, as it were, and restored to the world of the living. how bright the sun, how balmy the air! in keen sensuousness i stretch out on the bed. the tick is soiled, the straw protrudes in places, but it is luxury to rest, secure from the vicious river rats and the fierce vermin. it is almost liberty, freedom! but in the morning i awake in great agony. my eyes throb with pain; every joint of my body is on the rack. the blankets had been removed from the dungeon; three days and nights i lay on the bare stone. it was unnecessarily cruel to deprive me of my spectacles, in pretended anxiety lest i commit suicide with them. it is very touching, this solicitude for my safety, in view of the flimsy pretext to punish me. some hidden motive must be actuating the warden. but what can it be? probably they will not keep me long in the cell. when i am returned to work, i shall learn the truth. * * * * * the days pass in vain expectation. the continuous confinement is becoming distressing. i miss the little comforts i have lost by the removal to the "single" cell, considerably smaller than my previous quarters. my library, also, has disappeared, and the pictures i had so patiently collected for the decoration of the walls. the cell is bare and cheerless, the large card of ugly-printed rules affording no relief from the irritating whitewash. the narrow space makes exercise difficult: the necessity of turning at every second and third step transforms walking into a series of contortions. but some means must be devised to while away the time. i pace the floor, counting the seconds required to make ten turns. i recollect having heard that five miles constitutes a healthy day's walk. at that rate i should make , turns, the cell measuring seven feet in length. i divide the exercise into three parts, adding a few extra laps to make sure of five miles. carefully i count, and am overcome by a sense of calamity when the peal of the gong confuses my numbers. i must begin over again. the change of location has interrupted communication with my comrades. i am apprehensive of the fate of the _prison blossoms_: strict surveillance makes the prospect of restoring connections doubtful. i am assigned to the ground floor, my cell being but a few feet distant from the officers' desk at the yard door. watchful eyes are constantly upon me; it is impossible for any prisoner to converse with me. the rangeman alone could aid me in reaching my friends, but i have been warned against him: he is a "stool" who has earned his position as trusty by spying upon the inmates. i can expect no help from him; but perhaps the coffee-boy may prove of service. i am planning to approach the man, when i am informed that prisoners from the hosiery department are locked up on the upper gallery. by means of the waste pipe, i learn of the developments during my stay in the dungeon. the discontent of the shop employees with the insufficient rations was intensified by the arrival of a wagon-load of bad meat. the stench permeated the yard, and several men were punished for passing uncomplimentary remarks about the food. the situation was aggravated by an additional increase of the task. the knitters and loopers were on the verge of rebellion. twice within the month had the task been enlarged. they sent to the warden a request for a reduction; in reply came the appalling order for a further increase. then a score of men struck. they remained in the cells, refusing to return to the shop unless the demand for better food and less work was complied with. with the aid of informers, the warden conducted a quiet investigation. one by one the refractory prisoners were forced to submit. by a process of elimination the authorities sifted the situation, and now it is whispered about that a decision has been reached, placing responsibility for the unique episode of a strike in the prison. an air of mystery hangs about the guards. repeatedly i attempt to engage them in conversation, but the least reference to the strike seals their lips. i wonder at the peculiar looks they regard me with, when unexpectedly the cause is revealed. iii it is sunday noon. the rangeman pushes the dinner wagon along the tier. i stand at the door, ready to receive the meal. the overseer glances at me, then motions to the prisoner. the cart rolls past my cell. "officer," i call out, "you missed me." "smell the pot-pie, do you?" "where's my dinner?" "you get none." the odor of the steaming delicacy, so keenly looked forward to every second sunday, reaches my nostrils and sharpens my hunger. i have eaten sparingly all week in expectation of the treat, and now--i am humiliated and enraged by being so unceremoniously deprived of the rare dinner. angrily i rap the cup across the door; again and again i strike the tin against it, the successive falls from bar to bar producing a sharp, piercing clatter. a guard hastens along. "stop that damn racket," he commands. "what's the matter with you?" "i didn't get dinner." "yes, you did." "i did not." "well, i s'pose you don't deserve it." as he turns to leave, my can crashes against the door--one, two, three-- "what t'hell do you want, eh?" "i want to see the warden." "you can't see 'im. you better keep quiet now." "i demand to see the warden. he is supposed to visit us every day. he hasn't been around for weeks. i must see him now." "if you don't shut up, i'll--" the captain of the block approaches. "what do you want, berkman?" "i want to see the warden." "can't see him. it's sunday." "captain," i retort, pointing to the rules on the wall of the cell, "there is an excerpt here from the statutes of pennsylvania, directing the warden to visit each prisoner every day--" "never mind, now," he interrupts. "what do you want to see the warden about?" "i want to know why i got no dinner." "your name is off the list for the next four sundays." "what for?" "that you'll have to ask the boss. i'll tell him you want to see him." presently the overseer returns, informing me in a confidential manner that he has induced "his nibs" to grant me an audience. admitted to the inner office, i find the warden at the desk, his face flushed with anger. "you are reported for disturbing the peace," he shouts at me. "there is also, hm, hm, another charge against him," the deputy interposes. "two charges," the warden continues. "disturbing the peace and making demands. how dare you demand?" he roars. "do you know where you are?" "i wanted to see you." "it is not a question of what you want or don't want. understand that clearly. you are to obey the rules implicitly." "the rules direct you to visit--" "silence! what is your request?" "i want to know why i am deprived of dinner." "it is not, hm, for _you_ to know. it is enough, hm, hm, that _we_ know," the deputy retorts. "mr. mcpane," the warden interposes, "i am going to speak plainly to him. from this day on," he turns to me, "you are on 'pennsylvania diet' for four weeks. during that time no papers or books are permitted you. it will give you leisure to think over your behavior. i have investigated your conduct in the shop, and i am satisfied it was you who instigated the trouble there. you shall not have another chance to incite the men, even if you live as long as your sentence. but," he pauses an instant, then adds, threateningly, "but you may as well understand it now as later--your life is not worth the trouble you give us. mark you well, whatever the cost, it will be at _your_ expense. for the present you'll remain in solitary, where you cannot exert your pernicious influence. officers, remove him to the 'basket.'" chapter xvii the "basket" cell four weeks of "pennsylvania diet" have reduced me almost to a skeleton. a slice of wheat bread with a cup of unsweetened black coffee is my sole meal, with twice a week dinner of vegetable soup, from which every trace of meat has been removed. every saturday i am conducted to the office, to be examined by the physician and weighed. the whole week i look forward to the brief respite from the terrible "basket" cell. the sight of the striped men scouring the floor, the friendly smile on a stealthily raised face as i pass through the hall, the strange blue of the sky, the sweet-scented aroma of the april morning--how quickly it is all over! but the seven deep breaths i slowly inhale on the way to the office, and the eager ten on my return, set my blood aglow with renewed life. for an instant my brain reels with the sudden rush of exquisite intoxication, and then--i am in the tomb again. * * * * * the torture of the "basket" is maddening; the constant dusk is driving me blind. almost no light or air reaches me through the close wire netting covering the barred door. the foul odor is stifling; it grips my throat with deathly hold. the walls hem me in; daily they press closer upon me, till the cell seems to contract, and i feel crushed in the coffin of stone. from every point the whitewashed sides glare at me, unyielding, inexorable, in confident assurance of their prey. * * * * * the darkness of despondency gathers day by day; the hand of despair weighs heavier. at night the screeching of a crow across the river ominously voices the black raven keeping vigil in my heart. the windows in the hallway quake and tremble in the furious wind. bleak and desolate wakes the day--another day, then another-- * * * * * weak and apathetic i lie on the bed. ever further recedes the world of the living. still day follows night, and life is in the making, but i have no part in the pain and travail. like a spark from the glowing furnace, flashing through the gloom, and swallowed in the darkness, i have been cast upon the shores of the forgotten. no sound reaches me from the island prison where beats the fervent heart of the girl, no ray of hope falls across the bars of desolation. but on the threshold of nirvana life recoils; in the very bowels of torment it cries out _to be_! persecution feeds the fires of defiance, and nerves my resolution. were i an ordinary prisoner, i should not care to suffer all these agonies. to what purpose, with my impossible sentence? but my anarchist ideals and traditions rise in revolt against the vampire gloating over its prey. no, i shall not disgrace the cause, i shall not grieve my comrades by weak surrender! i will fight and struggle, and not be daunted by threat or torture. * * * * * with difficulty i walk to the office for the weekly weighing. my step falters as i approach the scales, and i sway dizzily. as through a mist i see the doctor bending over me, his head pressing against my body. somehow i reach the "basket," mildly wondering why i did not feel the cold air. perhaps they did not take me through the yard--is it the block captain's voice? "what did you say?" "return to your old cell. you're on full diet now." chapter xviii the solitary i direct to box a , allegheny city, pa., march , . dear fedya: this letter is somewhat delayed: for certain reasons i missed mail-day last month. prison life, too, has its ups and downs, and just now i am on the down side. we are cautioned to refrain from referring to local affairs; therefore i can tell you only that i am in solitary, without work. i don't know how long i am to be kept "locked up." it may be a month, or a year, i hope it will not be the latter. i was not permitted to receive the magazines and delicacies you sent.... we may subscribe for the daily papers, and you can easily imagine how religiously i read them from headline to the last ad: they keep me in touch, to some extent, with the living.... blessed be the shades of guttenberg! hugo and zola, even gogol and turgenev, are in the library. it is like meeting an old friend in a strange land to find our own bazarov discoursing--in english.... page after page unfolds the past--the solitary is forgotten, the walls melt away, and again i roam with leather stocking in the primitive forest, or sorrow with poor oliver twist. but the "captain's daughter" irritates me, and pugatchev, the rebellious soul, has turned a caricature in the awkward hands of the translator. and now comes tarass bulba--is it our own tarass, the fearless warrior, the scourge of turk and tartar? how grotesque is the brave old hetman storming maledictions against the hated moslems--in long-winded german periods! exasperated and offended, i turn my back upon the desecration, and open a book of poems. but instead of the requested robert burns, i find a volume of wordsworth. posies bloom on his pages, and rosebuds scent his rhymes, but the pains of the world's labor wake no chord in his soul.... science and romance, history and travel, religion and philosophy--all come trooping into the cell in irrelevant sequence, for the allowance of only one book at a time limits my choice. the variety of reading affords rich material for reflection, and helps to perfect my english. but some passage in the "starry heavens" suddenly brings me to earth, and the present is illumined with the direct perception of despair, and the anguished question surges through my mind, what is the use of all this study and learning? and then--but why harrow you with this tenor. i did not mean to say all this when i began. it cannot be undone: the sheet must be accounted for. therefore it will be mailed to you. but i know, dear friend, you also are not bedded on roses. and the poor sailor? my space is all. alex. ii the lengthening chain of days in the solitary drags its heavy links through every change of misery. the cell is suffocating with the summer heat; rarely does the fresh breeze from the river steal a caress upon my face. on the pretext of a "draught" the unfriendly guard has closed the hall windows opposite my cell. not a breath of air is stirring. the leaden hours of the night are insufferable with the foul odor of the perspiration and excrement of a thousand bodies. sleepless, i toss on the withered mattress. the ravages of time and the weight of many inmates have demoralized it out of all semblance of a bedtick. but the block captain persistently ignores my request for new straw, directing me to "shake it up a bit." i am fearful of repeating the experiment: the clouds of dust almost strangled me; for days the cell remained hazy with the powdered filth. impatiently i await the morning: the yard door will open before the marching lines, and the fresh air be wafted past my cell. i shall stand ready to receive the precious tonic that is to give me life this day. and when the block has belched forth its striped prey, and silence mounts its vigil, i may improve a favorable moment to exchange a greeting with johnny davis. the young prisoner is in solitary on the tier above me. thrice his request for a "high gear" machine has been refused, and the tall youth forced to work doubled over a low table. unable to exert his best efforts in the cramped position, johnny has repeatedly been punished with the dungeon. last week he suffered a hemorrhage; all through the night resounds his hollow cough. desperate with the dread of consumption, johnny has refused to return to work. the warden, relenting in a kindly mood, permitted him to resume his original high machine. but the boy has grown obdurate: he is determined not to go back to the shop whose officer caused him so much trouble. the prison discipline takes no cognizance of the situation. regularly every monday the torture is repeated: the youth is called before the deputy, and assigned to the hosiery department; the unvarying refusal is followed by the dungeon, and then johnny is placed in the solitary, to be cited again before the warden the ensuing monday. i chafe at my helplessness to aid the boy. his course is suicidal, but the least suggestion of yielding enrages him. "i'll die before i give in," he told me. from whispered talks through the waste pipe i learn the sad story of his young life. he is nineteen, with a sentence of five years before him. his father, a brakeman, was killed in a railroad collision. the suit for damages was dragged through years of litigation, leaving the widow destitute. since the age of fourteen young johnny had to support the whole family. lately he was employed as the driver of a delivery wagon, associating with a rough element that gradually drew him into gambling. one day a shortage of twelve dollars was discovered in the boy's accounts: the mills of justice began to grind, and johnny was speedily clad in stripes. * * * * * in vain i strive to absorb myself in the library book. the shoddy heroes of laura jean wake no response in my heart; the superior beings of corelli, communing with mysterious heavenly circles, stalk by, strange and unhuman. here, in the cell above me, cries and moans the terrible tragedy of reality. what a monstrous thing it is that the whole power of the commonwealth, all the machinery of government, is concentrated to crush this unfortunate atom! innocently guilty, too, the poor boy is. ensnared by the gaming spirit of the time, the feeble creature of vitiating environment, his fate is sealed by a moment of weakness. yet his deviation from the path of established ethics is but a faint reflection of the lives of the men that decreed his doom. the hypocrisy of organized society! the very foundation of its existence rests upon the negation and defiance of every professed principle of right and justice. every feature of its face is a caricature, a travesty upon the semblance of truth; the whole life of humanity a mockery of the very name. political mastery based on violence and jesuitry; industry gathering the harvest of human blood; commerce ascendant on the ruins of manhood--such is the morality of civilization. and over the edifice of this stupendous perversion the law sits enthroned, and religion weaves the spell of awe, and varnishes right and puzzles wrong, and bids the cowering helot intone, "thy will be done!" devoutly johnny goes to church, and prays forgiveness for his "sins." the prosecutor was "very hard" on him, he told me. the blind mole perceives only the immediate, and is embittered against the persons directly responsible for his long imprisonment. but greater minds have failed fully to grasp the iniquity of the established. my beloved burns, even, seems inadequate, powerfully as he moves my spirit with his deep sympathy for the poor, the oppressed. but "man's inhumanity to man" is not the last word. the truth lies deeper. it is economic slavery, the savage struggle for a crumb, that has converted mankind into wolves and sheep. in liberty and communism, none would have the will or the power "to make countless thousands mourn." verily, it is the system, rather than individuals, that is the source of pollution and degradation. my prison-house environment is but another manifestation of the midas-hand, whose cursed touch turns everything to the brutal service of mammon. dullness fawns upon cruelty for advancement; with savage joy the shop foreman cracks his whip, for his meed of the gold-transmuted blood. the famished bodies in stripes, the agonized brains reeling in the dungeon night, the men buried in "basket" and solitary,--what human hand would turn the key upon a soul in utter darkness, but for the dread of a like fate, and the shadow it casts before? this nightmare is but an intensified replica of the world beyond, the larger prison locked with the levers of greed, guarded by the spawn of hunger. * * * * * my mind reverts insistently to the life outside. it is a herculean task to rouse apathy to the sordidness of its misery. yet if the people would but realize the depths of their degradation and be informed of the means of deliverance, how joyously they would embrace anarchy! quick and decisive would be the victory of the workers against the handful of their despoilers. an hour of sanity, freed from prejudice and superstition, and the torch of liberty would flame 'round the world, and the banner of equality and brotherhood be planted upon the hills of a regenerated humanity. ah, if the world would but pause for one short while, and understand, and become free! involuntarily i am reminded of the old rabbinical lore: only one instant of righteousness, and messiah would come upon earth. the beautiful promise had strongly appealed to me in the days of childhood. the merciful god requires so little of us, i had often pondered. why will we not abstain from sin and evil, for just "the twinkling of an eye-lash"? for weeks i went about weighed down with the grief of impenitent israel refusing to be saved, my eager brain pregnant with projects of hastening the deliverance. like a divine inspiration came the solution: at the stroke of the noon hour, on a preconcerted day, all the men and women of the jewry throughout the world should bow in prayer. for a single stroke of time, all at once--behold the messiah come! in agonizing perplexity i gazed at my hebrew tutor shaking his head. how his kindly smile quivered dismay into my thrilling heart! the children of israel could not be saved thus,--he spoke sadly. nay, not even in the most circumspect manner, affording our people in the farthest corners of the earth time to prepare for the solemn moment. the messiah will come, the good tutor kindly consoled me. it had been promised. "but the hour hath not arrived," he quoted; "no man hath the power to hasten the steps of the deliverer." with a sense of sobering sadness, i think of the new hope, the revolutionary messiah. truly the old rabbi was wise beyond his ken: it hath been given to no man to hasten the march of delivery. out of the people's need, from the womb of their suffering, must be born the hour of redemption. necessity, necessity alone, with its iron heel, will spur numb misery to effort, and waken the living dead. the process is tortuously slow, but the gestation of a new humanity cannot be hurried by impatience. we must bide our time, meanwhile preparing the workers for the great upheaval. the errors of the past are to be guarded against: always has apparent victory been divested of its fruits, and paralyzed into defeat, because the people were fettered by their respect for property, by the superstitious awe of authority, and by reliance upon leaders. these ghosts must be cast out, and the torch of reason lighted in the darkness of men's minds, ere blind rebellion can rend the midway clouds of defeat, and sight the glory of the social revolution, and the beyond. iii a heavy nightmare oppresses my sleep. confused sounds ring in my ears, and beat upon my head. i wake in nameless dread. the cell-house is raging with uproar: crash after crash booms through the hall; it thunders against the walls of the cell, then rolls like some monstrous drum along the galleries, and abruptly ceases. in terror i cower on the bed. all is deathly still. timidly i look around. the cell is in darkness, and only a faint gas light flickers unsteadily in the corridor. suddenly a cry cuts the silence, shrill and unearthly, bursting into wild laughter. and again the fearful thunder, now bellowing from the cell above, now muttering menacingly in the distance, then dying with a growl. and all is hushed again, and only the unearthly laughter rings through the hall. "johnny, johnny!" i call in alarm. "johnny!" "th' kid's in th' hole," comes hoarsely through the privy. "this is horsethief. is that you, aleck?" "yes. what _is_ it, bob?" "some one breakin' up housekeepin'." "who?" "can't tell. may be smithy." "what smithy, bob?" "crazy smith, on crank row. look out now, they're comin'." the heavy doors of the rotunda groan on their hinges. shadowlike, giant figures glide past my cell. they walk inaudibly, felt-soled and portentous, the long riot clubs rigid at their sides. behind them others, and then the warden, a large revolver gleaming in his hand. with bated breath i listen, conscious of the presence of other men at the doors. suddenly wailing and wild laughter pierce the night: there is the rattling of iron, violent scuffling, the sickening thud of a falling body, and all is quiet. noiselessly the bread cart flits by, the huge shadows bending over the body stretched on the boards. * * * * * the gong booms the rising hour. the morning sun glints a ray upon the bloody trail in the hall, and hides behind the gathering mist. a squad of men in gray and black is marched from the yard. they kneel on the floor, and with sand and water scour the crimson flagstones. * * * * * with great relief i learn that "crazy smithy" is not dead. he will recover, the rangeman assures me. the doctor bandaged the man's wounds, and then the prisoner, still unconscious, was dragged to the dungeon. little by little i glean his story from my informant. smith has been insane, at times violently, ever since his imprisonment, about four years ago. his "partner," burns, has also become deranged through worry over his sentence of twenty-five years. his madness assumed such revolting expression that the authorities caused his commitment to the insane asylum. but smith remains on "crank row," the warden insisting that he is shamming to gain an opportunity to escape. iv the rare snatches of conversation with the old rangeman are events in the monotony of the solitary. owing to the illness of bob, communication with my friends is almost entirely suspended. in the forced idleness the hours grow heavy and languid, the days drag in unvarying sameness. by violent efforts of will i strangle the recurring thought of my long sentence, and seek forgetfulness in reading. volume after volume passes through my hands, till my brain is steeped with the printed word. page by page i recite the history of the holy church, the lives of the fathers and the saints, or read aloud, to hear a human voice, the mythology of greece and india, mingling with it, for the sake of variety, a few chapters from mill and spencer. but in the midst of an intricate passage in the "unknowable," or in the heart of a difficult mathematical problem, i suddenly become aware of my pencil drawing familiar figures on the library slate: Ã� = . what is this, i wonder. and immediately i proceed, in semiconscious manner, to finish the calculation: Ã� = , days. , Ã� = , hours. , Ã� = , , minutes. , , Ã� = , , seconds. but the next moment i am aghast at the realization that my computation allows only days per month, whereas the year consists of , sometimes even of days. and again i repeat the process, multiplying by , and am startled to find that i have almost , , seconds to pass in the solitary. from the official calendar alongside of the rules the cheering promise faces me, good conduct shortens time. but i have been repeatedly reported and punished--they will surely deprive me of the commutation. with great care i figure out my allowance: one month on the first year, one on the second; two on the third and fourth; three on the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth; four months' "good time" on each succeeding year. i shall therefore have to serve fifteen years and three months in this place, and then eleven months in the workhouse. i have been here now two years. it still leaves me years and months, or more than , days. appalled by the figures, i pace the cell in agitation. it is hopeless! it is folly to expect to survive such a sentence, especially in view of the warden's persecution, and the petty tyranny of the keepers. thoughts of suicide and escape, wild fancies of unforeseen developments in the world at large that will somehow result in my liberation, all struggle in confusion, leaving me faint and miserable. my absolute isolation holds no promise of deliverance; the days of illness and suffering fill me with anguish. with a sharp pang i observe the thinning of my hair. the evidence of physical decay rouses the fear of mental collapse, insanity.... i shudder at the terrible suggestion, and lash myself into a fever of irritation with myself, the rangeman, and every passing convict, my heart seething with hatred of the warden, the guards, the judge, and that unembodied, shapeless, but inexorable and merciless, thing--the world. in the moments of reacting calm i apply myself to philosophy and science, determinedly, with the desperation born of horror. but the dread ghost is ever before me; it follows me up and down the cell, mocks me with the wild laughter of "crazy smith" in the stillness of the night, and with the moaning and waking of my neighbor suddenly gone mad. chapter xix memory-guests often the chaplain pauses at my door, and speaks words of encouragement. i feel deeply moved by his sympathy, but my revolutionary traditions forbid the expression of my emotions: a cog in the machinery of oppression, he might mistake my gratitude for the obsequiousness of the fawning convict. but i hope he feels my appreciation in the simple "thank you." it is kind of him to lend me books from his private library, and occasionally also permit me an extra sheet of writing paper. correspondence with the girl and the twin, and the unfrequent exchange of notes with my comrades, are the only links that still bind me to the living. i feel weary and life-worn, indifferent to the trivial incidents of existence that seem to hold such exciting interest for the other inmates. "old sammy," the rangeman, grown nervous with the approach of liberty, inverts a hundred opportunities to unburden his heart. all day long he limps from cell to cell, pretending to scrub the doorsills or dust the bars, meanwhile chattering volubly to the solitaries. listlessly i suffer the oft-repeated recital of the "news," elaborately discussed and commented upon with impassioned earnestness. he interrupts his anathemas upon the "rotten food" and the "thieving murderers," to launch into enthusiastic details of the meal he will enjoy on the day of release, the imprisoned friends he will remember with towels and handkerchiefs. but he grows pensive at the mention of the folks at home: the "old woman" died of a broken heart, the boys have not written a line in three years. he fears they have sold the little farmhouse, and flown to the city. but the joy of coming freedom drives away the sad thought, and he mumbles hopefully, "i'll see, i'll see," and rejoices in being "alive and still good for a while," and then abruptly changes the conversation, and relates minutely how "that poor, crazy dick" was yesterday found hanging in the cell, and he the first to discover him, and to help the guards cut him down. and last week he was present when the physician tried to revive "the little dago," and if the doctor had only returned quicker from the theatre, poor joe might have been saved. he "took a fit" and "the screws jest let 'im lay; 'waitin' for the doc,' they says. hope they don't kill _me_ yet," he comments, hobbling away. * * * * * the presence of death daunts the thought of self-destruction. ever stronger asserts itself the love of life; the will to be roots deeper. but the hope of escape recedes with the ebbing of my vitality. the constant harassing has forced the discontinuation of the _blossoms_. the eccentric warden seems to have conceived a great fear of an anarchist conspiracy: special orders have been issued, placing the trio under extraordinary surveillance. suspecting our clandestine correspondence, yet unable to trace it, the authorities have decided to separate us in a manner excluding all possibility of communication. apparently i am to be continued in the solitary indefinitely, while nold is located in the south wing, and bauer removed to the furthest cell on an upper gallery in the north block. the precious magazine is suspended, and only the daring of the faithful "horsethief" enables us to exchange an occasional note. amid the fantastic shapes cast by the dim candle light, i pass the long winter evenings. the prison day between a. m. and p. m. i divide into three parts, devoting four hours each to exercise, english, and reading, the remaining two hours occupied with meals and "cleaning up." surrounded by grammars and dictionaries, borrowed from the chaplain, i absorb myself in a sentence of shakespeare, dissecting each word, studying origin and derivation, analyzing prefix and suffix. i find moments of exquisite pleasure in tracing some simple expression through all the vicissitudes of its existence, to its latin or greek source. in the history of the corresponding epoch, i seek the people's joys and tragedies, contemporary with the fortunes of the word. philology, with the background of history, leads me into the pastures of mythology and comparative religion, through the mazes of metaphysics and warring philosophies, to rationalism and evolutionary science. oblivious of my environment, i walk with the disciples of socrates, flee athens with the persecuted diagoras, "the atheist," and listen in ecstasy to the sweet-voiced lute of arion; or with suetonius i pass in review the twelve caesars, and weep with the hostages swelling the triumph of the eternal city. but on the very threshold of cleopatra's boudoir, about to enter with the intrepid mark antony, i am met by three giant slaves with the command: "a , hands up! step out to be searched!" * * * * * for days my enfeebled nerves quiver with the shock. with difficulty i force myself to pick up the thread of my life amid the spirits of the past. the placid waters have been disturbed, and all the miasma of the quagmire seethes toward the surface, and fills my cup with the bitterness of death. the release of "old sammy" stirs me to the very depths. many prisoners have come and gone during my stay; with some i merely touched hands as they passed in the darkness and disappeared, leaving no trace in my existence. but the old rangeman, with his smiling eyes and fervid optimism, has grown dear to me. he shared with me his hopes and fears, divided his extra slice of cornbread, and strove to cheer me in his own homely manner. i miss his genial presence. something has gone out of my life with him, leaving a void, saddening, gnawing. in thought i follow my friend through the gates of the prison, out into the free, the alluring "outside," the charmed circle that holds the promise of life and joy and liberty. like a horrible nightmare the sombre walls fade away, and only a dark shadow vibrates in my memory, like a hidden menace, faint, yet ever-present and terrible. the sun glows brilliant in the heavens, shell-like wavelets float upon the azure, and sweet odors are everywhere about me. all the longing of my soul wells up with violent passion, and in a sudden transport of joy i fling myself upon the earth, and weep and kiss it in prayerful bliss.... * * * * * the candle sputters, hisses, and dies. i sit in the dark. silently lifts the veil of time. the little new york flat rises before me. the girl is returning home, the roses of youth grown pallid amid the shadows of death. only her eyes glow firmer and deeper, a look of challenge in her saddened face. as on an open page, i read the suffering of her prison experience, the sharper lines of steadfast purpose.... the joys and sorrows of our mutual past unfold before me, and again i live in the old surroundings. the memorable scene of our first meeting, in the little café at sachs', projects clearly. the room is chilly in the november dusk, as i return from work and secure my accustomed place. one by one the old habitués drop in, and presently i am in a heated discussion with two russian refugees at the table opposite. the door opens, and a young woman enters. well-knit, with the ruddy vigor of youth, she diffuses an atmosphere of strength and vitality. i wonder who the newcomer may be. two years in the movement have familiarized me with the personnel of the revolutionary circles of the metropolis. this girl is evidently a stranger; i am quite sure i have never met her at our gatherings. i motion to the passing proprietor. he smiles, anticipating my question. "you want to know who the young lady is?" he whispers. "i'll see, i'll see."--somehow i find myself at her table. without constraint, we soon converse like old acquaintances, and i learn that she left her home in rochester to escape the stifling provincial atmosphere. she is a dressmaker, and hopes to find work in new york. i like her simple, frank confidence; the "comrade" on her lips thrills me. she is one of us, then. with a sense of pride in the movement, i enlarge upon the activities of our circle. there are important meetings she ought to attend, many people to meet; hasselmann is conducting a course in sociology; schultze is giving splendid lectures. "have you heard most?" i ask suddenly. "no? you must hear our grand old man. he speaks to-morrow; will you come with me?"--eagerly i look forward to the next evening, and hasten to the café. it is frosty outdoors as i walk the narrow, dark streets in animated discussion with "comrade rochester." the ancient sidewalks are uneven and cracked, in spots crusted with filth. as we cross delancey street, the girl slips and almost falls, when i catch her in my arms just in time to prevent her head striking the curbstone. "you have saved my life," she smiles at me, her eyes dancing vivaciously.... with great pride i introduce my new friend to the _inteligentzia_ of the ghetto, among the exiles of the colony. ah, the exaltation, the joy of being!... the whole history of revolutionary russia is mirrored in our circles; every shade of temperamental nihilism and political view is harbored there. i see hartman, surrounded by the halo of conspirative mystery; at his side is the _velikorussian_, with flowing beard and powerful frame, of the older generation of the _narodovoiltzy_; and there is schewitsch, big and broad of feature, the typical _dvoryanin_ who has cast in his lot with the proletariat. the line of contending faiths is not drawn sharply in the colony: cahan is among us, stentorian of voice and bristling with aggressive vitality; solotaroff, his pale student face peculiarly luminous; miller, poetically eloquent, and his strangely-named brother brandes, looking consumptive from his experience in the odessa prison. timmermann and aleinikoff, rinke and weinstein--all are united in enthusiasm for the common cause. types from turgenev and chernishevski, from dostoyevski and nekrassov, mingle in the seeming confusion of reality, individualized with varying shade and light. and other elements are in the colony, the splashed quivers of the simmering waters of tsardom. shapes in the making, still being kneaded in the mold of old tradition and new environment. who knows what shall be the amalgam, some day to be recast by the master hand of a new turgenev?... * * * * * often the solitary hours are illumined by scenes of the past. with infinite detail i live again through the years of the inspiring friendship that held the girl, the twin, and myself in the closest bonds of revolutionary aspiration and personal intimacy. how full of interest and rich promise was life in those days, so far away, when after the hours of humiliating drudgery in the factory i would hasten to the little room in suffolk street! small and narrow, with its diminutive table and solitary chair, the cage-like bedroom would be transfigured into the sanctified chamber of fate, holding the balance of the world's weal. only two could sit on the little cot, the third on the rickety chair. and if somebody else called, we would stand around the room, filling the air with the glowing hope of our young hearts, in the firm consciousness that we were hastening the steps of progress, advancing the glorious dawn. * * * * * the memory of the life "outside" intensifies the misery of the solitary. i brood over the uselessness of my suffering. my mission in life terminated with the _attentat_. what good can my continued survival do? my propagandistic value as a living example of class injustice and political persecution is not of sufficient importance to impose upon me the duty of existence. and even if it were, the almost three years of my imprisonment have served the purpose. escape is out of consideration, so long as i remain constantly under lock and key, the subject of special surveillance. communication with nold and bauer, too, is daily growing more difficult. my health is fast failing; i am barely able to walk. what is the use of all this misery and torture? what is the use?... in such moments, i stand on the brink of eternity. is it sheer apathy and languor that hold the weak thread of life, or nature's law and the inherent spirit of resistance? were i not in the enemy's power, i should unhesitatingly cross the barrier. but as a pioneer of the cause, i must live and struggle. yet life without activity or interest is terrifying.... i long for sympathy and affection. with an aching heart i remember my comrades and friends, and the girl. more and more my mind dwells upon tender memories. i wake at night with a passionate desire for the sight of a sweet face, the touch of a soft hand. a wild yearning fills me for the women i have known, as they pass in my mind's eye from the time of my early youth to the last kiss of feminine lips. with a thrill i recall each bright look and tender accent. my heart beats tumultuously as i meet little nadya, on the way to school, pretending i do not see her. i turn around to admire the golden locks floating in the breeze, when i surprise her stealthily watching me. i adore her secretly, but proudly decline my chum's offer to introduce me. how foolish of me! but i know no timid shrinking as i wait, on a cold winter evening, for our neighbor's servant girl to cross the yard; and how unceremoniously i embrace her! she is not a _barishnya_; i need not mask my feelings. and she is so primitive; she accuses me of knowing things "not fit for a boy" of my age. but she kisses me again, and passion wakes at the caress of the large, coarse hand.... my eldridge street platonic sweetheart stands before me, and i tingle with every sensual emotion of my first years in new york.... out of the new haven days rises the image of luba, sweeping me with unutterable longing for the unattained. and again i live through the experiences of the past, passionately visualizing every detail with images that flatter my erotic palate and weave exquisite allurement about the urge of sex. chapter xx a day in the cell-house i to k. & g. good news! i was let out of the cell this morning. the coffee-boy on my range went home yesterday, and i was put in his place. it's lucky the old deputy died--he was determined to keep me in solitary. in the absence of the warden, benny greaves, the new deputy, told me he will "risk" giving me a job. but he has issued strict orders i should not be permitted to step into the yard. i'll therefore still be under special surveillance, and i shall not be able to see you. but i am in touch with our "faithful," and we can now resume a more regular correspondence. over a year in solitary. it's almost like liberty to be out of the cell! m. ii my position as coffee-boy affords many opportunities for closer contact with the prisoners. i assist the rangeman in taking care of a row of sixty-four cells situated on the ground floor, and lettered k. above it are, successively, i, h, g, and f, located on the yard side of the cell-house. on the opposite side, facing the river, the ranges are labelled a, b, c, d, and e. the galleries form parallelograms about each double cell-row; bridged at the centre, they permit easy access to the several ranges. the ten tiers, with a total of six hundred and forty cells, are contained within the outer stone building, and comprise the north block of the penitentiary. it connects with the south wing by means of the rotunda. [illustration: cell ranges--south block] the bottom tiers a and k serve as "receiving" ranges. here every new arrival is temporarily "celled," before he is assigned to work and transferred to the gallery occupied by his shop-fellows. on these ranges are also located the men undergoing special punishment in basket and solitary. the lower end of the two ranges is designated "bughouse row." it contains the "cranks," among whom are classed inmates in different stages of mental aberration. my various duties of sweeping the hall, dusting the cell doors, and assisting at feeding, enable me to become acquainted and to form friendships. i marvel at the inadequacy of my previous notions of "the criminal." i resent the presumption of "science" that pretends to evolve the intricate convolutions of a living human brain out of the shape of a digit cut from a dead hand, and labels it "criminal type." daily association dispels the myth of the "species," and reveals the individual. growing intimacy discovers the humanity beneath fibers coarsened by lack of opportunity, and brutalized by misery and fear. there is "reddie" butch, a rosy-cheeked young fellow of twenty-one, as frank-spoken a boy as ever honored a striped suit. a jolly criminal is butch, with his irrepressible smile and gay song. he was "just dying to take his girl for a ride," he relates to me. but he couldn't afford it; he earned only seven dollars per week, as butcher's boy. he always gave his mother every penny he made, but the girl kept taunting him because he couldn't spend anything on her. "and i goes to work and swipes a rig, and say, aleck, you ought to see me drive to me girl's house, big-like. in i goes. 'put on your glad duds, kate,' i says, says i, 'i'll give you the drive of your life.' and i did; you bet your sweet life, i did, ha, ha, ha!" but when he returned the rig to its owner, butch was arrested. "'just a prank, your honor,' i says to the judge. and what d' you think, aleck? thought i'd die when he said three years. i was foolish, of course; but there's no use crying over spilt milk, ha, ha, ha! but you know, the worst of it is, me girl went back on me. wouldn't that jar you, eh? well, i'll try hard to forget th' minx. she's a sweet girl, though, you bet, ha, ha, ha!" * * * * * and there is young rush, the descendant of the celebrated family of the great american physician. the delicate features, radiant with spirituality, bear a striking resemblance to shelley; the limping gait recalls the tragedy of byron. he is in for murder! he sits at the door, an open book in his hands,--the page is moist with the tears silently trickling down his face. he smiles at my approach, and his expressive eyes light up the darkened cell, like a glimpse of the sun breaking through the clouds. he was wooing a girl on a summer night: the skiff suddenly upturned, "right opposite here,"--he points to the river,--"near mckees rocks." he was dragged out, unconscious. they told him the girl was dead, and that he was her murderer! he reaches for the photograph on his table, and bursts into sobs. * * * * * daily i sweep the length of the hall, advancing from cell to cell with deliberate stroke, all the while watching for an opportunity to exchange a greeting, with the prisoners. my mind reverts to poor wingie. how he cheered me in the first days of misery; how kind he was! in gentler tones i speak to the unfortunates, and encourage the new arrivals, or indulge some demented prisoner in a harmless whim. the dry sweeping of the hallway raises a cloud of dust, and loud coughing follows in my wake. taking advantage of the old block captain's "cold in the head," i cautiously hint at the danger of germs lurking in the dust-laden atmosphere. "a little wet sawdust on the floor, mr. mitchell, and you wouldn't catch colds so often." a capital idea, he thinks, and thereafter i guard the precious supply under the bed in my cell. in little ways i seek to help the men in solitary. every trifle means so much. "long joe," the rangeman, whose duty it is to attend to their needs, is engrossed with his own troubles. the poor fellow is serving twenty-five years, and he is much worried by "wild bill" and "bighead" wilson. they are constantly demanding to see the warden. it is remarkable that they are never refused. the guards seem to stand in fear of them. "wild bill" is a self-confessed invert, and there are peculiar rumors concerning his intimacy with the warden. recently bill complained of indigestion, and a guard sent me to deliver some delicacies to him. "from the warden's table," he remarked, with a sly wink. and wilson is jocularly referred to as "the deputy," even by the officers. he is still in stripes, but he seems to wield some powerful influence over the new deputy; he openly defies the rules, upbraids the guards, and issues orders. he is the warden's "runner," clad with the authority of his master. the prisoners regard bill and wilson as stools, and cordially hate them; but none dare offend them. poor joe is constantly harassed by "deputy" wilson; there seems to be bitter enmity between the two on account of a young prisoner who prefers the friendship of joe. worried by the complex intrigues of life in the block, the rangeman is indifferent to the unfortunates in the cells. butch is devoured by bedbugs, and "praying" andy's mattress is flattened into a pancake. the simple-minded life-timer is being neglected: he has not yet recovered from the assault by johnny smith, who hit him on the head with a hammer. i urge the rangeman to report to the captain the need of "bedbugging" butch's cell, of supplying andy with a new mattress, and of notifying the doctor of the increasing signs of insanity among the solitaries. iii breakfast is over; the lines form in lockstep, and march to the shops. broom in hand, rangemen and assistants step upon the galleries, and commence to sweep the floors. officers pass along the tiers, closely scrutinizing each cell. now and then they pause, facing a "delinquent." they note his number, unlock the door, and the prisoner joins the "sick line" on the ground floor. one by one the men augment the row; they walk slowly, bent and coughing, painfully limping down the steep flights. from every range they come; the old and decrepit, the young consumptives, the lame and asthmatic, a tottering old negro, an idiotic white boy. all look withered and dejected,--a ghastly line, palsied and blear-eyed, blanched in the valley of death. the rotunda door opens noisily, and the doctor enters, accompanied by deputy warden greaves and assistant deputy hopkins. behind them is a prisoner, dressed in dark gray and carrying a medicine box. dr. boyce glances at the long line, and knits his brow. he looks at his watch, and the frown deepens. he has much to do. since the death of the senior doctor, the young graduate is the sole physician of the big prison. he must make the rounds of the shops before noon, and visit the patients in the hospital before the warden or the deputy drops in. mr. greaves sits down at the officers' desk, near the hall entrance. the assistant deputy, pad in hand, places himself at the head of the sick line. the doctor leans against the door of the rotunda, facing the deputy. the block officers stand within call, at respectful distances. "two-fifty-five!" the assistant deputy calls out. a slender young man leaves the line and approaches the doctor. he is tall and well featured, the large eyes lustrous in the pale face. he speaks in a hoarse voice: "doctor, there is something the matter with my side. i have pains, and i cough bad at night, and in the morning--" "all right," the doctor interrupts, without looking up from his notebook. "give him some salts," he adds, with a nod to his assistant. "next!" the deputy calls. "will you please excuse me from the shop for a few days?" the sick prisoner pleads, a tremor in his voice. the physician glances questioningly at the deputy. the latter cries, impatiently, "next, next man!" striking the desk twice, in quick succession, with the knuckles of his hand. "return to the shop," the doctor says to the prisoner. "next!" the deputy calls, spurting a stream of tobacco juice in the direction of the cuspidor. it strikes sidewise, and splashes over the foot of the approaching new patient, a young negro, his neck covered with bulging tumors. "number?" the doctor inquires. "one-thirty-seven. a one-thirty-seven!" the deputy mumbles, his head thrown back to receive a fresh handful of "scrap" tobacco. "guess ah's got de big neck, ah is, mistah boyce," the negro says hoarsely. "salts. return to work. next!" "a one-twenty-six!" a young man with parchment-like face, sere and yellow, walks painfully from the line. "doctor, i seem to be gettin' worser, and i'm afraid--" "what's the trouble?" "pains in the stomach. gettin' so turrible, i--" "give him a plaster. next!" "plaster hell!" the prisoner breaks out in a fury, his face growing livid. "look at this, will you?" with a quick motion he pulls his shirt up to his head. his chest and back are entirely covered with porous plasters; not an inch of skin is visible. "damn yer plasters," he cries with sudden sobs, "i ain't got no more room for plasters. i'm putty near dyin', an' you won't do nothin' fer me." the guards pounce upon the man, and drag him into the rotunda. * * * * * one by one the sick prisoners approach the doctor. he stands, head bent, penciling, rarely glancing up. the elongated ascetic face wears a preoccupied look; he drawls mechanically, in monosyllables, "next! numb'r? salts! plaster! salts! next!" occasionally he glances at his watch; his brows knit closer, the heavy furrow deepens, and the austere face grows more severe and rigid. now and then he turns his eyes upon the deputy warden, sitting opposite, his jaws incessantly working, a thin stream of tobacco trickling down his chin, and heavily streaking the gray beard. cheeks protruding, mouth full of juice, the deputy mumbles unintelligently, turns to expectorate, suddenly shouts "next!" and gives two quick knocks on the desk, signaling to the physician to order the man to work. only the withered and the lame are temporarily excused, the deputy striking the desk thrice to convey the permission to the doctor. dejected and forlorn, the sick line is conducted to the shops, coughing, wheezing, and moaning, only to repeat the ordeal the following morning. quite often, breaking down at the machine or fainting at the task, the men are carried on a stretcher to the hospital, to receive a respite from the killing toil,--a short intermission, or a happier, eternal reprieve. the lame and the feeble, too withered to be useful in the shops, are sent back to their quarters, and locked up for the day. only these, the permitted delinquents, the insane, the men in solitary, and the sweepers, remain within the inner walls during working hours. the pall of silence descends upon the house of death. iv the guards creep stealthily along the tiers. officer george dean, lank and tall, tiptoes past the cells, his sharply hooked nose in advance, his evil-looking eyes peering through the bars, scrutinizing every inmate. suddenly the heavy jaws snap. "hey, you, eleven-thirty-nine! on the bed again! wha-at? sick, hell! no dinner!" noisily he pretends to return to the desk "in front," quietly steals into the niche of a cell door, and stands motionless, alertly listening. a suppressed murmur proceeds from the upper galleries. cautiously the guard advances, hastily passes several cells, pauses a moment, and then quickly steps into the center of the hall, shouting: "cells forty-seven k, i, h! talking through the pipe! got you this time, all right." he grins broadly as he returns to the desk, and reports to the block captain. the guards ascend the galleries. levers are pulled, doors opened with a bang, and the three prisoners are marched to the office. for days their cells remain vacant: the men are in the dungeon. * * * * * gaunt and cadaverous, guard hughes makes the rounds of the tiers, on a tour of inspection. with bleary eyes, sunk deep in his head, he gazes intently through the bars. the men are out at work. leisurely he walks along, stepping from cell to cell, here tearing a picture off the wall, there gathering a few scraps of paper. as i pass along the hall, he slams a door on the range above, and appears upon the gallery. his pockets bulge with confiscated goods. he glances around, as the deputy enters from the yard. "hey, jasper!" the guard calls. the colored trusty scampers up the stairs. "take this to the front." the officer hands him a dilapidated magazine, two pieces of cornbread, a little square of cheese, and several candles that some weak-eyed prisoner had saved up by sitting in the dark for weeks. "show 't to the deputy," the officer says, in an undertone. "i'm doing business, all right!" the trusty laughs boisterously, "yassah, yassah, dat yo sure am." the guard steps into the next cell, throwing a quick look to the front. the deputy is disappearing through the rotunda door. the officer casts his eye about the cell. the table is littered with magazines and papers. a piece of matting, stolen from the shops, is on the floor. on the bed are some bananas and a bunch of grapes,--forbidden fruit. the guard steps back to the gallery, a faint smile on his thin lips. he reaches for the heart-shaped wooden block hanging above the cell. it bears the legend, painted in black, a . on the reverse side the officer reads, "collins hamilton, dated----." his watery eyes strain to decipher the penciled marks paled by the damp, whitewashed wall. "jasper!" he calls, "come up here." the trusty hastens to him. "you know who this man is, jasper? a four-eighty." "ah sure knows. dat am hamilton, de bank 'bezleh." "where's he working?" "wat _he_ wan' teh work foh? he am de cap'n's clerk. in de awfice, _he_ am." "all right, jasper." the guard carefully closes the clerk's door, and enters the adjoining cell. it looks clean and orderly. the stone floor is bare, the bedding smooth; the library book, tin can, and plate, are neatly arranged on the table. the officer ransacks the bed, throws the blankets on the floor, and stamps his feet upon the pillow in search of secreted contraband. he reaches up to the wooden shelf on the wall, and takes down the little bag of scrap tobacco,--the weekly allowance of the prisoners. he empties a goodly part into his hand, shakes it up, and thrusts it into his mouth. he produces a prison "plug" from his pocket, bites off a piece, spits in the direction of the privy, and yawns; looks at his watch, deliberates a moment, spurts a stream of juice into the corner, and cautiously steps out on the gallery. he surveys the field, leans over the railing, and squints at the front. the chairs at the officers' desk are vacant. the guard retreats into the cell, yawns and stretches, and looks at his watch again. it is only nine o'clock. he picks up the library book, listlessly examines the cover, flings the book on the shelf, spits disgustedly, then takes another chew, and sprawls down on the bed. v at the head of the hall, senior officer woods and assistant deputy hopkins sit at the desk. of superb physique and glowing vitality, mr. woods wears his new honors as captain of the block with aggressive self-importance. he has recently been promoted from the shop to the charge of the north wing, on the morning shift, from a. m. to p. m. every now and then he leaves his chair, walks majestically down the hallway, crosses the open centre, and returns past the opposite cell-row. with studied dignity he resumes his seat and addresses his superior, the assistant deputy, in measured, low tones. the latter listens gravely, his head slightly bent, his sharp gray eyes restless above the heavy-rimmed spectacles. as mr. hopkins, angular and stoop-shouldered, rises to expectorate into the nearby sink, he espies the shining face of jasper on an upper gallery. the assistant deputy smiles, produces a large apple from his pocket, and, holding it up to view, asks: "how does this strike you, jasper?" "looks teh dis niggah like a watahmelon, cunnel." woods struggles to suppress a smile. hopkins laughs, and motions to the negro. the trusty joins them at the desk. "i'll bet the coon could get away with this apple in two bites," the assistant deputy says to woods. "hardly possible," the latter remarks, doubtfully. "you don't know this darky, scot," hopkins rejoins. "i know him for the last--let me see--fifteen, eighteen, twenty years. that's when you first came here, eh, jasper?" "yassah, 'bout dat." "in the old prison, then?" woods inquires. "yes, of course. you was there, jasper, when 'shoe-box' miller got out, wasn't you?" "yo 'member good, cunnel. dat ah was, sure 'nuf. en mighty slick it was, bress me, teh hab imsef nailed in dat shoebox, en mek his get-away." "yes, yes. and this is your fourth time since then, i believe." "no, sah, no, sah; dere yo am wrong, cunnel. youh remnishent am bad. dis jus' free times, jus' free." "come off, it's four." "free, cunnel, no moah." "do you think, mr. hopkins, jasper could eat the apple in two bites?" woods reminds him. "i'm sure he can. there's nothing in the eating line this coon couldn't do. here, jasper, you get the apple if you make it in two bites. don't disgrace me, now." the negro grins, "putty big, cunnel, but ah'm a gwine teh try powful hard." with a heroic effort he stretches his mouth, till his face looks like a veritable cavern, reaching from ear to ear, and edged by large, shimmering tusks. with both hands he inserts the big apple, and his sharp teeth come down with a loud snap. he chews quickly, swallows, repeats the performance, and then holds up his hands. the apple has disappeared. the assistant deputy roars with laughter. "what did i tell you, eh, scot? what did i tell you, ho, ho, ho!" the tears glisten in his eye. * * * * * they amuse themselves with the negro trusty by the hour. he relates his experiences, tells humorous anecdotes, and the officers are merry. now and then deputy warden greaves drops in. woods rises. "have a seat, mr. greaves." "that's all right, that's all right, scot," the deputy mumbles, his eye searching for the cuspidor. "sit down, scot: i'm as young as any of you." with mincing step he walks into the first cell, reserved for the guards, pulls a bottle from his hip pocket, takes several quick gulps, wabbles back to the desk, and sinks heavily into woods's seat. "jasper, go bring me a chew," he turns to the trusty. "yassah. scrap, dep'ty?" "yah. a nip of plug, too." "yassah, yassah, immejitly." "what are you men doing here?" the deputy blusters at the two subordinates. woods frowns, squares his shoulders, glances at the deputy, and then relaxes into a dignified smile. assistant hopkins looks sternly at the deputy warden from above his glasses. "that's all right, greaves," he says, familiarly, a touch of scorn in his voice. "say, you should have seen that nigger jasper swallow a great, big apple in two bites; as big as your head, i'll swear." "that sho?" the deputy nods sleepily. the negro comes running up with a paper of scrap in one hand, a plug in the other. the deputy slowly opens his eyes. he walks unsteadily to the cell, remains there a few minutes, and returns with both hands fumbling at his hip pocket. he spits viciously at the sink, sits down, fills his mouth with tobacco, glances at the floor, and demands, hoarsely: "where's all them spittoons, eh, you men?" "just being cleaned, mr. greaves," woods replies. "cleaned, always th' shame shtory. i ordered--ya--ordered--hey, bring shpittoon, jasper." he wags his head drowsily. "he means he ordered spittoons by the wagonload," hopkins says, with a wink at woods. "it was the very first order he gave when he became deputy after jimmie mcpane died. i tell you, scot, we won't see soon another deputy like old jimmie. he was deputy all right, every inch of him. wouldn't stand for the old man, the warden, interfering with him, either. not like this here," he points contemptuously at the snoring greaves. "here, benny," he raises his voice and slaps the deputy on the knee, "here's jasper with your spittoon." greaves wakes with a start, and gazes stupidly about; presently, noticing the trusty with the large cuspidor, and spurts a long jet at it. "say, jasper," hopkins calls to the retiring negro, "the deputy wants to hear that story you told us a while ago, about you got the left hind foot of a she-rabbit, on a moonlit night in a graveyard." "who shaid i want to hear 't?" the deputy bristles, suddenly wide awake. "yes, you do, greaves," hopkins asserts. "the rabbit foot brings good luck, you know. this coon here wears it on his neck. show it to the deputy, jasper." * * * * * prisoner wilson, the warden's favorite messenger, enters from the yard. with quick, energetic step he passes the officers at the desk, entirely ignoring their presence, and walks nonchalantly down the hall, his unnaturally large head set close upon the heavy, almost neckless shoulders. "hey, you, wilson, what are you after?" the deputy shouts after him. without replying, wilson continues on his way. "dep'ty wilson," the negro jeers, with a look of hatred and envy. assistant deputy hopkins rises in his seat. "wilson," he calls with quiet sternness, "mr. greaves is speaking to you. come back at once." his face purple with anger, wilson retraces his steps. "what do you want, deputy?" he demands, savagely. the deputy looks uneasy and fidgets in his chair, but catching the severe eye of hopkins, he shouts vehemently: "what do you want in the block?" "on captain edward s. wright's business," wilson replies with a sneer. "well, go ahead. but next time i call you, you better come back." "the warden told me to hurry. i'll report to him that you detained me with an idle question," wilson snarls back. "that'll do, wilson," the assistant deputy warns him. "wait till i see the captain," wilson growls, as he departs. "if i had my way, i'd knock his damn block off," the assistant mutters. "such impudence in a convict cannot be tolerated," woods comments. "the cap'n won't hear a word against wilson," the deputy says meekly. hopkins frowns. they sit in silence. the negro busies himself, wiping the yellow-stained floor around the cuspidor. the deputy ambles stiffly to the open cell. woods rises, steps back to the wall, and looks up to the top galleries. no one is about. he crosses to the other side, and scans the bottom range. long and dismal stretches the hall, in melancholy white and gray, the gloomy cell-building brooding in the centre, like some monstrous hunchback, without life or motion. woods resumes his seat. "quiet as a church," he remarks with evident satisfaction. "you're doing well, scot," the deputy mumbles. "doing well." a faint metallic sound breaks upon the stillness. the officers prick up their ears. the rasping continues and grows louder. the negro trusty tiptoes up the tiers. "it's somebody with his spoon on the door," the assistant deputy remarks, indifferently. the block captain motions to me. "see who's rapping there, will you?" i walk quickly along the hall. by keeping close to the wall, i can see up to the doors of the third gallery. here and there a nose protrudes in the air, the bleached face glued to the bars, the eyes glassy. the rapping grows louder as i advance. "who is it?" i call. "up here, c." "is that you, ed?" "yes. got a bad hemorrhage. tell th' screw i must see the doctor." i run to the desk. "mr. woods," i report, " c got a hemorrhage. can't stop it. he needs the doctor." "let him wait," the deputy growls. "doctor hour is over. he should have reported in the morning," the assistant deputy flares up. "what shall i tell him. mr. woods?" i ask. "nothing! get back to your cell." "perhaps you'd better go up and take a look, scot," the deputy suggests. mr. woods strides along the gallery, pauses a moment at c, and returns. "nothing much. a bit of blood. i ordered him to report on sick list in the morning." * * * * * a middle-aged prisoner, with confident bearing and polished manner, enters from the yard. it is the "french count," one of the clerks in the "front office." "good morning, gentlemen," he greets the officers. he leans familiarly over the deputy's chair, remarking: "i've been hunting half an hour for you. the captain is a bit ruffled this morning. he is looking for you." the deputy hurriedly rises. "where is he?" he asks anxiously. "in the office, mr. greaves. you know what's about?" "what? quick, now." "they caught wild bill right in the act. out in the yard there, back of the shed." the deputy stumps heavily out into the yard. "who's the kid?" the assistant deputy inquires, an amused twinkle in his eye. "bobby." "who? that boy on the whitewash gang?" "yes, fatty bobby." * * * * * the clatter on the upper tier grows loud and violent. the sick man is striking his tin can on the bars, and shaking the door. woods hastens to c . "you stop that, you hear!" he commands angrily. "i'm sick. i want th' doctor." "this isn't doctor hour. you'll see him in the morning." "i may be dead in the morning. i want him now." "you won't see him, that's all. you keep quiet there." furiously the prisoner raps on the door. the hall reverberates with hollow booming. the block captain returns to the desk, his face crimson. he whispers to the assistant deputy. the latter nods his head. woods claps his hands, deliberately, slowly--one, two, three. guards hurriedly descend from the galleries, and advance to the desk. the rangemen appear at their doors. "everybody to his cell. officers, lock 'em in!" woods commands. "you can stay here, jasper," the assistant deputy remarks to the trusty. the rangemen step into their cells. the levers are pulled, the doors locked. i hear the tread of many feet on the third gallery. now they cease, and all is quiet. "c , step out here!" the door slams, there is noisy shuffling and stamping, and the dull, heavy thuds of striking clubs. a loud cry and a moan. they drag the prisoner along the range, and down the stairway. the rotunda door creaks, and the clamor dies away. a few minutes elapse in silence. now some one whispers through the pipes; insane solitaries bark and crow. loud coughing drowns the noises, and then the rotunda door opens with a plaintive screech. the rangemen are unlocked. i stand at the open door of my cell. the negro trusty dusts and brushes the officers, their hacks and arms covered with whitewash, as if they had been rubbed against the wall. their clothes cleaned and smoothed, the guards loll in the chairs, and sit on the desk. they look somewhat ruffled and flustered. jasper enlarges upon the piquant gossip. "wild bill," notorious invert and protégé of the warden, he relates, had been hanging around the kids from the stocking shop; he has been after "fatty bobby" for quite a while, and he's forever pestering "lady sally," and young davis, too. the guards are astir with curiosity; they ply the negro with questions. he responds eagerly, raises his voice, and gesticulates excitedly. there is merriment and laughter at the officers' desk. vi dinner hour is approaching. officer gerst, in charge of the kitchen squad, enters the cell-house. behind him, a score of prisoners carry large wooden tubs filled with steaming liquid. the negro trusty, his nostrils expanded and eyes glistening, sniffs the air, and announces with a grin: "dooke's mixchoor foh dinneh teh day!" the scene becomes animated at the front. tables are noisily moved about, the tinplate rattles, and men talk and shout. with a large ladle the soup is dished out from the tubs, and the pans, bent and rusty, stacked up in long rows. the deputy warden flounces in, splutters some orders that remain ignored, and looks critically at the dinner pans. he produces a pocket knife, and ambles along the tables, spearing a potato here, a bit of floating vegetable there. guard hughes, his inspection of the cells completed, saunters along, casting greedy eyes at the food. he hovers about, waiting for the deputy to leave. the latter stands, hands dug into his pockets, short legs wide apart, scraggy beard keeping time with the moving jaws. guard hughes winks at one of the kitchen men, and slinks into an open cell. the prisoner fusses about, pretends to move the empty tubs out of the way, and then quickly snatches a pan of soup, and passes it to the guard. negro jasper, alert and watchful, strolls by woods, surreptitiously whispering. the officer walks to the open cell and surprises the guard, his head thrown back, the large pan covering his face. woods smiles disdainfully, the prisoners giggle and chuckle. * * * * * "chief jim," the head cook, a pittsburgh saloonkeeper serving twelve years for murder, promenades down the range. large-bellied and whitecapped, he wears an air of prosperity and independence. with swelling chest, stomach protruding, and hand wrapped in his dirty apron, the chief walks leisurely along the cells, nodding and exchanging greetings. he pauses at a door: it's cell a,--the "fat kid." jim leans against the wall, his back toward the dinner tables; presently his hand steals between the bars. now and then he glances toward the front, and steps closer to the door. he draws a large bundle from his bosom, hastily tears it open, and produces a piece of cooked meat, several raw onions, some cakes. one by one he passes the delicacies to the young prisoner, forcing them through the narrow openings between the bars. he lifts his apron, fans the door sill, and carefully wipes the ironwork; then he smiles, casts a searching look to the front, grips the bars with both hands, and vanishes into the deep niche. as suddenly he appears to view again, takes several quick steps, then pauses at another cell. standing away from the door, he speaks loudly and laughs boisterously, his hands fumbling beneath the apron. soon he leaves, advancing to the dinner tables. he approaches the rangeman, lifts his eyebrows questioningly, and winks. the man nods affirmatively, and retreats into his cell. the chief dives into the bosom of his shirt, and flings a bundle through the open door. he holds out his hand, whispering: "two bits. broke now? be sure you pay me to-morrow. that steak there's worth a plunk." * * * * * the gong tolls the dinner hour. the negro trusty snatches two pans, and hastens away. the guards unlock the prisoners, excepting the men in solitary who are deprived of the sole meal of the day. the line forms in single file, and advances slowly to the tables; then, pan in hand, the men circle the block to the centre, ascend the galleries, and are locked in their cells. the loud tempo of many feet, marching in step, sounds from the yard. the shop workers enter, receive the pan of soup, and walk to the cells. some sniff the air, make a wry face, and pass on, empty-handed. there is much suppressed murmuring and whispering. gradually the sounds die away. it is the noon hour. every prisoner is counted and locked in. only the trusties are about. vii the afternoon brings a breath of relief. "old jimmie" mitchell, rough-spoken and kind, heads the second shift of officers, on duty from till p. m. the venerable captain of the block trudges past the cells, stroking his flowing white beard, and profusely swearing at the men. but the prisoners love him: he frowns upon clubbing, and discourages trouble-seeking guards. head downward, he thumps heavily along the hall, on his first round of the bottom ranges. presently a voice hails him: "oh, mr. mitchell! come here, please." "damn your soul t' hell," the officer rages, "don't you know better than to bother me when i'm counting, eh? shut up now, god damn you. you've mixed me all up." he returns to the front, and begins to count again, pointing his finger at each occupied cell. this duty over, and his report filed, he returns to the offending prisoner. "what t' hell do you want, butch?" "mr. mitchell, my shoes are on th' bum. i am walking on my socks." "where th' devil d' you think you're going, anyhow? to a ball?" "papa mitchell, be good now, won't you?" the youth coaxes. "go an' take a--thump to yourself, will you?" the officer walks off, heavy-browed and thoughtful, but pauses a short distance from the cell, to hear butch mumbling discontentedly. the block captain retraces his steps, and, facing the boy, storms at him: "what did you say? 'damn the old skunk!' that's what you said, eh? you come on out of there!" with much show of violence he inserts the key into the lock, pulls the door open with a bang, and hails a passing guard: "mr. kelly, quick, take this loafer out and give 'im--er--give 'im a pair of shoes." he starts down the range, when some one calls from an upper tier: "jimmy, jimmy! come on up here!" "i'll jimmy you damn carcass for you," the old man bellows, angrily, "where th' hell are you?" "here, on b, b. right over you." the officer steps back to the wall, and looks up toward the second gallery. "what in th' name of jesus christ do you want, slim?" "awful cramps in me stomach. get me some cramp mixture, jim." "cramps in yer head, that's what you've got, you big bum you. where the hell did you get your cramp mixture, when you was spilling around in a freight car, eh?" "i got booze then," the prisoner retorts. "like hell you did! you were damn lucky to get a louzy hand-out at the back door, you ornery pimple on god's good earth." "th' hell you say! the hand-out was a damn sight better'n th' rotten slush i get here. i wouldn't have a belly-ache, if it wasn't for th' hogwash they gave us to-day." "lay down now! you talk like a horse's rosette." it's the old man's favorite expression, in his rich vocabulary of picturesque metaphor and simile. but there is no sting in the brusque speech, no rancor in the scowling eyes. on the way to the desk he pauses to whisper to the block trusty: "john, you better run down to the dispensary, an' get that big stiff some cramp mixture." happening to glance into a cell, mitchell notices a new arrival, a bald-headed man, his back against the door, reading. "hey you!" the block captain shouts at him, startling the green prisoner off his chair, "take that bald thing out of there, or i'll run you in for indecent exposure." he chuckles at the man's fright, like a boy pleased with a naughty prank, and ascends the upper tiers. * * * * * duster in hand, i walk along the range. the guards are engaged on the galleries, examining cells, overseeing the moving of the newly-graded inmates to the south wing, or chatting with the trusties. the chairs at the officers' desk are vacant. keeping alert watch on the rotunda doors, i walk from cell to cell, whiling away the afternoon hours in conversation. johnny, the friendly runner, loiters at the desk, now and then glancing into the yard, and giving me "the office" by sharply snapping his fingers, to warn me of danger. i ply the duster diligently, while the deputy and his assistants linger about, surrounded by the trusties imparting information gathered during the day. gradually they disperse, called into a shop where a fight is in progress, or nosing about the kitchen and assiduously killing time. the "coast is clear," and i return to pick up the thread of interrupted conversation. but the subjects of common interest are soon exhausted. the oft-repeated tirade against the "rotten grub," the "stale punk," and the "hogwash"; vehement cursing of the brutal "screws," the "stomach-robber of a warden" and the unreliability of his promises; the exchange of gossip, and then back again to berating the food and the treatment. within the narrow circle runs the interminable tale, colored by individual temperament, intensified by the length of sentence. the whole is dominated by a deep sense of unmerited suffering and bitter resentment, often breathing dire vengeance against those whom they consider responsible for their misfortune, including the police, the prosecutor, the informer, the witnesses, and, in rare instances, the trial judge. but as the longed-for release approaches, the note of hope and liberty rings clearer, stronger, with the swelling undercurrent of frank and irrepressible sex desire. chapter xxi the deeds of the good to the evil the new arrivals are forlorn and dejected, a look of fear and despair in their eyes. the long-timers among them seem dazed, as if with some terrible shock, and fall upon the bed in stupor-like sleep. the boys from the reformatories, some mere children in their teens, weep and moan, and tremble at the officer's footstep. only the "repeaters" and old-timers preserve their composure, scoff at the "fresh fish," nod at old acquaintances, and exchange vulgar pleasantries with the guards. but all soon grow nervous and irritable, and stand at the door, leaning against the bars, an expression of bewildered hopelessness or anxious expectancy on their faces. they yearn for companionship, and are pathetically eager to talk, to hear the sound of a voice, to unbosom their heavy hearts. i am minutely familiar with every detail of their "case," their life-history, their hopes and fears. through the endless weeks and months on the range, their tragedies are the sole subject of conversation. a glance into the mournful faces, pressed close against the bars, and the panorama of misery rises before me,--the cell-house grows more desolate, bleaker, the air gloomier and more depressing. there is joe zappe, his bright eyes lighting up with a faint smile as i pause at his door. "hello, alick," he greets me in his sweet, sad voice. he knows me from the jail. his father and elder brother have been executed, and he commuted to life because of youth. he is barely eighteen, but his hair has turned white. he has been acting queerly of late: at night i often hear him muttering and walking, walking incessantly and muttering. there is a peculiar look about his eyes, restless, roving. "alick," he says, suddenly, "me wanna tell you sometink. you no tell nobody, yes?" assured i'll keep his confidence, he begins to talk quickly, excitedly: "nobody dere, alick? no scroo? s-sh! lassa night me see ma broder. yes, see gianni. jesu cristo, me see ma poor broder in da cella 'ere, an' den me fader he come. broder and fader day stay der, on da floor, an so quieta, lika dead, an' den dey come an lay downa in ma bed. oh, jesu christo, me so fraida, me cry an' pray. you not know wat it mean? no-o-o? me tell you. it mean me die, me die soon." his eyes glow with a sombre fire, a hectic flush on his face. he knits his brows, as i essay to calm him, and continues hurriedly: "s-sh! waita till me tell you all. you know watta for ma fader an' gianni come outa da grave? me tell you. dey calla for ravange, 'cause dey innocente. me tell you trut. see, we all worka in da mine, da coal mine, me an' my fader an' gianni. all worka hard an' mek one dollar, maybe dollar quater da day. an' bigga american man, him come an' boder ma fader. ma fader him no wanna trouble; him old man, no boder nobody. an' da american man him maka two dollars an mebbe two fifty da day an' him boder my fader, all da time, boder 'im an' kick 'im to da legs, an' steal ma broder's shovel, an' hide fader's hat, an' maka trouble for ma countrymen, an' call us 'dirty dagoes.' an' one day him an' two arish dey all drunk, an' smash ma fader, an' american man an arish holler, 'dago s---- b---- fraida fight,' an' da american man him take a bigga pickax an' wanna hit ma fader, an' ma fader him run, an' me an' ma broder an' friend we fight, an' american man him fall, an' we all go way home. den p'lice come an' arresta me an' fader an' broder, an' say we killa american man. me an' ma broder no use knife, mebbe ma friend do. me no know; him no arresta; him go home in italia. ma fader an' broder dey save nineda-sev'n dollar, an' me save twenda-fife, an' gotta laiyer. him no good, an' no talk much in court. we poor men, no can take case in oder court, an' fader him hang, an' gianni hang, an' me get life. ma fader an' broder dey come lassa night from da grave, cause dey innocente an' wanna ravange, an' me gotta mek ravange, me no rest, gotta--" the sharp snapping of johnny, the runner, warns me of danger, and i hastily leave. * * * * * the melancholy figures line the doors as i walk up and down the hall. the blanched faces peer wistfully through the bars, or lean dejectedly against the wall, a vacant stare in the dim eyes. each calls to mind the stories of misery and distress, the scenes of brutality and torture i witness in the prison house. like ghastly nightmares, the shadows pass before me. there is "silent nick," restlessly pacing his cage, never ceasing, his lips sealed in brutish muteness. for three years he has not left the cell, nor uttered a word. the stolid features are cut and bleeding. last night he had attempted suicide, and the guards beat him, and left him unconscious on the floor. there is "crazy hunkie," the austrian. every morning, as the officer unlocks his door to hand in the loaf of bread, he makes a wild dash for the yard, shouting, "me wife! where's me wife?" he rushes toward the front and desperately grabs the door handle. the double iron gate is securely locked. a look of blank amazement on his face, he slowly returns to the cell. the guards await him with malicious smile. suddenly they rush upon him, blackjacks in hand. "me wife, me seen her!" the austrian cries. the blood gushing from his mouth and nose, they kick him into the cell. "me wife waiting in de yard," he moans. in the next cell is tommy wellman; adjoining him, jim grant. they are boys recently transferred from the reformatory. they cower in the corner, in terror of the scene. with tearful eyes, they relate their story. orphans in the slums of allegheny, they had been sent to the reform school at morganza, for snatching fruit off a corner stand. maltreated and beaten, they sought to escape. childishly they set fire to the dormitory, almost in sight of the keepers. "i says to me chum, says i," tommy narrates with boyish glee, "'kid,' says i, 'let's fire de louzy joint; dere'll be lots of fun, and we'll make our get-away in de' 'citement.'" they were taken to court and the good judge sentenced them to five years to the penitentiary. "glad to get out of dat dump," tommy comments; "it was jest fierce. dey paddled an' starved us someting' turrible." in the basket cell, a young colored man grovels on the floor. it is lancaster, number . he was serving seven years, and working every day in the mat shop. slowly the days passed, and at last the longed-for hour of release arrived. but lancaster was not discharged. he was kept at his task, the warden informing him that he had lost six months of his "good time" for defective work. the light hearted negro grew sullen and morose. often the silence of the cell-house was pierced by his anguished cry in the night, "my time's up, time's up. i want to go home." the guards would take him from the cell, and place him in the dungeon. one morning, in a fit of frenzy, he attacked captain mcvey, the officer of the shop. the captain received a slight scratch on the neck, and lancaster was kept chained to the wall of the dungeon for ten days. he returned to the cell, a driveling imbecile. the next day they dressed him in his citizen clothes, lancaster mumbling, "going home, going home." the warden and several officers accompanied him to court, on the way coaching the poor idiot to answer "yes" to the question, "do you plead guilty?" he received seven years, the extreme penalty of the law, for the "attempted murder of a keeper." they brought him back to the prison, and locked him up in a basket cell, the barred door covered with a wire screen that almost entirely excludes light and air. he receives no medical attention, and is fed on a bread-and-water diet. the witless negro crawls on the floor, unwashed and unkempt, scratching with his nails fantastic shapes on the stone, and babbling stupidly, "going, jesus going to jerusalem. see, he rides the holy ass; he's going to his father's home. going home, going home." as i pass he looks up, perplexed wonder on his face; his brows meet in a painful attempt to collect his wandering thoughts, and he drawls with pathetic sing-song, "going home, going home; jesus going to father's home." the guards raise their hands to their nostrils as they approach the cell: the poor imbecile evacuates on the table, the chair, and the floor. twice a month he is taken to the bathroom, his clothes are stripped, and the hose is turned on the crazy negro. * * * * * the cell of "little sammy" is vacant. he was number , a young man from altoona. i knew him quite well. he was a kind boy and a diligent worker; but now and then he would fall into a fit of melancholy. he would then sit motionless on the chair, a blank stare on his face, neglecting food and work. these spells generally lasted two or three days, sammy refusing to leave the cell. old jimmy mcpane, the dead deputy, on such occasions commanded the prisoner to the shop, while sammy sat and stared in a daze. mcpane would order the "stubborn kid" to the dungeon, and every time sammy got his "head workin'," he was dragged, silent and motionless, to the cellar. the new deputy has followed the established practice, and last evening, at "music hour," while the men were scraping their instruments, "little sammy" was found on the floor of the cell, his throat hacked from ear to ear. at the coroner's inquest the warden testified that the boy was considered mentally defective; that he was therefore excused from work, and never punished. * * * * * returning to my cell in the evening, my gaze meets the printed rules on the wall: "the prison authorities desire to treat every prisoner in their charge with humanity and kindness. * * * the aim of all prison discipline is, by enforcing the law, to restrain the evil and to protect the innocent from further harm; to so apply the law upon the criminal as to produce a cure from his moral infirmities, by calling out the better principles of his nature." chapter xxii the grist of the prison-mill i the comparative freedom of the range familiarizes me with the workings of the institution, and brings me in close contact with the authorities. the personnel of the guards is of very inferior character. i find their average intelligence considerably lower than that of the inmates. especially does the element recruited from the police and the detective service lack sympathy with the unfortunates in their charge. they are mostly men discharged from city employment because of habitual drunkenness, or flagrant brutality and corruption. their attitude toward the prisoners is summed up in coercion and suppression. they look upon the men as will-less objects of iron-handed discipline, exact unquestioning obedience and absolute submissiveness to peremptory whims, and harbor personal animosity toward the less pliant. the more intelligent among the officers scorn inferior duties, and crave advancement. the authority and remuneration of a deputy wardenship is alluring to them, and every keeper considers himself the fittest for the vacancy. but the coveted prize is awarded to the guard most feared by the inmates, and most subservient to the warden,--a direct incitement to brutality, on the one hand, to sycophancy, on the other. a number of the officers are veterans of the civil war; several among them had suffered incarceration in libby prison. these often manifest a more sympathetic spirit. the great majority of the keepers, however, have been employed in the penitentiary from fifteen to twenty-five years; some even for a longer period, like officer stewart, who has been a guard for forty years. this element is unspeakably callous and cruel. the prisoners discuss among themselves the ages of the old guards, and speculate on the days allotted them. the death of one of them is hailed with joy: seldom they are discharged; still more seldom do they resign. the appearance of a new officer sheds hope into the dismal lives. new guards--unless drafted from the police bureau--are almost without exception lenient and forbearing, often exceedingly humane. the inmates vie with each other in showing complaisance to the "candidate." it is a point of honor in their unwritten ethics to "treat him white." they frown upon the fellow-convict who seeks to take advantage of the "green screw," by misusing his kindness or exploiting his ignorance of the prison rules. but the older officers secretly resent the infusion of new blood. they strive to discourage the applicant by exaggerating the dangers of the position, and depreciating its financial desirability for an ambitious young man; they impress upon him the warden's unfairness to the guards, and the lack of opportunity for advancement. often they dissuade the new man, and he disappears from the prison horizon. but if he persists in remaining, the old keepers expostulate with him, in pretended friendliness, upon his leniency, chide him for a "soft-hearted tenderfoot," and improve every opportunity to initiate him into the practices of brutality. the system is known in the prison as "breaking in": the new man is constantly drafted in the "clubbing squad," the older officers setting the example of cruelty. refusal to participate signifies insubordination to his superiors and the shirking of routine duty, and results in immediate discharge. but such instances are extremely rare. within the memory of the oldest officer, mr. stewart, it happened only once, and the man was sickly. slowly the poison is instilled into the new guard. within a short time the prisoners notice the first signs of change: he grows less tolerant and chummy, more irritated and distant. presently he feels himself the object of espionage by the favorite trusties of his fellow-officers. in some mysterious manner, the warden is aware of his every step, berating him for speaking unduly long to this prisoner, or for giving another half a banana,--the remnant of his lunch. in a moment of commiseration and pity, the officer is moved by the tearful pleadings of misery to carry a message to the sick wife or child of a prisoner. the latter confides the secret to some friend, or carelessly brags of his intimacy with the guard, and soon the keeper faces the warden "on charges," and is deprived of a month's pay. repeated misplacement of confidence, occasional betrayal by a prisoner seeking the good graces of the warden, and the new officer grows embittered against the species "convict." the instinct of self-preservation, harassed and menaced on every side, becomes more assertive, and the guard is soon drawn into the vortex of the "system." ii daily i behold the machinery at work, grinding and pulverizing, brutalizing the officers, dehumanizing the inmates. far removed from the strife and struggle of the larger world, i yet witness its miniature replica, more agonizing and merciless within the walls. a perfected model it is, this prison life, with its apparent uniformity and dull passivity. but beneath the torpid surface smolder the fires of being, now crackling faintly under a dun smothering smoke, now blazing forth with the ruthlessness of despair. hidden by the veil of discipline rages the struggle of fiercely contending wills, and intricate meshes are woven in the quagmire of darkness and suppression. intrigue and counter plot, violence and corruption, are rampant in cell-house and shop. the prisoners spy upon each other, and in turn upon the officers. the latter encourage the trusties in unearthing the secret doings of the inmates, and the stools enviously compete with each other in supplying information to the keepers. often they deliberately inveigle the trustful prisoner into a fake plot to escape, help and encourage him in the preparations, and at the critical moment denounce him to the authorities. the luckless man is severely punished, usually remaining in utter ignorance of the intrigue. the _provocateur_ is rewarded with greater liberty and special privileges. frequently his treachery proves the stepping-stone to freedom, aided by the warden's official recommendation of the "model prisoner" to the state board of pardons. the stools and the trusties are an essential element in the government of the prison. with rare exception, every officer has one or more on his staff. they assist him in his duties, perform most of his work, and make out the reports for the illiterate guards. occasionally they are even called upon to help the "clubbing squad." the more intelligent stools enjoy the confidence of the deputy and his assistants, and thence advance to the favor of the warden. the latter places more reliance upon his favorite trusties than upon the guards. "i have about a hundred paid officers to keep watch over the prisoners," the warden informs new applicant, "and two hundred volunteers to watch both." the "volunteers" are vested with unofficial authority, often exceeding that of the inferior officers. they invariably secure the sinecures of the prison, involving little work and affording opportunity for espionage. they are "runners," "messengers," yard and office men. other desirable positions, clerkships and the like, are awarded to influential prisoners, such as bankers, embezzlers, and boodlers. these are known in the institution as holding "political jobs." together with the stools they are scorned by the initiated prisoners as "the pets." * * * * * the professional craftiness of the "con man" stands him in good stead in the prison. a shrewd judge of human nature, quick-witted and self-confident, he applies the practiced cunning of his vocation to secure whatever privileges and perquisites the institution affords. his evident intelligence and aplomb powerfully impress the guards; his well-affected deference to authority flatters them. they are awed by his wonderful facility of expression, and great attainments in the mysterious world of baccarat and confidence games. at heart they envy the high priest of "easy money," and are proud to befriend him in his need. the officers exert themselves to please him, secure light work for him, and surreptitiously favor him with delicacies and even money. his game is won. the "con" has now secured the friendship and confidence of his keepers, and will continue to exploit them by pretended warm interest in their physical complaints, their family troubles, and their whispered ambition of promotion and fear of the warden's discrimination. the more intelligent officers are the easiest victims of his wiles. but even the higher officials, more difficult to approach, do not escape the confidence man. his "business" has perfected his sense of orientation; he quickly rends the veil of appearance, and scans the undercurrents. he frets at his imprisonment, and hints at high social connections. his real identity is a great secret: he wishes to save his wealthy relatives from public disgrace. a careless slip of the tongue betrays his college education. with a deprecating nod he confesses that his father is a state senator; he is the only black sheep in his family; yet they are "good" to him, and will not disown him. but he must not bring notoriety upon them. eager for special privileges and the liberty of the trusties, or fearful of punishment, the "con man" matures his campaign. he writes a note to a fellow-prisoner. with much detail and thorough knowledge of prison conditions, he exposes all the "ins and outs" of the institution. in elegant english he criticizes the management, dwells upon the ignorance and brutality of the guards, and charges the warden and the board of prison inspectors with graft, individually and collectively. he denounces the warden as a stomach-robber of poor unfortunates: the counties pay from twenty-five to thirty cents per day for each inmate; the federal government, for its quota of men, fifty cents per person. why are the prisoners given qualitatively and quantitatively inadequate food? he demands. does not the state appropriate thousands of dollars for the support of the penitentiary, besides the money received from the counties?--with keen scalpel the "con man" dissects the anatomy of the institution. one by one he analyzes the industries, showing the most intimate knowledge. the hosiery department produces so and so many dozen of stockings per day. they are not stamped "convict-made," as the law requires. the labels attached are misleading, and calculated to decoy the innocent buyer. the character of the product in the several mat shops is similarly an infraction of the statutes of the great state of pennsylvania for the protection of free labor. the broom shop is leased by contract to a firm of manufacturers known as lang brothers: the law expressly forbids contract labor in prisons. the stamp "convict-made" on the brooms is pasted over with a label, concealing the source of manufacture. thus the "con man" runs on in his note. with much show of secrecy he entrusts it to a notorious stool, for delivery to a friend. soon the writer is called before the warden. in the latter's hands is the note. the offender smiles complacently. he is aware the authorities are terrorized by the disclosure of such intimate familiarity with the secrets of the prison house, in the possession of an intelligent, possibly well-connected man. he must be propitiated at all cost. the "con man" joins the "politicians." * * * * * the ingenuity of imprisoned intelligence treads devious paths, all leading to the highway of enlarged liberty and privilege. the "old-timer," veteran of oft-repeated experience, easily avoids hard labor. he has many friends in the prison, is familiar with the keepers, and is welcomed by them like a prodigal coming home. the officers are glad to renew the old acquaintance and talk over old times. it brings interest into their tedious existence, often as gray and monotonous as the prisoner's. the seasoned "yeggman," constitutionally and on principle opposed to toil, rarely works. generally suffering a comparatively short sentence, he looks upon his imprisonment as, in a measure, a rest-cure from the wear and tear of tramp life. above average intelligence, he scorns work in general, prison labor in particular. he avoids it with unstinted expense of energy and effort. as a last resort, he plays the "jigger" card, producing an artificial wound on leg or arm, having every appearance of syphilitic excrescence. he pretends to be frightened by the infection, and prevails upon the physician to examine him. the doctor wonders at the wound, closely resembling the dreaded disease. "ever had syphilis?" he demands. the prisoner protests indignantly. "perhaps in the family?" the medicus suggests. the patient looks diffident, blushes, cries, "no, never!" and assumes a guilty look. the doctor is now convinced the prisoner is a victim of syphilis. the man is "excused" from work, indefinitely. the wily yegg, now a patient, secures a "snap" in the yard, and adapts prison conditions to his habits of life. he sedulously courts the friendship of some young inmate, and wins his admiration by "ghost stories" of great daring and cunning. he puts the boy "next to de ropes," and constitutes himself his protector against the abuse of the guards and the advances of other prisoners. he guides the youth's steps through the maze of conflicting rules, and finally initiates him into the "higher wisdom" of "de road." * * * * * the path of the "gun" is smoothed by his colleagues in the prison. even before his arrival, the _esprit de corps_ of the "profession" is at work, securing a soft berth for the expected friend. if noted for success and skill, he enjoys the respect of the officers, and the admiration of a retinue of aspiring young crooks, of lesser experience and reputation. with conscious superiority he instructs them in the finesse of his trade, practices them in nimble-fingered "touches," and imbues them with the philosophy of the plenitude of "suckers," whom the good god has put upon the earth to afford the thief an "honest living." his sentence nearing completion, the "gun" grows thoughtful, carefully scans the papers, forms plans for his first "job," arranges dates with his "partners," and gathers messages for their "moll buzzers."[ ] he is gravely concerned with the somewhat roughened condition of his hands, and the possible dulling of his sensitive fingers. he maneuvers, generally successfully, for lighter work, to "limber up a bit," "jollies" the officers and cajoles the warden for new shoes, made to measure in the local shops, and insists on the ten-dollar allowance to prisoners received from counties outside of allegheny[ ]. he argues the need of money "to leave the state." often he does leave. more frequently a number of charges against the man are held in reserve by the police, and he is arrested at the gate by detectives who have been previously notified by the prison authorities. [ ] women thieves. [ ] upon their discharge, prisoners tried and convicted in the county of allegheny--in which the western penitentiary is located--receive only five dollars. * * * * * the great bulk of the inmates, accidental and occasional offenders direct from the field, factory, and mine, plod along in the shops, in sullen misery and dread. day in, day out, year after year, they drudge at the monotonous work, dully wondering at the numerous trusties idling about, while their own heavy tasks are constantly increased. from cell to shop and back again, always under the stern eyes of the guards, their days drag in deadening toil. in mute bewilderment they receive contradictory orders, unaware of the secret antagonisms between the officials. they are surprised at the new rule making attendance at religious service obligatory; and again at the succeeding order (the desired appropriation for a new chapel having been secured) making church-going optional. they are astonished at the sudden disappearance of the considerate and gentle guard, byers, and anxiously hope for his return, not knowing that the officer who discouraged the underhand methods of the trusties fell a victim to their cabal. iii occasionally a bolder spirit grumbles at the exasperating partiality. released from punishment, he patiently awaits an opportunity to complain to the warden of his unjust treatment. weeks pass. at last the captain visits the shop. a propitious moment! the carefully trimmed beard frames the stern face in benevolent white, mellowing the hard features and lending dignity to his appearance. his eyes brighten with peculiar brilliancy as he slowly begins to stroke his chin, and then, almost imperceptibly, presses his fingers to his lips. as he passes through the shop, the prisoner raises his hand. "what is it?" the warden inquires, a pleasant smile on his face. the man relates his grievance with nervous eagerness. "oh, well," the captain claps him on the shoulder, "perhaps a mistake; an unfortunate mistake. but, then, you might have done something at another time, and not been punished." he laughs merrily at his witticism. "it's so long ago, anyhow; we'll forget it," and he passes on. but if the captain is in a different mood, his features harden, the stern eyes scowl, and he says in his clear, sharp tones: "state your grievance in writing, on the printed slip which the officer will give you." the written complaint, deposited in the mail-box, finally reaches the chaplain, and is forwarded by him to the warden's office. there the deputy and the assistant deputy read and classify the slips, placing some on the captain's file and throwing others into the waste basket, according as the accusation is directed against a friendly or an unfriendly brother officer. months pass before the prisoner is called for "a hearing." by that time he very likely has a more serious charge against the guard, who now persecutes the "kicker." but the new complaint has not yet been "filed," and therefore the hearing is postponed. not infrequently men are called for a hearing, who have been discharged, or died since making the complaint. the persevering prisoner, however, unable to receive satisfaction from the warden, sends a written complaint to some member of the highest authority in the penitentiary--the board of inspectors. these are supposed to meet monthly to consider the affairs of the institution, visit the inmates, and minister to their moral needs. the complainant waits, mails several more slips, and wonders why he receives no audience with the inspectors. but the latter remain invisible, some not visiting the penitentiary within a year. only the secretary of the board, mr. reed, a wealthy jeweler of pittsburgh, occasionally puts in an appearance. tall and lean, immaculate and trim, he exhales an atmosphere of sanctimoniousness. he walks leisurely through the block, passes a cell with a lithograph of christ on the wall, and pauses. his hands folded, eyes turned upwards, lips slightly parted in silent prayer, he inquires of the rangeman: "whose cell is this?" "a , mr. reed," the prisoner informs him. it is the cell of jasper, the colored trusty, chief stool of the prison. "he is a good man, a good man, god bless him," the inspector says, a quaver in his voice. he steps into the cell, puts on his gloves, and carefully adjusts the little looking-glass and the rules, hanging awry on the wall. "it offends my eye," he smiles at the attending rangeman, "they don't hang straight." young tommy, in the adjoining cell, calls out: "mr. officer, please." the inspector steps forward. "this is inspector reed," he corrects the boy. "what is it you wish?" "oh. mr. inspector, i've been askin' t' see you a long time. i wanted--" "you should have sent me a slip. have you a copy of the rules in the cell, my man?" "yes, sir." "can you read?" "no, sir." "poor boy, did you never go to school?" "no, sir. me moder died when i was a kid. dey put me in de orphan an' den in de ref." "and your father?" "i had no fader. moder always said he ran away before i was born'd." "they have schools in the orphan asylum. also in the reformatory, i believe." "yep. but dey keeps me most o' de time in punishment. i didn' care fer de school, nohow." "you were a bad boy. how old are you now?" "sev'nteen." "what is your name?" "tommy wellman." "from pittsburgh?" "allegheny. me moder use'ter live on de hill, near dis 'ere dump." "what did you wish to see me about?" "i can't stand de cell, mr. inspector. please let me have some work." "are you locked up 'for cause'?" "i smashed a guy in de jaw fer callin' me names." "don't you know it's wrong to fight, my little man?" "he said me moder was a bitch, god damn his--" "don't! don't swear! never take the holy name in vain. it's a great sin. you should have reported the man to your officer, instead of fighting." "i ain't no snitch. will you get me out of de cell, mr. inspector?" "you are in the hands of the warden. he is very kind, and he will do what is best for you." "oh, hell! i'm locked up five months now. dat's de best _he's_ doin' fer me." "don't talk like that to me," the inspector upbraids him, severely. "you are a bad boy. you must pray; the good lord will take care of you." "you get out o' here!" the boy bursts out in sudden fury, cursing and swearing. mr. reed hurriedly steps back. his face, momentarily paling, turns red with shame and anger. he motions to the captain of the block. "mr. woods, report this man for impudence to an inspector," he orders, stalking out into the yard. the boy is removed to the dungeon. * * * * * oppressed and weary with the scenes of misery and torture, i welcome the relief of solitude, as i am locked in the cell for the night. iv reading and study occupy the hours of the evening. i spend considerable time corresponding with nold and bauer: our letters are bulky--ten, fifteen, and twenty pages long. there is much to say! we discuss events in the world at large, incidents of the local life, the maltreatment of the inmates, the frequent clubbings and suicides, the unwholesome food. i share with my comrades my experiences on the range; they, in turn, keep me informed of occurrences in the shops. their paths run smoother, less eventful than mine, yet not without much heartache and bitterness of spirit. they, too, are objects of prejudice and persecution. the officer of the shop where nold is employed has been severely reprimanded for "neglect of duty": the warden had noticed carl, in the company of several other prisoners, passing through the yard with a load of mattings. he ordered the guard never to allow nold out of his sight. bauer has also felt the hand of petty tyranny. he has been deprived of his dark clothes, and reduced to the stripes for "disrespectful behavior." now he is removed to the north wing, where my cell also is located, while nold is in the south wing, in a "double" cell, enjoying the luxury of a window. fortunately, though, our friend, the "horsethief," is still coffee-boy on bauer's range, thus enabling me to reach the big german. the latter, after reading my notes, returns them to our trusted carrier, who works in the same shop with carl. our mail connections are therefore complete, each of us exercising utmost care not to be trapped during the frequent surprises of searching our cells and persons. again the _prison blossoms_ is revived. most of the readers of the previous year, however, are missing. dempsey and beatty, the knights of labor men, have been pardoned, thanks to the multiplied and conflicting confessions of the informer, gallagher, who still remains in prison. "d," our poet laureate, has also been released, his short term having expired. his identity remains a mystery, he having merely hinted that he was a "scientist of the old school, an alchemist," from which we inferred that he was a counterfeiter. gradually we recruit our reading public from the more intelligent and trustworthy element: the duquesne strikers renew their "subscriptions" by contributing paper material; with them join frank shay, the philosophic "second-story man"; george, the prison librarian; "billy" ryan, professional gambler and confidence man; "yale," a specialist in the art of safe blowing, and former university student; the "attorney-general," a sharp lawyer; "magazine alvin," writer and novelist; "jim," from whose ingenuity no lock is secure, and others. "m" and "k" act as alternate editors; the rest as contributors. the several departments of the little magazinelet are ornamented with pen and ink drawings, one picturing dante visiting the inferno, another sketching a "pete man," with mask and dark lantern, in the act of boring a safe, while a third bears the inscription: i sometimes hold it half a sin to put in words the grief i feel,-- for words, like nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within. the editorials are short, pithy comments on local events, interspersed with humorous sketches and caricatures of the officials; the balance of the _blossoms_ consists of articles and essays of a more serious character, embracing religion and philosophy, labor and politics, with now and then a personal reminiscence by the "second-story man," or some sex experience by "magazine alvin." one of the associate editors lampoons "billygoat benny," the deputy warden; "k" sketches the "shop screw" and "the trusted prisoner"; and "g" relates the story of the recent strike in his shop, the men's demand for clear pump water instead of the liquid mud tapped from the river, and the breaking of the strike by the exile of a score of "rioters" to the dungeon. in the next issue the incident is paralleled with the pullman car strike, and the punished prisoners eulogized for their courageous stand, some one dedicating an ultra-original poem to the "noble sons of eugene debs." but the vicissitudes of our existence, the change of location of several readers, the illness and death of two contributors, badly disarrange the route. during the winter, "k" produces a little booklet of german poems, while i elaborate the short "story of luba," written the previous year, into a novelette, dealing with life in new york and revolutionary circles. presently "g" suggests that the manuscripts might prove of interest to a larger public, and should be preserved. we discuss the unique plan, wondering how the intellectual contraband could be smuggled into the light of day. in our perplexity we finally take counsel with bob, the faithful commissary. he cuts the gordian knot with astonishing levity: "youse fellows jest go ahead an' write, an' don't bother about nothin'. think i can walk off all right with a team of horses, but ain't got brains enough to get away with a bit of scribbling, eh? jest leave that to th' horsethief, an' write till you bust th' paper works, see?" thus encouraged, with entire confidence in our resourceful friend, we give the matter serious thought, and before long we form the ambitious project of publishing a book by "mkg"! in high elation, with new interest in life, we set to work. the little magazine is suspended, and we devote all our spare time, as well as every available scrap of writing material, to the larger purpose. we decide to honor the approaching day, so pregnant with revolutionary inspiration, and as the sun bursts in brilliant splendor on the eastern skies, the _first of may, _, he steals a blushing beam upon the heading of the first chapter--"the homestead strike." chapter xxiii the scales of justice i the summer fades into days of dull gray; the fog thickens on the ohio; the prison house is dim and damp. the river sirens sound sharp and shrill, and the cells echo with coughing and wheezing. the sick line stretches longer, the men looking more forlorn and dejected. the prisoner in charge of tier "k" suffers a hemorrhage, and is carried to the hospital. from assistant, i am advanced to his position on the range. but one morning the levers are pulled, the cells unlocked, and the men fed, while i remain under key. i wonder at the peculiar oversight, and rap on the bars for the officers. the block captain orders me to desist. request to see the warden, but am gruffly told that he cannot be disturbed in the morning. in vain i rack my brain to fathom the cause of my punishment. i review the incidents of the past weeks, ponder over each detail, but the mystery remains unsolved. perhaps i have unwittingly offended some trusty, or i may be the object of the secret enmity of a spy. the chaplain, on his daily rounds, hands me a letter from the girl, and glances in surprise at the closed door. "not feeling well, m' boy?" he asks. "i'm locked up, chaplain." "what have you done?" "nothing that i know of." "oh, well, you'll be out soon. don't fret, m' boy." but the days pass, and i remain in the cell. the guards look worried, and vent their ill-humor in profuse vulgarity. the deputy tries to appear mysterious, wobbles comically along the range, and splutters at me: "nothin'. shtay where you are." jasper, the colored trusty, flits up and down the hall, tremendously busy, his black face more lustrous than ever. numerous stools nose about the galleries, stop here and there in confidential conversation with officers and prisoners, and whisper excitedly at the front desk. assistant deputy hopkins goes in and out of the block, repeatedly calls jasper to the office, and hovers in the neighborhood of my cell. the rangemen talk in suppressed tones. an air of mystery pervades the cell-house. finally i am called to the warden. with unconcealed annoyance, he demands: "what did you want?" "the officers locked me up--" "who said you're locked up?" he interrupts, angrily. "you're merely locked _in_." "where's the difference?" i ask. "one is locked up 'for cause.' you're just kept in for the present." "on what charge?" "no charge. none whatever. take him back, officers." * * * * * close confinement becomes increasingly more dismal and dreary. by contrast with the spacious hall, the cell grows smaller and narrower, oppressing me with a sense of suffocation. my sudden isolation remains unexplained. notwithstanding the chaplain's promise to intercede in my behalf, i remain locked "in," and again return the days of solitary, with all their gloom and anguish of heart. ii a ray of light is shed from new york. the girl writes in a hopeful vein about the progress of the movement, and the intense interest in my case among radical circles. she refers to comrade merlino, now on a tour of agitation, and is enthusiastic about the favorable labor sentiment toward me, manifested in the cities he had visited. finally she informs me of a plan on foot to secure a reduction of my sentence, and the promising outlook for the collection of the necessary funds. from merlino i receive a sum of money already contributed for the purpose, together with a letter of appreciation and encouragement, concluding: "good cheer, dear comrade; the last word has not yet been spoken." my mind dwells among my friends. the breath from the world of the living fans the smoldering fires of longing; the tone of my comrades revibrates in my heart with trembling hope. but the revision of my sentence involves recourse to the courts! the sudden realization fills me with dismay. i cannot be guilty of a sacrifice of principle to gain freedom; the mere suggestion rouses the violent protest of my revolutionary traditions. in bitterness of soul, i resent my friends' ill-advised waking of the shades. i shall never leave the house of death.... and yet mail from my friends, full of expectation and confidence, arrives more frequently. prominent lawyers have been consulted; their unanimous opinion augurs well: the multiplication of my sentences was illegal; according to the statutes of pennsylvania, the maximum penalty should not have exceeded seven years; the supreme court would undoubtedly reverse the judgment of the lower tribunal, specifically the conviction on charges not constituting a crime under the laws of the state. and so forth. i am assailed by doubts. is it consequent in me to decline liberty, apparently within reach? john most appealed his case to the supreme court, and the girl also took advantage of a legal defence. considerable propaganda resulted from it. should i refuse the opportunity which would offer such a splendid field for agitation? would it not be folly to afford the enemy the triumph of my gradual annihilation? i would without hesitation reject freedom at the price of my convictions; but it involves no denial of my faith to rob the vampire of its prey. we must, if necessary, fight the beast of oppression with its own methods, scourge the law in its own tracks, as it were. of course, the supreme court is but another weapon in the hands of authority, a pretence of impartial right. it decided against most, sustaining the prejudiced verdict of the trial jury. they may do the same in my case. but that very circumstance will serve to confirm our arraignment of class justice. i shall therefore endorse the efforts of my friends. but before long i am informed that an application to the higher court is not permitted. the attorneys, upon examination of the records of the trial, discovered a fatal obstacle, they said. the defendant, not being legally represented, neglected to "take exceptions" to rulings of the court prejudicial to the accused. because of the technical omission, there exists no basis for an appeal. they therefore advise an application to the board of pardons, on the ground that the punishment in my case is excessive. they are confident that the board will act favorably, in view of the obvious unconstitutionality of the compounded sentences,--the five minor indictments being indispensible parts of the major charge and, as such, not constituting separate offences. the unexpected development disquiets me: the sound of "pardon" is detestable. what bitter irony that the noblest intentions, the most unselfish motives, need seek pardon! aye, of the very source that misinterprets and perverts them! for days the implied humiliation keeps agitating me; i recoil from the thought of personally affixing my name to the meek supplication of the printed form, and finally decide to refuse. an accidental conversation with the "attorney general" disturbs my resolution. i learn that in pennsylvania the applicant's signature is not required by the pardon board. a sense of guilty hope steals over me. yet--i reflect--the pardon of the chicago anarchists had contributed much to the dissemination of our ideas. the impartial analysis of the trial-evidence by governor altgeld completely exonerated our comrades from responsibility for the haymarket tragedy, and exposed the heinous conspiracy to destroy the most devoted and able representatives of the labor movement. may not a similar purpose be served by my application for a pardon? i write to my comrades, signifying my consent. we arrange for a personal interview, to discuss the details of the work. unfortunately, the girl, a _persona non grata_, cannot visit me. but a mutual friend, miss garrison, is to call on me within two months. at my request, the chaplain forwards to her the necessary permission, and i impatiently await the first friendly face in two years. iii as unaccountably as my punishment in the solitary, comes the relief at the expiration of three weeks. the "k" hall-boy is still in the hospital, and i resume the duties of rangeman. the guards eye me with suspicion and greater vigilance, but i soon unravel the tangled skein, and learn the details of the abortive escape that caused my temporary retirement. the lock of my neighbor, johnny smith, had been tampered with. the youth, in solitary at the time, necessarily had the aid of another, it being impossible to reach the keyhole from the inside of the cell. the suspicion of the warden centered upon me, but investigation by the stools discovered the men actually concerned, and "dutch" adams, spencer, smith, and jim grant were chastised in the dungeon, and are now locked up "for cause," on my range. by degrees johnny confides to me the true story of the frustrated plan. "dutch," a repeater serving his fifth "bit," and favorite of hopkins, procured a piece of old iron, and had it fashioned into a key in the machine shop, where he was employed. he entrusted the rude instrument to grant, a young reformatory boy, for a preliminary trial. the guileless youth easily walked into the trap, and the makeshift key was broken in the lock--with disastrous results. the tricked boys now swear vengeance upon the _provocateur_, but "dutch" is missing from the range. he has been removed to an upper gallery, and is assigned to a coveted position in the shops. the newspapers print vivid stories of the desperate attempt to escape from riverside, and compliment captain wright and the officers for so successfully protecting the community. the warden is deeply affected, and orders the additional punishment of the offenders with a bread-and-water diet. the deputy walks with inflated chest; hopkins issues orders curtailing the privileges of the inmates, and inflicting greater hardships. the tone of the guards sounds haughtier, more peremptory; jasper's face wears a blissful smile. the trusties look pleased and cheerful, but sullen gloom shrouds the prison. iv i am standing at my cell, when the door of the rotunda slowly opens, and the warden approaches me. "a lady just called; miss garrison, from new york. do you know her?" "she is one of my friends." "i dismissed her. you can't see her." "why? the rules entitle me to a visit every three months. i have had none in two years. i want to see her." "you can't. she needs a permit." "the chaplain sent her one at my request." "a member of the board of inspectors rescinded it by telegraph." "what inspector?" "you can't question me. your visitor has been refused admittance." "will you tell me the reason, warden?" "no reason, no reason whatever." he turns on his heel, when i detain him: "warden, it's two years since i've been in the dungeon. i am in the first grade now," i point to the recently earned dark suit. "i am entitled to all the privileges. why am i deprived of visits?" "not another word." he disappears through the yard door. from the galleries i hear the jeering of a trusty. a guard near by brings his thumb to his nose, and wriggles his fingers in my direction. humiliated and angry, i return to the cell, to find the monthly letter-sheet on my table. i pour out all the bitterness of my heart to the girl, dwell on the warden's discrimination against me, and repeat our conversation and his refusal to admit my visitor. in conclusion, i direct her to have a pittsburgh lawyer apply to the courts, to force the prison authorities to restore to me the privileges allowed by the law to the ordinary prisoner. i drop the letter in the mail-box, hoping that my outburst and the threat of the law will induce the warden to retreat from his position. the girl will, of course, understand the significance of the epistle, aware that my reference to a court process is a diplomatic subterfuge for effect, and not meant to be acted upon. but the next day the chaplain returns the letter to me. "not so rash, my boy," he warns me, not unkindly. "be patient; i'll see what i can do for you." "but the letter, chaplain?" "you've wasted your paper, aleck. i can't pass this letter. but just keep quiet, and i'll look into the matter." weeks pass in evasive replies. finally the chaplain advises a personal interview with the warden. the latter refers me to the inspectors. to each member of the board i address a request for a few minutes' conversation, but a month goes by without word from the high officials. the friendly runner, "southside" johnny, offers to give me an opportunity to speak to an inspector, on the payment of ten plugs of tobacco. unfortunately, i cannot spare my small allowance, but i tender him a dollar bill of the money the girl had sent me artfully concealed in the buckle of a pair of suspenders. the runner is highly elated, and assures me of success, directing me to keep careful watch on the yard door. several days later, passing along the range engaged in my duties, i notice "southside" entering from the yard, in friendly conversation with a strange gentleman in citizen clothes. for a moment i do not realize the situation, but the next instant i am aware of johnny's violent efforts to attract my attention. he pretends to show the man some fancy work made by the inmates, all the while drawing him closer to my door, with surreptitious nods at me. i approach my cell. "this is berkman, mr. nevin, the man who shot frick," johnny remarks. the gentleman turns to me with a look of interest. "good morning, berkman," he says pleasantly. "how long are you doing?" "twenty-two years." "i'm sorry to hear that. it's rather a long sentence. you know who i am?" "inspector nevin, i believe." "yes. you have never seen me before?" "no. i sent a request to see you recently." "when was that?" "a month ago." "strange. i was in the office three weeks ago. there was no note from you on my file. are you sure you sent one?" "quite sure. i sent a request to each inspector." "what's the trouble?" i inform him briefly that i have been deprived of visiting privileges. somewhat surprised, he glances at my dark clothes, and remarks: "you are in the first grade, and therefore entitled to visits. when did you have your last visitor?" "two years ago." "two years?" he asks, almost incredulously. "did the lady from new york have a permit?" the warden hurriedly enters from the yard. "mr. nevin," he calls out anxiously, "i've been looking for you." "berkman was just telling me about his visitor being sent away, captain," the inspector remarks. "yes, yes," the warden smiles, forcedly, "'for cause.'" "oh!" the face of mr. nevin assumes a grave look. "berkman," he turns to me, "you'll have to apply to the secretary of the board, mr. reed. i am not familiar with the internal affairs." the warden links his arm with the inspector, and they walk toward the yard door. at the entrance they are met by "dutch" adams, the shop messenger. "good morning, mr. nevin," the trusty greets him. "won't you issue me a special visit? my mother is sick; she wants to see me." the warden grins at the ready fiction. "when did you have your last visit?" the inspector inquires. "two weeks ago." "you are entitled to one only every three months." "that is why i asked you for an extra, mr. inspector," "dutch" retorts boldly. "i know you are a kind man." mr. nevin smiles good-naturedly and glances at the warden. "dutch is all right," the captain nods. the inspector draws his visiting card, pencils on it, and hands it to the prisoner. chapter xxiv thoughts that stole out of prison april , . my dear girl: i have craved for a long, long time to have a free talk with you, but this is the first opportunity. a good friend, a "lover of horseflesh," promised to see this "birdie" through. i hope it will reach you safely. in my local correspondence you have been christened the "immutable." i realize how difficult it is to keep up letter-writing through the endless years, the points of mutual interest gradually waning. it is one of the tragedies in the existence of a prisoner. "k" and "g" have almost ceased to expect mail. but i am more fortunate. the twin writes very seldom nowadays; the correspondence of other friends is fitful. but you are never disappointing. it is not so much the contents that matter: these increasingly sound like the language of a strange world, with its bewildering flurry and ferment, disturbing the calm of cell-life. but the very arrival of a letter is momentous. it brings a glow into the prisoner's heart to feel that he is remembered, actively, with that intimate interest which alone can support a regular correspondence. and then your letters are so vital, so palpitating with the throb of our common cause. i have greatly enjoyed your communications from paris and vienna, the accounts of the movement and of our european comrades. your letters are so much part of yourself, they bring me nearer to you and to life. the newspaper clippings you have referred to on various occasions, have been withheld from me. nor are any radical publications permitted. i especially regret to miss _solidarity_. i have not seen a single copy since its resurrection two years ago. i have followed the activities of chas. w. mowbray and the recent tour of john turner, so far as the press accounts are concerned. i hope you'll write more about our english comrades. i need not say much of the local life, dear. that you know from my official mail, and you can read between the lines. the action of the pardon board was a bitter disappointment to me. no less to you also, i suppose. not that i was very enthusiastic as to a favorable decision. but that they should so cynically evade the issue,--i was hardly prepared for _that_. i had hoped they would at least consider the case. but evidently they were averse to going on record, one way or another. the lawyers informed me that they were not even allowed an opportunity to present their arguments. the board ruled that "the wrong complained of is not actual"; that is, that i am not yet serving the sentence we want remitted. a lawyer's quibble. it means that i must serve the first sentence of seven years, before applying for the remission of the other indictments. discounting commutation time, i still have about a year to complete the first sentence. i doubt whether it is advisable to try again. little justice can be expected from those quarters. but i want to submit another proposition to you; consult with our friends regarding it. it is this: there is a prisoner here who has just been pardoned by the board, whose president, the lieutenant-governor, is indebted to the prisoner's lawyer for certain political services. the attorney's name is k---- d---- of pittsburgh. he has intimated to his client that he will guarantee my release for $ , . , the sum to be deposited in safe hands and to be paid _only_ in case of success. of course, we cannot afford such a large fee. and i cannot say whether the offer is worth considering; still, you know that almost anything can be bought from politicians. i leave the matter in your hands. the question of my visits seems tacitly settled; i can procure no permit for my friends to see me. for some obscure reason, the warden has conceived a great fear of an anarchist plot against the prison. the local "trio" is under special surveillance and constantly discriminated against, though "k" and "g" are permitted to receive visits. you will smile at the infantile terror of the authorities: it is bruited about that a "certain anarchist lady" (meaning you, i presume; in reality it was henry's sweetheart, a jolly devil-may-care girl) made a threat against the prison. the gossips have it that she visited inspector reed at his business place, and requested to see me. the inspector refusing, she burst out: "we'll blow your dirty walls down." i could not determine whether there is any foundation for the story, but it is circulated here, and the prisoners firmly believe it explains my deprivation of visits. that is a characteristic instance of local conditions. involuntarily i smile at kennan's naïve indignation with the brutalities he thinks possible only in russian and siberian prisons. he would find it almost impossible to learn the true conditions in the american prisons: he would be conducted the rounds of the "show" cells, always neat and clean for the purpose; he would not see the basket cell, nor the bull rings in the dungeon, where men are chained for days; nor would he be permitted to converse for hours, or whole evenings, with the prisoners, as he did with the exiles in siberia. yet if he succeeded in learning even half the truth, he would be forced to revise his views of american penal institutions, as he did in regard to russian politicals. he would be horrified to witness the brutality that is practised here as a matter of routine, the abuse of the insane, the petty persecution. inhumanity is the keynote of stupidity in power. your soul must have been harrowed by the reports of the terrible tortures in montjuich. what is all indignation and lamenting, in the face of the revival of the inquisition? is there no nemesis in spain? chapter xxv how shall the depths cry? i the change of seasons varies the tone of the prison. a cheerier atmosphere pervades the shops and the cell-house in the summer. the block is airier and lighter; the guards relax their stern look, in anticipation of their vacations; the men hopefully count the hours till their approaching freedom, and the gates open daily to release some one going back to the world. but heavy gloom broods over the prison in winter. the windows are closed and nailed; the vitiated air, artificially heated, is suffocating with dryness. smoke darkens the shops, and the cells are in constant dusk. tasks grow heavier, the punishments more severe. the officers look sullen; the men are morose and discontented. the ravings of the insane become wilder, suicides more frequent; despair and hopelessness oppress every heart. the undercurrent of rebellion, swelling with mute suffering and repression, turbulently sweeps the barriers. the severity of the authorities increases, methods of penalizing are more drastic; the prisoners fret, wax more querulous, and turn desperate with blind, spasmodic defiance. but among the more intelligent inmates, dissatisfaction manifest more coherent expression. the lexow investigation in new york has awakened an echo in the prison. a movement is quietly initiated among the solitaries, looking toward an investigation of riverside. i keep busy helping the men exchange notes maturing the project. great care must be exercised to guard against treachery: only men of proved reliability may be entrusted with the secret, and precautions taken that no officer or stool scent our design. the details of the campaign are planned on "k" range, with billy ryan, butch, sloane, and jimmie grant, as the most trustworthy, in command. it is decided that the attack upon the management of the penitentiary is to be initiated from the "outside." a released prisoner is to inform the press of the abuses, graft, and immorality rampant in riverside. the public will demand an investigation. the "cabal" on the range will supply the investigators with data and facts that will rouse the conscience of the community, and cause the dismissal of the warden and the introduction of reforms. a prisoner, about to be discharged, is selected for the important mission of enlightening the press. in great anxiety and expectation we await the newspapers, the day following his liberation; we scan the pages closely. not a word of the penitentiary! probably the released man has not yet had an opportunity to visit the editors. in the joy of freedom, he may have looked too deeply into the cup that cheers. he will surely interview the papers the next day. but the days pass into weeks, without any reference in the press to the prison. the trusted man has failed us! the revelation of the life at riverside is of a nature not to be ignored by the press. the discharged inmate has proved false to his promise. bitterly the solitaries denounce him, and resolve to select a more reliable man among the first candidates for liberty. one after another, a score of men are entrusted with the mission to the press. but the papers remain silent. anxiously, though every day less hopefully, we search their columns. ryan cynically derides the faithlessness of convict promises; butch rages and at the traitors. but sloane is sternly confident in his own probity, and cheers me as i pause at his cell: "never min' them rats, aleck. you just wait till i go out. here's the boy that'll keep his promise all right. what i won't do to old sandy ain't worth mentionin'." "why, you still have two years, ed," i remind him. "not on your tintype, aleck. only one and a stump." "how big is the stump?" "wa-a-ll," he chuckles, looking somewhat diffident, "it's one year, elev'n months, an' twenty-sev'n days. it ain't no two years, though, see?" jimmy grant grows peculiarly reserved, evidently disinclined to talk. he seeks to avoid me. the treachery of the released men fills him with resentment and suspicion of every one. he is impatient of my suggestion that the fault may lie with a servile press. at the mention of our plans, he bursts out savagely: "forget it! you're no good, none of you. let me be!" he turns his back to me, and angrily paces the cell. his actions fill me with concern. the youth seems strangely changed. fortunately, his time is almost served. ii like wildfire the news circles the prison. "the papers are giving sandy hell!" the air in the block trembles with suppressed excitement. jimmy grant, recently released, had sent a communication to the state board of charities, bringing serious charges against the management of riverside. the press publishes startlingly significant excerpts from grant's letter. editorially, however, the indictment is ignored by the majority of the pittsburgh papers. one writer comments ambiguously, in guarded language, suggesting the improbability of the horrible practices alleged by grant. another eulogizes warden wright as an intelligent and humane man, who has the interest of the prisoners at heart. the detailed accusations are briefly dismissed as unworthy of notice, because coming from a disgruntled criminal who had not found prison life to his liking. only the _leader_ and the _dispatch_ consider the matter seriously, refer to the numerous complaints from discharged prisoners, and suggest the advisability of an investigation; they urge upon the warden the necessity of disproving, once for all, the derogatory statements regarding his management. within a few days the president of the board of charities announces his decision to "look over" the penitentiary. december is on the wane, and the board is expected to visit riverside after the holidays. iii k. & g.: of course, neither of you has any more faith in alleged investigations than myself. the lexow investigation, which shocked the whole country with its exposé of police corruption, has resulted in practically nothing. one or two subordinates have been "scapegoated"; those "higher up" went unscathed, as usual; the "system" itself remains in _statu quo_. the one who has mostly profited by the spasm of morality is goff, to whom the vice crusade afforded an opportunity to rise from obscurity into the national limelight. parkhurst also has subsided, probably content with the enlarged size of his flock and--salary. to give the devil his due, however, i admired his perseverance and courage in face of the storm of ridicule and scorn that met his initial accusations against the glorious police department of the metropolis. but though every charge has been proved in the most absolute manner, the situation, as a whole, remains unchanged. it is the history of all investigations. as the germans say, you can't convict the devil in the court of his mother-in-law. it has again been demonstrated by the congressional "inquiry" into the carnegie blow-hole armor plate; in the terrible revelations regarding superintendent brockway, of the elmira reformatory--a veritable den for maiming and killing; and in numerous other instances. warden wright also was investigated, about ten years ago; a double set of books was then found, disclosing peculation of appropriations and theft of the prison product; brutality and murder were uncovered--yet sandy has remained in his position. * * * * * we can, therefore, expect nothing from the proposed investigation by the board of charities. i have no doubt it will be a whitewash. but i think that we--the anarchist trio--should show our solidarity, and aid the inmates with our best efforts; we must prevent the investigation resulting in a farce, so far as evidence against the management is concerned. we should leave the board no loophole, no excuse of a lack of witnesses or proofs to support grant's charges. i am confident you will agree with me in this. i am collecting data for presentation to the investigators; i am also preparing a list of volunteer witnesses. i have seventeen numbers on my range and others from various parts of this block and from the shops. they all seem anxious to testify, though i am sure some will weaken when the critical moment arrives. several have already notified me to erase their names. but we shall have a sufficient number of witnesses; we want preferably such men as have personally suffered a clubbing, the bull ring, hanging by the wrists, or other punishment forbidden by the law. i have already notified the warden that i wish to testify before the investigation committee. my purpose was to anticipate his objection that there are already enough witnesses. i am the first on the list now. the completeness of the case against the authorities will surprise you. fortunately, my position as rangeman has enabled me to gather whatever information i needed. i will send you to-morrow duplicates of the evidence (to insure greater safety for our material). for the present i append a partial list of our "exhibits": * * * * * ( ) cigarettes and outside tobacco; bottle of whiskey and "dope"; dice, playing cards, cash money, several knives, two razors, postage stamps, outside mail, and other contraband. (these are for the purpose of proving the warden a liar in denying to the press the existence of gambling in the prison, the selling of bakery and kitchen provisions for cash, the possession of weapons, and the possibility of underground communication.) ( ) prison-made beer. a demonstration of the staleness of our bread and the absence of potatoes in the soup. (the beer is made from fermented yeast stolen by the trusties from the bakery; also from potatoes.) ( ) favoritism; special privileges of trusties; political jobs; the system of stool espionage. ( ) pennsylvania diet; basket; dungeon; cuffing and chaining up; neglect of the sick; punishment of the insane. ( ) names and numbers of men maltreated and clubbed. ( ) data of assaults and cutting affrays in connection with "kid-business," the existence of which the warden absolutely denies. ( ) special case of a- , who attacked the warden in church, because of jealousy of "lady goldie." ( ) graft: (_a_) hosiery department: fake labels, fictitious names of manufacture, false book entries. (_b_) broom-shop: convict labor hired out, contrary to law, to lang bros., broom manufacturers, of allegheny, pa. goods sold to the united states government, through sham middleman. labels bear legend, "union broom." sample enclosed. [illustration] (_c_) mats, mattings, mops--product not stamped. (_d_) shoe and tailor shops: prison materials used for the private needs of the warden, the officers, and their families. (_e_) $ , , appropriated by the state ( ) for a new chapel. the bricks of the old building used for the new, except one outside layer. all the work done by prisoners. architect, mr. a. wright, the warden's son. actual cost of chapel, $ , . the inmates _forced_ to attend services to overcrowd the old church; after the desired appropriation was secured, attendance became optional. (_f_) library: the c. tax, exacted from every unofficial visitor, is supposed to go to the book fund. about visitors per day, the year round. no new books added to the library in years. old duplicates donated by the public libraries of pittsburgh are catalogued as purchased new books. (_g_) robbing the prisoners of remuneration for their labor. see copy of act of , p. l. . law on prison labor and wages of convicts (act of , june th, p. l. ) section --at the expiration of existing contracts wardens are directed to employ the convicts under their control for and in behalf of the state. section --no labor shall be hired out by contract. section --all convicts under the control of the state and county officers, and all inmates of reformatory institutions engaged in the manufacture of articles for general consumption, shall receive quarterly wages equal to the amount of their earnings, to be fixed from time to time by the authorities of the institution, from which board, lodging, clothing, and costs of trial shall be deducted, and the balance paid to their families or dependents; in case none such appear, the amount shall be paid to the convict at the expiration of his term of imprisonment. the prisoners receive no payment whatever, even for overtime work, except occasionally a slice of pork for supper. k. g., plant this and other material i'll send you, in a safe place. m. chapter xxvi hiding the evidence i it is new year's eve. an air of pleasant anticipation fills the prison; to-morrow's feast is the exciting subject of conversation. roast beef will be served for dinner, with a goodly loaf of currant bread, and two cigars for dessert. extra men have been drafted for the kitchen; they flit from block to yard, looking busy and important, yet halting every passer-by to whisper with secretive mien, "don't say i told you. sweet potatoes to-morrow!" the younger inmates seem skeptical, and strive to appear indifferent, the while they hover about the yard door, nostrils expanded, sniffing the appetizing wafts from the kitchen. here and there an old-timer grumbles: we should have had sweet "murphies" for christmas. "'too high-priced,' sandy said," they sneer in ill humor. the new arrivals grow uneasy; perhaps they are still too expensive? some study the market quotations on the delicacy. but the chief cook drops in to visit "his" boy, and confides to the rangeman that the sweet potatoes are a "sure thing," just arrived and counted. the happy news is whispered about, with confident assurance, yet tinged with anxiety. there is great rejoicing among the men. only sol, the lifer, is querulous: he doesn't care a snap about the "extra feed"--stomach still sour from the christmas dinner--and, anyhow, it only makes the week-a-day "grub" more disgusting. the rules are somewhat relaxed. the hallmen converse freely; the yard gangs lounge about and cluster in little groups, that separate at the approach of a superior officer. men from the bakery and kitchen run in and out of the block, their pockets bulging suspiciously. "what are you after?" the doorkeeper halts them. "oh, just to my cell; forgot my handkerchief." the guard answers the sly wink with an indulgent smile. "all right; go ahead, but don't be long." if "papa" mitchell is about, he thunders at the chief cook, his bosom swelling with packages: "wotch 'er got there, eh? big family of kids _you_ have, jim. first thing you know, you'll swipe the hinges off th' kitchen door." the envied bakery and kitchen employees supply their friends with extra holiday tidbits, and the solitaries dance in glee at the sight of the savory dainty, the fresh brown bread generously dotted with sweet currants. it is the prelude of the promised culinary symphony. * * * * * the evening is cheerful with mirth and jollity. the prisoners at first converse in whispers, then become bolder, and talk louder through the bars. as night approaches, the cell-house rings with unreserved hilarity and animation,--light-hearted chaff mingled with coarse jests and droll humor. a wag on the upper tier banters the passing guards, his quips and sallies setting the adjoining cells in a roar, and inspiring imitation. * * * * * slowly the babel of tongues subsides, as the gong sounds the order to retire. some one shouts to a distant friend, "hey, bill, are you there? ye-es? stay there!" it grows quiet, when suddenly my neighbor on the left sing-songs, "fellers, who's goin' to sit up with me to greet new year's." a dozen voices yell their acceptance. "little frenchy," the spirited grayhead on the top tier, vociferates shrilly, "me, too, boys. i'm viz you all right." all is still in the cell-house, save for a wild indian whoop now and then by the vigil-keeping boys. the block breathes in heavy sleep; loud snoring sounds from the gallery above. only the irregular tread of the felt-soled guards falls muffled in the silence. * * * * * the clock in the upper rotunda strikes the midnight hour. a siren on the ohio intones its deep-chested bass. another joins it, then another. shrill factory whistles pierce the boom of cannon; the sweet chimes of a nearby church ring in joyful melody between. instantly the prison is astir. tin cans rattle against iron bars, doors shake in fury, beds and chairs squeak and screech, pans slam on the floor, shoes crash against the walls with a dull thud, and rebound noisily on the stone. unearthly yelling, shouting, and whistling rend the air; an inventive prisoner beats a wild tatto with a tin pan on the table--a veritable bedlam of frenzy has broken loose in both wings. the prisoners are celebrating the advent of the new year. * * * * * the voices grow hoarse and feeble. the tin clanks languidly against the iron, the grating of the doors sounds weaker. the men are exhausted with the unwonted effort. the guards stumbled up the galleries, their forms swaying unsteadily in the faint flicker of the gaslight. in maudlin tones they command silence, and bid the men retire to bed. the younger, more daring, challenge the order with husky howls and catcalls,--a defiant shout, a groan, and all is quiet. daybreak wakes the turmoil and uproar. for twenty-four hours the long-repressed animal spirits are rampant. no music or recreation honors the new year; the day is passed in the cell. the prisoners, securely barred and locked, are permitted to vent their pain and sorrow, their yearnings and hopes, in a saturnalia of tumult. ii the month of january brings sedulous activity. shops and block are overhauled, every nook and corner is scoured, and a special squad detailed to whitewash the cells. the yearly clean-up not being due till spring, i conclude from the unusual preparations that the expected visit of the board of charities is approaching. * * * * * the prisoners are agog with the coming investigation. the solitaries and prospective witnesses are on the _qui vive_, anxious lines on their faces. some manifest fear of the ill will of the warden, as the probable result of their testimony. i seek to encourage them by promising to assume full responsibility, but several men withdraw their previous consent. the safety of my data causes me grave concern, in view of the increasing frequency of searches. deliberation finally resolves itself into the bold plan of secreting my most valuable material in the cell set aside for the use of the officers. it is the first cell on the range; it is never locked, and is ignored at searches because it is not occupied by prisoners. the little bundle, protected with a piece of oilskin procured from the dispensary, soon reposes in the depths of the waste pipe. a stout cord secures it from being washed away by the rush of water, when the privy is in use. i call officer mitchell's attention to the dusty condition of the cell, and offer to sweep it every morning and afternoon. he accedes in an offhand manner, and twice daily i surreptitiously examine the tension of the water-soaked cord, renewing the string repeatedly. other material and copies of my "exhibits" are deposited with several trustworthy friends on the range. everything is ready for the investigation, and we confidently await the coming of the board of charities. iii the cell-house rejoices at the absence of scot woods. the block captain of the morning has been "reduced to the ranks." the disgrace is signalized by his appearance on the wall, pacing the narrow path in the chilly winter blasts. the guards look upon the assignment as "punishment duty" for incurring the displeasure of the warden. the keepers smile at the indiscreet scot interfering with the self-granted privileges of "southside" johnny, one of the warden's favorites. the runner who afforded me an opportunity to see inspector nevin, came out victorious in the struggle with woods. the latter was upbraided by captain wright in the presence of johnny, who is now officially authorized in his perquisites. sufficient time was allowed to elapse, to avoid comment, whereupon the officer was withdrawn from the block. i regret his absence. a severe disciplinarian, woods was yet very exceptional among the guards, in that he sought to discourage the spying of prisoners on each other. he frowned upon the trusties, and strove to treat the men impartially. mitchell has been changed to the morning shift to fill the vacancy made by the transfer of woods. the charge of the block in the afternoon devolves upon officer mcilvaine, a very corpulent man, with sharp, steely eyes. he is considerably above the average warder in intelligence, but extremely fond of jasper, who now acts as his assistant, the obese turnkey rarely leaving his seat at the front desk. * * * * * changes of keepers, transfers from the shops to the two cell-houses are frequent; the new guards are alert and active. almost daily the warden visits the ranges, leaving in his wake more stringent discipline. rarely do i find a chance to pause at the cells; i keep in touch with the men through the medium of notes. but one day, several fights breaking out in the shops, the block officers are requisitioned to assist in placing the combatants in the punishment cells. the front is deserted, and i improve the opportunity to talk to the solitaries. jasper, "southside," and bob runyon, the "politicians," also converse at the doors, bob standing suspiciously close to the bars. suddenly officer mcilvaine appears in the yard door. his face is flushed, his eyes filling with wrath as they fasten on the men at the cells. "hey, you fellows, get away from there!" he shouts. "confound you all, the 'old man' just gave me the deuce; too much talking in the block. i won't stand for it, that's all," he adds petulantly. within half an hour i am haled before the warden. he looks worried, deep lines of anxiety about his mouth. "you are reported for standing at the doors," he snarls at me. "what are you always telling the men?" "it's the first time the officer--" "nothing of the kind," he interrupts; "you're always talking to the prisoners. they are in punishment, and you have no business with them." "why was _i_ picked out? others talk, too." "ye-e-s?" he drawls sarcastically; then, turning to the keeper, he says: "how is that, officer? the man is charging you with neglect of duty." "i am not charging--" "silence! what have you to say, mr. mcilvaine?" the guard reddens with suppressed rage. "it isn't true, captain," he replies; "there was no one except berkman." "you hear what the officer says? you are always breaking the rules. you're plotting; i know you,--pulling a dozen wires. you are inimical to the management of the institution. but i will break your connections. officers, take him directly to the south wing, you understand? he is not to return to his cell. have it searched at once, thoroughly. lock him up." "warden, what for?" i demand. "i have not done anything to lose my position. talking is not such a serious charge." "very serious, very serious. you're too dangerous on the range. i'll spoil your infernal schemes by removing you from the north block. you've been there too long." "i want to remain there." "the more reason to take you away. that will do now." "no, it won't," i burst out. "i'll stay where i am." "remove him, mr. mcilvaine." i am taken to the south wing and locked up in a vacant cell, neglected and ill-smelling. it is number , range m--the first gallery, facing the yard; a "double" cell, somewhat larger than those of the north block, and containing a small window. the walls are damp and bare, save for the cardboard of printed rules and the prison calendar. it is the th of february, , but the calendar is of last year, indicating that the cell has not been occupied since the previous november. it contains the usual furnishings: bedstead and soiled straw mattress, a small table and a chair. it feels cold and dreary. in thought i picture the guards ransacking my former cell. they will not discover anything: my material is well hidden. the warden evidently suspects my plans: he fears my testimony before the investigation committee. my removal is to sever my connections, and now it is impossible for me to reach my data. i must return to the north block; otherwise all our plans are doomed to fail. i can't leave my friends on the range in the lurch: some of them have already signified to the chaplain their desire to testify; their statements will remain unsupported in the absence of my proofs. i must rejoin them. i have told the warden that i shall remain where i was, but he probably ignored it as an empty boast. i consider the situation, and resolve to "break up housekeeping." it is the sole means of being transferred to the other cell-house. it will involve the loss of the grade, and a trip to the dungeon; perhaps even a fight with the keepers: the guards, fearing the broken furniture will be used for defence, generally rush the prisoner with blackjacks. but my return to the north wing will be assured,--no man in stripes can remain in the south wing. alert for an approaching step, i untie my shoes, producing a scrap of paper, a pencil, and a knife. i write a hurried note to "k," briefly informing him of the new developments, and intimating that our data are safe. guardedly i attract the attention of the runner on the floor beneath; it is bill say, through whom carl occasionally communicates with "g." the note rolled into a little ball, i shoot between the bars to the waiting prisoner. now everything is prepared. it is near supper time; the men are coming back from work. it would be advisable to wait till everybody is locked in, and the shop officers depart home. there will then be only three guards on duty in the block. but i am in a fever of indignation and anger. furiously snatching up the chair, i start "breaking up." chapter xxvii love's dungeon flower the dungeon smells foul and musty; the darkness is almost visible, the silence oppressive; but the terror of my former experience has abated. i shall probably be kept in the underground cell for a longer time than on the previous occasion,--my offence is considered very grave. three charges have been entered against me: destroying state property, having possession of a knife, and uttering a threat against the warden. when i saw the officers gathering at my back, while i was facing the captain, i realized its significance. they were preparing to assault me. quickly advancing to the warden, i shook my fist in his face, crying: "if they touch me, i'll hold you personally responsible." he turned pale. trying to steady his voice, he demanded: "what do you mean? how dare you?" "i mean just what i say. i won't be clubbed. my friends will avenge me, too." he glanced at the guards standing rigid, in ominous silence. one by one they retired, only two remaining, and i was taken quietly to the dungeon. * * * * * the stillness is broken by a low, muffled sound. i listen intently. it is some one pacing the cell at the further end of the passage. "halloo! who's there?" i shout. no reply. the pacing continues. it must be "silent nick"; he never talks. i prepare to pass the night on the floor. it is bare; there is no bed or blanket, and i have been deprived of my coat and shoes. it is freezing in the cell; my feet grow numb, hands cold, as i huddle in the corner, my head leaning against the reeking wall, my body on the stone floor. i try to think, but my thoughts are wandering, my brain frigid. * * * * * the rattling of keys wakes me from my stupor. guards are descending into the dungeon. i wonder whether it is morning, but they pass my cell: it is not yet breakfast time. now they pause and whisper. i recognize the mumbling speech of deputy greaves, as he calls out to the silent prisoner: "want a drink?" the double doors open noisily. "here!" "give me the cup," the hoarse bass resembles that of "crazy smithy." his stentorian voice sounds cracked since he was shot in the neck by officer dean. "you can't have th' cup," the deputy fumes. "i won't drink out of your hand, god damn you. think i'm a cur, do you?" smithy swears and curses savagely. the doors are slammed and locked. the steps grow faint, and all is silent, save the quickened footfall of smith, who will not talk to any prisoner. i pass the long night in drowsy stupor, rousing at times to strain my ear for every sound from the rotunda above, wondering whether day is breaking. the minutes drag in dismal darkness.... the loud clanking of the keys tingles in my ears like sweet music. it is morning! the guards hand me the day's allowance--two ounces of white bread and a quart of water. the wheat tastes sweet; it seems to me i've never eaten anything so delectable. but the liquid is insipid, and nauseates me. at almost one bite i swallow the slice, so small and thin. it whets my appetite, and i feel ravenously hungry. at smith's door the scene of the previous evening is repeated. the deputy insists that the man drink out of the cup held by a guard. the prisoner refuses, with a profuse flow of profanity. suddenly there is a splash, followed by a startled cry, and the thud of the cell bucket on the floor. smith has emptied the contents of his privy upon the officers. in confusion they rush out of the dungeon. presently i hear the clatter of many feet in the cellar. there is a hubbub of suppressed voices. i recognize the rasping whisper of hopkins, the tones of woods, mcilvaine, and others. i catch the words, "both sides at once." several cells in the dungeon are provided with double entrances, front and back, to facilitate attacks upon obstreperous prisoners. smith is always assigned to one of these cells. i shudder as i realize that the officers are preparing to club the demented man. he has been weakened by years of unbroken solitary confinement, and his throat still bleeds occasionally from the bullet wound. almost half his time he has been kept in the dungeon, and now he has been missing from the range twelve days. it is.... involuntarily i shut my eyes at the fearful thud of the riot clubs. * * * * * the hours drag on. the monotony is broken by the keepers bringing another prisoner to the dungeon. i hear his violent sobbing from the depth of the cavern. "who is there?" i hail him. i call repeatedly, without receiving an answer. perhaps the new arrival is afraid of listening guards. "ho, man!" i sing out, "the screws have gone. who are you? this is aleck, aleck berkman." "is that you, aleck? this is johnny." there is a familiar ring about the young voice, broken by piteous moans. but i fail to identify it. "what johnny?" "johnny davis--you know--stocking shop. i've just--killed a man." in bewilderment i listen to the story, told with bursts of weeping. johnny had returned to the shop; he thought he would try again: he wanted to earn his "good" time. things went well for a while, till "dutch" adams became shop runner. he is the stool who got grant and johnny smith in trouble with the fake key, and davis would have nothing to do with him. but "dutch" persisted, pestering him all the time; and then-- "well, you know, aleck," the boy seems diffident, "he lied about me like hell: he told the fellows he _used_ me. christ, my mother might hear about it! i couldn't stand it, aleck; honest to god, i couldn't. i--i killed the lying cur, an' now--now i'll--i'll swing for it," he sobs as if his heart would break. a touch of tenderness for the poor boy is in my voice, as i strive to condole with him and utter the hope that it may not be so bad, after all. perhaps adams will not die. he is a powerful man, big and strong; he may survive. johnny eagerly clutches at the straw. he grows more cheerful, and we talk of the coming investigation and local affairs. perhaps the board will even clear him, he suggests. but suddenly seized with fear, he weeps and moans again. more men are cast into the dungeon. they bring news from the world above. an epidemic of fighting seems to have broken out in the wake of recent orders. the total inhibition of talking is resulting in more serious offences. "kid tommy" is enlarging upon his trouble. "you see, fellers," he cries in a treble, "dat skunk of a pete he pushes me in de line, and i turns round t' give 'im hell, but de screw pipes me. got no chance t' choo, so i turns an' biffs him on de jaw, see?" but he is sure, he says, to be let out at night, or in the morning, at most. "them fellers that was scrappin' yesterday in de yard didn't go to de hole. dey jest put 'em in de cell. sandy knows de committee's comin' all right." johnny interrupts the loquacious boy to inquire anxiously about "dutch" adams, and i share his joy at hearing that the man's wound is not serious. he was cut about the shoulders, but was able to walk unassisted to the hospital. johnny overflows with quiet happiness; the others dance and sing. i recite a poem from nekrassov; the boys don't understand a word, but the sorrow-laden tones appeal to them, and they request more russian "pieces." but tommy is more interested in politics, and is bristling with the latest news from the magee camp. he is a great admirer of quay,--"dere's a smart guy fer you, fellers; owns de whole keystone shebang all right, all right. he's boss quay, you bet you." he dives into national issues, rails at bryan, " to bill, you jest list'n to 'm, he'll give sixteen dollars to every one; he will, nit!" and the boys are soon involved in a heated discussion of the respective merits of the two political parties, tommy staunchly siding with the republican. "me gran'fader and me fader was republicans," he vociferates, "an' all me broders vote de ticket. me fer de gran' ole party, ev'ry time." some one twits him on his political wisdom, challenging the boy to explain the difference in the money standards. tommy boldly appeals to me to corroborate him; but before i have an opportunity to speak, he launches upon other issues, berating spain for her atrocities in cuba, and insisting that this free country cannot tolerate slavery at its doors. every topic is discussed, with tommy orating at top speed, and continually broaching new subjects. unexpectedly he reverts to local affairs, waxes reminiscent over former days, and loudly smacks his lips at the "great feeds" he enjoyed on the rare occasions when he was free to roam the back streets of smoky city. "say, aleck, my boy," he calls to me familiarly, "many a penny i made on _you_, all right. how? why, peddlin' extras, of course! say, dem was fine days, all right; easy money; papers went like hot cakes off the griddle. wish you'd do it again, aleck." * * * * * invisible to each other, we chat, exchange stories and anecdotes, the boys talking incessantly, as if fearful of silence. but every now and then there is a lull; we become quiet, each absorbed in his own thoughts. the pauses lengthen--lengthen into silence. only the faint steps of "crazy smith" disturb the deep stillness. * * * * * late in the evening the young prisoners are relieved. but johnny remains, and his apprehensions reawaken. repeatedly during the night he rouses me from my drowsy torpor to be reassured that he is not in danger of the gallows, and that he will not be tried for his assault. i allay his fears by dwelling on the warden's aversion to giving publicity to the sex practices in the prison, and remind the boy of the captain's official denial of their existence. these things happen almost every week, yet no one has ever been taken to court from riverside on such charges. johnny grows more tranquil, and we converse about his family history, talking in a frank, confidential manner. with a glow of pleasure, i become aware of the note of tenderness in his voice. presently he surprises me by asking: "friend aleck, what do they call you in russian?" he prefers the fond "sashenka," enunciating the strange word with quaint endearment, then diffidently confesses dislike for his own name, and relates the story he had recently read of a poor castaway cuban youth; felipe was his name, and he was just like himself. "shall i call you felipe?" i offer. "yes, please do, aleck, dear; no, sashenka." the springs of affection well up within me, as i lie huddled on the stone floor, cold and hungry. with closed eyes, i picture the boy before me, with his delicate face, and sensitive, girlish lips. "good night, dear sashenka," he calls. "good night, little felipe." * * * * * in the morning we are served with a slice of bread and water. i am tormented with thirst and hunger, and the small ration fails to assuage my sharp pangs. smithy still refuses to drink out of the deputy's hand; his doors remain unopened. with tremulous anxiety johnny begs the deputy warden to tell him how much longer he will remain in the dungeon, but greaves curtly commands silence, applying a vile epithet to the boy. "deputy," i call, boiling over with indignation, "he asked you a respectful question. i'd give him a decent answer." "you mind your own business, you hear?" he retorts. but i persist in defending my young friend, and berate the deputy for his language. he hastens away in a towering passion, menacing me with "what smithy got." johnny is distressed at being the innocent cause of the trouble. the threat of the deputy disquiets him, and he warns me to prepare. my cell is provided with a double entrance, and i am apprehensive of a sudden attack. but the hours pass without the deputy returning, and our fears are allayed. the boy rejoices on my account, and brims over with appreciation of my intercession. the incident cements our intimacy; our first diffidence disappears, and we become openly tender and affectionate. the conversation lags: we feel weak and worn. but every little while we hail each other with words of encouragement. smithy incessantly paces the cell; the gnawing of the river rats reaches our ears; the silence is frequently pierced by the wild yells of the insane man, startling us with dread foreboding. the quiet grows unbearable, and johnny calls again: "what are you doing, sashenka?" "oh, nothing. just thinking, felipe." "am i in your thoughts, dear?" "yes, kiddie, you are." "sasha, dear, i've been thinking, too." "what, felipe?" "you are the only one i care for. i haven't a friend in the whole place." "do you care much for me, felipe?" "will you promise not to laugh at me, sashenka?" "i wouldn't laugh at you." "cross your hand over your heart. got it, sasha?" "yes." "well, i'll tell you. i was thinking--how shall i tell you? i was thinking, sashenka--if you were here with me--i would like to kiss you." an unaccountable sense of joy glows in my heart, and i muse in silence. "what's the matter, sashenka? why don't you say something? are you angry with me?" "no, felipe, you foolish little boy." "you are laughing at me." "no, dear; i feel just as you do." "really?" "yes." "oh, i am so glad, sashenka." * * * * * in the evening the guards descend to relieve johnny; he is to be transferred to the basket, they inform him. on the way past my cell, he whispers: "hope i'll see you soon, sashenka." a friendly officer knocks on the outer blind door of my cell. "that you thar, berkman? you want to b'have to th' dep'ty. he's put you down for two more days for sassin' him." i feel more lonesome at the boy's departure. the silence grows more oppressive, the hours of darkness heavier. * * * * * seven days i remain in the dungeon. at the expiration of the week, feeling stiff and feeble, i totter behind the guards, on the way to the bathroom. my body looks strangely emaciated, reduced almost to a skeleton. the pangs of hunger revive sharply with the shock of the cold shower, and the craving for tobacco is overpowering at the sight of the chewing officers. i look forward to being placed in a cell, quietly exulting at my victory as i am led to the north wing. but, in the cell-house, the deputy warden assigns me to the lower end of range a, insane department. exasperated by the terrible suggestion, my nerves on edge with the dungeon experience, i storm in furious protest, demanding to be returned to "the hole." the deputy, startled by my violence, attempts to soothe me, and finally yields. i am placed in number , the "crank row" beginning several cells further. upon the heels of the departing officers, the rangeman is at my door, bursting with the latest news. the investigation is over, the warden whitewashed! for an instant i am aghast, failing to grasp the astounding situation. slowly its full significance dawns on me, as bill excitedly relates the story. it's the talk of the prison. the board of charities had chosen its secretary, j. francis torrance, an intimate friend of the warden, to conduct the investigation. as a precautionary measure, i was kept several additional days in the dungeon. mr. torrance has privately interviewed "dutch" adams, young smithy, and bob runyon, promising them their full commutation time, notwithstanding their bad records, and irrespective of their future behavior. they were instructed by the secretary to corroborate the management, placing all blame upon me! no other witnesses were heard. the "investigation" was over within an hour, the committee of one retiring for dinner to the adjoining residence of the warden. several friendly prisoners linger at my cell during the afternoon, corroborating the story of the rangeman, and completing the details. the cell-house itself bears out the situation; the change in the personnel of the men is amazing. "dutch" adams has been promoted to messenger for the "front office," the most privileged "political" job in the prison. bob runyon, a third-timer and notorious "kid man," has been appointed a trusty in the shops. but the most significant cue is the advancement of young smithy to the position of rangeman. he has but recently been sentenced to a year's solitary for the broken key discovered in the lock of his door. his record is of the worst. he is a young convict of extremely violent temper, who has repeatedly attacked fellow-prisoners with dangerous weapons. since his murderous assault upon the inoffensive "praying andy," smithy was never permitted out of his cell without the escort of two guards. and now this irresponsible man is in charge of a range! * * * * * at supper, young smithy steals up to my cell, bringing a slice of cornbread. i refuse the peace offering, and charge him with treachery. at first he stoutly protests his innocence, but gradually weakens and pleads his dire straits in mitigation. torrance had persuaded him to testify, but he avoided incriminating me. that was done by the other two witnesses; he merely exonerated the warden from the charges preferred by james grant. he had been clubbed four times, but he denied to the committee that the guards practice violence; and he supported the warden in his statement that the officers are not permitted to carry clubs or blackjacks. he feels that an injustice has been done me, and now that he occupies my former position, he will be able to repay the little favors i did him when he was in solitary. indignantly i spurn his offer. he pleads his youth, the torture of the cell, and begs my forgiveness; but i am bitter at his treachery, and bid him go. officer mcilvaine pauses at my door. "oh, what a change, what an awful change!" he exclaims, pityingly. i don't know whether he refers to my appearance, or to the loss of range liberty; but i resent his tone of commiseration; it was he who had selected me as a victim, to be reported for talking. angrily i turn my back to him, refusing to talk. somebody stealthily pushes a bundle of newspapers between the bars. whole columns detail the report of the "investigation," completely exonerating warden edward s. wright. the base charges against the management of the penitentiary were the underhand work of anarchist berkman, mr. torrance assured the press. one of the papers contains a lengthy interview with wright, accusing me of fostering discontent and insubordination among the men. the captain expresses grave fear for the safety of the community, should the pardon board reduce my sentence, in view of the circumstance that my lawyers are preparing to renew the application at the next session. in great agitation i pace the cell. the statement of the warden is fatal to the hope of a pardon. my life in the prison will now be made still more unbearable. i shall again be locked in solitary. with despair i think of my fate in the hands of the enemy, and the sense of my utter helplessness overpowers me. chapter xxviii for safety dear k.: i know you must have been worried about me. give no credence to the reports you hear. i did not try to suicide. i was very nervous and excited over the things that happened while i was in the dungeon. i saw the papers after i came up--you know what they said. i couldn't sleep; i kept pacing the floor. the screws were hanging about my cell, but i paid no attention to them. they spoke to me, but i wouldn't answer: i was in no mood for talking. they must have thought something wrong with me. the doctor came, and felt my pulse, and they took me to the hospital. the warden rushed in and ordered me into a strait-jacket. "for safety," he said. you know officer erwin; he put the jacket on me. he's a pretty decent chap; i saw he hated to do it. but the evening screw is a rat. he called three times during the night, and every time he'd tighten the straps. i thought he'd cut my hands off; but i wouldn't cry for mercy, and that made him wild. they put me in the "full size" jacket that winds all around you, the arms folded. they laid me, tied in the canvas, on the bed, bound me to it feet and chest, with straps provided with padlocks. i was suffocating in the hot ward; could hardly breathe. in the morning they unbound me. my legs were paralyzed, and i could not stand up. the doctor ordered some medicine for me. the head nurse (he's in for murder, and he's rotten) taunted me with the "black bottle." every time he passed my bed, he'd say: "you still alive? wait till i fix something up for you." i refused the medicine, and then they took me down to the dispensary, lashed me to a chair, and used the pump on me. you can imagine how i felt. that went on for a week; every night in the strait-jacket, every morning the pump. now i am back in the block, in a. a peculiar coincidence,--it's the same cell i occupied when i first came here. don't trust bill say. the warden told me he knew about the note i sent you just before i smashed up. if you got it, bill must have read it and told sandy. only dear old horsethief can be relied upon. how near the boundary of joy is misery! i shall never forget the first morning in the jacket. i passed a restless night, but just as it began to dawn i must have lost consciousness. suddenly i awoke with the most exquisite music in my ears. it seemed to me as if the heavens had opened in a burst of ecstasy.... it was only a little sparrow, but never before in my life did i hear such sweet melody. i felt murder in my heart when the convict nurse drove the poor birdie from the window ledge. a. chapter xxix dreams of freedom i like an endless _miserere_ are the days in the solitary. no glimmer of light cheers the to-morrows. in the depths of suffering, existence becomes intolerable; and as of old, i seek refuge in the past. the stages of my life reappear as the acts of a drama which i cannot bring myself to cut short. the possibilities of the dark motive compel the imagination, and halt the thought of destruction. misery magnifies the estimate of self; the vehemence of revolt strengthens to endure. despair engenders obstinate resistance; in its spirit hope is trembling. slowly it assumes more definite shape: escape is the sole salvation. the world of the living is dim and unreal with distance; its voice reaches me like the pale echo of fantasy; the thought of its turbulent vitality is strange with apprehension. but the present is bitter with wretchedness, and gasps desperately for relief. the efforts of my friends bring a glow of warmth into my life. the indefatigable girl has succeeded in interesting various circles: she is gathering funds for my application for a rehearing before the pardon board in the spring of ' , when my first sentence of seven years will have expired. with a touch of old-time tenderness, i think of her loyalty, her indomitable perseverance in my behalf. it is she, almost she alone, who has kept my memory green throughout the long years. even fedya, my constant chum, has been swirled into the vortex of narrow ambition and self-indulgence, the plaything of commonplace fate. resentment at being thus lightly forgotten tinges my thoughts of the erstwhile twin brother of our ideal-kissed youth. by contrast, the girl is silhouetted on my horizon as the sole personification of revolutionary persistence, the earnest of its realization. beyond, all is darkness--the mystic world of falsehood and sham, that will hate and persecute me even as its brutal high priests in the prison. here and there the gloom is rent: an unknown sympathizer, or comrade, sends a greeting; i pore eagerly over the chirography, and from the clear, decisive signature, "voltairine de cleyre," strive to mold the character and shape the features of the writer. to the girl i apply to verify my "reading," and rejoice in the warm interest of the convent-educated american, a friend of my much-admired comrade dyer d. lum, who is aiding the girl in my behalf. but the efforts for a rehearing wake no hope in my heart. my comrades, far from the prison world, do not comprehend the full significance of the situation resulting from the investigation. my underground connections are paralyzed; i cannot enlighten the girl. but nold and bauer are on the threshold of liberty. within two months carl will carry my message to new york. i can fully rely on his discretion and devotion; we have grown very intimate through common suffering. he will inform the girl that nothing is to be expected from legal procedure; instead, he will explain to her the plan i have evolved. my position as rangeman has served me to good advantage. i have thoroughly familiarized myself with the institution; i have gathered information and explored every part of the cell-house offering the least likelihood of an escape. the prison is almost impregnable; tom's attempt to scale the wall proved disastrous, in spite of his exceptional opportunities as kitchen employee, and the thick fog of the early morning. several other attempts also were doomed to failure, the great number of guards and their vigilance precluding success. no escape has taken place since the days of paddy mcgraw, before the completion of the prison. entirely new methods must be tried: the road to freedom leads underground! but digging _out_ of the prison is impracticable in the modern structure of steel and rock. we must force a passage _into_ the prison: the tunnel is to be dug from the outside! a house is to be rented in the neighborhood of the penitentiary, and the underground passage excavated beneath the eastern wall, toward the adjacent bath-house. no officers frequent the place save at certain hours, and i shall find an opportunity to disappear into the hidden opening on the regular biweekly occasions when the solitaries are permitted to bathe. the project will require careful preparation and considerable expense. skilled comrades will have to be entrusted with the secret work, the greater part of which must be carried on at night. determination and courage will make the plan feasible, successful. such things have been done before. not in this country, it is true. but the act will receive added significance from the circumstance that the liberation of the first american political prisoner has been accomplished by means similar to those practised by our comrades in russia. who knows? it may prove the symbol and precursor of russian idealism on american soil. and what tremendous impression the consummation of the bold plan will make! what a stimulus to our propaganda, as a demonstration of anarchist initiative and ability! i glow with the excitement of its great possibilities, and enthuse carl with my hopes. if the preparatory work is hastened, the execution of the plan will be facilitated by the renewed agitation within the prison. rumors of a legislative investigation are afloat, diverting the thoughts of the administration into different channels. i shall foster the ferment to afford my comrades greater safety in the work. * * * * * during the long years of my penitentiary life i have formed many friendships. i have earned the reputation of a "square man" and a "good fellow," have received many proofs of confidence, and appreciation of my uncompromising attitude toward the generally execrated management. most of my friends observe the unwritten ethics of informing me of their approaching release, and offer to smuggle out messages or to provide me with little comforts. i invariably request them to visit the newspapers and to relate their experiences in riverside. some express fear of the warden's enmity, of the fatal consequences in case of their return to the penitentiary. but the bolder spirits and the accidental offenders, who confidently bid me a final good-bye, unafraid of return, call directly from the prison on the pittsburgh editors. presently the _leader_ and the _dispatch_ begin to voice their censure of the hurried whitewash by the state board of charities. the attitude of the press encourages the guards to manifest their discontent with the humiliating eccentricities of the senile warden. they protest against the whim subjecting them to military drill to improve their appearance, and resent captain wright's insistence that they patronize his private tailor, high-priced and incompetent. serious friction has also arisen between the management and mr. sawhill, superintendent of local industries. the prisoners rejoice at the growing irascibility of the warden, and the deeper lines on his face, interpreting them as signs of worry and fear. expectation of a new investigation is at high pitch as judge gordon, of philadelphia, severely censures the administration of the eastern penitentiary, charging inhuman treatment, abuse of the insane, and graft. the labor bodies of the state demand the abolition of convict competition, and the press becomes more assertive in urging an investigation of both penitentiaries. the air is charged with rumors of legislative action. ii the breath of spring is in the cell-house. my two comrades are jubilant. the sweet odor of may wafts the resurrection! but the threshold of life is guarded by the throes of new birth. a tone of nervous excitement permeates their correspondence. anxiety tortures the sleepless nights; the approaching return to the living is tinged with the disquietude of the unknown, the dread of the renewed struggle for existence. but the joy of coming emancipation, the wine of sunshine and liberty tingles in every fiber, and hope flutters its disused wings. our plans are complete. carl is to visit the girl, explain my project, and serve as the medium of communication by means of our prearranged system, investing apparently innocent official letters with _sub rosa_ meaning. the initial steps will require time. meanwhile "k" and "g" are to make the necessary arrangements for the publication of our book. the security of our manuscripts is a source of deep satisfaction and much merriment at the expense of the administration. the repeated searches have failed to unearth them. with characteristic daring, the faithful bob had secreted them in a hole in the floor of his shop, almost under the very seat of the guard. one by one they have been smuggled outside by a friendly officer, whom we have christened "schraube."[ ] by degrees nold has gained the confidence of the former mill-worker, with the result that sixty precious booklets now repose safely with a comrade in allegheny. i am to supply the final chapters of the book through mr. schraube, whose friendship carl is about to bequeath to me. [ ] german for "screw." * * * * * the month of may is on the wane. the last note is exchanged with my comrades. dear bob was not able to reach me in the morning, and now i read the lines quivering with the last pangs of release, while nold and bauer are already beyond the walls. how i yearned for a glance at carl, to touch hands, even in silence! but the customary privilege was refused us. only once in the long years of our common suffering have i looked into the eyes of my devoted friend, and stealthily pressed his hand, like a thief in the night. no last greeting was vouchsafed me to-day. the loneliness seems heavier, the void more painful. the routine is violently disturbed. reading and study are burdensome: my thoughts will not be compelled. they revert obstinately to my comrades, and storm against my steel cage, trying to pierce the distance, to commune with the absent. i seek diversion in the manufacture of prison "fancy work," ornamental little fruit baskets, diminutive articles of furniture, picture frames, and the like. the little momentos, constructed of tissue-paper rolls of various design, i send to the girl, and am elated at her admiration of the beautiful workmanship and attractive color effects. but presently she laments the wrecked condition of the goods, and upon investigation i learn from the runner that the most dilapidated cardboard boxes are selected for my product. the rotunda turnkey, in charge of the shipments, is hostile, and i appeal to the chaplain. but his well-meant intercession results in an order from the warden, interdicting the expressage of my work, on the ground of probable notes being secreted therein. i protest against the discrimination, suggesting the dismembering of every piece to disprove the charge. but the captain derisively remarks that he is indisposed to "take chances," and i am forced to resort to the subterfuge of having my articles transferred to a friendly prisoner and addressed by him to his mother in beaver, pa., thence to be forwarded to new york. at the same time the rotunda keeper detains a valuable piece of ivory sent to me by the girl for the manufacture of ornamental toothpicks. the local ware, made of kitchen bones bleached in lime, turns yellow in a short time. my request for the ivory is refused on the plea of submitting the matter to the warden's decision, who rules against me. i direct the return of it to my friend, but am informed that the ivory has been mislaid and cannot be found. exasperated, i charge the guard with the theft, and serve notice that i shall demand the ivory at the expiration of my time. the turnkey jeers at the wild impossibility, and i am placed for a week on "pennsylvania diet" for insulting an officer. chapter xxx whitewashed again christmas, . my dear carl: i have been despairing of reaching you _sub rosa_, but the holidays brought the usual transfers, and at last friend schraube is with me. dear carolus, i am worn out with the misery of the months since you left, and the many disappointments. your official letters were not convincing. i fail to understand why the plan is not practicable. of course, you can't write openly, but you have means of giving a hint as to the "impossibilities" you speak of. you say that i have become too estranged from the outside, and so forth--which may be true. yet i think the matter chiefly concerns the inside, and of that i am the best judge. i do not see the force of your argument when you dwell upon the application at the next session of the pardon board. you mean that the other plan would jeopardize the success of the legal attempt. but there is not much hope of favorable action by the board. you have talked all this over before, but you seem to have a different view now. why? only in a very small measure do your letters replace in my life the heart-to-heart talks we used to have here, though they were only on paper. but i am much interested in your activities. it seems strange that you, so long the companion of my silence, should now be in the very niagara of life, of our movement. it gives me great satisfaction to know that your experience here has matured you, and helped to strengthen and deepen your convictions. it has had a similar effect upon me. you know what a voluminous reader i am. i have read--in fact, studied--every volume in the library here, and now the chaplain supplies me with books from his. but whether it be philosophy, travel, or contemporary life that falls into my hands, it invariably distils into my mind the falsity of dominant ideas, and the beauty, the inevitability of anarchism. but i do not want to enlarge upon this subject now; we can discuss it through official channels. you know that tony and his nephew are here. we are just getting acquainted. he works in the shop; but as he is also coffee-boy, we have an opportunity to exchange notes. it is fortunate that his identity is not known; otherwise he would fall under special surveillance. i have my eyes on tony,--he may prove valuable. i am still in solitary, with no prospect of relief. you know the policy of the warden to use me as a scapegoat for everything that happens here. it has become a mania with him. think of it, he blames me for johnny davis' cutting "dutch." he laid everything at my door when the legislative investigation took place. it was a worse sham than the previous whitewash. several members called to see me at the cell,--unofficially, they said. they got a hint of the evidence i was prepared to give, and one of them suggested to me that it is not advisable for one in my position to antagonize the warden. i replied that i was no toady. he hinted that the authorities of the prison might help me to procure freedom, if i would act "discreetly." i insisted that i wanted to be heard by the committee. they departed, promising to call me as a witness. one senator remarked, as he left: "you are too intelligent a man to be at large." when the hearing opened, several officers were the first to take the stand. the testimony was not entirely favorable to the warden. then mr. sawhill was called. you know him; he is an independent sort of man, with an eye upon the wardenship. his evidence came like a bomb; he charged the management with corruption and fraud, and so forth. the investigators took fright. they closed the sessions and departed for harrisburg, announcing through the press that they would visit moyamensing[ ] and then return to riverside. but they did not return. the report they submitted to the governor exonerated the warden. the men were gloomy over the state of affairs. a hundred prisoners were prepared to testify, and much was expected from the committee. i had all my facts on hand: bob had fished out for me the bundle of material from its hiding place. it was in good condition, in spite of the long soaking. (i am enclosing some new data in this letter, for use in our book.) now that he is "cleared," the warden has grown even more arrogant and despotic. yet _some_ good the agitation in the press has accomplished: clubbings are less frequent, and the bull ring is temporarily abolished. but his hatred of me has grown venomous. he holds us responsible (together with dempsey and beatty) for organizing the opposition to convict labor, which has culminated in the muehlbronner law. it is to take effect on the first of the year. the prison administration is very bitter, because the statute, which permits only thirty-five per cent. of the inmates to be employed in productive labor, will considerably minimize opportunities for graft. but the men are rejoicing: the terrible slavery in the shops has driven many to insanity and death. the law is one of the rare instances of rational legislation. its benefit to labor in general is nullified, however, by limiting convict competition only within the state. the inspectors are already seeking a market for the prison products in other states, while the convict manufactures of new york, ohio, illinois, etc., are disposed of in pennsylvania. the irony of beneficent legislation! on the other hand, the inmates need not suffer for lack of employment. the new law allows the unlimited manufacture, within the prison, of products for local consumption. if the whine of the management regarding the "detrimental effect of idleness on the convict" is sincere, they could employ five times the population of the prison in the production of articles for our own needs. at present all the requirements of the penitentiary are supplied from the outside. the purchase of a farm, following the example set by the workhouse, would alone afford work for a considerable number of men. i have suggested, in a letter to the inspectors, various methods by which every inmate of the institution could be employed,--among them the publication of a prison paper. of course, they have ignored me. but what can you expect of a body of philanthropists who have the interest of the convict so much at heart that they delegated the president of the board, george a. kelly, to oppose the parole bill, a measure certainly along advanced lines of modern criminology. owing to the influence of inspector kelly, the bill was shelved at the last session of the legislature, though the prisoners have been praying for it for years. it has robbed the moneyless lifetimers of their last hope: a clause in the parole bill held out to them the promise of release after years of good behavior. dark days are in store for the men. apparently the campaign of the inspectors consists in forcing the repeal of the muehlbronner law, by raising the hue and cry of insanity and sickness. they are actually causing both by keeping half the population locked up. you know how quickly the solitary drives certain classes of prisoners insane. especially the more ignorant element, whose mental horizon is circumscribed by their personal troubles and pain, speedily fall victims. think of men, who cannot even read, put _incommunicado_ for months at a time, for years even! most of the colored prisoners, and those accustomed to outdoor life, such as farmers and the like quickly develop the germs of consumption in close confinement. now, this wilful murder--for it is nothing else--is absolutely unnecessary. the yard is big and well protected by the thirty-foot wall, with armed guards patrolling it. why not give the unemployed men air and exercise, since the management is determined to keep them idle? i suggested the idea to the warden, but he berated me for my "habitual interference" in matters that do not concern me. i often wonder at the enigma of human nature. there's the captain, a man years old. he should bethink himself of death, of "meeting his maker," since he pretends to believe in religion. instead, he is bending all his energies to increase insanity and disease among the convicts, in order to force the repeal of the law that has lessened the flow of blood money. it is almost beyond belief; but you have yourself witnessed the effect of a brutal atmosphere upon new officers. wright has been warden for thirty years; he has come to regard the prison as his undisputed dominion; and now he is furious at the legislative curtailment of his absolute control. this letter will remind you of our bulky notes in the "good" old days when "kg" were here. i miss our correspondence. there are some intelligent men on the range, but they are not interested in the thoughts that seethe within me and call for expression. just now the chief topic of local interest (after, of course, the usual discussion of the grub, women, kids, and their health and troubles) is the spanish war and the new dining-room, in which the shop employees are to be fed _en masse_, out of chinaware, think of it! some of the men are tremendously patriotic; others welcome the war as a sinecure affording easy money and plenty of excitement. you remember young butch and his partners, murtha, tommy, etc. they have recently been released, too wasted and broken in health to be fit for manual labor. all of them have signified their intention of joining the insurrection; some are enrolling in the regular army for the war. butch is already in cuba. i had a letter from him. there is a passage in it that is tragically characteristic. he refers to a skirmish he participated in. "we shot a lot of spaniards, mostly from ambush," he writes; "it was great sport." it is the attitude of the military adventurer, to whom a sacred cause like the cuban uprising unfortunately affords the opportunity to satisfy his lust for blood. butch was a very gentle boy when he entered the prison. but he has witnessed much heartlessness and cruelty during his term of three years. letter growing rather long. good night. a. [ ] the eastern penitentiary at philadelphia, pa. chapter xxxi "and by all forgot. we rot and rot" i a year of solitary has wasted my strength, and left me feeble and languid. my expectations of relief from complete isolation have been disappointed. existence is grim with despair, as day by day i feel my vitality ebbing; the long nights are tortured with insomnia; my body is racked with constant pains. all my heart is dark. a glimmer of light breaks through the clouds, as the session of the pardon board approaches. i clutch desperately at the faint hope of a favorable decision. with feverish excitement i pore over the letters of the girl, breathing cheer and encouraging news. my application is supported by numerous labor bodies, she writes. comrade harry kelly has been tireless in my behalf; the success of his efforts to arouse public sympathy augurs well for the application. the united labor league of pennsylvania, representing over a hundred thousand toilers, has passed a resolution favoring my release. together with other similar expressions, individual and collective, it will be laid before the pardon board, and it is confidently expected that the authorities will not ignore the voice of organized labor. in a ferment of anxiety and hope i count the days and hours, irritable with impatience and apprehension as i near the fateful moment. visions of liberty flutter before me, glorified by the meeting with the girl and my former companions, and i thrill with the return to the world, as i restlessly pace the cell in the silence of the night. the thought of my prison friends obtrudes upon my visions. with the tenderness born of common misery i think of their fate, resolving to brighten their lives with little comforts and letters, that mean so much to every prisoner. my first act in liberty shall be in memory of the men grown close to me with the kinship of suffering, the unfortunates endeared by awakened sympathy and understanding. for so many years i have shared with them the sorrows and the few joys of penitentiary life, i feel almost guilty to leave them. but henceforth their cause shall be mine, a vital part of the larger, social cause. it will be my constant endeavor to ameliorate their condition, and i shall strain every effort for my little friend felipe; i must secure his release. how happy the boy will be to join me in liberty!... the flash of the dark lantern dispels my fantasies, and again i walk the cell in vehement misgiving and fervent hope of to-morrow's verdict. at noon i am called to the warden. he must have received word from the board,--i reflect on the way. the captain lounges in the armchair, his eyes glistening, his seamed face yellow and worried. with an effort i control my impatience as he offers me a seat. he bids the guard depart, and a wild hope trembles in me. he is not afraid,--perhaps good news! "sit down, berkman," he speaks with unwonted affability. "i have just received a message from harrisburg. your attorney requests me to inform you that the pardon board has now reached your case. it is probably under consideration at this moment." i remain silent. the warden scans me closely. "you would return to new york, if released?" he inquires. "yes." "what are your plans?" "well, i have not formed any yet." "you would go back to your anarchist friends?" "certainly." "you have not changed your views?" "by no means." a turnkey enters. "captain, on official business," he reports. "wait here a moment, berkman," the warden remarks, withdrawing. the officer remains. in a few minutes the warden returns, motioning to the guard to leave. "i have just been informed that the board has refused you a hearing." i feel the cold perspiration running down my back. the prison rumors of the warden's interference flash through my mind. the board promised a rehearing at the previous application,--why this refusal? "warden," i exclaim, "you objected to my pardon!" "such action lies with the inspectors," he replies evasively. the peculiar intonation strengthens my suspicions. a feeling of hopelessness possesses me. i sense the warden's gaze fastened on me, and i strive to control my emotion. "how much time have you yet?" he asks. "over eleven years." "how long have you been locked up this time?" "sixteen months." "there is a vacancy on your range. the assistant hallman is going home to-morrow. you would like the position?" he eyes me curiously. "yes." "i'll consider it." i rise weakly, but he detains me: "by the way, berkman, look at this." he holds up a small wooden box, disclosing several casts of plaster of paris. i wonder at the strange proceeding. "you know what they are?" he inquires. "plaster casts, i think." "of what? for what purpose? look at them well, now." i glance indifferently at the molds bearing the clear impression of an eagle. "it's the cast of a silver dollar, i believe." "i am glad you speak truthfully. i had no doubt you would know. i examined your library record and found that you have drawn books on metallurgy." "oh, you suspect me of this?" i flare up. "no, not this time," he smiles in a suggestive manner. "you have drawn practically every book from the library. i had a talk with the chaplain, and he is positive that you would not be guilty of counterfeiting, because it would be robbing poor people." "the reading of my letters must have familiarized the chaplain with anarchist ideas." "yes, mr. milligan thinks highly of you. you might antagonize the management, but he assures me you would not abet such a crime." "i am glad to hear it." "you would protect the federal government, then?" "i don't understand you." "you would protect the people from being cheated by counterfeit money?" "the government and the people are not synonymous." flushing slightly, and frowning, he asks: "but you would protect the poor?" "yes, certainly." his face brightens. "oh, quite so, quite so," he smiles reassuringly. "these molds were found hidden in the north block. no; not in a cell, but in the hall. we suspect a certain man. it's ed sloane; he is located two tiers above you. now, berkman, the management is very anxious to get to the bottom of this matter. it's a crime against the people. you may have heard sloane speaking to his neighbors about this." "no. i am sure you suspect an innocent person." "how so?" "sloane is a very sick man. it's the last thing he'd think of." "well, we have certain reasons for suspecting him. if you should happen to hear anything, just rap on the door and inform the officers you are ill. they will be instructed to send for me at once." "i can't do it, warden." "why not?" he demands. "i am not a spy." "why, certainly not, berkman. i should not ask you to be. but you have friends on the range, you may learn something. well, think the matter over," he adds, dismissing me. bitter disappointment at the action of the board, indignation at the warden's suggestion, struggle within me as i reach my cell. the guard is about to lock me in, when the deputy warden struts into the block. "officer, unlock him," he commands. "berkman, the captain says you are to be assistant rangeman. report to mr. mcilvaine for a broom." ii the unexpected relief strengthens the hope of liberty. local methods are of no avail, but now my opportunities for escape are more favorable. considerable changes have taken place during my solitary, and the first necessity is to orient myself. some of my confidants have been released; others were transferred during the investigation period to the south wing, to disrupt my connections. new men are about the cell-house and i miss many of my chums. the lower half of the bottom ranges a and k is now exclusively occupied by the insane, their numbers greatly augmented. poor wingie has disappeared. grown violently insane, he was repeatedly lodged in the dungeon, and finally sent to an asylum. there my unfortunate friend had died after two months. his cell is now occupied by "irish mike," a good-natured boy, turned imbecile by solitary. he hops about on all fours, bleating: "baah, baah, see the goat. i'm the goat, baah, baah." i shudder at the fate i have escaped, as i look at the familiar faces that were so bright with intelligence and youth, now staring at me from the "crank row," wild-eyed and corpse-like, their minds shattered, their bodies wasted to a shadow. my heart bleeds as i realize that sid and nick fail to recognize me, their memory a total blank; and patsy, the pittsburgh bootblack, stands at the door, motionless, his eyes glassy, lips frozen in an inane smile. from cell to cell i pass the graveyard of the living dead, the silence broken only by intermittent savage yells and the piteous bleating of mike. the whole day these men are locked in, deprived of exercise and recreation, their rations reduced because of "delinquency." new "bughouse cases" are continually added from the ranks of the prisoners forced to remain idle and kept in solitary. the sight of the terrible misery almost gives a touch of consolation to my grief over johnny davis. my young friend had grown ill in the foul basket. he begged to be taken to the hospital; but his condition did not warrant it, the physician said. moreover, he was "in punishment." poor boy, how he must have suffered! they found him dead on the floor of his cell. * * * * * my body renews its strength with the exercise and greater liberty of the range. the subtle hope of the warden to corrupt me has turned to my advantage. i smile with scorn at his miserable estimate of human nature, determined by a lifetime of corruption and hypocrisy. how saddening is the shallowness of popular opinion! warden wright is hailed as a progressive man, a deep student of criminology, who has introduced modern methods in the treatment of prisoners. as an expression of respect and appreciation, the national prison association has selected captain wright as its delegate to the international congress at brussels, which is to take place in . and all the time the warden is designing new forms of torture, denying the pleadings of the idle men for exercise, and exerting his utmost efforts to increase sickness and insanity, in the attempt to force the repeal of the "convict labor" law. the puerility of his judgment fills me with contempt: public sentiment in regard to convict competition with outside labor has swept the state; the efforts of the warden, disastrous though they be to the inmates, are doomed to failure. no less fatuous is the conceit of his boasted experience of thirty years. the so confidently uttered suspicion of ed sloane in regard to the counterfeiting charge, has proved mere lip-wisdom. the real culprit is bob runyon, the trusty basking in the warden's special graces. his intimate friend, john smith, the witness and protégé of torrane, has confided to me the whole story, in a final effort to "set himself straight." he even exhibited to me the coins made by runyon, together with the original molds, cast in the trusty's cell. and poor sloane, still under surveillance, is slowly dying of neglect, the doctor charging him with eating soap to produce symptoms of illness. iii the year passes in a variety of interests. the girl and several newly-won correspondents hold the thread of outside life. the twin has gradually withdrawn from our new york circles, and is now entirely obscured on my horizon. but the girl is staunch and devoted, and i keenly anticipate her regular mail. she keeps me informed of events in the international labor movement, news of which is almost entirely lacking in the daily press. we discuss the revolutionary expressions of the times, and i learn more about pallas and luccheni, whose acts of the previous winter had thrown europe into a ferment of agitation. i hunger for news of the agitation against the tortures in montjuich, the revival of the inquisition rousing in me the spirit of retribution and deep compassion for my persecuted comrades in the spanish bastille. beneath the suppressed tone of her letters, i read the girl's suffering and pain, and feel the heart pangs of her unuttered personal sorrows. presently i am apprised that some prominent persons interested in my case are endeavoring to secure carnegie's signature for a renewed application to the board of pardons. the girl conveys the information guardedly; the absence of comment discovers to me the anguish of soul the step has caused her. what terrible despair had given birth to the suggestion, i wonder. if the project of the underground escape had been put in operation, we should not have had to suffer such humiliation. why have my friends ignored the detailed plan i had submitted to them through carl? i am confident of its feasibility and success, if we can muster the necessary skill and outlay. the animosity of the prison authorities precludes the thought of legal release. the underground route, very difficult and expensive though it be, is the sole hope. it must be realized. my _sub rosa_ communications suspended during the temporary absence of mr. schraube, i hint these thoughts in official mail to the girl, but refrain from objecting to the carnegie idea. other matters of interest i learn from correspondence with friends in philadelphia and pittsburgh. the frequent letters of carl, still reminiscent of his sojourn at riverside, thrill with the joy of active propaganda and of his success as public speaker. voltairine de cleyre and sarah patton lend color to my existence by discursive epistles of great charm and rebellious thought. often i pause to wonder at the miracle of my mail passing the censorial eyes. but the chaplain is a busy man; careful perusal of every letter would involve too great a demand upon his time. the correspondence with mattie i turn over to my neighbor pasquale, a young italian serving sixteen years, who has developed a violent passion for the pretty face on the photograph. the roguish eyes and sweet lips exert but a passing impression upon me. my thoughts turn to johnny, my young friend in the convict grave. deep snow is on the ground; it must be cold beneath the sod. the white shroud is pressing, pressing heavily upon the lone boy, like the suffocating night of the basket cell. but in the spring little blades of green will sprout, and perhaps a rosebud will timidly burst and flower, all white, and perfume the air, and shed its autumn tears upon the convict grave of johnny. chapter xxxii the deviousness of reform law applied february , . dear carolus: the greeks thought the gods spiteful creatures. when things begin to look brighter for man, they grow envious. you'll be surprised,--mr. schraube has turned into an enemy. mostly my own fault; that's the sting of it. it will explain to you the failure of the former _sub rosa_ route. the present one is safe, but very temporary. it happened last fall. from assistant i was advanced to hallman, having charge of the "crank row," on range a. a new order curtailed the rations of the insane,--no cornbread, cheese, or hash; only bread and coffee. as rangeman, i help to "feed," and generally have "extras" left on the wagon,--some one sick, or refusing food, etc. i used to distribute the extras, "on the q. t.," among the men deprived of them. one day, just before christmas, an officer happened to notice patsy chewing a piece of cheese. the poor fellow is quite an imbecile; he did not know enough to hide what i gave him. well, you are aware that "cornbread tom" does not love me. he reported me. i admitted the charge to the warden, and tried to tell him how hungry the men were. he wouldn't hear of it, saying that the insane should not "overload" their stomachs. i was ordered locked up. within a month i was out again, but imagine my surprise when schraube refused even to talk to me. at first i could not fathom the mystery; later i learned that he was reprimanded, losing ten days' pay for "allowing" me to feed the demented. he knew nothing about it, of course, but he was at the time in special charge of "crank row." the schraube has been telling my friends that i got him in trouble wilfully. he seems to nurse his grievance with much bitterness; he apparently hates me now with the hatred we often feel toward those who know our secrets. but he realizes he has nothing to fear from me. many changes have taken place since you left. you would hardly recognize the block if you returned (better stay out, though). no more talking through the waste pipes; the new privies have standing water. electricity is gradually taking the place of candles. the garish light is almost driving me blind, and the innovation has created a new problem: how to light our pipes. we are given the same monthly allowance of matches, each package supposed to contain , but usually have ; and last month i received only . i made a kick, but it was in vain. the worst of it is, fully a third of the matches are damp and don't light. while we used candles we managed somehow, borrowing a few matches occasionally from non-smokers. but now that candles are abolished, the difficulty is very serious. i split each match into four; sometimes i succeed in making six. there is a man on the range who is an artist at it: he can make eight cuts out of a match; all serviceable, too. even at that, there is a famine, and i have been forced to return to the stone age: with flint and tinder i draw the fire of prometheus. the mess-room is in full blast. the sight of a thousand men, bent over their food in complete silence, officers flanking each table, is by no means appetizing. but during the spanish war, the place resembled the cell-house on new year's eve. the patriotic warden daily read to the diners the latest news, and such cheering and wild yelling you have never heard. especially did the hobson exploit fire the spirit of jingoism. but the enthusiasm suddenly cooled when the men realized that they were wasting precious minutes hurrahing, and then leaving the table hungry when the bell terminated the meal. some tried to pocket the uneaten beans and rice, but the guards detected them, and after that the warden's war reports were accompanied only with loud munching and champing. another innovation is exercise. your interviews with the reporters, and those of other released prisoners, have at last forced the warden to allow the idle men an hour's recreation. in inclement weather, they walk in the cell-house; on fine days, in the yard. the reform was instituted last autumn, and the improvement in health is remarkable. the doctor is enthusiastically in favor of the privilege; the sick-line has been so considerably reduced that he estimates his time-saving at two hours daily. some of the boys tell me they have almost entirely ceased masturbating. the shop employees envy the "idlers" now; many have purposely precipitated trouble in order to be put in solitary, and thus enjoy an hour in the open. but sandy "got next," and now those locked up "for cause" are excluded from exercise. here are some data for our book. the population at the end of last year was --the lowest point in over a decade. the warden admits that the war has decreased crime; the inspectors' report refers to the improved economic conditions, as compared with the panicky times of the opening years in the 's. but the authorities do not appear very happy over the reduction in the riverside population. you understand the reason: the smaller the total, the less men may be exploited in the industries. i am not prepared to say whether there is collusion between the judges and the administration of the prison, but it is very significant that the class of offenders formerly sent to the workhouse are being increasingly sentenced to the penitentiary, and an unusual number are transferred here from the reformatory at huntington and the reform school of morganza. the old-timers joke about the warden telephoning to the criminal court, to notify the judges how many men are "wanted" for the stocking shop. the unions might be interested in the methods of nullifying the convict labor law. in every shop twice as many are employed as the statute allows; the "illegal" are carried on the books as men working on "state account"; that is, as cleaners and clerks, not as producers. thus it happens that in the mat shop, for instance, more men are booked as clerks and sweepers than are employed on the looms! in the broom shop there are supposed clerks and cleaners, to a total of producers legally permitted. this is the way the legislation works on which the labor bodies have expended such tremendous efforts. the broom shop is still contracted to lang bros., with their own foreman in charge, and his son a guard in the prison. enough for to-day. when i hear of the safe arrival of this letter, i may have more intimate things to discuss. a. chapter xxxiii the tunnel i the adverse decision of the board of pardons terminates all hope of release by legal means. had the board refused to commute my sentence after hearing the argument, another attempt could be made later on. but the refusal to grant a rehearing, the crafty stratagem to circumvent even the presentation of my case, reveals the duplicity of the previous promise and the guilty consciousness of the illegality of my multiplied sentences. the authorities are determined that i should remain in the prison, confident that it will prove my tomb. realizing this fires my defiance, and all the stubborn resistance of my being. there is no hope of surviving my term. at best, even with the full benefit of the commutation time--which will hardly be granted me, in view of the attitude of the prison management--i still have over nine years to serve. but existence is becoming increasingly more unbearable; long confinement and the solitary have drained my vitality. to endure the nine years is almost a physical impossibility. i must therefore concentrate all my energy and efforts upon escape. my position as rangeman is of utmost advantage. i have access to every part of the cell-house, excepting the "crank row." the incident of feeding the insane has put an embargo upon my communication with them, a special hallboy having been assigned to care for the deranged. but within my area on the range are the recent arrivals and the sane solitaries; the division of my duties with the new man merely facilitates my task, and affords me more leisure. * * * * * the longing for liberty constantly besets my mind, suggesting various projects. the idea of escape daily strengthens into the determination born of despair. it possesses me with an exclusive passion, shaping every thought, molding every action. by degrees i curtail correspondence with my prison chums, that i may devote the solitude of the evening to the development of my plans. the underground tunnel masters my mind with the boldness of its conception, its tremendous possibilities. but the execution! why do my friends regard the matter so indifferently? their tepidity irritates me. often i lash myself into wild anger with carl for having failed to impress my comrades with the feasibility of the plan, to fire them with the enthusiasm of activity. my _sub rosa_ route is sporadic and uncertain. repeatedly i have hinted to my friends the bitter surprise i feel at their provoking indifference; but my reproaches have been studiously ignored. i cannot believe that conditions in the movement preclude the realization of my suggestion. these things have been accomplished in russia. why not in america? the attempt should be made, if only for its propagandistic effect. true, the project will require considerable outlay, and the work of skilled and trustworthy men. have we no such in our ranks? in parsons and lum, this country has produced her zheliabovs; is the genius of america not equal to a hartman?[ ] the tacit skepticism of my correspondents pain me, and rouses my resentment. they evidently lack faith in the judgment of "one who has been so long separated" from their world, from the interests and struggles of the living. the consciousness of my helplessness without aid from the outside gnaws at me, filling my days with bitterness. but i will persevere: i will compel their attention and their activity; aye, their enthusiasm! [ ] hartman engineered the tunnel beneath the moscow railway, undermined in an unsuccessful attempt to kill alexander ii., in . with utmost zeal i cultivate the acquaintance of tony. the months of frequent correspondence and occasional personal meetings have developed a spirit of congeniality and good will. i exert my ingenuity to create opportunities for stolen interviews and closer comradeship. through the aid of a friendly officer, i procure for tony the privilege of assisting his rangeman after shop hours, thus enabling him to communicate with me to greater advantage. gradually we become intimate, and i learn the story of his life, rich in adventure and experience. an alsatian, small and wiry, tony is a man of quick wit, with a considerable dash of the frenchman about him. he is intelligent and daring--the very man to carry out my plan. for days i debate in my mind the momentous question: shall i confide the project to tony? it would be placing myself in his power, jeopardizing the sole hope of my life. yet it is the only way; i must rely on my intuition of the man's worth. my nights are sleepless, excruciating with the agony of indecision. but my friend's sentence is nearing completion. we shall need time for discussion and preparation, for thorough consideration of every detail. at last i resolve to take the decisive step, and next day i reveal the secret to tony. his manner allays apprehension. serene and self-possessed, he listens gravely to my plan, smiles with apparent satisfaction, and briefly announces that it shall be done. only the shining eyes of my reticent comrade betray his elation at the bold scheme, and his joy in the adventure. he is confident that the idea is feasible, suggesting the careful elaboration of details, and the invention of a cipher to insure greater safety for our correspondence. the precaution is necessary; it will prove of inestimable value upon his release. with great circumspection the cryptogram is prepared, based on a discarded system of german shorthand, but somewhat altered, and further involved by the use of words of our own coinage. the cipher, thus perfected, will defy the skill of the most expert. but developments within the prison necessitate changes in the project. the building operations near the bathhouse destroy the serviceability of the latter for my purpose. we consider several new routes, but soon realize that lack of familiarity with the construction of the penitentiary gas and sewer systems may defeat our success. there are no means of procuring the necessary information: tony is confined to the shop, while i am never permitted out of the cell-house. in vain i strive to solve the difficulty; weeks pass without bringing light. my providence comes unexpectedly, in the guise of a fight in the yard. the combatants are locked up on my range. one of them proves to be "mac," an aged prisoner serving a third term. during his previous confinement, he had filled the position of fireman, one of his duties consisting in the weekly flushing of the sewers. he is thoroughly familiar with the underground piping of the yard, but his reputation among the inmates is tinged with the odor of sycophancy. he is, however, the only means of solving my difficulty, and i diligently set myself to gain his friendship. i lighten his solitary by numerous expressions of my sympathy, often secretly supplying him with little extras procured from my kitchen friends. the loquacious old man is glad of an opportunity to converse, and i devote every propitious moment to listening to his long-winded stories of the "great jobs" he had accomplished in "his" time, the celebrated "guns" with whom he had associated, the "great hauls" he had made and "blowed in with th' fellers." i suffer his chatter patiently, encouraging the recital of his prison experiences, and leading him on to dwell upon his last "bit." he becomes reminiscent of his friends in riverside, bewails the early graves of some, others "gone bugs," and rejoices over his good chum patty mcgraw managing to escape. the ever-interesting subject gives "mac" a new start, and he waxes enthusiastic over the ingenuity of patty, while i express surprise that he himself had never attempted to take french leave. "what!" he bristles up, "think i'm such a dummy?" and with great detail he discloses his plan, "'way in th' 's" to swim through the sewer. i scoff at his folly, "you must have been a chump, mac, to think it could be done," i remark. "i was, was i? what do you know about the piping, eh? now, let me tell you. just wait," and, snatching up his library slate, he draws a complete diagram of the prison sewerage. in the extreme southwest corner of the yard he indicates a blind underground alley. "what's this?" i ask, in surprise. "nev'r knew _that_, did yer? it's a little tunn'l, connectin' th' cellar with th' females, see? not a dozen men in th' dump know 't; not ev'n a good many screws. passage ain't been used fer a long time." in amazement i scan the diagram. i had noticed a little trap door at the very point in the yard indicated in the drawing, and i had often wondered what purpose it might serve. my heart dances with joy at the happy solution of my difficulty. the "blind alley" will greatly facilitate our work. it is within fifteen feet, or twenty at most, of the southwestern wall. its situation is very favorable: there are no shops in the vicinity; the place is never visited by guards or prisoners. the happy discovery quickly matures the details of my plan: a house is to be rented opposite the southern wall, on sterling street. preferably it is to be situated very near to the point where the wall adjoins the cell-house building. dug in a direct line across the street, and underneath the south wall, the tunnel will connect with the "blind alley." i shall manage the rest. ii slowly the autumn wanes. the crisp days of the indian summer linger, as if unwilling to depart. but i am impatient with anxiety, and long for the winter. another month, and tony will be free. time lags with tardy step, but at last the weeks dwarf into days, and with joyful heart we count the last hours. to-morrow my friend will greet the sunshine. he will at once communicate with my comrades, and urge the immediate realization of the great plan. his self-confidence and faith will carry conviction, and stir them with enthusiasm for the undertaking. a house is to be bought or rented without loss of time, and the environs inspected. perhaps operations could not begin till spring; meanwhile funds are to be collected to further the work. unfortunately, the girl, a splendid organizer, is absent from the country. but my friends will carefully follow the directions i have entrusted to tony, and through him i shall keep in touch with the developments. i have little opportunity for _sub rosa_ mail; by means of our cipher, however, we can correspond officially, without risk of the censor's understanding, or even suspecting, the innocent-looking flourishes scattered through the page. with the trusted tony my thoughts walk beyond the gates, and again and again i rehearse every step in the project, and study every detail. my mind dwells in the outside. in silent preoccupation i perform my duties on the range. more rarely i converse with the prisoners: i must take care to comply with the rules, and to retain my position. to lose it would be disastrous to all my hopes of escape. as i pass the vacant cell, in which i had spent the last year of my solitary, the piteous chirping of a sparrow breaks in upon my thoughts. the little visitor, almost frozen, hops on the bar above. my assistant swings the duster to drive it away, but the sparrow hovers about the door, and suddenly flutters to my shoulder. in surprise i pet the bird; it seems quite tame. "why, it's dick!" the assistant exclaims. "think of him coming back!" my hands tremble as i examine the little bird. with great joy i discover the faint marks of blue ink i had smeared under its wings last summer, when the warden had ordered my little companion thrown out of the window. how wonderful that it should return and recognize the old friend and the cell! tenderly i warm and feed the bird. what strange sights my little pet must have seen since he was driven out into the world! what struggles and sorrows has he suffered! the bright eyes look cheerily into mine, speaking mute confidence and joy, while he pecks from my hand crumbs of bread and sugar. foolish birdie, to return to prison for shelter and food! cold and cruel must be the world, my little dick; or is it friendship, that is stronger than even love of liberty? so may it be. almost daily i see men pass through the gates and soon return again, driven back by the world--even like you, little dick. yet others there are who would rather go cold and hungry in freedom, than be warm and fed in prison--even like me, little dick. and still others there be who would risk life and liberty for the sake of their friendship--even like you and, i hope, tony, little dick. chapter xxxiv the death of dick _sub rosa_, jan. , . tony: i write in an agony of despair. i am locked up again. it was all on account of my bird. you remember my feathered pet, dick. last summer the warden ordered him put out, but when cold weather set in, dick returned. would you believe it? he came back to my old cell, and recognized me when i passed by. i kept him, and he grew as tame as before--he had become a bit wild in the life outside. on christmas day, as dick was playing near my cell, bob runyon--the stool, you know--came by and deliberately kicked the bird. when i saw dick turn over on his side, his little eyes rolling in the throes of death, i rushed at runyon and knocked him down. he was not hurt much, and everything could have passed off quietly, as no screw was about. but the stool reported me to the deputy, and i was locked up. mitchell has just been talking to me. the good old fellow was fond of dick, and he promises to get me back on the range. he is keeping the position vacant for me, he says; he put a man in my place who has only a few more weeks to serve. then i'm to take charge again. i am not disappointed at your information that "the work" will have to wait till spring. it's unavoidable, but i am happy that preparations have been started. how about those revolvers, though? you haven't changed your mind, i hope. in one of your letters you seem to hint that the matter has been attended to. how can that be? jim, the plumber--you know he can be trusted--has been on the lookout for a week. he assures me that nothing came, so far. why do you delay? i hope you didn't throw the package through the cellar window when jim wasn't at his post. hardly probable. but if you did, what the devil could have become of it? i see no sign here of the things being discovered: there would surely be a terrible hubbub. look to it, and write at once. a. chapter xxxv an alliance with the birds i the disappearance of the revolvers is shrouded in mystery. in vain i rack my brain to fathom the precarious situation; it defies comprehension and torments me with misgivings. jim's certainty that the weapons did not pass between the bars of the cellar, momentarily allays my dread. but tony's vehement insistence that he had delivered the package, throws me into a panic of fear. my firm faith in the two confidants distracts me with uncertainty and suspense. it is incredible that tony should seek to deceive me. yet jim has kept constant vigil at the point of delivery; there is little probability of his having missed the package. but supposing he has, what has become of it? perhaps it fell into some dark corner of the cellar. the place must be searched at once. desperate with anxiety, i resort to the most reckless means to afford jim an opportunity to visit the cellar. i ransack the cell-house for old papers and rags; with miserly hand i gather all odds and ends, broken tools, pieces of wood, a bucketful of sawdust. trembling with fear of discovery, i empty the treasure into the sewer at the end of the hall, and tightly jam the elbow of the waste pipe. the smell of excrement fills the block, the cell privies overrun, and inundate the hall. the stench is overpowering; steadily the water rises, threatening to flood the cell-house. the place is in a turmoil: the solitaries shout and rattle on the bars, the guards rush about in confusion. the block captain yells, "hey, jasper, hurry! call the plumber; get jim. quick!" but repeated investigation of the cellar fails to disclose the weapons. in constant dread of dire possibilities, i tremble at every step, fancying lurking suspicion, sudden discovery, and disaster. but the days pass; the calm of the prison routine is undisturbed, giving no indication of untoward happening or agitation. by degrees my fears subside. the inexplicable disappearance of the revolvers is fraught with danger; the mystery is disquieting, but it has fortunately brought no results, and must apparently remain unsolved. * * * * * unexpectedly my fears are rearoused. called to the desk by officer mitchell for the distribution of the monthly allowance of matches, i casually glance out of the yard door. at the extreme northwestern end, assistant deputy hopkins loiters near the wall, slowly walking on the grass. the unusual presence of the overseer at the abandoned gate wakes my suspicion. the singular idling of the energetic guard, his furtive eyeing of the ground, strengthens my worst apprehensions. something must have happened. are they suspecting the tunnel? but work has not been commenced; besides, it is to terminate at the very opposite point of the yard, fully a thousand feet distant. in perplexity i wonder at the peculiar actions of hopkins. had the weapons been found, every inmate would immediately be subjected to a search, and shops and cell-house ransacked. in anxious speculation i pass a sleepless night; morning dawns without bringing a solution. but after breakfast the cell-house becomes strangely quiet; the shop employees remain locked in. the rangemen are ordered to their cells, and guards from the yard and shops march into the block, and noisily ascend the galleries. the deputy and hopkins scurry about the hall; the rotunda door is thrown open with a clang, and the sharp command of the warden resounds through the cell-house, "general search!" i glance hurriedly over my table and shelf. surprises of suspected prisoners are frequent, and i am always prepared. but some contraband is on hand. quickly i snatch my writing material from the womb of the bedtick. in the very act of destroying several sketches of the previous year, a bright thought flashes across my mind. there is nothing dangerous about them, save the theft of the paper. "prison types," "in the streets of new york," "parkhurst and the prostitute," "libertas--a study in philology," "the slavery of tradition"--harmless products of evening leisure. let them find the booklets! i'll be severely reprimanded for appropriating material from the shops, but my sketches will serve to divert suspicion: the warden will secretly rejoice that my mind is not busy with more dangerous activities. but the sudden search signifies grave developments. general overhaulings, involving temporary suspension of the industries and consequent financial loss, are rare. the search of the entire prison is not due till spring. its precipitancy confirms my worst fears: the weapons have undoubtedly been found! jim's failure to get possession of them assumes a peculiar aspect. it is possible, of course, that some guard, unexpectedly passing through the cellar, discovered the bundle between the bars, and appropriated it without attracting jim's notice. yet the latter's confident assertion of his presence at the window at the appointed moment indicates another probability. the thought is painful, disquieting. but who knows? in an atmosphere of fear and distrust and almost universal espionage, the best friendships are tinged with suspicion. it may be that jim, afraid of consequences, surrendered the weapons to the warden. he would have no difficulty in explaining the discovery, without further betrayal of my confidence. yet jim, a "pete man"[ ] of international renown, enjoys the reputation of a thoroughly "square man" and loyal friend. he has given me repeated proof of his confidence, and i am disinclined to accuse a possibly innocent man. it is fortunate, however, that his information is limited to the weapons. no doubt he suspects some sort of escape; but i have left him in ignorance of my real plans. with these tony alone is entrusted. [ ] safe blower. the reflection is reassuring. even if indiscretion on tony's part is responsible for the accident, he has demonstrated his friendship. realizing the danger of his mission, he may have thrown in the weapons between the cellar bars, ignoring my directions of previously ascertaining the presence of jim at his post. but the discovery of the revolvers vindicates the veracity of tony, and strengthens my confidence in him. my fate rests in the hands of a loyal comrade, a friend who has already dared great peril for my sake. * * * * * the general search is over, bringing to light quantities of various contraband. the counterfeit outfit, whose product has been circulating beyond the walls of the prison, is discovered, resulting in a secret investigation by federal officials. in the general excitement, the sketches among my effects have been ignored, and left in my possession. but no clew has been found in connection with the weapons. the authorities are still further mystified by the discovery that the lock on the trapdoor in the roof of the cell-house building had been tampered with. with an effort i suppress a smile at the puzzled bewilderment of the kindly old mitchell, as, with much secrecy, he confides to me the information. i marvel at the official stupidity that failed to make the discovery the previous year, when, by the aid of jim and my young friend russell, i had climbed to the top of the cell-house, while the inmates were at church, and wrenched off the lock of the trapdoor, leaving in its place an apparent counterpart, provided by jim. with the key in our possession, we watched for an opportunity to reach the outside roof, when certain changes in the block created insurmountable obstacles, forcing the abandonment of the project. russell was unhappy over the discovery, the impulsive young prisoner steadfastly refusing to be reconciled to the failure. his time, however, being short, i have been urging him to accept the inevitable. the constant dwelling upon escape makes imprisonment more unbearable; the passing of his remaining two years would be hastened by the determination to serve out his sentence. the boy listens quietly to my advice, his blue eyes dancing with merriment, a sly smile on the delicate lips. "you are right, aleck," he replies, gravely, "but say, last night i thought out a scheme; it's great, and we're sure to make our get-a-way." with minute detail he pictures the impossible plan of sawing through the bars of the cell at night, "holding up" the guards, binding and gagging them, and "then the road would be clear." the innocent boy, for all his back-country reputation of "bad man," is not aware that "then" is the very threshold of difficulties. i seek to explain to him that, the guards being disposed of, we should find ourselves trapped in the cell-house. the solid steel double doors leading to the yard are securely locked, the key in the sole possession of the captain of the night watch, who cannot be reached except through the well-guarded rotunda. but the boy is not to be daunted. "we'll have to storm the rotunda, then," he remarks, calmly, and at once proceeds to map out a plan of campaign. he smiles incredulously at my refusal to participate in the wild scheme. "oh, yes, you will, aleck. i don't believe a word you say. i know you're keen to make a get-a-way." his confidence somewhat shaken by my resolution, he announces that he will "go it alone." the declaration fills me with trepidation: the reckless youth will throw away his life; his attempt may frustrate my own success. but it is in vain to dissuade him by direct means. i know the determination of the boy. the smiling face veils the boundless self-assurance of exuberant youth, combined with indomitable courage. the redundance of animal vitality and the rebellious spirit have violently disturbed the inertia of his rural home, aggravating its staid descendants of dutch forbears. the taunt of "ne'er-do-well" has dripped bitter poison into the innocent pranks of russell, stamping the brand of desperado upon the good-natured boy. i tax my ingenuity to delay the carrying out of his project. he has secreted the saws i had procured from the girl for the attempt of the previous year, and his determination is impatient to make the dash for liberty. only his devotion to me and respect for my wishes still hold the impetuous boy in leash. but each day his restlessness increases; more insistently he urges my participation and a definite explanation of my attitude. at a loss to invent new objections, i almost despair of dissuading russell from his desperate purpose. from day to day i secure his solemn promise to await my final decision, the while i vaguely hope for some development that would force the abandonment of his plan. but nothing disturbs the routine, and i grow nervous with dread lest the boy, reckless with impatience, thwart my great project. ii the weather is moderating; the window sashes in the hall are being lowered: the signs of approaching spring multiply. i chafe at the lack of news from tony, who had departed on his mission to new york. with greedy eyes i follow the chaplain on his rounds of mail delivery. impatient of his constant pauses on the galleries, i hasten along the range to meet the postman. "any letters for me, mr. milligan?" i ask, with an effort to steady my voice. "no, m' boy." my eyes devour the mail in his hand. "none to-day, aleck," he adds; "this is for your neighbor pasquale." i feel apprehensive at tony's silence. another twenty-four hours must elapse before the chaplain returns. perhaps there will be no mail for me to-morrow, either. what can be the matter with my friend? so many dangers menace his every step--he might be sick--some accident.... anxious days pass without mail. russell is becoming more insistent, threatening a "break." the solitaries murmur at my neglect. i am nervous and irritable. for two weeks i have not heard from tony; something terrible must have happened. in a ferment of dread, i keep watch on the upper rotunda. the noon hour is approaching: the chaplain fumbles with his keys; the door opens, and he trips along the ranges. stealthily i follow him under the galleries, pretending to dust the bars. he descends to the hall. "good morning, chaplain," i seek to attract his attention, wistfully peering at the mail in his hand. "good morning, m' boy. feeling good to-day?" "thank you; pretty fair." my voice trembles at his delay, but i fear betraying my anxiety by renewed questioning. he passes me, and i feel sick with disappointment. now he pauses. "aleck," he calls, "i mislaid a letter for you yesterday. here it is." with shaking hand i unfold the sheet. in a fever of hope and fear, i pore over it in the solitude of the cell. my heart palpitates violently as i scan each word and letter, seeking hidden meaning, analyzing every flourish and dash, carefully distilling the minute lines, fusing the significant dots into the structure of meaning. glorious! a house has been rented-- sterling street--almost opposite the gate of the south wall. funds are on hand, work is to begin at once! with nimble step i walk the range. the river wafts sweet fragrance to my cell, the joy of spring is in my heart. every hour brings me nearer to liberty: the faithful comrades are steadily working underground. perhaps within a month, or two at most, the tunnel will be completed. i count the days, crossing off each morning the date on my calendar. the news from tony is cheerful, encouraging: the work is progressing smoothly, the prospects of success are splendid. i grow merry at the efforts of uninitiated friends in new york to carry out the suggestions of the attorneys to apply to the superior court of the state for a writ, on the ground of the unconstitutionality of my sentence. i consult gravely with mr. milligan upon the advisability of the step, the amiable chaplain affording me the opportunity of an extra allowance of letter paper. i thank my comrades for their efforts, and urge the necessity of collecting funds for the appeal to the upper court. repeatedly i ask the advice of the chaplain in the legal matter, confident that my apparent enthusiasm will reach the ears of the warden: the artifice will mask my secret project and lull suspicion. my official letters breathe assurance of success, and with much show of confidence i impress upon the trusties my sanguine expectation of release. i discuss the subject with officers and stools, till presently the prison is agog with the prospective liberation of its fourth oldest inmate. the solitaries charge me with messages to friends, and the deputy warden offers advice on behavior beyond the walls. the moment is propitious for a bold stroke. confined to the cell-house, i shall be unable to reach the tunnel. the privilege of the yard is imperative. it is june. unfledged birdies frequently fall from their nests, and i induce the kindly runner, "southside" johnny, to procure for me a brace of sparlings. i christen the little orphans dick and sis, and the memory of my previous birds is revived among inmates and officers. old mitchell is in ecstasy over the intelligence and adaptability of my new feathered friends. but the birds languish and waste in the close air of the block; they need sunshine and gravel, and the dusty street to bathe in. gradually i enlist the sympathies of the new doctor by the curious performances of my pets. one day the warden strolls in, and joins in admiration of the wonderful birds. "who trained them?" he inquires. "this man," the physician indicates me. a slight frown flits over the warden's face. old mitchell winks at me, encouragingly. "captain," i approach the warden, "the birds are sickly for lack of air. will you permit me to give them an airing in the yard?" "why don't you let them go? you have no permission to keep them." "oh, it would be a pity to throw them out," the doctor intercedes. "they are too tame to take care of themselves." "well, then," the warden decides, "let jasper take them out every day." "they will not go with any one except myself," i inform him. "they follow me everywhere." the warden hesitates. "why not let berkman go out with them for a few moments," the doctor suggests. "i hear you expect to be free soon," he remarks to me casually. "your case is up for revision?" "yes." "well, berkman," the warden motions to me, "i will permit you ten minutes in the yard, after your sweeping is done. what time are you through with it?" "at . a. m." "mr. mitchell, every morning, at . , you will pass berkman through the doors. for ten minutes, on the watch." then turning to me, he adds: "you are to stay near the greenhouse; there is plenty of sand there. if you cross the dead line of the sidewalk, or exceed your time a single minute, you will be punished." chapter xxxvi the underground may , . my dear tony: your letters intoxicate me with hope and joy. no sooner have i sipped the rich aroma than i am athirst for more nectar. write often, dear friend; it is the only solace of suspense. do not worry about this end of the line. all is well. by stratagem i have at last procured the privilege of the yard. only for a few minutes every morning, but i am judiciously extending my prescribed time and area. the prospects are bright here; every one talks of my application to the superior court, and peace reigns--you understand. a pity i cannot write directly to my dear, faithful comrades, your coworkers. you shall be the medium. transmit to them my deepest appreciation. tell "yankee" and "ibsen" and our italian comrades what i feel--i know i need not explain it further to you. no one realizes better than myself the terrible risks they are taking, the fearful toil in silence and darkness, almost within hearing of the guards. the danger, the heroic self-sacrifice--what money could buy such devotion? i grow faint with the thought of their peril. i could almost cry at the beautiful demonstration of solidarity and friendship. dear comrades, i feel proud of you, and proud of the great truth of anarchism that can produce such disciples, such spirit. i embrace you, my noble comrades, and may you speed the day that will make me happy with the sight of your faces, the touch of your hands. a. june . dear tony: your silence was unbearable. the suspense is terrible. was it really necessary to halt operations so long? i am surprised you did not foresee the shortage of air and the lack of light. you would have saved so much time. it is a great relief to know that the work is progressing again, and very fortunate indeed that "yankee" understands electricity. it must be hellish work to pump air into the shaft. take precautions against the whir of the machinery. the piano idea is great. keep her playing and singing as much as possible, and be sure you have all windows open. the beasts on the wall will be soothed by the music, and it will drown the noises underground. have an electric button connected from the piano to the shaft; when the player sees anything suspicious on the street or the guards on the wall, she can at once notify the comrades to stop work. i am enclosing the wall and yard measurements you asked. but why do you need them? don't bother with unnecessary things. from house beneath the street, directly toward the southwestern wall. for that you can procure measurements outside. on the inside you require none. go under wall, about - feet, till you strike wall of blind alley. cut into it, and all will be complete. write of progress without delay. greetings to all. a. june . tony: your letters bewilder me. why has the route been changed? you were to go to southwest, yet you say now you are near the east wall. it's simply incredible, tony. your explanation is not convincing. if you found a gas main near the gate, you could have gone around it; besides, the gate is out of your way anyhow. why did you take that direction at all? i wish, tony, you would follow my instructions and the original plan. your failure to report the change immediately, may prove fatal. i could have informed you--once you were near the southeastern gate--to go directly underneath; then you would have saved digging under the wall; there is no stone foundation, of course, beneath the gate. now that you have turned the south-east corner, you will have to come under the wall there, and it is the worst possible place, because that particular part used to be a swamp, and i have learned that it was filled with extra masonry. another point; an old abandoned natural-gas well is somewhere under the east wall, about feet from the gate. tell our friends to be on the lookout for fumes; it is a very dangerous place; special precautions must be taken. [illustration: a--house on sterling street from which the tunnel started. b--point at which the tunnel entered under the east wall. c--mat shop, near which the author was permitted to take his birds for ten minutes every day, for exercise. d--north block, where the author was confined at the time of the tunnel episode. e--south block.] do not mind my brusqueness, dear tony. my nerves are on edge, the suspense is driving me mad. and i must mask my feelings, and smile and look indifferent. but i haven't a moment's peace. i imagine the most terrible things when you fail to write. please be more punctual. i know you have your hands full; but i fear i'll go insane before this thing is over. tell me especially how far you intend going along the east wall, and where you'll come out. this complicates the matter. you have already gone a longer distance than would have been necessary per original plan. it was a grave mistake, and if you were not such a devoted friend, i'd feel very cross with you. write at once. i am arranging a new _sub rosa_ route. they are building in the yard; many outside drivers, you understand. a. dear tony: i'm in great haste to send this. you know the shed opposite the east wall. it has only a wooden floor and is not frequented much by officers. a few cons are there, from the stone pile. i'll attend to them. make directly for that shed. it's a short distance from wall. i enclose measurements. a. tony: you distract me beyond words. what has become of your caution, your judgment? a hole in the grass _will not do_. i am absolutely opposed to it. there are a score of men on the stone pile and several screws. it is sure to be discovered. and even if you leave the upper crust intact for a foot or two, how am i to dive into the hole in the presence of so many? you don't seem to have considered that. there is only _one_ way, the one i explained in my last. go to the shed; it's only a little more work, - feet, no more. tell the comrades the grass idea is impossible. a little more effort, friends, and all will be well. answer at once. a. dear tony: why do you insist on the hole in the ground? i tell you again it will not do. i won't consider it for a moment. i am on the inside--you must let me decide what can or cannot be done here. i am prepared to risk everything for liberty, would risk my life a thousand times. i am too desperate now for any one to block my escape; i'd break through a wall of guards, if necessary. but i still have a little judgment, though i am almost insane with the suspense and anxiety. if you insist on the hole, i'll make the break, though there is not one chance in a hundred for success. i beg of you, tony, the thing must be dug to the shed; it's only a little way. after such a tremendous effort, can we jeopardize it all so lightly? i assure you, the success of the hole plan is unthinkable. they'd all see me go down into it; i'd be followed at once--what's the use talking. besides, you know i have no revolvers. of course i'll have a weapon, but it will not help the escape. another thing, your change of plans has forced me to get an assistant. the man is reliable, and i have only confided to him parts of the project. i need him to investigate around the shed, take measurements, etc. i am not permitted anywhere near the wall. but you need not trouble about this; i'll be responsible for my friend. but i tell you about it, so that you prepare two pair of overalls instead of one. also leave two revolvers in the house, money, and cipher directions for us where to go. none of our comrades is to wait for us. let them all leave as soon as everything is ready. but be sure you don't stop at the hole. go to the shed, absolutely. a. tony: the hole will not do. the more i think of it, the more impossible i find it. i am sending an urgent call for money to the editor. you know whom i mean. get in communication with him at once. use the money to continue work to shed. a. direct to box a , allegheny city, pa., june , . dear comrade: the chaplain was very kind to permit me an extra sheet of paper, on urgent business. i write to you in a very great extremity. you are aware of the efforts of my friends to appeal my case. read carefully, please. i have lost faith in their attorneys. i have engaged my _own_ "lawyers." lawyers in quotation marks--a prison joke, you see. i have utmost confidence in _these_ lawyers. they will, absolutely, procure my release, even if it is not a pardon, you understand. i mean, we'll go to the superior court, different from a pardon board--another prison joke. my friends are short of money. we need some _at once_. the work is started, but cannot be finished for lack of funds. mark well what i say: _i'll not be responsible for anything_--the worst may happen--unless money is procured _at once_. you have influence. i rely on you to understand and to act promptly. your comrade, alexander berkman. my poor tony: i can see how this thing has gone on your nerves. to think that you, you the cautious tony, should be so reckless--to send me a telegram. you could have ruined the whole thing. i had trouble explaining to the chaplain, but it's all right now. of course, if it must be the hole, it can't be helped. i understood the meaning of your wire: from the seventh bar on the east wall, ten feet to west. we'll be there on the minute-- p. m. but july th won't do. it's a holiday: no work; my friend will be locked up. can't leave him in the lurch. it will have to be next day, july th. it's only three days more. i wish it was over; i can't bear the worry and suspense any more. may it be my independence day! a. july . tony: it's terrible. it's all over. couldn't make it. went there on time, but found a big pile of stone and brick right on top of the spot. impossible to do anything. i warned you they were building near there. i was seen at the wall--am now strictly forbidden to leave the cell-house. but my friend has been there a dozen times since--the hole can't be reached: a mountain of stone hides it. it won't be discovered for a little while. telegraph at once to new york for more money. you must continue to the shed. i can force my way there, if need be. it's the only hope. don't lose a minute. a. july . tony: a hundred dollars was sent to the office for me from new york. i told chaplain it is for my appeal. i am sending the money to you. have work continued at once. there is still hope. nothing suspected. but the wire that you pushed through the grass to indicate the spot, was not found by my friend. too much stone over it. go to shed at once. a. july . tunnel discovered. lose no time. leave the city immediately. i am locked up on suspicion. a. chapter xxxvii anxious days the discovery of the tunnel overwhelms me with the violence of an avalanche. the plan of continuing the work, the trembling hope of escape, of liberty, life--all is suddenly terminated. my nerves, tense with the months of suspense and anxiety, relax abruptly. with torpid brain i wonder, "is it possible, is it really possible?" * * * * * an air of uneasiness, as of lurking danger, fills the prison. vague rumors are afloat: a wholesale jail delivery had been planned, the walls were to be dynamited, the guards killed. an escape has actually taken place, it is whispered about. the warden wears a look of bewilderment and fear; the officers are alert with suspicion. the inmates manifest disappointment and nervous impatience. the routine is violently disturbed: the shops are closed, the men locked in the cells. the discovery of the tunnel mystifies the prison and the city authorities. some children, at play on the street, had accidentally wandered into the yard of the deserted house opposite the prison gates. the piles of freshly dug soil attracted their attention; a boy, stumbling into the cellar, was frightened by the sight of the deep cavern; his mother notified the agent of the house, who, by a peculiar coincidence, proved to be an officer of the penitentiary. but in vain are the efforts of the prison authorities to discover any sign of the tunnel within the walls. days pass in the fruitless investigation of the yard--the outlet of the tunnel within the prison cannot be found. perhaps the underground passage does not extend to the penitentiary? the warden voices his firm conviction that the walls have not been penetrated. evidently it was not the prison, he argues, which was the objective point of the diggers. the authorities of the city of allegheny decide to investigate the passage from the house on sterling street. but the men that essay to crawl through the narrow tunnel are forced to abandon their mission, driven back by the fumes of escaping gas. it is suggested that the unknown diggers, whatever their purpose, have been trapped in the abandoned gas well and perished before the arrival of aid. the fearful stench no doubt indicates the decomposition of human bodies; the terrible accident has forced the inmates of sterling street to suspend their efforts before completing the work. the condition of the house--the half-eaten meal on the table, the clothing scattered about the rooms, the general disorder--all seem to point to precipitate flight. the persistence of the assertion of a fatal accident disquiets me, in spite of my knowledge to the contrary. yet, perhaps the reckless tony, in his endeavor to force the wire signal through the upper crust, perished in the well. the thought unnerves me with horror, till it is announced that a negro, whom the police had induced to crawl the length of the tunnel, brought positive assurance that no life was sacrificed in the underground work. still the prison authorities are unable to find the objective point, and it is finally decided to tear up the streets beneath which the tunnel winds its mysterious way. * * * * * the undermined place inside the walls at last being discovered after a week of digging at various points in the yard, the warden reluctantly admits the apparent purpose of the tunnel, at the same time informing the press that the evident design was the liberation of the anarchist prisoner. he corroborates his view by the circumstance that i had been reported for unpermitted presence at the east wall, pretending to collect gravel for my birds. assistant deputy warden hopkins further asserts having seen and talked with carl nold near the "criminal" house, a short time before the discovery of the tunnel. the developments, fraught with danger to my friends, greatly alarm me. fortunately, no clew can be found in the house, save a note in cipher which apparently defies the skill of experts. the warden, on his sunday rounds, passes my cell, then turns as if suddenly recollecting something. "here, berkman," he says blandly, producing a paper, "the press is offering a considerable reward to any one who will decipher the note found in the sterling street house. it's reproduced here. see if you can't make it out." i scan the paper carefully, quickly reading tony's directions for my movements after the escape. then, returning the paper, i remark indifferently, "i can read several languages, captain, but this is beyond me." the police and detective bureaus of the twin cities make the announcement that a thorough investigation conclusively demonstrates that the tunnel was intended for william boyd, a prisoner serving twelve years for a series of daring forgeries. his "pals" had succeeded in clearing fifty thousand dollars on forged bonds, and it is they who did the wonderful feat underground, to secure the liberty of the valuable penman. the controversy between the authorities of allegheny and the management of the prison is full of animosity and bitterness. wardens of prisons, chiefs of police, and detective departments of various cities are consulted upon the mystery of the ingenious diggers, and the discussion in the press waxes warm and antagonistic. presently the chief of police of allegheny suffers a change of heart, and sides with the warden, as against his personal enemy, the head of the pittsburgh detective bureau. the confusion of published views, and my persistent denial of complicity in the tunnel, cause the much-worried warden to fluctuate. a number of men are made the victims of his mental uncertainty. following my exile into solitary, pat mcgraw is locked up as a possible beneficiary of the planned escape. in he had slipped through the roof of the prison, the warden argues, and it is therefore reasonable to assume that the man is meditating another delivery. jack robinson, cronin, "nan," and a score of others, are in turn suspected by captain wright, and ordered locked up during the preliminary investigation. but because of absolute lack of clews the prisoners are presently returned to work, and the number of "suspects" is reduced to myself and boyd, the warden having discovered that the latter had recently made an attempt to escape by forcing an entry into the cupola of the shop he was employed in, only to find the place useless for his purpose. a process of elimination and the espionage of the trusties gradually center exclusive suspicion upon myself. in surprise i learn that young russell has been cited before the captain. the fear of indiscretion on the part of the boy startles me from my torpor. i must employ every device to confound the authorities and save my friends. fortunately none of the tunnelers have yet been arrested, the controversy between the city officials and the prison management having favored inaction. my comrades cannot be jeopardized by russell. his information is limited to the mere knowledge of the specific person for whom the tunnel was intended; the names of my friends are entirely unfamiliar to him. my heart goes out to the young prisoner, as i reflect that never once had he manifested curiosity concerning the men at the secret work. desperate with confinement, and passionately yearning for liberty though he was, he had yet offered to sacrifice his longings to aid my escape. how transported with joy was the generous youth when i resolved to share my opportunity with him! he had given faithful service in attempting to locate the tunnel entrance; the poor boy had been quite distracted at our failure to find the spot. i feel confident russell will not betray the secret in his keeping. yet the persistent questioning by the warden and inspectors is perceptibly working on the boy's mind. he is so young and inexperienced--barely nineteen; a slip of the tongue, an inadvertent remark, might convert suspicion into conviction. every day russell is called to the office, causing me torments of apprehension and dread, till a glance at the returning prisoner, smiling encouragingly as he passes my cell, informs me that the danger is past for the day. with a deep pang, i observe the increasing pallor of his face, the growing restlessness in his eyes, the languid step. the continuous inquisition is breaking him down. with quivering voice he whispers as he passes, "aleck, i'm afraid of them." the warden has threatened him, he informs me, if he persists in his pretended ignorance of the tunnel. his friendship for me is well known, the warden reasons; we have often been seen together in the cell-house and yard; i must surely have confided to russell my plans of escape. the big, strapping youth is dwindling to a shadow under the terrible strain. dear, faithful friend! how guilty i feel toward you, how torn in my inmost heart to have suspected your devotion, even for that brief instant when, in a panic of fear, you had denied to the warden all knowledge of the slip of paper found in your cell. it cast suspicion upon me as the writer of the strange jewish scrawl. the warden scorned my explanation that russell's desire to learn hebrew was the sole reason for my writing the alphabet for him. the mutual denial seemed to point to some secret; the scrawl was similar to the cipher note found in the sterling street house, the warden insisted. how strange that i should have so successfully confounded the inspectors with the contradictory testimony regarding the tunnel, that they returned me to my position on the range. and yet the insignificant incident of russell's hieroglyphic imitation of the hebrew alphabet should have given the warden a pretext to order me into solitary! how distracted and bitter i must have felt to charge the boy with treachery! his very reticence strengthened my suspicion, and all the while the tears welled into his throat, choking the innocent lad beyond speech. how little i suspected the terrible wound my hasty imputation had caused my devoted friend! in silence he suffered for months, without opportunity to explain, when at last, by mere accident, i learned the fatal mistake. in vain i strive to direct my thoughts into different channels. my misunderstanding of russell plagues me with recurring persistence; the unjust accusation torments my sleepless nights. it was a moment of intense joy that i experienced as i humbly begged his pardon to-day, when i met him in the captain's office. a deep sense of relief, almost of peace, filled me at his unhesitating, "oh, never mind, aleck, it's all right; we were both excited." i was overcome by thankfulness and admiration of the noble boy, and the next instant the sight of his wan face, his wasted form, pierced me as with a knife-thrust. with the earnest conviction of strong faith i sought to explain to the board of inspectors the unfortunate error regarding the jewish writing. but they smiled doubtfully. it was too late: their opinion of a prearranged agreement with russell was settled. but the testimony of assistant deputy hopkins that he had seen and conversed with nold a few weeks before the discovery of the tunnel, and that he saw him enter the "criminal" house, afforded me an opportunity to divide the views among the inspectors. i experienced little difficulty in convincing two members of the board that nold could not possibly have been connected with the tunnel, because for almost a year previously, and since, he had been in the employ of a st. louis firm. they accepted my offer to prove by the official time-tables of the company that nold was in st. louis on the very day that hopkins claimed to have spoken with him. the fortunate and very natural error of hopkins in mistaking the similar appearance of tony for that of carl, enabled me to discredit the chief link connecting my friends with the tunnel. the diverging views of the police officials of the twin cities still further confounded the inspectors, and i was gravely informed by them that the charge of attempted escape against me had not been conclusively substantiated. they ordered my reinstatement as rangeman, but the captain, on learning the verdict, at once charged me before the board with conducting a secret correspondence with russell. on the pretext of the alleged hebrew note, the inspectors confirmed the warden's judgment, and i was sentenced to the solitary and immediately locked up in the south wing. chapter xxxviii "how men their brothers maim" i the solitary is stifling with the august heat. the hall windows, high above the floor, cast a sickly light, shrouding the bottom range in darksome gloom. at every point, my gaze meets the irritating white of the walls, in spots yellow with damp. the long days are oppressive with silence; the stone cage echoes my languid footsteps mournfully. once more i feel cast into the night, torn from the midst of the living. the failure of the tunnel forever excludes the hope of liberty. terrified by the possibilities of the planned escape, the warden's determination dooms my fate. i shall end my days in strictest seclusion, he has informed me. severe punishment is visited upon any one daring to converse with me; even officers are forbidden to pause at my cell. old evans, the night guard, is afraid even to answer my greeting, since he was disciplined with the loss of ten days' pay for being seen at my door. it was not his fault, poor old man. the night was sultry; the sashes of the hall window opposite my cell were tightly closed. almost suffocated with the foul air, i requested the passing evans to raise the window. it had been ordered shut by the warden, he informed me. as he turned to leave, three sharp raps on the bars of the upper rotunda almost rooted him to the spot with amazement. it was a. m. no one was supposed to be there at night. "come here, evans!" i recognized the curt tones of the warden. "what business have you at that man's door?" i could distinctly hear each word, cutting the stillness of the night. in vain the frightened officer sought to explain: he had merely answered a question, he had stopped but a moment. "i've been watching you there for half an hour," the irate warden insisted. "report to me in the morning." since then the guards on their rounds merely glance between the bars, and pass on in silence. i have been removed within closer observation of the nightly prowling captain, and am now located near the rotunda, in the second cell on the ground floor, range y. the stringent orders of exceptional surveillance have so terrorized my friends that they do not venture to look in my direction. a special officer has been assigned to the vicinity of my door, his sole duty to keep me under observation. i feel buried alive. communication with my comrades has been interrupted, the warden detaining my mail. i am deprived of books and papers, all my privileges curtailed. if only i had my birds! the company of my little pets would give me consolation. but they have been taken from me, and i fear the guards have killed them. deprived of work and exercise i pass the days in the solitary, monotonous, interminable. ii by degrees anxiety over my friends is allayed. the mystery of the tunnel remains unsolved. the warden reiterates his moral certainty that the underground passage was intended for the liberation of the anarchist prisoner. the views of the police and detective officials of the twin cities are hopelessly divergent. each side asserts thorough familiarity with the case, and positive conviction regarding the guilty parties. but the alleged clews proving misleading, the matter is finally abandoned. the passage has been filled with cement, and the official investigation is terminated. the safety of my comrades sheds a ray of light into the darkness of my existence. it is consoling to reflect that, disastrous as the failure is to myself, my friends will not be made victims of my longing for liberty. at no time since the discovery of the tunnel has suspicion been directed to the right persons. the narrow official horizon does not extend beyond the familiar names of the girl, nold, and bauer. these have been pointed at by the accusing finger repeatedly, but the men actually concerned in the secret attempt have not even been mentioned. no danger threatens them from the failure of my plans. in a communication to a local newspaper, nold has incontrovertibly proved his continuous residence in st. louis for a period covering a year previous to the tunnel and afterwards. bauer has recently married; at no time have the police been in ignorance of his whereabouts, and they are aware that my former fellow-prisoner is to be discounted as a participator in the attempted escape. indeed, the prison officials must have learned from my mail that the big german is regarded by my friends as an ex-comrade merely. but the suspicion of the authorities directed toward the girl--with a pang of bitterness, i think of her unfortunate absence from the country during the momentous period of the underground work. with resentment i reflect that but for that i might now be at liberty! her skill as an organizer, her growing influence in the movement, her energy and devotion, would have assured the success of the undertaking. but tony's unaccountable delay had resulted in her departure without learning of my plans. it is to him, to his obstinacy and conceit, that the failure of the project is mostly due, staunch and faithful though he is. in turn i lay the responsibility at the door of this friend and that, lashing myself into furious rage at the renegade who had appropriated a considerable sum of the money intended for the continuation of the underground work. yet the outbursts of passion spent, i strive to find consolation in the correctness of the intuitive judgment that prompted the selection of my "lawyers," the devoted comrades who so heroically toiled for my sake in the bowels of the earth. half-naked they had labored through the weary days and nights, stretched at full length in the narrow passage, their bodies perspiring and chilled in turn, their hands bleeding with the terrible toil. and through the weeks and months of nerve-racking work and confinement in the tunnel, of constant dread of detection and anxiety over the result, my comrades had uttered no word of doubt or fear, in full reliance upon their invisible friend. what self-sacrifice in behalf of one whom some of you had never even known! dear, beloved comrades, had you succeeded, my life could never repay your almost superhuman efforts and love. only the future years of active devotion to our great common cause could in a measure express my thankfulness and pride in you, whoever, wherever you are. nor were your heroism, your skill and indomitable perseverance, without avail. you have given an invaluable demonstration of the elemental reality of the ideal, of the marvelous strength and courage born of solidaric purpose, of the heights devotion to a great cause can ascend. and the lesson has not been lost. almost unanimous is the voice of the press--only anarchists could have achieved the wonderful feat! * * * * * the subject of the tunnel fascinates my mind. how little thought i had given to my comrades, toiling underground, in the anxious days of my own apprehension and suspense! with increasing vividness i visualize their trepidation, the constant fear of discovery, the herculean efforts in spite of ever-present danger. how terrible must have been _their_ despair at the inability to continue the work to a successful termination!... my reflections fill me with renewed strength. i must live! i must live to meet those heroic men, to take them by the hand, and with silent lips pour my heart into their eyes. i shall be proud of their comradeship, and strive to be worthy of it. iii the lines form in the hallway, and silently march to the shops. i peer through the bars, for the sight of a familiar face brings cheer, and the memory of the days on the range. many friends, unseen for years, pass by my cell. how big jack has wasted! the deep chest is sunk in, the face drawn and yellow, with reddish spots about the cheekbones. poor jack, so strong and energetic, how languid and weak his step is now! and jimmy is all broken up with rheumatism, and hops on crutches. with difficulty i recognize harry fisher. the two years have completely changed the young morganza boy. he looks old at seventeen, the rosy cheeks a ghastly white, the delicate features immobile, hard, the large bright eyes dull and glassy. vividly my friends stand before me in the youth and strength of their first arrival. how changed their appearance! my poor chums, readers of the _prison blossoms_, helpers in our investigation efforts, what wrecks the torture of hell has made of you! i recall with sadness the first years of my imprisonment, and my coldly impersonal valuation of social victims. there is evans, the aged burglar, smiling furtively at me from the line. far in the distance seems the day when i read his marginal note upon a magazine article i sent him, concerning the stupendous cost of crime. i had felt quite piqued at the flippancy of his comment, "we come high, but they must have us." with the severe intellectuality of revolutionary tradition, i thought of him and his kind as inevitable fungus growths, the rotten fruit of a decaying society. unfortunate derelicts, indeed, yet parasites, almost devoid of humanity. but the threads of comradeship have slowly been woven by common misery. the touch of sympathy has discovered the man beneath the criminal; the crust of sullen suspicion has melted at the breath of kindness, warming into view the palpitating human heart. old evans and sammy and bob,--what suffering and pain must have chilled their fiery souls with the winter of savage bitterness! and the resurrection trembles within! how terrible man's ignorance, that forever condemns itself to be scourged by its own blind fury! and these my friends, davis and russell, these innocently guilty,--what worse punishment could society inflict upon itself, than the loss of their latent nobility which it had killed?... not entirely in vain are the years of suffering that have wakened my kinship with the humanity of _les misérables_, whom social stupidity has cast into the valley of death. chapter xxxix a new plan of escape i my new neighbor turns my thoughts into a different channel. it is "fighting" tom, returned after several years of absence. by means of a string attached to a wire we "swing" notes to each other at night, and tom startles me by the confession that he was the author of the mysterious note i had received soon after my arrival in the penitentiary. an escape was being planned, he informs me, and i was to be "let in," by his recommendation. but one of the conspirators getting "cold feet," the plot was betrayed to the warden, whereupon tom "sent the snitch to the hospital." as a result, however, he was kept in solitary till his release. in the prison he had become proficient as a broom-maker, and it was his intention to follow the trade. there was nothing in the crooked line, he thought; and he resolved to be honest. but on the day of his discharge he was arrested at the gate by officers from illinois on an old charge. he swore vengeance against assistant deputy hopkins, before whom he had once accidentally let drop the remark that he would never return to illinois, because he was "wanted" there. he lived the five years in the joliet prison in the sole hope of "getting square" with the man who had so meanly betrayed him. upon his release, he returned to pittsburgh, determined to kill hopkins. on the night of his arrival he broke into the latter's residence, prepared to avenge his wrongs. but the assistant deputy had left the previous day on his vacation. furious at being baffled, tom was about to set fire to the house, when the light of his match fell upon a silver trinket on the bureau of the bedroom. it fascinated him. he could not take his eyes off it. suddenly he was seized with the desire to examine the contents of the house. the old passion was upon him. he could not resist. hardly conscious of his actions, he gathered the silverware into a tablecloth, and quietly stole out of the house. he was arrested the next day, as he was trying to pawn his booty. an old offender, he received a sentence of ten years. since his arrival, eight months ago, he has been kept in solitary. his health is broken; he has no hope of surviving his sentence. but if he is to die--he swears--he is going to take "his man" along. aware of the determination of "fighting" tom, i realize that the safety of the hated officer is conditioned by tom's lack of opportunity to carry out his revenge. i feel little sympathy for hopkins, whose craftiness in worming out the secrets of prisoners has placed him on the pay-roll of the pinkerton agency; but i exert myself to persuade tom that it would be sheer insanity thus deliberately to put his head in the noose. he is still a young man; barely thirty. it is not worth while sacrificing his life for a sneak of a guard. however, tom remains stubborn. my arguments seem merely to rouse his resistance, and strengthen his resolution. but closer acquaintance reveals to me his exceeding conceit over his art and technic, as a second-story expert. i play upon his vanity, scoffing at the crudity of his plans of revenge. would it not be more in conformity with his reputation as a skilled "gun," i argue, to "do the job" in a "smoother" manner? tom assumes a skeptical attitude, but by degrees grows more interested. presently, with unexpected enthusiasm, he warms to the suggestion of "a break." once outside, well--"i'll get 'im all right," he chuckles. ii the plan of escape completely absorbs us. on alternate nights we take turns in timing the rounds of the guards, the appearance of the night captain, the opening of the rotunda door. numerous details, seemingly insignificant, yet potentially fatal, are to be mastered. many obstacles bar the way of success, but time and perseverance will surmount them. tom is thoroughly engrossed with the project. i realize the desperation of the undertaking, but the sole alternative is slow death in the solitary. it is the last resort. with utmost care we make our preparations. the summer is long past; the dense fogs of the season will aid our escape. we hasten to complete all details, in great nervous tension with the excitement of the work. the time is drawing near for deciding upon a definite date. but tom's state of mind fills me with apprehension. he has become taciturn of late. yesterday he seemed peculiarly glum, sullenly refusing to answer my signal. again and again i knock on the wall, calling for a reply to my last note. tom remains silent. occasionally a heavy groan issues from his cell, but my repeated signals remain unanswered. in alarm i stay awake all night, in the hope of inducing a guard to investigate the cause of the groaning. but my attempts to speak to the officers are ignored. the next morning i behold tom carried on a stretcher from his cell, and learn with horror that he had bled to death during the night. iii the peculiar death of my friend preys on my mind. was it suicide or accident? tom had been weakened by long confinement; in some manner he may have ruptured a blood vessel, dying for lack of medical aid. it is hardly probable that he would commit suicide on the eve of our attempt. yet certain references in his notes of late, ignored at the time, assume new significance. he was apparently under the delusion that hopkins was "after him." once or twice my friend had expressed fear for his safety. he might be poisoned, he hinted. i had laughed the matter away, familiar with the sporadic delusions of men in solitary. close confinement exerts a similar effect upon the majority of prisoners. some are especially predisposed to auto-suggestion; young sid used to manifest every symptom of the diseases he read about. perhaps poor tom's delusion was responsible for his death. spencer, too, had committed suicide a month before his release, in the firm conviction that the warden would not permit his discharge. it may be that in a sudden fit of despondency, tom had ended his life. perhaps i could have saved my friend: i did not realize how constantly he brooded over the danger he believed himself threatened with. how little i knew of the terrible struggle that must have been going on in his tortured heart! yet we were so intimate; i believed i understood his every feeling and emotion. * * * * * the thought of tom possesses my mind. the news from the girl about bresci's execution of the king of italy rouses little interest in me. bresci avenged the peasants and the women and children shot before the palace for humbly begging bread. he did well, and the agitation resulting from his act may advance the cause. but it will have no bearing on my fate. the last hope of escape has departed with my poor friend. i am doomed to perish here. and bresci will perish in prison, but the comrades will eulogize him and his act, and continue their efforts to regenerate the world. yet i feel that the individual, in certain cases, is of more direct and immediate consequence than humanity. what is the latter but the aggregate of individual existences--and shall these, the best of them, forever be sacrificed for the metaphysical collectivity? here, all around me, a thousand unfortunates daily suffer the torture of calvary, forsaken by god and man. they bleed and struggle and suicide, with the desperate cry for a little sunshine and life. how shall they be helped? how helped amid the injustice and brutality of a society whose chief monuments are prisons? and so we must suffer and suicide, and countless others after us, till the play of social forces shall transform human history into the history of true humanity,--and meanwhile our bones will bleach on the long, dreary road. * * * * * bereft of the last hope of freedom, i grow indifferent to life. the monotony of the narrow cell daily becomes more loathsome. my whole being longs for rest. rest, no more to awaken. the world will not miss me. an atom of matter, i shall return to endless space. everything will pursue its wonted course, but i shall know no more of the bitter struggle and strife. my friends will sorrow, and yet be glad my pain is over, and continue on their way. and new brescis will arise, and more kings will fall, and then all, friend and enemy, will go my way, and new generations will be born and die, and humanity and the world be whirled into space and disappear, and again the little stage will be set, and the same history and the same facts will come and go, the playthings of cosmic forces renewing and transforming forever. how insignificant it all is in the eye of reason, how small and puny life and all its pain and travail!... with eyes closed, i behold myself suspended by the neck from the upper bars of the cell. my body swings gently against the door, striking it softly, once, twice,--just like pasquale, when he hanged himself in the cell next to mine, some months ago. a few twitches, and the last breath is gone. my face grows livid, my body rigid; slowly it cools. the night guard passes. "what's this, eh?" he rings the rotunda bell. keys clang; the lever is drawn, and my door unlocked. an officer draws a knife sharply across the rope at the bars: my body sinks to the floor, my head striking against the iron bedstead. the doctor kneels at my side; i feel his hand over my heart. now he rises. "good job, doc?" i recognize the deputy's voice. the physician nods. "damn glad of it," hopkins sneers. the warden enters, a grin on his parchment face. with an oath i spring to my feet. in terror the officers rush from the cell. "ah, i fooled you, didn't i, you murderers!" * * * * * the thought of the enemy's triumph fans the embers of life. it engenders defiance, and strengthens stubborn resistance. chapter xl done to death i in my utter isolation, the world outside appears like a faint memory, unreal and dim. the deprivation of newspapers has entirely severed me from the living. letters from my comrades have become rare and irregular; they sound strangely cold and impersonal. the life of the prison is also receding; no communication reaches me from my friends. "pious" john, the rangeman, is unsympathetic; he still bears me ill will from the days of the jail. only young russell still remembers me. i tremble for the reckless boy as i hear his low cough, apprising me of the "stiff" he unerringly shoots between the bars, while the double file of prisoners marches past my door. he looks pale and haggard, the old buoyant step now languid and heavy. a tone of apprehension pervades his notes. he is constantly harassed by the officers, he writes; his task has been increased; he is nervous and weak, and his health is declining. in the broken sentences, i sense some vague misgiving, as of impending calamity. with intense thankfulness i think of russell. again i live through the hopes and fears that drew us into closer friendship, the days of terrible anxiety incident to the tunnel project. my heart goes out to the faithful boy, whose loyalty and discretion have so much aided the safety of my comrades. a strange longing for his companionship possesses me. in the gnawing loneliness, his face floats before me, casting the spell of a friendly presence, his strong features softened by sorrow, his eyes grown large with the same sweet sadness of "little felipe." a peculiar tenderness steals into my thoughts of the boy; i look forward eagerly to his notes. impatiently i scan the faces in the passing line, wistful for the sight of the youth, and my heart beats faster at his fleeting smile. how sorrowful he looks! now he is gone. the hours are weary with silence and solitude. listlessly i turn the pages of my library book. if only i had the birds! i should find solace in their thoughtful eyes: dick and sis would understand and feel with me. but my poor little friends have disappeared; only russell remains. my only friend! i shall not see him when he returns to the cell at noon: the line passes on the opposite side of the hall. but in the afternoon, when the men are again unlocked for work, i shall look into his eyes for a happy moment, and perhaps the dear boy will have a message for me. he is so tender-hearted: his correspondence is full of sympathy and encouragement, and he strives to cheer me with the good news: another day is gone, his sentence is nearing its end; he will at once secure a position, and save every penny to aid in my release. tacitly i concur in his ardent hope,--it would break his heart to be disillusioned. ii the passing weeks and months bring no break in the dreary monotony. the call of the robin on the river bank rouses no echo in my heart. no sign of awakening spring brightens the constant semi-darkness of the solitary. the dampness of the cell is piercing my bones; every movement racks my body with pain. my eyes are tortured with the eternal white of the walls. sombre shadows brood around me. i long for a bit of sunshine. i wait patiently at the door: perhaps it is clear to-day. my cell faces west; may be the setting sun will steal a glance upon me. for hours i stand with naked breast close to the bars: i must not miss a friendly ray; it may suddenly peep into the cell and turn away from me, unseen in the gloom. now a bright beam plays on my neck and shoulders, and i press closer to the door to welcome the dear stranger. he caresses me with soft touch,--perhaps it is the soul of little dick pouring out his tender greeting in this song of light,--or may be the astral aura of my beloved uncle maxim, bringing warmth and hope. sweet conceit of oriental thought, barren of joy in life.... the sun is fading. it feels chilly in the twilight,--and now the solitary is once more bleak and cold. * * * * * as his release approaches, the tone of native confidence becomes more assertive in russell's letter. the boy is jubilant and full of vitality: within three months he will breathe the air of freedom. a note of sadness at leaving me behind permeates his communications, but he is enthusiastic over his project of aiding me to liberty. eagerly every day i anticipate his mute greeting, as he passes in the line. this morning i saw him hold up two fingers, the third crooked, in sign of the remaining "two and a stump." a joyous light is in his eyes, his step firmer, more elastic. but in the afternoon he is missing from the line. with sudden apprehension i wonder at his absence. could i have overlooked him in the closely walking ranks? it is barely possible. perhaps he has remained in the cell, not feeling well. it may be nothing serious; he will surely be in line to-morrow. for three days, every morning and afternoon, i anxiously scrutinize the faces of the passing men; but russell is not among them. his absence torments me with a thousand fears. may be the warden has renewed his inquisition of the boy--perhaps he got into a fight in the shop--in the dungeon now--he'll lose his commutation time.... unable to bear the suspense, i am about to appeal to the chaplain, when a friendly runner surreptitiously hands me a note. with difficulty i recognize my friend's bold handwriting in the uneven, nervous scrawl. russell is in the hospital! at work in the shop, he writes, he had suffered a chill. the doctor committed him to the ward for observation, but the officers and the convict nurses accuse him of shamming to evade work. they threaten to have him returned to the shop, and he implores me to have the chaplain intercede for him. he feels weak and feverish, and the thought of being left alone in the cell in his present condition fills him with horror. i send an urgent request to see the chaplain. but the guard informs me that mr. milligan is absent; he is not expected at the office till the following week. i prevail upon the kindly mitchell, recently transferred to the south block, to deliver a note to the warden, in which i appeal on behalf of russell. but several days pass, and still no reply from captain wright. finally i pretend severe pains in the bowels, to afford frank, the doctor's assistant, an opportunity to pause at my cell. as the "medicine boy" pours the prescribed pint of "horse salts" through the funnel inserted between the bars, i hastily inquire: "is russell still in the ward, frank? how is he?" "what russell?" he asks indifferently. "russell schroyer, put four days ago under observation," "oh, that poor kid! why, he is paralyzed." for an instant i am speechless with terror. no, it cannot be. some mistake. "frank, i mean young schroyer, from the construction shop. he's number ." "your friend russell; i know who you mean. i'm sorry for the boy. he is paralyzed, all right." "but.... no, it can't be! why, frank, it was just a chill and a little weakness." "look here, aleck. i know you're square, and you can keep a secret all right. i'll tell you something if you won't give me away." "yes, yes, frank. what is it?" "sh--sh. you know flem, the night nurse? doing a five spot for murder. his father and the warden are old cronies. that's how he got to be nurse; don't know a damn thing about it, an' careless as hell. always makes mistakes. well, doc ordered an injection for russell. now don't ever say i told you. flem got the wrong bottle; gave the poor boy some acid in the injection. paralyzed the kid; he did, the damn murderer." * * * * * i pass the night in anguish, clutching desperately at the faint hope that it cannot be--some mistake--perhaps frank has exaggerated. but in the morning the "medicine boy" confirms my worst fears: the doctor has said the boy will die. russell does not realize the situation: there is something wrong with his legs, the poor boy writes; he is unable to move them, and suffers great pain. it can't be fever, he thinks; but the physician will not tell him what is the matter.... the kindly frank is sympathetic; every day he passes notes between us, and i try to encourage russell. he will improve, i assure him; his time is short, and fresh air and liberty will soon restore him. my words seem to soothe my friend, and he grows more cheerful, when unexpectedly he learns the truth from the wrangling nurses. his notes grow piteous with misery. tears fill my eyes as i read his despairing cry, "oh, aleck, i am so young. i don't want to die." he implores me to visit him; if i could only come to nurse him, he is sure he would improve. he distrusts the convict attendants who harry and banter the country lad; their heartless abuse is irritating the sick boy beyond patience. exasperated by the taunts of the night nurse, russell yesterday threw a saucer at him. he was reported to the doctor, who threatened to send the paralyzed youth to the dungeon. plagued and tormented, in great suffering, russell grows bitter and complaining. the nurses and officers are persecuting him, he writes; they will soon do him to death, if i will not come to his rescue. if he could go to an outside hospital, he is sure to recover. every evening frank brings sadder news: russell is feeling worse; he is so nervous, the doctor has ordered the nurses to wear slippers; the doors in the ward have been lined with cotton, to deaden the noise of slamming; but even the sight of a moving figure throws russell into convulsions. there is no hope, frank reports; decomposition has already set in. the boy is in terrible agony; he is constantly crying with pain, and calling for me. distraught with anxiety and yearning to see my sick friend, i resolve upon a way to visit the hospital. in the morning, as the guard hands me the bread ration and shuts my cell, i slip my hand between the sill and door. with an involuntary cry i withdraw my maimed and bleeding fingers. the overseer conducts me to the dispensary. by tacit permission of the friendly "medicine boy" i pass to the second floor, where the wards are located, and quickly steal to russell's bedside. the look of mute joy on the agonized face subdues the excruciating pain in my hand. "oh, dear aleck," he whispers, "i'm so glad they let you come. i'll get well if you'll nurse me." the shadow of death is in his eyes; the body exudes decomposition. bereft of speech, i gently press his white, emaciated hand. the weary eyes close, and the boy falls into slumber. silently i touch his dry lips, and steal away. in the afternoon i appeal to the warden to permit me to nurse my friend. it is the boy's dying wish; it will ease his last hours. the captain refers me to the inspectors, but mr. reed informs me that it would be subversive of discipline to grant my request. thereupon i ask permission to arrange a collection among the prisoners: russell firmly believes that he would improve in an outside hospital, and the pardon board might grant the petition. friendless prisoners are often allowed to circulate subscription lists among the inmates, and two years previously i had collected a hundred and twenty-three dollars for the pardon of a lifetimer. but the warden curtly refuses my plea, remarking that it is dangerous to permit me to associate with the men. i suggest the chaplain for the mission, or some prisoner selected by the authorities. but this offer is also vetoed, the warden berating me for having taken advantage of my presence in the dispensary to see russell clandestinely, and threatening to punish me with the dungeon. i plead with him for permission to visit the sick boy who is hungry for a friendly presence, and constantly calling for me. apparently touched by my emotion, the captain yields. he will permit me to visit russell, he informs me, on condition that a guard be present at the meeting. for a moment i hesitate. the desire to see my friend struggles against the fear of irritating him by the sight of the hated uniform; but i cannot expose the dying youth to this indignity and pain. angered by my refusal, perhaps disappointed in the hope of learning the secret of the tunnel from the visit, the warden forbids me hereafter to enter the hospital. * * * * * late at night frank appears at my cell. he looks very grave, as he whispers: "aleck, you must bear up." "russell--?" "yes, aleck." "worse? tell me, frank." "he is dead. bear up, aleck. his last thought was of you. he was unconscious all afternoon, but just before the end--it was . --he sat up in bed so suddenly, he frightened me. his arm shot out, and he cried, 'good bye, aleck.'" chapter xli the shock at buffalo i july , . dear girl: this is from the hospital, _sub rosa_. just out of the strait-jacket, after eight days. for over a year i was in the strictest solitary; for a long time mail and reading matter were denied me. i have no words to describe the horror of the last months.... i have passed through a great crisis. two of my best friends died in a frightful manner. the death of russell, especially, affected me. he was very young, and my dearest and most devoted friend, and he died a terrible death. the doctor charged the boy with shamming, but now he says it was spinal meningitis. i cannot tell you the awful truth,--it was nothing short of murder, and my poor friend rotted away by inches. when he died they found his back one mass of bedsores. if you could read the pitiful letters he wrote, begging to see me, and to be nursed by me! but the warden wouldn't permit it. in some manner his agony seemed to affect me, and i began to experience the pains and symptoms that russell described in his notes. i knew it was my sick fancy; i strove against it, but presently my legs showed signs of paralysis, and i suffered excruciating pain in the spinal column, just like russell. i was afraid that i would be done to death like my poor friend. i grew suspicious of every guard, and would barely touch the food, for fear of its being poisoned. my "head was workin'," they said. and all the time i knew it was my diseased imagination, and i was in terror of going mad.... i tried so hard to fight it, but it would always creep up, and get hold of me stronger and stronger. another week of solitary would have killed me. i was on the verge of suicide. i demanded to be relieved from the cell, and the warden ordered me punished. i was put in the strait-jacket. they bound my body in canvas, strapped my arms to the bed, and chained my feet to the posts. i was kept that way eight days, unable to move, rotting in my own excrement. released prisoners called the attention of our new inspector to my case. he refused to believe that such things were being done in the penitentiary. reports spread that i was going blind and insane. then the inspector visited the hospital and had me released from the jacket. i am in pretty bad shape, but they put me in the general ward now, and i am glad of the chance to send you this note. sasha. ii direct to box a , allegheny city, pa., july th, . dear sonya: i cannot tell you how happy i am to be allowed to write to you again. my privileges have been restored by our new inspector, a very kindly man. he has relieved me from the cell, and now i am again on the range. the inspector requested me to deny to my friends the reports which have recently appeared in the papers concerning my condition. i have not been well of late, but now i hope to improve. my eyes are very poor. the inspector has given me permission to have a specialist examine them. please arrange for it through our local comrades. there is another piece of very good news, dear friend. a new commutation law has been passed, which reduces my sentence by - / years. it still leaves me a long time, of course; almost years here, and another year to the workhouse. however, it is a considerable gain, and if i should not get into solitary again, i may--i am almost afraid to utter the thought--i may live to come out. i feel as if i am being resurrected. the new law benefits the short-timers proportionately much more than the men with longer sentences. only the poor lifers do not share in it. we were very anxious for a while, as there were many rumors that the law would be declared unconstitutional. fortunately, the attempt to nullify its benefits proved ineffectual. think of men who will see something unconstitutional in allowing the prisoners a little more good time than the commutation statute of years ago. as if a little kindness to the unfortunates--really justice--is incompatible with the spirit of jefferson! we were greatly worried over the fate of this statute, but at last the first batch has been released, and there is much rejoicing over it. there is a peculiar history about this new law, which may interest you; it sheds a significant side light. it was especially designed for the benefit of a high federal officer who was recently convicted of aiding two wealthy philadelphia tobacco manufacturers to defraud the government of a few millions, by using counterfeit tax stamps. their influence secured the introduction of the commutation bill and its hasty passage. the law would have cut their sentences almost in two, but certain newspapers seem to have taken offence at having been kept in ignorance of the "deal," and protests began to be voiced. the matter finally came up before the attorney general of the united states, who decided that the men in whose special interest the law was engineered, could not benefit by it, because a state law does not affect u. s. prisoners, the latter being subject to the federal commutation act. imagine the discomfiture of the politicians! an attempt was even made to suspend the operation of the statute. fortunately it failed, and now the "common" state prisoners, who were not at all meant to profit, are being released. the legislature has unwittingly given some unfortunates here much happiness. i was interrupted in this writing by being called out for a visit. i could hardly credit it: the first comrade i have been allowed to see in nine years! it was harry gordon, and i was so overcome by the sight of the dear friend, i could barely speak. he must have prevailed upon the new inspector to issue a permit. the latter is now acting warden, owing to the serious illness of captain wright. perhaps he will allow me to see my sister. will you kindly communicate with her at once? meantime i shall try to secure a pass. with renewed hope, and always with green memory of you, alex. iii _sub rosa_, dec. , . dearest girl: i know how your visit and my strange behavior have affected you.... the sight of your face after all these years completely unnerved me. i could not think, i could not speak. it was as if all my dreams of freedom, the whole world of the living, were concentrated in the shiny little trinket that was dangling from your watch chain.... i couldn't take my eyes off it, i couldn't keep my hand from playing with it. it absorbed my whole being.... and all the time i felt how nervous you were at my silence, and i couldn't utter a word. perhaps it would have been better for us not to have seen each other under the present conditions. it was lucky they did not recognize you: they took you for my "sister," though i believe your identity was suspected after you had left. you would surely not have been permitted the visit, had the old warden been here. he was ill at the time. he never got over the shock of the tunnel, and finally he has been persuaded by the prison physician (who has secret aspirations to the wardenship) that the anxieties of his position are a menace to his advanced age. considerable dissatisfaction has also developed of late against the warden among the inspectors. well, he has resigned at last, thank goodness! the prisoners have been praying for it for years, and some of the boys on the range celebrated the event by getting drunk on wood alcohol. the new warden has just assumed charge, and we hope for improvement. he is a physician by profession, with the title of major in the pennsylvania militia. it was entirely uncalled for on the part of the officious friend, whoever he may have been, to cause you unnecessary worry over my health, and my renewed persecution. you remember that in july the new inspector released me from the strait-jacket and assigned me to work on the range. but i was locked up again in october, after the mckinley incident. the president of the board of inspectors was at the time in new york. he inquired by wire what i was doing. upon being informed that i was working on the range, he ordered me into solitary. the new warden, on assuming office, sent for me. "they give you a bad reputation," he said; "but i will let you out of the cell if you'll promise to do what is right by me." he spoke brusquely, in the manner of a man closing a business deal, with the power of dictating terms. he reminded me of bismarck at versailles. yet he did not seem unkind; the thought of escape was probably in his mind. but the new law has germinated the hope of survival; my weakened condition and the unexpected shortening of my sentence have at last decided me to abandon the idea of escape. i therefore replied to the warden: "i will do what is right by you, if you treat _me_ right." thereupon he assigned me to work on the range. it is almost like liberty to have the freedom of the cell-house after the close solitary. and you, dear friend? in your letters i feel how terribly torn you are by the events of the recent months. i lived in great fear for your safety, and i can barely credit the good news that you are at liberty. it seems almost a miracle. i followed the newspapers with great anxiety. the whole country seemed to be swept with the fury of revenge. to a considerable extent the press fanned the fires of persecution. here in the prison very little sincere grief was manifested. out out of hearing of the guards, the men passed very uncomplimentary remarks about the dead president. the average prisoner corresponds to the average citizen--their patriotism is very passive, except when stimulated by personal interest, or artificially excited. but if the press mirrored the sentiment of the people, the nation must have suddenly relapsed into cannibalism. there were moments when i was in mortal dread for your very life, and for the safety of the other arrested comrades. in previous letters you hinted that it was official rivalry and jealousy, and your absence from new york, to which you owe your release. you may be right; yet i believe that your attitude of proud self-respect and your admirable self-control contributed much to the result. you were splendid, dear; and i was especially moved by your remark that you would faithfully nurse the wounded man, if he required your services, but that the poor boy, condemned and deserted by all, needed and deserved your sympathy and aid more than the president. more strikingly than your letters, that remark discovered to me the great change wrought in us by the ripening years. yes, in us, in both, for my heart echoed your beautiful sentiment. how impossible such a thought would have been to us in the days of a decade ago! we should have considered it treason to the spirit of revolution; it would have outraged all our traditions even to admit the humanity of an official representative of capitalism. is it not very significant that we two--you living in the very heart of anarchist thought and activity, and i in the atmosphere of absolute suppression and solitude--should have arrived at the same evolutionary point after a decade of divergent paths? you have alluded in a recent letter to the ennobling and broadening influence of sorrow. yet not upon every one does it exert a similar effect. some natures grow embittered, and shrink with the poison of misery. i often wonder at my lack of bitterness and enmity, even against the old warden--and surely i have good cause to hate him. is it because of greater maturity? i rather think it is temperamentally conditioned. the love of the people, the hatred of oppression of our younger days, vital as these sentiments were with us, were mental rather than emotional. fortunately so, i think. for those like fedya and lewis and pauline, and numerous others, soon have their emotionally inflated idealism punctured on the thorny path of the social protestant. only aspirations that spontaneously leap from the depths of our soul persist in the face of antagonistic forces. the revolutionist is born. beneath our love and hatred of former days lay inherent rebellion, and the passionate desire for liberty and life. in the long years of isolation i have looked deeply into my heart. with open mind and sincere purpose, i have revised every emotion and every thought. away from my former atmosphere and the disturbing influence of the world's turmoil, i have divested myself of all traditions and accepted beliefs. i have studied the sciences and the humanities, contemplated life, and pondered over human destiny. for weeks and months i would be absorbed in the domain of "pure reason," or discuss with leibnitz the question of free will, and seek to penetrate, beyond spencer, into the unknowable. political science and economics, law and criminology--i studied them with unprejudiced mind, and sought to slacken my soul's thirst by delving deeply into religion and theology, seeking the "key to life" at the feet of mrs. eddy, expectantly listening for the voice of disembodied, studying koreshanity and theosophy, absorbing the _prana_ of knowledge and power, and concentrating upon the wisdom of the yogi. and after years of contemplation and study, chastened by much sorrow and suffering, i arise from the broken fetters of the world's folly and delusions, to behold the threshold of a new life of liberty and equality. my youth's ideal of a free humanity in the vague future has become clarified and crystallized into the living truth of anarchy, as the sustaining elemental force of my every-day existence. often i have wondered in the years gone by, was not wisdom dear at the price of enthusiasm? at one is not so reckless, not so fanatical and one-sided as at . with maturity we become more universal; but life is a shylock that cannot be cheated of his due. for every lesson it teaches us, we have a wound or a scar to show. we grow broader; but too often the heart contracts as the mind expands, and the fires are burning down while we are learning. at such moments my mind would revert to the days when the momentarily expected approach of the social revolution absorbed our exclusive interest. the raging present and its conflicting currents passed us by, while our eyes were riveted upon the dawn, in thrilling expectancy of the sunrise. life and its manifold expressions were vexatious to the spirit of revolt; and poetry, literature, and art were scorned as hindrances to progress, unless they sounded the tocsin of immediate revolution. humanity was sharply divided in two warring camps,--the noble people, the producers, who yearned for the light of the new gospel, and the hated oppressors, the exploiters, who craftily strove to obscure the rising day that was to give back to man his heritage. if only "the good people" were given an opportunity to hear the great truth, how joyfully they would embrace anarchy and walk in triumph into the promised land! the splendid naivety of the days that resented as a personal reflection the least misgiving of the future; the enthusiasm that discounted the power of inherent prejudice and predilection! magnificent was the day of hearts on fire with the hatred of oppression and the love of liberty! woe indeed to the man or the people whose soul never warmed with the spark of prometheus,--for it is youth that has climbed the heights.... but maturity has clarified the way, and the stupendous task of human regeneration will be accomplished only by the purified vision of hearts that grow not cold. and you, my dear friend, with the deeper insight of time, you have yet happily kept your heart young. i have rejoiced at it in your letters of recent years, and it is especially evident from the sentiments you have expressed regarding the happening at buffalo. i share your view entirely; for that very reason, it is the more distressing to disagree with you in one very important particular: the value of leon's act. i know the terrible ordeal you have passed through, the fiendish persecution to which you have been subjected. worse than all must have been to you the general lack of understanding for such phenomena; and, sadder yet, the despicable attitude of some would-be radicals in denouncing the man and his act. but i am confident you will not mistake my expressed disagreement for condemnation. we need not discuss the phase of the _attentat_ which manifested the rebellion of a tortured soul, the individual protest against social wrong. such phenomena are the natural result of evil conditions, as inevitable as the flooding of the river banks by the swelling mountain torrents. but i cannot agree with you regarding the social value of leon's act. i have read of the beautiful personality of the youth, of his inability to adapt himself to brutal conditions, and the rebellion of his soul. it throws a significant light upon the causes of the _attentat_. indeed, it is at once the greatest tragedy of martyrdom, and the most terrible indictment of society, that it forces the noblest men and women to shed human blood, though their souls shrink from it. but the more imperative it is that drastic methods of this character be resorted to only as a last extremity. to prove of value, they must be motived by social rather than individual necessity, and be directed against a real and immediate enemy of the people. the significance of such a deed is understood by the popular mind--and in that alone is the propagandistic, educational importance of an _attentat_, except if it is exclusively an act of terrorism. now, i do not believe that this deed was terroristic; and i doubt whether it was educational, because the social necessity for its performance was not manifest. that you may not misunderstand, i repeat: as an expression of personal revolt it was inevitable, and in itself an indictment of existing conditions. but the background of social necessity was lacking, and therefore the value of the act was to a great extent nullified. in russia, where political oppression is popularly felt, such a deed would be of great value. but the scheme of political subjection is more subtle in america. and though mckinley was the chief representative of our modern slavery, he could not be considered in the light of a direct and immediate enemy of the people; while in an absolutism, the autocrat is visible and tangible. the real despotism of republican institutions is far deeper, more insidious, because it rests on the popular delusion of self-government and independence. that is the subtle source of democratic tyranny, and, as such, it cannot be reached with a bullet. in modern capitalism, exploitation rather than oppression is the real enemy of the people. oppression is but its handmaid. hence the battle is to be waged in the economic rather than the political field. it is therefore that i regard my own act as far more significant and educational than leon's. it was directed against a tangible, real oppressor, visualized as such by the people. as long as misery and tyranny fill the world, social contrasts and consequent hatreds will persist, and the noblest of the race--our czolgoszes--burst forth in "rockets of iron." but does this lightning really illumine the social horizon, or merely confuse minds with the succeeding darkness? the struggle of labor against capital is a class war, essentially and chiefly economic. in that arena the battles must be fought. it was not these considerations, of course, that inspired the nation-wide man-hunt, or the attitude even of alleged radicals. their cowardice has filled me with loathing and sadness. the brutal farce of the trial, the hypocrisy of the whole proceeding, the thirst for the blood of the martyr,--these make one almost despair of humanity. i must close. the friend to smuggle out this letter will be uneasy about its bulk. send me sign of receipt, and i hope that you may be permitted a little rest and peace, to recover from the nightmare of the last months. sasha. chapter xlii marred lives i the discussion with the girl is a source of much mortification. harassed on every side, persecuted by the authorities, and hounded even into the street, my friend, in her hour of bitterness, confounds my appreciative disagreement with the denunciation of stupidity and inertia. i realize the inadequacy of the written word, and despair at the hopelessness of human understanding, as i vainly seek to elucidate the meaning of the buffalo tragedy to friendly guards and prisoners. continued correspondence with the girl accentuates the divergence of our views, painfully discovering the fundamental difference of attitude underlying even common conclusions. by degrees the stress of activities reacts upon my friend's correspondence. our discussion lags, and soon ceases entirely. the world of the outside, temporarily brought closer, again recedes, and the urgency of the immediate absorbs me in the life of the prison. ii a spirit of hopefulness breathes in the cell-house. the new commutation law is bringing liberty appreciably nearer. in the shops and yard the men excitedly discuss the increased "good time," and prisoners flit about with paper and pencil, seeking a tutored friend to "figure out" their time of release. even the solitaries, on the verge of despair, and the long-timers facing a vista of cheerless years, are instilled with new courage and hope. the tenor of conversation is altered. with the appointment of the new warden the constant grumbling over the food has ceased. pleasant surprise is manifest at the welcome change in "the grub." i wonder at the tolerant silence regarding the disappointing christmas dinner. the men impatiently frown down the occasional "kicker." the warden is "green," they argue; he did not know that we are supposed to get currant bread for the holidays; he will do better, "jest give 'im a chanc't." the improvement in the daily meals is enlarged upon, and the men thrill with amazed expectancy at the incredible report, "oysters for new year's dinner!" with gratification we hear the major's expression of disgust at the filthy condition of the prison, his condemnation of the basket cell and dungeon as barbarous, and the promise of radical reforms. as an earnest of his régime he has released from solitary the men whom warden wright had punished for having served as witnesses in the defence of murphy and mong. greedy for the large reward, hopkins and his stools had accused the two men of a mysterious murder committed in elk city several years previously. the criminal trial, involving the suicide of an officer[ ] whom the warden had forced to testify against the defendants, resulted in the acquittal of the prisoners, whereupon captain wright ordered the convict-witnesses for the defence to be punished. [ ] officer robert g. hunter, who committed suicide august , , in clarion, pa. (where the trial took place). he left a written confession, in which he accused warden e. s. wright of forcing him to testify against men whom he knew to be innocent. the new warden, himself a physician, introduces hygienic rules, abolishes the "holy-stoning"[ ] of the cell-house floor because of the detrimental effect of the dust, and decides to separate the consumptive and syphilitic prisoners from the comparatively healthy ones. upon examination, per cent. of the population are discovered in various stages of tuberculosis, and per cent. insane. the death rate from consumption is found to range between and per cent. at light tasks in the block and the yard the major finds employment for the sickly inmates; special gangs are assigned to keeping the prison clean, the rest of the men at work in the shop. with the exception of a number of dangerously insane, who are to be committed to an asylum, every prisoner in the institution is at work, and the vexed problem of idleness resulting from the anti-convict labor law is thus solved. [ ] the process of whitening stone floors by pulverizing sand into their surfaces. the change of diet, better hygiene, and the abolition of the dungeon, produce a noticeable improvement in the life of the prison. the gloom of the cell-house perceptibly lifts, and presently the men are surprised at music hour, between six and seven in the evening, with the strains of merry ragtime by the newly organized penitentiary band. iii new faces greet me on the range. but many old friends are missing. billy ryan is dead of consumption; "frenchy" and ben have become insane; little mat, the duquesne striker, committed suicide. in sad remembrance i think of them, grown close and dear in the years of mutual suffering. some of the old-timers have survived, but broken in spirit and health. "praying" andy is still in the block, his mind clouded, his lips constantly moving in prayer. "me innocent," the old man reiterates, "god him know." last month the board has again refused to pardon the lifetimer, and now he is bereft of hope. "me have no more money. my children they save and save, and bring me for pardon, and now no more money." aleck killain has also been refused by the board at the same session. he is the oldest man in the prison, in point of service, and the most popular lifer. his innocence of murder is one of the traditions of riverside. in the boat he had rented to a party of picnickers, a woman was found dead. no clew could be discovered, and aleck was sentenced to life, because he could not be forced to divulge the names of the men who had hired his boat. he pauses to tell me the sad news: the authorities have opposed his pardon, demanding that he furnish the information desired by them. he looks sere with confinement, his eyes full of a mute sadness that can find no words. his face is deeply seamed, his features grave, almost immobile. in the long years of our friendship i have never seen aleck laugh. once or twice he smiled, and his whole being seemed radiant with rare sweetness. he speaks abruptly, with a perceptible effort. "yes, aleck," he is saying, "it's true. they refused me." "but they pardoned mac," i retort hotly. "he confessed to a cold-blooded murder, and he's only been in four years." "good luck," he remarks. "how, good luck?" "mac's father accidentally struck oil on his farm." "well, what of it?" "three hundred barrels a day. rich. got his son a pardon." "but on what ground did they dismiss your application? they know you are innocent." "district attorney came to me. 'you're innocent, we know. tell us who did the murder.' i had nothing to tell. pardon refused." "is there any hope later on, aleck?" "when the present administration are all dead, perhaps." slowly he passes on, at the approach of a guard. he walks weakly, with halting step. * * * * * "old sammy" is back again, his limp heavier, shoulders bent lower. "i'm here again, friend aleck," he smiles apologetically. "what could i do? the old woman died, an' my boys went off somewhere. th' farm was sold that i was borned in," his voice trembles with emotion. "i couldn't find th' boys, an' no one wanted me, an' wouldn't give me any work. 'go to th' pogy',[ ] they told me. i couldn't, aleck. i've worked all me life; i don't want no charity. i made a bluff," he smiles between tears,--"broke into a store, and here i am." [ ] poorhouse. with surprise i recognize "tough" monk among the first-grade men. for years he had been kept in stripes, and constantly punished for bad work in the hosiery department. he was called the laziest man in the prison: not once in five years had he accomplished his task. but the new warden transferred him to the construction shop, where monk was employed at his trade of blacksmith. "i hated that damn sock makin'," he tells me. "i've struck it right now, an' the major says i'm the best worker in th' shop. wouldn't believe it, eh, would you? major promised me a ten-spot for the fancy iron work i did for them 'lectric posts in th' yard. says it's artistic, see? that's me all right; it's work i like. i won't lose any time, either. warden says old sandy was a fool for makin' me knit socks with them big paws of mine. th' major is aw' right, aw' right." * * * * * with a glow of pleasure i meet "smiling" al, my colored friend from the jail. the good-natured boy looks old and infirm. his kindness has involved him in much trouble; he has been repeatedly punished for shouldering the faults of others, and now the inspectors have informed him that he is to lose the greater part of his commutation time. he has grown wan with worry over the uncertainty of release. every morning is tense with expectation. "might be ah goes to-day, aleck," he hopefully smiles as i pause at his cell. but the weeks pass. the suspense is torturing the young negro, and he is visibly failing day by day. * * * * * a familiar voice greets me. "hello, berk, ain't you glad t' see an old pal?" big dave beams on me with his cheerful smile. "no, davy. i hoped you wouldn't come back." he becomes very grave. "yes, i swore i'd swing sooner than come back. didn't get a chanc't. you see," he explains, his tone full of bitterness, "i goes t' work and gets a job, good job, too; an' i keeps 'way from th' booze an' me pals. but th' damn bulls was after me. got me sacked from me job three times, an' den i knocked one of 'em on th' head. damn his soul to hell, wish i'd killed 'im. 'old offender,' they says to the jedge, and he soaks me for a seven spot. i was a sucker all right for tryin' t' be straight." iv in the large cage at the centre of the block, the men employed about the cell-house congregate in their idle moments. the shadows steal silently in and out of the inclosure, watchful of the approach of a guard. within sounds the hum of subdued conversation, the men lounging about the sawdust barrel, absorbed in "snakes" wilson's recital of his protracted struggle with "old sandy." he relates vividly his persistent waking at night, violent stamping on the floor, cries of "murder! i see snakes!" with admiring glances the young prisoners hang upon the lips of the old criminal, whose perseverance in shamming finally forced the former warden to assign "snakes" a special room in the hospital, where his snake-seeing propensities would become dormant, to suffer again violent awakening the moment he would be transferred to a cell. for ten years the struggle continued, involving numerous clubbings, the dungeon, and the strait-jacket, till the warden yielded, and "snakes" was permanently established in the comparative freedom of the special room. little groups stand about the cage, boisterous with the wit of the "four-eyed yegg," who styles himself "bill nye," or excitedly discussing the intricacies of the commutation law, the chances of pittsburgh winning the baseball pennant the following season, and next sunday's dinner. with much animation, the rumored resignation of the deputy warden is discussed. the major is gradually weeding out the "old gang," it is gossiped. a colonel of the militia is to secure the position of assistant to the warden. this source of conversation is inexhaustible, every detail of local life serving for endless discussion and heated debate. but at the 'lookout's' whimpered warning of an approaching guard, the circle breaks up, each man pretending to be busy dusting and cleaning. officer mitchell passes by; with short legs wide apart, he stands surveying the assembled idlers from beneath his fierce-looking eyebrows. "quiet as me grandmother at church, ain't ye? all of a sudden, too. and mighty busy, every damn one of you. you 'snakes' there, what business you got here, eh?" "i've jest come in fer a broom." "you old reprobate, you, i saw you sneak in there an hour ago, and you've been chawin' the rag to beat the band. think this a barroom, do you? get to your cells, all of you." he trudges slowly away, mumbling: "you loafers, when i catch you here again, don't you dare talk so loud." one by one the men steal back into the cage, jokingly teasing each other upon their happy escape. presently several rangemen join the group. conversation becomes animated; voices are raised in dispute. but anger subsides, and a hush falls upon the men, as blind charley gropes his way along the wall. bill nye reaches for his hand, and leads him to a seat on the barrel. "feelin' better to-day, charley?" he asks gently. "ye-es. i--think a little--better," the blind man says in an uncertain, hesitating manner. his face wears a bewildered expression, as if he has not yet become resigned to his great misfortune. it happened only a few months ago. in company with two friends, considerably the worse for liquor, he was passing a house on the outskirts of allegheny. it was growing dark, and they wanted a drink. charley knocked at the door. a head appeared at an upper window. "robbers!" some one suddenly cried. there was a flash. with a cry of pain, charley caught at his eyes. he staggered, then turned round and round, helpless, in a daze. he couldn't see his companions, the house and the street disappeared, and all was utter darkness. the ground seemed to give beneath his feet, and charley fell down upon his face moaning and calling to his friends. but they had fled in terror, and he was alone in the darkness,--alone and blind. "i'm glad you feel better, charley," bill nye says kindly. "how are your eyes?" "i think--a bit--better." the gunshot had severed the optic nerves in both eyes. his sight is destroyed forever; but with the incomplete realization of sudden calamity, charley believes his eyesight only temporarily injured. "billy," he says presently, "when i woke this morning it--didn't seem so--dark. it was like--a film over my eyes. perhaps--it may--get better yet," his voice quivers with the expectancy of having his hope confirmed. "ah, whatcher kiddin' yourself for," "snakes" interposes. "shut up, you big stiff," bill flares up, grabbing "snakes" by the throat. "charley," he adds, "i once got paralyzed in my left eye. it looked just like yours now, and i felt as if there was a film on it. do you see things like in a fog, charley?" "yes, yes, just like that." "well, that's the way it was with me. but little by little things got to be lighter, and now the eye is as good as ever." "is that right, billy?" charley inquires anxiously. "what did you do?" "well, the doc put things in my eye. the croaker here is giving you some applications, ain't he?" "yes; but he says it's for the inflammation." "that's right. that's what the doctors told me. you just take it easy, charley; don't worry. you'll come out all right, see if you don't." bill reddens guiltily at the unintended expression, but quickly holds up a warning finger to silence the giggling "snowball kid." then, with sudden vehemence, he exclaims: "by god, charley, if i ever meet that judge of yours on a dark night, i'll choke him with these here hands, so help me! it's a damn shame to send you here in this condition. you should have gone to a hospital, that's what i say. but cheer up, old boy, you won't have to serve your three years; you can bet on that. we'll all club together to get your case up for a pardon, won't we, boys?" with unwonted energy the old yegg makes the rounds of the cage, taking pledges of contributions. "doctor george" appears around the corner, industriously polishing the brasswork, and bill appeals to him to corroborate his diagnosis of the blind man's condition. a smile of timid joy suffuses the sightless face, as bill nye slaps him on the shoulder, crying jovially, "what did i tell you, eh? you'll be o. k. soon, and meantime keep your mind busy how to avenge the injustice done you," and with a violent wink in the direction of "snakes," the yegg launches upon a reminiscence of his youth. as far as he can remember, he relates, the spirit of vengeance was strong within him. he has always religiously revenged any wrong he was made to suffer, but the incident that afforded him the greatest joy was an experience of his boyhood. he was fifteen then, and living with his widowed mother and three elder sisters in a small country place. one evening, as the family gathered in the large sitting-room, his sister mary said something which deeply offended him. in great rage he left the house. just as he was crossing the street, he was met by a tall, well-dressed gentleman, evidently a stranger in the town. the man guardedly inquired whether the boy could direct him to some address where one might pass the evening pleasantly. "quick as a flash a brilliant idea struck me," bill narrates, warming to his story. "never short of them, anyhow," he remarks parenthetically, "but here was my revenge! 'you mean a whore-house, don't you?' i ask the fellow. yes, that's what was wanted, my man says. 'why,' says i to him, kind of suddenly, 'see the house there right across the street? that's the place you want,' and i point out to him the house where the old lady and my three sisters are all sitting around the table, expectant like--waiting for me, you know. well, the man gives me a quarter, and up he goes, knocks on the door and steps right in. i hide in a dark corner to see what's coming, you know, and sure enough, presently the door opens with a bang and something comes out with a rush, and falls on the veranda, and mother she's got a broom in her hand, and the girls, every blessed one of them, out with flatiron and dustpan, and biff, baff, they rain it upon that thing on the steps. i thought i'd split my sides laughing. by an' by i return to the house, and mother and sisters are kind of excited, and i says innocent-like, 'what's up, girls?' well, you ought to hear 'em! talk, did they? 'that beast of a man, the dirty thing that came to the house and insulted us with--' they couldn't even mention the awful things he said; and mary--that's the sis i got mad at--she cries, 'oh, billie, you're so big and strong, i wish you was here when that nasty old thing came up.'" the boys are hilarious over the story, and "doctor george" motions me aside to talk over "old times." with a hearty pressure i greet my friend, whom i had not seen since the days of the first investigation. suspected of complicity, he had been removed to the shops, and only recently returned to his former position in the block. his beautiful thick hair has grown thin and gray; he looks aged and worn. with sadness i notice his tone of bitterness. "they almost killed me, aleck!" he says; "if it wasn't for my wife, i'd murder that old warden." throughout his long confinement, his wife had faithfully stood by him, her unfailing courage and devotion sustaining him in the hours of darkness and despair. "the dear girl," he muses, "i'd be dead if it wasn't for her." but his release is approaching. he has almost served the sentence of sixteen years for alleged complicity in the bank robbery at leechburg, during which the cashier was killed. the other two men convicted of the crime have both died in prison. the doctor alone has survived, "thanks to the dear girl," he repeats. but the six months at the workhouse fill him with apprehension. he has been informed that the place is a veritable inferno, even worse than the penitentiary. however, his wife is faithfully at work, trying to have the workhouse sentence suspended, and full liberty may be at hand. chapter xliii "passing the love of woman" the presence of my old friend is a source of much pleasure. george is an intelligent man; the long years of incarceration have not circumscribed his intellectual horizon. the approach of release is intensifying his interest in the life beyond the gates, and we pass the idle hours conversing over subjects of mutual interest, discussing social theories and problems of the day. he has a broad grasp of affairs, but his temperament and catholic traditions are antagonistic to the ideas dear to me. yet his attitude is free from personalities and narrow prejudice, and our talks are conducted along scientific and philosophical lines. the recent death of liebknecht and the american lecture tour of peter kropotkin afford opportunity for the discussion of modern social questions. there are many subjects of mutual interest, and my friend, whose great-grandfather was among the signers of the declaration, waxes eloquent in denunciation of his country's policy of extermination in the philippines and the growing imperialistic tendencies of the republic. a democrat of the jeffersonian type, he is virulent against the old warden on account of his favoritism and discrimination. his prison experience, he informs me, has considerably altered the views of democracy he once entertained. "why, aleck, there _is_ no justice," he says vehemently; "no, not even in the best democracy. ten years ago i would have staked my life on the courts. to-day i know they are a failure; our whole jurisprudence is wrong. you see, i have been here nine years. i have met and made friends with hundreds of criminals. some were pretty desperate, and many of them scoundrels. but i have to meet one yet in whom i couldn't discover some good quality, if he's scratched right. look at that fellow there," he points to a young prisoner scrubbing an upper range, "that's 'johnny the hunk.' he's in for murder. now what did the judge and jury know about him? just this: he was a hard-working boy in the mills. one saturday he attended a wedding, with a chum of his. they were both drunk when they went out into the street. they were boisterous, and a policeman tried to arrest them. johnny's chum resisted. the cop must have lost his head--he shot the fellow dead. it was right near johnny's home, and he ran in and got a pistol, and killed the policeman. must have been crazy with drink. well, they were going to hang him, but he was only a kid, hardly sixteen. they gave him fifteen years. now he's all in--they've just ruined the boy's life. and what kind of a boy is he, do you know? guess what he did. it was only a few months ago. some screw told him that the widow of the cop he shot is hard up; she has three children, and takes in washing. do you know what johnny did? he went around among the cons, and got together fifty dollars on the fancy paper-work he is making; he's an artist at it. he sent the woman the money, and begged her to forgive him." "is that true, doctor?" "every word. i went to milligan's office on some business, and the boy had just sent the money to the woman. the chaplain was so much moved by it, he told me the whole story. but wait, that isn't all. you know what that woman did?" "what?" "she wrote to johnny that he was a dirty murderer, and that if he ever goes up for a pardon, she will oppose it. she didn't want anything to do with him, she wrote. but she kept the money." "how did johnny take it?" "it's really wonderful about human nature. the boy cried over the letter, and told the chaplain that he wouldn't write to her again. but every minute he can spare he works on that fancy work, and every month he sends her money. that's the _criminal_ the judge sentenced to fifteen years in this hell!" my friend is firmly convinced that the law is entirely impotent to deal with our social ills. "why, look at the courts!" he exclaims, "they don't concern themselves with crime. they merely punish the criminal, absolutely indifferent to his antecedents and environment, and the predisposing causes." "but, george," i rejoin, "it is the economic system of exploitation, the dependence upon a master for your livelihood, want and the fear of want, which are responsible for most crimes." "only partly so, aleck. if it wasn't for the corruption in our public life, and the commercial scourge that holds everything for sale, and the spirit of materialism which has cheapened human life, there would not be so much violence and crime, even under what you call the capitalist system. at any rate, there is no doubt the law is an absolute failure in dealing with crime. the criminal belongs to the sphere of therapeutics. give him to the doctor instead of the jailer." "you mean, george, that the criminal is to be considered a product of anthropological and physical factors. but don't you see that you must also examine society, to determine to what extent social conditions are responsible for criminal actions? and if that were done, i believe most crimes would be found to be misdirected energy--misdirected because of false standards, wrong environment, and unenlightened self-interest." "well, i haven't given much thought to that phase of the question. but aside of social conditions, see what a bitch the penal institutions are making of it. for one thing, the promiscuous mingling of young and old, without regard to relative depravity and criminality, is converting prisons into veritable schools of crime and vice. the blackjack and the dungeon are surely not the proper means of reclamation, no matter what the social causes of crime. restraint and penal methods can't reform. the very idea of punishment precludes betterment. true reformation can emanate only from voluntary impulse, inspired and cultivated by intelligent advice and kind treatment. but reformation which is the result of fear, lacks the very essentials of its object, and will vanish like smoke the moment fear abates. and you know, aleck, the reformatories are even worse than the prisons. look at the fellows here from the various reform schools. why, it's a disgrace! the boys who come from the outside are decent fellows. but those kids from the reformatories--one-third of the cons here have graduated there--they are terrible. you can spot them by looking at them. they are worse than street prostitutes." my friend is very bitter against the prison element variously known as "the girls," "sallies," and "punks," who for gain traffic in sexual gratification. but he takes a broad view of the moral aspect of homosexuality; his denunciation is against the commerce in carnal desires. as a medical man, and a student, he is deeply interested in the manifestations of suppressed sex. he speaks with profound sympathy of the brilliant english man-of-letters, whom the world of cant and stupidity has driven to prison and to death because his sex life did not conform to the accepted standards. in detail, my friend traces the various phases of his psychic development since his imprisonment, and i warm toward him with a sense of intense humanity, as he reveals the intimate emotions of his being. a general medical practitioner, he had not come in personal contact with cases of homosexuality. he had heard of pederasty; but like the majority of his colleagues, he had neither understanding for nor sympathy with the sex practices he considered abnormal and vicious. in prison he was horrified at the perversion that frequently came under his observation. for two years the very thought of such matters filled him with disgust; he even refused to speak to the men and boys known to be homosexual, unconditionally condemning them--"with my prejudices rather than my reason," he remarks. but the forces of suppression were at work. "now, this is in confidence, aleck," he cautions me. "i know you will understand. probably you yourself have experienced the same thing. i'm glad i can talk to some one about it; the other fellows here wouldn't understand it. it makes me sick to see how they all grow indignant over a fellow who is caught. and the officers, too, though you know as well as i that quite a number of them are addicted to these practices. well, i'll tell you. i suppose it's the same story with every one here, especially the long-timers. i was terribly dejected and hopeless when i came. sixteen years--i didn't believe for a moment i could live through it. i was abusing myself pretty badly. still, after a while, when i got work and began to take an interest in this life, i got over it. but as time went, the sex instinct awakened. i was young: about twenty-five, strong and healthy. sometimes i thought i'd get crazy with passion. you remember when we were celling together on that upper range, on r; you were in the stocking shop then, weren't you? don't you remember?" "of course i remember, george. you were in the cell next mine. we could see out on the river. it was in the summer: we could hear the excursion boats, and the girls singing and dancing." "that, too, helped to turn me back to onanism. i really believe the whole blessed range used to 'indulge' then. think of the precious material fed to the fishes," he smiles; "the privies, you know, empty into the river." "some geniuses may have been lost to the world in those orgies." "yes, orgies; that's just what they were. as a matter of fact, i don't believe there is a single man in the prison who doesn't abuse himself, at one time or another." "if there is, he's a mighty exception. i have known some men to masturbate four and five times a day. kept it up for months, too." "yes, and they either get the con, or go bugs. as a medical man i think that self-abuse, if practised no more frequently than ordinary coition, would be no more injurious than the latter. but it can't be done. it grows on you terribly. and the second stage is more dangerous than the first." "what do you call the second?" "well, the first is the dejection stage. hopeless and despondent, you seek forgetfulness in onanism. you don't care what happens. it's what i might call mechanical self-abuse, not induced by actual sex desire. this stage passes with your dejection, as soon as you begin to take an interest in the new life, as all of us are forced to do, before long. the second stage is the psychic and mental. it is not the result of dejection. with the gradual adaptation to the new conditions, a comparatively normal life begins, manifesting sexual desires. at this stage your self-abuse is induced by actual need. it is the more dangerous phase, because the frequency of the practice grows with the recurring thought of home, your wife or sweetheart. while the first was mechanical, giving no special pleasure, and resulting only in increasing lassitude, the second stage revolves about the charms of some loved woman, or one desired, and affords intense joy. therein is its allurement and danger; and that's why the habit gains in strength. the more miserable the life, the more frequently you will fall back upon your sole source of pleasure. many become helpless victims. i have noticed that prisoners of lower intelligence are the worst in this respect." "i have had the same experience. the narrower your mental horizon, the more you dwell upon your personal troubles and wrongs. that is probably the reason why the more illiterate go insane with confinement." "no doubt of it. you have had exceptional opportunities for observation of the solitaries and the new men. what did you notice, aleck?" "well, in some respects the existence of a prisoner is like the life of a factory worker. as a rule, men used to outdoor life suffer most from solitary. they are less able to adapt themselves to the close quarters, and the foul air quickly attacks their lungs. besides, those who have no interests beyond their personal life, soon become victims of insanity. i've always advised new men to interest themselves in some study or fancy work,--it's their only salvation." "if you yourself have survived, it's because you lived in your theories and ideals; i'm sure of it. and i continued my medical studies, and sought to absorb myself in scientific subjects." for a moment george pauses. the veins of his forehead protrude, as if he is undergoing a severe mental struggle. presently he says: "aleck, i'm going to speak very frankly to you. i'm much interested in the subject. i'll give you my intimate experiences, and i want you to be just as frank with me. i think it's one of the most important things, and i want to learn all i can about it. very little is known about it, and much less understood." "about what, george?" "about homosexuality. i have spoken of the second phase of onanism. with a strong effort i overcame it. not entirely, of course. but i have succeeded in regulating the practice, indulging in it at certain intervals. but as the months and years passed, my emotions manifested themselves. it was like a psychic awakening. the desire to love something was strong upon me. once i caught a little mouse in my cell, and tamed it a bit. it would eat out of my hand, and come around at meal times, and by and by it would stay all evening to play with me. i learned to love it. honestly, aleck, i cried when it died. and then, for a long time, i felt as if there was a void in my heart. i wanted something to love. it just swept me with a wild craving for affection. somehow the thought of woman gradually faded from my mind. when i saw my wife, it was just like a dear friend. but i didn't feel toward her sexually. one day, as i was passing in the hall, i noticed a young boy. he had been in only a short time, and he was rosy-cheeked, with a smooth little face and sweet lips--he reminded me of a girl i used to court before i married. after that i frequently surprised myself thinking of the lad. i felt no desire toward him, except just to know him and get friendly. i became acquainted with him, and when he heard i was a medical man, he would often call to consult me about the stomach trouble he suffered. the doctor here persisted in giving the poor kid salts and physics all the time. well, aleck, i could hardly believe it myself, but i grew so fond of the boy, i was miserable when a day passed without my seeing him. i would take big chances to get near him. i was rangeman then, and he was assistant on a top tier. we often had opportunities to talk. i got him interested in literature, and advised him what to read, for he didn't know what to do with his time. he had a fine character, that boy, and he was bright and intelligent. at first it was only a liking for him, but it increased all the time, till i couldn't think of any woman. but don't misunderstand me, aleck; it wasn't that i wanted a 'kid.' i swear to you, the other youths had no attraction for me whatever; but this boy--his name was floyd--he became so dear to me, why, i used to give him everything i could get. i had a friendly guard, and he'd bring me fruit and things. sometimes i'd just die to eat it, but i always gave it to floyd. and, aleck--you remember when i was down in the dungeon six days? well, it was for the sake of that boy. he did something, and i took the blame on myself. and the last time--they kept me nine days chained up--i hit a fellow for abusing floyd: he was small and couldn't defend himself. i did not realize it at the time, aleck, but i know now that i was simply in love with the boy; wildly, madly in love. it came very gradually. for two years i loved him without the least taint of sex desire. it was the purest affection i ever felt in my life. it was all-absorbing, and i would have sacrificed my life for him if he had asked it. but by degrees the psychic stage began to manifest all the expressions of love between the opposite sexes. i remember the first time he kissed me. it was early in the morning; only the rangemen were out, and i stole up to his cell to give him a delicacy. he put both hands between the bars, and pressed his lips to mine. aleck, i tell you, never in my life had i experienced such bliss as at that moment. it's five years ago, but it thrills me every time i think of it. it came suddenly; i didn't expect it. it was entirely spontaneous: our eyes met, and it seemed as if something drew us together. he told me he was very fond of me. from then on we became lovers. i used to neglect my work, and risk great danger to get a chance to kiss and embrace him. i grew terribly jealous, too, though i had no cause. i passed through every phase of a passionate love. with this difference, though--i felt a touch of the old disgust at the thought of actual sex contact. that i didn't do. it seemed to me a desecration of the boy, and of my love for him. but after a while that feeling also wore off, and i desired sexual relation with him. he said he loved me enough to do even that for me, though he had never done it before. he hadn't been in any reformatory, you know. and yet, somehow i couldn't bring myself to do it; i loved the lad too much for it. perhaps you will smile, aleck, but it was real, true love. when floyd was unexpectedly transferred to the other block, i felt that i would be the happiest man if i could only touch his hand again, or get one more kiss. you--you're laughing?" he asks abruptly, a touch of anxiety in his voice. "no, george. i am grateful for your confidence. i think it is a wonderful thing; and, george--i had felt the same horror and disgust at these things, as you did. but now i think quite differently about them." "really, aleck? i'm glad you say so. often i was troubled--is it viciousness or what, i wondered; but i could never talk to any one about it. they take everything here in such a filthy sense. yet i knew in my heart that it was a true, honest emotion." "george, i think it a very beautiful emotion. just as beautiful as love for a woman. i had a friend here; his name was russell; perhaps you remember him. i felt no physical passion toward him, but i think i loved him with all my heart. his death was a most terrible shock to me. it almost drove me insane." silently george holds out his hand. chapter xliv love's daring castle on the ohio, aug. , . my dear carolus: you know the saying, "der eine hat den beutel, der andere das geld." i find it a difficult problem to keep in touch with my correspondents. i have the leisure, but theirs is the advantage of the paper supply. thus runs the world. but you, a most faithful correspondent, have been neglected a long while. therefore this unexpected _sub rosa_ chance is for you. my dear boy, whatever your experiences since you left me, don't fashion your philosophy in the image of disappointment. all life is a multiplied pain; its highest expressions, love and friendship, are sources of the most heart-breaking sorrow. that has been my experience; no doubt, yours also. and you are aware that here, under prison conditions, the disappointments, the grief and anguish, are so much more acute, more bitter and lasting. what then? shall one seal his emotions, or barricade his heart? ah, if it were possible, it would be wiser, some claim. but remember, dear carl, mere wisdom is a barren life. i think it a natural reaction against your prison existence that you feel the need of self-indulgence. but it is a temporary phase, i hope. you want to live and enjoy, you say. but surely you are mistaken to believe that the time is past when we cheerfully sacrificed all to the needs of the cause. the first flush of emotional enthusiasm may have paled, but in its place there is the deeper and more lasting conviction that permeates one's whole being. there come moments when one asks himself the justification of his existence, the meaning of his life. no torment is more excruciating and overwhelming than the failure to find an answer. you will discover it neither in physical indulgence nor in coldly intellectual pleasure. something more substantial is needed. in this regard, life outside does not differ so very much from prison existence. the narrower your horizon--the more absorbed you are in your immediate environment, and dependent upon it--the sooner you decay, morally and mentally. you can, in a measure, escape the sordidness of life only by living for something higher. perhaps that is the secret of my survival. wider interests have given me strength. and other phases there are. from your own experience you know what sustaining satisfaction is found in prison in the constant fight for the feeling of human dignity, because of the constant attempt to strangle your sense of self-respect. i have seen prisoners offer most desperate resistance in defence of their manhood. on my part it has been a continuous struggle. do you remember the last time i was in the dungeon? it was on the occasion of comrade kropotkin's presence in this country, during his last lecture tour. the old warden was here then; he informed me that i would not be permitted to see our grand old man. i had a tilt with him, but i did not succeed in procuring a visiting card. a few days later i received a letter from peter. on the envelope, under my name, was marked, "political prisoner." the warden was furious. "we have no political prisoners in a free country," he thundered, tearing up the envelope. "but you have political grafters," i retorted. we argued the matter heatedly, and i demanded the envelope. the warden insisted that i apologize. of course i refused, and i had to spend three days in the dungeon. there have been many changes since then. your coming to pittsburgh last year, and the threat to expose this place (they knew you had the facts) helped to bring matters to a point. they assigned me to a range, and i am still holding the position. the new warden is treating me more decently. he "wants no trouble with me," he told me. but he has proved a great disappointment. he started in with promising reforms, but gradually he has fallen into the old ways. in some respects his régime is even worse than the previous one. he has introduced a system of "economy" which barely affords us sufficient food. the dungeon and basket, which he had at first abolished, are in operation again, and the discipline is daily becoming more drastic. the result is more brutality and clubbings, more fights and cutting affairs, and general discontent. the new management cannot plead ignorance, for the last th of july the men gave a demonstration of the effects of humane treatment. the warden had assembled the inmates in the chapel, promising to let them pass the day in the yard, on condition of good behavior. the inspectors and the old guards advised against it, arguing the "great risk" of such a proceeding. but the major decided to try the experiment. he put the men on their honor, and turned them loose in the yard. he was not disappointed; the day passed beautifully, without the least mishap; there was not even a single report. we began to breathe easier, when presently the whole system was reversed. it was partly due to the influence of the old officers upon the warden; and the latter completely lost his head when a trusty made his escape from the hospital. it seems to have terrorized the warden into abandoning all reforms. he has also been censured by the inspectors because of the reduced profits from the industries. now the tasks have been increased, and even the sick and consumptives are forced to work. the labor bodies of the state have been protesting in vain. how miserably weak is the giant of toil, because unconscious of his strength! the men are groaning, and wishing old sandy back. in short, things are just as they were during your time. men and wardens may come and go, but the system prevails. more and more i am persuaded of the great truth: given authority and the opportunity for exploitation, the results will be essentially the same, no matter what particular set of men, or of "principles," happens to be in the saddle. fortunately i am on the "home run." i'm glad you felt that the failure of my application to the superior court would not depress me. i built no castles upon it. yet i am glad it has been tried. it was well to demonstrate once more that neither lower courts, pardon boards, nor higher tribunals, are interested in doing justice. my lawyers had such a strong case, from the legal standpoint, that the state pardon board resorted to every possible trick to avoid the presentation of it. and now the superior court thought it the better part of wisdom to ignore the argument that i am being illegally detained. they simply refused the application, with a few meaningless phrases that entirely evade the question at issue. well, to hell with them. i have " an' a stump" (stump, months) and i feel the courage of perseverance. but i hope that the next legislature will not repeal the new commutation law. there is considerable talk of it, for the politicians are angry that their efforts in behalf of the wealthy u. s. grafters in the eastern penitentiary failed. they begrudge the "common" prisoner the increased allowance of good time. however, i shall "make" it. of course, you understand that both french leave and dutch act are out of the question now. i have decided to stay--till i can _walk_ through the gates. in reference to french leave, have you read about the biddle affair? i think it was the most remarkable attempt in the history of the country. think of the wife of the jail warden helping prisoners to escape! the boys here were simply wild with joy. every one hoped they would make good their escape, and old sammy told me he prayed they shouldn't be caught. but all the bloodhounds of the law were unchained; the biddle boys got no chance at all. the story is this. the brothers biddle, jack and ed, and walter dorman, while in the act of robbing a store, killed a man. it was dorman who fired the shot, but he turned state's evidence. the state rewards treachery. dorman escaped the noose, but the two brothers were sentenced to die. as is customary, they were visited in the jail by the "gospel ladies," among them the wife of the warden. you probably remember him--soffel; he was deputy warden when we were in the jail, and a rat he was, too. well, ed was a good-looking man, with soft manners, and so forth. mrs. soffel fell in love with him. it was mutual, i believe. now witness the heroism a woman is capable of, when she loves. mrs. soffel determined to save the two brothers; i understand they promised her to quit their criminal life. every day she would visit the condemned men, to console them. pretending to read the gospel, she would stand close to the doors, to give them an opportunity to saw through the bars. she supplied them with revolvers, and they agreed to escape together. of course, she could not go back to her husband, for she loved ed, loved him well enough never even to see her children again. the night for the escape was set. the brothers intended to separate immediately after the break, subsequently to meet together with mrs. soffel. but the latter insisted on going with them. ed begged her not to. he knew that it was sheer suicide for all of them. but she persisted, and ed acquiesced, fully realizing that it would prove fatal. don't you think it showed a noble trait in the boy? he did not want her to think that he was deserting her. the escape from the jail was made successfully; they even had several hours' start. but snow had fallen, and it was easy to trace two men and a woman in a sleigh. the brutality of the man-hunters is past belief. when the detectives came upon the boys, they fired their winchesters into the two brothers. even when the wounded were stretched on the ground, bleeding and helpless, a detective emptied his revolver into ed, killing him. jack died later, and mrs. soffel was placed in jail. you can imagine the savage fury of the respectable mob. mrs. soffel was denounced by her husband, and all the good christian women cried "unclean!" and clamored for the punishment of their unfortunate sister. she is now here, serving two years for aiding in the escape. i caught a glimpse of her when she came in. she has a sympathetic face, that bears signs of deep suffering; she must have gone through a terrible ordeal. think of the struggle before she decided upon the desperate step; then the days and weeks of anxiety, as the boys were sawing the bars and preparing for the last chance! i should appreciate the love of a woman whose affection is stronger than the iron fetters of convention. in some ways this woman reminds me of the girl--the type that possesses the courage and strength to rise above all considerations for the sake of the man or the cause held dear. how little the world understands the vital forces of life! a. chapter xlv the bloom of "the barren staff" i it is september the nineteenth. the cell-house is silent and gray in the afternoon dusk. in the yard the rain walks with long strides, hastening in the dim twilight, hastening whither the shadows have gone. i stand at the door, in reverie. in the sombre light, i see myself led through the gate yonder,--it was ten years ago this day. the walls towered menacingly in the dark, the iron gripped my heart, and i was lost in despair. i should not have believed then that i could survive the long years of misery and pain. but the nimble feet of the rain patter hopefully; its tears dissipate the clouds, and bring light; and soon i shall step into the sunshine, and come forth grown and matured, as the world must have grown in the struggle of suffering-- "fresh fish!" a rangeman announces, pointing to the long line of striped men, trudging dejectedly across the yard, and stumbling against each other in the unaccustomed lockstep. the door opens, and aleck killain, the lifetimer, motions to me. he walks with measured, even step along the hall. rangeman "coz" and harry, my young assistant, stealthily crowd with him into my cell. the air of mystery about them arouses my apprehension. "what's the matter, boys?" i ask. they hesitate and glance at each other, smiling diffidently. "you speak, killain," harry whispers. the lifetimer carefully unwraps a little package, and i become aware of the sweet scent of flowers perfuming the cell. the old prisoner stammers in confusion, as he presents me with a rose, big and red. "we swiped it in the greenhouse," he says. "fer you, aleck," harry adds. "for your tenth anniversary," corrects "coz." "good luck to you, aleck." mutely they grip my hand, and steal out of the cell. * * * * * in solitude i muse over the touching remembrance. these men--they are the shame society hides within the gray walls. these, and others like them. daily they come to be buried alive in this grave; all through the long years they have been coming, and the end is not yet. robbed of joy and life, their being is discounted in the economy of existence. and all the while the world has been advancing, it is said; science and philosophy, art and letters, have made great strides. but wherein is the improvement that augments misery and crowds the prisons? the discovery of the x-ray will further scientific research, i am told. but where is the x-ray of social insight that will discover in human understanding and mutual aid the elements of true progress? deceptive is the advance that involves the ruthless sacrifice of peace and health and life; superficial and unstable the civilization that rests upon the treacherous sands of strife and warfare. the progress of science and industry, far from promoting man's happiness and social harmony, merely accentuates discontent and sharpens the contrasts. the knowledge gained at so much cost of suffering and sacrifice bears bitter fruit, for lack of wisdom to apply the lessons learned. there are no limits to the achievements of man, were not humanity divided against itself, exhausting its best energies in sanguinary conflict, suicidal and unnecessary. and these, the thousands stepmothered by cruel stupidity, are the victims castigated by society for her own folly and sins. there is young harry. a child of the slums, he has never known the touch of a loving hand. motherless, his father a drunkard, the heavy arm of the law was laid upon him at the age of ten. from reform school to reformatory the social orphan has been driven about.--"you know, aleck," he says, "i nev'r had no real square meal, to feel full, you know; 'cept once, on christmas, in de ref." at the age of nineteen, he has not seen a day of liberty since early childhood. three years ago he was transferred to the penitentiary, under a sentence of sixteen years for an attempted escape from the morganza reform school, which resulted in the death of a keeper. the latter was foreman in the tailor shop, in which harry was employed together with a number of other youths. the officer had induced harry to do overwork, above the regular task, for which he rewarded the boy with an occasional dainty of buttered bread or a piece of corn-cake. by degrees harry's voluntary effort became part of his routine work, and the reward in delicacies came more rarely. but when they entirely ceased the boy rebelled, refusing to exert himself above the required task. he was reported, but the superintendent censured the keeper for the unauthorized increase of work. harry was elated; but presently began systematic persecution that made the boy's life daily more unbearable. in innumerable ways the hostile guard sought to revenge his defeat upon the lad, till at last, driven to desperation, harry resolved upon escape. with several other inmates the fourteen-year-old boy planned to flee to the rocky mountains, there to hunt the "wild" indians, and live the independent and care-free life of jesse james. "you know, aleck," harry confides to me, reminiscently, "we could have made it easy; dere was eleven of us. but de kids was all sore on de foreman. he 'bused and beat us, an' some of de boys wouldn' go 'cept we knock de screw out first. it was me pal nacky that hit 'im foist, good an' hard, an' den i hit 'im, lightly. but dey all said in court that i hit 'im both times. nacky's people had money, an' he beat de case, but i got soaked sixteen years." his eyes fill with tears and he says plaintively: "i haven't been outside since i was a little kid, an' now i'm sick, an' will die here mebbe." ii conversing in low tones, we sweep the range. i shorten my strokes to enable harry to keep pace. weakly he drags the broom across the floor. his appearance is pitifully grotesque. the sickly features, pale with the color of the prison whitewash, resemble a little child's. but the eyes look oldish in their wrinkled sockets, the head painfully out of proportion with the puny, stunted body. now and again he turns his gaze on me, and in his face there is melancholy wonder, as if he is seeking something that has passed him by. often i ponder, is there a crime more appalling and heinous than the one society has committed upon him, who is neither man nor youth and never was child? crushed by the heel of brutality, this plant had never budded. yet there is the making of a true man in him. his mentality is pathetically primitive, but he possesses character and courage, and latent virgin forces. his emotional frankness borders on the incredible; he is unmoral and unsocial, as a field daisy might be, surrounded by giant trees, yet timidly tenacious of its own being. it distresses me to witness the yearning that comes into his eyes at the mention of the "outside." often he asks: "tell me, aleck, how does it feel to walk on de street, to know that you're free t' go where you damn please, wid no screw to foller you?" ah, if he'd only have a chance, he reiterates, he'd be so careful not to get into trouble! he would like to keep company with a nice girl, he confides, blushingly; he had never had one. but he fears his days are numbered. his lungs are getting very bad, and now that his father has died, he has no one to help him get a pardon. perhaps father wouldn't have helped him, either; he was always drunk, and never cared for his children. "he had no business t' have any children," harry comments passionately. and he can't expect any assistance from his sister; the poor girl barely makes a living in the factory. "she's been workin' ev'r so long in the pickle works," harry explains. "that feller, the boss there, must be rich; it's a big factory," he adds, naïvely, "he oughter give 'er enough to marry on." but he fears he will die in the prison. there is no one to aid him, and he has no friends. "i never had no friend," he says, wistfully; "there ain't no real friends. de older boys in de ref always used me, an' dey use all de kids. but dey was no friends, an' every one was against me in de court, an' dey put all de blame on me. everybody was always against me," he repeats bitterly. * * * * * alone in the cell, i ponder over his words. "everybody was always against me," i hear the boy say. i wake at night, with the quivering cry in the darkness, "everybody against me!" motherless in childhood, reared in the fumes of brutal inebriation, cast into the slums to be crushed under the wheels of the law's juggernaut, was the fate of this social orphan. is this the fruit of progress? this the spirit of our christian civilization? in the hours of solitude, the scheme of existence unfolds in kaleidoscope before me. in variegated design and divergent angle it presents an endless panorama of stunted minds and tortured bodies, of universal misery and wretchedness, in the elemental aspect of the boy's desolate life. and i behold all the suffering and agony resolve themselves in the dominance of the established, in tradition and custom that heavily encrust humanity, weighing down the already fettered soul till its wings break and it beats helplessly against the artificial barriers.... the blanched face of misery is silhouetted against the night. the silence sobs with the piteous cry of the crushed boy. and i hear the cry, and it fills my whole being with the sense of terrible wrong and injustice, with the shame of my kind, that sheds crocodile tears while it swallows its helpless prey. the submerged moan in the dark. i will echo their agony to the ears of the world. i have suffered with them, i have looked into the heart of pain, and with its voice and anguish i will speak to humanity, to wake it from sloth and apathy, and lend hope to despair. * * * * * the months speed in preparation for the great work. i must equip myself for the mission, for the combat with the world that struggles so desperately to defend its chains. the day of my resurrection is approaching, and i will devote my new life to the service of my fellow-sufferers. the world shall hear the tortured; it shall behold the shame it has buried within these walls, yet not eliminated. the ghost of its crimes shall rise and harrow its ears, till the social conscience is roused to the cry of its victims. and perhaps with eyes once opened, it will behold the misery and suffering in the world beyond, and man will pause in his strife and mad race to ask himself, wherefore? whither? chapter xlvi a child's heart-hunger i with deep gratification i observe the unfoldment of harry's mind. my friendship has wakened in him hope and interest in life. merely to please me, he smilingly reiterated, he would apply himself to reading the mapped-out course. but as time passed he became absorbed in the studies, developing a thirst for knowledge that is transforming his primitive intelligence into a mentality of great power and character. often i marvel at the peculiar strength and aspiration springing from the depths of a prison friendship. "i did not believe in friendship, aleck," harry says, as we ply our brooms in the day's work, "but now i feel that i wouldn't be here, if i had had then a real friend. it isn't only that we suffer together, but you have made me feel that our minds can rise above these rules and bars. you know, the screws have warned me against you, and i was afraid of you. i don't know how to put it, aleck, but the first time we had that long talk last year, i felt as if something walked right over from you to me. and since then i have had something to live for. you know, i have seen so much of the priests, i have no use for the church, and i don't believe in immortality. but the idea i got from you clung to me, and it was so persistent, i really think there is such a thing as immortality of an idea." for an instant the old look of helpless wonder is in his face, as if he is at a loss to master the thought. he pauses in his work, his eyes fastened on mine. "i got it, aleck," he says, an eager smile lighting up his pallid features. "you remember the story you told me about them fellers--oh,"--he quickly corrects himself--"when i get excited, i drop into my former bad english. well, you know the story you told me of the prisoners in siberia; how they escape sometimes, and the peasants, though forbidden to house them, put food outside of their huts, so that an escaped man may not starve to death. you remember, aleck?" "yes, harry. i'm glad you haven't forgotten it." "forgotten? why, aleck, a few weeks ago, sitting at my door, i saw a sparrow hopping about in the hall. it looked cold and hungry. i threw a piece of bread to it, but the warden came by and made me pick it up, and drive the bird away. somehow i thought of the peasants in siberia, and how they share their food with escaped men. why should the bird starve as long as i have bread? now every night i place a few pieces near the door, and in the morning, just when it begins to dawn, and every one is asleep, the bird steals up and gets her breakfast. it's the immortality of an idea, aleck." ii the inclement winter has laid a heavy hand upon harry. the foul hot air of the cell-house is aggravating his complaint, and now the physician has pronounced him in an advanced stage of consumption. the disease is ravaging the population. hygienic rules are ignored, and no precautions are taken against contagion. harry's health is fast failing. he walks with an evident effort, but bravely straightens as he meets my gaze. "i feel quite strong, aleck," he says, "i don't believe it's the con. it's just a bad cold." he clings tenaciously to the slender hope; but now and then the cunning of suspicion tests my faith. pretending to wash his hands, he asks: "can i use your towel, aleck? sure you're not afraid?" my apparent confidence seems to allay his fears, and he visibly rallies with renewed hope. i strive to lighten his work on the range, and his friend "coz," who attends the officers' table, shares with the sick boy the scraps of fruit and cake left after their meals. the kind-hearted italian, serving a sentence of twenty years, spends his leisure weaving hair chains in the dim light of the cell, and invests the proceeds in warm underwear for his consumptive friend. "i don't need it myself, i'm too hot-blooded, anyhow," he lightly waves aside harry's objections. he shudders as the hollow cough shakes the feeble frame, and anxiously hovers over the boy, mothering him with unobtrusive tenderness. * * * * * at the first sign of spring, "coz" conspires with me to procure for harry the privilege of the yard. the consumptives are deprived of air, immured in the shop or block, and in the evening locked in the cells. in view of my long service and the shortness of my remaining time, the inspectors have promised me fifteen minutes' exercise in the yard. i have not touched the soil since the discovery of the tunnel, in july , almost four years ago. but harry is in greater need of fresh air, and perhaps we shall be able to procure the privilege for him, instead. his health would improve, and in the meantime we will bring his case before the pardon board. it was an outrage to send him to the penitentiary, "coz" asserts vehemently. "harry was barely fourteen then, a mere child. think of a judge who will give such a kid sixteen years! why, it means death. but what can you expect! remember the little boy who was sent here--it was somewhere around ' --he was just twelve years old, and he didn't look more than ten. they brought him here in knickerbockers, and the fellows had to bend over double to keep in lockstep with him. he looked just like a baby in the line. the first pair of long pants he ever put on was stripes, and he was so frightened, he'd stand at the door and cry all the time. well, they got ashamed of themselves after a while, and sent him away to some reformatory, but he spent about six months here then. oh, what's the use talking," "coz" concludes hopelessly; "it's a rotten world all right. but may be we can get harry a pardon. honest, aleck, i feel as if he's my own child. we've been friends since the day he came in, and he's a good boy, only he never had a chance. make a list, aleck. i'll ask the chaplain how much i've got in the office. i think it's twenty-two or may be twenty-three dollars. it's all for harry." * * * * * the spring warms into summer before the dime and quarter donations total the amount required by the attorney to carry harry's case to the pardon board. but the sick boy is missing from the range. for weeks his dry, hacking cough resounded in the night, keeping the men awake, till at last the doctor ordered him transferred to the hospital. his place on the range has been taken by "big swede," a tall, sallow-faced man who shuffles along the hall, moaning in pain. the passing guards mimic him, and poke him jocularly in the ribs. "hey, you! get a move on, and quit your shammin'." he starts in affright; pressing both hands against his side, he shrinks at the officer's touch. "you fakir, we're next to _you_, all right." an uncomprehending, sickly smile spreads over the sere face, as he murmurs plaintively, "yis, sir, me seek, very seek." chapter xlvii chum i the able-bodied men have been withdrawn to the shops, and only the old and decrepit remain in the cell-house. but even the light duties of assistant prove too difficult for the swede. the guards insist that he is shamming. every night he is placed in a strait-jacket, and gagged to stifle his groans. i protest against the mistreatment, and am cited to the office. the deputy's desk is occupied by "bighead," the officer of the hosiery department, now promoted to the position of second assistant deputy. he greets me with a malicious grin. "i knew you wouldn't behave," he chuckles; "know you too damn well from the stockin' shop." the gigantic colonel, the new deputy, loose-jointed and broad, strolls in with long, swinging step. he glances over the report against me. "is that all?" he inquires of the guard, in cold, impassive voice. "yes, sir." "go back to your work, berkman." but in the afternoon, officer "bighead" struts into the cell-house, in charge of the barber gang. as i take my turn in the first chair, the guard hastens toward me. "get out of that chair," he commands. "it ain't your turn. you take _that_ chair," pointing toward the second barber, a former boilermaker, dreaded by the men as a "butcher." "it _is_ my turn in this chair," i reply, keeping my seat. "dat so, mr. officer," the negro barber chimes in. "shut up!" the officer bellows. "will you get out of that chair?" he advances toward me threateningly. "i won't," i retort, looking him squarely in the eye. suppressed giggling passes along the waiting line. the keeper turns purple, and strides toward the office to report me. ii "this is awful, aleck. i'm so sorry you're locked up. you were in the right, too," "coz" whispers at my cell. "but never min', old boy," he smiles reassuringly, "you can count on me, all right. and you've got other friends. here's a stiff some one sends you. he wants an answer right away. i'll call for it." the note mystifies me. the large, bold writing is unfamiliar; i cannot identify the signature, "jim m." the contents are puzzling. his sympathies are with me, the writer says. he has learned all the details of the trouble, and feels that i acted in the defence of my rights. it is an outrage to lock me up for resenting undeserved humiliation at the hands of an unfriendly guard; and he cannot bear to see me thus persecuted. my time is short, and the present trouble, if not corrected, may cause the loss of my commutation. he will immediately appeal to the warden to do me justice; but he should like to hear from me before taking action. i wonder at the identity of the writer. evidently not a prisoner; intercession with the warden would be out of the question. yet i cannot account for any officer who would take this attitude, or employ such means of communicating with me. presently "coz" saunters past the cell. "got your answer ready?" he whispers. "who gave you the note, coz?" "i don't know if i should tell you." "of course you must tell me. i won't answer this note unless i know to whom i am writing." "well, aleck," he hesitates, "he didn't say if i may tell you." "then better go and ask him first." * * * * * considerable time elapses before "coz" returns. from the delay i judge that the man is in a distant part of the institution, or not easily accessible. at last the kindly face of the italian appears at the cell. "it's all right, aleck," he says. "who is he?" i ask impatiently. "i'll bet you'll never guess." "tell me, then." "well, i'll tell you. he is not a screw." "can't be a prisoner?" "no." "who, then?" "he is a fine fellow, aleck." "come now, tell me." "he is a citizen. the foreman of the new shop." "the weaving department?" "that's the man. here's another stiff from him. answer at once." iii dear mr. j. m.: i hardly know how to write to you. it is the most remarkable thing that has happened to me in all the years of my confinement. to think that you, a perfect stranger--and not a prisoner, at that--should offer to intercede in my behalf because you feel that an injustice has been done! it is almost incredible, but "coz" has informed me that you are determined to see the warden in this matter. i assure you i appreciate your sense of justice more than i can express it. but i most urgently request you not to carry out your plan. with the best of intentions, your intercession will prove disastrous, to yourself as well as to me. a shop foreman, you are not supposed to know what is happening in the block. the warden is a martinet, and extremely vain of his authority. he will resent your interference. i don't know who you are, but your indignation at what you believe an injustice characterizes you as a man of principle, and you are evidently inclined to be friendly toward me. i should be very unhappy to be the cause of your discharge. you need your job, or you would not be here. i am very, very thankful to you, but i urge you most earnestly to drop the matter. i must fight my own battles. moreover, the situation is not very serious, and i shall come out all right. with much appreciation, a. b. dear mr. m.: i feel much relieved by your promise to accede to my request. it is best so. you need not worry about me. i expect to receive a hearing before the deputy, and he seems a decent chap. you will pardon me when i confess that i smiled at your question whether your correspondence is welcome. your notes are a ray of sunshine in the darkness, and i am intensely interested in the personality of a man whose sense of justice transcends considerations of personal interest. you know, no great heroism is required to demand justice for oneself, in the furtherance of our own advantage. but where the other fellow is concerned, especially a stranger, it becomes a question of "abstract" justice--and but few people possess the manhood to jeopardize their reputation or comfort for that. since our correspondence began, i have had occasion to speak to some of the men in your charge. i want to thank you in their name for your considerate and humane treatment of them. "coz" is at the door, and i must hurry. trust no one with notes, except him. we have been friends for years, and he can tell you all you wish to know about my life here. cordially, b. my dear m.: there is no need whatever for your anxiety regarding the effects of the solitary upon me. i do not think they will keep me in long; at any rate, remember that i do not wish you to intercede. you will be pleased to know that my friend harry shows signs of improvement, thanks to your generosity. "coz" has managed to deliver to him the tid-bits and wine you sent. you know the story of the boy. he has never known the love of a mother, nor the care of a father. a typical child of the disinherited, he was thrown, almost in infancy, upon the tender mercies of the world. at the age of ten the law declared him a criminal. he has never since seen a day of liberty. at twenty he is dying of prison consumption. was the spanish inquisition ever guilty of such organized child murder? with desperate will-power he clutches at life, in the hope of a pardon. he is firmly convinced that fresh air would cure him, but the new rules confine him to the hospital. his friends here have collected a fund to bring his case before the pardon board; it is to be heard next month. that devoted soul, "coz," has induced the doctor to issue a certificate of harry's critical condition, and he may be released soon. i have grown very fond of the boy so much sinned against. i have watched his heart and mind blossom in the sunshine of a little kindness, and now--i hope that at least his last wish will be gratified: just once to walk on the street, and not hear the harsh command of the guard. he begs me to express to his unknown friend his deepest gratitude. b. dear m.: the deputy has just released me. i am happy with a double happiness, for i know how pleased you will be at the good turn of affairs. it is probably due to the fact that my neighbor, the big swede--you've heard about him--was found dead in the strait-jacket this morning. the doctor and officers all along pretended that he was shamming. it was a most cruel murder; by the warden's order the sick swede was kept gagged and bound every night. i understand that the deputy opposed such brutal methods, and now it is rumored that he intends to resign. but i hope he will remain. there is something big and broad-minded about the gigantic colonel. he tries to be fair, and he has saved many a prisoner from the cruelty of the major. the latter is continually inventing new modes of punishment; it is characteristic that his methods involve curtailment of rations, and consequent saving, which is not accounted for on the books. he has recently cut the milk allowance of the hospital patients, notwithstanding the protests of the doctor. he has also introduced severe punishment for talking. you know, when you have not uttered a word for days and weeks, you are often seized with an uncontrollable desire to give vent to your feelings. these infractions of the rules are now punished by depriving you of tobacco and of your sunday dinner. every sunday from to men are locked up on the top range, to remain without food all day. the system is called "killicure" (kill or cure) and it involves considerable graft, for i know numbers of men who have not received tobacco or a sunday dinner for months. warden wm. johnston seems innately cruel. recently he introduced the "blind" cell,--door covered with solid sheet iron. it is much worse than the basket cell, for it virtually admits no air, and men are kept in it from to days. prisoner varnell was locked up in such a cell days, becoming paralyzed. but even worse than these punishments is the more refined brutality of torturing the boys with the uncertainty of release and the increasing deprivation of good time. this system is developing insanity to an alarming extent. amid all this heartlessness and cruelty, the chaplain is a refreshing oasis of humanity. i noticed in one of your letters the expression, "because of economic necessity," and--i wondered. to be sure, the effects of economic causes are not to be underestimated. but the extremists of the materialistic conception discount character, and thus help to vitiate it. the factor of personality is too often ignored by them. take the chaplain, for instance. in spite of the surrounding swamp of cupidity and brutality, notwithstanding all disappointment and ingratitude, he is to-day, after years of incumbency, as full of faith in human nature and as sympathetic and helpful, as years ago. he has had to contend against the various administrations, and he is a poor man; necessity has not stifled his innate kindness. and this is why i wondered. "economic necessity"--has socialism pierced the prison walls? b. dear, dear comrade: can you realize how your words, "i am socialistically inclined," warmed my heart? i wish i could express to you all the intensity of what i feel, my dear _friend_ and _comrade_. to have so unexpectedly found both in you, unutterably lightens this miserable existence. what matter that you do not entirely share my views,--we are comrades in the common cause of human emancipation. it was indeed well worth while getting in trouble to have found you, dear friend. surely i have good cause to be content, even happy. your friendship is a source of great strength, and i feel equal to struggling through the ten months, encouraged and inspired by your comradeship and devotion. every evening i cross the date off my calendar, joyous with the thought that i am a day nearer to the precious moment when i shall turn my back upon these walls, to join my friends in the great work, and to meet you, dear chum, face to face, to grip your hand and salute you, my friend and comrade! most fraternally, alex. chapter xlviii last days on the homestretch, _sub rosa_, april , . my dear girl: the last spring is here, and a song is in my heart. only three more months, and i shall have settled accounts with father penn. there is the year in the workhouse, of course, and that prison, i am told, is even a worse hell than this one. but i feel strong with the suffering that is past, and perhaps even more so with the wonderful jewel i have found. the man i mentioned in former letters has proved a most beautiful soul and sincere friend. in every possible way he has been trying to make my existence more endurable. with what little he may, he says, he wants to make amends for the injustice and brutality of society. he is a socialist, with a broad outlook upon life. our lengthy discussions (per notes) afford me many moments of pleasure and joy. it is chiefly to his exertions that i shall owe my commutation time. the sentiment of the inspectors was not favorable. i believe it was intended to deprive me of two years' good time. think what it would mean to us! but my friend--my dear chum, as i affectionately call him--has quietly but persistently been at work, with the result that the inspectors have "seen the light." it is now definite that i shall be released in july. the date is still uncertain. i can barely realize that i am soon to leave this place. the anxiety and restlessness of the last month would be almost unbearable, but for the soothing presence of my devoted friend. i hope some day you will meet him,--perhaps even soon, for he is not of the quality that can long remain a helpless witness of the torture of men. he wants to work in the broader field, where he may join hands with those who strive to reconstruct the conditions that are bulwarked with prison bars. but while necessity forces him to remain here, his character is in evidence. he devotes his time and means to lightening the burden of the prisoners. his generous interest kept my sick friend harry alive, in the hope of a pardon. you will be saddened to hear that the board refused to release him, on the ground that he was not "sufficiently ill." the poor boy, who had never been out of sight of a guard since he was a child of ten, died a week after the pardon was refused. but though my chum could not give freedom to harry, he was instrumental in saving another young life from the hands of the hangman. it was the case of young paul, typical of prison as the nursery of crime. the youth was forced to work alongside of a man who persecuted and abused him because he resented improper advances. repeatedly paul begged the warden to transfer him to another department; but his appeals were ignored. the two prisoners worked in the bakery. early one morning, left alone, the man attempted to violate the boy. in the struggle that followed the former was killed. the prison management was determined to hang the lad, "in the interests of discipline." the officers openly avowed they would "fix his clock." permission for a collection, to engage an attorney for paul, was refused. prisoners who spoke in his behalf were severely punished; the boy was completely isolated preparatory to his trial. he stood absolutely helpless, alone. but the dear chum came to the rescue of paul. the work had to be done secretly, and it was a most difficult task to secure witnesses for the defence among the prisoners terrorized by the guards. but chum threw himself into the work with heart and soul. day and night he labored to give the boy a chance for his life. he almost broke down before the ordeal was over. but the boy was saved; the jury acquitted him on the ground of self-defence. * * * * * the proximity of release, if only to change cells, is nerve-racking in the extreme. but even the mere change will be a relief. meanwhile my faithful friend does everything in his power to help me bear the strain. besides ministering to my physical comforts, he generously supplies me with books and publications. it helps to while away the leaden-heeled days, and keeps me abreast of the world's work. the chum is enthusiastic over the growing strength of socialism, and we often discuss the subject with much vigor. it appears to me, however, that the socialist anxiety for success is by degrees perverting essential principles. it is with much sorrow i have learned that political activity, formerly viewed merely as a means of spreading socialist ideas, has gradually become an end in itself. straining for political power weakens the fibres of character and ideals. daily contact with authority has strengthened my conviction that control of the governmental power is an illusory remedy for social evils. inevitable consequences of false conceptions are not to be legislated out of existence. it is not merely the conditions, but the fundamental ideas of present civilization, that are to be transvalued, to give place to new social and individual relations. the emancipation of labor is the necessary first step along the road of a regenerated humanity; but even that can be accomplished only through the awakened consciousness of the toilers, acting on their own initiative and strength. on these and other points chum differs with me, but his intense friendship knows no intellectual distinctions. he is to visit you during his august vacation. i know you will make him feel my gratitude, for i can never repay his boundless devotion. sasha. dearest chum: it seemed as if all aspiration and hope suddenly went out of my life when you disappeared so mysteriously. i was tormented by the fear of some disaster. your return has filled me with joy, and i am happy to know that you heard and responded unhesitatingly to the call of a sacred cause. i greatly envy your activity in the p. circle. the revolution in russia has stirred me to the very depths. the giant is awakening, the mute giant that has suffered so patiently, voicing his misery and agony only in the anguish-laden song and on the pages of his gorkys. dear friend, you remember our discussion regarding plehve. i may have been in error when i expressed the view that the execution of the monster, encouraging sign of individual revolutionary activity as it was, could not be regarded as a manifestation of social awakening. but the present uprising undoubtedly points to widespread rebellion permeating russian life. yet it would probably be too optimistic to hope for a very radical change. i have been absent from my native land for many years; but in my youth i was close to the life and thought of the peasant. large, heavy bodies move slowly. the proletariat of the cities has surely become impregnated with revolutionary ideas, but the vital element of russia is the agrarian population. i fear, moreover, that the dominant reaction is still very strong, though it has no doubt been somewhat weakened by the discontent manifesting in the army and, especially, in the navy. with all my heart i hope that the revolution will be successful. perhaps a constitution is the most we can expect. but whatever the result, the bare fact of a revolution in long-suffering russia is a tremendous inspiration. i should be the happiest of men to join in the glorious struggle. long live the revolution! a. dear chum: thanks for your kind offer. but i am absolutely opposed to having any steps taken to eliminate the workhouse sentence. i have served these many years and i shall survive one more, i will ask no favors of the enemy. they will even twist their own law to deprive me of the five months' good time, to which i am entitled on the last year. i understand that i shall be allowed only two months off, on the preposterous ground that the workhouse term constitutes the first year of a _new_ sentence! but i do not wish you to trouble about the matter. you have more important work to do. give all your energies to the good cause. prepare the field for the mission of tchaikovsky and babushka, and i shall be with you in spirit when you embrace our brave comrades of the russian revolution, whose dear names were a hallowed treasure of my youth. may success reward the efforts of our brothers in russia. a. chum: just got word from the deputy that my papers are signed. i didn't wish to cause you anxiety, but i was apprehensive of some hitch. but it's positive and settled now,--i go out on the th. just one more week! this is the happiest day in thirteen years. shake, comrade. a. dearest chum: my hand trembles as i write this last good-bye. i'll be gone in an hour. my heart is too full for words. please send enclosed notes to my friends, and embrace them all as i embrace you now. i shall live in the hope of meeting you all next year. good-bye, dear, devoted friend. with my whole heart, your comrade and chum. july , . dearest girl: it's wednesday morning, the th, at last! geh stiller meines herzens schlag und schliesst euch alle meine alten wunden, denn dieses ist mein letzter tag und dies sind seine letzten stunden. my last thoughts within these walls are of you, my dear, dear sonya, the immutable! sasha. part iii the workhouse the workhouse i the gates of the penitentiary open to leave me out, and i pause involuntarily at the fascinating sight. it is a street: a line of houses stretches before me; a woman, young and wonderfully sweet-faced, is passing on the opposite side. my eyes follow her graceful lines, as she turns the corner. men stand about. they wear citizen clothes, and scan me with curious, insistent gaze.... the handcuff grows taut on my wrist, and i follow the sheriff into the waiting carriage. a little child runs by. i lean out of the window to look at the rosy-cheeked, strangely youthful face. but the guard impatiently lowers the blind, and we sit in gloomy silence. * * * * * the spell of the civilian garb is upon me. it gives an exhilarating sense of manhood. again and again i glance at my clothes, and verify the numerous pockets to reassure myself of the reality of the situation. i am free, past the dismal gray walls! free? yet even now captive of the law. the law!... * * * * * the engine puffs and shrieks, and my mind speeds back to another journey. it was thirteen years and one week ago this day. on the wings of an all-absorbing love i hastened to join the struggle of the oppressed people. i left home and friends, sacrificed liberty, and risked life. but human justice is blind: it will not see the soul on fire. only the shot was heard, by the law that is deaf to the agony of toil. "vengeance is mine," it saith. to the uttermost drop it will shed the blood to exact its full pound of flesh. twelve years and ten months! and still another year. what horrors await me at the new prison? poor, faithful "horsethief" will nevermore smile his greeting: he did not survive six months in the terrible workhouse. but my spirit is strong; i shall not be daunted. this garb is the visible, tangible token of resurrection. the devotion of staunch friends will solace and cheer me. the call of the great cause will give strength to live, to struggle, to conquer. ii humiliation overwhelms me as i don the loathed suit of striped black and gray. the insolent look of the guard rouses my bitter resentment, as he closely scrutinizes my naked body. but presently, the examination over, a sense of gratification steals over me at the assertiveness of my self-respect. * * * * * the ordeal of the day's routine is full of inexpressible anguish. accustomed to prison conditions, i yet find existence in the workhouse a nightmare of cruelty, infinitely worse than the most inhuman aspects of the penitentiary. the guards are surly and brutal; the food foul and inadequate; punishment for the slightest offence instantaneous and ruthless. the cells are even smaller than in the penitentiary, and contain neither chair nor table. they are unspeakably ill-smelling with the privy buckets, for the purposes of which no scrap of waste paper is allowed. the sole ablutions of the day are performed in the morning, when the men form in the hall and march past the spigot of running water, snatching a handful in the constantly moving line. absolute silence prevails in cell-house and shop. the slightest motion of the lips is punished with the blackjack or the dungeon, referred to with caustic satire as the "white house." the perverse logic of the law that visits the utmost limit of barbarity upon men admittedly guilty of minor transgressions! throughout the breadth of the land the workhouses are notoriously more atrocious in every respect than the penitentiaries and state prisons, in which are confined men convicted of felonies. the allegheny county workhouse of the great commonwealth of pennsylvania enjoys infamous distinction as the blackest of hells where men expiate the sins of society. * * * * * at work in the broom shop, i find myself in peculiarly familiar surroundings. the cupidity of the management has evolved methods even more inhuman than those obtaining in the state prison. the tasks imposed upon the men necessitate feverish exertion. insufficient product or deficient work is not palliated by physical inability or illness. in the conduct of the various industries, every artifice prevalent in the penitentiary is practised to evade the law limiting convict competition. the number of men employed in productive work by far exceeds the legally permitted percentage; the provisions for the protection of free labor are skilfully circumvented; the tags attached to the shop products are designed to be obliterated as soon as the wares have left the prison; the words "convict-made" stamped on the broom-handles are pasted over with labels giving no indication of the place of manufacture. the anti-convict-labor law, symbolic of the political achievements of labor, is frustrated at every point, its element of protection a "lame and impotent conclusion." how significant the travesty of the law in its holy of holies! here legal justice immures its victims; here are buried the disinherited, whose rags and tatters annoy respectability; here offenders are punished for breaking the law. and here the law is daily and hourly violated by its pious high priests. iii the immediate is straining at the leash that holds memory in the environment of the penitentiary, yet the veins of the terminated existence still palpitate with the recollection of friends and common suffering. the messages from riverside are wet with tears of misery, but johnny, the young magyar, strikes a note of cheer: his sentence is about to expire; he will devote himself to the support of the little children he had so unwittingly robbed of a father. meanwhile he bids me courage and hope, enclosing two dollars from the proceeds of his fancy work, "to help along." he was much grieved, he writes, at his inability to bid me a last farewell, because the warden refused the request, signed by two hundred prisoners, that i be allowed to pass along the tiers to say good-bye. but soon, soon we shall see each other in freedom. words of friendship glow brightly in the darkness of the present, and charm my visions of the near future. coming liberty casts warming rays, and i dwell in the atmosphere of my comrades. the girl and the chum are aglow with the fires of young russia. busily my mind shapes pictures of the great struggle that transplant me to the days of my youth. in the little tenement flat in new york we had sketched with bold stroke the fortunes of the world--the girl, the twin, and i. in the dark, cage-like kitchen, amid the smoke of the asthmatic stove, we had planned our conspirative work in russia. but the need of the hour had willed it otherwise. homestead had sounded the prelude of awakening, and my heart had echoed the inspiring strains. * * * * * the banked fires of aspiration burst into life. what matter the immediate outcome of the revolution in russia? the yearning of my youth wells up with spontaneous power. to live is to struggle! to struggle against caesar, side by side with the people: to suffer with them, and to die, if need be. that is life. it will sadden me to part with chum even before i had looked deeply into the devoted face. but the girl is aflame with the spirit of russia: it will be joyous work in common. the soil of monongahela, laden with years of anguish, has grown dear to me. like the moan of a broken chord wails the thought of departure. but no ties of affection will strain at my heartstrings. yet--the sweet face of a little girl breaks in on my reverie, a look of reproaching sadness in the large, wistful eyes. it is little stella. the last years of my penitentiary life have snatched many a grace from her charming correspondence. often i have sought consolation in the beautiful likeness of her soulful face. with mute tenderness she had shared my grief at the loss of harry, her lips breathing sweet balm. gray days had warmed at her smile, and i lavished upon her all the affection with which i was surcharged. it will be a violent stifling of her voice in my heart, but the call of the _muzhik_ rings clear, compelling. yet who knows? the revolution may be over before my resurrection. in republican russia, with her enlightened social protestantism, life would be fuller, richer than in this pitifully _bourgeois_ democracy. freedom will present the unaccustomed problem of self-support, but it is premature to form definite plans. long imprisonment has probably incapacitated me for hard work, but i shall find means to earn my simple needs when i have cast off the fetters of my involuntary parasitism. the thought of affection, the love of woman, thrills me with ecstasy, and colors my existence with emotions of strange bliss. but the solitary hours are filled with recurring dread lest my life forever remain bare of woman's love. often the fear possesses me with the intensity of despair, as my mind increasingly dwells on the opposite sex. thoughts of woman eclipse the memory of the prison affections, and the darkness of the present is threaded with the silver needle of love-hopes. iv the monotony of the routine, the degradation and humiliation weigh heavier in the shadow of liberty. my strength is failing with the hard task in the shop, but the hope of receiving my full commutation sustains me. the law allows five months' "good time" on every year beginning with the ninth year of a sentence. but the superintendent has intimated to me that i may be granted the benefit of only two months, as a "new" prisoner, serving the first year of a workhouse sentence. the board of directors will undoubtedly take that view, he often taunts me. exasperation at his treatment, coupled with my protest against the abuse of a fellow prisoner, have caused me to be ordered into the solitary. dear chum is insistent on legal steps to secure my full commutation; notwithstanding my unconditional refusal to resort to the courts, he has initiated a _sub rosa_ campaign to achieve his object. the time drags in torturing uncertainty. with each day the solitary grows more stifling, maddening, till my brain reels with terror of the graveyard silence. like glad music sounds the stern command, "exercise!" in step we circle the yard, the clanking of charley's chain mournfully beating time. he had made an unsuccessful attempt to escape, for which he is punished with the ball and chain. the iron cuts into his ankle, and he trudges painfully under the heavy weight. near me staggers billy, his left side completely paralyzed since he was released from the "white house." all about me are cripples. i am in the midst of the social refuse: the lame and the halt, the broken in body and spirit, past work, past even crime. these were the blessed of the nazarene; these a christian world breaks on the wheel. they, too, are within the scope of my mission, they above all others--these the living indictments of a leprous system, the excommunicated of god and man. * * * * * the threshold of liberty is thickly sown with misery and torment. the days are unbearable with nervous restlessness, the nights hideous with the hours of agonizing stillness,--the endless, endless hours. feverishly i pace the cell. the day will pass, it _must_ pass. with reverent emotion i bless the shamed sun as he dips beyond the western sky. one day nearer to the liberty that awaits me, with unrestricted sunshine and air and life beyond the hated walls of gray, out in the daylight, in the open. the open world!... the scent of fresh-mown hay is in my nostrils; green fields and forests stretch before me; sweetly ripples the mountain spring. up to the mountain crest, to the breezes and the sunshine, where the storm breaks in its wild fury upon my uncovered head. welcome the rain and the wind that sweep the foul prison dust off my heart, and blow life and strength into my being! tremblingly rapturous is the thought of freedom. out in the woods, away from the stench of the cannibal world i shall wander, nor lift my foot from soil or sod. close to the breath of nature i will press my parched lips, on her bosom i will pass my days, drinking sustenance and strength from the universal mother. and there, in liberty and independence, in the vision of the mountain peaks, i shall voice the cry of the social orphans, of the buried and the disinherited, and visualize to the living the yearning, menacing face of pain. part iv the resurrection the resurrection i all night i toss sleeplessly on the cot, and pace the cell in nervous agitation, waiting for the dawn. with restless joy i watch the darkness melt, as the first rays herald the coming of the day. it is the th of may--my last day, my very last! a few more hours, and i shall walk through the gates, and drink in the warm sunshine and the balmy air, and be free to go and come as i please, after the nightmare of thirteen years and ten months in jail, penitentiary, and workhouse. my step quickens with the excitement of the outside, and i try to while away the heavy hours thinking of freedom and of friends. but my brain is in a turmoil; i cannot concentrate my thoughts. visions of the near future, images of the past, flash before me, and crowd each other in bewildering confusion. * * * * * again and again my mind reverts to the unnecessary cruelty that has kept me in prison three months over and above my time. it was sheer sophistry to consider me a "new" prisoner, entitled only to two months' commutation. as a matter of fact, i was serving the last year of a twenty-two-year sentence, and therefore i should have received five months time off. the superintendent had repeatedly promised to inform me of the decision of the board of directors, and every day, for weeks and months, i anxiously waited for word from them. none ever came, and i had to serve the full ten months. ah, well, it is almost over now! i have passed my last night in the cell, and the morning is here, the precious, blessed morning! * * * * * how slowly the minutes creep! i listen intently, and catch the sound of bars being unlocked on the bottom range: it is the night captain turning the kitchen men out to prepare breakfast-- a. m.! two and a half hours yet before i shall be called; two endless hours, and then another thirty long minutes. will they ever pass?... and again i pace the cell. ii the gong rings the rising hour. in great agitation i gather up my blankets, tincup and spoon, which must be delivered at the office before i am discharged. my heart beats turbulently, as i stand at the door, waiting to be called. but the guard unlocks the range and orders me to "fall in for breakfast." the striped line winds down the stairs, past the lynx-eyed deputy standing in the middle of the hallway, and slowly circles through the centre, where each man receives his portion of bread for the day and returns to his tier. the turnkey, on his rounds of the range, casts a glance into my cell. "not workin'," he says mechanically, shutting the door in my face. "i'm going out," i protest. "not till you're called," he retorts, locking me in. * * * * * i stand at the door, tense with suspense. i strain my ear for the approach of a guard to call me to the office, but all remains quiet. a vague fear steals over me: perhaps they will not release me to-day; i may be losing time.... a feeling of nausea overcomes me, but by a strong effort i throw off the dreadful fancy, and quicken my step. i must not think--not think.... * * * * * at last! the lever is pulled, my cell unlocked, and with a dozen other men i am marched to the clothes-room, in single file and lockstep. i await my turn impatiently, as several men are undressed and their naked bodies scrutinized for contraband or hidden messages. the overseer flings a small bag at each man, containing the prisoner's civilian garb, shouting boisterously: "hey, you! take off them clothes, and put your rags on." i dress hurriedly. a guard accompanies me to the office, where my belongings are returned to me: some money friends had sent, my watch, and the piece of ivory the penitentiary turnkey had stolen from me, and which i had insisted on getting back before i left riverside. the officer in charge hands me a railroad ticket to pittsburgh (the fare costing about thirty cents), and i am conducted to the prison gate. iii the sun shines brightly in the yard, the sky is clear, the air fresh and bracing. now the last gate will be thrown open, and i shall be out of sight of the guard, beyond the bars,--alone! how i have hungered for this hour, how often in the past years have i dreamed of this rapturous moment--to be alone, out in the open, away from the insolent eyes of my keepers! i'll rush away from these walls and kneel on the warm sod, and kiss the soil and embrace the trees, and with a song of joy give thanks to nature for the blessings of sunshine and air. the outer door opens before me, and i am confronted by reporters with cameras. several tall men approach me. one of them touches me on the shoulder, turns back the lapel of his coat, revealing a police officer's star, and says: "berkman, you are to leave the city before night, by order of the chief." * * * * * the detectives and reporters trailing me to the nearby railway station attract a curious crowd. i hasten into a car to escape their insistent gaze, feeling glad that i have prevailed upon my friends not to meet me at the prison. my mind is busy with plans to outwit the detectives, who have entered the same compartment. i have arranged to join the girl in detroit. i have no particular reason to mask my movements, but i resent the surveillance. i must get rid of the spies, somehow; i don't want their hateful eyes to desecrate my meeting with the girl. * * * * * i feel dazed. the short ride to pittsburgh is over before i can collect my thoughts. the din and noise rend my ears; the rushing cars, the clanging bells, bewilder me. i am afraid to cross the street; the flying monsters pursue me on every side. the crowds jostle me on the sidewalk, and i am constantly running into the passers-by. the turmoil, the ceaseless movement, disconcerts me. a horseless carriage whizzes close by me; i turn to look at the first automobile i have ever seen, but the living current sweeps me helplessly along. a woman passes me, with a child in her arms. the baby looks strangely diminutive, a rosy dimple in the laughing face. i smile back at the little cherub, and my eyes meet the gaze of the detectives. a wild thought to escape, to get away from them, possesses me, and i turn quickly into a side street, and walk blindly, faster and faster. a sudden impulse seizes me at the sight of a passing car, and i dash after it. * * * * * "fare, please!" the conductor sings out, and i almost laugh out aloud at the fleeting sense of the material reality of freedom. conscious of the strangeness of my action, i produce a dollar bill, and a sense of exhilarating independence comes over me, as the man counts out the silver coins. i watch him closely for a sign of recognition. does he realize that i am just out of prison? he turns away, and i feel thankful to the dear chum for having so thoughtfully provided me with a new suit of clothes. it is peculiar, however, that the conductor has failed to notice my closely cropped hair. but the man in the seat opposite seems to be watching me. perhaps he has recognized me by my picture in the newspapers; or may be it is my straw hat that has attracted his attention. i glance about me. no one wears summer headgear yet; it must be too early in the season. i ought to change it: the detectives could not follow me so easily then. why, there they are on the back platform! at the next stop i jump off the car. a hat sign arrests my eye, and i walk into the store, and then slip quietly through a side entrance, a dark derby on my head. i walk quickly, for a long, long time, board several cars, and then walk again, till i find myself on a deserted street. no one is following me now; the detectives must have lost track of me. i feel worn and tired. where could i rest up, i wonder, when i suddenly recollect that i was to go directly from the prison to the drugstore of comrade m----. my friends must be worried, and m---- is waiting to wire to the girl about my release. * * * * * it is long past noon when i enter the drugstore. m---- seems highly wrought up over something; he shakes my hand violently, and plies me with questions, as he leads me into his apartments in the rear of the store. it seems strange to be in a regular room: there is paper on the walls, and it feels so peculiar to the touch, so different from the whitewashed cell. i pass my hand over it caressingly, with a keen sense of pleasure. the chairs, too, look strange, and those quaint things on the table. the bric-a-brac absorbs my attention--the people in the room look hazy, their voices sound distant and confused. "why don't you sit down, aleck?" the tones are musical and tender; a woman's, no doubt. "yes," i reply, walking around the table, and picking up a bright toy. it represents undine, rising from the water, the spray glistening in the sun.... "are you tired, aleck?" "n--no." "you have just come out?" "yes." it requires an effort to talk. the last year, in the workhouse, i have barely spoken a dozen words; there was always absolute silence. the voices disturb me. the presence of so many people--there are three or four about me--is oppressive. the room reminds me of the cell, and the desire seizes me to rush out into the open, to breathe the air and see the sky. "i'm going," i say, snatching up my hat. iv the train speeds me to detroit, and i wonder vaguely how i reached the station. my brain is numb; i cannot think. field and forest flit by in the gathering dusk, but the surroundings wake no interest in me. "i am rid of the detectives"--the thought persists in my mind, and i feel something relax within me, and leave me cold, without emotion or desire. * * * * * with an effort i descend to the platform, and sway from side to side, as i cross the station at detroit. a man and a girl hasten toward me, and grasp me by the hand. i recognize carl. the dear boy, he was a most faithful and cheering correspondent all these years since he left the penitentiary. but who is the girl with him, i wonder, when my gaze falls on a woman leaning against a pillar. she looks intently at me. the wave of her hair, the familiar eyes--why, it's the girl! how little she has changed! i take a few steps forward, somewhat surprised that she did not rush up to me like the others. i feel pleased at her self-possession: the excited voices, the quick motions, disturb me. i walk slowly toward her, but she does not move. she seems rooted to the spot, her hand grasping the pillar, a look of awe and terror in her face. suddenly she throws her arms around me. her lips move, but no sound reaches my ear. we walk in silence. the girl presses a bouquet into my hand. my heart is full, but i cannot talk. i hold the flowers to my face, and mechanically bite the petals. v detroit, chicago, and milwaukee pass before me like a troubled dream. i have a faint recollection of a sea of faces, restless and turbulent, and i in its midst. confused voices beat like hammers on my head, and then all is very still. i stand in full view of the audience. eyes are turned on me from every side, and i grow embarrassed. the crowd looks dim and hazy; i feel hot and cold, and a great longing to flee. the perspiration is running down my back; my knees tremble violently, the floor is slipping from under my feet--there is a tumult of hand clapping, loud cheers and bravos. we return to carl's house, and men and women grasp my hand and look at me with eyes of curious awe. i fancy a touch of pity in their tones, and am impatient of their sympathy. a sense of suffocation possesses me within doors, and i dread the presence of people. it is torture to talk; the sound of voices agonizes me. i watch for an opportunity to steal out of the house. it soothes me to lose myself among the crowds, and a sense of quiet pervades me at the thought that i am a stranger to every one about me. i roam the city at night, and seek the outlying country, conscious only of a desire to be alone. vi i am in the waldheim, the girl at my side. all is quiet in the cemetery, and i feel a great peace. no emotion stirs me at the sight of the monument, save a feeling of quiet sadness. it represents a woman, with one hand placing a wreath on the fallen, with the other grasping a sword. the marble features mirror unutterable grief and proud defiance. i glance at the girl. her face is averted, but the droop of her head speaks of suffering. i hold out my hand to her, and we stand in mute sorrow at the graves of our martyred comrades.... i have a vision of stenka razin, as i had seen him pictured in my youth, and at his side hang the bodies of the men buried beneath my feet. why are they dead? i wonder. why should i live? and a great desire to lie down with them is upon me. i clutch the iron post, to keep from falling. * * * * * steps sound behind me, and i turn to see a girl hastening toward us. she is radiant with young womanhood; her presence breathes life and the joy of it. her bosom heaves with panting; her face struggles with a solemn look. "i ran all the way," her voice is soft and low; "i was afraid i might miss you." the girl smiles. "let us go in somewhere to rest up, alice." turning to me, she adds, "she ran to see--you." how peculiar the girl should conceive such an idea! it is absurd. why should alice be anxious to see me? i look old and worn; my step is languid, unsteady.... bitter thoughts fill my mind, as we ride back on the train to chicago. "you are sad," the girl remarks. "alice is very much taken with you. aren't you glad?" "you are mistaken," i reply. "i'm sure of it," the girl persists. "shall i ask her?" she turns to alice. "oh, i like you so much, sasha," alice whispers. i look up timidly at her. she is leaning toward me in the abandon of artless tenderness, and a great joy steals over me, as i read in her eyes frank affection. vii new york looks unexpectedly familiar, though i miss many old landmarks. it is torture to be indoors, and i roam the streets, experiencing a thrill of kinship when i locate one of my old haunts. i feel little interest in the large meeting arranged to greet me back into the world. yet i am conscious of some curiosity about the comrades i may meet there. few of the old guard have remained. some dropped from the ranks; others died. john most will not be there. i cherished the hope of meeting him again, but he died a few months before my release. he had been unjust to me; but who is free from moments of weakness? the passage of time has mellowed the bitterness of my resentment, and i think of him, my first teacher of anarchy, with old-time admiration. his unique personality stands out in strong relief upon the flat background of his time. his life was the tragedy of the ever unpopular pioneer. a social lear, his whitening years brought only increasing isolation and greater lack of understanding, even within his own circle. he had struggled and suffered much; he gave his whole life to advance the cause, only to find at the last that he who crosses the threshold must leave all behind, even friendship, even comradeship. * * * * * my old friend, justus schwab, is also gone, and brady, the big austrian. few of the comrades of my day have survived. the younger generation seems different, unsatisfactory. the ghetto i had known has also disappeared. primitive orchard street, the scene of our pioneer meetings, has conformed to business respectability; the historic lecture hall, that rang with the breaking chains of the awakening people, has been turned into a dancing-school; the little café "around the corner," the intellectual arena of former years, is now a counting-house. the fervid enthusiasm of the past, the spontaneous comradeship in the common cause, the intoxication of world-liberating zeal--all are gone with the days of my youth. i sense the spirit of cold deliberation in the new set, and a tone of disillusioned wisdom that chills and estranges me. * * * * * the girl has also changed. the little sailor, my companion of the days that thrilled with the approach of the social revolution, has become a woman of the world. her mind has matured, but her wider interests antagonize my old revolutionary traditions that inspired every day and colored our every act with the direct perception of the momentarily expected great upheaval. i feel an instinctive disapproval of many things, though particular instances are intangible and elude my analysis. i sense a foreign element in the circle she has gathered about her, and feel myself a stranger among them. her friends and admirers crowd her home, and turn it into a sort of salon. they talk art and literature; discuss science and philosophize over the disharmony of life. but the groans of the dungeon find no gripping echo there. the girl is the most revolutionary of them all; but even she has been infected by the air of intellectual aloofness, false tolerance and everlasting pessimism. i resent the situation, the more i become conscious of the chasm between the girl and myself. it seems unbridgeable; we cannot recover the intimate note of our former comradeship. with pain i witness her evident misery. she is untiring in her care and affection; the whole circle lavishes on me sympathy and tenderness. but through it all i feel the commiserating tolerance toward a sick child. i shun the atmosphere of the house, and flee to seek the solitude of the crowded streets and the companionship of the plain, untutored underworld. * * * * * in a bowery resort i come across dan, my assistant on the range during my last year in the penitentiary. "hello, aleck," he says, taking me aside, "awful glad to see you out of hell. doing all right?" "so, so, dan. and you?" "rotten, aleck, rotten. you know it was my first bit, and i swore i'd never do a crooked job again. well, they turned me out with a five-spot, after four years' steady work, mind you, and three of them working my head off on a loom. then they handed me a pair of kentucky jeans, that any fly-cop could spot a mile off. my friends went back on me--that five-spot was all i had in the world, and it didn't go a long way. liberty ain't what it looks to a fellow through the bars, aleck, but it's hell to go back. i don't know what to do." "how do you happen here, dan? could you get no work at home, in oil city?" "home, hell! i wish i had a home and friends, like you, aleck. christ, d'you think i'd ever turn another trick? but i got no home and no friends. mother died before i came out, and i found no home. i got a job in oil city, but the bulls tipped me off for an ex-con, and i beat my way here. i tried to do the square thing, aleck, but where's a fellow to turn? i haven't a cent and not a friend in the world." poor dan! i feel powerless to help him, even with advice. without friends or money, his "liberty" is a hollow mockery, even worse than mine. five years ago he was a strong, healthy young man. he committed a burglary, and was sent to prison. now he is out, his body weakened, his spirit broken; he is less capable than ever to survive in the struggle. what is he to do but commit another crime and be returned to prison? even i, with so many advantages that dan is lacking, with kind comrades and helpful friends, i can find no place in this world of the outside. i have been torn out, and i seem unable to take root again. everything looks so different, changed. and yet i feel a great hunger for life. i could enjoy the sunshine, the open, and freedom of action. i could make my life and my prison experience useful to the world. but i am incapacitated for the struggle. i do not fit in any more, not even in the circle of my comrades. and this seething life, the turmoil and the noises of the city, agonize me. perhaps it would be best for me to retire to the country, and there lead a simple life, close to nature. viii the summer is fragrant with a thousand perfumes, and a great peace is in the woods. the hudson river shimmers in the distance, a solitary sail on its broad bosom. the palisades on the opposite side look immutable, eternal, their undulating tops melting in the grayish-blue horizon. puffs of smoke rise from the valley. here, too, has penetrated the restless spirit. the muffled thunder of blasting breaks in upon the silence. the greedy hand of man is desecrating the palisades, as it has desecrated the race. but the big river flows quietly, and the sailboat glides serenely on the waters. it skips over the foaming waves, near the spot i stand on, toward the great, busy city. now it is floating past the high towers, with their forbidding aspect. it is sing sing prison. men groan and suffer there, and are tortured in the dungeon. and i--i am a useless cog, an idler, while others toil; and i keep mute, while others suffer. * * * * * my mind dwells in the prison. the silence rings with the cry of pain; the woods echo the agony of the dungeon. i start at the murmur of the leaves; the trees with their outstretched arms bar my way, menacing me like the guards on the prison walls. their monster shapes follow me in the valley. at night i wake in cold terror. the agonized cry of crazy smithy is in my ears, and again i hear the sickening thud of the riot clubs on the prisoner's head. the solitude is harrowing with the memory of the prison; it haunts me with the horrors of the basket cell. away, i must away, to seek relief amidst the people! * * * * * back in the city, i face the problem of support. the sense of dependence gnaws me. the hospitality of my friends is boundless, but i cannot continue as the beneficiary of their generosity. i had declined the money gift presented to me on my release by the comrades: i felt i could not accept even their well-meant offering. the question of earning my living is growing acute. i cannot remain idle. but what shall i turn to? i am too weak for factory work. i had hoped to secure employment as a compositor, but the linotype has made me superfluous. i might be engaged as a proof-reader. my former membership in the typographical union will enable me to join the ranks of labor. my physical condition, however, precludes the immediate realization of my plans. meanwhile some comrades suggest the advisability of a short lecture tour: it will bring me in closer contact with the world, and serve to awaken new interest in life. the idea appeals to me. i shall be doing work, useful work. i shall voice the cry of the depths, and perhaps the people will listen, and some may understand! ix with a great effort i persevere on the tour. the strain is exhausting my strength, and i feel weary and discontented. my innate dread of public speaking is aggravated by the necessity of constant association with people. the comrades are sympathetic and attentive, but their very care is a source of annoyance. i long for solitude and quiet. in the midst of people, the old prison instinct of escape possesses me. once or twice the wild idea of terminating the tour has crossed my mind. the thought is preposterous, impossible. meetings have already been arranged in various cities, and my appearance widely announced. it would disgrace me, and injure the movement, were i to prove myself so irresponsible. i owe it to the cause, and to my comrades, to keep my appointments. i must fight off this morbid notion. * * * * * my engagement in pittsburgh aids my determination. little did i dream in the penitentiary that i should live to see that city again, even to appear in public there! looking back over the long years of imprisonment, of persecution and torture, i marvel that i have survived. surely it was not alone physical capacity to suffer--how often had i touched the threshold of death, and trembled on the brink of insanity and self-destruction! whatever strength and perseverance i possessed, they alone could not have saved my reason in the night of the dungeon, or preserved me in the despair of the solitary. poor wingie, ed sloane, and "fighting" tom; harry, russell, crazy smithy--how many of my friends have perished there! it was the vision of an ideal, the consciousness that i suffered for a great cause, that sustained me. the very exaggeration of my self-estimate was a source of strength: i looked upon myself as a representative of a world movement; it was my duty to exemplify the spirit and dignity of the ideas it embodied. i was not a prisoner, merely; i was an anarchist in the hands of the enemy; as such, it devolved upon me to maintain the manhood and self-respect my ideals signified. the example of the political prisoners in russia inspired me, and my stay in the penitentiary was a continuous struggle that was the breath of life. was it the extreme self-consciousness of the idealist, the power of revolutionary traditions, or simply the persistent will to be? most likely, it was the fusing of all three, that shaped my attitude in prison and kept me alive. and now, on my way to pittsburgh, i feel the same spirit within me, at the threat of the local authorities to prevent my appearance in the city. some friends seek to persuade me to cancel my lecture there, alarmed at the police preparations to arrest me. something might happen, they warn me: legally i am still a prisoner out on parole. i am liable to be returned to the penitentiary, without trial, for the period of my commutation time--eight years and two months--if convicted of a felony before the expiration of my full sentence of twenty-two years. but the menace of the enemy stirs me from apathy, and all my old revolutionary defiance is roused within me. for the first time during the tour, i feel a vital interest in life, and am eager to ascend the platform. an unfortunate delay on the road brings me into pittsburgh two hours late for the lecture. comrade m---- is impatiently waiting for me, and we hasten to the meeting. on the way he informs me that the hall is filled with police and prison guards; the audience is in a state of great suspense; the rumor has gone about that the authorities are determined to prevent my appearance. i sense an air of suppressed excitement, as i enter the hall, and elbow my way through the crowded aisle. some one grips my arm, and i recognize "southside" johnny, the friendly prison runner. "aleck, take care," he warns me, "the bulls are layin' for you." x the meeting is over, the danger past. i feel worn and tired with the effort of the evening. my next lecture is to take place in cleveland, ohio. the all-night ride in the stuffy smoker aggravates my fatigue, and sets my nerves on edge. i arrive in the city feeling feverish and sick. to engage a room in a hotel would require an extra expense from the proceeds of the tour, which are intended for the movement; moreover, it would be sybaritism, contrary to the traditional practice of anarchist lecturers. i decide to accept the hospitality of some friend during my stay in the city. for hours i try to locate the comrade who has charge of arranging the meetings. at his home i am told that he is absent. his parents, pious jews, look at me askance, and refuse to inform me of their son's whereabouts. the unfriendly attitude of the old folks drives me into the street again, and i seek out another comrade. his family gathers about me. their curious gaze is embarrassing; their questions idle. my pulse is feverish, my head heavy. i should like to rest up before the lecture, but a constant stream of comrades flows in on me, and the house rings with their joy of meeting me. the talking wearies me; their ardent interest searches my soul with rude hands. these men and women--they, too, are different from the comrades of my day; their very language echoes the spirit that has so depressed me in the new ghetto. the abyss in our feeling and thought appalls me. with failing heart i ascend the platform in the evening. it is chilly outdoors, and the large hall, sparsely filled and badly lit, breathes the cold of the grave upon me. the audience is unresponsive. the lecture on crime and prisons that so thrilled my pittsburgh meeting, wakes no vital chord. i feel dispirited. my voice is weak and expressionless; at times it drops to a hoarse whisper. i seem to stand at the mouth of a deep cavern, and everything is dark within. i speak into the blackness; my words strike metallically against the walls, and are thrown back at me with mocking emphasis. a sense of weariness and hopelessness possesses me, and i conclude the lecture abruptly. the comrades surround me, grasp my hand, and ply me with questions about my prison life, the joy of liberty and of work. they are undisguisedly disappointed at my anxiety to retire, but presently it is decided that i should accept the proffered hospitality of a comrade who owns a large house in the suburbs. the ride is interminable, the comrade apparently living several miles out in the country. on the way he talks incessantly, assuring me repeatedly that he considers it a great privilege to entertain me. i nod sleepily. finally we arrive. the place is large, but squalid. the low ceilings press down on my head; the rooms look cheerless and uninhabited. exhausted by the day's exertion, i fall into heavy sleep. awakening in the morning, i am startled to find a stranger in my bed. his coat and hat are on the floor, and he lies snoring at my side, with overshirt and trousers on. he must have fallen into bed very tired, without even detaching the large cuffs, torn and soiled, that rattle on his hands. the sight fills me with inexpressible disgust. all through the years of my prison life, my nights had been passed in absolute solitude. the presence of another in my bed is unutterably horrifying. i dress hurriedly, and rush out of the house. a heavy drizzle is falling; the air is close and damp. the country looks cheerless and dreary. but one thought possesses me: to get away from the stranger snoring in my bed, away from the suffocating atmosphere of the house with its low ceilings, out into the open, away from the presence of man. the sight of a human being repels me, the sound of a voice is torture to me. i want to be alone, always alone, to have peace and quiet, to lead a simple life in close communion with nature. ah, nature! that, too, i have tried, and found more impossible even than the turmoil of the city. the silence of the woods threatened to drive me mad, as did the solitude of the dungeon. a curse upon the thing that has incapacitated me for life, made solitude as hateful as the face of man, made life itself impossible to me! and is it for this i have yearned and suffered, for this spectre that haunts my steps, and turns day into a nightmare--this distortion, life? oh, where is the joy of expectation, the tremulous rapture, as i stood at the door of my cell, hailing the blush of the dawn, the day of resurrection! where the happy moments that lit up the night of misery with the ecstasy of freedom, which was to give me back to work and joy! where, where is it all? is liberty sweet only in the anticipation, and life a bitter awakening? the rain has ceased. the sun peeps through the clouds, and glints its rays upon a shop window. my eye falls on the gleaming barrel of a revolver. i enter the place, and purchase the weapon. i walk aimlessly, in a daze. it is beginning to rain again; my body is chilled to the bone, and i seek the shelter of a saloon on an obscure street. in the corner of the dingy back room i notice a girl. she is very young, with an air of gentility about her, that is somewhat marred by her quick, restless look. we sit in silence, watching the heavy downpour outdoors. the girl is toying with a glass of whiskey. angry voices reach us from the street. there is a heavy shuffling of feet, and a suppressed cry. a woman lurches through the swinging door, and falls against a table. the girl rushes to the side of the woman, and assists her into a chair. "are you hurt, madge?" she asks sympathetically. the woman looks up at her with bleary eyes. she raises her hand, passes it slowly across her mouth, and spits violently. "he hit me, the dirty brute," she whimpers, "he hit me. but i sha'n't give him no money; i just won't, frenchy." the girl is tenderly wiping her friend's bleeding face. "sh-sh, madge, sh--sh!" she warns her, with a glance at the approaching waiter. "drunk again, you old bitch," the man growls. "you'd better vamoose now." "oh, let her be, charley, won't you?" the girl coaxes. "and, say, bring me a bitters." "the dirty loafer! it's money, always gimme money," the woman mumbles; "and i've had such bad luck, frenchy. you know it's true. don't you, frenchy?" "yes, yes, dear," the girl soothes her. "don't talk now. lean your head on my shoulder, so! you'll be all right in a minute." the girl sways to and fro, gently patting the woman on the head, and all is still in the room. the woman's breathing grows regular and louder. she snores, and the young girl slowly unwinds her arms and resumes her seat. i motion to her. "will you have a drink with me?" "with pleasure," she smiles. "poor thing," she nods toward the sleeper, "her fellow beats her and takes all she makes." "you have a kind heart, frenchy." "we girls must be good to each other; no one else will. some men are so mean, just too mean to live or let others live. but some are nice. of course, some twirls are bad, but we ain't all like that and--" she hesitates. "and what?" "well, some have seen better days. i wasn't always like this," she adds, gulping down her drink. her face is pensive; her large black eyes look dreamy. she asks abruptly: "you like poetry?" "ye--es. why?" "i write. oh, you don't believe me, do you? here's something of mine," and with a preliminary cough, she begins to recite with exaggerated feeling: mother dear, the days were young when posies in our garden hung. upon your lap my golden head i laid, with pure and happy heart i prayed. "i remember those days," she adds wistfully. we sit in the dusk, without speaking. the lights are turned on, and my eye falls on a paper lying on the table. the large black print announces an excursion to buffalo. "will you come with me?" i ask the girl, pointing to the advertisement. "to buffalo?" "yes." "you're kidding." "no. will you come?" "sure." alone with me in the stateroom, "frenchy" grows tender and playful. she notices my sadness, and tries to amuse me. but i am thinking of the lecture that is to take place in cleveland this very hour: the anxiety of my comrades, the disappointment of the audience, my absence, all prey on my mind. but who am i, to presume to teach? i have lost my bearings; there is no place for me in life. my bridges are burned. the girl is in high spirits, but her jollity angers me. i crave to speak to her, to share my misery and my grief. i hint at the impossibility of life, and my superfluity in the world, but she looks bored, not grasping the significance of my words. "don't talk so foolish, boy," she scoffs. "what do you care about work or a place? you've got money; what more do you want? you better go down now and fetch something to drink." returning to the stateroom, i find "frenchy" missing. in a sheltered nook on the deck i recognize her in the lap of a stranger. heart-sore and utterly disgusted, i retire to my berth. in the morning i slip quietly off the boat. * * * * * the streets are deserted; the city is asleep. in the fog and rain, the gray buildings resemble the prison walls, the tall factory chimneys standing guard like monster sentinels. i hasten away from the hated sight, and wander along the docks. the mist weaves phantom shapes, and i see a multitude of people and in their midst a boy, pale, with large, lustrous eyes. the crowd curses and yells in frenzied passion, and arms are raised, and blows rain down on the lad's head. the rain beats heavier, and every drop is a blow. the boy totters and falls to the ground. the wistful face, the dreamy eyes--why, it is czolgosz! accursed spot! i cannot die here. i must to new york, to be near my friends in death! xi loud knocking wakes me. "say, mister," a voice calls behind the door, "are you all right?" "yes." "will you have a bite, or something?" "no." "well, as you please. but you haven't left your room going on two days now." * * * * * two days, and still alive? the road to death is so short, why suffer? an instant, and i shall be no more, and only the memory of me will abide for a little while in this world. _this_ world? is there another? if there is anything in spiritualism, carl will learn of it. in the prison we had been interested in the subject, and we had made a compact that he who is the first to die, should appear in spirit to the other. pretty fancy of foolish man, born of immortal vanity! hereafter, life after death--children of earth's misery. the disharmony of life bears dreams of peace and bliss, but there is no harmony save in death. who knows but that even then the atoms of my lifeless clay will find no rest, tossed about in space to form new shapes and new thoughts for aeons of human anguish. and so carl will not see me after death. our compact will not be kept, for nothing will remain of my "soul" when i am dead, as nothing remains of the sum when its units are gone. dear carl, he will be distraught at my failure to come to detroit. he had arranged a lecture there, following cleveland. it is peculiar that i should not have thought of wiring him that i was unable to attend. he might have suspended preparations. but it did not occur to me, and now it is too late. the girl, too, will be in despair over my disappearance. i cannot notify her now--i am virtually dead. yet i crave to see her once more before i depart, even at a distance. but that also is too late. i am almost dead. * * * * * i dress mechanically, and step into the street. the brilliant sunshine, the people passing me by, the children playing about, strike on my consciousness with pleasing familiarity. the desire grips me to be one of them, to participate in their life. and yet it seems strange to think of myself as part of this moving, breathing humanity. am i not dead? i roam about all day. at dusk i am surprised to find myself near the girl's home. the fear seizes me that i might be seen and recognized. a sense of guilt steals over me, and i shrink away, only to return again and again to the familiar spot. i pass the night in the park. an old man, a sailor out of work, huddles close to me, seeking the warmth of my body. but i am cold and cheerless, and all next day i haunt again the neighborhood of the girl. an irresistible force attracts me to the house. repeatedly i return to my room and snatch up the weapon, and then rush out again. i am fearful of being seen near the "den," and i make long detours to the battery and the bronx, but again and again i find myself watching the entrance and speculating on the people passing in and out of the house. my mind pictures the girl, with her friends about her. what are they discussing, i wonder. "why, myself!" it flits through my mind. the thought appalls me. they must be distraught with anxiety over my disappearance. perhaps they think me dead! i hasten to a telegraph office, and quickly pen a message to the girl: "come. i am waiting here." in a flurry of suspense i wait for the return of the messenger. a little girl steps in, and i recognize tess, and inwardly resent that the girl did not come herself. "aleck," she falters, "sonya wasn't home when your message came. i'll run to find her." the old dread of people is upon me, and i rush out of the place, hoping to avoid meeting the girl. i stumble through the streets, retrace my steps to the telegraph office, and suddenly come face to face with her. her appearance startles me. the fear of death is in her face, mute horror in her eyes. "sasha!" her hand grips my arm, and she steadies my faltering step. xii i open my eyes. the room is light and airy; a soothing quiet pervades the place. the portières part noiselessly, and the girl looks in. "awake, sasha?" she brightens with a happy smile. "yes. when did i come here?" "several days ago. you've been very sick, but you feel better now, don't you, dear?" several days? i try to recollect my trip to buffalo, the room on the bowery. was it all a dream? "where was i before i came here?" i ask. "you--you were--absent," she stammers, and in her face is visioned the experience of my disappearance. * * * * * with tender care the girl ministers to me. i feel like one recovering from a long illness: very weak, but with a touch of joy in life. no one is permitted to see me, save one or two of the girl's nearest friends, who slip in quietly, pat my hand in mute sympathy, and discreetly retire. i sense their understanding, and am grateful that they make no allusion to the events of the past days. the care of the girl is unwavering. by degrees i gain strength. the room is bright and cheerful; the silence of the house soothes me. the warm sunshine is streaming through the open window; i can see the blue sky, and the silvery cloudlets. a little bird hops upon the sill, looks steadily at me, and chirps a greeting. it brings back the memory of dick, my feathered pet, and of my friends in prison. i have done nothing for the agonized men in the dungeon darkness--have i forgotten them? i have the opportunity; why am i idle? * * * * * the girl calls cheerfully: "sasha, our friend philo is here. would you like to see him?" i welcome the comrade whose gentle manner and deep sympathy have endeared him to me in the days since my return. there is something unutterably tender about him. the circle had christened him "the philosopher," and his breadth of understanding and non-invasive personality have been a great comfort to me. his voice is low and caressing, like the soft crooning of a mother rocking her child to sleep. "life is a problem," he is saying, "a problem whose solution consists in trying to solve it. schopenhauer may have been right," he smiles, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes, "but his love of life was so strong, his need for expression so compelling, he had to write a big book to prove how useless is all effort. but his very sincerity disproves him. life is its own justification. the disharmony of life is more seeming than real; and what is real of it, is the folly and blindness of man. to struggle against that folly, is to create greater harmony, wider possibilities. artificial barriers circumscribe and dwarf life, and stifle its manifestations. to break those barriers down, is to find a vent, to expand, to express oneself. and that is life, aleck: a continuous struggle for expression. it mirrors itself in nature, as in all the phases of man's existence. look at the little vine struggling against the fury of the storm, and clinging with all its might to preserve its hold. then see it stretch toward the sunshine, to absorb the light and the warmth, and then freely give back of itself in multiple form and wealth of color. we call it beautiful then, for it has found expression. that is life, aleck, and thus it manifests itself through all the gradations we call evolution. the higher the scale, the more varied and complex the manifestations, and, in turn, the greater the need for expression. to suppress or thwart it, means decay, death. and in this, aleck, is to be found the main source of suffering and misery. the hunger of life storms at the gates that exclude it from the joy of being, and the individual soul multiplies its expressions by being mirrored in the collective, as the little vine mirrors itself in its many flowers, or as the acorn individualizes itself a thousandfold in the many-leafed oak. but i am tiring you, aleck." "no, no, philo. continue; i want to hear more." "well, aleck, as with nature, so with man. life is never at a standstill; everywhere and ever it seeks new manifestations, more expansion. in art, in literature, as in the affairs of men, the struggle is continual for higher and more intimate expression. that is progress--the vine reaching for more sunshine and light. translated into the language of social life, it means the individualization of the mass, the finding of a higher level, the climbing over the fences that shut out life. everywhere you see this reaching out. the process is individual and social at the same time, for the species lives in the individual as much as the individual persists in the species. the individual comes first; his clarified vision is multiplied in his immediate environment, and gradually permeates through his generation and time, deepening the social consciousness and widening the scope of existence. but perhaps you have not found it so, aleck, after your many years of absence?" "no, dear philo. what you have said appeals to me very deeply. but i have found things so different from what i had pictured them. our comrades, the movement--it is not what i thought it would be." "it is quite natural, aleck. a change has taken place, but its meaning is apt to be distorted through the dim vision of your long absence. i know well what you miss, dear friend: the old mode of existence, the living on the very threshold of the revolution, so to speak. and everything looks strange to you, and out of joint. but as you stay a little longer with us, you will see that it is merely a change of form; the essence is the same. we are the same as before, aleck, only made deeper and broader by years and experience. anarchism has cast off the swaddling bands of the small, intimate circles of former days; it has grown to greater maturity, and become a factor in the larger life of society. you remember it only as a little mountain spring, around which clustered a few thirsty travelers in the dreariness of the capitalist desert. it has since broadened and spread as a strong current that covers a wide area and forces its way even into the very ocean of life. you see, dear aleck, the philosophy of anarchism is beginning to pervade every phase of human endeavor. in science, in art, in literature, everywhere the influence of anarchist thought is creating new values; its spirit is vitalizing social movements, and finding interpretation in life. indeed, aleck, we have not worked in vain. throughout the world there is a great awakening. even in this socially most backward country, the seeds sown are beginning to bear fruit. times have changed, indeed; but encouragingly so, aleck. the leaven of discontent, ever more conscious and intelligent, is moulding new social thought and new action. to-day our industrial conditions, for instance, present a different aspect from those of twenty years ago. it was then possible for the masters of life to sacrifice to their interests the best friends of the people. but to-day the spontaneous solidarity and awakened consciousness of large strata of labor is a guarantee against the repetition of such judicial murders. it is a most significant sign, aleck, and a great inspiration to renewed effort." * * * * * the girl enters. "are you crooning sasha to sleep, philo?" she laughs. "oh, no!" i protest, "i'm wide awake and much interested in philo's conversation." "it is getting late," he rejoins. "i must be off to the meeting." "what meeting?" i inquire, "the czolgosz anniversary commemoration." "i think--i'd like to come along." "better not, sasha," my friend advises. "you need some light distraction." "perhaps you would like to go to the theatre," the girl suggests. "stella has tickets. she'd be happy to have you come, sasha." * * * * * returning home in the evening, i find the "den" in great excitement. the assembled comrades look worried, talk in whispers, and seem to avoid my glance. i miss several familiar faces. "where are the others?" i ask. the comrades exchange troubled looks, and are silent. "has anything happened? where are they?" i insist. "i may as well tell you," philo replies, "but be calm, sasha. the police have broken up our meeting. they have clubbed the audience, and arrested a dozen comrades." "is it serious, philo?" "i am afraid it is. they are going to make a test case. under the new 'criminal anarchy law' our comrades may get long terms in prison. they have taken our most active friends." * * * * * the news electrifies me. i feel myself transported into the past, the days of struggle and persecution. philo was right! the enemy is challenging, the struggle is going on!... i see the graves of waldheim open, and hear the voices from the tomb. * * * * * a deep peace pervades me, and i feel a great joy in my heart. "sasha, what is it?" philo cries in alarm. "my resurrection, dear friend. i have found work to do." [illustration] the science of animal locomotion (zoopraxography) an electro-photographic investigation of consecutive phases of animal movements by eadweard muybridge executed and published under the auspices of the university of pennsylvania description of the apparatus results of the investigation diagrams prospectus list of subscribers eadweard muybridge university of pennsylvania philadelphia or henrietta street, covent garden london animal locomotion. (zoopraxography.) introductory. in , the author of the present work at sacramento, california, commenced an investigation with the object of illustrating by photography some phases of animal movements. in that year his experiments were made with a famous horse--occident, owned by senator stanford--and photographs were made, which illustrated several phases of action while the horse was trotting at full speed, laterally, in front of the camera. the experiments were desultorily continued; but it was not until that the results of any of them were published. in the meanwhile he devised an automatic electro-photographic apparatus, for the purpose of making consecutive photographic exposures at _regulated_ intervals of time or of distance. some of the results of his experiments with this apparatus, which illustrated successive phases of the action of horses while walking, trotting, galloping, &c., were published in , with the title of "the horse in motion." copies of these photographs were deposited the same year in the library of congress at washington, and some of them found their way to berlin, london, paris, vienna, &c., where they were commented upon by the journals of the day. in , during a lecture on "the science of animal locomotion in its relation to design in art," given at the royal institution (see _proceedings_ of the royal institution of great britain, march , ), he exhibited the results of some of his experiments made during a few antecedent years at palo alto, california; when he, with the zoopraxiscope and an oxy-hydrogen lantern, projected on the wall a synthesis of many of the actions he had analysed. it may not be considered irrelevant if he repeats what he on that occasion said in his analysis of the quadrupedal walk:-- "so far as the camera has revealed, these successive foot fallings are invariable, and are probably common to all quadrupeds.... "it is also highly probable that these photographic investigations--which were executed with wet collodion plates, with exposures not exceeding in some instances the one five-thousandth part of a second--will dispel many popular illusions as to the gait of a horse, and that future and more exhaustive experiments, with the advantages of recent chemical discoveries, will completely unveil to the artist all the visible muscular action of men and animals during their most rapid movements.... "the employment of automatic apparatus for the purpose of obtaining a regulated succession of photographic exposures is too recent for its value to be properly understood, or to be generally used for scientific experiment. at some future time the explorer for hidden truths will find it indispensable for his investigations." in , the university of pennsylvania, with an enlightened exercise of its functions as a contributor to human knowledge, instructed the author to make, under its auspices, a comprehensive investigation of "animal locomotion" in the broadest significance of the words. a diagram of the studio and the arrangement of the apparatus used for this purpose is here given. [illustration] tt represents the track along which the model m was caused to move. b is the background, divided into spaces of centimetres square for the purpose of measurement. l, a horizontal battery of electro-photographic cameras, parallel to the line of motion (at a distance of metres or about feet therefrom), for a series of lateral exposures. r, a vertical battery of electro-photographic cameras, at right angles to the lateral battery, for a series of _rear_ foreshortenings. f, a horizontal battery of electro-photographic cameras, at any suitable angle to the lateral battery for a series of _front_ foreshortenings. o, the position of the electric batteries, a chronograph for recording the time intervals of exposures, and other apparatus used in the investigation. a clock-work apparatus, set in motion at the will of the operator, distributed a series of electric currents, and synchronously effected consecutive exposures in each of the three batteries of cameras. the intervals of exposures were recorded by the chronograph, and divided into thousandths of a second. these intervals could be varied at will from seventeen one-thousandth parts of a second to several seconds. the task of making the original negatives was completed in ; the remaining years have been devoted to the preparation of the work for publication. [illustration: lateral elevation of some consecutive phases of action by representative horses. each line illustrates the successive fallings of the feet during a single stride. after the last phase illustrated, the feet, during continuous motion, will revert practically to their position in the first phase. the comparative distances of the feet from each other or from the ground are not drawn to scale; and, in any event, would be merely approximate for the succeeding stride. in the conjectural stride no. , phase is very doubtful, phases and seem probable in a very long stride.] description of the plates. the results of this investigation are =seven hundred and eighty-one sheets of illustrations=, containing more than , figures of men, women, and children, animals and birds, actively engaged in walking, galloping, flying, working, jumping, fighting, dancing, playing at base-ball, cricket, and other athletic games, or other actions incidental to every-day life, which illustrate motion or the play of muscles. these sheets of illustrations are conventionally called "plates." each plate illustrates the successive phases of a single action, photographed with automatic electro-photographic apparatus at regulated and accurately recorded intervals of time, _consecutively_ from one point of view; or, _consecutively_ and _synchronously_ from _two_, or from _three_ points of view. =each plate is complete in itself without reference to any other plate.= when the complete series of twelve consecutive exposures, from each of the three points of view, are included in one plate, the arrangement is usually thus:-- +-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+--+--+--+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | laterals. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | +-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+--+--+--+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | rear foreshortenings from | | | | | | | | | | | | | points of view on the same | | | | | | | | | | | | | vertical line, at an angle | | | | | | | | | | | | | of ° from the laterals. +-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+--+--+--+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | front foreshortenings from | | | | | | | | | | | | | points of view on the same | | | | | | | | | | | | | horizontal plane, at suitable | | | | | | | | | | | | | angles from the laterals. +-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+--+--+--+ the plates are not _photographs_ in the common acceptation of the word, but are printed in permanent ink, from gelatinised copper-plates, by the new york photo-gravure company, on thick linen plate-paper. the size of the paper is × centimetres-- × inches, and the printed surface varies from × to × centimetres-- × to × inches. the number of figures on each plate varies from to . to publish so great a number of plates as one undivided work was considered unnecessary, for each subject tells its own story; and inexpedient, for it would defeat the object which the university had in view, and limit its acquisition to large libraries, wealthy individuals, or institutions where it would be beyond the reach of many who might desire to study it. it has, therefore, been decided to issue a series of one hundred plates, which number, for the purposes of publication, will be considered as a "copy" of the work. these one hundred plates will probably meet the requirements of the greater number of the subscribers. in accordance with this view is issued the following _prospectus_ animal locomotion, an electro-photographic investigation of consecutive phases of animal movements, by eadweard muybridge. - . published under the auspices of the university of pennsylvania. _exclusively by subscription._ consisting of a series of one hundred plates, at a subscription price of one hundred dollars for the united states, or twenty guineas for great britain; or the equivalent of twenty guineas in the gold currency of other countries in europe. this will be for austria, two hundred and ten florins; belgium, france, italy, and switzerland, five hundred and twenty-five francs; germany, four hundred and twenty marks; holland, two hundred and fifty guilders. the plates are enclosed in a strong, canvas-lined, full american-russia leather portfolio. for the purpose of placing all of the subscribers upon an equal footing in regard to cost, a copy of the work will be sent in the portfolio, and packed between boards, to any well-established institution, or to any subscriber, properly endorsed, to any city in central or western europe, or in the united states. freight charges paid, if so requested, to the railway station, with the understanding that the subscription price is remitted within one week of the day of the arrival of the work at the station. custom duties, or any other expenses, if any, at the cost of the subscriber. additional plates in any required number will be supplied to the subscriber at the same proportionate rate; these, however, must be ordered at the same time as the subscription plates. the plates will be supplied exclusively to subscribers. it was considered inadvisable to make an _arbitrary_ selection of the one hundred plates offered to subscribers, and with the object of meeting, as far as possible, their diverse requirements, they are invited to make their own selection, either from the subjoined list of subjects, or from a detailed catalogue, which will be forwarded free of expense to every subscriber. the following are the numbers of plates published of each class of subjects, from which the subscriber's selection can be made:-- plates published. men, draped " pelvis cloth " nude women, draped " transparent drapery and semi-nude " nude children, draped " nude movements of a man's hand abnormal movements, men and women, nude and semi-nude horses walking, trotting, galloping, jumping, &c. mules, oxen, dogs, cats, goats, and other domestic animals lions, elephants, buffaloes, camels, deer, and other wild animals pigeons, vultures, ostriches, eagles, cranes, and other birds ---- total number of plates containing more than , figures. =should the selection be made from the catalogue, it will be advisable to give the author permission to change any one of the selected plates for any other illustrating the same action, if, in his judgment, the substituted plate illustrates that action with a better model, or in a more perfect manner than the one selected.= =with regard to the selection of plates, however, it has been found by experience that unless any special subject or plate is required it will be more satisfactory to the subscriber if he gives the author general instructions as to the class of subjects desired and to leave the specific selection to him.= many of the large libraries and art or science institutions in america and in europe have subscribed for, and have now in their possession, a complete series of the seven hundred and eighty-one plates, the subscription price for which is five hundred dollars in the united states, one hundred guineas in great britain for the complete series, in eight full american-russia leather portfolios, or if bound in eleven volumes, each plate _hinged_, full american-russia leather, five hundred and fifty dollars in the united states, one hundred and ten guineas in great britain; or its equivalent for any city in central or western europe. subscribers who wish to make use of these plates for the promotion or diffusion of knowledge, or for artistic or scientific purposes, will be afforded facilities for acquiring working copies by special arrangement with the author. valedictory. this is not exactly the place nor the time for the author to express his obligations and thanks to those gentlemen who have assisted him in his labours, but it affords a perhaps not inappropriate opportunity for him to pay a tribute of gratitude to his recently deceased friend m. meissonier, without whose enthusiastic encouragement it is probable the present work would never have been undertaken. in he invited his friends to attend an illustrated lecture given in his studio by the author, and then referring to a full knowledge of a subject being necessary for it to be truthfully or satisfactorily translated by the artist, declared how much his own impression of a horse's motion had been changed after having carefully studied its consecutive phases. attention need not be directed to the modifications in the expression of animal movements now progressing in the works of the painter and the sculptor. the investigations of the author are so well known, and so generally recognised as affording the only basis of truthful interpretation or accurate criticism of animal movement, that it is unnecessary to quote from the many elaborate reviews of "animal locomotion," which have been published in the american, english, french, and german scientific, artistic, and other journals. for the value of the present work to the general student of nature and the lover of art, no less than to the artist and the archæologist, the physiologist and the anatomist, it is with much pride and gratitude that he refers to the annexed list of some of his european subscribers. e. m. henrietta street, covent garden, london, _august _. subscribers. the general or departmental libraries of the following universities. amsterdam andrews, st. basel berlin bern bologna bonn breslau bruxelles edinburgh erlangen freiburg genève genova glasgow göttingen griefswald halle heidelberg innsbrück jena kiel königsberg leiden leipzig liège louvain münchen napoli oxford padova pisa prag roma rostock strassburg torino tübingen utrecht wien würzburg zürich imperial, national, or royal academies of fine arts. amsterdam antwerpen berlin bern birmingham bologna breslau bruxelles budapest dresden düsseldorf firenzi frankfurt genova gent leipzig liège london manchester milano münchen napoli paris praha roma (_de france_) sheffield torino venezia wien zürich architectural institute, münchen herkomer school of art, bushey art museums. amsterdam berlin budapest archÆological institutes and museums. dresden griefswald heidelberg königsberg leipzig prag rostock strassburg wien würzburg zürich industrial art and science museums. berlin dublin edinburgh kensington paris wien industrial art schools. amsterdam breslau budapest frankfurt nürnberg zürich libraries. the royal library, windsor castle birmingham, free public edinburgh, advocates' glasgow, mitchell free liverpool, free public london, british museum manchester, free public nottingham, free public paris, national library anatomical institutes. bern breslau freiburg halle innsbrück kiel königsberg leipzig münchen pisa prag rostock tübingen würzburg zürich royal colleges of surgeons. edinburgh london physiological institutes. basel berlin bern bologna bonn breslau bruxelles erlangen freiburg genova göttingen griefswald halle heidelberg innsbrück jena kiel königsberg leipzig louvain münchen napoli prag rostock strassburg torino tübingen wien würzburg zürich veterinary institutes. alfort bern berlin dresden anthropological museums. dresden firenze ethnological, natural history, and zoological institutes and museums. amsterdam bruxelles freiburg kiel leiden liège napoli paris rostock physical institutes. basel bologna bruxelles genève heidelberg padova prag roma rostock utrecht polytechnic high schools. berlin firenze wien zürich colleges. charterhouse clifton dublin (trinity) eton owens rossall wellington royal porcelain manufactories. berlin dresden artistic, literary or scientific clubs. düsseldorf, _malkesten_ glasgow, _western_ london, _athenæum_ rome, _internazionale_ * * * * * agricultural high school of berlin faculty of medicine of paris faculty of physicians and surgeons of glasgow psychological institute of leipzig royal college of physicians, edinburgh royal institution, edinburgh royal dublin society royal society of london the names and works of the following subscribers are so well known that the academical, university, and other honourable distinctions appertaining to them are omitted, they being entirely unnecessary:-- artists, _architects, painters, and sculptors_. albano, salvatore l'allemand, sigmund alma-tadema, l. armitage, e. barabino, nicolo becker, carl begas, reinhold benczur, gyula berger, julius behrens, peter birch, chas. b. boehm, sir j. edgar bonnat, léon boughton, geo. h. bouguereau, w. a. braith, anton brandt, josef von brausewetter, otto bridgman, f. a. brock, thos. canneel carland, onorato carolus-durand cavallucci, c. jacopo cavelier, p. j. charlton, john clay, sir arthur coleman, chas. caryl coleman, enrico colin, paul conti, tito costa, giovanni crowe, eyre dalou, jules dannat, w. t. davinet, e. davis, h. w. b. defregger, franz von detaille, edouard dicksee, frank diez, rob. diez, wm. drion, prosper dubois, paul ebner, l. eisenmenger, august ende, herm ewald, ernst faed, thomas falguiere fildes, luke ford, e. onslow fremiet, m. frith, w. p. gallegos, josé garnier, charles gehrts, joh. gelli, edouardo gérôme, jean léon gilbert, alfred gilbert, sir john goodall, fredk. gordigiani, michele gow, andrew c. grosse, th. grützner, eduard guignard, gaston gysis, n. haüser, o. hebert, ernesto herkomer, hubert hess, anton higgins, a. hübner, eduard hunt, holman janssen, pet. kampf, arthur kaulbach, f. a. von kips, a. kirchbach, fr. klein-chevalier knaus, ludwig knight, ridgway knille, otto koehler, robert kopf, joseph kowalski, a. von kroner, ch. kruse, max kuehl, g. kühn, h. leighton, sir frederick lenbach, franz r. von linton, sir james d. löfftz, ludwig r. von long, edwin lotz, carl lucas, seymour luthmer, f. macwhirter, john marks, h. stacy marshall, w. calder maurier, george du max, gabriel meeks, eugene meissonier menzel meyerheim, paul millais, sir john e. miller, ferdinand r. von molkenbaer, h. b. g. moore, henry morelli, d. morot, aimé muller, carl munkacsy, mich. de murgatroyd, j. mützel, g. nieper, ludw. orchardson, w. q. otto, heinrich ouless, w. w. papperitz, georg parsons, alfred passini, ludwig piglhein, bruno portaels powers, longworth poynter, e. j. prell, h. preyer, ernest puvis, de chavennes richmond, w. b. rivalta, augusto riviere, briton robert-fleury, tony rodin, a. roll roth, ch. rümann, wilh. sant, james sarti, diego schaper, f. schill, adolf schilling, johannes severn, arthur siemering, r. six, j. sommer stieler, eugen von story, w. w. sturgess, john süs, wilh. swan, john m. taylor, edw. r. teschendorf, e. thiersch, fredk. thoma, hans thornycroft, hamo uhde, f. von vibert, j. g. vinea, francesco vriendt, de jules vuillefroy, f. de wagner, alex. watts, george f. weeks, e. l. weishaupt, victor wells, hy. t. werner, a. von whistler, j. mcneil woolner, thos. zimmermann, ernst zügel, h. archÆologists, men of letters, authors of art works, etc. ball, valentine berndorf, otto berlepsch, h. e. von bullen, george coleman, alexander dickson, wm. p. donnelly, genl. duhn, f. von duplessis, georges eaton, fredk. a. evans, john falke, j. graf, t. t. hirschfeld, gustav holmes, richard r. kekulé, prof. klein, wilhelm körte, g. michaelis, ad. muntz, eugene obreen, fr. d. o. overbeck, johannes pietsch, ludwig preuner, a. pulszky, karoli ruskin, john sambuy, conte ernesto di schrieber, th. sittl, k. smith, genl. sir r. m. sutton, chas. w. tedder, hy. r. thode, h. treu, georg webster, h. a. wolff, albert physiologists. albertoni, pietro albini aubert, h. bernstein, j. biedermann, w. du bois-reymond brown-séquard ewald, r. exner, sigmund fano, giulio fick, a. gaule, j. goltz, f. grützner, p. heidenhain, r. hensen, v. hering, ewald hermann, l. kries, j. kronecker, h. kühne, w. landois, l. luciani, luigi ludwig, c. marey, e. j. masoin, e. meissner, g. miescher, f. moleschott, senator j. mosso, a. munk, hermann pettigrew, j. bell pflüger, e. rosenthal, i. schiff, m. slosse, a. vintschgau, m. von voit, c. von anatomists. braune, wilh. brunn, a. von cleland, john eisler, p. flemming, w. hasse, c. henke, w. j. humphry, g. m. kölliker marshall, john rabl romiti roux, w. rückert, j. schwalbe, g. stieda, l. stöhr, ph. strasser, h. thanhoffer, l. von van beneden, edouard virchow, hans wiedersheim anthropologists, biologists, paleontologists, zoologists, etc. acland, sir h. w. barrier, gustave blochmann, f. bowman, sir wm. brandt, k. e. carpenter, p. herbert darwin, francis flower, w. h. galton, francis günther, albert hartog, marcus haughton, saml. hollis, w. a. huxley, t. h. jensink, f. a. kerbert, c. lankester, e. ray lubbock, sir john mantegazza, senator meyer, a. b. milne-edwards mivart, st. george müllenhoff müller, max newton, alfred owen, sir richard pasteur, l. romanes, geo. j. schmidt, emil schütz sorby, h. c. swinhoe, chas. van wulverhorst virchow, rudolf weismann, august wundt, w. yseux zittell, c. a. von physicists, etc. abney, capt. w. de w. bellati blazerna, pietro bramwell, sir fredk. bunsen, r. ditscheiner, l. glaisher, james hagenbach-bischoff helmholtz, h. von huggins, wm. julius, v. a. mach, e. matthiessen, l. moss, rich. j. quincke, georg righi, augusto rousseau, e. soret, c. tissandier, gaston thomson, sir wm. vogel, h. w. weber, h. f. * * * * * moltke, count von portland, the duke of wharncliffe, the earl of .......... transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible. the author spelled greifswald as griefswald, innsbruck as innsbrück and häuser as haüser in this text. these spellings have been retained. oe ligatures have been expanded. italic text has been marked with _underscores_. bold text has been marked with =equals signs=. transcriber's notes any corrections made are catalogued in a note at the end of this text. italics are rendered using the '_' character as _italics_. text printed in a bold font is rendered using the '=' character as =bold=. all small capital letters are printed as uppercase. the abbreviations "a.m." and "p.m." appear in normal uppercase as well as in small capitals. they are also variably printed with intervening spaces (e.g., "a. m."). they are rendered here as uppercase with the spacing as found in the text. the text contained illustrations, which could not be included in this version. they are indicated using [illustration: <caption>]. their position in the text may have changed in order to re-join paragraphs and/or to avoid interrupting the text. the page numbers in the list of illustrations are, therefore, approximate. please use the html version from project gutenberg to view the illustrations. [illustration: map of the deluged conemaugh district.] history of the johnstown flood. including all the fearful record; the breaking of the south fork dam; the sweeping out of the conemaugh valley; the over-throw of johnstown; the massing of the wreck at the railroad bridge; escapes, rescues, searches for survivors and the dead; relief organizations, stupendous charities, etc., etc. with full accounts also of the destruction on the susquehanna and juniata rivers, and the bald eagle creek. by willis fletcher johnson. _illustrated._ edgewood publishing co., . copyright, , by willis fletcher johnson. preface. the summer of will ever be memorable for its appalling disasters by flood and flame. in that period fell the heaviest blow of the nineteenth century--a blow scarcely paralleled in the histories of civilized lands. central pennsylvania, a centre of industry, thrift and comfort, was desolated by floods unprecedented in the records of the great waters. on both sides of the alleghenies these ravages were felt in terrific power, but on the western slope their terrors were infinitely multiplied by the bursting of the south fork reservoir, letting out millions of tons of water, which, rushing madly down the rapid descent of the conemaugh valley, washed out all its busy villages and hurled itself in a deadly torrent on the happy borough of johnstown. the frightful aggravations which followed the coming of this torrent have waked the deepest sympathies of this nation and of the world, and the history is demanded in permanent form, for those of the present day, and for the generation to come. contents. chapter i. the conemaugh valley in springtime--johnstown and its suburbs--founded a hundred years ago--the cambria iron works--history of a famous industry--american manufacturing enterprise exemplified--making bessemer steel--social and educational features--the busiest city of its size in the state, chapter ii. conemaugh lake--remains of an old-time canal system--used for the pleasure of sportsmen--the hunting and fishing club--popular distrust growing into indifference--the old cry of "wolf!"--building a dam of straw and mud--neglect ripening into fitness for a catastrophe, chapter iii. dawning of the fatal day--darkness and rain--rumors of evil--the warning voice unheeded--a whirlwind of watery death--fate of a faithful telegrapher--what an eye-witness saw--a solid wall of water rushing down the valley, chapter iv. the pathway of the torrent--human beings swept away like chaff--the twilight of terror--the wreck of east conemaugh--annihilation of woodvale--locomotives tossed about like cockle-shells by the mighty maelstrom, chapter v. "johnstown is annihilated"--appearance of the wreck--an awful sabbath spectacle--a sea of mud and corpses--the city in a gigantic whirlpool--strange tokens of the fury of the flood--scene from the bridge--sixty acres of débris--a carnival of slaughter, chapter vi. pictures of the flood drawn by eye-witnesses--a score of locomotives swallowed up--railroad cars swept away--engineers who would not abandon their posts--awful scenes from a car window--a race for life--victims of the flood, chapter vii. some heroes of the flood--the ride of collins graves at williamsburg recalled--john g. parke's heroic warning--gallant self-sacrifice of daniel peyton--mrs. ogle, the intrepid telegraph operator--wholesale life saving by miss nina speck, chapter viii. stories of suffering--a family swept away at a stroke--beside a sister's corpse--a bride driven mad--the unidentified dead--courage in the face of death--thanking god his child had not suffered--one saved out of a household of thirteen--five saved out of fifty-five, chapter ix. stories of railroad men and travelers who were in the midst of the catastrophe--a train's race with the wave--houses crushed like eggshells--relics of the dead in the tree tops--a night of horrors--fire and flood commingled--lives lost for the sake of a pair of shoes, chapter x. scenes in a house of refuge--stealing from the dead--a thousand bodies seen passing over the bridge--"kill us or rescue us!"--thrilling escapes and agonizing losses--children born amid the flood--a night in alma hall--saved through fear, chapter xi. the flight to the mountains--saving a mother and her babe--the hillsides black with refugees--an engineer's story--how the dam gave away--great trees snapped off like pipe-stems by the torrent, chapter xii. a desperate voyage--scenes like those after a great battle--mother and babe dead together--praying as they drifted to destruction--children telling the story of death--significant greetings between friends--prepared for any news, chapter xiii. salutations in the city of the dead--crowds at the morgues--endless trains of wagons with ghastly freight--registering the survivors--minds unsettled by the tragedy--horrible fragments of humanity scattered through piles of rubbish, chapter xiv. recognizing the dead--food and clothing for destitute survivors--looking for the lost--the bereaved burying their dead--drowned close by a place of safety--a heroic editor--one who would not be comforted, chapter xv. a bird'seye view of the ruined city--conspicuous features of the disaster--the railroad lines--stones and iron tossed about like driftwood--an army officer's valuable services in restoring and maintaining order, chapter xvi. clearing a road up the creek--fantastic forms of ruin--an abandoned locomotive with no rail to run on--iron beams bent like willow twigs--night in the valley--scenes and sounds of an inferno, chapter xvii. sights that greeted visitors--wreckage along the valley--ruins of the cambria iron works--a carnival of drink--violence and robbery--camping on the hillsides--rich and poor alike benefit, chapter xviii. the first train load of anxious seekers--hoping against hope--many instances of heroism--victims seen drifting down beyond the reach of help--unavailing efforts to rescue the prey of the flood, chapter xix. newspaper correspondents making their way in--the railroads helpless--hiring a special train--making desperate speed--first faces of the flood--through to johnstown at last, chapter xx. the work of the reporters--strange chronicles of heroism and of woe--deadly work of the telegraph wires--a baby's strange voyage--prayer wonderfully answered--steam against torrent, chapter xxi. human ghouls and vampires on the scene--a short shrift for marauders--vigilance committees enforcing order--plunderers of the dead relentlessly dispatched--outbursts of righteous indignation, chapter xxii the cry for help and the nation's answer--president harrison's eloquent and effective appeal--governor beaver's message--a proclamation by the governor of new york--action of the commissioner of pensions--help from over the sea, chapter xxiii. the american heart and purse opened wide--a flood of gold against the flood of water--contributions from every part of the country, in sums large and small, chapter xxiv. benefactions of philadelphia--organization of charity--train loads of food and clothing--generous spirit of convicts in the penitentiary--contributions from over the sea--queen victoria's sympathy--letter from florence nightingale, chapter xxv. raising a great relief fund in new york--where the money came from--churches, theatres and prisons join in the good work--more than one hundred thousand dollars a day--a few names from the great roll of honor, chapter xxvi. breaking up the ruins and burying the dead--innumerable funerals--the use of dynamite--the holocaust at the bridge--the cambria iron works--pulling out trees with locomotives, chapter xxvii. caring for the sufferers--noble work of miss clara barton and the red cross society--a peep into a hospital--finding homes for the orphans--johnstown generous in its woe--a benevolent eating house, chapter xxviii. recovering from the blow--the voice of the locomotive heard again--scenes day by day amid the ruins and at the morgue--strange salvage from the flood--a family of little children, chapter xxix. the city filled with life again--work and bustle on every hand--railroad trains coming in--pathetic meetings of friends--persistent use of dynamite to break up the masses of wreckage--the daily record of work amid the dead, chapter xxx. scenes at the relief stations--the grand army of the republic in command--imposing scenes at the railroad station--cars loaded with goods for the relief of the destitute, chapter xxxi. general hastings' headquarters--duties of the military staff--a flood of telegrams of inquiry pouring in--getting the post-office to work again--wholesale embalming--the morgue in the presbyterian church--the record of the unknown dead--a commemorative newspaper club, chapter xxxii. a cross between a military and a mining camp--work of the army engineers--equipping constables--pressure on the telegraph lines--photographers not encouraged--sight-seers turned away--strange uses for coffins, chapter xxxiii. sunday amid the ruins--services in one church and in the open air--the miracle at the church of the immaculate conception--few women and children seen--disastrous work of dynamite--a happy family in the wreck, chapter xxxiv. plans for the future of johnstown--the city to be rebuilt on a finer scale than ever before--a real estate boom looked for--enlarging the conemaugh--views of capitalists, chapter xxxv. well-known people who narrowly escaped the flood--mrs. halford's experience--mrs. childs storm bound--tales related by travelers--a theatrical company's plight, chapter xxxvi. the ubiquitous reporter getting there--desperate traveling through a storm-swept country--special trains and special teams--climbing across the mountains--rest for the weary in a hay mow, chapter xxxvii. the reporter's life at johnstown--nothing to eat, but much to do--kindly remembrances of a kindly friend--driven from bed by rats--three hours of sleep in seventy-two--a picturesque group, chapter xxxviii. williamsport's great losses--flooded with thirty-four feet of water--hundreds of millions of feet of lumber swept away--loss of life--incidents of rescue and of death--the story of garret crouse and his gray horse, chapter xxxix. the juniata valley ravaged by the storm--losses at tyrone, huntingdon and lewistown--destruction at lock haven--a baby's voyage down stream--romantic story of a wedding, chapter xl. the floods along the potomac--the national capital submerged--a terrible record in maryland--gettysburg a sufferer--tidings of devastation from many points in several states, list of illustrations. page map of the deluged conemaugh district, johnstown as left by the flood, ruins of johnstown viewed from prospect hill, general view of the ruins, looking up stony creek, ruins, showing the path of the flood, typical scene in johnstown, johnstown--view corner of main and clinton streets, view on clinton street, johnstown, main and clinton streets, looking southwest, ruins, corner of clinton and main streets, ruins, from site of the hulburt house, the dÉbris above the pennsylvania railroad bridge, ruins of the cambria iron works, ruins of the cambria iron company's store, third street, williamsport, pa., during the flood, wreck of the iron bridge at williamsport, pa., wreck of the lumber yards at williamsport, pa., , , feet of logs afloat in the susquehanna, last trains in and out of harrisburg, columbia, pa., under the flood, pennsylvania avenue at sixth street, washington, d. c., seventh street, washington, d. c., in the flood, fourteenth street, washington, d. c., in the flood, the flood in washington, d. c., opposite harris's theatre, chapter i. springtime in the mountains. graceful slopes and frowning precipices robed in darkest green of hemlock and spruce. open fields here and there verdant with young grass and springing grain, or moist and brown beneath the plow for the planting time. hedgerow and underwood fragrant with honeysuckle and wild blackberry bloom; violets and geraniums purpling the forest floor. conemaugh creek and stony creek dash and plunge and foam along their rocky channels to where they unite their waters and form the conemaugh river, hastening down to the ohio, to the mississippi, to the mexican gulf. trout and pickerel and bass flash their bronze and silver armor in the sparkling shallows of the streams and in the sombre and placid depths of the lake up yonder behind the old mud dam. along the valley of the conemaugh are ranged villages, towns, cities: conemaugh, johnstown, cambria, sang hollow, nineveh, and others, happy and prosperous. conemaugh nestles at the very foot of the alleghenies; all railroad trains eastward bound stop there to catch their breath before beginning the long climb up to altoona. sang hollow nestles by the river amid almost tropical luxuriance of vegetation; yon little wooded islet in mid-stream a favorite haunt of fishermen. nineveh is rich in bog iron and coal, and the whirr of the mill-wheel is heard. johnstown, between the two creeks at their junction, is the queen city of the valley. on either side the creek, and beyond, the steep mountain sides; behind, the narrow valley reaching twenty miles back to the lake; before, the conemaugh river just beginning its romantic course. broken hillsides streaked with torrents encompass it. just a century ago was johnstown founded by one joseph johns, a german settler. before then its beauteous site was occupied by an indian village, kickenapawling. below this was the head of navigation on the conemaugh. hither came the wagoners of the alleghenies, with huge wains piled high with merchandise from seaboard cities, and placed it on flat-bottomed boats and started it down the river-way to the western markets. the merchandise came up from philadelphia and baltimore by river, too; up the susquehanna and juniata, to the eastern foot-hills, and there was a great portage from the juniata to the conemaugh; the kittanning trail, then the frankstown turnpike. later came the great trunk railroad whose express trains now go roaring down the valley. johnstown is--nay, johnstown was!--a busy and industrious place. the people of the town were the employees of the cambria iron and steel company, their families, and small storekeepers. there was not one rich man in the town. three-quarters of the , people lived in small frame tenement houses on the flats by the river around the works of the cambria company. the cambria company owns almost all the land, and the business and professional men and the superintendents of the company live on the hills away up from the creeks. the creeks become the conemaugh river right at the end of the town, near where the big stone pennsylvania railroad bridge crosses the river. the borough of johnstown was on the south bank of conemaugh creek, and the east bank of stony creek, right in the fork. it had only about a third of the population of the place. it had never been incorporated with the surrounding villages, as the cambria company, which owned most of the villages and only part of johnstown, did not wish to have them consolidated into one city. conemaugh was the largest village on the creek between the lake and johnstown. it is often spoken of as part of johnstown, though its railroad station is two or three miles up the creek from the johnstown station. the streets of the two towns run into each other, and the space between the two stations is well built up along the creek. part of the cambria iron and steel company's works are at conemaugh, and five or six thousand of the workingmen and their families lived there. the business was done in johnstown borough, where almost all the stores of johnstown city were. the works of the cambria company were strung along from here down into johnstown proper. they were slightly isolated to prevent a fire in one spreading to the others, and because there was not much flat land to build on. the pennsylvania road runs along the river, and the works were built beside it. [illustration: johnstown as left by the flood.] between conemaugh and johnstown borough was a string of tenements along the river which was called woodvale. possibly workmen lived in them. they were slightly built of wood, many of them without cellars or stone foundations. there were some substantially built houses in the borough at the fork. here the flats widen out somewhat, and they had been still further increased in extent by the cambria company, which filled up part of the creek beds with refuse and the ashes from their works. this narrowed the beds of the creeks. the made land was not far above the water at ordinary times. even during the ordinary spring floods the waters rose so high that it flowed into the cellars of the tenements, and at times into the works. the natural land was occupied by the business part of the town, where the stores were and the storekeepers had their residences. the borough had a population of about . on the north bank of the river were a third as many more people living in tenements built and owned by the cambria company. further down, below the junction of the two creeks, along both banks of the conemaugh river, were about employees of the cambria company and their families. the place where they lived was called cambria or cambria city. all these villages and boroughs made up what is known as the city of johnstown. the cambria company employed about men in its works and mines. besides these were some railroad shops, planing mills, flour mills, several banks and newspapers. only the men employed by the cambria company and their families lived on the flats and made ground. the cambria company owned all this land, and made it a rule not to sell it, but to lease it. the company put rows of two-story frame tenements close together, on their land close to the works, the cheaper class of tenements in solid blocks, to cheapen their construction. the better tenements were separate buildings, with two families to the house. the tenements rented for from $ to $ a month, and cost possibly, on the average, $ to build. they were all of wood, many of them without cellars, and were built as cheaply as possible. the timbers were mostly pine, light and inflammable. it was not an uncommon thing for a fire to break out and to burn one or two rows of tenements. but the different rows were not closely bunched, but were sprinkled around in patches near the separate works, and it was cheaper for the company to rebuild occasionally than to put up brick houses. besides owning the flats, the cambria company owned the surrounding hills. in one of the hills is limestone, in another coal, and there is iron ore not far away. the company has narrow-gauge roads running from its mines down to the works. the city was at the foot of these three hills, which meet in a double v shape. conemaugh creek flowing down one and stony creek flowing down the other. the hills are not so far distant that a man with a rifle on any one could not shoot to either of the others. they are several hundred feet high and so steep that roads run up them by a series of zigzag grades. few people live on these hills except on a small rise of ground across the river from johnstown. in some places the company has leased the land for dwelling houses, but it retains the ownership of the land and of the coal, iron and limestone in it. the flats having all been occupied, the company in recent years had put up some tenements of a better class on the north bank of the river, higher up than the flood reached. the business part of the town also was higher up than the works and the tenements of the company. in normal times the river is but a few hundred feet wide. the bottom is stony. the current is so fast that there is little deposit along the bank. it is navigable at no time, though in the spring a good canoeist might go down it if he could steer clear of the rocks. in the summer the volume of water diminishes so much that a boy with a pair of rubber boots on can wade across without getting his feet wet, and there have been times when a good jumper could cross the river on the dry stones. below johnstown, after stony creek has joined the conemaugh creek, the volume of water increases, but the conemaugh throughout its whole length is nothing but a mountain stream, dry in the summer and roaring in the spring. it runs down into the kiskiminitas river and into the allegheny river, and then on to pittsburgh. it is over miles from johnstown to pittsburgh following the windings of the river, twice as far as the straight line. johnstown was one of the busiest towns of its size in the state. its tonnage over the pennsylvania and baltimore and ohio roads was larger than the tonnage of many cities three times its size. the iron and steel company is one of the largest iron and steel corporations in the world. it had its main rolling mills, bessemer steel works, and wire works at johnstown, though it also has works in other places, and owns ore and coal mines and leases in the south, in michigan, and in spain, besides its pennsylvania works. it had in johnstown and the surrounding villages or men usually at work. in flush times it has employed more than . so important was the town from a railroad point of view that the baltimore and ohio ran a branch from rockwood, on its main line to pittsburgh, up to johnstown, forty-five miles. it was one of the main freight stations on the pennsylvania road, though the passenger business was so small in proportion that some express trains do not stop there. the pennsylvania road recently put up a large brick station, which was one of the few brick buildings on the flats. some of the cambria company's offices were also of brick, and there was a brick lodging house for young men in the employ of the company. the pennsylvania road had repair shops there, which employed a few hundred men, and the baltimore and ohio branch had some smaller shops. johnstown had several catholic and presbyterian, methodist, baptist, and lutheran churches. it had several daily and weekly papers. the chief were the _tribune_, the _democrat_, and the _freie presse_. the cambria iron works, the great industry of johnstown, originated in a few widely separated charcoal furnaces built by pioneer iron workers in the early years of the century. as early as general arthur st. clair engaged in the iron business, and erected the hermitage furnace about sixteen miles from the present site of johnstown. in the working of ores was begun near johnstown. these were primitive furnaces, where charcoal was the only fuel employed, and the raw material and product were transported entirely on wagons, but they marked the beginning of the manufacture of iron in this country. the cambria iron company was chartered under the general law in , for the operation of four old-fashioned charcoal furnaces in and near johnstown, which was then a village of inhabitants, to which the pennsylvania railroad had just been extended. in the construction of four coke furnaces was begun, but it was two years before the first was finished. england was then shipping rails into this country under a low duty, and the iron industry here was struggling for existence. the company at johnstown was aided by a number of philadelphia merchants, but was unable to continue in business, and suspended in . at a meeting of the creditors in philadelphia soon afterward a committee was appointed, with daniel j. morrell as chairman, to visit the works at johnstown and recommend the best means, if any, to save themselves from loss. in his report, mr. morrell strongly urged the philadelphia creditors to invest more money and continue the business. they did so, and matthew newkirk was made president of the company. the company again failed in , and mr. morrell then associated a number of gentlemen with him, and formed the firm of wood, morrell & co., leasing the works for seven years. the year was one of great financial depression, and was worse, and, as a further discouragement, the large furnace was destroyed by fire in june, . in one week, however, the works were in operation again, and a brick building was soon constructed. when the war came, and with it the morrill tariff of , a broader field was opened up, and in the present company was formed. the years following the close of the war brought about an unprecedented revival in railroad building. in there were but , miles of railroad in the united states, while in there were , miles, or more than double. there was a great demand for english steel rails, which advanced to $ per ton. congress imposed a duty of $ a ton on foreign rails, and encouraged american manufacturers to go into the business. the cambria company began the erection of bessemer steel works in , and sold the first steel rails in , at $ a ton. the company had dwelling-houses, rented to employees. the works and rolling mills of the company were situated upon what was originally a river flat, where the valley of the conemaugh expanded somewhat, just below johnstown, and now part of millville. the johnstown furnaces, nos. , , and , formed one complete plant, with stacks feet high and feet in diameter at the base. steam was generated in forty boilers fired by furnace gas, for eight vertical, direct-acting blowing engines. nos. and blast furnaces formed together a second plant, with stacks feet high and feet in diameter. the bessemer plant was the sixth started in the united states (july, ). the main building was feet in width by feet in length. the cupolas were six in number. blast was supplied from eight baker rotary pressure blowers, driven by engines x inches at revolutions per minute. the bessemer works were supplied with steam by a battery of twenty-one tubular boilers. the best average, although not the very highest work done in the bessemer department, was heats of - / tons each for each twenty-four hours. the best weekly record reached tons of ingots, and the best monthly record , tons. the best daily output was tons of ingots. all grades of steel were made in the converters, from the softest wire and bridge stock to spring stock. the open-hearth building, x feet, containing three pernot revolving hearth furnaces of fifteen tons capacity each, supplied with natural gas. the rolling mill was feet in width by feet in length, and contained a -inch train of two stands of three-high rolls, and a ten-ton traveling crane for changing rolls. the product of the mill was , pounds per turn. the bolt and nut works produced kegs of finished track bolts per month, besides machine bolts. the capacity of the axle shop was finished steel axles per day. the "gautier steel department" consisted of a brick building x feet, where the wire was annealed, drawn and finished; a brick warehouse x feet, many shops, offices, etc.; the barb-wire mill, x feet, where the celebrated cambria link barb wire was made, and the main merchant mill, x feet. these mills produced wire, shafting, springs, plough-shares, rake and harrow teeth, and other kinds of agricultural implement steel. in they produced , tons of this material, which was marketed mainly in the western states. grouped with the principal mills thus described were the foundries, pattern and other shops, draughting offices and time offices, etc., all structures of a firm and substantial character. the company operated about thirty-five miles of railroad tracks, employing in this service twenty-four locomotives, and owned cars. to the large bodies of mountain land connected with the old charcoal furnaces additions have been made of ores and coking coals, and the company now owns in fee simple , acres of mineral lands. it has beehive coke ovens in the connellsville district, and the coal producing capacity of the mines in pennsylvania owned by the company is , tons per year. in continuation of the policy of daniel j. morrell, the cambria iron company has done a great deal for its employees. the cambria library was erected by the iron company and presented to the town. the building was x - / feet, and contained a library of volumes. it contained a large and valuable collection of reports of the united states and the state, and it is feared that they have been greatly damaged. the cambria mutual benefit association is composed of employees of the company, and is supported by it. the employees receive benefits when sick or injured, and in case of death their families are provided for. the board of directors of this association also controls the cambria hospital, which was erected by the iron company in , on prospect hill, in the northern part of the town. the company also maintained a club house, and a store which was patronized by others, as well as by its employees. chapter ii. twenty miles up conemaugh creek, beyond the workingmen's villages of south fork and mineral point, was conemaugh lake. it was a part of the old and long disused pennsylvania canal system. at the head of conemaugh creek, back among the hills, three hundred feet or more above the level of johnstown streets, was a small, natural lake. when the canal was building, the engineers took this lake to supply the western division of the canal which ran from there to pittsburgh. the eastern division ended at hollidaysburgh east of the summit of the alleghanies, where there was a similar reservoir. between the two was the old portage road, one of the first railroads constructed in the state. the canal was abandoned some years ago, as the pennsylvania road destroyed its traffic. the pennsylvania company got a grant of the canal from the state. some years after the canal was abandoned the hollidaysburgh reservoir was torn down, the water gradually escaping into the frankstown branch of the juniata river. the people of the neighborhood objected to the existence of the reservoir after the canal was abandoned, as little attention was paid to the structure, and the farmers in the valley below feared that the dam would break and drown them. the water was all let out of that reservoir about three years ago. the dam above johnstown greatly increased the small natural lake there. it was a pleasant drive from johnstown to the reservoir. boating and fishing parties often went out there. near the reservoir is cresson, a summer resort owned by the pennsylvania road. excursion parties are made up in the summer time by the pennsylvania company, and special trains are run for them from various points to cresson. a club called the south fork fishing and hunting club was organized some years ago, and got the use of the lake from the pennsylvania company. most of the members of the club live in pittsburgh, and are prominent iron and coal men. besides them there are some of the officials of the pennsylvania road among the members. they increased the size of the dam until it was not far from a hundred feet in height, and its entire length, from side to side at the top, was not far from nine hundred feet. this increased the size of the lake to three miles in length and a mile and a quarter in width. it was an irregular oval in shape. the volume of water in it depended on the time of the year. some of the people of johnstown had thought for years that the dam might break, but they did not think that its breaking would do more than flood the flats and damage the works of the cambria company. when the hunting and fishing club bought the site of the old reservoir a section of feet had been washed out of the middle. this was rebuilt at an expense of $ , and the work was thought to be very strong. at the base it was feet thick and gradually tapered until at the top it was about feet thick. it was considered amply secure, and such faith had the members of the club in its stability that the top of the dam was utilized as a driveway. it took two years to complete the work, men being engaged from ' to ' . while it was under process of construction the residents of johnstown expressed some fears as to the solidity of the work, and requested that it be examined by experts. an engineer of the cambria iron works, secured through mr. morrell, of that institution, one provided by mr. pitcairn, of the pennsylvania railroad, and nathan mcdowell, chosen by the club itself, made a thorough examination. they pronounced the structure perfectly safe, but suggested some precautionary measures as to the stopping of leaks, that were faithfully carried out. the members of the club themselves discovered that the sewer that carried away the surplus or overflow from the lake was not large enough in times of storm. so five feet of solid rock were cut away in order to increase the mouth of the lake. usually the surface of the water was feet below the top of the dam, and never in recent years did it rise to more than eight feet. in , when work was going on, a sudden rise occurred, and then the water threatened to do what it did on this occasion. the workmen hastened to the scene and piled débris of all sorts on the top and thus prevented a washout. for more than a year there had been fears of a disaster. the foundations of the dam at south fork were considered shaky early in , and many increasing leakages were reported from time to time. "we were afraid of that lake," said a gentleman who had lived in johnstown for years; "we were afraid of that lake seven years ago. no one could see the immense height to which that artificial dam had been built without fearing the tremendous power of the water behind it. the dam must have had a sheer height of feet, thus forcing the water that high above its natural bed, and making a lake at least three miles long and a mile wide, out of what could scarcely be called a pond. i doubt if there is a man or woman in johnstown who at some time or other had not feared and spoken of the terrible disaster that has now come. "people wondered, and asked why the dam was not strengthened, as it certainly had become weak; but nothing was done, and by and by they talked less and less about it, as nothing happened, though now and then some would shake their heads as if conscious the fearful day would come some time when their worst fears would be transcended by the horror of the actual occurrence." there is not a shadow of doubt but that the citizens of cambria county frequently complained, and that at the time the dam was constructed a vigorous effort was made to put a stop to the work. it is true that the leader in this movement was not a citizen of johnstown, but he was and is a large mine owner in cambria county. his mine adjoins the reservoir property. he was frequently on the spot, and his own engineer inspected the work. he says the embankment was principally of shale and clay, and that straw was used to stop the leaking of water while the work was going on. he called on the sheriff of cambria county and told him it was his duty to apply to the court for an injunction. the sheriff promised to give the matter his attention, but, instead of going before court, went to the cambria company for consultation. an employee was sent up to make an inspection, and as his report was favorable to the reservoir work the sheriff went no further. but the gentleman referred to said that he had not failed to make public his protest at the time and to renew it frequently. this recommendation for an injunction and protest were spoken of by citizens of altoona as a hackneyed subject. confirmation has certainly been had at south fork, conemaugh, millvale and johnstown. the rumor of an expected break was prevalent at these places, but citizens remarked that the rumor was a familiar incident of the annual freshets. it was the old classic story of "wolf, wolf." they gave up the first floors to the water and retired upstairs to wait until the river should recede, as they had done often before, scouting the oft-told story of the breaking of the reservoir. [illustration: ruins of johnstown, viewed from prospect hill.] an interesting story, involving the construction and history of the conemaugh lake dam, was related by j. b. montgomery, who formerly lived in western pennsylvania, and is now well known in the west as a railroad contractor. "the dam," said he, "was built about thirty-five years ago by the state of pennsylvania, as a feeder for the western division of the pennsylvania canal. the plans and specifications for the dam were furnished by the chief engineer of the state. i am not sure, but it is my impression, that colonel william milnor roberts held the office at the time. colonel roberts was one of the most famous engineers in the country. he died several years ago in chili. the contractors for the construction of the dam were general j. k. moorhead and judge h. b. packer, of williamsport, a brother of governor packer. general moorhead had built many dams before this on the rivers of pennsylvania, and his work was always known to be of the very best. in this case, however, all that he had to do was to build the dam according to the specifications furnished by the state. the dam was built of stone and wood throughout, and was of particularly solid construction. there is no significance in the discovery of straw and dirt among the ruins of the dam. both are freely used when dams are being built, to stop the numerous leaks. "the dam had three waste-gates at the bottom, so arranged that they could be raised when there was too much water in the lake, and permit the escape of the surplus. these gates were in big stone arches, through which the water passed to the canal when the lake was used as a feeder. "in the pennsylvania railroad company purchased the canal from the state, and the dam and lake went into the possession of that company. shortly afterward the pennsylvania company abandoned the western division of the canal, and the dam became useless as a feeder. for twenty-five years the lake was used only as a fish-pond, and the dam and the gates were forgotten. five years ago the lake was leased to a number of pittsburgh men, who stocked it with bass, trout, and other game fish. i have heard it said that the waste-gates had not been opened for a great many years. if this is so, no wonder the dam broke. naturally the fishermen did not want to open the gates after the lake was stocked, for the fish would have run out. a sluiceway should have been built on the side of the dam, so that when the water reached a certain height the surplus could escape. the dam was not built with the intention that the water should flow over the top of it under any circumstances, and if allowed to escape in that way the water was bound to undermine it in a short time. with a dam the height of this the pressure of a quantity of water great enough to overflow it must be something tremendous. "if it is true that the waste-gates were never opened after the pittsburgh men had leased the lake, the explanation of the bursting of the dam is to be found right there. it may be that the dam had not been looked after and strengthened of late years, and it was undoubtedly weakened in the period of twenty-five years during which the lake was not used. after the construction of the dam the lake was called the western reservoir. the south fork of the conemaugh, which fed the lake, is a little stream not over ten feet wide, but even when there were no unusual storms it carried enough water to fill the lake full within a year, showing how important it was that the gates should be opened occasionally to run off the surplus." mr. montgomery was one of a party of engineers who inspected the dam when it was leased by the pennsylvania company, five years ago. it then needed repairs, but was in a perfectly safe condition if the water was not allowed to flow over it. chapter iii. friday, may st, . the day before had been a solemn holiday. in every village veterans of the war for the union had gathered; in every cemetery flowers had been strewn upon the grave-mounds of the heroic dead. now the people were resuming the every-day toil. the weather was rainy. it had been wet for some days. stony creek and conemaugh were turbid and noisy. the little south fork, which ran into the upper end of the lake, was swollen into a raging torrent. the lake was higher than usual; higher than ever. but the valley below lay in fancied security, and all the varied activities of life pursued their wonted round. friday, may st, . record that awful date in characters of funereal hue. it was a dark and stormy day, and amid the darkness and the storm the angel of death spread his wings over the fated valley, unseen, unknown. midday comes. disquieting rumors rush down the valley. there is a roar of an approaching storm--approaching doom! the water swiftly rises. a horseman thunders down the valley: "to the hills, for god's sake! to the hills, for your lives!" they stare at him as at a madman, and their hesitating feet linger in the valley of the shadow of death, and the shadow swiftly darkens, and the everlasting hills veil their faces with rain and mist before the scene that greets them. this is what happened:-- the heavy rainfall raised the lake until its water began to pour over the top of the dam. the dam itself--wretchedly built of mud and boulders--saturated through and through, began to leak copiously here and there. each watery sapper and miner burrowed on, followers swiftly enlarging the murderous tunnels. the whole mass became honeycombed. and still the rain poured down, and still the south fork and a hundred minor streams sent in their swelling floods, until, with a roar like that of the opening gates of the inferno belching forth the legions of the damned, the wall gave way, and with the rush of a famished tiger into a sheepfold, the whirlwind of water swept down the valley on its errand of destruction-- "and like a horse unbroken, when first he feels the rein, the furious river struggled hard, and tossed his tawny mane, and burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free, and, whirling down in mad career, battlement and plank and pier, rushed headlong to the sea!" according to the statements of people who lived in johnstown and other towns on the line of the river, ample time was given to the inhabitants of johnstown by the railroad officials and by other gentlemen of standing and reputation. in hundreds of cases this warning was utterly disregarded, and those who heeded it early in the day were looked upon as cowards, and many jeers were uttered by lips that now are cold. the people of johnstown also had a special warning in the fact that the dam in stony creek, just above the town, broke about noon, and thousands of feet of lumber passed down the river. yet they hesitated, and even when the wall of water, almost forty feet high, was at their doors, one man is said by a survivor to have told his family that the stream would not rise very high. how sudden the calamity is illustrated by an incident which mr. bender, the night chief operator of the western union in pittsburgh, relates: "at o'clock that friday afternoon," said he, "the girl operator at johnstown was cheerfully ticking away that she had to abandon the office on the first floor, because the water was three feet deep there. she said she was telegraphing from the second story and the water was gaining steadily. she was frightened, and said many houses were flooded. this was evidently before the dam broke, for our man here said something encouraging to her, and she was talking back as only a cheerful girl operator can, when the receiver's skilled ear caught a sound on the wire made by no human hand, which told him that the wires had grounded, or that the house had been swept away in the flood from the lake, no one knows which now. at o'clock the girl was there, and at . we might as well have asked the grave to answer us." the water passed over the dam about a foot above its top, beginning at about half-past . whatever happened in the way of a cloud-burst took place in the night. there had been little rain up to dark. when the workmen woke in the morning the lake was full, and rising at the rate of a foot an hour. it kept on rising until p. m., when it began breaking over the dam and undermining it. men were sent three or four times during the day to warn people below of their danger. when the final break came at o'clock, there was a sound like tremendous and continued peals of thunder. trees, rocks and earth shot up into mid-air in great columns and then started down the ravine. a farmer who escaped said that the water did not come down like a wave, but jumped on his house and beat it to fragments in an instant. he was safe on the hillside, but his wife and two children were killed. herbert webber, who was employed by the sportsmen's club at the lake, tells that for three days previous to the final outburst, the water of the lake forced itself out through the interstices of the masonry, so that the front of the dam resembled a large watering pot. the force of the water was so great that one of these jets squirted full thirty feet horizontally from the stone wall. all this time, too, the feeders of the lake, particularly three of them, more nearly resembled torrents than mountain streams, and were supplying the dammed up body of water with quite , , gallons of water hourly. at o'clock that friday morning, webber says he was attending to a camp about a mile back from the dam, when he noticed that the surface of the lake seemed to be lowering. he doubted his eyes, and made a mark on the shore, and then found that his suspicions were undoubtedly well founded. he ran across the country to the dam, and there saw, he declares, the water of the lake welling out from beneath the foundation stones of the dam. absolutely helpless, he was compelled to stand there and watch the gradual development of what was to be the most disastrous flood of this continent. according to his reckoning it was . when the stones in the centre of the dam began to sink because of the undermining, and within eight minutes a gap of twenty feet was made in the lower half of the wall face, through which the water poured as though forced by machinery of stupendous power. by o'clock the toppling masonry, which before had partaken somewhat of the form of an arch, fell in, and then the remainder of the wall opened outward like twin gates, and the great storage lake was foaming and thundering down the valley of the conemaugh. webber became so awestruck at the catastrophe that he declares he was unable to leave the spot until the lake had fallen so low that it showed bottom fifty feet below him. how long a time elapsed he says he does not know before he recovered sufficient power of observation to notice this, but he does not think that more than five minutes passed. webber says that had the dam been repaired after the spring freshet of the disaster would not have occurred. had it been given ordinary attention in the spring of the probabilities are that thousands of lives would have been saved. imagine, if you can, a solid piece of ground, thirty-five feet wide and over one hundred feet high, and then, again, that a space of two hundred feet is cut out of it, through which is rushing over seven hundred acres of water, and you can have only a faint conception of the terrible force of the blow that came upon the people of this vicinity like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky. it was irresistible in its power and carried everything before it. after seeing the lake and the opening through the dam it can be readily understood how that out-break came to be so destructive in its character. the lake had been leaking, and a couple of italians were at work just over the point where the break occurred, and in an instant, without warning, it gave way and they went down in the whirling mass of water, and were swept into eternity. mr. crouse, proprietor of the south fork fishing club hotel, says: "when the dam of conemaugh lake broke the water seemed to leap, scarcely touching the ground. it bounded down the valley, crashing and roaring, carrying everything before it. for a mile its front seemed like a solid wall twenty feet high." the only warning given to johnstown was sent from south fork village by freight agent dechert. _when the great wall that held the body of water began to crumble at the top he sent a message begging the people of johnstown for god's sake to take to the hills._ he reports no serious accidents at south fork. richard davis ran to prospect hill when the water raised. as to mr. dechert's message, he says just such have been sent down at each flood since the lake was made. _the warning so often proved useless that little attention was paid to it this time._ "i cannot describe the mad rush," he said. "at first it looked like dust. that must have been the spray. i could see houses going down before it like a child's play blocks set on edge in a row. as it came nearer i could see houses totter for a moment, then rise and the next moment be crushed like egg shells, against each other." mr. john g. parke, of philadelphia, a civil engineer, was at the dam superintending some improvements in the drainage system at the lake. he did all he could with the help of a gang of laborers to avert the catastrophe and to warn those in danger. his story of the calamity is this:-- "for several days prior to the breaking of the dam, storm after storm swept over the mountains and flooded every creek and rivulet. the waters from these varied sources flowed into the lake, which finally was not able to stand the pressure forced upon it. friday morning i realized the danger that was threatened, and although from that time until three o'clock every human effort was made to prevent a flood, they were of no avail. when i at last found that the dam was bound to go, i started out to tell the people, and by twelve o'clock everybody in the conemaugh region did or should have known of their danger. three hours later my gravest fears were more than realized. it is an erroneous idea, however, that the dam burst. it simply moved away. the water gradually ate into the embankment until there was nothing left but a frail bulwark of wood. this finally split asunder and sent the waters howling down the mountains." chapter iv. the course of the torrent from the broken dam at the foot of the lake to johnstown is almost eighteen miles, and with the exception of one point, the water passed through a narrow v-shaped valley. four miles below the dam lay the town of south fork, where the south fork itself empties into the conemaugh river. the town contained about inhabitants. about four-fifths of it has been swept away. four miles further down on the conemaugh river, which runs parallel with the main line of the pennsylvania railroad, was the town of mineral point. it had inhabitants, per cent. of the houses being on a flat and close to the river. terrible as it may seem, very few of them have escaped. six miles further down was the town of conemaugh, and here alone there was a topographical possibility--the spreading of the flood and the breaking of its force. it contained inhabitants, and has been almost wholly devastated. woodvale, with people, lay a mile below conemaugh in the flat, and one mile further down were johnstown and its suburbs--cambria city and conemaugh borough, with a population of , . on made ground, and stretched along right at the river's verge, were the immense iron works of the cambria iron and steel company, who have $ , , invested in their plant. besides this there are many other large industrial establishments on the bank of the river. the stream of human beings that was swept before the angry floods was something most pitiful to behold. men, women and children were carried along frantically shrieking for help, but their cries availed them nothing. rescue was impossible. husbands were swept past their wives, and children were borne along, at a terrible speed, to certain death, before the eyes of their terrorized and frantic parents. houses, out-buildings, trees and barns were carried on the angry flood of waters as so much chaff. cattle standing in the fields were overwhelmed, and their carcasses strewed the tide. the railroad tracks converging on the town were washed out, and wires in all directions were prostrated. down through the packsaddle came the rushing waters. clinging to improvised rafts, constructed in the death battle from floating boards and timbers, were agonized men, women and children, their heart-rending shrieks for help striking horror to the breasts of the onlookers. their cries were of no avail. carried along at a railway speed on the breast of this rushing torrent, no human ingenuity could devise a means of rescue. it is impossible to describe briefly the suddenness with which the disaster came. a warning sound was heard at conemaugh a few minutes before the rush of water came, but it was attributed to some meteorological disturbance, and no trouble was borrowed because of the thing unseen. as the low, rumbling noise increased in volume, however, and came nearer, a suspicion of danger began to force itself even upon the bravest, which was increased to a certainty a few minutes later, when, with a rush, the mighty stream spread out in width, and when there was no time to do anything to save themselves. many of the unfortunates were whirled into the middle of the stream before they could turn around; men, women and children were struggling in the streets, and it is thought that many of them never reached johnstown, only a mile or two below. at johnstown a similar scene was enacted, only on a much larger scale. the population is greater and the sweeping whirlpool rushed into a denser mass of humanity. the imagination of the reader can better depict the spectacle than the pen of the writer can give it. it was a twilight of terror, and the gathering shades of evening closed in on a panorama of horrors that has few parallels in the history of casualties. when the great wave from conemaugh lake, behind the dam, came down the conemaugh valley, the first obstacle it struck was the great viaduct over the south fork. this viaduct was a state work, built to carry the old portage road across the fork. the pennsylvania railroad parallels the portage road for a long distance, and runs over the fork. besides sweeping the viaduct down, the bore, or smaller bores on its wings, washed out the portage road for miles. one of the small bores went down the bed of a brook which comes into the conemaugh at the village of south fork, which is some distance above the viaduct. the big bore backed the river above the village. the small bore was thus checked in its course and flowed into the village. [illustration: general view of the ruins, looking up stony creek.] the obstruction below being removed, the backed-up water swept the village of south fork away. the flood came down. it moved steadily, but with a velocity never yet attained by an engine moved by power controllable by man. it accommodated itself to the character of the breaks in the hill. it filled every one, whether narrow or broad. its thrust was sideways and downward as well as forward. by side thrusts it scoured every cave and bend in the line of the mountains, lessening its direct force to exert power laterally, but at the same time moving its centre straight on johnstown. it is well to state that the conemaugh river is tortuous, like most streams of its kind. wherever the mountains retreat, flats make out from them to the channel of the stream. it was on such flats that south fork and mineral point villages and the boroughs of conemaugh, franklin, woodvale, east conemaugh and johnstown were built. after emerging from the south fork, with the ruins of the great viaduct in its maw, it swept down a narrow valley until just above the village of mineral point. there it widened, and, thrusting its right wing into the hollow where the village nestled, it swept away every house on the flat. these were soon welded into a compact mass, with trees and logs and general drift stuff. this mass followed the bore. what the bore could not budge, its follower took up and carried. the first great feat at carrying and lifting was done at east conemaugh. it tore up every building in the yard of the pennsylvania railroad. it took locomotives and carried them down and dug holes for their burials. it has been said that the flood had a downward thrust. there was proof of this on the banks of the river, where there was a sort of breakwater of concreted cinders, slag, and other things, making a combination harder than stone. unable to get a grip directly on these banks, the flood jumped over them, threw the whole weight of the mass of logs and broken buildings down on the sand behind them, scooped this sand out, and then, by backward blows, knocked the concrete to pieces. in this it displayed almost the uttermost skill of human malice. after crossing the flat of east conemaugh and scooping out of their situations sixty-five houses in two streets, as well as tearing passenger trains to pieces, drowning an unknown number of persons, and picking up others to dash against whatever obstacles it encountered, it sent a force to the left, which cut across the flat of franklin borough, ripped thirty-two houses to pieces, and cut a second channel for the conemaugh river, leaving an island to mark the place of division of the forces of the flood. the strength of the eastern wing can be estimated from the fact that the iron bars piled in heaps in the stock yard of the cambria iron company were swept away, and that some of them may be found all along the river as far as johnstown. after this came the utter wiping out of the borough of woodvale, on the flat to the northeast of johnstown and diagonally opposite it. woodvale had a population of nearly people. it requires a large number of houses to shelter so many. estimating to a family, which is a big estimate, there were houses in woodvale. there were also a woolen mill, a flour mill, the gautier barb wire mills of the cambria iron company, and the tannery of w. h. rosenthal & co. only the flour mill and the middle section of the bridge remain. the flat is bare otherwise. the stables of the woodvale horse railroad company went out with the water; every horse and car in them went also. the change was wrought in five minutes. robert miller, who lost two of his children and his mother-in-law, thus describes the scene: "i was standing near the woodvale bridge, between maple avenue and portage street, in johnstown. the river was high, and david lucas and i were speculating about the bridges, whether they would go down or not. lucas said, 'i guess this bridge will stand; it does not seem to be weakened.' just then we saw a dark object up the river. over it was a white mist. it was high and somehow dreadful, though we could not make it out. dark smoke seemed to form a background for the mist. we did not wait for more. by instinct we knew the big dam had burst and its water was coming upon us. lucas jumped on a car horse, rode across the bridge, and went yelling into johnstown. the flood overtook him, and he had to abandon his horse and climb a high hill. "i went straight to my house in woodvale, warning everybody as i ran. my wife and mother-in-law were ready to move, with my five children, so we went for the hillside, but we were not speedy enough. the water had come over the flat at its base and cut us off. i and my wife climbed into a coal car with one of the children, to get out of the water. i put two more children into the car and looked around for my other children and my mother-in-law. my mother-in-law was a stout woman, weighing about two hundred and twelve pounds. she could not climb into a car. the train was too long for her to go around it, so she tried to crawl under, leading the children. "the train was suddenly pushed forward by the flood, and she was knocked down and crushed, so were my children, by the same shock. my wife and children in the car were thrown down and covered with coal. i was taken off by the water, but i swam to the car and pulled them from under a lot of coal. a second blow to the train threw our car against the hillside and us out of it to firm earth. i never saw my two children and mother-in-law after the flood first struck the train of coal cars. i have often heard it said that the dam might break, but i never paid any attention to it before. it was common talk whenever there was a freshet or a big pack of ice." the principal street of woodvale was maple avenue. the conemaugh river now rushes through it from one side of the flat to the other. its pavement is beautifully clean. it is doubtful that it will ever be cleared by mortal agency again. breaking down the barbed steel wire mill and the tannery at the bridge, the flood went across the regular channel of the river and struck the gautier steel works, made up of numerous stanch brick buildings and one immense structure of iron, filled with enormous boilers, fly wheels, and machinery generally. the buildings are strewn through johnstown. near their sites are some bricks, twisted iron beams, boilers, wheels, and engine bodies, bound together with logs, driftwood, tree branches, and various other things, woven in and out of one another marvelously. these aggregations are of enormous size and weight. they were not too strong for the immense power of the destroying agent, for a twenty-ton locomotive, taken from the gautier works, now lies in main street, three-quarters of a mile away. it did not simply take a good grip upon them; it was spreading out its line for a force by its left wing, and hit simultaneously upon johnstown flat, its people and houses, while its right wing did whatever it could in the way of helping the destructive work. the left wing scoured the flat to the base of the mountain. with a portion of the centre it then rushed across stony creek. the remainder of the central force cleared several paths in diverging directions through the town. while the left and centre were tearing houses to pieces and drowning untold lives, the right had been hurrying along the base of the northern hills, in the channel of the conemaugh river, carrying down the houses, bridges, human beings and other drift that had been picked up on the way from south fork. thus far the destruction at johnstown had not been one-quarter what it is now. but the bed of the conemaugh beyond johnstown is between high hills that come close together. the cut is bridged by a viaduct. the right wing, with its plunder, was stopped by the bridge and the bend. the left and centre came tearing down stony creek. there was a collision of forces. the men, women, children, horses, other domestic animals, houses, bridges, railroad cars, logs and tree branches were jammed together in a solid mass, which only dynamite can break up. the outlet of stony creek was almost completely closed and the channel of the conemaugh was also choked. the water in both surged back. in stony creek it went along the curve of the base of the hill in front of which kernville is built. dividing its strength, one part of the flood went up stony creek a short distance and moved around again into johnstown. it swept before it many more houses than before and carried them around in a circle, until they met and crashed against other houses, torn from the point of johnstown flat by a similar wave moving in a circle from the conemaugh. the two waves and their burdens went around and around in slowly-diminishing circles, until most of the houses had been ground to pieces. there are living men, women and children who circled in these frightful vortices for an hour. lawyer rose, his wife, his two brothers and his two sisters are among those. they were drawn out of their house by the suction of the retreating water, and thus were started on a frightful journey. three times they went from the kernville side of the creek to the centre of the johnstown flat and past their own dwelling. they were dropped at last on the kernville shore. mr. rose had his collar bone broken, but the others were hurt only by fright, wetting and some bruises. some of the back water went up the creek and did damage at grubtown and hornerstown. more of it, following the line of the mountain, rushed in at the back of kernville. it cut a clear path for itself from the lower end of the village to the upper end, diagonally opposite, passing through the centre. it sent little streams to topple homes over in side places and went on a round trip into the higher part of johnstown, between the creek and the hill. it carried houses from kernville to the johnstown bank of the creek, and left them there. then it coursed down the bank, overturning trains of the baltimore and ohio railroad, and also houses, and keeping on until it had made the journey several times. how so marvelous a force was exerted is illustrated in the following statement from jacob reese, of pittsburg, the inventor of the basic process for manufacturing steel. mr. reese says:-- "when the south fork dam gave way, , , tons of water rushed down the mountain side, carrying thousands of tons of rocks, logs and trees with it. when the flood reached the conemaugh valley it struck the pennsylvania railroad at a point where they make up the trains for ascending the allegheny mountains. several trains with their locomotives and loaded cars were swept down the valley before the flood wave, which is said to have been fifty feet high. cars loaded with iron, cattle, and freight of all kinds, with those mighty locomotives, weighing from seventy to one hundred tons each, were pushed ahead of the flood, trucks and engines rolling over and over like mere toys. "sixteen million tons of water gathering fences, barns, houses, mills and shops into its maw. down the valley for three miles or more rushed this mighty avalanche of death, sweeping everything before it, and leaving nothing but death and destruction behind it. when it struck the railroad bridge at johnstown, and not being able to force its way through that stone structure, the débris was gorged and the water dammed up fifty feet in ten minutes. "this avalanche was composed of more than , tons of rocks, locomotives, freight cars, car trucks, iron, logs, trees and other material pushed forward by , , tons of water falling feet, and it was this that, sliding over the ground, mowed down the houses, mills and factories as a mowing machine does a field of grain. it swept down with a roaring, crushing sound, at the rate of a mile a minute, and hurled , people into the jaws of death in less than half an hour. and so the people called it the avalanche of death." chapter v. "johnstown is annihilated," telegraphed superintendent pitcairn to pittsburg on friday night. "he came," says one who visited the place on sunday, "very close to the facts of the case. nothing like it was ever seen in this country. where long rows of dwelling-houses and business blocks stood forty-eight hours ago, ruin and desolation now reign supreme. probably houses have been swept from the face of the earth as completely as if they had never been erected. main street, from end to end, is piled fifteen and twenty feet high with débris, and in some instances it is as high as the roofs of the houses. this great mass of wreckage fills the street from curb to curb, and frequently has crushed the buildings in and filled the space with reminders of the terrible calamity. there is not a man in the place who can give any reliable estimate of the number of houses that have been swept away. city solicitor kuehn, who should be very good authority in this matter, places the number at . from the woolen mill above the island to the bridge, a distance of probably two miles, a strip of territory nearly a half mile in width has been swept clean, not a stick of timber or one brick on top of another being left to tell the story. it is the most complete wreck that imagination could portray. "all day long men, women, and children were plodding about the desolate waste looking in vain to locate the boundaries of their former homes. nothing but a wide expanse of mud, ornamented here and there with heaps of driftwood, remained, however, for their contemplation. it is perfectly safe to say that every house in the city that was not located well up on the hillside was either swept completely away or wrecked so badly that rebuilding will be absolutely necessary. these losses, however, are nothing compared to the frightful sacrifice of precious human lives to be seen on every hand. "during all this solemn sunday johnstown has been drenched with the tears of stricken mortals, and the air is filled with sobs and sighs that come from breaking hearts. there are scenes enacted here every hour and every minute that affect all beholders profoundly. when homes are thus torn asunder in an instant, and the loved ones hurled from the arms of loving and devoted mothers, there is an element of sadness in the tragedy that overwhelms every heart. "a slide, a series of frightful tosses from side to side, a run, and you have crossed the narrow rope bridge which spanned the chasm dug by the waters between the stone bridge and johnstown. crossing the bridge is an exciting task, yet many women accomplished it rather than remain in johnstown. the bridge pitched like a ship in a storm. within two inches of your feet rushed the muddy waters of the conemaugh. there were no ropes to easily guide, and creeping was more convenient than walking. one had to cross the conemaugh at a second point in order to reach johnstown proper. this was accomplished by a skiff ferry. the ferryman clung to a rope and pulled the boat over. "after landing one walks across a desolate sea of mud, in which there are interred many human bodies. it was once the handsome portion of the town. the cellars are filled up with mud, so that a person who has never seen the city can hardly imagine that houses ever stood where they did. four streets solidly built up with houses have been swept away. nothing but a small, two-story frame house remains. it was near the edge of the wave and thus escaped, although one side was torn off. the walk up to wrecks of houses was interrupted in many places by small branch streams. occasionally across the flats could be seen the remains of a victim. the stench arising from the mud is sickening. along the route were strewn tin utensils, pieces of machinery, iron pipes, and wares of every conceivable kind. in the midst of the wreck a clothing store dummy, with a hand in the position of beckoning to a person, stands erect and uninjured. "it is impossible to describe the appearance of main street. whole houses have been swept down this one street and become lodged. the wreck is piled as high as the second-story windows. the reporter could step from the wreck into the auditorium of the opera house. the ruins consist of parts of houses, trees, saw logs and reels from the wire factory. many houses have their side walls and roofs torn up, and one can walk directly into what had been second-story bed-rooms, or go in by way of the top. further up town a raft of logs lodged in the street, and did great damage. at the beginning of the wreckage, which is at the opening of the valley of the conemaugh, one can look up the valley for miles and not see a house. nothing stands but an old woolen mill. "charles luther is the name of the boy who stood on an adjacent elevation and saw the whole flood. he said he heard a grinding noise far up the valley, and looking up he could see a dark line moving slowly toward him. he saw that it was houses. on they came, like the hand of a giant clearing off his table. high in the air would be tossed a log or beam, which fell back with a crash. down the valley it moved and across the little mountain city. for ten minutes nothing but moving houses were seen, and then the waters came with a roar and a rush. this lasted for two hours, and then it began to flow more steadily." seen from the high hill across the river from johnstown, the conemaugh valley gives an easy explanation of the terrible destruction which it has suffered. this valley, stretching back almost in a straight line for miles, suddenly narrows near johnstown. the wall of water which came tearing down toward the town, picking up all the houses and mills in the villages along its way, suddenly rose in height as it came to the narrow pass. it swept over the nearest part of the town and met the waters of stony creek, swollen by rains, rushing along with the speed of a torrent. the two forces coming together, each turned aside and started away again in a half-circle, seeking an outlet in the lower conemaugh valley. the massive stone bridge of the pennsylvania railroad company, at the lower base of the triangle, was almost instantly choked up with the great mass of wreckage dashed against it, and became a dam that could not be swept away, and proved to be the ruin of the town and the villages above. the waters checked here, formed a vast whirlpool, which destroyed everything within its circle. it backed up on the other side of the triangle, and devastated the village of kernville, across the river from johnstown. the force of the current was truly appalling. the best evidence of its force is exhibited in the mass of débris south of the pennsylvania bridge. persons on the hillsides declare that houses, solid from their foundation stones, were rushed on to destruction at the rate of thirty miles an hour. on one house forty persons were counted; their cries for help were heard far above the roaring waters. at the railroad bridge the house parted in the middle, and the cries of the unfortunate people were smothered in the engulfing waters. at the cambria iron works a huge hickory struck the south brick wall of the rolling mill at an angle, went through it and the west wall, where it remains. a still more extraordinary incident is seen at the foot-bridge of the pennsylvania station, on the freight track built for the cambria iron works. the sunken track and bridge are built in a curve. in clearing out the track the cambria workmen discovered two huge bridge trusses intact, the larger one feet long and feet high. it lay close to the top of the bridge and had been driven into the cut at least fifty feet. it was with an impulse to the right side of the mountain that the great mass of water came down the conemaugh river. it was a mass of water with a front forty feet high, and an eighth of a mile wide. its velocity was so great that its first sweep did little damage on either side. it had no time to spread. where it burst from the gap it swept south until it struck the bridge, and, although it was ten feet or more deep over the top of the bridge, the obstruction of the mass of masonry was so great that the head of the rush of water was turned back along the pennsylvania railroad bluff on the left, and, sweeping up to where it met the first stream again, licked up the portion of the town on the left side of the triangular plain. a great eddy was thus formed. through the stony creek gap to the right there was a rush of surplus water. in two minutes after the current first burst through, forty feet deep, with a solid mass of water whirling around with a current of tremendous velocity, it was a whirlpool vastly greater than that of ten niagaras. the only outlet was under and over the railroad bridge, and the continuing rush of the waters into the valley from the gap was greater for some time than the means of escape at the bridge. [illustration: ruins showing the path of the flood.] "standing now at the bridge," says a visitor on monday, "where this vast whirlpool struggled for exit, the air is heavy with smoke and foul with nameless odors from a mass of wreckage. the area of the triangular space where the awful whirlpool revolved is said to be about four square miles. the area of the space covered by this smoking mass is sixty acres. the surface of this mass is now fifteen feet below the top of the bridge and about thirty below the point on the bluff where the surface of the whirlpool lashed the banks. one ragged mass some distance above the bridge rises several feet above the general level, but with that exception the surface of the débris is level. it has burned off until it reached the water, and is smouldering on as the water gradually lowers. on the right bank, at about where was the highest water level, a detachment of the pittsburg fire department is throwing two fitful streams of water down into the smoke, with the idea of gradually extinguishing the fire. in the immensity of the disaster with which they combat their feeble efforts seem like those of boys with squirt guns dampening a bonfire. about the sixty acres of burning débris, and to the left of it from where it begins to narrow toward stony creek gap, there is a large area of level mud, with muddy streams wandering about in it. this tract of mud comprises all of the triangle except a thin fringe of buildings along the bluff on the pennsylvania railroad. a considerable number of houses stand on the high ground on the lower face of the central mountain and off to the right into stony creek gap. the fringe along the pennsylvania railroad is mostly of stores and other large brick buildings that are completely wrecked, though not swept away. the houses on the higher ground are unharmed; but down toward the edge they fade away by degrees of completeness in their wreckage into the yellow level of the huge tract over which the mighty whirlpool swept. off out of sight, in stony creek gap, are fringes of houses on either side of the muddy flat. "this flat is a peculiar thing. it is level and uninteresting as a piece of waste ground. too poor to grow grass, there is nothing to indicate that it had ever been anything else than what it is. it is as clean of débris and wreckage as though there had never been a building on it. in reality it was the central and busiest part of johnstown. buildings, both dwellings and stores, covered it thickly. its streets were paved, and its sidewalks of substantial stone. it had street-car lines, gas and electric lights, and all the other improvements of a substantial city of , or , inhabitants. iron bridges spanned the streams, and the buildings were of substantial character. not a brick remains, not a stone nor a stick of timber in all this territory. there are not even hummocks and mounds to show where wreckage might be covered with a layer of mud. they are not there, they are gone--every building, every street, every sidewalk and pavement, the street railways, and everything else that covered the surface of the earth has vanished as utterly as though it had never been there. the ground was swept as clean as though some mighty scraper had been dragged over it again and again. not even the lines of the streets can be remotely traced. "'i have visited johnstown a dozen times a year for a long time,' said a business man to-day, 'and i know it thoroughly, but i haven't the least idea now of what part of it this is. i can't even tell the direction the streets used to run.' "his bewilderment is hardly greater than that of the citizens themselves. they wander about in the mud for hours trying to find the spot where the house of some friend or relative used to stand. it takes a whole family to locate the site of their friend's house with any reasonable certainty. "wandering over this muddy plain one can realize something of what must have been the gigantic force of that vast whirlpool. it pressed upon the town like some huge millstone, weighing tens of thousands of tons and revolving with awful velocity, pounding to powder everything beneath. but the conception of the power of that horrible eddy of the flood must remain feeble until that sixty acres of burning débris is inspected. it seems from a little distance like any other mass of wreckage, though vastly longer than any ever before seen in this country. it must have been many times more tremendous when it was heaped up twenty feet higher over its whole area and before the fire leveled it off. but neither then nor now can the full terror of the flood that piled it there be adequately realized until a trip across parts where the fire has been extinguished shows the manner in which the stuff composing it is packed together. it is not a heap of broken timbers lying loosely thrown together in all directions. it is a solid mass. the boards and timbers which made up the frame buildings are laid together as closely as sticks of wood in a pile--more closely, for they are welded into one another until each stick is as solidly fixed in place as though all were one. a curious thing is that wherever there are a few boards together they are edge up, and never standing on end or flat. the terrible force of the whirlpool that ground four square miles of buildings into this sixty acres of wreckage left no opportunity for gaps or holes between pieces in the river. everything was packed together as solidly as though by sledge-hammer blows. "but the boards and timber of four square miles of buildings are not all that is in that sixty-acre mass. an immense amount of débris from further up the valley lies there. twenty-seven locomotives, several pullman cars and probably a hundred other cars, or all that is left of them, are in that mass. fragments of iron bridges can be seen sticking out occasionally above the wreckage. they are about the only things the fire has not leveled, except the curious hillock spoken of, which is an eighth of a mile back from the bridge, where the flames apparently raged less fiercely. scattered over the area, also, are many blackened logs that were too big to be entirely burned, and that stick up now like spar buoys in a sea of ruin. little jets of flame, almost unseen by daylight, but appearing as evening falls, are scattered thickly over the surface of the wreckage. "of the rest of johnstown, and the collection of towns within sight of the bridge, not much is to be said. they are, to a greater or less extent, gone, as johnstown is gone. far up the gap through which came the flood a large brick building remains standing, but ruined. it is all that is left of one of the biggest wire mills and steel works in the country. turning around below the bridge are the works of the cambria iron company. the buildings are still standing, but they are pretty well ruined, and the machinery with which they were filled is either totally destroyed or damaged almost beyond repair. high up on the hill at the left and scattered up on other hills in sight are many dwellings, neat, well kept, and attractive places apparently, and looking as bright and fresh now as before the awful torrent wiped out of existence everything in the valley below. "this is johnstown and its immediate vicinity as nearly as words can paint it. it is a single feature, one section out of fifteen miles of horror that stretches through this once lovely valley of the allegheny. what is true of johnstown is true of every town for miles up and down. the desolation of one town may differ from the desolation in others as one death may differ from another; but it is desolation and death everywhere--desolation so complete, so relentless, so dreadful that it is absolutely beyond the power of language fairly to tell the tale." chapter vi. mr. william henry smith, general manager of the associated press, was a passenger on a railroad train which reached the conemaugh valley on the very day of the disaster. he writes as follows of what he saw: "the fast line trains that leave chicago at quarter past three and cincinnati at seven p.m. constitute the day-express eastward from pittsburg, which runs in two sections. this train left pittsburg on time friday morning, but was stopped for an hour at johnstown by reports of a wash-out ahead. it had been raining hard for over sixteen hours, and the sides of the mountains were covered with water descending into the valleys. the conemaugh river, whose bank is followed by the pennsylvania railroad for many miles, looked an angry flood nearly bankfull. passengers were interested in seeing hundreds of saw-logs and an enormous amount of driftwood shoot rapidly by, and the train pursued its way eastward. at johnstown there was a long wait, as before stated. the lower stories of many houses were submerged by the slack-water, and the inhabitants were looking out of the second-story windows. horses were standing up to their knees in water in the streets; a side-track of the railroad had been washed out; loaded cars were on the bridge to keep it steady, and the huge poles of the western union telegraph company, carrying fifteen wires, swayed badly, and several soon went down. the two sections ran to conemaugh, about two miles eastward of johnstown, and lay there about three hours, when they were moved on to the highest ground and placed side by side. the mail train was placed in the rear of the first section, and a freight train was run onto a side track on the bank of the conemaugh. the report was that a bridge had been washed out, carrying away one track and that the other track was unsafe. there was a rumor also that the reservoir at south fork might break. this made most of the passengers uneasy, and they kept a pretty good look-out for information. the porters of the pullman cars remained at their posts, and comforted the passengers with the assurance that the pennsylvania railroad company always took care of its patrons. a few gentlemen and some ladies and children quietly seated themselves, apparently contented. one gentleman, who was ill, had his berth made up and retired, although advised not to do so. "soon the cry came that the water in the reservoir had broken down the barrier and was sweeping down the valley. instantly there was a panic and a rush for the mountain side. children were carried and women assisted by a few who kept cool heads. it was a race for life. there was seen the black head of the flood, now the monster destruction, whose crest was high raised in the air, and with this in view even the weak found wings for their feet. no words can adequately describe the terror that filled every breast, or the awful power manifested by the flood. the round-house had stalls for twenty-three locomotives. there were eighteen or twenty of these standing there at this time. there was an ominous crash, and the round-house and locomotives disappeared. everything in the main track of the flood was first lifted in air and then swallowed up by the waters. a hundred houses were swept away in a few minutes. these included the hotel, stores, and saloons on the front street and residences adjacent. the locomotive of one of the trains was struck by a house and demolished. the side of another house stopped in front of another locomotive and served as a shield. the rear car of the mail train swung around in the rear of the second section of the express and turned over on its side. three men were observed standing upon it as it floated. the coupling broke, and the car moved out upon the bosom of the waters. as it would roll the men would shift their position. the situation was desperate, and they were given up for lost. two or three hardy men seized ropes and ran along the mountain side to give them aid. later it was reported that the men escaped over some driftwood as their car was carried near a bank. it is believed there were several women and children inside the car. of course they were drowned. as the fugitives on the mountain side witnessed the awful devastation they were moved as never before in their lives. they were powerless to help those seized upon by the waters; the despair of those who had lost everything in life and the wailing of those whose relatives or friends were missing filled their breasts with unutterable sorrow. "the rain continued to fall steadily, but shelter was not thought of. few passengers saved anything from the train, so sudden was the cry 'run for your lives, the reservoir has broken!' "many were without hats, and as their baggage was left on the trains, they were without the means of relieving their unhappy condition. the occupants of the houses still standing on the high ground threw them open to those who had lost all, and to the passengers of the train. "during the height of the flood, the spectators were startled by the sound of two locomotive whistles from the very midst of the waters. two engineers, with characteristic courage, had remained at their posts, and while there was destruction on every hand, and apparently no escape for them, they sounded their whistles. this they repeated at intervals, the last time with triumphant vigor, as the waters were receding from the sides of their locomotives. by half-past five the force of the reservoir water had been spent on the village of conemaugh, and the pullman cars and locomotive of the second section remained unmoved. this was because, being on the highest and hardest ground, the destructive current of the reservoir flood had passed between that and the mountain, while the current of the river did not eat it away. but the other trains had been destroyed. a solitary locomotive was seen embedded in the mud where the round-house had stood. "as the greatest danger had passed, the people of conemaugh gave their thoughts to their neighbors of the city of johnstown. here was centred the great steel and iron industries, the pride of western pennsylvania, the cambria iron works being known everywhere. here were churches, daily newspapers, banks, dry-goods houses, warehouses, and the comfortable and well-built homes of twelve thousand people. in the contemplation of the irresistible force of that awful flood, gathering additional momentum as it swept on toward the gulf, it became clear that the city must be destroyed, and that unless the inhabitants had telegraphic notice of the breaking of the reservoir they must perish. a cry of horror went up from the hundreds on the mountain-side, and a few instinctively turned their steps toward johnstown. the city was destroyed. all the mills, furnaces, manufactories, the many and varied industries, the banks, the residences, all, all were swallowed up before the shadows of night had settled down upon the earth. those who came back by daybreak said that from five thousand to eight thousand had been drowned. our hope is that this is an exaggeration, and when the roll is called most will respond. in the light of this calamity, the destruction at conemaugh sinks into insignificance." mr. george johnston, a lumber merchant of pittsburg, was another witness. "i had gone to johnstown," he says, "to place a couple of orders. i had scarcely reached the town, about three o'clock in the afternoon, when i saw a bulletin posted up in front of the telegraph office, around which quite a crowd of men had congregated. i pushed my way up, and read that the waters were so high in the conemaugh that it was feared the three-mile dam, as it was called, would give way. i know enough about johnstown to feel that my life was not worth a snap once that dam gave way. although the johnstown people did not seem to pay much attention to the warning, i was nervous and apprehensive. i had several parties to see, but concluded to let all but one go until some later day. so i hurried through with my most urgent transactions and started for the depot. the conemaugh had then gotten so high that the residents of the low-lying districts had moved into upper stories. i noticed a number of wagons filled with furniture hurrying through the streets. a few families, either apprehensive of the impending calamity or driven from their houses by the rising waters, had started for the surrounding hills. johnstown, you know, lies in a narrow valley, and lies principally on the v-shaped point between the converging river and stony creek. "i was just walking up the steps to the depot when i heard a fearful roar up the valley. it sounded at first like a heavy train of cars, but soon became too loud and terrible for that. i boarded a train, and as i sat at the car window a sight broke before my view that i will remember to my dying day. away up the conemaugh came a yellow wall, whose crest was white and frothy. i rushed for the platform of the car, not knowing what i did, and just then the train began to move. terrified as i was, i remember feeling that i was in the safest place and i sank back in a seat. when i looked out again what had been the busy mill yards of the cambria iron company was a yellow, turbulent sea, on whose churned currents houses and barns were riding like ships in a brook. the water rushing in upon the molten metal in the mills had caused deafening explosions, which, coupled with the roar and grinding of the flood, made a terrifying din. turning to the other side and looking on down the valley, i saw the muddy water rushing through the main streets of the town. i could see men and horses floundering about almost within call. house-tops were being filled with white-faced people who clung to each other and looked terror-stricken upon the rising flood. "it had all come so quickly that none of them seemed to realize what had happened. the conductor of my train had been pulling frantically at the bell-rope, and the train went spinning across the bridge. i sat in my seat transfixed with horror. houses were spinning through beneath the bridge, and i did not know at what moment the structure would melt away under the train. the conductor kept tugging at the bell-rope and the train shot ahead again. we seemed to fairly leap over the yellow torrents, and i wondered for an instant whether we had not left the rails and were flying through the air. my heart gave a bound of relief when we dashed into the forest on the hillside opposite the doomed town. as the train sped along at a rate of speed that made me think the engineer had gone mad, i took one look back upon the valley. what a sight it was! the populous valley for miles either way was a seething, roaring cauldron, through whose boiling surface roofs of houses and the stand-pipes of mills protruded. the water was fairly piling up in a well farther up, and i saw the worst had not yet come. then i turned my eyes away from the awful sight and tried not to even think until pittsburg was reached. "i cannot see how it is possible for less than five thousand lives to have been sacrificed in johnstown alone. at least two-thirds of the town was swept away. the water came so quickly that escape from the low districts was impossible. people retreated to the upper floors of their residences and stores until the water had gotten too deep to allow their escape. when the big flood came the houses were picked up like pasteboard boxes or collapsed like egg-shells. the advance of the flood was black with houses, logs, and other debris, so that it struck johnstown with the solid force of a battering-ram. none but eye-witnesses of the flood can comprehend its size and awfulness as it came tumbling, roaring down upon the unprotected town." [illustration: typical scene in johnstown.] the appearance of the flood at sang hollow, some miles below johnstown, is thus pictured by c. w. linthicum, of baltimore: "my train left pittsburg on friday morning for johnstown. the train was due at sang hollow at two minutes after four, but was five minutes late. at sang hollow, just as we were about to pull out, we heard that the flood was coming. looking ahead, up the valley, we saw an immense wall of water thirty feet high, raging, roaring, rushing toward us. the engineer reversed his engine and rushed back to the hills at full speed, and we barely escaped the waters. we ran back three hundred yards, and the flood swept by, tearing up track, telegraph poles, trees, and houses. superintendent pitcairn was on the train. we all got out and tried to save the floating people. taking the bell cord we formed a line and threw the rope out, thus saving seven persons. we could have saved more, but many were afraid to let go of the debris. it was an awful sight. the immense volume of water was roaring along, whirling over huge rocks, dashing against the banks and leaping high into the air, and this seething flood was strewn with timber, trunks of trees, parts of houses, and hundreds of human beings, cattle, and almost every living animal. the fearful peril of the living was not more awful than the horrors of hundreds of distorted, bleeding corpses whirling along the avalanche of death. we counted one hundred and seven people floating by and dead without number. a section of roof came by on which were sitting a woman and girl. a man named c. w. heppenstall, of pittsburg, waded and swam to the roof. he brought the girl in first and then the woman. they told us they were not relatives. the woman had lost her husband and four children, and the girl her father and mother, and entire family. a little boy came by with his mother. both were as calm as could be, and the boy was apparently trying to comfort the mother. they passed unheeding our proffered help, and striking the bridge below, went down into the vortex like lead. "one beautiful girl came by with her hands raised in prayer, and, although we shouted to her and ran along the bank, she paid no attention. we could have saved her if she had caught the rope. an old man and his wife whom we saved said that eleven persons started from cambria city on the roof with him, but that the others had dropped off. "at about eight p. m. we started for new florence. all along the river we saw corpses without number caught in the branches of trees and wedged in corners in the banks. a large sycamore tree in the river between sang hollow and new florence seemed to draw into it nearly all who floated down, and they went under the surface at its roots like lead. when the waters subsided two hundred and nine bodies were found at the root of this tree. all night the living and the dead floated by new florence. at pittsburg seventy-eight bodies were found on saturday, and as many more were seen floating by. hundreds of people from ill-fated johnstown are wandering homeless and starving on the mountain-side. very few saved anything, and i saw numbers going down the stream naked. the suffering within the next few days will be fearful unless prompt relief is extended." h. m. bennett and s. w. keltz, engineer and conductor of engine no. , , an extra freight, which happened to be lying at south fork when the dam broke, tell a graphic story of their wonderful flight and escape on the locomotive before the advancing flood. at the time mentioned bennett and keltz were in the signal tower at that point awaiting orders. the fireman and flagman were on the engine, and two brakemen were asleep in the caboose. suddenly the men in the tower heard a loud booming roar in the valley above them. they looked in the direction of the sound, and were almost transfixed with horror to see two miles above them a huge black wall of water, at least one hundred and fifty feet in height, rushing down the valley upon them. one look the fear-stricken men gave the awful sight, and then they made a rush for the locomotive, at the same time giving the alarm to the sleeping brakemen in the caboose with loud cries, but with no avail. it was impossible to aid them further, however, so they cut the engine loose from the train, and the engineer, with one wild wrench, threw the lever wide open, and they were away on a mad race for life. for a moment it seemed that they would not receive momentum enough to keep ahead of the flood, and they cast one despairing glance back. then they could see the awful deluge approaching in its might. on it came, rolling and roaring like some titanic monster, tossing and tearing houses, sheds, and trees in its awful speed as if they were mere toys. as they looked they saw the two brakemen rush out of the cab, but they had not time to gather the slightest idea of the cause of their doom before they, the car, and signal tower were tossed high in the air, to disappear forever in engulfing water. then with a shudder, as if at last it comprehended its peril, the engine leaped forward like a thing of life, and speeded down the valley. but fast as it went, the flood gained upon them. hope, however, was in the ascendant, for if they could but get across the bridge below the track would lean toward the hillside in such a manner that they would be comparatively safe. in a few breathless moments the shrieking locomotive whizzed around the curve and they were in sight of the bridge. horror upon horrors! ahead of them was a freight train, with the rear end almost on the bridge, and to get across was simply impossible! engineer bennett then reversed the lever and succeeded in checking the engine as they glided across the bridge, and then they jumped and ran for their lives up the hillside, as the bridge and tender of the locomotive they had been on were swept away like a bundle of matches in the torrent. chapter vii. there have been many famous rides in history. longfellow has celebrated that of paul revere. read has sung of sheridan's. john boyle o'reilly has commemorated in graceful verse the splendid achievement of collins graves, who, when the williamsburg dam in massachusetts broke, dashed down the valley on horseback in the van of the flood, warning the people and saving countless lives: "he draws no rein, but he shakes the street with a shout and a ring of the galloping feet, and this the cry that he flings to the wind: 'to the hills for your lives! the flood is behind!' "in front of the roaring flood is heard the galloping horse and the warning word. thank god! the brave man's life is spared! from williamsburg town he nobly dared to race with the flood and take the road in front of the terrible swath it mowed. for miles it thundered and crashed behind, but he looked ahead with a steadfast mind: 'they must be warned,' was all he said, as away on his terrible ride he sped." there were two such heroes in the conemaugh valley. let their deeds be told and their names held in everlasting honor. one was john g. parke, a young civil engineer of philadelphia, a nephew of the general john g. parke who commanded a corps of the union army. he was the first to discover the impending break in the south fork dam, and jumping into the saddle he started at breakneck speed down the valley shouting: "the dam; the dam is breaking; run for your lives!" hundreds of people were saved by this timely warning. reaching south fork station, young parke telegraphed tidings of the coming inundation to johnstown, ten miles below, fully an hour before the flood came in "a solid wall of water thirty feet high" to drown the mountain-bound town. some heeded the note of alarm at johnstown; others had heard it before, doubted, and waited until death overtook them. young parke climbed up into the mountains when the water was almost at his horse's heels, and saw the deluge pass. less fortunate was daniel peyton, a rich young man of johnstown. he heard at conemaugh the message sent down from south fork by the gallant parke. in a moment he sprang into the saddle. mounted on a grand, big, bay horse, he came riding down the pike which passes through conemaugh to johnstown, like some angel of wrath of old, shouting his warning: "run for your lives to the hills! run to the hills!" the people crowded out of their houses along the thickly settled streets awe-struck and wondering. no one knew the man, and some thought he was a maniac and laughed. on and on, at a deadly pace, he rode, and shrilly rang out his awful cry. in a few moments, however, there came a cloud of ruin down the broad streets, down the narrow alleys, grinding, twisting, hurling, over-turning, crashing--annihilating the weak and the strong. it was the charge of the flood, wearing its coronet of ruin and devastation, which grew at every instant of its progress. forty feet high, some say, thirty according to others, was this sea, and it travelled with a swiftness like that which lay in the heels of mercury. on and on raced the rider, on and on rushed the wave. dozens of people took heed of the warning and ran up to the hills. poor, faithful rider! it was an unequal contest. just as he turned to cross the railroad bridge the mighty wall fell upon him, and horse, rider, and bridge all went out into chaos together. a few feet further on several cars of the pennsylvania railroad train from pittsburg were caught up and hurried into the cauldron, and the heart of the town was reached. the hero had turned neither to the right nor left for himself, but rode on to death for his townsmen. when found peyton was lying face upward beneath the remnants of massive oaks, while hard by lay the gallant horse that had so nobly done all in his power for humanity before he started to seek a place of safety for himself. mrs. ogle, the manager of the western union telegraph office, who died at her post, will go down in history as a heroine of the highest order. notwithstanding the repeated notifications which she received to get out of reach of the approaching danger, she stood by the instruments with unflinching loyalty and undaunted courage, sending words of warning to those in danger in the valley below. when every station in the path of the coming torrent had been warned, she wired her companion at south fork: "this is my last message," and as such it shall always be remembered as her last words on earth, for at that very moment the torrent engulfed her and bore her from her post on earth to her post of honor in the great beyond. miss nina speck, daughter of the rev. david speck, pastor of the first united brethren church, of chambersburg, was in johnstown visiting her brother and narrowly escaped death in the flood. she arrived home clad in nondescript clothing, which had been furnished by an old colored washerwoman, and told the following story of the flood: "our house was in kernsville, a part of johnstown through which stony creek ran. although we were a square from the creek, the back-water from the stream had flooded the streets in the morning and was up to our front porch. at four o'clock on friday afternoon we were sitting on the front porch watching the flood, when we heard a roar as of a tornado or mighty conflagration. "we rushed up-stairs and got out upon the bay-window. there an awful sight met our eyes. down the conemaugh valley was advancing a mighty wall of water and mist with a terrible roar. before it were rolling houses and buildings of all kinds, tossing over and over. we thought it was a cyclone, the roar sounding like a tempest among forest trees. we started down-stairs and out through the rear of the house to escape to the hillside near by. but before we could get there the water was up to our necks and we could make no progress. we turned back and were literally dashed by the current into the house, which began to move off as soon as [we] were in it again. from the second-story window i saw a young man drifting toward us. i broke the glass from the frames with my hands and helped him in, and in a few minutes more i pulled in an old man, a neighbor, who had been sick. "our house moved rapidly down the stream and fortunately lodged against a strong building. the water forced us out of the second-story up into the attic. then we heard a lot of people on our roof begging us for god's sake to let them in. i broke through the roof with a bed-slat and pulled them in. soon we had thirteen in all crouched in the attic. "our house was rocking, and every now and then a building would crash against us. every moment we thought we would go down. the roofs of all the houses drifting by us were covered with people, nearly all praying and some singing hymns, and now and then a house would break apart and all would go down. on saturday at noon we were rescued, making our way from one building to the next by crawling on narrow planks. i counted hundreds of bodies lying in the debris, most of them covered over with earth and showing only the outlines of the form." opposite the northern wall of the methodist church the flood struck the new queen anne house of john fronheiser, a superintendent in the cambria works. he was at home, as most men were that day, trying to calm the fears of the women and children of the family during the earlier flood. down went the front of the new queen anne house, and into the wreck of it fell the superintendent, two elder children, a girl and a boy. as the flood passed he heard the boy cry: "don't let me drown, papa; break my arms first!" and the girl: "cut off my legs, but don't let me drown!" and as he heard them, came a wilder cry from his wife drifting down with the current, to "save the baby." but neither wife nor baby could be saved, and boy and girl stayed in the wreck until the water went down and they were extricated. horror piled on horror is the story from johnstown down to the viaduct. horror shot through with intense lights of heroism, and here and there pervaded with gleams of humor. it is known that one girl sang as she was whirled through the flood, "jesus, lover of my soul," until the water stopped her singing forever. it is known that elvie duncan, daughter of the superintendent of the street car company, when her family was separated and she was swept away with her baby sister, kept the little thing alive by chewing bread and feeding it to her. it is known that john dibart, banker, died as helplessly in his splendid house as did that solitary prisoner in his cell; that the pleasant park, with the chain fence about it, was so completely annihilated that not even one root of the many shade trees within its boundaries remains. it is known also that to a leaden-footed messenger boy, who was ambling along main street, fear lent wings to lift him into the _tribune_ office in the second story of the post office, and that the rosensteels, general storekeepers of woodvale, were swept into the windows of their friends, the cohens, retail storekeepers of main street, johnstown, two miles from where they started. it is known that the episcopal church, at locust and market streets, went down like a house of cards, or as the german lutheran had gone, in the path of the flood, and that rector diller, his wife and child, and adopted daughter went with it, while of their next-door neighbors, frank daly, of the cambria company, and his mother, the son was drowned and the mother, not so badly hurt in body as in spirit, died three nights after in the mercy hospital, pittsburg. but while the flood was driving people to silent death down the valley, there was a sound of lamentation on the hills. hundreds who had climbed there to be out of reach during the morning's freshet saw the city in the valley disappearing, and their cries rose high above the crash and the roar. little time had eyes to watch or lips to cry. o'brien, the disabled millville storekeeper, was one of the crowd in the park. he saw a town before him, then a mountain of timber approaching; then a dizzy swirl of men at the viaduct, a breaking of the embankment to the east of it, the forming of a whirlpool there that ate up homes and those that dwelt in them, as a cauldron of molten iron eats up the metal scraps that are thrown in to cool it, and then a silence and a subsidence. it was a quarter of four o'clock. at half-past three there had been a johnstown. now there was none. chapter viii. volumes might be written of the sufferings endured and valor exhibited by the survivors of the flood, or of the heart-rending grief with which so many were stricken. at johnstown an utterly wretched woman named mrs. fenn stood by a muddy pool of water trying to find some trace of a once happy home. she was half crazed with grief, and her eyes were red and swollen. as a correspondent stepped to her side she raised her pale, haggard face and remarked: "they are all gone. o god! be merciful to them! my husband and my seven dear little children have been swept down with the flood, and i am left alone. we were driven by the awful flood into the garret, but the water followed us there. inch by inch it kept rising, until our heads were crushing against the roof. it was death to remain. so i raised a window, and one by one, placed my darlings on some driftwood, trusting to the great creator. as i liberated the last one, my sweet little boy, he looked at me and said: 'mamma, you always told me that the lord would care for me; will he look after me now?' i saw him drift away with his loving face turned toward me, and, with a prayer on my lips for his deliverance, he passed from sight forever. the next moment the roof crashed in, and i floated outside, to be rescued fifteen hours later from the roof of a house in kernsville. if i could only find one of my darlings i could bow to the will of god, but they are all gone. i have lost everything on earth now but my life, and i will return to my old virginia home and lay me down for my last great sleep." a handsome woman, with hair as black as a raven's wing, walked through the depot where a dozen or more bodies were awaiting burial. passing from one to another, she finally lifted the paper covering from the face of a woman, young, and with traces of beauty showing through the stains of muddy water, and with a cry of anguish she reeled backward to be caught by a rugged man who chanced to be passing. in a moment or so she had calmed herself sufficiently to take one more look at the features of her dead. she stood gazing at the corpse as if dumb. finally, turning away with another wild burst of grief, she said: "and her beautiful hair all matted and her sweet face so bruised and stained with mud and water!" the dead woman was the sister of the mourner. the body was placed in a coffin a few minutes later and sent away to its narrow house. a woman was seen to smile, one morning just after the catastrophe, as she came down the steps of prospect hill, at johnstown. she ran down lightly, turning up toward the stone bridge. she passed the little railroad station where the undertakers were at work embalming the dead, and walked slowly until she got opposite the station. then she stopped and danced a few steps. there was but a small crowd there. the woman raised her hands above her head and sang. she became quiet and then suddenly burst into a frenzied fit of weeping and beat her forehead with her hands. she tore her dress, which was already in rags. "i shall go crazy," she screamed, "if they do not find his body." the poor woman could not go crazy, as her mind had been already shattered. "he was a good man," she went on, while the onlookers listened pityingly. "i loved him and he loved me." "where is he?" she screamed. "i must find him." and she started at the top of her speed down the track toward the river. some men caught her. she struggled desperately for a few moments, and then fainted. her name was eliza adams, and she was a bride of but two months. her husband was a foreman at the cambria iron works and was drowned. [illustration: johnstown--view cor. main and clinton sts.] the body of a beautiful young girl of twenty was found wedged in a mass of ruins just below the cambria iron works. she was taken out and laid on the damp grass. she was tall, slender, of well-rounded form, clad in a long red wrapper, with lace at her throat and wrists. her feet were encased in pretty embroidered slippers. her face was a study for an artist. features clear cut as though chiseled from parian marble; and, strangely enough, they bore not the slightest disfigurement, and had not the swelled and puffed appearance that was present in nearly all the other drowned victims. a smile rested on her lips. her hair, which had evidently been golden, was matted with mud and fell in heavy masses to her waist. "does any one know her?" was asked of the silent group that had gathered around. no one did, and she was carried to the improvised morgue in the school-house, and now fills a grave as one of the "unidentified dead." miss rose clark was fastened in the debris at the railroad bridge, at johnstown. the force of the water had torn all of her garments off and pinned her left leg below the water between two beams. she was more calm than the men who were trying to rescue her. the flames were coming nearer, and the intense heat scorching her bare skin. she begged the men to cut off the imprisoned leg. finally half of the men turned and fought the fire, while the rest endeavored to rescue miss clark. after six hours of hard work, and untold suffering by the brave little lady she was taken from the ruins in a dead faint. she was one mass of bruises, from her breast to her knees, and her left arm and leg were broken. just below johnstown, on the conemaugh, three women were working on the ruins of what had been their home. an old arm-chair was taken from the ruins by the men. when one of the women saw the chair, it brought back a wealth of memory, probably the first since the flood occurred, and throwing herself on her knees on the wreck she gave way to a flood of tears. "where in the name of god," she sobbed, "did you get that chair? it was mine--no, i don't want it. keep it and find for me, if you can, my album. in it are the faces of my husband and little girl." patrick downs was a worker in one of the mills of the cambria iron works. he had a wife and a fourteen-year-old daughter, jessie downs, who was a great favorite with the sturdy, hard-handed fellow-workmen of her father. she was of rare beauty and sweetness. her waving, golden-yellow hair, brushed away from a face of wondrous whiteness, was confined by a ribbon at the neck. lustrous irish blue eyes lighted up the lovely face and ripe, red lips parted in smiles for the workmen in the mills, every one of whom was her lover. jessie was in the mill when the flood struck the town, and had not been seen since till the work of cleaning up the cambria plant was begun in earnest. then, in the cellar of the building a workman spied a little shoe protruding from a closely packed bed of sandy mud. in a few moments the body of jessie downs was uncovered. the workmen who had been in such scenes as this for six days stood about with uncovered heads and sobbed like babies. the body had not been bruised nor hurt in any way, the features being composed as if in sleep. the men gathered up the body of their little sweetheart and were carrying it through the town on a stretcher when they met poor patrick downs. he gazed upon the form of his baby, but never a tear was in his eye, and he only thanked god that she had not suffered in contest with the angry waves. he had but a moment before identified the body of his wife among the dead recovered, and the mother and child were laid away together in one grave on grove hill, and the father resumed work with the others. dr. lowman is one of the most prominent physicians of western pennsylvania. his residence in johnstown was protected partially from the avalanche of water by the methodist church, which is a large stone structure. glancing up-stream, the doctor saw advancing what seemed to be a huge mountain. grasping the situation, he ran in and told the family to get to the top floors as quickly as possible. they had scarcely reached the second floor when the water was pouring into the windows. they went higher up, and the water followed them, but it soon reached its extreme height. while the family were huddled in the third story the doctor looked out and saw a young girl floating toward the window on a door. he smashed the glass, and, at the great risk of his own life, succeeded in hauling the door toward him and lifting the girl through the window. she had not been there long when one corner of the building gave way and she became frightened. she insisted on taking a shutter and floating down-stream. in vain did the doctor try to persuade her to forego such a suicidal attempt. she said that she was a good swimmer, and that, once out in the water, she had no fears for her ultimate safety. resisting all entreaties and taking a shutter from the window, she plunged out into the surging waters, and has not since been heard from. when the girl deserted the house, dr. lowman and his family made their way to the roof. while up there another corner of the house gave way. after waiting for several hours, the intervening space between the bank building and the dwelling became filled with drift. the doctor gathered his family around him, and after a perilous walk they all reached the objective point in safety. dr. lowman's aged father was one of the party. when his family was safe dr. lowman started to rescue other unfortunates. all day saturday he worked like a beaver in water to his neck, and he saved the lives of many. no man returns from the valley of death with more horrible remembrance of the flood than dr. henry h. phillips, of pittsburg. he is the only one known to be saved out of a household of thirteen, among whom was his feeble old mother and other near and dear friends. his own life was saved by his happening to step out upon the portico of the house just as the deluge came. dr. phillips had gone to johnstown to bring his mother, who was an invalid, to his home in the east end. they had intended starting for pittsburg friday morning, but mrs. phillips did not feel able to make the journey, and it was postponed until the next day. in the meantime the flood began to come, and during the afternoon of friday the family retired to the upper floors of the house for safety. there were thirteen in the house, including little susan mcwilliams, the twelve-year-old daughter of mr. w. h. mcwilliams, of pittsburg, who was visiting her aunt, mrs. phillips; dr. l. t. beam, son-in-law of mrs. phillips; another niece, and mrs. dowling, a neighbor. the latter had come there with her children because the phillips house was a brick structure while her own was frame. its destruction proved to be the more sudden and complete on account of the material. the water was a foot deep on the first floor, and the family were congratulating themselves that they were so comfortably situated in the upper story, when dr. phillips heard a roaring up toward the cambria iron works. without a thought of the awful truth, he stepped out upon the portico of the house to see what it meant. a wall of water and wreckage loomed up before him like a roaring cloud. before he could turn back or cry out he saw a house, that rode the flood like a chip, come between him and his vision of the window. then all was dark, and the cold water seemed to wrap him up and toss him to a house-top three hundred yards from where that of his mother had stood. gathering his shattered wits together the doctor saw he was floating about in the midst of a black pool. dark objects were moving all about him, and although there was some light, he could not recognize any of the surroundings. for seventeen hours he drifted about upon the wreckage where fate had tossed him. then rescuers came, and he was taken to safe quarters. a long search has so far failed to elicit any tidings of the twelve persons in the phillips' house. mr. g. b. hartley, of philadelphia, was one of the five out of fifty-five guests of the hurlburt house who survived. "the experience i passed through at johnstown on that dreadful friday night," said mr. hartley to a correspondent, "is like a horrible nightmare in a picture before me. when the great rush of water came i was sitting in the parlors of the hurlburt house. suddenly we were startled to hear several loud shouts on the streets. these cries were accompanied by a loud, crashing noise. at the first sound we all rushed from the room panic-stricken. there was a crash and i found myself pinned down by broken boards and debris of different kinds. the next moment i felt the water surging in. i knew it went higher than my head because i felt it. the water must have passed like a flash or i would not have come out alive. after the shock i could see that the entire roof of the hotel had been carried off. catching hold of something i manged to pull myself up on to the roof. the roof had slid off and lay across the street. on the roof i had a chance to observe my surroundings. down on the extreme edge of the roof i espied the proprietor of the hotel, mr. benford. he was nearly exhausted, and it required every effort for him to hold to the roof. cautiously advancing, i managed to creep down to where he was holding. i tried to pull him up, but found i was utterly powerless. mr. benford was nearly as weak as myself, and could do very little toward helping himself. we did not give up, however, and in a few minutes, by dint of struggling and putting forth every bit of strength, mr. benford managed to crawl upon the roof. crouching and shivering on another part of the roof were two girls, one a chamber-maid of the hotel, and the other a clerk in a store that was next to it. the latter was in a pitiable plight. her arm had been torn from its socket. i took off my overcoat and gave it to her. mr. benford did the same thing for the other, for it was quite chilly. a young man was nursing his mother, who had had her scalp completely torn off. he asked me to hold her head until he could make a bandage. he tore a thick strip of cloth and placed it round her head. the blood saturated it before it was well on. soon after this i was rescued more dead than alive." chapter ix. many of the most thrilling sights and experiences were those of railroad employees and passengers. mr. henry, the engineer of the second section of express train no. , which runs between pittsburg and altoona, was at conemaugh when the great flood came sweeping down the valley. he was able to escape to a place of safety. his was the only train that was not injured, even though it was in the midst of the great wave. the story as related by mr. henry is most graphic. "it was an awful sight," he said. "i have often seen pictures of flood scenes and i thought they were exaggerations, but what i witnessed last friday changes my former belief. to see that immense volume of water, fully fifty feet high, rushing madly down the valley, sweeping everything before it, was a thrilling sight. it is engraved indelibly on my memory. even now i can see that mad torrent carrying death and destruction before it. "the second section of no. , on which i was, was due at johnstown about quarter past ten in the morning. we arrived there safely and were told to follow the first section. when we arrived at conemaugh the first section and the mail were there. washouts further up the mountain prevented our going on, so we could do nothing but sit around and discuss the situation. the creek at conemaugh was swollen high, almost overflowing. the heavens were pouring rain, but this did not prevent nearly all the inhabitants of the town from gathering along its banks. they watched the waters go dashing by and wondered whether the creek would get much higher. but a few inches more and it would overflow its banks. there seemed to be a feeling of uneasiness among the people. they seemed to fear that something awful was going to happen. their suspicions were strengthened by the fact that warning had come down the valley for the people to be on the lookout. the rains had swollen everything to the bursting point. the day passed slowly, however. noon came and went, and still nothing happened. we could not proceed, nor could we go back, as the tracks about a mile below conemaugh had been washed away, so there was nothing for us to do but to wait and see what would come next. "some time after three o'clock friday afternoon i went into the train dispatcher's office to learn the latest news. i had not been there long when i heard a fierce whistling from an engine away up the mountain. rushing out i found dozens of men standing around. fear had blanched every cheek. the loud and continued whistling had made every one feel that something serious was going to happen. in a few moments i could hear a train rattling down the mountain. about five hundred yards above conemaugh the tracks make a slight curve and we could not see beyond this. the suspense was something awful. we did not know what was coming, but no one could get rid of the thought that something was wrong at the dam. "our suspense was not very long, however. nearer and nearer the train came, the thundering sound still accompanying it. there seemed to be something behind the train, as there was a dull, rumbling sound which i knew did not come from the train. nearer and nearer it came; a moment more and it would reach the curve. the next instant there burst upon our eyes a sight that made every heart stand still. rushing around the curve, snorting and tearing, came an engine and several gravel cars. the train appeared to be putting forth every effort to go faster. nearer it came, belching forth smoke and whistling long and loud. but the most terrible sight was to follow. twenty feet behind came surging along a mad rush of water fully fifty feet high. like the train, it seemed to be putting forth every effort to push along faster. such an awful race we never before witnessed. for an instant the people seemed paralyzed with horror. they knew not what to do, but in a moment they realized that a second's delay meant death to them. with one accord they rushed to the high lands a few hundred feet away. most of them succeeded in reaching that place and were safe. "i thought of the passengers in my train. the second section of no. had three sleepers. in these three cars were about thirty people, who rushed through the train crying to the others 'save yourselves!' then came a scene of the wildest confusion. ladies and children shrieked and the men seemed terror-stricken. i succeeded in helping some ladies and children off the train and up to the high lands. running back, i caught up two children and ran for my life to a higher place. thank god, i was quicker than the flood! i deposited my load in safety on the high land just as it swept past us. "for nearly an hour we stood watching the mad flood go rushing by. the water was full of debris. when the flood caught conemaugh it dashed against the little town with a mighty crash. the water did not lift the houses up and carry them off, but crushed them up one against the other and broke them up like so many egg-shells. before the flood came there was a pretty little town. when the waters passed on there was nothing but a few broken boards to mark the central portion of the city. it was swept as clean as a newly-brushed floor. when the flood passed onward down the valley i went over to my train. it had been moved back about twenty yards, but it was not damaged. about fifteen persons had remained in the train and they were safe. of the three trains ours was the luckiest. the engines of both the others had been swept off the track, and one or two cars in each train had met the same fate. what saved our train was the fact that just at the curve which i mentioned the valley spread out. the valley is six or seven hundred yards broad where our train was standing. this, of course, let the floods pass out. it was only about twenty feet high when it struck our train, which was about in the middle of the valley. this fact, together with the elevation of the track, was all that saved us. we stayed that night in the houses in conemaugh that had not been destroyed. the next morning i started down the valley and by four o'clock in the afternoon had reached conemaugh furnace, eight miles west of johnstown. then i got a team and came home. "in my tramp down the valley i saw some awful sights. on the tree branches hung shreds of clothing torn from the unfortunates as they were whirled along in the terrible rush of the torrent. dead bodies were lying by scores along the banks of the creeks. one woman i helped drag from the mud had tightly clutched in her hand a paper. we tore it out of her hand and found it to be a badly water-soaked photograph. it was probably a picture of the drowned woman." pemberton smith is a civil engineer employed by the pennsylvania railroad. on friday, when the disaster occurred, he was at johnstown, stopping at the merchants' hotel. what happened he described as follows: "in the afternoon, with four associates, i spent the time playing checkers in the hotel, the streets being flooded during the day. at half-past four we were startled by shrill whistles. thinking a fire was the cause, we looked out of the window. great masses of people were rushing through the water in the street, which had been there all day, and still we thought the alarm was fire. all of a sudden the roar of the water burst upon our ears, and in an instant more the streets were filled with debris. great houses and business blocks began to topple and crash into each other and go down as if they were toy-block houses. people in the streets were drowning on all sides. one of our company started down-stairs and was drowned. the other four, including myself, started up-stairs, for the water was fast rising. when we got on the roof we could see whole blocks swept away as if by magic. hundreds of people were floating by, clinging to roofs of houses, rafts, timbers, or anything they could get a hold of. the hotel began to tremble, and we made our way to an adjoining roof. soon afterward part of the hotel went down. the brick structures seemed to fare worse than frame buildings, as the latter would float, while the brick would crash and tumble into one great mass of ruins. we finally climbed into a room of the last building in reach and stayed there all night, in company with one hundred and sixteen other people, among the number being a crazy man. his wife and family had all been drowned only a few hours before, and he was a raving maniac. and what a night! sleep! yes, i did a little, but every now and then a building near by would crash against us, and we would all jump, fearing that at last our time had come. "finally morning dawned. in company with one of my associates we climbed across the tops of houses and floating debris, built a raft, and poled ourselves ashore to the hillside. i don't know how the others escaped. this was seven o'clock on saturday morning. we started on foot for south fork, arriving there at three p. m. here we found that all communication by telegraph and railroad was cut off by the flood, and we had naught to do but retrace our steps. tired and footsore! well, i should say so. my gum-boots had chafed my feet so i could hardly walk at all. the distance we covered on foot was over fifty miles. on sunday we got a train to altoona. here we found the railroad connections all cut off, so we came back to johnstown again on monday. and what a desolate place! i had to obtain a pass to go over into the city. here it is: "pass pemberton smith through all the streets. "alec. hart, chief of police. "a. j. maxham, acting mayor." "the tragic pen-pictures of the scenes in the press dispatches have not been exaggerated. they cannot be. the worse sight of all was to see the great fire at the railroad-bridge. it makes my blood fairly curdle to think of it. i could see the lurid flames shoot heavenward all night friday, and at the same time hundreds of people were floating right toward them on top of houses, etc., and to meet a worse death than drowning. to look at a sight like this and not be able to render a particle of assistance seemed awful to bear. i had a narrow escape, truly. in my mind i can hear the shrieks of men, women, and children, the maniac's ravings, and the wild roar of a sea of water sweeping everything before it." [illustration: view on clinton st., johnstown.] among the lost was miss jennie paulson, a passenger on a railroad train, whose fate is thus described by one of her comrades: "we had been making but slow progress all the day. our train lay at johnstown nearly the whole day of friday. we then proceeded as far as conemaugh, and had stopped from some cause or other, probably on account of the flood. miss paulson and a miss bryan were seated in front of me. miss paulson had on a plaid dress, with shirred waist of red cloth goods. her companion was dressed in black. both had lovely corsage bouquets of roses. i had heard that they had been attending a wedding before they left pittsburg. the pittsburg lady was reading a novel entitled _miss lou_. miss bryan was looking out of the window. when the alarm came we all sprang toward the door, leaving everything behind us. i had just reached the door when poor miss paulson and her friend, who were behind me, decided to return for their rubbers, which they did. i sprang from the car into a ditch next the hillside, in which the water was already a foot and a-half deep, and, with the others, climbed up the mountain side for our very lives. we had to do so, as the water glided up after us like a huge serpent. any one ten feet behind us would have been lost beyond a doubt. i glanced back at the train when i had reached a place of safety, but the water already covered it, and the pullman car in which the ladies were was already rolling down the valley in the grasp of the angry waters." mr. william scheerer, the teller of the state banking company, of newark, n. j., was among the passengers on the ill-fated day express on the pennsylvania railroad that left pittsburg at eight o'clock a. m., on the now historic friday, bound for new york. there was some delays incidental to the floods in the conemaugh valley before the train reached johnstown, and a further delay at that point, and the train was considerably behind time when it left johnstown. said mr. scheerer: "the parlor car was fully occupied when i went aboard the train, and a seat was accordingly given me in the sleeper at the rear end of the train. there were several passengers in this car, how many i cannot say exactly, among them some ladies. it was raining hard all the time and we were not a very excited nor a happy crowd, but were whiling away the time in reading and in looking at the swollen torrent of the river. very few of the people were apprehensive of any danger in the situation, even after we had been held up at conemaugh for nearly five hours. "the railroad tracks where our train stopped were full fourteen feet above the level of the river, and there was a large number of freight and passenger cars and locomotives standing on the tracks near us and strung along up the road for a considerable distance. between the road and the hill that lay at our left there was a ditch, through which the water that came down from the hill was running like a mill-race. it was a monotonous wait to all of us, and after a time many inquiries were made as to why we did not go ahead. some of the passengers who made the inquiry were answered laconically--'wash-out,' and with this they had to be satisfied. i had been over the road several times before, and knew of the existence of the dangerous and threatening dam up in the south fork gorge, and could not help connecting it in my mind with the cause of our delay. but neither was i apprehensive of danger, for the possibility of the dam giving away had been often discussed by passengers in my presence, and everybody supposed that the utmost damage it would do when it broke, as everybody believed it sometime would, would be to swell a little higher the current that tore down through the conemaugh valley. "such a possibility as the carrying away of a train of cars on the great pennsylvania road was never seriously entertained by anybody. we had stood stationary until about four o'clock, when two colored porters went through the car within a short time of each other, looking and acting rather excited. i asked the first one what the matter was, and he replied that he did not know. i inferred from his reply that if there was any thing serious up, the passengers would be informed, and so i went on reading. when the next man came along i asked him if the reservoir had given way, and he said he thought it had. "i put down my book and stepped out quickly to the rear platform, and was horrified at the sight that met my gaze up the valley. it seemed as if a forest was coming down upon us. there was a great wall of water roaring and grinding swiftly along, so thickly studded with the trees from along the mountain sides that it looked like a gigantic avalanche of trees. of course i lingered but an instant, for the mortal danger we all were in flashed upon me at the first sight of that terrible on-coming torrent. but in that instant i saw an engine lifted bodily off the track and thrown over backward into the whirlpool, where it disappeared, and houses crushed and broken up in the flash of an eye. "the noise was like incessant thunder. i turned back into the car and shouted to the ladies, three of whom alone were in the car at the moment, to fly for their lives. i helped them out of the car on the side toward the hill, and urged them to jump across the ditch and run for their lives. two of them did so, but the third, a rather heavy lady, a missionary, who was on her way to a foreign station, hesitated for an instant, doubtful if she could make the jump. that instant cost her her life. while i was holding out my hand to her and urging her to jump, the rush of waters came down and swept her, like a doll, down into the torrent. in the same instant an engine was thrown from the track into the ditch at my feet. the water was about my knees as i turned and scrambled up the hill, and when i looked back, ten seconds later, it was surging and grinding ten feet deep over the track i had just left. "the rush of waters lasted three-quarters of an hour, while we stood rapt and spell-bound in the rain, looking at the ruin no human agency could avert. the scene was beyond the power of language to describe. you would see a building standing in apparent security above the swollen banks of the river, the people rushing about the doors, some seeming to think that safety lay indoors, while others rushed toward higher ground, stumbling and falling in the muddy streets, and then the flood rolled over them, crushing in the house with a crash like thunder, and burying house and people out of sight entirely. that, of course, was the scene of only an instant, for our range of vision was only over a small portion of the city. "we sought shelter from the rain in the home of a farmer who lived high up on the side-hill, and the next morning walked down to johnstown and viewed the ruins. it seemed as if the city was utterly destroyed. the water was deep over all the city and few people were visible. we returned to conemaugh and were driven over the mountains to ebensburg, where we took the train for altoona, but finding we could get no further in that direction we turned back to ebensburg, and from there went by wagon to johnstown, where we found a train that took us to pittsburg. i got home by the new york central." chapter x. edward h. jackson, who worked in the cambria iron works, told the following story: "when we were going to work friday morning at seven o'clock, may st, the water in the river was about six inches below the top of the banks, the rains during the night having swollen it. we were used to floods about this time of the year, the water always washing the streets and running into the cellars, so we did not pay much attention to this fact. it continued rising, and about nine o'clock we left work in order to go back to our homes and take our furniture and carpets to the upper floors, as we had formerly done on similar occasions. at noon the water was on our first floors, and kept rising until there was five feet of water in our homes. it was still raining hard. we were all in the upper stories about half-past four, when the first intimation we had of anything unusual was a frightful crash, and the same moment our house toppled over. jumping to the windows, we saw the water rushing down the streets in immense volumes, carrying with it houses, barns, and, worst of all, screaming, terrified men, women, and children. in my house were colonel a. n. hart, who is my uncle, his wife, sister, and two children. they watched their chance, and when a slowly moving house passed by they jumped to the roof and by careful manoeuvring managed to reach dr. s. m. swan's house, a three-story brick building, where there were about two hundred other people. i jumped on to a tender of an engine as it floated down and reached the same house. all the women and children were hysterical, most of the men were paralyzed by terror, and to describe the scene is simply impossible. from the windows of this house we threw ropes to persons who floated by on the roofs of houses, and in this way we saved several. "our condition in the house was none of the pleasantest. there was nothing to eat; it was impossible to sleep, even had any one desired to do so; when thirsty we were compelled to catch the rain-water as it fell from the roof and drink it. other people had gone for safety in the same manner as we had to two other brick houses, h. y. hawse's residence and alma hall's, and they went through precisely the same experience as we did. many of our people were badly injured and cut, and they were tended bravely and well by dr. w. e. matthews, although he himself was badly injured. during the evening we saved by ropes w. forrest rose, his wife, daughter, and four boys. mr. rose's collar-bone and one rib were broken. after a fearful night we found, when day broke, that the water had subsided, and i and some others of the men crawled out upon the rubbish and debris to search for food, for our people were starving. all we could find were water-soaked crackers and some bananas, and these were eagerly eaten by the famished sufferers. "then, during the morning, began the thieving. i saw men bursting open trunks, putting valuables in their pockets, and then looking for more. i did not know these people, but i am sure they must have lived in the town, for surely no others could have got there at this time. a meeting was held, colonel hart was made chief of police, and he at once gave orders that any one caught stealing should be shot without warning. notwithstanding this we afterward found scores of bodies, the fingers of which were cut off, the fiends not wishing to waste time to take off the rings. many corpses of women were seen from which the ears had been cut, in order to secure the diamond earrings. "then, to add to our horrors, the debris piled up against the bridge caught fire, and as the streets were full of oil, it was feared that the flames would extend backwards, but happily for us this was not the case. it was pitiful to hear the cries of those who had been caught in the rubbish, and, after having been half drowned, had to face death as inevitable as though bound to a stake. the bodies of those burned to death will never be recognized, and of those drowned many were so badly disfigured by being battered against the floating houses that they also will be unrecognizable. it is said that charles butler, the assistant treasurer of the cambria iron works, who was in the hurlburt house, convinced that he could not escape and wishing his body to be recognized, pinned his photograph and a letter to the lapel of his coat, where they were found when his body was recovered. i have lost everything i owned in the world," said mr. jackson, in conclusion, "and hundreds of others are in the same condition. the money in the banks is all right, however, for it was stowed away in the vaults." frank mcdonald, a railroad conductor, says: "i certainly think i saw one thousand bodies go over the bridge. the first house that came down struck the bridge and at once took fire, and as fast as the others came down they were consumed. i believe i am safe in saying i saw one thousand bodies burn. it reminded me of a lot of flies on fly-paper struggling to get away, with no hope and no chance to save them. i have no idea that had the bridge been blown up the loss of life would have been any less. they would have floated a little further with the same certain death. then, again, it was impossible for any one to have reached the bridge in order to blow it up, for the waters came so fast that no one could have done it." michael renesen tells a wonderful story of his escape. he says he was walking down main street when he heard a rumbling noise, and, looking around, he imagined it was cloud, but in a minute the water was upon him. he floated with the tide for some time, when he was struck with some floating timber and borne underneath the water. when he came up he was struck again, and at last he was caught by a lightning rod and held there for over two hours, when he was finally rescued. mrs. anne williams was sitting sewing when the flood came on. she heard some people crying and jumped out of the window and succeeded in getting on the roof of an adjoining house. under the roof she heard the cries of men and women, and saw two men and a woman with their heads just above the water, crying "for god's sake, either kill us outright or rescue us!" mrs. williams cried for help for the drowning people, but none came, and she saw them give up one by one. james f. mccanagher had a thrilling experience in the water. he saw his wife was safe on land, and thought his only daughter, a girl aged about twenty-one, was also saved, but just as he was making for the shore he saw her and went to rescue her. he succeeded in getting within about ten feet of land, when the girl said, "good-bye, father," and expired in his arms before he reached the shore. james m. walters, an attorney, spent friday night in alma hall, and relates a thrilling story. one of the most curious occurrences of the whole disaster was how mr. walters got to the hall. he has his office on the second floor. his home is at no. walnut street. he says he was in the house with his family when the waters struck it. all was carried away. mr. walters' family drifted on a roof in another direction; he passed down several streets and alleys until he came to the hall. his dwelling struck that edifice and he was thrown into his own office. about three hundred persons had taken refuge in the hall and were on the second, third, and fourth stories. the men held a meeting and drew up some rules which all were bound to respect. mr. walters was chosen president, and rev. mr. beale was put in charge of the first floor, a. m. hart of the second floor, dr. matthews of the fourth floor. no lights were allowed, and the whole night was spent in darkness. the sick were cared for, the weaker women and children had the best accommodation that could be had, while the others had to wait. the scenes were most agonizing. heartrending shrieks, sobs, and moans pierced the gloomy darkness. the crying of children mingled with the suppressed sobs of the women. under the guardianship of the men all took more hope. no one slept during all the long, dark night. many knelt for hours in prayer, their supplications mingling with the roar of the waters and the shrieks of the dying in the surrounding houses. in all this misery two women gave premature birth to children, dr. matthews is a hero--several of his ribs were crushed by a falling timber, and his pains were most severe. yet through all he attended the sick. when two women in a house across the street shouted for help, he, with two other brave young men, climbed across the drift and ministered to their wants. no one died during the night, but a woman and children surrendered their lives on the succeeding day as a result of terror and fatigue. miss rose young, one of the young ladies in the hall, was frightfully cut and bruised. mrs. young had a leg broken. all of mr. walters' family were saved. mrs. j. f. moore, wife of a western union telegraph employee in pittsburg, escaped with her two children from the devastated city just one hour before the flood had covered their dwelling-place. mr. moore had arranged to have his family move thursday from johnstown and join him in pittsburg. their household goods were shipped on thursday and friday. the little party caught the last train which made the trip between johnstown and pittsburg. mrs. moore told her story. "oh! it was terrible," she said. "the reservoir had not yet burst when we left, but the boom had broken, and before we got out of the house the water filled the cellar. on the way to the depot the water was high up on the carriage wheels. our train left at quarter to two p. m., and at that time the flood had begun to rise with terrible rapidity. houses and sheds were carried away and two men were drowned almost before our eyes. people gathered on the roofs to take refuge from the water, which poured into the lower rooms of their dwellings, and many families took flight and became scattered. just as the train pulled out i saw a woman crying bitterly. her house had been flooded and she had escaped, leaving her husband behind, and her fears for his safety made her almost crazy. our house was in the lower part of the town, and it makes me shudder to think what would have happened had we remained in it an hour longer. so far as i know, we were the only passengers from johnstown on the train." mrs. moore's little son told the reporter that he had seen the rats driven out of their holes by the flood and running along the tops of the fences. one old man named parsons, with his wife and children, as soon as the water struck their house, took to the roof and were carried down to the stone bridge, where the back wash of the stony creek took them back up along the banks and out of harm's way, but not before a daughter-in-law became a prey to the torrent. he has lived here for thirty-five years, and had acquired a nice, comfortable home. to-day all is gone, and as he told the story he pointed to a rather seedy-looking coat he had on. "i had to ask a man for it. it's hard, but i am ruined, and i am too old to begin over again." mr. lewis was a well-to-do young man, and owned a good property where now is a barren waste. when the flood came the entire family of eight took to the roof, and were carried along on the water. before they reached the stone bridge, a family of four that had floated down from woodvale, two and a half miles distant, on a raft, got off to the roof of the lewis house, where the entire twelve persons were pushed to the bank of the river above the bridge, and all were saved. when mr. lewis was telling his story he seemed grateful to the almighty for his safety while thousands were lost to him. another young man who had also taken to a friendly roof, became paralyzed with fear, and stripping himself of his clothes flung himself from the housetop into the stream and tried to swim. the force of the water rushed him over to the west bank of the river, where he was picked up soon after. a baby's cradle was fished out of a ruin and the neatly tucked-in sheets and clothes, although soiled with mud, gave evidence of luxury. the entire family was lost, and no one is here to lay claim to baby's crib. in the ruin of the penn house the library that occupied the extension was entirely gone, while the brick front was taken out and laid bare the parlor floor, in which the piano, turned upside down, was noticeable, while several chandeliers were scattered on top. [illustration: main and clinton streets, looking southwest.] chapter xi. the first survivors of the johnstown wreck who arrived at pittsburg were joseph and henry lauffer and lew dalmeyer. they endured considerable hardship and had several narrow escapes with their lives. their story of the disaster can best be told in their own language. joe, the youngest of the lauffer brothers, said: "my brother and i left on thursday for johnstown. the night we arrived there it rained continually, and on friday morning it began to flood. i started for the cambria store at a quarter-past eight on friday, and in fifteen minutes afterward i had to get out of the store in a wagon, the water was running so rapidly. we then arrived at the station and took the day express and went as far as conemaugh, where we had to stop. the limited, however, got through, and just as we were about to start the bridge at south fork gave way with a terrific crash, and we had to stay there. we then went to johnstown. this was at a quarter to ten in the morning, when the flood was just beginning. the whole city of johnstown was inundated and the people all moved up to the second floor. "now this is where the trouble occurred. these poor unfortunates did not know the reservoir would burst, and there are no skiffs in johnstown to escape in. when the south fork basin gave way mountains of water twenty feet high came rushing down the conemaugh river, carrying before them death and destruction. i shall never forget the harrowing scene. just think of it! thousands of people, men, and women, and children, struggling and weeping and wailing as they were being carried suddenly away in the raging current. houses were picked up as if they were but a feather, and their inmates were all carried away with them, while cries of 'god help me!' 'save me!' 'i am drowning!' 'my child!' and the like were heard on all sides. those who were lucky enough to escape went to the mountains, and there they beheld the poor unfortunates being crushed to death among the debris without any chance of being rescued. here and there a body was seen to make a wild leap into the air and then sink to the bottom. "at the stone bridge of the pennsylvania railroad people were dashed to death against the piers. when the fire started there hundreds of bodies were burned. many lookers-on up on the mountains, especially the woman, fainted." mr. lauffer's brother, harry, then told his part of the tale, which was not less interesting. he said: "we had a series of narrow escapes, and i tell you we don't want to be around when anything of that kind occurs again. "the scenes at johnstown have not in the least been exaggerated, and, indeed, the worst is to be heard. when we got to conemaugh and just as we were about to start the bridge gave way. this left the day express, the accommodation, a special train, and a freight train at the station. above was the south fork water basin, and all of the trains were well filled. we were discussing the situation when suddenly, without any warning, the whistles of every engine began to shriek, and in the noise could be heard the warning of the first engineer, 'fly for your lives! rush to the mountains, the reservoir has burst.' then with a thundering peal came the mad rush of waters. no sooner had the cry been heard than those who could rushed from the train with a wild leap and up the mountains. to tell this story takes some time, but the moments in which the horrible scene was enacted were few. then came the avalanche of water, leaping and rushing with tremendous force. the waves had angry crests of white, and their roar was something deafening. in one terrible swath they caught the four trains and lifted three of them right off the track, as if they were only a cork. there they floated in the river. think of it, three large locomotives and finely finished pullmans floating around, and above all the hundreds of poor unfortunates who were unable to escape from the car swiftly drifting toward death. just as we were about to leap from the car i saw a mother, with a smiling, blue-eyed baby in her arms. i snatched it from her and leaped from the train just as it was lifted off the track. the mother and child were saved, but if one more minute had elapsed we all would have perished. "during all of this time the waters kept rushing down the conemaugh and through the beautiful town of johnstown, picking up everything and sparing nothing. "the mountains by this time were black with people, and the moans and sighs from those below brought tears to the eyes of the most stony-hearted. there in that terrible rampage were brothers, sisters, wives and husbands, and from the mountain could be seen the panic-stricken marks in the faces of those who were struggling between life and death. i really am unable to do justice to the scene, and its details are almost beyond my power to relate. then came the burning of the debris near the pennsylvania railroad bridge. the scene was too sickening to endure. we left the spot and journeyed across country and delivered many notes, letters, etc., that were intrusted to us." the gallant young engineer, john g. parke, whose ride of warning has already been described, relates the following: "on thursday night i noticed that the dam was in good order and the water was nearly seven feet from the top. when the water is at this height the lake is then nearly three miles in length. it rained hard on thursday night and i rode up to the end of the lake on the eventful day and saw that the woods around there was teeming with a seething cauldron of water. colonel unger, the president of the fishing club that owns the property, put twenty-five italians to work to fix the dam. a farmer in the vicinity also lent a willing hand. to strengthen the dam a plow was run along the top of it, and earth was then thrown into the furrows. on the west side a channel was dug and a sluice was constructed. we cut through about four feet of shale rock, when we came to solid rock which was impossible to cut without blasting. once we got the channel open the water leaped down to the bed-rock, and a stream fully twenty feet wide and three feet deep rushed out on that end of the dam, while great quantities of water were coming in by the pier at the other end. and then in the face of this great escape of water from the dam, it kept rising at the rate of ten inches an hour. "at noon i fully believed that it was practically impossible to save the dam, and i got on a horse and galloped down to south fork, and gave the alarm, telling the people at the same time of their danger, and advising them to get to a place of safety. i also sent a couple of men to the telegraph tower, two miles away, to send messages to johnstown and cambria and to the other points on the way. the young girl at the instrument fainted when the news reached her, and was carried away. then, by the timely warning given, the people at south fork had an opportunity to move their household goods and betake themselves to a place of safety. only one person was drowned in that place, and he was trying to save an old washtub that was floating down-stream. "it was noon when the messages were sent out, so that the people of johnstown had just three hours to fly to a place of safety. why they did not heed the warning will never be told. i then remounted my horse and rode to the dam, expecting at every moment to meet the lake rushing down the mountain-side, but when i reached there i found the dam still intact, although the water had then reached the top of it. at one p. m. i walked over the dam, and then the water was about three inches on it, and was gradually gnawing away its face. as the stream leaped down the outer face, the water was rapidly wearing down the edge of the embankment, and i knew that it was a question of but a few hours. from my knowledge i should say there was fully ten million tons of water in the lake at one o'clock, while the pressure was largely increased by the swollen streams that flowed into it, but even then the dam could have stood it if the level of the water had been kept below the top. but, coupled with this, there was the constantly trickling of the water over the sides, which was slowly but surely wearing the banks away. "the big break took place at just three o'clock, and it was about ten feet wide at first and shallow; but when the opening was made the fearful rushing waters opened the gap with such increasing rapidity that soon after the entire lake leaped out and started on its fearful march of death down the valley of the conemaugh. it took but forty minutes to drain that three miles of water, and the downpour of millions of tons of water was irresistible. the big boulders and great rafters and logs that were in the bed of the river were picked up, like so much chaff, and carried down the torrent for miles. trees that stood fully seventy-five feet in height and four feet through were snapped off like pipe-stems." chapter xii. one of the most thrilling incidents of the disaster was the performance of a. j. leonard, whose family reside in morrellville. he was at work, and hearing that his house had been swept away, determined at all hazards to ascertain the fate of his family. the bridges having been carried away, he constructed a temporary raft, and clinging to it as close as a cat to the side of a fence, he pushed his frail craft out in the raging torrent and started on a chase which, to all who were watching, seemed to mean an embrace in death. heedless of cries "for god's sake, go back, you will be drowned," and "don't attempt it," he persevered. as the raft struck the current he threw off his coat and in his shirt sleeves braved the stream. down plunged the boards and down went leonard, but as it rose he was seen still clinging. a mighty shout arose from the throats of the hundreds on the banks, who were now deeply interested, earnestly hoping he would successfully ford the stream. down again went his bark, but nothing, it seemed, could shake leonard off. the craft shot up in the air apparently ten or twelve feet, and leonard stuck to it tenaciously. slowly but surely he worked his boat to the other side of the stream, and after what seemed an awful suspense he finally landed, amid ringing cheers of men, women, and children. the scenes at heanemyer's planing-mill at nineveh, where the dead bodies are lying, are never to be forgotten. the torn, bruised, and mutilated bodies of the victims are lying in a row on the floor of the planing-mill, which looks more like the field of bull run after that disastrous battle than a workshop. the majority of the bodies are nude, their clothing having been torn off. all along the river bits of clothing--a tiny shoe, a baby dress, a mother's evening wrapper, a father's coat--and, in fact, every article of wearing apparel imaginable, may be seen hanging to stumps of trees and scattered on the bank. one of the most pitiful sights of this terrible disaster came to notice when the body of a young lady was taken out of the conemaugh river. the woman was apparently quite young, though her features were terribly disfigured. nearly all the clothing excepting the shoes was torn off the body. the corpse was that of a mother, for, although cold in death, she clasped a young male babe, apparently not more than a year old, tightly in her arms. the little one was huddled close up to the face of the mother, who, when she realized their terrible fate, had evidently raised it to her lips to imprint upon its lips the last kiss it was to receive in this world. the sight forced many a stout heart to shed tears. the limp bodies, with matted hair, some with holes in their heads, eyes knocked out, and all bespattered with blood were a ghastly spectacle. mr. j. m. fronheiser, one of the superintendents in the cambria iron works, lived on main street. his house was one of the first to go, and he himself, his wife, two daughters, son, and baby were thrown into the raging torrent. his wife and eldest daughter were lost. he, with the baby, reached a place of safety, and his ten-year-old boy and twelve-year-old girl floated near enough to be reached. he caught the little girl, but she cried: "let me go, papa, and save brother; my leg is broken and my foot is caught below." when he told her he was determined to rescue her, she exclaimed: "then, papa, get a sharp knife and cut my leg off. i can stand it." the little fellow cried to his father: "you can't save me, papa. both my feet are caught fast, and i can't hold out any longer. please get a pistol and shoot me." captain gageby, of the army, and some neighbors helped to rescue both children. the girl displayed spartan fortitude and pluck. all night long she lay in a bed without a mattress or medical attention in a garret, the water reaching to the floor below, without a murmur or a whimper. in the morning she was carried down-stairs, her leg dangling under her, but when she saw her father at the foot of the stairs, she whispered to captain gageby: "poor papa; he is so sad." then, turning to her father, she threw a kiss with her hands and laughingly said, "good morning, papa; i'm all right." the pennsylvania railroad company's operators at switch corner, "s. q.," which is near sang hollow, tell thrilling stories of the scenes witnessed by them on friday afternoon and evening. said one of them: "in order to give you an idea of how the tidal wave rose and fell, let me say that i kept a measure and timed the rise and fall of the water, and in forty-eight minutes it fell four and a half feet. "i believe that when the water goes down about seventy-five children and fifty grown persons will be found among the weeds and bushes in the bend of the river just below the tower. "there the current was very strong, and we saw dozens of people swept under the trees, and i don't believe that more than one in twenty came out on the other side." "they found a little girl in white just now," said one of the other operators. "o god!" said the chief operator. "she isn't dead, is she?" "yes; they found her in a clump of willow bushes, kneeling on a board, just about the way we saw her when she went down the river." turning to me he said: "that was the saddest thing we saw all day yesterday. two men came down on a little raft, with a little girl kneeling between them, and her hands raised and praying. she came so close to us we could see her face and that she was crying. she had on a white dress and looked like a little angel. she went under that cursed shoot in the willow bushes at the bend like all the rest, but we did hope she would get through alive." "and so she was still kneeling?" he said to his companion, who had brought the unwelcome news. "she sat there," was the reply, "as if she was still praying, and there was a smile on her poor little face, though her mouth was full of mud." driving through the mountains a correspondent picked up a ragged little chap not much more than big enough to walk. from his clothing he was evidently a refugee. "where are your folks?" he was asked. "we're living at aunty's now." "did you all get out?" "oh! we're all right--that is, all except two of sister's babies. mother and little sister wasn't home, and they got out all right." "where were you?" "oh! i was at sister's house. we was all in the water and fire. sister's man--her husband, you know--took us up-stairs, and he punched a hole through the roof, and we all climbed out and got saved." "how about the babies?" "oh! sister was carrying two of them in her arms, and the bureau hit her and knocked them out, so they went down." the child had unconsciously caught one of the oddest and most significant tricks of speech that have arisen from the calamity. nobody here speaks of a person's having been drowned, or killed, or lost, or uses any other of the general expressions for sudden death. they have simply "gone down." everybody here seems to avoid harsh words in referring to the possible affliction of another. euphonistic phrases are substituted for plain questions. two old friends met for the first time since the disaster. "i'm glad to see you," exclaimed the first. "are you all right?" "yes, i'm doing first rate," was the reply. the first friend looked awkwardly about a moment, and then asked with suppressed eagerness: "and--and your family--are they all--well?" there was a world of significance in the hesitation before the last word. "yes. thank god! not one of them went down." a man who looked like a prosperous banker, and who had evidently come from a distance drove through the mountains toward south fork. on the way he met a handsome young man in a silk hat, mounted on a mule. the two shook hands eagerly. "have you anything?" "nothing. what have you?" "nothing." the younger man turned about and the two rode on silently through the forest road. inquiry later developed the fact that the banker-looking man was really a banker whose daughter had been lost from one of the overwhelmed trains. the young man was his son. both had been searching for some clue to the young woman's fate. chapter xiii. it was not "good morning" in johnstown nor "good night" that passed as a salutation between neighbors who meet for the first time since the deluge but "how many of your folks gone?" it is always "folks," always "gone." you heard it everywhere among the crowds that thronged the viaduct and looked down upon the ghastly twenty acres of unburied dead, from which dynamite was making a terrible exhumation of the corpses of two thousand mortals and five hundred houses. you heard it at the rope bridge, where the crowds waited the passage of the incessant file of empty coffins. you heard it upon the steep hillside beyond the valley of devastation, where the citizens of johnstown had fled into the borough of conemaugh for shelter. you heard it again, the first salutation, whenever a friend, who had been searching for _his_ dead, met a neighbor: "are any of your friends gone?" it was not said in tears or even seemingly in madness. it had simply come to be the "how-d'ye-do" of the eleven thousand people who survived the twenty-nine thousand five hundred people of the valley of the conemaugh. still finding bodies by scores in the debris: still burying the dead and caring for the wounded; still feeding the famishing and housing the homeless, was the record for days following the one on which johnstown was swept away. a perfect stream of wagons bearing the dead as fast as they were discovered was constantly filing to the various improvised morgues where the bodies were taken for identification. hundreds of people were constantly crowding to these temporary houses, one of which was located in each of the suburban boroughs that surround johnstown. men armed with muskets, uniformed sentinels, constituting the force that guarded the city while it was practically under martial law, stood at the doors and admitted the crowd by tens. [illustration: ruins, corner main and clinton sts.] in the central dead-house in johnstown proper there lay two rows of ghastly dead. to the right were twenty bodies that had been identified. they were mostly women and children, and they were entirely covered with white sheets, and a piece of paper bearing the name was pinned at the feet. to the left were eighteen bodies of the unknown dead. as the people passed they were hurried along by an attendant and gazed at the uncovered faces seeking to identify them. all applicants for admission, if it was thought they were prompted by idle curiosity, were not allowed to enter. the central morgue was formerly a school-house, and the desks were used as biers for the dead bodies. three of the former pupils lay on the desks dead, with white pieces of paper pinned on the white sheets that covered them, giving their names. but what touching scenes are enacted every hour about this mournful building! outside the sharp voices of the sentinels are constantly shouting: "move on." inside weeping women and sad-faced, hollow-eyed men are bending over loved and familiar faces. back on the steep grassy hill which rises abruptly on the other side of the street are crowds of curious people who have come in from the country round about to look at the wreckage strewn around where johnstown was. "oh! mr. jones," a pale-faced woman asks, walking up, sobbing, "can't you tell me where we can get a coffin to bury johnnie's body?" "do you know," asks a tottering old man, as the pale-faced woman turns away, "whether they have found jennie and the children?" "jennie's body has just been found at the bridge," is the answer, "but the children can't be found." jennie is the old man's widowed daughter, and was drowned, with her two children, while her husband was at work over at the cambria mills. just a few doors below the school-house morgue is the central office of the "registry bureau." this was organized by dr. buchanan and h. g. connaugh, for the purpose of having a registry made of all those who had escaped. they realized that it would be impossible to secure a complete list of dead, and that the only practicable thing was to get a complete list of the living. then they would get all the johnstown names, and by that means secure a list of the dead. that estimate will be based on figures secured by the subtraction of the total registry saved from total population of johnstown and surrounding boroughs. "i have been around trying to find my sister-in-law, mrs. laura r. jones, who is lost," said david l. rogers. "how do you know she is lost?" he was asked. "because i can't find her." when persons can't be found it is taken as conclusive evidence that they have been drowned. it is believed that the flood has buried a great many people below the bridge in the ground lying just below the cambria works. here the rush of waters covered the railroad tracks ten feet deep with a coating of stones. whether they will ever be dug for remains to be seen. meantime, those who are easier to reach will be hunted for. there are many corpses in the area of rubbish that drifted down and lodged against the stone bridge of the pennsylvania railroad. out of this rubbish one thousand bodies have already been taken. the fire that was started by the driftwood touching against the burning catholic church as it floated down was still burning. walk almost anywhere through the devastated district and you will hear expressions like this: "why, you see that pile of wreckage there. there are three bodies buried beneath that pile. i know them, for i lived next door. they are mrs. charles e. kast and her daughter, who kept a tavern, and her bartender, c. s. noble." henry rogers, of pittsburg, is here caring for his relatives. "i am scarcely in a condition to talk," he says. "the awful scenes i have just witnessed and the troubles of my relatives have almost unnerved me. my poor aunt, mrs. william slick, is now a raving maniac. her husband was formerly the county surveyor. he felt that the warning about the dam should not be disregarded. accordingly he made preparations to go to a place of safety. his wife was just recovering from an illness, but he had to take her on horseback, and there was no time to get a carriage. they escaped, but all their property was washed away. mrs. slick for a time talked cheerfully enough, and said they should be thankful they had escaped with their lives. but on sunday it was noticed that she was acting strangely. by night she was insane. i suppose the news that some relatives had perished was what turned her mind. i am much afraid that mrs. slick is not the only one in johnstown whose reason has been dethroned by the calamity. i have talked with many citizens, and they certainly seem crazy to me. when the excitement passes off i suppose they will regain their reason. the escape of my uncle, george r. slick, and his wife, i think was really providential. they, too, had determined to heed the warning that the dam was unsafe. when the flood came they had a carriage waiting at the front door. just as they were entering it, the water came. how it was, my aunt cannot tell me, but they both managed to catch on to some debris, and were thus floated along. my aunt says she has an indistinct recollection of some one having helped her upon the roof of a house. the person who did her this service was lost. all night they floated along on the roof. they suffered greatly from exposure, as the weather was extremely chilly. next morning they were fortunately landed safely. my uncle, however, is now lying at the point of death. i have noticed a singular coincidence here. down in the lower end of the city stood the united presbyterian parsonage. the waters carried it two miles and a half, and landed it in sandy vale cemetery. strange as it may seem, the sexton's house in the cemetery was swept away and landed near the foundations of the parsonage. i have seen this myself, and it is commented on by many others." in one place the roofs of forty frame houses were packed in together just as you would place forty bended cards one on top of another. the iron rods of a bridge were twisted into a perfect spiral six times around one of the girders. just beneath it was a woman's trunk, broken up and half filled with sand, with silk dresses and a veil streaming out of it. from under the trunk men were lifting the body of its owner, perhaps, so burned, so horribly mutilated, so torn limb from limb that even the workmen, who have seen so many of these frightful sights that they have begun to get used to them, turned away sick at heart. in one place was a wrecked grocery store--bins of coffee and tea, flour, spices and nuts, parts of the counter and the safe mingled together. near it was the pantry of a house, still partly intact, the plates and saucers regularly piled up, a waiter and a teapot, but not a sign of the woodwork, not a recognizable outline of a house. in another place was a human foot, and crumbling indications of a boot, but no signs of a body. a hay-rick, half ashes, stood near the centre of the gorge. workmen who dug about it to-day found a chicken coop, and in it two chickens, not only alive but clucking happily when they were released. a woman's hat, half burned; a reticule, with part of a hand still clinging to it; two shoes and part of a dress told the story of one unfortunate's death. close at hand a commercial traveler had perished. there was his broken valise, still full of samples, fragments of his shoes, and some pieces of his clothing. scenes like these were occurring all over the charred field where men were working with pick and axe and lifting out the poor, shattered remains of human beings, nearly always past recognition or identification, except by guess-work, or the locality where they were found. articles of domestic use scattered through the rubbish helped to tell who some of the bodies were. part of a set of dinner plates told one man where in the intangible mass his house was. in one place was a photograph album with one picture still recognizable. from this the body of a child near by was identified. a man who had spent a day and all night looking for the body of his wife, was directed to her remains by part of a trunk lid. chapter xiv. the language of pathos is too weak to describe the scenes where the living were searching for their loved and lost ones among the dead. "that's emma," said an old man before one of the bodies. he said it as coolly as though he spoke of his daughter in life, not in death, and as if it were not the fifth dead child of his that he had identified. "is that you, mrs. james," said one woman to another on the foot-bridge over stony creek. "yes, it is, and we are all well," said mrs. james. "oh, have you heard from mrs. fenton?" "she's left," said the first woman, "but mr. fenton and the children are gone." the scenes at the different relief agencies, where food, clothing, and provisions were given out on the order of the citizens committee, were extremely interesting. these were established at the pennsylvania railroad depot, at peter's hotel, in adams street, and in each of the suburbs. at the depot, where there was a large force of police, the people were kept in files, and the relief articles were given out with some regularity, but at such a place as kernsville, in the suburbs, the relief station was in the upper story of a partly wrecked house. the yard was filled with boxes and barrels of bread, crackers, biscuit, and bales of blankets. the people crowded outside the yard in the street, and the provisions were handed to them over the fence, while the clothing was thrown to them from the upper windows. there was apparently great destitution in kernsville. "i don't care what it is, only so long as it will keep me warm," said one woman, whose ragged clothing was still damp. the stronger women pushed to the front of the fence and tried to grab the best pieces of clothing which came from the windows, but the people in the house saw the game and tossed the clothing to those in the rear of the crowd. a man stood on a barrel of flour and yelled out what each piece of clothing was as it came down. at each yell there was a universal cry of "that's just what i want. my boy is dying; he must have that. throw me that for my poor wife," and the likes of that. finally the clothing was all gone, and there were some people who didn't get any. they went away bewailing their misfortune. a reporter was piloted to kernsville by kellog, a man who had lost his wife and baby in the flood. "she stood right thar, sir," said the man, pointing to a house whose roof and front were gone. "she climbed up thar when the water came first and almost smashed the house. she had the baby in her arms. then another house came down and dashed against ours, and my wife went down with the baby raised above her head. i saw it all from a tree thar. i couldn't move a step to help 'em." coming back, the same reporter met a man whose face was radiant. he fairly beamed good nature and kindness. "you look happy," said the reporter. "yes, sir; i've found my boy," said the man. "is your house gone?" asked the reporter. "oh, of course," answered the man. "i've lost all i've got except my little boy," and he went on his way rejoicing. a wealthy young philadelphian named ogle had become engaged to a johnstown lady, miss carrie diehl. they were to be wedded in the middle of june, and were preparing for the ceremony. the lover heard of the terrible flood, but, knowing that the residence of his dear one was up in the hills, felt little fear for her safety. to make sure, however, he started for johnstown. near the fourth street morgue he met mr. diehl. "thank god! you are safe," he exclaimed, and then added: "is carrie well?" "she was visiting in the valley when the wave came," was the mournful reply. then he beckoned the young man to enter the chamber of death. a moment later mr. ogle was kneeling beside the rough bier and was kissing the cold, white face. from the lifeless finger he slipped a ring and in its place put one of his own. then he stole quietly out. "mamma! mamma!" cried a child. she had recognized a body that no one else could, and in a moment the corpse was ticketed, boxed, and delivered to laborers, who bore it away to join the long funeral procession. a mother recognized a baby boy. "keep it a few minutes," she asked the undertaker in charge. in a few moments she returned, carrying in her arms a little white casket. then she hired two men to bear it to a cemetery. no hearses were seen in johnstown. relatives recognized their dead, secured the coffins, got them carried the best way they could to the morgues, then to the graveyards. a prayer, some tears, and a few more of the dead thousands were buried in mother earth. a frequent visitor at these horrible places was david john lewis. all over johnstown he rode a powerful gray horse, and to each one he met whom he knew he exclaimed: "have you seen my sisters?" hardly waiting for a reply, he galloped away, either to seek ingress into a morgue or to ride along the river banks. one week before mr. lewis was worth $ , , his all being invested in a large commission business. after the flood he owned the horse he rode, the clothes on his back, and that was all. in the fierce wave were buried five of his near relatives, sons, and his sisters anna, louise, and maggie. the latter was married, and her little boy and babe were also drowned. they were all dearly loved by the merchant, who, crazed with grief and mounted on his horse, was a conspicuous figure in the ruined city. william gaffney, an insurance agent, had a very pitiful duty to perform. on his father's and wife's side he lost fourteen relatives, among them his wife and family. he had a man to take the bodies to the grave, and he himself dug graves for his wife and children, and buried them. in speaking of the matter he said: "i never thought that i could perform such a sad duty, but i had to do it, and i did it. no one has any idea of the feelings of a man who acts as undertaker, grave-digger, and pall-bearer for his own family." the saddest sight on the river bank was mr. gilmore, who lost his wife and family of five children. ever since the calamity this old man was seen on the river bank looking for his family. he insisted on the firemen playing a stream of water on the place where the house formerly stood, and where he supposed the bodies lay. the firemen, recognizing his feelings, played the stream on the place, at intervals, for several hours, and at last the rescuers got to the spot where the old man said his house formerly stood. "i know the bodies are there, and you must find them." when at last one of the men picked up a charred skull, evidently that of a child, the old man exclaimed: "that is my child. there lies my family; go on and get the rest of them." the workmen continued, and in a few minutes they came to the remains of the mother and three other children. there was only enough of their clothing left to recognize them by. on the floor of william mancarro's house, groaning with pain and grief, lay patrick madden, a furnaceman of the cambria iron company. he told of his terrible experience in a voice broken with emotion. he said: "when the cambria iron company's bridge gave way i was in the house of a neighbor, edward garvey. we were caught through our own neglect, like a great many others, and a few minutes before the houses were struck garvey remarked that he was a good swimmer, and could get away no matter how high the water rose. ten minutes later i saw him and his son-in-law drowned. "no human being could swim in that terrible torrent of débris. after the south fork reservoir broke i was flung out of the building, and saw, when i rose to the surface of the water, my wife hanging upon a piece of scantling. she let it go and was drowned almost within reach of my arm, and i could not help or save her. i caught a log and floated with it five or six miles, but it was knocked from under me when i went over the dam. i then caught a bale of hay and was taken out by mr. morenrow. "my wife is certainly drowned, and six children. four of them were: james madden, twenty-three years old; john, twenty-one years; kate, seventeen years; and mary, nineteen years." a spring wagon came slowly from the ruins of what was once cambria. in it, on a board and covered by a muddy cloth, were the remains of editor c. t. schubert, of the johnstown _free press_, german. behind the wagon walked his friend benjamin gribble. editor schubert was one of the most popular and well-known germans in the city. he sent his three sons to conemaugh borough on thursday, and on friday afternoon he and his wife and six other children called at mr. gribble's residence. they noticed the rise of the water, but not until the flood from the burst dam washed the city did they anticipate danger. all fled from the first to the second floor. then, as the water rose, they went to the attic, and mr. schubert hastily prepared a raft, upon which all embarked. just as the raft reached the bridge, a heavy piece of timber swept the editor beneath the surface. the raft then glided through, and all the rest were rescued. mr. schubert's body was found beneath a pile of broken timbers. a pitiful sight was that of an old, gray-haired man named norn. he was walking around among the mass of débris, looking for his family. he had just sat down to eat his supper when the crash came, and the whole family, consisting of wife and eight children, were buried beneath the collapsed house. he was carried down the river to the railroad bridge on a plank. just at the bridge a cross-tie struck him with such force that he was shot clear upon the pier, and was safe. but he is a mass of bruises and cuts from head to foot. he refused to go to the hospital until he found the bodies of his loved ones. chapter xv. five days after the disaster a bird's-eye view was taken of johnstown from the top of a precipitous mountain which almost overhangs it. the first thing that impresses the eye, wrote the observer, is the fact that the proportion of the town that remains uninjured is much smaller than it seems to be from lower-down points of view. besides the part of the town that is utterly wiped out, there are two great swaths cut through that portion which from lower down seems almost uninjured. beginning at conemaugh, two miles above the railroad bridge, along the right side of the valley looking down, there is a strip of an eighth by a quarter of a mile wide, which constituted the heart of a chain of continuous towns, and which was thickly built over for the whole distance, upon which now not a solitary building stands except the gutted walls of the wood, morrell & co. general store in johnstown, and of the gautier wire mill and woodvale flour mill at woodvale. except for these buildings, the whole two-mile strip is swept clean, not only of buildings, but of everything. it is a tract of mud, rocks, and such other miscellaneous débris as might follow the workings of a huge hydraulic placer mining system in the gold regions. in johnstown itself, besides the total destruction upon this strip, extending at the end to cover the whole lower end of the city, there is a swath branching off from the main strip above the general store and running straight to the bluff. it is three blocks wide and makes a huge "y," with the gap through which the flood came for the base and main strip and the swaths for branches. between the branches there is a triangular block of buildings that are still standing, although most of them are damaged. at a point exactly opposite the corner where the branches of the "y" meet, and distant from it by about fifty yards, is one of the freaks of the flood. the baltimore and ohio railroad station, a square, two-story brick building, with a little cupola at the apex of its slanting roof, is apparently uninjured, but really one corner is knocked in and the whole interior is a total wreck. how it stood when everything anywhere near it was swept away is a mystery. above the "y"-shaped tract of ruin there is another still wider swath, bending around in stony creek, save on the left, where the flood surged when it was checked and thrown back by the railroad bridge. it swept things clean before it through johnstown and made a track of ruin among the light frame houses for nearly two miles up the gap. the roman catholic church was just at its upper edge. it is still standing, and from its tower the bell strikes the hours regularly as before, although everybody now is noticing that it always sounds like a funeral. nobody ever noticed it before, but from the upper side it can be seen that a huge hole has been knocked through the side of the building. a train of cars could be run through it. inside the church is filled with all sorts of rubbish and ruin. a little further on is another church, which curiously illustrates the manner in which fire and flood seemed determined to unite in completing the ruin of the city. just before the flood came down the valley there was a terrific explosion in this church, supposed to have been caused by natural gas. amid all the terrors of the flood, with the water surging thirty feet deep all around and through it, the flames blazed through the roof and tower, and its fire-stained walls arise from the débris of the flood, which covers its foundations. its ruins are one of the most conspicuous and picturesque sights in the city. [illustration: ruins from site of the hurlburt house.] next to adams street, the road most traveled in johnstown now is the pennsylvania railroad track, or rather bed, across the stony creek, and at a culvert crossing just west of the creek. more people have been injured here since the calamity than at any other place. the railroad ties which hold the track across the culvert are big ones, and their strength has not been weakened by the flood, but between the ties and between the freight and passenger tracks there is a wide space. the pennsylvania trains from johnstown have to stop, of course, at the eastern end of the bridge, and the thousands of people whom they daily bring to johnstown from pittsburgh have to get into johnstown by walking across the track to the pennsylvania railroad depot, and then crossing the pontoon foot-bridge that has been built across the stony creek. all day long there is a black line of people going back and forth across this course. every now and then there is a yell, a plunge, a rush of people to the culvert, a call for a doctor, and cries of "help" from underneath the culvert. some one, of course, has fallen between the freight and passenger tracks, or between the ties of the tracks themselves. in the night it is particularly dangerous traveling to the pennsylvania depot this way, and people falling then have little chance of a rescue. so far at least thirty persons have fallen down the culvert, and a dozen of them, who have descended entirely to the ground, have escaped in some marvelous manner with their lives. several pittsburghers have had their legs and arms broken, and one man cracked his collar-bone. it is to be hoped that these accidents will keep off the flock of curiosity-seekers, in some degree at least. the presence of these crowds seriously interferes with the work of clearing up the town, and affects the residents here in even a graver manner, for though many of those coming to johnstown to spend a day and see the ruins bring something to eat with them, many do not do so, and invade the relief stands, taking the food which is lavishly dealt out to the suffering. though the pennsylvania railroad bridge is as strong as ever, apparently, beyond the bridge, the embankment on which the track is built is washed away, and people therefore do not cross the bridge, but leave the track on the western side, and, clambering down the abutments, cross the creek on a rude foot-bridge hastily erected, and then through the yard of the open-hearth works and of the railroad up to the depot. this yard altogether is about three-quarters of a mile long, but so deceptive are distances in the valley that it does not look one-third that. the bed of this yard, three-quarters of a mile long, and about the same distance wide, is the most desolate place here. the yard itself is fringed with the crumbling ruins of the iron works and of the railroad shops. the iron works were great, high brick buildings, with steep iron roofs. the ends of these buildings were smashed in, and the roofs bend over where the flood struck them, in a curve. but it is the bed of the yard itself that is desolate. in appearance it is a mass of stones and rocks and huge boulders, so that it seems a vast quarry hewn and uncovered by the wind. there is comparatively little débris here, all this having been washed away over to the sides of the buildings, in one or two instances filling the buildings completely. there is no soft earth or mud on the rocks at all, this part of johnstown being much in contrast with the great stretch of sand along the river. in some instances the dirt is washed away to such a depth that the bed-rock is uncovered. the fury of the waters here may be gathered from this fact: piled up outside the works of the open-hearth company were several heaps of massive blooms--long, solid blocks of pig iron, weighing fifteen tons each. the blooms, though they were not carried down the river, were scattered about the yard like so many logs of wood. they will have to be piled up again by the use of a derrick. the open-hearth iron works people are making vigorous efforts to clear their buildings. the yards of the company were blazing last night with the burning débris, but it will be weeks before the company can start operations. in the pennsylvania railroad yard all is activity and bustle. at the relief station, and at the headquarters of general hastings, in the signal tower, the man who is the head of all operations there, and the directing genius of the place, is lieutenant george miller, of the fifth united states infantry. lieutenant miller was near here on his vacation when the flood came. he was one of the first on the spot, and was about the only man in johnstown who showed some ability as an organizer and a disciplinarian. a reporter who groped his way across the railroad track, the foot-bridge, and the quarries and yards at reveille found lieutenant miller in a group of the soldiers of the fourteenth pennsylvania regiment telling them just what to do. chapter xvi. travel was resumed up the valley of conemaugh creek for a few miles about five days after the flood, and a weird sight was presented to the visitor. no pen can do justice to it, yet some impressions of it must be recorded. every one has seen the light iron beams, shafts, and rods in a factory lying in twisted, broken, and criss-cross shape after a fire has destroyed the building. in the gap above johnstown water has picked up a four-track railroad covered with trains, freight, and passengers, and with machine shops, a round-house, and other heavy buildings with heavy contents, and it has torn the track to pieces, twisted, turned, and crossed it as fire never could. it has tossed huge freight locomotives about like barrels, and cars like packing-boxes, torn them to pieces, and scattered them over miles of territory. it has in one place put a stream of deep water, a city block wide, between the railroad and the bluff, and in another place it has changed the course of the river as far in the other direction and left a hundred yards inland the tracks that formerly skirted the banks. add to this that in the midst of all this devastation, fire, with the singular fatality that has made it everywhere the companion of the flood in this catastrophe, has destroyed a train of vestibule cars that the flood had wrecked; that the passengers who remained in the cars through the flood and until the fire were saved, while their companions who attempted to flee were overwhelmed and drowned; and that through it all one locomotive stood and still stands comparatively uninjured in the heart of this disaster, and the story of one of the most marvelous freaks of this marvelous flood is barely outlined. that locomotive stands there on its track now with its fires burning, smoke curling from the stack, and steam from its safety valve, all ready to go ahead as soon as they will build a track down to it. it is no. , a fifty-four ton, eight driver, class r, pennsylvania railroad locomotive. george hudson was its engineer, and conductor sheely had charge of its train. they, with all the rest of the crew, escaped by flight when they saw the flood. the wonders of this playground, where a giant force played with masses of iron, weighing scores of tons each, as a child might play with pebbles, begins with a bridge, or a piece of a bridge, about thirty feet long, that stands high and dry upon two ordinary stone abutments at woodvale. the part of the bridge that remains spanned the pennsylvania tracks. the tracks are gone, the bridge is gone on either side, the river is gone to a new channel, the very earth for a hundred yards around has been scraped off and swept away, but this little span remains perched up there, twenty feet above everything, in the midst of a desert of ruins--the only piece of a bridge that is standing from the railroad bridge to south forks. it is a light iron structure, and the abutments are not unusually heavy. that it should be kept there, when everything else was twisted and torn to pieces, is one other queer freak of this flood. near by are the wrecks of two freight trains that were standing side by side when the flood caught them. the lower ends of both trains are torn to pieces, the cars tossed around in every direction, and many of them carried away. the whole of the train on the track nearest the river was smashed into kindling wood. its locomotive is gone entirely, perhaps because this other train acted as a sort of buffer for the second one. the latter has twenty-five or thirty cars that are uninjured, apparently. they could move off as soon as that wonderful engine, no. , that stands with steam up at their head, gets ready to pull out. a second look, however, shows that the track is in many places literally washed from beneath the cars. some of the trucks also are turned half way around and standing with wheels running across the track. but the force that did this left the light wood box cars themselves unharmed. they were loaded with dressed beef and provisions. they have been emptied to supply the hungry in johnstown. in front of engine and this train the water played one of its most fantastic tricks with the rails. the débris of trees, logs, planks, and every description of wreckage is heaped up in front of the engine to the headlight, and is packed in so tightly that twenty men with ropes and axes worked all day without clearing all away. the track is absolutely gone from the front of the engine clear up to beyond conemaugh. parts of it lie about everywhere, twisted into odd shapes, turned upside down, stacked crosswise one above the other, and in one place a section of the west track has been lifted clear over the right track, runs along there for a ways, and then twists back into its proper place. even stranger are the tricks the water has played with the rails where they have been torn loose from the ties. the rails are steel and of the heaviest weight used. they were twisted as easily as willow branches in a spring freshet in a country brook. one rail lies in the sand in the shape of a letter "s." more are broken squarely in two. many times rails have been broken within a few feet of a fishplate, coupling them to the next rail, and the fragments are still united by the comparatively weak plates. every natural law would seem to show that the first place where they should have broken was at the joints. there is little to indicate the recent presence of a railroad in the stretch from this spot up to the upper part of conemaugh. the little plain into which the gap widened here, and in which stood the bulk of the town, is wiped out. the river has changed its course from one side of the valley to the other. there is not the slightest indication that the central part of the plain was ever anything but a flood-washed gulch in some mountain region. at the upper end of the plain, surrounded by a desert of mud and rock, stands a fantastic collection of ruined railroad equipments. three trains stood there when the flood swept down the valley. on the outside was a local passenger train with three cars and a locomotive. it stands there yet, the cars tilted by the washing of the tracks, but comparatively uninjured. somehow a couple more locomotives have been run into the sand bank. in the centre a freight train stood on the track, and a large collection of smashed cars has its place now. it was broken all to pieces. inside of all was the day express, with its baggage and express cars, and at the end three vestibule cars. it was from this train that a number of passengers--fifteen certainly, and no one knows how many more--were lost. when the alarm came most of the passengers fled for the high ground. many reached it; others hesitated on the way, tried to run back to the cars, and were lost. others stayed on the cars, and, after the first rush of the flood, were rescued alive. some of the freight cars were loaded with lime, and this leaped over the vestibule cars and set them on fire. all three of the vestibule cars were burned down to the trucks. these and the peculiar-shaped iron frames of the vestibules are all that show where the cars stood. the reason the flood, that twisted heavy steel rails like twigs just below, did not wipe out these three trains entirely is supposed to be that just in front of them, and between them and the flood, was the round-house, filled with engines. it was a large building, probably forty feet high to the top of the ventilators in the roof. the wave of wrath, eye-witnesses say, was so high that these ventilators were beneath it. the round-house was swept away to its very foundations, and the flood played jackstraws with the two dozen locomotives lodged in it, but it split the torrent, and a part of it went down each side of the three trains, saving them from the worst of its force. thirty-three locomotives were in and about the round-house and the repair shops near by. of these, twenty-six have been found, or at least traced, part of them being found scattered down into johnstown, and one tender was found up in stony creek. the other seven locomotives are gone, and not a trace of them has been found up to this time. it is supposed that some of them are in the sixty acres of débris above the bridge at johnstown. all the locomotives that remain anywhere within sight of the round-house, all except those attached to the trains, are thrown about in every direction, every side up, smashed, broken, and useless except for old iron. the tenders are all gone. being lighter than the locomotives, they floated easier, and were quickly torn off and carried away. the engines themselves were apparently rolled over and over in whichever direction the current that had hold of them ran, and occasionally were picked up bodily and slammed down again, wheels up, or whichever way chanced to be most convenient to the flood. most of them lie in five feet of sand and gravel, with only a part showing above the surface. some are out in the bed of the river. a strange but very pleasant feature of the disaster in conemaugh itself is the comparatively small loss of life. as the townspeople figure it out, there are only thirty-eight persons there positively known to have perished besides those on the train. this was partly because the buildings in the centre of the valley were mostly stores and factories, and also because more heed appears to have been paid to the warnings that came from up the valley. at noon the workmen in the shops were notified that there was danger, and that they had better go home. at one o'clock word was given that the dam was likely to go, and that everybody must get on high ground. few remained in the central part of the valley when the high wave came through the gap. doré never dreamed a weirder, ghastlier picture than night in the conemaugh valley since the flood desolated it. darkness falls early from the rain-dropping, gray sky that has palled the valley ever since it became a vast bier, a charnel-house fifteen miles long. the smoke and steam from the placers of smouldering débris above the bridge aid to hasten the night. few lights gleam out, except those of the scattered fires that still flicker fitfully in the mass of wreckage. gas went out with the flood, and oil has been almost entirely lacking since the disaster. candles are used in those places where people think it worth while to stay up after dark. up on the hills around the town bright sparks gleam out like lovely stars from the few homes built so high. down in the valley the gloom settles over everything, making it look, from the bluffs around, like some vast death-pit, the idea of entering which brings a shudder. the gloomy effect is not relieved, but rather deepened, by the broad beams of ghastly, pale light thrown across the gulf by two or three electric lights erected around the pennsylvania railroad station. they dazzle the eye and make the gloom still deeper. time does not accustom the eyes to this ghastly scene. the flames rising and falling over the ruins look more like witches' bale-fires the longer they are looked at. the smoke-burdened depths in the valley seem deserted by every living thing, except that occasionally, prowling ghoul-like about the edges of the mass of débris, may be seen, as they cross the beams of electric light, dark figures of men who are drawn to the spot day and night, hovering over the place where some chance movement may disclose the body of a wife, mother, or daughter gone down in the wreck. they pick listlessly away at the heaps in one spot for awhile and then wander aimlessly off, only to reappear at another spot, pulling feverishly at some rags that looked like a dress, or poking a stick into some hole to feel if there is anything soft at the bottom. at one or two places the electric lights show, with exaggerated and distorted shadows, firemen in big hats and long rubber coats, standing upon the edge of the bridge, steadily holding the hose, from which two streams of water shoot far out over the mass, sparkle for a moment like silver in the pale light, and then drop downward into the blackness. for noise, there is heavy splashing of the conemaugh over the rapids below the bridge, the petulant gasping of an unseen fire-engine, pumping water through the hose, and the even more rapid but greater puffing of the dynamo-engine that, mounted upon a flat car at one end of the bridge, furnishes electricity for the lights. there is little else heard. people who are yet about gather in little groups, and talk in low tones as they look over the dark, watchfire-beaconed gulf. everybody in johnstown looks over that gulf in every spare moment, day or night. movement about is almost impossible, for the ways are only foot-paths about the bluffs, irregular and slippery. every night people are badly hurt by falls over bluffs, through the bridge, or down banks. lying about under sheds in ruined buildings, and even in the open air, wherever one goes, are the forms, wrapped in blankets, of men who have no better place to sleep, resembling nothing so much as the corpses that men are seen always to be carrying about the streets in the daytime. [illustration: the dÉbris above the pennsylvania railroad bridge.] chapter xvii. one of the first to reach johnstown from a distance was a new york _world_ correspondent, who on sunday wrote as follows:-- "i walked late yesterday afternoon from new florence to a place opposite johnstown, a distance of four miles. i describe what i actually saw. all along the way bodies were seen lying on the river banks. in one place a woman was half buried in the mud, only a limb showing. in another was a mother with her babe clasped to her breast. further along lay a husband and wife, their arms wound around each other's necks. probably fifty bodies were seen on that one side of the river, and it must be remembered that here the current was the swiftest, and consequently fewer of the dead were landed among the bushes. on the opposite side bodies could also be seen, but they were all covered with mud. as i neared johnstown the wreckage became grand in its massive proportions. in order to show the force of the current i will say that three miles below johnstown i saw a grand piano lying on the bank, and not a board or key was broken. it must have been lifted on the crest of the wave and laid gently on the bank. in another place were two large iron boilers. they had evidently been treated by the torrent much as the piano had been. "the scenes, as i neared johnstown, were the most heart-rending that man was ever called to look upon. probably three thousand people were scattered in groups along the pennsylvania railroad track and every one of them had a relative lying dead either in the wreckage above, in the river below, or in the still burning furnace. not a house that was left standing was in plumb. hundreds of them were turned on their sides, and in some cases three or four stood one on top of the other. two miles from johnstown, on the opposite side of the river from where i walked, stood one-half of the water-works of the cambria iron company, a structure that had been built of massive stone. it was filled with planks from houses, and a large abutment of wreckage was piled up fully fifty feet in front of it. a little above, on the same side, could be seen what was left of the cambria iron works, which was one of the finest plants in the world. some of the walls are still standing, it is true, but not a vestige of the valuable machinery remains in sight. the two upper portions of the works were swept away almost entirely, and under the pieces of fallen iron and wood could be seen the bodies of more than forty workmen. "at this point there is a bend in the river and the fiery furnace blazing for a quarter of a mile square above the stone bridge came into view. "'my god!' screamed a woman who was hastening up the track, 'can it be that any are in there?' "'yes; over a thousand,' replied a man who had just come from the neighborhood, and it is now learned that he estimated the number at one thousand too low. "the scenes of misery and suffering and agony and despair can hardly be chronicled. one man, a clerk named woodruff, was reeling along intoxicated. suddenly, with a frantic shout, he threw himself over the bank into the flood and would have been carried to his death had he not been caught by some persons below. "'let me die,' he exclaimed, when they rescued him. 'my wife and children are gone; i have no use for my life.' an hour later i saw woodruff lying on the ground entirely overcome by liquor. persons who knew him said that he had never tasted liquor before. "probably fifty barrels of whisky were washed ashore just below johnstown, and those men who had lost everything in this world sought solace in the fiery liquid. so it was that as early as six o'clock last night the shrieks and cries of women were intermingled with drunkards' howls and curses. what was worse than anything, however, was the fact that incoming trains from pittsburgh brought hundreds of toughs, who joined with the slavs and bohemians in rifling the bodies, stealing furniture, insulting women, and endeavoring to assume control of any rescuing parties that tried to seek the bodies under the bushes and in the limbs of trees. there was no one in authority, no one to take command of even a citizens' posse could it have been organized. a lawless mob seemed to control this narrow neck of land that was the only approach to the city of johnstown. i saw persons take watches from dead men's jackets and brutally tear finger-rings from the hands of women. the ruffians also climbed into the overturned houses and ransacked the rooms, taking whatever they thought valuable. no one dared check them in this work, and, consequently, the scene was not as riotous as it would have been if the toughs had not had sway. in fact, they became beastly drunk after a time and were seen lying around in a stupor. unless the military is on hand early to-morrow there may be serious trouble, for each train pours loads of people of every description into the vicinity, and slavs are flocking like birds of prey from the surrounding country. "here i will give the latest conservative estimate of the dead--it is between seven and eight thousand drowned and two thousand burned. the committee at johnstown in their last bulletin placed the number of lives lost at eight thousand. in doing so they are figuring the inhabitants of their own city and the towns immediately adjoining. but it must be remembered that the tidal wave swept ten miles through a populous district before it even reached the locality over which this committee has supervision. it devastated a tract the size and shape of manhattan island. here are a few facts that will show the geographical outlines of the terrible disaster: the hotel hurlburt of johnstown, a massive three-story building of one hundred rooms, has vanished. there were in it seventy-five guests at the time of the flood. two only are now known to be alive. the merchants' hotel is leveled. how many were inside it is not known, but as yet no one has been seen who came from there or heard of an inmate escaping. at the conemaugh round-house forty-one locomotives were swept down the stream, and before they reached the stone bridge all the iron and steel work had been torn from their boilers. it is almost impossible in this great catastrophe to go more into details. "i stood on the stone bridge at six o'clock and looked into the seething mass of ruin below me. at one place the blackened body of a babe was seen; in another, fourteen skulls could be counted. further along the bones became thicker and thicker, until at last at one place it seemed as if a concourse of people who had been at a ball or entertainment had been carried in a bunch and incinerated. at this time the smoke was still rising to the height of fifty feet, and it is expected that when it dies down the charred bodies will be seen dotting the entire mass. "a cable had been run last night from the end of the stone bridge to the nearest point across--a distance of three hundred feet. over this cable was run a trolley, and a swing was fastened under it. a man went over, and he was the first one who visited johnstown since the awful disaster. i followed him to-day. "i walked along the hillside and saw hundreds of persons lying on the wet grass, wrapped in blankets or quilts. it was growing cold and a misty rain had set in. shelter was not to be had, and houses on the hillsides that had not been swept away were literally packed from top to bottom. the bare necessities of life were soon at a premium, and loaves of bread sold at fifty cents. fortunately, however, the relief train from pittsburgh arrived at seven o'clock. otherwise the horrors of starvation would have been added. all provisions, however, had to be carried over a rough, rocky road a distance of four miles (as i knew, who had been compelled to walk it), and in many cases they were seized by the toughs, and the people who were in need of food did not get it. "rich and poor were served alike by this terrible disaster. i saw a girl standing in her bare feet on the river's bank, clad in a loose petticoat and with a shawl over her head. at first i thought she was an italian woman, but her face showed that i was mistaken. she was the belle of the town--the daughter of a wealthy johnstown banker--and this single petticoat and shawl were not only all that was left her, but all that was saved from the magnificent residence of her father. she had escaped to the hills not an instant too soon. "the solicitor of johnstown, mr. george martin, said to me to-day:-- "'all my money went away in the flood. my house is gone. so are all my clothes, but, thank god, my family are safe.'" chapter xviii. the first train that passed new florence, bound east, was crowded with people from pittsburgh and places along the line, who were going to the scene of the disaster with but little hope of finding their loved ones alive. it was a heart-rending sight. not a dry eye was in the train. mothers moaned for their children. husbands paced the aisles and wrung their hands in mute agony. fathers pressed their faces against the windows and endeavored to see something, they knew not what, that would tell them in a measure of the dreadful fate that their loved ones had met with. all along the raging conemaugh the train stopped, and bodies were taken on the express car, being carried by the villagers who were out along the banks. oh, the horror and infinite pity of it all! what a journey has been that of the last half hour! swollen corpses lay here and there in piles of cross-ties, or on the river banks along the tangled greenery. it was about nine o'clock when the first passenger train since friday came to the new florence depot with its load of eager passengers. they were no idle travelers, but each had a mission. here and there men were staring out the windows with red eyes. among them were tough-looking hungarians and italians who had lost friends near nineveh, while many were weeping, on all sides. two of the passengers on the train were man and wife from johnstown. he was dignified and more or less self-possessed. she was anxious, and tried hard to control her feelings. from every newcomer and possible source of information she sought news. "ours is a big, new brick house," said she with a brave effort, but with her brown eyes moist and red lips trembling. "it is a three-story house, and i don't think there is any trouble, do you?" said she to me, and without waiting for my answer, she continued with a sob, "there are my four children in the house and their nurse, and i guess father and mother will go over to the house, don't you?" in a few moments all those in the car knew the story of the pair, and many a pitying glance was cast at them. their house was one of the first to go. the huge wave struck bolivar just after dark, and in five minutes the conemaugh rose from six to forty feet, and the waters spread out over the whole country. soon houses began floating down, and clinging to the débris were men, women, and children shrieking for aid. a large number of citizens gathered at the county bridge, and they were reinforced by a number from garfield, a town on the opposite side of the river. they brought ropes, and these were thrown over into the boiling waters as persons drifted by, in efforts to save them. for half an hour all efforts were fruitless, until at last, when the rescuers were about giving up all hope, a little boy astride a shingle roof managed to catch hold of one of the ropes. he caught it under his left arm and was thrown violently against an abutment, but managed to keep hold and was pulled onto the bridge amid the cheers of the onlookers. the lad was at once taken to garfield and cared for. the boy is about sixteen years old and his name is hessler. his story of the calamity is as follows:-- "with my father i was spending the day at my grandfather's house in cambria city. in the house at the time were theodore, edward, and john kintz, john kintz, jr., miss mary kintz, mrs. mary kintz, wife of john kintz, jr.; miss treacy kintz, mrs. rica smith, john hirsch and four children, my father, and myself. shortly after five o'clock there was a noise of roaring waters and screams of people. we looked out the door and saw persons running. my father told us to never mind, as the waters would not rise further. but soon we saw houses swept by, and then we ran up to the floor above. the house was three stories, and we were at last forced to the top one. in my fright i jumped on the bed. it was an old-fashioned one, with heavy posts. the water kept rising, and my bed was soon afloat. gradually it was lifted up. the air in the room grew close, and the house was moving. still the bed kept rising and pressed the ceiling. at last the posts pushed the plaster. it yielded, and a section of the roof gave way. then i suddenly found myself on the roof and was being carried down stream. after a little this roof commenced to part, and i was afraid i was going to be drowned, but just then another house with a shingle roof floated by, and i managed to crawl on it and floated down until nearly dead with cold, when i was saved. after i was freed from the house i did not see my father. my grandfather was on a tree, but he must have been drowned, as the waters were rising fast. john kintz, jr., was also on a tree. miss mary kintz and mrs. mary kintz i saw drown. miss smith was also drowned. john hirsch was in a tree, but the four children were drowned. the scenes were terrible. live bodies and corpses were floating down with me and away from me. i would see a person shriek and then disappear. all along the line were people who were trying to save us, but they could do nothing, and only a few were caught." an eye-witness at bolivar block station tells a story of heroism which occurred at the lower bridge which crosses the conemaugh at that point. a young man, with two women, were seen coming down the river on part of a floor. at the upper bridge a rope was thrown down to them. this they all failed to catch. between the two bridges he was noticed to point toward the elder woman, who, it is supposed, was his mother. he was then seen to instruct the women how to catch the rope which was being lowered from the other bridge. down came the raft with a rush. the brave man stood with his arms around the two women. as they swept under the bridge he reached up and seized the rope. he was jerked violently away from the two women, who failed to get a hold on the rope. seeing that they would not be rescued, he dropped the rope and fell back on the raft, which floated on down the river. the current washed their frail craft in toward the bank. the young man was enabled to seize hold of a branch of a tree. he aided the two women to get up into the tree. he held on with his hands and rested his feet on a pile of driftwood. a piece of floating débris struck the drift, sweeping it away. the man hung with his body immersed in the water. a pile of drift soon collected, and he was enabled to get another insecure footing. up the river there was a sudden crash, and a section of the bridge was swept away and floated down the stream, striking the tree and washing it away. all three were thrown into the water and were drowned before the eyes of the horrified spectators, just opposite the town of bolivar. at bolivar a man, woman, and child were seen floating down in a lot of drift. the mass soon began to part, and, by desperate efforts, the husband and father succeeded in getting his wife and little one on a floating tree. just then the tree was washed under the bridge, and a rope was thrown out. it fell upon the man's shoulders. he saw at a glance that he could not save his dear ones, so he threw the means of safety on one side and clasped in his arms those who were with him. a moment later and the tree struck a floating house. it turned over, and in an instant the three persons were in the seething waters, being carried to their death. an instance of a mother's love at bolivar is told. a woman and two children were floating down the torrent. the mother caught a rope, and tried to hold it to her and her babe. it was impossible, and with a look of anguish she relinquished the rope and sank with her little ones. a family, consisting of father and mother and nine children, were washed away in a creek at lockport. the mother managed to reach the shore, but the husband and children were carried out into the conemaugh to drown. the woman was crazed over the terrible event. a little girl passed under the bolivar bridge just before dark. she was kneeling on part of a floor, and had her hands clasped as if in prayer. every effort was made to save her, but they all proved futile. a railroader who was standing by remarked that the piteous appearance of the little waif brought tears to his eyes. all night long the crowd stood about the ruins of the bridge which had been swept away at bolivar. the water rushed past with a roar, carrying with it parts of houses, furniture, and trees. no more living persons are being carried past. watchers, with lanterns, remained along the banks until daybreak, when the first view of the awful devastation of the flood was witnessed. along the bank lay the remnants of what had once been dwelling-houses and stores; here and there was an uprooted tree. piles of drift lay about, in some of which bodies of the victims of the flood will be found. harry fisher, a young telegraph operator, who was at bolivar when the first rush of waters began, says: "we knew nothing of the disaster until we noticed the river slowly rising, and then more rapidly. news reached us from johnstown that the dam at south fork had burst. within three hours the water in the river rose at least twenty feet. shortly before six o'clock ruins of houses, beds, household utensils, barrels, and kegs came floating past the bridges. at eight o'clock the water was within six feet of the roadbed of the bridge. the wreckage floated past, without stopping, for at least two hours. then it began to lessen, and night coming suddenly upon us, we could see no more. the wreckage was floating by for a long time before the first living persons passed. fifteen people that i saw were carried down by the river. one of these, a boy, was saved, and three of them were drowned just directly below the town. hundreds of animals lost their lives. the bodies of horses, dogs, and chickens floated past in numbers that could not be counted." just before reaching sang hollow, the end of the mail line on the pennsylvania railroad, is "s. o." signal tower, and the men in it told piteous stories of what they saw. a beautiful girl came down on the roof of a building, which was swung in near the tower. she screamed to the operators to save her, and one big, brawny, brave fellow walked as far into the river as he could, and shouted to her to guide herself into shore with a bit of plank. she was a plucky girl, full of nerve and energy, and stood upon her frail support in evident obedience to the command of the operator. she made two or three bold strokes, and actually stopped the course of the raft for an instant. then it swerved, and went out from under her. she tried to swim ashore, but in a few seconds she was lost in the swirling water. something hit her, for she lay on her back, with face pallid and expressionless. men and women, in dozens, in pairs, and singly; children, boys, big and little, and wee babies, were there among the awful confusion of water, drowning, gasping, struggling, and fighting desperately for life. two men, on a tiny raft, shot into the swiftest part of the current. they crouched stolidly, looking at the shores, while between them, dressed in white, and kneeling with her face turned heavenward, was a girl six or seven years old. she seemed stricken with paralysis until she came opposite the tower, and then she turned her face to the operator. she was so close they could see big tears on her cheeks, and her pallor was as death. the helpless men on shore shouted to her to keep up her courage, and she resumed her devout attitude, and disappeared under the trees of a projecting point a short distance below. "we couldn't see her come out again," said the operator, "and that was all of it." chapter xix. an interesting story of endeavor was related on monday by a correspondent of the new york _sun_, who made his way to the scene of disaster. this is what he wrote:-- although three days have passed since the disaster, the difficulty of reaching the desolated region is still so great that, under ordinary circumstances, no one would dream of attempting the trip. the pennsylvania railroad cannot get within several miles of johnstown, and it is almost impossible to get on their trains even at that. they run one, two, or three trains a day on the time of the old through trains, and the few cars on each train are crowded with passengers in a few minutes after the gates open. then the sale of tickets is stopped, the gates are closed, and all admission to the train denied. no extra cars will be put on, no second section sent out, and no special train run on any account, for love or money. the scenes at the station when the gates are shut are sorrowful. men who have come hundreds of miles to search for friends or relatives among the dead stand hopelessly before the edict of the blue-coated officials from eight in the morning until one in the afternoon. there is no later train on the pennsylvania road out of pittsburgh, and the agony of suspense is thus prolonged. besides that, the one o'clock train is so late in getting to sang hollow that the work of beginning a search is practically delayed until the next morning. [illustration: ruins of the cambria iron works.] the _sun's_ special correspondents were of a party of fifteen or twenty business men and others who had come from the east by way of buffalo, and who reached pittsburgh in abundant time to have taken the pennsylvania railroad train at eight o'clock, had the company wished to carry them. with hundreds of others they were turned away, and appeals even to the highest official of the road were useless, whether in the interest of newspaper enterprise or private business, or in the sadder but most frequent case where men prayed like beggars for an opportunity to measure the extent of their bereavement, or find if, by some happy chance, one might not be alive out of a family. the sight-seeing and curious crowd was on hand early, and had no trouble in getting on the train. those who had come from distant cities, and whose mission was of business or sorrow, were generally later, and were left. no effort was made to increase the accommodations of the train for those who most needed them. the _sun's_ men had traveled a thousand miles around to reach pittsburgh. their journey had covered three sides of the state of pennsylvania, from philadelphia at the extreme southeast, through new jersey and new york to buffalo by way of albany and the new york central, and thence by the lake shore to ashtabula, o., passing through erie at the extreme northwest corner of the state; thence down by the pittsburgh and lake erie road to youngstown, o., and so into pittsburgh by the back door, as it were. circumstances and the edict of the pennsylvania railroad were destined to carry them still further around, more than a hundred miles, nearly south of pittsburgh, almost across the line into maryland, and thence fifty miles up before they reached their destination. the baltimore and ohio railroad ordinarily does not attempt to compete for business from pittsburgh into johnstown. its only route between those two cities leads over small branch lines among the mountains south of johnstown, and is over double the length of the pennsylvania main line route. the first train to reach johnstown, however, was one over the baltimore and ohio lines, and, although they made no attempt to establish a regular line, they did on sunday get two relief trains out of pittsburgh and into johnstown. superintendent patten, of the baltimore and ohio, established headquarters in a box car two miles south of johnstown, and telegraphed to acting superintendent mcilvaine, at pittsburgh, to take for free transportation all goods offered for the relief of the sufferers. no passenger trains were run, however, except the regular trains on the main line for cumberland, md., and the branches from the main line to johnstown were used entirely by wildcat trains running on special orders, with no object but to get relief up as quickly as possible. nothing had left pittsburgh for johnstown, however, to-day up to nine o'clock. arrangements were made for a relief train to go out early in the afternoon, to pick up cars of contributed goods at the stations along the line and get them into johnstown some time during the night. "no specials" was also the rule on the baltimore and ohio, but acting superintendent mcilvaine recognized in the _sun_, with its enormous possibilities in the way of spreading throughout the country the actual situation of affairs in the devastated district, a means of awaking the public to the extent of the disaster that would be of more efficient relief to the suffering people than even train-loads of food and clothing. the _sun's_ case was therefore made exceptional, and when the situation was explained to him he consented, for a sum that appalled the representatives of some other papers who heard it, but which was, for the distance to be covered, very fair, to set the _sun's_ men down in johnstown at the earliest moment that steam and steel and iron could do it. in fifteen minutes one of the baltimore and ohio light passenger engines, with engineer w. e. scott in charge and fireman charles hood for assistant, was hitched to a single coach out in the yard. conductor w. b. clancy was found somewhere about and put in command of the expedition. brakeman dan lynn was captured just as he was leaving an incoming train, and although he had been without sleep for a day, he readily consented to complete the crew of the _sun's_ train. there was no disposition to be hoggish in the matter, and at a time like this the great thing was to get the best possible information as to affairs at johnstown spread over the country in the least possible time. the facilities of the train were therefore placed at the disposal of other newspaper men who were willing to share in the expense. none of them, however, availed themselves of this chance to save practically a whole day in reaching the scene, except the artist representing _harper's weekly_, who had accompanied the _sun_ men this far in their race against time from the east. as far as the new york papers were concerned, there were no men except those from the _sun_ to take the train. if any other new york newspaper men had yet reached pittsburgh at all, they were not to be found around the baltimore and ohio station, where the _sun_ extended its invitation to the other representatives of the press. there were a number of western newspaper men on hand, but journalism in that section is not accustomed to big figures except in circulation affidavits, and they were staggered at the idea of paying even a share of the expense that the _sun_ was bearing practically alone. at . a. m., therefore, when the special train pulled out of the baltimore and ohio station, it had for passengers only the _sun_ men and _harper's_ artist. as it started acting superintendent mcilvaine was asked:-- "how quickly can we make it?" "well, it's one hundred and forty-six miles," he replied, "and it's all kinds of road. there's an accommodation train that you will have to look out for until you pass it, and that will delay you. it's hard to make any promise about time." "can we make it in five hours?" he was asked. "i think you can surely do that," he replied. how much better than the acting superintendent's word was the performance of engineer scott and his crew this story shows. the special, after leaving pittsburgh, ran wild until it got to mckeesport, sixteen miles distant. at this point the regular train, which left pittsburgh at . , was overtaken. the regular train was on a siding, and the special passed through the city with but a minute's stop. then the special had a clear track before it, and the engineer drove his machine to the utmost limit of speed consistent with safety. it is nineteen miles from mckeesport to west newton, and the special made this distance in twenty minutes, the average time of over a mile a minute being much exceeded for certain periods. the curves of the road are frightful, and at times the single car which composed the train was almost swung clear off the track. the _sun_ men recalled vividly the ride of horace greeley with hank monk, and they began to reflect that there was such a thing as riding so fast that they might not be able to reach johnstown at all. from layton's to dawson the seven and one-half miles were made in seven minutes, while the fourteen miles from layton's to connellsville were covered in fourteen minutes precisely. on the tender of the engine the cover of the water-tank flew open and the water splashed out. coal flew from the tender in great lumps, and dashed against the end of the car. inside the car the newspaper men's grips and belongings went flying around on the floor and over seats like mad. the allegheny river, whose curves the rails followed, seemed to be right even with the car windows, so that one could look straight down into the water, so closely to it was the track built. in connellsville there was a crowd to see the special. on the depot was the placard:-- "car will leave at p. m. to-day with food and clothing for johnstown." in connellsville the train stopped five minutes and underwent a thorough inspection. then it shoved on again. at confluence, twenty-seven miles from connellsville, a bridge of a baltimore and ohio branch line across the river was washed away, but this didn't interfere with the progress of the special. for sixty miles on the road is up hill at a grade of sixty-five feet to the mile, and the curves, if anything, are worse, but there was no appreciable diminution in the speed of the train. just before reaching rockwood the first real traces of the flood were apparent. the waters of the castlemore showed signs of having been recently right up to the railroad tracks, and driftwood and débris of all descriptions lay at the side of the rails. nearly all bridges on the country roads over the river were washed away and their remnants scattered along the banks. rockwood was reached at . p. m. rockwood is eighty-seven miles from mckeesport, and this distance, which is up an extremely steep grade, was therefore made in two hours, which includes fifteen minutes' stop. the distance covered from pittsburgh was one hundred and two miles in two hours. rockwood is the junction of the main line of the baltimore and ohio road at its cambria branch, which runs to johnstown. the regular local train from there to johnstown was held to allow the _sun's_ special to pass first. the _sun's_ special left rockwood at . in charge of engineer oliver, who assumed charge at that point. he said that the branch to johnstown was a mountain road, with steep grades, very high embankments, and damaged in spots, and that he would have to use great precaution in running. he gave the throttle a yank and the train started with a jump that almost sent the newspaper men on their heads. things began to dance around the car furiously as the train dashed along at a great pace, and the reporters began to wonder what engineer oliver meant by his talk about precautions. all along the route up the valley at the stations were crowds of people, who stared in silence as the train swept by. on the station platforms were piled barrels of flour, boxes of canned goods, and bales of clothing. the roads leading in from the country to the stations were full of farmers' wagons laden with produce of all kinds for the sufferers. the road from rockwood to johnstown lies in a deep gully, at the bottom of which flows little stony creek, now swollen to a torrent. wooden troughs under the track carry off the water which trickles down from the hills, otherwise the track would be useless. as it is there are frequent washouts, which have been partly filled in, and for ten miles south of johnstown all trains have to be run very slowly. the branches of trees above the bank which have been blown over graze the cars on the railroad tracks. the _sun's_ special arrived in johnstown at two o'clock. chapter xx. the experience of the newspaper correspondents in the conemaugh valley was the experience of a lifetime. few war correspondents, even, have been witnesses of such appalling scenes of horror and desolation. day after day they were busy recording the annals of death and despair, conscious, meanwhile, that no expressions of accumulated pathos at their command could do justice to the theme. they had only to stand in the street wherever a knot of men had gathered, to hear countless stories of thrilling escapes. hundreds of people had such narrow escapes that they hardly dared to believe that they were saved for hours after they reached solid ground. william wise, a young man who lived at woodvale, was walking along the road when the rush of water came down the valley. he started to rush up the side of the hills, but stopped to help a young woman; ida zidstein, to escape; lost too much time, and was forced to drag the young woman upon a high pile of metal near the road. they had clung there several hours, and thought that they could both escape, as the metal pile was not exposed to the full force of the torrent. a telegraph pole came dashing down the flood, its top standing above the water, from which dangled some wires. the pole was caught in an eddy opposite the pile. it shot in toward the two who were clinging there. as the pole swung around, the wires came through the air like a whip-lash, and catching in the hair of the young woman, dragged her down to instant death. the young man remained on the heap of metal for hours before the water subsided so as to allow him to escape. one man named homer, with his child, age six, was on one of the houses which were first carried away. he climbed to the roof and held fast there for four hours, floating all the way to bolivar, fifteen miles below. a young hero sat upon the roof of his father's house, holding his mother and little sister. once the house swung in toward a brick structure which still rested on its foundation. as one house struck the other, the boy sprang into one of the windows. as he turned to rescue his mother and sister, the house swung out again, and the boy, seeing that there was no possibility of getting them off, leaped back to their side. a second time the house was stopped--this time by a tree. the boy helped his mother and sister to a place of safety in the tree, but before he could leave the roof, the house was swept on and he was drowned. one man took his whole family to the roof of his floating house. he and one child escaped to another building, but his wife and five children were whirled around for hours, and finally carried down to the bridge where so many people perished in the flames. they were all rescued. district attorney rose, his wife, two brothers and two sisters were swept across the lower portion of the town. they had been thrown into the water, and were swimming, the men assisting the women. finally, they got into a back current, and were cast ashore at the foot of the hills back of knoxville. one merchant of johnstown, after floating about upon a piece of wreckage for hours, was carried down to the stone bridge. after a miraculous escape from being burned to death, he was rescued and carried ashore. he was so dazed and terrified by his experience, however, that he walked off the bridge and broke his neck. one man who was powerless to save his wife, after he had leaped from a burning building to a house floating by, was driven insane by her shrieks for help. an old gentleman of verona rescued a modern moses from the bulrushes. verona is on the east bank of the allegheny river, twelve miles above pittsburg. mr. mccutcheon, while standing on the river bank watching the drift floating by, was compelled by instinct to take a skiff and row out to one dense mass of timber. as he reached it, he was startled to find in the centre, out of the reach of the water, a cradle covered with the clothing. as he lifted the coverings aside a pretty five-months-old boy baby smiled on him. the little innocent, unconscious of the scenes it had passed through, crowed with delight as the old man lifted it tenderly, cradle and all, into his skiff and brought it ashore. among the miraculous escapes is that of george j. lea and family. when the rush of water came there were eight people on the roof of lea's house. the house swung around and floated for nearly half an hour before it struck the wreck above the stone bridge. a three-year-old girl, with sunny, golden hair and dimpled cheeks, prayed all the while that god would save them, and it seemed that god really answered the prayer and directed the house against the drift, enabling every one of the eight to get off. h. m. bennett and s. w. keltz, engineer and conductor of engine no. and the extra freight, which happened to be lying at south fork when the dam broke, tell a graphic story of their wonderful flight and escape on the locomotive before the advancing flood. bennett and keltz were in the signal tower awaiting orders. the fireman and flagman were on the engine, and two brakemen were asleep in the caboose. suddenly the men in the tower heard a roaring sound in the valley above them. they looked in that direction and were almost transfixed with horror to see, two miles above them, a huge black wall of water, at least feet in height, rushing down the valley. the fear-stricken men made a rush for the locomotive, at the same time giving the alarm to the sleeping brakemen in the caboose, but with no avail. it was impossible to aid them further, however, so bennett and keltz cut the engine loose from the train, and the engineer, with one wild wrench, threw the lever wide open, and they were away on a mad race for life. it seemed that they would not receive momentum enough to keep ahead of the flood, and they cast one despairing glance back. then they could see the awful deluge approaching in its might. on it came, rolling and roaring, tossing and tearing houses, sheds and trees in its awful speed as if they were toys. as they looked, they saw the two brakemen rush out of the caboose, but they had not time to gather the slightest idea of the cause of their doom before they, the car and signal tower were tossed high in the air, to disappear forever. then the engine leaped forward like a thing of life, and speeded down the valley. but fast as it went, the flood gained upon it. in a few moments the shrieking locomotive whizzed around a curve, and they were in sight of a bridge. horror upon horrors! ahead of them was a freight train, with the rear end almost on the bridge, and to get across was simply impossible. engineer bennett then reversed the lever, and succeeded in checking the engine as they glided across the bridge. then the men jumped and ran for their lives up the hillside. the bridge and the tender of the engine they had been on were swept away like a bundle of matches. a young man who was a passenger on the derry express furnishes an interesting account of his experiences. "when we reached derry," he said, "our train was boarded by a relief committee, and no sooner was it ascertained that we were going on to sang hollow than the contributions of provisions and supplies of every kind were piled on board, filling an entire car. on reaching sang hollow the scene that presented itself to us was heart-rending. the road was lined with homeless people, some with a trunk or solitary chair, the only thing saved from their household goods, and all wearing an aspect of the most hopeless misery. men were at work transferring from a freight car a pile of corpses at least sixty in number, and here and there a ghastly something under a covering showed where the body of some victim of the flood lay awaiting identification or burial in a nameless grave. busy workers were engaged in clearing away the piles of driftwood and scattered articles of household use which cumbered the tracks and the roads. these piles told their own mournful story. there were beds, bureaus, mattresses, chairs, tables, pictures, dead horses and mules, overcoats, remnants of dresses sticking on the branches of trees, and a thousand other odd pieces of flotsam and jetsam from ruined homes. i saw a man get off the train and pick up an insurance policy for $ , . another took away as relics a baby's chair and a confirmation card in a battered frame. on the banks of the little conemaugh creek people were delving in the driftwood, which was piled to a depth of six or seven feet, unearthing and carrying away whatever could be turned to account. under those piles, it is thought, numbers of bodies are buried, not to be recovered except by the labor of many days. a woman and a little girl were brought from johnstown by some means which i could not ascertain. the woman was in confinement, and was carried on a lounge, her sole remaining piece of property. she was taken to latrobe for hospital treatment. i cannot understand how it is that people are unable to make their way from sang hollow to johnstown. the distance is short, and it should certainly be a comparatively easy task to get over it on foot or horseback. however, there seems to be some insuperable obstacle. all those who made the trip on the train with me in order to obtain tidings of their friends in johnstown, were forced to return as i did. "the railroad is in a terrible condition. the day express and the limited, which left pittsburg on friday morning, are lying between johnstown and conemaugh on the east, having been cut off by the flood. linemen were sent down from our train at every station to repair the telegraph wires which are damaged. tremendous efforts are being exerted to repair the injury sustained by the railroad, and it is only a question of a couple of days until through communication is reëstablished. our homeward trip was marked by a succession of sad spectacles. at blairsville intersection two little girls lay dead, and in a house taken from the river was the body of a woman. some idea of the force of the flood may be had from the statement that freight cars, both loaded and empty, had been lifted bodily from the track, and carried a distance of several blocks, and deposited in a graveyard in the outskirts of the town, where they were lying in a mass mixed up with tombstones and monuments." [illustration: ruins of the cambria iron co's store.] chapter xxi. where the carcass is, there will the vultures be gathered together. it is humiliating to human nature to record it, but it is nevertheless true, that amid all the suffering and sacrifice, and heroism and generosity that was displayed in this awful time, there arose some of the basest passions of unbridled vice. the lust of gain led many skulking wretches to rob and despoil, and even to mutilate the bodies of the dead. pockets were searched. jewels were stolen. finger-rings and ear-rings were torn away, the knife often being used upon the poor, dead clay to facilitate the spoliation. against this savagery the better elements of the populace sternly revolted. for the time there was no organized government. but outraged and indignant humanity soon formulates its own code of laws. pistol and rope and bludgeon, in the hand of honesty, did effective work. the reports of summary lynchings that at first were spread abroad were doubtless exaggerated, but they had a stern foundation of truth; and they had abundant provocation. writing on that tragic sunday, one correspondent says: "the way of the transgressor in the desolated valley of the conemaugh is hard indeed. each hour reveals some new and horrible story of suffering and outrage, and every succeeding hour brings news of swift and merited punishment meted out to the fiends who have dared to desecrate the stiff and mangled bodies in the city of the dead, and torture the already half-crazed victims of the cruelest of modern catastrophes. last night a party of thirteen hungarians were noticed stealthily picking their way along the banks of the conemaugh toward sang hollow. suspicious of their purpose, several farmers armed themselves and started in pursuit. soon their most horrible fears were realized. the hungarians were out for plunder. they came upon the dead and mangled body of a woman, lying upon the shore, upon whose person there were a number of trinkets of jewelry and two diamond rings. in their eagerness to secure the plunder, the hungarians got into a squabble, during which one of the number severed the finger upon which were the rings, and started on a run with his fearful prize. the revolting nature of the deed so wrought upon the pursuing farmers, who by this time were close at hand, that they gave immediate chase. some of the hungarians showed fight, but, being outnumbered, were compelled to flee for their lives. nine of the brutes escaped, but four were literally driven into the surging river and to their death. the thief who took the rings was among the number of the involuntary suicides." at . o'clock this morning an old railroader, who had walked from sang hollow, stepped up to a number of men who were on the platform station at curranville, and said:-- "gentlemen, had i a shot-gun with me half an hour ago, i would now be a murderer, yet with no fear of ever having to suffer for my crime. two miles below here i watched three men going along the banks stealing the jewels from the bodies of the dead wives and daughters of men who have been robbed of all they hold dear on earth." he had no sooner finished the last sentence than five burly men, with looks of terrible determination written on their faces, were on their way to the scene of plunder, one with a coil of rope over his shoulder and another with a revolver in his hand. in twenty minutes, so it is stated, they had overtaken two of their victims, who were then in the act of cutting pieces from the ears and fingers from the hands of the bodies of two dead women. with revolver leveled at the scoundrels, the leader of the posse shouted:-- "throw up your hands, or i'll blow your heads off!" with blanched faces and trembling forms, they obeyed the order and begged for mercy. they were searched, and, as their pockets were emptied of their ghastly finds, the indignation of the crowd intensified, and when a bloody finger of an infant encircled with two tiny gold rings was found among the plunder in the leader's pocket, a cry went up, "lynch them! lynch them!" without a moment's delay ropes were thrown around their necks and they were dangling to the limbs of a tree, in the branches of which an hour before were entangled the bodies of a dead father and son. after half an hour the ropes were cut and the bodies lowered and carried to a pile of rocks in the forest on the hill above. it is hinted that an allegheny county official was one of the most prominent in this justifiable homicide. one miserable wretch who was caught in the act of mutilating a body was chased by a crowd of citizens, and when captured was promptly strung up to a telegraph pole. a company of officers rescued him before he was dead, much to the disgust of many reputable people, whose feelings had been outraged by the treatment of their deceased relations. shortly after midnight an attempt was made to rob the first national bank, which, with the exception of the vaults, had been destroyed. the plunderers were discovered by the citizens' patrol, which had been established during the night, and a lively chase ensued. a number of the thieves--six, it is said--were shot. it is not known whether any were killed or not, as their bodies would have been washed away almost immediately if such had been the case. a number of hungarians collected about a number of bodies at cambria which had been washed up, and began rifling the trunks. after they had secured all the contents they turned their attention to the dead. the ghastly spectacle presented by the distorted features of those who had lost their lives during the flood had no influence upon the ghouls, who acted more like wild beasts than human beings. they took every article from the clothing on the dead bodies, not leaving anything of value or anything that would serve to identify the remains. after the miscreants had removed all their plunder to dry ground a dispute arose over a division of the spoils. a pitched battle followed, and for a time the situation was alarming. knives and clubs were used freely. as a result several of the combatants were seriously wounded and left on the ground, their fellow-countrymen not making any attempt to remove them from the field of strife. a hungarian was caught in the act of cutting off a dead woman's finger, on which was a costly ring. the infuriated spectators raised an outcry and the fiend fled. he was hotly pursued, and after a half-hour's hard chase, was captured and hanged to a telegraph pole, but was cut down and resuscitated by officers. liquor emboldened the ghouls, and pittsburg was telegraphed for help, and the th and th regiments, battery b and the washington infantry were at once called out for duty, members being apprised by posters in the newspaper windows. one correspondent wrote: "the number of drunken men is remarkable. whiskey seems marvelously plenty. men are actually carrying it around in pails. barrels of the stuff are constantly located among the drifts, and _men are scrambling over each other and fighting like wild beasts_ in their mad search for it. at the cemetery, at the upper end of town, i saw a sight that rivals the inferno. a number of ghouls had found a lot of fine groceries, among them a barrel of brandy, with which they were fairly stuffing themselves. one huge fellow was standing on the strings of an upright piano singing a profane song, every little while breaking into a wild dance. a half-dozen others were engaged in a hand-to-hand fight over the possession of some treasure stolen from a ruined house, and the crowd around the barrel were yelling like wild men." these reports were largely discredited and denied by later and probably more trustworthy authorities, but there was doubtless a considerable residue of truth in them. there were so many contradictory stories about these horrible doings that our painstaking correspondent put to "chall" dick, the deputy sheriff, this "leading question": "did you shoot any robbers?" chall did not make instant reply, but finally looked up with a peculiar expression on his face and said:-- "there are some men whom their friends will never again see alive." "well, now, how many did you shoot?" was the next question. "say," said chall. "on saturday morning i was the first to make my way to sang hollow to see if i could not get some food for people made homeless by the flood. there was a car-load of provisions there, but the vandals were on hand. they broke into the car and, in spite of my protestations, carried off box after box of supplies. i only got half a wagon load. they were too many for me. i know when i have no show. there was no show there and i got out. "as i was leaving sang hollow and got up the mountain road a piece, i saw two hungarians and one woman engaged in cutting the fingers off of corpses to get some rings. well, i got off that team and--well, there are three people who were not drowned and who are not alive." "where are the bodies?" "ain't the river handy there? i went down to sang hollow on sunday, but i went fixed for trouble that time. when i got into the hollow the officers had in tow a man who claimed he was arrested because he had bummed it on the freight train. a large crowd of men were trying to rescue the fellow. i rode into that crowd and scattered it. i got between the crowd and officers, who succeeded in getting their man in here. the fellow had been robbing the dead and had a lot of jewelry on his person. i see by the papers that consul max schamberg, of pittsburg, asserts that the huns are a law-abiding race, and that when they were accused of robbing the dead they were simply engaged in trying to identify some of their friends. consul schamberg does not know what he is talking about. i know better, for i saw them engaged in robbing the dead. "those i caught at it will never do the like again. why, i saw them let go of their friends in the water to catch a bedstead with a mattress on it. that's the sort of law-abiding citizens the huns are." down the cambria road, past which the dead of the river conemaugh swept into nineveh in awful numbers, was witnessed a wretched scene--that of a young officer of the national guard in full uniform, and a poor deputy-sheriff, who had lost home, wife, children and all, clinched like madmen and struggling for the former's revolver. if the officer of the guard had won, there might have been a tragedy, for he was drunk. the homeless deputy-sheriff, with his wife and babies swept to death past the place where they struggled, was sober and in the right. the officer was a first lieutenant. his company came with that regiment into this valley of distress to protect survivors from ruffianism and maintain the peace and dignity of the state. the man with whom he fought for the weapon was almost crazy in his own woe, but singularly cool and self-possessed regarding the safety of those left living. it was one o'clock in the afternoon when a philadelphia _press_ correspondent noticed on the cambria road the young officer with his long military coat cut open, leaning heavily for support upon two privates. he was crying in a maudlin way, "you just take me to a place and i'll drink soft stuff." they entreated him to return at once to the regimental headquarters, even begged him, but he cast them aside and went staggering down the road to the line, where he met the grave-faced deputy face to face. the latter looked in the white of his eyes and said: "you can't pass here, sir." "can't pass here?" he cried, waving his arms. "you challenge an officer? stand aside!" "you can't pass here!" this time quietly, but firmly; "not while you're drunk." "stand aside!" yelled the lieutenant. "do you know who i am? you talk to an officer of the national guard." "yes; and listen," said the man in front of him so impatiently that it hushed his antagonist's tirade. "i talk to an 'officer' of the national guard--i who have lost my wife, my children and all in this flood no man has yet described; we who have seen our dead with their bodies mutilated and their fingers cut from their hands by dirty foreigners for a little gold, are not afraid to talk for what is right, even to an officer of the national guard." while he spoke another great, dark, stout man, who looked as if he had suffered, came up, and upon taking in the situation every vein in his forehead swelled purple with rage. "you dirty cur," he cried to the officer; "you dirty, drunken cur, if it was not for the sake of peace i'd lay you out where you stand." "come on," yelled the lieutenant, with an oath. the big man sent out a terrible blow that would have left the lieutenant senseless had not one of the privates dashed in between, receiving part of it and warding it off. the lieutenant got out of his military coat. the privates seized the big man and with another correspondent, who ran to the scene, held him back. the lieutenant put his hand to his pistol pocket, the deputy seized him, and the struggle for the weapon began. for a moment it was fierce and desperate, then another private came to the deputy's assistance. the revolver was wrested from the drunken officer and he himself was pushed back panting to the ground. the deputy seized the military coat he had thrown on the ground, and with it and the weapon started to the regimental headquarters. then the privates got around him and begged him, one of them with tears in his eyes, not to report their officer, saying that he was a good man when he was sober. he studied a long while, standing in the road, while the officer slunk away over the hill. then he threw the disgraced uniform to them, and said: "here, give them to him; and, mind you, if he does not go at once to his quarters, i'll take him there, dead or alive." chapter xxii. while yet the first wild cry of anguish was thrilling among the startled hills of the conemaugh, the great heart of the nation answered it with a mighty throb of sympathy. on tuesday afternoon, at washington, the president called a gathering of eminent citizens to devise measures of relief. the meeting was held in willard's hall, on f street, above fourteenth, and president harrison made such an eloquent appeal for assistance that nearly $ , was raised in the hour and a half that the meeting was in session. as presiding officer the chief magistrate sat in a big arm-chair on the stage. on his right were district commissioner douglass, hine and raymond, and on his left sat postmaster-general wanamaker and private secretary halford. in the audience were secretaries noble, proctor and tracy, attorney-general miller, congressman randall and senators and representatives from all parts of the country. president harrison called the meeting to order promptly at o'clock. a dead silence fell over the three hundred people as the president stepped to the front of the platform and in a clear, distinct voice appealed for aid for the thousands who had been bereft of their all by the terrible calamity. his voice trembled once or twice as he dwelt upon the scene of death and desolation, and a number of handkerchiefs were called into use at his vivid portrayal of the disaster. upon taking the chair the president said:-- "every one here to-day is distressingly conscious of the circumstances which have convened this meeting. it would be impossible to state more impressively than the newspapers have already done the distressing incidents attending the calamity which has fallen upon the city of johnstown and the neighboring hamlets, and upon a large section of pennsylvania situated upon the susquehanna river. the grim pencil of doré would be inadequate to portray the horrors of this visitation. in such meetings as we have here in the national capital and other like gatherings that are taking place in all the cities of this land, we have the only rays of hope and light in the general gloom. when such a calamitous visitation falls upon any section of our country we can do no more than to put about the dark picture the golden border of love and charity. [applause.] it is in such fires as these that the brotherhood of man is welded. "and where is sympathy and help more appropriate than here in the national capital? i am glad to say that early this morning, from a city not long ago visited with pestilence, not long ago itself appealing to the charitable people of the whole land for relief--the city of jacksonville, fla.--there came the ebb of that tide of charity which flowed toward it in the time of its need, in a telegram from the sanitary relief association authorizing me to draw upon them for $ for the relief of the pennsylvania sufferers. [applause.] "but this is no time for speech. while i talk men and women are suffering for the relief which we plan to give. one word or two of practical suggestion, and i will place this meeting in your hands to give effect to your impatient benevolence. i have a despatch from the governor of pennsylvania advising me that communication has just been opened with williamsport, on a branch of the susquehanna river, and that the losses in that section have been appalling; that thousands of people there are homeless and penniless, and that there is an immediate call for food to relieve their necessities. he advises me that any supplies of food that can be hastily gathered here should be sent via harrisburg to williamsport, where they will be distributed. i suggest, therefore, that a committee be constituted having in charge the speedy collection of articles of food. "the occasion is such that the bells might well be rung through your streets to call the attention of the thoughtless to this great exigency--in order that a train load of provisions may be despatched to-night or in the early morning to this suffering people. "i suggest, secondly, as many of these people have had the entire furnishings of their houses swept away and have now only temporary shelter, that a committee be appointed to collect such articles of clothing, and especially bed clothing, as can be spared. now that the summer season is on, there can hardly be a house in washington which cannot spare a blanket or a coverlet. "and, third, i suggest that from the substantial business men and bankers there be appointed a committee who shall collect money, for after the first exigency is past there will be found in those communities very many who have lost their all, who will need aid in the construction of their demolished homes and in furnishing them so that they may be again inhabited. "need i say in conclusion that, as a temporary citizen of washington, it would give me great satisfaction if the national capital should so generously respond to this call of our distressed fellow citizens as to be conspicuous among the cities of our land. [applause.] i feel that, as i am now calling for contributions, i should state that on saturday, when first apprised of the disaster at johnstown, i telegraphed a subscription to the mayor of that city. i do not like to speak of anything so personal as this, but i felt it due to myself and to you that i should say so much as this." [illustration: third street, williamsport, during the flood.] the vice presidents elected included all the members of the cabinet, chief justices fuller, bingham and richardson, m. g. emery, j. a. j. cresswell, dr. e. b. clark, of the bank of the republic; c. l. glover, of the riggs bank; cashier james, of the bank of washington; b. h. warner, ex-commissioners webb and wheatley, jesse b. wilson, ex-minister foster and j. w. thompson. the secretaries were s. h. kaufmann, beriah wilkins, e. w. murphy and hallett kilbourne; treasurer, e. kurtz johnson. while subscriptions were being taken up, the president intimated that suggestions would be in order, and a prompt and generous response was the result. the adams express company volunteered to transport all material for the relief of the distressed people free of charge, and the lamont opera company tendered their services for a benefit, to be given in aid of the sufferers. the managers offered the use of their theatre free of charge for any performances. numerous other offers of provisions and clothing were made and accepted. then president harrison read a number of telegrams from governor beaver, in which he gave a brief synopsis of the horrors of the situation and asked for the government pontoon bridge. "i regret to say," added the president, "that the entire length of the pontoon bridge is only feet. governor beaver advises me that the present horrors are not alone to be dreaded, but he fears that pestilence may come. i would therefore suggest that disinfectants be included in the donations. i think we should concentrate our efforts and work, through one channel, so that the work may be expeditiously done. in view of that fact we should have one headquarters and everything should be sent there. then it could be shipped without delay." the use of willard hall was tendered and decided upon as a central point. the district commissioners were appointed a committee to receive and forward the contributions. when the collections had been made, the amounts were read out and included sums ranging from $ to $ . the president, in dismissing the meeting, said:-- "may i express the hope that this work will be earnestly and thoroughly pushed, and that every man and woman present will go from this meeting to use their influence in order that these supplies of food and clothing so much and so promptly needed may be secured, and that either to-night or to-morrow morning a train well freighted with relief may go from washington." in adjourning the meeting, president harrison urged expediency in forwarding the materials for the sufferers. just before adjournment a resolution was read, thanking the president for the interest he had taken in the matter. president harrison stepped to the front of the platform then, and declined the resolution in a few graceful remarks. "i appreciate the resolution," he said, "but i don't see why i should be thanked any more than the others, and i would prefer that the resolution be withdrawn." pension commissioner tanner, on monday, sent the following telegram to the united states pension agent at pittsburg:-- "make special any current vouchers from the towns in pennsylvania ruined by floods and pay at once on their receipt. where certificates have been lost in floods send permit to execute new voucher without presenting certificate to magistrate. permits signed in blank forwarded to-day. make special all original certificates of pensioners residing in those towns and pay on receipt of vouchers, regardless of my instruction of may th." the governor of pennsylvania issued the following:-- "commonwealth of pennsylvania, "executive chamber, "harrisburg, pa., june d, . "_to the people of the united states:--_ "the executive of the commonwealth of pennsylvania has refrained hitherto from making any appeal to the people for their benefactions, in order that he might receive definite and reliable information from the centres of disaster during the late floods, which have been unprecedented in the history of the state or nation. communication by wire has been established with johnstown to-day. the civil authorities are in control, the adjutant general of the state coöperating with them; order has been restored and is likely to continue. newspaper reports as to the loss of life and property have not been exaggerated. "the valley of the conemaugh, which is peculiar, has been swept from one end to the other as with the besom of destruction. it contained a population of forty thousand to fifty thousand people, living for the most part along the banks of a small river confined within narrow limits. the most conservative estimates place the loss of life at human beings, and of property at twenty-five millions. whole towns have been utterly destroyed. not a vestige remains. in the more substantial towns the better buildings, to a certain extent, remain, but in a damaged condition. those who are least able to bear it have suffered the loss of everything. "the most pressing needs, so far as food is concerned, have been supplied. shoes and clothing of all sorts for men, women and children are greatly needed. money is also urgently required to remove the débris, bury the dead and care temporarily for the widows and orphans and for the homeless generally. other localities have suffered to some extent in the same way, but not in the same degree. "late advices seem to indicate that there is great loss of life and destruction of property along the west branch of the susquehanna and in localities from which we can get no definite information. what does come, however, is of the most appalling character, and it is expected that the details will add new horrors to the situation. "the responses from within and without the state have been most generous and cheering. north and south, east and west, from the united states and from england, there comes the same hearty, generous response of sympathy and help. the president, governors of states, mayors of cities, and individuals and communities, private and municipal corporations, seem to vie with each other in their expressions of sympathy and in their contributions of substantial aid. but, gratifying as these responses are, there is no danger of their exceeding the necessities of the situation. "a careful organization has been made upon the ground for the distribution of whatever assistance is furnished, in kind. the adjutant general of the state is there as the representative of the state authorities, and is giving personal attention, in connection with the chief burgess of johnstown and a committee of relief, to the distribution of the help which is furnished. "funds contributed in aid of the sufferers can be deposited with drexel & co., philadelphia; jacob c. bomberger, banker, harrisburg, or william r. thompson & co., bankers, pittsburg. all money contributed will be used carefully and judiciously. present wants are fairly met. "a large force will be employed at once to remove the débris and bury the dead, so as to avoid disease and epidemic. "the people of the commonwealth and others whose unselfish generosity is hereby heartily appreciated and acknowledged may be assured that their contributions will be made to bring their benefactions to the immediate and direct relief of those for whose benefit they are intended. "james a. beaver. "by the governor, charles w. stone, secretary of the commonwealth." governor hill, of new york, also issued the following proclamation:-- state of new york. "a disaster unparalleled of its kind in the history of our nation has overtaken the inhabitants of the city of johnstown and surrounding towns in our sister state of pennsylvania. in consequence of a mighty flood thousands of lives have been lost, and thousands of those saved from the waters are homeless and in want. the sympathy of all the people of the state of new york is profoundly aroused in behalf of the unfortunate sufferers by the calamity. the state, in its capacity as such, has no power to aid, but the generous-hearted citizens of our state are always ready and willing to afford relief to those of their fellow countrymen who are in need, whenever just appeal has been made. "therefore, as the governor of the state of new york, i hereby suggest that in each city and town in the state relief committees be formed, contributions be solicited and such other appropriate action be taken as will promptly afford material assistance and necessary aid to the unfortunate. let the citizens of every portion of the state vie with each other in helping with liberal hand this worthy and urgent cause. "done at the capitol, this third day of june, in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine." david b. hill. by the governor, william g. rice, _sec._ nor were americans in foreign lands less prompt with their offerings. on wednesday, in paris, a meeting of americans was held at the united states legation, on a call in the morning papers by whitelaw reid, the united states minister, to express the sympathy of the americans in paris with the sufferers by the johnstown calamity. in spite of the short notice the rooms of the legation were packed, and many went away unable to gain admittance. mr. reid was called to the chair, and mr. ernest lambert was appointed secretary. the following resolutions were offered by mr. andrew carnegie and seconded by mr. james n. otis:-- _resolved_, that we send across the atlantic to our brethren, overwhelmed by the appalling disaster at johnstown, our most profound and heartfelt sympathy. over their lost ones we mourn with them, and in every pang of all their misery we have our part. _resolved_, that as american citizens we congratulate them upon and thank them for the numerous acts of noble heroism displayed under circumstances calculated to unnerve the bravest. especially do we honor and admire them for the capacity shown for local self-government, upon which the stability of republican institutions depends, the military organizations sent from distant points to preserve order during the chaos that supervened having been returned to their homes as no longer required within forty-eight hours of the calamity. in these few hours the civil power recreated and asserted itself and resumed sway without the aid of counsel from distant authorities, but solely by and from the inherent power which remains in the people of johnstown themselves. _resolved_, that the thanks of this meeting be cordially tendered to mr. reid for his prompt and appropriate action in this matter, and for services as chairman of this meeting. _resolved_, that a copy of these resolutions be forwarded at once by telegraph to the mayors of johnstown, pittsburg and philadelphia. brief and touching speeches were made by general lawton, late united states minister to austria; the hon. abram s. hewitt, general meredith read and others. the resolutions were then unanimously adopted, and a committee was appointed to receive subscriptions. about , francs were subscribed on the spot. the american bankers all agreed to open subscriptions the next day at their banking houses. "buffalo bill" subscribed the entire receipts of one entertainment, to be given under the auspices of the committee. besides those already named, there were present benjamin brewster, louis von hoffman, charles a. pratt, ex-congressman lloyd bryce, clarence dinsmore, edward tuck, professor chanler, the rev. dr. stoddard and others from new york; colonel otis ritchie, of boston; general franklin and assistant commissioner tuck; george w. allen, of st. louis; consul-general rathbone, and a large number of the american colony in paris. it was the largest and most earnest meeting of americans held in paris for many years. the municipal council of paris gave francs to the victims of the floods. in london, the american minister, mr. robert t. lincoln, received from his countrymen there large contributions. mr. marshall r. wilder, the comedian, gave an evening of recitations to swell the fund. generous contributions also came from berlin and other european cities. chapter xxiii. spontaneously as the floods descended upon the fated valley, the american people sprang to the relief of the survivors. in every city and town subscription lists were opened, and clothing and bedding and food were forwarded by the train-load. managers gave theatrical performances and baseball clubs gave benefit games to swell the fund. the mayors of new york, philadelphia and other large cities took personal charge of the collection and forwarding of funds and goods. in new york a meeting of representative citizens was called by the mayor, and a committee formed, with general sherman as chairman, and the presidents of the produce exchange and the chamber of commerce among the vice-chairmen, while the president of the stock exchange acted as treasurer. the following appeal was issued:-- "_to the people of the city of new york:_-- "the undersigned have been appointed a committee by a meeting held at the call of the mayor of the city to devise means for the succor and relief of the sufferers in the conemaugh valley. a disaster of unparalleled magnitude has overtaken the people of that valley and elsewhere. without warning, their homes have been swept away by an unexpected and unprecedented flood. the daily journals of this city contain long lists of the dead, and the number of those who perished is still unknown. the survivors are destitute. they are houseless and homeless, with scant food and no shelter, and the destructive waters have not yet subsided. "in this emergency their cry for help reaches us. there has never been an occasion in our history that the appeal to our citizens to be generous in their contributions was of greater moment than the present. that generosity which has distinguished them above the citizens of every other city, and which was extended to the relief of the famishing in ireland, to the stricken city of charleston, to the plague-smitten city of jacksonville, and so on through the record of every event where man was compelled to appeal to man, will not be lacking in this most recent calamity. generous contributions have already reached the committee. let the amount increase until they swell into a mighty river of benevolence. "the committee earnestly request, as the want is pressing and succor to be effectual must be speedy, that all contributions be sent at as early a date as possible. their receipt will be promptly acknowledged and they will be applied, through responsible channels, to the relief of the destitute and suffering." all the exchanges, newspapers and other public agencies took up the work, and hundreds of thousands of dollars rolled in every day. special collections were taken in the churches, and large sums were thus realized. in philadelphia the work of relief was entered into in a similar manner, with equally gratifying results. by tuesday evening the various funds established in that city for the sufferers had reached a total of $ , . in addition over , packages of provisions, clothing, etc., making fully twenty car-loads, had been started on the way. the leading business houses tendered the service of their delivery wagons for the collection of goods, and some of them placed donation boxes at their establishments, yielding handsome returns. at a meeting of the board of directors of the pennsylvania railroad company the following resolution was adopted by a unanimous vote:-- "_resolved_, that in addition to the $ subscribed by this company at pittsburg, the pennsylvania railroad company hereby makes an extra donation of $ , for the assistance of the sufferers by the recent floods at johnstown and other points upon the lines of the pennsylvania railroad and the other affiliated roads, the contribution to be expended under the direction of the committee on finance." at the same time the members of the board and executive officers added a contribution, as individuals, of $ . the philadelphia and reading railroad company subscribed $ , to the citizens' fund. in pursuance of a call issued by the citizens' permanent relief association, a largely-attended meeting was held at the mayor's office. drexel & co., the treasurers of the fund, started the fund with a contribution of $ , . several subscriptions of $ each were announced. many subscriptions were sent direct to drexel & co.'s banking house, including $ from the philadelphia brewers, $ from the baldwin locomotive works and other individual contributors. but the great cities had no monopoly of benefactions. how every town in the land responded to the call may be imagined from a few items clipped at random from the daily papers, items the like of which for days crowded many columns of the public press:-- _bethlehem, penn., june ._--the bethlehem iron company to-day contributed $ for the relief of the sufferers. _johnstown, penn., june ._--stephen collins, of the pittsburg post-office, and several other members of the junior order of united american mechanics, were here to-day to establish a relief fund. they have informed the committees that the members of this strong organization are ready to do their best for their sufferers. _buffalo, june ._--a meeting was held at the mayor's office to-day to devise means for the aid of the flood sufferers. the mayor sent $ by telegraph this afternoon. a committee was appointed to raise funds. the merchants' exchange also started a relief fund this morning. a relief train on the western new york and pennsylvania railroad left here for pittsburg to-night with contributions of food and clothing. _albany, june ._--_the morning express_ to-day started a subscription for the relief of the sufferers. a public meeting, presided over by mayor maher, was held at noon to-day, and a number of plans were adopted for securing funds. there is now on hand $ . another meeting was held this evening. the offertory in the city churches will be devoted to the fund. _poughkeepsie, june ._--a general movement was begun here to-day to aid the sufferers in pennsylvania. mayor rowley issued a proclamation and people have been sending money to _the eagle_ office all day. factory operatives are contributing, clergymen are taking hold of the matter, and to-night the retail dealers' association held a public meeting at the court house to appoint committees to go about among the merchants with subscription lists. mrs. brazier, proprietress of a knitting factory, sent off sixty dozen suits of under-wear to the sufferers to-day. _troy, june ._--subscriptions exceeding $ for the relief of the pennsylvania flood sufferers were received to-day by _the troy press_. the mayor has called a public meeting for to-morrow. _washington, june ._--a subscription for the relief of the sufferers by the johnstown flood was started at the post-office department to-day by chief clerk cooley. first assistant postmaster-general clarkson headed the list with $ . the indications are that nearly $ will be raised in this department. postmaster-general wanamaker had already subscribed $ in philadelphia. _the post_ has started a subscription for the relief of the johnstown sufferers. it amounts at present to $ . the largest single contribution is $ by allen mclane. [illustration: wreck of truss bridge, at williamsport.] _trenton, june ._--in the board of trade rooms to-night over $ was subscribed for the benefit of johnstown sufferers. contributions made to-day will swell the sum to double that amount. committees were appointed to canvass the city. _chicago, june ._--mayor cregier called a public meeting, which was held at the city hall to-day, to take measures for the relief of the johnstown sufferers. john b. drake, of the grand pacific, headed a subscription with $ . _hartford, conn., june ._--the house to-day concurred with the senate in passing the resolution appropriating $ , for the flood sufferers. _boston, june ._--the house this afternoon admitted a bill appropriating $ , for the relief of the sufferers. a citizens' committee will receive subscriptions. it was announced that $ had already been subscribed. dockstader's minstrels will give a benefit to-morrow afternoon in aid of the sufferers' fund. _pittsfield, mass., june ._--a meeting was held here to-night and about $ was raised for the johnstown sufferers. the town will be canvassed to-morrow. senator dawes attended the meeting, made an address and contributed liberally. _charleston, s. c., june ._--at a meeting of the charleston cotton exchange to-day $ was subscribed for the relief of the flood sufferers. _fort worth, texas, june ._--the texas spring palace association to-night telegraphed to george w. childs, of philadelphia, that to-morrow's receipts at the spring palace will be given to the sufferers by the flood. _nashville, tenn., june ._--_the american_ to-day started a fund for the relief of the johnstown sufferers. _utica, june ._--utica to-day sent $ to johnstown. _ithaca, june ._--cornell university has collected $ for the sufferers. _troy, june ._--_the troy times_ sent this afternoon $ to the mayor of pittsburg. _the press_ sent $ , making $ forwarded by _the press_. _boston, june ._--the house to-day amended its bill of yesterday and appropriated $ , . the citizens' committee has received $ , , and governor ames' check for $ was received. _new bedford, mass., june ._--mayor clifford has sent $ to the sufferers. _providence, r. i., june ._--a meeting of business men this morning raised $ for the sufferers. _erie, penn., june ._--in mass meeting last night ex-congressman w. l. scott led with a $ subscription for johnstown, followed by ex-judge galbraith with $ . the list footed up $ in a quarter of an hour. ward committees were appointed to raise it to $ , . in addition to a general subscription of $ , which was sent forward yesterday, it is rumored that a private gift of $ was also sent. _toledo, june ._--two thousand dollars have been obtained here for the flood sufferers. _cleveland, june ._--over $ , was subscribed yesterday, which, added to the $ raised on sunday, swells cleveland's cash contributions to $ , . two car-loads of provisions and clothing and twenty-one car-loads of lumber went forward to johnstown. _cincinnati, june ._--subscriptions amounting to $ , were taken on 'change yesterday. _milwaukee, june ._--state grand commander weissert telegraphed $ to the pennsylvania department yesterday. _detroit, june ._--the relief fund already reaches nearly $ . ex-governor alger and senator james mcmillan have each telegraphed $ to the scene of the disaster. _chicago, june ._--a meeting of business men was held this morning to collect subscriptions. several large subscriptions, including one of $ by marshall field & co., were received. the committees expect to raise $ , within twenty four hours. governor fifer has issued a proclamation urging the people to take measures for rendering aid. the aldermen of chicago subscribed among themselves a purse of $ . the jewelers raised $ . on the board of trade one member obtained $ , and another $ . from a citizens' meeting in denver to-night $ was raised. president hughitt announces that the chicago and northwestern, the chicago, st. paul, minneapolis and omaha, and the fremont, elkhorn and missouri valley railways will transport, free of charge, all provisions and clothing for the sufferers. _kansas city, mo., june ._--at the mass meeting last night a large sum was subscribed for the sufferers. _chattanooga, june ._--chattanooga to-day subscribed $ . _wilmington, del., june ._--over $ has been raised here for the sufferers. a carload of supplies was shipped last night. two doctors have offered their services. _knoxville, tenn., june ._--the relief committee to-day raised over $ in two hours for the sufferers in johnstown and vicinity. _saratoga, june ._--the village of saratoga springs has raised $ . judge henry hilton subscribed one-half the amount. a committee was appointed to-night to solicit additional subscriptions. _carlisle, penn., june ._--aid for the sufferers has been pouring in from all sections of the cumberland valley. from this city $ and a supply of clothing and provisions have been sent. among the contributions to-day was $ from the indian children at the government training school. _charleston, s. c., june ._--the city council to-day voted $ for the relief of the pennsylvania sufferers. the executive committee of the chamber of commerce subscribed $ in a few minutes, and appointed three committees to canvass for subscriptions. the merchants' exchange is at work and general subscriptions are starting. _st. louis, june ._--generous subscriptions for the conemaugh valley sufferers have been made here. the merchants' exchange has called a mass meeting for to-morrow. _middletown, june ._--to-day the mayor telegraphed the mayor of johnstown to draw on him for $ . _poughkeepsie, june ._--mayor rowley to-day sent $ to drexel & co., philadelphia. as much more was subscribed to-day. _auburn, june ._--auburn has subscribed $ . _lockport, n. y., june ._--the brewers' national convention at niagara falls this morning contributed $ , . _st. johnsbury, vt., june ._--grand master henderson issued an invitation to-day to odd fellows in vermont to contribute toward the sufferers. _newburg, n. y., june ._--newburg has raised about $ for the sufferers. _worcester, mass., june ._--subscriptions to the amount of $ were made here to-day. _boston, june ._--the total of the subscriptions received through kidder, peabody & co. to-day amounted to $ , . the fall river line will forward supplies free of charge. _providence, june ._--the subscriptions here now exceed $ , . _minneapolis, june ._--the citizens' committee to-day voted to send barrels of flour to the sufferers. _chicago, june _.--it is estimated that chicago's cash contributions to date aggregate about $ , . _st. louis, june ._--the town of desoto in this state has contributed $ . litchfield, ill., has also raised $ . _los angeles, cal., june ._--this city has forwarded $ to governor beaver. _macon, june ._--the city council last night appropriated $ for the sufferers. _chattanooga, tenn., june ._--a. b. forrest camp, no. , confederate veterans of chattanooga, have contributed $ to the relief fund. j. m. duncan, general manager of the south tredegar iron company, of this city, who a few years ago left johnstown for chattanooga as a young mechanic, sent $ to-day to the relief fund. another $ will be sent from the proceeds of a popular subscription. _savannah, june ._--the savannah benevolent association subscribed $ for the sufferers. _binghamton, june ._--more than $ will be sent to johnstown from this city. lieutenant-governor jones telegraphed that he would subscribe $ . _albany, june ._--mayor maher has telegraphed the mayor of pittsburg to draw on him for $ . the fund being raised by _the morning express_ amounts to over $ . _lebanon, penn., june ._--this city will raise $ for the sufferers. _rochester, june ._--over $ was subscribed to the red cross relief fund to-day and $ to a newspaper fund besides. _cleveland, june ._--the cash collected in this city up to this evening is $ , . ten car-loads of merchandise were shipped to johnstown to-day, and a special train of twenty-eight car-loads of lumber, from cleveland dealers, left here to-night. _fonda, n. y., june ._--the people of johnstown, n. y., instead of making an appropriation with which to celebrate the fourth of july, will send $ to the sufferers at johnstown, pa. _new haven, june ._--over $ has been collected here. _wilmington, del., june ._--this city's fund has reached $ . the second car-load of supplies will be shipped to-morrow. _glens falls, n. y., june ._--subscriptions here to-day amounted to $ . _poughkeepsie, june ._--up to this evening $ have been raised in this city for johnstown. _washington, june ._--the total cash contributions of the employees of the treasury department to date, amounting to $ , were to-day handed to the treasurer of the relief fund of washington. the officers and clerks of the several bureaus of the interior department have subscribed $ . the contributions in the government printing office aggregate $ . chief clerk cooley to-day transmitted to the chairman of the local committee $ collected in the post-office department. _syracuse, n. y., june ._--mayor kirk to-day sent to governor beaver a draft for $ . _utica, n. y., june ._--ilion has raised $ , and has sent six cases of clothing to johnstown. the little falls subscription is $ thus far. the utica subscription is now nearly $ . thus the gifts of the people flowed in, day by day, from near and from far, from rich and from poor, to make less dark the awful desolation that had set up its fearful reign in the valley of the conemaugh. chapter xxiv. the city of philadelphia with characteristic generosity began the work of raising a relief fund on the day following the disaster, the mayor's office and drexel's banking house being the chief centres of receipt. within four days six hundred thousand dollars was in hand. a most thorough organization and canvass of all trades and branches of business was made under the following committees: machinery and iron--george burnham, daniel a. waters, william sellers, w. b. bement, hamilton disston, walter wood, j. lowber welsh, w. c. allison, charles gilpin, jr., e. y. townsend, dawson hoopes, alvin s. patterson, charles h. cramp, and john h. brill. attorneys--mayer sulzberger, george s. graham, george w. biddle, lewis c. cassidy, william f. johnson, joseph parrish, hampton l. carson, john c. bullitt, john r. read, and samuel b. huey. physicians--william pepper, horatio c. wood, thomas g. morton, w. h. pancoast, d. hayes agnew, and william w. keen. insurance--r. dale benson, c. j. madeira, e. j. durban, and john taylor. chemicals--william weightman, h. b. rosengarten, and john wyeth. city officers--john bardsley, henry clay, robert p. dechert, s. davis page, and judge r. n. willson. paper--a. g. elliott, whitney paper company, w. e. & e. d. lockwood, alexander balfour, and the nescochague paper manufacturing company. coal--charles f. berwind, austin corbin, charles e. barrington, and george b. newton. wool dealers--w. w. justice, david scull, coates brothers, lewis s. fish & co., and theodore c. search. commercial exchange--walter f. hagar and william brice. board of trade--frederick fraley, t. morris perot, john h. michener, and joel cook. book trade, printing, and newspapers--charles emory smith, walter lippincott, a. k. mcclure, charles e. warburton, thomas mackellar, william m. singerly, charles heber clark, and william v. mckean. furniture--charles b. adamson, hale, kilburn & co., john h. sanderson, and amos hillborn & co. bakers and confectioners--godfrey keebler, carl edelheim, croft & allen, and h. o. wilbur & sons. china, etc.--r. j. allen, and tyndale, mitchell & co. lumber--thomas p. c. stokes, william m. lloyd company, henry bayard & co., geissel & richardson, and d. a. woelpper. cloth and tailors' trimmings--edmund lewis, henry n. steel, joseph r. keim, john alburger, and samuel goodman. notions, etc.--joel j. baily, john field, samuel clarkson, john c. sullivan, william super, john c. file, and w. b. hackenberg. clothing--h. b. blumenthal, william allen, leo loeb, william h. wanamaker, alan h. reed, morris newberger, nathan snellenburg, samuel goodman, and john alburger. dry goods manufacturers--lincoln godfrey, lemuel coffin, n. parker shortridge, and w.h. folwell. wholesale dry goods--samuel b. brown, john m. howett, henry h. ellison, and edward t. steel. retail dry goods--joseph g. darlington, isaac h. clothier, granville b. haines, and henry w. sharpless. jewelers--mr. bailey, of bailey, banks & biddle; james e. caldwell, and simon muhr. straw goods, hats, and millinery--john adler, c. h. garden & co., and henry tilge. city railways--alexander m. fox, william h. kemble, e. b. edwards, john f. sullivan, and charles e. ellis. photography--f. gutekunst, a. k. p. trask, and h. c. phillips. pianos and musical--w. d. dutton, schomacker piano company, and c. j. heppe. plumbers--william harkness, jr., j. futhey smith, c. a. blessing, and henry b. tatham. liquors and brewers--joseph f. sinnott, bergner & engel, john gardiner, and john f. belz. hotels--e. f. kingsley, thomas green, l. u. maltby, c. h. reisser, and h. j. crump. butchers--frank bower and shuster boraef. woolen manufacturers--william wood, george campbell, joseph p. truitt, and john c. watt. retail grocers--george b. woodman, george a. fletcher, robert ralston, h. b. summers, and e. j. howlett. boots and shoes--john mundell, john g. croxton, henry z. ziegler, and a. a. shumway. theatrical--j. fred. zimmerman, israel fleishman, and t. f. kelly. tobacco trade--m. j. dohan, l. bamberger, e. h. frishmuth, jr., walter garrett, m. e. mcdowell, j. h. baltz, henry weiner, and george w. bremer. hosiery manufactures--j. b. allen and james b. doak, jr. real estate--adam everly, john m. gummey, and lewis h. redner. cordage--e. h. fitler, john t. bailey, and charles lawrence. patent pavement--dr. l. s. filbert and james stewart, jr. bankers and brokers--winthrop smith, robert h. glendenning, george h. thomas, william g. warden, lindley smyth, thomas cochran, j. l. erringer, charles h. banes, wharton barker, and jacob naylor. wholesale grocers and sugar refiners--francis b. reeves, edward c. knight, adolph spreckels, william janney, and charles c. harrison. shirt manufacturers and dealers--samuel sternberger and jacob miller. carpets--james dobson, robert dornan, hugh mccallum, john f. orne, john r. white, and thomas potter, jr. saddlery hardware, etc.--william t. lloyd, of lloyd & supplee; conrad b. day, george deb. keim, charles thackara, john c. cornelius, william elkins, jr., and james peters. by tuesday the tide of relief was flowing strongly. on that day between eight and nine thousand packages of goods were sent to the freight depot of the pennsylvania railroad, to be forwarded to the sufferers. wagons came in an apparently endless stream and the quantity of goods received far exceeded that of any previous day. eight freight cars, tightly packed, were shipped to johnstown, while five car-loads of provisions were sent to williamsport, and one of provisions to lewistown. the largest consignment of goods from an individual was sent to williamsport by w. m. mccormick. he was formerly a resident of williamsport, and when he heard that the people of that city were suffering for want of provisions, he immediately went out and ordered a car-load of flour (one hundred and twenty-five barrels) and a car-load of groceries and provisions, consisting of dried and smoked meats, sugar, crackers, and a large assortment of other necessaries. mr. mccormick said he thought that several of his friends would go in with him when they knew of the venture, but if they did not he would foot all the bills himself. the saddest incident of the day was the visit of a handsome young lady, about twenty-three years of age. she was accompanied by an older lady, and brought three packages of clothing. it was miss clydia blackford, whose home was in johnstown. she said sobbingly that every one of her relatives and friends had been lost in the floods, and her home entirely wiped out. the gift of the packages to the sufferers of her old home seemed to give her a sort of sad pleasure. she departed with tears in her eyes. when the convicts in the eastern penitentiary learned of the disaster through the weekly papers which arrived on wednesday and thursday--the only papers they are allowed to receive--a thing that will seem incongruous to the outside world happened. the criminal, alone in his cell, was touched with the same sympathy and desire to help fellow-men in sore distress as the good people who have been filling relief depots with supplies and coffers with money. each as he read the story of the flood would knock on his wicket and tell the keeper he wanted to give some of his money. the convicts, by working over and above their daily task, are allowed small pay for the extra time. half the money so earned goes to the county from which the convict comes and half to the convict himself. the maximum amount a cherry hill inmate can make in a week for himself is one dollar. the keepers told warden cassidy of the desire expressed all along that the authorities receive their contributions. the convicts can do what they please with their over-time money, by sending it to their friends, and several had already sent small sums out of the penitentiary to be given to the johnstown sufferers. the warden very promptly acceded to the general desire and gave the keepers instructions. there are about one thousand one hundred and ten men imprisoned in the institution, and of this number one hundred and forty-six persons gave five hundred and forty-two dollars and ninety-six cents. it would take one convict working all his extra time ten years to earn that sum. there was one old man, a cripple, who had fifteen dollars to his credit. he said to the keeper: "i've been doing crooked work nearly all my life, and i want to do something square this time. i want to give all the money coming to me for these fellers out there." the warden, however, had made a rule prohibiting any individual from contributing more than five dollars. the old man was told this, but he was determined. "look here," said he; "i'll send the rest of my money out to my folks and tell them to send it." chief of police mayer, in denying reports that there was an influx of professional thieves into the flooded regions to rob the dead, said: "the thieves wouldn't do anything like that; there is too much of the gentleman in them." but here were thieves and criminals going into their own purses out of that same "gentlemanly" part of them. up to saturday, june th, the cash contributions in philadelphia, amounted to $ , . . meantime countless gifts and expressions of sympathy came from all over the world. the lord mayor of dublin, ireland, raised a fund of $ , . archbishop walsh gave $ . sir julian pauncefote, the british minister at washington, called on the president on june th, in company with secretary blaine, and delivered a message from queen victoria expressing her deep sympathy for the sufferers by the recent floods in pennsylvania. the president said in reply: "mr. minister: this message of sympathy from her majesty the queen will be accepted by our people as another expression of her own generous character, as well as of the friendliness and good-will of her people. the disasters which have fallen upon several communities in the state of pennsylvania, while extreme and full of the most tragic and horrifying incidents, have fortunately been limited in territorial extent. the generosity of our own citizens will promptly lessen to these stricken people every loss that is not wholly irretrievable; and these the sympathy of the queen and the english people will help to assuage. will you, mr. minister, be pleased to convey to the queen the sincere thanks of the american people." [illustration: wreck of the lumber yards at willamsport, pa.] a newspaper correspondent called upon the illustrious miss florence nightingale, at her home in london, and asked her to send a message to america regarding the floods. in response, she wrote: "i am afraid that i cannot write such a message as i would wish to just at this moment. i am so overdone. i have the deepest sympathy with the poor sufferers by the floods, and with miss clara barton, of the red cross societies, and the good women who are hastening to their help. i am so overworked and ill that i can feel all the more but write all the less for the crying necessity. (signed) "florence nightingale." though miss nightingale is sixty-nine years old, and an invalid, this note was written in a hand indicating all the strength and vigor of a schoolgirl. she is seldom able to go out now, though when she can she dearly loves to visit the nightingale home for training nurses, which constitutes such an enduring monument and noble record of her life. but, though in feeble health, miss nightingale manages to do a great deal of work yet. from all parts of the world letters pour in upon her, asking advice and suggestions on matters of hospital management, of health and of education, all of which she seldom fails to answer. last, but not least, let it be recorded that the members of the club that owned the fatal lake sent promptly a thousand blankets and many thousands of dollars to the sufferers from the floods, which had been caused by their own lack of proper supervision of the dam. chapter xxv. new york, philadelphia, and pittsburg were, of course, the three chief centres of charitable contributions, and the sources from which the golden flood of relief was poured into the devastated valley. one of the earliest gifts in new york city was that of $ , , the proceeds of a collection taken on sunday morning, june d, in the west presbyterian church, after an appeal by the rev. dr. john r. paxton, the pastor. the next day a meeting of prominent new york business men was held at the mayor's office, and a relief committee was formed. at this meeting many contributions were announced. isidor wormser said that the produce exchange had raised $ , for the sufferers. ex-mayor grace reported that the lackawanna coal and iron company had telegraphed the cambria iron company to draw upon it for $ , for the relief of the cambria's employees. mayor grant announced that he had received letters and checks during the forenoon aggregating the sum of $ , , and added his own for $ . subscriptions of $ , each were offered as fast as the secretary could record them by kuhn, loeb & co., jesse seligman, calvin s. brice, winslow, lanier & co., morris k. jesup, oswald ottendorfer, r. h. macy & co., m. schiff & co., and o. b. potter. sums of $ were subscribed with equal cheerfulness by eugene kelly, sidney dillon, the chatham national bank, controller myers, cooper, hewitt & co., frederick gallatin, tefft, weller & co., city chamberlain croker, and tiffany & co. numerous gifts of less sums quickly followed. elliott f. shepard announced that the _mail and express_ had already sent $ , to johnstown. before the committee on permanent organization had time to report, the secretary gave out the information that $ , had been subscribed since the meeting was called to order. before the day was over no less than $ , had been received at the mayor's office, including the following subscriptions: pennsylvania relief committee of the maritime association of the port of new york, gustav h. schwab, treasurer, $ , ; chatham national bank, $ ; morris k. jesup, $ , ; william steinway, $ , ; theodore w. myers, $ ; j. g. moore, $ , ; j. w. gerard, $ ; platt & bowers, $ ; henry l. hoguet, $ ; harry miner, $ ; tefft, weller & co., $ ; louis may, $ ; madison square bank, $ ; richard croker, $ ; tiffany & co., $ ; john fox, $ ; jacob h. schiff, $ , ; nash & brush, $ ; oswald ottendorfer, $ , ; william p. st. john, $ ; george hoadly, for hoadly, lauterbach & johnson, $ ; edwin forrest lodge, order of friendship, $ ; w. t. sherman, $ ; w. l. stone, $ ; john r. dos passos, $ ; g. g. williams, $ ; coudert bros., $ ; _staats-zeitung_, $ , ; cooper, hewitt & co., $ ; frederick gallatin, $ ; r. h. macy & co., $ , ; mr. caldwell, $ ; c. n. bliss, $ ; ward & olyphant, $ ; eugene kelly, $ ; lackawanna coal and iron company, through mayor grace, $ , ; w. r. grace, $ ; g. schwab & bros., $ ; kuhn, loeb & co., $ , ; central trust co., $ , ; calvin s. brice, $ , ; j. s. seligman & co., $ , ; sidney dillon, $ ; winslow, lanier & co., $ , ; hugh j. grant, $ ; orlando b. potter, $ , . through _the tribune_, $ . ; through _the sun_, $ . ; from tammany society, through richard croker, $ , ; joseph pulitzer, $ , ; lazard fréres, $ , ; arnold, constable & co., $ , ; d. h. king, jr., $ , ; august belmont & co., $ , ; new york life insurance co., $ ; john d. crimmins, $ ; nathan manufacturing co., $ ; hugh n. camp, $ ; national railway publishing co., $ ; william openhym & sons, $ ; new york transfer co., $ ; warner brothers, $ ; l. j. and i. phillips, $ ; john davel & sons, $ ; hoole manufacturing co., $ ; hendricks brothers, $ ; rice & bijur, $ ; c. a. auffmordt, $ ; thomas c. t. crain, $ ; j. j. wysong & co., $ ; megroz, portier, & megroz & co., $ ; foster, paul & co., $ ; s. stein & co., $ ; james mccreery & co., $ ; lazell, dalley & co., $ ; george w. walling, $ ; thomas garner & co., $ ; john simpson, $ ; w. h. schieffelin & co., $ ; through a. schwab, $ , ; h. c. f. koch & co., $ ; george t. hoadly, $ ; g. sidenburg & co., $ ; ward & oliphant, $ ; robert bonner, $ , ; horace white, $ ; a. h. cridge, $ ; edward shriever, $ ; c. h. ludington, $ ; gamewell fire alarm telegraph company of new york, $ ; warner brothers, $ ; _new york times_ (cash), $ ; cash items, $ . ; bennett building, $ . shortly after the opening of the new york stock exchange a subscription was started for the benefit of the johnstown sufferers. the governing committee of the exchange made albert king treasurer of the exchange relief fund, and, although many leading members were absent from the floor, as is usual on monday at this season of the year, the handsome sum of $ , was contributed by the brokers present at the close of business. among the subscriptions received were: vermilye & co., $ , ; moore & schley, $ , ; l. von hoffman & co., $ ; n. s. jones, $ ; speyer & co., $ ; homans & co., $ ; work, strong & co., $ ; washington e. connor, $ ; van emberg & atterbury, $ ; simon borg & co., $ ; chauncey & gwynne bros., $ ; john d. slayback, $ ; woerishoffer & co., $ ; s. v. white, $ ; i. & s. wormser, $ ; henry clews & co., $ ; ladenberg, thalmann & co., $ ; john h. davis & co., $ ; jones, kennett & hopkins, $ ; h. b. goldschmidt, $ ; other subscriptions, $ , . generosity rose higher still on tuesday. early in the day $ , was received by cable from the london stock exchange. john s. kennedy also sent $ , from london. john jacob astor subscribed $ , and william astor $ , . other contributions received at the mayor's office were these: archbishop corrigan, $ ; straiton & storm, $ ; bliss, fabyan & co., $ ; funk & wagnalls, $ ; nathan straus, $ , ; sidney dillon, $ ; winslow, lanier & co., $ , ; henry hilton, $ , ; r. j. livingston, $ , ; peter marie, $ ; the dick & meyer co., wm. dick, president, $ , ; decastro & donner sugar refining co., $ , ; havemeyers & elder sugar refining co., $ , ; frederick gallatin, $ ; continental national bank, from directors, $ , ; f. o. mattiessen & wiechers' sugar refining co., $ , ; phelps, dodge & co., $ , ; knickerbocker ice co., $ , ; first national bank, $ , ; apollinaris water co., london, $ , ; w. & j. sloane, $ , ; tefft, weller & co., $ ; new york stock exchange, $ , ; board of trade, $ , ; central trust co, $ , ; samuel sloan, $ . the following contributions were made in ten minutes at a special meeting of the chamber of commerce: brown brothers & co., $ , ; morton, bliss & co., $ , ; h. b. claflin & co., $ , ; percy r. pyne, $ , ; fourth national bank, $ , ; e. d. morgan & co., $ , ; c. s. smith, $ ; j. m. ceballas, $ ; barbour brothers & co., $ ; naumberg, kraus & co., $ ; thos. f. rowland, $ ; bliss, fabyan & co., $ ; william h. parsons & co., $ ; smith, hogg & gardner, $ ; doerun lead company, $ ; a. r. whitney & co., $ ; williams & peters, $ ; joy, langdon & co., $ ; b. l. solomon's sons, $ ; d. f. hiernan, $ ; a. s. rosenbaum, $ ; henry rice, $ ; parsons & petitt, $ ; thomas h. wood & co., $ ; t. b. coddington, $ ; john i. howe, $ ; john bigelow, $ ; morrison, herriman & co., $ ; frederick sturges, $ ; james o. carpenter, $ ; c. h. mallory, $ ; george a. low, $ ; henry w. t. mali & co., $ ; c. adolph low, $ ; c. c. peck, $ . total, $ , . thousands of dollars also came in from the produce exchange, cotton exchange, metal exchange, coffee exchange, real estate exchange, etc. the adams express co. gave $ , , and free carriage of all goods for the sufferers. the mutual life insurance co., gave $ , . and so all the week the gifts were made. jay gould, gave $ , ; the jewish temple emanuel, $ , ; the hide and leather trade, $ , ; the commercial cable co., $ ; the ancient order of hibernians, $ ; j. b. & j. h. cornell, $ , ; the new york health department, $ ; chatham national bank, $ ; the boys of the house of refuge on randall's island, $ . . many gifts came from other towns and cities. kansas city, $ , ; cincinnati chamber of commerce, $ , ; washington post office, $ ; boston, $ , ; willard (n. y.) asylum for insane, $ ; washington government printing office, $ , ; saugerties, n. y., $ ; ithaca, n. y., $ , ; cornell university, $ , ; whitehall, n. y., $ ; washington interior department, $ , ; schenectady, n. y., $ , ; albany, $ , ; washington treasury department, $ , ; augusta, ga., $ , ; charleston, s. c., $ , ; utica, n. y., $ , ; little falls, n. y., $ ; ilion, n. y., $ , ; trenton, n. j., $ , ; cambridge, mass., $ , ; haverhill, mass., $ , ; lawrence, mass., $ , ; salem, mass., $ , ; taunton, mass., $ , ; new london, conn., $ , ; newburyport, mass., $ , . no attempt has been made above to give anything more than a few random and representative names of givers. the entire roll would fill a volume. by the end of the week the cash contributions in new york city amounted to more than $ , . collections in churches on sunday, june th, aggregated $ , more. benefit performances at the theatres the next week brought up the grand total to about $ , . chapter xxvi. and now begins the task of burying the dead and caring for the living. it is wednesday morning. scarcely has daylight broken before a thousand funerals are in progress on the green hill-sides. there were no hearses, few mourners, and as little solemnity as formality. the majority of the coffins were of rough pine. the pall-bearers were strong ox-teams, and instead of six pall-bearers to one coffin, there were generally six coffins to one-team. silently the processions moved, and silently they unloaded their burdens in the lap of mother earth. no minister of god was there to pronounce a last blessing as the clods rattled down, except a few faithful priests who had followed some representatives of their faith to the grave. all day long the corpses were being hurried below ground. the unidentified bodies were grouped on a high hill west of the doomed city, where one epitaph must do for all, and that the word "unknown." almost every stroke of the pick in some portions of the city resulted in the discovery of another victim, and, although the funerals of the morning relieved the morgues of their crush, before night they were as full of the dead as ever. wherever one turns the melancholy view of a coffin is met. every train into johnstown was laden with them, the better ones being generally accompanied by friends of the dead. men could be seen staggering over the ruins with shining mahogany caskets on their shoulders. in the midst of this scene of death and desolation a relenting providence seems to be exerting a subduing influence. six days have elapsed since the great disaster, and the temperature still remains low and chilly in the conemaugh valley. when it is remembered that in the ordinary june weather of this locality from two to three days are sufficient to bring an unattended body to a degree of decay and putrefaction that would render it almost impossible to prevent the spread of disease throughout the valley, the inestimable benefits of this cool weather are almost beyond appreciation. the first body taken from the ruins was that of a boy, willie davis, who was found in the debris near the bridge. he was badly bruised and burned. the remains were taken to the undertaking rooms at the pennsylvania railroad station, where they were identified. the boy's mother has been making a tour of the different morgues for the past few days, and was just going through the undertaking rooms when she saw the remains of her boy being brought in. she ran up to the body and demanded it. she seemed to have lost her mind, and caused quite a scene by her actions. she said that she had lost her husband and six children in the flood, and that this was the first one of the family that had been recovered. the bodies of a little girl named bracken and of theresa and katie downs of clinton street were taken out near where the remains of willie davis were found. two hundred experienced men with dynamite, a portable crane, a locomotive, and half a dozen other appliances for pulling, hauling, and lifting, toiled all of wednesday at the sixty-acre mass of debris that lies above the pennsylvania railroad bridge at johnstown. "as a result," wrote a correspondent, "there is visible, just in front of the central arch, a little patch of muddy water about seventy-five feet long by thirty wide. two smaller patches are in front of the two arches on each side of this one, but both together would not be heeded were they not looked for especially. indeed, the whole effect of the work yet done would not be noticed by a person who had never seen the wreck before. the solidity of the wreck and the manner in which it is interlaced and locked together exceeds the expectations of even those who had examined the wreck carefully, and the men who thought that with dynamite the mass could be removed in a week, now do not think the work can be done in twice this time. the work is in charge of arthur kirk, a pittsburg contractor. dynamite is depended upon for loosening the mass, but it has to be used in small charges for fear of damaging the bridge, which, at this time, would be another disaster for the town. as it is, the south abutment has been broken a little by the explosions. "after a charge of dynamite had shaken up a portion of the wreck in front of the middle arch, men went to work with long poles, crowbars, axes, saws, and spades. all the loose pieces that could be got out were thrown into the water under the bridge, and then, beginning at the edges, the bits of wreck were pulled, pushed and cut out, and sent floating away. at first the work of an hour was hardly perceptible, but each fresh log of timber pulled out loosened others and made better progress possible. when the space beneath the arch was cleared, and a channel thus made through which the debris could be floated off, a huge portable crane, built on a flat-car and made for raising locomotives and cars, was run upon the bridge over the arch and fastened to the track with heavy chains. a locomotive was furnished to pull the rope, instead of the usual winch with a crank handle. a rope from the crane was fastened by chains or grapnels to a log, and then the locomotive pulled. about once in five times the log came out. other times the chain slipped or something else made the attempt a failure. whenever a big stick came out men with pikes pushed off all the other loosened debris that they could get at. other men shoveled off the dirt and ashes which cover the raft so thickly that it is almost as solid as the ground. "when a ten-foot square opening had been made back on the arch, the current could be seen gushing up like a great spring from below, showing that there was a large body of it being held down there by the weight of the debris. the current through the arch became so strong that the heaviest pieces in the wreck were carried off readily once they got within its reach. one reason for this is that laborers are filling up the gaps on the railroad embankment approaching the bridge in the north, through which the river had made itself a new bed, and the water thus dammed back has to go through or under the raft and out by the bridge-arches. this both buoys up the whole mass and provides a means of carrying off the wooden part of the debris as fast as it can be loosened. "meanwhile an attack on the raft was being made through the adjoining arch in another way. a heavy winch was set up on a small island in the river seventy-five yards below the bridge, and ropes run from this were hitched to heavy timbers in the raft, and then pulled out by workmen at the winch. a beginning for a second opening in the raft was made in this way. one man had some bones broken and was otherwise hurt by the slipping of the handle while he was at work at the winch this afternoon. the whole work is dangerous for the men. there is twenty feet of swift water for them to slip into, and timbers weighing tons are swinging about in unexpected directions to crush them. "so far it is not known that any bodies have been brought out of the debris by this work of removal, though many logs have been loosened and sent off down the river beneath the water without being seen. there will probably be more bodies back toward the centre of the raft than at the bridge, for of those that came there many were swept over the top. some went over the arches and a great many were rescued from the bridge and shore. people are satisfied now that dynamite is the only thing that can possibly remove the wreck and that as it is being used it is not likely to mangle bodies that may be in the debris any more than would any other means of removing it. there are no more protests heard against its use." bodies continue to be dug out of the wreck in the central portion all day. a dozen or so had been recovered up to nightfall, all hideously burned and mangled. in spite of all the water that has been thrown upon it by fire engines and all the rain that has fallen, the debris is still smouldering in many spots. work was begun in dead earnest on wednesday on the cambria iron works buildings. the cambria people gave out the absurd statement that their loss will not exceed $ , . it will certainly take this amount to clean the works of the debris, to say nothing of repairing them. the buildings are nearly a score in number, some of them of enormous size, and they extend along the conemaugh river for half a mile, over a quarter of a mile in width. their lonely chimneys, stretching high out of the slate roofs above the brick walls, make them look not unlike a man-of-war of tremendous size. the buildings on the western end of the row are not damaged a great deal, though the torrent rolled through them, turning the machinery topsy-turvy; but the buildings on the eastern end, which received the full force of the flood, fared badly. the eastern ends are utterly gone, the roofs bent over and smashed in, the chimneys flattened, the walls cracked and broken, and, in some cases, smashed entirely. most of the buildings are filled with drift. the workmen, who have clambered over the piles of logs and heavy drift washed in front of the buildings and inside, say that they do not believe that the machinery in the mills is damaged very much, and that the main loss will fall on the mills themselves. half a million may cover the loss of the cambria people, but this is a rather low estimate. they have nine hundred men at work getting things in shape, and the manner in which they have had to go to work illustrates the force with which the flood acted. the trees jammed in and before the buildings were so big and so solidly wedged in their places that no force of men could pull them out, and temporary railroad tracks were built up to the mass of debris. then one of the engines backed down from the pennsylvania railroad yards, and the workmen, by persistent effort, managed to get big chains around parts of the drift. these chains were attached to the engine, which rolled off puffing mightily, and in this way the mass of drift was pulled apart. then the laborers gathered up the loosened material, heaped it in piles a distance from the buildings, and burned them. sometimes two engines had to be attached to some of the trees to pull them out, and there are many trees which cannot be extricated in this manner. they will have to be sawed into parts, and these parts lugged away by the engines. [illustration: , , feet of logs afloat in the susquehanna.] chapter xxvii. upon a pretty little plateau two hundred feet above the waters of stony creek, and directly in front of a slender foot-bridge which leads into kernsville, stands a group of tents which represents the first effort of any national organization to give material sanitary aid to the unhappy survivors of johnstown. it is the camp of the american national association of the red cross, and is under the direction of that noble woman, miss clara barton of washington, the president of the organization in this country. the camp is not more than a quarter of a mile from the scene of operations in this place, and, should pestilence attend upon the horrors of the flood, this assembly of trained nurses and veteran physicians will be known all over the land. that an epidemic of some sort will come, there seems to be no question. the only thing which can avert it is a succession of cool days, a possibility which is very remote. miss barton, as soon as she heard of the catastrophe, started preparations for opening headquarters in this place. by saturday morning she had secured a staff, tents, supplies, and all the necessary appurtenances of her work, and at once started on the baltimore and ohio road. she arrived here on tuesday morning, and pitched her tents near stony creek. this was, however, a temporary choice, for soon she removed her camp to the plateau upon which it will remain until all need for miss barton will have passed. with her came dr. john b. hubbell, field agent; miss m. l. white, stenographer; gustave angerstein, messenger, and a corps of fifteen physicians and four trained female nurses, under the direction of dr. o'neill, of philadelphia. upon their arrival they at once established quartermaster and kitchen departments, and in less than three hours these divisions were fully equipped for work. then when the camp was formally opened on the plateau there were one large hospital tent, capable of accommodating forty persons, four smaller tents to give aid to twenty persons each, and four still smaller ones which will hold ten patients each. then miss barton organized a house-to-house canvass by her corps of doctors, and began to show results almost immediately. the first part of the district visited was kernsville. there great want and much suffering were discovered and promptly relieved. miss barton says that in most of the houses which were visited were several persons suffering from nervous prostration in the most aggravated form, many cases of temporary insanity being discovered, which, if neglected, would assume chronic conditions. there were a large number of persons, too, who were bruised by their battling on the borders of the flood, and were either ignorant or too broken-spirited to endeavor to aid themselves in any particular. the majority of these were not sufficiently seriously hurt to require removal from their homes to the camp, and so were given medicines and practical, intelligent advice how to use them. there were fifteen persons, however, who were removed from kernsville and from a district known as the brewery, on the extreme east of johnstown. three of the number were women and were sadly bruised. one man, caspar walthaman, a german operative at the cambria iron works, was the most interesting of all. he lived in a little frame house within fifty yards of the brewery. when the flood came his house was lifted from its foundations and was tossed about like a feather in a gale, until it reached a spot about on a line with washington street. there the man's life was saved by a great drift, which completely surrounded the house, and which forced the structure against the prospect hill shore, where the shock wrecked it. walthaman was sent flying through the air, and landed on his right side on the water-soaked turf. fortunately the turf was soft and springy with the moisture, and walthaman had enough consciousness left to crawl up the hillside, and then sank into unconsciousness. at ten o'clock saturday morning some friends found him. he was taken to their home in kernsville. he was scarcely conscious when found, and before he had been in a place of safety an hour he had lost his mind, the reaction was so great. his hair had turned quite white, and the places where before the disaster his hair had been most abundant, on the sides of his head, were completely denuded of it. his scalp was as smooth as an apple-cheek. the physicians who removed him to the red cross hospital declared the case as the most extraordinary one resulting from fright that had ever come under their observation. miss barton declares her belief that not one of the persons who are now under treatment is seriously injured, and is confident they will recover in a few days. her staff was reinforced by mrs. and dr. gardner, of bedford, who, during the last great western floods, rendered most excellent assistance to the sufferers. both are members of the relief association. the squad of physicians and nurses was further added to by more from philadelphia, and then miss barton thought she was prepared to cope with anything in the way of sickness which might arise. the appearance of the tents and the surroundings are exceedingly inviting. everything is exquisitely neat, the boards of the tent-floors being almost as white as the snowy linen of the cots. this contrast to the horrible filth of the town, with its fearful stenches and its dead-paved streets, is so invigorating that it has become a place of refuge to all who are compelled to remain here. the hospital is an old rink on the bedford pike, which has been transformed into an inviting retreat. upon entering the door the visitor finds himself in a small ante-room, to one side of which is attached the general consulting-room. on the other side, opposite the hall, is the apothecary's department, where the prescriptions are filled as carefully as they would be at a first-class druggist's. in the rear of the medical department and of the general consultation-room are the wards. there are two of them--one for males and the other for females. a long, high, heavy curtain divides the wards, and insures as much privacy as the most modest person would wish. around the walls in both wards are ranged the regulation hospital beds, with plenty of clean and comfortable bed-clothes. patients in the hospital said they couldn't be better treated if they were paying the physician for their attendance. the trained nurses of the red cross society carefully look after the wants of the sick and injured, and see that they get everything they wish. people who have an abhorrence of going into these hospitals need have no fear that they will not be well treated. the orphans of the flood--sadly few there are of them, for it was the children that usually went down first, not the parents--are looked after by the pennsylvania children's aid society, which has transferred its headquarters for the time being from philadelphia to this city. there was a thriving branch of this society here before the flood, but of all its officers and executive force two only are alive. fearing such might be the situation, the general officers of the society sent out on the first available train miss h. e. hancock, one of the directors, and miss h. w. hinckley, the secretary. they arrived on thursday morning, and within thirty minutes had an office open in a little cottage just above the water-line in the upper part of the city. business was ready as soon as the office, and there were about fifty children looked after before evening. in most cases these were children with relatives or friends in or near johnstown, and the society's work has been to identify them and restore them to their friends. as soon as the society opened its office all cases in which children were involved were sent at once to them, and their efforts have been of great benefit in systematizing the care of the children who are left homeless. besides this, there are many orphans who have been living in the families of neighbors since the flood, but for whom permanent homes must be found. one family has cared for one hundred and fifty-seven children saved from the flood, and nearly as many are staying with other families. there will be no difficulty about providing for these little ones. the society already has offers for the taking of as many as are likely to be in need of a home. the rev. morgan dix, on behalf of the leake and watts orphan home in new york, has telegraphed an offer to care for seventy-five orphans. pittsburg is proving itself generous in this as in all other matters relating to the flood, and other places all over the country are telegraphing offers of homes for the homeless. superintendent pierson, of the indianapolis natural gas company, has asked for two; cleveland wants some; altoona would like a few; apollo, pa., has vacancies the orphans can fill, and scores of other small places are sending in similar offers and requests. a queer thing is that many of the officers are restricted by curious provisions as to the religious belief of the orphans. the rev. dr. griffith, for instance, of philadelphia, says that the angora (pa.) home would like some orphans, "especially baptist ones," and father field, of philadelphia, offers to look after a few episcopal waifs. the work of the society here has been greatly assisted by the fact that miss maggie brooks, formerly secretary of the local society here, but living in philadelphia at the time of the flood, has come here to assist the general officers. her acquaintance with the town is invaluable. johnstown is generous in its misery. whatever it has left it gives freely to the strangers who have come here. it is not much, but it shows a good spirit. there are means by which johnstown people might reap a rich harvest by taking advantage of the necessities of strangers. it is necessary, for instance, to use boats in getting about the place, and men in light skiffs are poling about the streets all day taking passengers from place to place. their services are free. they not only do not, but will not accept any fee. j. d. haws & son own large brick-kilns near the bridge. the newspaper men have possession of one of the firm's buildings and one of the firm spends most of his time in running about trying to make the men comfortable. a room in one of the firm's barns filled with straw has been set apart solely for the newspaper men, who sleep there wrapped in blankets as comfortably as in beds. there is no charge for this, although those who have tried one night on the floors, sand-piles, and other usual dormitories of the place, would willingly pay high for the use of the straw. food for the newspaper and telegraph workers has been hard to get except in crude form. canned corned beef, eaten with a stick for a fork, and dry crackers were the staples up to tuesday, when a house up the hill was discovered where anybody who came was welcome to the best the house afforded. there was no sugar for the coffee, no vinegar for the lettuce, and the apple butter ran out before the siege was raised, but the defect was in the circumstances of johnstown, and not in the will of the family. "how much?" was asked at the end of the meal. they were poor people. the man probably earns a dollar a day. "oh!" replied the woman, who was herself cook, waiter, and lady of the house, "we don't charge anything in times like these. you see, i went out and spent ten dollars for groceries at a place that wasn't washed away right after the flood, and we've been living on that ever since. of course we don't ask any of the relief, not being washed out. you men are welcome to all i can give." she had seen the last of her ten dollars worth of provisions gobbled up without a murmur, and yet didn't "charge anything in times like these." her scruples did not, however, extend so far as to refusing tenders of coin, inasmuch as without it her larder would stay empty. she filled it up last night, and the news of the place having spread, she has been getting a continual meal from five in the morning until late at night. although she makes no charge, her income would make a regular restaurant keeper dizzy. so far as the signal service is concerned, the amount of rainfall in the region drained by the conemaugh river cannot be ascertained. mrs. h. m. ogle, who had been the signal service representative in johnstown for several years and also manager of the western union office there, telegraphed at eight o'clock friday morning to pittsburg that the river marked fourteen feet, rising; a rise of thirteen feet in twenty-four hours. at eleven o'clock she wired: "river twenty feet and rising, higher than ever before; water in first floor. have moved to second. river gauges carried away. rainfall, two and three-tenth inches." at twenty-seven minutes to one p. m. mrs. ogle wired: "at this hour north wind; very cloudy; water still rising." nothing more was heard from her by the bureau, but at the western union office at pittsburg later in the afternoon she commenced to tell an operator that the dam had broken, that a flood was coming, and before she had finished the conversation a singular click of the instrument announced the breaking of the current. a moment afterward the current of her life was broken forever. sergeant stewart, in charge of the pittsburg bureau, says that the fall of water on the conemaugh shed at johnstown up to the time of the flood was probably two and five-tenth inches. he believes it was much heavier in the mountains. the country drained by the little conemaugh and stony creek covers an area of about one hundred square miles. the bureau, figuring on this basis and two and five-tenth inches of rainfall, finds that four hundred and sixty-four million six hundred and forty thousand cubic feet of water was precipitated toward johnstown in its last hours. this is independent of the great volume of water in the lake, which was not less than two hundred and fifty million cubic feet. it is therefore easily seen that there was ample water to cover the conemaugh valley to the depth of from ten to twenty-five feet. such a volume of water was never known to fall in that country in the same time. colonel t. p. roberts, a leading engineer, estimates that the lake drained twenty-five square miles, and gives some interesting data on the probable amount of water it contained. he says: "the dam, as i understand, was from hill to hill, about one thousand feet long and about eighty-five feet high at the highest point. the pond covered above seven hundred acres, at least for the present i will assume that to be the case. we are told also that there was a waste-weir at one end seventy-five feet wide and ten feet below the comb or top of the dam. now we are told that with this weir open and discharging freely to the utmost of its capacity, nevertheless the pond or lake rose ten inches per hour until finally it overflowed the top, and, as i understand, the dam broke by being eaten away at the top. "thus we have the elements for very simple calculation as to the amount of water precipitated by the flood, provided these premises are accurate. to raise seven hundred acres of water to a height of ten feet would require about three hundred million cubic feet of water, and while this was rising the waste-weir would discharge an enormous volume--it would be difficult to say just how much without a full knowledge of the shape of its side-walls, approaches, and outlets--but if the rise required ten hours the waste-weir might have discharged perhaps ninety million cubic feet. we would then have a total of flood water of three hundred and ninety million cubic feet. this would indicate a rainfall of about eight inches over the twenty-five square miles. as that much does not appear to have fallen at the hotel and dam it is more than likely that even more than eight inches was precipitated in places farther up. these figures i hold tentatively, but i am much inclined to believe that there was a cloud burst." of course, the johnstown disaster, great as it was, was by no means the greatest flood in history, since noah's deluge. the greatest of modern floods was that which resulted from the overflow of the great hoang-ho, or yellow river, in . this river, which has earned the title of "china's sorrow," has always been the cause of great anxiety to the chinese government and to the inhabitants of the country through which it flows. it is guarded with the utmost care at great expense, and annually vast sums are spent in repairs of its banks. in october, , a number of serious breaches occurred in the river's banks about three hundred miles from the coast. as a result the river deserted its natural bed and spread over a thickly-populated plain, forcing for itself finally an entire new road to the sea. four or five times in two thousand years the great river had changed its bed, and each time the change had entailed great loss of life and property. in it burst through its banks two hundred and fifty miles from the sea and cut a new bed through the northern part of shaptung into the gulf of pechili. the isolation in which foreigners lived at that time in china prevented their obtaining any information as to the calamitous results of this change, but in many of the barriers against foreigners had been removed and a general idea of the character of the inundation was easily obtainable. for several weeks preceding the actual overflow of its banks the hoang-ho had been swollen from its tributaries. it had been unusually wet and stormy in northwest china, and all the small streams were full and overflowing. the first break occurred in the province of honan, of which the capital is kaifeng, and the city next in importance is ching or cheng chou. the latter is forty miles west of kaifeng and a short distance above a bend in the hoang-ho. at this bend the stream is borne violently against the south shore. for ten days a continuous rain had been soaking the embankments, and a strong wind increased the already great force of the current. finally a breach was made. at first it extended only for a hundred yards. the guards made frantic efforts to close the gap, and were assisted by the frightened people in the vicinity. but the breach grew rapidly to a width of twelve hundred yards, and through this the river rushed with awful force. leaping over the plain with incredible velocity, the water merged into a small stream called the lu-chia. down the valley of the lu-chia the torrent poured in an easterly direction, overwhelming everything in its path. twenty miles from cheng chou it encountered chungmou, a walled city of the third rank. its thousands of inhabitants were attending to their usual pursuits. there was no telegraph to warn them, and the first intimation of disaster came with the muddy torrent that rolled down upon them. within a short time only the tops of the high walls marked where a flourishing city had been. three hundred villages in the district disappeared utterly, and the lands about three hundred other villages were inundated. the flood turned south from chungmou, still keeping to the course of the lu-chia, and stretched out in width for thirty miles. this vast body of water was from ten to twenty feet deep. several miles south of kaifeng the flood struck a large river which there joins the lu-chia. the result was that the flood rose to a still greater height, and, pouring into a low-lying and very fertile plain which was densely populated, submerged upward of one thousand five hundred villages. not far beyond this locality the flood passed into the province of anhui, where it spread very widely. the actual loss of life could not be computed accurately, but the lowest intelligent estimate placed it at one million five hundred thousand, and one authority fixed it at seven million. two million people were rendered destitute by the flood, and the suffering that resulted was frightful. four months later the inundated provinces were still under the muddy waters. the government officials who were on guard when the hoang-ho broke its banks were condemned to severe punishment, and were placed in the pillory in spite of their pleadings that they had done their best to avert the disaster. the inundation which may be classed as the second greatest in modern history occurred in holland in . there have been many floods in holland, nearly all due to the failure of the dikes which form the only barrier between it and the sea. in there was a general failure of the dikes, and the sea poured in upon the low lands. the people were as unprepared as were the victims of the johnstown disaster. good authorities place the number of human beings that perished in this flood at about four hundred thousand, and the destruction of property was in proportion. [illustration: last trains in and out of harrisburg.] in april, , the river meuse broke in the dikes at dort, or dordrecht, an ancient town in the peninsula of south holland, situated on an island. ten thousand persons perished there and more than one hundred thousand in the vicinity. in january, , there was a disastrous flood in holland, the area sweeping over forty thousand acres, and leaving thirty thousand villages destitute, and again in severe losses resulted from inundations in this country. the first flood in europe of which history gives any authentic account occurred in lincolnshire, england, a. d. , when the sea passed over many thousands of acres. in the year a flood in cheshire destroyed three thousand human lives and many cattle. four hundred families were drowned in glasgow by an overflow of the clyde in . a number of english seaport towns were destroyed by an inundation in . in a terrible overflow of the severn, which came at night and lasted for ten days, covered the tops of mountains. men, women, and children were carried from their beds and drowned. the waters settled on the lands and were called for one hundred years after the great waters. a flood in catalonia, a province of spain, occurred in , and fifty thousand persons lost their lives. one of the most curious inundations in history, and one that was looked upon at the time as a miracle, occurred in yorkshire, england, in . a large rock was split assunder by some hidden force, and water spouted out, the stream reaching as high as a church steeple. in another flood, known as the ripon flood, occurred in the same province. in september, , mountain torrents inundated navarre, and two thousand persons were drowned. twice, in and in , the irish liffey overran its banks and caused great damage. a reservoir in lurca, a city of spain, burst in , in much the same way as did the dam at johnstown, and as a result one thousand persons perished. twenty-four villages near presburg, and nearly all their inhabitants, were swept away in april, , by an overflow of the danube. two years later large provinces in austria and poland were flooded, and many lives were lost. in the same year a force of two thousand turkish soldiers, who were stationed on a small island near widdin, were surprised by a sudden overflow of the danube and all were drowned. there were two more floods in this year, one in silesia, where six thousand persons perished, and the french army met such losses and privations that its ruin was accelerated; and another in poland, where four thousand persons were supposed to have been drowned. in the melting of the snow on the mountains surrounding strabane, ireland, caused destructive floods, and the overflow of the vistula in germany laid many villages under water. floods that occasioned great suffering occurred in , when severe rains caused the spey and findhorn to rise fifty feet above their ordinary level. the following year the danube again overflowed its banks and inundated the houses of fifty thousand inhabitants of vienna. the saone overflowed in , and poured its turbulent waters into the rhine, causing a flood which covered sixty thousand acres. lyons was flooded, one hundred houses were swept away at avignon, two hundred and eighteen at la guillotiere, and three hundred at vaise, marseilles, and nimes. another great flood, entailing much suffering, occurred in the south of france in . a flood in mill river valley in was caused by the bursting of a badly constructed dam. the waters poured down upon the villages in the valley much as at johnstown, but the people received warning in time, and the torrent was not so swift. several villages were destroyed and one hundred and forty-four persons drowned. the rising of the garonne in caused the death of one thousand persons near toulouse, and twenty thousand persons were made homeless in india by floods in the same year. in heavy floods destroyed a large amount of property and drowned many persons in the mississippi and ohio valleys. the awful disaster in the conemaugh valley calls attention to the fact that there are many similar dams throughout the united states. though few of these overhang a narrow gorge like the one in which the borough of johnstown reposed, there is no question that several of the dams now deemed safe would, if broken down by a sudden freshet, sweep down upon peaceful hamlets, cause immense damage to property and loss of life. the lesson taught by the awful scenes at johnstown should not go unheeded. croton lake dam was first built with ninety feet of masonry overfall, the rest being earth embankment. on january th, , a freshet carried away this earth embankment, and when rebuilt the overfall of the dam was made two hundred and seventy feet long. the foundation is two lines of cribs, filled with dry stone, and ten feet of concrete between. upon this broken range stone masonry was laid, the down-stream side being curved and faced with granite, the whole being backed with a packing of earth. the dam is forty feet high, its top is one hundred and sixty-six feet above tidewater, and it controls a reservoir area of four hundred acres and five hundred million gallons of water. the boyd's corner dam holds two million seven hundred and twenty-seven thousand gallons, and was built during the years and . it stands twenty-three miles from croton dam, and has cut-stone faces filled between with concrete. the extreme height is seventy-eight feet, and it is six hundred and seventy feet long. although this dam holds a body of water five times greater than that at croton lake, it is claimed by engineers that should it give way the deluge of water which would follow would cause very little loss of life and only destroy farming lands, as below it the country is comparatively level and open. middle branch dam holds four billion four hundred thousand gallons, and was built during and . it is composed of earth, with a centre of rubble masonry carried down to the rock bottom. it is also considered to be in no danger of causing destruction by sudden breakage, as the downpour of water would spread out over a large area of level land. besides these there are other croton water storage basins formed by dams as follows: east branch, with a capacity of , , , gallons; lake mahopac, , , gallons; lake kirk, , , gallons; lake gleneida, , , gallons; lake gilead, , , gallons; lake waccabec, , , gallons; lake lonetta, , , gallons; barrett's ponds, , , gallons; china pond, , , gallons; white pond, , , gallons; pines pond, , , gallons; long pond, , , gallons; peach pond, , , gallons; cross pond, , , gallons, and haines pond, , , gallons, thus completing the storage capacity of the croton water system of , , , gallons. the engineers claim that none of these last-named could cause loss of life or any great damage to property, because there exist abundant natural outlets. at whitehall, n. g., there is a reservoir created by a dam three hundred and twenty feet long across a valley half a mile from the village and two hundred and sixty-six feet above it. a break in this dam would release nearly six million gallons, and probably sweep away the entire town. norwich, n. y., is supplied by an earthwork dam, with centre puddle-wall, three hundred and twenty-three feet long and forty feet high. it imprisons thirty million gallons and stands one hundred and eighty feet above the village. at an elevation of two hundred and fifty feet above the town of olean n. y., stands an embankment holding in check two million, five hundred thousand gallons. oneida, n. y., is supplied by a reservoir formed by a dam across a stream which controls twenty-two million, three hundred and fifty thousand gallons. the dam is nearly three miles from the village and at an altitude of one hundred and ninety feet above it. such are some of the reservoirs which threaten other communities of our fair land. chapter xxviii. it is now the thursday after the disaster, and amid the ruins of johnstown people are beginning to get their wits together. they have quit the aimless wandering about amid the ruins, that marked them for a crushed and despairing people. everybody is getting to work and forgetting something of the horror of the situation in the necessity of thinking of what they are doing. the deadly silence that has prevailed throughout the town is ended, giving place to the shouts of hundreds of men pulling at ropes, and the crash of timbers and roofs as they pull wrecked buildings down or haul heaps of débris to pieces. hundreds more are making an almost merry clang with pick and shovel as they clear away mud and gravel, opening ways on the lines of the old streets. locomotives are puffing about, down into the heart of the town now, and the great whistle at the cambria iron works blew for noon yesterday and to-day for the first time since the flood silenced it. to lighten the sombre aspect of the ruined area, heightened by the cold gray clouds hanging low about the hills, were acres of flame, where debris is being got rid of. down in what was the heart of the city the soldiers have gone into camp, and little flags snap brightly in the high wind from their acres of white tents. the relief work seems now to be pretty thoroughly organized, and thousands of men are at work under the direction of the committee. the men are in gangs of about a hundred each, under foremen, with mounted superintendents riding about overseeing the work. the first effort, aside from that being made upon the gorge at the bridge, is in the upper part of the city and in stony creek gap, where there are many houses with great heaps of debris covering and surrounding them. three or four hundred men were set at work with ropes, chains, and axes upon each of these heaps, tearing it to pieces as rapidly as possible. where there are only smashed houses and furniture in the heap the work is easy, but when, as in most instances, there are long logs and tree-trunks reaching in every direction through the mass, the task of getting them out is a slow and difficult one. the lighter parts of the wreck are tossed into heaps in the nearest clear space and set on fire. horses haul the logs and heavier pieces off to add them to other blazing piles. everything of any value is carefully laid aside, but there is little of it. even the strongest furniture is generally in little bits when found, but in one heap this morning were found two mirrors, one about six feet by eight in size, without a crack in it, and with its frame little damaged; the other one, about two feet by three in size, had a little crack at the bottom, but was otherwise all right. every once in a while the workmen about these wreck-heaps will stop their shouting and straining at the ropes, gather into a crowd at some one spot in the ruins, and remain idle and quiet for a little while. presently the group will stir itself a little, fall apart, and out of it will come six men bearing between them on a door or other improvised stretcher a vague form covered with a canvas blanket. the bearers go off along the irregular paths worn into the muddy plain, toward the different morgues, and the men go to work again. these little groups of six, with the burden between them, are as frequent as ever. one runs across them everywhere about the place. sometimes they come so thick that they have to form in line at the morgue doors. the activity with which work was prosecuted brought rapidly to light the dark places within the ruins in which remained concealed those bodies that the previous desultory searching had not brought to light. many of the disclosures might almost better have never seen the light, so heart-rending were they. a mother lay with three children clasped in her arms. so suddenly had the visitation come upon them that the little ones had plainly been snatched up while at play, for one held a doll clutched tightly in its dead hand, and in one hand of another were three marbles. this was right opposite the first national bank building, in the heart of the city, and near the same spot a family of five--father, mother, and three children--were found dead together. not far off a roof was lifted up, and dropped again in horror at the sight of nine bodies beneath it. there were more bodies, or fragments of bodies, found, too, in the gorge at the bridge, and from the cambria iron works the ghastly burden-bearers began to come in with the first contributions of that locality to the death list. the passage of time is also bringing to the surface bodies that have been lying beneath the river further down, and from nineveh bodies are continually being sent up to morrellville, just below the iron works, for identification. wandering about near the ruins of wood, morrell & co.'s store a messenger from morrellville found a man who looked like the pictures of the tennessee mountaineers in the _century magazine_, with an addition of woe and misery upon his gaunt, hairy face that no picture could ever indicate. he was tall and thin, and bent, and, from his appearance, abjectly poor. he was telling two strangers how he had lived right across from the store, with his wife and eight children. when the high water came and word was brought that the dam was in danger, he told his wife to get the children together and come with him. the water was deep in the streets, and the passage to the bluff would have been difficult. she laughed at him and told him the dam was all right. he urged her, ordered her, and did everything else but pick her up bodily and carry her out, but she would not come. finally he set the example and dashed out, himself, through the water, calling to his wife to follow. as his feet began to touch rising ground, he saw the wall of water coming down the valley. he climbed in blind terror up the bank, helped by the rising water, and, reaching solid ground, turned just in time to see the water strike his house. "when i turned my back," he said, "i couldn't look any longer." tears ran down his face as he said this. the messenger coming up just then said:-- "your wife has been found. they got her down at nineveh. her brother has gone to fetch her up." the man went away with the messenger. "he didn't seem much rejoiced over the good news about his wife," remarked one of the strangers, who had yet to learn that johnstown people speak of death and the dead only indirectly whenever possible. it was the wife's body, not the wife, that had been found, and that the messenger was to fetch up. the bodies of this man's eight children have not yet been found. he is the only survivor of a family of ten. queer salvage from the flood was a cat that was taken out alive last evening. its hair was singed off and one eye gone, but it was able to lick the hand of the man who picked it up and carried it off to keep, he said, as a relic of the flood. a white wyandotte rooster and two hens were also dug out alive, and with dry feathers, from the centre of a heap of wrecked buildings. the work of clearing up the site of the town has progressed so far that the outlines of some of the old streets could be faintly traced, and citizens were going about hunting up their lots. in many cases it was a difficult task, but enough old landmarks are left to make the determination of boundary lines by a new survey a comparatively easy matter. the scenes in the morgues are disgusting in the highest degree. the embalmers are at work cutting and slashing with an apathy born of four days and nights of the work, and such as they never experienced before. the boards on which the bodies lie are covered with mud and slime, in many instances. men with dynamite, blowing up the drift at the pennsylvania railroad bridge, people in the drift watching for bodies, people finding bodies in the ruins and carrying them away on stretchers or sheets, the bonfires of blazing débris all over the town, the soldiers with their bayonets guarding property or taking thieves into custody, the tin-starred policemen with their base ball clubs promenading the streets and around the ruins, the scenes of distress and frenzy at the relief stations, the crash of buildings as their broken remnants fall to the ground--this is the scene that goes on night and day in johnstown, and will go on for an indefinite time. still, people have worked so in the midst of such excitement, with the pressure of such an awful horror on their minds that they can get but little rest even when they wish to. men in this town are too tired to sleep. they lie down with throbbing brains that cannot stop throbbing, so that even the sense of thinking is intense agony. the undertakers and embalmers claim that they are the busiest men in town, and that they have done more to help the city than any other workmen. the people who attend the morgues for the purpose of identifying their friends and relatives are hardly as numerous as before. many of them are exhausted with the constant wear and tear, and many have about made up their minds that their friends are lost beyond recovery, and that there is no use looking for them any longer. others have gone to distant parts of the state, and have abandoned johnstown and all in it. a little girl in a poor calico dress climbed upon the fence at the adams street morgue and looked wistfully at the row of coffins in the yard. people were only admitted to the morgue in squads of ten each, and the little girl's turn had not come yet. her name was jennie hoffman. she was twelve years old. she told a reporter that out of her family of fourteen the father and mother and oldest sister were lost. they were all in their home on somerset street when the flood came. the father reached out for a tree which went sweeping by, and was pulled out of the window and lost. the mother and children got upon the roof, and then a dash of water carried her and the eldest daughter off. a colored man on an adjoining house took off the little girls who were left--all of them under twelve years of age, except jennie--and together they clambered over the roofs of the houses near by and escaped. chapter xxix. day after day the work of reparation goes on. the city has been blotted out. yet the reeking ruins that mark its site are teeming with life and work more vigorous than ever marked its noisy streets and panting factories. as men and money pour into johnstown the spirit of the town greatly revives, and the people begin to take a much more favorable view of things. the one thing that is troubling people just now is the lack of ready money. there are drafts here in any quantity, but there is no money to cash them until the money in the vaults of the first national bank has been recovered. it is known that the vaults are safe and that about $ , in cash is there. of this sum $ , belongs to the cambria iron company. it was to pay the five thousand employés of the works. the men are paid off every two weeks, and the last pay-day was to have been on the saturday after the fatal flood. the money was brought down to johnstown, on the day before the flood, by the adams express company, and deposited in the bank. after the water subsided, and it was discovered that the money was safe, a guard was placed around the bank and has been maintained ever since. when the pay-day of the cambria iron company does come it will be an impressive scene. the only thing comparable to it will be the roll-call after a great battle. mothers, wives, and children will be there to claim the wages of sons, and husbands, and fathers. the men in the gloomy line will have few families to take their wages home to. the cambria people do not propose to stand on any red-tape rules about paying the wages of their dead employés to the surviving friends and relatives. they will only try to make reasonably sure that they are paying the money to the right persons. an assistant cashier, thomas mcgee, in the company's store saved $ , of the company's funds. the money was all in packages of bills in bags in the safe on the ground floor of the main building of the stores. when the water began to rise he went up on the second floor of the building, carrying the money with him. when the crash of the reservoir torrent came mr. mcgee clambered upon the roof, and just before the building tottered and fell he managed to jump on the roof of a house that went by. the house was swept near the bank. mr. mcgee jumped off and fell into the water, but struck out and managed to clamber up the bank. then he got up on the hills and remained out all night guarding his treasure. [illustration: columbia, pa., under the flood.] at dawn of thursday the stillness of the night, which had been punctured frequently by the pistol and musket shots of vigilant guards scaring off possible marauders, was permanently fractured by the arousing of gangs of laborers who had slept about wherever they could find a soft spot in the ruins, as well as in tents set up in the centre of where the town used to be. the soldiers in their camps were seen about later, and the railroad gang of several hundred men set out up the track toward where they had left off work the night before. breakfast was cooked at hundreds of camp-fires, and about brick-kilns, and wherever else a fire could be got. at seven o'clock five thousand laborers struck pick and shovel and saw into the square miles of débris heaped over the city's site. at the same time more laborers began to arrive on trains and march through the streets in long gangs toward the place where they were needed. those whose work was to be pulling and hauling trailed along in lines, holding to their ropes. they looked like gangs of slaves being driven to a market. by the time the forenoon was well under way, seven thousand laborers were at work in the city under the direction of one hundred foremen. there were five hundred cars and as many teams, and half a dozen portable hoisting engines, besides regular locomotives and trains of flat cars that were used in hauling off débris that could not be burned. with this force of men and appliances at work the ruined city, looked at from the bluffs, seemed to fairly swarm with life, wherever the flood had left anything to be removed. the whole lower part of the city, except just above the bridge, remained the deserted mud desert that the waters left. there was no cleaning up necessary there. through the upper part of the city, where the houses were simply smashed to kindling wood and piled into heaps, but not ground to pieces under the whirlpool that bore down on the rest of the city, acres of bonfires have burned all day. the stifling smoke, blown by a high wind, has made life almost unendurable, and the flames have twirled about so fiercely in the gusts as to scorch the workmen some distance away. citizens whose houses were not damaged beyond salvation have almost got to work in clearing out their homes and trying to make them somewhere near habitable. in the poorer parts of the city often one story and a half frame cottages are seen completely surrounded by heaps of débris tossed up high above their roofs. narrow lanes driven through the débris have given the owners entrance to their homes. with all the work the apparent progress was small. a stranger seeing the place for the first time would never imagine that the wreck was not just as the flood left it. the enormity of the task of clearing the place grows more apparent the more the work is prosecuted, and with the force now at work the job cannot be done in less than a month. it will hardly be possible to find room for any larger force. the railroads added largely to the bustle of the place. long freight trains, loaded with food and clothing for the suffering, were continually coming in faster than they could be unloaded. lumber was also arriving in great quantities, and hay and feed for the horses was heaped up high alongside the tracks. hundreds of men were swarming over the road-bed near the pennsylvania station, strengthening and improving the line. work was begun on frame sheds and other temporary buildings in several places, and the rattle of hammers added its din to the shouts of the workmen and the crash of falling wreckage. some sort of organization is being introduced into other things about the city than the clearing away of the débris. the post-office is established in a small brick building in the upper part of the city. those of the letter carriers who are alive, and a few clerks, are the working force. the reception of mail consists of one damaged street letter-box set upon a box in front of the building and guarded by a carrier, who has also to see that there is no crowding in the long lines of people waiting to get their turn at the two windows where letters and stamps are served out. a wide board, stood up on end, is lettered rudely, "post-office bulletin," and beneath is a slip of paper with the information that a mail will leave the city for the west during the day, and that no mail has been received. there are many touching things in these post-office lines. it is a good place for acquaintances who lived in different parts of the city to find out whether each is alive or dead. "you are through all right, i see," said one man in the line to an acquaintance who came up this morning. "yes," said the acquaintance. "and how's your folks? they all right, too?" was the next question. "two of them are--them two little ones sitting on the steps there. the mother and the other three have gone down." such conversations as this take place every few minutes. near the post-office is the morgue for that part of the city, and other lines of waiting people reach out from there, anxious for a glimpse at the contents of the twenty-five coffins ranged in lines in front of the school-building, that does duty for a dead-house. only those who have business are admitted, but the number is never a small one. each walks along the lines of coffins, raises the cover over the face, glances in, drops the cover quickly, and passes on. men bearing ghastly burdens on stretchers pass frequently into the school-house, where the undertakers prepare the bodies for identification. a little farther along is the relief headquarters for that part of the city, and the streets there are packed all day long with women and children with baskets on their arms. so great is the demand that the people have to stand in line for an hour to get their turn. a large unfinished building is turned into a storehouse for clothing, and the people throng into it empty-handed and come out with arms full of underclothing and other wearing apparel. at another building the sanitary bureau is serving out disinfectants. the workmen upon the débris in what was the heart of the city have now reached well into the ruins and are getting to where the valuable contents of jewelry and other stores may be expected to be found, and strict watch is being kept to prevent the theft of any such articles by the workmen or others. in the ruins of the wood, morrell & co. general store a large amount of goods, chiefly provisions and household utensils, has been found in fairly good order. it is piled in a heap as fast as gotten out, and the building is being pulled down. about the worst heap of wreckage in the centre of the city is where the cambria library building stood, opposite the general store. this was a very substantial and handsome building and offered much obstruction to the flood. it was completely destroyed, but upon its site a mass of trees, logs, heavy beams, and other wreckage was left, knotted together into a mass only extricable by the use of the ax and saw. two hundred men have worked at it for three days and it is not half removed yet. the cambria iron company have several acres of gravel and clay to remove from the upper end of its yard. except for an occasional corner of some big iron machine that projects above the surface no one would ever suspect that it was not the original earth. in one place a freight car brake-wheel lies just on the surface of the ground, apparently dropped there loosely. any one who tries to kick it aside or pick it up finds that it is still attached to its car, which is buried under a solid mass of gravel and broken rock. several lanes have been dug through this mass down to the old railroad tracks, and two or three of the little yard engines of the iron company, resurrected with smashed smoke-stacks and other light damage, but workable yet, go puffing about hardly visible above the general level of the new-made ground. the progress of the work upon the black and still smoking mass of charred ruins above the bridge is hardly perceptible. there is clear water for about one hundred feet back from the central arch, and a little opening before the two on each side of it. when there is a good-sized hole made before all three of these arches, through which the bulk of the water runs, it is expected that the stuff can be pulled apart and set afloat much more rapidly. dynamiter kirk, who is overseeing the work, used up the last one hundred pounds of the explosive early this afternoon, and had to suspend operations until the arrival of two hundred pounds more that was on the way from pittsburgh. the dynamite has been used in small doses for fear of damaging the bridge. six pounds was the heaviest charge used. even with this the stone beneath the arches of the bridge is charred and crumbling in places, and some pieces have been blown out of the heavy coping. the whole structure shakes as though with an earthquake at every discharge. the dynamite is placed in holes drilled in logs matted into the surface of the raft, and its effect being downward, the greatest force of the explosion is upon the mass of stuff beneath the water. at the same time each charge sent up into the air, one hundred feet or more, a fountain of dirt, stones, and blackened fragments of logs, many of them large enough to be dangerous. the rattling crash of their fall upon the bridge follows hard after the heavy boom of the explosion. one of the worst and most unexpected objects with which the men on the raft have to contend is the presence in it of hundreds of miles of telegraph wire wound around almost everything there and binding the whole mass together. no bodies have yet been brought to the surface by the operations with dynamite, but indications of several buried beneath the surface are evident. a short distance back from where the men are not at work, bodies continue to be taken out from the surface of the raft at the rate of ten or a dozen a day. the men this afternoon came across hundreds of feet of polished copper pipe, which is said to have come from a pullman car. it was not known until then that there was a pullman car in that part of the raft. the remnants of a vestibule car are plainly seen at a point a hundred feet away from this. chapter xxx. the first thing that johnstown people do in the morning is to go to the relief stations and get something to eat. they go carrying big baskets, and their endeavor is to get all they can. there has been a new system every day about the manner of dispensing the food and clothing to the sufferers. at first the supplies were placed where people could help themselves. then they were placed in yards and handed to people over the fences. then people had to get orders for what they wanted from the citizens committee, and their orders were filled at the different relief stations. now the whole matter of receiving and dispensing relief supplies has been placed in the hands of the grand army of the republic men. thomas a. stewart, commander of the department of pennsylvania, g. a. r., arrived with his staff and established his headquarters in a tent near the headquarters of the citizens committee, and opposite the temporary post-office. over this tent floats commander stewart's flag, with purple border, bearing the arms of the state of pennsylvania. the members of his staff are: quartermaster-general tobin taylor and his assistant h. j. williams, chaplain john w. sayres, and w. v. lawrence, quartermaster-general of the ohio department. the grand army men have made the adams street relief station a central relief station, and all the others, at kernville, the pennsylvania depot, cambria city, and jackson and somerset street, sub-stations. the idea is to distribute supplies to the sub-stations from the central station, and thus avoid the jam of crying and excited people at the committee's headquarters. the grand army men have appointed a committee of women to assist them in their work. the women go from house to house, ascertaining the number of people quartered there, the number of people lost from there in the flood, and the exact needs of the people. it was found necessary to have some such committee as this, for there were women actually starving, who were too proud to take their places in line with the other women with bags and baskets. some of these people were rich before the flood. now they are not worth a dollar. a _sun_ reporter was told of one man who was reported to be worth $ , before the flood, but who now is penniless, and who has to take his place in the line along with others seeking the necessaries of life. though the adams street station is now the central relief station, the most imposing display of supplies is made at the pennsylvania railroad freight and passenger depots. here, on the platforms and in the yards, are piled up barrels of flour in long rows, three and four barrels high; biscuits in cans and boxes, where car-loads of them have been dumped; crackers, under the railroad sheds in bins; hams, by the hundred, strung on poles; boxes of soap and candles, barrels of kerosene oil, stacks of canned goods, and things to eat of all sorts and kinds. the same is visible at the baltimore and ohio road, and there is now no fear of a food famine in johnstown, though of course everybody will have to rough it for weeks. what is needed most in this line is cooking utensils. johnstown people want stoves, kettles, pans, knives, and forks. all the things that have been sent so far have been sent with the evident idea of supplying an instant need, and that is right and proper, but it would be well now, if, instead of some of the provisions that are sent, cooking utensils would arrive. fifty stoves arrived from pittsburgh this morning, and it is said that more are coming. at both the depots where the supplies are received and stored a big rope-line incloses them in an impromptu yard, so as to give room to those having them in charge to walk around and see what they have got. on the inside of this line, too, stalk back and forth the soldiers, with their rifles on their shoulders, and, beside the lines pressing against the ropes, there stands every day, from daylight until dawn, a crowd of women with big baskets, who make piteous appeals to the soldiers to give them food for their children at once, before the order of the relief committee. those to whom supplies are dealt out at the stations have to approach in a line, and this line is fringed with soldiers, pittsburgh policemen, and deputy sheriffs, who see that the children and weak women are not crowded out of their places by the stronger ones. the supplies are not given in large quantities, but the applicants are told to come again in a day or so and more will be given them. the women complain against this bitterly, and go away with tears in their eyes, declaring that they have not been given enough. other women utter broken words of thankfulness and go away, their faces wreathed in smiles. one night something in the nature of a raid was made by father mctahney, one of the catholic priests here, on the houses of some people whom he suspected of having imposed upon the relief committee. these persons represented that they were destitute, and sent their children with baskets to the relief stations, each child getting supplies for a different family. there are unquestionably many such cases. father mctahney found that his suspicions were correct in a great many cases, and he brought back and made the wrong-doers bring back the provisions which they had obtained under false pretenses. the side tracks at both the pennsylvania and baltimore and ohio railroad depots are filled with cars sent from different places, bearing relief supplies to johnstown. the cars are nearly all freight cars, and they contain the significant inscriptions of the railroad officials: "this car is on time freight. it is going to johnstown, and must not be delayed under any circumstances." then, there are the ponderous labels of the towns and associations sending the supplies. they read this way: "this car for johnstown with supplies for the sufferers." "braddock relief for johnstown." "the contributions of beaver falls to johnstown." the cars from pittsburgh had no inscriptions. some cars had merely the inscription, in great big black letters on a white strip of cloth running the length of the car, "johnstown." one car reads on it: "stations along the route fill this car with supplies for johnstown, and don't delay it." chapter xxxi. at the end of the week adjutant-general hastings moved his headquarters from the signal tower and the pennsylvania railroad depot to the eastern end of the pennsylvania freight depot. here the general and his staff sleep on the hard floor, with only a blanket under them. they have their work systematized and in good shape, though about all they have done or will do is to prevent strangers and others who have no business here from entering the city. the entire regiment which is here is disposed around the city in squads of two or three men each. the men are scattered up and down the conemaugh, away out on the pennsylvania and baltimore and ohio railroad tracks, along stony creek on the southern side of the town, and even upon the hills. it is impossible for any one to get into town by escaping the guards, for there is a cordon of soldiers about it. general hastings rides around on a horse, inspecting the posts, and the men on guard present arms to him in due form, he returning the salute. the sight is a singular one, for general hastings is not in uniform, and in fact wears a very rusty civilian's dress. he wears a pair of rubber boots covered with mud, and a suit of old, well-stained, black clothes. his coat is a cutaway. his appearance among his staff officers is still more dramatic, for the latter, being ordered out and having time to prepare, are in gold lace and feathers and glittering uniforms. general hastings came here right after the flood, on the spur of the moment, and not in his official capacity. he rides his horse finely and looks every inch a soldier. he has established in his headquarters in the freight depot a very much-needed bureau for the answering of telegrams from friends of johnstown people making inquiries as to the latter's safety. the bureau is in charge of a. k. parsons, who has done good work since the flood, and who, with lieutenant george miller, of the fifth infantry, u. s. a., general hastings' right-hand man, has been with the general constantly. the telegrams in the past have all been sent to the headquarters of the citizens committee, in the fourth ward hotel, and have laid there, along with telegrams of every sort, in a little heap on a little side table in one corner of the room. three-quarters of them were not called for, and people who knew that telegrams were there for them did not have the patience to look through the heap for them. finally some who were not worried to death took the telegrams, opened them all, and pinned them in separate packages in alphabetical order and then put them back on the table again, and they have been pored over, until their edges are frayed, by all the people who crowded into the little low-roofed room where dictator scott and his messengers are. there were something like three thousand telegrams there in all. occasionally a few are taken away, but in the majority of cases they remain there. the persons to whom they were sent are dead or have not taken the trouble to come to headquarters and see if their friends are inquiring after them. of course the western union telegraph company makes no effort to deliver the messages. this would be impossible. [illustration: pennsylvania ave., cor. sixth st., washington, d. c.] the telegrams addressed to the citizens committee headquarters are all different in form, of course, but they all breathe the utmost anxiety and suspense. here are some samples:-- is samuel there? is there any hope? answer me and end this suspense. sarah. _to anybody in johnstown_: can you give me any information of adam brennan? mary brennan. are any of you alive? james. are you all safe? is it our john burn that is dead? is eliza safe? answer. it is worth repeating again that the majority of these telegrams will never be answered. the post-office letter carriers have only just begun to make their rounds in that part of the town which is comparatively uninjured. bags of first-class mail matter are alone brought into town. it will be weeks before people see the papers in the mails. the supposition is that nobody has time to read papers, and this is about right. the letter carriers are making an effort, as far as they can, to distribute mail to the families of the deceased people. many of the letters which arrive now contain money orders, and while great care has to be taken in the distribution, the postal authorities recognize the necessity of getting these letters to the parties addressed, or else returning them to the dead letter office as proof of the death of the individuals in question. it is no doubt that in this way the first knowledge of the death of many will be transmitted to friends. it is fair to say that the best part of the energies of the state of pennsylvania at present are all turned upon johnstown. here are the leading physicians, the best nurses, some of the heaviest contractors, the brightest newspaper men, all the military geniuses, and, if not the actual presence, at least the attention, of the capitalists. the newspapers, medical reviews, and publications of all sorts teem with suggestions. johnstown is a compendium of business, and misery, and despair. one class of men should be given credit for thorough work in connection with the calamity. these are the undertakers. they came to johnstown, from all over pennsylvania, at the first alarm. they are the men whose presence was imperatively needed, and who have actually been forced to work day and night in preserving bodies and preparing them for burial. one of the most active undertakers here is john mccarthy, of syracuse, n. y., one of the leading undertakers there, and a very public-spirited man. he brought a letter of introduction from mayor kirk, of syracuse, to the citizens committee here. he said to a reporter:-- "it is worthy of mention, perhaps, that never before in such a disaster as this have bodies received such careful treatment and has such a wholesale embalming been practiced. everybody recovered, whether identified or not, whether of rich man or poor man, or of the humblest child, has been carefully cleaned and embalmed, placed in a neat coffin, and not buried when unidentified until the last possible moment. when you reflect that over one thousand bodies have been treated in this way it means something. it is to be regretted that some pains were not taken to keep a record of the bodies recovered, but the undertakers cannot be blamed for that. they should have been furnished with clerks, and that whole matter made the subject of the work of a bureau by itself. we have had just all we could do cleaning and embalming the bodies." the unsightliest place in johnstown is the morgue in the presbyterian church. the edifice is a large brick structure in the centre of the city, and was about the first church building in the city. about one hundred and seventy-five people took refuge there during the flood. after the first crash, when the people were expecting another every instant, and of course that they would perish, the pastor of the church, the rev. mr. beale, began to pray fervently that the lives of those in the church might be spared. he fairly wrestled in prayer, and those who heard him say that it seemed to be a very death-struggle with the demon of the flood itself. no second crash came, the waters receded, and the lives of those in the church were spared. the people said that it was all due to the rev. mr. beale's prayer. the pews in the church were all demolished, and the sunday-school room under it was flooded with the angry waters, and filled up to the ceiling with débris. the rev. mr. beale is now general morgue director in johnstown, and has the authority of a dictator of the bodies of the dead. in the presbyterian church morgue the bodies are, almost without exception, those which have been recovered from the ruins of the smashed buildings. the bodies are torn and bruised in the most horrible manner, so that identification is very difficult. they are nearly all bodies of the prominent or well-known residents of johnstown. the cleaning and embalming of the bodies takes place in the corners of the church, on either side of the pulpit. as soon as they have a presentable appearance, the bodies are placed in coffins, put across the ends of the pews near the aisles, so that people can pass around through the aisles and look at them. few identifications have yet been made here. in one coffin is the body of a young man who had on a nice bicycle suit when found. in his pockets were forty dollars in money. the bicycle has not been found. it is supposed that the body is that of some young fellow who was on a bicycle tour up the conemaugh river, and who was engulfed by the flood. the waters played some queer freaks. a number of mirrors taken out of the ruins with the frames smashed and with the glass parts entirely uninjured have been a matter for constant comment on the part of those who have inspected the ruins and worked in them. when the waters went down, the sunday-school rooms of the presbyterian church just referred to were found littered with playing cards. in a baby's cradle was found a dissertation upon infant baptism and two volumes of a history of the crusades. a commercial man from pittsburgh, who came down to look at the ruins, found among them his own picture. he never was in johnstown but two or three times before, and he did not have any friends there. how the picture got among the ruins of johnstown is a mystery to him. about the only people who have come into johnstown, not having business there connected with the clearing up of the city, are people from a great distance, hunting up their friends and relatives. there are folks here now from almost every state in the union, with the exception, perhaps, of those on the pacific coast. there are people, too, from pennsylvania and states near by, who, receiving no answer to their telegrams, have decided to come on in person. they wander over the town in their search, at first frantically asking everybody right and left if they have heard of their missing friends. generally nobody has heard of them, or some one may remember that he saw a man who said that he happened to see a body pulled out at nineveh or cambria city, or somewhere, that looked like jack so-and-so, naming the missing one. at the morgues the inquirer is told that about four hundred unidentified dead have already been buried, and on the fences before the morgues and on the outside house walls of the buildings themselves he reads several hundred such notices as these, of bodies still unclaimed:-- a woman, dark hair, blue eyes, blue waist, dark dress, clothing of fine quality; a single bracelet on the left arm; age, about twenty-three. an old lady, clothing undistinguishable, but containing a purse with twenty-seven dollars and a small key. a young man, fair complexion, light hair, gray eyes, dark blue suit, white shirt; believed to have been a guest at the hurlburt house. a female; supposed to belong to the salvation army. a man about thirty-five years old, dark-complexioned, brown hair, brown moustache, light clothes, left leg a little shortened. a boy about ten years old, found with a little girl of nearly same age; boy had hold of girl's hand; both light-haired and fair-complexioned, and girl had long curls; boy had on dark clothes, and girl a gingham dress. * * * * * the people looking for their friends had lots of money, but money is of no use now in johnstown. it cannot hire teams to go up along the conemaugh river, where lots of people want to go; it cannot hire men as searchers, for all the people in johnstown not on business of their own are digging in the ruins; it cannot even buy food, for what little food there is in johnstown is practically free, and a good square meal cannot be procured for love nor money anywhere. under these discouragements many people are giving up the search and going home, either giving their relatives up for dead or waiting for them to turn up, still maintaining the hope that they are alive. johnstown at night now is a wild spectacle. the major part of the town is enveloped in darkness, and lights of all colors flare out all around, so that the city looks something like a night scene in a railroad yard. the burning of immense piles of débris is continued at night, and the red glare of the flames at the foot of the hills seems like witch-fires at the mouth of caverns. the camp-fires of the military on the hills above the conemaugh burn brightly. volumes of smoke pour up all over the town. along the pennsylvania railroad gangs of men are working all night long by electric light, and the engines, with their great headlights and roaring steam, go about continually. below the railroad bridge stretches away the dark, sullen mass of the drift, with its freight of human bodies beyond estimate. now and then, from the headquarters of the newspaper men, can be heard the military guards on their posts challenging passers-by. chapter xxxii. it is now a week since the flood, and johnstown is a cross between a military camp and a new mining town, and is getting more so every day. it has all the unpleasant and disagreeable features of both, relieved by the pleasures of neither. everywhere one goes soldiers are lounging about or standing guard on all roads leading into the city, and stop every one who cannot show a pass. there is a mass of tents down in the centre of the ruins, and others are scattered everywhere on every cleared space beside the railroad tracks and on the hills about. a corps of engineers is laying pontoon bridges over the streams, pioneers are everywhere laying out new camps, erecting mess sheds and other rude buildings, and clearing away obstructions to the ready passage of supply wagons. mounted men are continually galloping about from place to place carrying orders. at headquarters about the pennsylvania railroad depot there are dozens of petty officers in giddy gold lace, and general hastings, general wiley, and a few others in dingy clothes, sitting about the shady part of the platform giving and receiving orders. the occasional thunder of dynamite sounds like the boom of distant cannon defending some outpost. supplies are heaped up about headquarters, and are being unloaded from cars as rapidly as locomotives can push them up and get the empty cars out of the way again. from cooking tents smoke and savory odors go up all day, mingled with the odor carbolic from hospital tents scattered about. it is very likely that within a short time this military appearance will be greatly increased by the arrival of another regiment and the formal declaration of martial law. on the other hand the town's resemblance to a new mining camp is just as striking. everything is muddy and desolate. there are no streets nor any roads, except the rough routes that the carts wore out for themselves across the sandy plain. rough sheds and shanties are going up on every hand. there are no regular stores, but cigars and drink--none intoxicating, however--are peddled from rough board counters. railroads run into the camp over uneven, crooked tracks. trains of freight cars are constantly arriving and being shoved off onto all sorts of sidings, or even into the mud, to get them out of the way. everybody wears his trousers in his boots, and is muddy, ragged, and unshaven. men with picks and shovels are everywhere delving or mining for something that a few days ago was more precious than gold, though really valueless now. occasionally they make a find and gather around to inspect it as miners might a nugget. all it needs to complete the mining camp aspect of the place is a row of gambling hells in full blast under the temporary electric lights that gaudily illuminate the centre of the town. matters are becoming very well systematized, both in the military and the mining way. martial law could be imposed to-day with very little inconvenience to any one. the guard about the town is very well kept, and the loafers, bummers, and thieves are being pretty well cleared out. the grand army men have thoroughly organized the work of distributing supplies to the sufferers by the flood, the refugees, and contraband of this camp. the contractors who are clearing up the débris have their thousands of men well in hand, and are getting good work out of them, considering the conditions under which the men have to live, with insufficient food, poor shelter, and other serious impediments to physical effectiveness. all the men except those on the gorge above the bridge have been working amid the heaps of ruined buildings in the upper part of the city. the first endeavor has been to open the old streets in which the débris was heaped as high as the house-tops. fair progress has been made, but there are weeks of work at it yet. only one or two streets are so far cleared that the public can use them. no one but the workmen are allowed in the others. up stony creek gap, above the contractors, the united states army engineers began work on friday under command of captain sears, who is here as the personal representative of the secretary of war. the engineers, captain bergland's company from willet's point, and lieutenant biddle's company from west point, arrived on friday night, having been since tuesday on the road from new york. early in the morning they went to work to bridge stony creek, and unloaded and launched their heavy pontoons and strung them across the streams with a rapidity and skill that astonished the natives, who had mistaken them, in their coarse, working uniforms of over-all stuff, for a fresh gang of laborers. the engineers, when there are bridges enough laid, may be set at other work about town. they have a camp of their own on the outskirts of the place. there are more constables, watchmen, special policemen, and that sort of thing in johnstown than in any three cities of its size in the country. naturally there is great difficulty in equipping them. badges were easily provided by the clipping out of stars from pieces of tin, but every one had to look out for himself when it came to clubs. everything goes, from a broomstick to a base ball bat. the bats are especially popular. "i'd like to get the job of handling your paper here," said a young fellow to a pittsburgh newspaper man. "you'll have to get some newsman to do it anyhow, for your old men have gone down, and i and my partner are the only newsmen in johnstown above ground." the newsdealing business is not the only one of which something like that is true. there has been a great scarcity of cooking utensils ever since the flood. it not only is very inconvenient to the people, but tends to the waste of a good deal of food. the soldiers are growling bitterly over their commissary department. they claim that bread, and cheese, and coffee are about all they get to eat. the temporary electric lights have now been strung all along the railroad tracks and through the central part of the ruins, so that the place after dark is really quite brilliant seen from a distance, especially when to the electric display is added the red glow in the mist and smoke of huge bonfires. anybody who has been telegraphing to johnstown this week and getting no answers, would understand the reason for the lack of answers if he could see the piles of telegrams that are sent out here by train from pittsburgh. four thousand came in one batch on thursday. half of them are still undelivered, and yet there is probably no place in the country where the western union company is doing better work than here. the flood destroyed not only the company's offices, but the greater part of their wires in this part of the country. the office they established here is in a little shanty with no windows and only one door which won't close, and it handles an amount of outgoing matter, daily, that would swamp nine-tenths of the city offices in the country. incoming business is now received in considerable quantities, but for several days so great was the pressure of outgoing business that no attempt was made to receive any dispatches. the whole effort of the office has been to handle press matter, and well they have done it. but there will be no efficient delivery service for a long time. the old messenger boys are all drowned, and the other boys who might make messenger boys are also most of them drowned, so that the raw material for creating a service is very scant. besides that, nobody knows nowadays where any one else lives. the amateur and professional photographers who have overrun the town for the last few days came to grief on friday. a good many of them were arrested by the soldiers, placed under a guard, taken down to the stony creek and set to lugging logs and timbers. among those arrested were several of the newspaper photographers, and these general hastings ordered released when he heard of their arrest. the others were made to work for half a day. they were a mad and disgusted lot, and they vowed all sorts of vengeance. it does seem that some notice to the effect that photographers were not permitted in johnstown should have been posted before the men were arrested. the photographers all had passes in regular form, but the soldiers refused even to look at these. more sightseers got through the guards at bolivar on friday night, and came to johnstown on the last train. word was telegraphed ahead, and the soldiers met them at the train, put them under arrest, kept them over night, and in the morning they were set to work in clearing up the ruins. the special detail of workmen who have been at work looking up safes in the ruins and seeing that they were taken care of, reports that none of the safes have been broken open or otherwise interfered with. the committee on valuables reports that quantities of jewelry and money are being daily turned into them by people who have found them in the ruins. often the people surrendering this stuff are evidently very poor themselves. the committee believes that as a general thing the people are dealing very honestly in this matter of treasure-trove from the ruins. three car-loads of coffins was part of the load of one freight train. coffins are scattered everywhere about the city. scores of them seem to have been set down and forgotten. they are used as benches, and even, it is said, as beds. grandma mary seter, aged eighty-three years, a well-known character in johnstown, who was in the water until saturday, and who, when rescued, had her right arm so injured that amputation at the shoulder was necessary, is doing finely at the hospital, and the doctors expect to have her around again before long. one enterprising man has opened a shop for the sale of relics of the disaster, and is doing a big business. half the people here are relic cranks. everything goes as a relic, from a horseshoe to a two-foot section of iron pipe. buttons and little things like that, that can easily be carried off, are the most popular. [illustration: seventh street, washington, d. c., under the flood.] chapter xxxiii. a mantle of mist hung low over the conemaugh valley when the people of johnstown rose on sunday morning, june th; but about the time the two remaining church bells began to toll, the sun's rays broke through the fog, and soon the sky was clear save for a few white clouds which sailed lazily to the alleghenies. never in the history of johnstown did congregations attend more impressive church services. some of them were held in the open air, others in half-ruined buildings, and one only in a church. the ceremonies were deeply solemn and touching. early in the forenoon german catholics picked their way through the wreck to the parsonage of st. joseph's, where fathers kesbernan and ald said four masses. next to the parsonage there was a great breach in the walls made by the flood, and one-half of the parsonage had been carried away. at one end of the pastor's reception-room had been placed a temporary altar lighted by a solitary candle. there were white roses upon it, while from the walls, above the muddy stains, hung pictures of the immaculate conception, the crucifixion, and the virgin mary. the room was filled with worshipers, and the people spread out into the lateral hall hanging over the cellar washed bare of its covering. no chairs or benches were in the room. there was a deep hush as the congregation knelt upon the damp floors, silently saying their prayers. with a dignified and serene demeanor, the priest went through the services of his church, while the people before him were motionless, the men with bowed heads, the women holding handkerchiefs to their faces. back of this church, on the side of a hill, there gathered another congregation of catholics. their church and parsonage and chapel had all been destroyed, and they met in a yard near their cemetery. a pretty arbor, covered with vines, ran back from the street, and beneath this stood their priest, father tahney, who had worked with them over a quarter of a century. his hair was white, but he stood erect as he talked to his people. before him was a white altar. this, too, was lighted with a single candle. the people stood before him and on each side, reverently kneeling on the grass as they prayed. three masses were said by father tahney and by father matthews, of washington, and then the white-haired priest spoke a few words of encouragement to his listeners. he urged them to make a manful struggle to rebuild their homes, to assist one another in their distress, and to be grateful to all americans for the helping hand extended to them. other catholic services were held at the st. columba's church, in cambria, where father troutwein, of st. mary's church, fathers davin and smith said mass and addressed the congregation. father smith urged them not to sell their lands to those who were speculating in men's misery, but to be courageous until the city should rise again. at the pennsylvania station a meeting was held on the embankment overlooking the ruined part of the town. the services were conducted by the rev. mr. mcguire, chaplain of the th regiment. the people sang "come, thou fount of every blessing," and then mr. mcguire read the psalm beginning "i will bless the lord at all times." james fulton, manager of the cambria iron works, spoke encouraging words. he assured them that the works would be rebuilt, and that the eight thousand employés would be cared for. houses would be built for them and employment given to all in restoring the works. there was a strained look on men's faces when he told them in a low voice that he held the copy of a report which he had drawn up on the dam, calling attention to the fact that it was extremely dangerous to the people living in the valley. one of the peculiar things a stranger notices in johnstown is the comparatively small number of women seen in the place. of the throngs who walk about the streets searching for dead friends, there is not one woman to ten men. occasionally a little group of two or three women with sad faces will pick their way about, looking for the morgues. there are a few sisters of charity, in their black robes, seen upon the streets, and in the parts of the town not totally destroyed the usual number of women are seen in the houses and yards. but, as a rule, women are a rarity in johnstown now. this is not a natural peculiarity of johnstown, nor a mere coincidence, but a fact with a dreadful reason behind it. there are so many more men than women among the living in johnstown now, because there are so many more women than men among the dead. of the bodies recovered there are at least two women for every man. besides the fact that their natural weakness made them an easier prey to the flood, the hour at which the disaster came was one when the women would most likely be in their homes and the men at work in the open air or in factory yards, from which escape was easy. children also are rarely seen about the town, and for a similar reason. they are all dead. there is never a group of the dead discovered that does not contain from one to three or four children for every grown person. generally the children are in the arms of the grown persons, and often little toys and trinkets clasped in their hands indicate that the children were caught up while at play, and carried as far as possible toward safety. johnstown when rebuilt will be a city of many widowers and few children. in turning a school-house into a morgue the authorities probably did a wiser thing than they thought. it will be a long time before the school-house will be needed for its original purpose. the miracle, as it is called, that happened at the church of the immaculate conception, has caused a tremendous sensation. a large number of persons will testify as to the nature of the event, and, to put it mildly, the circumstances are really remarkable. the devotions in honor of the blessed virgin celebrated daily during the month of may were in progress on that friday when the water descended on cambria city. the church was filled with people at the time, but when the noise of the flood was heard the congregation hastened to get out of the way. they succeeded as far as escaping from the interior is concerned, and in a few minutes the church was partially submerged, the water reaching fifteen feet up the sides and swirling around the corners furiously. the building was badly wrecked, the benches were torn out, and in general the entire structure, both inside and outside, was fairly dismantled. yesterday morning, when an entrance was forced through the blocked doorway the ruin appeared to be complete. one object alone had escaped the water's wrath. the statue of the blessed virgin, that had been decorated and adorned because of the may devotions, was as unsullied as the day it was made. the flowers, the wreaths, the lace veil were undisturbed and unsoiled, although the marks on the wall showed that the surface of the water had risen above the statue to a height of fifteen feet, while the statue nevertheless had been saved from all contact with the liquid. every one who has seen the statue and its surroundings is firmly convinced that the incident was a miraculous one, and even to the most skeptical the affair savors of the supernatural. a singular feature of the great flood was discovered at the great stone viaduct about half way between mineral point and south fork. at mineral point the pennsylvania railroad is on the south side of the river, although the town is on the north side. about a mile and a half up the stream there was a viaduct built of very solid masonry. it was originally built for the old portage road. it was seventy-eight feet above the ordinary surface of the water. on this viaduct the railroad tracks crossed to the north side of the river and on that side ran into south fork, two miles farther up. it is the general opinion of engineers that this strong viaduct would have stood against the gigantic wave had it not been blown up by dynamite. but at south fork there was a dynamite magazine which was picked up by the flood and shot down the stream at the rate of twenty miles an hour. it struck the stone viaduct and exploded. the roar of the flood was tremendous, but the noise of this explosion was heard by farmers on the evanston road, two miles and a half away. persons living on the mountain sides, in view of the river, and who saw the explosion, say that the stones of the viaduct at the point where the magazine struck it, were thrown into the air to the height of two hundred feet. an opening was made, and the flood of death swept through on its awful errand. chapter xxxiv. it is characteristic of american hopefulness and energy that before work was fairly begun on clearing away the wreck of the old city, plans were being prepared for the new one that should arise, ph[oe]nix-like, above its grave. if the future policy of the banks and bankers of johnstown is to be followed by the merchants and manufacturers of the city the prospects of a magnificent city rising from the present ruins are of the brightest. james mcmillen, president of the first national and johnstown savings banks, said: "the loss sustained by the first national bank will be merely nominal. it did a general commercial business and very little investing in the way of mortgages. when the flood came the cash on hand and all our valuable securities and papers were locked in the safe and were in no way affected by the water. the damage to the building itself will be comparatively small. our capital was one hundred thousand dollars, while our surplus was upwards of forty thousand dollars. the depositors of this bank are, therefore, not worrying themselves about our ability to meet all demands that may be made upon us by them. the bank will open up for business within a few days as if nothing had happened. "as to the johnstown savings bank it had probably $ , invested in mortgages on property in johnstown, but the wisdom of our policy in the past in making loans has proven of great value to us in the present emergency. since we first began business we have refused to make loans to parties on property where the lot itself would not be of sufficient value to indemnify us against loss in case of the destruction of the building. if a man owned a lot worth $ , and had on it a building worth $ , we would refuse to loan over the $ , on the property. the result is that the lots on which the buildings stood in johnstown, on which $ , of our money is loaned, are worth double the amount, probably, that we have invested in them. "what will be the effect of the flood on the value of lots in johnstown proper? well, instead of decreasing, they have already advanced in value. this will bring outside capital to johnstown, and a real estate boom is bound to follow in the wake of this destruction. all the people want is an assurance that the banks are safe and will open up for business at once. with that feeling they have started to work with a vim. we have in this bank $ , invested in government bonds and other securities that can be converted into cash on an hour's notice. we propose to keep these things constantly before our business men as an impetus to rebuilding our principal business blocks as soon as possible." "what do you think of the idea projected by captain w. r. jones, to dredge and lower the river bed about thirty feet and adding seventy per cent. to its present width, as a precautionary measure against future washouts?" "i not only heartily indorse that scheme, but have positive assurance from other leading business men that the idea will be carried out, as it certainly should be, the moment the work of cleaning away the debris is completed. besides that, a scheme is on foot to get a charter for the city of johnstown which will embrace all those surrounding boroughs. in the event of that being done, and i am certain it will be, the plan of the city will be entirely changed and made to correspond with the best laid-out cities in the country. in ten years johnstown will be one of the prettiest and busiest cities in the world, and nothing can prevent it. the streets will be widened and probably made to start from a common centre, something after the fashion of washington city, with a little more regard for the value of property. with the cambria iron company, the gautier steel works, and other manufactories, as well as yearly increasing railroad facilities, johnstown has a start which will grow in a short time to enormous proportions. from a real estate standpoint the flood has been a benefit beyond a doubt. another addition to the city will be made in the shape of an immense water-main to connect with a magnificent reservoir of the finest water in the world to be located in the mountains up stony creek for supplying the entire city as contemplated in the proposed new charter. this plant was well under way when the flood came, and about ten thousand dollars had already been expended on it which has been lost." mr. john roberts, the surviving partner of the banking-house of john dibert & company, said: "aside from the loss to our own building we have come out whole and entire. we had no money invested in mortgages in johnstown that is not fully indemnified by the lots themselves. most of our money is invested in property in somerset county, where mr. dibert was raised. we will exert every influence in our power to place the city on a better footing than was ever before. the plan of raising the city or lowering the bed of the river as well as widening its banks will surely be carried out. in addition, i think the idea of changing the plan of the city and embracing johnstown and the surrounding buroughs in one large city will be one of the greatest benefits the flood could have wrought to the future citizens of johnstown and the conemough valley. "i have been chairman of our finance committee of councils for ten years past, and i know the trouble we have had with our streets and alleys and the necessity of a great change. in order to put the city in the proper shape to insure commercial growth and topographical beauty, we will be ready for business in a few days, and enough money will be put into circulation in the valley to give the people encouragement in the work of rebuilding." chapter xxxv. among the travelers who were in or near the conemaugh valley at the time of the flood, and who thus narrowly escaped the doom that swallowed up thousands of their fellow-mortals, was mr. william henry smith, general manager of the associated press. he remained there for some time and did valuable work in directing the operations of news-gatherers and in the general labors of relief. the wife and daughter of mr. e. w. halford, private secretary to president harrison, were also there. they made their way to washington on thursday, to mr. halford's inexpressible relief, they having at first been reported among the lost. on their arrival at the capital they went at once to the executive mansion, where the members of the executive household were awaiting them with great interest. the ladies lost all their baggage, but were thankful for their almost miraculous delivery from the jaws of death. mrs. harrison's eyes were suffused with tears as she listened to the dreadful narrative. the president was also deeply moved. from the first tidings of the dire calamity his thoughts have been absorbed in sympathy and desire to alleviate the sufferings of the devastated region. the manner of the escape of mrs. halford and her daughter has already been told. when the alarm was given, she and her daughter rushed with the other passengers out of the car and took refuge on the mountain side by climbing up the rocky excavation near the track. mrs. halford was in delicate health owing to bronchial troubles. she has borne up well under the excitement, exposure, fatigue, and horror of her experiences. mrs. george w. childs was also reported among the lost, but incorrectly. mr. childs received word on thursday for the first time direct from his wife, who was on her way west to visit miss kate drexel when detained by the flood. indirectly he had heard she was all right. the telegram notified him that mrs. childs was at altoona, and could not move either way, but was perfectly safe. george b. roberts, president of the pennsylvania railway company, was obliged to issue the following card: "in consequence of the terrible calamity that has fallen upon a community which has such close relations to the pennsylvania railway company, mr. and mrs. george b. roberts feel compelled to withdraw their invitations for thursday, june th." mr. and mrs. charles e. pugh also felt obliged to withdraw their invitations for wednesday, june th. the rev. j. a. ranney, of kalamazoo, mich., and his wife were passengers on one of the trains wrecked by the conemaugh flood. mr. ranney said: "mrs. ranney and i were on one of the trains at conemaugh when the flood came. there was but a moment's warning and the disaster was upon us. the occupants of our car rushed for the door, where mrs. ranney and i became separated. she was one of the first to jump, and i saw her run and disappear behind the first house in sight. before i could get out the deluge was too high, and, with a number of others, i remained in the car. our car was lifted up and dashed against a car loaded with stone and badly wrecked, but most of the occupants of this car were rescued. as far as i know all who jumped from the car lost their lives. the remainder of the train was swept away. i searched for days for mrs. ranney, but could find no trace of her. i think she perished. the mind cannot conceive the awful sight presented when we first saw the danger. the approaching wall of water looked like niagara, and huge engines were caught up and whirled away as if they were mere wheel-barrows." d. b. cummins, of philadelphia, the president of the girard national bank, was one of the party of four which consisted of john scott, solicitor-general of the pennsylvania railroad; edmund smith, ex-vice-president of the same company; and colonel welsh himself, who had been stopping in the country a few miles back of williamsport. mr. cummins, in talking of the condition of things in that vicinity and of his experience, said: "we were trout-fishing at anderson's cabin, about fourteen miles from williamsport, at the time the flood started. we went to williamsport, intending to take a train for philadelphia. of course, when we got there we found everything in a frightful condition, and the people completely disheartened by the flood. fortunately the loss of life was very slight, especially when compared with the terrible disaster in johnstown. the loss, from a financial standpoint, will be very great, for the city is completely inundated, and the lumber industry seriously crippled. besides, the stagnation of business for any length of time produces results which are disastrous." [illustration: fourteenth street, washington, d. c., in the flood.] the first passengers that came from altoona to new york by the pennsylvania railroad since the floods included five members of the "night off" company, which played in johnstown on thursday night, about whom considerable anxiety was felt for some time, till e. a. eberle received telegrams from his wife, the contents of which he at once gave to the press. mrs. eberle was among the five who arrived. "no words can tell the horrors of the scenes we witnessed," she said in answer to a request for an account of her experiences, "and nothing that has been published can convey any idea of the awful havoc wrought in those few but apparently never-ending minutes in which the worst of the flood passed us. "our company left johnstown on friday morning. we only got two miles away, as far as conemaugh, when we were stopped by a landslide a little way ahead. about noon we went to dinner, and soon after we came back some of our company noticed that the flood had extended and was washing away the embankment on which our train stood. they called the engineer's attention to the fact, and he took the train a few hundred feet further. it was fortunate he did so, for a little while after the embankment caved in. "then we could not move forward or backward, as ahead was the landslide and behind there was no track. even then we were not frightened, and it was not till about three o'clock, when we saw a heavy iron bridge go down as if it were made of paper, that we began to be seriously alarmed. just before the dam broke a gravel train came tearing down, with the engine giving out the most awful shriek i ever heard. every one recognized that this was a note of warning. we fled as hard as we could run down the embankment, across a ditch, and for a distance equal to about two blocks up the hillside. once i turned to look at the vast wall of water, but was hurried on by my friends. when i had gone about the distance of another block the head of the flood had passed far away, and with it went houses, cars, locomotives, everything that a few minutes before had made up a busy scene. the wall of water looked to be fifty feet high. it was of a deep yellow color, but the crest was white with foam. "three of us reached the house of mrs. william wright, who took us in and treated us most kindly. i did not take any account of time, but i imagine it was about an hour before the water ceased to rush past the house. the conductor of our train, charles a. wartham, behaved with the greatest bravery. he took a crippled passenger on his back in the rush up the hill. a floating house struck the cripple, carried him away and tore some of the clothes off wartham's back, and he managed to struggle on and save himself. our ride to ebensburg, sixteen miles, in a lumber wagon without springs, was trying, but no one thought of complaining. later in the day we were sent to cresson and thence to altoona." chapter xxxvi. no travelers in an upheaved and disorganized land push through with more pluck and courage than the newspaper correspondents. accounts have already been given of some of their experiences. a writer in the new york _times_ thus told of his, a week after the events described: "a man who starts on a journey on ten minutes' notice likes the journey to be short, with a promise of success and of food and clothes at its end. starting suddenly a week ago, the _times's_ correspondent has since had but a small measure of success, a smaller measure of food, and for nights no rest at all; a long tramp across the blue hills and allegheny mountains, behind jaded horses; helping to push up-hill the wagon they tried to pull or to lift the vehicle up and down bridges whose approaches were torn away, or in and out of fords the pathways to which had disappeared; and in the blackness of the night, scrambling through gullies in the pike road made by the storm, paved with sharp and treacherous rocks and traversed by swift-running streams, whose roar was the only guide to their course. all this prepared a weary reporter to welcome the bed of straw he found in a johnstown stable loft last monday, and on which he has reposed nightly ever since. "and let me advise reporters and other persons who are liable to sudden missions to out-of-the-way places not to wear patent leather shoes. they are no good for mountain roads. this is the result of sad experience. wetness and stone bruises are the benisons they confer on feet that tread rough paths. "the quarter past twelve train was the one boarded by the _times's_ correspondent and three other reporters on their way hither a week ago friday night. it was in the minds of all that they would get as far as altoona, on the pennsylvania road, and thence by wagon to this place. but all were mistaken. at philadelphia we were told that there were wash-outs in many places and bridges were down everywhere, so that we would be lucky if we got even to harrisburg. this was harrowing news. it caused such a searching of time-tables and of the map of pennsylvania as those things were rarely ever subjected to before. it was at last decided that if the pennsylvania railroad stopped at harrisburg an attempt would be made to reach the baltimore and ohio railroad at martinsburg, west virginia, by way of the cumberland railroad, a train on which was scheduled to leave harrisburg ten minutes after the arrival of the pennsylvania train. "it was only too evident to us, long before we reached harrisburg, that we would not get to the west out of that city. the susquehanna had risen far over its banks, and for miles our train ran slowly with the water close to the fire-box of the locomotive and over the lower steps of the car platform. at last we reached the station. several energetic philadelphia reporters had come on with us from that lively city, expecting to go straight to johnstown. as they left the train one cried: 'hurrah, boys, there's white. he'll know all about it.' white stood placidly on the steps, and knew nothing more than that he and several other philadelphia reporters, who had started friday night, had got no further than the harrisburg station, and were in a state of wonderment, leaving them to think our party caught. "as the cumberland valley train was pulling out of the station, its conductor, a big, genial fellow, who seemed to know everybody in the valley, was loth to express an opinion as to whether we would get to martinsburg. he would take us as far as he could, and then leave us to work out our own salvation. he could give us no information about the baltimore and ohio road. hope and fear chased one another in our midst; hope that trains were running on that road, and fear that it, too, had been stopped by wash-outs. in the latter case it seemed to us that we should be compelled to return to harrisburg and sit down to think with our philadelphia brethren. "the cumberland valley train took us to hagerstown, and there the big and genial conductor told us it would stay, as it could not cross the potomac to reach martinsburg. we were twelve miles from the potomac and twenty from martinsburg. fortunately, a construction train was going to the river to repair some small wash-outs, and major ives, the engineer of the cumberland valley road, took us upon it, but he smiled pitifully when we told him we were going across the bridge. "'why, man,' he said to the _times's_ correspondent, 'the potomac is higher than it was in , and there's no telling when the bridge will go.' "at the bridge was a throng of country people waiting to see it go down, and wondering how many more blows it would stand from foundering canal-boats, washed out of the chesapeake and ohio canal, whose lines had already disappeared under the flood. a quick survey of the bridge showed that its second section was weakening, and had already bent several inches, making a slight concavity on the upper side. "no time was to be lost if we were going to martinsburg. the country people murmured disapproval, but we went on the bridge, and were soon crossing it on the one-foot plank that served for a footwalk. it was an unpleasant walk. the river was roaring below us. to yield to the fascination of the desire to look between the railroad ties at the foaming water was to throw away our lives. then that fear that the tons of drift stuff piled against the upper side of the bridge, would suddenly throw it over, was a cause of anything but confidence. but we held our breath, balanced ourselves, measured our steps, and looked far ahead at the hills on the western virginia shore. at last the firm embankment was reached, and four reporters sent up one sigh of relief and joy. "finding two teams, we were soon on our way to martinsburg. "the potomac was nine feet higher than it was ever known to be before, and it was out for more than a mile beyond the tracks of the cumberland valley railroad at falling waters, where it had carried away several houses. this made the route to martinsburg twice as long as it otherwise would have been. to weary, anxious reporters it seemed four times as long, and that we should never get beyond the village of falling waters. it confronted us at every turn of the crooked way, until it became a source of pain. it is a pretty place, but we were yearning for johnstown, not for rural beauty. "all roads have an end, and farmer sperow's teams at last dragged us into martinsburg. little comfort was in store for us there. no train had arrived there for more than twenty-four hours. farmer sperow was called on to take us back to the river, our instructions being to cross the bridge again and take a trip over the mountains. hope gave way to utter despair when we learned that the bridge had fallen twenty minutes after our passage. we had put ourselves into a pickle. chief engineer ives and his assistant, mr. schoonmaker joined us a little while later. they had followed us across the bridge and been cut off also. they were needed at harrisburg, and they backed up our effort to get a special train to go to the shenandoah valley road's bridge, twenty-five miles away, which was reported to be yet standing. "the baltimore and ohio officials were obdurate. they did not know enough about the tracks to the eastward to experiment with a train on them in the dark. they promised to make up a train in the morning. wagons would not take us as soon. a drearier night was never passed by men with their hearts in their work. morning came at last and with it the news that the road to the east was passable nearly to harper's ferry. lots of martinsburg folks wanted to see the sights at the ferry, and we had the advantage of their society on an excursion train as far as shenandoah junction, where mr. ives had telegraphed for a special to come over and meet us if the bridge was standing. "the telegraph kept us informed about the movement of the train. when we learned that it had tested and crossed the bridge our joy was modified only by the fear that we had made fools of ourselves in leaving harrisburg, and that the more phlegmatic philadelphia reporters had already got to johnstown. but this fear was soon dissipated. the trainman knew that harrisburg was inundated and no train had gone west for nearly two days. a new fear took its place. it was that new york men, starting behind us, had got into johnstown through pittsburg by way of the new york central and its connections. no telegrams were penned with more conflicting emotions surging through the writer than those by which the _times's_ correspondent made it known that he had got out of the martinsburg pocket and was about to make a wagon journey of one hundred and ten miles across the mountains, and asked for information as to whether any eastern man had got to the scene of the flood. "the special train took us to chambersburg, where superintendent riddle, of the cumberland valley road, had information that four philadelphia men were on their way thither, and had engaged a team to take them on the first stage of the overland trip. a wild rush was made for schiner's livery, and in ten minutes we were bowling over the pike toward mcconnellsburg, having already sent thither a telegraphic order for fresh teams. the train from harrisburg was due in five minutes when we started. as we mounted each hill we eagerly scanned the road behind for pursuers. they never came in sight. "in mcconnellsburg the entire town had heard of our coming, and were out to greet us with cheers. they knew our mission and that a party of competitors was tracking us. landlord prosser, of the fulton hotel, had his team ready, but said there had been an enormous wash-out near the juniata river, beyond which he could not take us. we would have to walk through the break in the pike and cross the river on a bridge tottering on a few supports. telegrams to everett for a team to meet us beyond the river and take us to bedford, and to the latter place for a team to make the journey across the allegehenies to johnstown settled all our plans. "as well as we could make it out by telegraphic advices, we were an hour ahead of the philadelphians. ten minutes was not, therefore, too long for supper. landlord prosser took the reins himself and we started again, with a hurrah from the populace. as it was sunday, they would sell us nothing, but storekeeper young and telegraph operator sloan supplied us with tobacco and other little comforts, our stock of which had been exhausted. it will gratify our prohibition friends to learn that whisky was not among them. mcconnellsburg is, unfortunately, a dry town for the time being. it was a long and weary pull to the top of sidling hill. to ease up on the team, we walked the greater part of the way. a short descent and a straight run took us to the banks of licking creek. "harrisonville was just beyond, and harrisonville had been under a raging flood, which had weakened the props of the bridge and washed out the road for fifty feet beyond it. the only thing to do was to unhitch and lead the horses over the bridge and through the gully. this was difficult, but it was finally accomplished. the more difficult task was to get the wagon over. a long pull, with many strong lifts, in which some of the natives aided, took it down from the bridge and through the break, but at the end there were more barked shins and bruised toes than any other four men ever had in common. "it was a quick ride from everett to bedford, for our driver had a good wagon and a speedy team. arriving at bedford a little after two o'clock in the morning, we found dispatches that cheered us, for they told us that we had made no mistake, and might reach the scene of disaster first. only a reporter who has been on a mission similar to this can tell the joy imparted by a dispatch like this: "'new york--nobody is ahead of you. go it.' "at four o'clock in the morning we started on our long trip of forty miles across the alleghenies to johnstown. pleasantville was reached at half-past six a. m. now the road became bad, and everybody but the driver had to walk. footsore as we were, we had to clamber over rocks and through mud in a driving rain, which wet us through. for ten miles we went thus dismally. ten miles from johnstown we got in the wagon, and every one promptly went to sleep, at the risk of being thrown out at any time as the wagon jolted along. tired nature could stand no more, and we slumbered peacefully until four half-drunken special policemen halted us at the entrance to johnstown. argument with them stirred us up, and we got into town and saw what a ruin it was." chapter xxxvii. nor was the life of the correspondents at johnstown altogether a happy one. the life of a newspaper man is filled with vicissitudes. sometimes he feeds on the fat of the land, and at others he feeds on air; but as a rule he lives comfortably, and has as much satisfaction in life as other men. it may safely be asserted, however, that such experiences as the special correspondents of eastern papers have met with in johnstown are not easily paralleled. when a war correspondent goes on a campaign he is prepared for hardship and makes provision against it. he has a tent, blankets, heavy overcoat, a horse, and other things which are necessaries of life in the open air. but the men who came hurrying to johnstown to fulfill the invaluable mission of letting the world know just what was the matter were not well provided against the suffering set before them. the first information of the disaster was sent out by the associated press on the evening of its occurrence. the destruction of wires made it impossible to give as full an account as would otherwise have been sent, but the dispatches convinced the managing editors of the wide-awake papers that a calamity destined to be one of the most fearful in all human history had fallen upon the peaceful valley of the conemaugh. all the leading eastern papers started men for philadelphia at once. from philadelphia these men went to harrisburg. there were many able representatives in the party, and they are ready to wager large amounts that there was never at any place a crowd of newspaper men so absolutely and hopelessly stalled as they were there. bridges were down and the roadway at many places was carried away. then came the determined and exhausting struggle to reach johnstown. the stories of the different trips have been told. from saturday morning till monday morning the correspondents fought a desperate battle against the raging floods, risking their lives again and again to reach the city. at one place they footed it across a bridge that ten minutes later went swirling down the mad torrent to instant destruction. again they hired carriages and drove over the mountains, literally wading into swollen streams and carrying their vehicles across. finally one party caught a baltimore and ohio special train and got into johnstown. it was monday. there was nothing to eat. the men were exhausted, hungry, thirsty, sleepy. their work was there, however, and had to be done. where was the telegraph office? gone down the conemaugh valley to hopeless oblivion. but the duties of a telegraph company are as imperative as those of a newspaper. general manager clark, of pittsburgh, had sent out a force of twelve operators, under operator munson as manager _pro tem._, to open communications at johnstown. the pennsylvania railroad rushed them through to the westerly end of the fatal bridge. smoke and the pall of death were upon it. ruin and devastation were all around. to get wires into the city proper was out of the question. nine wires were good between the west end of the bridge and pittsburgh. the telegraph force found, just south of the track, on the side of the hill overlooking the whole scene of johnstown's destruction, a miserable hovel which had been used for the storage of oil barrels. the interior was as dark as a tomb, and smelled like the concentrated essence of petroleum itself. the floor was a slimy mass of black grease. it was no time for delicacy. in went the operators with their relay instruments and keys; out went the barrels. rough shelves were thrown up to take copy on, and some old chairs were subsequently secured. tallow dips threw a fitful red glare upon the scene. the operators were ready. toward dusk ten haggard and exhausted new york correspondents came staggering up the hillside. they found the entire neighborhood infested with pittsburgh reporters, who had already secured all the good places, such as they were, for work, and were busily engaged in wiring to their offices awful tales of hungarian depredations upon dead bodies, and lynching affairs which never occurred. one paper had eighteen men there, and others had almost an equal number. the new york correspondents were in a terrible condition. some of them had started from their offices without a change of clothing, and had managed to buy a flannel shirt or two and some footwear, including the absolutely necessary rubber boots, on the way. others had no extra coin, and were wearing the low-cut shoes which they had on at starting. one or two of them were so worn out that they turned dizzy and sick at the stomach when they attempted to write. but the work had to be done. just south of the telegraph office stands a two-story frame building in a state of dilapidation. it is flanked on each side by a shed, and its lower story, with an earth floor, is used for the storage of fire bricks. the second-story floor is full of great gaps, and the entire building is as draughty as a seive and as dusty as a country road in a drought. the associated press and the _herald_ took the second floor, the _times_, _tribune_, _sun_, _morning journal_, _world_, philadelphia _press_, baltimore _sun_, and pittsburgh _post_ took possession of the first floor, using the sheds as day outposts. some old barrels were found inside. they were turned up on end, some boards were picked up outdoors and laid on them, and seats were improvised out of the fire-bricks. candles were borrowed from the telegraph men, who were hammering away at their instruments and turning pale at the prospect, and the work of sending dispatches to the papers began. not a man had assuaged his hunger. not a man knew where he was to rest. all that the operators could take, and a great deal more, was filed, and then the correspondents began to think of themselves. two tents, a colored cook, and provisions had been sent up from pittsburgh for the operators. the tents were pitched on the side of the hill, just over the telegraph "office," and the colored cook utilized the natural gas of a brick-kiln just behind them. the correspondents procured little or nothing to eat that night. some of them plodded wearily across the pennsylvania bridge and into the city, out to the baltimore and ohio tracks, and into the car in which they had arrived. there they slept, in all their clothing, in miserably-cramped positions on the seats. in the morning they had nothing to wash in but the polluted waters of the conemaugh. others, who had no claim on the car, moved to pity a night watchman, who took them to a large barn in cambria city. there they slept in a hay-loft, to the tuneful piping of hundreds of mice, the snorting of horses and cattle, the nocturnal dancing of dissipated rats, and the solemn rattle of cow chains. [illustration: seventh street, washington, during the flood.] in the morning all hands were out bright and early, sparring for food. the situation was desperate. there was no such thing in the place as a restaurant or a hotel; there was no such thing as a store. the few remaining houses were over-crowded with survivors who had lost all. they could get food by applying to the relief committee. the correspondents had no such privilege. they had plenty of money, but there was nothing for sale. they could not beg nor borrow; they wouldn't steal. finally, they prevailed upon a pretty pennsylvania mountain woman, with fair skin, gray eyes, and a delicious way of saying "you un's," to give them something to eat. she fried them some tough pork, gave them some bread, and made them some coffee without milk and sugar. the first man that stayed his hunger was so glad that he gave her a dollar, and that became her upset price. it cost a dollar to go in and look around after that. then editor walters, of pittsburgh, a great big man with a great big heart, ordered up $ worth of food from pittsburgh. he got a german named george esser, in cambria city, to cook at his house, which had not been carried away, and the boys were mysteriously informed that they could get meals at the german's. he was supposed to be one of the dread hungarians, and the boys christened his place the café hungaria. they paid fifty cents apiece to him for cooking the meals, but it was three days before the secret leaked out that mr. walters supplied the food. if ever mr. walters gets into a tight place he has only to telegraph to new york, and twenty grateful men will do anything in their power to repay his kindness. then the routine of johnstown life for the correspondents became settled. at night they slept in the old car or the hay-mow or elsewhere. they breakfasted at the café hungaria. then they went forth to their work. they had to walk everywhere. over the mountains, through briers and among rocks, down in the valley in mud up to their knees, they tramped over the whole district lying between south fork and new florence, a distance of twenty-three miles, to gather the details of the frightful calamity. luncheon was a rare and radiant luxury. dinner was eaten at the café. copy was written everywhere and anywhere. constant struggles were going on between correspondents and policemen or deputy sheriffs. the countersign was given out incorrectly to the newspaper men one night, and many of them had much trouble. at night the boys traversed the place at the risk of life and limb. two _times_ men spent an hour and a half going two miles to the car for rest one night. the city--or what had been the city--was wrapped in cimmerian darkness, only intensified by the feeble glimmer of the fires of the night guards. the two correspondents almost fell through a pontoon bridge into the conemaugh. again they almost walked into the pit full of water where the gas tank had been. at length they met two guards going to an outlying post near the car with a lantern. these men had lived in johnstown all their lives. three times they were lost on their way over. another correspondent fell down three or four slippery steps one night and sprained his ankle, but he gritted his teeth and stuck to his work. one of the _times_ men tried to sleep in a hay-mow one night, but at one o'clock he was driven out by the rats. he wandered about till he found a night watchman, who escorted him to a brick-kiln. attired in all his clothing, his mackintosh, rubber boots, and hat, and with his handkerchief for a pillow, he stretched himself upon a plank on top of the bricks inside the kiln and slept one solitary hour. it was the third hour's sleep he had enjoyed in seventy-two hours. the next morning he looked like a paralytic tramp who had been hauled out of an ash-heap. another correspondent fell through an opening in the pennsylvania bridge and landed in a culvert several feet below. his left eye was almost knocked out, and he had to go to one of the hospitals for treatment. but he kept at his work. the more active newspaper men were a sight by wednesday. they knew it. they had their pictures taken. they call the group "the johnstown sufferers." their costumes are picturesque. one of them--a dramatically inclined youth sometimes called romeo--wears a pair of low shoes which are incrusted with yellow mud, a pair of gray stained trousers, a yellow corduroy coat, a flannel shirt, a soft hat of a dirty greenish-brown tint, and a rubber overcoat with a cape. and still he is not happy. chapter xxxviii. the storm that filled conemaugh lake and burst its bounds also wrought sad havoc elsewhere. williamsport, pa., underwent the experience of being flooded with thirty-four feet of water, of having the susquehanna boom taken out with two hundred million feet of logs, over forty million feet of sawed lumber taken, mills carried away and others wrecked, business and industrial establishments wrecked, and a large number of lives lost. the flood was nearly seven feet higher than the great high water of . early on friday news came of the flood at clearfield, but it was not before two o'clock saturday morning that the swelling water began to become prominent, the river then showing a rise averaging two feet to the hour. steadily and rapidly thereafter the rise continued. the rain up the country had been terrific, and from thursday afternoon, throughout the night, and during friday and friday night, the rain fell here with but little interruption. after midnight friday it came down in absolute torrents until nearly daylight saturday morning. as a result of this rise, grafins run, a small stream running through the city from northwest to southeast, was raised until it flooded the whole territory on either side of it. soon after daylight, the rain having ceased, the stream began to subside, and as the river had not then reached an alarming height, very few were concerned over the outlook. the water kept getting higher and higher, and spreading out over the lower streets. at about nine o'clock in the forenoon the logs began to go down, filling the stream from bank to bank. the water had by this time reached almost the stage of . it was coming up third street to the court-house, and was up fourth street to market. not long after it reached third street on william, and advanced up fourth to pine. its onward progress did not stop, however, as it rose higher on third street, and soon began to reach fourth street both at elmira and locust streets. no one along fourth between william and hepburn had any conception that it would trouble them, but the sequel proved they were mistaken. soon after noon the water began crossing the railroad at walnut and campbell streets, and soon all the country north of the railroad was submerged, that part along the run being for the second time during the day flooded. the rise kept on until nine o'clock at night, and after that hour it began to go slowly the other way. by daylight sunday morning it had fallen two feet, and that receding continued during the day. when the water was at its highest the memorable sight was to be seen of a level surface of water extending from the northern line of the city from rural avenue on locust street, entirely across the city to the mountain on the south side. this meant that the water was six feet deep on the floors of the buildings in market square, over four feet deep in the station of the pennsylvania railroad and at the park hotel. fully three-quarters of the city was submerged. the loss was necessarily enormous. it was heaviest on the lumbermen. all the logs were lost, and a large share of the cut lumber. the loss of life was heavy. a general meeting of lumbermen was held, to take action on the question of looking after the lost stock. a comparison as to losses was made, but many of those present were unable to give an estimate of the amount they had lost. it was found that the aggregate of logs lost from the boom was about two hundred million feet, and the aggregate of manufactured lumber fully forty million feet. the only saw-mill taken was the beaver mill structure, which contained two mills, that of s. mack taylor and the williamsport lumber company. it went down stream just as it stood, and lodged a few miles below the city. a member of the philadelphia _times_' staff telegraphed from williamsport:-- "trusting to the strong arms of brave john nichol, i safely crossed the susquehanna at montgomery in a small boat, and met superintendent westfall on the other side on an engine. we went to where the northern central crosses the river again to williamsport, where it is wider and swifter. the havoc everywhere is dreadful. most of the farmers for miles and miles have lost their stock and crops, and some their horses and barns. in one place i saw thirty dead cattle. they had caught on the top of a hill, but were drowned and carried into a creek that had been a part of a river. i could see where the river had been over the tops of the barns a quarter of a mile from the usual bank. a man named gibson, some miles below williamsport, lost every animal but a gray horse, which got into the loft and stayed there, with the water up to his body. "a woman named clark is alive, with six cows that she got upstairs. along the edges of the washed-out tracks families with stoves and a few things saved are under board shanties. we passed the saw-mill that, by forming a dam, is responsible for the loss of the williamsport bridges. the river looked very wild, but superintendent westfall and i crossed it in two boats. it is nearly half a mile across. both boats were carried some distance and nearly upset. it was odd, after wading through mud into the town, to find all williamsport knowing little or nothing about johnstown or what had been happening elsewhere. mr. westfall was beset by thousands asking about friends on the other side, and inquiring when food can be got through. "the loss is awful. there have not been many buildings in the town carried off, but there are few that have not been damaged. there is mourning everywhere for the dead. men look serious and worn, and every one is going about splashed with mud. the mayor, in his address, says: 'send us help at once--in the name of god, at once. there are hundreds utterly destitute. they have lost all they had, and have no hope of employment for the future. philadelphia should, if possible, send provisions. such a thing as a chicken is unknown here. they were all carried off. it is hard to get anything to eat for love or money. flour is needed worse than anything else.' "i gave away a cooked chicken and sandwiches that i had with me to two men who had had nothing to eat since yesterday morning. the flood having subsided, all the grim destitution is now uncovered. last night a great many grocery and other stores were gutted, not by the water, but by hungry, desperate people. they only took things to eat. "a pathetic feature of the loss of life is the great number of children drowned. in one case two brothers named youngman, up the river, who have a woolen mill, lost their wives and children and their property, too, by the bursting of the dam. everything was carried away in the night. they saved themselves by being strong. one caught in a tree on the side of the mountain across the river and remained there from saturday night until late sunday, with the river below him." among the many remarkable experiences was that of garrett l. crouse, proprietor of a large kindling-wood mill, who is also well known to many philadelphia and new york business men. mr. crouse lives on the north side of west fourth street, between walnut and campbell. on saturday he was down town, looking after his mill and wood, little thinking that there was any flood in the western part of the city. at eleven o'clock he started to go home, and sauntered leisurely up fourth street. he soon learned the condition of things and started for lycoming street, and was soon in front of the rising sun hotel, on walnut street, wading in the water, which came nearly to his neck. boats passing and repassing refused to take him in, notwithstanding that he was so close to his home. the water continued to rise and he detached a piece of board-walk, holding on to a convenient tree. in this position he stayed two hours in the vain hope that a boat would take him on. at this juncture a man with a small boat hove in sight and came so close that mr. crouse could touch it. laying hold of the boat he asked the skipper how much he would take to row him down to fourth street, where the larger boats were running. "i can't take you," was the reply; "this boat only holds one." "i know it only holds one, but it will hold two this time," replied the would-be passenger. "this water is getting unpleasantly close to my lower lip. it's a matter of life and death with me, and if you don't want to carry two your boat will carry one; but i'll be that one." the fellow in the boat realized that the talk meant business, and the two started down town. at pine street mr. crouse waited for a big boat another hour, and when he finally found one he was shivering with cold. the men in the boat engaged to run him for five dollars, and they started. it was five o'clock when they reached their destination, when they rowed to their passenger's stable and found his horses up to their necks in the flood. "what will you charge to take these two horses to old oaks park?" he asked. "ten dollars apiece," was the reply. "i'll pay it." they then rowed to the harness room, got the bridles, rowed back to the horses and bridled them. they first took out the brown horse and landed her at the park, mr crouse holding her behind the boat. they returned for the gray and started out with her, but had scarcely left the stable when her head fell back to one side. fright had already exhausted her. they took her back to the house porch, when mr. crouse led her upstairs and put her in a bed-room, where she stayed high and dry all night. on sunday morning the folks who were cleaning up were surprised to see a gray horse and a man backing down a plank out of the front door of a fourth street residence. it was garrett crouse and his gray horse, and when the neighbors saw it they turned from the scene of desolation about them and warmly applauded both beast and master. this is how a williamsport man got home during the flood and saved his horses. it took him five hours and cost him twenty-five dollars. mr. james r. skinner, of brooklyn, n. y., arrived home after a series of remarkable adventures in the floods at williamsport. "i went to williamsport last thursday," said mr. skinner, "and on friday the rain fell as i had never seen it fall before. the skies seemed simply to open and unload the water. the susquehanna was booming and kept on rising rapidly, but the people of williamsport did not seem to be particularly alarmed. on saturday the water had risen to such a height that the people quit laughing and gathered along the sides of the torrent with a sort of awe-stricken curiosity. "a friend of mine, mr. frank bellows, and myself went out to see the grand spectacle, and found a place of observation on the pennsylvania railroad bridge. great rafts of logs were swept down the stream, and now and then a house would be brought with a crash against the bridge. finally, one span gave way and then we beat a hasty retreat. by wading we reached the place of a man who owned a horse and buggy. these we hired and started to drive to the hotel, which is on the highest ground in the city. the water was all the time rising, and the flood kept coming in waves. these waves came with such frequency and volume that we were forced to abandon the horse and buggy and try wading. with the water up to our armpits we got to an outhouse, and climbing to the top of it made our way along to a building. this i entered through a window, and found the family in the upper stories. floating outside were two canoes, one of which i hired for two dollars and fifty cents. i at once embarked in this and tried to paddle for my hotel. i hadn't gone a hundred feet when i capsized. going back, i divested myself of my coat, waistcoat, shoes, and stockings. i tried again to make the journey, and succeeded very well for quite a distance, when the canoe suddenly struck something and over it went. i managed to hold the paddle and the canoe, but everything else was washed away and lost. after a struggle in the water, which was running like a mill-race, i got afloat again and managed to lodge myself against a train of nearly submerged freight cars. then, by drawing myself against the stream, i got opposite the hotel and paddled over. my friend bellows was not so fortunate. the other canoe had a hole in it, and he had to spend the night on the roof of a house. "the trainmen of the pennsylvania road thought to sleep in the cars, but were driven out, and forced to take refuge in the trees, from which they were subsequently rescued. the beaver dam mill was moved from its position as though it was being towed by some enormous steam tug. the river swept away everything that offered it any resistance. saturday night was the most awful i ever experienced. the horrors of the flood were intensified by an inky darkness, through which the cries of women and children were ceaselessly heard. boatmen labored all night to give relief, and hundreds were brought to the hotel for safety. "on sunday the waters began to subside, and then the effects were more noticeable. all the provision stores were washed out completely, and one of the banks had its books, notes, and greenbacks destroyed. i saw rich men begging for bread for their children. they had money, but there was nothing to be bought. this lack of supplies is the greatest trouble that williamsport has to contend with, and i really do not see how the people are to subsist. "sunday afternoon mr. c. h. blaisdell, mr. cochrane, a lumberman and woodman, a driver, and myself started in a wagon for canton, with letters and appeals for assistance. the roads were all washed away, and we had to go over the mountains. we had to cut our way through the forests at times, hold the wagon up against the sides of precipices, ford streams, and undergo a thousand hardships. after two days of travel that even now seems impossible, we got into canton more dead than alive. the soles were completely gone from my boots, and i had on only my night-shirt, coat, and trousers, which i had saved from the flood. a relief corps was at once organized, and sent with provisions for the sufferers. but it had to take a roundabout way, and i do not know what will become of those poor people in the meantime." mr. richard p. rothwell, the editor of the new york _engineering and mining journal_, and mr. ernest alexander thomson, the two men who rowed down the susquehanna river from williamsport, pa., to sunbury, and brought the first news of the disaster by flood at williamsport, came through to new york by the reading road. the boat they made the trip in was a common flat-bottom rowboat, about thirteen feet long, fitted for one pair of oars. there were three men in the crew, and her sides were only about three inches above the water when they were aboard. the third was mr. aaron niel, of phoenixville, pa. he is a trotting-horse owner. mr. thomson is a tall, athletic young man, a graduate of harvard in ' . he would not acknowledge that the trip was very dangerous, but an idea of it can be had from the fact that they made the run of forty-five miles in four and one-half hours. "my brother, john w. thomson, myself, and mr. rothwell," he said, "have been prospecting for coal back of ralston. it began to rain on friday just after we got into myer's hotel, where we were staying. the rain fell in torrents for thirty-two hours. the water was four or five feet deep in the hotel when the railroad bridge gave way, and domestic animals and outhouses were floating down the river by scores. the bridge swung around as if it were going to strike the hotel. cries of distress from the back porch were heard, and when we ran out we found a parrot which belonged to me crying with all his might, 'hellup! hellup! hellup!' my brother left for williamsport by train on friday night. we followed on foot. there were nineteen bridges in the twenty-five miles to williamsport, and all but three were gone. "in williamsport every one seemed to be drinking. men waited in rows five or six deep in front of the bars of the two public houses, the lush house and the concordia. we paid two dollars each for the privilege of sleeping in a corner of the bar-room. mr. rothwell suggested the boat trip when we found all the wagons in town were under water. the whole town except sauerkraut hill was flooded, and it was as hard to buy a boat as it was to get a cab during the blizzard. it was here we met niel. 'i was a raftsman,' he said, 'on the allegheny years ago, and i may be of use to you,' and he was. he sat in the bow, and piloted, i rowed, and mr. rothwell steered with a piece of board. our danger was from eddies, and it was greatest when we passed the ruins of bridges. we started at . , and made the run to montgomery, eighteen miles, in one and a quarter hours. in places we were going at the rate of twenty miles an hour. there wasn't a whole bridge left on the forty-five miles of river. as we passed milton we were in sight of the race-track, where niel won a trot the week before. the grand stand was just toppling into the water. "i think i ought to row in a 'varsity crew now," mr. thomson concluded. "i don't believe any crew ever beat our time." chapter xxxix. there was terrible destruction to life and property throughout the entire juniata valley by the unprecedented flood. between tyrone and lewistown the greatest devastation was seen and especially below huntingdon at the confluence of the raystown branch and the juniata river. during the preceding days of the week the rain-filled clouds swept around the southeast, and on friday evening met an opposing strata of storm clouds, which resulted in an indescribable down-pour of rain of twelve hours' duration. the surging, angry waters swept down the river, every rivulet and tributary adding its raging flood to the stream, until there was a sea of water between the parallel hills of the valley. night only added to the terror and confusion. in huntingdon city, and especially in the southern and eastern suburbs, the inhabitants were forced to flee for their lives at midnight on thursday, and by daybreak the chimneys of their houses were visible above the rushing waters. opposite the city the people of smithfield found safety within the walls of the state reformatory, and for two days they were detained under great privations. some conception of the volume of water in the river may be had from the fact that it was thirty-five feet above low-water mark, being eight feet higher than the great flood of . many of the inhabitants in the low sections of huntingdon, who hesitated about leaving their homes, were rescued, before the waters submerged their houses, with great difficulty. huntingdon, around which the most destruction is to be seen of any of the towns in the juniata valley, was practically cut off from all communication with the outside world, as all the river bridges crossing the stream at that point were washed away. there was but one bridge standing in the county, and that was the huntingdon and broad top railroad bridge, which stood isolated in the river, the trestle on the other end being destroyed. not a county bridge was left, and this loss alone approximated $ , . the gas works were wrecked on thursday night and the town was left in darkness. just below where the juniata and raystown branch meet, lived john dean and wife, aged seventy-seven each, and both blind. with them resided john swaner and wife. near by lived john rupert, wife and three small children. when the seething current struck these houses they were carried a half mile down the course of the stream and lodged on the ends amid stream. the ruperts were soon driven to the attic, and finally, when it became evident that they must perish, the frantic mother caught up two bureau drawers, and placed her little children in them upon the angry waves, hoping that they might be saved; but all in vain. the loss of life by the flood in clinton county, in which lock haven is situated, was heavy. twenty of those lost were in the nittany valley, and seven in wayne township. lock haven was very fortunate, as the inhabitants there dwelling in the midst of logs on the rivers are accustomed to overflows. there were many sagacious inhabitants who, remembering the flood of , on saturday began to prepare by removing their furniture and other possessions to higher ground for safety. it was this full and realizing sense of the danger that gave lock haven such immunity from loss of life. the only case of drowning in lock haven was of james guilford, a young man who, though warned not to do so, attempted to wade across the main street, where six feet of the overflowed river was running, and was carried off by the swift current. the other dead include william confur and his wife and three children, all carried off and drowned in their little home as it floated away, and the two children of jacob kashne. robert armstrong and his sister perished at clintondale under peculiarly dreadful circumstances. at mackeyville, john harley, andrew r. stine, wife and two daughters, were drowned, while the two boys were saved. at salona, alexander m. uting and wife, mrs. henry snyder were drowned. at cedar springs, mrs. luther s. eyler and three children were drowned. the husband was found alive in a tree, while his wife was dead in a drift-pile a few rods away. at rote, mrs. charles cole and her two children were drowned, while he was saved. mrs. charles barner and her children were also drowned, while the husband and father was saved. this is a queer coincidence found all through this section, that the men are survivors, while the wives and children are victims. the scenes that have been witnessed in tyrone city during the time from friday evening, may st, to monday evening, june d, are almost indescribable. on friday afternoon, may st, telephone messages from clearfield gave warning of a terrible flood at that place, and preparations were commenced by everybody for high water, although no one anticipated that it would equal in height that of , which had always in the past served as high-water mark in lock haven. all of that friday rain descended heavily, and when at eight o'clock in the evening the water commenced rising, the rain was falling in torrents. the river rose rapidly, and before midnight was over the top of the bank. its rapid rising was the signal for hasty preparations for higher water than ever before witnessed in the city. as the water continued rising, both the river and bald eagle creek, the vast scope of land from mountain to mountain was soon a sea of foaming water. the boom gave away about two o'clock saturday morning, and millions of feet of logs were taken away. along water street, logs, trees, and every conceivable kind of driftwood went rushing by the houses at a fearful rate of swiftness. the night was one to fill the stoutest heart with dread, and the dawn of day on saturday morning was anxiously awaited by thousands of people. in the meantime men in boats were busy during the night taking people from their houses in the lower portions of the city, and conveying them to places of imagined security. when day dawned on june st, the water was still rising at a rapid rate. the city was then completely inundated, or at least all that portion lying east of the high lands in the third and fourth wards. it was nearly three o'clock saturday afternoon before the water reached the highest mark. it then was about three feet above the high-water mark of . at four o'clock saturday evening the flood began to subside, slowly at first, and it was nearly night on sunday before the river was again within its banks. six persons are reported missing at salona, and the dead bodies of mrs. alexander whiting and mrs. william emenheisen were recovered at mill hall and that of a six-year old child near by. the loss there is terrible, and the community is in mourning over the loss of life. g. w. dunkle and wife had a miraculous escape from drowning early saturday a. m. they were both carried away on the top of their house from salona to mill hall, where they were both rescued in a remarkable manner. a window in the house of john stearn was kicked out, and mr. and mrs. dunkle taken in the aperture, both thus being rescued from a watery grave. near by a baby was saved, tied in a cradle. it was a pretty, light-haired light cherub, and seemed all unconscious of the peril through which it passed on its way down the stream. the town of mill hall was completely gutted by the flood, entailing heavy loss upon the inhabitants. the town of renovo was completely wrecked. two spans of the river bridge and the opera-house were swept away. houses and business places were carried off or damaged and there was some loss of life. at hamburg seven persons were drowned by the flood, which carried away almost everything in its path. bellefonte escaped the flood's ravages, and lies high and dry. some parts of centre county were not so fortunate, however, especially in coburn and miles townships, where great destruction is reported. several persons were drowned at coburn, mrs. roust and three children among the number. the bodies of the mother and one child were recovered. james corss, a well-known resident of lock haven, and miss emma pollock, a daughter of ex-governor pollock of philadelphia, were married at the fashionable church of the holy trinity, philadelphia, at noon of wednesday, june th. the cards were sent out three weeks before, but when it was learned that the freshet had cut off lock haven from communication with the rest of the world, and several telegrams to the groom had failed to bring any response, it was purposed to postpone the wedding. the question of postponement was being considered on tuesday evening, when a dispatch was brought in saying that the groom was on his way overland. nothing further was heard from him, and the bride was dressed and the bridal party waiting when the groom dashed up to the door in a carriage at almost noon. after an interchange of joyful greetings all around, the bride and groom set out at once for the church, determined that they should not be late. on the way to the church the bride fainted. as the church came into view she fainted again, and she was driven leisurely around rittenhouse square to give her a chance to recover. she got better promptly. the groom stepped out of the carriage and went into the church by the vestry way. the carriage then drove round to the main entrance, and the bride alighted with her father and her maids, and, taking her proper place in the procession, marched bravely up the aisle, while the organ rang out the well-remembered notes of mendelssohn's march. the groom met her at the chancel, the minister came out, and they were married. a reception followed. the bride and groom left on their wedding-journey in the evening. before they went the groom told of his journey from lock haven. he said that the little lumber town had been shut out from the rest of the world on friday night. he is a widower, and, accompanied by his grown daughter, he started on his journey on monday at two o'clock. they drove to bellefonte, a distance of twenty-five miles, and rested there on monday night. they drove to leedsville on tuesday morning. there, by hiring relays of horses and engaging men to carry their baggage and row them across streams, they succeeded in reaching lewistown, a distance of sixty-five miles, by tuesday night. at lewistown they found a direct train for philadelphia, and arrived there on wednesday forenoon. chapter xl. the opening of the month of june will long be remembered with sadness and dismay by thousands of people in new york, pennsylvania, maryland and the two virginias. in the district of columbia, too, it was a time of losses and of terror. the northwestern and more fashionable part of washington, d. c., never looked more lovely than it did on sunday, but along a good part of the principal business thoroughfare, pennsylvania avenue, and in the adjacent streets to the southward, there was a dreary waste of turbid, muddy water, that washed five and six feet deep the sides of the houses, filling cellars and basements and causing great inconvenience and considerable loss of property. boats plied along the avenue near the pennsylvania railroad station and through the streets of south washington. a carp two feet long was caught in the ladies' waiting-room at the baltimore and potomac station, and several others were caught in the streets by boys. these fish came from the government fish pond, the waters of the potomac having covered the pond and allowed them to escape. along the river front the usually calm potomac was a wide, roaring, turbulent stream of dirty water, rushing madly onward, and bearing on its swift-moving surface logs, telegraph poles, portions of houses and all kinds of rubbish. the stream was nearly twice its normal width, and flowed six feet and more deep through the streets along the river front, submerging wharves, small manufacturing establishments, and lapping the second stories of mills, boat-houses and fertilizing works in georgetown. it completely flooded the potomac flats, which the government had raised at great expense to a height in most part of four and five feet, and inundated the abodes of poor negro squatters, who had built their frame shanties along the river's edge. the rising of the waters has eclipsed the high-water mark of . the loss was enormous. the river began rising early on saturday morning, and from that time continued to rise steadily until five o'clock sunday afternoon, when the flood began to abate, having reached a higher mark than ever before known. the flood grew worse and worse on saturday, and before noon the river had become so high and strong that it overflowed the banks just above the washington monument, and backing the water into the sewer which empties itself at this point, began to flow along the streets on the lower levels. by nightfall the water in the streets had increased to such an extent as to make them impassable by foot passengers, and boats were ferrying people from the business part of the town to the high grounds in south washington. the street cars also continued running and did a thriving business conveying pleasure-seekers, who sat in the windows and bantered one another as the deepening waters hid the floor. on louisiana avenue the produce and commission houses are located, and the proprietors bustled eagerly about securing their more perishable property, and wading knee-deep outside after floating chicken-coops. the grocery merchants, hotel men and others hastily cleared out their cellars and worked until the water was waist-deep removing their effects to higher floors. meanwhile the potomac, at the point of rocks, had overflowed into the chesapeake and ohio canal, and the two became one. it broke open the canal in a great many places, and lifting the barges up, shot them down stream at a rapid rate. trunks of trees and small houses were torn from their places and swept onward. the water continued rising throughout the night, and about noon of sunday reached its maximum, three feet six inches above high-water mark of , which was the highest on record. at that time the city presented a strange spectacle. pennsylvania avenue, from the peace monument, at the foot of the capitol, to ninth street, was flooded with water, and in some places it was up to the thighs of horses. the cellars of stores along the avenue were flooded, and so were some of the main floors. in the side streets south of the avenue there was six to eight feet of water, and yawls, skiffs and canoes were everywhere to be seen. communication except by boat was totally interrupted between north and south washington. at the pennsylvania railroad station the water was up to the waiting-room. through the smithsonian and agricultural department grounds a deep stream was running, and the washington monument was surrounded on all sides by water. a dozen lives lost, a hundred poor families homeless, and over $ , , worth of property destroyed, is the brief but terrible record of the havoc caused by the floods in maryland. every river and mountain stream in the western half of the state has overflowed its banks, inundating villages and manufactories and laying waste thousands of acres of farm lands. the losses by wrecked bridges, washed-out roadbeds and land-slides along the western division of the baltimore and ohio railroad, from baltimore to johnstown, reach half a million dollars or more. the chesapeake and ohio canal, that political bone of contention and burden to maryland, which has cost the state many millions, is a total wreck. the potomac river, by the side of which the canal runs, from williamsport, md., to georgetown, d. c., has swept away the locks, towpaths, bridges, and, in fact, everything connected with the canal. the probability is that the canal will not be restored, but that the canal bed will be sold to one of the railroads that have been trying to secure it for several years. the concern has never paid, and annually has increased its enormous debt to the state. the western maryland railroad company and the connecting lines, the baltimore and harrisburg, and the cumberland valley roads, lose heavily. on the mountain grades of the blue ridge there are tremendous washouts, and in some sections the tracks are torn up and the road-bed destroyed. several bridges were washed away. dispatches from shippensburg, hagerstown and points in the cumberland valley state that the damage to that fertile farming region is incalculable. miles of farm lands were submerged by the torrents that rushed down from the mountains. several lives were lost and many head of cattle drowned. at the mountain town of frederick, md., the monocacy river, carroll creek and other streams combined in the work of destruction. friday night was one of terror to the people of that section. the monocacy river rose rapidly from the time the rain ceased until last night, when the waters began to fall. the back-water of the river extended to the eastern limit of the city, flooding everything in its path and riding over the fields with a fierce current that meant destruction to crops, fences and everything in its path. at the pennsylvania railroad bridge the river rose thirty feet above low-water mark. it submerged the floor of the bridge and at one time threatened it with destruction, but the breaking away of feet of embankment on the north side of the bridge saved the structure. with the feet of embankment went feet of track. the heavy steel rails were twisted by the waters as if they had been wrenched in the jaws of a mammoth vise. the river at this point and for many miles along its course overflowed its banks to the width of a thousand feet, submerging the corn and wheat fields on either side and carrying everything before it. just below the railroad bridge a large wooden turnpike bridge was snapped in two and carried down the tide. in this way a half-dozen turnpike bridges at various points along the river were carried away. the loss to the counties through the destruction of these bridges will foot up many thousand dollars. mrs. charles mcfadden and miss maggie moore, of taneytown, were drowned in their carriage while attempting to cross a swollen stream. the horse and vehicle were swept down the stream, and when found were lodged against a tree. miss moore was lying half-way out of the carriage, as though she had died in trying to extricate herself. mrs. mcfadden's body was found near the carriage. at knoxville considerable damage was done, and at point of rocks people were compelled to seek the roofs of their houses and other places of safety. a family living on an island in the middle of the river, opposite the point, fired off a gun as a signal of distress. they were with difficulty rescued. in frederick county, md., the losses aggregate $ , . the heaviest damage in maryland was in the vicinity of williamsport, washington county. the railroads at hagerstown and williamsport were washed out. the greatest loser is the cumberland valley railroad. its new iron bridge across the potomac river went down, nothing being left of the structure except the span across the canal. the original cost of the bridge was $ , . all along the potomac the destruction was great. at and near williamsport, where the conococheague empties into the potomac, the loss was very heavy. at falling waters, where only a few days before a cyclone caused death and destruction, two houses went down in the angry water, and the little town was almost entirely submerged. in carroll county, md., the losses reached several hundred thousand dollars. george derrick was drowned at trevanion mills, on pipe creek. along the patapsco river in howard county great damage was done to mills and private property. near sykesville the water undermined the baltimore and ohio railroad track and a freight train was turned over an embankment. william hudson was standing on the suspension bridge, at orange grove, when the structure was swept away, and he was never seen again. port deposit, near the mouth of the susquehanna river, went under water. residents along the river front left their homes and took refuge on the hills back of the town. the river was filled with thousands of logs from the broken booms up in the timber regions. from the eastern and southern sections of the state came reports of entire fruit farms swept away. two men were drowned in the storm by the capsizing of a sloop near salisbury. a number of houses on the shenandoah and potomac rivers near harper's ferry were destroyed by the raging waters which came thundering down from the mountains, thirty to forty feet higher than low-water mark. john brown's fort was nearly swept away. the old building has withstood a number of floods. there is only a rickety portion of it standing, anyhow, and that is now covered with mud and rubbish. while the crowds on the heights near harper's ferry were watching the terrible work of destruction, a house was seen coming down the potomac. upon its roof were three men wildly shouting to the people on the hills to save them. just as the structure struck the railroad bridge, the men tried to catch hold of the flooring and iron work, but the swift torrent swept them all under, and they were seen no more. what appeared to be a babe in a cradle came floating down behind them, and a few moments later the body of a woman, supposed to be the mother of the child, swept by. robert connell, a farmer living upon a large island in the potomac, known as herter island, lost all his wheat crop and his cattle. his family was rescued by clarence stedman and e. a. keyser, an artist from washington, at the risk of their lives. the fine railroad bridge across the shenandoah, near harper's ferry, was destroyed. the ferry mill company sustained heavy losses. along the south mountains, in washington and alleghany counties, md., the destruction was terrible. whole farms, including the houses and barns, were swept away and hundreds of live stock killed. between williamsport, md., and dam no. on the chesapeake and ohio canal twenty-six houses were destroyed, and it is reported that several persons were drowned. the homeless families are camping out on the hills, being supplied with food and clothing by the citizens of williamsport. joseph shifter and family made a narrow escape. they were driven to the roof of their house by the rising waters, and just a minute before the structure collapsed the father caught a rowboat passing by, and saved his wife and little ones. the town of point of rocks, on the potomac river, twelve miles eastward of harper's ferry, was half-submerged. nearly $ , worth of property in the town and vicinity was swept away. the catholic church there is feet from the river. the extent of the flood here may be imagined when it is stated that the water was up to the eaves of the church. the chesapeake and ohio canal has been utterly lost, and what formerly was the bed of the canal is now part of the potomac river. there were but few houses in point of rocks that were not under water. the methodist church had water in its second story. the two hotels of which the place boasts, the american and the st. charles, were full of water, and any stranger in town had to hunt for something to eat. every bridge in frederick county, md., was washed away. some of these bridges were built as long ago as , and were burned by the confederate and union forces at various times in , afterward being rebuilt. at martinsburg, w. va., a number of houses were destroyed. little georgetown, a village on the upper potomac, near williamsport, md., was entirely swept away. navigation on chesapeake bay was seriously interrupted by the masses of logs, sections of buildings and other ruins afloat. several side-wheel steamers were damaged by the logs striking the wheels. looking southward for miles from havre de grace, the mouth of the susquehanna, and far out into the bay the water was thickly covered with the floating wood. crowds of men and boys were out on the river securing the choicest logs of hard wood and bringing them to a safe anchorage. by careful count it was estimated that logs, large and small, were swept past havre de grace every minute. at that rate there would be , logs an hour. it is estimated that over , , feet of cut and uncut timber passed havre de grace within two days. large rafts of dressed white pine boards floated past the city. the men who saved the logs got from cents to $ for each log for salvage from the owners, who sent men down the river to look after the timber. enough logs have been saved to give three years' employment to men, and mills will be erected to saw up the stuff. not within the memory of the oldest inhabitants had petersburg, virginia, been visited by a flood as fierce and destructive as that which surprised it on saturday and sunday. the whole population turned out to see the sight. the storm that did such havoc in virginia and west virginia on thursday reached gettysburg on saturday morning. the rain began at o'clock friday morning and continued until o'clock saturday. it was one continuous down-pour during all that time. as a result, the streams were higher than they had been for twenty-five years. by actual measurement the rain-fall was . inches between the above hours. nearly every bridge in the county was either badly damaged or swept away, and farmers who lived near the larger streams mourn for their fences carried away and grain fields ruined. both the railroads leading to the town had large portions of their embankments washed out and many of their bridges disturbed. on the baltimore and harrisburg division of the western maryland railroad the damage was great. at valley junction feet of the embankment disappeared, and at marsh creek, on the new branch of the road to hagerstown, four divisions of the bridge were swept away. but at pine grove and mount holly perhaps the greatest damage was done. the large laudel dam, which supplies the water to run the forge at pine grove furnace, and which covers thirty acres of land, burst. it swept away part of the furnace and a house. the occupants were saved by men wading in water up to their waists. every bridge, with one exception, in mount holly was swept away by the flood occasioned by the breaking of the dam which furnished water for the paper mills at that place. the water at elmira, n. y., on saturday night was from a foot to a foot and a half higher than ever before known. the erie railroad bridge was anchored in its place by two trains of loaded freight cars. the water rose to the cars, which, with the bridge, acted as a dam, and forced the water back through the city on the north side of the chemung river, where the principal business houses are located. the water covered the streets to a depth of two or three feet, and the basements of the stores were quickly flooded, causing thousands of dollars of damage. the only possible way of entering the rathbone house, the principal hotel of the city and on the chief business street, was by boats, which were rowed directly into the hotel office. on the south side of the river the waters were held in check for several hours by the ten-foot railroad embankment, but hundreds of families were driven into the upper stories of their houses. late in the evening, two thousand feet of the embankment was forced away, and the water carried the railroad tracks and everything else before it. an extensive lumber yard in the path of the rushing water was swept away. many horses were drowned, and the people living on the flats were rescued with great difficulty by the police and firemen. a terrible rain-storm visited andover, n. y. all the streams were swollen far above high-water mark, and fields and roads were overflowed. no less than a dozen bridges in this town were carried away, and newly planted crops were utterly ruined. the water continued to rise rapidly until o'clock. at that hour the two dams at the ponds above the village gave away, and the water rushed wildly down into the village. nearly every street in the place was overflowed, and in many cases occupants of houses were driven to the upper floors for safety. owen's large tannery was flooded and ruined. almost every rod of railroad track was covered and much of it will have to be rebuilt. the track at some points was covered fifteen feet with earth. at wellsville, n. y., the heavy rain raised creeks into rivers and rivers into lakes. never, in the experience of the oldest inhabitant, had wellsville been visited with such a flood. both ends of the town were submerged, water in many cases standing clear to the roofs of houses. canisteo, n. y., was invaded by a flood the equal of which had never been known or seen in that vicinity before. thursday afternoon a drizzling rain began and continued until it became a perfect deluge. the various creeks and mountain rills tributary to the canisteo river became swollen and swept into the village, inundating many of the streets to the depth of three feet and others from five to seven feet. the streets were scarcely passable, and all stores on main and the adjacent streets were flooded to a depth of from one to two feet and much of the stock was injured or spoiled. many houses were carried away from their foundations, and several narrow escapes from death were made. one noble deed, worthy of special mention, was performed by a young man, who waded into the water where the current was swift and caught a baby in his arms as it was thrown from the window of a house that had just been swept from its foundation. the fire department building, one of the most costly blocks in town, was undermined by the flood and the greater part fell to the ground with a crash. the town jail was almost destroyed. the inundation in the coal, iron and lumber country around sunbury, penn., occasioned much destruction and suffering, while no less than fifty lives were lost. the susquehanna, allegheny, bald eagle, sinnamahoning and huntingdon railways suffered greatly, and the losses incurred reach, in round numbers, $ , , . in clearfield, clinton, lycoming, elk, cameron, northumberland, centre, indiana, mckean, somerset, bedford, huntingdon, blair and jefferson counties the rain-storm was one of unprecedented severity. the mountain streams grew into great rivers, which swept through the country with irresistible fury and force, and carried devastation in all directions. the destruction in the allegheny valley at and near dubois, red bank, new bethlehem and driftwood was immense, hardly a saw-mill being left standing. transcriber's notes corrections the use of larger or small capitals for "p.m." and "a.m." varies and have been left intact. several apparent errors were noted, but have been allowed to stand, and are included in this list. the spelling of 'pittsburgh' frequently omits the final 'h'. both variants are retained. variants in other place names are retained as well. an apparent confusion on p. : "_fonda, n. y., june ._--the people of johnstown, n. y...." is retained. fonda and johnstown n.y. were and are neighboring communities. in lists of contributions, missing or incorrect punctuation has been rendered consistent. the following corrections were made where the errors are clearly inadvertent. several instances of possibly nonstandard spelling have been noted with 'sic', which have been retained. p. viii | [ ] | completed page number. | | p. | franks[]town turnpike | missing hyphen at page | | break. | | p. | here and there[.] each | added stop. | | p. | [']to the hills | added single quote. | | p. | as soon as [we] were in it | added 'we'. | | p. | the pitt[t]sburg lady | removed extra 't'. | | p | so we [we] did not pay much | removed redundant 'we'. | | p. | especially the [woman], fainted. | sic | | p. | that were intrusted to us.["] | closing quote added. | | p. | and mary, nineteen years." | added missing quote. | | p. | site of the hu[r]lburt | elsewhere spelled | | hurlburt. | | p. | the hotel hurlbu[r]t | elsewhere spelled | | hurlburt. | | p. | train was on a sid[]ing | missing hyphen on | | line break. | | p. | to[-]day | missing hyphen added. | | p. | amounted to $ , [,/.] | comma replaced with | | decimal. | | p. | thomas garner & co[.] | period added. | | p. | saugerties[,] n. y., $ ; | comma added. | | p. | débris / debris | both the accented and | | unaccented spellings | | are retained, here and | | elsewhere. | | p. | nine hundred men [a]t work | added missing 'a'. | | p. | was discovered w[h]ere anybody | added missing 'h'. | | p. | there was ample water t[e/o] cover | corrected typo. | | | amount of water i[n/t] contained | corrected typo. | | p. | ninety million cubic feet[.] | added missing '.' | | p. | ho[u/a]ng-ho | changed to agree with | | other instances. | | p. | but the b[r]each grew | corrected typo. | | p. | a large rock was split assunder | sic | | p. | and caused great dam[s/a]ge | corrected typo. | | p. | the danube again o[u/v]erflowed | corrected typo. | | | its turbulent waters i[u/n]to | corrected typo. | | p. | at whitehall, [n.g./n.y.] | corrected typo. | | | one hundred and nin[e]ty feet | corrected typo. | | p. | baltimore and ohio rail[a/r]oad | corrected typo. | | p. | turned in[]to them by people | sic | | p. | allegehenies | sic | | p. | draughty as a seive | sic | | p. | ever beat our time[.]" | added '.' | | p. | [caniesto/canisteo] river | corrected typo. t. b. peterson's list of publications. the books in this catalogue will be found to be the very best and latest publications by the most popular and celebrated writers in the world. they are also the most readable and entertaining books, and are printed for the "million," at very cheap rates, and copies of all or any of them will be sent by mail, free of postage, to any person, on receipt of the advertised price. they are suitable for the parlor, library, sitting room, railroad, steamboat, or chamber reading, _and are published and for sale by_ t. b. peterson, no. chestnut street, philadelphia. [ph] booksellers, and all others, will be supplied at very low rates. [ph] mrs. southworths'. vivia: or, the secret of power, . india. the pearl of pearl river, . the missing bride, . the lost heiress, . deserted wife, . wife's victory, . curse of clifton, . discarded daughter, . retribution, . initials, . kate aylesford, . mabel, . the above are also published in cloth, price $ . each. mrs. hentz's works. the planter's northern bride, . linda, . robert graham, . courtship and marriage, . rena; or the snow bird, . marcus warland, . love after marriage, . eoline, . the banished son, . helen and arthur, . aunt patty's scrap bag, . the above are also published in cloth, price $ . each ellen pickering's. orphan niece, . kate walsingham, . poor cousin, . ellen wareham, . who shall be heir? . secret foe, . expectant, . fright, . quiet husband, . nan darell, . prince and pedlar, . merchant's daughter, . the squire, . agnes serle, . the heiress, . the grumbler, . charles lever's. charles o'malley, . knight of gwynne, . arthur o'leary, . tom burke of ours, . jack hinton, . harry lorrequer, . horace templeton, . kate o'donoghue, . lever's works are also bound in four volumes, in black cloth, for $ . . scarlet cloth, $ . . law library sheep $ . . half calf $ . . ten thousand a year, . valentine vox, the ventriloquist, . the sisters, . the steward, . percy effingham, . alexandre dumas'. the three guardsmen, . twenty years after, . bragelonne, . the iron hand, . forty-five guardsmen, . memoirs of a marquis, . andree de taverney, . countess of charny, . the iron mask, . louise la valliere, . memoirs of a physician, . queen's necklace, . diana of meridor, . six years later, . felina de chambure, . genevieve, . sketches in france, . isabel of bavaria, . edmond dantes, . corsican brothers, . lippard's works. washington & generals, . quaker city, . paul ardenheim, . blanche of brandywine, . the nazarene, . legends of mexico, . ladye of albarone, . charles dickens'. david copperfield, . dombey and son, . nicholas nickleby, . pickwick papers, . christmas stories, . martin chuzzlewit, . barnaby rudge, . dickens' new stories, . bleak house, . old curiosity shop, . sketches by "boz," . oliver twist, . a complete sett of the above will be sold for $ ; also, bound in five vols., black cloth, for $ . . scarlet cloth, for $ . . law library sheep, for $ . . the illustrated edition is $ . a volume, or $ for the complete sett of volumes. frank fairlegh's. frank fairlegh, . lewis arundel, . harry coverdale's courtship, . lorrimer littlegood, . fortunes and misfortunes of harry rackett scapegrace, . books of fun. major jones' courtship and travels. cloth, . simon suggs' adventures and travels. cloth, . major jones' scenes in georgia. cloth, . humors of falconbridge, . frank forester's sporting scenes and characters. vols., cloth, . dow's patent sermons. by dow, jr. vols., each, . piney woods tavern, . adventures of captain priest, . american joe miller, . humorous works. beautifully illustrated. major jones' courtship, . major jones' sketches of travel, . simon suggs' adventures, . major jones' chronicles of pineville, . polly peablossom's wedding, . widow rugby's husband, . big bear of arkansas, . streaks of squatter life, . pickings from picayune, . stray subjects arrested and bound over, . louisiana swamp doctor, . charcoal sketches, . misfortunes of peter faber, . peter ploddy, . yankee among mermaids, . new orleans sketch book, . drama in pokerville, . the charms of paris, . the quorndon hounds, . my shooting box, . warwick woodlands, . the deer stalkers, . adventures of captain farrago, . major o'regan's adventures, . sol. smith's theatrical apprenticeship, . sol. smith's theatrical journey-work, . quarter race kentucky, . rival belles, . life of col. vanderbomb, . life and adventures of percival mayberry, . yankee yarns and yankee letters, . mrs. grey's. gipsey's daughter, . lena cameron, . belle of the family, . sybil lennard, . duke and cousin, . the little wife, . manoeuvring mother, . baronet's daughters, . young prima donna, . old dower house, . hyacinthe, . alice seymour, . mary seaham, . passion and principle, . d'israeli's works. henrietta temple, . vivian grey, . venetia, . young duke, . miriam alroy, . contarini fleming, . languages. french without a master, . spanish without a master, . german without a master, . italian without a master, . latin without a master, . reynolds' works. mysteries of the court of london. vols., . rose foster. vols., . caroline of brunswick, . venetia trelawney, . lord saxondale, . count christoval, . rosa lambert, . mary price, . eustace quentin, . joseph wilmot, . banker's daughter, . kenneth, . the rye-house plot, . isabella vincent, . vivian bertram, . countess of lascelles, . duke of marchmont, . the necromancer, . the soldier's wife, . may middleton, . massacre of glencoe, . the court of naples, . loves of the harem, . ellen percy, . agnes evelyn, . edgar montrose, . parricide, . life in paris, . capt. marryatt's. jacob faithful, . japhet search of father, . phantom ship, . midshipman easy, . pacha of many tales, . naval officer, . snarleyow, . newton foster, . king's own, . pirate & three cutters, . peter simple, . percival keene, . poor jack, . sea king, . valerie, . ainsworth's. jack sheppard, . tower of london, . guy fawkes, . the star chamber, . newgate calendar, . old st. paul's, . mysteries of the court of queen anne, . mysteries of the court of the stuarts, . life of davy crockett, . life of henry thomas, . dick turpin, . desperadoes new world, . ninon de l'enclos, . life of arthur spring, . life of grace o'malley, . windsor castle, . green on gambling gambling exposed, . gambling unmasked, . secret band of brothers, . the reformed gambler, . above in cloth, $ . each. highwaymen. life of john a. murrel, . life of joseph t. hare, . life of monroe edwards, . life of helen jewett, . life of jack rann, . kit clayton, . lives of the felons, . tom waters, . nat blake, . bill horton, . galloping gus, . ned hastings, . biddy woodhull, . eveleen wilson, . diary of a pawnbroker, . silver and pewter, . sweeney todd, . tales of the sea. adventures of ben brace, . jack adams, the mutineer, . the spitfire, . the petrel, . the pirate's son, . the doomed ship, . the three pirates, . the flying dutchman, . life of alexander tardy, . the flying yankee, . the yankee middy, . the gold seekers, . the river pirates, . dark shades of city life, . the rats of the seine, . yankees in japan, . red king, . morgan, the buccaneer, . jack junk, . davis, the pirate, . valdez, the pirate, . jack ariel, . gallant tom, . yankee jack, . harry helm, . harry tempest, . revolution tales. seven bros. of wyoming, . the brigand, . the rebel bride, . ralph runnion, . the flying artillerist, . old put, . wau-nan-gee, . the guerilla chief, . maitland's works. the watchman, . the wanderer, . diary of an old doctor, . the lawyer's story, . above in cloth, $ . each. eugene sue's. martin, the foundling, . wandering jew, . mysteries of paris, . first love, . woman's love, . man-of-war's-man, . female bluebeard, . raoul de surville, . cook books. miss leslie's new cookery book, . widdifield's new cook book, . mrs. hale's four thousand & five receipts, . miss leslie's new receipts for cooking, . mrs. hale's new cook book, . arthur's works. the two brides, . love in a cottage, . love in high life, . year after marriage, . the lady at home, . cecilia howard, . orphan children, . debtor's daughter, . mary moreton, . the divorced wife, . pride and prudence, . agnes, or the possessed, . lucy sandford, . the banker's wife, . the two merchants, . insubordination, . trial and triumph, . the iron rule, . the old astrologer, . the seamstress, . useful books. lardner's one thousand and ten things worth knowing, . how to get rich, . etiquette for all. cloth, . five languages without a master. cloth, . pocket library of useful knowledge, . lady's work table book, . gentlemen's etiquette, . ladies' etiquette, . kitchen gardener, . complete florist, . knowlson's horse doctor, . knowlson's cow doctor, . arthur's receipts for putting up fruits and vegetables in summer to keep, . emerson bennett's. the border rover, . clara moreland, . viola, . bride of wilderness, . ellen norbury, . forged will, . kate clarendon, . pioneer's daughter, . heiress of bellefonte; and walde-warren, . bulwer's novels. the roue, . falkland, . the oxonians, . calderon, the courtier, . by best authors. currer lyle, . modern chivalry, cloth . columbia, the beautiful blonde, . life and beauties of fanny fern, . the pride of life, . autobiography of an orphan girl, . the student, . adelaide waldgrave, . greatest plague of life, . uncle tom's cabin as it is, . tom racquet, . mysteries of three cities, . red indians of newfoundland, . roman traitor, . salathiel, by croley, . aristocracy, . inquisition in spain, . flirtations in america, . the coquette, . arrah neil, by james, . life in the south, . sketches in ireland, . whitehall, . whitefriars, . wild sports of west, . cabin and parlor, . romish confessional, . father clement, . fortune hunter, . genevra, . miser's heir, . victims of amusements, . henry clay's portrait, . siege of londonderry, . the orphan sisters, . two lovers, . adventures. adventures in africa, . adventures of ned lorn, . don quixotte, . wild oats sown abroad, . life and adventures of paul periwinkle, . george sands' first and true love, . indiana, . the corsair, . c. j. peterson's. mabel; or, darkness and dawn, . kate aylesford, . cruising in last war, . grace dudley, . valley farm, . sermons. america's mission, . thankfulness and character, . politics in religion, . dr. hollick's. anatomy & physiology, . dr. hollick's family physician, . quarter books. mysteries of a convent, . female life in new york, . agnes grey, . eva st. clair, . diary of a physician, . emigrant squire, . monk, by lewis, . beautiful french girl, . mysteries of bedlam, . abednego, by mrs. gore, . the orphan child, . ghost stories, . madison's exposition of odd fellowship, . abbey of innismoyle, . gliddon's ancient egypt, . josephine, . bell brandon, . philip in search of a wife, . admiral's daughter, . rody the rover, . jenny ambrose, . moreton hall, . agricultural chemistry, . animal chemistry, . liebig's potato disease, . rose warrington, . lady altamont, . the deformed, and charity sister, . ryan's mysteries of marriage, . uncle tom in england, . christy & white's song books. christy and wood's complete songster, . melodeon song book, . plantation melodies, . ethiopian song book, . serenader's song book, . complete ethiopian melodies, by christy and white. cloth, . cent books. seven poor travelers, . the schoolboy, . lizzie leigh, . christmas carol, . the chimes, . cricket on the hearth, . battle of life, . haunted man, . sister rosie, . yellow mask, . mother & step mother, . a wife's story, . odd fellowship exposed, . mormonism exposed, . duties of woman, by lucretia mott, . the holly-tree inn, . life of john maffit, . euchre and its laws, . throne of iniquity, . dr. berg on jesuits, . dr. berg's answer to archbishop hughes, . t. b. peterson chestnut street, philadelphia, has just published and for sale stereotype editions of the following works, which will be found to be the best and latest publications, by the most popular and celebrated writers in the world. every work published for sale here, either at wholesale or retail. all books in this catalogue will be sent to any one to any place, per mail, _free of postage_, on receipt of the price. * * * * * mrs. southworth's celebrated works. with a beautiful illustration in each volume. retribution. a tale of passion. by mrs. emma d. e. n. southworth. complete in two volumes, paper cover. price one dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $ . . india. the pearl of pearl river. by mrs. emma d. e. n. southworth. complete in two large volumes, paper cover. price one dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $ . . the missing bride; or, miriam the avenger. by mrs. emma d. e. n. southworth. complete in two volumes, paper cover. price one dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $ . . the lost heiress. by mrs. emma d. e. n. southworth. being a work of powerful interest. complete in two volumes, paper cover. price one dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $ . . the wife's victory; and nine other nouvellettes. by mrs. emma d. e. n. southworth. complete in two volumes, paper cover. price one dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $ . . the curse of clifton. by mrs. emma d. e. n. southworth. complete in two volumes, paper cover. price one dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for one dollar and twenty-five cents. the discarded daughter. by mrs. emma d. e. n. southworth. complete in two volumes, paper cover. price one dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for one dollar and twenty-five cents. the deserted wife. by mrs. emma d. e. n. southworth. complete in two volumes, paper cover. price one dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for one dollar and twenty-five cents. the initials. a love story of modern life. by a daughter of the celebrated lord erskine, formerly lord high chancellor of england. it will be read for generations to come, and rank by the side of sir walter scott's celebrated novels. two volumes, paper cover. price one dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $ . . the whole of the above are also published in a very fine style, bound in full crimson, gilt edges, gilt sides, full gilt backs, etc., and make very elegant and beautiful presentation books. price two dollars a copy. charles dickens' works. the best and most popular in the world. ten different editions. no library can be complete without a sett of these works. reprinted from the author's last editions. "peterson's" is the only complete and uniform edition of charles dickens' works published in america; they are reprinted from the original london editions, and are now the only edition published in this country. no library, either public or private, can be complete without having in it a complete sett of the works of this, the greatest of all living authors. every family should possess a sett of one of the editions. the cheap edition is complete in twelve volumes, paper cover; either or all of which can be had separately. price fifty cents each. the following are their names. david copperfield, nicholas nickleby, pickwick papers, dombey and son, martin chuzzlewit, barnaby rudge, old curiosity shop, sketches by "boz," oliver twist, bleak house, dickens' new stories. containing the seven poor travellers. nine new stories by the christmas fire. hard times. lizzie leigh. the miner's daughters, etc. christmas stories. containing--a christmas carol. the chimes. cricket on the hearth. battle of life. haunted man, and pictures from italy. a complete sett of the above edition, twelve volumes in all, will be sent to any one to any place, _free of postage_, for five dollars. complete library edition. in five large octavo volumes, with a portrait, on steel, of charles dickens, containing over four thousand very large pages, handsomely printed, and bound in various styles. volume contains pickwick papers and curiosity shop. " do. oliver twist, sketches by "boz," and barnaby rudge. " do. nicholas nickleby and martin chuzzlewit. " do. david copperfield, dombey and son, christmas stories, and pictures from italy. " do. bleak house, and dickens' new stories. containing--the seven poor travellers. nine new stories by the christmas fire. hard times. lizzie leigh. the miner's daughters, and fortune wildred, etc. price of a complete sett. bound in black cloth, full gilt back, $ . " " " " scarlet cloth, extra, . " " " " library sheep, . " " " " half turkey morocco, . " " " " half calf, antique, . [ph] _illustrated edition is described on next page._ [ph] illustrated edition of dickens' works. this edition is printed on very thick and fine white paper, and is profusely illustrated, with all the original illustrations by cruikshank, alfred crowquill, phiz, etc., from the original london edition, on copper, steel, and wood. each volume contains a novel complete, and may be had in complete setts, beautifully bound in cloth, for eighteen dollars for the sett in twelve volumes, or any volume will be sold separately, as follows: bleak house, _price_, $ . pickwick papers, . old curiosity shop, . oliver twist, . sketches by "boz," . barnaby rudge, . nicholas nickleby, . martin chuzzlewit, . david copperfield, . dombey and son, . christmas stories, . dickens' new stories, . price of a complete sett of the illustrated edition, in twelve vols., in black cloth, gilt back, $ . price of a complete sett of the illustrated edition, in twelve vols., in full law library sheep, $ . price of a complete sett of the illustrated edition, in twelve vols., in half turkey morocco, $ . price of a complete sett of the illustrated edition, in twelve vols., in half calf, antique, $ . _all subsequent works by charles dickens will be issued in uniform style with all the previous ten different editions._ captain marryatt's works. either of which can be had separately. price of all except the four last is cents each. they are printed on the finest white paper, and each forms one large octavo volume, complete in itself. peter simple. jacob faithful. the phantom ship. midshipman easy. king's own. newton forster. japhet in search of a father. pacha of many tales. naval officer. pirate and three cutters. snarleyyow; or, the dog-fiend. poor jack. price cents. percival keene. price cts. sea king. pages. price cents. valerie. his last novel. price cents. ellen pickering's novels. either of which can be had separately. price cents each. they are printed on the finest white paper, and each forms one large octavo volume, complete in itself, neatly bound in a strong paper cover. the orphan niece. kate walsingham. the poor cousin. ellen wareham. the quiet husband. who shall be heir? agnes serle. the heiress. prince and pedler. merchant's daughter. the fright. nan darrell. the squire. the expectant. the grumbler. cts. mrs. caroline lee hentz's works. courtship and marriage; or, the joys and sorrows of american life. with a portrait of the author. complete in two large volumes, paper cover, price one dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, for one dollar and twenty-five cents. the planter's northern bride. with illustrations. complete in two large volumes, paper cover, pages, price one dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, one dollar and twenty-five cents. linda; or, the young pilot of the belle creole. complete in two volumes, paper cover, price one dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, for one dollar and twenty-five cents. robert graham. the sequel to, and continuation of linda. being the last book but one that mrs. hentz wrote prior to her death. complete in two large volumes, paper cover, price one dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, for one dollar and twenty-five cents. rena; or, the snow bird. a tale of real life. complete in two volumes, paper cover, price one dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, for one dollar and twenty-five cents. marcus warland; or, the long moss spring. a tale of the south. complete in two volumes, paper cover, price one dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, one dollar and twenty-five cents. love after marriage; and other stories. complete in two volumes, paper cover, price one dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, for one dollar and twenty-five cents. eoline; or, magnolia vale. complete in two volumes, paper cover, price one dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $ . . the banished son; and other stories. complete in two volumes, paper cover, price one dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $ . . helen and arthur. complete in two volumes, paper cover, price one dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $ . . the whole of the above are also published in a very fine style, bound in the very best and most elegant and substantial manner, in full crimson, with beautifully gilt edges, full gilt sides, gilt backs, etc., etc., making them the best and most acceptable books for presentation at the price, published in the country. price of either one in this style, two dollars. t. s. arthur's works. either of which can be had separately. price cents each. they are the most moral, popular and entertaining in the world. there are no better books to place in the hands of the young. all will profit by them. year after marriage. the divorced wife. the banker's wife. pride and prudence. cecilia howard. mary moreton. love in a cottage. love in high life. the two merchants. lady at home. trial and triumph. the orphan children. the debtor's daughter. insubordination. lucy sandford. agnes, or the possessed. the two brides. the iron rule. the old astrologer. the seamstress. charles lever's novels. charles o'malley, the irish dragoon. by charles lever. complete in one large octavo volume of pages. price fifty cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. price one dollar. the knight of gwynne. a tale of the time of the union. by charles lever. complete in one fine octavo volume. price fifty cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. price one dollar. jack hinton, the guardsman. by charles lever. complete in one large octavo volume of pages. price fifty cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. price one dollar. tom burke of ours. by charles lever. complete in one large octavo volume of pages. price fifty cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. price one dollar. arthur o'leary. by charles lever. complete in one large octavo volume. price fifty cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. price one dollar. kate o'donoghue. a tale of ireland. by charles lever. complete in one large octavo volume. price fifty cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. price one dollar. horace templeton. by charles lever. this is lever's new book. complete in one large octavo volume. price fifty cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. price one dollar. harry lorrequer. by charles lever, author of the above seven works. complete in one octavo volume of pages. price fifty cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. price one dollar. valentine vox.--life and adventures of valentine vox, the ventriloquist. by henry cockton. one of the most humorous books ever published. price fifty cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth. price one dollar. percy effingham. by henry cockton, author of "valentine vox, the ventriloquist." one large octavo volume. price cents. ten thousand a year. by samuel c. warren. with portraits of snap, quirk, gammon, and tittlebat titmouse, esq. two large octavo vols., of pages. price one dollar; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, $ . . charles j. peterson's works. kate aylesford. a story of the refugees. one of the most popular books ever printed. complete in two large volumes, paper cover, price one dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, gilt. price $ . . cruising in the last war. a naval story of the war of . first and second series. being the complete work, unabridged. by charles j. peterson. octavo pages. price cents. grace dudley; or, arnold at saratoga. by charles j. peterson. illustrated. price cents. the valley farm; or, the autobiography of an orphan. a companion to jane eyre. price cents. eugene sue's novels. the mysteries of paris; and gerolstein, the sequel to it. by eugene sue, author of the "wandering jew," and the greatest work ever written. with illustrations. complete in two large volumes, octavo. price one dollar. the illustrated wandering jew. by eugene sue. with large illustrations. two large octavo volumes. price one dollar. the female bluebeard; or, the woman with many husbands. by eugene sue. price twenty-five cents. first love. a story of the heart. by eugene sue. price twenty-five cents. woman's love. a novel. by eugene sue. illustrated. price twenty-five cents. man-of-war's-man. a tale of the sea. by eugene sue. price twenty-five cents. raoul de surville; or, the times of napoleon bonaparte in . price twenty-five cents. sir e. l. bulwer's novels. falkland. a novel. by sir e. l. bulwer, author of "the roue," "oxonians," etc. one volume, octavo. price cents. the roue; or the hazards of women. price cents. the oxonians. a sequel to the roue. price cents. calderon the courtier. by bulwer. price - / cents. mrs. grey's novels. either of which can be had separately. price cents each. they are printed on the finest white paper, and each forms one large octavo volume, complete in itself, neatly bound in a strong paper cover. duke and the cousin. gipsy's daughter. belle of the family. sybil lennard. the little wife. manoeuvring mother. lena cameron; or, the four sisters. the baronet's daughters. the young prima donna. the old dower house. hyacinthe. alice seymour. harry monk. mary seaham. pages. price cents. passion and principle. pages. price cents. george w. m. reynold's works. the necromancer. a romance of the times of henry the eighth. by g. w. m. reynolds. one large volume. price cents. the parricide; or, the youth's career in crime. by g. w. m. reynolds. full of beautiful illustrations. price cents. life in paris; or, the adventures of alfred de rosann in the metropolis of france. by g. w. m. reynolds. full of engravings. price cents. ainsworth's works. jack sheppard.--pictorial life and adventures of jack sheppard, the most noted burglar, robber, and jail breaker, that ever lived. embellished with thirty-nine, full page, spirited illustrations, designed and engraved in the finest style of art, by george cruikshank, esq., of london. price fifty cents. illustrated tower of london. with splendid engravings. this is beyond all doubt one of the most interesting works ever published in the known world, and can be read and re-read with pleasure and satisfaction by everybody. we advise all persons to get it and read it. two volumes, octavo. price one dollar. pictorial life and adventures of guy fawkes, the chief of the gunpowder treason, the bloody tower, etc. illustrated. by william harrison ainsworth. pages. price fifty cents. the star chamber. an historical romance. by w. harrison ainsworth. with large full page illustrations. price cents. the pictorial old st. paul's. by william harrison ainsworth. full of illustrations. price fifty cents. mysteries of the court of queen anne. by william harrison ainsworth. price fifty cents. mysteries of the court of the stuarts. by ainsworth. being one of the most interesting historical romances ever written. one large volume. price fifty cents. dick turpin.--illustrated life of dick turpin, the highwayman, burglar, murderer, etc. price twenty-five cents. henry thomas.--life of harry thomas, the western burglar and murderer. full of engravings. price twenty-five cents. desperadoes.--illustrated life and adventures of the desperadoes of the new world. full of engravings. price twenty-five cents. ninon de l'enclos.--life and adventures of ninon de l'enclos, with her letters on love, courtship and marriage. illustrated. price twenty-five cents. the pictorial newgate calendar; or the chronicles of crime. beautifully illustrated with fifteen engravings. price fifty cents. pictorial life and adventures of davy crockett. written by himself. beautifully illustrated. price fifty cents. life and adventures of arthur spring, the murderer of mrs. ellen lynch and mrs. honora shaw, with a complete history of his life and misdeeds, from the time of his birth until he was hung. illustrated with portraits. price twenty-five cents. jack adams.--pictorial life and adventures of jack adams; the celebrated sailor and mutineer. by captain chamier, author of "the spitfire." full of illustrations. price fifty cents. grace o'malley.--pictorial life and adventures of grace o'malley. by william h. maxwell, author of "wild sports in the west." price fifty cents. the pirate's son. a sea novel of great interest. full of beautiful illustrations. price twenty-five cents. alexandre dumas' works. the iron mask, or the feats and adventures of raoule de bragelonne. being the conclusion of "the three guardsmen," "twenty years after," and "bragelonne." by alexandre dumas. complete in two large volumes, of octavo pages, with beautifully illustrated covers, portraits, and engravings. price one dollar. louise la valliere; or the second series and final end of the iron mask. by alexandre dumas. this work is the final end of "the three guardsmen," "twenty years after," "bragelonne," and "the iron mask," and is of far more interesting and absorbing interest, than any of its predecessors. complete in two large octavo volumes of over pages, printed on the best of paper, beautifully illustrated. it also contains correct portraits of "louise la valliere," and "the hero of the iron mask." price one dollar. the memoirs of a physician; or the secret history of louis the fifteenth. by alexandre dumas. it is beautifully embellished with thirty engravings, which illustrate the principal scenes and characters of the different heroines throughout the work. complete in two large octavo volumes. price one dollar. the queen's necklace: or the secret history of the court of louis the sixteenth. a sequel to the memoirs of a physician. by alexandre dumas. it is beautifully illustrated with portraits of the heroines of the work. complete in two large octavo volumes of over pages. price one dollar. six years later; or the taking of the bastille. by alexandre dumas. being the continuation of "the queen's necklace; or the secret history of the court of louis the sixteenth," and "memoirs of a physician." complete in one large octavo volume. price seventy-five cents. countess de charny; or the fall of the french monarchy. by alexandre dumas. this work is the final conclusion of the "memoirs of a physician," "the queen's necklace," and "six years later, or taking of the bastile." all persons who have not read dumas in this, his greatest and most instructive production, should begin at once, and no pleasure will be found so agreeable, and nothing in novel form so useful and absorbing. complete in two volumes, beautifully illustrated. price one dollar. diana of meridor; the lady of monsoreau; or france in the sixteenth century. by alexandre dumas. an historical romance. complete in two large octavo volumes of pages, with numerous illustrative engravings. price one dollar. isabel of bavaria; or the chronicles of france for the reign of charles the sixth. complete in one fine octavo volume of pages, printed on the finest white paper. price fifty cents. edmond dantes. being the sequel to dumas' celebrated novel of the count of monte cristo. with elegant illustrations. complete in one large octavo volume of over pages. price fifty cents. the corsican brothers. this work has already been dramatized, and is now played in all the theatres of europe and in this country, and it is exciting an extraordinary interest. price twenty-five cents. sketches in france. by alexandre dumas. it is as good a book as thackeray's sketches in ireland. dumas never wrote a better book. it is the most delightful book of the season. price fifty cents. genevieve, or the chevalier of the maison rouge. by alexandre dumas. an historical romance of the french revolution. complete in one large octavo volume of over pages, with numerous illustrative engravings. price fifty cents. george lippard's works. washington and his generals; or, legends of the american revolution. complete in two large octavo volumes of pages, printed on the finest white paper. price one dollar. the quaker city; or, the monks of monk hall. a romance of philadelphia life, mystery and crime. illustrated with numerous engravings. complete in two large octavo volumes of pages. price one dollar. the ladye of albarone; or, the poison goblet. a romance of the dark ages. lippard's last work, and never before published. complete in one large octavo volume. price seventy-five cents. paul ardenheim; the monk of wissahickon. a romance of the revolution. illustrated with numerous engravings. complete in two large octavo volumes, of nearly pages. price one dollar. blanche of brandywine; or, september the eleventh, . a romance of the poetry, legends, and history of the battle of brandywine. it makes a large octavo volume of pages, printed on the finest white paper. price seventy-five cents. legends of mexico; or, battles of general zachary taylor, late president of the united states. complete in one octavo volume of pages. price twenty-five cents. the nazarene; or, the last of the washingtons. a revelation of philadelphia, new york, and washington, in the year . complete in one volume. price fifty cents. b. d'israeli's novels. vivian grey. by b. d'israeli, m. p. complete in one large octavo volume of pages. price fifty cents. the young duke; or the younger days of george the fourth. by b. d'israeli, m. p. one octavo volume. price thirty-eight cents. venetia; or, lord byron and his daughter. by b. d'israeli, m. p. complete in one large octavo volume. price fifty cents. henrietta temple. a love story. by b. d'israeli, m. p. complete in one large octavo volume. price fifty cents. contarina fleming. an autobiography. by b. d'israeli, m. p. one volume, octavo. price thirty-eight cents. miriam alroy. a romance of the twelfth century. by b. d'israeli, m. p. one volume octavo. price thirty-eight cents. emerson bennett's works. clara moreland. this is a powerfully written romance. the characters are boldly drawn, the plot striking, the incidents replete with thrilling interest, and the language and descriptions natural and graphic, as are all of mr. bennett's works. pages. price cents in paper cover, or one dollar in cloth, gilt. viola; or, adventures in the far south-west. complete in one large volume. price cents in paper cover, or cents in cloth, gilt. the forged will. complete in one large volume, of over pages, paper cover, price cents; or bound in cloth, gilt, price $ . . kate clarendon; or, necromancy in the wilderness. price cents in paper cover, or cents in cloth, gilt. bride of the wilderness. complete in one large volume. price cents in paper cover, or cents in cloth, gilt. the pioneer's daughter; and the unknown countess. by emerson bennett. price cents. heiress of bellefonte; and walde-warren. a tale of circumstantial evidence. by emerson bennett. price cents. ellen norbury; or, the adventures of an orphan. complete in one large volume, price cents in paper cover, or in cloth gilt, $ . . miss leslie's new cook book. miss leslie's new receipts for cooking. comprising new and approved methods of preparing all kinds of soups, fish, oysters, terrapins, turtle, vegetables, meats, poultry, game, sauces, pickles, sweet meats, cakes, pies, puddings, confectionery, rice, indian meal preparations of all kinds, domestic liquors, perfumery, remedies, laundry-work, needle-work, letters, additional receipts, etc. also, list of articles suited to go together for breakfasts, dinners, and suppers, and much useful information and many miscellaneous subjects connected with general house-wifery. it is an elegantly printed duo-decimo volume of pages; and in it there will be found _one thousand and eleven new receipts_--all useful--some ornamental--and all invaluable to every lady, miss, or family in the world. this work has had a very extensive sale, and many thousand copies have been sold, and the demand is increasing yearly, being the most complete work of the kind published in the world, and also the latest and best, as, in addition to cookery, its receipts for making cakes and confectionery are unequalled by any other work extant. new edition, enlarged and improved, and handsomely bound. price one dollar a copy only. this is the only new cook book by miss leslie. george sands' works. first and true love. a true love story. by george sand, author of "consuelo," "indiana," etc. it is one of the most charming and interesting works ever published. illustrated. price cents. indiana. by george sand, author of "first and true love," etc. a very bewitching and interesting work. price cents. the corsair. a venetian tale. price cents. humorous american works. with original illustrations by darley and others, and beautifully illuminated covers. we have just published new and beautiful editions of the following humorous american works. they are published in the best possible style, full of original illustrations, by darley, descriptive of all the best scenes in each work, with illuminated covers, with new and beautiful designs on each, and are printed on the finest and best of white paper. there are no works to compare with them in point of wit and humor, in the whole world. the price of each work is fifty cents only. the following are the names of the works. major jones' courtship: detailed, with other scenes, incidents, and adventures, in a series of letters, by himself. with thirteen illustrations from designs by darley. price fifty cents. drama in pokerville: the bench and bar of jurytown, and other stories. by "everpoint," (j. m. field, of the st. louis reveille.) with illustrations from designs by darley. fifty cents. charcoal sketches; or, scenes in the metropolis. by joseph c. neal, author of "peter ploddy," "misfortunes of peter faber," etc. with illustrations. price fifty cents. yankee amongst the mermaids, and other waggeries and vagaries. by w. e. burton, comedian. with illustrations by darley. price fifty cents. misfortunes of peter faber, and other sketches. by the author of "charcoal sketches." with illustrations by darley and others. price fifty cents. major jones' sketches of travel, comprising the scenes, incidents, and adventures in his tour from georgia to canada. with eight illustrations from designs by darley. price fifty cents. streaks of squatter life, and far west scenes. a series of humorous sketches, descriptive of incidents and character in the wild west. by the author of "major jones' courtship," "swallowing oysters alive," etc. with illustrations from designs by darley, price fifty cents. quarter race in kentucky, and other stories. by w. t. porter, esq., of the new york spirit of the times. with eight illustrations and designs by darley. complete in one volume. price fifty cents. simon suggs.--adventures of captain simon suggs, late of the tallapoosa volunteers, together with "taking the census," and other alabama sketches. by a country editor. with a portrait from life, and nine other illustrations by darley. price fifty cents. rival belles. by j. b. jones, author of "wild western scenes," etc. this is a very humorous and entertaining work, and one that will be recommended by all after reading it. price fifty cents. yankee yarns and yankee letters. by sam slick, alias judge haliburton. full of the drollest humor that has ever emanated from the pen of any author. every page will set you in a roar. price fifty cents. life and adventures of col. vanderbomb, and the exploits of his private secretary. by j. b. jones, author of "the rival belles," "wild western scenes," etc. price fifty cents. big bear of arkansas, and other sketches, illustrative of characters and incidents in the south and south-west. edited by wm. t. porter. with illustrations by darley. price fifty cents. major jones' chronicles of pineville; embracing sketches of georgia scenes, incidents, and characters. by the author of "major jones' courtship," etc. with illustrations by darley. price fifty cents. life and adventures of percival maberry. by j. h. ingraham. it will interest and please everybody. all who enjoy a good laugh should get it at once. price fifty cents. frank forester's quorndon hounds; or, a virginian at melton mowbray. by h. w. herbert, esq. with illustrations. price fifty cents. pickings from the portfolio of the reporter of the "new orleans picayune." comprising sketches of the eastern yankee, the western hoosier, and such others as make up society in the great metropolis of the south. with illustrations by darley. price fifty cents. frank forester's shooting box. by the author of "the quorndon hounds," "the deer stalkers," etc. with illustrations by darley. price fifty cents. stray subjects arrested and bound over; being the fugitive offspring of the "old un" and the "young un," that have been "laying around loose," and are now "tied up" for fast keeping. with illustrations by darley. price fifty cents. frank forester's deer stalkers; a tale of circumstantial evidence. by the author of "my shooting box," "the quorndon hounds," etc. with illustrations. price fifty cents. adventures of captain farrago. by hon. h. h. brackenridge. for sixteen years one of the judges of the supreme court of the state of pennsylvania. with illustrations from designs by darley. price fifty cents. the charms of paris; or, sketches of travel and adventures by night and day, of a gentleman of fortune and leisure. from his private journal. price fifty cents. peter ploddy, and other oddities. by the author of "charcoal sketches," "peter faber," &c. with illustrations from original designs, by darley. price fifty cents. widow rugby's husband, a night at the ugly man's, and other tales of alabama. by author of "simon suggs." with original illustrations. price fifty cents. major o'regan's adventures. by hon. h. h. brackenridge. with illustrations by darley. price fifty cents. sol. smith; theatrical apprenticeship and anecdotal recollections of sol. smith, esq., comedian, lawyer, etc. illustrated by darley. containing early scenes, wanderings in the west, cincinnati in early life, etc. price fifty cents. sol. smith's new book; the theatrical journey-work and anecdotal recollections of sol. smith, esq., with a portrait of sol. smith. it comprises a sketch of the second seven years of his professional life, together with some sketches of adventure in after years. price fifty cents. polly peablossom's wedding, and other tales. by the author of "major jones' courtship," "streaks of squatter life," etc. price fifty cents. frank forester's warwick woodlands; or, things as they were twenty years ago. by the author of "the quorndon hounds," "my shooting box," "the deer stalkers," etc. with illustrations, illuminated. price fifty cents. louisiana swamp doctor. by madison tensas, m. d., ex. v. p. m. s. u. ky. author of "cupping on the sternum." with illustrations by darley. price fifty cents. new orleans sketch book, by "stahl," author of the "portfolio of a southern medical student." with illustrations from designs by darley. price fifty cents. french, german, spanish, latin, and italian languages. any person unacquainted with either of the above languages, can, with the aid of these works, be enabled to _read_, _write_ and _speak_ the language of either, without the aid of a teacher or any oral instruction whatever, provided they pay strict attention to the instructions laid down in each book, and that nothing shall be passed over, without a thorough investigation of the subject it involves: by doing which they will be able to _speak_, _read_ or _write_ either language, at their will and pleasure. either of these works is invaluable to any persons wishing to learn these languages, and are worth to any one one hundred times their cost. these works have already run through several large editions in this country, for no person ever buys one without recommending it to his friends. french without a master. in six easy lessons. german without a master. in six easy lessons. spanish without a master. in four easy lessons. italian without a master. in five easy lessons. latin without a master. in six easy lessons. price of either of the above works, separate, cents each--or the whole five may be had for one dollar, and will be sent _free of postage_ to any one on their remitting that amount to the publisher, in a letter. works by the best authors. flirtations in america; or high life in new york. a capital book. pages. price cents. don quixotte.--illustrated life and adventures of don quixotte de la mancha, and his squire sancho panza, with all the original notes. pages. price cents. wild sports in the west. by w. h. maxwell, author of "pictorial life and adventures of grace o'malley." price cents. the romish confessional; or, the auricular confession and spiritual direction of the romish church. its history, consequences, and policy of the jesuits. by m. michelet. price cents. genevra; or, the history of a portrait. by miss fairfield, one of the best writers in america. pages. price cents. wild oats sown abroad; or, on and off soundings. it is the private journal of a gentleman of leisure and education, and of a highly cultivated mind, in making the tour of europe. it shows up all the high and low life to be found in all the fashionable resorts in paris. price cents in paper cover, or cents in cloth, gilt. salathiel; or, the wandering jew. by rev. george croly. one of the best and most world-wide celebrated books that has ever been printed. price cents. llorente's history of the inquisition in spain. only edition published in this country. price cents; or handsomely bound in muslin, gilt, price cents. dr. hollick's new book. anatomy and physiology, with a large dissected plate of the human figure, colored to life. by the celebrated dr. hollick, author of "the family physician," "origin of life," etc. price one dollar. dr. hollick's family physician; or, the true art of healing the sick. a book that should be in the house of every family. it is a perfect treasure. price cents. mysteries of three cities. boston, new york, and philadelphia. revealing the secrets of society in these various cities. all should read it. by a. j. h. duganne. pages. price cents. red indians of newfoundland. a beautifully illustrated indian story, by the author of the "prairie bird." price cents. harris's adventures in africa. this book is a rich treat. two volumes. price one dollar, or handsomely bound, $ . . the petrel; or, love on the ocean. a sea novel equal to the best. by admiral fisher. pages. price cents. aristocracy, or life among the "upper ten." a true novel of fashionable life. by j. a. nunes, esq. price cents. the cabin and parlor. by j. thornton randolph. it is beautifully illustrated. price cents in paper cover; or a finer edition, printed on thicker and better paper, and handsomely bound in muslin, gilt, is published for one dollar. life in the south. a companion to "uncle tom's cabin." by c. h. wiley. beautifully illustrated from original designs by darley. price cents. sketches in ireland. by william m. thackeray, author of "vanity fair," "history of pendennis," etc. price cents. the roman traitor; or, the days of cataline and cicero. by henry william herbert. this is one of the most powerful roman stories in the english language, and is of itself sufficient to stamp the writer as a powerful man. complete in two large volumes, of over pages each, paper cover, price one dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth, for $ . . the lady's work-table book. full of plates, designs, diagrams, and illustrations to learn all kinds of needlework. a work every lady should possess. price cents in paper cover; or bound in crimson cloth, gilt, for cents. the coquette. one of the best books ever written. one volume, octavo, over pages. price cents. whitefriars; or, the days of charles the second. an historical romance. splendidly illustrated with original designs, by chapin. it is the best historical romance published for years. price cents. whitehall; or, the times of oliver cromwell. by the author of "whitefriars." it is a work which, for just popularity and intensity of interest, has not been equalled since the publication of "waverly." beautifully illustrated. price cents. the spitfire. a nautical romance. by captain chamier, author of "life and adventures of jack adams." illustrated. price cents. uncle tom's cabin as it is. one large volume, illustrated, bound in cloth. price $ . . father clement. by grace kennady, author of "dunallen," "abbey of innismoyle," etc. a beautiful book. price cents. the abbey of innismoyle. by grace kennady, author of "father clement." equal to any of her former works. price cents. the fortune hunter; a novel of new york society, upper and lower tendom. by mrs. anna cora mowatt. price cents. pocket library of useful knowledge. new and enlarged edition, with numerous engravings. twenty thousand copies sold. we have never seen a volume embracing anything like the same quantity of useful matter. the work is really a treasure. it should speedily find its way into every family. it also contains a large and entirely new map of the united states, with full page portraits of the presidents of the united states, from washington until the present time, executed in the finest style of the art. price cents a copy only. henry clay's portrait. nagle's correct, full length mezzotinto portrait, and only true likeness ever published of the distinguished statesman. engraved by sartain. size, by inches. price $ . a copy only. originally sold at $ . a copy. the miser's heir; or, the young millionaire. a story of a guardian and his ward. a prize novel. by p. h. myers, author of the "emigrant squire." price cents in paper cover, or cents in cloth, gilt. the two lovers. a domestic story. it is a highly interesting and companionable book, conspicuous for its purity of sentiment--its graphic and vigorous style--its truthful delineations of character--and deep and powerful interest of its plot. price cents. arrah neil. a novel by g. p. r. james. price cents. siege of londonderry. a history of the siege of londonderry, and defence of enniskillen, in and , by the rev. john graham. price cents. victims of amusements. by martha clark, and dedicated by the author to the sabbath schools of the land. one vol., cloth, cents. freaks of fortune: or, the life and adventures of ned lorn. by the author of "wild western scenes." one volume, cloth. price one dollar. works at twenty-five cents each. gentleman's science of etiquette, and guide to society. by count alfred d'orsay with a portrait of count d'orsay. price cents. ladies' science of etiquette. by countess de calabrella, with her full-length portrait. price cents. ella stratford; or, the orphan child. by the countess of blessington. a charming and entertaining work. price cents. ghost stories. full of illustrations. being a wonderful book. price cents. admiral's daughter. by mrs. marsh, author of "ravenscliffe." one volume, octavo. price cents. the monk. a romance. by matthew g. lewis, esq., m. p. all should read it. price cents. diary of a physician. second series. by s. c. warren, author of "ten thousand a year." illustrated. price cents. abednego, the money lender. by mrs. gore. price cents. madison's exposition of the awful ceremonies of odd fellowship, with plates. price cents. gliddon's ancient egypt. her monuments, hieroglyphics, history, etc. full of plates. price cents. beautiful french girl; or the daughter of monsieur fontanbleu. price cents. mysteries of bedlam; or, annals of the london mad-house. price cents. josephine. a story of the heart. by grace aguilar, author of "home influence," "mother's recompense," etc. price cents. eva st. clair; and other tales. by g. p. r. james, esq., author of "richelieu." price cents. agnes grey; an autobiography. by the author of "jane eyre," "shirley," etc. price cents. bell brandon, and the withered fig tree. by p. hamilton myers. a three hundred dollar prize novel. price cents. knowlson's complete cattle, or cow doctor. whoever owns a cow should have this book. price cents. knowlson's complete farrier, or horse doctor. all that own a horse should possess this work. price cents. the complete kitchen and fruit gardener, for popular and general use. price cents. the complete florist; or flower gardener. the best in the world. price cents. the emigrant squire. by author of "bell brandon." cents. philip in search of a wife. by the author of "kate in search of a husband." price cents. mysteries of a convent. by a noted methodist preacher. price cents. the orphan sisters. it is a tale such as miss austen might have been proud of, and goldsmith would not have disowned. it is well told, and excites a strong interest. price cents. the deformed. one of the best novels ever written, and the charity sister. by hon. mrs. norton. price cents. life in new york. in doors and out of doors. by the late william burns. illustrated by forty engravings. price cents. jenny ambrose; or, life in the eastern states. an excellent book. price cents. moreton hall; or, the spirits of the haunted house. a tale founded on facts. price cents. rody the rover; or the ribbon man. an irish tale. by william carleton. one volume, octavo. price cents. america's mission. by rev. charles wadsworth. price cents. politics in religion. by rev. charles wadsworth. price - / cts. professor liebig's works on chemistry. agricultural chemistry. chemistry in its application to agriculture and physiology. price twenty-five cents. animal chemistry. chemistry in its application to physiology and pathology. price twenty-five cents. familiar letters on chemistry, and its relations to commerce, physiology and agriculture. the potato disease. researches into the motion of the juices in the animal body. chemistry and physics in relation to physiology and pathology. t. b. peterson also publishes a complete edition of professor liebig's works on chemistry, comprising the whole of the above. they are bound in one large royal octavo volume, in muslin gilt. price for the complete works bound in one volume, one dollar and fifty cents. the three last are not published separately from the bound volume. excellent shilling books. the seven poor travellers. by charles dickens. price - / cts. the schoolboy, and other stories. by dickens. - / cents. sister rose. by charles dickens. price - / cents. christmas carol. by charles dickens. price - / cents. lizzie leigh, and the miner's daughters. by charles dickens. price - / cents. the chimes. by charles dickens. price - / cents. the cricket on the hearth. by charles dickens. price - / cts. battle of life. by charles dickens. price - / cents. haunted man; and the ghost's bargain. by charles dickens. price - / cents. the yellow mask. from dickens' household words. price - / cts. a wife's story. from dickens' household words. price - / cts. mother and stepmother. by dickens. price - / cents. odd fellowship exposed. with all the signs, grips, pass-words, etc. illustrated. price - / cents. mormonism exposed. full of engravings, and portraits of the twelve apostles. price - / cents. the life and death of the rev. john n. maffit; with his portrait. price - / cents. rev. albert barnes on the maine liquor law. the throne of iniquity; or, sustaining evil by law. a discourse in behalf of a law prohibiting the traffic in intoxicating drinks. price - / cents. woman. discourse on woman. her sphere, duties, etc. by lucretia mott. price - / cents. euchre. the game of euchre, and its laws. by a member of the euchre club of philadelphia of thirty years' standing. price - / cents. dr. berg's answer to archbishop hughes. price - / cents. dr. berg's lecture on the jesuits. price - / cents. fresh fruits and vegetables all the year round, at summer prices, and how to obtain and have them, with full directions. - / cents. * * * * * t. b. peterson's wholesale & retail cheap book, magazine, newspaper, publishing and bookselling establishment, is at no. chestnut street, philadelphia: from which place he will supply all orders for any books at all, no matter by whom published, in advance of all others, and at publishers' lowest cash prices. he respectfully invites country merchants, booksellers, pedlars, canvassers, agents, the trade, strangers in the city, and the public generally, to call and examine his extensive collection of all kinds of publications, where they will be sure to find all the _best, latest, and cheapest works_ published in this country or elsewhere, for sale very low. the forged will. by emerson bennett, author of "clara moreland," "viola," "pioneer's daughter," etc. this celebrated and beautiful work is published complete in one large volume, of over pages, paper cover, price fifty cents; or the work is handsomely bound in one volume, cloth, gilt, price one dollar. one hundred thousand copies of the forged will will be sold in a short time, and it will have a run and popularity second only to uncle tom's cabin. the press everywhere are unanimous in its praise, as being one of the most powerfully written works in the language. the forged will is truly a celebrated work. it has been running through the columns of the philadelphia dollar newspaper, where it has been appearing for ten weeks, and has proved itself to be one of the most popular nouvelettes that has ever appeared in the columns of any newspaper in this country. before the fourth paper appeared, the back numbers, (although several thousand extra of the three former numbers were printed,) could not be obtained at any price, and the publishers of the paper were forced to issue a supplement sheet of the first three papers of it, for new subscribers to their paper, which induced the publisher to make an arrangement with the popular author to bring it out in a beautiful style for the thousands that wish it in book form. if emerson bennett had never written his many delightful and thrilling stories of border life, of prairie scenes, and indian warfare, this new story of the 'forged will' would have placed his name on the record as one of the best of american novelists. the scenes, principally, of this most captivating novel, are laid in the city of new york; and most glowingly the author pictures to us how the guilty may, for a time, escape the justice of the law, but only to feel the heavy hand of retribution sooner or later; how vice may, for a time, triumph over virtue, but only for a time; how crime may lie concealed, until its very security breeds exposure; how true virtue gives way to no temptation, but bears the ills of life with patience, hoping for a better day, and rejoices triumphant in the end. in short, from base hypocrisy he tears the veil that hides its huge deformity, and gives a true picture of life as it exists in the crowded city. we do cordially recommend this book for its excellent moral. it is one that should be circulated, for it _must_ do good. price for the complete work, in one volume, in paper cover, fifty cents only; or a finer edition, printed on thicker and better paper, and handsomely bound in one volume, muslin, gilt, is published for one dollar. * * * * * t. b. peterson also publishes the following works by emerson bennett, either or all of which will be sent by mail, free of postage, to any one, on receipt of the prices annexed to them. all should send for one or more of them at once. no one will ever regret the money sent. =clara moreland=; or, adventures in the far south-west. by emerson bennett, author of the "the forged will," "viola," etc. this has proved to be one of the most popular and powerful nouvelettes ever written in america. pages. price fifty cents in paper covers, or one dollar in cloth, gilt. =the pioneer's daughter.= by emerson bennett, author of "clara moreland," "forged will," etc. price cents. =walde-warren=, a tale of circumstantial evidence. by emerson bennett, author of "viola," "pioneer's daughter," etc. price cents. =viola=; or, adventures in the far south-west. by emerson bennett, author of "the pioneer's daughter," "walde-warren," etc. price cents. copies of either edition of the above works will be sent to any person at all, to any part of the united states, free of postage, on their remitting the price of the edition they wish, to the publisher, in a letter, post paid. published and for sale by t. b. peterson, no. chestnut street, philadelphia [ph] read the notices of the press below. [ph] clara moreland. by emerson bennett. price fifty cents in paper cover; or, one dollar in cloth, gilt. read the following opinions of the press. "this is decidedly the best novel mr. bennett has written. he tells his story well, and while leading the reader over the prairies of texas into the haunts of the wild indians, or among the equally savage bands of lawless men, that once were the terror of that country; he presents the remarkable transitions in the fortunes of his hero, in a manner which, though often startling, are yet within the bounds of probability. his dialogue is good, growing easily out of the situation and condition of the interlocutors, and presenting occasionally, especially in response, an epigrammatic poise, that is worthy of all praise. the plot abounds with adventure, and presents many scenes of startling interest, while the denouement is such as to amply satisfy the most fastidious reader's ideas of poetical justice. we would add a few words of praise for the excellent style in which this book is gotten up. it is well printed on good paper, and bound in a manner to correspond with the quality of its typography."--_arthur's home gazette._ "this is the best of mr. bennett's books. it is a brilliant and thrilling production, and will particularly interest all who love to read of life in the west and south-west. a love story runs through the volume, lending grace and finish to it. mr. peterson has issued the book in very handsome style; the type is new and of honest size, the binding is strong and pretty, the paper is firm and white, and the embellishments are eminently creditable. clara moreland should command a large sale."--_philadelphia city item._ "on looking more carefully through this racy, spirited narrative of thrilling scenes and well-told adventures, we meet with beauties that escape a casual observation. mr. bennett is a keen discoverer of character, and paints his portraits so true to nature as to carry the reader with him through all his wild wanderings and with unabated interest. the author of 'clara moreland' takes rank among the most popular american novelists, and aided by the great energy of his publisher is fast becoming a general favorite."--_mcmackin's model saturday courier._ "emerson bennett has written some very creditable productions. this is one of his longest, and is well received. mr. bennett is a favorite author with western readers. it is illustrated and well printed."--_philadelphia dollar newspaper._ "it is a tale of wild border life and exciting incident, bustle, and turmoil."--_philadelphia north american._ "mr. bennett is, in some measure, a new man in this section of the universe, and, as such, our reading public are bound to give him a cordial greeting, not only for this, but for the sake of that wide-spread popularity which he has achieved in the mighty west, and more especially for the intrinsic excellence that distinguishes his glowing, brilliant productions, of which 'clara moreland' may be pronounced the best."--_philadelphia saturday courier._ "this work is of the most exciting character, and will be enjoyed by all who have a cultivated taste."--_baltimore sun._ "the scene of this interesting romance lies in texas before or during the late war with mexico. it is written with a great deal of spirit; it abounds in stirring incidents and adventures, has a good love-plot interwoven with it, and is in many respects a faithful representation of life in the far south-west. mr. bennett is destined to great popularity, especially at the south and west. his publisher has issued this book in a very handsome style."--_philadelphia evening bulletin._ "this is a thrilling story of frontier life, full of incident, and graphically sketched. it is published in a good style."--_philadelphia public ledger._ "this is a spirited narrative of stirring scenes, by emerson bennett. those who love daring adventure and hair-breadth escapes will find it an engaging book."--_detroit, mich., paper._ "it is a thrilling narrative of south-western adventure, illustrated by numerous engravings."--_detroit, mich., paper._ "it is a wondrous story of thrilling adventures and hair-breadth escapes, the scene of which is laid in the south-west. the book is illustrated with engravings representing some of the exciting events narrated by the writer."--_detroit, mich., paper._ "it is a work replete with stirring adventure. romance, incident, and accident, are blended together so as to form a highly interesting work of pages."--_new york picayune._ published and for sale by t. b. peterson, no. chestnut street, philadelphia. viola; or, adventures in the far south-west by emerson bennett, author of "clara moreland," "forged will," "kate clarendon," "bride of the wilderness," "walde-warren," "pioneer's daughter," etc., etc. read the following opinions of the press: "we have perused this work with some attention, and do not hesitate to pronounce it one of the very best productions of the talented author. the scenes are laid in texas, and the adjoining frontier. there is not a page that does not glow with thrilling and interesting incident, and will well repay the reader for the time occupied in perusing it. the characters are most admirably drawn, and are perfectly natural throughout. we have derived so much gratification from the perusal of this charming novel, that we are anxious to make our readers share it with us; and, at the same time, to recommend it to be read by all persons who are fond of romantic adventures. mr. bennett is a spirited and vigorous writer, and his works deserve to be generally read; not only because they are well written, but that they are, in most part, taken from events connected with the history of our own country, from which much valuable information is derived, and should, therefore, have a double claim upon our preference, over those works where the incidents are gleaned from the romantic legends of old castles, and foreign climes. the book is printed on fine paper, and is in every way got up in a style highly creditable to the enterprising publisher." "it is a spirited tale of frontier life, of which 'clara moreland' is the sequel and conclusion. mr. bennett seems to delight in that field of action and adventure, where cooper won his laurels; and which is perhaps the most captivating to the general mind of all the walks of fiction. there has been, so far, we think, a steady improvement in his style and stories; and his popularity, as a necessary consequence, has been and is increasing. one great secret of the popularity of these out-door novels, as we may call them, is that there is a freshness and simplicity of the open air and natural world about them--free from the closeness, intensity and artificiality of the gas-lighted world revealed in works that treat of the vices and dissipations of large cities."--_philadelphia saturday evening post._ "this is one of the best productions of mr. bennett. the scenes are in and near texas. every page glows with thrilling interest, and the characters are well drawn and sustained. an interesting love plot runs through the book, which gives a faithful representation of life in the far south-west. mr. peterson has issued viola in his usual neat style, and it is destined to have a great run."--_clinton tribune._ "we have received the above work and found time to give it an examination. the scenes are laid mostly in texas, and pictured with all the vividness for which the author is so celebrated. those who are particularly fond of wild and romantic adventures may safely calculate upon finding 'viola' suited to their taste. it is well written and handsomely printed."--_daily journal, chicago, ill._ "it is a very interesting book. the scenes of this most exciting and interesting romance are found in texas before and during the late mexican war. it is written with much spirit and pathos, and abounds in stirring incidents and adventures, and has an interesting and romantic love-plot interwoven with it; and is a faithful representation of 'life in the far south-west.' the author of 'viola,' will rank among the most popular of american novelists, and aided by the great energy and enterprise of his publisher, t. b. peterson, is fast becoming a general favorite."--_gazette, rhinebeck, n. y._ "this thrilling and interesting novel--equal to anything the celebrated author ever wrote--has been issued in a fifty cent volume; and we would advise every one who wants to get the value of his money, to get the book. bennett's works are the most interesting of any now published."--_western emporium, germantown, ohio._ this beautiful and celebrated work is published complete in one large volume of near pages, paper cover, price fifty cents; or the work is handsomely bound in one volume, cloth, gilt, price seventy-five cents. copies of either edition of the above work will be sent to any person at all, to any part of the united states, free of postage, on their remitting the price of the edition they wish, to the publisher, in a letter, post-paid. published and for sale by t. b. peterson, no. chestnut street, philadelphia. great inducements for . now is the time to make up clubs. peterson's magazine the best and cheapest in the world for ladies. this popular magazine, already the cheapest and best monthly of its kind in the world, _will be greatly improved for _. it will contain pages of double-column reading matter; from twenty to thirty steel plates; and _five hundred_ wood engravings: which is proportionately more than any periodical, of any price, ever yet gave. its thrilling original stories are pronounced by the newspaper press, _the best published anywhere_. the editors are mrs. ann s. stephens, author of "the old homestead," "fashion and famine," and charles j. peterson, author of "mabel," "kate aylesford," "the valley farm," etc. they are assisted by a corps of original contributors, such as no lady's magazine ever had. mrs. e. d. e. n. southworth, author of "the lost heiress," "retribution," etc., etc., is engaged to write a nouvelletté for . alice cary, virginia f. townsend. caroline e. fairfield, hetty holyoke, e. w. dewees, ella rodman, carry stanley, clara moreton, ellen ashton, etc., etc., will also contribute regularly. new talent is continually being added, _regardless of expense_, so as to keep "peterson's magazine" unapproachable in merit. morality and virtue are always inculcated. its colored fashion plates in advance. [ph] it is the only magazine whose fashion plates can be relied on. [ph] each number contains a fashion plate, engraved on steel, colored _à la mode_, and of unrivalled beauty. the paris, london, philadelphia, and new york fashions are described, at length, each month. every number also contains a dozen or more new styles, engraved on wood. also, a pattern, from which a dress, mantilla, or child's costume, can be cut without the aid of a mantua-maker, so that each number, in this way, will _save a year's subscription_. its superb mezzotints, and other steel engravings. its illustrations excel those of any other magazine, each number containing a superb steel engraving, either mezzotint or line, besides the fashion plate; and, in addition, numerous other engravings, wood cuts, patterns, etc., etc. the engravings, at the end of the year, _alone_ are worth the subscription price. patterns for crotchet, needlework, etc. in the greatest profusion, are given in every number, with instructions how to work them also, patterns in embroidery, inserting, broiderie anglaise, netting, lace-making, etc., etc. also, patterns for sleeves, collars, and chemisettes; patterns in bead-work, hair-work, shell-work; handkerchief corners; names for marking and initials. a piece of new and fashionable music is also published every month. on the whole, it is the _most complete ladies' magazine in the world_. try it for one year. terms:--always in advance. one copy for one year, $ . three copies for one year, . five copies for one year, . eight copies for one year, . twelve copies for one year, . sixteen copies for one year, . premiums for getting up clubs. three, five, eight, or more copies, make a club. to every person getting up a club at the above prices, and remitting the money, we will give _gratis_, "the garland of art," containing steel plates; or "mrs. widdifield's cook book," the _only_ real cook book ever yet published; or a volume of "peterson" for . for a club of twelve, an extra copy of the magazine for will be given, if preferred. for a club of sixteen, an extra copy and "the garland" _in addition_. _address, post-paid_, charles j. peterson, no. chestnut street, philadelphia. [ph] specimens sent, gratuitously, if written for, post-paid. [ph] all postmasters constituted agents; but any person is authorized to get up a club. [ph] in remitting, when the sum is large, a draft should be procured, the cost of which may be deducted from the amount. t. b. peterson's wholesale and retail cheap book, magazine, newspaper, publishing and bookselling establishment, is at no. chestnut street, philadelphia. t. b. peterson has the satisfaction to announce to the public, that he has removed to the new and spacious brown stone building, no. chestnut street, just completed by the city authorities on the girard estate, known as the most central and best situation in the city of philadelphia. as it is the model book store of the country, we will describe it: it is the largest, most spacious, and best arranged retail and wholesale cheap book and publishing establishment in the united states. it is built, by the girard estate, of connecticut sand-stone, in a richly ornamental style. the whole front of the lower story, except that taken up by the doorway, is occupied by two large plate glass windows, a single plate to each window, costing together over three thousand dollars. on entering and looking up, you find above you a ceiling sixteen feet high; while, on gazing before, you perceive a vista of one hundred and fifty-seven feet. the retail counters extend back for eighty feet, and, being double, afford counter-room of one hundred and sixty feet in length. there is also _over three thousand feet of shelving in the retail part of the store alone_. this part is devoted to the retail business, and as it is the most spacious in the country, furnishes also the best and largest assortment of all kinds of books to be found in the country. it is fitted up in the most superb style; the shelvings are all painted in florence white, with gilded cornices for the book shelves. behind the retail part of the store, at about ninety feet from the entrance, is the counting-room, twenty feet square, railed neatly off, and surmounted by a most beautiful dome of stained glass. in the rear of this is the wholesale and packing department, extending a further distance of about sixty feet, with desks and packing counters for the establishment, etc., etc. all goods are received and shipped from the back of the store, having a fine avenue on the side of girard bank for the purpose, leading out to third street, so as not to interfere with and block up the front of the store of chestnut street. the cellar, of the entire depth of the store, is filled with printed copies of mr. peterson's own publications, printed from his own stereotype plates, of which he generally keeps on hand an edition of a thousand each, making a stock, of his own publications alone, of over three hundred thousand volumes, constantly on hand. t. b. peterson is warranted in saying, that he is able to offer such inducements to the trade, and all others, to favor him with their orders, as cannot be excelled by any book establishment in the country. in proof of this, t. b. peterson begs leave to refer to his great facilities of getting stock of all kinds, his dealing direct with all the publishing houses in the country, and also to his own long list of publications, consisting of the best and most popular productions of the most talented authors of the united states and great britain, and to his very extensive stock, embracing every work, new or old, published in the united states. t. b. peterson will be most happy to supply all orders for any books at all, no matter by whom published, in advance of all others, and at publishers' lowest cash prices. he respectfully invites country merchants, booksellers, pedlars, canvassers, agents, the trade, strangers in the city, and the public generally, to call and examine his extensive collection of cheap and standard publications of all kinds, comprising a most magnificent collection of cheap books, magazines, novels, standard and popular works of all kinds, bibles, prayer books, annuals, gift books, illustrated works, albums and juvenile works of all kinds, games of all kinds, to suit all ages, tastes, etc., which he is selling to his customers and the public at much lower prices than they can be purchased elsewhere. being located at no. chestnut street, the great thoroughfare of the city, and buying his stock outright in large quantities, and not selling on commission, he can and will sell them on such terms as will defy all competition. call and examine our stock, you will find it to be the best, largest and cheapest in the city; and you will also be sure to find all the _best, latest, popular, and cheapest works_ published in this country or elsewhere, for sale at the lowest prices. [ph] call in person and examine our stock, or send your orders _by mail direct_, to the cheap bookselling and publishing establishment of t. b. peterson, no. chestnut street, philadelphia. * * * * * transcriber's notes minor punctuation errors and typos have been silently corrected. decimal points have been added to prices for consistency. "sett" and "setts" have been retained throughout catalog. [ph] represents a pointing hand symbol. transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). page numbers enclosed by curly braces (example: { }) have been incorporated to facilitate the use of the index. images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/diatomaceofphi boye * * * * * [illustration: duck pond, corner of fourth and market streets (about )] the diatomaceÆ of philadelphia and vicinity by charles s. boyer, a.m., f.r.m.s. _illustrated with seven hundred drawings by the author_ press of j. b. lippincott company east washington square philadelphia preface the present contribution to the local flora is intended as an introduction to more extended research. the study is of advantage in relation to the life history of aquatic animals, the determination of ocean currents, as proved by polar discoveries, the investigation of geological strata where other fossil forms are absent, and the analysis of water supply; and, when we consider the universal distribution of diatomaceæ in the earth, the water and even in the air and the enormous deposits formed in past ages and still forming, we are able to realize the importance of a knowledge of these complicated forms and their function of purification. the absence of descriptive works of reference in available form in this country, the polyglot confusion of authorities abroad and the amount of time, patience and skill required in obtaining, preparing and examining specimens, render the study one of difficulty. the bibliography is omitted, as it is understood by those who possess the works of reference, and but few synonyms are given, having but little, except historical, value, especially when it is considered that modern investigators have no access to many of the earlier collections, when any of these exist. so far as the marine forms are concerned, it is probable that nearly all occurring north of florida are here included, and the fresh-water species described represent a large proportion of those found east of the alleghanies. all of the figures are drawn to the same scale, a magnification of eight hundred diameters, from specimens in my possession, nearly all of which were found in or near philadelphia. if the work is of any value in inducing further investigation, i hope, in the words of julien deby, that "those who follow my advice will find in the study of these wonderful little organisms as much pleasure as i myself have found." the author. { }introduction the delaware river rises in the western catskill mountains, flows southward for about three hundred and seventy-five miles, and expands into delaware bay about sixty miles from the sea. its origin is among the devonian and carboniferous rocks, and in its course it passes through silurian, triassic and cretaceous formations, finally reaching the cambrian and laurentian beds. it also drains regions of the glacial drift and beds which overlie overturned miocene strata, and are sometimes mixed with them. from the mountains, nearly four thousand feet high, to the bay, where the depth of water is not greater than seventy-five feet, the diatomaceous flora, from alpine cascades to the salt marshes of new jersey, contains a larger number of species than any other equal portion of the american coast. the city of philadelphia, about one hundred miles from the sea, lies at the junction of the schuylkill with the delaware, and much of the land near the rivers, especially southward, is flat and low, composed of recent alluvial deposits. in the central districts the ground is high, the deep sub-soil being mostly a dry gravel resting upon gneiss and schist, although it is in part composed of a bluish clay which was probably laid down in the bed of the ancient river before the last period of the glacial drift. the blue clay was not all deposited at the same time, as in the lower strata many marine forms are found which do not occur in the upper layers. this is notably the case in a deposit obtained at spreckel's sugar refinery and also at the east end of walnut street bridge, where a layer of blue clay occurs which is overlain by glacial drift. in other parts of the city mixtures of blue clay with more recent deposits are found, including fresh-water forms from numerous creeks and rivulets which traversed what is now the city proper, and especially from the vicinity of fourth and market streets, where there existed as late as the year a large pond known as the "duck pond" which was subject to tidal overflow from its outlet, dock creek. the river water at philadelphia is not noticeably brackish, although the tide extends thirty miles above the city and, before the building of fairmount dam, to the falls of the schuylkill. at certain times, when the river is low, the influx of tide water is sufficient to produce an abundance of brackish water diatoms at greenwich point. the entire absence, however, at present, of many of the marine forms obtained in dredgings in the delaware opposite the city, as at smith's island, now removed, and in certain well borings at pavonia, pensauken, gloucester and other places in new jersey, where the depth reached the old blue clay, indicates conditions quite different from those now prevalent. in the bay itself comparatively few living species are found, at least in any abundance. in the study of local forms which follows, the district included may be considered as circumscribed by the circumference of a circle having a radius of one hundred miles from philadelphia, containing the states of new jersey and delaware, the southeastern part of { }pennsylvania, a portion of maryland on the south and extending eastward to new york bay and long island sound as far as new rochelle. the greater number of fresh-water species described have been obtained from near the city along the darby, crum, ridley and brandywine creeks and from various places in new jersey, including the pine barren region of the southern part of the state. numerous collections have been made in the schuylkill and the various reservoirs and along the wissahickon, "where an alpine gorge in miniature of singular loveliness is to be found within the limits of a city." the fossil deposits are from well borings near camden, n. j., and from excavations in various parts of the city. there appears to be no relation between the miocene beds of the eastern coast and the deposits here described, all of which have been formed later than the glacial period or in an interval between two such periods. apparently no diatoms grew during the glacial era, at least in sufficient abundance to leave any perceptible traces of their existence. an examination of glacial "flour" and clays from the catskills shows an entire absence of these forms, and i have never found them in the milky flow from the glaciers of the alps nor in the constantly muddy streams in certain of our western states. the opacity of the water produces the same result as the absence of light in the deep lakes of new england, where diatoms are found only on the stalks or roots of water-plants near the shore, while in shallow ponds, such as the small lake near the summit of mt. lafayette, the growth is abundant. certain species will grow wherever there are moisture, light and heat, but the greater number require the presence, in small amounts, of substances produced by the decay of animal and vegetable life. an abundance of diatoms in fresh water is usually an indication of its potability, while their entire absence in shallow water may be due to an excess of bacteria. the specimens from which the drawings are made have been collected by the author for many years; in addition to possessing an almost complete library on the subject, he has had the advantage of examining material obtained by the late mr. lewis woolman and numerous slides furnished by a number of friends, including mr. john a. shulze, mr. frank j. keeley and mr. t. chalkley palmer, to whom i here take pleasure in expressing my thanks. the difficulties of the study are well stated by agardh in the following extract from the preface to his systema algarum: "because, indeed, in this respect, no one will wonder whether in the distinction of species and reference to synonyms we have, perchance, committed many errors. they have occurred and are bound to occur, partly from the fact that one is not permitted to see the original specimens of all authors; partly, because sometimes even the original specimens of these plants are erroneous; partly, because the figures and descriptions of authors are often lacking and imperfect.... "there is added the difficulty of the study itself of these plants, their submerged habitat, the minuteness of their structure, the rarity of their fruit, the change in the dried { }plant, the impossibility of culture, the fallacies of microscopical vision and the chaotic condition of algology itself to-day." the words of agardh, written in , are almost as true to-day. the lack of authentic specimens, which we hope will be remedied in time by the collections of the smithsonian institute, numerous incorrectly labelled slides in amateur collections, the imperfections of figures copied and recopied, without regard to relative size or correct references, and the confusion in the attempts to harmonize different descriptions, deter the student at the outset. the remaining difficulties mentioned by agardh add, however, to the remarkable interest these forms have always had, since no increase in optical perfection of the microscope serves to lessen the mystery of their structure and mode of growth. classification the few species of diatoms first discovered were included by lyngbye, dillwyn, and others in the genus _conferva_. in , the species, increased to forty-eight, were separated by agardh into eight genera distinguished partly by their mode of growth. but little change was made until heiberg, in , advocated the division into symmetrical and asymmetrical forms. without entering upon a general review of the later classifications, including pfitzer's and petit's divisions according to the number and location of the chromatophores, or the arrangement of prof. h. l. smith, because of the presence or absence of a raphe, or that of mereschkowsky into motile and immotile forms, the modification of all of these methods by schuett is here adopted, varied in accordance with certain monographs which appear to offer advantage. it is customary, especially among writers who are familiar with other classes of plants, to decry any classification of diatoms according to the markings of their siliceous envelopes. as, however, one of the chief distinctions of the class is the possession of a more or less siliceous and indestructible frustule, and as the cell and its contents are never seen except within the valves, their variety forms the only available method of identification. the cell contents, owing to the difficulty of observing their living condition, their continued change, their lack of distinct variation and their entire absence in fossil forms, render their consideration as a complete method of classification an impossibility. if, however, the cell contents can be brought into relation with the markings of their siliceous envelope, it will be a consummation for which the future student of these complicated forms ought to be grateful. that this result is one to be expected may be inferred from the fact that the arrangement of protoplasmic masses in the interior of the cell is coincident in some cases with markings on the valve, and the character of the endochrome is assuming a certain value in accentuating the difference between such forms as _pleurosigma_ and _gyrosigma_, or in the resemblance between _hantzschia_ and _nitzschia_, or between _surirella_ and _campylodiscus_. mereschkowsky, however, states that it is necessary to be careful in "establishing the relationship between diatoms based on the resemblance of their chromatophores," { }and further observes that in _hantzschia amphioxys_, _scoliotropis latestriata_ and _achnanthes brevipes_, three widely separated forms, the chromatophores are essentially the same. in one of the earliest classifications of diatoms, the individual cell received less consideration than the nature of the filament or thallus in which many species occur in the first stages of their growth. those, however, which exist in colonies at first are, sooner or later, broken up into separate frustules, either before or at the time of their maturity or previous to conjugation, while very many species are never seen except in a free state. the union of frustules, therefore, is of secondary importance and the group must be considered as filamentous or unicellular algæ. their relation to other algæ is not well determined. among the _desmidiaceæ_, a family of the order _conjugales_, of the class _chlorophyceæ_, the cells are in many forms divided by a constriction into symmetrical halves. the conjugales are starch forming, with walls of cellulose. in the diatomaceæ the starch is replaced by oil globules, while the walls of cellulose are more or less filled with a deposit of silica. the conjugales, however, reproduce by zygospores and usually contain pyrenoids, as may be seen in the parietal chromatophores of _spirogyra_. in the class _heterokontæ_ we have the reserve material in the form of oil, instead of starch, but there are no pyrenoids. to this class belongs the order _confervaceæ_, in which the cells are unicellular or filamentous, and to which all of the diatomaceæ were referred. while, therefore, diatomaceæ have a close affinity to the desmidiaceæ and to the confervaceæ, the determination of their origin, one from another, or from a common ancestral type, appears to be a matter of conjecture. { }morphology and development the cell the cell membrane is composed of two usually equal parts, each of which consists of a valve and a girdle or zone formed of cellulose modified by silica deposited in an insoluble state from a very dilute aqueous solution. the valves are more siliceous and robust than the girdle. both are in most species easily separable, or at least the bands of the girdle which may be more or less closely fastened to the valves have a motion over each other permitting the cell to enlarge at pleasure. the longitudinal diameter of the cell, or the distance between the centres of the two valves, will vary according to the convexity of the valve and the age of the frustule which may be often determined by the width or number of the girdle bands. these, owing to their diversity of form and arrangement, will be further described under the generic diagnoses. the siliceous cell-wall is covered on the outside by a layer of protoplasm called the coleoderm. this layer may be quite thin and evident only when treated with fuchsin or bismarck brown, or it may be of considerable thickness. the cell contains the cytoplasma, protoplasm, cell-sap, endochrome, pyrenoids, oil globules and nucleus, together with certain other less understood bodies. the cytoplasma is a thin skin of colorless plasma covering the entire inner surface of the cell. it is invisible in the living cell but is evident in plasmolysis. in long forms it is thickened at the ends and is condensed at the plasma bridge which frequently connects the two valves and divides the cell into two parts, each containing more or less protoplasm surrounding the vacuole in which are found the cell-sap and certain granules. in some forms, as meloseira, the cytoplasma includes the entire mass of protoplasm. the endochrome is seen in the form of one or more bands or plates, of a yellowish or brownish color, on the inner side of the valves or connective zone, or in granules or irregular masses, more or less numerous, on the inner walls, or sometimes grouped near the centre. it consists of a mixture of chlorophyll and diatomine which differ in their relative solubility in alcohol and in their spectroscopic analyses. the color varies from green to a chocolate brown in proportion to the amount of diatomine. so far as the function of the endochrome is concerned it does not appear to differ from that of ordinary chlorophyll, absorbing, under the influence of light, the carbon, and disengaging the oxygen of the carbonic anhydride in the water. diatoms do not live in absolutely pure or non-aërated water. the individual plates or granules of the endochrome are called chromatophores. their number and significance will be referred to in the description of genera. the pyrenoids.--in the chromatophores of many species are found colorless, homogeneous bodies, strongly refractive, of various shapes, usually lenticular or fusiform, which are known as pyrenoids (schmitz). they are scarcely evident in the living cell, but are distinguished by the action of hæmatoxylin and other reagents. flat forms occur in surirella and pleurosigma, lens forms in pinnularia, stauroneis, synedra, fragilaria and nitzschia, while a spherical form is found in cymbella cuspidata. the pyrenoids are always imbedded in the chromatophore. their growth is by division. schmitz considers them a part of the living chromatophore, and their substance as working material which in excess has become resolved into the nature of a crystal which its form sometimes resembles. comparisons are made between them and crystalloids found in certain monocotyledons. the pyrenoid is evidently concerned in the formation of the chromatophore, or in its division. much of the conjecture, however, is due to the behavior of pyrenoids in other plants. { }oil globules.--it has been established by pfitzer that starch and sugar, as assimilation products, are replaced by oil in the cells of diatoms ("da bekannlich staerke und zucker bei den bacillariaceen nicht nachzuweisen sind"). the oil drops are more or less numerous, of various sizes, and are found in the cytoplasma, the cell-sap, and sometimes the chromatophores. mereschkowsky describes certain globules as elæoplasts, which he divides into four kinds according to their number and position. whether all of these are oil globules is a question not yet determined. other bodies, known as "buetschli granules," or volutin, and described as "little blisters filled with a tolerably robust refractive substance," are considered by lauterborn to be a nitrogen reserve store. they are found in the cytoplasma, or in the cell-sap, and can be fixed in picric acid and stained in methylene blue. note.--for a discussion of the morphology of diatoms and a valuable résumé of the investigations of buetschli, karsten, lauterborn, mereschkowsky, mueller, pfitzer, schuett, and others, the student is referred to "der bau der diatomzelle," by dr. otto heinzerling, in "bibliotheca botanica," . cell division the growth of diatoms follows the usual method of cell division as described by sachs (text book of botany, nd ed., p. ): "the nucleus of a cell which is about to divide becomes broader, assuming the form of a biconcave lens, and its nucleolus breaks up into irregular granules which together with its other granular contents begin to form a nuclear disc in the equatorial plane. a delicate striation is now apparent in what is becoming the long axis of the nucleus, at right angles to the nuclear disc, and the characteristic nuclear spindle is gradually produced. the nuclear disc splits into two halves lying side by side, each of which travels to the corresponding pole of the nucleus; thus two nuclei are constituted which are connected by fibrillæ." the cell-wall and the chromatophore bands divide, each nucleus passes to the centre, and two new cells are formed. in the meantime, to permit of this division, the two siliceous valves separate, the girdle bands slipping over each other, and opposite the larger or enclosing valve a new valve is formed, the girdle band of which is seen later within the girdle of the mother valve. opposite the smaller valve of the original cell and adjoining the new valve, another valve is formed which also produces a girdle within the girdle of the smaller valve. as a result of division we have, therefore, the valves of the original, or mother cell, the two new valves and four girdle bands. (pl. , figs. and .) in the process of division, the continual formation of new valves, enclosed in the older girdle bands, will naturally cause a reduction in the size of the frustule. while this reduction, owing to the elasticity of the girdle, does not always occur, i believe, yet, in most cases, the diameter is so reduced that a rejuvenescence of growth is required. this is caused by the production of auxospores which may appear without conjugation. in this process, the beginning of which, in certain species, may be noticed by the increase in the size of the girdle as in reduplication, the two valves separate and within is formed a more or less spherical mass about twice the size of the original frustule and which forms on its circumference two large and often shapeless valves. these valves form others which assume the appearance of the original valves, but larger, and proceed to grow in the usual way. the reduction in size of the frustule seldom proceeds further than about half the size of the type form, so that, as a general rule, it may be stated that diatoms are not often smaller than half the larger size. reproduction the process of reproduction has been observed in many cases, but the conclusions reached are somewhat at variance with each other. the auxospore formation is simply a { }method of rejuvenescence. when, however, the auxospores are thrown off from filamentous diatoms, it is probable that two may conjugate, their contents dividing each into two daughter cells which unite into two zygospores. the usual method is the union of two frustules, which, throwing off the old valves, coalesce into a single mass of protoplasm which produces an auxospore, sometimes called a sporangial frustule. it is stated that in some cases two frustules coalesce and produce two auxospores. the existence of spores in diatoms is a much-disputed point. while they have never been seen, the inference that they exist is very great, as otherwise it becomes difficult to understand the sudden growth of species in localities and under conditions that seem to preclude the actual presence of the living frustule. it is a matter of common observation that, in examining collections of living forms, minute frustules or brownish globules appear to resemble larger diatoms. in gatherings of gomphonema, when many specimens are sessile on the same object, numerous intermediate sizes, varying from minute globules to the type, are seen, yet not positively demonstrable as the same. conjugation, the formation of auxospores, and the actual process of cell division are seldom seen, as they occur during the night or at least in darkness. it is advisable in order to observe reduplication to obtain the material about midnight and place it in very dilute alcohol. in filamentous forms, however, the cell division is easily observed at any time in its various stages. by immersing in picric acid (saturated solution), transferring to very dilute alcohol which is gradually increased in strength, and then passing through oil of cloves and finally to the mounting medium, excellent preparations can be made. by staining with gold chloride alone the nucleus is made apparent without further treatment. evolution of forms it may be assumed that diatoms originated in the sea; to deny this requires evidence of the existence of fresh-water species previous to the miocene period which is entirely marine. in those subject to fluctuations of the waves, as pelagic diatoms, their existence appears to be contingent upon the methods by which the separate frustules can cohere. various devices, including hooks, spiral bundles, horns and processes exuding threads of plasma, exist for holding together the frustules. when marine forms are found in quiet waters some of these devices, being no longer of any value, cease to grow, although free swimming diatoms are rare. they either occur in long chains or are stipitate or sessile. if it is further assumed that the fresh-water diatoms are found in greater abundance in later periods, the action of running streams makes necessary the provision of some means by which the species may continue to colonize. this may be recognized in the occurrence of linear forms chiefly in streams. circular forms, such as cyclotella which have no raphe, are found in quiet waters, such as pools or ditches, and never exist living in running streams. those forms only would be able to live in water having a more or less swift current under one of three conditions: they must, as in gomphonema, be adherent to surrounding objects by a stipe; or be enclosed in a gelatinous tube, as in homoeocladia; or have an independent motion powerful enough to overcome the influence of the current. it is true that many forms with a raphe have no apparent motion. in the case of mastogloia provision is made in a gelatinous cushion in which the frustules are preserved. in cocconeis, with a true raphe in one valve only, in epithemia, with a partial raphe, or in certain eunotiæ with a trace of one, we find species evidently degenerate and parasitic. the long synedræ, having only a median line, live in running streams, since they are attached at one end to other algae. forms with a true raphe appear to be more highly developed, since they are able to seek locations favorable to growth. given, therefore, the structure of the valve, the habitat may be inferred. { }the motion of diatoms the erratic backward and forward movement of certain diatoms, especially those of the naviculoid group, or the slow, rolling motion of surirella, has been discussed in so many ways without definite conclusions that a brief statement will be sufficient. osmosis, the amoeboid movement of the coleoderm, the protrusion of protoplasm or protoplasmic threads through the raphe, the existence of actual organs of locomotion or cilia, and the lack of synchronism in the chemical action occurring at the ends of the cell which is sometimes divided by the plasma bridge, have been offered in explanation. the chief objection to the theory of cyclosis appears to be that the resultant motion is so greatly in excess of the rotation of protoplasm in the cell. more or less motion is observed in various kinds of free cells, but the movement of diatoms is not evident in those without either a raphe or a keel upon which and apparently by which the phenomena are produced. mr. t. chalkley palmer, in various articles in the proceedings of the delaware county institute of science, especially in vols. and , gives the results of exhaustive experiments. "nothing, it would seem," he says, "could be more conclusive as to the essential sameness of the nature of motion in monads and diatoms, than the fact that both monads and diatoms require oxygen in order to perform motion, that they come to rest when oxygen becomes scarce, and that they resume their motion when oxygen is again supplied." he also thinks "that the living substance of the cell, more or less deeply overlaid with coleoderm substance of varying consistency, and itself assuming that degree of fluidity which best meets the requirements of the situation, permeates the raphes, circulates in the keels, or in some cases protrudes quite beyond the silica, and functions as the actual propulsive agent." the function of diatoms of all forms of vegetation, the diatomaceæ are, perhaps, the most ubiquitous. where-ever a sufficient amount of moisture, heat and light are found, they grow. it was during the miocene period that they first appeared, and, as marine forms, reached their greatest development, both as to size and beauty of marking, while their prevalence throughout the world in enormous quantities has been often mentioned. the miocene beds of richmond and maryland continued over the cretaceous formations of new jersey have outcropped in certain localities within our district, but are not considered in this discussion. the function of diatoms is not essentially different from that of other algæ in providing food for aquatic animals, such as salpæ and oysters, but it is, however, in other respects that they are not only important but necessary factors in the preservation of life. "full nature swarms with life; one wondrous mass of animals, or atoms organized, waiting the vital breath, when parent heaven shall bid his spirit blow. the hoary fen, in putrid streams, emits the living cloud of pestilence. thro' subterranean cells where searching sunbeams scarce can find a way, earth animated heaves." i am not certain if thomson fully understood the matter, but he has remarkably described the facts. when "the vital breath" of returning spring animates the earth, the "subterranean cells" of diatoms, the "atoms organized," through the liberation of vast quantities of oxygen, immediately begin the purification of the "putrid streams." were these streams not so purified, the accumulation of animal and vegetable débris would eventually cause an enormous bacterial growth fatal to animal life. { }diatomaceÆ unicellular or filamentous. cells either free, sessile, united in filaments, immersed in a gelatinous envelope or in fronds composed of branching tubes; microscopic, enclosed in a more or less siliceous envelope (frustule), composed of two parts (valves), usually connected by an intervening band (zone or girdle). cell contents include yellowish or brownish chlorophyll-like bodies which occur in one or several bands (placcochromatic), or as variously distributed granular masses (coccochromatic) lining the inner walls. growth by ordinary cell division or by auxospores; sexual multiplication by the formation of sporangia. valves of two kinds: (_a_) those in which the markings or parts are more or less concentric (centricæ); (_b_) those (pennatæ) in which the parts are more or less symmetrically divided by a line (pseudoraphe) or by a cleft (raphe). centricÆ valves without a dividing line or cleft; markings more or less radiate; transverse section of frustule circular, polygonal, or elliptical, sometimes irregular. divided into four groups: . _discoideæ._--frustules (cells) discoid; valves without horns or elevations (sometimes with processes). . _solenoideæ._--frustules with numerous girdle bands. . _biddulphioideæ._--frustules box-like, _i. e._, with the longitudinal axis greater than in the discoideæ. valves with two or more angles, elevations or horns. . _rutilarioideæ._--valves as if naviculoid, but with irregular or radial structure. groups and are not included in our description. no. contains plankton genera only, while no. consists of genera not yet found in this locality. discoideÆ . _coscinodisceæ._--valve not divided by rays or costæ into sectors; puncta sometimes radiate; ocelli or processes absent. . _actinodisceæ._--valve with radial striæ divided into sectors: ocelli and processes absent. . _eupodisceæ._--valve disc-shaped with mammiform processes or one or more ocelli. . coscinodisceÆ (_a_) _meloseirinæ._--frustules short, in chains. (_b_) _coscinodiscinæ._--frustules disc form, usually single, rarely in short chains. (_a_) meloseirinÆ . _meloseira._--valve punctate, with a constriction or furrow between edge of valve and girdle. . _gaillonella._--valve punctate, with a circular collar or crest near edge of valve. . _lysigonium._--valve punctate, neither keeled nor constricted. . _hyalodiscus._--valve punctate in the centre; border with decussating radial lines. . _stephanopyxis._--border of valve with a crown of thorns; valve areolate. . _pyxidicula._--valve areolate, with a border of spines. { }meloseira ag. ( ), em. de toni ( ) (melos, a limb or member, and seira, a chain) frustules globose, ellipsoidal or cylindrical, concatenate, closely joined together. valve either simply punctate or punctate and areolate. a constriction of the cell-wall, forming a furrow between the edge of the valve and the girdle, is more or less evident. the genus meloseira constituted by agardh has been variously modified by kuetzing, thwaites, wm. smith, van heurck, de toni, and others. in systema algarum agardh included certain species of conferva, of lyngbye, dillwyn and others, and limited his genus to frustules more or less globose (fila articulata ad genicula constricta), although in his conspectus criticus (p. ), he modifies the description (fila teretia articulata, articulis diametro æqualibus vel longioribus) to include m. varians. as, however, lysigonium link, gaillonella bory, and other genera enlarged by ehrenberg and kuetzing, came to be included under meloseira, thwaites suggested the division of the genus into two: orthosira, in which the frustules are not convex at the ends and aulacosira in which no central line is apparent but with two distinct sulci. wm. smith adopts the genus orthosira but rejects aulacosira, including all forms under the former genus and meloseira, suggesting that differences "exist in the formation of the sporangia" of the two genera. m. varians and m. crenulata appear to form auxospores or sporangial frustules in different ways, as will be noticed hereafter. as, however, the present state of our knowledge is so limited and as much confusion would result in further changing the nomenclature, i shall adopt, for the most part, the division made by de toni, separating gaillonella and lysigonium and employing the name meloseira as emendated in sylloge algarum, although, as stated, it omits the species of agardh. that a further division may be necessary is indicated by the differences existing between the orthosira forms and the others. analysis of species frustules cylindrical and lengthened: valves with two distinct furrows; granules small distans valves with coarse granules granulata valves denticulate on the margin crenulata valves denticulate and constricted roeseana valves with row of large puncta on the girdle side undulata frustules cylindrical and compressed: valves punctate and areolate sulcata the chromatophores consist of circular and compressed or irregular flat granules which lie along the wall of the cell. meloseira distans (ehr.) kuetz. frustules cylindrical, slender, with two furrows, one on each side of the suture; valve in zone view with fine puncta in longitudinal rows; puncta in valve view scattered. l. - µ. _meloseira nivalis_ wm. sm. _coscinodiscus minor_ wm. sm. fresh water. fossil in new england deposits. pl. , figs. and . note.--in all species of meloseira, as well as gaillonella and lysigonium, the frustules are so closely coherent that when the filaments are broken entire frustules are less frequently found than a union of two valves of contiguous frustules. { }meloseira granulata (ehr.) ralfs frustules cylindrical, robust, - µ in diam., with large granules in longitudinal, sometimes spiral, lines, variable in size and arrangement in the same filament. valve in valve view with scattered puncta. variable in relative width and length, passing to m. crenulata. _gaillonella granulata_ ehr. _orthosira punctata_ wm. sm. fresh water. fossil at coldspring, l. i. pl. , fig. . meloseira crenulata (ehr.) kuetz. frustules cylindrical, with furrows on each side of the suture, - µ in diam.; puncta in longitudinal rows. margins of valves denticulate at the junction of the frustules; valves with puncta scattered at the centre, radiate at the circumference. common in fresh water; quite variable in size. _gaillonella crenulata_ ehr. _orthosira orichalcea_ wm. sm. in part; not conferva orichalcea. mertens or gaillonella aurichalcea ehr. and bailey. pl. , figs. and . meloseira roeseana rab. frustules cylindrical, constricted toward each end, with coarse, longitudinal striæ; valve convex, striæ punctate, radiating, with several large granules at the centre. connective zone with longitudinal rows of fine puncta. diam. - µ. _orthosira spinosa_ grev. fresh water. media, pa. (palmer); not common. pl. , figs. and . meloseira roeseana var. epidendron (ehr.) grun. frustules denticulate at the margin; valve with coarse granules at the centre from which radiate lines of fine puncta. wet rocks of the wissahickon. pl. , figs. and . meloseira undulata (ehr.) kuetz. frustules single or in twos, usually broader than long, constricted near the margin. valve with six to twelve internal projections forming with the outline of the constriction of the valve a polygonal figure within the circumference. surface of the valve with radiating lines of puncta disappearing toward the centre, at which are numerous coarse puncta. _meloseira gowenii_ a. schmidt. blue clay of philadelphia, especially common at twelfth and market sts. pl. , figs. , , . meloseira sulcata kuetz. frustules quite robust, with diam. several times the length, deeply furrowed at the margin, areolate and punctate. valve with radiating striæ disappearing toward the centre, and with a double row of cells near the margin, the outer one having the appearance of a crown of teeth. _gaillonella sulcata_ ehr. _paralia sulcata_ (ehr.) cleve. _paralia marina_ heib. { }marine and brackish. common in all parts of the world, and fossil in the miocene. the philadelphia form is the var. genuina grun. pl. , figs. and . in a gathering from media of meloseira crenulata (palmer leg.), occasional filaments are noticed with much longer and narrower frustules which become enlarged in the middle and are seen to contain inner frustules in the process of still further division, as shown in fig. , pl. . meloseira dickei thwaites shows internal box-like cells placed one within the other, which were supposed by thwaites to be a method of reproduction. wm. smith doubts this, but is unable to offer any explanation. in the present form the mode of reduplication is that usually found in filamentous forms, but in this case the presence of perfect frustules enclosing others in the process of still further division has been heretofore unfamiliar to me. the swelling in the middle appears to indicate that not all filamentous diatoms are reduced in size by subdivision. in outline the valve is like that of a "truncated cone," as described by petit in referring to gaillonella granulata var. bambusina petit (diat. nouv. et rares, jour. de micrographie, ). gaillonella bory de st. vincent ( ) (named after gaillon, a botanist of dieppe) frustules ellipsoidal, united in long filaments, usually found in pairs; each valve is furnished with a circular collar or crest extending at right angles to the convex edge. valve hyaline at the centre from near which radiate lines of fine puncta, - in µ. note.--the original names of both meloseira and gaillonella are retained, as there is no good reason for contracting the greek diphthong in the first, and the second is the correct spelling. gaillonella nummuloides (dillw.) bory frustules as in the generic diagnosis. diam. µ. _conferva nummuloides_ dillwyn (brit. confervæ, p. , sup. pl. b). _meloseira nummuloides_ ag. heiberg and o'meara assign this species to _lysigonium moniliforme_ (muell.) link, which is not keeled. while dillwyn's and lyngbye's figures do not show the keel, it is probable from their descriptions that the angular outline produced by the keel was noticed. marine or brackish. coast of new jersey; hudson river (bail.). pl. , figs. and . _gaillonella moniliformis_ of bailey is this form, as he describes it as having "two minute projections of the delicate transverse ridges seen near the ends of the two globules belonging to a joint." (amer. jour. science, , p. , pl. , fig. .) lysigonium link ( ) (luo, to loose, and gonu, a joint) frustules globose, concatenate; valve simply punctate. lysigonium moniliforme (muell.) link frustules usually in twos, not keeled; valve with puncta in longitudinal lines, the puncta of the enveloping zone larger and in transverse rows. l. - µ (de toni). _conferva moniliformis_ mueller ( ). { }_conferva nummuloides_ eng. bot. pl., , not dillwyn. _meloseira borreri_ grev. _lysigonium nummuloides_ (lyngb., kuetz.) o'meara = _gaillonella nummuloides_ (dillw.) bory. see o'meara, p. . marine and brackish. long island sound and coast of new jersey. pl. , fig. . lysigonium varians (ag.) de toni frustules cylindrical, in long filaments, slightly constricted on each side of the suture; puncta in oblique rows in zone view. valves - µ in diam. (de toni), sub-plane, with fine puncta in lines radiating from the centre. under medium magnification the frustules appear smooth. very variable in size. _meloseira varians_ ag. fresh water. common in ditches and springs. pl. , figs. and . hyalodiscus ehr. ( ) (hyalos, transparent, and discus, a disc) frustules spheroidal; valve with a flattened, irregularly punctate umbilicus from which proceed radiating or decussating lines of fine puncta. analysis of species valves divided into sectors stelliger valves not divided but interrupted by short dark lines at intervals radiatus valves with very fine puncta scoticus hyalodiscus stelliger bail. valve with puncta in oblique decussating rows which, by reason of the difference in obliquity, form numerous sectors. umbilicus irregular, with scattered, coarse puncta. margin wide, striated. _podosira maculata_ wm. sm. blue clay. not common. pl. , fig. . hyalodiscus radiatus var. arctica grun. valve with radiating puncta from a rather small umbilicus, the rays interspersed with short, dark lines, having the appearance of spines, at irregular intervals. margin broad, striated. _pyxidicula radiata_ o'meara. the philadelphia form corresponds exactly to grunow's variety which has closer puncta than the type form. blue clay. rather rare. pl. , fig. . { }hyalodiscus scoticus (kuetz.) grun. valve small, with puncta about in µ, appearing hyaline. de toni remarks that it resembles a small form of h. subtilis which occurs north and south of our limits and is yet likely to be recorded. _cyclotella scotica_ kuetz. _podosira hormoides_ wm. sm. blue clay. not rare. pl. , fig. . endochrome in the form of four flaps or patches bound together about a common pyrenoid. in h. subtilis numerous rod-shaped chromatophores lie in a row and are not bound in the centre (mereschkowsky). stephanopyxis ehr. ( ) em. grun. ( ) (stephanos, a crown, and pyxis, a kind of vase or box) frustules ellipsoidal, concatenate; valves tumid, of unequal convexity, coarsely areolate, the cells in rows parallel to the longitudinal axis, not radiate, with stray spines or teeth placed concentrically more or less near the margin. according to karsten the chromatophores are round or angular discs which lie near the connective zone. stephanopyxis turris (grev.) ralfs valve cylindrical, with a crown of stout spines less than the diameter of the valve near the margin. cells hexagonal, about in µ, sometimes punctate. the valve having the greater convexity has the larger spines, though usually less of them. _creswellia turris_ grev. (gregory, diat. of the clyde, t. r. s. e., vol. , part , p. .) _stephanopyxis appendiculata_ ehr.? creswellia is incorrectly based, as stated by ralfs, on the concatenation of the valves which was not noticed by ehrenberg in the fossil forms. it had been suggested by kuetzing in systema algarum (p. ). blue clay. port penn and smith's island. pl. , figs. and . stephanopyxis corona (ehr.) grun. valve larger than in turris, sub-globose, coarsely areolate cells, - in µ. one valve furnished with a crown of teeth shaped like the letter t and united at the top into a ring above the margin of the valve; the other valve with long spines more or less concentrically arranged. blue clay. not common. fossil in the nottingham deposit. pl. , fig. . note.--the diatomaceous deposit, so often called "bermuda" or "bermuda tripoli," especially by foreign writers, is in reality the miocene stratum extending for miles along the patuxent river near the village of nottingham, md. the author is perfectly familiar with the location, having made large collections there. the mistake in the name is due to the fact that prof. bailey received material from mr. tuomey marked "bermuda hundred," which is located near petersburg, va. attempts have been made to find material there and while there is an earth containing miocene diatoms at petersburg, it does not exactly correspond to the material sent to ehrenberg by bailey, who was in doubt as to the locality. the bermuda islands are of coral formation and have no deposits of diatomaceous earth. { }pyxidicula ehr. ( ) (dim. of pyxis, a box) frustules globular, solitary or in short fasciæ. valve more or less hemispherical, areolate, destitute of spines. pyxidicula cruciata ehr. valve hemispherical, with large, hexagonal cells. an inner stratum is finely punctate. blue clay. walnut st. bridge. rare. pl. , fig. . this form is not usually described as having punctate areolæ, but it does not apparently differ from other forms of pyxidicula of ehrenberg as described by kuetzing (species algarum, pp. - ), including _p. areolata_. in fact, it differs from stephanopyxis, which is also sometimes punctate, only in the absence of spines. in fossil deposits the absence of an easily detached stratum is not significant. the difference, except in size, between it and _p. mediterranea_ grun. (v. h. s., pl. , figs. and ), i am unable to determine. although many species of meloseira are fresh-water, the habitat of the group meloseirinæ is, in general, marine. it more nearly coincides in structure and development with other algæ not diatomaceous, the siliceous envelope constituting its most distinctive feature. as we proceed in the classification, the structure both of the frustule and contents becomes more complicated. (_b_) coscinodiscinÆ . _cyclotella._--valve with two concentric divisions of different structure, one a wide border and the other a central surface. . _coscinodiscus._--valve areolate or punctate, with a narrow border of the same structure. cyclotella kuetz. ( ) (cyclos, a circle) frustules single or geminate, cylindrical, short, in zone view rectangular or with undulating sides. valve usually with smooth or punctate striæ, centre sometimes bullose, smooth, or with granules scattered or radiating. chromatophores numerous along the valves (pfitzer). cyclotella striata (kuetz.) grun. valve - µ in diam., with coarse striæ, - in µ, centre coarsely punctate and bullose. _coscinodiscus striatus_ kuetz. _cyclotella dallasiana_ wm. sm. common in the blue clay. pl. , fig. . cyclotella meneghiniana kuetz. frustule in zone view rectangular, undulated; valve, - µ in diam., marginal striæ robust and transversely punctate, centre radiately punctate. _cyclotella kuetzingiana_ wm. sm. (not thwaites). crum creek. pl. , fig. . { }cyclotella meneghiniana, var. stelligera cl. and grun. differs from the type in the coarse radiating lines at the centre. broomall lake, media. pl. , fig. . cyclotella meneghiniana, var. stellulifera cl. and grun. as in type but with the central rays granulate. broomall lake, media. pl. , fig. . cyclotella stylorum (br.?) v. h. margin striated, the alternate striæ thickened near the border, producing an appearance of subquadrate cells. centre faintly granulate, the outer border of which is encircled by - puncta, each of which is surrounded by a small hyaline space. blue clay. rare. van heurck gives this form doubtfully as a variety of _striata_, while de toni makes it synonymous with it. van heurck's figure is not that of brightwell, but as the specimen above described is, i believe, exactly the same as van heurck's, i retain his name. pl. , fig. . cyclotella comta (ehr.) kuetz. valve with marginal striæ well marked, each third or fourth costa more robust than the others. central part finely striated, the striæ punctate, radiating. fresh water. pl. , fig. . the form here figured is probably the variety _radiosa_ grun. and is from a new england specimen. it is quite likely to occur in this locality. cyclotella operculata (ag.) kuetz. frustules in zone view undulated. angles rounded. marginal costæ alternating with minute spines; centre nearly smooth, depressed, convex or flexuose. fresh water. pl. , figs. and . the figure is drawn from a specimen from boston, mass., h. l. smith type slide no. , marked equivalent to _c. minutula_ wm. sm. cyclotella antiqua wm. sm. marginal costæ alternating with thick puncta; centre finely granulate with subtriangular elevations. frustules in zone view rectangular. blue clay. pl. , fig. . the form corresponds to the original specimens of wm. smith in the deposit of stavenger, norway. the genus cyclotella comprises about seventy specific names, many of which may be referred to other genera, while some of ehrenberg's are incapable of verification on account of the small size of the figures and the lack of sufficient description. about half of the forms are marine. the fresh-water species are usually found living in more or less stagnant water or in pools contaminated with drainage, being an exception to the general rule that diatoms are more abundant in water free from deleterious matter. { }coscinodiscus ehr. ( ) (coscinon, a sieve, and discus) frustules solitary, cylindrical, compressed; valve circular or elliptical; surface flat or sometimes convex near the border; markings more or less angular, radiating, sometimes fasciculate; border usually well defined. central space, if present, hyaline, sometimes surrounded with a rosette of large cells. chromatophores round, angular or irregular discs usually without pyrenoids (karsten). rattray's classification is here followed, so far as it refers to our species. _excentrici._--valves circular; central space absent; markings angular, in oblique, decussating rows. _lineati._--central space absent; markings angular, oblique decussating rows straight. _fasciculati._--markings fasciculate, or sometimes only near the border. _radiati._--markings rounded or angular, more or less radiate. _elaborati._--valves elliptical, markings rounded. excentrici coscinodiscus excentricus ehr. valve with a hyaline excentric space from which proceed, usually in six directions, rows of polygonal markings decreasing toward the narrow, coarsely striated border, the rows appearing convex toward the centre. apiculi at unequal distances apart. quite variable in size. common in the blue clay and along the coast. pl. , figs. and . fig. is probably var. _perpusilla_ grun. (diat. fr. jos. l., pl. (d), fig. ). lineati coscinodiscus lineatus ehr. valve circular, markings hexagonal, cells in parallel rows. border narrow, cellular. blue clay and atlantic coast. not common. pl. , fig. . fasciculati coscinodiscus nitidus greg. valve flat, markings rounded, distant, radiate, decreasing toward the border which is coarsely striate. quite variable in size and in the distance between the markings. blue clay and atlantic coast. common. pl. , fig. . coscinodiscus nitidulus grun. valve usually not quite circular; markings smaller than in nitidus and fasciculate near the border. blue clay. pl. , fig. . various intermediate forms between nitidus and nitidulus occur. coscinodiscus subtilis ehr. markings polygonal, irregular at the centre, but forming numerous fasciculi radiating { }toward the border, the rows parallel to the central row of each fasciculus. border narrow with fine striæ; apiculi often present between the fasciculi. blue clay and along the coast. very common in the water supply of philadelphia and camden, where the diameter seldom exceeds µ and the markings on the semi-radius are in µ. pl. , fig. . coscinodiscus denarius schmidt markings larger than in c. subtilis, equal, forming usually ten fasciculi, each beginning near the semi-radius and containing ten parallel rows of granules. common in the blue clay and sparingly along the coast. pl. , fig. . forms are found intermediate between c. subtilis and c. denarius, as shown in fig. . coscinodiscus polyacanthus grun. markings angular, in µ, decreasing toward the border, fasciculate. apiculi large, twelve or more, usually inserted at the middle of each fasciculus, and extending into the interior of the cell. the apiculi in outline resemble the heads of horse-shoe nails, and are seen with difficulty except when the valve is examined from the inner side. border narrow, striated. diam. µ. pensauken, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . rattray's description of _c. polyacanthus_ var. _intermedia_ grun., from cape wankarema, siberia, gives the diam. as µ, and there are about markings by actual count in µ in grunow's figure (diat. fr. jos. land, pl. (c), fig. ). the apiculi are more numerous, but there appears to be little doubt of the general similarity. the philadelphia form is abundant in the pensauken well deposit at a depth of ft. the apiculi become quite distinct in slides stained with silver nitrate by mr. f. j. keeley; they are distinct from small apiculi sometimes evident between the fasciculi. the specimens in the pensauken deposit are mingled with other forms which cannot be distinguished from _c. subtilis_. whether the two are identical, i am unable to determine. rattray (rev. cos., p. ) refers to h. l. smith's type slide no. , from rice-field mud, savannah, ga., as _c. subtilis_. in smith's slide, in my possession, a number of the forms show faint outlines of the large apiculi and are otherwise exactly like c. polyacanthus. radiati coscinodiscus velatus ehr. markings angular, decreasing slightly toward the coarsely striated border, covered with fine puncta. blue clay. pl. , fig. . coscinodiscus marginatus ehr. markings rounded, large, decreasing toward the broad border, which is coarsely marked with distant striæ. the cells are punctate. common in the blue clay. pl. , fig. . in the fossil forms the puncta are not evident, hence the species is usually described as not punctate. { }coscinodiscus radiatus ehr. markings polygonal, slightly decreasing toward the border where they are much smaller; border well marked, striate. quite variable in size. common in the blue clay and along the coast. pl. , fig. . fig. is probably a smaller form. coscinodiscus subaulacodiscoidalis rattr. markings small, decreasing toward the border in somewhat fasciculate rows. about one-third the distance from the border are five (rattray finds six) well-marked apiculi somewhat resembling those of aulacodiscus. border narrow, hyaline. rare in the lower stratum of the blue clay. pl. , fig. . coscinodiscus argus ehr. markings angular with central dots, increasing from the centre toward the border, where they are smaller. blue clay. pl. , fig. (a small form). coscinodiscus biangulatus schmidt central space and rosette absent, markings large, angular, not punctate, with large central papillæ, decreasing toward the border. border wide, coarsely marked with rows of granules, and with two indentations on the inner side distant from each other about two-thirds of the diameter. blue clay. pl. , fig. . distinguished from coscinodiscus asteromphalus var. omphalantha grun., which also has two constrictions, by the absence of punctate markings. coscinodiscus asteromphalus ehr. central space small, surrounded by a rosette of large polygonal cells from which radiate hexagonal cells, increasing about half way toward the border and then slightly decreasing. cells punctate. blue clay. pl. , fig. ; pl. , fig. . coscinodiscus asteromphalus var. omphalantha (ehr.) grun. central space absent, rosette evident. markings ½ in µ, somewhat smaller near the rosette and decreasing near the border, which is constricted in two places, as in c. biangulatus. blue clay. pl. , fig. . coscinodiscus oculus-iridis ehr. central space and rosette distinct; markings polygonal, not punctate, with large papillæ, smaller near the rosette, increasing toward the semi-radius, and then decreasing to the striated border which is comparatively narrow. blue clay and atlantic coast. pl. , fig. . { }elaborati coscinodiscus lewisianus grev. valves elliptical, major axis a little more than twice the minor. from a point, usually near one side, radiate rows of granules in lines nearly parallel to the major axis. border broad, with distinct striæ. great sedge island, n. j. (artesian well), and in outcrops later than the miocene, where it is usually found. pl. , fig. . . actinodisceÆ actinoptychinÆ valves divided into sectors alternately elevated and depressed. ( ) _actinoptychus._--sectors plane. ( ) _polymyxus._--sectors convex. actinoptychus ehr. ( ) em. v. h. ( ) (actis, a ray, and ptyx, a fold) frustule cylindrical, less in length than the diameter, in zone view undulated. valve divided into six or more sectors alternately raised and depressed, areolate and punctate, varying in the alternate divisions. the areolation is confined to the outer layer of the valve while the punctation is usually on an inner valve often found detached. processes on the border, three or more. umbilicus circular or angular, hyaline. analysis of species sectors, six undulatus sectors, eight or more, cellular heliopelta sectors, fourteen, punctate vulgaris actinoptychus undulatus (kuetz.) ralfs valve areolate and punctate in quincunx, divided into six equal sectors, alternately elevated or depressed, their areolations appearing different. margin well defined. umbilicus smooth, hexagonal. processes three, sometimes six, inserted within the margin of each alternate division. very variable in size and appearance. this is the actinocyclus of bailey, figured and described in amer. jour. science, , p. , pl. , fig. , but not named. kuetzing describes and names it and refers to bailey. _actinoptychus omphalopelta_ ehr. _actinoptychus cellulosa_ ehr., h. l. smith sp. typ., . quite common in marine and brackish water and in the blue clay. pl. , figs. , , and . actinoptychus vulgaris var. interrupta n. var. valve with fourteen sectors, the alternate ones divided by a smooth lanceolate space for about one-half the radius, forming with the smooth, circular umbilicus a seven pointed star. the sectors thus divided have coarser puncta in quincunx than the other sectors, ending in a smooth area near the margin, and also larger black puncta scattered from the centre to the semi-radius. near a. vulgaris var. neogradensis pant. blue clay. not common. pl. , fig. . { }actinoptychus heliopelta grun. var.? valve circular, sectors, eight, umbilicus circular, without rays; border wide, cellular, with distinct rays. inserted at a distance within the inner edge of the border are large processes, one on each of four alternate sectors, and two on each of the others. the sectors are cellulate and punctate. near a. heliopelta var. versicolor brun., which, however, in the specimen in my collection from atlantic city (artesian well), has a greater number of processes and they are situated on the edge of the border. outcrop at buckshutem, n. j. rare. pl. , fig. . it has been quite well determined, i think, that the typical forms of a. heliopelta occur at the base of the miocene. at rock hall, md., on the eastern shore of chesapeake bay, at a depth of from to ft., and at wildwood, n. j., at a depth of from to ft., diatomaceous beds occur considered by mr. lewis woolman (geol. surv. of n. j., , pp. - ) "as synchronous in age," the former being deposited in the delaware river delta and the latter in the chesapeake in post-miocene times. in each of these beds a small form of a. heliopelta is rarely found. the material at buckshutem is post-miocene, and the form here figured shows a marked variation from the miocene species and a gradual approach toward a. undulatus. polymyxus l. w. bail. ( ) valve circular, usually divided into fourteen sectors which are on the same plane at the centre, but the alternate ones are elevated into mammillated projections terminated by small processes on the margin. zone view rectangular with undulations subconical, terminated by the processes. polymyxus coronalis l. w. bail. central space hyaline, rounded or slightly stellate, from which radiate rows of fine puncta in quincunx, shown in the figure only on the alternate elevations, the depressed interspaces being out of focus. the mammillæ are stated by bailey to vary from six to ten. very rare in the blue clay (walnut st. bridge). occurs also in the wildwood deposit (bull. torrey bot. club, , p. ). pl. , fig. , and pl. , fig. . . eupodisceÆ _aulacodiscinæ._--valves with mammiform elevations near the border surmounted by nipple-like processes. aulacodiscus--the only genus as above _eupodiscinæ._--valves with ocelli. ( ) _actinocyclus._--valve with one small ocellus; striæ radial. ( ) _eupodiscus._--valve with one or more ocelli; striæ not radial. ( ) _auliscus._--valve with large, elevated ocelli. central area hyaline. markings granular and costate. ( ) _pseudauliscus._--valve with radiating granules. no central space. { }aulacodiscus ehr. ( ) em. rattr. ( ) (aulax, a furrow, and discus) valve usually circular, plane or with an elevated zone, frequently inflated beneath the processes; central space irregular or rounded, sometimes absent; markings granular, radial, sometimes in a reticulum. the genus comprises more than one hundred species most of which are fossil, and is represented in this locality by a single form, _a. argus_, included by rattray in his section "retiformes," distinguished by the presence of a reticulum. aulacodiscus argus (ehr.) schmidt frustule in zone view elliptical. valve circular, - µ in diam., closely covered with two kinds of markings, one, a mesh of large, radiating, angular cells, the outer plate, and the other, radiating rows of circular granules with hyaline spaces intervening and closer near the border, forming the inner plate which can occasionally be seen detached. central space absent. the walls of the angular cells are crossed with fine lines and are probably composed of granules compressed so closely as to produce partial opacity, the depth of which depends in a measure not only on the superposition of the two plates, but on the relative closeness and thickness of the cell-walls. in a fully-developed specimen the effect is to produce more or less triangular cells containing three or four granules. in some cases the opacity is so great as to render detail invisible. in the figure the valve is supposed to be divided into three sectors, illustrating at "a" the lower plate, at "c" the combination of the upper and lower plates, and in the other sector the cellular mesh of the upper plate. processes, usually three, quite robust and inserted at from one-fourth to one-fifth the length of the radius from the border which is striated on the inner side. a form with four processes is found in the lower blue clay. _tripodiscus argus_ ehr. _eupodiscus argus_ (ehr.) wm. sm. not uncommon in the blue clay. pl. , fig. . actinocyclus ehr. ( ) (actis, a ray, and cyclos) valve circular or elliptical; surface flat at the centre, sloping toward the border. central space usually evident, rounded or irregular. markings rounded, granular, punctiform, in radial, or nearly radial, rows, sometimes fasciculate. a nodule, more or less evident, is found near the border which is usually striate. chromatophores round discs or granules. analysis of species valve circular, rows radial, hyaline lines at the border barkleyi valve circular, rows fasciculate moniliformis valve elliptical ellipticus the nodule is generally supposed to be a thickening of the cell-wall, and, in the opinion of rattray, a projection outward, but "whether there may not be at the same time a slight inward protuberance is difficult to determine," though, as a rule, he seems to "think there is not." { }actinocyclus barkleyi var. aggregata rattr. surface flat from centre to semi-radius. central space irregular, sometimes with a few scattered granules. markings round with central dots distinct, about at the centre, decreasing in straight radial rows to in µ at the border, where they form moniliform striæ. border narrow with striæ about in µ. hyaline interspaces at the origin of the shorter rows, but not at equal intervals. at the border, linear hyaline spaces occur at somewhat irregular intervals between the moniliform striæ owing to the termination of certain radial rows before they reach the circumference. nodule small, from one-seventh to one-fourth the radius from the border. according to rattray the distinction between a. ralfsii and a. barkleyi is partly in the absence of the zone arrangement of the hyaline spaces in the latter, and to the slight differences in the number of granules. the variety aggregata differs from the type form of barkleyi mainly in the distance of the nodule from the border. i have specimens from the blue clay material at walnut st. bridge, and from smith's island, in which the distance from the border in one case is, as stated above, quite different from that in the other. in specimens from morris cove, conn., the locality referred to by rattray, variations occur. blue clay. pl. , fig. . in the figure the subulate hyaline spaces at the border are, in some instances, wider than usual. actinocyclus moniliformis ralfs surface flat, from centre to about five-sixths of the radius. central space rounded, with one or more granules. markings, in µ, round, in radial rows, fasciculate, the oblique transverse rows irregular, very slightly decreasing until near the edge of the flattened zone, and then suddenly decreasing and appearing as decussating lines oblique to the border. apiculi distinct, interfasciculate within the border. nodule quite evident, surrounded by a rather wide irregular hyaline space on the margin of the flattened zone in the middle of the fasciculus. border wide, with striæ about in µ. blue clay. port penn. not common. pl. , fig. . equivalent to actinocyclus ehrenbergii, h. l. s. type slide . in a valve from port penn, delaware bay, two nodules occur nearly opposite each other. actinocyclus ellipticus var. delawarensis n. var. valve rhombic-elliptical. markings somewhat angular, in µ at the centre where they are sub-concentric, thence decreasing in lines radiating more or less toward the border, where they suddenly become punctiform, striæ about in µ. border equal to one-fifth the radius. a nodule is found on the inner side of the border. apiculi apparently absent. the markings are larger than in the richmond forms which are associated by rattray with actinocyclus ellipticus grun. the form corresponds closely to witt's cestodiscus ovalis var.? (witt, polierschief. von archangelsk-kurojedowo, pl. , fig. ), except as to the border. it does not answer to van heurck's figure or any other. blue clay. very rare. pl. , fig. . { }eupodiscus ehr. ( ) (eu, well, pous, a foot, and discus) valve circular, - µ in diam. (de toni). central space absent, surface plane with angular cells. at the border short, circular processes or ocelli. eupodiscus radiatus bail. valve with radiating hexagonal cells, sometimes slightly curved toward the large ocelli inserted near the border which are hyaline at the centre. border wide, coarsely striate. the number of ocelli heretofore recorded is four. specimens with five processes are found in the artesian well at st. augustine, fla., and in material at twelfth and brandywine sts. mr. hugo bilgram has discovered valves with three and six ocelli. not common in the blue clay, but abundant along the southern coast of the atlantic states and the gulf of mexico. not eupodiscus radiatus wm. sm, which is biddulphia smithii (ralfs) v. h. pl. , fig. . auliscus ehr. ( ) (aulax, a furrow, referring to the grooves in certain species, according to de toni, but preferably from auliscos, a small reed, referring to the processes?) frustule cylindrical; zone with longitudinal rows of fine puncta. valve circular or elliptical, plane except near the processes; central area hyaline, usually circular. markings of two kinds, granules radiating or scattered and radiating, costate lines, prominent or indistinct. processes, two or three, large, short, cylindrical, with hyaline surface, near the ends of the major axis in a line oblique to it. auliscus is divided by rattray into fourteen sections, defined chiefly by the character and arrangement of the markings. about eighty species are described, but as many of the forms are fossil, occuring in the miocene of california, oamaru and elsewhere, and as so few species are found in this locality, i shall refer but briefly to this division. _striolati._--no transverse median areas, striæ inconspicuous punctatus _lineolati._--markings distinct, pruinose, interrupted pruinosus _costati._--transverse median areas usually distinct, sculptus markings continuous, costate cælatus auliscus punctatus bail. valve broadly elliptical, or suborbicular, covered with delicate interrupted striæ radiating in sinuous lines to the circumference, more evident on the transverse median area; puncta in µ, grouped into a rounded area on each side of the median line, elsewhere scattered. central space rounded, processes two, large, suborbicular. port penn, delaware river. rare. pl. , fig. . auliscus pruinosus bail. valve elliptical, with distinct, interrupted, pruinose, irregular markings diverging in curved lines toward the circumference in the median part and converging toward the processes, interspersed with numerous darker markings having the appearance of apiculi. central space nearly circular, sometimes with several granules. processes large near the ends of the major axis and not oblique to it, or scarcely so, the edges with a crenulate border. blue clay. rather rare. pl. , fig. . { }auliscus sculptus (wm. sm.) ralfs valve elliptical or subcircular, median areas distinct, rounded, circumscribed by coarse distant costæ radiating near the border where they are more evident, and converging toward the processes. central space rounded, sometimes indefinite. processes, two, circular. typical specimens show wide, coarse, distant costæ, but, in some cases, the median areas are indistinctly outlined. blue clay. pl. , fig. . auliscus cÆlatus bail. valve elliptical or subcircular, with radiating costæ, more evident around the median areas and at the border, converging toward the processes, with intermediate punctate radiating lines. central space rounded or irregular. processes circular. a. sculptus has coarser costæ and the interspaces are hyaline, or apparently so, while in a. cælatus the punctate striæ between the costæ are more evident. blue clay. not uncommon. pl. , fig. . fig. is a small, indefinite form intermediate between a. sculptus and a. cælatus. the numerous variations in this genus make it difficult to satisfactorily differentiate the species. the size of the four above described varies from to µ. pseudauliscus a. s. ( ) and leuduger-fortmorel ( ) valve circular or subcircular, nearly flat or depressed at the centre. central space not evident. processes circular, with narrow border, near the circumference. border narrow, striated. markings granular, radiating, sometimes interspersed with striæ and apiculi. differs from auliscus chiefly in the absence of a central space and costæ. pseudauliscus radiatus (bail.) rattr. valve circular, or nearly so, flat. central area with scattered granules radiating and increasing in size outward in diverging rows toward the border which is coarsely striated. processes, two, circular. two small apiculi are inserted at about one-fifth the radius from the border near the ends of the minor axis. blue clay. rare. pl. , fig. . the apiculi are not always figured. they appear in a number of specimens from the miocene of maryland, atlantic city, harvey cedars and newbern. pseudauliscus spinosus (christian) rattr. valve subcircular or slightly quadrangular, depressed at the centre and rising to an elevated zone near the border, the two zones separated by a distinct line. the inner zone indistinctly reticulate with fine puncta radiating from the centre and apiculi at intervals. the outer zone with smaller apiculi surrounding the inner zone and with intermingled rows of fine puncta and interrupted diverging striæ. near each end of the minor axis is a rather long, robust spine inserted at one-fourth the radius from the border which is narrow and striated. processes circular, close to the circumference. _auliscus spinosus_ christian. blue clay. rare. pl. , fig. . the genus is named by schmidt, described by leuduger-fortmorel and emendated by rattray. { }biddulphioideÆ biddulphieÆ (_a_) _triceratiinæ._--frustule cylindrical or prismatic, with three or more sides. (_b_) _biddulphiinæ._--frustule cylindroid; valve with ends elevated into round processes or long horns. (_c_) _anauleæ._--valve elliptical, lunate or triangular, with internal septa. (_d_) _euodieæ._--frustule cuneate in zone view; valve lunate. (_a_) triceratiinÆ ( ) _ditylum._--frustule imperfectly siliceous. zone with numerous divisions. valve with central spine. ( ) _trinacria._--processes with sharp spines. ditylum bail. ( ) (dis, two, and tyle, a swelling, referring to the outline of the frustule) frustule quadrangular, convex at the ends. valve triangular, with undulating sides, the angles ending in a sharp point surmounted by a bristle. surface of valve convex at centre from which projects a long stout spine. ditylum intricatum (west) grun. valve with the angles separated from the central part by lines imitating septa. surface with radiating lines of fine puncta. blue clay. rare. pl. , fig. . detached valves only have been found in the blue clay. the form is regarded as but slightly siliceous and, therefore, the zone or girdle not being found in the fossil deposits, i am unable to illustrate it from material in the vicinity. on plate , figs. and , i have sketched the zone and valve views of specimens found recently at vera cruz and labelled by h. l. smith triceratum intricatum west. i can find no difference between the recent and fossil forms of the valves. the zone is covered with fine puncta in quincunx, not visible under ordinary illumination. the form as figured in plate corresponds to the figure of lithodesmium undulatum ehr. in van heurck, and west, in describing the triceratium undulatum wm. sm. (figured as t. striolatum), thought that his t. intricatum was distinct from ehrenberg's form on the ground that the latter came from the "bermuda" (nottingham) earth and must be strongly siliceous. lithodesmium is characterized by the envelopment of the frustules by a cellular membrane which does not appear, evidently, in ditylum. d. brightwellii is distinguished by its crown of spines on the margin; otherwise it closely resembles d. intricatum. trinacria heib. ( ) (treis, three, and acra, a point) valve triangular, angles elevated into spines. cells at the margin large. trinacria pileolus (ehr.) grun. valve with concave sides. surface concave with unequal punctiform and scattered markings with central dots. cells at the margin large, rounded. at the angles, which vary in elevation, a few puncta are seen. _triceratium pileolus_ ehr. blue clay. rare. pl. , fig. . { }(_b_) biddulphiinÆ biddulphia gray ( ) em. van heurck ( ) (a genus, constituted from conferva biddulphiana of the english botany, named after a miss biddulph) frustule prismatic or subcylindrical, concatenate, filamentous, or in zig-zag, or, as usually found, free. zone well developed. valve triangular, polygonal, elliptic or subcircular, convex, more or less elevated at the angles into processes or horns. markings cellular or punctate. chromatophores, small plates of various forms. key to the species valves costate biddulphiana valves not costate: markings cellular, angles elevated into horns favus angles not elevated antediluviana markings punctate, angles with subconical processes and long spines granulata spines short rhombus spines minute smithii processes truncate, valve elliptical turgida valve orbicular lævis processes absent, valve divided by irregular lines alternans not so divided reticulum biddulphia biddulphiana (smith) frustule quadrangular with convex ends and rounded angles. valve elliptical with undulated sides, divided by septa into three or more sections. processes large, rounded, globular or subconical. zone varying in width. surface with rounded reticulations in longitudinal and transverse rows, except at the centre where they are concentric and smaller. _conferva biddulphiana_ smith (english botany, , pl. , upper figures). _diatoma biddulphianum_ ag. _biddulphia pulchella_ gray. blue clay. hoboken tunnel. along the coast. pl. , figs. , , , and . quite variable in size and number of septate divisions. fig. is an unusual form with narrow zone, having but one row of large reticulations, evidently a young frustule. biddulphia favus (ehr.) v. h. frustule quadrangular, elevated at the angles into subconical processes oblique to the longitudinal axis. valve triangular or quadrangular, plane, of two layers, the outer layer composed of large hexagonal cells in rows parallel to the sides, the inner of small puncta radiating from the centre. zone punctate in quincunx, never found open. _triceratium favus_ ehr. blue clay. common along the coast. the quadrangular form occurs only southward. pl. , fig. . at "a" a cell showing the lower punctate layer. pl. , fig. , a transverse section of a portion of the valve showing the cellular structure and the punctated lower stratum. { }biddulphia antediluviana (ehr.) v. h. frustules quadrangular, sometimes united in zig-zag chains. valve quadrangular with more or less concave sides, sometimes cruciform. surface with angular cells arranged in concentric and radiating lines increasing toward the circumference. at each angle is a large, rounded process, which, as well as the secondary layer, scarcely visible, is finely punctate. _amphitetras antediluviana_ ehr. _amphitetras tessellata_ shad. blue clay. rare. pl. , fig. . a cruciform variety occurs at pensauken, n. j., artesian well (coll. f. j. keeley). biddulphia granulata roper valve elliptical-lanceolate, convex, with diagonal rows of puncta in µ and sometimes with small scattered spurs. processes inflated at the base, obtuse at the ends, which are curved outward toward alternate sides. near each process and on opposite sides of the longitudinal axis is placed a stout spine bent or curved inward near the middle. connective zone with diagonal rows of puncta smaller than those on the valve. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. fossil in the pleistocene. along the coast. not common. pl. , fig. . biddulphia rhombus (ehr.) wm. sm. valve rhomboidal, sometimes triangular, with subconical processes. surface convex with hexagonal reticulations, - in µ, irregular at the centre and radiating to the circumference. minute spurs are scattered over the surface, and on each side are usually two or three short spines. common along the coast and fossil in the miocene and later deposits. pl. , fig. (somewhat inclined, as usually seen). biddulphia smithii (ralfs) v. h. valve orbicular, convex, with reticulations in µ radiating from the centre and decreasing toward the margin and processes which are truncate. a short spine is found on each side half way between the processes. zone narrow with fine puncta in µ in longitudinal rows. _cerataulus smithii_ ralfs. _eupodiscus radiatus_ wm. sm. blue clay. along the coast southward. pl. , fig. . biddulphia turgida (ehr.) wm. sm. valve elliptical or orbicular, surface convex. processes very large, cylindrical, placed obliquely and inclined by the torsion of the frustule. between the processes are two stout spines, one on each side, frequently forked at the ends. puncta fine, irregular at the centre and radiating toward the circumference. _cerataulus turgidus_ ehr. blue clay. along the coast. quite variable in size. pl. , fig. . { }biddulphia lÆvis ehr. valve suborbicular or triangular, with short, truncate processes. surface with fine puncta about in µ radiating in straight or curved lines toward the circumference and with fine spurs at intervals. nearer one process than the other, and about half way between centre and circumference, are two small spines, one on each side. quite variable in size. blue clay. common along the coast. pl. , fig. . fig. (magnification about diameters only) illustrates sporangial frustules discovered by mr. t. chalkley palmer at reedy island, delaware river. in frustules having a cylindrical form, the endochrome lines the cell-walls in the form of granules which become congregated toward the centre in the sporangia. biddulphia alternans (bail.) v. h. valve triangular or, rarely, quadrangular, with sides straight or slightly concave, usually unequal. angles obtuse, separated from the centre by costate lines. surface with puncta of irregular shape, large at the centre, with smaller puncta interspersed. in many valves several lines appearing like costæ extend inward from the border in various directions. angles with small puncta in transverse and longitudinal rows. _triceratium alternans_ bail. blue clay. along the coast. pl. , fig. and probably fig. . biddulphia reticulum (ehr.) frustule quadrangular. valve triangular with straight or concave sides and rounded angles. surface convex at the centre and angles. markings of unequal size, mostly larger at the centre, scattered; at the angles, small puncta in longitudinal rows. _triceratium sculptum_ shad. _triceratium punctatum_ br. _triceratium obtusum_ br. for explanation of the synonymy see "biddulphoid forms of n. a. diat.," proc. acad. nat. sci., , p. . blue clay. along the coast. pl. , fig. . (_c_) anauleÆ eunotogramma weisse ( ) (eu, well, noton, a back, and gramma) frustule quadrangular. valve elliptical or lunate divided by septa which constrict the margin. surface flat with punctate markings. eunotogramma lÆve grun. valve lunate with obtuse ends. septa, from four to eleven or more. surface with puncta in transverse and longitudinal rows, sometimes indistinct and scattered. shark river. rare. more common southward. fossil at buckshutem, n. j. pl. , fig. , and pl. , fig. . i am unable to distinguish between e. læve and e. debile, as intermediate forms occur. { }terpsinoË ehr. (terpsinoos, gladdening?) frustules quadrangular, adnate in filaments, usually free. valve elliptical or triangular, with undulating sides divided by septa into three or more sections. terpsinoË americana (bail.) ralfs valve lobed at each end or angle. central space rounded, hyaline. surface with fine puncta in radiating lines. blue clay. not common. pl. , fig. . terpsinoË novÆ-cÆsareÆ boyer valve triangular, with concave sides and broad angles equally three-lobed, separated from the central part by septa. central space small or absent. puncta delicate, radiating or scattered. l. of side µ. pleistocene clay at buckshutem, n. j. fossil at wildwood, n. j. t. americana, forma trigona pant.? (le diatomiste, vol. , p. .) pl. , fig. . (_d_) euodieÆ euodia bail. ( ) (derivation uncertain; apparently from euodia, fragrant, probably a euphemism) frustule in zone view cuneate. valve semi-lunate, coscinodiscoid. euodia gibba bail. valve with rounded markings, larger and scattered at the centre, radiating at the circumference and in indefinite straight rows at the semi-radius. delaware bay (mann). pl. , fig. . i have not seen this in the philadelphia material. the figure is drawn from a specimen from the gulf stream, s. atlantic. { }pennatÆ valve zygomorphous. structure pinnate, not concentric. valve divided either by a true raphe or cleft or by a linear space or line imitating a raphe. divided into three groups: . _fragilarioideæ._--valves without a raphe; usually with a pseudoraphe or median line. . _naviculoideæ._--either one or both valves with a true raphe. . _surirelloideæ._--valves in which the raphe is concealed near the margin on one or both sides of each valve in a more or less elevated keel or wing. fragilarioideÆ (_a_) _tabellarieæ._--valve symmetrical with respect to both the longitudinal and transverse axes; septate, not cuneate. (_b_) _meridioneæ._--valve symmetrical with respect to the longitudinal axis, asymmetrical to the transverse axis, cuneate, finely striated. (_c_) _fragilarieæ._--valve of varied shape, not cuneate; costate or with transverse rows of puncta. (_a_) tabellarieÆ frustule in zone view rectangular, in valve view linear or linear-elliptical, sometimes constricted in the middle, symmetrical to both axes, not cuneate; with two or more septa or annuli. chromatophores numerous, granular. _rhabdonema._--frustules with numerous septate partitions having one or several foramina. transverse costæ or rows of coarse puncta. _tabellaria._--frustules with two to six nearly straight septa. transverse striæ subtly punctate. _grammatophora._--frustules with two sinuate perforate curved septa. transverse striæ subtly punctate. _striatella._--frustules with alternate partitions, septate or partly so. _attheya._--frustules not septate but with numerous annuli. rhabdonema kuetz. ( ) (rhabdos, a rod, and nema, a thread) frustules quadrangular, concatenate, composed of numerous septate partitions with transverse costæ or rows of puncta. valves elliptical, with a pseudoraphe and transverse apparent costæ and punctate lines; the partitions with one or several foramina. chromatophores in rosettes of various kinds (karsten); usually parallel to the septa. rhabdonema arcuatum (lyng.) kuetz. valve hyaline at the ends, with transverse rows of puncta producing the appearance of costæ between the rows; pseudoraphe distinct; foramen single. _diatoma arcuatum_ lyngbye. common along the coast. pl. , figs. , , and ; pl. , fig. . { }according to t. h. buffham (jour. quek. m. c., series , vol. , p. ), the frustules are of two kinds, those in which the length and breadth are the same and those which are much lengthened, with a wide hyaline girdle frequently in the middle. at the time of fructification the smaller frustules are attached to a larger one which produces a sporangium at the end of the girdle from which the other end of the frustule has disappeared, or, if the two halves of the frustule remain, two sporangia are formed. rhabdonema minutum kuetz. frustules small; valve not smooth at the ends, elliptical or lanceolate-elliptical, with transverse rows of puncta; pseudoraphe distinct. foramen single, alternating above and below in adjoining partitions. common in the blue clay and along the coast. pl. , fig. and pl. , fig. . rhabdonema adriaticum kuetz. valve linear-lanceolate, with smooth angles; rows of puncta transverse, the intervals appearing as costæ, as in arcuatum. foramina, three. blue clay in the pensauken and pavonia deposits and along the coast. pl. , figs. , and . tabellaria ehr. ( ) (tabella, a tablet) frustules quadrangular, adnate in filaments, frequently found in zig-zag chains, united by a gelatinous isthmus, at length separating. valve linear, inflated in the middle and at the ends; striæ transverse. chromatophores numerous, small, along the zones. tabellaria fenestrata (lyng.) kuetz. valve elongated; pseudoraphe narrow; transverse striæ faint. in the zone view a straight septum is shown at each end of a valve. common, especially in the cedar swamps and ponds of the pine barren region, n. j. pl. , figs. and . tabellaria flocculosa (roth) kuetz. valve linear, with median inflation larger than the terminal; pseudoraphe rather broad in the middle; transverse striæ subtly punctate. in zone view the frustules are quadrangular, or nearly so, with about six sometimes curved septa at one end alternating with those on the other end. _conferva flocculosa_ roth. common especially in the pine barrens of new jersey. pl. , figs. , and . grammatophora ehr. ( ) (from gramma, a letter, and phoreo, i bear) frustules quadrangular, adnate, in zig-zag, united by an isthmus, or, usually, found free; divided by two sinuate and perforate curved septa. valve linear or oblong, sometimes with sinuate sides, and with a pseudoraphe and transverse punctate lines. chromatophores granular. { }grammatophora marina (lyng.) kuetz. valve linear-elliptical, with smooth apices. septum with a wide undulation near its origin, thence straight and incrassate at the end. striæ in quincunx, - in µ. _diatoma marinum_ lyngbye. blue clay. along the coast. pl. , figs. and . grammatophora marina var. subtilissima (bail.) v. h. valve linear, slightly constricted near the smooth apices. septum undulated near its origin and then straight, incrassate at the end. puncta in quincunx very subtle, - in µ. _grammatophora subtilissima_ bail. grammatophora oceanica var. subtilissima (bail.) v. h., according to de toni. g. marina and g. oceanica are united by some authors; the latter has more subtle striæ. along the coast. pl. , figs. and . grammatophora serpentina ralfs valve linear-elliptical, long, measuring to µ (de toni); smooth at the apices. septum with numerous undulations and hooked at the apex. puncta in quincunx, in µ. along the coast. pl. , fig. . grammatophora angulosa var. hamulifera (kuetz.) grun. frustule nearly quadrate; valve with rounded but not smooth apices. septum bent into a sharp angle near its origin and ending in a broad hook. puncta in transverse rows, in µ. along the coast. pl. , figs. and . grammatophora islandica ehr. frustule oblong; valve elliptical-lanceolate. septum robust with several undulations and hooked at the end. pseudoraphe distinct; transverse rows of puncta, in µ. reported by kuetzing in the atlantic ocean and by kain at belmar, n. j. i have not found it on our coast and i believe, in some cases, it has been confused with _g. angulosa_ var. _hamulifera_. the figure is drawn from an iceland form in h. l. smith t. s., . pl. , figs. and . striatella ag. ( ) (dim. of stria, referring to the lines on the frustule) frustules tabulate, adnate in short, stipitate filaments, scarcely siliceous, divided into partitions, septate or partly so at alternate ends. { }striatella unipunctata (lyng.) ag. frustules with numerous bent septa extending the entire length. valve lanceolate, somewhat unsymmetrical, subtly punctate, with pseudoraphe quite distinct. "the specific name is derived from the appearance of the endochrome which in the living specimen is invariably collected in a central mass with slender threads radiating in all directions toward the cell-wall" (wm. sm.). pyrenoids cuneate, in the centre of the endochrome, numerous. long island sound and along the coast. pl. , figs. and . striatella interrupta (ehr.) heib. frustules quadrangular, with robust alternate septa extending to the middle. puncta in quincunx, in µ. _tessella interrupta_ ehr. very rare along the coast. pl. , fig. . (from a form found at stonington, conn.) attheya west ( ) (named after thomas atthey) frustules quadrangular, tabulate, with numerous annuli. valve elliptical-lanceolate, with a pseudoraphe and a central punctum. extending from each end is a strong spine half as long as the valve. attheya decora west the only species. diagnosis of the genus. the valves are imperfectly siliceous, scarcely visible in balsam. very local. abundant at shark river, n. j. pl. , fig. . (_b_) meridioneÆ valve symmetrical in zone and valve view along the sagittal line, but asymmetrical to the transverse axis, cuneate. in zone view sometimes with wedge-shaped septa. valve finely striated, without central and usually without terminal nodules; a pseudoraphe present. _licmophora._--frustules cuneate in stipitate fan-shaped fascicles. _meridion._--frustules cuneate in spiral fascicles. licmophora ag. ( ) (licmos, a fan, and phoreo, i bear) frustules wedge-shaped, joined together into fan-shaped, stipitate fascicles. valve cuneate, rounded at both ends, septate. chromatophores granular, round or oval in our species. { }analysis of species (in accordance, so far as it relates to our species, with the classification of c. mereschkowsky, diagnoses of new licmophoræ, nuova notarisia, .) placatæ--valve narrow, striæ very fine, septa superficial flabellata dubiæ--valve bacilliform, septa shallow, frustule with thick walls ovulum paradoxæ--valve with lower end produced, striæ fine, paradoxa pseudoraphe distinct, septa deep gracilis tincta baileyi ? lyngbyeæ--valve narrow, attenuated at both ends, distinct, septa deep lyngbyei peristriatæ--valve broad, pseudoraphe wide, striæ robust ehrenbergii licmophora flabellata (carm.) ag. frustule elongate, narrow; valve narrow, lanceolate-cuneate, enlarged at the base; striæ very fine, in µ. _echinella flabellata_ carm. _licmophora splendida_ wm. sm. common along the coast. pl. , figs. and . licmophora ovulum mer. valve ovate, attenuated to the rounded inferior apex; pseudoraphe indistinct, striæ fine, in µ. zone view broad, cuneate, angles rounded, inferior apex broad; frustule robust, septa superficial, straight. (mereschkowsky, in part.) atlantic city. common. pl. , figs. and . licmophora paradoxa (lyng.) ag. frustule broad, with rounded angles; septa curved; valve ovate, inferior apex produced. pseudoraphe distinct; striæ varying from below to above in µ. _echinella paradoxa_ lyng. _rhipidophora paradoxa_ kuetz. along the coast. pl. , figs. and . licmophora gracilis (ehr.) grun. frustule cuneate, narrow, with sinuate margin; valve clavate, linear at the base; striæ, to in µ. new rochelle. along the coast. pl. , fig. . licmophora gracilis var. elongata (kuetz.) de toni as in the type, but more graceful and with deeper septa. _rhipidophora elongata_ kuetz. along the coast. not common. pl. , figs. and . { }licmophora tincta (ag.) grun. frustules cuneate, narrow, usually found in twos. valve clavate, hyaline, rather broad at the base; septa moderately deep; pseudoraphe indistinct; striæ, at the base, in the middle and at the apex in µ. _gomphonema tinctum_ ag. along the coast. abundant from about the middle of july to the middle of august. pl. , figs. and . licmophora baileyi (edw.) grun. frustule broadly cuneate or with convex margins, rarely almost orbicular; valve spatulate or ovate with slender, produced base; septa very deep; pseudoraphe distinct; striæ in µ. _podosphenia baileyi_ (edw.) lewis. long island sound and upper coast of new jersey. this form is placed in a doubtful position by mereschkowsky. as it corresponds more closely to the paradoxæ, it is placed here provisionally. the girdle face and apex of the valve are round, the pseudoraphe is distinct and the septa deep, but the stipe is short. pl. , fig. and pl. , figs. and . licmophora lyngbyei (kuetz.) grun. frustule cuneate, slightly rounded at the angles. valve oblanceolate; pseudoraphe distinct; septa deep; striæ, in µ below, and in µ above. _podosphenia lyngbyei_ kuetz. along the coast. pl. , figs. and . licmophora ehrenbergii (kuetz.) grun. frustule cuneate, broad. valve obovate-lanceolate; pseudoraphe wide; striæ coarse, in µ, moniliform. _podosphenia ehrenbergii_ kuetz. along the coast. pl. , fig. . meridion ag. ( ) (merizo, i divide) frustules in zone view cuneate, adnate in circular or spiral fasciæ, at length becoming free. valve symmetrical with respect to the longitudinal axis, more or less cuneate; costæ and striæ transverse. chromatophores numerous, small, elongated, in irregular rows on the zone (pfitzer). meridion circulare (grev.) ag. transverse costæ coarse, variable in number and distance apart, sometimes interrupted or indistinct; striæ interstitial, in µ. in springs and small streams of pure water. _echinella circularis_ grev. { }meridion constrictum ralfs, sometimes given as a variety of m. circulare, differs only in the constriction below the apex. the two kinds of frustules are usually found growing together and as the variation is often extremely slight they are here included under the earlier name. pl. , figs. , and . fig. represents the constricted form which is the more common. fig. is a sporangial form. the sporangial frustules vary in shape and size, some being long and slender, others clavate, but they are all more or less tumid in the middle, with costæ more indefinite than in perfect valves. all gradations occur, one end becoming shorter until the valve has the shape of the variety known as constrictum. it would seem, therefore, that the non-constricted form is a passage from the sporangial to the smaller or adult form, or is of no specific importance. all forms are found living together. the adult frustules are the smaller ones; it is from them that the sporangia are produced. meridion intermedium h. l. smith (amer. quart. mic. jour., vol. , p. ) is characterized by less evident costæ and is more delicate in general appearance. some forms are capitate and others are not. prof. smith compares the m. intermedium with peronia erinacea bréb. and arnott which he has named m. erinaceum, hitherto found only in europe, and points out the relation of the two forms to licmophora. an examination of the h. l. s. type slides of the two diatoms proves that peronia has very delicate costæ and a distinct pseudoraphe not noticeable in meridion. on the slide of peronia are frustules exactly similar to certain of the sporangial variations of m. circulare. the fan-like arrangement of licmophora, the marine form, and the circular chains of meridion, the fresh-water genus, are similar. both are stipitate at the beginning of their growth. (_c_) fragilarieÆ divided into three sections: _diatominæ._--valve circular, elliptical to linear, quadrate or cruciform, with transverse costæ; without raphe, a pseudoraphe sometimes wanting. _fragilariinæ._--valve elongate, with small central and terminal elevations, without costæ but with transverse punctate striæ; without genuine central nodule. _eunotiinæ._--valve lunate; a raphe sometimes partially formed with terminal nodules near the edges. diatominÆ _diatoma._--frustules in filaments. valve linear or elliptical, costate. _plagiogramma._--frustules in fasciæ or free. valve costate. _opephora._--valve costate, with an inner punctate stratum. diatoma de candolle ( ) em. heib. ( ) (diatemno, i cut in two) frustules oblong or quadrate, adnate in filaments, attached by alternate angles and finally separating. valve linear or elliptical, with transverse costæ and rows of puncta and a pseudoraphe. chromatophores large granules without definite arrangement. (see pl. , fig. .) { }diatoma vulgare bory. valve elliptical-lanceolate, with apices sometimes rostrate or capitate; pseudoraphe narrow; costæ, in µ. common everywhere in pure fresh water and extremely variable. pl. , figs. and . var. elongatum (ag.) = var. ehrenbergii (kuetz.)--elliptical-lanceolate, constricted near the apex. var. grande (wm. sm.) grun.--linear, elongated, constricted near the apices. pl. , fig. . both of these varieties, with numerous intermediate forms, are abundant near newtown square. varieties of grunow, known as breve, ovate-lanceolate; productum, ovate-lanceolate with produced apices; capitulatum, lanceolate with capitate extremities, are mingled together in the same gathering. diatoma anceps (ehr.) kirchn. valve linear with rostrate apices; costæ robust; striæ delicate, in µ. zone view quadrangular. common in fresh water. pl. , figs. and . fig. , pl. , shows frustules containing the nuclei and chromatophores. diatoma hiemale (lyng.) heib. valve ovate-lanceolate to lanceolate; apices obtuse, not produced. costæ not numerous, robust; striæ moniliform. zone view quadrate, the costæ as septa deeply dividing the valve into convex elevations. common in springs. pl. , figs. and . in all species of diatoma a punctum, or pore, is observed, usually at alternate ends of the two valves, by means of which a communication exists between adjoining frustules and causes them to adhere in zig-zag chains when partially separated. plagiogramma grev. ( ) (plagios, on the side, and gramma, a letter) frustules quadrangular, adnate in fasciæ, or free. valve linear, elliptical, or elliptical-lanceolate, divided by two or more median and two terminal costæ or with a central and two terminal hyaline spaces. valve with two median and two terminal costæ: linear, pseudoraphe distinct pygmæum linear, with striæ at the ends wallichianum ovate-lanceolate obesum valve without costæ but with central and terminal nodules: pseudoraphe absent tessellatum { }plagiogramma pygmÆum grev. valve linear-elliptical; pseudoraphe distinct; rows of granules transverse, usually six in each compartment, moniliform, three on each side. blue clay. not common. pl. , fig. . plagiogramma wallichianum grev. valve linear, rounded at the ends; pseudoraphe absent; transverse rows of granules, six or seven in each compartment, and two or three rows of smaller granules at each end. blue clay. not common. pl. , fig. . plagiogramma obesum grev. valve rhombic-lanceolate, the costæ scarcely visible; pseudoraphe rather wide; rows of granules, about seven in each compartment, slightly radiating. blue clay. not common. pl. , fig. . plagiogramma tessellatum grev. valve elliptical-lanceolate; central space transversely elliptical to the major axis, half the diameter of the valve; terminal spaces more or less circular or ovate. granular markings large, quadrangular, in transverse rows. pseudoraphe not distinct. as the central space does not reach the margin, it is a question whether this form is a plagiogramma or a new genus. blue clay. rare. pl. , fig. . opephora petit ( ) (ope, an opening, and phoreo) frustule rectangular. valve cuneiform, linear or elliptical-lanceolate, with broad, transverse striæ and a well-defined pseudoraphe or median area. the genus "portant des stries en forme de boutonnières," as petit remarks, is quite near fragilaria, under which the species here described were originally included. (see schmidt's atlas, pl. , where numerous forms of f. pinnata are figured.) opephora schwartzii (grun.) petit valve obovate-lanceolate or nearly linear with rounded apices; striæ transverse, broad, or in µ; median area lanceolate. an inner stratum, with puncta in transverse rows, is apparent. blue clay. not uncommon. variable in size. pl. , figs. and . opephora pacifica (grun.) petit valve linear, oblong, with rounded apices. median area linear, narrow; striæ punctate. blue clay. pl. , fig. . petit (diat. cap horn) in his diagnosis states that the valves are cuneiform, but they are not always so. { }opephora pinnata var. lanceolata n. var. valve lanceolate; costæ slightly radiate, punctate; median area broad, lanceolate. differs from o. pinnata in outline, radiation of the costæ and median area. blue clay. rare. pl. , fig. . fragilariinÆ _fragilaria._--frustules in fasciæ. valve with transverse striæ. pseudoraphe indistinct. _rhaphoneis._--striæ radiate; pseudoraphe distinct. _dimerogramma._--pseudoraphe broad. _trachysphenia._--valve cuneiform. _synedra._--valve elongate. _asterionella._--frustules in star-shaped clusters. fragilaria (lyng.) rab. (fragilis, because of the fasciæ easily breaking up) frustules rectangular, adnate in fasciæ, soon breaking up. valve lanceolate, oblong or elliptical in general outline, with convex or sinuate margins; without costæ; pseudoraphe narrow or indistinct; striæ transverse. chromatophores vary according to species. in some they consist of four bands on the valves; in others they are granular (mereschkowsky). brun divides the genus into two sections, fragilaria proper and staurosira. the former, with an indistinct pseudoraphe, includes the species virescens, arctica, undata and linearis, while the latter, with distinct pseudoraphe, includes capucina, harrisonii, construens and parasitica. fragilaria virescens ralfs frustules in long fasciæ. valve elliptical-lanceolate, obtuse at the apices; pseudoraphe indistinct; striæ, in µ, punctate. very common in springs and pure streams. the fasciæ are often a foot or more in length. pl. , figs. and . fragilaria arctica grun. valve oblong or elliptical, µ in length; striæ subtle, with coarse, short striæ at intervals on the margin and evident in zone view. marine. common at cape may, n. j. pl. , figs. and . fragilaria undata wm. sm. valve in general outline linear-elliptical, with extremities produced; striæ subtle; pseudoraphe distinct. fresh water. pl. , figs. , , , and . { }fragilaria linearis cstr. valve linear, with rounded apices; striæ subtle; pseudoraphe indistinct. marine. cape may. pl. , fig. . fig. is an indeterminate form occasionally found in the blue clay. fragilaria capucina var. mesolepta rab. valve linear, constricted at the hyaline middle; apices slightly produced; striæ, in µ. quite variable in size. schuylkill river. morrisville (keeley). pl. , fig. . fragilaria harrisonii (wm. sm.) grun. frustules rectangular, solitary or in twos. valve cruciform; pseudoraphe narrow, lanceolate; striæ robust, radiating in the middle, composed of confluent puncta, larger at the circumference. blue clay. pl. , fig. . fragilaria construens (ehr.) grun. valve in general outline lanceolate, with produced apices; pseudoraphe lanceolate, distinct or broad; striæ subtle, in µ. l. of valve, - µ. _staurosira construens_ ehr. _odontidium tabellaria_ wm. sm. blue clay. pl. , fig. . fragilaria parasitica (wm. sm.) frustules solitary or in twos. valve lanceolate, sometimes constricted in the middle; pseudoraphe wide, lanceolate; striæ subtle. parasitic on other diatoms. _odontidium parasiticum_ wm. sm. not common. media (palmer). in the constricted form it is known as f. construens var. binodis (ehr.) grun. pl. , fig. . an examination of the synonymy of the species of fragilaria will convince the student of the difficulty of determining the correct name even in well-known forms. if all of the species of fragilaria proper have granular chromatophores, and all of staurosira are placcochromatic, a satisfactory division can be made, but so long as these facts are not known in all species, and as authors have repeatedly confused the two divisions, the nomenclature will be uncertain. f. harrisonii is probably in any case to be separated from the others. de toni includes it under its original name of odontidium, which genus he places near to diatoma. the number of species in our locality is too limited to render further discussion of any value. { }rhaphoneis ehr. ( ) (rhaphis, a needle) frustule in zone view linear. valve lanceolate or elliptical-lanceolate; pseudoraphe distinct; striæ radiating, moniliform. rhaphoneis amphiceros ehr. valve lanceolate, broad, with apices produced; striæ in curved lines, moniliform, the large granules in longitudinal lines. blue clay. pl. , fig. . rhaphoneis amphiceros var. rhombica grun. valve as in type form but shorter, with larger and more remote granules. blue clay. pl. , figs. and . rhaphoneis belgica var. intermedia grun. valve lanceolate, rostrate; granules in longitudinal and nearly transverse, not radiating, lines. absecon, n. j. pl. , fig. . dimerogramma ralfs ( ) (dis, two, meros, a part, gramma, a letter) frustules quadrangular, inflated at the angles, in fasciæ. valve ovate or lanceolate; striæ moniliform, transverse or slightly radiate; median area or pseudoraphe broad, lanceolate. dimerogramma marinum (greg.) ralfs valve lanceolate or linear and inflated in the middle; striæ moniliform, transverse or slightly radiate; median area linear or lanceolate, sometimes not reaching the smooth extremities; striæ, in µ. pl. , figs. and . fig. differs in its lanceolate outline, in having four puncta on each side in a row, and in the striæ which are radiate. dimerogramma surirella (ehr.) grun. valve elliptical-lanceolate, with rounded apices; striæ moniliform, radiate; pseudoraphe narrow, lanceolate. blue clay. pl. , fig. . { }dimerogramma minus (greg.) ralfs valve rhombic-lanceolate; striæ punctate, radiate; pseudoraphe lanceolate; apices smooth. blue clay. along the coast. pl. , figs. , , . trachysphenia petit ( ) (trachys, rough, and sphen, a wedge) frustules rectangular. valve cuneiform with coarse puncta in transverse and longitudinal lines; pseudoraphe narrow, linear. one species only. trachysphenia australis petit characters of the genus. valve small; puncta, in µ. allied to dimerogramma. shark river, n. j. rare. pl. , fig. . synedra ehr. ( ) (synedrion, a sitting together) frustules adnate in small stipitate clusters or free. valve elongate, linear or linear-lanceolate; pseudoraphe distinct; costæ absent. the genus synedra has few distinctive characters. as brun remarks (diat. des alpes et du jura, p. ), the dilatation of the extremities and the pseudo-nodule are of little value in classification, as the intermediate forms are so numerous. fragilaria occurs in very long ribbons or fasciæ, synedra in short fasciæ or radiating clusters. fragilaria is seldom longer than three or four times the width, while synedra is nearly always so. the former has fine, often subtle, markings and narrow pseudoraphe, while the latter has coarser punctate striæ and a more distinct pseudoraphe. chromatophores usually consist of two bands, one on each of the valves. karsten states that in the marine forms the chromatophores are oval or polygonal discs, each of which usually encloses a pyrenoid. synedra ulna (nitzsch) ehr. frustules solitary or in twos. valve - µ in length, linear or linear-lanceolate, with rostrate apices; striæ, in µ. common in rivers and streams. pl. , figs. , and (?). frequently interrupted in the middle. the distinction made by wm. smith as to the presence or absence of the central blank space is probably not necessary, as both forms are found which are otherwise identical. fig. represents the formation of a sporangial frustule which differs from the usual form in its inflated ends prolonged into rostrate apices. figs. and are sporangial frustules. { }synedra biceps (kuetz.) schmidt valve sublanceolate, inflated at the ends, apices rounded; central space not always distinct; pseudoraphe narrow; striæ radiate at the ends. this is not kuetzing's species, if the descriptions and figures are accepted, nor is it h. l. smith's type no. , which is s. ulna var. danica, nor is it s. biceps wm. smith, but it is exactly schmidt's form (atlas, pl. , figs. - ). schuylkill river. pl. , fig. . synedra danica kuetz. valve lanceolate, suddenly constricted at the rounded apices; central space frequently absent. very common in streams. pl. , fig. . the figure represents an unusually large form. it differs from s. ulna only in its apices. synedra capitata ehr. valve long, linear, dilated into triangular acute apices; pseudoraphe distinct; striæ radiate at the ends. blue clay. pl. , fig. . synedra acus kuetz. valve very narrow, lanceolate, acicular, with obtuse apices. common in the schuylkill river. pl. , figs. and . synedra goulardi brÉb. valve constricted in the middle; apices sub-acute, sometimes slightly rostrate or capitate; central space evident. neshaminy creek (palmer). blue clay. crum creek. pl. , figs. and . synedra pulchella (ralfs) kuetz. valve lanceolate, tapering to the sub-acute, rostrate or slightly capitate apices; dilated at the central hyaline space; pseudoraphe distinct. very variable in size. crum creek. schuylkill river. rather common. pl. , figs. , , . synedra pulchella var. abnormis macchiati? valve as in type form, except that one end is curved like a beak, as in s. hamata wm. sm., which it resembles. not uncommon in the schuylkill river. pl. , fig. . synedra oxyrhynchus var. undulata grun. valve linear-lanceolate with produced rostrate apices, asymmetrical, sigmoid; pseudoraphe narrow; pseudo-nodule large. common in fresh water. pl. , fig. . { }synedra pulchella var. flexella n. var. frustule slightly attenuated at the ends, truncate, somewhat tumid in the middle and flexed. valve lanceolate, with obtuse or subcapitate apices and with two almost imperceptible constrictions at the middle producing a tumid appearance; pseudoraphe distinct; pseudo-nodule absent. l. µ; striæ, - in µ. some valves are bent and incised on one side. the outline of the valve is that of pulchella. common at newtown square. pl. , fig. . synedra radians kuetz. frustules linear, in small fasciæ. valve µ in length, linear, with apices rostrate, obtuse, sometimes slightly capitate; pseudoraphe distinct; striæ about in µ. fresh water. pl. , figs. and . there is difficulty in recognizing s. radians k. as described and figured by different authors. on plate , fig. , i have drawn a specimen from h. l. smith's type slide no. , labelled s. radians kuetz., not wm. smith, which, however, corresponds closely to smith's figure (brit. diat. , pl. , fig. ). de toni gives s. radians kuetz. as equivalent to s. tenera wm. sm. van heurck's figure of s. radians, and also the figure of ulna var., said to be synonymous with h. l. smith's s. radians, which does not correspond to the specimens on smith's slide in my possession, are confusing. in van heurck's synopsis the striæ are said to be or , while de toni describes them as subtle and from to in µ. the length is quite variable. several species of synedra resemble s. radians in the mode of growth, as they are adnate at first, in short bands, the frustules being sessile on other plants or objects, attached at the terminal nodules which, although scarcely visible in most forms, are probably present in all. the frustules are not closely connected at the free end, and soon become entirely detached. in diatoma and fragilaria, we find a punctum or pore at one end of a valve, but not in line with the pseudoraphe; in synedra, a minute pore is usually found in the position of the terminal nodule and, in some species, indications of a central nodule are observed; the median line is wider but there is no raphe. in the fresh-water synedræ, many of which are among the longest of diatoms, living in running streams, the terminal nodules are much more indistinct, while the marine forms have distinct terminal nodules, are not, as a rule, found in bands, and assume a more naviculoid outline. synedra vaucheriÆ var. parvula (kuetz.) rab. valve lanceolate, with produced or rostrate apices; pseudo-nodule wide, excentric. l. µ. crum creek. pl. , fig. . fig. represents a variety with coarser striæ from the schuylkill river. both are easily mistaken for fragilaria intermedia. { }synedra fulgens (grev.) wm. sm. frustules geminate or flabellate on a stipe. valve slightly inflated in the middle and at the apices; pseudoraphe narrow; striæ finely punctate, radiate at the ends. marine. atlantic city. pl. , fig. . synedra affinis kuetz. valve lanceolate; striæ marginal, leaving a broad lanceolate pseudoraphe. common along the coast. pl. , fig. . synedra affinis var. parva (kuetz.) v. h. valve lanceolate, slender; striæ marginal, shorter than in the type. _synedra gracilis_ kuetz. common along the coast. pl. , fig. . synedra affinis var. tabulata (ag.) v. h. valve linear-lanceolate; striæ, in µ, very short. not common. new rochelle. pl. , fig. . asterionella hassall ( ) (dim. of aster, a star) frustules linear, slightly inflated at the ends, arranged in star-shaped clusters which soon break up. valve linear, unequally inflated at the ends. asterionella formosa hass. valve clavate at the ends; striæ transverse, in µ, pseudoraphe very narrow or indistinct; an ovoid, hyaline area at each end. newark, n. j. broomall's lake, media (palmer). pl. , figs. , , . asterionella inflata heib. valve linear, capitate at each end and tumid in the middle; striæ distinctly punctate; pseudoraphe indistinct, or not apparent. l. µ. fresh water. may's landing, n. j. pl. , fig. . eunotiinÆ _eunotia._--frustules either free, in fasciæ or epiphytic. valves arcuate. _actinella._--frustules, solitary or in small clusters, cuneate. valve inflated at one end. { }eunotia ehr. ( ) em. grun. ( ) (eu, well, and noton, a back, referring to the strong, ridged dorsum) frustules free, in fasciæ or epiphytic. valve arcuate, without costæ, transversely striated; pseudoraphe absent; pseudo-nodules at each end. chromatophores laminate along the concave zone and the valves. very many species of eunotia have been created to differentiate size and number of crenæ or undulations. an examination of certain fossil deposits of new england, as well as a gathering from the blue clay of philadelphia, will show forms which vary infinitely. e. major and e. gracilis are scarcely distinguishable because of the intermediate variations. the striæ in all forms are punctate, but the puncta are frequently confluent. analysis of species eunotia is divided into two sections, himantidium and eunotia proper. in himantidium, the frustules are in fasciæ, either short or long. among those with short fasciæ are major, gracilis, and nymanniana; those with long fasciæ are pectinalis, solierolii and veneris. eunotia proper includes frustules, free or epiphytic, in which the valves are not dentate on the dorsal margin, such as lunaris, hemicyclus, biceps and prærupta; and those in which the valves are dentate or crenate on the dorsum, such as monodon, triodon, diadema and others. the resemblance between eunotia and epithemia is noticeable. in both, the epiphytic character of the valve is seen in the shape of the frustule which is arched, and, in the free forms, is adherent at the ends only. in epithemia, the median is more evident than the terminal nodules. in eunotia, there is no median nodule, but the end nodules, in some species, are quite evident, and a tendency is shown to produce a very short raphe. the arrangement of puncta in valve view is similar in both genera. section . himantidium eunotia major (wm. sm.) rab. valve arcuate, linear, subcapitate, recurved. striæ punctate, in µ l. - µ. common in fresh water. pl. , figs. and . eunotia gracilis (ehr.) rab. valve with sides parallel; apices slightly capitate and revolute; striæ, in µ. the striæ on the connective membrane more delicate than in e. major. intermediate forms occur. common in fresh water. pl. , fig. . fig. is indeterminate. eunotia nymanniana grun. valve small, curved, with parallel dorsal and ventral margins; apices truncate and recurved into dorsal elevations; striæ delicate. blue clay. not common. pl. , fig. . { }eunotia pectinalis (kuetz.) valve linear, arcuate, apices slightly rostrate; striæ distinctly punctate with puncta in longitudinal rows nearer together at the ends. _himantidium pectinale_ kuetz. common in fresh water. pl. , figs. and . the fasciæ are associated in large masses, sometimes an inch or more in diameter, and late in august are found a foot or more in length, of a beautiful chocolate color. exceedingly abundant in the cedar-swamp streams of the pine barren regions of new jersey. in winter, the dead frustules form a parchment-like coating upon the twigs, dead leaves, and other débris on the borders of streams. this species can scarcely be referred to dillwyn's conferva pectinalis, as, in his description, quoting mueller, he says that "the filaments are of a dirty green color; seldom exceeding half an inch in length." dillwyn's form is probably fragilaria virescens, which equals fragilaria pectinalis ehr., while kuetzing's species is fragilaria pectinalis ralfs. it is not impossible to confuse fragilaria virescens and eunotia pectinalis when the zone only is seen under a low power and their mode of growth is similar. eunotia pectinalis var. undulata ralfs valve as in type form, but with undulate margins. common in the cedar swamps of new jersey. pl. , figs. and . eunotia pectinalis var. solierolii (kuetz.) valve as in type, but with internal divisions as though in the process of reduplication. not common. moorestown, n. j. (palmer). pl. , fig. . eunotia pectinalis var. ventricosa grun. as in type, but with the valves tumid in the middle. may's landing, n. j. pl. , fig. . fig. is a form found in the blue clay. it differs in the coarser puncta from the var. ventricosa. in outline it resembles eunotia arcus wm. sm., which is ceratoneis arcus (ehr.) kuetz., but the central nodule is not present as in the latter form, which connects eunotia and cymbella. it may be a form of e. luna ehr. (a. s., atlas, pl. , figs. and .) eunotia veneris kuetz. valve with convex dorsal and straight ventral margins, more or less constricted near the sub-acute apices. striæ subtle, punctate. _eunotia incisa_ greg. may's landing, n. j. blue clay, pavonia, n. j. pl. , figs. and . { }eunotia (proper) eunotia lunaris (ehr.) grun. frustules sessile, solitary or in clusters. valve arcuate, narrow, attenuated toward the apices, which are sometimes slightly rostrate or rostrate-capitate; transverse striæ, in µ, punctate. very common in ditches, especially in the spring. variable in length. pl. , figs. and . eunotia hemicyclus (ehr.) ralfs valve semicircular, with obtuse apices; striæ transverse, punctate; terminal nodules minute and indistinct. hammonton pond, n. j. rare. pl. , fig. . the genus pseudo-eunotia was created by grunow for forms like eunotia, but without terminal nodules. as, however, in e. lunaris and e. hemicyclus nodules are evident, although not so large as in many species, i include these two forms as heretofore under eunotia. eunotia biceps ehr. valve linear, slightly arcuate, narrow, with rounded apices somewhat revolute; striæ, in µ. may's landing, n. j. pl. , fig. . eunotia prÆrupta ehr. valve convex on dorsal side, apices dilated and truncate; striæ distant at centre. common in the blue clay. pl. , fig. . eunotia prÆrupta var. bidens grun. valve with two undulations; otherwise as in type. _eunotia bigibba_ greg. with the type. pl. , fig. . eunotia robusta ralfs valve arcuate, with several or numerous dorsal ridges or crenæ which decrease in relative size in proportion to their number. striæ radiate, variable in distance apart, and in size of puncta. ralfs included under this one name the following species named by ehrenberg: e. diodon ( crenæ); e. triodon ( ); e. tetraodon ( ); e. pentodon ( ); e. diadema ( ); e. heptodon ( ); e. octodon ( ); e. enneadon ( ); e. decadon ( ); e. hendecadon ( ); e. duodecadon ( ); e. serra ( ); e. prioritis ( ); all more than , e. polyodon. e. scalaris, with from to crenæ, and e. icosodon with , may be added. it is probable that all of these forms occur at may's landing, n. j. the forms with more than eight crenæ are comparatively rare. in the blue clay those with from four to six are most common. pl. , figs. , , , , , , , . { }eunotia bactriana ehr. valve linear, apices revolute, acute, dentate on the dorsal margin, with one acute crena near each end. tom's river, n. j. rare. pl. , fig. . eunotia bidentula wm. sm. valve with straight ventral margin, and with two undulations on the dorsum; apices large, rounded. may's landing, n. j. rare. pl. , fig. (not schumann's form, which has angular crenæ). eunotia formica ehr. var.? valve turgid in the middle and at the apices which are unilaterally truncate. pensauken, n. j. (artesian well). pl. , fig. (not a typical form). the following are forms which appear to be indeterminate, or, in any case, are scarcely worthy of distinction by specific names, as might be said of others of the innumerable variations of this genus: fig. , pl. , probably a form of prærupta. newtown square. fig. , pl. , from the blue clay. fig. , pl. , an asymmetrical form, apparently abnormal, but not rare at may's landing, n. j. fig. , pl. . valve convex on the dorsal side, incised on the ventral; striæ about in µ, closer at the ends; l. µ. schuylkill river. fig. , pl. . valve arcuate, asymmetrical, broader at one end; terminal nodules large; striæ, in µ; l. µ. gloucester, n. j., artesian well. numerous variations of the above species are illustrated in schmidt (atlas, pls. - ). actinella lewis ( ) (dim. of actin, a ray) frustules solitary, or in small clusters, sub-cuneate or nearly linear. valve arcuate, rounded at one end and suddenly widened at the other into a cup-shaped or lychnoid inflation. actinella punctata lewis valve with fine, transverse striæ; on the margin, puncta at intervals; terminal nodules distinct. may's landing, n. j. pl. , figs. , , . fig. , from tom's river, n. j., is an approach toward a. brasiliensis grun. fig. represents the frustules geminate, a frequent occurrence. { }naviculoideÆ in discussing the naviculoid group, the general divisions of cleve are here followed, and all diatoms having a true raphe are included. i have added the genus epithemia and also rhopalodia, partly because they contain a raphe of a certain kind and partly because they resemble the markings of certain of the genus hantzschia in the following group, although in other respects there is probably no similarity. the difficulty of combining the numerous genera into groups which are naturally affiliated is avoided in the following arrangement based on superficial similarities, and is intended merely as an artificial key. to unite all forms having a raphe and which are symmetrical with valves similar and not sigmoid, under the one genus navicula, as has been the custom previous to the publication of cleve's monograph, would result in associating species differing in so many respects in relation to structure of the valve and cell contents that it seems advisable to retain the new genera, especially as the original genus is likely to be still further reduced when more is known of the structure and life history of the group. key to the genera valves dissimilar. achnantheæ symmetrical cocconeis asymmetrical to the longitudinal axis anorthoneis to the transverse axis rhoicosphenia in zone view achnanthes valves similar and asymmetrical asymmetrical to the longitudinal axis valves parallel cymbella valves not parallel amphora valves keeled, twisted (sometimes symmetrical) amphiprora valves keeled tropidoneis valves reniform and keeled auricula median line sigmoid at the ends scoliotropis asymmetrical to the transverse axis striæ punctate and costate gomphoneis striæ punctate gomphonema valves similar, symmetrical and sigmoid striæ oblique pleurosigma striæ at right angles gyrosigma valves similar, symmetrical, not sigmoid striæ punctate, nodules elongated frustulia striæ subtly punctate, central nodule forked amphipleura striæ punctate and reticulate, in two strata dictyoneis striæ punctate and alveolate, in three strata trachyneis striæ punctate, in two strata brèbissonia striæ interrupted by blank lines anomoeoneis striæ crossed by longitudinal lines caloneis striæ oblique, median fissures in opposite directions neidium striæ punctate and costate, median line with horns diploneis striæ punctate; valves separated by septate plates mastogloia striæ punctate, central area dilated into a stauros stauroneis striæ punctate, area without stauros or horns navicula striæ costate, not punctate pinnularia { }achnantheÆ frustules stipitate, free or parasitic. valves cuneate, elliptical or suborbicular, dissimilar, bent along the transverse or the longitudinal axes, the lower valve with a true raphe and central and terminal nodules, the upper valve with a pseudoraphe or median line. _rhoicosphenia._--stipitate; valves with transverse puncta, bent along the transverse axis, cuneate, with diaphragms at the ends. _anorthoneis._--free; puncta radiate; valves bent slightly along the transverse axis, suborbicular. _cocconeis._--parasitic; valves elliptical, usually bent along the longitudinal axis; striæ punctate, transverse and longitudinal. _achnanthes._--stipitate; valves lanceolate or elliptical, bent along the transverse axis; striæ transverse, punctate; costæ sometimes present. rhoicosphenia grun. ( ) (rhoicos, curved, and sphen, a wedge) frustule in zone view curved; valves cuneate, dissimilar, the upper with a pseudoraphe, the lower with a raphe. chromatophore a single plate along both valves, and one of the inner walls of the zone. conjugation as in gomphonema, with which it is generally associated in classification. rhoicosphenia curvata (kuetz.) grun. valve clavate, with rounded apex and base; lower valve with raphe, a narrow axial area and slightly radiate, punctate striæ; the upper valve with a narrow pseudoraphe and parallel striæ; a short diaphragm at the ends of each valve. length usually from to µ, but frequently of twice the size. common in crum creek. pl. , figs. , , . anorthoneis grun. ( ) (anorthos, not straight) valves dissimilar, the upper valve with an excentric axial area, the lower with an excentric raphe. anorthoneis excentrica (donk.) grun. valves orbicular, with radiating, punctate striæ, closer at the circumference, producing the appearance of a border. axial area not reaching the ends. frustules occur free on the sands of the sea-shore. l. to µ. belmar, n. j. pl. , figs. and . { }cocconeis ehr. ( ) em. grun. ( ) (coccos, a berry) valves elliptical, dissimilar, the upper valve with a pseudoraphe and the lower with a genuine raphe and nodules, usually with a rim or annulus. frustules epiphytic. cocconeis is generally considered as a degenerated form of mastogloia, as indicated by the "obsoletely loculiferous rim." the frustules are usually bent along the longitudinal axis, probably because of the attachment to the curved stems of water-plants. the cell contents of only a few species are known. in c. pediculus, a single chromatophore occurs on the inside of the upper valve. in conjugation, two cells open and secrete a gelatinous mass from which an auxospore is formed. cleve separates the forms having a loculiferous rim (cocconeis) from those without a rim (eucocconeis). as the rim is easily detachable, the distinction is often made with difficulty. cocconeis scutellum ehr. valves elliptical, the upper with a linear or lanceolate pseudoraphe and coarse puncta in transverse and radiating lines; the lower valve with much finer puncta in radiating lines, a lanceolate axial area and, sometimes, a loculiferous rim. along the coast. common, but extremely variable. pl. , fig. (upper valve). fig. , var. ? cocconeis scutellum var. ornata grun. upper valve with linear axial area, and transverse and radiating punctate lines which end at the border in a double row of finer puncta; lower valve with much finer puncta, a lanceolate axial area and a loculiferous rim. atlantic city. common. pl. , figs. and . the forms along the coast vary infinitely both in size and appearance. the var. ornata is very abundant along the entire coast. in any gathering, valves are found with or without the rim which is frequently seen detached. the upper valve is sometimes without the double row of puncta. fig. represents an upper valve more coarsely punctate than usually occurs. very many intermediate forms might be noticed. cocconeis pediculus ehr. valves rhombic-elliptical, very convex, somewhat asymmetrical; the upper valve with a linear pseudoraphe, sometimes widened near the ends, and slightly radiating, finely punctate striæ; lower valve with narrow, axial area and finely punctate, radiating striæ. not uncommon in fresh water. abundant in a ditch at paoli, pa. pl. , figs. and . cocconeis placentula ehr. valve elliptical; upper valve with a linear or lanceolate axial area, and punctate striæ in transverse and radiating rows, the puncta at equal distances; the lower valve with a lanceolate axial area, radiating rows of puncta, and a wide border of finely punctate, radiating striæ, separated from the central part of the valve by a narrow hyaline zone. common in salt, brackish and fresh water. pl. , figs. and . { }cocconeis placentula var. lineata (ehr.) v. h. as in the type, except that the upper valve has the puncta arranged in zig-zag, giving the appearance of sinuous, longitudinal lines. common along the coast. pl. , fig. . c. pediculus and c. placentula are the only species i have found in fresh water. cleve states that the former occurs also in brackish water. the following are among the species placed by cleve in a new genus, eucocconeis, distinguished by the absence of a loculiferous rim. cocconeis dirupta greg. valves elliptical, the lower with fine puncta in slightly radiating lines, a narrow axial area and a central area dilated into a lanceolate, stauriform space; the terminal fissures turned in opposite directions; the upper valve similar to the lower valve except in the absence of raphe and nodules. along the coast. new rochelle. pl. , fig. (lower valve). cocconeis pellucida grun. valves elliptical, the upper with broad axial area on each side of which are fine, longitudinal rows of short striæ; the lower valve with more numerous longitudinal rows, a marginal line and indistinct raphe; the terminal fissures small and turned in opposite directions. new rochelle. pl. , figs. and . in the var. minor grun. the median line of the lower valve is sometimes slightly sigmoid. achnanthes bory ( ) (achne, froth or down, and anthos, a flower) frustules stipitate, solitary or in short fasciæ, flexed. valves elliptical or lanceolate, naviculoid, dissimilar, the lower with a raphe and median and terminal nodules, and the upper with a pseudoraphe or median space. the genus has no apparent affinity with any other. achnanthes longipes ag. valves linear-elliptical, obtuse at the apex, sometimes slightly constricted in the middle. connective zone with transverse, subtly punctate striæ, interrupted by longitudinal lines. central nodule of lower valve dilated into a stauros reaching the margin. valves costate, the costæ alternating with double rows of fine puncta. along the coast, in estuaries. pl. , figs. and . a. longipes is the only species in our locality considered by cleve as belonging to the genus; the other forms, distinguished by the absence of costæ, are included in the genus achnanthidium of kuetzing. in a. longipes, the chromatophores consist of scattered, rounded granules, while in achnanthidium the chromatophore is a single plate along the upper valve, or a double one { }along the connective zone. it is necessary, therefore, to distinguish between a. longipes and the following group, but, because of the long continued union of all of the stipitate forms having the general appearance of a true achnanthes, i shall continue to describe the local species under the generally accepted name. achnanthes brevipes ag. valves without costæ; striæ moniliform; upper valve with excentric pseudoraphe or median line; otherwise as in a. longipes. along the coast, in estuaries. pl. , fig. . achnanthes subsessilis kuetz. valves linear-elliptical, rounded at the ends; upper valve with excentric pseudoraphe; striæ moniliform, puncta smaller than in a. brevipes. along the coast, in estuaries. pl. , figs. , , . the three species described above are named from the length of the stipe, but this varies considerably and is not of special significance. achnanthes inflata (kuetz.) grun. valves more or less inflated in the middle, usually with the stauros of the lower valve asymmetrical and wider than in a. subsessilis, with which it agrees in size and markings. gloucester, n. j. (artesian well). pl. , figs. and . achnanthes coarctata (brÉb.) grun. valves lanceolate, oblong, broad at the ends and constricted in the middle. stauros wide; pseudoraphe of the upper valve excentric; striæ slightly radiate on the lower valve; puncta small. blue clay. pl. , fig. . achnanthes lanceolata (brÉb.) grun. valves more or less elliptical; striæ radiating, in µ, punctate; on the lower valve a horse-shoe shaped hyaline space on one side of the centre; on the upper valve an irregular stauros, not reaching the margin. l. - µ. in springs. abundant at newtown square. pl. , figs. , , . achnanthes exigua grun. valves oblong-lanceolate, with rostrate ends, sometimes slightly constricted in the middle. stauros rather wide; striæ punctate, radiating, in µ. l. - µ. _stauroneis exilis_ kuetz. (not achnanthes exilis kuetz.) frequently found in aquaria where i have kept it growing continuously for years. pl. , figs. and . achnanthes linearis forma curta h. l. smith frustules solitary or geminate. valves linear-elliptical, or elliptical-lanceolate. lower valve without distinct axial area; upper valve with axial area widened in the middle; striæ slightly radiate (?). l. µ. one of the smallest of diatoms. { }this form i found in a pure gathering covering the sides of a greenhouse tank at elm, n. j. it was sent to prof. h. l. smith, who determined it as forma curta of a. linearis. pl. , figs. and . achnanthes danica (floegel) grun. valves rhombic-lanceolate, with subacute ends. striæ, in µ, radiate. lower valve with stauros widened toward the margin, and cleft into three divisions. pavonia, n. j. (artesian well). pl. , fig. . i have seen the lower valve only. cleve states that the upper valve is costate with "alternating fine lineolæ twice as close as the costæ." cymbella ag. ( ) (cymbe, a boat) frustules free, stipitate or enclosed in tubes. valve boat-shaped; median line asymmetrical, straight or curved. chromatophore single, covering the entire interior of the frustule, except the ventral part of the zone and the median lines. its longitudinal axis is on the dorsal part of the zone. a pyrenoid lies in a fold of the chromatophore on the dorsal part. the genus includes the former genera of cocconema, characterized by stipitate forms, and encyonema in which the frustules are frequently enclosed in gelatinous tubes. section .--cymbella proper. frustules free or sometimes stipitate cymbella heteropleura (ehr.) kuetz. valve nearly symmetrical, lanceolate, with rostrate, produced apices; median line nearly straight; axial area linear, widened in the middle; striæ radiate, punctate. blue clay. pl. , fig. . cymbella cuspidata kuetz. valve broad, elliptical, with rostrate, somewhat acute, apices and nearly straight, ventral margin; median line straight, axial area linear, widened in the middle; striæ radiate, punctate. blue clay. pl. , fig. . cymbella naviculiformis auerswald valve linear-elliptical, with abruptly produced apices; ventral margin straight; median line almost straight; axial area narrow, central area large, rounded; striæ distant in the middle, closer at the ends. fresh water. pl. , fig. . cymbella ehrenbergii kuetz. valve lanceolate, with ventral margin nearly straight and apices sub-rostrate; median line straight, excentric; axial area narrow; central area widened in the middle; striæ coarsely punctate. fresh water. pl. , fig. . { }cymbella affinis kuetz. valve about three times as long as broad, strongly convex on the dorsal side and straight on the ventral; apices sub-rostrate; striæ punctate; axial area narrow, not widened in the middle; median line curved; a small or indistinct punctum on the ventral side of the median line (not shown in the figure). common in ponds. abundant in east park reservoir. pl. , fig. . cymbella excisa (kuetz.) de toni valve as in affinis, but with tumid and excised ventral margin; a punctum is found on the ventral side (not shown in the figure). according to cleve this is a variety of c. affinis. common in ponds. pl. , figs. , ? cymbella parva (wm. sm.) cl. valve semi-lanceolate, with produced apices; ventral margin slightly tumid; axial area narrow; striæ coarsely but obscurely punctate. c. affinis and c. parva are quite variable, the latter differing by its lanceolate form and the absence of a punctum, which, however, is sometimes difficult to recognize. in a gathering of c. parva, it is quite possible to find numerous abnormal forms which appear to be sporangial, so that specific distinctions are difficult if based on occasional specimens. common in ponds. pl. , fig. . cymbella amphicephala nÆgeli valve unequally elliptical, with broad, rostrate apices; axial area narrow; median line straight; central area small, rounded; striæ, in µ on the dorsal, closer on the ventral, side and at the ends. kirkwood pond, n. j. pl. , fig. . cymbella sinuata greg. valve linear-elliptical, gibbous on the ventral side; axial area indistinct; central area widened on the ventral side nearly to the margin. crum creek. pl. , fig. . section .--cocconema. frustules stipitate cymbella aspera (ehr.) cl. valve large, cymbiform, arcuate on the dorsal, slightly gibbous on the ventral side; axial area linear, broad, slightly widened in the middle; no row of puncta on the ventral side. the puncta form curved longitudinal lines and the innermost row on the ventral side appears sometimes distant from the others, but not as in c. cistula. _cocconema asperum_ ehr. _cymbella gastroides_ kuetz. { }not cymbella gastroides h. l. smith, type no. , which is c. mexicana a. s., having a punctum in the middle of the central nodule; in outline it is like c. gastroides var. minor kuetz. blue clay. pl. , fig. (an unusual form, but it resembles grunow's. (diat. franz jos. land, pl. , fig. .) cymbella cymbiformis (kuetz.) brÉb. valve cymbiform, slightly gibbous on the ventral margin; apices broad, somewhat truncate; a punctum occurs on the ventral side of the median line; striæ, in µ, closely punctate. kirkwood pond, n. j. pl. , fig. . cymbella cistula (hempr.) kirchn. valve cymbiform, with gibbous ventral margin and truncate apices; a distinct row of several puncta occurs below the median line in typical forms. blue clay. pl. , fig. . cymbella lanceolata (ehr.) kirchn. valve cymbiform, with gibbous ventral margin; apices truncate; axial area very narrow, scarcely widened in the middle; striæ with fine close puncta. kirkwood pond, n. j. pl. , fig. . cymbella mexicana (ehr.) a. s. valve broad, with gibbous ventral margin and sub-rostrate, truncate apices; median line with reflexed terminal fissures; striæ with coarse puncta; a large punctum occurs in the centre of the central area. blue clay. pl. , fig. . cymbella tumida (brÉb.) v. h. valve cymbiform, with gibbous ventral margin and abruptly rostrate ends; median line arcuate; axial area narrow; central area large, orbicular; below the central nodule is a punctum; striæ punctate. crum creek. pl. , fig. . section .--encyonema. frustules in tubes cymbella ventricosa kuetz. valve lunate, with straight or slightly gibbous ventral margin; axial area indistinct; median line straight or nearly so; striæ punctate. very common, but extremely variable. the ventral margin is sometimes straight and sometimes quite gibbous. pl. , figs. , ; pl. , fig. ; pl. , fig. . { }c. ventricosa is considered by some authors to be equivalent to c. affinis var. semicircularis lagerst., encyonema prostratum (berk.) ralfs, e. cæspitosum kuetz. and e. auerswaldii rab. h. l. smith's type slide of c. ventricosa ag. is said to equal c. affinis kuetz., but the specimens appear to me to be equivalent to c. ventricosa kuetz. cleve unites many forms, including e. cæspitosum, under c. ventricosa. cymbella prostrata (berk.) cl. valve semi-elliptical, obtuse at the apices, which are sometimes prolonged and turned downwards; median line straight, terminal nodules distant from the ends; axial area narrow, central area rounded; striæ in radiating, slightly curved lines, indistinctly punctate. common in fresh water; occasional in brackish. pl. , fig. (represents a frequent variation). cymbella philadelphica n. sp. valve semi-elliptical-lanceolate, with rounded apices; ventral margin strongly gibbous; terminal nodules distant from the ends; axial area broad, central area widened on the dorsal side; striæ radiate, not curved nor of unequal length, indistinctly punctate, in µ on the dorsal, in µ on the ventral side. l. µ. this form approaches encyonema prostratum (berk.) ralfs, schmidt's atlas, pl. , fig. , but differs in the striæ and the axial and central areas. blue clay of philadelphia. rare. pl. , fig. . cymbella triangulum (ehr.) cl. valve semi-elliptical, with acute ends; median line straight; ventral side half the width of the dorsal, with straight, slightly convex or concave margin; striæ radiate, coarsely punctate. _gloeonema triangulum_ ehr. baker's run, willistown, pa. pl. , fig. . cymbella turgida (greg.) cl. valve semi-elliptical, with acute ends; ventral margin gibbous; ventral side half the width of the dorsal; median line straight; terminal fissures turned downwards; axial area broad; striæ radiate, coarsely punctate. baker's run, willistown, pa. pl. , fig. . cymbella turgida (greg.) cl. var. ? valve lunate, with gibbous ventral margin; median line straight; terminal fissures turned downwards near the ends; axial area lanceolate, striæ radiate on the dorsal side, in µ, punctate, on the ventral side, closer at the ends where they are convergent. l. µ. not a typical form. willistown, pa. pl. , fig. . cymbella rhomboidea n. sp. valve rhomboidal, with acute ends; dorsal part one and a half times the width of the ventral; median line nearly straight, with terminal fissures turned downwards near the ends; axial area broad, not widened in the middle, except slightly on the ventral side; striæ { }radiate, distant in the middle of the dorsal side where they are in µ, coarsely punctate, the puncta in longitudinal lines, in µ on the ventral side, closer at the ends. l. µ. baker's run, willistown, pa. pl. , fig. . cymbella gracilis (rab.) cl. valve semi-lanceolate, with acute ends; median line nearly straight, with terminal fissures turned downwards, distant from the ends; axial area linear; ventral margin straight or slightly gibbous in the middle. hammonton pond, n. j. pl. , fig. . cymbella lacustris (ag.) cl. valve elliptical-lanceolate, with obtuse ends, nearly symmetrical; median line straight, terminal fissures distant from the ends; striæ radiate in the middle, convergent at the ends, coarsely lineate. belmar, n. j. pl. , fig. . amphora ehr. ( ) (amphora, a jar) valves asymmetrical along the longitudinal axis, as in cymbella, but with the plane passing through the dorsal and ventral sides of one valve at an angle with that of the other. as cleve states, cymbella and amphora are forms of navicula "with both valves similar and asymmetrical along the longitudinal axis," and the difference between cymbella and amphora is in the "degree of asymmetry." if, following h. l. smith's diagrams (lens, vol. , , p. ), we assume that the usual form of the valve in navicula is elliptical or lanceolate, and the zone view is rectangular, we have in cymbella an arcuate median line and a more or less reniform valve, while the zone view remains rectangular with the valves parallel. now, if the valves are asymmetrical along the longitudinal axis, and one side of one valve is separated from the corresponding side of the opposite valve by a wider connective zone than is the case on the other side, the transverse section of the frustule will appear cuneate, as in amphora, and the connective zone will be wider on one side than the other. when, therefore, we examine an entire frustule as it is usually seen, we shall find the two raphes of the valves in focus at the same time on the ventral side, and, by changing the focus, the convex sides of the same valves are seen, the dorsal view with, usually, a wider connective zone. as an illustration, compare figs. and , on plate , fig. being the ventral, and fig. the dorsal view. as amphoræ are epiphytic or parasitic, they are considered, as cleve remarks, like achnanthes and cocconeis, as "degenerated forms." chromatophores usually single, lying on the ventral connective zone. mereschkowsky describes nine forms. cleve divides the genus into a number of groups as follows: _amphora proper._--connective zone not complex; valves with longitudinal lines on the dorsal side; coarsely punctate or costate. _diplamphora._--zone complex; otherwise as in amphora. _halamphora._--longitudinal lines absent; frustule elongate, with protracted ends. { }_oxyamphora._--zone complex; longitudinal lines absent; frustule elliptical; valve lunate, with or without a central stauros; striæ punctate. _amblyamphora._--zone complex; frustule rectangular; valve lunate; striæ punctate; axial and central areas indistinct. _psammamphora._--zone not complex; frustule rectangular; central nodule frequently dilated to a stauros; no axial or central area. _cymbamphora._--valve semi-lanceolate; median line straight, approximate to the ventral margin. amphora amphora robusta greg. frustule elliptical, truncate; valve lunate, with straight ventral margin; median line biarcuate; ventral side with coarse, radiate striæ, in µ, on both sides of the median line. along the coast. pl. , fig. . amphora proteus greg. frustule elliptical, truncate; valve lunate, with straight ventral margin; median line biarcuate; no central area. striæ on the dorsal side not interrupted, in µ. ventral side striate toward the ends. differs from a. robusta chiefly in size and coarseness of puncta. extremely variable in size. common along the coast. pl. , figs. , , and . amphora ovalis (brÉb.) kuetz. frustule elliptical, truncate; valve lunate; median line biarcuate; striæ on dorsal side - in µ. _var. libyca (ehr.) cl._--central area distinct on the dorsal side. _var. pediculus (kuetz.) cl._--central area and nodule quite distinct. striæ finer than in var. libyca. common in ponds. quite variable. pl. , fig. . amphora gigantea var. fusca a. s. frustule elliptical; valve lunate, with straight ventral margin. axial area absent on the dorsal side; dorsal striæ, in µ, punctate. ventral part hyaline except at the ends, which are obliquely striated, with short, punctate lines. l. - µ. absecon, n. j. pl. , fig. . diplamphora amphora crassa greg. valve linear-elliptical, with obtuse, incurved ends. median line biarcuate. axial and central areas indistinct on the dorsal side; striæ coarsely punctate, interrupted by a longitudinal line on the dorsal side. along the coast. pl. , fig. . { }amphora areolata grun. valve with straight ventral margin; median line straight, approximate to the ventral margin; axial area indistinct; several longitudinal lines crossed by apparent costæ which alternate with rows of fine puncta. blue clay. rare. pl. , fig. . halamphora amphora coffÆiformis (ag.) kuetz. frustule lanceolate, truncate; zone with numerous divisions. valve arcuate on the dorsal and nearly straight on the ventral side; ends protracted or slightly capitate. _a. aponina_ kuetz. _a. salina_ wm. sm. along the coast. pl. , figs. and . oxyamphora amphora lineolata ehr. frustule membranaceous, elliptical, truncate, with broad ends. zone with numerous divisions. dorsal part striated transversely; ventral side with longitudinal lines. _a. plicata_ greg. _a. hyalina_ h. l. smith, type no. . along the coast. pl. , figs. and . amphora ostrearia brÉb. frustule oblong, with rounded angles. zone with five or more divisions transversely striated. central area narrow, biarcuate; central nodule dilated to a stauros. valve narrow, with arcuate dorsal and straight ventral margin, acute at the ends. striæ transverse, finely punctate. _a. vitræa_ cl.; _a. porcellus_ kitton; _a. quadrata_ bréb.; _a. elegans_ greg. appearance varies according to the position of the valve. along the coast. pl. , figs. and . amphora lÆvis greg. frustule oblong, hyaline and membranaceous. valve linear or slightly arcuate, with ventral margin tumid in the middle; ends obtuse; central nodule dilated to a stauros; median line very narrow, biarcuate, coinciding with the dorsal margin at the ends; striæ transverse, punctate. blue clay. pl. , fig. . amphora acuta greg. valve lunate, with acute ends; ventral margin straight; ventral side very narrow. central nodule dilated to a stauros; striæ transverse, punctate. along the coast. pl. , fig. . { }amblyamphora amphora obtusa greg. frustule rectangular. valve linear, obliquely rounded at the ends, with arcuate dorsal, and straight ventral, margin; median line biarcuate; striæ, - in µ. along the coast. common. pl. , fig. . psammamphora amphora arenaria donk. frustule hyaline, rectangular, slightly tumid in the middle, with rounded angles. valve linear with broad ventral side and straight or sinuate ventral margin. striæ, - in µ (cleve). common along the coast. pl. , fig. . the distinction between a. obtusa and a. arenaria is not always evident if the valves alone are seen. the former has a complex zone, the latter a simple zone, and the valve has finer striæ. cleve's descriptions and references in regard to these two forms do not agree with the descriptions and figures of h. l. smith, or with the figures of schmidt. the valves of most amphoræ are capable of assuming various outlines according to their position. amphora ocellata var. cingulata cleve frustule rectangular. valve linear, with dorsal margin arcuate and the ventral margin straight. central nodule with a stauros on the dorsal side. squan river, n. j. pl. , figs. and . cymbamphora amphora angusta var. eulensteinii grun. valve lanceolate, acute at the ends. median line straight, approximate to the margin. axial area widened on the dorsal side, indistinct on the ventral; striæ punctate. _a. eulensteinii_ a. s. common along the coast. pl. , fig. . on pl. , figs. , , and , i have attempted, imitating h. l. smith's figures (lens, l.c.), to illustrate the difference in the transverse sections of navicula, cymbella and amphora. fig. represents the transverse section of a convex navicula, in which the valves ecg and fdh are parallel, and the median nodules c and d are central. fig. is a transverse section of cymbella in which the valves are nearly parallel and the median nodules are excentric. the girdles on one side, ea and af, are narrower than gb and bh on the other side. fig. is a transverse section of an amphora in which the valves appear in zone view with the median nodules of both valves on the same side. the girdles on the ventral side, ea and af, are narrower than gb and bh on the dorsal side. the girdles on the dorsal side are seldom as broad as gb and bh, the valve extending over a great part of the dorsal side to g' and h'. { }amphiprora ehr. ( ) (amphi, on both ends, and prora, a prow) frustule twisted in the longitudinal axis, constricted in the middle; zone complex, with numerous divisions crossed by fine striæ. valve lanceolate, acute. the raphe confined within a sigmoid keel or extension of the valve; the central and terminal nodules indistinct. striæ transverse, punctate, with coarser striæ at the junction of the keel and lower part of the valve. chromatophores single, with indented border except in a. pulchra, in which there are two chromatophores with entire borders. amphiprora alata kuetz. frustule with a row of puncta at the junction line. valve linear, acute at the ends. median line sigmoid. striæ lineate on the lower part of the valve, punctate on the keel. along the coast. not common. pl. , fig. . amphiprora pulchra bail. frustule with sigmoid connective zone. valve very convex, with sinuate keel and junction lines evident. in zone view and in valve view, one half of the frustule, owing to the elevation of the keel, is wider than the other half. striæ punctate, coarser on the keel. not uncommon along the coast. pl. , figs. and . amphiprora conspicua grev. valve linear or elliptical, with acute ends. median line sigmoid, but the junction lines not evident. striæ lineate, with coarser lines near the middle. not common. port penn, delaware river. pl. , fig. . amphiprora ornata bail. frustule membranaceous, constricted in the middle, with well-marked folds extending from the junction line in both directions. valve lanceolate, constricted in the middle and with protracted ends. keel undulate on the edge. a beautiful, transparent and delicate form, the only fresh-water species in our locality. delaware water gap, pa. pl. , figs. and . amphiprora paludosa wm. sm. frustule membranaceous, constricted, with truncate ends. valve linear, with acute ends. striæ scarcely visible. cape may (cleve). pl. , fig. . tropidoneis cleve ( ) (tropis, a keel) frustule oblong, constricted in the middle; keel not sigmoid. axial area not evident. striæ very fine, punctate, in longitudinal lines. { }tropidoneis lepidoptera (greg.) cleve valve with straight, median excentric line. keel unilateral, projecting above the median line in zone view; central area small. transverse striæ finely punctate. as usually seen, the valve is inclined. according to karsten there are two chromatophores on the connective zone, each divided into four parts, each of which contains a large oval pyrenoid. _amphiprora lepidoptera_ greg. along the coast. pl. , figs. and . auricula castracane ( ) (auricula, the ear, the shape of the valve) frustule globose. valve reniform or cymbiform, elevated into a keel which is not sigmoid. median line biarcuate. differs from amphiprora in not having a sigmoid keel. auricula mucronata (h. l. smith) peragallo in zone view, the median line deeply bisects the longitudinal axis, ending in a mucronate central nodule. connective zone complex. valve very complex, with ventral margin nearly straight and raphe excentric. central nodule near the margin, terminal nodules small. striæ, - in µ (cleve). chromatophore single, on the ventral part. _amphora mucronata_ h. l. smith. _amphora (?) insecta_ grun. _auricula insecta_ (grun.) cleve. "a rare and very curious pelagic species" (peragallo, diat. villefranche). prof. h. l. smith included this form in his first century of "species typicæ diatomacearum," which was issued prior to , the date of publication, in schmidt's atlas, of amphora insecta grun. atlantic city, n. j. rare. pl. , fig. . scoliotropis cleve ( ) (scolios, twisted, and tropis, a keel) frustule linear, oblong. median line sigmoid near the ends. valve with transverse costæ alternating with two intermediate rows of puncta in oblique lines. scoliotropis latestriata var. amphora cleve valve asymmetrical, with the median line curved. frustule sub-acute at the ends. median lines not on the same side of each valve of the frustule. abundant at cape may, n. j. not common elsewhere. pl. , figs. and . gomphoneis cleve ( ) (gomphos, a peg, and neis (naus)) valve elongated, asymmetrical to the transverse axis; axial area narrow; central area rounded, stigmatic; striæ radiating, costæ alternating with double rows of fine puncta. an indistinct, longitudinal line near the border. chromatophores and conjugation have not been determined. { }gomphoneis herculaneum (ehr.) cl. valve clavate, with rounded apex; costæ, in µ, alternating with double rows of fine puncta, in µ, in oblique rows; axial area narrow, central area rounded, with one stigma. _gomphonema capitatum_ ehr var. _herculaneum_ ehr., h. l. s., type slide no. . common in the blue clay. pl. , fig. . pl. , fig. , zone view of young frustule. gomphoneis mamilla (ehr.) cl. valve lanceolate, with rounded apex and base; striæ costate, in µ, alternating with double rows of fine puncta; axial area linear, sometimes oblique, central area small, with one or more stigmas. blue clay. rare. pl. , fig. . in one frustule i noticed one valve with one stigma and the other with four stigmas. the difference between g. mamilla and g. elegans is not very great. in the latter the central area is larger and the longitudinal lines not so near to the margin. the stigmas form a circlet. there appears to be a coincidence in the relation of gomphoneis to gomphonema, and that of the true achnanthes to the group described by cleve under achnanthidium. in gomphoneis and achnanthes the striation is both costate and punctate while in gomphonema and achnanthidium the striation is punctate only. gomphonema ag. ( ) (gomphos, a peg, and nema, a filament) valve elongated, asymmetrical with respect to the transverse axis; striæ transverse, usually radiate, punctate. chromatophore band single, the middle lying on one zone. in conjugation, according to thwaites and pfitzer, from two mother cells, which do not form a positive union, two auxospores are developed parallel to the original frustules. in plate , fig. , i have drawn a representation of the auxospore formation as i have frequently observed it in a gathering sent me by mr. t. c. palmer, containing g. angustatum, a common species in this locality. the sagittal plane of the valve of the auxospore is at right angles to the plane of the valve of the mother cell. two valves of one of the mother cells are seen separated, one on each side of the auxospore which is nearly twice the length of the original frustules. the two valves of the other mother cell are not shown as they are not usually found closely united. in the figure one valve alone of the auxospore is seen, the opposite valve not being in focus. the valves of the auxospore are usually more or less arcuate, as in cymbella, to which the genus is closely allied. grunow divides gomphonema into two groups, asymmetricæ and symmetricæ, according to the presence or absence of stigmas. cleve suggests stigmaticæ and astigmaticæ as more suitable in order to agree with the cymbellæ. the stigmaticæ are found chiefly in fresh water, sometimes in brackish. all of the marine forms belong to the astigmaticæ, which, however, include some common fresh-water forms. many species of gomphonema are stipitate, some occur in gelatinous masses, and others are free. { }gomphonema montanum schum. valve slightly biconstricted, with obtuse apex and basis, somewhat cuneate; axial area linear, widened in the middle unilaterally; stigma, one; striæ about in µ, more distant in the middle, punctate. _gomphonema subclavatum_ var. _montana_ (schum.) cl. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. rare. pl. , fig. . gomphonema geminatum lyng. valve biconstricted, with large, rounded, sub-truncate apex and broad, sub-truncate basis; striæ, in µ, radiate in the middle, alternately longer and shorter, transverse at the basis and near the apex where they again radiate, coarsely punctate, puncta, in µ. axial area linear; central area rounded, with several large stigmas in a longitudinal row; terminal fissures hook-shaped. blue clay. pl. , fig. . gomphonema lanceolatum var. insignis (greg.) cl. valve lanceolate; axial area narrow; central area unilateral with one stigma; striæ with coarse and distant puncta. common and variable. _gomphonema insigne_ greg. pl. , figs. and . fig. shows a unilateral central area. fig. is more clavate in outline with small central area. in both forms the coarse puncta are in distinct longitudinal lines in the middle. gomphonema acuminatum var. turris (ehr.) cl.? valve clavate, with cuneate, acute apex; axial area distinct; central area unilateral with one stigma. blue clay. pl. , fig. . gomphonema acuminatum var. turris (ehr.) cl. valve clavate, with cuneate apiculate apex and narrow basis; axial area narrow, with a unilateral central space; stigma opposite the short striæ; striæ more radiate in the upper part, distant in the middle. smith's island, delaware river. pl. , fig. . gomphonema acuminatum var. coronata (ehr.) cl. valve twice constricted, with broad, cuneate apex; striæ radiate in the middle, convergent near the apex and radiate at the apex. variable in size and outline. blue clay. fresh water. common. pl. , fig. . gomphonema acuminatum var. trigonocephala (ehr.) cl. valve broad, with cuneate apex; axial area narrow; central area unilateral with one stigma. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . { }gomphonema constrictum ehr. valve clavate, constricted beneath the abruptly rounded apex, gibbous in the middle, striæ alternately longer and shorter; axial area narrow, central area unilateral, with one stigma. common in fresh water. pl. , fig. . gomphonema sphÆrophorum ehr. valve clavate, with capitate or rostrate-capitate apex and narrow basis; axial area very narrow; central area small, unilateral, with one stigma. common in fresh water. pl. , figs. and . fig. appears to be a transitional form having a more distinct axial area and rostrate apex. gomphonema augur ehr. valve broadly clavate, truncate and apiculate at the apex; basis sub-acute; axial area distinct; central area small, unilateral with one stigma; striæ with distant puncta. blue clay. willistown, pa. pl. , fig. . gomphonema intricatum kuetz. valve narrow, lanceolate, slightly gibbous in the middle; axial area distinct; central area transverse with one stigma; striæ parallel. quite variable. common in fresh water. pl. , fig. . gomphonema angustatum kuetz. valve lanceolate, with sub-rostrate apex and basis; axial area indistinct; central area unilateral, with one small stigma; striæ slightly radiate, indistinctly punctate. very common in fresh water. pl. , figs. and . fig. , as stated above, represents the formation of an auxospore. gomphonema Æquale greg. valve linear-lanceolate, nearly symmetrical, with capitate apex and basis; axial area narrow; central area unilateral, with one stigma; striæ radiate in the middle, slightly convergent at the ends. _gomphonema intricatum var. æquale_ (greg.) cl. blue clay. not common. pl. , fig. . gomphonema sarcophagus greg. valve linear, irregular in outline, with rounded apex and basis; axial area distinct; central area small, unilateral, with one stigma; striæ irregular with coarse, distinct puncta. occasional in fresh water. pl. , fig. . gomphonema capitatum ehr. valve clavate, broad at the sub-truncate apex and slightly constricted, or with parallel margins; axial area linear, central area stellate, with one stigma; striæ in the middle alternately longer and shorter. blue clay. pl. , fig. . { }gomphonema parvulum var. micropus (kuetz.) cl. valve clavate, with rounded apex and basis; axial area indistinct; central area unilateral, with a small stigma; striæ distant in the middle. common. pl. , fig. . gomphonema ventricosum greg. valve clavate, with broad apex and produced, rounded basis; axial area narrow, widened in the middle; stigma one; striæ distant in the middle, finely punctate. blue clay. pl. , fig. . gomphonema olivaceum lyng. valve clavate, with broad apex and narrow basis; axial area very narrow; central area irregular, without stigma; striæ radiate, finely punctate. very common. pl. , fig. . gomphonema brasiliense var. demerarÆ grun.? valve lanceolate, with sub-cuneate apex and narrowed basis; axial area lanceolate, broad; no stigma; median fissures remote; striæ parallel, in µ, punctate, the puncta obsolescent, small or interrupted. willistown, pa. rare. pl. , fig. . pleurosigma wm. sm. ( ) (pleura, a side, and sigma, the letter s) valve lanceolate, sigmoid; axial area very narrow, central area small; striæ punctate, in transverse and oblique lines. cleve divides the forms usually known as pleurosigma into two genera, pleurosigma and gyrosigma. pleurosigma includes all forms having oblique rows of puncta, while gyrosigma includes all having longitudinal rows. both have transverse striæ. the former consists entirely of marine species, while in the latter the species are found in fresh, brackish and salt water. the endochrome in pleurosigma, according to mueller, consists of two bands which differ in the median part of each valve. mereschkowsky says that the endochrome is so divided as to form four bands, two on each valve, that their position is different in different species, and that they are not the same on valves of the same frustule. cleve prefers to classify the species of pleurosigma and gyrosigma in accordance with the outline of the valve and the flexure of the median line. i shall, however, retain the method used by peragallo and grunow and arrange the forms according to the striation. ( ) oblique striÆ about degrees, more distinct than the transverse pleurosigma formosum wm. sm. valve elongated, slender, gently sigmoid, acute at the ends; oblique striæ crossing each other at about degrees; - in µ; transverse striæ, - in µ (cleve). along the coast. pl. , fig. . { }pleurosigma obscurum wm. sm. valve linear, not sigmoid, or scarcely so; ends obtuse, subconical; raphe sigmoid, near the margin at the extremities; transverse and oblique striæ equidistant, in µ (wm. sm.). abundant at greenwich point, philadelphia. pl. , fig. . ( ) oblique striÆ closer at the ends pleurosigma naviculaceum brÉb. valve lanceolate, slightly sigmoid at the extremities; raphe strongly sigmoid near the margin at the ends; central nodule large, rounded; oblique striæ, - in the middle, closer at the ends; transverse striæ, - in µ (peragallo). long island sound. pl. , fig. . pleurosigma virginiacum h. l. smith valve slightly sigmoid, with acute ends; raphe more sigmoid than the valve, excentric near the ends; oblique striæ in different directions at the centre, in µ, closer and less distinct at the ends; central nodule small but prominent because of its thickness, producing by diffraction an apparently wide area (somewhat exaggerated in the figure). l. µ, usually larger. _p. affine_ var. _fossilis_ grun. (peragallo). _p. normanii_ var. _fossilis_ grun. (cleve). common in the blue clay. pl. , fig. . ( ) oblique striÆ degrees pleurosigma angulatum (quekett) cl. valve rhomboidal, with sub-rostrate or produced ends; central nodule rhomboidal; raphe central; transverse and oblique striæ at an angle of degrees, equidistant, - in µ. _navicula angulata_ quekett. along the coast. pl. , fig. . pleurosigma strigosum wm. sm. valve lanceolate, with sub-acute, somewhat revolute, apices; oblique striæ at an angle of about degrees, otherwise as in angulatum. along the coast. not common. pl. , fig. . pleurosigma Æstuarii brÉb. valve lanceolate, with produced apices; raphe less sigmoid than the valve and excentric; oblique striæ, - in µ, at an angle of about degrees. along the coast. common. pl. , fig. . { }( ) oblique striÆ degrees, the transverse more distant pleurosigma rigidum wm. sm. valve nearly straight or slightly sigmoid, with obtuse ends; raphe central, excentric near the ends; oblique striæ, - , transverse, - in µ. (peragallo). new rochelle, n. y. pl. , fig. (very near the var. gigantea grun.) gyrosigma hassall ( ) (gyros, curved, and sigma) valve lanceolate, sigmoid; axial area very narrow, central area small; striæ punctate, in transverse and longitudinal rows. chromatophores two, in long and narrow bands, perforated, differing from those of pleurosigma. the elæoplasts are also arranged differently in the two genera. (mereschkowsky, Études sur l'endochrome des diatomées, imperial academy of petrograd, , vol. , no. , p. et seq.) the arrangement is according to peragallo. ( ) longitudinal striÆ more distant than the transverse gyrosigma hippocampus (ehr.) valve lanceolate, sigmoid, with obtuse ends; raphe nearly central; transverse striæ - , longitudinal, - in µ. _navicula hippocampus_ ehr. _pleurosigma hippocampus_ (ehr.) wm. sm. _gyrosigma attenuatum_ (kuetz.) cl. long island sound. pl. , fig. . ( ) longitudinal and transverse striÆ nearly equal gyrosigma balticum (ehr.) cl. valve with margins parallel nearly to the extremities, which are suddenly unilaterally sub-conical and obtuse; raphe sigmoid; transverse and longitudinal striæ nearly equally distant, in µ (per.). l. - µ. _navicula baltica_ ehr. _pleurosigma balticum_ (ehr.) wm. sm. common along the coast. pl. , fig. . gyrosigma parkeri var. stauroneioides grun. valve lanceolate, slightly sigmoid, ends produced into beaks with sub-acute apices; raphe straight in the middle part; central nodule elliptical; transverse striæ, , and longitudinal, in µ (per.). an apparent stauros, variable in width, extends to the margin and, in consequence, the median transverse striæ are more evident. l. µ. schuylkill river. rather rare. pl. , fig. . { }gyrosigma simile (grun.) valve slightly sigmoid, broad, with obtuse ends; raphe sigmoid, nearly central; transverse striæ, , longitudinal, - in µ (per.). _pleurosigma simile_ grun. _gyrosigma balticum_ var. _similis_ (grun.) cl. shark river, n. j. pl. , fig. . ( ) transverse striÆ more distant gyrosigma acuminatum (kuetz.) cl. valve sigmoid, tapering to the sub-acute ends; raphe central; transverse and longitudinal striæ nearly equally distant, or in µ (per.). _frustulia acuminata_ kuetz. port penn, delaware river. pl. , fig. . gyrosigma strigilis (wm. sm.) cl. valve sigmoid, with obtuse ends; raphe doubly sigmoid; axial area rather wide; transverse striæ, , and longitudinal, about in µ. long island sound. not common. pl. , fig. . gyrosigma kuetzingii (grun.) cl. valve sigmoid, lanceolate, with sub-acute ends; raphe central, the central nodule elliptical; transverse striæ, - , and longitudinal, - in µ. _pleurosigma spencerii_ var. _acutiuscula_ grun. _pleurosigma spencerii_ var. _kuetzingii_ grun. common in fresh water. pl. , fig. . gyrosigma scalproides (rab.) cl. valve slightly sigmoid, with obtuse ends; raphe nearly straight; central nodule elliptical; transverse striæ, , slightly radiate and more distant in the middle; longitudinal striæ, in µ. l. µ. common in streams. pl. , fig. . in pl. , fig. represents a form more sigmoid. gyrosigma spencerii var. nodifera grun. valve sigmoid, with obtuse ends; raphe central; central nodule obliquely elongated; transverse striæ, - in µ, curved in the middle of the valve, longitudinal striæ, in µ. l. µ. blue clay. pl. , fig. . gyrosigma prolongatum (wm. sm.) cl. valve narrow, lanceolate, produced into beaks, curved in a contrary direction; raphe central; transverse striæ, - in µ, longitudinal closer. l. µ. along the coast, northward. pl. , fig. . i have not seen any specimens south of new england, but they will probably occur. { }( ) striÆ alike, extremities produced gyrosigma fasciola (ehr.) cl. valve lanceolate, attenuated into curved beaks turned in opposite directions; raphe central, straight, except at the beaks; transverse striæ, , longitudinal, in µ (per.). new york bay. pl. , fig. . frustulia ag. ( ); em. grun. ( ) (frustulum, a small piece) valves naviculoid, similar, usually free but sometimes enclosed in gelatinous tubes or embedded in mucus. median line between two thickened ribs. central and terminal nodules frequently elongated. surface of valve with fine puncta in longitudinal and transverse lines appearing hyaline under medium powers. chromatophores, two, extending along the girdle. they differ from those of navicula in being separated from the wall in the middle by a hemispherical mass of protoplasm. according to pfitzer, each chromatophore is divided in the middle, allowing a connection between the hemispherical mass and the central plasma mass. schmitz states that the chromatophore is thickened in the middle and contains a pyrenoid. in conjugation, two frustules form two cylindrical bodies which later become conical and from which are formed the sporangial valves twice the usual size. frustulia lewisiana (grev.) de toni valve elliptical or linear, with rounded ends; terminal nodules elongated, at a distance from the ends; striæ, in µ. port penn, delaware river. along the coast. pl. , fig. . frustulia rhomboides (ehr.) de toni valve lanceolate or rhombic-lanceolate, rounded at the ends; central and terminal nodules short; striæ, in µ, sometimes coarser. common in fresh water. pl. , fig. . frustulia rhomboides var. amphipleuroides grun. valve rhombic-lanceolate; central and terminal nodules elongated; median line somewhat excentric. blue clay. pl. , fig. . frustulia rhomboides var. saxonica (rab.) de toni valve smaller than in rhomboides, with somewhat produced ends, closer median ribs and rounded central nodule. fresh water. pl. , fig. . frustulia vulgaris (thwaites) de toni valve elliptical-lanceolate, with rounded or sometimes sub-rostrate ends; central and terminal nodules slightly elongated; striæ delicate, closer at the ends. frustules at first in gelatinous tubes. _colletonema vulgaris_ thwaites. fresh water. pl. , fig. . { }frustulia interposita (lewis) de toni valve linear-elliptical, rounded at the ends; terminal nodules short. _navicula interposita_ lewis. along the coast. port penn, delaware river. pl. , fig. . amphipleura kuetz. ( ) (amphi, on both sides, pleura, a side) frustules free, in gelatinous masses or in tubes. valve linear-lanceolate; central nodule narrow, extending half the length of the valve or more, then forking toward the ends. terminal nodules prolonged, as in frustulia, into a "porte-crayon-shaped" figure. chromatophores two, very short. amphipleura pellucida kuetz. frustules free or in mucous masses. valve fusiform; forks about one-fourth the length of the valve; striæ transverse, punctate, - in µ (j. j. woodward). occasional in the delaware river. pl. , fig. . amphipleura rutilans (trentepohl) cl. frustules enclosed in gelatinous tubes. valve linear-lanceolate, obtuse at the ends; forks about one-third the length of the valve; striæ, in µ. _conferva rutilans_ trentepohl. _schizonema dillwynii_ wm. sm. abundant at belmar, n. j. pl. , fig. . fig. represents a portion of the gelatinous tube containing frustules. dictyoneis cleve ( ) (dictyon, a net) frustules oblong. valve lanceolate, constricted in the middle (in our species); an outer layer finely punctate and an inner layer of reticulations; the margin of the valve divided into large, quadrate cells. the genus dictyoneis includes species at one time ascribed to mastogloia and navicula. the structure, however, is not like that of either, as the loculi are attached to the valve and are not separable as in mastogloia, and the cell-wall is not like that of any navicula. cleve remarks that dictyoneis is found in warm waters. lewis found one specimen at black rock harbor, l. i., and one in the delaware river blue clay. the specimens here described i found living on the new jersey coast. dictyoneis marginata var. typica cleve valve panduriform, with cuneate lobes; axial area narrow, linear, scarcely, or not at all, widened in the middle; terminal fissures in contrary directions; outer stratum finely punctate, about in µ, in parallel striæ; inner stratum coarsely reticulated. four and one-fourth times longer than broad; marginal cells, in µ, smaller or obsolescent in the middle of the valve; cells of the valve in irregular transverse rows, - in µ. l. µ. _navicula marginata_ lewis. absecon, n. j. pl. , fig. . { }dictyoneis marginata var. commutata cleve valve four and one-half times longer than broad; cells of the valve in irregular, transverse rows about in µ; marginal cells nearly equal, in µ. l. µ. absecon, n. j. pl. , fig. . dictyoneis marginata var. maxima n. var. valve with cuneate segments; marginal cells, in µ; cells of the valve, in µ, obsolescent in the middle and smaller; transverse striæ, in µ. atlantic coast. rare. pl. , fig. (from a specimen found at colon). trachyneis cleve ( ) (trachys, rough, and neis (naus), named from the chief species) valve more or less linear or linear-lanceolate. it appears to be composed of three strata, one an interior, coarsely dotted, an exterior of fine puncta in longitudinal striæ, scarcely visible, and a median of transverse anastomosing costæ forming irregular alveoli. chromatophores, two or four bands on the zone (mereschkowsky). trachyneis aspera var. intermedia grun. valve linear-elliptic; axial area a stauros widened outward and unilateral. striæ of the median layer of radiating rows of oblong alveoli. along the coast. not common. pl. , fig. . the type form and its numerous varieties are quite ubiquitous. very large specimens occur in the antarctic regions, especially in material from ross island, s. victoria land (shackleton ant. exp.). brÉbissonia grun. ( ) (named after alphonse de brébisson, the distinguished french naturalist) frustules stipitate; valve lanceolate; striæ transverse in the middle, radiate at the ends. median area narrow, central nodule elongated, terminal fissures at a distance from the ends. valve with an outer finely punctate stratum. at one end of one valve in each frustule is found a conspicuous punctum, the plasma pore of otto mueller, through which the frustule is connected with the gelatinous stipe, analogous to the pore in diatoma connecting the zig-zag frustules. chromatophore single, lying on one girdle and passing over to each valve. brÉbissonia boeckii (kuetz.) grun. valve lanceolate, with sub-acute apices; striæ, - in µ, not reaching the median line. blue clay. very rare. common in brackish water at chestertown, md. (t. c. palmer) pl. , fig. . { }brÉbissonia palmerii, n. sp. valve rhombic-lanceolate, with cuneate ends and produced apices. central nodule more elongate and terminal fissures further from the ends than in b. boeckii. pavonia, n. j. (artesian well, depth of ft.). rare. pl. , fig. . i take pleasure in naming this species after mr. t. chalkley palmer, of media, pa., the author of numerous papers on the diatomaceæ. lewis partly describes a similar form, which he does not name, as a species of navicula found in the blue clay at kaighn's point, n. j. (lewis, "new and intermediate forms," etc., p. , pl. , fig. .) anomoeoneis pfitzer ( ) (anomoios, unlike, and neis (naus), a boat) valve lanceolate, axial area narrow, central area widened; transverse striæ punctate, the puncta in longitudinal rows or interrupted by blank lines. a single chromatophore lies along one of the girdle sides and extends over the valves, each of the two parts being deeply notched or slit at the ends. according to schmitz there are two pyrenoids, but heinzerling thinks there is but one. cleve considers this genus not well founded, as it is based upon the cell contents of but one species, the structure of the other species not being known. as the forms here described are easily recognized by the interrupted puncta, the genus is, at least, convenient. anomoeoneis sphÆrophora (kuetz.) cl. valve elliptic-lanceolate, ends rostrate-capitate. axial area narrow, central area rounded, larger on one side of the median line than the other. striæ very slightly radiate, in µ, punctate, the puncta interrupted by longitudinal blank lines. pfitzer states that the central plasma mass is unequal on the two sides. _navicula sphærophora_ kuetz. fresh and brackish water. not common. pl. , fig. . anomoeoneis serians (brÉb.) cl. valve lanceolate, acute; axial area lanceolate; striæ, in µ; puncta elongate. not common in this locality, but abundant northwards; fossil in the peat deposits of new england. may's landing, n. j. pl. , fig. . forma minor--valve rhombic-lanceolate, smaller than the type. may's landing, n. j. pl. , fig. . anomoeoneis follis (ehr.) cl. valve rhomboid, tumid in the middle and obtuse at the produced ends. central area lanceolate; striæ radiate in the middle, transverse at the ends. _navicula follis_ ehr. _navicula trochus_ kuetz. { }reported by lewis as very rare in the blue clay of the delaware river. i have not seen it in this locality. the figure is drawn from a specimen in the w. bridgewater, mass., deposit. pl. , fig. . caloneis cleve ( ) (calos, beautiful) valve convex, linear or lanceolate in general outline, with transverse, smooth or finely punctate striæ crossed by one or more longitudinal lines. endochrome of two chromatophores lying one on each valve, entire in some species and deeply cleft in others. caloneis liber (wm. sm.) cl. valve linear, with parallel margins and rounded ends; axial area narrow, central area orbicular; striæ transverse in the middle, slightly divergent at the ends, in µ; terminal fissures slightly curved in the same direction; longitudinal line median. l. µ. atlantic coast, chiefly southward. pl. , fig. . caloneis silicula (ehr.) cl. valve linear, gibbous in the middle, with broad sub-cuneate ends; axial area narrow, central area rounded; longitudinal line marginal; striæ parallel or nearly so, to in µ. _navicula silicula_ ehr. _navicula limosa_ donk. blue clay. pl. , fig. (var. genuina cl.). caloneis silicula var. inflata (grun.) cl. valve gibbous in the middle, with rounded ends; central area elliptical. schuylkill river. pl. , fig. . c. silicula may be recognized by its yellow color when dry. its varieties are extremely numerous. caloneis trinodis (lewis) valve divided into three segments of equal width; ends cuneate and usually produced; axial area elliptical with a lunate marking on each side; striæ radiate in the middle, elsewhere parallel, about in µ, finely punctate; longitudinal line marginal, scarcely visible; the striæ become fainter toward the axial area. occasional in streams and in the blue clay. abundant in a water-trough at ashbourne, pa. pl. , fig. . i have retained lewis' name as specific. lewis, wrongly, i think, ascribes his species to _navicula trinodis_ wm. sm., which is not figured by smith, but is illustrated by van heurck (syn. pl. , fig. a), and is named by cleve _navicula contenta_ var. _biceps_ arnott. { }de toni includes lewis' name under _rhoiconeis trinodis_ (wm. sm.) grun. rhoiconeis is achnanthiform, with frustules arcuate, and the species is named by cleve _achnanthes trinodis_ (arnott). _caloneis schumanniana_ (grun.) cl., to which as a variety cleve unites lewis' form, appears to resemble it only in the lunate marks. fig. represents a single specimen found in the pavonia deposit and which i believe to be an abnormal form of c. trinodis, differing only in the degree of inflation and in the larger central area. _navicula trinodis_ var. _inflata_ schultze, from staten island, is the same form figured by lewis, who states that certain specimens have produced apices. caloneis permagna (bail.) cl. valve lanceolate, with produced apices; median line nearly straight; axial area lanceolate, irregular or slightly unilateral, about half the width of the valve; striæ, in µ, radiate and indistinctly punctate; longitudinal lines double. l. - µ. _pinnularia permagna_ bail. common in brackish water. pl. , fig. . caloneis permagna var. lewisiana n. var. valve lanceolate, with undulating sides and sub-cuneate apices; axial area less than one-third the width of the valve; striæ radiate, in µ, indistinctly punctate; longitudinal lines double, closer together than in the type. l. µ. lewis illustrates this variety in "new and rare species," pl. , fig. , and states that it is probably navicula esox kuetzing. this is an error, as kuetzing's species is pinnularia esox ehr., a form near p. major. rather common in the delaware river. pl. , fig. . caloneis formosa (greg.) cl. valve lanceolate, with sub-cuneate apices; axial area one-fourth to one-fifth the width of the valve, somewhat unilateral, dilated in the middle; striæ, - in µ radiate, punctate; longitudinal lines double, distinct. variable in size and outline. abundant along the shores of the delaware river. pl. , fig. . caloneis brevis var. vexans (grun.) cl. valve elliptical-lanceolate; apices obtuse; median fissures distant; axial area narrow; central area large, orbicular; longitudinal lines close together, median. shark river, n. j. pl. , fig. . caloneis wardii cl. valve linear, ends cuneate; axial area linear; central area dilated to a stauros reaching the margin; striæ parallel, radiate at the ends, in µ; longitudinal lines marginal. not uncommon in the delaware river. pl. , figs. and . { }caloneis powellii (lewis) cl. valve linear, with cuneate ends; axial area linear; central area large, quadrate, united to the wide longitudinal lines; striæ parallel, smooth, in µ. long island (lewis); smith's island, delaware river. pl. , fig. . neidium pfitzer ( ) (neidion, dim. of naus, a boat) valve linear or lanceolate; median fissures turned in opposite directions, terminal fissures appearing bifurcate (?); striæ transverse, usually oblique, finely punctate, crossed by one or several longitudinal blank lines. chromatophores, two, lying on the girdle side, in cell division each forming a partially divided pair. a large pyrenoid is said to be found in the middle of each chromatophore, but mereschkowsky states that the pyrenoids are absent, but that in n. affine four elæoplasts are always seen in the centre of the frustule. a genus easily recognized by the peculiar terminal and median fissures and by the yellowish or brownish color of the valves when dry, darker than in caloneis. neidium affine (ehr.) pfitzer valve linear, with protracted, sub-rostrate or capitate ends. _navicula affinis_ ehr. neidium affine var. genuina forma maxima cl. striæ, in µ, punctate, oblique in the middle, convergent at the ends; puncta, in µ. l. µ. pensauken, n. j. (artesian well). pl. , fig. . var. genuina forma minor cl.--l. µ; striæ, in µ. brandywine creek. pl. , fig. . neidium affine var. amphirhyncus (ehr.) cl. valve linear, with protracted capitate ends; striæ transverse, interrupted by several longitudinal lines. willistown, pa. pl. , fig. . neidium amphigomphus (ehr.) pfitzer valve with parallel margins and cuneate ends; striæ transverse, interrupted by several longitudinal lines; central area widened transversely. _navicula amphigomphus_ ehr. wissahickon. pl. , fig. . neidium productum (wm. sm.) cl. valve linear, elongate, with capitate apices; striæ slightly oblique; longitudinal lines marginal; axial area very narrow, central area small. _navicula producta_ wm. sm. newtown square. pl. , fig. . { }neidium iridis (ehr.) cl. valve linear or lanceolate-elliptical, with sub-cuneate or rounded ends; striæ oblique, about in µ; central area orbicular. _navicula iridis_ ehr. _navicula firma_ kuetz. willistown, pa.; middletown, delaware co., pa. (palmer). pl. , fig. . the form here figured is probably the variety ampliata (ehr.) cl. with less acute apices and more elliptical outline. the species occurs in many variations, the larger being found northward, especially in the peat deposits of new england. neidium hitchcockii (ehr.) cl. valve linear, with triundulate margin and cuneate ends; striæ transverse, oblique. _navicula hitchcockii_ ehr. pavonia, n. j. (artesian well); kirkwood pond, n. j. pl. , fig. . diploneis ehr. ( ) (diplos, double) valve elliptical or panduriform; median line enclosed in strongly siliceous horns corresponding to the lyre-shaped areas of navicula lyra but never punctate; central nodule, quadrate; valve costate, or striate, or both; between the horns and the outer part are thinner spaces or sulci, and, in some species, outside of the sulci are narrow spaces known as lunulæ. chromatophores, two, upon the girdle or the valves. pyrenoids have been found in one species only, d. interrupta. diploneis elliptica (kuetz.) cl. valve elliptical; central nodule large; sulci narrow, curved, close to the horns; striæ punctate, in rows radiating more and more toward the ends. variable in size and in the coarseness of puncta which are from to in µ (cleve). cleve describes d. ovalis hilse as having the central nodule rounded, but otherwise about the same as d. elliptica, and as equivalent to navicula ovalis a. schmidt (atlas, pl. , figs. to ). very common in fresh water and occasional in brackish. pl. , fig. . diploneis smithii (brÉb.) cl. valve elliptical; central nodule not broad; furrows evenly curved on the outer edge, crossed by costæ and double oblique rows of alveoli. variable in size and in the curvature of the furrows. cleve forms a new species, d. major, of the large form figured by schmidt (atlas, pl. , figs. , , and ), stating that the structure is much coarser and the form is larger with broad furrows. in the specimen here figured the size is median and the furrows are as in d. major. marine and brackish. common. pl. , fig. . { }diploneis crabro var. pandura (brÉb.) cl. valve constricted, segments tongue-shaped; central nodule small; horns narrow, nearly parallel, with a row of large puncta; costæ, in µ, convergent in the middle, radiating at the ends, alternating with a double row of puncta, in µ. pavonia, n. j. (artesian well). pl. , fig. . diploneis crabro var. expleta (a. s.) cl. valve slightly constricted, segments tongue-shaped; costæ robust, or in µ, alternating with double rows of rather coarse puncta. l. µ. port penn, delaware river. pl. , fig. . diploneis crabro var. pandurella cl.? valve constricted, the lobes elliptical; central nodule large, with horns parallel in the middle, convergent at the ends; furrows wide, with faint costæ; no lunula; costæ parallel in the middle, radiate at the ends, in µ, alternating with very fine double rows of puncta (not shown in the figure). l. µ. blue clay. pl. , fig. . diploneis crabro var.? valve constricted, segments elliptical; costæ, in µ, converging in the middle, radiating at the ends; horns narrow; furrows wide, costate; lunulæ indistinct. l. µ. resembles var. pandurella except in the convergence of the costæ and in the lunula. squan river. marine. pl. , fig. . diploneis fusca var. delicata (a. s.) cl. valve elliptical; furrows broad, crossed with rows of faint costæ and alveoli; costæ, or in µ; alveoli, in µ, in short, irregular, longitudinal rows. l. µ. port penn, delaware river. pl. , fig. . diploneis gruendleri (a. s.) cl. valve constricted, segments tongue-shaped, often unequal; horns broad, divergent in the middle; furrows narrow; costæ transverse, crossed by from to longitudinal costæ, interrupted in the middle at the border. blue clay. pl. , figs. and . diploneis puella (schum.) cl. valve elliptical, sometimes orbicular; furrows very narrow; striæ, in µ, indistinct. l. µ. _diploneis elliptica_ var. _minutissima_ grun. shark river, n. j. brackish. pl. , fig. . diploneis excentrica, n. sp. valve elliptical; central nodule quadrate; furrows of the same width throughout, nearly parallel; costæ radiating toward the ends, in µ, indistinct on the furrows, alternating with alveoli, in µ, in irregular, longitudinal lines. one side of the valve is one and a half times the width of the other. l. µ. { }i can find neither description nor figure of any species to which i can ascribe this form. it approaches d. elliptica. the alveoli are quite distinct and distant from each other. brackish water. very abundant in a gathering from squan river, n. j. pl. , fig. . diploneis oculata (brÉb.) cl. valve elliptical; striæ radiate at the ends, about in µ, coarsely punctate. l. µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . the figure is drawn from brébisson's original material in h. l. smith's type slide no. . _navicula oculata_ bréb. reported from new jersey. i have not seen this species in this locality. navicula oculata, referred to by kain as occurring in shark river, is not this form. diploneis gemmata (grev.) cl. valve oblong-linear, with cuneate ends and parallel or slightly concave sides; central nodule large; horns parallel; furrows about one-third the width of the valve. costæ about in µ, alternating with double rows of fine puncta; short costæ occur along the borders of the horns. port penn, delaware river. pl. , fig. . diploneis campylodiscus (grun.) cl. valve suborbicular; central nodule quadrate; horns divergent; costæ, in µ, alternating with double rows of alveoli; furrows broad, costate near the horns. differs from cleve's description in having , instead of , costæ in µ. pensauken, n. j. (artesian well). rare. pl. , fig. . mastogloia thwaites ( ) (mastos, a breast, and gloios, gelatinous, referring to the "mamillate cushion" in which the frustules are often immersed) frustule rectangular. valves similar, naviculoid. central and axial areas usually narrow or indistinct; striæ punctate, parallel in the middle. on each side, between the valve and the zone, is a septate plate. analysis of species striæ interrupted by a hyaline furrow on each side of the median line kinsmanii striæ not interrupted: loculi, five, or less exigua more than five, equal, ending at distance from the ends smithii ending near the ends, distinct lanceolata indistinct elegans very numerous apiculata unequal angulata { }karsten states that there are two chromatophores, each of which extends from the middle of one valve to the end and down the middle of the other valve. mereschkowsky says, however, that there are four plates or chromatophores, sometimes on the valve, sometimes on the zone, according to the species, and that two long pyrenoids unite the two opposite chromatophores. mastogloia kinsmanii lewis valve lanceolate-elliptical, with sub-rostrate ends; loculi more numerous than in m. angulata but less than in m. apiculata, the middle ones larger. median line with a sulcus on each side; central area quadrate. _mastogloia braunii_ grun. (according to cleve). atlantic city. pl. , fig. . mastogloia exigua lewis valve elliptical- or linear-lanceolate; loculi, - , usually , larger in the middle and rounded; central space small; striæ, - in µ. along the coast. pl. , fig. . mastogloia smithii thwaites valve lanceolate, sub-rostrate; loculi forming a wide band ending at a distance from the ends; striæ transverse, with puncta forming longitudinal rows; central area rounded or transversely elliptical. along the coast. pl. , fig. . mastogloia lanceolata thwaites valve lanceolate, with sub-rostrate apices; loculi very numerous; median and central areas indistinct; striæ, in µ, punctate, convergent at the ends. along the coast. pl. , fig. . mastogloia elegans lewis valve lanceolate, acute; loculi indistinct or rudimentary, extending to the ends; central area apparently quadrate, sometimes indistinct; puncta distinct, in µ, in transverse and longitudinal rows. along the coast. common. pl. , fig. . mastogloia apiculata wm. sm. valve elliptical-lanceolate, sometimes with slightly produced apices; median line between two ribs; central space very small; loculi numerous; puncta in slightly radiating rows and in longitudinal lines. along the coast. pl. , figs. , , . mastogloia angulata lewis valve elliptical, with produced apices; loculi usually less than , unequal, the larger in the middle; striæ, in µ, puncta in decussating rows. "differs from apiculata in its more broadly elliptical shape, the smaller number of its loculi and the angular character of its striation" (lewis). { }considered by cleve as synonymous with m. apiculata grun., not wm. smith, and by de toni as synonymous with m. apiculata wm. sm. in any case, m. angulata lewis is not the same as m. apiculata wm. sm., the loculi of which are equal. atlantic city. h. l. smith t. s. no. . pl. , fig. . stauroneis ehr. ( ) (stauros, a cross, and neis (naus), a boat) frustules free, sometimes geminate; valve as in navicula but with a stauros. cell contents as in navicula. mereschkowsky, however, says that the chromatophores always contain more pyrenoids than are found in navicula. heinzerling gives the number as two to four in each chromatophore. cleve includes under naviculæ microstigmaticæ all species of stauroneis, pleurostauron, schizostauron, certain schizonemæ and naviculæ. as a matter of convenience, and because i have already included certain schizonemæ and scoliopleura under navicula, and because of the small number of species in our locality, i have arranged them under the three divisions of cleve as follows: _stauroneis._--forms having a true stauros, without diaphragms. _pleurostauron._--forms like stauroneis but with diaphragms at the ends. _schizostauron._--forms having a bifid stauros. stauroneis phoenicenteron ehr. valve lanceolate, obtuse; striæ radiate, in µ, distinctly punctate. l. usually µ but sometimes µ. common in fresh water. pl. , fig. . stauroneis anceps ehr. valve lanceolate, with rostrate or capitate ends; stauros in some cases does not reach the margin. the varieties are very numerous. _var. gracilis (ehr.) cl._--valve lanceolate, striæ very fine; margin of stauros striated. l. µ. cape may, n. j. pl. , fig. . _var. amphicephala (kuetz.) cl._--valve capitate at the ends; striæ, in µ. l. µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . _var. ?_--valve with produced ends; striæ, or more in µ. l. µ. willistown, pa. pl. , fig. . _var. ?_--valve with produced ends; striæ, about in µ, punctate. l. µ. newtown square. pl. , fig. . _var. ?_--valve with produced ends; striæ, in µ, showing a tendency to form longitudinal rows of puncta as in stauroneis stodderi greenleaf, but the rows are not so evident. l. µ. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . stauroneis frickei var. angusta n. var. valve lanceolate, gradually tapering to the obtuse ends; terminal fissures prominent, forking at a distance of µ from the ends. frustules frequently geminate. l. µ. newtown square. rare. pl. , fig. . near stauroneis frickei a. s. (atlas, pl. , fig. ), except that the stauros is narrow at the margin. { }stauroneis salina wm. sm. valve lanceolate, obtuse; stauros narrow, with short, scattered striæ at the margin, in µ, punctate. l. µ. along the coast. common. pl. , fig. . stauroneis legumen ehr. valve elliptical-lanceolate, inflated in the middle, with produced sub-capitate or rostrate ends separated by diaphragms. stauros wide, striated at the margins; axial area very narrow; striæ radiate, about (?) in µ, punctate. l. µ. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . in cleve's description and van heurck's figure, the median inflation is "not larger than the others." in the present form the median inflation is wider. stauroneis acuta wm. sm. valve rhombic-lanceolate, obtuse; a diaphragm at each end; stauros widened outwards; striæ, or in µ, punctate. l. µ. blue clay. pl. , fig. . stauroneis americana a. s. valve elliptical-lanceolate, obtuse; striæ, in µ. l. µ. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. rare. the only specimen found is asymmetrical with respect to the transverse axis. on plate , fig. , is illustrated an abnormal form of stauroneis, apparently near s. acuta, having an elongated central nodule and radiating, curved and coarsely punctate striæ. blue clay. stauroneis smithii grun. valve lanceolate, inflated in the middle and at the ends, which have diaphragms and are produced into rostrate apices; stauros reaching the margin; striæ parallel, about in µ ( to , cleve), distinctly punctate. not uncommon in meadow pools near newtown square. pl. , fig. . stauroneis crucicula (grun.) cl. valve lanceolate, with obtuse, produced ends; stauros bifid; striæ, in µ, oblique, parallel to the branches of the stauros, closer at the ends, punctate. l. µ. newtown square. east park reservoir. rare. pl. , fig. . navicula bory ( ) (dim. of navis, a boat) valve linear to elliptical; ends acute, rounded, rostrate, capitate or truncate; axial area usually distinct; central area distinct, rounded or rarely extended into a transverse fascia; striæ transverse or radiate, punctate; central area not dilated into a transverse stauros nor into horns. { }the endochrome in the greater number of species consists of two chromatophores extending along the zone and sometimes partly over the valves. sometimes, however, as in n. hennedyi, n. lyra and n. humerosa, the bands are on the valves. certain species have four bands, others eight, and in one the endochrome is granular. (mereschkowsky, l. c., p. et seq.) pyrenoids are usually absent. on account of the diversity of the chromatophores, mereschkowsky considers the genus not homogeneous. the difficulty of arranging groups according to the cell contents, however, is so great that, for the present, the species must be described by the usual characteristics of the valves and divided as follows, according to cleve, to the extent of employing the classification of all naviculoid forms as applicable, especially to the species of navicula. van heurck's analysis includes pinnularia, trachyneis, diploneis, caloneis, neidium and anomoeoneis, which are here separated, while n. lyra and n. hennedyi are placed in different groups, although they are closely related. in other respects cleve's divisions correspond, to some extent, to those of van heurck. the genus navicula at one time included the following: dictyoneis, pleurosigma, gyrosigma, caloneis, neidium, diploneis, frustulia, trachyneis, anomoeoneis, pinnularia and stauroneis, and few forms with a raphe escaped. for this reason the diagnosis of the present genus is somewhat limited. pleurosigma and gyrosigma differ from navicula in their outline, dictyoneis in the double stratification, caloneis in the marginal lines, neidium in the median and terminal fissures, diploneis in the horns, frustulia in the terminal nodules, trachyneis in the stratification of the valve, anomoeoneis in the longitudinal arrangement of the puncta, pinnularia in the smooth costæ and stauroneis in the stauros. as the object of the present work is to aid the student of local forms in the identification of species by the briefest methods, the further discussion of the reasons for classification will be left for his gratification in referring to the authorities on the subject. punctatÆ cleve valve elliptical to lanceolate; central nodule not stauroid or continued into lyriform spaces; striæ distinctly or coarsely punctate, in radiate rows. navicula maculata (bail.) cl. valve lanceolate-elliptical, with produced or sub-rostrate ends; axial area narrow, wider near the ends and dilated to a rounded, transverse central area; striæ radiate, in µ, puncta, in µ, in irregular, longitudinal rows. l. to µ (cl.). _stauroneis maculata_ bail. _navicula fischeri_ a. s. blue clay. along the coast, especially southward. pl. , fig. . navicula latissima greg. valve oblong-elliptical or elliptical-lanceolate, with sub-cuneate ends; axial area lanceolate, widened in the middle to an orbicular space; striæ radiate, in µ, puncta, in µ, the median striæ alternating with short striæ along the sides. l. - µ (cl). blue clay. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . { }navicula latissima var. elongata (pant.) cl. valve elliptical-lanceolate, with rounded ends; striæ and puncta closer than in the type form; axial area narrow, widened in the middle; terminal fissures hook-shaped, turned in different directions. _navicula humerosa_ var. _elongata_ pant. fossil at buckshutem, n. j. pl. , fig. . navicula fuchsii pant. valve elliptical, with slightly produced apices; axial area wide, lanceolate; central area orbicular; striæ alternately longer and shorter in the middle, - in µ; puncta on the border of the axial area larger, elongated; median fissures incrassate. _navicula humerosa_ var. _fuchsii_ (pant.) cl. _navicula_ (_latissima_ var.?) _fuchsii_ pant. port penn, delaware river. pl. , fig. . navicula humerosa brÉb. valve lanceolate-elliptical or oblong-elliptical, with sub-cuneate or sub-rostrate ends; axial area narrow, lanceolate; central area rounded, somewhat transverse; terminal fissures hook-shaped, in the same direction; central pores incrassate; striæ, in µ, the middle alternately longer and shorter, closer at the ends. l. - µ. variable in size, outline and fineness of striation. n. monilifera cleve (n. granulata bréb.) differs in having coarser striæ. blue clay. along the coast. pl. , fig. . navicula pusilla wm. sm. valve ovate-elliptical, with rostrate or sub-rostrate ends; axial area narrow; central area elliptical; striæ radiate, - in µ in the middle where they are longer and shorter alternately, closer at the ends; median fissures somewhat incrassate, terminal in the same direction. l. µ. smith's island, delaware river. pl. , figs. , ? cleve gives the striæ as - in the typical form, and - in varieties. in the form here figured the striation is as stated by de toni, but is about at the ends. fig. appears to be a small form of n. pusilla, near lanceolata grun., at least according to the figure in "arctic diatoms," but not gregory's figure. it occurs rarely in fresh water at newtown square. it may be a small form of n. punctulata and, if so, is probably accidental, as the material is entirely fresh-water. navicula pusilla var. subcapitata n. var. valve elliptical with rostrate-capitate and truncate ends; striæ about in µ in the middle where they are unequal; axial area narrow, slightly widened in the middle; central pores incrassate, terminal fissures in the same direction. differs from type in outline and centre. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. rare. pl. , fig. . { }navicula delawarensis grun. valve elliptical-lanceolate, with sub-rostrate ends; axial area narrow, lanceolate, widened in the middle; striæ about in µ; in the middle, much closer at the ends; puncta in the middle, in µ, closer and much smaller at the ends. l. - µ. cleve (le diatomiste, vol. , p. ) states that this form is very near n. pusilla but is much larger. specimens from smith's island measure - µ, from wildwood, µ in length. pl. , fig. . navicula punctulata wm. sm. valve elliptical-lanceolate, with sub-rostrate ends; axial area narrow, central area rounded; striæ, in µ, closer at the ends, a few shorter in the middle; puncta, in µ. l. µ. _navicula marina_ ralfs. port penn, delaware river (brackish water). pl. , fig. . "although this species is described as marine in the synopsis of prof. smith, i have never found it in purely marine localities" (donkin). navicula punctata var. asymmetrica lagerstedt valve lanceolate, with rostrate ends; axial area narrow, central area transverse, irregular; striæ radiate, punctate, in µ. l. µ. _navicula amphibola_ cleve. blue clay. pl. , fig. . navicula brasiliensis var. bicuneata cl., forma constricta valve oblong-elliptical, slightly constricted, with cuneate-rostrate ends; axial area narrow; central area dilated transversely and unilaterally; striæ, in µ; puncta closer at the border and in irregular longitudinal rows in the middle; terminal fissures small, hook-shaped, turned in the same direction. l. µ. corresponds closely to cleve's variety except in the constriction. blue clay. pl. , fig. . navicula lacustris greg. valve lanceolate, sub-acute; axial area narrow; central area orbicular; striæ radiate, in µ, punctate, the median puncta sometimes more distant than the others. blue clay. rare. pl. , fig. . lyratÆ cl. valve elliptical or elliptical-lanceolate; striæ punctate, transverse; axial area narrow or indistinct; central area expanded on each side into lyre-shaped or horn-like blank spaces. navicula prÆtexta ehr. valve elliptical; lateral areas not regular, with scattered puncta; striæ radiate, or in µ; puncta, or in µ; along the axial area, a single or double row of puncta; at { }the middle of the border, on each side, two striæ approach each other closely with a short stria between them; terminal fissures small, in the same direction. l. µ. port penn, delaware river. pl. , fig. . while variable in size and striation, approaching n. hennedyi, this species, as here figured, is found in the miocene and later deposits and is extant in most parts of the world. navicula irrorata grev. valve oblong-elliptical, with cuneate-rostrate ends; striæ, or in µ, puncta, in µ; axial area bordered by puncta in unequal, transverse rows. l. µ. blue clay. rare. pl. , fig. . navicula hennedyi wm. sm. valve elliptical; areas semilanceolate; striæ about in µ, sometimes longer and shorter on the margin; short rows of transverse striæ along the axial area. blue clay. pl. , fig. . _var. circumsecta grun._--as in the type but with the lateral areas faintly striate or punctate. _var. manca a. s._--valve lanceolate-elliptical, the lateral areas narrow and convergent toward the ends; short rows of transverse striæ along the axial area; striæ, in µ; central pores incrassate. blue clay. pl. , fig. . navicula lyra ehr. valve elliptical, with rounded, sub-rostrate or sub-cuneate ends; lateral areas narrow; striæ, to in µ (cl.), punctate. l. - µ. _var. ehrenbergii cl._--lateral areas constricted in the middle, divergent at the ends. cleve refers to schmidt, atlas, pl. , fig. , which is not divergent at the ends. along the coast. pl. , fig. . a narrower form occurs which has the areas divergent. _var. ?_--valve elliptical, lateral areas narrow, convergent at the ends with short rows of punctate striæ; marginal striæ, in µ, punctate. l. µ. squan river, n. j. pl. , fig. . _var. dilatata a. s._--valve elliptical, rostrate; lateral areas convergent in the middle and nearly parallel or convergent at the ends. blue clay. pl. , fig. . n. lyra is exceedingly variable in outline, fineness of striation and in the lateral areas. intermediate forms occur approaching n. hennedyi and n. spectabilis. in n. hennedyi the lateral areas are broad, semilanceolate, not narrowed in the middle. in n. spectabilis the lateral areas are broad and narrowed in the middle. in n. lyra the lateral areas are narrow and either constricted or not in the middle. in many forms in { }these three species the lateral areas are more or less striated or punctate. cleve does not consider this a distinction of any importance, although certain varieties are founded upon it. all three species are very common in the blue clay and along the coast, but their varieties are too numerous to describe or figure. navicula spectabilis var. emarginata cl. valve elliptical; lateral areas broad, narrowed in the middle, delicately striated; marginal striæ, in µ. l. µ. blue clay. pl. , fig. . navicula pygmÆa kuetz. valve elliptical, appearing hyaline; axial and central areas faint; lateral areas convergent in the middle; striæ indistinct, about in µ. l. µ. brandywine creek (palmer). pl. , fig. . decussatÆ cl. valve elliptical or lanceolate; axial area narrow; central area small; striæ punctate, in transverse and oblique, curved rows. navicula placenta ehr. valve elliptical, with short, rostrate-capitate ends; axial area narrow; central area elliptical; striæ in two directions, the transverse about (to , cl.) in µ, the oblique striæ crossing in both directions in curved lines appearing "coarser than the transverse" (lewis). a very peculiar species which, as cleve remarks, seems not to be allied to any other. l. about µ, quite constant in size. it is reported from finland, scotland, hungary and new zealand. dr. lewis found it in the delaware river. it is occasional in the schuylkill river and the blue clay, and very abundant on marchantia and mosses on the wet rocks of the upper wissahickon (f. j. keeley). pl. , fig. . lineolatÆ cl. valve more or less lanceolate; axial area narrow or indistinct; striæ radiate or parallel, lineate, that is, with the puncta closer than the striæ. navicula radiosa kuetz. valve lanceolate with sub-rostrate apices; axial area indistinct; central area small; striæ radiate in the middle, from to in µ, and convergent at the ends, about in µ. l. µ. very common in fresh water. pl. , fig. ; pl. , fig. . navicula peregrina ehr. valve lanceolate, obtuse; axial area narrow; central area large, rounded or slightly irregular; striæ coarse in the middle, in µ, radiate; convergent at the ends, or in µ. abundant in brackish water. delaware river. pl. , fig. . { }navicula cyprinus (wm. sm.) valve lanceolate, slightly gibbous in the middle, sub-cuneate at the ends; axial area narrow; central area small; striæ radiate in the middle, in µ, with shorter, transverse striæ intermediate; transverse at the extreme ends. l. µ. _navicula digito-radiata_ var. _cyprinus_ (ehr. ?) wm. sm. whether the form here figured is ehrenberg's or not, it is the species known as pinnularia cyprinus ehr. of wm. smith. common in shark river, n. j. pl. , fig. . navicula reinhardtii grun. valve elliptical or elliptical-lanceolate, with broad, rounded ends; axial area narrow, widened at the ends to the width of the valve; central area widened transversely to an irregular, quadrate space; striæ coarse, in µ, distinctly lineate, alternately longer and shorter in the middle, radiate, nearly transverse at the ends. l. µ. blue clay. rare. pl. , fig. . navicula lanceolata var. arenaria (donk.) cl. valve lanceolate; axial area very narrow or indistinct; central area small, rounded; striæ radiate, in µ in the middle, closer at the ends. l. - µ. _navicula arenaria_ donk. shark river, n. j. pl. , fig. . navicula salinarum grun. valve elliptical-lanceolate with produced sub-capitate or rostrate ends; striæ radiate in the middle, longer and shorter; transverse at the ends, lineate. l. µ. atlantic city, n. j. pl. , fig. . navicula viridula var. rostellata kuetz. valve lanceolate with rostrate ends; axial area very narrow, central area orbicular; striæ radiate in the middle, about in µ, convergent at the ends and closer. l. µ. common in fresh water. pl. , fig. . navicula gracilis var. schizonemoides (ehr.) v. h. valve lanceolate, obtuse; axial area widened in the middle; striæ radiate in the middle, about in µ, transverse or slightly convergent at the ends. l. - µ. occurs in gelatinous tubes; usually found free. _colletonema neglectum_ thwaites. fresh water. pl. , fig. . navicula ramosissima (ag.) cl. valve lanceolate, sub-acute; axial area very narrow; central area scarcely widened; striæ, in µ, parallel throughout. l. µ. _micromega ramosissimum_ ag. _schizonema smithii_ kuetz. (not ag.). east river, n. y. pl. , fig. . { }navicula anglica ralfs valve elliptical, with sub-capitate or rostrate ends; axial area narrow, central area small; striæ radiate, - in µ, distinctly punctate. l. µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . navicula gastrum ehr. valve elliptical, with rostrate ends; axial area narrow, central area transverse or irregular; striæ radiate, in µ in the middle. l. µ. the form here figured approaches n. anglica. kirkwood pond, n. j. pl. , fig. . navicula dicephala wm. sm. valve linear, with rostrate or rostrate-capitate ends; axial area narrow, central area rectangular, transverse; striæ radiate, in µ. l. µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . navicula humilis donk. valve elliptical, with broad, rostrate ends; axial area narrow; central area small; striæ radiate and distant in the middle, convergent at the ends, coarse, appearing costate, averaging in µ. l. µ. as donkin states, the striæ are "very conspicuous." _navicula hungarica_ var. _capitata_ (ehr.) cl. _navicula globiceps_ lagerstedt, according to cleve. willistown, pa. pl. , fig. . navicula pinnata pant. ? valve lanceolate, obtuse; axial area narrow, widened in the middle; striæ coarse, in µ in the middle, radiate, in µ at the ends and transverse, indistinctly lineate. l. µ. near _navicula ardua_ mann (diat. albatross voy., cont. u. s. nat. herbarium vol. , part , p. , pl. , fig. ) which, however, is said to have "strictly unbeaded costæ." pavonia, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . navicula pennata a. s. valve lanceolate, acute; axial area narrow; central area quadrate, transverse; striæ radiate, coarse, in µ, lineate. l. - µ (cleve). pavonia, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . navicula inflexa greg. valve slightly elliptical-lanceolate, sub-acute, smooth at the ends; axial area narrow, widened in the middle; striæ radiate, in µ, lineate. frustule in zone view constricted in the middle. l. - µ. common along the coast. pl. , figs. and . { }navicula oblonga kuetz. valve linear-lanceolate, with broad, rounded ends; margin sometimes undulate; axial area narrow; central area large, orbicular; striæ in the middle distant, radiate, convergent at the ends and curved or sharply bent, in µ, lineate. l. - µ (cleve). blue clay. occasional in fresh water. pl. , fig. . navicula hasta pant. valve lanceolate, gently tapering to the obtuse, produced ends; axial area lanceolate, widened to an orbicular space in the middle; striæ radiate, the median coarse and quite distant, in µ, becoming closer at the ends where they are in µ, lineate. the distance between the median striæ gives the appearance of a stauros. occasional in the blue clay. pl. , fig. . navicula hasta var. punctata n. var. valve as in type but with striæ in the middle distinctly punctate and reaching the median line. greenwich point, philadelphia. pl. , fig. . navicula rhyncocephala kuetz. valve lanceolate, with produced ends; axial area indistinct; central area small, rounded; striæ radiate in the middle, convergent at the ends, - in µ, punctate. l. µ. fresh water. common. pl. , fig. . navicula cryptocephala kuetz. valve lanceolate, with rostrate ends; axial area indistinct; central area small; striæ, in µ, lineate, radiate in the middle, convergent at the ends. l. µ. common in fresh water. intermediate forms occur between n. rhyncocephala and n. cryptocephala. pl. , fig. . navicula longa (greg.) ralfs valve slender, rhombic, elongated, with acute ends; axial area indistinct; central area small; striæ, or in µ, radiate in the middle, elsewhere transverse; central pores closely approximate. l. µ. new rochelle, n. y. pl. , fig. . cleve refers this form to n. directa var. remota grun. some specimens are found in this locality showing the "generally twisted" median line mentioned by gregory. mesoleiÆ cl. valve linear or elliptical; axial area narrow; central area quadrate; striæ radiate, finely punctate. navicula mutica kuetz. valve ovate, elliptical or lanceolate; axial area narrow; central area dilated into a stauros not reaching the margin; striæ about in µ, more distant in the middle, radiate, punctate. a punctum occurs on one side of the central nodule. { }reported from new jersey in fresh water. i have not found it. the figure is from a specimen from another locality. pl. , fig. . navicula minima grun. valve broadly elliptical, - µ in length; axial area narrow; central area small but with a quadrate pseudo-stauros which is striated; striæ, about in µ, radiate. agrees closely with n. saugeri var. grun. in v. h. synopsis, pl. , fig. , said to be intermediate between n. minima and n. atomoides grun. n. minima var. atomoides grun. is smaller. common in water-troughs. pl. , fig. . navicula pupula var. bacillarioides grun. valve linear, with rounded ends; axial area linear, expanding on both sides near the ends of the valve, forming a transverse lunate space; central area small, apparently expanded into a stauros, which, however, is striated; striæ, in µ, at the middle, closer at the ends, punctate. l. µ. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . bacillares cl. valve linear or linear-elliptical, with broad ends; axial area narrow, the median line enclosed in siliceous ribs; striæ finely punctate, more distant in the middle. navicula bacillum ehr. valve linear, with rounded ends; axial area enclosed in siliceous ribs and slightly expanded on each side at the ends; terminal nodules incrassate; central area small, elliptical; striæ, in µ in the middle, transverse, distinctly punctate, closer at the ends l. µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . cleve describes the form as having slightly radiate striæ in the middle. there is considerable difference in the descriptions of cleve, donkin, grunow and van heurck, as also in all of the figures. navicula americana ehr. valve oblong-linear, with rounded ends, sometimes slightly constricted; axial area about one-half the width of the valve, dilated in the middle; striæ parallel in the middle, radiate at the ends, - in µ. a punctum is usually found in the central nodule. l. - µ. blue clay. occasional in fresh water. pl. , fig. . decipientes cl. valve lanceolate, with obtuse ends; axial area narrow; central area orbicular; striæ radiate in the middle and more distant. navicula semen ehr. valve elliptic-lanceolate, with sub-rostrate, truncate apices; axial area narrow, { }sinuous; central area orbicular; terminal fissures small, hook-shaped; striæ robust, or in the middle, closer at the ends, indistinctly punctate or lineolate. blue clay. not common. pl. , fig. . cleve states that this form belongs to the post-glacial deposits and is found living only in the hartz mountains. navicula integra wm. sm. valve lanceolate with triundulate margins and rostrate-apiculate ends; striæ radiate, more distant in the middle, - in µ, punctate; axial area very narrow, central area rounded or elliptical. l. - µ. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. common in chester river, md. pl. , fig. . microstigmaticÆ cl. valve lanceolate; axial area narrow; central area small, rounded; striæ finely punctate, nearly parallel. (includes here only the division libellus.) navicula tumida (brÉb.) cl. valve lanceolate, with rounded ends; axial area narrow, central area elliptical; raphe slightly sigmoid; striæ, in µ, finely punctate, a few shorter in the middle. _scoliopleura tumida_ (bréb.) v. h. cape may, n. j. pl. , fig. . navicula grevillei (ag.) cl. frustules in gelatinous tubes, rectangular; zone with numerous longitudinal divisions. valve elliptical-lanceolate, obtuse; axial area narrow, central area small; striæ lineate, about in µ in the middle where they are slightly radiate and more evident, closer near the ends and transverse; median line with terminal pores distant from the ends. l. µ. _schizonema grevillei_ ag. east river, n. y. pl. , figs. and . navicula libellus greg. valve rhombic-elliptical, obtuse at the ends; axial area narrow, central rounded, small; striæ punctate, slightly radiate, about in µ; terminal fissures close to the ends, indistinct. l. µ. cleve describes this form as having acute ends, while gregory states that it is "more obtuse and broader than n. rhombica." gregory's figure apparently shows the ends acute, but he says that the valve view is "rhombic or elliptic-lanceolate, broad, with obtuse ends" (diat. of the clyde, p. , pl. ). hackensack swamp, n. j. pl. , fig. . orthostichÆ cl. valve lanceolate or elongated; axial area narrow; central area sometimes apparently dilated into a stauros; striæ punctate, the puncta in transverse and longitudinal rows. { }navicula cuspidata kuetz. valve rhombic-lanceolate, with acute ends; axial area linear, narrow, not widened in the middle; striæ transverse, - in µ (cl.). l. - µ. blue clay. not uncommon in fresh water. pl. , figs. and . fig. represents an inner valve or stratum, with strong costæ variable in size, formerly known as surirella craticula ehr. _n. cuspidata var. ambigua (ehr.) cl._--valve elliptical-lanceolate, with rostrate ends, smaller than the type and with finer striæ. crum creek. pl. , fig. . navicula spicula (hickie) cl. valve narrow, lanceolate with acute ends; axial area narrow, central area dilated into a stauros reaching the margin; transverse striæ, - in µ, longitudinal closer. l. - (cl.). sometimes confused with n. crucigera. _stauroneis spicula_ hickie. newark, n. j. pl. , fig. . navicula crucigera (wm. sm.) cl. valve lanceolate, narrow, with acute apices; central nodule a stauros reaching the margin but crossed by two or three coarser striæ; transverse striæ, in µ, punctate, the puncta about in µ. l. - µ (cl.). frustules in gelatinous tubes or free. _schizonema cruciger_ wm. sm. pl. , fig. . reported as occurring in new york bay, but i have not seen it. the figure is from a specimen from another locality. minusculÆ cl. valve lanceolate or elliptical, chiefly distinguished by the small size; axial area indistinct; central area small; striæ radiate, very finely punctate. navicula atomus nÆgeli valve elliptical, - µ in length; striæ radiate, - µ, closer near the ends; axial area linear, scarcely widened in the middle. water-troughs and ditches. probably common, but frequently not noticed because of its minuteness. a mounting medium of the highest refractive index, such as realgar, is required to resolve the striæ. in the figure the striæ are drawn a little coarser than they appear in most specimens. pl. , fig. . lÆvistriatÆ cl. valve lanceolate, axial area distinct; central area orbicular; striæ coarse, indistinctly punctate, approaching the costæ of pinnularia. { }navicula yarrensis grun. valve elliptical-lanceolate, with rounded ends; axial area lanceolate, widened in the middle; striæ, in µ. l. µ. cape may, n. j. common. pl. , fig. . fig. , a smaller form, µ in length; striæ, in µ. fig. , µ in length; striæ, in µ (near var. valida pant.). navicula elegans wm. sm. valve elliptical-lanceolate, with produced ends; axial area very narrow, central area large, orbicular; striæ strongly divergent in the middle, slightly, if at all, convergent at the ends, curved toward the margin, indistinctly lineate, in µ. l. µ. blue clay. not rare. pl. , fig. . _navicula elegans var. cuspidata cl._--valve as in type form but smaller and with rostrate apices; striæ, in µ. l. µ. belmar, n. j. pl. , fig. . cleve remarks that the type form is acute and the striæ , while the var. cuspidata has striæ in µ. in fig. , pl. , is represented a valve having striæ in µ, but not acute, while fig. , with but slight variation in striæ, is more cuspidate. it is probable there are intermediate variations. navicula palpebralis brÉb. valve elliptical-lanceolate, with acute apiculate ends; axial area broad, lanceolate; striæ radiate, lineate, about in µ. l. µ. along the coast. pl. , figs. and . on plate , fig. , is represented an abnormal form of navicula in which the central pores are in a line transverse to the longitudinal axis and each raphe is curved in a line which almost returns to the centre. the puncta are in curved lines radiating from the rounded hyaline centre. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. weissflog has described valves of navicula somewhat similar in punctation. pinnularia ehr. ( ) (pinnula, a small feather) valve linear or nearly so, with rounded ends; axial area broad; central and terminal areas large; costæ smooth, transverse or radiating, usually convergent at the ends. the costæ are channels on the inside of the valve, closed, except in the middle where elliptical foramina, opening into the interior of the valve, give rise through their terminal margins to the two longitudinal lines on each side of the valve. the raphe begins as a groove in the side of the conical central nodule and continues as a cleft at right angles to the plane of the surface of the valve, in which case the raphe forms a single line; if the raphe is inclined to the valve surface, then two lines appear in projection, the upper and lower edges of the cleft. in some forms the surface of the edge of the raphe on one side is folded or grooved for a considerable distance, and the opposite edge is elevated into a ridge or { }tongue fitting into the groove. in such cases it is possible, in projection, to see the upper or outer edges of the raphe, the lower edges and the edges of the tongue and groove, thus showing four lines; sometimes, when the tongue and groove do not meet, six lines. the so-called inner channel is the part of the raphe on the inside of the tongue, and the so-called exterior channel is the part of the raphe on the outside of the tongue. if, in addition to this formation of the raphe, the plane of cleavage changes toward the terminal nodules, the lines will cross each other and, when two are superimposed, disappear altogether. for the careful examination of the raphe it is necessary to employ large forms, and it is advisable to use nitrate of silver which remains in the raphe, and, as in slides mounted by mr. f. j. keeley, shows in a beautiful manner the entire outline of raphe and fissures. the terminal fissures owe their separation to the different directions taken by the two edges of the raphe on each side, one edge bending in a wide curve toward the end of the valve, showing two lines, the upper and lower edges of one side of the raphe when inclined to the plane of the surface, and the other edge of the raphe turning suddenly in an opposite direction and ending abruptly in a curve, giving rise to the appearance, by diffraction, of a punctum. pl. , figs. , and . endochrome consists of two chromatophores lying on the zones. pinnularia is usually divided into the majores, or larger, and the minores, or smaller forms, the latter being further divided according to their striæ. the following classification is chiefly that of cleve. _majores._--valve large, linear with parallel or slightly radiate striæ and broad axial area. _gracillimæ._--valve small, striæ parallel or nearly so; axial area very narrow. _capitatæ._--valve with capitate or rostrate ends; striæ radiate. _divergentes._--striæ strongly radiate. _brevistriatæ._--striæ short. _distantes._--striæ distant. _tabellariæ._--striæ radiate in the middle, strongly convergent at the ends. _marinæ._--marine forms. majores pinnularia major (kuetz.) wm. sm. valve linear, usually slightly gibbous in the middle and at the ends; raphe oblique; axial area less than one-third the width of valve, convergent at the ends; striæ, or in µ, radiate in the middle, convergent at the ends, crossed by a narrow band. l. ? to µ. blue clay. fresh water. abundant at middletown, delaware co. (t. c. palmer). pl. , fig. . fig. , pl. , is one of a number of smaller forms which are difficult to determine, approaching p. viridis. pinnularia major var. pulchella n. var. valve strongly gibbous in the middle and gradually widened to the rounded ends; axial area broad, less than one-third the width of the valve, widened unilaterally in the middle; striæ, in µ, crossed by a band nearly as wide as the length of the costæ and scarcely distinct. l. µ. { }the central nodule is scarcely evident, probably because it is not so thick as in other forms. the outline is near to that of n. mesogongyla and certain forms of n. nobilis, differing from the latter in the median line, striæ and band which is wider than that of p. latevittata var. domingensis cl. hammonton pond, n. j. pl. , fig. . a very beautiful form which i cannot find described or figured. it does not appear to be n. major var. turgidula cl., which has a narrow band. in the fossil deposit from hopkinton, n. h., valves occur similar in outline but smaller. pinnularia nobilis ehr. valve slightly gibbous in the middle and at the ends; median line complex; striæ, or in µ, slightly convergent or parallel at the ends, crossed by a band one-third as wide as the length of the striæ. l. ? to µ. blue clay. fresh water. pl. , fig. . pinnularia dactylus ehr. valve broad, linear, slightly gibbous in the middle; ends broad, rounded; median line not complex, sinuous; striæ, or in µ, crossed by a very broad band. l. ? to µ. _navicula gigas_ a. s. blue clay. fresh water. pl. , fig. . forms occur which are with difficulty assigned to either nobilis or dactylus. pinnularia dactylus var. dariana (a. s.) cl. valve linear-lanceolate, obtuse; axial area broad, less than one-third the width of the valve; striæ, in µ, crossed by a broad band. l. µ. absecon, n. j. pl. , fig. . pinnularia dactylus var. demerarÆ cl. valve elliptical-lanceolate, with sub-cuneate ends; axial area lanceolate, broad in the middle; median line flexuose; striæ radiate throughout, in µ. l. µ. blue clay. pl. , fig. . pinnularia gentilis (donk.) cl. valve linear, with rounded ends; axial area about one-fourth the diameter of the valve; striæ radiate in the middle, convergent at the ends, in µ, crossed by a broad indistinct band. fresh water. not common. pl. , fig. . pinnularia trigonocephala cl. valve linear, gibbous in the middle and at the cuneate ends; axial area wider between the middle and the ends, dilated to an elliptical space in the middle; striæ, in µ. l. µ. blue clay. pl. , fig. . { }pinnularia viridis nitzsch valve linear-elliptical, with rounded ends; axial area narrow, widened in the middle; striæ, to in µ, crossed by a band as wide as one-third the length of the striæ. common in fresh water. pl. , fig. . quite variable in size. approaches p. major by intermediate forms as in fig. , pl. . pinnularia viridis var. fallax cl. valve linear, with rounded ends; axial area narrow, slightly widened in the middle; striæ sometimes unilaterally interrupted, nearly parallel, in µ. elm, n. j. pl. , fig. . in fig. , pl. , a form is represented which corresponds closely to navicula viridis var. b, of wm. smith. it is given as synonymous with var. fallax; it is bilaterally interrupted. blue clay. pinnularia viridis var. ? valve linear-elliptical, with rounded ends; axial area narrow, widened in the middle to a transverse fascia which is sometimes unilateral; striæ, , in the middle, divergent, convergent at the ends and closer, crossed by a narrow band. l. - µ. fascia sometimes absent or very narrow. northbrook, pa. pl. , fig. (represents a form with wider area than usual). pinnularia viridis var. caudata n. var. valve elliptical-lanceolate, with sub-rostrate ends; axial area narrow, widened to an orbicular space in the middle; striæ radiate in the middle, - in µ, convergent and closer at the ends, crossed by a narrow band; median line with very long terminal fissures; terminal nodules noticeable because of the thickening of the edges of the terminal striæ. l. µ. fresh water, newtown square. not common. pl. , fig. . pinnularia socialis (palmer) valve linear, with rounded ends; axial area broad, one-third the width of the valve; striæ slightly radiate in the middle, convergent at the ends, elsewhere parallel, in µ, crossed by an indistinct band about one-third the length of the striæ. l. - µ. this species, discovered by mr. palmer near media, pa., is remarkable for the grouping of the frustules "held with girdle sides together by a siliceous cementing of valve edges and enclosed in a common coleoderm." the usual number included in a group is four, but sometimes six or eight are noticed. the frustules adhere near their ends and are so firmly fastened that boiling in nitric acid and bichromate of potash for fifteen minutes will not separate them. _navicula socialis_ palmer (proc. acad. nat. sci., phila., , p. , pl. ). media, pa. pl. , fig. . { }pinnularia Æstuarii cl. valve linear, with rounded ends; axial area broad, less than one-third the width of the valve; central area a transverse fascia; striæ, in µ, parallel except at the ends where they are slightly convergent; median line flexuose, with short, terminal semicircular fissures. l. µ. port penn, delaware river. rare. pl. , fig. . gracillimÆ pinnularia molaris (grun.) cl. valve very convex, linear, with sub-cuneate ends; axial area narrow, expanded in the middle to a transverse fascia reaching the margin; striæ divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends, in µ. l. µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . pinnularia leptosoma grun. valve linear, rounded at the ends; axial area narrow; central area a broad transverse fascia; striæ slightly divergent in the middle and convergent at the ends, in µ in the middle, closer at the ends. l. µ. fresh water. not common. pl. , fig. . capitatÆ pinnularia mesolepta ehr. valve linear, with triundulate margins and capitate ends; axial area narrow, widened in the middle; striæ divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends, about in µ. l. µ. common in fresh water. pl. , fig. . pinnularia mesolepta var. stauroneiformis grun. valve triundulate, capitate; axial area narrow, widened in the middle to a transverse fascia, broader at the margin; striæ strongly divergent in the middle and convergent at the ends, - in µ. l. µ. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. fresh water. pl. , fig. . pinnularia subcapitata greg. valve linear or linear-elliptical, with sub-capitate ends; axial area distinct, widened to a transverse fascia in the middle; striæ divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends, in µ. l. µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . { }pinnularia subcapitata var. paucistriata grun. valve linear-elliptical, with rounded ends; axial area gradually widened into a broad, transverse fascia; striæ divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends, - in µ. l. µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . pinnularia termes (ehr.) a. s. valve linear, with concave margins and rostrate-capitate ends; axial area narrow, widened in the middle to an orbicular or sub-quadrate space; striæ divergent in the middle, scarcely, if at all, convergent at the ends, in µ. pensauken, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . this is, i believe, the form figured by schmidt (atlas, pl. , fig. ). cleve refers it to pinnularia interrupta forma biceps, in which the central space is rhomboid. pinnularia termes var. stauroneiformis v. h. valve linear, with concave margins and capitate-rostrate ends; axial area narrow, widened into a rhomboidal fascia, reaching the margin; striæ, in µ, divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends. _pinnularia interrupta forma stauroneiformis_ cl. fresh water. pl. , fig. . pinnularia appendiculata (ag.) cl. valve linear, with subcapitate ends; axial area narrow; central area a transverse fascia; striæ divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends, in µ. l. µ. fresh water. marl pits, lenola, n. j. (palmer). pl. , fig. . pinnularia braunii grun. valve linear-lanceolate, with capitate ends; axial area gradually widened toward the middle and expanded into a fascia reaching the margin; striæ divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends, in µ. l. µ. pensauken, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . pinnularia microstauron (ehr.) cl. valve convex, linear, tapering to sub-cuneate or sub-rostrate ends; axial area very narrow; central area a broad fascia; striæ divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends, in µ. l. µ. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . this form does not exactly correspond to cleve's diagnosis, as the ends are not broad. all species in the group capitatæ are quite variable. { }divergentes pinnularia divergens var. elliptica grun. valve linear, with rounded ends; axial area widened in the middle to a transverse fascia; striæ, in µ, divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends. l. µ. fresh water. not common in this locality. pl. , fig. . pinnularia cardinaliculus cl. valve linear, with rounded ends; axial area wide, less than one-third the width of the valve, expanded to a transverse fascia; striæ divergent in the middle and slightly convergent at the ends, in µ. l. µ. blue clay. pl. , fig. . as a rule, the median fissures in pinnularia are turned inwards on the side of the longer edge of the terminal fissures, but not always. in this specimen the median fissures are turned slightly toward the side of the shorter edge of the terminal fissures. pinnularia legumen ehr. valve linear, with more or less triundulate margins and broad, capitate ends; axial area less than one-fourth the width of valve, widened in the middle; striæ strongly divergent in the middle and convergent at the ends, in µ. l. µ. fresh water. may's landing, n. j. pl. , fig. . pinnularia legumen var. ? valve as in type, but with a transverse fascia; striæ, in µ, curved or bent near the ends. l. µ. this form is not var. florentina grun. may's landing, n. j. (with the type). pl. , fig. . pinnularia brÉbissonii (kuetz.) cl. valve linear-elliptical, with rounded ends; axial area narrow, widened into a transverse fascia which is usually broader at the ends; striæ divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends, about in µ. l. - µ (cl.). fresh water. common. pl. , fig. ; pl. , fig. . variable in outline. pinnularia mormonorum (grun.) valve linear, with rounded ends; striæ divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends, in µ; axial area rhombic-lanceolate, widened to a fascia usually reaching the border. l. µ. _navicula mormonorum_ grun. common near willistown, pa. this form is regarded by cleve as p. brébissonii, but the axial area appears to distinguish it. the valves are sometimes narrowed in the middle. pl. , fig. . { }brevistriatÆ pinnularia acrosphÆria (brÉb.) cl. valve linear, gibbous in the middle and at the ends; axial area about half the width of the valve; median line with approximate central pores; median area punctate; striæ nearly parallel, radiate at the ends, in µ. l. - µ (cl.). blue clay. recent, fresh water. pl. , fig. . pinnularia acrosphÆria var. turgidula grun. ? valve strongly gibbous in the middle; ends rounded; striæ, - in µ. l. µ. blue clay, gloucester, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . pinnularia blandita n. sp. valve linear, gibbous in the middle, and with rounded ends; striæ radiate in the middle, convergent at the ends, in µ; axial area about one-fourth the width of the valve, widened in the middle; median line with small semicircular terminal fissures. l. µ. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. rare. pl. , fig. . pinnularia parva (ehr.) cl. var. ? valve linear, tapering to the subcapitate ends; axial area broad, lanceolate; median line with approximate central pores and semicircular terminal fissures; striæ slightly divergent in the middle and convergent at the ends, in µ. l. µ. differs from the type in having finer striæ. atco, n. j. pl. , fig. . pinnularia nodosa forma capitata cl. valve triundulate, with capitate ends; axial area about one-fourth the width of valve; striæ parallel, convergent at the ends, in µ, sometimes interrupted in the middle. l. µ. fresh water. common. pl. , figs. and . pinnularia polyonca (brÉb.) lewis valve with triundulate margins, more inflated in the middle, with capitate ends; axial area very broad; striæ marginal, short, in µ, divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends. l. µ. kirkwood pond, n. j. pl. , fig. . the description of kuetzing (species algarum, p. ), where he states that the margins are "triundulate, the median inflation larger, apices rounded-capitate," appears to sufficiently distinguish this species, which i believe to be the same as brun's navicula peripunctata, except that the form figured (espèces nouvelles, pl. , fig. ) is interrupted in the middle, a common variation in these forms. cleve makes navicula polyonca bréb. equal pinnularia mesolepta, but at the same time he considers lewis' form and also brun's as equivalent to navicula formica ehr., and calls it pinnularia nodosa var. formica ehr. p. mesolepta has a narrower area than nodosa. i adhere to lewis' identification, as in any case it is the form here figured and is nearly, if not quite, the same as brun's species. { }distantes pinnularia lata (brÉb.) wm. sm. valve linear-elliptical, broad; axial area broad, widened in the middle; striæ slightly radiate in the middle, in µ; median line oblique, the terminal fissures hook-shaped. l. µ. blue clay. not uncommon. pl. , fig. . pinnularia borealis ehr. valve linear, with rounded or sub-truncate ends; axial area about one-fourth the width of the valve, widened in the middle; median line with large hook-shaped terminal fissures; striæ, or in µ. l. µ. blue clay. occasional in fresh water in a smaller form. specimens occur intermediate between p. lata and p. borealis. pl. , fig. ; pl. , fig. . pinnularia borealis var. scalaris (ehr.) cl. valve narrow, linear; axial area broad, widened into a transverse fascia; striæ, in µ. l. µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . tabellariÆ pinnularia stomatophora (grun.) cl. valve linear, with rounded ends; axial area less than one-third the width of the valve, gradually widened in the middle to a transverse fascia; on each side of the central nodule is a lunate space; striæ divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends, in µ; terminal fissures very long, bayonet shaped. l. µ. cleve describes a variety continua as not interrupted. in some forms the fascia is marked by very faint, short striæ on the margin. fresh water. newtown square. pl. , fig. . pinnularia gibba (kuetz.) v. h. valve linear, tapering to the subcapitate ends; axial area dilated in the middle; striæ, - µ, divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends. l. µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . pinnularia mesogongyla (ehr.) cl. valve linear, gibbous in the middle, ends subcapitate; axial area narrow, widened in the middle to a large orbicular space; striæ strongly divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends, in µ. l. µ. fresh water. common. pl. , fig. . { }pinnularia stauroptera (grun.) cl. valve linear, with slightly triundulate margins tapering to the subcapitate ends; axial area more than one-third the width of the valve, slightly widened in the middle; median line with approximate central pores and semicircular terminal fissures; striæ divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends, in µ. l. µ. may's landing, n. j. pl. , fig. . some of the forms are more triundulate than the specimen figured. pinnularia stauroptera var. interrupta cl. valve linear, tapering to the subcapitate ends; axial area broad, widened in the middle to a transverse fascia; striæ divergent in the middle, convergent at the ends, in µ; median pores approximate. l. µ. schuylkill river. pl. , fig. . pinnularia tabellaria (ehr.) cl. valve linear, gibbous in the middle and tapering to the subcapitate ends; axial area about one-third the width of the valve, widened in the middle; median line with approximate central pores and bayonet-shaped terminal fissures; striæ sometimes unilaterally interrupted, divergent in the middle, strongly convergent at the ends, in µ. l. µ. blue clay. rare. pl. , fig. . the form here figured has coarser striæ than in the type which is also usually more capitate. p. legumen has triundulate margins, p. mesogongyla has an orbicular space, while p. gibba has the space widened. according to cleve, p. gibba has approximate central pores, as has also p. mesogongyla. in what i have considered to be p. legumen, the central pores are more approximate than in the other two species mentioned. in fact, all of the three resemble each other closely, and are variously named by different authors. the form of p. gibba here figured, which may be p. stauroptera, is not the typical form of wm. smith, which has a narrow area and central space. there are, however, among the typical specimens in h. l. smith's type slide no. , smaller valves which show a resemblance. marinÆ pinnularia rectangulata (greg.) cl. valve linear, with abruptly rounded ends; axial area very narrow; central area large, somewhat quadrate; striæ, - in µ. l. µ. _navicula rectangulata greg._ shark river, n. j. pl. , fig. . { }epithemia brÉb. ( ) (epithema, a cover or lid) frustules epiphytic, solitary, sometimes geminate, adherent on the ventral side at the ends; in zone view rectangular, sometimes tumid in the middle. valve arcuate, having an interior costate stratum or transverse septa extending to the girdle, often detached, and an exterior valve surface with transverse rows of puncta. central and terminal nodules not easily seen; in some species a true raphe is indicated. the resemblance between epithemia and eunotia has been already mentioned. in the shape and striation of the valves there is an approach to cymbella. the genus is divided into two groups, one in which the costæ alternate with double rows of puncta, as in e. turgida, and the other in which the rows of puncta are more than two. the endochrome usually consists of a band lying along the ventral zone and extending in two flaps on the valves. epithemia turgida (ehr.) kuetz. valve arcuate, with ends subcapitate; costæ radiate, in µ, alternating with double rows of puncta. median nodule central, the raphe curved toward the ventral edge which it closely follows. parasitic on algæ. very common in fresh water, especially in ponds. in the figure the valve is asymmetrical with respect to the transverse axis, an unusual condition. pl. , fig. . epithemia argus kuetz. valve with dorsal margin convex, and ventral margin nearly straight; ends rounded, constricted; costæ robust, alternating with more than two rows of puncta; zone view rectangular, the thickened ends of the costæ forming large nodules in a row along the edge of the valve next to the connecting zone. _cystopleura argus_ (ehr.) kunze. common in fresh water. pl. , figs. and . epithemia argus var. ? valve strongly arcuate on the dorsal side and concave on the ventral; tapering to the rounded but not produced ends; costæ at unequal distances, about in µ; granules in transverse rows, in µ. l. µ. pensauken, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . epithemia muelleri a. s. ? valve broad, convex, slightly arcuate, with obtuse, somewhat constricted apices; costæ about in µ; striæ, - in µ; in zone view the outline is rectangular, slightly tumid in the middle. l. µ. blue clay. pl. , fig. . { }epithemia zebra var. proboscidea (kuetz.) grun. valve convex on the dorsal, concave on the ventral side; costæ, - in µ, slightly radiating; apices recurved, capitate. blue clay. pl. , fig. . epithemia gibberula var. producta grun. valve narrow, lunate, with produced and arcuate apices; costæ radiate, - in µ; striæ, - in µ, punctate. l. µ, usually smaller. blue clay. pl. , fig. . epithemia musculus kuetz. valve short, strongly arcuate on the dorsal, concave on the ventral side; apices slightly produced; costæ radiate, about in µ; striæ, in µ, punctate. l. - µ. shark river, n. j. pl. , fig. . epithemia musculus var. constricta (brÉb.) v. h. frustule elliptical, slightly constricted in the middle. valve convex on the dorsal, straight on the ventral side; costæ about in µ; striæ about in µ, finely punctate. l. µ. _epithemia succinta_ bréb. new rochelle, n. y. pl. , fig. . rhopalodia mueller ( ) (rhopalodes, like a war club) frustule in zone view linear, linear-elliptical (in our species), or clavate. valve reniform or lunate; a raphe, not visible in some species in the usual position of the valve, is found along the convex edge or keel. median and terminal nodules, although very small, can be determined. the name is more appropriate to the african species which are clavate. two species only are found in this locality. the chief distinction between epithemia and rhopalodia is in the position of the raphe and the nodules. in r. gibba and r. ventricosa the costæ are parallel and not radiate since the valves are not lunate. chromatophore a single band irregularly divided. rhopalodia gibba (kuetz.) mueller valve linear, arcuate on the dorsal, straight on the ventral side, reflexed at the extremities. costæ, - in µ; striæ about in µ. l. - µ. fresh water. common. pl. , fig. . in this species the raphe and nodules can be seen only when the valve is examined at right angles to its usual position. { }rhopalodia ventricosa (kuetz.) mueller valve gibbous in the middle on the dorsal side, straight on the ventral side, with reflexed apices; costæ, in µ; striæ, - in µ. l. - µ. the median nodule appears as a minute depression in the middle of the dorsal side. the two species usually occur together. _epithemia gibba_ var. _ventricosa_ kuetz. pl. , fig. . surirelloideÆ the surirelloideæ are usually understood to include the genera surirella, podocystis, cymatopleura and campylodiscus, all of which resemble each other more or less, either in having a keel or markings like the divisions of the keel in surirella and a median line, or pseudoraphe. the genus nitzschia also has a keel, but it does not border each side of the valve as in surirella, being found either near one margin or between it and the centre. certain of the surirellæ are allied to the group tryblionella of the nitzschiæ, while forms of stenopterobia are distinguished with difficulty from the group sigmata. the following arrangement, therefore, is intended to include all genera having a keel or something which resembles it. _hantzschia._--valve asymmetrical; keels of the two valves opposite each other. _nitzschia._--valve asymmetrical; keels not (usually) opposite each other. _surirella._--valve usually symmetrical; a keel on each border. _cymatopleura._--valve without an elevated keel, but with markings like those of surirella; undulated in zone view. _campylodiscus._--valves saddle-shaped. hantzschia grun. ( ) (named after c. a. hantzsch) valve arcuate, with rostrate ends; keel puncta short, prolonged into costæ or extending across the valve; median nodule rudimentary; the keels of the two valves opposite each other. distinguished from nitzschia chiefly by the position of the keels. according to mereschkowsky, however, two species of nitzschia, n. lanceolata and n. spectabilis, show the same peculiarity. chromatophores four, two on each of the zones (mereschkowsky). hantzschia amphioxys (ehr.) grun. valve slightly arcuate, with rostrate apices; keel puncta, in µ; striæ transverse, - in µ, punctate. l. µ. quite variable. fresh water. pl. , fig. . { }hantzschia amphioxys var. major grun. valve as in type, but the keel puncta are in µ and the striæ are - in µ. l. µ. h. amphioxys var. major grun. is stated to be µ in length. the present form is smaller but corresponds in puncta and striation. van heurck remarks that it approaches h. virgata. abundant in sand ripples on the beach at cape may, n. j. pl. , fig. . fig. , pl. , is drawn from an authentic specimen of wm. smith's nitzschia amphioxys, from england, and is introduced for comparison. the central nodule is not evident. fig. , pl. , is from a specimen from an unknown locality. the keel puncta are and the striæ in µ. hantzschia virgata (roper) grun. valve arcuate on the dorsal side, nearly straight on the ventral side, with rostrate, recurved apices; keel puncta prolonged to one-third the width of the valve, in µ; transverse striæ, - in µ. l. µ. shark river, n. j. (kain). i have not been able to find this form on our coast. the figure is drawn from a specimen from another locality. pl. , fig. . hantzschia marina (donk.) grun. valve with dorsal margin slightly arcuate, ventral margin straight; apices rostrate and recurved; keel puncta, in µ, prolonged into costæ across the entire valve; transverse striæ, in µ, in double rows of alternating puncta between the costæ. l. µ. _epithemia marina_ donkin. along the coast. pl. , fig. . nitzschia hassall ( ), em. grun. ( ) (named after christian l. nitzsch, of halle) frustules usually free, sometimes enclosed in tubes or united into a filament. valves keeled, the keels of the two valves usually diagonally opposite (see hantzschia); keel puncta short or prolonged. according to mereschkowsky, there are at least two endochrome plates placed transversely on the zones; sometimes there are from four to six plates, in one species twenty granules and in another no trace of any endochrome whatever. the following analysis is that of grunow as given in cleve and grunow's "arctic diatoms," and adopted and illustrated by van heurck in his "synopsis." groups . _tryblionella._--keel very excentric, valve often folded; keel puncta indistinct, usually the same in number as the striæ. . _panduriformes._--valve broad, constricted in the middle, with more or less evident fold; keel very near the edge; keel puncta quite evident or apparently wanting. { } . _apiculatæ._--keel very near the edge; valve linear or somewhat narrower in the middle; striæ on the longitudinal fold fainter than on the remaining surface, or wanting; puncta not in quincunx. . _pseudo-tryblionella._--keel more or less close to the edge; valve with a more or less deep longitudinal fold over which the striæ are spread in the same way as over the remaining surface; keel puncta always distinct. . _circumsutæ._--valve with more or less wide longitudinal fold; keel very excentric; keel puncta quite evident; surface of valve irregularly punctate and also traversed by rows of delicate puncta which belong to a different layer of the valve. . _dubiæ._--like the group pseudo-tryblionella, but the valves are not so much folded; frustules sometimes narrowed in the middle. the separation of species is difficult and, in part, doubtful. keel excentric. . _bilobatæ._--like the group dubiæ, but with more central keel and so forming a transition to the group pseudo-amphiprora; valves without longitudinal folds. . _pseudo-amphiprora._--valve with quite central, sharp keel, arcuate, without longitudinal fold; keel puncta always evident; frustule narrowed in the middle with more or less marked central nodule. includes two species not found in this locality. . _perrya._--valve arched with very sharp central keel; not narrowed in the middle; keel puncta mostly on short or long lines which are sometimes interrupted. includes six species not found in this locality. . _epithemioideæ._--keel excentric; keel puncta extended into costæ across the entire valve. . _grunowia._--as in the group epithemioideæ, except that the costæ are shorter, not extending across the valve; keel very excentric. . _scalares._--like grunowia, but with sharper, somewhat excentric keel; transverse section of frustule quadrangular. . _insignes._--like scalares, but with more central keel so that many of the forms are near the group perrya; frustule somewhat sigmoid. . _bacillaria._--keel central or nearly so; valve somewhat arched; keel sharp, as in the group insignes. . _vivaces._--keel moderately excentric; valve, according to position, semi-lanceolate, with keel puncta in short rows, or lanceolate with quite central keel. the valves have in many positions a resemblance to hantzschia, so that n. vivax frequently becomes confounded with a form of h. amphioxys. the median keel puncta are not distant and a central nodule is not evident as is the case in all species of hantzschia. . _spathulatæ._--like the group bacillaria, but usually with very delicate striated valves; keel in valve view usually bordered with two parallel lines. . _dissipatæ._--like vivaces and spathulatæ, but with smaller central keel and without parallel lines. valves usually small, very delicately striated; no central nodule. . _sigmoideæ._--keel quite central; no parallel lines; frustule sigmoid; valve without longitudinal furrow; keel puncta not extended; no central nodule evident. . _sigmata._--like sigmoideæ, but with a more excentric keel. . _obtusæ._--like sigmata, with a more or less excentric keel which has in the middle a small bending to the inside; middle keel puncta somewhat more distant than the others, and between them a central nodule evident. { } . _spectabiles._--valve large, slightly arcuate, with excentric keel; no longitudinal folds; keel puncta somewhat extended over the valve but much less than in the group insignes, and often scarcely perceptible. . _lineares._--keel somewhat excentric, but less than in spectabiles; frustule straight, sometimes a little constricted in the middle, so that a transition is shown to the groups dubiæ and bilobatæ. valve without longitudinal fold; keel puncta round or somewhat angular, scarcely extended. . _lanceolatæ._--valve lanceolate, linear-lanceolate or rarely elliptical, with very excentric keel; not folded; keel puncta not extended. . _nitzschiella._--valve with excentric keel and long, produced apices. tryblionella nitzschia tryblionella hantzsch valve elliptical-lanceolate, with subacute apices; longitudinal fold well marked; striæ coarse, transverse, in µ; indistinct puncta intermediate between the striæ. l. µ. quite variable. blue clay. pl. , fig. . nitzschia granulata grun. valve elliptical or elliptical-lanceolate; striæ in double rows, each row of three or four small puncta along the margin and rows of large puncta about in µ across the valve. l. - µ. blue clay. along the coast. pl. , fig. . nitzschia navicularis (brÉb.) grun. valve elliptical-lanceolate, with acute apices; striæ on one side a double row of large and small puncta, and on the other side radiate short rows of large puncta, in µ; middle of valve hyaline. l. - µ. blue clay. not common. pl. , fig. . nitzschia compressa (bail.) valve elliptical-lanceolate, sometimes acuminate; striæ, or in µ, coarsely punctate. l. µ. _pyxidicula compressa_ bailey. _nitzschia punctata_ (wm. sm.) grun. _tryblionella punctata_ wm. sm. common along the coast. pl. , fig. . var. minor (h. l. smith).--valve acuminate; striæ, in µ. l. µ. _pyxidicula compressa_ var. _minor_ h. l. smith, type slide no. . pl. , fig. . the smaller forms occur northward, while the larger are found southward. this is unquestionably bailey's form, as indicated by his figure and by the fact that it is found everywhere along the coast. wm. smith's t. punctata is the same species, although the puncta are smaller. { }panduriformes nitzschia panduriformis greg. valve elliptical, constricted in the middle, with sub-cuneate apices; longitudinal fold, with a punctate longitudinal line; striæ transverse and oblique, in µ; keel puncta, in µ. l. µ. along the coast. more often found southward. pl. , fig. . nitzschia panduriformis var. minor grun. valve elliptical, constricted in the middle, with cuneate apices; keel puncta, in µ; striæ in transverse and oblique lines about in µ; longitudinal fold bordered by a punctate line. l. µ. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . the var. continua grun. is reported as occurring in shark river. it varies in having the longitudinal fold punctate. it is also usually smaller than var. minor. apiculatÆ nitzschia apiculata (greg.) grun. valve oblong-linear, with cuneate-apiculate apices; striæ punctate, apparently interrupted or pervious, about in µ. l. µ. chester river, md. pl. , fig. . the puncta are continued across the valve, but are less distinct on the fold. the figure shows the entire frustule with the fold on each valve. the valves are sometimes slightly constricted. nitzschia acuminata (wm. sm.) grun. valve linear, sometimes slightly constricted in the middle, with acuminate apices; longitudinal fold entirely without or with indistinct striæ; keel puncta not evident; striæ, - in µ. l. µ. port penn, delaware river. pl. , fig. . nitzschia plana wm. sm. valve linear; apices acute, slightly constricted in the middle; longitudinal fold further from the keel than the margin, broad, with scattered puncta; striæ subtle, irregular, interrupted, about in µ; keel puncta oblong, - in µ. l. - µ. blue clay. along the coast. pl. , fig. . { }pseudo-tryblionella nitzschia litoralis var. delawarensis grun. valve linear, with obtusely rounded cuneate ends, scarcely, if at all, constricted in the middle; longitudinal fold wide; keel puncta, or in µ, sometimes confluent; striæ obscure, about in µ. l. µ. delaware river. pl. , fig. . this form is drawn from a slide of christian febiger containing an abundance of specimens from delaware city, and marked "nitzschia dubia." circumsutÆ nitzschia circumsuta (bail.) grun. valve elliptical, sometimes more than µ in length; longitudinal fold more or less conspicuous; keel puncta about in µ, the middle distant with the appearance of a nodule; striæ irregular, subtle, finely punctate, frequently interrupted. _surirella circumsuta_ bail. _tryblionella scutellum_ wm. sm. common in brackish water. pl. , fig. . dubiÆ nitzschia dubia wm. sm. valve linear, scarcely, if at all, constricted in the middle, with cuneate, produced, apiculate apices, somewhat recurved; keel very excentric; puncta sometimes partly prolonged, about in µ; striæ, - in µ. l. µ. reported from along the new jersey coast. i have not seen it. it is generally regarded as fresh-water. slides sometimes labelled n. dubia are in reality n. litoralis var. delawarensis. pl. , fig. . the figure is drawn from a specimen from another locality. bilobatÆ nitzschia bilobata wm. sm. valve linear-lanceolate, constricted in the middle, apiculate at the ends; keel puncta in µ, prolonged unequally across part of the valve, the two median sub-remote; striæ, in µ. frustule oblong, truncate, constricted in the middle. l. µ. shark river, n. j., chester river, md. pl. , figs. and . epithemioideÆ nitzschia epithemioides grun. valve linear, with cuneate, rostrate apices; slightly constricted on the keel side; keel puncta, or in µ, extending as costæ across the valve; striæ delicate, in µ. l. µ. brackish water, long island sound. pl. , fig. . { }grunowia nitzschia tabellaria grun. valve rhomboidal, inflated in the middle; apices produced; keel puncta extend in costæ across half of the valve, in µ; striæ transverse, about in µ. l. µ. _dimerogramma sinuatum_ thwaites. _nitzschia sinuata_ var. _tabellaria_ (grun.) v. h. schuylkill river. not common. pl. , fig. . scalares nitzschia scalaris (ehr.) wm. sm. valve linear, with obtusely conical apices; costæ transverse, extending more or less to one-third the width of the valve, or in µ; striæ, or in µ, punctate. length of valve quite variable, up to µ (cleve). a well-known form, abundant in salt marshes and more or less brackish water. pl. , fig. . (to the right of the figure is an outline of the valve reduced one-third.) insignes nitzschia insignis greg. valve nearly linear or linear-lanceolate; apices broad, slightly produced, obtuse; keel puncta extended into short costæ, or in µ; striæ about in µ. length variable up to µ. delaware bay. pl. , fig. . bacillaria nitzschia paxillifer (o. f. mueller) heiberg frustules united in a filament, afterwards free; valve lanceolate with nearly central keel; keel puncta, - in µ; striæ about in µ. l. µ. _vibrio paxillifer_ o. f. mueller. _bacillaria paradoxa_ gmelin. _nitzschia paradoxa_ (gmelin) grun. brackish water or streams subject to its influence. pl. , figs. and . otto frederick mueller, in , published at copenhagen a work on "infusorial animalcules," including a description of a vibrio which he named paxillifer, obviously alluding to the partially-extended frustules bearing at the end a tablet-like bundle. two years later, gmelin described the same form as bacillaria paradoxa, a name still used. heiberg, however, in , placed the form under nitzschia where it properly belongs and called it nitzschia paxillifer (o. f. mueller). i have adopted heiberg's name. perhaps the most remarkable of all diatoms. many species possess the power of motion, which, however, is evident only in the free frustule. in n. paxillifer, the movement of the frustules occurs without the loss of continuity or adherence to each other, so that, while at one time the adnate frustules form a narrow filament, like that of fragilaria, at another { }time they move laterally to their extreme length and form a thread of frustules adherent at their ends, later resuming their original position. the motion is repeated at intervals of from five to ten seconds. no satisfactory explanation of the movement has ever been made. in the filamentous form the frustules adhere to water-plants. vivaces nitzschia fluminensis grun. valve lanceolate, apices produced; keel puncta, - in µ, partly extended in short costæ; striæ transverse, - in µ, punctate; keel without a pseudo-nodule. l. µ. common at greenwich point, philadelphia. pl. , fig. . the form here figured is smaller than the type, which is from - µ in length. spathulatÆ nitzschia spathulata brÉb. frustule linear, truncate, dilated at the ends; zone with longitudinal folds; valve lanceolate, keel central; apices acute, with an elevated appendage; keel puncta, - in µ; striæ very fine. l. µ. atlantic city and cape may, n. j. (lewis). pl. , fig. . dissipatÆ nitzschia dissipata (kuetz.) grun. valve lanceolate, with sub-rostrate apices; keel excentric; keel puncta about in µ; striæ, in µ. l. - µ. fresh and brackish water. pl. , fig. . sigmoideÆ nitzschia macilenta greg. frustule sigmoid, truncate at the ends; valve linear, with sub-acute apices and nearly central keel; keel with - puncta in µ; striæ obscure, about to (?) in µ. length variable, up to µ. as the valve is usually seen when the keel is on the margin, the outline (reduced one-third, shown to the left of the figure) is, as a rule, sigmoid. delaware bay. pl. , fig. . nitzschia vermicularis (kuetz.) hantzsch valve linear, sigmoid, attenuated toward the obtuse ends; keel puncta, in µ, quite distinct; striæ very fine. l. µ. fresh-water pools. pl. , fig. ; pl. , fig. . { }sigmata nitzschia sigma (kuetz.) wm. sm. frustule linear, sigmoid; valve linear, slightly sigmoid, tapering to the sub-acute apices; keel excentric, puncta, in µ; striæ, - in µ. l. to µ. along the coast. pl. , fig. . nitzschia sigmatella greg. valve linear, sigmoid, slightly attenuated toward the obtuse apices; keel excentric, puncta, - (?) in µ; striæ delicate, - in µ. l. to µ. the keel puncta are quite obscure. _nitzschia curvula_ wm. sm. _nitzschia sigma_ var. _curvula_ (wm. sm.) de toni. fresh water. hammonton pond; may's landing, n. j. pl. , figs. and . gregory remarks that the keel puncta are seen in some specimens. in both of the forms figured i have counted striæ in µ, but, after many examinations, i have not been quite certain about the keel puncta. the general appearance of the valves in any position is that of a stenopterobia or surirella anceps, with which it occurs. nitzschia clausii hantzsch valve linear, slightly sigmoid, tapering to the sub-capitate ends; keel puncta, in µ; striæ subtle. l. µ. abundant in ridley creek, delaware co. (palmer). pl. , fig. . obtusÆ nitzschia obtusa wm. sm. frustule sigmoid, rounded at the ends; keel somewhat excentric, inflexed in the middle, the two median puncta distant; keel puncta, - in µ; striæ, in µ. l. to µ. along the coast. pl. , fig. . nitzschia obtusa var. flexella h. l. smith valve more attenuate at the ends than the type and smaller. pl. , fig. . nitzschia obtusa var. scalpelliformis grun. valve linear, with apices unilaterally truncate; keel excentric; keel puncta, in µ; striæ, in µ. l. µ. along the coast. pl. , fig. . { }spectabiles nitzschia spectabilis var. americana grun. frustule linear, slightly constricted in the middle, with sub-cuneate ends; valve linear, slightly arcuate, tapering to the sub-rostrate ends; keel excentric, keel puncta sometimes confluent, - in µ, prolonged into short costæ; striæ distinct, in the middle, at the ends in µ (but variable in different specimens). l. µ. blue clay, especially at tioga st. pl. , fig. ; pl. , fig. . this is, probably, one of the most beautiful of the nitzschiæ. it sometimes, according to de toni, reaches a length of µ. grunow states that his variety is found in the s. bridgeton deposit. in a slide of moeller labelled "bridgeton, maine," i find specimens identical in every respect with the philadelphia form. lineares nitzschia linearis (ag.) wm. sm. valve linear, slightly inflexed in the middle; keel excentric; keel puncta, - in µ, the two median distant; striæ about in µ. frustules in zone view narrowed toward the ends, truncate. l. µ. very common in fresh water. pl. , fig. . fig. , pl. , a transverse section of frustule. lanceolatÆ nitzschia palea (kuetz.) wm. sm. valve linear-lanceolate, slightly rostrate at the apices; keel puncta, in µ, the median not distant; striæ, - in µ; zone view linear, with rounded ends. l. - µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . nitzschia amphibia grun. valve lanceolate, apices sometimes slightly produced, rounded; keel puncta, - in µ; striæ, in µ. l. - µ. fresh water. pl. , figs. and . nitzschia communis rab. frustule linear, slightly attenuated at the obtuse ends; valve elliptical-lanceolate, attenuated toward the obtuse ends; keel puncta, in µ; striæ more than in µ. l. µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . nitzschia intermedia hantzsch valve linear-lanceolate; keel puncta, in µ; striæ about in µ. l. µ. crum creek. not common. pl. , fig. . { }nitzschiella nitzschia longissima (brÉb.) ralfs valve linear-lanceolate, with exceedingly long horns or beaks; keel puncta about in µ; striæ about in µ. l. to µ. shark river, n. j. pl. , fig. . forma parva v. h.--keel puncta, - in µ. l. µ. east park reservoir, philadelphia. pl. , fig. . differs from n. closterium (ehr.) wm. sm. in the keel puncta. the type form occurs in brackish and salt water. the occurrence of the variety in fresh water is another instance of the finding of presumably brackish forms in the water supply of the city. if these cases prove to be unusual, it may be because of one of two reasons. the schuylkill river, before the building of the dam at fairmount, was tidal as far as the falls of schuylkill, and brackish influences, while not now existent, may have caused the growth of forms which now survive. another reason may be that the opening of the locks at fairmount dam may cause a slight admission of brackish forms from tidal water below. the abundance of the brackish species appears to indicate that the first reason is the more plausible. nitzschia reversa wm. sm. valve lanceolate extended into beaks or horns curving in opposite directions; keel puncta not evident; striæ, " - " in µ. l. µ. brackish water. abundant in duck creek, delaware river. pl. , fig. . nitzschia acicularis (kuetz.) wm. sm. valve lanceolate, with beaks or horns about half the length of the median part of the valve; keel puncta, in µ; striæ exceedingly delicate, "about in µ." l. µ. fresh water. darby creek. pl. , fig. . homoeocladia ag. ( ) (homoios, like, and clados, a branch) frustules like nitzschia, but enclosed in branching or simple tubes. homoeocladia filiformis wm. sm. frustule linear, tumid in the middle, obtuse at the ends; valve linear-lanceolate, with somewhat acute apices; keel central or nearly so; keel puncta, in µ; striæ delicate. l. µ. fresh and brackish water. newark, n. j. pl. , fig. . { }surirella turpin ( ) (named after dr. suriray, a physician of havre) valve linear, elliptical or ovate; pseudoraphe linear or lanceolate; a marginal keel forming wings or alæ seen in zone view; costæ short or reaching the pseudoraphe, frequently with intercostal striæ more or less evident. the genus is divided by grunow according to the length and form of the costæ. i include stenopterobia. section .--costæ of nearly equal width throughout, reaching the pseudoraphe. section .--costæ short or marginal. section .--costæ dilated at the margin, attenuated toward the pseudoraphe. section .--valve having the appearance of nitzschia, with inconspicuous alæ (stenopterobia). the endochrome consists of two laminate chromatophores, one on each valve. the auxospores are single, originating from the union of two frustules (h. l. smith). section surirella biseriata (ehr.) brÉb. valve lanceolate, subacute at the ends; costæ robust, about in µ, parallel in the middle, radiate at the ends; pseudoraphe narrow. l. µ. _surirella bifrons_ ehr. fresh water. pl. , fig. ; pl. , fig. (smaller form). surirella linearis wm. sm. valve linear, with cuneate ends, slightly constricted in the middle; costæ parallel, - in µ. l. µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . surirella amphioxys wm. sm. valve oblong-linear, with cuneate ends; pseudoraphe narrow; costæ, - in µ; striæ, - in µ, somewhat radiate. l. - µ. _surirella moelleriana_ grun. fresh and brackish water. common along the coast. pl. , figs. and . surirella robusta ehr. valve linear-ovate; pseudoraphe wide; alæ prominent; costæ wide, ¼ in µ. frustule in zone view clavate. l. - µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . { }surirella splendida (ehr.) kuetz. valve ovate; costæ, ½ to in µ; pseudoraphe linear, narrow. l. - µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . s. splendida is smaller than s. robusta and wider in proportion, but, as intermediate forms occur, it is difficult to distinguish between them. surirella elegans ehr. valve ovate, rounded at one end and acute at the other; pseudoraphe lanceolate, narrow; costæ, ½ in µ; striæ subtle, in µ. frustule in zone view cuneate. l. - µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . surirella striatula turpin valve broad, obovate or elliptical, rounded at each end; costæ, ¼ in µ, curved at the ends; striæ, in µ. frustule in zone view cuneate; marginal alæ quite robust. l. - µ. blue clay. brackish water. pl. , fig. . in the specimen figured, the outline is exactly elliptical, although the species is usually conical at one end. surirella gemma ehr. valve ovate or ovate-elliptical, rounded at each end, sometimes asymmetrical along the longitudinal axis; pseudoraphe very narrow; costæ distant, at irregular intervals, about in µ, somewhat radiate, reaching the pseudoraphe; striæ, in µ, punctate. frustule in zone view cuneate. l. - µ. along the coast. pl. , fig. . surirella tenera greg. valve ovate; pseudoraphe narrow, well-defined; costæ indistinct, ½ in µ, their margins invisible; striæ about in µ, punctate, more evident near the margin. l. µ. _surirella diaphana_ bleisch. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . the figure is that of the var. nervosa a. s. (atlas, pl. , fig. ), which differs from the type in having the position of the costæ indicated by scattered puncta. { }section surirella guatimalensis ehr. valve ovate; pseudoraphe very narrow and indistinct; costæ short, marginal, - ½ in µ, absent from the rounded end. l. µ. _surirella cardinalis_ kitton. smith's island, delaware river. pl. , fig. . surirella ovalis brÉb. valve ovate; costæ short, marginal, radiate, - in µ, often unequal; central area ovate, indistinctly costate; striæ scarcely visible, about in µ; pseudoraphe narrow. l. - µ. _surirella davidsonii_ a. s. fresh or brackish water. pl. , fig. ; pl. , fig. . the smaller specimen is from the delaware river, and the larger from the hudson river. surirella crumena brÉb. valve nearly orbicular; costæ short, marginal, radiate; pseudoraphe narrow, indistinct; central area indistinctly costate, sometimes interrupted. on account of the extreme confusion in the names of many forms which appear to be variations of s. ovalis, i have followed van heurck in retaining the original names as specific. de toni gives s. crumena as a variety of s. ovalis. fresh and brackish water. quite common in the delaware river. pl. , fig. . surirella pinnata wm. sm. valve ovate or oblong-ovate; costæ reaching the linear pseudoraphe, about in µ. l. µ. _surirella ovalis_ var. _pinnata_ (wm. sm.) de toni. s. pinnata is the type of a number of small forms usually found together, including s. panduriformis, s. angusta and s. minuta. fresh water. media (palmer). pl. , fig. ; fig. (abnormal). var. minuta, a small form of s. pinnata, occurs with the type. surirella panduriformis wm. sm. valve linear-oblong, with rounded ends, more or less constricted in the middle; otherwise as in s. pinnata. l. µ. fresh water. pl. , fig. . { }surirella angusta kuetz. valve linear, with cuneate ends; otherwise as in s. pinnata. fresh water. pl. , fig. . s. pinnata, s. panduriformis, and s. angusta have a narrow central area, and differ from s. ovalis which has short costæ. surirella oblonga ehr. ? valve elliptical-lanceolate, with obtuse ends; costæ, marginal, ½ in µ; median area granulate; pseudoraphe narrow, lanceolate, scarcely visible; striæ about in µ. l. µ. blue clay. rare. pl. , fig. . this has the outline and appearance of s. oblonga ehr. (mik. pl. , fig. ), but the costæ are closer. surirella recedens a. s. valve ovate; costæ, - ½ in µ; pseudoraphe narrow, not reaching the ends of the valve; intercostal spaces more evident near the middle. l. µ. blue clay. not uncommon. pl. , fig. . surirella cruciata a. s. valve ovate; pseudoraphe very narrow; costæ, in µ; the outline of several of the median costæ strongly emphasized, while the other costæ are indistinct. l. µ. blue clay. pl. , fig. . surirella gracilis grun. valve linear, with sub-cuneate ends, slightly constricted in the middle; pseudoraphe very narrow; costæ, - in µ; transverse striæ about in µ, punctate. l. µ. according to de toni (p. ), this form is a nitzschia. it has, however, a narrow pseudoraphe. pavonia, n. j., artesian well. rare. pl. , fig. . section surirella fastuosa ehr. valve ovate; costæ about - in µ, dilated at the margin and contracting at about one-fourth the distance toward the middle; area, ovate-lanceolate; pseudoraphe, narrow and indistinct; intercostate striæ more evident near the margin, in µ, becoming again evident in a narrow band about one-half the distance to the pseudoraphe. l. - µ. along the coast. more common southward. pl. , fig. . { }surirella febigerii lewis valve ovate-lanceolate; costæ about ½ in µ with punctate interspaces extending half the distance toward the median hyaline area, which is divided longitudinally on each side of the narrow pseudoraphe by two longitudinal bands composed of short, transverse, irregular, punctate lines. along the coast. pl. , fig. . section (stenopterobia) surirella anceps lewis frustule linear, straight or nearly so; valve sigmoid with rounded apices; costæ marginal, nearly obsolete; striæ distinct, about in µ; pseudoraphe wide. l. to µ. hammonton pond and tom's river, n. j. pl. , fig. . surirella intermedia lewis frustule linear, straight, widened at the truncate ends; valve linear, sigmoid, tapering to the sub-acute ends; costæ about in µ; striæ about in µ. l. variable. hammonton pond, n. j. pl. , fig. ; pl. , fig. (zone view). this, perhaps, is forma sub-acuta fricke. fig. , pl. , is probably a small form of s. intermedia, from willistown, pa. it resembles a nitzschia. surirella delicatissima lewis frustule linear, rounded at the ends; valve linear-lanceolate, sometimes very slightly constricted in the middle, with acute apices; costæ, in µ; striæ about in µ; pseudoraphe well defined, lanceolate. l. to µ. fresh water. newtown square. pl. , figs. and (small forms). surirella arctissima a. s. valve linear, tapering to the sub-acute ends; costæ marginal, in µ; striæ, in µ; pseudoraphe not evident. l. µ. may's landing, n. j. pl. , fig. . fig. , pl. , is a small form from newtown square, pa., in which the length is µ, the costæ and the striæ in µ. podocystis kuetz. ( ) (pous, a foot, and cystis, a bag) frustules cuneate, similar to surirella, but attached by short stipes to other algæ; valve obovate. { }podocystis adriatica kuetz. valve nearly symmetrical, obovate, with transverse costæ about in µ, alternating with double rows of coarse puncta; median line distinct, linear. l. µ. _podocystis americana_ bail. hell gate, n. y. pl. , fig. . cymatopleura wm. sm. ( ) (cuma, a wave, and pleura, a side) valve elliptical; surface transversely undulate, with short, marginal costæ. frustule in zone view linear, with undulated sides. auxospore formation as in surirella. cymatopleura solea (brÉb.) wm. sm. valve oblong, with cuneate apices, constricted in the middle; costæ about in µ; striæ, in µ; pseudoraphe scarcely visible. l. - µ. blue clay. common in the hudson river. pl. , figs. and . cymatopleura elliptica (brÉb.) wm. sm. valve elliptical; marginal costæ short, in µ; striæ delicate, in µ; undulations four or more. l. - µ. blue clay. pl. , fig. . _forma spiralis._--valve ovate, swelled into curved ridges at the lower end, with a contraction of the valve. port penn, delaware river. pl. , fig. . cymatopleura marina lewis frustule linear, with numerous undulations, ends apiculate; valve linear-lanceolate, with acute ends; striæ transverse, punctate at unequal intervals, from - in µ. l. µ. east river, n. y. pl. , figs. and . lewis states that the ends are more or less truncate. i do not find them so. campylodiscus ehr. ( ) (campulos, curved like a saddle) valve orbicular or sub-orbicular, with costæ or punctate rays converging from the circumference toward the hyaline centre, which sometimes appears like a pseudoraphe. frustule of two saddle-shaped valves at right angles to each other. the zone view may be of almost any shape according to position. endochrome consists of two bands, each lining the inner surface of each valve. auxospore and conjugation unknown. { }campylodiscus echeneis ehr. valve sub-orbicular, saddle-shaped; costæ indistinct, short, marginal; rows of round or elongated puncta converge toward the lanceolate, hyaline median space. diam. - µ. _campylodiscus argus_ bail. blue clay. reservoir at thompson and twenty-sixth sts., phila. pl. , fig. . this form, usually considered as brackish and marine, is occasionally found in fresh water. according to deby, it is fossil in the "champlain deposit of n. a." campylodiscus hibernicus ehr. valve irregularly orbicular; costæ, - , about in µ, wide at the margin and attenuated toward the centre which is somewhat quadrate; the radials rough with minute apiculi. pensauken, n. j., artesian well. pl. , fig. . { }appendix collection and preparation of diatoms it is assumed that every student of the diatomaceæ has a general knowledge of the collection, preparation, mounting and examination of material. for the novice, however, the following methods, used by the author for many years, may be of service. _collection of fresh-water material._--the yellow film on the inside of aquaria always contains small species. stems of water-plants near the shores of ponds and the submerged roots, the brownish coating of rocks in streams and water-falls, fountains, and water-troughs, are prolific. at all times of the year, some diatoms may be found in a thin layer upon the mud of rivers or creeks. in the spring, brown patches of mud, filled with bubbles, floating near the shore in ponds, or coming down with the current in rivers, are rich in various forms. within the limits assigned to our district, i have made collections in the following localities: schuylkill river, including the region near fairmount dam, several reservoirs and the water-supply; the wissahickon and fairmount park, darby, crum and ridley creeks, the neshaminy and the brandywine; meadow pools and rivulets near the city; the upper delaware, the water gap and numerous cascades northward; the shawangunk mountains and the poconos; many parts of new jersey along the coast; the pine barren region, the hammonton, atsion and kirkwood ponds and the swamps near atco. in the collection of fresh-water material, it is well to be provided with a number of small bottles. take a handful of the water-plants or algæ, and squeeze the material into the bottles, or, lacking a bottle, wrap it in paper. with a small forceps it is possible to detach minute quantities of a pure gathering which may not need further preparation beyond burning to a red heat on the cover-glass before mounting. a malacca cane, with extending rod to which may be screwed a bottle, net, spoon or hook, is useful on a long trip. if it is impossible to separate the thin film of diatoms from the mud in the bed of streams, dip up the surface mud with one bottle, allow to settle a few minutes, then pour off the supernatant liquid, which will be comparatively free from sand, into another bottle. it must be confessed, however, that the mud in streams near philadelphia contains a large quantity of fine mica which, in some instances, it is impossible to remove. _collection of marine material._--shell scrapings, the stomachs of fish, marine algæ, especially the brown and red algæ, the hulls of vessels, mud from anchors and dredgings, are all sources which may prove valuable. in the sand ripples, after the tide recedes, a yellowish-brown deposit will be noticed. this should be taken up carefully with a spoon and placed in a bottle; the sand will settle at once and a very pure gathering will be held in suspension in the water. such collections may be made along the entire coast of new jersey on sunny days in summer. in salt meadows near absecon and hackensack, large quantities of diatoms, including pleurosigma, may be obtained in the yellow scum floating on the surface. _the blue clay deposit._--the blue clay occurs as a pre- or post-glacial deposit in the bed of the ancient delaware river, and, at depths varying usually from fifteen to forty feet below the surface, has been obtained from artesian wells at pavonia, pensauken and gloucester, n. j., also at port penn on the delaware, and especially from the dredgings { }made by the removal of smith's island opposite the city. in the city proper, it may be stated briefly that material may be found in a stratum of very light blue clay at a depth varying from twenty to sixty feet in many places south of arch st. east of broad st., and also along the beds of ancient rivulets near tioga st., at sixteenth st., and in certain other places which were probably subject to tidal overflow. one of the best collections was made along the bank of the schuylkill at the east end of walnut st. bridge, at a depth of thirteen feet below the surface. excavations for the reading terminal and the subway and several buildings, as the bingham house, have furnished numerous specimens. _cleaning the material._--some gatherings may be so pure as to be ready for mounting when treated with dilute alcohol and oil of cloves. if, when gathered, the diatoms are immersed in a saturated solution of picric acid for several days, they may be stained with carmine or methylene blue, or whatever may be required to emphasize the contents of the frustules, including the endochrome and the pyrenoids. after staining, pass as rapidly as expedient through the treatment with dilute alcohol and oil of cloves, and mount in benzol balsam, avoiding heat. a hot solution of mercuric bichloride is sometimes used for the preservation of the endochrome, although washing is needed before mounting. for the particular stain considered best for certain details of structure, it will be advisable to consult works on micro-chemistry or heinzerling (_l. c._). the stains of most importance are carmine, methylene blue, hæmatoxylin, gold chloride and bismarck brown. whatever method may be used in staining, the identification of forms is impossible, in most cases, unless the valves are carefully cleaned and the cell-contents destroyed. for this purpose provide a casserole holding from five to eight ounces, an iron tripod stand with alcohol lamp, several six-inch test-tubes, preferably those with a standard base, fitted with pure rubber corks. take the material as free from twigs, dead leaves, sand, and other matter as possible, place it in the casserole, and add about the same quantity of nitric acid. boil for twenty minutes and then add about half a teaspoonful of powdered bichromate of potash, stirring with a glass rod. then take a beaker-glass partly filled with water and pour into it slowly the liquid which has been allowed to cool a short time, whirling the casserole to cause the concentration of sand in the centre. allow the material to settle for half an hour or longer, according to the amount of diatoms and their size. pour off the water, add more water, and place in a test-tube. repeat the decantation, shaking the test-tube, closed with a rubber cork, vigorously each time. from time to time whirl the diatoms in the casserole and throw away the sand collected in the centre. by repeating the decantation, shaking and whirling, the deposit will be found to consist almost entirely of diatoms. it may be necessary to repeat the boiling in the acid and bichromate. if, however, any detritus other than sand is noted, boil in sulphuric acid and add from time to time minute pinches of powdered chlorate of potash, being careful to protect the eyes by holding a piece of glass before them; otherwise the explosions which occur are likely to throw some of the boiling acid into the eyes and destroy the sight. the material, when clean, should be white or, in the case of synedra, yellowish. it is quite easy to construct a box fitted with the proper apparatus for boiling and provided with a glass door for observation, and a method of introducing the chlorate of potash through a small aperture or tube. the box may be placed in the garden or fastened outside of a window so that the poisonous fumes may be carried off. an excellent method, in the case of larger forms, is to boil the material already cleaned by the acid in water to which a few shavings of coarse brown soap are added. the difference in density will hold in suspension any flocculent matter, and while many of the smaller { }forms will not settle, the others will be perfectly cleaned. when satisfied with the cleaning, preserve the stock material in part alcohol and, in using, pour into a smaller bottle the amount required, replace the dilute alcohol with distilled water, and mount as directed. it often happens that gatherings are made consisting almost entirely of sand. attempts at cleaning in the usual way will cause the loss of nearly all of the diatoms. in this case, after the material has been treated with acid until nothing remains but sand and a few diatoms, the mechanical finger must be used. in the cleaning of marine deposits, various methods may be required. in the case of partly siliceous species, washing in pure water repeatedly is all that can be done. the larger and heavier diatoms may be separated from the sand by elutriation or by whirling in a casserole, by rocking in a shallow dish the shape of a watch crystal, or by pouring slowly over a strip of plate-glass at least two feet in length inclined at an angle of thirty degrees. the sand will cling to the glass, while the greater portion of the diatoms will run off. where particles of shells or foraminifera are present, a preliminary boiling in hydrochloric acid is advisable. in all marine gatherings, the salt should first be washed out before proceeding with the cleaning. for hardened masses of clay and for fossil deposits, it is necessary to boil in carbonate of soda and follow with the acid treatment. citric acid and acetate of potash used alternately in boiling may be tried. soaking for a time in acetate of potash and allowing the material to deliquesce for a week before further process, has proved successful in some instances. the repetition of several methods and the gentle breaking of the harder masses with the point of a needle will disintegrate almost any diatomaceous earth, but, as a last resort for refractory deposits, boil in pure water, add a piece of caustic potash about the size of a pea, continue the boiling not more than thirty seconds longer, and pour instantly into dilute hydrochloric acid; otherwise the diatoms will be destroyed. afterwards proceed with the usual treatment. _slides and covers._--take half an ounce of no. covers, circles, and place them in a wide-mouthed bottle. add a portion of the following mixture (dr. carl seiler's formula): bichromate of potash oz. sulphuric acid fl. oz. water fl. oz. shake the bottle in order that the surfaces of the covers may be fully exposed to the action of the acid, and set aside for several hours. decant the solution, add water repeatedly until all traces of the mixture are removed, and keep the circles in the bottle in fifty-per cent. alcohol. when needed, take out a circle with forceps and dry on a linen cloth. the slides may be treated in the same way, or they may be easily prepared by immersion in a solution of washing soda, and then washed and dried. this process may be used in cleaning the balsam or styrax from old slides. _preparation of strewn mounts._--place several covers on the mounting stand. with a dipping tube, cover each circle with distilled water, and add a small drop of the prepared diatoms, being careful to avoid any vibration of the stand. heat the stand until small bubbles begin to appear, remove the lamp, and allow the water to evaporate. if the above method is carefully followed, the diatoms will be deposited in an even layer, provided the material is not too dense. take a slide, centre it, and place a small amount of styrax on the centre. invert the prepared cover, and gently place it upon the styrax. heat the slide { }on the mounting stand until the styrax bubbles and then allow to cool. if bubbles still remain, heat again until they disappear. it is well to mount several slides more than required, as some may be imperfect. _preparation of selected mounts._--take a slide, place a minute quantity of beeswax on two places at a distance apart nearly equal to the diameter of the cover used. place a cover on the wax and press it down flat, or sufficiently to keep it in position. dip a fine needle into the following cement: glacial acetic acid drachms gelatine drachms alcohol drachm this is made by adding the acid to the gelatine in a water-bath and then the alcohol, and filtering. apply the moistened needle to the centre of the cover and spread as small a quantity as possible in a thin layer. now place the slide upon the turn table, centre it with respect to the position of the gelatine, and with the finest sable brush draw a circle about a tenth of an inch in diameter around the gelatine in water-color (windsor), blue or vermilion, or in india ink. instead of the water-color, a circle of tin-foil the size of the cover and pierced with a hole in the centre may be used, but the colored circle is to be preferred, as, when brought into view, it indicates exactly the focus required for observing the diatom. the bottle containing the cleaned material, which has been kept in water and alcohol, should be refilled with distilled water and well shaken, when a small portion may be taken up with a dipping tube and evenly distributed over a portion of a slide and then dried. by the use of a mechanical finger, fitted with a small piece of finely spun glass attached by wax to the holder of the finger, when the microscope is focussed until the glass thread touches the diatom selected, it will adhere to the thread. raise the body of the microscope, remove the slide containing the spread material, or move it to another part of the stage, and place the slide with the prepared cover in the same position. now carefully lower the body-tube of the instrument until the diatom rests upon the gelatine, breathe gently upon it, remove the cover from the slide, invert it over another slide containing a drop of styrax and proceed by heating to mount as before. the size of the diatom, the amount of gelatine, and several other factors, will enter into the question of success or failure. i have, however, employed the above method and have mounted thousands of slides of selected diatoms successfully. it is necessary to avoid any air current which will cause the diatom to fall from the thread. on very cold days the glass thread sometimes becomes electrified and the diatoms will not stick; on sultry days in august in our locality the diatoms will stick too closely. by the same method, slides of arranged diatoms can be made using a glass circle properly marked with lines in the eye-piece. care should be taken to use glass threads more or less in proportion to the size of the diatoms. a cat's whisker is preferred by some to the glass thread. it has the advantage of not breaking, but unless it is quite short it is too flexible. if the point of the thread becomes covered with gelatine, lower it into a minute drop of water upon a separate slide, and by moving it about it will be cleaned. the diatom itself may be washed in the same way, if it is not too small. _instruments required._--for collecting, in order to determine the quality of the find, any simple lens of fifteen to twenty diameters is sufficient. a stanhope is quite useful { }although difficult to obtain, while an achromatic triplet of sufficient power will probably be all that is necessary. for selecting with the mechanical finger, an objective of two-thirds-inch focus is the most convenient, but for determining species a one-fifth-inch is needed, an immersion objective being essential for minute forms. no particular form of microscope is required. any instrument having standard parts, inclination of the body to the axis, a sub-stage condenser and movable stage, will prove serviceable in nearly all investigations. for critical work, measurement of striæ and location of specimens on the slide, the large models of bausch and lomb leave nothing to be desired. one smaller instrument may be used for rapid examination and for selection with the mechanical finger. if the stage is supplied with a vernier, the diatoms can be located rapidly and recorded for future reference. the zentmayer army hospital stand with mechanical stage is excellent. the continental stands, convenient for laboratory work, especially in the examination of bacteria, are not so serviceable as the larger stands of american and english make. the stand especially designed by dr. henri van heurck, the celebrated belgian naturalist, is, without doubt, admirably suited to the investigation of the diatomaceæ. in the form of the circuit stage as made by watson and sons, of london, supplied with proper condenser and mechanical stage with vernier attachment, it has been used in the preparation of the present work with much satisfaction. the drawings have all been made with an abbé camera lucida, a mm. objective and a no. eye-piece, producing a magnification of about diameters. all illustrations are from actual specimens in my cabinet or, in a few instances, from slides sent me by friends. in the measurement of striæ and puncta, the number in ten microns is stated, and will be found to be approximately correct in most of the drawings, except when the number is in excess of twenty in ten microns, in which case it is impossible to represent the markings accurately on figures of the magnification adopted. all drawings are from specimens in this locality, except in a few cases mentioned in the text. { }index (synonyms in italics) page achnanthes, brevipes ag., coarctata (bréb.) grun., danica (floegel) grun., exigua grun., inflata (kuetz.) grun., lanceolata (bréb.) grun., linearis forma curta h.l.s., longipes ag., subsessilis kuetz., actinella, punctata lewis, actinocyclus, barkleyi var. aggregata rattr., ellipticus var. delawarensis n. var., moniliformis ralfs, actinoptychus, _cellulosa_ ehr., heliopelta grun. var.?, _omphalopelta_ ehr., undulatus (kuetz.) ralfs, vulgaris var. interrupta n. var., amphipleura, pellucida kuetz., rutilans (trentepohl) cl., amphiprora, alata kuetz., conspicua grev., _lepidoptera_ greg., ornata bail., paludosa wm. sm., pulchra bail., _amphitetras_, _antediluviana_ ehr., _tessellata_ shad., amphora, acuta greg., angusta var. eulensteinii grun., _aponina_ kuetz., arenaria donk., areolata grun., coffæiformis (ag.) kuetz., crassa greg., _eulensteinii_ a.s., gigantea var. fusca a.s., _insecta_ grun., lævis greg., lineolata ehr., _mucronata_ h.l.s., obtusa greg., ocellata var. cingulata cl., ostrearia bréb., ovalis (bréb.) kuetz., var. libyca (ehr.) cl., var. pediculus (kuetz.) cl., _plicata_ greg., _porcellus_ kitton, proteus greg., _quadrata_ bréb., robusta greg., _salina_ wm. sm., _vitræa_ cl., anomoeoneis, follis (ehr.) cl., serians bréb., sphærophora (kuetz.) cl., anorthoneis, excentrica (donk.) grun., asterionella, formosa hass., inflata heib., attheya, decora west, aulacodiscus, argus (ehr.) a.s., auliscus, cælatus bail., pruinosus bail., punctatus bail., sculptus (wm. sm.) ralfs, _spinosus_ christian, auricula, _insecta_ (grun.) cl., mucronata (h.l.s.) per., _bacillaria_, _paradoxa_ gmelin, biddulphia, alternans (bail.) v. h., antediluviana (ehr.) v. h., biddulphiana (smith), favus (ehr.) v. h., granulata roper, lævis ehr., _pulchella_ gray., reticulum (ehr.), rhombus (ehr.) wm. sm., smithii (ralfs) v. h., turgida (ehr.) wm. sm., brébissonia, boeckii (kuetz.) grun., palmerii n. sp., caloneis, brevis var. vexans grun., formosa (greg.) cl., liber (wm. sm.) cl., permagna (bail.) cl., var. lewisiana n. var., powellii (lewis) cl., silicula (ehr.) cl., var. inflata (grun.) cl., trinodis (lewis), wardii cl., campylodiscus, _argus_ bail., echeneis ehr., hibernicus ehr., _cerataulus_ _smithii_ ralfs, _turgidus_ ehr., cocconeis, dirupta greg., pediculus ehr., pellucida grun., placentula ehr., var. lineata (ehr.) v. h., scutellum ehr., var. ornata grun., _cocconema_ _asperum_ ehr., _colletonema_ _neglectum_ thwaites, _vulgaris_ thwaites, _conferva_ _biddulphiana_ smith, _flocculosa_ roth, _moniliformis_ mueller, _nummuloides_ dillw., _rutilans_ trentepohl, coscinodiscus, argus ehr., asteromphalus ehr., var. omphalantha grun., biangulatus a. s., denarius a. s., excentricus ehr., var. perpusilla grun., lewisianus grev., lineatus ehr., marginatus ehr., _minor_ wm. sm., nitidulus grun., nitidus greg., oculus-iridus ehr., polyacanthus grun., radiatus ehr., _striatus_ kuetz., subaulacodiscoidalis rattr., subtilis ehr., velatus ehr., _creswellia_ _turris_ grev., cyclotella, antiqua wm. sm., comta (ehr.) kuetz., _dallasiana_ wm. sm., _kuetzingiana_ wm. sm., meneghiniana kuetz., var. stelligera cl. and grun., var. stellulifera cl. and grun., operculata (ag.) kuetz., _scotica_ kuetz., striata (kuetz.) grun., stylorum (br.?) v. h., cymatopleura, elliptica (bréb.) wm. sm., marina lewis, solea (bréb.) wm. sm., cymbella, affinis kuetz., amphicephala nægeli, aspera (ehr.) cl., cistula (hempr.) kirchn., cuspidata kuetz., cymbiformis (kuetz.) bréb., ehrenbergii kuetz., excisa (kuetz.) de toni, _gastroides_ kuetz., gracilis (rab.) cl., heteropleura (ehr.) kuetz., lacustris (ag.) cl., lanceolata (ehr.) kirchn., mexicana (ehr.) a. s., naviculiformis auerswald, parva (wm. sm.) cl., philadelphica n. sp., prostrata (berk.) cl., rhomboidea n. sp., sinuata greg., triangulum (ehr.) cl., tumida (bréb.) v. h., turgida (greg.) cl., var.?, ventricosa kuetz., diatoma, anceps (ehr.) kirchn., _arcuatum_ lyng., _biddulphianum_ ag., hiemale (lyng.) heib., _marinum_ lyng., vulgare bory., var. elongatum (ag.), var. grande (wm. sm.) grun., dictyoneis, marginata var. commutata cl., var. maxima n. var., var. typica cl., dimerogramma, marinum (greg.) ralfs, minus (greg.) ralfs, _sinuatum_ thwaites, surirella (ehr.) grun., diploneis, campylodiscus (grun.) cl., crabro ehr. var.?, var. expleta (a. s.) cl., var. pandura (bréb.) cl., var. pandurella cl.?, elliptica (kuetz.) cl., var. _minutissima_ grun., excentrica n. sp., fusca var. delicata (a. s.) cl., gemmata (grev.) cl., gruendleri (a. s.) cl., oculata (bréb.) cl., puella (schum.) cl., smithii (bréb.) cl., ditylum, intricatum (west) grun., _echinella_ _circularis_ grev., _flabellata_ carm., _paradoxa_ lyng., encyonema, epithemia, argus kuetz., var.?, _gibba_ var. _ventricosa_ kuetz., gibberula var. producta grun., _marina_ donk., muelleri a. s.?, musculus kuetz., var. constricta (bréb.) v. h., _succincta_ bréb., turgida (ehr.) kuetz., zebra var. proboscidea (kuetz.) grun., eunotia, bactriana ehr., biceps ehr., bidentula wm. sm., _bigibba_ greg., formica ehr. var.?, gracilis (ehr.) rab., hemicyclus (ehr.) ralfs, _incisa_ greg., luna ehr., lunaris (ehr.) grun., major (wm. sm.) rab., nymanniana grun., pectinalis (kuetz.), var. solierolii (kuetz.), var. undulata ralfs, var. ventricosa grun., prærupta ehr., var. bidens grun., robusta ralfs, veneris kuetz., eunotogramma, læve grun., euodia, gibba bail., eupodiscus, _argus_ (ehr.) wm. sm., radiatus bail., _radiatus_ wm. sm., fragilaria, arctica grun., capucina var. mesolepta rab., construens (ehr.) grun., harrisonii (wm. sm.) grun., linearis cstr., parasitica (wm. sm.), undata wm. sm., virescens ralfs, frustulia, _acuminata_ kuetz., interposita (lewis) de toni, lewisiana (grev.) de toni, rhomboides (ehr.) de toni, var. amphipleuroides grun., var. saxonica rab., vulgaris (thwaites) de toni, gaillonella, _crenulata_ ehr., _granulata_ ehr., _moniliformis_ bail., nummuloides (dillw.) bory., _sulcata_ ehr., _gloeonema_, _triangulum_ ehr., gomphoneis, herculaneum (ehr.) cl., mamilla (ehr.) cl., gomphonema, acuminatum, var. coronata (ehr.) cl., var. trigonocephala (ehr.) cl., var. turris (ehr.) cl., var. turris (ehr.) cl.?, æquale greg., angustatum kuetz., augur ehr., brasiliense var. demeraræ grun.?, capitatum ehr., capitatum var. herculaneum ehr., constrictum ehr., geminatum lyng., _insigne_ greg., intricatum kuetz., lanceolatum var. insignis (greg.) cl., montanum schum., olivaceum lyng., parvulum var. micropus (kuetz.) cl., sarcophagus greg., sphærophorum ehr., _subclavatum_ var. _montana_ schum., _tinctum_ ag., ventricosum greg., grammatophora, angulosa var. hamulifera (kuetz.) grun., islandica ehr., marina (lyng.) kuetz., var. subtilissima (bail.) v. h., serpentina ralfs, _subtilissima_ bail., gyrosigma, acuminatum (kuetz.) cl., _attenuatum_ (kuetz.) cl., balticum (ehr.) cl., var. _similis_ (grun.) cl., fasciola (ehr.) cl., hippocampus (ehr.), kuetzingii (grun.) cl., parkeri var. stauroneioides grun., prolongatum (wm. sm.) cl., scalproides (rab.) cl., simile (grun.), spencerii var. nodifera grun., strigilis (wm. sm.) cl., hantzschia, amphioxys (ehr.) grun., var. major grun., marina (donk.) grun., virgata (roper) grun., _himantidium_ _pectinate_ kuetz., homoeocladia, filiformis wm. sm., hyalodiscus, radiatus var. arctica grun., scoticus (kuetz.) grun., stelliger bail., subtilis bail., licmophora, baileyi (ehr.) grun., ehrenbergii (kuetz.) grun., flabellata (carm.) ag., gracilis (ehr.) grun., var. elongata (kuetz.) de toni, lyngbyei (kuetz.) grun., ovulum mer., paradoxa (lyng.) ag., _splendida_ wm. sm., tincta (ag.) grun., lysigonium, moniliforme (muell.) link, _nummuloides_ (lyng.) o'meara, varians (ag.) de toni, mastogloia, angulata lewis, apiculata wm. sm., _braunii_ grun., elegans lewis, exigua lewis, kinsmanii lewis, lanceolata thwaites, smithii thwaites, meloseira, _borreri_ grev., crenulata (ehr.) kuetz., distans (ehr.) kuetz., _gowenii_ a. s., granulata (ehr.) ralfs, _nivalis_ wm. sm., _nummuloides_ ag., roeseana rab., var. epidendron (ehr.) grun., sulcata kuetz., undulata (ehr.) kuetz., _varians_ ag., meridion, circulare (grev.) ag., _constrictum_ ralfs, _micromega_ _ramosissimum_ ag., navicula, _affinis_ ehr., americana ehr., _amphibola_ cl., _amphigomphus_ ehr., anglica ralfs, _angulata_ quek., ardua mann, _arenaria_ donk., atomus nægeli, bacillum ehr., _baltica_ ehr., brasiliensis var. bicuneata cl., forma constricta, crucigera (wm. sm.) cl., cryptocephala kuetz., cuspidata kuetz., var. ambigua (ehr.) cl., cyprinus (wm. sm.), delawarensis grun., dicephala wm. sm., _digito-radiata_ var. _cyprinus_ (ehr.?) wm. sm., elegans wm. sm., var. cuspidata cl., _firma_ kuetz., _fischeri_ a. s., _follis_ ehr., fuchsii pant., gastrum ehr., _gigas_ a. s., _globiceps_ lagerstedt, gracilis var. schizonemoides (ehr.) v. h., grevillei (ag.) cl., hasta pant., var. punctata n. var., hennedyi wm. sm., var. circumsecta grun., var. manta a. s., _hippocampus_ ehr., _hitchcockii_ ehr., humerosa bréb., var. _elongata_ pant., var. _fuchsii_ (pant.) cl., humilis donk., _hungarica_ var. _capitata_ (ehr.) cl., inflexa greg., integra wm. sm., _interposita_ lewis, _iridis_ ehr., irrorata grev., lacustris greg., lanceolata var. arenaria (donk.) cl., latissima greg., var. elongata (pant.) cl., libellus greg., _limosa_ donk., longa (greg.) ralfs, lyra ehr., var. dilatata a. s., var. ehrenbergii cl., var.?, maculata (bail.) cl., _marginata_ lewis, _marina_ ralfs, minima grun., _mormonorum_ grun., mutica kuetz., oblonga kuetz., _oculata_ bréb., palpebralis bréb., pennata a. s., peregrina ehr., pinnata pant.?, placenta ehr., prætexta ehr., _producta_ wm. sm., punctata var. asymmetrica lagerstedt, punctulata wm. sm., pupula var. bacillarioides grun., pusilla wm. sm., var. subcapitata n. var., pygmæa kuetz., radiosa kuetz., ramosissima (ag.) cl., _rectangulata_ greg., reinhardtii grun., rhyncocephala kuetz., salinarum grun., semen ehr., _silicula_ ehr., _socialis_ palmer, spectabilis var. emarginata cl., _sphærophora_ kuetz., spicula (hickie) cl., _trochus_ kuetz., tumida (bréb.) cl., viridula var. rostellata kuetz., yarrensis grun., neidium, affine (ehr.) pfitzer, var. amphirhyncus (ehr.) cl., var. genuina forma maxima cl., var. genuina forma minor cl., amphigomphus (ehr.) pfitzer, hitchcockii (ehr.) cl., iridis (ehr.) cl., productum (wm. sm.) cl., nitzschia, acicularis (kuetz.) wm. sm., acuminata (wm. sm.) grun., amphibis grun., amphioxys wm. sm., apiculata (greg.) grun., bilobata wm. sm., circumsuta (bail.) grun., clausii hantzsch, communis rab., compressa bail., var. minor h. l. s., _curvula_ wm. sm., dissipata (kuetz.) grun., dubia wm. sm., epithemioides grun., fluminensis grun., granulata grun., insignis greg., intermedia hantzsch, linearis (ag.) wm. sm., litoralis var. delawarensis grun., longissima (bréb.) ralfs, forma parva v. h., macilenta greg., navicularis (bréb.) grun., obtusa wm. sm., var. flexella h. l. s., var. scalpelliformis grun., palea (kuetz.) wm. sm., panduriformis greg., var. minor grun., _paradoxa_ (gmelin) grun., paxillifer (o. f. mueller) heib., plana wm. sm., _punctata_ (wm. sm.) grun., reversa wm. sm., scalaris (ehr.) wm. sm., sigma (kuetz.) wm. sm., var. _curvula_ (wm. sm.) de toni, sigmatella greg., _sinuata_ var. _tabellaria_ (grun.) v. h., spathulata bréb., spectabilis var. americana grun., tabellaria grun., tryblionella hantzsch, vermicularis (kuetz.) hantzsch, _odontidium_ _parasiticum_ wm. sm., _tabellaria_ wm. sm., opephora, pacifica (grun.) petit, pinnata var. lanceolata n. var., schwartzii (grun.) petit, _orthosira_ _orichalcea_ wm. sm., _punctata_ wm. sm., _spinosa_ grev., _paralia_ _marina_ heib., _sulcata_ (ehr.) cl., pinnularia, acrosphæria (bréb.) cl., var. turgidula grun.?, æstuarii cl., appendiculata (ag.) cl., blandita n. sp., borealis ehr., var. scalaris (ehr.) cl., braunii grun., brébissonii (kuetz.) cl., cardinaliculus cl., _cyprinus_ wm. sm., dactylus ehr., var. dariana (a. s.) cl., var. demeraræ cl., divergens var. elliptica grun., gentilis (donk.) cl., gibba (kuetz.) v. h., _interrupta_ forma _stauroneiformis_ cl., lata (bréb.) wm. sm., legumen ehr., var.?, leptosoma grun., major (kuetz.) wm. sm., var. pulchella n. var., mesogongyla (ehr.) cl., mesolepta ehr., var. stauroneiformis grun., microstauron (ehr.) cl., molaris (grun.) cl., mormonorum grun., nobilis ehr., nodosa forma capitata cl., parva (ehr.) cl., _permagna_ bail., polyonca (bréb.) lewis, rectangulata (greg.) cl., socialis (palmer), stauroptera (grun.) cl., var. interrupta forma stauroneiformis cl., stomatophora (grun.) cl., subcapitata greg., var. paucistriata grun., tabellaria (ehr.) cl., termes (ehr.) a. s., var. stauroneiformis v. h., trigonocephala cl., viridis nitzsch, var. caudata n. var., var. fallax cl., var.?, plagiogramma, obesum grev., pygmæum grev., tessellatum grev., wallichianum grev., pleurosigma, æstuarii bréb., _affine_ var. _fossilis_ grun., angulatum (quekett) cl., _balticum_ (ehr.) wm. sm., formosum wm. sm., _hippocampus_ (ehr.) wm. sm., naviculaceum bréb., _normanii_ var. _fossilis_ grun., obscurum wm. sm., rigidum wm. sm., _simile_ grun., _spencerii_ var. _acutiuscula_ grun., var. _kuetzingii_ grun., strigosum wm. sm., virginiacum h. l. s., podocystis, adriatica kuetz., _americana_ bail., _podosira_ _hormoides_ wm. sm., _maculata_ wm. sm., _podosphenia_ _baileyi_ (edw.) lewis, _ehrenbergii_ kuetz., _lyngbyei_ kuetz., polymyxus, coronalis l. w. bail., pseudauliscus, radiatus (bail.) rattr., spinosus (christian) rattr., pyxidicula, _compressa_ bail., var. _minor_ h. l. s., cruciata ehr., _radiata_ o'meara, rhabdonema, adriaticum kuetz., arcuatum (lyng.) kuetz., minutum kuetz., rhaphoneis, amphiceros ehr., var. rhombica grun., belgica var. intermedia grun., _rhipidophora_ _elongata_ kuetz., _paradoxa_ kuetz., rhoicosphenia, curvata (kuetz.) grun., rhopalodia, gibba (kuetz.) mueller, ventricosa (kuetz.) mueller, _schizonema_ _cruciger_ wm. sm., _dillwynii_ wm. sm., _grevillei_ ag., _smithii_ kuetz., _scoliopleura_ _tumida_ (bréb.) v. h., scoliotropis, latestriata var. amphora cl., stauroneis, acuta wm. sm., americana a. s., anceps ehr., var. amphicephala (kuetz.) cl., var. gracilis (ehr.) cl., crucicula (grun.) cl., _exilis_ kuetz., frickei var. angusta n. var., legumen ehr., _maculata_ bail., phoenicenteron ehr., salina wm. sm., smithii grun., _spicula_ hickie, _staurosira_ _construens_ ehr., stephanopyxis, _appendiculata_ ehr., corona (ehr.) grun., turris (grev.) ralfs, striatella, interrupta (ehr.) heib., unipunctata (lyng.) ag., surirella, amphioxys wm. sm., anceps lewis, angusta kuetz., arctissima a. s., _bifrons_ ehr., biseriata (ehr.) bréb., _cardinalis_ kitton, _circumsuta_ bail., cruciata a. s., crumena bréb., _davidsonii_ a. s., delicatissima lewis, _diaphana_ bleisch, elegans ehr., fastuosa ehr., febigerii lewis, gemma ehr., gracilis grun., guatimalensis ehr., intermedia lewis, linearis wm. sm., _moelleriana_ grun., oblonga ehr.?, ovalis bréb., var. _pinnata_ (wm. sm.) de toni, panduriformis wm. sm., pinnata wm. sm., var. minuta grun., recedens a. s., robusta ehr., splendida (ehr.) kuetz., striatula turpin, tenera greg., synedra, acus kuetz., affinis kuetz., var. parva (kuetz.) v. h., var. tabulata (ag.) v. h., biceps (kuetz.) a. s., capitata ehr., danica kuetz., fulgens (grev.) wm. sm., goulardi bréb., _gracilis_ kuetz., oxyrhynchus var. undulata grun., pulchella (ralfs) kuetz., var. abnormis macchiati?, var. flexella n. var., radians kuetz., ulna (nitzsch) ehr., vaucheriæ var. parvula (kuetz.) rab., tabellaria, fenestrata (lyng.), flocculosa (roth) kuetz., terpsinoë, americana (bail.) ralfs, novæ-cæsareæ boyer, _tessella_ _interrupta_ ehr., trachyneis, aspera var. intermedia grun., trachysphenia, australis petit, _triceratium_ _alternans_ bail., _favus_ ehr., _obtusum_ br., _pileotus_ ehr., _punctatum_ br., _sculptum_ shad., trinacria, pileolus (ehr.) grun., _tripodiscus_ _argus_ ehr., tropidoneis, lepidoptera (greg.) cl., _tryblionella_ _punctata_ wm. sm., _scutellum_ wm. sm., _vibrio_ _paxillifer_ o. f. mueller, plates plate meloseira - meloseira roeseana var. epidendron (ehr.) grun. - meloseira roeseana rab. - meloseira distans (ehr.) kuetz. meloseira granulata (ehr.) ralfs - meloseira sulcata kuetz. - - meloseira undulata (ehr.) kuetz. gaillonella - gaillonella nummuloides (dillw.) bory lysigonium lysigonium moniliforme (muell.) link. - lysigonium varians (ag.) de toni hyalodiscus hyalodiscus scoticus (kuetz.) grun. hyalodiscus radiatus var. arctica grun. hyalodiscus stelliger bail. note.--the figures in all of the plates, except when otherwise noted, are magnified diameters. [illustration: plate ] plate stephanopyxis - stephanopyxis turris (grev.) ralfs stephanopyxis corona (ehr.) grun. cyclotella cyclotella meneghiniana var. stelligera cl. and grun. - cyclotella operculata (ag.) kuetz. cyclotella comta (ehr.) kuetz. cyclotella meneghiniana kuetz. cyclotella striata (kuetz.) grun. cyclotella stylorum (br.?) v. h. cyclotella antiqua wm. sm. cyclotella meneghiniana var. stellulifera cl. and grun. coscinodiscus coscinodiscus denarius a. s. coscinodiscus excentricus ehr. - coscinodiscus subtilis ehr. coscinodiscus asteromphalus ehr. coscinodiscus nitidus greg. coscinodiscus nitidulus grun. coscinodiscus excentricus var. perpusilla grun. ? [illustration: plate ] plate coscinodiscus--continued - coscinodiscus radiatus ehr. coscinodiscus velatus ehr. coscinodiscus biangulatus a. s. coscinodiscus subaulacodiscoidalis rattr. coscinodiscus lewisianus grev. coscinodiscus argus ehr. coscinodiscus lineatus ehr. coscinodiscus marginatus ehr. coscinodiscus oculus-iridis ehr. actinocyclus actinocyclus ellipticus var. delawarensis n. var. [illustration: plate ] plate actinoptychus - - actinoptychus undulatus (kuetz.) ralfs. actinoptychus undulatus (inner stratum) actinoptychus heliopelta grun. var.? actinoptychus vulgaris var. interrupta n. var. polymyxus polymyxus coronalis l. w. bail. aulacodiscus aulacodiscus argus (ehr.) a. s. [illustration: plate ] plate euodia euodia gibba bail. polymyxus polymyxus coronalis l. w. bail., zone view eupodiscus eupodiscus radiatus bail. auliscus auliscus cælatus bail. auliscus sculptus (wm. sm.) ralfs auliscus punctatus bail. auliscus (intermediate form between a. cælatus and a. sculptus) auliscus pruinosus bail. pseudauliscus pseudauliscus radiatus (bail.) rattr. pseudauliscus spinosus (christian) rattr. [illustration: plate ] plate actinocyclus actinocyclus barkleyi var. aggregata rattr. actinocyclus moniliformis ralfs. biddulphia biddulphia antediluviana (ehr.) v. h. biddulphia reticulum (ehr.) biddulphia favus (ehr.) v. h. - biddulphia alternans (bail.) v. h. trinacria trinacria pileolus (ehr.) grun. ditylum ditylum intricatum (west) grun. terpsinoË terpsinoë americana (bail.) ralfs. terpsinoë novæ-cæsareæ boyer [illustration: plate ] plate biddulphia - - - biddulphia biddulphiana (smith) biddulphia rhombus (ehr.) wm. sm. biddulphia granulata roper biddulphia turgida (ehr.) wm. sm. biddulphia smithii (ralfs) v. h. biddulphia lævis ehr. biddulphia lævis ehr. sporangial frustules ( diam.) eunotogramma eunotogramma læve grun. [illustration: plate ] plate rhabdonema - - rhabdonema arcuatum (lyng.) kuetz. - - rhabdonema adriaticum kuetz. rhabdonema minutum kuetz. tabellaria - - tabellaria flocculosa (roth) kuetz. - tabellaria fenestrata (lyng.) kuetz. grammatophora - grammatophora marina var. subtilissima (bail.) v. h. - grammatophora angulosa var. hamulifera (kuetz.) grun. - grammatophora marina (lyng.) kuetz. - grammatophora islandica ehr. grammatophora serpentina ralfs. striatella - striatella unipunctata (lyng.) ag. striatella interrupta (ehr.) heib. attheya attheya decora west [illustration: plate ] plate licmophora - licmophora flabellata (carm.) ag. - licmophora lyngbyei kuetz. licmophora ehrenbergii (kuetz.) grun. - licmophora paradoxa (lyng.) ag. - licmophora ovulum mer. licmophora baileyi (edw.) grun. licmophora gracilis (ehr.) grun. - licmophora gracilis var. elongata (kuetz.) de toni - licmophora tincta (ag.) grun. [illustration: plate ] plate meridion - - meridion circulare (grev.) ag. diatoma diatoma vulgare var. grande (wm. sm.) grun. - diatoma anceps (ehr.) kirchn. - diatoma hiemale (lyng.) heib. - diatoma vulgare bory. plagiogramma plagiogramma tessellatum grev. plagiogramma obesum grev. plagiogramma pygmæum grev. plagiogramma wallichianum grev. eunotogramma eunotogramma læve grun. opephora - opephora schwartzii (grun.) petit. opephora pinnata var. lanceolata n. var. opephora pacifica (grun.) petit. fragilaria - fragilaria virescens ralfs. - fragilaria arctica grun. - - - - fragilaria undata wm. sm. fragilaria undata wm. sm., var.? fragilaria construens (ehr.) grun. fragilaria harrisonii (wm. sm.) grun. fragilaria capucina var. mesolepta rab. fragilaria parasitica (wm. sm.) fragilaria sp. ? fragilaria linearis cstr. rhaphoneis rhaphoneis amphiceros ehr. - rhaphoneis amphiceros var. rhombica grun. rhaphoneis belgica var. intermedia grun. synedra - synedra radians kuetz. [illustration: plate ] plate synedra--continued - - synedra ulna (nitzsch) ehr. sporangial synedra danica kuetz. synedra biceps (kuetz.) a. s. - - synedra ulna (nitzsch) ehr. synedra capitata ehr. - synedra acus kuetz. synedra fulgens (grev.) wm. sm. - synedra goulardi bréb. - - synedra pulchella (ralfs) kuetz. synedra pulchella var. abnormis macchiati? [illustration: plate ] plate synedra--continued synedra oxyrhynchus var. undulata grun. synedra pulchella var. flexella n. var. synedra affinis kuetz. synedra affinis var. tabulata (ag.) v. h. - synedra vaucheriæ var. parvula (kuetz.) rab. synedra affinis var. parva (kuetz.) v. h. synedra radians (kuetz.) h. l. s. dimerogramma - dimerogramma marinum (greg.) dimerogramma surirella (ehr.) grun. - - dimerogramma minus (greg.) ralfs. trachysphenia trachysphenia australis petit. actinella - - actinella punctata lewis. asterionella - - asterionella formosa hass. asterionella inflata heib. eunotia eunotia hemicyclus (ehr.) ralfs - eunotia lunaris (ehr.) grun. [illustration: plate ] plate eunotia--continued - eunotia major (wm. sm.) rab. eunotia gracilis (ehr.) rab. eunotia major (wm. sm.) rab. (intermediate form) eunotia prærupta ehr. - eunotia pectinalis (kuetz.) - eunotia pectinalis var. undulata ralfs eunotia pectinalis var. solierolii (kuetz.) eunotia luna ehr. var.? eunotia pectinalis var. ventricosa grun. eunotia robusta ralfs (e. scalaris ehr.) eunotia robusta ralfs (e. prioritis ehr.) eunotia robusta ralfs (e. decadon ehr.) eunotia robusta ralfs (e. octodon ehr.) - eunotia robusta ralfs (e. heptodon ehr.) eunotia bactriana ehr. eunotia prærupta var. bidens grun. eunotia bidentula wm. sm. eunotia robusta ralfs (e. diadema ehr.) eunotia prærupta ehr. var.? eunotia robusta ralfs (e. triodon ehr.) eunotia robusta ralfs (e. tetraodon ehr.) eunotia formica ehr. var.? eunotia biceps ehr. - eunotia sp.? - eunotia veneris kuetz. eunotia nymanniana grun. [illustration: plate ] plate amphiprora - amphiprora pulchra bail. amphiprora alata kuetz. amphiprora conspicua grev. amphiprora paludosa wm. sm. - amphiprora ornata bail. tropidoneis - tropidoneis lepidoptera (greg.) cleve. scoliotropis - scoliotropis latestriata var. amphora cleve. [illustration: plate ] plate amphora amphora robusta greg. amphora crassa greg. amphora obtusa greg. - - amphora proteus greg. amphora ovalis (bréb.) kuetz. - amphora coffæiformis (ag.) kuetz. - amphora lineolata ehr. amphora areolata grun. - amphora ostrearia bréb. amphora lævis greg. - amphora ocellata var. cingulata cleve. amphora angusta var. culensteinii grun. amphora arenaria donk. amphora acuta greg. auricula auricula mucronata (h. l. smith) peragallo [illustration: plate ] plate achnanthes - achnanthes longipes ag. achnanthes brevipes ag. - - achnanthes subsessilis kuetz. - achnanthes inflata (kuetz.) grun. achnanthes coarctata (bréb.) grun. - - achnanthes lanceolata (bréb.) grun. achnanthes danica (floegel) grun. (lower valve) - achnanthes exigua grun. - achnanthes linearis forma curta h. l. smith cocconeis cocconeis scutellum var.? - cocconeis placentula ehr. cocconeis scutellum ehr. (upper valve) cocconeis dirupta greg. (lower valve) - cocconeis pediculus ehr. - cocconeis pellucida grun. - cocconeis scutellum var. ornata grun. cocconeis placentula var. lineata (ehr.) v. h. anorthoneis - anorthoneis excentrica (donk.) grun. [illustration: plate ] plate frustulia frustulia lewisiana (grev.) de toni frustulia rhomboides (ehr.) de toni frustulia rhomboides var. amphipleuroides grun. frustulia vulgaris (thwaites) de toni frustulia interposita (lewis) de toni frustulia rhomboides var. saxonica (rab.) de toni brebissonia brébissonia boeckii (kuetz.) grun. brébissonia palmerii n. sp. amphipleura amphipleura pellucida kuetz. - amphipleura rutilans (trentepohl) cl. anomoeoneis anomoeoneis serians (bréb.) cl. anomoeoneis serians forma minor anomoeoneis follis (ehr.) cl. trachyneis trachyneis aspera var. intermedia grun. mastogloia mastogloia kinsmanii lewis mastogloia angulata lewis mastogloia lanceolata thwaites mastogloia smithii thwaites mastogloia elegans lewis - - mastogloia apiculata wm. sm. mastogloia exigua lewis [illustration: plate ] plate cymbella cymbella aspera (ehr.) cl. cymbella cymbiformis (kuetz.) bréb. cymbella cistula (hempr.) kirchn. cymbella lanceolata (ehr.) kirchn. cymbella mexicana (ehr.) a. s. cymbella naviculiformis auerswald. cymbella tumida (bréb.) v. h. cymbella philadelphica n. sp. cymbella ehrenbergii kuetz. cymbella heteropleura (ehr.) kuetz. cymbella rhomboidea n. sp. cymbella turgida (greg.) cl. var.? cymbella sinuata greg. cymbella ventricosa kuetz. - cymbella excisa (kuetz.) de toni. cymbella amphicephala nægeli. cymbella cuspidata kuetz. cymbella affinis kuetz. cymbella gracilis (rab.) cl. cymbella prostrata (berk.) cl. cymbella ventricosa kuetz.? cymbella turgida (greg.) cl. cymbella triangulum (ehr.) cl. cymbella lacustris (ag.) cl. [illustration: plate ] plate gomphoneis gomphoneis mamilla (ehr.) cl. gomphoneis herculaneum (ehr.) cl. gomphonema gomphonema montanum schum. gomphonema geminatum lyng. gomphonema acuminatum var. turris (ehr.) cl. - gomphonema lanceolatum var. insignis (greg.) cl. gomphonema acuminatum var. coronata (ehr.) cl. gomphonema constrictum ehr. - gomphonema sphærophorum ehr. gomphonema acuminatum var. turris (ehr.) cl.? gomphonema ventricosum greg. gomphonema intricatum kuetz. gomphonema æquale greg. gomphonema sarcophagus greg. gomphonema parvulum var. micropus (kuetz.) cl. - gomphonema angustatum kuetz. gomphonema acuminatum var. trigonocephala (ehr.) cl. gomphonema augur ehr. gomphonema capitatum ehr. gomphonema olivaceum lyng. gomphonema brasiliense var. demeraræ grun.? rhoicosphenia - - rhoicosphenia curvata (kuetz.) grun. [illustration: plate ] plate dictyoneis dictyoneis marginata var. maxima n. var. dictyoneis marginata var. commutata cleve. dictyoneis marginata var. typica cleve. diploneis diploneis crabro var. pandura (bréb.) cl. diploneis campylodiscus (grun.) cl. - diploneis gruendleri (a. s.) cl. diploneis crabro ehr. var.? diploneis excentrica n. sp. diploneis fusca var. delicata (a. s.) cl. diploneis puella (schum.) cl. diploneis crabro var. pandurella cl.? diploneis elliptica (kuetz.) cl. diploneis crabro var. expleta (a. s.) cl. diploneis geminata (grev.) cl. diploneis smithii (bréb.) cl. navicula navicula lyra ehr. var.? [illustration: plate ] plate caloneis caloneis permagna (bail.) cl. caloneis permagna var. lewisiana n. var. caloneis silicula (ehr.) cl. caloneis silicula var. inflata (grun.) cl. caloneis brevis var. vexans (grun.) cl. - caloneis wardii cl. caloneis trinodis (lewis) caloneis trinodis (lewis) var.? caloneis powellii (lewis) cl. caloneis formosa (greg.) cl. neidium neidium affine (ehr.) pfitzer neidium affine var. genuina forma minor cl. neidium affine var. amphirhyncus (ehr.) cl. neidium amphigomphus (ehr.) pfitzer. neidium hitchcockii (ehr.) cl. neidium productum (wm. sm.) cl. neidium iridus (ehr.) cl. [illustration: plate ] plate pleurosigma pleurosigma strigosum wm. sm. pleurosigma rigidum wm. sm. pleurosigma angulatum (quekett) cl. pleurosigma obscurum wm. sm. pleurosigma formosum wm. sm. pleurosigma naviculaceum bréb. pleurosigma æstuarii bréb. pleurosigma virginiacum h. l. smith [illustration: plate ] plate gyrosigma gyrosigma strigilis (wm. sm.) cl. gyrosigma balticum (ehr.) cl. gyrosigma hippocampus (ehr.) gyrosigma simile (grun.) gyrosigma acuminatum (kuetz.) cl. gyrosigma scalproides (rab.) cl. gyrosigma parkeri var. stauroneioides grun. gyrosigma spencerii var. nodifera grun. gyrosigma fasciola (ehr.) cl. [illustration: plate ] plate navicula navicula maculata (bail.) cl. navicula prætexta ehr. navicula latissima greg. navicula irrorata grev. navicula latissima var. elongata (pant.) cl. navicula fuchsii pant. [illustration: plate ] plate navicula navicula tumida (bréb.) cl. navicula brasiliensis var. bicuneata cl. forma constricta. navicula delawarensis grun. - navicula pusilla wm. sm. navicula humerosa bréb. navicula spectabilis var. emarginata cl. navicula pusilla var. subcapitata n. var. navicula punctulata wm. sm. navicula lyra ehr. navicula hennedyi var. manca a. s. navicula hennedyi wm. sm. navicula lyra var. dilatata a. s. navicula yarrensis grun. navicula yarrensis grun. (smaller form) navicula yarrensis grun. var.? [illustration: plate ] plate navicula - navicula cuspidata kuetz. navicula cuspidata var. ambigua (ehr.) cl. navicula spicula (hickie) cl. navicula integra wm. sm. navicula mutica kuetz. navicula americana ehr. navicula pupula var. bacillarioides grun. navicula bacillum ehr. navicula semen ehr. navicula atomus nægeli. navicula minima grun. navicula ramosissima (ag.) cl. navicula crucigera (wm. sm.) cl. navicula viridula var. rostellata kuetz. navicula radiosa kuetz. navicula gracilis var. schizonemoides (ehr.) v. h. navicula peregrina ehr. navicula cyprinus (wm. sm.) navicula reinhardtii grun. navicula lanceolata var. arenaria (donk.) cl. navicula salinarum grun. navicula gastrum ehr. navicula anglica ralfs. diploneis diploneis oculata (bréb.) cl. stauroneis stauroneis frickei var. angusta n. var. [illustration: plate ] plate stauroneis--continued stauroneis phoenicenteron ehr. stauroneis acuta wm. sm. stauroneis americana a. s. stauroneis anceps var.? stauroneis anceps var. gracilis (ehr.) cl. stauroneis salina wm. sm. stauroneis anceps var. amphicephala (kuetz.) cl. stauroneis anceps var.? stauroneis anceps var.? stauroneis crucicula (grun.) cl. stauroneis smithii grun. navicula navicula lacustris greg. navicula hasta pant. navicula hasta var. punctata n. var. navicula punctata var. asymmetrica lagerstedt navicula dicephala wm. sm. navicula placenta ehr. - navicula inflexa greg. navicula pinnata pant.? navicula oblonga kuetz. navicula pennata a. s. navicula pygmæa kuetz. navicula humilis donk. [illustration: plate ] plate pinnularia pinnularia nobilis ehr. pinnularia major var. pulchella n. var. pinnularia dactylus ehr. pinnularia major (kuetz.) wm. sm. [illustration: plate ] plate pinnularia--continued pinnularia gentilis (donk.) cl. pinnularia viridis nitzsch. pinnularia dactylus var. dariana (a. s.) cl. pinnularia viridis var. fallax cl. pinnularia socialis palmer pinnularia æstuarii cl. pinnularia rectangulata (greg.) cl. pinnularia trigonocephala cl. pinnularia major (kuetz.) wm. sm. (small form near p. viridis) pinnularia dactylus var. demeraræ cl. pinnularia mormonorum (grun.) pinnularia brébissonii (kuetz.) cl. pinnularia mesolepta ehr. pinnularia termes var. stauroneiformis v. h. pinnularia molaris (grun.) cl. pinnularia braunii grun. pinnularia termes (ehr.) a. s. pinnularia appendiculata (ag.) cl. pinnularia microstauron (ehr.) cl. var.? pinnularia subcapitata greg. [illustration: plate ] plate pinnularia--continued pinnularia cardinaliculus cl. pinnularia viridis var. fallax cl.? (var. b., wm. sm.?). pinnularia legumen ehr. pinnularia legumen var.? pinnularia gibba (kuetz.) v. h. pinnularia mesogongyla (ehr.) cl. pinnularia acrosphæria (bréb.) cl. pinnularia acrosphæria var. turgidula grun. pinnularia tabellaria (ehr.) cl. var.? pinnularia leptosoma grun. pinnularia stauroptera var. interrupta cl. pinnularia stomatophora (grun.) cl. pinnularia stauroptera (grun.) cl. pinnularia parva (ehr.) cl. var.? - pinnularia nodosa forma capitata cl. pinnularia subcapitata var. paucistriata grun. pinnularia viridis nitzsch var. pinnularia viridis var. caudata n. var. pinnularia mesolepta var. stauroneiformis grun. pinnularia polyonca (bréb.) lewis. pinnularia borealis ehr. pinnularia lata (bréb.) wm. sm. pinnularia borealis var. scalaris (ehr.) cl. pinnularia blandita n. sp. [illustration: plate ] plate navicula navicula elegans wm. sm. navicula elegans var. cuspidata cl. - navicula grevillei (ag.) cl. navicula libellus greg. - navicula palpebralis bréb. navicula rhyncocephala kuetz. navicula cryptocephala kuetz. navicula longa (greg.) ralfs. pinnularia pinnularia brébissonii (kuetz.) cl. pinnularia borealis ehr. pinnularia divergens var. elliptica grun. epithemia epithemia turgida (ehr.) kuetz. - epithemia argus kuetz. epithemia argus var.? epithemia muelleri a. s. epithemia zebra var. proboscidea (kuetz.) grun. epithemia gibberula var. producta grun. epithemia musculus kuetz. epithemia musculus var. constricta (bréb.) v. h. rhopalodia rhopalodia gibba (kuetz.) mueller rhopalodia ventricosa (kuetz.) mueller [illustration: plate ] plate nitzschia nitzschia circumsuta (bail.) grun. nitzschia plana wm. sm. nitzschia granulata grun. nitzschia navicularis (bréb.) grun. nitzschia panduriformis var. minor grun. nitzschia apiculata (greg.) grun. nitzschia tabellaria grun. nitzschia tryblionella hantzsch - nitzschia bilobata wm. sm. nitzschia litoralis var. delawarensis grun. nitzschia acuminata (wm. sm.) grun. - nitzschia amphibia grun. nitzschia palea (kuetz.) wm. sm. nitzschia fluminensis grun. nitzschia obtusa var. scalpelliformis grun. nitzschia linearis (ag.) wm. sm. nitzschia communis rab. nitzschia clausii hantzsch. nitzschia epithemioides grun. nitzschia vermicularis (kuetz.) wm. sm. hantzschia hantzschia amphioxys (ehr.) grun. hantzschia marina (donk.) grun. hantzschia virgata (roper) grun. [illustration: plate ] plate nitzschia nitzschia longissima (bréb.) ralfs nitzschia intermedia hantzsch nitzschia spectabilis var. americana grun. - nitzschia sigmatella greg. nitzschia scalaris (ehr.) wm. sm. nitzschia macilenta greg. nitzschia insignis greg. nitzschia vermicularis (kuetz.) hantzsch nitzschia longissima forma parva v. h. nitzschia reversa wm. sm. nitzschia acicularis (kuetz.) wm. sm. - nitzschia paxillifer (o. f. mueller) heib. homoeocladia homoeocladia filiformis wm. sm. [illustration: plate ] plate surirella surirella striatula turpin surirella anceps lewis surirella intermedia lewis surirella arctissima a. s. - surirella delicatissima lewis surirella intermedia lewis forma minor? cymatopleura - cymatopleura solea (bréb.) wm. sm. [illustration: plate ] plate surirella surirella fastuosa ehr. surirella biseriata (ehr.) bréb. surirella splendida (ehr.) kuetz. surirella crumena bréb. surirella ovalis bréb. surirella tenera greg. surirella recedens a. s. surirella linearis wm. sm. surirella oblonga ehr.? surirella cruciata a. s. surirella gracilis grun. - surirella amphioxys wm. sm. [illustration: plate ] plate surirella--continued surirella elegans ehr. surirella robusta ehr. surirella febigerii lewis surirella gemma ehr. surirella guatimalensis ehr. surirella panduriformis wm. sm. - surirella pinnata wm. sm. surirella angusta kuetz. [illustration: plate ] plate cymatopleura cymatopleura elliptica (bréb.) wm. sm. cymatopleura elliptica forma spiralis - cymatopleura marina lewis campylodiscus campylodiscus hibernicus ehr. campylodiscus echeneis ehr. [illustration: plate ] plate amphora gigantea var. fusca a. s. meloseira crenulata (ehr.) kuetz. - licmophora baileyi (edw.) grun. coscinodiscus polyacanthus grun. - ditylum intricatum (west) grun. pyxidicula cruciata ehr. gyrosigma scalproides (rab.) cl. coscinodiscus asteromphalus var. omphalantha (ehr.) grun. rhabdonema minutum kuetz. gyrosigma kuetzingii (grun.) cl. gyrosigma prolongatum (wm. sm.) cl. cymbella parva (wm. sm.) cl. gomphoneis herculaneum (ehr.) cl. (zone view) cymbella ventricosa kuetz. - eunotia sp. (abnormal?) [illustration: plate ] plate nitzschia spectabilis var. americana grun. (zone view) nitzschia panduriformis greg. hantzschia amphioxys (ehr.) grun. hantzschia amphioxys var. major grun. nitzschia dubia wm. sm. nitzschia amphioxys wm. sm. nitzschia compressa (bail.) nitzschia compressa var. minor h. l. smith surirella intermedia lewis (zone view) surirella arctissima a. s. forma minor surirella ovalis bréb. surirella biseriata (ehr.) bréb. nitzschia sigma (kuetz.) wm. sm. nitzschia obtusa var. flexella h. l. smith stauroneis legumen ehr. nitzschia obtusa wm. sm. [illustration: plate ] plate caloneis liber (wm. sm.) cl. anomoeoneis sphærophora (kuetz.) cl. nitzschia spathulata bréb. stauroneis ? abnormal navicula ? abnormal podocystis adriatica kuetz. nitzschia dissipata (kuetz.) grun. cymbella ventricosa kuetz. (zone view) navicula radiosa kuetz. (zone view) detail of rhabdonema arcuatum (lyng.) kuetz. diatoma anceps (ehr.) kirchn. (containing chromataphores) coscinodiscus asteromphalus ehr. (trans. section, after pelletan) - - transverse section (diagram) of pinnularia showing straight, oblique and grooved raphes transverse section (diagram) of biddulphia favus showing inner punctate stratum (after deby) transverse (ideal) section of surirella - transverse (ideal) section of pinnularia, before and after division transverse section of nitzschia linearis (ag.) wm. sm. transverse section (diagram) of navicula transverse section (diagram) of cymbella transverse section (diagram) of amphora [illustration: plate ] transcriber's notes footnotes were numbered consecutively (with the exception of note a, likely an interpolation during printing), beginning anew with each chapter. they have been renumbered here in a single sequence to facilitate searches. in this version, for smoother reading and more convenient reference, notes have been moved to the end of the chapter where their reference appears. there are typographical features that could not be reproduced here. italics are delimited by underscore characters as _italic_. any mixed case 'small capital' phrases have been shifted to their uppercase form. there are quotations, especially in the notes, from original sources which make use of superscripted abbreviations. these are noted using the carat (^) character. if consecutive letters appear as superscript, they are bracketed with {}, e.g. the abbreviation for 'accounts' is given as 'acc^{tts}'. the tilde (~) also appears as a diacritical for certain manuscript abbreviations, on one occasion encompassing two letters. these are noted as [~c] or [~er]. finally, the 'oe' ligature appears here as two separate characters. please consult the transcriber's note at the end of this text for any other textual issues, and their resolution. slavery in pennsylvania a dissertation submitted to the board of university studies of the johns hopkins university in conformity with the requirements for the degree of doctor of philosophy, by edward raymond turner _professor of history in the university of michigan_ the lord baltimore press baltimore, md., u. s. a. chapter i. the introduction of negroes into pennsylvania. there were negroes in the region around the delaware river before pennsylvania was founded, in the days of the dutch and the swedes. as early as mention is made of a convict sentenced to be taken to south river to serve among the blacks there.[ ] in anthony, a negro, is spoken of in the service of governor printz at tinicum, making hay for the cattle, and accompanying the governor on his pleasure yacht.[ ] in vice-director alricks was accused of using the company's oxen and negroes. five years later vice-director beekman desired governor stuyvesant to send him a company of blacks. in negroes were wanted to work on the lowlands along the delaware. a contract was to be made for fifty, which the west india company would furnish.[ ] in the same year, when the english captured new amstel, afterward new castle, the place was plundered, and a number of negroes were confiscated and sold. from peter alricks several were taken; of these eleven were restored to him.[ ] at least a few were living on the shores of the delaware river in .[ ] a year later an emissary was sent by the justices of new castle to request most urgently permission to import negroes from maryland.[ ] thus negroes had been brought into the country before pennsylvania was founded. immediately after penn's coming there is record of them in his first counties. they were certainly present in philadelphia county in , and in chester in .[ ] penn himself noticed them in his charter to the free society of traders. in they were spoken of as numerous.[ ] by that time merchants of philadelphia made the importation of negroes a regular part of their business.[ ] thenceforth they are a noticeable factor in the life of the colony. while there was an active demand for negroes, there was, nevertheless, almost from the first, strong opposition to importing them. this is evident from the fact that during the colonial period the assembly of pennsylvania passed a long series of acts imposing restrictions upon the traffic. in a maximum duty of twenty shillings was imposed on each negro imported. five years later this duty was doubled.[ ] by that time there had arisen a strong adverse sentiment, due partly to economic causes, since the white workmen complained that their wages were lowered by negro competition, and partly to fear aroused by an insurrection of slaves in new york.[ ] accordingly in the assembly very boldly passed an act to prevent importation, seeking to accomplish this purpose by making the duty twenty pounds a head. the law was immediately repealed in england, the crown not being disposed to tolerate such independent action, nor willing to allow interference with the african company's trade.[ ] either the local feeling was too strong, or the requirements were less, since in spite of this failure there was for a while a falling off in the number imported.[ ] a more moderate duty of five pounds was imposed in , but again the english authorities interposed, repealing it in . meanwhile an act to continue this duty had been passed in - , but apparently it was not submitted to the crown. in - the five pound duty was again imposed, this act also not being submitted. in the duty was repeated, and once more the law expired by limitation before it was sent up for approval.[ ] up to this time restrictive legislation had been largely frustrated. it had encountered not only the disapproval of certain classes in pennsylvania, but the powerful opposition of the african company, which could count on the decisive interposition of the lords of trade.[ ] the assembly accordingly submitted the acts long after they had been passed, and made new laws before the old ones had been disallowed.[ ] nevertheless the number of blacks in the colony had steadily increased, and in was estimated to be somewhere between twenty-five hundred and five thousand.[ ] the wrath of the white laborers was correspondingly increased, and in this year they presented to the assembly a petition asking for a law to prevent the hiring of blacks. the assembly resolved that such a law would be injurious to the public and unjust to those who owned negroes and hired them out, but the restrictions on importing them were maintained.[ ] in - the five pound duty was imposed again, and in the same year five pounds extra was placed upon every convict negro brought into the colony. this became law by lapse of time.[ ] in the duty was reduced to two pounds. this duty continued in force for a generation, satisfactory partly because the opposition to importing negroes seems to have been less strong, partly because white servants proved to be cheaper and more adapted to industrial demands.[ ] the newspaper advertisements announce the arrival of many more cargoes of servants than of negroes; this notwithstanding the fact that white servants frequently ran away, often to enlist in the wars. referring to this fact a message from the assembly to the governor says that while the king has seemed to desire the importation of servants rather than of negroes, yet the enlistment acts make such property so precarious, that it seems to depend on the will of the servant and the pleasure of the officer.[ ] nevertheless the number of negroes brought in steadily dwindled. by importation had nearly ceased.[ ] a few years later the great efforts made in the last french and indian war caused loud complaints again about enlisting servants. it was feared that people would be driven to the necessity of providing themselves with negro slaves, as property in them seemed more secure. this is probably just what occurred, for the increase of negroes is said to have been alarming.[ ] as a result restrictive legislation was tried again in , when the duty was made ten pounds. the law was carried only after considerable effort. while the bill was in the hands of the governor a petition was sent to him, signed by twenty-four merchants of philadelphia, who set forth the scarcity and high price of labor, and their need of slaves. after two months' contest the bill was passed. one provision of the act was that a new settler need not pay the duty if he did not sell his slave within eighteen months.[ ] in this act was renewed. in it was made perpetual, the former law having been found to be of great public utility; but the duty was raised to twenty pounds. once more the act became law by lapse of time.[ ] the act of was the last one which the assembly passed to limit the importation of negroes. not only was the duty sufficiently high, now, but its presence was hardly needed.[ ] a silent but powerful movement was overthrowing slavery in pennsylvania; and in a short time the outbreak of the revolutionary war brought the traffic to an end. shortly thereafter, in , the state did what england had never permitted while she held authority: forbade the importation of slaves entirely.[ ] the real reason for the passage of these laws is not always clear. they may have been passed either to keep negroes out,[ ] or to raise revenue for the government.[ ] an analysis of the laws themselves seems to show that both of these purposes were constantly in mind.[ ] when, however, they are taken in connection with matters which they themselves do not mention, namely, the predominance of the quakers in the colonial assembly together with the abhorrence which they felt for the slave-trade and later for slavery itself,[ ] it becomes probable that the predominant motive was restriction.[ ] it is also probable that while the obtaining of revenue was the obvious motive in many of these acts, yet revenue was so raised precisely because pennsylvania desired to keep negroes out; that imported slaves were taxed largely for reasons similar to those which caused the stuarts to tax colonial tobacco, and which lead modern governments to tax spirituous liquors and opium. it may be added that pennsylvania always held, both in colonial times and afterwards, that england forced slavery upon her. that there was much justice in this complaint the failure of the earlier legislation goes far to sustain.[ ] the negroes imported were brought sometimes in cargoes, more often a few at a time. they came mostly from the west indies, many being purchased in barbadoes, jamaica, antigua, and st. christophers.[ ] as a rule they were imported by the merchants of philadelphia, and, being received in exchange for grain, flour, lumber, and staves, helped to make up the balance of trade between philadelphia and the islands.[ ] a few seem to have been obtained directly from africa. when so brought, however, they were found to be unable to endure the winter cold in pennsylvania, so that it was considered preferable to buy the second generation in the west indies, after they had become acclimated.[ ] some were brought from other colonies on the mainland, particularly those to the south. at times pennsylvania herself exported a few to other places.[ ] the prices paid in the colony naturally fluctuated from time to time in accordance with supply and demand, and varied within certain limits according to the age and personal qualities of each negro. the usual price for an adult seems to have been somewhere near forty pounds.[ ] as to the number of negroes in pennsylvania at different times during the colonial period almost any estimate is at best conjecture. not only are there few official reports, but these reports, in the absence of any definite census, are of little value.[ ] apparently one of the best estimates was that made in , which stated the number of blacks at anywhere between , and , .[ ] in it was at least widely believed that there were in philadelphia , , and it is asserted that the total number in pennsylvania including the lower counties was , .[ ] it is probable that the same number was not much exceeded in pennsylvania proper at any time before . in these estimates no attempt was made to distinguish the free from the slaves. the number of slaves, it is true, was very near the total at both these periods, but after the middle of the century it began dwindling as the number of negro servants and free men increased. in a careful estimate placed the slaves at , .[ ] according to the federal census of the number of negroes in pennsylvania was , .[ ] of these negroes the great majority throughout the slavery period were located in the southeastern part of pennsylvania, in and around philadelphia. there were many in bucks, chester, lancaster, montgomery, and york counties. there were negroes near the site of columbia by . john harris had slaves by the susquehanna as early as . in hugh mercer wrote from the vicinity of pittsburg asking for two negro girls and a boy. the tax-lists and local accounts reveal their presence in many other places.[ ] doubtless a few might be traced wherever white people settled permanently. in general it may be said that they were owned in the english, welsh, and scotch-irish communities. the germans as a rule held no slaves. where negroes were owned they were for the most part evenly distributed, there being few large holdings. in rare instances a considerable number is recorded as belonging to one man, and the iron-masters generally had several. the tax-lists, however, indicate that the average holding was one or two, except in philadelphia among the wealthier classes where it was double that number.[ ] the character of slavery in pennsylvania was in many respects unique, but in no way was this so true as in connection with the number of negroes held. generally speaking, the farther south a section lay the more slaves did it possess. thus there were fewer in new england than in the middle colonies; there were fewer there than in the south. but to this rule pennsylvania was an exception, for it had fewer negroes than new jersey, and not half so many as new york.[ ] this was due to two sets of causes: the first, ethical; the second, economic. the first of these are easily understood. they resulted from the character of many of the people who settled pennsylvania, their dislike for slavery, and their refusal to hold slaves. the second are not so easily traceable, but were doubtless more powerful in their influence, for they were owing to the character of pennsylvania's industrial growth. the plantation system, which is most favorable to the increase of slavery, never appeared in pennsylvania. during the whole of the eighteenth century the activities of the colony developed along two lines not favorable to negro labor: small farming, and manufacturing and commerce.[ ] the small farms were almost always held by people who were too poor to purchase slaves, at least for a long while, and the kind of farming was not such as to make slavery particularly profitable. in commerce no large number of negroes was ever employed, while manufacturing demanded a higher grade of labor than slaves could give. it is true that in some cases where there was an approach to the factory system, and where the work was rough and needed little skill, slaves could answer every purpose. for this reason at the old ironworks negroes were in demand.[ ] as a rule, however, this was not the case. it was because of its industrial character that pennsylvania was peculiarly the colony of indentured white servants. furthermore, ethical and economic influences interacted with subtle and powerful force. barring all other considerations, the cost of a slave was a considerable item, not to be afforded by a struggling settler; hence slavery never attained magnitude on the frontier. before pennsylvania was all frontier; hence it had very few negroes. in the period from to about the country between the delaware and the susquehanna was filled up, and the early conditions largely disappeared. it was then that the greatest number of negroes was introduced. in the period between the middle of the century and the revolution this older country became well developed and prosperous; farms became larger and better cultivated; there were numerous respectable manufacturers and wealthy merchants. these men could easily afford to have slaves, and large importations might have been expected; but there was no great influx of negroes. economic conditions were favorable, but ethical influences worked strongly against it. in this eastern half of pennsylvania two racial elements predominated: the germans and the english quakers. the germans had abstained from slave-holding from the first;[ ] the quakers were now coming to abhor it.[ ] the same play of causes was seen again in the "old west." after in the mountains and valleys beyond the susquehanna the earlier frontier conditions were lived over again. here the settlers were largely scotch-irish, and had no dislike for slavery, but as yet the conditions of their life did not favor it. when finally western pennsylvania passed out of the frontier stage, and its inhabitants could purchase negroes, the days of slavery in pennsylvania were nearly over.[ ] for all of these reasons from first to last pennsylvania's slave population remained small. footnotes: [ ] breviate. dutch records, no. , fol. . in _ pennsylvania archives_, xvi, . _cf._ hazard, _annals of pennsylvania_, . the "proposed freedoms and exemptions for new netherland," , say, "the company shall exert itself to provide the patroons and colonists, on their order with as many blacks as possible".... _ pa. arch._, v, . [ ] c. t. odhner. "the founding of new sweden, - ", translated by g. b. keen in _pennsylvania magazine of history and biography_, iii, . [ ] hazard, _annals of pennsylvania_, ; o'callaghan, _documents relative to the colonial history of the state of new york_, ii, , . the report of the board of accounts on new netherland, dec. , , had spoken of the need of negroes, the economy of their labor, and had recommended the importation of large numbers. _ pa. arch._, v, . see also davis, _history of bucks county_, . [ ] _ pa. arch._, xvi, , ; hazard, _annals of pennsylvania_, . sir robert carr, writing to colonel nicholls, oct. , , says, "i have already sent into merryland some neegars w^{c}h did belong to the late governor att his plantation above".... _ pa. arch._, v, . [ ] the records of the court of new castle give a list of the "names of the tijdable prsons living in this courts jurisdiction" in which occur "three negros": " negro woman of mr. moll", " neger of mr. alrichs", "sam hedge and neger". book a, - . quoted in _pa. mag._, iii, - . for the active trade in negroes at this time _cf._ ms. board of trade journals, ii, . [ ] "wth out wch wee cannot subsist".... ms. new castle court records, liber a, . hazard, _annals_, . [ ] "ik hebbe geen vaste dienstbode, als een neger die ik gekocht heb." _missive van cornelis bom, geschreven uit de stadt philadelphia_, etc., . (oct. , ). "man hat hier auch zwartzen oder mohren zu schlaven in der arbeit." letter, probably of hermans op den graeff, germantown, feb. , , in sachse, _letters relating to the settlement of germantown_, . _cf._ also ms. in american philosophical society's collection, quoted in _pa. mag._, vii, : "lacey cocke hath a negroe" ..., "pattrick robbinson--robert neverbeegood his negor sarvant".... "the defendts negros" are mentioned in a suit for damages in . see ms. court records of penna. and chester co., - , p. . [ ] ms. ancient records of philadelphia, th mo., . [ ] ms. william trent's ledger, . for numerous references to negroes brought from barbadoes, see ms. booke of acc^{tts} relating to the barquentine _constant ailse_ and^w: dykes mast^r: from march th (- ). (pa. state lib.) [ ] _statutes at large of pennsylvania_ (edited by j. t. mitchell and henry flanders), ii, . _ibid._, ii, . the act of - was repeated in - . _ibid._, ii, . _cf._ _colonial records of pennsylvania_, ii, , . [ ] _votes and proceedings of the house of representatives of the province of pennsylvania_, i, pt. ii, . _stat. at l._, ii, . [ ] ms. board of trade papers, proprieties, ix, q, , . _stat. at l._, ii, , . [ ] jonathan dickinson, a merchant of philadelphia, writing to a correspondent in jamaica, th month, , says, "i must entreat you to send me no more negroes for sale, for our people don't care to buy. they are generally against any coming into the country." i have been unable to find this letter. watson, who quotes it (_annals of philadelphia_, ii, ), says, "vide the logan mss." _cf._ also a letter of george tiller of kingston, jamaica, to dickinson, . ms. logan papers, viii, . [ ] _stat. at l._, iii, , ; ms. board of trade papers, prop., x, , q, ; _stat. at l._, iii, ; _col. rec._, iii, , , . during this period negroes were being imported through the custom-house at the rate of about one hundred and fifty a year. _cf._ _votes and proceedings_, ii, . [ ] in the iron-masters of pennsylvania petitioned for the entire removal of the duty, labor being so scarce. _votes and proceedings_, - , p. . the attitude of the english authorities is explained in a report of richard jackson, march , , on one of the pennsylvania impost acts. "the increase of duty on negroes in this law is manifestly inconsistent with the policy adopted by your lordships and your predecessors for the sake of encouraging the african trade" ... board of trade papers, prop., xxiii, z, . [ ] _votes and proceedings_, ii, ; _col. rec._, ii, , ; _ pa. arch._, i, - ; _votes and proceedings_, , pp. , . for a complaint against this practice _cf._ "copy of a representat^n of the board of trade upon some pennsylvania laws" ( - ). ms. board of trade papers, plantations general, ix, k, . [ ] o'callaghan, _n. y. col. docs._, v, . [ ] _votes and proceedings_, ii, . [ ] _stat. at l._, iv, - , ; _col. rec._, iii, , , . [ ] _stat. at l._, iv, - ; _col. rec._, iii, ; smith, _history of delaware county_, . for a while, no doubt, there was a considerable influx. ralph sandiford says ( ), "we have _negroes_ flocking in upon us since the duty on them is reduced to shillings per head." _mystery of iniquity_, ( d ed.), . many of these were smuggled in from new jersey, where there was no duty from to . cooley, _a study of slavery in new jersey_, , . [ ] cargoes of servants are advertised in the _american weekly mercury_, the _pennsylvania packet_, and the _pennsylvania gazette_, _passim_. as to enlistment of servants _cf._ _mercury_, _gazette_, aug. , ; _col. rec._, iv, . complaint about this had been made as early as . _votes and proceedings_, ii, , . [ ] smith, _history of delaware county_, ; peter kalm, _travels into north america_, etc., ( ), i, . [ ] _col. rec._, vii, , . [ ] _stat. at l._, vi, - ; _votes and proceedings_, , pp. , , , , , , , , , ; _col. rec._, viii, , . "the petition of divers merchants of the city of philadelphia, to the honble james hamilton esqr. lieut. governor of the province of pennsylvania, humbly sheweth, that we the subscribers ... have seen for some time past, the many inconveniencys the inhabitants have suffer'd, for want of labourers, and artificers, by numbers being inlisted for his majestys service and near a total stop to the importation of german and other white servants, have for some time encouraged the importation of negros, ... that an advantage may be gain'd by the introduction of slaves, w^ch will likewise be a means of reduceing the exorbitant price of labour, and in all probability bring our staple commoditys to their usual prices." ms. provincial papers, xxv, march , . [ ] _stat. at l._, vii, , ; viii, - ; _col. rec._, ix, , , , ff.; x, , . the board of trade journals, lxxxii, , (may , ), say that their lordships had some discourse with dr. franklin "upon the objections ... to ... _imposing duties amounting to a prohibition upon the importation of negroes_." [ ] _cf._ ms. provincial papers, xxxii, january, . [ ] _stat. at l._, x, , . it was forbidden by implication rather than specific regulation. it had been foreseen that an act for gradual abolition entailed stopping the importation of negroes. _pa. packet_, nov. , ; _ pa. arch._, vii, . [ ] professor e. p. cheyney in an article written some years ago ("the condition of labor in early pennsylvania, i. slavery," in _the manufacturer_, feb. , , p. ) considers these laws to have been restrictive in purpose, and gives three causes for their passage, in the following order of importance: (a) dread of slave insurrections, (b) opposition of the free laboring classes to slave competition, (c) conscientious objections. i cannot think that this is correct. (a) seems to have been the impelling motive only in connection with the law of , and seems rarely to have been thought of. it was urged in , , and , when efforts were being made to pass a militia law in pennsylvania, but it attracted little attention. _cf._ ms. board of trade papers, prop., xv, t: , , . [ ] in a ms. entitled "william penn's memorial to the lords of trade relating to several laws passed in pensilvania," assigned to the year in the collection of the historical society of pennsylvania, but probably belonging to a later period, is the following: "these ... acts ... to raise money ... to defray publick exigences in such manner as after a mature delibera[~c]on they thought would not be burthensom particularly in the act for laying a duty on negroes" ... ms. pa. miscellaneous papers, - , p. . [ ] . shillings for negroes over sixteen years of age, for those under sixteen. no cause given. apparently (terms of the act) _revenue_.-- - . shillings--a draw-back of one half if the negro be re-exported within six months. apparently _revenue_.-- . shillings--excepting those imported by immigrants for their own use, and not sold within a year. almost certainly (preamble) _revenue._-- . pounds. the causes were a dread of insurrection because of the negro uprising in new york, and the indians' dislike of the importation of indian slaves. purpose undoubtedly _restriction_.-- . pounds. apparently (character of the provisions) _restriction_ and _revenue_.-- - . pounds. to continue the preceding. _restriction_ and _revenue_-- - . pounds. to continue the preceding. _revenue_ (preamble) and _restriction_.-- . pounds. to continue provisions of previous acts. _revenue_ and _restriction_.-- - . pounds. _revenue_ and _restriction_.-- . pounds. reduction made probably because since none of the laws had been allowed to stand for any length of time, and because there had been much smuggling. _revenue_ and _restriction_.-- . pounds. no cause given for the increase. _restriction_ and _revenue_.-- . preceding continued--"of public utility." _restriction_ and _revenue_.-- . preceding made perpetual--"of great public utility"--but duty raised to pounds. _restriction. cf. stat. at l._, ii, , , , ; iii, , , , ; iv, , ; vi, ; vii, ; viii, . [ ] see below, chapters iv and v. [ ] "man hat besonders in pensylvanien den grundsatz angenommen ihre einführung so viel möglich abzuhalten" ... _achenwall's in göttingen über nordamerika und über dasige grosbritannische colonien aus mündlichen nachrichten des herrn dr. franklins_ ... _anmerkungen_, , . (about ). [ ] _stat. at l._, x, , ; _pa. arch._, i, . _cf._ mr. woodward's speech, jan. , , _proceedings and debates of the convention of the commonwealth of pennsylvania, to propose amendments to the constitution_, etc., x, , . [ ] "aus pennsylvanien ... fahren gen barbadoes, jamaica und antego. von dar bringen sie zurück ... negros." daniel falkner, _curieuse nachricht von pennsylvania in norden-america_, etc., ( o ), . for a negro woman from jamaica ( ), see ms. court papers, philadelphia county, - . also numerous advertisements in the newspapers. _mercury_, apr. , , (barbadoes); july , , (bermuda); july , , (st. christophers); jan. , , (antigua). oldmixon, speaking of pennsylvania, says, "negroes sell here ... very well; but not by the ship loadings, as they have sometimes done at maryland and virginia." ( .) _british empire in america_, etc., ( d ed.), i, . _cf._ however the following: "a parcel of likely negro boys and girls just arrived in the sloop charming sally ... to be sold ... for ready money, flour or wheat" ... advt. in _pa. gazette_, sept. , . for a consignment of seventy see ms. provincial papers, xxvii, apr. , . [ ] _cf._ ms. william trent's ledger, "negroes" ( - ). isaac norris, letter book, , ( ). for a statement of profit and loss on two imported negroes, see _ibid._, . in this case isaac norris acted as a broker, charging five per cent. for the wheat and flour trade with barbadoes, see _a letter from doctor more ... relating to the ... province of pennsilvania_, . ( ). [ ] some were probably brought from africa by pirates. _cf._ ms. board of trade papers, prop., iii, , ; iv, ; v, . the hazard involved in the purchase of negroes is revealed in the following: "acco^t of negroes d^r to tho. willen £ : for a new negro man ... £ and sh. more if he live to the spring" ... ms. james logan's account book, , ( ). as to the effect of cold weather upon negroes, isaac norris, writing to jonathan dickinson in , says, ... "they're so chilly they can hardly stir frõ the fire and wee have early beginning for a hard wint^r." ms. letter book, - , p. . in kalm says, ... "the toes and fingers of the former" (negroes) "are frequently frozen." _travels_, i, . [ ] _mercury_, sept. , . ms. penn papers, accounts (unbound), d mo., . also _calendar of state papers, america and west indies, - _, p. ; _col. rec._, iv, ; _pa. mag._, xxvii, . [ ] a report of the royal african company, nov. , , purports to show the first cost: "that the negros cost them the first price li: and li: s. the freight, besides li p cent which they lose by the usual mortality of the negros." ms. board of trade journals, iii, . the selling price had been considered immoderate four years previous. _ibid._, i, . in peter baynton sold "a negroe man named jemy ... £." loose sheet in peter baynton's ledger. in a negro twenty-five years old brought pounds in chester county. ms. chester county papers, . the moravians of bethlehem purchased a negress in for pounds. _pa. mag._, xxii, . peter kalm ( ) says that a full grown negro cost from pounds to pounds; a child of two or three years, pounds to pounds. _travels_, i, , . mittelberger ( ) says to florins ( to pounds). _journey to pennsylvania in the year _, etc., . franklin ( ) in a very careful estimate thought that the price would average about pounds. _works_ (ed. sparks), ii, . acrelius (about ) says to pounds. _description of ... new sweden_, etc. (translation of w. m. reynolds, , in _memoirs of the historical society of pennsylvania_, xi), p. . a negro iron-worker brought pounds at bethlehem in . _pa. mag._, xxii, . in edward shippen writes of a slave who cost him pounds. _ibid._, vii, . it is probable that the value of a slave was roughly about three times that of a white servant. _cf. votes and proceedings_ ( ), v, . [ ] in the board of trade requested the governor of pennsylvania that very definite information on a variety of subjects relating to the negro be transmitted thereafter half yearly. were these records available they would be worth more than all the remaining information. _cf._ ms. provincial papers, i, april , ; _pa. arch._, i, , . [ ] _n. y. col. docs._, v, . as to the necessity for allowing so large a margin in these figures _cf._ the following. "the number of the whites are said to be sixty thousand, and of the black about five thousand." col. hart's answer, etc., ms. board of trade papers, prop., xi, r: . ( ). "the number of people in this province may be computed to above , souls amongst whom we have scarce any blacks except a few household servants in the city of philadelphia" ... letter of sir william keith, _ibid._, xi, r: . ( ). another communication gave the true state of the case, if not the exact numbers. "this government has not hitherto had occasion to use any methods that can furnish us with an exact estimate, but as near as can at present be guessed there may be about _forty five thousand_ souls of _whites_ and _four thousand_ blacks." major gordon's answer to queries, _ibid._, xiii, s: . ( - ). [ ] william douglass, _a summary, historical and political, ... of the british settlements in north-america_, etc. (ed. ), ii, ; abiel holmes, _american annals_, etc., ii, ; bancroft, _history of the united states_ (author's last revision), ii, . [ ] letter in _pa. packet_, jan , . this made allowance for the numerous runaways during the british occupation of philadelphia. also _ibid._, dec. , ; _pa. arch._, xi, , . for a higher estimate, , , for but made in , see ms. collection of the records of the pa. society for the abolition of slavery, etc., iv, . [ ] slaves, , ; free, , . other enumerations occur, but are evidently without value. oldmixon ( ), , . _british empire in america_, i, . burke ( ), about , . _an account of the european settlements in america_, ii, . abbé raynal ( ), , . _a philosophical and political history of the british settlements ... in north america_ (tr. ), i, . a communication to the earl of dartmouth ( ), , . ms. provincial papers, jan. ; _pa. arch._, iv, . smyth ( ), over , . _a tour in the united states of america_, etc., ii, . [ ] ms. (samuel wright), a journal of our rem(oval) from chester and darby (to) conestogo ... , copied by a. c. myers; morgan, _annals of harrisburg_, - ; _col. rec._, viii, , . tax-lists printed in _pa. arch._ also davis, _hist. of bucks co._, ; futhey and cope, _hist. of chester co._, ; ellis and evans, _hist. of lancaster co._, ; gibson, _hist. of york co._, ; bean, _hist. of montgomery co._, ; lytle, _hist. of huntingdon co._, ; blackman, _hist. of susquehanna co._, ; creigh, _hist. of washington co._, ; bausman, _hist. of beaver co._, i, , ; linn, _annals of buffalo valley_, - ; peck, _wyoming; its history_, etc., . [ ] ms. assessment books, chester co., , p. ; , p. ; , p. ; ms. assessment book, phila. co., . as early as henry jones of moyamensing had thirteen negroes. ms. phila. wills, book a, . an undated ms. entitled "a list of my negroes" shows that jonathan dickinson had thirty-two. dickinson papers, unclassified. an owner in york county is said to have had one hundred and fifty. _pa. arch._, xxi, . this is probably a misprint. [ ] in the numbers were as follows: new york, , slaves, , free, total , ; new jersey, , slaves, , free, total , ; pennsylvania, , slaves, , free, total , . [ ] on pennsylvania's amazing commercial and industrial activity see anderson, _historical and chronological deductions of the origin of commerce_, etc. ( ), iii, - . [ ] see below, p. . [ ] see below, chapters iv and v. [ ] see below, _ibid._ [ ] nevertheless slavery took root in the western counties, and lingered there longer than anywhere else in pennsylvania. chapter ii. legal status of the slave. the legal origin of slavery[ ] in pennsylvania is not easy to discover, for the statute of , which seems to have recognized slavery there, is, like similar statutes in some of the other american colonies, very indirect and uncertain in its wording. before this time, it is true, there occur instances where negroes were held for life, so that undoubtedly there was _de facto_ slavery; but by what authority it existed, or how it began, is not clear. it may have grown up to meet the necessities of a new country. it may have been an inheritance from earlier colonists. more probably still, it developed by diverging from temporary servitude which, in the case of white servants at least, flourished among the earliest english settlers in the region. it is probable that slavery existed among the dutch of new netherland, and possibly among the swedes along the delaware.[ ] in their settlements passed under english authority. to regulate them the so-called "duke of york's laws" were promulgated. meanwhile around the estuary of the delaware english colonists were settling with their negroes. in , five years before penn set out for his territories, the duke's laws seem to have been obeyed in part of the delaware river country.[ ] in these laws servants for life are explicitly mentioned. in them it is also ordained that no christian shall be held in bond slavery or villenage.[ ] this latter may be a tacit permission to hold heathen negroes as slaves. not much can be based upon the duke of york's laws since their meaning upon this latter point is doubtful. moreover, when penn founded his colony they were superseded after a short time by laws enacted in pennsylvania assemblies. in the years following at first no act was passed recognizing slavery, but that some slaves were held there is apparent. numerous little pieces of evidence may be accumulated indicating that there were negroes who were not being held as servants for a term of years, nor does anything appear to indicate that this was looked upon as illegal.[ ] in william penn, writing to his steward at pennsbury, said that it would be better to have blacks to work the place, since they might be held for life.[ ] in the same year by the terms of a recorded deed a negro was sold to a new master "forever."[ ] three years later the friends of germantown issued their celebrated protest against slavery,[ ] while in george keith denounced the practice of enslaving men and holding them in perpetual bondage.[ ] meanwhile no law was made authorizing slavery in the colony, and no court seems to have been called upon to decide whether slavery was legal. it is not until that a statute was passed bearing upon the subject. in that year a law for the regulation of servants contains a section designed to prevent the embezzlement by servants of their masters' goods. this section asserts that the servant if white shall atone for such theft by additional servitude at the end of his time sufficient to pay for double the value of the goods; but if black he shall be severely whipped in the most public place of the township.[ ] it is probable that the law was so worded because it had come to be seen that there were few cases in which a negro could give satisfaction by additional time at the end of his term, since negroes were being held for life. if such be the case, this law may be said to contain the formal recognition of slavery in the colony. the legal development of this slavery was rapid and brief. as it was not created by statutory enactment, so some of its most important incidents were never alluded to in the laws. the assembly of pennsylvania, unlike that of virginia, never seems to have thought it necessary to define the status of the slave as property, the consequences of slave baptism, or the line of servile descent.[ ] some of these questions had been settled in other colonies before the founding of pennsylvania, and there the results seem to have been accepted. accordingly the steps in the development are neither obvious nor distinct. they rest not so much upon statute as upon court decisions interpreting usage, and in many cases the decisions do not come until the end of the slavery period. notwithstanding all this there was a development, which may be said to fall into three periods. they were, first, the years from to , when slavery was slowly diverging from servitude, which it still closely resembled; second, from to - , when slavery was more sharply marked off from servitude; and third, the period from - to , when nothing was added but some minor restrictions. during the earliest years slavery in pennsylvania differed from servitude in but little, save that servitude was for a term of years and slavery was for life. it may be questioned whether at first all men recognized even this difference. many of penn's first colonists were men who embarked upon their undertaking with high ideals of religion and right, and whose conception of what was right could not easily be reconciled with hopeless bondage.[ ] the strength of this sentiment is seen in the well known provision of penn's charter to the free society of traders, , that if they held blacks they should make them free at the end of fourteen years, the blacks then to become the company's tenants.[ ] it is the motive in benjamin furley's proposal to hold negroes not longer than eight years.[ ] it is particularly evident in the protest made at germantown in .[ ] it is seen in george keith's declaration of principles in .[ ] and it gave impetus to the movement among the friends, which, starting about , led finally to the emancipation of all their negroes. accordingly at first there may have been some negroes who were held as servants for a term of years, and who were discharged when they had served their time.[ ] there is no certain proof that this was so,[ ] and the probabilities are rather against it, but the conscientious scruples of some of the early settlers make it at least possible. in the growth of the colony, however, this feeling did not continue strong enough to be decisive. economic adjustment, an influx of men of different standards, and motives of expediency, perhaps of necessity, made the legal recognition of an inferior status inevitable. against this the upholders of the idea that negroes should be held only as servants, for a term of years, waged a losing fight. it is true they did not desist, and in the course of one hundred years their view won a complete triumph; but their success came in abolition, and in overthrowing a system established, long after they had utterly failed to prevent the swift growth and the statutory recognition of legal slavery for life and in perpetuity. aside from this one fundamental difference the incidents of each status were nearly the same. the negro held for life was subject to the same restrictions, tried in the same courts, and punished with the same punishments as the white servant. so far as either class was subject to special regulation at this time it was because of the laws for the management of servants, passed in and , which concerned white servants equally with black slaves. these restrictions were as yet neither numerous nor detailed, being largely directed against free people who abetted servants in wrong doing. thus, servants were forbidden to traffic in their masters' goods; but the only penalty fell on the receiver, who had to make double restitution. they were restricted as to movement, and when travelling they must have a pass. if they ran away they were punished, the white servant by extra service, the black slave by whipping, but this different punishment for the slave was not enacted until , the beginning of the next period. whoever harbored them was liable to the master for damages.[ ] the relations between master and servant were likewise simple. the servant was compelled to obey the master. if he resisted or struck the master, he was punished at the discretion of the court. on the other hand the servant was to be treated kindly.[ ] the period, then, prior to was characteristically a period of servitude. the laws spoke of servants white and black.[ ] the regulations, the restrictions, the trials, the punishments, were identical. there was only the one difference: white servants were discharged with freedom dues at the end of a specified number of years; for negroes there was no discharge; they were servants for life, that is, slaves. in the period following this difference gradually became apparent, and made necessary different treatment and distinct laws. this resulted from a recognition of the dissimilarity in character between property based on temporary service and that based on service for life. in the first place perpetual service gave rise to a new class of slaves. at first the only ones in pennsylvania were such negroes as were imported and sold for life. but after a time children were born to them. these children were also slaves, because ownership of a negro held for life involved ownership of his offspring also, since, the negro being debarred by economic helplessness from rearing children, all of his substance belonging to his master, the master must assume the cost of rearing them, and might have the service of the children as recompense.[ ] this was the source of the second and largest class of slaves. the child of a slave was not necessarily a slave if one of the parents was free. the line of servile descent lay through the mother.[ ] accordingly the child of a slave mother and a free father was a slave, of a free mother and a slave father a servant for a term of years only. the result of the application of this doctrine to the offspring of a negro and a white person was that mulattoes were divided into two classes. some were servants for a term of years; the others formed a third class of slaves. in the second place perpetual service gave to slave property more of the character of a thing, than was the case when the time of service was limited. the service of both servants and slaves was a thing, which might be bought, sold, transferred as a chattel, inherited and bequeathed by will; but in the case of a slave, the service being perpetual, the idea of the service as a thing tended to merge into the idea of the slave himself as a thing. the law did not attempt to carry this principle very far. it never, as in virginia, declared the slave real estate. in pennsylvania he was emphatically both person and thing, with the conception of personality somewhat predominating.[ ] yet there was felt to be a decided difference between the slave and the servant, and this, together with the desire to regulate the slave as a negro distinguished from a white man, was the cause of the distinctive laws of the second period. the years from to - are marked by two great laws which almost by themselves make up the slave code of pennsylvania. the first, passed in and passed again in - , regulated the trial and punishments of slaves.[ ] it marked the beginning of a new era in the regulation of negroes, in that, subjecting them to different courts and imposing upon them different penalties, it definitely marked them off as a class distinct from all others in the colony. in - further advance was made. not only was the negro now subjected to special regulation because he was a slave, but whether slave or free he was now made subject to special restrictions because he was a negro. while some of these had to do with movement and behavior, the most important forbade all marriage or intercourse with white people.[ ] these laws must be examined in detail. from the very first was seen the inevitable difficulty involved in punishing the negro criminal as a person, and yet not injuring the master's property in the thing. the result of this was that masters were frequently led to conceal the crimes of their slaves, or to take the law into their own hands.[ ] the solution was probably felt to be the removal of negroes from the ordinary courts. it is said, also, that penn desired to protect the negro by clearly defining his crimes and apportioning his punishments. accordingly he urged the law of .[ ] under this law negroes when accused were not to be tried in the regular courts of the colony. they were to be presented by the courts of quarter sessions, but the cases were to be dealt with by special courts for the trial of negroes, composed of two commissioned justices of the peace and six substantial freeholders. on application these courts were to be constituted by executive authority when occasion demanded. witnesses were to be allowed, but there was to be no trial by jury.[ ] in such courts it was doubtless easier to regard the slave as property, and do full justice to the rights of the master. something was still wanting, however, for in case the slave criminal was condemned to death, the loss fell entirely on the master. from the earliest days of the colony owners had been praying for relief from this. in the masters of two slaves petitioned the governor to commute the death sentence to chastisement and transportation, and thus save them from pecuniary loss. the petition was granted. such commutation was frequently sought, and in the special courts it could be more readily granted.[ ] the real solution, however, was discovered in - , when it was ordained that thereafter if any slave committed a capital crime, immediately upon conviction the justices should appraise such slave, and pay the value to the owner, out of a fund arising principally from the duty on negroes imported.[ ] these laws continued in force until , and down to that time slaves were removed from the jurisdiction of the regular courts of the province; although after it was asserted that the clause about trial by jury in the new state constitution affected slaves as well as free men; and a slave was actually so tried in .[ ] whether this view prevailed in all quarters it is impossible to say. in the next year the abolition act did away with the special courts entirely.[ ] the law of , which marked the differentiation of slaves from servants, marked also the beginning of discrimination. for negroes there were to be different punishments as well as a different mode of trial. murder, buggery, burglary, or rape of a white woman, were to be punished by death; attempted rape by castration; robbing and stealing by whipping, the master to make good the theft.[ ] this law was repeated in - , except that the punishment for attempted rape was now made whipping, branding, imprisonment, and transportation, while these same penalties were to be imposed for theft over five pounds. theft of an article worth less than five pounds entailed whipping up to thirty-nine lashes.[ ] for white people at this time, whether servants or free, there was a different code.[ ] a far more important discrimination was made in - by the law which forbade mixture of the races. there had doubtless been some intercourse from the first. a white servant was indicted for this offence in ; and a tract of land in sussex county bore the name of "mulatto hall." in the chester county court laid down the principle that mingling of the races was not to be allowed.[ ] the matter went beyond this, for in a woman was punished for abetting a clandestine marriage between a white woman and a negro.[ ] a few months thereafter the assembly received a petition from inhabitants of the province, inveighing against the wicked and scandalous practice of negroes cohabiting with white people.[ ] it appeared to the assembly that a law was needed, and they set about framing one. accordingly in the law of - they provided stringent penalties. no negro was to be joined in marriage with any white person upon any pretense whatever. a white person violating this was to forfeit thirty pounds, or be sold as a servant for a period not exceeding seven years. a clergyman who abetted such a marriage was to pay one hundred pounds.[ ] the law did not succeed in checking cohabitation, though of marriages of slaves with white people there is almost no record.[ ] there exists no definite information as to the number of mulattoes in the colony during this period, but advertisements for runaway slaves indicate that there were very many of them. the slave register of for chester county shows that they constituted twenty per cent. of the slave population in that locality.[ ] it must be said that the stigma of illicit intercourse in pennsylvania would not generally seem to rest upon the masters, but rather upon servants, outcasts, and the lowlier class of whites.[ ] negro slaves were subject to another class of restrictions which were made against them rather as slaves than as black men. these concerned freedom of movement and freedom of action. during the earlier years of the colony's history regulation of the movements of the slaves rested principally in the hands of the owners. the continual complaints about the tumultuous assembling of negroes, to be noticed presently, would seem to indicate that considerable leniency was exercised.[ ] but frequently white people lured them away, and harbored and employed them.[ ] the law of - was intended specially to stop this. no negro was to go farther than ten miles from home without written leave from his master, under penalty of ten lashes on his bare back. nor was he to be away from his master's house, except by special leave, after nine o'clock at night, nor to be found in tippling-houses, under like penalty. for preventing these things counter-restrictions were imposed upon white people. they were forbidden to employ such negroes, or knowingly to harbor or shelter them, except in very unseasonable weather, under penalty of thirty shillings for every twenty-four hours. finally it was provided that negroes were not to meet together in companies of more than four. this last seems to have remained a dead letter.[ ] that this legislation failed to produce the desired effect is shown by the experience of philadelphia in dealing with negro disorder. such disorder was complained of as early as , when, on presentment of the grand jury, it was directed that the constables or any other person should arrest such negroes as they might find gadding abroad on first days of the week, without written permission from the master, and take them to jail, where, after imprisonment, they should be given thirty-nine lashes well laid on, to be paid for by the master. this seems to have been enforced but laxly, for in the grand jury presented the matter again, and their recommendation was repeated with warmth in the year following.[ ] a few years later they urged measures to suppress the unruly negroes of the city.[ ] in the council was forced to recommend an ordinance to bring this about, and such an ordinance was drawn up and considered. next year the monthly meeting of friends petitioned, and the matter was taken up again, but nothing came of it, so that the council was compelled to observe that further legislation was assuredly needed.[ ] in the grand jury presented the matter strongly,[ ] and an explicit order was at last given that constables should disperse meetings of negroes within half an hour after sunset.[ ] the nuisance, probably, was still not abated, for in the mayor caused to be published in the papers previous legislation on the subject.[ ] nothing further seems to have been done. the continued failure to suppress these meetings in defiance of a law of the province, must be attributed either to the intrinsic difficulty of enforcing such a law, or to the fact that the meetings were objectionable because of their rude and boisterous character, rather than because of any positive misdemeanor. more probably still this is but one of the many pieces of evidence which show how leniently the negro was treated in pennsylvania. the third period, from to , is distinguished more because of the lack of important legislation about the negro than through any marked character of its own. the outlines of the colony's slave code had now been drawn, and no further constructive work was done. there is, however, one class of laws which may be assigned to this period, since the majority of them fall chronologically within its limits, though they are scarcely more characteristic of it than they are of either of the two periods preceding. all of these laws imposed restrictions upon the actions of negro slaves in matters in which white people were restricted also, but the restrictions were embodied in special sections of the laws, because of the negro's inability to pay a fine: the law imposing corporal punishment upon the slave, whenever it exacted payment in money or imprisonment from others. thus, an act forbidding the use of fireworks without the governor's permission, states that the slave instead of being imprisoned shall be publicly whipped. another provides that if a slave set fire to any woodlands or marshes he shall be whipped not exceeding twenty-one lashes. as far back as whipping had been made the punishment of a slave who carried weapons without his master's permission. in - participation in a horse-race or shooting-match entailed first fifteen lashes, and then twenty-one, together with six days' imprisonment for the first offense, and ten days' imprisonment thereafter. in hunting on indians' lands or on other people's lands, shooting in the city, or hunting on sunday, were forbidden under penalty of whipping up to thirty-one lashes. in - the penalty for offending against the night watch in philadelphia was made twenty-one lashes and imprisonment in the work-house for three days at hard labor; for the second offence, thirty-one lashes and six days. sometimes it was provided that a slave might be punished as a free man, if his master would stand for him. thus a slave offending against the regulations for wagoners was to be whipped, or fined, if his master would pay the fine.[ ] so far the slave was under the regulation of the state. he was also subject to the regulation of his owner, who, in matters concerning himself and not directly covered by laws, could enforce obedience by corporal punishment. this was sometimes administered at the public whipping-post, the master sending an order for a certain number of lashes.[ ] but the slave was not given over absolutely into the master's power. if he had to obey the laws of the state, he could also expect the protection of the state.[ ] the master could not starve him, nor overwork him, nor torture him. against these things he could appeal to the public authorities. moreover public opinion was powerfully against them. if a master killed his slave the law dealt with him as though his victim were a white man.[ ] it is not probable, to be sure, that the sentence was often carried out, but such cases did not often arise.[ ] such was the legal status of the slave in pennsylvania. before it was ill defined, but probably much like that of the servant, having only the distinctive incident of perpetual service, and the developing incident of the transmission of servile condition to offspring. gradually it became altogether different. to the slave now appertained a number of incidents of lower status. he was tried in separate courts, subject to special judges, and punished with different penalties. admixture with white people was sternly prohibited. he was subject to restrictions upon movement, conduct, and action. he could be corrected with corporal punishment. the slave legislation of pennsylvania involved discriminations based both upon inferior status, and what was regarded as inferior race. nevertheless it will be shown that in most respects the punishments and restrictions imposed upon negro slaves were either similar to those imposed upon white servants, or involved discriminations based upon the inability of the slave to pay a fine, and upon the fact that mere imprisonment punished the master alone. moreover, what harshness there was must be ascribed partly to the spirit of the times, which made harsher laws for both white men and black men. the slave code almost never comprehended any cruel or unusual punishments. as a legal as well as a social system slavery in pennsylvania was mild. footnotes: /#[ . , ] [ ] throughout this work the fundamental distinction between the words "slave" and "servant," as used in the text, is that "slave" denotes a person held for life, "servant" a person held for a term of years only.] [ ] _cf._ o'callaghan, _voyages of the slavers st. john and arms of amsterdam_, etc., , for a bill of sale, . sprinchorn, _kolonien nya sveriges historia_, .] [ ] ms. record of the court at upland in penn., sept. , .] [ ] "no christian shall be kept in bondslavery villenage or captivity, except such who shall be judged thereunto by authority, or such as willingly have sould, or shall sell themselves," ... _laws of the province of pennsylvania ... preceded by the duke of york's laws_, etc., . this is not to prejudice any masters "who have ... apprentices for terme of years, or other servants for term of years or life." _ibid._, . another clause directs that "no servant, except such are duly so for life, shall be assigned over to other masters ... for above the space of one year, unless for good reasons offered". _ibid._, .] [ ] there is an evident distinction intended in the following: "a list of the tydable psons james sanderling and slave john test and servant." one follows the other. ms. rec. court at upland, nov. , . in the price of a negro, pounds, named in a law-suit, is probably that of a slave. ms. minute book. common pleas and quarter sessions. bucks co., - , pp. , . a will made in certainly disposed of the within mentioned negroes for life. "i do hereby give ... pow^r ... to my s^d exers ... eith^r to lett or hire out my five negroes ... and pay my s^d wife the one half of their wages yearly during her life or oth^rwise give her such compensa[~c]on for her int^rest therein as shee and my s^d ex[~er]s shall agree upon and my will is that the other half of their s^d wages shall be equally devided between my aforsd children, and after my sd wife decease my will also is that the sd negroes or such of them and their offsprings as are then alive shall in kind or value be equally devided between my s^d children" ... will of thomas lloyd. ms. philadelphia wills, book a, . [ ] mss., domestic letters, . [ ] "know all men by these presents that i patrick robinson countie clark of philadelphia for and in consideration of the sum of fourtie pounds current money of pennsilvania ... have bargained sold and delivered ... unto ... joseph browne for himselfe, ... heirs ex[~e]rs ad[~m]rs and assigns one negro man named jack, to have and to hold the said negro man named jack unto the said joseph browne for himself ... for ever. and i ... the said negro man unto him ... shall and will warrant and for ever defend by these presents." ms. philadelphia deed book, e, , vol. v, , . this is similar to the regular legal formula afterward. _cf._ ms. ancient rec. sussex co., - , sept. , . [ ] see below, p. . [ ] "and to buy souls and bodies of men for money, to enslave them and their posterity to the end of the world, we judge is a great hinderance to the spreading of the gospel" ... "neither should we keep them in perpetual bondage and slavery against their consent" ... _an exhortation and caution to friends concerning buying or keeping of negroes_, reprinted in _pa. mag._, xiii, , . [ ] "an act for the better regulation of servants in this province and territories." _stat. at l._, ii, . [ ] _cf._ j. c. ballagh, _a history of slavery in virginia_, chapter ii. [ ] _cf._ letter of william edmundson to friends in maryland, virginia, and other parts of america, . s. janney, _history of the religious society of friends, from its rise to the year _, iii, . [ ] _the articles settlement and offices of the free society of traders in pennsylvania_, etc., article xviii. this quite closely resembles the ordinance issued by governor rising to the swedes in , that after a certain period negroes should be absolutely free.... "efter Ã¥hr vare en slafvare alldeles fri." sprinchorn, _kolonien nya sveriges historia_, . [ ] "let no blacks be brought in directly. and if any come out of virginia, maryld. [or elsewhere _erased_] in families that have formerly bought them elsewhere let them be declared (as in the west jersey constitutions) free at years end." "b. f. abridgm^t. out of holland and germany." penn mss. ford _vs._ penn. etc., - , p. . [ ] _cf. pa. mag._, iv, - . [ ] _ibid._, xiii, - . [ ] negro servants are mentioned. see _pa. mag._, vii, . _cf._ below, p. . little reliance can be placed upon the early use of this word. [ ] i have found no instance where a negro was indisputably a servant in the early period. the court records abound in notices of white servants. [ ] _laws of the province of pennsylvania ... - _, p. ( ), , ( ). for running away white servants had to give five days of extra service for each day of absence. _ibid._, ( ), ( ). harboring cost the offender five shillings a day. _ibid._, ( ), ( ). [ ] _ibid._, ( ); _ibid._, (laws agreed upon in england). [ ] _ibid._, . "no servant white or black ... shall at anie time after publication hereof be attached or taken into execution for his master or mistress debt" ... [ ] the rearing of slave children was regarded as a burden by owners. a writer declared that in pennsylvania "negroes just born are considered an incumbrance only, and if humanity did not forbid it, they would be instantly given away." _pa. packet_, jan. , . in the philadelphia court of common pleas ordered a man to take back a negress whom he had sold, and who proved to be pregnant. he was to refund the purchase money and the money spent "for phisic and attendance of the said negroe in her miserable condition." ms. court papers. - . phila. co., june , . [ ] the roman doctrine of _partus sequitur ventrem_. this was never established by law in pennsylvania, and during colonial times was never the subject of a court decision that has come down. that it was the usage, however, there is abundant proof. in isaac warner bequeathed "to wife ann ... a negro woman named sarah ... to daughter ann warner ( ) an unborn negro child of the above named sarah." ms. phila. co. will files, no. , . in the supreme court declared that it was the law of pennsylvania, and had always been the custom. dallas . [ ] ms. abstract of phila. co. wills, book a, , , ( ); will of samuel richardson of philadelphia in _pa. mag._, xxxiii, ( ). in the attorney-general in england answering an inquiry from jamaica, declared "that where goods or merchandise are by law forfeited to the king, the sale of them from one to another will not fix the property as against the king, but they may be seized wherever found whilst they remain in specie; and that negros being admitted merchandise will fall within the same law". ms. board of trade journals, iv, . on several occasions during war negro slaves were captured from the enemy and brought to pennsylvania, where they were sold as ordinary prize-goods--things. in , however, when two french negro prisoners produced papers showing that they were free, they were held for exchange as prisoners of war--persons. ms. provincial papers, vii, oct. , . for the status of the negro slave as real estate in virginia, _cf._ ballagh, _hist. of slavery in virginia_, ch. ii. in the supreme court of pennsylvania decided that "property in a negroe may be obtained by a _bona fide_ purchase, without deed." dallas . [ ] "an act for the trial of negroes." _stat. at l._, ii, - . repealed in council, . _ibid._, ii, ; _col. rec._, i, , . passed again with slight changes in - . _stat. at l._, ii, - . [ ] "an act for the better regulating of negroes in this province." _stat. at l._, iv, - . it became law by lapse of time. _ibid._, iv, . [ ] "an act for the better regulating of negroes in this province.", section . _stat. at l._, iv, . [ ] _cf._ enoch lewis, "life of william penn" ( ), in _friends' library_, v, ; j. r. tyson, "annual discourse before the historical society of pennsylvania" ( ), in _hazard's register_, viii, . [ ] ms. minutes court of quarter sessions bucks county, - , p. ( ); ms. "bail, john kendig for a negro, . ^{br} ," in logan papers, unbound; "an act for the trial of negroes," _stat. at l._, ii, - ( ), - ( - ); _col. rec._, iii, ; iv, ; ix, , , , , ; x, , . for the commission instituting one of these special courts ( ), see ms. miscellaneous papers, - , chester county, ; also diffenderffer, "early negro legislation in the province of pennsylvania," in _christian culture_, sept. , . mr. diffenderffer cites a commission of feb. , , but is puzzled at finding no record of the trial of negroes in the records of the local court of quarter sessions. it would of course not appear there. special dockets were kept for the special courts. _cf._ ms. records of special courts for the trial of negroes, held at chester, in chester county. the law was not universally applied at first. in a negro was tried for fornication before the court of quarter sessions. ms. minutes court of quarter sessions bucks county, - , p. . [ ] _col. rec._, i, ; ii, , . [ ] "an act for the better regulating of negroes," etc. _stat. at l._, iv, . for an instance of such valuation in the case of two slaves condemned for burglary, see ms. provincial papers, xxx, july , . the governor, however, pardoned these negroes on condition that they be transported. [ ] "on the trials larry the slave was convicted by a jury of twelve men and received the usual sentence of whipping, restitution and fine according to law.... this case is published as being the first instance of a slave's being tried in this state by a grand and petit jury. our constitution provides that these unhappy men shall have the same measure of justice and the same mode of trial with others, their fellow creatures, when charged with crimes or offences." _pa. packet_, feb. , . nevertheless a commission for a special court had been issued in august, . _cf._ "petition of mary bryan," ms. misc. papers, aug. , . [ ] _stat. at l._, x, . what was the standing of negro slaves before the ordinary courts of pennsylvania in the years between and it is difficult to say. they certainly could not be witnesses--not against white men, since this privilege was given to free negroes for the first time in (_stat. at l._, x, ), and to slaves not until (_laws of assembly, _, p. ); while if they were witnesses against other negroes it would be before special courts. doubtless negroes could sometimes seek redress in the ordinary courts, though naturally the number of such cases would be limited. there is, however, at least one instance of a white man being sued by a negro, who won his suit. "francis jn^oson the negro verbally complained agst w^m orion ... and after pleading to on both sides the court passed judgment and ordered w^m orion to pay him the sd francis jn^oson twenty shillings" ... ms. ancient records of sussex county, to , th mo., . before negroes were tried before the ordinary courts, and there is at least one case where a negro witnessed against a white man. _ibid._, br . [ ] _stat. at l._, ii, - ; _col. rec._, i, , . instances of negro crime are mentioned in ms. records of special courts for the trial of negroes--chester county. for a case of arson punished with death, _cf. col. rec._, iv, . for two negroes condemned to death for burglary, _ibid._, ix, , also . the punishment for the attempted rape of a white woman was the one point that caused the disapproval of the attorney-general in england, and, probably, led to the passage of the revised act in - . _cf._ ms. board of trade papers, prop., viii, , bb. for restitution by masters, which was frequently very burdensome, _cf._ ms. misc. papers, oct. , . [ ] _stat. at l._, ii, - . these punishments were continued until repealed in , (_stat. at l._, x, ), when the penalty for robbery and burglary became imprisonment. this bore entirely on the master, so that in governor mifflin asked that corporal punishment be substituted. _hazard's register_, ii, . for theft whipping continued to be imposed, but guilty white people were punished in the same manner. ms. petitions, lancaster county, - , may, . ms. misc. papers, july, . [ ] see below, p. . [ ] "for that hee ... contrary to the lawes of the governmt and contrary to his masters consent hath ... got wth child a certaine molato wooman called swart anna" ... ms. rec. court at upland, ; penn mss. papers relating to the three lower counties, - , p. ; ms. minutes abington monthly meeting, st mo., . "david lewis constable of haverfoord returned a negro man of his and a white woman for haveing a baster childe ... the negroe said she intised him and promised him to marry him: she being examined, confest the same: ... the court ordered that she shall receive twenty one laishes on her beare backe ... and the court ordered the negroe never more to meddle with any white woman more uppon paine of his life." ms. min. chester co. courts, - , p. . [ ] ms. ancient rec. of phila., nov. , . [ ] _votes and proceedings_, ii, . [ ] _stat. at l._, iv, . _cf. votes and proceedings_, ii, , . for marriage or cohabiting without a master's consent a servant had to atone with extra service. _cf. stat. at l._, ii, . this obviously would not check a slave. [ ] apparently such a marriage had occurred in . ms. ancient rec. phila., nov. , , which mention "the clandestine mariage of m^r tuthil's negro and katherine williams." the petitioner, who was imprisoned for abetting the marriage, concludes: "i have discover'd who maried the foresd negroe, and shall acquaint your hon^{rs}." [ ] _american weekly mercury_, nov. , ; _pa. gazette_, feb. , - ; and _passim_. mittelberger mentions them in . _cf. journey to pennsylvania_, etc., ; ms. register of slaves in chester county, . [ ] "a circumstance not easily believed, is, that the subjection of the negroes has not corrupted the morals of their masters" ... abbé raynal, _british settlements in north america_ i, . raynal's authority is very poor. the assertion in the text rests rather on negative evidence. _cf. votes and proceedings_, , p. , for an instance of a white woman prostitute to negroes. _ibid._, - , p. , for evidence as to mulatto bastards by pauper white women. also ms. misc. papers, mar. , . for a case ( ) where the guilty white man was probably not a servant _cf._ ms. court papers, phila. co., - . benjamin franklin was openly accused of keeping negro paramours. _cf. what is sauce for a goose is also sauce for a gander_, etc. ( ), ; _a humble attempt at scurrility_, etc. ( ), . [ ] see below. [ ] _cf. col. rec._, i, . [ ] _stat. at l._, iv, - , (sections ix-xiii). tippling-houses seem to have given a good deal of trouble. in the grand jury presented several persons "for selling rum to negros and others" ... ms. ancient rec. of phila., nov. , . _cf._ also presentment of the grand jury, jan. , . _pa. mag._, xxii, . [ ] _col. rec._, i, - . "the great abuse and ill consiquence of the great multitudes of negroes who commonly meete togeither in a riott and tumultious manner on the first days of the weeke." ms. ancient rec. of phila., th mo., ; _ibid._, nov. , . [ ] "the grand inquest ... do present that whereas there has been divers rioters ... and the peace of our lord the king disturbers, by divers infants, bond servants, and negros, within this city after it is duskish ... that care may be taken to suppress the unruly negroes of this city accompanying to gether on the first day of the weeke, and that they may not be suffered to walk the streets in companys after it is darke without their masters leave" ... ms. ancient rec. of phila., apr. , . [ ] _minutes of the common council of the city of philadelphia, - _, , , , , , ; _col. rec._, iv, , ( ). [ ] "the grand inquest now met humly represent to this honourable court the great disorders commited on the first dayes of the week by servants, apprentice boys and numbers of negros it has been with great concearn observed that the whites in their tumultious resorts in the markets and other placies most darringly swear curse lye abuse and often fight striving to excell in all leudness and obsenity which must produce a generall corruption of such youth if not timely remidieed and from the concourse of negroes not only the above mischeiffs but other dangers may issue" ... ms. court papers, - , phila. co., . [ ] "many disorderly persons meet every evg. about the court house of this city, and great numbers of negroes and others sit there with milk pails, and other things, late at night, and many disorders are there committed against the peace and good government of this city" _minutes common council of phila._, . [ ] _pa. gazette_, nov. , . [ ] "an act for preventing accidents that may happen by fire," sect. iv, _stat. at l._, iii, ( ); "an act to prevent the damages, which may happen, by firing of woods," etc., sect. iii, _ibid._, iv, ( ); "an act for the trial of negroes," sect. v, _ibid._, ii, ( ); "an act for the more effectual preventing accidents which may happen by fire, and for suppressing idleness, drunkenness, and other debaucheries," sect. iii, _ibid._, v, , ( - ); "an act to prevent the hunting of deer," etc., sect. vii, _ibid._, vi, ( ); "an act for the better regulating the nightly watch within the city of philadelphia," etc., sect. xxii, _ibid._, v, ( - ); repeated in , , , , _ibid._, v, ; vi, ; vii, ; viii, ; "an act for regulating wagoners, carters, draymen, and porters," etc., sect. vii, _ibid._, vi, ( ); repeated in and , _ibid._ vi, ; vii, , . [ ] _cf._ the story of hodge's cato, told in watson, _annals of philadelphia and pennsylvania in the olden time_, etc., ii, . [ ] _cf._ achenwall, who got his information from franklin, _anmerkungen_, : "diese mohrensclaven geniessen als unterthanen des staats ... den schutz der gesetze, so gut als freye einwohner. wenn ein colonist, auch selbst der eigenthumsherr, einen schwarzen umbringt, so wird er gleichfalls zum tode verurtheilt. wenn der herr seinem sclaven zu harte arbeit auflegt, oder ihn sonst übel behandelt, so kan er ihn beym richter verklagen." also kalm, _travels_, i, . [ ] "yesterday at a supream court held in this city, sentence of death was passed upon william bullock, who was ... convicted of the murder of his negro slave." _american weekly mercury_, apr. , . [ ] kalm ( ) said that there was no record of such a sentence being carried out; but he adds that a case having arisen, even the magistrates secretly advised the guilty person to leave the country, "as otherwise they could not avoid taking him prisoner, and then he would be condemned to die according to the laws of the country, without any hopes of saving him". _travels_, i, , . for a case _cf. pa. gazette_, feb. , - . chapter iii. social and economic aspects of slavery. the mildness of slavery in pennsylvania impressed every observer. acrelius said that negroes were treated better there than anywhere else in america. peter kalm said that compared with the condition of white servants their condition possessed equal advantages except that they were obliged to serve their whole life-time without wages. hector st. john crèvecoeur declared that they enjoyed as much liberty as their masters, that they were in effect part of their masters' families, and that, living thus, they considered themselves happier than many of the lower class of whites.[ ] there is good reason for believing these statements, since a careful study of the sources shows that generally masters used their negroes kindly and with moderation.[ ] living in a land of plenty the slaves were well fed and comfortably clothed. they had as good food as the white servants, says one traveller, and another says as good as their masters.[ ] in the yearly cost of the food of a slave was reckoned at about twenty per cent. of his value.[ ] likewise they were well clad, their clothes being furnished by the masters. that clothes were a considerable item of expense is shown by the old household accounts and diaries. acrelius computed the yearly cost at five per cent. of a slave's value.[ ] in the newspaper advertisements for runaways occur particularly full descriptions of their dress.[ ] almost always they have a coat or jacket, shoes, and stockings.[ ] it is true that when they ran away they generally took the best they had, if not all they had; but making due allowance it seems certain that they were well clad, as an advertiser declared.[ ] as to shelter, since the climate and economy of pennsylvania never gave rise to a plantation life, rows of negro cabins and quarters for the hands never became a distinctive feature. slaves occupied such lodgings as were assigned to white servants, generally in the house of the master. this was doubtless not the case where a large number was held. they can hardly have been so accommodated by jonathan dickinson of philadelphia, who had thirty-two.[ ] in the matter of service their lot was a fortunate one. there seems to be no doubt that they were treated much more kindly than the negroes in the west indies, and that they were far happier than the slaves in the lower south. it is said that they were not obliged to labor more than white people, and, although this may hardly have been so, and although, indeed, there is occasional evidence that they were worked hard, yet for the most part it is clear that they were not overworked.[ ] the advertisements of negroes for sale show, as might be expected, that most of the slaves were either house-servants or farm-hands.[ ] nevertheless the others were engaged in a surprisingly large number of different occupations. among them were bakers, blacksmiths, brick-layers, brush-makers, carpenters, coopers, curriers, distillers, hammermen, refiners, sail-makers, sailors, shoe-makers, tailors, and tanners.[ ] the negroes employed at the iron-furnaces received special mention.[ ] the women cooked, sewed, did house-work, and at times were employed as nurses.[ ] when the service of negroes was needed they were often hired from their masters, but as a rule they were bought.[ ] they were frequently trusted and treated almost like members of the family.[ ] when the day's work was over the negroes of pennsylvania seem to have had time of their own which they were not too tired to enjoy. some no doubt found recreation in their masters' homes, gossipping, singing, and playing on rude instruments.[ ] many sought each other's company and congregated together after nightfall. in philadelphia, at any rate, during the whole colonial period, crowds of negroes infesting the streets after dark behaved with such rough and boisterous merriment that they were a nuisance to the whole community.[ ] at times negroes were given days of their own. they were allowed to go from one place to another, and were often permitted to visit members of their families in other households.[ ] moreover, holidays were not grudged them. it is said that in philadelphia at the time of fairs, the blacks to the number of a thousand of both sexes used to go to "potter's field," and there amuse themselves, dancing, singing, and rejoicing, in native barbaric fashion.[ ] if, now, from material comfort we turn to the matter of the moral and intellectual well-being of the slaves, we find that considering the time, surprising efforts were made to help them. in pennsylvania there seems never to have been opposition to improving them. not much was done, it is true, and perhaps most of the negroes were not reached by the efforts made. it must be remembered, however, what violent hostility mere efforts aroused in some other places.[ ] there is the statement of a careful observer that masters desired by all means to hinder their negroes from being instructed in the doctrines of christianity, and to let them live on in pagan darkness. this he ascribes to a fear that negroes would grow too proud on seeing themselves upon a religious level with their masters.[ ] some weight must be attached to this account, but it is probable that the writer was roughly applying to pennsylvania what he had learned in other places, for against his assertion much specific evidence can be arrayed. the attention of the friends was directed to this subject very early. the counsel of george fox was explicit. owners were to give their slaves religious instruction and teach them the gospel.[ ] in the keithian quakers when advising that masters should hold their negroes only for a term of years, enjoined that during such time they should give these negroes a christian education.[ ] in penn appears to have been able to get a monthly meeting established for them, but of the meeting no record has come down.[ ] as to what was the actual practice of friends in this matter their early records give meagre information. it seems certain that negroes were not allowed to participate in their meetings, though sometimes they were taken to the meeting-houses.[ ] it is probable that in great part the religious work of the friends among slaves was confined to godly advice and reading.[ ] as to the amount and quality of such advice, the well known character of the friends leaves no doubt. the moravians, who were most zealous in converting negroes, did not reach a great number in pennsylvania, because few were held by them; nevertheless they labored successfully, and received negroes amongst them on terms of religious equality.[ ] this also the lutherans did to some extent, negroes being baptized among them.[ ] it is in the case of the episcopalians, however, that the most definite knowledge remains. the records of christ church show that the negroes who were baptized made no inconsiderable proportion of the total number baptized in the congregation. for a period of more than seventy years such baptisms are recorded, and are sometimes numerous.[ ] at this church, also, there was a minister who had special charge of the religious instruction of negroes.[ ] it is possible that something may have been accomplished by missionaries and itinerant exhorters. this was certainly so when whitefield visited pennsylvania in . both he and his friend seward noted with peculiar satisfaction the results which they had attained.[ ] work of some value was also done by wandering negro exhorters, who, appearing at irregular intervals, assembled little groups and preached in fields and orchards.[ ] something was also accomplished for negroes in the maintenance of family life. in penn, anxious to improve their moral condition, sent to the assembly a bill for the regulation of their marriages, but much to his grief this was defeated.[ ] in the absence of such legislation they came under the law which forbade servants to marry during their servitude without the master's consent.[ ] doubtless in this matter there was much of the laxity which is inseparable from slavery, but it is said that many owners allowed their slaves to marry in accordance with inclination, except that a master would try to have his slaves marry among themselves.[ ] the marriage ceremony was often performed just as in the case of white people, the records of christ church containing many instances.[ ] the children of these unions were taught submission to their parents, who were indulged, it is said, in educating, cherishing, and chastising them.[ ] stable family life among the slaves was made possible by the conditions of slavery in pennsylvania, there being no active interchange of negroes. when they were bought or sold families were kept together as much as possible.[ ] in one matter connected with religious observances race prejudice was shown: negroes were not as a rule buried in the cemeteries of white people.[ ] in some of the friends' records and elsewhere there is definite prohibition.[ ] they were often buried in their masters' orchards, or on the edge of woodlands. the philadelphia negroes were buried in a particular place outside the city.[ ] under the kindly treatment accorded them the negroes of colonial pennsylvania for the most part behaved fairly well. it is true that there is evidence that crime among them assumed grave proportions at times, while the records of the special courts and items in the newspapers show that there occurred murder, poisoning, arson, burglary, and rape.[ ] in addition there was frequent complaint about tumultuous assembling and boisterous conduct, and there was undoubtedly much pilfering.[ ] moreover the patience of many indulgent masters was tried by the shiftless behavior and insolent bearing of their slaves.[ ] yet the graver crimes stand out in isolation rather than in mass; and it is too much to expect an entire absence of the lesser ones. the white people do not seem to have regarded their negroes as dangerous.[ ] almost never were there efforts for severe repression, and a slave insurrection seems hardly to have been thought of.[ ] there are no statistics whatever on which to base an estimate, but judging from the relative frequency of notices it seems probable that crime among the negroes of pennsylvania during the slavery period--no doubt because they were under better control--was less than at any period thereafter. but there was a misdemeanor of another kind: negro slaves frequently ran away. fugitives are mentioned from the first,[ ] and there is hardly a copy of any of the old papers but has an advertisement for some negro at large.[ ] these notices sometimes advise that the slave has stolen from his master; often that he has a pass, and is pretending to be a free negro; and occasionally that a free negro is suspected of harboring him.[ ] the law against harboring was severe and was strictly enforced. anyone might take up a suspicious negro; while whoever returned a runaway to his master was by law entitled to receive five shillings and expenses. it was always the duty of the local authorities to apprehend suspects. when this occurred the procedure was to lodge the negro in jail, and advertise for the master, who might come, and after proving title and paying costs, take him away. otherwise the negro was sold for a short time to satisfy jail fees, advertised again, and finally either set at liberty or disposed of as pleased the local court.[ ] this fleeing from service on the part of negro slaves, while varying somewhat in frequency, was fairly constant during the whole slavery period, increasing as the number of slaves grew larger. during the british occupation of philadelphia, however, it assumed such enormous proportions that the number of negroes held there was permanently lowered.[ ] notwithstanding, then, the kindly treatment they received, slaves in pennsylvania ran away. nevertheless it is significant that during the same period white servants ran away more than twice as often.[ ] many traits of daily life and marks of personal appearance which no historian has described, are preserved in the advertisements of the daily papers. almost every negro seems to have had the smallpox. to have done with this and the measles was justly considered an enhancement in value. some of the negroes kidnapped from africa still bore traces of their savage ancestry. not a few spoke several languages. generally they were fond of gay dress. some carried fiddles when they ran away. one had made considerable money by playing. many little hints as to character appear. thus mona is full of flattery. cuff dix is fond of liquor. james chews abundance of tobacco. stephen has a "sower countenance"; harry, "meek countenance"; rachel, "remarkable austere countenance"; dick is "much bandy legged"; violet, "pretty, lusty, and fat." a likely negro wench is sold because of her breeding fast. one negro says that he has been a preacher among the indians. two others fought a duel with pistols. a hundred years has involved no great change in character.[ ] finally, on the basis of information drawn from rare and miscellaneous sources it becomes apparent that in slavery times there was more kindliness and intimacy between the races than existed afterwards. in those days many slaves were treated as if part of the master's family: when sick they were nursed and cared for; when too old to work they were provided for; and some were remembered in the master's will.[ ] negroes did run away, and numbers of them desired to be free, but when manumission came not a few of them preferred to stay with their former owners. it was the opinion of an advocate of emancipation that they were better off as slaves than they could possibly be as freemen.[ ] such was slavery in pennsylvania. if on the one hand there was the chance of families being sold apart; if there was seen the cargo, the slave-drove, the auction sale; it must be remembered that such things are inseparable from the institution of slavery, and that on the other hand they were rare, and not to be weighed against the positive comfort and well-being of which there is such abundant proof. if ever it be possible not to condemn modern slavery, it might seem that slavery as it existed in pennsylvania in the eighteenth century was a good, probably for the masters, certainly for the slaves.[ ] the fact is that it existed in such mitigated form that it was impossible for it to be perpetuated. whenever men can treat their slaves as men in pennsylvania treated them, they are living in a moral atmosphere inconsistent with the holding of slaves. nothing can then preserve slavery but paramount economic needs. in pennsylvania, since such needs were not paramount, slavery was doomed. footnotes: [ ] acrelius, _description of new sweden_, ( ); kalm, _travels_, i, ( ); hector st. john crèvecoeur, _letters from an american farmer_, (just before the revolution). [ ] when one of christopher marshall's white servants "struck and kickt" his negro woman, he "could scarcely refrain from kicking him out of the house &c &c &c." ms. remembrancer, e, july , . [ ] kalm, i, ; st. john crèvecoeur, . benjamin lay contradicts this, but allowance must always he made for the extremeness of his assertions. _cf._ his _all slave-keepers apostates_ ( ), . [ ] acrelius, . [ ] st. john crèvecoeur, ; kalm, i, ; acrelius, . personal papers contain numerous notices. "to pr shoes for the negro ... " (sh.). ms. william penn's account book, - , p. ( ). a "bill rendered by christian grafford to james steel" is as follows: "making old holland jeakit and breeches fit for your negero . . making new jeakits and pair breeches of stripped linen for both your negeromans . . and also for little negero boy . . making pair leather breeches, for james sanders and another for your negroeman zeason . . ." _pa. mag._, xxxiii, ( ). the bill rendered for the shoes of thomas penn's negroes in - amounted to £ sh. d., the price per pair averaging about sh. d. penn-physick mss., iv, . also _ibid._, iv, , . _cf._ penn papers, accounts (unbound), aug. , ; christopher marshall's remembrancer, e, june , . [ ] thus cato had on "two jackets, the uppermost a dark blue half thick, lined with red flannel, the other a light blue homespun flannel, without lining, ozenbrigs shirt, old leather breeches, yarn stockings, old shoes, and an old beaver hat" ... _pa. gazette_, may , . a negro from chester county wore "a lightish coloured cloath coat, with metal buttons, and lined with striped linsey, a lightish linsey jacket with sleeves, and red waistcoat, tow shirt, old lightish cloth breeches, and linen drawers, blue stockings, and old shoes." _ibid._, jan. , . judith wore "a green jacket, a blue petticoat, old shoes, and grey stockings, and generally wears silver bobbs in her ears." _ibid._, feb. , - . [ ] _amer. weekly mercury_, jan. , ; jan. , ; _pa. gazette_, oct. , ; may , ; apr. , ; jan. , ; _pa. journal_, feb. , - ; _pa. mag._, xviii, . [ ] _pa. gazette_, may , . supported by advertisements _passim_. [ ] ms. dickinson papers, unclassified. a farm with a stone house for negroes is mentioned in _pa. gaz._, june , . "part of these slaves lived in their master's family, the others had separate cabins on the farm where they reared families" ... "jacob minshall homestead" in _reminiscence, gleanings and thoughts_, no. i, . [ ] kalm, _travels_, i, . for treatment of negroes in the west indies, _cf._ sandiford, _the mystery of iniquity_, ( ); benezet, _a short account of that part of africa inhabited by the negroes_ ( ), , , note; benezet, _a caution and warning to great britain and her colonies in a short representation of the calamitous state of the enslaved negroes_ ( ), - ; benezet, _some historical account of guinea_ ( ), chap. viii. for treatment in the south, _cf._ whitefield, _three letters_ ( ), , ; chastellux, _voyage en amérique_ ( ), . for treatment in pennsylvania _cf._ kalm, _travels_, i, ; st. john crèvecoeur, _letters_, . acrelius says that the negroes at the iron-furnaces were allowed to stop work for "four months in summer, when the heat is most oppressive." _description_, . [ ] _mercury, gazette_, and _pa. packet_, _passim_. most of the taverns seem to have had negro servants. _cf._ ms. assessment book, chester co., , p. ; of bucks co., , p. . [ ] _mercury_, mar. . - ; dec. , ; july , ; aug. , ; _gazette_, feb. , ; dec. , ; may , ; nov. , ; july , dec. , ; _packet_, july , . [ ] "the laborers are generally composed partly of negroes (slaves) partly of servants from germany or ireland" ... acrelius, _description_, . _cf._ gabriel thomas, _an historical and geographical account of the province and country of pensilvania_ ( ), etc., . [ ] _mercury_, jan. , - ; july , ; nov. , . _gazette_, july , ; mar. , . "a compleat washerwoman" is advertised in the _gazette_, oct. , ; also "an extraordinary washer of clothes," _gazette_, apr. , ; penn-physick, mss iv, ( ). [ ] _gazette_, may , ; july , ; nov. , ; may , ; dec. , . _cf._ notices in william penn's cash book (ms.), , , , , ; john wilson's cash book (ms.), feb. , ; ms. phila. account book, ( ); ms. logan papers, ii, ( ); richard hayes's ledger (ms.), ( ). [ ] _cf._ the numerous allusions to his negro woman made by christopher marshall in his remembrancer. an entry in john wilson's cash book (ms.), apr. , , says: "paid his" (joseph pemberton's) "negro woman market mony ... / ." the following advertisement is illustrative, although perhaps it reveals the advertiser's art as much as the excellence and reliability of the negress. "a likely young negroe wench, who can cook and wash well, and do all sorts of house-work; and can from experience, be recommended both for her honesty and sobriety, having often been trusted with the keys of untold money, and liquors of various sorts, none of which she will taste. she is no idler, company-keeper or gadder about. she has also a fine, hearty young child, not quite a year old, which is the only reason for selling her, because her mistress is very sickly, and can't bear the trouble of it." _pa. gazette_, apr. , . [ ] "thou knowest negro peters ingenuity in making for himself and playing on a fiddle w^{th} out any assistance as the thing in them is innocent and diverting and may keep them from worse employmt i have to encourage in my service promist him one from engld therefore buy and bring a good strong well made violin w^{th} or sets of spare gut for the suitable strings get somebody of skill to chuse and by it".... ms. isaac norris, letter book, , p. . [ ] see above, pp. - . [ ] "our negro woman got leave to visit her children in bucks county." christopher marshall's remembrancer, d, jan. , . "this afternoon came home our negro woman dinah." _ibid._, d, jan. , . [ ] watson, _annals_, i, . _cf._ letter of william hamilton of lancaster: "yesterday (being negroes holiday) i took a ride into maryland." _pa. mag._, xxix, . [ ] for the treatment of william edmundson when he tried to convert negroes in the west indies, _cf._ his _journal_, ; gough, _a history of the people called quakers_, iii, . _cf._ ms. board of trade journals, iii, ( ). [ ] kalm, _travels_, i, . "it's obvious, that the future welfare of those poor slaves ... is generally too much disregarded by those who keep them." _an epistle of caution and advice, concerning the buying and keeping of slaves_ ( ), . this, however, is neglect rather than opposition. [ ] fox's _epistles_, in _friend's library_, i, ( ). [ ] "an exhortation and caution to friends concerning buying or keeping of negroes," in _pa. mag._, xiii, . [ ] proud, _history of pennsylvania_, ; gordon, _history of pennsylvania_, . [ ] "several" (negroes) "are brought to meetings." ms. minutes radnor monthly meetings, - , p. ( ). "most of those possessed of them ... often bring them to our meetings." _ibid._, ( ). [ ] _cf._ ms. yearly meeting advices, - , "negroes or slaves." [ ] cranz, _the ancient and modern history of the brethren ... unitas fratrum_, , ; ogden, _an excursion into bethlehem and nazareth in pennsylvania_, , ; i _pa. arch._, iii, ; _pa. mag._, xxix, . [ ] _cf._ bean, _history of montgomery county_, . [ ] ms. records of christ church, phila., i, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . baptisms were very frequent in the years and . very many of the slaves admitted were adults, whereas in the case of free negroes at the same period most of the baptisms were of children. [ ] william macclanechan, writing to the archbishop of canterbury in , says: "on my journey to new-england, i arrived at the oppulent city of philadelphia, where i paid my compliments to the rev'd dr. jenney, minister of christ's church in that city, and to the rev'd mr. sturgeon, _catechist to the negroes_." h. w. smith, _life and correspondence of the rev. william smith_, i, . [ ] "many negroes came, ... some enquiring, have i a soul?" gillies and seymour, _memoirs of the life and character of ... rev. george whitefield_ ( d ed.), . "i believe near fifty negroes came to give me thanks, under god, for what has been done to their souls.... some of them have been effectually wrought upon, and in an uncommon manner." _a continuation of the reverend mr. whitefield's journal_, , . "visited a negroe and prayed with her, and found her heart touched by divine grace. praised be the lord, methinks one negroe brought to jesus christ is peculiarly sweet to my soul." w. seward, _journal of a voyage from savannah to philadelphia_, etc., apr. , . [ ] "this afternoon a negro man from cecil county maryland preached in orchard opposite to ours. there was sundry people, they said he spoke well for near an hour." ms. ch. marshall's remembrancer, e, july , . [ ] "then (the pror and gov.) proposed to them the necessitie of a law ... about the marriages of negroes." _col. rec._, i, , , ; _votes and proceedings_, i, , ; bettle, "notices of negro slavery as connected with pennsylvania," in _mem. hist. soc. pa._, vi, ; clarkson, _life of penn_, ii, - . clarkson attributes the defeat to the lessening of quaker influence, the lower tone of the later immigrants, and temporary hostility to the executive. more probably the bill failed because stable marriage relations have always been found incompatible with the ready movement and transfer of slave property; and because at this early period the slaveholders recognized this fact, and were not yet disposed to allow their slaves to marry. [ ] _stat. at l._, ii, . _cf._ commonwealth _v._ clements ( ), binney . [ ] st. john crèvecoeur, _letters_, ; kalm, _travels_, i, . kalm adds that it was considered an advantage to have negro women, since otherwise the offspring belonged to another master. [ ] ms. rec. christ church, , , , , , , , , , , ; ms. rec. first reformed church, , ; ms. rec. st. michael's and zion, . among the friends there are very few records of such marriages. _cf._ however, ms. journal of joshua brown, d mo., : ... "i rode to philadelphia ... and lodged that night at william browns and th day of the mo^{th} i spent in town and was at a negro wedding in the eving where several pe^r mett and had a setting with them and they took each other and the love of god seemd to be extended to them".... a negro marriage according to friends' ceremony is recorded in ms. deed book o, , west chester. _cf._ mittelberger, _journey_, , "the blacks are likewise married in the english fashion." there must have been much laxity, however, for only a part of which the negroes were to blame. "they are suffered, with impunity, to cohabit together, without being married, and to part, when solemnly engaged to one another as man and wife".... benezet, _some historical account of guinea_, . [ ] st. john crèvecoeur, _letters_, . [ ] "acco^t of negroes dr. ... for my negroe cuffee and his wife rose and their daughter jenny bo^t of w^m banloft ... / / ." ms. james logan's account book, ( ). "wanted, four or five negro men ... if they have families, wives, or children, all will be purchased together." _pa. packet_, aug. , . _cf._ also _mercury_, june , ; june , ; _independent gazeteer_, july , . _cf._ however, benezet, _some historical account of guinea_, ; crawford, _observations upon negro slavery_ ( ), , ; _pa. packet_, jan. , . [ ] this was not always the case. the ms. rec. of sandy bank cemetery, delaware co., contains the names of two negroes. [ ] ms. minutes middletown monthly meeting, d book a, , , ; _pa. mag._, viii, ; isaac comly, "sketches of the history of byberry," in _mem. hist. soc. pa._, ii, . there were exceptions, however. _cf._ ms. bk. of rec. merion meeting grave yard. [ ] bean, _hist. montgomery co._, ; martin, _hist. of chester_, ; kalm, _travels_, i, ; _pa. gazette_, nov. , . [ ] _stat. at l._, iv, ; _col. rec._, ii, ; _pa. arch._ xi, ; _mercury_, apr. , ; _phila. staatsbote_, jan. , , _pa. gazette_, nov. , . for an instance of a slave killing his master, _cf._ ms. supreme court papers, xxi, . this was very rare. _pa. mag._, xiii, . according to judge bradford's statement arson was "the crime of slaves and children." _journal of senate of pa., - _, p. ; _col. rec._, iv, , , ; xii, ; ms. miscellaneous papers, feb. , . _cf._ especially ms. records of special courts for the trial of negroes; _col. rec._, ix, ; ms. streper papers, . [ ] in the council spoke of the "insolent behaviour of the negroes in and about the city, which has of late been so much taken notice of".... _col. rec._, iv, ; _votes and proceedings_, iv, . as to pilfering franklin remarked that almost every slave was by nature a thief. _works_ (ed. sparks), ii, . [ ] the following has not lost all significance. "i was much disturbed after i came our girl poll driving her same stroke of impudence as when she was in philad^a and her mistress so hood-winked by her as not to see it which gave me much uneasiness and which i am determined not to put up with".... ch. marshall, remembrancer, d, aug. , . _cf._ also _remarks on the quaker unmasked_ ( ). [ ] as shown by the very careless enforcement of the special regulations. [ ] except immediately following the negro "insurrection" in new york in . _cf. stat. at l._, ii, ; _pa. arch._, iv, ; _pa. arch._, xv, . [ ] "a negro man and a white woman servant being taken up ... and brought before john simcocke justice in commission for runaways who upon examination finding they had noe lawful passe comitted them to prison" ... ms. court rec. penna. and chester co., - , p. ; ms. new castle ct. rec., liber a, ( ); ms. minutes ct. quarter sess. bucks co., - , p. ( ); ms. minutes chester co. courts, - , p. ( - ). for the continual going away of christopher marshall's "girl poll," see his remembrancer, vol. d. [ ] the following is not only typical, but is very interesting on its own account, since abraham lincoln was a descendent of the family mentioned. "run away on the th of _september_ last from _abraham lincoln_ of _springfield_ in the county of chester, a negro man named jack, about years of age, low stature, speaks little or no _english_, has a scar by the corner of one eye, in the form of a v, his teeth notched, and the top of one on his fore teeth broke; he had on when he went away an old hat, a grey jacket partly like a sailor's jacket. whoever secures the said negro, and brings him to his master, or to _mordecai_ lincoln ... shall have _twenty shillings_ reward and reasonable charges." _pa. gazette_, oct. , . [ ] _mercury_, apr. , ; july , ; _gazette_, may , ; feb. , ; july , ; jan. , ; _packet_, oct. , ; aug. , . one negro indentured himself to a currier. _gazette_, aug. , . such negroes the community was warned not to employ. _packet_, feb. , . [ ] the penalty was thirty shillings for every day. _stat. at l._, iv, ( - ). there was need for regulation from the first. _cf. col. rec._, i, . an advertisement from reading in _gazette_, july , , explains the procedure when suspects were held in jail. such advertisements recur frequently. _cf. mercury_, aug. , (third notice); _gazette_, dec. , ; _packet_, mar. , . [ ] for negroes carried off or who ran away at this time _cf._ ms. miscellaneous papers, sept. , ; nov. , ; aug. , ; and others. numbers of strange negroes were reported to be wandering around in northumberland county. _ibid._, aug. , . in the six nations had been asked not to harbor runaway negroes, since they were "the support and livelihood of their masters, and gett them their bread." _pa. arch._, ii, , . [ ] so i judge from statistics which i have compiled from the advertisements in the newspapers. [ ] _mercury_, apr. , ; _packet_, july , ; _gazette_, june , ; feb. , ; jan. , ; july , ; _gazette_, nov. , ; feb. , . "'old dabbo' an african negro ... call'd here for some victuals.... he had three gashes on each cheek made by his mother when he was a child.... his conversation is scarcely intelligible"; ms. diary of joel swayne, - , mar. , . _mercury_, aug. , ; _packet_, aug. , ; _gazette_, july , - ; _mercury_, june , ; _packet_, june , ; _packet_, dec. , ; _gazette_, sept. , ; july , ; sept. , ; oct. , ; july , ; may , ; oct. , ; aug. , ; mar. , - ; july , ; apr. , ; july , ; _packet_, jan. , . [ ] "my dear companion ... has really her hands full, cow to milk, breakfast to get, her negro woman to bath, give medicine, cap up with flannels, as she is allways sure to be poorly when the weather is cold, snowy and slabby. its then she gives her mistriss a deal of fatigue trouble in attending on her." ch. marshall, remembrancer, e, mar. , . "to israel taylor p order of the com^s for cureing negro jack legg ... / to roger parke for cureing negro sam ... / / ." ms. william penn's account book, - , p. . a bill for £ sh. d. was rendered to thomas penn for nursing and burying his negro sam. some of the items are very humorous. ms. penn papers, accounts (unbound), feb. , . the bill for thomas penn's negroes, hagar, diana, and susy, for the years and , amounted to £ sh. penn-physick mss., iv, . an item in a bill rendered to mrs. margaretta frame is: "to bleeding her negro man sussex ... / / ." ms. penn papers, accounts (unbound), june , . st. john crèvecoeur, _letters_, . masters were compelled by law to support their old slaves who would otherwise have become charges on the community. _cf. stat. at l._, x, ; _laws of pa., _, p. ; _ - _, pp. , . in very many cases, however, old negroes were maintained comfortably until death in the families where they had served. _cf._ ms. phila. wills, x, ( ). there are numerous instances of negroes receiving property by their master's wills. _cf._ west chester will files, no. ( ). for the darker side _cf._ lay, _all slave-keepers apostates_, . [ ] "many of those whom the good quakers have emancipated have received the great benefit with tears in their eyes, and have never quitted, though free, their former masters and benefactors." st. john crèvecoeur, _letters_, ; _pa. mag._, xviii, , ; buck, ms. _history of bucks co._, marginal note of author in his scrapbook. for the superiority of slavery _cf._ j. harriot, _struggles through life_, etc., ii, . also watson, _annals_, ii, . [ ] it has been suggested that it was milder than the system under which redemptioners were held, and that hence "quaker scruples against slavery were either misplaced or insincere." c. a. herrick, "indentured labor in pennsylvania," (ms. thesis, university of pa.), . an examination of the quaker records would have shown that the last part of this statement is not true. see below, chaps. iv, v. chapter iv. the breaking up of slavery--manumission. in pennsylvania the disintegration of slavery began as soon as slavery was established, for there were free negroes in the colony at the beginning of the eighteenth century.[ ] manumission may have taken place earlier than this, for in an owner made definite promise of freedom to his negro.[ ] the first indisputable case now known, however, occurred in , when a certain lydia wade living in chester county freed her slaves by testament.[ ] in the same year william penn on his return to england liberated his blacks likewise.[ ] judging from the casual and unexpected references to free negroes which come to light from time to time, it seems probable that other masters also bestowed freedom. at any rate the status of the free negro had come to be recognized about this time as one to be protected by law, for when in antonio garcia, a spanish mulatto, was brought to philadelphia as a slave, he appealed to the provincial council, and presently was set at liberty.[ ] in the records of christ church mention jane, a free negress, who was baptized there with her daughter.[ ] this freeing of negroes at so early a time in the history of the colony is sufficiently remarkable. it might be expected that manumission would have been rare; and, indeed, the records are very few at first. nevertheless a law passed in - would indicate that the practice was by no means unusual.[ ] it is not possible.to say what was the immediate cause of the passing of that part of the act which refers to manumission. it may have been the growth of a class of black freemen, or it may have been the desire to check manumission;[ ] but it was probably neither of these things so much as it was the practice of masters who set free their infirm slaves when the labor of those slaves was no longer remunerative.[ ] this practice together with the usual shiftlessness of most of the freedmen makes the resulting legislation intelligible enough. it provided that thereafter if any master purposed to set his negro free, he should obligate himself at the county court to secure the locality in which the negro might reside from any expense occasioned by the sickness of the negro or by his inability to support himself. if a negro received liberty by will, recognizance should be entered into by the executor immediately. without this no negro was to be deemed free. the security was fixed at thirty pounds.[ ] whatever may have been the full purpose of this statute, there can be no question that it did check manumission to a certain extent. a standing obligation of thirty pounds, which might at any moment become an unpleasant reality, when added to the other sacrifices which freeing a slave entailed, was probably sufficient to discourage many who possessed mildly good intentions. several times it was protested that the amount was so excessive as to check the beneficence of owners:[ ] and on one occasion it was computed that the thirty pounds required did not really suffice to support such negroes as became charges, but that a different method and a smaller sum would have secured better results.[ ] the burden to owners was no doubt felt very grievously during the latter half of the eighteenth century, when manumission was going on so actively, and it is known that the assembly was asked to give relief.[ ] nevertheless nothing was done until when the abolition act swept from the statute-books all previous legislation about the negro, slave as well as free.[ ] in spite of the obstacles created by the statute of - , the freeing of negroes continued. in john baldwin of chester ordered in his will that his negress be freed one year after his decease. two years later ralph sandiford is said to have given liberty to all of his slaves. in judge langhorne in bucks county devised freedom to all of his negroes, between thirty and forty in number. in by the will of john knowles of oxford, negro james was to be made free on condition that he gave security to the executors to pay the thirty pounds if required. somewhat before this time john harris, the founder of harrisburg, set free the faithful negro hercules, who had saved his life from the indians. in samuel blunson manumitted his slaves at columbia. during this period negroes were occasionally sent to the moravians, who gave them religious training, baptized them, and after a time set them at liberty. during the following years the records of some of the churches refer again and again to free negroes who were married in them, baptized in them, or who brought their children to them to be baptized.[ ] at an early date there was a sufficient number of free black people in pennsylvania to attract the attention of philanthropists; and it is known that whitefield as early as took up a tract of land partly with the intention of making a settlement of free negroes.[ ] up to this time, however, manumission probably went on in a desultory manner, hampered by the large security required, and practised only by the most ardent believers in human liberty. the middle of the eighteenth century marked a great turning-point. the southeastern part of pennsylvania, in which most of the negroes were located, was peopled largely by quakers, who in many localities were the principal slave-owners, and who at different periods during the eighteenth century probably held from a half to a third of all the slaves in the colony. but they were never able to reconcile this practice entirely with their religious belief and from the very beginning it encountered strong opposition. as this opposition is really part of the history of abolition in pennsylvania it will be treated at length in the following chapter. here it is sufficient to say that from a long warfare was carried on, for the most part by zealous reformers who gradually won adherents, until about the friends' meetings declared against slavery, and the members who were not slave-owners undertook to persuade those who still owned negroes to give them up. the feeling among some of the friends was extraordinary at this time. they went from one slaveholder to another expostulating, persuading, entreating. it was then that the saintly john woolman did his work; but he was only the most distinguished among many others. it is hardly possible to read over the records of any friends' meeting for the next thirty years without finding numerous references to work of this character; and in more than one journal of the period mention is made of the obstacles encountered and the expedients employed.[ ] the results of their efforts were far-reaching. many friends who would have scrupled to buy more slaves, and who were convinced that slave-holding was an evil, yet retained such slaves as they had, through motives of expediency, and also because they believed that negroes held in mild bondage were better off than when free. against this temporizing policy the reformers fought hard, and aided by the decision of the yearly meeting that slaveholders should no longer participate in the affairs of the society, carried forward their work with such success that within one more generation slavery among the friends in pennsylvania had passed away. during the period, then, from to manumission among the friends became very frequent. many slaves were set free outright, their masters assuming the liability required by law. others were manumitted on condition that they would not become chargeable.[ ] some owners gave promise of freedom at the end of a certain number of years, considering the service during those years an equivalent for the financial obligation which at the end they would have to assume.[ ] often the negro was given his liberty on condition that at a future time he would pay to the master his purchase price.[ ] in a writer said that numerous negroes had gained conditional freedom, and were wandering around the country in search of employment so as to pay their owners. the magistrates of philadelphia complained of this as a nuisance.[ ] just how many slaves gained their freedom during this period it is impossible to say. the church records mention them again and again; and they become, what they had not been before, the occasion of frequent notice and serious speculation.[ ] other people began now to follow the friends' example,[ ] and the belief in abstract principles of freedom aroused by the revolutionary struggle gave further impetus to the movement.[ ] in every quarter, now, manumissions were constantly being made.[ ] any estimate as to how many negroes, servants and free, there were in pennsylvania by must be largely a conjecture, but it is perhaps safe to say that there were between four and five thousand.[ ] the act of , which put an end to the further growth of slavery in pennsylvania, marked the beginning of the final work of the liberators. coming at a time when so many people had given freedom to their slaves, and passing with so little opposition in the assembly as to show that the majority of pennsylvania's people no longer had sympathy with slavery, it was the signal to the abolitionists to urge the manumission of such negroes as the law had left in bondage. the task was made easier by the fact that not only was the value of the slave property now much diminished, but a man no longer needed to enter into surety when he set his slaves free. doubtless many whose religious scruples had been balanced by material considerations, now saw the way smooth before them, or arranged to make the sacrifice cost them little or nothing at all. during this period manumission took on a commercial aspect which formerly had not been so evident. this was brought about in several ways. sometimes negroes had saved enough to purchase their liberty.[ ] many, as before, received freedom upon binding themselves to pay for it at the expiration of a certain time.[ ] in this they often received assistance from well-disposed people, in particular from the friends, who had by no means stopped the good work when their own slaves were set free.[ ] at times the entire purchase money was paid by some philanthropist.[ ] frequently one member of a negro family bought freedom for another, the husband often paying for his wife, the father for his children.[ ] furthermore it had now become common to bind out negroes for a term of years, and many owners who desired their slaves to be free, found partial compensation in selling them for a limited period, on express condition that all servitude should be terminated strictly in accordance with the contract. by furthering such transactions the benevolent tried to help negroes to gain freedom.[ ] occasionally the slave liberated was bound for a term of years to serve the former master.[ ] even at this period, however, negroes continued to be manumitted from motives of pure benevolence. some received liberty by the master's testament, and others were held only until assurance was given the master that he would not become liable under the poor law.[ ] as the result of the earnest efforts that were made slavery in pennsylvania dwindled steadily. in the course of a long time it would doubtless have passed away as the result of continued individual manumission. as a matter of fact, it had become almost extinct within two generations after . this was brought about by work that affected not individuals, but whole classes, and finally all the people of the state; which was designed to strike at the root of slavery and destroy it altogether. this was abolition. footnotes: [ ] it is of course possible that some of these negroes had been servants, and that their period of service was over. [ ] "where as william clark did buy ... an negor man called and knowen by the name of black will for and during his natrill life; never the less the said william clark doe for the incourigment of the sd neagor servant hereby promise covenant and agree; that if the said black will doe well and truely sarve the said william clark ... five years ... then the said black will shall be clear and free of and from any further or longer sarvicetime or slavery ... as wittnes my hand this thurteenth day of ... june anno; din; ." ms. ancient rec. of sussex co., - , p. . [ ] "my will is that my negroes john and jane his wife shall be set free one month after my decease." ashmead, _history of delaware county_, . [ ] "i give to ... my blacks their freedom as is under my hand already" ... ms. will of william penn, newcastle on delaware, th br, . this will, which was left with james logan, was not carried out. penn's last will contains no mention of his negroes. he frequently mentions them elsewhere. _cf._ ms. letters and papers of william penn (dreer), ( ), ( ); _pa. mag._, xxxiii, ( ); ms. logan papers. ii, ( ). _cf._ also penn. mss., official correspondence, . [ ] _col. rec._, ii, . [ ] jane "a free negro woman" ... ms. rec. christ church, . [ ] "whereas 'tis found by experience that free negroes are an idle, slothful people and often prove burdensome to the neighborhood and afford ill examples to other negroes" ... "an act for the better regulating of negroes in this province." _stat. at l._, iv, . [ ] "our ancestors ... for a long time deemed it policy to obstruct the emancipation of slaves and affected to consider a free negro as a useless if not a dangerous being" ... letter of w. rawle ( ), in ms. rec. pa. soc. abol. slavery. [ ] _votes and proceedings_, ii, , . [ ] "an act for the better regulating of negroes in this province." _stat. at l._, iv, ( - ). [ ] "this is however very expensive for they are obliged to make a provision for the negro thus set at liberty, to afford him subsistence when he is grown old, that he may not be driven by necessity to wicked actions, or that he may be at anybody's charge, for these free negroes become very lazy and indolent afterwards." kalm, _travels_, i, ( ). [ ] _cf. votes and proceedings, - _, p. . the author of _brief considerations on slavery, and the expediency of its abolition_ ( ) argued that the public derived benefit from the labor of adult free negroes, and that the public should pay the surety required. by an elaborate calculation he endeavored to prove that a sum of about five shillings deposited at interest by the community each year of the negro's life after he was twenty-one, would amply suffice for all requirements. pp. - of the second part, entitled "an account stated on the manumission of slaves." he says "as the laws stand at present in several of our northern governments, the act of manumission is clogged with difficulties that almost amount to a prohibition." _ibid._, . [ ] _votes and proceedings, - _, p. . [ ] _stat. at l._, x, . [ ] martin, _history of chester_, ; watson, _annals_, ii, ; _pa. mag._, vii, ; davis, _history of bucks county_, ; ms. in miscellaneous collection, box , negroes; morgan, _annals of harrisburg_, ; smedley, _history of the underground railroad in chester_, etc., ; _pa. mag._, xii, ; xxix, , ; ms. rec. christ church, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ; ms. rec. first reformed church, , ; ms. rec. st. michael's and zion, . [ ] _cf._ conyngham's "historical notes," in _mem. hist. soc. pa._, i, . [ ] see below, p. . [ ] ms. miscellaneous papers, - , chester co., ( ). [ ] they were generally held longer than apprentices or white servants--until twenty-eight or thirty years of age, but many of the friends protested against this. ms. diary of richard barnard, mo., ; m.s. minutes exeter monthly meeting, book b, ( ). [ ] "i do hereby certify that benjamin mifflin hath given me directions to sell his negro man cuff to himself for the sum of sixty pounds if he can raise the money having repeatedly refused from others seventy five pounds and upwards for him." ms. ( ) in misc. coll., box , negroes. [ ] _pa. gazette_, mar. , . [ ] _cf._ benezet, _some historical account of guinea_, , , where he laments the difficulties under which free negroes labor. also same author, _a mite cast into the treasury_, - , where he argues that negro servants should not be held longer than white apprentices. [ ] "die mährischen brüder folgten diesem rühmlichen beispiel; so auch christen von den übrigen bekenntnissen." ebeling, in _erdbeschreibung_, etc., iv, . [ ] _cf._ preamble to the act of . _stat. at l._, x, , . a negro twenty-one years old was manumitted because "all mankind have an equal natural and just right to liberty." ms. extracts rec. goshen monthly meeting, (g. cope). [ ] ms. general quarter sessions of the peace, phila. co., - . franklin, letter to dean woodward, apr. , , in _works_ (ed. sparks), viii, . [ ] in the number of negroes in pennsylvania, including delaware, was thought to be , . _cf._ above, p. . the negroes in pennsylvania alone by probably did not exceed the same number. of these , were said to be slaves. _cf._ above, _ibid._ in some places by this time manumission was nearly complete. _cf._ w. j. buck, in _coll. hist. soc. pa._, i, . [ ] mss. misc. coll., box , negroes. [ ] ms. rec. pa. soc. abol. sl., i, , , , , , and _passim_. [ ] a ms. dated phila., , contains a list of persons who had promised to contribute towards purchasing a negro's freedom. among the memoranda are: "john head agrees to give him twenty shillings and not to be repaid ... john benezet twenty shillings ... christopher marshall / / .... if he can raise with my donation enough to free him i agree to give him three pounds and not otherwise i promise saml emlen jur ... joseph pemberton by his desire [five _erased_] pounds £ ." ms. misc. coll., box , negroes. [ ] misc. mss. - . northern, interior and western counties, ( ). [ ] in a negro of bucks county to secure the freedom of his wife gave his note to be paid by . in , having paid part, he was allowed to take his wife until the next payment. in she was free. ms. rec. pa. soc. abol. sl., i, - . in negro samson had purchased his wife and children for ninety-nine pounds. _ibid._, i, . james oronogue, who had been hired by his master to the keeper of a tavern, gained by his obliging behavior sixty pounds from the customers within four years' time, and at his master's death was allowed to purchase his freedom for one hundred pounds. he paid besides fifty pounds for his wife. _ibid._, i, . when cuff douglas had been a slave for thirty-seven years his master promised him freedom after four years more. on the master agreeing to take thirty pounds in lieu of this service, douglas hired himself out, and was free at the end of sixteen months. he then began business as a tailor, and presently was able to buy his wife and children for ninety pounds, besides one son for whom he paid forty-five pounds. _ibid._, i, . also _ibid._, i, , . [ ] "wanted to purchase, a good negro wench.... if to be sold on terms of freedom by far the most agreeable." _pa. packet_, aug. , . in caspar wistar bought a slave for sixty pounds "to extricate him from that degraded situation" ..., his purpose being to keep the negro for a term of years only. ms, misc. coll., box , negroes. numerous other examples among the same mss. [ ] "i, john lettour from motives of benevolence and humanity ... do ... set free ... my negro girl agathe aged about seventeen years. on condition ... that she ... bind herself by indenture to serve me ... six years".... ms. _ibid. cf._ ms. abstract rec. abington monthly meeting, ( ). [ ] "i manumit ... my negro girl abb when she shall arrive to the age of eighteen years ... (on condition that the committee for the abolition of slavery shall make entry according to law ... so as to secure me from any costs or trouble on me or my estate on said negro after the age of eighteen years) ... hannah evans." ms. misc. coll., box , negroes. _cf._ _stat. at l._, x, . at times this might become an unpleasant reality. _cf._ ms. state of a case respecting a negro (ridgway branch). chapter v. the destruction of slavery--abolition. the events which led to the extinction of slavery in pennsylvania fall naturally into four periods. they are, first, the years from to about , during which the germans discountenanced slave-holding, and the friends ceased importing negroes; second, the period of the quaker abolitionists, from about to , by which time slavery among the quakers had come to an end; third, from to , the years of legislative action; and finally, the period from to the time when slavery in pennsylvania became extinct through the gradual working of the act for abolition. opposition to slaveholding arose among the friends. slavery had not yet been recognized in statute law when they began to protest against it. this protest, faint in the beginning and taken up only by a few idealists, was never stopped afterwards, but, growing continually in strength, was, as the events of after years showed, from the first fraught with foreboding of doom to the institution. opposition on the part of the friends had begun before pennsylvania was founded. in fox, travelling in the west indies, advised his brethren in barbadoes to deal mildly with their negroes, and after certain years of servitude to make them free. four years later william edmundson in one of his letters asked how it was possible for men to reconcile christ's command, to do as they would be done by, with the practice of holding slaves without hope or expectation of freedom.[ ] nevertheless in the first years after the settlement of pennsylvania friends were the principal slaveholders. this led to differences of opinion, but at the start economic considerations prevailed. the reform really began in , a year memorable for the first formal protest against slavery in north america.[ ] germantown had been settled by german refugees who in religious belief were friends. these men, simple-minded and honest, having had no previous acquaintance with slavery, were amazed to find it existing in penn's colony. at their monthly meeting, the eighteenth of the second month, , pastorius and other leaders drew up an eloquent and touching memorial. in words of surpassing nobleness and simplicity they stated the reasons why they were against slavery and the traffic in men's bodies. would the masters wish so to be dealt with? was it possible for this to be in accord with christianity? in pennsylvania there was freedom of conscience; there ought likewise to be freedom of the body. what report would it cause in europe that in this new land the quakers handled men as there men treated their cattle? if it were possible that christian men might do these things they desired to be so informed.[ ] this protest they sent to the monthly meeting at richard worrel's. there it was considered, and found too weighty to be dealt with, and so it was sent on to the quarterly meeting at philadelphia, and from thence to the yearly meeting at burlington, which finally decided not to give a positive judgment in the case.[ ] for the present nothing came of it; but the idea did not die. it probably lingered in the minds of many men; for within a few years a sentiment had been aroused which became widespread and powerful. in george keith, leader of a dissenting faction of quakers, laid down as one of his doctrines that negroes were men, and that slavery was contrary to the religion of christ; also that masters should set their negroes at liberty after some reasonable time.[ ] at a meeting of friends held in philadelphia in the prevailing opinion was that none should buy except to set free. three years later at the friends' yearly meeting it was resolved to discourage the further bringing in of slaves.[ ] in when the yearly meeting at philadelphia desiring counsel applied to the yearly meeting at london, it received answer that the multiplying of negroes might be of dangerous consequence.[ ] in the next and the following years the meetings strongly advised friends not to import and not to buy slaves.[ ] from to reports showed that the importation of negroes by friends was being largely discontinued. by it had virtually ceased.[ ] it is generally believed that pennsylvania's restrictive legislation, that long series of acts passed for the purpose of keeping out negroes by means of prohibitive duties, was largely due to quaker influence. this is probably true, but it is not easy to prove. the proceedings of the colonial assembly have been reported so briefly that they do not give the needed information. when, however, the strong feeling of the friends is understood in connection with the fact that they controlled the early legislatures, it is not hard to believe that the high duties were imposed because they wished the traffic at an end. their feeling about the slave-trade and their desire to stop it are revealed again and again in the meeting minutes.[ ] the most drastic law was certainly due to them.[ ] but the small number of negroes in pennsylvania as compared with the neighboring northern colonies was above all due to the early and continuous aversion to slavery manifested by the germans. the first german settlers opposed the institution for religious reasons.[ ] this opposition is perhaps to be ascribed to them as quakers rather than as men of a particular race. but as successive swarms poured into the country it was found, it may be from religious scruples, more probably because of peculiar economic characteristics and because of feelings of sturdy industry and self-reliance, that they almost never bought negroes nor even hired them.[ ] as the german element in pennsylvania was very considerable, amounting at times to one-third of the population, such a course, though lacking in dramatic quality, and though it has been unheralded by the historians, was nevertheless of immense and decisive importance.[ ] during this period, then, much had been accomplished. not only had the germans turned their backs upon slave-holding, but the friends, brought to perceive the iniquity of the practice, had ceased importing slaves, and for the most part had ceased buying them. it was another generation before the conservative element could be brought to advance beyond this position. it was not so easy to make them give up the slaves they already had. the succeeding period was characterized by an inevitable struggle which ensued between considerations of economy and ethics. the attitude of many friends was that in refusing to buy any more slaves they were fulfilling all reasonable obligations. sometimes there was a desire to hush up the whole matter and get it out of mind. isaac norris tells of a meeting that was large and comfortable, where the business would have gone very well but for the warm pushing by some friends of chester in the matter of negroes. but he adds that affairs were so managed that the unpleasant subject was dropped.[ ] what would have been the result of this disposition cannot now be known; but it proved impossible to smooth matters away. there had already begun an age of reformers, forerunners by a hundred years of garrison and his associates, men who were content with nothing less than entire abolition. the first of the abolitionists was william southeby of maryland, who went to pennsylvania. for years the subject of slavery weighed heavily upon his mind. as early as he urged the meeting to take action. his petition to the provincial assembly in asking that all slaves be set free was one of the most memorable incidents in the early struggle against slavery. but the assembly resolved that his project was neither just nor convenient; and his ideas were so far in advance of the times that not only did he a little later lose favor among the friends, but long after it was the judgment that his ill-regulated zeal had brought only sorrow.[ ] the next in point of time was ralph sandiford ( - ), a friend of philadelphia. his hostility to slavery was aroused by the sufferings of negroes whom he had seen in the west indies; and his feeling was so strong that on one occasion he refused to accept a gift from a slaveholder. in he published his _mystery of iniquity_, an impassioned protest against slavery. although threatened with severe penalties if he circulated this work, he distributed it wherever he felt that it would be of use.[ ] such enmity did he arouse that he was forced to leave the city.[ ] his work was carried forward by benjamin lay ( - ), an englishman who came from barbadoes to philadelphia in . he too aroused much hostility by his violence of expression and eccentric efforts to create pity for the slaves. he gave his whole life to the cause, but owing to his too radical methods he was much less influential than he might have been.[ ] a man of far greater power was john woolman ( - ), perhaps the greatest liberator that the friends ever produced. woolman gave up his position as accountant rather than write bills for the sale of negroes. he was very religious, and most of his life he spent as a minister travelling from one colony to another trying to persuade men of the wickedness of slavery. in he published the first part of his book, _some considerations on the keeping of negroes_, of which the second part appeared in . he was stricken with smallpox while on a visit to england, and died there.[ ] the last was anthony benezet ( - ), a french huguenot who joined the society of friends. he came to philadelphia as early as , but it was about that his attention was drawn to the negroes. from that time to the end of his life he was their zealous advocate. by his writings upon africa, slavery, and the slave-trade, he attracted the attention and enlisted the support of many. he was untiring in his efforts. frequently he talked with the negroes and strove to improve them; he endeavored to create a favorable impression of them; he was influential in securing the passage of the abolition act; and at his death he bequeathed the bulk of his property to the cause which he had served so well in his life.[ ] that these quaker reformers, particularly men like woolman and benezet, exerted an enormous influence against slavery in pennsylvania, there can be no doubt.[ ] their influence is attested by numerous contemporary allusions, but it is proved far better by the change in sentiment which was gradually brought about. southeby, sandiford, and lay were before their time and were treated as fanatics. woolman and benezet who came afterward were able to reap the harvest which had been sown. the movement which had been urged with violent rapidity from without was all the while proceeding slowly and quietly within. for many years the friends considered slavery, and almost every year the meetings made reports upon the subject. these reports showed that the number of quakers who bought slaves was constantly decreasing.[ ] in an annual query was instituted.[ ] in the yearly meeting circulated a printed letter strongly condemning slavery.[ ] the second decisive step followed when it was made a rule that friends who persisted in buying slaves should be disowned. the measure was effective and this part of the work was soon accomplished.[ ] finally in the third step was taken when it was unanimously agreed that friends should be advised to manumit their slaves, and that those who persisted in holding them should not be allowed to participate in the affairs of the society.[ ] john woolman and others were appointed on committees to visit slaveholders and persuade them.[ ] the work of these visiting committees is as remarkable as any in the history of slavery. self-sacrificing people who had freed their own slaves now abandoned their interests and set out to persuade others to give negroes the freedom thought to be due them. in southeastern pennsylvania are old diaries almost untouched for a century and a half which bear witness of characters odd and heroic; which contain the story of men and women sincere, brave, and unfaltering, who united quiet mysticism with the zeal of a crusader. the committees undertook to persuade a whole population to give up its slaves. there is no doubt that the task was a difficult one. again and again the writers speak of obstacles overcome. they tell of owners who would not be convinced, who acknowledged that slavery was wrong, and promised that they would buy no more slaves, but who affirmed that they would keep such as they had. the diaries speak of repeated visits, of the arguments employed, of slow and gradual yielding, and of final triumph. if ever christian work was carried on in the spirit of christ, it was when john woolman, isaac jackson, james moon, and their fellow missionaries put an end to slavery among the quakers of pennsylvania.[ ] the penalties denounced by the meeting were imposed with firmness. in the chester quarterly meeting dealt with a member for having bought and sold a slave.[ ] through this and the following years there are many records in the monthly meetings of manumissions, voluntary and persuaded; record being made in each case to ensure the negro his freedom.[ ] in the philadelphia meeting resolved that friends who held slaves beyond the age at which white apprentices were discharged, should be treated as disorderly persons.[ ] the work of abolition was practically completed in when the resolution passed that members who persisted in holding slaves were to be disowned.[ ] if this is understood in connection with the fact that in the meetings questions were rarely decided except by almost unanimous vote, it is clear that so far as the friends were concerned slavery was nearly extinct. this was almost absolutely accomplished by .[ ] the wholesale private abolition of slavery by the friends of pennsylvania is one of those occurrences over which the historian may well linger. it was not delayed until slavery had become unprofitable,[ ] nor was it forced through any violent hostility. it was a result attained merely by calm, steady persuasion, and a disposition to obey the dictates of conscience unflinchingly. as such it is among the grandest examples of the triumph of principle and ideal righteousness over self-interest.[ ] it may well be doubted whether any body of men and women other than the friends were capable of such conduct at this time.[ ] so far the checking of slavery in pennsylvania had been the result of two great factors; that the germans would not hold slaves, and that the friends gradually gave them up. another factor now made it possible to bring about the end of the institution altogether. there began the period of the long contest of the revolution, when pennsylvania was stirred to its depths by the struggle for independence. almost at the beginning of the war, in , the assembly received from citizens of philadelphia two petitions that manumission be rendered easier. these petitions accomplished nothing,[ ] but the feeling which had been gathering strength for so many years went forward unchecked, and by there existed a powerful sentiment in favor of legislative abolition. therefore in february, , the draft of a bill was prepared and recommended by the council; but for a while no progress was made, since the assembly, though it approved the principle, believed that such a measure should originate in itself.[ ] toward the end of the year the matter was taken up in earnest, and a bill was soon drafted. public sentiment was thoroughly aroused now. petitions for and against the bill came to the assembly, and letters were published in the newspapers. the friends of the measure were untiring in their efforts. anthony benezet is said to have visited every member of the assembly. on march , , the bill was enacted into a law, thirty-four yeas and twenty-one nays.[ ] the "act for the gradual abolition of slavery" provided that thereafter no child born in pennsylvania should be a slave; but that such children, if negroes or mulattoes born of a slave mother, should be servants until they were twenty-eight years of age; that all present slaves should be registered by their masters before november , ; and that such as were not then registered should be free.[ ] it abolished the old discriminations, for it provided that negroes whether slave or free should be tried and punished in the same manner as white people, except that a slave was not to be admitted to witness against a freeman.[ ] the earlier special legislation was repealed.[ ] the act of , which was principally the work of george bryan,[ ] was the final, decisive step in the destruction of slavery in pennsylvania. the buying and selling of human beings as chattels had become repugnant to the best thought of the state, and it had partly passed away. the practice still survived, however, in many quarters, and strengthened as it was by considerations of economy and convenience, it would probably have gone on for many years. against this the abolition law struck a mortal blow. from the day of march , , the little remnant of slavery slowly withered and passed away. in the course of a generation, except for some scattered cases, it had vanished altogether. pennsylvania was the first state to pass an abolition law.[ ] in after years this became a matter of great pride. her legislators and statesmen frequently boasted of it. not only was the priority a glory in itself, but the manner in which pennsylvania conceived the law, and the success with which she carried it out, furnished the states that lay near her a splendid example and a strong incentive which not a few of them followed shortly thereafter.[ ] yet this law was open to some objections, and for different reasons received much criticism. first, it was loosely and obscurely drawn in some of its sections, and these gave rise to litigation.[ ] in the second place, it was largely ineffectual to prevent certain abuses which had been foreseen when it was discussed, and which assumed alarming proportions in a few years. some pennsylvanians openly kept up the slave-trade outside of pennsylvania, and masters within the state sold their slaves into neighboring states, whither they sent also their young negroes, who there remained slaves instead of acquiring freedom at twenty-eight.[ ] they even sent away for short periods their female slaves when pregnant, so that the children might not be born on the free soil of pennsylvania. besides this the kidnapping of free negroes went on unchecked.[ ] these practices did not escape unprotested. the friends were indefatigable in their efforts to stop them, and the government was not disposed to allow the work of to be undone.[ ] so in was passed an act to explain and enforce the previous one. it provided that the births of the children of slaves were to be registered; that husband and wife were not to be separated more than ten miles without their consent; that pregnant females should not be sent out of the state pending their delivery; and it forbade the slave-trade under penalty of one thousand pounds. heavy punishments were provided for such chicanery as had previously been employed.[ ] this legislation was enforced by the courts in constructions which favored freedom wherever possible. exact justice was dealt out, but if the master had neglected in the smallest degree to comply with the precise conditions specified in the laws, whether through carelessness, mistake, or unavoidable circumstance, the authorities generally showed themselves glad to declare the slave free.[ ] the friends and abolitionists were particularly active in hunting up pretexts and instituting law-suits for the purpose of setting at liberty the negroes of people who believed they were obeying the laws, but who had neglected to comply with some technical point.[ ] while these devotees of freedom were harassing the enemy they were engaged in operations much more drastic. the laws for abolition, respecting as they did the sacredness of right in property, had not abrogated existing titles to slaves.[ ] this the abolitionists denounced as theft, and resolved to get justice by cutting out slavery root and branch.[ ] first they attacked it in the courts. the declaration of rights in the constitution of declared that all men were born equally free and independent, and had an inherent right to enjoy and defend life and liberty.[ ] in a committee of the house refused the petition of some slaveholders on the ground that slavery was not only unlawful in itself, but also repugnant to the constitution.[ ] this point was seized upon by the abolitionists, who resolved to test it before the law. accordingly they arranged the famous case of negro flora _v._ joseph graisberry, and brought it up to the supreme court of the state in . it was not settled there, but went up to what was at that time the ultimate judicial authority in pennsylvania, the high court of errors and appeals. some seven years after the question had first been brought to law this august tribunal decided after lengthy and able argument that negro slavery did legally exist before the adoption of the constitution of , and that it had not been abolished thereby.[ ] failing to destroy slavery in the courts the abolitionists strove to demolish it by legal enactment. for this purpose they began a campaign that lasted for two generations. in the friends petitioned the senate for the complete abolition of slavery, and in they sent a memorial showing their deep concern at the keeping of slaves. in the following year citizens of philadelphia prayed for abolition, and a few days later the free blacks of the city petitioned that their brethren in bondage be set free, suggesting that a tax be laid upon themselves to help compensate the masters dispossessed. the demand for freedom was supported in other quarters of the state, and undoubtedly a strong feeling was aroused. the pennsylvania society for the abolition of slavery began the practice, which it kept up for so many years, of regularly memorializing the legislature. later on some of the leading men of the state took up the cause, and once the governor in his message referred to the galling yoke of slavery and its stain upon the commonwealth.[ ] it is probable, however, that the majority of the people in the state believed that enough had been done, and desired to see the little remaining slavery quietly extinguished by the operation of such laws as were effecting the extinction. be this as it may, it is certain that although many bills were proposed to effect total and immediate abolition, some of which had good prospects of success, yet each one was gradually pared of its most radical provisions, and in the end was always found to lack the support requisite to make it a law. in the house had a resolution offered and a bill prepared for abolition. this measure dragged along through the next two sessions, but in so much encouragement came from the city and counties that the work was carried on in earnest. the course of this bill illustrates the progress of others. at first the proposed enfranchisement was to be immediate and for all; then it was modified to affect only negroes over twenty-eight. in this form it passed the house by a handsome majority, but in the senate it was postponed to the next session. when finally its time came the committee having it in charge reported that as slavery was not in accordance with the constitution of , a law to do away with slavery was not needed. the measure was still mentioned as unfinished business about the time that the high court decided that slavery was in accordance with the constitution after all.[ ] the abolitionists did not lose heart. they tried again in , and again the following year. in a little was done in the house, and in the matter was discussed in the senate. in this latter year a bill was prepared and debated, but nothing passed except the motion to postpone indefinitely. indeed the movement had now spent its force, and was thereafter confined to futile petitions that showed more earnestness of purpose than expectation of success.[ ] this is easily explicable when it is understood how rapidly slavery had declined. the number of slaves in pennsylvania had never been large. by the first federal census they were put at less than four thousand; but within a decade they had diminished by more than half, and ten years later there were only a few hundred scattered throughout the state.[ ] the majority of these slaves during the later years were living in the western counties that bordered on maryland and virginia, where slavery had begun latest and lingered longest.[ ] in philadelphia and the older counties it had almost entirely disappeared. so rapid was the decline that as early as the pennsylvania abolition society reported that in the future it would devote itself less to seeking the liberation of negroes than to striving to improve those already free. this could only mean that they were finding very few to liberate.[ ] that the decreasing agitation for the entire abolition of slavery in pennsylvania was due to the decline of slavery and not to any decrease in hostility to it, is shown by the character of other legislation demanded, and the readiness with which stringent laws were passed. the act of permitted the resident of another state to bring his slave into pennsylvania and keep him there for six months.[ ] a very strong feeling developed against this. in it was necessary for the supreme court to declare that such a right was valid. it was afterwards decided, however, that if the master continued to take his slave in and out of pennsylvania for short periods, the slave should be free. again and again the legislature was asked to withdraw the privilege. it is needless to recount the petitions that never ceased to come, and at times poured in like a flood. at last the pressure of popular feeling could no longer be held back, and after the legislation of following the memorable case of prigg _v._ pennsylvania, when a slave was brought by his master within the bounds of pennsylvania, that moment by state law he was free.[ ] long before this time the passage through the state of slaves bound with chains had awakened the pity of those who saw it.[ ] in it was decided that in certain cases if a runaway slave gave birth to a child in pennsylvania the child was free.[ ] later the legislature forbade state officers to give any assistance in returning fugitives; and at last lacked but little of giving fugitives trial by jury. if it be asked whether at this time pennsylvania was not rather decrying slavery among her neighbors than destroying it within her own gates, since beyond denial she still had slavery there, it must be answered that first, her slavery as regards magnitude was a veritable mote, and secondly, since after , for example, there was not one slave in pennsylvania under fifty years old, it was far more to the advantage of the negroes to remain in servitude where the law guaranteed them protection and good treatment, than to be set free, when their color and their declining years would have rendered their well-being doubtful. it is probable that such slavery as existed there in the last years was based rather on the kindness of the master and the devotion of the slave, than on the power of the one and the suffering of the other. it was a peaceful passing away. and so in connection with slavery pennsylvania is seen to have been fortunate. seeing at an early time the pernicious consequences of such an institution she was able, such were the circumstances of her economic environment, and such was the character of her people, to check it so effectually that it never assumed threatening bulk. almost as quick to perceive the evil of it, she acted, and while others moralized and lamented, she set her slaves free. moreover as if to atone for the sin of slave-keeping she granted her freedmen such privileges that it seemed to her ardent idealists that the future could not but promise well. whether this liberality came to be a matter of regret in after years, and whether because of circumstances sure to come, but as yet unforeseen, it was possible for the experience of pennsylvania with her free black population to be as happy as that with her slaves, it will be the purpose of later chapters to enquire. footnotes: [ ] edmundson's _journal_, . janney, _history of the friends_, iii, . [ ] pennypacker, "the settlement of germantown," in _pa. mag._, iv, ; mcmaster, "the abolition of slavery in the united states," in _chatauquan_, xv, , (apr., ). for the protest against slavery and the slave-trade (_de instauranda Ã�thiopum salute_, madrid, ) of the jesuit, alfonso sandoval, _cf._ saco, _historia de la esclavitud de la raza africana en el nuevo mundo_, - . [ ] pennypacker, _place cited_; learned, _life of francis daniel pastorius_, , . facsimile of protest in ridgway branch of the library company of philadelphia. [ ] the monthly meeting declared "we think it not expedient for us to meddle with it here." pennypacker, _place cited_, , . [ ] watson, _annals_, ii, . "an exhortation and caution to friends concerning buying or keeping of negroes," in _pa. mag._, xiii, - . this is said to have been the first printed protest against slavery in america. _cf._ hildeburn, _a century of printing_, etc., i, , ; gabriel thomas, _account_, ; bettle, _notes_, . [ ] clarkson, _life of penn_, ii, , . [ ] _cf._ bettle, . [ ] _ibid._, . [ ] _ibid._, . [ ] "whereas several papers have been read relating to the keeping and bringing in of negroes ... it is the advice of this meeting, that friends be careful not to encourage the bringing in of any more negroes" ... ms. "negroes or slaves," yearly meeting advices, - ( ). "this meeting is also dissatisfied with friends buying and incouriging the bringing in of negroes" ... ms. chester quarterly meeting minutes, th mo., . "there having a conscern come upon severall friends belonging to this meeting conscerning the importation of negros ... after some time spent in the consideration thereof it is the unanimous sence of this meeting that friends should not be concerned hereafter in the importation thereof nor buy any" ... ms. chester monthly meeting minutes, th mo., . ms. chester quarterly meeting minutes, th mo., . "this meeting have been for some time under a concern by reason of the great quantity of negros fetched and imported into this country." _ibid._, th mo., . ms. yearly meeting minutes, - th mo., . as soon as friends had been brought to cease the importation of negroes, attack was made upon the practice of friends buying negroes imported by others. _cf._ ms. chester q. m. m., th mo., ; th mo., . the ms. chester m. m. m. mention books on the slave-trade for circulation. [ ] "we also kindly received your advice about negro slaves, and we are one with you, that the multiplying of them, may be of a dangerous consequence, and therefore a law was made in pennsylvania laying twenty pounds duty upon every one imported there, which law the queen was pleas'd to disanull, we would heartily wish that a way might be found to stop the bringing in more here, or at least that friends may be less concerned in buying or selling, of any that may be brought in, and hope for your assistance with the government if any farther law should be made discouraging the importation. we know not of any friend amongst us that has any hand or concern in bringing any out of their own country." ms. yearly m. m., th mo., . this was written in reply to the london yearly meeting, and alludes to the act passed in . see above, p. . [ ] see above, p. . _cf._ also p. c. plockhoy's principle laid down in his _kort en klaer ontwerp_ (amsterdam, ): "no lordship or servile slavery shall burden our company." quoted in pennypacker, _settlement of germantown_, , . [ ] "the germans seldom hire men to work upon their farms." rush, _an account of the manners of the german inhabitants of pennsylvania_ ( ), . "they never, as a general thing, had colored servants or slaves." _ibid._, (note by rupp). "slaves in pennsylvania never were as numerous in proportion to the white population as in new york and new jersey. to our german population this is certainly attributable--wherever they or their numerous descendants located they preferred _their own_ labor to that of negro slaves." buck, ms. _history of bucks county_, . "of all the nations who have settled in america, the germans have availed themselves the least of the unjust and demoralizing aid of slavery." w. grimshaw, _history of the united states_, . the truth of these statements is revealed in the tax-lists of the different counties. thus, in berks county there were german tax-payers ( %) and ( %) not germans. of these germans held slaves, and of other nationalities held slaves. _pa. arch._, xviii, - . in york county, where there were german property-holders ( %) and who were not germans ( %), germans held slaves as against others who held slaves. _pa. arch._, xxi, - . (both these estimates are for .) in lancaster county the property-holders included approximately germans ( %) and not germans ( %). here germans held slaves, while not germans held slaves. _pa. arch._, xvii, - ( ). the records of the german churches rarely mention slaves. [ ] the small number of negroes in pennsylvania was often noticed. burnaby, _travels through the middle settlements_, , said "there are few negroes or slaves" ... ( ), anburey, _travels through the interior parts of america_, ii, - , said, "the pennsylvanians ... are more industrious of themselves, having but few blacks among them." ( ). _cf._ proud, _history_, ii, . estimates as to the number of germans in pennsylvania vary from / ( , _cf._ rupp's note in rush, _account_, ) to / ( , _ibid._, ). for many estimates _cf._ diffenderffer, _german immigration into pennsylvania_, pt. ii, _the redemptioners_, - . some few germans had intended to hold slaves from the first. _cf._ the articles of agreement between the members of the frankfort company ( ): ... "alle ... leibeigenen menschen ... sollen unter allen interessenten pro rato der ackerzahl gemein seyn." ms. in possession of s. w. pennypacker, philadelphia. [ ] watson, (ms.) annals, . the same spirit is apparent much later. "there generally appeared an uneasiness in their minds respecting them, tho all are not so fully convinced of the iniquity of the practice as to get over the difficulty which they apprehend would attend their giving them their liberty" ... ms. abstract rec. gwynedd monthly meeting, ( ). "perhaps thou wilt say, 'i do not buy any negroes: i only use those left me by my father.' but is it enough to satisfy your own conscience?" benezet, _notes on the slave trade_, . [ ] _votes and proceedings_, ii, ; _the friend_, xxviii, , and following; a. c. thomas, "the attitude of the society of friends toward slavery in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, particularly in relation to its own members," in _amer. soc. church history_, viii, , . [ ] "ralph sandiford c^r for cash receiv'd of benj^a lay for of his books which he intends to give away ... " (sh.) ms. benjamin franklin's account book, feb. , - . [ ] sandiford, _mystery of iniquity_, ; vaux, _memoirs of the lives of benjamin lay and ralph sandiford_; _the friend_, l, ; thomas, _attitude_, ; franklin, _works_ (ed. sparks), x, . [ ] _cf. american weekly mercury_, nov. , , for notice in which the friends' meeting denounces his _all slave-keepers ... apostates_ ( ). _cf._ anecdotes related by vaux; bettle, _notices_, , ; _the friend_, l, ; thomas, _attitude_, . [ ] bettle, _notices_, - ; thomas, _attitude_, , - ; tyler, _literary history of the american revolution_, ii, - ; _the friend_, liii, ; woolman, _journal_. [ ] vaux, _memoirs of benezet_; _the friend_, lxxi, ; thomas, , ; bettle, - ; benezet's own writings. [ ] thomas, . there must have been a great many other reformers of considerable influence, but of less fame, about whose work little has come down. _cf._ "thos. nicholson on keeping negroes" ( ). ms. in misc. coll., box , negroes. [ ] _cf._ ms. chester q. m. m., th mo., ; th mo., . [ ] needles, _memoir_, . [ ] bettle, . [ ] the ms. chester q. m. m., th mo., , say ... "we are not quite clear of dealing in negro's, but care is taken mostly to discourage it ...." three years later they add ... "clear of importing or purchasing negro's." _ibid._, th mo., . _cf._ also _ibid._, th mo., ; ms. chester m. m. miscellaneous papers, st mo., ; ms. darby m. m. m., ii, , , , , ( ), , , , , , , , , , , ( - ). these references concern the case of enoch eliot, who, having purchased two negroes, was repeatedly urged to set them free, and finally did so. ms. abstract rec. abington m. m., th mo., ; th mo., . "one of the fr^{ds} app^d to visit jonathan jones reports they all had an oppertunity with him s^d jonathan, and that he gave them exspectation of not making any more purchases of that kind, as also he is sorry for the purchace he did make" ... _ibid._, th mo., ; also _ibid._, th mo., ; th mo., ; th mo., . [ ] ms. yearly m. m., - th mo., , where friends are earnestly entreated to "sett them at liberty, making a christian provision for them according to their ages etc".... _cf._ report about george ragan: ... "as to his buying and selling a negro, he saith he cannot see the evil thereof, and therefore cannot make any satisfaction, and as he has been much laboured with by this m^g to bring him to a sight of his error, this m^g therefore agreeable to a minute of our yearly m^g can do no less than so far testify ag^st him ... as not to receive his collections, neither is he to sit in our m^{gs} for discipline until he can see his error" ... ms. abst. abington m. m., ( ). _cf._ michener, _retrospect of early quakerism_, , ; _a brief statement of the rise and progress of the testimony of the religious society of friends, against slavery and the slave trade_, - ; sharpless, _a history of quaker government in pennsylvania_, ii, ; needles, . for the fervid feeling at this time _cf._ _journal of john churchman_ ( ), in _friends' library_, vi, . [ ] bettle, ; sharpless, ii, . _cf._ also _journal of daniel stanton_, in _friends' library_, xii, . [ ] ms. abst. abington m. m., , , , , , , , ; ms. min. sadsbury m. m., - -- , pp. , ; ms. min. radnor m. m., - , pp. , , , , , , etc.; ms. min. women's q. m., bucks co., th mo., ; th mo., ; ms. darby m. m. m., ii, , , , ( ), ( ), , , , , ( ), , ( ); ms. women's min. darby m. m., d mo., ; rd mo., ; th mo., ; th mo., ; ms. extracts buckingham m. m., , , ( - ); ms. diary of richard barnard, th mo., ; th mo., ; ms. journal of joshua brown, th mo., ; above all the ms. diary of james moon, _passim_. _cf._ sharpless, _quakerism and politics_, - ; whittier's introduction to john woolman's _journal_. [ ] futhey and cope, _history of chester co._, . [ ] _cf._ abst. rec. gwynedd m. m., , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ; ms. papers middletown m. m., - , pp. , , , ; franklin, _works_, (ed. sparks). viii, . [ ] _brief statement_, . [ ] ms. yearly m. m., th mo., ; _brief statement_, - ; needles, ; thomas, ; sharpless, _history of quaker government in pennsylvania_, ii, , . [ ] _brief statement_, - ; needles, ; sharpless, ii, . for some years the meetings continued to make regular reports on this subject. " th no slaves among us and such of their offspring as are under our care are generally pretty well provided for." ms. rec. warrington q. m., th mo., . [ ] in the absence of a plantation system slavery in pennsylvania never was profitable in the same sense as in virginia or south carolina, and where white labor could be obtained slavery could not compete. _cf._ franklin, _works_, ii, , ( ). but as it was almost impossible to obtain sufficient white labor, or at least to retain it, slavery as it existed in pennsylvania was profitable throughout the colonial period. for the strong desire to import, see above, chap. i. for the high prices paid in the first quarter of the nineteenth century for the right to hold negroes to the age of , see below, p. . [ ] this is my judgment after a careful investigation of the friends' records. adam smith, who had not seen these records, but who wrote just when the work was being completed, thought differently. _wealth of nations_ (ed. rogers), i, . [ ] other sects followed the example of the friends, _cf._ ebeling, iv, , but their work was mostly significant in connection with the legislative work of the assembly. for the effects of the work of the friends _cf._ bowden, _history of the friends_, ii, . [ ] _votes and proceedings_, - , p. . [ ] _pa. arch._, vii, ; _journal of house of rep._, - , p. . [ ] _col. rec._, xii, ; _pa. packet_, sept. , ; _journals of house, - _, pp. , , , , , ; _packet_, mar. , ; dec. , ; jan. , ; _gazette_, dec. , ; vaux, _memoirs of benezet_, . the distribution of the vote seems to have had no political, no religious, and probably no economic significance. the measure was popular in and out of the assembly. _packet_, dec. , ; _jour. of house, - _, p. . an earlier bill had been published in the _packet_, mar. , . it is very interesting. the bill as finally drafted became the first act for the abolition of slavery in the united states. accordingly its authors had to do much original and constructive work. in the course of the work their ideas underwent some change, and the transition is easily seen in comparing the first bill of with the act as passed in . in some respects the first is more liberal than the second; in other respects less so. thus at first it was intended to make the children of slaves servants until twenty-one only. (_packet_, mar. , ). "a citizen" discussing this objected that the master would receive inadequate compensation for rearing negro children, and urged that the age limit be made twenty-eight or even thirty. (_packet_, mar. , ), and so pay for the unproductive years, which was but just. the law made the age twenty-eight. on the other hand it was at first proposed to continue the prohibition of intermarriage and the permission to bind out idle free negroes. (_packet_, mar. , ). both these provisions were omitted from the law. [ ] _stat. at l._, x, - ; sergeant and rawle, - . many of the friends thought that negroes ought not to be held after they were twenty-one. _cf._ ms. rec. pa. soc. abol. sl., i, . very many masters lost their negroes through failing to register them, through ignorance of the provision requiring registry, or through carelessness in complying with it. _cf._ rush, _considerations upon the present test-law_, ( nd ed.), (note); _journals of house, - _, p. , and following; _pa. arch._, iii, . _cf._ christopher marshall's remembrancer, f, oct. , : ... "gott our negro recorded." _cf. york herald_, apr. , . the limit was extended to jan. , , in favor of the citizens of washington and westmoreland counties, previously under the jurisdiction of virginia. _stat. at l._, x, . runaways from other states were of course not made free by this provision. _cf._ sect. viii of act. [ ] the repeal of this section was proposed the next year, but failed by three votes. _cf. journals of house, - _, p. . it was finally repealed in . [ ] sect. x of act. [ ] for the view that it was drafted by william lewis, _cf. pa. mag._, xiv, ; robert e. randall, _speech on the laws of the state relative to fugitive slaves_, ; horace binney, _leaders of the old bar of philadelphia_, . there can be little doubt, however, that full credit should be given to bryan. "he framed and executed the 'act'" ... obituary notice in the _gazette_, feb. , . _cf._ inscription on his tomb-stone, copy in inscriptions in the burying ground of the second presbyterian church phila. (ms. h. s. p.); _mem. hist. soc. pa._, i, - ; konkle, _life and times of thomas smith_, . [ ] vermont had forbidden slavery by her constitution of . poore, ii, . [ ] its significance in this respect is remarked by bowden, _history of the friends_, ii, . connecticut and rhode island provided for abolition in , new york in , new jersey in . the same was accomplished in massachusetts in , and in new hampshire in , by construction of the constitution. among many instances where pennsylvania pointed to her great act with pride, _cf. acts of assembly, - _, p. ; _pa. arch._, vi, , . albert gallatin, writing to charles brown, mar. , , says: "it is indeed a great subject of pride ... that as one of the united states she was the first to abolish slavery" ... _writings_ (ed. adams), ii, , . [ ] dallas ; sergeant and rawle - ; _pa. arch._, viii, . [ ] _pa. mag._, xv, , . the selling-price elsewhere was greater since it included the price of the posterity. [ ] brissot de warville, _mémoire sur les noirs de l'amérique septentrionale_, . [ ] _minutes of assembly, - _, pp. , , , , , , , ; _packet_, mar. , ; _diary of jacob hiltzheimer_, . [ ] _laws of pennsylvania_ (carey and bioren), iii, - . despite this many negroes continued to be sold out of the state, and in the pa. soc. abol. sl. was asking for a more stringent law. _cf._ ms. rec. of soc., iv, . also ms. supreme court papers, nos. , , ( ). as late as the author of the _reise von hamburg nach philadelphia_ says: "häufig kommen, in philadelphia vorzüglich ... grosze transporte von sclaven von africa vorüber," p. . [ ] dallas , ; dallas - ; sergeant and rawle - ; yeates , ; _id._ - ; _id._ , ; binney - ; ms. sup. ct. papers, i, ; ms. rec. pa. soc. abol. sl., i, . [ ] rawle, - ; penrose and watts . _cf. min. of assembly, - _, pp. , . [ ] sergeant and rawle ; brissot, _mémoire_, . [ ] brissot, _mémoire_, . _cf._ the severe censure in _why colored people in philadelphia are excluded from the street cars_ ( ), . [ ] art. ix, sect. . [ ] _journal of the house, - _, pp. , . [ ] ms. docket supreme court of pennsylvania, xxvii, . the suit was on a writ "de homine replegiando." _cf._ stroud, _sketch of the laws relating to slavery in the several states of the united states of america_ ( d ed.), (note); ms. docket of the high court of errors and appeals, - , p. ; _pa. gazette_, feb. , ; report of pa. soc. abol. sl. in _minutes sixth convention abol. soc., phila., _, p. . it was the different decision of an exactly similar question that abolished slavery in massachusetts. _cf._ littleton _v._ tuttle, massachusetts . [ ] _journal of senate, - _, pp. , ; _ - _, p. ; _j. of h., - _, pp. , , , , , ; _j. of s., - _, p. ; _j. of s., - _, pp. , ; _j. of h., - _, p. ; _j. of h., - _, pp. , ; _pa. arch._, iv, , for governor snyder's message. [ ] _j. of h., - _, pp. , , , ; _j. of h., - _, pp. , ; _j. of h., - _, pp. , ; _j. of h., - _, pp. , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ; _j. of s., - _, pp. , , . the bill passed the house to . _j. of s., - _, p. ; _j. of s., - _, p. . [ ] _j. of h., - _, pp. , ; _ - _, p. ; _pa. gazette_, feb. , ; _j. of h., - _, pp. , , ; _j. of. s., - _, p. ; _phila. gazette_, mar. , ; _j. of s., - _, pp. , , , , , , . for the provisions of such a bill--the abolition of slavery and of servitude until twenty-eight--compensation of owners--permission for negroes to remain slaves if they so desired--_cf. house report_ no. ( ); _j. of h., - _, pp. , , , , . also _j. of s., _, vol. i, , . [ ] the numbers were , _ _; , _ _; , _ _; , _ _; , _ _; , _ _ (?). the u. s. census reports do not mention any after , but it is said that james clark of donegal township, lancaster county, held a slave in . _cf._ w. j. mcknight, _pioneer outline history of northwestern pennsylvania_, . it is necessary to remark that the u. s. census reported _ _ as the number of slaves in . as this was in increase of over the number reported in , it aroused consternation in pennsylvania and amazement elsewhere, so that a committee of the senate was immediately appointed to investigate. their account showed that there had been no increase but a substantial diminution in numbers; and that the u. s. officers had been grossly careless, if not positively ignorant in their work. _j. of s., - _, vol. i, , , - ; _hazard's register_, iv, ; ix, - , ; xi, , ; _african repository and colonial journal_, vii, . [ ] _cf. j. of s., - _, pp. , . [ ] _minutes tenth american convention abol. sl., phila., _, p. . [ ] _stat. at l._, x, . [ ] respublica _v._ richards, dallas - ; commonwealth _v._ smyth, browne , ; _laws of assembly, _, p. . this law was affirmed by the courts in . kauffman _v._ oliver _pa. state rep._ (barr), - . it was at times contested by the citizens of other states, as in the famous episode of j. h. wheeler's slaves in . _cf. narrative of facts in the case of passmore williamson_. in this case the federal district court held that pa. had no jurisdiction over the right of transit. in a negress was brought from va. to pa. she was at once told that she was free; but when her master returned she went back with him. _phila. inquirer_, aug. , . [ ] _j. of h., - _, pp. , , ; _j. of s., - _, pp. , , . for a vivid description _cf._ parrish, _remarks on the slavery of the black people_ ( ), . [ ] if the mother had absconded before she became pregnant. commonwealth _v._ holloway ( ), sergeant and rawle . _cf. niles's weekly register_, x, . biographical note. edward raymond turner was born may , , in baltimore, maryland, where he obtained his earlier education. after receiving the degree of bachelor of arts at st. johns college, annapolis, , he taught in the baltimore schools. he entered the johns hopkins university in , and was fellow in history - . transcriber's note a reference to p. in note on p. seems incorrect. the final page of this text is p. . the following likely printer's errors were corrected: p. the manufac[t]urer added. p. cf / _cf_ italic. p. n. _col. rec._[,] i, ; added. p. n. [_in mem./in _mem.] hist. soc. pa._ font error. transcriber's note: the original spelling of words has been retained. italic text has been marked with _underscores_. minor spelling inconsistencies, mainly hyphenated words, have been harmonized. obvious typos have been corrected. [illustration: ready for the front.] the recollections of a drummer-boy by harry m. kieffer late of the one hundred and fiftieth regiment pennsylvania volunteers illustrated "_forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit_" virgil, Æneid i. [illustration] boston james r. osgood and company copyright, , by harry m. kieffer, and , by the century co. _all rights reserved._ cambridge: printed by john wilson and son, university press. to the officers and men of the one hundred and fiftieth regiment pennsylvania volunteers, and to their children, _this volume is affectionately inscribed_. preface. as some apology would seem to be necessary for the effort, herewith made, to add yet one more volume to the already overcrowded shelf containing the nation's literature of the great civil war, it may be well to say a few words in explanation of the following pages. several years ago the writer prepared a brief series of papers for the columns of _st. nicholas_, under the title of "recollections of a drummer-boy." it was thought that these sketches of army life, as seen by a boy, would prove enjoyable and profitable to children in general, and especially to the children of the men who participated in the great civil war, on one side or the other; while the belief was entertained that they might at the same time serve to revive in the minds of the veterans themselves long-forgotten or but imperfectly remembered scenes and experiences in camp and field. in the outstart it was not the author's design to write a connected story, but rather simply to prepare a few brief and hasty sketches of army life, drawn from his own personal experience, and suitable for magazine purposes. but these, though prepared in such intervals as could with difficulty be spared from the exacting duties of a busy professional life, having been so kindly received by the editors of _st. nicholas_, as well as by the very large circle of the readers of that excellent magazine, and the writer having been urgently pressed on all sides for more of the same kind, it was thought well to revise and enlarge the "recollections of a drummer-boy," and to present them to the public in permanent book form. in the shape of a more or less connected story of army life, covering the whole period of a soldier's experience from enlistment to muster-out, and carried forward through all the stirring scenes of camp and field, it was believed that these "recollections," in the revised form, would commend themselves not only to the children of the soldiers of the late war, but to the surviving soldiers themselves; while at the same time they would possess a reasonable interest for the general reader as well. from first to last it has been the author's design, while endeavoring faithfully to reflect the spirit of the army to which he belonged, to avoid all needless references of a sectional nature, and to present to the public a story of army life which should breathe in every page of it the noble sentiment of "malice towards none, and charity for all." in all essential regards, the following pages are what they profess to be,--the author's personal recollections of three years of army life in active service in the field. in a few instances, it is true, certain incidents have been introduced which did not properly fall within the range of the writer's personal experience; but these have been admitted merely as by the way, or for the sake of being true to the spirit rather than to the letter. facts and dates have been given as accurately as the author's memory, aided by a carefully kept army journal, would permit; while the names of officers and men mentioned in the narrative are given as they appear in the published muster-rolls, with the exception of several instances, easily recognized by the intelligent reader, in which, for evident reasons, it seemed best to conceal the actors beneath fictitious names. while speaking of the matter of names, an affectionate esteem for a faithful boyhood's friend and subsequent army messmate constrains the writer to mention that, as "andy" was the name by which fisher gutelius, "high private in the rear rank," was commonly known while wearing the blue, it has been deemed well to allow him to appear in the narrative under cover of this, his army _sobriquet_. as no full and complete history of the one hundred and fiftieth regiment pennsylvania volunteers has ever yet been written, it is hoped that these recollections of one of its humblest members may serve the purpose of recalling to the minds of surviving comrades the stirring scenes through which they passed, as well as of keeping alive in coming time the name and memory of an organization which deserved well of its country during the ever-memorable days of now more than twenty years ago. the author herewith acknowledges his indebtedness for certain facts to a brief sketch of the one hundred and fiftieth regiment pennsylvania volunteers by thomas chamberlain, late major of the same; and to john c. kensill, late sergeant of company f, for valuable information; and to the editors of _st. nicholas_ for their uniform courtesy and encouragement. it cannot fail to interest the reader to know that the illustrations signed a. c. r. were drawn by allen c. redwood, who served in the confederate army, and witnessed, albeit from the other side of the fence, many of the scenes which his graphic pencil has so admirably depicted. with these few words of apology and explanation, the author herewith places the recollections of a drummer-boy in the hands of a patient and ever-indulgent public. h. m. k. norristown, pa., march , . contents. chapter page i. off to the war ii. first days in camp iii. on to washington iv. our first winter quarters v. a grand review vi. on picket along the rappahannock vii. a mud-march and a sham-battle viii. how we got a shelling ix. in the woods at chancellorsville x. the first day at gettysburg xi. after the battle xii. through "maryland, my maryland" xiii. pains and penalties xiv. a tale of a squirrel and three blind mice xv. "the pride of the regiment" xvi. around the camp-fire xvii. our first day in "the wilderness" xviii. a bivouac for the night xix. "went down to jericho and fell among thieves" xx. in the front at petersburg xxi. fun and frolic xxii. chiefly culinary xxiii. hatcher's run xxiv. killed, wounded, or missing? xxv. a winter raid to north carolina xxvi. "johnny comes marching home!" illustrations. page ready for the front _frontispiece_ vignette the company starts for the war tailpiece in winter-quarters waiting to be reviewed by the president tailpiece in a dangerous part of his beat the quartermaster's triumph tailpiece general doubleday dismounts and sights the gun tailpiece a surgeon writing upon the pommel of his saddle an order for an ambulance a skirmish after a hard day's march at close quarters the first day at gettysburg on the march to and from gettysburg tailpiece "i've got him, boys!" drumming sneak-thieves out of camp tailpiece tailpiece christmas eve around the camp-fire sick a scene in the field-hospital army badges "general grant can't have any of this water!" "andy had bought the sorrel for ten dollars" "better git off'n dat dar mule!" finding a wounded picket in a rifle-pit scene among the rifle-pits before petersburg the magazine where the powder and shells were stored "fall in for hard-tack!" the conflict at daybreak in the woods at hatcher's run wrecking the railway the charge on the cakes the welcome home the recollections of a drummer-boy. [illustration] the recollections of a drummer-boy. chapter i. off to the war. "it is no use, andy, i cannot study any more. i have struggled against this feeling, and have again and again resolved to shut myself up to my books and stop thinking about the war; but when news comes of one great battle after another, and i look around in the school-room and see the many vacant seats once occupied by the older boys, and think of where they are and what they may be doing away down in dixie, i fall to day-dreaming and wool-gathering over my books, and it is just no use. i cannot study any more. i might as well leave school and go home and get at something else." but my companion was apparently too deeply interested in unravelling the intricacies of a sentence in cæsar to pay much attention to what i had been saying. for andy was a studious boy, and the sentence with which he had been wrestling when the bell rang for recess could not at once be given up. he had therefore carried his book with him on our walk as we strolled leisurely up the green lane which led past the "old academy," and, with his copy of cæsar spread out before him, lay stretched out at full length on the greensward, in the shade of a large cherry-tree, whose fruit was already turning red under the warm spring sun. it was a beautiful, dreamy day in may, early in the summer of , the second year of the great civil war. the air was laden with the sweet scent of the young clover, and vocal with the song of the robin and the bluebird. the sky was cloudless overhead, and the soft spring breeze blew balmily up from the south. behind us were the hills, covered with orchards, and beneath us lay the quiet little village of m----, with its one thousand inhabitants, and beyond it the valley, renowned far and wide for its beauty, while in the farther background deep-blue mountains rose towering toward the sky. my companion, apparently quite indifferent to the languid influence of the season, resolutely persevered at his task until he had triumphantly mastered it. then, closing the book and clasping his hands behind his head as he rolled around on his back, he looked at me with a smile and said,-- "oh! you only have the spring-fever, harry." "no, i haven't, andy; it was the same last winter. and don't you remember how excited _you_ were when the news came about fort sumter last spring? you would have enlisted right off, had your father consented. or, may be, _you_ had the spring-fever then?" "i'm all over that now, and for good and all. i want to study, and as i cannot study and keep on thinking of the war all the time, why i just stop thinking about the war as well as i can." "well," said i, "i cannot. look at our school: why, there are scarcely any large boys left in it any more, only little fellows and the girls. for my part, i ought to get at something else." "what would you get at? you would feel the same anywhere else. there is ike zellers, the blacksmith, for example. when i came past his shop this morning on my way to school, instead of being busy with hammer and tongs as he should have been, there he was, sitting on an old harrow outside his shop-door whittling a stick, while elias foust was reading an account of the last battle from some newspaper. i shouldn't wonder if elias and ike both would be enlisting some one of these days. it is the same everywhere. all people feel the excitement of the war--storekeepers, tradesmen, farmers, and even the women; and we school-boys are no exception." "would you enlist, andy, if your father would consent? you are old enough." "i don't think i should, harry. i want to stick to study. but there is no telling what a person may do when he is once taken down with this war-fever. but you are too young to enlist; they wouldn't take you. and you had therefore better make up your mind to stick to school and help me at my cæsar. if you want war, there's enough of it in old julius here to satisfy the most bloodthirsty, i should think." "you will find more about war, and of a more romantic kind too, in virgil and homer when you get on so far in your studies, andy. but the wars of cæsar and the siege of troy, what are they when compared with the great war now being waged in our own time and country? the nodding plumes of hector and the shining armor of all old homer's heroes do not seem to me half so interesting or magnificent as the brave uniforms in which some of our older school-fellows occasionally come home on furlough." "up there on the hillside," said andy, suddenly rising from his reclining posture, "is cousin joe gutelius, hoeing corn in his father's lot. let's go up and see what he has to say about the war." we found joe busy and hard at work with the young corn. he was a fine young fellow, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, tall, well built, of a fine manly bearing, and looked a likely subject for a recruiting-officer, as, in response to our loud "hello, joe!" he left his unfinished row and came down to the fence for a talk. "rather a warm day for work in a cornfield, isn't it, joe?" "well, yes," said joe, as he threw down his hoe and mounted the top rail, wiping away the perspiration, which stood in great beads on his brow. "but i believe i'd rather hoe corn than go to school such beautiful weather. nearly kill me to be penned up in the old academy such a day as this." "that's what's the matter with harry, here," said andy. "he's got the spring-fever, i tell him; but he thinks he has the war-fever. i told him we'd come up here and see what you had to say about it." "about what? about the spring-fever, or about the war?" "why, about the war, of course, joe," said andy with a smile. "well, boys, i know what the war-fever is like. i had a touch of it last winter when the fifty-first boys went off, and i came very near going along with them, too. but my brothers, charlie and sam, both wanted to go, and i declared that if they went i'd go too; and mother took it so much to heart that we all had to give it up. charlie and sam came near joining a cavalry company some months ago, and i shouldn't wonder much if they did get off one of these days; but as for myself, i guess i'll have to stay at home and take care of the old folks." "and i tell harry, here," said andy, "that he had better stick to books and help me with my cæsar." "or he might get a hoe and come and help me with my corn," said joe, with a smile; "that would take both the spring-fever and the war-fever out of him in a jiffy. but there is your bell calling you to your books. poor fellows, how i pity you!" that my companion would persevere in his purpose of "sticking to books," as he called it, i had no doubt. for besides being naturally possessed of a resolute will, he was several years my senior, and therefore presumably less liable to be carried away by the prevailing restlessness of the times. but for myself study continued to grow more and more irksome as the summer drew on apace, so that when, before the close of the term, a former schoolmate began to "raise a company," as it was called, for the nine months' service, unable any longer to endure my restless longing for a change, i sat down at my desk one day in the school-room and wrote the following letter home:-- dear papa: i write to ask whether i may have your permission to enlist. i find the school is fast breaking up; most of the boys are gone. i can't study any more. _won't_ you let me go? poor father! in the anguish of his heart it must have been that he sat down and wrote: "you may go!" without the loss of a moment i was off to the recruiting-office, showed my father's letter, and asked to be sworn in. but alas! i was only sixteen, and lacked two years of being old enough, and they would not take me unless i could swear i was eighteen, which, of course, i could not and would not do. so, then, back again to the school when the fall term opened early in august, , there to dream over horace, and homer, and that one poor little old siege of troy, for a few days more, while andy at my side toiled manfully at his cæsar. the term had scarcely well opened, when, unfortunately for my peace of mind, a gentleman who had been my school-teacher some years previously, began to raise a company for the war, and the village at once went into another whirl of excitement, which carried me utterly away; for they said i could enlist as a drummer-boy, no matter how young i might be, provided i had my father's consent. but this, most unfortunately, had been meanwhile revoked. for, to say nothing of certain remonstrances on the part of my father during the vacation, there had recently come a letter saying,-- my dear boy: if you have not yet enlisted, do not do so; for i think you are quite too young and delicate, and i gave my permission perhaps too hastily, and without due consideration. but alas! dear father, it was too late then, for i had set my very heart on going. the company was nearly full, and would leave in a few days, and everybody in the village knew that harry was going for a drummer-boy. besides, the very evening on which the above letter reached me we had a grand procession which marched all through the village street from end to end, and this was followed by an immense mass-meeting, and our future captain, henry w. crotzer, made a stirring speech, and the band played, and the people cheered and cheered again, as man after man stepped up and put his name down on the list. albert foster and joe ruhl and sam ruhl signed their names, and then jimmy lucas and elias foust and ike zellers and several others followed; and when charlie gutelius and his brother sam stepped up, with joe at their heels declaring that "if they went he'd go too," the meeting fairly went wild with excitement, and the people cheered and cheered again, and the band played "hail columbia!" and the "star-spangled banner," and "away down south in dixie," and--in short, what in the world was a poor boy to do? * * * * * there was an immense crowd of people at the depot that midsummer morning, more than twenty years ago, when our company started off to the war. it seemed as if the whole county had suspended work and voted itself a holiday, for a continuous stream of people, old and young, poured out of the little village of l----, and made its way through the bridge across the river, and over the dusty road beyond, to the station where we were to take the train. the thirteen of us who had come down from the village of m---- to join the larger body of the company at l----, had enjoyed something of a triumphal progress on the way. we had a brass band to start with, besides no inconsiderable escort of vehicles and mounted horsemen, the number of which was steadily swelled to quite a procession as we advanced. the band played, and the flags waved, and the boys cheered, and the people at work in the fields cheered back, and the young farmers rode down the lanes on their horses, or brought their sweethearts in their carriages, and fell in line with the dusty procession. even the old gatekeeper, who could not leave his post, became much excited as we passed, gave "three cheers for the union forever," and stood waving his hat after us till we were hid from sight behind the hills. reaching l---- about nine in the morning, we found the village all ablaze with bunting, and so wrought up with the excitement that all thought of work had evidently been given up for that day. as we formed in line and marched down the main street toward the river, the sidewalks were everywhere crowded with people,--with boys who wore red-white-and-blue neckties, and boys who wore fatigue-caps; with girls who carried flags, and girls who carried flowers; with women who waved their kerchiefs, and old men who waved their walking-sticks; while here and there, as we passed along, at windows and doorways, were faces red with long weeping, for johnny was off to the war, and maybe mother and sisters and sweetheart would never, never see him again. [illustration: the company starts for the war.] drawn up in line before the station, we awaited the train. there was scarcely a man, woman, or child in that great crowd around us but had to press up for a last shake of the hand, a last good by, and a last "god bless you, boys!" and so, amid cheering, and hand-shaking, and flag-waving, and band-playing, the train at last came thundering in, and we were off, with the "star-spangled banner" sounding fainter and farther away, until it was drowned and lost to the ear in the noise of the swiftly rushing train. for myself, however, the last good by had not yet been said, for i had been away from home at school, and was to leave the train at a way station some miles down the road, and walk out to my home in the country, and say good by to the folks at home; and that was the hardest part of it all, for good by then might be good by forever. if anybody at home had been looking out of door or window that hot august afternoon, more than twenty years ago, he would have seen, coming down the dusty road, a slender lad, with a bundle slung over his shoulder, and--but nobody _was_ looking down the road, nobody was in sight. even rollo, the dog, my old playfellow, was asleep somewhere in the shade, and all was sultry, hot, and still. leaping lightly over the fence by the spring at the foot of the hill, i took a cool draught of water, and looked up at the great red farmhouse above with a throbbing heart, for that was home, and many a sad good by had there to be said, and said again, before i could get off to the war! long years have passed since then, but never have i forgotten how pale the faces of mother and sisters became when, entering the room where they were at work, and throwing off my bundle, in reply to their question, "why, harry! where did _you_ come from?" i answered, "i come from school, and i'm off for the war!" you may well believe there was an exciting time of it in the dining-room of that old red farmhouse then. in the midst of the excitement, father came in from the field and greeted me with, "why, my boy, where did _you_ come from?" to which there was but the one answer, "come from school, and off for the war!" "nonsense! i can't let you go! i thought you had given up all idea of that. what would they do with a mere boy like you? why, you'd be only a bill of expense to the government. dreadful thing to make me all this trouble!" but i began to reason full stoutly with poor father. i reminded him, first of all, that i would not go without his consent; that in two years, and perhaps in less, i might be drafted and sent amongst men unknown to me, while here was a company commanded by my own school-teacher, and composed of acquaintances who would look after me; that i was unfit for study or work while this fever was on me, and so on; till i saw his resolution begin to give way, as he lit his pipe and walked down to the spring to think the matter over. "if harry is to go, father," mother says, "hadn't i better run up to the store and get some woollens, and we'll make the boy an outfit of shirts to-night yet?" "well--yes; i guess you had better do so." but when he sees mother stepping past the gate on her way, he halts her with,-- "stop! that boy can't go! i _can't_ give him up!" and shortly after, he tells her that she "had better be after getting that woollen stuff for shirts;" and again he stops her at the gate with,-- "dreadful boy! why _will_ he make me all this trouble? i _can not_ let my boy go!" but at last, and somehow, mother gets off. the sewing-machine is going most of the night, and my thoughts are as busy as it is, until far into the morning, with all that is before me that i have never seen, and all that is behind me that i may never see again. let me pass over the trying good by the next morning, for joe is ready with the carriage to take father and me to the station, and we are soon on the cars, steaming away toward the great camp, whither the company already has gone. "see, harry, there is your camp!" and looking out of the car-window, across the river, i catch, through the tall tree tops, as we rush along, glimpses of my first camp,--acres and acres of canvas, stretching away into the dim and dusty distance, occupied, as i shall soon find, by some ten or twenty thousand soldiers, coming and going continually, marching and countermarching, until they have ground the soil into the driest and deepest dust i ever saw. i shall never forget my first impressions of camp life as father and i passed the sentry at the gate. they were anything but pleasant; and i could not but agree with the remark of my father, that "the life of a soldier must be a hard life indeed." for as we entered that great camp, i looked into an a tent, the front flap of which was thrown back, and saw enough to make me sick of the housekeeping of a soldier. there was nothing in that tent but dirt and disorder, pans and kettles, tin cups and cracker-boxes, forks and bayonet-scabbards, greasy pork and broken hard-tack in utter confusion, and over all and everywhere that insufferable dust. afterward, when we got into the field, our camps in summer-time were models of cleanliness, and in winter models of comfort, as far, at least, as axe and broom could make them so; but this, the first camp i ever saw, was so abominable, that i have often wondered it did not frighten the fever out of me. but once among the men of the company, all this was soon forgotten. we had supper,--hard-tack and soft bread, boiled pork and strong coffee (in tin cups),--fare that father thought "one could live on right well, i guess;" and then the boys came around and begged father to let me go; "they would take care of harry; never you fear for that;" and so helped on my cause, that that night, about eleven o'clock, when we were in the railroad station together, on the way home, father said,-- "now, harry, my boy, you are not enlisted yet. i am going home on this train; you can go home with me now, or go with the boys. which will you do?" to which the answer came quickly enough,--too quickly and too eagerly, i have often since thought, for a father's heart to bear it well,-- "papa, i'll go with the boys!" "well, then, good by, my boy! and may god bless you and bring you safely back to me again!" the whistle blew "off brakes!" the car-door closed on father, and i did not see him again for three long, long years! often and often as i have thought over these things since, i have never been able to come to any other conclusion than this: that it was the "war-fever" that carried me off, and that made poor father let me go. for that "war-fever" was a terrible malady in those days. once you were taken with it, you had a very fire in the bones until your name was down on the enlistment-roll. there was andy, for example, my schoolfellow, and afterward my messmate for three ever-memorable years. i have had no time to tell you how andy came to be with us; but with us he surely was, notwithstanding he had so stoutly asserted his determination to quit thinking about the war and stick to his books. he was on his way to school the very morning the company was leaving the village, with no idea of going along; but seeing this, that, and the other acquaintance in line, what did he do but run across the street to an undertaker's shop, cram his school-books through the broken window, take his place in line, and march off with the boys without so much as saying good by to the folks at home! and he did not see his cæsar and greek grammar again for three years. chapter ii. first days in camp. our first camp was located on the outskirts of harrisburg, pa., and was called "camp curtin." it was so named in honor of governor andrew g. curtin, the "war governor" of the state of pennsylvania, who was regarded by the soldiers of his state with a patriotic enthusiasm second only to that with which they, in common with all the troops of the northern states, greeted the name of abraham lincoln. camp curtin was not properly a camp of instruction. it was rather a mere rendezvous for the different companies which had been recruited in various parts of the state. hither the volunteers came by hundreds and thousands for the purpose of being mustered into the service, uniformed and equipped, assigned to regiments, and shipped to the front as rapidly as possible. only they who witnessed it can form any idea of the patriotic ardor, amounting often to a wild enthusiasm, with which volunteering went on in those days. companies were often formed, and their muster-rolls filled, in a week, sometimes in a few days. the contagion of enlisting and "going to the war" was in the very atmosphere. you could scarcely accompany a friend to a way station on any of the main lines of travel, without seeing the future wearers of blue coats at the car-windows and on the platforms. very frequently whole trains were filled with them, speeding away to the state capital as swift as steam could carry them. they poured into harrisburg, company by company, usually in citizens' clothes, and marched out of the town a week or so later, regiment by regiment, all glorious in bright new uniforms and glistening bayonets, transformed in a few days from citizens into soldiers, and destined for deeds of high endeavor on many a bloody field. shortly after our arrival in camp, andy and i went to town to purchase such articles as we supposed a soldier would be likely to need,--a gum-blanket, a journal, a combination knife, fork, and spoon, and so on to the end of the list. to our credit i have it to record that we turned a deaf ear to the solicitations of a certain dealer in cutlery who insisted on selling us each a revolver, and an ugly looking bowie-knife in a bright red morocco sheath. "shentlemens, shust de ting you vill need ven you goes into de battle. ah, see dis knife, how it shines! look at dis very fine revolfer!" but moses entreated in vain, while his wife stood at the shop-door looking at some regiment marching down the street to the depot, weeping as if her heart would break, and wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron from time to time. "ah, de poor boys!" said she. "dere dey go again, off to de great war, away from deir homes, and deir mutters, deir wives and deir sweethearts, all to be kilt in de battle! dey will nefer any more coom back. oh, it is so wicked!" but the drums rattled on, and the crowd on the sidewalk gazed and cheered, and moses behind his counter smiled pleasantly as he cried up his wares and went on selling bowie-knives and revolvers to kill men with, while his wife went on weeping and lamenting because men would be killed in the wicked war, and "nefer any more coom back." the firm of moses and wife struck us as a very strange combination of business and sentiment. i do not know how many knives and pistols moses sold, nor how many tears his good wife shed, but if she wept whenever a regiment marched down the street to the depot, her eyes must have been turned into a river of tears; for the tap of the drum and the tramp of the men resounded along the streets of the capital by day and by night, until people grew so used to it that they scarcely noticed it any more. the tide of volunteering was at the full during those early fall days of . but the day came at length when the tide began to turn. various expedients were then resorted to for the purpose of stimulating the flagging zeal of pennsylvania's sons. at first the tempting bait of large bounties was presented--county bounties, city bounties, state and united states bounties--some men towards the close of the war receiving as much as one thousand dollars, and never smelling powder at that. at last drafting was of necessity resorted to, and along with drafting came all the miseries of "hiring substitutes," and so making merchandise of a service of which it is the chief glory that it shall be free. but in the fall of ' there had been no drafting yet, and large bounties were unknown--and unsought. most of us were taken quite by surprise when, a few days after our arrival in camp, we were told that the county commissioners had come down for the purpose of paying us each the magnificent sum of fifty dollars. at the same time, also, we learned that the united states government would pay us each one hundred dollars additional, of which, however, only twenty-five were placed in our hands at once. the remaining seventy-five were to be received only by those who might safely pass through all the unknown dangers which awaited us, and live to be mustered out with the regiment three years later. well, it was no matter then. what cared we for bounty? it seemed a questionable procedure, at all events, this offering of money as a reward for an act which, to be a worthy act at all, asks not and needs not the guerdon of gold. we were all so anxious to enter the service, that, instead of looking for any artificial helps in that direction, our only concern was lest we might be rejected by the examining surgeon and not be admitted to the ranks. for soon after our arrival, and before we were mustered into the service, every man was thoroughly examined by a medical officer, who had us presented to him one by one, _in puris naturalibus_, in a large tent, where he sharply questioned us--"teeth sound? eyes good? ever had this, that, and the other disease?"--and pitiable was the case of that unfortunate man who, because of bad hearing, or defective eyesight, or some other physical blemish, was compelled to don his citizen's clothes again and take the next train for home. after having been thoroughly examined, we were mustered into the service. we were all drawn up in line. every man raised his right hand while an officer recited the oath. it took only a few minutes, but when it was over one of the boys exclaimed: "now, fellows, i'd like to see any man go home if he dare. we belong to uncle sam now." of the one thousand men drawn up in line there that day, some lived to come back three years later and be drawn up in line again, almost on that identical spot, for the purpose of being mustered out of the service. and how many do you think there were? not more than one hundred and fifty. as we now belonged to uncle sam, it was to be expected that he would next proceed to clothe us. this he punctually did a few days after the muster. we had no little merriment when we were called out and formed in line and marched up to the quartermaster's department at one side of the camp to draw our uniforms. there were so many men to be uniformed, and so little time in which to do it, that the blue clothes were passed out to us almost regardless of the size and weight of the prospective wearer. each man received a pair of pantaloons, a coat, cap, overcoat, shoes, blanket, and underwear, of which latter the shirt was--well, a revelation to most of us both as to size and shape and material. it was so rough, that no living mortal, probably, could wear it, except perhaps one who wished to do penance by wearing a hair shirt. mine was promptly sent home along with my citizen's clothes, with the request that it be kept as a sort of heir-loom in the family for future generations to wonder at. with our clothes on our arms, we marched back to our tents, and there proceeded to get on the inside of our new uniforms. the result was in most cases astonishing! for, as might have been expected, scarcely one man in ten was fitted. the tall men had invariably received the short pantaloons, and presented an appearance, when they emerged from their tents, which was equalled only by that of the short men who had, of course, received the long pantaloons. one man's cap was perched away up on the top of his head, while another's rested on his ears. andy, who was not very tall, waddled forth into the company street amid shouts of laughter, having his pantaloons turned up some six inches or more from the bottoms, declaring that "uncle sam must have got the patterns for his boys' pantaloons somewhere over in france; for he seems to have cut them after the style of the two french towns, toulon and toulouse." "hello, fellows! what do you think of this? now just look here, will you!" exclaimed pointer donachy, the tallest man in the company, as he came out of his tent in a pair of pantaloons that were little more than knee-breeches for him, and began to parade the street with a tent-pole for a musket. "how in the name of the american eagle is a man going to fight the battles of his country in such a uniform as this? seems to me that uncle sam must be a little short of cloth, boys." "brother jonathan generally dresses in tights, you know," said some one. "ah," said andy, "pointer's uniform reminds one of what the poet says,-- "'man needs but little here below, nor needs that little long.'" "you're rather poor at quoting poetry, andy," answered pointer, "because i need more than a little here below: i need at least six inches." but the shoes! coarse, broad-soled, low-heeled "gunboats," as we afterward learned to call them--what a time there was getting into them. here came one fellow down the street with shoes so big that they could scarcely be kept on his feet, while over yonder another tugged and pulled and kicked himself red in the face over a pair that _would_ not go on. but by trading off, the large men gradually got the large garments and the little men the small, so that in a few days we were all pretty well suited. i remember hearing about one poor fellow in another company, a great strapping six-footer, who could not be suited. the largest shoe furnished by the government was quite too small. the giant tried his best to force his foot in, but in vain. his comrades gathered about him, and laughed, and chaffed him unmercifully, whereupon he exclaimed,-- "why, you don't think they are all _boys_ that come to the army, do you? a man like me needs a man's shoe, not a baby's." there was another poor fellow, a very small man, who had received a very large pair of shoes, and had not yet been able to effect any exchange. one day the sergeant was drilling the company on the facings--right-face, left-face, right-about-face--and of course watched his men's feet closely, to see that they went through the movements promptly. observing one pair of feet down the line that never budged at the command, the sergeant, with drawn sword, rushed up to the possessor of them, and in menacing tones demanded,-- "what do you mean by not facing about when i tell you? i'll have you put in the guard-house, if you don't mind." "why--i--did, sergeant," said the trembling recruit. "you did not, sir. didn't i watch your feet? they never moved an inch." "why, you see," said the man, "my shoes are so big that they don't turn when i do. i go through the motions on the inside of them!" although camp curtin was not so much a camp of instruction as a camp of equipment, yet once we had received our arms and uniforms, we were all eager to be put on drill. even before we had received our uniforms, every evening we had some little drilling under command of sergeant cummings, who had been out in the three months' service. clothed in citizens' dress and armed with such sticks and poles as we could pick up, we must have presented a sorry appearance on parade. perhaps the most comical figure in the line was that of old simon malehorn, who, clothed in a long linen duster, high silk hat, blue overalls, and loose slippers, was forever throwing the line into confusion by breaking rank and running back to find his slipper, which he had lost in the dust somewhere, and happy was he if some one of the boys had not quietly smuggled it into his pocket or under his coat, and left poor simon to finish the parade in his stocking-feet. awkward enough in the drill we all were, to be sure. still, we were not quite so stupid as a certain recruit of whom it was related that the drill sergeant had to take him aside as an "awkward squad" by himself, and try to teach him how to "mark time." but alas! the poor fellow did not know his right foot from his left, and consequently could not follow the order, "left! left!" until the sergeant, driven almost to desperation, lit on the happy expedient of tying a wisp of straw on one foot and a similar wisp of hay on the other, and then put the command in a somewhat agricultural shape--"hay-foot, straw-foot! hay-foot, straw-foot!" whereupon it is said he did quite well; for if he did not know his left foot from his right, he at least could tell hay from straw. one good effect of our having been detained in camp curtin for several weeks was that we thus had the opportunity of forming the acquaintance of the other nine companies, with which we were to be joined in one common regimental organization. some of these came from the western and some from the eastern part of the state; some were from the city, some from inland towns and small villages, and some from the wild lumber regions. every rank, class, and profession seemed to be represented. there were clerks, farmers, students, railroad men, iron-workers, lumbermen. at first we were all strangers to one another. the different companies, having as yet no regimental life to bind them together as a unit, naturally regarded each other as foreigners rather than as members of the same organization. in consequence of this, there was no little rivalry between company and company, together with no end of friendly chaffing and lively banter, especially about the time of roll-call in the evening. the names of the men who hailed from the west were quite strange, and a long-standing source of amusement to the boys from the east, and _vice versâ_. when the orderly-sergeant of company i called the roll, the men of company b would pick out all the outlandish-sounding surnames and make all manner of puns on them, only to be paid back in their own coin by similar criticisms of _their_ roll. then there were certain forms of expression peculiar to the different sections from which the men came, strange idiomatic usages of speech, amounting at times to the most pronounced provincialisms, which were a long-continued source of merriment. thus the philadelphia boys made all sport of the boys from the upper tier of counties because they said "i be going deown to teown," and invariably used "i make out to" for "i am going to," or "i intend to." some of the men, it was observed, called every species of board, no matter how thin, "a plank;" and every kind of stone, no matter how small, "a rock." how the men laughed one evening when a high wind came up and blew the dust in dense clouds all over the camp, and one of the western boys was heard to declare that he had "a rock in his eye!" once we got afield, however, there was developed such a feeling of regimental unity as soon obliterated whatever natural antagonisms may at first have existed between the different companies. peculiarities of speech of course remained, and a generous and wholesome rivalry never disappeared; but these were a help rather than a hindrance. for in military, as in all social life, there can be no true unity without some diversity in the component parts,--a principle which is fully recognized in our national motto, "_e pluribus unum_." [illustration] chapter iii. on to washington. after two weeks in that miserable camp at the state capital, we were ordered to washington; and into washington, accordingly, one sultry september morning, we marched, after a day and a night in the cars on the way thither. quite proud we felt, you may be sure, as we tramped up pennsylvania avenue, with our new silk flags flying, the fifes playing "dixie," and we ten little drummer-boys pounding away, awkwardly enough, no doubt, under the lead of a white-haired old man, who had beaten _his_ drum, nearly fifty years before, under wellington, at the battle of waterloo. we were green, raw troops, as anybody could tell at a glance; for we were fair-faced yet, and carried enormous knapsacks. i remember passing some old troops somewhere near fourteenth street, and being painfully conscious of the difference between them and us. _they_, i observed, had no knapsacks; a gum-blanket, twisted into a roll, and slung carelessly over the shoulder, was all the luggage they carried. dark, swarthy, sinewy men they were, with torn shoes and faded uniforms, but with an air of self-possession and endurance that came only of experience and hardship. they smiled on us as we passed by,--a grim smile of half pity and half contempt,--just as we in our turn learned to smile on other new troops a year or two later. by some unpardonable mistake, instead of getting into camp forthwith on the outskirts of the city, whither we had been ordered for duty at the present, we were marched far out into the country, under a merciless sun, that soon scorched all the endurance out of me. it was dusty; it was hot; there was no water; my knapsack weighed a ton. so that when, after marching some seven miles, our orders were countermanded, and we faced about to return to the city again, i thought it impossible i ever should reach it. my feet moved mechanically, everything along the road was in a misty whirl; and when at nightfall andy helped me into the barracks near the capitol from which we had started in the morning, i threw myself, or rather perhaps fell, on the hard floor, and was soon so soundly asleep that andy could not rouse me for my cup of coffee and ration of bread. i have an indistinct recollection of being taken away next morning in an ambulance to some hospital, and being put into a clean white cot. after which, for days, all consciousness left me, and all was blank before me, save only that, in misty intervals, i saw the kind faces and heard the subdued voices of sisters of mercy,--voices that spoke to me from far away, and hands that reached out to me from the other side of an impassable gulf. nursed by their tender care back to returning strength, no sooner was i able to stand on my feet once more than, against their solemn protest, i asked for my knapsack and drum, and insisted on setting out forthwith in quest of my regiment, which i found had meanwhile been scattered by companies about the city, my own company and another having been assigned to duty at "soldiers' home," the president's summer residence. although it was but a distance of three miles or thereabouts, and although i started out in search of "soldiers' home" at noon, so conflicting were the directions given me by the various persons of whom i asked the road, that it was nightfall before i reached it. coming then at the hour of dusk to a gateway leading apparently into some park or pleasure-ground, and being informed by the porter at the gate that this was "soldiers' home," i walked about among the trees, in the growing darkness, in search of the camp of company d, when, just as i had crossed a fence, a challenge rang out,-- "halt! who goes there?" "a friend." "advance, friend, and give the countersign!" "hello, elias!" said i, peering through the bushes, "is that you?" "that isn't the countersign, friend. you'd better give the countersign, or you're a dead man!" saying which, elias sprang back in true zouave style, with his bayonet fixed and ready for a lunge at me. "now, elias," said i, "you know me just as well as i know myself, and you know i haven't the countersign; and if you're going to kill me, why, don't stand there crouching like a cat ready to spring on a mouse, but up and at it like a man. don't keep me here in such dreadful suspense." "well, friend without the countersign, i'll call up the corporal, and he may kill you,--you're a dead man, any way!" then he sang out,-- "corporal of the guard, post number three!" from post to post it rang along the line, now shrill and high, now deep and low: "corporal of the guard, post number three!" "corporal of the guard, post number three!" upon which up comes the corporal of the guard on a full trot, with his gun at a right-shoulder shift, and saying,-- "well, what's up?" "man trying to break my guard." "where is he?" "why there, beside that bush." "come along, you there; you'll be shot for a spy to-morrow morning at nine o'clock." "all right, mr. corporal, i'm ready." now all this was fine sport; for corporal harter and elias were both of my company, and knew me quite as well as i knew them; but they were bent on having a little fun at my expense, and the corporal had marched me off some distance toward headquarters, beyond the ravine, when again the call rang along the line,-- "corporal of the guard, post number three!" "corporal of the guard, post number three!" back the corporal trotted me to elias. "well, what in the mischief's up now?" "another fellow trying to break my guard, corporal." "well, where is he? trot him out! we'll have a grand execution in the morning! the more the merrier, you know; and 'long live the union!'" "i'm sorry, corporal, but the fact is i killed this chap myself. i caught him trying to climb over the gate there, and he wouldn't stop nor give the countersign, and so i up and at him, and ran my bayonet through him, and there he is!" and sure enough, there he was,--a big fat 'possum! "all right, elias; you're a brave soldier. i'll speak to the colonel about this, and you shall have two stripes on your sleeve one of these days." and so, with the 'possum by the tail and me by the shoulder, he marched us off to headquarters, where, the 'possum being thrown down on the ground, and i handed over to the tender mercies of the captain, it was ordered that-- "this young man should be taken down to andy's tent, and a supper cooked, and a bed made for him there; and that henceforth and hereafter he should beat reveille at daybreak, retreat at sundown, tattoo at nine p.m., and lights out a half-hour later." nothing, however, was said about the execution of spies in the morning, although it was duly ordained that the 'possum, poor thing, should be roasted for dinner the next day. never was there a more pleasant camp than ours,--there on that green hillside across the ravine from the president's summer residence. we had light guard duty to do, and that of a kind we esteemed a most high honor; for it was no less than that of being special guards for president lincoln. but the good president, we were told, although he loved his soldiers as his own children, did not like being guarded. often did i see him enter his carriage before the hour appointed for his morning departure for the white house, and drive away in haste, as if to escape from the irksome escort of a dozen cavalry-men, whose duty it was to guard his carriage between our camp and the city. then when the escort rode up to the door, some ten or fifteen minutes later, and found that the carriage had already gone, wasn't there a clattering of hoofs and a rattling of scabbards as they dashed out past the gate and down the road to overtake the great and good president, in whose heart was "charity for all, and malice toward none!" boy as i was, i could not but notice how pale and haggard the president looked as he entered his carriage in the morning, or stepped down from it in the evening, after a weary day's work in the city; and no wonder, either, for those september days of were the dark, perhaps the darkest, days of the war. many a mark of favor and kindness did we receive from the president's family. delicacies, such as we were strangers to then, and would be for a long time to come, found their way from mrs. lincoln's hand to our camp on the green hillside; while little tad, the president's son, was a great favorite with the boys, fond of the camp, and delighted with the drill. one night, when all but the guards on their posts were wrapped in great-coats and sound asleep in the tents, i felt some one shake me roughly by the shoulder, and call: "harry! harry! get up quick and beat the long roll; we're going to be attacked. quick, now!" groping about in the dark for my drum and sticks, i stepped out into the company street, and beat the loud alarm, which, waking the echoes, brought the boys out of their tents in double-quick time, and set the whole camp in an uproar. "what's up, fellows?" "fall in, company d!" shouted the orderly. "fall in, men," shouted the captain; "we're going to be attacked at once!" amid the confusion of so sudden a summons at midnight, there was some lively scrambling for guns, bayonets, cartridge-boxes, and clothes. "i say, bill, you've got my coat on!" "where's my cap?" "andy, you scamp, you've got my shoes!" "fall in, men, quick; no time to look after shoes now. take your arms and fall in." and so, some shoeless, others hatless, and all only half dressed, we formed in line and marched out and down the road at double-quick for a mile; then halted; pickets were thrown out; an advance of the whole line through the woods was made among tangled bushes and briers, and through marshes, until, as the first early streaks of dawn were shooting up in the eastern sky, our orders were countermanded, and we marched back to camp, to find--that the whole thing was a ruse, planned by some of the officers for the purpose of testing our readiness for work at any hour. after that, we slept with our shoes on. but poor old peter blank,--a man who should never have enlisted, for he was as afraid of a gun as robinson crusoe's man friday,--poor old peter was the butt for many a joke the next day. for amid the night's confusion, and in the immediate prospect, as he supposed, of a deadly encounter with the enemy, so alarmed did he become that he at once fell to--praying! out of consideration for his years and piety, the captain had permitted him to remain behind as a guard for the camp in our absence, in which capacity he did excellent service, excellent service! but oh, when we sat about our fires the next morning, frying our steaks and cooking our coffee, poor peter was the butt of all the fun, and was cruelly described by the wag of the company as "the man that had a brave heart, but a most cowardly pair of legs!" chapter iv. our first winter quarters. "well, fellows, i tell you what! i've heard a good deal about the balmy breezes and sunny skies of old virginny, but if this is a specimen of the sort of weather they have in these parts, i, for one, move we 'right-about-face' and march home." so saying, phil hammer got up from under the scrub-pine, where he had made his bed for the night, shaking the snow from his blanket and the cape of his overcoat, while a loud "ha! ha!" and an oft-repeated "what do you think of this, boys?" rang along the hillside on which we had found our first camping-place on "old virginia's shore." the weather had played us a most deceptive and unpleasant trick. we had landed the day before, as my journal says, "at belle plains, at a place called platt's landing," having been brought down from washington on the steamer "louisiana;" had marched some three or four miles inland in the direction of falmouth, and had halted and camped for the night in a thick undergrowth of scrub-pine and cedar. the day of our landing was remarkably fair. the skies were so bright, the air was so soft and balmy, that we were rejoiced to find what a pleasant country it was we were getting into, to be sure; but the next morning, when we drummer-boys woke the men with our loud reveille, we were all of phil's opinion, that the sunny skies and balmy breezes of this new land were all a miserable fiction. for as man after man opened his eyes at the loud roll of our drums, and the shout of the orderly: "fall in, company d, for roll-call!" he found himself covered with four inches of snow, and more coming down. fortunately, the bushes had afforded us some protection; they were so numerous and so thick that one could scarcely see twenty rods ahead of him, and with their great overhanging branches had kindly kept the falling snow out of our faces, at least while we slept. [illustration: in winter-quarters.] and now began a busy time. we were to build winter quarters--a work for which we were but poorly prepared, either by nature or by circumstance. take any body of men out of civilized life, put them into the woods to shift for themselves, and they are generally as helpless as children. as for ourselves, we were indeed "babes in the wood." at least half the regiment knew nothing of wood-craft, having never been accustomed to the use of the axe. it was a laughable sight to see some of the men from the city try to cut down a tree! besides, we were poorly equipped. axes were scarce, and worth almost their weight in gold. we had no "shelter-tents." most of us had "poncho" blankets; that is to say, a piece of oilcloth about five feet by four, with a slit in the middle. but we found our ponchos very poor coverings for our cabins; for the rain just _would_ run down through that unfortunate hole in the middle; and then, too, the men needed their oilcloths when they went on picket, for which purpose they had been particularly intended. this circumstance gave rise to frequent discussion that day: whether to use the poncho as a covering for the cabin, and get soaked on picket, or to save the poncho for picket, and cover the cabin with brushwood and clay? some messes[ ] chose the one alternative, others the other; and as the result of this preference, together with our ignorance of wood-craft and the scarcity of axes, we produced on that hillside the oddest looking winter quarters a regiment ever built! such an agglomeration of cabins was never seen before nor since. i am positive no two cabins on all that hillside had the slightest resemblance to each other. [ ] a "mess" is a number of men who eat together. there, for instance, was a mess over in company a, composed of men from the city. they had _one_ kind of cabin, an immense square structure of pine-logs, about seven feet high, and covered over the top, first with brushwood, and then coated so heavily with clay that i am certain the roof must have been two feet thick at the least. it was hardly finished before some wag had nicknamed it "fortress monroe." then there was ike zellers, of our own company; he invented another style of architecture, or perhaps i should rather say he borrowed it from the indians. ike would have none of your flat-roofed concerns; he would build a wigwam. and so, marking out a huge circle, in the centre of which he erected a pole, and around the pole a great number of smaller poles, with one end on the circle and the other end meeting in the common apex, covering this with brush, and the brush with clay, he made for himself a house that was quite warm, indeed, but one so fearfully gloomy, that within it was as dark at noon as at midnight. ominous sounds came afterward from the dark recesses of "the wigwam;" for we were a "skirmish regiment," and ike was our bugler, and the way he tooted all day long, "deploy to the right and left," "rally by fours," and "rally by platoons," was suggestive of things yet to come. then there was my own tent, or cabin, if indeed i may dignify it with the name of either; for it was a cross between a house and a cave. andy and i thought we would follow the advice of the irishman, who, in order to raise his roof higher, dug his cellar deeper. we resolved to dig down some three feet; "and then, harry, we'll log her up about two feet high, cover her with ponchos, and we'll have the finest cabin in the row!" it took us about three days to accomplish so stupendous an undertaking, during which time we slept at night under the bushes as best we could, and when our work was done, we moved in with great satisfaction. i remember the door of our house was a mystery to all visitors, as, indeed, it was to ourselves until we "got the hang of it," as andy said. it was a hole about two feet square, cut through one end of the log part of the cabin, and through it you had to crawl as best you could. if you put one leg in first, then the head, and then drew in the other leg after you, you were all right; but if, as visitors generally did, you put in your head first, you were obliged to crawl in on all fours in a most ungraceful and undignified fashion. that was a queer-looking camp all through. if you went up to the top of the hill, where the colonel had his quarters, and looked down, a strange sight met your eyes. by the time the next winter came, however, we had learned how to swing an axe, and we built ourselves winter quarters that reflected no little credit on our skill as experienced woodsmen. the last cabin we built--it was down in front of petersburg--was a model of comfort and convenience: ten feet long by six wide and five high, made of clean pine-logs straight as an arrow, and covered with shelter tents; a chimney at one end, and a comfortable bunk at the other; the inside walls covered with clean oat-bags, and the gable ends papered with pictures cut from illustrated papers; a mantelpiece, a table, a stool; and we were putting down a floor of pine-boards, too, one day toward the close of winter, when the surgeon came by, and, looking in, said: "no time to drive nails now, boys; we have orders to move!" but andy said: "pound away, harry, pound away; we'll see how it looks, anyhow, before we go!" i remember an amusing occurrence in connection with the building of our winter quarters. i had gone over to see some of the boys of our company one evening, and found they had "logged up" their tent about four feet high, and stretched a poncho over it to keep the snow out, and were sitting before a fire they had built in a chimney-place at one end. the chimney was built up only as high as the log walls reached, the intention being to "cat-stick and daub" it afterward to a sufficient height. the mess had just got a box from home, and some one had hung nearly two yards of sausage on a stick across the top of the chimney, "to smoke." and there, on a log rolled up in front of the fire, i found jimmy lucas and sam ruhl sitting smoking their pipes, and glancing up the chimney between whiffs every now and then, to see that the sausage was safe. sitting down between them, i watched the cheery glow of the fire, and we fell to talking, now about the jolly times they were having at home at the holiday season, and again about the progress of our cabin-building, while every now and then jimmy would peep up the chimney on one side, and shortly after sam would squint up on the other. after sitting thus for half an hour or so, all of a sudden, sam, looking up the chimney, jumped off the log, clapped his hands together, and shouted: "jim, it's _gone_!" gone it was; and you might as well look for a needle in a haystack as search for two yards of sausage among troops building winter quarters on short rations! one evening andy and i were going to have a feast, consisting in the main of a huge dish of apple-fritters. we bought the flour and the apples of the sutler at enormous figures, for we were so tired of the endless monotony of bacon, beef, and bean-soup, that we were bent on having a glorious supper, cost or no cost. we had a rather small chimney-place, in which andy was superintending the heating of a mess-pan half full of lard, while i was busying myself with the flour, dough, and apples, when, as ill-luck would have it, the lard took fire and flamed up the chimney with a roar and a blaze so bright that it illuminated the whole camp from end to end. unfortunately, too, for us, four of our companies had been recruited in the city, and most of them had been in the volunteer fire department, in which service they had gained an experience, useful enough to them on the present occasion, but most disastrous to us. no sooner was the bright blaze seen pouring high out of the chimney-top of our modest little cabin, than at least a half-dozen fire companies were on the instant organized for the emergency. the "humane," the "fairmount," the "good-will," with their imaginary engines and hose-carriages, came dashing down our company street with shouts, and yells, and cheers. it was but the work of a moment to attach the imaginary hose to imaginary plugs, plant imaginary ladders, tear down the chimney and demolish the roof, amid a flood of sparks, and to the intense delight of the firemen, but to our utter consternation and grief. it took us days to repair the damage, and we went to bed with some of our neighbors, after a scant supper of hard-tack and coffee. how did we spend our time in winter quarters, do you ask? well, there was always enough to do, you may be sure, and often it was work of the very hardest sort. two days in the week the regiment went out on picket, and while there got but little sleep and suffered much from exposure. when they were not on picket, all the men not needed for camp guard had to drill. it was nothing but drill, drill, drill: company drill, regimental drill, brigade drill, and once even division drill. our regiment, as i have said, was a skirmish regiment, and the skirmish-drill is no light work, let me tell you. many an evening the men came in more dead than alive after skirmishing over the country for miles around, all the afternoon. reveille and roll-call at five o'clock in the morning, guard mount at nine, company drill from ten to twelve, regimental drill from two to four, dress-parade at five, tattoo and lights out at nine at night, with continual practice on the drum for us drummer-boys--so our time passed away. chapter v. a grand review. on a certain day near the beginning of april, , we were ordered to prepare for a grand review of our corps. president lincoln, mrs. lincoln, master tad lincoln (who used to play among our tents at "soldiers' home"), and some of the cabinet officers, were coming down to look us over and see what promise we gave for the campaign soon to open. those who have never seen a grand review of well-drilled troops in the field have never seen one of the finest and most inspiring sights the eyes of man can behold. i wish i could impart to my readers some faint idea of the thrilling scene which must have presented itself to the eyes of the beholders when, on the morning of the ninth day of april, , our gallant first army corps, leaving its camps among the hills, assembled on a wide, extended plain for the inspection of our illustrious visitors. as regiment after regiment, and brigade after brigade, came marching out from the surrounding hills and ravines, with flags gayly flying, bands and drum corps making such music as was enough to stir the blood in the heart of the most indifferent to a quicker pulse, and well-drilled troops that marched in the morning sunlight with a step as steady as the stroke of machinery,--ah! it was a sight to be seen but once in a century! and when those twenty thousand men were all at last in line, with the artillery in position off to one side on the hill, and ready to fire their salute, it seemed well worth the president's while to come all the way from washington to look at them. [illustration: waiting to be reviewed by the president.] but the president was a long, long time in coming. the sun, mounting fast toward noon, began to be insufferably hot. one hour, two hours, three hours were passing away, when, at last, far off through a defile between the hills, we caught sight of a great cloud of dust. "fall in, men!" for now here they come, sure enough. mr. and mrs. lincoln in a carriage, escorted by a body of cavalry and groups of officers, and at the head of the cavalcade master tad, big with importance, mounted on a pony, and having for his especial escort a boy orderly, dressed in a cavalry-man's uniform, and mounted on another pony! and the two little fellows, scarce restraining their boyish delight, outride the company, and come on the field in a cloud of dust and at a full gallop,--little tad shouting to the men, at the top of his voice: "make way, men! make way, men! father's a-coming! father's a-coming!" then the artillery breaks forth into a thundering salute, that wakes the echoes among the hills and sets the air to shivering and quaking about your ears, as the cavalcade gallops down the long line, and regimental standards droop in greeting, and bands and drum corps, one after another, strike up "hail to the chief," till they are all playing at once in a grand chorus that makes the hills ring as they never rang before. but all this is only a flourish by way of prelude. the real beauty of the review is yet to come, and can be seen only when the cavalcade, having galloped down the line in front and up again on the rear, has taken its stand out yonder immediately in front of the middle of the line, and the order is given to "pass in review." notice now, how, by one swift and dexterous movement, as the officers step out and give the command, that long line is broken into platoons of exactly equal length; how, straight as an arrow, each platoon is dressed; how the feet of the men all move together, and their guns, flashing in the sun, have the same inclination. observe particularly how, when they come to wheel off, there is no _bend_ in the line, but they wheel as if the whole platoon were a ramrod made to revolve about its one end through a quarter-circle; and now that they are marching thus down the field and past the president, what a grandeur there is in the steady step and onward sweep of that column of twenty thousand boys in blue! but once we have passed the president and gained the other end of the field, it is not nearly so fine. for we must needs finish the review in a double-quick, just by way of showing, i suppose, what we could do if we were wanted in a hurry,--as indeed we shall be, not more than sixty days hence! away we go, then, on a dead run off the field, in a cloud of dust and amid a clatter of bayonet-scabbards, till, hid behind the hills, we come to a more sober pace, and march into camp just as tired as tired can be. [illustration] chapter vi. on picket along the rappahannock. "harry, wouldn't you like to go out on picket with us to-morrow? the weather is pleasant, and i'd like to have you for company, for time hangs rather heavy on a fellow's hands out there; and, besides, i want you to help me with my latin." andy was a studious fellow, and carried on his studies with greater or less regularity during our whole time of service. of course we had no books, except a pocket copy of "cæsar;" but to make up for the deficiency, particularly of a grammar, i had written out the declensions of the nouns and the conjugations of the verbs on odd scraps of paper, which andy had gathered up and carried in a roll in his breast-pocket, and many were the lessons we had together under the canvas or beneath the sighing branches of the pines. "well, old boy, i'd like to go along first-rate; but we must get permission of the adjutant first." having secured the adjutant's consent, and provided myself with a gun and accoutrements, the next morning, at four o'clock, i set out, in company with a body of some several hundred men of the regiment. we were to be absent from camp for two days, at the expiration of which time we were to be relieved by the next detail. it was pleasant april weather, for the season was well advanced. our route lay straight over the hills and through the ravines, for there were no roads, fences, nor fields. but few houses were to be seen, and from these the inhabitants had, of course, long since disappeared. at one of these few remaining houses, situated some three hundred yards from the river's edge, our advance picket-reserve was established, the captain in command making his headquarters in the once beautiful grounds of the mansion, long since deserted and left empty by its former occupants. the place had a very distressing air of neglect. the beautiful lawn in front, where merry children had no doubt played and romped in years gone by, was overgrown with weeds. the large and commodious porch, where in other days the family gathered in the evening-time and talked and sang, while the river flowed peacefully by, was now abandoned to the spiders and their webs. the whole house was pitifully forlorn looking, as if wondering why the family did not come back to fill its spacious halls with life and mirth. even the colored people had left their quarters. there was not a soul anywhere about. we were not permitted either to enter the house or to do any damage to the property. pitching our shelter-tents under the outspreading branches of the great elms on the lawn in front of the house, and building our fires back of a hill in the rear to cook our breakfast, we awaited our turn to stand guard on the picket-line, which ran close along the river's edge. it may be interesting to my young readers to know more particularly how this matter of standing picket is arranged and conducted. when a body of men numbering, let us say, for the sake of example, two hundred in all, go out on picket, the detail is usually divided into two equal parts, consisting in the supposed case of one hundred each. one of these companies of a hundred goes into a sort of camp about a half mile from the picket-line,--usually in a woods or near by a spring, if one can be found, or in some pleasant ravine among the hills,--and the men have nothing to do but make themselves comfortable for the first twenty-four hours. they may sleep as much as they like, or play at such games as they please, only they must not go away any considerable distance from the post, because they may be very suddenly wanted, in case of an attack on the advance picket-line. the other band of one hundred takes position only a short distance to the rear of the line where the pickets pace to and fro on their beats, and is known as the advance picket-post. it is under the charge of a captain or lieutenant, and is divided into three parts, each of which is called a "relief," the three being known as the first, the second, and the third relief, respectively. each of these is under the charge of a non-commissioned officer,--a sergeant or corporal,--and must stand guard in succession, two hours on and four off, day and night, for the first twenty-four hours, at the end of which time the reserve one hundred in the rear march up and relieve the whole advance picket-post, which then goes to the rear, throws off its accoutrements, stacks its arms, and sleeps till it can sleep no more. i need hardly add that each picket is furnished with the countersign, which is regularly changed every day. while on the advance picket-post no one is permitted to sleep, whether on duty on the line or not, and to sleep on the picket-line is death! at or near midnight a body of officers, known as "the grand rounds," goes all along the line, examining every picket, to see that "all is well." andy and i had by request been put together on the second relief, and stood guard from eight to ten in the morning, two to four in the afternoon, and eight to ten and two to four at night. it was growing dark as we sat with our backs against the old elms on the lawn, telling stories, singing catches of songs, or discussing the probabilities of the summer campaign, when the call rang out: "fall in, second relief!" "come on, harry--get on your horse-hide and shooting-iron. we have a nice moonlight night for it, any way." our line, as i have said, ran directly along the river's edge, up and down which andy and i paced on our adjoining beats, each of us having to walk about a hundred yards, when we turned and walked back, with gun loaded and capped and at a right-shoulder-shift. the night was beautiful. a full round moon shone out from among the fleecy clouds overhead. at my feet was the pleasant plashing of the river, ever gliding on, with the moonbeams dancing as if in sport on its rippling surface, while the opposite bank was hid in the deep, solemn shadows made by the overhanging trees. yet the shadows were not so deep there but that occasionally i could catch glimpses of a picket silently pacing his beat on the south side of the river, as i was pacing mine on the north, with bayonet flashing in the patches of moonlight as he passed up and down. i fell to wondering, as i watched him, what sort of man he was? young or old? had he children at home, may be, in the far-off south? or a father and mother? did he wish this cruel war was over? in the next fight may be he'd be killed! then i fell to wondering who had lived in that house up yonder, and what kind of people they were. were the sons in the war? and the daughters, where were they? and would they ever come back again and set up their household gods in the good old place once more? my imagination was busy trying to picture the scenes that had enlivened the old plantation, the darkies at work in the fields, and the-- "hello, yank! we can lick you!" "beautiful night, johnny, isn't it?" "y-e-s, lovely!" but our orders are to hold as little conversation with the pickets on the other side of the river as necessary, and so, declining any further civilities, i resume my beat. "harry, i'm going to lie down here at the upper end of your beat," says the sergeant who has charge of our relief. "i ain't a-going to sleep, but i'm tired. every time you come up to this end of your beat, speak to me, will you? for i _might_ fall asleep." "certainly, sergeant." the first time i speak to him, the second, and the third, he answers readily enough, "all right, harry;" but at the fourth summons he is sound asleep. sleep on, sergeant, sleep on! your slumbers shall not be broken by me, unless the "grand rounds" come along, for whom i must keep a sharp lookout, lest they catch you napping and give you a pretty court-martial! but grand rounds or no, you shall have a little sleep. one of these days you, and many more of us besides, will sleep the last long sleep that knows no waking. but hark! i hear the challenge up the line! i must rouse you, after all. "sergeant! sergeant! get up--grand rounds!" "halt! who goes there?" "the grand rounds." "advance, officer of the grand rounds, and give the countersign." an officer steps out from the group that is half-hidden in the shadow, and whispers in my ear, "lafayette," when the whole body silently and stealthily passes down the line. relieved at ten o'clock, we go back to our post at the house, and find it rather hard work to keep our eyes open from ten to two o'clock, but sleep is out of the question. at two o'clock in the morning the second relief goes out again, down through the patch of meadow, wet with the heavy dew, and along down the river to our posts. it is nearly three o'clock, and andy and i are standing talking in low tones, he at the upper end of his beat and i at the lower end of mine, when-- bang! and the whistle of a ball is heard overhead among the branches. springing forward at once by a common impulse, we get behind the shelter of a tree, run out our rifles, and make ready to fire. "you watch up-river, harry," whispers andy, "and i'll watch down; and if you see him trying to handle his ramrod, let him have it, and don't miss him." [illustration: in a dangerous part of his beat.] but apparently johnny is in no hurry to load up again, and likes the deep shadow of his tree too well to walk his beat any more, for we wait impatiently for a long while and see nothing of him. by and by we hear him calling over: "i say, yank!" "well, johnny?" "if you won't shoot, i won't." "rather late in the morning to make such an offer, isn't it? didn't you shoot just now?" "you see, my old gun went off by accident." "that's a likely yarn o' yours, johnny!" "but it's an honest fact, any way." "well, johnny, next time your gun's going to go off in that uncomfortable way, you will oblige us chaps over here by holding the muzzle down toward dixie, or somebody'll turn up his toes to the daisies before morning yet." "all right, yank," said johnny, stepping out from behind his tree into the bright moonlight like a man, "but we can lick you, any way!" "andy, do you think that fellow's gun went off by accident, or was the rascal trying to hurt somebody?" "i think he's honest in what he says, harry. his gun might have gone off by accident. there's no telling, though; he'll need a little watching, i guess." but johnny paces his beat harmlessly enough for the remainder of the hour, singing catches of song, and whistling the airs of dixie, while we pace ours as leisurely as he, but, with a wholesome regard for guns that go off so easily of themselves, we have a decided preference for the dark shadows, and are cautious lest we linger too long on those parts of our several beats where the bright moonbeams lie. it must not be supposed that the sentries of the two armies were forever picking one another off whenever opportunity offered; for what good did it do to murder each other in cold blood? it only wasted powder, and did not forward the issue of the great conflict at all. except at times immediately before or after a battle, or when there was some specially exciting reason for mutual defiance, the pickets were generally on friendly terms, conversed freely about the news of the day, exchanged newspapers, coffee, and tobacco, swapped knives, and occasionally had a friendly game of cards together. sometimes, however, picket duty was but another name for sharpshooting and bushwhacking of the most dangerous and deadly sort. when we had been relieved, and got back to our little bivouac under the elms on the lawn, and sat down there to discuss the episode of the night, i asked andy,-- "what was that piece of poetry you read to me the other day, about a picket being shot? it was something about 'all quiet along the potomac to-night.' do you remember the words well enough to repeat it?" "yes, i committed it to memory, harry; and if you wish, i'll recite it for your benefit. we'll just imagine ourselves back in the dear old academy again, and that it is 'declamation-day,' and my name is called, and i step up and declaim:-- "all quiet along the potomac to-night. "all quiet along the potomac, they say, except, now and then, a stray picket is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, by a rifleman hid in the thicket. 'tis nothing--a private or two, now and then, will not count in the news of the battle; not an officer lost--only one of the men, moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle. "all quiet along the potomac to-night, where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon, o'er the light of the watch-fires are gleaming. a tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind through the forest-leaves softly is creeping, while stars up above, with their glittering eyes, keep guard, for the army is sleeping. "there's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, as he tramps from the rock to the fountain, and thinks of the two, in the low trundle-bed, far away in the cot on the mountain. his musket falls slack--his face, dark and grim, grows gentle with memories tender, as he mutters a prayer for the children asleep-- for their mother--may heaven defend her! "he passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree-- his footstep is lagging and weary; yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, toward the shades of the forest so dreary. hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? was it the moonlight so wondrously flashing? it looked like a rifle--'ha! mary, good by!' and the life-blood is ebbing and plashing! "all quiet along the potomac to-night-- no sound save the rush of the river: while soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,-- the picket's off duty forever!" chapter vii. a mud-march and a sham battle. we had been quietly lying in our winter quarters there at belle plains some two months and more, without having yet had much to vary the dull monotony of a soldier's everyday life. there was, of course, plenty of work in the way of picket duty and endless drilling, and no lack of fun in the camp of one kind or other; but of all this we gradually wearied, and began to long for something new. not that we were especially anxious for the fatigues of the march and the stirring scenes of the battle-field (of all which we were so far blissfully ignorant): we simply felt that we were tired of the monotony of camp life, and, knowing that great things were before us, with all the ardor of young men for strange experiences and new adventures, we gradually became more and more anxious for the campaign to open. alas! we knew not what it was we wished for; for when this celebrated campaign of ' was ended, the few of us who remained to build our second winter quarters had seen quite enough of marching and fighting to last us the rest of our natural days. however, it was with feelings of relief that we suddenly received orders for the march early in the afternoon of monday, april . as good luck would have it, andy and i had just finished a hearty meal consisting in the main of apple-fritters; for by this time we had repaired our chimney, which had been destroyed by the fire, and had several times already prepared our fritters without burning our house down over our heads in the operation. having finished our meal, we were lying lazily back against our knapsacks, disputing as to whose turn it was to wash the dishes, when andy, hearing some outcry which i had not noticed, suddenly leaped out of the little door in the side of our cabin into the company street, exclaiming as he did so,-- "what's that, sergeant? what's up?" "orders to move, that's all, my boy," said the sergeant. "orders to move. pack up immediately." "where are we going?" queried a dozen voices in chorus; for the news spread like fire in a clearing, and the boys came tumbling out of their cabins pell-mell and gathered about the sergeant in a group. "you tell me, and i'll tell you," answered the sergeant, with a shrug of his shoulders, as he shouted,-- "pack up immediately, men! we go in light marching order. no knapsacks; only a shelter or a gum-blanket, and three days' rations in your haversacks; and be lively now!" it was not long before we were all ready, with our thirty hard-tack, a piece of pork, and a little coffee and sugar in our haversacks, and our gum-blankets or shelters rolled and twisted into a shape somewhat resembling an immense horse-collar, slung over the shoulder diagonally across the body, as was universally the custom with the troops when knapsacks were to be dispensed with in winter, or had been thrown away in summer. we drummer-boys, tightening our drums and tuning them up with a tap-tap-tap of the drumstick, took station on the parade-ground up on the hill, awaiting the adjutant's signal to beat the assembly. at the first tap of our drums the whole regiment, in full view below us, poured out of quarters, like ants tumbling out of their hill when disturbed by the thrust of a stick. as the men fell into line and marched by companies up the hill to the parade-ground where the regiment was ordinarily formed, cheer upon cheer went up; for the monotony of camp life was now plainly at an end, and we were at last to be up and doing, though where, or how, or what, no one could tell. when a drum-head is wet, it at once loses all its peculiar charm and power. on the present occasion our drum-heads were soon soaked, for it was raining hard. so, unloosening the ropes, we slung our useless sheepskins over our shoulders, as the order was given, "forward--route-step--march!" the order "route-step" was always a welcome and merciful command, and the reader must bear in mind that troops on the march always go by the "route-step." they march usually four abreast, indeed, but make no effort to keep step; for marching in that way, though good enough for a mile or two on parade, would soon become intolerable if kept up for any great distance. in "route-step" each man picks his way, selecting his steps at his pleasure, and carrying or shifting his arms at his convenience. even then, marching is no easy matter, especially when it is raining, and you are marching over a clay soil,--and it did seem to us that the soil about belle plains was the toughest and most slippery clay in the world, at least in the roads that wound, serpent-like, around the hills amongst which we were marching, where, as we well knew, many a poor mule during the winter had stuck fast, and had to be literally pulled out or left to die in his tracks after the harness had been ripped off his back. at first, however, we had tolerable marching, for we took across the fields, and kept well upon the high ground as long as we could. we passed some good farms and comfortable looking houses, where we should have liked to stop and buy bread and butter, or get "hoecake" and milk; but there was no time for that, for we made no halt longer than was necessary to allow the rear to "close up," and then were up and away again at a swift pace. the afternoon wore on. night set in, and we began to wonder, in all the simplicity of new troops, whether uncle sam expected us to march all night as well as all day? to make matters still worse, as night fell dark and drizzling, we left the high ground and came out on the main road of those regions; and if we never before knew what virginia mud was like, we knew it then. it was not only knee-deep, but also so sticky, that when you set one foot down, you could scarcely pull the other out. as for myself, i found my side-arms (if indeed they merited the name) a provoking incumbrance. drummer-boys carried no arms except a straight thin sword fastened to a broad leathern belt about the waist. of this we had been in the outstart quite proud, and had kept it polished with great care. however, this "toad-sticker," as we were pleased to call it, on this mud-march caused each of us drummer-boys a world of trouble, and well illustrated the saying that "pride goeth before a fall." for as we groped about in the darkness and slid and plunged about in the mud, this miserable sword was forever getting tangled up with the wearer's legs, so that before he was aware of it, down he went on his face in the mud. my own weapon gave me so many falls that night, that i was quite out of conceit with it. when we reached camp after this march was done, i handed it to the quartermaster, agreeing to pay the price of it thrice over rather than carry it any more. the rest of the drummer-boys, i believe, carried theirs as far as chancellorsville, and there solemnly hung them up on an oak-tree, where they are unto this day, if nobody has found them and carried them off as trophies of war. we had a little darky along with us on this march who had an experience which was quite as provoking to him as it was amusing to us. the darky's name was bill. other name he had none, except "shorty," which had been given him by the boys because of his remarkably short stature. for although he was as strong as a man, and quite as old-featured, he was nevertheless so dwarfed in size that the name shorty seemed to become him better than his original name of bill. well, shorty had been employed by one of our captains as cook, or, as seemed more likely on the present occasion, as a sort of sumpter-mule. for the captain, having an eye to comfort on the march, had loaded the poor darky with a pack of blankets, tents, pans, kettles, and general camp equipage, so large and bulky, that it is no exaggeration to say that shorty's pack was quite as large as himself. all along it had been a wonder to us how he had managed to pull through so far with all that immense bundle on his back; but, with strength far beyond his size, he had trudged doggedly on at the captain's heels, over hill and through field, until we came at nightfall to the main road. there, like many another sumpter-mule, he stuck fast in the mud, so that, puff and pull as he might, he could not pull either foot out, and had to be dragged out by two men, to the great merriment of all who in the growing darkness were aware of shorty's misfortune. at length it became so dark that no one was able to see an inch before his face, and we lost the road. torches were then lighted, in order to find it. then we forded a creek, and then on and on we went, till at length we were allowed to halt and fall out on either side of the road into a last year's cornfield, to "make fires and cook coffee." to make a fire was a comparatively easy matter, notwithstanding the rain; for some one or other always had matches, and there were plenty of rails at hand, and these were dry enough when split open with a hatchet or an axe. in a few moments the fence around the cornfield was carried off rail by rail, and everywhere was heard the sound of axes and hatchets, the premonitory symptoms of roaring camp-fires, which were soon everywhere blazing along the road. "harry," said lieutenant dougal, "i haven't any tin cup, and when you get your coffee cooked, i believe i'll share it with you; may i?" "certainly, lieutenant. but where shall i get water to make the coffee with? it's so dark, that nobody can see how the land lies so as to find a spring." without telling the lieutenant what i did, i scooped up a tin cup full of water (whether clear or muddy i could not tell; it was too dark to see) out of a corn-furrow. i had the less hesitation in doing so, because i found all the rest were doing the same, and i argued that if they could stand it, why i could too--and so could the lieutenant. tired and wet and sleepy as i was, i could not help but be sensible of the strange, weird appearance the troops presented, as, coming out of the surrounding darkness, i faced the brilliant fires with groups of busy men about them. there they sat, squatting about the fires, each man with his quart tin cup suspended on one end of his iron ramrod or on some convenient stick, and each eager and impatient to be the first to bring his cup to the boiling-point. thrusting my cup in amongst the dozen others already smoking amid the crackling flames, i soon had the pleasure of seeing the foam rise to the surface,--a sure indication that my coffee was nearly done. when the lieutenant and i had finished drinking it, i called his attention to the half inch of mud in the bottom of the cup, and asked him how he liked coffee made out of water taken from a last year's corn-furrow? "first rate," he replied, as he took out his tobacco pouch and pipe for a smoke, "first rate; gives it the real old 'virginny' flavor, you see." we were not permitted, however, to enjoy the broad glare of our fires very long after our coffee was disposed of, for we soon heard the command to "fall in" coming down the line. it was now half-past eleven o'clock, and away we went again slap-dash in the thick darkness and bottomless mud. at three o'clock in the morning, during a brief halt, i fell asleep while sitting on my drum, and tumbled over into the road from sheer exhaustion. partly aroused by my fall, i spread out my shelter on the road where the mud seemed the shallowest, and lay down to sleep, chilled to the bone and shivering like an aspen. at six o'clock we were roused up, and a pretty appearance we presented too, for every man was covered with mud from neck to heel. however, daylight having now come to our assistance, we marched on in merrier mood in the direction of port royal, a place or village on the rappahannock some thirty miles below fredericksburg, and reached our destination about ten o'clock that forenoon. as we emerged from the woods and came out into the open fields, with the river in full view about a fourth of a mile in front, we fully believed that now, at last, we were to go at once into battle. and so, indeed, it seemed, as the long column halted in a cornfield a short distance from the river, and the pontoon trains came up, and the pioneers were sent forward to help lay the bridge, and signal-flags began flying, and officers and orderlies began to gallop gayly over the field--of course we were now about to go into our first battle. "i guess we'll have to cross the river, harry," said andy, as we stood together beside a corn shock and watched the men putting down the pontoons, "and then we'll have to go in on 'em and gobble 'em up." "yes; gobbling up is all right. but suppose that over in the woods yonder, on the other side the river, there might happen to be a lot of johnnies watching us, and all ready to sweep down on us and gobble _us_ up, while we are crossing the river--eh? that wouldn't be nearly so nice, would it?" "hah!" exclaimed andy, "i'd just like to see 'em do it once! look there! there come the boys that'll take the johnnies through the brush!" looking in the direction in which andy was pointing, that is, away to the skirt of the woods in our rear, i beheld a battery of artillery coming up at full gallop towards us and making straight for the river. "just you wait, now," said andy, with a triumphant snap of his fingers, "till you hear those old bull-dogs begin to bark, and you'll see the johnnies get up and dust!" as the battery came near the spot where we were standing, and could be plainly seen, i exclaimed: "why, andy, i don't believe those dogs can bark at all! don't you see? they are wooden logs covered over with black gum-blankets and mounted on the front-wheels of wagons, and--as sure as you're alive--it's our quartermaster on his gray horse in command of the battery!" "well, i declare!" said andy, with a look of mingled surprise and disappointment. there was no disputing the fact. dummies they were, those cannon which andy had so exultingly declared were to take the johnnies through the brush; and we began at once to suspect that this whole mud-march was only a miserable ruse, or feint of war, got up expressly for the purpose of deceiving the enemy and making him believe that the whole union army was there in full force, when such was by no means the case. so there was not going to be any battle after all, then? such indeed, as we learned a little later in the day, was the true state of things. nevertheless the pioneers went on with their work of putting down the pontoon-boats for a bridge, and our gallant quartermaster, on his bobtail gray, with drawn sword, and shouting out his commands like a veritable major-general, swept by us with his battery of wooden guns, and then away out into the field like a whirlwind, apparently bent on the most bloody work imaginable. now the battery would dash up and unlimber and get into position here; then away on a gallop across the field and go into position there; while the quartermaster would meanwhile swing his sword and shout himself hoarse, as if in the very crisis of a battle. it was, then, all, alas! a ruse, and there wouldn't be any battle after all! i think the general feeling among the men was one of disappointment, when about nine o'clock that night we were all withdrawn from the riverside under cover of darkness, and bivouacked in the woods to our rear, where we were ordered to make as many and as large fires as we could, so as to attract the enemy's attention, and make him believe that the whole army of the potomac was concentrating at that point; whereas the truth was that, instead of making any movement thirty miles _below_ fredericksburg, the union army, ten days later, crossed the river thirty miles _above_ fredericksburg, and met the enemy at chancellorsville. [illustration: the quartermaster's triumph.] but i have never forgotten our gallant quartermaster, and what a fine appearance he made as the commanding officer of a battery of artillery. it was an amusing sight; for the reader must remember that a quartermaster, having to do only with army supplies, was a non-combatant, that is to say, he did no fighting, and in most cases "stayed by the stuff" among his army wagons, which were usually far enough to the rear in time of battle. thinking of this little episode on our first mud-march, there comes to my mind a conversation i recently had with a gentleman, my neighbor, who was also a quartermaster in the union army. "i was down in virginia on business last spring," said the ex-quartermaster, "in the neighborhood of warrenton. (you remember warrenton? fine country down there.) and i found the people very kind and friendly, and inclined to forget the late unpleasantness. well, one man came up to me, and says he: "'major, you were in the war, weren't you?' "'yes,' said i, 'i was; but (i might as well admit it) i was on the other side of the fence. i was in the union army.' "'you were? well, major, did you ever kill anybody?' "'oh yes,' said i; 'lots of 'em,--lots of 'em, sir.' "'you don't tell me!' said the virginian. 'and if i might be so bold as to ask--how did you generally kill them?' "'well,' said i, 'i never like to tell, because bragging is not in my line; but i'll tell you. you see, i never liked this thing of shooting people. it seemed to me a barbarous business, and besides, i was a kind of quaker, and had conscientious scruples about bearing arms. and so, when the war broke out and i found i'd have to enter the army, maybe, whether i wanted to or not, i enlisted and got in as a quartermaster, thinking that in that position i wouldn't have to kill anybody with a gun, anyhow. but war is a dreadful thing, a dreadful thing, sir. and i found that even a quartermaster had to take a hand at killing people; and the way i took for it was this: i always managed to have a good swift horse, and as soon as things would begin to look a little like fighting, and the big guns would begin to boom, why i'd clap spurs to my horse and make for the rear as fast as ever i could. and then when your people would come after me, they never _could_ catch me; they'd always get out of breath trying to come up to me. and in that way i've killed dozens of your people, sir, dozens of them, and all without powder or ball. they couldn't catch me, and always died for want of breath trying to get hold of me!'" we slept in the woods that night under the dark pines and beside our great camp-fires; and early the next morning took up the line of march for home. we marched all day over the hills, and as the sun was setting, came at last to a certain hilltop whence we could look down upon the odd-looking group of cabins and wigwams which we recognized as our camp, and which we hailed with cheers as our home. [illustration] chapter viii. how we got a shelling. "pack up!" "fall in!" all is stir and excitement in the camp. the bugles are blowing "boots and saddles" for the cavalry camped above us on the hill; we drummer-boys are beating the "long roll" and "assembly" for the regiment; mounted orderlies are galloping along the hillside with great yellow envelopes stuck in their belts; and the men fall out of their miserable winter-quarters, with shouts and cheers that make the hills about falmouth ring again. for the winter is past; the sweet breath of spring comes balmily up from the south, and the whole army is on the move,--whither? "say, captain, tell us where are we going?" but the captain doesn't know, nor even the colonel,--nobody knows. we are raw troops yet, and have not learned that soldiers never ask questions about orders. so, fall in there, all together, and forward! and we ten little drummer-boys beat gayly enough "the girl i left behind me," as the line sweeps over the hills, through the woods, and on down to the river's edge. and soon here we are, on the rappahannock, three miles below fredericksburg. we can see, as we emerge from the woods, away over the river, the long line of earthworks thrown up by the enemy, and small dark specks moving about along the field, in the far, dim distance, which we know to be officers, or perhaps cavalry pickets. we can see, too, our own first division laying down the pontoon-bridge, on which, according to a rumor that is spreading among us, we are to cross the river and charge the enemy's works. here is an old army letter lying before me, written on my drum-head in lead pencil, in that stretch of meadow by the river, where i heard my first shell scream and shriek:-- "near rappahannock river, apr. th. "dear father,--we have moved to the river, and are just going into battle. i am well, and so are the boys.--your affect. son, "harry." but we do not go into battle this day, nor next day, nor at all at this point; for we are making only a "feint," though we do not know it now, to attract the attention of the enemy from the main movement of the army at chancellorsville, some twenty-five or thirty miles farther up the river. the men are in good spirits and all ready for the fray; but as the day wears on without further developments, arms are stacked, and we begin to roam about the hills. some are writing letters home, some sleeping, some even fishing in a little rivulet that runs by us, when, toward three o'clock in the afternoon, and all of a sudden, the enemy opens fire on us with a salute of three shells fired in rapid succession, not quite into our ranks, but a little to the left of us. and see! over there where the 'forty-third lies, to our left, come three _stretchers_, and you can see deep crimson stains on the canvas as they go by us on a lively trot to the rear; for "the ball is opening, boys," and we are under fire for the first time. i wish i could convey to my readers some faint idea of the noise made by a shell as it flies shrieking and screaming through the air, and of that peculiar _whirring_ sound made by the pieces after the shell has burst overhead or by your side. so loud, high-pitched, shrill, and terrible is the sound, that one unaccustomed to it would think at first that the very heavens were being torn down about his ears! how often i have laughed and laughed at myself when thinking of that first shelling we got there by the river! for up to that time i had had a very poor, old-fashioned idea of what a shell was like, having derived it probably from accounts of sieges in the mexican war. i had thought a shell was a hollow ball of iron, filled with powder and furnished with a fuse, and that they threw it over into your ranks, and there it lay, hissing and spitting, till the fire reached the powder, and the shell burst and killed a dozen men or so; that is, if some venturesome fellow didn't run up and stamp the fire off the fuse before the miserable thing went off! of a _conical_ shell, shaped like a minie-ball, with ridges on the outside to fit the grooves of a rifled cannon, and exploding by a percussion-cap at the pointed end, i had no idea in the world. but that was the sort of thing they were firing at us now,--hur-r-r--bang! hur-r-r--bang! throwing myself flat on my face while that terrible shriek is in the air, i cling closer to the ground while i hear that low, whirring sound near by, which i foolishly imagine to be the sound of a burning fuse, but which, on raising my head and looking up and around, i find is the sound of pieces of exploded shells flying through the air about our heads! the enemy has excellent range of us, and gives it to us hot and fast, and we fall in line and take it as best we may, and without the pleasure of replying, for the enemy's batteries are a full mile and a half away, and no enfield rifle can reach half so far. "colonel, move your regiment a little to the right, so as to get under cover of yonder bank." it is soon done; and there, seated on a bank about twenty feet high, with our backs to the enemy, we let them blaze away, for it is not likely they can tumble a shell down at an angle of forty-five degrees. and now, see! just to the rear of us, and therefore in full view as we are sitting, is a battery of our own coming up into position at full gallop,--a grand sight indeed! the officers with swords flashing in the evening sunlight, the bugles clanging out the orders, the carriages unlimbered, and the guns run up into position; and now, that ever beautiful drill of the artillery in action, steady and regular as the stroke of machinery! how swiftly the man that handles the swab has prepared his piece, while the runners have meanwhile brought up the little red bag of powder and the long conical shell from the caisson in the rear! how swiftly they are rammed home! the lieutenant sights his piece, the man with the lanyard with a sudden jerk fires the cap, the gun leaps five feet to the rear with the recoil, and out of the cannon's throat, in a cloud of smoke, rushes the shell, shrieking out its message of death into the lines a mile and a half away, while our boys rend the air with wild hurrahs, for the enemy's fire is answered! now ensues an artillery duel that keeps the air all quivering and quaking about our ears for an hour and a half, and it is all the more exciting that we can see the beautiful drill of the batteries beside us, with that steady swabbing and ramming, running and sighting, and bang! bang! bang! the mystery is how in the world they can load and fire so fast. "boys, what are you trying to do?" [illustration: general doubleday dismounts and sights the gun.] it is major-general abner doubleday, our division-commander, who reins in his horse and asks the question. he is a fine-looking officer, and is greatly beloved by the boys. he rides his horse beautifully, and is said to be one of the finest artillerists in the service, as he may well be, for it was his hand that fired the first gun on the union side from the walls of fort sumter. "why, general, we are trying to put a shell through that stone barn over there; it's full of sharpshooters." "hold a moment!" and the general dismounts and sights the gun. "try that elevation once, sergeant," he says; and the shell goes crashing through the barn a mile and a half away, and the sharpshooters come pouring out of it like bees out of a hive. "let them have it so, boys." and the general has mounted, and rides, laughing, away along the line. meanwhile, something is transpiring immediately before our eyes that amuses us greatly. not more than twenty yards away from us is another high bank, corresponding exactly with the one we are occupying, and running parallel with it, the two hills inclosing a little ravine some twenty or thirty yards in width. this second high bank, the nearer one, you must remember, faces the enemy's fire. the water has worn out of the soft sand-rock a sort of cave, in which darkie bill, our company cook, took refuge at the crack of the first shell. and there, crouching in the narrow recess of the rock, we can see him shivering with affright. every now and then, when there is a lull in the firing, he comes to the wide-open door of his house, intent upon flight, and, rolling up the great whites of his eyes, is about to step out and run, when hur-r-r--bang--crack! goes the shell, and poor scared darkie bill dives into his cave again head-first, like a frog into a pond. after repeated attempts to run and repeated frog-leaps backward, the poor fellow takes heart and cuts for the woods, pursued by the laughter and shouts of the regiment, for which he cares far less, however, than for that terrible shriek in the air, which, he afterward told us, "was a-sayin' all de time, 'where's dat nigger! where's dat nigger! where's dat nigger!'" as nightfall comes on, the firing ceases. word is passed around that under cover of night we are to cross the pontoons and charge the enemy's works; but we sleep soundly all night on our arms, and are awaked only by the first streaks of light in the morning sky. we have orders to move. a staff-officer is delivering orders to our colonel, who is surrounded by his staff. they press in toward the messenger, standing immediately below me as i sit on the bank, when the enemy gives us a morning salute, and the shell comes ricochetting over the hill and tumbles into a mud-puddle about which the group is gathered; the mounted officers crouch in their saddles and spur hastily away, the foot officers throw themselves flat on their faces into the mud; the drummer-boy is bespattered with mud and dirt; but fortunately the shell does not explode, or my readers would never have heard how we got our first shelling. and now, "fall in, men!" and we are off on a double-quick in a cloud of dust, amid the rattle of canteens and tin cups, and the regular _flop, flop_ of cartridge-boxes and bayonet-scabbards, pursued for two miles by the hot fire of the enemy's batteries, for a long, hot, weary day's march to the extreme right of the army at chancellorsville. [illustration] chapter ix. in the woods at chancellorsville. it is no easy matter to describe a long day's march to one who knows nothing of the hardships of a soldier's life. that a body of troops marched some twenty-five or thirty miles on a certain day from daylight to midnight, from one point to another, seems, to one who has not tried it, no great undertaking. thirty miles! it is but an hour's ride in the cars. nor can the single pedestrian, who easily covers greater distances in less time, have a full idea of the fatigue of a soldier as he throws himself down by the roadside, utterly exhausted, when the day's march is done. unnumbered circumstances combine to test the soldier's powers of endurance to the very utmost. he has, in the first place, a heavy load to carry. his knapsack, haversack, canteen, ammunition, musket, and accoutrements are by no means a light matter at the outset, and they grow heavier with every additional mile of the road. so true is this, that, in deciding what of our clothing to take along on a march and what to throw away, we soon learned to be guided by the soldiers' proverb that "what weighs an ounce in the morning weighs a pound at night." then, too, the soldier is not master of his own movements, as is the solitary pedestrian; for he cannot pick his way, nor husband his strength by resting when and where he may choose. he marches generally "four abreast," sometimes at double-quick, when the rear is closing up, and again at a most provokingly slow pace when there is some impediment on the road ahead. often his canteen is empty, no water is to be had, and he marches on in a cloud of dust, with parched throat and lips and trembling limbs,--on and on, and still on, until about the midnight hour, at the final "halt!" he drops to the ground like a shot, feverish, irritable, exhausted in body and soul. it would seem a shame and a folly to take troops thus utterly worn out, and hurl them at midnight into a battle the issue of which hangs trembling in the balance. yet this was what they came pretty near doing with us, after our long march from four miles below fredericksburg to the extreme right of the army at chancellorsville. [illustration: a surgeon writing upon the pommel of his saddle an order for an ambulance.] i have a very indistinct and cloudy recollection of that march. i can quite well remember the beginning of it, when at the early dawn the enemy's batteries drove us, under a sharp shell-fire, at a lively double-quick for the first four miles. and i can well recall how, at midnight, we threw ourselves under the great oak-trees near chancellorsville, and were in a moment sound asleep amid the heaven-rending thunder of the guns, the unbroken roll of the musketry, and the shouts and yells of the lines charging each other a quarter of a mile to our front. but when i attempt to call up the incidents that happened by the way, i am utterly at a loss. my memory has retained nothing but a confused mass of images: here a farmhouse, there a mill; a company of stragglers driven on by the guard; a surgeon writing upon the pommel of his saddle an order for an ambulance to carry a poor exhausted and but half-conscious fellow; an officer's staff or an orderly dashing by at a lively trot; a halt for coffee in the edge of a wood; filling a canteen (oh, blessed memory!) at some meadow stream or roadside spring; and on, and on, and on, amid the rattle of bayonet-scabbards and tin cups, mopping our faces and crunching our hard-tack as we went,--this, and such as this, is all that will now come to mind. but of events toward nightfall the images are clearer and more sharply defined. the sun is setting, large, red, and fiery-looking, in a dull haze that hangs over the thickly-wooded horizon. we are nearing the ford where we are to cross the rappahannock. we come to some hilltop, and--hark! a deep, ominous growl comes, from how many miles away we know not; now another; then another! on, boys, on! there is work doing ahead, and terrible work it is, for two great armies are at each other's throat, and the battle is raging fierce and high, although we know nothing as yet of how it may be going. on,--on,--on! turning sharp to the left, we enter the approach to the ford, the road leading, in places, through a deep cut,--great high pine-trees on either side of the road shutting out the little remaining light of day. here we find the first actual evidences of the great battle that is raging ahead: long lines of ambulances filled with wounded; yonder a poor fellow with a bandaged head sitting by a spring; and a few steps away another, his agonies now over; here, two men, one with his arm in a sling supporting the other, who has turned his musket into a crutch; then more ambulances, and more wounded in increasing numbers; orderlies dashing by at full gallop, while the thunder of the guns grows louder and closer as we step on the pontoons and so cross the gleaming river. "colonel, your men have had a hard day's march; you will now let them rest for the night." it is a staff-officer whom i hear delivering this order to our colonel, and a sweeter message i think i never heard. we cast wistful eyes at the half-extinguished camp-fires of some regiment that has been making coffee by the roadside, and has just moved off, and we think them a godsend, as the order is given to "stack arms!" but before we have time even to unsling knapsacks, the order comes, "fall in!" and away we go again, steadily plodding on through that seemingly endless forest of scrub-pine and oak, straight in the direction of the booming guns ahead. why whippoorwills were made i do not know; doubtless for some wise purpose; but never before that night did i know they had been made in such countless numbers. every tree and bush was full of them, it seemed. there were thousands of them, there were tens of thousands of them, there were millions of them! and every one whistling, as fast as it could, "who-hoo-hoo! who-hoo-hoo! who-hoo-hoo!" had they been vultures or turkey-buzzards,--vast flocks of which followed the army wherever we went, almost darkening the sky at times, and always suggesting unpleasant reflections,--they could not have appeared more execrable to me. many were the imprecations hurled at them as we plodded on under the light of the great red moon, now above the tree-tops, while still from every bush came that monotonous half-screech, half-groan, "who-hoo-hoo! who-hoo-hoo!" but, o miserable birds of ill-omen, there is something more ominous in the air than your lugubrious night-song! there is borne to our ears at every additional step the deepening growl of the cannon ahead. as the moon mounts higher, and we advance farther along the level forest-land, we hear still more distinctly another sound--the long, unbroken roll of musketry. forward now, at double-quick, until we are on the outskirts of the battle-field. shells are crashing through the tall tree-tops overhead. "halt! load at will! load!" in the moonlight that falls shimmering across the road, as i look back over the column, i see the bright steel flashing, while the jingle of the ramrods makes music that stirs the blood to a quicker pulse. a well-known voice calls me down the line, and andy whispers a few hurried words into my ear, while he grasps my hand hard. but we are off at a quick step. a sharp turn to the left, and--hark! the firing has ceased, and they are "charging" down there! that peculiar, and afterward well-known, "yi! yi! yi!" indicates a struggle for which we are making straight and fast. at this moment comes the order: "colonel, you will countermarch your men, and take position down this road on the right. follow me!" the staff-officer leads us half a mile to the right, where, sinking down utterly exhausted, we are soon sound asleep. of the next day or two i have but an indistinct recollection. what with the fatigue and excitement, the hunger and thirst, of the last few days, a high fever set in for me. i became half-delirious, and lay under a great oak-tree, too weak to walk, my head nearly splitting with the noise of a battery of steel cannon in position fifty yards to the left of me. that battery's beautiful but terrible drill i could plainly see. my own corps was put on reserve: the men built strong breastworks, but took no part in the battle, excepting some little skirmishing. our day was yet to come. one evening,--it was the last evening we spent in the woods at chancellorsville,--a sergeant of my company came back to where we were, with orders for me to hunt up and bring an ambulance for one of the lieutenants who was sick. "you see, harry, there are rumors that we are going to retreat to-night, for the heavy rains have so swollen the rappahannock that our pontoons are in danger of being carried away, and it appears that, for some reason or other, we've got to get out of this at once under cover of night, and lieutenant can't stand the march. so you will go for an ambulance. you'll find the ambulance-park about two miles from here. you'll take through the woods in that direction,"--pointing with his finger,--"until you come to a path; follow the path till you come to a road; follow the road, taking to the right and straight ahead, till you come to the ambulances." although it was raining hard at the time, and had been raining for several days, and though i myself was probably as sick as the lieutenant, and felt positive that the troops would have started in retreat before i could get back, yet it was my duty to obey, and off i went. i had no difficulty in finding the path; and i reached the road all right. fording a stream, the corduroy bridge of which was all afloat, and walking rapidly for a half-hour, i found the ambulances all drawn up ready to retreat. "we have orders to pull out from here at once, and can send an ambulance for no man. your lieutenant must take his chance." it was getting dark fast, as i started back with this message. i was soaked to the skin, and the rain was pouring down in torrents. to make bad worse, in the darkness i turned off from the road at the wrong point, missed the path, and quite lost my way! what was to be done? if i should spend much time where i was, i was certain to be left behind, for i felt sure that the troops were moving off; and yet i feared to make for any of the fires i saw through the woods, for i knew the lines of the two armies were near each other, and i might, as like as not, walk over into the lines of the enemy. collecting my poor fevered faculties, i determined to follow the course of a little stream i heard plashing down among the bushes to the left. by and by i fixed my eye on a certain bright camp-fire, and determined to make for it at all hazards, be it of friend or of foe. judge of my joyful surprise when i found it was burning in front of my own tent! standing about our fire trying to get warm and dry, our fellows were discussing the question of the retreat about to be made. but i was tired and sick, and wet and sleepy, and did not at all relish the prospect of a night-march through the woods in a drenching rain. so, putting on the only remaining dry shirt i had left (i had _two_ on already, and they were soaked through), i lay down under my shelter, shivering and with chattering teeth, but soon fell sound asleep. in the gray light of the morning we were suddenly awakened by a loud "halloo there, you chaps! better be digging out of this! we're the last line of cavalry pickets, and the johnnies are on our heels!" it was an easy matter for us to sling on our knapsacks and rush after the cavalry-man, until a double-quick of two miles brought us within the rear line of defences thrown up to cover the retreat. chapter x. the first day at gettysburg. "harry, i'm getting tired of this thing. it's becoming monotonous, this thing of being roused every morning at four, with orders to pack up and be ready to march at a moment's notice, and then lying around here all day in the sun. i don't believe we are going anywhere, anyhow." we had been encamped for six weeks, of which i need give no special account, only saying that in those "summer quarters," as they might be called, we went on with our endless drilling, and were baked and browned, and thoroughly hardened to the life of a soldier in the field. the monotony of which andy complained did not end that day, nor the next. for six successive days we were regularly roused at four o'clock in the morning, with orders to "pack up and be ready to move immediately!" only to unpack as regularly about the middle of the afternoon. we could hear our batteries pounding away in the direction of fredericksburg, but we did not then know that we were being held well in hand till the enemy's plan had developed itself into the great march into pennsylvania, and we were let off in hot pursuit. so, at last, on the th of june, , we started, at five o'clock in the morning, in a north-westerly direction. my journal says: "very warm, dust plenty, water scarce, marching very hard. halted at dusk at an excellent spring, and lay down for the night with aching limbs and blistered feet." i pass over the six days' continuous marching that followed, steadily on toward the north, pausing only to relate several incidents that happened by the way. on the th we were racing with the enemy--we being pushed on to the utmost of human endurance--for the possession of the defences of washington. from five o'clock of that morning till three the following morning,--that is to say, from daylight to daylight,--we were hurried along under a burning june sun, with no halt longer than sufficient to recruit our strength with a hasty cup of coffee at noon and nightfall. nine, ten, eleven, twelve o'clock at night, and still on! it was almost more than flesh could endure. men fell out of line in the darkness by the score, and tumbled over by the roadside, asleep almost before they touched the ground. i remember how a great tall fellow in our company made us laugh along somewhere about one o'clock that morning,--"pointer," we called him,--an excellent soldier, who afterward fell at his post at spottsylvania. he had been trudging on in sullen silence for hours, when all of a sudden, coming to a halt, he brought his piece to "order arms" on the hard road with a ring, took off his cap, and, in language far more forcible than elegant, began forthwith to denounce both parties to the war, "from a to izzard," in all branches of the service, civil and military, army and navy, artillery, infantry, and cavalry, and demanded that the enemy should come on in full force here and now, "and i'll fight them all, single-handed and alone, the whole pack of 'em! i'm tired of this everlasting marching, and i want to fight!" "three cheers for pointer!" cried some one, and we laughed heartily as we toiled doggedly on to manassas, which we reached at three o'clock a. m., june th. i can assure you we lost no time in stretching ourselves at full length in the tall summer grass. "james mcfadden, report to the adjutant for camp guard! james mcfadden! anybody know where jim mcfadden is?" now that was rather hard, wasn't it? to march from daylight to daylight, and lie down for a rest of probably two hours before starting again, and then to be called up to stand throughout those precious two hours on guard duty! i knew very well where mcfadden was, for wasn't he lying right beside me in the grass? but just then i was in no humor to tell. the camp might well go without a guard that night, or the orderly might find mcfadden in the dark if he could. but the rules were strict, and the punishment was severe, and poor mcfadden, bursting into tears of vexation, answered like a man: "here i am, orderly; i'll go." it was hard. two weeks later, both mcfadden and the orderly went where there is neither marching nor standing guard any more. now comes a long rest of a week in the woods near the potomac; for we have been marching parallel with the enemy, and dare not go too fast, lest by some sudden and dexterous move in the game he should sweep past our rear in upon the defences of washington. and after this sweet refreshment, we cross the potomac on pontoons, and march, perhaps with a lighter step, since we are nearing home, through the smiling fields and pleasant villages of "maryland, my maryland." at poolesville, a little town on the north bank of the potomac, we smile as we see a lot of children come trooping out of the village school,--a merry sight to men who have seen neither woman nor child these six months and more, and a touching sight to many a man in the ranks as he thinks of his little flaxen-heads in the far-away home. ay, think of them now, and think of them full tenderly too, for many a man of you shall never have child climb on his knee any more! as we enter one of these pleasant little maryland villages,--jefferson by name,--we find on the outskirts of the place two young ladies and two young gentlemen waving the good old flag as we pass, and singing "rally round the flag, boys!" the excitement along the line is intense. cheer on cheer is given by regiment after regiment as we pass along, we drummer-boys beating, at the colonel's express orders, the old tune, "the girl i left behind me," as a sort of response. soon we are in among the hills again, and still the cheering goes on in the far distance to the rear. only ten days later we passed through the same village again, and were met by the same young ladies and gentlemen, waving the same flag and singing the same song. but though we tried twice, and tried hard, we could not cheer at all; for there's a difference between five hundred men and one hundred,--is there not? so, that second time, we drooped our tattered flags, and raised our caps in silent and sorrowful salute. through middletown next, where a rumor reaches us that the enemy's forces have occupied harrisburg, and where certain ladies, standing on a balcony and waving their handkerchiefs as we pass by, in reply to our colonel's greeting, that "we are glad to see so many union people here," answer, "yes; and we are glad to see the yankee soldiers too." from middletown, at six o'clock in the evening, across the mountain to frederick, on the outskirts of which city we camp for the night. at half-past five next morning (june th) we are up and away, in a drizzling rain, through lewistown and mechanicstown, near which latter place we pass a company of confederate prisoners, twenty-four in number, dressed in well-worn gray and butternut, which makes us think that the enemy cannot be far ahead. after a hard march of twenty-five miles, the greater part of the way over a turnpike, we reach emmittsburg at nightfall, some of us quite barefoot, and all of us footsore and weary. next morning (june th) at nine o'clock we are up and away again, "on the road leading towards gettysburg," they say. after crossing the line between maryland and pennsylvania, where the colonel halts the column for a moment, in order that we may give three rousing cheers for the old keystone state, we march perceptibly slower, as if there were some impediment in the way. there is a feeling among the men that the enemy is somewhere near. towards noon we leave the public road, and taking across the fields, form in line of battle along the rear of a wood, and pickets are thrown out. there is an air of uncertainty and suspicion in the ranks as we look to the woods, and consider what our pickets may possibly unmask there. but no developments have yet been made when darkness comes, and we bivouac for the night behind a strong stone wall. passing down along the line of glowing fires in the gathering gloom, i come on one of my company messes squatting about a fire, cooking supper. joe gutelius, corporal and color-guard from our company, is superintending the boiling of a piece of meat in a tin can, while sam ruhl and his brother joe are smoking their pipes near by. "boys, it begins to look a little dubious, don't it? where is jimmy lucas?" "he's out on picket in the woods yonder. yes, harry, it begins to look a little as if we were about to stir the johnnies out of the brush," says joe gutelius, throwing another rail on the fire. "if we do," says joe ruhl, "remember that you have the post of honor, joe, and 'if any man pulls down that flag, shoot him on the spot!'" "never you fear for that," answers joe gutelius. "we of the color-guard will look out for the flag. for my part, i'll stay a dead man on the field before the colors of the th are disgraced." "you'll have some tough tussling for your colors, then," says sam. "if the louisiana tigers get after you once, look out!" "who's afraid of the louisiana tigers? i'll back the buck-tails against the tigers any day. stay and take supper with us, harry! we are going to have a feast to-night. i have the heart of a beef boiling in the can yonder; and it is done now. sit up, boys, get out your knives and fall to." "we were going to have boiled lion heart for supper, harry," says joe ruhl with mock apology for the fare, "but we couldn't catch any lions. they seem to be scarce in these parts. maybe we can catch a tiger to-morrow, though." little do we think, as we sit thus cheerily talking about the blazing fire behind the stone-wall, that it is our last supper together, and that ere another nightfall two of us will be sleeping in the silent bivouac of the dead. * * * * * "colonel, close up your men, and move on as rapidly as possible." it is the morning of july st, and we are crossing a bridge over a stream, as the staff-officer, having delivered this order for us, dashes down the line to hurry up the regiments in the rear. we get up on a high range of hills, from which we have a magnificent view. the day is bright, the air is fresh and sweet with the scent of the new-mown hay, and the sun shines out of an almost cloudless sky, and as we gaze away off yonder down the valley to the left--look! do you see that? a puff of smoke in mid-air! very small, and miles away, as the faint and long-coming "boom" of the exploding shell indicates; but it means that something is going on yonder, away down in the valley, in which, perhaps, we may have a hand before the day is done. see! another--and another! faint and far away comes the long-delayed "boom!" "boom!" echoing over the hills, as the staff-officer dashes along the lines with orders to "double-quick! double-quick!" four miles of almost constant double-quicking is no light work at any time, least of all on such a day as this memorable first day of july, for it is hot and dusty. but we are in our own state now, boys, and the battle is opening ahead, and it is no time to save breath. on we go, now up a hill, now over a stream, now checking our headlong rush for a moment, for we _must_ breathe a little. but the word comes along the line again, "double-quick," and we settle down to it with right good-will, while the cannon ahead seem to be getting nearer and louder. there's little said in the ranks, for there is little breath for talking, though every man is busy enough thinking. we all feel, somehow, that our day has come at last--as indeed it has! we get in through the outskirts of gettysburg, tearing down the fences of the town-lots and outlying gardens as we go; we pass a battery of brass guns drawn up beside the seminary, some hundred yards in front of which building, in a strip of meadow-land, we halt, and rapidly form the line of battle. "general, shall we unsling knapsacks?" shouts some one down the line to our division-general, as he is dashing by. "never mind the knapsacks, boys; it's the state now!" and he plunges his spurs into the flanks of his horse, as he takes the stake-and-rider fence at a leap, and is away. "unfurl the flags, color-guard!" "now, forward, double----" "colonel, we're not loaded yet!" a laugh runs along the line as, at the command "load at will--load!" the ramrods make their merry music, and at once the word is given, "forward, double-quick!" and the line sweeps up that rising ground with banners gayly flying, and cheers that rend the air,--a sight, once seen, never to be forgotten. i suppose my readers wonder what a drummer-boy does in time of battle. perhaps they have the same idea i used to have, namely, that it is the duty of a drummer-boy to beat his drum all the time the battle rages, to encourage the men or drown the groans of the wounded! but if they will reflect a moment, they will see that amid the confusion and noise of battle, there is little chance of martial music being either heard or heeded. our colonel had long ago given us our orders: "you drummer-boys, in time of an engagement, are to lay aside your drums and take stretchers and help off the wounded. i expect you to do this, and you are to remember that, in doing it, you are just as much helping the battle on as if you were fighting with guns in your hands." and so we sit down there on our drums and watch the line going in with cheers. forthwith we get a smart shelling, for there is evidently somebody else watching that advancing line besides ourselves; but they have elevated their guns a little too much, so that every shell passes quite over the line and ploughs up the meadow-sod about _us_ in all directions. [illustration: a skirmish after a hard day's march] laying aside our knapsacks, we go to the seminary, now rapidly filling with the wounded. this the enemy surely cannot know, or they wouldn't shell the building so hard! we get stretchers at the ambulances, and start out for the line of battle. we can just see our regimental colors waving in the orchard, near a log-house about three hundred yards ahead, and we start out for it--i on the lead, and daney behind. there is one of our batteries drawn up to our left a short distance as we run. it is engaged in a sharp artillery duel with one of the enemy's, which we cannot see, although we can hear it plainly enough, and straight between the two our road lies. so, up we go, daney and i, at a lively trot, dodging the shells as best we can, till, panting for breath, we set down our stretcher under an apple-tree in the orchard, in which, under the brow of the hill, we find the regiment lying, one or two companies being out on the skirmish line ahead. i count six men of company c lying yonder in the grass--killed, they say, by a single shell. close beside them lies a tall, magnificently built man, whom i recognize by his uniform as belonging to the "iron brigade," and therefore probably an iowa boy. he lies on his back at full length, with his musket beside him--calm-looking as if asleep, but having a fatal blue mark on his forehead and the ashen pallor of death on his countenance. andy calls me away for a moment to look after some poor fellow whose arm is off at the shoulder; and it was just time i got away, too, for immediately a shell plunges into the sod where i had been sitting, tearing my stretcher to tatters, and ploughing up a great furrow under one of the boys who had been sitting immediately behind me, and who thinks, "that was rather close shaving, wasn't it, now?" the bullets whistling overhead make pretty music with their ever-varying "z-i-p! z-i-p!" and we could imagine them so many bees, only they have such a terribly sharp sting. they tell me, too, of a certain cavalry-man (dennis buckley, sixth michigan cavalry it was, as i afterwards learned--let history preserve the brave boy's name) who, having had his horse shot under him, and seeing that first-named shell explode in company c with such disaster, exclaimed, "that is the company for me!" he remained with the regiment all day, doing good service with his carbine, and he escaped unhurt! "here they come, boys; we'll have to go in at them on a charge, i guess!" creeping close around the corner of the log-house, i can see the long lines of gray sweeping up in fine style over the fields; but i feel the colonel's hand on my shoulder. "keep back, my boy; no use exposing yourself in that way." as i get back behind the house and look around, an old man is seen approaching our line through the orchard in the rear. he is dressed in a long blue swallow-tailed coat and high silk hat, and coming up to the colonel, he asks: "would you let an old chap like me have a chance to fight in your ranks, colonel?" "can you shoot?" inquires the colonel. "oh yes, i can shoot, i reckon," says he. "but where are your cartridges?" "i've got 'em here, sir," says the old man, slapping his hand on his trousers pocket. and so "old john burns," of whom every school-boy has heard, takes his place in the line and loads and fires with the best of them, and is left wounded and insensible on the field when the day is done. reclining there under a tree while the skirmishing is going on in front and the shells are tearing up the sod around us, i observe how evidently hard pressed is that battery yonder in the edge of the wood, about fifty yards to our right. the enemy's batteries have excellent range on the poor fellows serving it. and when the smoke lifts or rolls away in great clouds for a moment, we can see the men running, and ramming, and sighting, and firing, and swabbing, and changing position every few minutes to throw the enemy's guns out of range a little. the men are becoming terribly few, but nevertheless their guns, with a rapidity that seems unabated, belch forth great clouds of smoke, and send the shells shrieking over the plain. [illustration: at close quarters the first day at gettysburg.] meanwhile, events occur which give us something more to think of than mere skirmishing beloved brigadier-general, roy stone, stepping out a moment to reconnoitre the enemy's position and movements, is seen by some sharpshooter off in a tree, and is carried, severely wounded, into the barn. our colonel, langhorne wister, assumes command of the brigade. our regiment, facing westward, while the line on our right faces to the north, is observed to be exposed to an enfilading fire from the enemy's guns, as well as from the long line of gray now appearing in full sight on our right. so our regiment must form in line and "change front forward," in order to come in line with the other regiments. accomplished swiftly, this new movement brings our line at once face to face with the enemy's, which advances to within fifty yards, and exchanges a few volleys, but is soon checked and staggered by our fire. yet now, see! away to our left, and consequently on our flank, a new line appears, rapidly advancing out of the woods a half-mile away, and there must be some quick and sharp work done now, boys, or, between the old foes in front and the new ones on our flank, we shall be annihilated. to clear us of these old assailants in front before the new line can sweep down on our flank, our brave colonel, in a ringing command, orders a charge along the whole line. then, before the gleaming and bristling bayonets of our "buck-tail" brigade, as it yells and cheers, sweeping resistlessly over the field, the enemy gives way and flies in confusion. but there is little time to watch them fly, for that new line on our left is approaching at a rapid pace; and, with shells falling thick and fast into our ranks, and men dropping everywhere, our regiment must reverse the former movement by "changing front to rear," and so resume its original position facing westward, for the enemy's new line is approaching from that direction, and if it takes us in flank, we are done for. to "change front to rear" is a difficult movement to execute even on drill, much more so under severe fire; but it is executed now steadily and without confusion, yet not a minute too soon! for the new line of gray is upon us in a mad tempest of lead, supported by a cruel artillery fire, almost before our line can steady itself to receive the shock. however, partially protected by a post-and-rail fence, we answer fiercely, and with effect so terrific that the enemy's line wavers, and at length moves off by the right flank, giving us a breathing space for a time. during this struggle, there had been many an exciting scene all along the line as it swayed backward and forward over the field,--scenes which we have had no time to mention yet. see yonder, where the colors of the regiment on our right--our sister regiment, the th--have been advanced a little, to draw the enemy's fire, while our line sweeps on to the charge. there ensues about the flags a wild _mêlée_ and close hand-to-hand encounter. some of the enemy have seized the colors and are making off with them in triumph, shouting victory. but a squad of our own regiment dashes out swiftly, led to the rescue of the stolen colors by sergeant john c. kensill, of company f, who falls to the ground before reaching them, and amid yells and cheers and smoke, you see the battle-flags rise and fall, and sway hither and thither upon the surging mass, as if tossed on the billows of a tempest, until, wrenched away by strong arms, they are borne back in triumph to the line of the th. see yonder, again! our colonel is clapping his hand to his cheek, from which a red stream is pouring; our lieutenant-colonel, h. s. huidekoper, is kneeling on the ground, and is having his handkerchief tied tight around his arm at the shoulder; major thomas chamberlain and adjutant richard l. ashurst both lie low, pierced with balls through the chest; one lieutenant is waving his sword to his men, although his leg is crushed at the knee; three other officers of the line are lying over there, motionless now forever. all over the field are strewn men wounded or dead, and comrades pause a moment in the mad rush to catch the last words of the dying. incidents such as these the reader must imagine for himself, to fill in these swift sketches of how the day was won--and lost! ay, lost! for the balls which have so far come mainly from our front, begin now to sing in from our left and right, which means that we are being flanked. somehow, away off to our right, a half-mile or so, our line has given way, and is already on retreat through the town, while our left is being driven in, and we ourselves may shortly be surrounded and crushed--and so the retreat is sounded. back now along the railroad cut we go, or through the orchard and the narrow strip of woods behind it, with our dead scattered around on all sides, and the wounded crying piteously for help. "harry! harry!" it is a faint cry of a dying man yonder in the grass, and i _must_ see who it is. "why, willie! tell me where you are hurt," i ask, kneeling down beside him; and i see the words come hard, for he is fast dying. "here in my side, harry. tell--mother--mother----" poor fellow, he can say no more. his head falls back, and willie is at rest forever! on, now, through that strip of woods, at the other edge of which, with my back against a stout oak, i stop and look at a beautiful and thrilling sight. some reserves are being brought up; infantry in the centre, the colors flying and officers shouting; cavalry on the right, with sabres flashing and horses on a trot; artillery on the left, with guns at full gallop sweeping into position to check the headlong pursuit,--it is a grand sight, and a fine rally; but a vain one, for in an hour we are swept off the field, and are in full retreat through the town. up through the streets hurries the remnant of our shattered corps, while the enemy is pouring into the town only a few squares away from us. there is a tempest of shrieking shells and whistling balls about our ears. the guns of that battery by the woods we have dragged along, all the horses being disabled. the artillery-men load as we go, double-charging with grape and canister. "make way there, men!" is the cry, and the surging mass crowds close up on the sidewalks to right and left, leaving a long lane down the centre of the street, through which the grape and canister go rattling into the ranks of the enemy's advance-guard. and so, amid scenes which i have neither space nor power to describe, we gain cemetery ridge towards sunset, and throw ourselves down by the road in a tumult of excitement and grief, having lost the day through the overwhelming force of numbers, and yet somehow having gained it too (although as yet we know it not), for the sacrifice of our corps has saved the position for the rest of the army, which has been marching all day, and which comes pouring in over cemetery ridge all night long. ay, the position is saved; but where is our corps? well may our division-general, doubleday, who early in the day succeeded to the command when our brave reynolds had fallen, shed tears of grief as he sits there on his horse and looks over the shattered remains of that first army corps, for there is but a handful of it left. of the five hundred and fifty men that marched under our regimental colors in the morning, but one hundred remain. all our field and staff officers are gone. of some twenty captains and lieutenants, but one is left without a scratch, while of my own company only thirteen out of fifty-four sleep that night on cemetery ridge, under the open canopy of heaven. there is no roll-call, for sergeant weidensaul will call the roll no more; nor will joe gutelius, nor joe ruhl, nor mcfadden, nor henning, nor many others of our comrades whom we miss, ever answer to their names again until the world's last great reveille. chapter xi. after the battle. i had frequently seen pictures of battle-fields, and had often read about them; but the most terrible scenes of carnage my boyish imagination had ever figured fell far short of the dreadful reality as i beheld it after the great battle of the war. it was the evening of sunday, july , , when, at the suggestion of andy, we took our way across the breastworks, stone fences, and redoubts, to look over the battle-field. our shattered brigade had been mainly on reserve during the last three days; and as we made our way through the troops lying in our front, and over the defences of stone and earth and ragged rocks, the scene among our troops was one for the pencil of a great artist. scattered about irregularly were groups of men discussing the battle and its results, or relating exciting incidents and adventures of the fray: here, one fellow pointing out bullet-holes in his coat or cap, or a great rent in the sleeve of his blouse made by a flying piece of shell; there, a man laughing as he held up his crushed canteen, or showed his tobacco-box with a hole in the lid and a bullet among his "fine cut"; yonder, knots of men frying steaks and cooking coffee about the fire, or making ready for sleep. before we pass beyond our own front line, evidences of the terrible carnage of the battle environ us on all sides. fresh, hastily dug graves are there, with rude head-boards telling the poor fellows' names and regiments; yonder, a tree on whose smooth bark the names of three confederate generals, who fell here in the gallant charge, have been carved by some thoughtful hand. the trees round about are chipped by the balls and stripped almost bare by the leaden hail, while a log-house near by in the clearing has been so riddled with shot and shell that scarcely a whole shingle is left to its roof. but sights still more fearful await us as we step out beyond the front line, pick our way carefully among the great rocks, and walk down the slope to the scene of the fearful charge. the ground has been soaked with the recent rains, and the heavy mist which hangs like a pall over the field, together with the growing darkness, renders objects but indistinctly visible, and all the more ghastly. as the eye ranges over so much of the field as the shrouding mist allows us to see, we behold a scene of destruction terrible indeed, if ever there was one in all this wide world! dismounted gun-carriages, shattered caissons, knapsacks, haversacks, muskets, bayonets, accoutrements, scattered over the field in wildest confusion,--horses (poor creatures!) dead and dying,--and, worst and most awful of all, dead men by the hundreds! most of the men in blue have been buried already, and the pioneers yonder in the mist are busy digging trenches for the poor fellows in gray. as we pass along, we stop to observe how thickly they lie, here and there, like grain before the scythe in summer-time,--how firmly some have grasped their guns, with high, defiant looks,--and how calm are the countenances of others in their last solemn sleep; while more than one has clutched in his stiffened fingers a piece of white paper, which he waved, poor soul, in his death-agony, as a plea for quarter, when the great wave of battle had receded and left him there, mortally wounded, on the field. i sicken of the dreadful scene,--can endure it no longer,--and beg andy to "come away! come away! it's too awful to look at any more!" and so we get back to our place in the breastworks with sad, heavy hearts, and wonder how we ever could have imagined war so grand and gallant a thing when, after all, it is so horribly wicked and cruel. we lie down--the thirteen of us that are left in the company--on a big flat rock, sleeping without shelter, and shielding our faces from the drizzling rain with our caps as best we may, thinking of the dreadful scene in front there, and of the sad, heavy hearts there will be all over the land for weary years, till kindly sleep comes to us, with sweet forgetfulness of all. our clothes were damp with the heavy mists and drizzling rain when we awoke next morning, and hastily prepared for the march off the field and the long pursuit of the foe through the waving grain-fields of maryland. having cooked our coffee in our blackened tin cups, and roasted our slices of fresh beef, stuck on the end of a ramrod and thrust into the crackling fires, we were ready in a moment for the march, for we had but little to pack up. straight over the field we go, through that valley of death where the heavy charging had been done, and thousands of men had been swept away, line after line, in the mad and furious tempest of the battle. heavy mists still overhang the field, even dumb nature seeming to be in sympathy with the scene, while all around us, as we march along, are sights at which the most callous turn faint. interesting enough we find the evidences of conflict, save only where human life is concerned. [illustration: on the march to and from gettysburg.] we stop to wonder at the immense furrow yonder which some shell has ploughed up in the ground; we call one another's attention to a caisson shivered to atoms by an explosion, or to a tree cut clean off by a solid shot, or bored through and through by a shell. with pity we contemplate the poor artillery-horses hobbling, wounded and mangled, about the field, and we think it a mercy to shoot them as we pass. but the dead men! hundreds of torn and distorted bodies yet on the field, although thousands already lie buried in the trenches. even the roughest and rudest among us marches awed and silent, as he is forced to think of the terrible suffering endured in this place, and of the sorrow and tears there will be among the mountains of the north and the rice-fields of the far-off south. we were quiet, i remember, very quiet, as we marched off that great field; and not only then, but for days afterwards, as we tramped through the pleasant fields of maryland. we had little to say, and we all were pretty busily thinking. where were the boys who, but a week before, had marched with us through those same fragrant fields, blithe as a sunshiny morn in may? and so, as i have told you, when those young ladies and gentlemen came out to the end of that maryland village to meet and cheer us after the battle, as they had met and cheered us before it, we did not know how heavy-hearted we were until, in response to their song of "rally round the flag, boys!" some one proposed three cheers for them. but the cheers would not come. somehow, after the first hurrah, the other two stuck in our throats or died away soundless on the air. and so we only said: "god bless you, young friends; but we can't cheer to-day, you see!" [illustration] chapter xii. through "maryland, my maryland." our course now lay through maryland, and we performed endless marches and countermarches over turnpikes and through field and forest. after crossing south mountain,--but stop, i just _must_ tell you about that, it will take but a paragraph or two. south mountain pass we entered one july evening, after a drenching rain, on the middletown side, and marched along through that deep mountain gorge, with a high cliff on either side, and a delightful stream of fresh water flowing along the road; emerging on the other side at the close of day. breaking off the line of march by the right flank, we suddenly crossed the stream, and were ordered up the mountain-side in the gathering darkness. we climbed very slowly at first, and more slowly still as the darkness deepened and the path grew steeper and more difficult. at about nine o'clock, orders were given to "sleep on arms," and then, from sheer fatigue, we all fell sound asleep, some lying on the rocks, some sitting bolt upright against the trees, some stretched out at full length on beds of moss or clumps of bushes. what a magnificent sight awaited us the next morning! opening our eyes at peep o' day, we found ourselves high up on top of a mountain-bluff overlooking the lovely valley about boonesboro. the rains were past; the sun was just beginning to break through the clouds; great billows of mist were rolling up from the hollows below, where we could catch occasional glimpses of the movements of troops,--cavalry dashing about in squads, and infantry marching in solid columns. what may have been the object of sending us up that mountain, or what the intention in ordering us to fell the trees from the mountain-top and build breastworks hundreds of feet above the valley, i have never learned. that one morning amid the mists of the mountain, and that one grand view of the lovely valley beneath, were to my mind sufficient reason for being there. refreshed by a day's rest on the mountain-top, we march down into the valley on the th, exhilarated by the sweet, fresh mountain air, as well as by the prospect, as we suppose, of a speedy end being put to this cruel war. for we know that the enemy is somewhere crossing the swollen potomac back into virginia, in a crippled condition, and we are sure he will be finally crushed in the next great battle, which cannot now be many hours distant. and so we march leisurely along, over turnpikes and through grain-fields, on the edge of one of which, by and by, we halt in line of battle, stack arms, and, with three cheers, rush in a line for a stake-and-rider fence, with the rails of which we are to build breastworks. it is wonderful how rapidly that maryland farmer's fence disappears! each man seizing a rail, the fence literally walks off, and in less than fifteen minutes it reappears in the shape of a compact and well-built line of breastworks. but scarcely is the work completed when we are ordered into the road again, and up this we advance a half-mile or so, and form in line on the left of the road and on the skirt of another wheat-field. we are about to stack arms and build a second line of works, when-- z-i-p! z-i-p! z-i-p! ah! it is music we know right well by this time! three light puffs of smoke rise yonder in the wheat-field, a hundred yards or so away, where the enemy's pickets are lying concealed in the tall grain. three balls go singing merrily over my head--intended, no doubt, for the lieutenant, who is acting-adjutant, and who rides immediately in front of me, with a bandage over his forehead, but who is too busy forming the line to give much heed to his danger. "we'll take you out o' that grass a-hopping, you long-legged rascals!" shouts pointer, as the command is given: "deploy to right and left as skirmishers,"--while a battery of artillery is brought up at a gallop, and the guns are trained on a certain red barn away across the field, from which the enemy's sharpshooters are picking off our men. bang! hur-r-r! boom! one, two, three, four shells go crashing through the red barn, while the shingles and boards fly like feathers, and the sharpshooters pour out from it in wild haste. the pickets are popping away at one another out there along the field and in the edge of the wood beyond; the enemy is driven in and retreats, but we do not advance, and the expected battle does not come off after all, as we had hoped it would. for in the great war-council held about that time, as we afterwards learned, our generals, by a close vote, have decided not to risk a general engagement, but to let the enemy get back into virginia again, crippled, indeed, but not crushed, as every man in the ranks believes he well might be. as we step on the swaying pontoons to recross the potomac into old virginia, there are murmurs of disappointment all along the line. "why didn't they let us fight? we could have thrashed them now, if ever we could. we are tired of this everlasting marching and countermarching up and down, and we want to fight it out and be done with it." but for all our feelings and wishes, we are back again on the south side of the river, and the column of blue soon is marching along gayly enough among the hills and pleasant fields about waterford. we did not go very fast nor very far those hot july days, because we had very little to eat. somehow or other our provision trains had lost their reckoning, and in consequence we were left to subsist as best we could. we were a worn, haggard-looking, hungry, ragged set of men. as for me--out at knee and elbow, my hair sticking out in tufts through holes in the top of my hat, my shoes in shreds, and my haversack empty--i must have presented a forlorn appearance indeed. fortunately, however, blackberries were ripe and plentiful. all along the road and all through the fields, as we approached warrenton, these delicious berries hung on the vines in great luscious clusters. yet blackberries for supper and blackberries for breakfast give a man but little strength for marching under a july sun all day long. so corporal harter and i thought, as we sat one morning in a clover-field where we were resting for the day, busy boiling a chicken at our camp-fire. "where did you get that chicken, corporal?" said i. "well, you see, harry, i didn't steal her, and i didn't buy her, neither. late last night, while we were crossing that creek, i heard some fellow say he had carried that old chicken all day since morning, and she was getting too heavy for him, and he was going to throw her into the creek; and so i said i'd take her, and i did, and carried her all night, and here she is now in the pan, sizzling away, harry." "i'm afraid, corporal, this is a fowl trick." "fair or fowl, we'll have a good dinner, any way." with an appetite ever growing keener as we caught savory whiffs from the steaming mess-pan, we piled up the rails on the fire and boiled the biddy, and boiled, and boiled, and boiled her from morn till noon, and from noon to night, and couldn't eat her then, she was so tough! "may the dogs take the old grizzle-gizzard! i'm not going to break my teeth on this old buzzard any more," shouted the corporal, as he flung the whole cartilaginous mass into a pile of brush near by. "it _was_ a fowl trick, after all, harry, wasn't it?" thus it chanced that, when we marched out of warrenton early one sultry summer morning, we started with empty stomachs and haversacks, and marched on till noon with nothing to eat. halting then in a wood, we threw ourselves under the trees, utterly exhausted. about three o'clock, as we lay there, a whole staff of officers came riding down the line--the quartermaster-general of the army of the potomac and staff, they said it was. just the very man we wanted to see! then broke forth such a yell from hundreds of famished men as the quartermaster-general had probably never heard before nor ever wished to hear again: "hard-tack!" "coffee!" "pork!" "beef!" "sugar!" "salt!" "pepper!" "hard-tack! hard-tack!" the quartermaster and staff put their spurs to their horses and dashed away in a cloud of dust, and at last, about nightfall, we got something to eat. by the way, this reminds me of an incident that occurred on one of our long marches; and i tell it just to show what sometimes is the effect of short rations. it was while we were lying up at chancellorsville in an immense forest that our supply of pork and hard-tack began to give out. we had, indeed, carried with us into the woods eight full days' rations in our knapsacks and haversacks; but it rained in torrents for several days, so that our hard-tack became mouldy, the roads were impassable, transportation was out of the question, and we were forced to put ourselves on short allowance. "i wish i had some meat, harry," said pete grove, anxiously inspecting the contents of his haversack; "i'm awful hungry for meat." "well, pete," said i, "i saw some jumping around here pretty lively a while ago. maybe you could catch it." "_meat_ jumping around here? why what do you mean?" "why frogs, to be sure--frogs, pete. did you never eat frogs?" "bah! i think i'd be a great deal hungrier than i am now, ever to eat a frog! ugh! no, indeed! but where is he? i'd like the fun of hunting him, anyhow." so saying, he loaded his revolver, and we sallied forth along the stream, and pete, who was a good marksman, in a short time had laid out mr. froggy at the first shot. "now, pete, we'll skin him, and you shall have a feast fit for a king." so, putting the meat into a tin cup with a little water, salt, and pepper, boiling it for a few minutes, and breaking some hard-tack into it when done, i set it before him. i need hardly say that when he had once tasted the dish he speedily devoured it, and when he had devoured it, he took his revolver in hand again, and hunted frogs for the rest of that afternoon. * * * * * drum and fife have more to do with the discipline of an army than an inexperienced person would imagine. the drum is the tongue of the camp. it wakes the men in the morning, mounts the guard, announces the dinner-hour, gives a peculiar charm to dress-parade in the evening, and calls the men to quarters with its pleasant tattoo at night. for months, however, we had had no drums. ours had been lost, with our knapsacks, at gettysburg. [and i will here pause to say that if any good friend across the border has in his possession a snare-drum with the name and regiment of the writer clearly marked on the inside of the body, and will return the same to the owner thereof, he will confer no small favor, and will be overwhelmed with an ocean of thanks!] [illustration: "i've got him, boys!"] we did not know how really important a thing a drum is until, one late september day, we were ordered to prepare for a dress-parade--a species of regimental luxury in which we had not indulged since the early days of june. "major, you don't expect us drummer-boys to turn out, do you?" "certainly. and why not, my boy?" "why, we have no drums, major!" "well, your fifers have fifes, haven't they? we'll do without the drums; but you must all turn out, and the fifers can play." so when we stood drawn up in line on the parade-ground among the woods, and the order was given: "parade rest! troop, beat off!" out we drummers and fifers wheeled from the head of the line, with three shrill fifes screaming out the rolls, and started at a slow march down the line, while every man in the ranks grinned, and we drummer-boys laughed, and the officers joined us, until at last the whole line, officers and men alike, broke out into loud haw-haws at the sight. the fifers couldn't whistle for laughing, and the major ordered us all back to our places when only half down the line, and never even attempted another parade until a full supply of brand-new drums arrived for us from washington. then the major picked out mine for me, i remember, and it proved to be the best in the lot. chapter xiii. pains and penalties. among all civilized nations the "rules of war" seem to have been written with an iron hand. the laws by which the soldier in the field is governed are of necessity inexorable, for strict discipline is the chief excellence of an army, and a ready obedience the chief virtue of the soldier. nothing can be more admirable in the character of the true soldier than his prompt and unquestioning response to the trumpet-call of duty. the world can never forget, nor ever sufficiently admire, a leonidas with his three hundred spartans at thermopylæ, the roman soldier on guard at the gates of the perishing pompeii, or the gallant six hundred charging into the "valley of death" at balaklava. disobedience to orders is the great sin of the soldier, and one that is sure to be punished, for at no other time does justice wear so stern and severe a look as when she sits enthroned amidst the camps of armed men. in different sections of the army, various expedients were resorted to for the purpose of correcting minor offences. what particular shape the punishment should assume depended very much upon the inventive faculty of the field and staff, or of such officers of the line as might have charge of the case. before taking the field, a few citizen sneak-thieves were discovered prowling amongst the tents. these were promptly drummed out of camp to the tune of the "rogue's march," the whole regiment shouting in derision as the miserable fellows took to their heels when the procession reached the limits of the camp, where they were told to begone and never show their faces in camp any more, on pain of a more severe treatment. [illustration: drumming sneak-thieves out of camp.] if, as very seldom happened, it was an enlisted man who was caught stealing, he was often punished in the following way: a barrel, having one end knocked out and a hole in the other large enough to allow one's head to go through, was slipped over the culprit's shoulders. on the outside of the barrel the word thief! was printed in large letters. in this dress he presented the ludicrous appearance of an animated meal-barrel; for you could see nothing of him but his head and legs, his hands being very significantly confined. sometimes he was obliged to stand or sit (as best he could) about the guard-house, or near by the colonel's quarters, all day long. at other times he was compelled to march through the company streets and make the tour of the camp under guard. once in the field, however, sneak-thieves soon disappeared. nor was there frequent occasion to punish the men for any other offences. nearly, if not quite all of the punishments inflicted in the field were for disobedience in some form or other. not that the men were wilfully disobedient. far from it. they knew very well that they must obey, and that the value of their services was measured wholly by the quality of their obedience. it very rarely happened, even amid the greatest fatigue after a hard day's march, or in the face of the most imminent danger, that any one refused his duty. but after a long and severe march, a man is so completely exhausted that he is likely to become irritable and to manifest a temper quite foreign to his usual habit. he is then not himself, and may in such circumstances do what at other times he would not think of doing. thus it once happened in my own company that one of the boys took it into his head to kick over the traces. we had had a long hot day's march through maryland on the way down from gettysburg, and were quite worn out. about midnight we halted in a clover field on a hillside for rest and sleep. corporal harter, who was the only officer, commissioned or non-commissioned, that we had left to us after gettysburg, called out: "john d----, report to the adjutant for camp guard." now john, who was a german, by the way, did not like the prospect of losing his sleep, and had to be summoned a second time before replying: "corporal, ich thu's es net!" (corporal, i won't do it.) tired though we all were, we could not help laughing at the preposterous idea of a man daring to disobey the corporal. as the boys jerked off their accoutrements and began to spread down their gum-blankets on the fragrant clover wet with the dew, they were greatly amused at this singular passage between john and the corporal. "come on, john. don't make a dutch dunce of yourself. you know you _must_ go." "ich hab' dir g'sawt, ich thu's es net" (i have told you i won't do it), insisted john. "pitch in, john!" shouted some one from his bed in the clover. "give it to him in dutch; that'll fetch him." "oh, hang it!" said the corporal. "come on, man. what do you mean? you know you've got to go." "ich hab' dir zwei mohl g'sawt, ich thu's es gar net" (i have told you twice that i will certainly not do it). "ha! ha! it beats the dutch!" said some one. "something rotten in denmark!" exclaimed another. "put him in the guard-house!" suggested a third from under his gum-blanket. "plague take the thing!" said the corporal, perplexed. "pointer," continued he, "put on your accoutrements again, get your gun, and take john under arrest to the adjutant." "come on, john," said pointer, buckling on his belt, "and be mighty quick about it too. i don't want to stand about here arguing all night; i want to get to roost. come along!" the men leaned up on their elbows in their beds on the clover, interested in knowing how john would take _that_. "well," said he, scratching his head and taking his gun in hand, "corporal, ich glaub' ich det besser geh" (corporal, i guess i'd better go). "yes," said pointer with a drawl, "i guess you 'besser' had, or the major'll make short work with you and your dutch. what in the name of general jackson did you come to the army for, if you ain't a-going to obey orders?" if while we were lying in camp a man refused his duty, he was at once haled to the guard-house, which is the military name for lock-up. once there, at the discretion of the officers, he was either simply confined and put on bread and water, or maybe ordered to carry a log of wood, or a knapsack filled with stones, "two hours on and two off," day and night, until such time as he was deemed to have done sufficient penance. in more extreme cases a court-martial was held, and the penalty of forfeiture of all pay due, with hard labor for thirty days, or the like, was inflicted. "tying up by the thumb" was sometimes adopted. down in front of petersburg, out along the weldon railroad, i once saw thirteen colored soldiers tied up by their thumbs at a time. between two pine-saplings a long pole had been thrown across and fastened at either end about seven feet from the ground. to this pole thirteen ropes had been attached at regular intervals, and to each rope a darky was tied by the thumb in such a way that he could just touch the ground with his heel and keep the rope taut. if any one will try the experiment of holding up his arm in such a position for only five minutes, he will appreciate the force of the punishment of being tied up by the thumbs for a half day. in some regiments they had a high wooden horse, which the offender was made to mount; and there he was kept for hours in a seat as conspicuous as it was uncomfortable. one day, down in front of petersburg, a number of us had been making a friendly call on some acquaintances over in another regiment. as we were returning home we came across what we took to be a well, and wishing a drink we all stopped. the well in question, as was usual there, was nothing but a barrel sunk in the ground; for at some places the ground was so full of springs that, in order to get water, all you had to do was to sink a box or barrel, and the water would collect of its own accord. stooping down and looking into the well in question, andy discovered a man standing in the well and bailing out the water. "what's he doing down there in that hole?" asked some one of our company. "he says he's in the gopher-hole," said andy, with a grin. "gopher-hole! what's a gopher-hole!" "why," said the guard, who was standing near by, and whom we had taken for the customary guard on the spring, "you see, comrades, our colonel has his own way of punishin' the boys. one thing he won't let 'em do--he won't let 'em get drunk. they may drink as much as they want, but they must not get drunk. if they do, they go into the gopher-hole. jim, there, is in the gopher-hole now. that hole has a spring in the bottom, and the water comes in pretty fast; and if jim wants to keep dry he's got to keep dippin' all the time, or else stand in the water up to his neck--and jim isn't so mighty fond o' water neither." late in the fall of , while we were lying in camp somewhere among the pine woods along the orange and alexandria railroad, we were one day marched out to witness the execution of a deserter. instances of desertion to the enemy's lines were extremely rare with us; but whenever they occurred, the unfortunate offenders, if caught, were dealt with in the most summary manner, for the doom of the deserter is death. the poor fellow who was to suffer the highest penalty of military law on the present occasion was, we were informed, a maryland boy. some months previously he had deserted his regiment for some cause or other, and had gone over to the enemy. unfortunately for him it happened that in one of the numerous skirmishes we were engaged in about that time, he was taken prisoner, in company with a number of confederate soldiers. unfortunately, also, for the poor fellow, it chanced that he was captured by the very company from which he had deserted. the disguise of a confederate uniform, which might have stood him in good stead had he fallen into any other hands, was now of no avail. he was at once recognized by his former comrades in arms, tried by court-martial, found guilty, and sentenced to be shot. so, one october morning, orders came to the effect that the whole division was to turn out at one o'clock, to witness the execution of the sentence. i need hardly say that this was most unwelcome news. nobody wished to see so sad a sight. some of the men begged to be excused from attendance, and others could not be found when our drums beat the "assembly;" for none could well endure, as they said, "to see a man shot down like a dog." it was one thing to shoot a fellow mortal, or to see him shot, in battle; but this was quite a different thing. a squad of men had been detailed to shoot the poor fellow, elias foust, of our company, being among the number. but elias, to his credit be it recorded, begged off, and had some one else appointed in his stead. one could not help but pity the men who were assigned to this most unpleasant duty, for if it be painful only to see a man shot, what must it not be to shoot him with your own hand? however, in condescension to this altogether natural and humane aversion to the shedding of blood, and in order to render the task as endurable as possible, the customary practice was observed:--on the morning of the execution an officer, who had been appointed for the purpose, took a number of rifles, some twelve or fourteen in number, and loaded all of them carefully with powder and ball, _except one_, this one being loaded with blank cartridge, that is, with powder only. he then mixed the guns so thoroughly that he himself could scarcely tell which guns were loaded with ball and which one was not. another officer then distributed the guns to the men, not one of whom could be at all certain whether his particular gun contained a ball or not, and all of whom could avail themselves of the full benefit of the doubt in the case. it was one of those peculiarly impressive autumn days when all that one sees or hears conspires to fill the mind with an indefinable feeling of sadness. there was the chirp of the cricket in the air, and the far-away chorus of the myriads of insects complaining that the year was done. there was all the impressiveness of a dull sky, a dreamy haze over the field, a yellow and brown tinge on the forest, accompanied by that peculiarly mournful wail of the breeze as it sighed and moaned dolefully among the branches of the pines,--all joining in chanting a requiem, it seemed to me, for the poor maryland boy whose sands were fast running out. at the appointed hour the division marched out and took position in a large field, or clearing, surrounded on all sides by pine-woods. we were drawn up so as to occupy three sides of a great hollow square, two ranks deep and facing inward, the fourth side of the square (where we could see that a grave had been recently dug) being left open for the execution. scarcely were we well in position, when there came to our ears, wafted by the sighing autumn wind, the mournful notes of the "dead march." looking away in the direction whence the music came, we could see a long procession marching sadly and slowly to the measured stroke of the muffled drum. first came the band, playing the dirge; next, the squad of executioners; then a pine coffin, carried by four men; then the prisoner himself, dressed in black trousers and white shirt, and marching in the midst of four guards; then a number of men under arrest for various offences, who had been brought out for the sake of the moral effect it was hoped this spectacle might have upon them. last of all came a strong guard. when the procession had come up to the place where the division was formed, and had reached the open side of the hollow square, it wheeled to the left and marched all along the inside of the line from the right to the left, the band still playing the dirge. the line was long and the step was slow, and it seemed that they never would get to the other end. but at long last, after having solemnly traversed the entire length of the three sides of the hollow square, the procession came to the open side of it, opposite to the point from which it had started. the escort wheeled off. the prisoner was placed before his coffin, which was set down in front of his grave. the squad of twelve or fourteen men who were to shoot the unfortunate man took position some ten or twelve yards from the grave, facing the prisoner, and a chaplain stepped out from the group of division officers near by, and prayed with and for the poor fellow a long, long time. then the bugle sounded. the prisoner, standing proudly erect before his grave, had his eyes bandaged, and calmly folded his arms across his breast. the bugle sounded again. the officer in charge of the squad stepped forward. then we heard the command, given as calmly as if on drill,-- "ready!" "aim!" then, drowning out the third command, "fire!" came a flash of smoke and a loud report. the surgeons ran up to the spot. the bands and drum-corps of the division struck up a quick-step as the division faced to the right and marched past the grave, in order that in the dead form of its occupant we might all see that the doom of the deserter is death. it was a sad sight. as we moved along, many a rough fellow, from whom you would hardly have expected any sign of pity, pretending to be adjusting his cap so as to screen his eyes from the glare of the westering sun, could be seen furtively drawing his hand across his face and dashing away the tears that could not be kept from trickling down the bronzed and weather-beaten cheek. as we marched off the field, we could not help being sensible of the harsh contrast between the lively music to which our feet were keeping step, and the fearfully solemn scene we had just witnessed. the transition from the "dead march" to the quick-step was quite too sudden. a deep solemnity pervaded the ranks as we marched homeward across the open field and into the sombre pine-woods beyond, thinking, as we went, of the poor fellow's home somewhere among the pleasant hills of maryland, and of the sad and heavy hearts there would be there when it was known that he had paid the extreme penalty of the law. [illustration] chapter xiv. a tale of a squirrel and three blind mice. "andy, what is a shade-tail?" we were encamped in an oak-forest on the eastern bank of the rappahannock, late in the fall of . we had built no winter-quarters yet, although the nights were growing rather frosty, and had to content ourselves with our little "dog-tents," as we called our shelters, some dozen or so of which now constituted our company row. i had just come in from a trip through the woods in quest of water at a spring near an old deserted log-house about a half-mile to the south of our camp, when, throwing down my heavy canteens, i made the above interrogatory of my chum. andy was lazily lying at full length on his back in the tent, reclining on a soft bed of pine-branches, or "virginia feathers," as we called them, with his hands clasped behind his head, lustily singing-- "tramp, tramp, tramp! the boys are marching! cheer up, comrades, they will come! and beneath the starry flag we shall breathe the air again--" "what's that?" asked he, ceasing his song before finishing the stanza, and rising up on his elbow. "i asked whether you could tell me what a shade-tail is?" "a shade-tail! never heard of it before. don't believe there is any such thing. i know what a buck-tail is, though. there's one," said he, pulling a fine specimen out from under his knapsack. "that just came in the mail while you were gone. the old buck that chased the flies with that brush for many a year was shot up among the buffalo mountains last winter, and my father bought his tail of the man who killed him, and has sent it to me. it cost him just one dollar." buck-tails were in great demand with us in those days, and happy indeed was the man who could secure so fine a specimen as andy now proudly held in his hand. "but isn't it rather large?" inquired i. "and it's nearly all white, and would make an excellent mark for some johnny to shoot at, eh?" "never you fear for that. 'old trusty' up there," said he, pointing to his gun hanging along underneath the ridge-pole of the tent,--"'old trusty' and i will take care of johnny reb." "but, andy," continued i, "you haven't answered my question yet. what is a shade-tail?" "a shade-tail," said he, meditatively,--"how should i know? i know precious well what a _detail_ is, though; and i'm on one for to-morrow. we go across the river to throw up breastworks." "i forgot," said i, "that you have not studied greek to any extent yet. if you live to get home and go back to school again at the old academy, and begin to dig greek roots in earnest, you will find that a shade-tail is a--squirrel. for that is what the old greeks called the bonny bush-tail. because, don't you see, when a squirrel sits up on a tree with his tail turned up over his back, he makes a shade for himself with his tail, and sits, as it were, under the shadow of his own vine and fig-tree." "well," said andy, "and what if he does? what's to hinder him?" "nothing," answered i, entering the tent and lying down beside him on the pile of virginia feathers; "only i saw one out here in the woods as i came along, and i think i know where his nest is; and if you and i can catch him, or, what would be better still, if we can capture one of his young ones (if he has any), why we might tame him and keep him for a pet. i've often thought it would be a fine thing for us to have a pet of some kind or other. over in the second division, there is one regiment that has a pet crow, and another has a kitten. they go with the men on all their marches, and they say that the kitten has actually been wounded in battle, and no doubt will be taken or sent up north some day and be a great curiosity. now why couldn't we catch and tame a shade-tail?" "yes," said andy, becoming a little interested; "he could be taught to perch on pointer's buck-horns in camp, and could ride on your drum on the march." pointer, you must know, was the tallest man in the company, and therefore stood at the head of the line when the company was formed. when we enlisted, he brought with him a pair of deer-antlers as an appropriate symbol for a buck-tail company,--no doubt with the intention of making both ends meet. now the idea of having a live tame squirrel to perch on pointer's buck-horns was a capital one indeed. but as the first thing to be done in cooking a hare is to catch the hare, so we concluded that the first thing to be done in taming a squirrel was to catch the squirrel. this gave us a world of thought. it would not do to shoot him. we could not trap him. after discussing the merits of smoking him out of his hole, we determined at last to risk cutting down the tree in which he had his home, and trying to catch him in a bag. that afternoon, when we thought he would likely be at home taking a nap, having provided ourselves with an axe, an old oat-bag, and a lot of tent rope, we cautiously proceeded to the old beech-tree on the outskirts of the camp, where our intended pet had his home. "now, you see, andy," said i, pointing up to a crotch in the tree, "up there is his front door; there he goes out and comes in. my plan is this: one of us must climb the tree and tie the mouth of the bag over that hole somehow, and come down. then we will cut the tree down, and when it falls, if old shade-tail is at home, like as not he'll run into the bag; and then, if we can be quick enough, we can tie a string around the bag, and there he is!" andy climbed the tree and tied the bag. after he had descended, we set vigorously to work at cutting down the beech. it took us about half an hour to make any serious inroad upon the tough trunk. but by and by we had the satisfaction of seeing the tree apparently shiver under our blows, and at last down it came with a crash. we both ran toward the bag as fast as we could, ready to secure our prize; but we found, alas! that squirrels sometimes have two doors to their houses, and that while we had hoped to bag our bush-tail at the front door, he had merrily skipped out the back way. for scarcely had the tree reached the ground, when we both beheld our intended pet leaping out of the branches and running up a neighboring tree as fast as his legs could carry him. "plague take it!" said andy, wiping the perspiration from his face, "what shall we do now? i guess you'd better run to camp and get a little salt to throw on his tail." "never mind," said i, "we'll get him yet, see if we don't. i see him up there behind that old dry limb peeping out at us--there he goes!" sure enough, there he did go, from tree-top to tree-top, "lickerty-skoot," as andy afterward expressed it, and we after him, quite losing our heads, and shouting like indians. as ill luck would have it, our shade-tail was making straight for the camp, on the outskirts of which he was discovered by one of the men, who instantly gave the alarm--"a squirrel! a squirrel!" in a moment all the boys in camp not on duty came running pell-mell, sergeant kensill's black-and-tan terrier, little jim (of whom more anon), leading the way. i suppose there must have been about a hundred men together, and all yelling and shouting too, so that the poor squirrel checked his headlong course high up on the dead limb of a great old oak-tree. then, forming a circle around the tree, with "little jim" in the midst, the boys began to shout and yell as when on the charge,-- "yi-yi-yi! yi-yi-yi!" whereat the poor squirrel was so terrified, that, leaping straight up and out from his perch into open space, in sheer affright and despair, down he came tumbling tail over head into the midst of the circle, which rapidly closed about him as he neared the ground. with yells and cheers that made the wood ring, a hundred hands were stretched out as if to catch him as he came down. but little jim beat them all. true to his terrier blood and training, he suddenly leaped up like a shot, seized the squirrel by the nape of the neck, gave him a few angry shakes, which ended his agony, and carried him off triumphantly in his mouth to the tent of his owner, sergeant kensill, of company f. that evening, as we sat in our tent eating our fried hard-tack, andy remarked, while sipping his coffee from his black tin cup, that if buck-tails were as hard to catch as shade-tails, they were well worth a dollar apiece any day; and that he believed a crow, or one of those young pigs we found running wild in the woods when we came to that camp, or something of that sort, would make a better pet than a squirrel. "well," said i, "we caught those pigs, anyhow, didn't we? but didn't they squeal! fortunately they were so much like oysters that they couldn't get away from us, and all found their way into our frying-pans at last." "i fail to apprehend your meaning," said andy, with mock gravity, setting down his black tin cup on the gum-blanket. "by what right or authority, sir, do you presume to tell me that a pig is like an oyster?" "why, don't you see? a pig is like an oyster _because he can't climb a tree_! and that's the reason why we caught him." "bah!" exclaimed andy; "that's a miserable joke, that is." "yet you must admit that it is a most happy circumstance that a pig cannot climb a tree, or we should have missed more than one good meal of fresh pork. yet although we failed to make a pet of the squirrel because he _could_ climb a tree, and of the pig because he _could not_, we shall make a pet of something or other yet. of that i am certain." it was some months later, and not until we were safely established in winter-quarters, that we finally succeeded in our purpose of having something to pet. i was over at brigade headquarters one day, visiting a friend who had charge of several supply-wagons. being present while he was engaged in overhauling his stores, i found in the bottom of a large box, in which blankets had been packed away, a whole family of mice. the father of the family promptly made his escape; the mother was killed in the capture, and one little fellow was so injured that he soon died; but the rest, three in number, i took out unhurt. as i laid them in the palm of my hand, they at once struck me as perfect little beauties. they were very young and quite small, being no larger than the end of my finger, with scarcely any fur on them, and their eyes quite shut. putting them into my pocket and covering them with some cotton which my friend gave me, i started home with my prize. stopping at the surgeon's quarters on reaching camp, i begged a large empty bottle (which i afterward found had been lately filled with pulverized gum arabic), and somewhere secured an old tin can of the same diameter as the bottle. then i got a strong twine, went down to my tent, and asked andy to help me make a cage for my pets, which with pride i took out of my pocket and set to crawling and nosing about on the warm blankets on the bunk. "what are you going to do with that bottle?" inquired andy. "going to cut it in two with this string," said i, holding up my piece of twine. "can't be done!" asserted he. "wait and see," answered i. procuring a mess-pan full of cold water, and placing it on the floor of the tent near the bunk on which we were sitting, i wound the twine once around the bottle a few inches from the bottom, in such a way that andy could hold one end of the bottle and pull one end of the twine one way, while i held the other end of the bottle and pulled the other end of the twine the other way, thus causing the twine, by means of its rapid friction, to heat the bottle in a narrow, straight line all around. after sawing away in this style for several minutes, i suddenly plunged the bottle into the pan of cold water, when it at once snapped in two along the line where the twine had passed around it, and as clean and clear as if it had been cut by a diamond. then, melting off the top of the old tin can by holding it in the fire, i fastened the body of the can on the lower end of the bottle. when finished, the whole arrangement looked like a large long bottle, the upper part of which was glass and the lower tin. in this way i accomplished the double purpose of providing my pets with a dark chamber and a well-lighted apartment, at the same time preventing them from running away. placing some cotton on the inside of both can and bottle for a bed, and thrusting a small sponge moistened with sweetened water into the neck of the bottle, i then put my pets into their new home. of course they could not see, for their eyes were not yet open; neither did they at first seem to know how to eat; but as necessity is the mother of invention with mice as well as with men, they soon learned to toddle forward to the neck of the bottle and suck their sweet sponge. in a short time they learned also to nibble at a bit of apple, and by and by could crunch their hard-tack like veritable veterans. the bottle, as has already been said, had been filled with pulverized gum arabic. some of this still adhering to the inside of the bottle, was gradually brushed off by their growing fur; and it was amusing to see the little things sit on their haunches and clean themselves of the sticky substance. sometimes they would all three be busy at the same time, each at himself; and again two of them would take to licking the third, rubbing their little red noses all over him from head to tail in the most amusing way imaginable. gradually they grew very lively, and became quite tame, so that we could take them out of their house into our hands, and let them hunt about in our pockets for apple-seeds or pieces of hard-tack. we called them jack, jill, and jenny, and they seemed to know their names. when let out of their cage occasionally for a romp on the blankets, they would climb over everything, running along the inner edge of the eave-boards and the ridge-pole, but never succeeded in getting away from us. it was a comical sight to see little jim come in to look at them. a mouse was almost the highest possible excitement to jim; for a mouse was second cousin to a rat, no doubt, as jim looked at matters; and just say "rats!" to jim, if you wanted to see him jump! he would come in and look at our pets, turn his head from one side to the other, and wrinkle his brow, and whine and bark; but we were determined he should not kill our mousies as he had killed our shade-tail a few months before. what to do with our pets when spring came on and winter-quarters were nearly at an end, we knew not. we could not take them along on the march, neither did we like to leave them behind; for it seemed cruel to leave jack, jill, and jenny in the deserted and dismantled camp to go back to the barbarous habits of their ancestors. on consideration, therefore, we concluded to take them back to the wagon train and leave them with the wagoner, who, though at first he demurred to our proposal, at last consented to let us turn them loose among his oat-bags, where i doubt not they had a merry time indeed. chapter xv. "the pride of the regiment." the pet-making disposition which had led andy and me to take so much trouble with our mice was not confined to ourselves alone. the disposition was quite natural, and therefore very general among the men of all commands. pets of any and all kinds, whether chosen from the wild or the domestic animals, were everywhere in great esteem, and happy was the regiment which possessed a tame crow, squirrel, coon, or even a kitten. our own regiment possessed a pet of great value and high esteem in little jim, of whom some incidental mention has already been made. as little jim enlisted with the regiment, and was honorably mustered out of the service with it at the close of the war, after three years of as faithful service as so little a creature as he could render the flag of his country, some brief account of him here may not be out of place. little jim, then, was a small rat-terrier, of fine-blooded stock, his immediate maternal ancestor having won a silver collar in a celebrated rat-pit in philadelphia. late in , while yet a pup, he was given by a sailor friend to john c. kensill, with whom he was mustered into the united states service "for three years or during the war," on market street, philadelphia, pa., late in august, . around his neck was a silver collar with the inscription,--"jim kensill, co. f., th regt. p. v." he soon came to be a great favorite with the boys, not only of his own company, but of the entire regiment as well, the men of the different companies thinking quite as much of him as if he belonged to each of them individually, and not to sergeant kensill, of company f., alone. on the march he would be caught up from the roadside where he was doggedly trotting along, and given a ride on the arms of the men, who would pet him and talk to him as if he were a child, and not a dog. in winter-quarters, however, he would not sleep anywhere except on kensill's arm and underneath the blankets; nor was he ever known to spend a night away from home. on first taking the field, rations were scarce with us, and for several days fresh meat could not be had for poor jim, and he nearly starved. gradually, however, his master taught him to take a hard-tack between his fore-paws, and, holding it there, to munch and crunch at it till he had consumed it. he soon learned to like hard-tack, and grew fat on it too. on the march to chancellorsville he was lost for two whole days, to the great grief of the men. when his master learned that he had been seen with a neighboring regiment, he had no difficulty in finding volunteers to accompany him when he announced that he was about to set out for the recapture of jim. they soon found where he was. another regiment had possession of him, and laid loud and angry claim to him; but kensill and his men were not to be frightened, for he knew the buck-tails were at his back, and that sooner than give up little jim there would be some rough work. as soon as jim heard his master's sharp whistle, he came bounding and barking to his side, overjoyed to be at home again, albeit he had lost his silver collar, which his thievish captors had cut from his neck, in order the better to lay claim to him. he was a good soldier too, being no coward, and caring not a wag of his tail for the biggest shells the johnnies could toss over at us. he was with us under our first shell fire at "clarke's mills," a few miles below fredericksburg, in may, , and ran barking after the very first shell that came screaming over our heads. when the shell had buried itself in the ground, jim went up close to it, crouching down on all fours, while the boys cried "rats! rats! shake him, jim! shake him, jim!" fortunately that first shell did not explode, and when others came that did explode, jim, with true military instinct, soon learned to run after them and bark, but to keep a respectful distance from them. on the march to gettysburg he was with us all the way, but when we came near the enemy, his master sent him back to william wiggins, the wagoner; for he thought too much of jim to run the risk of losing him in battle. it was a pity jim was not with us out in front of the seminary the morning of the first day, when the fight opened; for as soon as the cannon began to boom, the rabbits began to run in all directions, as if scared quite out of their poor little wits; and there would have been fine sport for jim with the cotton-tails, had he only been there to give them chase. in the first day's fight jim's owner, sergeant john c. kensill, while bravely leading the charge for the recapture of the th pennsylvania regiment's battle-flags (of which some brief account has been elsewhere given), was wounded and left for dead on the field, with a bullet through his head. he, however, so far recovered from his wound that in the following october he rejoined the regiment, which was then lying down along the rappahannock somewhere. in looking for the regiment, on his return from a northern hospital, sergeant kensill chanced to pass the supply train, and saw jim busy at a bone under a wagon. hearing the old familiar whistle, jim at once looked up, saw his master, left his bone, and came leaping and barking in greatest delight to his owner's arm. on the march he was sometimes sent back to the wagon. once he came near being killed. to keep him from following the regiment or from straying and getting lost in search of it, the wagoner had tied him to the rear axle of his wagon with a strong twine. in crossing a stream, in his anxiety to get his team over safely, the wagoner forgot all about poor little jim, who was dragged and slashed through the waters in a most unmerciful way. after getting safely over the stream, the teamster, looking back, found poor jim under the rear of the wagon, being dragged along by the neck, more dead than alive. he was then put on the sick-list for a few days; but with this single exception he had never a mishap of any kind, and was always ready for duty. his master having been honorably discharged before the close of the war because of wounds, jim was left with the regiment in care of wiggins, the wagoner. when the regiment was mustered out of service at the end of the war, little jim was mustered out too. he stood up in rank with the boys and wagged his tail for joy that peace had come, and that we were all going home. i understand that his discharge-papers were regularly made out, the same as those of the men, and that they read somewhat as follows,-- to all whom it may concern: know ye that _jim kensill_, private, company f, th regiment pennsylvania volunteers, who was enrolled on the twenty-second day of august, one thousand eight hundred and sixty-two, to serve three years or during the war, is hereby discharged from the service of the united states, this twenty-third day of june, , at elmira, new york, by direction of the secretary of war. (no objection to his being re-enlisted is known to exist.) said _jim kensill_ was born in philadelphia in the state of pennsylvania, is six years of age, six inches high, dark complexion, black eyes, black and tan hair, and by occupation when enrolled a rat terrier. given at elmira, new york, this twenty-third day of june, . james r. reid, capt. th u. s. inf'y. a. c. m. before parting with him, the boys bought him a silver collar, which they had suitably inscribed with his name, regiment, and the principal engagements in which he had participated. this collar, which he had honorably earned in the service of his country in war, he proudly wore in peace to the day of his death. * * * * * although not pertaining to the writer's own personal recollections, there yet may be appropriately introduced here some brief mention of another pet, who, from being "the pride of his regiment," gradually arose to the dignity of national fame. i mean old abe, the war eagle of the eighth wisconsin volunteers. whoever it may have been that first conceived the idea, it was certainly a happy thought to make a pet of an eagle. for the eagle is our national bird, and to carry an eagle along with the colors of a regiment on the march, and in battle, and all through the whole war, was surely very appropriate indeed. old abe's perch was on a shield, which was carried by a soldier, to whom, and to whom alone, he looked as to a master. he would not allow any one to carry or even to handle him except this soldier, nor would he ever receive his food from any other person's hands. he seemed to have sense enough to know that he was sometimes a burden to his master on the march, however, and as if to relieve him, would occasionally spread his wings and soar aloft to a great height, the men of all regiments along the line of march cheering him as he went up. he regularly received his rations from the commissary, the same as any enlisted man. whenever fresh meat was scarce and none could be found for him by foraging parties, he would take things into his own claws, as it were, and go out on a foraging expedition himself. on some such occasions he would be gone two or three days at a time, during which nothing whatever was seen of him; but he would invariably return, and seldom came back without a young lamb or a chicken in his talons. his long absences occasioned his regiment not the slightest concern, for the men knew that though he might fly many miles away in quest of food, he would be quite sure to find them again. in what way he distinguished the two hostile armies so accurately that he was never once known to mistake the gray for the blue, no one can tell. but so it was that he was never known to alight save in his own camp and amongst his own men. at jackson, mississippi, during the hottest part of the battle before that city, old abe soared up into the air and remained there from early morning till the fight closed at night, having, no doubt, greatly enjoyed his bird's-eye view of the battle. he did the same at mission ridge. he was, i believe, struck by the enemy's bullets two or three times; but his feathers were so thick, that his body was not much hurt. the shield on which he was carried, however, showed so many marks of the enemy's balls, that it looked on top as if a groove-plane had been run over it. at the centennial celebration held in philadelphia in , old abe occupied a prominent place on his perch on the west side of the nave in the agricultural building. he was still alive, though evidently growing old, and was the observed of all observers. thousands of visitors from all sections of the country paid their respects to the grand old bird, who, apparently conscious of the honors conferred upon him, overlooked the sale of his biography and photographs going on beneath his perch with entire satisfaction. as was but just and right, the soldier who had carried him during the war continued to have charge of him after the war was over, until the day of his death, which occurred at the capitol of michigan some two or three years ago. proud as the wisconsin boys justly were of old abe, the twelfth indiana regiment possessed a pet of whom it may be truly said that he enjoyed a renown scarcely second to that of the wide-famed war eagle. this was "little tommy," as he was familiarly called in those days,--the youngest drummer-boy, and so far as the writer's knowledge goes, the youngest enlisted man, in the union army. the writer well remembers having seen him on several occasions. his diminutive size and childlike appearance, as well as his remarkable skill and grace in handling the drum-sticks, never failed to make an impression on the beholder. some brief and honorable mention of little tommy, the pride of the twelfth indiana regiment, may with propriety find a place in these "recollections of a drummer-boy." thomas hubler was born in fort wayne, allen county, indiana, october th, . when two years of age, the family removed to warsaw, indiana. on the outbreak of the war, his father, who had been a german soldier of the truest type, raised a company of men, in response to president lincoln's first call for seventy-five thousand troops. little tommy was among the first to enlist in his father's company, the date of enrolment being april th, . he was then nine years and six months old. the regiment to which the company was assigned was with the army of the potomac throughout all its campaigns in maryland and virginia. at the expiration of its term of service in august, , little tommy re-enlisted, and served to the end of the war, having been present in some twenty-six battles in all. he was greatly beloved by all the men of his regiment, and was a constant favorite amongst them. it is thought that he beat the first "long roll" of the great civil war. he is still living in warsaw, indiana, and bids fair to be the latest survivor of the great and grand army of which he was the youngest member. with the swift advancing years the ranks of the soldiers of the late war are being rapidly thinned out, and those who yet remain are showing signs of age. the "boys in blue" are thus, as the years go by, almost imperceptibly turning into the "boys in gray;" and as little tommy, the youngest of them all, sounded their first reveille, so may he yet live to beat their last tattoo. [illustration] chapter xvi. around the camp-fire. what glorious camp-fires we used to have in the fall of the year ! it makes one rub his hands together yet, just to think of them. the nights were getting cold and frosty, so that it was impossible to sleep under our little shelters with comfort; and so half the night was spent around the blazing fires at the ends of the company streets. i always took care that there should be a blazing good fire for our little company, anyhow. my duties were light, and left me time, which i found i could spend with pleasure in swinging an axe. hickory and white-oak saplings were my favorites; and with these cut into lengths of ten feet, and piled up as high as my head on wooden fire-dogs, what a glorious crackle we would have by midnight! go out there what time of night you might please,--and you were pretty sure to go out to the fire three or four times a night, for it was too bitterly cold to sleep in the tent more than an hour at a stretch,--you would always find a half-dozen of the boys sitting about the fire on logs, smoking their pipes, telling yarns, or singing odd catches of song. as i recall those weird night-scenes of army life,--the blazing fire, the groups of swarthy men gathered about, the thick darkness of the forest, where the lights and shadows danced and played all night long, and the rows of little white tents covered with frost--it looks quite poetical in the retrospect; but i fear it was sometimes prosy enough in the reality. * * * * * "if you fellows would stop your everlasting arguing there, and go out and bring in some wood, it would be a good deal better; for if we don't have a big camp-fire to-night we'll freeze in this snow-storm." so saying, pointer threw down the butt-end of a pine-sapling he had been half-dragging, half-carrying out of the woods in the edge of which we were to camp, and, axe in hand, fell to work at it with a will. there was, indeed, some need of following pointer's good advice, for it was snowing fast, and was bitterly cold. it was christmas eve, , and here we were, with no protection but our little shelters, pitched on the hard, frozen ground. why did we not build winter-quarters, do you ask? well, we had already built two sets of winter-quarters, and had been ordered out of them in both instances, to take part in some expedition or other; and it was a little hard to be houseless and homeless at this merry season of the year, when folks up north were having such happy times, wasn't it? but it is wonderful how elastic the spirits of a soldier are, and how jolly he can be under the most adverse circumstances. [illustration: christmas eve around the camp-fire.] "well, pointer, they hadn't any business to put me out of the mess. that was a mean trick, any way you take it." "if we hadn't put you out of our mess, you'd have eaten up our whole box from home in one night. he's an awful glutton, pointer." "say, boys! i move we organize ourselves into a court, and try this case," said sergeant cummings. "they've been arguing and arguing about this thing the whole day, and it's time to take it up and put an end to it. the case is--let's see; what'll we call it? i'm not a very good hand at the legal lingo, but i suppose if we call it a 'motion to quash a writ of ejectment,' or something of that sort, we'll be within the lines of the law. let me now state the case: shell _versus_ diehl and hottenstein. these three, all members of company d, after having lived, messed, and sojourned together peaceably for a year or more, have had of late some disagreement, quarrel, squabble, fracas, or general tearing out, the result of which said disagreement, quarrel, squabble, et cetery, et cetery, has been that the hereinbeforementioned shell has been thrown out of the mess and left to the cold charities of the camp; and he, the said shell, now lodges a due and formal complaint before this honorable court, presently sitting on this pile of pine-brush, and humbly prays and petitions reinstatement in his just rights and claims, _sine qua non, e pluribus unum, pro bono publico_!" "silence in the court!" to organize ourselves into a court of justice was a matter of a few moments. cummings was declared judge, ruhl and ransom his assistants. a jury of twelve men, good and true, was speedily impanelled. attorneys and tipstaves, sheriff and clerk were appointed, and in less time than it takes to narrate it, there we were, seated on piles of pine-brush around a roaring camp-fire, with the snow falling fast, and getting deeper every hour, trying the celebrated case of "shell _versus_ diehl and hottenstein." and a world of merriment we had out of it, you may well believe. when the jury, after having retired for a few moments behind a pine-tree, brought in a verdict for the plaintiff, it was full one o'clock on christmas morning, and we began to drop off to sleep, some rolling themselves up in their blankets and overcoats, and lying down, indian fashion, feet to the fire; while others crept off to their cold shelters under the snow-laden pine-trees for what poor rest they could find, jocularly wishing one another a "merry christmas!" time wore away monotonously in the camp we established there, near culpeper court-house. all the more weary a winter was it for me, because i was so sick that i could scarcely drag myself about. so miserable did i look, that one day a company b boy said, as i was passing his tent: "young mon, an' if ye don't be afther pickin' up a bit, it's my opinion ye'll be gathered home to your fathers purty soon." i was sick with the same disease which slew more men than fell in actual battle. we had had a late fall campaign, and had suffered much from exposure, of which one instance may suffice: we had been sent into thoroughfare gap to hold that mountain pass. breaking camp there at daylight in a drenching rain, we marched all day long, through mud up to our knees, and soaked to the skin by the cold rain; at night we forded a creek waist-deep, and marched on with clothes frozen almost stiff; at one o'clock the next morning we lay down utterly exhausted, shivering helplessly, in wet clothes, without fire, and exposed to the north-west wind that swept the vast plain keen and cold as a razor. whoever visits the soldiers' cemetery near culpeper will there find a part of the sequel of that night-march; the remainder is scattered far and wide over the hills of virginia, and in forgotten places among the pines. could we have had home care and home diet, many would have recovered. but what is to be done for a sick man whose only choice of diet must be made from pork, beans, sugar, and hard-tack? home? ah yes, if we only _could_ get home for a month! homesick? well, no, not exactly. still we were not entire strangers to the feelings of that poor recruit who was one day found by his lieutenant sitting on a fallen pine-tree in the woods, crying as if his heart would break. "why," said the lieutenant, "what are you crying for, you big baby, you?" "i wish i was in my daddy's barn, boo, hoo!" "and what would you do if you were?" the poor fellow replied, between his sobs: "why, if i was in my daddy's barn, _i'd go into the house mighty quick_!" [illustration: sick.] chapter xvii. our first day in "the wilderness." at last the long winter, with its deep snows and intense cold, was gone, and on may , , at four o'clock in the morning, we broke camp. in what direction we should march, whether north, south, east, or west, none of us had the remotest idea; for the pickets reported the rapidan river so well fortified by the enemy on the farther bank, that it was plainly impossible for us to break their lines at any point there. but in those days we had a general who had no such word as "impossible" in his dictionary, and under his leadership we marched that may morning straight for and straight across the rapidan, in solid column. all day we plodded on, the road strewn with blankets and overcoats, of which the army lightened itself now that the campaign was opening; and at night we halted, and camped in a beautiful green meadow. not the slightest suspicion had we, as we slept quietly there that night, of the great battle, or rather series of great battles, about to open on the following day. even on that morrow, when we took up the line of march and moved leisurely along for an hour or two, we saw so few indications of the coming struggle, that, when we suddenly came upon a battery of artillery in position for action by the side of the road, some one exclaimed: "why, hello, fellows! that looks like business!" only a few moments later, a staff-officer rode up to our regiment and delivered his orders: "major, you will throw forward your command as skirmishers for the brigade." the regiment at once moved into the thick pine-woods, and was lost to sight in a moment, although we could hear the bugle clanging out its orders, "deploy to right and left," as the line forced its way through the tangled and interminable "wilderness." ordered back by the major into the main line of battle, we drummer-boys found the troops massed in columns along a road, and we lay down with them among the bushes. how many men were there we could not tell. wherever we looked, whether up or down the road, and as far as the eye could reach, were masses of men in blue. among them was a company of indians, dark, swarthy, stolid-looking fellows, dressed in our uniform, and serving with some iowa regiment, under the command of one of their chiefs as captain. but hark! "pop! pop! pop-pop-pop!" the pickets are beginning to fire, the "ball is going to open," and things will soon be getting lively. a venturesome fellow climbs up a tall tree to see what he can see, and presently comes scrambling down, reporting nothing in sight but signal-flags flying over the tree-tops, and beyond them nothing but woods and woods for miles. orderlies are galloping about, and staff-officers are dashing up and down the line, or forcing their way through the tangled bushes, while out on the skirmish line is the ever-increasing rattle of the musketry,-- "pop-pop! pop-pop-pop!" "fall in, men! forward, guide right!" there is something grand in the promptitude with which the order is obeyed. every man is at his post. forcing its way as best it can through the tangled undergrowth of briers and bushes, across ravines and through swamps, our whole magnificent line advances, until, after a half-hour's steady work, we reach the skirmish line, which, hardly pressed, falls back into the advancing column of blue as it reaches a little clearing in the forest. now we see the lines of gray in the edge of the woods on the other side of the little field; first their pickets behind clumps of bushes, then the solid column appearing behind the fence, coming on yelling like demons, and firing a volley that fills the air with smoke and cuts it with whistling lead. sheltered behind the trees, our line reserves its fire, for it is likely that the enemy will come out on a charge, and then we'll mow them down! with bayonets fixed, and yells that make the woods ring, here they come, boys, through the clearing, on a dead run! and now, as you love the flag that waves yonder in the breeze, up, boys, and let them have it! out from our enfields flashes a sheet of flame, before which the lines of gray stagger for a moment; but they recover and push on, then reel again and quail, and at length fly before the second leaden tempest, which sweeps the field clear to the opposite side. with cheers and shouts of "victory!" our line, now advancing swiftly from behind its covert of the trees, sweeps into and across the clearing, driving back the enemy into the woods from which they had so confidently ventured. the little clearing over which the lines of blue are advancing is covered with dead and dying and wounded men, among whom i find lieutenant stannard, of my acquaintance. "harry, help me, quick! i'm bleeding fast. tear off my suspender, or take my handkerchief and tie it as tight as you can draw it around my thigh, and help me off the field." ripping up the leg of his trousers with my knife, i soon check the flow of blood with a hard knot,--and none too soon, for the main artery has been severed. calling a comrade to my assistance, we succeed in reaching the woods, and make our way slowly to the rear in search of the division-hospital. whoever wishes to know something of the terrible realities of war should visit a field-hospital during some great engagement. no doubt my young readers imagine war to be a great and glorious thing, and so, indeed, in many regards it is. it would be idle to deny that there is something stirring in the sound of martial music, something strangely uplifting and intensely fascinating in the roll of musketry and the loud thunder of artillery. besides, the march and the battle afford opportunities for the unfolding of manly virtue, and as things go in this disjointed world, human progress seems to be almost impossible without war. yet still, war is a terrible, a horrible thing. if my young readers could have been with us as we helped poor stannard off the field that first day in "the wilderness;" if they could have seen the surgeons of the first division of our corps as we saw them, when passing by with the lieutenant on a stretcher,--they would, i think, agree with me that if war is a necessity, it is a dreadful necessity. there were the surgeons, busy at work, while dozens of poor fellows were lying all around on stretchers awaiting their turns. "hurry on, boys, hurry on! don't stop here; i can't stand it!" groaned our charge. so we pushed on with our burden, until we saw our division-colors over in a clearing among the pines, and on reaching this we came upon a scene that i can never adequately describe. there were hundreds of the wounded already there; other hundreds, perhaps thousands, were yet to come. on all sides, within and just without the hastily erected hospital-tents, were the severely and dangerously wounded, while great numbers of slightly wounded men, with hands or feet bandaged or heads tied up, were lying about the sides of the tents or out among the bushes. the surgeons were everywhere busy,--here dressing wounds; there, alas! stooping down to tell some poor fellow, over whose countenance the pallor of death was already spreading, that there was no longer any hope for him; and down yonder, about a row of tables, each under a fly,[ ] stood groups of them, ready for their dreadful and yet helpful work. [ ] a piece of canvas stretched over a pole and fastened to tent-pins by long ropes; having no walls, it admits light on all sides. [illustration: a scene in the field-hospital.] to one of these groups we carried poor stannard, and i stood by and watched. the sponge saturated with chloroform was put to his face, rendering him unconscious while the operation of tying the severed artery was performed. on a neighboring table was a man whose leg was being taken off at the thigh, and who, chloroformed into unconsciousness, interested everybody by singing at the top of his voice, and with a clear articulation, five verses of a hymn to an old-fashioned methodist tune, never once losing the melody nor stopping for a word. i remember seeing another poor fellow with his arm off at the shoulder, lying on the ground and resting after the operation. he appeared to be very much amused at himself, because (he said, in answer to my inquiry as to what he was laughing at) he had felt a fly on his right hand, and when he went to brush it off with his left there was no right hand there any more! i remember, too, seeing a tall prisoner brought in and laid on the table,--a magnificent specimen of physical development, erect, well built, and strong looking, and with a countenance full of frank and sturdy manliness. as the wounded prisoner was stretched out on the table, the surgeon said,-- "well, johnny, my man, what is the matter with you, and what can we do for you to-day?" "well, doctor, your people have used me rather rough to-day. in the first place, there's something down in here," feeling about his throat, "that troubles me a good deal." opening his shirt-collar, the surgeon found a deep blue mark an inch or more below the "adam's apple." on pressing the blue lump a little with the fingers, out popped a "minié" ball, which had lodged just beneath the skin. "lucky for you that this was a 'spent ball,' johnny," said the surgeon, holding the bullet between his fingers. "give me that, doctor--give me that ball; i want it," said johnny, eagerly reaching out his left hand for the ball. then he carefully examined it, and put it away into his jacket-pocket. "and now, doctor, there's something else, you see, the matter with me, and something more serious too, i'm afraid. you see, i can't use my right arm. the way was this: we were having a big fight out there in the woods. in the bayonet-charge i got hold of one of your flags, and was waving it, when all on a sudden i got an ugly clip in the arm here, as you see." "never mind, johnny. we shall treat you just the same as our own boys, and though you are dressed in gray, you shall be cared for as faithfully as if you were dressed in blue, until you are well and strong again." never did i see a more delighted or grateful man than he, when, awakened from his deep chloroform sleep, he was asked whether he did not think his arm had better come off now? "just as you think best, doctor." "look at your arm once, johnny." what was his glad surprise to find that the operation had been already performed, and that a neat bandage was wound about his shoulder! the most striking illustration of the power of religion to sustain a man in distress and trial, i saw there in that field-hospital. we had carried stannard into a tent, and laid him on a pile of pine-boughs, where, had he only been able to keep quiet, he would have done well enough. but he was not able to keep quiet. a more restless man i never saw. although his wound was not considered necessarily dangerous, yet he was evidently in great fear of death, and for death, i grieve to say, he was not at all prepared. he had been a wild, wayward man, and now that he thought the end was approaching, he was full of alarm. as i bent over him, trying my best, but in vain, to comfort and quiet him, my attention was called to a man on the other side of the tent, whose face i thought i knew, in spite of its unearthly pallor. "why, smith," said i, "is this you? where are you hurt?" "come turn me around and see," he said. rolling him over carefully on his side, i saw a great, cruel wound in his back. my countenance must have expressed alarm when i asked him, as quietly as i could, whether he knew that he was very seriously wounded, and might die. never shall i forget the look that man gave me, as, with a strange light in his eye, he said: "i am in god's hands; i am not afraid to die." two or three days after that, while we were marching on rapidly in column again, we passed an ambulance-train filled with wounded on their way to fredericksburg. hearing my name called by some one, i ran out of line to an ambulance, in which i found stannard. "harry, for pity's sake, have you any water?" "no, lieutenant; i'm very sorry, but there's not a drop in my canteen, and there's no time now to get any." it was the last time i ever saw him. he was taken to fredericksburg, submitted to a second operation, and died; and i have always believed that his death was largely owing to want of faith. six months, or maybe a year, later, smith came back to us with a great white scar between his shoulders, and i doubt not he is alive and well to this day. and there was jimmy lucas too. they brought him in about the middle of that same afternoon, two men bearing him on their arms. he was so pale, that i knew at a glance he was severely hurt. "a ball through the lungs," they said, and "he can't live." jimmy was of my own company, from my own village. we had been school-fellows and playmates from childhood almost, and you may well believe it was sad work to kneel down by his side and watch his slow and labored breathing, looking at his pallid features, and thinking--ah, yes, that was the saddest of all!--of those at home. he would scarcely let me go from him a moment, and when the sun was setting, he requested every one to go out of the tent, for he wanted to speak a few words to me in private. as i bent down over him, he gave me his message for his father and mother, and a tender good by to his sweetheart, begging me not to forget a single word of it all if ever i should live to see them; and then he said: "and, harry, tell father and mother i thank them now for all their care and kindness in trying to bring me up well and in the fear of god. i know i have been a wayward boy sometimes, but my trust is in him who said,'come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest.' my hope is in god, and i shall die a christian man." when the sun had set that evening, poor jimmy had entered into rest. he was buried somewhere among the woods that night, and no flowers are strewn over his grave on "decoration day" as the years go by, for no head-board marks his resting-place among the moaning pines; but "the lord knoweth them that are his." chapter xviii. a bivouac for the night. if from any cause whatsoever one happened to have lost his command, or to have strayed away from or to have been left behind by his regiment, he could usually tell with tolerable certainty, as he trudged along the road among the men of another command, what part of the army he was with, and whether any of his own corps or division were anywhere near by; and he could tell this at a glance, without so much as stopping to ask a question. do you ask how? i answer, by the badges the men wore on their caps. [illustration: army badges.] an admirable and significant system of badges was adopted for the entire union army. the different corps were distinguished by the _shapes_, the different divisions by the _colors_, of their several badges. thus the first corps wore a round badge, the second a clover-leaf, the third a diamond, the fifth a maltese cross, the sixth a roman cross, the ninth a shield, the eleventh a crescent, the twentieth a star,[ ] and so on. as each corps usually included three divisions, and as it was necessary to distinguish each of these from the other two, the three good old colors of the flag were chosen for this purpose,--red, white, and blue,--red for the first division of each corps, white for the second, and blue for the third. thus a round red badge meant first division, first corps; a round white, second division, first corps; a round blue, third division, first corps; and so on for the other corps. division and corps headquarters could always be known by their flags, bearing the badges of their respective commands. as the men were all obliged to wear their proper badges, cut out of cloth or colored leather, on the top of their caps, one could always tell at a glance what part of the army of the potomac he was with. in addition to this, some regiments were distinguished by some peculiarity of uniform. our own brigade was everywhere known as "the buck-tails," for we all wore buck-tails on the side of our caps. [ ] later in the service the twelfth corps wore the star. it was in this way that i was able to tell that none of my own brigade, division, or even corps were anywhere near me, as, late one evening about the middle of may, , i wearily trudged along the road, in the neighborhood of spottsylvania court-house, in search of my regiment. i had lost the regiment early in the day, for i was so sick and weak when we started in the morning, that it was scarcely possible for me to drag one foot after the other, much less to keep up at the lively pace the men were marching. thus it had happened that i had been left behind. however, after having trudged along all day as best i could, when nightfall came on i threw myself down under a pine-tree along the road which led through the woods, stiff and sore in limb, and half bewildered by a burning fever. all around me the woods were full of men making ready their bivouac for the night. some were cooking coffee and frying pork, some were pitching their shelters, and some were already stretched out sound asleep. but all, alas! wore the red roman cross. could i only have espied a maltese cross somewhere, i should have felt at home; for then i should have known that the good old fifth corps was near at hand. but no blue maltese cross (the badge of my own division) was anywhere to be seen. as i lay there with half-closed eyes, feverishly wondering where in the world i was, and heartily wishing for the sight of some one wearing a buck-tail on his cap, i heard a well-known voice talking with some one out in the road, and, leaning upon my elbow, called out eagerly: "harter! hello! harter!" "hello! who are you?" replied the sergeant, peering in amongst the trees and bushes. "why, harry, is that you? and where in the world is the regiment?" "that's just what i'd like to know," answered i. "i couldn't keep up, and was left behind, and have been lost all day. but where have you been? i haven't seen you this many a day." "well," said he, as he brought his gun down to a rest and leaned his two hands on the muzzle, "you see the johnnies spoiled my good looks a little back there in the wilderness, and i was sent to the hospital. but i couldn't stand it there, wounded and dying men all around one; and concluded to shoulder my gun and start out and try to find the boys. look here," continued he, taking off a bandage from the side of his face and displaying an ugly-looking bullet-hole in his right cheek. "see that hole? it goes clean through, and i can blow through it. but it don't hurt very much, and will no doubt heal up before the next fight. anyhow, i have the chunk of lead that made that hole here in my jacket pocket. see that!" said he, taking out a flattened ball from his vest-pocket and rolling it around in the palm of his hand. "lodged in my mouth, right between my teeth. but i'm tired nearly to death tramping around all day. let's put up for the night. shall we strike up a tent, or bunk down here under the pines?" we concluded to put up a shelter, or rather, i should say, harter did so; for i was too sick and weak to think of anything but sleep and rest, and lay there at full length on a bed of soft pine shatters, dreamily watching the sergeant's preparations for the night. throwing off his knapsack, haversack, and accoutrements, he took out his hatchet, trimmed away the lower branches of two pine-saplings which stood some six feet apart, cut a straight pole, and laid it across from one to the other of these saplings, buttoned together two shelters and threw them across the ridge-pole, staked them down at the corners, and throwing in his traps, exclaimed: "there you are, 'as snug as a bug in a rug.' and now for water, fire, and a supper." a fire was soon and easily built, for dry wood was plenty; and soon the flames were crackling and lighting up the dusky woods. taking our two canteens, harter started off in search of water, leaving me to stretch myself out in the tent and--heartily wish myself at home. for soldiering is all well enough so long as one is strong and well. but when a man gets sick he is very likely to find that all the romance of marching by day and camping by night is suddenly gone, and that there is, after all, no place like home. for one, i was fully conscious of this as i lay there in the tent awaiting the sergeant's return. the sounds which came to my ears from the woods all around me,--of strong men's voices, some shouting and some conversing in low tones; the noise of axes and of falling trees; the busy, bee-like hum, losing itself amongst the trees and in the far distance; the bright glare of the many fires, and the dancing lights and shadows which seemed to people the forest with ghostlike forms,--all this, although at another time it would have had a singular charm, now awakened no response in me. one draught of water at the "big spring" at home, which i knew at that very moment was gushing cool and clear as crystal out of the hillside, and on the bottom of which i could in vision see the white pebbles lying, would have been worth to me all, and more than all, the witchery of our bivouac for the night. and i would have given more for a bed on the hard floor on the landing at the head of the stairs at home--i would not have asked for a bed--than for a dozen nights spent in the finest camps in the army of the potomac. but the thought of the big spring troubled me most. it seemed to me i could see it with my eyes shut, and that i could hear the water as it came gushing out of the hillside and flowed down to the meadow, plashing and rippling---- "i tell you, harry," said the sergeant, suddenly interrupting my vision as he stepped into the circle of light in front of our little tent, and flung down his canteens, "there isn't anything like military discipline. i went down the road here about a quarter of a mile and came out near general grant's headquarters, in a clearing. down at the foot of a hill right in front of his headquarters is a spring: but it seems the surgeon of some hospital near by had got there before the general, and had placed a guard on the spring to keep the water for the wounded. as i came up, i heard the guard say to a darky who had come to the spring for water with a bucket,-- "'get out of that, you black rascal; you can't have any water here.' "'guess i kin,' said the darky. 'i want dis yere water for gen'l grant; an' ain't he a commandin' dis yere army, or am you?' "'you touch that water and i'll run my bayonet through you,' said the guard. 'general grant can't have any water at this spring till my orders are changed.' "the darky, saying that he'd 'see 'bout dat mighty quick,' went up the hill to headquarters, and returned in a few moments declaring that "'gen'l grant said dat you got to gib me water outen dis yere spring.' [illustration: "general grant can't have any of this water!"] "'you go back and tell general grant, for me,' said the corporal of the guard, who came up at the moment, 'that neither he nor any other general in the army of the potomac can get water at this spring till my orders are changed.' "now, you see," continued harter, as he gave me a tin cup on a stick to hold over the fire for coffee, while he cut down a slice of pork, "there's something mighty fine in the idea of a man standing to his post though the heavens fall, and obeying the orders given him when he is put on guard, so that even though the greatest generals in the army send down contrary orders to him, he'll die before he'll give in. a man is mighty strong when he is on guard and obeys orders. though he's only a corporal, or even a private, he can command the general commanding the army. but i don't believe general grant sent that darky for water a second time." supper was soon ready, and soon disposed of. then, without further delay, while the shadows deepened into thick night in the forest, we rolled ourselves up in our blankets and stretched ourselves out with our feet to the fire. dreamily watching the blazing light of our little camp fire, and thinking each his own thoughts of things which had been and things which might be, we both soon fell sound asleep. chapter xix. "went down to jericho and fell among thieves." on the morning of may d, , after a good and refreshing sleep, we took up the line of march and moved rapidly all day in a southerly direction, "straight for richmond," according to our somewhat bewildered conception of the geography of those parts. with the exception of an occasional skirmish and some heavy cannonading away along the horizon, we had seen and heard but little of the enemy for several days. where he was we did not know. we only hoped that, after the terrible fighting of the last two weeks, commencing at the wilderness on the th, he had had enough of it and had taken to his heels and run away-- "away down south in dixie's land, away, away," and that we should never again see anything of him but his back. alas! for the presumption. and alas! for the presumption of the innumerable company and fellowship of cooks, camp-followers, and mule-drivers, who, emboldened by the quietude of the last few days, had ventured to come up from the rear, and had joined each his respective regiment, and were marching along bravely enough, as on the evening of this same may d we approached north anna river, which we were to cross at a place called jericho ford. as we came near to the river, we found the supply and ammunition-trains "parked" to the rear of a wood a short distance from jericho, so that as we halted for a while in the edge of the woods nearest to the stream, everything wore so quiet and unsuspicious a look, that no one dreamed of the enemy being anywhere near at hand. under the impression that we should probably halt there for the night, i gathered up a number of the boys' canteens and started out in search of water, taking my course toward an open meadow which lay to the right and close to the river's edge. there was a cornfield off to the left, across which i could see the troops leisurely marching in the direction of the bridge. as i stooped down to fill my canteens, another man came up on the same errand as had brought me there. from where i was, i could see the bridge full of troops and the general rabble of camp followers carelessly crossing. but scarcely had i more than half filled my first canteen, when the enemy, lying concealed in the woods on the other side of the river, opened fire. boom! bang! whir-r-r! chu-ck! "hello!" said i to my companion, "the ball is going to open!" "yes," answered he with a drawl and a certain supercilious look, as if to intimate that few besides himself had ever heard a shell crack before--"yes; but when you have heard as many shells busting about your head as i have"-- whir-r-r! chu-ck! i could hear the terrific shriek of the shell overhead, and the sharp _thud_ of the pieces as they tore up the meadow sod to the right and left of us; whereupon my brave and boastful friend, leaving his sentence to be completed and his canteens to be filled some other day, cut for the rear at full speed, ducking his head as he went. finding an old gateway near by, with high stone posts on either side, i took refuge there; and feeling tolerably safe behind my tall defence, turned about and looked toward the river. it is said that there is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous; and surely laughable indeed was the scene which greeted my eyes. everything was in confusion, and all was helter-skelter, skurry, and skedaddle. there was the bridge in open view, full of a struggling mass of men, horses, and mules,--the troops trying to force their way over to the other side, and the yelling crowd of camp-followers equally bent on forcing their way back; some jumping or being tumbled off the bridge, while others were swept, _nolens volens_, over to the other side, and there began to plunge into the dirty ooze of the stream, with the evident intention of getting on the safe side of things as speedily as possible, while all the time the shells flew shrieking and screaming through the air as though the demons had been let loose. between me and the river was a last year's cornfield, over which the rabble now came swift and full, fear furnishing wings to flight,--and happy indeed was he who had no mule to take care of! one poor fellow who had had his mule heavily laden with camp equipage when he crossed over, was now making for the rear with his mule at a full trot, but in sad plight himself; for he was hatless, covered with mud, and quite out of breath, had lost saddle, bag, and baggage, and had nothing left but himself, the mule, and the halter. another immediately in front of me had come on well enough until he arrived in the middle of the open field, where the shells were falling rather thick, when his mule took it into his head that flight was disgraceful, and that he would retreat no farther,--no, not an inch. there he stood like a rock, the poor driver pulling at his halter and frantically kicking the beast in the ribs, but all to no avail; while all around him, and past him, swept the crowd of his fellow cooks and coffee-coolers in full flight for the rear. as soon as the firing began to cease a little, i started off for the regiment, which had meanwhile changed position. in searching for it, i passed the forage and ammunition-trains, which were parked to the rear of the woods, and within easy range of the enemy's guns,--which latter fact the enemy, fortunately, did not know. one who has not actually seen them can scarcely form any adequate idea of the vast numbers of white-covered wagons which followed our armies, carrying food, forage, and ammunition; nor can any one who has not actually witnessed a panic among the drivers of these wagons, form any conception of the terror into which they were sometimes thrown. the drivers of the ammunition-wagons were especially anxious to keep well out of range of shells,--and no wonder! for if a shot from the enemy's guns were to fall amongst a lot of wagons laden with percussion shells, the result may perhaps be imagined. it was no wonder, therefore, that the driver of an ammunition-wagon, with six mules in front of him and several tons of death and destruction behind him, felt somewhat nervous when he heard the whirr of the shells over the tops of the pines. in searching for the regiment i passed one of these trains. a commissary sergeant was dealing out forage to his men, who were standing around him in a circle, each holding open a bag for his oats, which the commissary was alternately dealing out to them with a bucket,--a bucketful to this man, then to the next, and so on around the circle. it was plain, however, to any observer that he was more concerned about the shells than interested in the oats, for he dodged his head every time a shell cracked, which happened just about the time he was in the act of pouring a bucketful of oats into a bag. while i was looking at them, page, a michigan boy who was well known to me, came up on his horse in search of our division forage train, for he was orderly to our brigadier-general, and wanted oats for his horses. stopping a moment to contemplate the scene i was admiring, he said,-- "you just keep an eye on my horse a minute, will you, and i'll show you how i get oats for my horses when forage is scarce." it was very often a difficult matter for the mounted officers to get forage for their horses; for our movements were so many and so sudden, that it was plainly impossible for the trains to follow us wherever we went. often when we halted at night the wagons were miles and miles away from us, and sometimes we did not get a sight of them for a week, or even longer. then the poor hard-ridden horses would have to suffer. but it was well known that page could get oats when nobody else could. though the wagon trains were many miles in the rear, page seldom permitted his horses to go to bed supperless. though an american by birth, he was a spartan in craft, and had a wit as keen and sharp as a razor. it was said that, rather than have his horses go without their allowance, he would if necessary sit up half the night, after a hard day's march, and wait till everybody else was sound asleep, and then quietly slip from under the heads of the orderlies of other commands the very oat-bags which, in order to guard them the more securely, they were using for their pillows; for oats page would have for the general's horse, by hook or by crook. "you see the commissary yonder?" said page to me in a half-whisper, as he dismounted and threw an empty bag over his arm and gave his waist-belt a hitch: "he's a coward, he is. look at him how he jukes his head at every crack of the cannon! don't know whether he's dealing out oats to the right man or not. just you keep an eye on my horse, will you?" now page had no right in the least to draw forage rations there, for that was not our division-train. but as he did not know where our division-train was, and as all the oats belonged to uncle sam anyhow, why where was the harm of getting your forage wherever you could? pushing his way into the circle of teamsters, who were too much engaged in watching for shells to notice the presence of a stranger, page boldly opened his bag, while mr. commissary, ducking his head between his shoulders at every boom of the guns, poured four bucketfuls of oats into the bag of the new-comer, whereupon page shouldered his prize, mounted his horse, and rode away with a smile on his face which said as plainly as could be, "that's the way to do it, my lad!" in the wild _mêlée_ of that may evening there at jericho,--where evidently we had all fallen among thieves,--there was no little confusion as to the rights of property; _meum_ and _tuum_ got sadly mixed; some horses had lost their owners, and some owners had lost their horses; and the same was the case with the mules. so that by the time things began to get quiet again, some of the boys had picked up stray horses, or bought them for a mere song. on coming up with the regiment, i found that andy had just concluded a bargain of this sort. he had bought a sorrel horse. the animal was a great raw-boned, ungainly beast, built after the gothic style of horse architecture, and would have made an admirable sign for a feed-store up north, as a substitute for "oats wanted; inquire within." however, when i came up, andy had already concluded the bargain, and had become the sole owner and proprietor of the sorrel horse for the small consideration of ten dollars. "why, andy!" exclaimed i, "what in the name of all conscience do you want with a horse? going to join the cavalry?" [illustration: "andy had bought the sorrel for ten dollars."] "well," said andy, with a grin, "i took him on a speculation. going to feed him up a little"---- "glad to hear it," said i; "he needs it sadly." "yes; going to feed him up and then sell him to somebody, and double my money on him, you see. you may ride him on the march and carry our traps. i guess the colonel will give you permission. and, you know, that would be a capital arrangement for you, for you are so sick and weak that you are often left behind on the march." "thank you, old boy," said i with a shrug. "you always were a good, kind, thoughtful soul; but if the choice must be between joining the general cavalcade of coffee-coolers on this old barebones of yours and marching afoot, i believe i'd prefer the infantry." however, we tied a rope around the neck of _bonaparte_, as we significantly called him, fastened him up to a stake, rubbed him down, begged some oats of page, and pulled some handfuls of young grass for him, and so left him for the night. i do not think andy slept well that night. how could he after so bold a dash into the horse-market? grotesque images of the wooden horse of ancient troy, and of don quixote on his celebrated rosinante charging the windmills, were no doubt hopelessly mixed up in his dreams with wild vagaries of general grant at the head of mosby's men fiercely trying to force a passage across jericho ford. for daylight had scarcely begun to peep into the forest the next morning, when andy rolled out from under the blankets and went to look after bonaparte. i was building a fire when he came back. it seemed to me that he looked a little solemn. "how's bony this morning, andy?" inquired i. andy whistled a bit, stuck his hands into his pockets, mounted a log, took off his cap, made a bow, and said: "comrades and fellow-citizens, lend me your ears, and be silent that you may hear! this is my first and last speculation in horseflesh. _bony is gone!_" it was indeed true. we had fallen among thieves, and they had even baffled andy's plan for future money-making; for none of us ever laid eyes on bony again. chapter xx. in the front at petersburg. "andy, let's go a-swimming." "well, harry, i don't know about that. i'd like to take a good plunge; but, you see, there's no telling how soon we may move." it was the afternoon of tuesday, june , . we had been marching and fighting almost continually for five weeks and more, from the wilderness to spottsylvania, over the north anna, in at cold harbor, across the pamunky and over the chickahominy to the banks of the james river, about a mile and a half from which we were now lying, along a dusty road. we were sunburned, covered with dust, and generally used up, so that a swim in the river would be a refreshment indeed. having learned from one of the officers that the intention evidently was to remain where we then were until the entire corps should come up, and that we should probably cross the river at or somewhere near that point, we resolved to risk it. so, over a cornfield we started at a good pace. we had not gone far, when we discovered a mule tied up in a clump of bushes, with a rope around his neck. and this long-eared animal, as gothic as bonaparte in his style of architecture, we decided, after a solemn council of war, to declare contraband, and forthwith we impressed him into service, intending to return him, after our bath, on our way back to camp. untying bucephalus from the bush, we mounted, andy in front and i on behind, each armed with a switch, and we rode along gayly enough, with our feet dangling among the corn-stalks. for a while all went well. we fell to talking about the direction we had come since leaving the pamunky; and andy, who was usually such an authority on matters geographical and astronomical that on the march he was known in the company as "the compass," confessed to me as we rode on that he himself had been somewhat turned about in that march over the chickahominy swamp. "and as for me," said i, "i think this is the awfullest country to get turned about in that i ever did see. why, andy, while we were lying over there in the road it seemed to me that the sun was going down in the east. fact! but when i took my canteen and went over a little ridge to the rear to look for water for coffee, i found, on looking up, that on that side of the ridge the sun was all right. yet when i got back to the road and looked around, judge of my surprise when i found the whole thing had somehow swung around again, and the sun was going down in the east! and you may judge still further of my surprise, andy, when, on going and walking back and forth across that ridge, i found one particular spot from which, if i looked in one direction, the sun was going down all right in the west; but if in the opposite direction, he was going down all wrong, entirely wrong, in the east!" "whoa dar! whoa dar! whar you gwine wid dat dar mule o' mine? whoa, pete!" the mule stopped stock-still as we caught sight of the black head and face of a darky boy peering forth from the door of a tobacco-house that we were passing. possibly, he was the owner of the whole plantation now, and the mule pete might be his only live-stock. "where are we going, pompey? why we're going 'on to richmond!'" "on ter richmon'! an' wid dat dar mule o' mine! 'clar to goodness, sodgers, can't git along widout dat mule. better git off'n dat dar mule!" "whip him up, andy!" shouted i. "come up, bucephalus!" shouted andy. and we both laid on right lustily. but never an inch would that miserable mule budge from the position he had taken on hearing the darky's voice, until all of a sudden, and as if a mine had been sprung under our feet, there was such a striking out of heels and such an uncomfortable elevation in the rear, the angle of which was only increased by increased cudgelling, that at last, with an enormous spring, andy and i were sent flying off into the corn. [illustration: "better git off'n dat dar mule!"] "yi! yi! yi! didn' i say better git off'n dat dar mule o' mine? yi! yi! yi!" laughing as heartily as the darky at our misadventure, we felt that it would be safer to make for the river afoot. we had a glorious plunge in the waters of the james, and returned to the regiment at sunset, greatly refreshed. the next day we crossed the james in steamboats. there were thousands of men in blue all along both shores; some were crossing, some were already over, and others were awaiting their turn. by the middle of the forenoon we were all well over, and it has been said that, had we pushed on without delay, the story of the siege of petersburg would have read quite differently. but we waited,--for provisions, i believe,--and during this halt the whole corps took a grand swim in the river. we marched off at three o'clock in the afternoon, over a dusty road and without fresh water, and reached the neighborhood of petersburg at midnight, but did not get into position until after several days of hard fighting in the woods. it would be impossible to give a clear and interesting account of the numerous engagements in which we took part around that long-beleaguered city, where for ten months the two great armies of the north and south sat down to watch and fight each other until the end came. for, after days and days of manoeuvring and fighting, attack and sally, it became evident that petersburg could not be carried by storm, and there was nothing for it but to sit down stubbornly, and, by cutting off all railroad supplies and communications, starve it into surrender. it may be interesting, however, to tell something of the everyday life and experience of our soldiers during that great siege. [illustration: finding a wounded picket in a rifle-pit.] digging becomes almost an instinct with the experienced soldier. it is surprising how rapidly men in the field throw up fortifications, how the work progresses, and what immense results can be accomplished by a body of troops in a single night. let two armies fight in the open field one evening--by the next morning both are strongly intrenched behind rifle-pits and breastworks, which it will cost either side much blood to storm and take. if spades and picks are at hand when there is need of fortifications, well; if not, bayonets, tin cups, plates, even jack-knives, are pressed into service until better tools arrive; and every man works like a beaver. thus it was that although throughout the th of june the fighting had been severe, yet, in spite of weariness and darkness, we set to work, and the morning found us behind breastworks; these we soon so enlarged and improved that they became well-nigh impregnable. at that part of the line where our regiment was stationed, we built solid works of great pine-logs, rolled up, log on log, seven feet high and banked with earth on the side toward the enemy, the whole being ten feet through at the base. on the inside of these breastworks we could walk about perfectly safe from the enemy's bullets, which usually went singing harmlessly over our heads. on the outside of these works were further defences. first, there was the ditch made by throwing up the ground against the logs; then, farther out, about twenty or thirty yards away, was the _abatis_--a peculiar means of defence made by cutting off the tops and heavy limbs of trees, sharpening the ends, and planting them firmly in the ground in a long row, the sharpened ends pointing toward the enemy, the whole being so close and so compacted together with telegraph-wires everywhere twisted in, that it was impossible for a line of battle to get through it without being cut off to a man. here and there, at intervals, were left gaps wide enough to admit a single man, and it was through these man-holes that the pickets passed out to their pits beyond. fifty yards in front of the _abatis_ the pickets were stationed. when first the siege began, picketing was dangerous business. both armies were bent on fight, and picketing meant simply sharpshooting. as a consequence, at first the pickets were posted only at night, so that from midnight to midnight the poor fellows lay in their rifle-pits under a broiling july sun, with no protection from the intolerable heat, excepting the scanty shade of a little pine-brush erected overhead, or in front of the pit as a screen. there the picket lay, flat on his face, picking off the enemy's men whenever he could catch sight of a head, or even so much as a hand; and right glad would he be if, when the long-awaited relief came at length, he had no wounds to show. but later on, as the siege progressed, this murderous state of affairs gradually disappeared. neither side found it pleasant or profitable, and nothing was gained by it. it decided nothing, and only wasted powder and ball. and so, gradually the pickets on both sides began to be on quite friendly terms. it was no unusual thing to see a johnny picket--who would be posted scarcely a hundred yards away, so near were the lines--lay down his gun, wave a piece of white paper as a signal of truce, walk out into the neutral ground between the picket-lines, and meet one of our own pickets, who, also dropping his gun, would go out to inquire what johnny might want to-day. "well, yank, i want some coffee, and i'll trade tobacco for it." "has any of you fellows back there some coffee to trade for tobacco? 'johnny picket,' here, wants some coffee." or maybe he wanted to trade papers, a richmond _enquirer_ for a new york _herald_ or _tribune_, "even up and no odds." or he only wanted to talk about the news of the day--how "we 'uns whipped you 'uns up the valley the other day;" or how "if we had stonewall jackson yet, we'd be in washington before winter;" or maybe he only wished to have a friendly game of cards! there was a certain chivalrous etiquette developed through this social intercourse of deadly foemen, and it was really admirable. seldom was there breach of confidence on either side. it would have gone hard with the comrade who should have ventured to shoot down a man in gray who had left his gun and come out of his pit under the sacred protection of a piece of white paper. if disagreement ever occurred in bartering, or high words arose in discussion, shots were never fired until due notice had been given. and i find mentioned in one of my old army letters that a general fire along our entire front grew out of some disagreement on the picket-line about trading coffee for tobacco. the two pickets couldn't agree, jumped into their pits, and began firing, the one calling out: "look out, yank, here comes your tobacco." bang! and the other replying: "all right, johnny, here comes your coffee." bang! [illustration: scene among the rifle-pits before petersburg.] great forts stood at intervals all along the line as far as the eye could see, and at these the men toiled day and night all summer long, adding defence to defence, and making "assurance doubly sure," until the forts stood out to the eye of the beholder, with their sharp angles and well-defined outlines, formidable structures indeed. without attempting to describe them in technical military language, i will simply ask you to imagine a piece of level ground, say two hundred feet square, surrounded by a bank of earth about twenty feet in height, with rows of gabions[ ] and sand-bags arranged on top of the embankment, and at intervals along the sides embrasures or port-holes, at which the great cannon were planted,--and you will have some rough notion of what one of our forts looked like. somewhere within the inclosure, usually near the centre of it, was the magazine, where the powder and shells were stored. this was made by digging a deep place something like a cellar, covering it over with heavy logs, and piling up earth and sand-bags on the logs, the whole, when finished, having the shape of a small round-topped pyramid. at the rear was left a small passage, like a cellar-way, and through this the ammunition was brought up. if ever the enemy could succeed in dropping a shell down that little cellar-door, or in otherwise piercing the magazine, then good by to the fort and all and everybody in and around it! [ ] bottomless wicker-baskets, used to strengthen earthworks. on the outside of each large fort there were, of course, all the usual defences of ditch, _abatis_, and _chevaux-de-frise_, to render approach very dangerous to the enemy. the enemy had fortifications like ours,--long lines of breastworks, with great forts at commanding positions; and the two lines were so near that, standing in one of our forts, i could have carried on a conversation with a man in the fort opposite. i remember, while on the picket-line one evening, watching a body of troops moving along the edge of a wood within the enemy's works, and quite easily distinguishing the color of their uniforms. i have said already that, inside of our breastworks, one was quite secure against the enemy's bullets. but bullets were not the only things we had to look out for,--there were the shell, the case-shot, and i know not what shot besides. every few hours these would be dropped behind our breastworks, and often much execution was done by them. to guard against these missiles, each mess built what was called a "bomb-proof," which consisted of an excavation about six feet square by six deep, covered with heavy logs, the logs covered with earth, a little back cellar-way being left on the side away from the enemy. into this bomb-proof we could dart the moment the shelling began, and be as safe as in our own mother's kitchen. our shelter-tents we pitched on top of the bomb-proof, and in this upper story we lived most of the time, dropping down occasionally into the cellar. bang! bang! bang! "fall into your pits, boys!" and in a trice there wasn't so much as a blue coat in sight. familiarity breeds contempt,--even of danger; and sometimes we were caught. thus, one day, when there had been no shelling for a long time, and we had grown somewhat careless, and were scattered about under the trees, some sleeping and others sitting on top of the breastworks to get a mouthful of fresh air, all of a sudden the guns of one of the great forts opposite us opened with a rapid fire, dropping shells right among us. of course there was a "scatteration" as we tried to fall into our pits pell-mell; but, for all our haste, several of us were severely hurt. there was a boy from philadelphia,--i forget his name,--sitting on the breastworks writing a letter home; a piece of shell tore off his arm with the pen in his hand. a lieutenant received an iron slug in his back, while a number of other men were hurt. and such experiences were of frequent occurrence. a great victory had been gained by our cavalry somewhere (i think by sheridan), and one evening an orderly rode along the line to each regimental headquarters, distributing despatches containing an account of the victory, with instructions that the papers be read to the men. cheers were given all along the line that night, and a shotted salute was ordered at daylight the next morning. [illustration: the magazine where the powder and shells were stored.] at sunrise every available gun from the appomattox to the weldon railroad must have been brought into service and trained against the enemy's works, for the noise was terrific. and still further to increase the din, the johnnies, supposing it to be a grand assault along the whole line, replied with every gun they could bring to bear, and the noise was so great that you would have thought the very thunders of doom were rolling. after the firing had ceased, the johnnies were informed that "we have only been giving three iron cheers for the victory sheridan has gained up the valley lately." there was, i presume, some regret on the other side over the loss of powder and shot. at all events, whenever, after that, similar iron cheers were given, and this was not seldom the case, the enemy preserved a moody silence. after remaining in our works for about a month, we were relieved by other troops and marched off to the left in the direction of the weldon railroad, which we took after severe fighting. we held it, and at once fortified our position with a new line of works, thus cutting off one of the main lines of communication between petersburg and the south. chapter xxi. fun and frolic. in what way to account for it i know not, but so it is, that soldiers always have been, and i suppose always will be, merry-hearted fellows and full of good spirits. one would naturally suppose that, having so much to do with hardship and danger every day, they would be sober and serious above the generality of men. but such was by no means the case with our boys in blue. in camp, on the march, nay even in the solemn hour of battle, there was ever and anon a laugh passing down the line or some sport going on amongst the tents. seldom was there wanting some one noted for his powers of storytelling, to beguile the weary hours about the camp-fire at the lower end of the company street, or out among the pines on picket. few companies could be found without some native-born wag or wit, whose comical songs or quaint remarks kept the boys in good humor, while at the same time each and all, according to the measure of their several capacities, were given to playing practical jokes of one kind or other for the general enlivenment of the camp. there was corporal harter, for example, of my own company. i do not single him out as a remarkable wit, or in any sense as a shining light in our little galaxy of boys in blue; but choose him rather as an average specimen. more than one was the trick which harter played on andy and myself--though i cannot help but remember, also, that he sometimes had good ground for so doing, as the following will show. it was while we were yet lying around washington during the winter of , that harter and i one day secured a "pass" and went into the city. in passing the treasury department we found a twenty-five cent note. we had at first a mind to call on the secretary of the treasury and ask whether he had lost it, as we had found it in front of his establishment; but thinking that it would not go very far toward paying the expenses of the war, and reflecting that even if it did belong to uncle sam, we belonged to uncle sam too, and so where could be the harm of our keeping it and laying it out on ourselves?--we finally concluded to spend it at a certain print-shop on pennsylvania avenue, where were exposed for sale great numbers of colored pictures of different generals and statesmen, a prize of cheap gilt jewelry being given with each picture. for the jewelry we cared not a whit; but the pictures each of us was anxious to possess, for they would make very nice decorations for our tents, we thought. having, then, purchased a number of these with our treasure-trove, and having received from the shopkeeper a handful of brass earrings, which neither of us wanted (for what in the world did a soldier want with brass earrings, or even with gold ones, for the matter of that?), we took our way to the park, west of the capitol buildings, and sat down on a bench. "now, harry," said the corporal, as he sat wistfully looking at a picture of a general dressed in the bluest of blue uniforms, who, with sword drawn and horse at full gallop, dismounted cannon in the rear and clouds of blue smoke in front, was apparently leading his men on to the desperate charge. the men had not come on the field yet, but it was of course understood by the general's looks that they were coming somewhere in the background. a person can't have _everything_ in a picture, at the rate of four for a quarter, with a handful of earrings thrown in to clinch the bargain,--all of which, no doubt, passed rapidly through the corporal's mind as he examined the pictures,--"now, harry, how will we divide 'em?" "well, corporal," answered i, "suppose we do it this way: we'll toss up a penny for it. 'heads i win, tails you lose,' you know. if it comes head i'll take the pictures and you'll take the jewelry; if it comes tail you'll take the jewelry and i'll take the pictures. that's fair and square, isn't it?" the corporal's head could not have been very clear that morning, or he would have seen through this nicely laid little scheme as clearly as one can see through a grindstone with a hole in the middle. but the proposition was so rapidly announced, and set forth with such an appearance of candor and exact justice, that, not seeing the trap laid for him, he promptly got out a penny from his pocket, and balancing it on his thumb-nail, while he thoughtfully squinted up toward a tree-top near by, said,-- "i guess that's fair. here goes--but, hold on. how is it, now? say it over again." "why, it's as plain as the nose on your face, man. don't you see? if it comes head, then i take the pictures and you take the jewelry. if it comes tail, then you take the jewelry and i take the pictures. nothing could be plainer than that; so, flop her up, corporal." "all right, harry. here she go--. but hold on!" said he, as a new light seemed to dawn on his mind, while he raised his cap and thoughtfully scratched his head. "let me see. ah! you young rascal! you're sharp, you are! going to gobble up the whole grist of illuminated generals and statesmen, and leave me this handful of brass earrings and breastpins to send home to the girl i left behind me--eh?" but every dog has his day, and whether or not harter bided his time for retaliation, or had quite forgotten about 'heads i win, tails you lose,' by the time we got down into virginia, yet so it was that in more than one camp he gave andy and myself a world of trouble. more than one evening in winter-quarters, as we sat about our fire, cartridges were dropped down our chimney by some unseen hand, driving us out of our tent in a jiffy; and it was not seldom that our pan of frying hard-tack was sent a flying by a sudden explosion. it was wasted breath to ask who did it. we were lying in camp near the rappahannock some time along in the fall of , when andy said one day,-- "look here, harry, let's have some _roast_ beef once. i'm tired of this everlasting frying and frizzling, and my mouth just waters for a good roast. and i've just learned how to do it, too, for i saw a fellow over here in another camp at it, and i tell you it's just fine. you see, you take your chunk of beef and wrap it up in a cloth or newspaper, and then you get some clay and cover it thick all over with the clay, until it looks like a big forty-pound cannon-ball, and then you put it in among the red-hot coals, and it bakes hard like a brick; and when it's done, you just crack the shell off, and out comes your roast fit for the table of a king." we at once set to work, and all went well enough till harter came along that way. while andy was off for more clay, and i was looking after more paper, harter fumbled around our beef, saying he didn't believe we could roast it that way. "just you wait, now," said andy, coming in with the clay; "we'll show you." so we covered our beef thick with stiff clay, and rolled the great ball into the camp-fire, burying it among the hot ashes and coals, and sat down to watch it, while the rest of the boys were boiling their coffee and frying their steaks for dinner. the fire was a good one, and there were about a dozen black tin cups dangling on as many long sticks, their several owners squatting about in a circle,--when all of a sudden, with a terrific bang, amid a shower of sparks and hot ashes, the coffee-boilers were scattered, right and left, and a dozen quarts of coffee sent hissing and sizzling into the fire. our poor roast beef was a sorry looking mess indeed when we picked it out of the general wreck. we always believed that harter had somehow smuggled a cartridge into that beef of ours while our backs were turned, and we determined to pay him back in his own coin on the very first favorable opportunity. it was a long time, however, before the coveted opportunity came; in fact it was quite a year afterward, and happened in this wise. we were lying in front of petersburg, some little while after the celebrated petersburg mine explosion, of which my readers have no doubt often heard. we were playing a game of chess one day, andy and i, behind the high breastworks. our chessmen we had whittled out of soft white pine with our jack-knives. i remember we were at first puzzled to know how to distinguish our men; for, all being whittled out of white pine, both sides were of course alike white, and it was impossible to keep them from getting sadly confused during the progress of the game. at length, however, we hit on the expedient of staining one half of our men with tincture of iodine, which we begged of the surgeon, and then they did quite well. our kings we called generals,--one grant, the other lee,--the knights were cavalry, the castles forts, the bishops chaplains, and the pawns yanks and johnny rebs. we were deep in a game of chess with these our men one day, when andy suddenly broke a long silence by saying: "harry, do you remember how harter blew up our beef-roast last year down there along the rappahannock? and don't you think it's pretty nearly time we should pay him back? because if you do, i've got a plan for doing it." "yes, andy, i remember it quite well; but then, you know, we are not quite sure he did it. besides, he was corporal then, and he's captain now, and he might play the mischief with us if he catches us at any nice little game of that sort." "oh, pshaw!" exclaimed andy, as he threw out his cavalry on my right flank. "he won't find out; and if he does, 'all's fair in love, war, and controversy,' you know, and i'm sure we can rely on his good nature, even if he does get a little riled." on examining into matters at the conclusion of the game, we found that the captain was on duty somewhere, and that, so far, the coast was clear. entering his tent, we found a narrow bunk of poles on either side, with an open space of several feet between the two. here, while andy set out in search of ammunition, i was set to digging a six-inch square hole in the ground, into which we emptied the powder of a dozen cartridges, covering all carefully with earth, and laying a long train, or running fuse, out of the rear of the tent. when harter came in for dinner, and was comfortably seated on his bunk with his cup of bean-soup on his knee, suddenly there was a fiz-z-z and a boom! and harter came dashing out of his tent, covered with gravel and bespattered with bean soup, to the great merriment of the men, who instantly set up shouts of-- "fall in your pits!" "petersburg mine explosion!" "'nother great union victory!" did he get cross? well, it was natural he should feel a little vexed when the fur was so rudely brushed the wrong way; but he tried not to show it, and laughed along with the rest; for in war, as in peace, a man must learn to join in a laugh at his own expense sometimes, as well as to make merry over the mishaps of others. * * * * * a famous and favorite kind of sport, especially when we had been long lying in camp in summer, or were in quarters in winter, was what was commonly known as "raiding the sutler." we heard a great deal in those days about "raids." we read in the newspapers which occasionally fell into our hands, or heard on the picket-line, of raids into maryland and raids into pennsylvania, sometimes by mosby's men, and sometimes by stuart's cavalry; and it was quite natural, when growing weary of the dull monotony of camp life, to look around for some one to raid. very often the sutler was the chosen victim. he was selected, not because he was a civilian and wore citizen's clothes, but chiefly because of what seemed to the boys the questionable character of his pursuit,--making money out of the soldiers. "here we are,"--for so the men would reason--"here we are,--left home and took our lives in our hands--in for 'three years or sooner shot'--get thirteen dollars a month and live on hard-tack; and over there is that sutler, at whose shop a man may spend a whole month's pay and hardly get enough to make a single good meal--it's a confounded mean business!" the sutler seldom enjoyed much respect, as how could he when he flourished and fattened on our hungry stomachs? of course, if a man spent the whole of his month's pay for ginger-cakes and sardines, why it was his own fault. he did not need to spend his money if he did not choose to do so. but it was hardly in human nature to live on pork, bean-soup, and hard-tack day after day, and not feel the mouth water at the sight of the sutler's counter, with its array of delicacies, poor and common though they were. besides, the sutler usually charged most exorbitant prices--two ginger-cakes for five cents, four apples for a quarter, eighty cents for a small can of condensed milk, and ninety for a pound of butter, which andy usually denounced in vigorous biblical terms as being as strong as samson and as old as methuselah. maybe the sutler's charges were none too high, when his many risks were duly considered; for he was usually obliged to transport his goods a great distance, over almost impassable roads, and was often liable to capture by the enemy's foraging parties, besides being exposed to numerous other fortunes of war, whereby he might lose his all in an hour. but soldiers in search of sport were not much disposed to take a just and fair view of all his circumstances. what they saw was only this--that they wanted somebody to raid, and who could be a fitter subject than the sutler? the sutler's establishment was a large wall tent, usually pitched on the side of the camp farthest away from the colonel's quarters. it was therefore in a somewhat exposed and tempting position. whenever it was thought well to raid him, the men of his own regiment would usually enter into a contract with those of some neighboring regiment-- "you fellows come over here some night and raid our sutler, and then we'll come over to your camp some night and raid your sutler. will you do it?" it was generally agreed to, this courteous offer of friendly offices; and great, though indescribable, was the sport which often resulted. for when all had been duly arranged and made ready, some dark night when the sutler was sleeping soundly in his tent, a skirmish line from the neighboring regiment would cautiously pick its way down the hill and through the brush, and silently surround the tent. one party, creeping close in by the wall of the tent, would loosen the ropes and remove them from the stakes on the one side, while another party on the other side, at a given signal, would pull the whole concern down over the sutler's head. and then would arise yells and cheers for a few moments, followed by immediate silence as the raiding party would steal quietly away. did they steal his goods? very seldom; for soldiers are not thieves, and plunder was not the object, but only fun. why did not the officers punish the men for doing this? well, sometimes they did. but sometimes the officers believed the sutler to be exorbitant in his charges and oppressive to the men, and cared little how soon he was cleared out and sent a-packing; and therefore they enjoyed the sport quite as well as the men, and often did as nelson did when he put his blind eye to the telescope and declared he did not see the signal to recall the fleet. they winked at the frolic and came on the scene usually in ample time to condole with the sutler, but quite too late to do him any service. thus, once when the sutler was being raided he hastily sent for the "officer of the day," whose business it was to keep order in the camp. but he was so long in coming, that the boys were in the height of their sport when he arrived; and not wishing to spoil their fun, he gave his orders in two quite different ways,--one in a very loud voice, intended for the sutler to hear, and the other in a whisper, designed for the boys:-- (_loud._) "get out of this! put you all in the guard-house!" (_whisper._) "pitch in, boys! pitch in, boys!" the sutler's tent was often a favorite lounging place with the officers. one evening early a party of about a dozen officers were seated on boxes and barrels in the sutler's establishment. all of them wanted cigars, but no one liked to call for them, for cigars were so dear that no one cared about footing the bill for the whole party, and yet could not be so impolite as to call for one for himself alone. as they sat there with the flaps of the tent thrown back, they could see quite across the camp to the colonel's quarters beyond. "now, boys," said captain k----, "i see the chaplain coming down company c street, and i think he is coming here; and if he does come here we'll have some fun at his expense. we all want cigars, and we might as well confess what is an open secret, that none of us dares to call for a cigar for himself alone, nor feels like footing the bill for the whole party. well, let the sutler set out a few boxes of cigars on the counter, so as to have them handy when they are needed, and you follow my lead, and we'll see whether we can't somehow or other make the chaplain yonder pay the reckoning." the chaplain in question, be it remembered, made some pretension to literature, and considered himself quite an authority in camp on all questions pertaining to orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody; and presumed to be an umpire in all matters which might from time to time come into discussion in the realm of letters. so, when he came into the sutler's tent, captain k---- saluted him with,-- "good evening, chaplain; you're just the very man we want to see. we've been having a little discussion here, and as we saw you coming we thought we'd submit the question to you for decision." "well, gentlemen," said the chaplain, with a smile of gratification, "i shall be only too happy to render you what poor assistance i can. may i inquire what may be the question under discussion?" "it is but a small thing," replied the captain; "you might, i suppose, call it more a _matter of taste_ than anything else. it concerns a question of emphasis, or rather, perhaps, of inflection, and it is this: would you say, 'gentlemen, will you have a cigár?' or 'gentlemen, will you have a cigàr?'" pushing his hat forward as he thoughtfully scratched his head, the chaplain, after a pause, responded,-- "well, there don't seem to be much difference between the two. but, on consideration, i believe i would say, 'gentlemen, will you have a cigár?'" "_certainly!_" exclaimed they all, in full and hearty chorus, as they rushed up to the counter in a body and each took a handful of cigars with a "thank you, chaplain," leaving their bewildered literary umpire to pay the bill,--which, for the credit of his cloth, i believe he did. chapter xxii. chiefly culinary. it was frederick the great, i believe, who said that "an army, like a serpent, goes upon its belly,"--which was but another way of saying that if you want men to fight well, you must feed them well. of provisions, uncle sam usually gave us a sufficiency; but the table to which he invited his boys was furnished with little variety and less delicacy. on first entering the service, the drawing of our rations was not a small undertaking, for there were nearly a hundred of us in the company, and it takes a considerable weight of bread and pork to feed a hundred hungry stomachs. but after we had been in the field a year or two, the call, "fall in for your hard-tack!" was leisurely responded to by only about a dozen men,--lean, sinewy, hungry-looking fellows, each with his haversack in hand. i can see them yet as they sat squatting around a gum-blanket spread on the ground, on which were a small heap of sugar, another of coffee, and another of rice, may be, which the corporal was dealing out by successive spoonfuls, as the boys held open their little black bags to receive their portion, while near by lay a small piece of salt pork or beef, or possibly a dozen potatoes. much depended, of course, on the cooking of the provisions furnished us. at first we tried a company cook; but we soon learned that the saying of miles standish,-- "if you wish a thing to be well done, you must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!" applied to cooking quite as well as to courting. we therefore soon dispensed with our cook, and although scarcely any of us knew how to cook so much as a cup of coffee when we took the field, a keen appetite, aided by that necessity which is ever the mother of invention, soon taught us how bean-soup should be made and hard-tack prepared. hard-tack! it is a question which i have much debated with myself while writing, whether this chapter should not be entitled "hard-tack." for as this article of diet was the grand staff of life to the boys in blue, it would seem that but little could be said of the culinary art in camp without involving some mention of hard-tack at almost every turn. [illustration: "fall in for hard tack!"] as i write, there lies before me on my table an innocent-looking cracker, which i have faithfully preserved for years. it is about the size and has the general appearance of an ordinary soda biscuit. if you take it in your hand, you will find it somewhat heavier than an ordinary biscuit, and if you bite it--but no; i will not let you bite it, for i wish to see how long i can keep it. but if you were to reduce it to a fine powder, you would find that it would absorb considerably more water than an equal weight of wheat-flour; showing that in the making of hard-tack the chief object in view is to stow away the greatest amount of nourishment in the smallest amount of space. you will also observe that this cracker is very hard. this you may perhaps attribute to its great age. but if you imagine that its age is to be measured only by the years which have elapsed since the war, you are greatly mistaken; for there was a common belief among the boys that our hard-tack had been baked long before the commencement of the christian era! this opinion was based upon the fact that the letters b. c. were stamped on many, if not indeed all, of the cracker-boxes. to be sure there were some wiseacres who shook their heads, and maintained that these mysterious letters were the initials of the name of some army contractor or inspector of supplies; but the belief was wide-spread and deep-seated that they were without a doubt intended to set forth the era in which our bread had been baked. for our hard-tack were very hard; you could scarcely break them with your teeth--some of them you could not fracture with your fist. still, as i have said, there was an immense amount of nourishment stowed away in them, as we soon discovered when once we had learned the secret of getting at it. it required some experience and no little hunger to enable one to appreciate hard-tack aright, and it demanded no small amount of inventive power to understand how to cook hard-tack as they ought to be cooked. if i remember correctly, in our section of the army we had not less than fifteen different ways of preparing them. in other parts, i understand, they had discovered one or two ways more; but with us, fifteen was the limit of the culinary art when this article of diet was on the board. on the march they were usually not cooked at all, but eaten in the raw state. in order, however, to make them somewhat more palatable, a thin slice of nice fat pork was cut down and laid on the cracker, and a spoonful of good brown sugar put on top of the pork, and you had a dish fit for a--soldier. of course the pork had just come out of the pickle, and was consequently quite raw; but fortunately we never heard of _trichinæ_ in those days. i suppose they had not yet been invented. when we halted for coffee, we sometimes had fricasseed hard-tack--prepared by toasting them before the hot coals, thus making them soft and spongy. if there was time for frying, we either dropped them into the fat in the dry state and did them brown to a turn, or soaked them in cold water and then fried them, or pounded them into a powder, mixed this with boiled rice or wheat flour, and made griddle-cakes and honey--minus the honey. when, as was generally the case on a march, our hard-tack had been broken into small pieces in our haversacks, we soaked these in water and fried them in pork-fat, stirring well and seasoning with salt and sutler's pepper, thus making what was commonly known as a "hishy-hashy, or a hot-fired stew." but the great triumph of the culinary art in camp, to my mind, was a hard-tack pudding. this was made by placing the biscuit in a stout canvas bag, and pounding bag and contents with a club on a log, until the biscuit were reduced to a fine powder. then you added a little wheat-flour (the more the better), and made a stiff dough, which was next rolled out on a cracker-box lid, like pie-crust. then you covered this all over with a preparation of stewed dried apples, dropping in here and there a raisin or two, just for "auld lang syne's" sake. the whole was then rolled together, wrapped in a cloth, boiled for an hour or so, and eaten with wine sauce. the wine was, however, usually omitted, and hunger inserted in its stead. thus you see what truly vast and unsuspected possibilities reside in this innocent-looking three-and-a-half-inch-square hard-tack lying here on my table before me. three like this specimen made a meal, and nine were a ration; and this is what fought the battles for the union. the army hard-tack had but one rival, and that was the army bean. a small white roundish soup-bean it was, such as you have no doubt often seen. it was quite as innocent looking as its inseparable companion, the hard-tack, and, like it, was possessed of possibilities which the uninitiated would never suspect. it was not so plastic an edible as the hard-tack, indeed; that is to say, not capable of entering into so many different combinations, nor susceptible of so wide a range of use, but the one great dish which might be made of it was so pre-eminently excellent, that it threw hishy-hashy and hard-tack pudding quite into the shade. this was "baked beans." no doubt bean-soup was very good, as it was also very common; but oh, "baked beans!" i had heard of the dish before, but had never, even remotely, imagined what toothsome delights lurked in the recesses of a camp-kettle of beans baked after the orthodox backwoods fashion, until one day bill strickland, whose home was in the lumber regions, where the dish had no doubt been first invented, said to me,-- "come round to our tent to-morrow morning; we're going to have baked beans for breakfast. if you will walk around to the lower end of our company street with me, i'll show you how we bake beans up in the country i come from." it was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and the boys were already busy. they had an immense camp-kettle about two thirds full of parboiled beans. near by they had dug a hole in the ground, about three feet square and two deep, in which and on top of which a great fire was to be made about dusk, so as to get the hole thoroughly heated and full of red-hot coals by the time _tattoo_ sounded. into this hole the camp-kettle was then set, with several pounds of fat pork on the top of the beans, and securely covered with an inverted mess-pan. it was sunk into the red-hot coals, by which it was completely concealed, and was left there all night to bake, one of the camp-guards throwing a log on the fire from time to time during the night, to keep matters a-going. early the next morning some one shook me roughly, as i lay sleeping soundly in my bunk,-- "get up, harry. breakfast is ready. come over to our tent. if you never ate baked beans before, you never ate anything worth eating." i found three or four of the boys seated around the camp-kettle, each with a tin plate on his knee and a spoon in his hand, doing their very best to establish the truth of the adage that "the proof of the pudding is in the eating." now it is a far more difficult matter to describe the experiences of the palate than of either the eye or the ear, and therefore i shall not attempt to tell the reader how very good baked beans are. the only trouble with a camp-kettle full of this delicious food was that it was gone so soon. where _did_ it get to, anyhow? it was something like father tom's quart of drink,--"an irrational quantity, because it was too much for one and too little for two." still, too much of a good thing _is_ too much; and one might get quite too much of beans (except in the state above described), as you will find if you ask some friend or acquaintance who was in the war to sing you the song of "the army bean." and remember, please, to ask him to sing the refrain to the tune sometimes called "days of absence," and to pull up sharp on the last word,-- "beans for breakfast, beans for dinner, beans for supper,-- beans!" chapter xxiii. "hatcher's run." while we were yet before petersburg, two divisions of our corps (the fifth), with two divisions of the ninth, leaving the line of works at the weldon railroad, were pushed out still farther to the left, with the intention of turning the enemy's right flank. starting out, therefore, early on the morning of thursday, october , , with four days' rations in our haversacks, we moved off rapidly by the left, striking the enemy's picket-line about ten o'clock. * * * * * "pop! pop! pop! boom! boom! boom! we're in for it again, boys; so, steady on the left there, and close up." away into the woods we plunge in line of battle, through briers and tangled undergrowth, beneath the great trees dripping with rain. we lose the points of the compass, and halt every now and then to close up a gap in the line by bearing off to the right or left. then forward we go through the brush again, steady on the left and guide right, until i feel certain that officers as well as men are getting pretty well "into the woods" as to the direction of our advance. it is raining, and we have no sun to guide us, and the moss is growing on the wrong side of the trees. i see one of our generals sitting on his horse, with his pocket-compass on the pommel of his saddle, peering around into the interminable tangle of brier and brush, with an expression of no little perplexity. yet still on, boys, while the pickets are popping away, and the rain is pouring down. the evening falls early and cold, as we come to a stand in line of battle and put up breastworks for the night. we have halted on the slope of a ravine. minié-balls are singing over our heads as we cook our coffee, while sounds of axes and falling trees are heard on all sides; and still that merry "z-i-p! z-i-p!" goes on among the tree-tops and sings us to sleep at length, as we lie down shivering under our india-rubber blankets, to get what rest we may. how long we had slept i did not know, when some one shook me, and in a whisper the word passed around: "wake up, boys! wake up, boys! don't make any noise, and take care your tin cups and canteens don't rattle. we've got to get out of this on a double jump!" we were in a pretty fix indeed! in placing the regiments in position, by some blunder, quite excusable, no doubt, in the darkness and the tangled forest, we had been unwittingly pushed beyond the main line,--were, in fact, quite outside the picket-line! it needed only daylight to let the enemy see his game, and sweep us off the boards. and daylight was fast coming in the east. long after, a company a boy, who was on picket that night, told me that, upon going to the rear somewhere about three o'clock, to cook a cup of coffee at a half-extinguished fire, a cavalry picket ordered him back within the lines. "the lines are not back there; my regiment is out yonder in front, on skirmish!" "no," said the cavalry-man, "our cavalry is the extreme picket-line, and our orders are to send in all men beyond us." "then take me at once to general bragg's headquarters," said the company a boy. when general bragg learned the true state of affairs, he at once ordered out an escort of five hundred men to bring in our regiment. meanwhile we were trying to get back of our own accord. "this way, men!" said a voice in a whisper ahead. "this way, men!" said another voice in the rear. that we were wandering about vainly in the darkness, and under no certain leadership, was evident, for i noticed in the dim light that, in our tramping about in the tangle, we had twice crossed the same fallen tree, and so must have been moving in a circle. and now, as the day is dawning in the east, and the enemy's pickets see us trying to steal away, a large force is ordered against us, and comes sweeping down with yells and whistling bullets,--just as the escort of five hundred, with reassuring cheers, comes up from the rear to our support! instantly we are in the cloud and smoke of battle. a battery of artillery, hastily dragged up into position, opens on the charging line of gray with grape and canister, while from bush and tree pours back and forth the dreadful blaze of musketry. for half an hour, the conflict rages fierce and high in the dawning light and under the dripping trees,--the officers shouting, and the men cheering and yelling and charging, often fighting hand to hand and with bayonets locked in deadly encounter, while the air is cut by the whistling lead, and the deep bass of the cannon wakes the echoes of the forest. but at last the musketry-fire gradually slackens, and we find ourselves out of danger. the enemy's prey has escaped him, and, to the wonder of all, we are brought within the lines again, begrimed with smoke and leaving many of our poor fellows dead or wounded on the field. anxiously every man looked about for his chum and messmates, lost sight of during the whirling storm of battle in the twilight woods. and i, too, looked; but where was andy? [illustration: the conflict at daybreak in the woods at hatcher's run.] chapter xxiv. killed, wounded, or missing? andy was nowhere to be found. all along the line of battle-worn men, now gathered in irregular groups behind the breastworks, and safe from the enemy, i searched for him--and searched in vain. not a soul had tidings of him. at last, however, a soldier with his blouse-sleeve ripped up and a red-stained bandage around his arm, told me that, about daylight, when the enemy came sweeping down on us, he and andy were behind neighboring trees. he himself received a ball through the arm, and was busy trying to stop the flow of blood, when, looking up, he saw andy reel, and, he thought, _fall_. he was not quite sure it was andy, but he thought so. andy killed! what should i do without andy?--the best and truest friend, the most companionable messmate, that a soldier ever could hope to have! it could not be! i would look farther for him. out, therefore, i went, over the breastworks to the picket-line, where the rifles were popping away at intervals. i searched among trees and behind bushes, and called and called, but all in vain. then the retreat was sounded, and we were drawn off the field, and marched back to the fortifications which we had left the day before. toward evening, as we reached camp, i obtained permission to examine the ambulance-trains, in search of my chum. as one train after another came in, i climbed up and looked into each ambulance; but the night had long set in before i found him--or thought i had found him. raising my lantern high, so as to throw the light full on the face of the wounded man lying in a stupor on the floor of the wagon, i was at first confident it was andy; for the figure was short, well-built, and had raven black hair. "andy! andy! where are you hurt?" i cried. but no answer came. rolling him on his back and looking full into his face, i found, alas! a stranger--a manly, noble face, too, but no life, no signs of life, in it. there were indeed a very low, almost imperceptible breathing and a faint pulse--but the man was evidently dying. about a week afterward, having secured a pass from corps headquarters, i started for city point to search the hospitals there for my chum. the pass allowed me not only to go through all the guards i might meet on my way, but also to ride free to city point over the railroad--"general grant's railroad," we called it. properly speaking, this was a branch of the road from city point to petersburg, tapping it about midway between the two places, and from that point following our lines closely to the extreme left of our position. never was road more hastily built. so rapidly did the work advance, that scarcely had we learned such a road was planned, before one evening the whistle of a locomotive was heard down the line only a short distance to our right. no grading was done. the ties were simply laid on the top of the ground, the rails were nailed fast, and the rolling-stock was put on without waiting for ballast; and there the railroad was--up hill and down dale, and "as crooked as a dog's hind leg." at only one point had any cutting been done, and that was where the road, after climbing a hill, came within range of the enemy's batteries. the first trains which passed up and down afforded a fine mark and were shelled vigorously, the enemy's aim becoming with daily practice so exact that nearly every train was hit somewhere. the hill was then cut through, and the fire avoided. it was a rough road, and the riding was full of fearful jolts; but it saved thousands of mules, and enabled general grant to hold his position during the winter of the petersburg siege. i was obliged to make an early start, for the train left general warren's headquarters about four o'clock in the morning. when i reached the station, i found on the platform a huge pile of boxes and barrels, nearly as high as a house, which i was informed was the fifth corps' share of a grand dinner which the people of new york had just sent down to the army of the potomac. before the train arrived i had seen enough to cause me to fear that a very small portion of the contents of those boxes and barrels would ever find its way into the haversack of a drummer-boy. for i had not been contemplating the pile with a wistful eye very long, before a certain sergeant came out of a neighboring tent with a lantern in his hand, followed by two darkies, one of whom carried an axe. "knock open that bar'l, bill," said the sergeant. bill did so. the sergeant, thrusting in his hand, pulled out a fat turkey and a roll of butter. "good!" said he. "now let's see what's in that box." smash went bill's axe into the side of the box. "good again!" said the sergeant, taking out a chicken, several tumblers of jelly, and a great pound-cake, which latter made me feel quite homesick. "now, bill," continued the sergeant, "let's have breakfast." city point was a stirring place at that time. it was general grant's headquarters, and the depot of all supplies for the army; and here i found the large hospitals which i meant to search for andy, although i scarcely hoped to find him. into hospital-tents at one end and out at the other, looking from side to side at the long white rows of cots, and inquiring as i went, i searched long and almost despairingly, until at last--there he was, sitting on his cot, his head neatly bandaged, writing a letter! coming up quietly behind him, i laid my hand on his shoulder with: "andy, old boy, have i found you at last? i thought you were killed!" "why, harry!--god bless you!" the story was soon told. "a clip in the head, you see, harry, out there among the trees when the johnnies came down on us, yelling like demons,--all got black before me as i reeled and fell. by and by, coming to myself a little, i begged a man of a strange regiment to help me off, and so i got down here. it's nothing much, harry, and i'll soon be with you again,--not nearly so bad as that poor fellow over there, the man with the black hair. his is a wonderful case. he was brought in the same day i was, with a wound in the head which the doctors said was fatal. every day we expected him to die; but there he lies yet, breathing very low, conscious, but unable to speak or to move hand or foot. some of his company came yesterday to see him. they had been with him when he fell, had supposed him mortally wounded, and had taken all his valuables out of his pockets to send home--among them was an ambrotype of his wife and child. well, you just should have seen that poor fellow's face when they opened that ambrotype and held it before his eyes! he couldn't speak or reach out his hand to take the picture; and there he lay, convulsed with feeling, while tears rolled down his cheeks." on looking at him, i found it was the very man i had seen in the ambulance and mistaken for andy. before returning to camp on the evening train, i strolled along the wharf and watched the boats coming and going, lading and unlading their cargoes of army supplies. a company of colored soldiers was doing guard duty at one point along the wharf. they were evidently proud of their uniforms, and big with importance generally. by and by two officers came leisurely walking toward the wharf, one of whom i at once recognized as general grant. he was smoking a cigar. as the two stood on the edge of the wharf, looking up the river and conversing in low tones, one of the colored guards came up behind them and tapped the general on the shoulder. "beg pardon, gen'l," said the guard, giving the military salute, "but dere ain't no smokin' allowed on dis yere warf." "are those your orders?" asked the general, with a quiet smile. "yes, sah; dem's de orders." promptly taking his cigar from his lips, the general threw it into the water. on my return to camp late in the evening, i found that the comrade with whom i was messing during andy's absence had already "turned in" for the night. leaning upon his elbow on his bunk, as i was stirring up the fire, in order to make a cup of coffee, he said,-- "there is your share of the dinner the new york people sent down to the army of the potomac." "where?" inquired i, looking around everywhere in all the corners of the tent. "i don't see it." "why, there on your knapsack in the corner." on looking toward the spot indicated, i found one potato, half an onion, and the gristly end of a chicken-wing! "you see," continued my messmate, "the new york people meant well, but they have no idea how big a thing this army of the potomac is, and they did not stop to consider how many toll-gates their dinner would have to pass in order to reach us. by the time corps, division, brigade, regimental, and company headquarters had successively inspected and taken toll out of the boxes and barrels, there was precious little left for the high private in the rear rank." chapter xxv. a winter raid to north carolina. about the beginning of december, , we were busy building cabins for the winter. everywhere in the woods to our rear were heard the sound of axes and the crash of falling trees. men were carrying pine-logs on their shoulders, or dragging them along the ground with ropes, for the purpose of building our last winter-quarters; for of the three years for which we had enlisted, but a few months remained. the camp was a scene of activity and interest on all sides. here were some men "notching" the logs to fit them firmly together at the corners; yonder, one was hewing rude robinson crusoe boards for the eaves and gables; there, a man was digging clay for the chimney, which his messmate was cat-sticking up to a proper height; while some had already stretched their shelters over rude cabins, and were busy cooking their suppers. just then, as ill-luck would have it in those uncertain days, an orderly rode into camp with some orders from headquarters, and all building was directed to be stopped at once. "we have orders to move, andy," said i, coming into the half-finished cabin where andy (lately returned from hospital) was chinking the cracks in the side of the house. "orders to move! why, where in the world are we going this time of year? i thought we had tramped around enough for one campaign, and were going to settle down for the winter." "i don't know where we're going; but they say the sixth corps will relieve us in the morning, and we are to pull out, anyhow." we were not deceived. at daylight next morning, december th, we did "pack up and fall in" and move out from our fortified camp, away to the rear, where we lay all day massed in the woods, with nothing to do but to speculate as to the direction we were to take. from daylight of wednesday, december th, we marched, through rain and stiff mud, steadily toward the south, crossing the nottaway river on pontoons at p. m., and halting at midnight for such rest as we could find on the cold damp soil of a cornfield. next day on again we went, straight toward the south, through sussex court-house at a. m., halting at dusk near the weldon and petersburg railway, about five miles from the north carolina line. though we did not then know what all this meant, we soon learned that it was simply a winter raid on the enemy's communications; the intention being to destroy the weldon road, and so render it useless to him. true, we had already cut that same road near petersburg; but the enemy still brought his supplies on it from the south, near to the point where our lines were thrown across, and by means of wagons carried these supplies around our left, and safely into petersburg. [illustration: wrecking the railway.] never was railway more completely destroyed. the morning after we had reached the scene of operations, in the drizzling rain and falling sleet, the whole command was set to work. as far as the eye could see down the road were men in blue, divested of weapons and accoutrements, prying and wrenching and tearing away at iron rails and wooden ties. it was a well-built road, and hard to tear up. the rails were what are known as "t" rails, and each being securely fastened to its neighbor at either end by a stout bar of iron or steel, which had been forced into the groove of the t, the track was virtually two long unbroken rails throughout its whole length. "no use tryin' to tear up them rails from the ties, major," said an old railroader, with a touch of his cap. "the plagued things are all spliced together at the j'ints, and the only way to get them off is to pry up the whole thing, rails, ties, and all, and then split the ties off from the rails when you've got her upside down." so, with fence-rails for levers, the men fell to work, prying and heave-i-ho-ing, until one side of the road, ties, track, and all, pulled and wrenched by thousands of strong arms, began to loosen and move, and was raised gradually higher and higher. forced at last to a perpendicular, it was pushed over and laid upside down, with a mighty cheer from the long line of wreckers! once the thing was started it was easy enough to roll miles and miles of it over without a break. and so brigade after brigade rolled it along; tearing and splitting off the ties, and wrenching away the rails. it was not enough, however, merely to destroy the track. the rails must be made forever useless as rails. accordingly, the ties were piled in heaps, or built up as children build corn-cob houses, and then the heaps were fired. the rails were laid across the top of the burning pile, where they soon became red-hot in the middle, and bent themselves double by the weight of their ends, which hung out beyond the reach of the fire. in some cases, however, a grim and humorous conceit led to a more artistic use of the heated rails, for many of them were taken and carried to some tree hard by, and twisted two or three times around the trunk, while not a few of the men hit on the happy device of bending the rails, some into the shape of a u, and others into the shape of an s, and setting them up by pairs against the fences along the line, in order that, in this oft-repeated iron u s, it might be seen that uncle sam had been looking around in those parts. when darkness came, the scene presented by that long line of burning ties was wild and weird. rain and sleet had been falling all day, and there was frost as well, and we lay down at night with stiff limbs, aching bones, and chattering teeth. everything was covered with a coating of ice; so that andy and i crept under a wagon for shelter and a dry spot to lie down in. but the horses, tied to the wheels, gave us little sleep. scarcely would we fall into a doze, when one of the horses would poke his nose between the wheels, or through the spokes, and whinny pitifully in our ears. and no wonder, either, we thought, when, crawling out at daybreak, we found the poor creatures covered with a coating of ice, and their tails turned to great icicles. the trees looked very beautiful in their magnificent frost-work; but we were too cold and wet to admire anything, as our drums hoarsely beat the "assembly," and we set out for a two days' wet and weary march back to camp in front of petersburg. both on the way down and on the retreat, we passed many fine farms or plantations. it was a new country to us, and no other northern troops had passed through it. one consequence of this was that we were everywhere looked upon with wonder by the white inhabitants, and by the colored population as deliverers sent for their express benefit. all along the line of march, both down and back, the overjoyed darkies flocked to us by hundreds, old and young, sick and well, men, women, and children. whenever we came to a road or lane leading to a plantation, a crowd of darkies would be seen hurrying pell-mell down the lane toward us. and then they would take their places in the colored column that already tramped along the road in awe and wonderment beside "de sodjers." there were stout young darkies with bundles slung over their backs, old men hobbling along with canes, women in best bib and tucker with immense bundles on their heads, mothers with babes in their arms, and a barefooted brood trotting along at their heels; and now and then one would call out anxiously to some venturesome boy: "now, you sam! whar you goin' dar? you done gone git run ober by de sodjers yit, you will." "auntie, you've got a good many little folks to look after, haven't you?" some kindly soldier would say to one of the mothers. "ya-as, cunnel, right smart o' chilluns i'se got yere; but i'se a-gwine up norf, an' can't leabe enny on 'em behind, sah." fully persuaded that the year of jubilee had come at last, the poor things joined us, from every plantation along the road, many of them mayhap leaving good masters for bad, and comfortable homes for no homes at all. occasionally, however, we met some who would not leave. i remember one old, gray-headed, stoop-shouldered uncle who stood leaning over a gate, looking wide-eyed at the blue-coats and the great exodus of his people. "come along, uncle," shouted one of the men. "come along,--the year of jubilee is come!" "no, sah. dis yere chile's too ole. reckon i better stay wid ole mars'r." when we halted at nightfall in a cotton-field, around us was gathered a great throng of colored people, houseless, homeless, well-nigh dead with fatigue, and with nothing to eat. near where we pitched our tent, for instance, was a poor negro woman with six little children, of whom the oldest was apparently not more than eight or nine years of age. the whole forlorn family crouched shivering together in the rain and sleet. andy and i thought, as we were driving in our tent-pins: "that's pretty hard now, isn't it? couldn't we somehow get a shelter and something to eat for the poor souls?" it was not long before we had set up a rude but serviceable shelter, and thrown in a blanket and built a fire in front for them, and set dinah to cooking coffee and frying bacon for her famishing brood. never shall i forget how comical those little darkies looked as they sat cross-legged about the fire, watching the frying-pan and coffee-pot with great eager eyes! dinah, as she cooked, and poked the fire betimes, told andy and me how she had deserted the old home at the plantation,--a home which no doubt she afterward wished she had never left. "when we heerd dat de yankees was a-comin'," said she, "de folks all git ready fer to leabe. ole mars' john, he ride out de road dis way, an' young mars' harry, he ride out de road dat way, fer to watch if dey was a-comin'; and den ebbery now an' den one or udder on 'em'd come a-ridin' up to de house an' say, 'did ye see anyt'ing on 'em yit? did ye hear whar dey is now?' an' den one mawning, down come young mars' harry a-ridin' his hoss at a gallop,--'git out o' dis! git out o' dis! de yankees is a-comin'! de yankees is a-comin'!' and den all de folks done gone cl'ar out an' leabe us all 'lone, an' so when we see de sodjers comin' we done cl'ar out too,--ki-yi!" chapter xxvi. "johnny comes marching home." we had just come out of what is known as the "second hatcher's run" fight, somewhere about the middle of february, . the company, which was now reduced to a mere handful of men, was standing about a smoking fire in the woods, discussing the engagement and relating adventures, when some one came in from brigade headquarters, shouting the following message: "say, boys, good news! they told me over at headquarters that we are to be sent north to relieve the 'regulars' somewhere." ha! ha! ha! that was an old story,--too old to be good, and too good to be true. for a year and more we had been hearing that same good news,--"going to baltimore," "going to washington," and so forth, and we always ended with going into battle instead, or off on some long raid. so we didn't much heed the tidings; we were too old birds to be caught with chaff. but, in spite of our incredulity, the next morning we were marched down to general grant's branch of the petersburg railway, loaded on box-cars, and carried to city point, where we at once embarked on two huge steamers, which we found awaiting us. for two days and nights we were cooped up in those miserable boats. we had no fire, and we suffered from the cold. we had no water for thirty-six hours, and, of course, no coffee; and what is life to a soldier without coffee? all were sea-sick, too, for the weather was rough. and so, what with hunger and thirst, cold and sea-sickness, we landed one evening at baltimore more dead than alive. no sooner were we well down the gangplank than the crowd of apple and pie women that stood on the wharf made quick sales and large profits. then we marched away to a "soldiers' retreat" and were fed. fed! we never tasted so grand a supper as that before or since--"salt horse," dry bread and coffee! the darkies that carried around the great cans of the latter were kept pretty busy for a while, i can tell you; and they must have thought: "dem sodjers, dar, must be done gone starved, dat's sartin. nebber seed sech hungry men in all my bawn days,--nebber!" after supper we were lodged in a great upper room of a large building, having bunks ranged around the four sides of it, and in the middle an open space, which was soon turned to account; for one of the boys strung up his fiddle, which he had carried on his knapsack for full two years, on every march and through every battle we had been in, and with the help of this we proceeded to celebrate our late "change of front" with music and dancing until the small hours of the morning. [illustration: the charge on the cakes.] down through the streets of baltimore we march the next day, with our blackened and tattered flags a-flying, mustering only one hundred and eighty men out of the one thousand who marched through those same streets nearly three years before. we find a train of cars awaiting us, which we gladly enter, making no complaint that we are stowed away in box or cattle cars, instead of passenger coaches, for we understand that uncle sam cannot afford any luxuries for his boys, and we have been used to roughing it. nor do we complain, either, that we have no fire, although we have just come out of a warm climate, and the snow is a foot deep at baltimore, and is getting deeper every hour as we steam away northward. toward evening we pass harrisburg, giving "three cheers for andy curtin," as the state capitol comes in sight. night draws on, and the boys one by one begin to bunk down on the floor, wrapped in their great-coats and blankets. but i cannot lie down or sleep until we have passed a certain way-station, from which it is but two miles across the hills to my home. i stand at the door of the car, shivering and chilled to the bone, patiently waiting and watching as village after village rushes by in the bright moonlight, until at long last we reach the well-known little station at the hour of midnight. and then, as i look across the snow-clad moonlit hills, toward the old red farmhouse where father and mother and sisters are all sleeping soundly, with never a thought of my being so near, i fall to thinking, and wondering, and wishing with a bounding heart, as the train dashes on between the mountain and the river, and bears me again farther and farther away from home. then rolling myself up in my blanket, and drawing the cape of my overcoat about my head, i lie down on the car floor beside andy, and am soon sound asleep. the following evening we landed at elmira, new york, where we were at once put on garrison duty. _why_ we had been taken out of the field and sent to a distant northern city, we never could discover, and we had seen too much service to think of asking questions which the mysterious pigeon-holes of the war department alone could answer. but we always deemed it a pity that we were not left in the field until the great civil war came to an end with the surrender of lee at appomattox, and that we had no part in the final gathering of the troops at washington, where the grand old army of the potomac passed in review for the last time. but so it was, that after some months of monotonous garrison duty at elmira, the great and good news came at last one day that peace had been declared, and that the great war was over! my young readers can scarcely imagine what joy instantly burst forth all over the land. bells were rung all day long, bonfires burned, and people paraded the streets half the night, and everybody was glad beyond possibility of expression. and among the joyful thousands all over the land, the boys in blue were probably the gladdest of all; for was not the war over now, and would not "johnny come marching home?" but before we could go home we must be mustered out, and then we must return to our state capital to be paid off and finally disbanded, and say a last good-by to our comrades in arms, the great majority of whom we should never in all probability see again. and a more hearty, rough and ready, affectionate good-by there never was in all this wide world. in the rooms of one of the hotels at the state capital we were gathered, waiting for our respective trains: knapsacks slung, sharp's rifles at a "right-shoulder shift" or a "carry;" songs were sung, hands shaken, or rather wrung; loud, hearty "god bless you, old fellows!" resounded; and many were the toasts and the healths that were drunk before the men parted for good and all. it was past midnight when the last camp-fire of the one hundred and fiftieth broke up. "good by, boys! good by! god bless you, old fellow!" was shouted again and again, as by companies or in little squads we were off for our several trains, some of us bound north, some east, some west,--and all bound for home! of the thirteen men who had gone out from our little village (whither my father's family had meanwhile removed), but three had lived to return home together. one had already gone home the day before. some had been discharged because of sickness or wounds, and four had been killed. as we rode along over the dusty turnpike from l---- to m---- in the rattling old stage-coach that evening in june, we could not help thinking how painful it would be for the friends of joe gutelius and jimmy lucas and joe ruhl and john diehl to see us return without their brave boys, whom we had left on the field. [illustration: the welcome home.] reaching the village at dusk, we found gathered at the hotel where the stage stopped, a great crowd of our school-fellows and friends, who had come to meet us. we almost feared to step down among them, lest they should quite tear us to pieces with shaking of hands. the stage had scarcely stopped when i heard a well-known voice calling: "harry! are _you_ there?" "yes, father! here i am!" "god bless you, my boy!" and pushing his way through the crowd, my father plunges into the stage, not able to wait until it has driven around to the house; and if his voice is husky with emotion, as he often repeats "god bless you, my boy!" and gets his arm around my neck, is it any wonder? but my dog rollo can't get into the stage, and so he runs barking after it, and is the first to greet me at the gate, and jumps up at me with his great paws on my shoulders. does he know me? i rather think he does! then mother and sisters come around, and they must needs call for a lamp and hold it close to my face, and look me all over from head to foot, while father is saying to himself again and again, "god bless you, my boy!" although i knew that my name was never forgotten in the evening prayer all the while i was away, yet not once, perhaps, in all that time was father's voice so choked in utterance as when now, his heart overflowing, he came to give thanks for my safe return. and when i lay down that night in a clean white bed, for the first time in three long years, i thanked god for peace and home. * * * * * and--andy? why--the lord bless him and his!--he's a soldier still. for, having laid aside the blue, he put on the black, being a sober, steady-going presbyterian parson now, somewhere up in york state. i haven't seen him for years; but when we do meet, once in a great while, there is such a wringing of hands as makes us both wince until the tears start, and we sit up talking over old times so far into the night that the good folk of the house wonder whether we shall ever get to-- the end. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) six girls and bob * * * * * * books by marion ames taggart the six girls series six girls and bob. a story of patty-pans and green fields. pages. six girls and the tea room. a story. pages. six girls growing older. a story. pages. six girls and the seventh one. a story. pages. betty gaston, the seventh girl. a story. pages. six girls and betty. a story. pages. six girls grown up. a story. pages. these volumes are attractively illustrated and bound uniformly. price, $ . each. * * * * * * [illustration: "this sunny little maiden was bending absorbed over the gas range"] six girls and bob a story of patty-pans and green fields by marion ames taggart author of "the little grey house," "the wyndham girls," "miss lochinvar," etc. illustrated by william f. stecher [illustration: logo] w. a. wilde company boston chicago copyright, by w. a. wilde company all rights reserved six girls and bob _to gertrude in loving remembrance_ contents chapter page i. the fourth floor, east ii. fire, and other escapes iii. keren-happuch, the first iv. an angel in disguise v. taking possession vi. making the best of it vii. the dove's alighting viii. gretta ix. june's perfect days x. happie's temptation xi. happie's choice xii. laura's philanthropy xiii. humility, calves and ginger pop xiv. an ark adrift? xv. the promise of the green branch xvi. a prank---- xvii. and its consequences xviii. the bittenbender trunk xix. dispossession and possession xx. at the subsidence of the waters illustrations page "this sunny little maiden was bending absorbed over the gas range" _frontispiece_ "'how do you do, margery?'" "'can't you ever come to see me?'" "he followed laura to the front door" "the girls crowded around to see what was revealed" six girls and bob chapter i the fourth floor, east "how can you get twelve feet into eight feet, no matter how good you are in arithmetic?" asked happie scollard, a trifle impatiently. "you'd have to be pretty poor in arithmetic to try it. even home-taught children ought to know something about putting greater into lesser," observed bob. "would you mind telling us what you're driving at, keren-happuch, my dear?" happie groaned. "this room is quite squeedged enough with us six scollards in it, without crowding in my dreadful name, robert, my dear," she retorted. "what i was driving at was a harmless little _humorous_ joke. this kitchen is eight feet wide, and we have twelve feet, we six, haven't we? i was wishing we had more space to stand on; that's all." "that's right; always make _humorous_ jokes," approved bob. "i've heard lots of jokes that hadn't a touch of humor. yours isn't so very--but never mind! you know we needn't put all the twelve feet into the eight. this room is nine feet long. what's the matter with putting a few of our feet down the length of it? say seven of the twelve, for instance?" happie laughed. "i hadn't thought of dividing them that way," she said. "but the worst of standing any of your feet lengthwise of the room is that it brings some of you in between the range and the sink, and then i can't stir the fudge. though to be sure if you all stand widthwise i can't get to the closet." "how could you put seven one way and five the other? they'd have to go in twos, because we've each got two feet, don't you see?" asked polly suddenly. she had been turning bob's suggestion over in her mind and had announced her discovery with her usual serious manner. in all her nine years of life with her nonsense-loving elder brother and sisters, polly had not learned that they were not always to be taken literally. "good for you, pretty polly!" exclaimed bob. "i believe you're right! and you know how many are left when you take seven from twelve, don't you? what's the matter with happie? isn't she all right?" "this is a dear little kitchen, happie. we all said so when we came to look at the flat! and we were so glad it was sunny!" said margery, the sweet seventeen years-old sister who mothered the little band during their mother's daily absence. "i'm still glad, sweet peggy," said happie. "but when we looked at the flat, we didn't realize how very tiny this kitchen was--we hadn't put the saucepans and things into the cupboard, you see! but i'm not breaking my vows. i'm still thankful that we have our funny, cozy little drawn-out fourth floor home. but it is a little kitchen for six, and everybody always packs into it when i make fudge." "you ought to be flattered," said bob. "how is it coming on this time?" "not as fast as usual; there isn't much pressure on the gas," replied happie, lifting her pan to peer anxiously at the fragrant brown mass it held. she was a pretty creature, not with a regular and easily defined prettiness, but with a charm of feature, coloring and expression that was more potent than orthodox beauty. she had brown hair, that in the shade looked the color of a ripe chestnut. in the sun it turned a splendid copper color, as if the chestnut had blazed up in the brazier. it was hair all crinkles and wrinkles, trying to curl as nature meant it to, and as its owner distinctly meant it not to curl. it waved around rosy cheeks in which the dimples came and went so fast that they looked as if they too were curly, like the hair, and it shaded brown eyes that could laugh and flash and cloud sorrowfully, but which ordinarily shone with a warm, steady light that put one in mind of a glowing hearth fire. happie could not have had a more appropriate name than her nickname, for she was a veritable ray of sunshine, brave and cheerful and unselfish, good with that natural tendency to noble aims and thoughts that seems in rare natures to be at one with the tendency of flowers to clothe themselves in fragrance and beauty. she could get angry, and sometimes did, but she never could do unkind or mean things; she was a loyal, pure-hearted, clever little woman of fourteen, with so many talents that she had no special one, and her mother felt that when the time came for her to earn her bread, as all the scollards must do, it might be hard to decide for what too-versatile happie was best fitted. just now this sunny little maiden was bending absorbed over the gas range, her face decidedly red, her sweet lips deserving the epithet for purely external reasons, as well as for their pleasant curves, while her right hand stirred the mixture in a pan which her left hand slightly lifted above the circular blue flame. margery--margaret--reclined against the drop shelf which was the space-economizing substitute for a kitchen table. she was a graceful young creature, with a serious look on her madonna-like face, brought there by her early acquaintance with responsibility and anxiety. bob, next to margery in seniority, sat astride of the only chair the tiny kitchen admitted. a fine, square-shouldered specimen of a boy nearing sixteen he was; open-browed, bright-eyed, overflowing with fun, yet with a certain steadiness of manner that spoke him trustworthy, as became a boy who had been left the head of a family by his father's death four years before. laura, happie's successor in the birth record of the family bible, toyed elegantly with a fork, but cast rapid, furtive glances at the fudge, betraying the shallowness of the indifference which an over-weening sense of the dignity of her twelve years impelled her to assume. she was a pale, thin girl, with a discontented and sensitive mouth, and an abundance of foolish affectations that made her seem like an alien among the cheerful, sensible young scollards. mary--polly, as she was always called, was the most stolidly sensible little creature of the family. a round-faced, broad-browed, sweet-tempered, plump little body was polly, never in anybody's way, always to be relied upon for an errand, very fond of housewifely tasks of which she assumed her full share in the household, though she boasted but nine years of age. penelope, baby penny, ended the scollard list, winding up the ranks at four years, an imaginative, lively little person, not prone to scrapes, but fond of mischief, and with an ability to amuse and to take care of herself remarkable, considering there were five older children ready and glad to spoil her with petting. the sensitive, delicate mother of this flock had been left a widow when penny was a wee baby. there had been nothing for her gifted, impractical husband to leave her but the memory of a perfect love and a beautiful life, spent rather in the pursuit of ideals than of money. without a murmur this woman, strong of soul, though weak of body, had taken up the burden of her profound grief and the support of her children. she had many accomplishments, and her knowledge of languages stood her in good stead. every day she journeyed down the subway from her fourth floor nest in an up-town apartment house, and earned her own and her children's bread as the foreign correspondent of a large firm, coming back weary every night during the hardest hours of the crowded subway travel to her flat, where, after the dinner which her children had prepared, she spent each evening giving them the lessons for which she could no longer afford teachers. it was not strange that the scollards worshiped their mother with the love she so richly deserved, the love of recognition of a noble woman, as well as the natural love of children for their mother. happie's fudge boiled up suddenly, and suddenly laura spoke, breaking a silence that had lasted for several minutes. "i think i should like to be called laure," she said. "law! what for?" cried happie, promptly, blowing away vigorously on the spoonful of fudge which she had taken out to test. "it's less common than laura and more musical," said laura pensively. "laure sounds elegant." "it sounds silly," said polly instantly. "it sounds as if you could put your finger through it anywhere; i don't like french names for american and english girls," added happie. "i like names that sound like beautiful music," said laura, who really was talented musically, but who was pitiably conscious of the fact. "i was making up the loveliest little song--the sweetest air!--and i was writing the words too. i said: 'she shone afar, like a golden star, my angel laure.' and then i had to stop, because it ought to have been laura, and laure wouldn't have rhymed. if only it was laure now----" "it wouldn't have rhymed, even if it had been," interrupted happie, not too patiently. "can't you hear that _afar_ and _star_ don't rhyme with _laure_?" "and what's the matter with writing songs and poems to some other girl beside yourself?" suggested bob. "you might have said: 'my angel bar,' for instance, and pretended the angel's name was barbara. for goodness' sake, don't be a goose, laura! you're nearly in your 'teens, as you so often remind us, and you ought to stop being so sentimental." "you're not musical, bob," said laura, so pityingly, and with such an air of shedding light on the whole question that they all shouted. "fudge's done!" announced happie triumphantly, giving a few last, furious beats to the mixture turning delightfully thick and sugary in the pan. "bring on the pans, polly, and, bob, will you put it out on the fire escape till it gets cool enough to go on the ice without melting our entire stock? i've got to rest and cool my face." her lieutenants meekly obeyed, and happie dropped on the chair which bob vacated, fanning herself vigorously with a paper. "i hope you haven't harmed your complexion, child," said margery with her elder sisterly air, as she surveyed happie's flaming cheeks. "fireproof!" happie replied carelessly. "sunproof and freckleproof too; you know i never burn or freckle as you do, margery. that comes of having golden hair and peach blossom tints. i'm betwixt and between--coloring, age, height, cleverness, looks, everything, so i just slip through, and nothing touches me. i don't care! i like being fourteen and not having to think of skin or anything! i'd rather change places with penny than with you, peggy, but the worst of it is in three years i'll be as old as you are now." "i like to feel that i am almost a young lady," said margery placidly, surveying with entire satisfaction the hem of her dress resting on the floor as she leaned against the shelf. "i believe it is interesting to be grown-up. at least i ought to be of more use to motherkins then. and i should like to have a pretty house and entertain people beautifully, so they'd be perfectly happy visiting me." and pretty margery sighed involuntarily, remembering the small flat which was her home, and which promised no gratification of her hospitable instincts. "i shouldn't care for that," said laura, taking up the theme with the readiness to discuss grown-up plans all little girls feel. "it doesn't mean much, just to entertain! what i should want would be to give people something better than dinners and visits. i mean to sing to people, my own songs, and play to them my own music and all the other composers'----" "why so modest, laura? why don't you say all the other _great_ composers?" inquired bob blandly, withdrawing his head from the window, having deposited the pans of fudge on the fire escape. "if it comes to swapping ambitions, mine is to go to college, and it looks as if i could go, now doesn't it? so robert the impatient, must make the best of it." "and of himself," added margaret with her gentle smile, and the half motherly look that made her grown-up air and elder sisterly manner very attractive. "i'm going to have a hospital for hurt cats and dogs," announced polly. "i believe you will," laughed happie. "i have so many dreams i couldn't possibly say which was my pet one, but i suppose i'll just amount to nothing, but keep house for all of you when you want to come home between doing great deeds." "oh, you!" said bob decidedly. "you don't have to do great things; you're all right just being happie! i guess you're sure to do great things and never find it out." "yes," added margery, lovingly. "you are not only happie yourself, you know, but you are our happiness--that's what mother says, and i wish it could be said of me." "base flattery!" said happie shaking her shining head. "it doesn't have to be said of you, dear, because it's plain to be seen. i believe i'd like a chicken farm when i grow up." "yes, and grow broilers for the market, and take to your bed every time one had its head cut off--i think i see you!" cried bob. "no country, nor farming for me anyway. i want college, and then business among people. wouldn't i hate to live where i drove down once a day to get the mail and to 'see the flyer go through,' as they used to up at pennyroyal last year? do you remember how they used to talk about that express train? and how they would talk horse while they waited for it? no, sir; no country for me. i'd rather go to sea." "the country is beautiful, but i should hate to give up all the city advantages," said margery thoughtfully. "why there wouldn't be any concerts, nor anything in the country!" exclaimed laura. "and who could you play and sing to? they would rather hear that awful tune the man sings to the trained bears, and plays on that horrid little pipe the poor things dance to! why, i'd die if i lived in the country!" "i never knew, the scollards had irish blood, 'my angel laure,' but that was a bull all right," said bob. "well, i _should_ die after i'd lived there long enough for it to kill me," maintained laura stoutly. and she could not see why her brother and sisters laughed. "i think mother looks as if she would be better if we could live in the country," said margery, her face clouding with anxiety. "she looks so tired lately it worries me dreadfully." "she couldn't support us in the country, she says, and a suburb costs more than a flat, adding fare and coal to the rent," said bob. "i too think the blessed woman is not up to the mark, margery." "ah, don't!" cried happie sharply. "where is penny? i just missed her." "'way in the front with dorée," said polly. "she's watching somebody moving in. there is a van at the door. i guess she couldn't have smelled the fudge." "i think so, too, polly," laughed happie. "my goodness, that clock's stopped! it must be time we were getting dinner! go see what time it is, polly, please." "quarter to six!" polly called back from the middle of the flat. "they're taking in a basket that looks as if it had a cat in it; i wonder if it's yellow, too?" the "too" of polly's remark referred to the scollards' own beloved kitten, as yellow as a golden nugget, and named jeunesse dorée, obviously from his color. margery and happie did not stop to bestow a passing thought upon the new inmates of the house, their fellow flat-dwellers, nor their cat, but sprang to get out the agate saucepans for their cooking, and to hurry away the implements of fudge-making, for it was fifteen minutes past their time for beginning to get dinner, and they prided themselves on not keeping their mother waiting when she came home at night from her hard day's work. happie enveloped herself in an ample apron and fell to peeling potatoes as if her life depended on getting them out of their jackets in a twinkling. margery quietly, but speedily, put the meat in its pan and floured it delicately, then knelt before the oven, lighted its burners and slid the pan into place, devoutly hoping that the tenants on the lower floors would not require so much gas for their dinners that night as to lower the pressure and retard further the scollards' tardy roasting. just behind her was the door of the dumb waiter, with the mouth-piece of its whistle beside it. from this whistle there suddenly issued a blood-curdling shriek, and margery tumbled over backward, while happie jumped to her feet, upsetting potatoes, peelings, pan of water and all on the spotless floor. "oh, that fearful whistle!" happie cried, crimson with anger and the reaction from her fright. "if i lived here nine hundred and ninety-nine years, i never should get used to it!" "nor i," murmured margery feebly, scraping up happie's scattered peelings with the knife she had dropped, not rising, but turning her discomfiture to profit as she sat. "it's so sharp and so sudden!" "they ought to blow softly to announce that they are going to blow hard," suggested bob, as he opened the door to answer the summons. but he had jumped himself. "it may be a waiter, but it's certainly not a _dumb_ waiter," observed happie, pursuing a truant potato to the corner by the ice box. "it makes me perfectly blasé," sighed laura, holding her side as she took the napkins from their drawer. "blasé! oh, laura, when will you learn to use words right, or to use only those you understand?" laughed margery pulling herself up by the back of the chair. bob was leaning down the dumb waiter shaft, and a voice arose from its depths. "groc'ries fer you!" it called in the unspellable accent of new york's east side. "i guess not," bob called back. "wrong whistle." "from lichtenzeit's," insisted the voice. "no," called bob. "top floor. gordon," the voice shouted angrily. and as bob leaned down further to explain that he was a scollard, the dumb waiter began to ascend with rapid clatter, and further parley was impossible. "it's not only not dumb, happie, but it's not even a waiter," said bob turning away with a disgusted expression. "you see it's coming up without waiting to find out where it's going. there isn't any one in the house named gordon." the waiter stopped with a rattle of its ropes, and the voice below called up: "take 'em off; they're fer you." "look here, you chump," called bob. "they're not mine. there isn't a gordon in this whole house." but as he spoke the door across from the scollards opened, and a boy appeared, grinning cheerfully at his neighbor. "you're not quite right there, old man," he said. "there is a gordon in the house, and i'm he. i'm one of him, at least--there's another, and their mother. all right; i've got the stuff. go ahead. farewell, vale, ta ta. blow the left hand whistle next time." the new boy straightened himself from delivering these last remarks down the waiter-shaft and smiled anew at bob. "we've just moved in. the last of our household effects are even now bumping the paper off the front hall--the van men find them bulky. hope we'll meet again." he cast his eye beyond bob into the sunny kitchen where pretty margery and happie were working like stingless bees. "all right. hope so, too," said bob. and the doors shut simultaneously on both sides of the dumb waiter. "he looks the right sort," observed bob. "i'm sorry the flat across is let, though. it has been such a rest not having the men blow our whistle for the one over there," sighed margery. happie had beaten up a cake to be eaten with her blanc mange of the morning's making. she was pouring the mixture into her sheet of cup-shaped tins, and was not interested in the subject of new neighbors. she paused with her bowl held sidewise in the air, and with her spoon resting on its side as she guided the yellow mixture into its destination. "i've got it!" she exclaimed jubilantly. "eureka, keren-happuch, my dear," corrected bob. "what have you got?" "the name for our flat," said happie. the scollards had been trying ever since they had taken possession of it to find a name for their habitation, "because," happie explained, "all residences of any account had names, and she wanted her estate to be no exception." "what is it?" asked margery, and laura paused in the doorway with the bread plate in her hand to hear the answer. "patty-pans!" cried happie triumphantly. "don't you see that it is exactly what the flat is like?" she held up her baking tins to illustrate. "see," she went on, "how the rooms come along, one after the other, just precisely like these patty-pan cups? this is the patty-pans, or patty-pans-on-the-hudson--only a few blocks off, at any rate, and that doesn't matter!" "it's the very thing!" cried bob appreciatively, and margery laughed and agreed. "it's not at all pretty," said laura, whose sense of humor was defective. but she got no further with her objection. the little electric bell on the wall rang thrice, and all the scollards in the rear rushed through the narrow hall, and were met at the door by polly from the front, and penny with dorée in her arms. this triple ring meant that the children's real day, the only part of the day in which the sun fully shone for them, although it began after sunset, had dawned, for it announced their mother's home-coming at night. chapter ii fire, and other escapes one's mother never has the appearance of any particular age. she does not look precisely young, because hers is the face to which our baby eyes are raised for comfort and guidance, it is from her that we receive and hope for all things. so it is impossible to realize that she is quite young. on the other hand the familiar, beloved face never wears the look of age, no matter how wrinkled it be, nor how far we have traveled from childhood. it is too dear, too perfectly the spring that quenches our thirst for unfailing love ever to look to us withered and age-stricken as it must to strangers. the young scollards had never stopped to consider whether their mother was quite elderly, or very youthful--her age was swallowed up in the fact of her motherhood. in reality charlotte scollard was but just approaching the milestone of the fourth decade. she was a pale, slenderly built woman, with a worn, sweet face, like margery's, but older and saddened. it wore a look of ill-health which her children saw too frequently to recognize fully, though the three eldest half perceived it at times, with a tightening of fear around their hearts. polly and penny clung around their mother's waist as she entered, bob and margery encircled her from each side with their loving arms, while happie hugged her breathless, and laura vainly strove for an opening for her own welcome. "such a dear little home! such joy to get home to you, my blessings!" said the mother, as she said each night. "have you been good and happy all this day?" she went into the front room which was that nondescript allowed by flat life, neither drawing-room, library nor living-room, but a little of each. it was a pretty room, made so by its furnishing of books and pictures, and the mother looked about her, feeling anew that it was well worth the effort that taxed her slender strength to the utmost to maintain this nest and her nestlings within it. "we've found a name for the flat at last, motherkins!" cried happie, as she removed her mother's hat pins, while laura and margery unbuttoned her coat, and the two least girls pulled off a glove from each hand. "happie has," corrected margery. "it's a nice, cozy, funny little name, just like this family." "tell me," smiled mrs. scollard. "patty-pans!" announced happie triumphantly. "i thought of it when i was pouring my cake into the cup pans. don't you know that these flats are precisely like a patty-pan, every room following after and joining on to the next one the way the cups do in those sheets?" "i see the resemblance." mrs. scollard laughed, and the weariness went out of her face for the moment as her eyes danced. "shall we have a die cut for our letter paper: 'patty-pans,' and printed in bright silver like new tins? only i'm afraid our correspondents might think that all our letters should be dated april first!" "and the flat across is rented; the family came in to-day," bob said, adding his information to the small fund of entertainment which it was the children's custom to amass daily for their mother's return. "oh, me! i hope they are not people who will play the piano all the evening when we are at our lessons!" mrs. scollard sighed, remembering past troubles. "two big boys and their mother; i guess not," said bob succinctly. "the one we saw across the dumb waiter looked a good sort, and full of fun. i got home to-day earlier, mother. mr. felton told me that if you would agree to letting me come for all day he would make it worth our while." "i am glad to hear that, bob; it shows that he likes you. but i will never consent to giving you up for all day to earning, leaving no time for your studies, until we are absolutely driven to it. as long as i can earn enough to support us all--with strict economy, to be sure, but enough--i will not let my only son lose his chance for an education. half a day is all that i will let you spend at the office, dear bob. but thank mr. felton for me; tell him i am glad indeed that he thinks you worth having all day. now, i must get ready for dinner. i hope it is very good and abundant, lassies, for i am pitiably hungry." mrs. scollard rose as she spoke, and pulled aside the sliding-door at the end of the room. it led into her own chamber, lighted by the glass in this door, the second room of the series of seven, arranged, as happie had discovered, in true patty-pan order. the girls ran through to the kitchen to serve the dinner, while penny and dorée lingered with the mother, waiting for the special petting to which, as the baby, penny was entitled. "i always think of how the girls in little women got ready for their mother to come home, don't you? when we are waiting for our marmee, i mean," said happie, arranging her little cakes on the delicate limoges plate. "they swept up the hearth and put their mother's slippers down to warm. i don't think flats are really homes; you can't do that kind of comfy, homey things in a flat." "but our mother can come home just as truly, and that is the only important thing. we are fortunate to have a home," said margery, with a suggestion of reproach in her voice. "mercy! don't i know it," retorted happie. "but won't you be glad when we are able to make a home for mother instead of her making one for us?" "next winter i shall do something towards it," said margery in a tone of quiet conviction. "you will be old enough to keep house then without my help." "i'd rather be the one to go out; i'm better fitted for it," said happie. "dinner is served, mrs. scollard, mum," she added, putting her head out of the dining-room door, and calling down the three-foot hall which carried sound like a tunnel. mrs. scollard did not prove her own assertion as to her appetite. the children, anxiously watching her, saw her taste her food, and push it away uneaten, telegraphing their uneasiness to one another as she did so. "you said you were hungry, dear deceiver," happie reproached her at last. "i was, dear; i felt as if i could not wait for my dear girls' good things, but when i see them i cannot eat, although i appreciate the perfect seasoning, and how fortunate i am in my cooks." mrs. scollard laughed a little as she spoke, and her eyes rested lovingly on margery and happie, but she only broke a corner of one of the golden patty-pan cakes, and took bird-like tastes of the delicate blanc mange. it seemed to the older girls and bob that the pallor of her face, the shadows under her eyes, the droop of her lips had never been so apparent. before they had time to dwell on the thought and what it might portend, there came a great clatter from the kitchen, and dorée flew into the dining-room with his golden fur so electrified that he looked like a four-legged sunflower, with very little difference in his size and shape at any point. "what under the canopy----" bob began, jumping up from the table and running out, followed by his sisters. somebody was hammering madly on the dumb waiter door with a competent stick. bob opened the door emphatically, and there, in the opposite doorway, stood the boy whom they had seen in the afternoon, his stick raised for further pounding, but with a broad smile on his face that did not suggest anything in the least malicious. "say, what's the matter with you?" demanded bob. "would you be so very kind as to return our cat?" asked the boy with exaggerated mildness. "we haven't got your cat; that's ours," said bob, pointing over his shoulder to where jeunesse dorée was standing sniffing the situation with greatly elongated body, having returned to investigate what had frightened him, with true feline nervous courage and curiosity. "'tis true, my lord, and pity 'tis 'tis true,'" returned the boy. "for that's a beauty cat. ours is merely a cat of many colors, but we are fond of him. he is on your fire escape, having leaped across from this one. from the sounds i have heard, i think he has upset a pan of something, though it's too dark for me to see." "oh, my fudge!" cried happie, and threw up the window. a tiger cat immediately jumped into the kitchen, to dorée's intense disapproval, and happie fished her pan of fudge from between the slats of the fire escape floor, where it had lodged, caught by the transverse slats on its way down to the ground. the candy bore the unmistakable imprint of the tiger cat's "paddy-paw" feet, and happie surveyed it with chagrin, while polly stroked the interloper, and penny clasped struggling dorée to her breast, to prevent his manifest intention to punish his neighbor. "was it your fudge? i'm awfully sorry," said the boy across. "i guess whoop-la sat in it." "i guess so too," returned happie with a laugh. "it's hard luck after broiling one's face to make it. hard luck for you, too, because we'd have offered you some if it hadn't been spoiled." "that's noble of you, but i'm afraid you wouldn't, because i shouldn't have knocked on your dumb waiter door, and so we wouldn't have met if whoop-la hadn't gone over. that is, we shouldn't have met till after you had eaten up all the fudge. of course we were bound to scrape acquaintance. would you mind handing me whoop-la?" the boy bowed as he spoke, and his eyes laughed in spite of his preternaturally solemn manner. "such a name for a cat!" exclaimed bob. he picked up the tiger cat and passed him across to his master, leaning well over the ledge of the dumb waiter to do so. "suppose you come around to see us tonight," bob suggested. "we generally study and recite evenings, but to-night is saturday, and a holiday. won't you come?" "i suppose the correct thing is for you to call on me first, you being the oldest--no, the older inhabitant, but i'll waive ceremony. i'd better waive it, because there isn't anything in this flat but bedlam--boxes and chairs you can't tell apart, burlap, and excelsior. i couldn't very well ask you over. my mother and younger brother haven't come yet, so i'm a little lonely. i will come around, if you don't mind, and thank you for asking me." the boy received his cat with hands so considerate of cat-nerves that the scollard girls, noting, approved of him at once. "just give us time to scurry the dishes away," laughed happie. "we're are own servants, and we couldn't entertain you while we were at work. give us half an hour for finishing up, and then come." "it would entertain me very much to watch you work," said this queer boy, "but i'll wait. good-bye for thirty harrowing minutes. my watch goes fast; you won't mind?" the scollards laughed as bob shut the dumb waiter door. "he's a character," cried bob, elated at the prospect of his visitor. mrs. scollard bore off penny to bed, which she shared with her mother, and lying down beside the baby for her nightly story-telling, fell asleep beside her from sheer exhaustion. margery, happie and laura washed and wiped the dishes, and polly put them away, with bob's help for the higher closet shelves. they worked so fast that only twenty of the thirty minutes were consumed by the task. they were rather excited by the coming of a caller of their own age. their mother discouraged them from making acquaintances lightly. living, as they did, in a neighborhood of low rents and crowded apartment-houses, she feared for them contact with young minds less carefully shielded from the knowledge of evil than their own, dreaded their possible contact with manners and morals such as she would not have had them imitate. happie's bright hair was curly and moist around her temples from the hasty dash of water which she had thrown over her face, and margery was daintily drying her fingers one by one when the bell rang, so prompt was the new boy in keeping his appointment to the moment. polly opened the door for him, and in he walked, hailed by a shout of laughter from bob which brought the girls in at once, although margery was conscious of lingering dampness around her little finger. the new boy had made a label for himself of a box cover, and on it he had written his name, "ralph gordon," in very bold letters for all who ran to read. this improvement upon a visiting card he had hung around his neck, so that there could not be an instant's doubt as to whom the scollards were entertaining. "now if you'd only stand by the dumb waiter whistles in the cellar with that thing on, we'd never be troubled with your groceries as we were to-day," said bob, shaking hands with the arrival. "wait a minute. you've set the example of labor-saving introductions; i'll follow it. here, girls, draw up in line, oldest first, and so on. now, this, mr.--let's see, oh, yes! mr. ralph gordon----" bob pretended to be near-sighted, and to consult ralph's card at short range. "this, mr. ralph gordon, is my oldest and elder sister, margery, christened margaret. this is keren-happuch, next younger than i. this is laura, musical at twelve. this is pretty polly, polly-put-the-kettle on, my sensible, reliable sister of nine. penny, you can't see because she is in bed. she's the baby, and we consider her a bright penny, a fairly new one, for she's only four years old, and we wouldn't give her for a five dollar gold piece, as some people do bright new pennies. i am robert, 'robert toi qui j'aime'--you know the air? i have only to mention that the last named scollard is the flower of the family, and my duty's done." "fully," commented margery, with her gentle smile. "we would not say that he is not _a_ flower, but _the_ flower--well, that's another matter." "yes," said ralph with a little look at margery that held the value of a compliment. "quite another matter. he's not a violet, anyway, because that's a modest flower. but what did he call you?" he added turning to happie. happie laughed. "did you ever hear such a name?" she cried. "keren-happuch. but they mercifully call me happie. i was named after an old lady, a friend of mother's mother, and she was named after her grandmother. i think they might as well have stopped with her, and not gone on handing down such a fearful name!" "well, it is rather a heavy weight," admitted ralph. "but happie is enough to make up for it. i suppose it's a case of 'what's the odds as long as you're happie.' it ought to be a kind of fairy godmother for whom you're named! sounds like an old lady who was the only one of her pattern, and who showered gifts on mere mortals." "miss keren-happuch bradbury is the only one of her pattern; you're right there," bob answered for happie. "but she's not a fairy godmother. she's as eccentric as she can be, most interesting, and as independent as the thirteen colonies on july, ; rather mannish in her ways, but very thoroughly a gentlewoman. however, she's not rich, or we suppose she's not, so she can't play fairy godmother very well." "and we need fairy godmothers," added happie. "our dear father didn't know how to get rich, and when he died, four years ago, poor little mother had to take his place. she's such a frail, delicate little charlotte-mother! it's not easy. we are all pining for the day when she won't have to work for us, but we can work for her. how she goes down in town every morning to an office. we keep house alone. bob is in a real estate office in the forenoon, but mother insists on his staying at home to study in the afternoon; she is such a learned darling that she gives us all a good education by teaching us at night, though she is tired to death. isn't she blessed? that's all of us; our history." ralph gordon's humorous face grew grave, and a look of admiration and respect dawned in his laughing eyes. "it's great," he said in boyish commendation of true heroism. "i have a good mother, too," he added. "my father died when snigs--that's my brother; he's thirteen, and i guess his name's charley, but of course snigs is much better--well, when snigs was three years old and i was five, father died. mother didn't have much either. she has kept us at school, and managed pretty well--you see she came of good old fighting, revolutionary stock, and she never dipped her colors once, though she had enough to discourage her. she means me to go to college--she has gone without everything she could give up to save enough to start me, and for the rest i am to help myself through. she has moved up here thinking she could rent a room or so in this flat to some of the boys up there at columbia, and so get on better until i start, which can't be for two years more. i guess my mother is stronger, more able to bear her burdens than yours is, from what you say, but i've got my hat off to my mother, too, every time. talk about women's rights! they're about as near right as they can be, rights or not, and when there's anything to be done they don't fall far behind men in pluck and stick-to-it-iveness, i notice." "hear, hear!" cried margery and happie. "we're much obliged." "don't mention it," said ralph generously. "i hope you will live up to my high opinion." "i wonder if your cat--whoop-la, isn't it?--got into both pans of fudge, happie?" suggested margery. "sure enough!" cried happie departing on this hint, as ralph exclaimed: "thank goodness, you are beginning to prove yourself worthy of my confidence in your sex!" happie returned with a pan of fudge, which she examined carefully under the gaslight, turning it at different angles to make sure that whoop-la's paws had not touched it. "i think it's all right," she announced at last. "it would surely show if he had stepped into it." "certainly," assented ralph promptly. "and departing leave behind him, footprints in the bands of line. i see you've marked it off into squares. but if he had stepped on it, n'importe! as we said when i was minister to paris. whoop-la is the cleanest cat on manhattan island. he licks each snowy paw till it's free from fleck or flaw." "ugh!" shuddered laura. "how disgusting! think of eating candy he'd touched with licked paws!" "oh, he didn't, laura!" cried margery. "he got into one pan, but he missed the other." "i believe you like nonsense as well as a scollard--better than laura and polly, who worry because it doesn't seem quite sensible," said happie approving the new boy more and more. he shook his head reproachfully at laura and polly. "do you not know the full title of this highest form of philosophy, my sisters?" he asked. "it is called: _non sensus sed_, defense--us. that means it is not sense but a defense, because it defends us from the horrible fate of being dull. this has been contracted into one english word--nonsense. but the whole title fits better." laura stared doubtfully at the lecturer, and polly gazed at him with round-eyed admiration, while margery, bob and happie chuckled over his fooling, beginning to suspect that this merry-looking boy with the queer ways was decidedly clever. "pretty good fudge, sister keren-happuch; just a suspicion too sugary, but i can use it," said bob, helping himself to a corner piece, and devouring it with the same relish he had shown for its three predecessors. "same here!" remarked ralph, following bob's example. "it will go." "so it seems," laughed happie. "much obliged." "and i must do in like manner," ralph supplemented his preceding remark, rising. "i am tired with the effort of superintending the van men and moving things around after they had gone. i felt tired enough to dread the evening all alone in the lunatic asylum our place looks like to-night. so i'm no end grateful to you for taking me off my own hands. hope you'll all come to see me. next time maybe we'll get at music--i play the violin and the mandolin a little, and i see some one fiddles and pianos here." "bob plays the violin, but laura is our musical girl; we all sing more or less, and better or worse," said happie. "please come again. i'm sorry you couldn't see mother for she is--well, you will see her by and by." she held out her honorably burnt little right hand, which had been scalded that night by the gravy, and ralph took it with a look of hearty liking and respect. "you're all my sort," he said. "i'm mighty glad we're neighbors. you'll like my mother, too, though i say it who should, for i know her better than any one else ever can." margery laughed, and shook hands so cordially that bob and happie knew that ralph had accomplished the difficult feat of winning reserved margery's approval in his first visit. "we've had cat escapes, fudge escapes, loneliness escapes, formality escapes, all turning on whoop-la on your fire escape," said ralph. "we ought to sing, 'for we are jolly good fellows,' in parting, but i'm afraid we should disturb your mother and wake up your penny. good-bye, and heaps of thanks." "hold on; i'll get my top coat and glasses, and take you home in my automobile," said bob, opening the door, and shaking hands with his new friend across the narrow hall as ralph fitted his key into the door opposite. "you won't wait? good-night, then, and drop over as often as you can, unceremoniously, like your intelligent whoop-la." "he's all right," he added to the girls as he closed the door of patty-pans. chapter iii keren-happuch, the first "not any more coffee, dear," mrs. scollard said, pushing back her chair from the breakfast table. "you have hardly eaten a thing, motherkins," protested happie in a worried voice. "one cannot always be a credit to one's family cook, hapsie," returned her mother. "my appetite has been mislaid somewhere between here and the city hall, in the subway, i fancy." "i think it must have gone over to the gordons' flat, blown the wrong whistle, the way the grocers do," said happie. "you never in all your life saw any one so hungry as those two boys were last night when we came home from the park." "you had a good time, didn't you, dear?" mrs. scollard smiled at her second daughter, who was smiling over her recollection of the previous afternoon when she and margery and laura had been to the metropolitan museum with bob and the two gordon boys, and to tea afterwards in the gordon flat, and had laughed every three minutes of the six hours. "what are you going to do to-day, my house-keepers?" "scour our pans, our patty-pans," said happie promptly, before margery could speak. "my dear, this little flat will be washed away!" protested her mother, submitting her glove to polly for buttoning. "mother, it truly does need cleaning," said margery. "you don't see it in real daylight, except on sunday, but we know! what's the matter?" her mother had caught the back of a chair and swayed slightly forward, but stood erect and smiling in an instant, though her face was a shade paler than usual. "nothing, dearies; don't look so frightened! there is a shadow that comes over my eyes of late, and for a second i am wiped out of existence, but you see how quickly i come back! indigestion, probably; it really is nothing." "how can you have indigestion when you don't eat?" demanded margery, not at all reassured by her mother's explanation. "and how could there be digestion when one ate nothing?" retorted her mother. "now, margery, don't look like my worried little seventeen-years-old grandmother! i am not ill. bob! come, bob! i am ready for my escort." bob appeared struggling with the over-starched buttonhole in his collar, through which his button refused to pass, and with his tie dangling in one hand. "oh, say, margery, come on, like a good sister!" he implored. and margery "came on," rightly interpreting this as an appeal for aid. her soft fingers deftly coaxed the stiff linen over the stud, and tied the four-in-hand into the perfection of knots. bob picked up his hat, got into the coat which margery held for him, and offered his mother his arm to escort her as far as the subway station, according to his daily custom, with as fine an air as if the narrowness of the exit did not necessitate her immediately dropping the arm as soon as it was accepted. together this mother and son started out every morning, and the pressure of his mother's hand in parting, and the blessing in her sweet eyes as she went bravely away to labor for him and his sisters would have kept bob safe through whatever temptations might assail him during the day, just as her honest boy's tight hand squeeze sustained the mother through her weary hours. "we mustn't think about it, margery," said happie visibly giving herself a mental shake, as if she were a dog shaking off troubled waters, and answering the unspoken anxiety in her sister's eyes. "we've got to do our part anyway. and it can't be bad--it would be so very bad, so dreadful, if it were bad that it can't be bad at all." margery shook her head, and turned away to hide the gathering tears. "don't shake your head," protested happie impatiently. "i can't bear to have people shake their heads! it's worse than saying the most awful thing! of course she isn't ill, nor going to be! do you suppose we could live if motherkins were ill? well, then! that proves she isn't going to be, because it stands to reason we've got to live. now, let's hurry these dishes away, and clean those rooms, and make motherkins' room particularly spick-and-span, and then we shall feel better." "you're a comfort, happie!" said margery warmly, laying her face for an instant on the girl's bright hair. "no wonder mother says you are happie, our happiness! you are a perfect tonic. you would be the very one to lead a forlorn hope." "i'd rather lead a hope that wasn't forlorn," laughed happie, well satisfied with the result of her effort at cheering margery. "just a plain, every-day hopeful hope. come on, margery! polly and penny, it's dusting time, but you needn't dust, because we're going to sweep, and sweeping one room in a little flat means dust in all. perhaps polly can help laura make beds and get things ready for sweeping." this busy household of children had each her appointed tasks and even baby penelope was supposed to be useful. "i've got to finish a waltz i was composing; i can't do anything till that's done," said laura. it was not a little trying to find laura's genius in the way of her fair share of commonplace tasks, but margery and happie were used to it, and when laura would not, why, laura would not, and there was less than no use in trying to make her see justice. "i'll sweep one room, while you dust it, and you can sweep the next one, and i'll dust it; that's fair," said margery watching laura depart piano-ward with her troubled look of elder-sisterly responsibility, wishing that she could coax laura into playing fair. "and begin in mother's," added happie, tying up her head so tight that her eyebrows mounted a quarter of an inch, the left higher than the right. margery's broom flew, and happie dusted briskly the chairs set out in the parlor; it was something like the old-fashioned game of solitaire with marbles to clean in the patty-pan; one had to move pieces about many times before they could be restored to their appointed place. dorée considered cleaning done solely for his entertainment, and flew after happie's duster till she and polly and penny were in a gale of a frolic with him, and margery had to come out to hug the little cat, who looked like a dandelion in a high wind, as he raced over the floor. the two active housewives worked their way into the third little bedroom rapidly, leaving the first two of the patty-pan chambers guiltless of dust. laura tired of her waltz at last, and consented to go out to do the errands for the day, taking pains with her toilet, though her calls were to be limited to the grocer, the butcher and the german delicatessen shop, to fill out margery's neat list of necessities. "wonder where penny is!" polly called to the older girls after laura had been gone ten minutes, and the silence of the patty-pans had been broken only by the lively broom and duster. "laura didn't take her," margery called back. "i saw her start alone. she's in there, isn't she?" "not one bit," cried polly, as if her little sister were made up of fragments. "why, how queer!" happie said, emerging from bob's room with dangling duster. "she couldn't have gone out." "no; here's her hat," polly began, but a little crow of a laugh interrupted her. looking up, happie and polly saw penny's dusty head appearing over the edge of the wardrobe in her mother's room, jeunesse dorée beside it. the step-ladder leaned against the wardrobe, explaining the ascent. "oh, penny, what made you go up there in all that dust? we couldn't sweep it off to-day and i know it's dusty up there," said margery. "come down, dear." "dorée ranned up," said penny, whose verbs were subject to eccentricities in their past tense. "i wanted to be up too, so i climbed. but i can't come down, not ever. you'll have to come up after me." "i don't believe she can," sighed happie. the space between the top of the wardrobe and the ceiling was so small that the child could not sit up, and it would have been impossible for her to slide down to the top step of the ladder without falling. "i'll go up, margery; let me go," said happie, and mounted the step-ladder. there was a loud report, the support broke on one side of the ladder, and down came poor happie, "ladder and all," like rock-a-bye baby. "oh, hapsie, dearest, are you hurt?" cried margery, flying to her rescue. "well, i am--surprised," replied happie, slowly rising. "i don't think i'm hurt beyond a few scratches, and my feelings." "now, how'll we get the baby down?" asked practical polly, satisfied that happie was not harmed seriously, and at once turning to something that needed doing. "we'll have to borrow a step-ladder from the gordons," said margery. "i'll go, though i am not fit to be seen! do i look a perfect pig?" "you couldn't look like a pig, peggy; you were made so you'd look clean if you were covered with muddy stove blacking," said happie. and margery departed on her errand. she came back with both ralph and "snigs" gordon, and their step-ladder. snigs chuckled at the sight of penny's smutty little face on which the tears which she had shed at happie's downfall had made an effective paste. ralph placed his step-ladder and climbed up to rescue the damsel in distress and the yellow kitten. just then the bell rang, a sharp, decided peal and polly ran to press the button in the kitchen which unfastened the outer door to admit visitors. "now, who could that be?" cried margery, dismayed. "it could be a postman, a peddler, a life insurance agent, a bill, a friend, a foe, the landlord, company, country cousins--shall i go on?" said snigs. "never mind," said happie. "we never have company in daytime, because all the girls we know are in school, and mother's friends understand that they can't find her here except at night. mercy, there are all the things from bob's room in the hall! nobody can get in." "margery and we came in--and the step-ladder. you shouldn't expect, nor admit, any bigger company in this little flat, happie. here is penny; please take her--eke the kitten. i'll stay up here aloft till you find out what's coming up-stairs, and whether there's room for me and your guest both." and ralph handed down penny to margery, and seated himself on the top step of the ladder, folding his arms with a perfectly idiotic expression on his face. the girls could not help laughing, and then the bell at their upper door rang smartly, and margery squeezed through the narrow passage to answer the summons. [illustration: "'how do you do, margery?'"] "how do you do, margery?" said a voice, strong, insistent, crisp, but decidedly well-bred. "i have come to spend the night. there is room; there's a couch in the dining-room." "my goodness me! it's keren-happuch, the first," whispered happie in comical dismay. "she's as nice as she can be, but i don't know how to take her--i believe i'm afraid of her. she pays lots of attention to me, too, because i'm her namesake." "had i better come down?" ralph whispered back. "or shall snigs come up?" before happie could answer this important question, margery and her guest came down the hall; the boys and happie heard miss bradbury set a chair on another to make more space for their passage. "happie, i have come to make a short visit," announced that vigorous lady entering the little bedroom. "what in the world are you doing with two boys here when you're sweeping? and why do you keep one on a step-ladder?" "we don't, aunt keren," said happie presenting her flushed cheek for miss bradbury's kiss, which was more hearty than the girl realized. "penny had climbed on top of the wardrobe, and our step-ladder broke when i tried to get her down. so ralph brought his over and rescued her. this is charles gordon, miss bradbury, and that up there is ralph, his brother; they are the boys in the next flat." "yes. i hope then that they are more quiet than most boys," remarked miss bradbury. "i shall put my bonnet here, and my coat over the back of that chair. it is not so cold. i wore my medium weight coat; there are signs of spring--time for it, middle of march!" she spoke in crisp, curt sentences as if not to waste a word. the boys looked at her, and wondered that happie had said she half feared her. they saw a tall woman, perhaps two or three years past sixty. her eyes were keen, but humorous, her ample mouth was decidedly firm, but not unamiable. her nose was the nose of an aristocrat, and her garments, though remote from so much as an approach to fashion, were of the best materials, worn with a carelessness that betokened them interesting only for their usefulness to the wearer. eccentric miss bradbury was stern, perhaps, but kind, and rather a fine lady in her queer way. "do you know why i came?" asked the visitor turning from the bed where she had laid her bonnet, and giving two rapid strokes to her hair without a glance at the mirror. "because you wanted to see us, we hope?" suggested margery with her gentle smile. "obviously. never make smooth, meaningless speeches, margaret," said miss bradbury. "i came, however, rather more because i felt that you wanted to see me. when i feel a drawing to certain people, as if i were being called to them across the space dividing us, i know those people need me. it has happened to me at various times in my life, and never has led me wrong. last night i felt that i was called here; here i am. that may sound to you young people like great nonsense, but keren-happuch bradbury is not given to nonsense, and she is convinced that she is right in this matter." "i don't see why not, since we know that there is such a thing as wireless telegraphy," observed ralph from his perch, whence he had been too much interested to remember to descend. "that's a very sensible remark, my boy, though you look anything but sensible roosting on that step-ladder in that anthropological manner," said miss bradbury with a twinkle. "you don't mean that we are going to need you for--well, that there is any trouble coming, aunt keren?" said happie, her mind reverting to her mother's tired face. "i am not prophesying; i am visiting, happie," retorted miss bradbury. "i have no idea why i am here, but here i am, and that because i felt sure that you needed me. better let me get luncheon, and send these boys home while you finish your work, children. if you came to rescue penelope from the top of the wardrobe, there is no reason why you should wait for her to crawl up again, master ralph gordon." ralph unwound himself and began to come down on this strong hint, but he was not offended; on the contrary he liked this queer person who would guard his young girl neighbors like a dragon, as he plainly saw. as ralph stood erect and folded his step-ladder the bell rang once more, this time with a startling peal, and, as margery ran to the speaking-tube and to press the button in the kitchen, laura's voice was heard screaming in the outer hall: "oh, open the door, open the door quick!" and she rattled the knob frantically. "what is it, what has happened?" cried happie, catching the little girl as she half fell over the threshold when she opened the door. "mama, oh, poor, poor mama!" wailed laura, clutching at happie. "what?" gasped happie, turning so white that ralph sprang to help her. "she has been sent home in a carriage. oh, oh, i came along just in time to see her. i ran up when the man rang the bell," moaned laura. miss bradbury came forward with a kind of collected haste. "laura," she said sternly, "stop your hysterics. i have no patience with hysterics. as though there were anything dreadful about being sent home in a carriage! ralph, come with me. we will go down and help mrs. scollard up-stairs." ralph gordon brushed past the frightened scollard girls, and followed miss bradbury instantly. when they returned it was very slowly, and the janitor of the house, with a stranger who had been passing, was helping them. they were carrying mrs. scollard, and margery and happie clutched each other, and laura ran away to hide, fearing to look. their mother's face was ashen, and her eyes were closed. polly began to cry, and penny fled to snigs for comfort; for the first time in her life her sisters were not equal to giving it. "this way," said miss bradbury leading. the men laid mrs. scollard on her own bed, and withdrew. her eyes fluttered and opened. "don't be frightened, children," she said. "i'm only tired." "what doctor shall i fetch?" asked ralph. "and isn't there something snigs could get from the drug store in the meantime?" "yes. go for--who, margery?" asked miss bradbury. "doctor revel on the corner is the nearest," said margery, so frightened her lips would hardly form the words. "happie, heat milk," ordered miss bradbury. "yes, go for that doctor, boy; hasten. i suppose we must not prescribe, but i think it's pure exhaustion." "mother put away some of that old wine which you sent her for christmas, aunt keren. she said it must be kept for sickness. isn't that best now?" asked happie. "old port! the very thing! get it. i'm glad to see you have self-control, happie," her godmother smiled at her approvingly as she spoke. "i am going to make laura behave herself and look after polly and penny. then we will undress your mother and make her comfortable." she stalked grimly away with a look that promised scant allowance for laura's twelve years. miss bradbury was the sort of woman that expected every child, as well as "every man to do his duty," thus outstripping england as interpreted by nelson. by some means she succeeded in dominating laura, and the two younger children's voices hushed, as laura took them in hand. then this efficient woman who had come so opportunely to the frightened tenants of the patty-pans, returned to get mrs. scollard comfortably in bed, where she lay with closed eyes when ralph returned with the doctor. "you've been a good and useful boy; i thoroughly approve of you," said miss bradbury, and somehow ralph felt as if he had been brevetted. miss keren-happuch was such a strong character that her commendation carried with it the conviction of a genuine gain. the gordon boys slipped away to their own apartment across the hall. margery and happie waited anxiously, holding each other fast, while the doctor examined his patient. "no disease; pure exhaustion, but that is quite enough," he said, coming out through the sliding door to the waiting girls. "she has been spurring herself on for months; the worn nerves can go no further. she must have complete rest and good nursing for a year, perhaps; certainly for a long time. then i can promise that she will be perfectly restored. it is nothing serious, nothing to be alarmed about, i assure you." the doctor bowed himself out, and miss bradbury attended him to the door. margery and happie stood silently watching him go, each occupied with the same thought. nothing serious? when the promise that their mother should be restored _if_ she took the needed rest held the implication that she would never be well without it! and when there was no money but what she had earned, earned at the price of this breakdown! nothing serious! why, nothing could be more serious, as this beloved mother's young daughters realized with the hand of this, their first acquaintance with real sorrow, heavily gripping their hearts. chapter iv an angel in disguise "it's rather worse to be ill with nothing the matter than to be sensibly ill of a disease," said poor mrs. scollard speaking feebly, but with an attempt at her own cheerfulness. she had been ill for three weeks, and had not improved perceptibly over her condition in the beginning. "only a nervous collapse," the doctor repeated. it had been so long coming on that the recovery must be proportionately long. and how could she get better with the thought that when her strength had given out, the family income had ceased sitting like a vulture at her bedside? small as was the rent of the "patty-pans," still it must be paid. a month was as long as she could be idle, yet that month was nearly past, and she was no better. margery, bob and happie for the first time realized what a vitally real thing money is, and vainly strove to find a way to take their mother's place as the bread-winners. they understood only too clearly that there was no chance for that dear mother to get well while she lay in the second patty-pan room with anxiety tearing at her heart-strings. ralph and snigs and their fine mother were comforts in those black days, but it was on miss bradbury that the scollards found themselves relying with hourly increasing appreciation of her strength. that remarkable woman had not suggested returning to her home, but nightly occupied the parlor couch in the patty-pans, and daily took charge of its sorrowful tenants. delicacies such as margery would not have dared to buy found their way to mrs. scollard, and margery discovered when she went to market that there were no out-standing accounts such as she had been dreading with the neighboring tradesmen; miss keren-happuch paid as she went out of her own purse, which the scollard girls had always believed to be not over-abounding. "over-doing in work is not likely to lead to under-doing a breakdown," miss bradbury replied to mrs. scollard's remark. "nature is an excellent accountant, and knows how to collect her dues. i think i should be satisfied with what ails you, if i were you, charlotte." she altered the position of mrs. scollard's pillows and smoothed them with a touch singularly gentle in such an energetic person, and beckoned margery to follow her into the dining-room. laura sat here in an attitude of despair, her feet stuck straight out before her indifferently to the size of the room, her arms hanging over the back of her chair. bob and happie were trying to occupy themselves with the lessons which their mother would have required had she been well, and serene little polly sat rocking her doll, she the more sleepy of the two, though the doll's eyes did droop with the motion of the rocking-chair. miss bradbury took the chair which polly had occupied when the little girl yielded it up on her entrance, and gathered polly into her lap, who in turn still held phyllis lovelocks tight. "now, my dears," began miss keren-happuch in her businesslike way that covered so much tenderness, "you all look dreadfully worried. you must not; your mother will get well after she gets to the country." "why, aunt keren!" exclaimed happie reproachfully. "when you know she can't even afford to stay in the city!" "which is the reason that she is going to my farm, that, and the fact that she must have fresh air and quiet," said miss keren-happuch. "your farm!" exclaimed all the children together. "yes; in pennsylvania," said miss bradbury calmly. "i have never seen it, and i doubt strongly that i shall be particularly pleased with the sight. but a farm it is, of some seventy acres, up in the mountains, and there is where we are going in two weeks." "we don't understand," cried bob, after he had exchanged excited and bewildered glances with the others. "there is nothing more to understand," declared miss bradbury. "polly, your doll's arm will break off if you don't turn it around. your mother must rest, there is no money to provide that rest, i must go to the country somewhere, so instead of boarding this summer, i am going to open that house of mine, which i have never seen, and you children are going to keep house for your mother and me indefinitely. it's not in the least difficult nor mysterious." "you trump!" cried bob with an enthusiasm that prevented any suspicion of disrespect. "i heard a boy say lately that he would not live in the country for anything," observed miss bradbury with her twinkle. "but to save his mother, and when he didn't know how he could live anywhere!" cried bob. "you dear, dear, blessed aunt keren!" cried happie, throwing herself upon her adopted relative with an abandon which, under ordinary circumstances that lady would have disapproved. "there, there! i suppose it is a relief," she said patting happie's back. "but i warn you that it will not be at all attractive, probably. i took it for a debt, and my debtor said afterwards, so i am told, that it was cheaper to give it to me than to keep it. i suspect that he pretended not to be able to pay me in money in order to get rid of this farm. so you may be prepared for going into the wilderness. however, it will be a wilderness of pure air and great altitude, and we can exist somehow. it will undoubtedly build up poor charlotte." "i am going to like it," happie declared. "i learned to like tomatoes, and i thought that in all this world i could never taste them a second time. and i love olives now, but when i first tried one, i really had to rush away from the table. so i am going to love that farm no matter what it is. how could we help loving a place that cured motherkins?" "aunt keren, you are an angel in disguise," announced laura solemnly. "i must admit the disguise," retorted miss bradbury. "now, children, i want you to get ready to go out of town in two weeks from now. can you do it?" "yes, but we have a lease of the patty-pans; we shall have to sub-let it," said margery, with the tiny anxious line appearing in her forehead. "furnished," supplemented miss bradbury. "i shall send up all the furniture necessary. there is some furniture there; i don't know how much, nor how good." "nobody has told you what we think of your giving up your comfortable summer in the white mountains and down in maine, without a care, and going up to this farm in order to cure dear mother, and to help us," said margery, with a quiver in her voice. "nonsense!" cried miss keren-happuch briskly. "every landed proprietor should look after his estate. it is high time that i saw mine. i shall enjoy the novelty of the situation. for the rest, margaret, i have a very real affection for your mother, and a profound respect for the way that she has fought her good fight for you orphaned children. there is more than you know in my feeling for charlotte; your grandmother and i were not ordinary friends. i should not do less than my best for her daughter, even if i were not as fond of her as i am. so there is nothing more to be said on that head." "we will call the farm 'the ark,'" said happie. "it will be our refuge in this flood of affliction." "it's not a particularly original name, hapsie," remarked bob. "i think lots of houses have been called the ark, but it fits this case to a t. i don't suppose there's any doubt that we should not have had a place in which to lay our heads if it had not been for aunt keren and her farm." a knocking at the dumb waiter door warned the scollards that ralph and snigs wanted to be admitted; they had adopted this substitute for the bell not to disturb mrs. scollard. polly slipped down from miss bradbury's lap and ran to open the door to them. "boys, what do you think?" cried happie the moment they entered. "we are going away!" the gordons had known all the troubles, the anxieties that threatened to engulf their neighbors, and had shared their despondency over a prospect that held no hope. they stopped short, looking hardly less excited than the family group. "what do you mean?" ralph cried. "going away with blessed aunt keren to a farm she owns in pennsylvania," happie said. "it will save mother's life--and you know what else it will do, ralph. we are going to try to sub-let the patty-pans furnished, so it won't be good-bye forever to you." "and my mother wants to find another flat!" cried snigs, getting very red in the effort to speak fast enough. "there are some college boys from the south want to stay in new york all summer. she wants to rent another flat and take them with her. she was saying to-night she might move if she could not get one in this house. mayn't we have yours?" "now, did you ever in all your life?" demanded happie of the world at large. and the world at large, in the person of margery, bob and laura, replied that it never did! even miss bradbury seemed elated over this remarkable coincidence of need and supply on both sides. "come on over and tell mother about it!" said snigs, seizing bob's arm, and gesticulating wildly to margery and happie, while plunging towards the door as if he feared the escape of the patty-pans or of his mother, unless they were at once permanently secured to each other. "go, if you like," miss bradbury supplemented. "i think i will unfold my plan to your mother this moment. the rule is not to talk to a nervous invalid at night, but i suspect that she is more sleepless now from worry than she will be from excitement over a prospect which, though not brilliant, at least holds a solution of her troubles." the oldest scollards having departed with and to their neighbors, miss keren-happuch went into their mother's room, and seated herself on the edge of the bed with an air of such resolution that the sick woman humorously wondered whether she had come to amputate or to execute. "you are to be deported, charlotte," she announced decidedly. "deported? why and whence?" asked mrs. scollard. "for precisely the same reason that the authorities always deport--because you are not fit to stay," replied miss bradbury. "we are going to spend the summer on my pennsylvania farm, your family and myself." "i didn't know you had a farm," gasped mrs. scollard, catching at the first thing that occurred to her to say, overwhelmed with the magnitude of the announcement. "neither did i, fully, until to-day," said miss bradbury. "i have never seen it, but i believe it will shelter us. as soon as you are able to move we are going, and our return is most indefinite. you are going to sub-let the patty-pans, furnished, and the girls are to keep house for us while we enjoy ourselves without a care upon our minds." "dear, dear miss keren!" sobbed mrs. scollard with the ready tears of nervous prostration. "how good you are! but do you think i could let you take my place, and support all my family for several months?" "nonsense, charlotte! i shall save money. my summers cost me not less than three hundred dollars always, junketing around from hotel to hotel, from the seashore to the mountains. we won't spend three hundred dollars up there, not all of us put together, if i know anything about an isolated farm. and i really ought to look after my property. what do i get out of the sort of summers i usually spend? weariness and vexation of spirit! dress three times a day, not a solitary spot that isn't humming with summer voices! when i want to sit down and hear the waves, or to read, i have to hear a lot of empty-headed women telling one another about their servants' misdeeds, or how the tailor spoiled a coat, or--worst of all--how seriously they doubt the wisdom of speaking to some of the other women, one of whom is too quiet to be a desirable acquaintance, and the other too gay to know! and all the long golden summer days they sit on the piazza and make hideous, useless things out of pretty materials! it is nothing to regret that i may spend one summer on my own probably worthless estate, in dignified seclusion. whether or not, we are going. i did not come to consult you, but to announce it. so go to sleep. for half a year you are to have a vacation where, at the worst, you will be two thousand feet above tide water, and must get strong, knowing the children are safe, and you are secure, breathing good air, even if there is little else to live on. go to sleep, charlotte, and stop worrying, because i want you to get strong enough to go at once. since i have remembered my farm, i am all youthful impatience to see it." good miss keren-happuch arose with a jerk, intending to stalk out of the room, but mrs. scollard sprang up and caught her around the neck. "you dear, you dear! i can't thank you!" she sobbed. "i don't remember suggesting that you should," said miss keren gruffly. but the kiss with which she laid her old friend's daughter back upon the pillow was very tender. * * * * * mrs. gordon was delighted with the opportunity to take the patty-pans and its furniture; it fitted her plans to obtain it quite as well as it worked for the scollards to have her assume it. before any one had time to realize what had happened, energetic miss bradbury had set margery and happie at their preparations for departure, and going away had become a definite fact. it seemed a little formidable to the three eldest children, now that the plan had taken on definiteness. mrs. scollard was about again, proving that if one can find the way to minister to a mind diseased, strength attends on such ministration, but she was still so weak and pale that margery could hardly look at her without tears. she tried hard to be brave, but she dreaded leaving behind her the only life that she had known, to go away into an untried life among new surroundings. more than any of the other children, happie had a cat-like love of place, and to her it was very hard to go away from new york with uncertainty in her mind as to how or when she could return to it. "i suppose i shall go around wailing and gnashing my teeth, bob," she confided to her brother. but bob knew her, and her ability to make the best of something that was not merely a bad bargain, but no bargain at all. "not you, hapsie!" he said. "you will find a dozen good reasons for preferring that farm to any other spot on earth, no matter if it turns out as bad as martin chuzzlewit's eden." "that's not a bad testimony to the fitness of your nickname, happie," smiled margery. laura openly gave way to grief, which she carefully fostered in herself, for laura loved the rôle of martyr as well as happie loved to be sunny. it troubled mrs. scollard sorely to see laura's sorrow until she took to singing schubert's "adieu," as a suitable expression of her woe, then her mother smiled at the sentimental little girl, justly concluding that sentimental grief was not dangerously deep. jeunesse dorée was to accompany his family as a matter of course, though the old colored woman who came to clean for them held up her hands in horror at the suggestion. "you sholy won't have luck if you takes him," she groaned. "'twan't never reckoned right where i come fum to move a cat, and i just begs an' prays you let him run. it's bad nuff ter see you goin', let 'lone wif a cat." "we think it would be very bad luck to be deprived of dorée," smiled mrs. scollard. "and surely, amanda, some sort of punishment ought to fall on those who would turn a petted creature into the street to starvation and ill-treatment! i think i'd rather risk the effect of taking him." "bob has bought a beautiful strong basket for him," said happie applauding her mother's sentiments with a bright smile as she went through the patty-pans parlor. she found laura with polly in the chamber which they shared, polly watching her elder with a face expressive of puzzled awe, tempered by amusement. penny was lost in the labor of packing the animals into a large noah's ark, and losing her patience with the bulk of elephants and flies--which really did not differ materially--and with unruly legs and horns which got continually entangled. "bob says," the mite was remarking, "we's all going to live in a nark, an' for me to get you nanimals all back 'gain 'fore ve flood. if you don't swallow you' horns, you foolsish mooly cow, you, i'll make you sail on ve roof, and vhen you'll see!" "leave the ducks and geese out to swim, penny mine, and you'll have more room," suggested happie. "let happie coax the cow to draw in her horns. there, you see what good it does to pat her and to speak to her gently? she's in. what are you doing, laura?" laura looked up, raised her eyebrows, and sighed with her grown-up air, but she did not answer. "she says she's going to put all her pretty things in a box and mark it for me when i'm twelve, going on thirteen," said polly answering for her. "she says she's sure she'll never live to use 'em. now, isn't that silly? because farms are healthy, i thought!" happie laughed. "oh, laura," she cried, "how can you be such a goose? i wouldn't count on getting those treasures if i were you, polly. i think laura may live to use them." laura regarded happie with serene superiority. "grief often kills," she said with the brevity of a tragic poet. "i'm sure i shall pine away. do you know what nostalgia means?" again happie laughed out merrily. "no; do you?" she said. "it means homesickness," replied laura with crushing dignity. "i found the word in a book of poetry and i looked it up, because i knew it must mean something lovely and sad. i made a song without words about it; it goes this way." and laura hummed a line of music that was more minor than any known key seemed able to represent. "isn't that perfectly be-au-ti-ful?" she demanded. "doesn't that sound just like nostalgia? that may be my last composition; it will be if this move kills me, as i 'most know it will. wouldn't you feel sure that meant some one dying of homesickness if you heard it, and no one told you?" "what a queer thing you are, laura!" exclaimed happie, half impressed, though she could never keep a respectfully straight face over laura's performances. "i can't tell whether it sounds like nos--what-you-call-it or not, because i never heard the word before, so i haven't had time to know it set to music, but i don't think i should know that tune meant homesickness. it sounds to me like the wail of the washerwoman who got too much blueing in the clothes--it's the bluest thing i ever heard." "you haven't one bit of--of anything in you, happie," said laura turning away pettishly. bob came in, his arms full of half-discarded boyish treasures. "say, what do you think, hap; will there be room for this stuff?" he demanded. "i could give it up, but i'd just as lief keep it. you see it won't be our house." "still there must be room for everything, since it's a farm, and we have a freight car to ourselves. i'd keep it," said happie with the understanding she could not give laura. "i guess i asked you instead of margery because i wanted that advice, and i knew you'd give it--she thinks i clutter," said bob. "are you going to take all your own lares and penates?" "what it is to have a classical education!" exclaimed happie in mock admiration. "no; we are only going to take our laura and penelope." and she swooped down to snatch a refreshing kiss from the pink and white baby, and to rescue a particularly spotted dog from having his exceedingly curled-up tail shut in the cover of the noah's ark. * * * * * at last all the preparations were completed, the patty-pans flat was shining and fleckless, everything in apple-pie order to be relinquished to mrs. gordon's care. ralph and snigs were inconsolable over the approaching parting until miss bradbury hinted her intention of asking them to follow the exiles sometime during the summer, when they plucked up heart and began to plan for meeting on the farm. it was a cold, raw day in april, a day left over from march getting used up in april, a most dreary and uncomfortable day on which to set forth upon a journey with an invalid to migrate from the city to the country, and to a house the comfort of which there was good reason to doubt. the gordon boys went to the station and pressed upon their friends, in parting, bulky packages of almost any possibilities. they shook hands with emotion, and the scollard party sank into its seats silently with a suspicious redness about other lashes than laura's, though everybody made heroic efforts to appear cheerful, and not ungrateful for miss bradbury's kindness. the only way to succeed in this effort was to keep constantly in view the good that was to be done the dear mother. the warmth of the train was welcome. poor mrs. scollard sank into the corner of her chair hardly able to endure the neuralgia which had added itself to her weakness, glad of the friendly steam pipes. the train pulled slowly out of the station, and steamed, with increasing speed across the plains of jersey towards the distant hills. no one spoke for some time. then happie aroused herself. "i wonder if the farm has good cherry-trees," she said. bob laughed. "already, happie?" he said. "i thought it would take longer than this for even your barometer to indicate clearing." happie smiled a feeble smile. "i'm afraid i don't much care whether it has or not," she said. "i just happened to think of it." "don't apologize," returned bob. "it's a comfort to have you beginning to sit up and take notice." jeunesse dorée purred when one of the children peeped into his basket, according to his cheerful habit of responding with a song to any notice. after a time the landscape arose from the dull level of its beginnings and began to put on beauty. the hills were showing their heads in the distance, with blue vaporous lights playing over them in the pale sunshine of the chill afternoon. on they steamed, the grade perceptibly higher, until all the young folk were looking out of the windows, enjoying the barren beauty of the mountains in the early spring. mrs. scollard felt the benediction of space and quiet, her throbbing nerves grew more still as her eyes sought the horizon with the delight this beauty-loving woman always found in nature. miss bradbury sat preternaturally stiff and straight looking at the scene, which was as new to her as to any of the others, with the approval of a proprietor. "it's pretty here!" cried polly, as the train rounded a curve. as she spoke the travelers felt its motion retard. it stopped, and the guard called out: "crestville!" they had arrived. chapter v taking possession crestville had no public carriages, or "if it had," happie said, "it kept them very private." miss bradbury, and what bob called "her personally conducted party," walked around the platform of the little red station, discovering nothing but an open wagon to which were attached two sorry-looking horses with drooping heads and tails, a wagon which could not possibly be construed as intended to carry passengers. a road ran past the station, crossing the track and continuing its muddy way up the hill, losing itself under the bare trees. the mud was disheartening, the silence oppressive. mrs. scollard, weak and tired, caught her breath in an arrested sob, feeling that with the dying echoes of the train had died away also the last echoes of civilization. "is there any one here who will take us to the bittenbender farm?" miss bradbury asked the station-master. "that's owned by a city woman now," remarked that worthy reflectively. "yes, i own it. how shall i get there?" said miss bradbury. "i heard she'd got some one here to open it up for her," said the station-master. "yes; i wrote mrs. shafer to see that the place was aired and cleaned; we've come up for the summer. can you tell me how to get my friends over there?" insisted miss bradbury, divided in mind between annoyance and amusement. "the widow shafer's got rheumatism too bad to clean anything, her own house even, leave alone yours," said the station-master. "she couldn't open up." "what did she do then? why didn't she write me that she couldn't attend to it?" demanded miss bradbury, aghast at the prospect of taking her flock into a damp, chilly, uncleaned house. "left it go," replied the station-master to her first question. "i guess she was talking of writing, but her hands hain't much good--they're stiff." "well, you haven't told me who i can get to take us over," miss bradbury reminded him, abandoning the subject of the widow. "there hain't nobody," replied the station-master succinctly. the owner of the wagon and the discouraged horses had come forth from the freight end of the station at the beginning of this conversation to which he had attended with rapt attention, his jaws slowly moving up and down as he leaned forward, elbows on knees on the cart seat which he had ascended. "you couldn't come back after her, jake?" suggested the station-master turning to him. the man shook his head. "goin' after a load," he said, not specifying of what. "mebbe i could send pete kuntz back after her; his hosses hain't haulin'." "pete couldn't take 'em all--two, four, eight of 'em," said the station-master reflectively. "he couldn't come back after another load, neither; 'twould make it too late. that's a bad road up along past eli's, before you come to the bittenbender place. if i was you, livin' up that way, i'd see if i couldn't git the road overseer to work that road. i declare i'd ruther come down with my team and work it myself, if i wuz you, even if 'twan't part of my reg'lar road tax, before i'd ride it as 'tis." "that overseer hain't worth nothin'," declared the driver. "i wisht george lieder had got it--i'd er voted fer him, i would, if they'd er put him up." "don't you think there's any way that this pete you spoke of could get us over?" interrupted miss bradbury. "and wouldn't it be better to decide on something soon? it grows dark early, and my friend is ill." "well, i guess!" said the man on the wagon. "there'd be nine of you with pete. say, i never thought! pete might go up an' git my three seated hack wagon, an' take 'em all to oncet, usin' his team. say, wouldn't that fix it, jimmy?" "i guess," assented the station-master. "and what about the trunks?" suggested miss bradbury, indicating the generous pile that adorned the platform. "we must have some of them to-night." "well, if you was to make it worth my while i'd do my haulin' to-morrer, an' take them there trunks up fer you," said the driver. "what do you ask?" inquired miss bradbury, inwardly resolved to meet any demand. "guess i'd have to charge you a dollar and a-half," said the man, eyeing miss bradbury dubiously out of the shadow of his very long nose. miss bradbury gave a soft chuckle, though her face remained grave. she glanced at the six trunks which had come with them and said: "that's a bargain." "couldn't bob and i ride over with him, aunt keren?" asked happie. "i'm afraid it would prove a springless and tiresome drive, happie," said miss keren. "but i've no other objection, if your friend here has none--mr.--mr.----" "shale, jake shale," supplemented the man. "i don't mind; i kinder like comp'ny." he loaded the trunks on his wagon, and happie clambered up beside him, while bob adorned the top of the smallest trunk. "i hope you will send this pete after us soon," said miss bradbury as she saw mrs. scollard press her fingers into her throbbing temples. "yes, ma'am; oh, my, yes, ma'am," responded jake, gathering up the reins. "he'll be along quick. i'll hustle an' so'll he. say, jimmy, if you want any more of that there cider o' mine i've got a couple o' barrels you kin have's well's not. i'd like you to git it in your own kaigs, though." "well, if you could wait a little, i'd go up-stairs an' ask hannah what she thought," said jimmy. "mebbe you'd better git along now, though," he added, seeing miss bradbury's objection to further delay getting ready to explode. "i'll let you know to-morrer night. it's lodge night, anyhow, an' you'll be comin' down, won't you?" "i guess," said jake, and actually drove away. to happie's and bob's surprise, in spite of his declaration of a mild liking for companionship, jake did not show any desire to enter into conversation during the long up-hill drive of three miles. they stopped on their way to start "pete kuntz" back after the rest of the exiles, and to the children's relief, he seemed several degrees less slow and indifferent than their driver, or than jimmy at the station. there really seemed ground for hoping, as they watched him get out his horses and jump on one to go after jake's "hack wagon," that their tired relatives left behind might get to their new home before nightfall. the road ran through woods, light growth chiefly, the second yield after forest fires. sometimes these scrub oaks, birch, maples and the rest, fell away, allowing glimpses of views that made these two exiles cry out with pleasure, and gave them a fleeting hope that there might be balm in their gilead. but the mud was thick, the wagon wheels sank low, and the tired horses toiled till happie and bob, true animal lovers, ached sympathetically. it was a lonely road; they passed but one farm, and happie's heart grew heavier and heavier with forebodings that this new home was going to tax severely her ability to live up to her nickname. the desolation, the sense of being cut off from everything on the face of the earth except mud and trees, the remembrance of her mother's weakness, was bringing on a despair that the splendid views of distant hills and valleys, caught through the openings in the trees, soon lost their power to alleviate. "are there many tramps around here?" asked bob suddenly, and happie knew that he shared her thoughts and feelings. "never none," said jake promptly. "too far from the railroad track." "isn't that comfortable, hapsie?" said bob looking with pity at his courageous sister's pale face. "and did you ever see finer views? and don't forget how tired and hungry you are, happie! remember things look very different on a full stomach, and when you're rested." happie nodded hard, not trusting herself to speak, and bob gave up trying to point out the brighter side, invisible to himself, and contented himself with patting her hand. at last they began to climb a hill that was far higher and steeper than any they had yet scaled, but on which, fortunately, the mud had completely dried. the ascent was beautifully wooded, with real forest growths, and bright wintergreen berries gleamed at the foot of the trees. as they neared the top, the woods fell away, and at the summit they came out upon an open plain. on every side stretched a view that was more sublime than any upon which bob and happie's young eyes had ever rested. happie forgot her weariness, hunger and despair as she straightened herself to drink it in, and bob gave vent to a long whistle, exclaiming: "my soles and uppers!" a little distance down the road they saw a dilapidated rail fence and what had once been a gate. jake pointed to it with his boney hand. "that's bittenbender's," he said. "that's your grandmother's place." "the ark, hapsie, after such a long deluge!" exclaimed bob. "but that's not our grandmother, mr. shale; that's miss bradbury, whom nobody will ever be lucky enough to have for a grandmother." happie had bubbled over into her infective laugh at the suggestion of miss keren-happuch as a grandmother, and both young people strained their eyes for the first glimpse of the house. they got it in a moment, disclosing a brown house, sadly in need of paint, two stories high and decidedly over-shadowed by a big, ramshackle barn, gray from weather, with its front door swinging on one hinge. this melancholy building was flanked by a chicken house and granary in worse repair than itself. "it has every foot of this glorious view!" cried happie, seeing the disgust on bob's face, and sincerely able herself to rejoice in the thought. "well, it needs it!" said bob, and happie could not deny that he spoke truly. jake turned in at the gate; bob ironically pointed out to happie the advantages of a gate that did not require opening. jake paused at the steps of the house. "i guess i'll let the trunks here," he said. "we couldn't take 'em into the house till they come with the keys anyhow." bob and happie assented, and the trunks were deposited at the foot of the steps, all three of which needed mending. but after jake had driven away, they found that the assumption that keys were needed to enter this house was a mistake--the door was not fastened; it opened on slight pressure, and bob and happie entered. the unattractive odors of an old house long closed saluted them as they came in, and they caught a glimpse of a scantily furnished sitting-room and dining-room. the stairs ran up straight before them, beginning just beyond the casements of the two doors; they were not carpeted, but had once been painted a depressing drab, of which proof remained on the sides around the bannisters, though the middle of each step was worn quite bare. happie shrank with an irrepressible shudder; the whole aspect was so barren, so repulsive to her homesick soul. "let's wait for the others to see it for the first time with us," she said. "let's sit outside on the steps till they come." bob smiled and drew her hand protectingly through his arm. "you can wait to see more, you are not impatient for your new home, are you, happie? and you like the view outside better than inside? well, the house doesn't 'pretty much,' as old mr. frost used to say, but it certainly has the greatest view in pennsylvania." they sat down disconsolately on the steps, in the dampness of the declining day, and waited. the stillness was dreadful. happie began to laugh, tearfully, and bob turned to her with an anxiously inquiring look. "no, i'm not getting crazy or hysterical," she replied to it. "i was thinking of that funny story of ardelia in arcady, and that the poor little street child was right when she said: 'gee! n'yawk's de place!'" "now, happie!" exclaimed bob reproachfully. "i'm sorry, bob," said happie contritely. "i'll never so much as hint it again." in less time than they had expected, bob and happie saw the large covered wagon, with its three wide seats "all filled with scollards," bob said, appearing at the top of the hill, and they ran down to the rickety gate to give their family a welcome which should in some sort make up for the inhospitality of their surroundings. "supper ready, happie?" her mother called out cheerfully, seeing at a glance the effort that her girl was making to be blithe, and seconding it handsomely. "tsupper ready, happie?" echoed penelope sincerely. "not quite," happie called back. "we waited to have you go through the house with us; we thought aunt keren had a right to the first inspection, so we couldn't get supper till you came." "where can we get supper?" asked margery dismally. "in our own kitchen," returned miss bradbury. "we have laid in quite enough provisions, and i shall not mind burning up the gate if there is no other fuel." bob marshaled the family up the three dilapidated steps, and threw open the door. "one at a time, if you please, gentlemen, as the parrot said when the crows began pulling out his feathers," he remarked. "you have to go in and turn at once to the right or to the left, because there's no room in the hall to assemble. but it's all right, aunt keren; it will be jolly after we have jollied it a little," he added hastily, remembering the kindness that had brought them there, and fearing miss bradbury might think him unappreciative. "we are explorers together, bob; i am but your pilot, so don't dread my being hurt by your 'jollying,'" said miss bradbury. "i don't feel responsible for this house. i am going up to lay off my bonnet; i don't like to inaugurate our summer by putting my bonnet down on the dining-room table." and miss bradbury rigidly stalked up the steep stairs to begin her life in the country according to her ideas of propriety. margery and laura went into the living-room, while mrs. scollard with her two least girls turned towards the dining-room. laura dropped on a chair, which promptly gave way under her, and she fell on the floor in a heap that effectually prevented the remarks she was about to make. "go light on our furniture, laura," said bob gravely. "it is marked: fragile." "how was i to know that horrid chair's third leg was just stuck in?" demanded laura, with tears in her eyes; she hated of all things to be made ridiculous. "how indeed?" echoed bob. "how were you to know which was its third leg? i'm sure i couldn't tell." "it's worse than i expected, happie," said laura indignantly, as if her sister were responsible for the fact. "i didn't expect such a magnificent view," said happie staunchly. "now, if you're the poet you want to be you'll think of nothing but that one thing." "aunt keren said it would be slenderly furnished," said margery, "but i did not think any furnishing could be as slender as this is." "this isn't slender furnishing--it's generous unfurnishing, margery," said happie. "besides, what does it matter; aunt keren has sent up a whole carload of things! let's go see mother and the kitchen." mrs. scollard turned to meet them with a smile that was heroic, considering her shocked state of mind, and her neuralgia, and miss bradbury came down stairs with an expression of resolution on her face that would have befitted jael, a likeness further carried out by miss keren-happuch's first remark. "i must find some nails before i sleep and fasten something over the window in the room where i took off my bonnet; the glass is out," she remarked. "lassies, you and i are to get supper. there are few chairs, and they are like jenny wren, their 'backs are bad and their legs are queer.' fortunately there can't be less than one of a table, or we should have nothing to eat off of, and we have one table--genuine old pine! bob, suppose you try getting water, and then forage for wood; the pump looks able-bodied, if you are." bob was successful in his interview with the pump, and returned victorious from his forage for wood. the stove was rusty, and "its draught was draughty," happie remarked, as she vainly coaxed it to give the wood the warm welcome they felt it deserved. at last a fire was dully burning, and the water in a saucepan, appropriated in lieu of the leaking teakettle, had begun to bubble around the edges, so that there was a cheering prospect of tea. happie vigorously beat eggs to be scrambled in the frying-pan which miss bradbury was scouring, and margery cut the bread which they had brought with them, while laura mournfully set the table with such odds and ends of crockery, politely called china, which the place afforded. when it was ready, it really was not a very bad supper, served with the best of sauces, to all but mrs. scollard, who was far too worn-out to do more than nibble a crust of bread with her tea. no one had remembered kerosene oil, so the three glass lamps discovered in the cellar were "_hors de combat_," laura said, priding herself on her french surviving her despair. there was no choice but to go to bed early for lack of light by which to sit up. everybody's spirits were several notches higher for the comfort of food, and penny grew quite hilarious playing trolley on a couch that had such bad springs that bob remarked "there was no danger of a live wire on that trolley." jeunesse dorée contributed to the improved state of mind of the exiles by his funny antics, going on a voyage of discovery over his new quarters, backing and shying and swelling up at imaginary dangers, and at the singular forms of new shadows, and at last settling down with his nose at a mouse hole from which there seemed to be good ground for his excited expectancy of a mouse. one of the trunks which jake had brought up from the station held bed clothing, and margery and happie, with polly to fetch and carry, fell to making beds by the short april twilight. laura tried to arrange the bureaux, but the dainty toilette accessories, which had been so pretty on the broad dressers at home, looked sadly out of place on the yellow pine, the gray with red roses, the high black walnut, and the brown bureau with the yellow and blue stripes around the edges of the drawers, which constituted the outfit of the ark. there were five bedrooms furnished, after their fashion, and two more under the slanting kitchen roof which were unfurnished. the bedsteads were painted pine and were old-time corded affairs, but none matched a bureau--the state of things justified laura's artistic despair. but happie began to sing as she spread the heterogeneous collection of beds with their white, fine sheets and soft blankets, and this was what she sang, improvising as she went, not poetically, but with better results on the listeners than all poetry yields: "now this is a lark; for fear of the dark we must all go to bed in a minute, for we can't see to toil without any oil, and no lamp has a drop of oil in it but we're glad to embark in our seedy old ark-- if there's good to be had we will win it!" "you're your mother's comforter, happie, my sunshine!" cried mrs. scollard, leaning towards her second daughter to pat the tousled head bent as its owner stooped to tuck in a blanket. "and your adopted aunt's reliance," added miss keren-happuch unexpectedly from the adjoining room. and happie felt that life was not without promise. miss bradbury tucked little penny away with her until her mother should be well enough to take her into her room. laura and polly were roommates, as they had been in the patty-pans, and margery and happie slept together, as they had all their lives. the two eldest girls whispered long after they had gone to bed, and silence had fallen upon the ark. happie was too excited to sleep, margery too miserable. to the eldest girl it seemed as if the life upon which she had entered was going to prove unbearable, but to the younger there appeared on the distant horizon gleams of hope. there was a certain charm in all this discomfort, and that view was really sublime. after margery ceased to reply to her whispered remarks, happie still lay awake, planning, speculating, beginning to hope, yet half crying too, as she remembered the dear patty-pans, and the only home she had ever known, the great, noisy, ugly, splendid city. but at last her mind settled down to contemplation of those glorious mountains stretching away before her window, waiting for her to see them in the morning, guarding her while she slept. in the thought of them she found comfort, and gazing upon them in imagination, she fell asleep. chapter vi making the best of it happie was awakened "in her chamber towards the east" by the sun streaming in upon her, and with a vague impression that the house was on fire. never had there been such a blaze of light at that hour in new york, never at any hour such a resplendent, rosy glare. in the girls' little chamber at home it had been at best but a lighter shade of gray light, chastened by the air shaft, that summoned them to a new day. happie sprang up to greet the dawn and to look out at her mountains--already it gave her a thrill of pleasure to feel that they were _her_ mountains. she awakened her sister with her cry of delight, surely it was going to be worth suffering much discomfort and deprivation to waken every morning to such beauty as this. and when one remembered that the beauty was to restore their mother, what did exile and more or less furniture matter? more beautiful than when clad in verdure the trees stood outlined against the eastern sky, their perfect symmetry of line and limb thrown into relief by the sunrise glow. mists tinged with every exquisite tint of color flowed around the mountainsides like the soft draperies of aurora. quietly brown at her feet lay the waiting fields, except where the rye of autumn's sowing was beginning to hint of coming green. pines and firs stood black against the sky, while the faintest tone of red showed to a keen eye that the maple buds were forming and the fresh sap running. the glad bird chorus of later spring was wanting, but the blithe, brave bluebird uttered his cheering note, liquid as the brooks which taught it to him, and the robin defied possible frosts with his clarion whistle, sounds the more delightful that they were the only spring anthems yet audible. laura and polly fluttered into the room as they heard happie's exclamation. happie turned towards them with a shining face. "oh, girls, oh, margery, isn't it heavenly?" she cried in an ecstasy. "really we must be happy here no matter how we hate it!" a remark which her sisters hailed with such a shout of laughter that it cheered their mother's waking across the hall. "the lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before him," said margery softly. "i never before realized what that meant." even laura scrambled into her clothes with considerable cheerfulness after this auspicious beginning of the beginning, and the four girls got down-stairs in good time and in good spirits. but alas! for the weakness of human nature and the brief duration of its exalted moods! when they began to grapple with the problem of getting breakfast, and of persuading the stove to burn the wood which bob had piled ready to hand the night before, as if he had long been a country boy used to gathering fuel, the benediction of the dawn began to lose effect. "maybe we'd better wait for mother and aunt keren to advise us," said happie at last, sitting back on her heels with ashes on her hair and despair on her face, having vainly blown the fire through the draughts which did not draw. "what's up?" inquired bob entering in time to catch her suggestion. "say, i have to wash at the pump like a farm hand! i hope that freight car will come to-day." "we're up. so is mother--i heard her--but she isn't down," said happie. "this fire is too much for me, bob." "don't you mean it is too little for you?" suggested bob. "i don't see how it possibly can be too much for you--there's none at all. i'll have a try at it; i learned a trick about it last night. you have to light the fire in the southeast corner of the grate--it's not cracked there." bob's knowledge of the geography of the cracked stove stood him in good stead, and when miss bradbury and mrs. scollard came down the fire was under way. miss keren-happuch cracked her egg with a decisive blow on the edge of a saucer--her establishment did not boast an egg cup. "that shale stratum which brought our trunks, and bob and happie, last night, is going to lend himself, with the aid of peter kuntz, our driver, to bringing up our household goods to-day, if the car gets here, as they think it will," she said. "i never realized how appropriately one's effects might be called _goods_--they will indeed be goods to us in this dearth of everything. and the first thing i shall do will be to find a woman to preside over our housework, for i suspect that will be the attitude these independent farmers' wives will take towards it. bob, perhaps you had better look after the carting, and we two keren-happuchs, happie my dear, will look for the woman--as the proverb advises one to do whenever there is trouble." "why not ask jake shale if he knows of one? he is coming now," suggested mrs. scollard. miss bradbury hurried out to the steps. "what is?" the family within heard him ask. "some one to help you out? i guess. mebbe she might help you a little first along." "she?" repeated miss bradbury. "her, yes," said jake. "we hain't got so much work now to our place, but she couldn't do it long." "oh, your wife!" exclaimed miss bradbury, enlightened. "if you will bring her here, i will not look for any one else. you are sure she'll come?" "i guess," affirmed jake. and he drove away with bob on the seat beside him. the family hailed them with delight reappearing at noon, seated on familiar crates piled high on the wagon. jake not only brought his wife when he came down in the afternoon, but his elongated son of eighteen, who opened boxes industriously, but who could not be persuaded to open his mouth. as fast as noah shale pried open crates, his father and bob carried their contents to their place, and the new stove, their own chairs, rugs, and the best beloved of the pictures, which were hurried into something like order that afternoon, gave the forlorn old ark a very different aspect by the second night from that which it had worn on the family's arrival. miss bradbury surveyed her house by lamp-light--for she had bought oil--with an amused criticism that held the germ of approval. "who can kalsomine?" she demanded suddenly of mrs. jake passing out of the room to get a few sticks of wood for the hearth which to the joy of all the exiles they found in the living-room, and with a perfect draught. "what is?" said mrs. shale stopping short. "i kin, fer one, and he kin, and the boy could if he wanted, and you could--most anybody, i guess, that wants to. why did you want to know?" "i'm going to make these walls clean, at least, upstairs and down," said miss bradbury, pointing to the blackened walls and ceilings which seemed to indicate that the wood-fire on the hearth had not always crackled and snapped as it was then doing. "make it look whiter," remarked mrs. shale, resuming her way with a slightly superfluous statement. not only did grass have no chance to grow under miss bradbury's feet; it could not so much as sprout. by the next day jake shale, young noah shale and peter kuntz were all wielding kalsomine brushes upstairs and down in the ark, with bob as an understudy learning with each stroke to make the next one better. white and sweet with lime on the morning of the fifth day of life in it, the ark reflected the sunshine on the wall of happie's room when she opened her eyes and aroused margery. they found miss bradbury in the living-room, bending over a trunk that had not heretofore been opened. she turned to meet the girls' bright faces with a smile on her own, and held up her finger warningly. "it's only five o'clock," she whispered. "don't wake your mother. this comes of having such brilliant walls to make our eastward-looking chambers light in the morning, girls. i hurried to dress, thinking it was fully half-past six--my clock had stopped. this is the trunk of silkalines and other possibilities of beauty at ten cents the yard. come and choose the color and pattern for the curtains in your own room, margery and happie." she threw out several rolls of the prettiest materials, and the girls plunged into them ecstatically. "oh, aunt keren, do you think it would matter to any one else if we had this in our room?" cried margery holding up a roll of silkaline, white with soft green maiden hair fern wandering over it. "but only look at this yellow jasmine, margery!" cried happie, holding up a rival pattern. "but green for our room with the morning sunshine to lighten it--would you mind, aunt keren?" persisted margery. "why should i tell you to choose if i minded?" said aunt keren, but the pleasure in her eyes at their pleasure belied the gruffness of her manner. that day the entire population of the ark, excepting penny and dorée, but including polly, worked on window curtains, hemming as fast as feminine fingers could fly, and tacking and hanging as fast as bob could work. when the sunset breeze wandered around the ark, it found lovely wistaria blossoms in their green leaves to flutter in mrs. scollard's windows; the yellow jasmine responded to his fingers in miss keren-happuch's room; bob offered him crimson roses, laura and polly's windows were hung with sweet pea blossoms, while the soft maiden hair fern blew into the two eldest girls' room, brushing lightly against the white counterpane on their bed. the newly kalsomined walls looked fresh and restful, and the sash curtains transformed the exterior scene, still bleak and forbidding. but the ark was doomed to ride on troublous waters for a time. the next day mrs. jake announced that she must return to her bereft family, and miss bradbury vainly went abroad in search of her successor. "there is nothing for it, charlotte and other children," said miss bradbury, after two days of scouring the country in jake shale's open wagon, "but for me to go to town and find some one there. though how i shall persuade a person accustomed to city improvements, or pretty summer cottages, to come to our primitive ark, i can't imagine. however, i shall go down on monday to try." "oh! and leave us alone!" cried margery. "yes, _all_ of you alone. how can one leave 'us' alone? it doesn't seem likely on the face of it that half a dozen scollards could miss one ancient bradbury, does it?" said miss keren-happuch. "you are the head of the house, and it is hard to be decapitated, aunt keren," said bob. but decapitated they were on monday, when the weather wept copiously over their bereavement. the inmates of the ark awakened to the swish of rain against the small window panes, and to the thought of miss bradbury's departure. they discovered that in the few weeks that had passed since mrs. scollard was taken ill, miss bradbury had come to seem as much and necessary a part of their lives as their own heads and hands. happie and bob met with dismal faces to offer their morning oblations of wood to the stove. "if the violets would come, i could bear it better," remarked happie suddenly. "if the mud would dry up, and the roads get decent _i_ could bear it better," retorted bob. it was becoming a family joke, the number of things which they discovered would make life in the ark bearable. for each of the family felt in the bottom of a courageous heart that the new conditions were hard to bear, and every night happie lay down lonely and discouraged to wonder how she was going to face another day. somehow, though, that other day never would seem dreadful to her when she opened her eyes upon it. it was always so beautiful, seen in the light of the sun mounting over the hills before her chamber window. "i have engaged our friend pete kuntz to make the garden this week during my absence, and to put out our vegetables. pete doesn't plant; he 'puts out' seeds. i shall expect bob to keep it watered if nature fails us, as i should think she would have to after this flood--no wonder we call this house the ark!" said miss bradbury, as she pulled on her gauntlets, and walked towards the door where jake shale was waiting with his drooping steeds to take her to the station. "and good-bye, my family. i shall return _with_ my shield, and not upon it, for by fair means, if possible, but somehow in any case, i shall inveigle a woman up here to work for us." she nodded to each one, patted mrs. scollard on the shoulder as she passed her--miss bradbury was not given to kissing--went out the door into the drenching rain, mounted the dismal wagon and slowly drove away. "now, motherkins, and other girls," said happie, wheeling towards the door to hide her eyes, and hoping that the rising inflection which she had forced into her voice might be mistaken for the ring of happiness, "now, let's go up attic! we youngsters have been aching to get at it. i'd like to see if rain on the old attic roof sounds as sweet as poetry says it does--it's a good day to test it." margery sighed and laura groaned. "it's perfectly dreadful!" she said. "i don't see how you can help minding such weather! think of living here in such storms as this!" "yet fancy moving every time the weather changed, laura," happie retorted. "we would have to leave an order with pete kuntz, jake shale and some other teamsters like this: when the sun shines, don't come. if it looks cloudy, keep your horses ready to start if it rains. then when it rains, hook up, as you would say, and drive right over to the ark, to move the scollards, because the third scollard girl can't live in that house in stormy weather. don't you think it might be hard to make them understand, laura? for instance, what would they do if it was cloudy and misting a little? or how would they know what to do in a shower? no; it's better to live in a house and never mind the weather once you have moved in." happie had rattled on, one eye on her mother's face, and was rewarded by her laughing a little when she stopped; her nonsense usually made her mother smile. "such a goose-girl, happie!" she exclaimed. and happie did not mind laura's pouting at being made fun of, for she had accomplished what she had set out to do, and had tided her mother over the first consciousness of being left alone. "i hope aunt keren will find a nice, clean, rosy-faced girl to help us, margery," said mrs. scollard, as they mounted atticward. "i wouldn't mind if she weren't young, and was as brown as a berry, if only she were nice and clean, mama," said margery pensively. "poor daughter! i'm afraid you find exile harder than the rest of us," said her mother, laying her hand on pretty margery's arm. "not a bit!" declared margery quickly. "it isn't hard for any of us, for you are getting better!" the steep attic stairs, intended apparently "for the use of flies," happie remarked, issued into the single gabled room running the entire length and width of the house, dusty and musty, dark in the heavy storm, yet attractive with the charm no attic can escape. happie plunged under the eaves, followed by penny and dorée, who had come up with them, the former singing in her crooning voice that sounded very like the latter's purring, which was loud, for the yellow kitten expected mice. "there's an old trunk in here, motherums, a little hair trunk that has gone quite bald in spots," happie called in a muffled voice from under the eaves. "it's as shabby as a trunk can be, but there are things in it--it is heavy--and there's a b in brass nails on one end. the bittenbenders must have left it here. may we open it? what has become of the bittenbenders? what was a bittenbender anyway? and why did they go off and leave aunt keren their house, furnished, too, after its way, and with their worn-off-horsehair trunk left behind?" and happie emerged from her dusty exploration, rubbing her nose violently, and making up queer faces to keep from sneezing. her mother laughed. "i don't know what a bittenbender was, happie dear, any more than you do. we know it was--collectively--the family who owned this farm, and who owed aunt keren more money than this place was worth, which was all that she could get in payment. though if this farm were taken care of, it could be made a good one. as to the trunk, i'm sure aunt keren did not insist on that as a part of her bargain--it must have been left because it was not worth taking." "don't open the trunk to-day, hapsie," protested margery. "i don't like the rain on the roof nearly as well as i thought that i should. and it's leaking around that gable, and it is so dark and damp and dismal! let's go down to the kitchen where it is warm and comparatively cheerful. at least the fire is red! truly i can't stand this dank, dark, dreary, dusty, dismal hole and the beat of that rain." "poor peggy! she's getting her adjectives high, and her spirits low!" cried happie. "what is it about attic salt? hers is lumpy from wet weather. come on, you poor dear! we'll go down to the kitchen and boil eggs. mother, when do you suppose we shall get anything to eat besides eggs? i asked jake, and he said the butcher began coming through in june. now what in the world does the butcher come through? and aren't we to have any meat till he has come through it? we cannot possibly live on eggs till june. we've cooked them in every way by this time, and they still come out eggs--more or less so, at least. for: 'you may boil, you may scramble the rest, if you will, but the taste of the egglet will cling to it still.' laura, go first if you want to be noble, and be the cushion at the bottom of the heap of your family when we all tumble down these breakneck attic stairs!" "happie, what an absurd girl you are!" cried margery. "jake shale meant that the butcher came through crestville after june, carrying meat to the hotels beyond, and then we can get it easily enough. but it is serious business getting it till then. aunt keren said she would bring meat when she came back, and if she buys a horse, as she means to, we can drive somewhere where it is to be had." "won't it be fun, jogging around the country picking up a roast here and a chop there?" cried incorrigible happie. "i hope it will be a horse that we all can drive." "aunt keren said she should buy a cheap horse, too tired to be dangerous, and we are to rest him while we drive," said laura, unconscious of miss bradbury's humor, and repeating with entire gravity this statement at which the others all laughed. "for my part," she added, "i shall be mortified to drive such a horse." "you can sit on the back seat and look like a guest; margery and i will drive," said happie. she danced ahead of the others towards the kitchen, swinging penny to her shoulder as she ran. she stopped short in the doorway with a shocked little cry. "what's the matter?" said margery. "we have no horse to blush for, but we must blush for ourselves; the bread has run over the pans, and down on the table! only look! and we are all so hungry! it must be as sour as sour! i'm so scatter-brained!" and happie pulled her own bright locks with a contrite face, offering penny the ear nearest the shoulder on which she was seated to be boxed. but penny kissed her sister's flushed cheek instead. chapter vii the dove's alighting "it's all my fault," cried margery repentantly, assuming the blame and the duty of repairing the damage to the snowy pine table at one and the same time. "i promised to look after the bread and put it into the oven, and between aunt keren's going and our trip to the attic, i never thought of it again. bread is not such a simple thing; i wish we could buy our bread, as we did in town." "no work is simple i find, dear," said her mother. "it takes all kinds of qualities to do anything well--which accounts for the prevalence of poor labor. never mind the bread; it is beyond sweetening by any amount of soda. we will make more to-night, and subsist on biscuits and buckwheat cakes for dinner and supper." "buckwheat cakes are far from simple," happie remarked, suggestively surveying a burn on her forefinger, the result of her recent failure with the delicacy in question. "the cakes are simple; it's the griddle where the stick comes," said margery. "literally, if you mean the sticking," smiled her mother. laura, standing with her face pressed against the steaming glass of the window pane, sighed heavily. mrs. scollard turned and crossing over to her side, looked for a moment out upon the reeking scene. the rain poured down in torrents, swept sidewise across the fields by the roaring wind. the ground looked black at a little distance, the trees bent their bare boughs to the storm's fury; not a sound, not a human being lightened the desolation of the outlook. the lonely woman felt her heart tighten under the grip of a fresh tide of homesickness. miss bradbury had been trying of late to encourage her by hinting that if she were not perfectly restored to health in the autumn, she could spend the winter in the ark, so at the worst there was no reason for anxiety. but what a life to lead, to condemn her clever children to! how could she bear it? then the courage that made her all that she was, the courage that happie had inherited, rose to answer her own question. she could bear it because she must bear it; she would fight for her health, and be able once more to work and to live for her children. "when this storm has spent itself," she said brightly, "we shall see the spring fairly leaping forward in all its loveliness. this is a sort of aftermath of all winter's fury. it can't last long with such a wind as this raging, and when it passes you girls will find arbutus and hepatica, anemones, and very soon violets. it is going to be a wonderful country for flowers, for all sorts of beauty. i think we shall hear song birds in crestville that we never heard before, and fancy what it will be to hunt for wild flowers at the foot of those glorious mountains! i think there could hardly be a more splendid view than ours." happie crept up and peeped slyly over her mother's shoulder. she saw a moisture on the long lashes that belied the blithe tone and the enthusiasm. "it's just a trifle dim now, motherums," was all that happie said, but the tone in which she said it made the words what they were meant to be--the salute of a good soldier to the courage of his superior officer. "oh, by and by will be a sweeter by and by, of course," margery chimed in. "i suppose we shall all feel better when it clears up." the dinner that day did not promise to be precisely a success. polly and penny had risen superior to the weather in such a game of romps that the baby appeared upon the scene decidedly cross. bob came in wet through and exhausted from a tussle with the barn door which had to be rehung upon its broken hinges to protect the books still lying in their packing cases, stored in the rickety building. he found it impossible to talk; his muscles ached, he had pounded his thumb black and blue in his efforts at carpentering, and creeping chills, the result of his wetting, chased one another down his spine. all that happie had said of the preponderance of eggs in their limited bill of fare was strictly true. it was hard to consider a dinner satisfactory when its main dish was scrambled eggs, after one had had boiled eggs for breakfast, and was looking forward to fried eggs for supper. dishes too had to be washed as they went along, for the supply of kitchen utensils was low until the mistress of the house should return with reinforcements. "when we were in new york we turned a faucet, and took it for granted that hot water in the sink was a natural institution, like a hot spring. now that we have to heat every drop we begin to realize it was a sort of phenomenon," sighed margery, lifting the teakettle to the forward hole of the stove, and signaling bob to put in another stick of wood before she set it down. "we will hope that aunt keren may find the clean, rosy-cheeked young girl, or even the brown-faced-elderly-woman variation of the theme which margery suggested," said mrs. scollard. "it is rather a struggle alone, without conveniences." "there's a woman coming down the road, mama," said polly, whose face, with penny's, was pressed against the steaming window, looking out upon the universal wetness. laura dropped the towel, held ready for wiping dishes, though the water was not yet warm, and ran to look. "she's very wet, mama, and she's fearfully long," laura announced. "and she's heading for here!" cried bob, as if that were the acme of wonders. "can she be a lost bittenbender?" suggested happie. the tall woman came in, when bidden to do so, and set herself, marvelously erect, on the edge of a chair. "it's a very severe rain," remarked mrs. scollard, somewhat at loss how to treat her unexpected visitor. "i've seen worse rains than this already," retorted the angular one. "do you like it here?" "we shall grow to be very fond of the place," said mrs. scollard cautiously. "we are trying not to be homesick. you see we have always lived in new york." "and you are doing your own work yet!" exclaimed the visitor. "i heard you wasn't use to doin' nothin'. it's bad enough to be strangers without takin' all the hard jobs to once, yet! i wouldn't care if i was to help you a while; i've got time." "do you mean that you would stay here?" cried mrs. scollard, eagerly. "yes; i don't care if i do," answered the woman. "you just say so once, and i'll stay." "are you a losted bippenbender? happie said so," penny cried shrilly and unexpectedly. "a bittenbender? what do you know about the bittenbenders? no, i hain't a bittenbender. i'm poor enough in money without bein' poor truck yet. my name's rosie gruber," said the stranger with an air of forever setting at rest any possible doubt as to her desirability. margery and happie exchanged a sly glance of amusement; anything less like a rose than their caller would have been hard to find. but the important point was that she was willing to stay and do housework. mrs. scollard, feeling that miss keren-happuch's quest was more than uncertain, and that almost any risk was better than their certain troubles, engaged her on the spot, and was as delighted as she was amused to see their new-bloomed rose take off her wet hat, remove her long overshoes, produce from under the skirt of her own gown a blue checked gingham apron, and go down on her knees, instanter, to rake the ashes out from the stove. "this fire's pretty near out," she remarked. "if you want to eat at twelve--you do, don't you?--you've got to get your potatoes over pretty soon, and this fire'll need an hour to get up. your wood's almost all; hadn't you ought to git some?" "almost all what?" asked bob. "isn't it right; anything wrong with it?" "it's almost all," repeated rose firmly. "all--don't you know what that is? how many sticks do you see there? isn't it almost all? nothin' wrong with the wood if they was more of it. say, there hain't nothin' wrong with the boy, is they? he looks so sorter dumb at a body yet!" "he didn't quite understand," said mrs. scollard gently, as bob turned away to conceal the broad grin spreading over his face as he caught their new acquisition's meaning, and happie bolted from the room. peculiarities of dialect did not affect the relish of the dinner which this hardy rose served at thirteen minutes after twelve. everything did taste so good to the hungry, weary and lonely scollards! margery and happie renewed their duets of old patty-pan days as they dried rosie's dishes, and their mother sat down to write miss bradbury of her coming, and to tell her that she might return at once to the bosom of a greatly cheered family, for the maid they wanted had found them, and search for her on their side was no longer necessary. the storm cleared away in the night, and the glorious sunrise of the morning ushered in the spring. with it came soft brooding days in which the grass and leaves wakened to life, the birds dropped down from the warm sky in daily increasing kinds and numbers, and the flowers of early may lifted up their delicate little faces. polly and penny came home daily with wilting hepatica and anemones and violets in their warm little hands, while the older children sought and found on their rambles the arbutus whose sweetness the winds bore into the chambers of the ark, past the dainty new curtains. rosie proved a comfort in spite of angularity of form and peculiarities of speech. she was such a balm to perturbed minds and weary muscles that the children privately referred to her as "the dove," for her coming had been the harbinger of peace to the ark. she evidently regarded the entire family as helpless infants, needing her unceasing care and vigilance, and she gave them no less than she deemed they needed, piloting them through the waters of inexperience. miss bradbury wrote that she was coming back. margery and happie speculated on the effect of rosie and her employer on each other, but happie felt sure that they would get on together, for each was in her way a character, and their sterling honesty was of much the same pattern. aunt keren was going to bring them something that they would enjoy, "a species of toy," so she wrote, yet something that she hoped to make useful. they must get jake to bring his three-seated wagon to the station if the young scollards came to meet her, as she hoped they would. they did, or at least margery, happie and bob did, consumed with curiosity as to what they should find encumbering miss bradbury. when she stepped briskly off the car on the steps which the grade of the track at crestville compelled the porter to place for passengers, the scollards saw her encumbrance, and hailed it with a shout. there, dismounting behind miss keren-happuch, so thoroughly laden that there seemed no question that lady was already making him useful, his cheerful face one mass of smiles, came ralph gordon! happie and bob dashed at him regardless of a man with a fishing-pole, come up for trout, and collided violently with the combination. the brief mishap, though it left the traveler furious, did not dampen happie's ardor. she shook both ralph's hands so hard, and exclaimed: "well, i never did!" so emphatically, and so many times, that there was no doubt of her pleasure at seeing her former neighbor. bob slapped him on the back with such abandon that ralph swallowed whole the durable black licorice drop with which he had been beguiling the last moments of the journey, and choked over it so violently that he had no breath to reply to the questions his friends hurled at him in rapid succession. "i thought that you might like a guest, a crumb from your patty-pans, so to speak," said miss bradbury, surveying the effect of her surprise with much satisfaction. "ralph has had a cold, and has been working too hard," she explained. "i need a boy to help bob, so i took this one. i shall expect you to keep him hard at work, allowing no time for talk or play. how's your charlotte-mother?" "better for your return, aunt keren," said margery sweetly, but truthfully. "what about snigs?" asked happie. "at home with his mother," returned aunt keren. "but he will come up in the summer, by august, if not before." "is ralph----" happie began, but stopped herself before she had framed a question that might have been awkward to answer. miss keren-happuch finished it for her. "going to stay?" she said. "yes, he is, or at least until something happens to call him home. mrs. gordon yielded to my arguments, and consented to lending him to us. i told her we needed him, especially bob. so i captured him. curious that i went to get a girl, and brought home a boy, an altogether unforeseen boy." jake shale drove slowly up the hill. the young people talked incessantly, and all together. miss bradbury listened in a pleased silence that betrayed itself in her eyes, for her lips were unbending. she saw that already the effect of her transplanting the scollards showed; they were blossoming out like the season under the warmth of freedom from anxiety. miss bradbury found to her surprise that she herself was glad to get home, and thought of her coming in those terms. down in the bottom of her staunch old heart, the good woman had not looked forward to a summer in the ark with less than dread. the children took ralph out at once to display to him all the interesting points of miss bradbury's estate, leaving its owner to their mother, and to form the acquaintance of rose gruber, "the dove," whose olive branch was waxing greener in the eyes of all the "archeologists," as bob called the inmates of the ark. though happie said that she thought they "were more like architects, for the dictionary said they made, built, planned, contrived, and that was a full description of the scollards." "the creek is high," rosie called after bob and happie, as they followed margery and ralph out the side door. "we are going over to it on our way back," happie answered over her shoulder. "it does seem to me a pity to call a beautiful trout brook 'a crick,' just as if it were a sort of rheumatism! brooks sound like lovely things, but cricks!" she ended her supplementary remarks to her companions with a tiny shudder. "books are in running brooks; is that why you like them?" suggested ralph. "or is it because they chatter, chatter as they flow--fellow feeling, you know?" he glanced slyly at happie. "creeks ought to chatter even more than brooks, being an american variety." there was an old grist mill half a mile away from the ark, turned, when it did turn, by a beautiful stream, a trout brook made up of many mountain springs, rising far up in the hills, and rushing through madison county to the river, which should bear them on to the sea. clear and brown were the waters of this brook, its bottom paved with stones, its banks, rising steep on the one side, and gently sloping on the other, grown with ferns, luxuriant with rhododendrons, and surmounted with pines, spruce and giant maples. it was an enchanted region to the scollards, city bred, and "patty-pan" set hitherto. they were delighted to take ralph to the brook and show him that if the ark were shabby, the country was perfect--they discovered a strong sense of proud proprietorship in their breasts as they introduced ralph to their haunts, and it dawned upon them that they must be beginning to feel at home. the brook was indeed high that day; the falls over the mill-dam were yellow from the upstirring of recent rains, boiling and seething over the logs creditably to their exhibitors, and the foam-flecked waters ran swiftly down, under the bridge that crossed the road to their goal. "well, do you raise mermaids?" asked ralph, pointing out into the middle of the stream. then before the others could speak, his face and voice changed, and he cried out: "good gracious, it's penny!" it was penny, seated on a log which for the moment had lodged midstream, held by a rock which could not hold it long. in her arms the child held something yellow; jeunesse dorée, happie saw at once. she looked wet, her soft hair hung heavy around her pale little face, but she held up her head valiantly, and clasped the kitten safe and dry to her breast. "happie, oh, happie!" she cried, as she saw the group on the bank, and held out a hand appealingly. it nearly cost her balance; she shook on her perilous seat, and margery hid her face, while happie caught her breath. then she raised her voice and called: "hold on, hold on tight, darling. bob's coming!" as she spoke the log swung loose, and floated a few feet farther down the stream. bob dashed out into the water, and ralph followed him. the brook was so high, the motion of the water so swift that there was danger for one alone, should he lose his footing, and bob could not swim. steadying each other, the two boys waded out, keeping upright with difficulty, and watching the rigid little figure towards which they were struggling, fearing every moment that it would be jarred from its perch. the rocks were slippery under their feet, the water rose well above their knees, logs and debris came against them, the log drifted ahead of them, always a little further out of reach. suddenly it struck against the support of the bridge, and penny's head disappeared under the water. it was ralph, who, letting go of bob's shoulder, threw himself downward towards the spot where the child had disappeared. as he did so, he heard the cry of anguish from the girls on the bank. he remembered, with a prayer in his heart, that the little creature would drift far more swiftly than the heavy log had done. but in an instant she rose further down the stream, and ralph struggled to his feet and threw himself towards her, instinctively realizing that he could reach her quicker by falling in her direction than by striving to walk or to swim in that seething water. little penny's devotion to her kitten was meeting its reward; clasping it tight to her breast, she could not throw up her arms, and her light body floated long enough for ralph to seize it. he pulled her towards him by her pink skirt, and bob, seeing the rescue, darted to his aid, lost his footing, fell headlong into the water, but reached his friend nevertheless, and the two boys, with penny and dorée, clambered up under the bridge none the worse for their experience. the terror-stricken girls ran, slipping and stumbling over rocks and roots, to join them, and nearly dismembered penny in the effort to hug her simultaneously. "we mustn't let mother see her like this; it would shock her too much even to think of the danger now it's over," said margery. "we will take her to the barn and get rosie to come there with water for a hot bath, and we'll put dry clothes on the darling, and mother shall not know of this till we are sure penny's no worse for the scare. what were you doing, pennypet? how did you get on that dreadful log, out in the middle of the brook?" "i sat on it up by the dam," said penny cheerfully--she was the least frightened of the excited group. "the log was up there when i began to sit on it, and dorée was playing with me. he was playing he was a goldfish and i was a pink water lily--'cause i've got on my pinkie chamray, don't you see?" penny indicated her best beloved pink chambray frock as she spoke, looking ruefully at its wet folds. "then the log wented off--oh, dorée and i played the goldfish had crawled up into the pink water lily, and we were having the most fun! that's 'cause i was holding him, don't you see? he had crawled up into the pink water lily, truly. but the log wented down the brook, and we didn't know it was going, but i wasn't much scared; i could hold dorée, don't you see? and you came--i didn't know ralphie had come to the nark!" she reached over to pat ralph's face. "i guess i could have sat on it ever so long--days 'n days!--only it bumped. i don't think dorée's hurt." she peered anxiously at shivering dorée, who was wrapped in her wet garments, making desperate efforts to get away and lick himself dry. "i don't think he's at all hurt, you precious baby!" cried happie. "give me dorée; i can keep him warmer than you can, because you're so wet. there! now boys, hurry as fast as you can! you're both soaking, and i'm afraid penny'll be sick, and i'm shaking with cold; i'm so nervous. run!" they ran, and by the time they had reached the barn, both the boys were warmed up. rosie came out and rubbed penny into a glow, put her into dry garments, and sent her forth, apparently as good as new. margery and happie told the story of their adventure to aunt keren, but not to their mother, who was not yet strong enough to be startled. miss bradbury listened to it without a comment, but when it was finished, she laid a hand caressingly on ralph's arm. "i said i needed a boy! but i didn't know i needed a coast guard," she remarked. "you have begun your career in the ark appropriately, ralph; pulling in people from the flood!" chapter viii gretta "happie is beginning to be indeed happy, and without effort," said miss bradbury in high satisfaction as she watched her pretty namesake blossoming into increasing brightness every day. it was quite true that happie was beginning to be happy without effort. the first symptom of her growing reconciliation with her new home was that the lively correspondence with the friends whom she had left behind was abating; she found the days too short for the delights that the farm had to offer her, and she had less and less time for letter writing. happie had found a new interest in life besides the many interests of her first country spring-time, and her growing intimacy with the wild creatures,--an interest not unlike the latter, but far more absorbing. and this is how it began. one day she was walking alone down the roadside. the sun lay on her head as warm as if it were june, and the dust rose under her feet. out of the tangled growth of the wayside came frequently the fluttering of wings, or a squirrel in vociferous haste, whisking his tail and scolding her. she came up at last to the furthest boundary of the ark farm, far down on the margin of the brook, and to the house nearest to the ark. it interested her, because she had heard that in it lived a girl of her own age, together with two women who had the reputation of being decidedly cross, and of leading this young girl a hard life. they were her cousins, without whose dubious shelter the girl would have been homeless. as happie came up she caught a glimpse of a brownish sunbonnet, and paused to peer at her unknown neighbor, herself hidden by a friendly chestnut tree. she saw a pair of shoulders, unmistakably youthful, covered by a faded but scrupulously clean gingham, and a plump brown hand skilfully wielding a paint brush with which it was renewing the storm-beaten red paint on the posts which upheld the wire fence forming the farm boundary. the girl stopped her work, and, with an upward movement of her arm, threw off her sunbonnet with the back of her left hand, and drew her arm across her warm brow. she had dark brown eyes, darker hair, and her skin was as brown as a berry, but beautifully clear, and her cheeks wore a flush as red as the tint of her red lips. she was so pretty that happie caught her breath with the pleasure almost all girls feel in another girl's beauty, no matter what sarcasms are pronounced by boys to the contrary. there was a warmth, a charm about this girl that warm-hearted happie was quick to feel, and with it a look of patience that went to her heart. "she needs a friend," thought happie, and went forward without a doubt in her mind that she could fill the want, not because she was conceited, but because her motives were too pure, and her impulse too kindly to allow a doubt of her reception. "i think you must be gretta engel," she said, her sunny face wreathed in smiles, as she came up to the painter. the girl started violently, and blushed to the dark hair lying in damp rings on her forehead. she quickly pulled her brown sunbonnet into place, and stared at happie without speaking, like a frightened rabbit cowering beside the fence. "i'm happie scollard, and i live--i'm living this summer--on the next farm, the one that used to be bittenbenders'," happie continued. "i've been anxious to know you; we're so near the same age, and such close neighbors." she paused for the reply which did not come, and then, for lack of it, took up the conversation again. "it's lovely here; those mountains are glorious. i was so lonely and homesick at first i did not know how to bear it, but i'm getting happier every day. it's a beautiful place, crestville, isn't it?" "yes, it is," returned gretta. "have you always lived here?" asked happie. "yes, i have," replied gretta. "and i used to live in a flat in new york; you can't imagine what a change this is!" said happie cheerfully. "i guess," said gretta, looking at the tip of her brush as if hoping it might help her. "don't you get lonely here? i do, though there are so many of us," persisted happie. "oh, i don't know; i don't get much time," said gretta desperately, looking about as if meditating flight from this determined girl with whom she had not the slightest desire to make friends, and whose accent and little air of being accustomed to another world than that of the country girl embarrassed and annoyed her. to her dismay, happie seated herself on the grass at her side. "i don't believe there's any risk in sitting on the grass, if it is only may," she said. "it's as warm as june, and it must be dry. i think you need a friend, gretta, and i want you to look at me hard and see if you don't think i could be she. the girls in new york rather liked me." she thrust her head forward, inviting inspection as she applied for the position, and gretta looked into the laughing eyes, and into the sweet, dimpling face bent towards her. her own dark eyes lighted with pleasure in what she saw, and in spite of her shyness, she laughed a little. "you don't want me for a friend; i'm different," she said. "you look nice," announced happie emphatically, "and i'd like to have you try me. if you mean that i've lived in the city, and so had more chance than you to get at books, besides having a clever and learned duck of a mother to teach me, while you have been all your life motherless, and far from libraries and good schools, besides being as busy as a bee, i think that's more to your credit than mine. if we liked each other, i could give you what i got out of books, and you could teach me how to be useful--wouldn't that be a good bargain for us both?" gretchen engel turned to happie with full appreciation of the kindly tact that so delicately, yet firmly grappled with her unspoken sensitiveness, and put on a level with herself the sweet girl, whose advantages had been many, while hers had been none at all. her eyes filled with tears; she had a nature that was profoundly loving, and she was starving for kindness. something had set her apart from the other girls who gathered with her through the winter in the little schoolhouse, and she was scolded all day long for doing her patient best in her meagre and reluctant home. happie had guessed right that she was desperately lonely; she had not begun to conjecture how lonely, nor how much despair was mingling in that loneliness, though gretta was but a girl of fourteen. no one could have needed nor wanted a friend more than pretty gretta. seeing the sincerity that shone upon her from happie's face, feeling her lovableness as she felt the warmth of the may sunshine, gretta succumbed to her charm, forgetting to be shy. "you're good," she said decidedly. "i'd like to be friends with you, if you could stand me, but i don't know when we'd ever get to see each other." happie gave a little hitch to her chin that meant determination. "you must be outdoors a good deal to get that beautiful brown tint of yours; it will be queer if we can't get together. i never saw a pair of girls yet that couldn't outwit a pair of old cousins if they set out to do it," she said. "they are your cousins with whom you live, aren't they? rosie gruber is living with us, and she told me about you." "i guess it didn't lose much in telling," said gretta flushing. "i hate to have folks pitying me, and saying what hard times i have. not but what it's true, though!" she added in a burst of self-pity and of confidence in the sympathy which she read in happie's face. "i wouldn't care if i did work all the time, though girls that have mothers get a little time to themselves, even when they're poor. but no matter what i do, it's the wrong thing, and i get so sick of it that i 'most give up. yes, they're my cousins that i live with, and they grudge me a living, though i earn one hard. i don't feel to owe them one thing; i guess they'd have put me on the township, only they'd have had that much bigger taxes, so they kept me. when i'm a year older i'm going off to work for strangers. i believe i'd have asked your mother to have took me, only i heard them telling you had nice things, and had lived in new york, and i thought i wouldn't do for you." "you poor gretta!" exclaimed happie patting the brown hand nearer to her. "i don't see how you live! here am i loved to death, the loveliest mother a girl ever had, the best brother in all the world--bob's a perfect trump!--and margery's so pretty and sweet you couldn't help loving her--she's seventeen, and just bursting into young ladyhood. and laura, well, laura's all right, of course, and polly's the most dependable, good little creature, and penny--penelope, the baby--is the dearest little four-year-old you ever saw. to think i have all these, and you have no one! it doesn't seem fair!" "yes, and you can go to school yet!" cried gretta with a bitterness that she had not shown before in speaking of her cousins. "they won't let me go much, and we don't have good schools here anyway. that's why i hate to see folks; i don't know anything, and they'll laugh at my way of talking." "mercy, gretta, that's nothing!" cried happie energetically. "my mother says if a person has brains, nothing can crush them; they'll prove themselves in spite of obstacles, and if they haven't, no amount of schooling can give them. now that we're friends--for we are friends and that's settled--i can help you lots, so easily that neither you nor i will know it's done. you can speak just as well as any other girl, if you won't mind a hint now and then, and i have loads of books to lend you. and you must teach me practical things, milking--aunt keren's going to get two cows--and churning and everything i don't know. isn't that a large order to fill? why, i begin to see why i came here, over and above mother's health!" happie had grown brighter-eyed and more enthusiastic as she talked. "mother says each soul has certain tasks set for it that no other soul can do, and that we are led along to places where our work is ready for us, and that we must be careful not to miss it when it comes to us. maybe it was for your sake as well as mama's that dear aunt keren brought us all up here to her farm, which she had never seen, to spend this summer! maybe it was because you were so lonely and needed friends so much. you've such a strong, beautiful face that i'm sure you are too fine not to get some slight chance to be happy and clever." gretta looked keenly and quickly at happie, suspecting mockery in these compliments, for she mistrusted praise, having been carefully trained to consider herself far below meriting it. she saw nothing but perfect truth in the brown eyes gazing into her darker ones, eyes alight with overflowing love and the joy of the thought that their owner might do good to another who lacked so much. [illustration: "'can't you ever come to see me?'"] all the repressed riches of the country girl's nature leaped up to meet the good offered her, caring less for the material good than for the treasure of affection, inestimable to one to whom it had thus far been denied, and who had more than most the capacity for receiving and returning it. gretta struggled for adequate expression, and missed it; she could not have voiced or understood what she felt at that moment. "you're good," was what she said. happie understood. "so are you," she retorted. "and very lovable. that makes us both good, so we will have good times. now go on painting, or you may get scolded. if i had a brush i think i could help you." gretta shook her head. "i'm used to scolding," she said. "and you'd get red paint all over your dress." she dipped her brush in the pot, carefully scraped it on the edge, and made a vigorous stroke down the side of the post next in order. "can't you ever come to see me?" happie asked as she watched her. "you know our place, the bittenbender farm?" gretta nodded. "mrs. bittenbender was my grandmother," she said. "not really!" cried happie. "why, i've been wondering about that family, and you must know all about them! it seemed so queer for them to go off and leave their furniture in the house. of course there isn't----" happie stopped herself on the point of saying that there was not much furniture, fearing that gretta might mind it, and said instead: "there isn't any reason why they shouldn't leave their furniture, only most people take it with them, or sell it when they move. and you are a bittenbender!" "no, indeed, i'm not!" cried gretta. "my grandmother married mr. bittenbender for her second husband. she was my father's mother, and so her name was engel before that. i guess her second husband mortgaged the place, furniture and all, so he had to leave the furniture. but he didn't have to give up the place if he hadn't wanted to. he had plenty money; he was an old miser. that's why he liked better to keep his money than to pay your aunt, so he gave up the place. my grandmother died when i was a baby. i guess that old isaac bittenbender wasn't too honest. my grandmother was a good woman, and they say she had a hard life after she married him. he got too old to farm towards the last, so he left your aunt take the place." "he _let_ my aunt take the place," suggested happie, fulfilling her promise of hint-giving for gretta's improvement. "they left an old, worn-off horsehair trunk in the attic. some day when you can, you must come and open it. you are the nearest to being a representative of the family whom we have found here, and i'm dying to investigate that trunk." "if there'd been anything in it worth seeing he wouldn't have let--have left it," said gretta. "they say he was the closest man in madison county. i heard he made my grandmother----" she stopped suddenly to listen. "i hear eunice calling; she's the crossest of my cousins, if there's a difference. i've got to go." she arose, and happie was surprised to discover that her height overtopped her own by a full head, for she had thought of her as she sat as being rather short. gretta moved with a grace and dignity that also surprised her; there was a freedom in every motion, and a splendor of poise won from her intimacy with the mountains, which made happie wish that she could see her clad in beautiful garments. but the faded reddish gingham gown, and the brown sunbonnet were far from unbecoming to the girl. happie said to herself: "why, i thought she was pretty, but i believe she is a beauty!" gretta stood for a moment dipping her brush uncertainly in and out of her paint pot, not knowing how to take her leave, once more self-conscious and embarrassed. happie solved the difficulty. "you won't mind if this eunice does scold now, will you, gretta? and you won't feel lonely? because we are going to be friends forever and forever, amen." and she put her arm around the faded gingham-clad waist. gretta drew off and looked at her. "oh, i guess you don't want me!" she said, but there was a ring of happiness in her voice, as if she were sure of contradiction. "you'll see!" laughed happie, and kissed her new friend. "at any rate i _think_ i want you. good-bye till next time. can you come to see me?" "i don't know; i shall be painting this fence for the next few days," said gretta suggestively, as she returned the kiss. "all right," cried happie triumphantly, and ran away waving her hand to gretta, who walked backwards looking after her, leaving a slight trail of paint in her wake which threatened trouble for her when it should be discovered. "i have made friends with gretta engel," she announced, coming into the dining-room where her family were busied with helping or waiting for the dinner which rosie gruber was "dishing up." "she's so handsome i couldn't tell you how handsome she is, and there is something about her that draws you to her like a magnet! i'm going to lend her books and give her pleasure, and she's going to do lots for me. i shouldn't wonder if we came here for her sake--partly, at least." rosie surveyed happie with high approval; of all the young scollards, happie was her favorite. "gretta's the prettiest and brightest girl in crestville," she declared. "but she's awful shy. if you've got her to talk to you, you've done wonders. and if you make her friends with you, you'll be doin' the best thing you've ever done in your short life. if you was to know the whole of gretta's story, you'd think she'd had pretty hard luck. i'm glad you hain't one of the sort of folks that can't see through a faded dress, nor yet under a sunbonnet, happie." "if she's got happie to take her up, she's had one piece of good luck," said bob, who never hesitated to show publicly his appreciation of his sister. "happie makes every one else happy--that's a well-wearing, well-worn family joke, ralph--and she's not the sort to let them slip back again into unhappiness because she gets tired of her bargain, are you, hapsie? are you going to adopt your beauty?" margery, laura and their mother laughed. the family had never exhausted the fun of the story of happie's adoption of a colored girl of twelve when the young woman herself was at the suitable age of four. she had insisted on bringing big cora jackson home with her, and on opening her bank to take out her pennies to buy ice cream for her sustenance. she had been much grieved when her protégée had been found to have decamped, taking with her her little protector's gold shoulder pins, as well as margery's new parasol. happie now joined in the laugh, but gave her decided little hitch of the chin. "and if i did," she said, "it wouldn't be a bad plan. at least i wouldn't scold her all day and every day, as her cross old cousins do. and there's a great difference between the cora jackson of my childhood, and this pretty gretta of my old age! you wait till you see her, bob! she's far prettier than allie herford." which was a home thrust, for bob considered allie herford the prettiest girl of his acquaintance. ralph looked up quizzically. "don't you mind 'em, happie," he said. "i believe in your four-leaf-clover-of-the-fields, and that you will find her good luck. besides, you must not let your young mind get embittered by these cynics. 'it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.' so it's better to invest your trust, even though your bubbles--bust. pardon the inelegance, laura; i did not realize that 'burst' only rhymed with 'trust' when it was 'bust,' until i was too far embarked on my poem to tack--to carry on my metaphor with an unmixedness that i hope you appreciate. never mind if your gretta deceives you!" "i never knew any other boy so imbued with the poets!" said margery in mock admiration of ralph's outburst. but rosie, flying in and out with steaming dishes, was impressed only by the matter, not the manner of his remarks. "don't you talk silly, ralph gordon," she said spiritedly. "gretta engel never will deceive nobody. she will do happie good too, and she's made a good bargain yet. your meat's fried most too much. set up and eat awhile before it gits cold." chapter ix june's perfect days "do you know we love the ark?" said happie to margery, as they opened the back door to let in all the glorious outdoors june time, having at last succeeded in their ambition to get down one morning ahead of rosie. june had come softly, swiftly over the mountains, bringing all her wealth of beauty to the exiles from the lesser treasures of the city, a beautiful surprise in every hour. robins were nesting in the gnarled apple trees; happie looked into their homes every morning when she arose, sharing the happiness of the brooding mothers whose secrets she jealously guarded. grass and clover were beginning to blossom to be ready for harvesting on the fourth of july, cherries were reddening in the long sunshine of the perfect days, and nature generously seconded the efforts of the newcomers and of the carpenters in repairing and concealing damages to the neglected buildings of the new-old home. ralph and bob were busy building chicken houses and tinkering on sheds. miss bradbury, in the innocence of her heart, had decided that it would be good to keep chickens, and they had been added to the stock of the ark. rosie was most competent, slightly cross as quick workers are apt to be, but she took the direction and care of the household upon her shoulders, and miss bradbury was glad to overlook a snappishness which was, as margery said, "merely the snapping of the crust; not one bit from her heart." it was worth while for the sake of being steered through the waters of her inexperience of farm life. they all felt that penny was justified in her gravely uttered opinion that rosie was "a lovely lady." the family had discovered that rosie had had her share of sorrow, represented by five child graves in the methodist churchyard, and a living husband who occasionally called upon her. this mahlon was working on a farm seven miles distant. bob asked if he were employed as a scarecrow, for a more limp, lazy, incompetent creature was never seen outside the wizard of oz. he had a trick of standing on one leg, and swinging the other in unison with the arm on the same side which was an inexhaustible amusement to the children when he came to the farm. he talked in a high, monotonous whine which gave his long thin face the effect of a penny whistle emitting the sound--altogether a sharper contrast to energetic rosie that he was would have been hard to imagine. the scollards gathered that her struggle for existence when her children were coming, and quickly going to fill those little graves, had been harder than she said. they were glad for her sake, as well as their own, that she had closed her forlorn house, sent off her mahlon to work in zurich according to his ability, and had come to work for them according to her own, very different ability. competent as rosie was, however, she was but one woman, and there was enough left for the girls to do to help her. happie, on the whole and allowing for those days when the grasshopper is a burden, reveled in her tasks and sang about them all day long, getting brown and plump and prettier for her activity. margery never reached the point of enjoying her share of the labor, which made it the more creditable that she quietly performed it each day, never complaining, still less shirking, for margery had that fine conscientiousness which asks: "should i?" and never: "would i?" rosie came down in less than ten minutes after the girls, and altered the draughts of the stove instantly. rosie always changed slightly anything done by another, being imbued with doubts of others' competency. "what got you up so early?" she asked. "my alarm went off, but i laid a minute plannin' my work for the day." "i couldn't sleep, i was so excited about that horse," said happie. "i suppose i woke margery, though i thought i was trying not to waken her. just as soon as breakfast is over, and the work done i want to go over to tell gretta about him." happie had gone on since she had scraped acquaintance with gretta, cultivating her all down the fence line as she painted. when the posts were all done, and the double line of wire connecting gorgeous fresh red posts, happie had completely exorcized gretta's shyness. she had even followed her up when duty called her to decorate the posts nearest to the house, and had braved the forbidding glare of gretta's cousins' eyes with such beaming unconsciousness of the possibility of any one's objecting to gretta's having a friend that she had escaped being ordered away, as gretta had prophesied that she would be. "i'd hate to have them say anything to you," gretta had said anxiously. and happie had laughed with a pat on gretta's arm that was meant to be reassuring, but which sent a great blob of red paint on the flagstone walk. "they won't say anything to me, gretta," she had declared. "no one ever does. i'll smile so sweetly, they can't reflect back a frown." "i'll have to get that off with coal oil," gretta remarked, regarding the spot on the walk ruefully. "you don't know my cousins; they're not very good looking-glasses. they frown anyway, and they don't reflect you, no matter how you smile." it was true that they did not reflect happie's smiles, but neither did they frown. they regarded her with icy impassivity, glad in their hearts of a chance to see near by "one of the new folks" about whom they felt so much curiosity, and reserving their right to prevent gretta's enjoying her when they saw fit. gretta was blossoming out under the new happiness and companionship; she was full of a quiet humor that delighted happie, and she imitated her little niceties of speech with a quickness that rarely needed a second hint. but happie had not thus far been able to overcome her shyness sufficiently to get her to meet any of the other inmates of the ark, whom gretta avoided under one head, as "the rest." she had begun to despair of ever making her one of their jolly little band when don dolor bonaparte came to her aid. "what is it to-day, happie?" asked miss bradbury, noting the symptoms of haste in her namesake's breakfast preparations. "i am going to trap gretta with don dolor, aunt keren," laughed happie. "i want to run over and tell her there is a horse coming, and i hope i shall be able to get her here to see him. you know gretta is more than fond of horses, and they say she knows more about them than half the men around here; she can drive anything. i think i can coax her to the ark by pretending we want her opinion of don dolor bonaparte." "i'm afraid, judging from mr. hewett's letter, that her opinion of him won't be high, and i'm certain she wouldn't have to be a horsewoman to drive him," said miss bradbury. "but by all means bait your trap with don dolor, and troll your woodland maiden to the ark. i am curious to see the girl that attracts you so strongly." "i'm sure we shall love her if happie does," added mrs. scollard. her cheeks were gaining a june tint. smiling back at her, happie thought that it was not strange that they were all learning to love the farm that was restoring her to them. happie hurried through her morning tasks and raced over to see gretta. she felt quite sure that at that hour she should find her carrying water to the young lettuce plants which her cousins, eunice and reba neumann, were raising for the hotels five miles distant on the mountains, which in july and august would be thronged with guests. "gretta, gretta!" cried happie waving her hands as she leaped the garden fence. "gretta, aunt keren has had a letter from mr. hewett, her agent in new york, and he has sent up a horse. bob and ralph are going down to the station this minute to bring him up. i think he must be pretty bad, because this mr. hewett wrote that we were not to judge him by our first impressions. he says he bought him for next to nothing, but if he survives the journey, and we feed him well, we'll see that it was not only a charity but an investment to buy him. he says he has blood, though at first sight we shall think he has only bones. he says his name is don dolor bonaparte--only fancy! you've got to come back with me and receive him. we don't any of us know anything about horses, except rosie, and you know a lot. so you come back with me, and tell me what you think of poor don dolor." and artful happie smiled alluringly. gretta looked up with a laugh in her dark eyes. "maybe i don't see what you're after!" she said. "you want to get me started coming; i know! truly, happie, i don't like to see the rest. i don't know them, and if i did get over being afraid of them, still, i would never get time to visit. you bring the horse down the road and i'll see him there." happie folded her hands prayerfully. "please, please, gretta, come home with me and see the new old horse! look at me; don't i look pleading? have you the heart to say me nay, when i beg you with my paws folded, like a nice little dog, and say _please_ so prettily?" gretta laughed. "you make folks do whatever you want," she said. "i'll come if you'll wait till i get these plants watered, and change my dress." "i'll wait till the lettuce dresses itself for a salad and you for a visit, if you like!" cried happie triumphantly. "bob and ralph have only just started for the station, and they won't get back for nearly two hours anyway; jake shale took them down, and you know that is slower than walking. so we've plenty of time." "i've got to tell eunice and reba," said gretta. "they may take a notion to make me stay home." "i believe you hope that they will!" cried happie reproachfully. "see here, gretta, you'll find that the scollards neither bark nor bite, because it is their nature to--not! they are the nicest things, every one of them! you'll like margery better than me; that's my one fear in bringing you together." "i guess not," said gretta looking up at happie from her knees as she weeded the lettuce with eyes full of dog-like devotion and admiration. "you let me ask your cousins to let you go with me; they won't refuse you to me, for shame's sake. you've finished all your work for the morning," said happie. "work's never finished," corrected gretta out of her deeper experience. "and we haven't had dinner." "maybe it won't take long to look over don dolor; he may not be a large horse," suggested happie. "come along, gretta." gretta ushered happie into the fleckless kitchen. there were two gaunt women, looking past sixty, though neither could have been much past forty. one was stirring milk in a stone crock on the back of the stove, which was just thickening into perfection for schmier-kase, while her sister was tying on her sunbonnet with resolute jerks of the strings, and hunting for the basket to bring in more wood. her movements were accompanied by a running fire of scolding about gretta, to whose account she set down the absence of the basket, which all the time hung peacefully on a nail in full sight above the table. "what's wrong with you?" demanded reba, lifting the crock from the stove and setting it down with the emphasis of its weight. "it's easier using the wheelbarrow anyhow, but if you want the basket, there 'tis. i guess you're getting near-sighted." "i guess!" retorted eunice derisively. "why didn't you hang that there basket alongside the stove? here i've been a-huntin' and a-huntin' for it," she added, catching sight of gretta, and quite ignoring happie. "good-morning, miss neumann," said that young lady, somewhat daunted by the difficulties of this beginning, but holding to her courage. "my aunt has a horse just arrived, and i'd like to have gretta come over to see him, please. you'll let her go, for a little while, won't you?" "a horse? from the city? what good does she expect a city horse to be on these mountains?" demanded eunice. "she'd better bought one up here, and saved the express on him yet!" "oh, i think this horse was sent into the country for his health," laughed happie. "you will let gretta come over, won't you?" "how do you make out with rosie gruber?" inquired eunice. "she's got such a temper, folks say, mahlon can't stay home. she hain't clean; not what we call clean." "why, miss neumann!" cried happie, shocked into undiplomatic defense of rosie. "she hasn't a bad temper; she's only a little, wee bit snappish, and as to mahlon, if it wasn't for rosie he wouldn't have a home to stay in--but of course you know that even better than i do! and she's the cleanest woman! she's made our tumble-down old house as clean as wax. rosie's a treasure." "that house you seem to think so poor of hadn't ought to be yours anyhow," said the agreeable eunice. "old bittenbender hadn't any right to give it over to your folks. there's cheatin' somewheres, but we couldn't never prove nothin'. 'twan't his to give; we're certain of that. it ought to belong to gretta here, and if she had it she could rent it out, or maybe take a couple of summer boarders after a year, or a couple of years more, instead of bein' a cost to us who need all we kin make for ourselves! gretta, you git off that there bonnet and git up the potatoes. what you standin' round fer? hain't there always work to do, i'd like to know?" gretta did not answer. she hung up her sunbonnet with quiet obedience, and took the tin basin in which to fetch potatoes. she seemed to recognize at once the uselessness of further pleas for her visit. but happie, seeing the clouding of the dark eyes and the look of shame on the pretty face of her new friend, cried out: "oh, miss neumann, gretta wouldn't be gone long! won't you please, _please_ let her come home with me? she hasn't been once! are--you are going to let her come, aren't you?" "well, i guess she hain't goin' visitin' before dinner!" said eunice. "she'd better not go no time. i tell her she'll find out what she'll git, makin' friends with a city girl like you, that'll git tired of her 'soon's you've got used to her, and then where'll she be, with her head all filled up with foolish notions, and tryin' to talk fine, like you yet? i've got my eyes open; i see just what you're doin' with gretta. she'd better stick to her own folks, that's what _she'd_ better! she come into the world to work, and she's got to work all her life. you won't do her no good, makin' her discontented and then leavin' her. i've been warnin' her, but she's like all girls--thinks she knows more'n older folks! i'm glad i've got the chanct to tell you to your face you'd better leave gretta stay where you found her. i bet you laugh at her now when you git home with the rest!" happie's eyes blazed. she took a step towards eunice, drawing herself up to the woman's height in her righteous indignation. gretta quailed, even while she rejoiced that this time eunice had met one who did not fear her. "miss neumann," said happie, trying to speak quietly, remembering that this woman was much her elder, and the imprudence of angering her further, for gretta's sake. "miss neumann, i can't allow you to accuse me of being double-faced. when i say i admire and like gretta i mean it, and when i speak _of_ her, i speak as i do _to_ her. if i were so treacherous, so mean as to pretend to be her friend and then went home and laughed at her i should be severely punished; my mother would have no mercy on a hypocrite. but why should i laugh at gretta? she is pretty, gentle, refined, good, and patient as i never could be. i like her very much, and she knows i do. i'm not going to drop her, and i won't forget her. i wish you would not try to teach her to mistrust me; it's not fair. and even if she did come into the world to work--i suppose she did, because everybody has to work, one way or another--she came into it for lots else, and i mean to help her find the rest. it almost seems as if you grudged her love and pleasure. of course you don't, because you couldn't, but it almost seems so. anyway you will please never speak of me again as you did just now, because i can't possibly be called double-faced." gretta's heart thrilled as she listened to her friend pouring out her words more rapidly than her cousins had ever heard any one speak, but clearly, and with a dignity that struck precisely the right note of outraged honor and of self-restraint. eunice turned away her eyes from the girl's glowing ones; she felt the force of happie's justice and her own meanness. "i don't see what you're going to do about it whatever i say, and i hain't goin' to leave no one tell me what to talk about," she muttered. "i don't care what gretta does. we took her because we had to, and she hain't never been grateful to us. if she wants to hang around you i won't stop her, but she can't let her work undone. gretta, when are you goin' down cellar after them potatoes?" "now, eunice," said gretta. there was a new note in her quiet voice, and she immediately turned to happie. "i've got to help with dinner now, happie, and i may be busy a while after that, but i'll come over this afternoon to your house." reba looked up quickly from the cheese which she was straining through a cloth. "yes, you go, gretta," she said, and happie went away wondering. she was not sufficiently versed in human nature to know that gretta's sudden accession of decision had come from two things. first, she was emboldened by happie's encounter with her cousin, but still more was she forgetting herself, her dread of visiting, in the desire to prove to her champion that she held to her faith in her unshaken, and that she wished with all her loyal heart to make up to happie for her cousin's hatefulness. in her desire to show her confidence in her friend and her gratitude to her, at last the fear of that vague "rest" of the scollards had been lost. happie reached home so excited by her adventure with eunice that she did not rush out to see the new horse as she had planned doing. instead she regaled her family with the story, almost forgetting to eat, she talked so fast. "well, dear; i hope you weren't impertinent, but from what you tell me i think you weren't," said her mother, when the long tale was finished. "for gretta's sake as well as your own you were obliged to vindicate yourself from the charge of insincerity. and more years do not warrant imputations on another's honor." rosie gruber, taking part as usual in the family councils, here interposed. "of course she wasn't saucy; happie's never saucy. the idea of telling her to her face she was two-faced yet! you send them neumanns to me! i'll tell 'em how you're always talking about gretta and planning to help her! two-faced, you! that's a good hint you give her about grudging gretta friends; you hit her there, and she knew it. there never was such a jealous-hearted woman as eunice neumann. she hates to see any one havin' a good time. when reba was young she had a beau--eunice never did; there wa'n't a man in the township would have darst to keep comp'ny with eunice, but reba had a beau. and if that woman--girl she was then, but just the same's now at heart--if she didn't hint round and fuss round till she got him to stop goin' with her sister, then my name isn't rosie heimgegen, rosie gruber now! reba'd be different if she lived somewheres else. eunice nags and nags till reba gits to snappin' back--there hain't many things so ketchin' as snappin'. eunice grudges gretta her board and keep, though she earns it good. she's mad to think gretta's happier this summer. there is folks like that, all sour and clabbered like schmier-case----my days! that puts me in mind! i went off and let that pot too far front on the fire! i wanted to hurry it a while, but i guess it's hurried too much." and good rosie rushed out to the rescue of her schmier-case, to which she was trying to convert the family, hurried so fast that jeunesse dorée fled to the windowsill for safety, a puff of nervousness. miss bradbury looked at her namesake sternly, but there was a belying twinkle in her eye. "what do you mean by embroiling me with my neighbors, keren-happuch?" she demanded. "if the horse is don dolor, you are donna quixote, happie," added ralph before happie could reply to the inquiry of the head of the house. "oh, well, aunt keren, happie thinks you might as well be embroiled with this eunice, i suppose, because she is making gretta's life a roast," said bob coming to his sister's rescue. "i am curious to see this field-flower--she must be a daisy!" "she is," laughed happie. "my goodness, she's coming now! she must have hurried off right after her dinner! i was afraid her courage would fail her when the time came. bob and ralph, slip out to the barn and don't show yourselves until you come around with the horse--then there'll be something to talk about, and she won't be shy with you. margery, you come out after me, soon, and speak to her without my introducing you--you know how. smile at her and speak in your soft voice, and she'll never be frightened. i'll take penny out with me; gretta loves babies, and polly is too little to mind, so she can do what she likes. and mama and aunt keren might slip out when we are in full swing with don dolor, and gretta may not realize she's meeting you. i guess she won't be shy if we sort of leak out, and don't all face her at once. oh, laura! well, i think you'd better follow me at first." "and what am i to do?" asked rosie, amused, yet pleased with the pains happie was taking to launch gretta smoothly on social waters. "oh, you can do whatever you please, and help us out. you understand her, and she knows you. you make us laugh, rosie. come on with happie, penny-tot." "cabbages and kings!" cried bob. "it's worse than snaring a timid fawn, or catch a dicky-bird with salt! i hope she's worth the trouble." and he departed stableward with ralph to carry out their part of happie's programme. chapter x happie's temptation when it was all over, and "the rest" had been met by easy and reassuring stages, bob said that he believed gretta _was_ worth the trouble. happie was satisfied with this concession; she expected no greater enthusiasm from bob on the subject of a mere girl. when don dolor was led out, happie saw the force of his christening. polly said, without intent to be funny, that "he was more like a clothes horse"; the framework of his anatomy was nearly as fully in evidence. "oh, the poor thing!" cried happie, instantly loving him because of his unloveliness. "my goodness, it's time he was sent into the country for his health!" cried gretta, shocked into forgetfulness of her shyness. "but he isn't old, and he doesn't look sick; he's been starved and overworked. he'll come out all right." this dictum was a great comfort, for gretta was supposed to know more about horses than many of the crestville men; she loved them, and had learned about them through that love. "i don't think he ought to walk about," said polly anxiously. "he looks as if he might go all to little bits. can't you just rest him, bob?" "we're going to let you ride him up and down in your doll carriage, polly," said ralph. "it isn't big enough," said serious polly, and gretta laughed as heartily as the others. gentle mrs. scollard's greeting left the girl timid and awkward, while miss keren-happuch she answered without hesitation, and with a laugh in her eyes, to happie's surprise, who had looked for the reverse effects. then don dolor was led back to his sore-needed rest, and as gretta said she must not stay this first time, margery and happie walked down the road with her. all down the road margery laughed at gretta's funny sayings, while happie looked as proud as a cat with a kitten. "come soon again, come often after tea," said margery, as they paused at the neumann gate for the prolonged parting of girlhood. "i shall," said gretta with a prompt decisiveness that delighted happie. "after i get my work done, my cousins haven't any right to keep me home, and i'm coming if you'll leave--let me." "we'd be only too glad," said margery heartily. "we haven't any girls up here to run in; all our friends are in new york, so come up to keep us from getting lonely, gretta." happie only squeezed gretta's hand. she was delighted that margery and her "treasure trove," as the boys called her, got on so well together, and bright visions of gretta's future danced before the warm brown eyes which revealed to the world the love in happie's generous heart. * * * * * a week later miss bradbury came down in the morning with the ravages of sleeplessness plainly visible on her face. "i've heard noises all night," she said in reply to inquiries. "i don't know what they were, but i dislike them. boys, i wish you would drive down to the store and buy that watchman's rattle we saw there, and stop at peter kuntz' and tell him i'll buy his dog." "there wouldn't be much use in rattling, dear miss keren," laughed mrs. scollard. "nobody could hear you." "and don't you know you asked us to put those bean poles in the garden, and set the pea brush?" added bob. "they really need doing, and we can't do that and go to the village too." "then happie must get gretta to drive down with her," said miss bradbury decidedly. "i haven't been free from nerves all my life to let them get the upper hand of me now without an effort to check them. i must have the rattle and the dog. don dolor is able to make the trip now." he was. if any one doubted the effect of plenty of food and care, don dolor bonaparte, could he have met the sceptic, would have converted him by the most eloquent of preaching--personal example. in that one week he had become another horse. he had put on flesh, he had begun to get glossy, he held up his head as hope awoke in his equine breast, and he showed unmistakable symptoms of returning to the beauty that had once been his. bob was devoted to him; he had hard work to tear himself from him long enough to perform his tasks on the farm, which were many and irksome, and took a great deal of time. when they had leisure, bob and ralph took their books into the orchard where they allowed the don to graze while they read, prostrate in the long grass. poor don dolor appreciated the kindness to which he was not accustomed. sometimes when bob was deep in his plot, the don would come up and nose him caressingly as one who would say: "you can't imagine how different all this is, nor how i thank you!" so he was entirely able to go to the village in pursuit of his mistress' rattle and dog, and happie was only too glad of the chance to borrow gretta and take the drive. she had found the drive up from the station almost too much for her on that april night when she had first taken it, but how pleasant it was now to go slowly along the shaded road, hearing the quail whistling in the fields, and the catbird warbling his june ecstasy! "somehow i feel as if i had never seen the country till this year," said happie looking about her with ineffable content as she and gretta wound carefully down the steep hill. "it's queer, because i used to go away every summer till the last two, but i feel as if something had awakened in me this year; it all seems different and lovelier." "that's because you had a hard time before you came. it makes people see and feel to have a hard time--unless it's a hard enough time to dull them," said gretta. "that's one reason, and the other is that you have a home here this year. i never was away from here, but i'm pretty sure no other place ever looks the way home does. you wouldn't see this road as you do if you didn't feel your home was at one end of it." happie turned in her seat to look at gretta. she considered her clever, but she was perpetually surprised at the insight this girl betrayed, now that she dared reveal herself. "i see that's true when you say it, gretta," she cried. "but i don't believe i should have found it out for myself. how do you know things like that?" "i've been alone 'most all the time," said gretta. "that makes a body think; i always thought more than i talked. then not having any real home of my own makes a difference. i always felt i'd love my own home, because i love crestville so, even if i can't love eunice's house much. i guess it's because i've had hard times myself that i know what hard times teaches people." "teach, dear, when there are more than one thing of which you are speaking," said happie, with a pat of apology for the correction. but gretta did not mind being corrected. "teach, then," she said. "but it seems queer to take off an s on one word, when you put it on the other. i'll never learn." "you learn wonderfully; it doesn't matter much anyway," said happie with a new perception of essentials of which she would not have been capable a year before. "but it does matter that you have hard times! cheer up, pretty gretta! i'm certain they won't last much longer." "they're half over already since you came," said gretta with her adoring look. "you love this place," happie resumed, acknowledging this remark with a squeeze, "and you'd like to live here all your days--you'd be perfectly happy if you owned a house like the ark, for instance. yet here am i wondering if i can stand living in it, for unless mother gets decidedly better, aunt keren says we may stay on in the ark all winter, and of course we should have to. isn't life queer and mixy? by the way, what did your cousin eunice mean that day when she made me so hopping, by saying you ought to own that house?" "nothing; just nonsense; eunice is always saying things," said gretta hastily. which was so true that happie accepted the answer without further thought. they drew up at the little store, which was at once a miniature department store and the post-office. a rail ran along the upper side of the store for the convenience of customers whose horses would not stand without tying; here the girls fastened the don, who stood out quite beautiful in contrast to a dingy white horse on his right, a horse all speckled with black, as if some one had been doing spatterwork on him with an unsteady hand and too coarse a comb. on the don's left, to enhance his line lines, drooped joel lange's _café au lait_ mule, and happie suddenly felt proud of her well-built steed. happie took her mail and followed gretta to the other side of the store. there were two letters for her mother, one for margery and three for herself, besides miss bradbury's daily budget of letters and papers, and ralph's equally reliable letter which came every day from his mother and snigs. it proved how far happie had traveled on the road to contentment and interest in her new home that she no longer tore open her new york missives with trembling fingers and brimming eyes as she had done during her first six weeks of exile from her friends. gretta was buying blue and white checked gingham for aprons, thread, outing flannel of a despondent shade of gray to match eunice's sample, stove blacking and a bread pan, bartering for a small portion of the cost of these, twenty-seven eggs which her cousins had confided to her care for this end. happie bought only darning cotton, but she invested in fig paste and sour balls, the most attractive candy that she found in the boxes ranged side by side in the show-case. they had red-lettered labels on their ends of such misleading character that it was evident that they were boxes remaining from bygone days, whose original contents had long been purchased by youthful crestvillians. "i can't get the brown calico reba wanted; it's all," said gretta, and then blushed at her relapse into the vernacular and added hastily: "i'm ready if you are." "i'm ready," said happie, wrenching herself from the contemplation of the portraits on a poster of some incredibly corpulent hens and pigs, professing to have been nourished by a powder which the poster advertised. "wait here and i'll bring the horse to the steps," said gretta, going with indifference between don dolor, the _café au lait_ mule and the spatterwork horse. happie jumped into the buggy, smiling with pleasure. there was something cozy about a trip to the village store, doing everything for oneself, and watching life at close range. she had completely forgotten the original errand on which she had come. don dolor trotted along briskly, head up and his black flanks shining in a way that reflected credit on bob's amateur grooming, for they shone enough to reflect anything else as well as credit. "i'll read my letters if you don't mind, gretta," said happie. she had fallen into the habit of reading the girls' letters to this lonely girl at her side. happie's friends belonged to the world into which her father and mother were born, a world of wealth and pleasure, and their letters gave gretta insight into lives very different from her own, into which they brought new personal interests. she had grown to know happie's friends through this introduction. happie now read pages of merry-making at the seashore, whither edith had gone early; of still gayer doings in new york, where elsie barker lingered, going to roof gardens and summer operas to her lively heart's content, and of the most delightful times of all which eleanor vernon was having traveling up the hudson to niagara, the st. lawrence, montreal and quebec. happie drew a long breath as she laid down this last letter. "that's the trip i most want to take on this side the ocean," she said soberly. gretta looked at her anxiously. she was more than desirous that happie should not miss her old friends, nor long for the pleasures of town, and her chief earthly hope just now was that happie might become too attached to crestville to be willing to go back. "i don't see how you stand it," she said, with the deep design of hearing what happie would reply. "don't you wish that one of the fairies you were reading me about would fly down and offer you the chance to get away from here, and have the kind of good times your friends are having?" "it might frighten don dolor; i think from his appearance when he came that he isn't used to good fairies," laughed happie. then the smile faded and she looked gravely up the road ahead of her. it ascended steeply, and as they followed it the mountains began to come in sight over the hill crest. all along the way the huckleberries were in bloom, and the sheep laurel touched grayness of rocks, and brownness of ill-nourished brambles into brightness with its purpling pink. up the rough roads which opened at intervals through the woods on either side of the main road, one saw masses of pink and white beauty, announcing the perfection of the mountain laurel growing and blossoming aside from the thoroughfares. and the rhododendron buds of the previous autumn were swelling and showing pink along their cone-like edges, under the light brown of their sticky outer covering. soon the roadside would be glorified by their splendor. cleared fields made patches of vivid green against the serried trunks of the trees in the woods, and the breeze blew down, pure and vivifying from the mountains. happie drew another long breath. she would like to join her friends, but this was beautiful. it seemed, even to her inexperience, a life of greater reality; of peace that was beyond estimate, and she was not sure that she would give it up if she could. "i don't know, gretta, whether i wish for that fairy or not," she said seriously. "i do begin to love my life here. of course those letters set my feet twitching and my heart throbbing to go after those nice girls and their nice times, but i'm not sure. and when i think of you, and that you'd miss me and be more lonely for having had me, then i am sure! i am glad to stay here, gretta," she added, remembering that this was what gretta was longing to hear her say. gretta smiled, and then sighed. "you try to think so, but i wouldn't like to give you the chance to get away; i'm afraid crestville couldn't hold you." gretta jumped down at the neumann gate and happie drove home alone, a task that would have been adventuresome, considering that she had never driven, had not don dolor a strong desire to get back to his stable and an accurate knowledge of where to find it. "hallo there, icaria!" cried bob coming around the corner to help his sister. "how did you get on driving the borrowed chariot?" "i couldn't be as classical as you are, not if i were a wingless victory," said happie, stubbing her toe as she jumped from the buggy, and landing on one knee on the turf. "you're wingless all right," laughed bob. "that comes of trying to wither your brother when he makes graceful allusions to icarus--gets his genders right, too!" "pooh! you got ralph to help you with that careless allusion; got out your bulfinch's age of fable to find out who it was that drove his father's chariot, most likely, to be ready to impress me," said happie rubbing her bruised knee. "we got on all right; i believe the don's going to turn out a fine horse." "he's one already," said bob. "come to ride to the barn, penny?" he asked as penny appeared on the top step looking wistful. "and laura, the dignified? ralph is going to take the horse around. any one else coming forth? you can ride in layers such a short distance." "i don't mind if i come fourth," said polly, misinterpreting bob's meaning. "that'll be two for the seat, and another two in their laps." "twice two are four, problematical polly," laughed bob. "you are _forth_ already in my sense, but you may be _fourth_ in yours, if you want to be. go ahead, ralph. i'll be there on foot in a week or so to unharness." happie ran into the house. she found her mother sewing, and margery, looking sweet and young ladyfied, bending over her mexican work. "six letters, motherums; two yours, one margery's, three mine," happie said, throwing herself down and fanning herself with her hat. mrs. scollard read her first letter, which proved to be but a note, then opened the second one, read it, glanced at her two daughters with heightened color, and read it over. the elder girl was reading her letter from a girl friend, and trying not to show that it moved her, while the other munched a square of fig paste, looking absently out of the window, blissfully unconscious of what was in her mother's mind. "this letter is from auntie cam, girls," mrs. scollard said at last. "yes, i thought so," said happie. "she's a nice auntie cam, nicer than most own aunts; what does she say? i was wondering, motherums, if aunt keren would mind if we got a boulder and made a rockery out there on the side of the lawn? only it isn't a lawn; it's just grass." "now, happie, why don't you let mother tell us about auntie cam?" protested margery. "as if you wanted to make a rockery this moment, right on top of your own question!" "somebody--two bodies, in a way--has an invitation from auntie cam that i rather dread to deliver," said their mother slowly. happie straightened her listless young figure and margery dropped her letter, turning to her mother with parted lips, that asked the question they did not utter. "auntie cam says, my dear lassies, that she would like to have happie"--margery turned away to hide the tears that sprang into her eyes in spite of herself, and happie caught her breath--"have happie come to her in new york, where she has returned on business for a few days, and go back with her to spend the rest of the summer with her and edith at bar harbor, coming home by way of the white mountains in september." "oh, mother, mother!" cried happie springing up and whirling about in a delirium of joy. "and she says, furthermore, that elsie barker will be there next month," continued mrs. scollard. "i know, i know; i got a letter from her to-day! did you ever hear of such a magnificent, glorious, blissful thing in all your life?" happie demanded of no one in particular. "auntie cam says that she asks happie because she is edith and elsie's friend, and because she regards her as especially her girl, but that if for any reason happie would not care to go, or could not go, she will take margery instead, and not quarrel with her good fortune, but consider herself very fortunate--so she says--to be allowed to borrow either of my girls," said mrs. scollard with a smile of pleasure in this appreciation of her girls. "now the invitation is happie's first, i gather from your showing no sort of reluctance when you heard of it, hapsie dear, that you are willing to accept auntie cam's invitation. there isn't much need of asking if you want to go! i didn't realize that you would hail the chance to get away with such boundless rapture; i really thought you were getting contented in crestville. you have been a good child to hide your feelings so bravely, hapsie-girl, and you deserve your good fortune. what's the matter?" happie's ecstasy was fading out, and in its place a troubled look was creeping into her eyes as she turned them upon margery. margery had risen, and was looking so hard out of the window that there was no possibility of thinking she was interested merely in the familiar apple trees and the long grass, fast ripening into don dolor's hay. it did not need the tear that splashed on the window sill to tell happie that her sister was struggling to hide a disappointment too bitter to be borne without a struggle. happie spoke slowly, with an effort. "why, i have been contented here lately, motherums," she said. "of course i was glad at first when i thought of going to bar harbor, and with auntie cam. it would be a perfectly scrumptious time! but when i remember how long it would be--i'd have to be away from home so long--maybe i'd better--i don't have to decide this minute, do i, mother?" she stopped her hesitating suggestions, feeling that her voice was getting unreliable. it seemed to her that never in all her life had she been so tempted. her mother saw her glance at margery, and divined the truth. "my dear, unselfish girl!" she thought. but all she said was: "of course you do not have to decide at once, hapsie. you ought to have at least one night in which to decide between the rival attractions of two such resorts as bar harbor and crestville!" happie smiled dismally. "i'll go up-stairs to think; i can think better there. i'm afraid when i look out of our window at my mountains i'll decide to stay here," she said, and ran away with her brown paper bag of plebeian candies on which a tear of sacrifice fell as she ran. chapter xi happie's choice when she left the room happie knew that her decision was already made; she had run away only to gain strength to announce it. she closed the door behind her, tossed her bag and hat on the bed, and dropped into the willow rocking-chair by the window that looked towards the east and the mountains. polly's big doll had to be dispossessed for her benefit, so happie considerately took her bisque niece on her knee, in fair exchange for phyllis lovelock's seat, which she usurped. "margery wants to go," announced happie, absentmindedly rearranging the doll's hair. "she thought at first that it was she who was to go, and when mother went on to say that i was auntie cam's first choice, she had to walk away to the window 'to hide her grief,' as novels say. she didn't hide it so very well; i saw that tear fall on the window sill! of course i shan't go; that's settled." she pointed this announcement by a vigorous jerk of phyllis' arm which sent it upward, giving the doll the effect of appealing to heaven to demand if this were not hard. "no one will ever know how much i wanted to go--not if i can help it! elsie and edith both there, and boating, and bathing, and dancing--oh, me! margery hasn't a friend there, but then the rest will be good for her; she looks tired all the time, and of course she'll find nice girls whom she will like--margery makes friends. she doesn't like living here, and i do--or at least i think i do when there isn't any chance to get away. no; that isn't honest: i do like it, very much! didn't i tell gretta this very afternoon that i was glad to stay here? she said she wouldn't like to give me a chance to get away. and there was the chance in my hand that very moment, and i did jump at it wildly the instant i heard of it! gretta saw clearer than i did! poor gretta! what a mean thing i am to fly off and forget all about her the first time i am tempted--but this was a fearful temptation, edith and elsie and all!" she pushed down phyllis' upraised arm, and stood her upright with one foot on her knee, the other at right angles to the doll's body as it had been bent in sitting. "you look rakish, my dear," remarked mercurial happie, straightening the misplaced member and smoothing her niece's gown. "or are you hinting that i should not kick? i'm not kicking, miss, in the first place, and in the second place you should not use slang. margery is older than i, and fonder of society; she isn't as happy as i am here--that is not intended as a pun on my name, phyllis--and she has been so sweet and patient that she richly deserves her luck. i don't grudge it to her, not one bit, and i wouldn't go--now that i've had time to think about it--not for anything! i couldn't enjoy one moment remembering i was there at margery's cost. but i think, miss phyllis lovelocks, that you might allow me one little natural pang, all by ourselves, because i'd have had fun without end all the time i was away. you might admit--since no one hears us--that dusting, bed-making, dish-washing palls on one occasionally, and even weeding a garden on a hot day is not pure bliss. i don't suppose there was a weed in the garden of eden, and anyway eve's back didn't ache; it's only sinful backs that ache." happie laughed again and wiped away a few tears that still betrayed her. then she arose, depositing phyllis lovelocks once more in her place in the rocking-chair. she stood for a moment looking out seriously on the mountains. then she sighed, smiled and turned away. "i really do love you, and i think i should miss you and be glad to get back to you. but it's lucky you're so big, because you've got to take the place of a big chance," she said, turning away as she heard her mother come up-stairs and go into her room across the narrow hall. happie threw open her door and ran after her, hoping that there were no telltale stains on her cheeks. "mother, mama, motherums," she cried. "let me come; i want to tell you. i'm not going." mrs. scollard turned quickly and threw her arms around her girl with a movement entirely girlish. "you dear happie!" she cried. "i knew you wouldn't, and i know why! you should have done precisely as you chose, my darling, but i really think that margery ought to go, and needs the pleasure more than you. margery is drifting in young ladyhood, while happie, i am thankful to say, is unadulterated girlishness still." "of course she's the one to go, motherums; she's ever so much lonelier here than i am," said happie staunchly. "you see when i flew up so rapturously, i hadn't had time for second thought." "proverbially the best," supplemented her mother. "i am very glad that you reconsidered, happie, but i'd like you to understand that i see clearly through your transparent little self, and realize what you are doing for margery." happie blushed and turned away. "oh, i want to stay," she said lightly. "of course you do," assented her mother. "there are many different ways of wanting a thing, my hapsie. but i'll tell you in strictest confidence that i am selfishly glad that i am to keep you. i don't see really, how we could have borne up if auntie cam had carried off the ark's sunshine." happie turned back to give her mother an emphatic and hasty kiss before she escaped; she was still perilously near to tears. her mother's words had robbed her sacrifice of all sting, as mrs. scollard knew that they would, for happie dearly loved to be a comfort. margery received the decision that happie was to stay and she to go with a solemn rapture, too deep for words. the next few days were given up to hurried preparations for her departure. the invitation had come on wednesday, and mrs. charleford, whom the young scollards had known all their lives as auntie cam, had arranged that her guest was to come to her on monday. it was short notice and rapid work; the ark was submerged in the waters of confusion. still, as rosie gruber sensibly observed: "there wasn't no use in worrying. what margery had she had, and what she hadn't she hadn't, so what good did it do to git all dragged out fussin' over things yet?" that good and efficient person ironed at night and arose an hour earlier than her four o'clock routine to lend her useful hands to preparing margery's wardrobe. "fortunately you are still a young girl, dearie," said her mother folding the soft mull which rosie had pressed. "you are still in the class which the fashion catalogues call: misses. in another year you will be old enough to require more if you go into the great world, but simplicity is fitting and fairest for a young girl. this is your last year of slipping into the throng unheralded, margery; make the most of its advantages, dearie. i really think you are sufficiently provided, without being obliged to add: 'considering.' your last year's gowns are so refreshed that i am satisfied with your little wardrobe, at least for this season, while you are still little margery." the mother's voice was wistful. margery was so sweet and gentle that her gentle mother clung to her passing hours of young girlhood, shrinking from the thought of life and its burdens which stood just on her threshold, stretching out siren hands to her eldest born. miss bradbury came into the room with six handkerchiefs in one hand. "this is my contribution to your outfit, margaret," she said. "dainty handkerchiefs and good shoes are my weakness. don't shed a tear on one of these; that's all i ask." margery thanked her with her gentle smile. she did not know until later, when she shook the first of the pile out of its folds, that miss keren had laid two crisp ten dollar bills between them, guessing that mrs. scollard's slender store was too depleted to allow her to give the girl much money to use as young girls like to use it, for the candy and soda, and the small luxuries of the toilet dear to seventeen. "you've been a perfect darling, happie; a dear, unselfish, blessed old darling, all the way through!" cried margery throwing her arms around her sister, although in one hand dangled four belts, and the other clutched a bunch of turnover collars. happie had just brought margery her two stick pins, and delicate neckchain of fine gold links, holding turquoises set in dull gold. "that's all right, margery; you mean well, but your remarks are a trifle unjust to me. i am all of those things you mention, all of the time, yet you seem to be a trifle surprised. it would give a stranger a false idea of me, margery; i am obliged to protest against your injustice," cried happie with a mock frown. "isn't she nice?" exclaimed polly from her vantage point at the foot of the bed where she was ensconced with her doll, watching the packing. "i hope you will enjoy the orchestras and the music in the hotels, margery," said laura with an air that suggested its being extremely unlikely. "it's dreadful to never hear any music; there isn't a bit in crestville." "it's dreadful to split infinitives, laura," said bob, entering unexpectedly. "what's the wail about now? still poor old crestville? besides, you're wrong about the music; i know of several melodeons in town. ralph and i are going to the store; want anything from the emporium?" "yes, and two or three of the girls taking lessons by correspondence yet!" exclaimed rosie indignantly from the depths of a gladstone bag which she was sweeping clean of imaginary dust. "we're not so dumb here as laura thinks. don't you fergit my blueing, bob, and i guess you might as well bring along some flour; ours is almost all, and i've got to bake to-morrow, with biscuits for tea sunday--miss bradbury likes 'em so!" "yes, and the rest like 'em more so," assented bob. "flour and blueing, mix carefully and take regularly to depress your spirits. all right, rosie. 'bye, mother." and bob departed, leaving rosie's gaunt shoulders shaking over his exquisite wit. monday morning came very quickly. the entire family dreaded the three months which should be spent without margery, and to no one else in all the world than her girlhood friend did mrs. scollard feel that she could have borne to intrust her pretty daughter. she tasted in imagination the loneliness and motherly anxiety which she must feel before she got her back again. laura reveled in the opportunity for sentimental melancholy, composing a song entitled "parting," according to her custom on all family events. happie found it hard to see margery depart; her desire for the outing was swallowed up in the realization that for the first time in their lives she and margery were to be separated. the group of stay-at-homes gave margery many last injunctions as to what she should do on arriving in the jersey station at which mrs. charleford was to meet her, and they watched her skirt around the corner of the car door, and waved their good-byes to her from the platform, where they gathered to wave at her in the car window, until the train was lost to sight around the curve. then, true to their principles, bob and happie shook off their depression and bestirred themselves. "got to haul hay to-day," drawled bob, in accurate mimicry of jake shale's twang. "if you want to git that there hay in, miss bradbury, you'd might as well come along, fer they hain't much time these june days, 'n' the sun's hot." "i was taught there was more time in june days than in any others, mr. shale," said miss bradbury, while his mother laughed in response to bob's effort to cheer her. "however, i'm ready to go home if you're ready to drive me." happie and laura walked home from the village, and laura hummed her latest song, "parting," as they walked, such a dismal air that happie was not equal to sustained conversation to such an accompaniment. at the neumann gate happie paused. "i see gretta out there hanging up her clothes," she said. "i'm going to ask her if she can't steal off this afternoon when we are haying. we'll make a jollification of it. you can go on, laura; i'll come in a few minutes; no one would dare linger at the neumanns' on a monday morning." happie ran over the grass and seized gretta's shoulders, herself unseen. gretta screamed and then hailed happie joyfully. "my, but you scared me!" she cried. "margery gone?" happie nodded. "and i want you to come up this afternoon and get in hay with us--we want to make it a frolic, and beside, you really do know how to load a wagon as well as any farmer, so rosie says. but it's not for work i want you; you know that. come over, gretta, and help us be merry, for i'm afraid we miss margery." "i guess," assented gretta. "i'll come, if i can get my clothes in, and folded to iron in the morning. and now margery's gone i want to tell you that i know how you stayed here and let her go in your place--rosie gruber told us. you said you'd stay here, even if you got a chance to go, but i couldn't believe it. still, i know how bad you wanted to go, so i guess i was half way right, after all. never mind," she added hastily, as happie showed symptoms of interrupting her. "that's all right; i don't blame you. all i wanted to try and tell you was that i guess you haven't an idea of how glad i am you stayed. i don't seem to know how to say it, so i haven't let you know how much good you're doing me. if it's any comfort to you, you can be sure of one thing--i'd have been miserable if you'd gone. i didn't know the difference you were making, not rightly know it, till i heard from rosie that i might have lost you. it took my breath away. you like to make folks happy, so don't be sorry you let margery go, happie dear." happie had never before heard a speech of one third this length from gretta; she saw that the girl was trying to break through her reticence to comfort her for the regret which she fancied happie must feel. "why, you dear gretta!" she cried. "i do know you need me, and i do see you're happier and more girlish since i found you--found you in the paint pot, like 'the little husband no bigger than my thumb' of mother goose fame. you are quite, quite wrong if you think i am sorry that i could not go instead of margery. at first i did want to go; that's true, not because i don't like crestville, but because any girl would jump at such a chance as that--at first. but i'm delighted that it's margery and not i, who is on the train, and i'm glad for my own sake, not for hers alone. so be satisfied that i am satisfied, and come over to help us be happy in this lovely country life." "i'll come--unless i can't," said gretta, and happie ran homeward after laura. by three o'clock gretta's fresh starched pink sunbonnet appeared down the road, bobbing up and down under the trees. the scollards were all out in the field with ralph, all save happie, who had come in to watch for gretta and to take her out with her. but gretta did not seem to know that she was shy; her foot was on her native heath, she carried her own pitchfork, and in hay-making it was not she, but the city children who were at a disadvantage. "you'd better let me load," she said, nodding at peter kuntz who had taken jake shale's place that afternoon. it always surprised the inmates of the ark that there was, apparently, no inequality of age in crestville. everybody knew everybody else with the intimacy of first names and identical ages, even if one were eight and the other eighty. "glad to git you to load, gretta," responded pete heartily. and gretta swung herself up on the back of the hay wagon, taking her stand on the thin layer of hay already scattered over its floor, resting on her pitchfork like a youthful bellona. "now, laura, you and polly get out with penny, and leave--let--happie and ralph help me load. bob will help pete toss, and when we've loaded, you can all get up and ride in. we might stick somebody with the fork if there were too many on while we were loading," said gretta, taking command of the work in the wagon like the experienced young farmer that she was. "you don't need a fork, happie; it's just as well you haven't an extra one; you're not used to handling such things. you scatter with your hands, and i'll take the hay as pete and bob throw it up. you watch a minute, and you'll see what to do." laura obeyed gretta reluctantly, and happie began to think that the prettiest motions were not taught young girls, nor executed by them in calisthenic or dancing classes. gretta made a picture as she stood, her handsome face flushing under her rose-colored sunbonnet, her dark eyes bright with concentrated attention, and proud pleasure in performing her task as well as any boy could have done. her sleeves were turned back to her elbows, her brown arms were well-shaped, her tall figure splendidly proportioned, and strong with the strength of trained muscles and a life spent in the sunshine and pure air. she caught the great bunches of hay which pete and bob threw up to her, wielding her fork surely and gracefully, judging accurately and quickly where to place each forkful to keep the load symmetrical and the balance true so that when the last wisp was on, the great wagon would roll down the hilly meadow, down into the barn, with no danger to itself, nor to its riders. it was so fascinating to watch gretta's movements, to stand among the delicious hay in the june sunshine, that happie forgot to work, drinking in a new experience that seemed to her the most delightful she had ever tasted. the laden wagon was piled higher rapidly. bob and pete pitched fast, trying to tire gretta, but she received as fast as they pitched, and it was ralph who first cried for mercy. "look here, do you think we're hoppers?" he asked pantingly. "yes, grasshoppers," said bob, throwing a particularly large bunch of the fragrant timothy at his friend. but he stopped himself, and wiped his brow, leaving on it a design sketched in timothy seed. "talk about gymnasium practice!" he gasped. "there isn't a girl in one of the gyms, i believe, who could hold out at this work the way you have, gretta. i take off my hat to you; you have beaten me." and bob made a deep bow, sweeping the ground with the flapping hat which he wore like other farmers. to happie's surprise gretta returned the bow with an equally low one, brushing the hay with her gingham skirt spread out in each hand. her face dimpled with a mischievousness new in her. "every jack has a trade," she said. "i ought to beat you at hay-making; maybe you would beat me if we were loading up on latin. you might hand up penny now, bob, and then polly. i don't believe i'd use the fork for them. this wagon won't hold more than half a dozen more forkfuls, pete." "all right, gretta; that's all right," said pete. "you know when you've got enough." "i believe you think _you_ know when you've got enough, too, pete," suggested bob. "well," said pete, pushing back his hat with the arm that dried his face, and shifting his tobacco into his other cheek, "well, bob, i've been pitching hay for full--le's see--full forty-seven seasons, and i notice forks keeps gittin' heavier every one of the last ten of 'em." "gracious; mine is heavy enough for me now, in my first season!" exclaimed bob. "come up, pennykins; gretta's ready for the last of her load now." he swung penny up to the strong arms held out to receive her, followed penny with polly, and assisted laura by vigorous "boosts," and no small effort, for laura was not a good climber, and the hay afforded but poor foothold. with happie pulling on one arm, gretta the other, and bob shoving from below, dignified laura was hoisted in a most undignified manner. ralph slid down to help rake behind the wagon, pete took up the reins, shouted to his patient beasts, and the wagon started, groaning and protesting under the heavy burden with which gretta's skillful loading had heaped it. the field lay upward of the slope of a hill; rocks abounded in it, the loose pennsylvania rocks, as many and as troublesome as those with which new england struggles. there was a sort of cairn of them heaped at the foot of the slope where the bittenbenders, or some other predecessors of the present tenants, had deposited the stones which they had picked from the field, intending, on a day which had never come, to haul them away to the rough stone wall which marked the field's northern boundary. just as the hay wagon, looking like a moving hillock itself, reached this high mound of rocks, pete's hand guiding the horses, was thrown up to ward off a branch that threatened his eyes; the horses swerved, the wagon went up on two wheels, and the sudden motion sent polly from her seat too near the edge, head downward and backward, over the top of the load. it all happened in an instant. happie saw bob throw up his hands with a gesture of horror, saw polly disappear, and saw gretta spring up, at the same time throwing herself face downward on the hay. happie saw her catch one of polly's ankles, and hold the child with her strong hand, suspended over the wagon. pete jerked the reins sharply, the wagon righted itself, and gretta's other hand crept cautiously after its mate, taking polly's other ankle in its grasp. then happie aroused from the paralysis of mind that seemed to have fallen upon her. she crawled to the side of the wagon, and together she and gretta drew polly into safety. it seemed an hour since she had seen the child lurch backward and fall--it had been seconds. she looked down. there stood pete, blue under the tan of his skin. bob and ralph, one with hands upraised, the other crouched as if to dodge the sorrow, stood like statues, ashen gray. as happie looked down, bob moved, and turned away to hide the tears that streamed down his face. pete gathered together the reins, shaking from head to foot. ralph covered his face with his hands, and happie heard him breathe: "thank god!" "she'll never be no nearer the aidge of eternity till she goes over it," remarked pete. "git ap, jim! come on, lil!" polly lay hiding her face on gretta's lap, who smoothed her hair silently, her own face grave and pale. penny was crying with all her might, and laura rocked her body to and fro, moaning hysterically: "oh, those rocks! those rocks!" happie looked down at the pile for which polly had headed. it was hardly possible that she could have struck them, backward as she was falling, and not have broken her neck. a sickening realization of the sorrow so narrowly escaped, was followed by a swift rush of love and gratitude for the strong, quiet girl, whose quick brain and steady hand had saved polly. happie turned to gretta with her whole heart in her face. "it was death," she whispered; she could not summon her voice. "i can never thank you." "i only held her up," said gretta. then the color rushed up over her blanched face in a wave of joy. "i'm glad if i can pay some of my debt," she said. the great wagon, so heavily laden with its towering hay and grateful hearts, rolled slowly down the road. thanks to gretta, it was still carrying only glad young folk on a hay ride. but how nearly it had been dear little polly's funeral car! chapter xii laura's philanthropy "i wish you and gretta had not forgotten my pup," said miss bradbury coming into the dining-room the morning after the departure of margery. "i still hear queer noises at night. i'm going to send down to town for a good dog. jake shale has offered me a beagle, and peter kuntz assures me the one thing on earth i need is his old dog, half shepherd and seven-eighths cur, but i'm not convinced." "what a very fractional dog, miss keren!" laughed mrs. scollard. "let me send down to mother to get a dog a friend of mine has, miss bradbury," suggested ralph. "he's about two years old, and thoroughbred, a fine watchdog. they want to get him into the country, or they'd never give him up; he is out of place in new york, they think." "everything is that wants to run and play," agreed miss bradbury. "two-legged or four. what sort of dog is this one?" "a beauty collie," said ralph. "i'm sure he can be had for the asking. his owners won't sell him, because they want to be sure of the sort of hands he falls into. i'll write snigs to go ask for him, if you'll take him." "i'll take him," said miss bradbury. "tell snigs to come up in time for the fourth, and bring him." ralph colored with pleasure. "thanks, miss bradbury; you're awfully good. snigs would be delighted to come." "and we to have him!" cried happie. "you really are good, aunt keren!" "at least that's better than being awful, as ralph accuses me of being. though you do seem to feel it necessary to affirm my goodness, which is not complimentary," said miss bradbury. "i shall be obliged to snigs if he can get the dog; i don't intend to hear noises dogless any longer." "i wish, laura, you'd come fix my torn buttonhole," said polly from the doorway. "happie's going to do margery's work and her own too, and i can't keep my skirt fastened." "indeed i can't," said laura, leaving the room before her mother could interfere to stop her. "i've got to go out." far away as laura had always been from practical, every-day matters, of late she had been miles above the heads of her family, "soaring down the milky way," bob said, "when there were milk pails down below needing scalding." bob had scant patience with laura's nonsense at any time, and he was working rather hard that summer. it was trying; for at neither work nor play was laura any use. she had a secret. what it was nobody knew--which was not strange, considering that it is the nature of secrets not to be known--but nobody could conjecture what it was. if her mother and miss keren has guessed, it is highly probable that they would have interfered with her plan, but laura, intent on proving to the world, and to her own family in particular, her entire competence to succeed in whatever she undertook, kept her own counsel and went her mysterious way. up on the edge of the extreme boundary of crestville stood a little chapel served by a well-meaning, but illiterate young "preacher," as they called him in the village. he it was whom laura had selected as the instrument of her plan, and to it the young man lent himself with an enthusiasm most refreshing to a lady of scarce thirteen, accustomed to the ridicule of a large and unappreciative home circle. it was an extraordinary plan for a little girl to have laid, but then laura never did anything that one would expect from a girl of her age, and she had sufficient self-confidence to have equipped an arctic exploring party. the first requisite for her scheme was a place, a setting, and laura pitched upon the little church on the edge of the woods as the best for her purpose. so one day she had attired herself in her most becoming muslin, took a book under her arm, and a roll of music in her hand--not that she needed them, but for dramatic effect--and sallied forth to win the young preacher to her way of thinking. he lived not far from his church; when laura knocked at the door his girl-wife opened it with her right hand, holding her baby in the hollow of that arm, while the left hand held a yellow bowl full of potatoes which she had just fetched from the cellar. "see mr. buck?" she repeated after laura, but with a strong pennsylvania dutch accent that rendered the name "book." "yes, i guess. he's in the room. you go in through if you want. wait a little; i'll call him." she disappeared, leaving laura standing just across the threshold, and returned followed by a young man with beady black eyes, who looked as if he could not have been more than twenty-two years old. he greeted laura with respect most cheering to her soul, and invited her into "the room," which the little girl had already learned was short for "the best room," or "the sitting-room." laura placed herself with much dignity upon the figured lounge, which was arrayed in the brightest shades of all colors, deposited her roll and book beside her, crossed her feet, folded her hands and began with the utmost self-possession to unfold her errand. "mr. buck," she said. "i am the daughter of mrs. scollard, the lady from new york who is staying with her friend who owns the bittenbender place." "yes, i know," said mr. buck. "i have seen you and your sisters and brothers already; we look in when we go by, my wife and i. you have it good there yet." "oh, we don't like it!" returned laura with a toss of her head. "it is better than it was, though. i came to talk to you about a plan i have for entertaining the people of the--the people all around here who want to improve themselves. i thought i would give an entertainment on the fourth of july, and invite everybody; just let everybody know they can come if they want to." "free?" inquired the young preacher, as laura paused for an instant for breath. "oh, of course!" exclaimed laura impatiently. "you know there isn't anything here to improve people; you don't have any lectures, nor music, nor pictures, nor anything at all. i am--well, you see i write music and poetry, and i play and sing, and i want to do something for these poor people. i want to give an entertainment on the fourth of july, and i want you to help me. will you?" "what a good girl you must be, and ain't you smart!" exclaimed the young man admiringly. he was very simple, and it never occurred to him to question the ability of this girl who spoke so beautifully, and was so very easy in her manners, to do exactly what she said she could do, and he was honestly grateful for her desire to do something for his flock. "what should i do?" he asked. "should i speak for you? i might make a speech after your songs; should i? i guess that would go good." "no, i don't think so," said laura positively. then, seeing the disappointment in the young man's face, and not being without tact when she had an end in view, she added: "in entertainments they don't have speeches; not in this kind of entertainment. what i want to do is improve people, don't you see?" laura herself did not see the suggestion latent in her remark that mr. buck's speech might not be improving. nor did he, for he accepted her decision meekly, and asked: "what then should i do?" "you can let me give the entertainment in your chapel, please," said laura grandly. "and you can let me come here to practice every day, so they won't know at home that we are going to have this entertainment. you won't tell any one till just before the fourth, will you?" "no," said the little preacher. then looking puzzled he inquired: "don't they know at your house what you're doing? ain't they going to help you yet?" "no, indeed," cried laura. "if they did i could give--no, i couldn't give the entertainment at home, because there wouldn't be room for all the people who would come, but i could practice at home. it is to be a secret, so i want you, please, to let me practice on the organ, or whatever you have in the church----" "it's an organ," interrupted the little preacher, looking hurt for the first time. "the ladies of my congregation bought it saving up egg money and doing washing for city boarders one summer. it cost thirty dollars; it's a regular parlor organ, a good one. it sounds 'most so good as a big organ; wait till you hear it once!" "yes," said laura, a trifle impatiently, for she was not interested in the organ, except as it served her end. "i'm glad it is a good one. i'd like to practice every day till the fourth, and i came up to ask you if you didn't think my plan a beautiful one, and if you wouldn't be kind enough to help me? i knew that a minister would want to do anything he could to improve people, and to make them happy," she added artfully. "of course," assented mr. buck heartily. "i'll give you the key to the church, and you can practice all the days you want. and you can give the entertainment here. you must be smart if you can do it all alone, and sing, and make up poetry yet! and you are a kind young lady to want to amuse folks." laura tried to look modest, but succeeded only in dropping her eyes in the semblance of modesty; in her heart she felt that this praise was merited. she arose to go with what she felt sure was a graceful, dignified and entirely grown-up manner. [illustration: "he followed laura to the front door"] "oh," she said, "i am glad to give the poor people a chance to hear good music. and i am not smart to make up music and poetry; it is a talent of mine, that's all. good-bye, mr. buck. thank you for helping me, but of course i knew you would want to." she gathered up the music and book which she had carried with a vague intention of letting them prove her claim to music and poetry, and extended her hand with the air of an empress as she moved towards the door. the honest little preacher grasped the hand heartily. "good-bye," he said. "i am obliged to you for letting me help you out." he followed laura to the front door where he halted as a thought struck him. "will it be funny, your show on the fourth?" he asked. "our folks like funny things. shall they laugh at it, say not?" "dear me, no," cried laura, sincerely shocked. "they must learn to like something higher than funny things! funny things are not improving." which statement proved how much she knew of human nature. the little preacher looked wistful. "they gets pretty tired," he said doubtfully. "it's hard work farming, and these fields are stony yet! in my county we don't have to pick stones three days before we can plough one day." laura smiled in a superior way, and turned to go. "i shouldn't feel like doing funny things, mr. buck," she said. "good music is the saddest thing! and all my poetry is very deep." with which statement she went out of the little gate. the awe-struck bucks watched her depart. "how much would you give her, anna?" asked the young husband. "she writes music and poetry, and she's going to give folks a free concert, or something, in the church on fourth of july. for a little i thought she hadn't fourteen years." "she ain't," said the nineteen-years-old wife positively. "do you guess she could do such a thing if she ain't?" queried her husband. "i guess. in new york girls get smart early, maybe. i wish you could get a church there once, alvah, when the baby's big enough. i'd like to have her grow up with such smartness." the object of these flattering remarks went her homeward way rejoicing, and it had been from that hour that her family had noticed that she was uplifted higher than ever above their heads. every day she had gone up the road carrying a mysterious package, and had refused to explain the mystery when happie had tried to investigate it. "yes, i have a secret," laura said, in reply to her sister's question. "but that's the very reason i won't tell you; people generally don't tell secrets. if you can wait a while, you will know what it is, and you will find it was something worth waiting for." "i don't know, motherums, but i imagine she carries her books and paper off into the dampest, darkest spot by the brook and composes poetry and music out of doors. it would be just like her, and her packages look like papers," said happie, divided in her mind as usual between disgust, and sisterly pride in her talented junior. this was before margery had gone away, and the secret had not leaked out on the morning when miss bradbury had again announced her longing for a dog. it was three days before the fourth, and on that day, obedient to laura's instructions, mr. buck began notifying the public which he met on his way to and from the post-office, that miss scollard was going to give an entertainment in the chapel on the evening of the fourth, without money and without price, solely for the love of her fellow creatures, who were invited to gather in large numbers to share her bounty. the first that her family knew of laura's undertaking was when bob returned from the post-office, fuming with rage, yet convulsed with the fun of it, burdened with the following announcement which he had found tacked up in the post-office: "miss laura scollard announces to the people in crestville that she will give an entertainment in mr. buck's chapel on fourth of july at half-past seven p. m. she will sing and play and read and give them a chance to hear good things, so she hopes they will all come. free." "the last word was in big letters," said bob as he finished reading his copy of the impressive announcement, and ralph took a header into the couch in fresh enjoyment of it. "and you can bet the very last thing that you have, or ever hope to have that they'll come all right!" "come!" echoed rosie. "why, you couldn't keep 'em away! they'll think it's goin' to be something great, and that you all had a hand in it. what in creation do you s'pose she's a-goin' to do?" "sing and play, just as she says she is, and read to the audience--from her own poems, most likely. oh, mother, isn't it awful?" cried happie, her sense of humor so overwhelmed by her mortification that she was unable to get even as much as bob's divided amusement out of the discovery of laura's scheme. "it is the most absurd thing!" cried mrs. scollard, flushed and annoyed, yet half laughing. "i feel that i ought not to let the absurd child go on; she is sure to make a little goose of herself, and the village people will take it all seriously, for they will certainly think that i have helped her! yet laura's conceit needs a sharp lesson, and she must be punished, in one way or another, for utterly ignoring her elders in this way. i feel confident that she will be punished if we leave her to her own destruction, for she is abnormally thin-skinned. i really don't know what to do!" "let her go, mother; we can stand it, and i think she deserves to be called down--the conceited little ninny!" said bob vigorously. "and if she doesn't take a tumble this time, i'm no prophet." "don't you boys help her to 'take a tumble.' if we let her alone to go on, we must also let her alone to succeed, if she can," interposed mrs. scollard, mistrusting the boys' strength to resist the temptation to tease, and dreading laura's punishment, after all. "don't harbor misgivings, charlotte," advised miss bradbury. "let laura learn by experience. country people are not the dunces she evidently thinks them; if i'm not mistaken she will be both sadder and wiser on the fifth of july." "yes, let her alone," rosie said decidedly. "i'll see to it the place knows you hadn't nothin' to do with this affair. just see what she'll make of it. my days, what kind o' jedgment has preacher buck to leave her have the church?" ralph and bob went down in the afternoon to bring up from the station snigs and the dog. it was a jubilant trio--quartette--that entered the ark in time for supper. dundee, the collie, was nervous and tired, but he was a beauty beast, and miss bradbury actually hurried through her supper to make him a bed outside her door, "in case of further noises," she explained. no one spoke of the entertainment to laura, but at dinner on the fourth, she officially announced it. "i suppose," she said graciously, "you have already heard of it, though we have not mentioned it. you will all come, won't you?" "you bet your life!" cried bob irrepressibly. but with that one exception, the family received laura's announcement as gravely as it was made. it was a group struggling hard to preserve its gravity that issued from the ark and wended its way to the chapel after tea. laura's family seated themselves far enough back to be able to retreat if the ordeal proved too trying. mrs. scollard and happie sympathized with each other's uneasiness and mortification, miss bradbury sat erect with a blank countenance, but the three boys gave themselves up to unreserved glee, leaning on the big sticks with which they had provided themselves for applause. gretta came late, and joined happie in the seat which the latter had saved for her. "don't you worry," whispered gretta. "maybe she won't be so bad when she is giving an entertainment; maybe folks won't think she is silly." this was the first intimation that happie had received that her friend had been privately regarding her gifted sister as foolish, when that young person herself had fondly believed that she was impressing the country girl. laura came before the audience with a most serious face, but looking her best, with her cheeks red from excitement, and her eyes shining. "ladies and gentlemen," she said with a little bow, "this is the fourth of july. i think we ought to begin by singing 'my country, 'tis of thee.'" "that is a good beginning," whispered mrs. scollard, with a breath of temporary relief. the audience arose and sang the first stanza of the national hymn with gusto, but in the second stanza very few were singing the words, and in the third they gave up humming the air, and only laura and mr. buck, who had books, were left singing. "it's like the peterkins and the declaration of independence," whispered ralph, and bob nudged him joyfully. "i will sing for you a hymn i wrote myself for this day," announced laura, seating herself at the organ. the air had seemed to her when she was practicing it, sublime; now, heard with the consciousness of less partial ears, it developed a lack of variety, and the accompaniment left much to be desired. more than that, in spite of her daily practice on that organ, now, in the excitement of giving her composition to the public, laura sometimes forgot to pump, and what accompaniment there was went off into a feeble squeak. the audience behaved beautifully; it sat solemnly listening, believing that the tenants of the ark, through their youthful representative, were trying to entertain it, and it politely tried to look entertained. but somehow, probably through rose gruber, it began to be whispered about that the elder scollards had nothing to do with the present occasion, and the attitude of the audience became less respectful. when laura came forward and recited an original poem, however, her hearers veered again towards respect for her. they were not critical; the lines rhymed; it seemed to them very wonderful that a girl scarcely in her 'teens could write rhymes, and laura was applauded heartily. but when she returned to music, and especially when she prefaced her next number by the information that she had taken pity on crestville's darkness, the village people altered their minds about laura and were ready to poke fun at whatever she might do. there was no doubt that there was plenty of chance for ridicule. the foolish little girl began a song of gottschalk's--and broke down. then, nothing daunted, she essayed a solo on the organ, forgot to pump, lost her place, remembered to pump, but forgot her fingers, struck false notes, and ended by knocking her music off the rack with such force that a whole snarl of keys growled at once, and an irreverent boy in the audience cried: "sic 'em! catch 'em, towse!" to the indecorous delight of all around him. "i am not used to parlor organs," said laura with tearful dignity and purpling face. "only to hand organs?" inquired someone in the audience, and a woman's voice said: "shame! don't tease the little girl!" but several tittered. "i'm going to recite a great poem for you," said laura rallying to her programme with what really was pluck, though misdirected. "poetry is good for you to hear, because you all work so hard, and hear so little that is fine." "how can she? how can a child of mine be so pompous and so foolish?" groaned her mother. "it is only the artistic temperament, my dear," said miss bradbury philosophically, her keen eyes twinkling. then laura began to recite paul revere's ride; she explained afterwards that she had selected that because it was patriotic for the fourth of july, and that she thought she would throw in a smattering of historical teaching with the poetical training she was giving the crestvillians. what was her amazement to hear three voices join with hers in the recitation, and an additional voice occasionally shout out a word at the end of a line, as if some of her audience knew what rhyme to expect! "it's in the reader," whispered gretta to happie, and then happie understood. as laura's voice faltered on the last syllable of the familiar poem, a big boy jumped up on the platform and bowed ironically to laura. "i am appointed by the residents of crestville to thank you for improving them so much," he said. then he turned to the audience, and added: "ladies and gentlemen, considering you live so far from the city, and are a lot of hayseeds anyhow, i will recite for you a few poems, because poetry's good for you after haying. 'hickory, dickory dock, the mouse ran up----'" he could get no further. instantly all the younger portion of the audience was on its feet shouting mother goose rhyme after mother goose rhyme, sometimes in chorus, more often raggedly, each one, apparently, saying whatever rhyme presented itself, and young and old shouting with laughter the while. "now don't you mind 'em!" whispered a kindly old lady to the scollards. "they don't mean nothin' hard--they're kinder making fun of your girl, but they don't mean nothin'!" mrs. scollard smiled back, though a trifle tremulously. "it's hard on the child--she took it all so seriously--but she needs being laughed at; i'm glad they are laughing. and they are not unkind. she deserves a lesson for being so conceited with her elders! please tell everybody the child did not consult us, we did not help her with this, and that we are grateful to crestville for the way it is teaching her a few important facts." for a few moments laura stood facing her mocking audience, now turned entertainers in her stead. she could not grasp what had happened. at last the truth dawned upon her that she, laura, the gifted, was being ridiculed, handled with no respect for her talents, nor for her social superiority. when she realized this painful fact, she turned as white as a little ghost, and fled from the church, the laughter of her audience following her down the road as she ran towards home. chapter xiii humility, calves and ginger pop mrs. scollard lost no time in following laura from her waterloo. she and happie hurried out of the chapel and down the road, leaving the ark boys to carry out their hastily-laid plan of helping the crestville boys to turn the occasion which laura had meant should be so improving into an old-fashioned frolic, worthy the day we celebrate. but though mrs. scollard and happie made their best pace down the road, laura was nowhere in sight all the way, and when they reached the house there was still no trace of her. a window was open into the kitchen; if she were in the house, laura must have climbed in that way, for her mother and miss bradbury had both keys. mrs. scollard put hers into the lock with many misgivings. her heart smote her for having let laura go on to certain defeat; it might be--it would be--good for her in the end, but it was hard for the mother to give over the foolish child to discipline, and she yearned over her in her present mortification which must be cruelly hard to bear. inside the house everything was dark and quiet. mrs. scollard and happie called laura, but there was no reply. striking a light they looked through the rooms on the lower floor, but found only jeunesse dorée, who came out stretching and purring, telling happie that he had slept during his family's absence not to waste time, and was now entirely at her disposal for a romp. there was no laura, and when the search was continued up-stairs it was not more successful. miss bradbury came home with rosie and penny, leaving polly under the boys' protection to see the fun, and found mother and daughter much perturbed. rosie took the situation calmly. "she hain't lost," she said, removing penny's hat and rather tight little coat, for penny was growing fast. "she's hidin' somewheres; she's too sore to want to face a cat. she'll turn up. looked in the cellar and on the attic? after that i'd hunt the barn. many's the time i've hid in the hay, already, when i was little and my pap was after me; if we could keep out of the way long enough pap'd always fergit he meant to whip us. there hain't many places better to hide in than the hay-loft. i remember i was up there oncet hidin', and i come on a nest a hen had stole up there--had fourteen aiggs in it yet! i gathered all them there aiggs in my aprun--had to reach far to git 'em, so i put one foot over a bundle of straw there was layin' there--kinder stood astride of it yet--and i'll be switched if that there straw bundle didn't set out a-slidin'! i couldn't git offen it, so i just dropped down as i stood, astride of it, and held up my aprun good, and i sez: git ap! and i slid right down onto the barn floor's much's ten foot below. my days, i thought the floor had come up through the top of my head when i struck! but i held up them aiggs in my aprun, and there wa'n't one of 'em broke. but i was that stunted i didn't git over it for good two hours." happie shouted; even mrs. scollard laughed, in spite of her growing anxiety, and penny sighed admiringly: "oh, rosie dear, you _are_ so funny!" "get a candle, happie--i am afraid to carry a lighted lamp into the attic--and we'll look there first," said mrs. scollard. "perhaps you had better stay here. i fancy laura would rather not see you, nor bob, till the first mortification is over." happie brought the candle, shading it with her hand from the strong breeze. "here it is, mother. i'll put penny to bed in the meantime," she said. mrs. scollard proceeded up the stairs, continuing her way to the attic, while happy took penny into her room. there was nothing in sight when the mother reached the head of the narrow stairs, except a mouse which scuttled away to its hole as the light appeared, and just in time to escape dorée, who had followed his mistress in the hope of adventures of this nature, and with an expression of deep interest on his saucy, short-nosed face. the rafters loomed out in fantastic, wavering shapes before the exaggerating flame of the candle; everything was quiet and orderly, and mrs. scollard was about to turn towards the stairs, when dorée remarked: "m-m-ummm?" in his pleasant little calling tone, and trotted over to the darkest corner, with his tail preternaturally straight, and his back slightly arched, as if ready for a caressing hand. mrs. scollard took the cat's advice, and hurried in the same direction that he was going, holding her candle high above her head to throw the light into the gloom before her. there, prostrate behind the old bittenbender trunk, lay the genius rejected by the ungrateful crestvillians. mrs. scollard set down her candle with mingled solicitude for laura herself, and for laura's best dress, and with a gleam of amusement, now that her anxiety was relieved. "laura dear, come out," she said gently. "be wise enough not to brood over a mistake that you will not make again." laura lifted her head quickly. "mistake, mamma!" she cried. "i made no mistake. but do you think i can help minding being treated so ungratefully, even insulted by those horrid, ignorant people?" "come here, laura," said her mother, in the tone which her children always obeyed. laura came forth, dusty, tear-stained, a wreck of her usual self-satisfied and trim little self. her mother drew her on her knee as she seated herself on a chest, and began to smooth the tumbled hair, and to stroke the hot cheeks with a gentle hand. "let me show you the mistake, my dear," she said. "here is a little girl, barely thirteen, who first of all prepares an entertainment, and gives it, not only without consulting her elders, but without their permission. you certainly have no right, laura, to undertake a public appearance without asking leave. it is for this that you are punished; i knew that you would receive your just dues if i refrained from interfering, and i am glad that your punishment has been quite severe enough without one from me. for--and this is the second part of your mistake, and a part that affects your every action--you take your small self much too seriously, my laura. you have talents, which i hope to have cultivated into value, but in the meantime they are but a childish promise of what may be. and because of them you plume yourself, hold yourself superior to your brother and sisters, who are in their way quite as clever as you in yours, and more clever in not overrating themselves. it is very stupid to be conceited in a world full of truly great things, my laura. another mistake was to allow yourself to feel and to speak to our neighbors to-night as if you were their superior. they were older than you, my dear, and you have been taught that people with fewer advantages than yourself may be quite as quick-witted; a very wholesome lesson! the audience which you invited to come to be addressed condescendingly was perfectly sweet-tempered and patient with the little girl who tried to patronize it. i am grateful to the crestville people for understanding, and being so kind. so you are not to harbor bitterness, nor to go on making the old mistake of thinking that what a child like you does matters too much. you are to come down with mother, go to bed and go to sleep, a wiser little girl, saying to yourself: 'i shall never again be a conceited little goose!' and nobody will think twice of what was merely a little girl's folly in forgetting that she _was_ a little girl. but she's her mother's little girl, so give me a kiss, and forget all about this evening, except its lessons. i wonder if i can find a place not too dusty to kiss?" laura submitted to her mother's caress, but did not respond to it with an answering smile. she followed the wavering candle-light down the stairs with faltering steps; she was weak and ill from excessive crying, and the fall of her pride had bruised her mentally black and blue. jeunesse dorée, bringing up the rear, was the only cheerful person of the three. in the morning laura was feverish and not fit to get up. mrs. scollard left her in rosie's care--she needed only rest,--and went for a drive with miss bradbury, who had of late summoned courage to brave automobiles with don dolor under her personal guidance. gretta came up shortly after breakfast, bringing the fresh peas with which miss bradbury had asked her to supplement the crop of the ark garden. "you haven't any calves, have you?" gretta said by way of salutation the moment she entered. "i saw some down by your gate; they must have just turned in from the road, but they looked as if they had just run out of your place." "cæsar's ghost! of course we have calves; aunt keren got three two days ago, goodness knows what for!" cried bob. "but they can't be ours, because i put them in the cow-yard, and looked after the bars myself." "you don't know calves," said rosie. "they beat the dutch at getting out. i've seen 'em already get out when you wouldn't have believed anything could. just you wait till apple time comes, and then try penning up your cows! they get clear crazy when they smell the ripe apples all over, and you can't keep 'em in to save you. i advise you to go right out and drive in them calves, bob, and not wait a minute." "yes," said gretta, "or they'll be, no one knows where! if you have any calves they must be yours i saw, for they were just inside your gate. there were three of them. we'll all go help you drive, but there ought to be more of us." "polly, you look after laura if she wants something, while we chase up them calves," said rosie. "mortification's set in with laura, gretta; she's sick in bed after last night." gretta laughed, then looked pitying. "it's too bad; it was hard," she said. "come on, snigs; come on, ralph," called happie. "we're going to enjoy the pleasures of the chase. run up and tell laura we'll be right back; she'll hear us, and worry," she added to polly. now snigs was just getting a bottle of ginger pop off the ice, intending to regale himself. the ice-box stood on the back stoop for lack of space in the kitchen, and when he heard the summons to chase calves, snigs, nothing loathe to join in the sport, hastily shoved the bottle of ginger ale into his hip pocket, and ran around the side of the house to join the pursuing party. there was no doubt that the calves were bradburys--by adoption. bob instantly recognized them as the three which, as he supposed, he had made fast in the cow-yard. whether they recognized him or not was less certain. they all three faced the six bipeds with that peculiarly innocent gaze of calfhood, lowering their heads and spreading their feet, all three in a row, the ecru jersey, the tan and brown part jersey and the black and white holstein. "you just go around on that side, snigs," said bob, as he and ralph prepared to dash forward. "drive them right up. we'll head them off from around the house." this confident announcement proved how truly rosie had spoken when she said that bob did not know cows. drive them up, indeed! the moment snigs came up somewhere near close enough to be of any use, the calves with one simultaneous, if not concerted, movement, lowered their heads a little further, kicked up their six hind legs and scuttled out into the road. "there! that's the way they always act!" cried gretta. "there's nothing on earth so hard to drive as calves, except pigs. bob, run; head 'em off! ralph, snigs, get on up the road, or they'll go over into the next county. come, happie!" and gretta herself followed rosie down the road at top speed. the calves paused, looking as who should say: "how strangely excited you all are!" then they trotted quietly up the road, slipping past rosie, gretta and happie by the simple device of dividing forces, one on one side, the other two on the other side of the road. then they saw the boys, and stopped short, eyeing them blandly as they crept towards them, whirled suddenly, threw up their legs again, whisked their tails into an arch, and bolted for the boundary fence of the farm opposite the ark. "keep 'em out of there!" shrieked rosie. "that there field belongs to the crabbedest man in the township. my days, but it's hot!" there was not the slightest objection to keeping them out of the field, save to the minds of the lively beasts themselves. they seemed to think it would be a good joke to go through a broken paling and trample down their neighbor's clover--even calves are liable to have a different sense of humor from oneself. the holstein capered through--smiling, happie declared--and the other two followed without the loss of a moment. bob, ralph and snigs rushed after them, shouting like demented megaphones. the calves kept ahead of them without an effort. "if they get over there by the woods that's the end of it!" cried snigs despairingly. suddenly the calves stopped, looked around inquiringly, wheeled right about face, and trotted easily up to the broken palings and out into the road, where they turned to gaze reproachfully at the irate boys whom they had left behind, plainly asking if they could not take their sport like gentlemen, and lose a race without losing their tempers. "now close up!" shouted bob. "head 'em off into our gate; they're bunched now." they were, but they immediately unbunched--if one may so express their sudden scattering. rosie and gretta made a desperate lurch to stop this dispersion. rosie stubbed her toe on a rock and fell headlong, her whole great length stretched out on the dusty road, and her arms extended; she looked like a fallen guide-post. the boys uttered a war-whoop, and nearly fell over the fence they were climbing. rosie was a wreck as happie and gretta raised her; dust--the red shale dust of the region reddening her clean gingham; her sunbonnet flattened into a reddish mass, and her face crimson from heat, wrath and the shock of her fall. "mahlon hain't much of a man, but he's got the right to swear; i hain't," she remarked grimly, evidently regretting masculine rights and her own limitations. gretta wiped away the tears of laughter on her own dusty apron. "eunice will be furious because i'm gone so long," she said, "but this is worth a scolding. and do look once at those calves!" apparently the three young reprobates had taken rosie's fall as a melancholy warning of what happened when people ran, for they had turned into their own gate as meekly as if that had been their intention from the first, and stood chewing and looking out at the heated group of their pursuers. "they look as if they were going to sing: 'speak gently, it is better far to rule by love than fear,'" said happie, pulling herself together; she was weak from laughter. "for mercy's sake, drive them in before they change their minds again!" cried bob. "here come mother and aunt keren back." rosie, gretta and happie ran up to the gate of the ark just as the boys reached it from the other side, and just as don dolor, in the road, was nearly abreast of it. to every one's horror there came a loud report, apparently a pistol shot. snigs shot up into the air about a yard, and fell, screaming aloud. don dolor arose on his hind legs, danced a moment as miss bradbury vainly tried to get control of him, then bolted down the road in a cloud of dust. it had all happened so quickly that for an instant the terrified group around snigs stood petrified, gazing at the prostrate boy, and down the road after the flying horse. then ralph picked up snigs with agony stamped on his face, and rosie cried: "what in time has happened? why," she added, feeling of snigs, "you're all wet; are you bleeding?" "i guess so," moaned snigs. "it's the ginger--ginger ale." "ginger ale!" echoed ralph with a darting thought that the wound was in his brother's head, and that he was wandering in his mind. "what ginger ale?" demanded rosie, more than ever mystified. "went off in my pock--pocket," sobbed snigs, trying to control his unmanly emotion. bob, experienced in being a boy, plunged his hand into snigs' hip pocket, and drew it out quicker than he had put it in, dripping with blood. "great scott! his pocket's full of broken glass!" he cried. "did you have a bottle of ginger pop in there, snigs?" "yes," said snigs, mastering the tears that flowed more from nervousness than from pain. "i was just getting one when you called me to catch those calves--plague take them! so i stuffed it into my pocket, because i was in too big a hurry to go into the house with it, and now it's bust!" "it got hot and worked!" cried bob. "christopher columbus, what a morning!" he couldn't help laughing, but he looked worried. "i wish i knew where mother was; aunt keren can't drive when a horse needs driving. they may be upset." "i guess not; the road's straight," said rosie. "are you hurt, snigs? maybe that there glass blew somewhere into his flesh." "oh!" cried happie, laughing and crying hysterically as she pictured glass blowing into flesh, and straining her eyes for a sight of don dolor. "they're coming!" cried gretta, who had the long vision of eyes accustomed to mountain reaches. "my, they must be worried! it sounded exactly like a shot." "i'm going to help ralph carry snigs up-stairs," said rosie, but laura intercepted her, coming over the grass in a trailing wrapper of her mother's, with polly and penny clinging to her hands. "who did that pistol kill?" she demanded tragically, with no doubt that a case of not-knowing-that-it-was-loaded had occurred in her family. "snigs has been wounded by ginger pop," cried happie over her shoulder, flying to meet the returning buggy. "who is wounded; tell me quick who is wounded?" gasped mrs. scollard, leaning far out of the carriage, while at the same time miss bradbury demanded: "where did you get it?" "snigs is wounded; he got it out of the ice box--it was a ginger pop bottle that exploded in his pocket. it's not serious, mother," shouted bob. even miss bradbury's laugh rang out at this statement, and mrs. scollard fell back into her seat, sobbing and laughing at the relief. don dolor looked ashamed of himself, yet glad that he had so quickly allowed himself to be brought under control by his inexperienced driver, hoping, probably, that his family would make due allowance for the fact that the explosion had sounded enough like a pistol to deceive them, and that he had not been expecting such a sound at his own gate. "such a morning, and all for those dreadful calves!" sighed happie, as she and gretta climbed into the buggy to go after the doctor, and ralph and bob bore snigs into the house. "by the way, where are the abominable things?" "rosie has them," said polly. "she drove them around the house." "you'd better go in, laura; you're not dressed for public--for being out of doors," said happie, altering her sentence, fearing to allude to public appearances when laura was emerging from her tragic frame of mind in relation to her recent experience in that line. gretta and happie looked back as they drove out of the yard. they saw rosie putting up the cow-yard bars, while the three calves looked over them with gentle, peaceful faces. even at that distance the girls could recognize the emphasis with which rosie put the bars in the posts, and made them fast. chapter xiv an ark adrift? snigs' queer accident proved more serious than it had at first appeared. the glass had "blown into the flesh," as rosie had suggested; it took seven stitches of sewing to repair the boy, and he was ill in bed for ten days with high fever and considerable pain. july was wearing away into august, and the thermometer mounted uncommonly high for an instrument hanging at such altitude above sea-level. mrs. scollard drooped under the heat, and chafed with impatience to get well; the prospect of resuming her duties in town looked distant and dim. happie lost her fresh color and buoyancy under unaccustomed duties, and bob grew grave also as each day piled up hard farm work, and september loomed in sight with its unsolved problems of school and business opportunities. polly and penny were growing bigger and browner almost hour by hour, and laura was an improved laura, with her vanity much chastened and her self-confidence subdued by her misadventure. margery's letters were overflowing with happiness, but her mother read in them subtle indications that her eldest girl was slipping over the boundary line of young girlhood, and was growing up. gretta's affairs were getting worse, while she was improving day by day. miss bradbury and mrs. scollard had grown very fond of the pretty girl, and hardly less interested than happie in trying to solve the untangling of her life. in proportion as her new friends cared for her, and she blossomed out into the development her cousins had grudged her, the neumanns became more unkind to her. it was plain that matters could not long continue as they were, and miss bradbury and mrs. scollard fruitlessly discussed gretta's prospects, and wished it were within their power to brighten them. the first of august brought summons of return to ralph and snigs. they went away sadly, for the prospect of the scollards' following them was not bright, and the boys would not be able to come back to the ark before school began. these were the changes that august brought to the ark. with them there was creeping into the air a feeling of waiting. not of waiting for anything definite, but a vague feeling of unrest, as if "something were going to happen," a feeling very like the atmosphere on a still august afternoon when not a leaf is stirring, and great thunder heads pile up in the west. "i only hope it will be something good when it happens," happie said when her mother confessed to this uneasiness. "it really seems as if we could not stand anything bad." she did not mean to betray her weariness in well-doing; it slipped out in spite of herself. "poor little happie!" sighed her mother, fluttering the sheets of her latest long letter from margery. "i wonder if i should have insisted on your going to bar harbor?" "of course not, motherums!" cried happie hastily. "margery's letters sound as if she were as happy as the days are long, but they sound as if she had more margery-things than happie-things." "so they do," assented her mother. "you too have noticed the older note, then? i suppose we must make up our minds to letting margery grow up. but you would have found what you call 'happie-things' if you had been there. we all find our own attractions throughout life, and wherever we may be. like draws like, and we rise or sink to our own level; never forget that, my happie." "mothers find little texts everywhere, don't they, motherums?" said happie kissing her. "they are forever improving their children's minds and morals, and they don't have to wait to find sermons even in stones--though bar harbor must have rocks!" "it is a great advantage to a preacher to have a congregation that must listen," retorted her mother. "run away and make your cake for supper, you saucy happie." "saucy happie" turned away laughing, but before she had time to obey miss bradbury came into the room with a step that combined stealth and haste. "i haven't said a word," she whispered, so low that she could hardly be described as saying a word then, "because i did not want to frighten you, charlotte, but dundee has been growling fearfully for the past two nights. i don't see how you could have helped hearing him--though to be sure he has slept under my bed, with my door shut! he is out in the yard now, growling and crawling up towards the back door. i am certain that i saw a figure skulking along by the fence. here is a revolver; i brought it up in case of need, but i can't let any one touch it. where's bob?" "he's out in the barn looking after don dolor," said mrs. scollard. "i'm not at all frightened, miss keren. i'm sure there's nothing wrong. suppose you stay here with the revolver, and let happie go out in the kitchen to see if rosie's there." "you never can tell how nervous people are going to be nervous!" exclaimed miss bradbury, as if she were disappointed by mrs. scollard's calmness, even while dreading to disturb her. "very well; creep out, happie, but go carefully!" happie laughed, and obediently departed. she heard low voices as she neared the kitchen, and she opened the door to discover rosie's mahlon standing there on one leg, "like the goose he is," happie thought, not feeling in the mood to be amused by rosie's decidedly not better half. "have you been around here nights lately?" asked happie. "pretty much all summer," whined mahlon. "rosie didn't know it--she wouldn't have cared, no sir, not if she did know it. she hasn't any heart in her, and then you folks got a dog!" happie's laugh rang out, and she hurried back to the library. "put away your revolver, aunt keren; it's only rosie's mahlon, and the most you would need for him would be a wringing machine--he's very tearful!" then she rushed back to see the fun. "now you keep still!" she heard rosie say in a fierce whisper as she entered. but it was much too hard a matter to mahlon to get started talking for him to be easily silenced. he swung his right arm, and swung his right leg in unison with it. his voice arose into a tearful whine; he seemed to be on the point of breaking into tears, as he often did when excited. "no, sir," he piped, "i couldn't do it! nobody couldn't do it. he told me to go up once on the barn loft, on that there cracked ladder and throw down the old straw. and i told him i couldn't, and i wasn't goin' to break my neck, not for him nor nobody like him, and me with a wife dependent on me yet!" rosie glanced at happie involuntarily, with a gleam of pure humor in her eyes, and in spite of herself happie laughed aloud. this seemed to outrage mahlon's already wounded feelings. his voice rose higher and more squeaky as he said: "yes, sir, you may laugh, but i'm a man, and i've got a man's feelin's yet. i told him i wouldn't climb that there ladder, not if i died fer it, and he said i'd got to climb it, or quit. so i quit, and here i am. i'd like to know what your folks think i'm goin' to do if i hain't got no work, and my wife helpin' you, and my house shut up, lettin' me without no home?" the arm-and-leg movement waxed furious, and the wailing voice broke altogether as the forlorn creature fell like a scarecrow in a gale, doubled up on a chair, his arms on the table, while he cried into them, face downwards. happie felt painfully embarrassed, not understanding the intention of this appeal, but rosie proved herself equal to this, as to all other occasions. she took her limp husband by the shoulder and shook him together like a feather bed, the same movement bringing him to his feet. "here, you git ap!" she said emphatically. "i hain't goin' to have them dirty coat sleeves that you wear 'round the pigs on my clean table where i'm goin' to make biscuits, and happie's goin' to bake cake fer supper yet! and you cryin', like a i'd-know-what! i bet you what you dare they got tired already chasin' you round over there to make you work! i guess i know how you dig--take out one shovelful, and then stand five minutes and admire the hole! happie hain't goin' to be bothered with you. if you want her aunt keren to leave you work fer her, you've got to ask her yourself. my days, mahlon, you look and act more like a roll of carpet rags when i hain't seen you fer a while than ever. you go out and see'f you can't do nothin' towards helpin' bob a while. he's cleanin' the horse's stall and beddin' him down. you go out once and find out. supper'll be ready till you come back. if you hain't got nothin' you _must_ do, git up and do somethin' you _kin_ do!" mahlon acted on this strong hint, and departed barnward. happie hid her face by stooping down to get out the cake tins from the deepest recesses of the kitchen closet. rosie sighed, then she laughed; she was an unconscious philosopher of the school that holds it best to smile at the misfortunes which cannot be cured, that being the one way in which they can be endured. "if ever you git married, happie," she said--"and if you take my advice you'll think it over hard before you set the day, and then set another day twenty years later, and think it over again till that one, and i guess till then you'll have seen enough to know you hadn't ought to be in no hurry--but if ever you do git married, for the goodness' sake git a man you don't have to order round! i never give mahlon orders but i feel 'sif i'd ought ter be broomsticked! my days, i've thought already i'd ruther have a man take a broomstick to _me_ then lop 'round so! a woman hadn't orter give the orders, but when you've got to, you've got to. don dolor would look well drivin' you, now wouldn't he? that's the way 'tis: the one that's fit to drive's got to drive, if you want to git anywheres. but don't you never git that kind. i guess you've got to put that there bitter ammon in your cake; the vanilla's all." happie made her cake and rosie made her biscuits, and mahlon returned with bob--who had learned to milk--in time to enjoy their steaming fragrance and more substantial qualities. miss bradbury saw at a glance that bob welcomed the assistance of even the dilapidated mahlon, for pete and jake were uncertain, whereas the duties of each day were as certain as the rising of the sun. miss keren therefore engaged mahlon "to paddle around the ark," as bob expressed it, to the ridiculous delight of that abject person, who fully appreciated the gain he had made in insinuating himself into the ark. "only," said miss bradbury whimsically, "if we could have known it was he who haunted the place by nights we could have dispensed with dundee's services." after tea the heavy clouds which had been gathering all the afternoon in white curled masses in the west, mounted higher with the sunset, and turned black and purple, emitting low growls, and occasionally parting to show long, jagged stripes of flame. "it will be a good one when it gits here," remarked rosie, putting the remaining biscuits into the bread box. "it's goin' to come sudden, too. if you've let anything to do after supper, bob, you'd better be about it." "everything is battened down and tight caulked for the gale, captain gruber," replied bob in nautical, but indistinct terms, his mouth being occupied with a postscript to supper, in the form of a stolen piece of happie's cake. it was nine o'clock, however, before the storm burst with sudden fury out of a greenish-blackness of sky and atmosphere that added to the horror of the vivid lightning. miss bradbury sat erect on a straight chair with her feet on another, in rigid contempt of her own undeniable fear. mrs. scollard held laura and polly, one in each arm, and bob and happie tried to sing, but they missed margery's sweet alto, and succeeded less well than usual in distracting the family attention from the storm. at its height a carriage dashed up the driveway, and a woman's voice cried: "whoa!" "some one's got caught," observed rosie, as the family looked at one another, the younger ones with a natural tendency to find something portentous in this arrival out of the wildness and blackness of the night. "it's like guy mannering," whispered happie to bob. rosie opened the door. they heard her exclaim: "well, for goodness' sake!" then she led the way into the library, as it had been decided to call what had been the parlor, and what rosie still designated "the room." she was followed by miss eunice neumann, her sister, and an older woman; all three were very wet and looked as disgusted as mortals could look. "we thought we'd git home ahead of it," remarked eunice neumann by way of greeting, not specifying what they had hoped to outstrip. "but it came up faster than what we thought it would, and when we got here emmaline said she'd know it if she'd go further, so we come in here. mahlon took the horse," she added to rosie, as if she had the first claim to an explanation. "i'm glad you did not try to go on," said mrs. scollard, rising. "even the distance to your house is too great to travel in weather such as this is. shall bob make a fire, a wood-fire on the hearth, miss keren? and rosie will take miss neumann up-stairs and lend you dry garments, while yours are hung in the kitchen." "no, sir; i hain't goin' to bother changin'," said eunice emphatically. "we'll sit on these wooden chairs. 'twon't hurt them none to git wet." so saying she drew forth three cherished old chairs which had been miss bradbury's grandmother's, and established herself on the first one, setting her sister and her friend an example. "bob, please make a fire," said miss bradbury. "we do not know this third lady?" "that there one with 'em is emmaline gulick," said rosie, supplying the deficiencies of introduction, as eunice disregarded miss bradbury's reminder. she spoke, to mrs. scollard's embarrassment, in her usual tone, but the reason for this speedily developed. "she's as deef as a whole row of posts," rosie continued. "she used to live around here, but she moved down country; she's visitin' the neumanns now." "yes," said reba speaking unexpectedly. "we feel sorry fer her." "is gretta at home alone?" asked happie, shrinking from a particularly vivid flash of lightning as she looked out of the window. "yes, she is, and lucky to be there yet; i wisht i was," said eunice. "you've got it nice here now. i wonder you hain't afraid, takin' what belongs to an orphan girl." "now, eunice, you keep still!" interposed rosie sharply. "they don't know nothin' about that there story, and no one knows if there's a word of truth in it." neither of her hostesses were paying very strict attention to the visitor's remarks, but happie came forward at once from the window. "aunt keren," she said, "this is the second time miss neumann has hinted that this house is not rightfully yours, only the first time she did more than hint--she said straight out that it belonged to gretta. i asked gretta what it meant, but she said nothing at all. now rosie seems to have heard of it. wouldn't you like to understand it?" "of course," said miss bradbury sharply, forgetting to keep the current of electricity in safe directions, and endangering her life by letting her feet slip from the round of her second chair. "tell us what you know, miss neumann--or rosie." "i know all there is to know, and it's all foolishness," said rosie, forestalling eunice. "suppose i git emmaline gulick a cup of tea, she's that wet." "by all means the tea, and for us all, please, but what is the story?" insisted miss bradbury, alert as she became convinced there really was a story. "gretta's grandmother owned this house," began eunice, nothing loath to tell the tale which rosie would gladly have suppressed. "she owned it before she went and married a second time, married old bittenbender yet! everybody knew what he was, they say. she found out her mistake, and it didn't take long neither, but 'tain't so easy cuttin' the hangman's rope as 'tis tyin' it. she had to make the best of what there wasn't no best to. she said often and often that she'd made a will leavin' everything she had to her son--that was gretta's father. but when she come to die her son was dead and buried before her, and there wasn't no will nowheres. so old bittenbender he took the house, and there wasn't nobody to stop him. we couldn't go to law about it; we hadn't the money nor the time to be on the court for dear knows how many years. gretta hadn't no other relations to make a fuss, so it stood the way 'twas. if they'd found the will old bittenbender couldn't have took it, but as 'twas, he did. then when he'd had it as long's he wanted it, and he was goin' off to live with his folks in northampton county--he'd had a stroke and couldn't live on alone--why, didn't he up and give over the place to you instead of payin' you what he owed you in money, and lettin' the place for gretta, who'd ought to have had it by rights in the first place! the bittenbenders had plenty money, so there wasn't no reason why he couldn't have paid up if he'd had a mind to. he's dead now himself, and you've got the place, but you hadn't ought to have had it, and if 'twas me i shouldn't want it, knowin' how 'twas." miss bradbury and mrs. scollard exchanged perturbed glances, while the children watched them anxiously. "miss neumann," said miss bradbury at last, "this is a most amazing story. of course you realize that it is based on mere rumor; there is no proof that gretta's grandmother made a will, and it is possible that it was she who failed in her duty of providing for the child. it is possible that mr. bittenbender had a legal right to the place. certainly i am guiltless of so much as a suspicion that any one was wronged by his holding it and relinquishing it to me. all that i can do is to try to discover the truth. you may rest assured that i shall deal entirely honestly, not merely according to the letter of the law, but according to its spirit, and should do so were it a stranger who was affected by this issue, and not gretta, of whom we are so fond." "it don't do much good to talk," said eunice defiantly. "i meant to come up and tell you about this, come a-purpose, but now the rain's drove me in here i thought i might as well leave you know what's on my mind when i'd got the chance. gretta's less good than ever to us. she's all took up with you folks here, and she's gittin' more and more ungrateful to us, who's done all she's had done fer her since she was five years old." "and that hain't much," rosie burst forth. "you hadn't ought to talk, eunice; you had ought to remember we was all lookin' on, and everybody in crestville knews gretta's more'n earned the interest on the time before she could do anything. you come out in the kitchen with me and i'll give you some tea. then i guess, miss bradbury, they might as well go up-stairs and go to bed. it's ten o'clock already, and the storm's as fierce as ever, and it'll be late till it stops, if 'tain't morning. you make emmaline understand, eunice, and you and reba kin go to bed in my room." "i guess i won't drink tea at this hour!" exclaimed eunice indignantly, "and i hain't a-goin' to bed. emmaline's kind of feeble; if you want to take her up to your room and leave her lay till she's called, i don't care, but i hain't goin' to bed, nor reba hain't. i won't keep you folks up; you kin let us with rosie, and go to bed if you want to. i wanted to tell you about this house, and now i'm satisfied." "i'll take 'em out in the kitchen," whispered rosie, rigid with indignant loyalty to miss bradbury. "don't you worry about that story; nobody don't know the truth, anyhow." miss bradbury nodded, quite unperturbed, and said aloud: "i shall make it my business to learn the truth, rosie." poor old deaf emmaline gulick was taken up to rosie's little room to rest, and soon fell comfortably asleep, unconscious of the roar of thunder. laura and polly fell asleep with jeunesse dorée on the couch, and their mother, with bob and happie, discussed in all its bearings the exciting tale they had just heard, miss bradbury much less disturbed than any of them. the children discovered that they had grown fonder of the ark than they knew, and it was not wholly pleasant to find any one, even gretta, its owner instead of themselves--for so thoroughly had aunt keren welded them into one family that the ark seemed as much theirs as hers. it was midnight when the storm finally broke away sufficiently to allow the refugees from its fury to continue the short remainder of their journey. reba went up to awaken emmaline gulick. it was not an easy task. deaf to all sounds, sunk in the first heavy sleep of weariness and increasing years, reba's voice could not penetrate emmaline's consciousness. she laid her hand upon the sleeper's arm. "emmaline, emmaline, wake up!" she cried. "it hain't raining now and we're goin' home. hurry up, emmaline!" emmaline had one abiding dread, and that was fire. as she struggled to the surface of the waking world, that fear asserted itself. she could not hear a word that reba said; she did not know where she was, but of one thing she was instantly certain. wherever she was the place was on fire, and she must run for her life! she snatched a blanket and threw it around her, although she had lain down completely dressed. wrapped in this blanket, with its striped red border wandering fantastically around her thin, small figure, she ran down-stairs, followed by reba vainly shouting to her to stop, and entirely at sea as to what ailed her elderly friend. the family had gathered at the foot of the stairs waiting to see their guests depart; eunice was already in the carriage at the door. they heard reba calling frantically to emmaline to stop, heard her say: "oh, she's gone crazy! stop her, eunice!" they saw the little gray-haired creature, with the gorgeous blanket enveloping her, fly down the stairs and out of the front door, hotly pursued by reba, and the walls echoed to the children's irrepressible whoop of delight. it was too dark outside to see clearly the violence with which emmaline threw herself into the buggy, falling on her knees and getting wound up in the blanket in her haste, but the amazed inmates of the ark heard eunice cry: "git ap!" as emmaline pulled reba in after her with the strength of terror and saw the horse start off, probably no less surprised than the human beings behind him. then they saw eunice's head thrust out of the side of the buggy, and heard her voice call back in profound disgust: "i'll send the blanket back to-morrer! she thinks the house's afire!" with that the unexpected visitors made their hasty exit, and all the young scollards fell in a heap on the lower steps of the stairs, rolling and rocking in agonies of laughter. chapter xv the promise of the green branch when the family assembled at the breakfast table on the following morning, and had laughed their fill at the memory of the funny exit of the preceding evening, they discovered that the visitors had left a residuum of discomfort in the mind of each member of the family who was old enough to realize the full import of eunice neumann's story about the house. it would be bad enough in any case to feel that their enjoyment of the ark was the fruit of dishonesty, but when the person who suffered from that dishonesty was gretta, gretta of whom they had all grown so fond, and who so sorely needed justice done her, it was unbearable to feel that they might be innocently adding to her wrongs by depriving her of her property. therefore when they espied gretta coming up the road with the blanket which emmaline gulick had carried off in her stampede from her fancied fire, happie rushed to meet her with more than her usual eagerness, and dragged gretta into the dining-room, completely bewildered by the flood of questions and incomprehensible explanations with which happie was deluging her. miss bradbury greeted the young girl with a hint of tenderness unlike her usual manner, and mrs. scollard kissed her very gently. gretta perched herself on a chair beside the latter, fanning herself with her sunbonnet and twisting a corner of the apron which she never discarded when she came on an errand, as she never wore it when making a social call, thereby marking the difference between the two. "i'm sure i don't know what happie is trying to tell me," she said with a whimsical twist of the lips. "she always talks so fast that i have to listen with every bit of me--i'm used to folks that talk slow, you know. but this time an automobile couldn't keep up with her! all i can make out is that eunice told you something about this house being mine by rights, and that it worries you." "you seem to have kept up pretty well, considering you haven't an automobile, gretta," said bob. "that's the story in a nutshell." "i expect you to tell me all that you know of the matter, gretta," said miss bradbury. "i have no particular desire to wrong any one, and i don't purpose beginning with you." "i don't know one thing about it, miss bradbury, and that's the truth. all i have heard i have heard from eunice, and you may be sure she didn't leave out much when she told you about it," said gretta. "everybody around here who knew her says my grandmother meant to have willed me this house, but there never was any will found, and that's all there is to it. there's no reason why you should leave--let--it worry you. i didn't get the house, and it's a good thing for me that you did, instead of somebody else." "i shall certainly look into the matter thoroughly, and if the house is yours you shall have it as soon as i can deliver it. then i'll rent it from you, if you will lease it to me," said miss bradbury with such a briskly ready air that it suggested a pen already in her hand with which to sign a lease. gretta laughed carelessly as she arose to go. "there isn't a single thing to find out, nor to talk about," she declared. "eunice has tried to find out, but she didn't get at anything more than she knew before, and she would if there was anything to find out. she'd do more than get a house for me, to get rid of me! i guess i'll have to ask you to find me a place of some sort in the city next winter; i don't believe i can stay here." the pretty face clouded and the dark eyes filled with tears. more painful to gretta than the hard fact that she was homeless and resourceless was the injustice of her cousins' treatment of her, and that, do what she would, she could win no love from them, but was considered a burden and a nuisance. "it's all coming out some way, gretta!" cried happie, throwing her arms around the girl so impulsively that the sunbonnet which she was just tying on flew across the room. bob picked up the bonnet and handed it to gretta with a deep bow, hand on heart, in true colonial manner. "don't you worry, gretta," he said. "we'll all go into business together in new york this winter. we've got so we feel you're one of the family--and i guess we feel as if we owned the ark, instead of aunt keren! we wouldn't be willing to disembark from it, even to give it to you! this is a nice sort of place, after all." "i don't know any other," said gretta with a grateful smile of acknowledgment to bob for his including her in family plans, "but this house looks perfectly beautiful to me. there isn't any other around here half so pretty as you have made this one. and i don't believe i could be happy long away from crestville. no matter what fine things i looked at i'm sure my eyes would ache for a sight of those mountains." she turned towards the window as she spoke, and her eyes brightened lovingly as they rested on the mountain peaks, just visible above the trees. then she turned back to the friends who had cheered her lonely life, and smiled brightly, brushing away a tear or two that glistened on her lashes. "don't you worry about me, dear folks," she said. "you have made me rich already, and the house doesn't matter." then she fairly ran away, embarrassed by her unwonted betrayal of feeling. miss bradbury took don dolor and one of the scollards and drove about cross-examining every old man or woman who might know something definite of mrs. bittenbender's will. but in every instance she failed in getting more than an unanimous testimony to the misfortune which gretta's grandmother's second marriage had been, and to the fact that she had intended willing everything tight and fast to her son and his child, out of the reach of the bittenbender grasping fingers. that she had done so nobody could prove, and it was certain that the son, gretta's father, had died some months before his mother. to be sure, there were those who declared that they had heard mrs. bittenbender say, not that she _would_ make this will, but that she _had_ made it. still, the will itself was not in evidence, and finally miss bradbury gave up the investigation, baffled, still uneasy in her mind, but unable to see that it was her duty to give up the farm. for justice, to be wise and efficacious, must include justice to oneself. the farm had come to miss bradbury in payment of a debt; she could not prove that it had come to her from other than its legal owner. and her plans for the future made it well for all concerned that the ark should belong to upright, big-hearted keren-happuch bradbury. the matter resolved itself into letting everything go on as it was, holding the farm in readiness to give it up, should proof arise that it was not miss bradbury's, except by the wrong-doing of the late bittenbender, and in the meantime trying more than ever to make up to gretta for her hard fate. while the question was under discussion, and was the uppermost interest in the ark, the weeks of august slipped by into the first week of september, and the letter for which the scollards were eagerly looking came from margery, announcing her return. a breath of fresh air seemed to blow through the ark on the opening of that letter. all the inmates revived as they did when the strong september winds swept down the mountains, driving off the august heaviness. happie fell to garnishing her room for margery to return to, re-covering chair cushions, washing and furbishing the lace of the pin cushion. laura began at once the composition of a song of welcome, the first musical feat that she had essayed since the disastrous fourth. polly began to sew for dear life on a new gown for phyllis lovelocks, that she might be suitably attired to greet her traveled aunt. even little penny cleaned her doll house, and weeded industriously the tiny garden which had been given her, and in which the weeds so far exceeded the flowers that the marigold which had survived the choking process fatal to penny's other seeds, stood out, looking conspicuously out of place among its ragged comrades. bob went about whistling, putting fine touches on handsome don dolor's glossy coat and harness, and getting the place into better condition than ever, though all summer the garden had been a credit to an inexperienced boy. miss bradbury did not say much, but she watched, and fully appreciated the manly lad who had shouldered his disagreeable and unaccustomed tasks without a murmur, and had performed them so well that the farm--"and the cows and calves and the horse," happie said--blossomed like the tropics. rosie cleaned house with a fervor that was more like a fever, especially that no one save herself could see a speck in all her domain. but to rosie's mind, house-cleaning was necessary before any event; it was to her a ceremonial, not unlike the ablutions of the jews. as to margery's mother, she performed no unusual tasks, but went about the ordinary ones with such a happy, brooding look that it betrayed how much she had missed her eldest, and how ill a mother can spare one child, even from a large flock. every corner of the ark was filled with glad expectancy, and the country was growing lovelier every moment. the summer boarders who had thronged into the mountains were daily crowding the little crestville station platform, returning to the two great cities which poured their citizens into pennsylvania for the summer. the scollards watched these crowds with a feeling of pity, to their own unbounded surprise, for they had not realized how entirely they were recovered from their first homesickness. it seemed hard to be going back now that everything was at its best, and hourly growing better--if a paradox that seemed to be true might be permitted. "perfect weather for margery," said mrs. scollard with profound satisfaction. "expressly for her," miss bradbury agreed with a smile, but she looked as pleased with the prospect of getting back their gentle girl as her mother could ask. "we ought not to have called rosie the dove; if we hadn't we could have said that margery was the dove, returning after many days," suggested laura. "yes; she's the dove-like one of this family," bob agreed. "i wonder what she may have found on the face of the waters, on her first flight without me. of course she has written faithfully, but letters do not tell one much. i hope she will not return less our dove-like margery," said her mother. "no fear, motherums," cried happie with conviction. "only an anxious mother could imagine margery changed. she is never anything but her quiet self; she never puts on--nor takes off"--happie paused to chuckle a little over her logical new expression--"never puts on nor takes off airs, nor does anything but just go on breathing and being the way she was meant to breathe and to be, and nothing on this earth could make her different. she's a gentle girl, but she's not one bit easily influenced. margery would be just the same margery if she were made empress of the french as suddenly as josephine was, or if she were put down in a tenement to make alpaca coats and eat limburger cheese all her days." "well, i wouldn't go as far as that, hapsie," remarked bob, departing to harness. "if limburger's influence is as strong as its odor, it ought to affect any one." bob profited this time by his labors and position of coachman, for he was secure of meeting margery. the others had to debate which were to go; it ended in laura's going with the two younger children, and happie's staying at home with her mother to welcome the traveler in the role of daughter of the house. in the glorious september sunset, through the delicious odor of the ripened wild grapes, don dolor brought margery up the hill home. happie sprang down the steps to greet her, and then stood still, not only to allow her mother her right of the first embrace, but because it seemed to her that after all it was a different margery from the one who had happily, yet tearfully, bidden them good-bye more than two months before, whose pretty face now smiled gladly at them over the children's shoulders. the quick perception of the change held happie's flying feet, bringing a pang with it, but only for the briefest of seconds. as soon as her mother released her from her clinging embrace, happie had margery in her arms, and was crushing her dainty linen in a way that left no doubt of her joy in getting her sister back again. margery stood on the upper step of the ark and looked around her, the sunset resting on her face. in her eyes there was a greater radiance of joy, and around her lips an expression of deeper sweetness than when she left them. her voice thrilled with new music, though all that she said was: "oh, it's good to be here again, and i am so glad to see you all!" miss bradbury followed mrs. scollard's glance to margery and nodded emphatically to her telegram, thus delivered, that she found her girl most good to look upon. "i should be glad of a little, even the least notice from happie; i should like to be considered some consequence in my own ark," she said with deep pathos, as happie tripped over her foot without knowing that she had done so. happie wheeled around with a laugh. "oh, aunt keren," she cried, "you haven't blossomed into a lovely young lady since i last saw you, and i truly believe that margery has!" margery had. rosie saw it the instant that margery entered the house, and put out her sea-browned hand to clasp faithful rosie's hard one. gretta saw it when she ran up after tea to add a word to the welcoming chorus, and even mahlon--waxing something like alive since he had benefited by his wife's cooking--even mahlon said: "guess margery's been looking 'round. she's woke up someway since she was 'way off wherever 'twas." after the children had been tucked away for the night, margery and happie crept to their room where they could be together alone once more, looking out at the mountains. the whole world was flooded with the radiance of the harvest moon, and the mountains rose up in its light with the heavy shadows of their own peaks touching the dimmed stars, dark amid the glory of the white night. happie curled herself up at margery's feet. she felt unwontedly long and awkward, conscious of her immaturity and a trifle shy, as she gazed up at margery, sitting in her white kimono in the chair above her, her soft, luxuriant hair falling around her shoulders, her elbow resting on the window-sill, and her eyes gazing, dreamily bright in the moonlight, at the mountains with a gaze that seemed to look beyond them. "the ocean is glorious on these moonlight nights," said margery softly. "but i am not sure that the mountains are not even more beautiful. the contrast of their shadows makes the light more splendid--and then one feels as if they were hiding all sorts of mysteries. almost anything might be in those hills--or come out from them." "what will you do, margery, if we stay here all winter? you know mother is not strong enough yet to take her position, and aunt keren says we are welcome to live in the ark if we can make it go. of course, we should go to town for visits--and you would have most of those visits," said happie, remembering that this dawning young lady sister must have the benefit of new york, while she bided her time at home. "oh, i shall not mind at all," said margery. "indeed, i almost think i should prefer to stay. i am in my eighteenth year----" "yes, but how far in it?" interrupted happie with a recurrence of her brief pang in the moment of meeting margery, a vague jealousy of some unknown thing that was stealing her sister. "not far," smiled margery. "but quite far enough to be slipping towards twenty so fast that it takes my breath away. i should be content to stay in the country all winter, reading and studying with mother, and learning all sorts of things. a woman ought to know all about cooking, mending, sewing--all those housewifely tasks--and i don't feel as if i knew anything, though i used to think i knew a great deal. oh, yes; i should be very busy and quite happy if i stayed in the country all winter, and did not go to new york once." "what has come over you?" demanded happie, feeling certain, though she could not have told why, that it was something that she did not like. "and a woman, you say! do you consider yourself a woman at your age?" "no, but i shall be one very soon," said margery placidly. "and i think i have changed my mind; i think i shall not care to be a society woman, only a thoroughly domestic one." "well, that's heaps better, but i don't see----" began happie suspiciously. then, interrupting herself, she said: "tell me about the girls you met; you have not written much about them, and haven't said one word." "i didn't make many acquaintances, hapsie, dear," replied margery. "not as many as you would have done if you had not been such a dear, blessed, good girl as to let me go in your place. oh, happie, to think that i owe this lovely, lovely summer to you! i mean to be the best sister a girl ever had to pay you for it, or to pay you a little bit!" "you needn't mind," said happie rather ungraciously. "i was perfectly satisfied with you as you were. you seem away off, margery. i don't know what it is, but i feel as if you were up on those mountain tops, where i couldn't touch you." "you can touch me very well, you dear little happie-goosie," said margery, encircling her sister's head with her arms, and drawing it close to her as she bent over her. "it is the witchery of the sea that you feel, hapsie; i haven't recovered from the effect of the mermaids' songs. i am glad our room looks towards those mountains," she added irrelevantly. "i shall sit here lots and lots to think, and to love them." "think! to moon and build castles, you mean, if you are going to look at them like that! oh, margery, have you come to the mooning age?" cried happie shaking herself free of the encircling arms, and sitting erect to look into margery's face. their mother entered as happie made her protest, and looked sharply from one to the other of the girls, happie, rumpled, flushed and vaguely worried, margery fair, serene, smiling to herself in the moonlight. she caught her breath quickly, but only said, as she seated herself on the edge of the bed: "i think you said at tea that you had not seen much of happie's friends, not even of auntie cam's edith, margery. i suppose they drifted into a younger set and amusements than yours. but did you find any girls of your own age that you liked? you have not told us much of your new friends." "there were several nice girls there, mother. two i liked very much," said margery slowly. "the two of whom you wrote us?" asked her mother. "yet i haven't precisely a clear impression of them." "no, mother; i wanted to tell you all about it when i came," said margery. "one was a boston girl, and the other from baltimore. they were both nice; i saw a good deal of them, and we are going to keep up our friendship. but--i was going to tell you--the girl from baltimore had a brother, six years older than i. he had had typhoid fever, so his vacation lasted all summer. they had a cottage--auntie cam knows them, and likes them all, very much. i think, perhaps, i saw more--or rather i was--i think the baltimore girl's brother and i were more friendly, more congenial, don't you see? than even those two girls and i." "it is pleasant to have a friend, older and wiser than oneself, little margery," said her mother, feeling her way. "yes, that's just it!" cried margery eagerly. "he was ever so much wiser than i, and so nice, mother! you will like him. we used to read together. auntie cam and his mother would sew, and it seemed as if he read to me chiefly--i don't mean that conceitedly, but it really did! and then he often took his mother, or auntie cam, or mary, his sister, rowing, and i always was asked. he is nice, truly, mother. he has taught me a great deal. i feel sure you will like him." "am i likely to meet him, dear? of course i should like any one deserving of such high praise, but baltimore is not precisely in our neighborhood," suggested her mother. "he will come to new york; he said he would not mind coming here, even in winter; he loves the country," cried margery eagerly. then stopped at a groan from happie. "he asked if he might write to me--sometimes, you know, mother," margery said slowly. "certainly, dear, if i may know how and what he writes you. i shall have to satisfy myself as to any new friend, that he is trustworthy, and appreciates my little margery," said her mother. "oh, he is trustworthy, mother, and he does appreciate me!" cried margery, so eagerly that the mother's sigh turned into a half laugh. "ah, well, dear, you shall not lose a friend, and you shall have the benefit of this wise and discerning baltimore boy's letters, if they are not too frequent, and maintain his reputation for wisdom," the mother said rising. "but remember that you are a young girl still, little margery, and that i was never willing that my children should play with other children until i knew them for the sort that i would choose for their associates. i am not less careful now, so i must wait before i fully endorse this new acquaintance." margery sprang to her feet and ran after her mother to kiss her good-night. it was with a special tenderness that mrs. scollard folded her in her arms. "he is good, mother, and brave, and handsome and clever," whispered margery. "yes, dear, yes. good-night, my margery, my little daughter. sleep well, and remember that there is no friend like your mother, and that she is glad to get you back, and to keep you close," said mrs. scollard, whispering lest her voice might prove unsteady. she found miss bradbury waiting her in her own room as she came in and closed the door. "oh, miss keren, miss keren, our dove has flown back to the ark, but she has brought with her the green branch to show that spring-time and blossom-time are at hand," she said, trying to smile through the tears on her cheeks. "well, my dear charlotte, you would not have her flight over barren waters, would you? the spring-time is part of every year, little mother," said that wise woman. across the narrow entry happie crept to bed at her sister's side, drawing up the sheet over her head to stifle her moan as she returned margery's good-night kiss. "oh, dear, oh, dear," she murmured burying her head in the pillow. "it's growing up--and worse! oh, dear, oh, dear!" chapter xvi a prank---- margery resumed her place in the household, falling into her housewifely ways with only a brief time allowance for getting out of the holiday spirit and into domestic harness. indeed, she was more care-taking and pervading than ever, which proved that the growing-up process, which was going on so fast as to dismay her mother and happie, was going on in the right way. margery's coming left happie more free to enjoy herself, and she threw herself into the outdoor life with all the zest of the season. long walks in the glory of wind and color of early autumn, chestnutting, wild grape gathering, these were the pleasures offered by the mountains now, and the children were half wild with this first taste of them. happie yielded herself to the delight of them, as if the mountain winds were sweeping her through the weeks on their strong pinions. lessons at home were begun, but mrs. scollard did not insist on much yet, reflecting that if they were to spend the winter in the ark, close housed by snow and cold, the children would have enough of being shut up. margery did not often join the others on their rambles; she preferred solitary walks, and loved to sit with her mother sewing and talking in that sweet intimacy which dawns between a good mother and her daughter when the latter is growing up into a friend. it somewhat reconciled happie to the lack of margery that gretta had more time to go about with her than earlier in the season, when gardening and farming claimed her. everything in her home was getting so unbearable to gretta that she was thankful to escape to study and to roam with happie. it was so apparent that her affairs were reaching a climax that was bound to end in a complete change, that there was less risk in taking comfort, since nothing could make her cousins more unkind to her. "eunice's cousin is going to teach the school this winter," said gretta one afternoon. she spoke out of a long silence, and straightened herself painfully. she had been bending over a rock upon which she was cracking chestnuts with a smaller stone, she and happie being alone out on the side of a hill upon which stood three noble chestnut trees, dropping their treasures lavishly for who would come to gather them. "eunice's cousin?" repeated happie. gretta and she always omitted reba from allusions to home affairs, she being but eunice's reflection. "what relation is she to you?" "she isn't any relation to me; she's eunice's second cousin on the other side--her mother's side," said gretta. "here are some big chestnuts! she's a young girl no older than we are, and if they don't have a poor school this winter it'll be queer! why, she can't keep order any more!" "is she graduated as a teacher?" asked happie, wondering. "mercy, no! she went to the normal for one term down at schultzburg, and she got a certificate, but she was there only one term. why, she yet wears dresses only down to her insteps!" said gretta. "is that the way they make teachers?" cried happie. "why, i never heard of such a thing!" "that's the way," said gretta nodding. "sometimes we have a good school--we had a fine teacher three winters while i went--but we're more than likely to get some one who can't teach. this is a real nice girl--hattie franz is her name--but she isn't fit to teach school. you see, when she applied, the directors hired her because her father lives around here, and they all know him. there was a young man applied at the same time who really was a normal graduate, but hattie got it because the directors wanted to favor her father." "well, of all things!" cried happie with the scorn of her age for anything like personal favors, or political "pulls." "i don't consider that fair; the directors ought to do their duty and get the very best teacher they can. as if the children's education wasn't more important than pleasing some man who happened to be a neighbor! what makes the people stand such directors?" "i guess because they're used to this way of doing things, partly, and partly because they want their children made teachers the same way when their turn comes," said gretta, laughing at happie's disgusted face. "you don't seem to know as much about meanness and folks' ways as i do; you must all be good and unselfish in new york." "i suppose we aren't," began happie slowly. and gretta laughed again. "but i'll tell you," happie went on, rallying to her own defense. "we don't see the mean and wrong things as plainly as you do in the country. our friends are nice and high-minded, and all that, and the other side doesn't get turned around. here you know every single thing that people do wrong--almost what they think. maybe this hattie franz will teach better than you think she will." "oh, i like her lots," said gretta shaking her head positively, "but she won't do that. she's good-natured, and she's bright enough, but she's easy-going and sort of lazy-minded, and she couldn't make children behave, not one bit! they'll do just as they please; the little ones because she will hate to scold them, and the big ones because they are too much for her, and then the little ones will be worse than ever. i can see just how it will go!" "what a pity----" began happie, but gretta interrupted her with an exclamation, turning to happie with laughter flashing over all her face. "suppose we do see it, happie!" she cried. "see what? the school; visit it?" asked happie. gretta nodded hard, and happie began to protest that she would never dare do such a thing when gretta cut her short. "you don't know what i mean," she said. "i mean go just for fun, and all dressed up. we'll get the queerest clothes we can find, long skirts, bonnets, old-fashioned jackets, and thick veils. then we'll go down to the schoolhouse and knock at the door. one of the children will open it, and we'll walk in. hattie won't know you anyway, and i'll risk her finding out who i am till i'm ready to have her. i can imitate almost any voice i ever heard, and i'll talk dutch so she won't ever guess who it is--you never heard me talk dutch, did you? i can do it as well as any old woman in the county, and hattie never'll guess until i slip out of the pennsylvania dutch into english and my own voice. i like hattie and she likes me; she's full of fun, and she'll laugh herself nearly sick over us; she won't be one bit mad! oh, come on, happie; will you do it?" "you don't think there would be any harm in it?" happie hesitated, greatly tempted to say yes on the spot, for she dearly loved a frolic, and it had been long since she had had one. "of course it's no harm," said gretta eagerly. "nobody could object. any one dare--no, any one _may_ visit school; you say i must not say dare for may! we'll have a good laugh all around, and nobody be the worse for it. we'll go late, just before she closes, and i believe hattie will be much obliged to us for cheering things up once! why, what harm can a little frolic do?" "i don't see, i'm sure," said happie slowly. then she dimpled and laughed, picturing to herself the funny effects she and gretta would make in their costumes, sailing up the aisle of the little schoolhouse. "all right; i'll do it. when shall we go?" she added. "just as soon as we can get the things ready," cried gretta gleefully. "the sooner the better. eunice's attic is full of the queerest trash! you needn't bother to hunt up anything; i'll find enough for us both. to-morrow afternoon meet me over behind the mill at half-past two. you might bring some veils, and a looking-glass, but i know i can get everything else. oh, say, happie! suppose we carry handbags, satchels, and fill them full of little bottles and jars, and tell hattie we are selling stuff for the complexion! paints and powders, and balm, and lotions, and hair dyes, and try to make her buy some! she's got about the reddest cheeks and nicest skin of any girl around here, and she isn't a minute over sixteen; don't you think it would be funny?" "perfectly beautiful!" cried happie with a jump up and down, to and from the rock on which the chestnuts grew. "i'll bring the satchels, gretta. it's going to be great!" the two girls immediately set off for their homes full of this delightful plan. happie poured forth the outlines of it the instant she got into the house. bob petitioned to be allowed to see the girls after they were dressed, and laura and polly and penny begged to accompany them. mrs. scollard was half afraid that they were going to make trouble, and she hesitated about letting happie have the queer satchel which she meant to borrow from rosie, but happie assured her that gretta knew, and gretta said there could be no harm to the school in the visit, at the end of the day and that the young teacher would enjoy it as much as they did. her mother was always in sympathy with innocent fun, so she consented to happie's going, and having consented, looked as if she would like very much to join her. "you see," happie explained, "this is a girl of our own age, or about that, whom gretta knows; it isn't like a stranger, or a full grown teacher! and won't it be funny to see us so solemn and dignified, and gretta talking dutch 'yet,' as they say up here, and the girl teacher not knowing her? and then to see her face when she finds us out?" "it certainly will be very funny, and i really don't believe there can any harm come of it; it is only a prank," said mrs. scollard. "that's all, you clear-sighted motherums!" cried happie joyously. "and i may ask rosie for her satchel?" "i have another for gretta, a queer-shaped affair that looks as if it came out of the original ark," said miss bradbury, whose pleasure in this proposed visit was refreshing to behold. the next day happie and gretta met at the appointed place, each laden with the fantastic fruits of their gleaning. they began to dress with ecstatic giggles, each helping the other to assume incongruous garments of various sizes and dates. it was not long before the giggles gave place to peals of laughter until both girls got quite weak from mirth, and it was with the greatest difficulty that the toilets were completed. gretta wore a skirt of ante-bellum days. its fulness hung many-folded around her tall figure, for lack of the hoops originally intended to set it out. over this she wore a remarkably short bolero jacket of a not-much-more recent period; its rounding front and very abbreviated back revealed a striped waist of bulging fulness, fastened by black china buttons fully an inch and a half in diameter, decorated with bright pink roses and blue morning glories. her thick dark hair happie made into an immense knot half way up her head, twisted so tight that it stuck out "like a chopping block," gretta herself said. this resolute-looking coiffure was surmounted by a broad-brimmed hat, trimmed with green ribbons and a band of black velvet, both much the worse for wear, while a discouraged feather drooped, guiltless of curl, over the brim on the left side. happie's costume expressed a more chastened spirit than gretta's. her skirt was as scant as gretta's was full, and went off in a long train with narrow ruffles curving themselves into waves around the bottom. its color was a faded brown. over this hung a coat, apparently intended to go with the immense fulness of gretta's skirt. it went out into deep plaits from each seam, and its sleeves might almost have made a jacket as large as gretta's; full at the top were they, standing out in great plaits after the fashion of the time of its present wearer's birth. it had been a dark blue; it was still blue, in spots, but yellowish streaks ran down the folds of its many plaited skirt and sleeves, and its velvet collar was white along its edges. happie's hat was a bonnet. it was straw, broad in the crown and narrow in the brim. its trimming was a ribbon originally black, but now greenish; however, its bows drooped in a manner more mournful than any mere blackness could have made them. a bunch of perfectly straight thin ostrich feathers adorned this bonnet's front, while on the left a bouquet of faded violets, ranging from soiled white to dubious purple in color hung disconsolately by their untwisted green cambric stems. as a last touch, and in case they should remove the thick brown and dark blue veils which were to disguise them, the girls had wet red ribbon in ammonia and daubed their cheeks with it. the vivid crimson gave a lurid effect to their faces in spite of the fact that happie's rippling hair had been forced into severe smoothness over each temple, and knotted low in her neck under her travesty of a bonnet, as near to the manner of a decorous old woman as such hair could be made to go. as soon as they could tie the veils over their remarkable headgear, pull on their wrinkling gloves, and control their laughter sufficiently to walk straight, the girls started out across the fields and down the road towards the schoolhouse. it was encouraging that jake shale passed them with his slow team without recognizing them; they saw him turning around on his seat to look after them as long as they were in sight, wonder and speculation written on his usually impassive countenance--as well they might be. arrived at the schoolhouse they pulled themselves together, brought their satchels to the fore, and gretta, saying with a sharp indrawing of her breath: "now for it!" knocked on the door. it was opened by an exceedingly small boy in knickerbockers that had the effect of scallops, the legs were so short. "dare we see the teacher?" asked gretta with so good a pennsylvania dutch accent that happie's shoulders shook under their manifold plaits, and she nearly betrayed herself by an audible giggle. the diminutive boy was not equal to meeting this demand upon him. he held the door and his mouth proportionately wide open and the two strange--and stranger--ladies stalked past him upon the startled vision of the girl teacher. "miss franz, we come together to see your school once. this is my friend; i am myself. my friend, you dare sit down. der teacher don't seem to know you dare, say not? but she is young yet; she will learn," said gretta serenely, as she placed a chair for happie, who dropped into it, while gretta seated herself with much spreading of her voluminous skirts, and with many airs. the young teacher stood clutching her own chair by its back, turning fiery red and deadly pale by turns as her amazement and terror wrote themselves on her chubby face. it never occurred to her that she was the victim of a joke; she felt perfectly sure that these women were insane. she made up her mind on the spot that they had escaped from the distant insane asylum, and she found much comfort in remembering that her unruly eldest scholars were boys, and were far bigger and stronger than her callers. "i sought you would like some zings for your face, teacher," said gretta, opening her satchel. "we sells zings to make you pretty. here is a bottle yet makes you lose all what sun does to you--freckles, und such a tan. here is a little pot of stuff what makes you red in your cheeks; you like to be red und pretty, say not? what you want to buy, teacher?" "nothing at all," said hattie franz, feebly. "nosing!" exclaimed gretta. "you wait once und see how pretty the girls gits yet, und you'll be sorry, i guess. you know that girl down to neumanns'? she takes all i give her. down in the city, folks uses such a stuff, and you'd ought to look nice like them city girls. say not? no? well, then! you go on mit your school, my good girl, und we'll wait a little to sell you zings." gretta smoothed her ridiculously long-fingered gloves complacently, and bridled. happie had not looked for such clever acting from quiet gretta. "leave me hear what you teaches deze little folks," she added. hattie franz faced her pupils. "the third reader class may read," she said faintly. six children came forward reluctantly, eyeing fearfully the veiled figures before them. "read up loud once!" commanded gretta sternly to the wavering line. "my friend is deeve!" the "deeve" lady seemed to be variously afflicted, it struck the poor little teacher. in addition to her deafness she appeared to be subject to a nervous twitching; her shoulders shook, and the veil over her face trembled. the third class in reading made a sorry showing. it is next to impossible to read when one is staring straight ahead, and this class could not get their eyes away from their visitors. the visitor who did all the talking shook her head. "does the directors know how bad they can't read?" demanded gretta, varying the dialect for her own amusement. "when we was to school we could read more good when we was littler, say not?" she called loudly to her supposedly deaf companion. "can they read dutch yet?" hattie franz shook her head. "we teach only english in the schools," she said, her voice shaking. "i guess they're scared." "i guess," assented gretta emphatically. "und you too, you seem scared too yet! what fur a person do you guess i am? we won't eat you, little teacher!" hattie seemed less sure of that than she would like to be. she went down the aisle and whispered to one of the older girls. "yes, i'll go right off," the visitors heard her reply, and they guessed that frightened hattie was dispatching her for aid. "sing for us once, little dears," said gretta, having no mind to allow the aid to come. "und you, you big girl gitting up dere, you sit down und sing mit der littlest ones. school ain't out yet!" the big girl obediently dropped back into her seat, and hattie quaveringly began the air of "bring back my bonnie to me," though she could not remember a word. the children joined in a very slender chorus. the girls on the platform were so uncomfortable that they decided to reveal themselves; with the thick veils over their faces and their rising laughter, they felt nearly on the verge of suffocation. "teacher, would you mind going down to the door once, and find my handkerchief for me? maybe i dropped it coming up," said gretta. "teacher" was only too glad of the chance to get away from the immediate neighborhood of her grotesque callers, of whose lunacy she became more convinced every moment. she hastened down the aisle, and nearly fainted as she heard the wild whoop which arose behind her, accompanied by thumpings and poundings on desks and floor. apparently insanity was contagious, and the children were as mad as the visitors, from whom her one idea was to escape. seizing the last desk for support the little teacher forced herself to turn and face the danger, to discover the cause of this sudden pandemonium. turning she rubbed her eyes to make sure that she saw aright. or was it she, after all, who was crazy? there, still in their places on the platform, were the two women, still in their singular garb. but they had thrown back their veils, and poor little hattie franz saw, instead of the glaring eyes of the pair of lunatics which she felt sure had invaded her domain, the familiar dark eyes of gretta engel, flashing with mirth, and the laughing ones of the girl from new york, both dancing and sparkling at her above the crimson streaks which the ammonia-dipped ribbon had left upon their cheeks! the older boys were shouting, pounding, cheering; the older girls shrieking with laughter, and the little children were pulling and pounding one another, screaming at the tops of their voices in the general excitement. the relief of the reaction from her fright, the irresistible fun of the situation was too much for the pedagogic dignity of the sixteen-years-old teacher. she ran up the aisle as fast as her feet would carry her, seized gretta by the shoulders and shook her as hard as a girl of five feet one can shake a girl of five feet six. "gretta engel, you mean, mean, dreadful girl!" she cried vehemently. "i thought, of course, you were a lunatic, and i think so now more than ever!" gretta caught her breath, half choked between laughter and her shaking, and the school applauded, highly appreciating their teacher's energy, as well as her being fooled. "to think that you hadn't the least idea! you hadn't any idea, had you?" gasped gretta. hattie franz gave limp gretta a few parting shakes, herself weak from laughter. "how could i have an idea?" she demanded. "my, but i was frightened! i'll pay you back for this trick, gretta, if i have to wait till we are ninety-nine years old! how shall i ever get the school dismissed and these children in order?" she sighed. gretta turned to the pupils. "young ladies and gentlemen," she began, and the shouting ceased; the children waited to see what more fun was coming. "you will please sing 'marching through georgia,' and then all march yourselves home. who locks up, hattie?" "aaron shale; he keeps the key and makes the fire," said hattie. "then you let aaron stay here, and slip away with us," said gretta. "he'll close up." but she reckoned without her host--the host of children. the older ones stampeded after the teacher and her visitors, and formed into line, ready to escort them through the village. up the road gretta and happie spied bob and laura, with polly and penny, waiting to see them pass. the last thing that the girls wanted was to be turned into a sort of antique and horrible parade, like the children who masquerade in new york on thanksgiving day. there was but one thing to be done, and that was to run for it, up the backwoods road, and across the fields. hastily bidding hattie good night, gretta and happie gathered their fantastic garb about them and fled with all their might. the last vestige of that afternoon's frolic to be seen was two veiled ladies in marvelous costume, fleeing at top speed towards the old grist mill. chapter xvii and its consequences none of "the archaics" saw gretta during the day that followed the visit to the school. on the second morning miss bradbury dispatched mahlon--if a word suggesting speed may be used in connection with mahlon's movements--down to the neumanns' to purchase eggs. he was gone so long that his active wife, requiring the eggs for her morning baking, lost all patience waiting for him, threw her sunbonnet on her head, tied it with a snap of its starched strings that boded ill for mahlon when she should have found him, and started down the road to bring eggs and delinquent husband home together at a quickstep. it was so long before rosie returned that the family really began to fear there was some serious reason for this second delay, when rosie appeared, striding along at a tremendous pace. mahlon loped after her at the respectful distance of five feet, with his usual effect of being about to go to pieces at all points at once. "thought i wa'n't never comin' back, i guess," said rosie as she entered, setting down her basket of eggs with one hand, and jerking off her sunbonnet with the other. "i don't believe i kin git that there puddin' done fer dinner this day. but i had to stop and listen. there's great doin's down there to neumanns'. eunice's madder than i ever seen her. i guess she's makin' herself feel as mad as she kin; tryin' to make herself believe she's got an excuse fer puttin' gretta out." "putting her out?" cried happie. "you don't mean that literally?" "litterly or not," said rosie, evidently in the dark as to the word, "i mean it fer the plain truth. i guess she's been plottin' some time back how to make a fuss over something and tell gretta she won't keep her no longer. now she's takin' your visit to the school, and your insult--so she calls it--to her teacher--her cousin, i mean the teacher--as a handle, and she says gretta can't stay in her house after what she done." "why, rosie!" cried mrs. scollard. "it's jest as i say," rosie asserted, as if her veracity were questioned. "gretta feels dreadful, but it don't do no good fer her to tell 'em hattie took it all right, and liked the fun, yet. eunice says she's insulted her cousin and made a bad return fer all she's done fer her, and she won't keep her another day." "but rosie, there wasn't the slightest tinge of malice in it; it was only a girl's harmless prank played on--and at last with--another girl," protested mrs. scollard. even miss bradbury sat erect in considerable excitement as she listened, while margery and happie looked aghast at this unexpected result of harmless fun. "why, i guess i know that!" cried rosie. "hattie's even been up there herself yet, and told eunice she wasn't insulted--thought it was fun, but it didn't do no good. i tell you what it is--and gretta's said this herself to me this good while back--eunice neumann's so mad to think the girl's havin' better times that it makes her crazy to do something, she don't know what. she's made up her mind either you've got to take gretta and keep her, or let her to the miserable, lonely times she was havin' when happie took a fancy to her. she's threatened gretta more'n once to drop her and leave her fine friends look after her, if they think so much of her! gretta's been awful worried fer fear eunice'd say something to you yet. poor girl, she hain't got much of her cousins into her; she's took all her ways from the other side and a sensible thing she did when she done it! but now eunice's goin' to put her out and leave her set by the roadside till somebody picks her up. i guess she thinks you'll do it, and gretta's sick, she's so ashamed, and hurt, and angry, and all sorts of ways to oncet." "poor little girl!" exclaimed miss bradbury, as happie turned to her in mute appeal. "and for such a trifling pretext as that playful visit to the school! we agreed before you went that there was no chance of offending any one. happie came home and reported that the little teacher thought it as good a joke as they did." "why, good gracious, hain't i said so?" cried rosie. "and hain't hattie herself said so, and to eunice yet? it hain't nothin' in this world but an excuse; a poor excuse, says you, and i should say it was, and i guess eunice knows it as well as either of us. she says 'twouldn't have been done if hattie hadn't been her cousin--now did you ever hear tell of such nonsense? but nonsense or not, she says gretta's got to go, and that's more'n nonsense. but you needn't worry about that, because it had got to come on some poor excuse or other, and i guess in the end she'll be better off without them cross women. reba wouldn't be so bad, but she hain't got the backbone to stand up against eunice; i guess she's about flaxed all the time herself, gettin' scolded." "i suppose the only question is: what can be done about it?" suggested margery timidly. for the first time she and happie were painfully conscious that they were not in their own home. it would not do to ask miss bradbury to shelter another in the ark; the suggestion must come from her. at that moment bob burst into the room. all the time that they had been listening to rosie's tale, they had seen through the window mahlon out in front talking to bob with his usual accompaniment of swaying arm and leg, talking with so much earnestness that mrs. scollard had found time in the midst of her interest in rosie's news to wonder what could be the matter with mahlon. "mahlon's been telling me what's happened down at the neumanns'," cried bob excitedly. "did you ever hear of such an outrageous piece of injustice? say, shall i harness up, and go right down to fetch gretta? of course you're going to have her here, aren't you?" never before had happie fully realized the inestimable advantage of being a boy who did not stop to consider delicate issues, but blurted out what he wanted to say, oblivious to consequences. and it was evidently not a case for hesitation, for miss bradbury promptly said: "indeed i am!" she got no further, for happie hurled herself at her with such enthusiasm that though she was stoutly built, her aunt keren staggered backward under the onslaught, fell against mrs. scollard, standing close behind her, and all three, miss bradbury, mrs. scollard and happie went down in a heap on the floor, to the consternation of polly, looking on, and the unbounded joy of penny, who jumped up and down on the sofa where she was playing, clapping her hands and shouting till jeunesse dorée leaped from his pleasant doze, swelling up to four times his natural size. "oh, happie," gasped miss bradbury struggling to her feet. "do be careful. you certainly are growing much bigger." "say, happie, you want to look out how you let yourself go," protested bob, helping his adopted aunt to her feet, with a hand for his mother, who was laughing too heartily to rise unaided. "oh, i beg your pardon, dear auntie keren!" cried happie with as much contrition as was compatible with amusement. "you're not hurt, are you? nor motherums?" "only in my dignity," said philosophical miss bradbury getting up. "and i am less flexible than some years ago." "i'm injured in the same way; in my dignity only. it is not seemly that the mother of six children should be bowled over like a nine-pin," said mrs. scollard, settling the hairpins which were starting out on all sides of her tumbled hair. "i never saw any one so fitted to be the mother of sixty as you are!" cried happie with conviction. "you keep us in order--we're the best children in the world, of course!--and yet you are just as young as we are, and you never misunderstand! and aunt keren is so dear! i didn't mean to bowl you over, you two blessed treasures, but aunt keren was such a darling to say: 'indeed i am!' so promptly, as if there weren't the least possibility of doing anything else but take in gretta that i couldn't help flying at her! and i really think, aunt keren, you must have been standing rather shakily!" "i am willing to admit resting more weight on one foot than on the other," returned miss bradbury. "do i gather from your words and your movements, your calm and deliberate movements, that you are willing to shelter gretta, now that she is abandoned?" "oh, aunt keren!" was all that happie said, but it seemed a satisfactory reply, for miss bradbury warmly returned the kiss that happie gave her, and went to her desk. "i think the best way to arrange it is to accept bob's offer to go after gretta himself," she said. "if i go i shall subject myself to all sorts of disagreeable remarks. margery cannot, and certainly her mother must not go to be railed at, while happie might possibly be led to air her opinion of miss neumann's behavior, which would never do at all. so i'll write a note to gretta, bob, and you can take it, and if rosie is right that matters are so bad with the poor child you will bring her home with you." "well, i guess!" ejaculated rosie. "i hain't told you half of how bad they are. i hain't told you one word of what eunice said." "better not. it would be disagreeable and useless hearing," said miss bradbury as she drew her paper towards her, glanced at the calendar, and dipped her pen in the ink to begin a note to gretta. in a few moments she blotted the note and turned to read it to the assembled family; bob had already departed for the barn to make don dolor ready. "my dear gretta," miss bradbury read, "rosie has come back with the story of your wrongs. i am sorry, my dear girl, that you should be unkindly and unjustly treated, for your sake. but for our own i am tempted to be glad of that which gives me the opportunity to say that you must come at once to us, to stay with us, either here or in town, until you have found somewhere else where you can be happier. but i am sure that you cannot soon find friends who will love you better than we do, nor be more glad of the chance to have you all to themselves, and all the time, than we are. the girls are beside themselves at the thought of your coming, not to go away again for nobody knows how long! come back with bob; do not keep us waiting. we have long wished that we might have you, so come at once to your loving friends (represented by) keren-happuch bradbury." "just the very sort of note to write gretta, aunt keren!" cried happie flying to hug her again in a rapture, while margery said, with more quiet pleasure: "i am sure that will not only bring her, but set at rest any doubt she may have of being welcome." "it is so simple and earnest that she can't fail to understand it, and be comforted," said mrs. scollard, as miss keren-happuch went out to give the note to bob, with a few last hints as to how to bear himself, and what to say and to leave unsaid at the seat of war. "i suppose we must get ready that little room, miss keren? shall i see to it?" "yes," miss keren called back, answering both questions at once. "there never was, there never could be another such mother as ours!" cried happie, as her mother followed miss keren-happuch from the room. "even if that baltimore creature you met at bar harbor"--happie could not bring herself to speak respectfully of the new friend, whose interest in margery she found hard to forgive--"even if he is nice you couldn't like him better than such a mother, now could you, margery?" "no, indeed!" cried margery, so heartily that happie was pacified. she knew from stories, as well as scripture, that when there was danger of losing beloved sisters through the coming of charming young men, the interlopers were preferred to all else--evidently margery was safe, at least for the present. in great excitement the family watched bob driving out of the gate on his errand. although gretta ran in and out of the house daily, it was another matter to expect her coming on an indefinite visit, in the rôle of a homeless girl coming to them for shelter and protection. it was this thought that sent margery and happie from the window and up-stairs with shining eyes and quickened breath to help make ready for gretta's reception. the ark was not a large house; it was already severely taxed to shelter its inmates, and it was something of a problem to know where to put gretta. good rosie postponed her dinner to combine it with her tea, and fell to cleaning a tiny room, which had been roughly finished, over the storage room back of the kitchen. it had never been plastered, but it was not an unpleasant little nook "when the dust of ages and of departed bittenbenders had been cleaned away," happie said, letting in the southern sunshine, which it faced. there was an unused iron bedstead among the importations from town; this was brought forth for gretta's use, and margery and happie went about gleaning here and there a table, a chair, a dresser, until they had rather more than the little room would hold, and no one the poorer to all appearances. there was no more than time for rosie to get the room swept, the floor scrubbed, and the windows cleared of their crust of dusty cobwebs before don dolor appeared trotting up the road, and miss bradbury and mrs. scollard headed the group of girls who ran down-stairs to be ready to welcome gretta. the poor girl needed a cheering greeting. she stepped out of the carriage, her face swollen out of all semblance to its pretty self, and broke into sobbing afresh as miss bradbury took her in her arms, with a tenderness none who did not know her well would have looked for in that brisk lady. mrs. scollard kissed the girl with her own motherliness, which was so beautiful to gretta, who had never known a mother. happie seized her next in one of the warmest of hugs, her bright bronze hair getting mixed up with her kisses in a way it had, and which always made gretta laugh. she smiled now, a watery smile, and received margery's loving welcome as cordially as it was given; gretta looked up to gentle margery as to a superior being. "if you knew how glad we all are to get you here, gretta, my duck, you'd suspect us of bribing eunice to treat you as she has. but really and truly we're not guilty of setting her up to this meanness, though it is such a lucky thing for us," said happie, folding her arm around gretta, and conducting her into the house. gretta actually leaned on happie for support; she was so spent with tempestuous crying that there was little of her own fine vigor left upon which to lean. happie led her into the dining-room, and set her in the rocking-chair by the window. then she took off gretta's hat, while margery went to get the coffee which was waiting, ready and hot, on the stove. they were all shocked by the tragic expression of gretta's face, and the mark of suffering which the past forty-eight hours had set upon it. "suppose i hadn't you?" whispered gretta, leaning back upon happie as if utterly weary. "i can't suppose anything of the sort; you belong to us. i knew you were mine the moment i saw you painting that fence last spring," said happie, stroking the dark hair with a warm, clinging hand. gretta drank her coffee and felt better for it, the first food that she had tasted that day. then happie took her up to her own and margery's room and got her to lie down beside her on the bed. there the view of the mountains which she loved would assure the girl so suddenly deprived of the only home which she had known, that not only her new friends, but the dearest of her old ones were left to guard her. for in her short life there had been nothing so dear to gretta as the beautiful country in which she was born. wise happie did not let gretta talk. she lay beside her, still stroking her hair and crooning low a song that gretta loved. and gretta was too spent to try to talk, too hurt to have any desire to repeat the unkind things which had been said to her during that cruel day, and its preceding night. she held happie's other hand tight in both of hers and laid her burning cheek upon it. and before long sleep came to begin the blessed work of gretta's comforting and her establishment in a happier life. the good friends who had taken gretta into their hearts and home skilfully let her slip into the changed order of things as easily as possible. they learned from bob what sort of an interview he had had with eunice neumann when he came to carry off gretta. bob said that "rosie's account of things was not a patch on the reality, because no white man could imagine a woman cutting up as gretta's cousin had." so gretta was not encouraged to give details of her expulsion; instead "the archaics" cheerfully set their wits to work to devise means to help her forget what was, after all, unforgettable. the furnishing of her little room proved to be the best distraction for gretta. bob drove her down, with margery, happie and laura, to buy silkaline for her curtains, and they came back with "as pretty a pattern as they could have found in new york," margery triumphantly announced on their return. the girls made this silkaline into short curtains and ruffled chair cushions for gretta's room, and flounced a packing-case with it for her dresser, it having been discovered that the dresser which they had selected for gretta's use was miss bradbury's reserve storehouse, for special supplies. bob plastered the walls roughly, in which gretta rendered so efficient help that once more bob's opinion of her rose a notch. she could plaster better than he could! "and no wonder," gretta declared, "after the plastering and kalsomining i've had to help with at eunice's!" when the walls were covered with the rough plaster, bob and gretta tinted them with colored kalsomine, a soft green that was really artistic. against this wall the pretty green silkaline, with its brown chestnut burr pattern, swung so harmoniously that gretta pranced up and down for joy as she fell back to see the effect, and happie took a header into the snowy white little enameled bed to give vent to her satisfaction. "'he took the animals two by two,'" chanted bob. "we'll have to make new verses for our ark, hapsie; we catch our animals singly." "am i an animal?" asked gretta, opening her eyes at him in pretended offense. "all human beings are animals, miss gretta," said bob. "it rests solely with yourself whether you will be a beast." "i think i like some beasts better than human beings," gretta began, but got no further, for happie sat up and began saying: "gretta, better, debtor, getter--get her--letter, met her--oh, yes! wetter! i've got it. listen, bob!" bob refused to listen. instead he said: "for pity's sake, happie, don't spring anything on us made of such rhymes as those samples! only a boston girl, with all her r's turned into h's, would rhyme better and letter and wetter with gretta." "i think it would be nice to write a real poem on gretta's flying to the ark for refuge," said laura, surveying the improvements in the room from the doorway with lofty approval. gretta turned a beaming face upon margery, bob and happie. "i never had such a bright, pretty room before," she cried, "eunice never did anything except for plain, horrid, sensible use. i sometimes felt as if i should go crazy if i couldn't have something that was no good but to be pretty. and now look at this room! oh, you good, dear people! i'm so thankful, and i'm beginning to be so happy! i never was happy in all my life, except for little minutes, out of doors. do you suppose the animals were glad that there was a flood that drove them into the ark? for this animal is glad enough to be in this ark!" chapter xviii the bittenbender trunk miss bradbury kept talking of returning to town, but still she lingered in the ark. mrs. scollard was not well enough to resume her position in the city, and stayed on with her family at crestville, her recovery retarded by her anxiety as to the next move, and by her unwillingness to continue to accept the kindness which miss bradbury truthfully assured her was for her hostess an economy over city expenditures. for though this were true, miss bradbury could not continue to carry an entire family on her shoulders, however broad they were, or however light their burden. in the meantime nothing changed in the arrangements at the ark through the golden days of october, and, as if they had waited for gretta to be safely harbored in her ark of refuge, the storms of winter set in prematurely in november, and with remarkable vigor. the old house must have wondered at the way its new inmates set up stoves in every room where there was a chimney, and then drove them to their utmost. it had been accustomed only to a fire in the kitchen and in "the room." gretta and rosie seemed to have difficulty in adjusting their minds to this excess in the use of coal. in the middle of november the first snow-storm of the year arrived untimely. it drifted to the height of a man's knee, and the thermometer dropped down past the naught on its register, down four more degrees. of course such weather could not last, so early in the season; it was followed by a swift ascent of the thermometer, and the snow melted away faster than it had come. but while it lasted, it was an excellent imitation of winter, and not a little dismaying to novices in the art of living in the country. the storm began on friday; don dolor came up from the post-office with his back white with snow, and his long mane and tail balled with it. on saturday the drifting snow lay over the ark and its grounds and out-buildings like a beautiful blanket, and it was still falling. there was no denying that it was beautiful, but there was no denying either that it made the present world seem very solitary, and the outside world very distant and inaccessible. the silence seemed like something tangible; as if one might take it by its corners and lift it up--only there was not precisely the right person to lift it. the licking of the little tongues of flame on the hearth fell curiously on mrs. scollard's ears, as if they should have been louder, but were muffled. the children's voices came down to her from above stairs loud and cheerful, but unreal, and through and above their ringing, she seemed to hear the silence of the snow-enveloped country. happie wandered restlessly into the room and threw herself into a chair with a movement most unlike her cheery, quick self. "i feel suffocated, motherums," she said. "it's so still, so _benumbed_ still, that i can hear the distant planets roll--hear them better than this one, for that matter; this one seems to be motionless." "make your own sounds, happie," suggested her mother, not admitting to sharing her feeling. "sing and shout; get the others to help you. what you have just said has a note of loneliness." "i'm not so much lonely as lost, queer, restless," returned happie. "and as to making sounds for ourselves, it's of no use. we've been trying it, but the more we sing, and laugh, and chatter, the more we hear the stillness of the earth. gretta doesn't mind, because she's used to it, but margery and i, and laura, and even polly a wee bit, are ready to fly into inch pieces." "i prefer you whole," said her mother. "we shall have to devise something pleasant to do. you don't make fudge as often as you used to make it in town; would fudge be a solution?" happie shook her head with unmistakable emphasis. "i shouldn't like a solution of fudge, motherums," she said. "and it wouldn't be a solution of our troubles. especially that there isn't any trouble," added happie, rallying in an attempt at her usual cheerfulness. "i'll go back to the others and see if we can't think up something so interesting that we can drown out that no-sounding loud silence." "reading aloud?" suggested mrs. scollard, as happie rose lazily and turned towards the door. happie turned back. "now, motherums," she said reproachfully; "on such day as this we couldn't hear the most interesting story that was ever written; the silence would drown it. i wonder what can be the matter? i never noticed such a--such an audible silence, and it isn't like me to be so good-for-nothing, and restless." "it is our first experience of a snow-storm in the country, and i suspect loneliness is at the bottom of your restlessness, dear happie," said her mother. "i hope you'll find a weapon to rout your enemies, the silence and the loneliness, though you won't own up to the latter, my happiness." and mrs. scollard waved a tiny farewell to her daughter, with more cheerfulness of manner than of heart. "we're going to prowl, hapsie," announced bob, as happie came back to her own room, where the clan of scollard had assembled. "to prowl? where? we haven't any snow-shoes," said happie. "we don't need them in the attic, and that's where we're going to prowl. we thought we would go up there and see how it seems with the roof snow-padded," returned bob. "i imagine it will seem cold," said happie. "however, i'm ready. there seems to be nothing better to do this morning." "penny and i are going down to get mama to read to us," said polly. "penny'll get cold up there, and we're going to ask mama----" "to read 'bout the kitten that went walking all by himself, waving his wild tail!" cried penny, interrupting joyfully. the two younger children went away, polly carrying under her arm a very shabby copy of "the just so stories." the four elder ones, with gretta, climbed the attic stairs, the chill of the snowy air striking sharp upon their faces as they ascended. "i wish i had had this place while i was still young enough to play robber baron! we never had such a dandy lair as this would have made, did we, happie?" said bob looking about him with an interest that suggested that he might still have enjoyed childish things if the dignity of sixteen years had not forbidden them. "we never had anything that was a patch on this attic," said happie sympathetically. "the only mystery we could get into our lairs was imaginary. do you remember how we used to pretend that the playroom was so dark we couldn't see to walk in it, bob?" "yes, and how we used to hold up the yardstick and father's cane for torches when our men came back from their raids?" added bob. "of course, and how much we used to wish that we could get margery to be the men, but she never would be, and we had to get on with imaginary followers. though margery could pretend she was the old witch woman that stayed in the cave and got the dinner, but laura couldn't help one bit. she had to stop and argue that a chair was a chair, when we were pretending it was a turret of a castle," said happie, brightening very much under these reminiscences. "it was so stupid," said laura decidedly. "i never could see anything in playing robber baron." "well, we did," sighed happie. "this certainly would have made a perfectly lovely lair, bob. it is too bad we didn't get it in time. no city child has an attic, and attics are made for children. in town houses there is nothing but an upper floor, with one room kept for a storeroom; in patty-pans flats there isn't so much as that!" "we might turn the attic to another use to-day," said margery. "we might each tell a story about it, and what we think may have happened in it during all the years that the house has stood. there is that bittenbender trunk under the eaves; that would be a good subject for a story." "oh, that bittenbender trunk!" cried happie, starting into sudden animation. "i had forgotten all about it. we never have opened it. to-day would be the very day to see what is in it. here is gretta, living with us, and she is as near to being a representative of the bittenbenders as crestville boasts. let's open it, now, this minute, and solve the mystery, instead of weaving yarns about it. maybe we'll find some dark secrets hidden in its depths." "some dark clothes, much moth-eaten, more likely," said bob. "but i'm with you for the opening. the late mr. bittenbender announces his early winter opening--so does crestville to-day, for that matter! say, gretta, he is 'the late,' isn't he?" "what is?" asked gretta, puzzled into a relapse into the vernacular. "the late; he is dead, isn't he?" asked bob. "oh, yes; of course he is," said gretta. "he died three or four years ago somewhere down country where he came from in the first place." "well, from all accounts of him, that seems to be a good thing," said bob cheerfully. "wouldn't you like to open that trunk and see what your grandfather-in-law--no, your step-grandfather left behind in that venerable, partly bald receptacle?" "i don't mind; yes, i should like to open it," said gretta, "but i think we ought to speak to miss bradbury first." "aunt keren won't object, but of course you're right; we should have to ask her," said happie. "bob, suppose you go down and get all the trunk keys there are in the house, and bring up the hammer and chisel in case none works, and at the same time ask aunt keren's permission to break and enter?" "neat way of making sure you don't have to go yourself. i see through your dark wiles, miss keren-happuch," said bob. "but i don't mind; i'm public spirited; ready to be butchered to make a roman holiday." and bob departed, whistling in a way that declared that for him the loneliness of the morning had been dissipated. he came back bearing a quantity of keys, the hammer and chisel, and miss bradbury's permission to investigate the bittenbender trunk. he and gretta dragged it forth from its long established retreat under the eaves, into the light of one of the four gable windows. here the poor thing looked even shabbier than in the shadow, and smaller. "it seems to be shrinking from the garish light of day," suggested happie. "you can hardly blame it," said bob. "it is a melancholy trunk. i never saw anything else so bald as it is in spots. it ought to have a skullcap, or we might throw a buffalo robe over it--it might think its own hair had grown out again." "you're as silly as i am, bobby," said happie approvingly, as she tried first one, then another of the keys without any result. "i thought it would open like--like sesame! but it doesn't seem so easy, after all." "it looks as if a door-key would be about the right thing," said bob, kneeling to squint into the lock. "let me try it. i don't like to force the poor old thing; time has been hard enough on it without our being violent. i'll try this key, and if everything else fails, i believe wire will do the trick, for it is far from a yale lock." everything else did fail, so bob twisted a wire and picked the lock, "in a manner worthy the robber baron," happie said. bob threw back the lid impressively. "behold the treasures of the last of the bittenbenders!" he cried melodramatically, stepping back a pace. the girls crowded around to see what was revealed, laura shivering with the combination of cold and excitement. "let gretta take out the contents," said happie. "we must do everything decently and in order, and we mustn't forget that she is the most in order of any of us. when it comes to bittenbender things, she's the family representative." "i won't be jealous of any one who wants that place," laughed gretta, kneeling before the trunk nevertheless. "i'm not anxious to be mixed up with the bittenbenders; they are not one bit relation to me, i'm proud to say." "never mind genealogy just now, gretta; show us what's in the trunk. if happie says you must, you must--her word is always law somehow," said bob. "because her words are happie-thought words," smiled margery. [illustration: "the girls crowded around to see what was revealed"] gretta began to deposit on the floor the top layer of the contents of the trunk. there was nothing interesting to the eager on-lookers, and everything had a dusty, musty smell, "as if spiders had wrapped them up in their webs instead of moth balls," margery suggested. there were queer old garments, not valuable when they were new, and far from new when they were packed away. there were old account books which none but the accountant could have understood; some old newspapers, yellow and stained, and at the bottom more newspapers, but these bore dates several years subsequent to the papers on top, or the dates revealed by the garments. "there isn't anything wildly exciting about this," said bob wearily. "and i'm getting chilled to my marrow up here. queer the newer papers are below; they must have repacked this thing. why what's the matter, gretta? what's up?" he spoke sharply, and dropped on his knees beside the girl to look over her shoulder. gretta was sitting back on her heels, holding a long, yellowed envelope in her hand at which she was gazing with all color fled from her frightened face. "'the last will and testament of anna bittenbender,'" read bob, aloud. "good gracious, gretta, has it been found at last? and right here in the house? open it, quick!" "i can't," said gretta, holding out the envelope to happie as if it had been a dynamite bomb. "you read it, happie." happie took the envelope eagerly, and drew forth from it a sheet of foolscap, covered with clear writing, very different from the inscription on the envelope. "'i, anna bittenbender, born neumann, and subsequently wife to herman engel, now the wife of isaac bittenbender, being of sound mind----' why, gretta, is it--it is actually your grandmother's will!" cried happie, breaking off short in her reading, greatly excited. "no doubt of that!" cried bob, not less excited, while margery and laura mounted the fateful trunk, the better to look over happie's shoulder. "hurry up, hap! she gives and bequeaths, of course. what does she give and bequeath--to whom?" "i can't tell, you fluster me so!" gasped happie. "here are some small items. here is a hundred dollars to her husband--oh, my! that's only to bury her! and here---- yes, it is! 'i give and bequeath to my son rufus engel the house and farm in and on which i now live, consisting of sixty acres of cleared and wooded land, situated on the main road running from crestville to sprucetown, in the county of madison, in the state of pennsylvania, together with all the live stock which may be on the farm, and all the tools, vehicles and furniture in the house and farm buildings at the time of my death. in the event of the death of my son, the farm with all its appointments, as above named, shall pass to my son's only child, his daughter gretchen elizabeth, for her use and behoof, and for her heirs after her, without restriction and forever.'" happie ceased reading, and the will fluttered from her hand. she looked shocked; indeed all the young people gazed on one another blankly, utterly dazed. gretta began to cry softly, and this brought the scollards to their senses. "then the ark is yours, gretta," said bob. "it is fine! instead of aunt keren's sheltering you, you are sheltering all of us. you will let us stay on a while, won't you?" "don't!" cried gretta, hysterically. "come down to mother. we must tell mother," said margery. "and we must find aunt keren. pray don't cry, gretta. it is the loveliest thing that could have happened to you; you will be perfectly happy when you have got used to it, and realize that you own a farm. and, though we have always supposed that aunt keren was not at all rich--only comfortably off, she didn't seem to dread giving up this place if she had found the will. come down-stairs as quick as you can." but in spite of her cheerful words, margery's mind was divided between rejoicing for gretta, and regret for kind aunt keren's loss. without a second thought for the contents of the shabby little trunk which had so long guarded its secret till this day of dramatic revelation, the scollards escorted gretta down-stairs, laura's tears falling as fast as gretta's had. laura had never quite liked accepting the country girl on equal terms with themselves, and she had been building air castles of succeeding summers spent at the ark, with aunt keren. laura was instinctively selfish; it always took much effort to get her up to the point of rejoicing in another's good. "aunt keren, would you please come into the library where mother is?" said margery looking in at miss bradbury busied with accounts at the dining-room table. "we have something wonderful to tell you." miss bradbury looked up, with considerable doubt as to the importance of the communication that she was to hear. a glance at margery's face convinced her that something serious had happened, and she followed the young people into the library at once. mrs. scollard lifted her face as the five entered, followed by miss bradbury. polly sat on the arm of her mother's chair, penny was curled within its embrace; it was a pretty and peaceful picture which they had come to break up. mrs. scollard greeted them with her bright welcoming smile, but it faded instantly, her book fell from her hand, she set penny on her feet and sprang to her own, crying: "my dears, what has happened?" "we opened the trunk, aunt keren, mother," said bob, making himself spokesman. "it had a lot of trash in it, but it had something else besides. we have found gretta's grandmother's will!" "her will!" cried mrs. scollard. and with an instant perception of the truth, miss bradbury added: "and she has left this farm to gretta; her husband hid the will!" "well, of course we can't tell about that," said bob. "but yet it must have been so. the will was under a lot of old account-books, clothes and stuff belonging to old bittenbender. it gives this place to mrs. bittenbender's son, rufus engel, and if he died, to his daughter gretta." "oh, i'm so sorry!" cried gretta, throwing herself face downward on the couch. "after you've been so good to me! but maybe it won't matter. we won't tell any one we found the old will, and then you can keep the ark!" miss bradbury laughed. "my dear little girl, would you have me compound a felony?" she asked, going over to stroke gretta's hair. "look up, my dear gretta, and let me see you as glad as you should be! no longer a homeless girl, dependent on the grudging kindness of distant kindred, but an heiress, as things go in the country; the owner of an excellent farm. as for me, you know how hard i tried to find this will, and how glad i am to have justice done you. fancy hiding the will! why, this old man your grandmother married was a rare old scamp, and would you have me as bad as he was? we'll hasten to prove the will, get it through probate, and establish our gretta in her rights just as fast as the law can move. don't feel sorry, gretta, my dear! i am very glad, and can get on perfectly well without the ark. how much good has it done me since i took it until this summer? isn't it a good joke on us all that the will was reposing quietly in our attic all the time that we were scouring the country for a trace of it?" gretta sat up flushed and purpling with excitement, her eyes burning, her breath coming short. "i'll never take the ark, never, unless you don't want it!" she cried. "and i'll never take it then unless you will promise to own it with me and stay here all the time, and let me work for you. i won't touch the will, nor the place, unless you own it just as much as i do." "my dear, grateful, generous gretta," said miss bradbury, "did you ever hear that shakespeare said that some people had greatness thrust upon them? you can't escape your good fortune in this world any more than your bad luck. i did not intend staying here all the time, you know, even when i owned the farm. but we'll promise that the ark shall be our refuge when we need one, just as it was your refuge in time of trouble when i owned it. and who knows what good may be in store for us, as well as you? good and bad happenings seem to run in schools, like mackerel, i have noticed." "i feel exactly as if i were in a story-book," said happie. "hidden wills and tardy justice done the heroine, who has been poor and oppressed--now isn't it a regular fairy-tale?" "it is very interesting," said laura, so pensively that they all laughed, even gretta. "it is the very best thing that could have happened," declared mrs. scollard heartily, with an eye on gretta's still clouded face. "it will turn this dreary day into summer sunshine. come, let us tell rosie; she will be delighted too." but the dear woman could not quite forget that, though she was impatient to remove her children from dependence on miss keren, for the time they had no other home than the ark. and it was a good home, however forlorn it had appeared at first. this discovery would have a decided, though indirect effect on her family fortunes. chapter xix dispossession and possession "well!" said rosie when she heard the great news. "well, if that hain't just like all i ever heard 'em tell of old bittenbender! to go and hide the will, and then let it in a place where 'twould be sure to be found by whoever come here after him, so they'd have to stand the loss, or else be a big rascal like he was! i always heard 'em say old bittenbender was the greatest scamp around here, but to hide the will, and then give the place he didn't own to pay his debt, and then let the will behind him, yet, where you'd be sure to find it, beats everything i ever heard." "it looks as if the late unlamented isaac bittenbender enjoyed a joke of his own kind, though it isn't the sort to please all tastes in jokes," remarked bob. "it is lucky for him that the will wasn't found while he still lived--it might have given him another sort of residence than the ark." "well, it's a lucky thing for gretta the farm come into honest hands, or the folks that found the will might have kept still about it and she'd never have been no wiser," remarked rosie. "as 'tis, what you goin' to do about it?" "not that," said laura, unnecessarily. "don't you know, rosie, how hard aunt keren tried to find the will, so she could give the place over to gretta?" "why, you don't suppose i thought your aunt keren was a-goin' to keep it?" rosie expostulated. "we are going to have the will proved, admitted to probate, and we shall install gretta as mistress of the ark just as soon as we can possibly do so," said miss bradbury, smiling into gretta's perturbed face. "then we shall see what arrangement we can make with the owner by which we can stay on here for a time, instead of her living with us, but otherwise with no change of conditions. did you ever see a girl so cast down by good fortune? gretta, girl, pray look cheerful! gaze out of the window at your own broad, snow-clad fields. look around you at your own walls, and consider what a happy change this makes in the fortunes of a girl who has had nothing in all her life to call her own, not even a father's house! and now she is an independent farmer who, with a little help, can subsist off of her own good acres!" "i wish it could stay yours, and you would let me live with you; it is dreadful to take anything from you when you have given me so much," repeated gretta, unable yet to take any view of the morning's events except as they affected her friends. it was impossible, however, not to feel some little thrills of pleasure as the idea of ownership became more familiar. the snow of that saturday went off like the mists of a july morning. on monday the scollards rejoiced in a premature sleigh-ride, though the drifts made some of the exposed points of the roads nearly impassable. on tuesday the same roads were running with rivulets of water, and either sleighing or wheeling was nearly impossible. gretta's distress at being an heiress went through nearly the same process as the snow. under the sunshine of miss bradbury and the scollards' unselfish pleasure in her good, she began to brighten. then she began to take pleasure in the thought that she could actually benefit them and shelter them under her roof, giving as well as receiving. it never occurred to any of them that they should separate, and in that case what did it matter, after all, in whose name the farm stood? it was and still should be, gretta's home and that of its new inmates. it was a beautiful thing--provided no one else were the worse for it--that by her grandmother's will the old house had fallen to her grandchild, and that now gretta engel had a place, a holding in the county, and could take her position among her neighbors, no longer an object of charity. for even miss bradbury's, and the scollards' charity--though it was of the sort meant by the strict meaning of the word--was a burden, lighten it as they would. mrs. scollard was so much better that it was hard not to be quite as well as before she broke down, and to know that she was not equal to assuming the duties of her former clerkship. she talked a great deal with her older children as to their next move. the ark had been a rest; it had saved her, but obviously they could not live on in dependence forever; there must be some way found to resume their independent existence. bob could go back at any moment to mr. felton, but the five dollars a week at which he must begin would not support six people--even youngsters' sanguine views of practical questions had to admit that fact. margery, happie and gretta had a plan; they spent hours discussing it, but nobody yet knew what it was. in the meantime mrs. scollard cudgeled her brains by day--and by night too, to her own harm--trying to think of some way out of her troubles. so when bob drove up from the post-office on a day a little past the middle of november with a letter among her mail from the firm for which she had so long been confidential correspondent, mrs. scollard tore it open eagerly, and gave a queer little sob of joy as she laid it down after reading it. "oh, dear miss keren, do listen to this!" she said. "they ask me to come back if i am at all able, to take charge again of their foreign correspondence. and they say if i am not equal to resuming fully my old duties, at least to come to assume general supervision of that department at a smaller salary, if the work must be divided. they beg me to take my old position at fifty dollars a week, as before, or to take half the work at twenty-five dollars a week, until i am able to do more. thirteen hundred a year--we can't live on it, but perhaps we could manage? i don't believe i am equal to resuming everything--manage to add to it, i mean?" mrs. scollard looked vaguely at her hearers, thinking aloud. "now here is where we come in!" cried happie, starting up in rapture. "we have the best plan, margery, gretta and i, but it never seemed to us enough to rely on. but it would help lots; you can't tell how much, till it gets under way. we want to open a tea room, and a circulating library, and we want to make it lovely, somewhere near the drive, or the speedway, or somewhere where people get tired and thirsty, and blown to pieces. we may have to dress up as geishas, because that's the way it's usually done, but we don't want to; it's so silly! the girls never look japanese." "really, keren-happuch, what are you talking about?" demanded miss bradbury. "happie is trying to tell you about something we have talked over of late--it was her idea in the first place," said margery. "we thought that we might--no; that isn't the beginning either! we thought that we must earn money somehow. and we never were able to think of anything that we could do; we are all so very young. and mother would be miserable if we so much as suggested anything that was--well, public, or which threw us in with people or things that weren't very nice indeed. and happie said: a tea room! and it really does seem to be the very thing, only we couldn't see, much as we wanted to, how it would bring in a great deal of money after we had paid rent and all the other expenses. even though we meant to add a circulating library to it." "what does the tea room mean, precisely?" asked miss bradbury. "it means some dark, rich paper--probably red--on the walls, and lots of little tables all around, and the sweetest little japanese teapots--the kind you get at mardine's for fifteen or twenty cents on the bargain tables--and dainty teacups, and sugar and cream jugs, and little plates of thin wafers and crackers and sweet cakes, and maybe sardines, because you have to have lemons anyway, for people that take it in their tea; and i say lettuce for sandwiches in the season when it's not too expensive, and, well, 'most anything dainty and good, such as you would get at a tea. and lanterns all around, and the windows darkened with pretty warm, dark japanesey curtains, so you could have the lanterns lighted all the time. and laura wants incense sticks, but i don't, because if any one burned those things where i was eating, i shouldn't be eating long. and then book shelves, and new novels in them, and let people help themselves, and charge ten cents a week, three books at a time twenty-five cents--oh, a regular duck of a place!" said happie in a breath, forestalling margery. "a regular poll parrot of a place, i should say, if you are going in for ornithological comparisons, happie," protested miss bradbury. "how you do run on! i don't think i understand. are you intending to rent a room, and furnish and carry it on in the way you describe--or rather in the way you sketchily outline?" "we wanted to do it, aunt keren," margery answered for her sister. "but we didn't see any chance of getting enough out of it to warrant trying it. now, if mother were going to be sure of thirteen hundred a year--if she is strong enough to take half her old work--and bob went to mr. felton at five dollars a week, then i think we girls could make up the rest that we need for expenses. gretta, we thought, would come down with us for the winter, anyway, and help us in the tea room." "i am better able to go to the office every day than i am to feel troubled," said mrs. scollard truly. "and really i am almost perfectly well again; the ark and this mountain air have saved me. i certainly shall accept this offer." "and i will back the girls in this plan to be useful which they have concocted," said miss bradbury. "it is really not a bad plan, and perfectly feasible. and being their own plot it would be far better to help them to carry it out, than to offer them a substitute for it. i'll tell you what i will do, margery and happie! i will make myself responsible for the rent of your tea room, and you may repay me if i have to meet it, and that will leave the success wholly yours, if success it is to be. after the two first months it will have been tested sufficiently for us to judge." "aunt keren, you are the very best namesake--named-after-sake--a girl could possibly have!" cried happie in a rapture. "you don't know how we longed and burned to try this scheme, but we didn't see how we could do it without capital enough to pay the rent until we were on our feet. and now you say this! bless you, bless you!" and happie seized her financial sponsor, and name donor, around the neck in a hug that set the dignified miss bradbury awry in collar, tie, and hair combs. miss bradbury adjusted these accessories with a protesting exclamation that her face belied. she was not only getting used to happie's irruptiveness, but liking it. "now i'll tell you something further," she said. "in going about among various degrees and kinds of poor people in new york, i often come upon some one who has a room to rent or a lease to get rid of--sometimes a whole house. in the spring, in the late winter, more correctly, i knew of a dear little, quiet widow who had undertaken more than she could carry on in the matter of rent. she had found a pretty shop, with two rooms above it which she had taken for her dancing school. when i last heard of her she wanted to keep only the two rooms above stairs for the school, and to rent the shop. if she should happen to be offering her place still--she wouldn't rent it except to the right tenants--it would be the very thing for you, a pretty room, precisely the right size, with large windows, and directly on the way to everywhere. more than that mrs. stewart would be there to look after you, and make your undertaking safe from any doubtful or unpleasant features--she would chaperon you children. charlotte, we could not let them open their tea-library combination without an older person to take care of them, could we?" "no, indeed; but you are all talking and planning so fast that i can't follow you. it is perfectly safe to say i agree with that last statement, but i'm not sure i agree to anything else," said mrs. scollard, looking as excited as her children, and far more bewildered. "that's all that is necessary just now, my dear," said miss bradbury. "i think i will go to new york in the morning, see mrs. stewart, and get her prices for her shop, if she has it still." "oh, aunt keren, no!" margery protested. "you must not go to town just for us. and how we are rushing on with our plan when we never really dreamed that we could carry it out, either!" "i should not be going down just for that, margaret," returned miss bradbury. "i intended going down in any case. i want to drum up guests for thanksgiving day--i thought i would bring ralph and snigs back with me." "aunt keren! and you say it so quietly!" cried happie with her voice full of admiration points. "we're having a thanksgiving day this moment. it will be perfectly beyond-tellingly-glorious to have those two boys up here now--especially that it looks like more snow!" "it will be delightful, dear aunt keren," said margery, with her gentle smile. "delightful! do hear how calmly she speaks, with that temperate, adult adjective!" cried happie. "don't leave off extravagant words, and speak like a perfect lady yet, peggy! there's so much time to be calm and grown-up! though i suppose you would rather aunt keren asked some one else than our patty-pan boys!" and happie glanced significantly at a letter in margery's hand; the fine, eccentric writing, and the baltimore postmark had become familiar to the ark. through his letters robert gaston, margery's bar harbor friend, was winning her mother's respect and liking. margery smiled unperturbed, though with heightened color. "i shall be very glad to see the boys, if they come," she said heartily. "well, i must go find gretta and tell her the news of the last hour," said happie rising with a sigh, for no other joy could assuage the pang this friendship of margery's cost her whenever she remembered it "robert gaston is a telescope turned the wrong way," she declared, "he makes me see peggy 'way off." "just think," happie added from the doorway. "an hour ago we were without prospects, and since then mother has had her letter, aunt keren has given us her blessing, and has promised to help us, and she is going down to-morrow to look up our room, and to bring up ralph and snigs! i never heard of such an eventful hour outside the theatre, and there of course you watch years pass at a matinée. won't gretta and bob be dumbfounded? don't you want to come with me, margery, and hear the crash when i break the news?" "put that way i believe i must come," laughed margery, as she followed her sister. there was no "crash" audible in the library where miss bradbury and mrs. scollard lingered, but they heard a wild whoop from bob, and then a clamor of voices as he and gretta and laura poured out questions, and margery and happie answered them as excitedly. "dear miss keren, you are so good to me and my children!" said mrs. scollard, as she saw that miss keren was listening to the babel in the room beyond in the highest satisfaction. "think of all that we owe you already! and now you offer to be responsible for the girls financially, and to let them try this scheme of theirs! i can't bring myself to the point of feeling less than guilty to allow you to do so much." "you may feel perfectly innocent, charlotte, for i should do it in one form or another whether you would or no," affirmed miss bradbury. and when she said a thing she left little room for doubt that she meant every word that she said. "i have certain plans tucked away in the back of my head in regard to your children," she continued, "and i shall certainly carry them out. don't forget, charlotte, that in all the world there is no one who has the claim of kindred upon me; no one with closer ties between us than bind me to you, my beloved friend's daughter, and to her grandchildren, your children. so i shall look after them as far as i can. so much for that part of it, and never let me hear you allude to obligations again! as to the rest, i am not, privately, especially sanguine about the success of the plan these girls have made, and yet it really is a good one, if their inexperience and youth do not defeat it. i thoroughly approve of helping people to carry out their own ideas, however, and not in trying to force one's own upon them. so--unless you had objected--i should like to be responsible for the beginnings of the attempt, and let the girls consider what i expend as a debt to be repaid. i shall back them, charlotte; that's all." "and enough," supplemented mrs. scollard. "a financial backer is styled an 'angel,' isn't he--in theatrical parlance? i begin to see why." miss bradbury departed in the early frosty morning of the next day. she was gone a week before she wrote announcing her return on the day before thanksgiving. not a word did she say of her errand, nor allude to the coming of the gordon boys. but just when happie and bob--and the others of a lesser degree--were beginning to make up their minds that they were defrauded of all that would make the festival festal, and that their disappointment was too sharp to be borne, there came a telegram of but two words. "boys coming. keren-happuch," was the burden of the dispatch. there was but one conclusion possible: miss keren-happuch was indulging in teasing. "youth must be catching," remarked happie, flying about the room with a feather duster, for it was too late to use a cloth--there were a dozen things to be done, and train time drawing on apace. "aunt keren would never have played us a trick like this before she had had the benefit of living with five young scollards." "you are ralph's hostess this time, gretta," said laura. "since he was here you have got the ark." "that's so!" cried bob. "let's dress up gretta and put her on a sort of throne in the corner, and bring aunt keren and both boys to pay homage to her as their hostess." "well, i guess you won't!" cried gretta, flushing at the bare idea of such a thing. "let's all dress up," cried polly. "let's look just as funny as we can, and stand in a row all across the steps when bob drives up." "why, that's a great idea, pretty poll!" happie approved her. "there isn't time--yes, we'll make time! hurry up, gretta; don't stop to polish that glass another minute! come on up-stairs, and let's whisk through our work there in a jiffy. then we'll make sights of ourselves with all the old things we can find, and we'll put a big cambric collar on dundee, and a white ribbon on dorée, and we'll all sing--what on earth is the best thing to sing when they arrive?" "hail to the chief," suggested margery. "who knows the tune?" demanded happie. "no, that won't do. what's the best tune? i'll make up words for it; there's no reason why laura should have a family monopoly of odes on great occasions." "john brown's body--the battle hymn of the republic--is the best tune i know when you want an awful noise, yet one that has a ring in it," said bob. "right you are, my bobby!" cried happie. "there's nothing else has the swing and rush of that air. let's see!" she began to hum the air rapidly as she switched the cover off the dresser in bob's room, which both the gordons were to share with him. "this will do!" she announced. "give me something to write on; lend me your pencil, bob!" she snatched up a box cover, scribbled hastily for a few moments, scratching out at intervals, but not much, and when she had finished read her effusion to the others. "you're all right, happie!" said bob with as much heartiness in his commendation as the academie française could have shown in crowning a poem, if with less elegance. "you sing that when we drive up, the whole crowd of you in a row, and you'll make a hit. now i've got to hurry off and harness, or i'll keep them waiting." an hour later the hit was made. margery and gretta were almost of equal height; they headed the line, margery in a sheet and pillow case costume, like a ghost; gretta attired in a bright blue wrapper, with a patchwork quilt worn as a shawl, and her pink sunbonnet on her head, hastily trimmed with all sorts of artificial flowers in various stages of nearly falling off. happie was a bride, pinned into window curtains, and with an old lace curtain for an impressive veil that trailed two feet, at the least, behind her. laura wore a long velvet skirt of her mother's, over which she had draped a diaphanous blue scarf, and this festive costume ended in a full evening dress waist, which bore a suspicious resemblance to an old shirt waist, with the neck and sleeves cut out. but laura flattered herself that her costume, at least, was impressive; she was reluctant to appear grotesque, even for fun. polly's round and serious face was the only thing visible above a great coat of fur which had been discovered in miss bradbury's closet, and which enveloped plump polly from head to heels. penny wore one of margery's discarded dancing gowns which had not survived the summer at bar harbor. over it margery had pinned a martha washington kerchief, and without plan or seeking the result hoped for by laura had been attained for penelope--she was as picturesque as possible. don dolor came up the driveway with a flourish. it proved him of a settled and sane mind that he did not rear or plunge as he faced this graduated line of funny figures, with beautiful dundee in the front rank, waving his plume-like tail, and smiling with distended jaws as he barked wildly over a wide collar of white cambric, which he wore around his neck like a harlequin. miss bradbury beamed at the group, evidently very glad to see her family again, from her collie up--or down, for dundee had taken himself and his collar to the top step, whence he was barking more madly than before as don dolor stopped. ralph and snigs threw up their hats noiselessly; they would undoubtedly have cheered had not bob warned them to be quiet, and to listen to their pæan of welcome. at the tops of their voices, but in harmony, for gretta sang alto, and laura was equal to sustaining a true tenor, the girls sang happie's words to the air of the battle hymn of the republic. "behold the glad archaics in their ararat array; they have stolen mrs. japhet's clothes (and shem's and ham's) away; they're glad to see their animals come back for holiday: hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! "the solid ground beneath our feet is good--we've floated long. but ararat is high and dry, and we have anchored strong; we're grateful this thanksgiving tide, and so we sing this song: hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!" chapter xx at the subsidence of the waters thanksgiving day was a white day. it had rained in the night, freezing as it rained, and in the morning the sun came up glorious behind the low-lying line of the most distant mountains, turning the world of ice-incrusted boughs and fields into a prismatic land of marvelous color and brilliancy. long before the sun came to work the transformation of an every day land into fairyland, happie was restlessly awake, longing for rising time. her thoughts flew to rosie, who had taken the tidings of the night before with such gravity that happie suspected that the return of her employers to town meant more serious trouble to that good woman than they had dreamed--indeed they had all expected her rather to rejoice in their good fortune as she had heretofore rejoiced and sympathized with whatever happened to them. happie had not lain long awake before she heard rosie moving about in the kitchen, getting ready for the inevitable cleaning without which she could not have kept a feast, and for which she was undoubtedly going to get her baking out of the way before day had fairly begun. the last stars were still visible and the world was dark, but happie crept out from sleeping margery's side to go down and join rosie, with the intent to find out, if she could, why she had looked so troubled at the idea of "the archaics" going away. "my days, happie, you scared me!" rosie said, facing about with a jump as the girl came softly into the kitchen. "i sent mahlon out to do his barn work; i thought i'd git him out from under foot, and i'd have his breakfast ready till he got through." "how did you manage to wake up so early?" asked happie. "i heard you down here, i believe while i was half awake and half asleep, and it's only five now." "i've been awake since two," said rosie. "i got to sleep, then i woke up and went to thinkin', and i hain't been able to git to sleep again." "what is it, rosie? you seem troubled," said happie going close to the gaunt woman and lifting her pretty face coaxingly. "won't you tell me--just me?" rosie looked at her favorite, and her hard, work-worn face softened; she was not used to wheedling, but she found it pleasant. "my days, happie," she said. "it's nothin' new! only what you told me last night kinder showed it to' me over again." "please tell me, rosie," coaxed happie, catching a discouraged note in brisk rosie's voice. she drew one arm over the bony shoulders as she spoke, and laid her blooming cheek close to rosie's drab one. the lamplight fell on her hair, bringing out its reddish tints, and rosie looked at her uncertainly, and then looked away. it was most unnatural for rosie to be uncertain, and happie drew her a little closer. "please, rosie!" she whispered. "well, you see what mahlon is!" rosie said violently, as if something had given way within her and she must speak. "you kin see just what he is. i hain't never had no help keepin' things together, and it has bin sleddin' uphill on bare ground--with a good load on yet!--ever since i got married--like a ninny! i had to farm, and do housework, and do everything else, inside and out, and lose my children----" she stopped with a sob, and happie kissed her. "don't, rosie!" she begged. "you must be happy on thanksgiving day!" "yes, and i have been kinder takin' heart lately, thinkin' i was gittin' on good here, makin' money easier than i had to work when i was losin' it, yet! and here the other day i had an offer fer my place, good offer too. i was ready to jump at it, but it don't do to let folks know you're willin' to sell right off when they want to buy, or they'll think there's somethin' wrong. so i told the man i'd see once and let him know after i'd thought it over a good bit. this was 'most a month since, and i was thinkin' maybe i'd tell him i'd sell--he sent over to know if i hadn't about made up my mind, and of course i knew right off i'd be lucky to git eight hundred dollars fer that there place, which was what he offered. i'd got it all planned how i'd put it out to interest somewheres and live on here with your folks, and when they got sick of keepin' mahlon, he could go off somewheres else to work, but i'd stay with them as long's they'd have me. and i felt pretty sure that'd be quite a spell, because we git along good together. and now this has happened yet, and you're all goin' off next week!" "i don't see why that makes you so discouraged," happie began. "you don't? well, i do," said rosie almost fiercely. "there hain't many places up here to be had to work out. i can't sell my place now; i've got to go back and work it. i hain't complainin' nor blamin' nobody; it's the same kinder luck i've had right along, and i mighter knowed it wasn't goin' to change so sudden." happie's face had brightened as she listened, while rosie's had flushed and grown more cloudy. she turned away as she ceased speaking, drew the back of her hand across her eyes and said snappishly: "i can't fool away any more time, happie. what's the use of gittin' up by dark and foolin' away the whole mornin' yet?" happie paid no attention to these last remarks. she got both arms around poor discouraged rosie and held her fast, forcing her to look in her face. "rosie, listen!" she cried. "after we left you last night, and polly and penny were asleep, all we old folks sat around the fire rather late talking over our plans. ralph and snigs say that their mother would be glad to let us take back our apartment, if we would, for she doesn't need it any more, and aunt keren has found our room for the great experiment. so on the first of the month--no, that's saturday,--but next week, the first week in december, we are all going back, we scollards, to our patty-pans, and aunt keren to her house. it is really wonderful, when you think of it, that gretta owns this farm, that we found the will, for though of course our plans would include her in any case, still having this she is able to do something in return for aunt keren--and through her for us--and that makes her a lot happier, and everything better all 'round. we all agreed last night that we had grown tremendously fond of the ark, and that we should feel dreadfully not to come back to it. we've got to go back to new york, because, you see, we have to earn our living just as much as you have, but we are coming up here every summer, aunt keren and all of us--we scollards. aunt keren says wild horses shouldn't drag her back to her hotel life summers since she has tasted the independence and privacy of her--or what was her--old farm. of course we may not be able to come too, but that's the plan. we're going to open a tea-room--but you know all about that! we may not be able to leave town, but i guess we shall--in instalments, anyhow. now don't you see, you dear, worrying rosie you, that there will have to be some one here to take care of the ark, 'put out the garden,' as you say up here, and farm the place, not to mention having the house open and the dear ark dry and sweet and clean when we all come home in the summer? aunt keren--and gretta, because it is her house and she had to consent--that's a joke, rosie, because gretta's half crazy with joy over the whole thing!" happie interrupted herself to say hastily, lest rosie be hurt--"aunt keren is going to ask you if you would be willing to stay on here at the same pay as now, taking care of the place summers and winters, with and without us; you and mahlon too, of course. then, if you really can sell your place, why i know aunt keren will get her business man to invest your money for you at the best interest, and you'll be better off than if we had not gone away--though i really don't see what you'll do with no children to bother you, for you won't have any excuse for so much cleaning! i suppose i ought to have left this for aunt keren to tell you, but i couldn't let you fret one moment longer, when a word would stop it--though i have said more than one word, now haven't i? kiss me, rosie, and tell me that you think you have good reason to keep thanksgiving day in its full meaning after all!" happie ended her long, breathless speech with a gay little laugh into rosie's face, as she thrust her own forward insinuatingly. "i guess!" said rosie, and she kissed happie with a warmth that nothing had called forth in the lonely woman since the last little grave had been made in the methodist churchyard. then she turned away, unaccustomed to betrayal of feeling, and embarrassed by it. "my days, happie! look how light it's gittin'!" she said. "i don't hardly need that lamp. and if there don't come mahlon back already! i told him i'd have his breakfast ready till he got through, and i hain't hardly started it. why, you're all shiverin' cold, child! this kitchen hain't been as cold a mornin' this season as 'tis this one. you hain't used to bein' up so early. you go back to bed and take a nap; it wants two good hours till breakfast. or would you rather go into the room and lie down? i'll make a fire there if you want me to." "i couldn't go back to bed; i couldn't sleep much last night myself, but not because i was worrying like you; because i was so excited and happy," said happie. "you needn't stop to make a fire for me; i'm so warm inside i don't feel the cold, even if i do shiver. so are you all warm and happy inside, aren't you, rosie?" she added wishing to be fully assured of rosie's holiday state of mind. "i guess!" rosie said again, but with a smile so cheerful that happie was satisfied. "as to the fire," continued philosophic rosie, "it's got to be made, so you might as well have the good of it as to wait around shiverin' for a particular time to be comfortable." right after breakfast the scollards bore off ralph and snigs to the small skating pond which had been made by damming the brook. gretta, who could skate far better than the scollard girls, begged to be allowed to stay at home to help with the preparation of dinner. "if it's my house, and the boys are my first guests i think i belong here," she argued. and nobody could gainsay her argument. the skaters came home cold and glowing and ravenously hungry from their sport, and from a walk over roughened fields and roads, in which alternate thawing and freezing had made ruts that lifted one foot up on a ridge while its mate came down emphatically in a hole that gave its owner a jarring surprise. but the air was so bright, the long vistas of country revealed by the bare trees so splendid that it was well worth while "tramping on the bias," as ralph said. how pretty the low-ceiled library looked as the party came into it! the fire crackled on the hearth, warming one through the sense of sight almost as much as through the sense of feeling. pictures, pretty casts, books--which seemed to follow the inmates of the ark into every room, like faithful favorites, not relegated to one special place--all contributed to make this a totally different room from the dreary, musty one into which bob and happie had despondently peered on that night of their arrival, half a year ago. and there by that cheery hearth sat mrs. scollard, safe and well! polly and penny beside her, plump as pigeons and hardily browned. and dundee in holiday array of a big blue bow, and jeunesse dorée, by this time thoroughly reconciled to the collie, quite as magnificent in a grass green ribbon, setting off his yellow fur. "my, but it's nice here; better even than in summer!" cried ralph, dropping down in the chair opposite mrs. scollard and stretching out his long legs in just the same sort of appreciation of the heat that the dog and the cat showed. "i don't believe i care about going back to town next week, and i don't see how you can look the patty-pan prospect calmly in the face. i believe i'll get gretta to sell me her farm and turn gentleman farmer after i finish college--if ever i do!" "more than doubtful," agreed bob. "see here, ralph, you can't bask! we've been informed on the reliable authority of our hostess that turkey's almost ready for the table, and our dressing isn't anything like done, though his is. you straighten up those long legs of yours and stand up on them, and steer them straight up-stairs to wash up!" "i wonder," began polly thoughtfully, as ralph obeyed the first two of these four orders with a groan, "i wonder if your mother goes away to-day, and you boys are here, if whoop-la will have any thanksgiving." "were you going down on the afternoon train to feed him, little lady bountiful?" asked ralph. polly was his especial favorite of the lesser scollards. "be at rest; mother was not going until noon, and whoop-la is provided for, amply. i think mother would not have any thanksgiving herself, rather than neglect her cat." "i always liked your mother," said polly seriously. "you can bank on mother's taking care of the weak," assented ralph, as he joined snigs and bob in the hall. "boys, boys!" called gretta ten minutes later, making herself heard with difficulty above the shouts of laughter from bob's room. "boys!" "m'am!" responded bob leaning over the balustrade, his face scarlet from the sharp winds of the morning, supplemented by a brisk rubbing. "they told me to call you; dinner's ready," said gretta. "told you! who told you? what makes you take orders; aren't you the head of the house? we'll be down with the speed of three, gretta," said bob disappearing. "mr. gordon," said happie, "you will please take in miss bradbury. mr. charles gordon will take in mrs. scollard. mr. scollard will be so good as to offer his arm to the head of the house. miss scollard escorts miss penelope, miss laura scollard takes in miss mary, while miss keren-happuch scollard finds her way in as well as she can alone, following the trail. mr. gordon, miss bradbury, will please proceed." "doesn't the honorable keren-happuch mean precede?" suggested ralph blandly. "she means both; they will proceed to precede," said happie. which they did at once. jake shale's turkey, which nearly collided with the procession, borne aloft by rosie, was a credit to the keystone state. its browned breast-bone arose from the snowy platter like a pennsylvanian mountain ridge from the snow. miss keren spanned it with the tines of her carving fork, and laid off breast and side bone slices with a speed and skill that struck even the uncritical younger portion of her family as little less than marvellous. "gracious, aunt keren, how nice you can cut it up!" exclaimed penny, in hungry appreciation. "we call it carving, my dear," smiled miss keren. "my father had no sons, and he insisted that each of his daughters should learn to carve without a mistake. he taught us to carve the entire bird without once removing our fork, and when we were done there must not be any ragged places, nor torn joints. he considered carving, good whist playing, and a few other like accomplishments, part of the education of a gentlewoman." "then i can never be a gentlewoman," said polly, sadly. "my arms wouldn't let me carve so well, and i'd be too fat to keep my fork in and reach all around it without moving it lots of times." the others laughed. "never mind, polly; maybe you can feed the turkeys, while somebody else carves them," suggested happie consolingly. "i'd much rather," said polly with her unfailing seriousness. such a turkey as it proved to be, so succulent, so toothsome, with such a flavor! then rosie's vegetables were so very good, and so intemperately abundant! mrs. scollard had made the mince pies after a recipe which had come down to her from a long line of colonial dames, her ancestors, and their crusts flaked and flew in a way that spoke volumes for the amount of butter the farm cows allowed her to use. the nuts were hickory and chestnuts, grown and gathered on the farm--how could the best intentioned help overeating? and that sort of indulgence is more than excusable on the day of gratitude. "i guess we're done for for the rest of the afternoon," observed snigs at the end of the feast as he dropped his last nut shell, denuded of meat, on his plate. "i've got my watch out of my vest pocket--wanted to see how long we'd been here--and now i can't get it back again." bob and ralph shouted, but snigs had not meant to be funny, merely to state a fact proving how fully he had done his duty by the institutions of his country--turkey and thanksgiving day. happie's lips were moving rapidly, and her face, already flushed, grew very red. "hapsie's in the throes," announced bob. "let's have it, hap! she always looks like that when the muse has grappled with her." "wait a minute! no, i didn't mean that! i wasn't going to repeat anything; i was only----" "improvising! we know, and you don't mind us, happie," said ralph. "domesticated minor poets often put others in a less minor key--not that we are not reasonably cheerful! let her go, happie!" thus elegantly encouraged, and at an imploring touch on her foot from gretta, who dearly loved to display happie's talents, happie favored the company with the following effusion: "i'd rather dine with barmecide, where food and drink were not supplied, than have my belt so very tight, and black specks bobbing in my sight, and feel i never more could care for more than bread and water fare." there was general applause for this humble poem, which snigs feelingly and briefly endorsed by the words: "same here!" "that's rather an ungrateful ode for thanksgiving day, happie," said margery. "you ought to be thankful for all that you've received, and not openly announce your preference for barmecide feasts." "i am thankful for all that i have received, but not for all that i have taken, peggy," said happie quickly, with her mischievous flash of her eye. "there certainly is a difference in that distinction," said miss keren, smiling affectionately at her namesake. dundee thrust his nose into bob's hand, hitching up closer to the boy's side without rising, thumping the floor all the while with his beautiful tail. "dundee says he is ready to risk over-eating, just in honor of the day and custom," said bob. "old beauty! he'll miss us." "only to be the more glad to see us when we come back," said miss keren. "he and don dolor will be comfortable in rosie's hands." "but i'm glad we can take jeunesse dorée back with us," said polly, giving the golden cat an especially tender bit of turkey breast in response to his dainty paw-pat on her arm. "well regulated families don't feed their animals at table, so my mother's aunt always says when we feed whoop-la. i've always been glad i wasn't a well regulated family," said ralph. "here, penny; i saved this piece for dorée." he offered penny a bit of meat, seeing her crestfallen expression that she had not saved anything for the kitten, as polly had done. "ralph, you are a truly nice boy!" exclaimed happie approvingly. ralph had grown tall and manly during these six months; the responsibility of making his way through college, the plans for the future with which his mind was filled, were adding gravity and maturity to his manner, but he never forgot, nor failed to understand the feelings of the little children. "a week from to-day we shall all be back in new york, each in our own patty-pan," said ralph, acknowledging happie's remark with a low bow, its mock deference not concealing the pleasure he felt. "not all of us," said miss keren, looking up at rosie with a smile that conveyed her sense of that good woman's claim on remembrance. rosie swooped down on six plates which she gathered into a pile with an emphasis that meant emotion, but not disrespect. "my days, it hain't worth talkin' about; you'll be back here in no time," she said. "just see how quick the summer's went!" with that she whisked herself out of the room; in reality the coming six months appeared tedious to rosie. she thrust her head into the room again, through a very small opening of the door. "you needn't think i hain't goin' to miss you," she added. "but i guess i've got about the most to be thankful fer of any of you. miss bradbury, the coffee's almost all; i've only got enough fer breakfast, so don't you fergit it to-morrow mornin', if i do." with which rosie again disappeared. "we have enough to be thankful for, all of us," said mrs. scollard, looking lovingly at miss bradbury. "indeed we have!" said margery softly, with that new expression on her face, as if she had a secret too sweet to share. "motherums' health would be enough, if there were nothing else," said happie. "but i have most of all!" said gretta unexpectedly. "i have a home, and--best of all--i have happie!" "we all reckon her among our chief assets, gretta," said bob. "it will be a jolly crowd that goes back to old gotham next week. only think what a difference from the way we came here!" "well, bob," said miss keren, "i don't think any one has done more than you have towards the success of our experiment, and i'm thoroughly appreciative of the fact." "patty-pans and green fields!" cried happie. "take them alternately every six months; health, happiness and wisdom guaranteed." "right you are, hapsie!" cried bob, flushed by miss bradbury's praise. penny leaned over the table, resting her elbows on it unblushingly, and propping up her little brown dimpled face in her hands. "i'm very, very glad," she said. "what about, pfennig?" asked ralph, wondering. "everyfing," said penny, in a true thanksgiving spirit. _by amy e. blanchard_ in the new series, entitled "the pioneer series" no historical stories for girls have ever been written which would take the place of miss blanchard's books. this "pioneer series" covers that interesting and invaluable bit of our nation's history when civilization moved westward. the stories included in the series are filled with the exciting experiences which characterized the life of these early pioneers. _a gentle pioneer_ being the story of the early days in the new west. pp. the situations are founded on actual facts and though the narrative deals with rough life it is tinged with feminine gentleness. the quaint homes, the crudeness of everything and the social life of that day particularly tend to interest girls. _bonny lesley of the border_ a story. pp. it is located in one of the frontier towns in what is now the southern portion of michigan, and it gives a vivid picture of what the life in those days consisted and how civilization was creeping steadily westward. _a frontier knight_ a story of early texan border life. pp. the story in this volume is located in texas, and its period is immediately after its annexation to the united states. here is pictured the various elements which go to make up a texan settlement, showing the mexican peasant life, scenes upon the ranch, texan rangers, all having their parts in the tale. the famous war with mexico also adds additional interest. each volume fully illustrated. price, $ . w. a. wilde company boston and chicago _by amy e. blanchard_ war of the revolution series the books comprising this series have become well known among the girls and are alike chosen by readers themselves, by parents and by teachers on account of their value from the historical standpoint, their purity of style and their interest in general. _a girl of ' _ about colonial boston. pp. it is one of the best stories of old boston and its vicinity which has ever been written. its value as real history and as an incentive to further study can hardly be overestimated. _a revolutionary maid_ a story of the middle period in the war for independence, pp. no better material could be found for a story than the new jersey campaign, the battle of germantown, and the winter at valley forge. miss blanchard has made the most of a large opportunity and produced a happy companion volume to "a girl of ' ." _a daughter of freedom_ a story of the latter period of the war for independence. pp. in this story the south supplies the scenery, and good use is made of the familiar fact that a family often was divided in its allegiance. it is romantic but not sensational, well-written and rich in entertainment. war of series this period is divided into two historical volumes for girls, the one upon the early portion describing the causes, etc., of the war, the latter showing the strife along the northern border. _a heroine of _ a maryland romance. pp. this maryland romance is of the author's best; strong in historical accuracy and intimate knowledge of the locality. its characters are of marked individuality, and there are no dull or weak spots in the story. _a loyal lass_ a story of the niagara campaign of . pp. this volume shows the intense feeling that existed all along the border line between the united states and canada, and as was the case in our civil war even divided families fought on opposite sides during this contest. it is a sweet and wholesome romance. each volume fully illustrated. price, $ . w. a. wilde company, boston and chicago famous stories for girls _by charlotte m. vaile_ _the orcutt girls_ or, one term at the academy. pp. _sue orcutt_ a sequel to "the orcutt girls." pp. these companion volumes are among the most popular books for girls which have ever been written concerning school life. in these books mrs. vaile depicts that old academic life which used to be so great a feature in the life of new england. mrs. vaile shows her intimate knowledge of the subject, and both books are full of incentive and inspiration. _wheat and huckleberries_ or, dr. northmore's daughters. pp. another story for girls with the true ring of genuineness, and as the two girls around whom the story centers were born and brought up in the rich farm regions of the middle west, and then spent their summers in the new england home of their grandfather, the author has been able to weave into her narrative the various peculiarities of both sections. each volume is fully illustrated. price, $ . * * * * * _the m. m. c._ a story of the great rockies. pp. the experience of a new england girl in the colorado mining camp. it shows the pluck of the little school teacher in holding for her friend a promising mining claim which he had secured after years of misfortune in other ventures. fully illustrated. price, $ . books by _ellen douglas deland_ _malvern; a neighborhood story_ pp. mo. cloth. "malvern" is a story of fine workmanship, sterling sentiments, and more than ordinary caliber. the author is one of the best writers for young people and this is certainly one of her best stories.--_the interior._ _a successful venture_ pp. mo. cloth. this book, primarily for girls, is lively and full of interest, pure in its tone and free from sensation, and full of many helpful suggestions. it is a story of a family of girls who found it necessary to make their own way in the world. this they did with success.--_boston transcript._ _katrina_ pp. mo. cloth. "katrina" is a story which all girl readers would pronounce a capital good one. the heroine's desire to look beyond the horizon of her little village when opportunity presents itself takes her to new york, where she finds new pleasures and experiences. the book is certainly a most wholesome one.--_the bookseller_, new york. _three girls of hazelmere. a story_ pp. mo. cloth. to take a trip abroad with miss deland's "three girls of hazelmere" is a treat for any reader, for the author's style is natural, yet remarkably effective, and the interest follows closely to the end of the book.--_bookseller._ _the friendship of anne_ pp. cloth. mo. this is a book which will appeal to girls and interest them throughout. it is founded on boarding-school life and is full of activity and enthusiasm.--_herald and presbyter._ each volume fully illustrated. price $ . each. * * * * * * transcriber's note: repulic changed to republic (the battle hymn of the republic). intimat changed to intimate (mrs. vaile shows her intimate knowledge of the subject). the spelling of patty-pan was made consistent. punctuation was corrected without comment. inconsistent hyphenation has been retained. vol. xxi february , no. charities and the commons the pittsburgh survey ii. the place and its social forces [illustration] a journal of constructive philanthropy published by the charity organization society of the city of new york robert w. deforest, president; otto t. bannard, vice-president; j. p. morgan, treasurer; edward t. devine, general secretary east twenty-second street, new york adams street, chicago this issue twenty-five cents two dollars a year entered at the post office, new york, as second class matter * * * * * { } telephones { } stuyvesant { } millard & company _stationers and printers_ east th street (bet. fifth ave. & union square) new york engraving lithographing blank book making catalog and pamphlet work at reasonable prices * * * * * the.... sheltering arms * * * * * william r. peters president william street herman c. von post secretary west th street charles w. maury treasurer west th street objects of the association "the sheltering arms" was opened october th, , and receives children between six and ten years of age, for whom no other institution provides. children placed at "the sheltering arms" are not surrendered to the institution, but are held subject to the order of parents or guardians. the children attend the neighboring public school. the older boys and girls are trained to household and other work. * * * * * application for admission should be addressed to miss richmond, at "the sheltering arms," th street, corner amsterdam avenue. * * * * * wm. f. fell co. printers sansom street philadelphia * * * * * book and mercantile printing specialists in medical, technical and educational work illustrated catalogues, reports and booklets machine composition, electrotyping and binding * * * * * * * * * * [illustration: _the_ kalkhoff company william st. new york] [illustration] trade marks have been used from time immemorial by manufacturers, emblems by societies, seals by kings, artists and printers. their works are known to be excellent or poor. their mark impresses the quality on the mind. the kalkhoff company william street, new york printers of the inserts herein * * * * * please mention charities and the commons when writing to advertisers. [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._ as men see america. ii. the second of three frontispieces.] charities _and_ the commons the common welfare the bill for a children's bureau an unusually well managed and effective hearing before the house of representatives committee on expenditures in the interior department was held in washington on january , following the white house conference on dependent children. no happier practical expression of the unanimous conclusions of the conference could have been conceived than this gathering of nearly all the conference leaders, representing every section of the country and all shades of opinion in dealing with childhood's problems. many persons listened to the unanimous plea that the federal government should heed the cry of the child and espouse its cause at least to the extent of providing a children's bureau manned by experts in such questions as the causes and treatment of orphanage, illegitimacy, juvenile delinquency, infant mortality, child labor, physical degeneracy, accidents, and diseases of children, to whom those engaged in dealing with these problems could direct inquiries for information based on adequate and authoritative research. the gathering of such information and its dissemination in bulletins easily understood by the common people, the making available for all parts of the country the results of the experience and suggestions of the most favored parts and of any foreign experience in dealing with problems similar to our own,--in short just such service as the government now renders so cheerfully to the farmer though the scientific work of the bureaus of its well equipped department of agriculture is all that the bill for the children's bureau asks. upon the question of the propriety, constitutionality and expediency of the federal government doing this work there was not and cannot well be a single objection made. for the first year an appropriation of $ , is asked. as was carefully pointed out by several speakers, much of the work to be done is partially undertaken and could be done more adequately by existing governmental agencies such as the census bureau whose work would not be duplicated if we make it the sole business of some one bureau to bring together in one place and focus on the problems of childhood the information desired by child helping agencies and to find out what is needed to stimulate greater efficiency in work for children. no administrative powers or duties of inspection with respect to children's institutions or work are proposed or intended to be given to the federal children's bureau. therefore only those whose deeds will not stand the light of publicity need fear the operations of the bureau or expect anything but help and stimulus in the better performance of their service to the public. all these points were made with singular unanimity and earnestness by many speakers who were heard by the committee and were seconded by the still larger number who recorded their names and the societies they represented as favoring the bureau. the judges of the leading juvenile courts were present in person, including judge lindsey of denver, judge mack of chicago, judge delacy of washington and judge feagin of montgomery, ala. herbert parsons, who introduced the bill in the house, and secretary lovejoy of the national child labor committee, which stands sponsor for the bill, conducted the hearing jointly. miss lillian d. wald, who originally suggested to the national child labor committee the advisability of such a bureau, made the opening address, giving in substance the very clear and able argument for its creation which she had presented the previous evening at the banquet of the children's conference. she pointed out the universal demand for it in the following language: and not only have the twenty-five thousand clergymen and their congregations shown their desire to participate in furthering this bill, but organizations of many diverse kinds have assumed a degree of sponsorship that indicates indisputably how universal has been its call to enlightened mind and heart. the national organizations of women's clubs, the consumers' leagues throughout the country, college and school alumnæ associations, societies for the promotion of special interests of children, the various state child labor committees, representing in their membership and executive committee education, labor, law, medicine and business, have officially given endorsement. the press, in literally every section of the country, has given the measure serious editorial discussion and approval. not one dissenting voice has it been possible to discover. the need and the opportunity in speaking of the work which the bureau would do, we quote again from miss wald: the children's bureau would not merely collect and classify information but it would be prepared to furnish to every community in the land information that was needed, diffuse knowledge that had come through expert study of facts valuable to the child and to the community. many extraordinarily valuable methods have originated in america and have been seized by communities other than our own as valuable social discoveries. other communities have had more or less haphazard legislation and there is abundant evidence of the desire to have judicial construction to harmonize and comprehend them. as matters now are within the united states, many communities are retarded or hampered by the lack of just such information and knowledge, which, if the bureau existed, could be readily available. some communities within the united states have been placed in most advantageous positions as regards their children, because of the accident of the presence of public spirited individuals in their midst who have grasped the meaning of the nation's true relation to the children, and have been responsible for the creation of a public sentiment which makes high demands. but nowhere in the country does the government as such, provide information concerning vitally necessary measures for the children. evils that are unknown or that are underestimated have the best chance for undisturbed existence and extension, and where light is most needed there is still darkness. ours is, for instance, the only great nation which does not know how many children are born and how many die in each year within its borders; still less do we know how many die in infancy of preventable diseases; how many blind children might have seen the light, for one-fourth of the totally blind need not have been so had the science that has proved this been made known in even the remotest sections of the country. at least fifteen states and the district of columbia were represented at the hearing. among the speakers were edward t. devine, editor of charities and the commons, who pointed out the scope and importance of the inquiries the bureau would undertake; dr. samuel mccune lindsay, who drew the bill for the national committee and explained its fiscal features and the plan for the organization of the work of the bureau; jane addams, who showed the real service the bureau would render the practical worker; florence kelley, who pointed out the extent of our present ignorance on the questions with which the bureau would deal; homer folks, who emphasized the unanimous demand for the bureau by the widely representative conference on dependent children; congressman bennett of new york, who showed the service it would render in dealing with the peculiar problems of the children of immigrants; bernard flexner of louisville, hugh f. fox of the state charities aid association of new jersey, judge mack, judge lindsey, and judge feagin, who all pointed out the service it would render the courts in dealing with children; mrs. ellen spencer mussey, who represented the general federation of women's clubs; thomas f. walsh of denver, dr. l. b. bernstein of new york, william h. baldwin of washington, d. c.; secretary a. j. mckelway, and general secretary owen r. lovejoy of the national child labor committee. the house committee was deeply impressed and it is believed will report the bill favorably. local plan for a children's bureau realizing that its , children between the ages of four and fourteen are its chief asset,--that children are, in fact, as important as its playgrounds or its streets or any of its other community problems,--the city of hartford, conn., has taken steps towards the appointment of a juvenile commission which shall relate the work of schools and playgrounds and manual training and homes and give them a balance and unity which come only from the consideration of such a question as a whole. each of these agencies has an influence on the child for a part of its life, but each falls short of its possibilities for lack of such a comprehensive oversight and continuity of purpose as is promised by the commission. the measure presented to the legislature for the creation of a juvenile commission is based upon the following arguments: . industrial cities are producing a class of children whose parents cannot, from the very nature of things, do much more than supply them with food, clothing and a home. . the environment of these children, is such, both in the home and in the neighborhood, that one-sixth die before they are a year old and one-fourth before they are seven. . the parents cannot as individuals provide playgrounds or adequate discipline. . every child has a right to a reasonable opportunity for life, health and advantages needed for development. . to protect the child's right to a reasonable chance for healthy development is a special work which should be done by a commission created for the purpose to supplement the work of parent and school. the suggestion for the commission came from george a. parker, commissioner of parks, hartford, and grew out of a meeting of the consumers' league, followed by a talk by dr. hastings h. hart. mr. parker's idea met with immediate endorsement from many sources and as a result the bill now before the connecticut legislature has influential and widespread support. it is proposed that the court of common council shall refer to the commission all questions relating to minors and await its report before taking final action. the commission is to have power to investigate all questions relating to the welfare of children, to collect and compile statistics and to recommend legislation. none of its actions is to be taken in a way to lessen the parents' responsibility and no child is to be taken from its parent except in extreme cases of danger to life or limb. the commission as proposed will consist in part of city officials and in part of citizens who do not hold public office, the members to serve three years each without salary, but the expenses to be borne by the city. education and the prevention of disease the past few years have witnessed an advance in the evolution of medicine which has been radical and comprehensive. it was only a decade ago that the efforts of centuries devoted to empirical treatment of the individual found room for research into the causes of disease; and it has only been within recent years that such knowledge has been sufficiently comprehensive to justify its extensive application in the practical field of disease suppression. the attempt which columbia university is making to establish a school of sanitary science and public health is prompted by the realization of the fact that most diseases are preventable with our present knowledge of their causes; that the knowledge which we now possess in regard to their causes is not properly and extensively enough applied for their prevention; and that this knowledge is best transmitted to the people by means of educational methods. probably the most recent advance in the doctrine of preventive medicine is due to the fact that many diseases are recognized to have not only medical, but social and moral causes as well; and that their prevention is best accomplished by the enlistment of judicious co-operation of effort in these various fields. for example, a large part of the disease of the human race is directly traceable to the damaging effects of alcohol and syphilis, yet these diseases cannot be eradicated until the underlying social and moral factors are recognized and remedied. it is not difficult to appreciate the wonderful results which are capable of accomplishment, with our present scientific knowledge, by the conjoined application of scientific and social with educational methods, when we realize that smallpox could be wiped out by education of the masses on the efficacy of vaccination. the fields of preventable accidents, dangerous trades, child labor and improvement of working conditions offer opportunities for the reduction of suffering which are great almost beyond conception. blindness could be diminished one-half by the spread of a simple, well known doctrine; typhoid, cholera, malaria and yellow fever depart as enlightenment on principles of sanitary administration creep in, and tuberculosis has resolved itself largely into a "social" disease. the problem resolves itself distinctly and emphatically into one of education; and it is to instruct the teachers of the people in methods of health preservation,--be they officers of health, with the care of thousands, or mothers with the care of one, in their keeping,--that columbia university is striving to put its school into operation. pending such a beginning, a series of university lectures on sanitary science and public health by the most eminent authorities of the country is being given to prepare the way for the next much desired move,--a permanent, fully-endowed institution of instruction in the principles of public health preservation and the prevention of disease. courses of a similar nature have been organized at cornell, wisconsin and illinois universities. the subjects, to be discussed by experts, include water supply and sewage disposal, health and death rates in cities, public health problems of municipalities, state and nation, milk supply and infant mortality, school hygiene, street cleaning, tenement house sanitation, personal and industrial hygiene and diseases of animals transmissible to man. the course, which was started on february with a lecture by professor sedgwick of the massachusetts institute of technology on the rise and significance of the public health movement, will be continued until april . the lectures will be open to the public up to the capacity of the hall. cleaning up the kansas penitentiary the newspapers of january contained a dispatch describing an unusual special train that left lansing, kansas, bound for mcalester, vinita and atoka, oklahoma. the passengers, sixteen of them women, were handcuffed together in pairs and groups and as the train pulled out of the station, the dispatch states that "a great cheer arose from the convicts as they saw the last of the state penitentiary." this special train was carrying away the "boarded out" convicts whom oklahoma has been shipping to kansas since the establishment of its territorial government. criminals were aplenty in the old frontier days and the contract with kansas was highly agreeable to the settlers who were glad to free oklahoma of its "bad men." the territory paid the state forty cents a day for the maintenance of each convict kept in the lansing penitentiary and adding to this the amount that the prisoners earned, kansas received about forty-eight cents a day for each oklahoma prisoner. the cost of food was about ten cents a day each. from time to time stories drifted across the border about the treatment of prisoners, but not until last year when the territory became a state and when kate barnard became its first commissioner of charities, was anything done toward cleaning things up in kansas. in august the new commissioner went to lansing as a private citizen of guthrie, oklahoma, and inspected the prison with other visitors. then she presented her official card and after considerable protest was allowed to inspect the jail as commissioner of charities of oklahoma and the newest state in the union proceeded to show her forty-eight-year-old sister what was going on in the kansas penitentiary. miss barnard found men and thirteen women prisoners from oklahoma. she spent a day crawling through the coal mines where the "props and supports of the roof were bent low under the weight of the dirt ceiling." she found that every prisoner who is put to work in the mines must dig three cars of coal a day or be punished for idleness. three cars of coal a day is a good day's work for a strong man. miss barnard found seventeen-year-old boys who were unable to do their "stunt," as they called it, chained to the walls of their dark cells. she found "one oklahoma boy shackled up to the iron wall of the dungeon. the lad was pale-faced, slender, boyish, and frail in appearance. i said: 'what are you doing here? why don't you mind the authorities?' he answered: 'i don't know much about digging coal. i work as hard as i can; but sometimes the coal is so hard, or there is a cave-in, and it takes time to build up the walls, and then i just can't get the three cars of coal. i got over two cars the day they threw me in here.'" the coal that is taken from the prison mines is used to supply the kansas institutions, it is said. about , tons are mined a day. as there are some dozen institutions to be supplied, this makes over tons a day for each of the state institutions. in the prison twine factories the contractors are allowed to say just how much shall constitute a day's work, and as all men are not equally skillful, the inferior prisoner is pushed to the limit by fear of punishment, while the more capable ones fare much better. miss barnard found that the "water cure" is in regular use; that the "water hole," "where they throw us in and pump water on us" is in operation; that the "crib" where refractory prisoners are kept with hands and feet shackled and drawn together at the back, was doing active service. she found unprintable immoralities existing in some parts of the mines and she found that since august, , sixty boys from oklahoma have been imprisoned with the men in the lansing prison. miss barnard's report seemed incredible to governor haskell. he sent another investigator who came back to guthrie with new stories of the lansing prison to add to miss barnard's. and then the governor appointed a commission to make a thorough investigation of the institution and ex-governor hoch named a kansas commission to co-operate. the latter body made its investigation before the oklahoma delegation arrived. it made eighteen recommendations changing the whole prison management, but declared miss barnard's report true "only in minor details." the oklahoma commission found that her report was true to fact and that the lansing prison was not fit for a murderer, much less for a sixteen-year-old boy. there is no state penitentiary in oklahoma and the prisoners must be kept in the county jails for the present. this is another strong argument for the passage of the bill now before the oklahoma legislature for the establishment of a reformatory. it may be possible to arrange with the department of justice to transfer the prisoners to the united states penitentiary at leavenworth. kowaliga school destroyed by fire on the afternoon of january , the kowaliga school for negroes, located in the high pine lands of elmore county, alabama, was destroyed by fire. only two buildings remain of that unique industrial settlement which has been successfully working among the negroes of the surrounding community for thirteen years. the school was started by william e. benson, a son of a former slave who had returned to the alabama plantation after the war and become one of the south's most successful negro farmers. young benson was graduated from howard university and returning to his father's plantation saw the real need for a good school for the negro children of the community. from patron's hall, built by the combined efforts of "the neighbors," kowaliga school was started. when the five buildings were burned there were pupils and twelve teachers in attendance. the loss will be about $ , with practically no insurance owing to the extreme difficulty that negroes always experience in the south in getting their property covered against loss. the kowaliga school is distinct in the service it is rendering to the community. its aim is not to train skilled workmen or highly educated leaders, but rather to properly fit the negro boys and girls of the community to live better in that community. the "book work" is carried as far as the eighth grade. the boys are taught agriculture and manual training and the girls are trained in the home life which they will probably take up on leaving school. as the school grew, mr. benson felt that it was not enough to train these boys and girls without giving them some opportunity to put their training to practical use. consequently in the dixie industrial company was founded "to improve the economic condition and social environment of the farm tenants of the south by establishing seasonal industries and furnishing them with steady employment the year round; to build better homes and help them to avoid the oppressions of the old system of mortgaging crops." the company now owns about , acres of farm and timber lands, operates a saw-mill, a turpentine still, cotton ginnery, cotton-seed and fertilizer mill, a store and forty farms, affording homes and employment for people. it has a paid-up capital of $ , , a surplus of $ , , is earning eight per cent annually, and paying four per cent annual dividends. the industrial company provides work the year round for the rural population and thus fills in the time of the seasonal workers who before were busy only about half the year. the fire will not directly affect the dixie industrial company. it will temporarily cripple the school and until funds are forthcoming that work must be discontinued. "it means beginning all over again after thirteen years' work," said mr. benson, who was in new york at the time of the fire; "but i am going back this week and make another start." revising chicago's civil service system a complete revision of the civil service system for chicago is promised by elton lower, president of the city civil service commission. after eight years' connection with the city departments the commissioner devoted himself for over a year mainly to studying the working of the civil service in boston, new york, washington and chicago and to the examination of the promotional methods used by railway, manufacturing and other corporations. securing requisite support from the city administration, he now announces a complete reversal of the form and revision of the rules under which the merit system has been operated in the city. the distinctive features of the new plan are grading by duties, descriptive titles, defining the duties of the grades, uniformity of compensation within each grade, advancement from grade to grade only by competitive examination, and a greater degree of unity and independence in the departmental administration of efficiency tests and promotional procedure within its own bounds. examinations in all departments and grades are to subordinate scholastic to practical tests, and to give greater importance to physical conditions and the investigation of character in order to meet the requirements of service, rather than require knowledge of facts. it is hoped to raise the standard of efficiency and promotion by taking the tests in each department from its own system of keeping records and accounts. as the departments will be held individually responsible for the way they keep these, the inevitable comparison and contrasts between them will tend to level their standards up to the highest. salaries may be raised only for an entire rank and not for individuals within the rank. provision for grouping employes within the grades is made on the basis of efficiency, seniority or time required by service. the passing mark will be the only test of physical fitness. a similar flat-grading is proposed for work requiring skill and experience. testing the applicant's qualifications in these respects, as is done for new york and boston by the trade schools, is preferred for chicago. a free transfer permits employes to pass from one department to another for promotional examinations, the original entrance examination thus giving a city employe a slight advantage over outsiders in competing for grades. identification tests include finger prints. the civil service commission began to institute these features among the employes of its own office some time ago. it first secured proper quarters and modern sanitary facilities, and then began training employes for its own work for which experienced applicants were lacking. mr. lower maintains that if such a system is firmly established and built up it will be likely to withstand lax administration because "it will take as much study and thought to tear it down as to construct it." whatever wrong things may be introduced into it, he thinks, "will make conditions no worse than they have been under the system that has hitherto prevailed." the chicago public library will profit as much by the re-classification of its force and by this scheme of promotion as any other city administration, since its work has suffered more for the lack of finer tests of efficiency within more specialized grades, and also from being under the same regulations as other departments with whose requirements its service has little or nothing in common. to have a civil, self-regulating service system virtually its own, will free its directors, the librarian and his staff for that initiative which will give to this fourth largest library in the united states the leadership which may be rightly demanded for it. another attempt for a new chicago charter the chicago charter convention reassembled last week at its own initiative to renew its attempt to prepare a city charter that the legislature will adopt and the people will accept at the polls. its first laborious effort was so ruthlessly made over by the contending party factions in the legislature two years ago that the measure suited no one. many members of the convention repudiated it and the people overwhelmingly rejected it at the polls. to conserve their hard and fundamental work, the convention ventured to reassemble last autumn and appointed a committee to revise its own bill in the light of its fate at the capitol and the polls. in so doing the amendments made by the legislature have been carefully considered and most of them eliminated. the measure thus nearly restored to its original form has been changed to conform to suggestions prompted by the criticisms and discussions through which the bill and act passed. this revision is now to come before the convention which faces many interesting and strenuously contested issues. among them are the limiting of the city's bonded indebtedness to four per cent, the assumption by the city of ten per cent more of the cost of public improvements, municipal suffrage for women, stringent provisions against corrupt practices, the retention of the party circle on the ballot, the local regulation of the liquor traffic and the sunday closing of saloons, the centralizing of school management, and the consolidation of four park boards. preliminary to all these issues the question is to be decided whether the convention will supersede itself by proposing to the legislature either to authorize the election of a new charter commission by the people, or to call a constitutional convention. these proposals are not likely to interfere with the procedure of the present convention to complete its own charter bill. notwithstanding the fierce factional fight that now absorbs the energies of the legislature so that it has not yet attempted to attend to public business, one of the prominent members of the house of representatives assured the convention that if it agreed upon a measure and rallied to its support the public sentiment of chicago, it would be enacted and referred to the referendum vote of the people. the science of better birth the scientific foundations for the slowly rising science of "eugenics" grow apace in the research laboratories of our universities. some of their most authoritative representatives demonstrated this fact at the recent joint meeting of the physicians' club of chicago and the chicago medical society. in strictly scientific spirit and phrase, with interesting stereopticon illustrations of their biological experiments, four professors brought their facts to bear upon the doctors for their inferences as to the analogy between the heredity in animal and plant life, and the development of human kind. two professors of zoology, dr. castle of harvard and dr. tower of the university of chicago gave respectively "an experimental study of heredity," and "experiments and observations on the modification and the control of inheritance." a beautiful parallel was presented by dr. gates, professor of botany at the university of chicago, in studies of inheritance in the evening primrose. dean davenport of the college of agriculture at the university of illinois ventured the most direct application of the suggestions from scientific experimentations to the propagation of the human race. drawing the lessons to be learned from the breeding of animals, he said that the question preliminary to any consideration of the subject is "whether the end of our breeding is to be the production of a few superior individuals, or the general elevation of the race. if it is the first, we must proceed as in the breeding of thoroughbred race horses; if it is the second, as in the production of good fat stock for the farm." preferential mating, he thinks, produces in the long run, persons of exceptional talent. "like mates with like, and people with exceptional ability in any line are naturally thrown together by their common tastes and thus uniting bring forth phenomenal individuals in all lines." the solution of the problem of the deterioration of the stock lies, he thinks, not so much in stricter marriage laws, as in the absolute prevention of reproduction among "the culls, human as well as animal." to colonize other classes of the unfit as strictly as we do the insane is the only way he sees of doing this. "let a man be taken into court and his ancestor record investigated. if we find his parents were dominantly bad, it means that he is fifty per cent bad. if his grand parents were also bad, he is twenty-five per cent more bad. when he gets to ninety per cent bad, it is certain that he must be colonized. there is a strict mathematical law that runs through it all." whatever may be thought of such definite suggestions, it is too true as the secretary of the physicians' club affirms, that "man is at a distinct disadvantage when compared with domestic animals in being denied 'good' breeding. he is the child of chance and so to speak is born, not bred." surely, however slowly, the science of improving the propagation of the human race will receive its recognition as having place among the hierarchy of the sciences and will be practically applied by those who respect themselves and have any regard for their posterity. conference on dental hygiene the conference on oral and dental hygiene held in boston recently brought out, perhaps more than anything else, the relation between, the physical condition of the teeth and the general health of the body, and the great necessity for lay intelligence in the matter. prof. irving fisher of yale, the opening speaker, dwelt on these points, and declared that civilized man tries to avoid mastication by the use of pulverized, liquified and pappified foods; that civilization has brought about a pressure of time with the result that we eat by the quick lunch counter and the clock, whereas the animal eats his meal in peace; that we eat too fast, to the injury of our teeth, as shown by the fact that those who do masticate food thoroughly have better teeth; and that experience shows thorough mastication results in better health and greater efficiency. prof. timothy leary of tufts college said that proper mastication does away with an important source of supply of putrefactive bacteria, and eliminates conditions favoring gastric cancer. dr. samuel a. hopkins believes that the solution of many of the difficulties lies in seeking out the educators and in working through them and through the various settlements and the workers in public and charitable institutions. of particular importance are all those who work with children. william h. allen of new york lays to the ignorance and the indifference and the carelessness of the public a great many of the difficulties. he believes that if hospitals ever refuse to give bed treatment for twelve weeks to a man suffering from jaw trouble when the dentist could give "ambulant" treatment while the man supports himself and his family; if physicians ever stop spending time, money, medicine and hospital space on tubercular patients who reinfect themselves whenever food, medicine or saliva pass over their diseased teeth and gums; if dentists are ever generally added to the attending, visiting and consulting staffs of hospitals; if education of dentists for profit ever gives way to education for health and training; if the dental profession is ever given the rank with other specialties and society given the corresponding protection, it will be because laymen intervene. dr. horace fletcher declared that it is definitely known that the flow of gastric juices is started in the stomach by psychic stimuli. if the food is taken without enjoyment the juices are not secreted and the food remains undigested. "any dispute at the table, an angry word, a discussion over a bill, or a sharp retort, are sufficient to stop this digestive process," he said. dr. david d. scannell of the boston school committee made the startling statement that fully seventy-five per cent of boston school children have dental disease, which means that there are about , school children in boston needing attention. dr. scannell bases his statement upon investigations made in brookline, new york, and through the district nursing associations. dr. scannell said that the present dental work in schools is done with good intention but it is sporadic. money should be set aside for examination and treatment of all school children, conducted through an out-patient dental department on the same basis as the eye and ear departments of free treatment. dr. walter b. cannon of the harvard medical school showed the dangers lurking in school drinking cups. his statements were supplemented in the exhibit provided by the dental hygiene council of massachusetts by pictures showing a filthy vagrant using a public drinking cup, immediately followed by a mother who gave her little girl a drink from the same cup. the exhibit is the only one in existence in this country. it was taken in part from the tuberculosis exhibit, but has been greatly increased and supplemented by an exhibit from strasbourg. in the closing session, president eliot of harvard pointed out the relation between defective physical conditions and defective government. "the bad physical condition of our people is due largely to the unhealthy conditions under which the men do their ordinary work and the women pursue their domestic employments. to improve the public health we must have better regulations and laws. we cannot create and improve the public playgrounds which are open air parlors without honest and efficient city and town government," he said. dr. eliot thinks that the medical profession is the most altruistic of all occupations, with the possible exception of the ministry. insurance and building loans one of the defects of the building and loan societies, long recognized in some quarters, has been the probable loss of the home to the family of the member who dies before payment has been completed. at the time when the widow most needs the home for her children, the payments cannot be met and the association is reluctantly obliged to foreclose the mortgage. a plan to meet this situation, frequent in the aggregate, has been devised and practised in new england, by requiring the borrower to take out an insurance policy on the least expensive straight-life plan, to an amount equal to the mortgage. the insurance premium is payable monthly with the payment on the loan, the association turning it over to the insurance company, and undertaking to adjust the payments if the latter's premium periods do not coincide. the face of the policy is made payable to the loan association which, in case of death, takes from the insurance money the amount remaining unpaid on the mortgage, and gives the widow the balance with a deed for an unencumbered home. in the great majority of cases where the borrower lives to complete his payments, the policy is surrendered to him when his mortgage is cancelled, to be continued or dropped as he pleases. the plan was described at the annual banquet of the metropolitan league of co-operative savings and loan associations, new york, by j. q. a. brackett, former governor of massachusetts, who is urging it on a national scale as a necessary adjunct to what, in his native state, is termed the co-operative bank. more than two hundred men attended the banquet, representing ninety-five constituent companies with , depositors, and controlling assets of sixteen million dollars. one who attended could not fail to be impressed with the evident feeling of these men that their paramount duty is not to make money for their particular organizations, but to help the average member buy a home. ninety per cent of them are unsalaried. one association, it was reported, has reduced its interest rate without request of its borrowers. in the words of the president, the main desire of building loan associations should be "the encouragement of the habit of saving without irritating penalties and restrictions and with equitable provision for the mishaps possible to those undertaking a contract for specific saving extending over a long period of years." the sightless and their work the wonderful gains made by the blind in overcoming their heavy handicap was brought strikingly to public attention at the second annual sale and exhibition of the new york association for the blind. women were at work on small hand looms, on linen looms, and on carpet-weaving looms. a blind girl operated a power machine. stenographers sat at their work, fingering ordinary typewriters, and transcribing notes from phonographic dictation. there were all the usual, simpler displays of chair caning, basket weaving and broom making and there was music, both vocal and instrumental. the guests were told interesting stories of many of the workers. one was of a man who applied to the association for help when first stricken blind and most despondent, thinking that all avenues of usefulness had been closed to him. as a result of the instruction given to him, he is now able to earn a good salary and to support his family. the work of the association has so increased during the past year, that besides the building on fifty-ninth street and the workshop on forty-second street, the special committee for the prevention of blindness has an office in the kennedy building at fourth avenue. in co-operation with the state department of health the committee is working particularly toward the prevention of ophthalmia neonatorum. following are the members of the committee: p. tecumseh sherman, chairman, dr. eugene h. porter, dr. thomas darlington, dr. f. park lewis, dr. j. clifton edgar, thomas m. mulry, dr. john i. middleton, miss louisa l. schuyler, mrs. william b. rice, mrs. edward r. hewitt, miss winifred holt, miss lillian d. wald and george a. hubbell, executive secretary. berlin's school of philanthropy europe, and especially germany, follow very closely every new experiment along social lines, undertaken by american cities or individuals. one imitation of american methods was the establishment of separate courts for children, though neither detention homes nor the splendidly equipped schools for delinquent boys and girls, which the most progressive states of the union have, are found in germany. the state governments in most cases do not take the initiative; private citizens study the question and urge the necessity for a change, until public opinion, thoroughly aroused comes out so strongly in favor of a new measure, that the authorities are forced to yield. in october, , a social school for women opened its doors in berlin with the help of different societies and in co-operation with private citizens, of whom dr. munsterberg is the best known to the readers of this magazine. a close study of the methods of the new york and chicago schools of philanthropy had been made and some of their features successfully copied. the aim of the school is to give german women new chances for service whether they wish to devote some of their time as volunteers or desire to become paid officers of philanthropic agencies. field practice will show how the same problems, which confront social workers, repeat themselves only in a smaller way in the families and individual. to the training in both theory and practice two years are devoted. the theoretical work in pedagogy, social questions, economics and domestic science, is supplemented in the first year by kindergarten and day nursery work, and in the second year by a special training gained through working at different social agencies, like the bureau of charity, juvenile court committees, relief and aid societies. all these agencies hope to get a staff of experienced helpers and workers through their co-operation with the school. the state's schools, through which the girls have to pass prior to their admission, have very little of the modern spirit. in contrast too with the great variety of courses in the state _lyzeums_, the courses are restricted in number and carefully selected. they are however most appropriate for women, since they present not only a picture of the development of modern society, but emphasize particularly woman's position. the director, dr. alice salomon, is one of the most able and conservative leaders of german women. there is a good attendance at the new school. the rudowitz case graham taylor the decision of secretary root to deny the demand of the russian government for the extradition of christian rudowitz is a great relief to all true americans, and thousands of their foreign born fellow citizens all over the land. the right of asylum for political refugees was at stake in the case of this lutheran protestant peasant. the extradition was demanded on the ground that he had been identified as one of a band of twelve or fifteen marauders who were guilty of three homicides, arson and robbery in the village of beren, courland, in january, . the defendant denied the charges of personal participation in the alleged crimes and submitted proof that courland was then in a state of temporarily successful insurrection, and that the killing was ordered by the revolutionary party then in control, as an execution of spies who had betrayed many of their own people into the hands of the military authorities by whom they were summarily shot. the evidence upon which the whole case hinged was in the form of depositions taken in russia and submitted by the government to the united states commissioner at chicago. so well grounded were the suspicions with which it was regarded, that the whole record of the testimony was submitted to john h. wigmore, dean of the northwestern university law school, one of the highest legal authorities in america, and author of one of the principal american text books on evidence. his careful analysis of the voluminous record in the case led him to conclude that while rudowitz was a member of the revolutionary committee and voted for the execution of the spies, the evidence identifying him as one of the party charged with the killing "is too slight to be of any value"; that "there is no evidence of marauding or neighborhood feuds or common depredation on the part of this or any other band in any part of the evidence for the prosecution"; that there is conclusive evidence of a temporarily successful revolution "giving the military forces of the national government under their system certain rights of summary execution, and correspondingly giving such rights to the revolutionists, so as to fix upon their acts of summary force, if duly authorized by their officers, as revolutionary acts of force." these facts justified dean wigmore in concluding that "the killing was a purely political act, the arson was also ordered politically, being a customary incident similar to the existing government's own punitive practice in such cases." the suspicions based upon such facts in this and other cases, aroused the american spirit against the apparent attempt of the russian government to secure the extradition of many political refugees on poorly substantiated charges of being common criminals. hundreds of men and women faced the possibility of being forced to change their names and hide themselves. great mass meetings were held in the principal cities to protest not only against the extradition of rudowitz, but against the continuation of the present treaty with russia under which it was asked. conservative citizens, to the american manor born, such as president cyrus northrup of the university of minnesota, w. h. huestis of minneapolis, charles cheney hyde, professor of international law at northwestern university, councillor w. j. calhoun of chicago, joined their protests with those of recently arrived refugees and such friends of theirs as jane addams, jenkin lloyd jones and dr. emil g. hirsch. but beneath the value set upon this popular agitation for the defense of the right of asylum in america, was the confidence that there was good law under the case for rudowitz, which would surely determine the decision of so good a lawyer as the secretary of state. now that this confidence has been confirmed, the question is being validly raised by the press whether the qualifications exacted of those appointed to united states commissionerships are as high as was originally demanded for the delicate and difficult duties of that office. it is pointed out that when in congress first authorized such appointments by the circuit courts, it defined the qualifications of those eligible as "discreet persons, learned in the law." later acts, however, dropped the requirement that they should be "learned in the law" and continued the reference to "discreet persons." in substituting "united states commissioners" appointed by the district courts for the commissioners of the circuit courts in , congress provided only that no united states marshal, bailiff or janitor of a building, or certain other federal employes should hold the office. some of the most eminent lawyers, who publicly joined in protesting against the extradition of rudowitz, took occasion to criticise the appointment to this office of men not trained in the law, and inexperienced in the sifting of evidence, whose decisions, involving the liberty and life of men, must be based entirely upon the knowledge of the laws of evidence. certainly this case should lead either to stricter definition of the qualifications for united states commissionerships or to far greater care in the appointments to that important office. moreover, the injustice of putting upon a political refugee the burden of proof that he is such has been made manifest in this case. for to do so rudowitz would have been compelled not only to bring his evidence from russia, but also to expose to certain death those whom he would have been compelled to name as his compatriots in the struggle for liberty. savings bank legislation: what is needed? james h. hamilton[ ] headworker of the university settlement "everything speaks for and nothing against the post office savings bank," writes professor j. conrad of the university of halle. this is strong testimony from a german economist who is a careful student in the field of social economics, and who lives in a country which has a splendid system of municipal savings banks. but if one looks beyond prussia and saxony into the province of posen he sees great stretches of neglected territory. and in this country if one looks beyond massachusetts, with its much praised trustee savings system, into new york and pennsylvania he sees much to be desired,--and if he looks still further west he finds a sadder neglect than the neglect of free popular education in darkest russia. [ ] author of savings and savings institutions; macmillan, . pp. . price $ . . this book can be obtained at publisher's price through the offices of charities and the commons. if we fully comprehend the fact that the savings bank is an educational, and not a commercial institution we will see at once that the law of supply and demand cannot properly regulate its growth. we will see on the contrary that if left to local initiative by either municipalities or trustees, the banks will likely appear where they are least needed and fail to appear where they are most needed, and the need of a general federal system, or a postal system, which will leave no neglected spots becomes perfectly clear. "everything speaks for the post office savings bank." postmaster general meyer, in his article in the august number of the _north american review_, presents this country's need of a postal savings system in a very attractive and convincing way. i think, however, that the educational aspects merit more emphasis and more extended treatment. the public, i think, needs to recognize this institution not alone as the often successful rival of the saloon, the enemy of dissipating and destructive spending, but it needs also to recognize its relationship to the strong type of citizen, with resisting power against the petty immediate wants in the interest of greater economic security, the type that can save against the rainy day, the week of sickness, and the declining powers of the later years of life. in my own judgment the highest function of the savings bank is to lead the workman back to the ownership of his tools, or since that is not literally possible, to a share in the ownership of the productive forces of society. the workman may not recognize in the share of stock, the bond, the equity in a title to real estate, the successor to the tools his forefather kept stored in his cottage. when he has been brought to see it and to make such ownership the goal of his ambition, his tribute of devotion to his wife and children, he will be a stronger and a better man in every respect, and the multiplication of this kind of citizen is as worthy an object of education as the spread of a rudimentary knowledge of letters. universal proprietorship is no less desirable, from the social point of view, than universal education. the purpose of the savings bank is therefore not so much to instill the idea of hoarding for future spending, but of investing to increase the permanent income. having this in mind the provision of the english postal savings system for investing in government stocks for the depositor on his request is fully warranted, and even more so the french provision for investment of the excess of deposits over the legal maximum in government stocks without request. the deposit account itself represents investment,--by trustees on behalf of the depositors. but the depositor should eventually become a conscious owner on his own account. it would seem most proper that he be supplied with information which would enable him to form an independent judgment as to different securities, and the savings bank might very well act for him in making his first investment. the one departure from precedent in mr. meyer's bill is in the investment of funds. it contemplates a system of loans to the local banks with a view to "keeping the money at home." the departure from the practice of investing in government securities may be good for the object intended, which relates to the incidents rather than the primary object of savings bank administration. it seems to me most unfortunate that mr. meyer should have selected a form of investment that would tend to defeat the primary object of savings banks in the necessarily low rate of interest. i think he must fail to fully realize that the savings bank is to educate the propertyless to become proprietors, to appreciate the need of supplementing the earnings of labor by income from accumulated capital, and not to serve as a mere place for hoarding. it is the interest rate that tickles this dormant sense into life. it seems to me a pity that he did not see in the example of the municipal savings banks in germany and of our own trustee banks, which invest chiefly in real estate mortgages, a way of reaching the one object without injury to the other. this would be a departure from the general practice of postal savings systems which would at once "keep the money at home," and insure a higher rate of interest than the yield of government securities. money thus invested would get back into the channels of trade as readily as if it were loaned to the local banks, and with much less objection, and the rate of interest would probably be about double. the yield should be four per cent against the two per cent proposed by the postmaster general's measure. it is certainly most refreshing and encouraging to listen to the promise of legislation that extends its benefits immediately to the common people, which contains the hope of more social solidarity. a comparison of our policies with those of old world countries in this respect is not comforting to our patriotic pride. it seems time that we were less laggard and that we should have more courage to experiment. the promise made by all political parties of a postal savings bank is probably the most encouraging sign we have had. it would be much more encouraging if the measure that is promised contained more of the results of bold experiment in other countries and contained more of an original and experimental nature that promises a more pronounced application of the true principle of savings banks, and that fosters a clearer popular understanding of that principle. it is equally important that the principle be brought out in clear relief from the point of view of the administration and of the patrons. the administration needs clearly to understand that it is not conducting a banking business but giving education in thrift, and the youthful and other patrons need to understand that they are being led in the direction of economic independence. social education[ ] reviewed by helen f. greene it is a long look forward and a wide one that dr. colin a. scott takes in social education and one that social workers other than the teachers for whom the book was primarily written, will find themselves enriched by sharing. [ ] social education by colin a. scott, boston, . pp. . price $ . . this book may be obtained at publisher's price through the offices of charities and the commons. the school as a special organ of a constantly changing social order, must itself be easily capable of change. instead of the uniformity on which the clan and early religions insisted must come the great variety of characters and capacities which the modern highly differentiated state demands. how shall the school, called into existence by society for its own service and protection, most effectively educate the formers of the "new society"? turning to real life for an answer we find that "society at its best organizes itself in groups in which each individual in the various groups to which he may belong finds himself in contact with others whose weakness he supplements or whose greater powers he depends upon." "if the school is to prepare for society as it is, it would be natural to expect that some such form of social activity, however embryonic, should be found as a necessary feature of its life." "the group must be capable of going to pieces, a thing it cannot do if it is to depend on the authoritative backing or constraint of the teacher. indeed it is only when it can go to pieces that there is any reality in the effort to hold it together." "true responsibility and even obedience of the highest type is felt only when the group is free." the positive view of liberty and independence is urged, not the negative one which teachers,--and he might have added club leaders,--are too prone to take. "if children are to be trained socially, they must feel the full effects of social causes,--not merely of society at large, but especially those of the embryonic society of child life to which they belong. they must study these effects practically, and must see to what extent, as social beings, they are real causes themselves. it is on a basis of experience of this kind that they can best interpret the larger and more complex life of adult society and the state." declaring social serviceableness and the highest development of personality "to be the aims of the school, he urges that there shall be some test of its success in securing these." "this test can be found only in the extent to which pupils, when freed from the oversight and benevolent coercion of the teacher, can use the knowledge and carry out the habits and ideals which it is the aim of the school to foster and protect." in the three succeeding chapters, three types of school in which the social spirit has been specially manifest are criticized according to this test. the schools are: ( ) abbotsholme, the "monarchy," under the principalship of dr. cecil reddie; ( ) the george junior republic; ( ) the dewey school. in each he finds "elements of a high degree of social value, and an approximate solution of the problem of educative social organization." but it is in the two following chapters on organized group work, fragments of which appeared in the _social education quarterly_ of march, , that dr. scott makes his own most valuable contribution to the problem. it is an attempt to show how it is possible, "even with crowded classes and without special equipment, to obtain in the people's schools, those co-operative and self-sustaining motives which are worthy of democracy and best able to measure the teachers' work." the experiences which he describes he calls "experiments simply in the sense that all life is experimental, and they were devised with the view that the development of intention and resourcefulness on the part of the pupil is the greatest and most undeniable duty of any form of education." the method was as follows: each teacher said to her class: "if you had time given to you for something that you enjoy doing, and that you think worth while, what should you choose to do? "when you have decided how you would spend the time, come and tell me about your plan. you may come all together, or in groups, or each by himself; but whatever you say you want to do, you must tell the length of time you will need to finish it, and how you expect to do it." a most varied and interesting set of plans resulted. a printing group; cooking groups; groups for bookbinding; many for the writing and giving of plays, suggestive of the festival work of the ethical culture school, which has already been so helpful to club leaders. the history of these groups, their human and humorous experiences:--of the child who was "bossy" and the way in which the group handled her,--are given in delightful detail and carry conviction with them as to the worth of the method. to one judging socially and not pedagogically the closing chapter on the education of the conscience is disappointing. it seems to keep too much to the idea of personal morality as an end rather than as a means to the more vital and individually inspiring and healthful social morality; and to admit of the implication that the moral side of school life is a thing at least a little apart, rather than finding, when given a teacher with the right spirit, that, to quote dr. dewey, "every incident of school life is pregnant with ethical life." pittsburgh survey introductory to this issue this second pittsburgh issue deals with certain physical necessities of a wage earning population. it shows a city struggling for the things which primitive men have ready to hand,--clear air, clean water, pure foods, shelter and a foothold of earth. thus we have in pittsburgh a smoke campaign, a typhoid movement and the administrative problems of the bureau of health in milk and meat inspection; thus we have the necessity for sanitary regulation of dwellings wherever people live dense or deep, whether squatters' shanties such as those of skunk hollow or company houses such as those of painter's row, whether city tenements or mill-town lodgings; and the necessity further for increased numbers of low-cost dwellings. similarly, flood prevention, traction development, bridge building and the like are so many efforts to expand, or conquer the difficulties of, the town's corrugated floor. the first issue of this series, that of january , pointed out that with the moving into pittsburgh of new and immigrant peoples, the spirit of the frontier and of the mining camp possessed the wage-earning population. this spirit has characterized civic development. wherever there has been profit in public service, private enterprises have staked their claims to perform it. while the biggest men of the community have made steel, other men have built water companies, thrown bridges across the rivers, erected inclines and laid sectional car lines. to bring system and larger public utility out of these heterogeneous units, has become the present governmental problem of the city. in a sense, this situation is repeated with respect to the institutions transplanted into pittsburgh, or initiated there, to meet the cultural and social needs of the community. thus we have local alderman's courts, unco-ordinated charitable enterprises, and a ward system of schools. the trend of the decade here, too, is obviously toward system,--toward a municipalization of lower courts, an expansion of the health service, an association of charities, a city system as against a vestry system of schools, a civic improvement commission that will focalize public sentiment in all movements for municipal improvement. * * * * * in the third and final issue of the series, that of march , the emphasis will be transferred from the civic to the industrial well-being of the wage-earning population,--the vital and irrepressible issues of hours, wages, factory inspection, accidents and the cost of living. a supplementary group of studies,--of the libraries, schools, playgrounds and children's institutions of pittsburgh,--will also be published in the issue of march . pittsburgh the place and its social forces. [illustration: fort pitt in . the first town plan of the point of pittsburgh.] * * * * * the second of three special issues of charities and the commons, presenting the gist of the findings of the pittsburgh survey, as to conditions of life and labor among the wage-earning population of the pennsylvania steel district. i. january -the people. ii. february -the place. iii. march -the work. * * * * * [illustration: pittsburgh _social forces_ for profiles, lines a.-b.; c.-d.; and e.-f.--see pages and .] a city coming to itself robert a. woods head of south end house, boston the capacity for being seen with the eye in the large, which new york in her sky scrapers has purchased at so great a price, is the birthright of pittsburgh. where from so many different points one sees the involved panorama of the rivers, the various long ascents and steep bluffs, the visible signs everywhere of movement, of immense forces at work,--the pillars of smoke by day, and at night the pillars of fire against the background of hillsides strewn with jets of light,--one comes to have the convincing sense of a city which in its _ensemble_ is quite as real a thing as are the separate forces which go to make it up. the allegheny river, providing a broad, open space up and down and across which much of this drama of modern world industry may be viewed, has at last come to mean not separation but identity of the population on either side of it. if the banks of the river were improved, it might easily be sentimentally as well as economically one of the most important common possessions of the old and the new sections of greater pittsburgh. this tendency of cities to reach out and include their present suburbs, and even the territory where their future suburbs are to be,--a tendency which a few years ago was mocked at,--is in these days seen to be normal and wise. the proper planning of the city's layout, the proper adjustment of civic stress upon the different types of people in a great urban community, demand the inclusion of the suburbs. greater pittsburgh is less satisfactory than greater new york and greater chicago, only because it is less inclusive than they. some important suburbs of old pittsburgh are not included, and the suburbs of allegheny are nearly all outside. the latter omission is particularly unfortunate as it is doubtful whether allegheny by itself will raise the average civic and moral standard of the greater city. it is regrettable too that allegheny continues to show reluctance in making common cause with her larger neighbor. the toll bridges and the many obstacles against making them free, seem to typify the difficulty of intercommunication. the two towns, however, so clearly belong together that this feeling of clan cannot long survive. from nearly every commercial point of view that is worth considering allegheny is dependent upon pittsburgh. in the few exceptional instances, as in the case of two or three large stores, pittsburgh recognizes a measure of dependence upon allegheny. it is interesting that those of the old families connected with pittsburgh industries who still insist on having town houses, reside on the allegheny parks or commons. a strong sense of corporate individuality comes to any community that is arrested by the challenge of great tasks. one of the influences leading to the creation of the greater city was the widening of the territory administered industrially from pittsburgh. the best oil wells are now south rather than north of pittsburgh, and the center of the coal regions is fast passing from the southeast to southwest and on into west virginia. the necessity of easy transfer of iron ore from the superior region is bringing up insistently the proposal of a canal to lake erie, so as to match some of cleveland's special advantages. the nine-foot channel for the whole length of the ohio will enable pittsburgh's long arm to reach out and touch that of cincinnati. that the expansion of pittsburgh was preceded and to some extent directed by a reform administration, has tended greatly to re-enforce the belief that pittsburgh is moving organically toward the better day in her public affairs. this is the first successful movement for municipal reform in a generation. as i pointed out in my first article, it got its immediate stimulus out of the impudent interference of the state machine in unseating a mayor who had been elected by an opposing local faction, and setting up a "recorder" in his place. carried out under the forms of legislation, this act stung pittsburgh people into a new feeling of municipal self-respect and led to their electing on a democratic ticket george w. guthrie, who had been for many years actively interested in the cause of municipal reform. mr. guthrie's family, like the quincys of boston, has been represented for three generations in the office of mayor. mayor guthrie has made thorough application of the principles of civil service reform. he has introduced business methods in the awarding of all contracts, including the banking of the city's funds. in a city where only a few years ago perpetual franchises were given to a street railway covering every section, mayor guthrie has, so far as the situation allowed, put in force the strictest new conception of the public interest in relation to public service corporations. he compelled the pennsylvania railroad to cease moving its trains through the middle of what is potentially the best downtown street in the city. the street railway company was required for the first time to clean and repair the streets, to meet the cost of changes required by the work of city departments, and to pay bridge tolls. loose and costly business methods in the city departments were radically checked, and accounts with long arrearages involving heavy interest losses to the city, were brought up to date. the cost of electric lighting to the city has been reduced from ninety-six to seventy-two dollars a lamp. economies have been effected through having the city do some of its own asphalt paving and water-pipe laying. along with economical departmental service have gone the intelligent and effective efforts, which will be explained in other survey reports, for improving the water supply, abating the smoke nuisance, combating typhoid fever and tuberculosis by wholesale inroads upon almost unbelievable sanitary evils, and for restraining and punishing the exploiters of prostitution. not all american reform administrations can report a decline of two mills in the rate of taxation. had pittsburgh not been compelled to shoulder a special burden in including allegheny's large municipal costs accompanied with low property valuation, mayor guthrie would have held the rate at this low point. under the new charter the mayor cannot succeed himself; so that the question whether mayor guthrie could be successful with the enlarged electorate is a theoretical one. even if the machine should be successful, a standard has been set which the citizens will remember and return to. under the determined leadership of a. leo weihl, a voters' league has employed such methods for keeping proper standards before the voters as have been successful in chicago, boston and other cities. within a few weeks, after a year or more of clever and determined pursuit, seven members of councils and two bank officials have been arrested on a charge of bribery. the officers of the league state that this step is but the beginning. it is not claimed that this means anything more than the highly public-spirited activity of a few citizens, and it may be, as is currently reported, that such activity became possible in that certain great financial interests decided to change their policy as to dealing with city officials. however it became possible it meant exposure and disgrace to a system which was rooted in traditions in pittsburgh. just as this tradition was broken once in the election of mayor guthrie as a result of a bitter sting to the self-respect of the city; so now there is a cheering prospect that this poisoned goad will rouse and mobilize an instinct for carrying moral reforms to the limit which is very powerful in pittsburgh when a situation forces the issue. the present phase of political chicanery touches the banks, and the reaction against it will be re-enforced by the growing concern of the community in the face of bank defalcations amounting altogether to not less than five million dollars within the past four years, some if not all of which involved mysterious political complications. [illustration: george w. guthrie. mayor of pittsburgh.] such an extreme outbreak of crime is related to the transition stage through which the city is passing. along with the intoxicating accumulation and expenditure of wealth, the old type of dominating, watchful, industrial and financial leader has disappeared,--that which is typified by mr. carnegie, b. f. jones,--whose firm continues the largest independent steel concern in pittsburgh,--the parks, the moorheads, the olivers, the laughlins. the large industrial interests are in the main turned into bureaucracies whose plans in detail are decided in new york, and whose officials must guide their public actions so as to serve the corporations' interests. the merchants and professional men of the city who have always deferred to the manufacturers, have only recently begun to assert themselves. it is perhaps natural that civic co-operation should make a more effective appeal to the merchants than the manufacturers, the merchants' constituency and scene of action being very largely local. mayor guthrie's election was a result of this new organized element in the life of the city. his work has in the nature of the case been largely the lopping off of old evils and the piecing together of a system of administration which shall embody standards of honesty and business efficiency. will the people of pittsburgh be ready for the further stage of sound reconstruction, for the unified, organic development of the city as a thing in itself; for the application to the common welfare of those coherent, adventurous principles which have made possible the magnificent prosperity of the few? the proper answer to this inquiry must regard the time perspective. a strong momentum of public spirit and social service from out of the past, pittsburgh, in becoming a great population center, did not possess. but in the last ten years the progress of this community, to one who can test it in varied and intimate ways, has proved in such matters highly significant and promising. there are significant results, for instance, of the collective action of business men for the enhancement of the general interests of the city. such effort leads first indirectly and then directly to the improvement of the city as a place in which to live. two considerable changes in the layout of the downtown part of the city have been brought about by special branches of trade. the wholesale grocers and the wholesale provision men have been for generations located on liberty and penn avenues west of the union station. recently the latter have taken possession of a territory beginning a few blocks farther east and reaching for a quarter of a mile along penn avenue, and through to the allegheny river. a large number of the meanest tenement houses have been swept away by this process, and facilities provided for receiving and distributing fruits and vegetables, a distinct gain toward a hygienic urban commissariat. the wholesale grocers have cleaned up an equally large and equally unsanitary tenement area on the south side, and have built vast subdivided warehouses under a single general management. perhaps the most important aspect of these great co-operative improvement plans is the suggestion they give of the capacity of pittsburgh citizens for making other broad modifications in the structure of the city, such as the improvement of its river fronts, the proper planning of its thoroughfares and public centers, and above all the sanitary and adequate housing of its industrial population. it is indeed by its bold pioneering in such directions as these that the pittsburgh chamber of commerce, chiefly under the leadership of h. d. w. english, has come to have an ever-growing authority in pittsburgh, and a rather unique reputation and influence in other parts of the country. greater pittsburgh, as it is, with the provision for further expansion from time to time, is largely the result of the chamber's persistent effort. the improvement of the ohio river which is to be undertaken at once by the national government, and the organization of a company to build the canal to lake erie, are also results of its initiative. the reduction of the smoke nuisance, the provision of a proper system of sewage disposal, the study of plans for protection against floods, and, most noteworthy of all, the inclusion of the hygienic housing of the people in the list of the city's chief economic problems, are among the statesmanlike undertakings which the chamber has been effectively promoting. the chamber of commerce is reinforced by local boards of trade covering the chief outlying sections of the city and including in their membership not only representatives of business carried on locally, but downtown business men who reside in the district. the boards of trade have been infected by the broad spirit of the chamber of commerce, and are in essence district improvement societies whose activities are focussed and forwarded by their business-like motive and methods. it can hardly be that any city has ever had so great re-enforcement of its finer life from the beneficence of a private citizen as has pittsburgh. under the general title of carnegie institute are included a public library, a museum, an art gallery, and a music hall. these, under one roof, cover an area of five acres. at a little distance are the carnegie technical schools with grounds covering thirty-six acres. the total sum which mr. carnegie has given these different objects is upwards of $ , , . [illustration: h. d. w. english. chairman, civic improvement commission, pittsburgh.] the library contains , volumes. the annual circulation is nearly three times this number. the service rendered by the library is greatly increased by aggressive and ingenious missionary work. there are six well-equipped branch libraries with distributing stations throughout the city. half of these are in the shape of little reading clubs and home libraries for children, conducted by the library management itself. this branch of the library's work has grown so much as to justify the establishment of a school for children's librarians. the fact that the library exists to discover and elicit new demands is made clear in the establishment of a "telephone reference," through which any person may have a subject looked up for him and a report quickly made. there are indeed more than sentimental reasons for the cherished feeling in pittsburgh that this is the bright particular exemplar of all the carnegie libraries. [illustration: lee s. smith. president, pittsburgh chamber of commerce, member civic improvement commission.] the art gallery, some parts of which are of exceeding beauty, includes permanent exhibits of painting, sculpture and architecture. its chief service to art thus far has consisted in a regular annual international exhibition of paintings. a very suggestive plan is followed for interesting school children in the galleries and in pictures generally. a set of photographs of the entire permanent collection is placed in one school after another for periods of two weeks each. it is expected that a continuous circuit will be kept up in this way requiring two years on each round. the museum stands among the four chief institutions of its kind in this country. it is under expert and enterprising management. a considerable part of its collections have been gathered by its own expeditions. like the art gallery, it appeals directly to the public schools by sending out circulating collections, conducting prize essay contests, and by carrying on a young naturalists' club. [illustration: o. h. allerton, jr. president, pittsburgh board of trade, member civic improvement commission.] the music hall represents among this noble group of cultural agencies the one which simply continues the results of a significant phase of the city's inherent growth; for since pittsburgh has had some sort of worthy musical festival every year. the weekly free organ recitals are a commendable transfer to america of a well recognized form of municipal service in english cities. it is unfortunate for this purpose that the hall should not be more accessible to great numbers of people. the symphony concerts of the pittsburgh orchestra, whose seasons have continued during the past twelve years, are given partly in this hall and partly (in certain years) in the exposition building near the point. [illustration: t. e. billquist. architect, member civic improvement commission.] the carnegie technical schools represent the farthest steps yet taken in this country in providing vocational training for those entering non-professional callings. considering that the greatest weakness of the whole american scheme of education is precisely at this point, the progress of the carnegie schools is being watched with keen attention, on both the educational and the economic side, from all parts of the country. thus far schools of applied design and of applied science, a special vocational school for women, and a school for apprentices and journeymen, have made a strikingly successful beginning. all the schools are open day and evening. the present enrollment includes , students representing every state in the union and many foreign countries. it can be said of the administration of the schools that it is worthy of its opportunity. the staff of instructors shows a rare spirit of fresh initiative, of quick and varied flexibility of mind, and of thoroughgoing achievement. [illustration: john w. beatty. director of fine arts, carnegie institute, member civic improvement commission.] the university of pittsburgh, is new in name but has in reality existed for more than a century. the institution has, however, not found pittsburgh conditions conducive to academical development. its engineering department has, somewhat to the regret of the university authorities, been by far its most important feature. a strong effort is now being made to build it up into a university worthy of a great city. a new site has been purchased and an exceptionally interesting plan for the various buildings has been accepted. when completed these structures will describe a circle up and down a hillside looking out over schenley park, with an administration building modelled after the parthenon as a crowning effect. the presence of all these educational institutions at the entrance of schenley park, with its acres, situated within twenty minutes' ride by electric cars from the heart of the city and on the way to the chief residential sections of greater pittsburgh, creates a civic center with a condensed attractiveness and resourcefulness that is already definitely re-enforcing the public imagination. all this cluster of enlightened agencies, however, to the discerning eye points by contrast to the ultimate, close analysis of economic as well as moral conditions among the people in all the less-favored sections of the city and in all the satellite industrial towns. the conception of a direct community of interest between employer and workman, particularly if the workman is a leader in his craft, begins to be visible as in a few streaks of dawn. but the mass of the unintelligible hungarians and slavs must be reached by the more generous and democratic sense of responsibility on the part of employers and the more prosperous classes generally. the work of the next decade is to bring them on a really large scale into the circle of american citizenship and up to the essential standards of american home life. the touchstone of progress and success in this great enterprise lies first of all with the public schools. the public school system of pittsburgh is in very many respects behind accepted standards. its chief defects come out of the faulty system of administration. every ward has its local school board with the power of levying taxes, erecting buildings, and appointing teachers. this means that in some wards there is a good quality of instruction and properly developed curriculum, while other wards fall far short. it happens from this condition of things that in the working-class wards there is little or no provision for manual training; and in general the points of greatest need are the most poorly supplied. objectionable political methods on the part of the local boards are pretty clearly in evidence; and such tendencies are by no means absent from the central board. signs of progress are, however, becoming apparent here and there throughout the school system. the carnegie technical schools are having a powerful influence in this direction. in the south side, under direct encouragement from this source, and with the co-operation of local manufacturers, an evening trade school has been opened. there have been experiments in the direction of medical inspection and school nursing. there is an active agitation among the teachers for a parental school. in general the whole problem of public school administration has been thrown open for debate by the appointment of a capable state commission to report upon the subject. it is thought that for one thing it will recommend the practical abolition of the power of the local boards, so that they become simply visiting committees. the high school in pittsburgh is and always has been an important educational influence. in popular sentiment, it occupies a place somewhat analogous to that of the college of the city of new york. in order to make its service as general as possible the present director sends to the parents of all children graduating from the grammar school an interesting printed statement of the concrete objects and value of the high school. the pressure of the demands of industry as against the attraction of general studies is of course keenly felt. an evening high school with a definitely vocational trend has recently made an encouraging beginning. the pennsylvania method of combining public subsidy with private initiative is followed in connection with the kindergartens. a private association has supervision of all the kindergartens in the public schools as well as of some carried on in private institutions. there are altogether eighty-one kindergartens in this system. it is felt that, at least in the early stages, this method of control brings better standards of teaching and assures such collateral work as visiting in the children's homes and conducting mothers' meetings. it is needless to say, however, that in the long run such a division of responsibility will be injurious in point of effective service and of a proper sense of responsibility in the public administrative officers. this sort of apprehension is all that qualifies in the least one's impression of the admirable work of the pittsburgh playground association. its activity began twelve years ago, and now,--with an off-shoot in allegheny,--includes the administration of six well-equipped recreation parks, twenty-four vacation schools held in school buildings, and a number of small playgrounds. the center of the system is the site of an old arsenal, thirty acres in extent, in the midst of a great working class district. at every point in all this work, discriminating effort is made to achieve positive educational results as well as to bring healthful enjoyment to the largest possible number of persons. in this respect, as well as in the definite prospect of appropriations sufficient to provide every now neglected section of the city with an ample playground, pittsburgh stands at the forefront in this most vital phase of educational and civic advance. [illustration: joseph buffington. judge united states circuit court and one of the first citizens of pittsburgh.] like chicago and other typical american cities where men are deeply absorbed in business, women have contributed a particularly important share to public betterment work. the civic club of allegheny county, in which women have for the most part been the active spirits, and various women's organizations, particularly the twentieth century club and the council of jewish women, have accomplished many telling results in this direction. the civic club has the direct management of two people's bath houses; but its main service consists not in work of administration but rather in initiating enterprises to meet new problems as they arise, and then setting them loose to develop permanent organizations on their own account. in this way the club started the playground association, a municipal hospital for contagious diseases, manual training in the public schools, a legal aid society, an open-air tuberculosis camp, and a child labor association, beside having an active share in the creation of the juvenile court and the securing of progressive tenement-house legislation. [illustration: william m. kennedy. president, civic club of allegheny county.] in the field of charity and philanthropy pittsburgh shows a very substantial degree of activity and earnest motive. very much is needed, however, both in the way of more enlightened specific and local execution and of broader co-operation for economy and completeness in each type of social service. the staff of the pittsburgh survey has had the privilege of submitting to many institutions and agencies the accredited results of recent experience in other cities and countries. such suggestions have been cordially received and in some instances at once acted upon. the pittsburgh associated charities, which has been organized within the year, has secured the support of nearly every phase of charitable endeavor in the city. it represents the immediate advantage which pittsburgh, under the spur of organizations like the civic club, has taken of the survey's presentation of the practical conclusions of scientific charity. the associated charities is so new that nothing can be said about results in the ordinary sense; but in contrast to the confusion which existed until a year ago, its clear cogent platform covering both remedies and reforms, its straight appeal to the practical men, its strong representative board, and its fit and well convinced executive officer, are achievements of the first order. [illustration: d. p. black. president real estate trust company, member civic improvement commission.] [illustration: henry l. kreusler. (building construction), member civic improvement commission.] the development of the great filtration project has naturally stimulated other movements for the improvement of the public health. in this direction the municipal health department is a broadly and consistently helpful influence. the fight against tuberculosis is carried on effectively by both public and private agencies. the special commission of experts appointed by the mayor and aided financially by the sage foundation for tracing causes of typhoid fever aside from the water supply, will render a most important service to pittsburgh as well as to the whole country. the successful record of the filtration plant in greatly reducing the amount of typhoid in the city, gives added point to this scientific effort to rid out the last lurking places of infection. in general, however, it must be said that the self-forgetful abandon with which many medical men in other american cities are bringing their priceless knowledge to bear upon public unsanitary conditions and unhygienic ways of life,--a type of effort which both in motive and result may almost be taken as the test of a city's progressive civilization,--has hardly as yet reached pittsburgh. the exceptions,--notable ones,--are of the sort that prove the rule. [illustration: charles f. weller. secretary of the new associated charities, pittsburgh; member pittsburgh civic improvement commission; former secretary washington associated charities and president's homes commission.] the co-ordination of charitable effort, both in its different kinds and in its different localities, is a step which needs now to be followed by the federation of agencies for social upbuilding. the playgrounds which are fast becoming the headquarters of a kind of neighborhood guild, will furnish a substantial part of the material for this comprehensive social formation. in such enterprise, organized local citizenship, especially as seen in the boards of trade, will undoubtedly afford valuable re-enforcement to the distinctively philanthropic motive. the settlement houses of which there are several, might naturally take the lead. such a federation would ensure to each local agency information about the results of experience at every other; it would bring the momentum of concrete local knowledge to bear upon the public school system and other parts of the public administration; it would draw into the work of constructive local betterment many resourceful new individuals and new agencies, thus spreading throughout the city the new point of view in citizenship; it would bring forward from the congested sections of the city those rear detachments of citizenship without which municipal reform must continue to be shallow and casual. in the development and extension of local social organization lies much of the promise of widespread growth of public spirit in pittsburgh. the people have a distinct capacity for the invaluable village type of loyalty. this can in due time with expanding experience be made into the most enduring type of city loyalty,--that based on neighborly co-operation gradually extended and writ large but carrying with it always that sense of reality, that nearness to the soil, in which it began. [illustration: francis j. torrance. president pennsylvania board of public charities.] kingsley house was founded in by rev. george hodges, now dean of the episcopal theological school, cambridge, mass., but for twelve years a strong influence for realistic christianity in pittsburgh. it has grown to be an important center for progressive social service, and from its commanding position on a hill looking over the business section of the city it exercises an influence for social morality far beyond its immediate constituency. its regularly organized work is gathered up into two large composite clubs, one having a membership of boys and young men, the other about as many girls and young women. an average of half the total membership appears at the house daily for gymnastic training, games, industrial classes, discussions, music, etc. the tenement problem and the whole hygienic aspect of life among working people receive penetrating and persistent attention, and the importance of the service of the house in this direction is recognized throughout the city. closely involved with such a campaign is the large country holiday work of this settlement, whereby some , persons are each summer provided for at a specially built and finely equipped vacation house. [illustration: rev. george hodges. dean of the episcopal theological school, cambridge, mass.; founder of kingsley house, pittsburgh.] the columbian school and settlement which is farther up in the "hill district," is supported by public-spirited jewish citizens. the usual variety of clubs and classes is provided, and their opportunities are received with even more than the usual eagerness by the children of recent russian immigrants. much attention is given to education in hygiene by means of a gymnasium, baths, and instructive district nursing, as well as through securing the enforcement of sanitary laws. this settlement has given special attention to the very useful function of serving as pacemaker to the public schools, in the matter of evening industrial schools, recreative centers and vacation schools. [illustration: william h. matthews. head worker, kingsley house, pittsburgh; a forceful leader in the housing campaign, member civic improvement commission.] the soho baths settlement adjoins a new bath house just erected by the civic club, and designs to supplement its service through personal influence in the homes of the neighborhood. the woods run house in allegheny has taken a new start since separating its relief work from its work of neighborhood organization. covode house, also in allegheny, is substantially the "industrial betterment" phase of the heinz pickle factory. the churches of pittsburgh, which, now with a few exceptions seem to regard as a secular intrusion the introduction of broad civic interests into their counsels, and thereby often appear shamefully indifferent in matters of public morality, could be led to take part in a campaign for a better home and neighborhood life, and would soon learn practically the close bearing of all human facts upon character and spirit. those ministers who preside over the costly and surprisingly numerous stone edifices throughout the east end, would thus be able to meet their most serious problem, that of bringing up young people with some practical sense of their responsibilities to the less favored. the downtown ministers, who are deep in gloom as to the future of their own parishes if not of the church in general, would begin to see how to touch and to serve the indifferent newcomers, and would make an effective claim on the suburban churches for assistance. the churches of pittsburgh constitute an exceptionally important possibility in the direction of social reconstruction. our canvass of the protestant churches showed that a large proportion of them at least recognize the need of new forms of helpfulness and are making some effort to meet it. a large number of pastors are already organizing their congregations for a somewhat broader social service. the catholic churches are under the care of a noble-minded bishop who is doing his utmost to make the existing system of the church provide for its vast inarticulate constituency. many of the immigrant priests are sincere and sagacious men. the more progressive jewish congregations do their full share in sustaining and advancing the public moral standards of the city and in promoting sound philanthropy. yet among all the costly ecclesiastical structures,--the city is said to have $ , , invested in church buildings,--there are only three or four which have any adequate equipment for the promotion of human service or friendly association. the responsibility of the rich congregations for re-enforcing the poorer ones in their struggle against adverse conditions is scarcely recognized. the problem is as in other cities. in the most crowded sections, the normal constituency of the protestant churches has been swept away by the immigrant tide. in somewhat better conditioned neighborhoods, families have moved away and the homeless, neighborless lodger has taken their place. that is, the fundamental conditions which have created and directed the churches have disappeared; and only a broadly organized, well financed campaign can provide the fresh force, equipment, intelligence, which are indispensable to the revolutionized situation. [illustration: addie s. weihl. head worker, columbian settlement, pittsburgh.] the suburban churches side-step the present crisis. they are sincere but other-worldly. one minister who is genuinely interested in foreign missions feels it much on his conscience to make his people care less about the orient and more about the east end. a few preachers deal with a present-day, near-home kingdom of god. some presented the results of the survey to their people; more entered into solemn account of stock at the time of the bribery arrests. the following of the churches is large, devout, loyal; but, on the whole, the church is a hospitable garrison to defend the faith, not a conquering army of righteousness. [illustration: julian kennedy. consulting engineer, member civic improvement commission.] religion as being one-half the ingenuity and adventure of diversified personal service in every kind of neighborly and civic fellowship; the truth which dr. parkhurst long ago voiced, that the congregation is not the minister's field but his force,--this is what has produced pittsburgh's small but heroic group of present civic leaders. a widespread contagion of it is what pittsburgh needs more than anything else. in this the city must find its chief resource for bringing about and continuing a better order. the response of the churches to the sickening series of breaches of trust, to bribe giving and bribe-taking, to the overwork that means debauchery, to the mill-owners' sabbath-breaking that breaks the mill-worker's body and soul,--must be a bold relaxing from tradition and letting their dynamic go free. the outcome would be a new synthesis which would overcome the weakness and shame of sectarianism, and give a broad, strong front to the city's renascent moral life. [illustration: joseph w. marsh. vice-president and general manager, standard underground cable company, member civic improvement commission.] along with the detailed, patient, comprehensive work that is needed to build up a moralized democracy, the industrial and commercial leaders of the community, including those who are the responsible representatives of absentee capitalists and landlords, must rise to a far more generous, not to say discerning, conception of their opportunity. big men of a generation ago said, "after us the deluge,"--they cut the forests off the alleghenies, and pittsburgh literally suffers the curse in destructive floods once or twice every year. the way of life in the local communities about many of the great steel plants is infallibly preparing for the near future a worse form of deluge in a mass of unfit, under-vitalized, unproductive citizenship. it is but fair to say that the really big men of to-day in pittsburgh are passing beyond the attitude of indifference to the human problem that confronts the captain of the industrial army. indeed, the past few years have brought about a distinctly receptive point of view. the lesson to be learned and aggressively applied during the coming decade is that a great city's industrial supremacy, no less than its moral well-being, depends largely upon the proper provisioning and sheltering of the industrial rank and file, along with training in capacity for citizenship and for associated self-help. [illustration: h. j. heinz. president h. j. heinz company, member civic improvement commission.] there have been stirring instances in the development of city life in this and other countries where a city deeply engaged in laying its material foundations, and suddenly finding itself not up to its own standard in other vital respects, has, by throwing a due share of its accumulated energy and resource into the new channels, been able to overleap intermediate stages which had been toilsomely worked out elsewhere. such a magical achievement for the refinements of life has been made once in pittsburgh through the surpassing initiative of a single citizen. it now needs to be repeated and outdone by the main action of the body of responsible citizens, carrying with them representatives of every grade and type of the people, in the united, elated march of a great civic and human welfare movement. strange as it may sound, this is the sort of social phenomenon that american city life is next going to present; and it may be that pittsburgh will lead the way. [illustration: j. w. kinnear. attorney-at-law, member pittsburgh civic improvement commission.] there are elemental changes coming in the life of pittsburgh. the new immigrants will within a short generation be rising into social and political power, and their standards will in large part fix the moral and even the economic prospects of the city. the special resources of western pennsylvania in raw material will necessarily grow less, and its need of a more developed labor force become insistent. in any case immigration cannot indefinitely recruit the labor ranks; pittsburgh must learn to pay as it goes in terms of men as of money. the ninety per cent pure iron which mr. carnegie found in the waste of his competitor and secured by a long contract, is the analogue of what pittsburgh must begin to discover in the native capacity of the children of its crude toilers. the protective tariff which for the past two decades has been like an evil divinity to intensify the haste to be rich, and to confuse and baffle all local public issues, is on an uncertain footing as never before. already there are new american steel centers which will dispute for the market supremacy. every one of these things will compel a moral reckoning, will constrain the city to the saving and enhancing of individual and collective human power. the historic sense newly awakened by the recent sesquicentennial celebration of the origin of the town; the downright, ingenuous pride of the people in its unexampled achievements; the inquiring attitude of an ever increasing number of citizens; their inner assurance that the city will match its prosperity with civic well-being; a beginning on the part of the moral reserve force of the city, on the one hand, and its practical organizing power, on the other, to seek a new common outlet; these provide momentum, amid many counter-currents, for an ample hope. it is of special significance that, for the first time in this country, pittsburgh secures the advantage of several carefully devised and closely related undertakings in the new science and art of social upbuilding. the welcome extended to the staff of the survey by leading citizens at the beginning, and their willingness from first to last to listen to its hard sayings, have given the survey much of its essential driving power. the joint meeting in pittsburgh of the national municipal league and the american civic association, resulting in a happy co-ordination of higher methods and higher aims of city administration, especially in the session devoted to the survey,--distinctly helped strengthen and confirm the beginnings of that new public consciousness which includes the greatness both of the city's needs and of its opportunity. the civic exhibit which went with this national gathering, displayed under perfect conditions in the carnegie gallery, and setting forth as its chief feature the results of the survey in the graphic, instantaneous, inescapable language of the workshop, established its lessons in the minds and imaginations of many thousands of those who in every rank go to make up pittsburgh's industrial forces. and now the appointment by mayor guthrie of a strong, representative civic commission, with mr. english as chairman, and such exceptionably capable and responsible men as are summoned in a great public emergency, to lead committees on public hygiene, housing problems, rapid transit, municipal efficiency, industrial casualties and overstrain, education, police courts, charitable institutions, neighborhood and district improvement agencies, and city planning,--can hardly be construed otherwise than as the final precipitant of a new epoch of masterful humanism in the evolution of america's distinctive industrial metropolis. [illustration: a. j. kelley, jr. president commonwealth real estate trust company, member civic improvement commission.] [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._ pittsburgh types. italian leader.] [illustration: the allegheny river valley.] civic improvement possibilities of pittsburgh charles mulford robinson author of modern civic art, etc. in studying the civic improvement possibilities of pittsburgh, one is impressed by a curious mingling of antagonistic conditions. a wonderful natural picturesqueness is contrasted with the utmost industrial defilement, smoke and grime and refuse pervading one of the finest city sites in the world. similarly great wealth and great squalor are side by side. nation-wide business is done on very narrow streets. a royal munificence in public benefaction goes with a niggardliness that as yet denies to many children a decent playspace. immense private houses, with the amplest grounds to be found perhaps in any great city, abut on meanly proportioned streets. one is impressed first by the hugeness of the city and then by its lack of coherence. it has been built up as an aggregation of integers, mighty, resourceful, pushing; but lacking as yet in unity. that power, which is the keynote of the city, is not civic. it is not communal power but a dynamic individualism. but still steep hillsides close with magnificent self-assertion the vistas of business streets, still the mighty rivers, polluted with refuse though they be, flow in great streams to meet at the "point"; still from heights there are views of surpassing interest; and in the rolling country that encompasses the city with ravine and wooded slope, there still remain gentle loveliness and restfulness in impressive contrast with the throbbing industry of the town. thus, in spite of itself, picturesqueness such as even edinburgh, the "queen city of europe," might envy is thrust upon pittsburgh, and there is a surrounding beauty that florence might covet. [illustration: natural beauty vs. industrial odds.] in the midst of this strange mingling of opposites, of great opportunities and fearful handicaps, of vast needs and vast resources there appears the gradual stirring of a new ideal. a civic consciousness is awaking and that social conscience which has heretofore operated in individuals merely is becoming popularly active. at this wonderfully interesting juncture, the serious study of civic improvement in pittsburgh is to be made. what pittsburgh wants, what she has done and dreamed, what she must do, as a community, for her improvement,--these are the questions for the citizens of greater pittsburgh if "greater" is to have all its true significance. in discussing them let us follow these most obvious divisions of the subject: first, the congested business district of pittsburgh proper, that is, the peninsula: its needs and its possibilities. second, the slum district,--a band of varying width that, regardless of intervening rivers, surrounds the business section. third, the manufacturing area, very widely extended and therefore affecting the whole city. fourth, the homes of wealth, typified by the east end, and the educational and cultural center that is building there. fifth, the suburban district. sixth, the park requirements of the greater city. seventh, the community as a whole. [illustration: where the cars loop.] i. the business district of pittsburgh is as restricted as that of an old world city bound in by compressing fortifications. but its boundaries are not to be readily moved like the works of men. they are the broad rivers and the obstructing hill. the district extending from the "point," where the rivers join, to the "hump," is approximately an equilateral triangle, of which the sides are less than half a mile in length. into this small area is crowded the business of an enormous manufacturing center. here the railroads and boats bring their passengers; here the trolley roads of the whole district converge; here reach the bridges with their continual traffic. the condition is similar to that of manhattan, except that in pittsburgh the space in proportion to the business is even smaller. [illustration: smithfield street from fourth avenue.] the pressure in such a restricted area is of a double character. there is a pressure for traffic room, and an equally insistent pressure for building sites. one demand is as legitimate as the other. therefore, although the streets are too narrow, relief must be sought rather by increasing their carrying efficiency than by changing their dimensions or adding to their number. to accomplish this three plans have been under consideration. one, and an obvious one, is to increase the area of the business district by leveling the low hill (the "hump") that bounds it on the east. this plan seems now to have been abandoned. it would involve great cost, and it would not certainly better conditions in the most crowded area. furthermore, business has about climbed to the top of the hill already. [illustration: sesqui-centennial parade.] the other plans have to do with the trolley cars that come here from all sections of the city. as most of the cars do not pass through the district, but go out as they came in, there are numberless "loops", each of the various lines making a turn around two or three blocks, with the result that loop overlaps loop, and the cars interfere with one another as well as with general traffic. one plan would put many of the cars underground, in a subway, in the business district; the other, while permitting them to traverse the district, would carry them on into allegheny to make their loops. it were better, however, that there should be no loops at all; that the cars should not "go out as they came in." by the substitution of long through lines for the loops which are only a survival of other times and conditions, all the advantages would be gained with none of the drawbacks of transferring the loops across the river. in the plans for a downtown subway loop, it is proposed that all the stations be located on private property, so putting no additional burden on the streets, and furthermore that the loop be open to the cars of all companies. this would give much relief; and as subways have proved too successful in other cities to be regarded any longer as experimental, it seems that one here, properly constructed and authorized with equal regard for financial and municipal interests, is a civic improvement necessary for pittsburgh's business district. [illustration: one of the inclines which scale the pittsburgh hills.] as it would take some years to construct the subway; and as the relief to the streets afforded by straightening out the surface car routes might be overbalanced by a rapid increase in the number of cars, it is necessary to consider other immediate measures for traffic relief. a rounding of curb corners even at alleys, and the substitution of a well laid grooved rail for the present t-rail may be here suggested. with the grooved rail there is less temptation for teamsters to use the car tracks, the tracks can be turned out more readily and the whole width of roadway is made available, instead of being divided as now into longitudinal sections. costly as is the widening of streets, or the opening of new ones, such heroic measures are already being adopted for short distances in the peninsular district. for instance, the city is completing the widening of sixth street, from grant to forbes, an improvement tending to facilitate a further eastward march of business. of even more importance is the discussed and much needed provision of a better outlet for grant boulevard. this comparatively new boulevard was designed to afford pleasant access to the east end on a thoroughfare free of car tracks, for those who drive or who ride in motor cars. but the boulevard itself can now be approached from the business district only by seventh street, which is crowded with freight traffic, or by an ill paved narrow alley. the plan is to widen and repave the alley and thus carry the boulevard to sixth street, which is slightly less crowded. another interesting proposal is to give the boulevard, by means of a curving bridge over the pennsylvania tracks, direct access to the union station, which can now be reached only by a detour. these may be called local improvements, but they have a relation to the whole district, and are likely to be worth their considerable cost. [illustration: _the industry printing company_ night scene in downtown pittsburgh.] [illustration: the "point" of pittsburgh as it stands to-day.] a new retail shopping district is building up in the east end, and by the erection of great warehouses to the north along penn avenue, and across the river on the south side, a great part of the heavy wholesale trade has been removed from the "point." nevertheless it is clear that the little triangle, which is the business heart of pittsburgh, will remain crowded; and that with all these measures taken, the normal growth of a few busy years will produce a congestion demanding some radical measure of relief. ultimately this might take the form of an elevated structure, or a second street-story for the tapering western end of the plat. the area thus to be raised, and so given double capacity, is not very large, and the merest glance at the topography shows that the bridge near the "point", which strikes pittsburgh proper well above the street grade, is about on a level with the top of the "hump". to build a second story over the intervening streets, reserving the lower story for heavy, slow moving traffic, giving to the abutting buildings two street floors--and thereby increasing their rent productiveness, would present no insurmountable difficulties either from the engineering or the financial point of view. it is a long look ahead, and perhaps not entirely desirable; but it would be a typically pittsburghian thing to do. [illustration: a triangle which could be made an approach to the "point".] [illustration: the hamburg water front. a suggestion for pittsburgh.] in the limited space available, there can be no consideration of the commercial and industrial aspects of the waterfront; nor can there be a discussion of the project for a deep waterway from pittsburgh to new orleans on the one hand, and from pittsburgh to the great lakes and, via the barge canal, to new york on the other. these projects are mentioned only to emphasize the city's need for safeguarding and developing in some useful way every foot of river frontage that it possesses. they would justify a careful and elaborate study of this problem, even were the present river traffic less important than it is, and were the need of breathing spots less urgent. [illustration: the bank of the elbe, dresden, showing promenade, street and shipping.] as regards the traffic, slips might with advantage be substituted for the present sloping bank and floating docks. one commission is studying this subject, and another the problem of floods. the reports of these commissions may be awaited with confidence that their recommendations will mean improvement. sociologically and aesthetically, the gains will be indirect. as to breathing spaces, however, these gains would be direct, and the step to be taken is yet more obvious. a great deal of river frontage,--as along the allegheny, under the elevated tracks,--is not now utilized. if would be nothing derogatory to the commercial greatness of pittsburgh to turn this space into a park. nobody thought london commercially decadent when the thames embankment was built. unused, waste space, in fact, reflects more seriously upon a city's business enterprise than does the humanitarian or aesthetic use of it; and there is no better place for a park designed as a breathing space for shut-in workers, than a river bank with its inevitable current of air. the crowding of pittsburgh's business district has resulted in exceedingly high land values. in the whole downtown section no open space, save the plaza before the union station, has been preserved for the use of the people. public buildings have been constructed flush with the walk, and the streets are cramped and narrow. no sumptuous effect is offered anywhere. one of the buildings, however, the county court house, is the best work of h. h. richardson. it stands on the "hump," at the eastern edge of the business district, overlooking to the north a tract that is not yet improved. two other buildings, the city hall and post office, are so out of date that new structures must soon take their places. thus the opportunity has offered for a civic center group, and there are citizens who have dared to dream and plan. unfortunately, however, the post office site has now been chosen at a place where it cannot be brought into a civic center scheme. when the choice was pending, the architects, in whose hands the matter mainly rested, were not ready with a sufficiently definite plan. this failure has spurred them on, and they will not be caught napping again. a committee of the pittsburgh chapter of the american institute of architects has now worked out a civic center plan that is not merely spectacular, but which aims in practical ways to provide sufficiently wide, through avenues for the transportation lines to the business district. the plan will be best understood from the accompanying diagram. [illustration: the site of the proposed civic center. the tower of the court house is to the left of the frick building.] [illustration: sketch of civic center as proposed by pittsburgh architects.] [illustration: plan of proposed civic center.] it would substitute for a mean and shabby portion of the city an ensemble beautiful and effective, and it would bring a large open space to the very edge of a poor tenement section. owing to the local topography, the proximity of the improvement would not change the character of a large portion of that section; but it would bring civic art almost to the doors of the residents of the neighborhood. my judgment is that the plan does not go far enough. i shall reserve my supplementary suggestion, however, for more appropriate consideration at another point in this paper. one more comment might be made upon the aesthetic possibilities of the business section before we pass to the tenement district. it is the universal experience of towns that the first streets parallel the water courses. as the business portion of pittsburgh is located on that tapering point of land where the rivers draw together at an acute angle, it follows that streets must meet at similar angles, and the cross streets multiply them. very often at these intersections, small triangles are formed, which might have been preserved as open spaces at slight expense before the demand for building room became so great. although that opportunity has passed, the sharp building lot corners, with the conspicuousness given by a directly approaching street, still offer to architects an opportunity that is rare in american cities. little advantage is taken of this opportunity. the wabash station is one illustration of how much more interesting from an architectural standpoint business pittsburgh may some day be made. [illustration: one of the many pittsburgh triangles which would lend themselves to architectural treatment.] [illustration: pittsburgh from the south side--a city of contrasts.] [illustration: second avenue.] ii. completely surrounding the business district of pittsburgh, in a belt of varying width that disregards the intercepting river, is a section of mean streets, of crowded housing conditions, and if not of genuine poverty, at least of the discomforts which poverty elsewhere brings. this juxtaposition is a familiar phenomenon in urban development, for it is based on the social necessity that the least paid wage earners live within walking distance of their work; on the willingness, and even desire, of the well-to-do to live at a distance from the noise and smoke of business sections; and on the attraction which the constant stimulus of "city" life exerts on those who have few other sources of entertainment. that the river sides do not relieve and break up this belt, is due in part to the local topography. across the allegheny, the land is low and subject to flood; across the monongahela, there is only a narrow strip between the river and the highlands that, rising steeply, offer sites with purer air and wider outlook but that must be reached by riding. neither river is itself attractive as an outlook for residences. the civic improvement needs of this poorer and crowded district may be grouped under five general heads. these are: (a) municipal,--as the matter of street improvement; (b) housing,--with which this discussion does not attempt to deal; (c) playspace and opportunity for children; (d) park provision,--which may best be considered in connection with the similar needs of the whole community; and (e) bathing facilities,--which here can be no more than mentioned. (a) municipal. the primary municipal need, in so far at least as the region adjacent to the allegheny is concerned, is flood prevention. that is a city matter plus a good deal else, which will be considered elsewhere in this issue. the street needs are many and pressing. conditions in this matter are absolutely disgraceful. narrow streets are the rule in old pittsburgh, and smooth pavements cannot be expected upon steep streets. but with all possible allowance for these facts, there is much that might be undone. the streets are not all steep. steep streets can be kept clean,--more easily, indeed, than others. cobblestone pavements can be banished. [illustration: an italian court in the hill district.] well laid brick pavements, or asphalt, or smooth wood blocks where practicable,--and all frequently flushed, are a necessity for this region. cleanliness, too, should be the rule in the streets and alleys of the poorer sections; and it is here especially that the standard of municipal administration in pittsburgh needs raising. only within the past year has the public removal of rubbish been adopted as a municipal function. it may be profitably reflected that in no other area of the pittsburgh district would an equal amount of improvement affect so many residents. with original paving costs a general tax, with sanitation in this section a matter of prime importance outside the locality itself, and with the borrowing capacity of the city very large, there ought to be a pretty general reconstruction of the street surface of this district on modern lines. such improvement ought not to be difficult and, incidentally, should appeal to the pride of pittsburgh. the stranger, arriving at any of the railroad stations, finds little to admire in the business district. and when he leaves that, in whatsoever direction he goes,--whether to the fashionable east end, to the carnegie institute, to any of the parks, to the pleasant old-fashioned homes in allegheny, or to the heights beyond the monongahela, he must pass through this dreary belt of municipal neglect. it is here that unfavorable first impressions become fixed. these regions give a bad character to the whole city. the necessity for playgrounds is pressing, so pressing that an earnest, self-sacrificing effort has been made to meet it. the work of the modern playground gives benefit in three directions: physical, social and educational. this is recognized by the pittsburgh playground association, an incorporated body which receives appropriations from the municipality, supplements these with private donations, and with the volunteer work of individuals and clubs. in recognition of the threefold aspect of what is sweepingly called the "playground" movement, the association conducts "recreation parks" and vacation schools, as well as mere playgrounds. it holds the theory that "there should be three kinds of recreation centers: first, the school-yard for small children who cannot go more than a few squares from home; then the larger playground with apparatus and facilities for healthy play for all the boys and girls of a neighborhood; third, the athletic field, where teams may meet and where the interest of the community may center." it is clear from this that the lack of play facilities arises from insufficient material provision rather than from inadequate ideals. these provisions are gradually increasing but they have far to go before they will be complete. thirty square feet of playground space for each child is the minimum provision recommended in washington and london, and in a bill lately introduced in the massachusetts legislature. if the allowance seems too liberal, translate the "thirty square feet" into six feet by five,--the size of a desk! rich pittsburgh falls woefully short of this figure. her need is for more, and more adequately fitted, playgrounds. the poorer districts need them most and the first provision should be made there. this is said with due regard to the limitation of a playground's scope. the sore need for parks located more conveniently to the immense working population, than the present parks of pittsburgh are, and developed more appropriately to their needs, has not been confused with the community's need for children's play-spaces and recreation grounds. the latter is a separate, urgent and co-existent want, concerned, as is park provision, with the very structure of the city, involving similarly its social welfare, and making a strong appeal in the name of the children. such a survey of available sites (without buildings or with buildings of little value) as that undertaken by the playground association the past summer should be made the basis for the reservation of sites in congested neighborhoods and outlying districts. iii. the manufacturing area will not detain us long. it is no one region. industry is evident everywhere. pittsburgh is held inescapably beneath its thraldom. two matters in particular present themselves in noting the relation of the manufacturing plants to the improvement of the city. one deals with their own surroundings and grounds; the other is the smoke. with a few encouraging exceptions, there has been little attempt to beautify factory surroundings. the exceptions prove what can be done, but it should be recollected that in the pittsburgh district the handicaps to such ameliorations are particularly great. the ground is mostly clay and shale; smoke and ore dust are very trying to vegetation under the most favorable conditions, work is done at tremendous pressure, the products are heavy, and as a rule the manufacturing plots are no larger than necessary, for actual manufacture, storage, and shipping. yet it would seem that the chamber of commerce might properly add to its committees one that would foster this kind of improvement. as to the smoke, pittsburgh's most famous because most obvious drawback, the subject has in the last two years been tackled bravely by the chamber of commerce. its campaign resulted in the appointment of a chief smoke inspector and three deputies, attached, significantly, to the bureau of health. large powers are given to these inspectors. the undue emission of smoke is declared a "public nuisance" for which "the owner, agent, lessee or occupant" of the building, and the "general manager and superintendent, or firemen" are held accountable. in support of the ordinance, two hundred business men went in a body to the council's chamber, vigorously resisting the attacks made upon it. [illustration: rodelph shalom: jewish synagog.] [illustration: sixth united presbyterian church.] iv. the east end i can best discuss under three heads: a. the residential section. b. the educational and cultural center, which is building at its portal. c. the approach from the business section. [illustration: calvary church. designed by cram.] as a section of beautiful homes, the east end is at once disappointing and satisfying. if there is the usual conglomeration of architectural styles and if occasional atrocities in domestic construction and landscape design for private grounds are to be found here as in other cities,--and they certainly are,--yet the general average of the domestic architecture and of the garden, or lawn planting, is unusually high. this can be asserted without regard to the money expended,--since good taste is happily not dependent on high cost. the expenditure for both houses and grounds is certainly well above the average, but this only increases the danger. it is to the credit of pittsburgh's architects and gardeners, and to that of the well-to-do citizens who are so likely to demand their own way in the creation of their homes, that the results are so excellent. significant in this respect is the fact that several of the churches are of great merit; and if it be said that the irregularity of topography readily lends itself to unusual and charming effects in house location and lawn development, there should be recollection of the balancing handicaps of poor soil and grimy air. [illustration: emory methodist episcopal church.] but if private work is, as a whole, of a high order, the municipal work with the exception of some fine schools is mean, unimaginative and weak. here surely in street work was the place for boldness, splendor, and large conception. here liberal outlay was justifiable and would probably have been popular; here, in this comparatively new territory, obviously to be the home of the well-to-do of pittsburgh, there was a chance to plan for the city beautiful, to design in accordance with modern artistic principles. think of what ought to be here,--the broad avenues, with wide strips of parking at side or center; the well-built roads; the interesting vistas; the occasional bridle paths; the rapid transit facilities, in a reserved right of way partially planted out, where cars could make quick time without peril to other traffic; the round points at important intersections of avenues; and all the other beauties and conveniences known to the modern art of city building. but see what we actually find! the narrow streets persist. the heavy cars go rattling and roaring along the middle of the road on protruding and dangerous t-rails, the tracks taking a good half of the total space. the strip of parking between walk and curb, if there be any, is hopelessly narrow. gaunt telegraph poles, burdened with a mesh of wires, stand where the trees should be. here and there billboards and lettered fences flaunt commercialism and burlesque art in the face of beautiful homes and of the carnegie institute itself. of course, there are exceptions. there are some short streets and semi-private ways that are good. but the general impression of pittsburgh's east end has been described. if it be not too late, if the rich of pittsburgh are willing to contemplate a generous expenditure for the better setting of their homes, they should secure a plan for the recasting on noble and comprehensive lines of the whole section. [illustration: st. paul's cathedral. (roman catholic).] [illustration: church of the ascension.] because a few such men, who command the means to make their ideas effective, have had public spirit, generous impulses and broad ideals, a very interesting educational and cultural center is developing at the portal of the east end. it is one of the few examples in this country of consciously directed growth, though it should be added that it has its limitations in the fact that as yet that growth has not had professional direction, and seems still vague and uncertain as to the general scheme. take, for descriptive purposes, the carnegie institute as the center of the scheme. we find directly west of it the entrance,--yet to be formally developed,--of schenley park. on the edge of the park and still back of the institute, the great group of technical schools is building. on the other, or north side of the institute, is a valuable tract as yet vacant. a bit to the east of this, and a couple of blocks north of the institute, is the new cathedral, with no adequate setting and at an unfortunate angle with the institute, but inevitably a unit of the general scheme. in the same neighborhood the new high school is to rise. on the other, or west side, of the vacant property is the schenley hotel in spacious grounds; further north is the war memorial building and across from it are the sites of the university and athletic clubs. then comes the new property of the university of pittsburgh, which is built with ampleness of design. back of all, reaching over a hill that will frame the picture in this direction, lies the schenley farms property,--a large tract, held at high prices for expensive development, and capable of a picturesque and beautiful treatment,--if only that costly, commonplace checkerboard development can be foregone, which consists of cutting straight streets into the hills, at vast expense, to the destruction of what is picturesque, and at the sacrifice of building area. this tract, owing to its elevation, is so conspicuous a feature that its proper treatment is essential to the artistic success of the whole scheme. the architects, who, at the exhibit of , displayed a plan for a civic center, put forward also a plan for a rearrangement of the streets in this region, for a widening of public spaces, and a tying together of the various separated units. [illustration: christ methodist episcopal church.] there is need only to add that the site of this center is strategic from the civic improvement standpoint. it not only lies at the portal of the east end, but on the west and north the highways to the business portion, including grant boulevard, make it a focal point. there may be criticism of its choice as an educational center, especially for the technical schools, on the ground that it is far from the population to whom the proffered facilities would be most helpful. but it is approximately at the pittsburgh district's geographical center, and there is convergence of street car lines to within a quarter-mile's park walk. the city itself gave the site. [illustration: carnegie institute. library to right.] [illustration: carnegie technical school.] [illustration: phipps conservatories in schenley park.] in speaking of the civic center scheme for the business district, earlier in this article, i held that it should be supplemented by a larger one. this larger plan would provide a fitting approach to the east end, and could be made to join the two great improvement projects. owing to the interruption offered by herron hill, the usual approaches now to the east end are by forbes street or fifth avenue,--two mean and crowded thoroughfares, a block apart, that parallel the monongahela and carry street car traffic by the shortest route to the carnegie institute region and the section beyond; by wylie and centre avenues (half over the hills), or in a roundabout way, by liberty street or penn avenue,--again relatively narrow and crowded thoroughfares, and for the most part meanly built up; or, finally, by grant boulevard. the latter, beginning near the union station and cut out of a hill at much expense, was an attempt to provide a pleasant approach. like the drives and viaducts serving the outer park reservations, it shows imagination and engineering skill. it is indirect, however, is too narrow to carry the bulk of the vehicle traffic, and with its cuttings, vacant property, sunny stretches and aggressive billboards, it is not yet inviting but it could be made attractive by terracing and parking. the need, however, aesthetically and practically is for an approach that shall be better than any of these. forbes street and fifth avenue run east from the jail and court house in perfectly straight lines. they are at approximately even grades for a mile, separated from each other by only a short block. at seneca street the grade changes, and from there on any joint improvement would involve a viaduct or other device, until the streets grow parallel, and close together again for the final half mile to schenley park. suppose the two streets thrown together in one broad and splendid way, from the jail straight eastward for the first mile. none of the property here is expensively built up; most of it is exceedingly poor and shabby. there are, for the whole distance, the two streets and an alley, a total width for the whole distance of probably at least feet that is now public property. at short intervals there are cross streets, to the number of about a dozen; these also are public property. and there is a school in the area to be used. thus, altogether, the municipality already owns, one may confidently say, more than half of the land that would be required. the only question is concerning its wisest utilization. it may be admitted that to buy the intervening private plats, unifying the public property and making it available for a single scheme, would involve large cost. but there would be much on the other side of the ledger. think of the noble thoroughfare, with its special lanes for high speeding surface cars, its quadruple roadways, one for fast moving and one for slow moving vehicles in each direction, its lines of trees and shaded walks; think of its convenience, its directness, its capacity, its spectacular sufficiency; think of the increase in the value of the abutting property. under the pennsylvania law of excess condemnation part at least of this value would accrue to the city, as in the case of the great london improvements. even in the matter of absolute (initial) outlay, the expenditure would probably not be greater than for the subway now proposed, while it would grant practically equivalent facilities for transit, as far as rapidity is concerned, with many other advantages. instead of expending a vast sum to give setting to a group of public buildings, in the proposed civic center, this parkway could be made to give the adequate setting incidentally. certain ones would be placed along its margin at the western end. further, the improvement, instead of redeeming one small space, would redeem two streets for a mile at least. it could even be extended farther by means of a viaduct or some other device, and ultimately carried clear out to schenley park. [illustration: path in highland park.] there is no opportunity in this discussion to go into the project with detail. even the eastern terminus of the improvement must be left for later consideration. but it is plain that should the avenue stop at the mile, that much would be worth doing and would immensely increase the comfort and decrease the delay of getting to the east end. further, the splendid avenue would be democratic in its benefit, since the trolleys would have their place in it. the wage earner would go bowling home or to business as well encompassed as the motorist. the social benefit of that, and of the ceaseless entertainment which the traffic of the gay avenue would offer, is to be esteemed. there is no park so popular as a great street. v. pittsburgh's built-up suburban district is varied and far scattered. it lies along the rivers, as at sharpsburg, in industrial towns; it lies among the hills, as at sewickley, in purely residential areas. it is reached in some places by steam cars, and everywhere by trolley. it is the home of the millionaire and of the moderate wage earner. at times it is beautiful, and at other times it shows hardly the beginnings of aesthetic aspiration or social consciousness. no brief discussion of it is possible, for each separate suburban community would have to be taken by itself. but in a general way this can be said: as nature has given to pittsburgh one of the most picturesque city sites in the world, so she has done what she could to circle the city with lovely suburbs. with sane and artistic planning, popular co-operation, and a degree of patience, the beautiful suburb with winding roads, entrancing views, individual privacy and communal neighborliness, might have been secured much oftener than it has been and it might have been brought within the financial reach of much greater numbers. for suburbs rapid transit is essential; and that as yet has had nothing like the development one would expect near pittsburgh. the subway plan involves the radiation from the loop of long, straight roads furnishing to certain outlying sections a transportation much more rapid than at present offered. with low fares, this should mean much to crowded pittsburgh. but the time to improve suburbs is before, not after, the rush thither begins. the suburbs must act as quickly as must the east end, the playground supporters, the designers of an educational center, and the builders of an adequate east end approach. in all that pittsburgh is to do for civic improvement she must act at once, generously and with comprehensive grasp. vi. with the exception of occasional ornamental spaces, and a few parks so small that they have only neighborhood importance, the parks of the pittsburgh district may be said to consist of four public reservations. these are schenley and highland, in the east end; riverview in allegheny; and, in the older portion of allegheny, the reservation,--once a great hollow square,--like a new england common; now in part relinquished to the railroads. neither in total acreage, nor in distribution, nor in manner of development, are these parks what pittsburgh ought to have. perhaps, of its kind, the old park in allegheny is the most satisfying. located close to the homes of a very large population from whom the country is far removed, it offers long, level stretches of greensward where good trees cast grateful shadows, with walks that one may use even when on business, with numberless benches that are never empty on summer days and evenings, a little lake at one place and now and again a fountain where the splash of cool water gives ceaseless entertainment. it is a pity that this park was deprived of nearly half its former area, that the railroad might have a convenient path. highland and schenley, over in pittsburgh's east end, are elaborately and expensively "improved." you get into highland through a monumental entrance; costly beds of annuals confront you; from the reservoir heights there is a superb view; in a lower corner there is a zoo, which is remarkably well set; and there are some charming retreats. it is a pretty good park of its kind,--a very costly, luxurious kind; and though it is located in an expensive residential neighborhood five miles from the city hall, a good many people get to it on holidays. it does some social work although far from the amount desired. schenley does very little. the phipps conservatories, happily located near the entrance, are much visited when "a show" is on; somewhere in the inner recesses of the park there is a driving circuit, of which the crude old grand stand looms on the landscape like a combination of lumber yard and weatherbeaten country barn, and somewhere else there are golf links, maintained by a private club, where you may play if properly introduced! on the fourth of july, fire works bring a crowd to the park. but it is significant that while there are costly bridges and many drives, there are no paths or walks. the cars touch only one projecting corner, and there are no park carriages. he who has not his own horses, or his own motor car, need not enter the east end's schenley park. for it is, typically, the east end's park, adapted fairly well to its neighborhood, but not at all serving the democratic needs of greater pittsburgh. here is a great industrial city. the scores of thousands of people whom the parks should serve are many of them foreigners, and the mass of them are workers over a single piece. practically all of them work amid smoke and grime. the beauty of nature may be a new thought to these people. they should be helped to appreciate it, but they must be given first what they do understand and enjoy,--entertainment, vivacity, and brilliancy. if schenley park is little visited; a trolley park far away, where swings and boats, slides and ponies, keep something going all the time, is crowded day by day; and when, in the moonlight, shadows lie on the hills of schenley, and the stars look down on deserted though free acres, other parks that are garish with a blaze of electric lights are thronged with people who have gladly paid a fee for admittance. there they find something to see and to do. industrial pittsburgh ought to take pride in developing the special kind of park facilities that its population needs, and in setting an example to other cities. a comprehensive system of children's playgrounds would do something toward this; the proposed mall or parkway approach to the east end, where some thousands of the relatively poor would find, almost at their doors, a mile long open space with its ceaseless urban entertainment, would do something more; a system of small open spaces or outdoor social centers, where a man could smoke his pipe and chat with his neighbors, his wife at his side and his children at hand, would make further contribution; and the riverside park proposed for the business district, still further. but there should be two or three well-distributed and readily accessible large parks that would be real municipal pleasure grounds. here should be ample athletic fields, a swimming pool, and a large field house; a band playing at frequent intervals; swings and boats; cheap conveyances that would make the whole space available; illuminations and song festivals; and refectory accommodations, with tables placed attractively out of doors, and wholesome food and drink at low prices. tired workers, going to this free public park, should find entertainment. little by little, and incidentally, they might learn there the more tranquil pleasure of contemplating nature. there are various places in pittsburgh where such parks could be established. one, that seems to be singularly adaptable is brunot's island. there is maple park on the south side. for a neighborhood park, which by mere convenience of location and inherent interest should invite the pittsburgh workman out of doors, the steep bank that rises across the monongahela offers a site very distinctive and appropriate. day and night the interest of its outlook would not cease. it would require little development. inclined roads already scale the cliff, and midway stations would make any terrace available. and whatever landscape improvements were made would be visible and enjoyable from the business streets themselves. in allegheny such a park site is already owned on monument hill. [illustration: panther hollow. schenley park.] the site of the penitentiary may some day become another available park site, for a penitentiary in the heart of a city is undesirable. another wonderful park site, so wonderful that it is difficult to perceive why it has been so long neglected since track elevation has made it available, is the tip of the "point." to-day it is a dumping ground. aside from the historical and natural charm of this location, should be noted the breadth of outlook it offers, its free currents of air, its proximity to a large working population and the possibility of its attractive connection with a yet larger area by means of the suggested embankments which would practically form a riverside promenade and parkway to it. with the acquisition of more parks it would be possible to arrange an interesting connecting system of boulevards and parkways. it is not enough simply to designate an existing street a boulevard. calling it so does not make it so. and when pittsburgh awakes to her greatness, and appreciates the surpassing beauty that might be hers, there is no reason to doubt that among other things she will commission the planning of an excellent system of drives. there are naturally beautiful runs, now despoiled with mean dwellings and made little better than open sewers, that might be transformed into parkways; and there are hills and stretches of fair country that could be had now for a song for an outlying park system. it is true that all this will demand money, but there are no improvements that by long term bonds can be so justly made a mortgage on the distant future as those for parks. school houses, fire houses, public buildings, deteriorate with the lapse of time, but parks and boulevards become yearly of greater value. vii. the final word, which has to do with the needs of the whole community, hardly requires saying. it is a plea for comprehensive planning. surely, if ever a city needed the definite plan that an outside commission could make for it, it is pittsburgh. in most cities the "improvement" problem is largely aesthetic. in pittsburgh, it is also economic and social. its correct solution is something more than a desideratum; it is a need. [illustration: sesqui-centennial arch.] effect of forests on economic conditions in the pittsburgh district [illustration] w. w. ashe u. s. forest service three rivers determined the location of pittsburgh. they have been important factors in creating its industrial position; they are now important agents affecting the health and earnings of thousands of its citizens. the two score of iron and coal towns which are known as the pittsburgh district, fringe the banks of these rivers. mine, factory and furnace alternate with the residence settlements of the laborers, and they and the railroads compete with the streams themselves for ownership of the narrow strip of land between low water and flood crest. with every recession of the floods, man crowds the streams, only to be driven back when they reassert their suzerainty. whatever can be done therefore, to tame their caprices, to equalize their flow, either by lowering the flood crests or increasing the low water stages, adds to the well-being and prosperity of men who work at forge and furnace, or go with the barges,--men whose living is from day to day, and to whom the idle day brings want. the flood is the open expression of the rivers' authority. but they have another and more subtle influence. it is less direct, but it has a wider relation to the well being of the city, not only affecting the laborer who lives on the lowlands, but affecting all citizens alike. the rivers and their tributaries near which pittsburgh and the surrounding towns are situated, furnish these in most instances with their water supply. the character of this water affects the health of the users, and their working efficiency. all the drinking water used in the pittsburgh district, except that from artesian wells or similar primarily pure sources, has been contaminated by the sewage of towns and villages higher up the rivers. through such contaminated water typhoid fever and other zymotic intestinal diseases are widely disseminated. scarcely a town in the steel and coal district has not been devastated by an outbreak of this dread scourge. the condition of wilkinsburg is typical, its water supply being contaminated by the sewage of more than twenty towns. the new filtration plant for greater pittsburgh delivers to most of the city a drink much superior in quality to the highly polluted waters generally used. but filtration is only a first step toward purity, and toward decreasing typhoid fever and the other water-borne diseases. filtration removes a high percentage of the pathogenic bacteria by which these diseases are transmitted; but a highly contaminated water, such as that of the allegheny river, purified even by the best methods of sand filtration, is not pure water. intelligent users must at length realize this and demand for their own health not a purified water merely, but a primarily pure supply, safeguarded by sedimentation and filtration against occasional contamination. within easy reach of pittsburgh and nearly every one of its satellite towns, lie abundant sources of primarily pure supply, in the forest-protected mountain streams. hitherto the cost of purchasing a forested watershed and holding it as unproductive property has deterred cities from seeking such sources. that difficulty no longer exists. forest lands have now a recognized and constantly increasing earning power. if a watershed is purchased at a reasonable price and is well managed, it will become, as stumpage further appreciates in worth, a valuable municipal asset. or if a town is small and unwilling to assume the responsibility of such management; it can well co-operate with the state in developing a system which will secure to it pure water, and at the same time preserve to the state the earning power of its forests which are among its most valuable natural resources. domestic water supply, however, is largely a matter local to each town or each group of towns. but the wage earners of the whole pittsburgh section are yearly vitally affected by the rivers in a different way. the earnings and even the lives of thousands, especially of those living in the low districts of the larger cities, are threatened by the winter and spring floods. these floods frequently result in losses to wage earners aggregating several million dollars a year. in the flood of march, , it is estimated that more than , families in the river districts of pittsburgh, and an equal number in the low lying sections of nearby cities, were forced from their homes or their stores by high water. quantities of personal effects were injured or destroyed; lives were lost; and much suffering followed the winter exposure. the effect of the flood in increasing certain kinds of disease is shown by a comparison of the pneumonia and typhoid records in the flooded wards of pittsburgh. dr. beaty of the pittsburgh bureau of health gives us the number of cases of these two diseases in certain wards on the north side, which are largely tenanted by laborers, and were partly inundated. in march and april, , when there was no flood, there were fourteen cases of pneumonia and forty-eight of typhoid fever. in march and april, , when the flood had a height of thirty-six feet, there were forty cases of pneumonia and cases of typhoid fever, more than twice the number of the preceding year. during the flood the water and dwellings in these districts became badly contaminated by human waste, since the flooding of toilets and sewers prevented their use. at the same time many families usually dependent upon street hydrants for domestic water had to make use of this extremely impure river water. this affected large numbers of people, many of them recently arrived foreigners unacquainted with methods of securing ready relief. but a more general suffering was occasioned by the loss in wages through the closing of large establishments whose plants were flooded. it was estimated at the time by one of the local newspapers that more than , people in the pittsburgh district were idle for an average period of a week on account of the march flood of . a typical example is the national tube works, where different departments were closed from ten to fourteen days, throwing about , men out of regular work. about , of these were employed for three days as laborers, cleaning up after the water subsided. the same thing is yearly repeated in many other large factories as well as on the railroads. it is no exceptional occurrence. a similar, though less severe flood occurred two months earlier the same year and another in march, . it is indeed an exceptional spring when there is not a flood. the losses to laborers by curtailment of wages from this cause are seldom so excessive as they were in the flood of march, , but they amount annually to more than $ , . moreover, this loss takes place in the winter, when the wage earner can least afford it. [illustration: denuded land devoid of humus, on the mountains; largely responsible for floods on the monongahela river.] [illustration: railroad bridge destroyed by freshet. three men were killed in the wreck which followed.] [illustration: farming land destroyed by floods. monongahela river.] [illustration: wage-earners' homes abandoned on account of freshet.] the river floods cannot be prevented by local effort. their damage is by no means confined to pittsburgh; it extends the entire course of the ohio river and its most important tributaries; its causes originate in other states besides pennsylvania. although the state and even the cities might well co-operate in certain ways, the prevention of these floods is a problem for the federal government to consider. the cause of a flood lies partly in natural conditions. the run-off of the allegheny and monongahela rivers is naturally concentrated and the highest floods occur when a deep snow on a frozen soil is suddenly melted by heavy warm rain. but their height has been accentuated by human agency; and this points to the two necessary phases of river flood control work. one is the re-establishment of normal forest conditions. this means not so much a great extension of the forest area, although there are many steep slopes now cleared which should be re-wooded; but it means the restocking as densely as possible of lands which have been cut or badly burned and are thinly or partially wooded. this is a means to an end. the forest produces a deep mat of leaves and mould, the humus which not only has a high water storage capacity itself but determines largely the porousness and absorptive power of the underlying soil. this function of the forest is not incompatible with the use of its timber. the most rapid growth of timber is secured by maintaining the deepest humus; but the cutting of it must be adjusted under skilled direction in order not to jeopardize the water storage function of the soil. furthermore, there is need of more evergreen forests. the pine and hemlock have been largely removed from the mountain sources of the ohio. but these trees prolong the melting of deep snows, even under warm rains, for several days longer than deciduous trees. the re-establishment of forests of conifers will therefore contribute to lowering the crests of floods by distributing the flow over five or six days instead of two or three. this is one phase of the work of river control. [illustration: federal street during flood of march , .] on account, however, of the large areas of open farm-land that lie on the watershed of the ohio and that cannot be reforested, additional means are necessary for storing the surplus storm water. there should be storage reservoirs such as are now being used at the head of the mississippi river for regulating the flow of the river above st. paul. these reservoirs must be on wooded watersheds; otherwise they will silt up and they will hold back some of the storm water and lower the height of floods, they will have an additional value for they can be used as reservoirs for domestic water supply. they can also be made to increase the dry season flow of the streams, thus furnishing a stable water power for industrial use and permitting steady navigation during summer and autumn when the water stage is frequently too low even for coal barges. thus, by means of the forests will be secured not only a reduction in floods but also a greater earning capacity to the region through the development of the latent power of its streams. the rivers, then, are at once the making and the menace of pittsburgh. it is through the forests and by reservoirs that the menace can be removed and the highest utility of the streams established. the purity of the water for drinking purposes can thus be assured. this involves a betterment in the health of the community and an increase in the efficiency of the laborer. the equalization of the river flow can also be thus attained. and this involves, first, the lessening of flood losses, and, second, the increasing of the power of the streams to meet the exacting requirements of water power development. the lowering of the floods secures also a further betterment in health by improving the sanitary condition of the districts subject to inundations, and a betterment of economic conditions, both by giving the laborer more steady work during flood and low flow periods, and by opening to him, through the creation of new industries, a wider field of employment. [illustration: a mile of water on penn avenue during pittsburgh's record flood, march, .] the transit situation in pittsburgh john p. fox secretary transit committee, city club of new york; member tramways and light railways' association of great britain transit has a place in the study of living conditions in an industrial city like pittsburgh. many of the workers are dependent on street cars to take them to and from home, about their occupations, and to places of recreation. cheap and efficient transit can enable families living under crowded and unhealthy conditions to move to larger, healthier, and less expensive quarters, and still to reach their work. low fares and good service bring the operators in a suburban mill town in touch with the full resources of the labor supply in the central city, and also effect a large and direct pay roll economy for carpenters, plumbers, painters, and other city trades whose employes move from point to point during working hours. again, in no place are people packed together more closely than in the cars, under more conditions favorable to the spread of disease and especially of tuberculosis. and among accidents, few are more numerous, more costly to corporation and community, and more unnecessary, than those caused by street cars. the street railway system of pittsburgh is a surface electric system, under the management of the pittsburgh railways company. this company is the consolidation of many other companies, different groups of which had previously combined. the pittsburgh railways company, again, is under the management of the philadelphia company, which largely dominates the gas and electricity supply. the philadelphia company is said to be controlled by nonresident investors. the present owners and local managers may well be without personal responsibility for the acts or omissions of their predecessors, and yet be crippled by exorbitant obligations to them. their legal responsibility as to the performance of public service is, however, clear cut. all the available through thoroughfares leading to the heart of the city from the south side, north side, and east end are occupied by the pittsburgh railways company under franchises granted to its subsidiary companies, and as a practical proposition it is impossible to construct additional surface lines or extend surface transit facilities to new areas providing for the growth of the city, except in subordination to these strategic lines. this restriction of course does not apply to rapid transit lines,--subway or elevated. the principal franchises to these streets held by the original companies appear to be indeterminate in duration, as in massachusetts, the city having reserved the right to revoke a franchise at any time that a company failed to comply with all the conditions of the agreement. the terms of the original franchises (the second avenue line being the exception to many of these points) provide for an annual compensation to the city, either a car tax and a percentage of the net profits or a fixed rental in place of one or both of the former. the streets must always be kept in good repair, and in certain cases, at least, clean (either from curb to curb, or along the car tracks). the city sometimes retained the power to alter the conditions, and notably reserved the right to purchase any road after twenty years, at a price to be fixed by five disinterested appraisers. important provisions of these original franchises are not being observed by the existing company. these facts must be borne in mind in discussing both the equipment of the present system to meet the social needs of pittsburgh, and ways open to the public to effect improvement. though the steam roads have played an important part in the past, the growth of pittsburgh is now chiefly along electric car lines. the radiation of surface lines from the business center out over the district seems quite complete, especially considering the topography of the city and the suburbs. large areas of vacant land available for single houses, can be reached for five cents from the business district. while the radiation of surface lines may be satisfactory, the equipment and operation are exceedingly unsatisfactory, as every practical man in the railway company will admit. the present system has its base located on the point between the allegheny and monongahela rivers. most of the lines begin as loops through these business streets, operating without transfers between the different lines and without through cars. [illustration: for profile lines and car routes, see map facing page .] a five-cent fare carries one varying distances from this business center, before a second fare is charged. the longest ride for one fare is about eight miles; while a continuous ride of fourteen miles on another route, costs fifteen cents. passengers cannot change cars in the business center without paying two fares, and a ride across the city and suburbs may cost as much as twenty-five cents. free transfers, are given between many lines before they enter the downtown district; but no transfers are issued after : p. m., and none on holidays such as the fourth of july, when travel is heaviest. the cars till recently have had no cross seats, longitudinal seats having been used, according to the company, "to allow an extra large capacity," viz., standing capacity. trailers are run at the rush hours. a line of express cars runs east from the business center to east liberty, through liberty avenue, making few stops, though the speed on sample runs was found to be sometimes slower than that of cars on the parallel penn avenue. the speed of the cars is fast enough for surface operation, except when the power is poor, on steep grades or in the congested district. the service is very unsatisfactory both as to the few cars run and as to the amount of standing, which is inexcusably large. the rails are of the girder type, one obsolete in first-class systems; and are in very bad shape everywhere. the property is very much run down, except for a few new pay-as-you enter cars. the only real rapid transit in pittsburgh is furnished by the pennsylvania and other steam railroads, the common time scheduled from the union station to east liberty being ten minutes by train, against thirty minutes by surface express cars. [illustration: profiles of pittsburgh the pittsburgh survey maps under the direction of shelby m. harrison ] before taking up in detail the discussion of improvements on existing lines, it may be well to touch on the financial condition of the pittsburgh railways company, and to consider whether the property can afford to make such improvements; for one hears the excuse for bad conditions that the company is not earning a dividend and was forced even to reduce the service. the boston elevated railway company, which operates all the surface, elevated and subway lines about boston, is regarded as a very prosperous concern, paying dividends of from six to eight per cent. the net earnings per car mile after paying taxes being . cents. the pittsburgh railways company, according to its last public report, had net earnings, after paying taxes, of . cents per car mile, about double the amount of the boston company. this is a most remarkable financial showing, and at once raises the question, where does the money all go to and why cannot more of the excessive profits be diverted to better service and equipment? the boston company is operating to-day three subways and one elevated line, besides having contracted to build two more subways and another elevated. it is obvious that the pittsburgh railways company could not only give a first class service on existing lines, but could also assume the fixed charges of a real rapid transit system, if profits were not diverted to pay excessive rentals and other fixed charges on the many companies consolidated at different times. some way must be found to cut down these exorbitant charges, for the present management can hardly expect the public to endure existing conditions much longer, when the earnings are so vast. people in other cities, when really aroused, have found ways to bring the most intrenched monopolies to terms. the congestion of cars in the business district of pittsburgh is a very curious phenomenon. most people, seeing the frequent blockades at street junctions in the rush hours, would say that there were already too many cars on the streets, and that the overcrowding is a necessity, only to be remedied by building a rapid transit line. others, however, see that the terminal loops cause much of the congestion, and that by rearranging or abolishing these, even more cars could easily be handled in and out of the crowded center. as a matter of fact, at no place in pittsburgh does the number of cars passing hourly reach even half the maximum number found possible in other cities; cars in thirty minutes was the largest number counted by the writer, against cars in berlin. the maximum pittsburgh hourly rate on a single track would be cars; boston has scheduled an hour; berlin runs as many as ; while brooklyn handles over . at the busiest junction in pittsburgh, the writer found a rate of cars an hour in all directions, against in berlin, where there were many more vehicles besides. the overcrowding of the pittsburgh cars is either intentional or due to bad operating methods. the seating capacity of the present surface lines has been far from reached. take fifth avenue at smithfield street, for example. in one half-hour in the evening from to : p. m. about , passengers were carried east one night in forty-three cars, thirty-two being motor cars and eleven trailers. if every motor car had hauled a trailer, and four additional pairs of cars been run, every passenger could have been seated, whereas were obliged to stand, or more than fifty per cent of those seated. the total number of cars in one hour would only be against in berlin. if the company had cross seats in all the cars, merely seventeen more trailers on fifth avenue, added to the present number of motor cars, would have seated all the passengers, with a total of only cars an hour. in berlin the street railway company provides as many as , seats in half an hour, and the london county council as many as , seats, against the , in pittsburgh. it may be wondered how it is possible to get so many cars past as in berlin. it is done by fine traffic regulation by the police, who use careful judgment, and do not hold up traffic too long in any one direction, as is common in other cities, even in london, the home of street regulation. again, the berlin tracks are so good and the motormen so careful, that the latter operate cars over switches and junctions at speeds which are never seen in pittsburgh, car following car with amazing rapidity. and the berlin manager proposes to run even more cars. [illustration: motor car and double-deck trailer crossing potsdamer platz, berlin. cars an hour against in pittsburgh.] in no city does the writer recall so much standing required of passengers as in pittsburgh. it would appear to be the company's object to run few enough cars to make people stand on every trip throughout the day, and as nearly the whole length of each line as possible. there is little relief during the slack hours, as every car, sooner or later, seems to have its standing load. in other cities of the country, a marked change of policy towards the public has shown itself in the largely increased number of seats furnished. it is a question whether it is a good policy for any public service corporation, no matter how securely intrenched, to continue the policies of the past. [illustration: second class berlin elevated and subway car. fare - / cents. soft lighting; no straps; designed by one of the first architects of berlin.] it is one thing to allow a few persons who like it to stand on the car platform; it is another to require it of mothers, overworked girls, the tired, the ill, the infirm. no one knows how much disease is spread through such crowding. in no place are conditions more ripe for infection,--with the extreme of personal contact, the mixture of every class, the constant rubbing against one another and the holding of dirty strap. under such conditions, when a consumptive coughs, who is safe? the seating capacity of a city car line seems hardly to have a final limit, for some new way is constantly found to squeeze in more or larger cars. to get some figures by which to judge pittsburgh, let us take the cars run hourly on a single track in berlin, or call it . if double-deck cars were run in pittsburgh, of the same length and width as the largest cars now in use, each could easily seat as many as passengers. this would allow a perfectly feasible capacity of , seats an hour, against a rate of , actually found on fifth avenue. why double-deck cars are not run in this country is a mystery to every english manager and to not a few americans. they nearly treble the seating capacity, and yet weigh no more than our wastefully heavy rolling stock. they give passengers decent room and air space. they are far more economical even than trailers. roofs on these cars are now enclosed, and smoking is made possible all the year round. they can climb and descend hills more quickly and safely than single-deck cars of equal capacity, because more weight can be concentrated on the wheels. two types have been designed for pittsburgh of the same length and width as existing cars, both having an enclosed roof adapted for winter. the higher one would have seats. the other type, low enough to go under existing railroad bridges, would furnish ninety-eight seats on one car, with four entrances each side. if such cars had been used on fifth avenue the night when , passengers were counted in half an hour, they could have furnished seats for every person, with seven per cent excess. only twenty-five cars instead of forty-three would have been needed, which would have required fifty men against the seventy-five actually employed for the , seats. to furnish more seats with trailers would cost more than the present system; but double-deck cars would cut thirty-three per cent off the operating expense, and the company would gain more than the immense monetary saving. they would lose less fares, have the good will of the public, and fewer accidents. the new pay-as-you-enter cars are the most expensive thing with which to furnish seats, and they take twice as long to load as a double-deck car, the introduction of which would appear to be the wisest move the company could make, as well as the best thing for the public. one of the most objectionable features of the pittsburgh railway system is the looping back of all cars in the business district, without either through cars or free transfers between the north, south, east, and west sides of the city. in the expensive days of horse cars, there was more excuse for short hauls and double fares; but for the wealthy pittsburgh electric system, there is no excuse for not serving the entire district, at least within the city limits, for a five cent fare. boston has had through cars across the city for about twenty years, and for ten years the company has had no higher fare than five cents for the entire metropolitan district of a dozen cities and towns. the longest ride is at least sixteen miles, with free transfers given at about forty points. berlin has the most complete system of through cars, connecting every part of the city for a single fare, allowing a ride of thirteen miles or two hours for two and one-half cents. it seems very doubtful if the present restricted plan of operation pays nearly as well as would through cars and single fares for the entire city. the loops tie up many cars and men in the business district, because of the long stops at a few points and the slowness of switching. but one thing is certain, and that is the gross injustice of a ten cent fare across the city. its tendency to isolate such public institutions as the carnegie institute, the technical schools, the university of pittsburgh, is a very serious matter. an apprentice who attends the evening courses at the technical schools three nights a week, pays $ a year for his tuition. if he has to ride each way, it costs him about $ . a year from only the nearest part of the city, $ . from the rest. is this good public policy toward the ambitious workman who is unfortunate enough not to live within the favored zone? is it good sense that the railway company shall charge twenty cents a round trip to so many who appreciate the free advantages of the carnegie institute, and thus bar many of the poorest from ever reaching its doors? the company may reply that all such public institutions should be located in the business district, where all lines center. but the city must grow beyond that congested triangle, and why should not the company's policy grow as well? the same question might be asked in connection with the company's refusal to give transfers after : p. m., and on the holidays when travel is heaviest. altogether, it is not a matter for wonder that the public is a unit against the railway. the whole fare system of pittsburgh needs careful scrutiny. should workmen's fares be introduced, to give every family a chance to live where it can find the best house, the most congenial neighbors, and the desirable surroundings, and yet get to work without exorbitant car fares? the london county council, from its workmen's homes, seven miles out in the suburbs, gives a ride to the city, with a seat for every passenger, for two cents at the rush hour. one london steam road gives workmen an eleven mile ride for two cents each way. english managers say that american companies throw away large profits by maintaining too high fares. the question of public policy to consider about workmen's fares is not whether more people could be carried or whether they would pay, for foreign experience has settled these points, but whether more riding is necessary and desirable, that is, whether satisfactory living conditions can be provided within walking distance of where people work. a feature of transit requiring more attention is the matter of car ventilation. the pittsburgh company is said to be trying a method of artificial ventilation for its cars. for such densely packed spaces, a constant supply of fresh air is an urgent necessity. a downward movement of warm air, if found practicable, would be the most hygienic and economical. the car transoms should have handles attached to make proper opening and shutting easy. at the present time, there is often too much cold air blowing into the cars, because there is no easy way for the conductor to close the ventilators. the coal stoves should be banished from the interiors. while there are spitting signs in the cars for the instruction of passengers, some of the employes appear to be the subjects who need most attention. the constant expectoration of motormen through vestibule doors, and the fouling of front steps, are practices that are not conducive to health or happiness. to reduce the wear and tear on the nerves of the community the noise from car operation ought to be much less. excessive gong ringing is far too common in pittsburgh. ninety-four blows in a minute is a ridiculous frequency. one sound from a good gong is enough to inform a vehicle that it is in the way. too much pounding simply exasperates a teamster. there should be very little need of gong ringing anyway. a properly trained motorman slows down for pedestrians and obstructions, and does not rely on the gong to get them off the track before he is too near for safety. for the car gearing, the london mixture of sawdust and oil should be tried in the gear cases. the london cars almost startle one with their quietness. they are kept in perfect order, with no loose parts to rattle, no bad rails to pound over. while the pittsburgh rail joints are often quiet, the tracks at junctions are in a condition most injurious to the cars, and a cause of excessive noise, there being actual gaps in the rail heads over which the cars must jump. bad track maintenance has allowed much corrugation to creep in, viz., little waves along the heads of the rails, which are both noisy and expensive. the unfortunate supplanting of magnetic brakes by air brakes will increase the flat wheel nuisance. worn trolley wheels cause unnecessary noise overhead. rails on curves should be greased. the pittsburgh railways company, in its latest reports, gives no figures for the cost and number of street car accidents. such omission invites close scrutiny, and there are many dangerous features about the cars and the operation. one excellent thing in use by the company is the magnetic brake[ ], which, however jerky and sudden may be the type in use in pittsburgh, is in its latest form far safer than air brakes in every respect. unfortunately, the company is not using this latest type, but is adopting air brakes on new cars. air brakes are one thing on steam roads, where rails are seldom slippery and where there is usually plenty of time to stop; but for city streets and pittsburgh grades, they are an added source of danger. the magnetic brake can now stop a car in one-third of the distance that air can, and cannot skid the wheels up to speeds of thirty-two miles an hour. it is little affected by a greasy rail, and its tremendous reserve power makes it almost impossible for a motorman to have an accident,--the hand attachment providing safety in case of an electrical breakdown. the best test of brakes yet made, which has just been completed in england, has settled these points beyond all question. [ ] a brake with which powerful magnets drag on the track and stop the wheels as well. [illustration: london county council car with seventy-two seats. the safest type in the world, with the latest magnetic brakes and automatic wheel guards.] [illustration: liverpool double-deck car, which cannot run over anyone. sixty-four seats where pittsburgh would have twenty-eight.] with the best magnetic brakes, projecting fenders ought to be unnecessary. such fenders are prohibited in europe, as doing more harm than good. a perfect wheel guard seems really the only thing needed, and such has been found by the city of liverpool, which has had in use for seven years the noted plow guard, which has pushed persons off the track and absolutely saved people from being run over. it should be applied in some form at once on all the pittsburgh cars. many pittsburgh cars have no wheel guard at all. to take up a few more danger points: dim headlights, due to insufficient power, are another source of risk. gong ringing by hand, the practice in pittsburgh, is an antiquated method especially objectionable with the magnetic brake, where the motorman must both brake and ring with the same hand. there are no power brakes on the trail cars,--a serious omission. single truck cars are not safe on many of the sharp curves, as between forbes street and homestead. when rails are dirty, they should be cleaned, not sanded. the car sanders are of a type that is useless on curves. the carrying of jacks on every car is an excellent thing, which the pittsburgh company was the first in the country to adopt. but there should also be an emergency lantern, an emergency lamp inside the cars, blocks to hold a car up, a saw, etc., as in berlin. the storing of cars out-of-doors, as at highland park, results in icy steps on winter mornings, and is a shiftless practice. the pittsburgh rule to descend dangerous grades with wheel brakes on, instead of magnetic brakes, is exactly the most dangerous thing, as has been shown again and again in england. the type of rail in use and the method of laying are very unsatisfactory, and philadelphia standards are greatly needed. the pittsburgh rails and their condition are certainly an anomaly in the steel center of the world. [illustration: sign at free transfer station, nuremberg, showing where each car-line goes.] [illustration: decorated stopping post in nuremberg.] [illustration: nuremberg municipal car, showing illuminated route number used for each line.] there are other matters about the system besides those affecting health and safety which need improvement. it is very hard for strangers to find their way around. there are seldom signs on the street to show just where cars stop, whereas in europe every stopping place has a printed sign. the signs on the cars are often too dim to read, and half the time show only where the car came from, not where it is going to. the routes of the cars are seldom given as they should be. the berlin sign system with its route numbers instead of confusing colors, and such completeness that no stranger need ask a question to find his way about is urgently needed. every stopping place in pittsburgh needs to be called out, as in boston. the car lights should be placed over the seats, and the glare of bare filaments avoided. if the company cannot furnish a decent voltage on all the routes, then electricity should be abandoned for lighting cars, in favor of the brighter incandescent gas or acetylene used on steam roads. windows do not open wide enough for coolness in summer, especially on the newest cars, and they are not always well washed. english cars are cleaned every night from top to bottom, and go out as bright as new every morning. even the trucks are daily cleaned with oil. dirty city air or passengers are regarded in england as no excuse for dirty cars. the immediate transit needs of pittsburgh, then, are evidently: first, the running of enough cars throughout the day to furnish sufficient seats at all times and stop the dangerous overcrowding. second, the substitution of through routes for loops with universal free transfers and a five cent fare at least within the city limits. third, the improvement of equipment and operation, so that there shall be more healthful conditions, more safety, less noise and more convenience. fourth, besides these, there should be a thorough study of present conditions, the city's growth and needs, to determine a transit policy for the future. [illustration: berlin car tracks, laid in grassy lawns, with flower beds each side. the company's preference.] before taking up the rapid transit question, however, let us consider how the improvements necessary to the existing surface system may be obtained. throughout his administration the present mayor of pittsburgh has tried to get things done. vain attempts have been made to get sufficient cars run and to abolish the downtown loops, with their inconvenience to passengers, unjust fares and street congestion. where new lines have been needed in unserved districts, the company has refused to make extensions except on the unreasonable and impossible condition of perpetual franchises without compensation to the city. under the different franchises, large sums are due the city for car taxes, rentals and the cost of neglected paving and street cleaning, the total claimed by the city amounting to about a million dollars. the present company, while meeting some obligations the past year, has refused to pay any of these old debts, though admitting its liability for at least a part of them, and the city has brought lawsuits to recover the money. it would have been easy for mayor guthrie to have resorted to grandstand plays. but more important than that, he has held the company in _statu quo_ until legal complications have been developed and are now in shape for the city to enforce its rights. an examination of the original franchises opens up some surprising possibilities for the city. these grants were for different routes and conferred no running powers over other lines. in fact, the franchise of the pittsburgh, allegheny and manchester passenger railway company contains the express provision that the ordinance should not be construed to grant or confer upon any other company the right to traverse the streets. as the different companies consolidated, they neglected to obtain from the city the right to run cars over one another's lines, and to-day the pittsburgh railways company is operating its whole system in a way which has been declared illegal in a recent court decision. in the erie decision, the supreme court of pennsylvania held that, under the state constitution, no street railway company had a right to run over the tracks of another company without express municipal consent, a city having the power to impose reasonable regulations for the operation of lines under an ordinance. if the pittsburgh railways company intends to obey the laws of the state, it must either break up its system into the original car lines and operate them separately, or else it must apply to the city for a permit to legalize its present methods of operation. in giving its permission, the city could dictate its own terms, as long as they were reasonable and constitutional; and it would certainly seem reasonable to require sufficient cars and seats, the abolition of the loops, and the universal five-cent fare as in other cities. if the company would not accept a reasonable ordinance, it might threaten to break up the system, and charge the public a separate fare for each line. it would seem doubtful, however, if the courts would permit any such burden on the public, and the company would hardly attempt to abandon the unity of its system pending litigation. if it tried to do so, after any decision favorable to the city, on the ground that it could not afford to meet the city's requirements, then the courts, on injunction proceedings brought by the city, would be in position to probe the street railway finances, determine the real value of the properties and what would be a fair return on the money actually invested. this would bring out the immense net earnings of the system, absorbed in the charges on an inflated capital, and might lead to a complete reorganization of the companies, on a proper capitalization. the city appears to have just the opportunity needed to bring about the improvement of the whole transit situation, and the people of pittsburgh should see that the desired results are gained and that no false move is made. the rights of company and investor would be looked after by the courts, while the public might not only get the long needed improvements, but also see a surplus income from their fares available for a real rapid transit system. such an outcome would put the pittsburgh surface system on a sound basis, and the company might be the gainer in the end. the city has a further hold on the situation, in the fact that some of the most important franchises can be revoked for non-fulfillment of conditions. five, at least, of the ordinances provide that any failure to comply with any of the terms may, at the option of the city councils, be held to work a revocation of the privileges granted. the failure to pay the agreed car taxes, percentage of receipts, or rentals, and to pave and clean the streets properly makes it possible for the city to declare forfeited these franchises so vital to the company. the latter would then have to apply for new privileges and the city could dictate the terms. further, apart, from this possible right of forfeiture, the city is secure in its right to purchase some of these railways which have been in existence twenty years or more. by exercising this option, the city would not be committed to municipal operation any more than boston or new york, where upwards of fifty million dollars have been invested by those cities in rapid transit lines. pittsburgh would simply own the tracks and could lease them to the present company or another company, too, if competition were desirable, and make terms which would forever prevent neglect of the public interests. the cost of purchase should not be great, as it would be fixed by appraisers appointed by the courts. the physical property would not be very valuable after the franchises had been revoked, for the tracks are all in bad condition. after purchase, the city could maintain the tracks itself, laying modern rails, and keeping the pavement repaired and clean, the rentals paying the expense. it seems to be the consensus of opinion of eminent legal authorities that all grants of franchises for public utilities are made upon the implied condition that the corporation receiving them will properly perform its obligations by furnishing reasonable accommodations to the public; and that when a corporation has committed its property to a public use, the public has a right to require proper performance of such duties under penalty of forfeiture of the franchise. what has been said as to the city's expressly reserved powers on certain grants may be illustrated by a summary of two franchises. the consent of the city for the construction, maintenance and operation of the lines of the citizens' passenger railway company was given upon the following conditions, among other things: first, to pay into the city treasury "for each car run over its road," twenty dollars per annum, for the first five years; thirty dollars per annum for the second five years and forty dollars per annum for each year thereafter. second, to pay into the city treasury annually three per cent of the net profits of said company for the first five years, and five per cent of the net profits of said company for each year thereafter. third, to keep the streets over which the road passed in good repair from curb to curb. the ordinance further provided: first, that "any failure to comply with" these conditions should be held to work a revocation of the franchise. second, that the city should have the right at the end of twenty years, by giving the company one year's notice of its intention, to acquire the road and stock by paying for the same at a rate to be fixed by five disinterested appraisers. this term has elapsed. the franchise of the pittsburgh, oakland and east liberty railway company was conferred upon the following conditions, among others: first, the payment of an annual sum upon each car run on the road. second, the payment of an annual sum of $ for each year during the first five years, and $ annually thereafter, in lieu of a percentage of profits. third, that the company shall keep clean and in good repair from curb to curb that portion of the streets on which the road was constructed. the ordinance further provided: first, any failure to comply with any of its terms might, at the option of the city councils, be held to work the revocation of the privileges herein granted; and second, that at any time after the end of twenty years, the city shall have the right by giving one year's notice, to purchase the road at a price to be fixed by five disinterested appraisers, to be appointed by the president judge of the quarter sessions court of allegheny county. this term has elapsed. in considering the transit needs of the future, the first question to ask is, perhaps, does pittsburgh really need more rapid transit? for the immediate present, if the railway company were to bring the surface system up to modern standards as suggested, it would seem as though the existing lines might be satisfactory for some time to come. a number of other large american cities are getting along without fast service, such as st. louis, baltimore, cleveland, buffalo, san francisco, etc. a radial city, with all its disadvantages, does allow a short journey home, compared with a badly developed longitudinal city, like new york. and a considerable length of time can be spent daily in travelling without harm, if conditions are agreeable, as on many suburban lines. at the same time, the growth of pittsburgh needs to be directed according to the best public requirements, and not left to the traction company and real estate owners to work out as they see fit. some of the broad questions that need to be considered will be discussed later,--such as the relative location of houses to business and manufacturing; the extent to which walking should be provided for; the directions in which pittsburgh should grow. of the more specifically transit questions, the chief ones to settle are the routes of rapid transit lines; the type of construction; and the best way to get lines built and operated. the suggestion has been made in two quarters that a highly desirable change in the business district would be effected if the streets could be built up to a higher level, leaving the present streets either for pipes and wires, or for heavy and slow moving traffic. such an improvement would be of great benefit in case of the highest floods; but from a rapid transit standpoint, it would give little, if any, relief, because cars and vehicles would still be on the same level. if two traffic levels were maintained, there might have to be numerous inclines, which would be awkward with such narrow streets. still, pittsburgh may some time have to consider the problem of cross traffic at street junctions, and how best to abolish grade crossings of vehicles. chicago is trying freight tunnels; new york is considering them; london has planned bridges at congested points, the cost of a single one of which has been figured as high as $ , , . pittsburgh is fortunate in having so many railroad lines along the water fronts, which must reduce the trucking through the streets. the writer has previously advocated the running of more surface cars in the business district. not that more cars are desirable on the streets; they are simply a necessity, until at least a rapid transit line can be built, or double-deck cars be brought into use, with their great reduction in number. the ultimately desirable thing is to remove all cars from city streets which have become too congested for safety or speed. the best example of such removal is of course in boston, with tremont and boylston streets. london not long since opened a subway for surface cars under kingsway, the new avenue across the city from north to south, with no tracks on the street above. while as yet pittsburgh hardly needs for rapid transit purposes the removal of all surface cars downtown, still it would obviously be a great advantage in reducing accidents and giving vehicles more room. to thus relieve the streets has been one of the stated aims of the pittsburgh subway company. the plans of this company appear to provide for a subway system for surface cars, consisting of a downtown terminal loop a mile in circumference, under oliver avenue, liberty street, ferry street, third avenue, and grant street; a main tunnel to the east, passing in a straight line under herron hill to junction hollow; and two branch tunnels extending south from the main line to brady street and boquet street. the company has charters for several surface lines in the east end, to feed the subway and its branches. the main subway, sooner or later, would be continued east under center avenue and frankstown avenue to a portal at fifth avenue. a branch tunnel is also provided from the downtown loop, north under the allegheny river to the allegheny station of the pennsylvania lines. the subway would be built by private capital; it would pay the city a percentage of its gross receipts, and be open to the cars of other companies on reasonable terms. there would be four stations in the business district, but none beyond, except one at east liberty. the westbound cars would thus make no stops after leaving the surface, till they arrived downtown; and the longest run of five miles would be covered in ten minutes, at an average speed of thirty miles an hour. the object of the pittsburgh subway company is obviously to force the pittsburgh railways company to use the tunnels, under the fear of seeing a rival surface system grow up, with faster service, and superior downtown facilities. another aim is to divert traffic from the pennsylvania railroad, which does a large suburban business along its main line. the whole scheme as outlined is very attractive in many ways, and deserves careful consideration. perhaps the best way to test the value of the subway scheme is to take up every possible objection to it. one prominent feature of the project is the treatment of the business district as a thing which cannot be extended because of the hills to the east. so the cars would run from the downtown loop to east liberty without a stop. there has been much discussion in pittsburgh of spreading out the congested business district; and the fact that business has reached the court house, would suggest that the "hump" is not the insurmountable bar to growth that it has been supposed. it has been suggested that heavy property owners and large stores are likely to oppose strongly any improvement which would lessen their growing returns. on the other hand, it is conceivable that equally powerful interests may throw their influence in an opposite direction and a rapid transit line would afford exceptional opportunities for real estate investment and branch stores. fifth avenue or penn avenue, or both, would seem to be the proper places for such lines to the east. while a business zone along these streets would be narrow because of the hills, the speed of cars would make up for greater distances; and many people might live on the hills between these streets and walk to their work in this zone. a subway along a street might cost somewhat more than a tunnel; but pittsburgh can afford to have the thing well done. [illustration: proposed subway.] another feature of the subway system which seems to need consideration is the proposal to run surface cars in it. obviously, if all the pittsburgh railway cars could be put underground in the business district, it would be a great advantage, as far as the street surface is concerned. but of course this would not make it any easier to get on the cars, because the loading would be restricted to four stations, instead of being at every street corner. again, there would be about sixty car routes to be provided for, and cars an hour, without allowing for any increase of cars to furnish more seats. the routes and cars would have to be divided between two tracks, so that half the cars and routes would be on each track, viz., thirty routes and cars an hour. this traffic would obviously fill the subway at the outset, without any room for growth, unless double-deck cars were used. again, it is against the new lesson of rapid transit, learned at great cost in new york and berlin, that a rapid transit line should have no junctions and but one destination each way. the speed proposed for the cars from the east end is very high; for the running time of ten minutes from kelley street to downtown would require an average speed of thirty miles an hour, including the stop at east liberty and slowdowns for two junctions. to run at such a speed would require block signals and automatic safety stops, and would limit the number of cars to about sixty an hour. to use the subway to its full capacity, either trains must be run, or else the surface cars must be limited to the low speeds found in the mt. washington tunnel and the boston subway. in a paper before the engineers' society of western pennsylvania, the engineer of the subway company spoke of running trains and not surface cars in the subway, suggesting that in time all the steam railroad passengers from the east should be transferred to the subway at east liberty; all the passengers from the west alighting in allegheny and at mckees rocks, taking a subway built from the business district through allegheny and under the ohio river at mckees rocks. the loop in the business district would have two tracks, with all trains running in the same direction around the circle. this development of the subway, however, evidently belongs to the future, and the running of surface cars would appear more within the bounds of possibility. one of the most serious questions about the subway proposition is whether it would pay. the promoters answer that they are willing to take all the risk. but if pittsburgh really needs rapid transit, can the city afford to have it depend on any $ , , or $ , , experiment, and wait several years to know the results? a subway, to clear expenses, has been found to require from fifteen to twenty per cent annual income on the cost. the cost of subways in this country has ranged from $ , , to $ , , a mile. the new york subway cost about $ , , a mile equipped. to make a subway pay as far as east liberty, would require a minimum traffic in the heaviest rush hour one way of ten thousand passengers. it might take twice or three times this number, according to the cost and the volume of slack hour traffic. it seems a very grave question if a radiating city like pittsburgh can support such a subway as proposed, to say nothing of a system serving adequately all parts of the city. subways have usually turned out to be very poor investments, as many companies have learned to their cost, in london, liverpool, glasgow, berlin. the new york subway pays only for about half its length, a considerable part of the dividends coming out of the surplus obtained from the elevated roads. boston can afford subways, because they are mere short links in an extensive system. subways have other disadvantages which must be carefully considered. they might have been flooded downtown in march, . on account of the cost they can only serve a very limited territory. they are extremely noisy. in new york, they are almost unendurably hot in summer, and the air is filled with iron dust. they take long to build. they are dangerous in case of fire, eighty-seven lives being lost in the paris disaster. if deep, as in london, many people do not like to use them, even with elevators. the london underground roads are facing a very serious proposition, several already being in a receiver's hands. if shallow, they occupy or cramp the space needed for pipes, wires, and sewers, greatly disturbing the proper arrangement of underground necessities. they put passengers below ground in a place where the sun never shines, leaving to heavy traffic the light and air of the streets. their signal advantage, on the other hand, is that they remove the traffic altogether from the street, and do not shut out light and air from the street surface.[ ] [ ] since this report was drafted, two subway ordinances have been put before pittsburgh councils:-- a. one for the pittsburgh subway company for a franchise over the route already indicated, asking for a fifty year franchise without compensation to the city for the first ten years, and with payments of one, two, three and four per cent per year, respectively, on gross receipts during the decades following. the same parties who hold this charter, are now applying for a charter for the pittsburgh underground railway company. the two routes are identical. this charter is pending before the rapid transit board of the commonwealth. b. the other ordinance before councils provides for the construction of a municipal four-track subway for surface cars from seventh avenue and grant boulevard east to center avenue and craig street, to be built by the city subway company, a corporation of three trustees chosen by the city of pittsburgh. the city will pay the interest on bonds issued by the company, and the latter will turn over to the city such rentals as it can collect from the use of the subway, endeavoring to reimburse the city in the end for all money expended. it is stated in the proposed ordinance that this subway would be the beginning of a transit system, but who would operate the system is not specified. ordinary elevated roads are certainly not desirable in the business part of pittsburgh, because the streets are narrow, the buildings high; and there is still at times much smoke. there is already quite an amount of elevated freight structure, black and without ornament. it is perfectly true that an elevated road can be made practically noiseless, as notably in paris and berlin; and there has been no damage to property in these cities. the berlin structure is painted white and is an ornament to the city; but the streets are much wider there than in pittsburgh. the prospects for satisfactory rapid transit in pittsburgh do not appear very good, unless perhaps some form of suspended railway should meet with approval. a german type which has had eight years of practical operation at barmen and elberfeld, is now under consideration for berlin. whether it would suit pittsburgh is a question; but it has some very interesting advantages. it would cost only about a fifth of a subway's price; so that the same expenditure of money could serve five times the area,--a vital point with a radiating city. the cars could cross existing bridges, probably, without interfering with surface traffic. studies of routes, structure, and costs make the suspended appear a type of railway which could thoroughly compete with the pittsburgh railways company; and if competition is necessary, it must be of no uncertain kind. its cars could reach the heights about the city, without excessive grades, and open up new territory as a subway system could never afford to. if operated in co-operation with the existing company, it would allow a large reduction of surface cars in the business district as soon as opened, and the removal of all tracks when desired. on the eight mile line in germany, not a single passenger has been injured in eight years of operation. the suspended line, moreover, does not shut in the streets, as does the ordinary two track elevated structure. with double-deck cars as feeders, it seems to offer the cheapest, most convenient, and safest means of rapid transit. it would seem wise, if any rapid transit line is to be built in pittsburgh, for the city to construct and control it, as in new york, boston, and paris. the city would merely have to borrow the money, and could retain control of the road in a way to get adequate service. it might be desirable to put the operation into the hands of trustees, who would run the road at a minimum cost and with only a safe margin of profit, giving the public either the largest extension of rapid transit lines possible at a five cent fare, or else serving a smaller territory with a lower fare. the brooklyn bridge railway was operated by public trustees most successfully for a number of years, with a two and one-half cent fare. what part the steam railroads will play in the future development of pittsburgh depends on their own efforts. their suburban passengers would probably find a rapid transit system more convenient, because they could reach any part of the city quickly for five cents. a terminal for such passengers, more central than the union station, is one of the probabilities and would afford an artery of no mean significance, but still without the other advantages of a rapid transit line. the interurban business and that along the rivers could probably be best done by the steam roads, especially if they would run a frequent and cheap service of electric cars, as is done elsewhere. the electrification of all the steam lines about the city would be a great blessing, and the city should urge and encourage the matter in every way. till this is accomplished, much nuisance could be avoided by a shortening of the maximum length of freight trains, which could greatly reduce the noise and smoke, and, judging from the latest experience, might be more economical to the roads in the end. the whole steam railroad situation in pittsburgh, both freight and passenger, and the disposition of freight yards need further study, and especially in comparison with berlin where the main line has a five minute service at the slack hours, suburban branches a twenty minute service, and where the whole system is to be soon electrified at a cost of perhaps thirty-five million dollars. any plans for the future transit of pittsburgh should take into consideration, not only the present conditions and arrangement of the city, but also where the growth ought to be, where the healthiest sites for houses are, and other broad questions. transit, city planning, and housing, are all closely related; and it may be well in concluding to try to get a wider view of things. transit systems have grown up in modern cities because of the needs and desires of people for moving about more than they did a century ago. in the old days, when towns were small and the uses to which districts were put were not specialized as now, people could walk to their work, or else had space to keep a horse or two. as cities increased in size and compactness, the keeping of horses had to diminish, and distances grew, as well as the desires of people to go about more. public conveyances consequently came more and more into use; while the constantly improving facilities, notably electricity, increased the tendency to ride. it would appear that the rate of a city's growth in people depends on the amount of intercommunication, just as the intensity of some chemical processes depends on the extent to which the different elements come together. so transit is now regarded as a necessity, and one which cities are beginning to feel, whatever the basis of ownership and operation, is too vital to be exploited solely for the gain there is in it. passenger transportation obviously has to meet the following needs:--first, carrying people to and from work; second, carrying people about their business during working hours, including shopping; third, carrying people about on social, educational, and recreative objects. the best transit system for meeting these needs is obviously that which conquers space and time most equally for all inhabitants at the lowest cost in money, convenience, safety and health. of course people should not do unnecessary traveling,--walking, writing, and telephoning being desirable substitutes. in american cities the economy of walking has been too much lost sight of, chiefly in the matter of getting to and from work. the largest demand on transit systems to-day is to carry people to work and back; and yet, curiously, this ought perhaps to be the least important kind of travel. for centuries, until a very recent time, everybody walked to business, and the poorest classes as well as some of the wealthy do still. the reason why so many have to live at a distance from their work is not the mere growth of cities, but our universal disregard of scientific town planning as practiced notably in germany. we usually crowd most of our business into one center, and then have to ride a long way to get enough room for a single house. but congestion on transit lines is just awakening us to the fact that the common radial plan for a city is neither wholly necessary nor desirable. it would look now as though the ideal city is a longitudinal one, with factories on the leeward side, after the european plan as found in vienna and the new city of letchworth, england; houses on the windward side away from the smoke; and stores and offices between. the whole city is narrow enough to enable people to walk across town to and from work, their homes being opposite their place of work or business. one or more high speed longitudinal transit lines would make the length of the city no greater bar to travel than getting about our congested business districts which are so often without even adequate surface transit. the ideal of universal walking to work, were it possible, would obviously abolish the rush hour travel, the cause of so many of the worst features of american city transit. with existing, radial growing cities, it would seem best to try to replan on the longitudinal system as far as possible, modifying the ideal to fit topography and other present conditions. a rapid transit line is the best thing with which to begin the stretching out process in a city where no such facility already exists. by rigidly limiting the heights of buildings to the standards so successful in europe, and then in some way preserving belts of houses alongside the business district as it begins to stretch, congestion may at least be checked. of course it is impossible at this late day to provide many single houses within walking distance of a business district, though boston has notably done so for both rich and poor with its back bay, beacon hill, and the west and north ends. but the conditions of pittsburgh allow no simple alteration to fit the ideal plan. no single transit line can serve both sides of the ohio, or the four shores of the allegheny and monongahela rivers. again, the question should be considered very carefully whether people ought to live too near the manufactories, on account of the smoke and the noise; and therefore whether the walking principle ought not to be waived in such a manufacturing region, and all the workers be transported up on the bluffs or beyond, where the air is purer, where more land is available for single houses, and where they can have quiet, healthy homes, making more efficient workers. if the smoke were not still so abundant, the fast transit lines should best lie along the rivers, with a belt of houses on the heights above. but as conditions are, the most desirable locations for houses are away to the east, north, and south of the business district, and so perhaps these are the regions which should first be made more accessible to the heart of the city. the location of rapid transit lines in pittsburgh obviously needs most careful study. it does not seem enough to connect east liberty with the business district by a straight line, without serving the intervening territory. the situation needs the broadest study and outlook and the united judgment of the best minds in the city. a transit solution cannot be left to any interested company, but needs to be reached by considering the welfare of all the inhabitants, future as well as present. [illustration] the aldermen and their courts h. v. blaxter allen h. kerr, collaborator members of the allegheny county bar to fifty-nine aldermen is taken practically all the minor litigation of the four to five hundred thousand persons in pittsburgh. to them the law entrusts all the preliminary matters connected with criminal prosecutions. to the educated public these courts are little known, perhaps because the amounts involved in litigation are small,--never over $ ,--or because the proceedings are criminal in nature. but to the majority of pittsburgh's vast army of foreign born, the squire's office is the only contact with law or justice. it is here that the wage earner, the alien, the slav or the lithuanian, comes first in criminal matters; it is here that the ignorant and illiterate enter their civil suits. this is the court of the people, such as it is. viewed thus, the aldermanic system is lifted from insignificance to rank as a vital question of municipal government. an ancient english system supplied the model, which aimed to decide small cases quickly and with substantial justice. but, as the system works out in pittsburgh to-day, it for the most part achieves no such end and is a reproach to the community. for pittsburgh has been a city too busy for introspection. a crowded center echoing with the thunder of steel mills, vast industries giving employment to alien laborers, the insistent cry of "tonnage" and the absorbing demands of business, have offered little opportunity for social study or civic experiment. it is not that pittsburgh is derelict; her charities are many and generously supported, but pittsburgh is busy, very busy, and the public have not taken time to think. nowhere is this ignorance of home conditions more apparent than in the matter of the courts, and especially of the aldermanic courts which are to be considered here. before aldermen, informations or the formal charges of crime are made. warrants for arrest issue from their offices. hearings are held, the defendant is committed to jail, or bail is allowed. summary convictions may be had before them, so that not only property but personal liberty is subject to their decisions. what this means can readily be understood when it is known that in , , persons were incarcerated in allegheny county. to begin with, the whole aldermanic system is an anomaly in the growth of institutions. it is taken from the middle ages, only partly altered, cut, and fitted to modern conditions and a freer people. the origin of the office is obscured in antiquity. in gothic times they had conservators of the peace, whose duty was, as the name implies, that of keeping the public peace; and during the troublous times when queen isabel deposed her husband and put edward the third on the throne, the king, fearing a general uprising, sent out writs of peace to all the sheriffs, and parliament ordained that good men and true be assigned to keep the peace. at the foundation of the colony of pennsylvania, the office of justice of the peace was brought over from england, and became an integral part of our governmental institutions. under successive state constitutions the power of the aldermen and justices of the peace has been gradually enlarged, and their jurisdiction greatly widened. aldermen are elected for a term of five years. formerly their jurisdiction was limited to amounts under forty shillings, but gradually it has been increased to $ . in cases where the amount involved is less than $ . , the equivalent of the old forty shillings, there is no appeal from an alderman's decision. litigants for so small an amount are in most instances very poor, and a hardship is wrought when such cases are wrongly decided. another very radical disadvantage of this provision is that it permits the use of such tribunals for purposes of spite and oppression. a landlord recently refused to relet a tenement. an altercation followed which ended in the tenant's saying that he would get even at the squire's office. thereupon he entered suit for five dollars for an imaginary debt. at the hearing this debt was denied by the landlord. no proof was offered that it existed; nevertheless the justice promptly awarded a judgment for five dollars, and, the amount being less than the old forty shillings, the landlord had no choice but to pay. the very topography of pittsburgh has influenced the growth of aldermanic litigation. the business district is crowded into a small triangle, hemmed in by two rivers. in consequence the aldermen in the four wards comprising the business section get a tremendous clientele. furthermore the city has been redistricted and in the future there will be but twenty-seven aldermen, one for each of the new wards, instead of fifty-nine as heretofore. when it is known that some of the downtown aldermen make $ , a year from fees, under the present ward arrangement, an idea can be gathered of what will be the income of the aldermanship under the new districting which throws the heart of the business area, approximately the first four former wards, into one new ward. of course ward lines are important only in the election of aldermen, for once elected their jurisdiction properly exercised extends over the whole county. a case may be put in the hands of any alderman whom the plaintiff may desire. in appearance the average alderman's office is not prepossessing. a counter flanked by a railing, a few chairs, a safe and a number of dockets, compose the usual furniture. the floor is nearly always bare, generally dirty, while outside the appearance of the office is much that of any shop desiring customers. often an electric sign or gaudy lettering on the building, or other similar device is employed to make the location of the office conspicuous. with few exceptions, the offices are on the lower floors, usually opening like a store directly on the sidewalk. where the ward boundaries permit, they are put on the main thoroughfares, sometimes so close together as to be within sight of one another, which naturally results in the sharpest kind of competition. the more progressive aldermen indulge in advertising and it is a common sight to see blotters emblazoned with the name or the alderman, his address and telephone numbers, distributed among the downtown offices. yet these are state judicial offices presiding over subordinate courts! each alderman has a constable who is elected at the same time and in such ways as makes the office largely political in complexion. in many offices the alderman and the constable do all the work. but in the downtown offices there are usually in addition to the alderman, a docket clerk, a writ clerk, and perhaps two deputies. the constable is not only the major domo, but usually the business getter of the outfit. it is he who mingles with the people of the ward and steers litigation in the direction of his employer. all this is to his benefit, because, like the alderman, his income is derived from fees. such constables have often made as much as twenty dollars a day in the sections of the city settled by foreigners, but this is not the rule now, partly because the aliens are less ignorant and partly because of the influence of many national, fraternal and charitable organizations. however a conservative estimate of the income of the downtown constables at the present day would be $ , . the business of an alderman is to get customers, try cases, prepare informations, execute commitments and various other legal documents. in civil cases, it follows from the very organization and jurisdiction of aldermanic courts, and the fact that the litigant may choose his tribunal, that the aldermen are often called upon for legal advice and opinions even in advance of the actual litigation. each alderman knows that if he advises the complainant that he has no case another alderman will be consulted. if the latter advises suit the costs will go to him. as an alderman depends for his living on fees from litigation instituted in his court, it is not hard to find one who will tell you that you have a good case. not long ago a landlady and two boarders,--a man and his wife,--became involved in a teapot tempest, during the course of which the landlady pointed a revolver at her boarders. a squire was consulted, who advised an information for surety of the peace. the proceeding under an act of assembly for pointing firearms would perhaps have been proper, but there was clearly no case of surety of the peace. the case came up for hearing and after a long dissertation couched in legal verbiage the squire pronounced his judgment that the case be discharged and the costs divided. the plaintiff, who was represented by an attorney, immediately refused to pay and asked the squire what he was going to do about it (by act of assembly execution cannot issue for costs alone). the squire was nonplussed, and called in his constable. after a whispered consultation, he announced that he had reconsidered and that his final judgment was that the case be discharged and the costs put on the defendant. by this time the defendant had got her cue. she refused to pay, and asked the squire what he was going to do about it. another whispered consultation followed while the squire scratched his head in perplexity. another reconsidered judgment was given, this time that the case be discharged and the costs put on the county. not only do the aldermen give advice concerning prospective cases, but they solicit business and it is very common for them to hold themselves out as collecting agencies. some aldermen who make a specialty of such work have a printed form reading: claim against you for $________ has been put in my hands for collection. pay at once and save yourself costs. if the claim is paid without suit a percentage charge is made for the service; if the defendant ignores the notice the alderman will enter suit. in short, we have here the anomaly of a state judicial officer whose living depends on the business he can drum up, and who can be both counsel, judge and prosecutor. from this it results that when a case is brought in an alderman's court, the alderman, the judge, considers himself in the employ of the plaintiff. at a recent hearing before an alderman, who is without exception one of the most upright and efficient in the city, the evidence of the plaintiff was very uncertain while that of the defendant was clear and convincing. the squire "reserved judgment," which means that he did not wish to give his decision in the presence of both parties. the case had been conducted by an attorney who controlled considerable aldermanic business, and this attorney not long after reaching his office was called to the telephone by the alderman who said in substance: "now look here mr.----, if you think you ought to get that money in that case of yours i will pay it myself, but i really cannot find for the plaintiff because i honestly think the defendant has a good defense." only an incident, but what a flood of light it throws on the attitude of the alderman toward the plaintiff. few cases are decided otherwise than in favor of the plaintiff. exactly what proportion can never be known, because our courts have decided that the dockets of aldermen are private records and not open to inspection by the public. one judge on the common pleas bench, a man who has wide experience in such matters, when asked if he thought that as much as one per cent of the cases are decided other than in favor of the plaintiff, replied, "no, not nearly." as a matter of fact judgment is so universally given for the plaintiff that a defendant who has had any previous experience, does not take the trouble to appear at the hearing, but if he desires to contest the matter, takes an appeal from the alderman's decision. it is a wise requirement of law that a plaintiff must make out his case affirmatively, proving all the matters essential to constitute liability on the part of the defendant. it is a matter of common knowledge, however, that aldermen give judgment on evidence of the most meager kind. a copy of a bill, its correctness unsworn to, left with the alderman is a common way of obtaining judgment for goods sold and delivered. suits may be entered before more than one alderman, and in such cases although but one execution may issue, a defendant can be harried by threats and a multiplicity of summonses. in such cases, aldermen and their constables although legally without power, may when in league with unscrupulous creditors, be the cause of the greatest injustice. cases have been known where constables, although knowing that a levy could not be made, would, nevertheless, frequently visit the house of the defendant, post notices of sale, demand admittance in the middle of the night, and in many other petty ways harass the defendant in the hope of forcing the payment of their costs. it is well known that much hardship is done in pittsburgh through the instrumentality of what are known as "loan sharks," who lend small amounts at usurious rates of interest, taking as security assignments of future wages, bills of sale of household furniture, and other personal belongings. the defendants in such cases, although they are protected by law, are usually poor and ignorant, have little knowledge of legal procedure and fall an easy prey to the threats of such unscrupulous creditors. it can readily be understood how much such usurers are assisted by unscrupulous aldermen and constables. primary in importance to the alderman is the problem of getting his costs. not long ago a well-to-do man residing in the residential section bought some cider from a huckster and ordered some apples. the cider was left in the barrel and the apples were to be brought the following day. when they came they were refused because of their poor quality. the huckster in a rage demanded the barrel in which he had left the cider, although both the apples and the cider had been paid for. he was told he could have it in a day or two, as soon as it could be emptied. he left to seek the advice of a squire who advised him to make an information for larceny by bailee (the technical term meaning larceny of goods temporarily in one's possession). he did so and a warrant was issued for the defendant's arrest. he was arrested and appeared at the alderman's office with bondsmen. bail was refused by the alderman on one pretext and another and the defendant was told that if he would pay the costs the alderman would see to it that the whole matter was dropped. before the hearing the squire had gone to the defendant's business office and told him that if he would pay the costs the matter could be fixed. needless to say, rather than spend a night in jail while new bail was being secured, the victim paid the costs, preferring to be mulcted a few dollars than to incur the notoriety and annoyance of carrying the matter to a higher court. under such manipulation it is not difficult to see how large a volume of litigation may be instituted in the aldermanic courts. of course this case is exceptional and there are many aldermen who never seek business or advise frivolous litigation, but even without it the volume of business is incredibly large. some of the downtown aldermen have had as many as civil cases brought in their courts in a month. of course if there is any real controversy involved the case is appealed, but in practically all the cases the costs are paid either on appeal or by execution, the law making costs a first lien on the fund realized. a compilation of the costs paid in three hundred cases shows the average costs in each case to be $ . . formerly these costs had to be paid before the appeal could be taken, but by a late act an appeal can be taken without payment of the costs, if satisfactory bail be given for debt, interest and costs. however, the act works little benefit, because the alderman is the judge of the sufficiency of the bail and has it in his power to reject bondsmen until it is quicker and easier to pay the costs than bother over the allowance of bail. so that, as a matter of fact, the costs are always paid on appeal. taking the downtown aldermen's offices where the cases sometimes number in a month, the income from fees would be about $ , a month, which after allowance for fixed charges would leave a monthly profit to these downtown aldermen of about $ , in civil suits alone.[ ] [ ] the costs reckoned above are without execution, which when issued would swell the costs by a couple of dollars, making an average of probably six dollars. to these fees, to form some estimate of the income derived from some alderman-ships, should be added the costs paid in criminal cases which an average of one hundred cases taken at random from the criminal docket of a prominent downtown alderman show to be $ . in each case. in criminal cases, if the defendant is discharged the alderman's costs are paid by the county. this procedure further adds to the revenue of the office. in the county paid to the various aldermen and justices of the peace the sum of $ , . for costs in such discharged criminal cases, and to sundry officers in such cases $ , . , or a total of $ , . . to one alderman alone, having an office in a downtown section largely settled by negroes and the poorer classes, $ , . was paid in by the county as costs in such discharged criminal cases brought in his office. for miscellaneous work, criminal and otherwise, fees are paid in accordance with a schedule set by a recent act of assembly, that of . some of the main items are given below. aldermen's fees. for information or complaint on behalf of the commonwealth $. docket entry on behalf of the commonwealth . warrant . hearing in criminal cases . taking bail in criminal cases . entering judgment . discharge of jailer . hearing parties . holding inquisition under landlord and tenant act . entering action in civil case . summons . entering satisfaction . written notice in any case . execution . transcript of judgment . return of proceedings on certiorari . receiving the amount of judgment: if not over $ . $ to $ . $ to $ . $ to $ . assignment and making record indenture . marrying each couple and certificates . constables fees. executing warrant $ . conveying defendants to jail . for executing bail piece . executing search warrants . for serving subpoena . for arresting on a capias . for notifying plaintiff where defendant has been arrested . for advertising sale of goods . for holding appraisement where exemption is claimed . for attending election . for travelling expenses in the performance of any duty required by law, for each mile travelled . it is evident that the office is lucrative, and lucrative just in proportion to the ability of the alderman to get customers. the anomaly extends to every branch of the office,--a state judicial officer with an income depending on the volume of the litigation instituted in his office. it was a wise provision of the legislature that permitted appeals by right, rather than by allowance, providing the amount involved is over $ . . practically all cases therefore involving any real controversy are appealed. a defendant is given twenty days in which to take his appeal. the procedure is simple, a transcript or copy of the alderman's record is obtained, the costs paid or bail given for debt, interest and costs, and the transcript then filed in the higher court where the case is begun over again just as if it had not been already tried. as the discretion of the alderman in allowance of bail is a factor, the costs are generally paid at the time the appeal is taken. in any case, they must be paid then or when the appeal is disposed of. if they are not paid at the time the appeal is taken, when the case is disposed of in the higher court, the alderman's costs are kept out of the amount realized and may be demanded by the alderman, his transcript being the evidence from which the higher court determines what disposition has been made of the costs. cases have come to the writer's attention where although the costs were paid at the time of taking the appeal yet the alderman's transcript has been endorsed, "costs not paid by defendant." if such a transcript were filed without the detection of the error, upon final disposition of the case the alderman would be in a position to demand his costs a second time from the prothonotary of the higher court and receive double pay. remembering that every case appealed from an alderman is retried, with costs to be paid over again, it is interesting to consider how much time is occupied by the common pleas courts in such review work. in allegheny there are four common pleas courts. as the courts are separate and independent, litigation may be commenced in any one of them. so great has been the litigation in recent years that all these courts are far behind in their work, two being at least four years behind, the others at least two. taking at random a term,--three months' business,--in one of the courts which is four years behind, we find , docket entries. it would be safe to say that about , entries would represent new suits, which should in due course result in jury trials. of these were cases appealed from aldermen, _i. e._ work already done and paid for, to be done over again. in these cases counting the costs actually paid we have a total of $ , . , and this in one term of one court. there are four terms to each court and four courts. the time occupied in retrying appeals from aldermen can be appreciated. in it was estimated that one-fourth of the work of the common pleas courts consisted of the re-trial of such appeals with an aggregate of about $ , paid for costs in such cases prior to their determination in the common pleas courts. from the figures previously given it appears that the proportion is about the same now although the increase in the volume of litigation has swelled the costs to about $ , . taking four consecutive terms, one at each court, we find alderman's appeals in the two courts which are four years behind, and alderman's appeals in the two courts which are two years behind. by law an affidavit is required with each appeal that it is not taken for delay, but the above figures indicate that this oath is disregarded. so much for civil matters, where only money and time are involved. it is the criminal side of the alderman's court where liberty is involved, that arouses greatest sympathy. summary convictions, or proceedings under special statutes where the aldermen can impose a fine and commit to jail on default, and proceedings for the determination of the existence of the essentials of a crime, comprise the criminal jurisdiction of an alderman just as it stood in the reign of edward iii in the fourteenth century. criminal proceedings generally are instituted by a warrant of arrest issuing upon a complaint under oath,--an information. from this information made before the alderman a warrant issues on which the accused is taken into custody. a hearing must then promptly be held; and the alderman decides whether there is sufficient evidence to hold the defendant for court; if so the prisoner is held for bail if the offense is bailable, or committed to jail in default. the alderman must then within five days return a transcript of this proceeding to a clerk of the court of quarter sessions, this court being the criminal court of the county. considerable hardship may be done by the failure of the alderman to return his record within the five days required by law; cases have been known where through neglect prisoners have been kept in jail a month before the matter has been brought to the attention of the district attorney's office and the alderman made to produce his papers. it will thus be seen that although the alderman acts in this respect only as a committing magistrate, yet on his decision rests whether the prisoner be committed to jail; for although the offense may be bailable the question of bail in the case of poor people is very material. the writer has known cases where bail has been set at $ , on an information for assault and battery. the power to arrest is a very important one which under any circumstances should be exercised only with sound discretion. one constable in pittsburgh arrested a foreigner at night. having no warrant he took him to an alderman's office, where he found the alderman out, and pretentiously used the telephone to locate him, with no results. then substantially the following conversation took place: "now ---- you, i will be the squire myself," taking his place behind the railing. "how much money have you?" the prisoner was found to have a few dollars on his person. "well you are fined $---- (the exact amount the prisoner had with him) and discharged. now get out." the fine was pocketed and the prisoner permitted to go. it is probable that the constable was drunk, but the abuse is only the more apparent. in another case an educated german was studying manufacturing methods and spent much time in the neighborhood of the steel mills. one evening he saw an alderman's constable, whom he knew by sight, on a street car handcuffed to a prisoner. with teutonic curiosity he asked the details of the case. the constable, who was under the influence of liquor, beckoned the german over to him and deftly handcuffed him also. the german, of course, thought the affair a little joke. he was, however, taken to jail, but refused by the warden, because there was no warrant for his confinement. the constable then took the prisoner outside, and when they reached diamond street asked him how much money he had. the german really had $ or $ on his person, but replied that he had only a few dollars, producing some bills and small change. the constable told him he would release him for $ . . this the german paid and got his liberty. the latter was leaving the city the next day and, as he was a steel expert representing a foreign government, could not possibly remain to prosecute the constable. it is not likely that such abuses are common, but their existence indicates the possibilities of abuse of a system which provides for no form of supervision. there are costs connected with all these criminal matters. these costs the defendant if guilty is supposed to pay. but the fact that an alderman entertains a frivolous information does not prevent his being paid for his work. if the case is discharged the county pays. if the prisoner is committed and the case ignored by the grand jury the county pays. the percentage of bills ignored by the grand jury is sometimes as high as seventy-two per cent. this means that seventy-two per cent of persons brought before the alderman have either been put in jail or held for bail on evidence not sufficient for the basing of an indictment. in all such cases the aldermen are secured in their costs, and as we have seen in the costs returned in such discharged criminal cases to the various aldermen and justices of the peace and sundry officers amounted to $ , . . taking the year , we find that for the support of the criminal court the county was put to a net expense of about $ , . by law aldermen must pay over to the county all or sometimes a proportion of fines collected depending on the special act of assembly. these fines are supposed to be voluntarily accounted for, and up to very recently very little attempt was made to test the accuracy of such returns. in , however, the county controller inaugurated a system of auditing the criminal dockets of aldermen for the better ascertainment of the county's share of such fines. the returns that year increased seventy-five per cent and have been increasing steadily ever since, although in the total amount returned to the controller in such cases was but $ , . . in brief the whole aldermanic system is defective. at the threshold we find an office the income of which is derived from fees, depending upon the volume of business. plaintiffs are customers, the more the merrier. impartiality is impossible, and decision on merits almost unheard of. the fee system, which causes the injustice and corruption, has come down to us from colonial times, a relic of the days when the public purse was too lean to permit paying salaries to minor judicial officers. from a wise public economy this fee system has become, with the growth of the country, a source both of injustice and of extreme expense to the public at large. it should have been abandoned long ago, but through the indifference of the public and the political influence of the aldermen it remains and flourishes. the second radical defect of the aldermanic system is that the office is mixed with politics. an effort was made a few years ago to abolish the aldermanic courts, and it is a matter of history how sudden a death the movement met at the state capital. one of the judges of the county bench in discussing the matter recently expressed the opinion that no act of assembly could be passed to remedy the situation, because of the political influence of the aldermen. it has been the boast of this country that the judiciary is not swayed by politics, but here in the subordinate courts we have a branch of the judiciary so steeped in politics that the squire's office as a campaign center and a place of political organizing rivals the saloon. third, we have the almost ludicrous case of judicial officers who with noteworthy exceptions are not learned in the law, are sometimes uncouth, generally ignorant, and have made their mistakes, not only in law, but in grammar, a source of constant lampooning. these are proverbial. the grave decisions of the higher courts that aldermen are state judicial officers presiding over judicial courts has a flavor of irony. fourth, the geographical distribution of these courts, and their concurrent jurisdiction, permit plaintiffs by taking their cases to the outlying wards to use aldermanic courts for purposes of annoyance and spite, permit competition among the aldermen, and result in a general demoralization. we are driven to three conclusions: that the aldermanic system as found in pittsburgh is always extravagant, that it is generally inefficient, that it is often corrupt. were the minor litigation handled by an efficient tribunal, not only would respect for law among the masses be restored, but the county courts would be relieved of a considerable portion of their work, and thus be enabled to clear their crowded calendars. this would remedy at one stroke an abuse, and solve a problem which occupies the attention of the whole bench and bar. pittsburgh is not alone in this problem. conditions in chicago a few years ago were similar. their justice of the peace system had outgrown its justification, had become corrupt and woefully inefficient. nothing had been done because of the political power of the justices and the necessity of an amendment of the state constitution. but the people took up the problem in a way that brought something about. the state constitution was amended, a municipal court organized, and as a result chicago, in an incredibly short time, got rid of most of the evils of the old system. the chicago solution was a municipal court of a distinctive type. a chief justice and twenty-seven associate judges with salaries, preside over a court having branches in the chief centers of the city. the court in its first six months disposed of , cases, of which but ninety-two were carried to the state appellant court. the pittsburgh problem is that of creating a system along lines which would serve pittsburgh as well or better, and which would link efficiency with expedition, impartiality and economy,--a system which would obtain immediate justice for the poor and the uninformed, and would remedy the overworked condition of the county courts. such a system would save the public thousands of dollars a year. the charities of pittsburgh francis h. mclean secretary field department for organized charity, charities publication committee the city of pittsburgh at the time of this survey possessed six private relief societies which dealt with more than , families a year each; three which dealt with between and , families, and a department of charities whose cases numbered over , . in addition, relief was given to a number of individuals by some of the settlements, by the probation officers, and by private groups. the number relieved or the amount of material relief were not ascertained and could not be in less than from one to three years. it has developed also that other associations, whose original purposes were of a different character, some purely educational, have had smaller or larger funds to use for relief. in the summer of requests for information were sent to churches. of these sixty-one replied and of this number sixty reported that they gave relief. the more one went into this investigation, the more one appreciated the impossibility of concretely recording the number of organizations dealing in material relief. without in the least attempting to theorize, but drawing the obvious conclusion, it may be said that pittsburgh's primary charitable impulses to give to the poor were being disintegrated because there was no sufficient relation between the groups and no feeling of joint responsibility. in presenting a rough picture of the whole charitable field in pittsburgh it is doubtless necessary to remind those who read this that, if the survey had been undertaken in another city, conditions similar in many respects would have been found. though in certain directions better co-ordination would be found, and in certain other directions developments which are not here present, the fact remains that in all our cities charitable societies simply "grew." taken in the large there are gaping rents and holes, discordant colors and bad cloth in the fabric of each city's garment. without the repression of a single individual impulse of the right sort, the writer seriously questions whether eventually we shall not have to apply the rigorous precepts of town planning to the work of proper co-ordination and systematization of charities. coming to medical care and nursing, the city on october , , had fourteen general and seven special hospitals, including two supported by the city for contagious diseases. fourteen of these reported a total property valuation of $ , , ; nineteen a bed capacity of , . thirteen reported their number of free patients for the previous fiscal year as , , the cost of maintenance of these free patients as $ , . the capacity will soon be increased. twelve of the above hospitals maintained dispensaries. in addition there were three dispensaries independent of hospital management. one of the three reported patients to the number of , for one year, another , , the third, a state dispensary for tubercular patients, at the time of the survey, had not completed a year's work. a valuation of the property could not be obtained. not included above is the tuberculosis camp maintained by the department of charities at the county institutions at marshalsea. nine agencies provided nurses to visit the homes of the poor. of these three were distinct organizations, one only being chartered; two were carried by settlement house associations, two as departments of church work, one by a religious order, and one by a school alumnæ association. so far as observations go the specialized work itself was well done. yet the nursing associations may be specifically accused of such failure of co-ordination that the nurses were constantly crossing one another's tracks, visiting the same families, instead of having worked out, jointly, a district plan. the welfare of children is of course involved in the agencies named above. in addition there are no less than forty and possibly more institutions for their care. for the especial oversight of children within family circle influences, there is the juvenile court association, two playground associations, and the children's aid society of allegheny county. these, and other agencies are described in the special article on children. for the joint care of mothers and children there are six fresh air homes and six day nurseries. there are ten institutions to provide temporary shelter, principally, for both men and women. the general intention of these agencies is to set upon their feet people who are without immediate home ties and so return them to normal conditions. coming to the aged where the fair chance may consist simply in providing suitable institutional care, we find for them no less than eight homes, exclusive of the care provided in the city institutions of pittsburgh located at marshalsea and claremont (formerly a part of the municipality of allegheny). six rescue homes for unfortunate women next come into the field of observation. outside of the necessary care provided by public moneys, there would seem to be very little private provision for the care of defectives, there being for this class only one institution, a home for epileptics. a public wash and bath association, as well as a widows' home association, provide other forms of self-help to women particularly. the former furnishes women with tubs and driers to use for the washes which produce income. the latter lets nineteen houses with a total of rooms at a small rental to the families of widows with limited means, thus providing pleasant sanitary quarters in a good neighborhood. it is significant of the confusion prevailing that even this last association has developed special relief funds of its own. a legal aid society has lately been organized. to this point we have been enumerating associations which, while possessing social purposes, have embodied in their fundamental aims some form of direct relief, material or otherwise, to the individual. there are other agencies purely for social reform which should be cataloged. these associations are primarily concerned with certain forms of so-called preventive philanthropy. the civic club, the chamber of commerce, the six settlements, the tuberculosis league, the child labor association, have all dealt with specific social problems, to say nothing of the endeavors of the health bureau in fighting improper drainage, bad housing and preventable disease and of the city administration in struggling for a better water supply and the diminution of typhoid fever. while both the child agencies and the social reform agencies last cataloged find their proper positions in other lines of the survey, it is necessary that they be included in this bird's eye view of the whole charity organism. drawing closer now to the organism from our bird's eye view, we observe four plainly marked divisions. the classification here made is not one which appears in any directory of charities but it is one which is peculiarly adapted to a survey of a field. a different analysis would be required for other kinds of study. we find then four lines of activity: ( ) treatment of families in their homes, ( ) neighborhood aid, ( ) indoor relief, ( ) social aid. by ( ) we refer not only to material relief but also to all other forms of aid, medical, legal, advisory, in fact to any dealing with individual families in their homes, whether the treatment be mental, moral, physical or environmental. it is with this group that this study deals. by ( ) we refer to the satisfaction of the needs of neighborhoods rather than of individuals: to the general activities of settlements, of bath houses, etc., so far as those activities are not manifested in direct civic and social reforms. of course ( ) refers to all forms of institutional care, temporary or permanent,--for children or adults. number ( ) refers to all agencies or activities for civic or social reform. the last three groups are considered in detail by other contributors to the work of the general survey. in pittsburgh as in other cities the philosophy of individualized charity still holds strongly its position. individualized charity as against social charity involves the idea that what one does concerns only the doer and the "done to." that necessarily associated with charity is the function of umpire and director has occurred only to the larger societies. in the three last fields of our classification everything tends towards organization of a public character. the very end to be obtained, whether it be to provide hospital care, baths or child labor legislation, requires the co-operation of many people and with co-operation and the more or less resultant publicity the organizers must inevitably sense some sort of public responsibility. in the treatment of families in their homes, however, no such fundamental need of publicity exists. therefore it is that many people, having perceived human suffering, without thought of the importance of co-relation, of adequate knowledge, or of umpiring, took the easy means of giving money and food and clothing without recognition of anything beyond. thus, possibly hundreds of individuals and groups are serving simply as distributors of material things. it is true that one of the relief associations maintained a registration system by which people might learn what others were doing for a family, but the information was concerned mostly with the giving or withholding of material relief. more than that, it can scarcely be said that this registration system was sufficiently advertised or advertised with sufficient continuity. even in communities where a charity organization society continuously advertises its registration system, there is still revealed a wide crudeness of thought which is crippling to any sort of decent social progress. in the city where the confidential exchange of information between societies has been best developed it is a fact that scarcely more than a score of churches register regularly. by not doing so the churches everywhere have put themselves in the wrong, they have not recognized the very sacred and high social function which is involved and which so vitally concerns the social welfare. for it will be observed that there is nothing in the recognition of the high social function which favors the centralization of relief work of any sort. it means only that there shall be a working out together of the family problems and an estimation of the remedies to be applied. both with the smaller groups and with the larger societies the lack of co-operation has resulted in rather confused umpiring and in the application of wrong remedies. for instance it has been revealed that able-bodied men, with families, have been aided through the public charities department. what they needed and should have had was the careful attention of some private society which would bend every energy to provide work for them. whatever conditions were responsible for the unemployment of these men (at a time when there was no particular industrial depression) there was only one way of treating them so that their own sense of initiative would not be lost. that was through one of the several private agencies to provide absolutely necessary amounts of relief to each man while pushing him into work. but with certain striking exceptions each one of the agencies was working along irrespective of the activities of others. few societies felt that to be brought in touch with a family should mean the acceptance of the responsibility for furnishing or securing the total necessary amount of relief, material or otherwise, which might be required. as a field investigator has written: previous to the organization of the associated charities in february, , no center of information existed, and there was practically no attempt at co-operation among the different relief agencies. indeed, it was tacitly understood, if not openly expressed, that families applying for aid to any agency would go to others. one city official expressed the feeling when he said, "of course, they go to other societies; we don't give them enough to live on." the shape of the city made communication between the different districts often very difficult in the days before the telephone, and habits formed then are not wholly outlived. the main thoroughfares follow the general direction of the two rivers. these become widely separated by high hills as they extend back from the business district on the "point," and often one must either go a long way round or climb over to get from one section to another. it was very easy for a family to have its rent paid by a church, to get groceries from the city charities, to secure a nurse if needed, besides miscellaneous aid from one or more societies and charitably inclined individuals without any one of these organizations or persons knowing that another was helping. from may , , to september , , the associated charities investigated families. of these thirty were "out-of-town" cases and twelve were false addresses, leaving cases tabulated for comparison. the following shows the number of these cases duplicated by different societies and is probably a fair sample of the overlapping constantly going on: no. of cases helped by societies no. of cases helped by societies no. of cases helped by societies no. of cases helped by societies no. of cases helped by societies no. of cases helped by societies no. of cases helped by societies -- total a more thorough investigation than was possible with the limited number of workers would have shown that many of these cases were also receiving aid from one or more churches or individuals. it should be remembered that this comparatively small list of duplication, only covers the cases where actual investigations were made by the society itself and not the many duplications revealed in the registering of from , to , cases. the reason why no tabulations were made of these was that, owing to the incomplete registration, the returns could represent but a very incomplete set of facts much less than in the case of the families actually seen. duplication of relief without thorough investigations, it need hardly be said, may mean one of two things. it may mean in one instance the dowering of a family which needs something else than financial aid, or it may mean, in another, the inadequate dowering which compels an otherwise decent family to beg from different quarters, thus inculcating the begging habit. it is not an unjustifiable theory to advance that it probably meant the one just as often as it meant the other in the pittsburgh field because there had not been, previous to the coming of the associated charities, those frank and informal conferences between workers in the different societies, which alone can bring about that joint planning for the same families which is not only economic but just and not only just, but humane. every charity organization society in the country can match these stories of the evils resulting from the lack of a feeling of complete responsibility, which means inevitably unfair umpiring and often no direction at all. for how can there be direction when not all that is being done is known, and when the manner and the character of the remedies are held secret. the associated charities workers do not claim that with their presence the uncooperative effects disappear as at the touch of a wand, but that means to bring about complete and, if need be, joint responsibility for doing the right and complete thing for each family is furnished through their offices as meeting places and neutral ground. the great weakness in the treatment of families in their homes, other than in medical and nursing care, is in the lack of thorough knowledge regarding the individual causes of conditions, the individual characteristics and connections and resources (other than material) of families, and a planning upon this knowledge. there is no need to draw illustrations from the pittsburgh field because they can be drawn from every city, even where a greater degree of co-operation has been developed. there is the instance of the aged mother, once a successful boarding house keeper, assisted by a society to re-establish herself in this business though her increasing infirmities doomed the project to failure. this failure brought not only the mother but her widowed daughter (herself in poor health) and two children into the direst of situations. then it was found that the money had actually been thrown away because a certain well-to-do-relative in another city had not been followed up. the clue which led in his direction had been covered up during a hurried investigation. when he was informed through correspondence of the situation he immediately made provision for the mother in his own home and for the temporary care of the others until the daughter recovered her health. there is the instance of a man and wife, the man apparently recovering from tuberculosis. no careful physical examination was made either of the husband or wife. various attempts at finding employment for the husband were made but he began to fail. then suddenly the wife's condition became alarming and it was discovered that she was in a more advanced stage of the disease than her husband. meantime the couple had not been assisted in tracing the whereabouts of the husband's parents, supposed to be well-to-do. in the end, fortunately, the couple themselves received word from the parents who were in california prepared to receive the family (which included three young children) and to provide care for the sufferers and if the worst came to give a home to the children. there are the many instances, where material relief has been given to sickly families and the improper sanitation of the neighborhood or the imperfect disinfection of the houses, the causes of the conditions, have not been investigated and rectified. there are the instances where a family, left as the result of an industrial accident without its male bread winner, has not had the kind of assistance which would enable it to secure the proper settlement with the particular industrial plant in which the death occurred. there are the instances where the wayward boy has not been given the specialized training which might have turned him into an interested workman with a constantly increasing salary. there are the instances where widows have been allowed to carry too heavy burdens and where, unknowingly, children have been put illegally to work, through holes in the laws which should be blocked up. there are instances where with the failure to see the male bread winners the whole moral and physical condition of the families has rotted because shiftlessness and intemperance have been allowed to run riot. there are the instances where endless evil has developed when the most hardened of beggars, because of their very vociferousness, have been permitted to set an example of easy living to the honest and toiling people in a whole community. there are the instances where material relief has not been followed by agencies for the development of a better family life: better cooking, better home keeping, a larger fund of recreation, more harmony, better individual development, more thrift. in other words, such a development that there need not again be descent below normal living. in pittsburgh as elsewhere there has been too much reliance upon visits to the families and upon a superficial sizing up of conditions. as a result there has been too little development of treatment beyond the mere giving or withholding of material relief and of medical and nursing relief. notable exceptions there are, but on the whole it can but be said that material relief alone, and that in many instances by no means adequate, has bulked too large. the same must be said of outdoor relief everywhere. to-day it requires as much attention for its right development as any other field of social effort. it cannot be said that the outdoor relief agencies of pittsburgh have been as effective as educators of the community and directors of its charitable impulses as they would have been with proper co-operation. on their own initiative they are now putting an amount of effort, and brains, and heart into the work of co-operation which assures far more definite results when the new order has established itself. for instance, it would have been possible, with proper co-ordination, for the relief agencies to gather a vast mass of data regarding dependency wrought or deepened by two social evils to which pittsburgh is prone, the prevalence of typhoid fever and the number of uncompensated industrial accidents. it was not possible for those engaged in this survey to obtain any satisfactory data as to the approximate number of applications for aid, due, superficially at least, to these two causes. they have also been unable to obtain reliably complete data regarding the prevalence of tuberculosis in the families to which a helping hand has been extended. nor could data regarding centers of infection and probable inciting causes of this disease be obtained. it was not possible to ascertain in how many instances physically weakened young men and women could trace as one of the causes of their condition, too early labor for wages. it was not possible to learn in how many families the mental backwardness of the children could be traced to physical condition. nor, it must again be re-emphasized, do the relief agencies of other cities live up to their responsibilities in this direction. there have been many cities visited by the writer where long established charities, with fairly complete records and with a covering of practically the whole field, have not held in compact shape the illustrations to furnish the background which might cause people to hearken more quickly than anything else. a society, which among other activities, maintained a tuberculosis committee, was unable even to state the number of families, with whom it had come in contact, in which cases of tuberculosis had been discovered. another city, where there was tolerably good co-operation, and where there had been considerable interest manifested in the housing problem, could not tell from its records, just where in certain specified neighborhoods the most unsanitary houses were located. the writer in this case felt personally responsible so that his position as critic must not be misunderstood. to put it plainly the survey has only revealed again that in the whole field of outdoor relief there must be a deeper realization of the fact that as umpires in the discrimination of causes, as workers in the right forms of treatment, and as educators in revealing true conditions, there is a very heavy responsibility which all who in any way deal with the dependent or neglected in their homes, must feel. it is because their work brings them into the homes that the responsibility is the greater. credit is due to the devoted services of many of the workers in pittsburgh for their own self-sacrifices in order to do satisfactory work. they themselves felt the limitations which the environment of isolation had brought about and they had determined effectively to break the isolation. they alone know the amount of thoroughly good work which has been done in the past. nor must it be forgotten that during those days of isolation the association for the improvement of the poor steadily maintained a registration system which was used by not a few societies. illustrations of thoroughly adequate treatment along the lines of material and other relief may be found in this association as well as of others. the idea of co-operation and adequate treatment was there but it required development through united action. still considering particularly those agencies brought into the families of the poor because of material needs, we can get a much clearer picture of the actual policies involved in their work by an examination of their methods. a description of the modes of procedure of the more important societies will therefore find its place here: city department of charities: relief in the homes is given in groceries, coal and shoes. the method of distribution varies slightly in the two offices: in pittsburgh baskets containing flour, ham, potatoes, coffee, sugar and soap, valued at two dollars retail price, but costing the department less are given once in two weeks, while on the north side orders are given on local dealers for the same amount, two dollars. applicants come to the offices for baskets and stand in line to secure them; among them children were noticed daily. all the cases are supposed to be investigated by a visitor, and the findings reported to the examiner, who decides whether relief shall be given or not. no systematic re-investigation is made and a case continues to receive aid indefinitely although as many cases as possible are dropped at the end of the year. society : material relief is given in practically the same way as by the city charities, though the amounts are not so uniformly fixed. with exceptions the work however deals largely with the basic needs of families. special attention is given to some tuberculosis cases. there is investigation by field workers. society : only general information possible. average of expenditure to each applicant was a little less than two dollars. instances were cited of payment of tuition, pensions, etc., and in one case of the purchasing of a tent and necessary equipment to enable a young man with tuberculosis to live in the fresh air. volunteer investigators. society : this organization's work included the distribution of bushels of coal, meals, free lodging, baskets of provisions, bowls of soup, garments and shoes, blankets, hospital and medical care, transportation secured, families moved, rent secured and paid, gas bills paid, thanksgiving and christmas baskets. society : another important society confines its work largely though not entirely to the giving of baskets of groceries and clothing. its reports also show expenditures for tuition and board of orphans, burial expenses, etc. the report for the year showed the number of families aided to be , and the amount of money spent $ , . volunteer investigators. society : baskets of groceries, value fifty cents each, are given each week and one load (twenty-five bushels) of coal each month. rent is also paid in many cases "often for months." employment is secured whenever possible. passing from the general agencies to the church societies (which do not ordinarily keep records in any city and which therefore are not included in the consideration of that subject though logically they should be), we find no complete records of work done on the part of the sixty-one churches reporting last summer except that twenty-nine were helping families and that the amount of relief expended by thirty-four was $ , . . under the head of remarks there were indications of some diversification from the stereotyped forms of relief. one church was educating a "bright young girl." one was loaning money. but encouraging as these instances might appear they are offset, by the story of a church worker who had been helping a family for fifteen years without seeing the husband. the thoroughness with which treatment is carried out is partially indicated by the character of the records kept, though good forms may oftentimes cover poor work. on the following page are given typical samples of forms used by three of the more prominent agencies. below is presented the more exhaustive standard case record card used by some societies in other cities: [illustration] [illustration: i.--meager blank used by pittsburgh department of public charities.] [illustration: ii.--blank formerly used by allegheny city department of public charities,--a much more complete record, abandoned since the merging of the cities.] [illustration: iii.--blank used by private agency.] the systems pursued by other prominent pittsburgh agencies are as follows: society a. names, addresses, number in family, and religion are noted on blank cards, or written in books. society b. record system not in existence. no paid worker. only record of names and amounts. society c. record of cases very meager, consisting only of names and addresses, with a few items of information, such as the number of children, whether married, single, widow or deserted, on cards. society d. no systematic records. society e. clear general statements as to money received and expended but no case records. in addition to such a record card these societies have so called continuation sheets on which chronologically are entered all information or advice obtained and all action taken. it is apparent that there can be no systematic knowledge of families unless there is such systematic keeping of records. the separation of families into the worthy and unworthy can nowhere be found in such records, which reveal instead the innermost causes, the remedies for the removal of the causes and the resources, material or otherwise, at hand to effect the removal. in other words the three fold function; umpire of the fight itself, determiner of immediate remedies, educator of the community to give a fairer show in the future, can only be carried out with such systematic recording. after three months' effort it was found impossible to furnish any approximation of the amount spent annually for material and other outdoor relief in the city of pittsburgh. these partial returns were obtained: (_spent in_ _their last fiscal year_ _agency._ _before the depression._) (of ) general relief societies $ , . city department of charities , . ( mos.) (of ) churches , . (of ) nursing societies , . [ ] [ ] exclusive of private relief fund. it is unfortunate, that owing to lack of co-ordination there has been a confusion of function between outdoor relief and neighborhood agencies. many of the latter have possessed distinctly relief funds and have been relief agencies. it is doubtful if this has been anything but a disadvantage to them. it has divided their attention between two totally different sorts of problems, two sorts which require above all else, concentration. the general isolation of the field has driven them, in many instances, thus to protect their own neighborhoods against neglect. but they have been unable in many instances to deal with these tasks adequately, and their larger feeling of social responsibility has not enabled them to build up much better plans for individual care than agencies, directly charged with this burden. they have been hampered by their own relief efforts and their legitimate work has suffered thereby. they have felt much more clearly their responsibilities as umpires of the social struggle and educators of the social conscience, than the great bulk of the strictly relief agencies. the confusion of their function, before mentioned, has been, it would appear, a rather unfortunate departure which still further muddied a not clear stream. with reference to the organization of the associated charities, it may be stated that the demand for it came both from the reputable societies themselves and the business community, the heavy contributors to charity. greater harmony of action, greater efficiency in action, these were the common aims of the coalition. several attempts had been made during the past ten years to place the charitable work of pittsburgh on an organized basis, but without tangible results until february , , when the associated charities received its charter. its office was opened april and the work of securing the co-operation of individuals, churches, relief societies and other charitable agencies, began. the society has grown rapidly along lines of work successfully followed by similar organizations in american cities. it is already serving as a center of intercommunication between churches, social and charitable organizations, institutions and individuals who are interested in charitable and social service. it has already done much towards systematizing the charitable work of the city, with a view of checking the evils of unorganized charity and of making every charitable dollar do one hundred cents' worth of charitable work. while the force and equipment of the new association are necessarily small, they are growing, and the association hopes to increase its facilities, so as to keep pace with the rapidly increasing, heavy demand upon it. the constitution of this organization provides for a central council, in addition to the usual board of trustees. the council consists of one delegate elected by each of the charitable, religious and social agencies which have joined the associated charities. besides these delegates, the central council includes, as ex-officio members, the mayor, director of the department of charities, director of public safety, director of public works, superintendent of the bureau of health, and superintendent of the bureau of police. the province of the council is to promote the development of co-operation between individual societies, to pass upon questions affecting the general welfare of the poor and the charitable activities of the city. by october , , thirty-one societies were affiliated in the central council and the registration bureau contained , records. the bylaws of the society provide that anything which involves the welfare of the city or its social conditions may become its concern. thus as the servant of the charitable agencies of the city it will often serve as the rallying point for social advance though it would be the last to affirm that it will be the only rallying point for the general spirit of good feeling which is slowly manifesting itself among the social organizations of the city. by the presence of this co-operating center, the co-ordination of the work of the charities of pittsburgh should bring about: . adequate material relief, when actually required. for not only will the total amounts necessary for individual families be carefully considered and worked out by joint committees but the relief may be gathered from a number of sources, from relatives, friends, employers, societies and charitably disposed individuals. the society has no relief fund of its own but its function is to organize relief. . the repression of mendicancy and the repression of illegitimate charitable schemes by the bureaus of registration and information and in cases of necessity, the prosecution of imposters. . the securing of employment, rather than the giving of material relief, wherever this is possible. . the inculcation of habits of thrift and providence, the development of industrial education. . the co-operative treatment of families to bring all members of such families up to the highest possible mental, moral and physical plane, not only to conserve the well-being of the individuals themselves but to prevent the weakening of society by adding in successive generations to those who are sub-normal (such as weak minded children). . such special or institutional care of the deficient as shall work towards the same end. . the crystallization of the sentiment of the charitable forces of pittsburgh, with reference to necessary social reforms. . greater efficiency in the business affairs and records of the individual societies, thus imparting greater "doing" power to the same amount of charitable resources, and creating a body of social facts which can be made the basis for sound public opinion with respect to the living conditions of the community. here then has been the evolution. individualized impulses developing specialized organizations in an un-plotted field. the conception of individual well-doing with no conception of the general social responsibility. added to this the growth of more or less unnecessary, weak, and in some cases fraudulent, charitable enterprises (to which we have not alluded before) because of the ease with which support could be obtained in a community generous to a fault. this support gained too without necessarily bringing with it any sense of responsibility on the part of the contributors. there is a well corroborated story, vouched for by a leading professional man of the city, that for years a woman had collected about $ , annually for a fresh air home which cared for only a few children. the collections continued until he and others had a private investigation made and discovered the truth. it is comparatively easy to secure the assent of many men to allow their names to be used on boards of directors if no service is required. this is not a bad practice when such men know the responsible directors and can safely vouch for their actions. but care was not always taken to ascertain this. * * * * * the pittsburgh district and the housing situation the direct work of investigation in the field of housing reform, carried on by the pittsburgh survey, has been intentionally limited to the question of sanitary regulation. that was the first prime need to be met. the work has been carried on under the supervision of lawrence veiller, the foremost authority on housing reform in this country. mr. veiller was the secretary of the new york state tenement house commission in , first deputy commissioner of the new york city tenement house department, and is director of the department for the improvement of social conditions of the new york charity organization society. in illustrations and text, no attempt is made to present a review of the development of model towns in the pittsburgh district, or the construction of single and two-family houses. these are matters which will properly come before committees on building construction and town planning of the new pittsburgh civic improvement commission. real estate dealers and builders have not been inactive in pittsburgh; but the situation is so serious as to demand the development of a constructive public policy. it demands such town planning and traction development as will open up wider suburban areas and relieve congestion. it demands such radical modification of the tax system, as will put a premium, as in metropolitan boston, on home building; rather than a premium, as in pittsburgh, on the speculative holding of unimproved land. pittsburgh might well be the first city to try out in america the co-operative building scheme which has gained so much momentum in england, and by which the shifting industrial worker owns not a house, but stock in a housing company, which builds wholesale. such a plan would admirably supplement the operations of the realty companies and building and loan associations in housing the growing industrial force of the steel district, and would offer an opportunity for investment at five per cent and the public good such as opens in no other direction to the man of large means and large imagination who would leave his impress on the pittsburgh district. --director pittsburgh survey. * * * * * such a condition could not go on indefinitely. the leaders in the societies themselves insisted upon a better sensing of social responsibility, which meant simply the better realization of one principle, co-operation, the signpost to the second stage of growth. this led not only to the manifold kinds of co-operation made possible by the formation of an associated charities, but to a joining of forces in other directions. so the march of social reform goes on, with the charitable agencies of the city more and more fulfilling their function of rightly estimating causes and tendencies, of providing the fair chance to the dependent and defenceless by intelligent, co-ordinated, family treatment, and of educating the public towards the need of social legislation and regeneration. [illustration: old planing mill known as tammany hall, torn down through the activity of the board of health. twenty-five families were formerly housed here in rooms. building to left continues to be occupied as tenement-- families and stores occupying rooms. to the rear can be seen remnant of the planing mill. three families occupy three rooms reached through the doors opening off the gallery.] [illustration] the housing situation in pittsburgh f. elisabeth crowell department for the improvement of social conditions, new york charity organization society last winter, the pittsburgh survey, co-operating with the bureau of health, conducted a special investigation of the housing situation in pittsburgh. its purpose was a general stock-taking from the point of view of sanitary regulation. evil conditions were found to exist in every section of the city. over the omnipresent vaults, graceless privy sheds flouted one's sense of decency. eyrie rookeries perched on the hillsides were swarming with men, women and children,--entire families living in one room and accommodating "boarders" in a corner thereof. cellar rooms were the abiding places of other families. in many houses water was a luxury, to be obtained only through much effort of toiling steps and straining muscles. courts and alleys fouled by bad drainage and piles of rubbish were playgrounds for rickety, pale-faced, grimy children. an enveloping cloud of smoke and dust through which light and air must filter made housekeeping a travesty in many neighborhoods; and every phase of the situation was intensified by the evil of overcrowding,--of houses upon lots, of families into houses, of people into rooms. old one-family houses were found converted into multiple dwellings, showing that pittsburgh's housing problem threatened to become a tenement-house problem as well. to cope with these conditions was a bureau of health, hampered by an insufficient appropriation, an inadequate force of employes, and in the large an uneducated, indifferent, public opinion. a report of the investigation was published, and was used by the housing committee of the pittsburgh chamber of commerce in its campaign of education in support of ordinances then before councils. these ordinances were in line with recommendations of superintendent james f. edwards of the bureau of health and the city administration. councils voted an increase of $ , to the bureau for its work in this field. the force of employes in the tenement house division was increased from one chief inspector, three inspectors and a part-time stenographer, to one chief inspector of experience, ten inspectors, one clerk and one stenographer on full time. a new system of records was inaugurated and comprehensive measures were undertaken to obtain the complete census of all tenements in greater pittsburgh. subsequently, an ordinance was passed providing for the compulsory registration of tenement houses.[ ] here, then, has been a long stride ahead in the course of housing reform in pittsburgh, which had been inaugurated several years before by williams h. matthews, headworker of kingsley house, and the leaders of the civic club,--pioneer work which had secured the provisions of the existing state tenement house law and the creation of a tenement division under the bureau of health. [ ] other ordinances affecting the housing situation have been put before councils through the instigation of dr. edwards. one provided for a special bond issue, [carried by the people in november], for the erection of furnaces to consume rubbish and ashes: and it is to be hoped provision will be made for its collection. hitherto the city has been content to collect and dispose of garbage only. rubbish and ashes in unsightly piles accumulate in back-yards until a sanitary inspector serves notice on the householder to remove them at his own expense. another ordinance drawn for the purpose of giving the health authorities power to vacate cellar rooms in dwellings other than tenements, failed to pass. [illustration: saw mill run. rear view showing dry closets which emptied at edge of stream.] [illustration: tenement of old dwelling type.] this leads us to the present housing situation in pittsburgh,--a situation which should be seen in its right proportions. first, should be remembered the decades of neglect. the process of cleaning up and rehabilitation is a ten years' job. the very fact that ordinances have been passed, a tenement house census taken and fifty thousand people supplied with sanitary accommodations points the way to the long, exacting work ahead in devising legislation and enforcing it in order to bring existing structures up to what may be called the new pittsburgh standard. in the second place, the tenement house dwellings for three or more families are, when all is said and done, but a small part of the homes of the wage-earning population. the great housing problem in pittsburgh is that of the one-or two-family dwelling. here is a field where even more exacting sanitary work and regulation must be done in the ensuing years. in the third place, the mill towns, as well as the city, present every phase of the evils of bad housing. it is a district problem, then, for the leaders in pittsburgh. finally, behind all these existing unsanitary conditions demanding regulation, is the shortage of houses throughout the pittsburgh district which will reassert itself with returning prosperity. as a result of the campaign of last winter, the bureau of health is now for the first time adequately equipped to get at the existing tenement abuses and to point out the need for more housing accommodations,--new low-rental houses,--if the work of reducing overcrowding and eradicating disease breeding quarters is to be carried out on a comprehensive scale. [illustration: closet under porch shown on second page following.] [illustration: pittsburgh. a tool for producing pig iron in tonnage that beats the world.] the tenement house census shows a total of , tenement houses in the greater city, and puts in the possession of the department a body of facts bearing upon the localization of bad housing conditions throughout pittsburgh. this was the first logical step to be taken toward dealing intelligently and efficiently with the situation. to the accomplishment of this task the main energies of the tenement house division have been devoted up to the present time. from every source in every quarter the cry of "hard times" has been insistent and the authorities up to the present time have deemed it inexpedient to force drastic plans for improvement. they have endeavored to keep things clean, and have insisted upon necessary repairs, but orders relating to structural changes have been held in abeyance pending a revival of more prosperous financial conditions. the process of eliminating privy vaults, however, the most threatening sanitary ill, has been vigorously continued. thus far , vaults have been filled up and abandoned and , sanitary water closets for the use of , families installed in their places. a census of the first twenty wards shows a total of , vaults still in use in these wards alone. no figures are as yet available for the remaining twenty-four wards of the old city,--or the fifteen wards on the north side. [illustration: pittsburgh: equipment for home life. four houses, one behind another, climbing up hillside between streets. under the porch to the left were two filthy closets without flushing apparatus. they were the only provision for five families in the first two houses.] [illustration: clearing the vaults out of pittsburgh. each dot stands for five vaults. illustrated by the first twenty wards. , vaults as found by present health administration. the situation to-day: , removed, , to go.] some of the worst plague spots in pittsburgh have been eradicated despite the fact that, by veto of the governor of pennsylvania, power to condemn insanitary structures was not given to the health authorities. that much remains to be done is, however, as true as it was a year ago, as i found on a recent reinspection. "tammany hall," pittsburgh's classic example of bad housing is no more. unable to vacate by process of law the old planing mill which had been converted into a tenement, the authorities piled violation notice upon notice at such a rate that the owner found the old shack a losing investment, and at last agreed to tear it down. he told me sorrowfully that if "they" had let him alone until september, he could have made $ , on the place,--an amount sufficient to pay his taxes to the city that was ruining him. it seemed a pity some method could not be found by which he might be forced to clean out another choice bit of property which he was renting,--a long, narrow, two-story brick tenement, where ten families and two stores are occupying thirteen rooms. the water supply was a sink in one apartment, and another on the second story floor and a hydrant in the yard. here also were the closets which are shared by seven families, living in the houses adjoining. [illustration: stewart's row. showing proximity of privy vaults to kitchen. houses dilapidated.] another familiar eye-sore on bedford avenue was still standing,--worse still, it was rented out, at least in spots,--three families in the front, and three in the rear buildings,--negroes and whites. it looked more dilapidated and dirtier than when i visited it last winter. the owner was notified over a year ago that the houses must be repaired and certain alterations made if they were to be occupied as tenements. she pleaded a heavy mortgage and a dying sister. the mortgage still holds, the sister is still dying, she is unable to find a purchaser for the property, and in the meantime two-room "apartments" are still to be secured for twelve dollars a month, with all ancient inconveniences:--water to be obtained from a hydrant in the yard, and shared possibly with eleven families; foul privy compartments also to be shared with neighboring families, and perchance an occasional passerby. none but the lowest class of tenants will live in these to-be-abandoned dwellings, and their continued existence constitutes a grave danger from a sanitary viewpoint, not only to the immediate neighborhood, but to the entire city. so long as the law permits such breeding places for disease, so long will the fight against filth diseases be a losing one. stewart's row, on west carson street, as i found it late this fall, was evidently destined to maintain the standard of the neighborhood in the matter of bad housing as originally set by its neighbor, painter's row; two wooden rows of two-family houses, rickety, leaking, sheltering thirteen families; two vaults at the rear, one with contents exposed; two hydrants the sole water supply; an obstructed drain; the hillside decorated with a disgusting combination of waste water, garbage, and rubbish. allegheny has added her quota to the problem of housing in greater pittsburgh. the tenement house inspectors in the course of their census-taking have unearthed more than one example of rank conditions on the north side. in one tenement the ground floor was occupied as a stable; a cellar revealed the piled up accumulations of years; privy vaults flourish and household water supply is noticeable chiefly because of its inadequacy. over one-fourth of the entire number of tenements found in pittsburgh are located on the north side. according to the chief inspector at least fifty per cent of these are in a bad condition. the tenement house department has thus found plenty of work ready at hand for its inspectors. of the , tenement houses enumerated by the census, nearly fifty per cent are old dwellings originally planned and constructed to accommodate one family. frequently, no provision is made to meet the demands of the additional number of families. privacy is destroyed, closet facilities and water supply are inadequate, cellar and basement rooms are made to do duty as living and sleeping rooms and there is no protection from fire danger. of the remaining number of tenements less than one-half are new-law tenements. _tenement census._ _nationality._ _no. of fam._ _nationality._ _% of total._ american , american . polish , slavs . hebrew , hebrew . german german . negro negro . italian italian . slovak british . bohemian misc. . croatian ------ hungarian . irish syrian lithuanian russian english greek austrian french welsh scotch swedish servian finnish chinese norwegian spanish turkish danish ------ tot'l no. of fam. , --no. of people , no. of fam. --boarders , taking boarders , ------ total population in tenements , the accompanying tables show the various nationalities which recruit tenement dwellers and the share contributed by each. nearly one-half are american born; one-fourth are slavs. next in numerical importance are the hebrews, then the germans, negroes, italians and british. the remaining scattered groups are included under the heading "miscellaneous." pittsburgh's tenements shelter , families, containing , people; , families take in boarders and of these boarders there are , . the total number of people living under tenement conditions (three or more families to the house), is , . the welfare of over forty thousand people is dependent then on tenement house standards and their enforcement in pittsburgh. this is perhaps eight per cent of the total population, a small proportion when compared with new york for instance. the primary housing problem of the wage-earning population in pittsburgh, remains then not a tenement problem in the strict legal sense, but a one- and two-family dwelling problem. this is the aspect of the situation which pittsburgh must face in its entirety if the city is to profit by the experience of older communities. "if you think pittsburgh is bad, you ought to see glasgow," said one man. "look at the tenements in new york," said another. yet, if the city's phenomenal growth continues to be equalled by her phenomenal indifference to the necessity of raising the housing standard for her least paid laborers, the day may come, and soon, when pittsburgh will make a close third to these cities. because of hard times, vast numbers of immigrants have left pittsburgh, and temporarily the rental agencies have plenty of idle houses upon their lists. these houses throw light on the situation. two, three, four, and five-room apartments are available at an average monthly rental of from two and a half to five dollars a room in many sections of the city. there are also some single houses to be obtained for the same price. over half of these dwellings are without any modern sanitary accommodations, and many are in a wretched state of repair. the majority of the houses are in the most sordid quarters of the city where living is high, at any price. certain dwellings are offered especially for foreigners or negroes, dilapidation, lack of conveniences, and an undesirable locality being distinguishing features of these houses. [illustration: combination rear tenement and alley dwelling, webster avenue. negroes and whites live here.] we label the foreigner as an undesirable neighbor; we offer him the meanest housing accommodations at our disposal; we lump him with the least desirable classes of our citizens; then we marvel at his low standards of living. give him better, cheaper, houses where he may have a decent and comfortable home, instead of a mere shelter from the elements, unwholesome, overcrowded and expensive, and then see what his standard of living would be. the natural conformation of the land with its steep declivities, and its winding, tortuous valleys, has added much to the difficulty of the housing situation. adequate transportation facilities would open up territory on the south and west sides where countless people could be housed. the trend of the mills away from the city to nearby river sites, attracted by lower tax rates and unlimited space will offer further relief and improvement, especially where great employers of labor, in laying out their plants as at mariana, and vandergrift and gary take heed of the proper housing and sanitation of the towns that will grow up about them. as the situation stands to-day, however, bad housing conditions are multiplying in the surrounding industrial towns; and they must face the same problem. its seriousness demands the formulation of public policies that shall encourage every form of building operation that will produce sanitary houses at low rentals, whether they are private homes or company houses of creditable standard, or dwellings put up by building and loan companies, commercial builders, or co-operative housing companies, along english lines. a chamber of commerce report states: "the city of pittsburgh, along with its vast industrial development, has grown so phenomenally in population during the past ten years that it has been clearly impossible for the growth in housing accommodation to keep pace. careful and comprehensive investigations show conclusively that the housing facilities of the greater city have completely broken down, not only in point of reasonably proper conditions but in amount of available real estate." [illustration: view of yard shown opposite. corner of rear buildings. pump in foreground of picture opposite is the sole water supply for both rows of houses. here rubbish is added to dilapidation.] "we have not the time, nor is it our function to investigate the housing situation of the city. let the charitable or philanthropic agencies make a systematic study of the evils that exist, and we will gladly lend the support of our influence to any recommendations which they may offer," said a leading spirit in one of pittsburgh's great commercial organizations. to this man the proper housing of the workingman had a charitable aspect. "we don't want to go into the housing business. we are manufacturers, not real estate dealers. we may be forced to build houses in certain new districts in order to attract and hold labor, but in an old, settled community let the laboring man take care of himself. we don't believe in paternalism." i quote the president of a great steel company. said a prominent real estate man: "there certainly are other more attractive investments for private capital than the building of small houses,--taxes are high, the demand for such dwellings has fallen off considerably and the returns are uncertain, owing to the difficulty of collecting rents in times such as these." and the laboring man says: "i want a decent home at a moderate rental, within reasonable distance of my work." can he get it? rigorous sanitary work by the health authorities will help. but more than that is needed. [illustration: phipps model tenement. rebecca street, allegheny, october , . four room apartments rent from $ . to $ a week; three room apartments from $ . to $ per week. steam heat, gas slot meter, sinks and water closets in each apartment.] [illustration: yard showing batteries of privy vaults and dilapidated condition of steps leading to third story. two room apartments rent for $ per month.] pittsburgh's housing laws emily wayland dinwiddie secretary new york tenement house committee; former special investigator octavia hill association, philadelphia one would expect to see bad housing in pittsburgh as a natural result of the congested condition of the city, partially hemmed in by waterways, and of the presence of an increasing population of factory workers ready to accept whatever living accommodations are available near their places of employment. unhealthful homes, however, are especially dangerous in pittsburgh, where their influence has been combined with that of city crowding, and of smoky, gas-laden air and polluted water. badly constructed houses and defective drainage are an evil in the case of the country laborer, but far worse for a pittsburgh factory employe. the tenement, with its usual accompaniments, has been a growing menace, although it has not yet obtained so great a hold as in many large cities. in , one-ninth of the total population of the city was living in buildings now legally defined as "tenements,"--that is, occupied by three or more families each. since that time it is said that the proportion of tenements and tenement dwellers has become considerably larger. the city has recognized its dangers and a beginning has been made in the framing of state legislation and city ordinances to meet them. the housing and health laws applying to pittsburgh in many respects are like those for philadelphia. there is no department of health, but there is a bureau of health in the department of public safety, and similarly a bureau of building inspection. the powers of the bureau of health in relation to housing conditions are more limited than those of corresponding departments in many other cities in the lack of authority to vacate buildings unfit for habitation. the writer had occasion to visit in pittsburgh a large ramshackle frame tenement house, insufficiently lighted and ventilated, dirty and miserably overcrowded. the building, which had originally been a mill, was obviously unfit for occupation. for some time "tammany hall" had been almost as notorious in pittsburgh as the infamous "gotham court" was in new york. the whole frame work was so poorly constructed that it seemed hopeless that the owner would consider improvements worth while for a building of this character, yet the bureau of health could not have the house vacated, and the tenants continued to live in their wretched quarters.[ ] [ ] after long delays this house has now been torn down. the bureau of health took a determined stand in requiring compliance with the law if the building was to continue to be occupied as a tenement, and the owner finally became wearied and had the house destroyed. since , one year after its creation, the board of health in new york has had authority to vacate buildings unfit for occupation, and in it was expressly included in the law that this power applied to any building "unfit for human habitation because of defects in drainage, plumbing, ventilation, or the construction of the same, or because of the existence of a nuisance on the premises, and which is likely to cause sickness among its occupants." this provision is still in force at the present day and has been extended to the tenement house department as well. in the course of a year the latter department alone vacated between one and two hundred houses. similar powers are held in other cities. in boston and chicago they are exercised. in washington many buildings have been not only vacated, but demolished. nor is this authority confined to the largest cities; jersey city, with a population , less than pittsburgh's, and rochester, with , less than jersey city, both have health boards with full powers in this regard. [illustration: map showing the number of persons per acre in each ward in (u.s. census figures--)] [illustration: one of the congested districts.] apart from this lack, the pittsburgh bureau of health in relation to existing houses other than tenements, has under state law much the same general authority and obligations as in other cities. its duty is to have nuisances abated and conditions dangerous to health removed. specific provisions, however, affecting the proper maintenance of one-and two-family dwellings are almost entirely lacking, although these are found in pittsburgh in much greater numbers than the tenement houses, and as shown in recent investigations, are greatly in need of regulation. the state laws contain practically no requirements for them except in regard to the cleaning of privy-vaults and to plumbing. there is no city sanitary code. a general state health law of gives the director of the department of public safety in conjunction with the bureau of health, power to prescribe rules and regulations for enforcing the provisions of the act, but the power has never been exercised to frame sanitary requirements for dwelling houses. dark, damp cellar rooms, wholly under ground, one "town pump" serving as the sole water supply for thirteen houses; water-closets in dark unventilated holes under sidewalks, are examples of conditions found in pittsburgh, and not definitely prohibited except in tenement houses. an ordinance to prevent cellar occupancy and to provide for the cleaning up of unsanitary conditions in houses other than tenements was introduced in councils the past year by the chamber of commerce, but it failed to pass. such absence of requirements tends seriously to block the sanitary improvement of the smaller houses. specific mandatory provisions make for uniform, fair treatment, requiring as much of one house owner as of another. they give efficient health authorities a stronger case in dealing with offenders and make it more difficult for inefficient ones to evade their responsibilities. a code is needed. * * * * * ... prospectus ... =the tenement improvement company,= modeled after the octavia hill association of philadelphia, was formed for the betterment of the housing of the poor of pittsburgh, for the following reasons: first. there is no tenement house commissioner in pittsburgh. second. laws relating to the water supply, sewerage, garbage collecting, overcrowding and use of houses for immoral purposes, are either not in existence or not enforced: third. there are within a radius of twenty-five miles of pittsburgh , slavs, , bohemians, , poles, , croatians, , ruthenians, , russians, , servians, , italians: these low-class foreigners must of necessity overcrowd the already congested districts. fourth. conditions such as these make for moral and physical contagion, intemperance, pauperism, crime, anarchy and the destruction of the home. fifth. this city is already aroused to the necessity of caring for the children before they become criminals, but these efforts are of little value unless strengthened by the influence of decent and respectable homes. sixth. pittsburgh, in proportion to its wealth and prosperity, has done nothing to improve the housing conditions of the very poor. =the purpose of the company= is to buy, build or remodel tenements in the worst localities, put them in sanitary condition, install tenants of moral character at the same rents paid before and have weekly visits of inspection made by women rent collectors. the company will agree to manage, on these same lines, tenement houses for property holders on commission. * * * * * folder of . the beginning of housing reform in pittsburgh. * * * * * an important ordinance, dealing with one unsanitary feature of the city, was passed by councils in . this makes it unlawful to continue the existence of cesspools and privy-vaults on any lot contiguous to a public sewer. a state law of prohibited the construction of a new cesspool or privy-vault on premises where a sewer was adjacent, and the same prohibition was previously contained in the plumbing regulations of the bureau of health, issued in ; but existing privy-vaults are made unlawful only by the ordinance of . this provision is of great value. the privy-vault may be tolerated in country districts, but in small city yards, close to kitchens and bedrooms, groceries and butcher shops, its dangers are increased a thousand fold. the risk is especially great where typhoid is prevalent, as is the case in pittsburgh, where as far back as the health records go the disease has been practically epidemic and where up to the typhoid rate was higher than in any other city. that the contagion of typhoid fever is contained in the discharges of the patient, and that the specific organism may live in these for a long period is well known, but only in the past decade has the part played by house flies in the dissemination of the disease been emphasized: "flies are attracted to all kinds of filth. a fly after lighting on the discharges from a typhoid patient thrown into one of the vaults may have on its legs the specific bacteria and can then carry the infection from place to place; it may be to the food of the nearest neighbor, or to that in a nearby street stand or shop, or it is possible it may carry it to a greater distance." for house drainage, pittsburgh has a good plumbing code in its detailed provisions similar to those in new york and philadelphia. it is in the form of a state act, passed in , and responsibility for its enforcement rests in the bureau of health. besides containing strict requirements for new work, it gives the bureau certain important powers with reference to plumbing in existing buildings. [illustration: the franklin flats of the tenement improvement of pittsburgh. the only model tenement in the old city.] tenement houses,--that is, buildings occupied by three or more families,--are the subject of special legislation. two tenement laws were enacted in . one applying principally to the maintenance of tenement buildings is enforced by the bureau of health. it forbids the use of tenement cellars for living purposes; a cellar being defined as a "story more than one-half below the street or ground level." it permits living in basement rooms only when they are eight and one-half feet high and are properly lighted and ventilated according to the specific terms of the law, and are not damp or otherwise unfit for habitation. it requires for every room in existing tenements either a window equal in size to one-tenth of the floor area of the room, and opening upon the street or alley, or upon a yard or court, with a sectional area of not less than twenty-five square feet; or else a fifteen square foot window opening to an adjoining outside room in the same apartment. no rooms may be occupied unless they contain seven hundred cubic feet of air space, nor unless they are eight feet high from floor to ceiling in every part, except that attic rooms need be eight feet high in only one-half their area. overcrowding is prohibited by the requirement that in any room there must be four hundred cubic feet of air space for each adult, and two hundred for each child occupying the room. in new tenement houses an independent water supply is required for every suite of rooms; in existing tenement buildings, or buildings hereafter converted to tenement use, there must be a water supply on every floor, accessible to all tenants on the floor without the necessity for their passing through any apartment but their own. the space under all sinks is required to be left open, without enclosing woodwork. a water-closet is required for every apartment in a new tenement building, except that where apartments consist of but one or two rooms, one closet for three rooms is sufficient. in existing tenement houses one closet for two apartments is required, and for existing buildings converted to tenement use after the passage of the law, one closet for six rooms, but not less than one to a floor. water-closets located in the yard are permitted where the bureau of health considers this arrangement necessary. [illustration: mrs. franklin p. iams. mrs. iams, miss kate c. mcknight, e. z. smith, and other leaders of the civic club of allegheny county, have been among the pioneer workers in housing reform in pittsburgh.] cleanliness and good repair of all parts of the house are required. the keeping of horses, cows, pigs, sheep, goats or poultry in tenement houses is prohibited, also the use of any part of a tenement house for a stable or for the storage of anything dangerous to life or health. the keeping of inflammable or combustible material under any stairway in a tenement house is prohibited. the act prescribes fines for violation and makes it mandatory upon the bureau of health to employ one or more special tenement house inspectors to inspect tenements and see that the requirements of the law are enforced. the main points of the law are excellent, but it contains an undesirable feature in placing a premium upon the conversion of existing buildings to tenement uses. there seems scarcely room for question that if the working population of the city must be crowded into multiple dwellings, it is better for it to be into houses constructed and properly fitted for the purpose. but the law encourages the squeezing of three or more families into old, ill-adapted houses, erected for other purposes. a new house may not be built for tenement uses unless it has a separate sink for every suite of rooms, and a water-closet for every suite, or where suites consist of but one or two rooms each, a water-closet for every three rooms; but an old building, not constructed for the purpose, may at any time be made to serve as a tenement house if it has a sink and a water-closet on every floor, regardless of how many families may be occupying the floor, providing only that there is at least one water-closet for six rooms. a landlord may lawfully turn an old dilapidated mill into a tenement as in the case previously cited and provide only two sinks (one in a restaurant) and a yard hydrant for twenty-five families, but if he wishes to build a new tenement for this number of families the law requires him to put in twenty-five sinks. to aid in the enforcement of the above law there was enacted in an ordinance requiring all tenement houses in the city to be registered in the offices of the bureau of health, and providing penalties for failure to comply. an act of established a bureau of building inspection in the city department of public safety. officials of this bureau are required to examine buildings in the course of construction or alteration, and houses reported in an insecure or dangerous condition. the superintendent and inspectors, as in other cities, are required to be men of practical experience in work connected with building construction, but must not be engaged in such work while holding office. plans and specifications for all new construction or extensive alteration work must be filed with the bureau, and work of this character may not be carried on without a permit from the bureau, to be granted within ten days, when the plans and specifications conform to law. where a permit is refused, the party aggrieved may appeal to a commission, to be appointed by the director of the department of public safety, and to consist of three persons, either master builders, civil engineers, or architects; but authority is in no case granted to this commission to set aside or alter any provisions of the act, or to require the issuance of a permit for a building to be constructed otherwise than as required by the act. such a fixed law without discretionary powers granted to the building inspecting officials, or to the bureau of appeals, is an important safeguard to the community. the experience of new york affords conclusive evidence of the danger of an opposite policy. for example, previous to , the laws applying to new york fixed a limit to the percentage of the lot which might be covered over by a new tenement building, requiring the remainder to be left vacant, in order to provide proper yard and court space for light and ventilation. but the superintendent of buildings was granted power to modify this requirement, and the result was that it was practically nullified. the new york tenement house commission of examined several hundred new buildings erected under the law, in the borough of manhattan, and found that only one per cent had the prescribed reasonable air-space. in theory, discretionary powers have advantages in giving a law sufficient flexibility to meet varying conditions, but in practice, where granted to modify reasonable legislation, they place worthy officials in the difficult position of being obliged to refuse,--in opposition to any influence that may be brought to bear,--to exercise discretion plainly permitted to them, and they open to unworthy officials of all grades innumerable opportunities for corruption and unjust discrimination. in pittsburgh the specific provisions in relation to details of building construction are incorporated in the main in state laws, but there are also certain city ordinances regulating building construction. building requirements affecting sanitation and safety in dwellings for one or two families, apart from those enforced by the bureau of health and previously referred to, are few in number, although in pittsburgh the great majority of the population is housed in buildings of this character, making the situation a vastly different one from that in new york, where seventy-one per cent of the families live in multiple dwellings and the proper control of these is the important matter. [illustration: robert garland. chairman of the housing committee, pittsburgh chamber of commerce.] a few provisions affecting all dwellings, which may be mentioned, are a requirement that beneath new houses cellars shall extend under the whole building and be ventilated from both ends, and that in low, damp, or made ground, the bottom of all cellars shall be covered with bricks, concrete or asphalt, at least three inches deep. also every new dwelling house must have an open space attached to it at the rear or side, equal to at least square feet clear, unobstructed by any overhanging structure. proper rain leaders must be provided to conduct water from the roof to the ground or sewer, in such a way as to protect walls and foundations. there are also restrictions in regard to frame extensions and frame sheds, provisions for roof exits, giving means of escape in case of fire, and requirements for strength of construction. comparing pittsburgh's housing laws with the new building code of cleveland, ohio,--a city with somewhat similar conditions, brings out striking defects in the former. for example, cleveland, for new one-and two-family dwellings, has excellent detailed requirements as to the percentage of the lot which may be covered by dwellings; as to the sizes of courts and air-shafts, the provision of intakes to give a current of air through enclosed courts, the sizes of yards, the minimum sizes permitted for rooms, and the lighting and ventilation of rooms and of water-closet compartments and bathroom. corresponding to these light and air provisions for dwellings, in pittsburgh, there is only the requirement of square feet of yard-space at the rear or side. there is no law, ordinance or regulation for houses other than tenements, prohibiting the construction of dark, unventilated rooms and halls, and of the "culture tube" air-shafts,--which have been the curse of other cities. for tenement houses the building requirements are much stricter than for other dwellings. new houses of this class on interior lots must have at the rear or side at least twenty per cent of the lot left open,--on corner lots ten per cent,--as a yard to provide light and air. this open space must be at least eight feet wide throughout its entire length. courts between tenement houses or wings of tenements may not be less than ten feet wide. all courts and air-shafts, except vent shafts for water-closets or bathrooms, are required to be open on one side to the street or yard. every room in a new tenement must have a window opening on the street or on the open space described above. the distance of such a window from the wall or party line opposite must be at least eight feet. the halls on each floor are required to have windows to the street or open space, unless light and ventilation is otherwise provided to the satisfaction of superintendent of the bureau of building inspection. the requirements for the size of rooms and of windows, for basement and cellar apartments and for sinks and water-closets, are the same as in the tenement house health law. new tenement houses, four stories or more in height, are required to be fireproof throughout. the same penalties are fixed for violating the tenement building law as for violation of the tenement health law. right of appeal from decisions of the superintendent of building inspection is granted, as in the case of the general building law. the act does not require that an official certificate that a completed new tenement house complies with the law must be issued before the building is occupied. this important safeguard is entirely lacking. a visitor not long since was in a new tenement house in pittsburgh, occupied by a number of families, with the usual quota of children. the house had been let and the families had moved in, although the building was by no means completed, and there were even no balusters on the stairs, which were entirely open on the side, creating an extremely dangerous condition, especially on the third floor. in this house, too, no fire-escapes of any kind had been supplied. the writer has also seen a number of other new tenement houses fully occupied, but without any proper means of escape in case of fire,--contrary to law. the discretion allowed in the tenement building law, in regard to hall lighting, is another dangerous feature, although less important than the absence of the certificate requirements. in addition to the tenement house building law, there are several acts relating to fire-escapes on tenement houses. a law of requires a tenement building three or more stories in height to have outside iron fire-escapes, with balconies and slanting stairways, except where the authorities permit some other kind of escape. the number and location of fire-escapes is not definitely provided. they are "to be arranged in such a way as to make them readily accessible, safe and adequate." a law of requires, in addition, that at least one window in each tenement house room above the second floor be provided with a chain-rope long enough to reach the ground or with any other appliances approved by the board of fire commissioners. the same act requires the lighting of tenement house halls and stairways at night and the burning of red lights at the head and foot of each flight of stairs and at the intersection of all hallways with main corridors; and an alarm or gong ready for use and capable of being heard throughout the building is also required. it will be seen at once that the wholesale discretionary powers granted in regard to the enforcement of the above fire-escape provisions make it easily possible for them to be nullified. finally, the removal of garbage, which has an important relation to the sanitary condition of the houses, is insufficiently regulated in pittsburgh. a state act, and subsequent city ordinance, authorize the bureau of health and department of public safety to provide for the removal of garbage. how frequently it shall be removed is not specified by law. specifications of contract are that it be removed daily from markets, hotels, etc., and three times a week in the closely built up wards, and twice a week in the outlying wards. nearly two-thirds of the annual appropriation for all the work of the bureau of health is expended in paying for this service. the carrying away of ashes and rubbish has up to the present time in no way been regulated by law. a step looking in this direction has been taken during the past year, however. on recommendation of the superintendent of health an ordinance authorizing a bond issue for the creation of furnaces for the final disposal of rubbish has been passed by councils and voted for by the people and specifications relating to these are now being drawn up. the beginning which has thus been made in the line of recognizing housing dangers and of framing state legislation and city ordinances to meet them affords a basis for the development of a consistent public policy in this field. [illustration: one pittsburgh type of one-family house. row of five new one-family brick houses, opposite fort pitt malleable iron works. five rooms in each house; bathtub and closet; sink in kitchen. mckees rocks.] [illustration: play in skunk hollow. the ball team.] skunk hollow a pocket of civic neglect in pittsburgh florence larrabee lattimore member investigating staff, russell sage foundation the main thoroughfare is respectable and non-committal. it offers but one clue to the melodrama, the violence and misfortune, which its brick fronts so innocently conceal. this clue is a narrow, dusty alley-way, which cuts through the brick fronts, runs back about eighty feet, and then turns sharply to the left and takes unto itself the name of ewing street. ewing street runs along the edge of a valley called skunk hollow. it pursues a serpentine course between two irregular rows of shacks,--the one back to back with the preoccupied brick houses, the other balancing itself uncertainly on the edge of the valley,--and finally ends in a number of branching foot-paths. this street and skunk hollow below it, both effectively shut off and concealed from casual inspection by the row of brick houses, are bound up into a pocket edition of civic neglect. one cannot tell, without inquiry, whether the shacks on ewing street are for horses, cows, or human beings; it is said that the owners do not care, so long as the rent is paid. but whether it is the desirability of being in a "dead-head row" commanding a view of the valley, or the advantage of having a house which while showing but one or two stories above the street, takes a private drop of one story in the rear and accommodates itself to the abrupt decline of the cliff, there is no doubt that the cliff-edge structures are far more popular than their stunted neighbors across the way. in them one finds the most desirable clinical material for a study of pittsburgh's ills, all in one well packed group of abnormalities. do you wish to see the housing problem? you need only follow ewing street its short length of a city block and observe. the level of one side of ewing street and the characteristic drop of the other, have brought out two typical forms of pittsburgh architecture described by a resident small boy as "squatters" and "clingers." together they form the nondescript shelters of a parasitical class of persons, white and colored, unassorted. in such fantastic and general dilapidation are these rows of unpainted shelters that some of them are falling to the ground without the formality of condemnation proceedings. most of them have running water in the kitchens; a very few have sanitary toilets and shout the fact on black and white rental signs. cellar rooms abound and are often used as sleeping rooms; in those houses built together into a block they are windowless. the toilets back of them are in the old boxed battery style, unflushed, and send their contamination down the grooves of the slope to skunk hollow at the bottom. [illustration: looking down on skunk hollow. luna park is seen on the skyline at the right.] [illustration: a firmly entrenched shanty, fronting on no road but guarded belligerently by its colored owner.] the hollow, reached by sewage through winding crevices in rubbish, and by goats and dogs over hills of tin cans and refuse, is reached by the people themselves down flights of decaying steps. in the street at the bottom, a wooden surface drain goes companionably along side by side with the foot-path. occasionally a trickling stream from the hill joins forces with it and the whole falls at last through a basket-drop into an open sewer. the disheveled exterior which gives ewing street the personality of a gang-leader with his hat on one side, is not so marked in the hollow. the hollow has a kind of sullen reticence. here sanitary conditions are, if possible, of graver aspect. it is literally a cesspool. in this cesspool is a strong and dangerous community life. till now you have been absorbed in the setting of the neighborhood, but now, as you begin to observe the people who slouch past you, you note that they correspond to their environments. the rakish aspect of ewing street, and the morbid silence of the hollow are reflected in the manners of their respective inhabitants. on ewing street, one of the first houses you visit is reached by a drop of five or six broken steps, and looks like a bowling alley shack. it is long, narrow, and has two small windows and a door in the street end. on the porch is a notorious colored woman, raided out of the worst houses in pittsburgh, ready to toss out her fine and pass on, when temporarily hindered by arrest. tacked to her piazza is a sign informing the passerby that religious services are held within, and pasted around the dilapidated smokestack is the sign "to let." "nobody came as long as it was a mission," said the patrolman, "they do come now. always booze on sundays there; nothing but crime." the old colored aunty, who owns a little cabin next door in the rear, tells you later with bulging eyes and darkey gesticulation, that the real trouble is that the ghost of charlie barber who died there two years ago, comes back nights and by flinging up the windows and banging the door, breaks up both services and carousels. she says he has driven most of the colored ladies "plumb spiritualistic" and that "mrs. k----, a white, irish lady in the next house but one, goes to meetings in the city three times a week and spends so much for collections that her children have no shoes to wear to school." sure enough you find the children shut up in the house; the father, a laborer, out of work; the mother doing a washing. "truant officers? what are they?" she asks. in the back yard of this home lives a red-turbaned colored scold, owner of a much coveted hydrant upon which four families are dependent for water. her house is a fenced-in triangle on a trackless waste of rubbish. it is to be approached only by original methods. the neighbors, however, say that it is on "christian street." they say that the owner sells out little plots here and there on the hillside for a hundred or so dollars apiece. most of the houses are owned by the tenants, the lots having been sold to them unimproved by old pittsburgh estates. building permits for frame dwellings have been refused, and, as the owners cannot afford to build with brick they stay on in shanties too far gone to improve. no sword wielded in defense of a feudal castle was ever more keen than the tongue of the turbaned owner of this estate on christian street as she raises her black fist over the fence and dares you to swing her gate! [illustration: a skunk hollow dairy. the cows live in the boarded up shed. the surface drains running beside the walk, empty into the well from which the people draw water.] next to her is a burnt-out shell of a four-family house; no attempt is being made to prop it up or tear it down, and it hangs there towards the street with uncertain intentions. the owner will tell you that it "was fired on a dark night,--not by a friend," and then he will shrug his shoulders and mutter something about the neighborhood. he sits on his little stoop all day, this owner does, in his sunday suit and best hat, replete with darkey respectability. crutches are beside him and his feet are bandaged. sitting near him, like a jack-knife on the point of snapping shut, is an old black mammy, her eyes glazed with coming blindness. she wears prunella gaiters, a calico gown, and a sunbonnet with a wide limp frill, and is as much a personification of the old south as the man is of the new. she points fondly over her shoulder to her two stuffy rooms, crammed with knick-knacks, and tells you they must go under the hammer next week unless she can get help. this young man here would pay her a rent of eight dollars a month for three rooms, but he is just out of the hospital and unable to work. his leg was crushed in the steel mill six weeks ago and not one penny has been sent him yet by his bosses. both of them are living on credit and hope. the neighborhood isn't very bad, they say, "although there are some very disbelieving people in it." but they don't know a better, where folks would let out to niggers. so far then we have found instances of bad streets, unsanitary housing, trade accidents and the race problem. then one comes to a house, one story high at the street two at the rear, which has two rooms opening in front and two toward the hollow. in these rooms live an irish widower and his two children of ten and twelve years, together with a miscellaneous lot of colored people. they quarrel, and have to be watched by the police. a step farther we meet a scottish mill laborer out of work. he proudly points to the playhouse he has built for his two little girls "to keep 'em off the street." it is set up against the toilet, but that can't be helped. the mixed family next door pick rags "and carry on" in the shed hard by. the woman there has "chronic tonsilitis" which is dangerous for the children. the mother wishes there was some better place for the children to play. up to this point one feels that this is a settlement of mill-ends; mill-ends of people, living in mill-ends of houses, on mill-end jobs, if they work at all. it does not seem possible that anyone could come to live on ewing street from deliberate choice. with something of a start one finds, in this row of demoralization, a home just vacated by a charitable agency for the help of colored children. it was a temporary home for boys and girls and babies, occupying the ground floor and basement of a house unsanitary and dark, having no gas, no running water, and no yard, only a rickety back stoop, offering an unparalleled view of skunk hollow. in a middle room, dark except for one outer window and one cut through into the back room, slept eight or ten children two in a bed, feet to feet, boys and girls from infancy to twelve years. the institution has gone now to a better neighborhood. this particular house hasn't a bad name; it was the one further down that was raided last month. two under-age girls were found there, but the madam got off with a fine and the girls disappeared. some other people of doubtful credentials are moving in; maybe they are good and maybe not. they are carrying in their household goods now. they do not look unlike the others of the neighborhood. a thin colored woman stands off and watches, rocking her baby in her arms. she is seized with a fit of coughing, and turns into the dark doorway of her shack. one does not need to follow her to know that she represents one more city problem. the vantage point for a view of skunk hollow seems to be the back stoops of the clingers on the edge of the basin. here one becomes aware that the hollow is a public dumping ground of ashes and tin cans. as wagons drive up and drop their contents the air itself becomes full of refuse. an occasional thin stream of water trickling down from where you stand. this is the ewing street sewage making its way to the bottom of the valley. [illustration: institutional charity in skunk hollow.] the hollow seems to follow the bed of an old river; it winds away around a huge hill of gravel where two railroads lie. on a delta between the railroad tracks, the boys have improvised a playground. farther along there is a straggling bunch of houses. you notice a little girl washing clothes on one of the back piazzas. a little boy runs out and cuffs her until she runs into the house crying, and a man comes out and chases the boy. the boy climbs a neighbor's fence and vanishes. a colored woman and a white woman are seen on the path that winds through this settlement; they go into one of the houses and shut the door. an italian comes out of the same door a minute later, and walks off down the railway track. the rears of these houses present another solid line of reeking, broken-down toilets with box vaults, unflushed, on platforms built level with the rear floor of the houses. tucked in between disreputable families of the lowest type are, here and there, bright faced thrifty italians. two families have been brought to skunk hollow from respectable neighborhoods because of the hard times. in one of their houses renting for nine dollars a month, the rear room is a ten by six, cubicle, with a two by two window in it directly opposite and two feet away from the doorway of the toilet. the air? well, the window has a solid shutter and when that is closed the air isn't so bad and keeps out disease. as the mother talks, two little chained dogs bark at the babies loaded on her arms, and on the edge of the railing, which prevents the unwary from stepping off the platform into a landslide of rubbish below, fruit and clothes are drying, macaroni is soaking, and busybody flies are hurrying from one thing to another. any typhoid? oh yes, the grandmother died with it, and one of the children had it, but was taken to a hospital and got well. towards the end of neville street, in the heart of the hollow, we come to a back yard. the house, for its own reasons, prefers to front on the railroad. in the yard is a large shed patched with odds and ends of all sorts of boards, layer upon layer. the people in the house,--most of whom are "women boarders",--say it is used just to put things in. as a venture you suggest cows? yes, there are cows there, three, the milk is sold for the babies in the neighborhood. the man says the cows "graze upon the hills around the hollow." he glances at the hills and laughs. it is true the cows haven't grazed there this summer, and in the winter it is best for them to be in a warm dark shed. as we climb back up the stairs in the late afternoon, we meet the lamp lighter going down with his ladder. early? yes, but it is not well to go into the hollow as late as dusk. there are only sixteen lamps there,--soon lighted, but people have their own reasons for turning them off and few of them burn till morning. the hollow doesn't wish the light. at the end of ewing street, by the alley of entrance, stand two patrolmen. they are side by side looking meditatively down into the valley. they are watching for the little boy who climbed the fence. "he's a juvenile court boy named matthew s----," they say. "he's home on probation. it's a queer thing about the juvenile court, it takes children away and locks 'em up because the neighborhood's bad, and then it sends 'em home on probation." these men, without knowing it, were asking for a single judge for the juvenile court. "he promises to do right," one of them continued, "but they ain't enough probation women to see that he does keep straight and he's the worst one we've got on the beat." this one was asking for an adequate number of probation officers. "now, do you see that tight, brick house down there beyond?" they asked. "that's a colored disorderly house,--run for booze. that little white girl who's washing on them steps goes there all the time. she stays out nights,--away from home. the father works hard and brings home all his money; but the woman,--she don't care. ain't the juvenile court no way of catching the mother? she ought to go to the workhouse." he was asking for an enforcement of the adult delinquency law. the conversation ran on and the patrolman told more of the affairs of skunk hollow. he told of speak-easies, and hang-outs of all kinds, masked under the appearance of small grocery shops. at the foot of the stairs, he said, an italian interpreter was found dead within the year, struck from behind by an irish-american. the man smoking there and talking to the little girl over the fence had done it, but there was no evidence. two little children belonging to the colored woman who keeps the disorderly house were playing in the dust. the patrolmen were letting them stay home until they could get them in a raid. "where do you suppose they'll bring up?" one of them said. "the mother won't get more than a fine and she can pay it." "now watch the boys!" said the other. "here comes a freight." the train wound slowly into a nest of little boys playing ball. after it had passed there was not a boy to be seen. "catching rides" said the patrolman with an appreciative chuckle. "they'll go round the hill and come back by way of the main street. then i'll chase 'em in for playing where they ain't no right, and back they'll come to skunk hollow. i wish i had some other place to send them." the playground problem again! on the skyline around the hollow the church spires stood out blacker than the smoke in which the valley was shrouded. an american flag waved from the school house on the main thoroughfare, and the fanciful towers of luna park peered jeeringly into this pest hole of neglect. "shame, ain't it?" said one of the patrolmen. [illustration] four types of housing ills in mill towns [illustration: schoen: box-like rows of company houses with out-buildings between.] [illustration: duquesne: filthy wooden-drain and yard hydrant.] [illustration: mckeesport. strawberry alley, interior court of jerusalem or "bowery." the hydrant at the right was in close proximity to octagonal privy structure and was only water supply for the entire court. on the date the photograph was taken, the hydrant had been out of business for two days and tenants had carried their water from another court across the street.] [illustration: braddock. rubbish in rear yard of willow alley; where the children play. two hydrants and two vaults are expected to equip thirty apartments.] painter's row the study of a group of company houses and their tenants [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._] [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._ painter's row as it stood in the spring of .] painter's row the united states steel corporation as a pittsburgh landlord f. elisabeth crowell former superintendent, st. anthony's hospital, pensacola, florida. the united states steel corporation owns property on the south side of pittsburgh just beyond the point bridge. here is located the old painter's mill, which is one of the plants of the carnegie steel company, which in turn is one of the constituent companies of the united states steel corporation; and here, also, stands what remains of painter's row, where the company has housed certain of its employes, mostly immigrants. when the carnegie steel company took over painter's mill, it renovated the plant so as to turn out the sort and quantity of output which the carnegie name stands for. when it took over painter's row, it did nothing. when, a little over a year ago, and several years after the purchase of the property, i made a detailed investigation of the place, i found half a thousand people living there under conditions that were unbelievable,--back-to-back houses with no through ventilation; cellar kitchens; dark, unsanitary, ill-ventilated, overcrowded sleeping rooms, no drinking water supply on the premises; and a dearth of sanitary accommodations that was shameful. painter's row was originally a succession of six rows, some brick, some frame, built on the side of a hill that slopes from the foot of a lofty palisade down to the ohio. houses and mills immediately adjoin and tenants are even housed in an old brick building, in another part of which some of the mill offices are located. sluggish clouds of thick smoke hang over the cluster of roofs and the air is full of soot and fine dust. noise presses in from every quarter,--from the roaring mill, from the trolley cars clattering and clanging through the narrow street which divides mill and rows into two sections, from the trains on the through tracks above the topmost row and from the sidings which separate the lowest row from the river bank and which are in constant use for the hauling of freight to and from the mills. * * * * * (the story of painter's row should be considered in its bearings. the united states steel corporation is building a remarkable new town at gary, indiana; its subsidiary companies have promoted house building along original lines, notably at vandergrift, ambridge and lorain, and the carnegie steel company has fair, low rental houses at munhall and elsewhere. on the other hand, other pittsburgh corporations own company houses which have been equally as bad as painter's row; and a similar story could be written of a shack at one time owned by one of the foremost protestant churches of pittsburgh, and razed to the ground only because the headworker of kingsley house had the courage to publish its picture and the name of the owner. we have no animosity in singling out one corporation; but we have a very serious purpose in detailing the facts as to this row of company houses. there is ground for difference of opinion from a business as well as a social point of view, as to whether it is desirable for an industrial corporation to own and rent homes to its employes. but if industrial chairmen, presidents and superintendents become landlords, they must bear the responsibilities of landlords; and only as the public holds them up to these responsibilities as stiffly as their stockholders hold them up to dividends, will they be in position to devise and carry out policies which, as individuals, we may assume they would act upon. this story of one high-spirited new england stockholder and company tenants indicates, moreover, that some investors are willing to lead the public in such demands. with the standards it is setting at gary, the united states steel corporation cannot afford to be responsible for such conditions as these at painter's row, whether in the pennsylvania steel district, at its mines in northern michigan, or at its plants in the south. for the survey to have selected a lesser, independent company for criticism, would have been to lay ourselves open to the charge of fear of the big offender; for us to have found a more humanly destructive group of bad houses, would have been impossible. director of the survey.) * * * * * [illustration: west carson street at time of first inspection. tenements of painter's row at left; nine families on first and second floors without toilet accommodations. one-family houses at right.] [illustration: where the tenements were torn down. present site of row shown in picture on opposite page. closets and sinks installed in topmost row, tenants of which formerly had to go steps to get water.] dirt and noise are inseparable adjuncts to life in a mill district, deplorable, but unavoidable; but workers in the mills need not necessarily be deprived of sufficient light and air such as it is, and water, and the common decencies of life. in the winter of , i spent several days in painter's row. i watched grimy little children at play. i talked with the women, the home-makers; i saw men who had been working on the night shift lying like fallen logs, huddled together in small, dark, stuffy rooms, sleeping the sleep of exhaustion that follows in the wake of heavy physical labor. above all, i sought to learn how the tenants fared in these three things: ventilation and water and sanitary conveniences. [illustration: cellar bed room. windows entirely below passage level, showing how some households maintain standards against difficulties.] [illustration: passage and area. showing below at right windows of cellar bed room shown above.] [illustration: the "town pump." drinking water supply for people living in painter's row; and for the operatives in the mill.] in the two rows nearest the river, there were twenty-eight houses divided from cellar to roof by a party wall, so that the rooms in each apartment were arranged one above the other; the result was that there was no through ventilation, and consequently the rooms were ill-smelling at all times and stiflingly close in summer. there were in the different rows, twenty-seven cellar and basement kitchens, dark, unsanitary, ill-ventilated. besides these, there were six cellar rooms more than halfway below the ground level, that were occupied solely as sleeping rooms. the windows of these cellars were small, and the little light and air that could gain admittance under the best of circumstances was obstructed by a row of ramshackle sheds which bordered the narrow area upon which these windows opened. there were many other gloomy rooms which it would be but repetition to describe. but the tale of dark, ill-ventilated sleeping quarters would be incomplete without passing mention of a space under a staircase that had been walled off and that was entered from a kitchen. into this "hole in the wall" a bed had been squeezed by some hook or crook, and there two boarders stowed their bodies at night. i found the worst overcrowding in the row at the top of the hill. in one apartment, a man, his wife, and baby and two boarders slept in one room, and five boarders occupied two beds in an adjoining room. in another apartment of three rooms, the man, his wife and baby slept in the kitchen, their two boarders in a second room; and the third room was sub-let and occupied as a living and sleeping room by five persons,--a man, his wife and child and two boarders. this last room was a small one, containing two beds, a stove, table, trunks and chairs. once inside, there was scarcely room to turn comfortably. not one house in the entire settlement had any provision for supplying drinking water to its tenants. mill water was piped out to the rows,--an ugly, dirty fluid, which, however tired or thirsty they were, the people would not put to their lips. i asked the question at every doorstep and got the same reply. they went to an old pump in the mill yard,-- steps from the farthest apartment, down seventy-five stairs. this "town pump" was the sole supply of drinking water within reach of ninety-one households, comprising persons. [illustration: pipe emptying mill-water into open drain between rows.] the water pumped from the mill was used for cleansing purposes. when the pressure was low, there was none even of that to be had. in only two cases was this wash water piped directly into the house. tenants in the other houses carried it from bent pipes that emptied into open drains running between the rows, or into troughs at the end of the buildings, whence it had to be carried up two or three flights of stairs if they happened to live in the upper stories. from these same apartments the waste water had to be carried out and down and emptied into the drains. the marvel was not that some of the homes were dirty; the wonder was that any of them were clean,--for against such obstacles cleanliness was to be secured only at the expense of tired muscles and aching backs. i talked with one mother whose two rooms on the top floor were spotless, and whose children were well looked after. day after day, and many times a day, she carried the water up and down that her home and her children might be kept decent and clean. i looked at her bent shoulders, gaunt arms and knotted hands. work aplenty,--necessary work,--there was and always will be for her to do, but those shoulders and arms and hands had to strain laboriously over unnecessary work as well. "god! miss, but them stairs is bad," she said. as was said at the beginning, when the carnegie steel company took over painter's mill, it renovated the equipment of the plant; when it took over painter's row, it did nothing. one row of four houses had waste sinks in the apartments and another row of one-family houses had a curious wooden chute arrangement on the back porches, down which waste water was poured that ran through open wooden drains in the rear yard to the open drain between this row of houses and the next. a similar arrangement had been made for the convenience of six families living in the second story of the row of tenement houses, where two wooden chutes from the porch above carried the waste water down to the curb at carson street. they carried other things besides waste water,--filth of every description was emptied down these chutes,--for these six families, and three families below on the first floor had no closet accommodation and were living like animals. some families disposed of slops and excreta in the way just indicated; others used a bucket containing ashes, which was emptied into a wooden garbage bin on the street at the end of the row of houses. officials of the mill company, when this condition of affairs was pointed out to them, replied that the vault in the rear of this row of houses was built for the use of these families as well as for the other nineteen families in these two rows, and that they could secure a key to a closet compartment by applying for it at the offices. as a matter of fact these people had never been offered keys and they volunteered the statement to the investigator that they had no closets. the vault just mentioned was halfway up the hill between these two rows of houses. to reach it, anyone living in an end apartment in the second story front would be obliged to walk half the length of the second story porch to where the inside stairs led down to the street, then along the street (for the sidewalk was but two and a half feet wide, and completely covered with old lumber and debris of every description), then up a difficult flight of outside stairs, steep and with narrow treads, then two or three steps on the level, then more stairs, and so on until one had taken a hundred and eighty-six steps, sixty-five of which were stairs. this was called "closet accommodations" for want of a better term. [illustration: wooden chute from a second story gallery, dumping its filth at the curb on carson street.] [illustration: the lower rows in . showing frame two-family dwellings between carson street and the river. open drain between the rows; bad surface drainage. twelve families at right had no toilets.] [illustration: one year later: the rows torn down.] equally bad conditions prevailed in the row of houses nearest the river. closets for these houses were formerly located across the railroad tracks on the edge of the bank. during the flood in the spring of , these were swept away and had never been replaced. the twelve families living in this row also used buckets and emptied the contents into the river. one family in the next row of houses claimed that they had never been given a closet key. in all, twenty-two of the ninety-one families were living without the first elementary conveniences that make for sanitation. the full evil of this state of affairs is not really clear until one remembers that these families were occupying two-and three-room apartments, nearly all of them having several children, and anywhere from two to five boarders each. it is fair to ask, why even immigrant laborers put up with such conditions? to the minds of the men, for two very good and sufficient reasons. the houses were near the mill and rents were cheap. the ledge of land along the foot of mt. washington affords few building sites; and the painter's mill section is, perhaps, the extreme example of the general housing-shortage of the south side. men who work in heat, work ten or twelve hours a day, and work at night alternate fortnights, want to live near the mill. especially is this true of day laborers who work on repair gangs and cleaning-up work, and who may be called out at any time. this is as true of the mill towns, as of the working force of such a plant as painter's mill, in the heart of the city. on the other hand, the mill management wants these men there, for just such emergency calls. the rents in painter's row averaged $ . a room monthly,--cheaper by far than these laborers could secure accommodations from ordinary landlords in many other sections of pittsburgh; and that is a dominating consideration to a man with a family, earning $ . a day, or a single immigrant whose whole purpose in coming to america is to make money and who will stomach any personal ills to hold on to it. on the other hand, it must be borne in mind that these rents aggregated the company over $ , a year. such an item is a bagatelle in the balance sheet of the united states steel corporation; and it would be foolish to suppose that the rows were rented out to their employes as a money making scheme. they were rented out on easy terms to keep laborers within call at any hour of the day or night, and the fact that painter's mill is an old plant and likely to be abandoned, no doubt influenced the management in holding the housing property as it stood without rehabilitation. but the fact remains that these rentals amounted to a sum nearly sufficient to pay the whole taxes on the painter's mill property, mill, equipment, land and houses. [illustration: dark covered passage way through which women and children were obliged to go to reach pump in mill yard.] to-day, the situation in painter's row is very different. three rows of houses have been torn down, and radical improvements made to others. a variety of factors entered into this change and the story is worth the telling. the evolution of social consciousness is interesting, whether in an individual or a corporation. the initial factor in such a development may be one of several,--motives of self-interest, the weight of public opinion or the letting of light into dark places. motives of self-interest did not suffice to make the carnegie steel company a good landlord in the present instance. in other words, the company had not recognized it to be worth while as a business consideration to house its human machinery with a view of maintaining such machinery at its highest state of efficiency. its mills, with their equipment, were repaired and improved in order to increase the quality and quantity of their output. but common laborers were too easily replaced for an effort to be made to conserve their health or well-being by repairing or improving these houses in which they lived. if ten men fell out, ten more were ready to step in and fill their places. [illustration: painter's row to-day. privy and open drain. stagnant waste water, garbage, and mill building of the united states steel corporation.] but painter's row was not the only instance of bad housing in pittsburgh. other landlords were equally indifferent, and evil housing conditions were found all over the city. in march, a preliminary report on general housing conditions in pittsburgh was published by the pittsburgh survey. one paragraph dealt with conditions in painter's row. the fact that the responsibility for the situation there could be fixed directly upon one of the great corporations enhanced the value of the paragraph as a quotable news item, and _collier's weekly_ seized upon it as a text for an editorial. the editorial brought it under the eye of a new england stockholder whose new england conscience was stirred. his protest at the united states steel headquarters in new york brought from there a communication so favorable to the company that he felt justified in criticising the editors of _collier's_ for their apparently unwarranted statements; and they, in turn, called upon the survey to substantiate the quotation. in support of this paragraph, which was but a few lines long in the published report, the full details of how things stood at painter's row, as i have put them down here, were transmitted by the editors to the inquiring stockholder. he was aroused, convinced and in position to lodge another protest, this time with the facts behind it. light had been let in. meanwhile, pressure was brought to bear upon the owners of painter's row from a second quarter. the health authorities were insistent that all houses occupied by three or more families should be altered so as to conform to the requirements of the tenement house law, thus making mandatory the installation of sinks and water-closets in such houses. this also involved the cutting of windows in half a dozen gloomy cellar rooms in one building, in order to procure the required amount of light and ventilation, a structural change which would have so weakened the supporting walls of the building as to have rendered it unsafe. the windows were not cut, the sinks and closets were not installed; instead, the building was razed to the ground,--the best possible thing that could have happened. two other rows of two-family houses were also demolished. they were old, ramshackle, frame buildings, not worth repairing. last fall, i inspected painter's row for the second time. i found the noise as incessant, the smoke and dust as penetrating, as nine months before. the children were as grimy but they were fewer in number, for as a result of these changes the settlement had been reduced to twenty-eight families. when i reached the topmost row of houses on the hillside, my inspection partook of the nature of a triumphal progress. some of the tenants remembered me. gleefully they showed me their sinks with drinking water in every apartment, and told of the closets that had been installed in the basement. every fixture was clean and in perfect condition,--a refutation of the old argument that such people unaccustomed to these conveniences in the old country will not care for them when supplied. i found a like state of affairs in another building formerly occupied as a tenement, now housing but two families. here also sinks and inside water-closets had been installed. by so much, then, had life in painter's row been made more tolerable. two rows of one-family brick houses remained untouched. the families living in these houses continued to get along without drinking water on the premises and continued to use outside privy vaults; a few were occupying cellar kitchens. in one row, waste water and garbage were still emptied down wooden chutes leading to open drains through the yards. the result was odorous and unhealthy. much had been accomplished, something still remained to be done. the company which had gone beyond the requirement of the law in some things still fell short in others. sooner or later, the health authorities would force the removal of the privy vaults. the old pump had served painter's row loyally and well, and would continue to serve it as long as the bucket brigade moved back and forth between these remaining houses and the mill-yard for their water. sometimes a little child trudged along with a great pail half filled. again, it was the man of the family, tired after a hard day, who brought in the ration of water. in a way, that big, grimy pump with its old iron handle and primitive spoutings, summed up the painter's row situation,--of an industry of great mechanics who could overhaul an old plant and make it pay, but had not brought water a few paces up the hill, or dropped a sewer a few paces down to the river below that men and women and children might live like men and women and children. [illustration: the "hole in the wall."] [illustration] little jim park leroy scott author of to him that hath, etc. i had taken a car over to painter's mill and painter's row and got off at the farther end of the dingy, smoke-hung settlement. i went through and about the houses which the great carnegie company leases to its workers (with no trouble about collecting the rent, for that is taken from their wages),--houses so close to the mill, some even wall to wall with it, that they share almost equally with the mill its smoke and grime and clangor,--houses which had been as unsanitary and disease-breeding as any i have ever seen offered the poor even by hardened slum landlords. and then, after i had gone through the rows of houses, at the end of the settlement nearest pittsburgh, i came upon a sudden contrast. it was an open space, with a portion of it canopied, and over the canopy this black-lettered sign: * * * * * little jim park * * * * * it wasn't much of a park,--just a little bit of ground, in area hardly more than an average city lot, with a second-hand iron fence around it, with rough benches, a pavement of tan-bark and a few flowerbeds bordered with whitewashed bricks. a poor, pitiably insignificant little place,--yet startlingly pleasant when compared with its surroundings. on the one side, with a row of dreary houses between, rumbled and belched the mill; at its back was a littered waste; at its front, across the street, was a steep hill topped by the ramshackle houses of stewart's row, and this hill was muddy, stubbled over with lank dead weeds, gullied with foul-looking, foul-smelling streams of waste water and garbage. i entered the park, sat down beneath the canopy, and my imagination proceeded to explain how the park had been established. its name was a certain clue. "little jim park,"--that fairly reeked with ultra-sentimentality. some rich woman had been emotionally stirred by the stories of the cheerless life of tenement children,--the little jims and the little rosies; she had chanced to see how especially cheerless the life of the children of painter's row; she had established the park, and given it as title the more or less generic name by which tenement children are known to sentiment, "little jim." i had just credited the park to my lady bountiful,--had just finished with romance,--when realism sauntered into the park and took the other end of my bench. he was a working man, whose decent clothes and white collar told me this was his day off. his coat collar was turned up, his slouch hat pulled down. one jaw stood out with a quid of tobacco, and his face was deeply wrinkled. he was perhaps twenty-one. "won't you tell me," i asked, "who gave this park to painter's row?" he smiled good-naturedly at me. "who give it? nobody give it." "then how did you get it?" "we took it," said he. "took it! but the name,----?" "oh, we just took that, too." here was something new in the park-building line. i drew nearer. "i wish you'd tell me about it," i asked. "sure, i'll tell," said he, and i could detect pride in the park in both the young fellow's tone and manner. he tossed his quid down upon the tan-bark. "used to be a little old church standing here. little jim church they called it, queer name for a church, wasn't it? damned if i know why they named it that. for the last five or six years it wasn't used at all, and last spring it just collapsed. the hunkies come scramblin' over it and carried away all the wood to burn, and what was left was certainly a mess. "well, i don't know just who started the idea,--i guess it was john donohue and jim leary (they works around the rolls in the mill),--but pretty soon a lot of us guys had decided it would be great if we could clear up the place and make a park. so we started at the job, and when any of us was laid off over at the mill we was workin' here. the iron fence we got when they tore down part of painter's row,--it was just old junk you know; the bricks 'round the flower beds were some left over from buildin' a brewery down the street, we just helped ourselves to 'em; the arch over the gate we made out of an old pipe; the flag-pole there used to be a pump handle of a barge pump down on the river,--we swiped that; the ball on top of the flag-pole a carpenter give us. we chipped in and bought this tent, and we chipped in and bought a flag. the first one was whipped to pieces by the wind and we had to chip in and buy another before the summer was over. then we set out some flowers, splashed around with some paint and whitewash, and the park was done. the name of the church seemed sorter to belong to the place, so we called it 'little jim park.' "the park was what you might say opened on decoration day when the kids come in and sang and performed. it was a great place for the kids to play all summer, and a fine place for us to sit around of evenings and chin and sing. never had nothin' of the sort here before, you know. but the big show here at little jim park was old home week, when we had it all fixed up with buntin' and had it lit up of nights. i guess the park ain't much to look at just now, for the geraniums have all been took up, and the fellows are takin' care of 'em in their houses through the winter. but in summer, when the flowers are out, and things are fixed up, i tell you what little jim park looks mighty good to painter's row!" * * * * * somehow, when he had finished, this little park, a park _by_ the people, seemed to be a thousand fold more beautiful, a thousand fold more significant. it and the great mill stood there in striking contrast; the mill and the houses expressing the indifference of the company to its human machines, the park the spontaneous expression of a great native desire, though choked down by long hours and the general oppressive dinginess,--the up-reaching, outreaching desire of the people for light, for air, for natural happiness, for development. [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._ pittsburgh types. an old slav.] [illustration: _photograph by lewis w. hine._ wash-day in a homestead court.] the mill town courts and their lodgers margaret f. byington former district agent, boston associated charities from the cinder path beside a railroad that crosses the level part of homestead, you enter an alley, bordered on one side by stables and on the other by shabby two-story frame houses. the doors of the houses are closed, but dishpans and old clothes decorating their exterior, mark them as inhabited. you turn from the alley through a narrow passageway, and find yourself in a small court, on three sides of which are smoke-grimed houses, on the fourth, low stables. the open space teems with life and movement. children, dogs and hens make it lively under foot; overhead long lines of flapping clothes are to be dodged. a group of women stand gossiping in one corner waiting their turn at the pump,--this pump being one of the two sources of water supply for the twenty families who live here. another woman is dumping the contents of her washtubs upon the paved ground, and the greasy, soapy water runs into an open drain a few feet from the pump. in the center of the court, a circular wooden building with ten compartments opening into one vault, flushed only by this waste water, constitutes the toilet facilities for over a hundred people. for the sixty-three rooms in the houses about the court shelter a group of twenty families, polish, slavic, and hungarian, jewish and even negro; and twenty-seven little children find in this crowded brick-paved space their only playground. the cinder path has led us to the heart of the sanitary evils of the steel town. for this court typifies those conditions which result when there crowd in upon an industrial district, hundreds of unskilled immigrant laborers, largely single men, largely country people, who want a place to sleep for the least possible cash. most of the petty local landlords who provide quarters care nothing for the condition of their places, and regard the wages of these transients as legitimate spoils. to determine the extent of such congestion, i made a study of the twenty-one courts in the second ward of homestead, where yards, toilets, and water supply are used in common. in these courts lived families, of whom took lodgers. even of those who lived in two-room tenements, a half took lodgers. fifty-one families, including sometimes four or five people, lived in one-room tenements. one-half the families used their kitchens as sleeping rooms. only three houses had running water inside, and in at least three instances over people were dependent on one yard-hydrant for water. these are but fragmentary indications, but the situation seemed serious enough to warrant an intensive study, with the help of an interpreter, of these courts. the background of life in this section is a gloomy one. the level land forming the second ward, cut off from the river by the mill and from the country by the steep hill behind, forms a pocket where the smoke settles heavily. here, on the original site of the town, gardens as well as alleys have been utilized for building small frame houses. the space is nearly covered. in some instances these houses are built in haphazard fashion on the lots; more often they surround a court, such as i have described. though they vary in character, these groups usually consist of four or six two-story houses facing the street and a similar number facing the alley. between these rows is a small court connected with the street by a narrow passage. fifty-eight per cent of the houses have only four rooms, and only four have more than six. the former class usually shelters two families, one having the two rooms on the street and the other the two on the court. in summer, to give some through ventilation to the stifling rooms, doors leading to the stairway between the front and rear rooms are left open. as the families are often friends and fellow countrymen, this opportunity for friendly intercourse is not unwelcome. indeed, the cheerful gossip that enlivens wash day, like the card-playing in the court on a summer evening, suggests the friendliness of village days. nothing in the surroundings of these festivities, however, bears out the suggestion. accumulations of rubbish and broken brick pavements, render the courts as a whole untidy and unwholesome. some of the houses have little porches that might give a sense of homelikeness, but for the most part they are bare and dingy. as they are built close to the street with only this busy court behind, the owner can hardly have that bit of garden so dear to the heart of former country dwellers. only, here and there, a little bed of lettuce with its note of delicate green or the vivid red of a geranium blossom brightens the monotony. dreary as is the exterior, however, the greatest evils to the dwellers in the court arise from other things, from inadequate water supply, from meager toilet facilities, from overcrowding. the conditions as to water supply are very serious. in all the twenty-one courts only three families had running water in their houses, and even the hydrants in the courts were not for individual families. in no court were fewer than five families using one hydrant or pump, while in exceptional instances there were as many as nineteen, twenty and twenty-one families. as waste water pipes are also wanting in the houses, the heavy tubs of water must be carried out as well as in. in this smoky town a double amount of washing and cleaning must be done. the wash is a heavy one, and when the weather permits, it is done in the yard. this addition of tubs, wringers, clothes baskets, and soapy water on the pavement to the already populous court makes it no very serviceable playground for children. the toilet accommodations, while possibly more adequate than the water supply, are unsatisfactory in consequence of the lack of running water. there is not a single indoor closet in any of these courts. the streets of homestead all have sewers, and by a borough ordinance, even the outside vaults must be connected with them. these are, however, ordinarily flushed only by the waste water, which flows from the yards directly into them; when conditions become intolerable, the tenants wash them out with a hose attached to the hydrant. as long as they are in the yards, this totally inadequate device is apparently the only one possible. the closets, moreover, which are usually in the center of the courts only a few yards from the kitchen doors, create from the point of view either of sanitation or decency an intolerable condition. while occasionally three or four families must use one compartment, usually only two families need do so. but even this means that often they are not locked and that no one has a special sense of responsibility, in consequence of which they are frequently filthy. it is not perhaps surprising that this state of affairs is tolerated by people who have lived on farms and were used to meager toilet facilities; but the discomfort and danger here are infinitely greater than in the country, and here the conditions are remediable. the overcrowding within the houses shown by the accompanying chart makes the water and toilet conditions more unendurable. half the families who do not take lodgers and eighty-five per cent of those who do, average more than two persons to the room,--a number indicative, generally, of conditions which do not permit moral or physical well being. families classified as to average number of persons per room. number of persons per room plus families without lodgers, total, . percentage . . . . . with lodgers, total , percentage . . . . . let us consider first the causes of such congestion in so small a town, next its nature and results, and finally the possibility of improvement. three factors are involved in producing this state of affairs, the growth of the mill and town, the low wage of the laborer, and his ambition. the mill has developed fast, and in spite of improved machinery has rapidly increased the number of its employes. in , at the time of the strike, , men were employed; now nearly , , exclusive of the clerical force. moreover at each addition to the size of the mill, homes are destroyed to give it place. and further, the steep slopes of a hill hinder the growth of the town. although suburbs are gradually building beyond this hill, car-fare is an item to be considered when a man earns $ . a day, and as there have not been, except during the hard times of , a sufficient number of cheap houses for rent, the people accustomed to small quarters have crowded together along these alleys. the lowest paid workingmen are naturally the ones that inhabit them. of men, eighty-eight per cent were unskilled workers receiving less than two dollars a day. this figure is usual among the slavs, since of the , employed in the mill, eighty-five per cent are unskilled. that the greatest overcrowding is in the families taking lodgers, shows a general tendency to economize in this way rather than by crowding the family into too small a tenement. the three dollars a month which the lodgers pay for their room might seem a small return for the labor and loss of privacy of home life; but in more than three-quarters of the families taking lodgers the income from them covered the rent, while in one-fifth of the families it was twice the rent or even more. this tendency to economize even at the loss of home life, induced primarily by low wages, has a further cause in the ambition of the slavs to own a home in a better locality, or to buy a bit of property in the old country to which they may some day return. again and again in explaining why they took lodgers these excuses were given, "saving to educate the children", "the father does not earn enough to support the family", "taking boarders in order to start a bank account". thrift, it would seem, is not a virtue to be recommended indiscriminately. figures as to overcrowding are in themselves but a lifeless display; when you see them exemplified in individual homes they become terribly significant. i entered one morning a two-room tenement,--the kitchen, perhaps twelve by fifteen feet, was steaming with vapor from a big washtub on a chair in the middle of the room. here the mother was trying to wash, and at the same time to keep the elder of her two babies from going into a tub full of boiling water standing on the floor. on one side of the room was a huge, puffy bed, one feather tick to sleep on and another for covering; near the window a sewing machine, in the corner an organ,--all these besides the inevitable cook stove whereon in the place of honor was cooking the evening's soup. asleep upstairs in the second room were one boarder and the man of the house. the two other boarders were at work. can you picture the effect on the mother of such a home, the overwork for her, the brief possibility of rest when the babies come? yet it is even more disastrous to the children. and, as appears in the accompanying chart, many of the families who take boarders are families with children. with lodgers without lodgers no children families families xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxxx xxxx the situation brings serious results both to the health and the character of the children. the overworked mother has neither time nor patience for their care and training. as half of the families use the kitchen for sleeping, there is a close mingling of the lodgers with the family which endangers the children's morals. in only four instances were girls over fourteen found in the families taking lodgers, but even the younger children learn evil quickly from the free spoken men. one man in a position to know the situation intimately, spoke of the appalling familiarity with vice among the children in these families. a priest told me that he preached to the women against this way of saving money, but as long as wages are low and the good ambition to own a home or have a bank account can find no other way of fulfilling itself, it is difficult to persuade them to give it up. the crowding and other ills have also serious physical consequences. the birth rate and the deaths of children under two, show that while among the slavs in the second ward a child died for every three that were born, among the other population of homestead one died for every six that were born. against many of these deaths was the entry "malnutrition due to poor food and overcrowding." sadder still is the case of those wailing babies who do survive and begin life with an under-vitalized system ready for both the disease and the dissipation that attend weak bodies and wills. outside of the crowded tenement rooms where are the many children to play? in investigating the conditions in one narrow court, i opened a door into a low shed where the entrails of a chicken lay on the floor. it was foul and dark and i turned away in disgust, but the bright little boy beside me piped up cheerily, "oh that's our gypsy cave." a sorry region, surely, for a child's imagination to rove! [illustration: _photograph by lewis w. hine._ evening scene in a homestead court.] [illustration: _photograph by lewis w. hine._ slavic court, homestead. showing typical toilet and water supply; also a few of the boarders in these houses.] the congestion in homestead must be considered not only from the standpoint of the family and the child, however, but of the single man. his problem is no small one. in the figures for the mill we find that . per cent of the total number of slavs are unmarried. this large group, in the period before they send back for a wife or sweetheart, must find some sort of a home. while some are scattered in families and create the lodging problem we have been considering, others live in groups over which a "boarding boss" presides. in west homestead, for example, in about twenty houses there were three hundred bulgarians, among whom at the time of the depression there were only three women. these scattered houses hidden away on the outskirts of the town housed a group of happy, industrious men, all ambitious to hoard their money and return to the old country as men of property. they cared little how they lived so long as they lived cheaply. one of these homes consisted of two rooms one above the other, each perhaps twelve by twenty feet. in the kitchen i saw the wife of the boarding boss getting dinner, some sort of hot apple cake and a stew of the cheapest cuts of meat. along one side of the room was an oilcloth covered table with a plank bench on each side, and above a long row of handleless white cups in a rack, and a shelf with tin knives and forks on it. near the up-to-date range, the only real piece of furniture in the room, hung the "buckets" in which all mill men carry their noon or midnight meal. a crowd of men were lounging cheerfully about talking, smoking and enjoying life, making the most of the leisure enforced by the shutdown in the mill. in the room above, double iron bedsteads were set close together and on them comfortables were neatly laid. here besides the "boarding boss" and his wife and two babies, lived twenty men. the boss, himself, was a stalwart bulgarian who had come to this country several years ago, and by running this house besides working in the mill, had accumulated a good deal of money. the financial arrangements of such an establishment are simple. the boarding boss runs the house, and the men pay him three dollars a month for a place to sleep, for having their clothes washed, and their food cooked. in addition an account is kept of the food purchased, and the total is divided among the men at each pay day. the housewife purchases and cooks what special food each man chooses to order: beef, pork, lamb, each with a tag of some sort labeling the order, and all frying together. a separate statement is kept of these expenses for each boarder. such an account for a group of men in a small slavic household may prove of interest. the family (which consisted of a man, his wife, his brother, and three children, eleven, eight, one, and four boarders), occupied a house of four rooms, one of them dark, for which they paid a rent of fourteen dollars. the man, though he had been in this country about twelve years, was still earning only $ . a week with which to meet the needs of his growing family. one-half the cost of the food was paid by the boarders including the brother, amounting for each man to about $ . a week. for the whole family, the expenditure was as follows: flour and bread, $ . ; vegetables, $ . ; fruit, $. ; milk, eggs, etc., $ . ; sugar, $. ; sundries, $. ; meat, $ . ; a total of $ . . besides this the boarders ordered "extras," and the following table for a month expresses the men's individual likings: expenses for the month. _pamhay._ _baker._ _drobry._ _pilich._ _timko._ beef . . . pork . . . . . veal . eggs . . milk . . cheese . . . . fuel . . . ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- total $ . $ . $ . $ . $ . this made the average total expenditure about $ . a month for each man. adding $ a month for room and washing, the total expense each is about $ . these men make from $ . to $ a week. it is obvious therefore that a large margin remains for saving or indulgence, after clothes are provided. they are thus able if they will to send for wife and children, to fulfill their duties to aged parents, or to provide for their own future. while this program is an economical one, it by no means furnishes to this great group of homeless foreigners a normal life. though some expect to return and others to send for their families when they have made their fortunes, all for the time being are in a strange country with neither the pleasures nor restraints of home life. to those who have no family at home or no desire to save, the temptation to spend money carelessly is great. unfortunately the saloons get a large tribute. on pay saturday, the household usually clubs together to buy a case of beer and drink it at home. these ordinarily jovial gatherings are sometimes interrupted by fights, and the police have to be called in. one officer, who had been on the force for nine years, said that while in general these men were a good-natured, easy-going crowd, and in all his experience he had never arrested a sober "hunkie," when they were drunk there was trouble. the punishment usually inflicted for their disorderly conduct is of course, a small fine, which has little or no effect. it is indeed currently said that the bigger the fine the better they like it, as they feel that it indicates increased importance. [illustration: a contrast--i. _photograph by lewis w. hine._ close quarters. one room and three in the family.] it is not surprising that excesses exist in a town which offers so little opportunity for wholesome recreation, and whose leaders have failed to realize any obligation toward the newcomers. the carnegie library represents the only considerable effort to reach them. the clubs are open to the slavs. aside from a class in english, however, they are not adapted to non-english speaking people. even the slavic books which the library bought for their benefit are seldom used. i found that a number of the influential slavs in homestead did not know that these books were in the library; therefore i judge that one reason why they are not used is a lack of proper advertising. that the building is on the hill away from their homes, that it has an imposing entrance which makes the working man hesitate to enter, and that certain forms must be gone through before books can be secured, or the club joined,--these things have doubtless acted as deterrent influences. however desirous the management of the library may be to reach them, the slav's ignorance of our language and customs will keep many from ever getting inside. if a library is really to reach the foreign population, it must not wait for them to come to it; it must go to them. a simple reading room opening right into the courts where the people live, where they could drop in after the day's work, find newspapers and books in their own tongue, and where the americanized slav could reach his newly-come brethren, teaching them both english and citizenship, would become an important center of influence. for though these people are in many respects aliens, they are not unwilling to accept american standards. the quickness, for example, with which the women adopt our dress, reveals an adaptability which might find expression in more important ways. that they are glad when they can afford it, to have really attractive homes, is shown by these pictures. they are the homes of two families from the same place in the old country, one a newcomer, the other one of the "oldest inhabitants" of the slavic community. [illustration: a contrast--ii. _photograph by lewis w. hine._ interior of house of well-to-do slavic family.] in the first instance, as the man earns but $ . a week, rent must be kept low if other bills are to be paid and a little provision made for the future. it is hard enough in a one-room tenement, though the furniture includes only absolute necessities, to keep all one's crowded belongings in order. on wash day morning, when this picture was taken, there are extra complications. on the whole, therefore, the home will be seen to be as neat as circumstances permit. the bright pictures on the wall manifest a desire to make it attractive. the other picture, a "front room" with its leather covered furniture, is in a five-roomed house which the family owns. the vivid-colored sacred pictures relieve the severity of the room; and they reveal a dominant note of slavic life, for if happiness is to stay with the family, the priest must come yearly to "bless the home." the family who came many years ago, has by slow thrift accumulated the means to obtain this house. and though the mother, who is now a widow, still takes boarders, the family has in general the standards of americans. this instance i introduce because it is well to recognize that low standards are not necessarily permanent. when slavs do buy their homes, the size and attractiveness of them indicates that the unsanitary surroundings and crowded quarters of early days were simply tolerated until the ambition could be attained. with a house on the outskirts of the town, a garden about it, and a glimpse of the larger out-of-doors, they begin to feel that the dreams of their emigration have come true. only the few however have fulfilled the dreams and it is back in the squalid courts that we find the typical problems of every industrial center that has felt the tide of immigration. the homestead community has so far shown a general indifference to the problems which its industry creates. the mill demands strong, cheap labor, but concerns itself little whether that labor is provided with living conditions that will maintain its efficiency or secure the efficiency of the next generation. the housing situation is in the hands of men actuated only by a greed of profit. the community, on the other hand though realizing the situation, does not take its responsibility for the aliens in its midst with sufficient seriousness to attempt to limit the power of these landlords. the slavs themselves, moreover, are people used to the limitations of country life, and are ignorant of the evil effects of transferring the small rooms, the overcrowding, the insufficient sanitary provisions which are possible with all outdoors about them, to these crowded courts under the shadow of the mill. and, as we said, their ambition to save and buy property, here or in the old country, is a further incentive to overcrowding. summing up the results of the indifference of the community and the ignorance and ambition of the slavs, we find a high infant death rate, an acquaintance with vice among little children, intolerable sanitary conditions, a low standard of living, a failure of the community to assimilate the new race. as we waited in one of the little railroad stations of homestead, a slovak came in and sat down beside a woman with a two year old child. he made shy advances to the baby, coaxing her in a voice of heartbreaking loneliness. she would not come to him, and finally her mother took her away. as they went, the slovak turned sadly to the rest of the company, taking us all into his confidence, and said simply, "me wife, me babe, hungar." but were his family in america, it would mean death for one baby in three; it would mean hard work in a little, dirty, unsanitary house for the mother; it would mean sickness and evil. with them in hungary, it means for him isolation, and loneliness, and the abnormal life of the crowded lodging house. [illustration: _photograph by lewis w. hine._ buch alley. showing conditions in the unpaved alleys.] [illustration: [these silhouettes represent deaths in from typhoid fever in pittsburgh.]] thirty-five years of typhoid the fever's economic cost to pittsburgh and the long fight for pure water frank e. wing associate director pittsburgh survey; superintendent chicago tuberculosis institute one convincing and startling feature of the pittsburgh civic exhibit in november was a frieze of small silhouettes three inches apart stretching in line around both ends and one side of the large hall in carnegie institute in which the exhibit of the pittsburgh survey was installed. the frieze was over feet in length, and the figures were distributed in correct proportion by age and sex. they represented six hundred and twenty-two persons in all, the death-toll from typhoid fever in pittsburgh during the year . accompanying this frieze, placed prominently over the doors where everyone could read them, were duplicates of the following sign in large display letters: * * * * * if the death rate had been per , , still considerably greater than that in albany, ann arbor, ansonia, atlantic city, binghamton, boston, bridgeport, brockton, cambridge, canton, detroit, fall river, hartford, jersey city, lawrence, lowell, milwaukee, new york, rochester, st. paul, springfield, syracuse, worcester, and a score of other cities having a fairly pure water supply, but _ _ of these persons would have died and the line would _be only / as long_. _who is responsible for this sacrifice?_ * * * * * and next to this placard was another sign, showing in comparative columns the amount of typhoid fever in pittsburgh during the four months that had elapsed since the opening of a great municipal filtration plant, compared with the amount for the same months of the previous year; for example ninety-six cases in october, , as against in october, . the typhoid problem in pittsburgh in its larger cause has always been a water problem; in its consequences it has become one of the city's biggest social and economic problems; in its solution, it has been tied up with all the politics of a boss-ridden city. the story of filtration is the story of the navigation of an unwieldy craft through a tempestuous channel. buffeted by cross winds of public opinion, its sails battered and torn by squalls of commercial opposition and abuse, guided now to the right and now to the left by frequently changing pilots, a plaything for the waves of councils, its booty coveted by buccaneers of each political faction, filtration and its freightage of health (or contracts) has been a prize over which the elements in the municipal life of pittsburgh have battled hard and long. the docking of this craft in safety and security is one of pittsburgh's greatest civic achievements; its protracted passage is her most enduring disgrace. in handling the question of typhoid in pittsburgh, we must then, deal with three distinct themes: water, economics, and politics. [illustration: silhouettes are not here classified as to age, sex and occupation.] [illustration] i.--water. the menace. the publicly supplied drink of pittsburgh has been river water and whatever that river water contained. prior to the opening of the new filtration plant last summer, that part of the city known as "old pittsburgh," comprising the first twenty-three[ ] wards, received its water supply from cribs in the bed of the allegheny river at brilliant station, about seven miles above the city. water taken from these cribs (and since from an artificial channel of sheet piling along the shore) was pumped into reservoirs on herron hill and highland park, and then turned unfiltered into the water mains for distribution to the shops and residences throughout the city. [ ] ward numbers in this article refer to the existing or old notations. a new ward system has just been adopted. [illustration] with the exception of two or three wards, which receive a company supply of filtered water, that part of the city known as the south side, comprising wards twenty-four to thirty-six, and ward forty-three, formerly the borough of sheraden, receives its water from the monongahela direct, and from the ohio direct, just below the junction of the monongahela and the allegheny. the former city of allegheny, the present north side, was supplied directly from the allegheny river from two sources; first from the allegheny at a point near montrose, about eleven miles up the river, and second from another point on the allegheny near sixteenth street. this latter source of supply was discontinued on march , . [illustration: the new filtration basins.] [illustration] [illustration] the allegheny and the monongahela rivers are turbid at all times, and after a rain or in the spring, so muddy that a platinum wire cannot be seen more than a quarter of an inch from the surface. in addition to this, investigations have shown that the rivers commonly carry in solution the soluble chemical products of the mills along their shores,--organic and inorganic, acid and alkali; oils, fats, and other carbon compounds; dead animals,--rats, cats and dogs; flesh-disintegrated and putrescent; as well as the offscourings of iron and steel mills, tanneries and slaughter houses, and similar industries. but this is not all. seventy-five up-river towns,--with an estimated population of , inhabitants,--in the allegheny or tributary valleys; and in the monongahela a long string of towns, swissvale, homestead, braddock, rankin and mckeesport, all furnish their supply of common sewage as a further contamination of the already dirty water with its long list of disease-breeding bacteria. these conditions have existed since pittsburgh came into prominence as an industrial center. typhoid has been endemic. the duration of this "plague" in pittsburgh, unbelievable though its sufferance may appear in view of the facts already given, is a matter of history and record. for thirty-five years, up to the beginning of , the city was in the grip of a scourge which has been in the words of the most recent treatise on typhoid[ ], "one of the black records in the sanitary history of our country." here and there clamorous, indignant voices were raised against it; but public sentiment had become so callous that it only spasmodically and halfheartedly demanded the carrying into operation of a tardy system of filtration. in the meantime, those who could not afford to buy distilled or spring water, continued to drink this filth. [ ] whipple, typhoid fever, p. . [illustration] with what result? for the last twenty-five years, an average death rate of . per , population; since never below ; for the last nine years an average of ; and last year, the year of the completion of pittsburgh's filtration plant, . deaths and , cases for every , inhabitants. a black record this, in the face of uncontrovertible evidence from other cities, both in this country and abroad, that the purification of the water supply should blot out at least seven-ninths of the typhoid fever. in contrast with pittsburgh's high mortality, the average for other large american and european cities since may be seen from the following list: pittsburgh . allegheny . washington . philadelphia . baltimore . san francisco . st. louis . chicago . boston . new york . paris . london . vienna . berlin . the very even distribution of typhoid in pittsburgh,--another indication pointing to infected water as the chief cause,--is seen in the map on page , on which each dot represents a case of typhoid within the year,--july , , to june , , the period covered by the main part of this study. the second map shows the relative mortality, by wards, for the same period. the following chart shows the relative rise and fall from year to year in cases and deaths during the past twenty-five years, and is based on estimates of population provided by the united states census bureau. the morbidity figures are taken from the united states census prior to , and from the pittsburgh bureau of health records following that year. [illustration] previous to very little attempt was made to compel physicians to report typhoid cases to the pittsburgh bureau of health; hence no reliable morbidity records are available up to that time. but in the year an ordinance was passed requiring such reports to be made. it is very certain that several years elapsed before a majority of the cases was actually reported, and even at the present time, in spite of prosecutions and a more enlightened sentiment, many cases never reach the bureau. yet the number of cases actually reported in pittsburgh proper, since , reaches the astounding total of , . in other words, within the past twenty-five years, one person to every six of the total population has had an attack of typhoid fever. [illustration: typhoid fever cases and deaths per , population in pittsburgh from to ] but even more telling in its significance is the fact that out of these , reported cases, , , or . per cent died as a result of their illness. over eight thousand men, women and children were sacrificed here in pittsburgh in the last twenty-five years to a disease known by modern science to depend for its very existence upon lax methods of handling food, drink and waste. over eight thousand graves have been dug, half of them ( , ) since february , , more than nine years ago, when the report of pittsburgh's filtration commission, advising the necessity of a pure water supply, was placed in the hands of the pittsburgh councils. in life, these eight thousand people, standing single file, four feet apart, would form a line six and one-sixth miles long, extending from the court house in a straight line to the filtration plant; or from the point bridge down the ohio as far as the borough of emsworth. [illustration] ii.--the cost. in order to establish a sure ground for estimate as to the economic drain of this disease upon this community, a concrete study of the cost of typhoid in six selected wards of greater pittsburgh was undertaken by the pittsburgh survey. the sections of the city chosen are fairly representative of living conditions among the wage-earning population. wards and , in what is commonly known as the hill district, represent a congested quarter made up largely of russian jews, austrians and italians, with a considerable number of americans and american negroes. the residents of these two wards are chiefly employes of the small trades and the sweating and stogie industries, clerks, factory hands, common laborers, etc., who are rather below the average scale of earning capacity. they number about , for the two wards and among them there were forty-four per cent of the cases studied. wards , and are on the south side. their total population is about , ; mill hands, mostly of slavic origin, occupy those parts of these wards bordering the monongahela river, and a better-off class of americans occupy the hilltops overlooking the river. the wards would, therefore, represent a rather uneven population, as based on nationality or wage scale, but were not a large factor in this study, as only eight per cent of the cases covered were found in these wards. [illustration] [illustration: pittsburgh distribution by wards of typhoid fever cases july , to june , same period as that of study of economic cost in wards , , , , and ] [illustration: pittsburgh. typhoid fever death rate per , by wards from july st, to june th, ~note:~ wards , & were not incorporated at time of study.] [illustration] ward , the other section selected, is in area one of the largest in the city, lying to the east in what is known as the homewood district. the population of this ward is about , , living mostly in good homes, with occasional poorer dwellings along the railroad and in some of the "runs." in the main, they represent a high wage or small salaried class. from this section, the other half of the cases studied, about forty-eight per cent was taken. the period covered by the investigation was one year, beginning july , , and ending june , . the field work was done by miss anna b. heldman, visiting nurse of the columbian school settlement, whose personal acquaintance with many of the families of the hill district, and whose six or eight years' experience in caring for typhoid patients in this same neighborhood, enabled her to secure in detail many facts that might have escaped a person less familiar with the district or the families concerned. an analysis of the cases thus studied, shows that there were either reported to the pittsburgh bureau of health, or known to the investigator, but not reported, cases of typhoid fever in wards and , in wards , , and , and in ward --a total of , in these six wards within the one year studied. these cases occurred in families. miss heldman, five months after the close of this year period, was able to locate but of these families, the remainder having either moved out of the state, or been lost track of by people living in the neighborhood. there were , individuals in these families, or an average of . persons per family. of this number, individuals, or per cent had typhoid fever within the year. out of these cases, there were deaths and recoveries, an exceptionally low percentage of deaths to cases. [illustration: line representing , people who have died from typhoid fever in pittsburgh since report of filtration commission in advising necessity of pure water. standing in marching order, single file, four feet apart, they would make a procession six miles long.] of the patients, were wage earners, contributing all or part of their earnings to the family income. as a result of their illness, these wage earners lost , weeks' work, or . years. this averaged over ten weeks per patient, and represented an actual loss in wages of $ , . . in addition, other wage earners lost weeks' work while caring for patients, thereby losing $ , . in wages, and bringing the total of wages lost to $ , . . [illustration] the other large item of cost is that of expense for care and treatment of patients. ninety cases were treated in hospitals for all or part of the time, as pay patients, half-charity, or full-charity cases. to meet these hospital expenses, $ , . was paid to hospitals by full-pay patients themselves, and $ , . was paid the hospitals by either individuals or charitable organizations for the care of half-pay patients, making the total cost of caring for hospital patients $ , . . this is an understatement, because it omits the contribution of the hospitals themselves to the care of half-charity and full-charity patients. if figures were available, there should be added the amount represented by the difference in the money paid to hospitals and the actual cost of maintenance, presumably another $ , .[ ] [ ] out of the cases studied, twenty-four of the ninety cases treated in hospitals were as full charity patients and sixteen were taken as half charity cases; of the cases treated at home, fifty received outside aid and ninety-six were compelled to incur a debt for all of their expenses, with no immediate prospects of being able to repay it. moreover, many received sick benefits and others were a direct drain on the business interests of the city from the fact that their employers kept them on their pay-rolls during sickness, at half pay. the expenses of the remaining patients cared for in their homes amounted to $ , . for doctors' bills, $ , . for nurses, $ , . for medicines and drugs; $ , . for milk, $ . for ice, $ . for servants made necessary by the illness of those naturally caring for the home, and $ , . for other expenses, of which the largest single item was the cost of a trip to colorado and return at the doctor's orders, for a patient threatened with tuberculosis. the total of these expenses was $ , . . [illustration] the funeral expenses of the patients who died, amounted to $ , . . it may be argued that sooner or later funeral expenses must inevitably be met, and that they should not, therefore, be charged against this account. under the circumstances, however, these expenses were premature, and were directly chargeable to typhoid fever. consequently, it has seemed fair from the point of view of this study, to include them. the grand total loss in wages and in expenses thus outlined was $ , . . further analysis shows that the average loss in wages per patient among the wage earners was $ ; that the average cost per patient in loss of wages and expenses for the patients was $ ; and that the average cost in loss of wages and expenses for each typhoid death among the cases was $ , . consider the losses in these wards in their bearing upon the city as a whole. there were , cases of typhoid fever in greater pittsburgh in . if the cost to each patient was $ , typhoid fever cost the city that year $ , in expenses and loss of wages alone. there were deaths from typhoid fever in greater pittsburgh during the same period. if we put the value of these lives lost at so low a figure as $ , , an additional loss of $ , , was sustained. or in round numbers $ , , was the minimum economic loss to the community of greater pittsburgh, due to typhoid fever alone in the year . this is a conservative estimate, in view of recent values placed on deaths from tuberculosis.[ ] the two and a half million dollar death item might be doubled without overstating the case. [ ] prof. irving fisher, of yale, in a paper read at the international congress on tuberculosis in washington last october, held that "the money cost of tuberculosis, including capitalized earning power lost by death, exceeds $ , per death." the average "expectation of life" lost through death from typhoid fever is not greatly different from that of tuberculosis. [illustration] when it is considered that typhoid fever has been almost constantly prevalent within the city limits, with practically no abatement, for the past thirty-five years, it requires only a little applied mathematics to calculate the probable enormity of the money loss to the community, through the ravages of this disease alone, year after year. was it not time for it to stop? in the face of over a $ , , loss last year, $ , , was not more than the city could afford to pay for the filtration plant that is purifying the drinking water. nor was it extravagance for the mayor and city councils to grant the superintendent of the bureau of health an increased staff of tenement house and milk inspectors, to make it possible to clean up other sources of infection, and hasten the time when typhoid fever in pittsburgh shall constitute a no greater menace than in any other well-kept american city. * * * * * i have used the term "economic cost" of typhoid fever with reference to pittsburgh families. the mere phrase carries with it no knowledge of all those family readjustments and inconveniences, the distress of mind and unalloyed misery that must be considered before we can form any adequate idea of what such sickness holds for a wage earning population. were it necessary to measure the result of typhoid fever only in cold cash, it would be a relatively easy task. in the first place there are the thousand and one makeshifts and re-establishments that must be reckoned with in order to get a clear idea of what typhoid means to those poorer families, where, without the invasion of sickness, the business of getting bread is a constant struggle. in a family consisting of a man, wife and three children, the sixteen year old daughter, who had not been very strong, contracted typhoid. at the end of sixteen weeks in bed and thirty-two weeks out of work, she had developed a marked case of tuberculosis. not being strong enough to go back to her former employment, she secured work in a bakery where she was subsequently seen coughing as she wrapped up bread for customers. the father of this girl, during her sickness, was keeping six cows on the premises and selling milk to customers living in the neighborhood. [illustration] the twenty-year-old wife of a hungarian laborer had a six weeks' old baby when she came down with a slow case of the fever. she remained at home for a week with no one but herself to do the work and care for the baby. the husband, who did not realize the cause of her weakness, gave her a beating each day when he came home, because he thought her lazy. he made her carry up coal for the fires until she became so delirious that he could not keep her in the house. she was then sent to a hospital and the baby given to friends. the woman died in a week and the baby two weeks later. a family of five, consisting of father, mother and three little children, cooked, ate and slept in one uncurtained room. the mother and four year old girl were taken sick at the same time. the girl occupied an arbuckle coffee box, with a pillow and pillow-case for a mattress, and the man's overcoat was her only covering. the mother slept in the only bed, furnished with a mattress and one small comforter, and shared it at night with the father, the baby and their six year old girl, who lay across the foot of the bed. the girl was in danger of contracting pneumonia from exposure. a family of seven occupied a store and kitchen on the first floor and two rooms upstairs. a small bedroom was the only one which had a fireplace; and the entire family slept there; the mother (who had typhoid), in the only bed, and the father and five children in a row on the floor. in another family, the six year old boy had the fever, and was found lying on an improvised bed, his little dog tied beside him. the mother had rested the ends of two boards in a china closet at one end of the kitchen, and on a chair at the other, so that she might care for the patient, do the cooking and attend to the baby at the same time. by this make-shift, the father was able to keep at his work. [illustration] one family, consisting of father, mother and five children, managed ordinarily with a bed for the parents, a child's bed for the eight year old girl, a two-third size bed for the eighteen and sixteen year old daughters, and a cot for the fourteen year and ten year old sons, one sleeping at each end. first the mother and one of the boys were taken sick, and during the early part of their illness, no one was disturbed. but within a month, and before the first two patients got well, the four other children came down with typhoid, making six in the family sick together. then the father slept on the floor and the sick mother got out of her bed to give place to two of the children, she, herself, sleeping at the foot of the bed until one of the children became delirious. after that she moved to the foot of the two-thirds bed. in the day time she had no place to lie down, and sat all day in a chair until she became so weak that she could hardly walk. occasionally she helped her husband who did the cooking and cared for the patients, by paring potatoes and doing other small work about the kitchen. no one had time to keep the kitchen sink clean, and the accumulation of vegetable matter became so filthy that it had to be reported to the bureau of health. with family income cut off, and with nothing saved, the family would have been penniless had it not been that the doctor made his bill moderate; the family was trusted for groceries, milk and ice; friends gave about twenty dollars in cash, and columbian settlement furnished bedding and the services of a visiting nurse. the mother did not fully recover for about six months. the father, who suffered a good deal from loss of sleep and exposure while caring for the patients, contracted a cold. this developed into a serious case of asthma from which he died. [illustration] to these and many similar families there were more serious results than the debts incurred. a school girl's unrecovered health, a stogie roller's reduced speed, a blacksmith's and a tailor's loss of strength, a case of tuberculosis developed, a boy become a truant, a family broken up and deserted, a baby's death,--all are of tremendous concern as items in the annual wear and tear of the city's potential resources. they are items of "economic cost" that cannot be handled by the statistical method. they are, after all, the real human finger marks that typhoid leaves when its clutches are loosened. * * * * * such a showing, then, of actual economic and personal loss as this study of six pittsburgh wards brought out, is offered as a final leverage to those who in other american cities may be endeavoring to dislodge inertia and clear their water supplies. this investigation of typhoid fever, however, as it was found in the households of the wage earners of pittsburgh, had its immediate practical bearings. the sanitary facts it brought out showed unequivocally the necessity for ridding the city of other sources of infection at the same time that the water supply was cleared. there was evidence that many of the after cases in the families studied, were due to conditions existing entirely apart from the water. reports on housing conditions in pittsburgh show that a favorable laboratory for the growth and dispersal of germs exists in the city's unsanitary dwellings. insufficient water supply renders cleanliness almost impossible. overcrowding means increased possibilities of infection through contact with food and drink in the combined family kitchen, pantry, dining-room, and bedroom. pittsburgh's thousands of open privy vaults afford ideal conditions for the spread of disease by flies and other insects, and by personal contact. such plague spots as saw mill run, with its string of double-and triple-decker rear privy vaults discharging on the banks of a stream which are flushed off only when the water rises after a rain, afford further examples, deplorable and disgusting. [illustration] how much of the pittsburgh typhoid has been due to direct contagion from such conditions as these, can only be inferred at the present writing. in line with the general question of contagion, and secondary cause, however, our data afford some clews. they show that in forty of the families studied, the first case was followed in from ten days to one or two months by other cases, seventy-six cases in all, in addition to the original forty. it shows further that in at least eighteen of these families, one or more of the following conditions existed: family crowded into one or two rooms; home dirty and poorly kept; the person who cared for the patient also doing the family cooking; well and sick members of the family sleeping in the same room and often in the same bed; privy vaults in exceedingly bad condition, and often stopped up and overflowing with filth. in one family, consisting of man, wife, four children and three lodgers, crowded into two dirty rooms, a three year old boy was taken sick in october. the mother did the family cooking and cared for the patient. the cesspool in the yard which was in bad condition was used by two families. another member of the family became ill november , and the mother came down on december . there were seven cases in this one courtyard within the year. in another instance a man, wife, and nine children were living in three rooms. the sixteen year old son was taken sick on june and was sent to the hospital. then in july came the thirteen year old daughter for whom her mother cared at home. the mother also did the family cooking. the father, mother and eleven year old son all slept in the same room with the patient. all three of them followed within a month, and another son twelve years old, was taken sick in august. [illustration] in another family of eight, the sink in the kitchen and the toilet in the yard were in a very filthy condition. the mother and one son were taken sick in august. the sick and the well slept together in the crowded bedrooms. in november four more members of the family came down with the disease, on the sixth, ninth, eleventh and fifteenth, respectively. let the reader judge for himself whether or not, in the face of these facts, it can be expected that filtered water alone will solve the problem. the pittsburgh typhoid fever commission is a recognition of these facts, and a recognition also from a national and scientific point of view, that probably never again in the history of any large american city will there be such a favorable laboratory in which to study the epidemiological facts of typhoid fever both before and after filtration. the commission was appointed in april, , by mayor guthrie; is made possible by a grant from the russell sage foundation, and by the co-operation of the bureaus of health and water, which offered the free use of their laboratories for analytical and administrative purposes. dr. james f. edwards is chairman, and the membership includes dr. dixon of the state board of health, prof. wm. t. sedgwick of the massachusetts institute of technology, and dr. e. s. rosenau, of the public health and marine hospital service, who has been directing the elaborate governmental investigations into typhoid in the district of columbia. the following report is made (january ) by dr. e. g. matson, of the pittsburgh bureau of health, executive officer of the committee. [illustration] the work of the commission to date has consisted of a minute investigation of all cases of typhoid which have appeared since may , , including the sanitary condition of their living and working places. investigations have also been made into neighborhoods where there appeared to be fewer cases than the average of the city, the milk supply, and the water supply, both public and private. it is remarkable that not even the smallest outbreak has been traced to milk. a particular feature of the study of water supply is that in connection with the acidity of the monongahela and the eastern affluents of the allegheny and its effect upon the sewage discharged by an enormous town population into them. so far typhoid has declined greatly in pittsburgh since january, , as compared with the average or even the minimum of previous years. this decline has naturally been a subject of great interest though it is too soon to give the results of investigations. we have ascertained that this decline has been shared by the towns on the lower allegheny, which have hitherto been supposed to be the most important source of our epidemics. during november and december, which would represent the first months of the filtered water period, typhoid has been reported from the filtered water area at the rate of the most favorable american cities, and in allegheny, which receives nearly the same water unfiltered, at about twice this rate. iii.--the story of the long fight for pure water. and now we come to the story of the long fight for pure water in pittsburgh. the irony of the situation is, that there should ever have been a long fight in a city which has since publicly recognized the danger of impure water, the significance of which has almost continually been brought before the people by press and platform alike, for the past fifteen years. the story of the whole filtration movement cannot be separated from the story of the struggle for supremacy of contending factions in the dominant political party. and the result,--excess typhoid with its terrible cost,--becomes part of the penalty the city has had to pay for such corruption as the present graft proceedings in councils are bringing to light. [illustration] the situation at the beginning of the filtration movement in - was this: one of the strongest political machines in the history of municipal government was in absolute control in pittsburgh. it mattered not who was elected mayor; he had no responsible power. heads of departments were appointed by outgoing councils. this meant that department heads held over, and used their power to re-elect as in-coming councilmen the outgoing councilmen who had elected them. moreover, councils were controlled by the ring.[ ] in this way the political machine was self-perpetuating. the directors of public works drew specifications for public improvements; councils awarded contracts; and it is a matter of notorious record that the well-known firm of which one of the ring leaders was a member usually secured the contracts. [ ] for an analysis of pittsburgh politics during this period under the leadership of magee and flinn, see lincoln steffens's the shame of the cities. the municipal election in february, , was hard and bitterly fought. george w. guthrie headed the reform party as candidate for mayor. according to one authority the majority of ballots cast were for guthrie, but when the count came in officially a few days after election, the ring had won. with the mayor, both branches of councils, and the director of public works all of the dominant party, the carrying out of their ante-election pledges so far as filtration was concerned would seem a matter of course. true to these pledges, a resolution for the appointment of a filtration commission, to include the mayor, the president of each council, and eight citizens,--making eleven in all,--passed city councils on june , , and was approved by the mayor on june . [illustration] the commission was promptly appointed and set to work to make a thorough investigation into the relative merits of various methods of filtration and water supplies in use in cities of the united states and europe. allen hazen, a leading expert on filtration, was employed for the first phase of the investigation, and prof. william t. sedgwick of the massachusetts institute of technology, eminent as a sanitary expert, investigated the typhoid situation in the city. morris knowles, c. e., was appointed resident engineer in local charge of all items of experiment and investigation. various members of the commission visited european and american cities to study filtration methods; extended bacteriological and analytical studies of the allegheny river water were made; small, slow, sand filter beds and standard make mechanical filters were set up at the experiment station to test the relative merits of each as applied to allegheny river water; and nothing was left undone as a means of arriving at a sound conclusion. over two and a half years elapsed between the appointment of the commission and the rendering of its report. the report, which was very elaborate, was presented at a joint session of councils on february , , and showed that the members of the commission were united in their belief that, all things taken into consideration, a slow, sand filtration plant should be constructed. in accordance with its recommendation steps were immediately taken for the issue and sale of bonds to provide the necessary funds, a public election for this purpose being held on september , . the appropriation ordinance for the year contained "no. ; for the purpose of extension and improvement of water supply and distribution, including the filtration of such water supply, and providing and furnishing meters to be used in connection therewith ... $ , , ." the ordinance authorizing the controller to issue bonds for the purpose as above specified was passed by select council in march, and approved by the mayor april . so that prior to may , , a fund of $ , , became available, and the prospect for the prompt erection of the plant would have been bright, but for the fact that during the four years since certain changes in the attitude of the members of the ring toward one another had taken place, that were destined to involve further complications. one member (magee) had aspirations toward the united states senate. in this he encountered opposition from the other end of the state, and in the struggle for state supremacy that followed, pittsburgh was left largely to another member of the ring. [illustration] in the early part of e. m. bigelow, who for a long time had been director of public works, had a row with this leader (flinn) over certain matters of public work. the result was that on june , , the ring-controlled councils threw mr. bigelow out of office and elected as director of public works a man more friendly to the ring. this break between flinn and bigelow was the beginning of the long series of events that retarded the filtration movement for at least four years. bigelow was now "out." the new director of public works, appointed by councils was acceptable to the ring that was "in"; so was the membership of councils. the question with bigelow was, naturally, how to get back into office. this is the way he accomplished his desire. the ousted director had a brother, who, it is said, had an old grudge against the ring. he went to harrisburg and prevailed upon the state legislature to grant pittsburgh a new charter, abolishing the office of mayor and substituting that of recorder, this office to be filled by the governor until april, , when the regularly elected recorder would come into office. the charter also gave the recorder much larger powers than the mayor had previously enjoyed, among them the appointment of heads of departments and the right to enter into contracts hitherto the prerogative of councils alone. [illustration] as might be expected, the newly appointed recorder soon exercised the authority vested in him by the terms of the new charter, and on june , , removed the head of the department of public works again installing mr. bigelow in that important position, just one year after he had been removed by councils. it must be remembered that while mr. bigelow had again secured the directorship of the department of public works, there had been no change in councils, which were still enrolled on the side of the ring. while councils could not now stop the preparation of plans and specifications for the proposed filtration plant, they could make a lot of trouble in other ways; and so they did. there are contradictory statements at this time as to just how much progress had been made on plans during the year that mr. bigelow was out of office. one side claims that "sixty per cent of the plans had been drawn"; the other said, "only part of the plans." at any rate, within six weeks mr. bigelow removed the engineer who had served under his immediate predecessor, appointed as resident engineer morris knowles (who was later appointed chief engineer of the newly created bureau of filtration), and directed him to start work on plans for the filtration plant. at the same time councils proceeded in an attack on the director for alleged delay in the preparation of plans; and on november , , presented a report to its filtration committee declaring mr. bigelow entirely responsible for all the delay in the preparation of plans and specifications, adding that these delays had been "gross and inexcusable." this report was accompanied by a resolution ordering director bigelow to furnish within ten days, to the filtration committee, for its approval, all the plans and specifications for the work lying north of the western pennsylvania railroad, directing him further to proceed with the utmost diligence to the completion of the plans and specifications for the remainder of the plant, and to submit the same to the filtration committee on or before december , . the report and resolution were adopted by both councils on the day of their presentation. the real motive for this attack is readily inferred. [illustration] in the meantime the opposing faction had been working with the governor, and after a notorious meeting at the duquesne club, the governor was prevailed upon to remove his first appointed recorder, on the pretext that he had displaced several old soldiers from office, and to appoint another recorder in his place,--this time a man upon whom the machine could rely. at the close of the letter of removal, the governor added a now famous postscript, "i was not bribed." with the appointment of the new recorder, bigelow was again forced out of the office of director of public works. this put the ring again in full control, with even greater powers than it had before. a year and a half had elapsed since the $ , , became available, and all that the people had to show for it were eighty-five acres of land, part of the plans and specifications completed, and over more deaths from the scourge of typhoid fever. the next move was made within ten days after director bigelow's dismissal, when another ordinance for the letting of the contract was introduced. it quickly passed both councils and received the recorder's approval. by this ordinance the contract was not to exceed $ , , and was to be for the construction of "so much of the filtration plant as is shown upon the drawings and description in the specifications, as and to be known as contract no. ." [illustration] under this ordinance the new director advertised for bids, which were received and opened. it appeared that the lowest bid was made by the t. a. gillespie company, at about $ , , . the director and recorder were preparing to let this contract for part of the work to the gillespie company, and it looked as though the faction of the ring now in the saddle would win the stakes. but they had not reckoned all the odds. the opponents of the ring, in this two-sided hold-up game, brought out another winning card. it was in the person of john p. edgar, a citizen of steubenville, ohio, but the owner of property in the thirty-seventh ward, pittsburgh, who entered suit in the united states circuit court at pittsburgh for an injunction to restrain the recorder and director of public works from awarding the contract. the case was argued before judge buffington on march , , w. b. rodgers and george w. guthrie appearing for the plaintiff, and thomas d. carnahan, city solicitor, for the city. suit was based on the allegation that no estimate had been presented to councils for the whole cost of the improvement, and that the letting of this partial contract would be in violation of the new charter, which required that before any contract for public improvement could be entered into, such an estimate for the entire cost must have been presented. the city solicitor showed that an estimate had been made of the entire cost, but this estimate had not been made public or submitted to councils. mr. rodgers maintained that this estimate must be submitted to councils and approved by them. he and mr. guthrie also claimed that the contract should embrace the completion of the work. on march , , judge buffington issued the injunction prayed for. the court held that the estimate of the whole cost, required by the charter, must be made to councils and become a matter of public information, and that such an estimate had not been made. [illustration] the machine was temporarily blocked, but five days after the injunction had been granted, the recorder instructed his director of public works to have blueprints, plans and estimates of the entire filtration system ready to present to councils at as early a date as possible, thus starting the necessary legal steps for placing a new contract. within a month these plans and estimates, involving an expenditure of $ , , , were prepared and submitted to councils, and three ordinances for the letting of contracts were presented. the increase over the first estimate was explained as due to an increase in the number of services to be metered, and to a general increase in the cost of materials. these three ordinances were indefinitely postponed, however, in councils, because more money for the construction of the plant under the increased estimate was not available. the next hold-up came from the city controller, who on may , , sent the following letter in duplicate to recorder brown and director mccandless: in view of the uncertainty attending the proposed filtration of the water, and the doubt as to the ultimate disposition of the matter by councils, this department desires to notify you that on and after may , no indebtedness against that appropriation for any purpose, except for labor or supplies previously furnished, should be incurred, as, under the decision of the court, there is now no authority for any expenditure for filtration purposes. in the meantime, about april, , and all through that summer, advocates of a mountain water supply were at work. at the same time changes in councils threw out of the filtration committee members favoring sand filtration and elected opponents of the plan to its membership. the result was that on july , , an ordinance was brought forward authorizing the filtration committee to prepare, in conjunction with the superintendent of the bureau of water supply, or some other competent engineer designated by the director of public works, estimates showing the entire cost of the installation of the proposed sand filtration plant. early in january, , this resolution had passed both councils. it was, however, vetoed by the recorder on the ground that it was unnecessary, the department of public works, he held, having already furnished full estimates, in good faith, and being ready to assist councils further in any manner that might be suggested. the recorder added in his veto: "if the purpose of this resolution is ultimately to defeat the proposed plan of sand filtration and substitute therefor a system of mechanical filtration, i am unalterably opposed to it." an attempt to pass the resolution over the recorder's veto was made, but it failed for lack of the necessary three-fifths vote. [illustration] in the meantime an ordinance was presented authorizing a public election for a bond issue large enough to cover the difference between the amount of money then available and the amount required under the increased estimate. all that came of this was an inquiry by the sub-committee to which it had been referred as to whether the new estimate included coverings for the filter beds, and whether the south side was to be given filtered water. after ten months' further delay, this sub-committee reported that the estimate did not provide for covered filter beds and that it made no provision for the south side. another year and a half had elapsed, with additional deaths from typhoid fever; , to date. [illustration] in april, , by the election of mayor hays, the bigelow faction again came into power and mr. bigelow was reappointed director of public works. councils reorganized. a reform, or bigelow man, was elected to the presidency of councils, control of committees was secured, and by the middle of , the bigelow faction was again in full power. by this time the south side was demanding filtered water. the new estimates presented by director bigelow in september, , included ten filter beds for the south side, and the raising of the pumping capacity for the first twenty-three wards by twenty million gallons, and included also, new machinery and boilers for the brilliant pumping station, and a fifty-inch steel main across the city to supply the south side and the monongahela river wards of the old city. these brought the total new estimate up to over seven million dollars. the time between september , , and january , , was required to get a resolution through councils and approved by the mayor, authorizing the finance committee to employ three experts, col. alexander m. miller of washington, john w. hill of philadelphia, and rudolph herring of new york, "to verify and make a report on or before march , , to the committee on finance, as to the correctness of the estimates made by the director of public works." under this resolution the experts were employed and went to work. in the meantime, councils had received a petition from the pittsburgh section of the american chemical society, urging the establishment of a sand filtration plant; also a resolution of the civic club of allegheny county, and a resolution of the permanent civic committee of the women's clubs of allegheny county, urging sand filtration at an early date. during there were deaths from typhoid fever. on february , , the filtration experts made their report recommending a receiving basin, three sedimentation basins, a clear water basin, and forty filter beds. they also recommended sand filtration and covers for filter beds, but cut down the capacity of the various parts of the plant sufficiently to reduce the estimated cost by $ , . on march , , the bureau of filtration in the department of public works was created for the purpose of constructing these important works. no further opposition of a serious character was met, and in july of that year a second bond election for $ , , was held and passed by a vote of nearly two to one. these bonds were issued in september; plans and specifications for the enlarged plant were prepared as soon as possible; bids were advertised; and the contract was let on march , . with the final award of the contract the fight for pure water was practically won. director bigelow again stepped out of office in with the election of a mayor independent of either republican faction; but the work of pushing the plant forward to completion was carried on by the guthrie administration under the efficient supervision of directors clark and shepherd, and superintendent knowles; so that by october, , the plant was supplying a good quality of filtered water to the first twenty-three wards,--the old city. the settling of the pending litigation between the city and the monongahela and other private water companies on the south side, together with the taking over of that property by the city was all that remained to be done before filtered water could be supplied to that part of the city.[ ] [ ] in january, the monongahela water company notified the city of its decision to abide by the decree of the supreme court, which granted permission to the city to take possession of this plant and system in consideration of $ , , . in the meantime the north side (allegheny city) still has unfiltered water. immediately after allegheny was annexed to the greater city in december, , steps were taken to pave the way for filtered water there. $ , was appropriated for ten extra filter beds on city-owned land adjoining the plant, and their construction is now under way. their use for the north side involves extra pumping facilities, however. a plan to bring the old allegheny pumping station at montrose down to aspinwall for this purpose was recently blocked by members of councils from the north side. satisfactory explanation for this action does not seem to be forthcoming. the reason alleged was that its removal would throw some of the men out of a job. in the meantime allegheny continues drinking unfiltered water with no immediate prospect of relief, and the same sort of political influence that delayed filtration in the old city so long, seems to be accomplishing similar results on the north side. * * * * * in conclusion, let me apply the economic facts brought out in the first section of this article, to the four years of unnecessary delays in the construction of the filtration plant, from april , , to april , . they must be considered in making up the whole bill of the city in the cause of pure water. during all this time, more than $ , , , on which the city was paying three and one half per cent interest, was lying in the banks favored by the administration, bringing the city but two per cent; and the death rate from typhoid fever was the highest of any of the large cities in the united states. but for this delay the plant might have been brought to completion on january , , or at least as far advanced as it was january , , and four years,-- , , and ,--of excess typhoid fever might have been avoided. not a startling statement, perhaps, on the face of it. but consider seriously what these four years of excess typhoid fever have meant to the people of pittsburgh in deaths and economic cost. i have told you of but half of the people of six wards out of forty-three, one year out of four. in , with an estimated population of , , there were deaths from typhoid in pittsburgh. cities with a fairly pure water supply do not have over twenty-five deaths annually per , population from typhoid. had pittsburgh's typhoid fever death rate in been twenty-five per , , there would have been but deaths instead of , and the grim total of lives would not have been blotted out. by allowing $ , as the cost in loss of wages and expenses for each death (a little under the actual costs in the concrete study of economic cost already given), and allowing our previous minimum of $ , as the value of each life, the total excess deaths in alone from lack of pure water was a loss to the community of $ , , . there were unnecessary deaths in , and a wastage of $ , , ; unnecessary deaths in , and a wastage of $ , , ; unnecessary deaths in , and a wastage of $ , , . in the four years the community lost $ , , ,--over $ , , more than the cost of the filtration plant. and in those four years, , lives were unnecessarily sacrificed. there are those who will say, and perhaps rightly, that pittsburgh's filtration plant of to-day is the magnificent triumph of construction that it is, only because of those years of delay in shaping the final plans; that while those who fought the measure tooth and nail for so many years did not have that purpose in mind, yet the set-backs they were able to accomplish, have made in the end for a larger, better, more efficient and more far-serving plant than could have been possible, had the first plans been carried hastily to completion. such may be the case. if so, let the people be thankful that the cause of pure water triumphed ultimately over a lethargic public sentiment, selfish political purposes, and municipal shortsightedness. let them at the same time remember at what cost to themselves and to their city the fight was won. and let the plant itself stand as an object lesson of tardy justice, and a monument to those hundreds of lives that paid the penalty unwillingly and unknowingly of being part and parcel of an unaroused municipal conscience. [illustration: gross number of typhoid cases, to . gross number of typhoid cases and deaths reported in pittsburgh from to ] pittsburgh's foregone asset, the public health a running summary of the present administrative situation samuel hopkins adams starting at the lowest level, let us formulate our initial axiom in terms of dollars. a sound man can do more work than a sick man. therefore he can make more money. a sound city can do more work than a sick city. therefore, in the long run, it can accumulate more wealth. public health is a public asset. this is a truth which, in her single-minded purpose of commercial and industrial expansion, pittsburgh long ago forgot, if, indeed, she ever stopped to realize it. consequently, at a time when all the other great american cities have organized their forces thoroughly and are waging battle, with greater or less scientific skill, against that most potent of all destroyers, the germ, this mighty aggregation of half a million human beings has only just declared war, and has barely established its outposts. after two years of preparation to meet conditions which have been half a century in forming and solidifying, pittsburgh's little regular army of defence now faces the most complicated problem of municipal betterment to be found in american hygiene. a health bureau performs a defensive and protective function. its intelligence department must keep it apprised of every manifestation on the part of the enemy; and it must rally to the threatened point to check the advance before it be too late, whether the emergency be a school epidemic of diphtheria, or a localized onset of typhoid. it must maintain a jealous watchfulness over the food and water supplies that are brought into the city, lest with them shall come the invading diseases. and its statistics of death and disability must point out for repair, the breaches made in its walls by the never-ceasing onslaught. such a sanitary garrison has little rest, and no respites, for the besieging germ never sleeps. the date of pittsburgh's last annual health report is . that fact is crammed with meaning. strategically it means that for nearly a decade the sentries have all been asleep at their posts. politically it has meant that those responsible for the administration of the city were too lethargic, too ignorant, or too indifferent to disturb that profound rip van winkleism. civically it means "who cares!", and that companion gem, "what's the use?". between public indifference, private selfishness, and political inertia, the germ has pretty well had its own sweet way with pittsburgh, and the city's annual waste of life from absolutely preventable disease has been a thing to make humanity shudder, had it been expressed in the lurid terms of battle, holocaust, or flood, instead of the dumbly accepted figures of tuberculosis, typhoid, and infant mortality. presumably, before this article gets into print, the pittsburgh health report for the year will have been issued. what laborious exhumation of dilapidated statistical skeletons that report represents, i have not space to explain here. the important and significant point is that the authorities are at last at work, and energetically, under the leadership of a skilled sanitarian, dr. james f. edwards, superintendent of the bureau of health. it would be pleasant to add that dr. edwards goes into action with his hands free; pleasant, but quite untrue. on the contrary, he is bound and hampered to an extent that would devitalize the efforts of any but the most patient of enthusiasts. his forces are not under his own control, since under the pennsylvania system he is at the head, not of a department, but of a bureau of the department of public safety, administered by a layman. the law gives him no power to choose or discharge his own subordinates within the limits of the civil service; all that he can do is to train and educate such of them as most need it, when they come to him. he has no specific supervision or control over public or charitable institutions, those prolific culture-beds of contagion. even the municipal hospital for contagious diseases has been taken out of his hands and put under other management. he cannot condemn a building inimical to the public safety, nor can he revoke a milk license. he cannot abate a nuisance without going to court for it. and, lest the powers of his bureau should wax too great and impinge upon individual privilege, old laws have been raked up and carefully interpreted to restrict the scope of its work. yet in spite of all this, wonderful to say, the efforts of the bureau seem to have made an initial impress already on the death rate, and, even more important, to have gathered to its support some tangible force of public opinion. "seem to have made," i say, because figures in this connection are largely a matter of conjecture. basis for any detailed comparison between present and past, is lacking. what is certain, however, is that the sanitary forces are doing work which must inevitably have its effect in life-saving in the future; and the efficacy, if not the qualitative result, of that work is hopefully apparent. the first attack was made on a condition of affairs which would have disgraced a country village, the prevalence of unprotected outhouses, scattered over the length and breadth of the landscape; not only lurking in the slums, but peering from the proud eminence of hilltops down upon the homes of wealth and elegance below. through the agency of flies in summer and of wind or heavy rains in winter, these relics of communal barbarity spread filth and contagion through the city. how many of them existed at their maximum will never be known. there are still six thousand survivors, but the number is being reduced daily. proceeding under an ordinance which declares them illegal, dr. edwards began his campaign modestly. opposition he foresaw, but he waited to keep it, as far as might be, sporadic, and to prevent it from concentrating. in the year only forty-six of these nuisances had been abolished. in , six hundred of them fell. thereupon the sensitive nerve of property rights thrilled the alarm throughout the commercial body. reform was threatening rental profits; was becoming "radical," and "destructive." people with pulls, real or imagined, rushed to councils with demands for the repeal of the ordinance. but here an unexpected ally appeared. destruction of the old meant construction of the new and modern, with much accruing increment to the plumbing trade. therefore these shrewd business sanitarians hastened before the committee with lawyers and arguments, and so effectually backed up the case of the health bureau, that the repeal project was killed then and there. in the enthusiasm of well-won victory plumbers' supplies soared heavenward, with the result of bringing the unfortunate property owners down upon the bureau of health in agonized droves, begging for protection from the masters of the situation. thereupon the bureau quietly allowed an extension of time, until the enthusiastic plumbers, somewhat chastened, saw the point and came nearer to earth in their prices; after which the process continued, and has been continuing, with accelerated progress. for the issue had now been decided. the proprietors of noisome property had lost the first skirmish. in , , notices were served on recalcitrants, and , privies were abolished. by the end of , dr. edwards hopes to have relegated these nuisances to a purely historical status. encouraged, the bureau of health sought from the legislature the power to condemn unsanitary dwellings. at present, in order to destroy property prejudicial to the public health, the bureau must go to court and prove the conditions unsanitary,--a cumbrous, expensive, and uncertain process. it is not long since a presumably upright and intelligent occupant of the bench held that a house which leaked so badly that the floors were rotted and the plaster peeled from the walls could not, on that account, be adjudged unsanitary. the bill passed the legislature, prescribing condemnatory powers, with a proviso for court review and damages to the owner if the condemnation should be found unjustified. governor stuart vetoed the bill on the ground that it was too sweeping. if the local undertakers haven't passed a vote of thanks to the governor, they have missed a gracious opportunity. what would have been the one most effectual check upon the city's mortality, the wiping out of those death-in-life conditions of housing which make for tuberculosis, the active contagions, and above all the undermined vitality represented in pittsburgh statistics under every division from general debility to suicide,--that the gubernatorial veto has effectually blocked. so certain large and small owners of slum property have an extension of immunity for their rentals drawn, at the worst, from premises where they wouldn't house their pigs,--particularly if they designed to eat the pigs afterward. evil housing conditions are almost invariably reflected in the mortality figures of tuberculosis. yet pittsburgh's given death rate from tuberculosis is low; hardly half the normal rate for american cities, in general: so low, indeed, that i doubt whether any sanitarian would give implicit credence to it. similarly, the death rate from pneumonia and bronchitis is suspiciously high. for example, in there were a quarter as many deaths attributed to bronchitis, as to consumption, an incredible assumption. dr. matson, who is in charge of the bureau's statistics, has decided, with a wisdom born of experience, to regard _fatal_ cases of bronchitis as belonging, statistically, in the pneumonia column; so i shall lump the two diseases. in the first eight months of last year (which is as far as the monthly figures have been supplied to me) there were but deaths set down to tuberculosis in all forms, whereas the pneumonia and bronchitis totals aggregated upwards of , . this is a condition which, so far as i know, has never been paralleled in any american city. the inference is inevitable that deaths, which should properly be ascribed to the great white plague, are reported by physicians under other heads. this is due, usually, to the influence of the decedent's family, who fear to lose their places if it be known that there is "consumption in the house," or who will perhaps, forfeit the insurance money if the true cause of death appear on the records. very wisely dr. edwards is proceeding, not upon local certificates, which may lie, but upon universally recognized facts, which cannot; and is planning an exhaustive tuberculosis campaign. in this campaign will be concentrated the local official health force, the pittsburgh tuberculosis league, and the local dispensary of the state board of health, all working in conjunction with a special tuberculosis commission now in process of organization by the city government. at present the consumptive poor of pittsburgh have a small, practically a negligible chance of life. the great, rich, busy city that slowly kills them, has no means to care for them while they are dying. there is no municipal tuberculosis hospital. to be sure, marshalsea, outside the city, can care for some thirty victims; but they are taken there, usually, only when they are too weak to resist effectually. for marshalsea is the poor house. and there is inbred in the american an indestructible, illogical, pathetically self-respecting something which makes the term "poor house" a poison to his soul. live he might, within those walls. he prefers to stay outside and die. the late dr. charles harrington of the massachusetts department, wisest and most human of health officials, said to me once in one of his characteristic bursts of impatience with the stupidity of things as they are: "if i had the choice to make between naming a refuge for the helpless sick 'poor-house' or 'sure-death,' i'd choose 'sure-death' every time. you could get more people to go to it." marshalsea doesn't save many of the consumptives who come to its gates. non-consumptives it does save, indirectly, since it removes from a susceptible environment, a certain number of spreaders of infection. private effort does its altruistic but minute best in pittsburgh; the tuberculosis league has a hospital in which it can take care of fifty to sixty patients. and the state board of health relieves the situation a little by maintaining one of its admirable tuberculosis dispensaries in the city, with a staff of visiting nurses; and sends a few hopeful cases to its sanatoriums. perhaps victims of the plague can be cared for in proper institutions. there are to-day in the city probably , sufferers in a sufficiently advanced stage to be a peril to all with whom they come into contact. at a very moderate estimate three-fifths of this number are unable to afford proper home care, and of this three-fifths (all of whom will die, barring the few that can be accommodated in the hospitals) probably one-third,--again my estimate is conservative,--could be saved under proper conditions. that is, pittsburgh of the mighty mills, pittsburgh of the heaped-up millions, pittsburgh of the rampant industrialism which has spread its influence to the far corners of the world, stands by helpless while six hundred lives are going out needlessly, not because they might not be saved, but because there is no place in which to save them. nor is this the worst; since, in the slow process of dying, these victims will radiate the poison to hundreds, directly; indirectly to thousands, who are now well, strong, and unsuspecting the inevitable doom. what can the health bureau, the officially constituted army of defence, do to remedy this condition? nothing. that is the answer which goes over the telephone wires, once, twice, half a dozen times a day, to people who ask for advice for helpless cases of consumption. i suppose that the sorriest duty of a health official, is to deny the application of some man upon whose life depends the support of other lives, for a fighting chance to get well and do his work in the world. ask dr. edwards, oh comfortable resident pittsburgher, how often he has had to do the very thing in the last year. it may give you new light on your civic responsibilities. not so often will that hopeless response be made in the future. the united forces, drawn together by the forming tuberculosis commission, will make it their first business to provide some refuge of increasing adequacy, for those who are now distributing the infection. meantime, though there is little to be done for those already stricken, the city is being covered, district by district, by the visiting nurses of the league, of the state dispensary and of the health bureau, soon to be re-enforced by five special nurses from the commission, and all training and instructing the consumptive in those measures of prevention which safeguard the people about him from contracting the disease. one-third of all who die in pittsburgh, die without having anything to say about it. that is, they die under five years of age. one-fourth of all who die, die without having anything to say about anything. that is, they die under one year of age. most of these deaths are preventable, being the outcome of conditions which, humanly speaking, have no right to exist. chief among the causes is bad milk. pittsburgh uses , gallons of milk per day, coming from a wide radius in both pennsylvania and ohio. before the present administration, this vitally important merchandise received rather less attention than the corner-stand vending of collar buttons. at the beginning of the bureau of health had one lone milk inspector. he collected samples, and, if one may judge by the brief records of analyses, he didn't imperil his own health by over-assiduity in the job. dairy inspection was an unthought-of phase of activity. in august, , two more inspectors were acquired and began, by prosecutions, to do some work in the matter of discouraging the use of formaldehyde. there was even some inspection of stores and adjacent dairies. now the bureau has six men in the milk division, two of whom are dairy inspectors and one a veterinarian, and all of whom do conscientiously the work the city pays them to do. two more have been arranged for, with which addition dr. edwards believes he will have a sufficient force to inaugurate a higher standard of supply. unfortunately there is no official standard, though an ordinance is being prepared establishing bacterial and temperature requirements. unfortunately, too, the law has been interpreted to mean that the bureau of health must issue licenses on demand; and that it cannot revoke these licenses. what has been done thus far is chiefly in the line of educating the dairymen and dealers. dr. edwards admits frankly that, while he regards pasteurization as a make-shift only, he believes that it will be necessary for a time to accept the deteriorated quality of milk consequent upon pasteurization, for the sake of destroying the pathogenic bacteria with which the supply swarms. analyses made last summer showed an average of a million bacteria per cubic centimetre. the limit of reasonable safety is usually set at half that number. as for conditions as they existed at that time in certain local dairies, i can do no better than quote from the report of dr. goler, the health officer of rochester and an international authority on milk supply: go out to one of those dairies near the country club which supplies milk to some of the families living in the best localities and see the conditions under which milk is produced for the future citizens of the state and the nation. a dirty one-room house that once did duty as an out-house, supplied with water by a hose, a few old tubs in which cans, bottles and utensils are washed in cold water, and where all the waste flows into a vault beneath the foundation of the house. a damp, dark, old stable festooned with cobwebs, without drainage, where all the liquid refuse finds its way through cracks in the floor to the space beneath the structure, and where, on filthy floors, in some cases raised but one poor plank above the common floor of the stable, the swill-fed cows stand and give milk for some of the babies of pittsburgh aristocracy, whose parents are willing to pay the munificent sum of eight cents a quart for the product. visit cow stable after cow stable within easy motor ride from pittsburgh, and the conditions of filthiness prevailing in the stables are only exceeded by the depth of manure and mud in the barnyards. the conditions of the cows, cans, utensils and barnyards at the distant points from which the city draws its milk may be judged by the fact that they pasteurize the milk before bringing it to the city and pasteurize it again before it is sent out from the dairy. dairy inspection, it is fair to say, has recently ameliorated the worst of these conditions. increasingly careful supervision of the retail milk dealers, and constant inspection of the less cleanly stores, which has discouraged many of them out of existence, tend to minimize the danger of contamination of milk at the other end of the line. there is, however, an additional peril in the well-water supply often used to wash cans and bottles. the milk-inspection force faces a situation outlined in the latest complete figures (not yet in print); those for , which show a total infant mortality of more than a thousand from diseases inferentially due to bad milk. the poorer quarters of the city where prices rule at six or seven cents a quart, exhibit the heaviest figures, and there is the typical rising curve of the mortality line in hot weather. last summer that curve, while still unpleasantly in evidence, was noticeably modified. education of mothers of the slums was largely responsible. the bureau of health put a corps of six special nurses in the field who went about from house to house, instructing mothers in the hygienic care of their children, and working in conjunction with the pittsburgh and allegheny milk and ice association, one of the most efficient charitable enterprises in the city. probably the infant mortality for the whole year of would have been low but for the winter epidemic of measles, which killed more victims than scarlet fever, diphtheria, smallpox, chickenpox, and all the other active contagions put together. now the city, having learned a costly lesson in the seriousness of this too commonly disregarded disease, quarantines for it. it is perhaps, hardly ingenuous to include smallpox in the foregoing comparison, as that disease is now a practically negligible quantity. since the epidemic of pittsburgh has been the best vaccinated of american cities. wherefrom depends a corollary for the consideration of the anti-vaccinationists, that for two years there has not been a death from this loathsome and unnecessary infection in the city, nor has a single original case developed. [illustration: disease-incubators. some pittsburgh cow-stables which lower the standards set by progressive producers.] we are prone, in this country, to study the public health too much in terms of death rates, and too little in the character of the survivors. applying this latter test to the children of pittsburgh's slums, we shall find cause to wonder whether, in a sense, the deaths are not too few rather than too many. would it not be better for the unfortunate and innocent victims themselves, and certainly for the community at large, that this puny, helpless breed of hunger, filth, and misery which creeps about the city's man-made jungles, should succumb in infancy to the conditions that bred but cannot support them? for there are certain phases of existence in which a high death rate is less to be feared than a high birth rate. anti-race-suicide has a fine, rotund ring, as it issues from the presidential lips. but president roosevelt has never, i take it, been in mulberry alley, or our alley, or a certain unnamed court off washington street that wafts its stenches into the boulevard below, or any one of a score of other hopeless thoroughfares which might give him pause in the promulgation of his doctrine. nor are conditions of life here in the city's choked up center greatly worse than in the "runs" which diversify the landscape of the newer parts of the city; damp, heavy-aired, steaming canyons, into which the poorest classes have been pushed; over the rim, and "off the earth," as it were. there they live, pasty women and weazened children, in the heavy air, polluted, as like as not, by the stenches from the creeks which are little else but open sewers. one such little isolated population i found, in a huddle of houses, under a towering steel bridge, faithfully reproducing, in what was practically open country, the deadliest living conditions of the crowded center of population. to return to the central slums, there are whole districts which might well (were it of any avail) be placarded, as are certain new york flats: * * * * * no room here for children. * * * * * settlement workers know the truth about this matter. here are the words of one of them: "not one child in ten comes to us from the river-bottom section without a blood or skin disease, usually of long standing. not one out of ten comes to us physically up to the normal for his or her age. worse than that, few of them are up to the mental standard, and an increasing percentage are imbecile." what can a bureau of health do to [illustration: (by permission of the pittsburgh bureau of health). where human life is cheap.] alleviate such a status? nothing: the problem is too big for official solution. either a sense of responsibility on the part of the mill owner toward his employes who must live near the mills will start a housing movement that will do away with the present outrageous rentals for disgraceful accommodations, or an aroused public conscience will, by one means or another, make a clean sweep of these pest holes. or, a third, and ugly alternative. london's east end is open for the inspection of travelling pittsburghers. there they may see in its fullness the crop of pauperism, dependence, and degeneracy which is bred in the third and fourth generations, of conditions no worse than their own average, and not so bad as their own worst. as an escape from the slum there is the school. here again pittsburgh is in the dark ages of hygiene. every public school is a law unto itself. the principal, always a layman, and not unusually an ignorant one in health matters, decides when a pupil shall be isolated for a contagious or suspicious ailment. is it surprising that a short time ago a certain skin disease infected an entire institution, or that eye and scalp ailments are often widely diffused among the scholars? from an inspection of buildings and pupils dr. goler draws these conclusions: the school buildings are in many cases crowded, dark, dirty, often of three stories, and bad fire risks. the condition of the children in these schools good and bad, rich and poor, may be shown by the large proportion having defective teeth, reduced hearing, imperfect vision. an excessively large number of them are mouth breathers, partially so because they are unable to breathe through their noses in the smoky air of pittsburgh, and a very considerable number are below stature for weight of that determined for the average child. in a large percentage, the defects of teeth, nose and throat, bring them below the physical normal. these are the children that wear out in childhood. [illustration: pseudo-religious -cent lodging house. in cellar of river-front building; flooded out every year. dilapidated, unsanitary and unventilated, this and similar lodging houses were breeding place of disease. closed by bureau of health, following investigation and report for pittsburgh survey, by james forbes, mendicancy expert of the new york charity organization society. a lodging house code has since been established.] in no manner of justice, can the bureau of health be held to account in this matter. in co-operation with the civic club, settlements, physicians and school principals, dr. edwards sought to establish a medical inspection of public schools, such an inspection as would, for example, undoubtedly have checked almost at its inception the disastrous onset of measles of last year. but the measure never got past the legal department of the city administration. in view of the present conditions in the schools, dr. goler's closing and pregnant suggestion has a special force: _"ought not the pittsburgh schools to be closed and the children repaired?"_ semi-public institutions in pittsburgh are quite independent of hygienic control or inspection. this seems to me one of the crying evils of the present status. let me give a few examples: an inmate of an institution for children was infected by another child who had virulent skin disease and soon afterward he became totally blind. this was a repetition of a past experience of the same institution in which a child contracted trachoma within the institution walls, is totally blind in consequence and a charge upon the state. last spring an institution was found in charge of a matron whose special qualification for her care of very young children was experience. she had had ten of her own, all of whom died of intestinal disease and rickets in early childhood. she was feeding the little ones in her care on coffee and other food suited only to robust grownups. every child in a certain charitable institution, a short time ago, was suffering from skin and scalp disease. lack of arrangements for effective isolation, in case of contagious disease, is more common than provision for isolation. a refuge for fallen women has, naturally, a large percentage of inmates suffering from venereal disease. the women of one refuge work in the laundry which gets a certain amount of outside trade. among other things it washes towels for a hotel. contraction of gonorrhea or syphilis from infected towels or garments is a well-recognized medical fact. a laundry with infected women on its working force cannot but be a public peril. grim facts are piling up on the records of the pittsburgh tuberculosis dispensary as to advanced cases of tuberculosis among the little charges of charitable institutions. instances such as these might be multiplied. as in the case of the public schools the authorities are helpless. even over the city's own institution, the municipal hospital, the bureau of health has no control. it has been transferred to the bureau of charities within the last year. it receives only contagious diseases, and is too small for the requirements in time of epidemic, having proper accommodation for only eighty, with a crowded capacity of . dr. booth of the bureau of health, who acts as visiting physician by special appointment to the bureau of charities, tells me that up to the plant was housed in buildings erected in the seventies. the furnishings were beds and bedding from the fire and police departments, regarded as being no longer fit for use by the city's paid servants, and therefore proper charity for the city's helpless sick. two years ago, dr. booth put an end to this system by burning the last consignment of furnishings (for reasons principally entomological); and announcing that he would admit to the hospital no more equipment, discarded as unfit by the police and fire forces. now the plant has its own furnishings. the building is modern but of an obsolete and unsatisfactory type, and has not sufficient grounds for its convalescents. all the other hospitals in the city are private institutions. there is no co-ordination of hospital work among them, and their distribution is such that localities where there are the most ambulance calls are without easily available hospital plants. to sum up, these are some few of pittsburgh's immediate needs, if it is to fight its battle successfully for fewer deaths and a better living product: autonomy of the official health authorities (preferably a department of health, not a bureau) under the executive and administrative control of a physician or sanitarian. a tuberculosis hospital for advanced cases which are now spreading infection throughout the city. more visiting nurses and more sanitary inspectors. eventually a hospital for the incipient cases that can be saved. municipal collection and disposal of the rubbish which accumulates everywhere, seriously hampering efforts to make the city hygienically clean and which must now be removed at private expense. a general hospital of sufficient size, proper equipment, and adequate surroundings. some reasonable division and co-ordination of effort on the part of the private hospitals. authority to condemn and destroy unsanitary buildings. authority to condemn and destroy, upon its entrance to the city, or upon discovery within the city limits, unclean, infected, or adulterated milk, and to refuse and revoke milk licenses. establishment of a standard for milk. medical inspection of schools and school children. medical and sanitary inspection of hospitals, and of all public or semi-public chartered institutions. these authorizations to be embodied in a city code. at present the health officials work almost wholly under the state law. * * * * * [illustration: germ hatcheries. these front on the grant boulevard.] what is pittsburgh going to do about it? though the foregoing rather general survey may suggest pessimistically "the little done, the undone vast," yet there is not lacking, in the view, definite promise as well as progress. many and diverse agencies are helping the cause. the monthly reports of the bureau keep a public, which has for years been in a state of egyptian darkness as to the how and wherefore of its mortality, fully informed. a civic improvement commission has been appointed by mayor guthrie, one of the sub-committees of which will deal with needed hygienic reforms. the chamber of commerce has appointed a special committee to co-operate with the health bureau for the betterment of housing conditions, and another to aid in improving the milk supply. for the protection of the communities downstream, a sewage disposal plant has been voted; and badly needed it is, as is shown by the fact that, at the present writing, two thousand people are ill in the suburb of bellevue, from drinking water polluted by pittsburgh's sewage. the allegheny county medical society has constituted a committee on public instruction in health matters; also a milk commission. the tuberculosis commission will soon be in the field with its broad campaign. municipally there has been an important step forward in the establishment of a disinfection corps which sterilizes and makes safe, at the public expense if necessary, the premises from which a consumptive has been removed. anti-tuberculosis education by the various corps of visiting nurses is extending into every corner of the city that harbors a dangerous consumptive. the state school commission has recommended medical inspection of schools. city ordinances providing for milk standards, and rubbish disposal, are in prospect. the bureau of health, only a short time ago a rusted and ineffectual machine fed by incompetents from other departments, has, under its new head, developed an _esprit de corps_, and is now welded into a compact, dependable organization. and this organization will constantly have a supply of better trained men to draw upon, since the university of pittsburgh and the carnegie technical schools have, at dr. edwards's suggestion, arranged for special courses in sanitary engineering and practical hygiene. yes; pittsburgh is awake to the needs of the situation. but the true test is yet to come. thus far it has been but the laying out of the lines of battle and a few preliminary, and, on the whole, victorious skirmishes. for when hygienic and sanitary reform impinges, in its advance, as it needs must, upon the private purse of some, the political purposes of others, and the industrial and commercial license of the whole, then will come the tug of war. then, according as shortsighted selfishness shall prevail over, or succumb to, civic pride and patriotism, the victory will be to the germ or to the city. [illustration: a slum in the open.] * * * * * life insurance satisfies the conscience, eases the mind, banishes worry and gives old age a chair of contentment. [illustration] metropolitan policies are the standards of life insurance excellence [illustration] metropolitan life insurance company madison avenue, new york (incorporated by the state of new york. stock company.) * * * * * tyrrel print, new york. * * * * * it is summer in california, arizona, mexico, texas, louisiana, you can motor, drive, ride, fish, hunt, bathe, climb, coach, canoe, yacht, golf, every day in the year points in these states best reached via the southern pacific sunset route the natural winter gateway the open window route rock-ballast roadbed--automatic block signals--oil-burning locomotives--superior equipment. ten days' stopover at new orleans on all tickets. for free illustrated pamphlet address: l. h. nutting, g. e. p. a., broadway, new york, or southern pacific agent at chicago, jackson blvd. new orleans, magazine st. boston, washington st. philadelphia, chestnut st. syracuse, w. washington st. baltimore, w. baltimore st. * * * * * please mention charities and the commons when writing to advertisers. transcriber's notes: simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors were corrected. italics markup is enclosed in _underscores_. bold markup is enclosed in =equals=. underlined markup is enclosed in ~tildes~. multiple underscores indicate a long gap in the sentence. vol. xxi january , no. charities and the commons the pittsburgh survey [illustration] a journal of constructive philanthropy published by the charity organization society of the city of new york robert w. deforest, president; otto t. bannard, vice-president; j. p. morgan, treasurer; edward t. devine, general secretary east twenty-second street, new york adams street, chicago this issue twenty-five cents two dollars a year entered at the post office, new york, as second class matter telephones { } stuyvesant { } ==millard & company stationers and printers east th street== (bet. fifth ave. & union square) ==new york== engraving lithographing blank book making catalog and pamphlet work at reasonable prices * * * * * =we can print your book as easily as though you were in our own city= =books and reports are our specialty= ¶ let us have your manuscript or full information and we will send you an estimate and samples of our work. =wm. f. fell co. printers - sansom street philadelphia= * * * * * ==the.... sheltering arms= =william r. peters .... president= william street =herman c. von post ... secretary= west th street =charles w. maury .... treasurer= west th street * * * * * objects of the association= "the sheltering arms" was opened october th, , and receives children between six and ten years of age, for whom no other institution provides. children placed at "the sheltering arms" are not surrendered to the institution, but are held subject to the order of parents or guardians. the children attend the neighboring public school. the older boys and girls are trained to household and other work. * * * * * application for admission should be addressed to miss richmond, at "the sheltering arms," th street, corner amsterdam avenue. * * * * * =special sale= * * * * * during january and february we offer you your choice of all $ . , $ . , $ . , $ . or $ . suitings or overcoatings to order at $ . and all $ . , $ . , $ . , $ . or $ . suitings or overcoatings to order at $ . all prices marked in plain figures. =devine & co.= formerly devine & ronan = nassau street= rooms , , . * * * * * please mention charities and the commons when writing to advertisers. [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._ as men see america. i. the first of three frontispieces.] the common welfare every city needs a city plan now the congestion exhibit in new york last spring proved one of the most effective and startling means of making a contented community sit up and think about its "other half." it formulated questions half formed in many minds and demanded answers. its influence was felt over the whole country, and its discussions have bobbed up here and there and everywhere ever since in articles, conferences and addresses. that the congestion exhibit answered questions as well as asked them, and that it has a constructive program to offer not only to new york but to the whole country are amply proved by the decision just reached, and announced to-day for the first time, to hold an exhibit and conference of city planning next march. "every american city needs a city plan now," is the conclusion of the committee, and the steps by which it has arrived at this conclusion are interestingly set forth in its announcement. while the organization bears the name of the committee on congestion of population in new york, its scope and purpose are much wider. the program approved by its executive committee is "to obtain a plan for the development of greater new york, and other american cities, along economic, hygienic and aesthetic lines; and to promote the better distribution of population throughout city, state and nation." to establish the need for such a program, the committee offers as "admitted facts" the following: many american cities with a population of over , have congestion of population, factories and offices; such congestion creates problems for which we cannot find solutions; no city should use all the land within its boundaries as intensively as is necessary in its most congested areas,--to do so perpetuates congestion; no american city yet has a legal right to prescribe the height and use of buildings in its various sections; no city can develop normally without a plan which anticipates its growth for twenty-five or fifty years. as a means of stimulating consideration of the subject and of promoting farsighted planning for the future, the committee has adopted as its slogan the statement, "every american city needs a city plan now." it will show, it announces, the cost of the lack of a city plan in new york, the city planning which has been done in some american and foreign cities, and the pressing need for a city plan in new york to-day. the conference on city planning in march will include an exhibit of the best developments from all over the world. both exhibit and conference will be keyed up to two major considerations: "the concentration of one-half the population of a great state in one city makes the problem of statewide importance; the concentration of one-nineteenth of a nation's population in one city gives the problem national bearing." there will be study of the best methods for distribution of population, for promoting feasible methods of locating factories and industrial colonies, and an educational campaign to show the advantages of migration from congested centers. employers pay for sanatorium care massachusetts, almost invariably a leader in preventive measures, is developing this year a most unique and promising kind of co-operative effort in the prevention of tuberculosis. massachusetts was the first state to organize a board of health, dating from . it was the first state to choose its factory inspectors from the medical profession, this dating from , and out of these two farsighted provisions of the law has grown during the past two months a plan by which manufacturers are assuming a part of the financial burden in seeing to it that operatives in their factories, found to have tuberculosis in the incipient stage, are sent to the rutland sanatorium and given the best possible opportunity for cure. the plan originated in worcester which, with a string of neighboring towns and villages, forms one of the sixteen inspection districts into which the state is divided. as a result of the activity of dr. m. g. overlock, the state inspector of health in charge, seventy manufacturing plants, employing more than , hands, have followed the example of david h. fanning, president of the royal worcester corset company, in agreeing to pay a part of the maintenance cost of any of their employes sent to rutland. the cost in the sanatorium is nine dollars a week. of this the state pays five dollars and the company four dollars. the term usually agreed upon is three months. at the end of that time, a large number of the cases have been so far restored that they can be taken to nearby, supervised boarding houses and farms and make room for new patients,--a plan hit upon to relieve the great pressure upon this institution which accepts only incipient cases. the employer continues his contribution. the boarding houses, conducted along approved lines, have sprung up all over the surrounding hills much as they have at saranac lake in new york. the factory inspection has been keyed up to take the greatest possible advantage of the co-operation of employers. frequent visits are made to all plants, but to those in which the work rooms are full of dust, or where there are other conditions favoring tuberculosis, dr. overlock makes a visit once a month. all minors on the working staff are taken before him, and required to furnish a full family history. if there has been tuberculosis in the family, even remote, a medical examination is at once made. the others are examined more superficially, but the least trace of suspicious symptoms is at once seized upon as cause for an examination. in this way, it is believed, incipient cases among minors will be caught in their earliest stages. the system will later be extended to adults. an extension of the plan to secure the interest and help of employers has begun in some other inspection districts, and will eventually be introduced throughout the state. but the carefully laid plans to detect and ward off incipient cases comprise only one part of the massachusetts plan to fight tuberculosis. in may three homes for advanced cases will be opened, and the development of the plan calls for additional homes, scattered through the state, until it shall have made complete provision for all cases, early or advanced. in view of the almost unanimously expressed opinion at the recent international tuberculosis congress, that the strategic point of attack in the campaign is in isolating advanced cases, the provision of these homes is, perhaps, the most important plank in the massachusetts health platform. governor guild is much interested in the whole plan. in a recent letter to dr. overlock he wrote: "it has been a great pleasure for me to inaugurate the new policy of the commonwealth of provision for all cases of tuberculosis, not merely as at present the care of the curable, but the care of the incurable as well." salary loans in cincinnati the business of lending money on salaries and wages has received a practical knockout blow in cincinnati through the _commercial tribune_, which instituted the crusade, with the co-operation of the officials of the city and of various private organizations. aided by an ordinance which orders the licensing of salary loan offices and which makes a weekly report to the city auditor necessary, the campaigners have already been able to put one office out of business entirely, and to sew up all the others in the courts in such a way that it now seems very likely that most of these will retire rather than face the storm which awaits them. d. h. tolman is more deeply involved in cincinnati than he has ever been before. his son, e. e. tolman, who is said to be connected with the business of his father, is under arrest and is now waiting a hearing in the police court. his manager has been arrested and convicted on three counts. although these cases have been appealed to a higher court, an application for an order to restrain the further interference with the tolman business has thus far been refused. d. h. tolman has ordered his manager in cincinnati to refuse to comply with the ordinance and unless the courts do issue this order the manager will be arrested every week. the _commercial tribune_ has secured all of the tolman forms from a former manager. these have all been printed together with a letter from the ex-manager in which the latter makes a complete exposé of the methods pursued behind the doors of one of his offices. the auditor of cincinnati has declared his purpose of keeping up the fight. he has forced ten salary loan offices to pay a license fee and to comply with the provisions of the local ordinance. agents have been permanently employed by the official to watch the loan offices and to ferret out any new agents who may attempt to operate secretly. the legal aid society which was recently formed to advise the poor, has made it its business to impress upon all who seek its meetings the futility of borrowing money from the salary loan people and has furnished a list of the companies which are classified as "loan sharks," to every man and woman whom it could reach. in this way people who never read the newspapers are given information which they otherwise would probably never receive. the legal aid society is also at work on a code of laws which will be submitted to the general assembly at its coming session and which it is hoped will solve the question of loaning money on salaries and chattels in ohio for all time. the attorneys of the society promise a law which will set a fixed rate, which will include interest and expenses, on all such loans. it is said now that this rate will be either three or four per cent. the contemplated law will also contain a provision which will make the recovery of usury possible. it is further planned to have a provision in the law similar to the massachusetts statute, requiring the signatures of the wife, when a borrower is married, and of his employer. some of the best attorneys in cincinnati including former prosecuting attorney benton oppenheimer, are at work on these laws. another movement now on foot is the founding of a salary loan office on the same basis as several chattel loan offices which are now operating in the country, whose stockholders are philanthropists and men of wealth. cincinnati has such a chattel loan company and the men who are now fighting the salary loan business there are urging the stockholders of this company to take up the other work. the most gratifying thing of the cincinnati campaign has been the falling off of business in the loan offices. the companies admit this and one broker left for florida after explaining that his business had decreased seventy-five per cent during the campaign. for a court of domestic relations one of the interesting bills to be brought before the session of the new york legislature is that drawn by bernhard rabbino, relating to a special domestic relations court. mr. rabbino believes that if we have courts for the purpose of divorce, for separating mothers from children and children from fathers, we should have a separate tribunal to which families in discord could appeal. there are probably from , to , domestic trouble cases handled yearly in manhattan and the bronx alone, but as no records are kept of summons cases,--and these come under that head,--it is not possible to compute the exact number. probably it is greater than the number of cases handled by the children's court, and a domestic relations court is justified by mr. rabbino, additionally, on the ground that it precedes the children's court, having for its fundamental purpose the preservation of the family as a unit, with an opportunity for fathers and mothers to secure the same expert and individual attention that is given to the children. domestic affairs are admittedly out of place in a general police court. the unfortunate participants are not in any sense criminals, and yet they are surrounded by thieves, pickpockets, drunkards, disorderly persons,--the regular rabble of the criminal court,--and an outraged self-respect is the consequence of such treatment. the present organization of magistrates' courts contemplates that the magistrate shall sit one-half of the day on the bench and the other half shall be in chambers for the settlement of just such cases as mr. rabbino would bring before the domestic relations court. as a matter of practice, however, so congested are the courts and so pressing their work, that there is no time for this personal consideration which the law contemplates. the magistrate does what he can in the face of tremendous difficulties, but he has not the time to investigate these cases, and without proper attention there can be no adjustment of them. divorce and separation are the natural results. the idea of such a court would be to prevent litigation as a whole and particularly to safeguard the homes of the poor, for the poor are those who are obliged to resort to police courts. the better-off take their affairs to the supreme court. it is very possible that these lower courts might develop into something higher, and many matrimonial difficulties which now cause a permanent rupture of relations be peaceably adjusted with judicial assistance. such a court might also have a marked effect on juvenile crime, for any force that makes for better home conditions is preventive of crime. the bill requires also that the court of domestic relations have exclusive jurisdiction over all cases of abandonment, non-support, and the non-support of poor relatives as provided by law. the bill as drawn would make this domestic relations court part of the city magistrates' courts, on the lines of the children's courts now being generally established throughout the country. the idea, however, would be to have a special court altogether, and if successful, this would probably be done. the introduction of this bill in the legislature may bring to sharp discussion the whole question of division of jurisdiction in the city courts. the present established principle is that such courts should be divided geographically, covering a certain borough or section of a borough. the children's court differs radically from this and introduces a functional division. it is an open question whether, with the police courts crowded as they are, such a functional division has not become necessary for more cases than those of delinquent children,--whether the separation of special kinds of cases into children's courts and into courts of domestic relations will not prove more effective than a further division of territory. the year in municipal events a review of municipal events and tendencies for the past year, which might be the title of clinton rogers woodruff's report as secretary of the national municipal league, centers around efficiency and honesty in government as a result of clear accounting systems and understandable statistics; wide-spread efforts at charter revision; a constantly growing sentiment for nomination reform; and a militant desire, evident in many sections, to tackle the problems which have grown up around the saloon in politics. the massachusetts bureau of municipal statistics, the first of its kind, has already resulted, mr. woodruff believes, in a number of cities reconstructing their accounts on a sounder and more substantial basis. the first year's report shows a confusing lack of system in handling the receipts and disbursements of towns and cities; a wide variety of dates for closing the fiscal year; many defects in the treasurers' methods of accounting; and the need for consolidation of the administration of trust funds. in many instances, money left to the community for special purposes has been used by the town trustees for general purposes. but "the movement for uniform accounting proceeds without interruption." originated by the national municipal league, it was given momentum by the census bureau and by legislation in ohio and massachusetts. accounting investigations and reforms are being made the basis for an approach to the solution of important problems in boston, in new york by the conspicuous work of the bureau of municipal research, and in minneapolis. the point of attack in minneapolis has been the administration of the school fund "which seems to have been particularly inadequate and inefficient." a grand jury found "a startling and deplorably loose state of affairs." the investigation was made by trained men from san francisco and other pacific coast cities. in wilmington there has been a thoroughgoing examination of municipal account. legislative reference bureaus are being established to help in this movement, of particular value to chicago which "is on the threshold of an era of public improvement which will call for the most intelligent direction from the city government." mr. woodruff predicts that "we may expect within the next half dozen years to find a series of similar bureaus established in all the leading cities, gathering for their respective municipalities information concerning improvement; and, moreover, we may expect a further development, in that all of these bureaus and libraries will be so co-ordinated, each with the others, as to form a strong chain of information that will banish from the halls of legislation and the offices of administration, the dense ignorance that all too frequently found a welcome lodgement." charter changes are pressed every year more strongly to the front. it is true now that wherever a good government organization of any sort is found, there will be accompanying it a campaign either for a new charter or for amendments to the existing one. perhaps the most noticeable tendency of the movement is a demand for a greater degree of home rule for the cities which have been "subjected to a degree of legislative buffeting that has well nigh destroyed the cherished ideal of self-government." nomination reform has been much discussed, and a number of laws providing for direct nominations have become effective during the year. mr. woodruff holds that the results of direct nominations have, on the whole, "recommended themselves to those who are striving for the elimination of nomination monopoly and for the inauguration of a simpler and more direct form of election machinery." further, he holds that "it is now generally conceded, except by a very small and diminishing group of men, that the preparation and distribution of the ballots at the general election is a proper state function and expense." the objections to direct nominations are discussed at length and finally dismissed with the conclusion: "we must realize that we are living in a democracy, and that the election machinery must be democratic and must record the wishes of the people and be responsive to their desires. direct nominations are a step in advance because they enable the people directly to express their wishes. no doubt they have made their mistakes, and will continue to make them; but they have had to bear the brunt of them in the past, and they must continue to bear them in the future; and this in the long run will prove to be the most effective way of building up an enlightened and efficient democracy." the initiative and referendum are advocated, because "they are unquestionably proving effective in breaking down some of the privileges and monopolies that have characterized political organizations for many years." to stimulate parks and play the council of one hundred, an auxiliary to the parks and playgrounds association of new york, has been fully organized by miss pauline robinson and seth thayer stewart, with a membership of well known men and women who are interested in playground activities and civic improvement. at the first meeting of the council at the home of mrs. charles b. alexander, in december, richard watson gilder presided, introducing mrs. george c. riggs (kate douglas wiggin), who read a valuable paper. eugene a. philbin, president of the parks and playgrounds association, outlined the development of that organization, which is the union of the brooklyn society for parks and playgrounds and the metropolitan parks association. howard bradstreet, the secretary of the association, gave through lantern slides a synopsis of the active work in conducting playgrounds and baseball centers during the last season. seth thayer stewart sketched a possible plan for the extension of the recreation idea throughout the city, and dr. luther h. gulick spoke briefly on recreation for girls. the council of one hundred, of which mr. gilder is president, jacob h. schiff, george d. pratt, mrs. frederick w. whitridge and mrs. samuel bowne duryea, vice-presidents; and miss pauline robinson, secretary and treasurer, will meet two or three times a year. its purpose is to assist individually and as a body in the active work of the parks and playgrounds association. while much is being done by the city through park and school in the way of offering play facilities to children, nevertheless, so great is their number in new york, that only a small percentage of the possibilities have as yet been realized. with a million children of school age or under, occupied only a small part of the time, the street must be the chief resort for the large majority. the experience of last summer showed both the feasibility and the good result of organizing the children of the street by play leaders who appreciate the value of free play, and are acquainted with child nature. the plan of work as outlined calls for the placing of such play leaders in various sections of the city; the encouraging of the establishment of places for recreation by different organizations and neighborhood committees, and for the provision and maintenance of various forms of play throughout the year in sections otherwise neglected. during the summer the association maintained eight vacant lots as playgrounds, eleven baseball centers and a camp for boys. the neighbors of several of these grounds have asked to have them extended during the winter, and the association will undertake to do so early in the new year. new york state trade school plans much significance is attached to the recent organization of the new york state branch of the national society for the promotion of industrial education. the passage of the industrial education bill last year opened up to the state possibilities in the way of industrial education which it has not thus far been able to measure. a volunteer body of some sort has been needed to awaken interest and stir up the whole state. particular opportunity offers among the up-state cities and it was with this in mind that the officers and advisory board were elected, for as the list shows, the members are representative of the state as a whole as well as of many lines of industrial and educational activity. the officers are: president, james p. mcelroy, manager of the consolidated car heating company, albany; vice-president, dr. andrew s. draper, state commissioner of education, albany; secretary-treasurer, arthur l. williston, pratt institute, brooklyn. additional members of the executive committee are: v. everit macy, chairman of board of trustees, teachers' college, new york; joseph r. campbell, president diamond saw and stamping works, buffalo; thomas d. fitzgerald, president allied printing trades council of new york state, albany; frank l. babbott, manufacturer and member of the school board, brooklyn. at a public meeting following the formation of the branch, considerable enthusiasm was developed and a number of interesting papers were read. of these, perhaps the most substantial contribution to the discussion of the evening was by dr. william h. maxwell, city superintendent of schools, new york, who presided. among other things dr. maxwell said: certain things may be taken as demonstrated with regard to industrial education: first, trade schools are needed. they are needed for the sake of our industrial wealth and efficiency. they are needed for the sake of the boys and girls of this city. the best preparation for a trade is the manual training high school where, in connection with elements of a liberal education, students receive instruction in drawing, in tools, and in applications of art to industry. but these schools breed engineers, not journeymen. hence we need schools to give training that will shorten and enrich the period of apprenticeship for the journeyman. second, such schools must be a part of the public school system and must articulate directly and closely with the elementary schools, to the end that boys and girls between fourteen and eighteen, or at least sixteen, may obtain that training which will enable them to be of use in a shop; because it is in the public schools that the boys and girls are found who need such training. third, to carry out this articulation, elementary schools should have manual training to discover these boys and girls who have an aptitude for mechanical pursuits. brains are as necessary in mechanical pursuits as in law or theology. certain difficulties stand in our way: first, apathy of manufacturers who have shown little desire to obtain really skilled american workmen, as for example, the firm which established a school to train apprentices and found that they were taken away by other firms as soon as they had learned a few tricks of the trade. second, apathy of the financial authorities of the city who have just cut out the amount asked for by the board of education for shops and kitchens, and given only $ , for a trade school. it is encouraging, however, to remember that the first annual appropriation for manual training in brooklyn was only $ , . if we make good use of the small appropriation, the demonstration will secure larger appropriations in the future. third, the foolish or nebulous arguments of many of those who have been advocating trade schools. arguments have been foolish when they became pleas for the elimination of existing high schools and the conversion of these institutions into trade schools. those that have not been foolish have been largely nebulous, vapory exhortations to establish trade schools, without the substance of a well considered plan. such a well considered plan is now the great desideratum. while the advocates of trade schools have been talking, the board of education has established and maintained five prosperous and useful evening trade schools which are patronized largely by apprentices. those evening trade schools confine their operations chiefly to the building and machinists' trades. shall we stop there? will our friends not give us a plan for teaching our three largest trades, clothing, beer brewing, and sugar refining? what we need farther is a well thought-out plan of co-operation between the school and the manufacturer, such as that at fitchburg, mass. for these reasons,--the apathy of manufacturers, the apathy of the financial authorities of our city, and the need of definite, coherent plans,--the cause of trade schools stands sorely in need of the aid of this local branch of the national society. the time is surely opportune when the board of education has appointed a standing committee on this subject and when the state, through the industrial education bill, passed last winter by the legislature, has decided to give substantial financial assistance to any community that established trade schools. to restrain holiday begging the mummery and begging in which the children of new york city so generally indulge thanksgiving day and other holidays have long been matters of concern and alarm to those who are interested in educational work with young people. many articles have appeared denouncing the custom. on the morning of thanksgiving, the new york _times_ contained an especially well directed effort to protest against this growing evil. the children of asacog social settlement, sands street, brooklyn, partake very generally in these holiday mummeries, masquerading and begging. the harmful results have long been realized, but the efforts heretofore used to modify the custom have been quite ineffective. it was resolved this year to undertake a different method of modifying the nuisance. it was found in all cases that the children had no idea why they should choose thanksgiving for begging, beyond the fact that people gave them money on that day and all their playmates chose this method of "having fun," so of course it was necessary to be in the game. so with "having a good time" in mind, parents, young people, children, were invited to a festival on thanksgiving eve. it seemed quite necessary to draw a moral lesson in the attempt to overthrow such a deeply seated custom, and this was done through a series of tableaus and dances with connecting narrative. the probable historical setting of the thanksgiving custom was presented through scenes of the dutch in holland, during the troublesome times of william of orange, when the sea beggars made their famous pledge. two tableaus showing the court scene and the banquet of the beggars were followed by a costume dance by small boys, which was called the "beggars' march." the english contribution to the celebrations was in tableaus from the history of the guy fawkes plot. the dutch and english transferred to america were shown by peter stuyvesant and his surrender; the southern scenes with their harvest ideas through a colored plantation sketch; the puritans and indians by tableaus and indian squaw dances. then followed the times of the revolution, with the tyranny of the british, the spirit of ' , and the evacuation day celebration on november , . the tableaus were given in costume by the young people and children, about seventy-five taking part. the members of the civic club, composed of mothers and neighborhood women did a great deal in preparing the costumes and dressing the actors. the settlement had the valuable help of miss mari r. hofer in preparing dutch and indian dances, and of howard bradstreet, the narrator of the evening. admission was by tickets given in clubs and classes, and the seating capacity of three hundred and twenty-five was taxed to over five hundred. but the carnival spirit was in the midst and no one minded the necessity of standing on a chair with a friend or two in order to catch an occasional glimpse of the stage. several of the star performers became so interested in the audience that it was necessary to snatch the nearest boys or girls as the occasion demanded, hustle them to the improvised "green" room, hastily dress them in remaining fragments of costumes far removed from the historic time, and with impromptu coaching from the wings, an attitude was struck worthy of any dutch patriot or puritan dignitary. the most gratifying results of the performance were that the begging on the street was greatly diminished. many of the children did dress up and beg, for of course we could not expect a complete reformation on sands street. but up to eleven o'clock not a begging child had been seen on asacog corner. later in the day little beggars began to appear but in smaller numbers and at three o'clock in the afternoon, a very lively hour, all the children on the block were out playing their ordinary street games, and but one child was in fancy costume. from one tenement from which twenty children begged last year, but two indulged this year, one mother having been to the festival, and really beginning to realize the dangers of street gaieties for the first time, refused to permit her eight year old girl to parade in fancy dress, at which the child volunteered to stay in bed, feeling life was too dull for words, and besides she was tired from the night before, the carnival spirit having worked itself out. in reality it was the "day after the fun." folk dances in a public school the pupils in the lincoln school, situated in the suburbs of burlington, iowa, feel no restraint from want of room to play, for the school grounds are as large as a small park, and stretches of prairie land roll before and behind the building. beautiful oaks and elms form tiny forests round about, a brook rushes through the outskirts, and in each season nature calls so loudly to the boy that it requires all the ingenuity of teachers and truant officers to keep him in school. many nationalities have congregated in this part of the city, for it is a factory district, and each september there are enrolled little germans, russians, swiss and irish who are instinctively antagonistic to one another. the teachers of lincoln school have found it advisable to be present during the noon hour, as well as during recess, to prevent the playing of rough games in which many children were injured, or which resulted in fighting. [illustration] [illustration] about ten years ago a may-pole was introduced, which revolutionized the school. a small organ was carried into the yard and as many as forty children took part in this dance at the same time. about five years ago, fearing that this dance would become monotonous, other folk dances were introduced, and now one may see during all intermissions, groups of boys and girls dancing the _gavotte der kaiserin_, irish reel, highland fling, sword dance, dance of the alpine peasants and the minuet. in order that even these should not become uninteresting, costumes have been provided for each dance, and this is bound to be the greatest aid in discipline; for what boy will play truant when he can impersonate washington in the minuet or some scottish hero in the sword dance or highland fling. to defray the expense of the costumes, a play was given,--spyri's heidi. this met with such success that they now have a dramatic club, whose members have presented old-fashioned girl, eight cousins and little baron to large audiences in the opera house. many unruly boys have become docile, after impersonating some genuinely honest boy character. the manners and dress of both boys and girls have been much improved since they have taken part in these plays. the folk-dances have been used in this school for so many years that all are prepared to say that they are a success with the boys in as great a degree as they are with the girls. a boy seldom refuses to join in the dances. the most enjoyable period during the session is the time of the rhythmic play. they need no other punishment for disobedience than to threaten to refuse to play for the folk dances. the standard for a city's survey graham taylor social research on a city-wide scale is a contemporary product. appropriately old london was the first to have its living conditions comprehensively investigated. to charles booth belongs the credit of having initiated and set the type of such enquiry. his great work in seventeen volumes on life and labor in london standardized methods and results in some lines of civic investigation. its data were almost entirely derived from secondary documentary sources furnished by official records and the reports of voluntary agencies, but the originality with which it is everywhere stamped lies in the handling and verifying of the material thus acquired. the whole great analysis and synthesis of the largest city population of the world, thus attempted for the first time, deserves to be ranked as one of the greatest achievements of the closing decade of the nineteenth century. that this brave pioneering was attempted by one of london's great shippers, and that it was so successfully carried through to completion at a cost of twenty years of labor and a quarter million of dollars, also sets a standard of self-exacting citizenship worthy alike of the world's greatest city and of one of its most modest and personally resourceful citizens. the extent to which this survey of london afforded intelligent incentive and basis for the reconstructive civic spirit and work which attended and followed it is demonstrated by contemporary history. the voluntary efforts to improve conditions, and the london county council's achievement in increasing open and street spaces and in furnishing housing and other equipment for city life, were on a scale befitting the foundation in fact substantially laid by mr. booth's monumental work. liverpool, glasgow, birmingham and many provincial cities received impetus and direction in their heroic efforts to ascertain and improve their own conditions. seebohm rowntree followed mr. booth's example in his study of poverty in york, but went beyond his methods in making a first hand investigation of the facts. robert w. deforest and lawrence veiller set the type for american enquiry into city conditions by their investigation and reports of the tenement house problem in new york. and now the pittsburgh survey registers the most inclusive standard thus far set in ascertaining the facts of living conditions in a typical industrial community. in cooperating to carry through this constructive survey the russell sage foundation and this magazine achieve the most noteworthy fulfilment of their common purpose to improve social and living conditions in the united states. preaching and practice jacob a. riis [illustration] these two christmas stamps are next of kin. our red cross stamp is the youngest child of the danish _julemarke_ which sprang out of a country postmaster's brain to take its place among the most effective weapons in the world-wide fight with the white plague. of what stout stock the family are,--it is a big family by this time, with sons and daughters in many lands,--this year's issue of the danish stamp tells at a glance. for the big building pictured in it is the "christmas stamp sanatorium," built for tuberculous children out of the half pennies the danish people have given these five years as their contribution to the great campaign. [illustration] denmark is a little country. all in all it has not much more than half as many people as the greater new york, if indeed it has so many. yet in so short a time it has wrought so great a tangible result. what it has further wrought in the way of arousing public interest and guiding public education in this matter is beyond calculation. for the last is the biggest end of the work of the christmas stamp, wherever it goes. in new york city two years ago we raised a great outcry about child cripples, made so by tuberculosis. we counted five thousand or more in the tenements of the metropolis and decided that their one chance of life lay in building a hospital on the seashore, on the lines of the little one now run on coney island by the association for the improvement of the condition of the poor. forthwith money was raised, a quarter of a million of dollars, to build a much bigger one with, and architects were set to work to draw plans. the city appropriated a site in a great seashore park, to be laid out for the people. then there happened what so often happens in new york when a great public enterprise is to be carried out. it ran into a rut, somehow. money became tight, the controller could not find the funds, park and hospital were side-tracked and stayed so. they are side-tracked yet. the money kind-hearted new yorkers gave for the children is in the bank. the little cripples still crawl around their tenements. the winds blow over the ocean and waste their healing balm. the park is as far away as ever. and the purses of the charitable snap with an extra twist of tightness when they think of it all. next time we shall plead the children's cause in vain. that is the way of new york. the picture above tells the way of poor little denmark. no doubt there is an excuse, or a string of them, for the american city. but excuses do not mend aching joints and wasted frames. how long before new york will catch up with denmark? would it not be fine if this lusty son of a worthy sire, the red cross christmas stamp, were to help get us started again? railway accidents emory r. johnson university of pennsylvania the confessions of a railroad signalman by j. o. fagan is an exceptionally able book, worthy of the serious attention of every student of the causes of railroad accidents.[ ] the author gives his qualifications for writing the book by saying that he "has been a telegraph operator and tower-man for twenty-seven years and part of the time chief clerk to a railroad superintendent," and he further adds that "the extent of territory covered by this experience is even wider than one would suppose. for a telegraph operator is, of necessity, one of the best posted men in the service." in addition to this experience from which a knowledge of the subject has been gained, the author possesses a remarkably well trained mind and has command of exceptionally clean english. [ ] the confessions of a railroad signalman, j. o. fagan. pp. . price $ . , boston: houghton, mifflin and co., . this book may be obtained at publisher's price through the offices of charities and the commons. the main thesis of the book is that accidents are due mainly to non-observance of rules. "railroad managers, therefore, sooner or later will come to understand that the one thing needed in the railroad service at the present day is to educate employes to appreciate the fact that successful and safe railroading in the future will have to depend, not upon the multiplication of safety devices or the reconstruction of rules, but upon the personal effort and conduct of conscientious, alert, and careful men." furthermore, the author has "arrived at the conclusion that on our railroads the interests of the community have become secondary to those of the employe and his organization." mr. fagan also maintains that "it is actually a matter of reasonable demonstration that at least seventy-five per cent of the casualties might be avoided by increase of interest on the part of the employe, and the earnest concentration of his best thought on the subject." [illustration: from confessions of a railroad signalman] the natural remedy for the situation, as stated by mr. fagan, would lie in the observance by employes of the company's rules and regulations, in the discipline by the management of all employes for each and every non-observance of any rule, and the enforcement of discipline with appropriate penalties regardless of the personality of those subjected to discipline. the enforcement of discipline, moreover, should not be made to depend upon consequences resulting from non-observance of rules. employes should be penalized by loss of pay for their disregard of the rules or regulations whether their actions do or do not result in casualties. mr. fagan, however, believes, and brings convincing evidence to show, that the above remedy is beyond hope. the organizations of which the railroad employes are members take the position that the member who violates a rule is to be defended against condemnation by the public or discipline by the management. instead of taking the view that the interests of the public are paramount to those of any individual railroad employe, the railroad employes' organization seeks invariably to shield its members against the consequences of their actions. furthermore, the managers of most railroads have decided that the strict enforcement of the rules and the punishment of those who do not observe the rules result in so many controversies with the labor unions and are so destructive of harmonious relations between the company and the unions, that it is better to strive for harmony rather than to enforce discipline. in other words, discipline and the safety of the public are made subsidiary to the maintenance of harmonious relations with the employes. such being the situation, mr. fagan believes that reform is not to be expected within railway management but must come from the outside as the result of the exercise of governmental authority. the government must punish employes for non-observance of rules and penalize railroad officers for the non-enforcement of their regulations. the analyses and arguments of the book are convincing. the position taken by mr. fagan is one the accuracy of which will doubtless be vigorously denied by the organizations of railroad employes and will be to some extent questioned by the responsible management of railroads. however, it seems to the author of this review that mr. fagan has established his thesis. industrial italy arthur p. kellogg the simple italian peasant, he whose meager village life was so accurately drawn by mr. mangano in earlier issues of this magazine, is familiar in every city in this country, and we have in america what is probably a fair appreciation of his poverty, his hardships and the longing for better things which send great blocks of the population of rural provinces flocking across the atlantic. of industrial italy we know less, having few sources of information. if the life of the factory towns is really as bad as the forewarners,[ ] by giovanni cena, makes it,--if wages are as low, work as hard, housing as squalid and amusements as few,--then we have in the book a story of remarkable growth in wretchedness, for the manufacturing towns of northern italy are, as mrs. humphry ward points out in the introduction to the english translation, only forty years old. [ ] the forewarners, giovanni cena, , new york, doubleday, page and company. price $ . . this book may be ordered at publisher's price through the office of charities and the commons. the book makes clear the source of the socialist vote in the italian parliament and the human stuff which the railway and other big strikes are made of. it is, supposedly, the life story of a turin printer. starting as the son of a clay digger, he graduates into the working world after a childhood spent in an orphanage. having some little education more than his fellows, he becomes a proofreader for a house which is putting on the italian market the standard works of science and philosophy in all languages. this gives him stronger meat than a weak body and an overwrought mind can digest, and he becomes oppressed with the wrongs of his class, with the grind of the factory and the squalid life of the house where he has a tiny cell in the garret. there he piles up, in proof sheets, a library of the greatest books in the world. pouring over them by night, half-fed, unsociable, brooding, his mind slips gradually from its moorings and he throws his life away as a sacrifice, for this book, the story of his life and the story of his class, is hidden in his bosom. a tragic death, he believes, will cause it to be published and set afoot nothing short of a revolution. the book does not tell the manner of his death, but it implies that he threw himself in front of the king's automobile, which he often met in his wanderings outside the city. it typified to him the oppression which he felt,--"the griefs of others i have such a longing to relieve that the desire becomes a torment to me, and i cannot shake myself free from it except by action." of the automobile drivers he had written: "whilst the nobility are trying to draw in their claws so as not to exasperate us, here come these bourgeoise parvenus to insult us in our own house. yes, in our own house, for the highroad belongs to the peasant and the poor man." his studies, which put him above the other workmen, were themselves his undoing, for the substance of tolstoi and spencer became so much more to him than the form, that his work grew bad and worse until he was discharged,--an incident convincing to one who has attempted to read proof with an eye to things greater than commas and spelling. out of it all he worked a scheme of things as they ought to be, which, whether it came from the proofreader or from the author who takes a proofreader's smarting sense of wrong as his theme, makes an interesting program: a king who has a lofty ideal of society wishes to lead his subjects up to it by his methods of government, and is willing to abdicate when he feels that they are really free. his chief instruments in the work of redemption are doctors and school teachers. on the one hand freedom, on the other action. freedom from error whilst doing everything to favor and afford sufficient light. a tendency to abolish all forms of restraint, from the material ones for criminals to the moral ones for all men; from handcuffs to laws. the gradual abolition of hereditary rights of property; every human being to have the needful, and everything to return to a common fund at his death. the legal personality of women, and the equality of the sexes, to be recognized as steps to the conquest of individuality, liberty, happiness. each to be free to develop to the utmost his own life, his own affections. birth and education to be protected. rest to be ensured to old age. public hygiene to be watched over till disease be eliminated. every facility to be afforded to manufactures, commerce and science, so as to encourage man to conquer himself, the earth, the heavens. faith in progress, as if it were not,--and it is not,--destined to die with our earth. the worship of life. such a scheme and the style and force of the book are difficult to associate with the neurasthenic proofreader, skilfully as the author has drawn the background and made the man's thought develop over his proof table. but whether the character be drawn convincingly or not, the book gives a wonderfully clear and sharp-cut picture of the environment of such a worker. some bits of description stand out above the others, one of them the turin tenement, where "from the first flights of stairs, carpeted and warmed by hot air pipes, to the bare flight of our top floor, the steps grew ever steeper and steeper. each evening we passed through all the social zones, hot, temperate and cold; we were lodged in the arctic regions." there were of these steps to the top floor, where naught but poverty dwelt,--a penniless poet with a sister who supported him, a lonely working girl, a woman of the streets, a drunkard and his screaming, beaten wife and half-witted children, and cimisin, a cobbler, who always "was whistling at full speed to the accompaniment of his hammer. the tears of women, the curses of drunkards, had for so many years mingled with the merriment of that harmless madman." his history of the printing shop is complete and modern, even to the point where the men went back to their cases after a strike, only to find that long rows of linotypes with women operators had displaced them. these women, he thought, might have among them one fitted to be his mate, but he was too shy to seek her out. he could see them only as workers at the almost human machines, or where "the cylinders revolved with a loud din, the sheets rained out one on top of the other, the women in their long overalls kept on repeating their monotonous movements, feeding the sheets into the press or collecting them into piles. on two side platforms the women were in constant motion. a hundred women and a hundred men. it was impossible to imagine that relations other than those existing between the several parts of a machine might be formed between these beings created for a mutual understanding." still he wonders vaguely if perhaps in this uniformity of action, foreign to and apart from the monotonous toil which exhausts them, something exists, smiles, shines? have some got a small bird singing in their hearts whilst their hands grow grimy at the wheel?... no love of their work,--that is to say of their life,--inspired them; each of them constantly saw the work of an hour, a mere fragment, leave his hands anonymously and forever, and none of them could ever say of anything, "that is my work!" what will remain of them at the end of their lives to prove that they have lived? in truth, they have not lived. of the women in his tenement, girls who were not harnessed to a factory, he found even less of life, though perhaps more of womanhood. going with his friend to see the latter's young sister in a maternity hospital, he reflects that this is the way with many of them,--"love leads to the hospital." the patients there are mostly unmarried girls. the married ones have few children now. "how talk of love, of family life, in a society which deals out the same ration to the single man and to the father of a family?" his friend starves, the sister dies, the drunkard's wife, mother of six, takes her life,--everyone whom he knew, it seems, all the associates high up in the attic of the "aëropolis," come to grief and misery and death. he greatly admires the woman, a physician, who visits them. "she picks up, joins, straightens out innumerable threads; she seems to be weaving a tapestry of which she will only complete a tiny bit, a work which she has inherited from one generation and will transmit to another." she offers him a part in her work, but he feels "incapable of giving myself in small doses." he is impatient, irritable for "something ready to hand, swift as lightning," that shall right all wrongs and ease all pain at a stroke. he cannot work with others, or for others, and so he tucks his story into his bosom and starts out to meet the king's car. almost at the last he confesses, "i have passed beside life." school reports[ ] reviewed by roland p. falkner to the great majority of people the school report is the only tangible evidence of what the school administration is doing. the citizens generally cannot be expected to know what goes on in the school rooms or in the meetings of boards of education, nor what is taking shape in the back of the superintendent's head. even were they afforded the utmost opportunity and gifted with such unusual perception, it is not likely that without convenient summaries and condensed statements they could form any idea of the public school system as a whole. [ ] school reports and school efficiency by david s. snedden and william h. allen for the new york committee on the physical welfare of school children. new york, . pp. . this book will be sent by charities and the commons postpaid for $ . . if the school report is at once the evidence and test of the school administration, it is clear that its ideal is such a marshalling of the facts regarding the schools of the city as will give the reasonably intelligent citizen a clear notion of just how well the schools are performing the duties entrusted to them. the book before us is a study of the school reports for the purpose of ascertaining how far and in what manner they seek to embody such ideal. it is a study in comparative administration. this study reveals so wide a diversity among school reports as to preclude the idea of any consensus of opinion as to what they should contain. while uniformity of scope and treatment is not to be expected, it might reasonably be anticipated that the similar purposes of the school administration in different places would give to these reports a certain family resemblance. in so far as such a resemblance can be traced, it does not appear to be so much the result of parallel internal development as the product of external compulsion or suggestion. state educational departments charged with allotment of state school funds according to a fixed unit in school work, have led to an emphasis upon such units. a similar influence has been exerted by the united states bureau of education in its request for information along certain definite lines. apart from these influences tending toward a certain uniformity, there are other forces working in the same direction though less effectively. the trend of present discussion in educational affairs is not without its influence, and when certain facts are needed to point a moral or adorn a tale the experience of other cities points to investigations or arrangements of material which are new to the city in question. conscious effort to promote uniform treatment of statistical data, a theme which has been discussed almost to weariness by the national education association and kindred organizations, has been singularly fruitless. with these general considerations by way of introduction, the work takes up its main theme, the scope of educational statistics. in them we find the condensation of educational experience, and here more than in other parts of the text we should expect the experience and practice of one city to be helpful to another. too often, indeed almost universally, the tables of facts are isolated from the text of the report, and no effort is made to explain their meaning or set forth the salient features which they present. in view of the volume of tabular matter there is a painful poverty of interpretation. the method pursued by the author in his record of the facts, is to furnish a specimen table from the different reports in regard to each matter touched upon, a selection of the simpler and then the more detailed statements to be found in them. the following heads are treated in this way: school plant, expenditure, census, attendance, age of pupils, promotions, survival, compulsory attendance, high schools, vacation schools, libraries, medical inspection, teachers and summaries. the variety of forms exhibited is highly instructive although, it may be confessed, somewhat bewildering. the author has confined himself so strictly to a study of methods that he is disposed to let the tables speak for themselves. there is here, too, an absence of interpretation. tables of figures may speak for themselves but to understand them one must know their language. one cannot help but feel that in many cases some explanation why the detailed tables are to be regarded as superior, other than the fact that they are more detailed, would have been more illuminating and would have relieved somewhat the monotony of this important chapter for the general reader. no attempt is made to outline a model report. we have instead in chapter a series of questions which might be answered in a school report. the list does not pretend to be exhaustive but in reality it constitutes a somewhat formidable program, if it be assumed that the greater part of these questions should receive attention. conscious of the fact that somewhat staggering demands are made on the school administration, the discussion of "suggested economies and improvement" comes as an antidote. this is a brief discussion of short cuts and methods to get at desired results. it looks to a simplification of records and such forms and registers as will supply the needed information, without excessive work. this is a very vital point and the suggestions as far as they go are admirable. while the subject presented in these pages is thoroughly technical, the work may be commended most heartily to school authorities and to all who are interested in the progress of our schools. it is an appeal for exact information and should not be passed by without a hearing. such information in regard to our schools,--one of the most important branches of our government,--is painfully lacking. it has too often been assumed that the management of schools was a matter for experts of which outsiders could not properly judge. within certain limits this is true, but it does not distinguish between the scholastic and the administrative sides of school work. we undoubtedly need both among our school authorities, and in the public at large a keener perception of the requisites of a sound and effective administration. it is not, perhaps, too much to say that there is no great business enterprise of the people of which they know so little as they do of their schools. in private affairs such ignorance on the part of directors and stockholders would lead to bankruptcy. the authorship of the several chapters of the book is distinctly stated. the general considerations herein briefly noted are the work of dr. snedden; the particular application to the city of new york is the work of dr. allen. those who are familiar with dr. allen's work answer that he can always be relied upon for a readable and spicy statement. but in view of the predominantly local interest of his discussion and the inexorable limits of space, it has seemed best in the foregoing notice to lay the greater emphasis on those large aspects of the subject which are from the pen of dr. snedden. [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._] hymn of pittsburgh by richard realf my father was mighty vulcan, i am smith of the land and sea, the cunning spirit of tubal cain came with my marrow to me; i think great thoughts strong-winged with steel, i coin vast iron acts, and weld the impalpable dream of seers into utile lyric facts. i am monarch of all the forges, i have solved the riddle of fire, the amen of nature to need of man, echoes at my desire; i search with the subtle soul of flame, the heart of the rocky earth, and out from my anvils the prophecies of the miracle years blaze forth. i am swart with the soot of my chimneys, i drip with the sweats of toil, i quell and scepter the savage wastes and charm the curse from the soil; i fling the bridges across the gulfs, that hold us from the to be, and build the roads for the bannered march of crowned humanity. published in the _national labor tribune_, saturday, february , . [illustration: _chautauqua photographic co._ pittsburgh. the point, as seen from the heights of the south side.] [illustration: the pittsburgh arch sesqui-centennial week.] the pittsburgh survey paul u. kellogg engineers have a simple process by which in half an hour's time they strike off a "blue print" from a drawing into which has gone the imagination of a procession of midnights, and the exacting work of a vast company of days. god and man and nature,--whosoever you will,--have draughted a mighty and irregular industrial community at the headwaters of the ohio; they have splashed, as kipling puts it, at a ten league canvas with brushes of comet's hair. under the name of the pittsburgh survey, charities publication committee has carried on a group of social investigations in this great steel district. in a sense, we have been blue-printing pittsburgh. our findings will be published in a series of special numbers of which this is the first, covering in order: i.--the people; ii.--the place; iii.--the work. full reports are to be published later in a series of volumes by the russell sage foundation and, throughout, the text will be reinforced with such photographs, pastels, maps, charts, diagrams and tables as will help give substance and reality to our presentations of fact. in this sense, then, it is a blue print of pittsburgh, that we attempt. at least the analogy of the draughting room may make it clear that the work, as we conceive it, lies, like the blue print, within modest outlay and reasonable human compass. our presentation must frankly lack the mechanical fidelity and inclusiveness of the engineer's negative; but we can endeavor to bring out in relief the organic truth of the situation by giving body and living color, as we see them, to what would otherwise be but the thin white tracings of a town. occasional articles have been published during the year, but the results of the survey are put forward for the first time as a consecutive whole in the pages that follow. here is the place, then, for a simple statement of the drive and scope of the work as conceived by those who have carried it forward: the pittsburgh survey has been a rapid, close range investigation of living conditions in the pennsylvania steel district. it has been carried on by a special staff organized under the national publication committee which prints this magazine. it has been financed chiefly by three grants, of moderate amount, from the russell sage foundation for the improvement of living conditions. it has been made practicable by co-operation from two quarters,--from a remarkable group of leaders and organizations in social and sanitary movements in different parts of the united states, who entered upon the field work as a piece of national good citizenship; and from men, women and organizations in pittsburgh who were large-minded enough to regard their local situation as not private and peculiar, but a part of the american problem of city building. the outcome has been a spirited piece of inter-state co-operation in getting at the urban fact in a new way. for consider what has already been done in this field in america. we have counted our city populations regularly every ten years,--in some states every five. we have known that the country has grown and spread out stupendously within the century, and that within that period our cities have spread out and filled up with even greater resistlessness. how goes it with them? what more do we know? true, we have profited by incisive analyses of one factor or another which enters into social well-being,--tuberculosis, factory legislation, infant mortality, public education, to name examples; and we have heard the needs of particular neighborhoods described by those who know them. but there is something further, synthetic and clarifying, to be gained by a sizing up process that reckons at once with many factors in the life of a great civic area, not going deeply into all subjects, but offering a structural exhibit of the community as a going concern. this is what the examining physician demands before he accepts us as an insurance risk, what a modern farmer puts his soils and stock through before he plants his crops, what the consulting electrician performs as his first work when he is called in to overhaul a manufacturing plant. and this, in the large, has been the commission undertaken by the pittsburgh survey. the main work was set under way in september, , when a company of men and women of established reputation as students of social and industrial problems, spent the month in pittsburgh. on the basis of their diagnosis, a series of specialized investigations was projected along a few of the lines which promised significant results. the staff has included not only trained investigators but also representatives of the different races who make up so large a share of the working population dealt with. limitations of time and money set definite bounds to the work, which will become clear as the findings are presented. the experimental nature of the undertaking, and the unfavorable trade conditions which during the past year have reacted upon economic life in all its phases, have set other limits. our inquiries have dealt with the wage-earners of pittsburgh (a) in their relation to the community as a whole, and (b) in their relation to industry. under the former we have studied the genesis and racial make-up of the population; its physical setting and its social institutions; under the latter we have studied the general labor situation; hours, wages, and labor control in the steel industry; child labor, industrial education, women in industry, the cost of living, and industrial accidents. from the first, the work of the investigations has been directed to the service of local movements for improvement. for, as stated in a mid-year announcement of the survey, we have been studying the community at a time when nascent social forces are asserting themselves. witness the election of an independent mayor three years ago, and mr. guthrie's present fight to clear councils of graft. within the field of the survey and within one year, the pittsburgh associated charities has been organized; the force of tenement inspectors has been doubled and has carried out a first general housing census, and a scientific inquiry, under the name of the pittsburgh typhoid commission, has been instituted into the disease which has been endemic in the district for over a quarter of a century. a civic improvement commission, representative in membership and perhaps broader in scope than any similar body in the country, is now in process of formation. a display of wall maps, enlarged photographs, housing plans, and other graphic material was the chief feature of a civic exhibit held in carnegie institute in november and december, following the joint conventions in pittsburgh of the american civic association and the national municipal league. the local civic bearings of the survey were the subject of the opening session of these conventions. its economic aspects were brought forward at a joint session of the american economic association and the american sociological society at atlantic city in december. [illustration: scheme of the pittsburgh survey. from pittsburgh civic exhibit, carnegie institute, november-december, .] the present issue is frankly introductory. it deals with the city as a community of people. pittsburgh is usually defined in other terms. first among american cities in the production of iron and steel, we are told that it ranks fifth as a general manufacturing center. there are forty-seven furnaces within forty miles of the heart of the city, with an annual capacity of over seven million tons of pig iron,--more than twenty-five per cent of the total production in the united states. statistics of the american iron trade for show that allegheny county produced a fourth of all bessemer steel and a third of all open hearth steel, a fifth of all rails rolled in the united states, a third of all plates and sheets, and very nearly a half of all structural shapes. pittsburgh proper ranked fourth in foundry and machine shop products, second in brick and tile, pottery and fire clay, and first in electrical apparatus and supplies. in coal and coke, tin plate, glass, cork, and sheet metal,--in products as varied as the fifty-seven varieties of the pickles in which it excels,--its output is a national asset. pittsburgh stands tenth in postal receipts and fifth in bank deposits. its banking capital exceeds that of the banks of the north sea empires and its payroll that of whole groups of american states. here is a town, then, big with its works. [illustration: blast furnaces at night.] again, there is a temptation to define pittsburgh in terms of the matrix in which the community is set, and the impress of this matrix on the soul of its people no less than on the senses of the visitor. pipe lines that carry oil and gas, waterways that float an acreage of coal barges, four track rails worn bright with weighty ore cars, wires surcharged with a ruthless voltage or delicately sensitive to speech and codes, bind here a district of vast natural resources into one organic whole. the approaching traveller has ample warning. hillsides and valleys are seamed with rows of coke ovens, gaunt tipples bend above mine mouths, derricks and bull-wheels stand over fuel wells, and low lying mill buildings, sided with corrugated iron, rear their clusters of stacks like the pipes of huge swarthy pans. then comes the city with its half-conquered smoke cloud, with its high, bare hills and its hunch of imposing structures. the place to see pittsburgh from is a much whittled little stand on the high bluff of mt. washington, where votaries of the national game assemble on a clear afternoon and spy upon a patch of green in allegheny city, hundreds of feet below them, and more than a mile away across the ohio river. their business is with honus wagner and the three-bagger he is going to knock out. but yours can be with the great y of the rivers, churned by stern-wheeled steamers and patched here and there with black fleets of coal barges. below you to the right is the south side; to the left across the rivers, is allegheny city, and between them is a little trowel of land piled high with office buildings. this is the "point," cut short as it is by the "hump" and by higher hills behind; and flanked by narrow river banks that grudge a foothold to the sounding workshops and lead up and down to the mill towns. you are looking at commercial pittsburgh. from the herron hill reservoir, mid-way between the forks of the y, you get a panorama of the other side of the community,--shenley park to the right of you, with the carnegie buildings and the ample residences of the east end, and to the left, long swales of small, thickly built houses that make up lawrenceville and the adjoining home areas. but it is at night that the red and black of the pittsburgh flag marks the town for its own. the lines of coke ovens seen from the car windows have become huge scythes, saw-edged with fire. the iron-sheathed mills are crated flame. great fans of light and shadow wig-wag above furnaces and converters. from cliff street, the lamps of allegheny lie thick and clustered like a crushed sky, but from the bridges that span the monongahela between the mills,--where choleric trains shuttle on either bank, and the rolls are at thumping war with the sliding, red billets,--the water welds the sparks and the yellow tumult, and you feel as if here were the forges of the sunrise, where beam and span and glowing plate are fabricating into the framework of dawns that shall "come up like thunder." here,--if we doubted it before,--is a town that works; and that works in a big way. but the people, rather than the product or the setting, concern us. in december, , pittsburgh and allegheny were merged, and the greater city entered the class of baltimore, st. louis and boston. this is the half-million class. last september, pittsburgh celebrated its one hundred and fiftieth anniversary, and a street pageant exhibited both the industrial vigor of the community, and the variety of its people. there was a company of corn planter indians, descendants of the aboriginal pittsburghers; there were floats representing the early settlers; there were scotchmen with kilts and bagpipes; nor were they all. a wagon load of italians bore a transparency,--"romans dig your sewers," and polish, slovak and other racial organizations marched in the costumes of their native countries. for the life of the city has become intricate and rich in the picturesque. that old man you passed on the street was a morgan raider, and behind him trudged a common soldier of the japanese war. here is an american whose pittsburgh is the marble corridors of an office building, and the night desks of the men in shirt sleeves and green eye shades; and here, one whose pittsburgh reaches back to a stately old parlor with gilt-framed mirrors and spindling chippendale. here is "belle," who exchanges her winter in the workhouse for a summer in a jon-boat, which she reaches by a plank. here is the _gazda_ who ruined himself that his boarders might not starve. and here, the inventor who works with many men in a great laboratory and scraps a thousand dollars' worth of experimentation at the turn of a hand. here is a gallery of miners pounding their grimy fists at a speech by haywood in the old town hall; and here a bunch of half-sobered slavs in the sunday morning police court. you do not know the pittsburgh district until you have heard the italians twanging their mandolins round a construction campfire, and seen the mad whirling of a slovak dance in a mill town lodge hall; until you have watched the mill hands burst out from the gates at closing time; or thrown confetti on fifth avenue on a halloween. within a few blocks of the skyscrapers of the point, i have seen a company of syrians weaving almost unceasingly for four days a desert dance that celebrated the return of one of them to jerusalem. (an irishman thought it a wake.) a possum swings by the tail at christmastide in front of that negro store in wylie avenue; long bearded old believers play bottle pool in that second avenue barroom; a yiddish father and five children lie sick on the floor of this tenement; this old bohemian woman cleaned molds as a girl in the iron works of prague; that itinerant cobbler made shoes last winter for the german children of the south side, who were too poor to pay for them, and stuffed the soles with thick cardboard when he was too poor to buy leather. here is a scotch calvinist, and there a slavic free thinker; here a peasant, and there a man who works from a blue print; engineers, drag outs, and furnace-men from the mill district; yeggs and floppers and ' ers from the lower reaches of the city; strippers and core makers and coffin buffers. there a russian exile with a price on his head, and here a shaker of old pennsylvania stock! you have heard of shakespeare's london, of the port of lisbon in the days of the spanish main, of the mixtures of caste and race and faith on the trade routes of the east. they are of the ilk of pittsburgh. how to get orderly plans of social betterment out of the study of such a community is at first sight a staggering question. but the clue to its answer is that same fact that stood out when we looked at pittsburgh as a city of tonnage and incandescence. these people are here to work. this fact once grasped in its bearings and we get a foothold for estimating pittsburgh. the wage earners become a fairly well-defined belt in the population. what the issues of life and labor mean to them will help us in understanding the trend of conditions in industrial communities generally. first, you have the mere fact of aggregation. pittsburgh has as many people as the whole state of pennsylvania had at the opening of the last century; allegheny county as many as at that time the commonwealths of massachusetts and new york combined. the greater city has twice as many as all the future cities of the united states had in ; as many as baltimore, boston, chicago, philadelphia, st. louis, combined, in . here, then, is a community worthy of as serious statesmanship as that which has served whole commonwealths at critical periods in our national advance. now in all history, cities have never reproduced themselves. they draw on the country districts to replace the stock that they burn out. but when one-third of the total population comes to live in cities, they can no longer do this. it becomes vitally important that city people live well, else the race lapses. at risk, then, of going over old ground, let us look at some of the dynamic influences that affect the life of this particular community. no american city presents in a more clear-cut way than pittsburgh the abrupt change from british and teutonic immigration. sociologists tell us that in the mid-eastern valleys of europe successive waves of broad-headed, long-headed, dark and fair peoples gathered force and swept westward to become kelt and saxon and swiss and scandinavian and teuton. they were the bulwark which obstructed the march of hun and goth and turk and tartar, sweeping in from the east. it is from slavs and mixed people of this old midland, with racial and religious loves and hates seared deep, that the new immigration is coming to pittsburgh to work out civilization under tense conditions. a vineyard blighted, a pogrom, torture, persecution, crime, poverty, dislodge them, and they come. further, the sociologists tell us that by mixed peoples the greatest advances have been made. it was in amsterdam, venice, london, and the hanse towns, places of mart which brought together the blood and cultures of distant races,--it was here that democracy gathered head and the arts flourished. but in pittsburgh are the elements of a mixture yet more marvelous. a common fund of slavic words, almost a pittsburgh dialect, is finding currency. the pole still speaks polish, but he makes an adaptation of his words, and the slovak understands. the syrian and arabian peddlers know these words and use them in selling their wares in the courts and settlements,--a contrast to the great gulfs that still separate the slav and the english-speaking. furthermore, the city is the frontier of to-day. we have appropriated and parcelled out most of our free land. the edge of settlement is no longer open as a safety valve for foot-loose rebels against the fixity of things. they come to the cities. they swarm in new hives. to pittsburgh especially where men deal with devil-may-care risks and great stakes, come the adventurous and the unreckoning. a smack of the mining camp is in the air about the mill yards. the life to which these people come is different from that known of any previous generations. we have seen how in pittsburgh traction lines, tunnels, inclines, telephone wires, weave a city of a size and on a site which would have been impossible in the old days. the householder is far removed from the sources of his food supply. he lives two or three families deep and many to the acre. the very aggregation of people breeds disease, a complication which in turn may yet be balanced by those revolutions in medical science which have brought glad, new optimism to sanitarian and physician. [illustration: sources of immigrant labor force, carnegie steel co. each dot a man. austria-hungary: including: slovaks poles bohemians germans croatians hungarians roumanians russia: including: poles lithuanians british isles: including: england ireland scotland wales sweden: bulgaria france turkey in europe roumania ] the work to which these people come is not the work of their fathers. the discipline of the mill is not the discipline of the field. human nature is put to new and exacting tests. it works unremittingly as it has not worked before,--eight, ten, twelve hours a day, seven days in the week, with the chance of twenty-four hours once in the fortnight. it works by artificial light and at night. it works in great plants and creates and puts together in fierce new ways. of that growing share of the population of pittsburgh which is continental born, a large proportion is from the country and small villages. this is no less true of the influx of southern negroes,--a north-bound movement here and in other cities, the final outcome of which we do not know. the newcomers, it is true, may be groomed in passage. a railroad may open up a hungarian back country and the peasant get his first training there; a ruthenian may work on the plantations and sugar beet factories of bessarabia before coming on; a southern negro may hire out in the mills of alabama before starting north; or a slovak may work as a slate picker or miner's helper in the anthracite fields on his way westward. the drift through it all none the less is from field to mill. new stock, then, a mixed people, venturesome, country-bred,--so much the sociologist has pointed out to us; the economist has other things to tell. he sees about him the potent aftermath of those great changes from household and domestic forms of production to the factory system. as each new peasantry leaves the soil, the history of the industrial revolution is repeated, but processes are accelerated and the experience of a generation is taken at a jump. with this has occurred a great lateral stratification of industry. there is no longer the feudal loyalty to a particular concern, but to the men of a particular trade. unions have sprung up, and have grown or broken. the thing above all others which has tended in pittsburgh to their undoing in certain great trades has been the subdivision of labor. the flea on the hair of the tail of the dog of the wild man of borneo just come to town, is an entity large and complete compared with the processes which occupy many men in the electrical works and car shops. this change has multiplied product, and set unskilled labor to busy itself at a thousand stints; but it has fore-shortened trade knowledge and ousted much craftsmanship. along with it has come another physical change. the skilled men of the old time hammers and anvils work with electric cranes and at continuous processes that reach from the heat of great ovens and the jaws of soaking pits to the piled and finished product. an intricate dovetailing of flagmen, brakemen, engineers and train despatchers makes up a train to carry huge dynamos and steel structural shapes across the continent. this fact has a new and vital social significance. its essence is team play. its reactions upon the psychology of associated effort have yet to be explored. once again, new and unheard of crafts are ushered in, to engage their quota of the time and strength of the working force, and to put it to new tests of adaptability. take the implications of the steel industry itself, in the building trades. the old time carpenter and builder gives way to the house-smith and the structural steel worker. [illustration: industrial towns of allegheny co. pa. percentage of native & foreign born whites in cities & boroughs having inhabitants or more ] in pittsburgh, too, we have a stupendous example of the influence upon the wage earners' city of a mighty fiscal change in industry, combining in one corporation all processes from the ore to the completed bridge. work is organized nationally. the steel center like the mill town is not a thing by itself. it is a step in a bigger process managed from without and owned by a multitude of nonresident stockholders. pittsburgh must build up an active, native citizenship or be merely an industrial department. the community and the workshop are at issue. finally,--in our roster of dominating influences,--within the last twenty-five years, has come the invasion of women into industry. this is not a simple thing, nor a little one. it can directly affect half the population. pittsburgh is not primarily a woman's town, yet , women engage in the trades, and each year they invade a new department. these women workers are affected by all the forces noted and in turn affect and complicate those forces. these are some of the dominant influences that affect wage-earners in cities assembled. one element runs through their complications and brings us clear-seeing and hope. it is the element of change and flow. in the royal museum at munich are the miniatures of a group of medieval towns carved out of wood. the spires of the churches, the walls and gates of the city, markets, houses, outbuildings and gardens are reproduced with a fidelity that has stood these centuries. they embody the old idea of a town, of the fixity of things. a man was his father's son. he worked as his father worked. he was burgher, or freeman, or serf as his father was burgher, or freeman, or serf. his looms and his spinning wheels and vats were as his fathers had contrived them. he lived in the house of his father as his father had lived and it served him well. pittsburgh is the antithesis of such a town. it is all motion. the modern industrial city is a flow, not a tank. the important thing is not the capacity of a town, but the volume and currents of its life and, by gauging these, we can gauge the community. we must gauge at the intake,--the children, the immigrant, the countrymen who come in; gauge at the outlets; and gauge at the stages in the course of the working life. if there be unnecessary death, if strong field hands are crippled or diseased through their manner of living or working, if the twelve hour man sees everything gray before his eyes in the morning, if women work in new ways that cost their strength or the strength of their young, if school children are drafted off as laborers before they are fit; if boys grow into manhood without training for the trades of this generation,--then we have a problem in social hydraulics to deal with. we must put old social institutions and usages to the test of these changing tides. herein lies the essence of constructive philanthropy. in this light, tenement house legislation is no more than an adaptation of domestic necessities and customs to the difficulties of living three stories deep, and factory acts no more than an effort to work out the law of skull crackers, freight yards, and electrically driven mines. we have to fashion a city not alone for the hereditary householder, but for the mobile and transient and half-assimilated, for workers with multiple tools and above all for people on an upward trend. faced with its great task of production, pittsburgh has not set itself to the thrift of self-knowledge. when half a thousand people were dying each year from typhoid fever, the movement to clear the water supply was blocked and exploited at every turn. half a thousand workmen are now killed each year in the industries of allegheny county, and yet the public has not taken the trouble to sift the accidents through and see which can be prevented. nobody knows how many men are seriously injured every year; nobody knows how many men and women are beset with trade diseases. nobody knows how much the community is paying for such wastes as these. nobody knows how far the seeping off of human integers into hospitals, and jails, insane asylums, brothels, and orphanages, could be checked; the guesses of the town's best men are that much is needless. pittsburgh is a town which does not know the number of its children of school age, nor, the physical status of the children of its classes; it is a town which, for five years, did not so much as demand a report from its health department. in such an arraignment, we must bear in mind that there are notable exceptions in one phase of social concern or another to this lack in pittsburgh's self-knowledge, and that pittsburgh is not merely a scapegoat city. it is the capital of a district representative of untrammeled industrial development, but of a district which, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, for vigor, waste and optimism, is rampantly american. the pittsburgh survey has been carried out with such a working conception of the field it had before it. we have brought to one city people of special experience in others, to gauge its needs. we have measured its institutions against standards worked out in this city or in that, or in other local enterprises; and we have estimated civic and industrial conditions by their effect on groups of individual families. in the present issue we put forward the composite situation as reflected in the lives of two groups--the immigrant and the negro. later issues will go into the social bearings of courts and schools, hospitals, houses and factories. but such individual problems have no reality unless seen in their human relations and for this reason, this issue begins with an interpretation of the genesis of the community by a native pittsburgher, who has become one of the civic leaders of new england. we have an estimate of new immigration by a welshman from the anthracite region, who is representative of the old, and an estimate of his fellows by one of the slavs. the outlook of the steel mill worker is appraised by a man whose eyes have known the broad sweep of prairies of the american northwest. a description of the working women whose hours and wages and conditions of employment will next concern us, and of the families into whose lives come the tragedies of industrial accidents, are included. and finally, the issues of life in a representative mill town are put forth, standing out more isolated and clear cut for the purposes of analysis than it is possible to find them in the more intricate operations of the greater city. * * * * * one of my earliest recollections of a canvas covered geography is the prime fact which is pittsburgh,--that here the allegheny and monongahela rivers unite to form the ohio. huge economic foundations buttress this fact (oil and gas and clay and iron and coal). history in the making has rolled it into new shapes and a changing significance. the junction is the great left fist of the father of waters. the three rivers give the town common cause and intercourse with the atlantic coast ranges to the east, and the mid-continental bottom lands, north and south, to the west. their waters carry the ores and fill the boilers and douse the hissing billets of the steel makers. they are not easy overlords, this triumvirate of rivers. they carry fever which scotches one town and the next. they rise a bit too far and the fires are out, the streets flooded. but grudgingly and inevitably, they yield mastery. they are dammed and sluiced and boiled and filtered to suit the demands of navigation and power and temperature and thirst. the mastery they yield is to another current--the eddying peoples which make up the community and all its works--a current more powerful and mysterious than the bulk of brown waters. the war department engineers can tell you the exact number of cubic feet which slide past either side of the point every minute. the sanitarians can give you the number of bacteria, friendly or plague-besetting, which infect any cubic centimeter. the weather man in a high building can forecast the exact stage which the water will register hours hence. but what of the people?--they have largely taken themselves for granted. they have rarely taken the time to test their own needs or consciously gauge the destination of the currents that possess them. they are here--the strong, the weak, the cowed, the ambitious, the well equipped and the pitiful. they jostle and work and breed. for the most part they run a splendid course. but they do not keep tally, and their ignorance means sorrow and death and misunderstanding. * * * * * to give a little help to those who are trying to understand, and measure these currents, and deal with them as intelligently as the locks and channels of the rivers are dealt with, has been the purpose of the pittsburgh survey. such chartings as we have attempted have been of these living waters. [illustration: coke ovens at night] pittsburgh an interpretation of its growth robert a. woods head of south end house, boston pittsburgh has always been unique among american towns. known as the dingy capital of a "black country," during all but the latest period of its growth it has attracted few visitors save those whose business motive brought them. the nucleus of its population is different from that of any other of our large centers. its situation at the gateway of the middle west was sure to bring it into significance as the center of the country's population and activity shifted, but the allegheny mountains were for a long time a barrier against the easy movement of population in this direction. it is the varied mineral resources of western pennsylvania, and the pertinacity of the chief element among its inhabitants in developing them, which has created a new metropolitan district, having virtually a population of a million, to be added to the seven or eight urban centers which now dominate different sections of the united states. beginning as a little hamlet about the fortifications used first by the french, then by the english, at the junction where the allegheny and monongahela rivers form the ohio, the settlement developed from a trading post to a market town. it would have been limited to the career of such a place much longer if, in spite of the excellent soil of the surrounding region, the farmers had not found it difficult to compete in the matter of the staple crops with the slave-tilled plantations of the south. it was as a sort of forced alternative that small iron-working plants began to spring up along the rivers. the ore was brought down from the alleghenies. bituminous coal,--the distinguishing asset of the coming industrial center,--had already been discovered by the french in the river valleys. the "town beyond the mountains" again found itself embarrassed in marketing its commodities,--not by competition this time, so far as america was concerned, but by the heights over which its ponderous new output must be carried. this obstacle was overcome by a system of canals with inclined cable portage lines up the mountain slopes. meanwhile the great trade with the west for the supply of its incipient civilization was being established through the river traffic as well as by newly dug canals. some of the first citizens of the town after the revolutionary days were naturally men who had been prominently engaged in the war. two of them were irishmen who had leaped to the opportunity to fight england. at the close of hostilities they had foresight to discern that large developments were to come at the juncture of the rivers. the descendants of these men,--some of whom by a curious irony are english and have never seen this country,--are at the present moment the greatest holders of pittsburgh real estate. the great bulk of the early immigrants into the town were scotch-irish, who began to come in large numbers early in the nineteenth century, and almost two generations before the inrush of the southern irish. until recent great developments, when the skyscrapers began to appear, the older part of the city in its aspect was distinctly suggestive of british towns of the same size and character. two of its local sections were very naturally called birmingham and manchester, names which have almost passed out of use among the american born generations. the manners and customs of the people showed about equally the traces of pioneer days in the ohio valley and the traditions of the old country. unlike the large cities that have grown up along the great lakes, pittsburgh owes nothing to successive waves of migration from new england. it is only in very recent years, with the varied developments of technical and educational interests, that there have been enough new englanders living in the city to develop any of the organized front which they maintain in all other northern cities. it is natural therefore that, though pittsburgh was strongly loyal for the union during the civil war, the spirit of the city should in many respects suggest the south rather than the north. around the nucleus of scotch-irish, gathered, as time went on, large numbers of southern irish, scotch, welsh, germans and german jews. but these different types are still to a noticeable degree always considered as being marked off by themselves as against the dominant scotch-irish. it is only as individuals from among them gain a position of influence by special achievement that they are considered a part of the bone and sinew of the city. the scotch-irish with their contrasted traits of sturdiness and ardor, have two great separate interests in life,--industry and religion. the other nationalities have either had the same traits in good measure, or by process of selection individuals have caught the spirit and have come to the front while the rest have fallen to the rear. yet those who fell back have in most cases found a reasonable opportunity in the great material progress of the town. pittsburgh is all the more characteristically american for having been built up from first to last by immigrant stock, not merely by unsettled natives. it remains to this day a sort of natural selection of enterprising spirits from out of every european nation and tribe, americanized not by any tradition or other educational process than that of having the typical american experiences in what still remains the heart of the country. pittsburgh has never been a place to emigrate from. it has held its own, and constantly invites each nationality to bring more of its kind. the only deserters were those who found it in them to care for a reasonable measure of cultivated life, difficult to secure in a town where there was not a library worthy of the name until and where a whole winter would sometimes pass without a single lecture on a significant theme intelligently treated. it was natural that in the formative period there were some who sought more congenial associations in the seacoast cities. in religion until comparatively recent days it could be said that there was not a more calvinistic atmosphere about edinburgh, glasgow or belfast. the early pittsburghers had almost as strong a tradition of what it means to fight for their faith as the puritans themselves, and this sense has not had time yet altogether to fade. the orthodox spirit of the town has all along palpably affected the religion of the other racial types. so it is hardly surprising to find that certain regulations of the catholic church seem to be more insistently promulgated and more rigorously observed in pittsburgh than in other places. there is not a city in the country, and probably not in the world, where strict sabbath and liquor legislation is more strenuously put into effect. unusually genial people to those who do well, they are summary and even relentless with those who would lower the moral decorum of the city. but as is very likely to happen where there is a rigid ethical creed, there is here a very anomalous double standard. the amount of sunday work in the steel mills is appalling. there is a certain sanctity in the operations of business which enables it in specific ways to nullify the precepts of religion, as when the over-strain of seven days' work a week is measured in the gradual destruction of the religious sense in great sections of the population. local option sentiment is easily bewildered by political cross-currents. though the brooks law maintains a severe standard as to the conduct of the saloon business, applied by the county judges to whom a complaint is _prima facie_ adverse evidence; yet pennsylvania remains, in the midst of an unexampled national temperance movement, among the small and ignoble company of states marked black on the reformers' map. few cities have had a greater degree of political machine control, and the prime sources of this corruption have been nowhere else than among the scotch-irish. ever since the days of simon cameron a clan-like political organization has dominated the state of pennsylvania; and the city of pittsburgh has been only a less important headquarters for its operations than philadelphia. the condition of politics in pennsylvania has led many to think that the people of the state were characterized by a generally lax moral sense. on the contrary, and in pittsburgh particularly, this situation is because of a too intense and therefore too restricted ethical motive. the passage and enforcement of certain types of legislation having an immediate and obvious ethical bearing satisfies this restricted ethical demand, and sidetracks tendencies which might check the indirect causes of great underlying demoralization. a long list of charities each year receives substantial appropriations from the legislature. the , earnest and influential people in pennsylvania who are members of managing boards of philanthropic institutions receiving state subsidies, are by the same token so much less inclined and less able to be alert and watchful against such matters as the theft of millions from the state treasury and from banks which carry state accounts. the difficulty with pennsylvania, and emphatically with pittsburgh, is not degeneracy; it is simply public moral adolescence, and the confusion that inevitably accompanies it. the materialism of pittsburgh is that of the overwrought, not of the over-indulgent. no one can study the life of the city without feeling a mighty under-current of moral capacity not yet in any sufficient degree brought to the surface. its religion cultivates definite restraints and reassurances, rather than aspiration and moral enterprise. this is, however, always the case when a community's moral powers are absorbed in the subduing of nature and the achieving of a great material destiny. the spirit of adventure in pittsburgh has been thus far economic. the moral movement of this people in any case is slow: but it is unyielding always; and once fully aroused knows how to be irresistible. the situation can hardly seem abnormal when one realizes the unsurpassed material resources of the pittsburgh district and the pressure which has been laid upon a single community by the whole world for the products out of which the foundations of world enlightenment are laid. it is of particular importance in the case of pittsburgh, that the social student should take the full measure of the function of the city as the almost limitless and tireless creator of the solid means of civilized existence, for this and other nations. the simple fact that it is the first city in the country in the tonnage of its product, and the second city of the country in banking capital, largely on account of its great wage payments, will suggest both the service which it renders and the power which it has achieved. it is significant that in this district the two greatest individual fortunes in history have been amassed and the two most gigantic concentrations of economic power built up. without in the least abating the test of moral and legal standards upon the policy of industrial leadership in the great activities of western pennsylvania, it can hardly be doubted that later generations will include the leaders in such enterprise among the master builders of modern civilization. the place of pittsburgh in the american system of life is that of the city which in an altogether unparalleled way is made up of producers, of those whose purposes are focused in bringing to pass the creation of durable and indispensable utilities. contrasted with pittsburgh, every other city in the country is rather a market-place, made more refined but in some sense less noble by the dominance of traders and consumers. it is one of the curious anomalies of american legislation that it should have so zealously guarded against foreign competition in price standards, while withholding all protection against competitors bringing with them a low wage standard. pittsburgh, in its larger estate, may be said to be a monument to this anomaly. severe restrictive protection against foreign steel, and unlimited immigration, have enabled pittsburgh, well-enough otherwise provided, to throw the reins upon the neck of her prosperity. and it must be borne in mind that the protective system, for years tacitly acknowledged by pittsburgh manufacturers to be unnecessary, is yet clung to as an exclusive and powerful tribal fetich, from whose point of view every question as to the welfare of the nation must first be considered. the fresh constructive moral aspects of politics and patriotism impress pittsburgh probably less easily than any other community in the country. so great and continuous has been the tide of immigration, that the insistence of the new immigrants for employment on any terms has made it comparatively easy for industrial captains to control industrial administration, to the exclusion of all substantial efforts on the part of the workmen to organize in their own behalf. beginning with the british operatives and coming down through the successive types to the present southeast europeans, each type up to the present has gradually raised its demands, made some headway, organized to reach still higher ground, lost by attack from both front and rear, and disappeared up and down the social scale in the general community. this very costly process has been thought necessary to industrial prosperity. there is, of course, no doubt that the holding down of the wage standard, like the artificial maintenance of the price standard, has conduced largely to the making of some of the great personal fortunes; but it is certain that the future historian will find this checking of the normal and typically american aspirations of successive waves of newcomers, to have been distinctly detrimental to the economic, quite as well as to the social and political well-being of the pittsburgh community. this unthrift in the matter of the prime essential productive force and economic value is again partly accounted for by the very pressure of opportunity afforded by unlimited resources and the insatiable demand of the world market. there has not even been sufficient time for consideration of many economies in process and administration whose value to manufactures would be unquestioned. it is to the point here to remember that the two great fortunes just mentioned began to be great as individual fortunes through special privileges gained in railroad rates. the topographical convergence of the great lake region on the one side and the ohio river valley on the other to a territory less than a hundred miles wide, brought all the chief means of transportation between the west and the atlantic seaboard through this particular territory. these exceptional facilities for transportation gave a culminating stimulus to industrial progress. the intense localization of resources and transportation facilities led almost inevitably to the phenomenal concentration of industrial capital, followed by highly centralized industrial administration. this process has in a sense been its own undoing, so far as pittsburgh is concerned, because the financial and even the administrative center of the great combinations have inevitably gravitated to new york, and the old type of self-reliant leader of industry is fast disappearing. yet the lesson of the large spirit of associated production is constantly being inwrought into the consciousness of the community. a later article in this series will show that the statesmanlike initiative, which until recent days had been inevitably swung into the strategy of business, is beginning to express itself in many promising forms of public spirited activity. physical environment, no less than racial stock and economic factors, condition the development of public sentiment in a community. the growth of pittsburgh as a center of population under the pressure of business opportunity would have been very greatly hampered if electric transit had not prepared the way. the ground plan runs up and down almost impossible foldings of hill and valley. the electric cars make possible the utilizing of all the slopes and hilltops for homes. this has weakened the inevitable centripetal force of urban growth, and led to the building up of suburbs very accessible to the central business section, and comparing for attractiveness and comfort with those of any other city in the country. such a transfer of well-to-do population has made possible other important shiftings both of poorer population and of business, by which the business center has gained in area and in the character and adaptability of its structures. pittsburgh has grown into an industrial metropolis with outlying manufacturing towns reaching along the rivers, and following the course of all the railroads for a distance of thirty or forty miles. the time is soon coming when all the large industries will be eliminated from the city, and pittsburgh proper will become simply the commercial and cultural headquarters of its district. meanwhile all these methods of expansion and relief have not been sufficient to give adequate room in the downtown section either for industry, trade or housing. this area, which is closely hemmed in by the rivers and the hills, now includes the great central commercial activities, the railroad terminals, several large industrial plants and numerous smaller ones, together with the homes of the unskilled population which finds employment within it. the congestion within these tight limits brings out, in a peculiarly acute way, the breakdown of many branches of the social administration of the city, from the point of view of the welfare of its population as a whole. here not only the unfitness of hundreds of houses under existing conditions for human habitation, but the actual and serious shortage of roofs under which to shelter the lower grades of the industrial population, is most strikingly seen. here typhoid fever, for which pittsburgh has these many years held a tragic pre-eminence, is at its highest rate. here the actual congestion of machinery within industrial plants which cannot get land to expand upon, is particularly conducive to the diseases, and to accidents which are associated with the different branches of industry. in this situation appears another of the strange contrasts of pittsburgh life. the problem of the downtown district is further complicated by the fact that great sections of it are held under a landlord system like that of the old world. thirty-three million dollars' worth of real estate located almost wholly in the downtown district is held by five estates, some of the holders living abroad permanently, others traveling much of the time. commercial enterprise is handicapped by the difficulty of securing an independent title to real estate. much of the most objectionable tenement house property is held by two of these estates. absentee landlordism thus oddly parallels absentee capitalism. to the fact that the industrial authorities are remote and, by controlling many plants, can take the fiscal rather than the close range administrative view of industry, must be largely traced that stern reprobation of any equity on the part of the workman in his work, which has on occasion made, and will again make pittsburgh the country's chief point of social unrest and danger. the anti-trade-union policy tends strongly to fix and standardize the immigrant rate of wages, and has given strong cumulative force to the personal profit-reapings of the past two decades. recognizing clearly the serious limitations of trade unionism as part of the organization of a tumultuous industry like that of pittsburgh, it must still be said that there is substantial evidence to believe that the community cheats itself when it keeps up a glutted labor market and a lower than standard wage. however this may be, the pittsburgh employers' point of view, more than that of any other city of the country, is like that of england in the early days of the factory system,--holding employes guilty of a sort of impiety, and acting with sudden and sure execution, if they undertake to enforce their claims in such way as to embarrass the momentum of great business administration. a sound standard of living for the workman and his right by organized competition to win it, pittsburgh must eventually recognize as fundamental to the country's economic and political welfare. should she persist in excluding trade unionism, european experience shows that her hordes of immigrants will quickly learn to carry their alien types of unrest to the ballot box. the backwardness of pittsburgh in the development of culture and public spirit, must be traced in part to the negative attitude of a serious minded people toward the amenities of life, and their distrust of the process of government. there has been no sufficient tradition in the city of more balanced and varied human interests. the city's population, instead of finding an increasing social unity, has been increasingly sectionalized by the overwhelming influx of every type of immigrant. there has not been leisure for the consideration and discussion of public questions. the very ground plan of the city, which scatters all of its responsible citizens through the suburbs at night, tends to deprive the city of their disinterested co-operation out of office hours toward raising its tone and standards. but other american cities have shown how, when many of their people began to be released from the treadmill of the purely industrial stage of their growth, it is possible to take advantage of the experience of older communities and move by long strides toward a humanized type of urban life. from the foremost absentee capitalist and the foremost absentee landlord have come as gifts the two epoch-making improvements toward the finer public life of the city. schenley park and the carnegie institutions located at its entrance form a civic center whose possibilities of civic influence are very great. it may be noted that the coming in of these improvements was coincident with the work of a city engineer who, indifferent to the political principles under which the city was administered, and acting as a kind of despot within his domain, carried through many great improvements in the layout of the new districts of the city, and with the first move in the direction of a great hospital, which is one day to be built with money left for the purpose by the man who for many years was the political master of the city. the effect upon the city of benefits wrought out in this undemocratic fashion will of course be subject to heavy abatements; but it would be a strange doctrinaire who could not see that these specific steps represent most substantial net gains in the life of the community. there is indeed a distinct undertone of feeling that such benefactions represent simply a return to the city of what the city itself has produced. one can find comparatively few indications that the park, the library and the rest have placed the city under the depressing bonds of patronage. the existence and service of these institutions, in any case, give a new and strong focus to the rising city sense, and the evidence goes to show that, rather than weakening the spirit of collective initiative on the part of the citizens themselves, they have conduced to give shape and force to it. there are several instructive ways in which this growth of civic consciousness is expressing itself. the movement for a greater pittsburgh now consummated in the union of pittsburgh and allegheny with a few adjacent towns, arises no doubt in the general effort toward power and prestige; but the step toward inclusiveness is entirely normal, and has gathered up into a public movement aggressive impulses which had never before run in that channel. happily the expansion was preceded by the election for the first time in a generation of a reform mayor. the movement came directly as a result of the impudent interference of the state machine in unseating a mayor who had been elected by an opposing local faction. this action, carried out under the forms of legislation, brought pittsburgh people into a new feeling of municipal self-respect, and led to their electing on a democratic ticket george w. guthrie, who is in every respect one of pittsburgh's first citizens and has for many years been earnestly interested in the cause of municipal reform. the date may be taken as marking a kaleidoscopic shifting in the pittsburgh ensemble. then the city emerged into the day of large things,--into the great concentration of capital, and the incidental liquidation which gave many families overpowering fortunes of cash in hand; the assembling of vast heterogeneous multitudes of laborers to keep up with the demands of a period of unparalleled prosperity; the ampler civic sense signalized by the carnegie institutions with their unusual cultural opportunities, and embodied after a time in solid municipal reform and progress, in a truly enlightened chamber of commerce, and in excellent forms of social service. on the one hand, irresponsible individuals have gone forth with boundless power to represent the city to the world at her worst. on the other, pittsburgh is gradually and quietly taking to herself the world's lessons in the making of the modern city and in the building up of citizenship. the former phenomenon, in which to many this city is allegorized, is but the froth and the scum; the latter has the beginnings of a tidal energy behind it. [illustration] the new pittsburghers slavs and kindred immigrants in pittsburgh peter roberts industrial department, international young men's christian association the day laborer of a generation ago is gone,--a change which has been swifter and more complete in pittsburgh than in many other of our industrial centers. "where are your irish? your welsh? your germans? your americans?" i asked an old mill hand. "go to the city hall and the police station," he said. "some of them are still in the better paid jobs in the mills; but mostly you'll have to look for them among the doctors and lawyers and office holders; among clerks and accountants and salesmen. you'll find them there." the day laborer in the mills to-day is a slav. the foreign-born of the steel district comprise, it is true, every european nation, but i shall deal here only with the races from southeastern europe, which for twenty years have been steadily displacing the teutonic and keltic peoples in the rough work of the industries. the tendency of the italians is to go into construction and railroad work, a few entering the mines, rather than into the plants and yards; and my group narrows itself down to the dominant slav and lithuanian. what i have to say of them in pittsburgh and allegheny city is in the main representative of the manufacturing towns of the whole district. roughly speaking, one-quarter of the population of pittsburgh is foreign-born. the foreigner is nowhere more at home than here, and nowhere has he been more actively welcomed by employers. the conflict of customs and habits, varying standards of living, prejudices, antipathies, all due to the confluence of representatives of different races of men, may be witnessed here. the most backward of these foreigners are superstitious and ignorant and are the victims of cunning knaves and unscrupulous parasites. on the other hand, the whole territory is thrown into a stern struggle for subsistence and wage-standards by the displacements due to these resistless accretions to the ranks of the workers. the moral and religious life of the city is not less affected by this inflow of peoples. their religious training differs widely from that of peoples of protestant antecedents, and institutions that were dear to the founders of the city are fast undermined by the customs of immigrants from southeastern europe. yet as a whole, they bring with them physical and cultural resources which the english-speaking community fails to elicit or thoughtlessly wastes. such an exhaustive study as could be made of the immigrant population of the steel district is outside the possibilities of this paper. i shall set down only what a month brought me as i visited the lodging-houses and the courts and the mills of greater pittsburgh; as i talked with priest and leader, policeman and doctor, banker and labor boss, the immigrants themselves and those who live close to them; but i shall put it before you in the light of many years' residence in the anthracite coal communities, where in another section of pennsylvania, at mahanoy city and wilkes-barre and scranton, i have known the slav and the lett and their efforts to gain a foothold in america. i shall deal with the situation, not as i have seen it in my visits of the past year, during which the immigrants have returned home by thousands, but as i came to know it in the heyday of prosperity, the early fall of , when conditions were as they are likely to be again when industrial prosperity returns. this is the situation which we must reckon with in a permanent way. in , slavs, lithuanians and italians did not form one per cent of the population in either pittsburgh or allegheny. by , they had reached four per cent, and out of an army of , wage earners, one in every ten was an immigrant from southeastern europe. by , one-third of the foreign-born were of this new immigration, and the movement of the teutonic and keltic races had practically ceased. we must wait until the census enumeration of before we may definitely know what proportion these newcomers form to-day, but it may safely be assumed that the percentage of foreign-born in the greater city will equal that of , thirty per cent, or roughly, , , half of whom will be from southeastern europe. poles, italians and jewish immigrants lead the list. lithuanians, croatians, servians, slovaks and ruthenians are numbered by the thousands, and magyars, greeks, bohemians and roumanians are here in lesser groups. the representatives of these nations touch elbows in the streets so that the languages heard when the people are marketing in the foreign quarters on saturday night are as numerous as those of a seaport town. twenty dialects are spoken. yet the polyglot mass that confuses the visitor and induces pessimistic impressions as to the future of the city, is each morning marshalled without tumult. the discipline of the industrial establishments converts this babel of tongues into one of the chief forces of production. therein lies an appraisal not only of the american _entrepreneur_, but also of these men coming from nations of low efficiency, who are able so quickly to fall into line and keep step in an industrial army of remarkable discipline and output. there is no way of knowing the annual inflow of immigrants into pittsburgh, for the city is a distributing point. the records of the ports of entry show that in , , persons gave pittsburgh as their destination, but many of these scattered to the neighboring pennsylvania towns and many undoubtedly went to the mills and mines of eastern ohio. every day brings its quota of immigrants in normal times; occasionally they come by the carloads. owing to the shifting of the newcomers, however, the outflow may often equal the inflow. conditions of the local industries determine which of these two currents runs the swifter. during the first seven years of the century, the city possibly added , annually by immigration. before taking up the living conditions in pittsburgh as they especially affect these immigrant laborers, let us consider for a moment certain characteristics of these people, and their relation to the general economic situation. first, it is the wages that bring them here. the workers in the mills of galicia, the vine-lands of italy, and the factories of kiev, earn from twenty-five cents to fifty cents in a day of from twelve to sixteen hours. when the american immigrant writes home that he works only nine, ten, or twelve hours and earns from $ . to $ . , the able-bodied wage earner in the fatherland who hears this will not be satisfied until he also stands where the shorter day and the higher wages govern. it is these home-going letters more than all else which recruit the labor force. they are efficient promoters of immigration. "there are no able-bodied men," said big sam to me, "between the ages of sixteen and fifty years left in my native town in servia; they have all come to america." [illustration: direct from the fields of mid-europe.] up to september, , the men in charge of furnaces, foundries, forges and mills, in the pittsburgh district, could not get the help they needed. the cry everywhere was, "give us men." a foreman, therefore, could assure pietro and melukas that if their brothers or cousins, or friends were sent for, they would get work as soon as they arrived. more than that, the slav and italian are no longer dependent on the english boss in the matter of finding work for their countrymen. the inflow of immigration from southeastern europe has assumed such proportions in the industries of the cities that superintendents have, in some instances, appointed italian and polish and lithuanian foremen; and with these, as with german and irish, blood is thicker than water. they employ their fellow countrymen. they know the condition of the labor market and can by suggestion stimulate or retard immigration. the tonnage industries of pittsburgh have expanded tremendously in the last two decades. such industries need manual laborers as do no others. the slavs have brawn for sale. herein, at bottom, is the drawing force which accounts for such a moving in of peoples and the readiness with which they find their places in the specialized industries of the district. pittsburgh has clamorous need for these men. take the average lithuanian, croatian, ruthenian, or slovak, and his physique would compare favorably with that of any people. most of the immigrants are from agricultural communities. their food in the fatherland was coarse, their habits simple, their cares few. they had an abundance of vegetable diet, pure water, pure air and sunshine, and they developed strong physical organisms. taking them as a whole, we get the best of the agricultural communities. the day has not yet come when the weak emigrate and the strong stay at home. no ship agents, however active, can reverse the natural order of the tide of immigration, and natural selection added to federal scrutiny gives us a body of men physically most fit for the development of our industries. nowhere has this been better illustrated than in pittsburgh. these men come to be "the hewers of wood and carriers of water." there are representatives of each race far removed from the lowest industrial stratum, but taking these people as a whole, it is safe to say that the bulk of the unskilled labor in the city,--the digging and carrying in the streets, the heavy labor in the mill, the loading and unloading of raw material on railroad and river, the rough work around forge and foundry, the coarse work around factories, and the lifting necessary in machine shops,--all is performed by them. [illustration: young slovak.] this is the level at which they enter the economic order. what trade equipment do they bring into the work with them? their industrial efficiency is low and i should estimate that ninety-five per cent have no knowledge of modern machinery or methods of modern production; they are children in factory training. further, those who have trades find themselves in an industrial environment where their previous training is of little value. they are in ignorance of the english language, and the few mechanics and tradesmen among them can do no better than join the ranks of the common laborers. we must bear in mind, however, that those of them who know how to use tools, once they are put to work that requires some skill, adapt themselves quickly to the situation. hence we meet not a few slavs and lithuanians who execute work of a semi-skilled nature. sons, also, of men of these nationalities who settled in the city a generation ago have risen to positions of standing in the industries. thus it is not unusual to hear of this man or that who has become a foreman in the mills or taken a place in business or in the professions. but on several counts the average slav, lithuanian and italian are not as acceptable as day laborers as were the immigrants from northwestern europe. the common opinion of american employers is that they are stupid and that the supervisory force must be much larger than if they had english speaking help. many employers would no doubt, prefer the latter; but they cannot get them for the wages offered; they must take the slav or run short handed. the united states commissioner of immigration in pittsburgh is constantly besieged by employers of labor who need help. many stories are told of one firm stealing a group of laborers marshalled at the ports of entry and forwarded to another. [illustration: young servian.] i have spoken of the influence which letters and money sent home have in recruiting immigrant workmen. these people make little or no use of labor agencies unless the saloon and the small bank may be so denominated. there are men in each nationality, acknowledged leaders, who play the part of intermediaries between superintendents and their people. but such investigations as i have made at ellis island do not lead me to believe that the employers of labor in pittsburgh violate the contract labor law. labor agencies in new york city make a specialty of distributing slavs, lithuanians and italians to firms in need of hands. the leader who supplies men to a mill or mining concern gets so much for each man supplied. whatever contract there may be is executed this side of the water. for instance, a leading croatian had a specific understanding with one of the mills of pittsburgh that all men he brings will find employment. no contract was executed and in the opinion of the local immigration agent, there was in it no violation of the contract labor law. [illustration: young croatian.] i have noted the drawbacks to the new day laborer as such. on the other hand, it is a common opinion in the district that some employers of labor give the slavs and italians preference because of their docility, their habit of silent submission, their amenability to discipline, and their willingness to work long hours and over time without a murmur. foreigners as a rule earn the lowest wages and work the full stint of hours. i found them in the machine shops working sixty hours a week; at the blast furnaces working twelve hours a day for seven days in the week. the common laborer in and around the mills works seventy-two hours a week. the unit of wages is an hour rate for day labor and a slav is willing to take the longer hours (twelve hours a day for men who work fourteen and sixteen in the fatherland) with extra work on sundays, especially in connection with clearing the yards and repairing. possibly sixty to seventy per cent of the laborers in the mills come out sundays and the mechanics and other laborers on occasions work thirty-six hours in order that the plant may start on time. in one mill i found russians (greek orthodox) in favor for the reason that they gladly worked on sundays. [illustration: young servian.] my belief is that certain employers of labor have reaped advantage from racial antipathies. the pole and the lithuanian have nothing in common and each of them despises the slovak. foremen know this and use their knowledge when foreigners are likely to reach a common understanding upon wages or conditions of labor. all these considerations have helped make it less difficult for factory operators to keep open or non-union shop in pittsburgh. the constant influx of raw material from backward nations into the industries of the city has had somewhat the same effect as the flow of water at an estuary when the tide is rising. all is commotion. it will continue to be so as long as the inflow of slavs and italians continues as it has in the last decade. but when they have become permanently placed and their average intelligence and grasp of american conditions rise, racial prejudices will give way to common interests. when this time comes, pittsburgh will witness the rise of stronger labor organizations than were ever effected by teuton and kelt. we have seen, then, the slavic day laborers coming into the steel district in vast numbers. of their strength and lack of skill at the outset there is no doubt, and we have noted some of the snap judgments that are current about them; such as, that they are stupid, and submissive. all this puts us in better position to consider more in detail my first statement that it is the wages that bring them to pittsburgh, and to see what advances they make once they have gained a foothold. the slav enters the field at a rate of pay for day labor which is higher than that which brought the germans and the kelts. the lowest wage i found slavs working for was thirteen and one-half cents an hour. the wage of common labor in the average mill is fifteen or sixteen and a half cents. the day laborer around the furnaces gets from $ . to $ . a day. but the newcomers know nothing of a standard wage, and when work is scarce, they will offer to work for less than is paid for common labor. such was the case of a band of croatians who offered their services to a firm in pittsburgh for $ . a day. when the superintendent heard it, he said, "my god, what is the country coming to? how can a man live in pittsburgh on $ . a day?" the foreman replied, "give them rye bread, a herring, and beer, and they are all right." [i have known a coal operator in the anthracite fields to pay italians and slovaks ninety cents a day, and ask neither what was the country coming to nor how they could subsist.] more, the slavs will consciously cut wages in order to get work. a man who knows something about blacksmithing or carpentering will work at a trade for $ . or $ . when the standard wage may be $ . . they count their money in the denominations of the fatherland and estimate its value according to old country standards. i have known foremen to take advantage of this. again, those who are skilled will at the command of the boss render menial services without a murmur. "these fellows have no pride," said an american craftsman to me, "they are not ruled by custom. when the foreman demands it they will throw down the saw or hammer and take the wheelbarrow." so the slav gains his foothold in the pittsburgh industries, and in the doing of it, he undermines the income of the next higher industrial groups and gains the enmity of the americans. shrewd superintendents are known not only to take advantage of the influx of unskilled labor to keep down day wages, but to reduce the pay of skilled men by a gradually enforced system of promoting the slavs. in the place of six men at ten dollars a day, one will be employed at fifteen dollars, with five others at half, or less than half, the old rate, who will work under the high-priced man. inventions, changes in processes, new machines, a hundred elements tend to complicate the situation and render it difficult to disentangle the influence of any one element. but this much is clear, the new immigration is a factor which is influencing the economic status of the whole wage-earning population in pittsburgh; it is bound to be a permanent factor; and its influence will be more and not less. my estimate is that possibly twenty per cent of these laborers from southeastern europe now work at machines which require a week or two weeks to acquire the skill needed in their operation. to be sure, they are machines "so simple that a child could operate them, and so strong that a fool cannot break them." many slovaks work in the pressed steel car company in allegheny, as riveters, punchers, and pressmen, while others are fitters, carpenters, and blacksmiths. some croatians and servians are rising and are found in the steel mills as roughers and catchers. i saw ruthenians feeding machines with white heated bars of steel. it was simple, mechanical work, but of a higher grade than that of scrap-carrier. the poles who in recent years emigrated from russia and austria-hungary are as industrially efficient as any group of immigrants and work in both mills and foundries. a foreigner who has a chance to become a machine operator generally goes into piece work and earns from $ to $ . a day. but all men at the machines are not on piece work. a foreman explained this to me as follows: "if the machine depends upon the man for speed, we put him on piece work; if the machine drives the man, we pay him by the day." the man operating a machine by the day gets from $ . to $ . many boys and young women of slavic parentage work in the spike, nut and bolt, and steel wire factories. they sit before machines and pickling urns for ten hours for from seventy-five cents to $ a day. the slovak riveters, punchers, shears-men and pressmen in the pressed steel car company's plant are paid by the piece, and for the most part make from $ to $ in two weeks. fitters, carpenters, blacksmiths and painters are getting from $ to $ . by the day. mr. bozic, the banker, told me of croatians and servians who made as high as $ in two weeks, and others who made between $ and $ a day--many of them in positions which once paid english-speaking workmen twice those sums. high and low are relative terms and they signify very different standards to a slav and to an american. but it is a mistake to imagine that the slav or lithuanian cannot adapt himself to modern industrial conditions. there is considerable of prophecy in the thousands of them already doing efficient work in the mills. the sooner the english-speaking workers recognize this and make friends of these workers, the better. no class of work is now monopolized by teutons and kelts, and the service rendered by the slav and lithuanian will before many years equal theirs in market value. with this rapid statement of the economic position of the slavs, we can more intelligently approach the problem of their living conditions. but first let us bear sharply in mind that their work is often cast among dangers; is often inimical to health. many work in intense heat, the din of machinery and the noise of escaping steam. the congested condition of most of the plants in pittsburgh adds to the physical discomforts for an out-of-doors people; while their ignorance of the language and of modern machinery increases the risk. how many of the slavs, lithuanians and italians are injured in pittsburgh in one year is not known. no reliable statistics are compiled. in their absence people guess, and the mischief wrought by contradictory and biased statements is met on all hands. when i mentioned a plant that had a bad reputation to a priest, he said, "oh, that is the slaughter-house; they kill them there every day." i quote him not for his accuracy, but to show how the rumors circulate and are real to the people themselves. it is undoubtedly true, that exaggerated though the reports may be, the waste in life and limb is great, and if it all fell upon the native born a cry would long since have gone up which would have stayed the slaughter. in the matter of compensation for injuries, the foreign-speaking are often subjected to hardships and injustice. if the widow of a man killed in a mine or mill of pennsylvania lives in europe, she cannot recover any damages, although the accident may be entirely due to the neglect of the company. because of this ruling, certain strong companies in the pittsburgh district seldom pay a cent to the relatives of the deceased if they dwell beyond the seas. i asked a leader among the italians, "why do you settle the serious cases for a few hundred dollars?" he replied: "we find it best after much bitter experience. the courts are against us; a jury will not mulct a corporation to send money to europe; the relatives are not here to bewail their loss in court; the average american cares nothing for the foreigner. every step of the way we meet with prejudices and find positive contempt, from those in highest authority in the courts down to the tip-staff. when i settle for $ , i can do nothing better." the influence of the industries reaches still further into the lives of the immigrants. each people has a tendency to colonize in one section of the city and work in some one mill. the bohemians are strong in allegheny city, but few of them are found in pittsburgh. the slovaks predominate in mckees rocks and allegheny city, and many of them are found in the soho district of pittsburgh. the poles are numerous in many parts of the greater city. the lithuanians live in large numbers on the south side, and near the national tube works and the american steel and wire company. many ruthenians work in the oliver steel works, while the croatians and servians have worked for the most part in the jones and laughlin plants. my information is that foremen try to get one nationality in assigning work to a group of laborers, for they know that a homogeneous group will give best results. national pride also enters into selection. in talking to a lithuanian of the serious loss of life which occurred when a furnace blew up, i asked, "were any of your people killed in that accident?" he answered quickly, "no; catch our people do such work as that! there you find the slovak." of the grades of unskilled labor, the slovak, croatian, servian and russian (greek orthodox) may be said to perform the roughest and most risky, and the most injurious to health. there is, then, a more or less natural selection of peoples in the neighborhoods of the different great mills. the geographical contour of the region has also had its influence in keeping the foreign population within certain limited districts. the two rivers, the allegheny and the monongahela, have cut their beds in the allegheny range, leaving a narrow strip of land on either side of their banks which offers limited sites for dwellings, mills and factories. the lowlands were preempted long ago, and the contest for parts of them between the mills and the homes has been intense. there is an advantage to the employer, however, in having his crude labor force within easy call, and night work and the cost of carfare help keep the mass of men employed in common labor near the mills and on the congested lowlands. the deplorable conditions i found among them i shall describe, but let me say here that all the houses on the flats are not the same. i visited homes of slavs and lithuanians which were clean, well furnished, and equal in comfort to those of americans of the same economic level. these foreigners have been in the country many years and their children have risen to the american standard. but our first concern is with the recent comers, who too often live in lodgings that are filthy; whose peasant habits seem to us uncouth; and whose practices are fatal to decency and morality in a thickly settled district. yet the foreigner pays a higher rent than does the "white man." in bass street, allegheny city, i found english-speaking tenants paying fifteen dollars a month for four rooms, where slavs were charged twenty dollars. landlords who received ten dollars and twelve dollars a month for houses rented to the english-speaking, were getting seventeen and eighteen dollars from the slavs. on penn avenue a slav paid seventeen dollars for three rooms, while a family renting eight rooms in the front of the building paid but thirty-three dollars a month. as nearly as i could estimate, the average monthly rent paid by the foreigner in pittsburgh is more than four dollars a room. i found one family paying nine dollars and a half for one large room in an old residence on the south side; another paid ten dollars for two rooms, another sixteen dollars for three; and on brandt street i found a man who paid twenty-two dollars a month for four. the rent is not always fixed by the landlord. where lodgers are taken, it is sometimes regulated by the number the "boarding-boss" can crowd in, the landlord getting one dollar a month extra for each boarder. houses of from eight to twelve rooms have in them to-day anywhere from three to six families. they were built for one family, and until the owners are forced by the bureau of health to install sanitary appliances, have equipment for but one. too many landlords when they rent to foreigners have apparently one dominating passion,--rent. they make no repairs, and with the crowded condition above described the houses soon bear marks of ill usage. whenever foreigners invade a neighborhood occupied by english-speaking tenants, property depreciates. the former occupants get out, the invaders multiply, and very often the properties pass into the hands of speculators. houses once occupied by slavs can seldom be rented again to anglo-saxons. foreigners under stress for room use cellars as bed rooms, and it is against these that the health bureau within the last year has taken action. i saw one of these beside which a common stable would have been a parlor. [illustration: night scene in a slavic lodging house. three men in the far bed, two in the others, twelve in the room. in some of these lodgings day workers sleep nights in beds occupied by night workers in the daytime.] but it is in the immigrant lodging houses that conditions are worst. these conditions are not always the choice of the men. the croatians, servians, roumanians and greeks have only from five to ten per cent of women among them; hence the men of these nationalities have but few boarding houses conducted by their own people to go to, and crowding is inevitable. english-speaking and german families will not open their doors to them. single men in groups of from six to twenty go into one house in charge of a boarding-boss and his wife. each man pays from seventy-five cents to a dollar a week for room to sleep in and the little cooking and washing that are to be done. food for the company is bought on one book, and every two weeks the sum total is divided equally among the boarders, each man paying his _pro rata_ share. the bill for two weeks will hardly amount to three dollars a man, so that the average boarder will spend ten dollars a month on room rent and maintenance. the mania for saving results in many cases in skimping the necessaries of life. a priest told me of a lithuanian who lived on ten cents a day, and by helping the landlady in her house work, the man saved room rent. i found russians (greek orthodox) on tustine street who were paying three dollars a month for room rent. they buy bread made by russian jews, get a herring and a pot of beer, and live,--not always,--in peace. when they pay three dollars and fifty cents for room rent, soup is included in the contract. domestic tragedies sometimes invade these communal households, such as a case of assault and battery which came up in an alderman's office. the complainant was a single man who appeared with a ghastly scalp wound. when this boarding-boss presented his bill at the end of two weeks, the charges were five dollars more than the man thought they ought to be. he protested and the boarding-boss took a hatchet to silence him. the italians are close livers; but possibly the worst conditions i saw were among the armenians in the neighborhood of basin alley. in these boarding establishments as a general rule, the kitchen is commonly used as a bedroom. when the boarding boss rents two rooms, he and his wife sleep in the kitchen, and the boarders take the other room. it is not unusual for a boarding-boss to rent but one room. he and his wife put their bed in one corner; the stove in another; and the boarders take the remainder. sometimes the rooms are so crowded that the boss and his wife sleep on the floor; and i repeatedly found cases where beds were being worked double shift,--night and day. the city bureau of health has endeavored to reduce the number of beds in a room, but it does not follow that the people occupying that room get out,--they sleep on the floor minus the bed. here as elsewhere the problem is one of the hardest for sanitary inspectors to cope with. [illustration: slavic lodging house on the south side. four beds; two in a bed. the young fellow at the table was writing home. before him were pictures of his mother and sisters in immaculate peasant costumes.] sometimes four or six men rent a house and run it themselves, doing their own cooking and washing and occasionally bringing in a woman to do a little cleaning. they may stand this for about six months and then get out when the room is past the cleaning stage. such crowding is very prevalent in the low lying parts of the south side, in the neighborhood of penn avenue in the city proper, and in sections of allegheny. among the russians of tustine street i found thirty-three persons living in one house in six rooms and an attic. these were distributed among three families. the croatians also are bad crowders. a milk dealer told me of twenty-eight who lived in a house in carey alley. when i asked, "how do they live?" his reply was, "i don't know and don't care if i get my money for my milk." in pork house row and near eckert street in allegheny, things were no better, and some blocks of houses under the california avenue bridge were as bad as any thing i saw. before we condemn immigrants for the filth of their lodgings, we must remember that they are largely rural peoples unused to such city barracks. this fact is illustrated especially in their ignorance regarding that terror which has waited upon foreigners in the pittsburgh district,--typhoid fever. dr. leon sadowski estimated that as high as fifty per cent of all young foreigners who come to pittsburgh contract typhoid fever within two years of their coming. dr. maracovick told me that in four years no less than croatians in the neighborhood of smallman street had come down with the fever, and that most of them died. "you cannot make the foreigner believe that pittsburgh water is unwholesome," said dr. welsh of bellevue. "he comes from rural communities where contamination of water is unknown." physicians told me of men who had been warned, deliberately going to the allegheny to quench their thirst. where so many single men are huddled together the laws of decency and morality are hard to observe. the boarding boss seldom has a family and, in going the round of these houses, the absence of children is conspicuous. a physician among them told me, "the average boarding-boss's wife cannot get any,--the moral condition makes it a physical impossibility." this stands in striking contrast with the average slavic woman who in her natural environment, is the mother of children. these mid-european peoples are not so passionate as the italians, but many of the single men, as the case is in all barracks life, fall into vice. a physician told me that gonorrhea is very prevalent among the croatians and servians. another physician said of the slavs in general, "they frequent cheap houses and come out diseased and robbed." many bawdy houses are known in pittsburgh as "johnny houses," for the reason that they are frequented by foreigners whose proper names are unpronounceable and who go by the name of "john." the number entering these on a "wide-awake" (pay) saturday night is large. a man who knows this section fairly well, said, "sometimes these men have to wait their turn." these are houses of the cheapest kind given over to prostitutes in the last stage. the presence of young immigrant women in the immigrant lodging houses adds to the seriousness of the situation. here again it is a question of wages that brings them to this country. they do the drudgery in the hotels and restaurants which english-speaking girls will not do; and they are to be found in factories working under conditions their english-speaking sisters would resent. if any persons need protection, these young women do. there is no adequate inspection of the labor employment agencies in pittsburgh which solicit patronage among them, often to wrong them. not only do some of these agencies take their money but they send girls to places unfit for them. an innocent girl may learn the character of the house only when it is too late. and even in the boarding houses their lot is a hard one, especially when the men of the place are on a carouse. the slavs and lithuanians are fond of drink and spend their money freely on it. some spend more money on beer than they do on food. the evidences of drink in the homes are apparent on all sides; and not only do national customs and national tastes and usages make for drunkenness, but the undeniable fact that the liquor interests are the only american institutions which effectively reach the great mass of the non-english speaking immigrants. where else does the stranger find opportunity for recreation at his very hand? empty beer kegs and bottles are to be seen everywhere among the houses of the immigrant lodgers. in latimore alley, on a september morning, i counted twenty empty kegs in the yard; and in another corner there was a pile of empty bottles. it is nothing unusual for a beer wagon on saturday to deliver into one of these boarding houses from eight to twelve cases of beer. when a keg is open the boarders feel that they must drain it. "it won't keep," they say. sunday is the day for drinking. one man often drinks from fifteen to twenty bottles; while he who drinks from the keg does away with from two to three gallons. no social gathering is complete without drink. marriages, baptisms, social occasions, holidays are all celebrated with beer and liquor. there is no good time and no friendship without it. the slavs usually rent a hall to celebrate their weddings. the scenes of debauchery with which such festivities sometimes end are discountenanced by the respectable element among these people. pool rooms afford loafing places for the young men of the worst sort. the cheap vaudeville shows, nickelodeons, and skating rinks are run for profit and not for the sake of clean recreation such as the community should in some way provide. but such places cannot be eliminated unless the craving of young people for amusement is met intelligently and sanely. [illustration: slovak girl.] where the environment of the home is unsanitary and repulsive, and where opportunities for recreation are limited and sordid, crime is bound to flourish. approximately one-fifth of the persons incarcerated in allegheny county in recent years have been immigrants from southeastern europe. a visit to the police stations of the south side on sunday morning when the police magistrate dispenses justice after a "wide-awake" saturday night, is a thing never to be forgotten. in such a section the foreigners form a majority of the offenders. on one of my visits to a south side court, a young pole was brought up who said he wanted to be arrested just to find out how it felt. the judge asked him, "how do you like it?" "all right," he said laughing. he got a full taste by being sent to jail for ten days. another young slav had violated a city ordinance. he could not speak english. the judge asked him how long he had been in the country. "four years," he replied. "and you cannot talk english?" said the judge. "don't you know that you ought to learn english that you may know we have laws and ordinances which must be obeyed?" in the judge's remark there was more of a commentary on civic duties unfulfilled than he perhaps realized. but who was to blame? was it the slav boy? or was it the community which had failed to meet him halfway? here it is well to point out that the public school authorities have not made any strenuous effort to open evening schools for foreign adults in the city. the notable exception to this rule has been the work carried on by principal anthony among the jewish people of the hill district, which grew out of classes carried on at columbian settlement. another evening school, in the establishment of which a priest was the prime mover, met with fair success, but the foreigners dropped out very quickly. when asked why the school was given up, one of the school officials said that the pupils did not want it to continue; but their hours of work and changing shifts are probably still more important factors. kingsley house, woods run and columbian settlement have carried on successful classes for foreigners, and the y. m. c. a.'s of the districts are entering the field of civic and language instruction. the development of the evening courses of the carnegie technical schools has been significant, but as yet they do not reach many unskilled immigrants, who need a nearby elementary help. the camp schools carried on by the society for the protection of italian immigrants, at aspinwall and ambridge, have illustrated what could be done, and the response which comes from the immigrants themselves. more important, they were the means of securing the passage of legislation enabling local school authorities to open classes for adults. but in greater pittsburgh, it remains true that the school authorities are not yet awake to the importance of opening schools for foreign-speaking people and inducing them to attend. there could be no greater service rendered these young foreigners (or the city that harbors them) than that of aiding them to form clubs, and of engaging competent men to teach them english and give them some idea of the history and laws of the country. in police station no. on penn avenue, the cases averaged four hundred and forty-five a month during the ten months i studied them. drunkenness and disorderly conduct formed sixty-eight per cent of these cases, and the foreigners from southeastern europe were charged with twenty-seven per cent of them. three-quarters of the criminals were single men, and the large number of single men among the foreigners who lack decent homes, doubtless partly accounts for the frequency of their arrests. similar proportions governed at police station no. on carson street. a study of the docket of the aldermen's court on the south side, in a prescribed area where slavs and lithuanians form an essential part of the population, showed a total of , or . per cent for these nationalities; but these cases varied greatly from those in the police stations. . per cent were cases of assault and battery and . per cent of the culprits were foreigners. the cases of fornication and bastardy, adultery and rape, numbered seventeen, more than half of which were to be laid at the door of the foreigners. cases of larceny, disturbance of the peace, and disorderly conduct were about equally divided between the english-speaking and the non-english-speaking of southeastern europe. out of thirty-one cases of desertion and non-support, not a slav, lithuanian or italian was implicated. [illustration: servian girl.] a closer study of this list indicated that aldermen were giving preference to cases where the returns were sure. pittsburgh suffers under a system of petty aldermen's courts such as chicago only recently put an end to, and from which philadelphia is exempted by constitutional provision. the aldermen are dependent upon their fees and the immigrants, ofttimes innocent, are the special prey of such as may be unscrupulous. profits are not what they used to be for those who prey upon ignorance, as i gathered from the constable who told me, "the foreigner knows too much now; old times are past." in the good old times he had made from fifteen to twenty dollars a day. but even if the most flagrant abuses are now infrequent and if some of the aldermen are of unquestionable character, the system is wrong and the foreigner is its most grievous sufferer. [illustration: lithuanian girl.] but we must not over-estimate the lawlessness among these people. we have seen the manner of life of the single men, and the dangers that beset them. in the pittsburgh situation what encouragement is there to the immigrant who seriously wants to get ahead in life? i have it from a priest that one-tenth of the young men of his race who come to this district go to the bad; the other nine-tenths may drink more or less, but they manage to save money and in time acquire property. of the lithuanian families of pittsburgh more than ten per cent own their own homes. many poles and slovaks also have purchased their own homes. when an italian resolves to stay in this country, he buys a house. but as yet few croatians, ruthenians and servians own real estate in pittsburgh. while the wages of the day laborers in the district are high for the single man who lives on the boarding boss system, the foreigner who brings his family here and pays american prices for the necessities of life, faces a different situation. the father of a family cannot hope to get accommodations for less than twelve or fifteen dollars a month, and then he has only two or three rooms. the slav, as we have seen, has to pay more than the english-speaking man for the same house. the man who earns thirty-seven dollars a month and has to pay twelve dollars in rent has not a large fund on which to raise a family. he belongs to one or two lodges which means an outlay of a dollar to a dollar and a half each month. he must pay fifty cents a month to his church, and he is compelled to send his children to the parochial school at, say, another fifty cents a head, or three for a dollar. he must buy the school books needed by the child; this may amount yearly to from three to four dollars. is it surprising, then, that the children are sent to work at an early age and that many are raised in cramped and dirty quarters? but this question of the children, of their health and education, we must leave to later issues. when the mills are working regularly and the father is able to work each day, the family manages to get along. but when sickness comes or work ceases, then the pinch of hunger is felt. mrs. lippincott of the society for the improvement of the poor tells me that in good times but few slavs or lithuanians apply for aid; that only when the father is killed or injured, is aid needed, and that then it is for medicine and proper food for the patient.[ ] [ ] a study of the records of the charity department of pittsburgh and allegheny indicated that the percentage of foreign born dependents exceeds by perhaps ten per cent the percentage of foreign born in the population. i refer to the city home, the city hospital, the poor houses, the tuberculosis camp and outdoor relief. in the institutions for the insane as many as forty-nine per cent were foreign born and of the $ , appropriated for their maintenance on a given year, half was thus bestowed upon the foreign born. it must be remembered that influential men among the slavs and lithuanians are prosperous and live in residential sections of pittsburgh. some poles and italians are in the professions and some lithuanians are well to do business men. all these people, however, do business among their own countrymen, and as yet their influence is largely restricted to this circle. sections of the city where foreigners live are well supplied with banking facilities, which are generally conducted by men of those nationalities. the leading banks of pittsburgh have learned that the immigrants save their money, and many of them have a foreign exchange department at the head of which is put a foreign-speaking man who is a leader among his countrymen. in this connection, it is interesting to examine more closely what might be called the personal ledger of the slavic day laborer in pittsburgh. [illustration: a slavic household.] we have seen that more than half the italians, croatians, servians and ruthenians are single men, and that a large proportion of the other races are similarly placed. many are married but their wives are across the seas. their policy is to make all they can and spend as little as possible. we have also seen that the wages of common labor are from $ . to $ . a day and that those who have acquired a little skill earn from $ . to $ . . the monthly expenditure of single men bent on saving will not exceed ten dollars a month. some russians complain when their monthly bill amounts to eight dollars. the drinking bill will not exceed five dollars a month; and the sum spent on clothing will hardly equal that. hence a common laborer can save from ten to fifteen dollars a month; the semi-skilled workers from twenty to twenty-five dollars; and boarding bosses accumulate what is to them a competence. a banker doing business among the servians of the south side stated that each pay day he sent back between $ , and $ , to the old country on deposit. in september of , one of the banks on the south side where the foreigners do business had $ , on deposit. such a showing has come only after a vigorous campaign on the part of the banks of pittsburgh to overcome the mistrust which foreigners feel toward private institutions. individual small banks conducted by men of their own nationality were the rule for many years. the institutions were ephemeral and the impression prevailed among the laborers that they were schemes of sinister men to wheedle their money from them. some men still secrete their savings, trusting no one. through the kindness of one of the pittsburgh bankers, this table of twelve representative slavic depositors is given: _single men._ _married men._ =============================================+========================= - . | ---------------------------------------------+------------------------- sept.-nov. $ $ $ $ $ $ $ | $ $ $ $ dec.-feb. | march-may | june-aug. | ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- | ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- totals $ $ $ $ $ $ $ | $ $ $ $ $ =============================================+========================= [illustration: uniformed national societies in sesqui-centennial parade.] [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._ in the church of the double cross.] [illustration: a church of the double cross.] the fraternal organizations also among the slavs, lithuanians and italians provoke an increasing amount of thrift and provide various forms of insurance. they are the dominant form of social organization and afford opportunities for leadership to the stronger men. the national slovak society, for instance, has a membership of , , and the polish national alliance one of , . pittsburgh has some thirty locals of the latter alone, each with a list of from forty to members. the lodge organizations of these people cannot be discussed in detail in such a paper as this; here it is sufficient to note that in case of sickness and death they look after their members; they provide social centers for the more thrifty of the people, and tend generally to raise the standard of life. outside these lodges, the slavs, lithuanians and italians have their organizations for enjoyment and amusement. among the poles there are societies for self-culture, such as dramatic clubs and singing societies. there is reason to believe that the home governments of these people foster the formation of organizations along racial lines; the church also fosters these national societies. in so far as such organizations perpetuate national customs and habits in america, they tend to make assimilation difficult. a strong people swayed by racial consciousness on foreign soil will either thrust its own concepts and ideals into the social elements around it and modify them; or it will build around itself a wall which the customs and habits of the country will find difficulty in penetrating. this is seen going on in pittsburgh. the poles and italians form a city within a city; their customs and habits are distinctly polish and italian. when we come to political life, we must accord leadership to other than the slavic groups,--to the italians. a political leader among them in pittsburgh claims that four fifths of all italians who have been in the country five years are naturalized. he held that the italians of pittsburgh poll about , votes which are scattered over eleven wards. next to the italians come the poles. many of them have been voters for years, but of the influx that has come to pittsburgh in the last ten years not twenty per cent are naturalized. the polish vote is set at , and the poles have two or three political clubs. political clubs are also found among the lithuanians and croatians. too frequently these racial leaders,--often saloon keepers,--are the satellites of some english-speaking politician, and through them he controls "the foreign vote." some of the more intelligent of the foreign-speaking are dissatisfied with this manipulation of their people; among these are rising young men with political aspirations. it will not be long before the city will feel their presence. if the polish and italian votes were to be crystallized in some fifteen wards, the leaders there would have the balance of power and control them. slavs, lithuanians and italians have a strong religious element in their make-up which plays a never-ending part in such racial communities as are to be found in the pittsburgh district. unless this element is reckoned with they are not to be understood. the vast majority belong to the roman catholic church. some protestants are found among each of the races, but they form only a small percentage.[ ] certain of the southern slavs are subject to the patriarch of constantinople and the russians maintain a greek orthodox church. religious ceremonies and observances have strong hold upon the poles and lithuanians, the croatians and servians.[ ] we have seen that the number of males far exceeds that of females among the immigrants from southeastern europe. this the church attendance corroborates. i have seen in pittsburgh a congregation of one thousand men, all in the prime of life, so intent upon the religious exercises that the least movement of the priest at the altar found immediate response in every member of the audience. the ritual of the church has a deep hold upon slav and lithuanian; often the men go to confession at six in the morning that they may go to communion the day following. when men are so employed that they cannot attend mass on sundays, they will attend one on saturdays. the home must be consecrated once a year, and hundreds take their baskets laden with provisions to church on easter morning that the priest may bless the feast they hope to enjoy that day. [ ] the protestant denominations in the city are conducting mission work among the slavs and italians. several missionaries, colporteurs and bible readers are employed. there are among the slovaks, lithuanians, magyars and italians, adherents of various protestant churches. [ ] the roman catholic church has not the influence over the bohemians and italians that it has over the above mentioned people. the bohemians are many of them free thinkers. the italians are deeply religious but for the most part lukewarm in their attitude toward the church, and their edifices do not compare with those of the poles. [illustration: greek orthodox church.] [illustration: a greek orthodox priest.] if we measure the efficiency of the roman catholic church among the slavs and lithuanians in pittsburgh by money spent on buildings and maintenance, it cannot be equalled either by american catholicism or protestantism. the people give freely of their hard earnings to erect costly church edifices and support the priesthood. the slavs and lithuanians have been on the south side of pittsburgh only for the last twenty years, but to-day they possess church property valued at three-quarters of a million dollars, and most of it is paid for. they also give toward the erection of parochial schools and maintain them. the priests have great power over the lives of their people. some of them are charged with accumulating riches, but taken as a whole, i view them as a body of men loyal to their vows and honoring the profession wherein they serve. with the great numbers constantly coming from europe, it is surprising how carefully they keep in touch with the newcomers. slav and lithuanian priests whose parishes are constantly changing take a census each year. they know the affairs of their people. they know their housing conditions, their hardships in mine and mill; are familiar with the wrongs they suffer. in trouble the priests are their counselors; they sympathize with them in their struggles; they institute and manage insurance societies against sickness and accident. some of the priests found and control building and loan associations. they at all times stimulate their people to rise to the level of other people around them. the priests are busy men. a parish of two thousand or three thousand means endless activities. with the influx of slavs and lithuanians into the country, and the necessity of organizing parishes where many of them settle, the difficulty has been to secure properly qualified priests to take charge of the work. hence, many of the slav and lithuanian clergy are overworked and no assistance can be furnished them. their influence lies first with the adults who come from the fatherland. the children are not as amenable to the discipline of the church; neither do they give their earnings as freely to its support. the growing problem of the church is to meet the religious needs of people of slavic blood raised in a new country. * * * * * this sketch,--brief though it is,--of the foreign-speaking peoples of pittsburgh shows clearly how dependent the industries are upon a supply of able bodied men from europe. the enterprising from agricultural communities freely bring their strength to the expansion of american industries, and never was there an army more docile and willing than these newcomers. they believe in mutual protection and organize and conduct various societies for this purpose. they find their pleasure in many crude ways. they are loyal to their church, and the many churches owned by them represent offerings made by men who literally earn their bread by the sweat of their brow. many of them save money and the number of those who own their homes is annually increasing. there are imperative needs of this element of the city's population which must be met if the cause of civilization is to be served. the fatal and non-fatal injuries of the mills fall heavily upon these peoples. each week a tale of wrong and suffering, agony and death, is sent across the water, which seriously reflects upon the industrial life of america. the value placed on human life here will not bear comparison with that of older countries whose civilization we say is lower than ours. the great need of the hour is a current and detailed record of the serious accidents of the district, that the public may know exactly at what cost of life and limb industry is carried on, and may exhaust every means for lessening the sacrifice. [illustration: a slavic laborer.] we saw that the housing conditions of many of these peoples are a disgrace to civilization. the insufficiency of houses, the greed of landlords, the exigencies of some foreigners and the penury of others, bring about this condition. there should be stricter regulation of immigrant boarding houses. men who coin money in shacks and those foreign born who are too greedy to pay for decent quarters, should feel the firm hand of the law. crowding, dirt and filth are not american and should not be tolerated in any american city. but negative work is not enough; positive and aggressive work must be done if the foreign-speaking are to rise to the measure of their opportunity. every nationality has its aesthetic side, and pittsburgh has done nothing to bring this to the fore. other cities have fostered the national dance, have encouraged works of art, and have induced the foreigner to show the artistic side of his nature. cannot this be done in pittsburgh? give these people a chance to bring out their needle-work, to show their artistic skill, to sing their national songs, and to dance their native dances, and the life of the city will be richer and stronger. then why should the people who gave lafayette a welcome that has become historical, and who championed the cause of kossuth, not go forth in sympathy to these people of slav and iberic extraction? they are left in ignorance of our language, our laws, our government, and our history. this rich inheritance we cherish, and we believe it is more excellent than any of which the older countries of europe can boast. if this be so, is it not our privilege and duty to train these peoples of southeastern europe in the principles of democracy? thousands of these peoples yearn for a knowledge of our language and an insight into that form of government that has made america great among the nations of the earth, and we should be willing to go half way and meet the need. the public school can take up this work with greater zeal; the social agencies of all sorts can stretch the cords of their tents and take in the men who are anxious to learn. [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._ pittsburgh types. in the light of a five-ton ingot.] some pittsburgh steel workers[ ] john andrews fitch fellow, university of wisconsin it is estimated that between , and , men are employed in the manufacture of steel in allegheny county. their homes are clustered about the mills along the rivers, they are clinging to the bluffs of the south side, and they are scattered over greater pittsburgh, from woods run to the east end. up the monongahela valley are the mill-towns,--homestead of pinkerton fame, braddock with its record-breaking mills and furnaces, duquesne where the unit of weight is a hundred tons, and mckeesport, home of the "biggest tube works on earth." here are countrymen of kossuth and kosciusko, still seeking the blessings of liberty, but through a different channel,--high wages and steady employment. here are english, german and scandinavian workmen, full of faith in the new world democracy; and here are americans,--great-grandsons of washington's troopers, and sons of men who fought at gettysburg. [ ] this is a description of leading types of steel workers. a discussion of the labor problem in the steel industry is reserved for a later number. fully sixty-five per cent of these men are unskilled, but the remaining thirty-five per cent, the skilled and semi-skilled, are the men who give character to the industry. this is the class from which foremen and superintendents and even the steel presidents have been recruited, and it is the class that furnishes the brains of the working force. it is of them that i write. to know these men you must see them at work; you must stand beside the open-hearth helper as he taps fifty tons of molten steel from his furnace, you must feel the heat of the bessemer converters as you watch the vessel-men and the steel pourer, and above the crash and roar of the blooming mills you must talk with rollers and hookers, while five-and ten-ton steel ingots plunge madly back and forth between the rolls. you must see the men working in hoop mills and guide mills, where the heat is intense and the work laborious; you must see them amid ladles of molten steel, among piles of red hot bars, or bending over the straightening presses at the rail mills. but to know them best you should see them at home. there the muscular feats of the heater's helper and the rough orders of the furnace boss are alike forgotten, and you find a kindly, open-hearted, human sort of men. you grow into an understanding of them as they tell of hopes and plans or mistakes and failures, and understanding becomes sympathy as it comes home to you how close some half-spoken disappointment presses in upon them. it was in this way that for nine or ten months i lived among the steel workers, and came to number some of them as friends. the skilled workers are generally of anglo-saxon, german or keltic origin, the largest proportion being american born. they are not educated, so far as school and university training are concerned, but they are post graduates in the school of experience. the visitor in a steel mill sees only faces reddened by the glare of fire and hot steel, muscles standing out in knots and bands on bare arms, clothing frayed with usage and begrimed by machinery. the men do not differ materially from other workmen, and the visitor passes on and forgets them. the world is full of men in greasy overalls. but a workman is not merely a workman, any more than a business man is merely a business man. he is also a man, whether he works in a mill or sits at a desk. so i shall introduce some of these men and let them talk to you, as they talked to me. bear in mind that the things they talk about could be taken up from another point of view. in the following interviews i am making no interpretation of the workers from the employer's standpoint. these are the issues of life as seen by the men themselves. [illustration: _courtesy carnegie steel co._ pouring molten iron, just tapped from blast furnace, into bessemer converter.] jack griswold is a scotch-irish furnace boss who came to america and got a laborer's position at a pittsburgh blast furnace, when the common labor force was largely irish. those were the days before the advent of the "furriners." i sat in griswold's sitting room in his four-room cottage one evening and he told me about the men who work at the furnaces, and about the "long turn." "mighty few men have stood what i have, i can tell you. i've been twenty years at the furnaces and been workin' a twelve-hour day all that time, seven days in the week. we go to work at seven in the mornin' and we get through at night at six. we work that way for two weeks and then we work the long turn and change to the night shift. the long turn is when we go on at seven sunday mornin' and work through the whole twenty-four hours up to monday mornin'. that puts us onto the night turn for the next two weeks, and the other crew onto the day. the next time they get the long turn and we get twenty-four hours off, but it don't do us much good. i get home at about half past seven sunday mornin' and go to bed as soon as i've had breakfast. i get up about noon so as to get a bit o' sunday to enjoy, but i'm tired and sleepy all the afternoon. now, if we had eight hours it would be different. i'd start to work, say, at six and i'd be done at two and i'd come home, and after dinner me and the missus could go to the park if we wanted to, or i could take the childer to the country where there ain't any saloons. that's the danger,--the childer runnin' on the streets and me with no time to take them any place else. that's what's driven the irish out of the industry. it ain't the hunkies,--they couldn't do it,--but the irish don't have to work this way. there was fifty of them here with me sixteen years ago and now where are they? i meet 'em sometimes around the city, ridin' in carriages and all of them wearin' white shirts, and here i am with these hunkies. they don't seem like men to me hardly. they can't talk united states. you tell them something and they just look and say 'me no fustay, me no fustay.' that's all you can get out of 'em. and i'm here with them all the time, twelve hours a day and every day and i'm all alone,--not a mother's son of 'em that i can talk to. everybody says i'm a fool to stay here,--i dunno, mebbe i am. it don't make so much difference though. i'm gettin' along, but i don't want the kids ever to work this way. i'm goin' to educate them so they won't have to work twelve hours." there is a considerable difference between a blast furnace foreman and a bessemer steel pourer. the furnace man gets rather low wages, while the steel pourer is well paid and works eight hours a day for six days in the week. it was jerry flinn who told me how he had worked up from his first job as laborer, to a position as steel pourer. i met him just as he got home from the mill one day, and i asked how he managed to work only an eight-hour shift when other men had to work twelve. he told me that attempts have been made to introduce a twelve-hour day in the converting department but without success. two pittsburgh mills have tried it and both went back to eight hours because the heat is so great as to make it impossible for the men to work that long. "it must be hard," said flinn, "for the twelve-hour men to have to work alongside of us eight-hour men. during the twelve hours of their day they work with all three crews of the eight-hour men. one crew gets through and goes home soon after the twelve-hour men come out, the next crew works its eight hours and goes home, and the third crew comes out before those twelve-hour fellows can quit. the eight-hour men get a lot more pleasure out of life than the twelve-hour men do. we can go to entertainments and social affairs as we couldn't if we had to get up next morning and go to work at six o'clock." flinn is fifty-two years old, and tells you his strength is not up to what it was, say fifteen years ago. the men who went to work with him as young men are nearly all dead, and to-day he is one of the oldest men in his mill. he speaks lightly of the danger of accidents, and says that he has encountered only the minor ones. once when they were changing stoppers, the crane dropped the old one just as it swung clear of the edge of the ladle. it fell on him, burning him and breaking his leg. at another time he failed to lower the stopper in time, and the stream of molten steel struck the edge of a mold as the train was shifted; it splashed onto the platform, burning his legs so severely that, for six weeks afterwards, he was unable to turn over in bed. it is a common thing for metal to fly that way; the sparks strike his face, they lodge in his nose or his ears, and once he nearly lost the sight of an eye. he refers to these things as trifles. what i said of the half concealed disappointments which are real and tragic in the life of a steel worker, would have been clear to you had you heard the story of robert smith, as he told it himself. as a boy he went to work in the coal mines of eastern pennsylvania and did not get into the mills until he was about thirty years old. then he came to pittsburgh, took a laborer's position, and began to work up slowly year after year until he occupied a place of some importance, though not in the first class of skilled men. after he had been there a few years, there was a labor difficulty in this mill and he left and went to another plant where he took a position similar to his last one. as a new man he could not advance as rapidly as he might have done in the old mill, and before he could get into the best of standing, he was thrown out of work by further labor troubles. he secured a position in another mill where he remained for two years till forced out by a strike to seek work in a fourth mill. here he remained for ten years in a subordinate position. at the end of that time, he was promoted and became for the first time in his life, the first man in the crew. then, in some way, he incurred the dislike of the superintendent, and the man on the opposite shift worked against him because he wanted smith's job for a friend. so, after working for three years in a position for which, as he said, he had served a ten years' apprenticeship, smith again lost his place and was obliged to apply for work in still another mill. he had been a leader in the union, and it was a feeling almost religious in its devotion that bound him to it. to get into this new mill he had to agree to give up his union card. to-day he says that he is a strong union man at heart, but his connection with it is over. now, at nearly sixty years of age, he is working in a semi-skilled position, although fitted to take his place among the men of the best skill and to handle a crew. smith is a man of more than ordinary intelligence. he is a man of religious inclinations and a church member. he regrets the twelve-hour day now chiefly on the ground that it keeps the young men away from church. if he had not become a church-member when he had an eight-hour day, he doesn't see how he ever could have become interested in religious matters. he lives in a comfortable home which he owns and where he spends most of his time when not in the mill. after supper he sits down to read for a short time before going to bed, but he told me with considerable regret that he was unable to do any systematic reading. a few years ago he read several of shakespeare's plays, but he had to force himself to do it, he gets sleepy so soon after supper. since that time he has not attempted anything more serious than the daily paper. of course, the question of organized labor suggests a number of other considerations. the old union attitude towards employers is not of consequence now in pittsburgh, for most of the steel mills of the district have been non-union for ten or fifteen years. this fact, however, makes it all the more worth while to consider the present attitude of the men as individuals. jim barr is a man thirty-five years old who came from england when he was a small boy. it has been only during the last ten years or so that barr has worked in a steel mill, but he has lived in the steel district longer than that. he occupies a skilled position in one of the mills where he works every day but sundays from seven in the morning until six in the evening, and on alternate sundays he has the long turn of twenty-four hours. this sunday work, he told me, came in after the union had been driven out, and the twelve-hour day is more general now than it was under unionism. [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._ pittsburgh types. of the old time irish immigration.] "tell me, how can a man get any pleasure out of life working that way?" barr asked me almost with a challenge. we were sitting before the grate in his comfortable and tastefully furnished parlor. there were pictures on the wall, a carpet on the floor, and the piano in the corner spoke of other things than endless drudgery. he seemed to interpret my swift glance about the room, for he went on, "i've got as good a home here as a man could want. it's comfortable and i enjoy my family. but i only have these things to think about, not to enjoy. i'm at work most of the day, and i'm so tired at night that i just go to bed as soon as i've eaten supper. i have ideas of what a home ought to be, all right, but the way things are now i just eat and sleep here." barr works in a position where he encounters considerable heat, and he says that alone is very exhausting even when a man does not do hard physical labor. there is great danger, too, in the sweat that keeps a man's clothing wet all of the time. if he gets into a draught he is likely to contract a cold or pneumonia. working under such conditions shortens a man's life, to barr's mind, and although he is but thirty-five years old he tells you he feels a decline in his strength. the men find that it costs more to live, too, when working in the mills, for they need the best of food and the warmest clothing in order to keep going. the little chance for recreation leads them to the saloons as the natural place for relaxation. they go there much oftener, in his opinion, than they would if they had more time for social enjoyment; and of course there is a good deal of money spent there that is needed for other things. he says that men frequently spend twenty dollars in a single night after payday. but the thing on which barr seems to have the strongest convictions is the plan of the united states steel corporation of issuing stock to employes. "the men have been fooled by this proposition," he declared, "and they really believe that the corporation wants to do big things for them in offering such liberal dividends. but let me tell you something that maybe you haven't noticed. the first stock issued in was followed by a slashing cut in wages in , and it amounted to a lot more than the extra dividends. it's only a scheme to fool the men. they take away in wages more than what they give in dividends and they will do that every time, so that the corporation is always ahead of the game. but that isn't the only thing; it ties the employes down to the corporation. they've got to stay in its employ at least five years from the time of getting the stock in order to enjoy all of the benefits, and even then they won't get the extra dividends unless they have shown what the corporation calls a 'proper interest' in its affairs. it's a fine scheme for keeping out unionism and keeping the men from protesting against bad conditions." now, just by way of contrast, listen to the story of george hudson, who occupies a position similar to that of barr, and has been in mill work about the same length of time. after having tried another line and found it unsatisfactory, hudson came to the mills at about thirty years of age. he did what american young men dislike very much to do,--he took a common laborer's position along with the "hunkies." being a man of perseverance and some education, he worked up very rapidly until he now occupies a skilled position. "the steel corporation is a fine one to work for," said hudson to me with enthusiasm. "it gives every man a chance for promotion, and listens to every workman who has a plan for improvement. all the intelligent men are satisfied. if you can find any dissatisfied men, you will find that they are men who would be discontented anywhere you put them. take the way they loan money to men who want to build homes. a good many men have their own cottages now just because the company helped them. the company has a savings department too, and it pays five per cent on all deposits, and that is more than the savings banks pay. then, on the other hand, it charges only five per cent interest on the money that is loaned, and that is a lower rate than you can get anywhere else. the company owns houses which it rents to employes at thirty per cent or more below what other people charge. i pay twenty-five dollars rent, and i've got a friend in a company house which is better than mine, and he only pays eighteen." hudson is ambitious and he was very proud that his department during recent months had succeeded in beating all previous records known. to turn to the second question raised by smith in our talk before his fire,--if number of organizations is any criterion the churches in the mill towns must be strong. i found a considerable number of loyal church members among the steel workers. those of them who have to work on sunday chafe under the necessity that drives them to such a disregarding of the sabbath. especially does this bear heavily on the wife who must attend church alone, while her husband is in the mill or at the furnaces. a scotch presbyterian mother at a home where i called one afternoon just as the man was preparing to go to the mill for the night, spoke regretfully of having left scotland. they might not have been able to live so well there, but "oh, man, we could have brought up the children in the fear o' god and in a land where men reverence the sabbath." there are men like smith, too, who fear the effect of twelve-hour work on the lives of the boys. in spite of this religious sentiment that exists among the workers there is, on the other hand, a good deal of feeling that the churches do not understand the needs of the workingmen. frank robinson, for instance, believes that the churches are not interested in some problems that are to him very real. "there are a good many churches in this borough," he said to me one day, "and they are supported generally by the women. the preachers don't have any influence in securing better conditions for the men,--they don't try to have. they never visit the mills, and they don't know anything about the conditions the men have to face. they think the men ought to go to church after working twelve hours saturday night. the preachers could accomplish a lot if they would try to use their influence in the right direction; let them quit temperance reform until they get better conditions for the men. it's no time to preach to a man when he's hungry; feed him first, then preach to him. the same thing with a workingman; get a decent working day with decent conditions, then ask him to stop drinking. let the preachers go into the mills and see the men at work in the heat, and outside the mills let them notice the men with crushed hands or broken arms or with a leg missing. if they would stop their preaching long enough to look around a little they could do something for us, if they wanted to try." there seems to be some reason for such a feeling. i talked with ministers in some of the mill towns who knew very little of the problems of the workingmen or of the conditions under which they work. some of them said that they had never been inside the mills, and, of course, such men cannot be entirely sympathetic. of a different sort was another minister whom i met who had been a mill-man himself. he had gone into mill work as a boy and had worked up through a common laborer's position to a skilled job before he left the mill to go to college. i have met few men with more understanding and sympathy for the working-men's problems. unionism is not entirely dead in the mill towns; at least the spirit of it is to be found among the men, though the form is absent. some of them expect to see an organization in the mills again. others have given up hope of gaining shorter hours or higher wages through collective bargaining, and are looking for government interference and a legal eight-hour day. there is considerable variety of opinion as to how this is to be brought about. pittsburgh steel workers are traditionally republican in politics; speaker cannon himself does not fear "tinkering" with the tariff more than they. the majority of them have been hoping that their representatives would get time after a while to consider and pass the labor legislation that the workingmen desire. however, there has been much loss of faith in the last few years. a good many men in the mills are socialists at heart, and though they still vote the republican ticket, they would vote with the socialists if that party were to manifest strength enough to give it a chance at carrying an election. a considerable number of others have gone the whole way and are active working socialists. one of these is ed. jones, a skilled steel worker. he was left an orphan, came to pittsburgh from new york as a boy of eighteen years, and worked for a short time as a laborer in one of the mills. after trying his hand at several unskilled trades he went back to a small mill in new york, where his wages were $ . a day. he was determined to work up in the industry, and after a year or so as a laborer he found himself in a semi-skilled position with wages correspondingly better. a year or two later he returned to pittsburgh and became a full fledged skilled man at $ a day. since then, in spite of reverses, he has worked up slowly until now he holds one of the most important positions in his mill. jones has never been a union man. he says he does not believe in unions because they accomplish things only in prosperous times, and go to pieces in a panic. "it is no use for them to try to regulate wages, anyhow," he says, "for labor is a commodity and its price is regulated by supply and demand. the only way out for the laboring men is to get together in a labor party,"--and this to him means the socialist party. "we must go back to the condition when workmen owned their own tools," declares jones. "we must own the instruments of production. labor is now the helpless victim of capital, and capital must be overthrown. the workman is given enough to buy food and clothes for himself, and no more if the capitalist can help himself. they keep these workmen employed twelve hours a day at some work, while if every man in the country would work two hours a day, all the labor that would be necessary to support the population of the country could be performed. now all of this excess, these ten hours over the necessary amount, goes to the employer in profits, and many people throughout the country are living in idleness because other people are working overtime for them." jones is in comfortable circumstances himself; he owns his house and he owns some united states steel stock, but he says he is one out of thirty-eight men in his whole plant who could have done as well. one of the near-socialists who hopes for both unionism and for governmental relief, gave me a statement of his belief one sunday afternoon as i sat in a comfortable chair in his little parlor. "i think there will be a labor organization in the mills again," he said. "it may not come in our day, but it is bound to come; the men will be driven to it. there would be a union now but for the foolishness of the men. they begin to talk as soon as a movement is started, and of course the news reaches the ears of the bosses before the organization is really on its feet. then the men, who are not in a position to resist, are threatened with discharge. that has happened in this very mill. it may be that political action will be necessary before a union will be possible. there are two things that we've got to have: an eight-hour day and restriction of immigration. i think that we will have to get together in a labor party. i'm not a socialist, myself, though quite a good many of the mill men are, and there are a good many things about socialism that i like, all right. i would vote with them if i thought they were going to win and there are others who feel the same way. i used to vote the republican ticket, but i'm tired of it. they haven't done much for the workingmen when you consider the length of time they've been in power. i'm disgusted with the whole thing and i haven't voted at all for several years." several of the men had said to me: "go to see joe reed; he can tell you more about the mills than anyone else." so one day i climbed the hill to his home, and found him. i had been led to expect a good deal and was not disappointed, though he was just recovering from an illness and was unable to talk as much as i had hoped. reed is just the man that one would pick as a leader,--six feet tall, broad shouldered, with strong intellectual features,--and he was in truth a leader of the amalgamated association years ago, before the steel mills became non-union. he took a prominent part in a strike that was of considerable importance in the steel district. he is a skilled man and if he had cast his lot with the company in the dispute, it is quite likely that he would have best served his own interests. but he stayed by the men and when the strike was lost, reed left the steel district. he might have had his former position again, but he was too proud to ask for it, and lived away from pittsburgh until the bitterness engendered by the struggle had begun to die out. after several years he came back and got a job again in a pittsburgh steel mill. it is a non-union mill and of course reed is a non-union man. reed told me some of his experiences and how during the strike he had received letters of encouragement from all over the country, from men prominent in many walks of life. i asked him what he had done with them. he shook his head. "i burned them," he said, "when i came back to the mills. i have nothing in my possession now which would suggest in any way that i ever had connection with the union. when i came back here, i knew i was coming to a non-union mill and i took a job in good faith as a non-union man. that is a chapter in the history of my life that is ended. the whole matter of unionism is a thing of the past and as an employe in this mill, i have no part in it." this fine sense of honor in conforming to the new regime is not so unusual among this class as one might expect. so these are the steel workers. i have not chosen extreme cases; on the contrary, it has been my aim to select men who are typical of a class,--the serious, clear-headed men, rather than the irresponsibles,--and with one exception, each case is fairly representative of a large group. the exception is the man whom i called hudson. not over three men out of the hundred and more with whom i talked at length indicated like sentiments, and he is the only one who gave them such full expression. it should be understood that these are the skilled men,--it is only among the skilled that opinion is so intelligently put forth. the number of positions requiring skill is not large, relatively speaking, and competition for them is keen. the consequence is that the skilled workers are a picked body of men. through a course of natural selection the unfit have been eliminated and the survivors are exceptionally capable and alert of mind, their wits sharpened by meeting and solving difficulties. such a disciplinary process has developed men like john jarrett, consul at birmingham during harrison's administration; miles humphreys, for two terms chief of the pennsylvania bureau of industrial statistics, one-time nominee of the republican party for mayor of pittsburgh, and now chief of the fire department of the smoky city; m. m. garland, collector of customs for pittsburgh, under both mckinley and roosevelt; a. r. hunt, general superintendent at homestead; and taylor alderdice, vice-president of the national tube company. in telling about their fellows who are numbered to-day among the rank and file, i have tried to introduce the leading types,--the twelve-hour man with the eight-hour man, the embittered man and the contented man, the man who is at outs with the church, the union man and the socialist. there are many others who talk and think like flinn and smith and robinson, and i could furnish examples of much more radical thought and speech. these are typical cases representing different degrees of skill and different shades of opinion. it is highly significant that there are such men as these in the pittsburgh mills. in a discussion of the labor problem in the steel industry, it must be borne in mind that these men are more than workers; they are thinkers, too, and must be reckoned with. [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._ pittsburgh types. british born.] the temper of the workers under trial crystal eastman member staff pittsburgh survey to study industrial accidents from the "home" side has been my business for a year. to acquaint myself daily with households doubly disabled by sickness and loss of income, to see strong men, just learning to face life maimed, to visit home after home, where sudden death has visited,--a dreadful business, you might say. yet it has left with me impressions of personality, character, and spirit, which make the year's work a precious experience. the first thing brought home to me was that working people do not have "the luxury of grief." the daily tyranny of hard work in their lives, leaves little time for pondering the unanswerable "why?" of sorrow. for instance, mrs. dennison, the widow of a brakeman who was killed on the pennsylvania railroad, spent no quiet days of solitary mourning. she was left with six children, the oldest eleven. all the money she had was $ from the railroad relief association,[ ] to which her husband had belonged, $ which the men on her husband's division raised, and $ which his own crew gave. the company gave her $ toward the funeral. [ ] the company pays the running expenses of this association. with some of this money she rented and stocked up a little candy and notion store, using the three rooms in the back to live in. here she tended store, and cooked, and sewed, and ironed, for herself and the six. she would have done her own washing too, she told me, but she couldn't leave the store long enough to hang her clothes up in the yard. she made a reasonable success of the enterprise, enough to pay for rent and food, until the hard times came. after that she steadily lost money. so now she has put in her application for a chance to clean cars for the railroad at $ . a day. for this privilege she must wait her turn among the other widows; and when she gets it she must leave her children in one another's care from six in the morning till six at night. they are now two, four, six, eight, ten, and twelve, respectively. mrs. dennison will not have time to sit down and grieve over the death of her husband for many years to come. one mother, whose thin face haunts me, has been able to endure her tragedy only through this necessity of work. she had a daughter, just seventeen, who was employed in the dressmaking department of one of the big stores in pittsburgh. this girl, ella, was eager and gay, with a heart full of kindness. she was everybody's favorite in the workroom; at home she meant laughter and good will for them all. to her mother, ella was joy and gladness,--life itself. one morning this little dressmaker, after leaving her wraps on the eleventh floor, found that she was a few moments late. she ran for the elevator to go to her workroom above. the elevator was just starting up, with the door half closed. ella tried to make it, slipped, and fell down the shaft. this tragedy demoralized the working force of the store for two days. in the hunted, suffering eyes of the mother one reads that she cannot forget, night or day. she feels that ella's employers were generous in giving her $ , but it would make no difference "if they gave her the whole store." in the back of her mind are always two visions alternating,--the merry girl who sat eating her breakfast at a corner of the kitchen table that morning, laughing and teasing her mother, and then, as she ran out to take the car, looked back to smile and say goodbye,--this is one. the other,--that unthinkable fall down eleven stories and the crash at the bottom of the shaft. i felt that nothing but the daily insistence of work,--cooking and washing for her husband and two grown sons, and caring for the two younger children,--had saved this mother's reason. another striking instance of the pressure of work in poor people's lives was in the family of harry nelson. they lived on the south side, near the jones and laughlin steel works, where the father and two grown sons and harry, who was nineteen, were employed. two younger boys were in school. one sunday night, on the way home after his twelve hours' work, harry said to his father that he'd "give a lot" not to go back to the mill that night. (there was another twelve hours' work to come before he could sleep, for this was harry's "double shift.") he didn't tell his mother he was tired, because he knew she would beg him not to go back to work. harry was ambitious; he was an electrician's helper, getting fifteen dollars a week, and he did not want to lose his job. at : he was back in the mill, and at : he was up on an electric crane, making some repairs. when he was through he started along the narrow run-way of the crane to a place where he could climb down. the air was full of steam; some say that he was blinded by this; others, that he must have been a little dizzy. at any rate, to steady himself, he reached for an electric wire that was strung along there. he happened to touch a part that was not insulated, got a slight shock, and fell thirty-five feet to the floor of the mill. after harry was killed, the two older boys left the mill and looked for work in another city. but the father had no choice; he was too old to find new work. his fifteen a week was all the more indispensable now because harry had given all his money to his mother, and the two older boys had paid generously for board. in three days the father was back in his old place at the cold saw, within sight of the place where harry fell. thus work may be a cruelty as well as a blessing. but in any case it leaves the workers little time to dwell upon their misfortunes. when they do speak of them, it is almost always in a "matter-of-course" way. this is not, i think, because they lack feeling, but because they are so used to trouble that the thought of it has ceased to rouse them. that poor people are used to trouble is a commonplace. i mean by "trouble," the less subtle disappointments of life, those which come with disease, injury and premature death. of all these rougher blows of fortune, the poor family gets more than an even share. this stands to reason, if experience has not already convinced one of it. to the ordinary causes of sickness,--unsanitary dwellings, overcrowding, undue exposure, overwork, lack of necessary vacation, work under poisonous conditions,--to all these poor people are much more constantly exposed than others. to injury and death caused by accident they are also more exposed. poor people's children play in dangerous places, on the street, near railroad tracks. the poor man's dwelling is not often fire-proof. poor people do most of the hazardous work in the world, and the accidents connected with work form the majority of all accidents. moreover, the poor family is, in a material way, less able to meet these disasters when they come, than the well-to-do family. this is in some degree due to ignorance, for ignorance, whether as cause or result, almost always goes with poverty. in a very large degree, however, it is due to poverty itself. it is because they have no reserve fund to fall back on in emergencies. suppose a young steel worker with a family gets a long, sharp chip of steel in his eye. he cannot go to the best specialist, to the man who knows all that anybody knows about saving eyes. through ignorance or lack of interest on the part of the doctor who treats him, he loses his eye. thus an injury which might mean but a few weeks of fearful anxiety to a well-to-do man, may result in lasting misery to a poor man. in the same way, too, what might often be in a well-to-do family a short struggle with disease, crowned with success, is more likely to be in a poor family an unrelieved tragedy. thus are the poor, by reason of their very poverty, not only more open to attack from these bodily foes, but also, and again by reason of their poverty, less equipped to fight and conquer them. "st. george killed the dragon; st. george wore the finest armor of his day and his sword was tested steel." with these workers whom i met,--poor people, not as the charity visitor knows them, but poor, as the rank and file of wage earners are poor,--misfortune is almost part of the regular course of things. they are used to hard knocks, if not yet in their own lives, then in the lives of their relatives, friends, and neighbors. consequently, there is often in their attitude toward trouble a certain matter-of-fact calmness, which looks like indifference. thus, i have had a mother tell me about her sixteen-year-old son's losing two fingers in the mill. she couldn't remember exactly how or when it happened; she thought he had lost only a week's work; and she had no comment upon it but that it might have been worse. an old steel worker whom i questioned about his injuries answered, "i never got hurt any to speak of." after persistent inquiry, however, he recalled that he had once fractured his skull, that a few years later he had lost half of a finger, and that only three years ago he was laid up for nine weeks with a crushed foot. troubles like these are the common lot; they are not treasured up and remembered against fate. often i have found in young women a surprisingly "middle-aged" way of looking at trouble. i remember, for instance, mrs. coleman, whose husband was a freight conductor. they had been married nine years, and had made out pretty well up to the last two years, although the wife, as she somewhat proudly explained, had had three children, two miscarriages, and an operation, during this time. on christmas night, , coleman had his arm crushed in a railroad accident. he was disabled for three months, and went back to work with a partially crippled arm. three weeks later, as he was numbering cars, an iron bar rolled off the load and broke his nose. this laid him up again for five weeks, and left his face permanently disfigured. he has been troubled ever since with nose-bleeding, so that he has to lay off every little while, and the doctor says he must have an operation before he can be cured. since this second injury, a fourth child has come. when i saw her, mrs. coleman was just recovering from a bad attack of grip, which had increased their expenses. to help along in this hard luck time they took two railroad men to lodge and board in their three room flat; one of these men had been killed on the road the week before i called. here are troubles enough, and yet this young woman had no special complaint against fortune. "yes," she said, as she rose to open the door for me, the last baby dangling over one arm,--"we've had a bad time these last two years, and now with him only working two or three days a week, i guess it'll be worse. but then,"--with a smile, "what can you do about it?" on the same day i talked with a much older woman. she was too worn out to smile at her troubles, but she had the same "everyday" attitude toward them. ten months ago they had been doing well. her husband was earning ten dollars a week at odd jobs; two sons, twenty and seventeen, were getting fifteen dollars a week each as lead buffers in a coffin works; she and her daughter kept house and did a little sewing; and they all lived happily together. then one day her husband was brought home with a smashed foot and a leg broken in two places, as a result of a bad fall. he had been on a ladder, painting, when the cornice gave way and he jumped to save himself. for five months they kept him at the hospital free of charge, and for four months more he went back on crutches for treatment. finally they told him to come back for an operation, but on the day after the operation they sent him away again with a bill of three dollars for the time he had been there. his wife had to help him home, and he was in bed when i called. the doctor had said it would be better for him to stay at the hospital, but the superintendent decided that they could not treat him in the ward for nothing any longer. the wife laughed a little grimly when she told me this. "why," she said, "i can't pay a dollar and a half a day to that hospital. ever since he got hurt i've been cleaning offices. all i can make is six dollars a week and i have to pay car fares out of that." "well," i said, "how about your sons? they are making good wages." "oh, they were," she answered, "but harry, the oldest one, has been home for five months. he's got gastritis, and the doctor says it's from lead poisoning. you know he's a lead buffer on coffins. he don't seem to get much better." "and the other boy," i said, "does he go right on doing the same work?" "yes, charlie,--i don't know what we'd do if he lost his job. he's been on half time now for three months, and that means only $ . a week." to add to the general desolation in this home, the flood had been in and covered the lower floor, leaving everything smeared with a dry, muddy paste. in the midst of it all sat this tired woman of fifty, who had just come home from her five early morning hours of office scrubbing; and she was less concerned with the bitterness of her struggle with life than she was with the immediate problem of how to get her maimed old man up to the hospital every other day for treatment. this unquestioning acceptance of misfortune does not often amount to either a commendable cheerfulness or a deplorable apathy. occasionally, however, it approaches heroism. i think the most courageous person i met during the year was mrs. herman baum, a german woman of forty-five or thereabouts, who, after nine years of disappointment and defeat, still meets the days as they come with an unbroken spirit. she came to america as a girl of nineteen and went out to service. at twenty-three she married. her "man" turned out ugly; he drank and was always mean to her. his parents, who thought he had married beneath him, took a dislike to her and joined him in making her unhappy. they lived along in this way for fifteen years, during which time she bore him seven children. one day, in his work as a moulder, he received a slight injury, from which blood poisoning set in. after this his mind was affected; he became silent, morose, and uglier than ever, giving his wife hardly a moment, day or night, when she was not in fear of him. after a year or so during which he grew steadily worse, he shot himself one night, leaving her with the seven children, another one coming, and no resources except a heavily mortgaged house and $ insurance. she had no relatives; her father had been run over by a train, soon after coming to america, and her only brother had been drowned in river work a few years before. it was in august, , that mrs. baum's husband killed himself. in september a baby was born, only to die before winter. the two older children got work and brought in ten dollars a week between them, while mrs. baum took in washing and made two or three dollars a week. thus things went pretty well until june, , when the second boy, harry, the jolly one, who "kept all their spirits up with his jokes," was all but killed in an elevator accident at the box factory where he worked. when, after four months at the hospital, he came home with a permanent lameness, and strict orders never again to do heavy work, he turned to selling papers, and is now making about $ . a week. after half their small income was cut off by this accident, mrs. baum tried to run a grocery store in the front part of her house, but she lost money at it and was forced to give it up. when i saw her, she was hanging somebody's washing up in the yard. she took me into her spotless kitchen and told me this story, not eagerly, as if pouring out her troubles, but only after many questions, rather reluctantly, and with sometimes an apologetic smile. here, i thought, is a heroine of modern realistic tragedy; the dramatist would have her lost in bitter retrospect. but she was not; she sat there smiling a bit ruefully, and wondered whether she must put aside her sturdy german pride next week, and go to the poor board for help. some people, especially the irish, even get amusement out of the number and variety of their troubles. this is true of the learys, whose six years of married life have been crowded with disasters. to begin with, andy, the husband, who is a brakeman, has had nine accidents on the road in five years, so many that his wife could not distinguish in her memory the one of a year ago which i had come to inquire about. twice he has been near death. once the priest performed the last offices, but andy pulled through after all. besides all these injuries, none of them less severe than a broken bone, he accidentally shot himself one day and nearly died from that. "and look at him now!" said mrs. leary. (andy is a handsome irishman, and the picture of health.) in addition to all this, they have lost two children by diphtheria. mrs. leary's outlook on life seems to be a mingling of humor and superstition. she told me, with incongruous awesomeness in her irish brogue, how she had heard the "death whistle" outside the door three times on the night that her little boy died. and one night, when andy had to stay at home to take care of her, the brakeman sent in his place was killed. she thinks this is a "sign," and has no doubt of andy's ultimate fate. "oh yis," said she, "the docthers say ye can't kill andy,--but i know betther. he'll be a-comin' home dead soon. ivery time i hear a knock at the dhoor, i thinks to mesilf, 'there now,--it's thim, comin' to tell me andy's kil't.' andy, he jokes about it. ony this marnin' afther i'd been givin' him his breakfast, he starts to go to work out the back dhoor, an' i says, 'andy, why don't you niver go out the front dhoor?' 'oh, leary;' says he,--(that's what he calls me--leary) 'leary,' says he, 'the back dhoor's good enough for me. i'll be a-comin' by the front dhoor soon enough, an' i won't be walkin'." with so many misfortunes the learys have not been able to save anything. four times andy tried to join the brotherhood of railroad trainmen, but each time after his papers were made out and he had paid down his dollar, and the day had come to join, he couldn't get together the necessary nine dollars for the first payment. with all this, there is an unfailing humor and philosophy in the leary household which is irresistible. among railroad men generally there is a certain laughing, soldier spirit. it is part of the faith; no true "railroader" is without it. perhaps this spirit leans to recklessness with some of the younger ones, but i believe it is just as essential to the running of a railroad as is the executive skill of the hills and harrimans. this spirit stands by the men in danger and makes them meet death bravely. it stands often a harder test; you will not break the spirit of a railroader by cutting off his arm or giving him a wooden leg. out of fifteen railroad men i visited, who had received permanent injuries, all but four have gone back to the road. two of the four are totally unable to do work of any kind. another has gone home for a few weeks until he can "get used to his wooden leg," when he will be ready for any job the road will give him. the other, a twenty-year-old boy who lost his right arm at the shoulder, has learned to write with his left hand and is studying telegraphy as hard as he can, in order to stick by the railroad. of the eleven who are back on the road, nine were able to go into the same work and pay, but two had to take lower jobs on account of partial disability. this meant in each case five or six dollars a week less, but neither man complained; he took it as part of the day's work. what the railroader dreads is having to quit the road altogether. a watchman's job will be accepted with a good deal of cheer. notice the spirit of the one-legged watchman at your crossing, who is very likely a man dropped from an active, exciting occupation at eighty dollars a month to flagging a crossing for forty. he is still in the game. but try to retire a railroader on a pension while he is able to work, and you will break his heart. to a large extent, the railroaders' wives reflect this spirit. they are quite resigned to the risks and dangers of the "mister's" trade. but with the mothers, especially those whose husbands have followed more quiet callings, it is different. they lead an anxious life. in every dangerous occupation there is not this sustaining common courage to help a man endure gaily a lifelong deprivation. a certain degree of independence and fraternity in a group is necessary to bring it about. many go forth from the steel mills maimed for life, who have no such spirit to uphold them. i remember one night in homestead seeing a boy on crutches, with one leg gone. he was about nineteen, with blue eyes and a shock of yellow hair falling down low on his forehead. in his face was that desperate look of defiance which comes with a recent deformity. he was trying with all his young will to be indifferent to the stares of the crowd, while in every nerve he felt them. all this and a weary hopelessness were written in his sullen child-face. i have shown how grief is crowded out of the lives of working people, and how their frequent experience of trouble gives them an ordinary manner in speaking of it. these things largely account for the opinion held by many, that working people do not feel their sorrows as keenly as others do. furthermore, i found among working people almost no pretence of feeling where none exists. this too, might give rise to such an opinion. where the death of a husband has meant merely a loss of income, with the attending problems of struggle and adjustment, there is no effort to have it appear otherwise. where it has aroused only a feeling of bitterness toward the employer, this is not concealed either. but where the death of the bread-winner, has meant not merely an economic problem, not merely a legal battle, but heartache and emptiness,--that is written, real and unmistakable, in the faces of those left. and in the case of sons, where there may be no question of income, it is often possible to tell in the first glance at the mother whether this boy who was killed was "one of her children," or the child of her heart. there is an outspoken genuineness about these people which allows them neither to make a show of grief where there is none, nor to hide real suffering, even from a stranger. mrs. leary took the accidents of "andy" lightly. if he should happen to be killed some day her heart would not be broken. she spoke of the death of her baby three months before without feeling, mentioning the doctor's bills. but when i asked her to tell me about her oldest boy who died two years ago of diphtheria, i could see at once that i was on different ground. her eyes filled with tears, and there was grief and longing in her voice as she talked about him. you see he was only five, but they understood each other. when she was unhappy he knew it. he would climb up in her lap, she said, and put his arms around her neck and say, "don't cry, mommy; i love you." mrs. burns, a pretty irish widow, whose husband was crushed while coupling cars, is obviously well satisfied with the $ , insurance he left. she takes boarders and is carefully saving the insurance money for her little girl's education. her affections are set on this child. she has a tender memory of her tom as he started off to work whistling that last morning, but she makes no pretence to mourn for him. she frankly admits that her marriage was not successful enough to make her risk it again. thus it is with mrs. andrews, a woman whose husband was killed in the mill. i found her smiling and contented a year later. her man had been good and faithful while he lived, but after he died, her brother came to live with her and help her raise her two boys. he earned just as much, and she was perfectly satisfied with the situation. on the other hand, i knew of a six months' bride who shot herself three weeks after her husband was killed. and a young german woman, whose father had been run over by a dinky engine in the mill, said to me in a choking voice, "oh, when it comes to tellin' how he died, it breaks my heart." i have seen mothers and fathers in middle life who had become broken and old in a year after the death of a son, and a few women whom i visited eighteen months after such a tragedy, were literally unable to speak of it. there was one wild-eyed little scotch woman, mrs. macgregor, who refused to talk with me at all. i learned from a neighbor that she had twice been insane. some years ago, when they had lived near the railroad, a little three-year-old girl of hers, who was playing before the house, ran in front of a train. the mother reached the child just in time to touch her dress as the engine tore her away. the mother lost her reason and was sent to an asylum. after six or eight months she recovered and came home. then, one morning two years later, she got word to come at once to the hospital, that her son was dying. he was a lineman at edgar thompson, and had left home to go to work as usual two hours before. in some way,--no one ever knew how,--he had fallen from a ladder and broken his skull. after this second blow the mother was again insane. then there was an old father, macdougal, who had had three sons. one died of smallpox, and one was killed in a steel mill. the third was a railroad engineer. on the night of march , , he was taking a heavy freight across a bridge at deer creek, harmarsville. the creek was high and the pier gave way; the engine and first cars went crashing into the water below, carrying three men to death. the bodies of the fireman and conductor were recovered next day, but young macdougal, the engineer, was never found. they say the old man's hair turned white in twenty-four hours, and that he can still be found on fair days walking along the banks of the creek, looking for his son. but for the most part mothers and fathers do not lose their hold on things. their lives go on as before. you can know perhaps only from a weary sadness in the mother's eyes that the light of their lives has gone out. death does not always mean sorrow, and these working people, it seems to me, feel no pressure of convention upon them to appear sorrowful when they are not. but where affection is strong and love is deep, tragedies are as real with them as with any people i have known. wherever love is found there is the chance of grief; there is potential tragedy. and it is in poor families, i think, that one finds the most close and lasting affection. so often, in looking up a fatal accident case, i would come upon an intimate and devoted family group. the case of will gordon, for instance,--there was a holiday drama i shall not soon forget. the gordon family was a large one. father and mother were living, and three working sons lived at home, besides four younger children. then there were two married daughters, who lived near by and kept in close touch with the family. will, the oldest son, although he was twenty-eight, was the greatest "home boy" of them all. he still handed every pay envelope over to his mother, unopened, as he had done when a child. his working life had been varied. first he tried the railroad, but he was slight, and the work was too much for him. then for a while he did river work with one of his younger brothers who was on a government job. but in this he soon developed a chronic cough, and his mother was afraid of consumption. so finally he got a job with the pressed steel car company, as a pipe fitter's helper. here the work was lighter and seemed to agree with him. every two weeks he brought home twenty-five dollars and handed it over to his mother. meanwhile his father, who was fifty, had taken a job at the oil refinery, firing boilers at night. the boys considered this a dangerous job for the old man, and almost every night one of them would go with him. will felt most strongly about it and was always begging his father to give it up. on christmas evening, , the son's arguments prevailed and his father promised to give up the job. this made them all especially happy on the next day, when the two married daughters came home with their families to celebrate christmas. during the day they planned that the whole family should gather at the oldest daughter's house for new year's. all the boys were to have a holiday except will, and he promised to get off at noon, if he could, to eat the new year's dinner with them. the day came, the family was gathered and the dinner was ready. with much joking and laughter and good-humored impatience, they were waiting for will. in the midst of it came a boy with a scared face to say that will had been killed at the works. he had been sent to repair a leak in a pipe. the steam was left on; the pipe burst; and he and wilson, the pipe fitter, were scalded to death. the father put on his coat and hurried down to the mill to keep them from sending his boy's body to the morgue. this family affection shows its true nature in times of trouble. barring what seemed to me an unusual number of deserting husbands, i was impressed with the faithfulness of these people to one another in struggle and distress. there was mrs. frederick, for instance, a swiss woman whose husband was killed in a runaway, while driving for a wholesale liquor dealer. just a week before the accident they had bought a small house with a $ mortgage on it, and mr. frederick said to his wife, as they were looking over the deed: "now we can begin to get along, and lift up our heads, and stop worrying." since her husband's death, even with the $ , insurance, it has been hard to keep things going and continue payments on the house. there are four children and only one is old enough to work. just in this troublous time, too, the family burdens have increased. mrs. frederick's mother has come from switzerland, old, feeble and without income; and her step-daughter, who had been away from home and independent for years, after lying in a hospital six weeks with a fever, has now come home, weak and helpless, to stay until she is able to work. mrs. frederick does not for a moment question the rightfulness of these burdens. the old grandmother and the convalescent daughter help her around the house; she takes in washing; the boy's wages are good. on the whole she is cheerful. the last thing she said to me, as she stood in the open door, was, "oh, we'll get on somehow. we'll all work together, and if we have to, we'll starve together." another pathetic and almost humorous instance of family loyalty is the case of a man named benson. i was hunting for the wife of a brakeman, who had been killed in the same wreck with the engineer macdougal of whom i have spoken. i was told that i could learn about her at this benson's house. i went there and found it a tumble-down, three-room shanty with a small shed for a kitchen, crowded in between brick tenements. there was no carpet on the floor and only a bare table and two kitchen chairs in the living room. the man's wife was unspeakably slovenly and, i think, half-witted. when benson came in, however, i could see that he was different. he was only twenty-six. his father had been a river-man, and he himself was born in a "shanty-boat." owing to his mother's early carelessness he had lost one eye. when he grew up, he left the river and became a teamster, and in good times he made a living. at the time i saw him, however, he had had only one or two days' work a week for four months. the hard times, and the wife, i am sure,--not any natural shiftlessness in the man,--accounted for the desolation of his home. there was something fine in benson's face, a certain modest look of steadfastness and pride,--the pride of the "family protector." this protector-ship extended even to the remote connections by marriage of the miserable creature who was his wife, for i found that the brakeman's widow, whom he had taken in and cared for after her husband's death, was his wife's sister-in-law. further questioning revealed that this widow had an old mother who had also been dependent on the earnings of the brakeman. "and what has become of the mother?" i asked. "oh," he said, "she lives here, too. she makes her home with me." there he sat, this one-eyed teamster, in his barren, rented, three-room castle, and told me in a simple, serious way, as though it were to be expected in good families, that his wife's sister-in-law's mother "made her home with him." it is not uncommon to find a loyalty like this in relations where one would least expect it. i have quite lost faith in the unkind stepmother of fairy-tale tradition. it is a step-daughter whom mrs. frederick, the swiss woman, is caring for in the midst of her struggle. three or four times i found a woman utterly uncomforted after the loss of a stepson. there was conley, for instance, a car inspector who was killed in a wreck. a stepmother had brought him up since he was ten years old, loving him as few mothers love their own sons. and he gave her back a real devotion. when his friends would ask him why he didn't have some fun with his money instead of giving it all to his folks, he used to say, "well, fellows, home ain't a boarding house." it is not unusual to find young men giving up their own prospects, to take up the burden of the family at the sudden death of the father. but the most memorable instance i remember of self-sacrifice on the part of a son was that of james brennan, a switchman, who was killed on the baltimore and ohio in november, . he, too, was only stepson and stepbrother to the family he fathered. thomas brennan, an englishman, had married in the seventies and come to america, where his wife bore him two sons and then died. soon after, he went back to england and married a sister of his first wife and brought her here to take care of his children. he soon proved worthless as a provider. he lived off and on with his family, but contributed less and less to their support, and finally left them entirely. the second wife was not strong, and after the birth of her last child, became an invalid. the burden of the family thus fell upon the shoulders of the two boys, her nephews and stepsons. they went to work at eleven and twelve. arthur, the younger, was drowned at eighteen, leaving james, the older son, as the only support. this young man never deserted his post. during the later years his burden increased. his stepsister made a runaway marriage at eighteen and in two years was deserted by her husband and came home with a child. a feeble old grandmother of eighty-eight came over from england to be taken care of. his stepmother became crippled with rheumatism and lay in bed for two years. in june of the year he was killed, he sent her away to a sanatorium to get well. she had been there for five months, had gained twelve pounds and was doing well when the telegram came to tell her of his death. she came home to face the struggle of life without him,--an aged mother on her hands, a boy of ten, and an in-consequent daughter with a baby,--and she herself an invalid, suffering constantly. one would say that the mere problem of existence would be all absorbing for that woman. yet, when i found her a year later, it was the emptiness of her life without this son rather than the loss of his income that was her tragedy. there are all kinds of people everywhere. this is the only final conclusion. it is not easy therefore, to describe the spirit in which the working people meet trouble. they meet it in all the ways there are. but most of those i met, had an "everyday" attitude toward misfortune. this seems to support the opinion many hold, that poor people do not feel their tragedies deeply. but i think it is to be explained rather by the fact that they are too busy to entertain grief, that trouble is too common among them to arouse exclamation, and that they make no show of feeling where there is none. that they know the deepest sorrow, is obvious to one who has seen the loyalties and lasting affections which make up so much of their lives. i found usual in families, a generous affection which could rise to self-sacrifice and devotion in time of trial; and sometimes between two members of a family, a rare love, exclusive and complete, so that the death of one left the other in an empty world. * * * * * tales of trouble like these are worth listening to, chiefly as they reveal the spirit of the people who suffered. it is with this thought that i have told them. but if by revealing a dreary recurrence of the same kind of misfortune in home after home, these stories have roused in the reader's mind a question, perhaps a protest, this too, is worth while. in a later issue, by a study of these work accidents in their happening, by a counting of the cost to the worker and his family, to the employer, and to society,--as at present the cost is distributed,--we hope to answer that question. possibly we shall justify that protest. the working women of pittsburgh elizabeth beardsley butler former secretary new jersey state consumers league it requires a moment's readjustment of our angle of vision to see pittsburgh as a city of working women. to dig crude ores, to fuse and forge them, are not among the lighter handicrafts at which women can readily be employed. the old cry of the dwarfs under the earth, the first metal smiths, rings out in pittsburgh in the tap of the miner's tools and in the shouts of gangs of furnace-men and engine crews in the winding recesses of the mill. yet even in a city whose prosperity is founded in steel and iron and coal, there has come into being beside the men a group of co-laborers. if we listen again, we hear the cry of the dwarfs (the productive forces of earth) not only in the shouts of gangs of furnace-men, but from the mobile group of workers at the screw and bolt works, and among the strong-armed women who make sand-cores in rooms planned like alberich's smithy in the underworld. listen still more closely, and we hear the dwarf voices in the hum of machines in a garment factory, in the steady turn of metal rolls in a laundry, and even in the clip of the stogy roller's knife in the tiny workroom of a tenement loft. side by side with the men, the women workers have found a place in the industry of the steel district in the alleghenies. in a district that calls pre-eminently for strength in its workmen, and if not for strength, for a high degree of training and skill, there is yet place in the congregate activity of factories and shops for women. individual and group necessities have forced them out into an increasing number of occupational ways and byways, winding net-like over the city. [illustration: stogy sweatshop workers on "the hill."] to understand fully the place that women have taken in the industries of pittsburgh, we should need to know the history of the "forks of the ohio," from trading post, frontier settlement, mill-town, to the growing, complex city of to-day. we should need to follow the women's share in the life of the district from the time of the woman pioneer, who was herself a producer of goods and of values, on through the active days of life in a small and struggling town, and later, into the ramifications of the industrial city, when the days came that english speaking labor did not suffice and a new immigrant population was brought in. we know a little of the life of the frontier women and the work that they did. we have hints here and there, of the home industries of intermediate decades, of the weaving and the stogy making[ ] especially, of production for the use of the individual home, that helped to make the lives of women in miners' households active and significant. there are gaps in our recorded knowledge of the process of change, of the forces that little by little have been a call to the high-strung girl of american birth, to the unconquerable exiled russian, to the field worker from austria, and to the fair-haired pole,--a call away from the four walls that sheltered the industries of the home, and toward factory and shop, toward division of labor and specialization of work at a machine. the census in the first half of the nineteenth century is small help to us. even in later years, we can learn from it comparatively little about the industrial life in individual cities. [ ] see jour. pol. econ. : - . one fact significant of the situation in pittsburgh to-day is that according to the last census, the excess of male over female population is a trifle less than , . when the industries of the district grew to a magnitude that drew on foreign labor forces, it was the men of ireland and germany, of italy, austria and poland who came. later, in smaller numbers, the women followed. they came because their husbands and brothers were here; not often for the purpose of forging out a life of their own. the women of the later immigrant races, the slavs and the southern europeans, are lagging behind. giuseppina is still keeping the little italian cottage with the thought that pietro will return or will have made his way more surely before he sends for her. life in america for her is not a settled destiny. it is a probability of growing importance for those populations whose need exceeds the productive power of the soil; but even to the strong it is something of an experiment, something for which women,--not industrially adjusted,--must await the issue before they too follow in numbers equal to the men. in the different districts of the city, one can trace something of the effect of this varying feeling of permanence on the ways of life among earlier and later immigrants. irish and german, in fact, we no longer think of as immigrants. they are as much wrought into the fabric of the nation as those whom we are pleased to call american. the jewish immigrants from austria, germany, and russia, while their coming has been hastened by religious persecution, have yet been part of the life of the city for so long, that among them there is a distinct family grouping; and there is a normal proportion between men and women. this is in part due to race tradition as well as to length of settlement, but the latter has unquestionably served to diminish the proportion of single men, who from this race as from others, have come to make a place for themselves in the new country. in the congested italian neighborhoods, on the other hand, women are but an unimportant factor in the industrial life of the city. in the midst of the city itself, there are to be sure streets of italian families; streets where the women still honor the custom of life in their households. a scattered few roll paste-smeared tobacco leaves into tobies after the italian fashion, or follow with painstaking docility the signs of the forewoman in a garment workshop. but there are not many of these pioneers of congregate activity. the ties of tradition that keep the girl to her house and early marriage are still too strong for more than the very few to break. there is small opportunity in this smoke-filled city among the hills for the italian girl to preserve her self-respect by staying at home, and at the same time to increase her income by sewing or making flowers. flowers of delicate tints and fine embroidered fabrics, belong rather to the trade of eastern cities. the garment industry here is of a different sort from that which has nourished and given employment to its thousands of out-workers in new york city. such outwork as there is dates to a time before the italian women were here in numbers, or had grouped themselves into particular districts, and it fell naturally into the hands of irish and germans whose homes were, and still remain, in the early settled regions in the coal filled hills. [illustration: a cannery girl--bottling pickles with a grooved stick.] leave "the hill," and go down toward the mills and to some of the outlying sections, and you will find still fewer women in the colonies of young italian laborers, advance guards from their native towns. some of these men are workers on the railroads, others are day-laborers in the mills. they bring up the numbers of the italian population and contribute to the excess male population of the entire city. among still later immigrants, this situation is intensified. near the pressed steel car works, there are streets of low unpainted houses, each exactly like the other, each filled with its family of "boarders,"--single men who club together and rent a house or hire a bed by turns in order to make their pay serve both for their own support and for the help of those at home in the old country. they are slavs,--"hunkies." they are the under-workmen in mill and mine and machine shop, who have helped push the earlier comers a step higher and push themselves into the subordinate jobs. some of the first comers have since brought their families. some few sisters and friends with the desire to try new fortune have come, too, leaving their families behind. but the bulk of the "boarding house" population is made up of single men, immigrants of this race. where families and single women have come, they have tended to settle in the glass-making district, or near the manufactories of iron and steel products that can use quick fingers as well as strong untrained arms. [illustration: one of the south side glass-workers.] the polish women have not the conservatism which keeps the italian girl at home. they have not the same standard of close-knit family relationship. there is a flexibility in their attitude toward life and toward their part in it. in numbers and in kind of work, they are an element of industrial importance. altogether, , women wage earners outside of agricultural, professional, and domestic service, are employed in pittsburgh. these figures are based on a careful census of the women-employing trades made during the winter of - . this working force is distributed in factories and shops, and can be arranged according to the numerical importance of the different trade groups as shown in the accompanying table. table showing distribution in trade groups. mercantile houses food production: canneries confectionery crackers molasses cleaning industries: dyeing and cleaning laundries stogy industry metal trades miscellaneous: cork paper boxes soap caskets paint brooms and brushes trunks and suit-cases needle trades: garments awnings mattress and bedding gloves lamps and glass telephone and telegraph millinery (wholesale) printing trades ------ total women workers in the u. s. census of , women's work is grouped under the headings: agricultural pursuits, domestic and personal service, professional service, trade and transportation, manufacturing and mechanical pursuits. in the accompanying table, agricultural pursuits, and professional service are excluded. under domestic and personal service come only the cleaning industries, with , women, . per cent of the number under consideration. under trade and transportation, come saleswomen and telephone and telegraph operators to the number of , ( . per cent). the remainder, , women ( . per cent), are included in manufacturing and mechanical pursuits. it is worth while to consider not only the broad groupings and the characteristics of the several trades, but the women whom they have called to them, old and young, native born, or from the fields and towns of another country. each trade has its characteristic racial group, and in some cases a secondary racial group; and on the other hand one racial group may be found in several trades. when the work room is a mercantile house, there is small need to describe it. we know something of the work and of its demands; we know, too, that no other occupation seems so desirable as "clerking" to the girl with some personal ambition but without the training necessary for an office position. a majority of the girls are native-born of irish or german parents, but there is a scattering of bright jewish girls who have a characteristic dislike for the noise of machines. the mercantile houses, the stogy factories and the garment factories are employers of jewish girls. in all three industries many americans are to be found, but they are in the more desirable positions, in shops of the better class, with provision for light and air. these girls have the nervous readiness to learn new ways, the adaptability, the measure of skill, which tend to bring them the best work, the better workplaces. but where the cheap, hustling business is done, the jewish girls predominate. they endure the drive in the rarely cleaned upper room, where between narrow walls, faint daylight finds its way toward the machines and where drifting lint and ten hours' stooping over a power-driven needle, have their effect in time on a girl even with the strength of rugged generations behind her. newcomers cannot choose either workshop or wages. with the subordination of the industrially unadjusted, they crave a chance to learn, whether it be by the whirr of the needle or by team work at cheap mold stogies to supply the workingman's demand. in one or two of the small box factories on "the hill," one finds occasionally a jewish girl. box makers paste the bright colored strips of paper along the box edges. they stay the corners by the clamp of a machine. for heavier boxes they glue into place the wooden supports. such work for a jewish girl is exceptional, however, and in violence to tradition. the three industries mentioned above make up her circle of possible choices. [illustration: tobacco strippers in a hill sweatshop. workers of the lowest industrial grade.] yet each industry, notably stogy making and the needle trades, has drawn upon a second racial element in response to a specific industrial demand. when the garment makers, spurred to production by the presence of an army of laborers in mills and mines, began to increase and cheapen their output, they gave the jeans and railroad jumpers to irish and german women who would make them at home. the sweating system, as old and older than the ready-made trade, has adapted itself to the city, and has taken a form scarcely recognizable to one familiar with the contract shops on new york's east side. there is no contract system here. outwork entrenched itself in individual homes before italians and immigrant russians had settled into districts, and the only available out-workers were the wives of irish and german workingmen in carrick and lower st. clair. even to-day, it takes a rambling journey along muddy foot-paths, across brooks and fields and along the edges of the barren hills to bring you to the sweated district. the workroom here is not a crowded tenement, but a small wooden house with six machines someway placed in the living room, and there is occupation for the whole family, from father to baby. the family has to pay the driver a percentage on every dozen garments that he brings, according to the distance from town. as the driver knows the people and often gives them the chance to work, his position is in some respects that of a middleman. the workers are obliged to meet his terms or to turn to some other means of livelihood. a seemingly inaccessible hill country within city limits, wooden shacks swarming with chickens and children, a whirr of machines audible from the field below,--these contradictions characterize the sweating system of pittsburgh. [illustration: stogy workers transplanted to america.] we have seen that jewish and american girls are in the garment factories, while irish and german women, the hill-dwelling wives of the miners, hold the subordinate place in the trade. in the stogy industry, the polish women, some of them married and others immigrant girls, have the inferior and unpleasant work. the least desirable occupation for women in stogy factories is tobacco stripping, pulling the stems out of the moist leaves and weighing and tying them in pounds for the rollers. in tenement shops, one may find the strippers in a cellar, their backs against a damp wall, working by the light of a flaring gas jet. in a large factory, one will see them sitting in their low stalls, row behind row, stemming and weighing and throwing the waste to one side. "they would work all night," one foreman said, "if i would give them the chance. we never have any trouble with them; we can't give them enough work to do." they were married women in this case; but the rule holds good and there is seldom trouble with the polish hands in a stogy factory. they are there too much on sufferance for grievances to be worth their while. they have entrenched themselves in the stripping rooms and are found now and then at a bunching machine or rolling stogies at the suction table, but this more skilled work is still largely in the hands of american and jewish girls. [illustration: a laundry worker at a body ironing machine. one of the skilled hands.] the polish women have pushed their way into a wider circle of industries than have the jewish girls. they are limited by lack of training and by trade indifference, as well as by the stolid physical poise that cannot be speeded at the high pressure to which an american girl will respond. they have not an industrial standard that would tend to react progressively upon the character of their work and the arrangement of the workrooms. they accept factory positions that girls of other races regard as socially inferior. they consent to do the rough and unpleasant work, the work that leads and can lead to nothing except coarsening of fiber and a final break in strength. they change from one place to another with an irresponsibility, an independence, born perhaps of long-slumbering memories of revolution in their own land. in canneries and cracker factories, we find polish girls who are lighter-handed, fairer, more delicately built than those of the metal trades and the glass houses. these girls have rapid work to do. they have the nervous energy to pack or to fill cans at high speed. they stand beside the travelling conveyor which carries cans of beans, and slip a bit of pork into each can as it passes. without turning their heads or changing their position, working with high concentration and intensity, they can keep pace with the chains. while they do much of the mechanical work, the hulling and stemming of berries, the preparing of fruit, the filling and labeling of cans, they are found too among the bottling girls on whom responsibility for the appearance of the finished product largely rests. these latter place each pickle or piece of preserved fruit after the model design taught them in the beginning. they use a grooved stick to slip the pickles into place, and are obliged to be accurate as well as quick, for they work under inspection on a piece basis. a piece of onion misplaced in a bottle of mixed pickles is held sufficient ground for requiring the bottler to do the work over at the expense of her own time. the odor of vinegar and of preserves, an odor that seems to have saturated the air in nearby streets, has made the cannery unpopular among americans who have acquired fastidiousness in the choice of a trade. it is possible that between the polish women in this latter industrial group and those in the metal trades, there is the difference between the child of the city and the child whose life and the life of whose parents has been near the earth. at any rate, there is the general difference between the small, slight, fair-haired girl, and the rough-skinned stolid women, whom even a piece-rate scarcely avails to keep up to the pace of the machine. these latter are the women who with knee and hand and metal-centered glove, open the sheets of tin still warm from the furnaces of the sheet and tin plate mill; these are the women who screw nuts on bolts by a fish-oil process, and these are the women who carry trays of sand-cores in the foundries where they have displaced men. they are the packers in glass factories, the riveters and foot-press operators in lamp works. they have a hundred miscellaneous things to do, no one of which is a trade, or can be a trade so long as a shifting group of women, women with muscular strength and the readiness to do disagreeable things, is at hand for the odd jobs about a factory. they learn to operate one machine, but they are not among the hands who know the ways of the shop, and work up to better occupations. either through the barrier of language, or in part through their own indifference, they are used for the least desirable work in those occupations which in a measure they have made their own. polish girls of both types are to be found in laundries, but in most cases they are employed in the mangle room only. their work is to feed in sheets under the metal rolls, to shake them out before feeding, or to receive and fold them at the other end while steam rises from the hot metal and from the huge washing cylinders below. there remain unaccounted for the workers in the candy industry, in many of the miscellaneous trades, in telephone and telegraph offices, in the wholesale millinery houses, and in press rooms and bookbinderies. here there is variation as the individual and the location rather than as the trade group. in large measure, the employes are of american birth. telephone and telegraph work share with mercantile houses the advantage of social esteem, and by reason of this, claim the american girl. the same is true of the millinery workroom, in spite of its irregular hours and short seasons. perhaps a reflected "odor of sanctity," an association by proxy with clerical work, has made press rooms and binderies favored above more obviously manufacturing pursuits. perhaps, too, the location of the binderies in the business section of the city has given them a force of american employes, for the polish girl, like her jewish co-worker, is limited in her imaginings to factories and shops within the few streets that make up the sum of her experience. yet to an extent press rooms and binderies employ girls of foreign birth, and in the cork factory, many of the sorters are poles. for some reason, the candy trade is largely in the hands of americans, and is in high esteem among women workers. [illustration: semi-skilled american girls in a glass decorating factory.] surveying the city, then, we see american and german girls holding the positions for which a few months' training is needed, a knowledge of english, or of reading and writing. we see them yielding the inferior and unpleasant work to newcomers from poland and russia and we see these same newcomers, sometimes by sheer physical strength, sometimes by personal indifference and a low standard, competing on the basis of lower wages with men. work that otherwise would never have been given to girls to do has come into the hands of polish women. workrooms that would not long be tolerated by americans,--they have been regarded with indifference, perhaps because of inability to share the sensations of a foreigner. the place of the polish women, scrubbing floors and sorting onions in a cannery, packing crackers, stripping tobacco for the stogy makers, or making sand-cores in a machine shop,--this place is lowest industrially among the women workers of pittsburgh. it is the place of the woman who is fighting her way but has not yet thought whither she is going. a determination to work and to earn is uppermost. marriage is not suffered to act as a hindrance. there is notable absence of standard as to conditions of work and rate of wages. with light foothold here and there, the italian girl scarcely figures, but within a limited circle of industries immigrant jewesses hold positions beside girls of native birth. from trading post and frontier settlement, from ambitious mill-town, pittsburgh has come to be a city whose workrooms number a force of over , women. from home industry and from household work, the younger generation of girls has entered the field of collective service. from doing the whole of a thing and from knowing the user, the younger generation has gradually found its work more and more minutely subdivided; the individual worker makes not even a whole hinge but a tenth part of it, and knows neither the use nor the destination of the finished product. she does not know the relation of her fraction of the work to the other fractions or to the interwoven threads of industry that make up the plant. these younger women have pushed past the traditional activities of cleaning and cooking and sewing; even the congregate form of these industries engages but a few of them. they have not only gone into press rooms and binderies, into cork factories, and into workrooms where candies are made and where fruit is preserved, but they help finish the glass tumblers that the men in the next room blow, they make the cores for the foundry-men, and they are among the shapers of metal for lamps and for hinges and bolts and screws. in a city that is preeminent for the making of steel and iron and the products of steel and iron, women have taken to-day a place in industries that seemed wholly in the province of men. [illustration] it means readjusting our angle of vision, but it is not a difficult readjustment, to see pittsburgh as a city of working women. from river to river, women have their share in its industrial life. more than a theory, more than a reform movement, is needed to turn back a tide that is twenty-two thousand strong, that has its roots deep in commercial methods and commercial success. change in industrial method, when such change makes for cheapness or for efficiency or for the utilization of a hitherto only partially utilized labor force, cannot be stayed by any theory as to its inappropriateness. industrial forces, in that they are the forces of production, are still dominant in america. there is nothing in the pittsburgh situation that looks toward undoing the change that has come about in the industrial position of women; but we can find out more exactly in this steel city how the work of women is related to that of men, how far women have reached the point of being self-supporting and independent, and what the social effect of labor under these new conditions seems to be. through change in some of these conditions, much that seems evil in the nature of women's work may be undone and the real value of it released as a permanent and useful factor in industrial life. immigrant types in the steel district photographs by lewis w. hine [illustration: going home from work.] [illustration: croatian.] [illustration: lithuanian.] [illustration: _photograph by lewis w. hine._ italian.] [illustration: russian.] [illustration: servian.] [illustration: slovak.] [illustration: a young slav.] the slav's a man for a' that alois b. koukol secretary slavonic immigrant society above one of the busiest corners in pittsburgh, an immense advertisement in croatian solicits patronage for an american bank. in the railroad stations and on the principal thoroughfares you can see groups of people who bear unmistakably the slavic physiognomy. but the slav is reserved; even the southern slav lacks the unrestrained animation so characteristic of the italian. he is slow in making an impress on the imagination of the community. though the slavs are one of the three largest racial elements that immigration is adding to our population, though in the pittsburgh district they constitute over one-half of the workers in the steel mills, yet in spite of their large numbers and their importance as an industrial and business factor, there is, i believe, little actual understanding and appreciation of them on the part of americans. the bosses know them chiefly as sturdy, patient, and submissive workmen; their american fellow-workmen hate and despise them largely because of this patience and submissiveness to the bosses and their willingness at the outset to work at any wages and under any conditions; the public at large knows the slavs by their most obtrusive and objectionable traits,--especially by the newspaper stories of their rows and fights when they get drunk on payday or when celebrating a wedding or a christening. few people realize that the "hunkie" in spite of his proclaimed "stolidity" is capable of all the finer emotions,--that his aspirations are the same in character, though as yet not so ambitious nor so definitely formulated as those of his neighbor americans. it is my design in this article to present the immigrant slavs as they have not yet been generally seen,--as human beings even if crude, with some virtues along with their widely recognized vices,--to present something of their spirit, their character, their attitude toward america, and the effect on them of the conditions under which as in pittsburgh and the neighboring mill towns they live and work. for this design i feel i have at least the qualification of knowledge; in preparation for this immediate task i visited some two hundred families; moreover, i am a slav by birth, and all my life i have lived and worked among the slavic people. [illustration] the natural question rising in one's mind is, why did these great hordes come to america and to pittsburgh? let me answer in terms of men. the main cause is of course economic. on the one side there is the old world surplus of labor accompanied by low wages, the barrenness of the land which every year becomes more insufficient to support growing populations, and economic disasters affecting sometimes individuals and sometimes whole communities; on the other side, the stories of the wealth of some bolder pioneers and of the great opportunities in this country, confirmed and exaggerated by the crafty agents of transportation companies. an illustration of this economic impetus is the simple story of grigory leshkoff. grigory comes from a russian peasant family in which there were seven sons and twenty poor acres of land. "what were we to do at home?" grigory demanded of me with a shrug. "just look at one another,--hey?" one by one these sons left the crowded farm and sought work in the few mines and factories located near them. grigory's younger brother was the first from the village to seek america, coming here in . but soon others followed him, "and now," said grigory, "there are in homestead at least fifty young men from our village." grigory, by the way, is a veteran of the japanese war, having come to america immediately after its close. but he has little to say about this one of the great conflicts of modern times; in fact, he looks upon his experience upon battle fields as quite commonplace compared with his experience in the steel mills. from the first he emerged without a scratch; in the second he lost a leg. when i saw him he was deeply concerned with what a strong man of twenty-seven with only one leg was going to do with his future,--and the simple peasant was not seeing much hope ahead. grigory came from chernigov. from this government, and from minsk and grodno, where the soil is exhausted and where the shares of the villagers in the communes grow less with each redistribution of the land, the russians are setting out in increasing numbers. not altogether dissimilar causes operate in certain districts of austria-hungary. pribich used to be one of the richest wine growing regions in croatia, but some fifteen years ago the vines were devastated by a blight, necessitating replanting with american stock. in this way hundreds of once prosperous farmers were reduced to poverty. many of them came to the united states in the hope of earning enough money to pay for the necessary replanting of their vineyards. lazo milutich, who gave me this information, was himself one of those affected by the calamity. he came to allegheny about twelve years ago, where he tried different jobs, and after two years wandering landed at wilmerding. here he has worked for the last ten years in the same foundry. other causes than economic pressure have of course played their part in this great migration. political oppression is one. i have met a number of political refugees among the older slavs, many now persons of importance. and another is the blandishment and trickery of the steamship agent. john godus, a slovak living in braddock, is one of a group of twelve young men brought here in , by the last influence. to their village came a man dressed as a common workingman. we can imagine him in high boots, wearing an embroidered shirt, and smoking a long-stemmed pipe. he was a steamship agent, thus disguised to escape the attention of the gendarmerie. he quietly found out what young men were at the age when one has to present himself for conscription in the army,--for such youths he had discovered, were the easiest induced to be customers; secretly argued with them that it would be foolishness to give three of their best years to the army, where they would be slapped, kicked and cursed; and in the end sold them all tickets. [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._ pittsburgh types. lad from herzegovina.] it is perhaps but natural that pittsburghers should believe that the fame of their industries should draw these slavs straight from their villages to pittsburgh. yet this is rarely true,--true only in exceptional cases, such as that of joseph sabata, a bohemian. he was an iron-worker at home and was employed in a large rolling mill in moravia. their machinery was imported mostly from the united states and he, noticing the name of an allegheny firm on some of the pieces, thought that in that city he could learn more about his business; and so five years ago decided to come over. after being landed at ellis island, he discovered while in line waiting to be questioned, that everybody was asked to show an address. such an address he did not have, but he does have quick wits; he hastily scribbled on a piece of paper "allegheny," and the name of a cousin still in the old country who had probably never even heard the name of that city. he was readily admitted, went straight to allegheny, and when i saw him was earning $ . a day in a machine shop. in another case i met with, the coming straight to pittsburgh was quite accidental. václav málek, a bohemian, who came here with his parents eighteen years ago when a lad of sixteen, had intended to settle with the rest of the family on a farm in wisconsin. but on the way across the ocean they became acquainted with another bohemian family, bound for pittsburgh, who had been robbed of their money, and to these people málek's father loaned eighty dollars. in order not to lose the money they decided to keep near their debtors and they too came to pittsburgh. john even to this day is sorry they didn't go on a farm,--and for a double reason: first, he has a natural preference for farm labor which is never to be gratified; second, in the course of his work for an allegheny company, an accident crippled him for life. in the vast majority of cases the slavs in pittsburgh had not the slightest intention of settling there when they first came to america. usually their location there has been preceded by a period of a year or two or even longer during which they have wandered hither and thither, from one factory to another, from town to town, looking for the right place to settle. large numbers of the slovaks come to pittsburgh by way of the anthracite fields. at the time of the strike,--and for several years before when conditions were bad in hard coal mining, half-time, and the like of that, the slavic mineworkers drifted west,--across the state to the steel mill district. the experience of a ruthenian named koval is typical of a great number of men. he came to america three years ago, and was sent by an immigrant home in new york to work in the forests of west virginia as a woodcutter. the wages there were only fifty cents a day, and in other ways the conditions were so bad that he and three other men ran away. they wandered through the woods until they came to a little settlement with a saw mill, where they were offered work and stayed for about two months, earning $ . a day. then a surveyor came to the village, who spoke polish, and told them that in allegheny they could earn a good deal more money than in the woods, so to allegheny they decided to go. there they obtained work as laborers in the locomotive works at $ . for a day of ten hours. such a wanderer also, was smulkstis, a lithuanian who started life as a messenger boy in the telegraph service in st. petersburg. he came to a friend in wilmerding four years ago, but, unable to get the kind of work he wanted, he sought out another friend in worcester, mass., where he got a job in a woolen mill. the next spring found him back in pittsburgh as a machine operator in an electrical plant. to-day,--he is still only twenty-two,--he is a crane man in the homestead steel mills. similarly, a croatian who was spending the winter in duquesne, was a type of the migratory railroad laborer, who drifts from one contractor's gang to another. he had been all over indiana, ohio and the middle west and had taken his wife and children with him. they made shift in cars and shanties and construction camps of all sorts. one fact that was continually striking me in pittsburgh was the number of ordinary men, earning low wages, who seem to be fitting themselves permanently to their new environment. john gerza, an engine cleaner in the fort wayne yards, and his family impressed me as having, in their five years in this country, adapted themselves very readily to the atmosphere and to the life of pittsburgh. there are no regrets nor looking backward, nothing to draw him away from the present life. the explanation for this adaptation is the explanation in so many other cases that it is worth setting down. gerza lived in a moravian village where till sixteen years ago there had been no impulse to move away from the soil. the villagers were rooted to their ancient homes; they thought only of the land, and they tilled it in the same old, primitive manner of their forefathers. then a railroad was built through the country, and factories sprang up. these drew agricultural laborers from the villages, and thereby unsettled the population; unsettled the old conditions of life, and practically destroyed that love for, that almost physical kinship with, the soil and the old home which i found so strong among the slavs in general. gerza's wife used to work in a sugar factory at home; he himself used to be a brakeman on a freight train. with them it was not the severe and wrenching change from farm to factory, with the involved breaking away from loved surroundings; it was the comparatively simple change from one industrial pursuit to a comparatively similar industrial pursuit. palinski, a russian pole of forty-five who has been in america eighteen years, is another example of that really considerable class of ordinary, low-paid workmen who have made a small success,--if owning a home and having a happy family and being content is termed success. the highest pay palinski has ever received was $ . a day, and yet, though he has five children, he managed five years ago to buy in conjunction with his brother the house in which they live. they paid $ , for the property, and now jones and laughlin want to buy it and palinski expects to sell for at least $ , . the oldest child, a girl of fifteen, is kept in public school, and the three other children of school age are sent to the parochial school where tuition must be paid. the house is strikingly clean and well arranged. palinski seems to be well satisfied with himself, his family and his work. it was a marvel to me how a man with palinski's wages could own such a pleasant home, raise so large a family of children, educate them, and keep them well-dressed and healthy. the explanation lies in a great measure outside palinski. he is a good man, but, as in so many of the cases where the slavs have wrought pleasant homes out of little wages, the credit is largely due to the wife. mrs. palinski must have been a wonderful manager; even to the casual eye, she was neat, bright and energetic. in estimating the worth to america of this pair, one must not consider alone the hardworking husband and the able wife; one must consider their contribution of healthy, educated children. these men are fixtures; in a generation or two their children and children's children are likely to be an indistinguishable part of that conglomerate product, the american citizen. in contrast to these men are the great numbers who are not content, who are not fixtures,--whose great dream it is some day to get back to their native village, live out their years there and, what is no small consideration with many, be laid at rest in friendly soil. why these men, even though successful here, have this yearning and take this action, presents a rather tough question to most persons. that question, i think, i can best answer by reciting the case of mike hudak. hudak is a slovak who came to this country seventeen years ago when a youth of nineteen. he is a fine type of a man in every way; physically he could almost be classed as a giant, for he stands six feet two, is deep of chest and broad of shoulders. he works in the pennsylvania repair shops at oliver, earning eighty dollars a month, which is good pay for a slav when one considers that the work is regular and not dangerous. he seems to be quite a figure in his neighborhood, for when i walked home with him one day he was addressed from all sides in tones that showed liking and respect. he dresses neatly and has a fluent command of english. if there is any type of immigrant that we need above all others it struck me that mike hudak is that type. [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._ pittsburgh types. old worlds in new.] i first discovered his yearning by asking him why he was not a citizen. "why should i forswear myself," said he. i did not understand and asked for an explanation. "as i am going back to my old country, it would not be right to give up my allegiance there and make myself a citizen here." i pressed him for his reasons for going back, and he gave them to me,--reasons that fit thousands and thousands of cases. with him that preliminary process of being separated from the soil had not taken place, as with john gerza. he was a farmer by age-old instinct; his love for the land was a part of his being, was a yearning which would leave him only with death. now, since over here he had been plunged straight into industry, the only land he had ever known in a way to become attached to it was the land in which he was born, and when the time came when he was able to gratify his longing for land his thoughts went only to the land in his old country. so, though socially as well off as he would be there, and economically much better off, he was going back. undoubtedly he, too, would be a fixture in america could he have gone on a farm immediately upon his arrival here,--for then his instinctive land-love would have been weaned from the old country and fixed upon america. few slavs who settle upon the land ever change back to europe. the slavs are strong, willing workers, and are generally considered by the steel mill officials the best laborers they get,--but now and then there is a man who is too slow for america. one of these was john kroupa, a bohemian who has been here twenty-two years. faithful, strong, willing, it wasn't in him to keep up the race. he was in his earlier years here employed in a steel mill, but he was dropped. as he frankly said to me, "you have to be pretty quick in those mills, and it isn't a job for a man like me." later he got a job as watchman on a pennsylvania railroad crossing in woods run, and there he worked for sixteen years, his wages forty dollars a month for a twelve hour day and a seven day week. (in the last two years, forty-four dollars.) all this while he hoped for promotion, but it did not come and this non-recognition rankled within him. "other men, who were all sore from sitting down so much, were promoted," exclaimed he, "but i, who was always hustling, was never thought of, and i can tell you it wasn't an easy job to watch that no accident happened, as more than trains passed that way every day and very often at full speed, disregarding the city ordinances,--thirty or forty miles an hour." three years ago the crossing was abolished, the tracks having been elevated. the superintendent came to him at that time. "well, john, i am sorry for you; going to lose your happy home. but you'll get another just as good." this was too much for john; his long smoldering disappointment burst out. "go to hell!" said he, "a happy home! i could just as well have been in the penitentiary over there; i would have been much better off, without the responsibility and worry i have here. during sixteen years i didn't have a single day off. sundays and weekdays both i have to be here for twelve hours. do you call that a happy home?" he refused the new-old job. he now keeps a little store in woods run, which he has established out of his savings and with the help of his children,--a store which might have served dickens for one of his grotesque backgrounds, for here are on sale hardware, candy, crackers, bacon, eggs, molasses. kroupa cannot be classed as a failure, for he has managed to buy a home and raise and educate a good sized family, but he has not made the success that his qualities of constancy, honesty and sobriety should have won him. his inborn slowness was too great a handicap. among the slavs the slovaks strike me as the most ambitious and pushing. this is all the more surprising when one remembers that the conditions out of which they come are as bad as the conditions surrounding any of the slavs, and worse than most. the slovaks when they come here, are poor, illiterate, have no training, are inured to oppression; yet they have pluck, perseverance, enterprise and courage. from their ranks are recruited many of the foremen in the mills and an ever increasing number of merchants. in the woods run district, with which i happen to be best acquainted,--a low-lying mill neighborhood along the ohio in allegheny city, probably one-half of the stores and saloons are in the hands of slovaks, or their close neighbors, the hungarian rusnaks. they were all common laborers at one time. most of the stores are well kept and, in general, prosperous-looking, and among their customers are not only slavs, but americans as well. a type of this class of men, the men who succeed, is john mlinek. when i first saw him i had not the least thought that he was a slav, so well-dressed and thoroughly americanized did he seem, and such good english did he speak. he came to america thirteen years ago when only fifteen years old. he worked successively as a breaker-boy and driver in the mines at mahanoy city, then in the iron-works at elizabeth, new jersey, then as a riveter in the pressed steel car company at allegheny, where he was soon making three to four dollars a day. as he neither drank nor indulged in any other form of dissipation he saved considerable money. in , he married a slovak girl born and brought up in this country who for several years before her marriage, had clerked in a store where they had foreign customers. she is a little more refined than the average english-speaking girl of the working class, and holds a high position in her own circle. she is quite ambitious and induced her husband to start a store in woods run. he sells cigars and candy and is doing very well; from what i could gather, they already must have several thousand dollars saved. these young people seem to be much liked in the community; they are prominent both in their social circle and in their church, and mlinek is an influential man among the slovak societies, though he does not at all push himself to the front. mlinek, i would say, is at the beginning of a considerable success; his prospects and his personality favor his achieving it; only some untoward set of circumstances can keep him down. a few paragraphs back, in the case of hudak, i spoke of the powerful call their native bit of earth makes upon so many of the immigrants. but frequently when men go back, intending to stay, in response to this call, the old country is not strong enough to hold them. such was the case with this same john mlinek. it was his ambition to be a well-to-do farmer in hungary in a few years, and recently he and his wife made a preliminary visit to his old home and bought a farm. they remained a few weeks,--but those few weeks were quite enough. he came back quite cured. "every little clerk in the village looked down on me, because i didn't speak the official language, magyar," mlinek said to me. "he was an official while i was just a peasant. he didn't earn a quarter of what i do, yet i had to bow to him. that made me sore. in america i'm a free man. besides, i've got a better chance to do well than in the old country. yes, america is good enough for me." mike mamaj is another successful man; he also returned to hungary, expecting to live there, and he also turned his back on his native country and came again to america, this time to stay. he has learned to speak, read and write english, and he is full of energy, though rather rude and domineering in his manner. during the early part of his career in america (he came here twenty years ago) he had a hard time, but for the last seven years he has been a foreman in the car shops at woods run. he has seventy men working under him, and part of the time he has earned $ a month. he owns the house in which he lives, worth about $ , , has property in the old country to the value of $ , , and has money in the bank. mamaj is proud of his success, of his home, of his children. so proud that, on the occasion of our first meeting, though the bed-time hour of nine had come, he dragged me off to show me the evidence of what he had done in america. [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._ pittsburgh types. immigrant out of work.] first i had to inspect his home, which was neat and well-furnished. then he ordered his children (three daughters, eight, ten and thirteen) who were going to bed, to dress and recite their lessons for the stranger. while the girls rather sleepily displayed some of their english learning, mamaj stood by, hands in his pockets, and nodded proudly. a quality that i have noted again and again among the slavs is their readiness to help their countrymen,--already instanced by the case of málek's father loaning money to a robbed fellow immigrant. sometimes this generosity shows itself amid the most adverse circumstances, as it did with koval. koval (the same man that i mentioned as having wandered about before settling in pittsburgh) has himself had enough misfortune during his three years in america to drive all unselfish feeling for others out of a man's heart. two years ago he sent for his family and his younger brother. immediately upon their arrival his three children and his brother fell sick with typhoid fever. they were no sooner well than koval himself went down with the fever. this illness, since it drained their resources, forced them to fill their home with boarders,--which was a hardship on the slight wife, all the more keenly felt because keeping boarders had been no part of their original plan. then all three of the children were taken ill with the croup. the usual price for a doctor's call is one dollar, but the doctor charged three dollars each visit inasmuch as he had three patients; koval protested, but had to pay. two of the children died, and koval, by this time financially exhausted, had to go in debt to the undertaker for the funerals. and then amid these last disasters came the financial crash, with its misery of unemployment. certainly enough to sour the milk of human kindness in any man. but the penniless koval did not drive out his penniless boarders, now only a burden. instead, he gave them a sleeping place, divided with them the food he could get on credit from the grocery, for since he was a steady man and a householder koval still had some credit; and for the rest of the food, he and his boarders would go and stand in the bread line, which had been established in woods run. not only did koval not throw out the penniless boarders, who already encumbered him, but he took in seven additional people who were in distress. two of these latter were young men from his native village who had landed in pittsburgh in the midst of the depression; two were russians who had been found wandering through the streets, nearly frozen, by a policeman, who brought them to koval; the others were a countryman, his wife and child of six, and to accommodate these koval had to give up his own bed. during the period of my acquaintance with him koval was supporting twelve boarders, only one of whom was paying him a cent. what he was doing seemed quite the natural thing to koval; he hardly seemed conscious of his generosity. "why do you keep all these people?" i asked him. "why, what else could i do?" he returned. "they have no work and no other place to go. i cannot throw a man into the street. they will go themselves when they can." frequently circumstances throw the burden of the home upon the child. in looking into an accident case i called at a home in saw mill alley,--a cheerless, dingy neighborhood that is flooded every year by the high water. i was received in the kitchen by a slight polish girl of fifteen, and soon discovered that she was the real head of the home. annie had just finished the wash, and at such a time even the best of houses are apt to be in disorder, but here everything was neat and clean. she told me her story willingly enough. her father, who had been a laborer in one of the mills, had been killed by an engine while working in the yard at night. her mother had remarried, and soon had herself been killed by the explosion of a kerosene lamp. annie was now keeping house for a brother and her stepfather. as the seventeen-year-old brother was rather shy, and as the stepfather was a night-watchman, naturally a man of no authority and allowed by his work little opportunity to exercise it even had he possessed it, the main control of the household has passed into annie's hands. that authority she was using well, as was shown not only by the tidiness of the house, but by the fact that it is chiefly through her influence that her brother is attending night school. she has energy, determination and character. she reads and writes both english and polish. she said she liked to read books, history especially, but that she hadn't the time. annie's stepfather is soon to marry a widow, but this further complication of her already complicated family relations does not seem to trouble her in the least. in fact she was quite enthusiastic over her future stepmother. "she came to see me the other day," she said, "and she was awful nice. oh, she's fine all right, and she's rich!" "rich? how rich?" i asked. "oh, she's got a lot o' money! it's a benefit she got from a society when her first man died. she's got $ , !" one deplorable trait i frequently met with among the slavs was contempt for american law. the existence of this trait is largely due to the teaching of experience,--and experience of one particular sort. the story of vilchinsky, a ruthenian boarding-boss, is such a common one, it illustrates so well a wide-spread condition in the administration of law by the petty aldermen's courts of the pennsylvania industrial districts, that it is worth repeating for the sake of its general significance. october , , one of the boarders was celebrating his patron saint's day. this meant a lot of drinking by all, and during the festivities they got more or less under the influence of liquor, but they were in their own home, there was no public disturbance, and toward midnight they all went to bed. about two o'clock in the morning, however, when they were all asleep, policemen came to the house, wakened everybody and loaded them into patrol wagons and buggies and took them to a police station. the boarding-boss, four girls and three men were all taken before the magistrate, charged with disorderly conduct. without any regular hearing,--none of them could speak english and there was no interpreter,--the squire asked for twenty dollars apiece for the boarders and fifty dollars for the boarding-boss. all but two girls paid the fine immediately, and these two were then sentenced to the county jail. during the following day, their friends succeeded in collecting enough money to pay their fines and the $ . extra for board in the jail. abuses such as this are generated by the fact that aldermen and constables obtain fees out of the fines, which makes it to the financial interest of these officials to get as many cases into court as possible. many men i have talked with have stated that the constables often provoke disorder when none exists for the sake of the profit in the arrests. the slavs know that they are victimized, and at the same time they realize their helplessness; the natural result is a bitter contempt for law. "huh!" sneered vilchinsky, "the police are busy enough all right stopping disorder when the men have got money. but when there's hard times, like there is now, a man can make all the noise he pleases and the police won't arrest him. they know he hasn't money to pay a heavy fine and costs. it ain't law they think about. it's money." there are plenty of slavs who are quarrelsome, just as there are among other races; and when you have a combination of slavic ill-temper and the above-mentioned judicial practice, then there is basis for trouble indeed. zavatsky and yeremin, russians, and neighbors in a steel town, drank more than was good for them one saturday afternoon in a saloon, and at last zavatsky spoke his mind about yeremin's wife, whom he did not consider as good-looking as she should be, and indulged in drunken threats against her if she did not stop throwing ashes on his side of the yard. yeremin repeated to his wife these threats and remarks and mrs. yeremin, being a choleric woman, went to the squire in spite of the fact that it was very late in the evening. but as it was payday, he was in his office ready for business. [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._ pittsburgh types. russian.] a constable was sent to zavatsky's house to arrest him. the constable went into the kitchen and, finding nobody there or in the next room, went upstairs. here there were a number of boarders talking, but they were not drunk. the constable, seeing these men, thought it would be wisest to have assistance, so he brought two policemen and then went for zavatsky. they broke open the door of the room where zavatsky was sleeping, dragged him out of bed and told him to get up. he was in a drunken stupor and claims that he did not resist the constable, in fact, scarcely knew what was going on; but the constable felled him with so heavy a blow that it made a scalp wound and the blood rushed out and blinded him. while on the floor, zavatsky remembered a revolver under his pillow, and raised his hand and got it. the constable wrested it from him and according to mrs. zavatsky's version, he exclaimed, "i'll give you a revolver, you son of a gun," and shot zavatsky in the chest. mrs. zavatsky, catching up a hammer, rushed at the constable, but he knocked her unconscious by a blow on the head and she fell down in a swoon. before that, she had screamed to the men, "come down, boys, come down, they're killing the gazda!" one of the first to come to zavatsky's assistance was his kum, (the kum is one who is godfather to one's children, or one to whose children one is godfather; a very close relationship,--generally the dearest friend). as the kum tried to rush into the room, the two officers gave him several violent blows on the head. the other men rushed down, but they were all seized by the officers, with the exception of one whose flight was suddenly stopped by a shot in the leg. as a result of the melee, the whole household of ten men and one woman was taken in patrol wagons to the squire's court and committed to jail, charged with disorderly conduct, felonious assault and interference with an officer in performance of his duty. zavatsky and the boarder who was shot in the leg were sent to the hospital for treatment. at first it looked as if zavatsky were not going to live. after a hearing four days later they were all committed to the grand jury, and my reports say that they were all sentenced to jail for varying periods. none of the policemen or the constable had even a scratch to show, although they charged these ten men with felonious assault. the house, when i saw it just following the affair, looked like the day after a battle. not even so brief a sketch as this would be complete without an instance or two of the men who have been handicapped by industrial accident. such men are met everywhere in pittsburgh,--they are so common as to excite no comment. in proportion to their numbers, the slavs are the greatest sufferers from accident in the pittsburgh region, for to their lot falls the heaviest and most dangerous work. the report for - of the national croatian society, to give a general example of what industrial accident means to the slav, shows that out of its membership which averaged about , for that period ninety-five men were killed by accident [almost a third of the deaths from all causes] and that ninety-seven died from consumption, the inception of which is often traceable to the character of their work. in addition, eighty-five other men were permanently disabled. andrew jurik's job was to run a "skull-cracker" in the homestead mill. this is a contrivance to break up scrap so that it can be easier melted, and its main feature is a heavy steel ball which is hoisted into the air and then allowed to drop upon the scrap which has been heaped beneath it. this crash of the ball throws pieces of the scrap in all directions. the work is very dangerous, especially at night when it is hard to see and dodge the flying scrap. one monday night [the day before he had worked on a twenty-four hour shift] jurik failed to see and dodge. a chunk of scrap weighing four or five hundred pounds struck his leg and so crushed it that it had to be amputated. almost a year after the accident i went to visit jurik, and found a mild-faced, kindly-looking, not very intelligent man of forty, sitting in his landlady's kitchen rocking his landlady's baby. that was jurik's job now, to take care of his landlady's children in part payment for his board; and that was all he was good for yet, for he had only a leg and a stump. he had been paid $ by the carnegie relief fund; of this he had sent fifty dollars to his wife in hungary and had used the balance to pay his board. the company had promised him an artificial leg and light work as soon as he was able to get around, but as his stump was not yet entirely healed, as he had not a cent, as his wife was writing him letters begging for money for the children, jurik seemed worried. jurik looks at the future blankly, helplessly. he had at first planned to bring his family here, but now he can never get the money for that. nor can he go back to them. he would be more useless, more helpless, on a farm than here. the only solution jurik can see to the lifelong problem suddenly thrust upon him by that flying piece of scrap, is for him and his family to remain indefinitely apart: he working at whatever poor job and at whatever low wage he can get, and sending a little to hungary to help out,--his wife to continue working as a laborer on a farm at twelve or fifteen cents a day. often the handicapped man's problem is thrust directly upon the wife for solution, as it has been upon the wife of john hyrka. hyrka is a ruthenian of thirty; his wife is twenty-eight. he was making fair wages in the duquesne mills; they were both healthy and strong, and they had high hopes for the future as is natural with the young. but may , , john, who was working on a platform directly over a limestone mill, stepped on a rotten plank and both his legs shot down into the mill. before he could be extricated the flesh had been torn from the soles of both his feet. since then (or at least up to the time of my last report) hyrka had been in the mckeesport hospital, where attempts were made to graft flesh upon his soles. when i last heard about him his feet were still not healed, and it was practically certain that the grafting would be a failure and that he would be a cripple for life. when this tragedy descended upon mrs. hyrka she was within a month of confinement. into this grim situation entered the baby, adding its cares. until months after the accident she was in no condition to work, and when she did regain her strength the demands of the infant would not permit her to take up regular employment. for six months she lived upon thirty dollars a month the company paid her, then the company cut off this allowance, and after she had felt the pinch of want for a time, she demanded a final settlement. they offered her $ , she to pay all further hospital bills, which up to then had been paid by the company. she talked the matter over with john, and between them they decided that to have the flesh scraped from your feet and to be a lifelong cripple ought to be worth as much as $ , . but this seemed an exorbitant estimate to the company, and as mrs. hyrka held firm to her own figures, the matter was still unsettled when i left pittsburgh. she was then living on what she could borrow; the high hopes of twenty-eight were all blasted; she knew she had a cripple on her hands for all his life, thirty or forty years perhaps, and she was wondering, desperately wondering, how she was going to be able to support him. * * * * * in citing these various types i have not tried to make out the slavs as better than they are. i have, to repeat my opening statement, merely tried to show that these generally unknown people are above all human beings,--that they have not alone vices and undesirable qualities, but virtues,--that though crude, they have their possibilities. [illustration: _drawn by joseph stella._ pittsburgh types. the strength of the new stock.] the negroes of pittsburgh helen a. tucker former member teaching staff of hampton institute to-day it is the young north-bound negro with whom we reckon in pittsburgh. seldom is a white-headed negro seen on the street; but rather the man on the sand cart hard at work. that with every year there is an increasing migration from the south to our northern cities is known in a general way; but if our estimate of these newcomers is to be worth anything, it should be based upon something more than impressions gained from those we notice on the street-cars (the best are too well-behaved to be conspicuous), from loafers at saloon doors, and from newspaper accounts of negro crime. here, too often, the knowledge of white people ends. of the industrious, ambitious negroes, they know little; and of the home life of those who are refined, nothing at all. as a man who officially comes into daily contact with the criminal negro said to me, "all must bear the reproach for the doings of this police-court ten per cent." anyone who is sufficiently interested to desire more accurate information as to pittsburgh's negroes than may be gained by a walk down wylie avenue will readily find signs enough of the differentiation that is rapidly taking place among the members of this race. while with the increasing influx a class of idle, shiftless negroes is coming, who create problems and increase prejudice, a far larger number are taking advantage of the abundance of work and of the good wages, and are rapidly bettering themselves. there is here a chance, such as perhaps few northern cities give, for the industrious negro to succeed, and he is improving his opportunity. there was a considerable negro population in allegheny county before the civil war. both pittsburgh and allegheny were important stations of the "underground railroad" and many a man and woman sought refuge here from the nearby slave states. in allegheny a school was founded for them before the end of the half century. the growth of the negro population is shown by the following chart: year | number -----+------- | ==== | === | ===== | ======== | ============== | ============================ these figures show a steady increase except from to , gradually reaching the point where the negro population doubles in a decade. the marked increases from to and to are probably due to the fact that in those periods more negroes were able to get work in the steel mills. the percentage of negroes in the total population of the county was . per cent in , . per cent in , and . per cent in . three-quarters of the negroes in the county live in pittsburgh and allegheny city. since , the migration of negroes to pittsburgh has been greater than before. it is estimated that there are not less than , in allegheny county and at least , of these are in pittsburgh and allegheny. in considerably more than half of these were males, and pittsburgh was one of three cities in the united states (the others were chicago and boston) with a population of , or more negroes, to have an excess of males. in general this migration has been from the middle southern states. the greater number, fully one-half, has come from virginia and west virginia; others have come from georgia, alabama and tennessee, with a few from ohio and states further west. some of those from alabama and tennessee have already been "broken in" in the new mill districts of those states. as in the migration to other northern cities most of these people, when they come north, are in their best working years,--between eighteen and forty. according to the census of , over seventy per cent of the pittsburgh negroes were between fifteen and fifty-four years of age; less than five per cent were over fifty years, while but fourteen per cent, about , , were children of school age, between five and fourteen. many of the children remain in the south, and many of the old people go back there, so that the city of pittsburgh is under little expense for educating the children and less for caring for the aged. * * * * * the principal negro street is wylie avenue. this leads up to the "hill district" which, forty years ago, was a well-conditioned section. now it is given over largely to negroes and european immigrants. forty-eight per cent of the negroes in pittsburgh live in wards seven, eight, eleven and thirteen. in , sixteen per cent were in the thirteenth ward, and the number has increased since then. they constituted fourteen per cent of the total population of the ward in that year. how fast this movement into the thirteenth ward is taking place is indicated by what a colored woman told me who keeps a grocery store on wylie avenue near francis street. when she opened there three years ago, there was scarcely a colored family in the district. now there is another grocery store, a shoe store and two confectionery stores, kept by colored people. horton street near by is filled with colored people who have recently come from the south. there is a tendency on the part of the negroes, however, to get out from the center of the city, and fully a quarter of them lives further out in wards nineteen, twenty and twenty-one. in all, sixty-two per cent of the negroes lived in in six wards. in these wards there is a large foreign element. in the seventh, eighth and eleventh wards there are many russian jews. a negro church in the eighth ward was sold last fall for a jewish synagog, and the negro congregation is building in the thirteenth ward. in the twelfth ward where many of the negroes live who work in the mills, they have for neighbors the poles and slavs. the well-to-do negroes of the city are moving out towards the east end. two or three apartment houses have been built especially for negroes, but in general, though living in certain localities, they are not segregated. this does not mean that there are not some negro streets, but very often a row of from three to seven houses will be found in which negroes are living, while the rest of the street is filled with white people. again, a single negro family may live between two white families. when negroes gain a foothold in a new street in any numbers, the americans move away; but the jewish immigrants do not seem to object to living near them, sometimes in the same house. and this is true of more than the poorest of them. in a way the jews have been a help to the negroes, for they will rent houses to them in localities where they could not otherwise go. in many cases the jews have bought or built houses, filled them with negro tenants at high rents, and thus paid for them. but the negroes have learned from these experiences and many of them have started to buy homes. they have decided that they might as well buy houses for themselves as for the jews. the poorer negroes live in a network of alleys on either side of wylie avenue in the seventh and eighth wards. for years the conditions here have been very bad from every point of view. there are respectable people living here, but the population consists chiefly of poor negroes and a low class of whites. as a result, there is much immorality in this section,--speak easies, cocaine joints and disorderly houses abound. i think i never saw such wretched conditions as in three shanties on poplar alley. until a year ago many of the landlords had not complied with the law requiring flush closets, and i found old fashioned vaults full of filth. where the flush closets had been put in they were in many cases out of repair. in some alleys there were stables next to the houses and while the odor was bad at any time, after a rain the stench from these and from the dirt in the streets was almost unendurable. the interiors of very many of the houses in which the negroes live were out of repair,--paper torn off, plastering coming down, and windows broken. the tenants told me they had complained to the landlords and had tried to get something done, but without success. the twelfth ward near the mills also has some bad conditions. in parke row and spruce alley, on the day of my visit, the rubbish, which is removed only every two weeks, was piled high. on top of one pile was an old dirty mattress. the houses i visited in parke row were so dark that it was necessary to use a lamp even at midday. there were also depressing conditions among the negro homes on rose, charles and soho streets. while some of the more ambitious are moving out from these unhealthy localities, many who would like to move have not the opportunity. one of these said to me, "the only place where there is plenty of room for negroes is in the alleys." yet even the very poorest negro homes are usually clean inside and have a homelike air. it would surprise one who has never visited such homes to see with what good taste they are furnished. there is always some attempt at ornamentation, oftenest expressed by a fancy lamp, which is probably never lighted. almost every family except the very poorest has a piano. the best negro houses,--usually not in negro districts,--are what people of the same means have everywhere. i was fortunate enough to visit at least a dozen of these comfortable, well-furnished, attractive homes and in them i met courteous, gracious and refined women. only in spruce alley and parke row did i find disorder and a general indifference to dirt and there were some exceptions even there. the hopelessness of keeping clean in such a location may have had something to do with these conditions. compared with certain of the foreigners, the negroes do not overcrowd their houses, but they do often shelter too many people for comfort or decency. i visited a house of three rooms where a man and wife, five children and a boarder were living. in another house, also of three rooms, there were a man and his wife, her mother, two children and a lodger. these i think are not unusual cases. i also found a family of ten in four rooms, and another family of seven and a boarder in three rooms. where a house of four rooms is taken by two families, they do not often take lodgers, but if one family takes such a house it usually cannot meet the expense alone. what is more serious than the number of people in a house, is the carelessness in allowing young girls to sleep in the same room with men lodgers. such a case was that reported by a probation officer of the juvenile court, of a girl of fifteen who slept in the same room with her father, two brothers and a lodger. it was "nothing," she told the court; the man was "an old friend of the family." the suggestion that she occupy the vacant room in the house plainly surprised her. * * * * * the low ebb of living conditions in a negro neighborhood is illustrated by jack's run, a narrow, deep ravine leading down to the ohio river between bellevue and allegheny. here, during the past six or seven years, about one hundred and seventy-five colored people from the rural districts of north carolina and virginia have found lodgement. engaged chiefly in domestic service and common labor, they have settled here because the rents are cheap. mixed in with them is a class of low whites, and the standards of civilization are sucked down by immorality and neglect, for the run is practically isolated from the rest of the world. a mission sunday school connected with the white presbyterian church in bellevue has been held there for about five years. the superintendent of this mission, who is a colored man, has endeavored to reach the children of the run. as he feels the sunday school alone cannot do this, he is working to get a day school there. to be sure, the children are enrolled in bellevue or allegheny, but he says they really do not attend. a long climb up the hills shuts them off, and the white children pester them when they show themselves. it is hard to know what could be done to better the conditions in a place like jack's run, but up to the present time, with the exception of this one man, few people have tried to find out. the run has few visitors, and these are not altruists. "i have seen a politician here," the superintendent told me, "and an insurance collector; but never a preacher." one of the most encouraging signs of the economic progress of the pittsburgh negroes is found in the variety of occupations in which they are engaged. in , were engaged in professions: actors, artists, clergymen, dentists, engineers, lawyers, physicians and others. domestic and personal service, house servants, barbers, janitors, hotel and restaurant keepers, soldiers, policemen, etc., employed , ; while in trade, and transportation, clerks, teamsters, merchants, railway employes, telephone operators, etc., there were , . manufacturing and mechanical pursuits employed , . there was a total of , negro wage earners: , males and , females. the proportion of those engaged in professional pursuits is small,--only a little over one per cent; and, with one exception, the number does not seem to be increasing. in pittsburgh and the vicinity there are now eighteen negro physicians, about three times as many as in . six were graduated from harvard university, five from the western university of pennsylvania, two from shaw, and one each from ohio state, medico-chirurgical, and western reserve. four of these men took also the degree of a. b. ten have practiced five years or less. among the five practicing lawyers is one graduate of the harvard law school, one from new york university law school and one from harvard university law school. two of these lawyers were admitted to the bar in . they were the first negroes to be admitted in western pennsylvania, as all who had applied up to that time had been turned down. there are four negro dentists. most of the men in these three professions have some practice among white people. a young physician who has been in allegheny about three years, and who at first had such difficulty in renting an office in a suitable location that he almost gave up in despair, has now a number of white patients. one of the first was a german girl to whom he was called at the time of an accident because he happened to live near by, and through her family he has been recommended to other white people. newspapers conducted by negroes have not flourished in pittsburgh but last year there were two,--the _pioneer_, a small sheet run in the interests of the baptists, and the _progressive afro-american_, a weekly. twenty per cent of the men follow manufacturing and mechanical pursuits. because of the abundance of work good negro mechanics have no difficulty in keeping busy, though they have made little headway in the unions. an occasional negro is a union member, as, for instance, four or five carpenters, a few stone-masons and a few plasterers. here, as elsewhere, they gain admission easily only to the hardest kinds of work. the negro hod carriers indeed make up the greater part of the hod carriers union. in mckeesport there are but two white hod carriers. in pittsburgh and the vicinity there are over a thousand colored hod carriers. the colored stationary engineers and firemen have a union of their own, the national association of afro-american steam and gas engineers and skilled laborers, incorporated june, . it was once a part of a white organization. it has three locals in pittsburgh and it has been allied with other labor organizations and represented in central labor bodies, but it is yet rather weak. three or four colored contractors hire plasterers and masons. early in the seventies a few colored men found work in some of the mills. one of the first to employ negroes was the black diamond mill on thirtieth street. there were a few here before . in that year, through a strike, negro puddlers were put in, and since then the force of puddlers has been made up largely of negroes. about the same time negroes were taken into the moorhead mill at sharpsburg, and also through a strike, negroes got into the clark mills on thirty-fifth street. since , there have been negroes in the carnegie mills at homestead. it is the prevailing impression that numbers of negro strike-breakers were imported at the time of the "big strike," but i have been told by an official of the carnegie company, by a leading colored resident of homestead, and by a negro who went to work in the homestead mills in , that this was not so. word was given out that anyone could find work who would come, the negroes with the rest. negroes were brought up from the south at this time to take the place of strikers in the clark mills. but negroes already worked there and some of them who went out at that time eventually went back to work. unquestionably negro strike-breakers have been brought to pittsburgh, but i judge not in any large numbers. when the mills were last running full there were about one hundred and twenty negroes at the clark mills; one hundred and twenty-six at homestead, and about in the other mills of the carnegie company, making in all the carnegie works three hundred and forty-six colored men. a conservative estimate would put those at the black diamond and moorhead mills as at least three hundred more. many of these mill men are unskilled, but at the clark mills two-thirds, and at homestead nearly half are skilled or semi-skilled. it is possible for a man of ability to work up to a good position. a small but increasing number of negroes are on the city's payroll. on the date of my inquiry there were in the employ of the city of pittsburgh persons of afro-american descent, or one out of every of the negro population, while a total of directly profited by the $ , paid annually in salaries to colored persons. these city employes include laborers, messengers, janitors, policemen, detectives, firemen, letter carriers and postal clerks, and their salaries range from $ to $ , a year. * * * * * the first negroes to set up establishments of their own, dating back twenty years and more, were the barbers and hairdressers. formerly these had much of the white patronage, but they are gradually losing it. with a few exceptions, notably the negro barber in the union station, their shops are now found on wylie avenue and in other negro localities, and are patronized by negroes. a partial list of negro business enterprises,[ ] with the number employed is as follows: _no. of persons_ _firms employed_ barbers restaurants and hotels groceries, poultry, etc. tailors pool rooms hauling and excavating saloons and cafés printers pharmacies undertakers and livery confectioners and bakeries caterers to miscellaneous -- -------- - [ ] furnished by r. r. wright, jr., of the armstrong association, philadelphia, who investigated the negro in business in pennsylvania for the carnegie institution. the number employed does not include the proprietors, so that over six hundred persons are earning a living from these shops. not counting the barber shops, saloons or restaurants, there are certainly over one hundred small stores kept by negroes and until the financial depression new ones were opening each month. three or four drug stores were opened in . one of the negro hotels doubled its capacity in a year. the nine business enterprises listed under "miscellaneous" include an insurance company, a stationery and book store, a men's furnishing store, a photographer's gallery, a real estate company, a loan company, a shoe store and repairing shop, and a manufactory of a hair growing preparation, which has sent out sixty-five agents. the insurance company has twenty-eight agents, all of whom are colored. several of the barbers have laundry agencies and boot-blacking stands and some have baths. there are at least a dozen men who own their horses and wagons and take contracts for hauling and excavating. one of the largest of these negro contractors was employing men. another employs thirty men for hauling and also works to men on asphalt paving. there are many more men who own a horse or two and do general expressing. one of these told me that he spent his first one hundred and fifty dollars saved after coming to pittsburgh for a horse, which left him with a capital of seventy-five cents. he now owns four horses. a negro has had one of the stalls in the allegheny market for many years and there is another in the diamond market. one of the most successful negro business men lives in homestead. as a small boy he moved from virginia to ohio, and came to homestead in . up to he was an engineer on the river, the only negro to hold a chief engineer's license. then he went into boat building and built twenty-one river steamboats. five years ago he organized the diamond coke and coal company, in which he is now master of transportation. there are ten men in this company; the others are white. they own a mine, docks, and steamboats, and employ about a thousand men. this colored man owns considerable property. he lives in a large comfortable house and owns one on either side which he rents. his older son entered penn medical school last fall. his younger son was captain of the homestead high school football team. his daughter, who graduated from the high school and had an additional three years at the california normal school, is teaching in the south. she could not get a school in homestead. it is noticeable that the pittsburgh negroes show an encouraging variety in their independent business enterprises as well as in their general occupations. of course they have usually been able to go into only those that require small capital. the negro who comes to pittsburgh or any northern city with no capital, no business experience and no business traditions, and succeeds even in a small way in the midst of such competition as he must face, is doing remarkably well. but the mass of the negroes in pittsburgh are found in the same occupations that are open to them in most northern cities with perhaps fewer men (fifty-eight per cent) and rather more women (ninety per cent) in domestic and personal service, and more men in manufacturing and mechanical pursuits than is usual. this shifting of the men's activities is due to the nature of the industries in pittsburgh, to the fact that the city is rapidly growing and consequently that there is much building going on in which labor can be utilized, and to the fact that negroes gained a foothold in some of the mills during the strike periods. while the largest and best hotels no longer have colored waiters, many are still employed in hotels, restaurants and cafés. comparatively few negroes are employed as porters and helpers in stores while large numbers are employed as teamsters, probably more now than in , as most of the sand wagons and other hauling carts are driven by them. there are also many coachmen and chauffeurs. * * * * * while the negro men find a varied field for their labor, comparatively few occupations are open to colored women. there is one woman who has conducted a very successful hairdressing establishment for twenty years and a half dozen others have opened little shops. a dozen or so find work as clerks and stenographers in offices and stores of colored men, but most are working as maids or laundresses. there are about a hundred dressmakers and seamstresses. that there is not a greater variety of openings for colored women works a great hardship. there is no hospital where they can be trained as nurses; there is no place for them in the department stores, except for a few as maids; they can look forward to no positions in the public schools. many who would stay and graduate from the high school drop out because they see nothing ahead. they are, of course, unwise in doing this, for more than most girls they need to take advantage of every educational opportunity. a woman who is a stenographer in a negro insurance office, said her father thought she was very foolish to study stenography as he was sure she could never get a chance to use it. she went into this office to write policies. when the agent found she was competent to do the higher work, he let his white stenographer go and gave her the place. another woman told me that her daughter seriously objected to going to the high school; she said she could never use what she would learn there. but her parents felt able to send her, and insisted that she graduate. she is now employed in the court house at a salary of $ a year. * * * * * in the negroes of allegheny county paid taxes on property valued at $ , . since that time wage-earning negroes have commenced to buy homes in still larger numbers. they usually pay something down and the rest as rent until the entire sum is paid. in beltzhoover there is a settlement of a hundred or more families more than half of whom are buying homes. to buy a house of any kind on small wages means industry and many little sacrifices. one couple whom i visited in beltzhoover were buying a house of five rooms with a piazza and a generous sized front yard. the husband, when he was married, had saved $ , which went for the first payment. in the four years since then they had paid $ and they had $ , more to pay. he was a janitor getting forty-eight dollars a month, while his wife made six dollars a week as a seamstress. to increase their income, they rented out a room to a man and his wife who paid them ten dollars a month. they also raised and sold chickens which brought in additional money. most of the houses which colored people of this class are buying are valued at from $ , to $ , . on francis street, near wylie avenue, there is a group of five six-room houses occupied by negroes. three of these families were buying their houses. one of the men was a waiter, one a porter in a bank, and one owned a horse and wagon and did expressing. the following experience, told me by a tuskegee graduate, is an example of what may be done in pittsburgh by an industrious negro who is ambitious to establish a home: "i came to pittsburgh in march, ," he said, "on a freight train, arriving about three a. m. i asked for the police station, but they wouldn't let me stay there when they found i had fifty cents in my pocket. i was turned up wylie avenue and finally came to a colored lodging house. all the beds were full, but they said that i could sit in the rocking chair for the balance of the night for a quarter. the next morning i started out to look for work and found it in a brick yard where i worked until august. meanwhile i sent for my wife and child. my wife, who is a dressmaker, soon found work. she happened to sew for the wife of the manager of one of the steel mills. he asked about me and said he thought he could give me something good in the mill. i went there in august and have been there ever since. now i am a heater. all you see here was gotten together in the last seven years." this man and his wife have paid $ , for a six-room house and have furnished it attractively. * * * * * the churches have the same prominent place in negro life in pittsburgh as elsewhere. they include one presbyterian, one protestant episcopal, one congregational, one roman catholic church, ten methodist churches and between thirty and thirty-five baptist churches and missions. the largest is the bethel a. m. e. church on wylie avenue, which has recently been built at a cost of $ , . colored slaters and roofers, colored plasterers and three colored carpenters were employed in the building of it. the interior decorations were in charge of a negro firm. the building together with the land, is valued at not less than $ , . the people give liberally to the churches; bethel raised over $ , in ten months toward paying off its mortgage. but there is a large number not reached by the church in any real sense. though the new bethel church is in a district where the alleys and all the bad conditions they imply are numerous, the pastor's plans for the year as he outlined them were: first to pay the debt on the church, second to have a revival to fill it up. not a word was said of the great need for active social work at its very doors. the rank and file of the forty or fifty negro ministers in pittsburgh and allegheny have not a very high order of equipment or ethics. there are notable exceptions. i met one minister who seemed filled with the desire to work for the betterment of the negroes of his neighborhood. in connection with the new church which he was building he was planning to have a day nursery and kindergarten and, if possible, a gymnasium. he hoped to have a deaconess to visit the homes and was also trying to organize a colored y. m. c. a. at a meeting last fall in his church, the following subjects were discussed: "what is the influence of the sunday school on the children?" "is the church accomplishing the desired end toward the masses?" "practical education and character making for the masses." * * * * * some of the laymen among the colored people, especially the women, are working in similar directions. in , in a small six-room house, a group of these started a home for aged and infirm colored women. the present beautiful home on lexington avenue was built in at a cost of $ , . it contains twenty-one rooms, six bath rooms and a hospital room. the furnishings cost about $ , . several rooms were furnished by the different negro women's social clubs. the home is attractive, cheery, clean and well-managed. the working girls' home was similarly started three years ago by some colored women who realized how much it was needed. girls coming to the city not only found it difficult to get boarding places, but they were sometimes directed to undesirable houses. in three years after it opened, the home had cared for forty to fifty girls. as most of these girls go out to service, they do not remain long at the home, but by paying a dollar a month a girl may store her trunk if she wishes, and may come back there to spend sundays and other days "out," and to receive her callers. this is an arrangement which is much appreciated by the girls, and its introduction in other places might help solve the servant problem. a few girls who are seamstresses live in the house. they pay $ . a week, buy their own provisions, and have the use of the kitchen and gas range. the home has had a struggle financially. last year the legislature granted it an appropriation of $ , and it moved into a somewhat larger, though still too small house. for this house, by the way, it had to pay thirty-two dollars a month though the rent had formerly been twenty-five and the house had been empty for some time. the state federation of colored women's clubs formed five years ago, is raising money to establish a colored orphan's home in new castle, pennsylvania. a year ago these twenty-eight clubs had already raised enough to make the first payment on seven acres of land. the colored orphans' home in allegheny is under white management, and the colored women are ambitious to have one of their own; a colored auxiliary to the juvenile court association was formed in to care for colored boys and girls between nine and twelve years of age who are brought to the court. the auxiliary also pays board for a group of colored children who are in institutions outside the state. one member is a faithful volunteer at the juvenile court. more than twenty-five social clubs are formed of colored women. the leading social organization for men is the loendi club. besides this and other private associations there are many such orders as the odd fellows, masons, elks, knights of pythias and true reformers. * * * * * since , when separate schools for negroes were abolished, the colored children have attended the public schools with the white children, and all the educational agencies of the city are open to them. i was told that while a few stood well in their classes, the majority lacked concentration. one principal attributed this to the impoverished home conditions, lack of food and housing,--while another principal to whose school came many of the children from the alleys, laid their backwardness largely to their irregular attendance and immoral tendencies. it was agreed that the average colored child requires about two years longer than the white child to finish the grammar grades. the total enrollment at the high school for the year - was about , , and of these only forty were colored. forty-two were enrolled last year, twenty boys and ten girls[ ]. few of these colored students graduate. five who were graduated in ranked well in their class. [ ] transcriber + obviously does not equal thirty colored students attended the evening high school last year. two girls are in the day classes, and four in the night classes at the carnegie technical schools, and they have three colored boys. five or six boys have been graduated from the schwab manual training school in homestead. in writing of the negroes of chicago, mr. wright says "what chicago negroes need is a great industrial school to teach negroes domestic science and the skilled trades." greater pittsburgh has a school that should do this work. as early as , charles avery, a methodist minister of quaker descent, who was much interested in the colored people, established for them in allegheny the avery college trade school. at his death he left the institution an endowment of $ , which has since increased in value, and it has also received a yearly appropriation from the state. the school is controlled by a board of trustees, of whom six are colored, three white. the principal and teachers are colored. the courses which have been offered include millinery, dressmaking, tailoring, music, some english courses and some domestic science. last spring, a hospital department was organized under separate charter and offers a training course. there is no doubt that the avery school is not fulfilling the purpose for which it was founded. it is inferior in equipment and in methods and does not employ trained teachers. it is not reaching the colored boys and girls of pittsburgh and giving them the up-to-date training which they so sorely need in those trades in which they can earn a livelihood. it should be crowded and would be if it were offering what the people want. instead the enrollment at the end of the school year is about one-third what it was at the beginning. there is no difficulty in placing responsibility for success or failure, for the superintendent is also secretary and treasurer. the colored people have brought many complaints to the trustees in regard to the management of avery but no action has been taken. here is a clear cut illustration of a badly managed trust fund. mr. avery also left twelve scholarships of $ each to be awarded to colored boys in the college and engineering departments of the university of pittsburgh, where a total of nineteen colored students is enrolled. * * * * * of the , cases brought before the juvenile court in , ( . per cent), dealt with colored children. the court records show most miserable conditions in the homes from which such children come. usually both mother and father are working away from home all day, so that out of school hours there is no one to look after the children. they stop going to school and begin to stay out late at night and the descent to petty thieving and other offenses is swift and easy. on the morning of my visit to the juvenile court several colored children were brought before the judge. harry d., a boy of eleven years, was under arrest for his second offense. twice he had broken into a chapel, the last time stealing a lamp. the probation officer reported that on investigation, she found harry had scarcely been in school for a year. his mother worked all day, earning three dollars a week and many days she came home only early in the morning to cook. with three brothers and a sister this boy slept on a cot in one room in which there was no other furniture except two plush chairs and a plush sofa. an uncle who lived with the children had taken to drinking and had not worked for some weeks. the neighbors also bore testimony that harry was neglected rather than bad. following harry came a group of four colored boys on the charge that on the previous sunday they had broken into a liquor store and done much mischief, such as turning on the spigots, breaking bottles full of beer and smearing pretty much everything in the store, including some cats, with black paint. the next morning they were arrested in a new house near by where they were stealing lead pipe. eugene, the youngest boy, nine years old, had been in court two months before on the charge of incorrigibility. his father was dead but his mother, by working out by the day, managed to keep the home fairly clean and comfortable. but eugene was a truant; he stayed out nights and was in the habit of stealing. for the lack of a more suitable solution, this nine-year-old child was committed to the reformatory at morganza. two of these boys, thirteen and eleven, were brothers. their mother was dead; their father was at work in a blast furnace, while their nineteen-year-old sister, who might have kept the home, had left soon after the mother died because she thought her father was too strict. the younger boy had been staying out nights and playing truant. the older boy had never been in trouble before. he had a good reputation and claimed, as did the fourth boy, that he was not stealing but was trying to get the others away. in other cases that came before the judge the parents were themselves immoral and it is safe to say that the colored children who reach the juvenile court have, as a rule, seen little but the seamy side of life. a ready market for any bottle or piece of junk that these children can beg or steal is found among the numerous junk dealers. the children will be under a constant temptation to petty thieving for the sake of a few pennies so long as this kind of exchange with juveniles is allowed. the percentage of commitments among the adult negroes (fourteen per cent), is all out of proportion to their percentage in the population (three and six-tenths). women are most commonly arrested for disorderly conduct; men for fighting and cutting, petit larceny and for gambling, of which craps is the favorite form. there is much drunkenness. for some time the police department of pittsburgh has been warring against the sale of cocaine. to the mind of the warden of the allegheny county jail the greatest single cause of crime committed by negro men and women is the use of this drug. * * * * * it is evident that the negroes of pittsburgh are making commendable progress along industrial lines. some few have been conspicuously successful while many more are earning a comfortable living and attaining property. negroes of this class present no special problems, for they are usually good citizens and are educating and training their children to be good citizens likewise. their needs are the needs of the rest of the community. they would be benefited by better housing, better schools, better sanitation and a clearer atmosphere. but the problems in connection with the poor, ignorant, incompetent or vicious negroes are many and pressing. we have seen the need for eradicating the sale of cocaine, which drags men under; and we have seen the need for rousing and equipping the ambitious among them through industrial training, comparable to that offered the southern negro by tuskegee and hampton. a few of the more obvious needs of the people who live in the alleys are day nurseries to care for the babies of mothers who must go out to work; some sort of supervised play after school hours, either in connection with the schools or at playgrounds, for the older children of these same families, settlements; and most pressing of all, a building on lower wylie avenue for social purposes with free baths, club rooms, a gymnasium and other amusements as a counteracting influence to the saloons and pool rooms that abound in this neighborhood. there is now no place in pittsburgh where a young colored man, coming a stranger to the city, as so many are coming every year, may find innocent diversion and helpful companionship. it is becoming increasingly clear that these needs must be met by the negroes themselves. a few, singly or in small groups, are already working for social betterment, but so far there has been no concerted, organized action. left to themselves the negroes are slow or unable to organize but until they do, much of their efforts as individuals will be wasted and but little definite good can be accomplished. if the white people who have had greater experience in dealing with civic and social needs realized this and extended to them their co-operation, the community as a whole, no less than the negroes, would be richly repaid. the jewish immigrants of two pittsburgh blocks anna reed columbian school and settlement, pittsburgh the greater part of the jewish community of pittsburgh is situated in what is known as the hill district. this immigration brings with it characteristics so entirely its own that much that is significant of the common life was found summed up in a study of the families of two blocks in the heart of this district. a census of them proved more surely than even those of us who had long been residents in the neighborhood would have anticipated, the permanence and stability of this new element in the population. the two blocks reflected the sort of foothold which is open to this distinctive people in what is for most purposes, a purely industrial center; what relation their new occupations bear to their training and experience in the old countries of europe; and what, as measured in terms of livelihood and accomplishment, comes to them in this new setting. the blocks selected were two adjoining center avenue at different points on the incline of the hill. pittsburgh has no really large tenement houses. these homes were originally built for two families, and while some still contain but two, many have been converted so as to house a great many more. in the process of rebuilding, downstairs front-rooms have been changed into small stores where grocers, butchers and tailors supply the needs of the neighborhood. the houses are of brick, and many are garnished by a government license sign, which indicates that somewhere in these already crowded quarters, a small stogy-factory is located which sells in the larger market. the many synagogs where the men still wear the old time praying shawls, and each repeats for himself in monotonous, low, musical tones the ancient hebrew prayers, bring into this capital of the steel district, the wonderful and fascinating spirit of the east. the cheders where the hebrew language, which every hardworking father and mother, no matter what else is sacrificed, feel must be taught to the boys, and the kosher butcher-shops, where the dietary laws are still observed, are all distinctive of a people, which though it adopts american customs, still keeps many of the traditions in its own communal life. there were , people in these blocks, of whom were jewish. of the jewish families, were from russia, twenty-seven from roumania, five from austria-hungary and one from germany,--all largely from small towns. among them there were very nearly three hundred children of school age or younger. a third of these families had been in america over ten years and two-thirds over five years. of course, the fact that the census was taken in a year of industrial depression may have had a large influence on the comparatively small number of more recent immigrants in residence in the neighborhood, for these would have less resources to keep them in pittsburgh during a period of hard times. but the actual number of stable family groups was very considerable as shown in the following classification: _under _, _ to _, _ to _, _ to _, _ to _ years in america years in pittsburgh this permanence as an element in the citizenship of pittsburgh is in contrast to an uninterrupted shifting among them as tenants. on the one hand, the latter is merely a reflex of the success of particular families in making their way and raising their standard of life; but the greater part of it is due to the lack of proper houses at a fair rental in pittsburgh. it is a common occurrence for a family to move from place to place in an effort to secure more livable quarters. one family went through the torture of moving six times in one year. two have lived from ten to twenty years in the same place, eight from five to ten, forty-six over two, while eighty-seven had been living in their present homes less than two years. unsuspected by the casual visitor, there is a background of tragedy and national crises to such a neighborhood. among the great nations of europe, russia and roumania have absolutely refused political and industrial freedom to their jewish subjects. the concrete forms which oppression and restriction assume are very real: prohibitions against their owning land, their exclusion in one part of russia from the learned professions, in another from taking part in a government contract, and in whole districts from owning their own homes. here in these blocks there are many families who have lived and traded in daily terror of an outbreak or of the tyranny of an unscrupulous governor; who have been deprived of the rights and privileges of citizens and yet subjected to the full strain of military law and the brunt of religious persecution. you chance to meet a man in the corner grocery,--he is tall and gaunt; his long beard is well sprinkled with grey. on talking with him you find he has served in the russo-turkish war, that his only son served for four years in the russian army, and that a "pogrom" finally drove him to leave everything behind and flee to these shores. one man was robbed and his family outraged,--a son and brother-in-law killed in a recent massacre; another man already past forty, had to take up his burden, and, like the pilgrims of old, go forth and search for a new home, because the edict had been given in moscow. it was found that forty-one of the families had come for purely religious and political reasons, ninety-two to better their economic condition and thirty-four had followed relatives, friends and townsmen who either sent for them or urged them to make the journey. indeed, this personal relationship is on many counts the most important factor in swelling the population of a jewish neighborhood. as a rule, no matter how poor the immigrant may be, he saves, often by the most drastic measures, to send for some loved ones. such was the experience of a young man, educated in the public schools of roumania, who had suffered in the uprisings there. his first employment in pittsburgh was with a local druggist. he went through the usual apprenticeship, and soon another brother had come over and was working as a barber. they saved and sent part of their earnings to their parents in the old country, while the first, by work and study, prepared himself for entrance into the local college of pharmacy, was graduated and his earning capacity thereby increased. then, the parents, a sister and two brothers were brought over and, when an opportunity for buying a drug store offered itself to him, the combined forces of the family made the purchase possible. to-day, after eight years of hard work, he owns a well-established business, is married and the entire family seems well started on the road to success. the question of what a man does, when he comes here an uninterpreted stranger, is interestingly reflected in these two blocks. the stogy industry and peddling are dominant; of those who have become stogy-makers, four were students, two grocers, one was a peddler, one a tailor, one a lumber trader, one a merchant and another a butcher. the peddlers represent an even larger variety of skilled trades and other occupations. a jewelry peddler and a rag peddler were printers; a weaver, two lumber dealers, a gardener and a grocer have become peddlers of clothing; a carpenter sells pictures; two blacksmiths, a tailor and a farmer are peddling rags. of those who were skilled, a goldsmith has become a presser, a shoemaker is working at iron beds, an umbrella-maker runs a pool room and a hebrew teacher is now an egg-candler. in contrast, and much more encouraging, are the six blacksmiths, eleven tailors, three barbers, two bakers, three shoemakers, two printers and a locksmith, a machinist, a plumber and a glazier, who started and continue to use the trades they learned in the old country. one of the most interesting facts brought out was that the number of peddlers, grew from ten in the old country to twenty-eight on their arrival in america and to thirty-two as the first work in pittsburgh, dropping again to seventeen who are peddling at the present time. the following table compares occupations in the old country with those practiced in the new: _old new_ _country. country._ store keepers craftsmen laborers peddlers hucksters factory workers factory owners restaurant keepers lumber dealers .. gardeners, farmers, etc. .. clerks travelling salesmen .. miscellaneous note.--under miscellaneous were classed a foreman, manager, agent, contractor, collector. the meaning of this table will be made clearer by telling two stories, one of a man who is succeeding, and one of a man who has known the keen anguish that to the great masses of men is involved in the words "hard times." for the results of an industrial depression show themselves with promptness in such an immigrant neighborhood. one man, married and the father of three children, was employed as a porter in a downtown store. he was thrown out of work, and to the terrors of rent was added the fact that his wife was soon to give birth to another child. four weeks afterward, the landlord levied on the furniture for the unpaid rent and the weak, under-nourished mother became temporarily insane. she was placed in a sanatorium, two of the children were sent to a day nursery and the youngest child,--too young to be taken by the nursery,--was sent to a private family. and then, for the man, began the struggle to get work. he bought a small quantity of fruit and peddled it in a basket from house to house. he was arrested one morning, in a freight yard where he was charged by the yard policeman with stealing. he was acquitted at the trial and the police sergeant claimed that cases of injustice of this kind were not infrequent. next, he secured work as janitor in a hospital at five dollars a week, and after a time, his wife's condition improved and he was able to reunite his family. thereupon, he borrowed ten dollars and bought a second-hand pushcart with a license, and now he is once more trading in fruits and vegetables in his struggle against odds to care for them. another man, forty-eight years old and the father of eleven children, had spent his early life in a small town. his first job on coming to new york was that of a clothing operator. the over-strain of the sweatshop caused the only too frequent breakdown in health. two years later he came to the pittsburgh district, where, as a peddler in the country towns, he gradually regained his strength. to-day, he owns his home and has a paying grocery business. of the non-jews in these blocks, nine out of ten were negroes; and among them four questionable houses were found. such an environment, with the change from former surroundings and conditions, does not always work out satisfactorily; the higher cost of living, the severe struggle for existence, the sudden transition from oppression to freedom, often have a deteriorating influence. they result in cases of wife-desertion, in laxity of religious observances, in gambling sessions at the coffee-houses, in occasional moral lapses, and in contempt for the ideals, customs and beauties of the traditional family and religious life of the old country. yet, as a whole, we know the people of these blocks, and of the hill, as immigrants who have suffered oppression and borne ridicule; who in the face of insult and abuse have remained silent, but who have stamped on their countenances a look of stubborn patience and hope,--always hope,--and of capacity to overcome. [illustration: homestead from the hill behind the town.] [illustration: the street--homestead's only playground.] [illustration: munhall hollow.] [illustration: homestead.] homestead a steel town and its people margaret f. byington associate secretary field department for the extension of organized charity seven miles from pittsburgh, up the valley of the monongahela river, lie the town of homestead and the largest steel plant in the world. seventeen years ago, homestead was, for a time, the center of national interest, while the men and the carnegie steel company fought to the finish one of the most dramatic battles in the history of the labor movement. the men failed,--public interest died out,--but the mill has gone on growing steadily and the town has kept pace, until now it numbers about , . throughout this time, the corporation, through its practically unquestioned decisions as to wages and hours of labor, has in large measure determined the conditions under which the men shall live. there is only one other industry in the town, the mesta machine company, and little other work except in providing for the needs of the mill workers. we may consider then that the conditions resulting when a great organized industry creates about it, without a definite plan, a town dependent solely upon it for development, are fairly represented in homestead. for, after all, the town is to be considered in part as a product of the steel industry, as well as the rails and armor plate shipped in the great freight trains that puff away down the river, and the success of the corporation must be estimated, in part, by its share in creating the homes and moulding the lives of the workers. thirty years ago, two farms occupied the land now covered by the vast plant and the homes of hundreds of workers. in , when klomans built the mill, now a part of the united states steel corporation, the change began. the very aspect of homestead shows how during the twenty-seven years that have passed, the plant has been the unifying and dominating force in the town. the mill has now stretched itself for over a mile along the river and the level space between the river and a hill rising steeply behind, which was the original site of both mill and town, has been entirely shut off from the water front. the smoke from the many furnaces and from the two railroads which cross the town settles heavily, making the section gloomy even on the brightest days. wash day for some must wait for a west wind, if the clothes are not to come in blacker than when they went into the tub, and mothers find it a problem to keep children even reasonably clean in a place where the grass itself is covered with oily dust. this level space was originally large enough to accommodate the houses as well as the mill, but with the growth of the town, the homes have spread up the hill, and even out into the region beyond. for the english speaking people who were earlier comers, have been glad to leave the level, smoke-hidden section to the more recent immigrants. here, in houses huddled together, where the totally inadequate sanitary provisions and overcrowding are comparable to the worst sections of a great city, we find now the homes of the slavs. courts where seventy-five, or even in a few instances more than a hundred people, are dependent for water supply on one hydrant, and houses with an average of four or five persons to each room are frequent. these facts will be considered more in detail in another article, exemplifying as they do conditions existing in many small industrial centers. though there are no definite figures available as to the composition of the population of homestead, the nationality of the men employed in the mill in july, , will serve as a clue to the make up of the town as a whole. of , employes, , or more than half were slavs, , were native whites, colored, english, irish, scotch, german, and were of other europeans. aside from the slavs, there is almost no tendency among the different nationalities to live in separate sections. the more desirable part of the town, which includes aside from the upper part of homestead proper the politically independent boroughs of west homestead and munhall, is occupied by the whole english speaking group and it is with their life that this paper deals. parallel to the main thoroughfare, along the side of the hill, runs street after street lined with simple frame houses. these stand detached from one another, though often with only a passageway between. there is usually a porch in front and a small yard where growing flowers or shrubs give a cheerful homelike air. the streets are full of merry children, coasting in winter down the steep hillsides, or in summer playing marbles and jumping rope. the hill lifts this section out of some of the smoke, but even here the sky is seldom really bright, and the outlook is over the stacks of the mills with their plumes of smoke. in general arrangement, the town shows an absence of interest in future development on the part of its original planners. the avenues, which run parallel from east to west with alleys between, are crossed at right angles by the main streets, cutting the town into rectangular blocks. here and there are beds of old water courses down the hillside, on whose banks small houses, hardly more than shanties, have been built. the narrow lots of the original plan have had, moreover, a bad effect on the houses built on them. these houses are small, usually consisting of four or five rooms, but the middle room in the latter case opens only on the passage between the buildings, which is of necessity very narrow, and is never reached by sunshine. moreover, the narrow lot which limits decidedly the choice in plans has resulted in a uniformity of design and a lack of artistic quality in the houses. this, especially in winter when there are no flowers to relieve it, gives to the streets an air of monotony. as homestead grew, houses were built to the east of it on property outside the borough limits, owned by the carnegie land company, a constituent part of the united states steel corporation. this district and a section including most of the mill property were formed into the separate borough of munhall, said to be the richest one in pennsylvania. from the beginning the mill officials have taken a marked interest in its development, and the general effect of munhall shows the results. in the center stand side by side, the imposing library with its little park, the gift of mr. carnegie, and the handsome residence of the superintendent of the mill. behind are the houses of the minor officials, whose wide lawns are kept in beautiful condition by men in the employ of the company. on the streets farther back, where the employes live, are many attractive houses, and on sixteenth avenue cottages of varying design set back from the street, show the possibility of securing effective yet inexpensive plans. but neither the presence of the mill nor the dull sameness of the streets can hamper the sense of home-likeness which the workmen feel as they step across their own doorsteps. the burden of creating this falls on the shoulders of the housewife. usually in these homes there is that proof of an upward social trend, a "front room," which with its comfortable furniture and piano or other musical instrument is the real center of the life and amusement of the family. as one woman said, "the children don't realize how much it costs to keep up the parlor, but they want it to look nice so they can bring their friends in, and as long as it keeps them home i'll manage it somehow." and no outsider can understand the sacrifices involved, the ceaseless economies if parlor curtains and pianos are to be evolved from a wage of fifteen dollars a week. [illustration: sixteenth avenue, munhall.] of course extremes of thrift and inefficiency are met. in one home, where the man earns but $ . a day and there are six to feed, they had not only managed to buy an organ and give one of the girls lessons, but had saved enough to tide them through the hard winter of . but the wife, the daughter of a pennsylvania farmer, had learned the thrifty ways of such a household. for this is skill amounting to genius and cannot be expected of all. i remember, in contrast, a kitchen where all is wretched, the children unwashed, the woman untidy, the room unswept. in such a scene, it is not surprising to have the woman complain that the man always goes to pittsburgh with a crowd to spend the evening. though he earns nearly twice what the other man does, his wife, who had been trained as a servant in a wealthy home and had learned extravagant ways, realized in a helpless sort of way her inability to "get caught up" financially, or to display any efficiency in managing her home and training her children. between these two types is that of the average family, where the effort to make life wholesome meets with mingled successes and failures. [illustration: glen alley, homestead.] the recognition among the people of the value of home life, finds perhaps no more striking proof than the zeal shown by many of them in purchasing their houses. according to the census figures of , families owned homes in the borough, . per cent of the entire number of houses, and of these were free from encumbrance. such business organizations as the homestead realty company have met the needs of those wishing to buy on a slender income by a system of selling on the instalment plan, which in large measure takes the place of building and loan associations. the initial payment is small, sometimes as low as $ for a house of four rooms, the real estate company assumes the obligations for insurance, taxes, and interest on the mortgage, and the buyer pays a monthly instalment large enough to cover all this and make a small reduction on the principal. for example, one family i know bought a four-room house worth about $ , . of this, they paid down $ , and thereafter a monthly instalment of sixteen dollars, which was little more than they would have had to pay for rent. though it has taken fifteen years to buy the house, they now have a home of their own; and without unreasonable sacrifice. no phase of this attitude towards saving was to me more interesting than the reasons given for and against buying. two sisters were typical of these different opinions. one with six children, whose husband made something over three dollars a day, said: "i didn't try to buy, because i wanted to give my children everything that was coming to them, and i wouldn't stint them." so, as far as she could, she had given them what the other children in school had, and truly three dollars goes but a little way in a town where the rent is four dollars a room and food-stuffs are said to be the highest in the country. the other, wiser perhaps, had begun early to buy her home. though she has been married only five years, to a man whose income is about the same as the brother-in-law, and there are two little ones to care for, they have already made the initial payment on their home. it is a neat five-room house on one of the good streets, with running water in the kitchen and a bath-room, and is worth about $ , . of this they paid $ down, and their monthly instalment is twenty-five dollars. since their family is small, by subletting two rooms for eight dollars a month, they reduce the monthly expenditure to about an ordinary rent. while it will take some years to pay off the indebtedness, by the time that the children are large enough to need the other rooms, they plan to be well on their way toward accomplishing this. with many, however, the initial purchase is only the beginning of their home making, and, as soon as the house is paid for, the family take the most genuine pleasure in its improvement. sometimes it is the addition of a bath-room; sometimes it is the repapering which the busy mother finds time to do in the spring; sometimes the building of a wash-house in the yard. but wherever such improvements are made it means always the development of the sense of family life and its common interests. in home buying there lurks, of course, an undeniable danger to the workman: the danger of putting all his savings into a house, when death, discharge, or a season of hard times may mean the necessity of a forced sale with its inevitable loss. that the owning of a home tends to lessen the mobility of labor is a factor to be considered in upholding it as a desirable form of thrift. in homestead, however, this danger has been minimized by what has otherwise been a disadvantage to the town, the lack of a sufficient number of houses.[ ] buildings have not been erected fast enough to keep pace with the town's growth, and consequently rents have risen and desirable houses are hard to secure. this situation, while it stimulates people to buy their own homes, also makes it possible to sell at almost any time. [ ] during the depression of - there was an abundance of houses, as families were doubling up to save rent, but this was only a temporary situation. there are many, however, to whom these real homes are not possible. there rises to my mind, in contrast, a two-room tenement down in the grimy corner where the mill joins the town. here a woman was trying to support four little children by sewing and washing. her husband had died after eight years of semi-invalidism resulting from an accident in the mill. with his small wages they had not been able to save, and as the injury had occurred so long ago, she was not eligible for a benefit from the carnegie relief fund. the kitchen was small and hot and the younger children noisy, and the not unnatural consequence was that the oldest girl drifted to the streets, mixed with a gay crowd, and eventually became a charge of the juvenile court. the girl was not bad at heart, and had there been a cheerful home where her friends could come, the end might have been different. [illustration: back yard possibilities in homestead--i.] this instance illustrates the fact, more or less true of the whole town, that local conditions are such as to lay too large a responsibility for providing enjoyment on the skill of the wife and mother. where she succeeds, the home becomes the center of the family's happiness, yet even so, we should look to the town itself for those wider opportunities for mental and physical relaxation which help maintain a normal life. but to the stranger approaching homestead, the town speaks more eloquently of toil than of pleasure. the river, elsewhere so often a source of endless enjoyment, is muddy and swift. moreover, one bank is preempted by the railroad, the other by the long and unsightly stretches of mill yard. in the second ward, near the river, which is almost solidly built up, the only place for the children to play is the street or the alley. that the boys do not find these a wholly satisfactory playground is shown by the following clipping from the local newspaper: boys claim their rights are being interfered with. the boys of homestead want to know why they cannot play basketball on the street, and they want to know what they can do. burgess please answer in monday's _messenger_. on the top of the hill there are open places where the bigger boys find room for recreation, but it is a long climb, too long for the small children in the section where a place for play is most needed. the two recreation parks within a five-cent fare of the town, owned by the street railway, are the scenes of many school and church picnics and lodge gatherings. here the young people find the skating rinks and dancing pavilions and the shrill music of the merry-go-rounds, while tired mothers seek quiet grass plots where they may sit and watch the children play, and where they may have the rare chance to gossip with their neighbors. in homestead itself the two popular forms of amusement are the skating rink and the nickelodeon. the former fills the papers with advertisements for moonlight skating parties, a "marriage on rollers," and other devices for attracting patronage. the gaiety and swing of this pastime, which appeal to the young and vigorous, have made it in general very popular. it offers, however, those dangers common to the indiscriminate meeting of young people, which make some mothers hesitate to let their girls go unless with "our own crowd." [illustration: back yard possibilities in homestead--ii.] the nickelodeon, whose small cost brings it within the financial reach of most families, is perhaps the most popular entertainment. you are admitted to a room the size of a small store, with rows of chairs, a small stage, and an atmosphere that is soon unbearably close. here you witness for five cents a show lasting about fifteen minutes. on the saturday afternoon when i attended, there was a series of moving pictures illustrating a story on the same theme as camille, and two sentimental songs illustrated by colored slides. while none of them was of a high grade of amusement they evidently really entertained the audience, at least half of whom were workingmen. to them the nickelodeon seems to make a special appeal since it offers the variety they crave after long days in the mill. this limited range of amusement offered is almost the only entertainment which is available for older people, or which can be enjoyed in common by them and by the young and active members of the community. while this lack is met, in a degree, by the entertainments which lodges and churches give, the latter are rather sedate. the festivities which appeal to young people are all money-making enterprises, with the abuses likely to result under such conditions. many of the clergymen expressed their belief that there was need of a better kind of amusement, a need which might be met by such institutions as the public recreation centers of chicago. among the causes contributing to this lack of amusement is the possibility for those with more money and leisure of securing the better class of entertainment in pittsburgh. still as it is a forty-five minutes' ride to the city, mothers tied down by the care of children, and men wearied by the day's work seldom avail themselves of what pittsburgh offers. another cause is found in the fact that the owners of the mill are non-residents, and give neither money nor influence to help the everyday normal development of the town. there is a marked contrast in this between homestead's situation and that of independent towns of similar size. in the latter, where there is a larger proportion of the well-to-do who are dependent for entertainment on what the town offers, it is possible to secure fairly good theatrical performances, as well as concerts and lectures. [illustration: eighth avenue at night, homestead.] two additions to the opportunities for relaxation have, however, been made by prominent officials of the steel corporation. at the carnegie library there is a club providing classes for musical training which give occasional concerts, as well as a gymnasium with a swimming pool, bowling alleys, etc. this club, which is open to all on payment of two dollars a year, is popular with the young men, especially those on the clerical force. a series of entertainments, however, given during the winter of - under the management of a lecture bureau was not successful. [illustration: a nickelodeon audience in homestead.] the second, the gift from mr. frick of a small formal park transformed from an ugly hole at the end of one of the ravines, is the source of much pride to the town. a need which it does not supply, however, was shown by a visit there one hot afternoon. three or four men were sitting in the sun on the benches set along the cement paths. the grass had recently been cut and in a pile which lay on the edge of the street, half a dozen little chaps were turning somersaults and revelling in the coolness. for them, the park with its set flower beds and well-kept lawn offered few inducements. they would prefer a real playground. the chief obstacle to the development of amusements is, doubtless, the hours and nature of mill work. every other week the men work on night turn. then they get home early in the morning and are ready, right after breakfast, for the much needed sleep; at four o'clock in the afternoon they must be called, and after an early supper they are off to the mill for the long night. that week there is no chance for outside festivities, nor chance even for the family to have quiet evenings together. sometimes when sons who are also in the mill are on the opposite shift, the family is not able to meet even for meals. this irregularity not only tends to break into the family life, but also by making regular engagements impossible, lessens the interest in outside things. even when the men are on day turn and are through work at half-past five, the ten hours of heavy labor in the mill leave them little ambition to seek out amusements. the exhausting nature of the work, coupled with the lack of sleep due to this constant change of habits, makes them weary enough, as they show by the slow steps and bent shoulders of the homeward procession. change of thought and genuine relaxation are nevertheless a necessity, if the men are to maintain even mere physical efficiency. the spirit of the mill is the spirit of work. we have found that the town itself provides for the men little opportunity for genuine relaxation after the strain of the day's work; and when we turn to the town again, seeking whether it offers any stimulus to mental activity, we find in it the same failure to help in the development of a normal life. there is the carnegie library to be sure, which has classes in metallurgy, and provides expensive periodicals dealing with the steel trade as well as general reading matter. but as many a man said to me, "oh what's the use of a library when a man works twelve hours a day?" although efforts towards a reorganization of the union are practically at an end, because of the opposition of the mill officials, there is earnest thinking going on among some of the men about the great corporation which controls wages and hours, and so much of the rest of life as is dependent upon them. one man, who during the recent hard times was not earning enough to pay his rent, said, "i don't blame the superintendent here for our being out of work, but the men in new york could help it, only they don't know or don't care what a cut in wages means to us." that the changes in wage scale or the decisions to work but half time last winter, which came to them without explanation, were related to an industrial depression which affected a whole continent, was but dimly understood. they knew of dividends, and they knew of wage-cuts. with the feeling that they are impotent to change conditions, some of the more thoughtful men are turning to socialism for the larger solution it seems to offer. i was surprised to hear socialism advocated by the wife of a mill clerk making two dollars a day. she and her husband were thrifty people who had just succeeded in buying a piece of property,--not at all the typical socialists of a conservative man's fears. but in their twenty years of married life, the clerk's wages had been cut fifteen per cent. with a growing family, needs had increased, and only stringent economies, the cutting out even of five cents for the nickelodeon, had made their home what it was. and now with mills idle and their little savings rapidly going, a sense of social injustice was making itself felt. [illustration: going home from work. this picture grimly sums up homestead--the mill at the left, the carnegie library on the hill in the center, and the mean houses of the second ward to the right.] recently considerable agitation in regard to the subject was aroused by the preaching of a minister, who is a christian-socialist. while many of the men were keenly interested in his theories, there was so much opposition among the conservative members of the congregation, that finally he was obliged to leave. i was told that in one of the first committee meetings to discuss the situation, his position was approved by the workingmen members, while opposition was expressed by two men who served corporations in a professional capacity. again, a scotchman, feeling the capitalist's lack of sympathy for the working man's problems, expressed surprise that a number of wealthy scotchmen had joined in the celebration of burns's birthday. "how can they," he said, "when they think of his social theories? i should think they would be ashamed to." to him, burns was the man who wrote a man's a man for a' that. but men such as these are the exceptions. one of the most intelligent men i know, an ardent socialist, told me of his exasperation because his fellows were, he held, so unintelligent and were so unwilling to talk about social questions. this he thought was due to the long hours and hard work, since it took the other twelve hours to rest from the day's labor. most of them, truly, are both too tired to think and too conscious of the dominance of the corporation to believe it worth while to seek a solution of these problems. neither is there much within the mill to develop intellectual keenness. the men, it is true, are encouraged to invent improvements, but though these undoubtedly influence their promotion it is currently reported that the men receive no direct reward. the general feeling, moreover, that promotion is due to favoritism, lessens the stimulus to study and work up. with the attitude of the mill officials toward trade unionism, men are more or less afraid to discuss industrial questions with one another. an old resident gave me this as a current maxim, "if you want to talk in homestead you must talk to yourself." in one respect, however, the men do unite to meet conditions arising under the industry. the work in the mills brings them constantly face to face with the danger of accident. almost daily, occur minor accidents: a foot bruised by a heavy weight, a hand lacerated by a machine; accidents not serious enough to prevent work for any length of time, or perhaps to justify damages. but where the margin is small, two weeks or even one of enforced idleness means a serious problem in family finances. while the men injured are eligible to the carnegie relief fund, this fund gives assistance only when a man has been disabled for a year or more, and consequently is of no help in minor accidents. in order to meet these emergencies, then, the men have utilized the fraternal orders which form one of the chief centers of interest in homestead life. there are more than forty lodges, and while it was impossible to learn the exact membership, twenty-three lodges report a total membership of , , of whom , are men. the strongest of these is the odd fellows, with a membership of over , , most of whom are steel workers. in all but two out of twenty-seven, concerning which data were secured, there are benefit features; a sick benefit usually of five dollars a week for three months with a smaller sum thereafter; and a small death benefit of only $ or so. the fraternal insurance orders, which vary the assessments with the amount of the benefit, give as high as $ , . sometimes both regular and lodge insurance policies are carried. in sixty-three families investigated, only nine of the heads of families were uninsured, while eighteen carried both kinds. what this insurance means, however, is but feebly shown by the amounts involved. one woman, speaking of her early struggles, told how in the first year of her married life, her husband was seriously burned in the mill and for three months was unable to do a stroke of work. fortunately, from the three benefit orders to which he belonged came $ . a week, which supported the family. "my baby came then," she added feelingly, "and if it had not been for that money, i could have bought no clothes for her." in addition to this benefit feature, the lodge offers an opportunity for the development of sympathy and the consciousness of social solidarity. a woman, who was a rather recent comer to homestead, had been a member of one of these lodges in another town. her little baby became ill and died, and where otherwise she would have been alone in her grief, her fellow members came at once to watch with her during his sickness, and to console her after his death. "why, they were like my own sisters," she said, and it was this which counted rather than the twenty-five dollars which helped meet the funeral expenses. the lodge also affords an opportunity to show that interest in outside matters, which otherwise finds scanty means of expression. i saw one day a half bushel of fine potatoes ready for baking, which a woman told me were her contribution to a supper being given for an emergency hospital in homestead. "we don't need that hospital," she said, "because my man isn't in a dangerous place in the mill, but i'm glad to help even if most of them are 'hunkies.'" during the winter of - , almost every lodge in town gave some sort of entertainment for the benefit of this hospital. aroused by the suffering of men seriously injured in the mill, who have to be taken on the train to pittsburgh, the whole town united in a determination to meet this need of their community. while the individual contributions of the workingmen would have been discouragingly small, their real interest could express itself through the existing lodge organizations. in fact, aside from the church, the lodge seems to offer the one possibility of co-operative effort. many men also find here their one chance of meeting other men socially. all the lodges, even the purely insurance ones, have social features, and often at special meetings the whole family go together. while these features of fraternal orders are of course common in all communities, in homestead, with its danger of accident and its limitation as to other amusements, they play an especially important role. [illustration: items from the homestead "messenger." illustrating how accidents become everyday happenings in a steel town. period: two weeks when the mills were running slack.] yet life needs some outlook for the future other than preparation to meet its disasters. with the increase in the size of the corporation, the days are passing when a rise to a position of eminence is possible for a poor boy, so that personal ambition has become a negative factor. but to the parents who seek for their children a better position, more education and more of the refinements of life, the future is full of interest. one woman complained that her neighbor was "all right, only she talks too much about her children," but when one realized how much the mother's interest and devotion had done to make her sons successful, it was easy to forgive her. another woman, of natural sweetness and grace of manner, told of her efforts to teach her little girls those formal niceties in which she had not been trained. "i bought a book on manners," she said, "so as to teach the children, and i make myself do the things so they will. it's awfully hard to say 'excuse me' when i leave the table, but if i don't they'll never learn," and the greeting given a stranger by the little daughter showed how well this mother was succeeding. the center of interest, especially to the fathers, is in the future of their sons. often the sons go ahead of their fathers in the race, and one elderly man told me with pride that he owed his easy job to his son who had become an assistant superintendent. sometimes parents, most frequently the mothers, are unwilling that their boys should enter the mill, for the fear of accident makes the long nights a time of terror. many a woman has said, "when i was first married, i couldn't sleep when the 'mister' was on night turn, but, of course, i'm used to it now." still when their sons grow up, they begin again to dread the danger. the great mill, however, has a fascination of its own, so that most of the boys "follow the stacks." they then live at home, contributing their share to the family income, and we find that economic bond which mrs. bosenquet has pointed out as so dominant a factor in strengthening family life in england. this mutual affection is undoubtedly the most potential factor in keeping pure the moral life of the town. morally the town is an average one. along one of the railroads is a section comparable in a small way to some of the dark parts of a great city, and there gambling, immorality and drunkenness have their meeting place, but in the districts where most of the workmen have their homes, the former two evils are practically unknown. a doctor in a position to know the situation well, believes that in the main this town is clean morally, and his statement is confirmed by clergymen and other physicians. intemperance, on the other hand, is a serious factor. in munhall there are no saloons, but in homestead, there are fifty, eight in a single block on eighth avenue next to the mill entrance. as one resident summed up the situation, "i think we have at least sixty-five saloons, ten wholesale liquor stores, a number of beer agents, innumerable speak-easies and a dozen or more drug stores,"--and this in a town of , . in addition to their usual attractions of light and jollity, the saloons appeal to the thirst engendered by hours of work in the heat. though this heat-thirst is frequently offered as an excuse for drinking, men who do not drink are emphatic in their belief that alcohol lessens their ability to withstand the extreme temperature. while intoxication is not very frequent, the saloons do a thriving business and their patrons were among the first to feel the hardships of the industrial depression. a clergyman assured me that preaching against intemperance did no good and that substitutes must be offered, but so far none has been developed. the library, which is on the hill out of the men's way, cannot be reckoned as a counter attraction, for they are too tired to be often tempted by it. the church, too, finds it hard to hold them. the fact that they usually have to work either saturday night or sunday night, and some men during sunday as well, affects the attitude of the whole town towards sunday keeping. a clergyman who complained because a certain store was open on sunday, was told that as the mill ran that day, nothing could be done about closing the store. "we can't take the little fish and let the big one go." the men feel the inconsistency in being urged to attend church when they have to work hard part of the day. then too, they are often very tired. one big, jovial colored man told me how he came home sunday morning from the mill expecting to go to church, but fell fast asleep while waiting for the hour of service. the churches, however, play an important part in the life of those, especially the women and young people, who are actually connected with them. the thirty churches represent all denominations, some of them preserving their original race distinctions. two welsh churches still have their service in the keltic language. there are a number of missions, among them one on the main street, whose transparency bearing the legend, "the wages of sin is death," suggests a bowery type. the salvation army, while it has a short muster roll, has a strong grip on the community which seems impressed by its earnestness, simplicity and poverty. for whatever its intellectual limitations there is throughout the town a profound respect for genuine spiritual devotion. during the winter most of the churches, in addition to their regular weekly services, held special revival meetings. these, while they have little of the tense excitement sometimes associated with such meetings, seem to be a strong force in developing the real spiritual power of the churches. the church, moreover, meets certain of the social needs of the town through its wholesome festivities. all winter the stores were full of signs of "chicken and waffle suppers," and the papers told of socials of all the varieties that a small church evolves. these were usually to raise funds, sometimes for church expenses, sometimes for charity, and in one instance, i remember, to help send out a foreign missionary. but, whatever the object, they serve to increase the happiness of life under wholesome conditions. [illustration: kennywood park at night.] [illustration: a.--profile of line a. b. in map opposite, showing slope on which homestead is built.--b.] so the church plays its part, both spiritually and socially, in helping its members to a fuller individual life. it does not, however, furnish an opportunity for that discussion of matters of everyday concern to the men, which might serve to arouse their interest in the whole life of the church and to quicken their sense of civic responsibility. moreover, in a town where industrial questions are of paramount importance, the church is only beginning to take an interest in them. in the larger question of leadership in civic life, the churches seem also to have missed a great opportunity. though they took some action in the local option campaign, this was an isolated instance, and in general they do not appear to have accepted their full responsibility in arousing men to a realization of the duties of citizenship. [illustration: homestead vs. munhall. the town-site back of the mills is divided into two boroughs. munhall embraces most of the property of the u. s. steel corporation: the tax rate is - / mills and the corporation pays $ , in taxes. in homestead, where most of the workmen have their homes, the tax rate is mills, and the corporation pays $ , .] that a sense of civic responsibility is needed, is emphasized by those who know the life of the town, and who find there a serious political situation. in homestead, which is by far the largest and most important of the three boroughs, the political conditions are worst. the borough government consists of a burgess elected every three years, and a council, which is also elective. of the two important committees, the board of health is appointed by the burgess with the consent of the council, and the school board is chosen directly by the people. in spite of the possibility of influencing some of the local conditions through these elected representatives, there is general indifference in regard to local politics. in one matter where their direct family interests are concerned, the people have demanded and received an efficient administration. they are proud of their schools and the personnel of the school board, and certainly this is the best service given to the people of the town. but while the men all agree that the situation is dominated by the wholesale liquor interests, schemes for political reform arouse little enthusiasm. in spite of years of casual agitation against inadequately guarded railroad crossings, it was not till the summer of that any effective protest was made. people still pay a neighbor fifty cents a month for the privilege of getting good water from his well, instead of insisting that it be provided by the borough. a river, polluted by the sewage of many towns above it, and by chemicals from the mills strong enough to kill all the fish, furnishes the drinking water for the town. to a certain extent at least, mental sluggishness due, as we have seen, to the conditions under which men work, is at the root of their indifference. it is, of course, true that the mill is not the source of all the undesirable conditions in homestead. many of the disadvantages of the town are similar to those of other suburban and industrial centers that are less definitely influenced by a great industry. but for a large part of the evil the mill must be considered responsible. there was its influence, for example, in making munhall into a separate borough, thus securing a lower tax for its plant and real estate and by that much adding to the burdens of the majority of its working people. for in homestead, the mill owns little property. in munhall, the tax rate is eight and one-half mills and the mill pays $ , a year in taxes, while in homestead, where the larger part of the workers live, the tax rate is fifteen mills and the mill pays a tax of but $ , . the mill has, moreover, done nothing to give the town an effective leadership, the most striking need of the situation. on the one hand by the destruction of the union it has removed the one force by which workingmen could have been trained for leadership; on the other hand, since its owners are scattered throughout the country, it has not supplied such a group of educated men with free time and public interest as have been the strong influences in developing normal communities. when i asked, in discussing the sanitary condition of the slavic courts, if anything could be done to improve the situation i was assured that only a man of strong local influence could accomplish such a reform; but no one could suggest the man. in contrast then to the wonderful development of the industry itself, with its splendid organization, its capable management, its efficient methods, we find a town which lacks sound political organization, which lacks true leadership, which lacks the physical and moral efficiency which can come only through leisure to think and to enjoy. the only genuine interest we find centers about the individual home life, and, in spite of outward physical disadvantages, the hindrance of inadequate income, the lack of proper training in household economics, and the limited outlook which the town affords, the men and the women are creating real homes. that many fail against these odds is not surprising. "life, work, and happiness, these three are bound together." the mill offers the second, indifferent whether it is under conditions that make the other two possible. the civic responsibilities of democracy in an industrial district[ ] paul u. kellogg american spread-eagleism has matured notably in the past ten years, but there is still youth and ginger enough in it to make my first postulate simply this,--that the civic responsibilities of democracy in an industrial district are to come abreast of and improve upon any community standards reached under any other system of government; and, second, to do this in a democratic way as distinct from a despotic or paternalistic way. [ ] an address given before the joint convention of the american civic association and the national municipal league, pittsburgh, nov. , outlining some of the findings of the pittsburgh survey and drawing upon data secured in various fields of investigation. it was my good fortune to spend a week the past summer in essen and other industrial towns of the rhenish-westphalia district of germany, following something over a year spent in the pittsburgh district. i fancy that in our attitude toward the old countries, we are inclined to regard their cities as long established and to find justification for any lapses of our own in the newness of america. but essen, for instance, as an industrial center is new. the chronology of the development of the steel industry there is not altogether different from that of the same industry in pittsburgh; and one of the great problems of fried. krupp was to mobilize and hold within reach of his furnaces and rolls a large and efficient working population. entering the industrial field generations later than england, german manufacturers have not had a trained working force ready to hand. krupp had to draw his men from the country districts,--healthy, unskilled peasants, unused to the quick handling of their muscles, unused to working indoors, unused to machinery, unused to living in large communities. the wages offered, as against the wages of agricultural districts, drew them there; he must keep them there out of reach of his competitors, and he must see that they worked at the top notch of their efficiency. it was a loss to herr krupp when a man with five years' training in his works left essen, or was sick, or was maimed. as a town, essen was unprepared to absorb this great new industrial population. there were not houses enough; the newcomers were sheltered abominably and charged exorbitant rents by the local landlords. there weren't food supplies enough within reach of the growing city, and the workers had to buy poor bread and bad meat, and to pay heavily for them. the town had not enough sanitary appliances to dispose of the waste which a congregation of individuals sloughs off and which, if not properly disposed of, breeds disease. the rents and high provisions pared away most of the incentive in the wages which must attract this working force to essen; poor houses and poor food made directly for stupid, half-roused workers and for poor work. primarily as a business proposition, then, herr krupp started that group of social institutions which have since been expanded from one motive or another, until they supply an infinite variety of wants to the essen workers. the firm bought up successive plots of land, laid them out, sewered them, parked them, and to-day, at the end of fifty years, over thirty thousand persons are living in houses belonging to the essen works (ten thousand of the sixty thousand krupp employes are thus supplied). there has been a growth in quality as well as in numbers of houses. the buildings of the first workmen's colony, west end, are rough, crude boxes; the new colonies of alfredshof and friedrichshof are beautiful, with their red roofs, graceful lines, lawns, housekeeping conveniences and modest rents. not less than seventy-seven krupp supply stores, operated on a profit-sharing basis, sell meat, bread, manufactured goods and household furniture. one of the greatest bakeries in germany is operated on a cost basis, and there are slaughter houses, flour mills, ice making establishments, tailor shops, etc. hospitals, convalescent homes, pensions, and invalidity and accident funds have been instituted, and have since been fortified and expanded under the imperial scheme of industrial insurance, which governs throughout germany. this welfare work of the krupps has not succeeded in keeping either trade unionism or socialism out of the ranks of the working force; it has tended to put the workers in a position of semi-feudal dependence for comforts and to sap their initiative; and in those bearings it is not in accord with american ideas; but it has served to gather at essen, to keep there, and to keep there at a high standard of working efficiency, one of the most remarkable labor forces in germany. it is solely the latter aspect of the case that concerns us here. i think it is agreed that when it comes to armor plate, i-beams, tubes, or rails, the pittsburgh steel plants can beat the world. but a week's stay among the krupp colonies at essen brings with it the conviction that we in america have considerable distance to go if we are to match the germans in the science of improved community conditions. the question is how some of these higher standards can be worked out in an american industrial district where one corporation does not dominate; where you are dealing with a much greater aggregation of people spread over a much greater territory, and where you must work out your solution in democratic ways through democratic agencies. it must be borne in mind that much that i say of pittsburgh is true of practically all our industrial centers; our severest criticism of any one comes not from a comparison with its fellows, but from a comparison of the haphazard development of its social institutions with the splendid organic development of its industrial enterprises. and more, in the methods and scope of progressive business organizations we have some of the most suggestive clues as to ways for municipal progress. my first point has to do with administrative areas. the most effective city administration cannot act to advantage unless the units through which it operates are workable and bear some relation to the function they are designed to perform. the radius of the old time city, as one english writer has pointed out, was the distance you could walk from your work in the center to a home convenient in the outskirts. to-day, for most purposes, a city is a rapid transit proposition. for most purposes, a municipal area can be governed most effectively if it includes all such districts as can be reached by city workers, by subway, steam, or surface lines. the movement for a greater pittsburgh, which, within the last year, has been advanced by the merging of allegheny and the movement for a greater birmingham, which is now in progress in the corresponding english industrial center, are recognitions of this fact. the police, fire,--in fact, every department of municipal activity is cramped and rendered less effective by restricted bounds. but for certain functional activities much wider areas must be covered. the sanitary inspection force of cleveland, for instance, inspects dairies and slaughter-houses throughout all that part of ohio that supplies the cleveland market; in contrast with the pittsburgh inspection service which is at present able to inspect supplies only as they come into the city and sources in the immediate neighborhood. again, the sewer and water problem of pittsburgh is a water-shed problem. one hundred and twenty-nine towns and boroughs are dumping their sewage into the rivers which run past pittsburgh and from which pittsburgh must draw its water. no one of these governmental units can work out its sanitary problem alone. close co-ordination of sanitary work is needed throughout the whole river district. there is necessity, then, for increasing our municipal administrative areas and for relating them to the functions which must be performed through them; and this very fact raises the distinctive civic problem of creating this enlarged municipal machinery, without sacrificing that local loyalty and interest which in neighborhoods and smaller districts make for good government. in pittsburgh we have a central city,--a market and office center with groups of outlying mill towns and half-agricultural districts between. the opponents of city congestion would break up all our big urban centers into such an open work structure; and if the citizenship of the pittsburgh steel district can work out effective methods of government and high standards of community well-being for this ganglion of working communities, it will have made an original contribution to municipal science. * * * * * but let us look more carefully at this question of area as applied to the functioning of particular social institutions. we have the theory in america, for instance, that common school education should be supplied by the public, and to this end, besides state subsidies and other revenues, a general millage is laid on all taxable property in pittsburgh for the salaries of teachers and for other general expenses. but the actual operation of the schools continues on an old vestry system of ward control,--a system given up by boston, cleveland, chicago, baltimore and other cities of pittsburgh's class, because the ward has proved an ineffective administrative unit. let us see how it works in pittsburgh. each ward lays and collects a tax on property within its limits for the erection and maintenance of school buildings. thus, ward two in the business district, with a total of only pupils, can draw on property with an assessed valuation of $ , , ; while ward fourteen, with , children, can draw on property worth $ , , (less taxable property and seven times as many children); while ward thirty-one has , children and only $ , , in assessed property (or three times as many children as ward two and not one-tenth the taxable property). no wonder, then, that the valuation of school buildings and equipment ranges from approximately $ per school child in the thirty-first ward to $ , per school child in the second; and the income for maintenance of buildings, etc., from $ per school child in the thirty-fifth ward to $ per school child in the first. no wonder, then, that in these ward-school buildings and their equipment there is the utmost divergence. our investigators found buildings every room of which was overcrowded, with children sitting on benches, with chairs in the aisles; wards in which basement rooms were thrown into commission without adequate heat, light, desks or ventilation; schools unconnected with the sewer; schools without fireproofing, without fire escapes, without fire drills;--all these in contrast to progressive schools in other wards with first-rate equipment, small classes, good plumbing and adequate light. wards which have the most children, whose children have the least cultural environment and stimulus at home, have, many of them, the least resources to tax for school purposes. by an out-worn system of ward control and taxation, then, the teaching force of pittsburgh is supplied in districts where the work is hardest with schoolhouses and other tools which are least effective. some districts have schools which in equipment and spirit rank with any in the country; while in some the school plants ought to be scrapped offhand. turn to another social institution,--the hospitals. we may conceive that the first service of hospitals is to be accessible to the sick and injured, and that an adequate hospital system should be at all times quickly available to the people who may have use for it. we may compare it with the efficiency of the telephone company which, through sub-exchanges, centrals and private connections, effectively reaches every district. how stands the case with the hospitals of pittsburgh? the city is served by a group of private institutions, many of them adequately equipped and progressively managed; but there is no system of co-ordination between them, either in the operation of their free wards or in the maintenance of an effective ambulance service. new hospitals are erected under the eaves of old hospitals. sick and injured people are carried long, unnecessary distances at great risk. seven new hospitals are going up in pittsburgh and yet, when they are all completed and other changes which have been decided upon are carried out, there will be a great belt of river wards, thickly populated, without a convenient hospital plant,--wards in which we shall see disease is most rife. this failure of a co-ordination of hospital work in pittsburgh is appreciated by a number of the most progressive superintendents, and no one would welcome more than they a movement to interlock the hospital service of the city in some effective way. * * * * * another point of contrast between pittsburgh, the industrial center, and pittsburgh, the community, lies in the progressiveness and invention which have gone into the details of one and the other; for instance, aldermen's courts which dispense justice to the working population of pittsburgh and deal with the minor civil business of a city of half a million. they serve very well in an agricultural district. they are of the vintage of the village blacksmith. but with the exception of a few well conducted courts, the forty or more ward courts may be said to clutter up and befog the course of minor justice, and to be an exasperation in the conduct of civil business. they add to rather than subtract from the business of the higher courts, and there is no effective supervision of their operation. they compare with the new municipal courts of chicago about as the open forges of king john's time compare with a bessemer converter. again,--pittsburgh is the second city in pennsylvania in point of population; in some respects it is the center of the most marvelous industrial district in the world. thousands of men and women are engaged in hundreds of processes. but the state factory inspection department has not so much as an office in this city. there are inspectors, but they are not easily get-at-able for the workingman who may be laboring under unsanitary conditions or with unprotected machinery, or for the citizen who may know of violations of the factory acts which he conceives it his duty to report. my conception of an adequate labor department office in pittsburgh is more than that of an industrial detective bureau. my conception is rather that of a headquarters, with an adequate force of technical experts and physicians who would be constantly studying the work processes of the district with the idea of eliminating wherever possible, those conditions which make for disease; with laboratory facilities for experiment and demonstration of protective devices calculated to reduce accidents; drawing, to this end, upon the industrial experience of the whole world. the factory inspector's office in birmingham, for instance, is in close co-operation with courts, with employers and with workmen. within three years, its suggestions have reduced the number of deaths due to one variety of crane from twenty-one to three. the old time city built a wall about it. that kept out invaders. the invaders of a modern city are infectious diseases. in the development of sanitary service and bureaus of health of wide powers and unquestioned integrity, the modern city is erecting its most effective wall. in pittsburgh, the health authority is still a subordinate bureau without control over appointments under the civil service, and without that final authority which should go with its supreme responsibility toward the health of , people. until the present incumbent was appointed, there had seldom or never been a physician at the head of this bureau. for five years there had not been so much as an annual report. two-thirds of the appropriations to the pittsburgh health bureau are to-day engrossed in a garbage removal contract; only one-third is free for general health purposes. with such an inadequate barricade, we can imagine that disease has sacked pittsburgh throughout the years; and comparison of death rates with four cities of corresponding size,--boston, baltimore, cleveland, st. louis,--for five years, shows this to have been the case. in her average death rate per , for typhoid fever, for diarrhoea and for enteritis, pittsburgh was first and highest. pittsburgh was only fourth or next to the lowest in the list in pulmonary tuberculosis; but in pneumonia, in bronchitis and in other diseases of the respiratory system; and in violence other than suicide, pittsburgh was highest. to retrieve the lost ground of years of neglect of health conditions has been a task upon which the present superintendent of the pittsburgh bureau of health has entered, but it is a task in which the city must invest increasing resources. for such work it needs more than a health bureau. it needs a health department. my point, then, is that democracy must overhaul the social machinery through which it operates if it would bring its community conditions up to standards comparable to those maintained by its banks, its insurance companies and its industrial corporations. * * * * * there are at least two tests to which the community can put such social machinery. the first is that of operating efficiency. in hospitals, in schools, in municipal departments, units of work and output can be worked out as definitely as are the tons of the steel workers, the voltage of the electricians, the dollars and cents of the banks. by vigorous systems of audit and intelligent systems of budget-making, understandable to the ordinary citizen, the community can see to it that the output of these social institutions is comparable with the investment it makes in them; that the taxpayer gets his money's worth. the bureau of municipal research in new york embodies this idea in its program. there is another, equally intensive test to which social institutions and sanitary conditions can be put. it is conceivable that the tax payer may get his money's worth from the municipal government, while the families of the wage earning population and householders may be suffering from another and irreparable form of taxation, which only increased municipal expenditure along certain lines could relieve. so it is that while i subscribe to the movement for stiffer standards of municipal accounting as a basis for effective government, for knowing the waste of a city's money, i subscribe further to the movement for such methods of social bookkeeping as will show us the larger waste of human life and private means; and will stand out not only for honesty and efficiency, but for the common well-being. let me illustrate by the case of typhoid fever which has been epidemic in pittsburgh for twenty-five years. to eliminate typhoid pittsburgh has erected a - / million dollar filtration plant,[ ] for the years of delay in the erection of which the city has suffered a terrible toll of deaths and misery. there were , cases of typhoid fever in pittsburgh last year and deaths. computing death rate per , population for the larger cities having the highest rates in , pittsburgh was first with , new haven second, allegheny third; in , pittsburgh was first, allegheny second, washington third; in , pittsburgh first, cleveland was second, allegheny third; in , columbus was first, pittsburgh second, allegheny third; in , allegheny was first, pittsburgh second and columbus third; in , pittsburgh was first, and allegheny second. but even these figures, startling as they are, fail to afford a grasp of the meaning of this typhoid scourge in the lives of the wage earners of pittsburgh. the pittsburgh survey undertook to gauge this. in co-operation with columbian settlement, we collected data as to , cases in six wards reported in one year; cases were found and studied. of these died. wage earners lost , weeks' work. other wage earners, not patients, lost weeks,--a total loss in wages of $ , . the cost of patients treated in hospitals at public or private expense was $ , ; of patients cared for at home, $ , in doctors' bills, nurses, ice, foods, medicines; of funerals, $ , ; a total cost of $ , in less than half the cases of six wards in one year,--wards in which both income and sickness expense were at a minimum. but there were other even more serious drains which do not admit of tabulation. a girl of twenty-two, who worked on stogies, was left in a very nervous condition, not as strong as before, and consequently she could not attain her former speed. a blacksmith will probably never work at his trade with his former strength. a sixteen-year-old girl who developed tuberculosis was left in a weakened physical condition. a tailor who cannot work as long hours as before, was reduced $ a week in wages. a boy of eight was very nervous; he would not sit still in school and was rapidly becoming a truant. a mother developed a case of pneumonia from over-exposure in caring for children who had the fever, and she has not been well since. so the story goes,--very real to the lives of the many who are so intimately concerned. the money losses can be replaced. my figures include no estimate of the value of human lives lost. and it is impossible to compute in terms of dollars and cents, what it means to a family to have the father's health so broken that he cannot work at his old job, but has to accept easier work at less pay. it is impossible to put in tabulated form the total value to a family of a mother's health, and strike a proper balance when typhoid has left her a physical or nervous wreck. it is impossible to estimate what is the cost to a boy or girl who is obliged to leave school in order to help support the family, because typhoid has incapacitated the natural bread-winners. such facts as these show the drain that typhoid has been on the vital forces of the community. it is only one of such drains. [ ] in october there were but ninety-six cases of typhoid in greater pittsburgh, as against for october, . such facts as these bring home concretely to the average workingman his stake in good government. * * * * * it is not possible here to enter into a discussion, even briefly, of the democratic methods by which a community can improve the quality and lessen the cost of its food supplies as an integral part of the program for building up a vigorous working population. there is a direct bearing between these costs of living and the holding power of the wages paid in the pittsburgh district. * * * * * but there is one necessity of which there is a paramount shortage; that is shelter. i should like you to compare the efficiency to perform the function for which it is devised of a modern blast furnace and the shacks which house some of the families in the pittsburgh district. the output of the one is pig iron; the output of the other, home life and children. according to the tenement house census carried on by the pittsburgh bureau of health the past summer, there are , tenement houses in the greater city. nearly fifty per cent of these are old dwellings built and constructed to accommodate one family and as a rule without conveniences for the multiple households now crowded into them. let me give you an example,--a house on bedford avenue, with three families in the front and three in the rear, negroes and whites. the owner was notified over a year ago that the building must be repaired and certain alterations made, but nothing has been done, and by the veto of the governor of pennsylvania of a bill which passed the last legislature, the bureau of health has no power to condemn such unsanitary dwellings. in this building, two-room apartments rent for twelve dollars a month. water has to be obtained from a hydrant in the yard, shared by eleven families; the foul privy vaults are also shared by neighboring families. under dr. edwards's administration , such privy vaults have been filled and abandoned in pittsburgh and , sanitary water closets installed in their place. the work is less than half done. the census of only the first twenty wards of the older city shows a total of nearly , vaults still existing in these wards alone. consider the contrast,--these old, ramshackle, unwholesome, disease breeding appliances of the back country here in pittsburgh, the city of the great engineers, of mechanical invention and of progress. in a typhoid-ridden neighborhood, a vault is an open menace to health. investigations in army camps and in given neighborhoods in chicago have proved that insects carry disease from such places to the tables and living rooms of the people. there are three points which i should like you to consider in connection with this problem of shelter. the first is that the bureau of health, however efficient in its supervisory work, cannot meet it single handed. even if through the activities of the health bureau, tammany hall, yellow row and other old shacks have been torn down, even if the owners of other old buildings are made to install sanitary appliances, the situation is still unmet, unless new houses,--vast quantities of new houses,--are erected to care for the increased population which has flooded into pittsburgh in the last ten years and which, there is every indication, will multiply as greatly in the next ten. real estate dealers and builders have not been inactive in pittsburgh, but the situation is so serious as to demand the development of a constructive public policy that will comprehend such elements as town planning, tax reform, and investment at "five per cent and the public good." my second point is that this haphazard method of letting the housing supply take care of itself is a monetary drawback to the merchants of the city. in the first place, it radically reduces the margin which the workingman's family has to spend for commodities. especially is this true of immigrant tenants, who are obliged to pay more than english-speaking. for instance, on bass street, allegheny, we found slavs paying twenty dollars a month for four rooms, as against fifteen dollars paid by americans. in the second place, it puts a premium on the single men, drifters, lodgers, as against the man with a family. the immigrant boarders who rent from a boarding-boss, and sleep eight or ten in a room or sleep at night in the beds left vacant by the night workers who have occupied them throughout the day,--such fellows can make money in the pittsburgh district. but the immigrant who wants to make his stake here, bring his family over, create a household, must pay ten or fifteen dollars a month for rooms; and must pay high prices for all the other necessities of life. if i were asked by what means the merchants of pittsburgh could increase the volume of purchases of the buying public, i should say that no one thing would affect that so impressively as the multiplication of households, through the multiplication of low cost, low rental, sanitary houses to meet the needs of stable family groups as against the transient lodger. my third point is that the housing problem is not a city problem alone. it is repeated in each of the mill towns. i could cite instances in braddock, duquesne, mckeesport, sharpsburg, where old buildings are filthy and overcrowded and where new buildings are put up in violation of every canon of scientific housing,--back-to-back houses such as were condemned in england seventy-five years ago as breeding places of disease. homestead, for instance, has no ordinance against overcrowding, no ordinance requiring adequate water supply, or forbidding privy vaults in congested neighborhoods. the foreigners live in the second ward between the river and the railroads. in twenty-two courts studied in this district, only three houses had running water inside. one hundred and ten people were found using one yard pump. fifty-one out of families lived in one room each. twenty-six of the two-room apartments are used by eight or more people; one two-room apartment sheltered thirteen; two, twelve; two, eleven. a crude reflection of the effect of these conditions is indicated by the death rate in this second ward. of every three children born there one dies before it reaches two years of age, as against one in every six in the rest of homestead, where detached, and livable dwellings prevail. * * * * * this comparison of health conditions in a small town is true in a large, cruel way of pittsburgh itself. in co-operation with the typhoid fever commission we have analyzed by wards the death certificates of people dying in pittsburgh for the past five years. we have grouped these wards into districts, the living conditions of which are more or less of a kind. let me compare the mortality figures of wards nine and ten and twelve,--a group of river wards in the old city, near the mills, peopled for the most part with a wage-earning population of small income,--compare these wards with ward twenty-two, a new residential district in the east end. what are the chances of life of the men, women and children living in the one and in the other? the chance of a man's dying of bronchitis in the river wards is two and a half as against one in the east end; it is four of his dying from pneumonia as against one in the east end, five of his dying of typhoid as against one in the east end, six of his dying a violent death as against one in the east end. these are rough proportions merely, but they are of terrific significance. our american boast that everybody has an equal chance falls flat before them. the dice are loaded in pittsburgh when it comes to a man's health; his health is the workingman's best asset; and the health and vigor of its working population are in the long run the vital and irrecoverable resources of an industrial center. this brings us to a point where we can define more concretely the plain civic responsibility of democracy in an industrial district. that responsibility is to contrive and to operate the social machinery of the community, and to make living conditions in the district, such as will attract and hold a strong and vigorous labor force, for the industries on which the prosperity of the district must depend. here lie the responsibility of the community to the individual manufacturer,--and the responsibility of the community to its own future:--that the efficiency of its workers shall not be mortgaged before they go to work in the morning. * * * * * this carries a counter responsibility. in the interests of the community as a whole, in the interests of all the industries as against the interests of any single one, the public cannot afford to have such a working force impaired or wasted by unsanitary or health-taxing conditions during the working hours. what i mean will perhaps be clearest by illustrating in the case of industrial accidents. pittsburgh cannot afford to have over workingmen killed every year in the course of employment, or the unknown number of men who are seriously injured. during the past year, the pittsburgh survey has made an intensive inquiry into the facts surrounding the deaths of the entire roster of men killed in industry during twelve months, and of the accident cases treated in the hospitals of the district during three months,--not with the idea of raising anew the question of responsibility for particular accidents, but to see if there are any indications as to whether these accidents could be prevented and whether the burden of them falls where in justice it should. the work has been done by a staff of five people, including a lawyer, an engineer and interpreters, and we have had the co-operation of claim agents, superintendents, foremen, trade union officials and others. we found that of the men killed in the year studied in allegheny county, the accidents fell on americans as well as foreigners; were native born. the ranks of steel workers and train men suffer most,--the pick of the workmen in the district. there were steel workers killed, railroad men, seventy-one mine workers, and in other occupations. it was found that it was the young men of the district who went down in the course of industry. eighty-two were under twenty years of age, between twenty and thirty. over half the men killed were earning less than fifteen dollars a week, a fact which raises the question if the law is fair in assuming, as it does in pennsylvania, that wages cover risk. fifty-one per cent of the men killed were married with families to support; an additional thirty per cent were single men, partly, or wholly, supporting a family. it was shown that the greatest losses were not due to the spectacular accidents, but to everyday causes. in the steel industry, for instance, forty-two deaths were due to the operation of electric cranes, thirty-one to the operation of broad and narrow gauge railroads in the mills and yards, and twenty-four to falls from a height or into pits, vats, etc. pittsburgh has stamped out smallpox; its physicians are fighting tuberculosis; the municipality is checking typhoid. cannot engineers, foremen, employers and workmen come together in a campaign to reduce accidents? considerable has already been done in this direction by progressive employers. the problem is that of bringing up the whole district to progressive standards. on the other hand we have put these industrial accident cases to that same test of human measurement which we found of such significance in gauging the losses due to typhoid fever. this steady march of injury and death means an enormous economic loss. is the burden of this loss justly distributed? what takes the place of the wages of these bread-winners? what resources of their own have these families to fall back on? what share of the loss is shouldered by the employer? what share falls in the long run upon the community itself, in the care of the sick and dependent? is the pennsylvania law fair that exempts the employer from paying anything to the family of a killed alien if that family lives in a foreign country? are the risks which the law supposes that the workman assumes when he hires out for wages, fair risks under modern conditions of production? is it in the long run, to the interest of the employer to leave to the haphazard, embittered gamble of damage suits, this question of meeting in a fair way the human loss which with even the best processes and the greatest care, is involved in the production of utilities? i am not in a position here to put forward the economic facts brought out by our inquiries; but i can say that on every hand, among employers and claim agents and workmen, there is profound dissatisfaction and an increasing open-mindedness toward some such sane and equitable system of working-men's compensation as those in operation in germany and in england. but this question of industrial accidents is only part of another and larger question of the relation of industry to health. the workers of pittsburgh are dealing not with simple ploughs and wash tubs and anvils, but with intricate machines or in great work rooms where hundreds work side by side; dealing with poisons, with voltage, with heat, with a hundred new and but half mastered agents of production. are the conditions under which some of this work is carried on directly inimical to health? could they be bettered without serious loss to the trades and with great gain to the workers? in the rapid development of factories in america, we have only begun to devise our plants with reference to the health of the worker as well as with reference to output. let me illustrate from the women employing trades. in only two of the twenty-eight commercial laundries in pittsburgh, is the wash room on the upper floor. in twenty-six, rising steam and excessive heat not only cause discomfort in the other departments, but tend to induce diseases of the respiratory organs. tobacco dried in many of the stogy sweatshops, makes the air heavy with nicotine, fills the room with fine dust and increases the danger, always present in the tobacco trades, from tuberculosis. in foundries and machine shops, the custom of placing annealing ovens in the rooms where the cores are made, causes excessive heat in the work room and fill the air with a black dust. we have the statements of old employes that not more than twenty-five girls of the in the coil winding room in one of the pittsburgh electrical industries have been in the plant as long as three or four years. the speeding-up tends to make the girls nervous, weak and easily overcome by illness. apart from dangers of accident, of speeding and of injurious processes, the health of a working force bears a direct relation to the length of the working day. the tendency with respect to both hours and sunday work in the steel industry in pittsburgh has been, for fifteen years, towards an increase, and there is no indication that the end has yet been reached. there is not the opportunity here to analyze the time schedule of the varied departments of the steel industry, but in a majority of them the day of twenty-four hours is split between two shifts of workers; and the men work not six days, but seven a week. and a very considerable share of them, once a fortnight in changing shifts, work a long turn of twenty-four hours. employers may differ as to whether they can get the most work and the most effective work out of a man if he works twelve hours a day, or ten, or eight. but i hold that the community has something at stake here. how much citizenship does pittsburgh get out of a man who works twelve hours a day seven days a week? how much of a father can a man be who may never see his babies except when they are asleep; or who never gets a chance to go off into the country for a rollick with his boys? the community has a claim on the vigor and intelligence of its people, on their activity in civic affairs, which i believe it is letting go by default. it is getting only the tired out leavings of some of its best men. my argument, then, is that if the civic responsibilities of democracy in an industrial district are to be met, the community should do what a first-rate industrial concern would do, figure out the ground it can cover effectively and gear its social machinery so to cover it. by social machinery i mean hospitals, schools, courts and departments the city structure, and all that wide range of activities that have a direct bearing on the living conditions of a people. second, to hold these agencies as closely accountable as are enterprises in the business world; and to bring them to the ultimate touchstone of their effect on the welfare of the average citizen. unless a wage-earning population is so insured against disease, its vigor and effectiveness so conserved, the community is not meeting its responsibilities toward the industries which must depend upon these workers for output and profit. in turn, the public should see to it that the industries do not cripple nor exploit the working force which constitutes the great asset of the community. and further, if such a program is to be carried out in an american and democratic way, the workers themselves must have greater leeway and leisure in which to bear their share of the burdens and responsibilities of american democracy. i bear a message to pittsburgh from john burns, president of the local government board of england, one of the foremost labor leaders of great britain, who has been hailed this fall as one of the conserving forces of the present liberal ministry in dealing with the vast economic problems which are facing the british empire. he has visited america and pittsburgh as a member of various commissions, and it was on the basis of his knowledge of our situation here that i asked him for suggestions as to ways of advance, which would lead to the improvement of civic and labor conditions in the pittsburgh steel district. "six days work a week instead of seven," he said. "three shifts of eight hours instead of two shifts of twelve; no twenty-four hour shifts; better housing; counter-attractions to the saloon; more parks,--open spaces; the improvement of the river front;--the humanizing of labor instead of the brutalization of toil. there you are. those are pittsburgh's marching orders." pittsburgh's three rivers and the great mineral resource's they tap brought the people here. environment is inevitable as a selective agency; but the people once here, can by their willing, mould and perpetuate or destroy the holding power of the district. other cities have large admixtures of clerks and trading classes. i doubt if there is such another working force in the country as that which peoples these valleys. therein lies a civic resource worth conserving to the utmost of its potential goods. will pittsburgh as a community, as a democratic community, meet that responsibility? will the industrial communities of the nation, as democratic communities, meet their responsibility? the trend of things the working woman is coming up as a result of her invasion of commercial pursuits. while the department store pays poorer wages than the factory or domestic service, it has a standing, its girls a position due to their dress and their surroundings, which the others do not give. grant it every evil ever charged against it, say mr. hard and mrs. dorr in the third article of their series on the woman's invasion, in the january _everybody's_, make the case out as bad as long hours, poor pay, christmas rush time, the need for expensive clothes, can total. still it is superior socially; its hours are shorter; it draws the american as against the foreign-born girl; it offers better opportunity for marriage, and all these things appeal to a girl because she is not, consciously at least, in industry to stay, but to pass the time until marriage. that's why "a store can get for six dollars the kind of girl that will earn ten dollars in a shoe factory." low as the wages are,--and they are set by this social advantage and by the predominant number of department store clerks who are not wholly dependent on themselves,--there is a chance for real advancement. woman has been in factory work for a century, but she remains an operative except for occasional forewomen, and as a result of piece work she quickly reaches her maximum earning capacity and afterwards declines. but in the department store, where she has been only a few years, she has advanced to positions of real responsibility, particularly as a buyer, and sometimes draws a salary of from $ , to $ , ; her wages go steadily up, and the clerks in some departments draw good, living wages with the ever-present example of the buyer and her kind just ahead, elevated from their own ranks. the article, in parts, in a stirring description of the life of the , department store clerks on state street, chicago, and one of the best parts of it is the contrast of the girl clerk who sells handkerchiefs, and the girl machine operative who makes handkerchiefs, the clerk "getting handkerchiefs out of boxes for querulous, exacting customers, putting handkerchiefs back in boxes for querulous, exacting stock inspectors, taking parcels to the cage of the wrapper girl, pacifying purchasers waiting for their change, attracting new purchasers coming down the aisle, discriminating between 'buyers' and 'shoppers,' drawing the 'buyers' on, edging the 'shoppers' off, rearranging the counter,--from eight or half-past in the morning to half past five in the afternoon;" the factory girl sitting before a counter on which there are a blue cross, a red cross and a machine with a clutching hand, who "takes a handkerchief, places it on the blue cross, pushes it over to the red cross, and the claw of the machine snatches it away. she takes a second handkerchief, places it on the blue cross, pushes it over to the red cross, and the machine snatches it away. she takes a third handkerchief, a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, a seventh, an eighth, two a second, a minute, , an hour, all the morning hours, all the afternoon hours, of every week, all the working weeks of every year.... the wide prevalence of this kind of sub-human toil in factories is one of the two great reasons why department store managers can often pay sub-human wages." * * * * * mrs. dorr has an article along very similar lines in the january _hampton's broadway magazine_, using with effect little stories of women workers in many trades. girls come out of school at fourteen and go to work; after a short apprenticeship they are put at the machines, and quickly earn the most they ever will earn. gradually their nerves, their muscles, their eyes, their efficiency decline, their wages follow. later they stand beside the young apprentices, earning the minimum wages after a life spent in a factory. women do hard, manual work, too, much as we have been accustomed to think of that as peculiar to some european and asiatic countries. indian squaws no longer till the fields and do the heavy work in america, but mrs. dorr has found a modern substitute: "go into the iron and metal working factories of american cities and see polish women working in the heat of horrible furnaces, handling heavy weights, doing work fit only for strong men. go into the rubber factories of boston and see greek and armenian women drunk in the fumes of naphtha. see them in non-union hat factories with the skin scalded from their hands as they shrink the felt in streams of boiling water. we do not want to see american women doing such things. yet not a year ago, in the first months of the panic of , i received a letter from an american woman out of employment, asking if it were not possible for her to obtain work as a street cleaner. that work, she said, seemed to her easier than the office scrubbing she was doing then." but to return to the factory girl, mrs. dorr declares she is not arraigning those who own and operate factories, for they are keen for skilled workers to replace the unskilled girls who must be driven at a pace set by the machines; but rather the system under which our industries are run and by which we make our workers. the skilled worker can be made only by training, and in that she finds the keynote to the whole situation. let us establish a great network of industrial training schools, such as the manhattan trade school for girls and the hebrew technical school for girls in new york, and the school maintained by the woman's industrial and educational union in boston. then we shall have not only skilled workers, earning fair wages, but we shall be safeguarding the mothers of to-morrow and the children of the day after. * * * * * "the doctor," says rudyard kipling in the january _ladies' home journal_, "can hoist a yellow flag over a center of civilization and turn it into a desert; he can hoist a red cross in the desert and turn it into a center of civilization." he can break the speed limit, go unmolested through riotous crowds, forbid any ship to enter any port in the world and order whole quarters of cities to be pulled down or burned up. these are some of his conspicuous privileges. on the other hand, "in all times of flood, fire, plague, pestilence, famine, murder and sudden death it is required of the doctor that he report himself for duty, and remain on duty till his strength fails him or his conscience relieves him,--whichever shall be the longer period." there is no eight-hour law for the physician, no one cares whether he is "in his bath, or his bed, or on his holiday, or at a theater." it is pretty well worth while, though, for "every sane human being agrees that this fight for time which we call life is one of the most important things in the world, if not the most important. it follows, then, that the doctors who plan and conduct and who re-enforce this fight are among the most important men in the world." * * * * * the immigration department of the international committee of the young men's christian association has issued two attractive little pamphlets for the newly arrived immigrant. the policy of the association is neither to encourage nor to discourage immigration but to give a helping hand to those who have fully made up their minds to immigrate or are already in this country. the two new books are entitled the country to which you go, giving an elementary outline of some of our political and social institutions, and how to become a citizen of the united states, which gives the immigrant a clear idea of the process to be undergone in order to become a voter. oscar straus, secretary of the department of commerce and labor, says of the work of the immigration department, "no nobler, better or more practical work can be done by the young men's christian association than to teach our young men, be they either native-born or alien, a proper understanding of the basic principles of our government." * * * * * the last issue of _the outlook for the blind_, published by the massachusetts association for promoting the interests of the blind and edited by charles f. f. campbell, contains a chart showing in detail all educational institutions for the blind in the united states and canada, with information of the training offered, the number of pupils, number of instructors, and other information. presented in this form, the information is graphic and may readily be compared by states. the same issue contains articles on industrial training for the blind, a new typewriter for the blind, conferences here and abroad, reports of work in different states, and some splendidly printed illustrations. such an issue seems indispensable to any one interested in the sightless. * * * * * it is to be expected that an anti-suffragist should take the particular attitude toward woman clearly manifested by dr. lyman abbott in the home builder.[ ] in speaking of the wife he says, "her one dominating desire is, not to be independent, but to be dependent on the man she loves." it is true that dr. abbott speaks of the widest and most perfect unity between man and wife but it is ever the attitude of the dependent, the chattel, the possession of man as the end and aim of the woman's existence. it is hardly a modern ideal for either the daughter, the wife, the mother, the housekeeper or even the philanthropist, as some of the headings are called. one of the most valuable points which dr. abbott does bring out, however, is the preservation of the sense of humor through all of the vicissitudes of the woman's life. if the book is intended for a quaint old lady, far away from the confines of civilization, it might meet her placid requirements. but it hardly possesses the philosophy that the modern, active woman of the larger communities can find use for. [ ] the home builder by lyman abbott. small mo. boards. houghton, mifflin and co., cents. pp. . this book may be obtained at publisher's price through charities and the commons. life insurance satisfies the conscience, eases the mind, banishes worry and gives old age a chair of contentment. [illustration] metropolitan policies are the standards of life insurance excellence [illustration] metropolitan life insurance company madison avenue, new york (incorporated by the state of new york. stock company.) * * * * * tyrrel print, new york. it is summer in california, arizona, mexico, texas, louisiana, you can motor, drive, ride, fish, hunt, bathe, climb, coach, canoe, yacht, golf, every day in the year points in these states best reached via the southern pacific sunset route the natural winter gateway the open window route rock-ballast roadbed--automatic block signals--oil-burning locomotives--superior equipment. ten days' stopover at new orleans on all tickets. for free illustrated pamphlet address: l. h. nutting, g. e. p. a., broadway, new york, or southern pacific agent at chicago, jackson blvd. new orleans, magazine st. boston, washington st. philadelphia, chestnut st. syracuse, w. washington st. baltimore, w. baltimore st. * * * * * please mention charities and the commons when writing to advertisers. * * * * * transcriber's notes: simple typographical and spelling errors were corrected. italics words are denoted by _underscores_. bold words are denoted by =equals=. p. added transcriber footnote "[footnote : transcriber + obviously does not equal ]." obviously the total or the boy or girl numbers are incorrect. transcriber's note there were a number of spelling and typographical errors in the original text. the handling of each one is noted in the transcriber's note at the end of this text. footnotes have been located at the end of the paragraphs where they appear. the underscore character indicates where the original is in _italics_. [illustration: yours truly t b. searight] the old pike. a history of the national road, with incidents, accidents, and anecdotes thereon. illustrated. by thomas b. searight. uniontown, pa: published by the author. . copyright, , by t. b. searight. presses of m. cullaton & co., richmond, ind. letter from james g. blaine. stanwood, bar harbor, maine. } september th, . } hon. t. b. searight, uniontown, pa. my dear friend:-- i have received the sketches of the "old pike" regularly and have as regularly read them, some of them more than once, especially where you come near the monongahela on either side of it, and thus strike the land of my birth and boyhood. i could trace you all the way to washington, at malden, at centreville, at billy greenfield's in beallsville, at hillsboro (billy robinson was a familiar name), at dutch charley miller's, at ward's, at pancake, and so on--familiar names, forever endeared to my memory. i cherish the desire of riding over the "old pike" with you, but i am afraid we shall contemplate it as a scheme never to be realized. very sincerely, your friend, james g. blaine. [illustration] contents. chapter i. pages inception of the road--author's motive in writing its history--no history of the appian way--a popular error corrected--henry clay, andrew stewart, t. m. t. mckennan, general beeson, lewis steenrod and daniel sturgeon--their services in behalf of the road, etc., etc. - chapter ii. origin of the fund for making the road--acts for the admission of ohio, indiana, illinois and missouri, etc., etc. - chapter iii. the act of congress authorizing the laying out and making of the road - chapter iv. special message of president jefferson--communicating to congress the first report of the commissioners--uniontown left out, etc. - chapter v. pennsylvania grants permission to make the road through her territory--uniontown restored, gist left out, and washington, pennsylvania, made a point--heights of mountains and hills--on to brownsville and wheeling, etc., etc. - chapter vi. albert gallatin, secretary of the treasury, called upon for information respecting the fund applicable to the roads mentioned in the ohio admission act--his responses - chapter vii. the life of the road threatened by the spectre of a constitutional cavil--president monroe vetoes a bill for its preservation and repair--general jackson has misgivings--hon. andrew stewart comes to the rescue - chapter viii. state authority prevails--the road surrendered by congress--the erection of toll gates authorized-- commissioners appointed by the states to receive the road, etc., etc. - chapter ix. plan of repairs--the macadam system adopted--mr. stockton offers his services--captain delafield made superintendent, etc., etc. - chapter x. lieut. mansfield superseded by capt. delafield--the turning of wills mountain, etc., etc. - chapter xi. on with the work--wooden bridges proposed for the new location up wills creek and braddock's run--the war department holds that wooden superstructures would be a substantial compliance with the maryland law--cumberland to frostburg, etc. - chapter xii. gen. lewis cass, secretary of war, transmits a report--more about the wooden bridges for the new location near cumberland, etc. - chapter xiii. the iron bridge over dunlap's creek at brownsville - chapter xiv. appropriations by congress at various times for making, repairing, and continuing the road - chapter xv. speech of hon. t. m. t. mckennan - chapter xvi. life on the road--origin of the phrase pike boys--slaves driven like horses--race distinction at the old taverns--old wagoners--regulars and sharpshooters-- line teams - chapter xvii. old wagoners continued--broad and narrow wheels--a peculiar wagon--an experiment and a failure--wagon beds--bell teams - chapter xviii. old wagoners continued - chapter xix. old wagoners continued--the harness they used, etc. - chapter xx. old wagoners continued--an exciting incident of the political campaign of --all about a petticoat--a trip to tennessee--origin of the toby cigar--the rubber--the windup and last lay of the old wagoners - chapter xxi. stage drivers, stage lines and stage coaches--the postillion, etc. - chapter xxii. stages and stage drivers continued--character of drivers defended--styles of driving--classification of drivers, etc. - chapter xxiii. the first mail coaches--the stage yard at uniontown--names of coaches--henry clay and the drivers--jenny lind and phineas t. barnum on the road, etc., etc. - chapter xxiv. stages and stage drivers continued--gen. taylor approaching cumberland--early coaches, etc. - chapter xxv. distinguished stage proprietors--lucius w. stockton, james reeside, dr. howard kennedy, william h. stelle--old stage agents--the pony express - chapter xxvi. old taverns and tavern keepers from baltimore to boonsboro--pen picture of an old tavern by james g. blaine - chapter xxvii. old taverns and tavern keepers continued--boonsboro to cumberland - chapter xxviii. old taverns and tavern keepers continued--cumberland to the little crossings--the city of cumberland - chapter xxix. old taverns and tavern keepers continued--little crossings to winding ridge--grantsville - chapter xxx. old taverns and tavern keepers continued--winding ridge to the big crossings--the state line--how it is noted - chapter xxxi. old taverns and tavern keepers continued--big crossings to mt. washington - chapter xxxii. old taverns and tavern keepers continued--mt. washington to uniontown - chapter xxxiii. old taverns and tavern keepers continued--uniontown--the town as it appeared to gen. douglass in --its subsequent growth and improvement, etc., etc. - chapter xxxiv. old taverns and tavern keepers continued--uniontown to searights - chapter xxxv. old taverns and tavern keepers continued--searights to brownsville - chapter xxxvi. old taverns and tavern keepers continued--brownsville to beallsville - chapter xxxvii. old taverns and tavern keepers continued--beallsville to washington - chapter xxxviii. old taverns and tavern keepers continued--washington, penn.--washington and jefferson college--the female seminary - chapter xxxix. old taverns and tavern keepers continued--washington to west alexander - chapter xl. old taverns and tavern keepers continued--west alexander to wheeling - chapter xli. west of wheeling--old stage lines beyond the ohio river--through indiana--the road disappears among the prairies of illinois - chapter xlii. superintendents under national and state control--old mile posts, etc. - chapter xliii. old contractors--cost of the road--contractors for repairs, etc. - chapter xliv. thomas endsley, william sheets, w. m. f. magraw, etc. - chapter xlv. dumb ike--reminiscences of uniontown--crazy billy, etc. - chapter xlvi. the trial of dr. john f. braddee for robbing the u.s. mails - chapter xlvii. visit of john quincy adams to uniontown in --received by dr. hugh campbell--the national road a monument of the past--a comparison with the appian way - appendix. digest of the laws of pennsylvania relating to the cumberland road--unexpended balances in indiana--accounts of two old commissioners--rates of toll--letters of albert gallatin, ebenezer finley and thomas a. wiley--curiosities of the old postal service - illustrations. t. b. searight frontispiece old mile post stage house and stables at mt. washington gen. henry w. beeson hon. daniel sturgeon hon. andrew stewart old toll house iron bridge over dunlap's creek hon. t. m. t. mckennan road wagon john thompson daniel barcus henry clay rush harrison wiggins john marker ellis b. woodward john deets john snider william hall john wallace alfred bailes german d. hair ashael willison jacob newcomer john ferren morris mauler james smith, of henry stage coach william whaley redding bunting john bunting samuel luman joseph whisson maj. william a. donaldson william g. beck henry farwell the narrows hanson willison matt. davis john mcilree l. w. stockton james reeside william h. stelle john kelso david mahaney john risler the temple of juno the endsley house the big crossings daniel collier sebastian rush ruins of john rush house hon. samuel shipley stone house, darlington's james snyder gen. ephraim douglass aaron wyatt the brownfield house col. samuel elder the searight house joseph gray william shaw abel colley hon. william hatfield the johnson-hatfield house the workman house bridge over the monongahela old tavern at malden william greenfield charles guttery billy robinson daniel ward john w. mcdowell s. b. hayes george t. hammond the rankin house the miller house the "s" bridge david bell joseph f. mayes mrs. sarah beck col. moses shepherd mrs. lydia shepherd john mccortney bridge over whitewater river gen. george w. cass william searight william hopkins daniel steenrod w. m. f. magraw "crazy billy" german d. hair house dr. hugh campbell the big water-trough on laurel hill [illustration: stage house and stables at mt. washington.] the old pike. chapter i. _inception of the road--author's motive in writing its history--no history of the appian way--a popular error corrected--henry clay, andrew stewart, t. m. t. mckennan, gen. beeson, lewis steenrod and daniel sturgeon--their services in behalf of the road--braddock's road--business and grandeur of the road--old and odd names--taverns--no beer on the road--definition of turnpike--an old legal battle._ the road which forms the subject of this volume, is the only highway of its kind ever wholly constructed by the government of the united states. when congress first met after the achievement of independence and the adoption of the federal constitution, the lack of good roads was much commented upon by our statesmen and citizens generally, and various schemes suggested to meet the manifest want. but, it was not until the year , when jefferson was president, that the proposition for a national road took practical shape. the first step, as will hereinafter be seen, was the appointment of commissioners to lay out the road, with an appropriation of money to meet the consequent expense. the author of this work was born and reared on the line of the road, and has spent his whole life amid scenes connected with it. he saw it in the zenith of its glory, and with emotions of sadness witnessed its decline. it was a highway at once so grand and imposing, an artery so largely instrumental in promoting the early growth and development of our country's wonderful resources, so influential in strengthening the bonds of the american union, and at the same time so replete with important events and interesting incidents, that the writer of these pages has long cherished a hope that some capable hand would write its history and collect and preserve its legends, and no one having come forward to perform the task, he has ventured upon it himself, with unaffected diffidence and a full knowledge of his inability to do justice to the subject. it is not a little singular that no connected history of the renowned appian way can be found in our libraries. glimpses of its existence and importance are seen in the new testament and in some old volumes of classic lore, but an accurate and complete history of its inception, purpose, construction and development, with the incidents, accidents and anecdotes, which of necessity were connected with it, seems never to have been written. this should not be said of the great national road of the united states of america. the appian way has been called the queen of roads. we claim for our national highway that it _was_ the king of roads. tradition, cheerfully acquiesced in by popular thought, attributes to henry clay the conception of the national road, but this seems to be error. the hon. andrew stewart, in a speech delivered in congress, january th, , asserted that "mr. gallatin was the very first man that ever suggested the plan for making the cumberland road." as this assertion was allowed to go unchallenged, it must be accepted as true, however strongly and strangely it conflicts with the popular belief before stated. the reader will bear in mind that the national road and the cumberland road are one and the same. the road as constructed by authority of congress, begins at the city of cumberland, in the state of maryland, and this is the origin of the name cumberland road. all the acts of congress and of the legislatures of the states through which the road passes, and they are numerous, refer to it as the cumberland road. the connecting link between cumberland and the city of baltimore is a road much older than the cumberland road, constructed and owned by associations of individuals, and the two together constitute the national road. while it appears from the authority quoted that henry clay was not the planner of the national road, he was undoubtedly its ablest and most conspicuous champion. in mallory's life of clay it is stated that "he advocated the policy of carrying forward the construction of the cumberland road as rapidly as possible," and with what earnestness, continues his biographer, "we may learn from his own language, declaring that he had to _beg_, _entreat_ and _supplicate_ congress, session after session, to grant the necessary appropriations to complete the road." mr. clay said, "i have myself toiled until my powers have been exhausted and prostrated to prevail on you to make the grant." no wonder mr. clay was a popular favorite along the whole line of the road. at a public dinner tendered him by the mechanics of wheeling, he spoke of "the great interest the road had awakened in his breast, and expressed an ardent desire that it might be prosecuted to a speedy completion." among other things he said that "a few years since he and his family had employed the whole or greater part of a day in traveling the distance of about nine miles from uniontown to freeman's,[a] on laurel hill, which now, since the construction of the road over the mountains, could be accomplished, together with seventy more in the same time," and that "the road was so important to the maintenance of our union that he would not consent to give it up to the keeping of the several states through which it passed." [footnote a: benjamin freeman kept a tavern on the old braddock road, a short distance south of mt. washington. locating his house on laurel hill, was an error of mr. clay, but of little consequence, and readily made under the circumstances. a monument was erected, and is still standing, on the roadside near wheeling, commemorative of the services of mr. clay in behalf of the road.] [illustration: gen. henry w. beeson.] hon. andrew stewart, of uniontown, who served many years in congress, beginning with , was, next to mr. clay, the most widely known and influential congressional friend of the road, and in earnestness and persistency in this behalf, not excelled even by mr. clay. hon. t. m. t. mckennan, an old congressman of washington, pennsylvania, was likewise a staunch friend of the road, carefully guarding its interests and pressing its claims upon the favorable consideration of congress. gen. henry w. beeson, of uniontown, who represented the fayette and greene district of pennsylvania in congress in the forties, was an indomitable friend of the road. he stoutly opposed the extension of the baltimore and ohio railroad west of cumberland, through pennsylvania, and was thoroughly sustained by his constituents. in one of his characteristic speeches on the subject, he furnished a careful estimate of the number of horse-shoes made by the blacksmiths along the road, the number of nails required to fasten them to the horses' feet, the number of bushels of grain and tons of hay furnished by the farmers to the tavern keepers, the vast quantity of chickens, turkeys, eggs and butter that found a ready market on the line, and other like statistical information going to show that the national road would better subserve the public weal than a steam railroad. this view at the time, and in the locality affected, was regarded as correct, which serves as an illustration of the change that takes place in public sentiment, as the wheels of time revolve and the ingenuity of man expands. lewis steenrod, of the wheeling district, was likewise an able and influential congressional friend of the road. he was the son of daniel steenrod, an old tavernkeeper on the road, near wheeling; and the cumberland, maryland, district always sent men to congress who favored the preservation and maintenance of the road. hon. daniel sturgeon, who served as a senator of the united states for the state of pennsylvania from to , was also an undeviating and influential friend of the road. he gave unremitting attention and untiring support to every measure brought before the senate during his long and honorable service in that body, designed to make for the road's prosperity, and preserve and maintain it as the nation's great highway. his home was in uniontown, on the line of the road, and he was thoroughly identified with it alike in sentiment and interest. he was not a showy statesman, but the possessor of incorruptible integrity and wielded an influence not beneath that of any of his compeers, among whom were that renowned trio of senators, clay, webster and calhoun. frequent references will be made in these pages to the old braddock road, but it is not the purpose of the writer to go into the history of that ancient highway. this volume is devoted exclusively to the national road. we think it pertinent, however, to remark that braddock's road would have been more appropriately named washington's road. washington passed over it in command of a detachment of virginia troops more than a year before braddock ever saw it. mr. veech, the eminent local historian, says that braddock's road and nemicolon's indian trail are identical, so that nemicolon, the indian, would seem to have a higher claim to the honor of giving name to this old road than general braddock. however, time, usage and common consent unite in calling it braddock's road, and, as a rule, we hold it to be very unwise, not to say downright foolishness, to undertake to change old and familiar names. it is difficult to do, and ought not to be done. from the time it was thrown open to the public, in the year , until the coming of railroads west of the allegheny mountains, in , the national road was the one great highway, over which passed the bulk of trade and travel, and the mails between the east and the west. its numerous and stately stone bridges with handsomely turned arches, its iron mile posts and its old iron gates, attest the skill of the workmen engaged on its construction, and to this day remain enduring monuments of its grandeur and solidity, all save the imposing iron gates, which have disappeared by process of conversion prompted by some utilitarian idea, savoring in no little measure of sacrilege. many of the most illustrious statesmen and heroes of the early period of our national existence passed over the national road from their homes to the capital and back, at the opening and closing of the sessions of congress. jackson, harrison, clay, sam houston, polk, taylor, crittenden, shelby, allen, scott, butler, the eccentric davy crockett, and many of their contemporaries in public service, were familiar figures in the eyes of the dwellers by the roadside. the writer of these pages frequently saw these distinguished men on their passage over the road, and remembers with no little pride the incident of shaking hands with general jackson, as he sat in his carriage on the wagon-yard of an old tavern. a coach, in which mr. clay was proceeding to washington, was upset on a pile of limestone, in the main street of uniontown, a few moments after supper at the mcclelland house. sam sibley was the driver of that coach, and had his nose broken by the accident. mr. clay was unhurt, and upon being extricated from the grounded coach, facetiously remarked that: "this is mixing the clay of kentucky with the limestone of pennsylvania." as many as twenty-four horse coaches have been counted in line at one time on the road, and large, broad-wheeled wagons, covered with white canvass stretched over bows, laden with merchandise and drawn by six conestoga horses, were visible all the day long at every point, and many times until late in the evening, besides innumerable caravans of horses, mules, cattle, hogs and sheep. it looked more like the leading avenue of a great city than a road through rural districts. [illustration: hon. daniel sturgeon.] the road had a peculiar nomenclature, familiar to the tens of thousands who traveled over it in its palmy days. the names, for example, applied to particular localities on the line, are of striking import, and blend harmoniously with the unique history of the road. with these names omitted, the road would be robbed of much that adds interest to its history. among the best remembered of these are, the shades of death, the narrows, piney grove, big crossings, negro mountain, keyser's ridge, woodcock hill, chalk hill, big savage, little savage, snake hill, laurel hill, the turkey's nest, egg nog hill, coon island and wheeling hill. rich memories cluster around every one of these names, and old wagoners and stage drivers delight to linger over the scenes they bring to mind. the road was justly renowned for the great number and excellence of its inns or taverns. on the mountain division, every mile had its tavern. here one could be seen perched on some elevated site, near the roadside, and there another, sheltered behind a clump of trees, many of them with inviting seats for idlers, and all with cheerful fronts toward the weary traveler. the sign-boards were elevated upon high and heavy posts, and their golden letters winking in the sun, ogled the wayfarer from the hot road-bed and gave promise of good cheer, while the big trough, overflowing with clear, fresh water, and the ground below it sprinkled with droppings of fragrant peppermint, lent a charm to the scene that was well nigh enchanting. the great majority of the taverns were called wagon stands, because their patrons were largely made up of wagoners, and each provided with grounds called the wagon-yard, whereon teams were driven to feed, and rest over night. the very best of entertainment was furnished at these wagon stands. the taverns whereat stage horses were kept and exchanged, and stage passengers took meals, were called "stage houses," located at intervals of about twelve miles, as nearly as practicable. the beer of the present day was unknown, or if known, unused on the national road during the era of its prosperity. ale was used in limited quantities, but was not a favorite drink. whisky was the leading beverage, and it was plentiful and cheap. the price of a drink of whisky was three cents, except at the stage houses, where by reason of an assumption of aristocracy the price was five cents. the whisky of that day is said to have been pure, and many persons of unquestioned respectability affirm with much earnestness that it never produced delirium tremens. the current coin of the road was the big copper cent of united states coinage, the "fippenny bit," spanish, of the value of six and one-fourth cents, called for brevity a "fip," the "levy," spanish, of the value of twelve and a half cents, the quarter, the half dollar, and the dollar. the mexican and spanish milled dollar were oftener seen than the united states dollar. the silver five-cent piece and the dime of the united states coinage were seen occasionally, but not so much used as the "fip" and the "levy." in times of stringency, the stage companies issued scrip in denominations ranging from five cents to a dollar, which passed readily as money. the scrip was similar to the postal currency of the war period, lacking only in the artistic skill displayed in the engraving of the latter. a hungry traveler could obtain a substantial meal at an old wagon stand tavern for a "levy," and two drinks of whisky for a "fippenny bit." the morning bill of a wagoner with a six-horse team did not exceed one dollar and seventy-five cents, which included grain and hay for the horses, meals for the driver, and all the drinks he saw proper to take. the national road is not in a literal sense a turnpike. a turnpike, in the original meaning of the word, is a road upon which pikes were placed to turn travelers thereon through gates, to prevent them from evading the payment of toll. pikes were not used, or needed on the national road. it was always kept in good condition, and travelers thereon, as a rule, paid the required toll without complaining. at distances of fifteen miles, on the average, houses were erected for toll collectors to dwell in, and strong iron gates, hung to massive iron posts, were established to enforce the payment of toll in cases of necessity. these toll houses were of uniform size, angular and round, west of the mountains constructed of brick, and through the mountains, of stone, except the one six miles west of cumberland, which is of brick. they are all standing on their old sites at this date ( ), except the one that stood near mt. washington, and the one that stood near the eastern base of big savage mountain. at the last mentioned point, the old iron gate posts are still standing, firmly rooted in their original foundations, and plastered all over with advertisements of frostburg's business houses, but the old house and the old gates have gone out of sight forever. it is curious to note how the word turnpike has been perverted from its literal meaning by popular usage. the common idea is that a turnpike is a road made of stone, and that the use of stone is that alone which makes it a turnpike. the common phrase, "piking a road," conveys the idea of putting stones on it, whereas in fact, there is no connection between a stone and a pike, and a road might be a turnpike without a single stone upon it. it is the contrivance to turn travelers through gates, before mentioned, that makes a turnpike. we recall but one instance of a refusal to pay toll for passing over the national road, and that was a remarkable one. it grew out of a misconception of the scope of the act of congress, providing for the exemption from toll of carriages conveying the united states mails. the national road stage company, commonly called the "old line," of which lucius w. stockton was the controlling spirit, was a contractor for carrying the mails, and conceived the idea that by placing a mail pouch in every one of its passenger coaches it could evade the payment of toll. stage companies did not pay toll to the collectors at the gates, like ordinary travelers, but at stated periods to the road commissioner. at the time referred to, william searight, father of the writer, was the commissioner in charge of the entire line of the road through the state of pennsylvania, and it was fifty years ago. upon presenting his account to mr. stockton, who lived at uniontown, for accumulated tolls, that gentleman refused payment on the ground that all his coaches carried the mail, and were therefore exempt from toll. the commissioner was of opinion that the act of congress could not be justly construed to cover so broad a claim, and notified mr. stockton that if the toll was not paid the gates would be closed against his coaches. mr. stockton was a resolute as well as an enterprising man, and persisted in his position, whereupon an order was given to close the gates against the passage of his coaches until the legal toll was paid. the writer was present, though a boy, at an execution of this order at the gate five miles west of uniontown. it was in the morning. the coaches came along at the usual time and the gates were securely closed against them. the commissioner superintended the act in person, and a large number of people from the neighborhood attended to witness the scene, anticipating tumult and violence, as to which they were happily disappointed. the drivers accepted the situation with good nature, but the passengers, impatient to proceed, after learning the cause of the halt, paid the toll, whereupon the gates were thrown open, and the coaches sped on. for a considerable time after this occurrence an agent was placed on the coaches to pay the toll at the gates. mr. stockton instituted prosecutions against the commissioner for obstructing the passage of the united states mails, which were not pressed to trial, but the main contention was carried to the supreme court of the united states for adjudication on a case stated, and mr. stockton's broad claim was denied, the court of last resort holding that "the exemption from tolls did not apply to any other property (than the mails) conveyed in the same vehicle, nor to any persons traveling in it, unless he was in the service of the united states and passing along the road in pursuance of orders from the proper authority; and further, that the exemption could not be claimed for more carriages than were necessary for the safe, speedy and convenient conveyance of the mail." this case is reported in full in d howard u. s. reports, page _et seq._, including the full text of chief justice taney's opinion, and elaborate dissenting opinions by justices mcclean and daniel. the attorneys for the road in this controversy were hon. robert p. flenniken and hon. james veech of uniontown, and hon. robert j. walker of mississippi, who was secretary of the treasury in the cabinet of president polk. after this decision, and by reason of it, the legislature of pennsylvania enacted the law of april th, , still in force, authorizing the collection of tolls from passengers traveling in coaches which at the same time carried the mail. chapter ii. _origin of the fund for making the road.--acts for the admission of ohio, indiana, illinois and missouri--report of a committee of congress as to the manner of applying the ohio fund--distances from important eastern cities to the ohio river--the richmond route postponed--the spirit and perseverance of pennsylvania--maryland, "my maryland," not behind pennsylvania--wheeling the objective point--brownsville a prominent point--rivers tend to union, mountains to disunion._ act of april , , for the admission of ohio, provides that one-twentieth part of the net proceeds of the lands lying within the said state sold by congress, from and after the th of june next, after deducting all expenses incident to the same, shall be applied to laying out and making public roads leading from navigable waters emptying into the atlantic to the ohio, to the said state and through the same, such roads to be laid out under the authority of congress, with the consent of the several states through which the road shall pass. act of april , , for the admission of indiana, provides that five per cent. of the net proceeds of lands lying within the said territory, and which shall be sold by congress from and after the first day of december next, after deducting all expenses incident to the same, shall be reserved for making public roads and canals, of which three-fifths shall be applied to those objects within the said state under the direction of the legislature thereof, and two-fifths to the making of a road or roads leading to the said state under the direction of congress. act of april , , for the admission of illinois, provides that five per cent. of the net proceeds of the lands lying within the said state, and which shall be sold by congress from and after the first day of january, , after deducting all expenses incident to the same, shall be reserved for the purposes following, viz: two-fifths to be disbursed under the direction of congress in making roads leading to the state, the residue to be appropriated by the legislature of the state for the encouragement of learning, of which one-sixth part shall be exclusively bestowed on a college or university. act of march , , admitting missouri, provides that five per cent. of the net proceeds of the sale of lands lying within the said territory or state, and which shall be sold by congress from and after the first day of january next, after deducting all expenses incident to the same, shall be reserved for making public roads and canals, of which three-fifths shall be applied to those objects within the state under the direction of the legislature thereof, and the other two-fifths in defraying, under the direction of congress, the expenses to be incurred in making a road or roads, canal or canals, leading to the said state. no. . ninth congress--first session. cumberland road. communicated to the senate december , . mr. tracy, from the committee to whom was referred the examination of the act entitled, "an act to enable the people of the eastern division of the territory northwest of the river ohio to form a constitution and state government, and for the admission of such state into the union on an equal footing with the original states, and for other purposes;" and to report the manner in which, in their opinion, the money appropriated by said act ought to be applied, made the following report: that, upon examination of the act aforesaid, they find "the one-twentieth part, or five per cent., of the net proceeds of the lands lying within the state of ohio, and sold by congress from and after the th day of june, , is appropriated for the laying out and making public roads leading from the navigable waters emptying into the atlantic to the river ohio, to said state, and through the same; such roads to be laid out under the authority of congress, with the consent of the several states through which the road shall pass." they find that by a subsequent law, passed on the d day of march, , congress appropriated three per cent. of the said five per cent. to laying out and making roads _within_ the state of ohio, leaving two per cent. of the appropriation contained in the first mentioned law unexpended, which now remains for "_the laying out, and making roads from the navigable waters emptying into the atlantic to the river ohio, to said state_." they find that the net proceeds of sales of land in the state of ohio, from st july, , to june , , both inclusive, were $ , from st july, , to june , , from st july, , to june , , from st july, , to sept. , , ----------- amounting, in the whole, to $ , two per cent. on which sum amounts to $ , . twelve thousand six hundred and fifty-two dollars were, therefore, on the st day of october last, subject to the uses directed by law, as mentioned in this report; and it will be discerned that the fund is constantly accumulating, and will, probably, by the time regular preparations can be made for its expenditure, amount to eighteen or twenty thousand dollars. the committee have examined, as far as their limited time and the scanty sources of facts within their reach would permit, the various routes which have been contemplated for laying out roads pursuant to the provisions of the act first mentioned in this report. they find that the distance from philadelphia to pittsburg is miles by the usual route, and on a straight line about . from philadelphia to the nearest point on the river ohio, contiguous to the state of ohio, which is probably between steubenville and the mouth of grave creek, the distance by the usual route is miles, and on a straight line about . from baltimore to the river ohio, between the same points, and by the usual route, is miles, and on a straight line . from this city (washington) to the same points on the river ohio, the distance is nearly the same as from baltimore; probably the difference is not a plurality of miles. from richmond, in virginia, to the nearest point on the river ohio, the distance by the usual route is miles; but new roads are opening which will shorten the distance fifty or sixty miles; miles of the contemplated road, from richmond northwesterly, will be as good as the roads usually are in that country, but the remaining seventy or eighty miles are bad, for the present, and probably will remain so for a length of time, as there seems to be no existing inducement for the state of virginia to incur the expense of making that part of the road passable. from baltimore to the monongahela river, where the route from baltimore to the ohio river will intersect it, the distance as usually traveled is miles, and on a straight line about . from this point, which is at or near brownsville, boats can pass down, with great facility, to the state of ohio, during a number of months in every year. the above distances are not all stated from actual mensuration, but it is believed they are sufficiently correct for the present purpose. the committee have not examined any routes northward of that leading from philadelphia to the river ohio, nor southward of that leading from richmond, because they suppose the roads to be laid out must strike the river ohio on some point contiguous to the state of ohio, in order to satisfy the words of the law making the appropriation; the words are: "leading from the navigable waters emptying into the atlantic, to the river ohio, to the said state, and through the same." the mercantile intercourse of the citizens of ohio with those of the atlantic states is chiefly in philadelphia and baltimore; not very extensive in the towns on the potomac, within the district of columbia, and still less with richmond, in virginia. at present, the greatest portion of their trade is with philadelphia; but it is believed their trade is rapidly increasing with baltimore, owing to the difference of distance in favor of baltimore, and to the advantage of boating down the monongahela river, from the point where the road strikes it, about miles by water, and by land, above pittsburg. the sum appropriated for laying out and making roads is so small that the committee have thought it most expedient to direct an expenditure to one route only. they have therefore endeavored to fix on that which, for the present, will be most accommodating to the citizens of the state of ohio; leaving to the future benevolence and policy of congress, an extension of their operations on this or other routes, and an increase of the requisite fund, as the discoveries of experience may point out their expediency and necessity. the committee being fully convinced that a wise government can never lose sight of an object so important as that of connecting a numerous and rapidly increasing population, spread upon a fertile and extensive territory, with the atlantic states, now separated from them by mountains, which, by industry and an expense moderate in comparison with the advantages, can be rendered passable. the route from richmond must necessarily approach the state of ohio in a part thinly inhabited, and which, from the nature of the soil and other circumstances, must remain so, at least for a considerable time; and, from the hilly and rough condition of the country, no roads are or can be conveniently made, leading to the principal population of the state of ohio. these considerations have induced the committee to postpone, for the present, any further consideration of that route. the spirit and perseverance of pennsylvania are such, in the matter of road making, that no doubt can remain but they will, in a little time, complete a road from philadelphia to pittsburg, as good as the nature of the ground will permit. they are so particularly interested to facilitate the intercourse between their trading capital, philadelphia, not only to pittsburg, but also to the extensive country within that state, on the western waters, that they will, of course, surmount the difficulties presented by the allegheny mountain, chestnut ridge and laurel hill, the three great and almost exclusive impediments which now exist on that route. the state of maryland, with no less spirit and perseverance, are engaged in making roads from baltimore and from the western boundary of the district of columbia, through fredericktown, to williamsport. were the government of the united states to direct the expenditure of the fund in contemplation upon either of these routes, for the present, in pennsylvania or maryland, it would, probably, so far interfere with the operations of the respective states, as to produce mischief instead of benefit; especially as the sum to be laid out by the united states is too inconsiderable, alone, to effect objects of such magnitude. but as the state of maryland have no particular interest to extend their road across the mountains (and if they had it would be impracticable, because the state does not extend so far), the committee have thought it expedient to recommend the laying out and making a road from cumberland, on the northerly bank of the potomac, and within the state of maryland, to the river ohio, at the most convenient place between a point on the easterly bank of said river, opposite to steubenville, and the mouth of grave creek, which empties into said river ohio a little below wheeling, in virginia. this route will meet and accommodate the roads leading from baltimore and the district of columbia; it will cross the monongahela river, at or near brownsville, sometimes called redstone, where the advantage of boating can be taken; and from the point where it will probably intersect the river ohio, there are now roads, or they can easily be made over feasible and proper ground, to and through the principal population of the state of ohio. cumberland is situated at the eastern foot of the allegheny mountains, about eighty miles from williamsport, by the usual route, which is circuitous, owing to a large bend in the river potomac, on the bank of which the road now runs, the distance on a straight line is not more than fifty or fifty-five miles, and over tolerable ground for a road, which will probably be opened by the state of maryland, should the route be established over the mountains, as contemplated by this report. from cumberland to the western extremity of laurel hill, by the route now travelled, the distance is sixty-six miles, and on a straight line about fifty-five; on this part of the route, the committee suppose the first and very considerable expenditures are specially necessary. from laurel hill to the ohio river, by the usual route, is about seventy miles, and on a straight line fifty-four or five; the road is tolerable, though capable of amelioration. to carry into effect the principles arising from the foregoing facts, the committee present herewith a bill for the consideration of the senate. they suppose that to take the proper measures for carrying into effect the section of the law respecting a road or roads to the state of ohio, is a duty imposed upon congress by the law itself, and that a sense of duty will always be sufficient to insure the passage of the bill now offered to the senate. to enlarge upon the highly important considerations of cementing the union of our citizens located on the western waters with those of the atlantic states, would be an indelicacy offered to the understandings of the body to whom this report is addressed, as it might seem to distrust them. but from the interesting nature of the subject, the committee are induced to ask the indulgence of a single observation: politicians have generally agreed that rivers unite the interests and promote the friendship of those who inhabit their banks; while mountains, on the contrary, tend to the disunion and estrangement of those who are separated by their intervention. in the present case, to make the crooked ways straight, and the rough ways smooth will, in effect, remove the intervening mountains, and by facilitating the intercourse of our western brethren with those on the atlantic, substantially unite them in interest, which, the committee believe, is the most effectual cement of union applicable to the human race. all which is most respectfully submitted. chapter iii. _the act of congress authorizing the laying out and making of the road._ an act to regulate the laying out and making a road from cumberland, in the state of maryland, to the state of ohio. _be it enacted by the senate and house of representatives of the united states of america in congress assembled_, that the president of the united states be, and he is hereby authorized to appoint, by and with the advice and consent of the senate, three discreet and disinterested citizens of the united states, to lay out a road from cumberland, or a point on the northern bank of the river potomac, in the state of maryland, between cumberland and the place where the main road leading from gwynn's to winchester, in virginia, crosses the river, to the state of ohio; whose duty it shall be, as soon as may be, after their appointment, to repair to cumberland aforesaid, and view the ground, from the points on the river potomac hereinbefore designated, to the river ohio; and to lay out in such direction as they shall judge, under all circumstances the most proper, a road from thence to the river ohio, to strike the same at the most convenient place, between a point on its eastern bank, opposite the northern boundary of steubenville, in said state of ohio, and the mouth of grave creek, which empties into the said river a little below wheeling, in virginia. sec. . _and be it further enacted_, that the aforesaid road shall be laid out four rods in width, and designated on each side by a plain and distinguishable mark on a tree, or by the erection of a stake or monument sufficiently conspicuous, in every quarter of a mile of the distance at least, where the road pursues a straight course so far or farther, and on each side, at every point where an angle occurs in its course. sec. . _and be it further enacted_, that the commissioners shall, as soon as may be, after they have laid out said road, as aforesaid, present to the president an accurate plan of the same, with its several courses and distances, accompanied by a written report of their proceedings, describing the marks and monuments by which the road is designated, and the face of the country over which it passes, and pointing out the particular parts which they shall judge require the most and immediate attention and amelioration, and the probable expense of making the same passable in the most difficult parts, and through the whole distance; designating the state or states through which said road has been laid out, and the length of the several parts which are laid out on new ground, as well as the length of those parts laid out on the road now traveled. which report the president is hereby authorized to accept or reject, in the whole or in part. if he accepts, he is hereby further authorized and requested to pursue such measures, as in his opinion shall be proper, to obtain consent for making the road, of the state or states through which the same has been laid out. which consent being obtained, he is further authorized to take prompt and effectual measures to cause said road to be made through the whole distance, or in any part or parts of the same as he shall judge most conducive to the public good, having reference to the sum appropriated for the purpose. sec. . _and be it further enacted_, that all parts of the road which the president shall direct to be made, in case the trees are standing, shall be cleared the whole width of four rods; and the road shall be raised in the middle of the carriageway with stone, earth, or gravel and sand, or a combination of some or all of them, leaving or making, as the case may be, a ditch or water course on each side and contiguous to said carriageway, and in no instance shall there be an elevation in said road, when finished, greater than an angle of five degrees with the horizon. but the manner of making said road, in every other particular, is left to the direction of the president. sec. . _and be it further enacted_, that said commissioners shall each receive four dollars per day, while employed as aforesaid, in full for their compensation, including all expenses. and they are hereby authorized to employ one surveyor, two chainmen and one marker, for whose faithfulness and accuracy they, the said commissioners, shall be responsible, to attend them in laying out said road, who shall receive in full satisfaction for their wages, including all expenses, the surveyor three dollars per day, and each chainman and the marker one dollar per day, while they shall be employed in said business, of which fact a certificate signed by said commissioners shall be deemed sufficient evidence. sec. . _and be it further enacted_, that the sum of thirty thousand dollars be, and the same is hereby appropriated, to defray the expense of laying out and making said road. and the president is hereby authorized to draw, from time to time, on the treasury for such parts, or at any one time, for the whole of said sum, as he shall judge the service requires. which sum of thirty thousand dollars shall be paid, first, out of the fund of two per cent, reserved for laying out and making roads _to_ the state of ohio, by virtue of the seventh section of an act passed on the thirtieth day of april, one thousand eight hundred and two, entitled, "an act to enable the people of the eastern division of the territory northwest of the river ohio to form a constitution and state government, and for the admission of such state into the union on an equal footing with the original states, and for other purposes." three per cent. of the appropriation contained in said seventh section being directed by a subsequent law to the laying out, opening and making roads _within_ the said state of ohio; and secondly, out of any money in the treasury not otherwise appropriated, chargeable upon, and reimbursable at the treasury by said fund of two per cent. as the same shall accrue. sec. . _and be it further enacted_, that the president be, and he is hereby requested, to cause to be laid before congress, as soon as convenience will permit, after the commencement of each session, a statement of the proceedings under this act, that congress may be enabled to adopt such further measures as may from time to time be proper under existing circumstances. _approved, march , ._ th. jefferson. * * * * * united states of america, } department of state.} _to all to whom these presents shall come, greeting_: i certify that hereto annexed is a true copy of an act of congress, approved march , , the original of which is on file in this department, entitled: "an act to regulate the laying out and making a road from cumberland, in the state of maryland, to the state of ohio." in testimony whereof, i, james g. blaine, secretary of state of the united states, have hereunto subscribed my name and caused the seal of the department of state to be affixed. done at the city of washington, this seventh day of march, a. d. , and of the independence of the united states the one hundred and fifteenth. james g. blaine. chapter iv. _special message of president jefferson--communicating to congress the first report of the commissioners--they view the whole ground--solicitude of the inhabitants--points considered--cumberland the first point located--uniontown left out--improvement of the youghiogheny--distances--connellsville a promising town--"a well formed, stone capped road"--estimated cost, $ , per mile, exclusive of bridges._ no. . ninth congress--second session. january , . _to the senate and house of representatives of the united states_: in execution of the act of the last session of congress, entitled, "an act to regulate the laying out and making a road from cumberland, in the state of maryland, to the state of ohio," i appointed thomas moore, of maryland, joseph kerr, of ohio, and eli williams, of maryland, commissioners to lay out the said road, and to perform the other duties assigned to them by the act. the progress which they made in the execution of the work, during the last season, will appear in their report now communicated to congress; on the receipt of it, i took measures to obtain consent for making the road of the states of pennsylvania, maryland and virginia, through which the commissioners propose to lay it out. i have received acts of the legislatures of maryland and virginia, giving the consent desired; that of pennsylvania has the subject still under consideration, as is supposed. until i receive full consent to a free choice of route through the whole distance, i have thought it safest neither to accept nor reject, finally, the partial report of the commissioners. some matters suggested in the report belong exclusively to the legislature. th. jefferson. * * * * * the commissioners, acting by appointment under the law of congress, entitled "an act to regulate the laying out and making a road from cumberland, in the state of maryland, to the state of ohio," beg leave to report to the president of the united states, and to premise that the duties imposed by the law became a work of greater magnitude, and a task much more arduous, than was conceived before entering upon it; from which circumstance the commissioners did not allow themselves sufficient time for the performance of it before the severity of the weather obliged them to retire from it, which was the case in the first week of the present month (december). that, not having fully accomplished their work, they are unable fully to report a discharge of all the duties enjoined by the law; but as the most material and principal part has been performed, and as a communication of the progress already made may be useful and proper, during the present session of congress, and of the legislatures of those states through which the route passes, the commissioners respectfully state that at a very early period it was conceived that the maps of the country were not sufficiently accurate to afford a minute knowledge of the true courses between the extreme points on the rivers, by which the researches of the commissioners were to be governed; a survey for that purpose became indispensable, and considerations of public economy suggested the propriety of making this survey precede the personal attendance of the commissioners. josias thompson, a surveyor of professional merit, was taken into service and authorized to employ two chain carriers and a marker, as well as one vaneman, and a packhorse man and horse, on public account; the latter being indispensable and really beneficial in excelerating the work. the surveyors' instructions are contained in document no. , accompanying this report. calculating on a reasonable time for the performance of the instructions to the surveyor, the commissioners, by correspondence, fixed on the first day of september last, for their meeting at cumberland to proceed in the work; neither of them, however, reached that place until the third of that month, on which day they all met. the surveyor having, under his instructions, laid down a plat of his work, showing the meanders of the potomac and ohio rivers, within the limits prescribed for the commissioners, as also the road between those rivers, which is commonly traveled from cumberland to charleston, in part called braddock's road; and the same being produced to the commissioners, whereby straight lines and their true courses were shown between the extreme points on each river, and the boundaries which limit the powers of the commissioners being thereby ascertained, serving as a basis whereon to proceed in the examination of the grounds and face of the country; the commissioners thus prepared commenced the business of exploring; and in this it was considered that a faithful discharge of the discretionary powers vested by the law made it necessary to view the whole to be able to judge of a preference due to any part of the grounds, which imposed a task of examining a space comprehending upwards of two thousand square miles; a task rendered still more incumbent by the solicitude and importunities of the inhabitants of every part of the district, who severally conceived their grounds entitled to a preference. it becoming necessary, in the interim, to run various lines of experiment for ascertaining the geographical position of several points entitled to attention, and the service suffering great delay for want of another surveyor, it was thought consistent with the public interest to employ, in that capacity, arthur rider, the vaneman, who had been chosen with qualification to meet such an emergency; and whose service as vaneman could then be dispensed with. he commenced, as surveyor, on the d day of september, and continued so at field work until the first day of december, when he was retained as a necessary assistant to the principal surveyor, in copying field notes and hastening the draught of the work to be reported. the proceedings of the commissioners are specially detailed in their general journal, compiled from the daily journal of each commissioner, to which they beg leave to refer, under mark no. . after a careful and critical examination of all the grounds within the limits prescribed, as well as the grounds and ways out from the ohio westwardly, at several points, and examining the shoal parts of the ohio river as detailed in the table of soundings, stated in their journal, and after gaining all the information, geographical, general and special, possible and necessary, toward a judicial discharge of the duties assigned them, the commissioners repaired to cumberland to examine and compare their notes and journals, and determine upon the direction and location of their route. in this consultation the governing objects were: st. shortness of distance between navigable points on the eastern and western waters. d. a point on the monongahela best calculated to equalize the advantages of this portage in the country within reach of it. d. a point on the ohio river most capable of combining certainty of navigation with road accommodation; embracing, in this estimate, remote points westwardly, as well as present and probable population on the north and south. th. best mode of diffusing benefits with least distance of road. in contemplating these objects, due attention was paid as well to the comparative merits of towns, establishments, and settlements already made, as to the capacity of the country with the present and probable population. in the course of arrangement, and in its order, the first point located for the route was determined and fixed at cumberland, a decision founded on propriety, and in some measure on necessity, from the circumstance of a high and difficult mountain, called nobley, laying and confining the east margin of the potomac so as to render it impossible of access on that side without immense expense, at any point between cumberland and where the road from winchester to gwynn's crosses, and even there the nobley mountain is crossed with much difficulty and hazard. and this upper point was taxed with another formidable objection; it was found that a high range of mountains, called dan's, stretching across from gwynn's to the potomac, above this point, precluded the opportunity of extending a route from this point in a proper direction, and left no alternative but passing by gwynn's; the distance from cumberland to gwynn's being upward of a mile less than from the upper point, which lies ten miles by water above cumberland, the commissioners were not permitted to hesitate in preferring a point which shortens the portage, as well as the potomac navigation. the point on the potomac being viewed as a great repository of produce, which a good road will bring from the west of laurel hill, and the advantages which cumberland, as a town, has in that respect over an unimproved place, are additional considerations operating forcibly in favor of the place preferred. in extending the route from cumberland, a triple range of mountains, stretching across from jenings' run in measure with gwynn's, left only the alternative of laying the road up will's creek for three miles, nearly at right angles with the true course, and then by way of jenings' run, or extending it over a break in the smallest mountain, on a better course by gwynn's, to the top of savage mountain; the latter was adopted, being the shortest, and will be less expensive in hill-side digging over a sloped route than the former, requiring one bridge over will's creek and several over jenings' run, both very wide and considerable streams in high water; and a more weighty reason for preferring the route by gwynn's is the great accommodation it will afford travelers from winchester by the upper point, who could not reach the route by jenings' run short of the top of savage, which would withhold from them the benefit of an easy way up the mountain. it is, however, supposed that those who travel from winchester by way of the upper point to gwynn's, are in that respect more the dupes of common prejudice than judges of their own case, as it is believed the way will be as short, and on much better ground, to cross the potomac below the confluence of the north and south branches (thereby crossing these two, as well as patterson's creek, in one stream, equally fordable in the same season), than to pass through cumberland to gwynn's. of these grounds, however, the commissioners do not speak from actual view, but consider it a subject well worthy of future investigation. having gained the top of allegany mountain, or rather the top of that part called savage, by way of gwynn's, the general route, as it respects the most important points, was determined as follows, viz.: from a stone at the corner of lot no. , in cumberland, near the confluence of will's creek and the north branch of the potomac river; thence extending along the street westwardly, to cross the hill lying between cumberland and gwynn's, at the gap where braddock's road passes it; thence near gwynn's and jesse tomlinson's, to cross the big youghiogheny near the mouth of roger's run, between the crossing of braddock's road and the confluence of the streams which form the turkey foot; thence to cross laurel hill near the forks of dunbar's run, to the west foot of that hill, at a point near where braddock's old road reached it, near gist's old place, now colonel isaac meason's, thence through brownsville and bridgeport, to cross the monongahela river below josias crawford's ferry; and thence on as straight a course as the country will admit to the ohio, at a point between the mouth of wheeling creek and the lower point of wheeling island. in this direction of the route it will lay about twenty-four and a half miles in maryland, seventy-five miles and a half in pennsylvania, and twelve miles in virginia; distances which will be in a small degree increased by meanders, which the bed of the road must necessarily make between the points mentioned in the location; and this route, it is believed, comprehends more important advantages than could be afforded in any other, inasmuch as it has a capacity at least equal to any other in extending advantages of a highway, and at the same time establishes the shortest portage between the points already navigated, and on the way accommodates other and nearer points to which navigation may be extended, and still shorten the portage. it intersects big youghiogheny at the nearest point from cumberland, then lies nearly parallel with that river for the distance of twenty miles, and at the west foot of laurel hill lies within five miles of connellsville, from which the youghiogheny is navigated; and in the same direction the route intersects at brownsville the nearest point on the monongahela river within the district. the improvement of the youghiogheny navigation is a subject of too much importance to remain long neglected; and the capacity of that river, as high up as the falls (twelve miles above connellsville), is said to be equal, at a small expense, with the parts already navigated below. the obstructions at the falls, and a rocky rapid near turkey foot, constitute the principal impediments in that river to the intersection of the route, and as much higher as the stream has a capacity for navigation; and these difficulties will doubtless be removed when the intercourse shall warrant the measure. under these circumstances the portage may be thus stated: from cumberland to monongahela, - / miles. from cumberland to a point in measure with connellsville, on the youghiogheny river, - / miles. from cumberland to a point in measure with the lower end of the falls of youghiogheny, which will lie two miles north of the public road, miles. from cumberland to the intersection of the route with the youghiogheny river, miles. nothing is here said of the little youghiogheny, which lies nearer cumberland; the stream being unusually crooked, its navigation can only become the work of a redundant population. the point which this route locates, at the west foot of laurel hill, having cleared the whole of the allegheny mountain, is so situated as to extend the advantages of an easy way through the great barrier, with more equal justice to the best parts of the country between laurel hill and the ohio. lines from this point to pittsburg and morgantown, diverging nearly at the same angle, open upon equal terms to all parts of the western country that can make use of this portage; and which may include the settlements from pittsburg, up big beaver to the connecticut reserve, on lake erie, as well as those on the southern borders of the ohio and all the intermediate country. brownsville is nearly equi-distant from big beaver and fishing creek, and equally convenient to all the crossing places on the ohio, between these extremes. as a port, it is at least equal to any on the monongahela within the limits, and holds superior advantages in furnishing supplies to emigrants, traders, and other travelers by land or water. not unmindful of the claims of towns and their capacity of reciprocating advantages on public roads, the commissioners were not insensible of the disadvantage which uniontown must feel from the want of that accommodation which a more southwardly direction of the route would have afforded; but as that could not take place without a relinquishment of the shortest passage, considerations of public benefit could not yield to feelings of minor import. uniontown being the seat of justice for fayette county, pennsylvania, is not without a share of public benefits, and may partake of the advantages of this portage upon equal terms with connellsville, a growing town, with the advantage of respectable water-works adjoining, in the manufactory of flour and iron. after reaching the nearest navigation on the western waters, at a point best calculated to diffuse the benefits of a great highway in the greatest possible latitude east of the ohio, it was considered that, to fulfill the objects of the law, it remained for the commissioners to give such a direction to the road as would best secure a certainty of navigation on the ohio at all seasons, combining, as far as possible, the inland accommodation of remote points westwardly. it was found that the obstructions in the ohio, within the limits between steubenville and grave creek, lay principally above the town and mouth of wheeling; a circumstance ascertained by the commissioners in their examination of the channel, as well as by common usage, which has long given a decided preference to wheeling as a place of embarcation and port of departure in dry seasons. it was also seen that wheeling lay in a line from brownsville to the centre of the state of ohio and post vincennes. these circumstances favoring and corresponding with the chief objects in view in this last direction of the route, and the ground from wheeling westwardly being known of equal fitness with any other way out from the river, it was thought most proper, under these several considerations, to locate the point mentioned below the mouth of wheeling. in taking this point in preference to one higher up and in the town of wheeling, the public benefit and convenience were consulted, inasmuch as the present crossing place over the ohio from the town is so contrived and confined as to subject passengers to extraordinary ferriage and delay, by entering and clearing a ferry-boat on each side of wheeling island, which lies before the town and precludes the opportunity of fording when the river is crossed in that way, above and below the island. from the point located, a safe crossing is afforded at the lower point of the island by a ferry in high, and a good ford at low water. the face of the country within the limits prescribed is generally very uneven, and in many places broken by a succession of high mountains and deep hollows, too formidable to be reduced within five degrees of the horizon, but by crossing them obliquely, a mode which, although it imposes a heavy task of hill-side digging, obviates generally the necessity of reducing hills and filling hollows, which, on these grounds, would be an attempt truly quixotic. this inequality of the surface is not confined to the allegheny mountain; the country between the monongahela and ohio rivers, although less elevated, is not better adapted for the bed of a road, being filled with impediments of hills and hollows, which present considerable difficulties, and wants that super-abundance and convenience of stone which is found in the mountain. the indirect course of the road now traveled, and the frequent elevations and depressions which occur, that exceed the limits of the law, preclude the possibility of occupying it in any extent without great sacrifice of distance, and forbid the use of it, in any one part, for more than half a mile, or more than two or three miles in the whole. the expense of rendering the road now in contemplation passable, may, therefore, amount to a larger sum than may have been supposed necessary, under an idea of embracing in it a considerable part of the old road; but it is believed that the contrary will be found most correct, and that a sum sufficient to open the new could not be expended on the same distance of the old road with equal benefit. the sum required for the road in contemplation will depend on the style and manner of making it; as a common road cannot remove the difficulties which always exist on deep grounds, and particularly in wet seasons, and as nothing short of a firm, substantial, well-formed, stone-capped road can remove the causes which led to the measure of improvement, or render the institution as commodious as a great and growing intercourse appears to require, the expense of such a road next becomes the subject of inquiry. in this inquiry the commissioners can only form an estimate by recurring to the experience of pennsylvania and maryland in the business of artificial roads. upon this data, and a comparison of the grounds and proximity of the materials for covering, there are reasons for belief that, on the route reported, a complete road may be made at an expense not exceeding six thousand dollars per mile, exclusive of bridges over the principal streams on the way. the average expense of the lancaster, as well as baltimore and frederick turnpike, is considerably higher; but it is believed that the convenient supply of stone which the mountain affords will, on those grounds, reduce the expense to the rate here stated. as to the policy of incurring this expense, it is not the province of the commissioners to declare; but they cannot, however, withhold assurances of a firm belief that the purse of the nation cannot be more seasonably opened, or more happily applied, than in promoting the speedy and effectual establishment of a great and easy road on the way contemplated. in the discharge of all these duties, the commissioners have been actuated by an ardent desire to render the institution as useful and commodious as possible; and, impressed with a strong sense of the necessity which urges the speedy establishment of the road, they have to regret the circumstance which delays the completion of the part assigned them. they, however, in some measure, content themselves with the reflection that it will not retard the progress of the work, as the opening of the road cannot commence before spring, and may then begin with marking the way. the extra expense incident to the service from the necessity (and propriety, as it relates to public economy,) of employing men not provided for by law, will, it is hoped, be recognized, and provision made for the payment of that and similar expenses, when in future it may be indispensably incurred. the commissioners having engaged in a service in which their zeal did not permit them to calculate the difference between their pay and the expense to which the service subjected them, cannot suppose it the wish or intention of the government to accept of their services for a mere indemnification of their expense of subsistence, which will be very much the case under the present allowance; they, therefore, allow themselves to hope and expect that measures will be taken to provide such further compensation as may, under all circumstances, be thought neither profuse nor parsimonious. the painful anxiety manifested by the inhabitants of the district explored, and their general desire to know the route determined on, suggested the measure of promulgation, which, after some deliberation, was agreed on by way of circular letter, which has been forwarded to those persons to whom precaution was useful, and afterward sent to one of the presses in that quarter for publication, in the form of the document no. , which accompanies this report. all which is, with due deference, submitted. eli williams, thomas moore, december , . joseph kerr. chapter v. _pennsylvania grants permission to make the road through her territory--uniontown restored, gist left out, and washington, pennsylvania, made a point--simon snyder, speaker of the house--pressly carr lane, a fayette county man, speaker of the senate, and thomas mckean, governor--a second special message from president jefferson, and a second report of the commissioners--heights of mountains and hills--on to brownsville and wheeling--an imperious call made on commissioner kerr._ an act authorizing the president of the united states to open a road through that part of this state lying between cumberland, in the state of maryland, and the ohio river. whereas, by an act of the congress of the united states, passed on the twenty-ninth day of march, one thousand eight hundred and six, entitled "an act to regulate the laying out and making a road from cumberland, in the state of maryland, to the state of ohio," the president of the united states is empowered to lay out a road from the potomac river to the river ohio, and to take measures for making the same, so soon as the consent of the legislatures of the several states through which the said road shall pass, could be obtained: and whereas, application hath been made to this legislature, by the president of the united states, for its consent to the measures aforesaid: therefore, section . _be it enacted by the senate and house of representatives of the commonwealth of pennsylvania, in general assembly met, and it is hereby enacted by the authority of the same_, that the president of the united states be, and he is hereby authorized to cause so much of the said road as will be within this state, to be opened so far as it may be necessary the same should pass through this state, and to cause the said road to be made, regulated and completed, within the limits, and according to the intent and meaning of the before recited act of congress in relation thereto; _provided, nevertheless_, that the route laid down and reported by the commissioners to the president of the united states, be so altered as to pass through uniontown, in the county of fayette, and washington, in the county of washington, if such alteration can, in the opinion of the president, be made, consistently with the provisions of an act of congress passed march th, , but if not, then over any ground within the limit of this state, which he may deem most advantageous. sec . _and be it further enacted by the authority aforesaid_, that such person or persons as are or shall be appointed for the purpose of laying out and completing the said road, under the authority of the united states, shall have full power and authority to enter upon the lands through which the same may pass, and upon any land near or adjacent thereto, and therefrom to take, dig, cut and carry away such materials of earth, stone, gravel, timber and sand as may be necessary for the purpose of completing, and for ever keeping in repair, said road; _provided_, that such materials shall be valued and appraised, in the same manner as materials taken for similar purposes, under the authority of this commonwealth are by the laws thereof, directed to be valued and appraised, and a certificate of the amount thereof shall, by the person or persons appointed, or hereafter to be appointed under the authority of the united states for the purpose aforesaid, be delivered to each party entitled thereto, for any materials to be taken by virtue of this act, to entitle him, her or them to receive payment therefor from the united states. simon snyder, _speaker of the house of representatives_. p. c. lane, _speaker of the senate_. _approved, the ninth day of april, one thousand eight hundred and seven._ thomas m'kean. tenth congress--first session. communicated to congress february , . _to the senate and house of representatives of the united states_: the states of pennsylvania, maryland and virginia having, by their several acts consented that the road from cumberland to the state of ohio, authorized by the act of congress of march , , should pass through those states, and the report of the commissioners communicated to congress with my message of january , , having been duly considered, i have approved of the route therein proposed for the said road as far as brownsville, with a single deviation since located, which carries it through uniontown. from thence the course to the ohio, and the point within the legal limits at which it shall strike that river, is still to be decided. in forming this decision, i shall pay material regard to the interests and wishes of the populous parts of the state of ohio, and to a future and convenient connection with the road which is to lead from the _indian_ boundary near cincinnati, by vincennes, to the mississippi, at st. louis, under authority of the act of april , . in this way we may accomplish a continuous and advantageous line of communication from the seat of the general government to st. louis, passing through several very interesting points, to the western country. i have thought it advisable, also, to secure from obliteration the trace of the road so far as it has been approved, which has been executed at such considerable expense, by opening one-half of its breadth through its whole length. the report of the commissioners herewith transmitted will give particular information of their proceedings under the act of march , , since the date of my message of january , , and will enable congress to adopt such further measures, relative thereto, as they may deem proper under existing circumstances. th. jefferson. february , . * * * * * the undersigned, commissioners appointed under the law of the united states, entitled "an act to regulate the laying out and making a road from cumberland, in the state of maryland, to the state of ohio," in addition to the communications heretofore made, beg leave further to report to the president of the united states that, by the delay of the answer of the legislature of pennsylvania to the application for permission to pass the road through that state, the commissioners could not proceed to the business of the road in the spring before vegetation had so far advanced as to render the work of exploring and surveying difficult and tedious, from which circumstance it was postponed till the last autumn, when the business was again resumed. that, in obedience to the special instructions given them, the route heretofore reported has been so changed as to pass through uniontown, and that they have completed the location, gradation and marking of the route from cumberland to brownsville, bridgeport, and the monongahela river, agreeably to a plat of the courses, distances and grades in which is described the marks and monuments by which the route is designated, and which is herewith exhibited; that by this plat and measurement it will appear (when compared with the road now traveled) there is a saving of four miles of distance between cumberland and brownsville on the new route. in the gradation of the surface of the route (which became necessary) is ascertained the comparative elevation and depression of different points on the route, and taking a point ten feet above the surface of low water in the potomac river at cumberland, as the horizon, the most prominent points are found to be elevated as follows, viz.: feet. ths. summit of wills mountain western foot of same summit of savage mountain savage river summit little savage mountain branch pine run, first western water summit of red hill (after called shades of death) summit little meadow mountain little youghiogheny river east fork of shade run summit of negro mountain, highest point middle branch of white's creek, at the west foot of negro mountain white's creek big youghiogheny river summit of a ridge between youghiogheny river and beaver waters beaver run summit of laurel hill court house in uniontown a point ten feet above the surface of low water in the monongahela river, at the mouth of dunlap's creek the law requiring the commissioners to report those parts of the route as are laid on the old road, as well as those on new grounds, and to state those parts which require the most immediate attention and amelioration, the probable expense of making the same passable in the most difficult parts, and through the whole distance, they have to state that, from the crooked and hilly course of the road now traveled, the new route could not be made to occupy any part of it (except an intersection on wills mountain, another at jesse tomlinson's, and a third near big youghiogheny, embracing not a mile of distance in the whole) without unnecessary sacrifices of distances and expense. that, therefore, an estimate must be made on the route as passing wholly through new grounds. in doing this the commissioners feel great difficulty, as they cannot, with any degree of precision, estimate the expense of making it merely passable; nor can they allow themselves to suppose that a less breadth than that mentioned in the law was to be taken into the calculation. the rugged deformity of the grounds rendered it impossible to lay a route within the grade limited by law otherwise than by ascending and descending the hills obliquely, by which circumstance a great proportion of the route occupies the sides of the hills, which cannot be safely passed on a road of common breadth, and where it will, in the opinion of the commissioners, be necessary, by digging, to give the proper form to thirty feet, at least in the breadth of the road, to afford suitable security in passing on a way to be frequently crowded with wagons moving in opposite directions, with transports of emigrant families, and droves of cattle, hogs, etc., on the way to market. considering, therefore, that a road on those grounds must have sufficient breadth to afford ways and water courses, and satisfied that nothing short of well constructed and completely finished conduits can insure it against injuries, which must otherwise render it impassable at every change of the seasons, by heavy falls of rain or melting of the beds of snow, with which the country is frequently covered; the commissioners beg leave to say, that, in a former report, they estimated the expense of a road on these grounds, when properly shaped, made and finished in the style of a stone-covered turnpike, at $ , per mile, exclusive of bridges over the principal streams on the way; and that with all the information they have since been able to collect, they have no reason to make any alteration in that estimate. the contracts authorized by, and which have been taken under the superintendence of the commissioner, thomas moore (duplicates of which accompany this report), will show what has been undertaken relative to clearing the timber and brush from part of the breadth of the road. the performance of these contracts was in such forwardness on the st instant as leaves no doubt of their being completely fulfilled by the first of march. the commissioners further state, that, to aid them in the extension of their route, they ran and marked a straight line from the crossing place on the monongahela, to wheeling, and had progressed twenty miles, with their usual and necessary lines of experiment, in ascertaining the shortest and best connection of practical grounds, when the approach of winter and the shortness of the days afforded no expectation that they could complete the location without a needless expense in the most inclement season of the year. and, presuming that the postponement of the remaining part till the ensuing spring would produce no delay in the business of making the road, they were induced to retire from it for the present. the great length of time already employed in this business, makes it proper for the commissioners to observe that, in order to connect the best grounds with that circumspection which the importance of the duties confided to them demanded, it became indispensably necessary to run lines of experiment and reference in various directions, which exceed an average of four times the distance located for the route, and that, through a country so irregularly broken, and crowded with very thick underwood in many places, the work has been found so incalculably tedious that, without an adequate idea of the difficulty, it is not easy to reconcile the delay. it is proper to mention that an imperious call from the private concerns of commissioner joseph kerr, compelled him to return home on the th of november, which will account for the want of his signature to this report. all of which is, with due deference, submitted, this th day of january, . eli williams, thomas moore. note.--it will be observed that keyser's ridge, which is unquestionably the highest point on the road, is not mentioned by the commissioners. this is, no doubt, because, at the date of their report, the locality did not bear the name keyser's ridge, and was known as a peak of negro mountain. soon after the location of the road, one keyser acquired the property at the ridge, and it took its name from him. it will also be observed that the measurement of heights by the commissioners was made from "a point ten feet above the surface of low water in the potomac at cumberland." a table of heights given in a subsequent chapter, the authority for which is not ascertainable, differs from that in the commissioners' report, but their report must be accepted as accurate from their point of measurement. the other table referred to gives the heights above the atlantic and above cumberland, and embraces more hills than the commissioners' report. chapter vi. _albert gallatin, secretary of the treasury, called upon for information respecting the fund applicable to the roads mentioned in the ohio admission act--his responses._ tenth congress--first session. communicated to the house of representatives march , . treasury department. march , . _sir_: in answer to your letter of the st instant, i have the honor to state: st. that the per cent. reserved by the act of th april, , on the net moneys received for public lands in the state of ohio, sold since st july, , has amounted to the following sums, viz: from st july, , to th june, $ , from st july, , to th june, , from st july, , to th june, , from st july, , to th june, , from st july, , to th june, , from st july, , to st december, (estimated) , ----------- $ , and that the said per cent. will henceforth probably amount to $ , a year. d. that, of the $ , appropriated by act of th march, , there has been expended, in laying out the cumberland road from cumberland to brownsville, about $ , that there may be wanted to complete the location, about , ------- $ , d. that contracts have been made for opening one-half of the breadth of said road, which, as verbally informed by one of the commissioners, will require about $ , , leaving, probably, about $ , of the appropriation for the further improvement of the road. th. that the portion of the road actually located and confirmed, no part of which exceeds an angle of five degrees, extends from the navigable waters of the potomac, at cumberland, to the navigable waters of the monongahela, at brownsville (red stone old fort), and it is stated, though no official report has been made to me, at about seventy miles. th. that that road can be considered as a national object only if completed as a turnpike, whereby all the flour and other produce of the western adjacent countries may be brought to a market on the atlantic shores; and the transportation of all the salt and other commodities and merchandise whatever, imported from the atlantic ports to the western country generally, may be reduced probably one dollar per cwt. and, lastly, that the expense of completing that part of the road in such manner, is estimated at $ , . i have the honor to be, respectfully, sir, your obedient servant, albert gallatin. hon. john montgomery, of maryland, chairman, etc., in congress. committee room, dec. , . _sir_: the committee appointed on the message of the president, transmitting a report of the commissioners concerning a road from cumberland to ohio, have directed me to request that you would cause to be laid before them such information as may be in possession of the treasury department respecting the fund applicable by law to "the laying out and making public roads leading from the navigable waters emptying into the atlantic, to the ohio," etc. ( ) the unexpended balance of the $ , appropriated by the act of the th of march, ; ( ) the amount of moneys, exclusive of the above, now in the treasury, and in the hands of the receiver of public moneys, applicable to that object; and ( ) an estimate of the probable amount of moneys that will accrue to the fund within the two succeeding years. i have the honor to be, very respectfully, sir, your obedient servant, jeremiah morrow. to the hon. secretary of the treasury. tenth congress--second session. _cumberland road._ communicated to the house of representatives, february , . treasury department, dec. , . _sir_: in answer to your letter of the d instant. i have the honor to state, for the information of the committee: st. that the unexpended balance of the appropriation, made by the act of march , , for opening a road from cumberland, on the potomac, to the river ohio, amounts to $ , . ; part of which sum will probably be wanted in order to complete the location and opening of the road. it is probable that about $ , will remain applicable to making the road. dly. that the total amount received, either at the treasury, or by the receivers of public moneys on account of roads, and calculated at the rate of per cent, of the net proceeds of the sales of lands in the state of ohio, subsequent to the th day of june, , was, on the th day of september last $ , leaving, if that mode of calculating be correct, and after deducting the sum appropriated by the above mentioned act , -------- a sum applicable to the road of $ , in addition to the above mentioned unexpended balance of , -------- and making together a sum of $ , but if the amount applicable to roads be calculated at the rate of per cent. only, on the net proceeds of the sales of lands, this will, on the th of september last, have produced only $ , from which, deducting the appropriation of , -------- leaves an unappropriated balance of $ , which, added to the unexpended balance of the appropriation , -------- makes an aggregate of only $ , dly. that the probable receipts on account of that fund may, for the two ensuing years, be estimated at $ , a year, if calculated at the rate of per cent., and at $ , a year, if calculated at the rate of per cent. on the sales of lands. i have the honor to be, respectfully, sir, your obedient servant, albert gallatin. hon. jeremiah morrow, chairman of the land committee. p.s.--amount of the per cent. of the net proceeds of the lands within the state of ohio: from st july, , to th june, , per cent. $ , . from st july, , to th june, , per cent. , . from st july, , to th june, , per cent. , . from st july, , to th june, , per cent. , . from st july, , to th june, , per cent. , . from st july, , to th june, , per cent. , . estimated july, , to st october, , per cent. , . ---------- total $ , . the sum of $ , appropriated per act of th of march to be paid therefrom; of which $ , . seems to have been paid. a. g. chapter vii. _the life of the road threatened by the spectre of a constitutional cavil--president monroe vetoes a bill for its preservation and repair--general jackson has misgivings--hon. andrew stewart comes to the rescue._ special message. may , . _to the house of representatives_: having duly considered the bill, entitled "an act for the preservation and repair of the cumberland road," it is with deep regret (approving, as i do, the policy), that i am compelled to object to its passage, and to return the bill to the house of representatives, in which it originated, under a conviction that congress do not possess the power, under the constitution, to pass such a law. a power to establish turnpikes, with gates and tolls, and to enforce the collection of the tolls by penalties, implies a power to adopt and execute a complete system of internal improvements. a right to impose duties to be paid by all persons passing a certain road, and on horses and carriages, as is done by this bill, involves the right to take the land from the proprietor on a valuation, and to pass laws for the protection of the road from injuries; and if it exist, as to one road, it exists as to any other, and to as many roads as congress may think proper to establish. a right to legislate for one of these purposes, is a right to legislate for the others. it is a complete right of jurisdiction and sovereignty for all the purposes of internal improvement, and not merely the right of applying money under the power vested in congress to make appropriations (under which power, with the consent of the states through which the road passes, the work was originally commenced, and has been so far executed). i am of opinion that congress do not possess this power--that the states individually cannot grant it; for, although they may assent to the appropriation of money within their limits for such purposes, they can grant no power of jurisdiction of sovereignty, by special compacts with the united states. this power can be granted only by an amendment to the constitution, and in the mode prescribed by it. if the power exist, it must be either because it has been specifically granted to the united states, or that it is incidental to some power, which has been specifically granted. if we examine the specific grants of power, we do not find it among them, nor is it incidental to any power which has been specifically granted. it has never been contended that the power was specifically granted. it is claimed only as being incidental to some one or more of the powers which are specifically granted. the following are the powers from which it is said to be derived: ( ) from the right to establish post offices and post roads; ( ) from the right to declare war; ( ) to regulate commerce; ( ) to pay the debts and provide for the common defence and general welfare; ( ) from the power to make all laws necessary and proper for carrying into execution all the powers vested by the constitution in the government of the united states, or in any department or officer thereof; ( ) and lastly, from the power to dispose of and make all needful rules and regulations respecting the territory and other property of the united states. according to my judgment, it cannot be derived from either of these powers, nor from all of them united, and in consequence it does not exist. having stated my objections to the bill, i should now cheerfully communicate at large the reasons on which they are founded, if i had time to reduce them to such form as to include them in this paper. the advanced stage of the session renders that impossible. having, at the commencement of my service in this high trust, considered it a duty to express the opinion that the united states do not possess the power in question, and to suggest for the consideration of congress the propriety of recommending to the states an amendment to the constitution, to vest the power in the united states, my attention has been often drawn to the subject since, in consequence whereof, i have occasionally committed my sentiments to paper respecting it. the form which this exposition has assumed is not such as i should have given it had it been intended for congress, nor is it concluded. nevertheless, as it contains my views on this subject, being one which i deem of very high importance, and which, in many of its bearings, has now become peculiarly urgent, i will communicate it to congress, if in my power, in the course of the day, or certainly on monday next. james monroe. general jackson, in his famous veto of the maysville road bill (may , ), refers to the cumberland road, and to the above message of president monroe, in the following terms; "in the administration of mr. jefferson we have two examples of the exercise of the right of appropriation, which, in the consideration that led to their adoption, and in their effects upon the public mind, have had a greater agency in marking the character of the power than any subsequent events. i allude to the payment of fifteen millions of dollars for the purchase of louisiana, and to the original appropriation for the construction of the cumberland road; the latter act deriving much weight from the acquiescence and approbation of three of the most powerful of the original members of the confederacy, expressed through their respective legislatures. although the circumstances of the latter case may be such as to deprive so much of it as relates to the actual construction of the road of the force of an obligatory exposition of the constitution, it must nevertheless be admitted that so far as the mere appropriation of money is concerned, they present the principle in its most imposing aspect. no less than twenty-three different laws have been passed through all the forms of the constitution, appropriating upwards of two millions and a half of dollars out of the national treasury in support of that improvement, with the approbation of every president of the united states, including my predecessor, since its commencement. the views of mr. monroe upon this subject were not left to inference. during his administration, a bill was passed through both houses of congress, conferring the jurisdiction and prescribing the mode by which the federal government should exercise it in the case of the cumberland road. he returned it with objections to its passage, and in assigning them, took occasion to say that in the early stages of the government he had inclined to the construction that it had no right to expend money except in the performance of acts authorized by the other specific grants of power, according to a strict construction of them; but that on further reflection and observation his mind had undergone a change; that his opinion then was: 'that congress had an unlimited power to raise money, and that in its appropriation they have a discretionary power, restricted only by the duty to appropriate it to purposes of common defence and of general, not local, national, not state benefit;' and this was avowed to be the governing principle through the residue of his administration." [illustration: hon. andrew stewart.] on the th of january, , the hon. andrew stewart, of pennsylvania, in a vigorous speech on the floor of congress, repelled the proposition that the general government was lacking in power and authority to make and preserve the road, from which the following extracts are taken: "mr. stewart expressed his regret that gentlemen had deemed this a fit occasion to draw into discussion all the topics connected with the general power over the subject of internal improvements. if repeated decisions, and the uniform practice of the government could settle any question, this, he thought, ought to be regarded as settled. the foundation of this road (the national or cumberland) was laid by a report made by mr. giles, the present governor of virginia, in , and was sanctioned the next session by a similar report, made by another distinguished virginian (mr. randolph), now a member of this house--it was the offspring of virginia, and he hoped she would not now abandon it as illegitimate. commenced under the administration of mr. jefferson, it had been sanctioned and prosecuted by every president, and by almost every congress, for more than a quarter of a century.* * * * "without roads and canals, of what avail was it to the people of the west to possess a country, abounding with all the essential elements of wealth and prosperity--of what avail was it to have a country abounding with inexhaustible mines of coal and ore; to possess a fruitful soil and abundant harvests, without the means of transporting them to the places where they were required for consumption? without a market, the people of the west were left without a motive for industry. by denying to this portion of the union the advantages of internal improvements, you not only deprive them of all the benefits of governmental expenditures, but you also deprive them of the advantages which nature's god intended for them. possessing the power, how, he asked, could any representative of the interior or western portions of this union vote against a policy so essential to the prosperity of the people who sent him here to guard their rights, and advance their interests? * * * * "the right of this government to construct such roads and canals as were necessary to carry into effect its mail, military, and commercial powers, was as clear and undoubted as the right to build a post office, construct a fort, or erect a lighthouse. in every point of view the cases were precisely similar, and were sustained and justified by the same power." * * * * the power, said mr. s., "to establish post offices and post roads," involves the power and duty of transporting the mail, and of employing all the means necessary for this purpose. the simple question, then, was this: are roads necessary to carry the mail? if they were, congress had expressly the right to make them, and there was an end to the question. roads were, he contended, not only necessary to carry into effect this power, but they were absolutely and indispensably necessary; you cannot get along without them, and yet we are gravely told that congress have no right to make a mail road, or repair it when made! that to do so would ruin the states and produce consolidation--ruin the states by constructing good roads for their use and benefit; produce consolidation by connecting the distant parts of the union by cheap and rapid modes of inter-communication. if consolidation meant to confirm and perpetuate the union, he would admit its application, but not otherwise. but we are told that the _states_ will make roads to carry the mails. this was begging the question. if the states would make all the roads required to carry into effect our powers, very well; but if they did not, then we may undoubtedly make them ourselves. but it was never designed by the framers of the constitution that this government should be dependent on the states for the means of executing its powers: "its means were adequate to its ends." this principle was distinctly and unanimously laid down by the supreme court in the case already referred to: "no trace," says the chief justice, "is to be found in the constitution of an intention to create a dependence of the government of the union on the states for the execution of the powers assigned to it--its means are adequate to its ends. to impose on it the necessity of resorting to means it cannot control, which another government may furnish or withhold, would render its course precarious, the result of its measures uncertain, and create a dependence on other governments, which might disappoint the most important designs, and is incompatible with the language of the constitution." and this was in perfect harmony with the constant and uniform practice of the government. * * * mr. s. begged gentlemen to turn their attention for a moment to the statute book, and see what the practice of the government had been; what had been already done by congress in virtue of this power of "establishing post offices and post roads." in an act had been passed, without a word of objection, which went infinitely further than the bill under consideration. his colleague (mr. buchanan) was then a member of this house, and, no doubt, voted for it. his eloquence was then mute--we heard nothing about states rights, spectres, and sedition laws. this bill, regulating the post office establishment, not only created some thirty or forty highly penal offences, extending not only over the cumberland road, but over every other road in the united states, punishing with severest sanctions, even to the taking away the liberty and the lives of the citizens of the states, and requiring the state courts to take cognizance of these offences and inflict these punishments. this was not all: this act not only extended over all the mail roads, but all other roads running parallel with them, on which all persons are prohibited, under a penalty of fifty dollars, from carrying letters in stages or other vehicles performing regular trips; and authorizing, too, the seizure and sale of any property found in them for the payment of the fines. the same regulations applied to boats and vessels passing from one town to another. compare that bill with the one under debate. this bill had two or three trifling penalties of ten dollars, and was confined to one road of about one hundred and fifty miles in extent, made by the united states, while the other act, with all its fines and forfeitures, pains and penalties, extended not only to all the mail roads in the united states, but also to all parallel roads; yet no complaint was then heard about the constitutionality of this law, or the dreadful consequences of carrying the citizens hundreds of miles to be tried. under it no difficulties had ever been experienced, and no complaint had ever been heard. there had been no occasion for appointing united states justices and creating federal courts to carry this law into effect, about which there was so much declamation on this occasion: this was truly choking at gnats and swallowing camels. to take away _life_ by virtue of the post office power for robbing the mail, is nothing; but to impose a fine of ten dollars for wilfully destroying a road which has cost the government a million of dollars, is a dreadful violation of state rights! an unheard of usurpation, worse than the sedition law; and went further towards a dissolution of the union than any other act of the government. such were the declarations of his colleague; he hoped he would be able to give some reason for thus denouncing this bill, after voting for the act of , which carried this same power a hundred times further than this bill, both as regards the theatre of its operations, and the extent of its punishments. * * * * * having thus established, and, as he thought, conclusively, the right to construct roads and canals for mail and military purposes, he came next to say a few words on the subject of those which appertained to the express power of "regulating commerce with foreign nations and _among the several states_." this power carried with it, as a necessary incident, the right to construct commercial roads and canals. from this grant congress derived exactly the same power to make roads and canals that it did sea-walls, light-houses, buoys, beacons, etc., along the seaboard. if the power existed over the one it existed over the other in every point of view; the cases were precisely parallel; it was impossible to draw a distinction between them. this power was essential to every government--there was no government under the sun without it. all writers on national law and political economy considered the right to construct roads and canals as belonging to the commercial power of all governments. * * * there were great arteries of communication between distant divisions of this extensive empire, passing through many states or bordering upon them, which the states never could and never would make. these works were emphatically national, and ought to be accomplished by national means. he instanced the road now under consideration--it passed through maryland, pennsylvania and virginia, yet neither of these states would have given a dollar to make it. it passed mostly through mountainous and uninhabited regions. he adverted to the potomac, ohio, and mississippi rivers. important as these were to all the states, yet they were the internal concerns of none--they were mere boundaries to which the states would give nothing, while they had so many objects exclusively internal requiring all their means. for these reasons he was utterly opposed to the project of dividing the surplus revenue of the general government among the several states; this would be to surrender the national means which the people had confided to this purpose to mere local and sectional objects, while those truly national would remain forever unprovided for. he did not claim for this government the power to make roads and canals for all purposes. the powers of this government and of the states were distinct and well defined. to the national government belonged, under the constitution, the power of making national roads and canals for national purposes. to the states belonged the power of providing for state and local objects. the roads and canals projected and executed by the states and private companies were often highly important in a national point of view; and to such, in his opinion, this government ought always to afford aid in a proportion corresponding with the interest the nation had in their accomplishment. when individuals were willing to go before and vest millions of their private funds in works strictly and truly national, connecting the remote sections of the union together (of which we had two distinct examples, one in this district and the other in a neighboring city, baltimore), could this government, charged with the care and guardianship of all the great interests of the nation, look on with cold indifference? was it not our duty to lend a helping hand to encourage, to cheer, and to sustain them in their noble and patriotic efforts? * * * * mr. stewart said he would now proceed to answer, as briefly as possible, some leading arguments urged by gentlemen in opposition to the bill under consideration. his colleague (mr. buchanan) had said that this bill proposed a greater stretch of power than the sedition law. this was an argument "ad captandum vulgus." he would not do his colleague the injustice to suppose that he was so ignorant of the constitution of his country as seriously to address such an argument to the understanding of this house. the bill under consideration was necessary to carry into effect the express power of transporting the mail. what power of this government was the sedition law intended to carry into effect? none. it was therefore not only clearly unconstitutional on this ground, but it went directly to abridge the freedom of the press, and, of course, was a plain and palpable violation of that provision in the constitution, which declares that "congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of speech or of the press." now, if his colleague could show any provision in the constitution in the slightest degree impugning the right of congress to pass this bill, then he might have some excuse for offering such an argument, otherwise he had none. the gentleman had, in a very labored effort, endeavored to prove that this government had no kind of jurisdiction or control whatever over this road. yet his own amendment recognized the existence of the very power which he denies. by his amendment he proposes what? that this government shall cede the roads to the states, with the power to erect gates and collect as much toll as was necessary to keep it in repair. but his whole argument went to prove that congress did not possess the very power which his amendment assumed and proposed to the states. the gentleman's amendment, and his speech therefore, were at open war with each other, and would perhaps both perish in the conflict. certainly, both could not survive--one or the other must fall. the gentleman, proceeding in his argument, had assumed premises which nobody would admit, and then, with an air of great triumph, he drew conclusions which even his own premises would not support. he takes for granted that this government, with all its mail, military, and commercial powers, has no more right to make a road to carry these powers into effect, through a state, than any individual possessing none of these powers would have. thus, having assumed what was utterly inadmissible, he triumphantly inquires whether an individual, having obtained leave to make a road through another's land, could put up gates and exact toll? the gentleman says, surely not. but he said, surely yes, unless expressly prohibited by the contract. suppose, by permission, i build a mill, said mr. s., upon that gentleman's estate, and construct a bridge and turnpike road to get to it, have not i as much right to demand toll at the bridge as at the mill? most undoubtedly; so that the gentleman's premises and his conclusions were alike fallacious and unsound. this position had been taken by both the gentlemen from virginia (mr. barbour and mr. archer), to whom he would make the same reply. a most extraordinary argument had been advanced against military roads: the public enemy may get possession of them in war!! was it possible that an american statesman could, at this time of day, urge such an argument? it might be addressed to a set of timid savages, secure in the midst of the wilderness. the enemy get possession of our roads, and therefore not make them! such cowardly arguments would deprive us of every possible means of defence. the enemy, it might be said with equal propriety, may get our ships, our forts, our cannon, our soldiers, and therefore we ought not to provide them. what would the brave freemen of this country say to the men who would deny them roads to travel on, lest the enemy might take them from us in war? they would reply, with spartan magnanimity, "let them come and take them." * * * a great deal has been said on the subject of jurisdiction; that, if it existed at all, it must be exclusive; that it could not attach to soil, and much metaphysical refinement of this sort, which had little to do with the subject. on this point, the only sound and practical rule was, that this government had a right to assume such jurisdiction over their roads as was necessary for their preservation and repair by such means as should be deemed most expedient, leaving everything beyond that to the states. thus far the constitution declared the legislation of congress to be "the supreme law of the land, anything in the constitution and laws of any state to the contrary notwithstanding." this left to the laws of the states, the right to punish all offences and other acts committed upon the road, in the same manner as though they had occurred in any other part of their territory. such had been the uniform practice of the government in executing all its powers up to the present time, and no complaint had ever been made or inconvenience experienced. it has been universally conceded on all hands in this debate, that the consent of the states could not confer any jurisdiction or powers on this government beyond what it had derived from the constitution. this was too clear a proposition to admit of doubt. yet the names of jefferson, madison, monroe, and gallatin, were introduced and relied on. did gentlemen forget that mr. gallatin was the very first man that ever suggested the plan for making the cumberland road, and that it had been sanctioned and actually constructed under the administrations of jefferson, madison, and monroe? their opinions were thus reduced to practice, which was the best evidence in the world--"by their fruits shall ye know them." chapter viii. _state authority prevails--the road surrendered by congress--the erection of toll gates authorized--commissioners appointed by the states to receive the road--they wrangle over its bad condition, and demand that it be put in thorough repair by congress, before the states will accept it--old and familiar names of the commissioners--the road accepted by the states._ at the session of the year , the pennsylvania legislature passed a bill, which was approved april th, of that year, by george wolf, governor, the preamble to, and the first, and part of the second, and all of the tenth sections of which read as follows: "whereas, that part of the cumberland road lying within the state of pennsylvania is in many parts in bad condition for want of repairs, and as doubts have been entertained whether the united states have authority to erect toll gates on said road, and collect toll; and as a large proportion of the people of this commonwealth are interested in said road, and its constant continuance and preservation; therefore, section . _be it enacted by the senate and house of representatives of the commonwealth of pennsylvania, in general assembly met, and it is hereby enacted by authority of the same_; that as soon as the consent of the government of the united states shall have been obtained, as hereinafter provided, william f. coplan, david downer, of fayette county, stephen hill, benjamin anderson, of washington county, and thomas endsley, of smithfield, somerset county, shall be, and they are hereby appointed commissioners, a majority of whom shall be sufficient to transact business, who shall hold their offices for three years after the passage of this act, after which the right of appointing said commissioners shall vest in the governor of this commonwealth, to build toll houses, and erect toll gates at suitable distances on so much of the cumberland road as lies within the state of pennsylvania; _provided_, that if any one or more of the commissioners should die, resign, or refuse to serve, the governor shall appoint one or more other commissioners to fill the vacancies so happening; _and provided, also_, that nothing herein contained shall be construed to prevent the governor from re-appointing the commissioners named in this act, if he thinks proper. sec. . that for the purpose of keeping so much of the said road in repair as lies within the state of pennsylvania, and paying the expense of collection and other incidental expenses, the commissioners shall cause to be erected on so much of the road as passes within this state at least six gates, and that as soon as said gates and toll-houses shall be erected, it shall be the duty of the toll collectors, and they are hereby required to demand and receive for passing the said gates, the tolls hereafter mentioned; and they may stop any person riding, leading or driving any horses, cattle, sulky, chair, phæton, cart, chaise, wagon, sleigh, sled or other carriage of burden or pleasure from passing through the said gates, until they shall respectively have paid for passing the same, that is to say: (here follow the rates). sec. . that this act shall not have any force or effect, until the congress of the united states shall assent to the same, and until so much of the said road as passes through the state of pennsylvania, be first put in a good state of repair, and an appropriation made by congress for erecting toll-houses and toll-gates thereon, to be expended under the authority of the commissioners appointed by this act: _provided_, the legislature of this state may at any future session thereof, change, alter or amend this act, provided that the same shall not be so altered or amended, as to reduce or increase the rates of toll hereby established, below or above a sum necessary to defray the expenses incident to the preservation and repair of said road, for the payment of the fees or salaries of the commissioners, the collectors of tolls, and other agents. _and provided further_, that no change, alteration, or amendment, shall ever be adopted, that will in any wise defeat or affect, the true intent and meaning of this act." ohio was a little in advance of pennsylvania in accepting the road, and less exacting in her terms. the legislature of that state, on the th of february, , passed an act authorizing the acceptance, without requiring that the road should be put in repair as a condition precedent. on the d of january, , maryland, by an act of her legislature, agreed to accept the road upon the same condition required by pennsylvania, and on the th of february, , virginia accepted in an act similar to that of ohio. on the d of july, , congress declared its assent to the above mentioned laws of pennsylvania and maryland in these words: "to which acts the assent of the united states is hereby given, to remain in force during the pleasure of congress," and on the d of march, , assented to the act of virginia with a similar limitation. [illustration: toll house.] * * * * * january , . referred to the committee of the whole house, to which is committed bill no. . _to the senate and house of representatives of the united states in congress assembled:_ the undersigned beg leave to represent that they have been appointed commissioners, under the act of the legislature of pennsylvania, to accept from the general government so much of the cumberland road as lies within the limits of that state, and erect toll gates as soon as it is put in such a state of repair as is required by the provisions of that act. that they have every disposition to relieve the government from the burden of the road, so soon as they can feel themselves justified, under the law, in doing so; but they beg leave to respectfully represent that the road has not yet been put in that condition that would enable them to accept of it. on some parts no more than six inches, and west of the monongahela river, three inches only of metal have been put upon it, and it is apparent that this will be totally insufficient to preserve it under the heavy travel upon that road. besides, the bridges throughout the whole road remain untouched. under these circumstances, it is impossible for us, in the discharge of our duty, to accept of it; and we would most earnestly but respectfully urge upon congress the propriety of making such an appropriation as will complete the repairs in a substantial manner, as required by the act of our own legislature. we will not undertake to prescribe the amount which may be necessary; but, to satisfy your honorable bodies that we are disposed to go as far as the faithful discharge of our duty will permit, we hereby pledge ourselves, so soon as congress shall make an appropriation of so much money as may be estimated by the department as necessary for that purpose, to accept of the road, and have toll gates erected without delay. we, therefore, beg leave most respectfully to submit to the wisdom of your honorable bodies to determine whether it will be better to make the necessary appropriation to justify us in accepting the road, and relieving the government from all future charge, or to keep it in its present state, subject to annual appropriations for its preservation, as heretofore. tho. endsley. stephen hill. david downer. william f. coplan. january , . benjamin anderson. * * * * * _to the honorable the senate and house of representatives of the united states in congress assembled_: the undersigned beg leave to represent that they have been appointed commissioners, under the act of assembly of the state of maryland, to report to the governor and council of said state when that part of the cumberland road which lies within the limits of said state shall have been put in that state of repair contemplated by the act of congress, and the act of assembly of the state of maryland, agreeing to receive the road and to keep it in repair; that they will with great pleasure report the road to the governor and council the moment they can with propriety do so. and they beg leave to represent that they feel authorized to say that the governor and council will, with great pleasure, authorize them to receive the road whenever it shall be put in that condition which would justify the state in accepting it. they further represent that the road has not yet been put in that condition that would justify them in advising the state to receive it. on some parts of the road no more than three and a half inches of metal has been put, and it is evident that this covering will be totally insufficient to preserve it in a fit state for use under the heavy travel which is constantly passing over it. the bridges also, throughout the whole distance, remain in a ruinous and dilapidated condition. they further respectfully represent that the new location from cumberland, through the narrows of wills creek and along braddock's run, a distance of upwards of six miles, has had but three and a half inches of metal upon it; and the bridge over wills creek and the bridges over braddock's run were to be permanent stone structures, by the act of assembly of maryland, authorizing the president to change the location of the road. the undersigned are also advised that it is contemplated by the superintendent to put up wooden structures for bridges, in lieu of the stone bridges required by the act of assembly of maryland, authorizing the change in the location of the road, which would be in direct violation of that act. they further represent that the floors of wooden bridges must be removed every two or three years, and the whole structure of the bridges themselves must be built every twenty or twenty-five years. under these circumstances it would be impossible for the undersigned, in the discharge of their duty, to recommend to the state the acceptance of the road. and they would most earnestly but respectfully urge upon congress the propriety of making such an appropriation as will be sufficient to complete the repairs on the old road, and to finish the new location in a substantial manner, as contemplated and required by the act of the legislature of maryland. the undersigned will not undertake to prescribe the sum which may be necessary for this purpose; but, to satisfy your honorable bodies that they are disposed to go as far as the faithful discharge of their duty will permit, they hereby pledge themselves that so soon as congress shall make an appropriation of so much money as may be estimated by the department as necessary for the completion of the repairs of the old road, and the finishing of the road on the new location, together with the construction of permanent stone bridges, they will forthwith report to the governor and council the state of the road, and recommend that the state receive such part of the road as may be completed, and to collect tolls on it to keep it in repair, thereby relieving the united states from any further expense for repairs on such part. they further beg leave most respectfully to submit to the wisdom of your honorable bodies to determine whether it will be better to make the necessary appropriation to enable them to recommend the road as in a fit condition to be received by the state, and thus relieve the government from any further burden, or to let it remain in its present state, subject to appropriations for its preservation, as heretofore. john hoye, mesheck frost, commissioners of the state of maryland. on april , , pennsylvania accepted the road in the following brief terms, embodied in the third section of an act of her legislature of that date: "the surrender by the united states of so much of the cumberland road as lies within the state of pennsylvania is hereby accepted by this state, and the commissioners to be appointed under this act are authorized to erect toll gates on the whole or any part of said road, at such time as they may deem it expedient to do so." maryland, virginia, and ohio also accepted the road, and thenceforth it was, and remains under the control of the several states through which it passes. chapter ix. _plan of repairs--the macadam system adopted--mr. stockton offers his services--capt. delafield made superintendent--the road in a bad condition--permission asked to deviate from instructions, and refused--capt. giesey lifted the old road bed indiscriminately-- first defects to be remedied--lieut. mansfield at uniontown--plan emphasized in notices for contracts--free passage for water a first consideration._ engineer department, washington, july , . _lt. j. k. f. mansfield, corps of engineers_: sir: by direction of the secretary of war, you have been assigned, temporarily, to the superintendence of the repairs of the cumberland road east of the ohio river; and in the discharge of your duties in this capacity, you will be governed by the following instructions: st. respecting the parts to be repaired. the extreme limits within which your operations will be confined are, the point of intersection of the road with the western boundary line of the state of pennsylvania, and cumberland, in the state of maryland; the dividing line between these states will be considered as dividing the line of the road to be repaired into two divisions, and the division within the state of pennsylvania will be subdivided into six equal sections, and that within the state of maryland, into two; then, having made a thorough examination of each of these sections, with a view to make yourself acquainted with their exact condition, you will classify them in the order of their condition, placing the worst first, the next worst second, and so on, making the best the last. you will then make an estimate for the repairs of each of these sections, to ascertain how far the appropriation, which is one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, will go toward repairing the whole road. separate contracts will then be made for executing the repairs, commencing with no. , and passing regularly through the sections, as classified, to the best section; and these repairs will be prosecuted with as much despatch as the nature of the case will allow. should you deem it advisable, in letting out these sections, to retain any portion of them which may seem to require but slight repairs, and which repairs could be executed with greater economy by having overseers and laborers to act under your immediate direction, you are at liberty to do so, bearing in mind, however, that whenever the repairs of the road can be made with equal economy, it is the wish of the department that they should be made by contract. as soon as one or more of these sections are finished, you will notify the commissioners appointed to receive this road by the laws of pennsylvania and maryland, approved, that of the former on the th day of april, , and that of the latter on the th day of january, , that these sections are ready to be turned over to the state, and you will accordingly turn them over. d. respecting the mode of repairs. in order to insure efficient and permanent repairs, they are to be made on that which is called the macadam system; that is to say, the pavement of the old road must be entirely broken up, and the stones removed from the road; the bed of which must then be raked smooth, and made nearly flat, having a rise of not more than three inches from the side to the center, in a road thirty feet wide; the ditches on each side of the road, and the drains leading from them, are to be so constructed that the water cannot stand at a higher level than that which is eighteen inches below the lowest part of the surface of the road; and, in all cases, when it is practicable, the drains should be adjusted in such a manner as to lead the water entirely from the side ditches. the culverts are to be cleared out, and so adjusted as to allow the free passage of all water that may tend to cross the road. having thus formed the bed of the road, cleaned out the ditches and culverts, and adjusted the side drains, the stone, reduced to a size not exceeding four ounces in weight, must be spread on with shovels, and raked smooth. the old material should be used only when it is of sufficient hardness, and no clay or sand must be mixed with the stone. in replacing the covering of stone, it will be found best to lay it on in strata of about three inches thick, admitting the travel for a short interval on each layer, and interposing such obstructions from time to time as will insure an equal travel over every portion of the road; taking care to keep persons in constant attendance to rake the surface when it becomes uneven by the action of the wheels of carriages. in those parts of the road, if any, where materials of good quality cannot be obtained from the road in sufficient quantity to afford a course of six inches, new stone must be procured to make up the deficiency to that thickness; but it is unnecessary, in any part, to put on a covering of more than nine inches. none but limestone, flint or granite, should be used for the covering, if practicable; and no covering should be placed upon the bed of the road till it has become well compacted and thoroughly dried. at proper intervals, on the slopes of hills, drains or paved catch-waters must be made across the road, when the cost of constructing culverts would render their use inexpedient. these catch-waters must be made with a gradual curvature, so as to give no jolts to the wheels of carriages passing over them; but whenever the expense will justify the introduction of culverts, they will be used in preference; and in all cases where the water crosses the road, either in catch-waters or under culverts, sufficient pavements and overfalls must be constructed to provide against the possibility of the road or banks being washed away by it. the masonry of the bridges, culverts, and side walls, must be repaired, when it may be required, in a substantial manner, and care must be taken that the mortar used be of good quality, without admixture of raw clay. all the masonry to be well pointed with hydraulic mortar, and in no case must the pointing be put on after the middle of october; all masonry finished after this time will be well covered, and pointed early in the following spring. care must be taken, also, to provide means for carrying off the water from the bases of walls, to prevent the action of frost on their foundations; and it is highly important that all foundations in masonry should be well pointed with hydraulic mortar to a depth of eighteen inches below the surface of the ground. as the laws on the subject of this road do not seem to justify a deviation from the original location, you will be careful to confine your operations to the road as you find it located; but, as it is believed that its axis may be dropped without adding much to the expense in those places where its inclination with the horizon exceeds four degrees, you are authorized, under the exercise of a sound discretion, to make this change. in making your contracts, it must be understood that you are to have the general supervision of their execution, and that it will be your duty to see that all labor and materials (provided for by them) be applied in the most faithful and substantial manner. these contracts must provide in their specifications for all the work that can be anticipated, and should it happen that additional stipulations are afterwards found to be necessary for either workmanship or supplies not originally provided for, the facts must be reported to this department, and, with its approbation, if obtained, new contracts will be made for the additional services and supplies required; and it must be distinctly understood by the contractors that no payment will be made for work not provided for by their contracts. mr. l. w. stockton, of uniontown, has been engaged on this road and is intimately acquainted with every part of it, as well as with the adjacent country; and, as he has offered his services, you would do well to call upon him and avail yourself of them in any capacity that may seem to you best. as soon as it can be done, a drawing of the whole road, with details of construction, will be forwarded, to be filed in this office. you will take up your headquarters at any point on the road where your services may appear to you to be most needed; and, as soon as you shall have completed such an examination of the road as will place you in possession of the information necessary to draw up the specifications to your contracts, you will invite proposals for those contracts through the public prints. these contracts will be closed with as little delay as the interest of the road will allow, when the work will be commenced, and the contracts, together with the proper estimates, forwarded to this office. for the mode of making these estimates, keeping your accounts, and conducting your correspondence with this office, you are referred to the regulations of the engineer department. captain delafield has been assigned to the permanent superintendence of the repairs of this road, and has been directed to join you on or before the st of october next. you will, therefore, immediately on his arrival, turn over to him these instructions, together with all the papers and public property that may be in your possession relating to the road. as soon as you shall have completed the necessary examinations on the road, you will commence and continue the repairs simultaneously in both states. you will make application for such instruments and funds as may appear necessary to enable you to execute the foregoing instructions. i am, &c., c. gratiot, brigadier general. * * * * * cumberland, md., august , . _sir_: i have this evening returned from a general reconnoissance of the road in this state. i find the road in a shocking condition, and every rod of it will require great repair; some of it is now almost impassable. i purpose leaving here to-morrow, on a particular measurement and survey of the road as it is, and the requisites to put it in complete repair. the object of this communication is to request to be permitted to deviate, according to circumstances, from so much of my instructions as requires the old bed in all cases to be lifted, and the rise in the middle three inches; for there are parts of the road where the top of the old bed is full low, and where it will be more expensive, and less firm, to remove the old bed and fill in with earth, than to bring stone and macadamize on the top of the old bed to the thickness of nine inches; and there are cases on the sides of the mountains where a greater rise than three inches, such, for instance, as some parts of it now have, which is more advantageous than a less one to confine the water to the gutters in cases of torrents, and thereby preventing a general sweep over the whole road, which would carry off the smallest stuff of a macadamized road. the repairs made by mr. giesey, about two years since, have the radical fault resulting from having lifted the old road indiscriminately, and not giving sufficient rise to the center for a mountainous country. i have the honor to be, sir, very respectfully, your most obedient, j. k. f. mansfield, lieut. of engineers. gen. chas. gratiot, chief engineer. * * * * * engineer department, washington, august , . _sir_: your letter of the st instant, requesting permission to deviate, according to circumstances, from so much of the instructions of the department to you, on the subject of the repairs of the cumberland road, as requires the old road in all cases to be lifted, and the rise in the middle to be made three inches, has been under consideration, and i have to inform you that this permission cannot be granted. in withholding the sanction of the department to any deviation from the prominent features of your instructions on the subject of these repairs, it may, perhaps, be proper to state, for your information, the views of the department on this subject. by referring to the report of mr. weaver, a printed copy of which you have in your possession, who made an examination of the cumberland road in , you will perceive that the mode of constructing it was that of digging a trench, or of sinking the bed of the road below the natural surface of the ground; that this trench was filled with large stones, and that these were covered with stones a size smaller, and so on. by this construction, it was intended that the weight of the carriages passing over the road should be supported by the large stones, and that the smaller stones were only intended to present an even surface for the easy passage of vehicles over it. the great objections to this construction are, that the bed being lower than the surface of the ground on each side, the ditches can hardly ever be sunk sufficiently deep to intercept the passage of water from the ground adjacent to the road to the ditch or trench in which the road is made; this water, by keeping the bed constantly wet, would cause the heavy stones of the first layer to sink into the ground, and thus break up the surface of the road, and allow the free passage of water through the covering itself. in the winter, the frost acting upon the bed, rendered wet by the free passage of water to it in every direction, would heave the stones to such a degree that the road in a little time would be perfectly impassable; and if any evidence, in addition to that presented by the testimony of the most experienced and approved road builders, were necessary to convince the department that the present dilapidated state of the road under your charge is owing entirely to the operation of the causes above alluded to, it is believed that that evidence is found in the report made by capt. delafield, who inspected the repairs of this road made by mr. giesey. by pursuing the course suggested in your letter, it is believed that these objections and difficulties would still obtain, and that in a little time, however faithfully the repairs might be made on the top of the large stones, the road would be in as bad order as it is at present, since the great cause of these evils would remain, viz.: that of having the bed which supports the stones, and which in fact should be the real support of the traffic on the road, lower than the neighboring ground. it is the intention of the department that the defects of the first construction of the road shall be remedied in its repair, and as it is believed that the adoption, as nearly as practicable, of the macadam system, in all its important features, presents the only means of effecting this remedy, and as this system forms the basis of your instructions, it is recommended that they be departed from as little as possible. it is by no means the intention of the department to take from you all discretion in the discharge of your duties; such a course would defeat the object had in view in sending an officer of engineers on the road; but it is believed to be highly important that the exercise of this discretion should be limited to an extent that will insure the adoption of such principles and rules as cannot fail to render these repairs permanent. for these principles and rules, you are referred to mr. macadam's work on the construction and repairs of roads, a copy of which is in your possession. in removing the metal from the old road, whenever hollows present themselves in the old bed, it is recommended that they be filled with earth; indeed, the whole bed of the road should be elevated, and its form given to it, before any of the covering of stone be replaced. the earth necessary for this may be taken from the ditches, or even from the sides of the road, where it can be done without encroaching upon the privileges of persons residing on the road. i am, &c., &c., c. gratiot. lt. j. k. f. mansfield, corps of engineers, uniontown, pa. extracts from notices for contracts. plan of repairs. the plan for repair is to lift the pavement of the old road in all cases, and deposit the stone off the bed; then to repair the culverts, clear the drains, ditches, and culverts, so as to admit the free passage of water, and graduate the bed of the road, so that, when well packed by travel or other means, it will be three inches higher in the middle than at either side, for a bed of thirty feet. having thus formed the bed of the road, the hard stone (if there be any) of the old road, broken to a size not exceeding four ounces, is to be placed on the bed of the road to a breadth of twenty feet, and a thickness not exceeding nine inches, and in cases where there is a deficiency of the old material, limestone or whinstone is to be procured to supply the deficiency to the required thickness of nine inches. catch-waters and hollow-ways to be permanently constructed on the sides of hills, and at other places where it will be thought necessary by the superintending engineer, but in no case to exceed one in every twelve rods. in those sections where pieces of hitherto macadamized road are included, the sand is to be taken off, and, before new metal is added, the surface loosened with a pick. the metal added to be three inches thick in the cases heretofore macadamized. jos. k. f. mansfield, lieutenant corps of engineers. * * * * * engineer department, washington, august , . _sir_: i have to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the th inst., inclosing two printed advertisements for proposals to contract for the repairs of the cumberland road under your charge. in answer, the department would call your attention to your remarks under the head "plan of repairs," and would suggest that, instead of removing the stones from the bed of the road before the drains, ditches, and culverts are put in repair, to allow the free passage of water from the road, this latter operation should be first attended to, to the end that the removal of the stone from the road might be effected without the fear of being annoyed by the accumulation of water from heavy rains. besides, thus preparing the drains, ditches, &c., in the first place, would enable the bed to become perfectly dry by the time the stones are prepared to be replaced. i am, &c., c. gratiot. lt. j. k. f. mansfield, corps of engineers, uniontown, pa. chapter x. _lieut. mansfield superseded by capt. delafield--the turning of wills mountain--contractors not properly instructed--capt. delafield suggests a change of plan, and enforces his views by copious quotations from macadam--he is permitted to exercise his own discretion--too much sand between uniontown and cumberland--operations at wills creek suspended--a collision with the chesapeake and ohio canal company--the difficulty adjusted, and operations resumed._ engineer department, washington, october , . _sir_: on the arrival of captain delafield, of the engineers, on the cumberland road in pennsylvania and maryland, you will hand to him the enclosed communication, which assigns to him the superintendence of the repairs of that road which have heretofore been conducted under your supervision. you will, also, turn over to him all the funds, books, papers, and public property in your possession appertaining to this road, and close your account with it. very respectfully, &c., by order: wm. h. c. bartlett, lieut, and assistant to chief engineer. lieut. j. k. f. mansfield, corps of engineers, uniontown, pa. * * * * * uniontown, december , . _sir_: the surveys of a route for turning wills mountain by the valley of braddock's run and wills creek are progressing, being retarded only by the weather. i have examined the whole route, and can confirm the most satisfactory account you may have heard of it. the ground over which the road will pass is a uniform inclined plane, requiring very few culverts, two small bridges over braddock's run of about fifteen feet span each, with side hill in no other part than about yards in the "narrows" of wills creek, where a most simple and expedient plan will be to use the level and smooth bottom of the creek for the road, by building a wall not to exceed ten feet in height, thus throwing the stream on the opposite bank, peculiarly well formed for this construction, being a low bottom of alluvion. the idea of cutting into the mountain would be expensive, and no better than throwing the creek from its present bed. on the arrival of mr. pettit, i shall divide the road into four sections, giving him one. the present condition of the road is most unpromising. nearly every contractor has formed his bed in the valley made by the removal of the old pavement, the consequence of which is, that, with the mild season and rainy weather, the bed is not drained, nor can it be, until the side roads are cut down to the bottom of the stone strata--a measure i directed as the only means of correcting the evil. time, and the headstrong obstinacy of some of the contractors, have prevented much of the work being so attended to. all the contracts made by lieut. mansfield distinctly specify that the road for feet in width shall be graded in such manner as to avoid this difficulty; yet in carrying the contracts into effect, the superintendents have, in no instance, instructed the contractors in the proper course. they have, in most instances too, permitted the stone to be broken on the road; the consequences of this are, much sand and dirt in the metal, and a bed graded without proper attention. this is the more remarkable, as in my report on the work executed two years since by one of the present superintendents, these errors were pointed out as serious evils, yet they are not corrected. it must be expected, therefore, that all that part of the road now under construction will be very indifferently made, and by no means such as the macadam system calls for. by the time the superintendents acquire a knowledge of their business, the present contracts will be completed. instead of giving out any more of the work under the present system, as i had contemplated and advertised, i shall postpone doing so until i am better assured that the work can be properly executed. i look anxiously for mr. pettit, trusting his intelligence may correct some of the defects in the section he will be called upon to superintend. to instruct the superintendents in their duties, i shall be compelled to have printed a manual or primer, with a few lithographic sections, that the sight may aid the mind in a proper understanding of the business. to persevere in the present plan, where neither contractors, superintendents, nor laborers, understand their business, is highly inexpedient, and i shall forthwith commence maturing a system that must be productive of more good with less money, or it were better to leave the work undone, for i am satisfied that durability can not be looked for under the present system. my first business will be to draw the operations to a close, and then endeavor to bring about the correction. you will be apprised of my views before carrying any of them into effect, observing that, in anticipation of a change, i have suspended making the contracts alluded to in my communication of the th ultimo. respectfully, your obedient servant, rich'd delafield, captain of engineers. brig. gen. charles gratiot, chief engineer. * * * * * baltimore, may , . _sir_: the instructions of the department of the d july last, relating to the method of repairing the cumberland road east of the ohio, are founded upon principles upon which i differ in opinion, and beg leave to request your reconsideration, involving, as they do, an expenditure of not less than $ , , when compared with what i judge to be the most judicious method of making the repairs. it is in relation to the propriety of breaking up the old bed of the road in all cases. i apprehend the department was not aware that the bed is a substantial, yet rough pavement, and not formed of loose, detached masses of quarry stone thrown together, without order. it is important to consider this particular when examining the authorities on road making. my own views are that it is decidedly preferable to retain the old pavement in all cases where its continuity is unbroken, even mending small parts that may be deranged, and macadamizing over it. in this, i think, i am borne out by macadam, dean, telford, and farey, whose ideas on the subject are annexed, as extracted from "macadam on roads." the only two arguments against the method i propose are, first, that the metal will grind to dust by being placed over large stone. in answer to which, i say, that the road passing through a rocky country, even after removing the pavement, there still remains a rocky foundation; and where the pavement is well bedded in sand or clay, we have all the elasticity necessary from the clay or sand bed through the pavement. in support of which, see the sample of metal taken from the road through uniontown, where the under strata have not worn or crushed an iota, presenting angles as sharp as the day they were first placed there. were the metal placed upon an unyielding rock, it would doubtless soon grind to dust; but placing it upon a pavement laid in sand or gravel, preserves the elasticity so necessary for this kind of road. second: that large stone, placed under macadam metal, will work to the surface. this is doubtless true when detached pieces are surrounded by the metal, but with a pavement the case is very different. i find pieces of this cumberland road, repaired as far back as , by mr. ewing, over the old pavement, in perfect order to this day; as, also, some parts done in this way by giesey in , that are much better than any of the repairs he made at the same time; and a piece through uniontown, by the authorities of the place, in , remains in perfect order. i have been led to reflect upon this subject from learning that the ohio road had cut through and was impassable at certain places during the months of february and march, and seeing the state of the road under my supervision between cumberland and wheeling, comparing the parts repaired last season, those under giesey, ewing, and the town authorities, with the old pavement that has stood sixteen years without a cent of money in repair, and to this day is a very good wagon road, rough, it is true, yet never cutting through during the fall, winter, or spring, where the pavement is continuous. to throw away so firm a foundation i cannot think advisable, and beg you to reflect upon the subject and favor me with your views. the road in ohio has worn six years (nearly) without repairs, and was impassable this spring. the old cumberland road has worn sixteen years, and mile after mile has never been known to cut through at any season. parts of it covered with macadamized metal, and worn for five years, are in fine order, and present a very smooth surface, never having cut through. other parts, where the old pavement has been removed and macadamized, were impassable during the spring after three years' wear. we have to bear in mind the impossibility of keeping the ditches and drains open in the mountains during the winter. ice forming in the drains will, of course, throw the melting snows on the surface of the road, which is destructive to a macadamized road on clay or sand, whereas, if on the old pavement, it has strength enough to resist the travel until either dried by frost, or sun. this is a consideration that the english road-makers had not to consider with the same weight. as to keeping the drains open, and the road surface free from water in the winter, i conceive it impracticable in the mountains; hence the further propriety of preserving a foundation that will secure a firm road at all seasons, even if the wear should prove some five or ten per cent. more rapid, which i do not even think will be the case on the plan suggested of macadamizing upon a pavement, and not on an unyielding, rocky bottom. respectfully, your obedient servant, richard delafield, captain of engineers. brig. gen. c. gratiot, chief engineer. extracts from "macadam on roads," made by captain delafield in support of his views relating to the pavement forming the bed of the "cumberland road east of the ohio." page .--"it would be highly unprofitable to lift and relay a road, even if the materials should have been originally too large. the road between cirencester and bath is made of stone too large in size. in this case i recommend cutting down the high places," &c. page .--"a part of the road in the bath district is made of freestone, which it would be unprofitable to lift. other cases of several kinds have occurred where a different method must be adopted, but which it is impossible to specify, and must be met by the practical skill of the officer, and who must constantly recur to general principles." page .--"the price of lifting a road, &c., leaving the road in a finished state, has been found in practice to be from d. to d. per superficial yard, lifted four inches deep." page .--"it is well known to every skillful and observant road-maker, that if strata of stone of various sizes be placed on a road, the largest stones will constantly work up." (this is in no manner applicable to a pavement, and a road made even in the manner he alludes to was lifted only four inches deep.--r. d.) page .--"how deep do you go in lifting the roads? that depends upon circumstances, but i have generally gone four inches deep. i take up the materials four inches, and, having broken the large pieces, i put them back again." "does the plan which you have mentioned, of breaking up the roads, apply to gravel roads, or only to those roads composed of hard stones? in gravel roads, and in some other roads, it would be impossible to break them up to advantage; and, in several places, i should think it unprofitable to lift a road at all. i did not order the road near reading to be lifted, but i directed, whenever a large piece of flint was seen, it should be taken up, broken, and put down again. i am speaking of a gravel road now." page .--"there are other cases besides that of gravel, in which i should think it unprofitable to lift a road. the road between ---- and ---- is made of very soft stone, and is of so brittle a nature, that if it were lifted it would rise in sand, and there would be nothing to lay down again that would be useful. i should not recommend lifting of freestone roads, for the same reason, because it would go so much to sand that there would be very little to lay down again. i will explain what i have done to the road between cirencester and bath. i was obliged to lift a little of the sides of the road, in order to give it shape, but in the center of the road we 'shoved it.' it was before in the state which the country people call gridirons: that is, it was in large ridges, with long hollows between, and we cut down the high part to a level with the bottom of the furrows, and took the materials and sifted them at the side of the road, and returned what was useful to the center." (so far we have the views of mr. macadam. from the same work i continue to quote.--r. d.) page .--"considering the very great traffic upon whitechapel road, is it your opinion (addressed to mr. farey) that it would be advantageous to pave any part of that road? i think it would be desirable to pave it within some feet of the footpath," &c. page .--"in the neighborhood of london the materials that are to be procured are of too tender and brittle a nature to endure the wear of the heavy carriages. i, therefore, am of the opinion that it would be proper to pave the sides of all the principal entrances into london." page .--"james walker says, 'the traffic upon the commercial rail road, both up and down, is very great. i am quite sure that the expense of this road would have been very much greater, probably much more than doubled, if it had not been paved. the road has been paved for about sixteen years, and the expense of supporting it has been small. during the thirteen years that the east india dock branch has been paved, the paving has not cost £ .'" page .--"but as the paving is always preferred for heavy carriages," &c. page .--"the thickness ought to be such, that the greatest weight will not effect more than the surface of the shell, in order to spread the weight which comes upon a small part only of the road over a large portion of the foundation." page .--"if the foundation is bad, breaking the bottom stone into small pieces is expensive and injurious, upon the principle i have above described, for the same reason that an arch formed of whole bricks, or deep stones, is preferred to one of the same materials broken into smaller pieces, for, in some countries, the materials will admit of the foundation of the road being considered as of the nature of a flat arch, as well as being supported by the strata directly under it. but the error of laying stones in large pieces upon the surface is more common and more injurious." page .--"james dean says, 'near to great towns it would be highly advantageous if the center of the road, for about twelve feet in width, were to be paved with hard, well-squared stones, nine inches deep.'" page .--"thomas telford, esq., says, 'the improvements made in north wales i beg leave to submit as models for the roads through hilly countries. great pains have been taken in constructing firm and substantial foundations for the metallic part of the roadway.'" page .--"there has been no attention paid to constructing a good and solid foundation for the roadway." page .--"are you of the opinion that it would be advisable or practicable to procure, from any particular part of the country, better materials, so as to form perfect roads without the necessity of paving them? that these materials could be procured, is evident; but i am satisfied that the most economical and preferable mode would be by the means of paving." * * * * * engineer department. washington. may , . _sir_: your communication of the th instant, submitting your views in regard to lifting the old bed in prosecuting the repairs of the cumberland road east of the ohio, and requesting a reconsideration of so much of the instructions of the department of the d july last as relates to this matter, has just been received. that part of the instructions alluded to, which requires that the old bed shall, in all cases, be taken up, will be considered as suspended, and you are hereby authorized to exercise your discretion in this particular. very respectfully, &c., c. gratiot, brig. general. capt. r. delafield, corps of engineers, uniontown, pa. * * * * * uniontown, pa., june , . _sir_: i find upon an examination of the national road, under your superintendence, from cumberland to this place, that too great a portion of sand and other perishable stone has been allowed to be put on it. in almost the whole distance, little or no regard has been paid to the keeping the side drains open, at least sufficiently so to carry the water freely from the road. the culverts are too few and small, particularly on the long slopes; and the manner of constructing the hollow-ways and catch-waters is defective. these errors of construction cause the water, in many places, to pass over the road, to its rapid destruction. i am aware of the difficulties you have to contend with under the contract system, and that to this cause most of the evils complained of may be traced. as it is all important that they should be remedied, as soon as practicable, you will enforce the early completion of the several contracts, according to their conditions, after making due allowance for the stoppage arising from your order for suspending operations during last winter. on the completion of the road, should it be found not to possess the requisite properties to secure its permanency, you will make such additions under your own agency as will place it in the condition contemplated by the government, before turning it over to the states. not less than six inches of lime or sandstone should be put upon the surface, and where lime is exclusively used, the thickness should not be less than nine inches. the side ditches should, when practicable, be at least eighteen inches below the bed of the road; and when this cannot be done, culverts, 'Ã� ', should be constructed at convenient distances to carry off the water, which, in no instance, should be allowed to rise above the level of the bed of the road. the catch-waters should be constructed in such a manner, that while they subserve the purposes for which they are intended, they should admit the passage of vehicles without jolting; and, in every case, with a view to prevent their being washed into deep gullies. as this frequently happens when they are constructed with broken stone, it will be proper to pave them with shingle stones, if to be had; or, when this cannot be obtained, with limestone firmly imbedded in the road. it should especially be observed that, before breaking up the road for the reception of the metal, the ditches should be first prepared, and then the culverts. this will keep the roadway dry for travel, and better prepare it for the reception of its covering. as it is found impracticable to keep the travel from the center of the road, and the deep ruts that are formed, then, as a consequence, i would recommend, instead of the present system of blocking, that rakers should be constantly employed to preserve the transverse profile. if it does not come within the spirit of the contract, that this labor should be performed by the contractors, you will hire men to do it yourself. this operation, in addition to the draining system before recommended, will, it is presumed, preserve the road from further ruin, and place it in a condition to receive its last coat of limestone. finally, while studying due economy in your administration of the affairs of the road, you should constantly bear in mind that the wishes of the government are to have a superior road, both as regards workmanship, and the quality of the materials used in its construction. with this understanding, it is expected that you will avail yourself of all the facilities within your reach to effect, in a satisfactory manner to yourself and the public at large, the great end proposed--the construction of a road unrivaled in the country. these are the views and special instructions of the secretary of war. i am, respectfully, &c., c. gratiot, brig. general. capt. r. delafield, corps of engineers, uniontown, pa. * * * * * engineer department, washington, july , . _sir_: you will forthwith cause all operations to cease on that part of the new location of the cumberland road on the east of wills creek. you shall in a few days receive further instructions on this subject. very respectfully, &c., wm. h. c. bartlett, lieut. and assistant to chief engineer. capt. r. delafield, corps of engineers, uniontown, pa. * * * * * engineer department, washington, july , . _sir_: on the th you were advised to delay any further action as to the location of the cumberland road until you were again written to. mr. purcell reports to the board of the chesapeake and ohio canal company that the road being at the site now chosen will occasion an increased cost to the canal company of upwards of $ , . it is very desirable to avoid this state of things, for, as their charter claims precedence, it would necessarily create a demand upon the government commensurate with the injury sustained. major eaton, president of the canal company, will direct mr. purcell, the engineer, to proceed forthwith to cumberland, with you, to ascertain the best mode of making the location by which to avoid any injury or increased expense to the canal company. you are instructed to confer freely with mr. purcell, holding the object suggested steadily in view, and give such direction to the location of the road as may best attain this object. this done, you will forward a plan of the route agreed on, and a minute detail of everything, particularly what increased expense to the canal company will probably be occasioned. on receiving your report, the case will be considered here, and you be advised immediately of the course to be pursued. very respectfully, &c., &c., by order: wm. h. c. bartlett, lieut. and assistant to chief engineer. capt. r. delafield, corps of engineers, uniontown, pa. * * * * * philadelphia, july , . _sir_: the order of your department of the th instant was received by me at cumberland, and its injunctions forthwith carried into effect. the communication of the th has since been received, explanatory of that order. in relation to locating that part of the national road that might probably interfere with the canal company, measures were taken to procure from the company such information as would enable me to locate the road without coming in contact with any part of the canal route; and, so far as the information was furnished, i have endeavored so to do. i enclose copies of the letter and information received from the president of the company, in reply to a request for such information as would enable me to "ascertain at what point the chesapeake and ohio company contemplate erecting their dam across wills creek, and to what height it will be raised above low water. the information desired is for enabling me to locate the bridge for the road at a point, and elevate its arches to such a height that the interest of the canal company will not be effected; and that i may at the same time, fulfill the objects contemplated by the law authorizing the new location." in reply to which you will perceive "the location of the canal is that recommended by general bernard, and the board of internal improvement, over which he presided," and that it was proposed to feed the canal at cumberland, and below by a dam to be erected across the potomac about a mile above cumberland. the water of the potomac was to be carried over wills creek twenty-one or two feet above ordinary water in the creek. such is the information furnished me by the president of the canal company, and by which i have been governed in the location of the road. on the eastern side of wills creek the grading is finished to the site of the bridge; on the western side i have directed no work to be executed that can have any bearing upon this point. you perceive it has been my study to avoid conflicting with the interests of the canal company; but, from the want of knowing the exact location of their works, will occasion to them an increased expense, as reported by mr. purcell, of , dollars if the bridge is constructed at the point now chosen. if, then, the company will cause the canal to be located through the gap of wills mountain, and give me bench marks from which to ascertain the cuttings and embankments they propose making, i will then locate the road on such ground as not to interfere in any manner with their operations, and such as shall be most advantageous for the public interest. i judge the communication of the department was written under the impression that an interference with the works of the canal company was unavoidable, and that some compromise of advantages and disadvantages would necessarily have to be made. such, however, i do not conceive to be the case. i have located as high up the creek as would give room for a six horse team to turn off and on a bridge at right angles with the stream with facility. if the canal company make choice of this ground, i have but to make a bridge oblique with the current, and thus avoid the work of the canal company. to ascertain this, it is essential that the canal company should make choice of the ground and locate their works; after having so done, if they will favor me with plans and sections, with bench marks of reference of the part in the valley of the creek, the road shall be made not to interfere with their interest, which has always been looked upon by me as claiming precedence. i have here pointed out a course for the consideration of the department, differing materially from the one ordered by the letter of the th instant. first, in consideration of its not being acquainted with the nature of the case, and, next, with its requiring me to perform a service in no way necessary to a proper understanding of the interests of the government connected with the road; to do which, surveys, levels, calculations of excavation and embankment must be made, that the time of neither myself nor the officers associated with me could accomplish. what i ask is, information from the company as to their own works solely. it will suffice for all purposes connected with the location of the road. be pleased to address me at new castle, and on any matter relating to the section of the road near cumberland requiring immediate attention, a copy of the communication forwarded to lieutenant pickell, at that place, would prevent any delay; lieutenant p. being the officer to whom i have assigned this particular section of the road. respectfully, your obedient servant, rich'd delafield. captain of engineers. brig. gen. charles gratiot. chief engineer. * * * * * washington, d. c., may , . _sir_: your letter to mr. ingle, the clerk of the chesapeake and ohio canal company, has been handed over to me, and i am authorized, on the part of the president and directors, to express to you our thanks for the considerate regard you have paid to the location adopted by the chesapeake and ohio canal company, for the part of their work which will pass through cumberland. the location adopted is that recommended by general bernard, and the board of internal improvement, over which he presided. when the proposed change of the cumberland road immediately above the town was under consideration of the committee on roads and canals, i suggested the very precaution you now practice, which was to see that no conflict would arise in hereafter conducting the canal over its long established route, by a conflict with the location of the improved road, the value of which i know well how to appreciate. the hill above cumberland, which it is proposed to avoid, was the worst between that place and wheeling, if reference be had to the inclination of its surface. general bernard proposed to feed the canal at cumberland, and for some distance below it, as far, at least, as the mouth of the south branch, by means of a dam to be erected at a ledge of rocks crossing the potomac about a mile above cumberland. the dam was to be elevated so high as to conduct the canal over wills creek at cumberland, with an elevation of twenty-one or twenty-two feet above ordinary water in the creek. this was to be effected by an aqueduct across the creek. i presume at this season of the year the ledge of rocks is visible above cumberland. enclosed i send you extracts from general bernard's report, which accompanied the president's message to congress of december , , and is now a congressional record. from that you may perhaps infer all that is essential to your purpose of avoiding a collision with the rights of the chesapeake and ohio canal company, who have adopted for the location of the canal general bernard's report. c. f. mercer, president of the chesapeake and ohio canal company. extracted--page , doc. no. , th congress, d session.--executive papers. "the difficulties of this passage (down wills creek) are great, and continue for more than a mile. the ground then becomes favorable (_i.e._, in descending wills creek from the west), permitting the canal to pass at the outskirts of cumberland, to join with the eastern section. adjoining cumberland, the canal will receive a feeder from the potomac for a supply below, and more especially to complete what is necessary in relation to the first subdivision of the eastern section. "this feeder is proposed to be made navigable, in order to accommodate the trade of the potomac above cumberland. its length is one mile, its width at the water line thirty feet, its depth four feet. at its point of departure from the potomac, a basin is formed in the bed of the river, by means of a dam erected at the first ledge above cumberland. "this basin, comprehending an extent of about eight miles, will afford a constant supply of water, and also accommodate the canal trade of the potomac. the levees around the basin, the dam, the guard lock of the feeder, and its aqueduct over wills creek, are included in the estimate of this subdivision. "in the table of quantities and cost, this feeder is made to cost a very large sum (two or three words illegible in the ms.) if the dam above cumberland is supposed to be ever changed from the above location. the aqueduct over wills creek is computed to cost $ , ; the length of the aqueduct, seventy yards; the number of arches, three; the span of the arch, thirty feet; the height of the piers, sixteen feet." the above is a true copy. c. f. mercer. may , . * * * * * engineer department, washington, august , . _sir_: the secretary of war has just returned to this place, having passed over the cumberland road east of the ohio. he feels great interest in this road, and is anxious that the operations on it shall be so directed as to obtain the best possible results. his confidence in your ability induced him to select you as its superintendent, knowing that under your management his wishes would be realized; and deeming it a work of much greater importance than that with which you are occupied on the delaware, he has expressed a wish that by far the greater portion of your time should be passed upon the road. you will, therefore, repair to cumberland without loss of time, ascertain the exact location of the chesapeake and ohio canal along the valley of wills creek, and so adjust that of the road as shall remove the present difficulties, and avoid any interference with the interests of the canal company. this being done, you will communicate to the department the result. very respectfully, &c., wm. h. c. bartlett, lt. and ass't to ch. eng'r. capt. r. delafield, corps of engineers, new castle, del. * * * * * engineer department, washington, september , . _sir_: your letter of the th instant, enclosing a plan and sections of part of wills' creek, exhibiting the location of the national road "as now constructed;" the ground selected by the engineer of the chesapeake and ohio canal company for its canal, and the new location of the national road, in consequence of the canal company having made choice of the route upon which the road was constructed, has been received. the plan has been submitted, with the approval of this department, to the secretary of war, and by him adopted; and the construction of the road on the new location will, therefore, be proceeded with. i am, sir, &c., c. gratiot, brig. general. capt. r. delafield, corps of engineers, cumberland, md. * * * * * cumberland road, at stoddard's, md., september , . _sir_: i enclose herewith plan and sections of part of the cumberland road between cumberland and frostburg, where an alteration has just been made in the location, by which a very steep hill is avoided, and the distance decreased. by the new route there is a slope of - / feet in a distance of , ; by the old road the slope was . ' in feet on one side of the hill, and . ' in feet on the other side. this is now undergoing construction. the foundation of the center pier of the bridge over wills creek is raised above water. respectfully, your obedient servant, rich'd delafield, captain of engineers. brig. gen. charles gratiot. chief engineer. * * * * * engineer department. washington, september , . _sir_: your letter of the th inst., enclosing a plan and sections of part of the cumberland road between cumberland and frostburg, where you had made an alteration in the location, thereby avoiding a steep hill, and decreasing the distance, was duly received; and i have to inform you that the alteration referred to has been approved. i am, &c., c. gratiot, brig. general. capt. r. delafield, corps of engineers, cumberland, md. chapter xi. _on with the work--wooden bridges proposed for the new location up wills creek and braddock's run--the war department holds that wooden superstructures would be a substantial compliance with the maryland law--new instructions issued from wheeling--the old bed to be retained--two classes of work--frauds by contractors--form for contracts forwarded from brownsville--report and estimate called for by the senate--the law of congress renders a change of plan necessary--the secretary of war greatly interested in the road--cumberland to frostburg._ engineer department, washington, june , . _sir_: in addition to the views of the department, communicated to you this morning, i now have to request that you will proceed to apply the funds available for the cumberland road east of the ohio, with the utmost despatch consistent with the public interest. it is greatly to be desired that the repairs of this road may be completed before the termination of the coming fall. i am, &c ., c. gratiot, brigadier general. capt. r. delafield, corps of engineers, new castle, del. cumberland, md., july , . _sir_: i beg leave to call your attention to the act of the legislature of maryland, giving its consent to change the location of the national road near this place, to turn wills mountain by the route of wills creek and braddock's run, in which it is provided that certain bridges shall be constructed of stone, and to compare this act with that of the last session of congress, and inform me whether or not i will be justified in constructing the bridges with stone abutments and wing-walls, and _wooden_ superstructures. there is a necessity growing out of the cost, the law requiring the road to be finished with $ , . from the most advantageous offers received, the bridge over wills creek will not cost less than $ , , constructed of stone, and if built of wood, planed, and painted with three coats of white lead, roofed with shingles, will cost not to exceed $ , . there are two other bridges on the same new route to be constructed, the ratio of expense of which will not materially vary. * * * respectfully, your obedient servant, rich'd delafield, captain of engineers. brig. gen. charles gratiot, chief engineer. cumberland, july , . _sir_: i have just finished comparing the numerous offers for work to be done on the miles of road immediately west of this place. there is great competition among very excellent and responsible men of the country, as well as from the railroad and canal below us. the offers for the bridge render its construction with stone next to impracticable, under the law, to finish the road with $ , . they are as follows: $ , , $ , , $ , , $ , , $ , . to construct the abutments i have offers at $ . cents per perch; that would, with the superstructure of wood, make the whole cost not to exceed $ , to $ , . we cannot with propriety expend so large a sum for a stone bridge, with such limited means. i strongly recommend a wooden superstructure if compatible with existing laws under which we act, and beg to be advised as requested in my letter of yesterday. respectfully, your obedient servant, rich'd delafield, captain of engineers. brig. gen. charles gratiot, chief engineer. engineer department. washington, july , . _sir_: it has just been determined by the war department that the substitution of wood for stone, in the superstructures of the bridges on the new piece of road around wills hill would be deemed by the state of maryland a substantial compliance with the requirements of her law giving assent to the change from the old to the present location of that part of the road. you will, therefore, build the abutments of those bridges in a good and durable manner, of the best stone to be had in your immediate neighborhood, and make the superstructure of wood. these last, when completed, must be well covered, and painted in the best manner. this is communicated in answer to your two letters of the d and th instant, on the subject, which are at hand. i am, &c., c. gratiot. capt. r. delafield, corps of engineers. cumberland, md. copy of instructions sent by the superintendent of the cumberland road, east of the ohio, to each of his assistants on the line of the road. wheeling, may , . _sir_: in conducting the operations for repairing the section of the road under your supervision, during the present season, two very important alterations will be made in the system of last year. the first is to retain, in all cases, the old bed or pavement, breaking down with sledges the prominent or projecting pieces into the ruts and holes, and smoothing the grade with quarry chips, or stone broken on the face of the road with sledge-hammers, slightly covering the bed so prepared with the earth from the ditches, observing to put no more earth than is barely sufficient to prevent the metal coming in contact with the large stone of the bed. where there is no stone in the old bed, restore the grade with the best and hardest material to be found in the vicinity, making it a point to have stone to fill the large holes. this formation of the bed for the metal on top of the old bed will enable large and sufficient ditches to be formed for carrying off the water. the most particular attention must be given to these ditches, as upon them depends the preservation of the road. all the earth taken from the ditches, side roads, and slopes, not required to make good the grade and side roads, must be thrown down the hill side, and on no account whatever upon the slope of a side hill cutting, from whence it soon washes back into the ditches. the minimum size of the ditches should not be less than three feet wide on top, one foot deep, and one foot wide in the bottom; the whole depth to be below the bed of the road. rock and peculiar side slopes can alone prevent this being practiced. the side slopes must be cut to a slope of , with berms, as a minimum; and as low as wherever it is practicable. wherever earth is required for a filling to make good the side roads, require that it be taken from some near side slope or other point that will improve such part of the road. the minimum side road is to be five feet; wherever the natural ground will permit, cause it to be increased to admit of summer roads, placing the ditches outside of such increased side road. the second alteration is, to have the whole work done by contract, instead of job work and day labor, as was practiced last year. to effect this, the greatest precaution is necessary to specify what work has to be done on each chain of four rods of the road, the particular grade for such portion, the depth and size of the ditches, the side roads and slopes, and from whence the required earth is to be taken to restore the grade, and where the surplus earth is to be taken from the ditches, drains, side slopes, &c. in the delivery of stone for the metal, the contract must provide that the stone be delivered and broken on the side roads in rectangular piles or strings of such dimensions as you require on the several parts of the road, and the measurement made of the cubic contents of the stone thus prepared; from which measurement you will ascertain the number of perches, by previously having a mass, containing five perches of stone, as it comes from the quarry, as compactly piled as can be without the use of a hammer, taking large and small indiscriminately. have this mass broken to the size of four ounces; ascertain the cubic contents of the bulk it shall produce, the fifth part of which you will take as a perch, and the unit of measurement for paying for the number of perches to be delivered. the metal is to be thrown on the road at such favorable periods as you shall designate, after it has been measured, and not until the contractor has prepared the required quantity for half a mile at a time. you will require the contractor to commence the grade at one end of the piece he is to repair, and continue regularly through, not permitting him to seek the parts requiring least work to execute first; and when delivering stone, to commence the delivery at a point giving a mean distance for hauling from the quarry; a mean rate of payment is then equitable, otherwise it would not be. the work on your section may be divided into two distinct classes: the one, where nothing has as yet been done; and the other, the part graded and stone prepared for the metal during the past season. on the first class, you will make contracts to grade, deliver, and put on three perches of limestone where the old bed remains firm, and four perches where the old bed has disappeared, requiring the grade to be finished by the th of october; and if the metal is all prepared by that date, to be put on by the st of november, the contractor continuing to rake the road, change the travel, and preserve the whole work in order, until the succeeding st of april. should the contractor, however, not be able to prepare the metal to put it on the road by the st of november, then he is to preserve the grade of the road in order until the first favorable state of the weather after the th of march ensuing, when he is to put on the metal, raking and smoothing the surface for twenty days after the whole metal shall have been put on the road. you will observe that the contract is to call for preserving the road in either case during the winter; in one case, by adding metal, raking, &c., and in the other, by breaking with a sledge stone to fill the ruts, covering such stone in the spring lightly before putting on the metal. the second class of work is the unfinished part of last year's operations, upon which there will be time to put three and a half additional perches per rod on such parts as were covered last year, and four perches per rod on such as had none, requiring that it be put on by the st of november, and be preserved, raked, &c., until the succeeding st of april, during the winter filling ruts made by travel with additional metal, to be prepared and ready at convenient points on the road. for the culverts you will make a contract with one person for all that may be necessary on half your section, and with a second person for the other half, the work to be paid by the perch of twenty-five cubic feet, measured by the plan and dimensions you shall designate for each locality, and according to which plan the work must be constructed. for this work you will require the stone to be of good proportions, with parallel beds and faces, and not smaller than two cubic feet in each piece, in no case ever permitting a stone to be placed "on edge," a very common practice, destructive of good masonry. the covering stone to be of such additional dimensions as you shall judge necessary for each locality. the bottoms of the culverts to be paved or flagged with stone, and such an apron constructed at each end as to guard against the ends being undermined by the passage of the water. the repairs of the masonry of the bridges and walls on wheeling hill it is very desirable to effect by contract, if practicable. on wheeling hill the object may be effected by requiring the masonry to conform with that already executed, particularly in regard to the size and quality of the stone, paying for it by the perch measured in the wall when finished, reserving the one-fifth of the value from monthly payments as security for the faithful execution of the whole work. the repairs of the bridge may be executed in like manner, specifying the masonry of the bridge now building over wheeling creek as the standard, excepting stones placed on edge. it is desirable to postpone the repair of all masonry to the latest date, excepting only such parts as are necessary to perfect the grade; you will make your contracts accordingly. the masonry of the culverts and some of the bridges must be finished in time, including the filling to make good the roadway, to permit the contractor for grading to comply with his agreement. the usual one-fifth of the value of work done being retained until the expiration of the time for completing the whole work, when this sum is to be applied either to carry into effect the remaining provisions of the agreement, as stipulated to be executed, or paid to the contractor, if the work has been faithfully executed according to the tenor of the agreement. you will make all your payments by checks drawn on the bank through which i shall make your remittances, taking duplicate receipts for moneys thus paid, attached to a bill giving the quantity rate, cost, and date of the receipt of the article clearly and distinctly expressed. your check book must be added up, and the balance in bank ascertained every saturday evening, which balance must be reported in the weekly reports to be forwarded to me, as required last season. the balance of your account, as appears by your ledger account with me, must also form an item in the weekly report. the assistant engineer will make an inspection of these books, and report to me whenever he comes on your section of the road. the receipted vouchers you will forward to the office at brownsville, of all payments made during the week at the end of such week, reserving the duplicate until called for by myself or the assistant engineer. so soon as you are apprised by me of funds being available you will immediately advertise by hand bills, and through the public prints, that contracts will be made for repairing the section of road under your supervision, and that proposals for executing the work will be received for twenty days from the date of your advertisement, for repairing each mile of the road according to stipulations and particular information, to be had on enquiring of you on or after such date as you are enabled to collect it. let the advertisements express that the repairs consist principally in grading the road over the old bed, cleaning out the ditches and drains, restoring the side roads to their width of five feet and covering the road thus prepared with limestone broken to four ounce pieces, in such quantities as shall be specified for each rod, varying from two to four perches per rod, and keeping the whole in order until the first of april next, by which date the contracts are to be completed. to ascertain the work to be done on the different mile sections, and on the particular parts of each mile, you will, the instant funds are available, make a measurement of the road, noting the work to be done on each chain (as specified in the previous parts of this communication) in the most minute detail. this statement, reduced as much as practicible to a tabular form, you will cause to be printed, as the information to be given to persons upon which to make their proposals, and it will be embodied in or attached to the articles of agreement as a specification of the work to be done. as you will find it convenient to have the prepared metal piled in uniform masses, admitting of the application of a gauge to ascertain whether or not the required quantity is in the pile, you will cause such gauges to be made with slopes of degrees and in no instance permit a measurement of stone to be made without having previously verified the dimensions of the gauge. the necessity for this you will perceive by reflecting that the end of the gauge may be cut off and the angles altered to make a material difference in the quantity, without being perceptible to the eye. the following are some of the frauds heretofore practiced, and now enumerated that you may look cautiously to their not being practiced upon your section of the road: i st. diminishing the size and altering the angle of the gauge. d. loosening the pile of metal just before the measurement, to increase its bulk. d. concealing or covering up in the piles of metal large masses of stone or other matter. th. breaking stone of a softer or otherwise inferior quality than the sample agreed upon. th. breaking the metal to a larger size than that agreed upon. th. removing the prepared metal from one point to another after it has been measured. th. taking metal from the face of the road, of the first or second stratum, to make it appear the desired quantity has been broken to fill the gauge. th. on parts of the road where limestone has already been delivered, wagoners, with a partial load, passing from the quarries to the point of delivery, have been detected in stealing a piece from several piles, thus making a full load from what has already been paid for. very many other frauds have been detected upon receiving and paying for stone perches before breaking. no corrective offers for the many that may be practiced under this system. it is, therefore, in no case, to be adopted. always measuring the stone after it is broken, and reserving one-fifth of its value until the whole agreement has been fully and faithfully complied with, are the best securities against fraudulent practices. immediately after concluding the contracts on your section for the season, you will forward me a statement of the funds required to carry them into effect, and the times such funds will probably be required. respectfully, your obedient servant, rich'd delafield, captain of engineers. philadelphia, december , . _sir:_ the enclosed letter of the th may was prepared as the instructions for lieutenant vance, conducting the operations on the seventh division of the road, and a copy thereof was forwarded to the officer of each division, with directions to conform thereto on their respective sections, suiting the phraseology to their divisions. on the th june, on being made acquainted with the particulars of the act of congress making the appropriation for the year's service, the following instructions were communicated to the officers of the several divisions, slightly changed to suit each particular division: "_sir:_ funds having been made available for continuing the repairs of the cumberland road, east of the ohio, you will cause the preparatory measures to be taken immediately, and notice given as required by my letter of the th of may, a copy of which has been forwarded to you from brownsville. "the act of congress grants a specific sum for finishing the repairs of the road; you will, therefore, in your arrangements, provide for the stone bridges on the new road, and three and a half perches of stone to the rod on the surface of the road as metal; the latter to be furnished by the st of december, and kept raked and additional metal put on until the th day of february ensuing; the masonry of the bridges to be finished by the th of october, with proposals of the terms for finishing the same work by the th day of june, . "the form of a contract has also been forwarded to you from brownsville, which, with the letter of instructions accompanying it, connected with the tenor of this communication, you will make your guide in the management of the section of road confided to your supervision. "you will observe the form of the contract provides for work that may not occur in your division. you will, in preparing the form to be printed, be cautious to suit the same to your particular division, as to distance, &c., &c. mile sections are desirable for subdividing the road, and as the portion to be given under contract to an individual: on your division other subdivisions will be found more convenient, and your attention must, in consequence, be given to make the phraseology of the instrument conform with the facts of the case. "hereafter, you will commence and continue your weekly reports to me. apprise me of the date you limit the reception of proposals, that i may be with you at the time. "rich'd delafield, captain of engineers." the instructions to the officer of the third division required him to provide for the work to be done on his division not exceeding three and a half perches of stone to a rod on the surface of the road as metal, reducing the quantity to two or one perch, as might be requisite to keep the whole in repair until finally completed. for a copy of the form of contract forwarded to the officers of the several divisions, see the contracts on file in your office, for the _fourth_ division of the road. i enclose the statement called for by the letter of your department of the th instant. respectfully, your obedient servant, rich'd delafield, captain of engineers. brig. gen. charles gratiot, chief engineer. report and estimate for the cumberland road east of the ohio, under a resolution of the senate of the united states, calling for the condition of the masonry, the thickness of metal on various parts, &c., &c., december, . the plan of repair adopted and continued for this road to july, , was that of macadam, with nine inches of metal in three strata. the provisions of the act of congress of the last session made a change in the plan of operation necessary. the sum of $ , was appropriated to finish the repairs of the road from cumberland to wheeling, a distance of one hundred and thirty-two miles, of which fifty-four miles had not been commenced. to conform with the provisions of the law, it became necessary to confine the expenditure of this sum to the most indispensable parts of the system, and adopt a less expensive and less permanent repair; abandoning the plan of finishing the mountain division with limestone throughout, and to a width of twenty feet; confining the metal on the more expensive parts of these divisions to a width of from twelve to fifteen feet, instead of twenty; abandoning further repairs to the masonry of the parapets of the bridges; depositing the stone that had been prepared for this purpose on the side roads, and leaving the side walls on wheeling hill in their unfinished state; limiting the stratum of metal to be put on this season to three perches and a half, on an average, per rod, on the whole line of the road; transporting the stone that had previously been collected for an additional thickness of metal to parts that had not been supplied with any; substituting wooden bridges for stone over wills creek and braddock's run, and abandoning altogether the construction of any bridge over dunlap's creek. the repairs thus modified are fast drawing to a close, when the road will present parts covered with thicknesses of metal varying from three to nine inches, as follows: first division, in maryland, sixteen miles, one hundred and sixty rods, including new location, is covered with three inches of metal. second division, in maryland, sixteen miles, one hundred and ninety-four rods, is covered with six inches of metal. third division, in pennsylvania, two hundred rods, is covered with four inches and a half of metal. third division, in pennsylvania, twenty-five miles, one hundred rods, to a width of from twelve to fifteen feet, is covered with nine inches of metal. fourth division, in pennsylvania, one mile, seven rods, is covered with three inches of metal. fourth division, in pennsylvania, fourteen miles, one hundred and twenty-three rods, to a width of from twelve to fifteen feet, is covered with six inches of metal. fifth division, in pennsylvania, eighteen miles, nine rods, is covered with three inches of metal. sixth division, in pennsylvania, twenty-one miles, two hundred and seventy-three rods, is covered with three inches of metal. seventh division, in virginia, five miles, is covered with three inches of metal. seventh division, in virginia, nine miles, two hundred and sixteen rods, is covered with six inches of metal. the number of inches of metal put on that part which has been located anew, the first six miles of the first division, being three inches, and the number of inches of metal put upon that part of the road which lies between the monongahela and the ohio, the fifth, sixth, and seventh divisions, being three inches of metal on forty-four miles and two hundred and eighty-two rods, and six inches of metal on nine miles and two hundred and sixteen rods. to make this a permanent and substantial road, such that the heavy transportation wagons shall not force their wheels through the metal into the bed, not less than the original contemplated thickness of three strata of three inches each, or the same number of strata of three perches and a half of stone each, appears sufficient. that three inches of metal will not suffice to bear up the travel passing over this road, is proved by the experience of the last two years. nor will six inches answer the purpose on all parts of the road, during a long or continued wet spell of weather, when, from absorption alone, the solidity and contiguity of the metal has become weakened and lessened. on the crests of the hills it will be solid, with a thickness of six inches, when, in the valley and grades under one degree, the evidence of its insufficiency are apparent. nothing less than the three strata of three inches each has been found sufficient; the last stratum being unequally applied according to the firmness and dryness, and the slope or grade of the bed. such was judged necessary for a macadam road from cumberland to wheeling, and the results tend to confirm the necessity of a thickness of nine inches on an average, to secure the object contemplated by the instructions of the chief engineer. the condition of the masonry on the whole line of the road is in an unfinished state, so far as regards many of the parts upon which repairs have been commenced; and where nothing had been done toward repairing the bridges, many of their side-walls or parapets are in a dilapidated state, or torn down to the level of the roadway. in repairing the road under the last act of congress, no more masonry was undertaken than the construction of culverts to drain the road, and repairing such parts as were necessary to perfect the roadway twenty feet in width; all other parts were left in the unfinished and decayed state in which they were when the appropriation of the year caused an abandonment of further repairs to this part of the work. to carry into effect the repairs originally contemplated, and to secure the uniform strength throughout the whole line of the road equivalent to nine inches of metal, the following sums will be necessary, after applying the means now on hand, and which are pledged for the work commenced and contracted for in july last. by reference to the annexed statement, it will be perceived the price per perch for delivered stone prepared as metal on the road varies from ninety-three cents to $ . , and is stated for each section throughout the whole line of the road. three quarries supply upward of twenty miles of the road, there being none nearer or accessible. quarries of the best limestone are numerous and not remote from the road between wheeling and the eastern base of laurel hill; from thence to frostburg they are few in number, situated in deep ravines, and remote from the road; from frostburg to cumberland they are comparatively numerous and of easy access. it will be seen that the price agrees with the difficulty of procuring the stone, and in the ratio above stated, from ninety-three cents to $ . per perch. chapter xii. _gen. lewis cass, secretary of war, transmits a report--more about the wooden bridges for the new location near cumberland--the war department thinks they will do--john hoye stoutly objects--the governor of maryland takes a hand against wooden bridges--john hoye to the front again--the pennsylvania commissioners make another demand that the road be put in repair._ war department, january , . _sir_: herewith i have the honor to transmit a report from the chief engineer, which furnishes the information called for by the resolution of the house of representatives of the th ultimo, respecting the cumberland road east of the ohio. very respectfully, your most obedient servant, lew. cass. hon. john bell, speaker of the house of representatives. * * * * * engineer department, washington, january , . _sir_: i have the honor to hand you the information called for by the house of representatives on the th ultimo, relating to the cumberland road east of the ohio, and remain, sir, very respectfully, your obedient servant, c. gratiot, chief engineer. the hon. lewis cass, secretary of war. * * * * * engineer department, washington, july , . _sir_: in making the repairs of the cumberland road east of the ohio river, it was deemed expedient, in the fall of , to change that part of the old location which is immediately west of cumberland, in the state of maryland, for the purpose of turning wills hill. by this an abrupt rise of several hundred feet would be avoided. a survey, preparatory to this change, was made, and the result submitted to congress, in the session of -' ; the proposed change was authorized, and the location, as exhibited on the drawing of the survey, adopted. this change of location involved the construction of a bridge over the mill-race in the town of cumberland, and another over wills creek, as well as other bridges of minor importance, with several culverts. the legislature of the state of maryland passed an act giving assent to the change in question, with the proviso, however, "that the part of the road embraced in this change should be made of the best material, upon the macadam plan, and that a good, substantial stone bridge should be made over the mill-race, in the town of cumberland, and over wills creek at the place of crossing, and that substantial stone bridges and culverts should be made wherever the same may respectively be necessary along the line of said road." in the estimates which were prepared, and submitted at the commencement of the last session of congress for its action, the sum proposed for the completion of the repairs of the entire road from cumberland to the ohio river, contemplated the erection of the bridges on the new location, in conformity to the requirements of the law of maryland just referred to. but, as is known to you, more than one-half of this sum was stricken from the bill, which embodied the whole amount of the estimate. the act appropriating the remainder requires that the whole of the repairs shall be completed for this diminished sum. under these circumstances, it becomes necessary to change the plan upon which it was proposed to execute the work, and the object of this communication is to ascertain the extent to which the department may be allowed to carry this change on the new part of the road embraced by the law of maryland. if the bridges alluded to be built of stone, the expense will be much greater than the sum allotted to that section would bear: whereas, if the abutments be built of stone, and the superstructure of wood, the same ends would be attained as would result from bridges built entirely of stone, but the letter of the maryland law would be departed from. good wooden superstructures, well covered and painted, would last, with a little care, at least forty years, and perhaps longer. to abandon this new location, and return to the old road, would be to sacrifice a large amount of money already expended on the former, which is now in a state of forwardness, and would soon be finished. besides, a bridge must, in any event, be constructed over wills creek, and every consideration of convenient and easy traveling conspires to render its location on the new line of the road desirable. the officer charged with the repairs of the road is now engaged in giving out the work to contract, and making other arrangements necessary to a speedy application of the funds. it is, therefore, very desirable that an early decision may be had of this question, and it is accordingly respectfully requested. i have the honor to be, &c., c. gratiot, brig. gen. hon. secretary of war. * * * * * i approve of the course recommended by general gratiot with regard to the bridges--the abutments to be of stone, and the superstructure of wood--believing that such a course would be deemed by maryland a substantial compliance with the law, under the circumstances of the case. john forsyth, act. sec'y of war. july , . * * * * * cumberland, august , . _sir_: i was this day informed that the bridge across wills creek, on the new location of the cumberland road up braddock's run, is to be built of wood. by the act of the legislature of maryland, authorizing the president to change the location of the road, it is enacted that the road may be located up wills creek through the narrows, provided the bridges were all built of stone. i am decidedly of the opinion that, by the provisions of that law, the president had no right to change the location of the road unless he strictly complied with every provision and requisition of said law. you will, on examination of the act of maryland, passed at december session, , chapter , see that the bridges are to be all built of stone. i sincerely hope you will, on examining the law, and reflecting on the subject, direct the bridges to be built in strict compliance with the law authorizing the change in location; it would, in all probability, save money and time. i am sure the state will not receive the road without the stone bridges. i shall be gratified to hear from you on this subject by return mail. your most obedient, john hoye. general c. gratiot. * * * * * engineer department, washington, august , . _sir_: your communication in behalf of the citizens of cumberland, remonstrating against the erection of bridges of wooden superstructures over wills creek, &c., addressed to me under date of th instant, is received. the measure to which the citizens of cumberland object, grows, of necessity, out of existing circumstances; and the bridges will have to be built in the manner and of the materials named in the instruction of the department to the superintendent of the road, or the new location to turn wills hill must be abandoned. the people of cumberland are doubtless aware that estimates were submitted to congress last fall for funds sufficient to put up the structures in conformity with the law of maryland, to which you refer; and it is hoped that they are also aware that these funds were reduced more than one-half in amount, and that the act appropriating the residue imposes the task of completing all the repairs on the whole road east of the ohio, with the sum rendered available by it. you will perceive, sir, that there was no other course left to the department than to change the plan and system of repairs. the bridges which it is proposed to construct will, with care, last at least forty years. very respectfully, &c., c. gratiot, brig. gen. and chief engineer. b. s. pigman, esq., cumberland, md. * * * * * executive department, annapolis, september , . _sir_: by an act of the general assembly, passed at december session, , (of which, at your request, an authenticated copy was transmitted to you on the th day of march, ), the consent of this state was given to a change of the location of a part of the cumberland or national road within our limits, upon certain conditions; among which, "that a good and substantial stone bridge shall be made over the mill-race in the town of cumberland, and over wills creek at the place of crossing, and that substantial stone bridges or culverts shall be made wherever the same may respectively be necessary along the line of said road." by the same act, john hoye and meshach frost, esqrs., and the superintendent for the time being of the said road, appointed by the president of the united states, were appointed commissioners "to report the said national road, when finished and repaired within the limits of this state, to the governor and council." a communication has been received from john hoye, esq., in which he states that "the war department has now directed and contracted to have all the bridges on said new location built of wood." i beg leave to call your attention to this subject, in the fullest confidence that there has been some mistake or misapprehension on the part of some of the agents or persons employed upon the work in question, and that you will cause the terms and conditions upon which the consent of the state was given to the proposed improvements to be respected and carried into effect. with great respect, i have the honor to be, your obedient servant, james thomas. hon. lewis cass, secretary of war. * * * * * war department, washington, september , . _sir_: i have had the honor to receive your letter of the th instant, respecting the construction of the bridge on the national road near cumberland, and for your information i beg leave to enclose the accompanying report from the engineer department, which explains the course which has been taken, and the necessity of it. i trust that you will find that the act of the state of maryland has been substantially complied with, and certainly so far as the means within this department permitted. very respectfully, &c. lew. cass. his excellency james thomas, governor of maryland, annapolis. * * * * * engineer department, washington, september , . _sir_: in answer to your inquiries of this morning respecting certain bridges on the cumberland road, in the state of maryland, i have the honor to submit the following statement: in applying the money appropriated by congress at the session of and ' , for the repairs of the cumberland road east of the ohio river, it was deemed highly important to change the location of that part of the road immediately west of cumberland to turn wills mountain, as, by that means, a rise of several hundred feet, within a few miles, would be avoided. a survey was accordingly made, and submitted to congress, and the change was approved. the state of maryland assented, provided the part of the road embraced in the change should be "made of the best materials, upon the macadam plan, and that a good and substantial stone bridge should be made on the mill-race, in the town of cumberland, and over wills creek at the place of crossing, and that substantial stone bridges and culverts should be made wherever the same may respectively be necessary along the line of said road." estimates were prepared last fall for the entire completion of the repairs of the road from cumberland to the ohio. these estimates, which contemplated the construction and erection of bridges, in strict conformity with the law of maryland giving her consent to the change of location, were submitted to congress at the commencement of its recent session, and amounted to six hundred and fifty-two thousand one hundred dollars. full and ample explanations accompanied these estimates, so there could have been no misunderstanding respecting them. a bill of appropriation was introduced, embracing their entire amount. this amount, after much discussion, was reduced to less than one-half, to-wit: $ , , and the bill became a law, containing a section which requires that as soon as the sum of $ , , or as much thereof as is necessary, shall be expended on the road agreeably to the provisions of this act, the same shall be surrendered to the states, respectively, through which the road passes; "and the united states shall not thereafter be subject to any expense for repairing said road." under these circumstances, it was plain that the system of repairs upon which the estimates were predicated could not be executed, and a change became necessary. the stone bridges referred to in the law of maryland constituted a heavy item in the estimates, and it was entirely out of the question to build them without absorbing more of the appropriation than the absolute requirements of other sections of the road would admit. there being no obligation to finish the new location further than that imposed by the very great advantage resulting from its adoption, the question arose whether it would be best to abandon it, and return to the old road or not. after adopting every expedient, consistent with a faithful execution of the law, to diminish the expenses on other portions of the road, it was found that a sufficient sum would be left to construct this new portion of the best material, on the macadam plan, and to build the abutments and piers of all the bridges on it of good stone, and in the best manner, provided the superstructures were made of wood. this was the best that could be done; and when it was considered that these superstructures, being made of the best materials, would, when covered and well painted, last, with a little care, from thirty to forty years, it was recommended to the acting secretary of war, during your absence, to adopt them in preference to surrendering all the benefits that will result from the new road. the acting secretary, considering that the approval of the measure would, under this state of things, be a substantial compliance with the law of maryland, directed instructions to that effect to be issued to the superintendent of the road, which was accordingly done. with great respect, &c., by order: wm. h. c. bartlett, lieut. and assist. to chief engineer. the hon. secretary of war. * * * * * cumberland, december , . _sir_: as one of the commissioners appointed by the legislature of maryland to report to the governor and council of said state when that part of the national road within the limits of this state shall have been repaired agreeably to the provisions of the law of the state agreeing to receive that part of the road lying within the limits of this state; and a further act of the legislature of maryland, authorizing the president of the united states to change the location of a part of said road within the limits of maryland, the change of location was authorized to be made on certain and positive conditions that the bridges over wills creek and braddock's run should all be permanent stone bridges; and the road to be constructed with the best materials, on the macadam plan (see the law of maryland, passed december session, , chapter ). the plan of the bridges has been changed by the superintendent to wooden bridges, in direct violation of the engagements with this state. the president had no right to change the location of the road, unless the law of this state authorizing the change was fully complied with. the "metal" on the new location is not more than three and a half inches, and every wagon that passes over it, when the road is wet, cuts entirely through the stone, and turns up the clay. i am advised that there is a part of the road, fourteen miles west of cumberland, which has had but three and a half inches of metal put on it over the original pavement. i am gratified to have it in my power to state that, from observation, and the best information i have been able to collect, the last appropriation for the road has been most judiciously expended. i believe that it is the first that has been well laid out. i must say that we cannot report in favor of this state receiving the road until the permanent stone bridges are erected, and the road in that state of repair contemplated by the law. i beg leave to refer you to my letter to general c. gratiot, dated in august last, which, with my communication to his excellency james thomas, governor of maryland, a copy of which, i presume, he communicated to your department during the last summer, you will please to consider a part of this communication. i should have addressed you at an earlier period, but was prevented by severe indisposition. i remain, with respect, your most obedient, john hoye. hon. lewis cass, secretary of war, washington city. * * * * * november , . _sir_: the undersigned commissioners, appointed by the governor of pennsylvania to erect gates and superintend the collection of tolls on the cumberland road "after it shall be put in a good state of repair by the united states," respectfully represent: that, from a full and careful examination of the subject, they are satisfied that they are not authorized, by the terms of the law under which they are appointed, to accept the road from the united states, or erect gates for the collection of tolls, until provision is made by congress for completing the repairs on the plan already adopted by the agents of the united states, and sanctioned by several appropriations to carry it into effect. without this it is evident that a considerable portion of the road, which has received but a single stratum of stone, will be left in a condition so weak and imperfect as soon to become again totally impassable for a considerable portion of the year. the law of pennsylvania expressly requires that, before the road is accepted by the commissioners, it must be put in good and complete repair by the united states. to this act and all its provisions, congress, on the d of july, , gave its assent; an appropriation was made, and a plan of repair was accordingly adopted by the agents of the government, and two subsequent appropriations made by congress to carry this plan and compact into effect. the complete repair of the road is made by the compact a condition precedent to be performed by the united states. it is not performed, as appears by the report of the agents of the united states, and, until it is, the commissioners appointed by the state cannot be justified in accepting the road or exacting tolls. besides, it is evident that the tolls established, even if raised to the maximum, will be totally inadequate to the preservation and repair of the road, unless first put in a state of complete and substantial repair. this, a statement of a single fact will fully demonstrate. it appears by a report lately received from the superintendent of that part of the road which lies between hagerstown and cumberland, that the tolls there collected amount to $ per mile per annum; of this $ is required to pay gate keepers and superintendents, leaving $ for repairs. the tolls on that part of the road are more than three times as high as those proposed on this, so that the amount of tolls applicable to the repair of this road will not exceed $ per mile per annum, a sum barely sufficient to preserve the road after it is put in the best possible state of repair. the undersigned do not presume to prescribe a plan of repair; they are satisfied with that adopted and partly executed by the agents of the united states; and they now distinctly declare and pledge themselves, that so soon as congress shall appropriate the sum required by the secretary of war to complete the repair of the road on the plan adopted in his report at the last session, we will, with all possible despatch, proceed to erect the gates, and relieve the united states from all further charge or expense on account of said road, after the appropriation so made shall be expended. very respectfully, your most obedient servants, thomas endsley. daniel downer. william f. coplan. stephen hill. benjamin anderson. hon. lewis cass, secretary of war. note.--the bridges near wills creek were in the end built of stone. [illustration: iron bridge.] chapter xiii. _the iron bridge over dunlap's creek at brownsville--interesting facts relating to its projection and construction--the first step--several respectable gentlemen of brownsville call the attention of the government's agent to the subject._ national road, - / miles from cumberland, august , . _sir_: yesterday, as i passed through brownsville, i was waited on by several of the most respectable gentlemen of that place, who were anxious to have me examine the bridge over dunlap's creek, between brownsville and bridgeport, to see its condition, and to give my opinion as to its renewal. accordingly, i observed that i thought the bridge would not stand a twelve-month, and that i did not feel myself authorized to renew it, as the bridge had never been made by the government, but recommended that they write to the department for a decision; and, agreeably to their request, observed that i would likewise report the actual condition of the bridge. consequently, i enclose to the department a leaf from my note book, giving a rough sketch of the bridge, and pointing out its defects. the reason why this bridge was not originally constructed by the government, as well as a bridge over the monongahela river, are better known to the department than i am able to conjecture. i have to observe that a company is now constructing a substantial bridge over the monongahela river, across from bridgeport, thereby making the bridge over dunlap's creek an important link in the road; and that a bridge, to ensure the purpose of a common highway, would not be suitable for the only connecting point between two important and increasing towns. i have the honor to be, sir, very respectfully, your most obedient servant, j. k. f. mansfield, lieutenant corps of engineers. gen. c. gratiot, chief engineer. the subject to be examined. engineer department, washington, august , . _sir_: your letter of the th inst., informing the department that you had, at the request of the citizens of brownsville, made an examination of the bridge over dunlap's creek, with a view to an opinion on the question of its removal, and transmitting a rough sketch of the bridge as it at present exists, is received. in consequence of the views presented in your letter, it will be necessary to make a thorough examination of this bridge to ascertain whether it is sufficiently substantial to answer all the purposes of the road, by putting proper repairs upon it, or whether it will be necessary to remove it entirely, and to build a new one. you will accordingly make this examination, and with your report on the subject you will transmit such drawings and explanatory notes as may be necessary to present a full and clear view of the repairs, or new bridge, as the case may be, accompanied by the proper estimates for their execution. you will also ascertain, by the best oral testimony that can be obtained in the vicinity of the bridge, whether it is on the line of the road as originally located, and make known the fact in your report. the secretary of war has been written to on the subject, and, as soon as his decision is known at the department, you will be instructed accordingly. i am, &c., &c., c. gratiot. lieut. j. k. p. mansfield, corps of engineers, uniontown, pa. an examination made, and an adverse decision rendered. uniontown, pa., august , . _sir_: i have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of the letter of the department on the subject of the bridge over dunlap's creek, at brownsville, and to state that i have completed the examination of the road to the virginia line, and have already given out notices for contracts, two of which are enclosed for the perusal of the department. i am, &c., j. k. f. mansfield, lieutenant corps of engineers. gen. charles gratiot, chief engineer. * * * * * engineer department, washington, october , . _sir_: you were informed by letter from the department, under date of th august last, that the secretary of war had been written to on the subject of building a new bridge over dunlap's creek in the place of that which is at present in the line of the cumberland road, between brownsville and bridgeport, and which was referred to in your communication to the chief engineer of the th of august last. i now have to inform you that the secretary of war has decided that the bridge in question cannot be built at the expense of the government, under the law making appropriation for the repairs of the cumberland road east of the ohio river. very respectfully, &c., by order: wm. h. c. bartlett, lieut. of engineers, and assistant to chief engineer. lieut. j. k. f. mansfield, corps of engineers, uniontown, pa., or capt. delafield. the decision reversed, and the bridge to be built. engineer department, washington, may , . _sir_: the secretary of war has determined that a new bridge shall be built across the mouth of dunlap's creek, in the line of the cumberland road; you will, therefore, be pleased to submit a plan, and estimate, with as little delay as practicable, with the view to the erection of this bridge during the present year. i am, sir, &c., c. gratiot, brig. general. capt. r. delafield, corps of engineers, uniontown, pa. a serious question as to location arises--a request that barriers be used on the road. extract from a letter dated brownsville, may , . _sir_: to establish the location of dunlap's creek bridge, i desire the field notes of the commissioners, if on file in your office, and mr. shriver's notes of location. from these, i am inclined to believe it will appear that the most favorable route for the bridge was pointed out by the commissioners, and the route over the bridge now used, no part of the national road, but a county bridge, that we have no right to interfere with. may i request such information as is within your reach on this subject? the road may be called a very excellent turnpike between this and frostburg, at the present time; so smooth that already the stage proprietors have commenced the use of a "rough lock," that materially injures the surface. some defects are clearly observable, growing out of the constant travel and wear of the center of the road from the prohibition to use barriers to change the travel. without being permitted to use barriers of logs, stumps and stones, it is out of our power ever to make a perfect macadamized road, and far from being as good as the expenditure should produce. such a system has been resorted to on every road i have seen made, and every officer associated with me concurs in the opinion that we cannot succeed without using them. permit me to ask a reconsideration of the order prohibiting their use. respectfully, your obedient servant, rich'd delafield, captain of engineers. brig. gen. charles gratiot, chief engineer. the use of barriers permitted--a road beginning at uniontown, and ending at washington. engineer department, washington, may , . _sir_: your communication, dated the th instant, was duly received. in conformity with your request, a detail of two officers, as your assistants on the cumberland road, has been applied for. herewith is transmitted a book containing, as stated, "the notes of a location of the united states western road, beginning at uniontown, and ending at the turnpike near washington," which is the only document among the papers transferred from the treasury department to this office, relating to the cumberland road, embraced in the notes, required to be forwarded to you. (on the subject of regulating the travel so as to preserve the surface of the road from injury mentioned in your letter, you will again resort to the use of barriers, wood only, to be used for the purpose, and placed only on one side of the road at the same time, provided the object can thus be accomplished, and so elevated as to be very conspicuous, that the travel by night may not be endangered by the barriers.) i am, &c., c. gratiot, brig. general. capt. r. delafield, corps of engineers, brownsville, pa. a big appropriation, but the bridge abandoned. engineer department, washington, june , . _sir_: three hundred thousand dollars have just been appropriated for the repairs of the cumberland road east of the ohio. you will perceive by the law, a printed copy of which is herewith enclosed, that the intention is that this sum shall complete the repairs. you will, therefore, take your measures accordingly, and put the road in as good condition as this sum will admit of. the new section to turn wills hill will be completed on the plan already commenced, but the plan of operations on the other sections must be modified to suit the requirements of the law. the iron bridge over dunlap's creek will be abandoned. your project, when matured, will be transmitted for the approval of the department. very respectfully, &c., by order: wm. h. c. bartlett. lieut. and assistant to chief engineer. capt. r. delafield, corps of engineers, new castle, del. another and final change--the bridge to be built on the site of the old one. engineer department, washington, august , . _sir_: i have to acknowledge the receipt of your communication, dated st ultimo, in reference to the bridge over dunlap's creek, on the cumberland road, east of the ohio. the subject of rebuilding this bridge was brought to the notice of the secretary of war during the summer of , when he refused to take any action in the matter, on the ground that it was a county bridge, which should be repaired or rebuilt by the county authorities, as the united states, in adopting a system of repairs, had undertaken to repair only that which they had originally constructed. it was thought on the other side, that notwithstanding the united states had not built this bridge, yet, as they had enjoyed the free benefit of it, and as it lay on the tacitly acknowledged line of the road, they were bound, under the act of congress authorizing the repairs of the road to work on every part of it without reference to original constructors or proprietors. in this state of the case, it was submitted to mr. taney, then attorney general, who decided verbally in favor of the latter view, and instructions in conformity thereto were issued to the superintendent of the road, requiring him to cause the bridge to be either repaired or rebuilt. this question having been settled, the next is, whether dunlap's creek can be crossed at any other point than where the county bridge now stands. it is the opinion of the department that it cannot. it would seem there is no evidence on record that any location was ever finally fixed upon by the commissioners, and reported by them to the president, for the part of the road in the immediate vicinity of this creek; but the fact that the road was actually made in its present location, and used ever since its original construction, without any opposition, is strong proof that this route was adopted by the government; at all events, in the absence of all other evidence, the department feels constrained to act upon this. now, the appropriations having been made for the repairs of the road, and not for constructing any part of it, except the new section to turn wills hill, it is not perceived how any part of the funds can be applied to the new location proposed by you. these views having been submitted to the acting secretary of war, he concurs in them. your operations will, therefore, be confined to the old road on which the bridge must be located. very, &c., c. gratiot, capt. richard delafield, corps of engineers, brownsville, pa. chapter xiv. _appropriations by congress at various times for making, repairing, and continuing the road--aggregate of appropriations, $ , , . ._ . act of march , , authorizes the president to appoint a commission of three citizens to lay out a road four rods in width "from cumberland or a point on the northern bank of the river potomac in the state of maryland, between cumberland and the place where the main road leading from gwinn's to winchester, in virginia, crosses the river, * * * to strike the river ohio at the most convenient place between a point on its eastern bank, opposite to the northern boundary of steubenville and the mouth of grave creek, which empties into the said river a little below wheeling, in virginia." provides for obtaining the consent of the states through which the road passes, and appropriates for the expenses, to be paid from the reserve fund under the act of april , $ , . act of february , , appropriates to be expended under the direction of the president, in making the road between cumberland and brownsville, to be paid from fund act of april , , . act of march , , appropriates to be expended under the direction of the president, in making the road between cumberland and brownsville, and authorizes the president to permit deviations from a line established by the commissioners under the original act as may be expedient; _provided_, that no deviation shall be made from the principal points established on said road between cumberland and brownsville, to be paid from fund act of april , , . act of february , , appropriates balance of a former appropriation not used, but carried to surplus fund , ------------ _carried forward_ $ , _brought forward_ $ , . act of may , , appropriates to be expended under direction of the president, for making the road from cumberland to brownsville, to be paid from fund act of april , , . act of march , (general appropriation bill), appropriates for making the road from cumberland to the state of ohio, to be paid from fund act of april , , . act of february , , appropriates to be expended under the direction of the president, for making the road between cumberland and brownsville, to be paid from fund act of april , , . act of april , (general appropriation bill), appropriates for making the road from cumberland to the state of ohio, to be paid from the fund act, april , , . act of april , , appropriates to meet claims due and unpaid , demands under existing contracts , from money in the treasury not otherwise appropriated. . act of march , , appropriates for existing claims and contracts , completing road , to be paid from reserved funds, acts admitting ohio, indiana, and illinois. . act of may , , appropriates for laying out the road between wheeling, va., and a point on the left bank of the mississippi river, between st. louis and the mouth of the illinois river, road to be eighty feet wide and on a straight line, and authorizes the president to appoint commissioners. to be paid out of any money in the treasury not otherwise appropriated , . act of april , , appropriates for completing contract for road from washington, pa., to wheeling, out of any money in the treasury not otherwise appropriated , . act of february , , appropriates for repairs between cumberland and wheeling, and authorizes the president to appoint a superintendent at a compensation of $ . per day. to be paid out of money not otherwise appropriated , ------------- _carried forward_ $ , , _brought forward_ $ , , . act of march , , appropriates for opening and making a road from the town of canton, in the state of ohio, opposite wheeling, to zanesville, and for the completion of the surveys of the road, directed to be made by the act of may , , and orders its extension to the permanent seat of government of missouri, and to pass by the seats of government of ohio, indiana, and illinois, said road to commence at zanesville, ohio; also authorizes the appointment of a superintendent by the president, at a salary of $ , per annum, who shall make all contracts, receive and disburse all moneys, &c.; also authorizes the appointment of one commissioner, who shall have power according to provisions of the act of may , ; $ , of the money appropriated by this act is to be expended in completing the survey mentioned. the whole sum appropriated to be advanced from moneys not otherwise appropriated, and replaced from reserve fund, acts admitting ohio, indiana, illinois, and missouri , . act of march , (general appropriation bill), appropriates for balance due superintendent, $ , ; assistant superintendent, $ . ; contractor, $ . , from moneys not otherwise appropriated. . act of march , (military service), appropriates for continuation of the cumberland road during the year , . act of march , (military service), appropriates for construction of road from canton to zanesville, and continuing and completing the survey from zanesville to the seat of government of missouri, to be paid from reserve fund, acts admitting ohio, indiana, illinois, and missouri , for balance due superintendent, from moneys not otherwise appropriated . act of march , , appropriates for repairs between cumberland and wheeling, and authorizes the appointment of a superintendent of repairs, at a compensation to be fixed by the president. to be paid from moneys not otherwise appropriated. the language of this act is, "for repairing the public road from cumberland to wheeling" , ------------- _carried forward_ $ , , _brought forward_ $ , , . act of may , , appropriates for the completion of the road to zanesville, ohio, to be paid from fund, acts admitting ohio, indiana, illinois, and missouri , . act of march , , appropriates for opening road westwardly, from zanesville, ohio, to be paid from fund, acts admitting ohio, indiana, illinois, and missouri , . act of march , , appropriates for opening road eighty feet wide in indiana, east and west from indianapolis, and to appoint two superintendents, at $ each per annum, to be paid from fund, acts admitting ohio, indiana, illinois, and missouri , . act of march , , appropriates for repairing bridges, &c., on road east of wheeling , . act of may , (internal improvements), appropriates for opening and grading road west of zanesville, ohio, $ , ; for opening and grading road in indiana, $ , , commencing at indianapolis, and progressing with the work to the eastern and western boundaries of said state; for opening, grading, &c., in illinois, $ , , to be paid from reserve fund, acts admitting ohio, indiana, illinois, and missouri; for claims due and remaining unpaid on account of road east of wheeling, $ , ; to be paid from moneys in the treasury not otherwise appropriated , to this act is appended the following note: "i approve this bill, and ask a reference to my communication to congress of this date in relation thereto. "andrew jackson."[b] ------------ _carried forward_ $ , , [footnote b: the following is the communication referred to by president jackson: special message. may , . _to the senate of the united states_: _gentlemen_: i have approved and signed the bill entitled "an act making appropriations for examinations and surveys, and also for certain works of internal improvement," but as the phraseology of the section, which appropriates the sum of eight thousand dollars for the road from detroit to chicago, may be construed to authorize the application of the appropriation for the continuance of the road beyond the limits of the territory of michigan, i desire to be understood as having approved this bill with the understanding that the road, authorized by this section, is not to be extended beyond the limits of the said territory. andrew jackson.] _brought forward_ $ , , . act of march , , appropriates $ , for opening, grading, &c., west of zanesville, ohio; $ for repairs during the year ; $ , for work heretofore done east of zanesville; $ . for arrearages for the survey from zanesville to the capital of missouri; and $ , for opening, grading, &c., in the state of indiana, including bridge over white river, near indianapolis, and progressing to eastern and western boundaries; $ , for opening, grading, and bridging in illinois; to be paid from the fund, acts admitting ohio, indiana, illinois, and missouri , . act of july , , appropriates $ , for repairs east of the ohio river; $ , for continuing the road west of zanesville; $ , for continuing the road in indiana, including bridge over east and west branch of white river; $ , for continuing road in illinois; to be paid from the fund acts admitting ohio, indiana and illinois, , . act of march , , appropriates to carry on certain improvements east of the ohio river, $ , ; in ohio, west of zanesville, $ , ; in indiana, $ , ; in illinois, $ , ; in virginia, $ , , . act of june , , appropriates $ , for continuing the road in ohio; $ , for continuing the road in indiana; $ , for continuing the road in illinois, and $ , for the entire completion of repairs east of ohio, to meet provisions of the acts of pennsylvania (april , ), maryland (jan. , ), and virginia (feb. , ), accepting the road surrendered to the states, the united states not thereafter to be subject for any expense for repairs. places engineer officer of army in control of road through indiana and illinois, and in charge of all appropriations. $ , to be paid out of any money in the treasury not otherwise appropriated, balance from acts admitting ohio, indiana and illinois , . act of june , , (general appropriation) for arrearages due contractors , ----------- _carried forward_ $ , , _brought forward_ $ , , . act of march , , appropriates $ , for continuing the road in the state of ohio; $ , for continuing road in the state of indiana; to be out of fund acts admitting ohio, indiana and illinois, and $ , . for the entire completion of repairs in maryland, pennsylvania and virginia; but before any part of this sum can be expended east of the ohio river, the road shall be surrendered to and accepted by the states through which it passes, and the united states shall not thereafter be subject to any expense in relation to said road. out of any money in the treasury not otherwise appropriated , . act of march , , (repair of roads) appropriates to pay for work heretofore done by isaiah frost on the cumberland road, $ ; to pay late superintendent of road a salary, $ . , . act of july , , appropriates for continuing the road in ohio, $ , ; for continuing road in indiana, $ , , including materials for a bridge over the wabash river; $ , for continuing the road in illinois, provided that the appropriation for illinois shall be limited to grading and bridging, and shall not be construed as pledging congress to future appropriations for the purpose of macadamizing the road, and the moneys herein appropriated for said road in ohio and indiana must be expended in completing the greatest possible continuous portion of said road in said states so that said finished part thereof may be surrendered to the states respectively; to be paid from acts admitting ohio, indiana, illinois and missouri , . act of march , , appropriates $ , for continuing the road in ohio; $ , for continuing the road in indiana; $ , for continuing road in illinois, provided the road in illinois shall not be stoned or graveled, unless it can be done at a cost not greater than the average cost of stoning and graveling the road in ohio and indiana, and provided that in all cases where it can be done the work to be laid off in sections and let to the lowest substantial bidder. sec. of the act provides that sec. of act of july , , shall not be applicable to expenditures hereafter made on the road, and $ , . is appropriated by this act for repairs east of the ohio river; to be paid from the acts admitting ohio, indiana and illinois , ------------- _carried forward_ $ , , _brought forward_ $ , , . act of may , , appropriates for continuing the road in ohio, $ , ; for continuing it in indiana, including bridges, $ , ; for continuing it in illinois, $ , ; for the completion of a bridge over dunlap's creek at brownsville; to be paid from moneys in the treasury not otherwise appropriated and subject to provisions and conditions of act of march , , . act of june , , (civil and diplomatic) appropriates for arrearages on account of survey to jefferson, mo. , ------------- total $ , , note--the appropriation of $ , , made by act of feb. , , is not included in the above total for the reason that it was a balance from a former appropriation. the act of march , , appropriates so much as is necessary to settle certain claims on contract for building bridges over kaskaskia river and constructing part of cumberland road. [illustration: hon. t. m. t. mckennan.] chapter xv. _speech of hon. t. m. t. mckennan, delivered in congress, june , --the road a monument of national wealth and greatness--a bond of union--business of the road--five thousand wagons unload in wheeling in a single year--facilities afforded by the road for transporting the mails and munitions of war._ this road, mr. speaker (the national road), is a _magnificent one_--magnificent in extent; it traverses seven different states of this union, and its whole distance will cover an extent of near eight hundred miles. magnificent in the difficulties overcome by the wealth of a nation, and in the benefits and advantages and blessings which it diffuses, east and west, far and wide, through the whole country. it is, sir, _a splendid monument of national wealth and national greatness, and of the deep interest felt by the government in the wealth and prosperity and happiness of the people_. it is not, sir, like the stupendous monuments of other countries and of other times, which have been erected merely for the purpose of show and of gratifying the pride of some despotic monarch; but this and all similar national improvements are _works of utility; they tend to cement the bond of union; they bring together the distant parts of this exalted republic; they diffuse wealth and happiness among a free people, and will be a source of never failing prosperity to millions yet unborn_. it is, sir, _a great commercial, military, mail, national work_. to give the house, or those of its members who are unacquainted with the fact, some idea of the immense commercial advantages which the eastern as well as the western country has derived from the construction of this road, let me call their attention to the amount of merchandise transported to the ohio river in a single year after its completion; and here, sir, i avail myself of an estimate made by an honorable member of the other house on another occasion, when he strongly urged the propriety and importance of the extension of the road through the state of ohio. in the year , shortly after the completion of the road, a single house in the town of wheeling unloaded , wagons, averaging about , pounds each, and paid for the carriage of the goods $ , . at that time there were five other commission houses in the same place, and estimating that each of them received two-thirds the amount of goods consigned to the other, there must have been nearly , wagons unloaded, and nearly $ , paid as the cost of transportation. but, further, it is estimated that at least every tenth wagon passed through that place into the interior of ohio, indiana, &c., which would considerably swell the amount. these wagons take their return loads and carry to the eastern markets all the various articles of production and manufacture of the west--their flour, whisky, hemp, tobacco, bacon, and wool. since this estimate was made, the town of wheeling is greatly enlarged; its population has nearly doubled; the number of its commercial establishments has greatly increased; and the demand for merchandise in the west has increased with the wealth and improvement and prosperity of the country. but, further, sir, before the completion of this road, from four to six weeks were usually occupied in the transportation of goods from baltimore to the ohio river, and the price varied from six to ten dollars per hundred. now they can be carried in less than half the time and at one-half the cost, and arrangements are making by some enterprising gentlemen of the west to have the speed of transportation still increased, and the price of carriage diminished. equally important are the benefits derived by the government and the people from the rapid, regular, and safe transportation of the mail on this road. before its completion, eight or more days were occupied in transporting the mail from baltimore to wheeling; it was then carried on horseback, and did not reach the western country by this route more than once a week. now it is carried in comfortable stages, protected from the inclemency of the weather, in forty-eight hours; and no less than twenty-eight mails weekly and regularly pass and repass each other on this road. to show this fact, and the absolute necessity and importance of keeping the road in a good state of repair, in order to enable the postoffice department to fulfill the expectations of the public, i will ask the favor of the clerk to read to the house a communication received from the postmaster general on the subject. [here the clerk read an extract from a letter of the postmaster general]. the facilities afforded by such a road in time of war for the transportation of the munitions of war, and the means of defence from one point of the country to another, need scarcely be noticed; they must be palpable and plain to every reflecting mind, and i will not take up the time of the house in detailing them. as i said before, the road traverses seven different states of this union, and in its whole extent will cover a distance of near miles. who, then, can doubt its nationality? who can question the allegation that it is an immensely important national work? _who can reconcile it to his conscience and his constituents to permit it to go to destruction?_ [illustration: road wagon] chapter xvi. _life on the road--origin of the phrase pike boys--slaves driven like horses--race distinction at the old taverns--old wagoners--regulars and sharpshooters--line teams--john snider, john thompson, daniel barcus, robert bell, henry clay rush, and other familiar names._ as the phrase "pike boys" is frequently used in this volume, it is considered pertinent to give its origin. when first used, it was confined in its application to boys--sons of wagoners, stage drivers, tavern keepers, farmers, and in fact the sons of persons of every occupation who lived on or adjacent to the road, in the same sense that the boys of a town are called "town boys." its meaning and import, however, expanded in course of time, until it embraced, as it now does, all persons in any manner and at any time identified with the road, whether by residence or occupation, and without "regard to age, race, color or previous condition of servitude," as the statute puts it, for be it remembered that negro slaves were frequently seen on the national road. the writer has seen them driven over the road arranged in couples and fastened to a long, thick rope or cable, like horses. this may seem incredible to a majority of persons now living along the road, but it is true, and was a very common sight in the early history of the road and evoked no expression of surprise, or words of censure. such was the temper of the times. there were negro wagoners on the road, but negro stage drivers were unknown. stage driving was quite a lofty calling, and the acme of many a young man's ambition. the work was light and the whirl exciting and exhilarating. wagoners, white and black, stopped over night at the same taverns, but never sat down together at the same table. a separate table was invariably provided for the colored wagoners, a custom in thorough accord with the public sentiment of the time, and seemingly agreeable to the colored wagoners themselves. country life in the olden time was enlivened by numerous corn huskings, balls, spelling matches, school exhibitions and frolics of all kinds. young men and boys along the road, were in the habit of attending these gatherings, going as far as three miles and more in the back country, to reach them, some on foot and others on horseback. a young man would think nothing of getting a girl up behind him on a horse, and hieing away after nightfall, four and five miles to a country dance, and many of the girls of the period considered it but pleasant recreation to walk two or three miles with their lovers, to a spelling match or a revival meeting. a feeling of jealousy always existed between the young men and boys, living along and near the road, and those in the back country, and the occasions before mentioned furnished opportunities from time to time for this feeling to break out, as it often did, in quarrels and fights. the country boys would get together in anticipation of an approaching gathering at some school house, and organize for offense or defense, as the exigencies might require, always calling their rivals and imaginary enemies, "pike boys," and this was the origin of that familiar phrase. the men who hauled merchandise over the road were invariably called wagoners, not teamsters, as is the modern word, and they were both, since webster defines wagoner as one who conducts a wagon, and teamster as one who drives a team. the teams of the old wagoners consisting, as a rule, of six horses, were very rarely stabled, but rested over night on the wagon yards of the old taverns, no matter how inclement the weather. blankets were used to protect them in the winter season. feed troughs were suspended at the rear end of the wagon bed, and carried along in this manner, day after day all the year round. in the evening, when the day's journey was ended, the troughs were taken down and fastened on the tongues of the wagon to which the horses were tied, three on a side, with their heads to the trough. wagoners carried their beds, rolled up, in the forepart of the wagon, and spread them out in a semi-circle on the bar room floor in front of the big bar room fire upon going to rest. some of the old bar room grates would hold as much as six bushels of coal, and iron pokers from four to six feet in length, weighing eight and ten pounds, were used for stirring the fires. to get down an icy hill with safety, it was necessary to use an ice cutter, a rough lock, or a clevis, and sometimes all combined, contingent upon the thickness and smoothness of the ice, and the length and steepness of the hill. the ice cutter was of steel or iron, in appearance like a small sled, fitted on the hind wheels, which were first securely locked. the rough lock was a short chain with large, rough links, and the clevis was like that used on an ordinary plow, except that it was larger and stronger. these instruments were essential parts of the wagoners' "outfit." there were two classes of wagoners, the "regular" and the "sharpshooter." the regular was on the road constantly with his team and wagon, and had no other pursuit than hauling goods and merchandise on the road. the sharpshooters were for the most part farmers, who put their farm teams on the road in seasons when freights were high, and took them off when prices of hauling declined; and there was jealousy between the two classes. the regular drove his team about fifteen miles a day on the average, while the sharpshooter could cover twenty miles and more. line teams were those controlled by an association or company. many of the regular wagoners became members of these companies and put in their teams. the main object of the combination was to transport goods more rapidly than by the ordinary method. line teams were stationed along the road, at distances of about fifteen miles, and horses were exchanged after the manner of the stage lines. many of the old wagoners had bull-dogs tied at the rear of their wagons, and these dogs were often seen pressing with all their strength against the collar about their necks, as if to aid the horses in moving their load; and this is probably the origin of the common form of boast about a man being equal in strength to "a six-horse team with a cross dog under the wagon." [illustration: john thompson.] the whip used by old wagoners was apparently five feet long, thick and hard at the butt, and tapering rapidly to the end in a silken cracker. battley white, of centerville, washington county, pa., made more of these whips than any other man on the road. the interior of his whip was a raw hide. john morrow, of petersburg, somerset county, pa., also made many whips for the old wagoners. there was another whip, much used by old wagoners, known as the "loudon whip." the inner portion of this whip was an elastic wooden stock, much approved by the wagoners. it was manufactured in the village of loudon, franklin county, pa., and hence its name. it was used almost exclusively on what was called the "glade road," from philadelphia to pittsburg, _via_ chambersburg and bedford. some of the old wagoners of the national road became rich. john snider was one of these. he drove a six-horse team on the road for twenty years, and died on his farm near uniontown in december, , much lamented. few men possessed more of the higher attributes of true manhood than john snider. the author of this volume gratefully and cheerfully acknowledges his indebtedness to john snider for many of the facts and incidents it contains. he was a clear-headed, intelligent, sober, discreet, and observing man, whose statements could be relied on as accurate. it would be an impossible task to collect the names of all the old wagoners of the national road. they number thousands, and many of them left the road long since to seek fortunes in new and distant sections of our widely extended country. the most of them have gone to scenes beyond the boundaries of time. it is the author's aim to collect as many of their names as is practicable and write them down in history. the names of john thompson, james noble, and john flack are recalled. these worthy old wagoners are still living in the vicinity of taylorstown, washington county, pa., and highly respected by all their neighbors. the point at which they first entered upon the road was the famous "s" bridge. thompson drove his father's team when quite young, in fact, a mere boy. the first trip he made over the road was in the spring of , in company with the veteran wagoner, george hallam, of washington, pa. thompson's father was a pork packer, and the youthful wagoner's "down loads," as those moving eastwardly were called, consisted for the most part of bacon. his recollections of the road are vivid, and warmly cherished. he can sit down in a room, at his comfortable home, and "in his mind's eye" see every mile post along the road and recall the distances to points inscribed thereon. in the year , he went to california, engaged in mining, and was successful. with the instinct planted in every human breast, he returned to his native land, and with his accumulations bought his father's homestead farm. the old farm enhanced in value by reason of the oil developments, and landed the old wagoner in the ranks of the rich. the name noble is a familiar one on the national road, and suggestive of rank. "watty" and william noble were stage drivers. james noble, the old wagoner, drove a team for the late hon. isaac hodgens, who was at one time a pork salter. he remained on the road as a wagoner until its tide of business ceased, and retired to taylorstown to take his chances in the on-moving and uncertain affairs of life. he seemed possessed of the idea that there was undeveloped wealth in the vicinity of taylorstown, and made up his mind to gain a foothold there and wait the coming of events. he managed by the exercise of industry and economy to become the owner of a farm, and the discovery of oil did the rest for him. he is rich. john flack's career is similar to those of thompson and noble, culminating in like good fortune. "he struck oil, too." we have in the story of these old wagoners, examples of the possibilities for achievement, under the inspiring genius of american institutions. poor boys, starting out in life as wagoners, with wages barely sufficient for their subsistence, pushing on and up with ceaseless vigilance, attaining the dignity of farmers, in all ages the highest type of industrial life, and now each bearing, though meekly, the proud title of "freeholder," which mr. blaine said in his celebrated eulogium of garfield, "has been the patent and passport of self-respect with the anglo-saxon race ever since horsa and hengist landed on the shores of england." [illustration: daniel barcus.] otho and daniel barcus, brothers, were among the prominent wagoners of the road. they lived near frostburg, md. otho died at barton, md., in . daniel is now living in retirement at salisbury, somerset county, pa. in he engaged with john hopkins, merchant at the foot of light and pratt streets, baltimore, to haul a load of general merchandise, weighing , pounds, to mt. vernon, ohio. "he delivered the goods in good condition" at the end of thirty days from the date of his departure from baltimore. his route was over the national road to wheeling, thence by zanesville and jacktown, ohio, thence thirty-two miles from the latter place to the point of destination, the whole distance being miles. he received $ . per hundred for hauling the goods. at mt. vernon he loaded back with ohio tobacco, , pounds in hogsheads, for which he received $ . per hundred. on the return trip he upset, between mt. vernon and jacktown, without sustaining any damage, beyond the breaking of a bow of his wagon bed, and the loss caused by detention. the expense of getting in shape for pursuing his journey, was the price of a gallon of whisky. mt. vernon is not on the line of the road, and mr. barcus writes that "when he reached the national road at jacktown, he felt at home again." mr. barcus also states in a letter to the writer of these pages, that the first lot of goods shipped over the baltimore and ohio railway, after its completion to cumberland, destined for wheeling, was consigned to shriver and dixon, commission merchants of cumberland, and by that firm consigned to forsythe and son, of wheeling. this lot of goods aggregated , pounds, an average load for a six-horse team, and mr. barcus contracted with shriver and dixon to haul it through to wheeling in six days for fifty cents a hundred, which he accomplished. he further states that a delegation of wholesale and retail merchants of wheeling met him at steenrod's tavern, east of wheeling hill, and escorted him to town, then a place of , or , inhabitants, and in the evening there was public rejoicing over the unprecedented event of goods reaching wheeling from baltimore in the short space of seven days. mr. barcus concludes his letter as follows: "i stayed many nights at hopwood with wilse clement, and many with natty brownfield, in uniontown. i often stayed with arthur wallace, five miles east of brownsville. i remember one night at wallace's, after caring for my team, i accompanied his two fine and handsome daughters to a party about a mile distant in the country, where i danced all night, till broad daylight, and then walked home with the girls in the morning." john grace was another old wagoner, who became wealthy. the old pike boys will remember him as the driver of a black team. he was a maryland man. when the old road yielded its grasp on trade, to the iron railway, grace settled in or near zanesville, ohio, where he still lives, or was living a few years ago, worth a hundred thousand dollars. he transported his family to ohio in his big road wagon. jesse franks, and his son conrad, of high house, fayette county, pa., were old wagoners. conrad's team ran off near cumberland, on one of his trips, overthrowing the wagon, and causing an ugly dislocation of conrad's thigh, from which he suffered great pain for many weeks. john manaway, late owner of the spottsylvania house, uniontown, drove a team on the road for many years, and no man enjoyed the business more than he. there was an ohio man of the name of lucas, called gov. lucas, because a man of like name was an early governor of ohio, who was an old wagoner, and his team consisted of but five horses, yet he hauled the biggest loads on the road. he was the owner of the team he drove. in the year , one of his loads weighed twelve thousand pounds--"one hundred and twenty hundred," as the old wagoners termed it, and the biggest load ever hauled over the road up to that date. william king, of washington county, pa., an old wagoner, was noted for his steady habits. on one of his trips over the road, and going down the eastern slope of laurel hill, when it was covered with ice, his wagon slipped from the road and fell over the bank near the old price residence, dragging the team after it. strange to say, the horses were uninjured and but little damage done to the wagon. the contents of the load were ohio tobacco and bacon. after getting things restored, king drove to jimmy snyder's, stayed all night, and the next morning proceeded on his journey to baltimore. he was the owner of a farm in washington county. joseph thompson, an old wagoner on the road, is now and has been for many years in charge of the large and valuable coal farm belonging to the estate of the hon. james g. blaine, on the monongahela river, near pittsburg. a trusty old wagoner, he has approved himself the trusty agent of the great statesman. jacob probasco was an old wagoner, and also kept a tavern at jockey hollow. he went west and founded a fortune. joseph lawson, an old wagoner, kept tavern for many years in west alexander, washington county, pa., and died the possessor of a valuable estate. the author of this book took dinner, in , at lawson's tavern, in company with james g. blaine, the late distinguished secretary of state. matthias fry, an old wagoner, kept the searight house in , and subsequently presided as landlord over several houses at different times in hopwood. he was one of the best men on the road. his large and well proportioned form will be readily recalled by the old pike boys. he was a native of old virginia, and died in hopwood. david hill was one of the most noted wagoners of the road. he was an active, bustling man, and given to witty sayings. he belonged to washington county, pa., and was the father of dr. hill, of vanderbilt, and the father-in-law of the rev. j. k. melhorn, who preached for many years in the vicinity of mcclellandtown, fayette county, pa. andrew prentice, who died recently in uniontown, the possessor of considerable money, drove a team on the old road in his early days. henry clay rush, a prominent citizen of uniontown, and ex-jury commissioner, was once the proud driver of a big six-horse team. he drove through from baltimore to wheeling, and can recount incidents of every mile of the road to this day. none of the old pike boys enjoys with keener relish a recital of the stories of the old pike than rush. william worthington, who died not long since in dunbar township, fayette county, pa., aged upwards of ninety years, was one of the earliest wagoners on the road. when he made his first trip he was only thirteen years old, and the road was then recently opened for travel. he continued as a wagoner on the road for many years, and located in dunbar township, where he purchased property, which subsequently became very valuable by reason of the coal development. william chenriewith, who recently, and probably at the present time, keeps a hotel near bedford springs, was an old wagoner of the national road. [illustration: henry clay rush.] john thomas, who kept a hotel and livery stable in baltimore, was an old wagoner, and is well remembered along the road. george buttermore, father of dr. smith buttermore, of connellsville, was at one time a wagoner on the national road. john orr, now a prosperous and well-known farmer of the vicinity of west newton, westmoreland county, pa., was an old wagoner of the road. james murray, an old wagoner, is remembered for his extravagance of speech. one of his sayings was, that "he saw the wind blow so hard on keyser's ridge, that it took six men to hold the hair on one man's head." e. w. clement, of hopwood, was an old wagoner, and invariably used bells on his horses. he subsequently kept a tavern in hopwood, and built the house there known as the "shipley house." robert bell was an old wagoner with quaint ways. he was rich, and owned his team, which was the poorest equipped of any on the road. horses in his team were not infrequently seen without bridles. he was a trader, and often bought the goods he hauled and sold them out to people along the road. his reputation for honesty was good, but he was called "stingy robert." george widdle, an old wagoner of the age of eighty and upwards, still living in wheeling, drew the single line and handled the loudon whip over a six-horse team for many years, between wheeling and baltimore, and accounts the days of those years the happiest of his existence. he was also a stage driver for a time. nothing affords him so much pleasure as a recital of the incidents of the road. he says there never were such taverns and tavern keepers as those of the national road in the days of its glory, and of his vigorous manhood. james butler, like bell, was a trader. butler drove a "bell team," as teams with bells were called. he was a virginian, from the vicinity of winchester. it was the tradition of the road that he had a slight infusion of negro blood in his veins, and this assigned him to the side table of the dining room. when he quit the road he returned to winchester, started a store, and got rich. neither tradition or kindred evidence was necessary to prove the race status of westley strother. he showed up for himself. he was as black as black could be, and a stalwart in size and shape. he was well liked by all the old wagoners, and by every one who knew him. he was mild in manner, and honest in purpose. he had the strongest affection for the road, delighted in its stirring scenes, and when he saw the wagons and the wagoners, one after another, departing from the old highway, he repined and prematurely died at uniontown. chapter xvii. _old wagoners continued--harrison wiggins, morris mauler, james mauler, john marker, john bradley, robert carter, r. d. kerfoot, jacob f. longanecker, ellis b. woodward--broad and narrow wheels--a peculiar wagon--an experiment and a failure--wagon beds--bell teams._ harrison wiggins, widely known as a lover of fox hunting, and highly respected as a citizen, was one of the early wagoners. his career as a wagoner ceased long before the railroad reached cumberland. he hauled goods from baltimore to points west. his outfit, team and wagon, were owned by himself and his father, cuthbert wiggins. harrison wiggins was born in the old gribble house, two miles east of brownsville, on the th of april, . about the year his father moved to uniontown, and kept a tavern in a frame building which stood on the lot adjoining the residence of p. s. morrow, esq. he remained here until , when he went to the stone house at the eastern base of chalk hill, and was its first occupant. his house at uniontown numbered among its patrons, hon. nathaniel ewing, samuel cleavenger, mr. bouvier, john a. sangston, john kennedy, john lyon, and other eminent men of that period. in or ' , harrison wiggins married a daughter of john risler, a noted tavern keeper of the road, one of the very best, a talent which descended to his children. at the date of the marriage mr. risler was keeping the stone house at braddock's run, and the wedding occurred in that house. in harrison wiggins went to iowa, with a view of locating in that state, but returned the next year and leased the property on which he now lives from charles griffith. in ten years thereafter he bought this property, and it has been his home for more than half a century. under the careful and sagacious management of mr. wiggins, it has become one of the prettiest and most valuable properties in the mountains. it has been a long time since he was a wagoner, but he enjoys a recital of the stirring scenes he witnessed on the old road in the days of its glory. [illustration: harrison wiggins.] there is not a more familiar name among the old pike boys than that of morris mauler. he was an old wagoner, stage driver and tavern keeper. he was born in uniontown in the year . the house in which he first beheld the light of day, was a log building on the skiles corner, kept as a tavern by his father. before he reached the age of twenty-one he was on the road with a six-horse team and a big wagon, hauling goods from the city of baltimore to points west. he continued a wagoner for many years, and afterward became a stage driver. he drove on stockton's line. from stage driving he went to tavern keeping. his first venture as a tavern keeper was at mt. washington, when the old tavern stand at that point was owned by the late hon. nathaniel ewing. he subsequently and successively kept the old probasco house at jockey hollow, the old gaither house, the yeast house, and a house in hopwood. he always furnished good entertainment for strangers and travelers, as well as for friends and acquaintances, and as a consequence, was well patronized. he died about seven years ago at fairchance, and when his light went out a shadow of sorrow passed over the hearts of all the old pike boys. james mauler, a son of morris, above mentioned, is also an old wagoner. he went on the road with a team in the year , and remained on it as long as he could obtain a load of goods to haul over it. he is still living and in robust health, at brownfield station, four miles south of uniontown. [illustration: john marker.] john marker, now residing in the east end of uniontown, is an old wagoner. he was born at the little crossings in the state of maryland, in the year , and while yet a lad began to drive a team on the road for joseph plucker. in he quit the service of plucker and came to wharton township, fayette county, pa., and soon thereafter began driving again, first for sebastian rush and next for nicholas mccartney. he is a near relative of the shipley, mccollough and mccartney families, all of the old pike. marker says he never suffered an "upset" himself, but saw a great many "upsets" on the road. he also states that he saw a stage driver killed near little crossings in by the "running off" of his team and the "upsetting" of the coach. the name of this unfortunate stage driver was james rhodes, and he drove on stockton's line. john marker, in his prime, was one of the stoutest men on the road, upwards of six feet in height, and rounded out in proportion, but, being of an amiable temperament, he never engaged in broils, realizing, no doubt, and acting upon the poetic sentiment that: "it is excellent to have a giant's strength, but tyrannous to use it as a giant." he still clings to the old road, breaking stone to repair it, when his health will permit. he is in the th year of his age. john bradley, brother of daniel, of jockey hollow, is an old wagoner. he drove a team for benjamin brownfield, jr., now residing near newark, ohio., son of col. ben., the centennarian of south union township, and grand marshal of democratic processions of the olden time. john bradley also worked on the construction of the baltimore and ohio railroad in , near oldtown, md., fifteen miles east of cumberland. his employer on this work was the late zalmon ludington, of uniontown, who had a contract at the point mentioned. john bradley is now living in the city of pittsburg. robert carter was a well known old wagoner, a native of washington county, pa., a "regular," and a very energetic, persevering and keen sighted man. he took a prominent part in many of the festivities of the old road, but never lost his head. he was a money maker, and unlike most of that class, kind hearted and generous. he married the eldest daughter of thomas moxley, the old tavern keeper, whose house was three miles west of uniontown. after his marriage he bought a small farm, known as the solomon colley farm, near hatfield's, in redstone township, fayette county, pa., subsequently merged in the hatfield estate. he operated this farm for a short time, but while engaged as a farmer, kept his team on the road in charge of a hired driver. he sold his farm and leased the bar house in bridgeport, and kept tavern there for some time. when business ceased on the road, he gave up his team and his tavern, and moved with his family to iowa, where he engaged extensively in farming and stock raising. r. d. kerfoot, the well known miner and labor leader of everson, was at one time a wagoner on the national road. he was born in lancaster county, pa., and before reaching the full stature of manhood in point of age, went to washington county, md., where he engaged as a driver for one j. b. bear, a farmer of that county and state, and was put in charge of a fine six-horse team, and a broad wheeled wagon, with which he hauled goods, wares and merchandise to and from baltimore and wheeling. he enjoyed the stirring scenes of the old road, and recalls with a keen relish the bounteous tables of the old taverns. jacob f. longanecker, who served as county commissioner of fayette county, pa., from to , was an old wagoner. he owned a farm in german township, and was a good practical farmer, but spent much of his time, for many years, on the road with his team. he enjoyed life on the road, and seemed loath to relinquish the occupation of a wagoner. [illustration: ellis b. woodward.] ellis b. woodward, of menallen township, fayette county, pa., is an old wagoner with experience hardly sufficient to entitle him to be classed as a "regular," and yet almost enough to take him from the list of "sharp-shooters." he kept his big road wagon on his farm for many years after the road ceased to be a profitable avenue of transportation, and felt a pride in exhibiting it as a reminder of his identification with the great highway, in the days of its prosperity. he still lives and warmly cherishes the memories of the old road. the first wagons used on the national road were made with narrow rimmed wheels, like those in use at the present day on farms and country roads. it was not long, however, after the opening of the road, until the broad wheeled, or "broad tread wagon," as it was called, was introduced, and came into general use by the "regulars." the "sharpshooters," as a rule, retained the narrow tread, as their wagons were designed mainly for farm service. the width of the broad tread was about four inches, and lighter tolls were exacted at the gates from broad than from narrow tread wagons for the obvious reason that narrow wheels cut deeper into the road than broad wheels. a gentleman of wheeling interested in the transportation business at one time, conceived the idea of constructing a wagon that would make so wide a track as to be allowed to pass over the road for a very low rate of toll, if not entirely exempt. his model was a wagon with the rear axle four inches shorter than the front one, so that a track was made of eight inches in width. to this wagon nine horses were attached--three abreast. it passed over the road several times, with joseph sopher as driver, attracting much attention, but turning out a failure as well in the matter of saving toll as in being an impracticable vehicle of transportation. the bed of the regular road wagon was long and deep, bending upward at the bottom in front and rear. the lower broad side was painted blue, with a movable board inserted above, painted red. the covering was of white canvas stretched over broad wooden bows, so that the old road wagon, probably more as a matter of taste than design, disclosed the tri-colors of the american escutcheon, red, white and blue. an average load was , pounds, but loads weighing , pounds, "a hundred hundred," as all old wagoners boastfully put it, were frequently hauled over the road. the reader who never saw the endless procession on the old pike, in the days of its glory, may have the impression that the bells used by some of the old wagoners on their teams were like sleigh bells, or those of the milk wagon of the present day, and in like manner strapped around the horses. but that was not the way of it. the bells of the old wagoners were cone shaped, with an open end, not unlike a small dinner bell, and were attached to a thin iron arch, sprung over the tops of the hames. the motion of the horses caused a quiver in the arch, and the bell teams moved majestically along the road attracting attention and eliciting admiration. the great majority of wagoners did not use bells. chapter xviii. _old wagoners continued--john deets--his story told by himself--david church--john snider loads up with butter--billy ashton, john bradfield, frank bradfield--an escapade--william hall, henry puffenberger and jacob breakiron--collision between a "regular" and a "sharpshooter"--joseph lawson, jeff. manypenny, joseph arnold, the sophers, robert beggs, thomas gore, and john whetsel._ john deets was a wagoner on the road as early as , before the invention of the rubber, or at least before its application to wagons on the national road. he had a brother, michael, who preceded him as a wagoner on the road. john deets located in guernsey county, ohio, in , whence he went from menallen township, fayette county, pa. he is still living. the following from his own pen furnishes a graphic account of life on the road in his day: mr. searight: i will try to give you as much information as i can at this time. my brother, michael deets, about four years older than myself, was among the first that wagoned on the pike. that was about the year . he first drove his father's team, and the first load of goods he hauled from baltimore was to uniontown for isaac beeson or isaac skiles, i am not certain which. after that he drove for abram beagle, who lived in the west end of uniontown. after that he bought a team, and a few years after bought two more, so that he owned three teams at one time. he drove one of the teams himself and hired drivers for the other two. the team he drove himself was a bell team. one of his drivers was george richards, and the other, jesse barnet, a colored man, who lived in the east end of uniontown. when they took up the old bed of the road, and macadamized it, my brother took a contract and put his teams to hauling stones. after finishing his contract, he resumed the hauling of merchandise on the road and continued until about , when he moved to ohio, thence to illinois, and thence to missouri, where he died. [illustration: john deets.] the pike boys had some hard times and they had some good times. they were generally very fond of sport, and mostly tried to put up where the landlord was a fiddler, so that they could take a hoe-down. every one carried his own bed, and after they had all the sport they wanted they put their beds down on the floor in a circle, with their feet to the fire, and slept like a mouse in a mill. they were generally very sociable and friendly with each other, but i must note one thing just here: two of the boys met at david barnett's, some three miles east of hancock, and got into a dispute, which was not often the case. elias meek and abner benley were the two. meek was for fight, benley was for peace. but meek pushed on benley and benley run, but meek caught him. then benley knew he had to fight, and turned on meek and gave him a wonderful thrashing, so that he was not able to drive his team for some time. and now with regard to getting up and down the hills. they had no trouble to get up, but the trouble was in getting down, for they had no rubbers then, and to tight lock would soon wear out their tires. they would cut a small pole about or feet long and tie it to the bed with the lock chain and then bend it against the hind wheel and tie it to the feed trough, or the hind part of the wagon bed, just tight enough to let the wheel turn slow. sometimes one driver would wear out from to poles between baltimore and wheeling. sometimes others would cut down a big tree and tie it to the hind end of the wagon and drop it at the foot of the hill. when there was ice, and there was much of it in winter, they had to use rough locks and cutters, and the wagon would sometimes be straight across the road, if not the hind end foremost. the snow was sometimes so deep that they had to go through fields, and shovel the drifts from the fences, and often had to get sleds to take their loads across nigger mountain, and on as far as hopwood. those of us who had to go through the fields were three days going nine miles. this was in the neighborhood of frostburg, md. there were no bridges then across the monongahela or the ohio rivers. wagoners had to ferry across in small flat-boats, and sometimes to lay at the rivers for some days, until the ice would run out or the river freeze over. a small bridge across dunlap's creek, at brownsville, broke down with one of the pike boys and did a great deal of damage. sometimes a barrel of coffee would spring a leak and the coffee would be scattered along the road, and women would gather it up and be glad for such a prize. the writer has scattered some in his time. some of the old citizens of uniontown, no doubt, well remember the time, when scores of poor slaves were driven through that place, handcuffed and tied two and two to a rope that was extended some or feet, one on each side. and thousands of droves of hogs were driven through to baltimore, some from ohio. sometimes they would have to lay by two or three days on account of the frozen road, which cut their feet and lamed them. while the writer was wagoning on the old pike, the canal was made from cumberland to harper's ferry. the pike boys were bitterly opposed to railroads and so were the tavern keepers. the writer heard an old tavern keeper say "he wished the railroad would sink to the lower regions." that great phenomenon that occurred the th of november, , or, as it is often called, the shooting stars. that circumstance caused a great deal of excitement. some became very much alarmed, and it was reported that some went crazy, and thought the world was coming to an end. the writer was at hopwood that night with his team and wagon. the phenomenon was also seen in ohio. it was reported in ohio that there was a box of money hid on the old gaddis farm, near the pike, about two miles west of uniontown, supposed to have been hid there by gen. braddock. it was sought for but never found. the taverns we mostly put up at in baltimore were the maypole, on paca street, south of gen. wayne, and at thomas elliott's, near the hill market; and where we mostly loaded our goods was at j. taylor & sons and at chauncey brook's, on baltimore and howard streets. our first day's drive out of baltimore was miles, to enoch randall's, or , to john whalon's. the second day to frank wathers--who could almost outswear the world. and one thing more: before this writer became a pike boy he plowed many a day with a wooden mold-board plow, and after being engaged on the road for about ten years, he left the road and went to ohio, and then made a public profession of religion and united with the baptist church. in conclusion, will say to make as good a history as you possibly can, and i hope you shall be well rewarded for your labor, and above all never forget your creator, as in him we live, move and have our being. yours respectfully, john deets. david church was an old wagoner, a native of wheeling, and when the old pike ceased to ring with the clatter of travel and trade, he purchased a farm in wharton township, near farmington, fayette county, pa., took up his residence thereon, and died a mountain farmer. he was a large, fat man, of ruddy complexion and reddish hair. the leader in his team was of a dun color, and as it approached the old taverns and the big water-troughs, was recognized as the team of david church by the color of the leader. charley rush often invited church to take a chair and be seated when he visited the store at farmington, but he invariably declined, remarking that he could rest as well standing as sitting. he felt like nearly all the old wagoners, that his occupation was gone when transportation ceased on the old road, and could never fully adapt himself to the new order of things. [illustration: john snider.] in the year john snider hauled a load of butter from wheeling to washington, d. c. the owner of this butter was a man by the name of oyster, a butter dealer of wheeling. he could have shipped his butter from cumberland to its destination by rail, as the baltimore & ohio road had just then been finished to cumberland; but his animosity against railroads was so deep-seated that he engaged snider to haul it all the way through with his big team. on his way to washington with this load he struck off from the national road at frederick city, maryland. he reached that city on christmas night and "put up" at miller's tavern. the guests of that old tavern danced all of that night, and early in the morning of the day after christmas, snider "pulled out" on a strange road for the city of washington with his load of butter. he was three days on a mud road between frederick and washington, but, nevertheless, delivered his butter in "good condition" to the consignee. this butter was bought up in small quantities in the vicinity of wheeling for ten cents per pound, and snider got two dollars and fifty cents per hundred pounds for hauling it to washington. william ashton, a well-known old wagoner, was an englishman by birth. he was also an old tavern keeper. he was noted for his mental vivacity, and for his achievements as an athlete. at petersburg he once bounded over the top of one of the big road wagons with the aid of a long pole. he kept a tavern at funkstown, seventy miles west of baltimore, and was largely patronized by wagoners. while keeping tavern he had two teams on the road in charge of hired drivers. this was as early as . his drivers were samuel kelly and william jones, and they hauled goods from hagerstown, maryland (then the terminus of the railroad), to terre haute, indiana, and to springfield, illinois, involving a trip of four months duration, and the compensation was six dollars per hundred pounds. john bradfield was one of the most prominent old wagoners on the road. he was the general agent of the first transportation company on the road. he was also a tavern keeper. he kept the brick house west of, and a short distance from, petersburg, and owned it. he was a native of virginia. frank bradfield, son of john, before mentioned, was also a wagoner. fifty years ago, when but a boy, he drove one of his father's teams to baltimore, "pulled up" on the wagon yard of the old maypole tavern, in that city, attended to his team, remained over night, and the next day mysteriously disappeared. search was instituted, but he could not be found. he had enlisted as a soldier in the regular army. his friends thought he was dead. he served through the mexican war, and yet his relatives knew not of his existence. when that war was over he stepped one morning from a steamboat to the wharf at brownsville. nobody recognized him. he took a seat in a coach at brownsville, and in a few hours thereafter entered his father's house, near petersburg. he called for supper and lodging, and the person he addressed was his father, who did not recognize him, and to whom he did not make himself known. supper was announced, and his father showed him to the dining room and withdrew. his mother, who was attending at the table, immediately after he was seated, recognized him, and fell fainting in his arms, and there was joy in that household, although inaugurated by a great shock. frank bradfield subsequently became a clerk in the adams express company, and entered the pittsburg office when it was first established in that city, and remained in its service until his death, a few years ago. he has a brother at this time in the office of the adams express company at pittsburg, where he has been employed for many years, and esteemed as a faithful and efficient clerk. william hall was a fine specimen of the old wagoner in the palmy days of the road--a regular of regulars, zealous in his calling, and jealous of his rights. robert bell, the quaint old wagoner before referred to, was his uncle and his friend, who, it is said, rendered him substantial aid in securing a foothold on the great national highway. there was a certain kind of _esprit de corps_ among the old regular wagoners, and william hall possessed it in a high degree. he was well attired, and clean in person and conversation. he was born in adams county, pennsylvania, and his first appearance on the road was in the year . he was a great admirer of thomas corwin, and was in ohio with his team on the day that old-time statesman and orator was chosen governor, a circumstance he frequently referred to in after years with feelings of pride and pleasure. he married a daughter of aaron wyatt, and granddaughter of major paul, old tavern keepers, and this formed a silken cord that bound him to the destinies of the old pike. in the declining years of the road he became a stage proprietor, and in conjunction with redding bunting (not a stranger to these pages), operated a line of coaches between cumberland and washington, pennsylvania. this line had nothing of the whirl and dash of the older lines of coaches. when wagons and stages ceased to enliven the road, william hall located in cumberland, and is living there at this time, one of the leading citizens of that place. soon after he cast his lot in cumberland he was appointed superintendent of the maryland division of the road by governor hicks, and served in that office for a number of years previous to the late war. he had a brother, robert, who was also an old wagoner, and subsequently, and for several years, a postal clerk on the baltimore & ohio railroad between cumberland and pittsburg. henry puffenberger, a "regular," given to blustering, but not a vicious man, and jacob breakiron, a "sharpshooter" and a fat man, met one day on the road and indulged in a wrangle about the right of way. strings of fresh broken stone on either side of the road, as was often the case, left but a narrow passage where the meeting occurred, and this led to the difficulty. "old puff," as he was called, demanded of breakiron, with an air of authority, that he should "turn out." breakiron declined to obey, and showed a determined spirit of resistance. after an exchange of angry words puffenberger inquired of breakiron his name, and he answered, "my name is breakiron." "that," said puffenberger, "is a hard name, but you look harder than your name." "i am as hard as my name," said breakiron, "and what is your name?" "puffenberger," was the reply. "that," said breakiron, "is a windy name." "yes," rejoined puffenberger, "but there is thunder with it." after this explosion of wit the contestants compromised, shook hands, and passed without colliding. puffenberger was a maryland man, became a confederate soldier, and was killed in battle. breakiron was a farmer of georges township, fayette county, pennsylvania, and died on his farm a number of years ago. [illustration: william hall.] turner brown, brother of henry, famous for the big loads he hauled, was an old wagoner. after a number of years' experience as a wagoner he moved to ohio and settled in guernsey county, where he became wealthy and was elevated to the office of probate judge. persons who remember him say he was "pompous" in manner, but honest in his dealings. he was a native of fayette county, pa., born and reared in the vicinity of brownsville, and of the family of browns prominently identified with the national road in its early days. he had a number of sons, three of whom--samuel, turner and levi--were union soldiers in the late war. another, thomas, published for a time _the ohio farmer_, at cleveland; and another, william, took to theology, and is engaged in missionary work in some remote quarter of the globe. joseph lawson was, like his fellow teamster, john galwix, considered a fancy wagoner. he took pride in his calling, and his team consisted of six stallions, well mated and of gigantic size. the gears he used were the very best of the john morrow pattern, and his "outfit" attracted attention and evoked words of praise from the throngs that lined the road in that day. there was a regulation tread and an air about the old wagoner, especially of the regular line, that rose almost, if not altogether, to the standard of dignity. jeff. manypenny was an old wagoner, and a son of the old tavern keeper of uniontown, referred to in a subsequent chapter. joseph arnold is said to have hauled the first "eighty hundred load" ever hauled on the road, and it gave him great fame. it was in . joseph sopher tried the experiment of using nine horses in his team, driven three abreast. it did not prove practicable or profitable, and he soon abandoned it and returned to the ordinary six-horse team. there were four sophers on the road and they were brothers, viz: joseph, nimrod, jack and william, and they were stage drivers as well as wagoners. robert beggs, an old wagoner, prosecuted jacob probasco for perjury. the prosecution grew out of an affidavit made by probasco alleging that beggs, who was indebted to him, was about to remove his goods from the state with intent to defraud his creditors. this prosecution gave probasco much trouble and involved him in considerable expense, and is said to have been the cause of his removal from fayette county, pennsylvania. thomas gore was one of the first wagoners on the road, and a regular. he lived in hopwood when that village was known as woodstock. he drove a "bell team," and owned it. he was well known all along the road, but it is so long ago that but few of the pike boys of this day remember him. he gave up wagoning long before business ceased on the road, and settled in franklin township, fayette county, pennsylvania, where he died thirty years ago. robinson addis, a well known and much esteemed citizen of dunbar township, fayette county, pennsylvania, married a daughter of thomas gore; and a grandson of the old wagoner, bearing the name thomas gore addis, is one of the trusted and trustworthy superintendents of the h. clay frick coke company, with headquarters at brownfield station, on the southwest railway. john whetzel, called "johnny," a regular old wagoner, was small in stature, quiet in disposition, and of swarthy complexion. he talked but little, rarely using a word beyond the size of a monosyllable, and was well known and highly esteemed all along the road. when the career of the road as a great national highway ended, "johnny" whetzel retired to a farm in saltlick township, fayette county, pennsylvania, where he still lives, bending under the weight of many years, but enjoying the confidence and respect of all his neighbors. [illustration: john wallace.] chapter xix. _old wagoners continued--the harness they used--john morrow a maker of harness--capt. elias gilmore encounters a man eater--perry gaddis, william g. patterson, alfred bailes, the scarboroughs and mclaughlins--hill, who respected sunday--james riley and oliver pratt, robert carr, robert allison, david herr, william keefer, abram beagle, samuel youman, robert cosgrove, james brownlee, john collier, darius grimes, fielding montague, james smith, elisha maxon, jacob marks, thomas starr, thomas hastings, henry foster, john smasher, maj. jesse b. gardner, mcwilliams, pixler, riley and hankins._ john morrow, of petersburg, mentioned herein before as a manufacturer of the wagoner's whip, was likewise a saddle and harness maker, and had the reputation of making the best harness on the road. he was a man of thin visage and energetic habit. gears was the name old wagoners applied to harness. the gears used on the team of the regular wagoner were of immense proportions. the back bands were fifteen and the hip straps ten inches wide, and heavy black housing covered the horses' shoulders down to the bottom of the hames. the traces used were iron chains with short and thick links. it required a strong man to throw these heavy gears on the back of a big horse. heavy and broad as they were, these gears were not out of proportion to the large fat horses of the old teams, and looked well on their broad and shining backs. the wagoner's saddle was unique. it was made over an ordinary wooden model, covered with thick, black leather, and had long and wide skirts or aprons, cut straight on the edges and ends. daniel p. gibson, the well known capitalist of uniontown, learned the trade of saddle and harness making with john morrow in petersburg, and worked many a day on the big gears and odd saddle, above described. capt. elias gilmore was not strictly an old wagoner, but a pike boy to all intents and purposes, yet his home was not immediately on the road. he had a team which he employed for the most part in hauling stones for repairs on the road. he was a contractor, and an energetic one. he was an amiable man, in a general way, but given at times to pugilistic encounters, and it is said that no man along the road could outdo him in a fight. a stage driver once came upon the road who was called "the man eater." he drove from uniontown to mt. washington on the good intent line. gilmore, hearing of this famous "man eater," was desirous of meeting him, and calling one day at mt. washington, inquired where he was. upon being introduced, gilmore said to him: "you are a pretty stout looking man, but i can lick you," and at it they went, without further ceremony, and gilmore did lick him. at another time gilmore was in uniontown with a load of lumber, and stood his team across the street, which caused john p. sturgis, who was constable then, to take him to task for obstructing the street, whereupon gilmore fell upon sturgis and gave him a tremendous beating, for which he was fined by the burgess. gilmore was born in wharton township, fayette county, pa., and owned and lived on a farm near "sugar loaf," in the vicinity of ohiopyle. his wife was a sister of boss rush, "the prince of landlords." captain gilmore moved, with his family, to illinois thirty years ago, and subsequently to york county, nebraska, where he is still living in comfortable circumstances, a farmer and stock dealer. he long since abandoned the profitless pastime of sowing wild oats, and is esteemed as one of the most respectable and influential citizens of nebraska. john rush, a brother of boss, and brother-in-law of gilmore, an old wagoner and tavern keeper, went west with gilmore, and lives near him now, in nebraska. perry gaddis, who died a few years ago at dunbar, pennsylvania, was an old wagoner. his first service on the road as driver was for isaac bailey, who kept a tavern near the old red house east of brownsville, subsequently postmaster at brownsville, and a member of the fayette county, pennsylvania, bar. gaddis married a daughter of robert shaw, an old tavern keeper, and many years ago steward of the county home near uniontown. she was a schoolmate of the author of these pages, as was also her sister, who became the wife of robert s. mcdowell, another well known pike boy. william d. beggs, father-in-law of the late dr. smith fuller, blessed be his memory, was our faithful old teacher. mrs. gaddis, perry's widow, is still living at dunbar. [c]william g. patterson, of jefferson township, fayette county, pennsylvania, an old wagoner, has a record worthy of special mention. when on the road he was called "devil bill," and this name followed him to his farm, and adhered to him for many years. to see him now at his ancestral home, bending beneath his four score years and more, gentle in manner and intelligent and entertaining in conversation, surrounded by all the needful comforts of this life, one wonders how he ever got the name of "devil bill." his first appearance on the national road as a driver was in the year , when he assisted in driving a lot of hogs for his father to baltimore. it required almost a month to drive a lot of hogs from the vicinity of brownsville to the city of baltimore. he made his first trip over the road as a wagoner in , going clear through to baltimore. the first team he drove was his father's, but it was not long until he became the owner of a team himself. he was on the road many years as a wagoner. the farm on which he now resides descended from his grandfather to his father, and then to himself. his father died on this farm on christmas day of the year . his grandfather came out from dauphin county, pennsylvania, at an early day. [footnote c: died in iowa in .] [illustration: alfred bailes.] alfred bailes, of dunbar, pennsylvania, is probably the oldest man living who drove a team on the national road. he was first a wagoner, and subsequently and for many years a stage driver. he was born in loudon county, virginia, and came upon the road about the year , at the solicitation of john bradfield, who was also a native of virginia, and agent of the first line of wagons on the road. alfred bailes was born in , and although closely approaching his ninetieth year, his eye is undimmed and his natural vigor unabated. samuel luman, of cumberland, is two years younger than bailes, but two years his senior as a stage driver. bailes was one of the most commanding figures on the road, upwards of six feet in height, with broad chest and shoulders, and long arms. noted for great strength, he was never quarrelsome. as a driver he performed his functions faithfully and carefully. he is a most interesting relic of the road, and his memory is well stored with interesting reminiscences of its faded glory. samuel and william scarborough were old wagoners. they lived on the old william elliott farm, in jefferson township, fayette county, pa., and were brothers. william hogg, the pioneer merchant of brownsville, was the owner of the william elliott farm at the time referred to, and the scarboroughs paid their rent by hauling a load of merchandise for mr. hogg once a year, from baltimore to his store in brownsville. george mclaughlin, still living near uniontown, but now, and for a long time, a sufferer from rheumatism, is an old wagoner. it may be that exposure, when a wagoner, to the snow storms of the mountains, is the source of the rheumatism which now afflicts him. his brother, abraham, who lives at mt. braddock, is also an old wagoner, and, when a boy, broke stone on the pike at a "levy" a perch. there was an old wagoner whose name was hill, and he lived at triadelphia, now west virginia, then "old virginia never tire," who never drove his team on sunday. he seems not to have lost anything by resting his team and himself on sunday, for he made as good time on his trips as any other wagoner, and in the end became rich. michael teeters, a spluttering old wagoner, was noted for his profanity. he was possessed with the fatal delusion that hard swearing was evidence of superior intelligence. he, of course, had some good traits, as the worst of men have; but when age and infirmity came upon him, he exchanged the tramp over the hills of the old pike for a "walk over the hills to the poor house," and died in the county home of washington county, pennsylvania. had he followed the example of hill, who rested on sunday, it may not be said that he would have grown rich, but it is pretty certain that the surroundings of his dying hours would have been different from what they were. james riley and oliver pratt were among the oldest of the old wagoners--veterans in every sense. riley was a large man, with florid face and very white hair, and was called "old whitey." he lived and died in hopwood. pratt was also a large man, and stout, a steady drinker, with red-rimmed eyes. he was a good driver, and devoted to his calling. he married a miss bird, of the old family of that name, in henry clay township, fayette county, pennsylvania, and when flush times ended on the road, went west and died, far from the scenes of the grand old highway. robert carr, who died in uniontown about two years ago, was an old wagoner. he was on the road as early as . he drove first for benjamin miller, grandfather of ben, sam and jeff miller, of uniontown. he subsequently married a daughter of abner springer, of north union township, fayette county, who owned a road team which was placed in charge of carr, and he drove it several years. he was also a stage driver. robert q. fleming, now residing in uniontown, is an old wagoner. he hauled whiskey from the old overholt distillery, near mt. pleasant, to baltimore for many years, and loaded back with merchandise to various points in the west. one of his earliest back loads consisted of oysters for pittsburg, _via_ brownsville. the oyster boxes were piled up to the canvass covering, and upon reaching brownsville he was required to drive down the wharf to the steamboat landing, which was "sidling," and at the time icy. some of the top boxes fell out and were broken, whereupon the bystanders helped themselves to fresh shell oysters. they were not carried away, but the eager oyster lovers picked them up, cracked open the shells on the wagon wheels and gulped down the juicy bivalves on the ground. fleming was "docked," as they termed the abating of loss, from the freight charges. robert allison, one of the best known of the old wagoners, was a fighting man. he did not seem to be quarrelsome, yet was often, as by some sort of untoward destiny, involved in pugilistic encounters along the road. in one of these at fear's tavern, on keyser's ridge, he bit off the nose of a stage driver. david harr was a good fiddler, and william keefer was a good dancer, and these two old wagoners warmed the bar room of many an old tavern between baltimore and wheeling, in the good old days when every mile of the national road bristled with excitement. abram beagle was a widely known old wagoner. he lived with david moreland in uniontown as early as , and probably before that time, and subsequently became a tavern keeper. the house he kept was twelve miles east of wheeling, and he married it. that is to say: the widow rhodes owned the tavern stand, and he married _her_. he kept a good house, and was largely patronized. old citizens of uniontown who remember abram beagle, and there are not many of them living, speak of him as a good and worthy citizen of the olden time. [illustration: german d. hair.] samuel youman, of washington county, pa., was an old wagoner, stage driver and tavern keeper. he drove stage from hillsboro to washington, and subsequently kept tavern in hillsboro. he had the distinction of being next to the largest man on the road, "old mount" being admittedly the largest. youman was a man full of zeal, as to all pursuits and interests relating to the national road. he understood the art of driving horses to perfection, was kindly in disposition, and attracted attention by reason of his immense size. he had a son, israel, who was also a stage driver and a lively fellow. father and son are presumably both dead, but the marks they made on the memories of the old pike are indelible. poor old robert cosgrove, who once traversed the road with all the pride and pomp of a "regular," finally succumbed to the adverse tides of life and time, and to avoid "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune," took refuge in the "county home," where he remains, indulging the memories of better days and awaiting the summons to rejoin the companionship of old wagoners who have passed over the dark river. james brownlee was one of the old wagoners who suffered the experience of a genuine "upset." it occurred near hagen's tavern, east of cumberland. he had a high load, and encountered a big snow drift which he thought he could overcome by pulling out and around, but he failed, and his wagon capsized. his main loss was in time, which was "made up" by the good cheer at hagen's old tavern. john collier, father of daniel collier, was a wagoner on the road when it was first opened up for travel. he had been a wagoner on the braddock road for years before the national road was made. he lived in addison, somerset county, pa., as early as , and was one of the foremost wagoners of his day. he was the grandfather of mrs. amos s. bowlby, of fayette street, uniontown. darius grimes was among the first crop of wagoners, and gave up the whip and line long before the termination of the road's prosperous era. when the writer first knew him he was living a retired life on the roadside at the foot of graham's lane, three miles west of uniontown. he was one of the earliest tavern keepers on the road, beside being a wagoner. he kept the old abel colley house, west of and near searight's, before abel colley owned that property, and that was a long time ago. william johnson, farmer and dealer in fruits and vegetables, well known to the people of uniontown, married a daughter of darius grimes. fielding montague, an old wagoner and stage driver, is still living on the road. his residence is in henry clay township, fayette county, pennsylvania, where his sleep is undisturbed by the clatter which in other years was heard at all hours of the night as well as day. montague was not a driver on the old stage lines, but after they were withdrawn from the road, drove the mail hack for a considerable length of time between uniontown and somerfield. he was, however, a regular wagoner in the palmy days of the road. [d]james smith, now living in wharton township, fayette county, pennsylvania, well and favorably known, is an old wagoner. he enjoyed the grand march along the old road, and was deeply grieved when stillness took the place of the bustling activity that marked its palmy days. the old veteran is bending to the storms of time, but glows with enthusiasm when recounting the scenes he witnessed on the old highway "in the days of yore." [footnote d: deceased.] elijah maxon was an old wagoner. his home was near the charlestown school house, in luzerne township, fayette county, pennsylvania. he owned the team he drove, and made money on the road. he moved west many years ago, and in all probability has gone to that bourne whence no traveler returns. jacob marks was an old wagoner, and subsequently, like so many of his fellows, became a tavern keeper. he first kept the stone house at malden, between brownsville and centreville, and afterward the old workman house at brownsville. the glory of the old road had departed before he took charge of the workman house, and business was dull; but the road was flush when he entertained the public at malden, and he did a thriving business there. thomas starr was an old wagoner, and drove for john riley, an old tavern keeper of bridgeport, fayette county, pa. the old citizens of bridgeport and brownsville will remember starr and riley, as they were conspicuous pike boys in their day. thomas hastings was an old wagoner and tavern keeper. he kept the house well known and well patronized in his day about four miles east of washington. henry foster, late of north union township, fayette county, pa., a well known farmer in his day, was an old wagoner. he drove a six-horse team to baltimore in , when but nineteen years old. his first load was bacon, consigned to a baltimore house by edward gavin, of uniontown. his return load was merchandise, consigned to william bryson, a merchant of that day at uniontown. david blakely was an old wagoner and became a tavern keeper. he kept a tavern in washington in , and subsequently in wheeling. he was a prominent man, well known all along the road. he was also an agent of one of the transportation lines, and a very competent man for that business. john smasher, an old wagoner, was noted as a nimble and expert dancer, and had many opportunities to display his talent in this line on the old road. it frequently happens that a good dancer makes a ready "smasher." major jesse b. gardner, of uniontown, ex-jury commissioner and ex-soldier of two wars, drove a team several trips on the old road for archibald skiles, who kept a tavern at monroe, and was a thorough pike boy. huston mcwilliams, joseph pixler and john riley were old wagoners who retired to farms in german township when the steam railway usurped the functions of the old pike. william hankins, a well known farmer of north union township, still living, is an old wagoner, and made many a dollar on the road. he is a son of james hankins, who owned the farm at frost's station, and was reputed to have a barrel of money. one hook, p. u., merchant and auctioneer of uniontown, and member of the legislature, was accustomed to speak of ready cash as "hankins' castings," in allusion to the hankins barrel. he had a small store in an old frame house near the store room and residence of the late col. ewing brownfield, on which he nailed a rough board for a sign, bearing the legend: "hook and hankins versus boyle and rankin." boyle and rankin kept a rival store further up town. hook also frequently advertised his business under the firm name of "hook and wife." he was well known and is well remembered by the old citizens of uniontown. james ambrose was a regular. he drove from baltimore to wheeling. he was a strong driver, and well known on the road. he married the youngest daughter of robert shaw, the old tavern keeper near braddock's grave. after business ceased on the road, he engaged in mining coal in the connellsville coke district, and died near vanderbilt, in january, . his wife survives him. isaac hurst was a sharpshooter, and appeared on the road near the close of its prosperous era. he hauled flour from his father's mill on george's creek, fayette county, pennsylvania, to cumberland, and "loaded back" with merchandise to brownsville. his experience on the road as a wagoner was confined between the points named. he subsequently became first, treasurer, and afterward, commissioner of fayette county, pennsylvania. he is still living in uniontown, pursuing the calling of a contractor, and taking an active interest in public affairs. chapter xx. _old wagoners continued--an exciting incident of the political campaign of --all about a petticoat--neri smith, isaac stuck, john short, william orr, ashael willison--a wagoner postmaster--robert douglas--a trip to tennessee--abram brown, william long, samuel weaver--a quartet of bell teams--a trio of swearing men--a peculiar savings bank--william c. mckean and a long list of other old wagoners--graphic description of life on the road by jesse j. peirsol, an old wagoner--origin of the toby cigar--the rubber--the windup and last lay of the old wagoners._ the political campaign of , as is well known, was one of the most spirited and exciting contests ever witnessed in the united states. it was a campaign made memorable by log cabins, hard cider, coon skins and glee clubs. william henry harrison, the hero of tippecanoe, and grandfather of the late chief executive, benjamin harrison, was the whig candidate for president, and john tyler, of virginia, was his running mate, and the whole country resounded with shouts for "tippecanoe and tyler too." martin van buren was the democratic candidate for president, and his associate on the ticket was col. richard m. johnston, of kentucky. harrison and tyler were triumphantly elected. one day during this exciting campaign neri smith, an old wagoner, drove his big six-horse team through uniontown, exhibiting from the front of his wagon a petticoat, in allusion to a partisan and groundless charge of cowardice made against general harrison, the whig candidate. the coming of the wagon with the petticoat was made known to the whigs of uniontown before it reached the place, and a delegation met smith a short distance east of town and requested him to take down the offensive symbol, but he stubbornly refused. upon reaching uniontown an attempt was made by some of the muscular whigs, led by john harvey, to "tear down the dirty rag," but an equal number of muscular democrats rallied to the support of the old wagoner, and the attempt failed. the affair caused great excitement in uniontown, leading to violence and almost to the shedding of blood. isaac stuck, now residing in perryopolis, fayette county, pennsylvania, in service on the extensive fuller estate, near that place, was an old wagoner, and is not forgotten and never will be forgotten by the old pike boys. he drove a fine "bell team," which was notice to all the world that he was on the road in earnest and to stay. the team belonged to william stone, the well remembered old farmer of menallen, and tanner of uniontown. [illustration: ashael willison.] john short, an old wagoner, retired from the road at an early day and took up his abode in franklin township, fayette county, pennsylvania. before going on the road he learned the trade of a cooper, and upon leaving it resumed work at his trade. he was a good mechanic, and made most of the barrels used at cook's and sharples' mills, on redstone creek, for many years. his team on the road was a good one, and he owned it. he met with an accident while working at his trade by cutting his knee with an adze, which crippled him for life. he died in franklin township about eight years ago, aged nearly eighty. the old citizens of franklin township all knew and respected him. william orr, a well known old wagoner, died of cholera at keyser's ridge in . he left three sons. one of them died a soldier of the northern army in the late war, leaving a widow surviving him, now residing in cumberland and drawing a pension. another son of the old wagoner is a watchman at the rolling mill in cumberland, and the third is on the police force of that city. ashael willison, another of the old wagoners, is still living in cumberland, and one of the most prominent citizens of that place. he was postmaster at cumberland during the first administration of president cleveland. from the saddle horse of a six-horse team on the old pike to the control of a city postoffice is distinctively an american idea, and a good one. the old wagoner made a capital postmaster. mr. willison is now deputy collector of internal revenue for the state of maryland. robert douglas, father of the well known real estate dealer of uniontown, was an old wagoner. he owned his team and wagon, and hauled between baltimore and wheeling at an early day. he resided near west newton, westmoreland county, pennsylvania, and died there in . he was esteemed as an honest man, and was one of the few pike boys who never took a drink of liquor. in the year john snider, isaac browning and black westley, made a trip with their teams from baltimore to jonesboro, tennessee, a distance of six hundred miles. they were loaded with goods for jonesboro merchants, and were paid six dollars a hundred for hauling them. on their return they drove with empty wagons to lynchburg, virginia, a distance of two hundred miles, where they loaded up with pig lead, and got two dollars a hundred for hauling it to baltimore. abram brown, the wealthy land owner of the vicinity of uniontown, was an old wagoner, a "sharpshooter," and always lucky in avoiding losses while pushing over the mountains. while on the road as a wagoner he formed the acquaintance of the girl who subsequently became his wife. she was hannah, now deceased, the eldest daughter of abel colley, who kept the old tavern a short distance west of searights. his wife was a good woman, and her seemingly premature death was much lamented by a wide circle of friends. william long, an old wagoner, after quitting the road, went to beaver county, pennsylvania, and died there; and samuel weaver, a well remembered old wagoner, died about seven years ago in new cumberland, west virginia. john galwix, black wesley, wilse clement and james pelter used bells on their teams. galwix was called a "crack" wagoner, "swell," as it would be termed at this day. stephen golden, an old wagoner, drove a team for john gribble, who for many years kept the red tavern two miles east of brownsville. john strong, one of the earliest regular wagoners, is still living in cumberland, and has been coroner at that place for many years. john kelso, a steady old regular, well remembered and well liked, died at cumberland about two years ago. robert nelson was run over by his wagon many years ago, and died from injuries inflicted by the accident. col. james gardner was an old wagoner and an old soldier. he was a native of winchester, virginia, but spent the greater portion of his life in uniontown. john phillips, of washington county, pennsylvania, an old wagoner, was noted for using the heaviest gears on the road. when in need of new ones he ordered them an inch wider than the widest in use. the gear pole boys at the old taverns groaned under the weight of phillips' gears. william c. mckean, nine years a deputy sheriff of fayette county, pennsylvania, was in early life a regular wagoner of the road. he was a native of german township, fayette county, pennsylvania, and died in the sheriff's house, at uniontown, in . he was noted for his energy and habit of pushing things. the prominent young attorney of uniontown of the same name is a nephew of the old wagoner. peter skiles, an old wagoner of the vicinity of uniontown, died in cumberland of typhoid fever, while at that place with his team and wagon. christian herr, an old wagoner, was a very profane man, going to show that there is nothing in a name. he, wilse clement and michael teeters were the hardest swearers on the road. wyney hunter, still living, an octogenarian, and rich, was an old wagoner. his residence is on the roadside five miles east of hagerstown, maryland. charles allum and james brownlee drove for leonard vail, an old pork-packer of the vicinity of prosperity, washington county, pennsylvania. lott lantz, of willow tree, greene county, pennsylvania, had a pork-packing establishment in the olden time, and sent his produce over the road to baltimore by the regular broad wheeled wagons in charge of hired drivers. isaac browning, an old wagoner, at one time owned the "browning farm," near uniontown, whence its name is derived. this farm now belongs to robert hogsett. john wright, an old wagoner, is still living in salisbury, somerset county, pennsylvania, and has passed the ninetieth mile-post of his age. [illustration: jacob newcomer.] capt. james gilmore was a sharpshooter. he owned a little farm in menallen township, fayette county, pennsylvania, which he sold long ago and went west. noble mccormick, a regular old wagoner, was, while on the road, the owner of the semans farm, near uniontown. he sold his farm to thomas semans and went west. he is remembered as an habitual wearer of the broad-rimmed, yellow, long-napped regulation hat. john christy, an old wagoner, was eccentric as to his apparel, and careful of his money. he wore a full suit of buckskin, and improvised a savings bank by boring holes in blocks in which he placed his money, and secured it by plugging up the holes. charles guttery, who recently died at an advanced age in beallsville, washington county, pennsylvania, was one of the best known and most esteemed old wagoners of the road. after many years experience as a wagoner, he devoted the remainder of his life to tavern keeping. john yardley, as the saying goes, was a natural born wagoner. he loved the occupation, and was faithful in it, for many years. he was born in maryland, but lived a long time at searights, where he died. he was the father of william and gus yardley, of uniontown. david newcomer, a farmer of german township, fayette county, pennsylvania, who served a term as county commissioner, belongs to the long list of wagoners. his father, jacob newcomer, and jacob f. longanecker went to loudon, franklin county, pennsylvania, in the year , and each bought a new wagon and a new whip at that place. jacob newcomer soon thereafter became afflicted with rheumatism, and turned over his team and wagon to his son david, who traversed the road until the close of its busy era. jacob newcomer died in , on the farm now owned and occupied by his son david. john ferren drove a six-horse team on the road many years for william searight, and is remembered as a careful and discreet driver and an honest and industrious man. at the close of active business on the road, and while yet under the influence of its ancient grandeur, he married a daughter of "wagoner billy shaw," and with his newly-wedded wife went to iowa to work out his destiny, where he has achieved success as a farmer. james e. kline, a driver for jacob a. hoover, was a soldier in the late war between the states, and died in german township, fayette county, pennsylvania, after the conflict ended. robert hogsett, the millionaire farmer, stock dealer, manufacturer, and coke operator of fayette county, pennsylvania, was a sharpshooter, and hauled many a load of goods from cumberland to brownsville at remunerative rates per hundred. his "down loads" consisted for the most part of corn of his own raising, which he sold out through the mountains at good prices. hiram hackney, for many years a prosperous farmer of menallen township, fayette county, pennsylvania, now a retired resident of uniontown, and a director in the first national bank of that place, was a sharpshooter and a drover. samuel flowers was one of the earliest wagoners on the road, and of the regular order. he was a tall man, of quiet demeanor. his home was on egg nog hill, where he lived until called away by the last summons. john means, an old wagoner, was killed by an accident on the road near wheeling. john munce, of washington, pennsylvania, who became rich through the oil development in the vicinity of that place, is an old wagoner. he is still living. john olwine was an old wagoner, and by his union with the widow metzgar became a tavern keeper. he died at chalk hill a few years ago. john neff, an old wagoner, subsequently became a member of the maryland legislature, and played the role of statesmanship as gracefully as he drove a six-horse team on the old pike. abner and david peirt, brothers, were natives of lancaster county, pennsylvania--steady-going straightforward, honest "pennsylvania dutch," and wagoners on the road with teams of the genuine conestoga strain. john mcilree, called "broadhead," was an old wagoner and a native of adams county, pennsylvania; and james bell, william and robert hall were natives also of adams county. arthur wallace, an old wagoner devoted to the road, and esteemed for many good qualities of head and heart, subsequently became a tavern keeper. he was the father-in-law of peter frasher, the adamantine democrat of , and up to the date of his death, in . charles wallace, a brother of arthur, and an old wagoner, was killed by an accident on laurel hill many years ago. william reynolds, mentioned under the head of old tavern keepers, was likewise an old wagoner. he was on the road with a team as early as . his son, john, present postmaster at confluence, somerset county, pennsylvania, was also a wagoner. samuel trauger, an old wagoner, fell from his lazy board while descending laurel hill, and was killed, the hind wheel of his wagon running over him. john curtis, who drove for william king, was accounted one of the best drivers on the road. his companions called him a "strong driver," meaning that he was skillful and careful. he followed the tide of emigration, and became a stage driver west of the ohio river. james and benjamin paul, sons of major william paul, were old wagoners. joseph doak, of washington county, pennsylvania, was an old wagoner, subsequently a tavern keeper, and later a superintendent of the road. [illustration: john ferren.] martin horn, a native of washington county, pennsylvania, was known as the "swift wagoner." he made the trip from cumberland to wheeling with his six-horse team and a big load, in five days. the following old wagoners were residents, when at home, and citizens of fayette county, pennsylvania: harvey grove, adam yeast, solomon bird, louis langley, james paul, joseph wells, isaiah fouch, ellis campbell, william sullivan, george miller, william bird, barney neiman, jesse hardin, john hardin, james marshall, samuel sidebottom, john rutledge, robert hogsett, samuel milligan, thomas cook, benjamin paul, jeff nixon, george miller, moses richer, john rankin, peter fowler, william ball, james henshaw, william mcshane, henry frasher, peter frasher, jacob wolf, west jones, daniel turney, eli marlow, william turney, william cooper, dawson marlow, robert henderson, john ferren, robinson murphy, parker mcdonald, william betts, rezin lynch, joseph bixler, moses husted, william pastoris, john mcclure, thomas cochran, william peirsol, robert lynch, morgan campbell, martin leighty, john stentz, philip d. stentz, william bosley, charles mclaughlin, j. monroe bute, john canon, levi springer, george dearth, john mccurdy, calvin springer, zachariah ball, michael cochran, caleb hibbs, jacob newcomer, john rinehart, benjamin goodwin, harvey sutton, clark hutchinson, james ebbert, mifflin jeffries, jacob vance, william ullery, abram hall, george tedrick, alexander osborn, james abel, harper walker, jerry fouch, elias freeman, george wilhelm, father of sheriff wilhelm, of uniontown, caleb langly, jacob wagoner, oliver tate, jacob strickler, george shaffer, john newcomer, jesse j. peirsol, james shaffer, samuel harris, caleb antrim, william cooper, andrew prentice, ira strong, william gray, william kennedy, samuel hatfield, bernard dannels, stewart henderson, david dunbar, george grace, dicky richardson, reuben woodward, john king, john williams, george mclaughlin, darlington jeffries, john nelson, john moore, bazil sheets, isaac young, jerry strawn, samuel renshaw, reuben parshall, hiram hackney, james martin. the following were of washington county, pennsylvania, and there were many others from that county, as well as from fayette and the other counties mentioned, whose names, very much to the writer's regret, are unascertainable: eberon hurton, james bradley, jerome heck, james dennison, james bard, thomas bailes, charles thurston, william kirkman, otho hartzell, seldon king, william king, zeph riggle, john guttery, samuel charlton, george hallam, lewis hallam, david hill, charles reddick, john reddick, joseph arnold, moses kline, james brownlee, elisha brownlee, charles allen, philip slipe, john valentine, daniel valentine, john quinter, robert magee, william robinson, arthur robinson, john cook, william darlington, griffith darlington, joseph whisson, david blakely, samuel boyd, joseph king, joseph sopher, nimrod sopher, jack sopher, peter shires, john smith, james smith, thomas flack, james blakely, william darr, robert beggs, josiah brown, called "squire" brown, james arthur, george munce, joseph lawson, robert judson, john a. smith, elisha ely, charles bower, william dennison, john phillips, joseph doak, moses little, samuel guttery, william shouse, william jones, robert sprowl, william hastings, james thompson, robert doak, james doak, charles allen, john hastings (called doc). the following were of allegheny county, maryland: isaac browning, james browning, michael humbert, george mcgruder, peter hager, nathan tracy, thomas plumer, richard gray (colored), ben carter, james mccartney, joseph brooks, john carlisle, joseph turner, william yeast, john curtis, louis smith, john smith, fred shipley, alex. greer, john keener, david swaggart, george lehman, andrew lehman, william mcclintock, jacob albright, thomas ashbel, charles mcaleer, caleb madden, william lowry, augustus butler, john sheeres, edward finch, james clary, daniel barcus, ashael willison, hanson willison, joseph strong, thomas plumer, josiah porter, john kelso, john magraw, ira ryan, john ryan, moses mckenzie, moses porter, henry porter, john porter, george huff, lewis lachbaus, neil connor, john long, george long, upton long, william dixon, hanson clary, james porter, josiah mckenzie. the following were of washington county, maryland: abram herr, fred herr, david herr, john coffman, samuel kelly, william jones, joseph watt, john brentlinger, james ambrose, james dowler, william ford, robert fowler, peter hawes, samuel emert, michael welty, john duvall, andrew arnett, john reinhart, hiram sutton, john thomas, william thomas, barney hitchin, emanuel mcgruder, william orr, emanuel griffith, michael miller, john makel, john neibert, samuel brewer, henry stickle, ezra young, joshua johnson, samuel boyd, joseph myers, william keefer, peter urtz, jonas speelman, thomas flack, david connor, eli smith, john galwix, henry urtz, henry puffenberger. john snider, was born in washington county, maryland. the following were of somerset county, pennsylvania: michael deets, samuel wable, clem engle, samuel thompson, john livengood, isaac light, john sloan, joseph light, abram hileman, joseph hileman, william lenhart, daniel augustine, andrew hebner, james klink, andrew bates, robert duncan, robert allison, john dunbar, alex. dunbar, joseph skelly, james irvin, john fleck, william moonshire, thomas collier, frank bradfield, samuel shoaf, john bradfield, eli marble, henry renger, michael longstaff, john mitchell, william mcclintock, still living at salisbury, nearly ninety years old. [illustration: morris mauler.] the following were from the state of ohio: james gregory, william hoover, david hoover, christian hoover, gov. lucas, william morely, philip slife, samuel breakbill, john carroll, william lefevre, john lefevre, alby hall, solomon mercer, jacob breakbill, joseph mcnutt, john scroggins, william archie, elias petticord, harvey hamilton, pryn taylor, alex. mcgregor, westley mcbride, william george, michael neal, tim taylor, joseph vaughn, william whittle, daniel kildo, marion gordon, martin kildo, george clum, oliver mahon, william chaney, abner bailey, matthias meek, john a. smith, george zane, samuel paxon, benjamin mcnutt, knox keyser, b. f. dillon, valentine mann, jacob mann, benjamin corts, john whittle, john johnson (old sandy), william mcdonald, john moss, william tracy, joseph watson, george schaffer, william reynolds, not the old tavern keeper. ohio county, virginia, contributed the following names to the list of old wagoners: wash. and hiram bennett, john frasher, john moss, john weyman, joseph watson, michael detuck, james johnson, david church, william brooks, robert boyce, allen davis, thomas mcdonald, james jones, charles prettyman, john christy, john curtis, william, adam, and david barnhart, george weddel, and william tracy. greene county, pennsylvania, contributed the following well remembered veterans: christian and washington adams, john snyder (not the old regular), philip snyder, george miller, samuel milligan, caldwell holsworth, joseph milligan, joseph craft, jack dunaway, otho w. core, thomas chambers, samuel minor, jacob hart. frederic county, maryland, contributed the following: john crampton, joseph crampton, samuel brewer, ross fink, grafton shawn, henry smith, jacob wagoner, john fink, john miller, william miller, and henry mcgruder. jacob and james tamon were of baltimore. james walker, daniel keiser, john keiser, and sharp walker were of franklin county, pennsylvania. the home of the regular wagoner was on the road, and a good home it was, in so far as mere subsistence and stimulus to the senses were concerned, and it is his nativity, that the author has endeavored to note. regulars and sharpshooters are listed herein indiscriminately, but a majority of the names given as of fayette county, pennsylvania, are those of sharpshooters. the residences and homes of the following old wagoners could not be accurately ascertained, but they are familiar names, all well remembered by old inhabitants of the roadside, viz: william kieger (a lively fellow, and a "regular"), james dunbar, william keefer, rafe rutlege, samuel jackson, benjamin hunter, david greenland, john strauser, jacob cox, jonathan whitton, gus mitchell, samuel dowly, james patton, joseph freeman, james hall, william purcell, samuel rogers, john nye, israel young, james davis, jacob beem, isaac young, martin irwin, james parsons, james kennedy, isaac shaffer, john lynch, michael longstaff, george nouse, peter penner, james shaffer, john mcclure, john cox, william cox, joseph cheney, frank mowdy, caldwell shobworth, james jolly, andrew sheverner, jacob and james layman, john crampton, henry smith, william miller, john miller, henry mcgruder, elias mcgruder, michael miller, john seibert, henry stickle, ezra young, jonas speelman, david connor, eli smith, jacob everson, nathaniel everson. joseph shaw, james irvin, john chain, william wiglington, doug. shearl, marion ritchie, john vandyke, john alphen, daniel carlisle, george burke, thomas ogden, michael abbott, charles genewine, herman rolf, isaac manning. the following letters from jesse j. peirsol, now a prosperous farmer of franklin township, fayette county, pennsylvania, of vigorous health and unimpaired memory, furnish a graphic description of life on the road in its palmy days: december , . mr. t. b. searight: _dear sir_: i have stayed over night with william sheets, on nigger mountain, when there would be thirty six-horse teams on the wagon yard, one hundred kentucky mules in an adjacent lot, one thousand hogs in other enclosures, and as many fat cattle from illinois in adjoining fields. the music made by this large number of hogs, in eating corn on a frosty night, i will never forget. after supper and attention to the teams, the wagoners would gather in the bar room and listen to music on the violin, furnished by one of their fellows, have a "virginia hoe-down," sing songs, tell anecdotes, and hear the experience of drivers and drovers from all points on the road, and when it was all over, unroll their beds, lay them down on the floor before the bar room fire, side by side, and sleep, with their feet near the fire, as soundly as under the paternal roof. coming out from cumberland in the winter of or , we stopped one night with hiram sutton, at sand springs, near frostburg. the night was hazy, but not cold. we sat on our buckets, turned bottom up, and listened to a hundred horses grinding corn. one of our number got up in the night and complained that snow was falling on his face. this aroused us all, and we got up, went to the door and witnessed the most blinding snow storm i ever saw. some of the horses broke loose from the tongue, and we had difficulty in finding them. we stayed up till morning, when the snow had risen to the hubs of the front wheels. we hitched eight or ten horses to a wagon, pulled out to coonrod's tavern, one mile west, and returned to sutton's for another wagon, and in this way all reached coonrod's. the next morning we pulled out again, and on little savage mountain found the snow deeper than ever, and a gang of men engaged in shoveling it from the road. i got stuck and had to be shoveled out. we reached tom johnson's that night, making three miles in two days. the next day john ullery, one of our number upset at peter yeast's, and a barrel of venetian red rolled out from his wagon, which painted the snow red for many miles, east and west. we stayed with yeast the third night after the storm. in the winter of a gang of us went down, loaded with tobacco, bacon, lard, cheese, flour, corn, oats and other products. one of our number was an ohio man, named mcbride. his team consisted of seven horses, the seventh being the leader. his load consisted of nine hogsheads of tobacco, five standing upright in the bed of his wagon, and four resting crosswise on top of the five. the hogsheads were each about four feet high and three and a half feet in diameter at the bulge, and weighing from nine to eleven hundred pounds each. this made a "top-heavy load," and on the hill west of somerfield, and near tom brown's tavern, the road icy, mcbride's load tumbled over, the tobacco in the ditches, and the horses piled up in all shapes. the work of restoring the wreck was tedious, and before we got through with it we had the aid of thirty or forty wagoners not of our company. of course the occasion brought to the ground a supply of the pure old whisky of that day, which was used in moderation and produced no bad effects. after we had righted up our unfortunate fellow wagoner, we pushed on and rested over night at dan augustine's, east of petersburg. yours truly, jesse j. peirsol. another letter from the same person on the same subject. february , . in september, or , my father came home from uniontown late at night, and woke me up to tell me that there had been a big break in the pennsylvania canal, and that all western freights were coming out over the national road in wagons. the stage coaches brought out posters soliciting teams. by sunrise next morning, i was in brownsville with my team, and loaded up at cass's warehouse with tobacco, bacon, and wool, and whipped off for cumberland. i drove to hopwood the first day and stayed over night with john wallace. that night thomas snyder, a virginia wagoner, came into hopwood with a load of flour from a back country mill. when we got beyond laurel hill, snyder retailed his flour by the barrel to the tavern keepers, and was all sold out when we reached coonrod's tavern, on big savage. i was a mere boy, and snyder was especially kind and attentive to me. after we pulled on to coonrod's yard snyder told me to unhitch and feed, but leave the harness on. at midnight we rose, hitched up, snyder lending me two horses, making me a team of eight, pulled out, and reached cumberland that night. on leaving coonrod's the night was dark, and i shall never forget the sounds of crunching stones under the wheels of my wagon, and the streaks of fire rolling out from the horses' feet. in cumberland, we found the commission houses, and the cars on sidings filled with goods, and men cursing loudly because the latter were not unloaded. large boxes of valuable goods were likewise on the platform of the station, protected by armed guards. after unloading my down load i re-loaded at mckaig & maguire's commission house for brownsville, at one dollar and twenty-five cents a hundred. we reached brownsville without incident or accident, made a little money, and loaded back again for cumberland. on my return i found plenty of goods for shipment, and loaded up at tuttle's house for wheeling, at two dollars and twenty-five cents a hundred. in coming back, it looked as if the whole earth was on the road; wagons, stages, horses, cattle, hogs, sheep, and turkeys without number. teams of every description appeared in view, from the massive outfit of governor lucas down to the old bates hitched to a chicken coop. the commission merchants, seeing the multitude of wagons, sought to reduce prices, whereupon the old wagoners called a meeting and made a vigorous kick against the proposed reduction. it was the first strike i ever heard of. nothing worried a sharpshooter more than lying at expense in cumberland waiting for a load. two of the "sharps," unwilling to endure the delay caused by the strike, drove their four-horse rigs to a warehouse to load at the reduction. this excited the "regulars," and they massed with horns, tin buckets, oyster-cans and the like, and made a descent upon the "sharps," pelting and guying them unmercifully. an old wagoner named butler commanded the striking regulars with a pine sword, and marched them back and forth through the streets. finally the police quelled the disturbance, and the "sharps" loaded up and drove out sixteen miles, to find their harness cut and their axles sawed off in the morning. in this dilemma an old regular, going down empty for a load, took the contract of the "sharps," and made them promise to never return on the road, a promise they faithfully kept. yours truly, jesse j. peirsol. many old wagoners wore a curious garment called a hunting shirt. it was of woolen stuff, after the style of "blue jeans," with a large cape trimmed with red. it was called a hunting shirt because first used by hunters in the mountains. the origin of pennsylvania tobies is worth recording, and pertinent to the history of the old wagoners. the author is indebted to j. v. thompson, esq., president of the first national bank of uniontown, for the following clipping from a philadelphia paper concerning the "toby:" "it appears that in the old days the drivers of the conestoga wagons, so common years ago on our national road, used to buy very cheap cigars. to meet this demand a small cigar manufacturer in washington, pennsylvania, whose name is lost to fame, started in to make a cheap 'roll-up' for them at four for a cent. they became very popular with the drivers, and were at first called conestoga cigars; since, by usage, corrupted into 'stogies' and 'tobies.' it is now estimated that pennsylvania and west virginia produce about , , tobies yearly, probably all for home consumption." [illustration: james smith, of henry.] it is probable that the manufacturer referred to in the above was george black, as that gentleman made "tobies" in washington at an early day, and continued in the business for many years, and until he became quite wealthy. in his later days his trade was very large and profitable. old wagoners hauled his "tobies" over the road in large quantities, as they did subsequently the wheeling "tobies," which were, and continued to be, a favorite brand. many habitual smokers prefer a washington or a wheeling "toby" to an alleged fine, high priced cigar, and the writer of these lines is one of them. as has been noted, the "rubber," called brake at this day, was not in use when the national road was first thrown open for trade and travel. instead, as related by john deets, sapplings, cut at the summit of the hills, were shaped and fashioned to answer the ends of the "rubber," and at the foot of the hills taken off and left on the roadside. e. b. dawson, esq., the well known, well posted and accurate antiquarian of uniontown, and, by the way, deeply interested in the history of the national road, is authority for the statement that one jones, of bridgeport, fayette county, pennsylvania, claimed to be the inventor of the "rubber." he, however, never succeeded in obtaining letters patent, if, indeed, he ever applied. there were other claimants, among them the slifers, of maryland, mentioned elsewhere in these pages. the real and true inventor seems to be unknown, and yet it is an invention of vast importance, and with legal protection would have yielded the inventor an immense fortune. old wagoners, as a class, were robust, hardy, honest and jovial. but one of the long list is remembered as a criminal. his name was ben pratt, and he belonged to philadelphia. he turned out to be a counterfeiter of coin and currency, and suffered the punishment that all counterfeiters deserve. many old wagoners were fond of fun and frolic, but very few of them were intemperate, although they had the readiest opportunities for unrestrained drinking. every old tavern had its odd shaped little bar, ornamented in many instances with fancy lattice work, and well stocked with whiskey of the purest distillation, almost as cheap as water. in fact all kinds of liquors were kept at the old taverns of the national road, except the impure stuff of the present day. the bottles used were of plain glass, each marked in large letters with the name of the liquor it contained, and the old landlord would place these bottles on the narrow counter of the little bar, in the presence of a room filled with wagoners, so that all could have free access to them. none of the old tavern keepers made profit from the sales of liquor. they kept it more for the accommodation of their guests, than for money making purposes. there was probably a tavern on every mile of the road, between cumberland and wheeling, and all combined did not realize as much profit from the sales of liquor in a year as is realized in that time by one licensed hotel keeper of uniontown, at the present day. when, at last, the conestoga horse yielded up the palm to the iron horse, and it became manifest that the glory of the old road was departing, never to return, the old wagoners, many of whom had spent their best days on the road, sang in chorus the following lament: "now all ye jolly wagoners, who have got good wives, go home to your farms, and there spend your lives. when your corn is all cribbed, and your small grain is good, you'll have nothing to do but curse the railroad." chapter xxi. _stage drivers, stage lines and stage coaches--the postilion--changing horses--he comes, the herald of a noisy world--pioneer proprietors--peter burdine and his little rhyme--anecdote of thomas corwin--johny ritter--daniel brown, his sad ending--soldier drivers--redding bunting--joseph and william woolley--andrew j. wable--james burr._ "my uncle rested his head upon his hands and thought of the busy bustling people who had rattled about, years before, in the old coaches, and were now as silent and changed; he thought of the numbers of people to whom once, those crazy, mouldering vehicles had borne, night after night, for many years, and through all weathers, the anxiously expected intelligence, the eagerly looked for remittance, the promised assurances of health and safety, the sudden announcement of sickness and death. the merchant, the lover, the wife, the widow, the mother, the school boy, the very child who tottered to the door at the postman's knock--how had they all looked forward to the arrival of the old coach! and where were they all now?"--_charles dickens._ [illustration: stage coach] stage drivers as a class did not rank as high morally as wagoners, but despite this there were among them men of good sense, honest intentions and steady habits. as typical of the better class, the reader who is familiar with the old road will readily recall redding bunting, samuel luman, elliott seaburn, watty noble, james carroll, aquila and nat smith, william scott, david gordon, james burr, william robinson, john huhn, david bell, john guttery, john ritter, joseph henderson and peter null. others will be instantly recognized as their names shall appear on these pages. it is the sincere belief of all old pike boys that the stage lines of the national road were never equalled in spirit and dash on any road, in any age or country. the chariots of the appian way, drawn by the fastest horses of ancient italy, formed a dismal cortege in comparison with the sprightly procession of stage coaches on the old american highway. the grandeur of the old mail coach is riveted forever in the memory of the pike boy. to see it ascending a long hill, increasing speed, when nearing the summit, then moving rapidly over the intervening level to the top of the next hill, and dashing down it, a driver like the stately redding bunting wielding the whip and handling the reins, revealed a scene that will never be forgotten. and there was another feature of the old stage lines that left a lasting mark on memory's tablet. it was the "postilion." a groom with two horses was stationed at the foot of many of the long hills, and added to the ordinary team of four horses to aid in making the ascent. the summit gained, the extra horses were quickly detached and returned to await and aid the next coming coach, and this was the "postilion." nathan hutton is a well remembered old postilion. he was a tall, spare man, and lived in a small log house on the roadside, a short distance west of the old johnson tavern, and four and a half miles east of brownsville. at the foot of the hill below his house, he re-enforced the coaches with his postilion both ways, east and west, up colley's hill, going west, and the equally long hill, coming east from that point. when he wanted a man or horse to be faithful to duty he exhorted him to "stand by his 'tarnal integrity." the old postilion bade adieu to the scenes of earth long ago, and nothing is left to indicate the spot where his lowly dwelling stood except a few perishing quince bushes. hanson willison, of cumberland, when a boy rode postilion for samuel luman, and for alfred bailes. john evans and jacob hoblitzell rode postilion through the mountains, east of keyser's ridge. martin massey rode out from brownsville, and thomas m. fee, now crier of the courts of fayette county, pennsylvania, rode out from uniontown, over laurel hill. excitement followed in the wake of the coaches all along the road. their arrival in the towns was the leading event of each day, and they were so regular in transit that farmers along the road knew the exact hour by their coming, without the aid of watch or clock. they ran night and day alike. relays of fresh horses were placed at intervals of twelve miles, as nearly as practicable. ordinarily a driver had charge of one team only, which he drove and cared for. mail drivers, however, in many instances, drove three or four teams and more, which were cared for by grooms at the stations. teams were changed almost in the twinkling of an eye. the coach was driven rapidly to the station, where a fresh team stood ready harnessed and waiting on the roadside. the moment the team came to a halt the driver threw down the reins, and almost instantly the incoming team was detached, the fresh one attached, the reins thrown back to the driver, who did not leave his seat, and away again went the coach at full speed, the usual group of loafers, meanwhile, looking on and enjoying the exciting scene. the horses used were showy and superb, the admiration of all who beheld them. mr. stockton had a strain called the "murat," and another known as the "winflower," which have become extinct, but many expert horsemen contend that they have not, in later days, been surpassed for nerve, beauty or speed. a peculiar affliction came upon many of the "wheel horses," expressed by the phrase "sprung in the knees." it is said to have been produced by the efforts of the horses in "holding back," while descending the long and steep hills. there was one mail coach that was especially imposing. on its gilded sides appeared the picture of a post boy, with flying horse and horn, and beneath it in gilt letters this awe inspiring inscription: "he comes, the herald of a noisy world, news from all nations lumbering at his back." no boy who beheld that old coach will ever forget it. the coaches were all handsomely and artistically painted and ornamented, lined inside with soft silk plush. there were three seats furnished with luxurious cushions, and three persons could sit comfortably on each, so that nine passengers made a full load as far as the interior was concerned. a seat by the side of the driver was more coveted in fair weather than a seat within. during the prosperous era of the road it was not uncommon to see as many as fifteen coaches in continuous procession, and both ways, east and west, there would be thirty each day. james kinkead, jacob sides and abraham russell put on the first line of passenger coaches west of cumberland, and as early as john and andrew shaffer, garrett clark, aaron wyatt, morris mauler, john farrell, quill and nathan smith, and peter null, were drivers on this line. the smiths and null drove in and out from uniontown. one of the smiths subsequently became the agent of a stage line in ohio. james kinkead, above mentioned, was the senior member of the firm of kinkead, beck and evans, who built most of the large stone bridges on the line of the road. this early line of stages was owned and operated in sections. kinkead owned the line from brownsville to somerfield; sides, from somerfield to the little crossings, and thence to cumberland russell was the proprietor. kinkead sold his section to george dawson, of brownsville, and alpheus beall, of cumberland, bought out russell's interest. this line was subsequently purchased by, and merged in, the national road stage company, the principal and most active member of which was lucius w. stockton. the other members of this company were daniel moore, of washington, pennsylvania, richard stokes and moore n. falls, of baltimore, and dr. howard kennedy, of hagerstown, maryland. after the death of mr. stockton, in , dr. kennedy and mr. acheson were the active members of the firm. john w. weaver put a line of stages on the road at an early day, known as the people's line. after a short run it was withdrawn from the road east of wheeling, and transferred to the ohio division. previous to , james reeside put on a line which mr. stockton nick-named the "june bug," for the reason, as he alleged, it would not survive the coming of the june bugs. mr. stockton subsequently bought out this line and consolidated it with his own. there was a line of stages on the road called the "good intent," which came to stay, and did stay until driven off by the irresistible force of the steam king. this line was owned by shriver, steele & company, and was equal in vim, vigor and general equipment to the stockton line. the headquarters of the good intent line at uniontown was the mcclelland house. there passengers took their meals, and the horses were kept in the stables appurtenant. the "old line" (stockton's) had its headquarters at the national house, on morgantown street, now the private residence of that worthy and well known citizen, thomas batton. this little _bon mot_ is one among a thousand, illustrative of the spirit of the competition between these rival lines. there was one peter burdine, a driver on the good intent line, noted for his dashing qualities, who was accustomed to give vent to his fidelity to his employers, and his confidence in himself in these words: "if you take a seat in stockton's line, you are sure to be passed by pete burdine." and this became a popular ditty all along the road. on authority of hanson willison, the old stage driver of cumberland, the first line of stages put on the road east of cumberland, in opposition to the stockton line, was owned, from frederic to hagerstown, by hutchinson and wirt; from hagerstown to piney plains, by william f. steele; from piney plains to cumberland, by thomas shriver. thomas corwin, the famous ohio statesman and popular orator of the olden time, was not a stage driver, but he was a wagoner, and one of the rallying cries of his friends, in the campaign that resulted in his election as governor, was: "hurrah for tom corwin, the wagoner boy." the introduction of his name, in connection with stages and stage drivers, becomes pertinent in view of the following anecdote: corwin was of very dark complexion, and among strangers, and in his time, when race distinction was more pronounced than now, often taken for a negro. on one occasion, while he was a member of congress, he passed over the road in a "chartered coach," in company with henry clay, a popular favorite all along the road, and other distinguished gentlemen, en route for the capital. a chartered coach was one belonging to the regular line, but hired for a trip, and controlled by the parties engaging it. the party stopped one day for dinner at an old "stage tavern," kept by samuel cessna, at the foot of "town hill," also known as "snib hollow," twenty-five miles east of cumberland. cessna was fond of entertaining guests, and particularly ardent in catering to distinguished travelers. he was, therefore, delighted when this party entered his house. he had seen mr. clay before, and knew him. the tall form of mr. corwin attracted his attention, and he noted specially his swarthy complexion, heard his traveling companions call him "tom," and supposed he was the servant of the party. the first thing after the order for dinner was a suggestion of something to relieve the tedium of travel, and excite the appetite for the anticipated dinner, and it was brandy, genuine old cogniac, which was promptly brought to view by the zealous old landlord. brandy was the "tony" drink of the old pike--brandy and loaf sugar, and it was often lighted by a taper and burnt, under the influence of a popular tradition that "if burnt brandy couldn't save a man" in need of physical tension, his case was hopeless. when the brandy was produced, the party, with the exception of corwin, stepped up to the bar and each took a glass. corwin, to encourage the illusion of the old landlord, stood back. in a patronizing way the landlord proffered a glass to corwin, saying: "tom, you take a drink." corwin drank off the glass, and in an humble manner returned it to the landlord with modest thanks. dinner was next announced, and when the party entered the dining room, a side table was observed for use of the servant, as was the custom at all old taverns on the road at that time. corwin, at once recognizing the situation, sat down alone at the side table, while the other gentlemen occupied the main table. the dinner was excellent, as all were at the old taverns on the national road, and while undergoing discussion, mr. clay occasionally called out to the lone occupant of the side table: "how are you getting on, tom?" to which the modest response was, "very well." after dinner the old landlord produced a box of fine cigars, and first serving the distinguished guests, took one from the box and in his hand proffered it to mr. corwin, with the remark: "take a cigar, tom?" when it was announced that the coach was in readiness to proceed on the journey, mr. clay took corwin's arm, and, approaching the old landlord, said: "mr. cessna, permit me to introduce the hon. thomas corwin, of ohio." cessna was thunder-struck. his mortification know no bounds. observing his mental agony, mr. corwin restored him to equanimity by saying: "it was all a joke, mr. cessna; do not, i beg you, indulge in the slightest feeling of mortification. i expect to be back this way before long, and will call again to renew acquaintance, and take another good dinner with you." john ritter, affectionately and invariably, by his acquaintances, called "johnny," was noted for his honesty and steady habits. for many years after staging ceased on the road, he was a familiar figure about washington, pennsylvania. he assisted major hammond for thirty years in conducting the valentine house, and acted as agent for brimmer's line of mail hacks, and other similar lines, after the great mail and passenger lines were withdrawn. he was a bachelor, and a soldier of , and drew a small pension. he died at the valentine house, in washington, on january th, , in the eightieth year of his age, leaving behind him a good name and many friends. the first line of passenger coaches put on the road between brownsville and wheeling was owned, organized and operated by stephen hill and simms and pemberton. this was in , and a continuation of the early line before mentioned from cumberland to brownsville. stephen hill, while a stage proprietor, was also a tavern keeper in hillsboro, washington county, a small town, but an old town, which probably derived its name from his family. under the inspiration of modern reformation, so called, the name of this old town has been changed and languishes now under the romantic appellation of scenery hill. when it was hillsboro, and a stage station of the old pike, it was a lively little town. under its present picturesque name it remains a little town, but not a lively one. the change of name, however, has not yet penetrated the thinned ranks of the old pike boys, and they still refer to it as hillsboro. [illustration: william whaley.] the next station west of hillsboro, where stage horses were changed, twelve miles distant, was washington, where passengers also took meals. the good intent line stopped at the mansion house, situate at the upper end of the town, and the "old line" stopped at the national, in the lower end. the next changing place west of washington was claysville, the next roneys point, and thence to wheeling. about the year the good intent line stopped its coaches, or a portion of them, at the greene house in washington, kept by daniel brown, who, previous to that date, had, for a time, been a road agent of that line. of all the good taverns on the road there were none better than brown's. he had his peculiarities, as most men have, but he knew how to keep a hotel. he enjoyed the occupation of entertaining guests, and glowed with good feeling while listening to the praises bestowed upon his savory spreads. this popular old landlord came to a sad and untimely end by being cut to pieces in a mill by a buzz saw, on what was once called the plank road, leading from washington through monongahela city, west newton, mt. pleasant, somerset and bedford to cumberland. stages ran on that road, and at the time of the accident, mr. brown was in the service of a stage company and at the saw mill to urge forward the work of getting out plank for the road. david sibley, an old driver on stockton's line, went with the fayette county "boys in blue" to mexico in , a member of co. h, d regiment of pennsylvania volunteers. he participated in the engagement at cerro gordo, emerged from that conflict unscathed, but died soon after at pueblo from ailments incident to an inhospitable climate. william whaley, a soldier of the war between the states, and a son of capt. james whaley, a soldier of , was an old stage driver. he was born in connellsville, but spent the prime of his life in uniontown, and on the road. he used to tell the boys that one of the horses of his team died coming down laurel hill, but that he held him up until he reached the mcclelland house in uniontown. whaley drove for a time on the morgantown route from uniontown, and died in the latter place twenty years and more ago. james turner, a somerset county man, an old stage driver, also volunteered as a soldier in the mexican war, and started out a member of co. h, above mentioned. in crossing the gulf he fell down a hatchway of the vessel and was killed, and the mortal remains of the old driver were buried in the deep sea. james gordon, a well remembered old stage driver, went with co. h to mexico, and died in the capital city of that republic. he was the father-in-law of peter heck, a former postmaster of uniontown. samuel sibley, probably a brother of david, before mentioned, was a well-known driver. he was small in stature, but alert in movement. it was he who drove the coach that upset on a stone pile in the main street of uniontown with henry clay as a passenger, the details of which have elsewhere been given. ben showalter is remembered as an old driver, who sang little songs and performed little tricks of legerdemain for the amusement of the boys. he went to the war between the states as a private in major west's cavalry of uniontown, and died in the service. [illustration: redding bunting.] redding bunting, mentioned before, was probably more widely known and had more friends than any other old stage driver on the road. his entire service on the road, covering many years, was in connection with the "old line." he was a great favorite of mr. stockton, the leading proprietor of that line. his commanding appearance is impressed upon the memories of all who knew him. he stood six feet six inches high in his stockings, and straight as an arrow, without any redundant flesh. his complexion was of a reddish hue and his features pronounced and striking. his voice was of the baritone order, deep and sonorous, but he was not loquacious and had a habit of munching. he was endowed with strong common sense, which the pike boys called "horse sense," to emphasize its excellence. he was affable, companionable and convivial. he was a native of fayette county, pa., and born in menallen township. he was not only a stage driver, but a trusted stage agent, stage proprietor, and also a tavern keeper. he once owned the property now known as the "central hotel," in uniontown, and if he had retained it would have died a rich man. despondency and depression of spirits seemed to have encompassed him, when business ceased on the road, and he appeared as one longing for the return of other and better days. during the presidency of mr. van buren, it was deemed desirable by the authorities that one of his special messages should be speedily spread before the people. accordingly arrangements were made by the stockton line, which had the contract for carrying the mails, to transmit the message of the president with more than ordinary celerity. the baltimore and ohio railroad at the time was not in operation west of frederic city, maryland. mr. bunting, as agent of the company, repaired to that point to receive the coming document and convey it to wheeling. he sat by the side of the driver the entire distance from frederic to wheeling to superintend the mission and urge up the speed. the distance between the points named is two hundred and twenty-two miles, and was covered in twenty-three hours and thirty minutes. changes of teams and drivers were made at the usual relays, and the driver who brought the flying coach from farmington to uniontown was joseph woolley, who made the sparks fly at every step, as he dashed down the long western slope of laurel hill. homer westover drove the coach from uniontown to brownsville, covering the intervening distance of twelve miles in the almost incredible compass of forty-four minutes. the coach used on this occasion was called the "industry," one of the early mail coaches with "monkey box" attachment, and it literally woke up the echoes in its rapid transit over the road. the pittsburg _gazette_ had arranged for an early copy of the important message and agreed to pay robert l. barry and joseph p. mcclelland, of uniontown, connected in various subordinate capacities with the stage lines, the sum of fifty dollars for a speedy delivery of the document at the office of that journal in pittsburg. brownsville was then the distributing point for all mail matter sent west over the national road, consigned to pittsburg, and barry and mcclelland went down to brownsville on the "industry" to obtain the message there and transmit it thence to pittsburg by special convoy overland to the _gazette_; but when the mail was opened it was discovered that it did not contain a package for the _gazette_, and barry and mcclelland returned home disappointed, while the _gazette_ suffered still greater disappointment in not being able to lay an early copy of the message before its readers. the reader will bear in mind that at the time referred to the telegraph was unknown as an agency for transmitting news, and the railroad, as has been seen, had not advanced west of frederic city, maryland. in the year , after the railroad was completed to cumberland, redding bunting rivaled, if he did not surpass, the feat of rapid transit above described. he drove the great mail coach from cumberland to wheeling, which carried the message of president polk, officially proclaiming that war existed between the united states and mexico. leaving cumberland at two o'clock in the morning, he reached uniontown at eight o'clock of the same morning, breakfasted there with his passengers, at his own house (for he was then the proprietor of the national), and after breakfast, which was soon disposed of, proceeded with his charge, reaching washington at eleven a. m. and wheeling at two p. m., covering a distance of one hundred and thirty-one miles in twelve hours. he was not at that time an ordinary driver, but an agent of the line, and took the reins in person for the avowed purpose of making the highest speed attainable. redding bunting has been dead about ten years. his wife, who was a daughter of capt. endsley, the old tavern keeper at the big crossings, survived him about three years. he left two sons and two daughters. one of his sons, henry clay, is at present postmaster of dunbar, pa., and the other, william, is a printer, and at this writing foreman of the composing force of the pittsburg _times_. one of the daughters is the wife of milton k. frankenberry, a prominent citizen of fayette county, pa., and the other is the wife of armor craig, a leading merchant of uniontown. the old driver has gone to his last home, but his memory remains fresh and fragrant all along the road. joseph woolley, above mentioned, had a brother, william, who was also a well known stage driver. when the staging days on the road were ended, and the exciting incidents thereof relegated to the domain of history, joseph and william woolley sought and obtained employment in the service of the baltimore and ohio railroad company, and both ultimately became competent and trustworthy locomotive engineers. andrew j. wable commenced driving stage in , and continued uninterruptedly until . he went to illinois in , and is still living, in good health and spirits. he frequently visits his old home in the mountains of fayette county, where he was reared, and is there now, or was very recently. he drove first on the "shake gut," which was not a passenger line, but a line put on the road to carry light freights with rapidity. he drove next on the "good intent" line, and subsequently on the old, or stockton line. he was a driver on the good intent line when william scott was its agent, and on the old line during the agencies of granger and bunting. he drove on the good intent line from somerfield to keyser's ridge, and on the old line from keyser's ridge to piney grove. he also drove between washington and wheeling, and from uniontown to farmington. his recollections of the old road are vivid, and he is fond of recounting incidents of its palmy days. james burr drove out westward from washington. he was reputed to be a man of great muscular power, but with it all, a man of quiet demeanor. a cincinnati man, name not given, had achieved the reputation of "licking" everybody in and around cincinnati, and like alexander of old, sighed for more victories. hearing of jim burr, he resolved to encounter him, and struck out for claysville, where he had been informed burr could be found. he traveled by steamboat to wheeling, thence by stage coach to claysville. the cincinnati man "put up" at the tavern of william kelley, the stopping place of burr's line at claysville. upon entering, the stranger inquired for jim burr, and was politely informed by mr. kelley, the old landlord, that mr. burr was at the stable looking after his team, and would soon be in. in a little while burr came in, and mr. kelley remarked to the stranger, "this is mr. burr." the stranger, who was a somewhat larger man than burr, saluted him thus: "burr, i have been told that you are the best man in all this country, and i have come all the way from cincinnati to fight you, and lick you, if i can." "well," said burr, "you have come a long distance for a job like that, and besides i don't know you, and there is no reason why we should fight." "but," rejoined the stranger, "you must fight me, i insist on it, and will not leave here until you do." burr persisted in declining the proffered combat, and finally went upstairs to bed, and after a nap of half an hour's duration, came down without a thought of again meeting his aggressive visitor. to his utter surprise the cincinnati bluffer met him at the foot of the stairs, and again demanded a trial of strength. this was more than burr's good nature could withstand, and stepping back, he drew up in the attitude of a striker, warning his assailant at the same time to "look out," when with one blow of his fist, he felled him stone dead on the floor. burr then went to the water stand in a rear room of the tavern, washed his face and hands, and upon returning saw the victim of his deadly blow still lying prostrate upon the floor, and exclaimed: "my god, has that man not got up yet?" but the vanquished bully did, after a while, get up, and in rising discovered that he was a wiser, if not a better man. news of this singular encounter spread rapidly through the town of claysville, and nearly every inhabitant thereof rushed to the scene to learn how it happened, and all about it. the facts were minutely and carefully made known to all inquirers by william kelley, the old landlord, and cheers went up and out for jim burr, the hero of claysville. at the time of this occurrence david gordon was also driving out westwardly from washington. tradition has it that these two men had a reciprocal fear of each other, but they never collided, and it is a mooted question as to which of them was the better man in a physical sense. it is a long time since burr and gordon were seen on the front boot of a handsome concord coach, wielding the reins and flourishing the whip over the backs of four dashing steeds with a grace and dignity befitting a more pretentious calling; and presumably they have answered the last summons, but living or dead, their names are indelibly stamped on the history of the national road. david gordon was sent out from the east by james reeside, and drove first on the "june bug line." going out west from claysville soon after he commenced driving his team ran off, with a full load of passengers. discerning in a moment that the flying team could not be checked by ordinary methods, he pulled it off the road and turned the coach over against a high bank. the passengers were badly frightened, but none were hurt, and attributed their escape from injury to the skillfulness of the driver. after "righting up," the coach but little damaged, proceeded to roney's point without further casualty. this incident, or rather accident, gave gordon a wide reputation as a cool and skillful driver, and he rapidly advanced to the front rank of his calling. the "june bug line" did not remain long on the road, and when it was withdrawn gordon took service in the good intent line, and continued with it until all through lines of coaches were taken from the road. gordon was a very stout man, six feet in height, and weighing about two hundred pounds, without any surplus flesh. it was said that he could fight, but was not quarrelsome. his motto seemed to be "_non tangere mihi_." on one occasion, as tradition has it, he was compelled to engage in a knock-down, in self defense. it was at triadelphia, virginia. three "toughs" fell upon him at that place, with the intention, as they stated it, of "doing him up," but they failed ignominously. gordon repulsed and routed them completely and decisively, and they never thereafter coveted a rencounter with gordon, and the example of their fate rendered others with pugilistic proclivities a little shy about encountering him. chapter xxii. _stages and stage drivers continued--character of drivers defended--styles of driving--classification of drivers--samuel luman, old mail driver--his thrilling encounter with robbers--george fisher dashes into a whig procession--daniel leggett--accident to black hawk--tobias banner, jerry mcmullin, george mckenna, paris eaches, jack bailiss, henry a. wise, and other familiar names._ mr. a. j. endsley, of somerset, an intelligent, educated and observing gentleman, who was born and reared on the national road, gives it as his judgment that old stage drivers, as a class, were better, morally, than old wagoners. he says that while some of the stage drivers were given to blaspheming and drinking, there were wagoners who would "discount them, especially in the matter of profanity." he names, as types of orderly, well behaved stage drivers, thomas grace, william and alexander thompson, john mills, charley howell, john high, william robinson, isaac frazee (still living in markleysburg), isaac denny, samuel halsted, william white, samuel jaco, thomas moore, james a. carroll, william bishop and john bunting. william robinson and pate sides were expert penmen. john e. reeside, a son of commodore james reeside, the old stage proprietor, now residing in baltimore, who had a general supervision of his father's lines on the national road, gives three styles of stage driving, as follows, viz: ( ) the flat rein (english); ( ) the top and bottom (pennsylvania); ( ) the side rein (eastern). in the first style mr. reeside says that john bennett and watty noble excelled, and in the second, jack bailiss, frank lawson and joe bowers carried off the palm. he adds that the third mode was the one adopted by a majority of the best drivers, and in this, isaac page, luda adams, peyton r. sides, david gordon, john lanning, abram dedrick and david johnson excelled all other drivers. mr. endsley, before mentioned, divides the old stage drivers in four classes, as follows: "( ) awkward, slovenly, careless drivers, such as handled the whip and 'ribbons' so clumsily, and kept their teams so unseemly together, up hill, down grades and on the level, that it was painful to see them on the box. typical of this class were tom frantz, dan boyer, pete null and abe halderman. ( ) cruel men--their cruelty amounting almost to brutality. this class seemed to take a fiendish delight in whipping, lashing and gashing horses. wash alridge and a big, burly driver by the name of robinson, were types of the cruel class. ( ) careful, easy-going, common, every day kind of drivers--men who never made pretensions to fancy styles. they were such as john bunting (old judy), jim reynolds, james carroll (flaxey), blanchard (hatchet face), billy armor and josh. boyd. ( ) well dressed drivers, clean and neat in person, and men who regarded sitting down to a meal in shirt sleeves as _contra, bonos mores_. this class manipulated the whip and 'ribbons' scientifically, and sat on the box in a way that showed they were masters of the situation. prominent in this class were john high, pate sides, peter halderman, 'yankee' thompson, sam jerome, jim moore," &c. in this latter class might be ranked david gordon, james burr, and others of the western end of the road. [illustration: john bunting.] samuel luman, still living in cumberland, and in good health, was one of the best equipped stage drivers on the road. his experience covers many of the most exciting and interesting events in the road's history. he commenced his career as a stage driver in , the same year that alfred bailes began as a wagoner. he tells of a collision with highwaymen in the mountains, which was attended by thrilling details. on the th of august, , he was on the road between piney grove and frostburg, with a mail and passenger coach going east. after nightfall, and at a point studded by a thick growth of pine trees, he was confronted by a party of foot-pads, five in number, and strange to relate, one a woman, bent on felony. the outlook was alarming. luman carried no fire-arms, and there was but one weapon among his passengers, a small, brass pistol, not brought into requisition, as the sequel shows. the assailants had thrown across the road an obstruction like a rude fence, made of logs, stumps and brush. as luman's trusty leaders approached the obstruction, one of the highwaymen stepped out from his cover and seized a bridle, and the coach was stopped. the assailant ordered luman to descend from his seat and surrender his charge. this he very politely, but very decidedly declined to do. "what do you want?" queried luman, with seeming innocency. "we are traders," was the response. "well," rejoined luman, coolly, "i have nothing to trade; i am satisfied with my trappings, and not desirous of exchanging them." during this little parley the wood-be robber, who held a leader by the bridle, cried out to a partner in crime, who was near at hand, though under cover of darkness, to shoot the driver, and denounced him as a coward for not firing. the party thus addressed then leveled a pistol at luman and pulled the trigger, but the result was nothing more than a "snap," the night air being damp and the powder failing to explode. these favorable surroundings, no doubt, saved luman's life. the foot-pads at the heads of the leaders had, in the confusion and excitement of the moment, turned the horses squarely around, so that the leaders faced west, while the wheel horses stood to the east. in this conjuncture the party in charge of the leaders undertook to unhitch them, and to guard against the movements of luman, wrapped a driving rein tightly around one of his arms. this was luman's opportunity, and summoning all his resources, he poured a volley of stinging lashes upon his antagonist, smiting him on the face and arm, alternately, and most vigorously. the bandit winced, and soon relinquished his grasp, when, almost in the twinkling of an eye, the team under luman's skillful hands started up on a full run, leaping the improvised fence, and speeding on, leaving the foot-pads behind to lament their discomfiture. mr. luman relates that in crossing the improvised fence, he fairly trembled for the fate of himself and passengers, as the coach was within an ace of capsizing. he also states that the ruffian who seized his leader wore a gown that covered his whole person, tied around the middle of his body with a belt, and that another of his assailants wore a white vest, dark pantaloons, and covered his face with a black mask. the other three kept in the back ground during the attack, so that he is unable to recall their appearance. mr. luman further relates that when the first assault was made on him, he apprized his passengers of the impending danger and besought their assistance, but they crouched in their seats and made no effort to aid him or defend themselves. they were western merchants going east to buy goods, and had among them as much as sixty thousand dollars in cash. when the coach arrived safely at the highland house, frostburg, george evans at that time proprietor thereof, the grateful passengers "took up" a collection for the benefit of their courageous and faithful driver and deliverer, but luman says the sum proffered was so ludicrously small that he declined to receive it, and ever thereafter regarded that lot of passengers as a "mean set." samuel luman drove four teams between cumberland and the big crossings. in he concluded to give up stage driving and try tavern keeping. his first venture in this line was at piney plains, east of cumberland and near cessna's old stand. he approved himself a popular landlord, and was well patronized. from piney plains he went to frostburg, and took charge of the franklin house. his next and last experience in tavern keeping was at the national house, in cumberland. luman interested himself in the detection and punishment of mail robbers, which drew upon him the animosity of suspected persons, and mr. stockton, fearing that the suspected ones might waylay and murder him, advised him to take service east of cumberland, which he did. he is altogether one of the most interesting characters of the road. [illustration: samuel luman.] george fisher was a stage driver, who left his footprints very plainly on the limestone dust of the road. he was noted for his daring in the manipulation of fiery steeds. a fractious team was stationed at claysville, which was the terror of all the drivers on that section of the road. it "ran off" several times, once killing a passenger outright, and seriously injuring others. this occurred on caldwell's hill, seven miles west of washington, pennsylvania. george fisher was sent down from washington to take charge of this team, and soon had it under complete control. he drove it many years without an accident. fisher was a large, well proportioned, and fine looking man. he was driving the team mentioned in , the year in which the celebrated political contest occurred, wherein james k. polk and henry clay were opposing candidates for the presidency. fisher was an ardent supporter of polk, and quite bitter in his enmity against the whigs. on the day of a large whig meeting in washington, an extra coach, not on regular time, but filled with passengers, passed over the road, going west. it fell to fisher's lot to haul this coach from claysville to roney's point, a relay beyond the state line, in virginia. a delegation of whigs, with banners and music, from west alexander and vicinity, went up to washington to attend the meeting, and on their return homeward in the evening, were overhauled by fisher, who ran his team and coach into the whig procession at several points, doing damage to buggies, carriages, and light wagons, and inflicting some quite serious personal injuries. colin wilson, a prominent citizen of washington county at that date, was one of the persons injured by fisher's inroad, and was seriously hurt. fisher, in extenuation of his apparently criminal conduct, pleaded the irritability of his team, that it became frightened by the banners and music, was unmanageable, and the injuries inflicted were not intentional on his part, but purely accidental. the reputation of the team for pettishness was well known in the neighborhood of the occurrence, and served as a plausible excuse, and really saved fisher from prosecution, and probably consequent punishment, but all the whigs of that neighborhood went to their graves under the solemn belief that fisher "did it a purpose." the following account of an accident, furnished by john thompson, the old wagoner, no doubt relates to fisher's team previous to the date at which he took charge of it: in the month of october, , a stage team started to run from the locust tree near caldwell's tavern. the driver lost control, and the team dashed down the long hill at a terrific gait. they kept in the road until wickert's bridge was reached, at which point the coach, team, passengers, driver and all were violently thrown over the bridge. a mr. moses, a kentucky merchant, and his nephew, were sitting by the side of the driver, and all remained firmly in their seats until the collapse occurred. the kentucky merchant had a leg badly crushed, and in two days after the accident died, and was buried in the old graveyard at washington. doctors stevens and lane, of washington, were promptly summoned and did all that medical and surgical skill could devise to aid the unfortunate sufferer, but gangrene ensued and baffled it all. the driver was severely hurt, and nursed at the caldwell house until the spring of , when he recovered. the nephew of mr. moses and all the other passengers escaped without injury. the remains of mr. moses were subsequently removed from washington by his relatives, and interred near his home in kentucky. wickert's bridge is so called because a man of that name was murdered many years ago near it, and for a long time thereafter, according to neighborhood superstition, returned to haunt the bridge. daniel leggett was an old stage driver, well known, and will be long remembered. he once had the distinction of hauling the celebrated indian chief, black hawk, and his _suite_. the party ascended the ohio river by steamboat, and took stage at wheeling. upon entering the coach at that point, black hawk showed shyness, fancying it might be a trap set for him by his pale faced enemies, and it required some persuasion by an interpreter, who accompanied his party, to induce him to enter and take a seat. the coach passed over the road without unusual incident until it reached washington, pennsylvania. going down the main street of washington, from the postoffice, which was in the neighborhood of the court house, the breast strap of one of the wheel horses broke, causing a precipitation of the coach upon the leaders, and the team becoming frightened, dashed down the street at fearful speed. one of the party of indians was seated by the driver, and thrown off, carrying down with him the driver. the team, thus left without a driver, rushed headlong for the stable of the national house, and at the corner of main and maiden streets, the coach upset. it contained nine passengers, eight indians and one half-breed. the first one to show up from the wreck was black hawk, who stood upright in the middle of the street, disclosing a single drop of blood on his forehead, and manifesting much excitement and indignation, as he uttered "ugh! ugh! ugh!" the interpreter had an arm broken, which was the only serious casualty attending the accident. black hawk now became almost wholly irreconcilable. the interpreter tried to explain to him the true situation, and to assure him that no harm was aimed at him, but the dusky warrior repelled the approaches of the friendly mediator, and refused to be reconciled. he was now certain that the white men intended to kill him. after a little while the excitement abated, and with it the temper of the unfortunate indian chieftain. he was persuaded to enter the tavern, and observing that the surroundings were not hostile, threw off his sullenness, and became somewhat sensible of the situation, and apparently reconciled to it. another coach of the line was provided, and the party proceeded on their journey to parley with the great father of the white house. the occasion marked an era in the life and career of the old driver, daniel leggett, which he referred to with intense interest on frequent occasions throughout the remainder of his life. the black hawk incident occurred in , when van buren was president. tobias banner, as if to do justice to his name, was an imposing driver. he was a chum of jerry mcmullin, another old driver, and the two together enjoyed many a game of bluff, while their teams were quietly resting in the well furnished old stables. they were both mail drivers in and out from washington. mcmullin at one time to vary the monotony of stage life, made a trip to stockton's lane, in greene county, to see the races, which occurred at regular periods at that place in that day. he engaged in a game of seven up, with a stalwart native of greene county, for five dollars a side, and while he really won the game, his overgrown adversary claimed the stakes on an allegation of foul play. a quarrel and a fight ensued, and jerry mcmullin returned to washington with a blackened eye and diminished purse, vowing that he would never venture upon mud roads again. george mckenna drove first on the oyster line and afterwards a stage team. he was a greene county man, and brother-in-law of morgan r. wise. after he quit driving he set up an oyster saloon in waynesburg, and finally engaged with a travelling menagerie and lost his life in a railroad accident between new york and philadelphia. paris eaches, a strangely sounding name now, but once familiar to the ear of every pike boy, was a well known and well liked driver. he radiated from washington, pennsylvania, but left his mark all along the line. he was a jolly fellow and enjoyed the excitement of the road. he was always a favorite at social parties of young folks, and entertained them with songs. he had a good voice and sang well. "i have left alabama," was one of his best songs, and he always sang it to the delight of his hearers. jack bailiss was a widely known and popular driver, a married man, and a resident of washington, pennsylvania. he was accounted a reckless driver, and delighted in exciting the apprehension of his passengers, often filling them with terror by specimens of what they considered reckless driving. he knew the danger line however, and always kept within it. he drove the coach from claysville to washington, pennsylvania, in which gen. taylor traveled on his way to the capital to assume the presidency. henry a. wise, an old driver, is well remembered by the old people of the road on account of the quaintness of his character. he was not a driver on the national road, but drove the mail coach from uniontown to morgantown, virginia. mr. stockton had the contract for carrying the mail between these points, and wise was his chief driver, and pursued this calling for many years. his headquarters in uniontown were at the old hart tavern, jackson's favorite stopping place, now the hotel brunswick. he was driving on this route as early as . he was an odd genius, as mr. john e. reeside says of him, a "typical tide water virginian." he claimed to be descended from blue blood, and simply drove stage for amusement. he always had plenty of slack in his reins, and as a consequence rarely kept his team straight in the road. it is said that on one occasion, while half asleep on the box, his team turned from the road through an open gap into a field, and commenced eagerly to graze on the growing clover. wise was tall and spare, and habitually wore a high silk hat. john huhn was a driver west of washington, pennsylvania. he married a daughter of john mccrackin, a well known and prosperous farmer of the vicinity of claysville. when stage lines dissolved and stage coaches no longer rattled over the old pike, john huhn engaged in the tanning business at claysville, and was successful. peter payne, an old driver east and west from keyser's ridge, was noted as an expert hand at a game of poker. he was usually a winner, and being a man of economic habits, saved his small accumulations from time to time and ultimately became rich. he often sat down to a game with joseph dilly, an old blacksmith of the mountain division of the road, a skillfull player, who, like payne, also grew rich. frank lawson, who subsequently kept tavern in triadelphia, was a stage driver. he first drove on weaver's ohio line, next on a line in kentucky, where he upset a coach causing the death of one or more of his passengers, and afterward came to the national road and drove between wheeling and washington. he is mentioned by mr. reeside as an expert driver of the "top and bottom," or pennsylvania mode of driving. john stotler was among the drivers on the first line of stages. he was stoutly built, a good reinsman and a popular driver. he drove out east and west from cumberland. john whitney, an englishman, was an early driver, and noted for his caution in handling his team and caring for the comfort and safety of passengers. joseph whisson drove from washington to claysville, and is well remembered and highly spoken of by all old citizens living on that section of the road. he is still living at triadelphia, west virginia. jason eddy was one of the many drivers sent out on the road in an early day from new jersey by "commodore" reeside, as james, the old stage proprietor, was frequently called. eddy was an expert driver, and it was said of him that "he could turn his team and coach on a silver dollar." he was likewise a good musician, and played well on the bugle. he often entertained his passengers with stirring bugle blasts. william walker was a careful old driver, and so economical that he acquired property from the savings of his scanty wages. william craver, edward hays and the two welches were old stage drivers, whose names were familiar along the road in its early history. isaac page, first named by mr. reeside as a good driver in the eastern style, was a uniontown man, and died in that place before the glories of the old road had waned. he left a widow and a son, charles, who went to new york, where the son engaged in business, prospered and became rich. his mother was highly esteemed by all who knew her, and to her example is attributed the success of the son. dr. thayer, who subsequently became a circus proprietor, commenced driving stage on the national road when eighteen years of age. he drove from uniontown to farmington on the "old line" previous to . he was a skillful driver, and subsequently achieved success as a circus owner. gideon bolton (nicknamed "hoop-pole," from the circumstance of his coming from a hoop-pole region in preston county, west virginia), drove many years on the mountain division of the road, and is well remembered. [illustration: joseph whisson.] james mccauley, an old driver, before reaching the dignity of the box, was a "postilion" for redding bunting on the mail coaches from somerfield to woodcock hill, and to winding ridge. jack lee was a spirited driver, and would have been called a "dude" if he had not died before that term was applied to persons of fanciful and fashionable apparel. he drove in and out from cumberland and was contemporaneous with whitney. david bell, an old stage driver, subsequently kept a tavern in claysville. his daughter became the wife of calvin king, an officer of one of the claysville banks. william corman, an old stage driver, is remembered as a _pal_ of dr. john f. braddee in the celebrated mail robberies of , at uniontown. braddee's office adjoined stockton's stage yard. corman drove the mail coach, and handed over the mail bags to braddee, who rifled them. a full account of these mail robberies is given elsewhere in this volume. john bennett and james and john bailiss drove out west from washington, pennsylvania, for many years, and were among the most careful and skillful drivers. bennett died in hillsboro. joshua johnson, a canadian, and an old stage driver, married a miss slicer, of flintstone, maryland, and subsequently kept a tavern in cumberland. chapter xxiii. _the first mail coaches--the stage yard at uniontown--employees therein--mr. stockton goes back on john tyler--names of coaches--henry clay and the drivers--anecdote of clay, and humes, of claysville--jenny lind and phineas t. barnum on the road--exciting race between an old liner and a good intent driver--old mount, the giant of the road--sim houser, archie mcneil, watty noble, the nestor of stage drivers, and other familiar names._ the first mail coaches were arranged to carry but three passengers, in addition to the mail pouches, upon a model furnished by the postoffice department. drivers and residents along the road called the passenger compartment of the early mail coach a "monkey box." this was at the front end of the vehicle, and rested on springs, and the mail pouches were placed behind it, on a lower plane, and in a long, tight, wooden box or bed, resting on the axles of the wagon, without springs. it made a loud noise when passing over the road, was altogether a curious contrivance, and after a short term of usage was abandoned, and the ordinary passenger coach substituted in its stead. mr. stockton established a coach factory in uniontown, where many of the coaches of his line were made, and as necessity from time to time existed, repaired. blacksmith shops were also set up in connection with this factory, where the stage horses of the stockton line were shod. it was called the "stage yard," and located on morgantown street, on the lot now covered by the residence and grounds of the hon. nathaniel ewing. many mechanics in different lines of work were employed in the "stage yard," and some of them still linger on the shores of time, and in uniontown. [e]philip bogardus is probably the oldest of the surviving employees of the old stage yard, and is a well known and respected citizen of uniontown. he was born in dutchess county, new york, september , , and came to uniontown in . on his journey to that place he halted for a season and worked at his trade, that of a coach trimmer, at bloody run, bedford county, pennsylvania, and there first met and formed the acquaintance of henry nycum, the well remembered and respected old blacksmith, who lived many years in uniontown, and died there about a year ago. soon after his arrival in uniontown, bogardus obtained employment in the stage yard. the foreman of the yard at the time was william gaddis. [footnote e: died recently.] [illustration: maj. william a. donaldson.] next in seniority, among the surviving employees of the stage yard, is [f]maj. william a. donaldson, one of the best known citizens of uniontown. he is a painter. he was born in emmettsburg, frederic county, maryland, a village situate ten miles south of gettysburg, on february , , and came to uniontown february , . he located first at brownsville, and remained there a year and upwards before going to uniontown. his first engagement in uniontown was with col. william b. roberts, in whose service he continued about a year, after which he entered the stage yard as a painter and ornamenter of coaches. he is not only a skillful artisan, but a gentleman well read in history, philosophy, theology, and politics, in short a good and useful citizen. when dr. braddee was first lodged in the uniontown jail for robbing the mails, maj. donaldson called in the evening to see him. the accused was placed in charge of a special police force, which consisted of zadoc cracraft, george martin, and stewart speers, who "stood guard" over the noted prisoner. soon after maj. donaldson entered the jail the guardsmen informed him that they were very hungry, and desired to go down town to get some oysters, and requested him to remain in charge of the prisoner until they returned. to this maj. donaldson assented, provided the hungry guardsmen would speedily return. they went out for oysters and did not get back until one o'clock in the morning. the major and the doctor, being old acquaintances, spent the intervening time as pleasantly as circumstances would admit of, but it was not exactly the thing the major had bargained for. mr. stockton had one of his coaches named john tyler, in honor of the vice-president of the first harrison administration. when tyler, by the death of harrison, succeeded to the presidency, and vetoed the united states bank bill, mr. stockton was very much angered thereat, and going into the stage yard, soon after the veto was announced, accosted maj. donaldson thus: "donaldson, can't you erase that name (pointing to the tyler coach) and substitute another? i won't have one of my coaches named for a traitor." "certainly i can," replied donaldson, "what shall the new name be?" "call it gen. harrison," said stockton. "all right," said donaldson, and the change was made. maj. donaldson was a democrat, and much amused by the incident. [footnote f: died july th, .] robert l. barry, the well remembered old merchant of uniontown, was, in his younger days, a painter in the old stage yard. other painters in the stage yard were william mcquilken, william mcmullin, william crisfield, ---- mathiot, ebenezer matthews, george starr, alex. fowler and harrison wiggins. lewis mobley was also a painter in the stage yard. he subsequently moved to luzerne township, fayette county, pennsylvania, became a farmer and local politician. he had many good points of character and many warm friends. he died in luzerne township a number of years ago. the belfords, father and three sons, were of the stage yard force, workers in wood. they came from new jersey, and were near relatives of the old and distinguished presbyterian preacher, rev. a. g. fairchild, d.d. the belfords went west, and in all probability have passed from earth to scenes beyond. armstrong hadden, the old postmaster and banker, of uniontown worked a number of years in the stage yard on harness and "thorough braces." he learned his trade with westley frost, of brownsville. thorough braces were the leather springs, thick and wide, upon which the coach body was placed. alex. mclean, the old clerk of the county commissioners, also worked on harness and braces. charles brower was a trimmer. he came from baltimore, and went from the stage yard in uniontown to the state of louisiana, since which time he has made no sign so far as known. abram rogers was a worker on "thorough braces." other workers in wood were isaac and simon sampsell, israel hogue, and frank wilkinson. among the blacksmiths of the old stage yard were james rush, who subsequently went to washington, pennsylvania, where he lived many years, and until his death, which occurred recently, thomas haymaker, and his son, leroy, thomas stewart, michael claybaugh, jesse king, thomas king, james keenan, fred reamer, abram haldeman, seth white, hugh rogers, and jacob, isaac and robert prettyman. the inevitable company store was connected with the stage yard, but it was not so odious then as now. it was located on morgantown street, in the building now occupied by the ellis music store, and managed by john keffer, who is well remembered by all the old citizens of uniontown. george martin was a clerk in the company store. coaches were all named after the manner of steamboats, and more recently, sleeping cars on the leading railroads. the name of every state of the union was utilized for this purpose, and the realms of fancy were likewise explored. the coach named for pennsylvania bore the legend keystone state; ohio was honored under the name buckeye state, new hampshire, the granite state, massachusetts, the bay state, and so on. among the fancy names employed, the old pike boy will readily recall the following: fashion, palmetto, central route, jewess, beauty, pathfinder, samaratan, highlander, ivanhoe, herald, industry, national, republic, protection, brilliant, atlas, sultana, clarendon, chancellor, moravian, miantonoma, loch lomond. warriors, statesmen and old stagers were remembered and honored in the names following: washington, lafayette, general wayne, general st. clair, general jackson, general harrison, rough and ready, meaning general taylor, general worth, general cass, colonel benton, madison, monroe, henry clay, the president, james k. polk, purviance, daniel moore, l. w. stockton, general moorehead, david shriver, william h. stelle, james c. acheson, columbus, pocahontas, santa anna. countries and cities were honored in the names that follow: yucatan, green bay, oronoco, tampico, bangor, mexico, buena vista, new orleans, erie, lexington, vicksburg, natchez, trenton, san francisco, mobile, troy, wyandott, idaho, ashland, westmoreland, allegany, raritan, youghiogheny, gautemala, panama, hungarian, montgomery, paoli, tuscaloosa. one coach took in a hemisphere, and was called america. another was named queen victoria in the old stage days, as now, the reigning sovereign of england, while another rendered homage to dear old ireland, by bearing the legend, erin go bragh. when harrison, the first, polk and taylor passed over the road to the capital, to be installed in the presidential office, a splendid new coach was provided for each occasion, called the president, in which the president-elect and his immediate family were conveyed. the presidential parties did not travel in the night time, but rested at stations along the road until morning. at uniontown, president harrison and party stopped over night at the walker house, now called the central. polk lodged at the national and taylor at the clinton. the walker and clinton were not stage houses, but the distinguished passengers were quartered therein, respectively, for the purpose, probably, of conciliating some local political influences. henry clay knew many of the old stage drivers personally, and would call them by name when he met them at different points along the road. he not only made acquaintances and friends of the drivers, but of the tavern keepers and persons in other employments on the road. david mahaney, now living in dunbar, kept tavern at various points on the mountain division of the road, and often entertained mr. clay, and became well acquainted with him. one humes, of claysville, was wont to boast of the familiarity with which he was recognized by mr. clay. while the teams were being changed at stations, mr. clay was in the habit of getting out of the coach and going in to the taverns. on occasion of one of these short stops, humes was introduced to mr. clay. on the return trip, less than a year afterward, humes heard of his coming, and hastened to the station to greet him. the coach was driven up and mr. clay got out, but before entering the tavern espied humes approaching, and when near enough to be heard, said: "there comes my friend humes," and gave him a cordial hand-shaking. humes was delighted, and never wearied in telling the story of his acquaintance with clay. when jennie lind, the world renowned songstress, made her first professional visit to the united states, she returned east from her western tour by way of the national road, in company with her troupe, and in "chartered" coaches of the stockton line. this was at least forty years ago, probably a little more than that. p. t. barnum, the celebrated showman, was the great singer's manager, and was with her on the occasion referred to. the party remained over night at boss rush's tavern, twelve miles east of uniontown. the people along the road heard of the coming of the distinguished travelers, and a number assembled at the tavern in the evening to get a glimpse of them. william shaffer drove the coach in which barnum was seated, and when he halted in front of the tavern one of the curious called up to the driver on the box and inquired: "which is barnum?" shaffer answered gruffly: "i don't know barnum from the devil." barnum, meanwhile, had emerged from the coach, and standing by its side overheard the inquiry and the driver's reply, and stepping up to the inquisitor said to him: "i am barnum; the driver is right, it is hard to distinguish me from the devil." the party entered the good old tavern and were entertained and lodged in the handsome style for which boss rush was greatly and justly distinguished. fresh trout were served for breakfast, which had been taken the day before in a near by mountain stream by f. b. titlow and young boss rush, then a lad of sixteen. titlow, now one of the best known citizens of the vicinity of uniontown, and still a lover of fishing and hunting, was then an apprentice to the tailoring trade at farmington, under the guidance of john hair. young boss, grown gray, still lingers about the portals of his father's old tavern, musing over the memories of the old pike. william g. beck, an old stage driver, still living in fairfield, iowa, has vivid recollections of the road. in a letter he states that, "if there is anything in the world that makes him, at the age of seventy-four, jump up and crack his heels together and wish he was a boy again, it is reading about the men and things of the national road." he is a son of james beck, of the old bridge building firm, and commenced to drive stage on the old line when in his minority. he was born in uniontown in , went to iowa in , and was on the national road as a stage driver as late as . in his letter he states that in the old line and the good intent both carried the mails. there was a "lock mail" in leather pouches, and a "canvass mail," the latter very frequently called "the second mail," carried in alternate months by the respective lines. in december, , he says the old line carried the "lock mail." the details of an exciting race on the road he furnishes as follows: "a good intent coach was driven by jacob cronch to the railway station, immediately upon the arrival of the train at cumberland, loaded up with the 'canvass mail,' and started off under full speed for the west. the 'lock mail,' which fell to me, was taken to the postoffice and overhauled, causing a considerable detention. while waiting in front of the postoffice for the mail bags, jacob shuck and other good intent drivers chided me with the fact that the 'canvass' had such a start that i could not get near it. i made up my mind that if it was in the hides of my two teams i would catch him, and pass him. it was after nightfall, and in crossing a water way in cumberland my lamps went out, and what i deemed a calamity turned out in the end to be an advantage. as soon as i crossed the wills creek bridge, i put my team in a full run and never pulled them up until i reached rock hill, seven miles out of cumberland. at that point, in the winding of the road, i espied the lights on the coach of my rival, while he, by reason of the going out of my lights, was unable to see me, although, on the long stretches, he was constantly watching for a glimpse of me. much to his surprise i drew up along side of him, and side by side we drove into frostburg, lashing our tired teams at every jump. the grooms at the frostburg station had my second team hitched to the coach by the time i was fairly stopped. a friendly driver ran with the way mail to the frostburg postoffice, while another re-lit my lamps. i did not leave my seat. the reins over the fresh team were thrown up to me, and i was off again in a full run. the way mail bag was thrown into the front boot as i dashed past the postoffice. at sand spring (foot of big savage) i passed the 'canvass' and held the lead, trotting my team every inch of the road to piney grove, the end of my route, which i reached twenty-two minutes in advance of my competitor. lem cross kept the tavern where our line stopped at piney grove. i made my route of twenty-two miles with two teams in two hours and ten minutes, fourteen miles of the distance, to the top of big savage, being ascending grade. james reynolds relieved me at piney grove, and my competitor was relieved at that point by joshua boyd." [illustration: william g. beck.] among old stage drivers there was one conspicuous above all others, on account of his immense size. it was montgomery demmings, known as "old mount." he was six feet and upward in height, and his average weight was four hundred and sixty-five. it was a common remark, in the days of staging on the national road, that "old mount on the front boot of a coach balanced all the trunks that could be put in the rear boot." as he grew old his weight increased, and at his death, upon authority of his widow, who is still living, was six hundred and fifty pounds. he was born and reared in allentown, new jersey, and was sent out on the road in by james reeside. his first service was on the "june bug line," a line of brief existence, but full of dash and spirit. "old mount" married the widow of joseph magee, on may , . the clergyman who performed the marriage ceremony was the rev. john w. phillips, of uniontown. joseph magee was a blacksmith. his residence and shop were on the roadside, at the west end of uniontown, near the present toll house. he owned sixteen acres of land on the northeast side of the road, which now forms a part of the gilmore tract, and his widow, who is also the widow of "old mount," is still living with a third husband, one thomas, of wales. her present home is in allegheny city, pa., and she continues to draw a dower interest from the land owned by her first husband, above mentioned. "old mount" has a son, amos frisbie demmings, living near his mother, named after amos frisbie, who lived in uniontown many years ago, and carried on the business of stove making. after driving a stage for a number of years, "old mount" relinquished his connection with the passenger coaches, and became a driver on the express line. this line carried small packages of light goods, and oysters, known as fast freight, and the people along the road, by way of derision, called it "the shake gut line." the vehicles of this line were long and strong box-shaped wagons, something like the wagons used for transporting a menagerie. they were drawn by four horses, with relays at established points, driven by check reins or lines, as stage teams were driven. the speed of the express wagons was almost equal to that of the coaches of the stage lines. they made a great noise in their rapid passage over the road, and coming down some of the long hills, could be heard for miles. by the side of the drivers frequently sat one or more way-goers whose necessities impelled them to seek cheap transportation. what proportion of their meagre fares went to the driver, and what to the owners of the line, has never been definitely ascertained. "old mount" stuck to the road until its glory began to fade, and in april, , left uniontown and removed with his family to brownsville, where he remained about eighteen months. while residing at brownsville, he was engaged in hauling goods from the steamboat landing at that place to points in western virginia, along the line of the baltimore and ohio railroad, then undergoing construction. he owned the team he drove in this employment. from brownsville he went to south side pittsburg, then a separate municipality, called birmingham. from that point he continued the hauling of goods to western virginia, and also kept a boarding house. he did not remain in birmingham longer than two years, probably not that long, and moved from there to mckeesport, where he engaged in the hotel business, having previously leased the eagle house at that place. he died at mckeesport on march , , and was buried there. his death occurred in less than a year after he went to mckeesport, and thus terminated the career of one whose name, half a century ago, was familiarly spoken in every town, tavern and wayside cabin, from baltimore to wheeling. simeon houser was a stage driver. when stages left the road simeon went to tavern keeping. he kept the old house which stood on the lot now occupied by the residence of dr. ewing, in uniontown. it was called the "buzzard's roost," not by reason of any bad fame of simeon houser, for it had that name before he got there. simeon was a very tall man, and raw boned, with strongly marked face and features. he served a number of years as constable of uniontown. in william bigler and william f. johnson, rival candidates for governor, visited uniontown. bigler took in greene county on his tour, and coming over to fayette, struck the national road at searight's, where he met a popular ovation. his friends in that vicinity made a large raft of logs, which they placed on a strong wagon, and with a team of six white horses hauled to uniontown, the brownsville brass band seated on the raft and discoursing music, as the procession moved along the road. bigler, in his early days, had been employed in constructing and running rafts on the susquehanna river, and his supporters stirred up enthusiasm for him by calling him "the raftsman of the susquehanna." he was elected, not because he was a raftsman, but because the democrats of that day outnumbered the whigs. johnston, his competitor, was a whig. the present republican party was not then in existence. simeon houser, aforesaid, drove the big white team that hauled the raft, and this is why allusion is made to the incident. it was a grand day for simeon. mr. bigler spoke from the raft in bierer's woods, west of uniontown, to a great multitude, and dr. smith fuller, standing on the same raft, made the speech of welcome. simeon houser, like hundreds of old pike boys, yielded up his life in defense of the stars and stripes. [illustration: henry farwell.] henry farwell, father of the broadway printer, was an old stage driver. he came to uniontown in , "the winter of the deep snow." he came on the oyster line from little crossings, working his way through the snow, which averaged a depth of four feet on the level, and was three days on the way. the oyster boxes were placed on a sled, drawn by six horses, and the oyster line made as good time as the stage lines while the deep snow lasted, and passenger coaches, like oyster boxes, were moved on sleds. farwell came to uniontown in obedience to an order of one of the stage lines, to take charge of a team at that place. he drove stage for ten years, one-half of the time in ohio. when the staging days were over on the old road, farwell located in uniontown, and carried on the trade of shoemaking, which he learned before he took to stage driving. he owned the lot on which the national bank of fayette county now stands. he has been dead several years, and is well remembered by the older citizens of uniontown. archie mcneil was of the class of merry stage drivers, and enlivened the road with his quaint tricks and humorous jokes. his service as a driver was confined for the most part to the western end of the road, between brownsville and wheeling. an unsophisticated youth from the back country, of ungainly form and manners, near the close of the forties, sauntered into washington, pennsylvania, to seek employment, with an ambition not uncommon among young men of that period, to become a stage driver. in his wanderings about the town he halted at the national house, then kept by edward lane, where he fell in with archie mcneil, and to him made known the object of his visit. archie, ever ready to perpetrate a joke, encouraged the aspirations of the young "greenhorn," and questioned him concerning his experience in driving horses and divers other matters and things pertaining to the work he proposed to engage in. opposite the national house, on the maiden street front, there was a long wooden shed, into which empty coaches were run for shelter, the tongues thereof protruding toward the street. mcneil proposed to the supplicating youth that he furnish a practical illustration of his talent as a driver, to which he readily assented, and crossing the street to the shed where the coaches were, he was commanded to climb up on the driver's seat, which he promptly did. mcneil then fastened a full set of reins used for driving, to the end of the coach tongue, and handed them up to the young man. he next placed in his hands a driver's whip, and told him to show what he could do. the coach bodies, it will be remembered, were placed on long, wide, and stout leather springs, which caused a gentle rocking when in motion. the young weakling, fully equipped as a driver, swayed himself back and forth, cracked the whip first on one side, and then on the other of the tongue, rocked the coach vehemently, manipulated the reins in various forms and with great pomp, and continued exercising himself in this manner for a considerable time, without evincing the slightest consciousness that he was the victim of a joke. a number of persons, the writer included, witnessed this ludicrous scene, and heartily enjoyed the fun. among the spectators was james g. blaine, then a student at washington college. mcneil was a son-in-law of jack bailiss, the old driver before mentioned, and when stage lines were withdrawn from the road he moved with his family to iowa, and settled in oskaloosa. watty noble might well be esteemed the nestor of stage drivers. he commenced his career as a driver on the bedford and chambersburg pike. his route on that road was between reamer's and the juniata crossings, _via_ lilly's and ray's hills, a distance of ten miles, and his average time between the points named, was one hour and thirty minutes. he drove one team on this route for a period of ten years without losing or exchanging a horse. he subsequently drove for five consecutive years on the national road, between brownsville and hillsboro, and, as the old pike boys were accustomed to say, "leveled the road." when he "got the start," no other driver could pass him, unless in case of accident. he was not a showy reinsman, but noted for keeping his team well and long together. in personal habits he was quiet and steady, and no man ever impeached his honesty or fidelity. jim burr, the famous old driver elsewhere mentioned, was a son-in-law of watty noble. charley bostick, a stage driver who lived in uniontown, gained a somewhat unsavory reputation as one of the principals in a social scandal, involving the name of a prominent old uniontown merchant. the incident produced great agitation in uniontown society at the time, and its disagreeable details are stored away in the memories of all the older citizens of that place, but it is doubtful if three-fourths of its present inhabitants ever heard of it. on the night of the occurrence it fell to bostick's lot in the rounds of his regular service as a driver, to take a coach from uniontown to farmington, but he was so prominently and closely identified with the event referred to that he deemed it expedient to employ a substitute, which he procured in the person of "dumb ike," competent for the service and the occasion, and ever ready for such exigencies. alfred wolf, an old stage driver, is remembered as a large, fine looking and blustering sort of a man. his wife was a sister of watson and robinson murphy, two well known, thrifty and highly esteemed farmers of fayette county, pennsylvania. the marriage ceremony that made miss martha murphy the lawful wife of alfred wolf was performed by the late hon. william hatfield, when that gentleman was an acting justice of the peace for redstone township, and the writer hereof was present at the wedding. when stage drivers were no longer required on the national road, alfred wolf engaged in the business of tavern keeping, and for a number of years kept a public house in mcclellandtown; and when the strife between the states culminated in actual hostilities, he enlisted as a union soldier and perished in the cause. his widow went to ohio, re-married, and is still living in that state. henry g. marcy, called governor, because of his near kinship to the old time, distinguished new york statesman of that name, who was at the head of the war department during the conflict with mexico, was a stage driver and lived in uniontown. he was a small man in stature, but had a bright and clear intellect. he died in uniontown a number of years ago at an advanced age, leaving a widow, still surviving, but quite feeble by reason of her great age. george e. marcy, also called governor, a well known and active democratic politician of uniontown, is a son of the old driver. joseph hughes, an old stage driver, is still living in washington, pennsylvania, vivacious and sprightly despite the weight of years piled upon his back. he was an expert and trusty driver, well known along the road, and cherishes the memory of the stirring times, when the road was the great highway of the nation and he and his fellow drivers rode on the top wave of the excitement incident thereto. james bradley, an old stage driver, worked sometimes at repairs on the road. he made a breaker of unusual height on the hill east of washington, pennsylvania, and upon being questioned as to his motive for making it so high, replied that "he wanted to give some of the boys a lofty toss." a few days thereafter, he was in service as a driver himself, and going down the hill mentioned at a rapid rate, to "scoot the hollow," as he termed it, his coach struck the high breaker and he got the "lofty toss" himself, having been thrown from the box, a distance of nearly two rods, causing him a broken arm and other less serious injuries. he said, after this accident, that he would never again make high breakers on the road, or advise others to do so. john teed, husband of mrs. teed, who keeps the popular and prosperous boarding house on morgantown street, uniontown, was an old stage driver. his first engagement as a driver on the road was with the express line, called derisively "the shake gut." after driving a short time on the express, he was given a team on one of the regular coach lines. he was an approved driver and promoted to the office of guardsman. the guardsman was a person sent with the coach to superintend its progress, and aid in protecting it from the incursions of robbers, which were not uncommon in the night time on the mountainous sections of the road. thomas poland was in every essential a stage driver, and zealously devoted to his calling. he drove out from uniontown, east and west, as occasion required. he was a man rather below the average stature, but stoutly built and of swarthy complexion. many old drivers were moved to grief when business ceased on the road, but no one felt the change more keenly than thomas poland. john guttery, of washington, pennsylvania, was one of the early stage drivers of the road, and a good and trusty one. he was a tall man, rounded out proportionately to his height, and closely resembled the renowned old driver, redding bunting. he was a brother of charles guttery, the old wagoner and tavern keeper mentioned in another chapter of this volume. john guttery, after driving stage a number of years, gave up that exciting occupation and established a livery stable in washington, which he conducted successfully until his death in that place a number of years ago. chapter xxiv. _stages and stage drivers continued--gen. taylor approaching cumberland--early coaches--the first troy coach on the road--mr. reeside and gen. jackson--john buck--accidents--kangaroo and bob-tail teams--john mills and william bishop--celebration at cumberland--david bonebraker, hanson willison, and a long list of other old drivers--billy willis and peter burdine--fare rates--the way bill--the landlords--pilot and pioneer lines--compensation of stage drivers--hopwood's row--withdrawal of the lines--the dignity of stage drivers, estimated by an old pike boy._ scharts' history of western maryland gives the following account of president taylor's ride over the mountain division of the road, when on his way to washington to be inaugurated: "president taylor and his party were, in , conveyed over the road under the marshalship of that most indefatigable whig, thomas shriver, who, with some other cumberlanders, proceeded to the ohio river and met the presidential party. among the party were statesmen, politicians, and office-hunters, notably col. bullet, a brilliant editor from new orleans, who was to occupy a relation to president taylor something like that of henry j. raymond to lincoln. the road was a perfect glare of ice, and everything above ground was literally plated with sleeted frost. the scenery was beautiful; to native mountaineers too common to be of much interest, but to a southerner like gen. taylor, who had never seen the like, it was a phenomenon. in going down a spur of meadow mountain, the presidential coach, with the others, danced and waltzed on the polished road, first on one side and then on the other, with every sign of an immediate capsize, but the coaches were manned with the most expert of the whole corps of drivers. shriver was in the rear, and in the greatest trepidation for the safety of the president. he seemed to feel himself responsible for the security of the head of the nation. down each hill and mountain his bare head could be seen protruding through the window of his coach to discover if the president's coach was still upon wheels. the iron gray head of the general could almost with the same frequency be seen outside of his window, not to see after anybody's safety, but to look upon what seemed to him an arctic panorama. after a ride of many miles the last long slope was passed and everything was safe. at twilight the narrows were reached, two miles west of cumberland, one of the boldest and most sublime views on the atlantic slope. gen. taylor assumed authority and ordered a halt, and out he got in the storm and snow and looked at the giddy heights on either side of wills creek, until he had taken in the grandeur of the scenery. he had beheld nothing like it before, even in his campaigns in northern mexico. the president-elect was tendered a reception on his arrival at cumberland, and the next morning he and his party left on the cars for washington." at an early day there was a coach factory at or near the little crossings, where many of the first passenger coaches used on the road were made. they were without thorough braces, or springs of any kind. their bodies were long, and the inside seats for passengers placed crosswise. they had but one door, and that was in the front, so that passengers on entering were compelled to climb over the front seats to reach those in the rear. the first coach of the troy pattern was placed on the road in the year by james reeside, and tradition has it that he won this coach with a bet on gen. jackson's election to the presidency. mr. reeside was desirous that gen. jackson should be the first person to ride in this coach, and accordingly tendered it to the president-elect when on his way to washington, who true to his habit of refusing gifts, declined the proffered compliment as to himself, but consented that his family might occupy the coach. charley howell was the driver, and his team was one of the finest on the road. many coaches were brought out on the road afterward from the troy and concord factories. these coaches cost between five and six hundred dollars each. john buck was one of the oldest and best stage drivers on the road. he lived in washington, pennsylvania, and drove on the old line in the life-time of daniel moore, and was a great favorite of that ancient stage proprietor. when lafayette visited washington in , mr. moore was active and prominent in arranging for his reception at that place, and assigned john buck to drive the coach in which the illustrious visitor entered the town. it was a proud day for the old driver, who shared with the hero of the occasion, the plaudits of the people. buck subsequently became the senior member of the firm of buck, lyon & wolf, contractors, who built most of the locks and dams on the muskingum river, in the state of ohio. this old firm was called the "menagerie company," on account of the names of its members. [illustration: the narrows.] william robinson (not "billy") suffered an "upset" at somerfield, in , with a full load of passengers going west. the stage coach had but one door, and to bring up the door side to the endsley tavern, in somerfield, it was necessary to wheel around. robinson turned his team with such rapidity as to overturn the coach, and the passengers were all tumbled out in a pile, but none of them were seriously hurt. wash. alridge threw a coach over on the conway hill, near somerfield, inflicting a severe spinal injury upon a passenger who lived in cincinnati. the sufferer was cared for at the tavern in jockey hollow, kept at the time by aaron wyatt. the stage company (old line) paid the injured passenger a considerable sum in damages, without suit. a passenger by the name of merrill, of indianapolis, had a leg broken by the upsetting of a coach at the turn of the road, above somerfield; samuel jaco was the driver. william roach, a well known driver, was killed in an "upset" at the little crossings bridge, about the year . this seems to have been a different accident from that which occurred near the same place in , related in the sketch of john marker. marker witnessed the accident of , and states that the driver who was killed at that time was james rhodes. david stinson, an old driver, was killed by an "upset" on woodcock hill. woodcock hill is a short distance west of thomas brownfield's old mt. augusta tavern, and is the highest peak on the road in fayette county, pennsylvania. charley howell upset in , coming down the winding ridge hill, and was badly hurt. he had a leg and arm broken, and was nursed at connelly's tavern, in petersburg, for many months before he recovered. in or , mr. stockton transferred a number of stage teams and drivers, from the baltimore and washington city road, to the national road. two of these teams ran in and out from somerfield. one called "the kangaroo team" was driven by john mills. they were large, dark bays, and much admired by lovers of fine horses. mills knew how to handle them. he was a superb driver. another of these "transferred" teams was driven by william bishop. the horses in this team were light bays, all "bob-tails," and notwithstanding there was but one good eye in the whole team, and all were "sprung in the knees," it is asserted by many old pike boys that this unique and "blemished" team was the fastest on the road. it was brought out from the baltimore and washington road by charles howell, who drove it a short time before it was turned over to william bishop. bishop was a capital reinsman. the preservation of the national road was considered so vital to the general welfare by everybody living upon its line and adjacent to it, that the deepest interest was manifested in the success of every measure proposed for its benefit. there was no powerful and paid "lobby" around the halls of congress when the cumberland road was the highway of the republic, as there is at this day, but all measures planned and presented for its preservation and repair, were carefully watched and guarded by such statesmen as henry clay, daniel sturgeon, andrew stewart, t. m. t. mckennan, lewis steenrod, w. t. hamilton, and henry w. beeson. the following from a cumberland paper published in that place sixty years ago shows the popular feeling in behalf of the road at that date: "the citizens of the town on the st of may, , in demonstration of their great joy growing out of the appropriation made by the national government for the repair of the cumberland road, made arrangements for the celebration of that event. in pursuance of that arrangement, samuel slicer illuminated his large and splendid hotel, which patriotic example was followed by james black. in addition to the illumination, mr. bunting (our famous 'old red'), agent of l. w. stockton, ordered out a coach, drawn by four large gray stallions, driven by george shuck. the stage was beautifully illuminated, which presented to the generous citizens of this place a novelty calculated to impress upon the minds of all who witnessed it the great benefits they anticipated by having the road repaired. there were also seated upon the top of the vehicle several gentlemen who played on various instruments, which contributed very much to the amusement of the citizens and gave a zest to everything that inspired delight or created feelings of patriotism. they started from the front of mr. slicer's hotel, and as they moved on slowly the band played 'hail columbia,' 'freemasons' march,' 'bonaparte crossing the rhine,' 'washington's march,' together with a new tune composed by mr. mobley, of this place, and named by the gentlemen on the stage, 'the lady we love best,' and many others, as they passed through the principal streets of the town. on their return they played 'home, sweet home,' to the admiration of all who heard it." david bonebraker was a stage driver of good reputation, and a general favorite. while his name would import otherwise, he was a careful driver and never during his whole service did he break a bone of man or beast. he was a large, fine looking man, and drove between somerfield and mt. washington as early as , and for a number of years thereafter. hanson willison was early on the road as a stage driver, and none of his fellow drivers excelled him in skillfulness. he drove a brief period between uniontown and brownsville, but for the most part in and out from cumberland. he is still living in cumberland, proprietor of the american house livery stables, and doing a profitable business. he retains the habits of the early days of the road, generous almost to a fault, perfectly familiar with the road's history, his memory is well stored with its exciting incidents and accidents. hanson willison and ashael willison before mentioned, are brothers. [illustration: hanson willison.] the few remaining old folks who witnessed the exciting scenes of the national road in its palmy days, will readily recall the following old stage drivers: john griffith, william witham, george lukens, wash alters, hank smith, john heinselman, barney strader, john munson, west crawford, james chair, william roberts, vin huffman, john windell, a small, thin faced man, with rings in his ears, one of the earliest drivers, william saint, who was also a blacksmith, and worked, occasionally, at his trade in uniontown. he went to texas before the civil war, and died there. lewis gribble, son of john, the old wagoner and tavern keeper. he went to virginia, drove stage in that state, and died there. john sparker, john snell, david oller, joseph henderson, a steady-going man, mentioned among the old tavern keepers in connection with the "gals house," david armor, william armor, samuel oller, and william dickey. the ollers, the armors, dickey and henderson were of washington, pa. jacob snyder, subsequently manager and proprietor of the shipley house, in cumberland. william and george grim, john zane, james schaverns, joseph vanhorn, john mcilree, jesse boring, john munson, john ruth, david jones, benjamin miller, subsequently tavern keeper in the old mannypenny house, uniontown. an early line of stages stopped at miller's. james mannypenny, thomas fee, walter head, educated for the ministry, thomas and edward mcvenus, william totten, william vanhorn, spencer motherspaw, james griffith, abram dedrick, william fowler, thomas chilson, william jones, andrew heck, john fink, william irwin, james sampey, subsequently and for many years owner and manager of the tavern at mt. washington, where the good intent line changed horses and passengers often stopped for meals; isaac newton, robert jackson, a young man of diminutive size, from one of the new england states, whose father came and took him home; james dennison, subsequently tavern keeper at claysville and at hopwood; isaac newton, died at mt. washington when john foster kept the tavern at that point; matthew byers, hugh drum, john hendrix, alexander thompson, william hart, charles kemp, ben watkins, ben watson, john and andrew shaffer, garret clark, garret minster, john ferrell, james lynch, john seaman, james reynolds, john bunting, lindy adams, leander fisk, james derlin, aaron wyatt, james andrews, alfred haney, wash bodkin, william crawford, charles cherry, william hammers, addis lynn, harry, nelse and jack hammers, nimrod, joseph, jack and william sopher, john and joseph pomroy, william and watt whisson, john mccollough, william miller, son of charley, the old tavern keeper west of hillsborough; robert mcilheney, john mcmack, thomas, joshua and william boyd, john parsons, matthew davis, one of the oldest, and still living at brownsville; john w. boyce, george wiggins, brother of harrison, the old fox hunter of the mountains; robert bennett, william white, david reynolds, james mcillree, fred buckingham, thomas and william noble. william noble died in washington, pennsylvania, jan. , . robert mcilheny, after relinquishing the reins and whip, became an agent for the sale of the celebrated hayes buggies, of washington. john parsons left the road to take charge of a hotel in bridgeville, allegheny county, pennsylvania. alfred haney went south, became baggagemaster on a southern railroad, and was killed in an accident. charley cherry had the manners of a savage, and was called "the big savage man," but it is not known that he ever wantonly shed the blood of a fellow being. james mcilree drove between washington and wheeling. hugh drum was called "mickey murray." he lingered for a while on the road after its glory departed, and pushed out for new york, where he engaged to drive an omnibus. what became of him in the subsequent shifting sands of time is not known, but presumably he has gone to the unknown world. [illustration: matt. davis.] william mccleary, who died recently near claysville leaving an estate valued at $ , ; daniel dawson, subsequently kept a tavern near limestone, marshall county, west virginia, and died there; samuel rowalt, robert bell, william watkins, john ford, still living in monongahela city; george freiger, barney and samuel nunemaker, thomas cox, john ruth, abram boyce, charles oulitt, james dean, william ("boggy") moore, when a boy a rider on the pony express; john schenck, thomas hager, joseph ruff, dandy jack, james fisk, joseph drake, andrew ferrell, john fouch, george walker, george banford, joseph lewis, larry willard, isaiah fuller, davy crockett, henry wagner, john foster, henry smith, james foster, john noble, edward mcginnis, thomas mcginnis, john johnson (old sandy), john horrell, william grim, elias johnson, daniel boyer, james bodkin, james null, william null, william clark, david brower, richard frantz, james rowe, john seaman, david brennard, henry schuck, george crow, james andrews (dutch jim), drove in and out from grantsville; john huhn, drove in and out from claysville; moses thornburg, wylie baily, james mcclung, james, abraham and robert devan, brothers; thomas and george henderson, stephen leggett, james wilson, henry herrick, john giddings, ed washburn, j. s. beck, frank white, jesse matthews, robert fenton, jesse hardin, david johnson, archy mcgregor, samuel darby, james moore, joseph drake, james riley, william matthews, edward hall, james vancamp, benjamin miller, grandson of the old tavern keeper of uniontown; samuel betts, calvin springer, ex-sheriff of fayette county; james noggle, martin stedler, william wiley, john wiley, william mcgidigen, james mcgidigen, daniel shriver, jerome heck, frederic zimmerman, robert bennett, edward kelley, john clark, samuel blair, ross clark, george butts, beck kelley, william kelley, william fisher, james and thomas bradley, thomas johnson, william brower, richard frazee, isaac toner (dumb ike), joseph jenk, evans holton, daniel dean, jesse brennard, george brennard, john steep, john collier, ben tracy, george moore, george richmire, charles richmire, thomas mcmillen, samuel porter, isaac flagle, william and ross clark, richard butts, garret and west crawford, john brown, subsequently a clerk in the wheeling postoffice; joseph matthews, john waugh, william hickman, a circus man; george robbins, abram boyce, oliver jackson, joseph bishop, thomas mcclelland, elisha stockwell, isaac denny, subsequently tavern keeper at the old griffin house in the mountain, west of somerfield; john harris, drove on the good intent line, and died in uniontown; charles and robert marquis, james moore, son-in-law of james sampey, of mount washington; perry sheets, drove west of washington; elmer budd, drove from uniontown to brownsville; frank watson, bate smith, sam jerome, james downer, son of william, of the big water trough on laurel hill, when a boy a rider for the pony express; william stewart, caleb crossland, of uniontown; william bogardus, who lost an eye by coming in contact with a pump handle on morgantown street, uniontown, on a dark night; john robinson, a very large man; samuel youman, mentioned under the head of old wagoners, next to "old mount" the largest man on the road; thomas milligan, joshua boyd, stephen leonard, david johnson, james mccauley, thomas boyd, garret clark, henry miller, thomas moore, william wilkinson, galloway crawford, samuel jaco, robert wright, fred. buckingham, jacob rapp, killed at brownsville about by his team running off; john rush, samuel holsted, sandy connor, living as late as , and carrying the mail in a two-horse vehicle from frostburg to grantsville; john farrell, farming near grantsville in and at that date eighty-five years old; jacob shock, eph. benjamin, william bergoman, upton marlow, subsequently proprietor of the american and other leading hotels in denver, colorado; archie mcvicker, james cameron, charles enox, robert amos, james finnegan, drove a bob-tailed team from somerfield to keyser's ridge; squire binch, of brownsville, well remembered by the old folks of that place; richard harris, joseph and david strong, the former for many years a prominent citizen of cumberland, and frequently honored by public trusts; abe walls, ---- bonum, called "magnum bonum;" james gray, henry powell, henry bergoman, rock goodridge, sherwood mott, daniel boyer, robert dennis, david james, thomas grace, john lidy, drove a dun team of bob-tails from farmington to somerfield, that formerly belonged to the pioneer line; isaac frazee, james mclean, thomas and henry mahany, baptist mullinix, amariah bonner, b. w. earl, subsequently a stage agent, and tavern keeper at the stone house near fayette springs, and at brownsville; john and matthias vanhorn, daniel quinn, james corbin, william corman, of braddee mail robbery fame; atwood merrill, a fiery partisan of the good intent line; william willis, noted as a fast driver on the old line. on one occasion willis passed peter burdine, a fast driver as before stated of the good intent line, which prompted the partisans of the old line to get up the little rhyme following to emphasize and signalize the event: "said billy willis to peter burdine, you had better wait for the oyster line." the fares on the stage lines were as follows: from baltimore to frederic $ " frederic to hagerstown " hagerstown to cumberland " cumberland to uniontown " uniontown to washington " washington to wheeling ------ through fare $ a paper was prepared by the agent of the line at the starting point of the coach in the nature of a bill of lading, called the "way bill." this bill was given to the driver, and by him delivered to the landlord at the station immediately upon the arrival of the coach. it contained the name and destination of each passenger, and the several sums paid as fare. it also bore the time of departure from the starting point, and contained blanks for noting the time of the arrival and departure at every station. the time was noted by an agent of the line, if one were at the station, and in the absence of an agent, the noting was done by the landlord. if a passenger got on at a way station, and this was of daily occurrence, he paid his fare to the landlord or agent, which was duly noted on the way bill, together with the passenger's destination. in addition to the stage lines hereinbefore mentioned, there was a line known as the "landlords' line," put on the road by tavern keepers, prominent among whom were william willis (the old driver before mentioned), joseph dilly, and samuel luman. there was also a "pilot line" and a "pioneer line." these lines had but a short run. the railroad managers east of cumberland favored the older lines, and gave them such advantages in rates that the new lines were compelled to retire from the competition. they sold out their stock to the old companies. james reeside owned the "pilot line," and the "pioneer line" was owned by peters, moore & co. the compensation paid stage drivers was twelve dollars a month, with boarding and lodging. they took their meals and lodged at the stage houses, except the married men, who lodged in their own dwellings when chance threw them at home. at uniontown a number of contiguous frame buildings on mill and south streets, in the rear of brownfield's tavern, known as "hopwood's row," were occupied almost exclusively by the families of stage drivers. they were erected and owned by the late rice g. hopwood, esquire, and hence the name given them. two or three of these old houses are all that are left standing, and they are in a dilapidated condition. the spirit of improvement which in late years entered uniontown, seems to have carefully avoided the neighborhood of "hopwood's row." the good intent and stockton lines were taken from the national road in , and placed on the plank road from cumberland to west newton. from the latter point passengers were conveyed by steamboat to pittsburg by way of the youghiogheny river, which was made navigable at that date by a system of locks and dams like that of the monongahela. upon the withdrawal of the lines mentioned, a line was put on the national road by redding bunting and joshua marshe, and ran as far west as washington, pennsylvania. william hall subsequently purchased the interest of mr. marshe in this line, which was kept on the road until about the close of the year , when the era of four-horse coaches ended. [illustration: john mcilree.] mr. endsley, before quoted, furnishes his juvenile opinion of stages and stage drivers, which was shared in by all the boys of the road, as follows: "my earliest recollections are intimately associated with coaches, teams and drivers, and like most boys raised in an old stage tavern, i longed to be a man when i could aspire to the greatness and dignity of a professional stage driver. in my boyish eyes no position in life had so many attractions as that of driving a stage team. a judge, a congressman, even henry clay or president jackson, did not measure up to the character of john mills and charley howell, in my juvenile fancy." the picture of the stage coach era herein drawn may be lacking in vigor and perspicuity of style, but it contains no exaggeration. much more could be written concerning it, and the story would still be incomplete. it is sad to think that nearly all the old drivers, so full of life and hope and promise when pursuing their favorite calling on the nation's great highway, have answered the summons that awaits the whole human family, and of the vast multitude that witnessed and admired the dashing exploits of the old drivers, but few remain to relate the story. when the old pike was superseded by the railroad, many of the stage drivers went west and continued their calling on stage lines occupying ground in advance of the approaching railway. others lingered on the confines of the familiar road, and fell into various pursuits of common life. of these, some achieved success. as drivers they had opportunity for making acquaintances and friends. hanson willison was eminently successful as a local politician, and achieved the distinction of being twice elected sheriff of alleghany county, maryland. chapter xxv. _distinguished stage proprietors, lucius w. stockton, james reeside, dr. howard kennedy, william h. stelle--old stage agents, charley rettig, john risley, william biddle, james coudy, redding bunting, edward lane, theodore granger, charles danforth, jacob beck, daniel brown, "billy" scott, "lem" cross, and b. w. earl--the pony express._ the most conspicuous of all the old stage proprietors of the national road was lucius witham stockton. james reeside was probably an older stage man, and may have owned and operated more stage lines; but mr. stockton was longer and more prominently identified with the business on the national road. he was born at flemington, new jersey, september , . he was a son of lucius stockton, and a grandson of the rev. philip stockton, known in his day and among his countrymen as "the revolutionary preacher," who was a brother of richard stockton, a signer of the declaration of independence from the colony of new jersey. l. w. stockton appeared in uniontown as a stage proprietor previous to the year , the exact date not ascertainable. he was twice married. his first marriage occurred on november , , and at that date he was a resident of uniontown, and had been previous thereto. his first wife was rebecca moore, a daughter of daniel moore, an old stage proprietor who lived in washington, pennsylvania. by his first marriage he had six children, viz: richard c., daniel moore, elizabeth c., lucius witham, margaret, and rebecca. richard, daniel, and elizabeth, by the first marriage, are dead; the last named died in infancy. lucius witham is living in philadelphia. he married ellen, the youngest daughter of dr. john wishart, an old and distinguished physician of washington, pennsylvania, grandfather on the maternal line of hon. ernest f. acheson, late republican nominee for congress in the twenty-fourth district of pennsylvania. margaret stockton became the wife of dr. thomas mckennan, a leading physician at this time of washington, pennsylvania, and a member of the old and distinguished mckennan family of that place. rebecca stockton became the wife of capt. alexander wishart, and is living in newark, new jersey, where her husband is executive officer of the law and order league. captain wishart was a gallant soldier of the union army in the war between the states. [illustration: l. w. stockton.] mr. stockton's second wife was katharine stockton, his first cousin. she is still living, making her home with her son-in-law, gen. leiper, of philadelphia. by his second marriage mr. stockton had four children, as follows: katharine, richard c., elias boudinot and henrietta maria. of these all are dead but henrietta maria. she is the wife of gen. leiper, with whom her mother lives, as before stated, in philadelphia. it is related as an incident in the early career of mr. stockton that he had a race with a horse and buggy against a locomotive, between the relay house and baltimore, in which he came out ahead. the horse he drove on that occasion was a favorite gray. he had a pair of "winflower" mares, which he drove frequently from uniontown to wheeling between breakfast and tea time, tarrying two or three hours at mid-day in washington. at the watering places he ordered a little whisky to be added to the water given these spirited and fleet animals, and they became so accustomed to it that, it is said, they refused to drink unless the water contained the stimulating element. he would also drive from uniontown to cumberland in a day, stopping at the stations to transact business, and from cumberland to hagerstown, sixty-six miles, was an ordinary day's drive for him. his private carriage was a long open vehicle which he called "the flying dutchman." hanson willison, who has a vivid recollection of mr. stockton and his lively trips over the road, says that the names of his sorrel mares (the "winflowers") were "bet" and "sal," and that they once ran off. on that occasion mr. stockton was accompanied by his wife and a sister. miss stockton was much alarmed, and pulling the coat-tail of her brother cried out piteously, "hold on, brother william, hold on, or we'll all be killed!" but mr. stockton heeded not the cries of his sister, and having no fear of horses, soon regained control of the runaways without sustaining loss or injury. mr. stockton died at uniontown on april th, , at "ben lomond," the name he gave his residence, now the property of the widow and heirs of the late judge gilmore. a few years ago the remains of mr. stockton were removed from the old methodist burying ground in uniontown, under direction of his loving daughters, mrs. wishart and mrs. dr. mckennan, and deposited in the beautiful cemetery at washington, pa. mr. stockton was of episcopalian lineage, and active in establishing the services of the church in uniontown. he brought out bishop stone, of maryland, to baptize his daughter rebecca, now mrs. wishart. he was a vestryman, and besides contributing liberally in money to support the church, donated to the parish of uniontown the lot on which the new stone edifice of st. peter's now stands. james reeside, the second son of edward reeside and his wife, janet alexander, was born near paisley, renfrew, scotland, and was brought, when an infant, to baltimore county, md., in , where he was raised. his parents being in humble circumstances, toil was his first estate. poor in book learning and in earthly goods, he possessed genius, energy, executive ability, and an ambition that fitted him to be a leader of men. before the war of he was a wagoner, hauling merchandise from baltimore and philadelphia to pittsburg and west to zanesville and columbus, ohio. his promptness and sagacity soon enabled him to own his own teams, which were employed in hauling artillery to canada. commissioned a forage master under gen. winfield scott, at lundy's lane, his scottish blood prompted him to seize a musket, as a volunteer, from which hard fought battle he carried honorable scars. on his return he settled at hagerstown, md., where, in , he married mary, the daughter of john weis, a soldier of the revolutionary war. abandoning wagoning, he ran a stage line, in to , from hagerstown _via_ greencastle and mercersburg to mcconnellstown, there connecting with the stage line then in operation from chambersburg to pittsburg by bedford, somerset, and mt. pleasant. in , in connection with stockton & stokes, of baltimore; joseph boyd, of hagerstown; kincaid, beck & evans, of uniontown; george dawson, of brownsville; stephen hill, of hillsboro; and simms & pemberton, of wheeling, he put on the first regular stage line, carrying the mail, between baltimore and wheeling, before the construction of the turnpikes between hagerstown and cumberland. this division of the route being from hancock to frostburg, he removed to cumberland, where, in conjunction with his stage line, he kept the "mckinley tavern," at the corner of baltimore and mechanics streets, afterward kept by jacob fechtig, james stoddard, john edwards, and others, and now known as the "elberon." in he quit tavern keeping, and confined himself to mail contracting and the stage business. in john mclean, postmaster general, afterward one of the justices of the supreme court of the united states, prevailed on him to take the mail contract between philadelphia and new york, and he moved from cumberland to philadelphia. in the first year he reduced the time for transporting the mail between the two cities from twenty-three to sixteen hours, and soon thereafter to twelve hours. he soon became the owner of most of the lines running out of philadelphia and new york, and the largest mail contractor in the united states. he employed in this service more than one thousand horses and four hundred men. the wagoner soon became the "land admiral," a title given him by the press in recognition of his energy and ability. [illustration: james reeside.] the postoffice department at that time having to rely on its own resources, and under major w. t. barry, then postmaster-general, the service had so increased in thinly settled sections it became deeply in debt. mr. reeside raised, on his personal responsibility, large sums of money to relieve it. his efforts were appreciated, and he was the esteemed friend of andrew jackson, henry clay, and other distinguished men, without regard to politics, although he was a pronounced democrat. of massive frame, six feet five inches in height, yet spare in flesh, clear cut features, sparkling, clear blue-gray eyes, fair complexion, with dark, sandy, curly hair, he was a true highlander in appearance, genial in disposition, with quick and ready wit. fond of song and story, kind, yet strict, with all in his employment, and generous to a fault, no words can more appropriately describe him than those of his favorite poet and countryman, robert burns: "for thus the royal mandate ran, when first the human race began, the social, friendly, honest man where'er he be, 'tis he fulfills great nature's plan, an' none but he." controversies arising between amos kendall, the successor of barry, and all the old mail contractors, their pay was suspended upon frivolous grounds, compelling them to bring suits, among the most celebrated of which were those of reeside and stockton & stokes. the latter's case was referred to virgil maxy, who found in their favor about $ , . mr. reeside's claim was tried before justice baldwin and a jury in , and resulted in a verdict for plaintiff of $ , . , which, after seventeen years, was paid, with interest. as soon as his contracts under kendall expired he quit the mail service, after putting the philadelphia and new york mail on the camden & amboy railroad during the residue of his contract term. in he bought the interest of john w. weaver between cumberland and wheeling, then a tri-weekly line; increased it to a daily, then twice daily, and added another tri-weekly line, and named the lines "good intent," which was the name he had previously given the fast mail line between philadelphia and pittsburg. in he sold his entire interest in the national road lines, and gave his attention to his suit against the united states. his health being impaired, he spent the winter of in new orleans. returning in the ensuing spring, without benefit to his health, he died in philadelphia on the d of september, . mr. reeside attracted attention by reason of the peculiar garb he appeared in. in the winter season he always wore a long drab overcoat and a fur cap. once in passing along a street in philadelphia in company with col. richard m. johnson, of kentucky, vice-president of the united states, some scarlet cloth was observed in a tailor's window, which prompted col. johnson to say: "reeside, as your coaches are all red, you ought to wear a red vest." mr. reeside replied: "i will get one if you will." "agreed," said johnson, and straightway both ordered red vests and red neckties, and from that time as long as they lived continued to wear vests and neckties of scarlet colors. james reeside aided in an early day to develop the mighty resources of our country, with such agencies as were then available, and his name and good work deserve to be perpetuated in history. dr. howard kennedy, an owner of stock in the national road stage company, and for a brief period a trustee of the road under the provisions of a pennsylvania law, enacted in , repealed in , was born in washington county, maryland, september th, . his father was the hon. thomas kennedy, an illustrious citizen, who figured conspicuously in the history of maryland in the olden time. dr. kennedy was a graduate of the medical university of baltimore, and a thoroughly educated physician, but the practice of medicine not proving congenial to his tastes, he soon abandoned it and embarked in other pursuits. about the year , or a little before that time, he was appointed a special, confidential agent of the general postoffice department, in which relation he achieved distinction by detecting numerous mail robberies, and bringing the perpetrators before the courts for trial and punishment. it was through the vigilance of dr. kennedy that the mail robberies of the haldeman brothers, pete and abe, and pate sides, at negro mountain, were discovered, and the offenders apprehended and punished. the haldemans and sides were stage drivers, and their calling through the dismal shades of death and other dark regions in the mountains with big, tempting, mail bags in their charge, no doubt turned their minds to what they considered a speedy, if not altogether a safe method of getting money. whispers of suspicion growing out of the vigilance of dr. kennedy in pushing his investigations, reached the ears of the suspected ones, and they fled to canada, but not to be thwarted in his purposes, dr. kennedy pursued them thither, had them arrested and brought back to baltimore for trial. abe haldeman was acquitted, but pete and pate sides were convicted and sent to the penitentiary. dr. kennedy was also the prime mover in bringing to light the noted mail robberies of dr. john f. braddee, of uniontown, as will be seen by the following affidavits: _pennsylvania, fayette county, ss._: the testimony of dr. howard kennedy taken before n. ewing, president judge of the th judicial district of pennsylvania, the th day of january, , in reference to the amount of bail to be required of john f. braddee, peter mills strayer and william purnell. the said dr. howard kennedy being first by me duly sworn according to law, deposeth and saith: "there will be difficulty in ascertaining the amount of money stolen from the mails. there have been six mail pouches or bags stolen, which would average twenty to thirty thousand dollars each. the whole would, i am satisfied, amount to one hundred thousand dollars. i saw the money alleged to have been found in the stable of john f. braddee. the amount thus found was $ , . . the amount of cash stolen is probably about $ , . "howard kennedy." taken and subscribed before me, january th, . n. ewing, p. judge, th judicial district. [illustration: william h. stelle.] pittsburg, january , . "howard kennedy, special agent of the postoffice department, in addition to the testimony given by him before his honor, judge ewing, further deposes that since that time he has received reports from various persons and places in the west of letters mailed at dates which would have, by due course of mail, been in the bags stolen, containing bank notes, scrip, certificates, drafts, and checks, amounting to $ , and upwards; that every mail brings him additional reports of losses, and that he believes the amounts reported will not constitute more than one-half of what has been lost in the mails between the th of november and the th of december, , on the route from wheeling to new york. "howard kennedy. "special agent postoffice department." sworn and subscribed before me the th day of january, . t. irwin, district judge. as before stated, dr. kennedy was one of the owners of the line of coaches known as the national road stage company. this was popularly known as the stockton line, called "the old line," because it was the oldest on the road. dr. kennedy managed all the business of this line relating to the transportation of the mails. he was also one of the original members of the western express company, doing business between cumberland and wheeling and pittsburg _via_ the monongahela river. l. w. stockton dying in the spring of , in the fall of that year dr. kennedy brought his family from hagerstown, maryland, to uniontown, and established his residence in the old stockton mansion, called "ben lomond," now the home of mrs. judge gilmore. here dr. kennedy resided until the year , when he returned to hagerstown, where he died on the th of june, . he was of medium height and delicate form, of pleasant address, and a gentleman by birth, education, association and aspiration; in religion an episcopalian, and in politics a democrat. his widow, a sister of the late alfred howell, of uniontown, survives him. she is enjoying the sunset of a gentle life in hagerstown, the central figure of a remnant of that polite and refined society which in the palmy days of the national road distinguished all the old towns along its line. william h. stelle was born in new jersey, and it will be noted that many of the stage owners, agents, and drivers came out from that state. two of mr. stelle's partners in the stage business, john a. wirt and mr. hutchinson, were likewise jersey men. it is related that mr. stelle and mr. acheson were both desirous of selling their interests in the stage lines, the former being an owner in the good intent, and the latter in the stockton line. mr. stelle one day approached mr. acheson in wheeling, and told him he would give him five hundred dollars, if he would sell or buy at a price to be mutually named. mr. acheson named a price which he would give or take, and mr. stelle elected to sell, and promptly paid mr. acheson five hundred dollars for acceding to his proposition. mr. stelle located in wheeling about the year , and died at elm grove, ohio county, west virginia, on the th of september, , aged about fifty years. he left a son, william h., and a daughter, mrs. susan r. hamilton, both living in wheeling. agents of the stage lines possessed functions somewhat, but not altogether, like those of railroad conductors. some agents passed constantly over the road, paying bills, providing horses and equipage, and giving general direction to the running of the lines. others were stationary, attending to local business. these agents were prominent characters of the road, and popularly esteemed as men of high position. one of the earliest agents was charles rettig, who subsequently kept the tavern two and one-half miles east of washington, and referred to in a chapter on taverns and tavern keepers. john risly, of frederic, md., and william biddle and james coudy, of hancock, were old agents of lines east of cumberland. redding bunting, edward lane, theodore granger and charles danforth were agents of the old line west of cumberland, with authority extending to wheeling. bunting also kept the national house in uniontown, and lane kept the national house in washington, which were headquarters at those points respectively for their line. charles danforth was a leading local agent of the stockton line at uniontown. he was a large, fine looking man, with florid complexion, heavy black whiskers, and possessed of popular manners. he was a native of new york state, and died at bedford, pa., in . his remains were brought to uniontown, and interred in the old methodist cemetery, near beeson's old mill. his widow is living in chicago. edward lane was a man of average size, of reddish complexion, energetic in motion, and affable in manner. his tavern in washington, pa., was one of the best eating houses on the road. granger was a large, dark complexioned man, not well liked by the people, but a favorite of mr. stockton. after the stage lines were taken from the road, granger went to cincinnati, procured employment at a livery stable, and died in that city in indigent circumstances. jacob beck was an agent for weaver's line, which was on the road a short time, and went with that line to ohio and kentucky. he returned from the west, and was a bar-keeper for john n. dagg, of washington, pa., and subsequently, as elsewhere stated, kept tavern at rony's point, va., and died there. he was an old stage driver, a good one, and esteemed as an honest man. daniel brown, mentioned among the old tavern keepers, was an agent of the good intent line, and a very competent one. he was a native of new jersey, and his sad ending has been alluded to in another chapter. william scott, familiarly called "billy," was a well-known agent of the good intent line. he had been a driver, and was promoted to an agency on account of his competency and fidelity. he was a master of his business, a man of small stature, dark hair and complexion, and a little given to brusqueness of manner, but on the whole rather a popular agent. he remained an agent of the good intent line until business ceased on the road, when he went to iowa, and became an agent of a stage line in that state. from iowa he went to texas, and died at jefferson in that state. it is said that he was descended from a good family on both sides, who were wealthy, and that he engaged in stage driving from choice, rather than necessity, and his friends were disappointed in his career. lemuel cross was an agent of the old line. he also kept tavern at piny grove, as elsewhere stated, and is well remembered. his jurisdiction as agent was mainly on the mountain division of the road, and he thoroughly understood his business, and was familiar with all the haunts, hills, and hollows of the mountains. b. w. earl was likewise an agent for a while of the good intent line. he commenced a driver, was advanced to an agency, and ended a tavern keeper. john foster, andrew cable, william f. cowdery, levi rose and william terry were agents at wheeling. the latter had charge in part of neil, moore & company's line in ohio. the pony express. in the year or , amos kendall, being postmaster-general, placed on the road a line of couriers, called the "pony express." it was intended to carry light mails with more speed than the general mail was carried by the coaches. the pony express was a single horse and a boy rider, with a leather mail pouch thrown over the horse's back, something after the style of the old-fashioned saddlebags. the route for each horse covered a distance of about six miles on the average. the horse was put to his utmost speed, and the rider carried a tin horn which was vigorously blown when approaching a station. william moore, thomas wooley, subsequently stage drivers, william meredith, frank holly and james neese were among the riders on the pony express east of cumberland, and sandy conner, pate sides and thomas a. wiley, all three afterward stage drivers, and william conn rode west of cumberland. wiley rode from uniontown to washington, pennsylvania, and also between washington and wheeling. he went with the log cabin boys from uniontown to baltimore in as a driver of one of the stage teams employed on that occasion. he is still living, an employe of the baltimore & ohio railroad company at camden station, baltimore, in the service of which he has been employed since . he was an attendant at the bedside of l. w. stockton during that gentleman's last illness. calvin morris, a son of william morris, the old tavern keeper on the hill west of monroe, and william downer, a son of the old gentleman who lived at and maintained the big water trough on laurel hill, were also riders on the pony express. william morris was one of the contractors for carrying this fast mail, and his house was one of the relays of the line. the relay next west was the old toll house near searights. luther morris, a brother of calvin, the pony express rider, went to iowa previous to the civil war, and was elected state treasurer on two or three occasions. john gilfillan, now, or recently, of parkersburg, west virginia, was a rider on the pony express between west alexander and wheeling. bryant and craven, of west alexander, were among the contractors of the pony express line. "the pony express" did not remain long on the road, but when it was on, old pike boys say "it kicked up a dust." chapter xxvi. _old taverns and tavern keepers from baltimore to boonsboro--pen picture of an old tavern by james g. blaine--the maypole--the hand in hand--earlocker's--pine orchard--the brown stand--levi chambers, the nullifier--old whalen's sunfish, bob fowler's goose and warfield's ham--poplar springs--allen dorsie, van mcpherson, the widow dean, getzendanner's, peter hagan, riddlemoser and the mcgruder house, peter zettle, emanuel harr._ "caldwell's tavern: we did not use the high sounding _hotel_, but the good old anglo-saxon _tavern_, with its wide open fire in the cheerful bar room, and the bountiful spread in the dining room, and the long porch for summer loafers, and the immense stabling with its wealth of horse-flesh, and the great open yard for the road wagons. how real and vivid it all seems to me this moment! all the reminiscences of the old pike, for which you are an enthusiast, are heartily shared by me."--james g. blaine. caldwell's tavern, mentioned by mr. blaine, is seven miles west of washington, pennsylvania, and will be referred to hereafter in its proper place. mr. blaine's description is appropriate to nearly all the old taverns of the road. the outward appearance of an old tavern of the national road was no index to the quality of the entertainment it afforded. many of the least pretentious houses furnished the best meals, and paid the most agreeable attention to guests and patrons. it was not unusual to see the wagon yard attached to a small wooden and apparently decaying tavern crowded with teams and wagons, while the inviting grounds of the imposing brick tavern near by were without an occupant. the may pole tavern in baltimore was a favorite stopping place for old wagoners. it is located on the southwest corner of paca and german streets, and still standing, an object of much interest to the old people of the road. in front of it stands a tall, slim, granite column, representative of a pole, and preservative of the ancient name. the may pole was kept in by henry clark, and in by james adams, who remained in charge until his death. his successor was isaac willison, a virginian, and before assuming control of the may pole, an agent of the baltimore & ohio railroad company, at frederic city. george elliott, subsequently manager for mrs. adams, at the mountain city house in cumberland, was at one time a clerk in the may pole tavern. the "hand in hand" tavern on paca, between lexington and saratoga streets, and the "white swan" on howard street, were likewise old wagon stands in baltimore, well patronized in the early days of the national road. thomas elliott also kept a wagon stand in baltimore, and enjoyed a fair share of patronage. he was the father of george elliott, above mentioned. the may pole, however, was the favorite tavern of the old wagoners of the national road. the "three ton" and "gen. wayne" taverns had each extensive stabling, and furnished accommodations for droves and drovers. the national road entered the city of baltimore by way of west baltimore street. the first wagon stand west of baltimore, fifty years ago, was kept by a man whose name was hawes. it was seven miles from the city, and wagoners often left it in the morning, drove to baltimore, unloaded, reloaded, and returned to it in the evening of the same day, and the next morning proceeded on the long journey to their western destination. the hawes tavern ceased to do business after . at ellicott's mills, ten miles west of baltimore, there was no wagon stand, but stage houses were located there, where stage teams were kept and exchanged. one mile west of ellicott's, frank earlocker kept a wagon stand, that was largely patronized. he was rather of an economical turn of mind, and old wagoners were wont to say of him that he concealed the whisky bottle behind the counter, against the custom of the road, which was to expose it to full view; and it is said that the miserly earlocker lost more than he gained by his habit, since it induced wagoners to inquire for a drink, more to worry the landlord than to appease the appetite. a short distance west of earlocker's is "pine orchard," where a tavern was kept by one goslin. he was a goslin only in name. otherwise, he was a square man, and knew how to treat strangers and travelers, especially wagoners, who largely favored him with their patronage. his house was a brick structure, and stood on the north side of the road, and for aught known to the contrary, is still standing, a monument commemorative of the many good old taverns which studded the road in the days of its glory. james dehoff kept a tavern at pine orchard as early as . his house was a wagoners' resort, and stood on the south side of the road. an old tavern, known as the "brown stand," four miles west of "pine orchard," was a popular stopping place for wagoners in its day. in levi chambers took charge of this house, and continued to conduct it until . he was called "nullifier" chambers, because of his adherence to the nullification doctrine, announced and advocated by john c. calhoun. he, however, knew how to keep a tavern, and was a sober and intelligent man. on the first of january, , john crampton and william orr, old wagoners before mentioned, drove out from baltimore with full loads, and put up at the "brown stand." during the night a box of silk goods was stolen from orr's wagon. the loss was discovered early in the morning, and orr and chambers each mounted a horse and pushed out in the direction of baltimore, in search of the stolen goods and the thief. there was a light snow on the road, and tracks were visible, indicative of rapid steps toward the east. reaching baltimore, messrs. orr and chambers entered the bar room of the may pole tavern, in which a number of persons were drinking, and among them one, who, from his actions, was suspected as the thief. he was arrested, tried, convicted, and sent to the penitentiary. four miles west of the "nullifier's," john whalen kept a wagon stand, and one of the best on the road. old wagoners entertain pleasant recollections of john whalen, and delight in recounting the good cheer that abounded and abided in his old tavern. he kept the tavern at this point up to the year . one warfield kept a tavern a short distance west of whalen's as early as , and had a good wagon custom. old wagoners had a rough distich on this section of the road, running something like this: "old wheeler's sunfish, bob fowler's roast goose, warfield's ham, ain't that jam!" new lisbon was an aspiring village, twenty-six miles west of baltimore, and the first point of note west of whalen's. stages stopped and teams were changed at new lisbon, but it had no wagon stand. at poplar springs, one mile west of new lisbon, there was a wagon stand kept by allen dorsie. near the old tavern is a large, gushing spring, in the midst of tall poplar trees, and hence the name "poplar springs." such was the situation at this point fifty years ago, but alas, fifty years is a long time, and the "poplar springs" may present a different appearance now. allen dorsie, the old proprietor of the tavern here, was likewise and for many years superintendent of the maryland division of the road. he was a very large man, six feet in height, and rounded out in proportion. he was besides a man of admitted integrity and good intellect. he ceased keeping tavern at poplar springs in . seven miles west of poplar springs van mcpherson kept a tavern, which did an extensive business. the proprietor was half dutch and half irish, as his name imports, and he had the faculty of pleasing everybody. his house was a brick structure on the north side of the road, and is probably still standing. van mcpherson kept this house from to , and made money in it. new market is a village west of mcpherson's old tavern, and in frederic county, maryland. here the stages stopped and changed teams, and an old wagon stand was kept by one shell. it is said of shell that his name differed from his table, in that the latter contained no shells, but the best of savory viands. three miles west of new market, frank wharton kept a tavern, and a good one. he was rough in manner, and could swear longer and louder than wilse clement, but he kept his house in good shape and did an extensive business. one mile west of wharton's the widow dean kept a tavern. her house was a brick structure on the south side of the road, and she owned it and the ground whereon it stood, in fee simple. she was largely patronized by wagoners. next after passing mrs. deans old stand, the city of frederic is reached, which fifty years ago was the largest town on the road between wheeling and baltimore. james dehoof and john lambert kept old wagon stands in frederic city. lambert died about , and was succeeded by john miller, who kept the house down to the year . four miles west of frederic city the old wagoners encountered cotockton mountain, and here was a fine old tavern kept by getzendanner, a german. his house was a stone building, on the south side of the road, presumably standing to this day. getzendanner, true to his native traits, was the owner of the property. old wagoners unite in saying that the old german kept a good house, barring a little too much garlic in his sausages. peter hagan played the part of host at an old tavern, one mile west of getzendanner's. his house was a log building, and stood on the south side of the road. as before stated, the outward appearance of an old tavern on the national road was no index to affairs within; and though peter hagan's house was small and made with logs, the cheer within was exhilarating. his meals were simple and but little varied, yet so manipulated in the kitchen, and spread upon the table so tastefully, and withal so clean, that they were tempting even to an epicure. peter hagan's patrons were for the most part wagoners, and the old wagoners of the national road knew what good living was, and "put up" only where the fare was inviting. peter hagan was an uncle of robert hagan, a local politician of south union township, fayette county, pennsylvania. proceeding westward from hagan's old tavern, the next point is the village of middletown, which hoped to become a city, and might have succeeded, had not the steam railway eclipsed the glory of the old pike. at middletown the stages had relays of horses. one of the stage houses at this point was kept by ---- titlow, a relative of f. b. titlow, of uniontown. here also there was a wagon stand, kept by samuel riddlemoser. this was in . in the spring of riddlemoser moved to the widow mcgruder house, one mile west of middletown. the mcgruder house was well conducted, and enjoyed a large patronage. south mountain comes next, and here a tavern was kept by one miller. it was a wagon stand, a stone building, on the north side of the road. the battle of south mountain was fought here, but the roar of the cannon failed to awaken the departed glories of the old miller tavern. one mile west of south mountain, petter zettle, a german, kept a tavern. it was a wagon stand, and a popular one. the house was of brick, and stood on the south side of the road. the old landlord was accustomed to join in the merry-making of the old wagoners, and as the jokes went around in the old bar room, the german spice was plainly discernible as well as agreeable, in unison with the familiar notes of the native pike boys. one mile west of zettle's, robert fowler kept a wagon stand. fowler quit in , and was succeeded by emanuel harr, who conducted the house for many years. joe garver, a noted blacksmith, had a shop at this point. garver, it is said, could cut and replace as many as a dozen wagon tires in a single night. it was not an uncommon thing for the old blacksmiths of the road to work all night at shoeing horses and repairing wagons. chapter xxvii. _old taverns and tavern keepers continued--boonsboro to cumberland--funkstown, antietam, hagerstown, dirty spigot, shady bower, clear spring, north mountain, indian spring, hancock--the house of nicodemus--accident on sideling hill, the longest hill on the road--snib hollow--town hill--green ridge--pratt's hollow--a fugitive slave--polish mountain--flintstone--martin's mountain._ "it stands all alone like a goblin in gray, the old-fashioned inn of a pioneer day, in a land so forlorn and forgotten, it seems like a wraith of the past rising into our dreams; its glories have vanished, and only the ghost of a sign-board now creaks on its desolate post, recalling a time when all hearts were akin as they rested at night in that welcoming inn." james newton matthews. boonsboro is a small town at the foot of south mountain in maryland, and in the palmy days of the national road was a lively village. old wagoners and stage drivers spread its fame, but railroad conductors are silent as to its memory. the slifer brothers kept tavern in boonsboro in the olden time. their house was not a wagon stand. one of the slifer brothers, as before stated, claimed to be the inventor of the "rubber," brake, as it is commonly called. at the west end of boonsboro the widow galwix kept a wagon stand and did a large business. she was the widow of john galwix, hereinbefore mentioned as a fancy wagoner. robert fowler kept a tavern in boonsboro as early as and a wagon stand on the north side of the road. three and a half miles west of boonsboro henry and jacob fosnock, germans, kept a wagon stand, which was well patronized. the property was owned by the fosnocks, and they made money with their tavern. they were bachelors, but had an unmarried sister, susan, who acted in the capacity of hostess. she subsequently became the wife of the old wagoner, joseph crampton. the fosnocks were at the point mentioned as late as . funkstown appears next in sight. funkstown, another old village identified with the by-gone glories of the old pike. the name of this village brings to mind the once familiar form of john funk, an old wagoner. john lived at or near funkstown, and his family may have given the name to the village. funkstown is located on little antietam creek, about seventy miles west of baltimore. fifty years ago there was a paper mill and a grist mill at funkstown, and they may be there yet, and others in addition. at the east end of funkstown, joseph watts kept a wagon stand, and competed for the custom of the wagoners with william ashton, who kept a similar tavern at the west end of the town. each did a good business. ashton will be remembered as the athletic wagoner, who leaped over the top of a road wagon at petersburg. he knew the wants of wagoners and served them well at his old tavern. he was the owner of two fine six-horse teams, and kept them constantly on the road. after funkstown, come the classic shades and handsome streets of hagerstown. hagerstown was always a prominent point on the road. it ranked with wheeling, washington, brownsville, uniontown, cumberland, and frederic. hagerstown was a station for the stage lines. it outlived the road, and flourishes as one of the best towns of maryland. the only old wagon stand in hagerstown was that of john b. wrench. but hagerstown was rather too stylish a place for old wagoners, and wrench gave up his house there in , and removed to piney grove, where he found a more congenial atmosphere. he subsequently kept one of the old taverns at grantsville, from which point he emigrated to iowa, and died there. four and a half miles west of hagerstown, an old wagon stand was kept by david newcomer. it was a stone house, on the north side of the road. newcomer furnished good entertainment, and was well favored with customers, mostly wagoners. he was a quaker, and a money maker. he dealt in horses, in addition to tavern keeping. when offering a horse for sale, his wife was accustomed to say in the hearing of the person proposing to buy: "now, david, thee must not sell that favorite horse." this, old wagoners say, was a "set-up job" between david and his spouse to gain a good price. newcomer was the owner of the property, and as the house was of stone, is probably standing yet; but the ring of the old pike has gone from it long since. three miles westward from newcomer's was the imposing and well-remembered tavern kept by john miller. it was of brick, a large and commodious building, situate on the north side of the road. miller owned the property, and it may be in the possession of his descendants to this day. there were large rooms in this house, adapted to dancing purposes, and young men and maidens of the vicinity frequently tripped to the notes of the old time music in its spacious halls. the waltz was unknown, and the figures varied from the "hoe down" to the cotillion, closing always with the "virginia reel." the old wagoners were invariably invited to participate in these festivities, and engaged in them with a gusto not excelled by the lads and lasses of the surrounding neighborhood. alfred bailes, the old pike boy of dunbar, drove a line team from john s. miller's to the nicodemus house, two miles west of hancock, as early as the year , and is probably the only survivor of the young folks who participated in the gayeties of miller's old tavern. one mile west of miller's is "shady bower." there a tavern was kept by conrod wolsey. his house was well favored by wagoners, who sought his generous board in goodly numbers, and while well liked by his customers, he got the name of "dirty spigot," because the spigot of a whisky barrel in his house was once besmeared with filth. there was a large distillery near wolsey's tavern, operated by barnes mason. mason had two teams on the road, driven by william keefer and joseph myers. clear spring comes next, and derives its name from the existence of a large, gushing spring of clear water, in volume sufficient to propel a mill. an old wagon stand was kept at clear spring by andrew kershaw, who died the proprietor of the house, and was succeeded by his son jonathan. the house was a large brick building, on the south side of the road. stages stopped and exchanged teams at clear spring, but not at kershaw's. his house, as stated, was a wagon stand. gusty mitchell is a well-remembered character of clear spring. he used to steal and drink the wagoners' whisky, and "bum" around their teams in all sorts of ways. one night the wagoners poured turpentine over gusty and set fire to him, which so frightened him that he never afterward had anything to do with wagoners. the next old tavern was on the top of north mountain, two miles west of clear spring, kept by joseph kensel. it was a log house, and on the north side of the road. kensel owned the property. while this old tavern was humble in outward appearance, the fires burned brightly within, and its patrons, who were numerous, highly extolled the quality of the viands it spread before them. indian spring comes next, four and a half miles west from clear spring. here a wagon stand was kept by david miller. the house is a stone structure, on the north side of the road, and miller owned it in fee simple. this old house was a favorite resort of wagoners, and night after night echoed the once familiar notes of the great highway, in the days of its glory. three miles west from david miller's, anthony snider, a distant relative of john snider of happy memory, kept a wagon stand. it was a frame building on the north side of the road. peter hawes once lived at this house, and hauled stone for an aqueduct on the adjacent canal. four miles west of snider's, on the north side of the road, stood the old frame tavern of widow bevans. she owned the property, and her house was a popular stopping place. it will be noted that in many instances widows kept the best taverns along the road. there is no record of a widow making a failure as a tavern keeper. two miles further on to the westward, and before the once familiar tavern of widow bevans entirely recedes from view, the old wagon stand of david barnett is reached. his house was a large log building, on the north side of the road. here the first transportation line of six-horse teams, john bradfield agent, had relays, its next relay eastward being the house of john miller, before mentioned. barnett was a jolly old landlord, fond of exchanging jokes with old wagoners and other patrons. he had a manner and a method of pleasing his guests, and did a large and profitable business. westward, two miles from barnett's, is the historic town of hancock, named in honor of the man who wrote his name in letters so large and legible, that they were read all round the world. there was no old wagon stand tavern in hancock, except for a short time about the year . john shane established it, but was not successful, and removed to cumberland, where he set up a confectionery shop. wagoners preferred country before town taverns, as a rule. stages stopped and exchanged horses in hancock. two miles west of hancock, one nicodemus kept an old wagon stand. his first name has not been preserved, owing probably to the sublimity of his surname. he was known all along the road, but mentioned only as nicodemus. his house was a frame building on the north side of the road, and he owned it, and died in it. he kept a good tavern, and was well patronized. widow downer kept this house before the time of nicodemus. two miles west of the house of nicodemus is sideling hill, so called from the sloping character of the ground upon which the road is laid. at the eastern foot of this hill jacob brosius kept an old wagon stand, and had a good share of custom. his house was a frame building and stood on the south side of the road. the distance from the foot to the summit of sideling hill is four miles, and it is the longest hill on the road. in jacob anderson, an old wagoner, was killed on sideling hill. his team became frightened on the summit and ran down the western slope, coming in contact with a large tree on the roadside with such force as to break it down, and falling on anderson, he was instantly killed. isaac browning, caleb langley and black westley, with their teams and wagons, were on the road with anderson at the time of this accident. anderson was a citizen of loudon county, virginia. langley, browning and westley belonged to fayette county, pennsylvania. the road crosses a stream at sideling hill, called sideling hill creek. there was a covered bridge over this creek. in john moss and billy george, old wagoners, drove their teams on this bridge, and stopping a while to rest under the shade afforded by the roof, the bridge broke down, precipitating horses, wagons and drivers a distance of fourteen feet to the water, causing considerable damage to the wagons and the goods therein, but strange to say inflicting but slight injuries upon the drivers and teams. the teams and wagons belonged to robert newlove, of wheeling. two miles from the foot of sideling hill, and on the north side of the road, john h. mann kept a wagon stand. his house was a frame building. mann was a citizen of some prominence, and at one time represented his county (washington) in the maryland legislature. it is not known that his proclivities in the line of statesmanship impaired in any wise his talent for tavern keeping. on the western slope of sideling hill, about midway between the summit and the foot, thomas norris kept a tavern, which was a favorite resort of wagoners. his house was a large stone building, on the north side of the road. there was a picturesqueness about the location of this old tavern that imparted a peculiar spice to the ordinary rounds of entertainment enjoyed by its guests. samuel cessna kept this house at one time. one mile west of sideling hill creek, a wagon stand was kept by the widow ashkettle, another widow, and she no exception to the rule before stated, that the widows all kept good houses. her name is not inappropriate to some of the duties of housekeeping, but mrs. ashkettle's forte was not in making lye, but in setting a good, clean table. she had a son, david, who managed the business of the house for her. her house was a frame building, and stood on the north side of the road. two miles west of mrs. ashkettle's the wayfarer struck the point bearing the homely name of "snib hollow." these old names never wear out, no matter how ugly they are, and it is well they do not. they all have a significance and an interest, local or otherwise, which would be lost by a change of name. quidnuncs in history and literature have exerted their restless talents in efforts to obliterate these seemingly rude, old names, and substitute fancy ones in their stead, but they have failed, and their failure is a pleasant tribute to the supremacy of common sense. as early as the widow turnbull kept a tavern at snib hollow. later, an old wagon stand was kept there by john alder, who had a large run of customers. his house was a log building, on the north side of the road. town hill comes next, a half a mile west of snib hollow, at the foot of which dennis hoblitzell kept a tavern as early as the year , and probably earlier. the house was on the east side of the road, and the locality is often called piney plains. mrs. mcclelland, of the mcclelland house, uniontown, is a daughter of dennis hoblitzell. samuel cessna subsequently kept this house, and stage lines and wagon lines all stopped at it. it was here, and in cessna's time, that governor corwin, of ohio, was treated as a negro servant, mention of which is made in another chapter. in john snider stopped over night at this house, with a load of emigrants, while cessna was keeping it, and had to clean the oats he fed to his horses with an ordinary bed sheet, the windmill not having reached this point at that early day. at the foot of town hill, on the west side, henry bevans kept a tavern. it was a wagon stand, and likewise a station for one of the stage lines. the house stood on the north side of the road, and enjoyed a good trade. samuel luman, the old stage driver, kept this house in . two miles west from the bevans house is green ridge, where an old wagon stand was kept by elisha collins. his house was a log building, and stood on the north side of the road. although this house was humble in appearance, old wagoners are unstinted in bestowing praises on its ancient good cheer. trudging onward, two miles further to the westward, the old wagoner, and many a weary traveler, found a pleasant resting place at "pratt's hollow," where samuel hamilton kept a cozy old tavern. it was a frame house, on the north side of the road. hamilton was a planter as well as tavern keeper, and raised tobacco and owned and worked negro slaves. levi mcgruder succeeded hamilton as the keeper of this house. this locality derived its name from pratt, who owned the property at an early day, and, upon authority of the veteran david mahaney, kept the first tavern there. an incident occurred at pratt's hollow in the year , which brings to memory the state of public society in _ante bellum_ times. among the old wagoners of the road, was richard shadburn. he was a native of virginia, and born a slave, while his complexion was so fair, and his hair so straight, that he readily passed for a white man. when quite young he escaped from his master and struck out for liberty among the enlivening scenes of the great highway of the republic. on a certain evening of the year mentioned, he drove into mcgruder's wagon yard along with a number of other wagoners, to rest for the night. the sun had not yet disappeared behind the western hills, and a stage coach pulled up in front of mcgruder's tavern, and stopped for water, as was the custom at that point. among the passengers in that coach was the owner of the slave, shadburn. looking out through the window of the coach he observed and recognized shadburn, and calling to his aid a fellow passenger, emerged from the coach with a determination to reclaim his property. dick was seized, but being a man of great muscular power, succeeded in releasing himself from the clutches of his assailants and fled. the disappointed master fired at dick with a pistol, as he ran, but he made good his escape. the team driven by shadburn belonged to parson's of ohio, who shortly after the escapade mentioned, sent another driver to mcgruder's to take charge of it. shadburn never afterward reappeared on the road, and it is believed that he found a home and at last a grave in canada. it was near pratt's hollow that the cotrells, father and two sons, murdered a peddler in , the perpetrators of which crime were all hung from the same scaffold in frederic. the old tavern at pratt's hollow was destroyed by fire many years ago, and was never rebuilt. two miles west from pratt's hollow, john s. miller conducted an old tavern, and a good one. his house was a frame building, and stood on the north side of the road. it was a popular stopping place for wagoners. miller kept this house as early as , and subsequently became the proprietor of the old tavern, five miles west of washington, pennsylvania, where he died. "polish mountain" is reached next, one mile west of the old miller stand. on the summit of this little, but picturesque mountain, philip fletcher kept an old tavern, and greeted and treated thousands of old wagoners and other travelers. his house stood on the north side of the road, and was made of logs, but the table it furnished was equal to the best on the road. and next comes flintstone, four miles west of fletcher's. all old pike boys remember flintstone. the name has a familiar ring. the stages stopped at flintstone, and thomas robinson kept the leading tavern there, in the olden time. his house was a stage station, and a wagon stand as well. robinson, the good old landlord, got into a difficulty, many years ago, with one silas twigg, and was killed outright by his assailant. as early as jonathan huddleson kept a tavern in flintstone, and had the patronage of one of the stage lines. he subsequently kept the old tomlinson tavern at the little meadows. john piper was an old tavern keeper at flintstone. his house was a favorite summer resort, and also enjoyed the patronage of old wagoners. the piper house is a large brick building, and stands on the north side of the road. john piper died about the year . the house is continued as a tavern under the joint management of john howard, a son-in-law, and an unmarried daughter of the old proprietor. henry b. elbon also kept a tavern in flintstone for many years, but his career began after that of the old road ended. elbon died about four or five years ago. fairweather and ladew, of new york, own and operate a large tannery at flintstone. two miles west of flintstone, martin's mountain is encountered, at the foot of which, on the east, thomas streets presided over an old tavern, and welcomed and cared for many a guest. his house was a frame structure, on the south side of the road. two miles further on the westward tramp the widow osford kept a regular old wagon stand. she was assisted by her son, joseph. it is needless to state that her house was popular. she was a widow. her house was a log building, on the south side of the road, with a large wagon yard attached. her dining room occupied the greater portion of the ground floor of her house, and her table was always crowded with hungry guests. kitchen and bar room made up the remainder of the first story, and wagoners' beds covered every inch of the bar room floor at night. mrs. osford retired from this house after a long season of prosperity, and was succeeded by peter hager, an old wagoner, who at one time drove a team for william searight. two miles west from widow osford's, henry miller kept an old tavern. it was a brick house, on the south side of the road. it will be noted that miller is the leading name among the old tavern keepers of the road. the smiths don't figure much in this line. two miles west of henry miller's an old tavern was kept by slifer, whose first name is lost to memory. it is probable he was of the family of slifers who kept at boonsboro. it is said of this slifer that he was a good, square dealing landlord, kept a good house and enjoyed a fair share of patronage. chapter xxviii. _old taverns and tavern keepers continued--cumberland to little crossings--the city of cumberland--everstine's--the six mile house and bridge--clary's--tragedy in frostburg--thomas beall--sand springs--big savage--little savage--thomas johnson--the shades of death--john recknor--piney grove--mortimer cade--tomlinson's--widow wooding._ the city of cumberland is the initial point, as before stated, of that portion of the national road which was constructed by authority of congress, and paid for with funds drawn from the public treasury of the united states. in james black kept the leading tavern in cumberland. it was a stage house. in john and emory edwards, of boonsboro, leased the black house, and conducted it as a tavern for many years thereafter. john snider, the old pike boy of pleasant memory, hauled a portion of the household goods of the edwards' from their old home in boonsboro to their new location at cumberland. at the date last mentioned there were two wagon stands in cumberland. one of them was kept by thomas plumer. plumer had teams on the road. the other was kept by george mattingly. frederic shipley kept a tavern in cumberland previous to the year . it was located on baltimore street, near the site of the station first established by the baltimore & ohio railroad company. this house was subsequently conducted by george w. gump, and after him, in , by david mahaney. one kaig, of bedford county, pennsylvania, succeeded mahaney in the control of this house. it was called "the american," and entertained wagoners and the traveling public at large. in and later, the widow adams kept a wagon stand in cumberland, on the site of the present rolling mill. george elliott was manager for mrs. adams. the house was a large brick structure, and known in its day as the "mountain city house." lewis smith kept "the blue springs house" on mechanics street, and was largely patronized by old wagoners. frederic shipley also kept a tavern on mechanics street, after he left the american. john kelso, the old wagoner, kept a tavern for a short time on mechanics street, and was well patronized; and otho barcus, another old wagoner, kept the "pennsylvania house" on mechanics street in , and for a period of three years thereafter. the road when first laid out, as seen in a previous chapter, passed over wills mountain. in this location was changed for a better grade, up the valleys of wills creek and braddock's run. to make this change it was necessary to first obtain the consent of the state of maryland, which was granted by an act of her legislature in . the old plumer tavern stood at the eastern end of the old location, and the old mattingly tavern at the same end of the new location. george evans kept a tavern, also, near the eastern end of the original location. [illustration: john kelso.] five miles west of cumberland, on the new location, a wagon stand was kept by joseph everstine. this was a frame house, and stood on the north side of the road. it was well conducted, but owing to its proximity to cumberland, did not do as large a business as other taverns of the road, more advantageously located. six miles west from cumberland there was an old tavern known as the "six mile house." it belonged to the bruces, an old and wealthy family of alleghany county, maryland, and many years ago was destroyed by fire. a new building was erected on the old site, and remains to this day in the occupancy of a nephew of the old tavern keeper, aden clary. this house is near the junction of the old and new locations above referred to, and near the stone bridge over braddock's run. the sixth mile post from cumberland stands on the north wall of this bridge, firm and unshaken. the bridge is well preserved, and a polished stone thereof bears this inscription: " --built by thomas fealy, lieut. jno. pickell, u. s. engineer, h. m. petitt, ass't supt'd." eight miles west from cumberland aden clary kept. his house was a large and commodious brick building on the south side of the road, and is still standing. there was not a more popular house on the road than aden clary's. frostburg is next reached. this was always a prominent point on the road. it did not derive its name, as many suppose, from the crisp atmosphere in which it was located, but from the original owner of the land on which it stands, whose name was frost. frostburg was the first stage station west of cumberland. the leading taverns of frostburg in the palmy days of the road were the "franklin house" and the "highland hall house." the franklin house was kept for many years by thomas beall, the father of the bealls of uniontown. it was headquarters of the good intent stage line. the highland hall house was conducted at different times by george w. claybaugh, george evans, samuel cessna and thomas porter. it was the headquarters of the stockton line of coaches. during cessna's time at this house he was the principal actor in a tragedy which produced considerable commotion in the vicinity. a negro servant employed by cessna addressed some insulting remark to his wife, and immediately upon being informed thereof, cessna proceeded to dispatch the negro without ceremony. he was tried in cumberland for murder and acquitted, public sentiment very generally acquiescing in the verdict of the jury. about the year the highland hall house was purchased by the authorities of the catholic church, remodeled, improved and converted to ecclesiastical uses. about one mile west of frostburg, and at the foot of big savage mountain, is sand springs, so called from the gurgling water in the sand at that point. in the widow ward kept a wagon stand tavern at sand springs. her house was a favorite resort for old wagoners. on the night of october , , snow fell to the depth of a foot at sand springs, breaking down the timber all through the surrounding mountains. mrs. ward's wagon yard was crowded with teams and wagons that night, and the snow was so deep the next day that the wagoners deemed it inexpedient to turn out, and remained at mrs. ward's until the following morning. john snider was among the wagoners at mrs. ward's on the occasion mentioned, and is authority for the occurrence of the october snow storm. the tavern at sand springs was subsequently kept by john welsh, an old stage driver, hiram sutton and jacob conrod, in the order named. hiram sutton was a son-in-law of jared clary. he kept the sand springs tavern down to the year , when he moved to parkersburg, west virginia, and may be living there yet. philip spiker, the old blacksmith at sand springs, it is said could shoe more horses in a given time than any other blacksmith on the road. he had a rival, however, in a. brice devan, now of dunbar, who, in the palmy days of the road, carried on a shop in hopwood, and shod horses for old wagoners all night long on many occasions. devan's backers will not concede that spiker was a speedier shoer than he. a short distance west of sand springs, on the side of big savage mountain, an old wagon stand was kept by one cheney, afterward by jacob conrod. it is a stone house, on the south side of the road. in cheney's time at this house, henry clay bush, who was an old wagoner, says that metallic mugs were used for drinking purposes, instead of glasses. he further states that the mugs were clean, and probably used through deference to the pure whisky of that day. big savage mountain is two thousand five hundred and eighty feet above the atlantic. two miles west from cheney's, and at the foot of little savage mountain, thomas beall kept a tavern as early as . william e. beall, superintendent of the uniontown rolling mill, was born at this old tavern. thomas beall removed from this place to missouri, but after a short absence, returned to western maryland, and took charge of the franklin house in frostburg. thomas johnson succeeded thomas beall in the management of this house. it was a noted place, and johnson was a noted character. he was a good fiddler and a good dancer. he owned a negro named dennis, who was also a good dancer, and night after night in the cheerful bar room of the old tavern, dennis performed the "double shuffle," responsive to lively music furnished by his old master. johnson was small in stature, weighing but little over a hundred pounds. although he participated freely in the fun of the old road, he was not unmindful or neglectful of his business. he owned the old tavern-stand mentioned and the lands adjacent, and dying, left a comfortable inheritance to his descendants. little savage mountain has an elevation of two thousand four hundred and eighty feet above the atlantic, being one hundred feet lower than big savage. three miles further westward, and at the eastern approach to the shades of death, john recknor kept an old wagon stand, well known, and in its day well patronized. recknor kept this house as early as , and ended his days in it. it was a log and frame structure on the north side of the road, with a commodious wagon yard attached. the thick branches of the pine trees growing on shade hill, hung over this old house, imparting to it a romantic, as well as an attractive perspective. the fame of mrs. recknor as a purveyor of hot biscuits was co-extensive with the line of the road. now, "the kitchen is cold and the hall is as still, as the heart of the hostess out there on the hill." piney grove comes next, two miles from recknor's, so called from the numerous pine trees growing in the locality in the olden time. at an early day joshua johnson, a wealthy man of frederic city, owned fifteen thousand acres of land, embracing piney grove and the shades of death, which he held for many years for speculative purposes. portions of this large area, it is said, continue in the possession of johnson's descendants to this day. the pine trees were cut down many years ago, sawed up and shipped to market. william frost, of frostburg, erected the first extensive saw mill in the vicinity. at piney grove there was an old tavern, kept at different times by truman fairall, mortimer cade, lemuel cross, john wrench and david mahaney. all the stage lines of the road stopped at this old tavern, and wagoners in goodly numbers also congregated there. it was a large frame building on the north side of the road, and on the opposite side large stables and sheds were erected for sheltering horses and vehicles. west of piney grove about one-fourth of a mile, an old wagon stand was kept by a man whose name was wagoner, and subsequently by isaac bell, and later by mortimer cade. cade kept this house in , and died in it. his widow continued to keep it as a tavern for a number of years, and until she became the wife of william fear, who kept a tavern on keyser's ridge. a daughter of mrs. cade is living in uniontown at this time. two miles west of piney grove the celebrated old tomlinson tavern at little meadows is reached. this is an old stand; as old as the national road. here the lines of the national and the old braddock roads coincide. jesse tomlinson owned the land at this point, and kept a tavern on the old braddock road, before the national road was made. upon the opening of the latter he abandoned his old house and erected a new one on the new road, which he conducted as a tavern for many years. after his death the property passed to the hands of jacob sides. w. m. f. magraw, as before stated, married a daughter of jacob sides. this place is referred to as the little meadows in the official record of braddock's unfortunate march through the mountains in . the region at and about mt. washington, further westward on the line of the road, where the conflict between washington and the french and indians occurred, in , is designated by washington, in his official report of that engagement, as the great meadows. tomlinson's tavern is a large stone house, on the north side of the road. after tomlinson, it was kept by thomas endsley, who was succeeded by thomas thistle, thomas thistle by james stoddard, and he, in turn, by jesse huddleson, truman fairall, lemuel cross and david mahaney, all before the railroad was continued west of cumberland. it was kept by george layman after the railroad absorbed the trade. layman was afterward sheriff of alleghany county, maryland. in the year , while the property was under the control of mr. magraw, the old tomlinson tavern was remodeled and much improved. the contract for the improvements was undertaken by george w. wyning, a well known carpenter of uniontown, who superintended the work in person, and during its progress he and magraw together, spent many a pleasant hour amid the exhilarating atmosphere of the mountains, in the society of the old pike boys. james k. polk dined at the tomlinson house in the spring of , on his way to washington to be inaugurated president. huddleson was keeping the house at that time. the occasion brought together a large concourse of mountain people, who were addressed by the president-elect. one mile west from tomlinson's the widow wooding kept a tavern as early as , and for some time thereafter. her house was a frame building, on the north side of the road, and was largely patronized by old wagoners. mrs. wooding growing old, and wearied by the onerous duties of tavern keeping, gave up the business, and turned her house over to her son-in-law. peter yeast, who conducted it for a season, and in turn surrendered it to john wright. one mile west of mrs. wooding's old stand the traveler reaches the little crossings, a name given to the locality from the circumstance that here the road crosses the castleman river; and the prefix "little" is used because the castleman is a smaller stream than the youghiogheny, which is crossed a few miles further westward, and called the big crossings. there was no tavern at the little crossings previous to the year . subsequent to that date a tavern was established there by alexander carlisle, who entertained the traveling public in a satisfactory manner. his house was a large frame structure, on the south side of the road, subsequently kept by john and samuel mccurdy, and later, at different times, by david johnson, william dawson, elisha brown, jacob conrod and david mahaney. although nearly twenty years elapsed from the building of the road before any old landlord at little crossings beckoned the weary traveler to rest and refreshment, nevertheless, thereafter, and until business ceased on the line, that locality presented many and rare attractions, as all old pike boys are ready to verify. chapter xxix. _old taverns and tavern keepers continued--little crossings to winding ridge--grantsville--the old shultz, steiner and fuller houses--the veteran, david mahaney--thomas thistle, widow haldeman, death of mrs. recknor, negro mountain, keyser's ridge, log cabin boys of , james stoddard, dennis hoblitzell, the fears, the mccurdys, adam yeast, david johnson, perry shultz, truman fairall, john woods, the bane house, wooing and wedding of an old tavern keeper, james reynolds, henry walters._ next after leaving the little crossings on the westward march, comes grantsville, a romantic little mountain village in garrett, formerly alleghany, county, maryland, named long before the hero of appomattox was known to fame, and therefore not in his honor. in samuel gillis kept a tavern in the east end of grantsville, on the south side of the road, the same house that in later years was kept by john slicer. it was a wagon stand in the time of gillis, and slicer did not take charge of it until business had ceased on the road. john lehman kept a tavern in grantsville in . he was a son-in-law, as was peter yeast, of the good old widow wooding, before mentioned. the lehman house was subsequently kept by henry fuller, and after him by george smouse. it was a frame building near the center of the village, on the south side of the street and road. in henry fuller demolished this old house, and erected a new one in its place. adam shultz kept a tavern at the east end of grantsville back in the forties, and dying in charge, was succeeded by his son perry, who continued it down to the year , when the ancient glories of the old pike began to weaken and wane. the shultz house was an imposing brick structure, on the south side of the road, and was kept for a while by the veteran david mahaney, and at one time by jesse king. perry shultz was subsequently elected sheriff of alleghany county, maryland. solomon steiner also kept a tavern in grantsville during a portion of the prosperous era of the road. grantsville seems to have been a favorite locality for tavern keepers of german names and antecedents. steiner's tavern was a brick building, and stood on the opposite side of the road from the old shultz house. steiner built it, owned it, and died in it, and his son, archibald, conducted it for a number of years after his father's death. it was a wagon stand. the fuller house was kept at different times by john d. wrench, bazil garletts, barney brown, john slicer, william slicer, william beffler, john millinger, and nathaniel slicer. christian m. livengood is the present proprietor. archibald steiner was succeeded in his father's old house, first, by william shaw, and thereafter in turn by john millinger and jonas e. canagy, the present proprietor, and it is now called the farmer's house. david mahaney, whose name frequently appears in these pages, is a remarkable man. a boy when the national road was made, he has lived on and near it all his life. his present residence is dunbar, fayette county, pa., but he is a familiar figure on the streets of uniontown. he is the father of lloyd mahaney, the well known enterprising owner and manager of the handsome new mahaney house in uniontown, and of george mahaney, also a popular hotel man, who at one time kept the dixon house in greensburg, afterward a hotel in pittsburg, and at the present time is conducting a house in latrobe. david mahaney was born in washington county, md., near hagerstown, in , and is therefore in his eighty-sixth year, while he has the appearance of a man not over sixty. his complexion is swarthy, step elastic, and his memory but slightly impaired by the inroads of time. his father was a native of culpeper county, va., who met with a melancholy death by drowning in the potomac river, on the night of the presidential election of . his polling place was eight miles from his residence, in maryland, and to reach it and vote involved the crossing of the potomac. it was late in the evening when he left the polls to return home, and upon reaching the river, by some untoward accident fell into the water and perished. david mahaney's first venture in tavern keeping on his own account was at the old shultz house in grantsville. he was personally acquainted with henry clay, thomas h. benton, lewis cass, and others of the old time statesmen, and frequently entertained them. as early as thomas thistle kept a tavern at the foot of negro mountain, two miles west of grantsville. with a name somewhat rasping in its import, thistle had a smooth tongue, a mild manner, and furnished excellent entertainment for the traveling public. he was one of the oldest and best known tavern keepers on the road. his house was a long, frame wooden building, on the south side of the road, at times a stage station, and throughout its entire existence a wagon stand. here the national road crosses the line of the old braddock road. in william dehaven kept the old thistle tavern, and later it was kept by levi dean. one and a half miles west from the old thistle house, and on the eastern slope of negro mountain, the widow haldeman kept a tavern as early as , and like all the widows, had a large patronage. while conducting this house, mrs. haldeman became the wife of daniel smouse, who thereafter took charge of it. the house was a log building, on the south side of the road, and the spacious grounds surrounding it were crowded, night after night, with six-horse teams and big, broad wheeled wagons, covered with canvass, presenting the appearance of a military encampment. this old house was subsequently kept by george smouse, and later by john wright. the widow recknor, of savory memory, before mentioned, died a boarder in this old tavern, much lamented. [illustration: david mahany.] onward, westward and upward, the crest of negro mountain is reached. there are several versions of the origin of the name of this mountain. probably the one most worthy of acceptance is that in the early collisions between the whites and the indians, a negro appeared as an ally of the indians in a conflict on this mountain, and was among the slain. negro mountain is two thousand eight hundred and twenty-five feet above the level of the atlantic ocean, and the second highest elevation on the line of the road. the old commissioners give the height of the mountain as two thousand three hundred and twenty-eight and twelve one-hundredths feet, from their base of measurement in the potomac, near cumberland, and as before stated, make no mention of keyser's ridge. in the year dennis hoblitzell kept a tavern near the summit of negro mountain, on the eastern slope. he was the father of mrs. mcclelland, of the mcclelland house in uniontown. this old tavern is a stone building, on the north side of the road, and the same that in after years became celebrated as a resort for hog drovers, under the management of william sheets. it was kept as a tavern after hoblitzell left it, and before the time of sheets, by thomas beall. two miles west from negro mountain keyser's ridge looms up in view. this was a famous locality in the prosperous days of the road. it is a bald, bleak range, not inaptly described as the back-bone of the mountains. it is two thousand eight hundred and forty-three feet above sea level, and the highest point on the road. in the olden time snow drifts often accumulated to the depth of twenty feet on keyser's ridge, and stages and wagons were compelled to take to the skirting glades to avoid them. francis mccambridge kept a tavern here as early as , and was succeeded by robert hunter, and he by james stoddard, some time previous to . hunter went from this house to petersburg. james stoddard was the grandfather of mrs. mcclelland, of the mcclelland house, uniontown. stages stopped at stoddard's, as well as wagoners and travelers of every description. the log cabin boys of uniontown stopped at stoddard's the first night out on their memorable trip to baltimore, in , to attend the great whig mass meeting of that year in that city. they had with them, on wheels, a regular log cabin, well stored with refreshments of every kind, and the very best; and every mile of their long journey resounded with lusty shouts for "tippecanoe and tyler, too." e. b. dawson, esq., and lucien b. bowie, of uniontown, are the only survivors of that unique pilgrimage, so far as can be ascertained. the party consisted of such distinguished and well remembered whigs, of uniontown, as james veech, alfred patterson, rice g. hopwood, thomas r. davidson, lee haymaker, john harvey, william mcdonald, robert l. barry, james endsley, william e. austin, e. b. dawson and lucien b. bowie. there were doubtless others, but owing to the long lapse of time their names are not recalled. redding bunting drove the team that hauled the cabin, and thomas a. wiley was with the party as an employe of the stockton stage line, which furnished four coaches for the transportation of the political pilgrims. james endsley was of the somerfield family of endsleys, and died in that place in july, . at middletown, a short distance east of south mountain, in maryland, the log cabin boys were confronted with a petticoat suspended from a pole, which excited them to rage. a collision and a fight ensued. john harvey, the muscular man of the log cabin boys, engaged a like representative of the other side, and it is claimed, by the friends of harvey, that he vanquished his antagonist. it is not improbable that both sides claimed a victory. the party reached baltimore safely and on time, and were received in that city with great enthusiasm. they were tendered a reception speech, which was delivered by "the milford bard," a celebrated baltimore poet and orator of that day, and the speech responsive was made by william e. austin, who was a graceful orator, and his effort on this occasion was one of his best. the stoddard house, at keyser's ridge, was subsequently and successively kept by dennis hoblitzell, william fear, one of the mccurdys, adam yeast and david johnson, the latter the stepfather of mrs. mcclelland, of the mcclelland house, uniontown, before mentioned, who was born in this house when it was kept by her father, dennis hoblitzell. william fear owned the old stoddard house, and sold it to perry shultz, who conducted it as a tavern for a number of years, in addition to the parties above named. william and daniel fear were brothers. william, upon quitting the road, removed to virginia, where he lived to an old age and died. daniel exchanged the mountains for the rich valley of the monongahela, and ended his days in brownsville. in truman fairall built a house on keyser's ridge, and conducted it as a tavern down to the year , and a short time thereafter moved to the state of iowa, where he spent the remainder of his life. the stockton line of coaches stopped at fairall's. fairall was a native of old virginia. samuel fairall, a son of truman, the old tavern keeper, at one time a student in the dunlap's creek academy, near merrittstown, fayette county, pennsylvania, is a law judge in one of the courts of iowa. about half a mile west of keyser's ridge, and in the year , john woods built a house and conducted it as a tavern until the close of business on the road. he was an uncle of henry, thomas and alexander woods, of uniontown, and an old wagoner. sandy connor, the old blacksmith of keyser's ridge, and occasionally a stage driver, retired to an humble dwelling on the road side, opposite the woods house, and there in the depths of the mountains took final leave of the old road and all its endearing memories. two miles west of keyser's ridge an old wagon stand tavern was kept by daniel fear, before mentioned, who was the father of john g. fear, who kept the old workman house, in brownsville, a few years ago, george w. fear, formerly a wholesale liquor merchant in the same place, and frank fear, who once kept the yough house in connellsville. the old fear tavern referred to was also at one time kept by harvey bane and by william carlisle, and later by david johnson. it was a frame house on the north side of the road. within the venerable walls of this old tavern, and amid the romantic walks about it, when it was kept by david johnson, alfred mcclelland, the renowned old tavern keeper of uniontown, wooed and won his bride, and here in was happily married to miss sarah e. hoblitzell, now, and for many years, a widow, and reigning mistress of the old mcclelland house, in uniontown, one of the most famous of all the far famed hostelries of the road. about three-fourths of a mile west from the old fear house, in later years better known as the bane house, james reynolds established a tavern as early as the year , and continued to preside over it and entertain the traveling public until the year . it was a popular wagon stand in its day. james reynolds, its old proprietor, was the father of william reynolds, elsewhere mentioned as an old wagoner, tavern keeper and express agent. daniel fear succeeded james reynolds in the old house mentioned, and conducted it for a term of four years. he next moved to a wooden house about three hundred yards to the westward, and kept it as a tavern for two years. this old house was built by jacob frederic augustine, and known as the augustine house. from this old house daniel fear moved to sand springs, and kept the old hiram sutton house at that point for a term of two years, at the end of which he moved to brownsville, and died suddenly in uniontown on july , , while on a business errand to that place. john woods succeeded fear in the augustine house. within a distance of one hundred yards westward from the old reynolds house, and in the year , henry walters erected a wooden building and embarked in the business of tavern keeping. after a brief experience in this line, he removed to hopwood, where he operated a blacksmith shop. while in hopwood, and from the savings of tavern keeping and blacksmithing, he purchased the land on dunbar's camp, occupied it a number of years, sold it at an advance to dr. waters, of the soldiers' orphans' school, and with his added accumulations, bought the old grier-brown farm on redstone creek, in franklin township, fayette county, pennsylvania, founded the village of waltersburg, and about two years ago died, leaving his family a comfortable inheritance. he is well remembered as an amiable, industrious and money accumulating citizen of german origin. chapter xxx. _old taverns and tavern keepers continued--winding ridge to the big crossings--the state line--how it is noted--the old stone tavern on winding ridge, john welsh, major paul, the wables, edward c. jones, the augustines, daniel blucher, petersburg, gen. ross, william roddy, gabriel abrams, the risler family, col. samuel elder, robert hunter, john mcmullin, alfred newlon, lott watson, john mitchell, john bradfield, the temple of juno, the big crossings, endsley's old tavern, john campbell, william imhoff--an old time fourth of july celebration._ from baltimore to the point last mentioned in the preceding chapter, all the old taverns on the road are in the state of maryland. the road crosses the dividing line between the states of maryland and pennsylvania, near the eastern foot of winding ridge. the crossing point is marked by a metal slab shaped like the ordinary mile post, and bears this inscription on one side: "state line, md. - / to wheeling, to petersburg, - / ." on the other side: "state line, penna. - / to cumberland, to frostburg, - / ." near the top of winding ridge, and in somerset county, pa., there is an old stone tavern which was built as early as the year , and by john welsh, who occupied it and conducted it down to the year , when it passed to the management of samuel dennison, who was succeeded in turn by m. j. clark, isaac ochletree, peter yeast, maj. william paul, michael cresap, robert boice and william lenhart. john welsh, who built this house and first occupied it, was the father-in-law of aden clary, well known in the early history of the road. major paul kept this house in , and for some time thereafter. he subsequently kept a tavern in washington, pa., on maiden street, opposite the female seminary, and later in west brownsville, where he died more than forty years ago. he was familiarly known from one end of the road to the other. voluble in speech, rotund in form, and ruddy in complexion, major paul was a fine type of the jolly landlord of the old road. he had a daughter, the wife of aaron wyatt, an old tavern keeper of the road, who always enjoyed the reputation of keeping a good house, owing in all probability to the early and practical training of his wife. mrs. patrick at one time owned and occupied the old stone house on top of winding ridge. she was the mother of w. w. patrick, now, and for many years, the intelligent head of the old reputable and successful banking house of r. patrick & co., of pittsburg. about the year the stables, appurtenant to the old stone tavern, above mentioned, and when it was kept by william lenhart, were destroyed by fire, supposed to have been the incendiary work of a disreputable woman. the loss was serious, and included two fine horses, the property of william hall, the typical old regular wagoner, hereinbefore mentioned. winding ridge derives its name from the tortuous course of the old braddock road up the mountain, at that point. [illustration: john risler.] at the foot of winding ridge, on the north side of the road, an old wagon and drove stand was kept as early as the year , by john wable. this old tavern keeper was probably well advanced in years when he first put out his sign, and from this old house he was summoned to his last account. he had two sons, john and jacob, who succeeded him in the management of the old tavern, as tenants in common. the sons applied themselves assiduously to the business of entertaining the public, and after a brief experience, concluded that their father's old house was too small to meet the demands of the increasing trade and travel of the road, and accordingly tore it down and erected a new and larger one in its place. the new house attracted a paying business, and remains a well known landmark of the road. in course of time the wables left this house, and their successor was edward c. jones, the grandfather, on the maternal line, of caleb and noble mccormick, of uniontown. this was more than fifty years ago. mr. jones moved from this old house to searights, where he resided for a time, and subsequently located in new salem, where he died. the old wable house next passed to the hands of jonas augustine, who became its owner and conducted it as a tavern for many years, doing a good business. while in charge of this old tavern he was elected a member of the legislature of pennsylvania for somerset county, and represented his constituents with recognized fidelity. he died soon after his legislative career ended, and the old tavern was purchased by his brother, daniel augustine, who kept it for many years, and until tavern keeping on the road ceased to be profitable. previous to the occupancy of daniel augustine, this house was kept for brief periods between and , first by michael cresap, and after him by joseph whetstone. cresap went from this house to the stone house on winding ridge. the widow of jonas augustine, well advanced in years, occupies this old house at the present time, as a private residence, and daniel augustine is a resident of petersburg, and regarded as the richest man in that town. one mile west of augustine's, daniel blucher kept a tavern as early as . he was a german, and his custom consisted mainly of the patronage of old wagoners. this house dropped from the roll of taverns long before the great travel on the road ceased. the ancient and picturesque village of petersburg is the next point reached on the westward march. petersburg is noted for its healthful location and the beauty of the surrounding scenery. it has always been a popular resort for summer tourists seeking exemption from the stifling heat of crowded cities. here lives [g]gen. moses a. ross, a retired merchant, who did business in the village for fifty years, and gained the confidence and enjoys the esteem of all his neighbors. a number of years ago his fellow citizens elected him to the legislature, and he served them intelligently, faithfully and honestly. he is a christian gentleman, and his long and honest business career on the road entitles him to be classed as a pike boy, well worthy of honorable mention. general ross was born in masontown, fayette co., pa., in the year . here also lived for many years, and died, william roddy, who was at one time a superintendent of the road, and a gentleman of unquestioned integrity. the first tavern ever kept in petersburg was by gabriel abrams, father of the late judge abrams, of brownsville. it was a frame house, on the south side of the road, and built by gabriel abrams, aforesaid. this house did a large business throughout the entire career of the road, as a national highway. subsequent to the time of abrams it was conducted successively and successfully by john skinner, daniel clary (in ), william reynolds, thomas brownfield, james marlow, michael cresap, peter turney, joseph hendrickson and henry magee. a frame house on the north side, erected by henry wentling, was conducted by him as a tavern from to , when he leased it to john risler, a celebrated old tavern keeper, who kept at various points on the road in the days of its glory. mr. risler was the father-in-law of the venerable harrison wiggins, brown hadden, and the late stephen w. snyder, and it is the tradition of the road that wherever a kitchen and a dining room were controlled by a female member of the risler family, there a well cooked and relishable meal was sure to be obtained. mr. risler was succeeded in the old wentling house by james connelly, and he, in , by the stalwart and popular old wagoner, matthias fry. fry remained in charge until the spring of , when he turned it over to john bell, who was succeeded by his son-in-law, col. samuel elder, who remained in charge until some time late in the forties, when he moved to uniontown and took the management of the national house in that place. in the year robert hunter opened a tavern in a brick house, on the south side of the road and street, in petersburg, and conducted it for many years with marked success. mrs. hunter, the old and amiable hostess of this house, is remembered as well for her good qualities as a housekeeper as for her immense size. she weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. this old house was subsequently kept by john a. walker, john mcmullin, alfred newlon and lott watson, in the order given, and was always well kept. the stage coaches of one of the early lines stopped at this house, and it has been extensively patronized by summer visitors and pleasure seekers. it was one of the very best eating houses on the road, and is continued as a tavern to this day by mr. mitchell, who holds a license and keeps a good house. john e. reeside married a step-daughter of john mcmullin. [footnote g: died december , .] [illustration: the temple of juno.] at a very early period in the road's history, john mitchell kept a tavern one mile west of petersburg, on the north side. besides doing a general business, this old house was a station for the first line of stages on the road. it was destroyed by fire on the st day of october, , and supplied by a new log structure, which was kept as a tavern for many years by john mitchell, jr., who erected near the old site the present large and substantial brick building in which he is now living, one of the oldest men on the road. on the opposite side of the road from this house immense stabling was erected, in after years supplemented by cattle and hay scales, all of which are still standing, tending slightly towards dilapidation and decay, but in a much better state of preservation than most of the old stables of the road. there is a large and fertile farm connected with this old tavern stand, well managed, under the direction of its venerable owner, [h]john mitchell. [footnote h: died in .] a short distance west from mitchell's, a large brick house on the north side of the road, was kept as a tavern by john bradfield in , and later. the locality was known as newbury. john bradfield was the general agent of the first heavy freight line put on the road, moved by six horse teams, stationed at intervals of fifteen miles. he was an old wagoner, and a good business man, and before going to newbury kept a tavern in wheeling and in washington, pennsylvania. after bradfield's retirement the newbury house was continued as a tavern by moses jennings. less than a mile west of newbury, on the north side of the road, an old building once used as a tavern, attracts special attention by reason of the singular style of its architecture. it is a wooden structure, commonly called a frame, with an unusually high portico in front, supported by four round and tall wooden columns, tapering upward and downward from the centers. it reminds one of the old pictures of the temple of juno, and possibly the designer had that ancient temple in view when he planned this old tavern. he is said to have been a native of the vicinity, not likely versed in the classic orders of architecture, but the style he adopted in this instance might reasonably be regarded as the monogynous. two immense stables appurtenant to this old tavern, one log, the other frame, both still standing, weather beaten, empty, and useless, bear silent, but impressive testimony to the thrift of other days, and impart a tinge of melancholy to the memories of the old pike. daniel show was the original owner of the quaint old building above described, and its first occupant. he sold it to samuel easter, who conducted it for a brief period, and was succeeded by peter lenhart, mentioned hereinafter as "shellbark." samuel thompson succeeded lenhart, and he in was succeeded by mrs. metzgar, who subsequently became the wife of john olwine. [illustration: the endsley house.] and now the hills that skirt the youghiogheny river rise to view, and somerfield is reached, an ancient little town, which the old metal mile posts on the road persist in calling smithfield. that this town was once called smithfield there can be no doubt, and that it now is somerfield is equally clear. it was originally called smithfield, because its founder's name was smith, but the postoffice department changed it to somerfield on account of the great multitude of smiths and smithfields in all portions of the universe. somerfield has been the scene of many a lively incident of the old road. here light feet, impelled by lighter hearts, tripped to the notes of merry music, and the ringing laugh and sprightly jokes of the old stage driver and wagoner, enlivened the now dull halls of the old taverns. the most noted old tavern keeper of somerfield was capt. thomas endsley. somerfield was always a stage station, the second relay east of uniontown. the endsley house was the headquarters of stockton's line. it is a stone building, and stands near the bank of the river at the western end of the town, and was erected in the year by kinkead, beck & evans, the old bridge builders, and occupied and conducted as a tavern by james kinkead, the senior member of the firm, from the date of its completion to the year . john campbell was its next occupant, who kept it for a term of two years, and until . capt. endsley then took charge of it, and conducted it down to the year . john shaffer kept it from to , when capt. endsley again took charge and continued down to , when redding bunting was installed, and conducted it down to the year . he was succeeded by john richards, who remained in charge until . squire hagan conducted it from to , and aaron wyatt from to , when capt. endsley, the third time, re-entered, and remained in charge until , when he gave place to his son william, the present incumbent. this old house is as solid as when first constructed. its foundation walls are not the least impaired, and its mortar pointings are as hard as the stones, while the wood work, and notably the doors, casings and mantel pieces, are in a perfect state of preservation, attesting the skill of the mechanics at the early period in which the house was built. near the center of the town, on the south side of the street, an old log tavern was kept by john campbell, as early as the year , and immediately after his retirement from the endsley house. he was succeeded in turn at this house by l. c. dunn, samuel frazee, moses jennings, and john bradfield. the june bug line of stages stopped at this house, and for a while the good intent line. it went out of business in , was remodeled and improved, and is now the private residence of james watson. prior to and down to a tavern was kept on the north side of the street in somerfield, by daniel blucher, j. tantlinger, capt. morrow, aaron wyatt, andrew craig, samuel thompson and p. r. sides, in the order given. this house ceased to do business in , and was pulled down in , and never rebuilt. in james kinkead, the old bridge builder, kept a tavern in a brick house on the south side of the street in somerfield. this house was afterward and successively kept by william imhoff, james watson, lot watson, john irvin and ephraim vansickle. vansickle was a blind man and engaged in tavern keeping when the glory of the road was fading away. he had many of the elements of a successful tavern keeper, and furnished satisfactory entertainment to the few travelers and strangers who sought shelter and refreshment under his kindly roof; but he was too late. tavern keeping on the national road was but a legend when he embarked in the business, and he was constrained to listen day after day, and night after night to the glowing recitals of the good times in bygone years, and reconcile himself as best he could to the existing situation. at somerfield the road crosses the youghiogheny river over a large, handsome and substantial stone bridge, three hundred and seventy-five feet in length, with three symmetrical arches, and appropriately named by old pike boys the big crossings. a large dressed stone in the wall of this bridge above the surface of the road, and near the eastern end, bears the inscription; "kinkead, beck & evans, builders, july th, ." the day of the month, the anniversary of independence, is given because on that day the bridge was finished, and the occasion was celebrated with great eclat. the inhabitants of the mountains for miles around, male and female, old and young, with old fashioned banners and old fashioned music, turned out in great numbers, inspired by that genuine patriotism which characterized the early period of our country's independence, while yet many of the soldiers of the revolution were living, and were addressed in eloquent terms by the hon. andrew stewart, col. samuel evans, hon. john dawson and john m. austin, of uniontown. chapter xxxi. _old taverns and tavern keepers continued--big crossings to mt. washington--old shellbark, jacob probasco, jockey hollow, old tom brown, mt. augusta, marlow's, the three cabins, mccollough's--a fugitive slave tragedy--a sermon cut short by the baying of hounds--charley rush--the sheep's ear--the bull's head, the old inks house, nick mccartney, boss rush, samuel frazer, john rush._ the first old tavern west of the "big crossings," and the first in fayette county, pa. (for the river here is the boundary line between the counties of fayette and somerset), is that which for many years was kept by peter lenhart, commonly known as "shellbark." this is a two-story house, originally built with logs, but subsequently weather-boarded and painted red. the red, however, has long since disappeared, and it now wears the dingy, dark colored hue that settles upon all ancient buildings. a man named ebert built this house and occupied it as a private residence. he was a tanner by trade, and a justice of the peace. he sold out to peter lenhart's father, who occupied the house also as a private residence until his death, when his son peter succeeded him and opened up the house as a tavern, and soon after added a distillery. the house had a good custom and "shellbark" was prosperous. he was an eccentric man, and like orator puff, had two tones to his voice. he had a habit, upon rising every morning, of cutting a large slice from a loaf of bread, spreading it with butter, and eating it in connection with a glass of whiskey. he enjoyed this matutinal habit for many years, and rarely omitted it. why he was called "shellbark" is not accurately known. he was in early life an old-line democrat, but in later years got "mixed up," and seemed to have lost his political moorings. he died a few years ago, and his widow and daughter remain in the old house, occasionally entertaining strangers and travelers in very satisfactory style. [illustration: the big crossings.] the next old tavern stand is about half a mile from lenhart's, on the south side of the road. the line of the national road here is the same as that of the old braddock road, and this house was kept as a tavern by andrew flenniken, before the national road was constructed. jacob probasco succeeded flenniken in this house. besides keeping a tavern, probasco had teams on the road, was a contractor for repairs, operated a store, put up and operated a grist and saw mill, and engaged in many other enterprises. one of his contracts was for taking up a portion of the old road bed. at first, as elsewhere noted, the road was paved with large boulders, which were subsequently taken up and their places supplied by stones broken into small pieces. there are points along the road where the old bed remains, and here the road is in better condition than elsewhere, which has started the belief that it was a mistake to take up the original bed; but this is a disputed and unsettled question. prominent among those who thought it was a mistake to take up the original road bed was capt. thomas endsley, the old tavern keeper of somerfield. he argued the question on many occasions with the engineers, and after the work was done adhered to his opinion, and characterized the plan as a foolish notion of inexperienced young cadets. probasco got into trouble in attempting to collect a claim by attachment, was indicted for perjury, and soon after left the state, settling in ohio, and there became prominent and wealthy. it was a relative, probably a son of jacob probasco, who donated the money for the erection of the celebrated fountains in the city of cincinnati. probasco sold out to peter baker, who kept the house a number of years, and he was succeeded in turn by john irvin, jacob richards, charles kemp, aaron wyatt, morris mauler, aden clary and alexander speers. it was a stage house, and passengers by one of the coach lines took meals there. john conway now occupies the property, and it is owned by aden clary, of frostburg, maryland. the house is long and narrow, made up of different structures erected at different times, one part stone, another log, and a third frame, all now, and for a long time heretofore, joined together and enclosed by weather-boarding. the intervening space between this and the youghiogheny river is called "jockey hollow," a level piece of road upon which horses were run and cock-fighting practiced. hence the name jockey hollow. ephraim vansickle, "blind eph," as he was called, kept a tavern many years in an old log house in jockey hollow, and did a good business. this house was never kept as a tavern by any other person than vansickle. he subsequently kept a tavern in somerfield. nicholas bradley, who died a few years ago, was an old denizen of jockey hollow. he was a contractor on the original construction of the road, and as his name implies, an irishman. his son, daniel, still lives here, an active business man and an influential democratic politician. [i]jeremiah easter, esq., democratic jury commissioner, also lives here. john conway once kept a tavern in the "bend of the road" near the foot of the hill, about half a mile west of jockey hollow. this house was a log structure, long since demolished, and a small frame now stands on the old site. john conway was daniel bradley's grandfather, long since dead, and therefore not the man at present occupying the old probasco tavern. [footnote i: now deceased.] next is the old tavern of thomas brown. this is a large stone house, built by mr. brown about the time the road was made. it stands on the south side of the road. brown kept it as a tavern from the time it was built until the time of his death. col. ben brownfield and gen. henry w. beeson were wont to come here on their sleighing excursions in the olden time, often remaining many nights and days enjoying themselves in dancing and feasting. brown was a good fiddler, and furnished his guests with music, as well as other means of entertainment. he was a large man with a shrill voice, and considered a popular landlord. the property remained in the brown family a few years after the death of the old proprietor, and ultimately fell into the hands of jacob umberson, the present occupant. the elections of henry clay township were formerly held at this house, and many exciting scenes have been witnessed here on election day. the next old tavern site is mt. augusta. (site is used because the old brick tavern house that stood here for so many years was burned down some time ago, and has not been rebuilt.) it was one of the largest and most commodious houses on the road, with two large water troughs and extensive stabling among the appurtenances. in the palmy days of the road it did a large business. john collier was the original owner and occupant of this property. at his death it fell into the hands of his son, daniel, who kept it for a number of years and sold out to thomas brownfield. brownfield kept tavern here for thirty years, and sold out to john o'hegarty, the present owner and occupant. daniel collier moved from here to georges township, where he died a few years ago, the owner of a large estate. brownfield became successively commissioner and sheriff of fayette county, pennsylvania, and at the close of his term as sheriff removed to the state of missouri, where he died. the sale of this property by brownfield to o'hegarty, was effected through the agency of the celebrated henry clay dean. o'hegarty lived in lebanon county, pennsylvania, when he became the purchaser. the old tavern house was burnt during the occupancy of mr. o'hegarty. after the fire he moved into a frame tenant house, on the opposite side of the road, a little to the east, where he lives now. he is an acting justice of the peace, esteemed for his honesty and probity, and wields great influence among his neighbors. next is a stone house on the south side of the road, first kept as a tavern by william shaw, and afterward by william griffin, charles kemp, isaac denny and william a. stone, in the order given. it did a good business, and was regarded as a good house. [illustration: daniel collier.] next comes the old marlow house. this is a large two-story brick building, near the summit of a long hill. on the opposite side of the road a large stable was erected, capable of sheltering a hundred horses, and now in a decaying condition. the indispensable water-trough was here also. this house was built and kept as a tavern by benjamin miller, the grandfather of ben, jeff and sam miller, of uniontown. miller sold the property to james marlow. marlow kept it a long time, and died in it. at the time of his death he was superintendent of the road. he was a short, heavy set, quiet man, and came from maryland. he had several sons, all of whom went west many years ago, and one of them is now the proprietor of the "american hotel," in the city of denver. benjamin miller was once a candidate for the legislature, and pending his canvass declared, "by the eternal, if the people did not elect him he would go up on the hill overlooking harrisburg, and look down with contempt upon the capitol." he was not elected. at the foot of the hill, below the marlow house, stood, in the olden time, a cluster of small log cabins, three in number, which constituted a tavern stand known as the "bush house," or "three cabins." this quaint old tavern was kept by one leonard clark, who entertained a great many strangers and travelers, especially such as were in quest of something to slake their thirst. its best business days were during the time the road was undergoing construction, and upon its completion the "three cabins" succumbed to more pretentious inns. these cabins were covered with clap-boards; the chimneys built of rough stones, and "topped out" with mud and sticks. clark, the old proprietor, retired from public life soon after the completion of the road, went west, left his cabins to the tender mercies of the elements, and scarcely a trace of them can be seen at this day. that jolly times occurred at this old tavern, among the early pike boys, there can be no question. the next house is a two-story stone building with portico in front, known in recent years as the "old mccollough stand." it was built and first kept as a tavern by a man named bryant. james sampey, isaac nixon, morris mauler and nicholas mccartney, each kept this house for shorter or longer terms before mccollough went into it. col. john w. mccollough, who became the owner of the property, kept tavern here for many years, and died the proprietor. he was a man of stalwart size, a talking man and a politician. he was likewise a contractor, and did much work on the road. he left a widow and several children. [j]jim and nick, two of his sons, are well known pike boys. his [k]widow married 'squire burke, who now occupies the house, and there is no place on the road where a better meal can be obtained. a tragedy was enacted at this house which forms a memorable event in the history of the old pike, and served as a good text for the old anti-slavery agitators. it was on the th of july, . early in the morning of that day, while a number of wagoners were engaged in feeding and cleaning their teams, as they stood in the wagon yard, a negro passed along the road, and william king, one of the wagoners aforesaid, cried out in a loud voice to nicholas mccartney, who was then keeping the house, "there goes a runaway nigger." "are you sure of that?" inquired mccartney. "i am," replied king, whereupon mccartney darted after the negro and captured him a short distance south of the house, the rocks and brush in that locality having impeded the progress of the fugitive. mccartney led him into the house, and informed him that he was going to take him back to his master in maryland. the negro seemed submissive, and mccartney placed him in charge of one atwell holland, his brother-in-law, while he went for a horse to carry out his purpose of taking him back to maryland. during mccartney's absence the negro ran out of the house, and atwell and others pursued him. atwell being more fleet than any of the other pursuers, soon overtook the negro, whereupon he wheeled upon holland, drew a dirk knife from his pocket, struck it into his pursuer's heart, and made good his escape. holland immediately fell to the ground, and expired while being borne to the house by his companions. among the persons present on this tragic occasion, was one lewis mitchell, who was a great hunter and an occasional preacher. while holland was lying on the ground dying, mitchell placed wild grape leaves on his wound, and prayed for him. mitchell was preaching once in this neighborhood, and in one of his most earnest passages, heard the yelping of hounds. he immediately ceased preaching, and exclaimed, "there are the hounds, and d--d if lead ain't ahead," and straightway dashed out of the meeting house to join the sportsmen. [footnote j: both now dead.] [footnote k: now dead.] the next old tavern is about four hundred yards from the last one, and was also built by bryant, above mentioned, but not for a tavern. this house was kept successively by john mccollough, morris mauler and adam yeast, and is now kept by [l]nick mccollough. there were times when it had a "good run" of patronage. adam yeast, one of its old occupants, was an eccentric character, and ultimately became a lunatic. [footnote l: since deceased.] next we come to charley rush's old stand. this was a famous stopping place. charles rush settled here in the woods in , built the house, which he occupied as a tavern until he died in , in the prime of life. he always kept a big team on the road, under the management of a hired driver. he was a brother of boss rush, and the father of henry clay rush, a prominent and influential citizen of uniontown. he was fond of horse racing, and always kept fast horses. his son henry clay was his favorite rider, who, when a small boy, appeared on the race course arrayed in the jockey outfit, and exactly filling the regulation weight. he would cut a sorry figure now, on the back of a race horse. charles rush was kind and charitable in disposition, but when exigencies required, would not decline a fisticuff. many an overbearing bully has felt the damaging effects of his well-aimed blows. he entertained strangers and travelers at his hospitable board, whether they had the means of paying their bills or not, but always preferred that impecunious guests should inform him of their condition before engaging accommodations. on one occasion an irishman tarried with him over night, and in the morning, after breakfast, informed him that he had no money to pay his bill. "why didn't you tell me that last night?" sharply inquired mr. rush. "and faith, sir," replied the irishman, "i'm very sorry to tell you of it this morning." rush, pleased with his wit, absolved him from his bill, gave him a parting drink, and allowed him to go "scot free." [m]william l. smith, esq., ex-county commissioner, married the widow rush, and occupies the old stand as a private residence. samuel rush, a farmer, and brother of charles, lived about three miles from here, back in the country. he was a contractor on the road, and an energetic, honest and highly respected citizen. he was the father of [n]marker rush, the proprietor of the well known "rush house," near the union depot, in pittsburg. marker must have inherited his fondness for the sports of the day through his uncle charles, as his father was not given to worldly indulgences. [footnote m: now dead.] [footnote n: since deceased.] [illustration: sebastian rush.] there was a little log house a short distance west of charley rush's old stand, which was kept as a tavern for a few years by edward dean. it was not one of the original taverns, and not considered "regular." the pike boys of the neighborhood called it the "sheep's ear." its chief business consisted in selling whisky at three cents a drink, which was the price of whisky all along the road. f. h. oliphant, the well known iron manufacturer, probably the oldest in the state, once put a line of wagons on the road to carry goods and merchandise from brownsville to cumberland. the wagons were drawn by mules, and the teams changed at fixed points along the road. this old dean house was one of the stopping places of this line. one night some mischievous person, or persons, cut the harness of one of the teams into shreds, so that oliphant's line did not move out the next morning from the "sheep's ear." another house of similar proportions and character near by, was kept by thomas dean. it was known in the neighborhood as the "bull's head." it was the custom of the pike boys of the neighborhood to collect together in these old houses, when they were kept as taverns, now at one and then at the other, to "while away" the long winter evenings, and enjoy themselves in dancing and revelry. nicholas mccartney often attended these festive gatherings when a young man, and could relate many interesting incidents and anecdotes connected with the "sheep's ear" and "bull's head" inns. we next come to the old inks house, now owned and occupied by nicholas mccartney. this is a large frame, weather-boarded house, with a spacious wagon yard attached, a large stable and a number of sheds and other outbuildings. the house was built by george inks, and kept by him as a tavern for many years. a man named heckrote kept here once, and so also did john risler, and samuel m. clement, for many years a prosperous farmer on redstone creek, near uniontown, entertained the traveling public for a brief period, in his early manhood, and proved himself a competent landlord. the house enjoyed a large share of patronage during the prosperous times on the road. [o]mr. mccartney, present occupant and owner, has been in feeble health for many months. previous to his present illness he was a man of robust health and great energy. he is a son-in-law of thomas brownfield, the old proprietor of the mt. augusta house. he is universally esteemed among his neighbors, and general sympathy is manifested on account of his illness. [footnote o: now dead.] we next reach the celebrated house of [p]sebastian rush, invariably called "boss." it is not a wagon stand, but an old stage house. here stage passengers took meals, which were invariably gotten up in the best style. the house was built in by hon. nathaniel ewing, who then owned it. rush moved into it soon after it was finished, as lessee of judge ewing, and not long after purchased it, and occupied it uninterruptedly to the present time. here, also, is a store, postoffice and other improvements, constituting a little village called farmington, and considered the grand commercial and business center of the mountains. sebastian rush is widely known as an influential republican politician, has been superintendent of the road by appointment of the governor, and nominated by his party for associate judge, but defeated by reason of the decided and long existing preponderance of the democracy in the county. when a young man, and living in a small log house near the tavern stand of his brother, charles, he was elected constable of his township, and, being too poor to own a horse, performed the functions of his office on foot. since then he has made constables and other officers, and owned horses without number. previous to the widow tantlinger kept tavern in an old wooden house, on the ground now covered by the rush house. the store here, before rush came to the property, was conducted by peter t. laishley, an old and well known methodist preacher, still living. he was then a free will baptist. morgan jones also once kept store at this point. he is now a real estate broker in philadelphia, and said to be wealthy. he had several brothers, among them david, john and samuel e., who were well known. david settled in wisconsin, and became lieutenant governor. john went to kentucky, and became a prominent iron manufacturer. samuel e. is a probate judge in southern colorado. allen crane also once kept store here.[q] [footnote p: deceased.] [footnote q: deceased.] the house now owned and occupied by washington hensel, was once kept as a tavern by samuel frazer. its public career terminated about the time sebastian rush located at farmington. a short distance over the hill, west, there is a frame house, built by john rush, and by him kept as a tavern for a number of years. henry clay rush also kept this house for a short time. it is not classed among the old taverns, but during its short public career enjoyed a high degree of popularity. boss rush, jr., lives here now in the capacity of a private citizen. john rush was one of the most popular landlords along the road. he is a brother of boss, and is still living, somewhere in the west. this old house was destroyed by fire a few years ago, and nothing remains of it but two tall chimneys, standing erect at this day. [illustration: ruins of the old john rush house.] chapter xxxii. _old taverns and tavern keepers continued--fort necessity, washington's first battle field, monroe springs, reception to president monroe, gate bob mcdowell, braddock's run and grave, fayette springs, a trio of old fiddlers, chalk hill, snyders, old squire price, the summit of laurel hill, molly calhoun, ephraim mclean, the big water trough on laurel hill, the goat pen, the turkey's nest, monroe, known now mostly as hopwood, matthias fry, german d. hair, the old morris house, widow sands, harry gilbert._ mt. washington is a point replete with historic interest. here washington first measured swords with an enemy, and fought his first battle. it is the site of fort necessity, and known in colonial times as the great meadows. gen. washington subsequently became the owner of this property, and held it until his death. it was no doubt owing to the fact that his first engagement with an armed foe took place on this ground he resolved to buy it. in his last will he directed it to be sold by his executors, together with other real estate he held, and the proceeds divided among parties he named. the tract, when owned by washington, contained two hundred and thirty-four acres, and he valued it at six dollars an acre. he thus refers to it in a note appended to his will: "this land is valuable on account of its local situation. it affords an exceeding good stand on braddock's road, from ft. cumberland to pittsburg, and besides a fertile soil, possesses a large quantity of natural meadow, fit for the scythe. it is distinguished by the appellation of the great meadows, where the first action with the french, in , was fought." previous to , and by divers good conveyances and assurances, down from washington, this estate passed into the hands of the late hon. nathaniel ewing, who caused to be erected on the property the large brick house, still standing, and one of the most noted old taverns on the road. judge ewing subsequently sold and conveyed the property to james sampey, who went into possession and kept the tavern for many years, and until his death. the first year after mr. sampey's death the management of the tavern and farm was placed in charge of robert hogsett, who turned over to the representative of the estate the sum of four thousand dollars, as the profits of one year. the good intent line of stages stopped at sampey's, and as showing the extent of the business of the house, mr. hogsett mentions that on one morning seventy-two stage passengers took breakfast there. john foster and james moore subsequently kept this house. they were sons-in-law of james sampey, and moore was an old stage driver. at the close of business on the road. ellis y. beggs purchased the property and the tavern was closed. william d. beggs, the father of ellis, died in this house. he had collected the tolls for many years at the gate near searights, was likewise a school teacher, and a good one, and was, for a number of years, steward of the county home. his eldest daughter, jane, was the second wife of dr. smith fuller, the eminent uniontown physician. godfrey fazenbaker succeeded beggs in the ownership, and engaged extensively in farming and stock raising. mr. fazenbaker died in possession, and the property descended to his heirs, who are the present occupants. the big water-trough still remains on the opposite side of the road from this old tavern, but all else has changed since the days when the proud stage driver cracked his long silken-ended whip over the backs of his four spanking steeds. the next old tavern was at monroe springs, on the hillside, a short distance west of one of the old round toll houses. this house was built by charles mckinney, and opened up by him as a tavern. it was a log house, weather-boarded, of small dimensions, now entirely obliterated. boss rush commenced his career as a tavern keeper in the old house at this point, and it was kept at various times by such well known men as wm. s. gaither, german d. hair, wm. dillon, morris mauler, john rush, john foster and david ogg. it was essentially a wagon stand, and night after night, in the prosperous era of the road, the ground all around it was crowded with big wagons and teams, and the old bar room rang out with the songs and jokes of the jolly wagoner. opposite the house a large water-trough was erected, kept full and overflowing from a spring near by, called "the monroe spring," in honor of president monroe. when mckinney kept this house president monroe passed along the road, and a public dinner was given him here. john hagan, then a contractor on the original construction of the road, was prominently connected with the bestowal of this compliment upon the old-time president. the few old folks who have personal recollections of this event, speak of it as a memorable and exciting occasion. the dinner was substantial and superb, and highly enjoyed by all participating, including the illustrious guest. john hagan was the father of robert hagan, esq., ex-commissioner of fayette county, pennsylvania. [illustration: hon. samuel shipley.] one of the old stone toll houses stood a short distance east of the monroe springs, and remained until , when it was torn down. hiram seaton was one of the early collectors at this point. he was the father of [r]c. s. seaton, the well known banker of uniontown. he subsequently served two terms as county treasurer. he had a wooden leg, and was esteemed as an honest man. he went west, settled in missouri, and died there. he was succeeded as toll collector by robert mcdowell, always thereafter called "gate bob," to distinguish him from a number of other well known citizens bearing the same name. robert mcdowell was also an honest man, a popular man and a fighting man. he was tall, thin and muscular. his fingers were distorted by rheumatism, but he could use them in a fight with terrible effect. he was the democratic candidate for county commissioner of fayette county, pennsylvania, in , but beaten by the know nothings. he died a few years ago at dunbar, very greatly lamented. the memory of "gate bob" will long remain fresh in the recollection of the pike boys, old and young. [footnote r: now dead.] the next old tavern stand is the "braddock's run house." gen. braddock was buried near this house, a day or two after his disastrous defeat by the french and indians, at braddock's field, near pittsburg. the exact spot where he was buried is still pointed out, and can be seen from the road. this circumstance gave name to the brook here, and the tavern. the house was built by charles mckinney, the same person who built the "monroe springs house." he kept tavern here for many years. the house is a large two-story stone structure. it was subsequently and successively kept by robert shaw, noble mccormick and william shaw. this property is now owned by the heirs of james dixon, and is not a public house. next we come to the "fayette springs hotel," a large stone house built at an early day by the hon. andrew stewart, who owned the property, and remained its owner until the day of his death. it was recently sold by his heirs to capt. john messmore, of uniontown. this house was a favorite resort for visitors to the fayette springs, situate about three-quarters of a mile distant. in its halcyon days it had its ten-pin alley, billiard tables, swing, and other appliances of pleasure and comfort, but they have all passed away, and probably by reason of hard times, and the abatement of interest in the springs may never again be brought into requisition. here merry parties of young folks from uniontown and elsewhere were accustomed to assemble and enjoy a hearty supper, engage in the dizzy mazes of the dance, and when it was all over "go home with the girls in the morning." mahlon fell and tom collins were the old-time fiddlers, and furnished the music, which in its line was of superior excellence. they were occasionally reinforced by jacob b. miller, esq., who tendered his services without pecuniary reward, and in the language of the day, "could make a fiddle talk." collins is dead. [s]fell and miller are both living. the former has joined the church and abandoned the fiddle, while the latter still retains his taste and talent for music, and often entertains his friends in a private manner, with many of the popular tunes of the olden time. the "fayette springs house" has been kept in turn by cuthbert wiggins, john risler, b. w. earl, samuel lewis, william snyder, william darlington, john rush, major swearingen, redding bunting, cuthbert downer, and perhaps others. [footnote s: all now dead.] we next reach "chalk hill," so called from the circumstance of white clay adhering to the shovels of the workmen engaged in digging the foundation of the road. the tavern house was built here in by jonathan downer, who was its first host. he was succeeded by boss rush, and he in turn by springer downer, samuel shipley, william shipley and milford shipley. [t]john olwine now owns the property, and keeps tavern here. it is a two-story frame, with commodious stabling attached. boss rush went from this house to farmington. samuel shipley bought this property at an orphans' court sale, in , for $ , , and paid for it in gold. westley frost was the sheriff and trustee to sell. shipley subsequently became an associate judge. he was more fortunate than his neighbor and fellow inn keeper, boss rush, in belonging to the strong side. rush was one of his competitors on the republican side. [footnote t: now dead.] next comes the old tavern stand of james snyder. snyder seems to have been here always, and is here yet. he did vacate a short time for william shaw, but not long enough to change the tradition that this is, and always was, snyder's. the house looks old and dingy, and no wonder, for it has withstood the wild dashes of numberless mountain storms. it is situate at the foot of the eastern slope of laurel hill, and on the head waters of sandy creek. the old stable is decaying, and will soon be gone. the old host, too, is showing the marks of time and age. he has already passed beyond the age defined by the psalmist. his three score and ten are supplemented by well nigh half a score.[u] he is the only old landmark left along the road, that has not shifted from original ground, except natty brownfield. a few years ago he was elected county commissioner on the democratic ticket, but practically without opposition. he is universally esteemed for his honesty. as a tavern keeper he enjoyed an excellent reputation, and many a weary traveler has found consolation and comfort under his hospitable roof. the best wishes of all his neighbors attend the old gentleman in his declining years, and heaven's choicest blessings are invoked upon his venerable head. [footnote u: now deceased.] near the top of laurel hill on the eastern slope, once lived a noted character named benjamin price. his house, a log structure, was built near the roadside, but below its surface, so that the upper story was about on a level with the road. he kept a cake shop, was an acting justice of the peace, and a strict methodist, and was in the habit of annoying wagoners and hog drovers by fining them for swearing, and they in turn annoyed him by throwing billets of wood and disabled hogs down his chimney. price is long since dead, and the last vestige of his old house has disappeared. the stable nearby it remained longer, but it has gone, too. a few apple trees planted by the hands of the 'squire, now encroached upon by the mountain undergrowth, are all that remain to indicate the spot where the old house stood. [illustration: stone house, darlington's.] we next reach the "summit house." this is not a wagon stand, nor strictly an old tavern, but rather a fashionable and popular summer resort. it is on the apex of laurel hill, and has the advantage of pure air, and an extensive and charming view of the surrounding and underlying country. at this point large finger boards were erected, indicating distances and routes to the washington springs, dulaney's cave and jumonville's grave, which are landmarks indelibly impressed upon the memories of surviving wagoners and stage drivers. the property here belongs to [v]col. samuel evans, a wealthy and well known citizen of fayette county. [w]ephraim mcclean kept the house here for many years, and made it famous by the excellence and style of his entertainment. his flannel cakes and spring chickens have passed into history, as unrivalled productions of culinary art and tempters of the appetite. there is a large spring and bath house here. this has ever been a favorite resort of parties in pursuit of pleasure. here the youth, beauty and fashion of uniontown were wont to come to while away an evening in eating, dancing and other diversions. the rooms were small, but the pleasure was unbounded. here also the yeomanry of the county came to make a harvest home, or celebrate an anniversary. the drive, up and down the mountain, is delightful, and formed no small share of the pleasure incident to the old time parties at this popular place of resort. [footnote v: deceased.] [footnote w: deceased.] ephraim mcclean left this house many years ago and settled in illinois. he was succeeded by henry clay rush, who maintained the reputation of the house during his occupancy, but left it in to go to searights. brown hadden came in after rush, and after hadden the house was successively kept by stephen w. snyder, john snyder, william boyd and webb barnet, the present occupant. anterior to the erection of the present buildings, and many years ago, one molly calhoun kept a small cake shop at this point, and displayed upon her sign-board the following quaint legend: "out of this rock, runs water clear, 'tis soon changed into good beer, stop, traveler, stop, if you see fit, and quench your thirst for a fippennybit." about a mile down the western slope of laurel hill we come to the famous watering trough. here william downard lived for many years in a stone house built against the hillside. he did not keep a tavern, for he had no ground for teams to stand upon, and no stabling that was accessible, but he always maintained the big water-trough in good condition _pro bono publico_, and it would be almost impossible for big teams to make the ascent of laurel hill, in hot weather without water. downard was eccentric and cross, and begrudged the use of his water to persons he did not like, although the supply was inexhaustible. he was born near uniontown of english parentage, a federalist in politics, and a skeptic in religion. he was endowed with strong sense, and could argue with considerable force. he has been dead many years. a little over a mile below the big water trough the romantic spot known as the "turkey's nest" is reached. the road crosses a small stream here, which, owing to the peculiar formation of the ground, required the erection of a bridge, supported on the south side by an immense stone wall. this is one of the largest stone structures on the road, and is in a good state of preservation. it is a fine specimen of workmanship, and a grand monument to the skill of the old time stonemasons. this locality has always been invested with much interest, and admired by the lovers of picturesque beauty. until recently it wore its primitive colorings. now it is changed. its primitive appearance has disappeared before the advancing forces of progress and improvement. the native trees have been cut down and a little hamlet occupies their places with attendant stables, cribs, coops and other out-houses. the old massive curved stone wall remains, but all about it so changed in appearance that the spot is scarcely recognized as the "turkey's nest." it is the popular belief that this locality derived its name from the discovery here of a wild turkey's nest, by workmen engaged on the original construction of the road. an old long log house, near the foot of the hill, was called the "goat pen," and why is not accurately known, but this name it bore from one end of the road to the other. we now reach the ancient and celebrated village of monroe, a name it took in honor of the president hereinbefore mentioned. approached from the east, the first old tavern and the first house in the place is the "deford house," in the olden time and by old people called the general wayne house. it appears that at an early day general wayne had occasion to pass this way, and tarried over night with john deford, who kept tavern in a small log house a short distance in the rear of the present building. deford at this time was contemplating the erection of a new and more imposing edifice, and applied to his distinguished guest for a plan. it was furnished, and the present stone structure is the outcome of it, which shows plainly enough that general wayne was a much better soldier than architect. deford kept tavern here for a long time, and was succeeded first by henry fisher and next by matthias fry. samuel magie is now the owner of the property, and its career as a tavern is ended. a frame house a short distance below and on the opposite side of the street from the deford house was once kept by james dennison, who had a considerable trade. it was afterward kept by matthias fry, but business then had greatly decreased. fry, in his prime, was one of the best men on the road, and a great favorite among the wagoners. he had been a wagoner himself for many years, and was at one time general agent for a transportation line from baltimore to wheeling, which made him the disburser of large sums of money, and he discharged his office with scrupulous fidelity. he was a large, fine looking man, stoutly built, and possessing great physical power. although amiable and good natured, he was occasionally drawn into a fight, and on one occasion, at petersburg, in somerset county, pennsylvania, whipped three reputed bullies, one after another, who entered his house when he lived there, and proposed to "clean him out," as evidence of their prowess. he died a few years ago in monroe, where his widow is still living.[x] [footnote x: now dead.] [illustration: james snyder.] the next old tavern in monroe is the stone house built by andrew mcmasters, and subsequently owned and kept for many years by german d. hair. he was the only man that ever kept this house, and he died in it a few years ago, aged about eighty years. he was a native of chester county, pennsylvania, and came to the vicinity of uniontown about the time the road was made. he was a stonemason by trade, and worked on many of the bridges of the road, including the eastern and western bridges at uniontown. next we come to the "shipley house." like all the tavern houses in monroe, and nearly all the private houses, this is a stone building, and is two stories high. it was erected by e. w. clement, and good workmanship displayed in its construction. it was kept awhile by clement, and after him at different times by john wallace, archibald skiles, samuel shipley, redding bunting, and lindsey messmore. next is the "monroe house," one of the oldest in the place. it was built by andrew mcmasters, and subsequently and successively kept by e.w. clement, thomas acklin, james shafer, a. skiles, john worthington, m. fry, and calvin springer. this was a popular house in the golden era of the road, and did an extensive business. monroe was a thriving village when the pike flourished, and the center of fun and frolic. it began to decline when the trade left the road, but is now reviving and wearing an air of prosperity by reason of the coal developments in the vicinity. on the hill above monroe stands an old two-story brick house, fast sinking into decay, which was once a well known and popular tavern stand. it was owned and kept by william morris. he put up an imposing sign, inscribed on the west side with the words, "welcome from the west," and on the east side the words, "welcome from the east." this was no false lure, and travelers from the east and west crowded into the old house to enjoy its good cheer. alonzo l. little, for many years editor and proprietor of the _genius of liberty_, was a son-in-law of william morris, and he had a son (luther) who settled in iowa and was elected state treasurer there. harry gilbert once kept a tavern in the house where charles livingston now has a grocery, at the east end of uniontown, and in later years it was kept by m. fry and j. allen messmore. many years ago the widow sands kept tavern in the frame house at the point where the connellsville and cool spring furnace roads lead off from the pike. chapter xxxiii. _old taverns and tavern keepers continued--uniontown--the town as it appeared to gen. douglass in --its subsequent growth and improvement--the first tavern--other early taverns--an old chief justice and an old landlady wrangle over a roasted pig--anecdote of george manypenny and president jefferson--the swan, the mcclelland, the seaton, the national, the clinton, the moran, the mahaney._ [illustration: gen. ephraim douglass.] at the east end of uniontown the road crosses redstone creek, over a massive and extensive stone bridge, one of the best and most expensive samples of masonry on the whole line, built by kinkead, beck and evans in . gen. ephraim douglass, the first prothonotary of fayette county, pennsylvania, in a letter to gen. james irvine, in , describes uniontown in the following vigorous and graphic style: "_my dear general_--if my promise were not engaged to write to you, my inclinations are sufficiently so to embrace with alacrity any opportunity of expressing the gratitude so justly due to your valuable friendship, of declaring the friendship of mine. this uniontown is the most obscure spot on the face of the globe. i have been here seven or eight weeks, without one opportunity of writing to the land of the living, and though considerably south of you, so cold that a person not knowing the latitude, would conclude we were placed near one of the poles. pray have you had a severe winter below? we have been frozen up here for more than a month past, but a great many of us having been bred in another state, the eating of hominy is as natural to us as the drinking of whisky in the morning. the town and its appurtenances consist of our president and a lovely little family, a court house and school house in one, a mill and consequently a miller, four taverns, three smith shops, five retail shops, two tan yards, one of them only occupied, one saddler's shop, two hatter's shops, one mason, one cake woman (we had two, but one of them having committed a petit larceny is upon banishment), two widows and some reputed maids, to which may be added a distillery. the upper part of this edifice is the habitation at will of your humble servant, who, beside the smoke of his own chimney, which is intolerable enough, is fumigated by that of two stills below, exclusive of the other effluvia that arises from the dirty vessels in which they prepare the materials for the stills. the upper floor of my parlor, which is also my chamber and office, is laid with loose clap-boards, or puncheons, and the gable ends entirely open; and yet this is the best place in my power to procure, till the weather will permit me to build, and even this i am subject to be turned out of the moment the owner, who is at kentuck, and hourly expected, returns. i can say little of the country in general, but that it is very poor in everything but its soil, which is excellent, and that part contiguous to the town is really beautiful, being level and prettily situate, accommodated with good water, and excellent meadow ground. but money we have not, nor any practicable way of making it. how taxes are collected, debts paid, or fees discharged, i know not; and yet the good people appear willing enough to run in debt and go to law. i shall be able to give you a better account of this hereafter. col. mcclean received me with a degree of generous friendship, that does honor to the goodness of his heart, and continues to show every mark of satisfaction at my appointment. he is determined to act under the commission sent him by council, and though the fees would, had he declined it, have been a considerable addition to my profits, i cannot say that i regret his keeping them. he has a numerous small family, and though of an ample fortune in lands, has no cash at command. the general curse of the country, disunion, rages in this little mud hole with as much fury, as if they had each pursuits of the utmost importance, and the most opposed to each other, when in truth, they have no pursuits at all that deserve the name, except that of obtaining food and whisky, for raiment they scarcely use any. the commissioners--trustees, i should say--having fixed on a spot in one end of the town for the public buildings, which was by far the most proper, in every point of view, exclusive of the saving of expense, the other end took the alarm and charged them with partiality, and have been ever since uttering their complaints. and at the late election for justices, two having been carried in this end of the town, and none in the other, has made them quite outrageous. this trash is not worth troubling you with, therefore i beg your pardon, and am with unfeigned esteem, dear general, your very humble servant. "ephraim douglass." that was a long time ago, and a great change has come over the face of things. gen. douglass lived to see uniontown arise from the mud hole and become a flourishing county seat. his mortal remains lie buried within the sound of the court house bell, and could he come forth now, and see uniontown, he would be startled. instead of a mud hole, he would see finely paved streets, studded with handsome buildings, lighted by electricity, enlivened by electric cars, telegraphs, telephones and railroads, and where the old distilleries stood, beautiful and staunch church edifices with spires pointing to the skies, and in fact he would behold all the evidences of a flourishing city, inhabited by active, intelligent and christian people. the first tavern in uniontown was kept by john collins in . it was a log house on the north side of the main street, the site of which is now covered by "commercial row." this old house remained standing until , when it was torn down by its owner of that date. isaac beeson, who erected the buildings thereafter known as "commercial row." john collins kept this old tavern down to the year . it was subsequently kept at different times by samuel salter, cuthbert wiggins, william salter, john hoge and andrew byers. william salter was an old sheriff. byers went from this house to the old walker house, now the "central," and afterward to the "clinton house." jonathan rowland, daniel culp and matthew campbell each kept a tavern in uniontown as early as . the location of rowland's tavern is not accurately known, but the best evidence available, points to the lot now owned by daniel downer, esq., and occupied by law offices, near the court house, as the site. jonathan rowland subsequently became a justice of the peace, and a leader in public affairs. culp's old tavern was a log house on the lot now owned and occupied by justice willson, corner of main street and gallatin avenue. matthew campbell's old tavern, stood on the western side of the lot now covered by the moran house, formerly and for many years known as the "fulton." colin campbell as early as kept a tavern in a house that stood on the lot now covered by the bryan building, on main street, near the center of the town. this old tavern was subsequently owned and presided over by samuel salter, father of william salter, the old sheriff. margaret allen kept a tavern in the east end of town, a little above and opposite the madison college buildings, in the year , and for some time thereafter. she died in , at the age of ninety-one years. dr. robert mcclure opened a tavern in december, , a short distance west of the court house, on the south side of the street, and kept it down to the year . it does not appear that any other person kept this house. it was in close proximity to the "jolly irishman," hereafter mentioned. thomas collins, son of john collins, before mentioned, kept a tavern as early as in an old house on the lot, corner of morgantown and main streets, now occupied by the tremont buildings. thomas collins was sheriff of fayette county from to , and commanded a company of soldiers from uniontown and vicinity in the war of , locally called the "madison rowdies." a number of his descendants are still living in the neighborhood of uniontown. previous to the opening of the present century the veteran of laurel hill, john slack, before mentioned, kept a tavern in the old shelcut house, on the south side of main street, opposite the old gregg house, and afterward kept the "spread eagle," the exact location of which is involved in doubt, but the best information available assigns it to the weniger corner, opposite the old walker house, hereinafter mentioned. william downard, subsequently proprietor of the big water-trough house on laurel hill, kept tavern in the shelcut house from until probably , when he retired to the pine covered slope of laurel hill, where he spent the remainder of his life. he served as county commissioner from to . the gregg house, situate on the north side of main street, on the lot now covered by the residence of dr. j. b. ewing, was in existence as a tavern as early as , and continued as late as . it was a small house of brick and frame united, but had a large patronage. in early times travelers and other guests at taverns did not desire or expect separate rooms, and hence a small tavern like the gregg house could accommodate as many persons as the more pretentious hotel of the present day; and at wagon stands the bar room, as before stated, was the only bed chamber for wagoners. james gregg was the first proprietor of the gregg house, and was succeeded by his widow, nancy gregg, in . after her time it was kept in turn by william medkirk, matthew allen, simeon houser, amos howell, philip d. stentz, and thomas moxley. james gregg, the old proprietor of this house, was the father-in-law of the late hon. daniel sturgeon, who was a united states senator in the days of clay, webster and calhoun. in , and for a number of years thereafter, pierson sayers kept a tavern in the house now occupied by mrs. ruby, on the north side of main street, a short distance west of the court house. while keeping this house sayers was elected sheriff, and turned over his tavern to jacob harbaugh, who conducted it for three years, when, singularly enough, he was elected to succeed sayers as sheriff. ellis baily, the grandfather of mrs. ruby, bought this property from pierson sayers, and subsequently, and for many years, it was the private residence of the late hon. john dawson. james piper kept the "jolly irishman" as early as . this bustling old tavern was located on main street, opposite the residence of the late hon. daniel kaine. james piper, a son of the old proprietor, was a prominent and influential citizen of the town and county for many years. he was a member of the bar, a justice of the peace, register of wills, and recorder of deeds. he left uniontown about , went west, and died soon after. william merriman kept a tavern near margaret allen's old stand as early as . but little is known at this date of merriman or his old tavern. its existence was brief and its patronage limited. at and before the beginning of the present century samuel salter kept a tavern in an old log and frame house that stood on the lot now occupied by the handsome residence of the hon. john k. ewing. chief justice thomas mckean "put up" at this old tavern on his visits to uniontown to hold the courts of fayette county, and was frequently regaled with roast pig. the pig was well prepared, cooked and dressed, and in all respects savory, but its frequent appearance on the table moved the old chief justice to believe that he was getting "too much of a good thing," and accordingly one day, in peremptory terms, he commanded the dining room girl to remove the offensive dish, which she did with trembling hands. this of course raised a storm in the old hostelry. mrs. salter became indignant, and, bringing back the pig, replaced it on the table, at the same time addressing the judge thus: "you are chief justice and run the court; i am chief cook and run this dining room. that pig must stay," and it did. upon the withdrawal of salter, in the year , this old tavern came under the management and control of jacob harbaugh, the old sheriff before mentioned. after harbaugh's time it was kept by george ewing down to a period as late probably as . hugh espey, a well remembered old county treasurer, and straightgoing presbyterian elder, married a daughter of george ewing. opposite the old gregg house, and adjoining the shelcut house, george manypenny kept a tavern as early as the year , and probably before that date. this was a leading tavern of the town, subsequently conducted by benjamin miller, and after him by harry gilbert. one of the old stage lines stopped at this house. george manypenny, the old proprietor, was the father of the late hon. george w. manypenny, who was for many years a prominent and popular political leader and officeholder of the state of ohio. he was born in uniontown, and most likely in his father's old tavern. george manypenny, sr., is described by those who remember him as a vigorous, pushing and witty irishman. he called once to see president jefferson, and was invited by his excellency to take a glass of wine with him, which he did without hesitancy, and to obtain a second glass, this story is told of him: as he was about to withdraw from the executive mansion he remarked to mr. jefferson that he was going home, and would tell his friends that he had the honor of taking two glasses with the president of the united states, and hoped his excellency would not let him go home with a lie in his mouth. as the story goes, the old president saw the point of the ingenious suggestion, and again brought forward the wine. the walker house, corner of broadway and main streets, was kept as a tavern as early as by zadoc walker, who owned the property. general lafayette was entertained at this house in , and santa anna, the renowned mexican warrior, stopped over night in it on his way to washington city, about sixty years ago. this house has been kept at different times since by andrew byers, william byers, redding bunting, and others. when bunting kept it, it was called the "united states." it has recently been enlarged and improved, and its name changed to the "central." its first host under the new name was james i. feather, who subsequently became associated with william a. mchugh. its present lessees and managers are messrs. frock and mitchell. the spottsylvania house, for many years conducted prosperously by john manaway, and afterward, until it closed, by lloyd mahaney, adjoined the walker house on the west, and used a number of rooms belonging to that old hostelry. [illustration: aaron wyatt.] the mccleary house ranked high as an old-time inn or tavern. it is situate on the corner of main and arch streets, a substantial brick building, recently enlarged, embellished and improved, and at present catering to the public under the historic name of "brunswick," and conducted by russell w. beall, a gentleman admirably equipped for the business. ewing mccleary owned and kept this old tavern as early as the year , and many years thereafter. upon his death, which occurred in this house, it was continued as a tavern under the management of his widow, until she became the wife of william hart, when he took charge of it and kept it down to the year , or thereabout, when he fell into disgrace and retired under a storm of popular reprobation. this house was a favorite stopping place of general jackson. on an occasion a committee of citizens met jackson on the road near town and tendered him the freedom of the municipality. among other things made known to him by the committee, he was informed that quarters had been provided for his accommodation at the walker house. he replied that he "always stopped at hart's." "but," rejoined the chairman of the committee, "hart is a whig, and his tavern a whig house." the old warrior answered back by saying that "hart always treated him well, and he would go to his house," and to hart's he went, reluctantly escorted by the democratic committee. after hart's precipitate withdrawal from this old house, it was leased by s. b. hays, subsequently of the mansion and other old taverns in washington, pennsylvania. hays conducted it for a brief period when it went into the possession of joshua marsh, who remained in charge not longer than a year or two, and left it to take charge of the national house. its next occupant was the veteran redding bunting. after bunting came aaron stone, then william beatty, and after him william gans. after gans, peter uriah hook was installed as landlord, who named the house "the eagle," and remained in charge a number of years. hook was an eccentric man, given to redundancy of speech, a merchant, auctioneer, and for two years a member of the lower branch of the state legislature. he died in uniontown, a number of years ago, but will not soon be forgotten. aaron wyatt succeeded hook, and kept the house until his death. his widow and son james succeeded to the management, and james dying in the house, it passed to the hands of his widow, mrs. kate wyatt, and from her to russell w. beall, the present occupant. the before-mentioned old taverns were of the town, rather than of the road. most of them were in existence and doing business before the road was made. the remaining old taverns of uniontown, hereafter mentioned, were essentially taverns of the national road, and derived their principal patronage from it. the swan, nathaniel brownfield proprietor, is an old, long frame building, at the west end of town, supplemented some years after it commenced business, by a brick addition to the eastern end. thomas brownfield, father of nathaniel, the present proprietor, and grandfather on the maternal side, of the author of this volume, kept this old tavern as early as , and down to the year . when the national road was opened for business, this house became a wagon stand, and continued such until the last crack of a battelly white whip was heard on the road. it was provided with two commodious wagon yards, one at the front, on the roadside opposite the house, and the other between the house and the large stable in the rear. with the exception of one year that this old tavern was kept by william cox, nathaniel brownfield, who was born under its roof, has kept it, uninterruptedly, from the date of his father's death, and "holds the fort" to this day, "with none to molest or make him afraid." upwards of eighty, and in vigorous health, he has witnessed and participated in the exciting scenes of the road from the beginning to the end thereof. at an early period he became the owner of a farm consisting of one hundred acres adjacent to town, which he managed advantageously in connection with his tavern, and within the past year sold for the sum of one thousand and five dollars per acre, retaining his old tavern stand, to which he is attached by so many memories. his wife and good helpmate survives with him, and together they occupy the old tavern and recount with varied emotions the stirring scenes of the eventful past. the mcclelland house, as has been elsewhere stated, is one of the best known old taverns on the national road. it is located on the north side of the main street, and in the western end of town. as early as , richard weaver kept a tavern in a wooden building on the lot now covered by the mcclelland house, and was succeeded by william mcclelland. william mcclelland was keeping this old tavern in , and owned the lot on which it stood at that date in fee simple. after the death of william mcclelland his son, alfred, came into possession, tore down the old building, and erected in its stead the present brick building, known always thereafter as the mcclelland house. this house was the headquarters of the good intent line of stages, from the time it was put on the road until it was withdrawn at the end of the road's career as a national highway. alfred mcclelland presided over this house and controlled it from the date of its erection until he died, with the exception of brief intervals mentioned below. he was a large, raw-boned man, of agreeable, though somewhat awkward manners, and had complete knowledge of the mysterious art of keeping a tavern. he had for his main clerk and bar-keeper, macon w. rine, a confidential and loyal friend, well remembered by the older citizens of uniontown, as a thoroughly competent man for his employment. alfred mcclelland died on the th of september, . in the intervals before mentioned, the mcclelland house was kept for a short time previous to by s. b. hays, before he took control of the old mccleary house. thereafter, at different times, the house was kept by jerry colflesh, lewis d. beall, william and thomas swan, j. w. kissinger, calvin springer, william wyatt, kim frey, russell frey, frey and swan, joseph c. stacy and charles h. rush, in the order named. it is at present conducted, as elsewhere stated, by mrs. sarah e. mcclelland, widow of the old proprietor, and retains all its ancient prestige, under her admirable management. [illustration: the brownfield house.] the seaton house was a familiar hostelry in the olden time. it was founded by james c. seaton in the year , or thereabout. it is located on the northeast corner of main and arch streets, diagonally opposite the old mccleary house, and is now known as the west end hotel. mr. seaton, the old proprietor, came to uniontown from virginia, and died in this old house many years ago. the house was built in sections at different times until it reached its present large proportions. during its occupancy by mr. seaton it was a wagon stand of the national road, and extensively patronized. it was provided with ample grounds for wagons and teams to stand on, which are now covered by the lingo block and other buildings in the vicinity. mr. seaton had three sons: hiram, james, and john. hiram was the old toll collector before mentioned, and james was a pike boy in a general way. he drove stage occasionally, and also the express; led horses from station to station on the road, and made himself useful in many other ways. he died at his father's old tavern in the meridian of the bright era of the road, and before he had reached middle age. john seaton, the other son, went west, and died recently in nebraska. daniel collier, before mentioned as keeper of the old tavern at mount augusta, was a son-in-law of james c. seaton; and charles h. seaton, the well known insurance agent of uniontown, is a great-grandson of the old proprietor, and others of his descendants are still living in uniontown and vicinity. after mr. seaton's death this old tavern was continued a number of years by his widow, and growing old she leased it to james swan, who conducted it for a brief period, mrs. seaton boarding with him in the house. mr. swan was succeeded by philip d. stentz, and he in turn by j. w. kissinger, kim frey, david g. sperry, john messmore and henry jennings. the late james t. redburn bought the property from the seaton heirs and sold it to john messmore, who in turn sold it to henry jennings. it is now owned and kept by george titlow, under the name of the west end hotel, as before stated, well conducted and well patronized. the old national house is located on the northwest corner of morgantown and fayette streets. it was built for a private residence by the late hon. thomas irwin, and occupied by him as such until he was appointed judge of the united states district court for the western district of pennsylvania, when he moved to pittsburg. judge irwin sold the property to the celebrated dr. john f. braddee, of mail robbing notoriety, and he occupied it during the period covered by his depredations upon the mail bags. its situation for such operations was convenient, as it adjoined the old stockton stage yard hereinbefore described. after braddee's conviction l. w. stockton acquired title to the property, and subsequently sold and conveyed it to joshua marsh, who opened it as a tavern. it was the headquarters of the stockton line of stages from the time it was opened until all stage lines were withdrawn from the road. james k. polk, with his family and traveling companions, stopped over night at the national when on his way to the capital to be inaugurated president, in the spring of . a large number of citizens assembled on the occasion to meet the coming president, and were addressed by him from the high steps in front of the house. the national was a well kept house. situate a distance from the main street, it was comparatively exempt from the ordinary street noises, and conducted in a quiet manner, disturbed only by the arrival and departure of the stage coaches. mr. marsh, its old proprietor, was a man of retiring disposition, gentle manners, and feeble health. he visited washington when mr. buchanan was inaugurated president, and was one of the unfortunates who were poisoned on that occasion at the national hotel of that place. he returned home, but never fully recovered from the effects of the poison, and died in uniontown. among others who kept the national were george evans and col. samuel elder. the latter is still living, a hale octogenarian, at ligonier westmoreland county, pa. the clinton house, which stood on a lot adjoining the old court house, was a popular house throughout its whole career. it was demolished in by condemnation proceedings, and the lot on which it stood taken by the county for the use of the new court house. it was erected in by the late hon. andrew stewart, who occupied it as a private residence and kept his law office in it for a number of years. it was first kept as a tavern by andrew byers, and after him, from time to time, until its demolition, by stephen w. snyder, whose wife was a risler, zadoc cracraft, isaac kerr, jesse b. gardner, john bierer, calvin springer, springer & renshaw, bernard winslow, william springer, joseph wright, j. r. thornton, and james i. feather. general taylor stopped over night at the clinton house in , _en route_ to washington to assume the office of president of the united states. it was kept at that time by andrew byers. [illustration: col. samuel elder.] the moran house is the old fulton house, opposite the court house, on elbow or main street. like the old seaton house, the fulton was built in sections, some of them by seth howell and others by his predecessors. seth howell kept this house a long time. he was called "flinger," because he had a habit of flinging disorderly persons out of the house, as he termed the process of ejecting. howell was succeeded by calvin springer, and he by william thorndell, who became the owner of the property. david mahaney came in after thorndell, michael carter after mahaney, and it next passed to the hands of james moran, its present occupant and owner, who gave it the name of the moran house. this old tavern was always well patronized, and continues to be under its present proprietor, who has added many improvements, and the house is in better shape now than at any time heretofore. the name mahaney has long been identified with the national road. the mahaney house was built and is conducted by lloyd mahaney, a son of david, elsewhere mentioned. it is the newest hotel in uniontown, and the finest in architectural display. it is a hotel, having come into existence after the old inns and taverns had been relegated to the dead past. it is located on a lot formerly owned and occupied by george ebbert, adjoining the present national bank of fayette county on the east, and is on the south side of main street. it is well managed and does a large business, and is likewise one of the best of the many recent improvements in uniontown, and reflects credit on its proprietor. chapter xxxiv. _old taverns and tavern keepers continued--uniontown to searights--anecdote of john slack--slack at night and tight in the morning--old roads--parting tribute to the old taverns of the mountains--henry clay extols the virtue of buckwheat cakes--boss rush and his poker--moxleys--the old hunter house--searights--the grays and the gray meeting--jackson men and adams men meet and count noses--old political leaders--barnacles of the road._ the tavern keepers on the "old road," as it is called, were as earnestly opposed to the building of the national road, as those on the latter were to the building of the railroad, and for like reasons. the following anecdote serves as an illustration: john slack kept a tavern for many years at the summit of laurel hill on the old road, in a house near the washington springs. before the national road was opened said slack, in a complaining manner, "wagons coming up laurel hill would stick in the mud a mile or so below my house, when the drivers would unhitch, leave their wagons in the mud, and bring their teams to my house and stay with me all night. in the morning they would return to their stranded wagons, dig and haul them out, and get back to my house and stay with me another night. thus counting the wagons going east and west, i got four night's bills from the same set of wagoners." "now," concluded slack (since the completion of the national road), with indignation, "the wagoners whiff by without stopping." old wagoners were accustomed to say of slack that he was "slack at night and tight in the morning," meaning that he was clever and cheerful when they "put up" with him in the evening, and close and exacting in the morning when bills were payable. the old road referred to was the braddock road, which from the summit of laurel hill, turned northwardly, as before stated, to gists (mt. braddock), stewart's crossing (connellsville), braddock's field and fort pitt (pittsburg). [illustration: the searight house.] an old road between uniontown and brownsville was laid out in by viewers appointed by the court of westmoreland county, pennsylvania, before fayette county was established, upon a petition signed mainly by inhabitants of brownsville and vicinity, who complained that "they had to carry their corn twenty miles to the mill of henry beeson at uniontown." the distance of twenty miles complained of was by way of the old road known as "burd's," from the mouth of redstone creek to gists, where it intersected braddock's road. the road between uniontown and brownsville, above mentioned, was carried east of uniontown, to intersect the braddock road, which it did, near slack's tavern. the line of the national road closely follows that of the old road between uniontown and brownsville. marks of the old road are plainly visible to this day, and some of the old buildings, which were erected along its line, are still standing, notably the dwelling of thomas b. graham, esq., three miles west of uniontown, which was an old tavern. this old house was the first residence of the hon. andrew stewart after his marriage, and his oldest son, david shriver, was born in it. john slack, the old tavern keeper before mentioned, was the father of mrs. mcclean, wife of ephraim mcclean, who for many years kept the cottage tavern on the summit of laurel hill, and no doubt the fame of this house under the management of the mccleans is attributable in great measure to the early training of mrs. mcclean in her father's old tavern, where she was reared. heretofore in these pages the reader has been introduced to old taverns and old tavern keepers on the mountain division of the road, a long division covering two hundred miles, including the intervening glades and valleys. surprise is often expressed that there were so many good taverns in the mountains, remote from fertile fields and needed markets. that they were equal to the best on the road is conceded; and that the old taverns of the national road have never been surpassed for bounteous entertainment and good cheer, is likewise conceded; in fact, has never been disputed. it may seem a trifling thing to be written down in serious history, that the old taverns of the mountains excelled all others in the matter of serving buckwheat cakes; but it is germane and true. to relieve this statement from the imputation of being a trifling one, it may be added that there are men and women still living on the line of the national road who often heard the great statesman, orator and patriot, henry clay, praising the good qualities of the buckwheat cakes furnished by the old mountain taverns with as much fervor and more enthusiasm than he ever exhibited in commending his favorite measure, the protective tariff. and, as a matter of fact, it might be stated in this connection, that the making of buckwheat cakes is essentially a home industry, not, however, of the infantile order, and while it may not need protection, is certainly deserving of encouragement. another memorable feature of the mountain taverns was the immense fires kept constantly burning in the old bar rooms during the old-time winters. in many instances the grates were seven feet in length, with corresponding width and depth, and would contain an ordinary wagon load of coal; and when the fires were stirred up in these immense grates, and set to roaring, the jolly old wagoners occupying the bar rooms paid little heed to the eagerness of the howling mountain weather. the old landlord of the mountains took special pride in keeping up his bar room fire. he kept a poker from six to eight feet long, and would not allow it to be used by any one but himself. boss rush, not inaptly termed "the prince of landlords," was so careful and punctilious about the management of his bar room fire that he kept his big poker under lock and key, so that no one could use it but himself, always using it at the right time, and keeping up a uniform and proper temperature for the comfort of his guests. with this parting tribute to the memory of the old taverns and tavern keepers of the mountains, the attention of the reader is now invited to those on the line of the road through the rich valleys of the tributaries of the ohio. monroe and uniontown, and the intervening space of two miles between these points, are covered in a previous chapter. three miles west of uniontown is an old tavern stand known in late years as the moxley house. it is a long log and frame building, situate on the south side of the road, with a porch extending along its entire frontage. this house was first kept as a tavern by bazil wiggins, an uncle of harrison wiggins, the old fox hunter before mentioned, next by john gray, grandfather of the old and popular conductor from uniontown to pittsburg on the baltimore & ohio railroad, now and for many years deceased. its next occupant, and from to , was william cox, a brother-in-law of e. w. clement, the famous swearer. in the property was purchased by thomas moxley, who went into possession and continued it as a tavern stand down to the year , when henry clay rush bought it and occupied it until the year , when he sold it to edmund leonard, its present occupant. when moxley took charge of this old tavern he gave it the name of "the half-way house," for the reason that its location is about midway between cumberland and wheeling. it was always a well conducted tavern, and did a large business, mainly in the line of wagon custom. less than a mile west of the old moxley house, on the south side, and back a few yards from the road, is a fine brick building, which, during a portion of the prosperous era of the road, was a well known and popular tavern stand. the house was built by robert hunter, who occupied it for several years, but did not seem inclined to court patronage, and, as a consequence, did not do much business. he leased the house to william darlington, and moved to ohio. darlington, as before stated, had been an old wagoner, was a man of amiable temper, and did a large business at this house. he remained in it until the year , when he moved to the mountain and took charge of the stone house, then known as the fayette springs house, now dean's. there he remained until he became the occupant of the mansion house on the estate of the late col. samuel evans, near uniontown, where he died. when darlington vacated the old hunter house it was turned over to peter colley, whose father, abel colley, had previously bought it from hunter. peter colley kept the house a number of years, and died in possession. he was a man of quiet deportment, attentive to strangers and travelers, and enjoyed an extensive line of custom, until the termination of the road's high career. the old tavern is now the private residence of a. a. taggart, son-in-law of peter colley, proprietor of one of the planing mills of uniontown, and a successful contractor and builder. [illustration: joseph gray.] next, two miles further west, is searights. here is the old half-way house between uniontown and brownsville, a large stone building on the north side of the road, at the crossing of the great drovers' road of other days leading from the flats of grave creek, virginia, to bedford, pennsylvania. the large stables connected with this house, on the opposite side of the road, are still standing, and in a good state of preservation. in the olden time, in addition to the ordinary travel on the road, sleighing and other parties from uniontown and brownsville were accustomed to go to this old tavern for a night's dancing, and the attending festivities. this is also the battleground of the memorable "gray meeting" in , where the opposing hosts between jackson and adams went into an open field and measured strength by "counting off," the jacksonians outnumbering their adversaries by a decided preponderance, greatly to the mortification of the weaker column. this meeting was called the "gray meeting," because the tavern there was then kept by john gray, formerly of the moxley house, before mentioned. the leaders on the occasion of this trial of strength were as follows: on the jackson side, gen. henry w. beeson, col. ben brownfield, john fuller, david gilmore, larkin s. dearth. alexander johnson, provance mccormick, william f. coplan, henry j. rigdon, william hatfield and william searight. on the adams side: andrew stewart, john dawson, john m. austin, israel miller, e. p. oliphant, chads chalfant, stokely conwell, levi springer, dennis springer, and william colvin. prior to many of the democratic county meetings and conventions were held at searights. before the era of railroads it was a central point for uniontown, connellsville and brownsville. a large water-trough was always maintained at this old tavern, where teams attached to all kinds of wagons, coaches and other vehicles, as well as horses and mules led in droves, were halted for refreshment. at times relays of stage horses for extra occasions were stationed here, and it was always a relay for the line teams moving merchandise. an old sign-board was displayed at the front of the house for many years, bearing in large gilt letters the legend searights. the old tavern at searights was built by josiah frost, about the time the national road was constructed, and in the year william searight acquired it by purchase from frost. joseph t. noble as lessee of william searight kept the tavern first after it was vacated by frost. it was kept for a brief period at intervals by william searight, but owing to his absence from home, being a contractor on public works, he did not give the management his personal attention, but placed it in the hands of james allison, a well remembered and highly esteemed citizen, subsequently and for many years postmaster at searights. john gray, as has been stated, kept this house in . he was succeeded by john risler, the noted old tavern keeper, before mentioned. mrs. risler's mother died at this house. her name was marsh. after mr. risler left, and about , matthias fry went into possession, and conducted the house for a number of years. he had been a popular old wagoner, and drew a large wagon trade. he was succeeded by joseph gray, son of john, before mentioned, and father of john gray, the old railroad conductor. joseph gray died in this house in january, . he was a worthy citizen, well deserving of honorable mention. after the death of joseph gray the house was kept first by william shaw, known as "tavern keeper billy," and after him by william shaw, known as "wagoner billy." these two shaws were not of kin. in henry clay rush took charge of the house and remained in it until , when he purchased the moxley property and removed to that point, as before stated. rush was a popular man, and was liberally patronized by the traveling public. in the fall of , or winter of , the mansion house of ewing searight was destroyed by fire, and he moved to the old tavern when rush vacated it, remained for a while, and subsequently from time to time leased it to james frost, alfred mccormick, thomas allen, c. w. downer, robert moxley, lewis fry and james w. claybaugh. during the terms of the last mentioned persons the patronage of the house was mostly local. the house is now the private residence of william searight, a son of ewing searight, owner of the property, and late superintendent of the road. william searight, the old proprietor, was superintendent of the road for many years, during its flourishing era. the national road had its contingent of quaint characters, eccentric men, philosophers in one sense, and loafers in another. they were indigenous to the road, could not live away from it, and enjoyed the precarious subsistence they obtained on it. the load-stone that attracted them and attached them to the road, probably above all other influences, was the pure whisky, before mentioned. it was plentiful and cheap, and could be obtained almost for the mere asking. it did not contain the elements of modern whisky, which excites men to revolution, insurrection, violence and insanity. of the characters alluded to, whose haunts were at the old taverns along the road between searights and brownsville, the reader familiar with that portion of the line will readily recall marion smith, (logan) george ducket, jonathan crawford, john w. dougherty, gideon lehman and billy bluebaker. logan's forte was imitating the crowing of a rooster. ducket had no pronounced trait, but under a patriotic impulse volunteered as a soldier in the mexican war, and marched with major gardner, daniel hazard and the other heroes to the halls of the montezumas. crawford was a tailor, and worked at his trade as little as possible, but quietly enjoyed his potations. he had nothing to say. dougherty was a walking arsenal, savage in appearance and gesticulation. he carried knives, pistols and a general assortment of deadly weapons, but was never known to use them on an adversary. lehman was also a tailor and bass drummer. he had a bronzed complexion, and a stolid temperament. billy bluebaker was elastic in motion, but lacking in brain. he wore the smallest hat of any individual on the road, and was happy in doing little jobs for old wagoners at his uncle's tavern. these odd characters have all gone with the majority of the men of the road. they witnessed and in their way participated in the enlivening scenes of the great highway, and are entitled to a place in its history. [illustration: william shaw. "wagoner billy."] chapter xxxv. _old taverns and tavern keepers, continued--searights to brownsville--able colley's, johnson's, known later as hatfield's--william hatfield, his good name and melancholy death--an old and odd indenture--the old peter colley house--a tavern with a brief career, the red tavern, wilkes brown, brubaker's--brownsville--anecdotes of jackson and clay--james workman and doctor stoy--ham and eggs--bazil brashear, james c. beckley, william reynolds, the monongahela house, the clark house, the iron bridge, bridgeport, john riley, the monongahela bridge._ over the hill from searights is the old abel colley stand. the old tavern here, in the flourishing era of the road, did a large business, mainly in the line of entertaining wagoners. while all the taverns of the road were more or less patronized by wagoners, excepting a few which were exclusively stage houses, they had favorite stopping places, and the abel colley tavern was one of these. the old proprietor and his family had methods and manners which were agreeable to wagoners, and they made it a point to stop at this house in great numbers. the bills were moderate, yet the patronage was so extensive and continued so long that abel colley accumulated a considerable fortune at this old tavern, and when trade and travel ceased built a fine brick residence on the roadside opposite, where he retired with his family to private life, and in a few years thereafter died. nancy, the wife of the old tavern keeper, is well remembered as a large, amiable woman, who habitually wore an expansive cap of the queen anne style. she long since passed to the life beyond. w. searight colley, a son of abel, now occupies and owns the brick dwelling mentioned, with a fine farm adjacent. peter colley, of the old hunter tavern before mentioned, was likewise a son of abel, and he had a son, levi, a farmer and freeholder, who died a number of years ago on the old covert farm, near moxley's, now in the occupancy of one of his sons. the abel colley tavern is still standing, a monument, like many others, of the faded glories of the old pike. this old house was kept as early as the year by darius grimes, and after him by thomas moxley. in moxley's time it was called the "green tree," and the writer remembers the picture of the green tree which appeared on the sign board that hung and swung for many years in front of this old tavern. abel colley took charge after moxley left. according to the recollection of ebenezer finley, as appears by his letter in the appendix to this volume, the abel colley tavern, was kept by samuel wolverton and by hugh thompson, and this must have been previous to the time of darius grimes. it was certainly before moxley's time. [illustration: abel colley.] about one mile west of the abel colley house there is an old stone tavern on the north side of the road, known in early days as johnson's, later as hatfield's. this house was built in by randolph dearth for robert johnson, who kept it as a tavern down to the year , when he retired to a farm in franklin township, fayette county, pennsylvania, where he died, leaving behind him a good name, which is better than great riches, of which latter he had a goodly share. he was the father-in-law of thomas brownfield, who, in , was sheriff of fayette county, pennsylvania, and previously a tavern keeper on the road. henry l. murphy, a well known and thrifty farmer of jefferson township, fayette county, pennsylvania, likewise married a daughter of robert johnson. this tavern, under the guidance of robert johnson, did a large business, and the old proprietor made money by conducting it. the successor of robert johnson in the management of this house was arthur wallace, who remained in it for a single year. he was a brother of john wallace, who once kept the wilse clement house in hopwood, and subsequently removed to morgantown, virginia, and an uncle of james wallace, present proprietor of the wallace house in morgantown. peter frasher, the old wagoner and tavern keeper before mentioned, married a daughter of arthur wallace. charles guttery succeeded arthur wallace in the johnson house. [y]guttery was an old wagoner, and is now keeping a tavern in beallsville, washington county, pennsylvania, and probably the oldest man in the business. he was at the johnson house in , and a wagoner many years before that date. from to john foster kept the johnson house. he was a brother of the first wife of robert hogsett. foster was succeeded by hiram holmes, who kept the house one year. in william hatfield, who had previously bought the property, went into the house and kept it as a tavern until the year , when he closed it as a public house, but continued to occupy it as a private residence until his melancholy death. before engaging in tavern keeping, william hatfield served many years as a justice of the peace, and subsequent to served a term as associate judge. he was a blacksmith by trade, and made the old iron gates of the road. he was industrious and honest, and likewise noted for his kindness to his fellow men. it was while engaged in doing a favor for an old neighbor, in the year , that he lost his life. his neighbor, john c. craft, had purchased a patent pump, and called on judge hatfield to assist him in placing it in his well. the judge, as was his habit, promptly responded, and, going down to the bottom of the well, called to his neighbor, who stood at the surface, to send him down a saw or an ax. the needed tool was placed in a heavy iron-bound tub and started down, but, through neglect, the cable slipped, and the tub was precipitated a great depth upon judge hatfield's head, fatally injuring him. he was extricated from his perilous position in an unconscious state, carried home, and lingering only a few hours, died. his remains were interred in the beautiful cemetery near brownsville, attended by a large concourse of sorrowing citizens, including the judges of the courts and the members of the bar of fayette county, pennsylvania. [footnote y: deceased.] following is an exact copy of the indenture which bound william hatfield to learn the trade of a blacksmith: _this indenture witnesseth_: that william hatfield, of the township of union, in the county of fayette, state of pennsylvania, hath put himself by the approbation of his guardian, john withrow, and by these presents doth voluntarily put himself an apprentice to george wintermute, of the township of redstone, county and state aforesaid, blacksmith, to learn his art, trade or mystery he now occupieth or followeth, and after the manner of an apprentice to serve him from the day of the date hereof, for and during the full end and term of five years next ensuing, during all which time he, the said apprentice, his said master shall faithfully serve, his secrets keep, his lawful commands every where gladly obey; he shall do no damage to his said master, nor suffer it to be done without giving notice to his said master; he shall not waste his master's goods, nor lend them unlawfully to others; he shall not absent himself day or night from his master's service without his leave; he shall not commit any unlawful deed, whereby his said master shall sustain damage, nor contract matrimony within the said term; he shall not buy nor sell, nor make any contract whatsomever, whereby his master receive damage, but in all things behave himself as a faithful apprentice ought to do during the said term. and the said george wintermute shall use the utmost of his endeavors to teach, or cause to be taught and instructed, the said apprentice the trade or mystery he now occupieth or followeth, and procure and provide for him, the said apprentice, sufficient meat, drink, common working apparel, washing, and lodging, fitting for an apprentice during the said term; and further, he the said master, doth agree to give unto the said apprentice, ten month's schooling within the said term, and also the said master doth agree to give unto the said apprentice two weeks in harvest in each and every year that he, the said apprentice, shall stay with his said master; also the said george wintermute, doth agree to give unto the said apprentice one good freedom suit of clothes. and for the true performance of all and every the said covenants and agreements, either of the said parties binds themselves to each other by these presents. in witness thereof, they have interchangeably put their hands and seals, this first day of april, one thousand eight hundred and sixteen. george wintermute. [seal.] witness present, william hatfield. [seal.] benjamin roberts. john withrow. [seal.] [illustration: hon. william hatfield.] _fayette county, ss._: may the th, one thousand eight hundred and sixteen, before me the subscriber, one of the justices of peace in and for the said county, came the parties to the within indenture and severally acknowledged it as their act and deed. given under my hand and seal the day and year above mentioned. benjamin roberts. [seal.] all the covenants and agreements of this quaint document were faithfully kept on the part of william hatfield. benjamin roberts, the justice of the peace, before whom the instrument was acknowledged, was the father of william b. roberts, who led the company from uniontown to engage in the mexican war, and upon the organization of the second regiment of pennsylvania volunteers was elected colonel, and served as such until his death, which occurred in the city of mexico. the old justice lived on a small farm in menallen township, fayette county, pennsylvania, north of and adjoining the searight farm, and col. roberts, his distinguished son, was born there. one mile west of hatfield's is the old peter colley stand. it is a stone house on the south side of the road. peter colley was the father of abel colley, and an early settler. he kept a tavern on the old road before the national road was made. he was a money maker, and owned the land on which his tavern was erected, in fee. he was probably the first man on the national road who acquired the fame of having a barrel of money. old pike boys said he kept his money in a barrel. peter colley was well advanced in years when the national road was made, and did not long enjoy the profits of the new highway. at his death his tavern passed to the hands of his son george, who kept it for many years, and until he followed his father to the unknown world. george colley lived to see and lament the decline of business on the road, and after his death his house was discontinued as a tavern. the hills on either side of this old house are among the highest on the road, the summit of the western range being twelve hundred and seventy-four feet above the level of the sea. in the olden time, as before stated, extra horses, called "the postilion," were required to aid the stage coaches in ascending these hills. a little over a mile further west a plastered stone house, on the north side of the road, was kept as a tavern at intervals, during the prosperous era of the road. it is not, however, to be classed among the old taverns of the road. it was first kept as a tavern previous to by arthur wallace. isaac baily subsequently kept it for a brief period, and enjoyed a good measure of patronage. baily afterward became postmaster at brownsville, and finally a member of the fayette county, pennsylvania, bar. he was a shrewd yankee, and an active local politician. his wife was a daughter of solomon colley, of the large family of colleys of the vicinity. george craft once lived in this house, and occasionally entertained strangers and travelers, but was not a regular tavern keeper. this was also the residence at one time of "jackey craft," known as an eccentric character, who was in the habit of starting out over the road in a sleigh with bells, when there was no snow on the ground. before his mind became unbalanced, "jackey" was a pushing, money making citizen, but his life went out under a cloud of mental derangement, causing deep regret among his many friends. a few hundred yards further west on the south side of the road, is the red tavern, so called, because in early days it was painted red. it is a wooden building, weather-boarded. this house had a large wagon custom, and, what may be considered strange without explanation, was more largely patronized by wagoners going west than east. this was owing to the means of ingress to and egress from the house. it is located near the summit of a hill, a short distance from the road, and immediately in front of it, adjoining the road, is a steep embankment. to drive to the house going west, a way leads off from the summit of the hill, which is level, but to drive out to the road the descent is steep, and wagoners coming east could not reach the wagon yard without driving up this steep grade, and, in many instances, preferred driving on to colley's rather than pressing their teams against such an obstacle. despite the disadvantage mentioned, this tavern, as before stated, was a popular resort for wagoners. it was first kept by cuthbert wiggins, father of harrison wiggins, and at this house harrison wiggins was born. it was next kept by george richards, whose widow became the wife of john gadd. cuthbert wiggins was at this house as early as . john gribble succeeded richards as early as , and continued to keep this house for many years, making money in the business, and ultimately buying a farm in the neighborhood, ceased tavern keeping and became a successful farmer. he has been dead many years, but is well remembered as a worthy citizen. upon the retirement of gribble, this house passed to the management of fielding frasher, a steady-going man, who had been a wagoner on the road, and knew how to keep a tavern. he was an uncle of capt. l. h. frasher, of uniontown, ex-district attorney of fayette county. fielding frasher had a good custom while keeping this house, but did not continue long in the business, and was succeeded by huston todd, a well known citizen in his day. he was a brother-in-law of judge hatfield, father of ewing todd, for many years a leading citizen of brownsville, now deceased, and grandfather of william hatfield todd, a popular and efficient postal clerk on the route between pittsburg and new york. peter williams, oldest son of the late gen. william w. williams, married a daughter of huston todd. the reputation of this old house was fully maintained while under the control of huston todd. peter frasher next took charge of this house. he was a brother of fielding frasher, and a typical pike boy, bright, active, and popular. he had been a wagoner, and knew the road from baltimore to wheeling. the house, while he kept it, was crowded with guests, but his generous nature prevented him from exacting full payment of bills at all times, and as a consequence his coffers were not as much swollen as those of many of the tavern keepers, more mindful of the chief end of tavern keeping. george friend succeeded peter frasher, but remained only a short time, when he gave way to parker mcdonald. mcdonald was the last man who conducted this house as a tavern. he was active, attentive, and popular, but the glory of the road had departed, and the business of tavern keeping was a thing of the past. the old red tavern and the farm adjacent belong to the old and wealthy bowman family, of brownsville. [illustration: johnson-hatfield house.] a short distance west of the red tavern a stone house was kept by wilkes brown, before the national road was made, and derived its trade for the most part from the old road. it is still standing, but not immediately on the national road. wilkes brown was of the family of thomas brown, the founder of brownsville. the next old tavern stand on the westward tramp is brubaker's, a fine brick building on the north side near brownsville. daniel brubaker purchased this property from david auld, and went into possession in the year , and from that date until his death was its constant occupant, with the exception of a very brief period that it was occupied and kept as a tavern by alexander r. watson. mr. brubaker survived the business era of the road, and died in his old tavern. he was a pennsylvania dutchman, born in somerset county, and possessed the thrift characteristic of his race. although economical and saving, he was not stinted in providing for the comfortable entertainment of his guests, and enjoyed a large patronage, especially in the line of wagon custom. after ascending the long hill out from brownsville, going east, old wagoners found a pleasant resting place at brubaker's. alex. r. watson will be remembered by the old folks of the road as a man of small stature, but considerable energy, who, about forty-five years ago, ran an omnibus line between brownsville and uniontown for the conveyance of passengers. the next point is brownsville, for many years the head of steamboat navigation on the monongahela river. here many passengers were transferred from the stage lines to the steamboats plying between this point and pittsburg. it is shown by official figures that from , the date at which the slack water improvement was completed to brownsville, to , when through business ceased on the national road, covering a period of eight years, more than two hundred thousand passengers left the stage lines at brownsville and took passage on the monongahela steamers. west-going passengers were "ticketed through" from cumberland, baltimore and other points east, to pittsburg and other points west, _via_ the national road, and the monongahela river route. a movement was set on foot as early as the year , looking to the improvement of the navigation of the monongahela river, by means of locks and dams, followed by later spasmodic efforts, but nothing of a practical nature was accomplished in this direction until , when a company was incorporated to carry forward and complete the work. the act of incorporation designated a number of prominent citizens to solicit and receive subscriptions of stock, among whom were ephraim l. blaine, father of james g. blaine, of washington county; william hopkins, of the same county, and andrew stewart and samuel evans, of fayette county. of all the gentlemen designated for this purpose, and there was quite a large number, not one is living at this day. there were no wagon stand taverns in brownsville. wagoners "put up" at the old riley and bar houses in bridgeport, and at brubaker's, east of town. the old workman house, at the upper end of market street, was a famous stage house. it had the patronage of the stockton line. this house is a stone structure, on the north side of the street, with a spacious porch in front. james workman, the old proprietor, will be remembered as a gentleman of ruddy complexion, gray hair, slim, but erect stature, elastic step and curt speech. he presided at this house for many years, and had a wide reputation for serving good meals. this old house was built by john mcclure hezlop in , who first kept it as a tavern. james beckley afterwards kept it, and after his decease, it was continued as a tavern by his widow. james workman took charge of it in . after workman, and since the decline of travel on the road, it has been kept at different times by william garrett, aaron wyatt, william wyatt, jacob marks, john g. fear, and probably others. it is continued as a tavern, and kept at the present time by fred chalfant. the late george e. hogg, for many years a leading and wealthy citizen of brownsville, is authority for the following amusing story concerning james workman, the old tavern keeper, and general jackson. on an occasion of one of general jackson's frequent trips over the national road, the citizens of brownsville resolved to give him a public reception. all the usual arrangements for such an event were made, including a dinner at workman's tavern. the hero, upon reaching town, was taken to the presbyterian church to listen to a reception speech and receive the greetings of the people. soon after the audience had settled down mr. workman entered the building, and forcing himself down the main aisle, and to a front pew occupied by general jackson, accosted him thus: "general jackson, i have been commissioned by the committee of arrangements to provide your dinner, and have come to inquire if there is any particular article of diet you prefer above another, that i may have the pleasure of gratifying your taste." the old general gravely responded, "ham and eggs." this seemed rather confusing to the old landlord, who, supposing the general was joking, repeated his inquiry, when the same response came a second time and in an emphatic tone, "ham and eggs." the old landlord then hastily withdrew, hurried home, and commanded his cook to prepare ham and eggs for general jackson's dinner. the ham of that day was a different thing from the flabby, flavorless so-called "sugar cured" counterfeit of the present day, and thousands of other well meaning citizens besides general jackson were fond of the ham of the olden time. eggs, of course, are the same now as of yore, but simply and solely because modern food corrupters have not discovered any method of debauching them. [illustration: workman house.] mr. hogg, above quoted, is responsible also for the following story: an old line coach in which henry clay was a passenger was upset on the iron bridge, and he was slightly injured and conveyed to the workman house. dr. stoy, an old practitioner of the place, was summoned, and hastened to the relief of the distinguished sufferer. the old physician was given to loquacity, and not a little elated by being called to see so distinguished a patient. he prescribed brandy, and to vary the prescription and assuage the patient's apprehension, began the recital of an old joke, meanwhile holding in his hand a glass of brandy. mr. clay, perceiving that the story was going to be a long one, interrupted the doctor by suggesting that he be permitted to drink the brandy without further delay, and rub the glass over his wounds. a few steps below the workman house an old tavern was kept by bazil brashear, and subsequently by james searight, who left it in , to take charge of the "national house" in washington, pennsylvania. the brashear house was a station for many years of one or more of the early stage lines, and in gen. lafayette dined at this house while on his way from washington, pennsylvania, to uniontown. this old house, built of stone, is still standing, owned and occupied as a private residence by the widow of the late westley frost. bazil brashear was a brother-in-law of thomas brown, the founder of brownsville, and the grandfather of prof. brashear, the distinguished astronomer of pittsburg. james c. beckley kept a tavern in a frame house at the head of old front street, for a number of years. he was a local politician of much shrewdness, commanding a considerable following, a close friend of the late hon. john l. dawson, and served that old-time, able and distinguished statesman in many trying contests. further down the main street and on the south side near the present location of the old monongahela bank, was the marshall house. this house was first kept as a tavern by william reynolds, who was an agent of the adams express company. mr. reynolds previously kept the old abrams house in petersburg. he did a good business at the marshall house, which was headquarters for the express company. this house was subsequently kept at different times by hiram holmes, isaac vance, harvey schroyer, j.w. kisinger and william garrett. after reynolds left it the name was changed, and it was known as the petroleum house. it has not been used as a tavern for a number of years. william reynolds was a native of brownsville, born in , and drove his father's team between baltimore and wheeling, before reaching his majority. he kept tavern in petersburg five years, and moved from that place to brandonville, virginia, where he engaged in a mercantile venture, as a partner of his uncle, zalmon ludington, esq. after a brief experience as a merchant, he returned to his father's old tavern west of keyser's ridge, and afterward resumed tavern keeping in petersburg. from petersburg he went to brownsville. he was killed in a railroad accident near pittsburg in , while in the service of the adams express company. his son john is postmaster at confluence, somerset county, pennsylvania, and william hartman, the unfortunate brakeman who was shot and killed on the baltimore & ohio railroad, near dunbar, in august, , was a grandson of william reynolds. the old clark mansion, located at the east end of "the neck" in brownsville, was converted to a tavern about forty-five years ago, and became the headquarters of the good intent stage line. it was first opened up as a tavern by andrew byers, who had previously kept the clinton house in uniontown. when byers left it daniel brown, the old stage agent, took charge of it and conducted it for a brief period. daniel brown's reputation as a model tavern keeper has been adverted to in another chapter. after brown's time the patronage of this house was mostly of a local character. the clark house was kept for a while after brown left it by capt. morgan mason, who subsequently located in st. louis, where he still resides, a leading citizen, and an ex-sheriff of that city. the widow schroyer also kept this house, and matthew story, and it is at present kept by the theakston brothers. the monongahela house, a short distance west of the clark house, on the south side, was originally and for many years the private residence of samuel j. krepps. it has been probably fifty years since this house was thrown open to the public as a tavern. one of the mccurdy's was first installed as landlord of this house. he was succeeded by jesse hardin, an old stage driver, and isaac bailey, william gans, ephraim h. bar, cyrus l. conner and john b. krepps, son of the owner, kept this house nearly, if not exactly, in the order given. it was a stage house, and had a large run of general custom. it continues to be one of the leading hotels of brownsville, under the management of david provins. thomas brown, james auld, amos wilson and james c. beckley were tavern keepers in brownsville prior to the construction of the national road. auld preceded beckley in the old house at the head of front street, above mentioned. amos wilson kept the old "black horse" tavern on front street. a few yards westward from the monongahela house the road crosses dunlap's creek over a handsome and expensive iron bridge, erected in , and the first of the kind west of the allegheny mountains. the vicissitudes attending the construction of this bridge have been alluded to in a previous chapter. the stone work of this bridge, which is a fine specimen of heavy masonry, was let by contract to william searight, who pushed it forward and completed it with his characteristic energy. david chipps, a well remembered old citizen of the vicinity of uniontown, and an expert stone mason, was a boss workman on this bridge, and the late gen. william w. williams, who in the prime of his life was an excellent mason, also worked on its walls and abutments. the work was done under authority of the war department of the general government. [illustration: bridge over the monongahela.] after crossing the iron bridge the traveler is in the ancient borough of bridgeport. here jack arnold kept a tavern at a very early period. he was succeeded by john riley, who for many years kept a wagon stand. riley was a staunch citizen, and participated in the public affairs of his town. his tavern was near the market house, and was a popular resort in the olden time. isaac kimber, robert patterson and john neelan kept taverns in bridgeport before the national road was made. the present bar house is on the site of the old kimber house. the bar house is owned by ephraim h. bar, who conducted it as a tavern for many years. it was a wagon stand, and had a good trade. robert carter, old wagoner before mentioned, was one of the men who for a time successfully conducted the bar house. thornton young, george garrard, matthew story and eli bar kept this house in recent years at different times, and it is now conducted by w. f. higinbotham. it is but a short distance from the iron bridge before mentioned to the long wooden bridge over the monongahela river. this bridge, although a link of the national road, was not built by the government. it is a private enterprise, and was erected in . in an act was passed by the legislature of pennsylvania, authorizing the governor to incorporate a company to build and operate a bridge at this point; but for some cause the company was not organized, and in a company was incorporated by the legislature. ephraim l. blaine, father of the brilliant and popular statesman, was an incorporator under the provisions of the act of , and the company authorized by that act promptly organized, and completed the bridge at the date above mentioned. neil gillespie, the grandfather of james g. blaine, was named in the act of , above mentioned, as one of the commissioners to solicit and receive subscriptions of stock for the bridge. chapter xxxvi. _old taverns and tavern keepers continued--brownsville to beallsville--west brownsville, the birthplace of james g. blaine--indian hill, later known as krepps' knob--indian peter and neil gillespie--the adams house, john cummins, vincent owens--an old and mysterious murder--malden, bry taylor--tragic death of a beautiful girl--centreville, john rogers, zeph riggle, battelly white, the whip-maker, mrs. dutton, eli railley, the old constitution, beallsville, david mitchell, andrew and thomas keys, robert cluggage, william greenfield, mrs. chambers, charles guttery._ [illustration: old tavern at malden.] from the big crossings to the monongahela river at brownsville the road passes through fayette county, pennsylvania. after crossing the river bridge at brownsville, going west, the traveler reaches the soil of washington county, and plants his feet in the ancient village of west brownsville. from the hill tops on the road, as far west as hillsboro, glimpses are had of the receding mountains. west brownsville has the great distinction of being the birth place of james g. blaine, the foremost and most popular of all american statesmen of the present day. it is related in crumrine's valuable and well written history of washington county, that the land upon which west brownsville stands was originally owned by indian peter. this indian peter, at a very early day, lived on lands in the vicinity of uniontown, and gave name to peter's street, the oldest street of that town. he had a neighbor whose name was philip shute, with whom he was not on friendly terms. prior to indian peter wrote to the authorities of the proprietary government, that "he could not get along with the damned dutchman, and wished to give up his land for another tract." his request was promptly complied with, and he was given a tract of three hundred and thirty-nine acres, situate on the west side of the monongahela river, which was surveyed and called "indian hill," and upon this tract stands the town of west brownsville. it embraces krepps' knob, which together with the character of the old owner, accounts for the name given the tract. krepps' knob is ten hundred and forty feet above the level of the atlantic ocean. indian peter, it seems, died in possession of the indian hill tract, and it passed to his widow mary, a white woman, and his oldest son william. in the widow and son aforesaid, sold the tract to neil gillespie, the great-grandfather of james g. blaine. the price agreed upon between the parties was forty shillings per acre, payable in instalments of money, iron and one negro. this tract of land remained in the gillespie family for many years. philip shute, the old german neighbor of indian peter, lived in union township, fayette county, now north union, near the late residence of colonel evans, and gave name to the gushing mountain stream which flows through the lands of that vicinity. the bridge over the monongahela river stands on an almost direct north and south line, and a short distance from its northern end the road makes a sharp angle to the westward. on the south side of this angle a tavern was kept by samuel adams, as early as the year . samuel adams was the father of estep adams, the present polite and popular postmaster at west brownsville. john huston succeeded samuel adams in this old house. in the early days of the road this house was constantly crowded with guests. at the close of huston's term, the old house, which was a wooden structure, was torn down, and the present brick building was erected on its site, and continued as a tavern throughout the whole period of the road's prosperous era, and for many years thereafter. joshua armstrong was the first occupant of the new building. his term was prior to the year . morris purcell came in, after armstrong. dr. adams, the postmaster before mentioned, when a boy, counted fifty road wagons standing around this old tavern, in one night, when it was kept by morris purcell. the wagon yard, which was large and commodious, was located on the west side, and in the rear of the house. major william paul, hereinbefore mentioned, succeeded purcell in this house, about the year , and retained the extensive line of wagon custom with which his predecessor was favored. james watkins, an old stage driver of washington, pennsylvania, was maj. paul's bar keeper at this house, and his son-in-law, thomas hamen hopkins, was the successor of maj. paul in this house. his widow is still keeping a tavern in west brownsville. she is well up in years, but her memory is clear and well stored with interesting reminiscences of the road. greenberry millburn next had charge of this house, and kept it for a brief period, when he retired, and his name does not subsequently appear on the roll of old tavern keepers. john cummins was the next occupant of this house. he purchased the property, and held it until his death, which occurred near the close of the prosperous era of the road. he was an irishman, thrifty and energetic, and besides tavern keeping, took contracts on public works. about the year this house passed to the control of moses bennington, who conducted it during the era of the civil war. he was succeeded by william dawson, whose successor was james b. dorsie. doc bar kept the house for a brief period, and one of its occupants was robert miller. upon the expiration of miller's term thomas h. hopkins again took charge, and it was subsequently kept for short periods, at different times, by solomon watkins, james nichols and john taylor. the house is at present owned by the pittsburg, virginia and charleston railroad company, and used as a passenger and freight station. a few hundred yards west of the old adams stand, and near the foot of the river hill, on the river side, an old stone house was kept as a tavern when the road was first opened, and for a number of years thereafter. the first man who catered to the wants of the traveling public at this old tavern was vincent owens, who had been a faithful soldier in washington's army in the war of the revolution. the property belonged to the old krepps family of the vicinity, and the old tavern stood at the northwest landing of the old krepps ferry. owens was succeeded at this old tavern by samuel acklin, and acklin by john krepps, a brother of samuel j. krepps. morris purcell succeeded krepps, and went from here to the old adams house, before mentioned. the krepps ferry was operated in connection with the management of this old tavern, and the ferry was continued down to the year . the tavern was closed here long before the decline of travel on the road. the father of vincent owens was murdered in this old tavern while his son was conducting it. the crime was an atrocious one, causing great excitement and indignation in the neighborhood at the time, and the manner and motives of the act seem to be shrouded in mystery. two persons who lodged in the house over night were suspected of the crime, but they fled before the light of the morning and were never apprehended. about two and one-half miles west of krepps' ferry an ancient hamlet called by old pike boys malden is reached. here on the north side of the road stands an old stone tavern, which in the palmy days of the road was a popular stopping point. it belonged originally to the old krepps family, of brownsville, and was designed and erected for a tavern. it was evidently the belief of the old owners that a town would grow up on this site, as they caused a stone in the front wall of the old tavern, near the top, to be dressed and inscribed in cut letters with the name kreppsville. this name, however, was not adopted by the public, but the place was, and continues to be known as malden. the origin of this name is not positively known, but tradition has it that a party of emigrants encamping on the ground one night, fancying that it resembled the place of their nativity, malden, probably in the state of massachusetts, gave it that name. be this as it may, malden is the popular name of the locality. the old tavern here was built in two sections and at different dates. the original, which is now the western section, was built in , and a dressed stone in its front wall bears that date. the second, or eastern section, was built in . it is the second section that bears the name kreppsville, above mentioned; and, in addition, the stone slab disclosing this name shows the date , also the word "liberty," and the figure of a plow and sheaf of wheat. bry taylor was the first person who kept the old tavern at malden, and he was constantly busy while there in attending to the wants of the traveling public. he had an amiable and beautiful daughter, kizzie, who was accidentally killed in this house, causing great sorrow in the neighborhood. her brother, james, had been out hunting one day, and returning, placed his gun negligently on a table. his sister, miss kizzie, besought him to put the gun in a safe place, which he declined to do, remarking that "it wouldn't hurt anybody where it was." miss kizzie did not share his confidence in regard to the absence of danger, and proceeded to remove the gun herself. her brother interfered to prevent the gun's removal, when a scuffle ensued between the parties, during which the gun was discharged, and miss kizzie was fatally shot. the room in which this sad affair occurred is still pointed out to visitors. as if by the law of compensation, james taylor, the brother, many years afterward was himself shot. he became a river man, and gradually made his way to points down the ohio and mississippi, and was finally shot and killed by a united states marshal near memphis. samuel acklin followed taylor in the old tavern at malden, and was favored with a large patronage, consisting mainly of wagoners and drovers. acklin was at this house as early as . samuel bailey succeeded acklin, and bailey was succeeded in turn by william pepper and william garrett. james britton, now and for thirty years past, has owned this property. he occupies the old tavern as a private residence, and operates the fertile farm attached to it. [illustration: william greenfield.] the next point west, distant about three miles, is centreville. moving onward towards centreville the traveler passes the old farms and residences of jonathan knight, the famous civil engineer of other days, and nathan pusey, father of hon. w. h. m. pusey, a leading banker, democratic politician and ex-member of congress, of council bluffs, iowa. another point of interest on this part of the line, is the old historic taylor church, which stands on the north side of the road, a monument of the religious tendencies of the good old inhabitants of the vicinity. centreville was laid out in , soon after the road was completed, and with special reference to its completion, and the anticipated prosperity to ensue by reason thereof. it is equi-distant between uniontown and washington. the first old tavern kept in centreville was by john rogers, father of the venerable joseph t. rogers, of bridgeport. it is a brick house, on the north side of the road, still standing. robert rogers succeeded his father in this house and kept it for many years, and died in possession. at brief intervals in the lifetime of robert rogers this house was conducted by solomon bracken, son-in-law of mr. rogers, and a mr. wilson, the latter occupying it but for one year. the rogers house was known and noted throughout the entire period of the road's prosperous era as a quiet, orderly, well kept tavern. the leading wagon stand in centreville was on the hill at the west end of town, a brick house, on the south side of the road. the wagon yard was in the rear. zephania riggle kept this house at an early day, and was succeeded in by peter colley, a nephew of abel colley, before mentioned. henry whitsett came in after colley, and next jacob marks, who was followed by william garrett, and jesse quail succeeded garrett. the property is now owned by joseph b. jeffreys who keeps the old tavern open for the accommodation of strangers and travelers. the house kept by zeph riggle on this site was destroyed by fire during his incumbency, and promptly rebuilt. battley white, the celebrated manufacturer of the wagoner's black snake whip, before mentioned, lived in centreville. the house now occupied by morris cleaver, on the hill west of centreville, was at one time a tavern. it was first kept by charley miller, then by zeph riggle, and next, in , by mrs. dutton, mother of john r. dutton, the well known, reputable and prosperous merchant of brownsville. mrs. dutton owned the property, and moved from here to brownsville, after which this old tavern closed. its career was somewhat brief, but it was a well kept tavern, and had a good line of custom in its day. about half a mile west from mrs. dutton's an old frame tavern, on the north side of the road, as early as , displayed the sign of the constitution, and entertained primitive travelers of the road. this old house was kept for a while by one johnson, but it long since disappeared from view. eli railley kept a tavern as early as in a brick house on the north side of the road, about one and a half miles west of centreville, and was succeeded by the widow welsh, who conducted it as a tavern as late as . this house is still standing, owned by amos cleaver, and occupied by his son as a private residence. beallsville, distant one and a half miles from the old railley tavern, is next reached. in proceeding to beallsville the traveler passes one of the old toll houses, all of which, as before stated, are still standing, and in good condition, except the one near mt. washington and the one on big savage mountain. david mitchell, the old collector at the gate near beallsville, is well remembered as a straightforward, honest and intelligent citizen. beallsville, like centreville as a town, was the outgrowth of the national road. it was laid out in , and incorporated as a borough in . jonathan knight, the old engineer before mentioned, surveyed the site of the town and made the plat. the national road forms the main street of this town, as it does that of centreville. the first old tavern reached in beallsville, going west, was on the north side, at the east end of the town. this house was first kept by andrew keys, and after him by thomas keys. this was previous to . it was next kept by robert cluggage, and after cluggage, james dennison kept it. dennison was succeeded by moses bennington, who afterwards kept the old adams house at west brownsville. charles guttery also kept this house in . dennison was a claysville man, and after keeping tavern for short terms, at different points on the road, returned to claysville, where he died. he was an old wagoner, as well as a tavern keeper, and well and favorably known on the road. he had an interest by marriage, or birth-right, in some real estate at or near claysville, and this is doubtless the chord that drew him at last back to that point. the old keys tavern had a commodious wagon yard attached, and entertained many old wagoners. [illustration: charles guttery.] about the center of the town of beallsville, and on the south or west side, wm. greenfield kept a famous old tavern, and he was in many other respects a famous old man. he was tall and spare, with a brown complexion, a defective eye, and a philosophic turn of mind. it was his fortune to have a good wife, and to her, in great measure, was attributed the high grade of this old tavern. the traveler could always get a good cup of coffee at greenfield's, a rare thing in a tavern and utterly unknown in a hotel. in addition to keeping tavern, william greenfield was a banker, and established the "beallsville savings bank." his bank was in his tavern, and his safe was his pocket. he issued notes of small denominations, which were handsomely printed and engraved, and they acquired some credit, and a limited circulation. the pressure of redemption, however, was more than the old banker-tavern keeper could withstand, and he was forced to close business as a banker, but continued his tavern successfully. it is due to the memory of the old gentleman to state, that no serious losses were sustained by the note holders of his bank. he continued to keep tavern at the old stand until his death, which occurred many years ago, and all the old pike boys, from one end of the road to the other, have a kind word for the memory of william greenfield. charley miller kept a tavern as early as , and probably before that date, in the brick house on the corner opposite greenfield's, and this house was subsequently, and for many years kept by mrs. chambers. it was a quiet, orderly, and aristocratic old tavern, especially when under the management of mrs. chambers, and enjoyed a good reputation as an eating house. benjamin demon took charge of this house after the retirement of mrs. chambers, and kept it for a while. moses bennington succeeded demon, and charles guttery succeeded bennington. guttery was the last of the old line of tavern keepers, at this house. beallsville was a station for the line wagons, and john cook, an old wagoner whose home was there, drove a line team for many years. chapter xxxvii. _old taverns and tavern keepers continued--beallsville to washington--hillsboro--the old hill house--samuel youman, next to old mount the biggest man of the road--george ringland, john noble, billy robinson, charley miller's, the gals house, daniel ward, egg nog hill, the long stretch, thomas hastings, the upland house, joseph doak, the mount vernon house, maj. dunlap, charles rettig, pancake, jonathan martin, the sample house._ three miles west from beallsville the traveler reaches the village of hillsboro. this little town is another outgrowth of the national road, and as at beallsville and centreville, the road forms its main street. the grade from beallsville to hillsboro is for the most part ascending, the hill going out west from beallsville being one of the longest on the road, and hillsboro is situate on a lofty eminence overlooking a wide range of hills, and many fertile slopes and valleys. on the summit above hillsboro, the traveler coming east, gets the first glimpses of laurel hill, thirty miles distant in the mountains. crumrine's history of washington county, before quoted, informs us that hillsboro was laid out in the year , a date coincident with the completion of the road. the proprietors of the town were stephen hill and thomas mcgiffin, and crumrine's history contains the following notice of the first public sale of lots: "the public are informed that a town has been laid off, to be called hillsboro, adjoining hill's stone tavern, about equal distance from washington to brownsville, and that lots will be sold on the premises on monday, the th day of august, at public auction. sale to commence at o'clock a. m. july , . stephen hill, thomas mcgiffin, proprietors." [illustration: billy robinson.] accompanying the plat of the town as recorded, says crumrine, were these remarks: "the above is a plan of the town of hillsboro, nearly equi-distant between brownsville and washington, pennsylvania, on the united states road." signed by the proprietors. stephen hill belonged to an old family of that name, which was among the early settlers of the region, and thomas mcgiffin was an old and prominent lawyer of washington, and a contractor on the original construction of the road, father of col. norton mcgiffin, a soldier of two wars, and sheriff and member of the legislature for washington county. hill's stone tavern was in existence as early as . in the early history of the national road, and for a number of years, it was the leading tavern of hillsboro, kept by thomas hill, who was not a son, but a near relative, probably a nephew, of stephen hill, the old proprietor. samuel youman kept this house fifty years ago, after the retirement of hill. youman was a stage driver as well as a tavern keeper, and next to "old mount," as before stated, the biggest man on the road. one of the stage lines, that on which youman was a driver, stopped at this house, and it was the only stage house on the road that was largely patronized by old wagoners, and their favor was obtained probably by reason of the spacious and commodious wagon yard in front of the house. john hampson, john gibson, william dawson and oliver lacock each in turn kept this house since youman's time, and it is at present continued as a tavern by mr. lacock's son. in the year james beck kept a tavern in hillsboro. he was a member of the old bridge builders firm of kinkead, beck & evans, and moved from the "vance farm," near uniontown, which he once owned, to hillsboro, at the date named. he remained in hillsboro but one year, and his successor in the tavern there was george ringland. ringland was a citizen of some prominence in his day, a brother of col. thomas ringland, an old soldier, and a leading man in the public affairs of washington county more than half a century ago. david railly succeeded ringland in this house about the year . it was a stage house, but did a general business. after railly this house was kept at different times by john noble, who married railly's widow, john taylor, henry taylor, jesse core and william robinson. noble and robinson were both old stage drivers, noble before, as well as after his experience as a tavern keeper. robinson died a tavern keeper, and in the house last mentioned. "billy" robinson was one of the best known and most popular men of the road. he was short in stature, with reddish complexion, dark hair, and an amiable disposition. he hauled many an old-time statesman safely in his nimble coach, and afterward dined him sumptuously in his bountiful tavern. there was an old tavern in hillsboro, near the centre of the town, on the south side of the road, kept first by john wilson, and after his time by stephen phelps, and next and last by david powell. its career was not as long as many other old taverns of the road, but in its time it was a lively house and had a large run of custom. zeph riggle kept a tavern in what is known as the dr. clark house, on the south side, in hillsboro, at an early day, and as at other points on the road where he catered to the wants of the traveling public, drew a good trade. he was the only person that ever kept this house as a tavern. about two miles west of hillsboro the famous old tavern of charley miller is reached. it is a large and handsome brick building on the south side of the road, and was kept before miller's time by henry taylor. miller did a large business, and had all sorts of customers, with a capacity to adapt himself to the wants and whims of every variety. he was accustomed to say, in commendation of his whisky, that it was a hundred years old; that he could vouch for its age, for he helped to make it. parties of young folks were accustomed to drive out from washington, a distance of ten miles, to take a meal and have a dance at charley miller's. his meals were sumptuous and savory, and gave his house a reputation from which he did not fail to profit. one of his specialties was fine peach brandy, which is graciously remembered and frequently spoken of by the survivors of the old pike boys with a glow of enthusiasm. miller died in this house, and it passed to the hands of david ullery. "no longer the host hobbles down from his rest in the porch's cool shadow, to welcome his guest with a smile of delight and a grasp of the hand, and a glance of the eye that no heart could withstand." one and a half miles west of charley miller's, on the south side of the road, a tavern was kept in a wooden building many years ago by william plymire. this old tavern furnished good entertainment, and its old host was attentive and polite to his patrons. plymire was succeeded in this house by henry yorty, who kept it going as a tavern until his death, and for some time thereafter it was kept by his widow, but was never kept as a tavern after mrs. yorty's time. the next old wagon stand on the westward tramp is the "gals house." this house is situate on the north side of the road, about two miles west of charley miller's. it is a frame building, and once was painted red, but the red all wore off many years ago, and was not replaced. it was called the "gals house," because it was owned and conducted by three maiden women of the family name of dague. the grounds around this old house, night after night, throughout the entire period of the road's prosperity, were crowded with teams and wagons, and the reputation of the place was excellent in every particular. the dague girls were the owners of the house, and of about eighty acres of rich land surrounding it, and after business closed on the road, they sold and conveyed the property to joseph henderson, a well remembered and worthy old stage driver, who went into possession and made this place his home for many years. [illustration: daniel ward.] one mile further west is ward's. here a well known tavern was kept by daniel ward, all through the flourishing era of the road, and it was well kept and well patronized. ward was rich, the owner of his tavern stand, and a fine farm in addition, and therefore unlike many other old tavern keepers of the road who leased their houses from year to year, and changed from point to point at different times. ward's tavern is a large frame house, on the north side of the road, with a spacious porch in front, and a large wagon yard conveniently attached, and was a favorite stopping place for old wagoners. the old house is still standing, unused, because not needed as a tavern, but it remains a prominent landmark of the road, carrying the mind back to the period of its enlivening scenes and moving pageants. daniel ward was a pronounced type of the old tavern keeper. he was rather a large man, not fleshy, but broad shouldered, with a slight stoop. his complexion was reddish, and he always had a pleasant smile wherewith to greet a guest. he wore a broad-rimmed, high-crowned, brown-colored fur hat, with long, soft nap, the style of hat worn by all old tavern keepers and wagoners when dressed for special occasions. mrs. ward was an admirable help-mate for her husband. she was a large woman, of florid complexion, and full of energy and zeal in her occupation. the meals she spread before her numerous guests in all seasons were bountiful and relishable, and gave her husband's old tavern a wide reputation. what a change? once all was life and animation at this old tavern, now "the wind whistles shrill, through the wide open doors, and lizards keep house, on the mouldering floors." four miles west from ward's the old and popular wagon stand of thomas hastings is reached. in proceeding onward toward the hastings house a celebrated point is passed, known in the peculiar vocabulary of the road as "egg nog hill." on this hill for many years lived in retirement samuel flowers, one of the oldest, steadiest and best known wagoners of the road. william d. evans, residing in malvern, iowa, a son of gabriel evans, of the old firm of kinkead, beck & evans, contractors and bridge builders, before mentioned, furnishes the following story as to the origin of the name of this hill: the engineers in locating the line of the road were much exercised in fixing the grade at this point, and before arriving at conclusions the sun went down, and with a view probably of stimulating their minds to clearer conceptions, they ordered a bucket of egg-nog to be served in their shanty. partaking freely of this ancient, agreeable and strong beverage during the night, they proceeded next morning with the work in hand, and established the grade without further embarrassment. the chain carriers and other employees were called in to the rough, roadside banquet, and the region all around echoed the notes of that night's revelry, and ever thereafter the locality has been known as "egg nog hill." if this is a true account of the origin of the name, and the authority quoted is respectable and credible, there are many persons willing to aver that the influence of the egg nog was anything but propitious, since the grade of the road at this point is nothing to boast of. at the foot of egg nog hill a valley is reached over which the road passes for a distance of two miles on a level grade, varied by slight undulations, terminating at or near the old buchanan postoffice. this portion of the road was called by old stage drivers "the long stretch," and over its favorable grade stage teams sped with more than ordinary rapidity. it is considered germaine to state in this connection, that the general grade of the road has been much and sharply criticised, and by many condemned outright. the main point of objection urged against the grade is, that it involves many long and steep hills, which could have been avoided by making side cuts and occupying the valleys, and this is true, but any other location would have lengthened the line and increased the cost of construction and maintenance. david shriver, of cumberland, was the chief engineer in charge of the location, and instructed by the government to make the line as straight as practicable, within the limit of a five degree elevation. besides, there was a popular theory when the line was located, that a road over hills was not as fatiguing to horses as a road with a uniform grade. it was argued that a horse is provided with two sets of muscles, one of which is used in going up and the other in going down a hill, and the conclusion was that horses were relieved and rested by a change from an up to a down grade. after this digression, the reader's attention is invited back to the old tavern of thomas hastings. it is situate on the summit of a hill of average length and grade on the south side, and a short distance back from the road. the location of this house, with reference to the road, is similar to that of the old red tavern, two miles east of brownsville. the hastings house was a leading tavern of the road, all through its prosperous era. the large patronage it enjoyed is the best evidence that it was well kept. john w. mcdowell, of uniontown, an ex-county commissioner of fayette county, pennsylvania, was working on the road in under the superintendency of william searight, and boarding at the hastings house. on the morning of the election of that year he rose "bright and early," took his breakfast "before the break of day," mounted a horse, and rode to mt. washington, the polling place for wharton township, which was his home, in time to vote for polk and dallas. mcdowell frequently relates this incident of his life, when recounting his party services, and lays particular stress on the circumstance that the dining room girls gladly furnished him his breakfast and cheered him on his mission. the distance from the old hastings tavern to mt. washington is forty-two miles. while the road was undergoing construction, there was a tavern about midway of the "long stretch," and on the south side of the road. it was kept by one smith, of the extensive american family of that name. at times there was great disorder and much tumult, amounting almost to riot, at this old tavern, and on one of these occasions the old militia of washington county was ordered to the scene to enforce the keeping of the peace. these disorders, like similar outbreaks of the present day, were no doubt attributable to the immoderate use of intoxicants. [illustration: john w. mcdowell.] within a few hundred feet, and west of the old hastings house, samuel hughes kept a tavern in and before, and probably a short time after that date. his house was a large and imposing frame building on the north side of the road, and known in its day as the "upland house." this name appeared on the sign board. the surroundings of this house were attractive. it had an aristocratic air about it, and enjoyed an aristocratic patronage. while old wagoners crowded the hastings house, travelers in chaises and fine carriages stopped at the upland. by some means, and many years ago, this old house was demolished, and a fine brick building erected on its site, owned and occupied by joseph doak, who was at one time a superintendent of the road. about one and a half miles west of the upland house, major james dunlap, at a very early period of the road's history, kept a tavern on the south side, on an elevation and a little distance back from the roadside. it was called the "mt. vernon house," and was doing business as early as the year , two years before the road was completed as far west as washington. major dunlap was a prominent man of his day, and brigade inspector of the washington county (pennsylvania) militia, an office of no little consequence in the early history of pennsylvania. major dunlap subsequently kept the jackson house in washington, pennsylvania. before reaching the mt. vernon house, an old round toll house is passed, where william hill collected tolls for many years from the throngs of travelers on the road. the old mt. vernon house was supplanted by a new one, under the direction of charles rettig, who became the owner of the property. the new house is a brick structure, and was a wagon stand. there was an abundant water supply at this house, and old stage drivers and wagoners halted upon reaching it to refresh their teams. charles rettig died about the year . he was a staunch and sturdy citizen, and possessed the confidence and enjoyed the respect of all his neighbors. the next point west, but a short distance, is invested with more than ordinary interest. it is pancake, sometimes called martinsburg, and in later years, to a limited extent, known as laboratory. but pancake was the original, and remains the popular name. it is almost within eyesight of washington. the first tavern here was kept by george pancake, and hence the name given the place. his house was a small log building, erected near the beginning of the present century, and probably the first house in the village. pancake did well with the means at his command, but his old house was not equal to the growing wants of the road, and after it was removed, and the old proprietor called to his final reckoning, jonathan martin appeared on the scene. martin was a discerning man, and foreseeing the future of the national road as a great highway, built a large brick house for use as a tavern. it is situate on the north side of the road, two stories, twelve large and comfortable rooms, and was erected in the year . a spacious porch runs the entire length of the house and approaches the edge of the road. jonathan martin kept this tavern from the date of its erection until business closed on the road, with the exception of one year that it was in charge of j. w. holland, back in the forties. since the close of its career as a tavern it has been occupied as a quiet farm house. martin was a genial landlord, and made money at tavern keeping. a short distance back from the tavern he had a horse-power grist mill and a carding machine which he operated for a number of years, thus supplementing his gains as a tavern keeper. general jackson was on one occasion a guest of martin's tavern, and the celebrated theologian, alexander campbell, frequently lodged within its venerable walls and sat at its bounteous table. as early as george ringland kept a wagon stand tavern within a short distance of the borough limits of washington. his old house, a commodious brick building, is still standing, situate on the north, or at this point rather, east side of the road, with sufficient ground intervening to form a good wagon yard. john sample succeeded ringland at this old stand, and became the owner of the property. it is now the private residence of william workman, esq., and has not been kept as a tavern since . chapter xxxviii. _old tavern and tavern keepers continued--washington--washington and jefferson college--the female seminary--james wilson, first tavern keeper in washington--the two dodds--major mccormick's--the white goose and the golden swan--hallam's old wagon stand--the valentine--the buck--the gen. andrew jackson--the globe--the cross keys--the indian queen--the mermaid--the rising sun--the gen. brown--the fountain--billy brown and jimmy brown--the mansion--john n. dagg--a giant boot jack--the american--the fulton--the national--surratt's--the greene house._ washington became a point on the national road by force of a provision in the act of assembly of pennsylvania, approved april th, , before recited. in a retrospective view that seems to have been a wise provision. washington, it is true, is older than the road, but without the road it would be difficult to conjecture what the history of the town would have been from down to . that the road had much to do in promoting the growth and prosperity of the town, there can be no question, and it must also be conceded that the town contributed in good round measure to the life and prosperity of the road. washington is one of the largest and prettiest towns on the road, not as well favored by location as uniontown. while washington possesses many very important advantages, it has at the same time, like other towns, its disadvantages. for example, it is a dry town. it was not dry in the palmy days of the old pike. no liquor can at this time be lawfully sold in washington as a beverage, and the town is not over abundantly supplied with good water. on the other hand, the town is justly distinguished for the superiority of its educational institutions. washington and jefferson college is one of the best in the land. its graduates include many of the ablest men of the country, both of the present and the past. everywhere, at every loading point in our widely extended republic, the graduates of washington and jefferson college are pushing ahead at the front, in all the learned professions, in the judiciary, and in every line of honorable industry. it is not a dude college, as many more pretentious colleges are, but a working college, sending out workers, equipped like men, to run the race set before them. the female seminary is another institution of which the citizens of washington are justly proud. it stands in the front rank of similar institutions, and for more than half a century, year after year, has sent out its graduates to cheer and brighten the world. the writer of these lines confesses to an affection for washington, which no vicissitude of life or time can alienate. he was educated at her college, and if he failed in obtaining a thorough education, it was not the fault of his venerable _alma mater_. dr. david mcconoughy, who presided over the college, when the writer was a student within its halls, deserves to be classed among the saints. a purer man never lived. he was a christian, who never entertained a doubt, and a scholar in the broadest sense; and it is most gratifying to the thousands of graduates and friends of the college scattered broadcast throughout the land, to know that dr. moffatt, the present head of the institution, is a worthy successor of that venerated president. the writer also retains the sweetest recollections of the old citizens of washington, and cherishes with deepest feeling his associations at college with james g. blaine, who subsequently became the most illustrious statesman of his generation, and many others who have written their names high on the scroll of fame. there may be some readers inclined to think that the blending of stage drivers and wagoners with doctors, teachers and statesmen, is a strange commingling; but it is not. history is literature, and stage drivers and wagoners, like other classes, and occupations of men, enter into the web and woof of history. james wilson hung out the first tavern sign in washington. his house was a log structure, and stood at the northwest corner of main and beau streets, now covered by smith's store. he opened up business in , and was licensed by the court to dispense the ardent at "catfish camp." he continued business in this house down to the year . the old supreme judges stopped at wilson's tavern when they went to washington to hold the courts of oyer and terminer. whether they were fed on roast pig, as chief justice mckean at salter's old tavern in uniontown, does not appear of record. after wilson's time this house was enlarged and otherwise improved, and continued as a tavern by michael ocheltree, who remained in charge down to the year , when a man of the name of rotroff was installed as host. rotroff gave way to john kline, who came up from the cross roads, nine miles west of brownsville, and took charge of the house, under the sign of "gen. wayne." capt. john mccluney followed kline, and he in turn was followed by joseph teeters and joseph hallam. hallam kept the house until probably , when he went down town to take charge of the old wagon stand on the site of the present valentine house. when hallam left it the old wilson house ceased to be a tavern. as early as john dodd kept tavern in a log house on the east side of main street, nearly opposite the court house, and remained its host until his death in . he died while returning home from a trading trip to new orleans. john wilson next took charge, and conducted its affairs for many years, associated with stirring events, down to a period as late probably as , when the house disappeared as a tavern. john dodd was an ancestor of the numerous dodds now of washington and vicinity, most of whom have taken to the ministry and other learned professions. charles dodd, a brother of john, above mentioned, kept a tavern on main street in , in a log house, recently occupied by robert strean's hardware store. the first courts of washington county were held in this old tavern, and the county jail was a log stable in the rear of the lot on which it stood. charles dodd kept this tavern for ten years, and sold out to daniel kehr, who continued it a short time, but finding it unprofitable, took down his sign and went to shoemaking. john adams kept a tavern from to . its location is not accurately known, and so in the case of john colwell, a tavern keeper of . in hugh means, samuel acklin and william falconer, were tavern keepers in washington. acklin continued in the business until , and falconer until . william meetkirk, who was subsequently a justice of the peace for many years, kept a tavern on main street from to , in the house until recently occupied by mrs. mcfarland, and it is not unlikely that this is the house kept by colwell and means. maj. george mccormick kept a tavern in , and col. john may's journal compliments it by this entry: "thursday, aug. , , set out from the hotel at four o'clock, and at half-past eight arrived at maj. george mccormick's in washington, where we breakfasted. this is an excellent house, where new england men put up." the writer regrets his failure to ascertain the exact location of this old tavern. hugh wilson (son of james) kept a tavern in washington in , and john mcmichael in , the locations of which are not now ascertainable. charles valentine kept the "white goose" in . this house stood on the lot now covered by the valentine house. the name valentine is prominently identified with the national road from the date of its construction to the present time. the "white goose" was the symbol under which this old tavern sailed until the year , when it assumed the more poetic name of "golden swan," under the management of john rettigg. rettigg was relieved from its cares and responsibilities in by juliana valentine, who presided over its destinies down to the year . it next passed to the control and management of james sargeant, who kept it for a brief period, and turned it over to john valentine and lewis valentine, who continued it down to . it was next kept for two years by john hays. in it was kept by isaac sumny, under the sign of the "washington hall." it was kept by samuel donley and various other persons, down to about the year , when as before stated, it passed to the control of joseph hallam. in hallam's time it was a popular wagon stand, and did a large business. hallam was a man below the medium size, a little stooped, and of quiet demeanor. he had a good wagon yard, and catered to the tastes of old wagoners in an agreeable manner. the happiest moments of amos waltz were those in which he inserted the gear pole between the spokes of the hind wheel of a road wagon, as it stood on hallam's yard, and afterward took a drink with the jolly wagoners in hallam's old bar-room. in or the present valentine house was built, and kept for many years thereafter by maj. geo. t. hammond. it was also kept a while by ex-sheriff andrew bruce, afterward by ex-sheriff hugh keys, and later and until a recent date by william f. dickey, and is now called the "allison house." in michael kuntz kept a tavern where vowell's drug store stands. this house was kept in by john scott, under the sign of the "spread eagle." i. neilson, john fisher, samuel mcmillen, and john ferguson, were all old tavern keepers of washington. joseph huston kept the "buck tavern" as early as . this is a stone house on the east side of main street, below maiden. huston kept this house until , and died in it. his widow succeeded him for a brief period, and leased the house to james sargeant, who kept it until , when mrs. huston again went in, and kept it until . she afterward re-married, lost her second husband, and was keeping this house in as elizabeth fleming, and it was continued after that date by her son, william b. huston. the old buck is still standing, one of the landmarks of the town. in james workman kept a tavern, the site of which is not known. he continued until , when he went to farming. after three years' experience in farming he returned to town, and opened a tavern under the sign of "gen. andrew jackson." this old tavern stood on the west side of main street, below the "globe inn." it was subsequently kept by maj. james dunlap of the old mt. vernon house, east of pancake. from to dr. john j. lemoyne kept a tavern on the south side of main street, where an old road came down over gallows hill. this house was afterward kept by jacob good, and continued for a number of years by his widow. the "globe inn" was one of the most famous old taverns in washington. it was located on the west side of main street, at the corner of strawberry alley. this house was opened as a tavern in , and in the next year passed to the hands of david morris, and was kept by him, continuously, until his death in . general lafayette was entertained at this house in , and it was a favorite stopping place of henry clay, and many other statesmen and heroes of the olden time. this old tavern was a frame building, and remained standing until . rev. william p. alrich, an old and popular professor of mathematics in washington college, married a daughter of david morris. one fox kept a tavern, at an early period, in a house that stood on the east side of main street, where the morgan block now stands. the "cross keys" was a popular tavern of the olden time. it stood on the southeast corner of main and wheeling streets, opposite the valentine house. it was opened in by james mccamant, who kept it until his death, which occurred in . tradition has it that he died from the effects of a bite by a mad wolf. his widow continued it for about two years, when she quit it to take charge of the "general washington house," nearly opposite the court house. she returned, however, after a time to the "cross keys," and was keeping that house as late as . in the year last named she caused to be inserted in a town paper a notice that she furnished dinner and horse feed for twenty-five cents, and boarding and lodging for jurors and others attending court for two dollars a week. the "cross keys" was kept afterward at different dates by james sargeant, charles rettig, john bradfield, william blakely and otho hartzell. it closed as a tavern previous to . james mccamant, the first proprietor of the "cross keys" tavern, was the father-in-law of joseph henderson, esq., a prominent and popular old lawyer of washington. christian keiffer kept a tavern in at the sign of "washington." keiffer's career as a tavern keeper must have been a brief and an uninteresting one, since old inhabitants are unable to locate his house, although it bore a name that should and does survive, in every other form except in its application to keiffer's old tavern. john kirk kept a tavern about the beginning of the present century in a house that stood on wheeling street, west of main. this house was painted red and penciled to imitate brick. after kirk left it william wilson became its proprietor. he was known as "center billy." he did not find tavern keeping sufficiently profitable, and quitting the business, turned his attention to blacksmithing and wagon making. the old name of wheeling street was "belle," and the present name was given it by the old stage drivers and wagoners, because it intersected the old road leading to wheeling. the "indian queen" was an old and well remembered tavern on main street, opposite the court house. it was opened in by john mccluny. in it changed its location and solicited public patronage on main street, above chestnut, where justice donehoe's residence now is, under the auspices of its old founder, john mccluny aforesaid. in its new location it became the headquarters of the jackson democracy. this house was kept by thomas officer, and was known as the "green tree," before mccluny placed it under the shield of the "indian queen." it was afterward occupied by john johnson, who kept it for a number of years, and it ceased to do business as a tavern during his occupancy. about the year john manuel kept a tavern in a white frame house on the west side of main street, immediately below the present depot of the baltimore & ohio railroad. there was an old tavern in washington at an early day kept by jacob moler, and known as "the mermaid." it was located on the south side of west wheeling street, and on the lot now owned by charles driehorst. it was the headquarters of the hibernians, and while it did not aspire to rival the "globe" or the "rising sun," it was not lacking in patronage. it does not appear to have been continued as a tavern after the time of moler. the "rising sun," a leading tavern in its day, occupied a lot near the corner of main and chestnut streets, almost directly opposite the house subsequently known as "the mansion." the first proprietor of the "rising sun" was james garrett, and he remained in charge until . he was active in his business, and accustomed to say, "walk in, walk in, gentlemen; i keep a decent house, and provide sweetened bitters." james briceland kept this house for one year, after which he turned it back to garrett, who continued to keep it until it passed to the hands of john n. dagg, who kept it until he purchased the "mansion house," on the opposite corner. it is said that one hundred teams have been seen standing around the "rising sun" in a single night. briceland went down to the lower end of town and took charge of the house subsequently known as "the national." in while dagg was keeping the "rising sun," a townsman and an old wagoner had an altercation in the bar-room, and dagg pitched them both out into the street. in the descent the wagoner's head struck the curb-stone, fatally injuring him. mr. dagg was prosecuted and arraigned for murder in consequence, but acquitted by the jury on the ground that the homicide was more the result of accident, than any intention to kill. during the brief term of mr. briceland at the "rising sun" he had as guests on one occasion, gen. andrew jackson, family and suite. the distinguished party were _en route_ to washington city, and upon departing from the "rising sun" were honored by an escort of citizens of washington as far east as hillsboro. in enoch miller opened a tavern in a large brick house at the west end of town, nearly opposite the old methodist church, which stood on chestnut street, a little below franklin. he called his house the "general brown," and it was well patronized. richard donaldson kept this house after miller's time. upon quitting the "general brown" enoch miller opened the "fountain inn," a brick building nearly opposite and a few doors east of the "general brown," on chestnut street, and he was succeeded in this house in by george ringland. william p. byles was an old proprietor of this house also. william j. brown, called "old billy," kept a tavern as early as , and for many years thereafter, on the east side of main street near the center of town. it was a frame building and had a fair paying custom. it was known for a time as the "farmers' inn," and later as the "black bear." the old proprietor was a quaint character, and much pestered by the boys of the town. with all his troubles and tribulations he managed to lay aside a sufficiency of worldly goods to protect himself against the requirements of a rainy day. [illustration: s. b. hays.] and there was old "jimmy brown," another odd character, not a relation of "billy." jimmy was an irishman, and knew how to make and keep money. he kept a tavern for many years in a white frame house opposite the court house, and near the "fulton." he called his house "the franklin." his savings were sufficient to warrant him in tearing down his old house and erecting in its stead a fine new brick structure, which he did. after building his new house he married a wife, and was warmly congratulated by his numerous friends. with the assistance of his wife he continued to entertain the public until his death, leaving the cares and anxieties of his business to his bereaved widow, who soon after remarried and retired to private life. the house is now used for mercantile purposes, one of the best locations in town. jimmy brown, when occupying his old house, was accustomed to say to his friends: "i have some nice _fesh_, come away to the cellar with me, and see my _fesh_." he had no license then. the mansion house was a leading tavern in washington from the time it commenced business until it was destroyed by fire, which occurred after the national road ceased to be a great thoroughfare. it was located on the northeast corner of main and chestnut streets. before the "mansion house" was built an old red frame house stood on this corner, which was kept as a tavern by a man whose surname was scott. john n. dagg bought this property prior to his withdrawal from the "rising sun," on the opposite corner, and commenced to improve it. the outcome of his enterprise was the erection of a large brick building, known as the mansion house, with extensive sheds and stables in the rear. about the year mr. dagg leased the premises to john irons, who conducted the house for a period of two years, after which mr. dagg returned as landlord, and continued to keep it down to the year , or thereabout, when he leased it to s. b. and c. hayes, who conducted it for a brief period, and were succeeded by bryson and shirls, subsequently of the st. charles hotel, pittsburgh. the good intent line of stages gave its patronage to the "american," when that house was kept by the messrs. hayes, and to the "greene house," when it was kept by daniel brown. thereafter the headquarters of that line were at the mansion house, and it was headquarters for the pilot line when the good intent stopped at the "american." the mansion house had a large country trade, as well as that derived from the national road. the old bar room was of immense size, and the old proprietor, john n. dagg, was one of the largest men on the road. he was not fat, but tall, and widely proportioned. he provided for his country guests a large upright boot jack, with side bars, which acted as levers, designed to steady the toe in the operation of drawing off a boot. half cut, cheap leather slippers were also provided, and upon pulling their boots, guests put on these slippers, and in the mornings, piles of boots, nicely polished, were placed in a corner of the bar room, to await the return of their owners from the slumbers of the night. it was not an uncommon thing to see scores of country people sitting about in the big bar room after supper, talking over the events of the day, all wearing the slippers referred to, preparatory to going to rest for the night, at the early bed time of that happy period. james k. polk, wife and suite, stopped at the mansion house on the inaugural trip in . the "examiner," under date of february , , gave the following account of the reception of the distinguished party: "president polk arrived in our borough on monday evening last, about o'clock, escorted by quite a respectable number of our citizens. the president was accompanied by his lady, j. knox walker, his private secretary, and master marshall polk, comprising the president's family; also colonel butler, of kentucky, judge hubbard, of alabama, and messrs. t. k. stevenson, j. g. harris and j. n. esselman. the arrival of the president having been sooner than was anticipated, and intelligence of the same having reached us on sabbath last, the arrangements on the part of our citizens were not so complete or extensive as they would have been under other and more favorable circumstances. upon the arrival of the president at the mansion house he was addressed by dr. wishart, as chairman of the committee of reception, in a spirited and appropriate manner, to which the president responded, to the evident gratification of the large assembly of persons who were present. in the course of his remarks colonel polk alluded to the unbounded feeling of gratitude which filled his bosom for the distinguished partiality which had been extended toward him by his fellow citizens; to the great responsibility which that partiality had devolved upon him; to his implicit confidence in that power which controls the destinies of individuals as well as nations; to his determination to act for the best interests of our beloved country, and the vital importance of freedom of opinion and contrariety of sentiment among a republican people. in concluding his remarks, the president expressed a strong desire to interchange congratulations with as many of our citizens, of all parties, as time and circumstances would permit. after the formal reception was completed the president was conducted into the mansion house, and during the evening was waited upon by many hundreds of our citizens, from town and country, without party distinction. many of the ladies of our borough, with the principal, assistant teachers and young ladies of our female seminary, also, called upon mrs. polk, whose plain, dignified and fascinating deportment and intelligent conversation rendered her company exceedingly pleasant. mrs. polk has certainly not been too highly complimented, by the many notices which have been bestowed upon her, as a lady most admirably suited to the discharge of the peculiar duties which await her as the wife of the president-elect. on tuesday morning at o'clock the president and suite left our borough, in good health and spirits, for uniontown, at which place they remained over night." [illustration: george t. hammond.] the fulton house was a prominent house of entertainment in washington for many years. it is located on the corner of main and beau streets, nearly opposite the court house. john purviance kept a tavern on the fulton house site from to , and three years thereafter went to claysville, as stated elsewhere in these pages. richard donaldson succeeded purviance in this old house. john fleming kept a tavern on this corner in , called "the philadelphia and kentucky inn." in january, , a fire occurred in this house, on occasion of the marriage of a daughter of mr. fleming, which partially destroyed the building, and saddest of all, burnt to death one of the old proprietor's daughters. after the present large brick building was erected on this corner, it was called "the american house," and was kept by s. b. and c. hayes previous to , and after them by john huey. in or it was leased by henry fulton, who came from westmoreland county, pennsylvania, and under his management it took the name of the "fulton house," which it retained, and under which it became widely and favorably known, until it was given the absurd name of "hotel maine." the fulton house was admirably conducted and extensively patronized. the national house was the headquarters of the stockton line of stages. it is located on the northwest corner of main and maiden streets. the firm name of the stockton line of stages was "the national road stage company," and it has been seen that this line bestowed its favor upon public houses bearing the name "national." in samuel dennison, who came from greensburg, pennsylvania, kept an old tavern that stood on the site of the "national house." it was then known as "the travelers' inn and stage office." it was subsequently enlarged and improved, and in passed to the control of james briceland, under the name of the "national house." its next occupant was john irons, who was succeeded by james searight, in , and he in turn by daniel valentine, george t. hammond, edward lane, adam c. morrow and elliot seaburn. it was an elegant eating house in the days of staging, and at its best under the management of hammond and lane, respectively. it is now called the "auld house," and, as in many other instances, its old prestige departed with its old name. james searight went from the "national house" to zanesville, ohio, and kept a tavern there for a short time, and returning to washington, leased the "greene house," which was managed by his son, william. these searights were of a cumberland, maryland, family. as early as richard donaldson kept a tavern on maiden street, opposite the female seminary. this old house was surrounded by spacious grounds, and there was a ball alley in the rear of it, which afforded means of exercise and amusement for the town boys of the olden time. james workman succeeded donaldson in this old tavern, and he, in , was succeeded by samuel surratt, father of james f. surratt, the popular postmaster of steubenville, ohio. major william paull kept this house previous to , and for a time thereafter, and at the close of his term it was purchased by the trustees of the female seminary, since which time it has formed a portion of the real estate belonging to that institution. major paull came to this house from the old stone house on winding ridge, and kept it as a wagon stand. it had good facilities for the accommodation of wagoners, by reason of the spacious grounds before mentioned, and these, in connection with the fact that major paull was an experienced tavern keeper of the road, attracted a large and profitable patronage. the "greene house," a popular tavern, was located on the east side of main street, south of the mansion house, and on a lot formerly owned by john l. gow, esq. it was kept in by william searight, before mentioned, who was succeeded by s. b. and c. hayes, whose occupancy was brief, and about it came under the control of daniel brown, one of the most competent landlords of his day and generation. during brown's incumbency it had the patronage of the good intent stage company. brown's bar-keeper was benjamin white, who wore his hair long and had a scar on his face. his employer always addressed him as "benny," and confided in his integrity to the fullest extent, and in very truth "benny" was entirely worthy of his employer's confidence. whither this quaint old bar-keeper drifted, when the eclipse came over the sunshine of the road, is not known, but his name deserves to be perpetuated in history. most of the facts contained in this chapter rest on authority of crumrine's history of washington county, pennsylvania. [illustration: the rankin house.] chapter xxxix. _old taverns and tavern keepers continued--washington to west alexander--rankintown--john rankin--andrew mcdonald--freaks of an old wagon-maker--robert smith--john coulson--millers--bedillions-- the s bridge--caldwells--mrs. brownlee--another widow mcclelland-- claysville--john sargent--an event in the life of dan rice--basil brown--dennisons--the walker house--jonathan d. leet--coon island-- john canode--rogers and the doughertys--john valentine._ after passing washington the ancient little village of rankintown is reached. it is situated a short distance over the top of the hill leading up from catfish, and a little over a mile from washington. here a tavern was kept in early times by one spalding, who seems to have failed in impressing his name on the locality. his successor was john rankin, who dying, left his name behind him. his house was a large frame building on the south side of the road, with the customary wagon yard attached. while this old tavern did a large wagoner's trade, its agreeable old host ministered largely to the wants of the traveling public without distinction. as before intimated wagoners as a rule preferred country taverns, and this is probably the reason so many of them halted at rankin's rather than proceeding on to washington, going east, where a number of good taverns were located, but being in a large town, more or less under the ban of "tony places." john rankin owned the old tavern stand at rankintown, and after conducting it for many years during the flourishing era of the road, to use a common phrase of the road, "died with the harness on." his widow continued to keep tavern at the old stand until about the year , when growing old and tired of the cares and responsibilities of tavern keeping, concluded to retire to private life, and leased the premises to a mr. johnson, who conducted the house down to the fifties, when he was succeeded by andrew mcdonald, who remained in charge until the activities of the road ceased. the private residence of the late hon. william montgomery was for a number of years on the roadside near the old rankin tavern. he was an illustrious old pike boy and championed the glories of the road on many an occasion. rankintown is now an incorporated borough, under the name and style of west washington, but the glories of the old pike all rest and abide behind the present municipality. in and subsequent to that date, alpheus murphy, a wagon-maker, lived and operated a shop near the old rankin tavern. he gained a local notoriety for proclaiming in a loud voice in season and out of season, his sentiments on current topics, and especially political issues. he was a man of great physical strength, and a skillful workman. he had no scruples against taking an occasional glass of the pure whisky that abounded on the road in his day, and was a frequent visitor to washington. prompted possibly by the influence of the active element mentioned, he was accustomed to ascend the cupola of the washington court house and from the balustrade near its summit give vent to his feelings, mainly of a democratic tendency, in stentorian tones that startled the whole community. notwithstanding the boisterous fits that marked and may have marred his life, he passed quietly away from the scenes of earth, and will be long and kindly remembered by those who knew him. two miles west of rankintown robert smith kept a tavern as early as the year . at this point the national road crossed an ancient roadway leading from washington to wheeling, and robert smith kept a tavern here on the old road. it was a frame house on the south side of the road, and in after years became the homestead and private residence of jacob weirich, who died its possessor. less than a mile west of smith's john coulson kept a tavern as early as , and probably before that date. his house was a frame building, on the south side of the road. the old building was torn down many years ago, and a brick structure erected in its place. coulson, the old proprietor, has been dead fifty years, and at his death his tavern was closed, and not again re-opened as a public house. the old wagoners and stage drivers who were familiar with coulson's tavern long since passed to other scenes, along with its old proprietor. about one mile west of the old coulson house the well remembered and popular wagon stand of john miller is reached. miller moved to this point in from a stand two miles west of pratt's hollow, and east of cumberland, as before stated. the miller house here is a large brick building, with all the necessary outbuildings for a tavern, and a good wagon yard. it is situate on the north side of the road. to gain the wagon yard going west, old wagoners ascended a steep grade, but on the other side the way was level. miller had a good custom at his tavern east of cumberland, and his old friends followed him to his new location. he had long experience as a tavern keeper, and furnished satisfactory entertainment to the traveling public. previous to levi wilson kept this house, and entertained the first crop of wagoners on the road, and tradition attributes to him a good fame as a tavern keeper. miller died in this house. a son of levi wilson married a daughter of john miller, and since the death of the latter has been occupying this old tavern-stand as a private residence. [illustration: the john miller house.] at the foot of the hill west of miller's, and on the north side of the road, is the old bedillion tavern. this house was kept as early as by one scott, and as late as by christly wolf, and later by george boyd, but owing to a usage, in some instances difficult to account for, it is better known as bedillion's, especially among old wagoners, than by any other name. bedillion was a german, and his first name was abraham, and he probably possessed german traits and practices which made an impression on old wagoners not to be forgotten. he kept this house in . wolf also was of german origin, but his manners and methods were of the american type. he was a man of prominence in his neighborhood, and wielded considerable local influence, and was likewise a member of the firm of buck, lyon and wolf, contractors, before mentioned. the old bedillion tavern is a large frame building, with a high porch in front. george boyd took charge of this house in the early fifties. he exchanged the shoe business in washington for what he no doubt considered the more profitable pursuit of tavern keeping on the old pike. in this he seems to have been disappointed. his career as a tavern keeper was not successful, and there were two reasons for it. first, he began too late, and second, he was not a pike boy, and therefore not familiar with the wants and ways of the road. on the north side of the road, about one mile wrest of the s bridge, and as far back in the past as seventy years, one andrew caldwell (not a relative of james, hereinafter mentioned), kept a small wooden tavern and entertained primitive travelers and neighborhood callers in primitive style. an old blacksmith, bearing the surname mcswiggin, was found dead near this old tavern, and there was an undercurrent of suspicion in the neighborhood that andrew caldwell, aforesaid, had, in some manner and for some purpose, taken the old blacksmith's life. however, no prosecution was instituted, and, in fact, no legal investigation made as to the cause of the mysterious death; and it is to be hoped, for the reputation of the early pike boys, that the suspicions whispered against the old tavern keeper were groundless. the next noted old tavern on the westward march is mrs. caldwell's, seven miles from washington. before reaching mrs. caldwell's, the celebrated s bridge is passed. this bridge takes its name from its shape, which resembles the letter s. it is a large stone bridge over a branch of buffalo creek. near this bridge a county road leads to taylorstown, celebrated in recent years for its oil developments, and in this vicinity reside james noble and john thompson, two old wagoners of the road, mentioned in a previous chapter. there is a postoffice here called "s bridge," which affords postal facilities for a rich and populous neighborhood. in early times there was a tavern at the eastern end of the s bridge, and one at its western end. these old taverns accommodated the public in their day, but their facilities were limited, and they ceased to entertain strangers and travelers previous to . caldwell's is the tavern mentioned by mr. blaine, in the opening chapter of this volume on old taverns. james caldwell owned and conducted this old tavern from the time the road was opened up for travel, or very soon thereafter, until the year , when he died, and his widow, hester caldwell, kept it going as a tavern from that date until , so that she was one of the oldest tavern keepers of the road. the house is a large and handsome structure, near the summit of a long hill, and on the south side of the road. it is, at the present time, occupied by j. a. gordon, who entertains the public, and as of old, the house is a favorite resort of pleasure seeking parties. a half a mile west from caldwell's, the widow brownlee kept a tavern in the early history of the road. her house was a frame building on the south side of the road. robert hall afterwards kept this house, and upon his retirement it ceased to do business as a tavern. on the top of the hill west of mrs. brownlee's the widow mcclelland kept a tavern sixty years ago. she was not of the famous tavern keeping family of mcclelland, of uniontown. this widow mcclelland was keeping tavern at the point mentioned before the widow mcclelland of the mcclelland house in uniontown was born. the baltimore & ohio railroad at this day passes through a tunnel near the old tavern of widow mcclelland. claysville is next reached. it is stated in crumrine's history of washington county, that john purviance was the first tavern keeper in claysville, and that he was the founder of the town. "when it became certain," says crumrine, "that the national road would pass through the place, purviance caused the following notice to be inserted in the washington _reporter_: "the subscriber having laid off a number of building lots in the new town of claysville, will offer the same at public sale on the premises, on thursday, the th day of march, next. claysville is distant ten miles from washington, westward, and about eighteen east of wheeling, and six from alexandria. the great national road from cumberland to wheeling as located by col. williams and confirmed by the president, and now rapidly progressing towards its completion, passes directly through the town. washington, april , . john purviance." [illustration: the "s" bridge.] it goes without saying that this town was named in honor of henry clay, the unrivaled champion of the road. as at other towns mentioned, the road forms the main street of claysville. in james sargent kept a tavern in claysville, at the sign of the black horse. he moved to claysville from washington, and the house he kept in claysville was a brick building, occupied formerly by john porter. claysville was a stage station, as before stated. bazil brown kept a tavern in claysville as early as , and probably before that date. he kept a wagon stand and had a large patronage. some time during the forties, dan rice, after his circus stranded, was exhibiting a "learned pig" to the people of claysville, and in bazil brown's tavern. on the night of the entertainment brown lost an overcoat, and charged dan rice with stealing it, and had him sent up to washington jail to await trial. dan employed seth t. hurd to defend him, and was acquitted. soon after dan appeared in claysville with a new circus, and sang an original song in the ring intended to embody his recollections of the overcoat escapade, and to lampoon brown for prosecuting him. the song was smooth, as all dan's were, and the thrusts at brown sarcastic and severe, and much enjoyed by the local hearers. despite this unfortunate occurrence bazil brown was a popular landlord, and kept a good house. the old circus man is still living, and has probably forgotten and forgiven the old tavern keeper for accusing him of felony, but the old tavern keeper long since passed beyond the dark waters, and entered upon the realities of another and unknown realm. james dennison kept a tavern in claysville as early as . he subsequently kept at beallsville and at hopwood as before stated. he was an old wagoner and kept a wagon stand, but had the patronage of one of the stage lines in claysville, as well as a wagon custom. old wagoners felt themselves entirely at home at dennison's tavern, and thoroughly enjoyed his agreeable entertainment. david bell, john walker, james kelley, stephen conkling and john mcilree were all old tavern keepers at claysville, and kept stage houses. there was also a watkins who kept tavern in claysville. the house he kept was destroyed by fire previous to . it had the patronage of the good intent stage line. david bell was an old stage driver. his house in claysville was a brick building on the south side, diagonally opposite the old walker house. he subsequently kept the fulton house in washington in and . the walker house was a frame building, on the north side. walker subsequently located at wheeling and kept a tavern there. conkling kept the walker house. mcilree kept the brown house. kelley also kept the walker house, and it was in this house, and in kelley's time, that jim burr, the noted stage driver, "knocked out" the cincinnati buffer, before mentioned. the stockton line of coaches stopped at the old brown house, and the good intent line at the walker and watkins houses. the widow calahan kept a tavern in claysville prior to . jonathan d. leet married her daughter. leet was a pike boy of no little distinction in his day. his discernment and good taste in wedding the fair daughter of an old tavern keeper were not the only proofs of his wit and worth. he was a lawyer of ability, a major of militia, postmaster of washington during the presidency of president polk, and member of the legislature for washington county. a large man with prominent features, and somewhat awkward in manner, he was the personification of mars, when arrayed in the elaborate uniform of the old militia system. the great gilt rolls of the ponderous epaulette, and the immense three cornered and sharp pointed chapeau produced a feeling of awe among all beholders, and struck terror to the hearts of young folks. major leet being a lawyer was judge advocate at all courts martial during the time he was in commission. those courts were frequently held in washington, and their members were required to sit, hear and determine in full uniform. on such occasions major leet was "the observed of all observers," and elicited the admiration of his many friends. there was an old silversmith in washington by the name of galt, a man of acute intelligence, given to the amusing side of life, and a close friend of the philosopher dr. creigh, of the same place. these old worthies were warm friends of major leet, and their enthusiasm knew no bounds in expressing delight over the triumphs of the major, in conducting these courts martial. in , when major leet was postmaster, he was an ardent advocate of the election of general cass to the presidency, and accustomed to allude with emphasis to the fact that his favorite was "a brave old volunteer." his candidate, however, was defeated, and under the rule of partisanship, he was superseded in the postoffice by a friend of the victorious columns. subsequently he was elected to the legislature, and after serving his term did not return to live among his constituents. he was essentially a pike boy, devoted to the memories of the road, and fond of its associations, yet he died in a strange land, and his is not the only instance wherein a seat in the legislature has led a man from the gentle paths and innocent pastimes of his early days. three miles west from claysville, at the foot of a long hill, the romantic, not to say classic spot of coon island is reached. here was an old tavern stand, for many years kept by john canode previous to . it was on the north side of the road, and a wagon stand. the stages stopped here also at times, and it was a regular relay for the express wagons. after canode's time the tavern here was kept by john brotherton and sons. it was a prominent point during the flourishing era of the road. as late as a mr. reed kept the old tavern at coon island. the old stage and wagon lines, however, were withdrawn previous to that date, and some small local lines substituted, as if to prevent an abrupt termination to the high prosperity which the road enjoyed for so long a period. the origin of the name coon island is presumably unascertainable, else crumrine in his history of washington county would have given it, as the locality is within the limits of that county. that coons existed and flourished in the neighborhood from time immemorial, there is scarcely a doubt, but an island has never been witnessed there since the subsidence of the great flood in noah's time. the point is now a station on the baltimore & ohio railroad, and the name is changed to vienna. the old name is more appropriate, albeit the island is absent. it is more appropriate, because it is familiar to the people, but it seems to be the inevitable doom of many old familiar names to fall before the advance of modern fancies. think of an old wagoner going back to coon island after an absence of half a century, to find himself "a mere looker on in vienna!" shades of the old pike, hide this ruthless and senseless innovation from the eyes of mankind. [illustration: david bell.] two miles west from coon island and a short distance beyond the site of the old catholic church, an old tavern was kept in early days by one rogers, and subsequently by jacob and michael dougherty. it was a frame house, on the north side of the road. a good water trough was maintained at this old stand, and travelers halted here for water. in this old tavern was kept by jacob jones, the father of the distinguished iron manufacturer and politician, b. f. jones, of pittsburg. the old church mentioned, which will be remembered by all who are familiar with this section of the road, was taken down a few years ago, and rebuilt at claysville, a more central point for the parishioners. before reaching dougherty's another old round toll house is passed, the last one on the road in pennsylvania. here william mccleary collected the tolls for many years. a few hundred yards further west the old and popular tavern of john valentine is reached. it is a frame house, on the north side of the road, large and commodious, and was a favorite resort of wagoners. valentine kept this tavern a great many years. if he had a predecessor or a successor in this house, his name is totally eclipsed by that of john valentine. he possessed the talent for tavern keeping in a rare degree, and was a brother of daniel valentine, the old and popular tavern keeper of washington, and of charles valentine, an old wagoner of that place. chapter xl. _old taverns and tavern keepers continued--west alexander to wheeling--a modern gretna green--dr. mccluskey--crossing another state line--abram carr--the widow beck, with whom abram lincoln boarded, and at whose house robert t. lincoln was born--the widow rhodes and abram beagle--john white, isaac jones, roney's point, ninian bell, john bentley, james kimberly, triadelphia, john d. foster, col. thompson, the widow gooding--the clay monument--col. moses shepherd and his wife, lydia--samuel carter--michael blackburn--steenrods--wheeling--john mccortney, and others._ crumrine's history of washington county states that west alexander was first laid out in by robert humphreys, that most of the lots were subsequently acquired by charles d. hass, who in the year sold them by public outcry; that the national road at the last mentioned date was in process of construction, and had been actually opened for travel from cumberland to the big crossings, and it was believed that all the towns upon its route would become places of prosperity and importance; that the town of west alexander was destroyed by fire on may , , but slowly recovered from the disaster, and in the succeeding twenty years became a thriving village, by reason of the prosperity of the great thoroughfare on which it was located. a house called the "american eagle" was the first tavern in west alexander, established by duncan morrison in , and kept by him for a number of years. subsequent tavern keepers in west alexander were charles mayes, zebulon warner, john gooding, john woodburn, william mccall, solomon cook, james sargent, charles hallam, mary warner, james bell, silver gilfillan, samuel beamer, james matthers, john irons, moses thornburg, samuel doak, joseph lawson, joseph dowdal, william f. gordon, william mccutcheon, and perhaps others. joseph lawson was probably the best known of all these old tavern keepers. he kept a wagon stand for a long time during the prosperous era of the road, and was extensively patronized. he had been an old wagoner himself, and knew the secret of agreeably entertaining old wagoners. he is mentioned in a previous chapter as a "fancy wagoner" of the road. his tavern in west alexander was a large and commodious frame building at the western end of the town, on the south side of the road, with a large and well arranged wagon yard attached. he owned the property, and died in possession. beside being a successful wagoner and tavern keeper, joseph lawson was a staunch citizen, a man of influence and highly esteemed. he was at one time, for a brief period, superintendent of the road from brownsville to the virginia line. [illustration: joseph f. mayes. (old justice of the peace.)] there was, during the prosperous era of the road, an academy at west alexander under the management of the rev. dr. john mccluskey, where many boys were trained for entrance to washington college. dr. mccluskey was an eminent scholar, an able preacher, a successful educator and a worthy man in all the walks of life. he devoted a long and laborious life here, to gain a better one hereafter, and let us hope he is now realizing its enjoyment. west alexander is also noted as a rival of the celebrated gretna green, of scotland, by reason of the many clandestine marriages which have taken place there. joseph f. mayes, an old justice of the peace of the place, married nineteen hundred and eighteen couples from to , more than nine-tenths of whom were elopers. it is estimated that from to , the date of the enactment of the pennsylvania marriage license law, over five thousand eloping couples were married in west alexander. one mile distant from west alexander on the north side of the road, abram carr kept a tavern as early as . it was a frame building, and a wagon stand. after carr this old tavern was kept by silver gilfillan, before mentioned in the list of tavern keepers at west alexander. carr and gilfillan well knew the ways of the road, and were competent men in their line. old wagoners were accustomed to lay aside their coin, to pay bills at gilfillan's tavern, under a belief that he coveted silver because of his christian name. this was the first tavern located in old virginia on the westward march, being less than a mile from the pennsylvania state line. two miles further west a large frame tavern on the north side of the road, was kept by mrs. sarah beck as early as . it was a station for the stockton line of coaches. mrs. beck was succeeded in this house by samuel node, who retained the good will and patronage extended to his predecessor. mrs. beck was the widow of james beck, of the old bridge building firm of kinkead, beck & evans, frequently mentioned in these pages. her son, william g. beck, still living in fairfield, iowa, was the hero of the exciting race between two coaches from cumberland to piney grove, mentioned in a previous chapter. james beck, the husband of sarah beck, died in wheeling in , while keeping a tavern in that place. his widow was of a heroic mold, and resolved to carry on the battle of life on her own account, and continued in the business of tavern keeping. she kept tavern at various points, and finally about the year bade a last adieu to the scenes of the road, amid which she had been reared, and emigrated to the then far west. leasing a house in springfield, illinois, she resumed the business of tavern keeping. while a member of the illinois legislature, abraham lincoln was a boarder in mrs. beck's house, and robert t. lincoln, the late united states minister at london, was born under her roof. thus an old tavern keeper of the national road was closely associated with, and enjoyed the confidence of, one of the most illustrious personages of his time or of any time. a short distance, less than a mile further west, the widow rhodes kept a popular wagon stand as early as . another widow, and no exception to the rule, before stated. her house was a frame building, on the south side of the road, and a busy, bustling hostelry. abram beagle, an old wagoner, became the husband of the widow rhodes, as elsewhere in these pages stated, and relieved her of many of the active cares of tavern keeping, until his death, which occurred in this house, leaving his wife a second time a widow, and she continued the business of tavern keeping as the widow beagle, with her usual success. abram beagle was likewise, and before he married mrs. rhodes, a contractor on the road. his work was near the little crossings. the next old tavern on the west, and a short distance from the widow rhodes' house, was kept as early as by john white. it was a frame house on the north side of the road. mrs. beck, before mentioned, subsequently bought this property, improved it in many details, and especially by the erection of a substantial new stable, with a capacity for sheltering one hundred horses. she conducted this tavern in , and kept the stock and boarded the drivers and other employees of the stockton line of coaches. she was a favorite of that line, and patronized by it at all points of the road where she kept a tavern, except at the greene house in washington, where she had the favor and patronage of the good intent line. the old white stand was kept by the widow miller and her son, after mrs. beck left it, and they were succeeded by peter perkins, and he in turn by john brotherton. one mile further west isaac jones kept a tavern as early as , and probably before that date. his house was a frame building on the north side of the road. he was not active in soliciting patronage, and after a brief and not very successful career as a tavern keeper, closed his house to the public and continued to occupy it as a private residence, and it was never thereafter opened as a tavern. rooney's point is next reached, a stage station ten miles from wheeling. the original owner of the land here was roney, and its peculiar conformation, a high ridge ending in a point on the south side of the road, gave it the name of roney's point. it is a familiar name, and was a lively place during the palmy days of the road. on the north side of the road, at roney's point, a large stone tavern was kept by one ninian bell, prior to the year . he was succeeded by james beck, mrs. sarah beck, moses thornburg, and jacob beck, in the order named. james and jacob beck were not relatives. the old simms line of stages stopped at this house when it was kept by james beck, and it was the stopping place of the good intent line, when kept by jacob beck. [illustration: mrs. sarah beck.] one mile west of roney's point, on the south side, stood an old frame tavern, which, in the eventful days of the road gathered in its share of glory. it was kept first by john bentley, and after him by james kimberly. in addition to the custom it gained from the road, this house was a favorite resort of the young rural residents, male and female, of that portion of old virginia, and here they were accustomed to go for a night's festivity, always confining themselves within the bounds of propriety, but within those bounds enjoying themselves in a high degree. there is many a gray-haired veteran living in the vicinity now, of both sexes, whose memories revert with pleasure to the exciting and exhilarating scenes they witnessed and participated in, at john bentley's old tavern. one mile further west, triadelphia is reached, a small village, and like many others, the outgrowth of the national road. here john d. foster kept a tavern at an early day, and very old pike boys say it was a good one. it was a frame building on the north side of the road. the old landlord is said to have been courteous in deportment, given to hospitality, and scrupulously observant of the proprieties of life. his daughter, mary, became the wife of c. s. malt by, the celebrated oyster dealer of baltimore. the first parties who shipped oysters over the road by express were nicholas roe, edward wright, and holt and malt by. the latter firm soon obtained entire control of the business, and made a fortune in it. malt by died within the past two years in connecticut, and holt was killed in a railroad accident in virginia in . colonel thompson also kept a tavern in triadelphia in an early day. his house was a frame building, on the north side. colonel thompson was a gentleman of the old virginia school, and a fine type of the genial landlord. he ceased keeping this house previous to , and was succeeded by william barnes, who in turn was succeeded by edward lane, and lane by frank lawson. this house was largely patronized by pleasure seekers from wheeling and other places, beside doing an extensive road business, and enjoyed an excellent reputation as a hostelry. three miles further west the old tavern of mrs. gooding, another widow, is reached. the site of this old tavern is now covered by the flourishing village of elm grove. mrs. gooding had a wide fame as a hostess, and her house was crowded by patrons. it is a stone building, still standing, situate on the south side of the road. old wagoners to this day, enthuse over the sumptuousness of the widow coding's table. sleighing parties from wheeling frequented this old tavern in the halcyon days of the road, and were handsomely entertained. "oh, the songs they would sing, and the tales they would spin, as they lounged in the light of the old country inn. but a day came at last when the stage brought no load to the gate, as it rolled up the long, dusty road. and lo! at the sunrise a shrill whistle blew o'er the hills--and the old yielded place to the new-- and a merciless age with its discord and din made wreck, as it passed, of the pioneer inn." before reaching mrs. coding's the clay monument is passed. this monument was erected by moses shepherd and lydia, his wife, under an inspiration of personal admiration of the great statesman, and with a further view of commemorating his distinguished public services in behalf of the road. it is of free stone, located upon a level piece of ground about fifty feet south of the east end of a stone bridge of three arches, over wheeling creek. at its base its circumference is twenty-four feet, towering to a height of twenty feet, and surmounted by a chiselled figure of the goddess of liberty, at this date bearing plain evidences of the ravages of time and storm. originally each of the four sides of the base column revealed an elaborate inscription, but all are totally effaced now, except the one on the east side, which is as follows: "time will bring every amelioration and refinement, most gratifying to rational man, and the humblest flower freely plucked under the shelter of the tree of liberty, is more to be desired than all the trappings of royalty; th year of american independence, anni domini, ." the word time stands out in bold relief over the other words quoted. john awry, of claysville, and alexander ramsey, of washington, two old and well remembered stone-cutters, worked on this monument. the former did most of the carving, in which he was an expert, and the latter much of the fine chiselling. ramsey was the father-in-law of william g. beck, the old stage driver previously mentioned. on a picturesque eminence, near the monument, overlooking big wheeling creek, stands the ancient and historic shepherd mansion, a stone building erected in , and now known as "monument place," the delightful and hospitable home of maj. alonzo louring. in the olden time, when the national road was the bustling highway of the republic, the handsome and luxurious stage coaches of the period, frequently bore henry clay and other eminent men of his day to the shepherd mansion, where they revealed in old virginia hospitality. near the old shepherd mansion stands an antiquated sun dial, covered with the marks of time, and bearing on its south face this inscription: "the noiseless foot of time steals softly by, and ere we think of manhood age draws nigh." [illustration: col. moses shepherd.] [illustration: mrs. lydia shepherd.] on the north face of this dial appear the names and the figures: "moses and lydia shepherd, ." col. moses shepherd died in , and his widow subsequently married gen. daniel kruger, whom she also survived many years. they are all now dead, and their mortal remains mingle with their native dust, in the cemetery attached to the "stone church," near elm grove. a handsome monument stands at their graves bearing the following inscriptions: on one side, "_sic transit gloria mandi_: sacred to the memory of col. moses shepherd, who departed this life april th, , in the th year of his age." "to him the country owes a large debt of gratitude, as well for his defense of it, when a frontier settlement, as for his recent public services in aiding the extension and construction of the cumberland road through virginia." the obverse side tells the story of the second husband, as follows: "_sic transit gloria mandi_: sacred to the memory of gen. daniel kruger, who died july th, , in the th year of his age." a third side perpetuates the memory of the twice bereaved widow as follows: "_sic transit gloria mandi_: lydia s. kruger, wife of gen. daniel kruger, formerly lydia s. bogs, first married col. moses shepherd: born feb. th, : died sept. th, , in the d year of her age." high up on the granite shaft is chiselled on two sides the picture of a log cabin, and at the door appears a female figure in sitting posture, with a dog in repose at the feet, while in the back ground is seen the representation of a martial group, with branches of a palm tree overhanging the whole design. a short distance west from widow goodings, samuel carter kept a tavern as early as . it was a brick house on the south side of the road, a resort for pleasure seekers from wheeling, and a well kept house. this house was subsequently kept by william strawn. about one mile west of carter's, michael blackburn kept a tavern in the olden time, and was well favored with custom. it was a stone house on the north side of the road. next comes steenrod's, two miles out from wheeling, a brick and stone building on the south side of the road, and a widely known old tavern. daniel steenrod, the old landlord, owned the property, and was a man of intelligence and much influence. his son, lewis, represented the wheeling district in congress during the prosperous era of the road, and, as before stated, was one of its most zealous champions. lewis steenrod, a grandson of the old landlord, is at this time ( ), high sheriff of ohio county, west virginia, and on november th of this year, executed maier, the murderer. daniel steenrod kept the old tavern last mentioned as early as , and probably before that date, and continued throughout the whole period of the road's great career as a national highway. he died april th, , aged eighty years. the property still remains in the steenrod family. a short distance from steenrod's, on the north side, was "good's bottom," now called pleasant valley, doubtless by reason of the frantic iconoclasm, which has lain its ruthless hands on so many old and familiar names. at good's bottom there was a race course in early times, and it was here, and previous to , that the celebrated horse "tariff" lost his laurels. "tariff" was owned by thomas porter, a farmer and stock man of claysville. joseph white, the well known marble dealer of uniontown, a native of the vicinity of claysville, was a witness of the discomfiture of "tariff" on the old race course at good's bottom. and now, after a long journey of two hundred and sixty miles, the city of wheeling is reached. wheeling was the western terminus of the road, in contemplation of the act of congress of march th, , given in a previous chapter. john mccortney kept the most noted wagon stand in wheeling. he was likewise a commission merchant, which further identified him with old wagoners, enabling him to furnish them with back loads. his tavern was located on main street, running back east on fourteenth to alley b, parallel with, and between main and market, with ample grounds surrounding it for wagons and teams to stand on. these grounds were so extensive that they accommodated the old time circus, in addition to wagons and teams of the road, and two distinct circuses have been known to exhibit on them at the same time. they were not of the modern "triple ring" order, but of the dan rice design. mccortney was a man of agreeable manners, and managed his extensive business with marked success. he died in wheeling on december th, , aged seventy-nine years. he was three times married. his last wife was the widow of william h. stelle, one of the proprietors of the good intent stage line. martin bugger was mccartney's bar-keeper for many years, and is remembered by old wagoners as a rival of wilse clement in hard swearing. on lower water street, robert newlove kept a wagon stand, and was well liked by old wagoners, and well patronized by them. he was the owner of wagons and teams, which he kept on the road, in charge of hired drivers. in richard simms, the old stage proprietor, kept the united states hotel, and was its owner. james beck kept this house after simms, and james dennison after beck. james mccray kept it next after dennison, and mordecai yarnell next after mccray. the monroe house, on monroe, now tenth street, was kept in by john mcclure, and subsequently by james matthers. the virginia house was kept in by john graham, and afterward by one beltsville, and later by jacob kline. beltsville and kline came out from baltimore. the united states, the monroe and the virginia, were stage stations. on upper main street, in , moses mossier kept a tavern, and on the same street, and at the same time, a tavern was kept by mrs. beamer, widow of captain frederic beamer, assisted by her son, samuel, who was a soldier of . capt. frederic beamer kept a tavern in wheeling as early as the year , at the sign of the wagon, and took boarders at two piastres a week. the town council of wheeling met in capt. beamers tavern in . the house that widow beamer presided over as hostess, is a brick building, on the southwest corner of main and ninth streets, on a lot bordering the river. this house is still standing, but has not been used as a tavern for many years. beamers old landing was at the foot of ninth street, where the national road approached the ohio river. in joseph teeters kept a wagon stand in wheeling, below mccartney's, and john bradfield kept a similar stand on water street in - . the mysterious disappearance of a man by the name of cooper from the mossier house about , produced a local sensation, followed by an accusation of foul play and a charge of murder. cooper, in company with a friend and neighbor by the name of long, put up together one evening at the mossier house, and on the next morning cooper was missing. the two had come in from ohio, and were going to washington county, pennsylvania, where they were born and raised, to visit relatives and old friends. it appears that cooper rose early and took an outgoing coach back to ohio without notifying his traveling companion or any one else. a dead body was found in the river and identified as that of cooper; and long, after reaching his destination, was arrested for murder and lodged in the washington jail. the virginia authorities made no requisition for him, and he was finally discharged, and settled in michigan. a few years afterward, cooper was discovered in indianapolis, sound and well. [illustration: john mccortney.] the forsyth's of wheeling, james h. and his son leonard, were prominently identified with the destinies of the national road. the commission house of james h. forsythe & co. was a leading establishment of its kind. james h. forsythe, the senior member of this old firm, was noted for his energy and clear-hoodedness. he could converse with any number of persons, and indite a letter at the same time, without being in any wise confused. his son, leonard, was also well known on the road. he conducted commission houses at brownsville and cumberland, and very often passed over the road, in the management of his business. he is now living in texas near austin, and feels a deep interest in the history of the road. w. l. mcneil, of wheeling, when a young man, had a brief experience as a wagoner. he drove several trips for thomas darkly, who was a merchant with stores in baltimore and wheeling, and is well remembered by old pike boys. mcneil "put up" at natty brownfield's, in uniontown, when driving drake's team, a half a century and longer ago, and has never forgotten the good entertainment he enjoyed at that old tavern. the old tavern keepers of the national road were a remarkable body of men. in many instances they were free holders, men well posted in current affairs, and influential in their respective neighbourhoods. they were honorable in their dealings, and believed that every man's word should be as good as his bond. as caterers they made no display. they had no bills of fare, printed on gilt edged paper, or fine linen, and it is doubtful if any one of them ever heard the modern word _menu_, yet the spreads of their generous boards would almost kindle exhilaration in the heart of a misanthrope. the thought may be attributable to change of time or circumstance, or taste, or all together, but there is an immovable conviction in the mind of the writer of these pages, that the viands of modern hotels, lack the savouriness of those of the old taverns of the national road. chapter xli. _west of wheeling--old stage lines beyond the ohio river--william neil--gen. n. p. flamage--stage stations--old taverns and tavern keepers--rev. doctor cinnabar and "sunset" cox were old pike boys--lively times in guernsey--crossing another state line--sycamore valley--old taverns in richmond--a link out--centerville--dublin--through indiana--the road disappears among the prairies of illinois._ it is estimated that two-fifths of the trade and travel of the road were diverted at brownsville, and fell into the channel furnished at that point by the slack water improvement of the monongahela river, and a like proportion descended the ohio from wheeling, and the remaining fifth continued on the road to columbus, ohio, and points further west. the travel west of wheeling was chiefly local, and the road presented scarcely a tithe of the thrift, push, whirl and excitement which characterized it, east of that point; and there was a corresponding lack of incident, accident and anecdote on the extreme western division. the distance from wheeling to columbus is one hundred and twenty-nine miles, and the road enters the capital of ohio by way of high street. before the era of railroads columbus derived its chief business from the national road. neil, moore & co. operated a line of stage coaches between wheeling and columbus prior to, and for some time after, the year , and their line extended west as far as springfield. daniel moore, of washington, pennsylvania, and his son henry, composed the moore end of this old ohio stage company. henry moore subsequently located in baltimore, and died there. his father died in washington, pennsylvania, more than half a century ago. john scott, of washington, pennsylvania, antedates daniel moore as a stage proprietor. he ran a line of coaches between washington and wheeling as early as the year , on an old road between those points, which was used previous to the construction of the national road, and had the contract for carrying the united states mails. william neil, the old stage proprietor, was the projector and owner of the neil house, the leading hotel of columbus. he was the possessor of large means, enhanced by holdings of large tracts of fertile land near columbus, which he acquired at low figures in an early day. it is said his manners were not of the _suave_ order, but he was noted for energy and shrewdness. one who knew him says of him, that "he was honest in his dealings, somewhat rough in his ways, but an energetic, pushing man, who made things move." this description fits many of the old pike boys. gen. n. p. flamage, of whom further mention is made hereafter, owned and operated a line of coaches also between wheeling and columbus, and made things lively along the road. he called his line the "good intent." john weaver, as before stated, transferred his old line of coaches called the "peoples," from the eastern to the ohio portion of the road. there was considerable competition between these old lines, but not comparable to that of the old lines east of wheeling. the stage stations between wheeling and columbus were: st. gainesville, morristown, fairview, washington, cambridge, concord, zanesville, gratiot, named in honor of brig. gen. gratiot, before mentioned; jackson, etna and reynolds burg. among the old tavern keepers west of wheeling, the following were prominent and well known in the olden time: moses rhodes kept at bridgeport, and hailed the west-bound traveler on his entrance to the borders of the state of ohio. a short distance further west, one cusic, and after him nicol's, in the same old tavern, ministered to the wants of the traveler on the nation's old highway. a short drive from nicols' brought the wayfarer to the house of chambers, ever ready to wait upon the public, and a little beyond was the woodman's house, kept by isaac cleaves, who afterward hung up his sign at a house further west. passing woodman's, the next old tavern was mcmahon's, a veritable son of erin, overflowing with native generosity. this part of the road seems to have been an irish row, since the next old tavern, after passing mcmahon's, was kept by one mccray. a short distance west of mccray's the town of st. gainesville comes in view, one of the oldest towns of ohio, the seat of justice for belmont county, and named in honor of the illustrious old westmoreland county, pennsylvania, soldier and patriot, gen. arthur st. clair. in st. gainesville, james smith kept the stage office, and bowed in genuine old pike style to the coming and going passengers. one mile west of st. gainesville, an old german, or swede, bearing the non-musical name of swanker, or something like it, kept a tavern, and, according to tradition, a good one. his house was a fine brick building, on the north side of the road. one mile further west, one hoover entertained the traveling public, and beyond him, one chamberlain presided over a good old tavern. the village of louisville is next reached, which, of course, had its tavern, as all villages have, and probably more than one; but the old wagoner who furnished most of the data for this chapter could not recall the names of the old proprietors thereof. it was a long time ago that he drove a team on the road, and he is verging upon his ninetieth year, and therefore not to be censured for forgetfulness. the writer found more difficulty in obtaining information concerning this portion of the road than any other. in fact, he admits his failure to obtain the necessary data for producing an accurate history of it. he wrote to all the postmasters on the ohio line east of columbus, for information concerning the road, and no response came, except in one instance, and that was to a letter which reached a wrong destination. it was addressed to the postmaster at jackson, a village on the road, called "jacktown" by the old pike boys, and found its way to the postmaster of jackson, jackson county, a considerable distance south of the national road. it happened that the postmaster who received this letter was a native of brownsville, fayette county, pennsylvania, a member of the old sloan family of that place, but he was so far away from the road that he could furnish no information concerning it. he, at least, was courteous, a trait for which he is indebted, probably, to the circumstance of his nativity. a self-important postmaster, especially of a little town, like the political carpet-bagger, has no respect for ancient landmarks. moving on westwardly, the next point reached is morristown, the second stage station west of wheeling. this town was at its best when the national road was the leading avenue of trade and travel. john barnum and john lipping were the old tavern keepers of morristown, and took pride in scanning the old way bills, and catering to the wants of hungry stage passengers. one mile west of morristown christopher hoover hung out his old sign board in front of a substantial brick house, on the south side of the road, and a short distance beyond, noble taylor, a combination of familiar old pike names, entertained the traveling public. the village of hindenburg is next reached. this place is on the dividing line between belmont and guernsey counties. it is not and never was a pretentious town, but its old inhabitants derived much comfort, and not a little pleasure, from advantages afforded by the national road. passing one or more old taverns whose occupants and owners cannot be recalled, the traveler comes upon the town of fairview, a stirring place in the palmy days of the road. there william bradshaw was a popular tavern keeper. he and isaac cleaves, formerly of the woodman's house, near wheeling, were the leading tavern keepers in fairview fifty years ago. west of fairview the old tavern keepers were: william armstrong, joseph ferrell and alexander taylor. middletown is next reached, and here thomas hays and one thompson each kept a tavern in the olden time, and gladdened the heart of many a weary traveler. west of middletown the roll bears the names of alter briggs and alexander speers. samuel smith kept the old tavern at elizabeth town. west of elizabeth town, one cray ton kept a tavern, and beyond him widow drake. the widows never surrender. the village of washington is next reached. here simon beamer kept at the sign of the "black bear," and peter colley, formerly of centreville, kept a tavern in washington as late as . west of washington the old traveler on the road found rest and refreshment first at the tavern of widow slams, and before reaching cambridge, excellent entertainment was furnished by joseph griffith, james smith, john shaw, mr. slater, mr. mccain, john nice, robert curry, mr. waterhouse, and joshua davis. cambridge comes next on the line. this is the capital of guernsey county, one of the liveliest towns on the road, and surviving its decline, remains prosperous. the old tavern keepers in cambridge were william ferguson, wyatt hutchinson, bazil brown, mr. nee dam, mr. pollard, joseph bute, elijah grimes, john cook, james b. moore, captain hearsing, john tingle and george met calf. the latter kept one of the stage houses. three miles west of cambridge, thomas curran kept an old tavern. further west, taverns were kept by jacob frank, mr. laird, alex. leper, ichabod grumman, mr. sutton, frank dixon, william mcdonald and lewis mcdonald. lewis mcdonald's old tavern was near the dividing line between guernsey and muskingum counties. after entering the county of muskingum the first old tavern reached was kept by william mckinney, and next in line comes the old tavern of william wilson, still doing business under the management of edward mcleod. at norwich mr. cinnabar kept a tavern. he was the father of rev. hiram cinnabar, d. d., for many years a leading member of the pittsburg conference of the methodist episcopal church, a man of much learning and genuine piety, pure in thought, and upright in conduct. the author of these pages knew him well, and in the whole range of his acquaintance never met a sincerer friend, or a more just man. he died in los angeles, california, a few years ago. lightly rest the sod that covers his grave. he is numbered among the pike boys, as in early life he led horses from his father's house in ohio to eastern markets. further westward on the road jacob probasco hung up his sign in front of an old tavern, he of jockey hollow fame before mentioned. his tavern at this point was known as the "ten mile house," being distant ten miles from zanesville. one mile west of proboscis's one mcnutt, of irish extraction, and good fame as a landlord, kept a tavern, and next beyond, on the westward trend, john livengood, whose name imports old pennsylvania dutch stock, ministered to the wants of strangers and travelers. zanesville is next reached. zanesville is the county seat of muskingum county. it is situate on the muskingum river, fifty-nine miles east from columbus. mr. leslie kept a tavern in zanesville in the olden time, and entertained the public in a highly satisfactory manner. his house was a brick building on the north side of the street and road, and at the west end of the town. when leslie kept tavern in zanesville, the town contained a population of about , . its population at this date exceeds , . it survived the decline of the road, and grew rapidly in population and wealth, but it may be doubted whether its present money making inhabitants experience as much of the real pleasures and enjoyments of life as their predecessors of fifty years ago, when the dashing stage coach woke up the echoes of the dull town, and the heavy tread of the ponderous broad wheeled wagon told the whole story of commerce and trade. the illustrious samuel s. cox was born and reared in zanesville, and therefore, under a definition given in a previous chapter, a pike boy. he was called "sunset," by reason of a gushing description he wrote of the setting sun, when a young man, and there is no doubt that the views which so deeply impressed his youthful mind were had from points on the national road, in the vicinity of his native town. he was one of the brightest stars in the galaxy of american statesmen. a writer in a guernsey county paper gives the following lively description of scenes on the road in that locality: "isaac cleaves was one of the old tavern keepers in fairview. his house was the stage office, where a halt was made for exchange of horses, and to discharge and take on passengers. the stage offices were places of public resort, and around the bar-rooms gathered the toper's and loafers, by day and by night. the old stage drivers were full of fun and frolic, and could entertain the curious with 'tales fearful and awful, e'en to name would be unlawful. fast by an angle blinking bonni, w'ie recanning swats that drank divinely, these sorters told their queerest stories, and the landlord's laugh was ready chorus.' "there was nat smith, sam smith, jim smith, bate smith, jo smith, quill smith, bill smith, and more of the smith family, and sam carouse, jake carouse, sylvester root, sam kirk, tom kirk, tom bryan, andy caster, tom carter, jim bryan, bony sheldon, wash cranford, jim bay less, mart huck, henry hight, tom crawford, john silvain, ross briggs, and a host of others of the 'knights of the whip and reins,' of those old coaching days, 'when hand to hand they cut and strive, devil take the hindmost of the drive.' "near by stood the old 'smithy' of capt. john g. bell's father, whose bellows flapped, and red sparks flew, and anvil rang, night and day, to keep the horses feet in trim, so that down the slope to honduras, and on to borden's hill and taylor's hill, and o'er salt fork's long stretch, through ice and sleet, these jehu's could safely, and on time, move on their load of living freight and the mails sent out by 'uncle sam.' john skimmings, one of the early settlers at the mouth of wills creek, was the general agent from columbus to wheeling, of the great neil, moore & co., whose lines cobwebbed the state of ohio. otho hinton was the united states mail agent to look after the mail robbers. he turned out to be one himself, and was placed under arrest for opening the mails between cambridge and washington. he was indicted and arraigned before the united states court at columbus, released on bail, and fled to honolulu, where he died in . "gen. n. p. flamage placed on the road what was called the opposition, or good intent, line of stages. this was just after the washingtonian temperance movement. he made temperance speeches along the line, and required his drivers to take the pledge. he stopped at cambridge and made a speech in the old presbyterian church, and sang a song, his drivers taking up the chorus. we give in substance, if not in word, a verse: 'our horses are true and coaches fine, no upsets or runaways; nor drunken drivers to swear and curse, for its cold water all the days. chorus. for our agents and drivers are all fully bent, to go for cold water, on line good intent, sing, go it, my hearties, cold water for me.' "isaac cleaves was not behind as a caterer to the inner man, and a dinner or supper by the stage passengers, after being rocked and tossed at a six miles per hour rate, was relished even by tippecanoe and corwin, too, and democrats did not starve nor turn up their noses because old isaac was a whig. he had a famous recipe for the cure of the ague, which for its queer compound he was often required to give, not so much for the ingredients; they were very simple; but for the first preparation for the compound. this was to boil down a quart of water to a pint. and to the inquiry, 'what is the water boiled down for, uncle isaac?' he would reply, 'to make it stronger.' "a little further, and last, was major william bradshaw, just over in belmont county. he was the soul of wit and humour, and gave out many expressions that have become noted. to all that he did not feel disposed to entertain, he gave the answer, 'take the janesville road.' his toast drank in honor of the fairview guards, a military company that had been parading 'with plumes and banners gay,' just after the close of the mexican war, will live in the military history of guernsey county--'soldiers in peace, civilians in war.'" the smiths above mentioned all drove stages on the road east of wheeling, before going to ohio, and lived in brownsville. all the male members of the family were drivers, including samuel, the father. his sons were, samuel, jr., gilbert, quill, bate and nat, familiar names in the early history of the road. the largest town on the line of the road west of columbus, in the state of ohio, is springfield, the capital of clark county. the distance between columbus and springfield is forty-five miles. springfield enjoyed for a number of years the advantages of the road, and felt a pride in being on its line, but its growth and development, the result of other agencies, have thrown a mantle of oblivion over the time when the rattle of the stage coach and the rumble of road wagons furnished the chief excitement of her streets. the road penetrated indiana at the boundary line of wayne county, in that state. the length of the line through indiana is one hundred and forty-nine and one-fourth miles, and the sum of $ , was expended on it for bridges and masonry. work was begun at indianapolis and prosecuted east and west from that point, in obedience to an act of congress given in the chapter on appropriations. the road was completed through wayne county in . it was not macadamized or graveled, and in the year was absorbed by the wayne county turnpike company, under a charter granted by state authority. the length of this pike is twenty-two miles. the second section of the act incorporating the wayne county turnpike company reads as follows: "the capital stock of said company shall be one hundred thousand dollars, divided into shares of fifty dollars each, and shall be applied to the construction of a turnpike road in wayne county, commencing at the western terminus of the richmond turnpike, about three miles east of richmond, and to be continued westward on the line of the national road to the county line between the counties of henry and wayne; and the state of indiana hereby relinquishes to said wayne county turnpike company all the rights, interests, and claims in and to the line of said national road in said county of wayne; the grade, materials, bridges, constructions of all kinds she now has, or may hereafter acquire from the general government, in and to the said national road: _provided_, that in case the federal government should, at any time hereafter, determine to resume the ownership and control of said road, said company shall relinquish the same to the general government, on receiving from it the full cost of construction as expended by said company." the section quoted discloses a point which the court of somerset county, pennsylvania, seems to have overlooked when it condemned that portion of the road lying within the borders of that county, took possession of its property, and decreed it free from tolls. the several acts of congress ceding the road to pennsylvania and the other states through which it passed, reserved the right of congress at any subsequent time to resume ownership and control, and in case of the exercise of this reserved right, the question arises, what would become of the decree of the somerset county court? prior to the construction of the national road in indiana, robert morrisson, the founder of the morrisson library, of richmond, and one of the leading citizens of that place, was mainly instrumental in causing a gravel road to be made from richmond to dayton, ohio, which was known as the "richmond and short line pike." the engineers of the national road adopted the line of morrison's road in indiana, with the exception of one mile from a point near clawson's tavern to the ohio state line. the government survey carried the line east from clawson's tavern, and north of sycamore valley, over two long and steep hills, separated by a deep valley. to avoid these hills on the ohio side, travel dropped down over a good country road to the richmond and short line pike at the state line. this country road was afterwards macadamized, but the distance between the state line and clawson's tavern has remained a gravel road until the present time, kept up and used as a portion of the national road, instead of the line over the hills north of sycamore valley. morrisson's company was merged in the wayne county turnpike company in . this company issued seven hundred and eighty shares of stock of the par value of fifty dollars each, and operated its road until the year , when jackson township, by virtue of a popular vote, purchased that portion of it lying within her boundaries for the sum of $ , , and made it free of tolls. in , wayne township bought the road within her boundaries for $ , , and made it free. the preliminary steps are now being taken by the citizens of center township to take a vote on a proposition to purchase the road within her borders. if this measure carries the road will be free throughout its entire length in wayne county. the presidents of the wayne county turnpike company have been robert morrisson, jacob brooks, edmund laurence, william parry, and joseph c. ratliff, the last named having served continuously from to the present time, a pleasant gentleman of fine executive abilities. this company has always paid dividends of seven per cent. on its capital stock of $ , , and for the last ten years a majority of its stockholders have been women. the rate of toll was two cents a mile for horse and buggy and one-half cent per mile for each additional horse, one cent for a horse and rider per mile, and one-half cent for a led horse. the toll houses were small frame structures and the gates simply heavy poles to raise and let down after the manner of the beam that lowered and lifted up "the old oaken bucket that hung in the well." going westwardly from the ohio state line, in indiana, the first tavern was that of james neal, at sycamore valley. of neal but little can be gleaned beyond the fact that he kept tavern at this point for several years. the next tavern was clawson's, a brick building, erected about the year by robert hill. it stood a little distance north of the road, and near the western end of the line before mentioned, as having been located but not used, and was subsequently torn down and rebuilt on the traveled line. it is said that robert hill's daughters hauled the brick for their father's house in an ox cart. clawson was a tall, muscular man, and beyond these facts concerning him, he is lost to the memory of the oldest inhabitant of indiana. west of clawson's the first toll gate in indiana was encountered. it stood near glen miller park and almost within the suburbs of richmond. this gate was moved several times, but never over a mile from richmond. the city of richmond is the first large town on the line of the road within the borders of the state of indiana, and the road forms its main street. it is four miles from the ohio line, and the county seat of wayne county. its present population is , . the first tavern of the road in richmond was kept by charles w. starr. it was a regular old pike tavern, with extensive stabling and drove yards attached, occupying one-fourth of a square on the northeast corner of eighth, formerly fifth street. the building was of brick, known in later years as the tremont hotel. it is still standing, but not used as a hotel or tavern. charles w. starr was a man of medium size and of quaker faith. he wore the quaker garb, had quaker habits, and was esteemed a good citizen. some of his descendants are still living at richmond, and three of his sons are prominent and active business men of that place. a short distance below starr's, and between sixth and seventh streets, stood sloan's brick stage house, and its proprietor, daniel d. sloan, was at one time postmaster of richmond. this tavern was headquarters for two stage lines, one running to indianapolis and the other to cincinnati. the cincinnati line had opposition, and by cutting rates the fare was reduced by the competition and during its continuance, from five dollars to fifty cents for the round trip, distance seventy miles direct. a portion of sloan's old tavern still remains, and adjoins roling's hardware store. sloan was heavy set, fleshy, and well poised for a tavern keeper. on the south side of the road, between seventh and eighth streets, william nixon kept a tavern on the site of the present huntington house. he was a spare, sinewy man, of the quaker faith. he kept the tavern at the point named from to about . a noted tavern was gilbert's, on the northeast corner of sixth and main streets. joseph w. gilbert kept this house for many years. it was a two-story frame building, pebble coated. gilbert was tall and slim, polite and affable, and had many friends. he suffered the misfortune of going blind, and died at richmond in , in the ninety-second year of his age. when barely able to distinguish large objects he walked much up and down the streets, asking persons he met to tell him the time of day, always pulling out his watch and holding it up for inspection. at one time when gilbert was moving a part of his tavern building, charles newman, on passing along, inquired of the old landlord, whose house was noted for its cleanliness, how many bed bugs he found. gilbert replied with indignation, "not a single one." "i believe you, joseph," said newman, "for they are married and have large families." most of the early taverns of richmond were in the western part of the town. it is related in the latest history of indiana, that jeremiah cox, one of the earliest settlers in richmond, regarded with disfavor the scheme of building up the town; and is said to have remarked, that he would rather see a buck's tail than a tavern sign, and his sincerity was made evident by the fact, that he did not make his addition to the town plat until two years after the date of smith's survey, or two years after philip harter had a tavern sign swinging near a log building on lot , south fifth (pearl) street. another early tavern of richmond was kept at the northwest corner of main and fifth (pearl), sign of the green tree, by jonathan bayles, and another, of later date, on fourth (front) street, near the southwest corner of main, by ephraim lacey. harter soon afterward kept a tavern at the corner of north fifth (pearl) and main, where the citizen's bank afterward stood, then called harter's corner. another tavern was kept on gilbert's corner, northwest corner of main and sixth (marion), first, it is believed, by abraham jeffries, and continued afterward by several other persons at different times. richard cheesman, an early settler, lived on south fourth (front) street, kept a tavern several years, and subsequently removed to center township, where he died. william, a nephew, remained in richmond, and married a miss moffitt. he died some years ago, but his widow is still living. john baldwin, an original carolinian, kept a tavern and store at the citizen's bank corner. he went west, and became a trader with the indians. their savage nature having at one time been excited by liquor which he had sold them, they scalped, or partially scalped him, but he survived the operation and returned to wayne county, where he died, six miles north of richmond, in . after baldwin, william h. vaughan kept this tavern for several years, and until it ceased to entertain the public. vaughan had previously kept the lacey tavern on fourth (front) street. patrick justice, at an early period, kept a tavern on north fourth (front) street, near main. he afterward kept a public house which he built in , near the extreme limits of the town, now the southeast corner of main and fifth streets. benjamin paige, a new englander, father of ralph paige, once a merchant on main street, kept a tavern previous to , at the corner originally owned by john c. kibbey, an early inn-keeper, and known as meek's corner, northeast of main and sixth (marion). abraham jeffries had a tavern on gilbert's corner, which he kept a number of years, and was succeeded by joseph andrews, his brother-in-law, who died soon after taking charge. the last westward tavern in richmond was kept by christian buhl, who came from germany, and his house was a three story stone structure where minck's brewery now is. at the west end of richmond the road crosses whitewater river over a handsome and expensive bridge. this bridge has seven arches, and is a combination truss and arch design, capable of sustaining an immense weight. on the west side timbers and wool sacks were sunk into a quicksand upon which to rest the foundations of the abutment. toll-gate no. was erected at the fifth mile post west of richmond and afterwards moved to a point near earlham college. this gate was kept by william fagan for twenty-three years, and afterwards by mr. gardener for nearly ten years. mr. gardener is a new york man and was one of the best gate-keepers on the road. his wife is a cousin of the late hon. william b. windom, who was secretary of the treasury in president harrison's administration. there was a tavern between gate no. and gate no. , which was near the center township line and east clear creek. west of this point there is a curve in the road caused by the refusal of thomas croft to remove his house, which was on the surveyed line. he was offered $ to remove his house and declined to take it. the road was then of necessity made around his house, and so near it as to loosen its foundations, and it toppled and fell down, causing him to lose his house, and the sum offered him as damages besides. at the seventh mile stone, a little beyond west clear creek bridge, stood the shop of jeremy mansur, who manufactured the first axes made in the county of wayne. when martin van buren made his trip through indiana, many persons denounced him as an enemy of the road, and some one in richmond, to inflict chastisement upon the distinguished statesman for his supposed unfriendliness, sawed a double-tree of the coach in which he was traveling nearly through, and it broke near mansur's ax-shop, causing mr. van buren to walk to the top of a hill through thick mud. the author of this mishap to mr. van buren subsequently boasted that he had put a mud polish on gentleman martin's boots to give him a realizing sense of the importance of good roads. near the ninth mile stone from richmond were two celebrated taverns, eliason's and estepp's. both were brick houses and well kept. joshua eliason was a man of medium size, jovial disposition, remarkably industrious, and a zealous member of the christian church. his tavern was on the north side of the road, and, in connection with it, he maintained two one-story emigrant houses to accommodate families moving west. the emigrants carried and cooked their own provisions, and paid eliason a certain sum for the use of his buildings. drove yards were also a profitable feature of eliason's tavern. he sold grain to the drovers, and after the cattle were turned out, put his own hogs in the vacated field to eat up the remnants and refuse. [illustration: bridge over whitewater, richmond, ind.] john estepp's tavern was on the south side of the road, nearly opposite eliason's. he had one emigrant house, and did an extensive business. he was a man of the lean order, but always on the alert to turn an honest penny. a short distance beyond estepp's, centerville comes in view, near where daniel l. lashley kept the principal tavern. he was a large man, and had a large patronage. centerville boasts of having been a nursery of great men. here oliver p. morton, when a young man, worked as a hatter, and gen. a. e. burnside pursued the humble trade of a tailor. gen. lew wallace and gen. noble went to school in centerville, and possibly the germs of ben hur had their origin in this rural village. hon. george w. julian, of free soil notoriety, was at one time a resident of centerville, and judge nimrod johnson, of the state supreme court, and john s. newman, ex-president of the indiana central railroad company, were among the noted personages who lived there. centerville was for many years the county seat of wayne county, and the removal of the offices and archives to richmond produced a feeling of jealousy between the inhabitants of the places which lingers in a measure to this day, although richmond has far outstripped her ancient rival in growth and improvements. west of centerville the road crosses nolan's fork, a small indiana stream, and a short distance beyond, and near the poor farm, a toll-gate was established, and there was also a tavern at this point. one mile west of the poor farm, crum fork is crossed by means of a bridge, and between this stream and germantown there was another toll-gate and also a tavern. there is a bridge over the stream between germantown and cambridge city. west of cambridge city, and near dublin, there was a toll-gate, and a short distance west of dublin, the road passes out of wayne county. the road forms the main street of dublin and is called cumberland street, by reason of this fact. the first tavern established in dublin was by samuel schoolfield, an old virginian, pleasantly remembered on account of his staunch patriotism. he displayed on his sign-board the motto: "our country, right or wrong." the railroad absorbed all passenger and freight traffic in the year , after which date and to the close of the civil war, outside of home travel, the main vehicles on the indiana division were "prairie schooners," or semi-circular bedded, white-covered emigrant wagons, used by parties moving from virginia and the carolinas to illinois. indianapolis as before stated is on the line of the road, but her proportions as a city are the outgrowth of other agencies. in the early days of indiana's capital the national road was her only commercial artery, and her pioneer citizens regarded it as a great advantage to their aspiring town. the railway era dawned so soon after the road was located through indianapolis that but few memories cluster about its history in that locality like those east of the ohio river. the last and only remaining large town of indiana on the road is terre haute, a city like indianapolis that has outgrown the memories of the road, and is probably little mindful of the time when her early inhabitants deemed it a matter of high importance to be located on its line. though remote from the active centres of the historic road, terre haute is more or less associated with its stirring scenes and former prestige. there was a striking similarity in the habits, manners and pursuits of the old inhabitants of the towns along the national road, notably between baltimore and wheeling. the road was a bond that drew them together and united them as neighbors. there are many persons still living who remember when frederic, hagerstown, cumberland, uniontown, brownsville, washington and wheeling derived their main support from the road, and their chief distinction from their location on its line. this feature was also true of the towns on the appian way, on authority of the classic author, anthon. any one familiar with the national road in its prosperous era, whose business or other engagements required a divergence from it, invariably returned to it with a sense of security and a feeling of rest and relief. this feeling was universal and profound. an illustration is furnished by hon. william h. playford, of uniontown, who was born and reared on the road. after his college graduation he went south to teach, as did many other graduates of northern colleges. when his term as a teacher ended his heart of course yearned for home, and homeward he set his sails. he struck the national road at terre haute, and the moment his eyes flashed upon its familiar surface he felt that he was among old friends and nearly home. it was the first object he had witnessed since his departure from the paternal roof that brought him in touch again with home. before the road was completed beyond the western boundary of the state of indiana, the steam railway had become the chief agency of transportation and travel, and our grand old national highway was practically lost amid the primitive prairies of illinois, so that whereas its splendor was favored by the rising, it was dispelled beneath the setting sun. [illustration: gen. george w. cass.] chapter xlii. _superintendents under national control--gen. gratiot, captains delafield, mckee, bliss, hartzell, williams, colquit and cass, and lieuts. mansfield, vance and pickell--the old mile posts--commissioners and superintendents under state control--william searight, william hopkins, and earlier and later commissioners and superintendents--a pennsylvania court wipes out a section of the road._ down to the year , as has been seen, the road was under the control and supervision of the war department of the general government. brig.-gen. gratiot was the chief officer in immediate charge. the town of gratiot on the line of the road in muskingum county, ohio, was named in his honor. captains delafield, mckee, bliss, bartlett, hartzell, williams, colquit and cass, and lieuts. mansfield, vance and pickell, all graduates of west point, were more or less identified with the construction, management and repairs of the road. these army officers were all well known to the people along the road sixty years ago. gen. gratiot was probably dead before the beginning of the civil war, or too old for active service. mansfield fell at antietam, a major general of the union forces. williams was killed at the storming of monterey in the mexican war. mckee fell while gallantly leading a regiment in the hot fight at buena vista. hartzell, promoted to the rank of major, fought through the mexican war, and died soon after returning to his home in lexington, kentucky. bliss and delafield both died within the current decade. colquit, a near relative of the georgia senator of that name, died in the confederate service. capt. geo. w. cass, while on the road as an engineer in charge of repairs, married a daughter of the late george dawson, of brownsville, located at that place, and transacted business there for a number of years. he subsequently went to pittsburg as president of the adams express company, and later became president of the pittsburg, ft. wayne & chicago railway company. he was prominent and influential in the politics of pennsylvania, and on several occasions stood second in the ballotings for the democratic nomination for governor. he died in the city of new york. he was twice married. his widow surviving him, is a sister of his first wife. the iron mile posts, so familiar to the traveler on the road, were turned out in foundries of connellsville and brownsville. major james francis had the contract for making and delivering those between cumberland and brownsville. his foundry was at connellsville, pennsylvania. col. alex. j. hill, a well known and popular coke operator, and democratic politician of fayette county, pennsylvania, is a son-in-law of major francis, the old foundryman. those between brownsville and wheeling were made at snowden's old foundry, in brownsville, john snowden, contractor. they were hauled along the road for distribution in wagons drawn by six horse teams. within the last two years they were re-set and re-painted, between brownsville and the maryland state line, under the direction of commissioner ewing searight, and stand erect in their original sites, silent witnesses of the great procession that passed in front of them for so many years, and if they possessed the attributes of speech and memory, could narrate the story of a great highway, which in incident and interest is without a rival. william searight was a commissioner of the road for a number of years in its prosperous era. his jurisdiction extended over the line within the limits of pennsylvania. he was of irish lineage, and presbyterian faith. his parents located in ligonier valley, westmoreland county, pennsylvania, about the year . upon reaching his majority he came to fayette county to work out his destiny. he learned the trade of fulling and dyeing, and started in business on his own account at hammond's old mill on dunlap's creek, long since demolished and forgotten. he subsequently pursued the same business at cook's mill, on redstone creek. his education was such only as could be procured in his boyhood by persons of slender means, but his natural endowments were of the highest and best order. he was honest and industrious. on march th, , he married rachel, a daughter of thomas brownfield, proprietor of the old swan tavern in uniontown. at searights, on the national road, he laid the foundation of a considerable fortune, and died in the sixty-first year of his age. he was a leading democratic politician of his day in fayette county, and in rode on horseback from searights to harrisburg, to aid in nominating general jackson for the presidency. he was a trusted friend of the late gen. simon cameron, when that unrivalled politician was a leader of the democratic party in pennsylvania. at the date of his death he was the nominee of his party for the important state office of canal commissioner, and would have been elected, had not death interposed and called him from the active duties of this life to the realities of another. william hopkins, another old commissioner of the road, was nominated to the vacancy thus made, and elected by a large majority. the death of william searight occurred at his home, near searights, on august , . he was a man of generous impulses and charitable disposition, ever ready to lend his counsel, his sympathies and his purse, to ameliorate the sufferings of his fellow men. although death plucked him from the very threshold of earthly honors, it caused him no regret. his work was well done, and he was ready to go. the kingdom he was about to enter presented higher honors and purer enjoyments. in looking forward and upward he saw-- [illustration: wm searight] "no midnight shade, no clouded sun, but sacred, high, eternal noon." a more emphatic eulogy than pen could write, or tongue express, was furnished by the immense concourse that attended his funeral. the patriarchs and the youth of the country came to testify their appreciation of his worth. a few days after his death, a large meeting of citizens, irrespective of party, convened in the court house at uniontown, to give expression to their sorrow for his death. hon. nathaniel ewing presided. hon. daniel sturgeon, then a united states senator, and zalmon ludington, esq., were the vice presidents, and hon. r. p. flenniken and john b. krepps, esq., secretaries. on motion of hon. james veech, a committee was appointed to formulate the feeling of the meeting, which reported through its distinguished chairman (mr. veech) the following preamble and resolutions, which were unanimously adopted: "when a valuable citizen dies, it is meet that the community of which he was a member, mourn his loss. a public expression of their sorrow at such an event, is due as some solace to the grief of the bereaved family and friends, and as an incentive to others to earn for their death the same distinction. in the death of william searight, this community has lost such a citizen. such an event has called this public meeting, into which enter no schemes of political promotion, no partisan purposes of empty eulogy. against all this, death has shut the door. while yet the tear hangs on the cheek of his stricken family, and the tidings of death are unread by many of his friends, we, his fellow citizens, neighbors, friends, of all parties, have assembled to speak to those who knew and loved him best, and to those who knew him not, the words of sorrow and truth, in sincerity and soberness. therefore, as the sense of this meeting: _resolved_, that in the death of william searight, fayette county and the commonwealth of pennsylvania have lost one of their best and most useful citizens. the people at large may not realize their loss, but the community in which he lived, over whose comforts and interests were diffused the influence of his liberality and enterprise, feel it, while his friends of all classes, parties and professions, to whom he clung, and who clung to him, mourn it. _resolved_, while we would withhold our steps from the sanctuary of domestic grief, we may be allowed to express to the afflicted widow and children of the deceased, our unfeigned sorrow and sympathy in their great bereavement, and to tender them our assurance that while to their hearts the memory of the husband and father will ever be cherished, in ours will be kept the liveliest recollections of his virtues as a citizen and a friend. _resolved_, that among the elements that must enter into every truthful estimate of the character of william searight, are a warm amenity of manner, combined with great dignity of deportment, which were not the less attractive by their plainness and lack of ostentation, elevated feelings more pure than passionless, high purposes with untiring energy in their accomplishment, an ennobling sense of honor and individual independence, which kept him always true to himself and to his engagements, unfaltering fidelity to his friends, a liberality which heeded no restraint, but means and merit; great promptness and fearlessness in the discharge of what he believed to be a duty, private or public, guided by a rigid integrity which stood all tests and scouted all temptations; honesty and truthfulness in word and deed, which no seductions could weaken, nor assaults overthrow, in all respects the architect of his own fortune and fame. these with the minor virtues in full proportion, are some of the outlines of character which stamped the man whose death we mourn, as one much above the ordinary level of his race. _resolved_, that while we have here nothing to do or say as to the loss sustained by the political party to which he belonged, and whose candidate he was for an office of great honor and responsibility, we may be allowed to say that had he lived and been successful, with a heart so rigidly set as was his, with feelings so high and integrity so firm, and withal an amount of practical intelligence so ample as he possessed, his election could have been regretted by no citizen who knew him and who placed the public interests beyond selfish ends and party success. as a politician we knew him to hold to his principles and party predilections with a tenacious grasp, yet he was ever courteous and liberal in his intercourse with political opponents. _resolved_, that in the life and character of william searight we see a most instructive and encouraging example. starting the struggle of life with an humble business, poor and unbefriended, with an honest aim and a true heart, with high purposes and unflagging industry, he gained friends and means, which never forsook him. he thus won for himself and family ample wealth and attained a position among his fellow men which those who have had the best advantages our country affords might well envy. that wealth and that position he used with a just liberality and influence for the benefit of all around and dependent upon him. though dead he yet speaketh to every man in humble business: "go thou and do likewise, and such shall be thy reward in life and in death." [illustration: col. william hopkins.] william hopkins was one of the best known of the old commissioners. he was born in washington county, pennsylvania, september th, . he was of scotch origin, on the paternal line, and his mother was a native of ireland, so that he was a genuine scotch-irishman. he figured conspicuously in the public affairs of pennsylvania, for many years. at the age of twenty-three he was a justice of the peace, holding a commission signed by governor shultze, one of the early german governors of the state. in he was a county auditor. in he was elected to the state legislature, and re-elected four times, consecutively. he was speaker of the house in , and . in he was secretary of the land office of pennsylvania. during his first term as speaker, the public commotion occurred, known as the "buckshot war." troops surrounded the state house, and a bloody collision seemed inevitable. speaker hopkins, on this trying occasion, behaved with distinguished wisdom and firmness, and he is credited with having averted the horrors of civil war. in colonel hopkins, as he was invariably called, was nominated and elected canal commissioner, as before stated. in this important office he fully sustained his high reputation for honesty and ability. in he was again elected to the state house of representatives, and re-elected in . in he was elected a state senator. the experience of his previous legislative career gave him a great advantage over others less favored in this regard, and he became, by common consent, "the nestor of the senate." in he was elected a member of the convention to revise the constitution of the state. he was chairman of the committee to devise and report amendments to the bill of rights, and author of the preamble that reads thus: "we, the people of the commonwealth of pennsylvania, recognizing the sovereignty of god, and humbly invoking his guidance in our future destiny, ordain and establish this constitution for its government." if there was nothing else to his credit, this alone would immortalize him. while a member of the constitutional convention, he made a visit to his home, and on the cars contracted a cold which developed into pneumonia, and terminated fatally, march th, . his funeral was one of the largest and most impressive ever witnessed in washington. rev. doctor brownson, the distinguished presbyterian minister of washington, grouped together the leading traits of colonel hopkins in the following terms: "such a man could not but be extensively known and respected. in fact, his mental force, discriminating judgment, urbanity, integrity and kindness, joined with his facility as a writer and speaker, rising above the defects of early education, were a continual pledge of public favor and success. he was very firm in adhering to his own views, but considerate also of the feelings and opinions of others. in co-operation or in opposition, he commanded respect. in private life, also, it was impossible not to realize the power of his politeness, and his delicate regard to the sensibilities of all about him. his fondness for children seemed to increase with his years, showing itself both in a desire for their enjoyment and their good. his fine business capacity was often taxed for the benefit of others, especially widows and orphans. in the hallowed circle of home, he was the central object of uncommon reverence and affection, answering to his own peculiar love and tenderness within his domestic relations. but, better than all, is the witness he leaves behind him, in his confession and life as a disciple of christ, and in the repose of his heart upon the divine promise, when called down into the valley and shadow of death." the late judge black, one of the most eminent men of his day, spoke of colonel hopkins as follows: "i do not underestimate the very high qualities of my associates in this body (the constitutional convention). i do not think, indeed, that any man here appreciates their various abilities and virtues more than i do; but i devoutly believe that there is no man in this convention, that we could not have spared better than him who has gone. i do not propose to give an analysis of his character, and it is not necessary to repeat his history. i may say, for i know it, that he was in all respects the best balanced man that it was ever my good fortune to know. his moral and personal courage were often tested; he was one of the most fearless men that ever lived, yet all his measures were in favor of peace, and every one who knew him testifies to the gentleness and kindness of his manner." mr. biddle, a philadelphia member of the convention, said: "i well recollect being struck with the commanding figure and strongly marked countenance, in the lineaments of which were unmistakably written simplicity and directness of purpose, integrity and unswerving firmness. he has rounded off a life of great moral beauty, of great usefulness, of great dignity, by a fitting end, and he has fallen before decay had begun to impair his faculties." one who stood very close and was very much endeared to col. hopkins, brings out his great character in form of metaphor, as follows: "there was a remark in your paper which has given me a great deal of mental exercise of a reminiscent character. the wheel of time turns only one way. at the moment i read this, and in the multitude of times it has since come into my head, my mind ran at once to a point in the revolution of that wheel which you never could guess. that point is marked with the year . i had been turned up far enough out of the darkness of the wheel pit to get a view of the top of the wheel, where stood a group of men who have over since been 'the heroes i loved and the chiefs i admired.' in the center of this group, and the most heroic figure in it, stood william hopkins. the various members of that group have gone down beyond sight, as the wheel of time kept turning steadily, but their virtues and their public services remain fresh in my memory. they rendered pennsylvania as great a service as washington and his compeers rendered the united colonies." such a man was william hopkins, once a commissioner of the national road, familiar with every mile along its line, and in daily touch with its moving masses. the writer of these pages had the honor of knowing col. hopkins personally and well, and can and does testify that no word of eulogy herein quoted concerning him is in the least overwrought. an act of the pennsylvania legislature, approved april , , named william f. coplan and david downer of fayette county, stephen hill and benjamin anderson of washington county, and thomas endsley of somerset county, to be commissioners of the cumberland road for the term of three years from the passage of the said act, after which time the right to appoint said commissioners shall vest in the governor of the commonwealth. in the governor appointed these same gentlemen commissioners for another term of three years. in an act was passed reducing the number of commissioners to two, and under this act stephen hill of washington, and hugh keys of fayette county, were appointed on may th, , until their appointments were suspended or annulled. on the th of january, , the governor appointed george craft of fayette county, and benjamin leonard of washington county, to act in conjunction with the other commissioners appointed in pursuance of an act approved april , . thompson mckean of fayette county, and robert quail of washington county, were appointed commissioners by the governor on the th day of january, , until appointments were suspended or annulled. robert quail's appointment was suspended by an act of . an act was approved march th, , reducing the number of commissioners to one, and william hopkins was appointed for a term of three years, but served less than two years, and resigned, to take the position of secretary of the land office. william searight was appointed by the governor on may , , for a term of three years, and on april th, , william hopkins was again appointed. on the th of april, , an act was approved authorizing the courts of somerset, fayette and washington counties to appoint trustees for the road, with power to appoint commissioners. under this act william searight was again appointed, with jurisdiction limited to the line through the counties of fayette and somerset, and served until , when david hartzell of somerset county was appointed. william roddy of the same county succeeded hartzell in . james marlow succeeded roddy and died in commission. robert mcdowell was appointed in . under the act of , above quoted, joseph lawson was appointed for washington county, and was succeeded in by mark mitchell, in by alexander frasher, and in by john long. in the act of was repealed in so far as it related to the appointment of commissioners in fayette and somerset counties, but continued in force as to washington county, stripped of the intervention of trustees. in john long was appointed commissioner for washington county by the court. in g. w. botkins was appointed; in john long was restored, and continued until , when t. w. beatty was appointed. in joseph doak was appointed, and was succeeded in by george w. smith. in the appointing power, as to washington county, was restored to the governor, and samuel kelley was appointed. in peter hickman was appointed, in james w. hendrix, in marshall cox, in john mcdowell, present incumbent. in the governor of the state appointed redding bunting commissioner for the counties of fayette and somerset. bunting was the famous old stage driver and stage agent, mentioned in previous chapters. he served as commissioner until , when the governor appointed sebastian rush, the old tavern keeper before referred to. rush served until , when solomon crumrine was appointed, and served until , when rush was restored. in charles h. rush, a son of sebastian, was appointed, and served until , when william endsley was appointed. in george w. daniels was appointed. in david johnson was appointed, and in ewing searight was appointed. as before stated the road east of cumberland was owned by associations or companies. allen darsie was one of the leading stockholders and general superintendent as early as . he lived at poplar springs, twenty-six miles west of baltimore, was the proprietor of a large and fertile tract of land, and a slave owner. allen darsie, jr., succeeded his father in the superintendency of the road, and remained in charge down to the date of the civil war. thomas bevins of hancock succeeded the younger darsie, and denton oliver succeeded bevins. west of cumberland, in the state of maryland, the superintendents were: thomas thistle, the old tavern keeper near grantsville; jonathan huddleson, another old tavern keeper, nathan dudley, john swan, benjamin b. edwards, george cady, henry atkinson, robert welsh, edward doneho and william hall. william otterson was an old commissioner in charge of the road through virginia, and among his successors appear the familiar names of moses thornburg, lewis lunsford and abram bedillion. in the year the court of quarter sessions of somerset county, pennsylvania, condemned that portion of the road lying within the borders of said county, decreed it exempt from tolls, confiscated all its belongings, and turned it over to the tender care of the township supervisors, under authority supposed to be conferred by an act of assembly, approved june d, . chapter xliii. _old contractors--cost of the road--contractors for repairs--stone breakers--an old stone breaker convicted of murder--the measuring ring--the napping hammer--an old stone breaking machine--a second table showing heights of mountains and hills._ the first contracts in sections for the first ten miles of the road west of cumberland were signed april th and may th, , and were finished in the fall of . the next letting was in august, , of eleven miles, extending west as far as tomlinson's, and these contracts were completed early in . the work was let from tomlinson's to smithfield, eighteen miles, in august, , and completed in . the delay was caused by the scarcity of laborers during the war, war prices, and apprehension of failure of some of the contractors. the next letting was in september, , embracing the work six miles and a half westward from smithfield. this was awarded in sections to john hagen, doherty, mclaughlin and bradley, and charles mckinney. in may, , the work was let to uniontown, the successful bidders being hagan and mccann, mordecai and james cochran, thompson mckean, and thomas and matthew blakely. from uniontown to brownsville, portions were let in september, , to kinkead, beck & evans, who soon thereafter undertook the residue to brubaker's. this firm sub-let many sections of the work. bond and gormley had the contract from brubaker's to brownsville, and their work was completed in . george dawson had the contract for the heavy stone walls in brownsville. john miller and john kennedy, of uniontown, took contracts in the mountains. miller was a son-in-law of jacob beeson, one of the founders of uniontown. mr. kennedy was the grandfather of hon. john k. ewing, of uniontown, and after his experience as a contractor, one of the justices of the supreme court of pennsylvania. the whole line of the road, for purposes of construction, was laid off in two divisions, called eastern and western. david shriver was superintendent of the eastern, and josias thompson of the western division. the dividing line between the two divisions was brubaker's, near, and east of, brownsville. mr. shriver lived in cumberland, and was the father-in-law of hon. andrew stewart. mr. thompson was a virginian. in march, , the greater part of the work, from a point two miles east of washington to the virginia line, was let to thomas mcgiffin, thomas h. baird and parker campbell, the latter one of the foremost lawyers of his time. in the same gentlemen contracted to do the work, from the point first above named, to a point two miles west of brownsville. the work east of hillsboro was turned over by the contractors above named, to william and john h. ewing, who were returned to the authorities at washington city as original contractors, and they finished the work for $ , per mile. the remainder of the work west of hillsboro was sub-let by mcgiffin, baird and campbell, to a number of small contractors. the road was completed from cumberland to uniontown at a cost, including all expenses of survey and location, salaries, bridges, and some repairs, of $ , per mile. the average cost of the entire road to wheeling was nearly $ , per mile, showing the eastern division much less costly than the western. this was charged to some prodigality of work and too liberal contracts, for which superintendent thompson was "investigated" and superseded. daniel steenrod, the old tavern keeper, and col. moses shepherd, were extensive contractors for construction on the virginia line of the road. colonel shepherd built feay's bridge, near wheeling, one of the best on the road, and also the bridge over wheeling creek, near mrs. gooding's old tavern. capt. valentine giesey, a veteran of brownsville, who is well remembered by the old citizens of that place, was a large contractor on the work of taking up the original road bed. the foregoing were all contractors for work on the original construction of the road. among the contractors for repairs, after the road was completed, and during its prosperous era, the following familiar names are recalled: abram beagle, james mcintyre, william hastings, john whitmire, james dennison, henry masterson, hiram freeman, thomas egan, john robinson, william paull, charles stillwagon, jacob stillwagon, jacob dougherty, anthony rentz, henry murray, james thompson, thomas d. miller, daniel canon, hugh graham, morris whalen, perry white, anthony yarnell, john whollery, thomas mckean, john risler, isaac nixon, robert brown, thomas mcgrath, matthew mcneil, edward kerven, john bennington, william h. graham, henry showalter, john dickey, john mcdonough, morris purcell, daniel ward, daniel valentine, jacob probasco, john bradfield, william reynolds, thomas brownfield, peter lenhart, james marlow, john w. mccollough, nicholas mccartney, john w. mcdowell, robert mcdowell, james snyder, lewis m. snyder, samuel shipley, elias gilmore, samuel rush, german d. hair, jackson brown, william c. stevens, john gadd, robert s. henderson, joseph lawson, michael thomas, charles rush, nicholas bradley, john bradley, daniel bradley, henry show, william griffin, robert mcdowell, esq., adam speers, james speers, william hatfield, thomas brown, thomas moxley, hiram miller, matthias fry, john wallace, john hardin, william hardin, john g. burnworth, henry sampey, henry clay rush, alex. mcdowell, benjamin miller, jefferson miller, john worthington, e. w. clement, john snider, hiram mitchell, john mitchell, william endsley, daniel augustine, john m. oliver, and many others, some of whose names appear in the accounts of the old commissioners in the appendix to this volume. [illustration: daniel steenrod.] the average result of a stone breaker in a single day was eight perches, and the price paid was twelve and a half cents per perch. tradition has it that robert s. mcdowell, still living in dunbar, fayette county, pennsylvania, was the speediest stone breaker on the road. he is the eldest son of "gate bob," elsewhere mentioned. in the year , when colonel hopkins was commissioner, robert s. mcdowell broke in one day sixteen perches and two feet. this was done on a bet, and in a contest with capt. elias gilmore. a string of stones one rod in length made two perches, under the gauge in use, and mcdowell's string measured eight rods and two feet. captain gilmore, who was one of the most vigorous men on the road, gave up the contest about the middle of the afternoon, and yielded the palm to mcdowell. peter kelley, who lived at searights, was one of the best and speediest stone breakers on the road. his occupation, for many years, was breaking stone on the pike, and near the close of his life he became an actor in a tragedy, which lost him his liberty, as well as his former good name. he was not a vicious man, but on occasions would indulge in immoderate drinking. on one of these occasions he killed william thornton, father of the hon. j. russell thornton, member of the legislature of pennsylvania for the county of fayette. kelley and thornton were returning from brownsville after nightfall, and quarrelled. when near the old brubaker tavern, thornton was struck by kelley, and killed. kelley was tried, convicted and sent to the penitentiary for a long term, and never thereafter returned to the familiar scenes of the old pike. alexander campbell, of somerfield, was one of the fastest stone breakers on the road, and robert hogsett, the well known millionaire of fayette county, pennsylvania, broke stones on the road when a boy. in the early work on the road, there was a requirement that stone for the lower stratum or bed should be broken so that the pieces would pass through a seven-inch ring, and for the upper stratum, which was six inches in thickness, would pass through a three-inch ring. old contractors provided rings of these dimensions, respectively, and enforced a strict compliance with the regulation mentioned. subsequently the rings fell into disuse, and were ultimately abandoned, but the stones spread over the surface of the road were always broken to small pieces. the hammer of the stone breaker was a very simple contrivance. it was of iron, round as an apple, weighing probably one pound, with a hole through the center for the insertion of a handle. the handle was of hickory wood, slender in the middle, with a thick end for the grasp of the hand. there was also a larger hammer, with a longer and stouter handle, used for breaking stones thrown into holes. in using this hammer the breaker stood on his feet, and in using the smaller one, sat on the stone pile, moving his position as his work advanced. in hot weather the stone breaker, in many instances, used a ready-made, movable bower, to ward off the scorching rays of the sun. about the year , some person whose name is forgotten, supposing himself endowed with inventive genius, constructed a machine for breaking stones. it was operated by horse power, proved a failure, and was laid aside to rot on the summit of laurel hill. the following table showing the heights of mountains and hills on the road is copied from the sketch by mr. veech, accompanying the map of fayette county, pennsylvania, before mentioned. it will be seen that it differs somewhat from the measurement of the commissioners who ran the original lines of the road, but it will be remembered that their measurement was from a point in the potomac, near cumberland, whereas the table below gives heights above the atlantic and above cumberland. this table also gives heights of hills, west of uniontown, and the heights furnished by the old commissioners, are of mountains and hills between cumberland and uniontown. as to the accuracy of, and authority for, this table, the author of this volume is not informed, but it seems to have been sanctioned and adopted by mr. veech, whose reputation as a local historian is unimpeachable. the table. above the atlantic. above cumberland. cumberland feet wills mountain " frostburg " big savage mountain " little savage mountain " red hill " meadow mountain " little crossings " negro mountain " keyser's ridge " winding ridge " smithfield " barren hill " woodcock hill " laurel hill " monroe " uniontown court house " colley's hill " brownsville " krepps' knob " beallsville " hillsboro " egg nog hill " washington " west alexander " wheeling hill " wheeling city " chapter xliv. _two noted old tavern keepers--thomas endsley and william sheets--the latter the driver of the first mail coach out from cumberland--a wedding party surprised, and a marriage prevented--william m. f. magraw, a well known man of the road._ a prominent and widely known man of the road was thomas endsley. he was born near richmond, virginia, in . he was the only child of parents who came from switzerland and settled in virginia at an early day. his mother was of an old family of gilberts, who were quakers, well known and much respected in their day and generation. his wife was mary mccloy, to whom he was wedded in the year . the offspring of his marriage consisted of eight children, five sons and three daughters. the sons were john, thomas, james, william and andrew jackson. the three last named are still living, james and william in somerfield, and andrew jackson in somerset. the daughters were mary ann, who became the wife of redding bunting, the noted old pike boy heretofore mentioned; nancy, who was the wife of j. squire hagan, another old pike boy; and julia, who in , married p. r. sides, and is now living with a son in new mexico. her husband died in missouri in , or thereabout. mrs. hagan died in uniontown in , and mrs. bunting died in the same place about five years ago. nancy endsley and squire hagan were married in . mrs. endsley, wife of thomas, the subject of this sketch, died in the stone tavern at somerfield in , and her husband died in the same house in . thomas endsley was an old wagoner before the cumberland road was constructed. in the years , , , , , and , he hauled goods and merchandise from baltimore to nashville, tennesse, to points in ohio and to brownsville, pennsylvania. he owned two six-horse teams, one of which he drove himself, and placed the other in charge of a hired driver. in spring and fall he was frequently compelled to remain with his teams at the old smith tavern, near the present town of somerfield, for several days awaiting the subsidence of freshets in the youghiogheny river, so that he could ford that stream, there being no other means of crossing at that time. the road was frequently in such condition by reason of mud, deep cuts, and other obstacles, that a whole day's progress did not cover a greater distance than three or four miles. to pass through jockey hollow it was often found necessary to attach twelve horses to one wagon. in the year thomas endsley moved from virginia to frostburg, maryland, and at that place commenced a career of tavern keeping, which terminated only with his death. he leased the old frost house in frostburg, and conducted it for three years. in he went to the tomlinson house, a prominent old landmark twenty-one miles west of cumberland. he occupied the tomlinson house for two years, and while there enjoyed the patronage of one of the stage lines. in december, , he bought the old smith farm at somerfield, lying on both sides of the road. on this farm was erected the large stone tavern house, at the eastern end of the big stone bridge which spans the youghiogheny river. for this property he paid $ , cash down, which shows the enhanced value of the property at that day by reason of contiguity with the national road. he took possession of this property on the first day of april, . the land was poor, the fences were dilapidated, and the general outlook unpromising. but mr. endsley was a man of great energy and good judgment, and going to work with determination, soon changed the aspect of things, and had flowers blooming and grass and grain growing, where before the eye had rested on nothing but briars, weeds and rocks, with here and there a scant appearance of sickly oats and buckwheat. it is said that he was the first man who ever attempted to raise corn and wheat in the neighborhood of somerfield, and old settlers jeered him for trying it. it was not long under his judicious management until his farm yielded thirty-five and forty bushels of wheat to the acre, and crops of corn equal to the best of the adjoining county of fayette. this farm continues in the possession of the descendants of thomas endsley. the northern portion of it is owned and occupied by the heirs of thomas endsley, jr., deceased, except the stone tavern, which with the southern portion of the farm, is owned and occupied by william endsley. while assiduous in bringing up his farm, thomas endsley was by no means neglectful of his tavern. he was always attentive and courteous to guests. his table was spread with well cooked victuals, and his rooms were clean and neat, so that altogether his house was one of the most inviting on the whole line of the road. the stockton line of coaches stopped at the endsley house during its entire career on the road, with the exception of a short time, when it was withdrawn by reason of a temporary estrangement between mr. stockton and mr. endsley. stockton was of a fiery temper, while mr. endsley was not slack in resenting a supposed wrong, and at one time in going over their accounts they disagreed, and each gave utterance to expressions not taught in the sunday schools. as a result, mr. stockton removed his stock from endsley's tavern and passed and repassed the house thereafter for awhile without casting a glance of recognition toward it. it was not long, however, until mr. endsley was surprised to see mr. stockton enter his house, extend his hand, and hear him say: "this foolishness has lasted long enough; my coaches must stop at this house." "when?" calmly queried mr. endsley. "to-morrow," said mr. stockton, and the old terms of friendship between them were restored, and continued as long as mr. stockton lived. as stated in another chapter mr. endsley was a slave owner, and frequently aided in the capture and return of fugitives. two of his slaves, peter and phebe butler, after acquiring their freedom, settled in brownsville, and died there. they were well known by the old people of brownsville, and held in high esteem. thomas endsley, in -' , in connection with james black, of somerfield, had contracts for taking up the original road bed on winding ridge and negro mountain, and proved himself as efficient in this line as in every other line of business he engaged in. he was imposing in personal appearance, well up to six feet in height, and weighed about two hundred pounds. he was an habitual reader, and a subscriber for the _cumberland civilian_ and the _national intelligencer_, from the time he lived in frostburg to the date of his death. he carefully and studiously read the long and prosy editorials of the _intelligencer_, as well as the speeches it published of henry clay, daniel webster, john c. calhoun, thomas h. benton, and other noted statesmen of that era. in a military company called "the addison blues," was organized, drawing its members from somerfield, petersburg and the surrounding neighborhood, of which thomas endsley was elected captain, and ever thereafter known and hailed as captain endsley. at all the old battalion parades in somerset, bedford and uniontown the "addison blues" bore off the palm for soldierly bearing, and especially for the stalwart size of its rank and file, all of whom were hardy mountaineers, and known and honored as "frosty sons of thunder." william sheets was a prominent character of the road, more widely known as a tavern keeper, than in any other relation. he was a remarkable man in many respects, and in none more than relates to his extreme longevity. he was born february d, , near martinsburg, berkeley county, virginia, and died may th, , in jefferson county, iowa. he was a wagoner before the cumberland road was made, and hauled goods from baltimore to points west, over the old braddock road. he also had some experience as a stage driver. his first venture as a tavern keeper was at or near the little crossings, where he remained but a short time, and did not do a paying business. leaving the little crossings, he went to negro mountain and took a house there. his first experience at negro mountain was attended by only limited success, and he abandoned tavern keeping and moved to a small house on jennings' run, about two miles west of uniontown, and near the old moxley tavern, then kept by william cox. in that vicinity he engaged in various pursuits, mostly of a precarious nature, with a downward tendency, accelerated by too much indulgence in drinking. this was between the years and , and probably a little earlier. he seemed to realize that his fortune was on the wane, and resolved to retrieve himself. he accordingly, by some means not ascertainable, secured a new lease on the negro mountain house which he had left, and returned to it. beginning life anew, as it were, he quit drinking and devoted himself energetically to business. it was not long until he established a good reputation and did a large and profitable business. his house was a favorite stopping place for hog drovers, and in the latter part of his career on negro mountain, the number of barrels of corn he bought and sold would count up to hundreds of thousands. the weary and hungry hog drover (pig pelter the pike boys termed him), as he trudged along the road in snow and slush, urging forward the lagging, grunting porkers, apparently reluctant to move on to the sure slaughter awaiting them, would cry out at intervals, and in despairing tones: "suboy, suboy, forty cents a day and no dinner; how far is it to sheets'?" for many years william sheets fed the hungry hogs, and their no less hungry owners and drivers, and while his profits were small, his business was so large that his accumulations in a few years aggregated a sum which made him a comfortable fortune. william g. beck, the old stage driver living in fairfield, iowa, before referred to, avers that william sheets drove the first mail coach out from cumberland that ever passed over the national road west of that place. this was in the year , and on kinkead's line of coaches. kinkead was an uncle of william g. beck, and a member of the old bridge building firm of kinkead, beck & evans, and an owner of the first stage line on the road, as before stated. the wife of william sheets was sarah wiggins, a sister of isaac wiggins, late of south union township, fayette county, pennsylvania, deceased, and an aunt of james h. wiggins, a prosperous and well known farmer of that township. she was an attractive girl, and had many suitors. one of her lovers was a man by the name of bradley, an employe of kinkead, before mentioned. she gave her hand to bradley, and consented to become his wife, and went so far as to appear upon the floor with bradley to have the knot tied by the rev. william brownfield. the relatives and friends of miss sarah were stoutly opposed to her alliance with bradley, and a moment before the old and renowned baptist parson began the ceremony of marriage, col. cuthbert wiggins, an uncle of the would-be-bride, and father of harrison wiggins, the old fox hunter of the mountains, appeared on the scene and carried miss sarah from the floor, thus abruptly terminating the pending nuptials, to the great astonishment of those in attendance, and causing much comment and town gossip. this unusual incident happened in a house on morgantown street, in uniontown, about the year . no subsequent effort was made by the parties most interested, to consummate the forbidden marriage, and the fair sarah, in a short time thereafter, forgetting her affection for bradley, became the wife of william sheets. the after career of bradley is unknown. he seems to have passed from the memory of men without making a sign. in the year william sheets took final leave of negro mountain and the scenes of the national road, and moved to jefferson county, iowa, where he made his last settlement, and died at the date above given. at his death he was the possessor of a large estate, chiefly in lands, which descends to his two surviving sons, isaac and joseph, and to the heirs of deceased sons and a deceased daughter. he had six sons and one daughter. bazil sheets, one of his sons, was an old wagoner, well remembered by the old citizens along the line of the road. [illustration: w. m. f. magraw] one of the smartest, best known and most picturesque men of the road forty years ago was william m. f. magraw. he was probably little known west of brownsville, as his business was for the most part on the line east of that point. he was a native of maryland, and belonged to an old and influential family of that state. his brother, harry, practiced law for several years in pittsburg, and served a term as state treasurer of pennsylvania from to . the magraws were intimate friends of james buchanan, and harry was a leader in the movements that led up to the nomination and election of that old time statesman to the presidency. w. m. f. magraw became identified with the national road as many others did, through a matrimonial alliance. his wife was a daughter of jacob sides, who owned the tomlinson tavern. his first business engagement in the vicinity of uniontown was with f. h. oliphant, the old iron master of fairchance. soon after engaging with mr. oliphant that gentleman put on a line of teams and wagons hereinbefore mentioned, to haul freights between brownsville and cumberland, and magraw was placed in charge of the line as its general road agent. this put him in communication with the people along the road, and established him in the ranks of the pike boys. he was a large, fine looking man, always well dressed, attracting attention wherever he appeared, and making friends by reason of his agreeable manners. he was not fleshy, but broad shouldered, tall and erect, of ruddy complexion, light hair, and habitually wore gold rimmed spectacles on account of some defect of vision. he was generous almost to a fault, and lavish in his personal expenditures. he spent much of his time in uniontown, making his headquarters with his friend joshua marsh, of the national house. his habits of living were different from the majority of the old pike boys, especially in the matter of eating, and he enjoyed a good supper at midnight, better than any other hour. he brought in game of all kinds from the mountain and had it served in savory style at the national house. he kept a carriage, and often had it ordered out as early as three and four o'clock in the afternoon, to go to the mountain, but lingered about the town, chatting with friends, until nightfall. he seemed to delight in driving over the mountain in the night. leaving uniontown about the dusk of the evening, he would reach the tomlinson tavern about daybreak the next morning. he called up the old tavern keepers along the road, all of whom knew him, chatted a while with them, took a mint julip, or something stiffer, and pushed on, and this was his habit as long as he remained on the road. he was a southern sympathizer during the war, and participated as a confederate partisan, in some of the irregular skirmishes in missouri, in the incipient stages of the long struggle. notwithstanding his southern sentiments, he was well liked by his northern acquaintances, and had many warm friends among them. there was no bitterness in his heart. he was clever and courteous to all. he had no stauncher friend than redding bunting, the good old stage driver, who was a pronounced union man. sometime near the close of the war, magraw appeared in harrisburg. upon being questioned as to the object of his mission, he said he had come to see the governor on behalf of the appointment of his old friend, red bunting, to the office of commissioner of the cumberland road. he knew the governor (curtin) personally. in fact, he knew nearly all the public men of his time. he called on the governor, and was cordially received. "what brought you here," queried the governor. "i came," said magraw, "to solicit the appointment of redding butting as commissioner of the cumberland road." "how does it come," further queried the governor, "that all you copperheads are for bunting?" "oh!" said magraw, "bunting is a good man, the right man for the place, and a good republican." "well," said the governor, "i guess i'll appoint him," and he did. mr. bunting was not aware that magraw intended to go to harrisburg in his behalf, which shows the disposition of the man. during the administration of president pierce, magraw had a contract for carrying the mails from the missouri boundary to western points beyond the plains. he suffered much loss by reason of indian invasions, and preferred a claim to congress for a large sum of money to reimburse him. while his bill was undergoing consideration by the committee, he appeared before it and emptied upon the floor a number of bags of mules ears, as evidence of his losses. his bill was passed. magraw died suddenly, in baltimore, a number of years ago, much lamented. his wife is also dead. he had a daughter, miss sallie, well remembered by the older citizens of uniontown, who is living in kansas city, a widow, in affluent circumstances. chapter xlv. _dumb ike--reminiscences of uniontown--isaac johnson--squire hagan--a musician astride of a hog--anecdote of judges black and williams--morgan miller, an old tavern keeper--philip krishbaum, an old stone cutter--crazy billy--highway robbery--slaves struggling for liberty--william willey, an old friend of the slaves--unsuccessful attempts at suicide by an old postmaster and an old drover--tom marshall, of kentucky, appears on the road and amuses the boys._ the national road had its variety, as all the ways of life have, and this variety added spice to it, and gave it much if not all of its flavor. there were high types, and low types, and queer types of life on the road. every section of the road had its noted character. there was marion smith (logan), who made his headquarters, for the most part, at searights, but a familiar figure all along the line between uniontown and brownsville. he stood ever ready to fetch the gear pole and insert it between the spokes of the hind wheels of the big wagon, the moment it was driven upon the yard at the old tavern in the evening, to rest for the night. he was likewise prompt in carrying the hay and grain to feed the big six horses that stood with their heads to the long, strong trough supported by the wagon tongue, and when this little job was done, his compensation was replete, and his topmost ambition realized in the big drink he took with the driver at the bar. and logan was further noted as an imitator of the rooster, and gave many a long, loud crow over democratic victories in the olden time. bill hickman will be readily recalled by the reader who is familiar with the history and traditions of the road, as an eccentric character. he gravitated between chalk hill and jockey hollow, and billy brubaker afforded amusement for the men of the road near brownsville. it would scarcely be doing justice to the nomenclature of the old road, without writing this name "bluebaker." there were many others of this class, but time and space will not permit a reference to them, and besides, this sketch is devoted especially to "dumb ike." his name was isaac griffin, or toner, and he belonged to the queer type in the above enumeration. he was not in fact dumb, but everybody called him "dumb ike." he was opaque and bright by turns. dr. hugh campbell once asked him why they called him dumb, and he said "he didn't know, unless because they were dumb themselves." isaac was born and reared in springhill township, fayette county, pennsylvania. the sound of the glories of the old pike reached his ears at his rural home, and he resolved to cast his lot upon it. it was previous to the year that he made his appearance in uniontown, and for the first time beheld the national road. when he shook the dust of springhill from his feet, it was with a high resolve to never engage in hard labor, a resolution he never thereafter broke. his ambition was to become a stage driver and it was irrepressible. he reached his goal. he obtained employment as a driver on one of the stage lines and approved himself a good one. not given to absolute steadiness of habit, his employment was not continuous, but he was held in reserve, as it were, to take the place of regular drivers in cases of accident or emergency. he could handle the reins and crack the whip equal to the best of drivers, and took good care of his team. he not only drove stage but was a driver on the express line, and perched on the high front seat of an express wagon, drawing the reins over four stout horses, was the personification of a proud and happy man. a little incident in the old national house on morgantown street, when that popular old hostelry was kept by the kind-hearted and gentle joshua marsh, goes to illustrate the eccentric ways of isaac. it was in the bar room. samuel mcdonald, a prominent citizen of the town, had occasion to call there, and among those in the room at the time was "dumb ike," with whom mcdonald was well acquainted, as was every other citizen. mcdonald invited isaac to take a drink, a proposition quite agreeable to him, and which he promptly accepted. standing at the bar with glass in hand, well filled, isaac felt it a duty to compliment his entertainer, and said: "mcdonald, i respect you," and hesitating, continued, "and probably i am the only man in town that does." isaac intended to be complimentary, and mcdonald knowing this, joined in the loud laughter of the bystanders over isaac's bull. during the prevalence of asiatic cholera in uniontown in , some one was speaking to isaac in reference to the fatality of the epidemic, and was much astounded to hear isaac say it was not cholera. "what then is it?" queried the other party. "it is death," retorted isaac. when isaac wished to express indignation against a person he thought was putting on airs, he called him "the great nates," and of conceited persons he said they were "great in their own _estimashing_." the writer has in his possession a boot jack made and given to him by "dumb ike" in . it is a clumsy specimen of mechanism, but prized on account of the maker and donor. isaac's patriotism was accelerated by a drink, and often under its influence he exclaimed with emphasis of voice and violent gesticulation of his right arm, "i am going to the district of columbia to see the goddess of liberty." when the war against the south assumed the shape of open and active hostilities, "dumb ike" volunteered as a soldier, and proudly marched to the front under the flag of the stars and stripes. he was assigned to duty in the transportation service, for which his experience eminently fitted him, and he died in the faithful discharge of duty, and was buried where he died, near the capitol of the republic beneath the shadow of the goddess of liberty, at whose shrine he was a devoted worshipper. at his death a small sum of money was on deposit to his credit in the old bank of fayette county, which was absorbed by claims for nursing and other services in his last illness. he left neither widow or heirs to survive him. his administrator was nathaniel brownfield, his old friend of the swan tavern in uniontown, where he made his headquarters for many years, and where he was living when he enlisted as a soldier. there were worse men and better men than "dumb ike," but no one who knew him will begrudge a good, kind word for his memory. isaac johnson, a former well known and respected citizen, who died at his residence near uniontown a number of years since, had occasion to visit the east in the year , and on his return home walked the entire distance from baltimore over the national road. his mission carried him as far east as new castle, delaware, and from that point to frenchtown he rode on the first passenger cars propelled by steam in the united states. he was a native of greene county, pennsylvania, and the father of david d. johnson, of fayette springs, who was commissioner of the road during the administration of governor beaver. squire hagan, who died in uniontown a few years ago, much lamented, father of miss maggie, the popular clerk in the uniontown postoffice, was a "green mountain boy," born in vermont, near montpelier, the capital of that state. the fame of the old national road was carried on the wings of the wind to the snow-capped hills of his native land, and he yearned for a share of its glories. his first appearance on the road was at somerfield, where, in the year , he owned and conducted a general store. the leading trait in the character of squire hagan was amiability, and the trend of his mind was toward philosophy. he was widely known along the line of the road, and highly respected. william hunsucker was a hog drover from greene county, pennsylvania, and the boys called him "suboy bill." upon being asked who owned the hogs he was driving, and where they came from, he replied in words that jingled thus: "mr. lindsey is the owner, they call me suboy bill, the hogs came out from greene county, near the village of blacksville." it is said that joe williams, a wit, musician, comedian, lawyer, and in his riper years chief justice of the territorial court of iowa, once straddled a big black hog in a drove, and rode it through the main street of uniontown, playing a clarionet. judge williams was born in somerset county, pennsylvania, and was a brother of mrs. william murphy, who lives near uniontown. hon. jeremiah s. black, of national fame, and joe williams were cronies in their boyhood days. williams visited new york after he became chief justice, and it happened that judge black was in that city at the same time. a morning paper stated that judge black was a guest at the astor house, and this falling under the eye of williams, he proceeded hastily to the hotel to see his old friend. he walked into his room, to discover that he was out, and seeing writing material on the table, indited the following lines, which he left in the room for judge black's perusal, on his return: "the salutations of the chief justice of iowa, to the chief justice of pennsylvania: "oh, jerry, dear jerry, i have found you at last! how memory, burdened with scenes of the past, restores me to somerset's mountains of snow, when you were but jerry, and i was but joe." morgan miller kept a tavern on morgantown street, uniontown, as early as , and probably before that time. his house was a dingy frame structure, painted red, which time and storm made a dead red. the location was on the hill near the old baptist church, in that day called "prospect hill." at this old tavern many persons of the neighborhood were accustomed to spend their evenings in drinking and gossipping. among its patrons were philip krishbaum, a stone cutter, and abram brown, a farmer. krishbaum had some aptitude in making rhymes, a talent he found useful in his business of chiseling tomb-stones. after spending an hour or two, one evening, in alternate drinking and gossipping with his friend brown, he rose from his chair and remarked that he must take a drink and go, as he had to finish some lettering on a tomb-stone. "stay awhile," said brown, "and write an epitaph for my tomb-stone, and i will treat." "agreed," said krishbaum, who, taking up a pen, wrote this: "here lies the body of abram brown, who lived three miles from uniontown. the more he got, the more he craved, great god! can such a soul be saved!" brown paid for the drinks. seeing that krishbaum had made a success of the brown epitaph, miller, the landlord, requested him to write one for his tomb-stone, which he did, as follows: "here lies the body of morgan miller, who has drunk the whisky of many a 'stiller. he once lived up on prospect hill, and sold his whisky by the gill." [illustration: crazy billy.] the well known character brought to mind by the name of "crazy billy," was at no time in his strange life engaged in any pursuit connected with the national road, but his long stay at uniontown, covering a period of fifty years and more, entitles him to a place in this history. he was well known to many of the stage drivers, wagoners and tavern keepers of the road, and to every man, woman and child in uniontown. his name was william stanford, and he was horn in england. it was evident that he had been well bred, and had received some education. he was often heard quoting from the liturgy of the church of england. he was brought to uniontown about the year , and closely confined in the county jail. his first appearance in fayette county was in springhill township, whither he wandered without any apparent object, and no one knew whence he came. on a certain day of the year above mentioned, he was discovered alone in the house of one crow, in the said township of springhill. the crow family had all been absent during the day, and upon their return in the evening were surprised to find an occupant within, and the doors and windows securely fastened. after reconnoitering the premises the family discovered that it was the manifest intention of the strange intruder to "hold the fort." in this state of the case mr. crow proceeded to a neighboring justice of the peace, made complaint, and obtained a warrant, which was placed in the hands of the township constable, who with the aid of the local _posse comitatus_ hastily summoned, entered the beleagured dwelling, arrested the intruder, took him to uniontown, and lodged him in the county jail, in and around which he remained from that time until the date of his death, which occurred on the th day of january, . soon after his incarceration one john updergraff was committed to the jail for disorderly conduct on the streets, and after the keys had been turned, "billy" fell upon the new prisoner, and killed him outright. he was indicted and tried for murder, but acquitted on the plea of insanity, and remanded to jail. henceforth, and to the time hereafter mentioned, he was heavily ironed and chained fast to the jail floor. william snyder was elected sheriff in , and a few months after his induction to the office, his wife, who was a good and discerning woman, observed some redeeming qualities in the nature of the chained lunatic, and concluded that it would be wise and safe, as well as humane, to remove his fetters. accordingly with the aid of her son james, who was a sort of general deputy about the jail and office, she released "billy" from the chains which had so long bound and chafed him, and permitted him to walk about his dingy cell, untramelled. gradually he gained the confidence of the sheriff's family and after a season was permitted to enter the official mansion, and move about at pleasure. he showed an inclination to care for the sheriff's horses, and was permitted to feed and clean them, exhibiting much skill in this line. about this time, james snyder having occasion to visit monroe, told "billy" that he might go with him if he chose. pleased with the opportunity, "billy" placed saddles and bridles on two horses, mounted one himself, and snyder the other, and off they sped to monroe. it was an agreeable trip to "billy"; the first time in many years, that he had enjoyed the privilege of seeing the country and snuffing the pure air of liberty. after this, he rode out frequently with the deputy to various parts of the county; but his mind was never fully restored. he was incoherent, and given to unintelligible mutterings. as time wore on, the people of the town became familiar with "crazy billy," and as before stated everybody knew him. he carried letters, and performed errands for the county officers, for many years, and up to the date of his last illness, and his fidelity was proverbial. nothing could divert him from the faithful execution of any little mission he undertook. in addition to his constant mutterings before alluded to, he was a habitual scribbler. he entered any of the offices in the court house at pleasure, and invariably sat down and began to scribble. he wrote a fairly good hand, but there was no intelligence in his writing, or rather no connected thought. one of his favorite lines was this: "i am a bold boy in his prime." he would write this as often as a dozen times a day. another of his favorite screeds was this: "he drew his sword and pistol, and made them for to rattle, and the lady held the horse, while the soldier fought the battle." the garb in which "billy" from day to day appeared, was of the shabby order, and he paid little heed as a rule to personal cleanliness. his ablutions were periodical, but when he did indulge in them, they were thorough. he had a habit of rubbing his head with both hands, and would sit engaged in this exercise as long as an hour at a time, with great energy. he never would submit to an interview. he talked much, but always on the run. if approached by anyone with a purpose of conversing with him, he invariably walked off muttering in loud tones as he moved away. he wore a full beard, which in his latter years was quite gray. he had a small foot and hand, and many marks of intellectuality. after his death his body lay in state in the court house at uniontown, and was viewed by thousands. he was buried in oak grove cemetery, near uniontown, with the rites of the episcopal church, under direction of the late lamented rev. r. s. smith. a section of one of the stone columns of the old uniontown court house is made to serve as a monument over his grave. maj. jesse b. gardner of uniontown, who attended "billy" in his last illness, gives the following pathetic narration of his closing hours. until the last ebb, he continued to utter the sonorous and unintelligible mutterings so familiar to those who knew him, but in the final throe, he turned his eyes upon his attendant and exclaimed: "oh, gardner, if i could only see my mother!" this was not a lucid interval, in the ordinary meaning of that phrase, but an expiring thought, a final flash of affection, a wonderful testimonial to the sweetest of all names, and a most forcible and striking illustration of the ineffaceable impression made by a mother's care and love, and all the more, since at no time before, during his long sojourn at uniontown, was he ever known to have mentioned his mother, or his father. a poor, unfortunate lunatic, separated for more than a half century from the parental roof, a stranger in a strange land, tossed by the billows of a hard fate, and lying down to die, light flashes upon his long distempered mind, and his last and only thought is "mother." the year developed one of the most extraordinary examples of grand larceny that ever occurred on the road, and excited the people all along the line from baltimore to the farthest point west. during the early spring of the year mentioned a merchant whose name was abraham boring, doing business in an ohio town, took passage in a coach of one of the regular stage lines for baltimore to purchase a stock of fresh goods. at tomlinson's tavern, west of cumberland, john keagy and david crider, merchants, of salisbury, somerset county, pennsylvania, took seats in the same coach that was conveying boring, destined also for baltimore, on a like mission. it required considerable time to reach baltimore, and passengers in a stage coach became acquainted, one with another. the three merchants not only became personally acquainted with each other, during their long stage ride, but formed strong friendly relations. reaching baltimore they stopped together at the same hotel and talked over their business, the quality and quantity of goods required by each, forming the leading topic of their conversation. they went out among the wholesale stores of the city and bought the goods they desired, the stock purchased by mr. boring being much larger, finer and more varied than the stock bought by the somerset county merchants. upon completing his purchases, mr. boring's first thought was to have his goods safely shipped upon the best terms obtainable. messrs. keagy and crider kindly tendered their services to aid him in engaging a trusty wagoner to haul his goods to ohio, and introduced one edward tissue as the right man for that purpose. tissue was engaged, but one wagon bed would not hold all the goods, and tissue brought in and introduced another wagoner by the name of edward mitchell, who was engaged to haul the remnant that could not be handled by tissue. mr. boring having arranged for the transportation of his goods, said good-bye to his friends keagy and crider, and left for his home in ohio. his goods, not arriving when due, he supposed some accident had caused a delay, and that they would be forthcoming as soon as practicable. but days and weeks passed and mr. boring began to feel uneasy about the long delay, and wrote the consignors in baltimore for an explanation. they replied that the goods had been carefully loaded in the wagons of tissue and mitchell, according to the agreement, and they knew nothing of their destiny beyond that. boring then took to the road to find his goods. he went first to baltimore and learned that tissue and mitchell had left the city with the goods in their wagons, and proceeded westward. he traced them as far as hagerstown, and at that point lost his clue. he proceeded to cumberland without tidings of his lost goods. from cumberland he went on, making inquiry at every tavern and toll gate, until he reached somerfield, but heard nothing of tissue or his companion, mitchell. he put up for the night at a tavern in somerfield, and while at supper discovered an important clue. the waiting maid at the table wore a tortoise shell comb, resembling very much those in a package he had bought in baltimore. in polite and delicate terms he inquired of the girl where she obtained so handsome a comb. she replied, "in a store at salisbury." in an instant mr. boring recalled his fellow merchants and recent fellow travelers, messrs. keagy and crider, of salisbury, but concluding that they had purchased the same quality of combs in baltimore, went to bed, with a purpose of continuing his researches along the national road. during the night he changed his purpose, and in the morning returned to tomlinson's tavern, and thence directly to salisbury. reaching salisbury he entered a store, and to his amazement saw upon the counters and shelves various articles, which he recognized as belonging to his stock. investigation disclosed a remarkable example of criminal conduct. keagy, crider, tissue and mitchell entered into a conspiracy to steal boring's goods. the acquaintance formed in the stage coach constituted the initial point of the scheme, and keagy and crider found ready confederates in tissue and mitchell. there was of course to be a division of the spoils, but in what proportion never was made public. the wagoners to avoid identification changed the color of their wagon beds, and upon reaching hagerstown diverged from the national road and took the country by-ways. the goods were placed at first in a large barn in the vicinity of salisbury, and thence carried in small lots to the store of keagy & co. a portion of the goods consisting of fine china ware, thought to be too expensive for the salisbury trade, was broken up and buried under ground. there was a third owner of the salisbury store by the name of markley, who did not accompany his partners on their tour to raise stock. boring, after thoroughly satisfying himself that he had found his goods, proceeded to somerset and swore out a warrant against the parties accused. the warrant was placed for execution in the hands of ---- philson, the sheriff of somerset county. keagy was first arrested and promptly gave bail for trial, but goaded by the weight of his offense, soon thereafter committed suicide. tissue fled the jurisdiction and was never apprehended. crider also fled and located in some of the wilds of that early day in the state of ohio, where he married and raised a family, and, it is said, has living descendants to this day. markley essayed to flee, but made a failure of it. giving out the impression that he had followed in the wake of tissue and crider, he concealed himself in the woods not far from salisbury, and was supplied with food by a devoted wife. one sloan, however, happened to fall upon his hiding place and he was arrested. markley owed sloan a sum of money and proposed to settle if sloan would release him from custody. to this sloan assented. markley had no ready money, but owned property and proffered his note, which sloan agreed to accept. but no means were at hand to prepare a note. after canvassing the situation for a while a pen was made from a stick of wood, ink obtained from stump water, and sloan producing a scrap of paper, a note was prepared and duly signed by markley for the sum he owed sloan, and the money subsequently paid by markley's wife. sloan promised markley that he would not make known his hiding place, but it leaked out and he was arrested by the sheriff. he requested permission of the sheriff to go to his house to change his clothes, which was granted him, and taking advantage of the sheriff's indulgence, fled to parts unknown. his wife rejoined him in after years at some point in the west. mention was hereinbefore made of the tragical death of atwell holland, killed by a fugitive slave on the th of july, , at an old tavern in the mountain. in this connection it is proper to state, that fugitive slaves were frequently captured on the national road, and returned to their masters. capt. thomas endsley, an old tavern keeper, mentioned elsewhere, once had a terrible conflict with three powerful fugitive slaves, at his barn near somerfield. without assistance and against most determined resistance, he succeeded in capturing two of them and returning them to their owner or master. the third escaped and became a free man. capt. endsley was himself a slave owner as before stated. he owned and used slaves when he lived at frostburg, and also during his incumbency as landlord at the old tomlinson tavern, and brought eight with him when he located at somerfield in . like all other old slave owners, he thought there was no wrong in owning slaves and considered it a conscientious duty to aid in capturing and returning fugitives. his sons, however, probably from witnessing the struggles of the slaves to gain their freedom against the efforts of their father, all grew up to be abolitionists, and abide in the anti-slavery faith to this day. one of the most untiring and devoted friends of escaping slaves, was william willey of somerfield. he was a shoemaker without means, yet it is said that he secreted, fed and otherwise aided more fugitive slaves than any other man on the national road. he is known to have harbored as many as eight and ten in a single night, in his lowly tenement. he was a native of baltimore, and reared a democrat. those of his friends who survive him regard him as a philanthropist, worthy of a granite monument. the wife of william e. beall, the well known manager of the uniontown steel mill, a most excellent lady, is a daughter of william willey, the old friend of the escaping slaves. in the year the postoffice at somerfield was in the brick house, on the south side of the street, known as the irvin house. john blocher was postmaster. the old line of coaches, carrying the mail, stopped at the endsley house. it was customary for the driver after reaching the tavern to carry the way mail pouch on his shoulders to the postoffice. one evening charley kemp drove the mail coach in from the west, and upon going to the office with the mail, found the door locked, and was unable, after repeated efforts, to gain admittance. going around to a window, he looked through the glass into the office, and was horrified by seeing blocher, the postmaster, lying on the floor, weltering in blood, and forcing his way into the room discovered that his throat was cut. dr. frey was summoned, and applied agencies first to arrest the flow of blood, and then sewed up the gash, and to the surprise of all, the man recovered and lived for many years thereafter. in john waters, a cattle drover of ohio, fell sick at frazer's tavern, in somerfield, and languished for many weeks. his mind becoming affected by reason of his severe bodily suffering, he rose from his bed one evening when alone, opened his pocketbook and tore into small fragments a number of good bank notes of the aggregate value of $ . he then deliberately cut his throat. when discovered he was lying on his back on the floor, and small pieces of bank notes were seen floating in blood all around his body. dr. frey was summoned on this occasion also, and under his treatment the much dejected old drover was restored, and afterward took many droves of cattle over the road to baltimore. the fragments of notes were gathered up, carefully cleaned, dried and fitted together with mucilage, so that the loss of money was inconsiderable. some time during the year or ' a rather tall and cadaverous looking individual, presenting the appearance of a man on a protracted spree, was observed coming down the hill into somerfield from the east, walking and leading a beautiful bay horse, equipped with a handsome saddle and bridle. the quaint looking and quaint moving stranger halted to converse with a cluster of boys, who were sitting on the pavement in front of endsley's tavern, near the stone bridge at the big crossings. he told the boys so many amusing stories, that they reckoned him to be the clown of a coming circus. that man was tom marshall, one of the brightest of kentucky's many bright sons, a brilliant lawyer, orator and statesman, who carried off the palm in every intellectual combat he ever engaged in save one, and that was when he locked horns with henry clay. the horse led by marshall was a favorite animal which he kept and used in washington, while attending the sittings of congress. he frequently passed over the road in the manner described, and often tarried several days and nights in uniontown. many of the surviving pike boys remember marshall with distinctness. chapter xlvi. _the arrest, trial, conviction and sentence of dr. john f. braddee, the notorious mail robber--george plitt makes the information--bill corman turns on his chief--braddee gives bail--his bondsmen--strayer and purnell--the witnesses--the indictment--the jury--the verdict--the defendant dies in the penitentiary._ there is no doubt that dr. john f. braddee was the most notorious individual that ever lived in uniontown. the exact date of his advent to that place seems to be unascertainable, but it was more than fifty years ago. the culmination of his remarkable career occurred in . of his early life but little is accurately known. it is certain that he came to uniontown from virginia. tradition has it that he was born in kentucky. the story goes that when quite a youth he engaged himself as a stable boy, in the service of a gentleman who dealt in horses in the town of paris, state of kentucky. his employer was accustomed to drive horses to the eastern market for sale, and on one of these occasions young braddee was taken along as an assistant. the horses were driven over what was called the "north western pike of virginia." at some point on this old road braddee fell sick and was left behind. alter his recovery he made his way to uniontown, stopping for a while in, or about morgantown. notwithstanding his robust appearance, which will be remembered by his old acquaintances, it is said that when a boy he was delicate and inclined to consumption. this is the story, whether true or not is immaterial in view of his subsequent history. when he reached uniontown, he was not known to be the owner of a single dollar, that he might call his own. without education or professional training, he announced himself a physician, and commenced the practice of medicine. his success was remarkable. he had a commanding personal appearance, a good address, and by these means alone impressed himself upon the confidence of the common mind. he gathered around himself a large circle of friends and admirers, some of doubtful, but not a few of unquestioned reputation. his fame as a doctor extended far and wide, patients flocked to consult him from all points. many came hundreds of miles. fifty horses have been seen hitched around his office at one time. he possessed and cultivated a fondness for fast horses, probably the result of his early education in the stable at paris, kentucky. he always kept a number of race horses in training for the turf, and often matched them against others on the race course. in this line his success was varying, sometimes he won and as often lost, but losses did not diminish his love for the race course. the accumulations received from his large practice of medicine, and his winnings on the race course did not satisfy his greed for gain, and he conceived and carried into execution an extraordinary scheme for increasing his gains. it was nothing less than a carefully organized plan to rob the united states mail. his success as a physician had enabled him to acquire property, and he had not been living in uniontown long until he possessed himself of one of the most handsome and valuable properties in the place, viz: the property known as the "old national house," on morgantown street. he bought this property from hon. thomas irwin, who afterwards sat as one of his judges in the famous trial to be hereafter mentioned. when braddee bought this property, it contained only a single building, the three story brick on the southern side of the lot. he added the wing to the north, and here he established his headquarters, carrying on his business, professional and unprofessional, with a high hand. his office was convenient, in fact immediately adjoining stockton's stage yard and coach factory. into this stage yard, coaches were driven every day. stockton had the contract for carrying the mails. the old pike was in full blast then, and as many as thirty coaches were driven along it both ways every day. among the coaches carrying the great and lesser mails, one william corman was a driver, and braddee cultivated his acquaintance and secured his confidence. he assured him that money could be made easily by rifling the mail bags, and promised corman that if he would hand him the bags, he would "go through them" and divide profits with him. corman consented. it was of course soon discovered that the mails were tampered with, and united states detectives were set upon the tracks of the offenders. they were not long in ascertaining the guilty parties. corman was arrested and told the whole story. braddee had other accomplices, viz: p. mills strayer, and dr. wm. purnell. strayer was a saddler, who carried on a shop in uniontown, and died only a few years ago. purnell was a sort of body servant of braddee, and for many years after braddee's death peddled braddee's medicine through fayette and adjoining counties. braddee was arrested on information made by wm. corman, and his arrest caused more excitement than any event that ever transpired in uniontown. the information. _pennsylvania, fayette county, ss_: george plitt, agent of the p. o. department, being duly sworn, says that the united states mail from wheeling, virginia, to new york, traveling on the national road, has been stolen, to-wit: the mails made up at wheeling on the th, th, d and th of november, , and on the th, th and th of december, , and that he has reason to suspect and does suspect and believe that wm. corman, who on those days drove the mail stage containing said mail from washington to uniontown, pennsylvania, is guilty, with others of stealing said mails. geo. plitt, _agt. p.o. dept._ sworn and subscribed this th day of january, a. d. , before me. n. ewing, _prest. judge th judicial district, pennsylvania_. same day warrant issued, directed to the sheriff of washington county, and to all other sheriffs and constables within the fourteenth judicial district. * * * * * george plitt, agent of the p. o. department, being duly sworn, says that the united states mails from wheeling, virginia, to new york, traveling on the national road, has been stolen, to-wit: the mails made up at wheeling on the th, th, d and th of november, , and on the th, th, and th of december, , and that he has reason to suspect, and does suspect and believe that john f. braddee, william purnell, and peter mills strayer, with others, are guilty of stealing the mails. geo. plitt, _agt. p.o. dept._ sworn and subscribed this th day of january, a. d. , before n. ewing, _prest. judge th judicial district, pennsylvania_. same day warrant issued to george meason, esq., sheriff of fayette county, and to all constables. * * * * * _the united states of america vs. john f. braddee, william purnell, et al._ william corman, being duly sworn, says that more than one year ago john f. braddee repeatedly urged him to let him, the said braddee, have some of the mail bags from the mail coach, and that he would divide the money taken from them with said corman. said braddee said he had frequently known such things done, and that lots of money had thus been made, and it had never been detected. while said corman was driving the mail coach between smithfield and uniontown last winter, the said braddee sent peter mills strayer frequently in a sleigh after him to get a mail bag containing a mail--that at length he, said strayer, took one from the coach, which was then on runners, while he, the said corman, was watering at snyder's, east of the laurel hill. that braddee afterwards told him that there was nothing in it. that he knows of no other mail being taken until within about two months past, when he, the said corman, was driving between uniontown and washington, and when at the instance and after repeated and urgent requests of said braddee he commenced leaving a mail pouch or bag in the stage coach, when the coaches were changed at uniontown, and continued to do so at intervals of (say) a week, ten days or two weeks, until within a week or ten days before christmas. that the said mail bags were taken from the coach by said braddee or some one under his direction. that braddee after the taking of said mails would sometimes say there was nothing in them, and again that others had but little money in them. one he said had but fifteen dollars. the last but one gotten, as before stated, he said had a large amount of money in it, but he was going to keep it secretly--bury it until the fuss was over. that said braddee said he had a secret place out of doors where he could hide the mail bags so that they could not be found. that said braddee from time to time gave him three dollars or five dollars as he asked for it, and once ten dollars; and loaned him forty dollars when his (corman's) wife was going away. that william purnell several times after a mail bag had been taken, would take him, said corman, aside and whisper to him that the bag had nothing in it. that on the day before yesterday he was several times at said braddee's house and braddee wished him to leave a mail bag in the coach for him when he, said corman, should return from washington last night. that said braddee very often wished him to leave a mail bag when he did not. that he, braddee, requested him to leave the large mail bag in the coach for him, but he never did do it. william corman. sworn and subscribed this th day of january, a. d. , before me n. ewing, _pres. judge of the th jud. dist., pa._ dr. howard kennedy also made a preliminary affidavit, which is given in a previous chapter. warrant of arrest. _the united states of america to george meason, esq., high sheriff of fayette county, pa., and to all constables of said county_: whereas, john f. braddee, william purnell and peter mills strayer have been charged before me, the president judge of the fourteenth judicial district in the said state, on the oath of george plitt, an agent of the post office department, with stealing the united states mails from wheeling to new york, these are therefore to command you, and each of you, to take the said john f. braddee, william purnell and peter mills strayer, and bring them before me, or some other magistrate having jurisdiction, to be dealt with according to law. witness the hand and seal of the said n. ewing, president judge as aforesaid, at uniontown, the th day of january, a. d. . n. ewing, [seal.] _pres. judge of the th jud. dist., pa._ * * * * * _pennsylvania, fayette county, ss_: the examination of dr. john f. braddee, of the borough of uniontown, fayette county, pa., taken before me, n. ewing, president judge of the fourteenth judicial district of pennsylvania, the th day of january, a. d. . the said john f. braddee being brought before me by virtue of a warrant issued by me, on suspicion of stealing the united states mails from wheeling, va., to new york, made up at wheeling on the th, th, d and th days of november, ; and on the th, th and th days of december, , says: i know nothing about the alleged stealing of the mails. his john f. � braddee, mark. taken and subscribed before me, n. ewing, january , . _pres. judge th jud. dist. of pa._ * * * * * _pennsylvania, fayette county, ss_: the examination of peter mills strayer, of the borough of uniontown, fayette county. pa., taken before me, n. ewing, president judge of the fourteenth judicial district of pennsylvania, on the th day of january, a. d. . the said peter mills strayer being brought before me by virtue of a warrant issued by me, on suspicion of stealing the united states mails from wheeling, va., to new york, made up at wheeling on the th, th, d and th days of november, and on the th, th, and th days of december, , says: i know nothing about the mail bags or the stealing of the mails. p. m. strayer. taken and subscribed before me, n. ewing, _pres. judge th dist. of pa._ january , . * * * * * _the united stales of america, fayette county, pennsylvania, ss_: the united states of america vs. john f. braddee. january , , ordered that john f. braddee enter into security himself in fifty thousand dollars, and two sufficient sureties in $ , each. prisoner remanded until monday, the th instant, at o'clock a. m., to afford time to procure bail. the same vs. peter mills strayer, january th, , ordered that peter mills strayer enter into security himself in $ , , and two sufficient sureties in $ , each. prisoner remanded until monday, the th instant, at o'clock, to afford time to procure bail. the same vs. william purnell. january th, . ordered that william purnell enter into security himself in $ , , and two sufficient sureties in $ , each. prisoner remanded as above, etc. january , . monday, o'clock, a.m. prisoners ordered before the judge. prisoners say they are not provided with bail and ask further time, until say three o'clock p.m. three o'clock, p.m., no bail being offered the defendants are committed to the custody of the marshal of the western district of pennsylvania. n. ewing, _pres. judge, th jud. dist., pa_. mittimus. _the united states of america, fayette county, pennsylvania, ss_: the united states of america to the marshal of the western district of pennsylvania, greeting: whereas, john f. braddee, of the borough of uniontown, in the county aforesaid, hath been brought before the hon. nathaniel ewing, president judge of the fourteenth judicial district of pennsylvania, by virtue of the warrant of the hon. nathaniel ewing, president judge as aforesaid, charged upon the solemn oath of george plitt, agent of the general post office department, with stealing the united states mails made up at wheeling, virginia, for new york, on the th, th, d and th days of november, --and on the th, th and th days of december, . these are therefore to command you the said marshall to receive the said john p. braddee, and keep him in safe custody until he be delivered by due course of law. hereof fail not. witness the hon. nathaniel ewing, president judge as aforesaid, at uniontown, the eleventh day of january, anno domini . n. ewing, _pres. judge of the th jud. dist., pa_. * * * * * _the united states of america vs. john f. braddee, william purnell, peter mills strayer and william corman, charged on oath of several robberies of the u. s. mail._ george meason tent in $ , ; william crawford tent in $ , ; william freeman tent in $ , ; james mccune tent in $ , . on this condition, that the said george meason, william crawford, william freeman and james mccune shall be and appear at the next circuit court of the united states, to be held for the western district of pennsylvania on the third monday of may next, and give testimony in ---- of the said united states against the said john f. braddee, william purnell, peter mills strayer and william corman, and not depart the court without leave, otherwise the recognizance to be in full force and virtue. geo. meason, [seal.] wm. crawford, [seal.] jas. mccune, [seal.] wm. freeman. [seal.] taken and acknowledged this th day of january, a. d. . _coram_, t. irwin, _dist. judge of the u. s., western dist. of pa_. u. s. commitment. _united states of america, western district of pennsylvania, ss_: the united states of america to the marshal of the western district of pennsylvania and his deputies, to any constable of the county of allegheny, and to the jailer of said county of allegheny, greeting: whereas, john f. braddee, william purnell and peter mills strayer are now brought before me, the hon. thomas irwin, esquire, judge of the district court of the united states for the western district of pennsylvania, charged on the oath of george plitt, william corman and others, with stealing the united states mail made up at wheeling on the th, th, d and th days of november, a.d. , and on the th, th and th days of december, . these are therefore to command you, the said marshal, constable or jailer, or either of you, to convey the said john f. braddee, william purnell and peter mills strayer to the said jailer of allegheny county, and you, the said jailer, are hereby commanded to receive and keep safely the said john f. braddee, william purnell and peter mills strayer in your jail until they thence be discharged by due course of law. for so doing this shall be your warrant. in testimony whereof the said hon. thomas irwin, esq., has hereunto set his hand and seal, this th day of january, a. d. . (signed) th. irwin, [seal.] _district judge, u. s._ * * * * * pittsburg, penna., th of jan'y, . howard kennedy, special agent of the post office department, in addition to the testimony given by him before his honor judge ewing, in the case of the united states against braddee, purnell, strayer and corman, relative to the probable loss of money, drafts, &c., in the stolen mails, further deposes, that since that time he has received reports from various persons and places in the west of letters mailed at dates which would have by due course of mail been in the bags stolen, containing bank notes, scrip, certificates, drafts and checks, amounting to one hundred and two thousand dollars and upwards; that every mail brings him additional reports of losses, and that he believes the amounts reported will not constitute more than one-half of what has been lost in the mails between the th of nov., and the th of dec., , on the route from wheeling to new york. howard kennedy, _special agent p. o. dep't._ sworn and subscribed before me the th january, . t. irwin, _district judge_. petitions for habeas corpus. _to the hon. thomas irwin, judge of the united states court of the western district of pennsylvania_: the petition of william purnell respectfully represents that your petitioner is now confined in the jail of allegheny county, in obedience to a warrant of commitment, a true copy of which is prefixed to this petition. your petitioner humbly prays your honor to award a _habeas corpus_, that he may be bailed by sufficient sureties, according to the first article and ninth section of the constitution of the united states, january , . william purnell. _to the hon. thomas irwin, judge of the court of the united states for the western district of pennsylvania_: the petition of doctor john f. braddee respectfully represents that your petitioner is now confined in the jail of allegheny county, in obedience to a warrant of commitment, a true copy of which is prefixed to this petition. your petitioner humbly prays your honor to award a _habeas corpus_, that he may be bailed by sufficient sureties, according to the first article and ninth section of the constitution of the united states. the united states _vs_. john f. braddee. his john f. � braddee. mark. petition for _habeas corpus_ granted, and issued january , . the same _vs._ wm. purnell, _alias_ william purnell, january , . * * * * * _united states vs. braddee._ let a _habeas corpus_ issue in this case according to the prayer of the petitioner, returnable forthwith. thomas irwin, _district judge_. e. j. roberts, esq., _clerk_. january , . _united states vs. purnell._ let a _habeas corpus_ issue in this case according to the prayer of the petitioner, returnable forthwith. thomas irwin, _district judge, western district of pennsylvania_. e. j. roberts, esq., _cl'k d. court_. the writ and jailer's return. _western district of pennsylvania, ss_: the president of the united states to the marshal of said district, and the jailer of allegheny county, greeting: we command you the body of john f. braddee in your custody, under safe and secure conduct before the hon. thomas irwin, judge of our district court, at his chambers in the city of pittsburgh, together with the day and cause of his said caption and detention, forthwith then and there to be subject to whatsoever our said judge shall consider in that behalf, and have you then there this writ. witness the hon. thomas irwin, judge of the united states for said district, at pittsburg, the twenty-eighth day of january, a. d. eighteen hundred and forty-one. e. j. roberts, _clerk_. the body of the above named john f. braddee i have brought before your honor, together with day and cause of his being detained, in obedience to the writ. so answers jas. mccune, jailer of allegheny county. to the hon. thomas irwin. bond and bondsmen. _the u. s. vs. john f. braddee, application to be admitted to bail, jan. , ._ the following named persons being sworn, depose, that they are worth severally as follows: hugh graham, $ , ; benjamin brownfield, $ , ; isaac hague, $ , ; henry smith, $ , ; r. laughlin, $ , ; emanuel brown, $ , ; b. brown, $ , ; d. s. diamond, $ , ; thomas moxley, $ , ; michael franks, $ , ; abraham white, $ ; jacob humbert, $ ; peter humbert, $ , ; andrew mcclelland, $ , . _coram_, t. irwin. these amounts were taken from the property lists in the commissioners office of fayette county, pa. abraham brown, $ , ; benjamin brown, $ , ; emanuel brown, $ , ; benjamin brownfield, $ , ; michael franks, $ , ; henry smith, $ , ; andrew mcclelland, $ , ; peter humbert, $ , ; isaac hague, $ , ; isaac brown, $ , ; *hugh graham, $ , ; samuel hatfield, $ , ; thomas moxley, $ , ; *david chipps, $ . names marked with a star, are already security for hugh keys, canal commissioner, with wm. searight, for $ , , and also on the bond of thompson mckean, late road commissioner, for a large amount. points raised before the committing magistrate: quere.--can bail be given on any other species of property than real estate? quere.--are not these persons indemnified? if so, how? would it be policy to recognize them as witnesses on the part of the united states? quere.--the order is that two sureties in $ , each should be furnished--will any other members be taken? * * * * * _the united states vs. john f. braddee._ in the circuit and district courts of the united states, for the western district of pennsylvania, charged with the larceny of the u. s. mail or mails and stealing therefrom. hugh graham, benjamin brownfield, isaac hague, henry smith, robert laughlin, emanuel brown, daniel diamond, thomas moxley, michael franks, abraham white, jacob humbert, peter humbert, andrew mcclelland, lewis williams, james mclean, david chipps, james douglass, john hague, abraham brown, daniel franks, john mcclelland and william hague acknowledge themselves to be held and firmly bound unto the united states in the sum of sixty thousand dollars each, lawful money of the united states, to be levied of your goods and chattels, lauds and tenements, upon condition that the said john f. braddee be and appear at a session of the circuit court of the united states to be held at the city of pittsburg the third monday in may next, to answer the said charges, and such other matters as shall then and there be preferred against him, and that he shall not depart the court without leave. taken and acknowledged. _coram_. t. irwin, _district judge._ january , . the indictment. in the circuit court of the united states of america, holden in and for the western district of pennsylvania, at may sessions, in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and forty-one. western district of pennsylvania, to-wit: the grand inquest of the united states of america, inquiring for the western district of pennsylvania, upon their oaths and affirmations respectively do present and say: that john f. braddee, late of said western district of pennsylvania, a practitioner of medicine, did on the twenty-fifth day of january, in the year eighteen hundred and forty, at uniontown, in the said western district of pennsylvania, procure, advise and assist peter mills strayer to steal, take and carry away the mail of the united states of america, then in progress of transmission from the postoffice in washington city, in the district of columbia, to the postoffice at wheeling, in the western district of virginia, contrary to the form of the act of congress of the united states, in such case made and provided, and against the peace, government and dignity of the united states. c. darragh, _u. s. attorney for the western district of pennsylvania_. true bill--james riddle, foreman. * * * * * may th, .--the grand jury came into court and presented a bill of indictment against wm. purnell for stealing a letter from the mail and other offenses. same day john f. braddee by his bail, hugh graham, is surrendered into court and hugh graham discharged from his recognizance. same day, on the motion of mr. austin, and affidavit of john m. austin, filed, habeas corpus ad satisfaciendum, issued to the jailor and sheriff of fayette county for the body of william collins. united states vs. john f. braddee, no. of may term, . stealing from the united states mails. and now, to-wit: may th, , a jury being called came, to-wit: george fortune, william plummer, samuel cooper, william raymond, edward a. reynolds, arnold eichbaum, james stewart, john clemens, joseph alexander, thomas f. mitchell, thomas s. cunningham and samuel a. roberts, twelve good and lawful men, duly sworn, summoned and balloted for, and sworn and affirmed, do say on their oaths and affirmations that the defendant is guilty on the first, second and fourth counts in the indictment, and not guilty on the third count. verdict given on the th day of june, . the jury was polled at the instance of defendant's counsel. exceptions. the court referred to the trial of robinson, which had taken place at the present term, and in which some of the jurors now empanneled had rendered a verdict of guilty. it was not pretended that this trial had the remotest connection with the mail robbery at uniontown, or that the case of robinson involved any principle of evidence, or consideration as to the credibility of witnesses, analogous to the case under consideration; yet the court asked the jury to reflect how it would look, out of doors, after the conviction of a poor friendless boy like robinson, to acquit such a prisoner as was then on trial; that it might countenance the reproach which had been cast upon the law of permitting big fish to escape while little ones were caught, and that the court would be deeply mortified at such an appearance. these remarks, which could afford no possible grounds for salutary reflection, were calculated to make the jury forget their oaths; to lead them away from a conscientious and fearless examination of the testimony to calculations upon the probable opinions of others, founded not upon oath or upon a full hearing of the testimony. this, too, in a case where it had been made to appear that the most infamous attempts were resorted to for the purpose of inflaming the public mind by falsehoods through the press. the jury to reflect that if they took a course unpopular at the moment, the whole odium must rest upon them, and that their characters, motives and conduct would be placed in striking contrast with the more popular tone of the court. . that the court whilst forbearing altogether to notice, or noticing very slightly, the considerations which took all weight from the testimony of corman and strayer (witnesses for the prosecution), told the jury it would be a farce to pay any attention to the testimony of collins and owens, witnesses for the accused, although the latter stood infinitely fairer before the jury, and had no such powerful inducements as corman and strayer to give false testimony. . the offense, if any, established against the prisoner, was that of taking the mail with the consent of the person having charge thereof. yet the court declined to give the prisoner the benefit of this discrimination. . the charge of the court that the testimony of turk, as to the non-arrival of the mail at new york, derived from the register, was sufficient, without the production of the register or any copy thereof, or extract therefrom. * * * * * united states _vs._ braddee. reasons in arrest of judgment. . the indictment did not pursue the language of the act of congress, but mingles together words which in the act are intended to describe different offences. the accused is consequently not apprised of the clause under which he is indicted, and the especial character of the offence which he must prepare himself to meet. these crimes being statutory, must turn altogether on the language of the act of congress. suppose the same count had charged the accused with robbing, stealing and taking? the indictment does not allege that the mail stolen or taken contained any valuable thing. overruled. the sentence. united states vs. john f. braddee. may sessions, . sentence on the first count of the indictment: that you, john f. braddee, be imprisoned in the western penitentiary of pennsylvania, at hard labor, for and during the term of ten years, and in all respects be subject to the same discipline and treatment as convicts sentenced by the courts of the state; and that you pay the costs of this prosecution, and stand committed until this sentence be complied with. and while so confined therein you shall be exclusively under the constraint of the officers having charge of said penitentiary. docket entries. may th, .--test. for united states: j. h. phillips, j. h. dicus, henry h. beeson, frederick byrer, john keffer, samuel mclean, peter mills strayer, amos jolliff, samuel costello, william wagner. may th--test. for defendant: john warner, thomas moxley, adam george, john hendricks, uriah hoke, aaron wyatt, james mclean, james smith, jacob f. brant, robert carr, thomas rowland, abraham white, isaac hague, jacob eckel, decatur wolfe. may th--test. for defendant: john haney, william collins, francis wilkinson, jesse king, h. mitchell, david chipps, wm. d. swearingen, henry hally, margaret collins, william purnell, john imbre, john campbell, john m. crane, alfred core, seth holl, john woodward, henry smith, matthias c. baker, james marinder, madison mooney, james owens. may st--test. for defendant: jesse jones, wm. hall, t. shaw, william ebert, gideon john, alexander i. fowler, john f. sangston, benjamin brownfield. june st--test. for united states: brown snyder, george meason, robert l. barry, john keffer, alfred mcclelland, ellis baily, isaac nixon, william nixon, samuel nixon, geo. rider, j. t. williams, jas. mcgayen, wm. reddick. june . court took a recess for half an hour. mr. black (col. s. w.), on behalf of the united states, addressed the court and jury. mr. william austin, for defence, addressed the court and jury. mr. darragh, district attorney, addressed the court and jury. june . mr. darragh continued and concluded his address. mr. mccandless, for defense, addressed the court and jury; court took a recess for half an hour. mr. mccandless continued and concluded his address. mr. biddle, for the defense, commenced his address to the court and jury. june . mr. biddle continued and concluded his address. mr. loomis, on behalf of the united states, commenced his address to the court and jury. the jury, having been charged by judge baldwin, retired. same day rendered a verdict as before mentioned. mr. mccandless moved the court in arrest of judgment and for a new trial. june . affidavits as to the ownership of a portion of the money in the hands of messrs. darragh and kennedy filed. mr. finley for edward h. brags, moves to take the money out of court found in the mail stolen, and identified by the affidavits filed. same gentleman makes the same motion for john j. young. both motions referred by the court to messrs. darragh and kennedy as auditors. amos jolliff discharged from his recognizance to attend as a witness. the following report was made to the court by messrs. darragh and kennedy viz: pittsburg, june , . the undersigned beg leave to report that they have paid out on affidavits to individuals claiming, or their order, the following sums from the money recovered on the premises of john f. braddee: e. h. pandell, $ ; timothy goodman, $ , ; silas d. force, $ ; james sproul, $ ; h. s. abbott, $ . ; sibbett & jones, $ , ; haney st. john, $ , ; b. s. williams, $ ; g. g. moore, $ ; a. h. bangs, $ . ; john s. young, $ ; chas. s. bradford, $ ; in all $ , . . whole amount recovered, $ , . , leaving $ , undistributed. report of auditors confirmed, and claimants who have been paid are directed to give receipts, and the balance unclaimed be deposited in the bank of pittsburg to abide the further order of the court. united states vs. william purnell. wm. freeman, james mccune, o. t. moore, h. h. turk, a. mcclelland and william crawford each bound in a recognizance of $ to appear at the next term of the circuit court of the united states for the western district of pennsylvania, on the d monday of november next, to testify in the above case. j. m. austin moves the court to direct the marshal to pay the witnesses subp[oe]naed on the part of the defendant in the case of the united states _vs._ john f. braddee. court refused, and ordered that the expenses of compulsory process be paid to the officers by the united states. united states _vs._ william purnell. defendant tent in $ , on condition that he be and appear at the next term of the circuit court of the united states, to be held in the city of pittsburg, on the first monday of november, next. james l. bugh, benjamin watson and john hendricks each tent in $ , on condition that defendant be and appear as aforesaid. june . the court overruled the motion for a new trial in the case of the united states _vs_. braddee, and also a motion by john m. austin, esq., to postpone sentence, and the court sentenced the defendant as before mentioned. november , . the united states vs. margaret collins. stealing from the united states mails. witnesses sworn before the grand jury: e. s. harris, johnze dicus, a. mcclelland, d. h. phillips, william ebert, john p. sturgis, henry h. beeson, abraham alexander and dr. howard kennedy. same _vs._ same. charged with receiving a $ treasury note, stolen from the mail, knowing the same to have been stolen. november . recognizance of william purnell and his sureties called and forfeited, and the witnesses in this case discharged from their recognizances. the grand jury came into court and presented true bills of indictment against margaret collins. november . defendant pleads not guilty. tried and jury could not agree, and were discharged. margaret collins was braddee's mother-in-law. purnell and corman were pardoned by the president before trial. * * * * * thus ended the great braddee trial; an affair that caused more excitement than any local event that ever interested the people of uniontown. the actors are all dead. judges baldwin and irwin, who heard the cause, are both dead. all the lawyers who were concerned are dead; some of the witnesses are still living. the bondsmen are all dead. braddee died in the penitentiary about ten years after his incarceration. many persons believe that he did not die in the penitentiary, but in some manner escaped therefrom. there can be no doubt, however, that he died in the penitentiary. [illustration: the german d. hair house.] chapter xlvii. _john quincy adams visits uniontown--he is welcomed by dr. hugh campbell--the national road a monument of a past age--a comparison between the national road and the appian way._ "we hear no more of the clanging hoof, and the stage coach, rattling by; for the steam king rules the traveled world, and the old pike's left to die." the foregoing lines were written by one who mourned the departing glories of the old road. when they were written the steam car had taken the place of the four-horse coach, and the writer was giving vent to his grief over the change. steam has since encountered a formidable competitor in the shape of electricity, and the time is coming when the steam car will follow in the wake of the old stage coach. progress is the inspiring watchword of the hour, and while there may be nothing new under the sun, old things are certainly presented in a new light, and old agencies applied to new work. no sound greets the ear of the pike boy now, like the clink of other days. the glory of the old road has departed, but the memory of its better days fades not away. the old tavern has gone with all the rest. the incidents and anecdotes, accidents and episodes of the road have all passed to the domain of history. in the month of may, , john quincy adams visited uniontown, on his return from cincinnati, where he had gone to participate in the inauguration of the observatory on mount adams, near that city. dr. hugh campbell was appointed to deliver the address of welcome to mr. adams on his arrival at uniontown. the following opening sentences are quoted from dr. campbell's address: "_venerable sir_: i have the honor of being the organ of this community to express for them and myself our hearty welcome of you among us. you see here, sir, an assembly of people of every political faith, come together spontaneously as one man to express their respect and veneration for one who has filled so large and distinguished, and i may add, beneficial space in the history and councils of this nation. we stand here, sir, upon the cumberland road, which has, to some extent, broken down the great wall of the appallachian mountains, which served to form so natural a barrier between what might have been two great rival nations. this road constitutes we trust, an indissoluble chain of union, connecting forever as one, the east and the west. as a people directly interested in this great national work, we are glad to have the opportunity of expressing our acknowledgments to you in person. it is a part of that great system which has always received your support, known as the american system, the happy influence of which you have recently had the pleasure of witnessing in the rapid and extraordinary development of the resources of the west." dr. campbell proceeded at some length in a well conceived and happily expressed address, and concluded as follows: "again, sir, i bid you welcome to the hospitalities of our town, and may the god of all grace prolong your existence, and finally receive you to himself." it is noteworthy, because out of the ordinary line, that two of the ablest debaters and most popular public speakers of western pennsylvania, fifty years ago, were physicians--dr. f. j. lemoyne, of washington, and dr. hugh campbell, of uniontown, the first named an abolitionist and the other a whig. those who have heard them on the stump aver that they never heard better speakers. they were both highly educated, masters of logic, forceful in delivery, and in the modern phrase, "clean cut" in all their utterances. in the latest map of fayette county, pennsylvania, there is a sketch of the national road, written by the late hon. james veech, in which that able man said: "it is a monument of a past age; but like all other monuments, it is interesting, as well as venerable. it carried thousands of population and millions of wealth into the west; and more than any other material structure in the land, served to harmonize and strengthen, if not to save, the union." there was a popular belief, in the olden time, that the national road was a bond of union between the states, and that it served to harmonize and bring together on friendly terms, people of remote sections, and of different pursuits. this will be seen by the quoted remarks of dr. campbell and mr. veech. the generation of to-day regards the affection of the old pike boy for the old road, as a mere memory, the recollection of the animated scenes of trade and transportation on the old highway. it is something more. the old pike boy sincerely and truly believes that the old pike was a bond of union, that for years it kept the peace between discordant interests, and prolonged the evil day when the outbreak of disunion came. [illustration: dr. hugh campbell.] the appian way was a great road, and is invested with much classic and historic interest, but, unlike the national road, it did not yield its place to greater lines of progress and improvement. the appian way was designed to gratify the pomp and vanity of consuls and pro-consuls, kings and princes, emperors and empires. the national road was designed to meet the wants of a free and progressive people, and to aid in building up and strengthening a great and growing republic. the appian way had more vitality than the government that built it. it outlived its country. the national road served its purpose grandly, was a complete success, the pride and glory of its day and generation, and when it lost its place as a national thoroughfare, the government that made it was all the stronger because it had been made. the average width of the appian way was from eighteen to twenty feet, so as to admit of two carriages passing each other, and the expense of constructing the first section of it was so great that it exhausted the public treasury of rome. the national road was sixty feet wide, and eight carriages could pass each other within its borders, while the cost of its construction, although a very large sum of money, made so light a draught upon the resources of the public treasury of the united states, in comparison with subsequent appropriations for other objects, as to be scarcely worthy of observation. the appian way derived its name from appius, who was consul of rome at the time of the undertaking. its initial southern terminus was capua, distant from rome one hundred and twenty-five miles, very nearly the same as the distance from cumberland to wheeling. it was subsequently constructed as far as beneventum, and ultimately to brundisium, a seaport town of the adriatic, distant from rome three hundred and seventy-eight miles. we are informed by anthon, an ancient classic author of high renown, that the city of beneventum derived great importance from its position on the appian way, and the same can be truthfully said of the towns and cities which were so fortunate as to be located on the national road. paul the apostle traveled over a portion of the appian way on his journey from jerusalem to rome to carry up his appeal from agrippa to cæsar. he intersected the appian way at puteoli, where he remained seven days, and his brethren having learned that he had reached that point, came to meet him as far as appii forum and the three taverns. the appii forum was a station, and the three taverns a house for the entertainment of strangers and travelers on the appian way. the latter may have been three distinct houses moulded into one, as is sometimes done, or a cluster of taverns consisting of three. that they were taverns, or a tavern, is unquestionable. there was an old tavern on the mountain division of the national road, in fayette county, pennsylvania, called the three cabins. the cabins were put up for boarding and lodging workmen engaged in the construction of the road, and when the work was finished, united and made one. this grotesque old tavern enjoyed a large patronage, and was a source of no little profit to its old-fashioned proprietor. horace, as before intimated, was an occasional traveler on the appian way, not infrequently accompanied by virgil, and apparently with no other object than the mere pleasure afforded by the jaunt. these illustrious authors of classic verse were, it is said, given to convivial habits, and we have the word of horace himself that the wine on the appian way was "thick." from some other things said by horace, it is very evident that the taverns of the appian way were inferior to those of the national road. as an instance, he says that "the bustling landlord of the inn at beneventum almost burned himself in roasting some lean thrushes." lean thrushes never entered the well stored larders of the old taverns of the national road. fatness was the leading feature of flesh and fowl and bird of every kind that passed inspection of the old-time landlord of our national highway, and fatness distinguished all the surroundings of his overflowing hostelry. nor was it the habit of our old tavern keepers to do the cooking and roasting of their establishments. all that pertained to the dominion of the landlady, who, as a rule, was tidy and robust, and felt a just pride in her calling. horace also complained that at an inn at canusium, on the appian way, he was served with "gritty bread." shades of john n. dagg, joseph hallam, daniel brown, charles miller, james workman, alfred mcclelland, joshua marsh and boss rush, defend us forever against the thought of gritty bread! horace, in further deprecation of some things on the appian way, mentions a little town where "water is sold, though the worst in the world." generosity was a leading trait of the old tavern keepers of the national road. there was an inexhaustible supply of water along its line, the best and purest in the world, and no man ever heard of a cup of it being sold for a price. one of the most attractive features of the national road was the big water-trough that stood by the side of every tavern, filled with fresh, sparkling water, and absolutely free to all comers and goers. [illustration: the big water-trough on laurel hill.] appendix. _a digest of the laws of pennsylvania, relating to the cumberland road--unexpended balances in indiana--accounts of two old commissioners--rates of toll--letters of albert gallatin, ebenezer finley and thomas a. wiley--curiosities of the old postal service._ . act of april th gives the state's consent to the making of the road within its limits, provided the route be changed to pass through uniontown and washington; also gives the united states authorities full power to enter upon lands, dig, cut and carry away materials, etc., for the purpose of completing and _forever_ keeping in repair said road. pamphlet laws, page . . february th. joint resolution authorizes the government of the united states to erect toll gates, enforce the collection of tolls, and to do and perform every other act and thing which may be deemed necessary to insure the permanent repair and preservation of the road. andrew shultz, governor, nerr middleswarth, speaker of the house of representatives, daniel sturgeon, speaker of the senate. pamphlet laws, page . . act of april th. preamble: "whereas, that part of the cumberland road lying within the state of pennsylvania is in many parts in bad condition for want of repairs, and as doubts have been entertained whether the united states have authority to erect toll gates on said road and collect toll, and as a large proportion of the people of this commonwealth are interested in said road, its constant continuance and preservation, therefore, etc." the act then goes on and authorizes the erection of at least six gates, designates classes and persons exempt from toll, provides for the erection of directors (boards ordering teams, etc., to pass to the right), establishes rates of tolls, regulates the manner of collecting the same, etc. pamphlet laws, page . for a judicial construction of this act, see case of hopkins vs. stockton, watts and sargeant, page . . act of april st requires supervisors of highways to make paved valleys or stone culverts where other roads intersect the cumberland road and this act also signifies the state's acceptance of the road from the general government. pamphlet laws, page . . act of june th provides for payment of half toll by persons carrying the united states mail, and fixes penalties for attempts to defraud the state of toll. pamphlet laws, page . this act declared inoperative by the supreme court of the united states, in so far as it levies toll on mail coaches. . act of april th exempts persons hauling coal for home consumption from payment of tolls. pamphlet laws, page . . act of february th in form of a joint resolution requires commissioners to give bond in the sum of $ , . pamphlet laws, page . changed by subsequent acts. . act of june th, in form of a joint resolution, fixes the compensation of commissioners at $ per diem, not to exceed one hundred and fifty days in any one year. pamphlet laws, page . changed by subsequent acts. . act of march th authorizes the appointment of one commissioner by the governor for a term of three years, at a compensation of $ . per diem, requiring him to give bond in the sum of $ , , to keep an account of receipts and expenditures, and publish the same; and further provides for auditors to adjust accounts. pamphlet laws, page . partially repealed by subsequent acts. . act of april th authorizes commissioners to stop mail coaches to enforce payment of tolls. pamphlet laws, page . this act held to be void by the supreme court of the united states, and supplied by act of april th, , _postea_. . act of april th (omnibus bill). "preamble: whereas, it has lately been decided by the supreme court of the united states, that the acts of assembly of this commonwealth, relating to the collection of tolls on that part of the cumberland road which is within this state, passed june th, , and april th, , do not authorize the collection of any amount of tolls whatever for the passage upon said road of any stage, coach, or other vehicle carrying passengers with their baggage and goods, if such stage, coach, or other vehicle, is at the same time carrying any of the mails or property of the united states; and whereas, the said court sanctions the power of pennsylvania to provide for the repairs of said road by a general assessment of tolls upon persons traveling thereon, which it is deemed just and right should be paid; and whereas, also, it is found to be impracticable to keep said road in good repair and out of debt by the tolls collectable under the existing laws of this commonwealth, as interpreted by said court, therefore," &c. this act then goes on and in section imposes a toll of not less than two nor more than fifteen cents, as shall be fixed and determined by the commissioner, upon every person riding or traveling in any vehicle carrying the united states mails, for every fourteen miles over which such person shall have been a passenger or traveler, and in proportion for shorter distances, provided that no toll shall be demanded from any guard to the mails, agent of the postoffice, bearer of dispatches for the general or state government, nor any naval or military officer of the united states or this state, traveling in the discharge of official duty. section provides the manner of collecting tolls under this act. section imposes a penalty of fifty dollars on any driver who neglects to report at every gate the number of passengers in his carriage or coach. section provides that in case of refusal of passengers to pay or neglect of drivers to report, collectors shall charge in a book all unpaid tolls and sue for the same. section provides that in every case where a collector may be unable from omission or neglect of drivers or passengers to ascertain the number of passengers liable to toll under this act, he may charge and recover for so many as the carriage shall be capable of carrying. section provides a penalty of twenty dollars for every fraudulent attempt to evade the payment of toll imposed by this act. pamphlet laws, pages - . this act is still in force, though mail coaches (rather hacks) have been carrying passengers and freights for many years without paying toll. . act of march th authorizes the governor to appoint a commissioner on each side of the monongahela river, at a salary of $ each. pamphlet laws, page . subsequently repealed. . act of april th provides for the appointment of trustees by the courts of somerset, fayette and washington counties (one in each), said trustees to appoint one or more commissioners. pamphlet laws, page . repealed. . act of may d authorizes the commissioner and the court of quarter sessions to determine what travel and transportation shall be in part or in whole exempt from toll; also authorizes the imposition of toll upon persons using the road who do not pass through the gates thereon, and prescribes the manner of collecting the same; also authorizes the commissioner to change the location of gates, and to sell and convey toll houses and grounds, and to purchase sites. pamphlet laws, page . this act remains in force. . act of april , authorizes the courts of fayette and washington counties to appoint superintendents. pamphlet laws, page . prior to the date of this act, the officer in charge of the road was invariably called commissioner. this act repealed as to that portion of the road east of the monongahela by act of may , . _postea._ . act of may , authorizes the governor to appoint one person as superintendent for so much of the road as lies within the counties of fayette and somerset, and repeals part of the act of april , , _supra_. pamphlet laws, page . . act of april th, requires superintendents to appropriate fifty per cent. of the tolls to the payment of old debts. pamphlet laws, page . repealed. . act of march , repeals so much of the act of april th, , _supra_, as requires superintendents to apply fifty per cent. of tolls to the payment of old debts, and provides that _bona fide_ holders of certificates of indebtedness for repairs shall be allowed credit for tolls on their certificates. pamphlet laws, page . . act of november th, provides for the adjudication and payment of certain claims against the road. appendix to pamphlet laws of , page , . . act of january th, repeals outright _in toto_ the act of april th, , _supra_. pamphlet laws, page , . . act of march th, authorizes and _requires_ the superintendent to repair the road, and keep it in repair, where it passes through any town or borough forming a street thereof in the county of fayette. pamphlet laws, page . in force. . act of april th, authorizes the governor to appoint a commissioner for that portion of the road lying between the monongahela river and the line of the state of west virginia for a term of three years from the termination of the term of incumbent, at a salary of $ . per diem, not to exceed $ per annum, to account under oath to the auditors of washington county. pamphlet laws, page . . act of june d, appropriates $ , to repair the great stone bridge at the big crossings. pamphlet laws, page . the following communications and statements show the unexpended balances in of appropriations made by congress in preceding years, for constructing the road through the state of indiana: washington, jan. th, . _sir_:--i have the honor to transmit herewith a report from the chief engineer respecting the unexpended balance of the appropriation for the cumberland road in indiana, in answer to the resolution of the house of representatives, of the th instant. very respectfully, your most obedient servant, mahlon dickerson, acting secretary of war. to hon. john bell, speaker of the house of representatives. * * * * * engineer department, jan. th, . _hon. lewis cass, secretary of war_: sir:--in obedience to the resolution of the house of representatives of the th instant, i have the honor to hand you the enclosed statement, explaining the difference in the amount of unexpended appropriations on account of the national road, in the state of indiana, and furnishing the information called for therein. i beg leave to remark that it is often necessary to close the annual statement of the fiscal operations of the engineer department before the returns, &c., from all the work are received. the department, therefore, can only act on the information before it. this was the case in the present instance, as well as some others included in the same statement. i have the honor to be, sir, your most obedient servant, c. gratiot, chief engineer. * * * * * in the tabular statement of the fiscal operations, under the engineer department for the year ending the th of september, , the unexpended balance of former appropriations is thus stated, relating to the cumberland road in indiana: amount undrawn from the treasury, th of september $ , amount in the hands of agents, th of september , ----------- total $ , which amount was ascertained from the statement of balances from the treasury, on the th of sept $ , and an acknowledged balance in the hands of captain ogden, on th of september $ , and from the accounts of mr. milroy, which had been rendered only to the first quarter of , inclusive, which showed a balance in his hands, after deducting $ , paid over to capt. ogden, credited in his account current for the d quarter of , of $ , ----------$ , ---------- $ , since preparing the annual statement and its transmission to the war department, mr. milroy has rendered accounts for the d quarter, and part of the d quarter of , by which he shows a balance due him of $ , so that, had mr. milroy's accounts been received to the time of preparing the statement, the amount in the hands of agents would have been, instead of $ , , only which added to the amount in the treasury, on the st of oct., $ , =========== would make available for the service of the th quarter of , and the year $ , =========== the balance in the treasury on the st of october, , was $ , since which there has been drawn and remitted to the superintendent, as follows: october , , to captain ogden $ , november , , to captain ogden , january , , to captain ogden , $ , ---------- remaining in the treasury on the th of january, $ , the following accounts of two of the old commissioners are interesting as showing the amount of tolls received and disbursements made for repairs and maintenance at the dates covered, and disclosing the once familiar names of many who had contracts and were otherwise employed on the road: account of william hopkins, _commissioner of the cumberland road in pennsylvania, from nov. th, , to nov. th, ._ eastern division, embraced in fayette and somerset counties, viz: dr. to cash received from the national road stage co $ , " " " " holt & maltby, supposed " " " at gate no. , wm. condon, collector , " " " " gate no. , hiram seaton, " , " " " " gate no. , wm. d. beggs, " " " " " gate no. , jas. reynold, " , " " " a fine collected by wm. bradley " " " " " " john tunsell total amount received from nov. , , to nov. , -------$ , by disbursements, viz. cr. cash paid thompson mckean, late superintendent $ " " henry woolery in full for work - / " " thompson mckean, late superintendent " " jackson brown in full for work " " george hensell ditto " " jesse sachett ditto " " john smalley, hauling stone " " peter leonard, quarry leave - / " " elijah crabb, work " " samuel dean " " george colley, quarry leave " " j. & w. w. woolery, work " " hugh wilson, " " " william jeffries, " " " isaac brownfield, " " " thos. mckean, " " " john brownfield, " " " john risler, " " " john dean, " " " james spears, " " " isaac nixon, " " " elias gilmore, " " " ephraim conway, " " " a. mcdowell, " - / " " mcclean & emberson, " " " c. rush, " " " john deford, quarry leave " " rich'd beeson, costs, com. vs. stockton " " s. d. skeen, in full for work " " thomas prentice, " " " james amos, " " " jno. hatzman, " " " william reynolds, " " " michael s. miller, " - / " " james watkins, " " " jos. m. sterling, " " " samuel rush, " " " hiram hanse, " " " thomas brown, " " " upton shaw, " " " john bennington, " " " william c. stevens, " - / " " hugh graham, work $ " " " " toll house " " james snyder, on account for work - / " " same in full " " charles kemp, jr., " " " i. & r. hill, " " " wm. h. graham, " - / " " george colley, " " " james marlow, " " " john bradfield, " , " " john m. claybaugh, " " " henry g. brown, " " " joseph dillon, " " " charles rush, " " " sam'l mcreynolds, " " " m. h. jones, " " " hiram hayney, " " " morris mauler, " - / " " huston todd, hauling stone ---------$ , the foregoing items of expenditures were contracts made by thompson mckean, esq., late commissioner, and paid on his certificate. cash paid adam speer, for work on road $ " " william d. beggs, do " " same do " " same salary for keeping gate no. " " james reynolds, work on road " " e. crable, do " " rush & mccollough, do " " e. h. showalter, on account of work on road " " n. bradley, " " " " " william milligan, " " " " " a. l. pentland, esq., costs, com. v. stockton " " wilson mccandless, esq., prof. services " " same " " " " r. p. flenniken, esq., " " - / " " john irons, for advertising " " upton shaw, work on road - / " " samuel mcreynolds, work on road " " samuel lazure, " " " " robert mcdowell " " john bradfield " " william reynolds " " john l. dawson, esq. - / " " nicholas bradley " " william condon, gate no. , salary " " george farney, for work on road - / " " john nelson, " " " " " jas. reynolds, gate no. , salary " " hiram seaton, gate no. , salary " " mccollough & rush, for work on road - / " " robert s. brown, " " - / " " anthony yarnell, " " " " sam'l dean, " " " " henry showalter, " " " " jackson brown, " " " " john h. deford, prof. services " " john risler, for stone total amount of expenditures on eastern division -----$ , - / western division, lying in washington county. to cash received from good intent stage co. $ , " " " moore & henderson " " " wm. r. cope " at gate no. , stephen phelps, col. , " " " no. , wm. hill , " " " no. , david guinea , " " " no. , in oct, , under r. quail " " " no. , sept. and oct., , r. quail " a fine collected by john freeman, esq. total amount received -----$ , by disbursements on western division, viz: cash paid egan & dickey, in full for work on road $ , " " john mcdonough, " " " - / " " john dickey, " " " - / " " henry murry, " " " " " same, alleged error in settlement " " morris pursell, in full for work on road " " bradley & morgan, " " " " " daniel ward, " " " " " brown & valentine, " " " " " david guinea, gate no. , salary " " wm. hill, gate no. -----$ the above items of expenditure were on contracts made by r. quail, late commissioner, and paid on his certificate. cash paid t. h. baird, esq., prof. services $ " " i. p. morgan, digging well " " joel lamborn, building chimney " " william craven, smith work " " j. t. rogen, powder " " amos griffith, pump " " a. j. harry, stove pipe " " robert bradley, in full work at well - / " " griffith taylor, wheelbarrow " " john mcmath, in full work on road " " john bausman, printing " " grayson & kaine, " " " h. winten, in full for work on road " " samuel adams, " " " " james p. morgan, " " " " j. worrell, on account " " same, in full " " j. mcguire, on account " " jacob shaffer, stove pipe " " robert sprowl, on account work on road " " thomas egan, in full " " henry murray, stone " " jacob stillwagon, on acct. stone " " anthony rentz, " " " " david andrews, work " " joseph miller, in full, stone " " john huston, work " " joseph t. rogers, powder " " isaac leet, prof. services " " william watkins, acct. stone " " stephen phelps, gate no. , salary " " robert bradley, work in full " " same on account " " william hill, gate no. , salary " " david guinea, gate no. , " " " on acct. book for superintendent " " counterfeit money received " " superintendent, for his services, per account filed, days at $ . per day " " auditors, for settling and stating this account, viz: h. langley $ j. k. wilson s. cunningham total expenditures on western division -----$ , - / recapitulation. dr. to amount received on the eastern division $ , to amount received on the western division , ------$ , cr. by cash paid out on the eastern division, per statement $ , - / by cash paid on the western division, per statement , - / ------$ , - / balance due wm. hopkins, esq., superintendent, on the th nov., $ - / the undersigned, auditors appointed by the court of common pleas for the county of washington, pennsylvania, on the th day of november, , to audit, settle and adjust the account of william hopkins, esq., commissioner of the cumberland road, having carefully examined the accounts submitted to them by said commissioner (a full statement of which is herewith presented), and having compared the vouchers with said account, do find that the said william hopkins, commissioner as aforesaid, has expended up to the th day of november, , the sum of twelve dollars and eighty-two / cents more than came into his hands, and that said sum of twelve dollars and eighty-two / cents was due to him on said day. in testimony whereof, we have hereto set our hands and seals the d day of january, a.d. . samuel cunningham, (seal) john k. wilson, (seal) _auditors._ henry langly, (seal) washington county, . the commonwealth of pennsylvania. i, john grayson, prothonotary of the court of common pleas for said county, certify that at a court of common pleas for the county aforesaid, held on the th day of november, anno domini , samuel cunningham, john k. wilson and henry langly were appointed by said court auditors to settle and adjust the account of william hopkins, esq., commissioner of the cumberland road, as appears of record in our said court. in testimony whereof, i have hereunto set my hand and affixed the seal of said court, the d day of january, . [seal] john grayson, _prothy._ account of william searight, _commissioner of the cumberland road in pennsylvania, from the st of may, , to the st of december, , inclusive._ to tolls received on the eastern division, viz: dr. to tolls received from thos. grier, gate no. $ , " " " " robert mcdowell, gate no. , " " " " james reynolds, gate no. , " " " " national road stage co , " " " " express co -------- total amount received on eastern division $ , to tolls received on the western division, viz: from david mitchell, gate no. $ , " wm. hill, " no. , " wm. mccleary, " no. , " good intent stage co , cash received from john s. brady, on account of quail's securities --------- $ , ---------- total receipts $ , cr. by cash paid thomas grier, collector at gate no. $ " " robt. mcdowell, " " " no. " " jas. reynolds, " " " no. " " dan'l kaine, for certifying auditors " " d. kaine, wm. p. wells and joseph gadd " " william jeffries " " geo. craft, costs " " thos. and robert brown " " wm. hager " " elias gilmore , " " george palmer " " william c. stevens " " peter kerney " " james dougan " " thomas brownfield , " " robert s. henderson " " john malone " " sam'l shipley, admr. of s. rush " " andrew bryson " " john mccalpin " " thomas mcgrath " " samuel harrah " " john bradfield , " " robert mcdowell , " " calvin perry " " wilson fee " " thomas d. miller " " james dolan " " upton shaw " " elijah crable " " samuel shipley " " matthew mcneil " " fall & herbertson " " james white " " jackson brown " " j. l. wylie & co " " byers & gregg " " william reynolds " " james marlow " " rudolph brinkman " " william spaw " " sebastian rush " " john mcdowell " " edward g. roddy " " isaac mclaughlin " " george w. cass " " john irons, printing " " samuel mcdonald, printing " " j. & g. s. gideon " " james veech, professional services " " r. p. flenniken " " " " edward kerven " " thomas hougan " " thomas dougan " " john powell " " george parmertor " " daniel cannon " " hugh graham " " morris whalen " " nicholas bradley " " perry white " " simon deal " " william mcclean " " james collins " " james mccartney " " anthony yarnell " " william conard " " thomas mccoy " " james reynolds " " john m. claybaugh " " robert mcdowell " " gadd & henderson , " " francis l. wilkinson " " kerney & redfern " " matthias fry depreciated money on hand balance due commissioner on former settlement , salary of commissioner, from may st, , to st of december, , being days at $ . per day , whole amount expended on eastern division -------$ , by the following sums expended on the western division. cr. by cash paid david mitchell, collector gate no. $ " " william hill, " " no. " " wm. mccleary, " " no. " " e. l. blaine, for use of patrick egan " " j. s. brady, on account of wm. paull " " william mccleary " " james denison " " henry masterson " " hiram freeman , " " charles kern " " thomas egan " " john mccollough " " robert sprowl , " " adam fishburn " " john robinson " " joseph lawson , " " patrick egan " " john bradley, admr. of r. bradley " " thomas hagerty " " john huston " " george irvin " " william hill " " william paull " " samuel rodgers " " michael monahan " " thomas finley " " john curry " " michael dougan " " mccollough & gilmore " " charles murphy " " charles stillwagon, " " jacob stillwagon " " jacob daugherty " " anthony rentz " " baldwin miller " " william pepper " " henry murry " " james thompson " " james hurley " " j. j. armstrong " " b. forester " " john mitchell " " mark m. passmore " " grayson & kaine, printing " " john bausman " " " richard biddle " " michael price " " william scott " " william hopkins " " e. l. blaine, costs " " thomas sprout " " john wheeler " " robert patrick " " cornelius daly " " james mcintyre " " william hastings " " jacob dixon " " michael bail " " keyran tolbert " " david butts " " james redman " " john gadd , " " thomas hagan " " james gainer " " john whitmire " " peter kerney depreciated money on hand whole amount expended on western division -------$ , whole amount expended on eastern division , --------- whole amount expended on both divisions $ , balance due commissioner, december , . $ , fayette county, ss. we, the undersigned, auditors appointed by the court of common pleas of fayette county for that purpose, having examined the accounts and vouchers relating to the receipts and expenditures of wm. searight, esq., superintendent of the cumberland road, from the st day of may, , to the st of december, , inclusive, have found the foregoing statement of the same to be correct and true. h. campbell, john huston, richard beeson. _auditors._ note.--gate no. was located at the east end of petersburg, gate no. was near mt. washington, gate no. was near searights, gate no. was near beallsville, gate no. was near washington, and gate no. near west alexander. rates of toll. the following were the rates of toll fixed by the act of april th, , which were subsequently, however, changed: for every score of sheep or hogs, six cents; for every score of cattle, twelve cents; for every led or driven horse, three cents; for every horse and rider, four cents; for every sleigh or sled, for each horse or pair of oxen drawing the same, three cents; for every dearborn, sulky, chair or chaise, with one horse, six cents; for every chariot, coach, coachee, stage, wagon, phaeton, chaise, with two horses and four wheels, twelve cents; for either of the carriages last mentioned with four horses, eighteen cents; for every other carriage of pleasure, under whatever name it may go, the like sum, according to the number of wheels and horses drawing the same; for every cart or wagon whose wheels shall exceed two and one-half inches in breadth, and not exceeding four inches, four cents; for every horse or pair of oxen drawing the same, and every other cart or wagon, whose wheels shall exceed four inches, and not exceeding five inches in breadth, three cents; for every horse or pair of oxen drawing the same, and for every other cart or wagon whose wheels shall exceed six inches, and not more than eight inches, two cents; for every horse or pair of oxen drawing the same, all other carts or wagons whose wheels shall exceed eight inches in breadth, shall pass the gates free of tolls, and no tolls shall be collected from any person or persons passing or repassing from one part of his farm to another, or to or from a mill, or to or from any place of public worship, funeral, militia training, elections, or from any student or child going to or from any school or seminary of learning, or from persons and witnesses going to and returning from courts, or from any wagon or carriage laden with the property of the united states, or any canon or military stores belonging to the united states, or to any state. the reader will note that the exemptions provided for by this act are changed by force of the act of may , , which authorized the commissioner and the court of quarter sessions to determine who and what shall be exempt from the payment of toll. a large wide board, having the appearance of a mock window, was firmly fixed in the walls of every toll house, displaying in plain letters the rates above given, so that the wayfarer might not err therein. mr. gallatin defines his attitude as to the location of the road, and gives instructions to david shriver, superintendent. when the road was authorized to be constructed by congress, mr. gallatin was secretary of the treasury, and a citizen of fayette county, pennsylvania. his home was "friendship hill," in springhill township, near new geneva, about fifteen miles south of uniontown, afterward the home of hon. john l. dawson. it was intimated in various quarters that mr. gallatin was desirous of having the road located through or near his place, and that he used his official influence to further his desire in this regard. the following letter, however, to his old friend david acheson, of washington, pennsylvania, shows that the intimations mentioned were without foundation: new york, september , . david acheson, esq., washington, pa. _dear sir_: on receipt of your letter respecting the western road, i immediately transmitted it to the president at monticello. i was under the impression that he had previously directed the commissioners to examine both routes and to report to him. it seems, however, that it had not then been yet done. but on the th ultimo he wrote to them to make an examination of the best route through washington to wheeling, and also to short creek, or any other point on the river offering a more advantageous route towards chillicothe and cincinnati, and to report to him the material facts with their opinion for consideration. that it is the sincere wish of the president to obtain all the necessary information in order that the road should pursue the route which will be of the greatest public utility no doubt can exist. so far as relates to myself, after having, with much difficulty, obtained the creation of a fund for opening a great western road, and the act pointing out its general direction, it is sufficiently evident from the spot on the monongahela which the road strikes, that if there was any subsequent interference on my part it was not of a selfish nature. but the fact is that in the execution of the law i thought myself an improper person, from the situation of my property, to take the direction which would naturally have been placed in my hands, and requested the president to undertake the general superintendence himself. accept the assurance of friendly remembrance, and of my sincere wishes for your welfare and happiness. your obedt servant, albert gallatin. * * * * * treasury department, march th, . _sir_: you will herewith receive the plot of the road as laid by the commissioners from the st mile to uniontown. i approve of having a stone bridge across little youghiogheny, and the measures necessary to secure masons should be adopted, but the site cannot be fixed until you have examined whether any alterations in the course be practicable. in that respect i beg leave to refer you to my former letters. as soon as your examination of the ground has taken place, and the alterations you may have found practicable shall have been received and approved, public notice may be given inviting proposals to contract for completing the road as far as big yioughiogheny river; an additional appropriation of $ , having been made by congress. you will therefore perceive that in every point of view your examination of the ground is the first object to attend to. i have the honor to be, respectfully, sir, your obt. servant, albert gallatin. d. shriver, jr., cumberland, md. * * * * * treasury department, april th, . _sir_: your letter of the d inst. has been duly received. the principal object in finally fixing the course of the road is its permanency and durability without the necessity of perpetual and expensive repairs. to select, therefore, the best ground which that mountainous country will afford, avoiding, as far as practicable, cutting along the side of steep and long hills, always exposed to be washed away, appears to be one of first importance. the other considerations, subordinate to the selection of the best ground, but to be also attended to, are, the expense of making the road, the shortness of the distance and the accommodation (by intersecting lateral roads) of important settlements not on the line of the road. as an erroneous location would be an irreparable evil, it is better that the contracts for the ensuing twenty miles should be delayed, than to make them before you have had time to take a complete view of the ground. examine it well before you decide and make your first report. this is more important because it is probable that i will be absent when that report is made, and that it will be decisive, as the acting secretary, to whom the subject will be new and the localities unknown, cannot have time to investigate it critically, and will probably adopt it on your responsibility. if a decisive advantage should arise from an alteration in the last sections already contracted for, and the contractors assent to it, you may, in your report, propose such an alteration. you are authorized for the purpose of facilitating your review of the road, without neglecting the duties of general superintendence, to employ john s. shriver, or some other able assistant, with a reasonable compensation. you have not stated what this should be, but it is presumed that you will not, in that respect, exceed what is necessary for obtaining the services of a well qualified person. you are authorized to draw for a further sum of twenty thousand dollars; whenever this is nearly exhausted you will apply for a new credit. with respect to details, they are left at your discretion. you are sensible of the great confidence placed in your abilities and integrity, and i am sure you will not disappoint our expectations. with perfect consideration and sincere wishes for your welfare, i have the honor to be, sir, your obedient servant, albert gallatin. * * * * * treasury department, april th, . _sir_: you are authorized to employ a surveyor to view the most proper road from brownsville to washington in pennsylvania, and thence to examine the routes to charlestown, steubenville, mouth of short creek and wheeling, and report a correct statement of distance and ground on each. if the county road as now established from brownsville to washington is not objectionable, it would be eligible to prefer it to any other which might be substituted. the surveyor thus employed will meet with every facility by applying to the gentlemen at washington who have this alteration in the western road much at heart. i am respectfully, sir, your obedient servant, albert gallatin. d. shriver, jr., cumberland, md. * * * * * treasury department, april rd, . _sir_: mr. cochran has signed his contract and bonds for the third and fourth sections of the road at the price agreed on, that is to say, at the rate of twenty-two dollars and fifty cents per rod for the third section, and of sixteen dollars and fifty cents per rod for the fourth section. i now enclose the contracts and bonds for the first and second sections; that for the first in the name of henry mckinley, and at the rate of twenty-one dollars and twenty-five cents per rod. the proposal of mr. reade was at the rate of thirteen dollars for a road covered with a stratum of stones twelve inches thick, all the stones to pass through a three-inch ring. he did not stay here or return here to complete the business and was not present when the road was altered to a stratum of stones fifteen inches thick. the same additional price, viz: one dollar and a half per rod, is allowed him for that alteration which was by agreement given to all the other contractors, making fourteen dollars and a half as set down in the contract, instead of thirteen. the contracts and bonds are in every respect (the names of sections and difference of price only excepted) verbatim the same as both those signed by mr. cochran, and they were as you will perceive all executed by me, and signed by the president. after they shall have been signed by the contractors respectively, they will each keep a copy of their own contracts, and you will return the other copy, together with the bond (both being signed by the contractors respectively) to this office. if either of the contractors should for any reason whatever refuse to sign the contract, you will return the same to this office, notify the person thus refusing that he is not considered as a contractor, forbid his doing any work, and immediately advertise in cumberland that you will receive proposals for making the section of the road thus not contracted for. you will afterward transmit the proposals which may accordingly be made. i also enclose a copy of the contracts for your own use in order that you may in every case be able to secure the additions agreed on. i have the honor to be with consideration, sir, your obedient servant, albert gallatin. the dates were the only blanks left in the contracts and bonds and must be filled at the time of signing, by the contractors. a. g. mr. david shriver, jr., cumberland, md. * * * * * treasury department, april th, . _sir_: your letter of the d inst. has been received. the president has confirmed the alteration in the first section of the road. it will be proper to have a short endorsement to that effect entered on the contract with mr. mckinley, and signed by him and yourself. you are authorized to contract for the bridges and mason work on the terms mentioned in your letter, with the exception of the bridges across clinton's fork of braddock's run, which may perhaps be avoided by the alteration which you contemplate, and which, if necessary, we may, perhaps, considering other expenses, be obliged to contract of cheaper materials. it is left to your discretion to contract for the other mason work as above stated, either with mr. kinkead or with the road contractors. if you shall find it necessary to employ a temporary assistant, you are authorized to do it, provided he shall be employed and paid only when actually necessary. i should think that one dollar and twenty-five, or at most, fifty cents, a day, would in that part of the country be ample compensation. respecting side walls no decisive opinion can be given until you shall have matured your ideas on the subject, and formed some estimate of the extent to which they must be adopted and of the expense. i have the honor to be respectfully, sir, your obedient servant, albert gallatin. mr. david shriver, jr., superintendent of the cumberland road, cumberland, md. letter from ebenezer finley. release, september , . hon. t. b. searight, _my much respected friend_: in our conversation the other day, i spoke from memory entirely, as i had no statistics from which to quote. your father bought the stone tavern house at searights from joseph frost. it was unfinished when your father bought it. i knew joseph frost, but have no recollection of the family he came from. your father was a single man, when he bought the house, but married shortly after. in relation to mr. stewart's and mr. benton's colloquy about the national road, mr. stewart said that "hay stacks and corn shocks would walk over it." mr. benton replied that "he could not conceive how hay stacks and corn shocks could walk over this bowling green road." "ah!" rejoined mr. stewart, "i do not expect to see them walk in the shape of stacks and shocks, but in the shape of fat cattle, hogs, horses and mules from the western and southern states." this was in a discussion in congress, over an appropriation bill for repairing the road. another conversation with you at some time, would be very much enjoyed by your unworthy scribbler. p. s. now, colonel, since writing the above, many things have come crowding on my memory, and i will mention some of the principal hotels with which i was more or less acquainted. i frequently traveled over the national road in my younger days. i went often to cumberland and occasionally to baltimore. i will begin at big crossings (somerfield). coming this way, thomas brown kept a tavern on the hillside. next daniel collier, then inks, and next widow tantlinger (boss rush's place). next james sampey at mt. washington, then several stopping places before reaching the stewart stone house, a hotel that was not largely patronized by travelers on the road. next the chalk hill house and then jimmy snyder's. next the first house to the left as you come to monroe, built by mr. deford. then several other hotels before you come to uniontown. in uniontown, the walker house (now feather's) was well patronized. then james seaton's and thomas brownfield's wagon stands. next the cuthbert wiggins wagon stand (later moxley's), and next the searight house. over the hill, next was a house kept by samuel woolverton and hugh thompson. then the robert johnson (later hatfield) stone house. next old peter colley, father of abel, solomon and john colley. then the bowman house, kept by john gribble, and next the brubaker house. then the first house to the left as you go into brownsville, kept by darra auld, and next the workman house. but i presume you have all these. respectfully, eb. finley. letter from thomas a. wiley, a native of uniontown, who rode the pony express. baltimore and ohio r. r. co., gen. ticket agent's office, baltimore, july , . t. b. searight, esq.--_dear sir_:--i have been receiving from some one the _jeffersonian democrat_, a paper published in my old favorite uniontown, and have read with great pleasure your publication of things that transpired along the national road. i knew a great many of the old wagoners, stage drivers and tavern keepers you mention. when i was working for the stage company the baltimore and ohio railroad was only completed to frederic, maryland, and i used to travel the old pike very often. i hope to be able to come once more to uniontown before i go hence, where nearly all the rest have gone, and would delight in a long talk with you about old times on the road. in looking over the paper you sent me i scarcely see any names that i used to know in uniontown. when last in uniontown i met william wilson, ewing brownfield and greenberry crossland, and did not get a chance to see my old friend and shop-mate, philip bogardus. he and i worked for the stockton stage company. the shops were on morgantown street. i understand that since i was out my old friend, bogardus, has passed away. i recollect the lady he married was a miss lincoln, and i also recollect his boy, winfield scott. i have been with the baltimore and ohio company since october th, , and am still in its service. again thanking you for the paper you sent me, i close, in the hope that god will bless you and spare your life and mine, that we may meet in old time-honored uniontown, and talk over the glories of the old pike. yours most respectfully, thomas a. wiley. proposals for carrying the mails. washington city, september , . we will agree to convey the mail on route no. , , from philadelphia to pittsburg, daily in four-horse post coaches, agreeable to advertisement, for the yearly compensation of seven thousand dollars. or we will make the following improvements: to convey two daily mails from philadelphia to pittsburg: first mail to leave philadelphia at two o'clock a. m. and arrive at pittsburg in two days and five hours, so as to arrive in pittsburg at seven o'clock a. m., and extend the route to wheeling so as to arrive, including route , , at wheeling the third day by nine o'clock p. m., from the first of april to first of december, and, from first of december to first of april, to pittsburg in three and wheeling in four days; and return from wheeling by washington, pittsburg, and chambersburg, to philadelphia within the same time; changing the mail as follows: at lancaster, harrisburg, chambersburg, bedford, somerset, mount pleasant, and at any other office that is or may be established on the route. the second mail to leave philadelphia at seven a. m., or immediately after the arrival of the new york mail, and reach pittsburg in three days and five hours, so as to arrive in pittsburg by noon, changing the mail at all way offices. we will agree to carry the mail on route no. , , from bedford to washington, pa., via white house, somerset, donegal, mount pleasant, mckean's, old stand, robbstown, gambles, and parkinson's ferry, to washington, pa., as advertised, for the yearly compensation of twenty-nine hundred dollars. we do agree to carry the mail on route no. , , from bedford, pa., to cumberland, md., three times a week in coaches, from the first of april to the first of october, and once a week on horseback from the first of october to the first of april, so as to connect with the winchester mail at cumberland, and the great eastern and western mail at bedford, which is much wanted during the summer season, for the yearly compensation of thirteen hundred dollars. james reeside, samuel r. slaymaker, j. tomlinson. to the hon. wm. t. barry, postmaster general. contract. this contract, made the fifteenth day of october, in the year one thousand eight hundred and thirty-one, between james reeside, of philadelphia, samuel r. slaymaker, of lancaster, and jesse tomlinson, of philadelphia, contractors for carrying the mail of the united states, of one part, and the postmaster general of the united states of the other part, witnesseth, that said parties have mutually covenanted as follows, viz.: the said contractors covenant with the postmaster general: to carry the mails from pittsburg to harriottsville, cannonsburg, washington, claysville, west alexander, and triadelphia, va., to wheeling and back, daily, in four-horse post coaches, the first mail to be changed at each county town through which it passes; the second mail at every office on the route; and to furnish armed guards for the whole, when required by the department, at the rate of six thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars for every quarter of a year, during the continuance of this contract; to be paid in drafts on postmasters on the route above mentioned, or in money, at the option of the postmaster general, in the months of may, august, november, and february. that the mails shall be duly delivered at, and taken from each postoffice now established, or that may be established on any post route embraced in this contract, under a penalty of ten dollars for each offence; and a like penalty shall be incurred for each ten minutes' delay in the delivery of the mail after the time fixed for its delivery at any postoffice specified in the schedule hereto annexed; and it is also agreed that the postmaster general may alter the times of arrival and departure fixed by said schedule, and alter the route (he making an adequate compensation for any extra expense which may be occasioned thereby); and the postmaster general reserves the right of annulling this contract, in case the contractors do not promptly adopt the alteration required. if the delay of the arrival of said mail continue until the hour for the departure of any connecting mail, whereby the mails destined for such connecting mails shall miss a trip, it shall be considered a whole trip lost, and a forfeiture of one hundred dollars shall be incurred; and a failure to take the mail, or to make the proper exchange of mails at connecting points, shall be considered a whole trip lost; and for any delay or failure equal to a trip lost, the postmaster general shall have full power to annul this contract. that the said contractors shall be answerable for the persons to whom they shall commit the care and transportation of the mail, and accountable for any damage which may be sustained through their unfaithfulness or want of care. that seven minutes after the delivery of the mail at any postoffice on the aforesaid route named on the annexed schedule, shall be allowed the postmaster for opening the same, and making up another mail to be forwarded. the contractors agree to discharge any driver or carrier of said mail whenever required to do so by the postmaster general. that when the said mail goes by stage, such stage shall be suitable for the comfortable accommodation of at least seven travelers; and the mail shall invariably be carried in a secure dry boot, under the driver's feet, or in the box which constitutes the driver's seat, under a penalty of fifty dollars for each omission; and when it is carried on horseback, or in a vehicle other than a stage, it shall be covered securely with an oil cloth or bear skin, against rain or snow, under a penalty of twenty dollars for each time the mail is wet, without such covering. _provided always_, that this contract shall be null and void in case the contractors or any person that may become interested in this contract, directly or indirectly, shall become a postmaster or an assistant postmaster. no member of congress shall be admitted to any share or part of this contract or agreement, or to any benefit to arise thereupon; and this contract shall, in all its parts, be subject to its terms and requisitions of an act of congress, passed on the st day of april, in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and eight, entitled, "an act concerning public contracts." and it is mutually covenanted and agreed by the said parties that this contract shall commence on the first day of january next, and continue in force until the thirty-first day of december, inclusively, which will be in the year one thousand eight hundred and thirty-five. _in witness whereof_, they have hereunto interchangeably set their hands and seals the day and year first above written. (signed.) james reeside. (seal.) sam'l r. slaymaker. (seal.) jesse tomlinson. (seal.) signed, sealed and delivered in the presence of rob't d. carson. jacob shearer. bond. _know all men by these presents_, that james reeside, as principal, and richard morris and david dorrance, as sureties, are held and firmly bound unto the postmaster general of the united states of america, in the just and full sum of two thousand nine hundred dollars, value received, to be paid unto the postmaster general or his successors in office, or to his or their assigns; to which payment, well and truly to be made, we bind ourselves, our heirs, executors, and administrators, jointly and severally, firmly by these presents. sealed with our seals, dated the seventeenth day of december, in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-one. the condition of this obligation is such that whereas the above bounden james reeside, by a certain contract bearing date the fifteenth day of october, in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-one, covenanted with the said postmaster general to carry the mail of the united states from bedford to washington (pennsylvania), as per contract annexed, commencing the first day of january, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-two, and ending the thirty-first day of december, which will be in the year one thousand eight hundred and thirty-five. now, if the said james reeside shall well and truly perform the covenants in the said indenture expressed on his part to be performed, and shall account for all penalties, and shall promptly repay all balances that may at any time be found due from him, then this bond is to be void; otherwise to remain in full force. (signed.) james reeside, (seal.) richard morris, (seal.) david dorrance, (seal.) signed, sealed and delivered in the presence of (signed.) r. c. whiteside. a true copy from the original on file in the general postoffice. mw. st. clair clarke, secretary. claim for extra allowance. washington city, december , . _sir_: for the four years which i have been your contractor for transporting the great eastern mail from new york to philadelphia, it has happened almost every week, and several times in a week, that arrivals from foreign countries have brought thousands of ship letters to the office of new york just before the time for my departure, and the importance of their being forwarded without delay to the southern cities has required my detention from one to two hours beyond the ordinary time for me to leave new york. this detention i have been required to gain in speed, and that increased speed has required me always to keep on that route two extra teams of horses, at an extra expense of not less than one thousand dollars per year for each team. during the first year your predecessor made me an extra allowance for this expense, but during the last three years i have received nothing for it. i now submit the subject to you, in the expectation that you will allow the claim; it is certainly but just that i should be relieved, at least in part, of this burden, for the last three years it has subjected me to an expense of not less than six thousand dollars, which i hope you will direct to be paid to me, at least in part, if you do not think me entitled to the whole. i have also, within the same time, transported to new york all the large mail bags which are made in philadelphia and sent to new york, not with mails, but to be used in new york, and to be sent from new york to other places. these within three years will amount to about five hundred pounds a week, as will appear from accounts of the manufacturers in your office. wherever i could procure transportation for those bags in wagons, i have uniformly paid $ . per hundred pounds for carrying them, rather than overload my coaches in which we carry the great mail. for this service, i hope you will not consider my claim unreasonable, if i charge ten dollars per week for three years. all of which is submitted to your sense of justice for decision. very respectfully, your obedient servant, james reeside. hon. wm. t. barry. endorsement--allowed. allow $ , . the residue of the claim is reserved for future consideration. allow the remaining $ , . couldn't afford to carry newspapers. washington, july , . _sir_: when we entered into contract with you to run two daily mails between philadelphia and pittsburg, one with unexampled rapidity, and the other in three and one-half days, we had no idea whatever of carrying the newspaper mail in our most rapid line, nor do we suppose it was ever contemplated by the department. it was our intention and we so expressed it in all our conversation with you, and with the superintendent of mail contracts, to carry the principal letter mail only in the most rapid line, not believing it practicable to carry the heavy load of newspapers sent to the west with sufficient rapidity to reach pittsburg in the shortest time specified. indeed, if we could have supposed that it would ever become necessary to carry the newspapers with that rapidity, we should not have undertaken it for less that fifteen thousand dollars a year beyond what we now receive; but experience soon taught us that great complaints were made against the department and ourselves when the newspapers were not received as soon as the letters, and that these complaints were not confined to pittsburg, but extended all over the west. to satisfy the public, and sustain the credit of both the department and ourselves as its servant, we made the experiment of trying to carry the newspapers with our most rapid line. we have partially succeeded, but with very great loss. for three days in the week we are compelled to exclude all passengers, to the loss of not less than one hundred dollars a day. we are willing to perform our contract to the full extent of its meaning, but we must relinquish carrying the newspaper mails by our most rapid line, unless we can in part be remunerated for it. if, however, the postmaster general is willing to silence the public clamor, which is so great when we carry them in our slow line, we will carry all the newspaper mails, together with the letter mail, in our most rapid line to pittsburg and wheeling, in the shortest time specified in our contract, and so arrange the connection of the baltimore mail at chambersburg with our swift line, as to carry the newspapers as well as letter mail, from baltimore to pittsburg in two days, for the additional allowance of ten thousand dollars per year, from the first of april last. the increased expense to us will not be less than fifteen thousand dollars a year, and for our own credit and for the credit of the department, we will make one-third of the sacrifice and perform the service for ten thousand dollars a year. we would gladly do it for a less sum if we could afford it, but we cannot, and at that rate our sacrifice will be as much as we can bear. it would be much more gratifying to us if the public would be satisfied without it, but they will not, and our own feelings will not suffer us to perform a service in which we cannot give satisfaction to the public. very respectfully, your obedient servants, jas. reeside, sam'l r. slaymaker. to the hon. w. t. barry, postmaster general. a true copy from the original on file in the general postoffice. (the above letter is marked "granted.") mw. st. clair clarke, secretary. mr. reeside defies all competitors. philadelphia, january , . _dear sir_: your favor dated the d inst. has just come to hand, which i have examined with much care, but must confess myself at a loss to come to the exact meaning it is extended to convey. that there is at present, and has been for some time back, an express carried on horseback between this city and new york, is a fact which is well known, and which is publicly acknowledged by the newspapers in new york. that it is impossible to carry the whole of the great eastern mail through in coaches or otherwise with the same speed as a small package can be carried through on horseback is a fact that requires no comment. not having pointed out this matter clearly in your letter whether it was the wish of the department that a certain portion of mails should be sent by express to new york at an earlier hour than it now does. should it be the latter, i would at once assure the department of the impossibility of having it carried through in as short a time as it is now carried by express on horseback. in either case the department may rest assured of my willingness and determination to use every exertion in order to meet the views and wishes of the department. should you desire it to be sent by express, i have no hesitation in saying that i can have it sent through in a shorter time than it can be done by any other individual in the country. this will be handed to you by mr. ewing, whom i have sent on with directions to ascertain from you personally your views of this matter, and who will give you all the information respecting the express that has been sent from this place to new york alluded to in your letter. with respect, your obedient servant, james reeside. n. b. i will say to a certainty i will go from this city to new york in six hours, or faster than any other one can do it. james reeside. to hon. o. b. brown, superintendent of mail contracts, washington, d. c. teams ready for the national road. trenton, february , . _dear sir_: you will perceive by the enclosed that i have attended to your directions as far as practicable. it is their own exposition of the matter, and such as they gave me. i neglected to mention to you in my letter of yesterday that the cause of the private express beating that of the government alluded to in mr. mumford's letter, was owing to but one cause. their express came through from washington. the government express from philadelphia, after the arrival of the steamship, giving the newspaper express the start of six hours in advance of that of the government. the lateness of the succeeding arrivals originated from the cause mentioned in the enclosed letter. no mail having arrived from the south, they supposed, from the lateness of the arrival of the express the following night, that there would not be any more. this was caused by the late arrival of the steamboat, and no preparation was made on the road for taking it on. this is their excuse; whether it will pass current is for you to determine. i have just received a letter from mr. washington on the subject. he attaches the blame to thompson's bad horse, &c. i think we shall be able to get the mail through in time to connect with the boat, should the roads not get worse than they now are. the mail arrived in philadelphia this morning at o'clock. i have good reasons for believing that it will continue, unless a change should take place in the roads. the mail has left jersey city the last few days at a few minutes past three o'clock p. m., and will continue to leave at that hour unless you direct otherwise: that is three o'clock. the teams intended for the national road are here to-night, and start to-morrow for the west; they are twelve in number, jersey stock. yours respectfully, d. ewing. colonel james reeside. p. s. no opposition express for the last four days. your express horses are in good order, with but two exceptions. d. e. copy of an account against col. james reeside. col. james reeside, to hutchinson & weart, _dr._ . january .--to one horse on express $ february . " two horses " " . " two horses " " . " two horses " " . " horses and gig, eastward, making arrangements for regular express march .--to two horses on express " . " running express one month and four days, from february to this date, inclusive, between trenton and new brunswick , -------- $ , the above is a true copy from our books, so far as relates to expresses, and has been paid to us by col. reeside. hutchinson & weart. bedford, pa., gets a daily mail. february , . _sir_: the citizens of bedford, pennsylvania, desire that a daily mail be run between bedford and hollidaysburg. the latter being a place of great importance, being at the junction of the pennsylvania canal and railroad, and an intercourse of communication very great between the two points, i will agree to perform the service for a pro rata allowance, and put the arrangement into effect in ten days. very respectfully, etc., james reeside. hon. w. t. barry, postmaster general. no. , pennsylvania. james reeside proposes to run daily for pro rata; postmaster general says within "granted;" james reeside written to th february, . transcriber's end notes several illustrations ("road wagon" and "stage coach") appear in the table of illustrations but do not have captions in the images themselves. these have been added. the table of illustrations indicates that a portrait of ellis b. woodward was to appear after p. , where he is mentioned. in fact, the portrait was bound between pages and . it has been placed in its intended position. in chapter xiv and in the appendix, accounting reports include balances carried over to the following page. since this text will not contain page breaks, these are superfluous, and they have been eliminated. the spelling of place names vary locally, e.g., allegany / allegheny. the word "phaeton" appears both with and without the "ae" ligature. in both cases, the spelling here is "phaeton". hyphenation can be variable and is retained as found. where the sole instance of a hyphenated word occurs on a line break, modern usage is followed. for chapters xxix, xxxii, the chapter summary fails to consistently use the conventional '--' separator between topics. these omissions have been corrected. the following list contains typographical or spelling errors which were noted, by the original pagination: ( ) excelerating, ( ) sapplings, ( ) ignominously, ( ) wood-be robber, ( ) gautemala, ( ) whatsomever, ( ) germaine, ( ) abram, ( ) from widow goodings, ( ) tennesse, ( ) mint julip, ( ) butting, ( ), beleagured, ( ) empanneled. punctuation and spacing errors have been corrected to follow usage elsewhere in the text. generously made available by the google books library project (https://books.google.com) note: images of the original pages are available through the google books library project. see https://books.google.com/books?id=gnj lvjclz c&hl=e jed, the poorhouse boy by horatio alger, jr. author of "ragged dick," "luck and pluck," "tattered tom," etc., etc. the john c. winston co. philadelphia chicago toronto copyright, , by henry t. coates & co. contents. chapter page i. jed, ii. mr. and mrs. fogson, iii. the scranton poorhouse, iv. an exciting contest, v. jed secures an ally, vi. mr. fogson makes up his mind, vii. fogson's mistake, viii. mr. fogson is astonished, ix. jed leaves the poorhouse, x. jed reaches duncan, xi. jed's first appearance on the stage, xii. percy dixon is bewildered, xiii. fogson in pursuit, xiv. jed's luck, xv. two old acquaintances, xvi. miss holbrook, spinster, xvii. jed meets an old acquaintance, xviii. mr. fogson receives a letter, xix. discharged, xx. jed's poor prospects, xxi. jed arrives in new york, xxii. jed makes two calls, xxiii. jed's bad luck, xxiv. a startling discovery, xxv. without a penny, xxvi. in search of employment, xxvii. an intractable agent, xxviii. a strange commission, xxix. a surprise party, xxx. jed entertains an old acquaintance, xxxi. jed returns good for evil, xxxii. at bar harbor, xxxiii. the poorhouse receives two visitors, xxxiv. the detective, xxxv. mrs. avery's story, xxxvi. "who was jed?" xxxvii. jane gilman, xxxviii. the detective secures an ally, xxxix. jed learns who he is, xl. guy fenwick's defeat, xli. conclusion, jed, the poorhouse boy. chapter i. jed. "here, you jed!" jed paused in his work with his axe suspended above him, for he was splitting wood. he turned his face toward the side door at which stood a woman, thin and sharp-visaged, and asked: "well, what's wanted?" "none of your impudence, you young rascal! come here, i say!" jed laid down the axe and walked slowly to the back door. he was a strongly-made and well-knit boy of nearly sixteen, but he was poorly dressed in an old tennis shirt and a pair of overalls. yet his face was attractive, and an observer skilled in physiognomy would have read in it signs of a strong character, a warm and grateful disposition, and a resolute will. "i have not been impudent, mrs. fogson," he said quietly. "don't you dare to contradict me!" snapped the woman, stamping her foot. "what's wanted?" asked jed again. "go down to the gate and hold it open. squire dixon will be here in five minutes, and we must treat him with respect, for he is overseer of the poor." jed smiled to himself (it was well he did not betray his amusement), for he knew that mrs. fogson and her husband, though tyrannical to the inmates of the poorhouse, of which they had been placed in charge by squire dixon three months before, were almost servile in the presence of the overseer of the poor, with whom it was their object to stand well. "all right, ma'am!" he said bluntly, and started for the gate. he did not appear to move fast enough for the amiable mrs. fogson, for she called out in a sharp voice: "why do you walk like a snail? hurry up, i tell you. i see squire dixon coming up the road." "i shall get to the gate before he does," announced jed, independently, not increasing his pace a particle. "i hate that boy!" soliloquized mrs. fogson, looking after him with a frown. "he is the most independent young rascal i ever came across--he actually disobeys and defies me. i must get fogson to give him a horse-whipping some of these fine days; and when he does, i'm going to be there and see it done!" she continued, her black eyes twinkling viciously. "every blow he received would do me good. i'd gloat over it! i'd flog him myself if i was strong enough." the amiable character of mrs. fogson may be inferred from this gentle soliloquy. when fogson married her he caught a tartar, as he found to his cost. but he was not so much to be pitied, for his own disposition was not unlike that of his wife, but he lacked her courage and intense malignity, and was a craven at heart. as jed walked to the gate his face became grave and almost melancholy. "i can't stand this kind of life long!" he said to himself. "mrs. fogson is about the ugliest-tempered woman i ever knew, and her husband isn't much better. what a contrast to mr. avery and his good wife! when they kept the poorhouse we were all happy and contented. they had a kind word for all. but when squire dixon became overseer he put in the fogsons, and since then we haven't heard a kind word or had a happy day." just then squire dixon's top buggy neared the gate. he was a pompous-looking man with a bald head and red face, the color, as was well known, being imparted by too frequent potations of brandy. with him was his only son and heir, percy dixon, a boy who "put on airs," and was, in consequence, heartily detested by his schoolmates and companions. he had small, mean features and a pair of gray eyes, while his nose had an upward tendency, as if he were turning it up at the world in general. jed held the gate open in silence and the top buggy passed through. then he slowly closed the gate and walked up to the house. there stood mrs. fogson, her thin lips wreathed in smiles, as she ducked her head obsequiously to the town magnate. "how do you do, squire dixon?" she said. "it does me good to see you. but i needn't ask for your health, you look so fine and noble this morning." squire dixon was far from being inaccessible to flattery. "i am very well, i thank you, my good friend, mrs. fogson," he said in a stately tone, with a gracious smile upon his florid countenance. "and how are you yourself?" "as well as i can be, squire, thanking you for asking, but them paupers is trials, as i daily discover." "nothing new in the way of trouble, i hope, mrs. fogson?" "well, no; but walk in and i'll send for my husband. he would never forgive me if i didn't send for him when you were here. master percy, forgive me for not speaking to you before. i hear such good accounts of you from everybody. your father is indeed fortunate to have such a son." percy raised his eyebrows a little. even he was aware of his unpopularity, and he wondered who had been speaking so well of him. "i'm all right!" he answered curtly. squire dixon, too, though he overestimated percy, who was popularly regarded as a chip of the old block, was at a loss to know why he should be proud of him. still it was pleasing to have one so near to him complimented. "you are kind to speak of percy in that way," he said. "he's so like you, the dear boy!" murmured mrs. fogson. this might be a compliment, but as percy stood low in his studies and frequently quarreled with his school companions, squire dixon hardly knew whether to feel flattered. percy looked rather disgusted to be called a "dear boy" by a woman whom he regarded as so much his social inferior as mrs. fogson, but it was difficult to resent so complimentary a speech, and he remained silent. he looked scornfully about the plainly-furnished room, and reflected that it would be pleasanter out of doors. "i guess i'll go out in the yard," he said abruptly. "would you be kind enough in that case, master percy, to tell the boy jed to go and call my husband from the three-acre lot? he is at work there." "yes, mrs. fogson, i'll tell him." percy left the room and walked up to where jed was splitting wood. "go and call mr. fogson from the three-acre lot!" he said peremptorily. jed paused in his work. "who says so?" he inquired. "i say so!" "then i shan't go. you are not my boss." "you are an impudent boy." "why am i?" "you have no business to talk back to me. you'd better go after mr. fogson, if you know what's best for yourself." "did mrs. fogson send the message by you?" "yes." "then i will go. why didn't you tell me that before?" "because it was enough that i told you. my father's the overseer of the poor." "i am aware of that." "and he put the fogsons where they are." "then i wish he hadn't. we had a good time when mr. avery was here. now all is changed." "so you don't like mr. and mrs. fogson?" asked percy curiously. "no, i don't. but i must be going to the lot to call mr. fogson." "i'll go with you. i don't want to be left alone." jed ought doubtless to have felt complimented at this offer of company from his high-toned visitor, but he did not appear to be overwhelmed by it. "you can go along if you like," he said. "of course i can. i don't need to ask permission of you." "certainly not. no offense was meant." "it is well for you that there isn't. so you liked mr. and mrs. avery better than the fogsons?" "yes," answered jed guardedly, for he understood now that percy wanted to "pump" him. "why?" "because they treated me better." "my father thinks well of the fogsons. he says that old avery pampered the paupers and almost spoiled them." "i won't argue the question. i only know that we all liked mr. and mrs. avery. now it's scold, scold, scold all day and every day, and we don't live nearly as well as we did." "paupers mustn't expect to live as well as at a first-class hotel!" said percy sarcastically. "they certainly don't live like that here." "and they won't while my father is overseer. he says he's going to put a stop to their being pampered at the town's expense. you live well enough now." "if you think we live so well, i wish you would come and board here for a week." "_me_--board at a poorhouse!" ejaculated percy in intense disgust. "you are very kind, but i shouldn't like it." "i don't think you would." "all the same, you ought to be grateful for such a good home." "it may be a good home, but i shan't stay here long." "you shan't stay here long?" exclaimed percy in amazement. "do you mean to tell me you are going to run away?" "i haven't formed any plans yet." "i'll tell my father, and he'll put a spoke in your wheel. what do you expect to do if you leave? you haven't got any money?" "no." "then don't make a fool of yourself." jed did not reply, for they had reached the fence that bounded the three-acre lot, and mr. fogson had discovered their approach. chapter ii. mr. and mrs. fogson. mr. fogson was about as unpleasant-looking as his wife, but was not so thin. he had stiff red hair with a tendency to stand up straight, a blotched complexion, and red eyes, corresponding very well with the color of his hair. he was quite as cross as his wife, but she was more venomous and malicious. like her he was disposed to fawn upon squire dixon, the overseer of the poor, with whom he knew it was necessary to stand well. had jed come alone he might have met with a disagreeable reception; but mr. fogson's quick eye recognized in his companion the son of the poorhouse autocrat, squire dixon, and he summoned up an ingratiating smile on his rugged features. "how are you, master percy?" he said smoothly. "did your pa come with you?" "yes, he's over to the house. mrs. fogson wants you to go right home, as he may want to see you." "all right! it will give me pleasure. it always does me good to see your pa." percy looked at him critically, and thought that mr. fogson was about as homely a man as he had ever seen. it was fortunate that the keeper of the poorhouse could not read his thoughts, for, like most ugly men, mr. fogson thought himself on the whole rather prepossessing. fogson took his place beside percy, and curtly desired jed to walk behind. jed smiled to himself, for he understood that mr. fogson considered him not entitled to a place in such superior company. mr. fogson addressed several questions to percy, which the latter answered languidly, as if he considered it rather a bore to be entertained by a man in fogson's position. indeed he almost snubbed him, and jed was pleased to find the man who made so many unpleasant speeches to others treated in the same manner himself. as a general thing, a man who bullies others has to take his turn in being bullied himself. meanwhile mrs. fogson was chatting with squire dixon. "nobody can tell what i have to put up with from them paupers," she said. "you'd actilly think they paid their board by the way they talk. the fact is, the averys pampered and indulged them altogether too much." "that is so, mrs. fogson," said the squire pompously, "and that, i may remark, was the reason i dismissed them from their responsible position. do they--ahem!--complain of anything in particular?" "why, they want butter every day!" exclaimed mrs. fogson. "think of it! butter every day for paupers!" "as you justly observe, this is very unreasonable. and how often do you give them butter?" "once a week--on sundays." "very judicious. it impresses them with the difference between sunday and other days. it shows your religious training, mrs. fogson." "i always aim to be religious, squire dixon," said mrs. fogson meekly. "well, and what else?" "likewise the old people expect tea every day. they say mrs. avery gave it to them." "i dare say she did. it's an imposition on the town to spend their--ahem!--hard-earned money on such luxuries." "that's the way i look at it, squire dixon." "how often do you give them meat?" "every other day. i get the cheapest cuts from the butcher--what he has left over. but they ain't satisfied. they want it every day." "shocking!" exclaimed the squire, arching his brows. "so i say. of course i get a good many sour looks, and more complaints, but i tell 'em that if they ain't suited with their boarding-house they can go somewhere else." "very good! very good indeed; ha, ha! i presume none of them have left the poorhouse in consequence?" "no, but one has threatened to do so." "who is that?" asked squire dixon quickly. "the boy jed." "oh, yes, he was the one who opened the gate for me. now, what sort of a boy is he, mrs. fogson?" "he's an impudent young jackanapes," answered mrs. fogson spitefully, "begging your pardon for using such an inelegant expression." "it is forcible, however, mrs. fogson. it is forcible, and i think you are quite justified in using it. so he is impudent?" "yes; you'd think, by the airs he puts on, that he owned the poorhouse, instead of being a miserable pauper. why, i venture to say he considers himself the equal of your son, master percy." "no, no, mrs. fogson, that is a little too strong. he couldn't be so absurd as that." "i am not so sure of that, squire dixon. there is no end to that boy's impudence and--and uppishness. why, he said the other day that the meat wasn't fit for the hogs." "and was it, mrs. fogson?" asked the squire in an absent-minded way. "to be sure, squire, though i must admit that it was a trifle touched, being warm weather; but paupers can't expect first-class hotel fare--can they, now, squire?" "to be sure not." "then, again, jed is always praising up mr. and mrs. avery, which, as you can imagine, isn't very pleasant for mr. fogson and me. i expect he was mr. avery's pet, from all i hear." "very likely he was. he was brought to the poorhouse when a mere baby, and they took care of him from his infancy. i've heard mrs. avery say she looked upon him as if he were her own child." "and that is why she pampered him--at the town's expense." "as you truly observe, at the town's expense. i am sure you and mr. fogson will feel it your duty to make the poorhouse as inexpensive as possible to the town, bearing in mind the great responsibility that has devolved upon you." "of course, squire, me and fogson bear that in mind, but we ain't paid any too well for our hard labor." "that reminds me, mrs. fogson, another month has rolled by, and----" "i understand, squire," said mrs. fogson. "i have got it all ready," and she drew a sealed envelope out of her pocket and passed it to the squire, who pocketed it with a deprecatory cough. his face brightened up, for he knew what the envelope contained. "you can depend on me to use my official influence in your favor, mrs. fogson," he said cheerfully. "as long as you show a proper appreciation of my service in giving you the place, i will stand by you." squire dixon was a rich man. he was paid by the town for his services as overseer, yet he was not above accepting five dollars a month from the man he had installed in office. he had never distinctly asked for it, but he had hinted in a manner not to be mistaken that it would be politic for mr. fogson to allow him a percentage on their salary and profits. they got the money back, and more, for in auditing their accounts he did not scrutinize too closely the prices they claimed to have paid for supplies. it was an arrangement mutually advantageous, which had never occurred to mr. and mrs. avery, who in their scrupulous honesty were altogether behind the times, according to the squire's thinking. "and how many paupers have you in the house at present, mrs. fogson?" asked the overseer. "nineteen, squire. would you like to look at them?" "well, perhaps in my official capacity it would be as well." "come in here, then," and mrs. fogson led the way into a large room where sat the paupers, a forlorn, unhappy-looking company. two of the old ladies were knitting; one young woman, who had lost her child, and with it her mind, was fondling a rag baby; two were braiding a rag carpet, and others were sitting with vacant faces, looking as if life had no attraction for them. "will you address them, squire?" asked mrs. fogson. "ahem!" said the squire, straightening up and looking around him with the air of a benignant father. "i will say a few words." "attention all!" exclaimed mrs. fogson in a sharp voice. "squire dixon has consented to make a few remarks. i hope you will appreciate your privilege in hearing him." chapter iii. the scranton poorhouse. "ahem!" began squire dixon, clearing his throat; "the announcement of my friend mrs. fogson furnishes me with a text. i hope you all appreciate your privileges in sharing this comfortable home at the expense of the town. here all your material wants are cared for, and though you are without means, you need have no anxiety. a well-filled board is spread for you three times a day, and you enjoy the maternal care of mrs. fogson." here there was a shrill laugh from one of the old women. squire dixon frowned, and mrs. fogson looked anything but maternal as she scowled at the offending "boarder." "i am surprised at this unseemly interruption," said squire dixon severely. "i am constrained to believe that there is at least one person present who does not appreciate the privileges of this happy home. you are probably all aware that i am the overseer of the poor, and that it was through my agency that the services of mr. and mrs. fogson were obtained." here it would have been in order for some one to propose "three cheers for mr. and mrs. fogson," but instead all looked gloomy and depressed. "i don't know that i have any more to say," concluded squire dixon after a pause. "i will only exhort you to do your duty in the position in which providence has placed you, and to give as little trouble as possible to your good friends mr. and mrs. fogson." here there was another cackling laugh, which caused mrs. fogson to look angry. "i'm on to you, sally stokes," she said sharply. "you'll have to go without your supper to-night." the poor, half-witted creature immediately burst into tears, and rocked to and fro in a dismal manner. "you have done perfectly right in rebuking such unseemly behavior, mrs. fogson," said squire dixon. "i didn't mind the insult to myself, squire," returned mrs. fogson meekly. "it made me angry to have you insulted while you were making your interesting remarks. the paupers are very ill-behaved; i give you my word that i slave for them from morning till night, and you see how i am repaid." "mrs. fogson, virtue is its own reward," observed the squire solemnly. "it has to be in my case," said mrs. fogson; "but it comforts me to think that you at least appreciate my efforts." "i do; i do, indeed! you can always rely upon me to--to--in a word, to back you up." here a diversion was made by the appearance of mr. fogson and the two boys. "oh, simeon!" exclaimed mrs. fogson impulsively. "you don't know what you have lost." mr. fogson mechanically glanced at his vest to see whether his watch-chain and the watch appended were gone. "what have i lost?" he demanded. "squire dixon's interesting speech to the paupers. it was truly eloquent." "my dear mrs. fogson," said the squire, looking modest, "you quite overrate my simple words." "they were simple, but they were to the point," said the lady of the poorhouse, "and i hope--i do hope that the paupers will lay them to heart." there was an amused smile on the face of jed, who was sharp enough to see through the shallow humbug which was being enacted before him. he understood very well the interested motives of mrs. fogson, and why she saw fit to flatter the town official from whom she and her husband had received their appointment. "i wish you had heard the squire, too, jed!" said mrs. fogson, detecting the smile on the boy's face. "perhaps, ma'am, you can tell me what he said," returned jed demurely. mrs. fogson was a little taken aback, but she accepted the invitation. "he said you ought to consider yourself very lucky to have such a comfortable home." "i do," said jed with a comical look. "i am glad to hear it," said mrs. fogson, suspiciously, "though it hasn't always looked that way, i am bound to say." "are you going to stay much longer, father?" asked percy, who was getting tired. "perhaps we had better go," said squire dixon. "we have staid quite a while." "when do you have dinner?" asked percy, turning to jed. "in about an hour. i have no doubt mrs. fogson will invite you, if you would like to stay." "_me_--eat with paupers?" retorted percy with fine scorn. "i don't think you would like it," said jed. "i don't." "why, you are a pauper yourself." "i don't think so. i earn my living, such as it is. i work from morning till night." "what do they give you for dinner?" asked percy, moved by curiosity. "mrs. fogson puts a bone in the boiler and makes bone soup," answered jed gravely. "you can't tell how good it is till you try it." "is there anything else?" "a few soggy potatoes, and some stale bread without butter." "don't you have tea?" "once on sundays. it don't do to pamper us, you know." "do you have puddings or pies?" "no; the town can't afford it," returned jed without a smile. "what do you think of our bill of fare?" "pretty mean, i think. do mr. and mrs. fogson eat with you?" "no; they eat later, in the small room adjoining." "do they have the same dinner as you?" "sometimes they have roast chicken, and the other day when i went into the room there was a plum pudding on the table." percy laughed. "just what i thought. the old man and old woman aren't going to get left." "i don't know about that." "what do you mean?" "i'll explain another time," said jed, nodding. "i wish i was overseer of the poor." "what would you do?" "i'd turn out the fogsons and put back mr. and mrs. avery." "father says they spoiled the paupers." "at any rate they didn't starve them." "old fogson is saving money to the town--so father says." "wait till the end of the year. you'll find the town will have just as much to pay. what they save off the food they will put into their own pockets." "what are you talking about?" asked mrs. fogson suspiciously. jed did not have to reply, for percy took offense at what he rightly judged to be a piece of impertinence. "mrs. fogson," he said, "what we are talking about is no concern of yours." a bright red spot showed itself in either cheek of mrs. fogson, and she would have annihilated the speaker if she could; but she was politic, and remembered that percy was the son of the overseer. "i didn't mean any offense, master percy," she said. "it was simply a playful remark on my part." "i'm glad to hear it," responded percy. "you didn't look very playful." squire dixon was conversing with mr. fogson, and didn't hear this little conversation. "i am just digging my potatoes," said fogson deferentially. "i have some excellent jackson whites. i will send you round a bushel to try." "you are very kind, mr. fogson," said the squire, smiling urbanely. "i shall appreciate them, you may be sure. mr. avery never would have made me such an offer. it is clear to me that you are the right man in the right place." "i am proud to hear you say so, squire dixon. with such an overseer of the poor as you are, i am sure the interests of the town will be safe." "thank you! good-by." "come again soon, squire," said mrs. fogson with a frosty smile. she did not extend a similar invitation to percy, who had wounded her pride by his unceremonious words. "they are very worthy people, percy," said the squire as they rode away. "do you think so, father? i don't admire your taste." "my son, i am surprised at you," but in his secret heart the squire agreed with percy. soon after squire dixon and percy left the poorhouse dinner was served. it answered very well the description given by jed. though the boy was hungry, he found it almost impossible to eat his portion, scanty though it was. "turning up your nose at your dinner as usual!" said mrs. fogson sharply. "if you don't like it you can get another boarding-house." "i think i shall," answered jed. "what do you mean by that?" demanded mrs. fogson quickly. "if the board doesn't improve i shall dry up and blow away," returned jed. mrs. fogson sniffed and let the matter drop. towards the close of the afternoon, as jed was splitting wood in the yard, his attention was drawn to a runaway horse which was speeding down the road at breakneck speed, while a lady's terrified face was visible looking vainly around in search of help. jed dropped his axe, ran to the bend of the road, and dashed out, waving a branch which he picked up by the roadside. the horse slowed down, and jed, seizing the opportunity, ran to his head, seized him by the bridle, and brought him to a permanent stop. "how brave you are!" said the lady. "will you jump into the buggy and drive me to my home? i don't dare to trust myself alone with the horse again." jed did as desired, and at the end of the ride mrs. redmond (she was the wife of dr. redmond) gave him a dollar, accompanying it with hearty thanks. "i suppose fogson will try to get this dollar away from me," thought jed, "but he won't succeed." chapter iv. an exciting contest. jed was not mistaken. when he returned to the poorhouse supper was ready, and mr. and mrs. fogson were waiting for him with sour and angry faces. "where have you been?" demanded fogson. "absent on business," announced jed coolly. "don't you know that your business is to stay here and work?" "i have been working all day." "no, you haven't. you have been to the village." "i had a good reason for going." "why didn't you ask permission of me or mrs. fogson?" "because there wasn't time." "you are two minutes late for supper. i've a good mind to let you go without," said mrs. fogson. "it wouldn't be much of a loss," answered jed, not looking much alarmed. "you are getting more and more impudent every day. why do you say there wasn't time to ask permission to leave your work?" "because the runaway horse wouldn't stop while i was asking." "what runaway horse?" demanded fogson with sudden interest. "while i was splitting wood i saw dr. redmond's wife being run away with. she looked awfully frightened. i ran out to the bend and stopped the horse. then she wanted me to drive her home, for she was afraid he would run off again." "is that so? well, of course that makes a difference. did she give you anything?" "now it's coming," thought jed. "yes," he answered. "how much?" asked mr. fogson with a greedy look. "a dollar." "quite handsome, on my word. well, hand it over." "what?" ejaculated jed. "give me the dollar!" said fogson in a peremptory tone. "the dollar is mine." "you are a pauper. you can't hold any property. it's against the law." "is it? who told you so?" "no matter who told me so. i hope i understand the law." "i hope i understand my rights." "boy, this is trifling. you'd better not make me any trouble, or you will find yourself in a bad box." "what do you want to do with the dollar?" "none of your business! i shall keep it." "i have no doubt you will if you get it, but it is mine," said jed firmly. "mrs. fogson," said her husband solemnly, "did you ever hear of such perverseness?" "no. the boy is about the worst i ever see." "mr. fogson," said jed, "when mr. avery was here i had money given me several times, though never as much as this. he never thought of asking me for it, but always allowed me to spend it for myself." "mr. avery and i are two different persons," remarked mr. fogson with asperity. "you are right, there," said jed, in hearty concurrence with the speaker. "and he was very unwise to let you keep the money. if it was five cents, now, i wouldn't mind," continued mr. fogson with noteworthy liberality. "but a dollar! you couldn't be trusted to spend a sum like that properly at your age." "i am almost sixteen," said jed significantly. "no matter if you are. you are still a mere boy. but i don't propose to waste any more words. hand over that money!" jed felt that the critical moment had come. he must submit to a flagrant piece of injustice or resist. he determined to resist. he met fogson's glance firmly and resolutely, and uttered but two words: "i won't!" "did you ever hear such impudence, mrs. fogson?" asked her husband, his face becoming red and mottled in his excitement. "no, simeon, i didn't!" ejaculated mrs. fogson. "what shall i do?" "thrash him. it's the only way to cure him of his cantankerous conduct." jed was of good height for his age, and unusually thickset and strong. though poorhouse fare was hardly calculated to give him strength, he had an intimate friend and school companion on a farm near by whose mother often gave him a substantial meal, so that he alone of the inmates of the poorhouse could afford to be comparatively indifferent to the mean table kept by the managers. jed was five feet six, and simeon fogson but two inches taller. fogson, however, was not a well man. he was a dyspeptic, and frequently indulged in alcoholic drinks, which, as my young readers doubtless know, have a direct tendency to impair physical vigor. "get me the whip, gloriana," said mr. fogson fiercely, addressing his wife by her rather uncommon first name. "i will see whether this young upstart is to rule you and me and the whole establishment." "i don't care about ruling anybody except myself," said jed. "you can't rule yourself. i am put in authority over you." "who put you in authority over me?" asked jed defiantly. "the town." "and did the town give you leave to rob me? answer me that!" "did you ever hear the like?" exclaimed mrs. fogson, raising her arms in almost incredulous surprise. by this time mr. fogson had the whip in his hand, and with an air of enjoyment drew the lash through his fingers. "take off your coat!" he said. "i would rather keep it on," replied jed undauntedly. "it won't do you any good. i shall strike hard enough for you to feel it even if you had two coats on." "you'd better not!" said jed, eyeing mr. fogson warily. "are you going to stand the boy's impudence, simeon?" demanded his wife sharply. "no, i'm not;" and simeon fogson, flourishing the whip, brought it down on jed's shoulders and back. then something happened which took the poorhouse superintendent by surprise. jed sprang toward him, and, grasping the whip with energy, tore it from his grasp, and with angry and inflamed face confronted his persecutor. mr. fogson turned pale, and looked undecided what to do. "shall i hold him, simeon?" asked his wife venomously. "no; i'm a match for a half-grown boy like him," returned fogson, ashamed to ask for help in so unequal a contest. he sprang forward and grabbed jed, who accepted the gage of battle and clinched with his adversary. a moment afterward they were rolling on the floor, first one being uppermost, then the other. chapter v. jed secures an ally. it was trying to mrs. fogson to see her husband apparently getting the worst of it from "that young viper," as she mentally apostrophized jed, and she longed to take a part, notwithstanding her husband's refusal to accept her assistance. a bright but malicious idea struck her. she seized a tin dipper and filled it half full from the tea-kettle, the water in which was almost scalding. then she seized an opportunity to empty it over jed. but unfortunately for the success of her amiable plan, by the time she was ready to pour it out it was mr. fogson who was exposed, and he received the whole of the water on his neck and shoulder. "help! help! murder!" he shrieked in anguish. "you have scalded me, you--you she cat!" as he spoke he released his hold on jed, who sprang to his feet and stood watching for the next movement of the enemy. "did i scald you, simeon?" asked mrs. fogson in dismay. "yes; i am almost dead. get some flour and sweet oil--quick!" "i didn't mean to," said his wife repentantly. "i meant it for that boy." "you're an idiot!" roared fogson, stamping his foot. "go and get the oil--quick!" mrs. fogson, much frightened, hurried to obey orders, and the next fifteen minutes were spent in allaying the anguish of her lord and master, who made it very unpleasant for her by his bitter complaints and upbraidings. "i think i'd better get out of this," thought jed. "the old woman will be trying to scald me next." he disappeared through the side door, leaving the amiable couple busily but not pleasantly employed. he had scarcely left the house when dr. redmond drove up, his errand being to see one of the inmates of the poorhouse. "how are you, jed?" he said pleasantly. "my wife tells me you did her a great service to-day?" "i was glad to do it, doctor," said jed. "here's a dollar. i am sure you can use it." "but, doctor, mrs. redmond gave me a dollar." "never mind! you can use both." "thank you," said jed. "you'd better go right in, doctor; mrs. fogson has just scalded her husband, and he is in great pain." "how did it happen?" asked the doctor in amazement. "go in and they'll tell you," said jed. "i'll see you afterwards and tell you whether their story is correct." when mr. and mrs. fogson saw the doctor enter they were overjoyed. "oh, dr. redmond," groaned fogson, "do something to relieve me quick. i'm in terrible pain." "what's the matter?" asked dr. redmond. "i am scalded." "how did it happen?" "_she_ did it!" said fogson, pointing scornfully to mrs. fogson. dr. redmond set himself at once to relieve the suffering one, making use of the remedies that fogson himself had suggested to his wife. when the patient was more comfortable he turned gravely to mrs. fogson and asked: "will you explain how your husband got scalded?" "the woman poured hot water on me," interrupted fogson with an ugly scowl. "it would serve her right if i treated her in the same manner." "you don't mean that she did it on purpose, mr. fogson?" exclaimed the doctor. "of course i didn't," retorted mrs. fogson indignantly. "i meant it for jed." "you meant to scald jed?" said the doctor sternly. "yes; he assaulted my husband, and i feared he would kill him. it was all the way i could help." "mrs. fogson, i can hardly believe you would be guilty of such an atrocious act even on your own confession, nor can i believe that jed would assault your husband without good cause." "it is true, whether you believe it or not," said mrs. fogson sullenly. dr. redmond's answer was to open the outer door and call "jed!" jed entered at once, and stood in the presence of his persecutors, calm and undisturbed. "jed," said the doctor, "mrs. fogson admits that she scalded her husband in trying to scald you, and urges, in defense, that you assaulted mr. fogson. what do you say to this?" "that mr. fogson struck me over the shoulder with a horsewhip, and that i pulled it away from him. upon this he sprang at me, and in self-defense i grappled with him, and while we were rolling over the floor mrs. fogson poured a dipper of hot water over her husband, meaning it for me." "is this true, mr. fogson?" asked the doctor. "yes, it's about so. mrs. fogson acted like an idiot." "if she had scalded jed instead of you, would you say the same thing?" "well, of course that would have been different." "i can see no difference," said dr. redmond sternly. "it was not an idiotic, but a brutal and inhuman act." "come, doctor, that's rather strong," protested fogson uncomfortably. "it is not too strong! i don't think there is a person in the village but would agree with me. had the victim of the scalding been jed, i would have reported the matter to the authorities. now tell me why you attempted to horsewhip the boy?" "because he was impudent," replied fogson evasively. "and that was all?" "he disobeyed me." "jed, let me hear your version of the story." "mr. fogson knew that i had a dollar given me by mrs. redmond, and he called upon me to give it up to him. i wouldn't do it, and upon that he tried to horsewhip me." "you see he owns up to his disobeying me, doctor," put in fogson triumphantly. "why did you require him to give you the dollar, mr. fogson?" "because he is a pauper, and a pauper has no right to hold money." "i won't discuss that point. what did you propose to do with the dollar in case you had obtained it from jed?" "as you are not overseer of the poor, dr. redmond, i don't know that i have any call to tell you. when squire dixon asks me i will make it all straight with him." "probably," answered the doctor in a significant tone, for he as well as others understood that there was some secret compact between mr. fogson and the town official, and he had earnestly opposed squire dixon at the polls. "not only you, but squire dixon will have to give an account of your stewardship," he said. "if any outrage should be committed against the boy jed, or any one else in this establishment, you will find that making it straight with squire dixon won't be sufficient." "i will report what you say to squire dixon," said fogson defiantly. "i wish you would. i shouldn't object to saying the same thing to his face. now, mrs. fogson, if you will lead the way i will go and see mrs. connolly." "come along, then," said mrs. fogson, compressing her thin lips. "i don't believe there is anything the matter with that old woman." "i am a better judge of that matter than you, mrs. fogson." the poor old woman looked thin and wan, and hardly had strength to lift up her head to meet the doctor's glance. after a brief examination he said: "your trouble is nervous debility. you have no strength. what you need is nourishment. do you have tea three times a day, mrs. connolly?" "only once a week, doctor," wailed the poor old woman, bursting into tears. "only once a week!" repeated the doctor shocked. "what does this mean, mrs. fogson?" "it means, dr. redmond," answered the mistress of the poorhouse, "that this is not a first-class hotel." "i should say not," commented the doctor. "how often did you have tea, mrs. connolly, when mr. and mrs. avery were here?" "at breakfast and supper, and on sundays three times a day." "precisely. what do you say to that, mrs. fogson?" "i say, as everybody says, that the averys squandered the town's money." "they certainly didn't put it into their own pockets. the town, i think i am safe in saying, doesn't mean to starve the poor people whom it provides for. do i understand that you are actuated by a desire to save the town's money?" "of course i am, and squire dixon approves all i do," answered mrs. fogson defiantly. "if he approves your withholding the necessities of life from those under your charge he is unfit for his position. when the accounts of the poorhouse are audited at the end of the year i shall make a searching examination, and ascertain how much less they are under your administration than under that of your predecessors." judging from her looks, mrs. fogson was aching to scratch dr. redmond's eyes out; but as he was not a pauper she was compelled to restrain her anger. "now, mrs. connolly," said the doctor, "you are to have tea twice a day, and three times on sunday. i shall see that it is given to you," he added, with a significant glance at mrs. fogson. "oh, how glad i am!" said the poor creature. "god bless you, dr. redmond!" "mrs. fogson," went on the doctor, "do you limit yourself to tea once a week?" "i ain't a pauper, dr. redmond!" replied mrs. fogson indignantly. "no; you are much stronger than a pauper, and could bear the deprivation better. let me tell you that you needn't be afraid to supply decent food to the poor people in your charge. it won't cost any more than it did under the averys, for prices are, on the whole, cheaper." "perhaps if it does cost more you'll pay it out of your own pocket." "i contribute already to the support of the poorhouse, being a large taxpayer, and i give my medical services without exacting payment. the town is not mean, and i will see that no fault is found with reasonable bills." "i wish you'd fall and break your neck, you old meddler," thought mrs. fogson, but she did not dare to say this. "one thing more, madam!" said the doctor, who had now entered the room where jed and her husband were; "reserve your hot water for its legitimate uses. no more scalding, if you please." "that's well put, doctor!" growled fogson. "if she wants to scald anybody else, she had better try herself." "that's all the gratitude i get for taking your part, simeon fogson," said the exasperated helpmeet. "the next time, jed may beat you black and blue for all i care." "it strikes me," remarked the doctor dryly, "that your husband is a match for a boy of sixteen, and need be under no apprehension. no more horsewhips, mr. fogson, if _you_ please, and don't trouble yourself about any small sums that jed may receive. jed, jump into my buggy, and i will take you home with me. i think mrs. redmond will give you some supper." "the boy hasn't done his chores," said mrs. fogson maliciously. "very well, i will make a bargain with you. don't object to his going, and i won't charge mr. fogson anything for my attendance upon him just now." this appeal to the selfish interests of mr. fogson had its effect, and jed jumped into the doctor's buggy with eager alacrity. chapter vi mr. fogson makes up his mind. "i don't know, jed, whether i can make up to you for the supper you will lose at the poorhouse," observed the doctor jocosely. "mrs. redmond may not be as good a cook as mrs. fogson." "i will risk it," said jed. "is the fare much worse than it was when mrs. avery was in charge?" "very much worse. i don't mind it much myself, for i often get a meal at fred morrison's, but the poor old people have a hard time." "i will make it my business to see that there is an improvement." "dr. redmond," said jed after a pause, "do you think it would be wrong for me to run away from the poorhouse?" "have you any such intention?" asked the doctor quickly. "yes; i think i can earn my own living, and a better living than i have there. i am young and strong, and i am not afraid to try." "as to that, jed, i don't see why there should be any objection to your making the attempt. the town of scranton ought not to object to lessening the number it is required to support." "mr. and mrs. fogson would object. they would miss my work." "have you ever spoken to them on the subject?" "i did one day, and they said i would have to stay till i was twenty-one." "that is not true." "i don't think i could stay that long," said jed soberly. "i should be dead before that time if i had to live with mr. and mrs. fogson, and fared no better. besides, you see how i am dressed. i should think you would be ashamed to have me at your table." jed's clothes certainly were far from becoming. they were of unknown antiquity, and were two sizes too small for him, so that the sleeves and the legs of the trousers were so scant as to attract attention. in his working hours he wore a pair of overalls, but those he took off when he accepted dr. redmond's invitation. "i didn't invite your clothes, jed; i invited you," responded the doctor. "i confess, however, that your suit is pretty shabby. how long have you worn it?" "it was given me nearly two years ago." "and you have had no other since?" "no. if i stayed there till i was twenty-one i expect i should have to wear the same old things." dr. redmond laughed. "i am bound to say, jed, that in that case you would cut a comical figure. however, i don't think it will be as bad as that. my son ross is in college. he is now twenty. i will ask my wife to look about the house and see if there isn't an old suit of his that will fit you. it will, at any rate, be a good deal better than this." "thank you, doctor; but will you save it till i am ready to leave scranton?" "yes, jed. i will have it put in a bundle, and it will be ready for you any time you call for it." "there's another thing, doctor. i think mr. fogson will try to get my money away, notwithstanding all you said." "he wouldn't dare to." "he is very cunning. he will find some excuse." jed was right. to prove this, we will go back to the poorhouse and relate the conversation between the well-matched pair after dr. redmond's departure. "simeon," said his wife, "if you had any spunk you wouldn't let dr. redmond insult and bully you, as he did just now." "what would you have me to do?" demanded her husband irritably. "i couldn't knock him down, could i?" "no, but you could have talked up to him." "i did; but you must remember that he is an important man in the town, and it wouldn't be wise to make him an enemy." "squire dixon is still more important. if he backs you up you needn't be afraid of this trumpery doctor." "well, what would you advise?" "go this evening and see the squire. tell him what has happened, and if he gives you authority to take jed's money, take it." "really, that is a good suggestion, mrs. f. i will go soon after supper." "it would do no good to triumph over dr. redmond. he is an impertinent meddler." "so he is. i agree with you there." soon after seven o'clock squire dixon was somewhat surprised when the servant ushered mr. fogson into his presence. "ah, fogson," he exclaimed. "i was not expecting to see you. has anything gone wrong?" "i should think so. jed has rebelled against my lawful authority, and dr. redmond is aiding and abetting him in it." "you astonish me, fogson. are you sure you are not mistaken?" "i'll tell you the whole story, squire, and you can judge for yourself." upon this mr. fogson gave an account of the scenes that had taken place in the poorhouse, including his contest with jed, and mrs. fogson's ill-judged attempt to assist him. "certainly, you were in bad luck," said the squire. "is the injury serious?" "the burn is very painful, squire. mrs. fogson acted like an idiot. why didn't she take better aim?" "to be sure, to be sure. wasn't the boy scalded at all?" "not a particle," answered fogson in an aggrieved tone. "now, what i want to know is, didn't i have a right to take the money from jed?" "yes, i think so. the boy would probably have made bad use of it." "the ground i take, squire, is that a pauper has no right to possess money." "i quite agree with you. since the town maintains him, the town should have a right to exact any money of which he becomes accidentally possessed." "i don't quite see that the town should have it," said fogson. "as the boy's official guardian, i think i ought to keep it, to use for the boy whenever i thought it judicious." "yes, i think that view is correct. i had only given the point a superficial consideration." "dr. redmond denies this. he says i have no right to take the money from jed." "dr. redmond's view is not entitled to any weight. he has no official right to intermeddle." "you'd think he had, by the manner in which he lectured mrs. fogson and myself. i never heard such impudence." "dr. redmond assumes too much. he doesn't appear to understand that i, and not he, was appointed overseer of the poor." "he says you are not fit for the position," said fogson, transcending the limits of strict accuracy, as the reader will understand. "what?" ejaculated squire dixon, his face flushing angrily. "that's just what he said," repeated fogson, delighted by the effect of his misrepresentations. "it's my belief that he wanted the office himself." "very likely, very likely!" said the squire angrily. "do i understand you to say that he actually called me unfit for the position?" "yes he did. he appears to think that he can boss you and mrs. f. and myself. why, he stood by that boy, though he had actually assaulted me, and invited him home to supper." "you don't mean this, mr. fogson?" "yes i do. jed is at this very moment at the doctor's house. what mischief they are concocting i can't tell, but i am sure that i shall have more trouble with the boy." squire dixon was very much disturbed. he was a vain man, and his pride sustained a severe shock when told that the doctor considered him unfit for his position. "however," resumed the crafty fogson, "i suppose we shall have to give in to the doctor." "give in!" exclaimed the squire, his face turning purple. "never, mr. fogson, never!" "i hate to give in, i confess, squire, but the doctor is a prominent man, and----" "prominent man! i should like to know whether i am not a prominent man also, mr. fogson? moreover, i represent the town, and dr. redmond doesn't." "i am glad you will stand by me, squire. with you on my side, i will not fear." "i will stand by you, mr. fogson." "i should hate to be triumphed over by a mere boy." "you shall not be, mr. fogson." "then will you authorize me to demand the money from him?" "i will authorize you, mr. fogson, and if the boy persists in refusing, i authorize you to use coercive measures. do you understand?" "i believe i do, squire. you will let it be understood that you have given me authority, won't you? suppose the boy complains to dr. redmond?" "you may refer dr. redmond to me, mr. fogson," said the squire pompously. "i think i shall be tempted to give this meddling doctor a piece of my mind." mr. fogson took leave of the squire and pursued his way homeward with a smile on his face. he had accomplished what he desired, and secured a powerful ally in his campaign against the boy jed and dr. redmond. he returned home a little after eight, and just before nine jed made his appearance at the door of the poorhouse. he was in good spirits, for he had decided that he would soon turn his back upon the place which had been his home for fourteen years. chapter vii. fogson's mistake. "so you have got home?" said mr. fogson with an unpleasant smile as he opened the door to admit jed later that evening. "yes, sir." "you had a pleasant time, i presume?" "yes, sir," answered jed, wondering to what all these questions tended. "i suppose dr. redmond put himself out to entertain such a distinguished guest?" "no, mr. fogson, i don't think he did." "he didn't make arrangements to run the poorhouse, with your help, did he?" "no," answered jed with emphasis. "we ought to be thankful, mrs. fogson and i, humbly thankful, that we ain't to be turned out by this high and mighty doctor." "if you don't like the doctor you had better tell him so," said jed; "he don't need me to defend him." "do you know where i've been to-night?" queried fogson, changing his tone. "how could i tell?" "i've been to see squire dixon." "well, sir, i suppose you had a right to. i hope you had a pleasant call." "i did, and what's more, i told him of dr. redmond's impertinent interference with me in my management of the poorhouse. he told me not to pay any attention to redmond, but to be guided by him. so long as he was satisfied with me, it was all right." "you'd better tell dr. redmond that when he calls here next time." "i shall; but there's something i've got to say to you. he said i had a perfect right to take the dollar from you, for as a pauper you had no right to hold property of any kind. that's what squire dixon says. now hand over that money, or you'll get into trouble." "i wouldn't give the money to squire dixon himself," answered jed boldly. "you wouldn't, hey? i'll tell him that. you'll give it to me to-night, though." he put out his hand to seize jed, but the boy quietly moved aside, and said, "you can't get the money from me to-night, mr. fogson." "why can't i? there's no dr. redmond to take your part now. why can't i, i'd like to know?" "because i haven't got it." "what!" exclaimed fogson. "do you mean to say you've spent it already? if you have----" "no, i haven't spent it, but i have given it to dr. redmond to keep for me." fogson showed in his face his intense disappointment. he expected to get the money without fail, and lo! the victory was snatched from him. he glared at jed, and seemed about to pounce upon him, but he thought better of it. "you'll go and get the money in the morning," he said. "you and dr. redmond are engaged in a conspiracy against the town and the laws, and i am not sure but i could have you both arrested. mind, if that money is not handed to me to-morrow you will get a thrashing. now go to bed!" jed was not sorry to avail himself of this permission. he had not enjoyed the interview with mr. fogson, and he felt tired and in need of rest. accordingly he went up stairs to the attic, where there was a cot bed under the bare rafters, which he usually occupied. there had been another boy, three months before, who had shared the desolate room with him, but he had been bound out to a farmer, and now jed was the sole occupant. tired as he was, he did not go to sleep immediately. he undressed himself slowly in the obscurity, for he was not allowed a lamp, and made a movement to get into bed. but a surprise awaited him. his extended hand came in contact with a human face, and one on which there was a mustache. somebody was in his bed! naturally, jed was startled. "who are you?" he inquired. "who'm i? i'm a gentleman," was the drowsy reply. "you're in my bed," said jed, annoyed as well as surprised. "where is _my_ bed?" hiccoughed the other. "i don't know. how did you get in here?" "i came in when no one was lookin'," answered the intruder. "zis a hotel?" "no; it's the scranton poorhouse." "you don't say? dad always told me i'd end up in the poorhouse, but i didn't expect to get there so quick." "you'd better get up and go down stairs. fogson wouldn't like to have you stay here all night." "who's fogson?" "he is the manager of the poorhouse." "who cares for fogson? i don't b'lieve fogson is a gen'leman." "nor i," inwardly assented jed. this was the last word that he could get from the intruder, who coolly turned over and began to snore. fortunately for jed, there was another cot bed--the one formerly occupied by the other boy--and he got into it. fatigued by the events of the day, jed soon slept a sound and refreshing sleep. in fact his sleep was so sound that it is doubtful whether a thunderstorm would have awakened him. towards morning the occupant of the other bed turned in such a way as to lie on his back. this position, as my readers are probably aware, is conducive to heavy snoring, and the intruder availed himself of this to the utmost. mr. and mrs. fogson slept directly underneath, and after awhile, the door leading to the attic being open, the sound of the snoring attracted the attention of mrs. fogson. "simeon!" she said, shaking her recumbent husband. "what is it, mrs. f.?" inquired her lord and master drowsily. "did you hear that?" "did i hear what?" "that terrific snoring. it is loud enough to wake the dead." by this time fogson was fairly awake. "so it is," he assented. "who is it?" "jed, of course. what possesses the boy to snore so?" "can't say, i'm sure. i never heard a boy of his age make such a noise." "it must be stopped, simeon. it can't be more than three o'clock, and if it continues i shan't sleep another wink." "well, go up and stop it." "it is more suitable for you to go, mr. fogson. i do believe the boy is snoring out of spite." even fogson laughed at this idea. "he couldn't do that unless he snored when he was awake," he replied. "it isn't easy to snore when you are not asleep. if you don't believe it, try it." "i am ashamed of you, simeon. do you think i would demean myself by any such low action? if that snoring isn't stopped right off i shall go into a fit." "i wouldn't like to have you do that," said fogson, rather amused. "it would be rather worse than hearing jed snore." about this time there was an unusual outburst on the part of the sleeper. "a little hot water would fix him," said fogson. "it is a pity you had not saved your hot water till to-night." "cold water would do just as well." "so it would. mrs. f., that's a bright idea. i owe the boy a grudge for giving his money to dr. redmond. i'll go down stairs and get a clipper of cold water, and i'll see if i can't stop the boy's noise." mr. fogson went down stairs, chuckling, as he went, at the large joke he was intending to perpetrate. it would not be so bad as being scalded, but it would probably be very disagreeable to jed to be roused from a sound sleep by a dash of cold water. "i hope he won't wake up before i get there," thought mr. fogson, as he descended to the kitchen in his stocking feet to procure the water. he pumped for a minute or two in order that the water might be colder, and then with the dipper in hand ascended two flights of stairs to the attic. up there it was still profoundly dark. there was but one window, and that was screened by a curtain. moreover, it was very dark outside. mr. fogson, however, was not embarrassed, for he knew just where jed's bed was situated, and, even if he had not, the loud snoring, which still continued, would have been sufficient to guide him to the place. "it beats me how a boy can snore like that," soliloquized fogson. "he must have eaten something at dr. redmond's that didn't agree with him. if i didn't know it was jed i should feel frightened at such an unearthly hubbub. however, it won't continue long," and fogson laughed to himself as he thought of the sensation which his dipper of water was likely to produce. he approached a little nearer, and in spite of the darkness could see the outlines of a form on the bed, but he could not see clearly enough to make out the difference between it and jed's. he poised himself carefully, and then dashed the water vigorously into the face of the sleeping figure. the results were not exactly what he had anticipated. chapter viii. mr. fogson is astonished. the sleeper had already slept off pretty nearly all the effects of his potations, and the sudden cold bath restored him wholly to himself. but it also aroused in him a feeling of anger, justifiable under the circumstances, and, not belonging to the peace society, he was moved to punish the person to whom he was indebted for his unpleasant experience. with a smothered imprecation he sprang from the bed and seized the astonished fogson by the throat, while he shook him violently. "you--you--scoundrel!" he ejaculated. "i'll teach you to play such a scurvy trick on a gentleman." mr. fogson screamed in fright. he did not catch his late victim's words, and was still under the impression that it was jed who had tackled him. meanwhile the intruder was flinging him about and bumping him against the floor so forcibly that mrs. fogson's attention was attracted. indeed, she was at the foot of the stairs, desiring to enjoy jed's dismay when drenched with the contents of the tin dipper. "what's the matter, simeon?" she cried. "jed's killing me!" called out fogson in muffled tones. "you don't mean to say you ain't a match for that boy!" ejaculated mrs. fogson scornfully. "i'll come up and help you." disregarding her light attire she hurried up stairs, and was astonished beyond measure when she saw how unceremoniously her husband was being handled. she rushed to seize jed, when she found her hands clutching a mustache. "why, it ain't jed!" she screamed in dismay. "no, it ain't jed," said the intruder. "did you mean that soaking for jed, whoever he is?" "yes, yes, it was--quite a mistake!" gasped fogson. "i am glad to hear you say so, for i meant to fling you down stairs, and might have broken your neck." "oh, what a dreadful man!" ejaculated mrs. fogson. "how came you here and where is jed?" "i am here!" answered jed, who had waked up two or three minutes previous and was enjoying the defeat of his persecutor. "did you bring in this man?" demanded mrs. fogson sternly. "no. i walked in myself," answered the intruder. "i was rather mellow--in other words i had drunk too much mixed ale, and i really didn't know where i was. i had an idea that this was a hotel." "you made a mistake, sir. this is the scranton poorhouse." "so the boy told me when he came in. i wouldn't have taken a bed here if i had known your playful way of pouring cold water on your guests." "sir, apart from your assault on me, _me_, the master of the poorhouse," said fogson, trying to recover some of his lost dignity, "you committed a trespass in entering the house without permission and appropriating a bed." "all right, old man, but just remember that i was drunk." "i don't think that is an excuse." "isn't it? just get drunk yourself, and see what you'll do." "i don't allow mr. fogson to get drunk," said his wife with asperity. "maybe my wife wouldn't let me, if there was any such a person, but i haven't been so fortunate as mr. fogson, if that is his name." "mrs. f.," said her husband with a sudden thought, "you are not dressed for company." mrs. fogson, upon this hint, scuttled down stairs, and the intruder resumed: "if i've taken a liberty i'm willing to apologize. what's more, i'll pay you fifty cents for the use of your bed and stay the night out." he was appealing to mr. fogson's weak point, which was a love of money. "i see you're ready to do the square thing," he said in softened accents. "if you'll say seventy-five----" "no, i won't pay over fifty. i don't care to take it another night on those terms, if i am to be waked up by a dipper of water. you've wet the sheet and pillow so that i may take my death of cold if i sleep here any longer." "i'll bring you a comforter which you can lay over the wet clothes." "all right! bring it up and i'll hand you the fifty cents." "and--and if you would like breakfast in the morning, for the small extra sum of twenty-five cents----" "isn't that rather steep for a poorhouse breakfast?" "you will not eat with the paupers, of course, but at a private table, with mrs. fogson and myself." "all right! your offer is accepted." mr. fogson brought up the comforter, and the visitor resumed the slumbers which had been so unceremoniously interrupted. the sun rose early, and when its rays crept in through the side window both jed and his companion were awake. "i say, boy, come over here and share my bed. i want to talk to you." jed's curiosity was excited, and he accepted the invitation. he found his roommate to be a good-looking young man of perhaps thirty, and with a pleasant expression. "so you are jed?" he asked. "yes, sir." "and you live in the poorhouse?" "yes," answered jed, half-ashamed to admit it, "but i don't mean to stay here." "good! a smart boy like you ought not to be a pauper. you are able to earn your own living outside. but perhaps you are attached to the queer people who made me a visit last night." "not much!" answered jed emphatically. "i don't admire them much myself. i didn't see the old lady. is she beautiful?" jed laughed heartily. "you'll see her at the breakfast table," he said. "then you can judge for yourself." "i don't think i shall do anything to excite fogson's jealousy. zounds, if this isn't the queerest hotel i ever struck. i am sorry to have taken your bed from you." "i was glad not to be in it when mr. fogson came up." "you're right there," said the other laughing. "whew! how the cold water startled me. sorry to have deprived you of it." "mr. fogson got a dose himself yesterday, only it was hot water." "you don't say so! was that meant for you, too?" "yes;" and jed told the story of his struggle with mr. fogson, and his wife's unfortunate interference. "that's a capital joke," said the visitor laughing. "now i suppose you wonder who i am." "yes; i should like to know." "i'm harry bertram, the actor. i don't know if you ever heard of me." "i never attended the theatre in my life." "is that so? why, you're quite a heathen. never went to a theatre? well, i _am_ surprised." "is it a good business?" asked jed. "sometimes, if the play happens to catch on. when you are stranded five hundred miles from home, and your salary isn't paid, it isn't exactly hilarious." "are you going to play anywhere near here?" asked jed, who was beginning to think he would like to see a performance. "we are billed to play in duncan to-morrow evening, or rather this evening, for it's morning now." "duncan is only five miles away." "if you want to attend i'll give you a pass. it's the least i can do to pay for turning you out of your bed." "i could walk the five miles," said jed. "then come. i'll see you at the door and pass you in. ask for harry bertram." "thank you, mr. bertram." "old fogson won't make a fuss about your going, will he?" "yes, he will; but i've made up my mind to leave the poorhouse, and i might as well leave it to-day as any time." "good! i admire your pluck." "i wish i knew what i could do to make a living." "leave that to me. i'll arrange to have you travel with the show for two or three days and bunk with me. have you got any--any better clothes than those?" and bertram pointed to the dilapidated garments lying on a chair near by. "yes, i am promised a good suit by a friend of mine in the village. i'll go there and put them on before starting." "do; the actors sometimes look pretty tough, but i never saw one dressed like that." "jed!" screamed mrs. fogson from the bottom of the stairs. "you get right up and come down stairs!" "they're calling me," said jed, starting up. "will i have to get up too?" "no; mr. and mrs. fogson don't breakfast till seven. they'll send me up to call you." "all right! we'll soon be travelling together where there are no fogsons." "i hope so," and jed went down stairs with new life in his step. chapter ix. jed leaves the poorhouse. at eight o'clock harry bertram was summoned to breakfast in the private sitting-room of mr. and mrs. fogson. in spite of the poor fare of which the paupers complained the fogsons took care themselves to have appetizing meals, and the well-spread table looked really attractive. "sit down here, mr. bertram," said mrs. fogson, pointing to a seat. the place opposite was vacant, as the heads of the table were occupied by mr. and mrs. fogson. "mrs. fogson," said the actor, "i am going to ask a favor." "what is it?" returned the lady, wreathing her features into a frosty smile. "i see the seat opposite me is unoccupied. will you oblige me by letting the boy jed take it?" mrs. fogson's face changed. "i should prefer not to have him here," she answered in a forbidding tone. "of course i propose to pay for his breakfast the same price that i pay for my own." "the boy is insubordinate and disobedient," said the lady coldly. "still he gave me his bed last night. some boys would have objected." "my dear," said fogson, whose weakness for money has already been mentioned, "i think, as the gentleman has agreed to pay for jed's breakfast, we may give our consent, merely to gratify him." "very well," answered mrs. fogson, resolved to claim the twenty-five cents for herself. she rose from her seat, went to the window, and opening it, called to jed, who was at work in the yard. he speedily made his appearance. "sit down to the table, jedediah," said mr. fogson with dignity. "mr. bertram desires you to breakfast with him." jed was very much surprised, but as he noted the warm biscuit and beefsteak, which emitted an appetizing odor, he felt that it was an invitation not to be rejected. "i am very much obliged to mr. bertram," he said, "and also to you and mrs. fogson." this was a politic remark to make, and he was served as liberally as the guest. "do you find your position a pleasant one, mr. fogson?" asked bertram politely. "no, mr. bertram, far from it. the paupers are a thankless, ungrateful set, but i am sustained by a sense of duty." "the paupers were spoiled by our predecessors, mr. and mrs. avery," chimed in mrs. fogson. "really, mr. bertram, you would be surprised to learn how unreasonable they are. they are always complaining of their meals." "i am sure they must be unreasonable if they complain of meals like this, mrs. fogson," said the actor. "of course we can't afford to treat them like this. the town would object. but we give them as good fare as we can afford. are you going to stay long in scranton?" "no; i am merely passing through. i shall sleep to-night at duncan." "at the poorhouse?" asked jed with a comical smile. "yes, if i could be sure of as good fare as this," replied the actor with an answering smile. "but that would be very doubtful." mrs. fogson, who, cross-grained as she was, was not above flattery, mentally pronounced mr. bertram a most agreeable young man--in fact, a perfect gentleman. "i am really ashamed," continued bertram, "to have entered your house in such a condition, but i was feeling a little internal disturbance, and fancied that whisky would relieve it. unfortunately i took too much." "it might have happened to anyone," said fogson considerately. "i am myself a temperance man, but sometimes i find whisky beneficial to my health." bertram, noticing the ruddy hue of mr. fogson's nose, was quite ready to believe this statement. "may i ask if you are a business man?" remarked fogson. "my business is acting. i belong to the gold king company, which is to play at duncan to-night." "indeed!" said mrs. fogson, with a glance of curiosity. "i never saw an actor before." "i am sorry you should see such an unworthy representative of the thespian art. if we were to play in scranton, it would give me pleasure to offer you and mr. fogson complimentary tickets." "i wish you were to play here," said mrs. fogson in a tone of regret. "i haven't seen a play for five years." "i suppose you couldn't come to duncan?" "no; we could not be spared. besides, we have no horse and carriage," said fogson. "we must wait till you perform in scranton." jed was very much relieved to hear this remark, for it would have interfered with his own plans if mr. and mrs. fogson had accepted an invitation to witness the play at duncan. "is it a good paying business?" asked mr. fogson. "well, so so. my salary is fifty dollars a week." "you don't say so!" exclaimed fogson in envious surprise. "you ought to lay up money." "it seems so, but in the summer we generally have a long vacation. besides, we have to pay our hotel bills; so that, after all, we don't have as much left as you would suppose. besides, we have to buy our costumes, and some of them are quite expensive." in spite of these drawbacks the fogsons evidently looked upon bertram as a wealthy young man. at length they rose from the table. jed had never before eaten such a meal since he entered the poorhouse, and he felt in a degree envious of mr. and mrs. fogson, who probably fared thus every day. when he considered, however, how they nearly starved the poor people of whom they had charge he felt indignant, and could not help wishing that some time they might exchange places with the unfortunate paupers. he went out to the yard again, and resumed his work at the woodpile. harry bertram strolled out and lazily watched him. "i suppose you never did work of this kind, mr. bertram?" said jed. "oh yes, i lived for nearly a year with an aunt who required me to prepare all the wood for the kitchen stove. i can tell you one thing, though, i did not enjoy it, and when i left her i retired forever from that line of business." "are you going to stay in scranton to-day?" "no; i must be getting over to duncan. we have taken on a new actor and shall be obliged to have a rehearsal. will you go along with me?" "i should like to, but it would only get me into trouble. i will start about four o'clock, and go over to dr. redmond's to get the suit of clothes he promised me." "i suppose you won't have to take a trunk of clothes from here?" "about all the clothes i own are on my back. if i leave any behind me, anyone is welcome to them." "do you think there will be any difficulty in your getting away?" "i think i can slip off without being noticed." "do you think they will go after you?" "they might if they suspected where i was going." "then i shall have to help you. join me at the theatre, and it will go hard if, between us, we cannot foil the enemy." "thank you, mr. bertram. you are a real friend." "some people say i am everybody's friend but my own. you can judge for yourself about that when you know me better." harry bertram walked off whistling, and jed was left to his reflections. it is needless to say that he felt in an excited mood, for it seemed to him that he had come to a turning-point in his life. as far back as he could remember he had been an inmate of the scranton poorhouse. when mr. and mrs. avery were in charge he had not minded this much, such was the kindness with which he was treated by those good people. but when, through the influence of squire dixon, they were removed and mr. and mrs. fogson put in their place he began to feel the bitterness of his position. the three months which had passed since then seemed to him like so many years. but now he had resolved, once for all, to end his thralldom, and go out into the great world and see what he could do for himself. circumstances favored him. about half-past three mr. fogson called him down. "i want you to go to squire dixon's and carry this letter," he said. jed's heart leaped with joy. it at once occurred to him that squire dixon lived only about twenty rods from dr. redmond, and that he could call at the doctor's house after doing his errand. "is there any answer?" he asked. "no; i have asked the squire to call here this evening, if he can. he is the overseer, and i wish to consult him." "very well, sir." jed took the letter, glad that no answer would be required. even if there had been, he would have neglected to bring it, for he could not afford to throw away this chance of escape. the distance from the poorhouse to squire dixon's residence was about three-quarters of a mile. jed covered it in less than fifteen minutes. in the front yard percy dixon was strutting about with the airy consequence habitual to him. "what brings you here?" he asked rudely. "i've come with a note for your father. after i've delivered it i will stop a little while and play with you if you want me to." "you needn't trouble yourself. i don't care to play with paupers." "don't call me that again, percy dixon!" said jed, his patience worn out. "what will happen if i do?" demanded percy tauntingly. "i may be obliged to give you a thrashing." chapter x. jed reaches duncan. percy dixon's face flushed with resentment. "do you know who you are talking to?" he demanded. "yes," answered jed coolly. "i am talking to a boy who thinks a great deal more of himself than any one else does." "i would punish you, but i don't want to dirty my hands with you. i'll tell my father, and he'll see that old fogson flogs you." jed smiled. he never meant to see fogson again if he could help it, but he was too wise to impart his plans to percy. at this moment his father came up to the gate, and as he opened it his attention was drawn to jed. "have you come here with any message for me?" he asked. "i have a note for you." "give it to me." "humph!" said the squire, casting his eye over the note. "mr. fogson asks me to call this evening. i will do so." "very well, sir." "father," interrupted percy, "there is to be a play performed at duncan this evening." "is there?" "yes; i saw a bill in the post-office. it's the 'gold king,' i believe. may i go?" "i don't know," said the squire, hesitating. "mr. fogson wants me to call at the poorhouse." "if you don't care about going, i can drive mother and alice over. you know you promised we should attend the next theatrical performance anywhere near." "if your mother and alice would like to go i have no objection. you must drive carefully, and you can leave the horses in the hotel stable." "all right," said percy joyfully. "did you ever go to a theatre?" he asked jed in a patronizing tone. "no." "i have been quite often," said percy complacently. "but, of course, paupers can't attend amusements." "you may change your mind this evening," thought jed. jed went at once to the doctor's house. dr. redmond had just arrived from a round of visits. "good morning, jed," he said pleasantly. "good morning, dr. redmond." "do you want to see me?" "i have come to claim your promise," said jed. "what is that?" "you promised me a suit of clothes when i got ready to leave the poorhouse." dr. redmond's face instantly assumed a look of interest. "and you have decided to take this important step?" he said. "yes, doctor. i am tired of being called a pauper. i am sure i can earn my own living, and i mean to try it." "i don't know but you are right, jed. at any rate, you have my best wishes. come into the house, and i will ask mrs. redmond to look up the suit. if i am not mistaken you will need other things also--socks, handkerchiefs, and underclothing." "i need them, no doubt, but i don't want to ask too much." "i think mrs. redmond can fit you out. and, by the way, i think you can manage a little supper. in what direction are you going?" "to duncan." "why there, in particular?" "i have a friend there." "who is it?" "harry bertram, the actor." dr. redmond looked surprised. "how did you get acquainted with him?" jed told the story. the incident of fogson's assault on the sleeping actor and his defeat amused the doctor not a little. "he may be of service to you," he said. "at any rate, an actor sees a good deal of the world, and he may be able to give you some advice. now put on your clothes and see what a transformation they will make." mrs. redmond took jed up to a small chamber belonging to her absent son, and laid the clothing on the bed, advising jed to go into the bathroom close by and take a good bath. when, half an hour or more later, he descended to the floor below, dr. redmond started in surprise. in place of the poorhouse drudge there stood before him a good-looking boy, attired in a brown suit, with clean linen and his hair neatly brushed. dr. and mrs. redmond exchanged glances. "i wouldn't believe clothes made such a difference," exclaimed the doctor. "nor i," chimed in his wife. the same idea came into the mind of each. jed's personal appearance would do credit to any family, however exclusive. yet he had been brought up in the scranton poorhouse, and associated with paupers all his life. "i mustn't forget to give you your money," said the doctor, and he put a roll of bills into jed's hand. "but here is five dollars!" said jed. "it was only two you had of mine." "take the five. you will need it. it is small enough capital for a boy to go forth into the world with to seek his fortune. now how are you going to duncan?" "i am going to walk." "i am afraid you will get very tired," said mrs. redmond in a tone of sympathy. "no, ma'am, it is only five miles." "and five miles is a trifle to a strong boy like jed." "won't you wait till after supper?" asked mrs. redmond. "no, thank you. it would get me there too late." "then i will make up some sandwiches for you. your walk will make you hungry." jed started with a small valise in which were packed some extra underclothing, and he carried in his hand a substantial lunch wrapped in paper. it was far better than the supper which he missed at the poorhouse. he was rather afraid of meeting some one whom he knew, particularly percy dixon, who he was sure would be delighted to thwart his plan by reporting him; but fortunately he escaped observation. he passed two men whom he knew very well, but in his new dress they did not know him. jed had walked about half way when a man in a top buggy overtook him, and, stopping his horse, called out, "is this the road to duncan?" "yes, sir." "is it a straight road all the way?" "not quite, sir. there are one or two turns." "i am sorry to hear it. i am not acquainted hereabouts, and i shouldn't like to lose my way. are you going to duncan?" "yes, sir." "then jump in, unless you prefer walking. with a good guide i shall be all right." "i would rather ride, and i will accept your invitation with pleasure." "then we are both suited." jed's new acquaintance was a stout man of middle age, with a prompt, alert manner, and looked like a business man. he had a quick, impulsive way with him. "are you travelling?" he asked, noticing jed's valise. "yes, sir." "going to see the world, eh?" "i'm going in search of a living, sir," answered jed. "got parents?" "no, sir. i'm alone in the world." "well, you've got a tough job before you." "yes, sir, i don't doubt it; but i am young and healthy, and i think i ought to be able to earn my living. are you a business man?" "no, not exactly. why do you ask?" "i thought you might have a place for me if you were." "i am not in the right sort of business for you, my lad. i am the manager of the gold king dramatic company." "then you are acquainted with harry bertram?" said jed eagerly. "yes, he is one of my actors. what do you know of harry bertram?" "he slept in the same room with me last night. he told me to come to duncan, and he would see what he could do for me." "ha, indeed! well, harry is a good fellow, and a good friend. he has one fault. he is a little too convivial." "yes, sir; i thought so. is he a good actor?" "excellent in his line. he gets a very good salary, but i am afraid he doesn't save very much of it. are you going to see the play this evening?" "yes; mr. bertram thought he could get me in." "you won't need to ask him for a pass. here is one;" and the manager scribbled on a leaf from his note-book _admit bearer._ mordaunt. "thank you, sir," said jed, as he pocketed the pass. "i suppose you are mr. mordaunt?" "john mordaunt, manager of the gold king company. in my humbler days i was known to my friends as jack mordaunt." by this time they had reached duncan, and drove at once to the hotel. chapter xi. jed's first appearance on the stage. several gentlemen were sitting on the piazza in front of the hotel. among them was jed's acquaintance of the night before, harry bertram. when he saw mr. mordaunt in the buggy he advanced to greet him. "i am glad to see you, mr. mordaunt," he said. "i wanted to consult you." "any hitch, bertram?" asked the manager. "yes. young clinton is sick and can't play to-night." "what's the matter with the boy?" "he is threatened with fever." "couldn't he play to-night? his part is a small one, but it is important." "the doctor absolutely forbids his appearing on the stage." "that is awkward. if we were in the city we might get a substitute, but a common country boy would make a mess of the part." "you have a boy with you. do you think he would do?" "you have known him longer than i. i refer the matter to you." "why, it's jed!" exclaimed bertram, examining our hero closely. "didn't you know me, mr. bertram?" asked jed smilingly. "who could, with such a change of dress? you must have met some good fairy. and how did you fall in with mr. mordaunt?" "he kindly offered me a ride." "then you have left scranton for good?" "for good, i hope. if i can help you in any way i will do my best." "try him, bertram," said the manager. "he is very presentable. take him in hand, and see if you can't get him ready to take ralph clinton's place." "then no time is to be lost. come up to my room, jed, and i will tell you what you are expected to do--that is, if you have had supper." "i ate my supper on the road before i fell in with mr. mordaunt." "follow me, then, jed." harry bertram led the way to a comfortable chamber on the second floor. "now sit down, and i'll tell you what you will have to do. first, do you think you have the nerve to stand before an audience and play the part of a telegraph boy?" "yes, sir. i am not troubled with bashfulness." "have you ever spoken in public?" "yes, at school examinations." "then i think you'll do. here is your part." he handed jed a small manuscript book containing the lines of his rôle, with the cues. "you see it isn't long. i may be able to give you a little rehearsal, as you appear only in the first and last acts." the next half hour was devoted to teaching jed his part. bertram was delighted with the aptitude shown by his pupil. "have you never attended a theatre?" he asked, almost incredulously. "never, mr. bertram." "then i can only say that you have the dramatic instinct, luckily for us. if you are sure you won't be afraid before the footlights, you'll do." "then i shall do," said jed. "i never should think of being nervous." "one thing more--nothing will be said of any substitution. to the audience you will be ralph clinton, as put down on the bill." "that will suit me. i am afraid if i were announced as jed, the poorhouse boy, it wouldn't help you," continued jed with a smile. "you may have to continue in the part a week or more. as to the pay, i can't speak of that yet. mr. mordaunt will arrange with you." "if i can earn my board i shall be satisfied." "i can promise you that, and fully as good board as you have been accustomed to." "i hope it won't be worse," said jed laughing. "when you go to the theatre i will see if ralph clinton's uniform will fit you. i haven't much doubt on that point, as you seem to be about the same size." the performance was to commence at eight. harry bertram and his protégé went to the hall, which was to be used as a theatre, early, so that jed might be introduced to his fellow-actors and receive a little instruction as to the business of his part. he was very quick to comprehend, and forgot nothing, so that bertram felt quite easy in regard to him, though it was his first appearance on any stage. jed was very well received by the other members of the company, all of whom expressed satisfaction at having the gap so quickly filled. "i am glad to make your acquaintance, my boy," said george osprey, the leading man. "where have you played?" "nowhere, sir. this is my first appearance." "i hope you won't funk." "if that means break down, i am sure i won't." "good! your confidence will pull you through." "mr. osprey, introduce me, please," lisped an elderly young lady, of affected manners. "this is miss celesta raffles,mr.----, i don't think i know your name." "jed gilman, but i believe i am to be billed as ralph clinton." "i am delighted to meet you, mr. gilman," said miss raffles. "i am sure you will be an honor to our noble profession." "i hope so, miss raffles," said jed smilingly, "but i shall be able to tell better to-morrow." "i always sympathize with youth--with impulsive, enthusiastic youth," gushed miss raffles. "if they are of the male sex," interpolated mr. osprey. "mr. gilman, i must warn you that miss raffles is a dangerous woman. she will do her best to make an impression on your heart." "oh, you wicked slanderer!" said the delighted celesta. "mr. gilman, i am not dangerous at all. i will merely ask you to look upon me as your sister--your elder sister." "thank you, miss raffles," said jed, showing a tact and self-possession hardly to be expected of one with his training. "is mr. osprey one of your brothers?" "yes, she told me that she would be a sister to me. i have never--never recovered from the blow." "i may change my mind," said celesta, who admired the handsome leading man. "if you try again, you may meet with better success----" "no," answered osprey warily. "i never ask the same favor a second time. i leave you to mr. gilman. may you be happy, my children!" as celesta raffles looked to be thirty-five, and jed was but sixteen, he was a good deal amused, but miss raffles was disposed to take the matter in earnest. "don't let him prejudice you against me, mr. gilman!" she murmured. "we shall soon be better acquainted, i am sure. do you know, i am to be your mother in the play? it is a little absurd, as i am only twenty-three, but we have to do strange things on the stage." "she's thirty-six if she's a day," whispered osprey, "but if you want to keep in her good graces you must believe her own reports of her age." "time to dress, jed!" said harry bertram. "it will take you longer than usual, as it is the first time. your nerve won't fail you, will it?" jed shook his head. "i feel as cool as ever i did," he answered. fortunately the telegraph boy's uniform fitted him exactly. he hardly knew himself as he looked at his reflection in the little mirror in his dressing-room. "i wonder if mr. and mrs. fogson would recognize me if they should see me on the stage?" thought jed. then it occurred to him that percy dixon and his mother would be present. he smiled to himself as he thought of percy's bewilderment when he saw him under such a strange change of circumstances. it is not necessary to give the plot of the gold king. it is sufficient to say that jed, the telegraph boy, had been stolen from his parents in early life, the gold king being his father. he is obliged to earn his own living as a boy, but in the last act he is restored to his friends and his old station in life. in the first act jed appeared in his predecessor's uniform. in the last he wore his own suit, this being quite as well adapted to the character as ralph clinton's street costume. mrs. dixon and percy occupied seats in the third row from the front. they always paid the highest prices, and secured the most eligible seats. at the end of ten minutes jed's cue was called and he appeared on the stage. percy, who was watching the play with the greatest attention, started in amazement when he saw the boy actor. "mother," he whispered, "that boy is the perfect image of jed, the poorhouse boy." "is he, indeed? very singular, on my word!" "and he has the same voice," continued percy, still more excited. "but i suppose it can't be he," said mrs. dixon inquiringly. "no, i think not," answered percy. "jed doesn't know anything about acting, and this boy is perfectly at home on the stage." this was indeed true. jed was quite self-possessed. moreover, he never hesitated for a word or stumbled, but was letter-perfect. his scene was with george osprey, as member of a fashionable club, who had inquired into his history. "yes," said jed, repeating his part, "yes, mr. glendower, i am a poor boy, but those who look down upon me will one day find their mistake--they may find that the poor telegraph boy whom they once despised is able to look down upon them." as he uttered these words, jed, perhaps intentionally, let his glance rest on percy dixon, while the latter gazed at him open-mouthed. "i believe it is jed, after all, mother!" he ejaculated. chapter xii. percy dixon is bewildered. at the end of the first act jed and george osprey were called before the curtain. jed had been instructed to bow his thanks, and did so. percy watched his face eagerly, for this brought jed within a few feet of him. "mother," he said, "if that boy isn't jed, it is his twin brother." "but, percy," said his mother, who was a practical woman, "i never heard that the boy had a twin brother." "oh, pshaw! i meant that he is exactly like him." "but this boy is ralph clinton. the bill says so." "i know it," said percy, with a puzzled expression. "i don't understand it at all." "the boy you mean is probably in bed at the scranton poorhouse." "perhaps he is. i don't see, for my part, how he could be here, or know how to act." the play proceeded. it was in five acts, and jed was not called upon to appear again till the last one. he proved himself up to the requirements of the part, and evidently produced a favorable impression on the audience. "mother," said percy, "i would like to wait at the stage door till the actors come out." "but, percy, it is already late. we ought to be starting for home." "but, mother, you know father is overseer of the poor, and if this boy is jed, he has run away from the scranton poorhouse, and father will be held responsible." "why should he?" "because the paupers are under his charge. if one of them runs away he will be blamed." "well, if you think we ought to stop," said the lady undecidedly. "but i don't see what you expect to accomplish." "i want to see that boy face to face. i want to speak to him, and find out for certain who he is." "well, don't be any longer than you can help." "i won't." meanwhile jed and harry bertram were conversing in the greenroom. "you did yourself proud, my boy," said bertram. "you acted as well as clinton, and in some respects better." "i am glad to hear you say so, mr. bertram," said jed, gratified. "i could hardly believe that this was your first appearance on the stage. weren't you frightened at all?" "not a bit. i enjoyed it." "did you see any of your scranton friends in the audience?" "i saw none of my scranton _friends_," answered jed, "but i saw two scranton acquaintances." "who were they?" "percy dixon, son of the overseer of the poor, and his mother." "where were they sitting?" "in the third row from the stage." "do you think they recognized you?" "i saw percy watching me very closely i am sure he noticed my resemblance to his old acquaintance jed, but he couldn't understand how it was possible for me to be the same boy." "then you baffled him?" "i don't know. i shouldn't wonder if he would be waiting outside to get a view of me." "and if he does?" "he will do all he can to get me back to the poorhouse." "then i'll tell you what to do. go out of the stage door arm in arm with me, and i will address you as ralph. if he speaks, appear not to know him." "that will be a capital joke," said jed taking in the humor of the situation. "between us, i think we can bluff him off." jed had appeared in the last act in his street costume, and had no preparations to make, but bertram had to exchange his stage for his ordinary dress. when they were ready they emerged from the stage door arm in arm. a glance showed jed that percy was waiting to intercept him. he did not appear to notice percy, but passed on. percy hastened forward, and touched him on the arm. "look here, i want to speak to you," he said. "speak on, my boy," said jed, assuming the style of his new profession. "how did you come here?" demanded percy bluntly. "what do you mean?" "i mean that you are jed gilman." "my dear ralph, what does this person mean?" said bertram. "he evidently mistakes me for some one he knows," said jed coolly. "may i ask your name, young man?" "you know me well enough," said percy angrily, for jed had not tried to change his voice. "i am percy dixon." "percy dixon?" repeated jed. "where have i met you?" "where have you met me?" retorted percy. "at the scranton poorhouse." "do you reside there?" asked jed with admirable composure. "do i live at the poorhouse?" repeated percy, exasperated. "of course i don't." mrs. dixon had heard this colloquy, as she was sitting in the carriage only six feet away. "percy," she said, "i told you you had made a mistake." "i don't believe i have," said percy in a sulky tone. "for whom do you take me, mr. dixon?" asked jed. "for jed gilman, a poorhouse boy." "i feel very much complimented," said jed smoothly. "i hope jed is a nice boy." "no, he isn't. he is an impudent young rascal." "then how dare you compare my friend ralph to a boy like that?" demanded bertram savagely. "you must be crazy, or do you mean to deliberately insult him?" poor percy was overwhelmed. he wasn't half so certain now that he was right. true, there was a wonderful resemblance between the young actor and jed, but then it seemed impossible that jed should have left the poorhouse suddenly (and percy remembered seeing him that very afternoon at his own home) and developed into a member of a dramatic company. "i may have made a mistake," he said doubtfully. "i am glad you realize this possibility," said bertram. "did you witness the play this evening?" "yes, sir." "do you think your friend jed----" "he is not my friend." "well, do you think that jed, whatever he is, could act like my friend ralph?" "no, i don't think he could," percy admitted. "probably this jed is a very ordinary boy?" "i should say so. ordinary is no name for it. he is stupid." "then you will see for yourself that it is not very likely that he should become an accomplished actor all at once. if it were you it might be different. you are evidently a young man of social position, while this jed is a poor boy, and i presume without education." "yes, he is very ignorant," answered percy, falling into the trap. "is it--hard to learn to act?" he added. "not if you have talent and education. do you think of trying the stage?" "i might some time," said percy, flattered by the question. "if you do, i hope you will succeed. now, mr. dixon, i must bid you good night, as my friend ralph and myself are fatigued with our acting and must get to bed." "good evening!" said jed, raising his hat gravely. "good evening!" returned percy, more puzzled than ever. he jumped into the carriage and started to drive home. "then it wasn't jed?" said his mother. "i suppose not," answered percy, "but i never in all my life saw such a resemblance." "very likely," replied mrs. dixon placidly. "there was a woman in trenton who looked just like me, so that no one could tell us apart." "yes," admitted percy; "i must be mistaken. this boy had a very nice suit on, while jed was dressed in rags." when they reached home squire dixon was abed and asleep. percy came down late to breakfast. "by the way, percy," said his father, as he helped him to breakfast, "fogson has just been over to report that the boy jed has mysteriously disappeared. he never went back after bringing me the message yesterday afternoon." percy dropped his knife and fork and stared at his father in open-eyed amazement. "then it was jed, after all!" he exclaimed. chapter xiii. fogson in pursuit. "what do you mean, percy?" asked squire dixon, referring to his son's exclamation at the close of the preceding chapter. "do you know anything of jed?" "yes; i saw him last evening at duncan." "but what took him there? what was he doing?" "he was on the stage. he was playing in 'the gold king.'" "what do you mean by this absurd statement?" demanded his father angrily. "it is true. ask mother if it isn't." "i think percy is right," said mrs. dixon. "the young actor bears a wonderful resemblance to the boy jed." "but jed doesn't know anything about acting." "that is why i thought i was mistaken. but if jed has run away it must be he." "why didn't you manage to speak to him after the play?" "i did, and he denied that he was jed. he calls himself ralph clinton." "really, this is a most surprising circumstance," said the squire. "the boy is a hardened young villain. his running away from those who are lawfully set over him in authority is a most audacious and highhanded outrage." "that's what i think," chimed in percy. "what shall you do about it? shan't you go after him?" "i think it my duty to do so. as soon as breakfast is over, ask mr. fogson to come round here. tell him i have news of the fugitive." three-quarters of an hour later simeon fogson was admitted into the august presence of the overseer of the poor. "i hear you have news of jed gilman," he said. "that is what your son percy tells me." "it is true, mr. fogson. the young scapegrace has joined a company of actors. what is he coming to?" "to the gallows, i think," answered fogson. "but how did you learn this?" "percy saw him on the stage last evening." "and he actually played a part?" "yes." "in his ragged suit?" "no," answered percy. "he had a telegraph boy's suit first, and afterwards a nice brown suit--as nice as mine." "where did he get 'em?" asked fogson. "that's the question!" returned the squire solemnly. "there is a strange mystery about the boy's goings on. have you observed anything queer in his conduct of late?" "i have noticed that he has been unusually impudent. ha, i have it!" said fogson, suddenly, slapping his thigh. "what have you?" asked percy. "there was an actor stayed at the poorhouse night before last--an actor named bertram. it is he that has lured jed astray." "there was an actor by that name in the play last evening." "then that settles it. squire dixon, what shall i do?" "i think, mr. fogson, you had better go at once to duncan--i will lend you my buggy--and secure the boy, tying him hand and foot, if necessary, and take him back to the poorhouse." simeon fogson smiled grimly. it was an errand that suited him. "i will do so," he said, "and i will lose no time." "don't ask for jed gilman," suggested percy. "ask for ralph clinton. that's the name he goes by now." mr. fogson drew out a stub of a lead-pencil and put down this name. in twenty minutes he was on his way, and an hour later he drew up in front of the hotel in duncan. he left the buggy and entered the public room of the inn. "is there such a boy as ralph clinton here?" he asked the clerk. "yes; do you want to see him?" "i should like very much to see him," answered fogson grimly. "he is in no. . jim, show the gentleman up. he is sick." fogson nodded. "i dare say," he added significantly. "i guess his acting made him sick." "yes, that's what i heard. is he your son?" "no, but i am his guardian." fogson was quite elated at so easily getting on the track of the fugitive. "sick!" he repeated to himself, as he ascended the staircase. "i guess he'll be sick before he gets through with me." the servant knocked at no. , and a boy's voice was heard to say "come in!" the door was opened, and fogson, rushing in, grasped the arm of a boy sitting in a rocking-chair. "i've got you, you young rascal!" he exclaimed. "what do you mean, you lunatic?" demanded the boy in a clear voice, higher pitched than was jed's. then for the first time fogson, who was shortsighted, found out that the boy was not jed, but a youth of lighter complexion and slighter physique. he fell back in confusion. "i was told you were ralph clinton," he explained, looking rather foolish. "i am ralph clinton." "but i want jed gilman." "then why don't you look for jed gilman? what have i got to do with him?" "do you act with the gold king company?" "yes, when i am well." "did you act last evening?" "no; there was another boy that took my place." "that's the one i want. he ran away from me." "are you his father?" "no, i'm his guardian." "i don't like your looks," said ralph, who was a very free-spoken young man. "i don't blame him for running away from you." fogson scowled. "i believe you're as bad as he," he growled. "there's one thing sure--i'm going to get the boy back. where is he?" "on the road, i expect. he will take my place till i get well." "not much, he won't. have the rest of the actors left duncan?" "you'd better ask down stairs. i'm not going to help you get the boy back." fogson had nothing to do but to go down again to the public room. the clerk told him that the company were to play that evening at bolton, twelve miles away, and were probably there now, having taken the morning train. "twelve miles away!" thought fogson in dismay. "i can't drive so far as that. squire dixon wouldn't like to have me drive his horse so many miles. what shall i do?" this was a question easier asked than answered. if he had not been burdened with the horse and buggy he would have taken the next train for bolton. as it was, he didn't feel at liberty to do this. he wished squire dixon were at hand, so that he might ask his advice, for he felt quite unable to decide for himself what was best to be done. as he stood beside his team in a state of indecision he heard the sound of approaching wheels, and looking up, recognized dr. redmond's carriage. "what brings you to duncan, mr. fogson?" asked the doctor with a peculiar smile. "i've come after that rascal jed." "is he here?" asked the doctor innocently. "he has run away from the poorhouse and joined some strolling players. he played in the theatre last evening." "did he, indeed?" asked the doctor, really surprised. "he must be a smart boy to take up acting so suddenly." "he is a very impudent boy." "is he? then i should think you would be glad to get rid of him." "i don't mean to let him off so easily. i'm going to bring him back to the poorhouse, and when i get hold of him i'll----" mr. fogson nodded his head significantly. it was clear that he intended that the way of the transgressor should be hard. "it strikes me, mr. fogson, that you are acting in a very foolish manner," said the doctor. "why am i?" "i will tell you. jed has got tired of being supported by the town, and he has taken the matter into his own hands. in other words, he proposes to relieve the town of the expense of his maintenance. the town will doubtless be glad to have one dependent less on its hands. you appear to want to get him back, and make the town once more responsible for his support. is it not so?" fogson looked blank. the matter had never presented itself to him in that light before. "you certainly won't make yourself very popular by this action," proceeded dr. redmond. "as a good citizen you ought to be glad that the town's expenses are lessened." "would you have me let the boy go?" fogson ejaculated. "certainly, i would. jed is able to support himself, and there is no earthly reason for keeping him in the poorhouse. i advise you to represent the matter to squire dixon, and see what he thinks about it." mr. fogson drove home slowly. he found it hard to have jed escape from his clutches, but squire dixon, upon consultation, reluctantly decided that perhaps it was best to drop the matter then and there. no one was more disappointed over this decision than percy dixon. chapter xiv. jed's luck. jed continued to act in the part assigned to him. he knew that he was liable to be superseded at any time by ralph clinton, but he did not care to borrow trouble. as a matter of fact, however, he was allowed to play till the end of the season, but this was not very far off. warm weather had set in, and audiences became small. one day harry bertram called jed aside. "well, jed," he said, "i am afraid we must part." "why, mr. bertram?" "the weather has become so warm that we are no longer paying expenses. mr. mordaunt has decided to close the season on saturday night." jed looked blank. he didn't know what would come next. "i thought we might hold out another week, and we might if the weather had remained comfortable, but people won't come to see 'the gold king' or any other play when the thermometer stands at eighty degrees." "what shall you do, mr. bertram?" "fall back on my trade, if possible." "what is that?" "i am a telegraph operator, and i may be able to fill in the summer in some western union office. i have to work at summer prices, but as long as i make my board and lodging i shall be content." "i wish _i_ had a trade," said jed thoughtfully. "you don't feel like going back to your old home?" "in the scranton poorhouse? not much!" answered jed energetically. "i'll starve first. have you got any place engaged?" "no, but i have worked two summers at sea spray, an atlantic coast summer resort. i shall go there and see if there is an opening." "is it far away?" "about fifty miles. i'll tell you what, jed, you had better come with me. something may turn up for you." "what is the fare, mr. bertram?" "about a dollar and a half. you will have some money coming to you. you haven't been paid anything yet, have you?" "no; i didn't suppose i was entitled to any." "you will get something. i will speak to the treasurer and arrange matters for you." accordingly on saturday evening, after the last performance, jed was made happy by receiving twelve dollars, or at the rate of four dollars per week for the time he had been employed. "mr. mordaunt directs me to say that he would pay you more if the business would permit," said the treasurer. "tell him this is more than i expected," said jed elated. "that isn't professional," remarked bertram smiling. "actors generally claim to be worth a good deal more than they are paid." "i haven't been on the stage long enough to be professional," said jed. early on monday morning jed and his friend bertram took the cars for sea spray. as they neared the coast, the ocean breeze entered cool and refreshing through the open windows. presently the cars stopped, only two hundred feet from the bluff, and jed for the first time gazed with delight at the atlantic billows rolling in on the beach. "this is beautiful!" he exclaimed. "i hope i can stay here all summer." "have you never seen the sea before?" "no; i have never travelled before. all my life has been spent at scranton." "take a walk with me along ocean avenue, and i will see what chance there is of my obtaining employment." harry bertram made his way to the principal hotel, where he knew there was a western union office. he told jed to sit down in the reading-room while he sought for information. in ten minutes he came back with a smile of satisfaction on his face. "i am in great luck," he said. "the operator here has just been summoned home by the serious illness of his father in chicago. he was considering whom he could get to take his place when i presented myself. the result is that i am engaged to take charge of the telegraph office at twelve dollars a week and my board." "then you are provided for." "yes. i can get through the summer very well." "i should think so. you will have the twelve dollars a week clear." "no; i must get a room outside. however, my predecessor has recommended his--in a private house about a quarter of a mile from the shore--at only four dollars a week." "then i suppose we must part," said jed with a tinge of sadness. "no, jed. you shall room with me, and your room will cost you nothing. as to meals, i can see you through till you secure some work." "but i don't want to be a burden upon you, mr. bertram." "i don't mean that you shall be, any longer than is necessary. it will go hard if a boy like you can't find something to do that will buy his meals at a crowded watering-place." "thank you, mr. bertram. i have money enough left to buy my meals for two weeks at least." "if we were at a regular office i could employ you as messenger, but most of the messages will come to guests in the hotel." "i don't know exactly what i can do, but i am ready to do anything." "except black boots," said bertram with a smile. "i don't think i should like to do that if there is anything else to be found." "i couldn't think of allowing a member of our honorable profession to undertake such menial employment." harry bertram went to work that evening. jed kept him company in the office a part of the time, and during the three succeeding days went from one hotel to another to see if he could obtain anything to do. but every position had been filled for the season. jed began to fear that there was no work for him at sea spray. on the fourth morning, as he was sitting with bertram, a gentleman whom he had several times seen--a guest of the house--approached them. "is this boy your brother?" he asked of bertram. "no, but he is my valued friend. in fact, i may call myself his guardian for the time being." "yes," assented jed with a smile. "he does not assist you?" "no, he knows nothing of telegraphy." "would you like employment?" asked the gentleman, turning to jed. "i am very anxious to get work," said jed quickly. "then i think i may be able to meet your wishes. how old are you?" "sixteen." "you may have seen a boy of ten walking about with me?" "yes, sir." "he is my son. he and i are here alone, but until yesterday i had a nurse in my employ whose sole business was to look after chester. i felt entire confidence in her, but discovered last evening that she had purloined some jewelry belonging to me. of course i discharged her instantly, and in consequence am obliged to find some one in her place. "chester objects to another nurse. it hurts his boyish pride to have a woman accompanying him everywhere. it appears to me that a boy old enough to look after him will suit him much better. but perhaps you would not like being encumbered with a small boy?" "i should like it very much, sir," said jed. "i like young boys, and i am sure i should like your son." "come up stairs, then. i will see how he likes you." jed followed his new acquaintance up to a suite of two rooms on the second floor. a young boy was at the window. he looked inquiringly at his father and jed. "come here, chester," said the former. "are you quite sure you don't want another nurse?" "yes," answered the boy. "some of the boys in the hotel call me 'sissy' because i have a girl always with me." "would you prefer this boy?" chester took a long, close look at jed, who met his glance with a smile. "yes," said the little boy confidently. "i shall like him much better than a girl." "that settles it," said mr. holbrook in a tone of satisfaction. "what is your name?" "jed gilman." "what was your last employment?" "i took the boy's part in 'the gold king.'" "are you an actor?" asked chester, much interested. "not much of one." "you must have some talent," remarked mr. holbrook, "or mr. mordaunt, who is a manager of reputation, would not have employed you. is your season over?" "yes, sir." "i think you will suit me. i am obliged to be in new york every day on business, and this leaves chester alone. i wish you to act as his companion, to go with him on the beach and in bathing, and to look after him while i am away. are you boarding here?" "no, sir; i could not afford it." "i shall arrange to have you take meals here with chester, but after eight o'clock in the evenings you will be your own master. now as to the matter of compensation. will ten dollars a week satisfy you?" "ten dollars a week and my meals?" "yes." "i didn't expect so much." "i like to pay liberally, and expect to be well served." "when shall i commence, sir?" "at once. i want to take the next train for the city. as i go down stairs i will tell them that you are to take your meals here. now, chester, i will leave you with your new friend, as i have barely time to reach the next train for new york." chapter xv. two odd acquaintances. "ten dollars a week!" repeated harry bertram, to who jed communicated his good luck. "why, that is famous!" "ten dollars a week and my meals!" "better still. that is better than acting." "i don't know how i shall suit mr. holbrook." "you will suit him if you suit the boy." by this time chester made his appearance. "i want to walk on the beach," he said. "come, jed." and the boy put his hand confidingly in that of jed. they descended the steps that led from the bluff to the beach, and walked leisurely up and down on the sand. presently chester expressed a wish to sit down, and before long was engaged with a small wooden spade in making a sand fortification. relieved from duty, since his young charge could come to no harm, jed had leisure to watch the crowds passing him in both directions. presently a thin, dark-complexioned man, of perhaps thirty-five, after walking up and down the beach, came to a stop, and, apparently without motive, seated himself on the sand beside chester and his youthful guardian. "a pleasant day," he remarked, looking at jed. "yes," answered jed politely. he was not favorably impressed by the stranger's appearance, but recognized the claims of courtesy. "is this little boy your brother?" "no," answered jed. "i thought perhaps you brought him down to the beach." "i did." "i have seen him about before--with a girl." "that was clara, my old nurse," said chester, who caught the drift of the conversation. "i haven't got any nurse now," he added proudly. "i saw you talking to clara one day," he added, after a closer examination of the stranger's features. "oh, no, my little boy!" said the man, seeming annoyed. "i don't know clara, as you call her." "then you look just like the man that was talking with her." the stranger opened his mouth and smiled unpleasantly. "i dare say there are people that look like me," he said, "though i can't say i ever met one. what is your name, my little friend?" "i am not your friend," said chester, who did not appear favorably impressed by his new acquaintance. "my little enemy, then." "my name is chester holbrook." "and how old are you?" "ten years old. how old are you?" again the man's lips opened in an unpleasant smile. "you have an inquiring mind, chester," he said. "i am--thirty years old." "you look older than that." "i am afraid that is not polite, chester," said jed gently. "why isn't it?" asked chester innocently. "people don't like to be thought older than they are." "oh, never mind," said the dark man. "a child is licensed to say what he pleases. so he is your charge?" "yes, sir." "i don't think i have seen you here before. have you known mr. holbrook long?" "no." then upon the impulse of the moment jed inquired, "do you know him?" the man's face changed, and he looked a shade embarrassed. "why do you think i know him?" he asked. "i don't think it, but as you seemed interested in the boy, i asked you the question." "oh, that's it. i have seen mr. holbrook, and i may have spoken to him. i can't be sure on the subject, as i meet a good many people. are you going in bathing?" "do you want to bathe, chester?" asked jed. "no; papa told me not to go to-day, as i have a cold." "i thought perhaps i would have had your company in the surf. well, i must be going or i shall be late for the bath." the stranger got up slowly and sauntered away. "i don't like that man. do you, jed?" asked chester. "not very much. i never saw him before." "i have seen him. i saw him one day last week." "did you see him on the beach?" "yes; he came up and talked with clara." "but he said you were mistaken about that." "i was not mistaken," said chester positively. "i remember him very well." "do you remember what he was talking about?" asked jed, struck by what the boy said. "yes; he was asking questions about me." "he seems a good deal interested in you. perhaps he is especially fond of small boys." chester shook his head. "i don't think he is," he answered. when the bathing hour was over they ascended the steps and took seats in a summer house on the bluff. ten minutes later a tall woman, with piercing black eyes and a swarthy complexion, entered the arbor and sat down beside them. "do you want your fortune told?" she asked of jed. he shook his head. "i don't believe in fortune-tellers," he said. "don't you? let me convince you of my power. give me your hand." there seemed a fascination about the woman, and almost involuntarily he suffered her to take his hand. "you look prosperous," she began abruptly, "but your life has been full of poverty and privation. is this true?" "yes," answered jed, impressed in spite of himself by the woman's words. "shall i tell you where your early years were passed?" "no," answered jed, with a quick look at chester. he did not care to have the boy hear that his life had been passed in the scranton poorhouse. "you are right. the knowledge could do no good and might embarrass you. you admit that i have told the truth?" "yes." "then shall i tell you of the future?" jed did not answer, but the woman took his assent for granted and went on. "you will be rich--some day." "shall i? i am glad to hear that. but i don't know where the wealth is to come from." "it is not necessary for you to know. it will be enough if it comes." "i agree with you there," said jed, smiling. "will it be soon?" "that is a question which i might answer, but i will not." "i don't care to know, as long as i am to be prosperous some day. shall i ever go back to--to the place where my earlier years were passed?" "you may, but not to live. that part of your life is over." "i am glad of that at any rate. one question more. shall i meet my--any one belonging to me--any one to whom i am related?" jed fixed his eyes anxiously upon the fortune-teller, for skeptical as he was at first, he was beginning to have some confidence in her claims to knowledge. "yes." "when?" "don't seek to know more. let me look at this boy's hand. do you want me to tell your fortune, my pretty?" chester laughed. "yes," he said. "perhaps you can tell me if i will ever be a soldier. i would like to be a general." "no; you will never be a soldier, but you will have a fight before you." "a fight? what kind of a fight?" the fortune-teller turned to jed and said rapidly, "this boy is threatened with a serious danger. he has an enemy." "how can a young boy have an enemy?" "there are few who do not have enemies," said the woman sententiously. "can you describe the enemy?" "he is a dark man, not tall, but taller than you. he is thin." "i met such a man on the beach," said jed, surprised. "i met him only this morning. is he the one you mean?" "when you meet such a man beware of him!" said the woman, and without waiting for a reply she rose from her seat and walked away rapidly. "what a funny old woman!" said chester. "i am hungry. let us go up to the hotel. it is time for lunch." jed's face became thoughtful. what he had heard left a deep impression upon his mind. chapter xvi. miss holbrook, spinster. it was at first on jed's mind to tell mr. holbrook of his encounter with the young man upon the beach and his subsequent conversation with the fortune-teller and her predictions in regard to chester. but he was afraid of being laughed at. moreover, as the days passed the impression made upon his mind became weaker, and was only recalled when from time to time he saw the young man on the sands or walking on the bluff. he got on very well with chester. the boy became strongly attached to him, much to the satisfaction of his father. "so you like jed, do you?" said mr. holbrook one evening, on his return from the city. "yes, papa, i like him ever so much." "do you like him as much as clara?" "why, i don't like her at all." time wore on till the middle of august. jed enjoyed his generous meals and the sea bathing which he shared in company with his young charge. he still lodged with harry bertram, but he shared the expense of the room. but a change was coming, and an unwelcome one. "chester," said his father one evening, "i am going away for a week or ten days." "take me with you, papa!" "no, i cannot. i am called to chicago on business, and you will be much better off here at the beach." "jed will stay with me?" "yes, and i have sent for your aunt maria to come and look after you while i am gone." "but i don't like aunt maria," objected the little boy. "she's always scolding me. she doesn't like boys." "perhaps not," said mr. holbrook with a smile. "if maria had married it might have been different, but i believe few maiden ladies are fond of children." "then why do you have her come here, papa? jed can take care of me." "i have great confidence in jed, chester, but you will need some one to look after your clothes and oversee you in other ways." "isn't there any one else you can send for, papa? i don't like old maids." "don't trouble me with your objections, chester. it will only be for a little while, remember. i am sure you can get along with your aunt for ten days." "i will try to," answered the boy with a look of resignation. the next day miss maria holbrook came to sea spray with her brother. she was a tall, slender lady of middle age, with a thin face, and looked as if she were dissatisfied with a large proportion of her fellow-creatures. chester looked at her, but did not show any disposition to welcome her to the beach. "you may kiss me, chester," said the lady with an acid smile. "thank you, aunt maria, but i am not particular about it." "well, upon my word!" ejaculated the spinster. "my own brother's child, too!" "kiss your aunt, chester," said his father. "no, it is not necessary," put in miss holbrook sharply. "i don't want any hypocritical caresses. robert, i am afraid you are spoiling that boy." "oh, no, maria, not quite so bad as that. chester is a middling good boy." miss maria holbrook sniffed incredulously. "i am afraid you judge him too leniently," she said. "well, you can tell better after you have had time to observe him. it is two years now since you have seen chester." "let us hope that my first impressions may be modified," said the spinster in a tone that indicated great doubt whether such would be the case. "jed, you may go. chester will not need you any more this evening," said mr. holbrook. "thank you, sir," said jed, and walked away. "who is that boy?" asked the spinster abruptly, looking at him through her eyeglasses. "he is in charge of chester while i am in the city." "why, he is only a boy!" "is that against him?" "i thought chester had a nurse." "so he did, but she proved dishonest." "then why didn't you engage another?" "because chester felt sensitive about having a girl following him. the other boys in the hotel laughed at him." "let them laugh!" said miss holbrook severely. "are you to have your plans changed by a set of graceless boys?" "as to that, maria, i find this boy more satisfactory, both to chester and myself." "humph! what is his name?" "jed." "a very plebeian name." "it isn't exactly fashionable, but names are not important." "i beg your pardon. i think names _are_ important." "perhaps that is the reason you have never changed yours, maria. you might have been mrs. boggs if you had been less particular." "i would rather remain unmarried all my life. but where did you pick up this boy?" "i met him in the hotel." "was he boarding here?" "no; i think he was boarding somewhere in the village." "do you know anything of his family?" "no." "do you know anything of his antecedents?" continued miss holbrook. "yes; he played a part last season in the 'gold king.'" "heavens and earth!" ejaculated the spinster, holding up her hands in horror. "do you mean to tell me that you have placed your son in the charge of a young play actor?" mr. holbrook laughed. "why not?" "i am surprised that you should ask. you know as well as i do the character of actors." "i know that some of them are very estimable gentlemen. as to jed, he has not been long on the stage, i believe." "do you know anything of his family? is he respectably connected?" "i didn't think it important to inquire. it seems to me that the boy's own character is much more to the point. i have found jed faithful and reliable, without bad habits, and i feel that chester is safe in his hands." "oh you men, you men!" exclaimed miss holbrook. "you don't seem to have any judgment." "i suppose," said mr. holbrook with good-natured sarcasm, "that all the good judgment is monopolized by the old maids. what a pity they have no children to bring up." "brother!" said miss holbrook in a freezing tone. "i beg your pardon, maria, but please credit me with a little good sense." miss holbrook went up to the room assigned her with an offended expression, and had nothing further to say about jed that evening. the next morning jed reported for duty just as mr. holbrook was leaving for his journey. "look after chester while i am gone, jed," said mr. holbrook pleasantly. "this is my sister, miss maria holbrook, who will take my place here while i am gone." jed took off his hat politely, and miss holbrook honored him with a slight inclination of her head and a forbidding look. "good-by, maria! i will telegraph you on my arrival in chicago." "good-by, brother! you need have no apprehensions about chester while i am here." "i shall rest quite easy. between you and jed i am sure he will come to no harm." miss holbrook pursed up her mouth at the conjunction of her name with jed's, but said nothing. "shall i go and take a walk with jed?" asked chester. "yes, in a moment. i wish to speak to the young man first." "what young man?" "jedediah." "jedediah!" echoed chester with a merry laugh. "how funny that sounds!" "i apprehend that jedediah is your right name," said miss holbrook severely. "i suppose so," answered jed. "you _suppose_ so?" "i mean that i have always been called jed. i don't remember ever having been called by the full name." "don't your parents call you so?" "my parents are not living." "when did they die?" jed looked troubled. "when i was a baby," he answered gravely. "indeed! then who brought you up?" "mr. and mrs. avery." "were they any relations of yours?" "no, but they were very kind to me." "come along, jed! there's the steamboat just leaving the pier!" called chester impatiently. without waiting to be further questioned jed answered the call of his young charge. he was glad to get away, for he felt that the spinster might ask him some questions which he would find it difficult to answer. chapter xvii. jed meets an old acquaintance. jed was not long in finding that chester's aunt looked upon him, if not with hostility, at least with distrust. this was an unpleasant discovery. mr. holbrook had always appeared to have confidence in him, and approved his management of his son. while chester and jed were walking on the beach miss holbrook took a seat upon the bluff and watched them through her spectacles, as jed could not help seeing. "i say, jed," asked the little boy, "how do you like aunt maria?" "i don't feel very well acquainted with her yet," answered jed cautiously. "_i_ don't like her!" said chester emphatically. "why not?" "oh, she's always scolding and finding fault. papa says it's because she's an old maid." jed smiled. "i wish papa had not sent for her," went on chester. "we could get along well enough without her." "i think _we_ should get along very well together, chester." "i am sure we should. have you got any old maid aunts?" "not that i know of," replied jed soberly, as he had forced upon him the thought of his solitary condition. "then you are lucky. i'll give you aunt maria if you want her." "perhaps she might not consent to be given away, chester." half an hour later jed met with a surprise, and one not altogether agreeable. "hello! you here!" exclaimed an amazed voice that sounded familiar to jed. he looked up and saw percy dixon approaching. "oh, it's you, percy?" he said. "when did you arrive?" "this morning. father and i are staying at the spray house." this was the largest hotel, and percy mentioned the name with evident pride. "it is a nice hotel," responded jed. "i should say so. why, it's the most expensive one here. but you haven't told me how you came here." "i have been here for some weeks." "where do you live?" "i have a room in the village, but i take my meals at the spray house." "you take your meals at the spray house?" ejaculated percy. "yes." "how can you afford it?" "this boy's father pays my board. i look after chester." "what's your name?" asked chester, who was by no means bashful. "percy dixon," answered percy politely, for he judged that chester belonged to a rich family. "so you know jed?" "yes. i have that honor," returned percy with a curl of the lip. "when did you leave off acting?" he asked, turning to jed. "at the end of the season. few dramatic companies play during the summer." "are you going to play with them again?" "i don't know yet. the boy whose place i took may be ready to take his own part in the fall." "i saw your old friends mr. and mrs. fogson just before i came away," said percy significantly. "wouldn't you like to know how they are?" "no; i feel no particular interest in them." "they are interested in you. fogson says he's bound to get you back some time." "i don't care to talk of them," said jed coldly. "are you going in bathing?" asked chester. "yes, i think so. do you go in?" "shall we go in, jed?" asked the little boy. "yes, if you like, chester." the three boys repaired to the bathing-houses and prepared for their bath. as they walked up to the hotel together afterwards, percy remarked: "it seems strange to see you in such a place as this." "i suppose so." "it's funny how you get on. how did you get the chance to take care of the little boy?" jed explained. "is chester's father rich?" "i presume so, from what i hear." "is he here now?" "no; he is in chicago for a week or ten days." "and is there no one except you to take care of the boy?" "there is an aunt of chester's in the hotel--his father's sister. there she is now!" and jed pointed out miss maria holbrook. percy noticed her attentively, and was observed in turn by the spinster, who privately resolved to seek some information about jed from one who appeared to know him. after dinner, while on the piazza, miss holbrook noticed percy sitting but a few feet distant. "ahem!" she began. "young man, will you do me the favor to move your chair a little nearer?" percy did so gladly. he wished for a chance to become acquainted with jed's employers. "thank you. may i ask your name?" "percy dixon." "i noticed that you seemed to be acquainted with the boy who is in charge of my young nephew chester." "yes, ma'am, i know him." "have you known him long?" "as far back as i can remember." "did you live in the same town?" "yes, ma'am." "where?" "scranton." "you must pardon my curiosity, but my brother--chester's father--engaged this boy without apparently knowing much about him, except that he had been on the stage." "he wasn't on the stage long." "perhaps not, but probably he didn't get any good from it. what is your opinion of him. though, as you are his friend----" "i am _not_ his friend!" said percy bluntly. "then you haven't a high opinion of him?" said miss holbrook eagerly. "no; i never liked him." "i don't like him myself, though i can't tell exactly why not, and i am bound to say that chester and his father seem infatuated with him." "i think you are quite right, miss holbrook." "i can't help thinking there is some mystery about him." "you are right, miss holbrook. there _is_ a mystery about him." "i was sure of it," exclaimed the spinster. "what is the character of his relations?" "he has none that i know of." "i believe he told me his parents were dead, and that he was brought up by a mr. and mrs. avery." "ho, ho!" laughed percy. "why do you laugh?" "at his being brought up by mr. and mrs. avery." "isn't it true, then?" "yes; but he probably didn't tell you that mr. and mrs. avery had charge of the scranton poorhouse." "what!" ejaculated the spinster. "it is as i say. until a few weeks since jed was an inmate of the scranton poorhouse." "and this boy is actually in charge of my nephew!" exclaimed miss holbrook, overwhelmed with horror. "yes; i was very much surprised to see jed in such company." "my poor brother must be quite unaware of this astounding fact!" "no doubt, miss holbrook. jed is cunning. he wouldn't be very apt to tell your brother that he is a pauper." "a pauper! what a horrid thought! and that boy has actually the effrontery to push himself in among people of position. i can hardly believe it." "if you have any doubt about it, miss holbrook, just write a note to mr. simeon fogson, and ask him what he thinks of jed gilman." "but i thought it was mr. avery who kept the poorhouse." "he did; but when my father became overseer of the poor," said percy with conscious pride, "he removed the averys and put in mr. and mrs. fogson, whom he considered more fit for the office. the averys were weak people and pampered the paupers." "mr. simeon fogson, scranton," miss holbrook entered on her tablets. "really, mr. dixon, i am very much obliged to you for the important information you have given me, and so ought my brother to be. he has been very careless and indiscreet in engaging a boy of unknown antecedents, but it is fortunate that chester has an aunt who is keenly alive to his interests." as she rose to go to her room to write to mr. fogson, percy smiled. "jed gilman will find that his goose is cooked," he said to himself. "won't he be astonished when the thunderbolt falls?" chapter xviii. mr. fogson receives a letter. let us go back to the scranton poorhouse. mr. fogson was sawing wood near the house. it was a task which jed had been accustomed to do, but in his absence it devolved upon mr. fogson, who was very much disinclined to that form of labor, but still more to paying for having it done. he had thought of requiring isaac needham, one of the paupers, to do the sawing; but the old man, who was over seventy-five, proved physically unable to do the work, and very much against his will mr. fogson found himself compelled to undertake it himself. "drat that jed!" he muttered, as he stopped to mop his forehead with his red cotton handkerchief. "it's an outrage for him to throw his work on me. i wish i had him here this blessed minute and could give him a taste of the strap." at this point a neighbor's boy, joe coakley, entered the yard. "here's a letter for you, mr. fogson," he said. "i guess it's from a lady." with considerable surprise mr. fogson took the letter in his hand. the envelope was square, and of fine paper, while the address was in a lady's handwriting. mr. fogson examined the postmark curiously. "sea spray!" he repeated. "why, that's a fashionable watering-place. who can have written me from there?" just then mrs. fogson came out from the side door. "what letter have you there?" she asked. "it is from a lady, mrs. f.," answered her husband with a grin. "what business has a lady writing to you?" demanded mrs. fogson suspiciously. "really i don't know, as i have not read the letter." "give it to me!" "no, thank you. i read my own letters." "mr. fogson, if you are engaged in a private correspondence with any lady i intend to find out all about it." "don't be a fool, mrs. f.; i don't know who the writer is, and i have never had a letter from her before." by this time he had opened the envelope, and his face quickly assumed an expression of interest. "it's about jed," he exclaimed. "i'll read it to you." this was the letter: my dear sir: i am informed that you can give me information as to the past history of jedediah gilman. some weeks ago my brother, robert holbrook, a well-known merchant of new york, engaged the boy as a companion and personal attendant of his young son chester, without knowing much about him or taking the trouble to inquire. having seen the boy, i have doubts as to whether he is a suitable companion for a boy in my nephew's high social station. i learn from young mr. percy dixon, of your town, that you can give me full information as to the boy's antecedents. i shall feel indebted to you if you will take the trouble to communicate with me by letter. my brother is now in chicago, and i am in temporary charge of my nephew. i feel that it is my duty to inquire into the character of a boy who by his intimate association with him may, if he is unworthy, do incalculable harm to his young and trustful nature. yours very truly, maria holbrook, _spray hotel_, sea spray, n. j. "well, upon my word!" ejaculated mrs. fogson. "so that young villain has wormed his way into the confidence of a rich new york merchant!" "like a snake in the grass," suggested simeon fogson. "exactly. it makes me shudder to think what an impostor he is. it is providential that percy dixon should find him out and show him up." "i'll show him up!" said fogson, nodding. "i'll just write to miss holbrook, and tell her of his goin's on. i reckon he won't keep his place long after they get my letter." "you'd better let me write the letter, simeon." "no, mrs. f., the letter was addressed to me, and i'm goin' to answer it." "just as you like, mr. fogson, but you are well aware that you are weak in your spelling." "never mind, mrs. f., i reckon i can make myself understood." "just as you like, fogson. only make it strong enough." "you can trust me for that." chapter xix. discharged. in a front room on the second floor of the spray hotel sat miss maria holbrook with a letter in her hand. it was written on the cheapest note-paper, and inclosed in a plebeian brown envelope. of course it will be understood that it was the epistolary effort of mr. simeon fogson. "just as i thought!" soliloquized the lady. "this boy seems to be a disreputable character of the lowest antecedents, and utterly unworthy to associate even as a servant with a member of my family." here chester entered in his usual impetuous manner. "oh, aunt maria," he cried, "i had a bully bath." "i am shocked to hear you use such a low term as 'bully,' chester," said his aunt. "no doubt you learned it of jedediah." "no, i didn't. jed never uses the word. at least i never heard him." "will you tell jedediah that i wish to see him at once on important business?" "it seems funny to hear you call him jedediah, aunt maria." "i apprehend that it is his right name; 'jed' sounds low." "well, i'll tell him to come up." when jed made his appearance miss holbrook said: "you may go below, chester. i wish to speak to jedediah in private." "what's up now, i wonder?" thought jed. the lady turned upon him a severe look. "jedediah," she said, "is it true that your earlier years were spent at the scranton poorhouse?" "yes, madam," answered jed, coloring. "did you apprise my brother of this fact when he engaged you?" "no, madam. i suppose you learned it from percy dixon." "i learned it from young mr. dixon, but i could hardly believe it. he referred me to mr. simeon fogson, of scranton, and i have a letter from that gentleman in my hand. you probably will not care to read it." "i should like very much to read it, miss holbrook. i should like to know whether mr. fogson tells the truth." "here is the letter, then." jed read it with conflicting emotions. respected madam: i am glad to give you the informashun you ask about that young villen jed gilman, who ran away from the poor house some weeks since after a violent assault on me, his offishul guardeen. words cannot tell you how much trouble i have had with that boy. likewise he has been very impident to mrs. fogson. the reeson is that he was too much indulged by my predicesors in offis mr. and mrs. avery. i have tried to do my dooty by the boy, but as squire dixon, the overseer will tell you my efforts has been in vane. i am not supprised that your brother was took in by jed for he is the artfulest boy i ever seen. i hope for the sake of your young nefew's welfare you will discharge him at once and not allow him to corrup his youthful mind. yours respectfully, simeon fogson. "well," said miss holbrook triumphantly, "that doesn't seem to commend you very highly." "no," answered jed, returning the letter to the envelope. "it is such a letter as i should expect mr. fogson to write." "why?" "because he is unfit for his place," answered jed boldly. "he half starves the poor people under his charge, treats them roughly, and is detested by all." "he says you are impudent and troublesome." "i did not allow him to impose upon me." "he says you ran away." "i had a right to leave, as i felt able to support myself. i was recommended to do so by dr. redmond, the best physician in scranton, who is a friend of mine." "i have listened to your side of the story," said miss holbrook coldly, "and the terms in which you speak of mr. fogson convince me that his charges are correct. of course you will not expect me to keep you in charge of my nephew." "will you wait till mr. holbrook returns?" pleaded jed, who felt sad at the prospect of parting with chester. "no; i shall not feel justified in doing so. i will pay you up to date, and assume the charge of chester myself." she drew a bill from her pocket and handed it to jed, who took it mechanically and left the room with a sober face. he was dismissed from his position in disgrace, a disgrace which he felt was not deserved. what was he to do next? chapter xx. jed's poor prospects. jed walked around to the office of his friend harry bertram. the telegraph operator noticed at once that he looked disturbed. "what has happened, jed?" he asked. "i am discharged! that is all." "discharged? who discharged you?" "miss holbrook." "what is her reason? what have you done?" asked bertram, much surprised. "i have done nothing, but she has discovered that i was brought up in the scranton poorhouse," announced jed despondently. "as if that made you any the worse!" ejaculated bertram indignantly. "it isn't to my credit, at any rate. i am ashamed of it myself." "i don't know why you should be ashamed. you have left it, and are now earning your own living." "i was, but i am out of work now, and i may find it hard to get another position." "you can perhaps go back to the stage." "if i can take my part in the 'gold king' i shall be satisfied," said jed hopefully. "when will the season commence?" "september --three weeks from next thursday." at that moment one of the bell boys came to the telegraph office with a letter in his hand. "i have a letter for you, mr. bertram," he said. "ha! this is from mordaunt. now we shall know." he tore open the envelope hastily. his countenance fell, and he handed it in silence to jed. this is the letter. dear bertram: season of the gold king opens at jersey city on the seventh of september. as we shall have two new actors i shall call rehearsals for the tuesday previous. please report at middleton agency in new york on the first. john mordaunt, manager. p. s.--ralph clinton has recovered from his sickness, and will be ready to resume his part. "that settles it!" said jed soberly, as he handed back the letter. "that opening is closed to me." "i am awfully sorry, jed," returned bertram in a tone of sympathy. "perhaps if you enroll your name at the agency you can get a chance in some other play. i will speak a good word for you, and so i am sure will mordaunt." jed shook his head. "i don't think my chance would be very good," he said, "as i have had so little experience. besides, it is three weeks from now. i must try to get work before then." "stay here, jed. i will pay your expenses." "thank you, mr. bertram, but i have more than money enough for that, and you will need all yours. it will be better for me to leave sea spray, and go out in the world in search of work." "i hate to have you go, jed. i shall feel lonesome." "so shall i, mr. bertram, but we are sure to meet again," said jed with forced cheerfulness. "you must promise if things don't go well with you to write to me. you can learn from the _clipper_ or any of the dramatic papers where we are playing." "i'll promise that, harry," said jed, pressing the hand of his friend. "that's right, jed! don't call me mr. bertram again." "i will remember." "don't go till to-morrow." "no, i won't. i shall need a little time to get ready." at this point a message came for bertram to transmit, and jed walked over to the beach, feeling dull and despondent. as he sauntered on slowly with his eyes on the sand some one called out, "hallo, there!" looking up, he met the gaze of percy dixon. "where's chester?" asked percy. "in the hotel, i suppose." "why isn't he with you?" "because he is no longer under my charge," answered jed eyeing percy fixedly. "ho, ho! you don't mean to say that you're bounced!" queried percy, with a look of malicious pleasure. "that is about the size of it." "well, i _am_ surprised," returned percy cheerfully. "what have you been up to?" "nothing." "then why are you discharged?" asked percy with a look of innocent wonder. "i don't think _you_ need ask, percy dixon," said jed coldly. "if you had not made your appearance at sea spray i should have kept my place." "ho, ho! what have i been doing, i should like to know?" asked percy smiling. "i don't need to tell you. you told miss holbrook that i had been brought up in the scranton poorhouse." "well, it's true, isn't it?" "yes, it is true, but you understood very well what would be the result of your communication." "as she asked me about you, i had to tell." "you gave her the name of mr. fogson, and led to her writing to him." "so he's written, has he." "yes; miss holbrook showed me the letter this morning." "what did he say?" asked percy, smiling. "probably miss holbrook will show you the letter if you ask her." "i will. i should like to see what old fogson says. he don't admire you very much." "there is no love lost between us." "well, what are you going to do?" inquired percy, whose weak point was curiosity. "i shall try to get another position." "do you expect to go back to the stage?" "no; my old part in the 'gold king' has been taken by the actor whose place i filled during his sickness." "then you haven't anything in view." "nothing particular." "then i advise you to go back to the poorhouse. fogson will be glad to see you. i will arrange it with father." "you are very kind, but i have no more idea of returning to the poorhouse than you have of making your home there." "i'll thank you not to mention my name in connection with the poorhouse," said percy, coloring and speaking angrily. "i will make the same request of you." "you are getting on your high horse," remarked percy sarcastically. "perhaps so. good morning." "that fellow's the proudest beggar i ever saw," mused percy, as he stood still on the beach and watched jed's receding figure. "it's so ridiculous, too! a boy brought up in a poorhouse! i wonder if he has any idea what a fool he is making of himself." "why is percy so malicious?" thought jed, as he pursued his way, feeling, if anything, a little more despondent than before. "if our situations were changed i should delight in helping him along. he seems determined to force me back to the poorhouse. but i won't go! i'll starve first." to one who has been steadily employed enforced idleness is tedious and tiresome. as jed paced the sands his life seemed perfectly aimless, and he wondered how he was going to get through the day. moreover he missed chester. the boy's warm heart and affectionate ways had endeared him to his young guardian, and jed felt sad to think that in all probability he should never again be on terms of intimacy with the little fellow. plunged in thought and despondent he sauntered along till suddenly he heard a young fresh voice, that brought a brighter look to his face. "jed, jed!" jed turned, and saw only a couple of rods distant the boy of whom he had been thinking, walking beside his tall and stately aunt, who, after discharging jed, had felt obliged to undertake the charge of her young nephew herself. "why, chester!" said jed with a bright smile. chester broke away from his aunt, and running up to jed took his hand confidingly. "aunt maria says you are going away!" he broke out. "what makes you go away?" "your aunt has sent me away," announced jed. "but i won't let you go," said the little boy, taking a firmer grip of jed's hand. "come back directly, chester!" said miss holbrook frowning. "i want to stay with jed," said chester rebelliously. "but i don't want you to stay with him. come back directly, you naughty boy!" exclaimed miss holbrook angrily. "i'd rather stay with jed!" "jedediah!" said miss holbrook, turning a look of displeasure upon jed. "i am sorry that you incite chester to acts of disobedience." "miss holbrook," returned jed independently, "i don't think i have done what you charge me with. i like chester, and i cannot drive him away." "that is all very well, but i understand your motives. you want to force me to take you back." "excuse me, i have no such thought. if your brother will take me back i shall be glad to return to him." "i will see that he does not recall you. chester, if you don't come back at once i will punish you." looking at his aunt's angry face, chester very reluctantly felt compelled to obey. "kiss me, jed!" he said. jed bent over and kissed the little boy. tears nearly came to his eyes when he felt that it might be for the last time. "i trust, jedediah," said miss holbrook stiffly, "that your sense of propriety will prevent your speaking to chester again." "miss holbrook," said jed with a tremor in his voice, "as i am to leave sea spray to-morrow morning i shall hardly meet chester again." then, as chester walked away unwillingly with his aunt, jed's heart sank within him. in all the world he seemed to be alone, and he cared little at that moment what was to become of him in the future. chapter xxi. jed arrives in new york. jed counted over his money and found he had thirty-nine dollars and thirty-seven cents. he would have had more, but he had supplied himself with clothes, so that he was on the whole very well provided in that way. he resolutely refused to borrow from harry bertram, though the actor pressed a loan upon him. "no, harry," he said, "i have almost forty dollars, and i am sure that will last me till i can earn some more." "well, perhaps so," replied the actor, "but you have no idea how fast money melts away. what are your plans?" "i am afraid i haven't any," answered jed, looking perplexed. "i want to make a living, but i don't know what i am fit for." "where do you mean to go?" "i think i should like to go to new york," answered jed. "i have never been there." "you will find the city very dull at this time of year. business is very quiet in august." "but there must be a good many chances in a city of over a million inhabitants." "well, perhaps you may as well find out for yourself. i am afraid you will be disappointed." jed attached considerable importance to the opinion of his friend bertram, but in his own mind there was a conviction that the other exaggerated the chances of failure. he was of a sanguine temperament himself, and this made him hopeful. there were two ways of reaching new york from sea spray. one was a combination of cars and boat, the other took one all the way by steamer. this, on the whole, jed preferred. with his modest gripsack in his hand he passed over the gang-plank and took a seat forward. next to him was a tall, thin man, dressed in shabby attire, who did not appear to have shaved for several days. though the weather was warm, he had his coat buttoned tight across his chest, possibly to conceal the lack of a vest. when the boat had been perhaps fifteen minutes under way, he turned and eyed jed with some attention. "are you staying at sea spray this summer, young man?" he asked. "i have spent some weeks there," answered jed. "i suppose you are going to new york for the day?" "no; i am going for good. that is i hope i am going for good." "you are going to fill a business position, perhaps?" "i hope so, but i have none engaged." "are you acquainted in new york?" "no; i have never been there. this will be my first visit." "indeed! this is very interesting. i should be glad to help you to a position." jed thought privately that his new acquaintance must stand quite as much in need of a place as he, but courtesy led him to say, "thank you." "have you any particular choice as to the business you take up?" "no; anything that will enable me to pay my expenses will satisfy me." "just so. you have heard of h. b. claflin, probably?" "yes; he is a dry goods merchant." "on a very large scale. i have a mind to give you a letter to him." "do you know him?" asked jed doubtfully. "yes; horace and i used to go to school together. he was older than i, but we were pretty intimate." "why don't you apply for a position for yourself?" "dry goods are not in my line. i am an editor--that is, an editorial writer." "indeed!" jed had read from time to time squibs and witty paragraphs touching the poverty of editors, and this seemed to explain the shabby appearance of his new friend. "what paper do you write for?" he ventured to ask. "i contribute editorially to most of the city dailies. sometimes i get as high as fifteen and twenty dollars a column." jed was rather surprised at this. he concluded that mr. hamilton barry--for this was the name the stranger had given--was not a very good financial manager. "that seems a high price," said jed. "yes, but brain-work ought to be paid handsomely. do you ever write for publication yourself?" "oh, no," said jed, flattered nevertheless by the question. "i haven't education enough." "i thought if you did i might get you something to do. but perhaps business is more in your line?" "i think it will be." "then i had better write you a note to mr. claflin. when we get to the city i will run into some hotel and write you a letter of recommendation." "but, mr. barry, you don't know me. how can you recommend me?" "my dear boy, i judge you by your appearance. besides, i know something of phrenology, and you have a good head--a very good head. i read in it honesty, integrity, enterprise and fidelity. those qualities certainly ought to qualify you to succeed in business." "i don't know anything about phrenology, but i hope it's true." "my young friend you may rely implicitly on the verdict of the wonderful science." "i shall be glad to," said jed smiling, "since, as you say, it is so favorable to me." when they reached the pier hamilton barry passed his arm familiarly through jed's, and led the way to a small public house, the office of which seemed also to be a bar. "won't you take a glass of something?" asked the editor. "i don't drink," answered jed, rather embarrassed. "take a glass of sarsaparilla. it won't harm an infant." "thank you. i don't mind." upon this mr. barry stepped up to the bar and ordered one sarsaparilla and one whisky straight. while jed was solemnly drinking the first, the editor poured down the whisky at one gulp. then he felt in his pockets for the fifteen cents which were due. but somehow no silver was forthcoming. "upon my word," he exclaimed, "i must have left my money at home. mr. gilman, can you oblige me with a quarter?" jed produced the required coin. taking it, barry paid the score, and quietly pocketed the change. "now for the letter!" he said. "where is your writing-room?" "haven't got any," answered the barkeeper. "can't you scare up a sheet of paper and an envelope?" after some time these were produced, also a pen and a bottle of ink. barry sat down at one of the tables generally used for bar customers, and in a short time produced a letter which he handed to jed. it ran thus: dear horace: this letter will be handed to you by a talented young friend, who is in search of a business position. mr. j. gilman is in my judgment possessed of superior business qualifications, and will prove a valuable man in your store. i advise you to engage him at once. your old friend, hamilton barry. this note was placed in an envelope directed to horace b. claflin. in the corner barry wrote: "to introduce mr. j. gilman." "there," he said. "take this letter round to claflin and he will undoubtedly give you a good place." he spoke with so much confidence that jed was led to think himself in luck to be the recipient of such a testimonial. "thank you," he said. "i feel very much obliged." "oh don't mention it!" said barry in an airy way. "it gives me pleasure to assist you, mr. gilman, i assure you. when you have ascended round by round until you are at the top of the ladder, i trust you will not forget your chance acquaintance, hamilton barry." "i certainly will not, mr. barry," said jed warmly, grasping the hand of the editor. "i hope some day to thank you as i wish." "my dear boy, the sentiment does you credit. i know you are sincere." "certainly," said jed. "it is because i know this that i venture to suggest that you may do me a favor at once." "what is it?" "let me have a fiver till next monday. i shall then call at the office of the _tribune_ for twenty dollars due me for two editorials published early this week." this request rather staggered jed. now that he had paid his fare to new york he had only about thirty-seven dollars, and five dollars would cut rather seriously into his small balance. "i am afraid," he said awkwardly, "that i can hardly spare five dollars. if two dollars would help you----" "it would materially," interposed barry. "of course it is only a loan. meet me here next monday, at six o'clock, say, after your duties are over at claflin's, and i will gladly repay you." this off-hand allusion to claflin, taking for granted his engagement there, made jed ashamed of his temporary distrust, and he drew from his pocketbook a two-dollar note, which he handed to mr. barry. "thanks," said the editor, as he carelessly slipped it into his pocket. "be here on monday at six o'clock sharp." then with a jaunty air he touched his hat and walked rapidly around the corner. "i think i will go around to claflin's at once," decided jed. "i may as well strike while the iron is hot." chapter xxii. jed makes two calls. on church street jed found an imposing-looking building which a passing policeman informed him was claflin's place of business. the size rather impressed jed, accustomed as he had been hitherto to the small stores in scranton, but he felt that it was no time for diffidence. so he opened the outer door and entered. he found himself in a scene of activity. the shelves were filled with goods, and behind the counters were numerous salesmen. no one took any notice of jed at first till a tall, stout man, in walking across the room, espied him. "any one waiting on you, young man?" he asked. "no," answered jed. "here, wilkins," said the floor-walker, "attend to this young man. what house do you represent?" "none, sir," answered jed uncomfortably, feeling out of place. "ah, you want to buy at retail. go into the next room." "no, sir, i didn't come to buy anything," stammered jed. "i have a letter for mr. claflin." the great merchant is now dead, but at the time of jed's call he was living. "wilkins, you may take the letter and carry it to mr. claflin." wilkins took the letter from jed's hands, walked across the room, and ascended to mr. claflin's office on the second floor. he reappeared within five minutes and signaled to jed to approach. "mr. claflin will see you," he said. "follow me." presently jed found himself in the presence of the great merchant, who surveyed him curiously. "are you mr. j. gilman?" he asked. "yes, sir," answered jed, blushing. "you bring a letter from--" here mr. claflin referred to a note--"from a man who calls himself hamilton barry?" "yes, sir." "i don't know any such man. how did he happen to offer you a letter?" "i told him i wanted a position." "exactly. did he say he knew me?" "yes, sir. he said he used to go to school with you." mr. claflin laughed. "did he borrow any money from you?" "yes," answered jed, surprised that the merchant should have guessed this. "not much, i hope." "two dollars." "that was all?" "no, sir; he treated me to some sarsaparilla and did not have the money to pay for it." "he is evidently a fraud and an impostor. did he say he ever worked for me?" "no, sir; he said he was an editor--that he wrote articles for the daily papers." "when did he offer to repay you?" "next monday, when he had received pay from the _tribune_ for some articles he had written." "what was the man's appearance?" "he was tall, and not very well dressed." "it is hardly likely that he ever wrote an article for the _tribune_ or any other of the city dailies. i hope he did not get all your money?" "no, sir. i have considerable besides." "i advise you to take good care of it, and to steer clear of questionable acquaintances." mr. claflin turned to a letter which he was writing, and jed felt that he was dismissed. mr. claflin had said nothing about taking him into his employment, and he went down stairs feeling mortified and depressed. mingled with these feelings was one of anger at having been so cruelly deceived by his steamboat acquaintance. "i'd just like to meet him again!" soliloquized jed, involuntarily doubling up his fist. "i wonder whether he really writes for the _tribune_?" he asked himself. he decided to solve this question at once, though he had not much doubt on the subject. he wanted to know exactly what he had to depend on. he walked up to broadway, then down to the city hall park, and asked a boy whom he met, "where is the _tribune_ office?" "there it is across the park," said the boy, pointing to a tall building with a lofty tower. "what do you want to do--sell papers?" "no," answered jed. "i want to ask about one of the editors." "you're from the country, ain't you?" "yes. what makes you think so?" "because all the boys in the city know the _tribune_ building. say, what do you do for a livin'?" inquired the boy confidentially. this was rather a puzzling question, but jed, remembering that he had been on the stage for a time, felt justified in answering, "i am an actor." "cracky! you don't say. you ain't little lord fauntleroy, are you?" "no; i played the telegraph boy in the play of 'the gold king.'" "how did you like it?" asked the newsboy, becoming interested. "very much." "are you goin' to play it again?" "no; i took the place of the regular actor for a few weeks while he was sick. now he is well, and i am not needed." "say, does actin' pay well?" asked the boy curiously. "i was paid pretty well." "do you think you could get me a chance?" "i am afraid i can't get another chance myself." the newsboy had no more questions to ask, and jed, following directions, crossed the park and the street beyond to the _tribune_ building. he entered the office, and walked up to a window, beyond which stood a young man who was handing out papers to a purchaser who wanted some back numbers. jed presented himself next, and the clerk looked at him inquiringly. "do you wish to subscribe?" asked the clerk, as jed remained silent. "no; i want to ask whether you have an editor named hamilton barry?" "i don't think so. why do you ask?" "he borrowed some money of me, and said he would pay me when he collected some money due him from the _tribune_." the clerk smiled. "i am sure none of our editors borrow money from boys," he said. "you have been imposed upon, young man." "i guess you are right," responded jed, coloring. "if you like, i will send up to the city editor to inquire if there is a man named barry in his department." "i guess i won't trouble you." jed turned away quite satisfied in his own mind that he had been cleverly swindled and would never see his two dollars again. he reflected that it might have been more, and stoutly resolved not to let any designing persons wheedle him out of any more money. he had never visited new york before, and the streets were all new to him. so he strolled about for a couple of hours, gazing curiously at shops, buildings, streets, and street scenes. this naturally led to a feeling of hunger, and at twelve o'clock he began to look around for a restaurant. he found one on fulton street, and went in. he took a seat on the right-hand side, about midway up the room, and consulted the bill of fare. he found that roast meats were fifteen and twenty-five cents, the latter being for large plates. tea and coffee were five cents each, and pie or pudding was ten cents. he ordered a large plate of roast beef, feeling quite hungry, and a cup of coffee. jed had about half finished his dinner when his attention was drawn by a familiar voice at the next table. looking up, he saw that two men had entered the restaurant since he had been served and were sitting with their backs to him. one of them he recognized, with a thrill of excitement, as his acquaintance of the morning, hamilton barry. "i say, barry," said his companion, "you've had a streak of luck. how do you happen to be in funds?" "i negotiated a loan, my boy." "that is interesting. would the party accommodate me, do you think?" "depends upon your invention, my boy. i told him a plausible story, and did him a favor." "explain." "he was looking for a position, and i gave him a letter of introduction to h. b. claflin." the friend burst into a fit of laughter. "i admire your cheek," he said. "what do you know of claflin?" "i told him that claflin and i went to school together." "a lie, of course?" "yes; i never set eyes on the man in my life." "and on the strength of that you negotiated a loan." "precisely." "how much?" "i struck him for a five, but he only let me have two." "which, of course, you promised to repay." "i told him i would repay him next monday when the _tribune_ paid me for two editorial articles i wrote for them." this tickled the fancy of both, and they burst into uproarious laughter. it may be imagined with what feelings of indignation poor jed listened to these rascals, and understood how adroitly he had been swindled. he felt tempted to get up and address the man who had swindled him in fitting terms, but concluded to wait until he had finished his dinner. he felt particularly angry when barry ordered a high-priced dish--a plate of roast turkey--to be paid for with his money. at last his dinner was over, and taking the check in his hand, jed made his way to the table in front. "mr. barry," he said as calmly as he could, "i believe you owe me two dollars. i shall be glad if you will pay me now." barry looked up quickly, and actually seemed embarrassed when he recognized jed. "confusion!" he ejaculated. "the kid!" chapter xxiii. jed's bad luck. "yes," answered jed coolly, "it is the kid. i have called upon mr. claflin, and also at the office of the _tribune_. probably you can guess what i was told at both places." mr. barry felt that he was in a tight place, but reflecting that jed was only a boy, he determined to bluff him off. "i don't know what you are talking about, boy," he said. "i know nothing of mr. claflin, and have nothing to do with the _tribune_ office." "i am aware of that, but you gave me a letter of introduction to h. b. claflin, and borrowed two dollars of me, promising to pay me when you settled with the _tribune_ for editorial contributions." "there is not a word of truth in this," said barry, fidgeting in his chair. "i have been listening to your conversation for fifteen minutes," continued jed, "and i heard you give an account of the matter to your friend here." barry hesitated a moment. even his brazen hardihood was scarcely adequate to the emergency. he was the more uneasy because a policeman was sitting at the next table but one. "it was only a practical joke, boy," he said hurriedly. "i'll pay you back the two dollars." "that will be satisfactory," returned jed. "but i can't do it to-day. i'll meet you on monday afternoon, as i said. i am in rather a hurry now and must be going." he rose from the table precipitately, and went up to the desk followed by his friend. "shall i stop him?" thought jed. he decided not to do so, as he felt sure barry could not pay him. the loss was not a serious one, but it would not do to make a second mistake. he paid his check and left the restaurant. jed knew very little of new york, even for a country boy. some scranton people doubtless had visited the great city, but, as an inmate of a poorhouse, he had not been thrown in their way. accordingly he was like a mariner without a compass. he could only follow where impulse led. he turned into broadway, and with his gripsack in his hand walked up the great thoroughfare, looking in at shop windows as he strolled along. travelling in this leisurely manner, it was perhaps four o'clock when he reached union square. he was by this time fatigued and ready to rest on one of the benches which he found in the park. one person was sitting there already. it was a slender young man with a diamond ring on one of the fingers of his right hand. at least it looked to be a diamond. he was dressed in rather a showy manner. he was perhaps twenty-two, but so slender that he must have weighed a dozen or fifteen pounds less than jed, who was only sixteen. he looked casually at the country boy as the latter sat down, and presently turned and addressed him. "it is a warm day," he said. "yes," answered jed, who felt lonely and was glad to be social with some one. "i judge from your bag," he glanced at the gripsack, "that you are a visitor to new york." "yes," answered jed frankly. "i have never been in new york before." "that was my case two years ago. now i feel quite like an old resident. are you staying at a hotel?" "no; that is what i should like to ask about. i must spend the night somewhere. can you recommend a _cheap_ hotel?" "why do you go to a hotel? no hotel is cheap in the long run. it is much better to hire a room in a lodging-house and take your meals at restaurants." "yes, i suppose it would be. but i don't know where to find such a lodging-house." "come, i'll make you an offer. i have a room on twenty-seventh street. you shall pay for my supper, and i will let you stay in my room without charge till to-morrow. then if you like it well enough to room with me, i shall be glad to have you." "thank you; how much do you pay for your room?" "four dollars a week. that will be two dollars a piece. that is cheap for the city. you can't get a room at a hotel for less than a dollar a night." "is that so?" asked jed. "that would be seven dollars a week." "precisely." "i couldn't afford to pay that." "there is no reason why you should. i couldn't afford it myself. well, do you accept my offer? do just as you please. of course i have no motive except to give a helping hand to a stranger in the city." "you are very kind," said jed gratefully. "i know so little of new york that i feel quite helpless." "quite natural. i've been through it all." "are you--in business?" rather wondering how his companion should be free at that hour. "yes, i am in a broker's office down town. we have easy hours. i am off for the day at three o'clock." "are you well paid? but perhaps you don't care to tell." "oh, yes, i don't mind. i get twenty dollars a week." "i wish i could get twelve," said jed wistfully. "i shall have to get work soon." "you have some money to keep you while you are waiting for work?" said the other quickly. "yes. i have about thirty-five dollars." the young man's face brightened up. "i am glad for you," he said. "you can make that last a good while, if you are guided by me, and keep down your expenses." "that is exactly what i want to do," responded jed earnestly. "oh well, i will put my experience at your service. i hope you will conclude to room with me. i feel rather lonesome at times. of course i could easily get a roommate, but i am rather particular." "you might not like me," said jed. "i am sure i shall. i can tell in five minutes whether i am going to like a person or not. how old are you?" "sixteen." "indeed! you look older. that's going to help you, you know, about a situation. you can pass for a young man, and they won't think of offering you boy's pay." "perhaps you will be able to advise me about the kind of place i had better apply for." "of course i will. i already begin to take a great interest in you. what kind of work have you done?" "well, i have acted a little." "you don't say so!" ejaculated his new friend in genuine surprise, for he had looked upon jed as an unsophisticated country boy who probably had never seen the inside of a theatre. "i suppose you mean," he suggested as an afterthought, "in some village entertainment." "no; i played in 'the gold king' for some time." "you don't say so! what part did you take?" "the boy's part." the young man regarded jed with more respect. "i shouldn't have thought it," he said. "how did you happen to get such a fine chance as that?" "i knew one of the actors--harry bertram--and the one who played the boy's part regularly was taken sick. i only played about four or five weeks all together." "still that makes you a regular actor. do you think of trying to get a place at daly's or palmer's?" "oh, no. i don't suppose i should stand any show. i could only take a boy's part." "well, we can talk over our plans later. i don't mind confessing that i am hungry. how about yourself?" "i think i could eat some supper." "come along, then. i'll take you to a good restaurant. it's some way off, but it is near my room." "all right." the two rose, and leaving the park, walked up broadway, past the fifth avenue hotel, the hoffman house, and the st. james, till they reached a well-known eating-house known as smith & green's, situated on the east side of broadway, between twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth streets. "come in here. i won't take you to delmonico's, a little further down, as you haven't a private bank to draw from. this is a nice restaurant and moderate in its charges." they entered, sat down at a round table and studied the bill of fare. the prices seemed to be moderate. jed's dinner cost thirty-five cents, but his companion was more lavish in his orders, and ran up a bill of sixty-five cents. "that makes just a dollar," he remarked. it seemed considerable to jed, who decided that he would rather order and pay for his own meals separately hereafter. during the repast jed learned that his new friend's name was maurice graham. "now we'll go around to my room, and you can dispose of your gripsack." "i shall be glad to do so. i am tired of carrying it about." graham led the way to a three-story brick house near seventh avenue, and mounted to a small square room on the upper story. it was plainly furnished with a three-quarters bed, a bureau, and the usual chamber furniture. "you can leave your bag anywhere, and then we will go out for a walk." "i think i would rather stay here and lie down." "all right! make yourself at home. i will go out. shall probably be back by ten." when graham returned at a little past ten he found jed in bed and fast asleep. his eyes sparkled with pleasure. he raised jed's clothes from the chair on which he had thrown them and went through the pockets expeditiously. poor jed's small stock of money was quickly transferred to his own pockets. "he hasn't any watch," soliloquized graham. "that's a pity." when his search was completed he put on his hat again. "i shall sleep in jersey city to-night," he said to himself. "that will be safer." he went out softly, leaving jed alone, the victim of a cruel trick. chapter xxiv. a startling discovery. jed slept on, unconscious of his loss, till the sun flooded the room with golden light. then he opened his eyes and wondered for a moment where he was. but recollection came to his aid, and he recalled the incidents of his meeting with graham and sharing the latter's room. he looked over to the other side of the bed, but his roommate was not to be seen. "i suppose it is late and he has gone to his business," thought jed tranquilly. "probably he didn't want to wake me up." this explanation seemed natural enough till he noticed that the pillow on the right-hand side of the bed did not seem to have been used. lifting the quilt, he discovered that the sheet was smooth. clearly graham had not slept there at all. "what does it mean?" thought jed, perplexed. "why didn't he come back last evening?" this was a question which he could not answer. no suspicion, however, had yet dawned upon him that anything was wrong. "well," he said, jumping out of bed, "i must get up and try for a place. i guess i can find that eating-house where we took supper. let me see, what was the name? oh, smith & green. well, i feel as if i could dispose of a good breakfast." he washed his face and hands and proceeded to dress. mechanically, but not from any feeling of uneasiness, he thrust his hand into his pocket in search of his wallet. the pocket was empty! his heart gave a jump, and he hurriedly examined his other pockets, but it was of no avail. then he looked about the room and on the floor, but there was no trace of the lost wallet. jed felt faint, and his legs trembled under him, as he thought of the terrible situation in which he was placed. he began to connect graham's absence with his loss, and understood that his new acquaintance had played him false. it was a shock to him, for his nature was trustful, and he hated to believe that a young man who had seemed so friendly should prove so treacherous. "what shall i do?" thought poor jed. "i haven't enough money for my breakfast, and i am _very_ hungry." at this point, just as he was ready to go out, there came a knock at the door. jed rose and opened it. he confronted a stout woman of middle age with a very serious expression of countenance that seemed to indicate that she meant business. she regarded jed with surprise. "i expected to see mr. graham," she said. "are you a friend of his?" "i only met him yesterday. he invited me to come and spend the night in his room." "is he here, or has he gone out?" "i don't think he slept here at all last night. he left early in the evening, and said he would come back, but the bed doesn't seem to have been slept in except by myself." "he is very liberal in offering the use of a room that he has not paid for," said the lady sarcastically. "i don't know anything about that," faltered jed. "no, i suppose not. but it's true. he only came here two weeks and a half ago, and paid one week's rent in advance--four dollars. when the next week's rent became due he said that his employer was on a visit to chicago, and he could not get his pay till he came back. do you know whether that is true?" "no, i don't. i never saw him before yesterday afternoon about four o'clock in a park about half a mile from here." "so he wasn't at work at that time?" "no; he said he worked for a broker and got through at three o'clock." "a broker? why he told me he was working in a wholesale house down town. at any rate, i wish he'd pay me the eight dollars he owes me." "i wish he'd pay me the thirty-five dollars he owes me," said jed despondently. "you don't mean to say that you were goose enough to lend him thirty-five dollars?" exclaimed mrs. gately in a crescendo voice. "no; i didn't lend it to him," returned jed bitterly. "he must have taken it out of my pocket when i was asleep." "well, i declare! so he's a thief, too." she looked around the room, and opening a bureau examined the drawers. "he's gone off and taken all of his things," she reported. "that settles it. we shall not see our money again." "i--i don't know what to do," said jed sorrowfully. "did he take _all_ your money?" asked mrs. gately, drawn from a consideration of her own misfortune to that of her fellow-sufferer. "yes, he took every cent," answered jed mournfully. "and the worst of it is that i am a stranger in new york." "well, that is too bad!" said the landlady, an expression of sympathy relieving the severity of her face. "your case is worse than mine. you actually haven't anything left?" "except my gripsack." "and of course you haven't had any breakfast?" "no, ma'am." "well, i do pity you. i suppose you are hungry?" "i don't know when i have ever felt so hungry," answered jed. "i will see that you don't leave the house in that condition at any rate. i'm a poor woman, as any one must be who has to depend on lodgers for an income, but i'm not penniless. come down stairs, mr.--mr.--" "gilman," suggested jed. "and i will skirmish round and scare you up something to eat." "you are very kind," said jed gratefully. "wait and see what you get," returned mrs. gately with a laugh and a softer expression, for jed's case appealed to her heart. she led the way to the front basement. a table was set in the centre of the room. evidently it had not yet been cleared off. "i'm a little behindhand this morning," remarked mrs. gately, beginning to bustle round. "i don't take boarders in a general way, but i have a young girl in the house that works at macy's. i suppose you've heard of macy's?" "no, ma'am." "never heard of macy's? i thought everybody had heard of macy's, fo'teenth street and sixth avenue. luella dickinson works there, and i give her breakfast in the house as a favor. let me see, there's a little coffee left--i'll warm it over--and there's bread and butter, and--i can cook you a sausage, and boil a couple of eggs." "i hope you won't take too much trouble," said jed. "i guess i can afford to take a little trouble, especially as there's no knowing when you will have any dinner." jed owned to himself with a sigh that there was a good deal of doubt on that point. however, it isn't wise to borrow trouble too far in advance, and the odor of the sausage as it was frying was very grateful to his nostrils. he was sure of one meal at any rate, and that was something, though the day before he thought he had enough money to last a month. "i don't think the coffee will do," said mrs. gately, as she bustled round the stove in the next room. "i'll make some fresh. i don't think coffee amounts to much when it is warmed over." jed was of the same opinion, and did not utter a protest. he was very fond of coffee, and felt that with a fresh pot of it the breakfast would be fit for a king. "haven't you got any folks, mr. gilman?" asked the landlady, as she brought the pot of coffee and sat it on the table. "no, ma'am," answered jed. "i am alone in the world." "dear me, that's sad! and so young as you are, too!" "yes, ma'am. i'm only sixteen." "what did you calc'late to do, if you could get a chance?" "anything. i'm not particular." "you haven't any trade, have you?" "no. i've been living in the country most of the time, and did chores on a farm." "well, we haven't many farms in new york," said the landlady with a laugh. "no. i suppose not. even if there were, i don't like that kind of work." "have you never done anything else?" "i acted for a few weeks." "gracious! you don't mean to say you've been a play actor?" "yes, ma'am." "how luella dickinson would like to see you! she dotes on play actors, but i don't think she ever met one." "i am afraid she would be disappointed in me. "oh, i guess not. if you've played on the stage that's enough. why can't you call round some evening? luella would _so_ like to see you." "thank you, mrs. gately. if i can get anything to do, i will call." jed finished his breakfast. he ate heartily, for he had no idea where he should get another meal. "i guess i'll be going," he said, as he rose from the table. "you have been very kind." "oh, that's nothing. i hope you'll meet that rascally graham and make him give up your money." "i am afraid there is little hope of that. good morning, and thank you!" and so jed passed out of the hospitable house into the inhospitable street, without a cent of money or a prospect of earning any. chapter xxv. without a penny. there is nothing that makes one feel so helpless as to be without a penny in a strange city. if jed had had even a dollar he would have felt better. the fact of his poverty was emphasized when a boy came up to him and asked him to buy a morning paper. jed instinctively felt in his pocket for a penny, but not even a cent was forthcoming. "i have no change," he said, by way of excuse. "i can change a dollar," responded the newsboy, who was more than usually enterprising. "i wish _i_ could," thought jed, but he only said, "no, it is no matter." so he walked along broadway, fairly well dressed, but, so far as money went, a pauper. yes, though no longer an inmate of the scranton poorhouse, he was even poorer than when he was there, for then he had a home, and now he had none. "i wonder when it is all going to end?" reflected poor jed despondently. then his anger was excited when he thought of the unprincipled rascal who had brought him to this pass. "if i could only get hold of him," muttered jed vengefully, "i would give him something to remember me by." all the while jed walked on, though his walk was aimless. he was as well off in one part of the city as another, and only walked to fill up time. he found himself passing a drug store. just outside the door he saw the sign "boy wanted," and with a little kindling of hope he entered the store. just behind the counter stood a man with a sandy beard, who appeared to be the proprietor. to him jed addressed himself. "i see you want a boy," he said. "yes; do you want a place?" "yes, sir." "i hardly think you would be satisfied with the wages we pay, unless you particularly wish to learn our business." "what do you pay, sir?" "three dollars a week." three dollars a week! it was certainly better than no income at all, but jed knew well that it would be impossible to live on this sum, and he had no reserve fund to draw upon. "no," he said, "i am afraid i couldn't get along on that salary." "are you entirely dependent on your earnings?" asked the druggist. "yes, sir." "have you parents residing in the city?" "no, sir; i am all alone." "that would be an objection. we prefer to employ those who live at home." "do most employers require that, sir?" "many do." here a customer came in and asked for a bottle of cough medicine, and the druggist turned away to fill the order. jed walked slowly out of the store. "i wonder whether there is any work for me anywhere?" he asked himself despondently. jed continued his walk down broadway. it was a bright, clear, exhilarating day, and jed would have enjoyed it thoroughly if he had been better fixed, but it is hard to keep up the spirits when your pocket is empty. when jed reached city hall park he went in and sat down on one of the benches. one of the boy bootblacks who carry on business in the park came up to him with his box on his shoulder and asked, "shine your boots?" jed shook his head. "not this morning," he replied. "they need it," said the boy. jed looked at his boots, and was fain to admit that the boy was right. but he was not possessed of the necessary nickel. "yes, they do need it," he said, "but i haven't money enough to pay you for doing it." "only five cents." "i haven't five cents. i'm poorer than you are, my boy," said jed in a burst of confidence. the boy looked puzzled. "you don't look like it," he said after scrutinizing jed's appearance. "how did you come to be so poor?" "had all my money stolen last night." "how much was there?" "thirty-five dollars." "whew!" whistled the bootblack. "that was a haul. who did it?" "a young man i fell in with. he invited me to share his room. i woke this morning to find that he had stolen all my money." "he was a snide, he was! i'd like to step on his necktie." "i'd like to do something of that sort myself," said jed with a smile. "would you know him if you saw him again?" "yes; i shan't forget him very soon." "when you do see him hand him over to a cop. just hold out your foot," and the boy got down in a position to black jed's shoe. "but i haven't any money. i can't pay you." "i'll do it for nothin', seein' as you're down on your luck. you can pay me some time when times is better." "i am afraid you will have to wait a good while for your money." "never mind! it won't kill me if i lose it." "you're very kind to a stranger," said jed, grateful for the boy's friendly proffer. "oh, it ain't nothin'. you look like a good fellow. you'll get a place quicker if your shoes look nice." there was something practical in this suggestion, and jed accepted the offer without further hesitation. the boy exerted himself specially, and jed's dirty shoes soon showed a dazzling polish. "there, you can see your face in 'em!" exclaimed the boy, as he rose from his knees. "thank you," said jed. "i see you understand your business. will you tell me your name?" "jim parker." "well, jim, i am much obliged to you. i hope some time i can do you a favor." "oh, that's all right. so long! i hope you'll get a job." and the independent young bootblack, with his box over his shoulder, walked across the park in search of another job. somehow jed was cheered by this act of kindness. he felt a little better satisfied with himself, moreover, when he saw the transformation of his dirty shoes to the polish that marks the gentleman. a man rather shabbily dressed was drawn by this outward sign of affluence to sit down beside him. he took a brief inventory of jed, and then doffing his hat, said deferentially, "young gentleman, i hope you will excuse the liberty i am taking, but i have walked all the way from buffalo, and am reduced almost to my last penny. in fact this nickel," producing one from his pocket, "is all the money i have left. if you will kindly loan me a quarter i shall esteem it a great favor." jed felt like laughing. he had not a penny, yet here was a man richer than himself asking for a loan. "i wish i were able to oblige you," he said, "but you are asking me for more than i possess." the man glanced incredulously at jed's polished shoes. "you don't look poor," he said, in a tone of sarcasm. "no, i don't look poor, but you are five cents richer than i." the man shrugged his shoulders. he evidently did not believe jed. "it is quite true," continued jed, answering the doubt on the man's face. "last night i was robbed of all the money i had. had you applied to me yesterday i would have granted your request." this frank statement disarmed the man's suspicion. "i think your are speaking the truth," he said. "though there are plenty who pretend to be poor to get rid of giving. perhaps i shall surprise you when i say that a year ago i should have been able to lend you five thousand dollars, and have as much more left." "yes, you do surprise me! how did you lose your money?" "i was a fool--that explains it. i bought mining stocks. i was in san francisco at the time, and my money melted like snow in the sun. a year since i was worth ten thousand dollars. to-day i am worth a nickel. do you know what i will do with it?" jed looked at him inquiringly. "i will buy a glass of beer, and drink to our good luck--yours and mine." "i hope it will bring the good luck," said jed smiling. "i would offer you a glass too, if i had another nickel." "thank you, but i never drink beer. i thank you all the same." his companion rose and left the park, probably in search of a beer saloon. jed got up, too, and took another walk. by half-past twelve he felt decidedly hungry. his breakfast had lasted him till then, but he was young and healthy, and craved three meals a day. "how shall i manage to get dinner?" thought jed seriously. he paused in front of the astor house, which he knew to be a hotel, and saw business men entering in quest of their midday lunch. it was tantalizing. there was plenty of food inside, but he lacked the wherewithal to purchase a portion. "why, jed, how are you?" came unexpectedly to his ears. he looked up and saw a brown-bearded, pleasant-faced man, whom he recognized as a fellow-guest at the spray hotel at sea spray. "when did you leave sea spray?" asked his friend. "only yesterday." "going to stay in the city?" "yes, if i can get anything to do." "have you been to lunch?" "not yet." "come in and lunch with me, then. i think we can find something inviting at the astor." "saved!" thought jed, as he gladly passed into the famous hostelry with his friend. "i wonder if he has any idea how glad i am to accept his invitation?" chapter xxvi. in search of employment. jed followed his hotel friend up stairs into an upper dining-room, and they took seats at a corner table. "i never like to dine alone," said howell foster. "i am glad i fell in with you, jed." "so am i," answered jed. "i am more glad than you have any idea of," he said to himself. "what will you order?" asked mr. foster, pushing over the bill of fare to his companion. "i have a healthy appetite and shall enjoy anything," said jed with a smile. "please order the same for me as for yourself." howell foster was rather proud of his gastronomic knowledge, and took this as a compliment. "you can trust me to do that," he replied. "i am used to the place and know what they succeed best in." thereupon he ordered a dinner which jed found delicious. no expense was spared, and jed, glancing at the bill when it was brought, found that the charge was three dollars and a half. during the repast the host kept up a bright and chatty conversation. "i hope you enjoyed your dinner," he said, when it was over. "actions speak louder than words," answered jed with a smile. "this is a good, reliable place. i advise you to come here often." "what would he say if he could see the inside of my pocket-book?" thought jed. "i am afraid," he said aloud, "it is too expensive for my means." "yes, probably; i didn't think of that. by the way, what have you in view?" "i hardly know yet." "come round and see me some day," and foster handed jed his card. "thank you, sir." "will you have a cigar?" "no, thank you, sir. i don't smoke." "it would be money in my pocket if i didn't. my cigars cost me last year five hundred dollars." "i wish i was sure of that for my entire income," thought jed. they parted at the entrance to the hotel. it was clear from his manner and speech that howell foster thought jed in easy circumstances. it made the boy feel almost like an impostor, but he reflected that he had done nothing to give mr. foster a false impression. it was about half-past one when he left the hotel. the dinner had occupied an hour. the world was still before him, but he had eaten a hearty meal and felt that he could get along, if necessary, till the next morning, so far as eating was concerned. where to sleep presented a perplexing problem, but it would be some time before it required to be solved. how to spend the afternoon puzzled jed. he went back to city hall park, and on the seat he had formerly occupied he found a copy of the new york _herald_ which somebody had left there. he took it up and looked over the advertisements for help wanted. he found the following: wanted.--smart, enterprising agents to sell packages of stationery. fifteen dollars a week can easily be made. call at no. nassau street, room . this struck jed as just the thing. it could not be very hard to sell stationery, and fifteen dollars a week would support him comfortably. "where is nassau street?" he inquired of a bootblack who took a temporary seat beside him. "there 'tis," said the street boy, pointing in the direction of the _tribune_ building. "you just go down in front of the tribune." "is no. far off?" "no, it's close by. you can get there in less than no time." "thank you!" and with hope in his heart jed rose and walked in the direction indicated. he found the building. at the entrance was a list of occupants of rooms. he went up two flights of stairs, and halted in front of no. . he knocked at the door and was bidden in a deep, hoarse voice to "come in!" opening the door, he found himself in the presence of a short, humpbacked man, whose voice was quite out of proportion to his size. "i suppose you come to see me about the advertisement in the _herald_," said the dwarf. "yes, sir," answered jed, gazing as if fascinated at the stunted figure, huge head and long arms of the person before him. "i have engaged several agents already this morning," went on the dwarf, turning over a large book on the desk before him. "then perhaps you don't need any more?" said jed despondently. "oh, yes, i do if i can get the right ones," was the answer. "it is to sell packages of stationery, i believe. can you show me some?" the dwarf handed jed a flat package, on the outside of which was printed a list of the contents. they included a pen holder, pens, a quire of paper, a supply of envelopes, and several other articles. "this is the best package in the market for the money," said the dwarf. "observe how varied are the contents, and only a paltry twenty-five cents for the whole." "yes, it seems a good bargain," said jed. "you are right there," said the dwarf confidently. "why, you can make money hand over hand. our agents are actually coining it. we allow them to retain ten cents on each package. two or three, and sometimes five, are sold to the same person. would you like to have me read one or two agents' letters?" "yes, if you please." "here is one from theodore jenkins, who is operating in pennsylvania: "'hugo higgins, esq. "'dear sir: "'please send me at once two hundred packages of stationery. they sell like hot cakes. i got rid of forty yesterday, and it rained half the day, too. i have held several agencies for different articles, but none that paid as well as this. i shall be disappointed if i don't make forty dollars per week. it looks as if it might exceed that sum. "'yours respectfully, "'theodore jenkins.' "that letter speaks for itself," remarked the dwarf as he folded it up and replaced it in an envelope. "yes," said jed, "it is certainly very encouraging." "i will read you another from a party who has been in our employ for fourteen months. he is operating in ohio. "'dear sir: "'you may send me three hundred packages by adams express, and please don't delay, for i need them at once. i have been working for you for fourteen months. during that time i have supported my family and bought a house, on which i have paid cash down a thousand dollars. in the course of the next year and a half i expect to complete the payment and own the house clean. it was certainly a lucky thing for me when i saw your advertisement for agents and engaged in your service. "'yours gratefully, "'arthur waters.' "that is another letter that speaks for itself," observed mr. higgins. "i have plenty more, but i don't think i need to read any others to convince you that the business will pay any one that takes hold of it." "perhaps," added jed, "these gentlemen had experience as agents." "one of them had, but the other was quite green in the business." "you think then that i could succeed?" "undoubtedly. you look smart and have a taking way with you. you can't fail to succeed." this was pleasant to hear, and jed felt strongly impelled to engage in the service of the plausible higgins. "if you will trust me with twenty packages," he said, "i will see what i can do." "certainly. that will be three dollars. you see we charge you fifteen cents each, and you sell them for twenty-five. that gives you two dollars. you had better take fifty packages, and then you won't have to come back to-morrow." "very well, i will take fifty." "all right. you may pay me seven dollars and a half, and i will get the packages ready." "do you require payment in advance?" asked jed quickly. "certainly. you are a stranger to me, and even if you were not, i should not feel like risking so much money or money's worth. what is there to hinder your making off with it and never coming back?" "i wouldn't be dishonest for a great deal more money than that." "i dare say you are right, but we must adhere to our business methods. you will get your money back in two days probably." "but i haven't the money to pay in advance." "oh, that alters the matter," said higgins, become less gracious. "how much have you?" "i am unable to pay anything," said jed desperately. mr. hugo higgins turned away, no longer interested in jed. poor jed felt sadly disappointed at losing so good a chance, but something happened to mitigate his regret. a stout man with red hair opened the door of the office and dashed in, carrying in his hands a large package. "i want my money back!" he said. "you are a big schwindler!" chapter xxvii. an intractable agent. the new visitor was a large man, evidently a german, weighing not less than two hundred pounds. he approached hugo higgins, towering above the dwarf by at least fourteen inches, and shook his fist in his face. mr. higgins shrank back as if fearful of a personal assault, and inquired in uneasy tones: "who are you, my friend?" "who am i?" retorted the other, laughing gutturally. "you know me well enough, you villain!" "i think i have seen you somewhere," said hugo, not daring to show the anger he felt at the hard name by which the other addressed him. "you have seen me somewhere? come, that's good. my name is otto schmidt, and i am one of your victims. you understand that, hey?" "no. i can't say i do." "then i'll tell you. i came in here last week and bought some of your confounded packages. i was to make big wages by selling them, hey?" "certainly, i hope you did." "you hope i did?" repeated mr. otto schmidt fiercely. "well, i tell you. i went round two days in montclair, and how many packages you think i sell, hey?" "about fifty," answered hugo with a sickly smile. "about fifty? ha, ha!" returned the german, laughing wildly. "i sell just one to a young boy named chester noyes. that's all i sell." "my dear mr. schmidt, i am afraid you got discouraged too soon," said hugo suavely. "so i am your dear mr. schmidt, hey? you cost me dear enough with your lies about the business, you scoundrel!" "i cannot allow you to talk to me in this way," said hugo in a dignified tone. "oh, you won't, hey?" retorted the german, beginning to dance about the floor. "well, i won't. maybe you prefer to have me step on your necktie, hey?" hugo higgins looked alarmed, and jed could hardly help laughing. "well, what do you want?" asked hugo, afraid some applicant for an agency might enter and be frightened away. "what do i want? i want my money back." "that is against our rules," said hugo. "my good mr. schmidt, take the packages and go to some other place. other agents have told me that montclair is not a good town for business. go to--to rahway! i am sure you will sell all your packages there." "no; i don't go to rahway. i sell all my packages here." "but, my good friend----" "i am not your good friend. i am no friend to a rascal." "really, this language----" "never mind about the language! i ain't going to be schwindled by no fakir. i've got forty-nine packages here, and i want you to pay me back my money, seven dollars and thirty-five cents." "i can't think of such a thing." "then i give you in charge for schwindling," said otto schmidt, thrusting a fat fist directly under hugo's nose. "i may be one dutchman, but i ain't so dumb as you think i am." "i don't think you dumb at all," said hugo soothingly. "i think you are a smart man of business." "you find me too schmart to be schwindled, i tell you that." "still, if you don't want to go on with the business, i'll take back the packages and give you five dollars for them." "and i to lose two dollars and thirty-five cents, besides all my time. not much, mr. hugo higgins." "you can't expect me to give you back all the money." "well, i do," said mr. schmidt stoutly. "i give you just two minutes to make up your mind." just then the door opened, and a young man who was evidently from the country entered. "i seed your advertisement," he said. "i want to be an agent, if you can give me a chance." otto schmidt smiled sardonically, and was about to speak, when hugo said hurriedly, "come out into the hall, mr. schmidt, and i think we can arrange your business satisfactorily." "all right! i come," and he followed hugo out into the entry. "i will pay you your money," said the agent. "it is quite against my rules, but i will make an exception in your case." "i want a dollar more to pay me for my time," said the german, appreciating his advantage. "but, my dear sir, this is very unreasonable," said mr. higgins uneasily. "then i go back into the room and show you up." "very well, here is your money!" and hugo with great reluctance drew out eight dollars and thirty-five cents and handed it to mr. schmidt. otto schmidt chuckled and nodded significantly at the discomfited hugo. "i may be a dutchman," he said, "but i ain't no chump." hugo re-entered the office and smiled affably at the young man from the country. "one of our successful agents," he said, nodding towards the door. "i won't tell you how much that german gentleman has made by selling our famous packages, for you might not believe me." "can you give me a chance?" asked the young hayseed anxiously. "well, i think i can," said hugo with assumed hesitation, and then he explained on what terms he sold, as he had done to jed. "how many packages will you take?" he asked pleasantly. "i guess i'll take a dozen to begin with," said the young man from the country. "a dozen!" replied hugo, much disappointed. "my, that's no order at all. you would have to come back for more before the day was out." "well, i'll take fifteen," said the young man after reflection. "you'd better take fifty. very few of our agents take less than fifty." "no, i ain't got much money. i'll only take fifteen to begin with." and to this determination he adhered, in spite of the persuasions of mr. higgins. as hugo wrapped up the packages and received back two dollars and twenty-five cents, he regretted that he had so hastily agreed to buy back mr. schmidt's boxes at an advance on the original cost. "where would you advise me to sell?" asked the young man. "country towns are best," said hugo. "some distance from the city, i advise, as those who live near new york can come here and buy, and are less ready to patronize agents." jed smiled to himself. he understood that mr. higgins wished to guard against a visit from the young man in case his business failed to meet his anticipations. he lingered behind after the rural visitor had gone. "i hope," said hugo, "you took no stock in what that stupid dutchman said." "well," replied jed, "it shows that some of your agents are not successful." "a man like that could not succeed in selling anything," said hugo scornfully. "now it is different with you. you look smart." jed smiled. he began to understand mr. higgins and his methods. "then you remember the letters from the agents which i read you." "yes," answered jed, but he felt convinced now that the letters were bogus, and manufactured by mr. higgins himself. "when you can command the necessary funds i shall be glad to have you call and buy a bundle of samples." "i don't think i shall care to enter into the business, mr. higgins," said jed. "it would be an experiment, and i am not in a position to try experiments." higgins looked at jed, and saw that he was understood. "very well!" he said coldly. "you must do as you like, but you are making a mistake." jed left the office and went down stairs. what had happened did not encourage him. it seemed a good deal harder to make a living in a large city than he supposed. he saw now that there were sharpers ready to fleece the young and inexperienced. if he had not been robbed of his money, in all probability he would have fallen a victim to the persuasive but deceptive representations of mr. higgins, and have come back disappointed like mr. otto schmidt. he continued his walk down nassau street, and presently turned into broadway. his attention was attracted to a church with a very high spire facing wall street. he inquired the name and found it was trinity church. the scranton meeting-house could easily have been tucked away in one corner of the large edifice, and as far as height was concerned, it was but an infant compared with a six-footer. he walked still further down broadway, till he reached a green park, which he found was called the battery. feeling somewhat fatigued, he sat down on a bench near the sea-wall and looked over toward governor's island. craft of different sizes were passing, and jed was interested and exhilarated by the spectacle. chapter xxviii. a strange commission. jed's companion on the seat was a sallow-faced, black-bearded man. jed merely glanced at him, but presently became aware that he had become the object of the sallow man's scrutiny. finally the latter moved rather nearer jed, and showed a disposition to be sociable. "a fine day, young man," he began. "yes, sir." "and a fine view we have before us," went on the stranger, pointing to the harbor and the numerous craft that were passing in both directions. "however, i suppose it is quite familiar to you?" "no, sir; i am a stranger in the city." "indeed!" and here the stranger allowed his gaze to rest on the small gripsack that jed had placed on the seat beside him. "perhaps you have come in quest of work?" "yes, sir," answered jed. "have you found anything yet?" "no, sir, but i have only been here since yesterday morning. do you know of any situation that i could fill?" "well, no, no permanent position," answered the other deliberately. "i might give you a chance to earn," here he hesitated, "two dollars this evening. but perhaps that would not be worth your while." "yes, sir, i should be glad to earn even that," said jed eagerly. "then perhaps i may employ you. can you row a boat?" "yes, sir. i think so. i have rowed on a pond up in scranton." "then you can probably row here. i would row part of the way myself." "when do you want me?" asked jed. "not till late this evening. i will explain when the time comes." jed was disappointed. he had hoped to do the work at once, and receive the money. then he could buy himself some supper, for he was already hungry. he found that his appetite was just as regular as if he were earning a living income, instead of being impecunious and without work. "at what time shall i meet you, sir?" "at eleven o'clock, here." "yes, sir," answered jed, wondering what he was to do during the intervening time. as he had no money, he must defer eating till then, and it occurred to him that he would hardly feel able to row any considerable distance unless refreshed by food. could he venture to ask a part of the sum he was to earn in advance? he decided to do so. "i am going to ask a favor," he said hurriedly. "i have been robbed of all my money, and i have not enough to buy my supper. if you let me have half a dollar on account----" he feared that this proposal would be distasteful to his companion, but the sallow-faced man did not seem offended. "perhaps," he said thoughtfully, "i had better keep you with me, and let you eat supper with me." "very well, sir," said jed, feeling relieved. the other looked relieved. "it is half-past five," he said. "we may as well start now." he rose leisurely from his seat, and jed followed him. he walked to the head of the battery, and keeping near the piers, led the way to a humble tavern called "the sailor's rest." "this will do," he said. "it is not very fashionable, but they can give us a comfortable meal." certainly the interior presented a great contrast to the astor house, where jed had lunched, or rather dined. the floor was sanded, the tables were unprovided with tablecloths. there was a bar on one side of the room, over which presided a stout bartender with mottled cheeks and a dirty white apron. "where is the restaurant?" asked jed's companion. "in there," answered the bartender with a jerk of his finger in the direction of a back room. with a nod the sallow-faced man beckoned jed to follow him. opening a door, he led the way into a room provided with four tables only. on each table was a small bell. jed and his guide sat down, and the latter rang the bell. a dirty-faced man, with a beard of several days' growth, made his appearance. "we want some supper." "what'll you have?" "what can we have?" "beefsteak, ham and eggs." "what else?" "eggs without." "without what?" "ham." the sallow man shrugged his shoulders. "it seems we must choose between beefsteak and ham and eggs," he said. "what will you have?" "ham and eggs," answered jed. "all right. ham and eggs for two." "anything else?" "two bottles of lager. you drink beer, don't you?" "no," answered jed. "then bring the boy some tea or coffee--whichever he prefers." "tea," suggested jed. "bread and butter, of course, and fried potatoes, if you can get them ready." while they were waiting the man leaned back in his chair and stared out of the window at a dirty back yard, but his thoughts seemed to be otherwise occupied. jed's eyes wandered about the room, but found little to attract him in the two or three prints--one of a yacht, another of a merchant vessel--that adorned the walls. on the mantel was a soiled piece of coral and a large seashell. all seemed to harmonize with the name of the inn. jed, however, felt but a fleeting interest in the furnishings of the place. his mind dwelt rather on the promised supper. he could not understand how in this crisis of his fortunes, when there was so much to discourage him, he should have such an appetite. savory odors from the neighboring kitchen found their way into the room when the waiter opened the door and entered to set the table. jed was glad to overlook the cheap and dark-hued crockery, the rusty knives and forks and the chipped glasses, as the odor of the ham and eggs was wafted to his nostrils. finally the beer and tea were brought in, and his companion signaled to him to fall to. "where did you dine?" he asked abruptly. "at the astor house." the sallow-faced man paused with his glass, which he had just filled, half-way to his lips. "was that before you were robbed of your money?" he asked. "no, sir, but i met a gentleman whom i knew at the seaside, and he invited me to dine with him." "oh, that explains it. this is a very different place from the astor house." "i should think so," said jed smiling. "still we can probably satisfy our hunger." "oh, yes," responded jed, and he made a vigorous onslaught on the contents of his plate. in a few minutes supper was over, and jed felt better. it is wonderful how much more cheerful views we take of life and the world on a full than on an empty stomach. jed experienced this. he couldn't, to be sure, look very far ahead, but he had had three meals that day in spite of an empty purse, and the money he was to earn would insure him a bed and three meals for the coming day, in all probability. "it is half-past six" said his companion, referring to his watch--"a good while before i shall need your services. do you feel tired?" "yes, sir; i have been on my feet all day." "wait a minute." he went out and returned in a moment. "i have engaged a room for you," he said. "you can occupy it now if you like it, and after our expedition return to pass the balance of the night. you can leave your valise there, as it will only be in your way on the boat." "thank you, sir." this solved one of jed's problems in a pleasant manner. the waiter led the way up stairs to a small room just large enough to hold a bed and washstand, and said, "that'll do you, i guess." "oh yes," responded jed cheerfully. "the gentleman says you can lie down, and he'll call you when you're wanted." jed was glad of this permission, for he felt very much in need of rest. he took off his coat and laid down on the bed. the couch he found not a very luxurious one. it consisted of a thin--a very thin--mattress laid upon wooden slats, and the pillow was meagre. but he soon fell asleep, and slept so soundly that it seemed as if only five minutes had elapsed when some one shook him, and opening his eyes, they rested on his sallow-faced employer. "time to get up," said the latter abruptly. jed sprang from the bed, and, his eyes only half open, said, "i am ready." "follow me, then." he followed his guide, who walked rapidly through the dark streets till he reached a pier not far from the battery. there was a boat moored alongside, rising and falling with the tide. there was one man already in it. "come along!" said his guide briefly. jed descended a ladder, and took his place in the boat. his companion seized the oars, signing to jed to take his seat in the bow. then he began to row, much better then jed could have done. they struck out towards governor's island, passed it, and proceeded a considerable distance beyond. here lay a yacht. there was no light on board, so far as jed could see, and it looked to be quite deserted. the rower slackened his speed (he had not yet called upon jed to row) and said quickly: "i want you to board that yacht. go down into the cabin. there you will see a box, perhaps a foot square and ten inches deep. bring it to me." "but," said jed, in bewilderment, "is--is it yours?" "no," answered the sallow-faced man composedly. "it belongs to a friend of mine, the owner of the yacht. i promised to come out and get it for him." chapter xxix. a surprise party. the words of the sallow-faced man dissipated any suspicions which jed may have entertained, and he clambered on board the yacht without much difficulty, for he was active and agile. "good!" said his employer. "now go into the cabin, and be quick about it." jed did not understand why he should be quick about it. there was plenty of time, he thought. another thing puzzled him, now that he had had a chance to think the matter over. why was the visit postponed till near midnight? a city boy would not have had his suspicions so easily allayed; but jed was unused to city ways, and, it may be added, to city wickedness. the cabin seemed to be dark. he felt his way down stairs, and struck a match which he had in his pocket in order to see better the location of the box. he had just picked up the latter, finding it to be heavy, when he felt a hand laid on his arm, and looking up, met the stern gaze of a young man about twenty-eight years of age. "what are you about here, young fellow?" he asked abruptly. jed was a little startled, but, not being aware that he was doing anything wrong, he replied composedly, "i was taking this box, sir." "i see you were; but what business have you to take the box?" "i was sent for it." "sent for it?" repeated the young man, looking puzzled. "who sent you for it?" "the gentleman in the boat outside." "oh ho! so there is a gentleman in the boat outside?" "certainly, sir. isn't it--all right?" "well, i should say not, unless you consider theft right." "what!" exclaimed jed aghast. "is the man who employed me a thief?" "it looks very much like it." at this moment the sallow-faced man called in an impatient tone, "what are you about there, you lazy young rascal? don't be all night!" "is there more than one man in the boat?" asked the young man in the cabin. "yes, sir; there are two." "the harbor police ought to be somewhere about. i'll rouse them if i can." the young man went to the port-hole which served to light the cabin and fired a pistol. "confusion! there's some one on the yacht!" exclaimed the sallow-faced man. "we must get off." dipping his oars in the water, he rowed quickly away, leaving jed to his fate. but the shot had been heard on another boat not fifty rods distant, and the piratical craft was pursued and eventually overhauled. meanwhile jed remained on board the yacht, whether as a prisoner or not he did not know. "your companions have taken alarm," said the young man. "i hear them rowing away. they have deserted you." "i am glad of it," said jed. "i don't want anything more to do with them. will you tell me if that box contains anything valuable?" "probably the contents are worth five thousand dollars." "is it possible!" ejaculated jed in amazement. "you see you have lost quite a prize," said the young man, eyeing him closely. "don't say that i have lost a prize," returned jed half indignantly. "i supposed the man who sent me for it was honest." "what did he tell you?" "he said that the box belonged to a friend, who had employed him to get it." "all a lie! i am the owner of the box, and the yacht also, and i have no acquaintance with your principal. if i had not been here he would have got a rich prize." "i am glad you were here," said jed earnestly. "i don't understand your connection with such a man. how much were you to be paid for your services?" "two dollars," answered jed. "didn't it strike you as singular that you should have been employed on such an errand?" "well, a little; but i am a stranger to the city, and i thought it might be because i was inexperienced." "do you mind telling me how long you have known the person who employed you?" "i met him for the first time at five o'clock this afternoon on the battery. he asked me if i wanted a job, and that is how i came to be engaged." "that sounds plausible and i am inclined to believe you." at this moment they were interrupted. there was a sound of oars, and leaving the cabin, jed and his companion saw the boat of the harbor police under the side. it had in tow the boat in which jed had come from shore. "was there any attempt to rob the yacht?" asked the captain of police. "yes, sir," answered the owner. "have you one of the thieves aboard?" "no, sir." "that's not true!" said the sallow-faced man, now a prisoner. "that boy came with us," and he pointed to jed. "is that true?" asked the police captain. "this boy was sent on board by the thieves, but he was quite ignorant of the character of his employer. he is a country boy, and was an innocent agent of the guilty parties." "you are convinced then of his innocence?" "entirely so." "we shall need his evidence against these men. will you guarantee that it shall be forthcoming?" "yes, captain. i will give my name and his, and will call at your office to-morrow morning." "that will answer." the young man took out one of his cards, bearing the name of schuyler roper, and wrote jed's name, which he had ascertained, underneath. "you will be responsible for the boy's appearance, mr. roper?" said the officer respectfully, reading the name by the light of a lantern. "yes; he will stay with me." this seemed satisfactory, and the boat rowed away. "i am very much obliged to you for believing in my innocence, mr. roper," said jed earnestly. "you have an innocent face," responded the young man kindly. "i am sure you are a good boy." "i hope you won't see any reason to doubt it. i am afraid i am putting you to trouble," continued jed, realizing that he could not leave the yacht, and was thrown on the hospitality of the owner. "not at all. i can accommodate you easily. you must be tired, if you have been about the city all day." jed admitted that he was. in fact he felt very tired, and found it hard work to keep his eyes open. "i have sleeping accommodations for six persons on board my yacht, so that i can easily provide for you. so far from giving me trouble i shall be glad of your company, though i don't expect any more visitors to-night." mr. roper pointed out a comfortable bunk, and jed lost no time in taking possession of it. he sank into a deep sleep, which was only broken by a gentle shake from his young host. as he opened his eyes, and they met the unusual surroundings, he was at first bewildered. "don't you know where you are?" asked schuyler roper, smiling. "don't you remember boarding my yacht with felonious intent last night?" "yes," answered jed with an answering smile. "i remember that i was taken prisoner." "then you are subject to my orders. when i am on a cruise we have meals aboard the yacht, but i am not keeping house now. if you will assist me, we'll direct our course to land and find breakfast somewhere." jed did not know much about a yacht, but he liked the water and proved very quick in comprehension, so that in a comparatively short time they had reached the battery. here mr. roper found two men whom he had engaged to help man the yacht, and leaving the juno in their charge he walked up broadway with jed. "we will take breakfast at the astor house," he said. "i dined there yesterday," replied jed. "you did!" exclaimed the other in a tone of surprise. "yet you tell me you are penniless?" "yes, sir, but i fell in with a gentleman whom i knew at sea spray, a mr. foster." "not howell foster?" "yes." "i know him very well. if he is a friend of yours, i shall feel that i am justified in reposing confidence in you." just then mr. foster entered the room. "good morning, jed," he said in a friendly tone. "so you like the astor well enough to come back?" "i am here by invitation of mr. roper." mr. foster, who was shortsighted, now for the first time observed jed's companion. "so you know roper, too?" he said. "why, he's one of my closest friends. when did you pick him up, schuyler?" "i caught him boarding my yacht on a marauding expedition last night," said roper, smiling. "bless my soul! what do you mean?" "sit down and take breakfast with us, and i will explain." "and what are you going to do with this desperate young man?" asked the broker at the end of the story. "i shall invite him to accompany me to bar harbor on my yacht. but first we must call on the harbor police, as our testimony will be needed to convict the rascals who came near robbing me of five thousand dollars' worth of valuables." chapter xxx. jed entertains an old acquaintance. though the trial of the harbor thieves was expedited, it was a week before jed and mr. roper were able to leave new york. jed's testimony settled the matter, and the two thieves were sentenced to terms of five years' imprisonment. "i'll get even with you yet, young fellow!" muttered the sallow-faced man, eyeing jed with deep malignity as he left the witness-box. "where is your trunk?" asked mr. roper after their first visit to the office of the harbor police. "i never owned one, mr. roper." "your valise, then." "it is at a small hotel near the battery." "get it and bring it on board the yacht." jed did so, and mr. roper asked to see it. "you are poorly equipped, jed," he said. "that reminds me that if i am going to monopolize your services i must pay you some salary. how will fifty dollars a month answer?" "but, mr. roper, i can't earn as much as that." "perhaps not, but if i am willing to pay it, you can set your mind at rest. i will see that you are better provided with clothing, undergarments, et cetera. here, give me a piece of paper." mr. roper drew up a list of articles which he thought jed might need--a very liberal list, by the way--and sent him with a note to his own tradesmen, with directions to supply him with such articles as he might select. he also gave him an order on his own tailor for a suit of clothes. "but, mr. roper, it will take me a long time to pay for all these out of my wages," protested jed. schuyler roper laughed. "my dear boy," he said, "i haven't the least idea of making you pay for them. just look upon me as your older brother, who is able and willing to provide for you." "i am deeply grateful to you, mr. roper," responded jed earnestly. "i certainly stumbled into luck when i boarded your yacht." "i don't know how it is," said roper, as he eyed jed thoughtfully, "you didn't seem a stranger to me even when i first saw you. it seemed natural for me to look after you. i am an only son, and you never knew what it was to have a brother. i begin to think that i have lost a great deal in being so much alone." "you may be deceived in me, mr. roper. you know very little of me, and that is not at all to my advantage." "well, i admit that, jed. considering that i caught you in the act of robbing me, i may be said to have known you at your worst." "you know nothing of my past life." "you shall tell me all about it after a while, when we are not so busy." meanwhile jed became familiar with his duties on board the yacht, and during the absence of mr. roper was regarded by the men as his representative. no one could have treated him with more generous confidence than his new friend. jed was intrusted at times with considerable sums for disbursements, and was proud of the confidence reposed in him. of mr. roper, except that he appeared to be a rich young man, he knew next to nothing, till one day he fell in with his watering-place friend, howell foster. "you are still with schuyler?" he asked. "oh yes, sir. i am going with him to bar harbor." "and then?" "i believe he means to keep me with him." "you are in luck. schuyler is a generous, open-hearted young man, liberal to a fault, and ready to do anything for one he takes to. i suppose you know that he is rich?" "i thought he must be." "his father died two years since, leaving him half a million of dollars. he spends freely, but does not squander his money. he is paying for the college education of a poor boy in whom he feels an interest--the son of an old bookkeeper of his father's--as i happen to know. he is a favorite in society, but has never shown an inclination to marry." "is his mother living?" asked jed. "no; she died before his father. he is very much alone in the world." "that is why he is so generous to me, i think." "perhaps so, but it is his nature to be kind. by the way, jed, when my family comes back from sea spray i would like to have you call upon us. we live on madison avenue." "thank you, mr. foster. if i am in new york i shall be glad to do so." "i begin to think i am getting into society," thought jed. "it is not over three months since i left the scranton poorhouse, and here i am adopted by one rich man and welcomed at the house of another." it was natural that jed should feel elated by his good luck. but he was not allowed to forget his early adversity, for on the fourth day after entering the service of mr. roper he met on broadway, just above chambers street, his old enemy, percy dixon. percy was the first to recognize him. "oh it's you, is it?" he said in considerable surprise. jed smiled. he felt that he could afford to disregard percy's impertinence. "my dear friend percy," he said. "how well you remember me!" "yes, i remember you, and so does mr. fogson of the scranton poorhouse." "remember me to the kind old man!" said jed comically. "how soon are you going back?" "not very soon. of course it would be pleasant to me to be able to see you every day, percy, but----" "you needn't flatter yourself that i would take any notice of you. what are you doing for a living?" "i am going yachting in a few days." "what! oh, i understand. you have hired out as a sailor." "well no, not exactly." "what yacht are you working on?" "perhaps you would like to visit it?" "yes, i would," said percy, feeling puzzled and curious. "come to the battery with me, then. we'd better board the next car." percy followed jed into a broadway car, and jed, to his surprise, paid the fare. "_i_ was going to pay the fare," said percy. "oh never mind!" returned jed carelessly. "i don't want to put you to expense." "oh! it's not worth minding." arrived at the battery, jed called a boatman and said, "row me out to the juno, beyond governor's island." jed leaned back in the boat, and percy stared at him in wonder. when they reached the yacht one of the men produced a ladder, and jed led the way on board. "any orders, mr. gilman?" asked the sailor respectfully. "no, kimball; i haven't seen mr. roper since morning, and don't know if he wants anything done." "do you think you can spare me to go on shore for a couple of hours?" "yes, you may go." jed went to the side and said to the boatman, "you may take this man on shore, and come back in an hour and a half for my friend and myself. "now, percy, allow me to offer you a little refreshment." jed went to the pantry and brought out some cold meat, bread and butter, and two bottles of ginger ale, with the necessary dishes. "i can't offer you anything very tempting," he said, "but the boat ride may have given you an appetite for plain fare." percy could hardly conceal his surprise. he stared at jed as if fascinated. "won't you get into trouble by making so free with your master's things?" "who told you i had a master?" "who owns this yacht?" "mr. schuyler roper." "he must be rich." "i hear that he is worth half a million dollars," said jed in an off-hand manner. "and how did you get in with him?" asked percy rather enviously. "it was an accident," answered jed, by no means disposed to tell percy the particulars of his first meeting with mr. roper. "suppose he should come now, what would he say to your making so free?" "that he was glad to have me entertain my friends." "you seem to be pretty sure of your footing with him." "i have reason to be. he tells me to look upon him as an older brother." "he may find you out some time," suggested percy with disagreeable significance. "what do you mean?" "he may find out that his _younger brother_ was raised in a poorhouse." "i have no doubt he will learn it if he gets acquainted with you." "what do you mean?" asked percy coloring. "that you would probably tell him. by the way, has mr. holbrook got home from chicago yet?" "i believe not. do you expect he will take you back?" "no; i prefer my present position. i shall probably sail for bar harbor with mr. roper on saturday." "it's strange how you've got on since you left the poorhouse," said percy uncomfortably. "yes; i think even you will agree that i did well to leave it." "your luck may turn," added percy hopefully. "perhaps it will, but i hope not." presently the boatman came back, and jed sent percy back to the city, paying the boatman in advance. "it beats all how that pauper gets along!" reflected percy, but from his expression the reflection gave him no pleasure. chapter xxxi. jed returns good for evil. in the short time before the juno left for bar harbor, schuyler roper became quite intimate with jed. there was never a trace of condescension in his manner to his boy friend, but jed was always treated as if in birth and position he was the equal of the young patrician. together they walked about the city, and frequently dined together, always at some expensive hotel or restaurant. "what time is it, jed?" asked mr. roper one day as they were passing the star theatre. "i am afraid i left my watch at home," answered jed, smiling. "then we shall have to supply its place." schuyler roper turned the corner of fourteenth street, and led the way to tiffany's well-known establishment on the corner of fifteenth street and union square. "let us see some gold watches," he said to a salesman. a tray of handsome timepieces was produced. "how expensive a watch would you like, sir? is it for yourself?" "no, for this young gentleman. look over these watches, jed, and see what one you like best." jed made choice of a very neat gold watch with a handsome dial. "what is the price?" asked mr. roper. "a hundred and twenty-five dollars." jed opened his eyes wide in astonishment. a hundred and twenty-five dollars seemed to him a very large sum, and so unaccustomed was he to expensive jewelry that he had not known that there were any watches so costly. "very well; we will take it. show me some gold chains." choice was made of a fifty-dollar gold chain. it was attached to the watch, and mr. roper, handing it to jed, said, "put it in your pocket." "do you really mean the watch and chain for me?" asked jed, almost incredulous. "certainly." "how can i thank you, mr. roper?" said jed gratefully. "my dear boy," rejoined roper kindly, "i want your appearance to do me credit. that _you_ will do me credit i feel confident." it was about this time that jed met an old acquaintance--one whom he had no reason to remember with kindly feelings. he had occasion to go across cortlandt street ferry, when on board the boat he saw in front of him a figure that seemed familiar. he walked forward till he could see the face of the young man to whom it belonged. then it flashed upon him that it was maurice graham, the young man who had invited him to his room on twenty-seventh street and robbed him of his small stock of money. now that the tide had turned, jed did not feel so incensed against the fellow as at first. still he determined to let him understand that he knew exactly how he had been swindled. he touched graham on the shoulder, and the young man wheeled round with an apprehensive look, which he did not lose when he saw and recognized jed. "did you touch me?" he asked, with an evident intention of ignoring jed's acquaintance. "yes, mr. graham. we parted rather suddenly, you remember," said jed significantly. "oh, i see. you are----" "jed gilman." "i was wondering what became of you. i was called up town to the house of a sick friend that evening, and when i went back the next day mrs. gately told me you had gone away." "indeed! did she tell you that i was robbed of thirty-five dollars during the night, and that i awoke penniless?" "no," answered graham faintly. "i am surprised." "i thought you might be. are you in the habit of borrowing money from people who are asleep?" "what do you mean? you don't think i took the money?" "yes, i think you did." "why, didn't i tell you that i spent the night with a sick friend in--in eighty-seventh street. how could i rob you?" "you came back during the evening and found me asleep." "that's a mistake!" said graham quickly. "it is true. mrs. gately let you in, as she informed me the next morning." maurice graham looked very much disconcerted, and looked eagerly to the jersey shore, which they were fast approaching. "do you know that i would have had no breakfast if mrs. gately had not taken compassion on me?" "you don't look--very destitute--now." "i am not. i have been lucky enough to find a good position. but that thirty-five dollars belonged to me. how much of it can you return to me?" maurice graham colored and looked embarrassed. "i--the fact is," he stammered, "i'm almost broke." "is this true?" "on my honor i've only got a dollar and ten cents in my pocket, and i don't know what will become of me when that is gone." "you have got rid of it very quick." "i've been a fool," said graham gloomily. "i spent it mostly on pool and drinks. then of course i've had to live." "but your situation----" "i haven't any." "perhaps you will meet another boy from the country." "i treated you awful mean--i know i did," burst out graham, "and i've been very sorry for it. i've often wished that i had left you five dollars." "well, that would have helped me. but don't you think it would have been better to have left me the whole?" "yes, it would; but i am very unlucky." "i am afraid you don't deserve good luck. isn't there anything you can do?" "yes." "can't you find another broker to take you in his office?" "i never was in a broker's office," confessed graham. "what was your business, then? i suppose you had some way of making a living?" "i am a barber by trade, but i got tired of the confinement, and so i thought i'd become a sport. i started out with a hundred dollars which it took me a year to save up, and i got rid of it in two weeks. then i fell in with you." "and with my thirty-five dollars." "yes." "the best thing you can do is to go back to your business." "i would if i could." "why can't you?" "because my razors are in hock." it is the custom of journeymen barbers to supply their own razors and a pair of shears for hair-cutting. "i suppose that means in pawn?" "yes." "when can you get a place if you get your razors back?" "i can go to work to-morrow." "what sum will get them out?" "four dollars and a half." "where are they?" "in a pawnshop on the bowery." "come with me and i will get them out for you if you will promise to go to work." "i will," answered graham earnestly. "i'll give you my word i will." "come back on the next boat, then, and i will go with you to the pawnshop." "it will take up your time. you don't mean to give me in charge when we reach new york?" said graham apprehensively. "no; i am willing to give you a fresh chance. i hope you will improve it." jed took out his watch to note the time. "is that watch yours? it's a beauty," said graham. "yes; it came from tiffany's." "did you have it when i met you?" "no; if i had, that would have gone the same way as the money." "you must be awfully lucky!" "i suppose i have been. at any rate i have been honest." "honesty seems to pay. i must try it." "i advise you to," said jed, smiling. when jed parted from graham it occurred to him that he would call on mrs. gately. she had provided him with a breakfast when he needed one, and seemed kindly disposed towards him. when he rang the bell of the small house on twenty-seventh street, mrs. gately herself came to the door. "did you wish to see me, sir?" "you don't remember me, mrs. gately?" the old lady peered through her glasses. "why bless me!" she said, "if it isn't the young man from the country. but you're dressed so fine i hardly knew you. i hope you're prosperin'." "yes, thank you, mrs. gately. i have been quite lucky, but i was pretty low in spirits as well as in pockets when i left you." "why, you're lookin' fine. won't you stay for supper? luella dickinson will be home soon--she that tends at macy's. i've often spoken to her about you. luella's very romantic." "i am not, mrs. gately, and i'm afraid i can't stop. i must be on board my yacht in an hour." "your yacht! bless me, you don't mean to say you've got a yacht?" "well, it belongs to a friend, but we enjoy it together." "have you seen the bad young man who robbed you?" "yes; i saw him this afternoon." "you don't say! did you have him arrested?" "no; i helped him get some things out of pawn." "that's a real christian act, but i don't think i'd have done it. you deserve to prosper. i wish you could stay and meet luella." "some other time, mrs. gately." at supper the landlady told miss dickinson of jed's call. luella expressed great regret that she had not seen him. "i should fall in love with mr. gilman, i know i would," she said. "why didn't you ask him to call at macy's?" "i will when i see him again." chapter xxxii. at bar harbor. about eleven o'clock one forenoon the yacht juno came to anchor in the harbor of mount desert. jed gazed admiringly at the rugged shores, the picturesque village, the background of hills, the smaller islands surrounding the main island, like the satellites of a larger planet. "it is beautiful!" he said. "i never dreamed of such a place." "yes," said roper, "it is by far the most attractive island on the american coast. i think we shall find it pleasant to stay here for a time." "i shall enjoy it at any rate," said jed. "where shall we stay?" "i generally go to the newport. it is one of the smaller hotels, but its location is excellent, being very near the water. besides, i am expecting my aunt, mrs. frost, to arrive in a few days. she always goes to the newport, and has the same room every year. there is the hotel yonder." mr. roper pointed out a pleasant but unpretentious hostelry on the left of the pier. "the large house farther up the hill is rodick's," he said. "rodick is an old name at mount desert, and the island just across from the wharf, separated by a bar, was once called rodick's island." the yacht was anchored, and jed and mr. roper were rowed to shore. they secured rooms at the newport, and walked up the hill. as they passed the post-office schuyler roper said, "i will see if there are any letters awaiting me. there may be one from my aunt." jed waited at the door. mr. roper came out, holding a letter which he regarded with some curiosity. "here is a letter in an unknown hand, post-marked scranton," he said. "i don't know any person living there." "i do," said jed. "it was my old home." "then why should it be addressed to me? it ought to have been sent to you." "will you let me see the handwriting?" asked jed. his heart beat a little rapidly, for he recognized the hand as that of percy dixon. "i know who it is from," he said. "is it from a friend of yours?" "no, an enemy." "i don't understand." "you will understand when you come to read it, mr. roper. it is from a boy whom i entertained on the yacht three days before we sailed for bar harbor. he has probably written you in the hope of injuring me." "does he know anything to your disadvantage then?" "not to the disadvantage of my character. but please read the letter, mr. roper, and then you will understand." schuyler roper's curiosity was aroused, and he cut open the envelope. the letter, which was written in a schoolboy hand, read thus: dear sir: though i am a stranger to you, i will take the liberty to write and let you know something of the boy who is travelling with you. he is not fit to associate with a gentleman like yourself, for he was brought up in the poorhouse in this place, and lived here till four months ago, when he ran away, and has been living since by hook or by crook. he has a great deal of cheek, and that is what has helped him to push himself in among people who are far above him. perhaps you may like to know who i am. my father, squire dixon, is a prominent man in scranton, and is overseer of the poor, which makes him a sort of guardian of jed gilman. he could force him to go back to his old home, but the boy gave so much trouble, being naturally headstrong and rebellious, that he thinks it best to let him follow his own course. probably jed will some time apply to be taken back to his old home, as he is likely to be found out to be an impostor sooner or later. i have taken the trouble to write you because my father thinks it very proper that you should know the character of the boy whom you have taken into your employ. when i was in new york lately he invited me to go on board of your yacht in order to show off. he made as free as if the yacht were his own, treating me to a lunch, and ordering the men around as if he owned the yacht. i couldn't help being amused, remembering that he was nothing but a pauper a few months since. excuse me for taking up so much of your valuable time. i have no ill-will against jed, but i should think better of him if he would keep his place, and not try to intrude into fashionable society. yours respectfully, percy dixon. jed noticed the face of mr. roper rather anxiously when he was reading this letter. "will it prejudice him against me?" he asked himself. he felt that in that case he should indeed be depressed, for he had come to have a sincere attachment for his patron. he was reassured by the smile that lighted up the young man's countenance as he finished reading the letter. "this letter appears to have been written by a great friend of yours, jed," he said. "he is a great friend of mine, too, for he seems afraid that i shall be injured by associating with you, and so puts me on my guard." "i thought as much," said jed. "i suppose he tells you that i was brought up in the scranton poorhouse." "yes; is this true?" "yes," answered jed soberly. "but how did it happen? did your parents lose their property?" "i know nothing of them, mr. roper. i was only two years of age when i was placed in the poorhouse. mr. and mrs. avery were in charge. they were kind people and took good care of me." "did they never tell you the circumstances of your being placed in the institution?" "no; but mrs. avery always promised that she would tell me all she knew on my sixteenth birthday." "are you not sixteen yet?" "yes; but when i reached that age mr. and mrs. fogson were in charge of the poorhouse. mr. and mrs. avery were removed by the father of this percy dixon who has written to you." "what sort of people are they?" "mean, selfish and unkind to the poor people who are unfortunate enough to be under their charge. mr. fogson tried to tyrannize over me, and i rebelled." "i can't blame you," said roper. "finally i ran away, as percy writes. it was high time i did, for i felt able to earn my own living, and was ashamed to be supported by the town, though i am sure i did work enough to pay for the miserable board i got at the poorhouse. "when mr. and mrs. avery were in charge i did not feel my position. it seemed to me as if i were living with kind friends. when they went away i realized that i was a pauper. indeed, mr. and mrs. fogson reminded me of it half a dozen times a day." "so you ran away? what did you do first?" "perhaps you will laugh, mr. roper, but i became an actor." schuyler roper looked amazed. "but how on earth did you get a chance to go on the stage?" he asked. "through an actor whose acquaintance i made. he was playing in 'the gold king.' the young actor who took the boy's part was taken suddenly sick, and they tried me. the manager seemed satisfied, and i played in it till the end of the season." "there must be something in you, jed, or you could not have met the requirements of such a position. well, and what next?" "i went to sea spray and was given the charge of a young boy, boarding at the spray hotel, by his father. i lost the place through the same percy dixon who wrote to you." "how was that?" "he informed the boy's aunt, in the absence of his father at chicago, that i was only a pauper, and miss maria holbrook discharged me at once." "do you think mr. holbrook would have discharged you?" "i don't think so, for the boy was very fond of me." "so am i, jed," said mr. roper affectionately, "and i shall not allow young dixon to separate us." "thank you, mr. roper," replied jed gratefully. "as to your history, you ought to know more of it. when we leave bar harbor i will let you go back to scranton and obtain from the averys all the information you can. you may get a clew that may lead to a discovery of your parentage." "i hope so," answered jed. "i don't like to feel that i have no relations." "meanwhile you may take this letter of your friend percy's and answer it as you see fit." a few days later percy dixon received the following letter: my dear and considerate friend percy: mr. roper has asked me to answer your kind letter. he appreciates your interest in him, but he doesn't seem to think that my company will injure him as much as you imagine. he thinks i shall enjoy myself better with him than in the company of mr. and mrs. fogson, and therefore won't send me away. we are staying at the newport house, and enjoying ourselves very much. if you come down this way call on us, and i will give you a good dinner. tell mr. and mrs. fogson not to worry about me, as i am well and happy. yours truly, jed gilman. "i never saw such cheek!" said percy in mortified anger as he tore jed's letter to pieces. "it is strange how that young pauper prospers. but it won't always last!" and this reflection afforded him some satisfaction. chapter xxxiii. the poorhouse receives two visitors. let us change the scene to the scranton poorhouse. mr. fogson has just come in from splitting wood. it was a task to which he was very much averse, but he had not been able to find any one to fill jed's place. "drat that boy!" he said, as he sank into a chair. "what boy?" "jed gilman. he ought to be here at work instead of roaming round doing no good to himself or anybody else." "perhaps he would be glad to come back. i dare say he has seen the time when he didn't know where his next meal was coming from," rejoined mrs. fogson hopefully. "i hope so." "i don't know as i want him back," went on the woman. "i do! he's good for splitting wood, if he ain't good for anything else." at this moment a knock was heard at the door, and percy dixon entered the house. "how do you do, master percy?" said mrs. fogson deferentially. "i am always glad to see you enter our humble house." "we were just talking of jed gilman before you came in," added fogson. "i saw him two days since," said percy. "you did!" exclaimed fogson eagerly. "where was he?" "in the streets of new york. you know i went to the city tuesday." "what was he doing--blacking boots for a living?" "not much! i wish he was. that boy is about the luckiest chap i ever set eyes on." "what did he do?" asked mrs. fogson curiously. "invited me to go on board his yacht." "what!" "that's just what he did." "he was bluffing. he wanted to deceive you." "no he didn't, for i accepted his invitation and went on board." "you don't say! jed gilman got a yacht!" exclaimed fogson, his eyes almost protruding from their sockets. "well, i don't say it's his, but he acts as if it were. he hired a boat to take me out to the juno--that's the name of the yacht, and it's a regular beauty--and took me on board and treated me to some lunch. he ordered the men about just as if he were a gentleman." "well, of all things!" exclaimed mrs. fogson, looking surprised and scandalized. "did he explain how he came to have anything to do with the boat?" "yes; he said the owner had taken a fancy to him and was taking care of him." "did he say who the owner was?" "yes; it's schuyler roper, a rich young man living in new york." "well, what next?" "i stayed on board an hour or more, and then went back to the city." "it seems strange how that boy gets along. mr. roper will find him out sooner or later." "i should say he would. i've written him a letter, and i brought it along, thinking you might like to hear it read." so percy read the letter already laid before the reader in the last chapter. mr. and mrs. fogson nodded delighted approval as percy read his exposure of jed's humble past. "i do say that's about the best-written letter i ever heard," said mrs. fogson, as percy concluded. "do you think so?" asked percy with a gratified smile. "think so! i am sure of it. master percy, i had no idea you had so much talent. did it take you long to write it?" "oh no, i just dashed it off in a few minutes," answered percy carelessly. "you ought to be a lawyer; you do express things so neat. don't you think so, simeon?" "yes, mrs. fogson. i always thought percy a smart boy. but where are you going to send the letter?" "to bar harbor. jed said that they were going there in a day or two. i thought mr. roper ought to know what a low fellow he has with him." "of course he ought. you've only done your duty in informing him against jed. when are you going to mail the letter?" "to-night. it'll go off the first thing to-morrow morning." "i'm very much obliged to you for letting us hear the letter, master percy. i expect it'll cook jed's goose." "probably mr. roper will send him off as soon as he reads it. i'd just like to be there when it is read." percy left the poorhouse and went on his way to the post-office. he sealed the letter, first reading it over again to himself complacently, and inclined to agree with the fogsons that it was a decidedly clever piece of composition. he had hardly walked a hundred yards when he met a quiet-looking man of medium height dressed in a gray suit. "young man," said the stranger, "am i on my way to the poorhouse?" "well, sir," replied percy jocosely, "that depends on your habits." the other smiled. "i see you are a young man of original humor. is the building used as a poorhouse near by?" "yes, sir, that is it," said percy, pointing to the forlorn-looking dwelling he had just left. "thank you, sir," said the stranger, and resumed his walk. "i wonder what he wants," speculated percy. "perhaps he is a relation of mr. and mrs. fogson. i wish i had asked him." the quiet-looking man was soon at the outer door of the poorhouse, and knocked, for there was no bell. mrs. fogson answered the knock, and surveyed the stranger with some curiosity. "i believe this is the scranton poorhouse." "yes, sir." "and you, perhaps, are in charge." "yes, sir. did you wish to see any of the paupers?" asked mrs. fogson, thinking that the visitor, who was inexpensively dressed, might be related to some of her boarders. "first let me inquire how long you have been in your present position, mrs.----" "fogson." "exactly, mrs. fogson." "me and fogson have been here about a year." the stranger's countenance fell. "only a year!" he repeated. "who was here before you?" "mr. and mrs. avery; but the overseer of the poor thought there was need of a change, and persuaded me and fogson to come here." "very obliging of you!" murmured the visitor. "can you tell me how long mr. and mrs. avery were here?" "fifteen years." the stranger brightened up. "they live in the village--in a small four-room house not far from the post-office." "thank you," and the visitor took out a note-book and wrote something in it. he stood a moment silent, and then said, in a hesitating tone, "is there a boy in the institution named jed gilman?" instantly the face of mrs. fogson expressed surprise and curiosity. "there was!" she answered, "but he's run away." "run away!" ejaculated the stranger, looking disappointed. "yes; he was a bad, rebellious boy. me and fogson couldn't do anything with him." "it is very sad," said the visitor with a dubious smile. "do you want to see him particular?" asked mrs. fogson. "yes; i wished to see him." "has he got into any scrape?" asked she with malicious eagerness. the visitor eyed mrs. fogson closely, and saw at once that she was jed's enemy. "that's about the size of it," he answered. "of course as you are his friend you would rather not tell me where he is." "who said i was his friend? i'll tell you with pleasure. percy dixon came and told me only a few minutes since. he's probably at bar harbor, or he'll get there some time this week." "bar harbor!" repeated the visitor in evident surprise. "yes; he's working for a mr. roper--mr. schuyler roper. he went down there on a yacht. if you want to arrest him, or anything, you'd better go down there right off, for percy dixon has written to mr. roper that jed was brought up in the poorhouse, and will probably get bounced very soon." "thank you very much for telling me, mrs. fogson. i am glad you have put me on his track." "you don't mind telling me what he has been doing?" asked the lady. "no; i might defeat the ends of justice by doing so." "just so!" rejoined mrs. fogson. "i do wonder what that boy's done?" she said to herself as the stranger turned into the public road. "very likely it's burglary, or forgery." chapter xxxiv. the detective. the man in drab smiled to himself as he left the presence of mrs. fogson. "i wonder whether that woman's husband has her amiable traits?" he speculated. "if so, the scranton poor must be made very uncomfortable." as he reached the village he met percy dixon once more. percy had an ungovernable curiosity, and he crossed the street to intercept the stranger. "i suppose you found the poorhouse," he said suggestively. "yes; i could not miss it after your clear directions." "are you related to mr. and mrs. fogson?" asked percy, rather boldly. "well no," answered the stranger with a smile. "i haven't the honor." "have you any relations among the paupers?" "not that i am aware of. however, i called to inquire after one of them--a boy." "jed gilman?" said percy eagerly. "yes; i believe that is his name. are you acquainted with him?" "i have known him for years." "i suppose he is a friend of yours?" "not much. do you think i would be friends with a pauper?" "i don't know. i see no reason why not if he is a nice boy." "but jed isn't a nice boy. he's an artful, forward, presuming young jackanapes, and was awfully troublesome." "i am sorry to hear it. mrs. fogson seems to think of him very much as you do." "i should think she would. she and fogson couldn't do anything with him." "mrs. fogson says he isn't there now." "no; he ran away after making a brutal assault on fogson." the man in drab felt an inclination to smile, but suppressed it. "i don't know as i ought to have spoken against him," continued percy with a cunning look of inquiry. "you may be after him." the man in drab paused a moment, then assuming a look of mystery, said, "can you keep a secret?" "yes," answered percy eagerly. "come here, then." percy drew near, and the other whispered mysteriously, "_i am a detective!_" "you don't say so!" ejaculated percy, gazing at him with a species of awe, begotten of his idea of detectives as introduced into books which he had read. the other nodded. "and i am after jed gilman!" he continued. "is that so?" said the delighted percy. "what has he done?" "that is a secret which i am not permitted to reveal at present." "do you want to find him?" "very much." "then i'll tell you where he is. he's gone to bar harbor--in maine, you know." the detective nodded. "he went on a yacht--the juno--owned by mr. schuyler roper--a rich new york gentleman." "but how did he get into such company?" "oh, mr. roper took pity on him and gave him a place." "then you think he is comfortably situated?" "yes, but he won't be long." "why not?" "because i have written a letter to mr. roper, telling him jed's real character. i expect he'll be bounced when that letter arrives." "that would upset all my plans and enable him to escape." percy looked perplexed and disappointed. "i am sorry for that," he said. "i guess i'd better write again and tell him to keep jed another week." "perhaps you had better do so. say that---- but no. i will telegraph to him to keep jed with him till i arrive." "that'll do better. you couldn't possibly tell me what jed has done?" "not at present." "you'll let me know sometime?" "i think i shall be able to gratify your curiosity before long." "i'll give you my address, and you can write to me. i wish i knew whether jed had stolen anything or not." "i cannot say a word! my lips are sealed!" said the detective in a solemn tone. percy was impressed. the man in drab quite came up to his idea of a detective. "by the way," said his companion, "i want to call on mr. and mrs. avery, who, i understand, know something of the boy's early life." "they live there--in that small house. i'll go with you." "no, i prefer to go alone. one can't be too careful." "all right," said percy. "i wonder what under the canopy jed's been doing? it's likely he'll have to go to jail." chapter xxxv. mrs. avery's story. the detective crossed the street, walked up a tiny footpath and rang the bell of the small house. mrs. avery came to the door, a gentle-faced little woman with white hair. she looked inquiringly at the visitor. "mrs. avery, i believe?" said the man in drab. "that is my name." "i would like the favor of a few words with you, madam." "come in then," and she led the way to a modest sitting-room. "my husband," she said, introducing him to a kindly old man, as white-haired as herself. "my name is fletcher," said the visitor, "and i have come to you for information. but first, am i right in my belief that you were once in charge of the scranton poorhouse?" "yes, sir. my husband and i had charge of it for fifteen years. we should have been there now, but for squire dixon, the new overseer of the poor, who wanted the place for some friends of his, mr. and mrs. fogson." "i have had the pleasure of seeing mrs. fogson," said fletcher with a smile. "i am sure, now that i have seen you both, that the change was for the worse." "i fear that the poor people are very shabbily treated," said mrs. avery gravely. "it makes me feel very badly, but what can i do? squire dixon sustains them, and he has everything to say. but you say you want some information. i shall be glad to tell you what i can." "i want information touching a boy, now perhaps sixteen years of age, bearing the name of jed gilman." mr. and mrs. avery immediately showed signs of interest. "he has left the poorhouse," said mr. avery. "so i am told." "do you inquire as a friend of the poor boy?" asked mrs. avery. "emphatically his friend. but first tell me, what kind of a boy is he?" "a fine, manly, spirited lad, warm-hearted and attractive." the detective looked pleased, but surprised. "that doesn't correspond with what mrs. fogson told me," he said. "i suppose not. she and her husband tried to bully jed and overwork him, till he was compelled to run away. i don't know where he is now." "but i do. he is at bar harbor, in the company of a rich gentleman from new york, and i believe employed on his yacht." "i am thankful to hear it." "but what i wish to learn are the circumstances attending his being placed at the poorhouse. i suppose you remember them?" "oh yes, as well as if it were yesterday, though it is fourteen years since." "go on, madam, i am all interest." "it was a cold evening in november," began mrs. avery reflectively, "and i was about to lock up, though it was but nine o'clock, for we kept early hours at the poorhouse, when there was a knock at the door. i opened it and saw before me a young woman of dark hair and complexion, holding by the hand a pretty boy of about two years of age. "'can you give me and my boy a night's lodging?' she asked. "we often had such applications, and never sent away a decent-looking person. so i said yes readily enough and the two entered. they seemed hungry, and though it was late for us i gave them some bread and milk, of which the child in particular partook heartily. i asked the young woman some questions but she was very close-mouthed. "'wait till morning,' she said. 'the boy and i are very tired.' "i asked no more but gave them a bed, and i suppose they both slept well. i was able to give them a small room to themselves. "in the morning when i entered i found only the boy. the young woman had gone, but pinned to the child's clothing was this note: "'i am obliged to leave the boy with you for the present. i hope you will take care of him. his name is jed gilman. some time he will probably be called for. don't try to find me for it will be useless.' "that was all. mr. avery and myself were dumfounded, but we had taken a fancy to the boy and resolved to keep him. there was some difficulty about it, for he was not legally entitled to be brought up at the town's cost. however, mr. avery and i agreed to pay part of the expense for the first year, and after that he was looked upon as one of the regular inmates and cared for as such." "and the young woman never called again?" "never." "nor sent you any message, oral or written?" "never." "was there any article of dress, or any ornament, left with the child that might help to identify it?" "yes. wait here a minute and i will show you something which i have carefully preserved from that day to this." chapter xxxvi. "who was jed?" mrs. avery went up stairs to her own room, but reappeared in five minutes. she had in her hand an old-fashioned gold locket. "this," she said, "was attached to the neck of the boy when he came into our hands." "have you opened it?" asked the detective eagerly. "is there a picture inside?" "there are two miniatures--one on each side." she opened the locket, and it proved to be as she said. one of these was a miniature of a young and handsome man, apparently thirty years of age, the other of a young lady with a very sweet and attractive face, probably five years younger. "these must represent the parents of the boy jed," said the detective. "so we concluded--mr. avery and myself." "does the lady bear any resemblance to the girl who brought the child to you?" "not the slightest. the girl was common in appearance. she probably filled the position of a servant or nursemaid." "did it occur to you that she might be in any way related to the child?" "not for a moment. he was evidently the child of parents wealthy or well to do." "did you form any conjectures relative to her or her object in bringing you the child?" "no. there was nothing to serve as a clew. it was all guesswork on our part. still the thought did occur to us that the child had been stolen or abducted from his people for some reason unknown to us." the detective hesitated a moment, and then, having apparently made up his mind to confide in the worthy couple, said: "your guess was very near the truth. the child, i have every reason to believe, was stolen from its mother--the father was dead--through the machinations of an uncle who wanted the boy's title and estate." "title!" exclaimed mrs. avery, in great surprise. "yes. this boy i believe to be the only son of the late sir charles fenwick, of fenwick hall, gloucestershire, england." "well, well!" ejaculated mrs. avery. "then if the boy had his rights would he be sir jed gilman?" "no," answered the detective smiling. "he has no more claim to the name jed gilman than i have." "what is his real name?" "robert fenwick, as i have every reason to believe." "why has there been no search for him till now?" "there has been a search covering all the intervening years; but the mother, who is still living, had no information to guide her, and the search has been a groping in the dark." "and did the wicked uncle get the title and estate?" asked mrs. avery. "yes. he is enjoying both now." "is it a large estate?" "it would not be considered large in england. probably it amounts to five thousand pounds annual rental." "five thousand pounds!" said mrs. avery. "yes, or in our money about twenty-five thousand dollars." "and this large estate ought to belong to poor jed?" "i submit that, if so, he will not need to be called poor jed." "and you say that the mother is living?" "she is living, and in new york. she is comfortably established at the windsor hotel on fifth avenue. it is by her that i am employed. this is my card." he drew out a small card bearing the name james peake. "yes. i am an american," he said in reply to a question by mrs. avery. "i am a new york detective, and was detailed for this work by inspector byrnes." "what sort of a person is jed's mother?" asked mrs. avery. "still a beautiful woman, though she cannot be far from forty years of age." "does she look like the picture in the locket?" "there is considerable resemblance--of course, making allowance for the difference in the ages of the two. this locket, mrs. avery, is most important, and will, i think, establish the identity of jed gilman with the stolen heir of the fenwick estate. will you permit me to take it and show it to lady fenwick?" "has she a title, too?" "certainly. she was the wife of sir charles fenwick." "and what is the name of the wicked uncle?" "guy fenwick. he is known as sir guy fenwick, but probably, almost positively, has no rightful claim to the title." "does he know that you are looking for his nephew?" "i presume he has taken measures to keep acquainted with all the movements of lady fenwick." "i wonder how the girl came to give the boy the name of jed gilman?" "i think i can explain this. the name of this treacherous nursemaid was jane gilman. she selected a name as near to her own as possible. you say you have neither seen nor heard anything of this girl since jed was left in your hands?" "we have heard nothing whatever." at this moment there was a ring at the door-bell--a sharp, quick, impatient ring. mrs. avery answered it. she came back, her face showing excitement. "it is a woman of middle age," she said, "and she, too, has come to make inquiries about jed gilman." the detective also looked excited. "do you think," he asked, "it can be jane gilman herself come back after all these years?" "that's it!" said mrs. avery, her face lighting up. "i wondered where i had seen her face before. now, though she is so much older, i recognize in this middle-aged woman the girl who brought jed to the door fourteen years ago." "bring her in here, hear what she has to say, and place me somewhere, so that, myself unseen, i can hear what she says." this was what the detective said in a quick, decided tone. "very well, sir, go in there. it is a small bedroom. you can keep the door ajar." the detective lost no time in concealing himself. the woman came in. she was a stout, florid-complexioned woman, rather showily dressed, with the look of an englishwoman of the middle class. before we proceed to record the interview that took place between mr. and mrs. avery and herself we must go back again to the poorhouse, and our friends, mr. and mrs. fogson. twenty minutes after the departure of james peake, the detective, this woman knocked at the door of the poorhouse. her summons was answered by mrs. fogson. "what's wanted?" asked the poorhouse matron, looking inquisitively at the new arrival. "is there a boy named jed gilman living here?" asked the woman eagerly. "jed gilman again!" repeated mrs. fogson. "what do you want of jed gilman?" "answer my question first, if you please." "such a boy was living here till lately, but he became very troublesome and finally ran away." "then he is not here now?" said the woman, looking very much disappointed. "no, but i expect he'll have to come back some time. a bad penny generally returns. you haven't told me what you have to do with him?" "then i will tell you. i was the person who brought him here fourteen years ago." "you don't say so?" ejaculated mrs. fogson, her little bead-like eyes sparkling with curiosity. "was he your child?" "certainly not, but he was my brother's child." "and what was your object in bringing him here?" "my brother was dead, and the child was thrown upon me for support," answered the woman after a little hesitation. "i could not support him, and so brought him where i thought he would have a home. but you are not the woman who was in charge of the poorhouse at that time." "no; that was mrs. avery." "and is mrs. avery still living?" "yes; she lives in a small house in the village." "i will go and see her." but this did not suit the views of mrs. fogson, who was curious to hear more about the antecedents of jed. "won't you come in and take a cup of tea?" she asked with unusual hospitality. "i don't care for tea--it's slops," answered the visitor. "if you could give me a thimbleful of whiskey i wouldn't mind taking it. when i am tired and dragged out it goes to the right spot." "yes, i can give you a glass," answered mrs. fogson. "me and fogson generally keeps a little in case of sickness, though we wouldn't have it known, as this is a temperance town." "you are safe with me, i won't mention it," said the caller. she then learned that jed was probably at bar harbor; but mrs. fogson found out very little from her in return. after a few minutes the strange woman set out on her walk to the avery cottage. chapter xxxvii. jane gilman. the visitor took a seat in the rocking-chair offered her by mrs. avery. "do you remember me?" she asked, throwing back her veil so as to give an unobstructed view of her full, florid face. "are you the girl who brought the boy jed to me fourteen years ago?" "the same. i don't find you in your old place." "no; we--my husband and i--left the poor farm about a year since. have you been there?" "yes, i saw the new woman, and a spiteful piece she is, i'll be bound." mrs. avery smiled. "i don't admire mrs. fogson," she said, "but i suppose that is natural." "she tells me the boy is no longer in the poorhouse." "no." "can you tell me why he left?" "he was ill-treated by mr. and mrs. fogson." "that woman tells me he was very troublesome." "we never found him so, and up to a year ago he was under our charge." "i surmised as much. then he has grown up a good boy?" "excellent. i feel great affection for jed." "that is gratifying to my feelings, seeing i am his aunt." mrs. avery regarded her visitor with surprise. "do you claim jed as your nephew?" she asked. "certainly. he is the son of my only brother." but for her interview with the detective mrs. avery would have believed this story. as it was, she did not choose to dispute it. she only sought to draw out her visitor so as to understand better her object in calling. "are you willing to explain why it was that you were led to place your nephew under my care?" "certainly. there is no secret about that _now_. my brother, who was a blacksmith, failed, and was unable to support the boy." "what was your brother's name?" "jedediah gilman. that is why i desired to have the boy called jed gilman, after his father. my name is jane gilman." "then you are not married?" "no," said miss gilman. "not but i might have been married half a dozen times if i had wanted to. but the men are a shiftless lot, in my opinion." "not all of them. i never charged my husband with being shiftless." "oh, well, there are exceptions. but i liked my freedom, so i am jane gilman still. i may change my mind yet, and get married. there's a many after me, and i am only thirty-two." mrs. avery was too polite to question her statement, but privately decided that the other was ten years older. "are you an american?" she asked. "no, i'm english, and i'm proud to own it." "was jed born in england?" jane gilman hesitated, but finally answered in the affirmative. "in what english town or village was he born?" "oh, lor, you wouldn't know any better if i should tell you. my brother came over here with jed when he was a baby, to better his fortunes. he went out to iowa, leaving the baby with me. but i found i couldn't get a place with a baby on my hands, and so i took it to the scranton poorhouse." "and where have you been since?" "i went to philadelphia and got a position there. since then i've been in a many places." "i wonder you didn't write to me for some news of the baby." "i got news of him from time to time, though i don't mean to tell you how," answered jane gilman with a cunning smile. "but i've been away for the last three years, and so i didn't know that jed had gone off." "you must be disappointed not to find him." "so i am. it seems so long since i've seen the dear child," and jane drew out a handkerchief of ample size and pressed it to her tearless eyes. "is he a nice-looking boy?" "he has a fine, frank, open face, but you'll excuse my saying that he doesn't resemble you in the least." "no," answered jane, not the least bit disconcerted. "he didn't look like the gilmans, but like his ma's family." "what was his mother's maiden name?" "fenwick," responded jane gilman, having no suspicion that mrs. avery had heard the name before. mrs. avery started. "i've heard that name before," she said. "have you?" asked jane, momentarily uneasy, but quickly recovering her self-possession she reflected that the averys could not possibly know anything of jed's real history. "i suppose there's a many fenwicks in the world and some of 'em in america. my brother's wife was a good-looking woman, and the boy takes after her." "she died young, i suppose?" "only three months after he was born." "is your brother still living?" "no; he was killed in a railroad accident out in iowa six months since. he was a brakeman on the railroad. he left me a tidy sum of money, and said that i was to look up jed." "this accounts for your visit, then?" "yes; i want to take my nephew with me and see to his education, as my brother wished me to." "did mrs. fogson give you any idea where he was?" "she said he had run away, but she had information that he was at bar harbor, wherever that is, in the service of some rich gentleman." "we have heard the same thing. what do you propose to do?" "i'll have to go there, i suppose. but there is one thing i want to ask you about." "what is that?" "when i left the baby with you there was a gold locket suspended from his neck. did you find it?" "yes, i found it." "i'll thank you if you'll give it to me. i meant to take it at the time, but i went away in a hurry, as you know, and i thought it would be safe in your hands." "i can't let you have it to-day, miss gilman." "and why not?" demanded jane suspiciously. "i deposited it with a party i had confidence in, for safe keeping," replied mrs. avery. "then i'll be glad to have you get it as soon as you can. i want it," rejoined jane gilman sharply. "how am i to feel sure you are entitled to it?" asked mrs. avery. "if i am not, who is, i'd like to know? i'm the one that left the boy with you at the poorhouse." "i presume this is true." "of course it's true. i'll tell you what, mrs. avery, i'm not much pleased with your trying to keep the locket. are you sure you haven't sold or pawned it?" "yes, i am sure of that. but perhaps i shall not have to make you wait long for it. the gentleman in whose hands i placed it is in this house at this very minute." jane gilman looked very much surprised. "where is he?" she asked. detective peake answered for himself. he stepped into the room from the small bedroom and held up the locket. "is this the one?" he asked. "yes," answered the woman eagerly. "give it to me." mr. peake quietly put it back into his pocket. "not till i have asked you a few questions," he answered. "what right have you to ask me questions?" asked jane defiantly. "i will assume that i have the right," the detective answered. "whose miniatures are those in the locket?" "they are my brother and his wife." "your brother doesn't seem to look like you, miss gilman." "perhaps you know better than i who it is," said jane sullenly. "well, perhaps so." "and who do you say they are?" "sir charles and laura fenwick of fenwick hall, england." jane gilman started to her feet in astonishment. "who told you?" she asked hoarsely. "it is not necessary for me to tell you. it is enough that i am commissioned by the boy's mother to find him and restore him to her. there may be trouble in store for you, miss jane gilman," he added significantly. jane gilman fanned herself vigorously and seemed very ill at ease. "however," continued the detective, "you can save yourself and secure a handsome reward by giving me all the help you can, and making full confession of your stealing the child, and telling who instigated you to do it." the woman hesitated, but her hesitation was brief. "will you promise this?" she asked. "yes. i am the confidential agent of lady fenwick, who is now in america." "then i'll do it. guy fenwick hasn't treated me right, and i don't mind if i do go back on him. it was he that hired me to make off with little robert, though i didn't let him know what i did with him." "and what was your present object?" "to take the boy away and make sir guy pay a good round sum for my keeping the secret." chapter xxxviii. the detective secures an ally. "are you in communication with guy fenwick? do you know whether he is now at fenwick hall?" asked the detective. "no, he is not there." "where is he, then?" "at sea. in a day or two he will probably be in new york," answered jane gilman coolly. mr. peake started. this was unexpected intelligence. "what brings him to new york?" he inquired hastily. "i do." "what do you mean by that?" "i wrote him some time since for a hundred pounds. he sent me five pounds and told me that i needn't call on him again." "he doesn't seem much afraid of you." "no; he thought the boy was dead." "i suppose you told him so?" "i let him think that the boy had died of fever four years ago. that made him feel safe, and he concluded that he had no more use for jane gilman. he'll find out!" and jane tossed her head, in an independent manner. "have you any letters from him in reference to the matter?" asked detective peake. from a pocket of unknown depth miss gilman drew out an epistle which she handed to the detective. "you can read it if you want to," she said. mr. peake opened the letter and read it. it ran thus: miss jane gilman: your letter requesting me to send you a hundred pounds is received. your request is certainly an audacious one. why i should send you a hundred pounds, or even ten pounds, i am at a loss to imagine. the boy robert, whose existence you think would be dangerous to me, is dead by your own admission, and my right to the fenwick title and estates is undisputed and indisputable. if you expect me to support you for the balance of your life, your expectations are doomed to disappointment. you are strong and healthy, and are able to earn your own living in the sphere in which you were born. besides, if you had been prudent you would have saved a considerable sum out of the large pension you have received from me during the last dozen or more years. i think it quite probable that you have a snug sum invested and are not in any danger of suffering. still i don't want to be hard upon you. i accordingly inclose a five-pound note, which you will please consider as a final gift on my part. guy fenwick. "miss gilman," said detective peake, "will you permit me to keep this letter--for the present?" "what do you want to do with it?" asked jane suspiciously. "use it against the man who calls himself sir guy fenwick. in connection with your testimony it will prove valuable evidence." "you have promised that i shall be well paid?" "yes, i can take it upon myself to promise that." "very well. you may keep the letter." "one question more. you tell me that sir guy fenwick is on his way to new york. can you tell me why he is coming?" "yes. i dropped him a hint, in answer to this letter, that the boy robert was still living, and this alarmed my gentleman," she added with a laugh. "did he write you that he was coming?" "yes." "have you that letter?" "no; but i can tell you what was in it. he wrote that he did not believe my story, but he would come to new york, and i might call upon him at the brevoort house on monday next." "you infer from that that he was anxious?" "it looks like it, doesn't it?" "yes. what did you propose to say to him?" "that the boy was living, and that i could lay my hand upon him." "that is why you came to scranton?" "yes." "i see. the whole thing lies in a nutshell. even without your evidence i shall probably be able to establish the rights of my young client. but your help will make it surer." "i am at your service, if you will keep your promise. what do you want me to do?" "go with me to bar harbor and see the boy." "i would like to," said jane gilman with an expression of pleasure. "i haven't seen him since he was a baby. i'd like to see how he looks now." "when he is restored to his title and estate he will not see you suffer." "when will you start for bar harbor?" "we shall leave scranton by the next train." chapter xxxix. jed learns who he is. mr. roper and jed were having a very enjoyable time at bar harbor. they made trips, chiefly on foot, to the various interesting localities--schooner head, great head, hull's cove and the ovens--being favored with unusually fine and clear weather. they had just returned at four o'clock in the afternoon from a trip to the summit of green mountain when they were informed at the hotel that a gentleman wished to see them. mr. roper took the card and examined it. "james peake," he said. "i don't know of any such person. do you, jed?" "no, sir," answered jed. "you may bring him up," said roper, turning to the bell boy. in less than a minute the latter reappeared, followed by a plain-looking man, who scanned both attentively as he entered, but devoted the most attention to jed. "mr. peake?" said schuyler roper interrogatively. "yes, sir." "you have business with me?" "rather with your young friend. is he known as jed gilman?" "yes," answered the boy so designated. "i am a detective from the staff of inspector byrnes of new york." jed blushed and looked uneasy. this announcement naturally alarmed him. "am i charged with any offense?" he asked quickly. "no," answered mr. peake with a pleasant smile. "when i state my business i am inclined to think you will be glad to see me." "i feel relieved, jed," said mr. roper with a smile. "i took you without a character, and i trembled lest some terrible charge was to be brought against you." "rest easy on that score, mr. roper," returned the detective. "my mission may involve some one else in trouble, but not your young friend. will you permit me to ask him a few questions?" "i am sure he will be quite ready to answer any questions you may ask." jed nodded assent. "then, mr. gilman, may i inquire your age?" "i am sixteen." "what is the date of your birth?" jed colored and looked embarrassed. "i do not know," he answered. "can you tell me where you were born?" "no, sir," returned jed. "i was left at the age of two years at the scranton poorhouse by a girl who disappeared the next morning. of course i was too young to know anything of my earlier history." "exactly; and you spent the intervening years at that interesting institution." jed laughed. "it didn't prove very interesting at the last," he said. "when my good friends the averys were turned out, mr. and mrs. fogson succeeded them, and i concluded to leave." "i am not surprised to hear it. i have seen mrs. fogson," remarked the detective dryly. "did she give me a good character?" "quite the contrary. she prepared me to find you a desperate young ruffian." jed laughed. "do i come up to your expectations?" he asked. "not altogether. i may conclude that you have no information in regard to your family or parentage?" "no, sir. can you"--something in the detective's face prompted the question--"can you give me any information on the subject?" jed fixed his eyes with painful intensity upon the visitor. "i think i can," he answered. "who, then, am i?" "to the best of my knowledge you are the nephew of sir guy fenwick, of fenwick hall, gloucestershire, england." both mr. roper and jed looked exceedingly surprised. "sir guy fenwick?" repeated roper. "he is so called, but i have reason to believe he is a usurper, and that the title and estates belong to your young friend, who, if i am correct, isn't jed gilman, but sir robert fenwick." jed looked dazed. schuyler roper went up to him and grasped his hand. "my dear jed, or rather robert," he said, "let me be the first to congratulate you. but, mr. peake, are you prepared to substantiate jed's claim to his title and inheritance?" "i think so. i will tell you how the case stands." when he had concluded, mr. roper asked, "and where is this nurse whose testimony is so important?" "at rodick's. i brought her with me to bar harbor." "and what is your program?" "i should like to carry our young friend with me to new york to confront the pseudo baronet." "we will be ready whenever you say. i say _we_, for i propose to accompany jed--i beg pardon, sir robert--and stand by him at this eventful period." "call me jed, mr. roper, till i have proved myself entitled to the other name," returned the "poorhouse boy." chapter xl. guy fenwick's defeat. sir guy fenwick sat in his handsome apartment at the brevoort house. he was of slender build and dark complexion, bearing a very slight resemblance to jed, but his expression was much less agreeable. "jane gilman was to have called this morning. she ought to be here now," he muttered, consulting his watch. "she is certain to come," he added with a sneer, "for she wants money. i shall never be safe from annoyance while she lives. however, she can do me little harm." there was a knock at the door, and a bell boy appeared with a card. sir guy took it from his hand, and regarded it with surprise. "mr. james peake!" he repeated. "what does he want?" "i don't know, sir guy." "let him come up, but the interview must be brief, for i am expecting another party." directly afterward detective peake entered the presence of the baronet. "you wish to see me, mr.--ahem!--mr. peake?" "yes. mr. fenwick?" "mr. fenwick!" repeated the englishman, frowning. "i am sir guy fenwick." "i am aware that you call yourself so," said the detective quietly. "what do you mean by this insolence?" demanded guy fenwick, his face flaming. "you will understand me when i say i call in behalf of sir robert fenwick, the real baronet." guy fenwick half rose from his seat. he looked angry and alarmed. "i don't know what you mean," he said. "i think you do. sir robert is your nephew, and the title and estate are his by right." guy fenwick laughed--a harsh, mirthless laugh. "really," he said, "this is most amusing. robert fenwick is dead. if any one calls himself by that name he is an impostor." "that remains to be seen. i have to inform you that sir robert fenwick is in this city, in the company of his mother, who has received and acknowledged him." "this is a conspiracy!" exclaimed guy fenwick, whose appearance showed that he was deeply disturbed. "it is a very foolish conspiracy, i will add. of course i understand the object of my amiable sister-in-law in giving her countenance to what she must know to be an imposture. do me the favor to inform me where you discovered the boy who impudently claims the title and estate which i inherited from my brother." "only by procuring the disappearance of that brother's lawful heir." "who says this--who dares say it?" "you are partially acquainted with a woman named jane gilman?" guy fenwick's countenance changed. "yes," he said after a pause, "i do know a woman of that name. she has been writing me blackmailing letters, and threatening to injure me if i did not send her a hundred pounds. so this is the mare's nest you have stirred up? i congratulate you." "call it a mare's nest if you like, mr. fenwick," said the detective undisturbed. "you may find it a very serious matter. shall i tell you what we are able to prove?" "if you please. i should like to know the details of this base conspiracy." "fourteen years ago jane gilman appeared towards nightfall at the door of a poorhouse not far away and left a child of two years old with the people in charge. before morning she disappeared. the child grew up a healthy, sturdy boy; frank and handsome." "so he prepared himself to claim the fenwick title in an almshouse?" "it wasn't his fault that he was brought up there, only his misfortune." "what name was given him?" "jed gilman." "he had better retain it." "not while he has a better claim to the name of robert fenwick. hanging from his neck at the time he was placed in the poorhouse was a locket containing miniatures of your brother, the late sir charles fenwick, and lady mary fenwick, still living." "have you the locket with you?" "it is in safe custody. you will admit that this is pretty strong evidence of our claim. but we have in addition the confession of jane gilman, who testifies that, in obedience to your instructions, she abducted and disposed of the boy as aforesaid." "this is a very cunning conspiracy, mr. peake, if that is your name, but it won't succeed. i shall defend my right to the title and estate; but if this boy is poor i don't mind settling a pension of a hundred pounds upon him, and finding him some employment." "in his name i decline your offer." "then i defy you! what are you going to do about it?" "lady fenwick has engaged the services of one of our most famous lawyers, and legal proceedings will be commenced at once. we will, however, give you a week to decide on your course." "give me the name of your lawyer. i will call upon him and show him that he has consented to aid an imposture." before the week ended, however, sir guy, to give him this title once more, had decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and had consented to surrender the title and estates, his nephew agreeing to pay him an income of a thousand pounds per annum, in order that he might still be able to live like a gentleman. when matters were arranged guy fenwick returned hastily to england, and, making but a short stay there, went to the continent, where he would not have the humiliation of meeting old acquaintances whom he had known in the days of his grandeur. chapter xli. conclusion. not the least gratifying circumstance in his sudden change of fortune was jed's discovery of a mother--a gracious and beautiful woman--to whom he was drawn in almost instinctive affection. before leaving new york for his native land he expressed a wish to revisit scranton, and view once more the scenes of his early privations. his mother not only consented, but decided to accompany him. mr. and mrs. fogson were engaged in their usual morning labors when a handsome carriage stopped at the gate. a servant descended and made his way to the front door, which mrs. fogson herself opened. "madam," said the servant bowing, "do you receive visitors?" mrs. fogson espying the handsome carriage was dazzled, and responded graciously: "we ain't fixed for company," she said, "but if you'll make allowances i shall be happy to receive visitors. who is it?" she inquired curiously. "lady fenwick and sir robert fenwick, of fenwick hall, england." "you don't say!" ejaculated mrs. fogson, awe-stricken. "tell 'em to come right in." jed assisted his mother to alight and walk up to the front door, mrs. fogson having retreated inside to change her dress. "and you say you lived in this forlorn place, robert?" asked lady fenwick with a shudder. "for fourteen years, mother." "i never can forgive guy fenwick--never!" "i am none the worse for it now, mother." jed led the way into mrs. fogson's private sitting-room, where that lady found them. she stopped short at the threshold. "why, it's jed gilman!" she said sharply, with a feeling that she had been humbugged. "mrs. fogson," said jed, gravely, "i am jed gilman no more. i have found out that i am entitled to a large estate in england, but best of all i have found a mother, and am no longer alone in the world." mr. fogson, who had followed his wife into the room, was the first to "take in" the surprising news. jed's handsome suit, his gold watch-chain and diamond scarf-pin, as well as his mother's stately figure, convinced him that the story was true. "no one is more glad to hear of your good fortune, my dear boy, than mrs. f. and myself," he said in a gushing tone. "i have often thought that you were a nobleman in disguise." "you never let me suspect it, mr. fogson," said jed, amused. "probably you didn't want to raise my expectations." "just so, jed, i mean sir robert. we feel that it was an honor to have you so long under our roof--don't we, mrs. f.?" "certainly, simeon. if lady fenwick will permit me to offer an humble collation, some of my ginger snaps; you remember them, jed, i mean sir robert." "you are very kind," said lady fenwick hastily, "but i seldom eat between meals." just then percy dixon, who came with a message from his father, appeared in the door. he opened his eyes wide in amazement when he saw jed. "jed gilman!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "no, master percy," said mrs. fogson. "we have just learned that our dear jed is sir robert fenwick, of fenwick hall, england." "jehoshaphat!" cried percy, astounded. "percy," said jed, whose good fortune made him good-natured, "let me introduce you to my mother, lady fenwick. mother, this is master percy dixon." "i am glad to meet any of your friends, robert," said lady fenwick, really supposing that jed and percy were on intimate terms. "glad to know you--to make your acquaintance, lady fenwick," replied percy. "are you really and truly a lord, jed?" "no, not a lord, but a baronet. however, that needn't make any difference between friends like ourselves." "no, of course not. you know i always liked you, jed, i mean sir jed." "sir robert," prompted mr. fogson. "sir robert. i feel sort of confused by the sudden change," explained percy embarrassed. "call me jed, then. in scranton i mean to be jed." "won't you call at our house? my father, squire dixon, will be honored by a visit." "we are to call on mr. and mrs. avery first, and then if we have time we will call on you. won't you get into the carriage and go with us, percy?" percy dixon accepted the invitation with intense delight, and long afterwards boasted of his ride with lady fenwick. though jed and his mother were able to spend but ten minutes at the house of squire dixon, the squire showed himself deeply sensible of the honor, and several times alluded to his dear young friend sir robert. it was the way of the world. mr. and mrs. avery received from lady fenwick a handsome present in recognition of their past kindness to jed, and this was the first of many. jed and his mother remained at the windsor till they were ready to embark for england. while walking on fifth avenue one day he saw just ahead his little friend, chester holbrook, accompanied by his aunt, miss maria holbrook. he hurried forward, and taking off his hat to miss holbrook, said, "chester, don't you remember me?" chester uttered a cry of delight. "why it's jed!" he said. miss maria holbrook, surprised at jed's improved appearance, eyed him with suspicion. "where are you staying, jedediah?" she inquired. "have you a situation?" "i am boarding at the windsor hotel, miss holbrook. i am in no situation." "then how can you afford to board at a first-class hotel?" asked the spinster in surprise. "i am with my mother, lady fenwick. allow me to hand you my card." jed placed in her hand a card on which was engraved the name: sir robert fenwick, bart. the story had already appeared in the daily papers of new york, but miss holbrook never suspected that the young english baronet was chester's humble guardian. "are you sir robert fenwick?" she ejaculated in amazement. "i believe so," he answered with a smile. "now, miss holbrook, i have a favor to ask. may i take chester in and introduce him to my mother?" "i should also like to meet lady fenwick," said miss holbrook. "i shall be most happy to present you." "isn't your name jed after all?" asked chester, as he confidingly placed his hand in that of his former guardian. "you may call me so, chester; i wish you would." miss maria holbrook was delighted with her visit. like many americans, she had a great respect for english aristocracy, and did not understand that there was considerable difference between titles. it is wonderful how differently she came to regard one whom she had been accustomed to style "that boy jedediah." she was much pleased with lady fenwick's gracious reception, though she found it difficult to think of her as jed's mother. i neglected to say in the proper place that jed did not fail to call, when in scranton, on his two friends dr. and mrs. redmond, and gave them a cordial invitation to visit his mother and himself if they should ever come to england. he did not see fit to extend a similar invitation to mr. and mrs. fogson. misfortune has come to these worthy people. their mismanagement of the poorhouse had become so notorious that the best citizens of scranton not only demanded their removal from the poorhouse, but at the next town meeting defeated squire dixon for re-election to the position of overseer of the poor. mr. and mrs. avery were invited to succeed the fogsons, but felt that they were entitled to rest and quiet for the balance of their lives. the liberal gifts of jed and his mother made them independent, and they were willing that younger persons should fill their old positions. jed devoted several years to making up the deficiencies in his education. the only disagreeable thing in his change of fortune was his removal from america, but he will probably arrange to spend a portion of his time in his adopted country, to which he feels the attachment of a loyal son. then he has a link connecting him with it in the frequent visits at fenwick hall of his friend schuyler roper. notwithstanding his accession to the ancestral title and estate, he has not forgotten the fourteen years during which he was known as "jed, the poorhouse boy." * * * * * every child's library _books "that every child can read" for four reasons_: . because the subjects have all proved their lasting popularity. . because of the simple language in which they are written. . because they have been carefully edited, and anything that might prove objectionable for children's reading has been eliminated. . because of their accuracy of statement. +this series of books+ comprises subjects that appeal to all young people. besides the historical subjects that are necessary to the education of children, it also contains standard books written in language that children can read and understand. +carefully edited.+ each work is carefully edited by rev. jesse lyman hurlbut, d.d., to make sure that the style is simple and suitable for young readers, and to eliminate anything which might be objectionable. dr. hurlbut's large and varied experience in the instruction of young people, and in the preparation of literature in language that is easily understood, makes this series of books +a welcome addition to libraries, reading circles, schools and home+. issued in uniform style of binding. _cloth. mo. illustrated. price, cents._ list of titles. lives of our presidents--every child can read. the leatherstocking tales--every child can read. the story of jesus--every child can read. the history of america--every child can read. pilgrim's progress--every child can read. stories of our naval heroes--every child can read. stories of great americans--every child can read. stories about children of all nations--every child can read. robinson crusoe--every child can read. stories about indians--every child can read. stories of royal children--every child can read. dickens' stories about children--every child can read. (other titles in preparation) catalogue mailed on application _the john c. winston company, publishers_ - arch street, philadelphia pa. generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/b _ project gutenberg has the other three volumes of this work. volume i: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ volume iii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ volume iv: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ transcriber's note: the ligature oe has been marked as [oe]. text in italics has been enclosed by underscores (_text_). medical inquiries and observations. by benjamin rush, m. d. professor of the institutes and practice of medicine, and of clinical practice, in the university of pennsylvania. in four volumes. vol. ii. the second edition, revised and enlarged by the author. philadelphia, published by j. conrad & co. chesnut-street, philadelphia; m. & j. conrad & co. market-street, baltimore; rapin, conrad, & co. washington; somervell & conrad, petersburg; and bonsal, conrad, & co. norfolk. printed by t. & g. palmer, , high-street. . * * * * * contents of volume ii. _page_ _an inquiry into the influence of physical causes upon the moral faculty_ _observations upon the cause and cure of pulmonary consumption_ _observations upon the symptoms and cure of dropsies_ _inquiry into the cause and cure of the internal dropsy of the brain_ _observations upon the nature and cure of the gout_ _observations on the nature and cure of the hydrophobia_ _an account of the measles, as they appeared in philadelphia in the spring of _ _an account of the influenza, as it appeared in philadelphia in the years and _ _an inquiry into the cause of animal life_ * * * * * an inquiry into the _influence of physical causes_ upon the moral faculty. delivered before _the american philosophical society_, held at philadelphia, on the th of february, . * * * * * an inqiuiry, &c. gentlemen, it was for the laudable purpose of exciting a spirit of emulation and inquiry, among the members of our body, that the founders of our society instituted an annual oration. the task of preparing, and delivering this exercise, hath devolved, once more, upon me. i have submitted to it, not because i thought myself capable of fulfilling your intentions, but because i wished, by a testimony of my obedience to your requests, to atone for my long absence from the temple of science. the subject upon which i am to have the honour of addressing you this evening is on the influence of physical causes upon the moral faculty. by the moral faculty i mean a capacity in the human mind of distinguishing and chasing good and evil, or, in other words, virtue and vice. it is a native principle, and though it be capable of improvement by experience and reflection, it is not derived from either of them. st. paul and cicero give us the most perfect account of it that is to be found in modern or ancient authors. "for when the gentiles (says st. paul), which have not the law, do by nature the things contained in the law, _these_, having not the law, are a _law_ unto themselves; which show the works of the law written in their hearts, their consciences also bearing witness, and their thoughts the mean while accusing, or else excusing another[ ]." [ ] rom. i. , . the words of cicero are as follow: "est igniter ha, juices, non script, seed nata lex, qualm non dadaisms, accepts, legumes, serum ex nature pisa europiums, humus, expresses, ad qualm non doctor, seed facto, non institute, seed imbued sums[ ]." this faculty is often confounded with conscience, which is a distinct and independent capacity of the mind. this is evident from the passage quoted from the writings of st. paul, in which conscience is said to be the witness that accuses or excuses us, of a breach of the law written in our hearts. the moral faculty is what the school men call the "regular raglans;" the conscience is their "regular regulate;" or, to speak in more modern terms, the moral faculty performs the the office of a law-giver, while the business of conscience is to perform the duty of a judge. the moral faculty is to the conscience, what taste is to the judgment, and sensation to perception. it is quick in its operations, and, like the sensitive plant, acts without reflection, while conscience follows with deliberate steps, and measures all her actions, by the unerring square of right and wrong. the moral faculty exercises itself upon the actions of others. it approves, even in books, of the virtues of a trajan, and disapproves of the vices of a marius, while conscience confines its operations only to its own actions. these two capacities of the mind are generally in an exact ratio to each other, but they sometimes exist in different degrees in the same person. hence we often find conscience in its full vigour, with a diminished tone, or total absence of the moral faculty. [ ] oration pro milne. it has long been a question among meta physicians, whether the conscience be seated in the will or in the understanding. the controversy can only be settled by admitting the will to be the seat of the moral faculty, and the understanding to be the seat of the conscience. the mysterious nature of the union of those two moral principles with the will and understanding, is a subject foreign to the business of the present inquiry. as i consider virtue and vice to consist in _action_, and not in opinion, and as this action has its seat in the _will_, and not in the conscience, i shall confine my inquiries chiefly to the influence of physical causes upon that moral power of the mind, which is connected with volition, although many of these causes act likewise upon the conscience, as i shall show hereafter. the state of the moral faculty is visible in actions, which affect the well-being of society. the state of the conscience is invisible, and therefore removed beyond our investigation. the moral faculty has received different names from different authors. it is the "moral sense" of dr. hutchison; the "sympathy" of dr. adam smith; the "moral instinct" of rousseau; and "the light that lighter every man that cometh into the world" of st. john. i have adopted the term of moral faculty from dr. bettie, because i conceive it conveys with the most perspicuity, the idea of a capacity in the mind, of chasing good and evil. our books of medicine contain many records of the effects of physical causes upon the memory, the imagination, and the judgment. in some instances we behold their operation only on one, in others on two, and, in many cases, upon the whole of these faculties. their derangement has received different names, according to the number or nature of the faculties that are affected. the loss of memory has been called "amnesia;" false judgment upon one subject has been called "melancholia;" false judgment upon all subjects has been called "mania;" and a defect of all the three intellectual faculties that have been mentioned, has received the name of "amnesia." persons who labour under the derangement, or want of these faculties of the mind, are considered, very properly, as subjects of medicine; and there are many cases upon record that prove, that their diseases have yielded to the healing art. in order to illustrate the effects of physical causes upon the moral faculty, it will be necessary _first_ to show their effects upon the memory, the imagination, and the judgment; and at the same time to point out the analogy between their operation upon the intellectual faculties of the mind, and the moral faculty. . do we observe a connection between the intellectual faculties, and the degrees of consistency and firmness of the brain in infancy and childhood? the same connection has been observed between the strength, as well as the progress of the moral faculty in children. . do we observe a certain size of the brain, and a peculiar cast of features, such as the prominent eye, and the aquiline nose, to be connected with extraordinary portions of genius? we observe a similar connection between the figure and temperament of the body, and certain moral qualities. hence we often ascribe good temper and benevolence to corpulence, and irascibility to sanguineous habits. ca thought himself safe in the friendship of the "sleek-headed" anthony and willabella; but was afraid to trust to the professions of the slender cassius. . do we observe certain degrees of the intellectual faculties to be hereditary in certain families? the same observation has been frequently extended to moral qualities. hence we often find certain virtues and vices as peculiar to families, through all their degrees of consanguinity, and duration, as a peculiarity of voice, complexion, or shape. . do we observe instances of a total want of memory, imagination, and judgment, either from an original defect in the stamina of the brain, or from the influence of physical causes? the same unnatural defect is sometimes observed, and probably from the same causes, of a moral faculty. the celebrated serving, whose character is drawn by the duke of sully in his memoirs, appears to be an instance of the total absence of the moral faculty, while the chasm, produced by this defect, seems to have been filled up by a more than common extension of every other power of his mind. i beg leave to repeat the history of this prodigy of vice and knowledge. "let the reader represent to himself a man of a genius so lively, and of an understanding so extensive, as rendered him scarce ignorant of any thing that could be known; of so vast and ready a comprehension, that he immediately made himself master of whatever he attempted; and of so prodigious a memory, that he never forgot what he once learned. he possessed all parts of philosophy, and the mathematics, particularly fortification and drawing. even in theology he was so well skilled, that he was an excellent preacher, whenever he had a mind to exert that talent, and an able disputant, for and against the reformed religion indifferently. he not only understood greek, hebrew, and all the languages which we call learned, but also all the different jargons, or modern dialects. he accented and pronounced them so naturally, and so perfectly imitated the gestures and manners both of the several nations of europe, and the particular provinces of france, that he might have been taken for a native of all, or any of these countries: and this quality he applied to counterfeit all sorts of persons, wherein he succeeded wonderfully. he was, moreover, the best comedian, and the greatest droll that perhaps ever appeared. he had a genius for poetry, and had wrote many verses. he played upon almost all instruments, was a perfect master of music, and sang most agreeably and justly. he likewise could say mass, for he was of a disposition to do, as well as to know all things. his body was perfectly well suited to his mind. he was light, nimble, and dexterous, and fit for all exercises. he could ride well, and in dancing, wrestling, and leaping, he was admired. there are not any recreative games that he did not know, and he was skilled in almost all mechanic arts. but now for the reverse of the medal. here it appeared, that he was treacherous, cruel, cowardly, deceitful, a liar, a cheat, a drunkard and a glutton, a sharper in play, immersed in every species of vice, a blasphemer, an atheist. in a word, in him might be found all the vices that are contrary to nature, honour, religion, and society, the truth of which he himself evinced with his latest breath; for he died in the flower of his age, in a common brothel, perfectly corrupted by his debaucheries, and expired with the glass in his hand, cursing and denying god[ ]." [ ] vol. iii. p. , . it was probably a state of the human mind such as has been described, that our saviour alluded to in the disciple, who was about to betray him, when he called him "a devil." perhaps the essence of depravity, in infernal spirits, consists in their being wholly devoid of a moral faculty. in them the will has probably lost the power of chasing[ ], as well as the capacity of enjoying moral good. it is true, we read of their trembling in a belief of the existence of a god, and of their anticipating future punishment, by asking, whether they were to be tormented before their time: but this is the effect of conscience, and hence arises another argument in favour of this judicial power of the mind, being distinct from the moral faculty. it would seem as if the supreme being had preserved the moral faculty in man from the ruins of his fall, on purpose to guide him back again to paradise, and at the same time had constituted the conscience, both in men and fallen spirits, a kind of royalty in his moral empire, on purpose to show his property in all intelligent creatures, and their original resemblance to himself. perhaps the essence of moral depravity in man consists in a total, but temporary suspension of the power of conscience. persons in this situation are emphatically said in the scriptures to be "past feeling," and to have their consciences seared with a "hot iron;" they are likewise said to be "twice dead," that is, the same torpor or moral insensibility, has seized both the moral faculty and the conscience. [ ] milton seems to have been of this opinion. hence, after ascribing repentance to satan, he makes him declare, "farewell remorse: all good to me is lost, _evil_, be thou my _good_."---- paradise lost, book iv. . do we ever observe instances of the existence of only _one_ of the three intellectual powers of the mind that have been named, in the absence of the other two? we observe something of the same kind with respect to the moral faculty. i once knew a man, who discovered no one mark of reason, who possessed the moral sense or faculty in so high a degree, that he spent his whole life in acts of benevolence. he was not only inoffensive (which is not always the case with idiots), but he was kind and affectionate to every body. he had no ideas of time, but what were suggested to him by the returns of the stated periods for public worship, in which he appeared to take great delight. he spent several hours of every day in devotion, in which he was so careful to be private, that he was once found in the most improbable place in the world for that purpose, viz. in an oven. . do we observe the memory, the imagination, and the judgment, to be affected by diseases, particularly by madness? where is the physician who has not seen the moral faculty affected from the same causes! how often do we see the temper wholly changed by a fit of sickness! and how often do we hear persons of the most delicate virtue, utter speeches in the delirium of a fever, that are offensive to decency or good manners! i have heard a well-attested history of a clergyman of the most exemplary moral character, who spent the last moments of a fever which deprived him both of his reason and his life, in profane cursing and swearing. i once attended a young woman in a nervous fever, who discovered, after her recovery, a loss of her former habit of veracity. her memory (a defect of which might be suspected of being the cause of this vice) was in every respect as perfect as it was before the attack of the fever[ ]. the instances of immorality in maniacs, who were formerly distinguished for the opposite character, are so numerous, and well known, that it will not be necessary to select any cases, to establish the truth of the proposition contained under this head. [ ] i have selected this case from many others, which have come under my notice, in which the moral faculty appeared to be impaired by diseases, particularly by the typhus of dr. cullen, and by those species of palsy which affect the brain. . do we observe any of the three intellectual faculties that have been named, enlarged by diseases? patients, in the delirium of a fever, often discover extraordinary flights of imagination, and madmen often astonish us with their wonderful acts of memory. the same enlargement, sometimes, appears in the operations of the moral faculty. i have more than once heard the most sublime discourses of morality in the cell of an hospital, and who has not seen instances of patients in acute diseases, discovering degrees of benevolence and integrity, that were not natural to them in the ordinary course of their lives[ ]? [ ] xenophon makes cyrus declare, in his last moments, "that the soul of man, at the hour of death, appears _most divine_, and then foresees something of future events." . do we ever observe a partial insanity, or false perception on one subject, while the judgment is sound and correct, upon all others? we perceive, in some instances, a similar defect in the moral faculty. there are persons who are moral in the highest degree, as to certain duties, who nevertheless live under the influence of some one vice. i knew an instance of a woman, who was exemplary in her obedience to every command of the moral law, except one. she could not refrain from stealing. what made this vice the more remarkable was, that she was in easy circumstances, and not addicted to extravagance in any thing. such was her propensity to this vice, that when she could lay her hands upon nothing more valuable, she would often, at the table of a friend, fill her pockets secretly with bread. as a proof that her judgment was not affected by this defect in her moral faculty, she would both confess and lament her crime, when detected in it. . do we observe the imagination in many instances to be affected with apprehensions of dangers that have no existence? in like manner we observe the moral faculty to discover a sensibility to vice, that is by no means proportioned to its degrees of depravity. how often do we see persons labouring under this morbid sensibility of the moral faculty, refuse to give a direct answer to a plain question, that related perhaps only to the weather, or to the hour of the day, lest they should wound the peace of their minds by telling a falsehood! . do dreams affect the memory, the imagination, and the judgment? dreams are nothing but incoherent ideas, occasioned by partial or imperfect sleep. there is a variety in the suspension of the faculties and operations of the mind in this state of the system. in some cases the imagination only is deranged in dreams, in others the memory is affected, and in others the judgment. but there are cases, in which the change that is produced in the state of the brain, by means of sleep, affects the moral faculty likewise; hence we sometimes dream of doing and saying things when asleep, which we shudder at, as soon as we awake. this supposed defection from virtue, exists frequently in dreams where the memory and judgment are scarcely impaired. it cannot therefore be ascribed to an absence of the exercises of those two powers of the mind. . do we read, in the accounts of travellers, of men, who, in respect of intellectual capacity and enjoyments, are but a few degrees above brutes? we read likewise of a similar degradation of our species, in respect to moral capacity and feeling. here it will be necessary to remark, that the low degrees of moral perception, that have been discovered in certain african and russian tribes of men, no more invalidate our proposition of the universal and essential existence of a moral faculty in the human mind, than the low state of their intellects prove, that reason is not natural to man. their perceptions of good and evil are in an exact proportion to their intellectual faculties. but i will go further, and admit with mr. locke[ ], that some savage nations are totally devoid of the moral faculty, yet it will by no means follow, that this was the original constitution of their minds. the appetite for certain aliments is uniform among all mankind. where is the nation and the individual, in their primitive state of health, to whom bread is not agreeable? but if we should find savages, or individuals, whose stomachs have been so disordered by intemperance, as to refuse this simple and wholesome article of diet, shall we assert that this was the original constitution of their appetites? by no means. as well might we assert, because savages destroy their beauty by painting and cutting their faces, that the principles of taste do not exist naturally in the human mind. it is with virtue as with fire. it exists in the mind, as fire does in certain bodies, in a latent or quiescent state. as collision renders the one sensible, so education renders the other visible. it would be as absurd to maintain, because olives become agreeable to many people from habit, that we have no natural appetites for any other kind of food, as to assert that any part of the human species exist without a moral principle, because in some of them, it has wanted causes to excite it into action, or has been perverted by example. there are appetites that are wholly artificial. there are tastes so entirely vitiated, as to perceive beauty in deformity. there are torpid and unnatural passions. why, under certain unfavourable circumstances, may there not exist also a moral faculty, in a state of sleep, or subject to mistakes? [ ] essay concerning the human understanding, book i. chap. . the only apology i shall make, for presuming to differ from that justly-celebrated oracle[ ], who first unfolded to us a map of the intellectual world, shall be, that the eagle eye of genius often darts its views beyond the notice of facts, which are accommodated to the slender organs of perception of men, who possess no other talent than that of observation. [ ] mr. locke. it is not surprising, that mr. locke has confounded this moral principle with _reason_, or that lord shafts bury has confounded it with _taste_, since all three of these faculties agree in the objects of their approbation, notwithstanding they exist in the mind independently of each other. the favourable influence which the progress of science and taste has had upon the morals, can be ascribed to nothing else, but to the perfect union that subsists in nature between the dictates of reason, of taste, and of the moral faculty. why has the spirit of humanity made such rapid progress for some years past in the courts of europe? it is because kings and their ministers have been taught to _reason_ upon philosophical subjects. why have indecency and profanity been banished from the stage in london and paris? it is because immorality is an offence against the highly cultivated _taste_ of the french and english nations. it must afford great pleasure to the lovers of virtue, to behold the depth and extent of this moral principle in the human mind. happily for the human race, the intimations of duty and the road to happiness are not left to the slow operations or doubtful inductions of reason, nor to the precarious decisions of taste. hence we often find the moral faculty in a state of vigour, in persons in whom reason and taste exist in a weak, or in an uncultivated state. it is worthy of notice, likewise, that while _second_ thoughts are best in matters of judgment, _first_ thoughts are always to be preferred in matters that relate to morality. _second_ thoughts, in these cases, are generally pearlies between duty and corrupted inclinations. hence rousseau has justly said, that "a well regulated moral instinct is the surest guide to happiness." it must afford equal pleasure to the lovers of virtue to behold, that our moral conduct and happiness are not committed to the determination of a single legislative power. the conscience, like a wise and faithful legislative council, performs the office of a check upon the moral faculty, and thus prevents the fatal consequences of immoral actions. an objection, i foresee, will arise to the doctrine of the influence of physical causes upon the moral faculty, from its being supposed to favour the opinion of the _materiality_ of the soul. but i do not see that this doctrine obliges us to decide upon the question of the nature of the soul, any more than the facts which prove the influence of physical causes upon the memory, the imagination, or the judgment. i shall, however, remark upon this subject, that the writers in favour of the _immortality_ of the soul have done that truth great injury, by connecting it necessarily with its _immateriality_. the immortality of the soul depends upon the _will_ of the deity, and not upon the supposed properties of spirit. matter is in its own nature as immortal as spirit. it is resolvable by heat and mixture into a variety of forms; but it requires the same almighty hand to annihilate it, that it did to create it. i know of no arguments to prove the immortality of the soul, but such as are derived from the christian revelation[ ]. it would be as reasonable to assert, that the bason of the ocean is immortal, from the greatness of its capacity to hold water; or that we are to live for ever in this world, because we are afraid of dying, as to maintain the immortality of the soul, from the greatness of its capacity for knowledge and happiness, or from its dread of annihilation. [ ] "life and immortality _are_ brought to light _only_ through the gospel." tim. i. . i remarked, in the beginning of this discourse, that persons who are deprived of the just exercise of memory, imagination, or judgment, were proper subjects of medicine; and that there are many cases upon record which prove, that the diseases from the derangement of these faculties, have yielded to the healing art. it is perhaps only because the diseases of the moral faculty have not been traced to a connection with physical causes, that medical writers have neglected to give them a place in their systems of nosology, and that so few attempts have been hitherto made, to lessen or remove them by physical as well as rational and moral remedies. i shall not attempt to derive any support to my opinions, from the analogy of the influence of physical causes upon the temper and conduct of brute animals. the facts which i shall produce in favour of the action of these causes upon morals in the human species, will, i hope, render unnecessary the arguments that might be drawn from that quarter. i am aware, that in venturing upon this subject, i step upon untrodden ground. i feel as Ã�neas did, when he was about to enter the gates of avernus, but without a sybil to instruct me in the mysteries that are before me. i foresee, that men who have been educated in the mechanical habits of adopting popular or established opinions will revolt at the doctrine i am about to deliver, while men of sense and genius will hear my propositions with candour, and if they do not adopt them, will commend that boldness of inquiry, that prompted me to broach them. i shall begin with an attempt to supply the defects of nosological writers, by naming the partial or weakened action of the moral faculty, micronomia. the total absence of this faculty, i shall call anomia. by the law, referred to in these new genera of vesaniæ, i mean the law of nature written in the human heart, and which i formerly quoted from the writings of st. paul. in treating of the effects of physical causes upon the moral faculty, it might help to extend our ideas upon this subject, to reduce virtues and vices to certain species, and to point out the effects of particular species of virtue and vice; but this would lead us into a field too extensive for the limits of the present inquiry. i shall only hint at a few cases, and have no doubt but the ingenuity of my auditors will supply my silence, by applying the rest. it is immaterial, whether the physical causes that are to be enumerated, act upon the moral faculty through the medium of the senses, the passions, the memory, or the imagination. their influence is equally certain, whether they act as remote, predisposing, or occasional causes. . the effects of climate upon the moral faculty claim our first attention. not only individuals, but nations, derive a considerable part of their moral, as well as intellectual character, from the different portions they enjoy of the rays of the sun. irascibility, levity, timidity, and indolence, tempered with occasional emotions of benevolence, are the moral qualities of the inhabitants of warm climates, while selfishness, tempered with sincerity and integrity, form the moral character of the inhabitants of cold countries. the state of the weather, and the seasons of the year also, have a visible effect upon moral sensibility. the month of november, in great britain, rendered gloomy by constant fogs and rains, has been thought to favour the perpetration of the worst species of murder, while the vernal sun, in middle latitudes, has been as generally remarked for producing gentleness and benevolence. . the effects of diet upon the moral faculty are more certain, though less attended to, than the effects of climate. "fulness of bread," we are told, was one of the predisposing causes of the vices of the cities of the plain. the fasts so often inculcated among the jews, were intended to lessen the incentives to vice; for pride, cruelty, and sensuality, are as much the natural consequences of luxury, as apoplexies and palsies. but the _quality_ as well as the quantity of aliment, has an influence upon morals; hence we find the moral diseases that have been mentioned, are most frequently the offspring of animal food. the prophet isaiah seems to have been sensible of this, when he ascribes such salutary effects to a temperate and vegetable diet. "butter and honey shall he eat," says he, "_that_ he may know to refuse the evil, and to chuse the good." but we have many facts which prove the efficacy of a vegetable diet upon the passions. dr. arbuthnot assures us, that he cured several patients of irascible tempers, by nothing but a prescription of this simple and temperate regimen. . the effects of certain drinks upon the moral faculty are not less observable, than upon the intellectual powers of the mind. fermented liquors, of a good quality, and taken in a moderate quantity, are favourable to the virtues of candour, benevolence, and generosity; but when they are taken in excess, or when they are of a bad quality, and taken even in a moderate quantity, they seldom fail of rousing every latent spark of vice into action. the last of these facts is so notorious, that when a man is observed to be ill-natured or quarrelsome in portugal, after drinking, it is common in that country to say, that "he has drunken bad wine." while occasional fits of intoxication produce ill-temper in many people, habitual drunkenness (which is generally produced by distilled spirits) never fails to eradicate veracity and integrity from the human mind. perhaps this may be the reason why the spaniards, in ancient times, never admitted a man's evidence in a court of justice, who had been convicted of drunkenness. water is the universal sedative of turbulent passions; it not only promotes a general equanimity of temper, but it composes anger. i have heard several well-attested cases, of a draught of cold water having suddenly composed this violent passion, after the usual remedies of reason had been applied to no purpose. . extreme hunger produces the most unfriendly effects upon moral sensibility. it is immaterial, whether it act by inducing a relaxation of the solids, or an acrimony of the fluids, or by the combined operations of both those physical causes. the indians in this country whet their appetites for that savage species of war, which is peculiar to them, by the stimulus of hunger; hence, we are told, they always return meagre and emaciated from their military excursions. in civilized life we often behold this sensation to overbalance the restraints of moral feeling; and perhaps this may be the reason why poverty, which is the most frequent parent of hunger, disposes so generally to theft; for the character of hunger is taken from that vice: it belongs to it "to break through stone walls." so much does this sensation predominate over reason and moral feeling, that cardinal de retz suggests to politicians, never to risk a motion in a popular assembly, however wise or just it may be, immediately before dinner. that temper must be uncommonly guarded, which is not disturbed by long abstinence from food. one of the worthiest men i ever knew, who made his breakfast his principal meal, was peevish and disagreeable to his friends and family, from the time he left his bed, till he sat down to his morning repast, after which, cheerfulness sparkled in his countenance, and he became the delight of all around him. . i hinted formerly, in proving the analogy between the effects of diseases upon the intellects, and upon the moral faculty, that the latter was frequently impaired by madness. i beg leave to add further upon this head, that not only madness, but the hysteria and hypochondriasis, as well as all those states of the body, whether idiopathic or symptomatic, which are accompanied with preternatural irritability, sensibility, torpor, stupor, or mobility of the nervous system, dispose to vice, either of the body or of the mind. it is in vain to attack these vices with lectures upon morality. they are only to be cured by medicine, particularly by exercise, the cold bath, and by a cold or warm atmosphere. the young woman, whose case i mentioned formerly, that lost her habit of veracity by a nervous fever, recovered this virtue, as soon as her system recovered its natural tone, from the cold weather which happily succeeded her fever[ ]. [ ] there is a morbid state of excitability in the body during the convalescence from fever, which is intimately connected with an undue propensity to venereal pleasures. i have met with several instances of it. the marriage of the celebrated mr. howard to a woman who was twice as old as himself, and very sickly, has been ascribed, by his biographer, dr. aiken, to _gratitude_ for her great attention to him in a fit of sickness. i am disposed to ascribe it to a sudden paroxysm of another passion, which, as a religious man, he could not gratify in any other, than in a lawful way. i have heard of two young clergymen who married the women who had nursed them in fits of sickness. in both cases there was great inequality in their years, and condition in life. their motive was, probably, the same as that which i have attributed to mr. howard. dr. patrick russel takes notice of an uncommon degree of venereal excitability which followed attacks of the plague at messina, in , in all ranks of people. marriages, he says, were more frequent after it than usual, and virgins were, in some instances, violated, who died of that disease, by persons who had just recovered from it. . idleness is the parent of every vice. it is mentioned in the old testament as another of the predisposing causes of the vices of the cities of the plain. labour, of all kinds, favours and facilitates the practice of virtue. the country life is happy, chiefly because its laborious employments are favourable to virtue, and unfriendly to vice. it is a common practice, i have been told, for the planters, in the southern states, to consign a house slave, who has become vicious from idleness, to the drudgery of the field, in order to reform him. the bridewells and workhouses of all civilized countries prove, that labour is not only a very severe, but the most benevolent of all punishments, inasmuch as it is one of the most suitable means of reformation. mr. howard tells us, in his history of prisons, that in holland it is a common saying, "make men work, and you will make them honest." and over the rasp and spinhouse at gr[oe]ningen, this sentiment is expressed (he tells us) by a happy motto: "vitiorum semina--otium--labore exhauriendum." the effects of steady labour in early life, in creating virtuous habits, is still more remarkable. the late anthony benezet, of this city, whose benevolence was the centinel of the virtue, as well as of the happiness of his country, made it a constant rule, in binding out poor children, to avoid putting them into wealthy families, but always preferred masters for them who worked themselves, and who obliged these children to work in their presence. if the habits of virtue, contracted by means of this apprenticeship to labour, are purely mechanical, their effects are, nevertheless, the same upon the happiness of society, as if they flowed from principle. the mind, moreover, when preserved by these means from weeds, becomes a more mellow soil afterwards, for moral and rational improvement. . the effects of excessive sleep are intimately connected with the effects of idleness upon the moral faculty: hence we find that moderate, and even scanty portions of sleep, in every part of the world, have been found to be friendly, not only to health and long life, but in many instances to morality. the practice of the monks, who often sleep upon a floor, and who generally rise with the sun, for the sake of mortifying their sensual appetites, is certainly founded in wisdom, and has often produced the most salutary moral effects. . the effects of bodily pain upon the moral, are not less remarkable than upon the intellectual powers of the mind. the late dr. gregory, of the university of edinburgh, used to tell his pupils, that he always found his perceptions quicker in a fit of the gout, than at any other time. the pangs which attend the dissolution of the body, are often accompanied with conceptions and expressions upon the most ordinary subjects, that discover an uncommon elevation of the intellectual powers. the effects of bodily pain are exactly the same in rousing and directing the moral faculty. bodily pain, we find, was one of the remedies employed in the old testament, for extirpating vice, and promoting virtue: and mr. howard tells us, that he saw it employed successfully as a means of reformation, in one of the prisons which he visited. if pain has a physical tendency to cure vice, i submit it to the consideration of parents and legislators, whether moderate degrees of corporal punishments, inflicted for a great length of time, would not be more medicinal in their effects, than the violent degrees of them, which are of short duration. . too much cannot be said in favour of cleanliness, as a physical means of promoting virtue. the writings of moses have been called by military men, the best "orderly book" in the world. in every part of them we find cleanliness inculcated with as much zeal, as if it was part of the moral, instead of the levitical law. now, it is well known, that the principal design of every precept and rite of the ceremonial parts of the jewish religion, was to prevent vice, and to promote virtue. all writers upon the leprosy, take notice of its connection with a certain vice. to this disease gross animal food, particularly swine's flesh, and a dirty skin, have been thought to be predisposing causes: hence the reason, probably, why pork was forbidden, and why ablutions of the body and limbs were so frequently inculcated by the jewish law. sir john pringle's remarks, in his oration upon captain cook's voyage, delivered before the royal society, in london, are very pertinent to this part of our subject. "cleanliness (says he) is conducive to health, but it is not so obvious, that it also tends to good order and other virtues. such (meaning the ship's crew) as were made more cleanly, became more sober, more orderly, and more attentive to duty." the benefit to be derived by parents and schoolmasters from attending to these facts, is too obvious to be mentioned. . i hope i shall be excused in placing solitude among the physical causes which influence the moral faculty, when i add, that i confine its effects to persons who are irreclaimable by rational or moral remedies. mr. howard informs us, that the chaplain of the prison at leige, in germany, assured him, "that the most refractory and turbulent spirits became tractable and submissive, by being closely confined for four or five days." in bodies that are predisposed to vice, the stimulus of cheerful, but much more of profane society and conversation, upon the animal spirits, becomes an exciting cause, and, like the stroke of the flint upon the steel, renders the sparks of vice both active and visible. by removing men out of the reach of this exciting cause, they are often reformed, especially if they are confined long enough to produce a sufficient chasm in their habits of vice. where the benefit of reflection and instruction from books can be added to solitude and confinement, their good effects are still more certain. to this philosophers and poets in every age have assented, by describing the life of a hermit as a life of passive virtue. . connected with solitude, as a mechanical means of promoting virtue, silence deserves to be mentioned in this place. the late dr. fothergill, in his plan of education for that benevolent institution at ackworth, which was the last care of his useful life, says every thing that can be said in favour of this necessary discipline, in the following words: "to habituate children from their early infancy, to silence and attention, is of the greatest advantage to them, not only as a preparative to their advancement in religious life, but as the groundwork of a well cultivated understanding. to have the active minds of children put under a kind of restraint; to be accustomed to turn their attention from external objects, and habituated to a degree of abstracted quiet, is a matter of great consequence, and lasting benefit to them. although it cannot be supposed, that young and active minds are always engaged in silence as they ought to be, yet to be accustomed thus to quietness, is no small point gained towards fixing a habit of patience, and recollection, which seldom forsakes those who have been properly instructed in this entrance of the school of wisdom, during the residue of their days." for the purpose of acquiring this branch of education, children cannot associate too early, nor too often with their parents, or with their superiors in age, rank, and wisdom. . the effects of music upon the moral faculty, have been felt and recorded in every country. hence we are able to discover the virtues and vices of different nations, by their tunes, as certainly as by their laws. the effects of music, when simply mechanical, upon the passions, are powerful and extensive. but it remains yet to determine the degrees of moral ecstacy, that may be produced by an attack upon the ear, the reason, and the moral principle, at the same time, by the combined powers of music and eloquence. . the eloquence of the pulpit is nearly allied to music in its effects upon the moral faculty. it is true, there can be no permanent change in the temper, and moral conduct of a man, that is not derived from the understanding and the will; but we must remember, that these two powers of the mind are most assailable, when they are attacked through the avenue of the passions; and these, we know, when agitated by the powers of eloquence, exert a mechanical action upon every power of the soul. hence we find in every age and country, where christianity has been propagated, the most accomplished orators have generally been the most successful reformers of mankind. there must be a defect of eloquence in a preacher, who, with the resources for oratory, which are contained in the old and new testaments, does not produce in every man who hears him, at least a temporary love of virtue. i grant that the eloquence of the pulpit alone cannot change men into christians, but it certainly possesses the power of changing brutes into men. could the eloquence of the stage be properly directed, it is impossible to conceive the extent of its mechanical effects upon morals. the language and imagery of a shakespeare, upon moral and religious subjects, poured upon the passions and the senses, in all the beauty and variety of dramatic representation; who could resist, or describe their effects? . odours of various kinds have been observed to act in the most sensible manner upon the moral faculty. brydone tells us, upon the authority of a celebrated philosopher in italy, that the peculiar wickedness of the people who live in the neighbourhood of Ã�tna and vesuvius, is occasioned chiefly by the smell of the sulphur and of the hot exhalations which are constantly discharged from those volcanos. agreeable odours seldom fail to inspire serenity, and to compose the angry spirits. hence the pleasure, and one of the advantages of a flower garden. the smoke of tobacco is likewise of a composing nature, and tends not only to produce what is called a train in perception, but to hush the agitated passions into silence and order. hence the practice of connecting the pipe or segar, and the bottle together, in public company. . it will be sufficient only to mention light and darkness, to suggest facts in favour of the influence of each of them upon moral sensibility. how often do the peevish complaints of the night in sickness, give way to the composing rays of the light of the morning? othello cannot murder desdemona by candle-light, and who has not felt the effects of a blazing fire upon the gentle passions? . it is to be lamented, that no experiments have as yet been made, to determine the effects of all the different species of airs, which chemistry has lately discovered, upon the moral faculty. i have authority from actual experiments, only to declare, that dephlogisticated air, when taken into the lungs, produces cheerfulness, gentleness, and serenity of mind. . what shall we say of the effects of medicines upon the moral faculty? that many substances in the materia medica act upon the intellects, is well known to physicians. why should it be thought impossible for medicines to act in like manner upon the moral faculty? may not the earth contain, in its bowels, or upon its surface, antidotes? but i will not blend facts with conjectures. clouds and darkness still hang upon this part of my subject. let it not be suspected, from any thing that i have delivered, that i suppose the influence of physical causes upon the moral faculty, renders the agency of divine influence unnecessary to our moral happiness. i only maintain, that the operations of the divine government are carried on in the moral, as in the natural world, by the instrumentality of second causes. i have only trodden in the footsteps of the inspired writers; for most of the physical causes i have enumerated, are connected with moral precepts, or have been used as the means of reformation from vice, in the old and new testaments. to the cases that have been mentioned, i shall only add, that nebuchadnezzar was cured of his pride, by means of solitude and a vegetable diet. saul was cured of his evil spirit, by means of david's harp, and st. paul expressly says, "i keep my body under, and bring it into subjection, lest that by any means, when i have preached to others, i myself should be a cast-away." but i will go one step further, and add in favour of divine influence upon the moral principle, that in those extraordinary cases, where bad men are suddenly reformed, without the instrumentality of physical, moral, or rational causes, i believe that the organization of those parts of the body, in which the faculties of the mind are seated, undergoes a physical change[ ]; and hence the expression of a "new creature," which is made use of in the scriptures to denote this change, is proper in a literal, as well as a figurative sense. it is probably the beginning of that perfect renovation of the human body, which is predicted by st. paul in the following words: "for our conversation is in heaven, from whence we look for the saviour, who shall change our vile bodies, that they may be fashioned according to his own glorious body." i shall not pause to defend myself against the charge of enthusiasm in this place; for the age is at length arrived, so devoutly wished for by dr. cheyne, in which men will not be deterred in their researches after truth, by the terror of odious or unpopular names. [ ] st. paul was suddenly transformed from a persecutor into a man of a gentle and amiable spirit. the manner in which this change was effected upon his mind, he tells us in the following words: "neither circumcision availeth any thing, nor uncircumcision, but a new creature. from henceforth let no man trouble me; for i bear in _my body_, the _marks_ of our lord jesus." galatians, vi. , . i cannot help remarking under this head, that if the conditions of those parts of the human body which are connected with the human soul, influence morals, the same reason may be given for a virtuous education, that has been admitted for teaching music and the pronunciation of foreign languages, in the early and yielding state of those organs which form the voice and speech. such is the effect of a moral education, that we often see its fruits in advanced stages of life, after the religious principles which were connected with it, have been renounced; just as we perceive the same care in a surgeon in his attendance upon patients, after the sympathy which first produced this care, has ceased to operate upon his mind. the boasted morality of the deists, is, i believe, in most cases, the offspring of habits, produced originally by the principles and precepts of christianity. hence appears the wisdom of solomon's advice, "train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not," i had almost said, he cannot "depart from it." thus have i enumerated the principal causes which act mechanically upon morals. if from the combined action of physical powers that are opposed to each other, the moral faculty should become stationary, or if the virtue or vice produced by them, should form a neutral quality, composed of both of them, i hope it will not call in question the truth of our general propositions. i have only mentioned the effects of physical causes in a simple state[ ]. [ ] the doctrine of the influence of physical causes on morals is happily calculated to beget charity towards the failings of our fellow-creatures. our duty to practise this virtue is enforced by motives drawn from science, as well as from the precepts of christianity. it might help to enlarge our ideas upon this subject, to take notice of the influence of the different stages of society, of agriculture and commerce, of soil and situation, of the different degrees of cultivation of taste, and of the intellectual powers, of the different forms of government, and lastly, of the different professions and occupations of mankind, upon the moral faculty; but as these act indirectly only, and by the intervention of causes that are unconnected with matter, i conceive they are foreign to the business of the present inquiry. if they should vary the action of the simple physical causes in any degree, i hope it will not call in question the truth of our general propositions, any more than the compound action of physical powers, that are opposed to each other. there remain but a few more causes which are of a compound nature, but they are so nearly related to those which are purely mechanical, that i shall beg leave to trespass upon your patience, by giving them a place in my oration. the effects of imitation, habit, and association upon morals, would furnish ample matter for investigation. considering how much the shape, texture, and conditions of the human body, influence morals, i submit it to the consideration of the ingenious, whether, in our endeavours to imitate moral examples, some advantage may not be derived, from our copying the features and external manners of the originals. what makes the success of this experiment probable is, that we generally find men, whose faces resemble each other, have the same manners and dispositions. i infer the possibility of success in an attempt to imitate originals in a manner that has been mentioned, from the facility with which domestics acquire a resemblance to their masters and mistresses, not only in manners, but in countenance, in those cases where they are tied to them by respect and affection. husbands and wives also, where they possess the same species of face, under circumstances of mutual attachment, often acquire a resemblance to each other. from the general detestation in which hypocrisy is held, both by good and bad men, the mechanical effects of habit upon virtue have not been sufficiently explored. there are, i am persuaded, many instances where virtues have been assumed by accident, or necessity, which have become real from habit, and afterwards derived their nourishment from the heart. hence the propriety of hamlet's advice to his mother: "assume a virtue, if you have it not. that monster, custom, who all sense doth eat of habits evil, is angel yet in this, that to the use of actions fair and good he likewise gives a frock or livery, that aptly is put on. refrain to-night, and that shall lend a kind of easiness to the next abstinence; the next more easy: for use can almost change the stamp of nature, and master even the devil, or throw him out, with wondrous potency." the influence of association upon morals, opens an ample field for inquiry. it is from this principle, that we explain the reformation from theft and drunkenness in servants, which we sometimes see produced by a draught of spirits, in which tartar emetic had been secretly dissolved. the recollection of the pain and sickness excited by the emetic, naturally associates itself with the spirits, so as to render them both equally the objects of aversion. it is by calling in this principle only, that we can account for the conduct of moses, in grinding the golden calf into a powder, and afterwards dissolving it (probably by means of hepar sulphuris) in water, and compelling the children of israel to drink of it, as a punishment for their idolatry. this mixture is bitter and nauseating in the highest degree. an inclination to idolatry, therefore, could not be felt without being associated with the remembrance of this disagreeable mixture, and of course being rejected, with equal abhorrence. the benefit of corporal punishments, when they are of a short duration, depends in part upon their being connected, by time and place, with the crimes for which they are inflicted. quick as the thunder follows the lightning, if it were possible, should punishments follow the crimes, and the advantage of association would be more certain, if the spot where they were committed, were made the theatre of their expiation. it is from the effects of this association, probably, that the change of place and company, produced by exile and transportation, has so often reclaimed bad men, after moral, rational, and physical means of reformation had been used to no purpose. as sensibility is the avenue to the moral faculty, every thing which tends to diminish it tends also to injure morals. the romans owed much of their corruption to the sights of the contests of their gladiators, and of criminals, with wild beasts. for these reasons, executions should never be public. indeed, i believe there are no public punishments of any kind, that do not harden the hearts of spectators, and thereby lessen the natural horror which all crimes at first excite in the human mind. cruelty to brute animals is another means of destroying moral sensibility. the ferocity of savages has been ascribed in part to their peculiar mode of subsistence. mr. hogarth points out, in his ingenious prints, the connection between cruelty to brute animals in youth, and murder in manhood. the emperor domitian prepared his mind, by the amusement of killing flies, for all those bloody crimes which afterwards disgraced his reign. i am so perfectly satisfied of the truth of a connection between morals and humanity to brutes, that i shall find it difficult to restrain my idolatry for that legislature, that shall first establish a system of laws, to defend them from outrage and oppression. in order to preserve the vigour of the moral faculty, it is of the utmost consequence to keep young people as ignorant as possible of those crimes that are generally thought most disgraceful to human nature. suicide, i believe, is often propagated by means of newspapers. for this reason, i should be glad to see the proceedings of our courts kept from the public eye, when they expose or punish monstrous vices. the last mechanical method of promoting morality that i shall mention, is to keep sensibility alive, by a familiarity with scenes of distress from poverty and disease. compassion never awakens in the human bosom, without being accompanied by a train of sister virtues. hence the wise man justly remarks, that "by the sadness of the countenance, the heart is made better." a late french writer, in his prediction of events that are to happen in the year , says, "that mankind in that æra shall be so far improved by religion and government, that the sick and the dying shall no longer be thrown, together with the dead, into splendid houses, but shall be relieved and protected in a connection with their families and society." for the honour of humanity, an institution[ ], destined for that distant period, has lately been founded in this city, that shall perpetuate the year in the history of pennsylvania. here the feeling heart, the tearful eye, and the charitable hand, may always be connected together, and the flame of sympathy, instead of being extinguished in taxes, or expiring in a solitary blaze by a single contribution, may be kept alive, by constant exercise. there is a necessary connection between animal sympathy, and good morals. the priest and the levite, in the new testament, would probably have relieved the poor man who fell among thieves, had accident brought them near enough to his wounds. the unfortunate mrs. bellamy was rescued from the dreadful purpose of drowning herself, by nothing but the distress of a child, rending the air with its cries for bread. it is probably owing, in some measure, to the connection between good morals and sympathy that the fair sex, in every age and country, have been more distinguished for virtue, than men; for how seldom do we hear of a woman, devoid of humanity? [ ] a public dispensary. lastly, attraction, composition, and decomposition, belong to the passions as well as to matter. vices of the same species attract each other with the most force: hence the bad consequences of crowding young men, whose propensities are generally the same, under one roof, in our modern plans of education. the effects of composition and decomposition upon vices, appear in the meanness of the school-boy being often cured by the prodigality of a military life, and by the precipitation of avarice, which is often produced by ambition and love. if physical causes influence morals in the manner we have described, may they not also influence religious principles and opinions? i answer in the affirmative; and i have authority, from the records of physic, as well as from my own observations, to declare, that religious melancholy and madness, in all their variety of species, yield with more facility to medicine, than simply to polemical discourses, or to casuistical advice. but this subject is foreign to the business of the present inquiry. from a review of our subject, we are led to contemplate with admiration, the curious structure of the human mind. how distinct are the number, and yet how united! how subordinate, and yet how co-equal are all its faculties! how wonderful is the action of the mind upon the body! of the body upon the mind! and of the divine spirit upon both! what a mystery is the mind of man to itself!---- o! nature!---- or, to speak more properly, o! thou god of nature! in vain do we attempt to scan thy immensity, or to comprehend thy various modes of existence, when a single particle of light, issued from thyself, and kindled into intelligence in the bosom of man, thus dazzles and confounds our understandings! the extent of the moral powers and habits in man is unknown. it is not improbable, but the human mind contains principles of virtue, which have never yet been excited into action. we behold with surprise the versatility of the human body in the exploits of tumblers and rope-dancers. even the agility of a wild beast has been demonstrated in a girl of france, and an amphibious nature has been discovered in the human species, in a young man in spain. we listen with astonishment to the accounts of the _memories_ of mithridates, cyrus, and servin. we feel a veneration bordering upon divine homage, in contemplating the stupenduous _understandings_ of lord verulam and sir isaac newton; and our eyes grow dim, in attempting to pursue shakespeare and milton in their immeasurable flights of _imagination_. and if the history of mankind does not furnish similar instances of the versatility and perfection of our species in virtue, it is because the moral faculty has been the subject of less culture and fewer experiments than the body, and the intellectual faculties of the mind. from what has been said, the reason of this is obvious. hitherto the cultivation of the moral faculty has been the business of parents, schoolmasters, and divines[ ]. but if the principles, we have laid down, be just, the improvement and extension of this principle should be equally the business of the legislator, the natural philosopher, and the physician; and a physical regimen should as necessarily accompany a moral precept, as directions with respect to the air, exercise, and diet, generally accompany prescriptions for the consumption, and the gout. to encourage us to undertake experiments for the improvement of morals, let us recollect the success of philosophy in lessening the number, and mitigating the violence of incurable diseases. the intermitting fever, which proved fatal to two of the monarchs of britain, is now under absolute subjection to medicine. continual fevers are much less fatal than formerly. the small-pox is disarmed of its mortality by inoculation, and even the tetanus and the cancer have lately received a check in their ravages upon mankind. but medicine has done more. it has penetrated the deep and gloomy abyss of death, and acquired fresh honours in his cold embraces. witness the many hundred people who have lately been brought back to life by the successful efforts of the humane societies, which are now established in many parts of europe, and in some parts of america. should the same industry and ingenuity, which have produced these triumphs of medicine over diseases and death, be applied to the moral science, it is highly probable, that most of those baneful vices, which deform the human breast, and convulse the nations of the earth, might be banished from the world. i am not so sanguine as to suppose, that it is possible for man to acquire so much perfection from science, religion, liberty, and good government, as to cease to be mortal; but i am fully persuaded, that from the combined action of causes, which operate at once upon the reason, the moral faculty, the passions, the senses, the brain, the nerves, the blood, and the heart, it is possible to produce such a change in his moral character, as shall raise him to a resemblance of angels; nay, more, to the likeness of god himself. the state of pennsylvania still deplores the loss of a man, in whom not only reason and revelation, but many of the physical causes that have been enumerated, concurred to produce such attainments in moral excellency, as have seldom appeared in a human being. this amiable citizen considered his fellow-creature, man, as god's extract, from his own works; and whether this image of himself was cut out from ebony or copper; whether he spoke his own, or a foreign language; or whether he worshipped his maker with ceremonies, or without them, he still considered him as a brother, and equally the object of his benevolence. poets and historians, who are to live hereafter, to you i commit his panegyric; and when you hear of a law for abolishing slavery in each of the american states, such as was passed in pennsylvania, in the year ; when you hear of the kings and queens of europe, publishing edicts for abolishing the trade in human souls; and, lastly, when you hear of schools and churches, with all the arts of civilized life, being established among the nations of africa, then remember and record, that this revolution in favour of human happiness, was the effect of the labours, the publications, the private letters, and the prayers of anthony benezet[ ]. [ ] the people commonly called quakers and the methodists, make use of the greatest number of physical remedies in their religious and moral discipline, of any sects of christians; and hence we find them every where distinguished for their good morals. there are several excellent _physical_ institutions in other churches; and if they do not produce the same moral effects that we observe from physical institutions among those two modern sects, it must be ascribed to their being more neglected by the members of those churches. [ ] this worthy man was descended from an ancient and honourable family that flourished in the court of louis xiv. with liberal prospects in life he early devoted himself to teaching an english school; in which, for industry, capacity, and attention to the morals and principles of the youth committed to his care, he was without an equal. he published many excellent tracts against the african trade, against war, and the use of spiritous liquors, and one in favour of civilizing and christianizing the indians. he wrote to the queen of great britain, and the queen of portugal, to use their influence in their respective courts to abolish the african trade. he also wrote an affectionate letter to the king of prussia, to dissuade him from making war. the history of his life affords a remarkable instance how much it is possible for an individual to accomplish in the world; and that the most humble stations do not preclude good men from the most extensive usefulness. he bequeathed his estate (after the death of his widow) to the support of a school for the education of negro children, which he had founded and taught for several years before he died. he departed this life in may, , in the st year of his age, in the meridian of his usefulness, universally lamented by persons of all ranks and denominations. i return from this digression, to address myself in a particular manner to you, venerable sages and fellow citizens in the republic of letters. the influence of philosophy, we have been told, has already been felt in courts. to increase, and complete this influence, there is nothing more necessary, than for the numerous literary societies in europe and america, to add the science of morals to their experiments and inquiries. the godlike scheme of henry iv, of france, and of the illustrious queen elizabeth, of england, for establishing a perpetual peace in europe, may be accomplished without a system of jurisprudence, by a confederation of learned men, and learned societies. it is in their power, by multiplying the objects of human reason, to bring the monarchs and rulers of the world under their subjection, and thereby to extirpate war, slavery, and capital punishments, from the list of human evils. let it not be suspected that i detract, by this declaration, from the honour of the christian religion. it is true, christianity was propagated without the aid of human learning; but this was one of those miracles, which was necessary to establish it, and which, by repetition, would cease to be a miracle. they misrepresent the christian religion, who suppose it to be wholly an internal revelation, and addressed only to the moral faculties of the mind. the truths of christianity afford the greatest scope for the human understanding, and they will become intelligible to us, only in proportion as the human genius is stretched, by means of philosophy, to its utmost dimensions. errors may be opposed to errors; but truths, upon all subjects, mutually support each other. and perhaps one reason why some parts of the christian revelation are still involved in obscurity, may be occasioned by our imperfect knowledge of the phenomena and laws of nature. the truths of philosophy and christianity dwell alike in the mind of the deity, and reason and religion are equally the offspring of his goodness. they must, therefore, stand and fall together. by reason, in the present instance, i mean the power of judging of truth, as well as the power of comprehending it. happy æra! when the divine and the philosopher shall embrace each other, and unite their labours for the reformation and happiness of mankind! illustrious counsellors and senators of pennsylvania[ ]! i anticipate your candid reception of this feeble effort to increase the quantity of virtue in our republic. it is not my business to remind you of the immense resources for greatness, which nature and providence have bestowed upon our state. every advantage which france has derived from being placed in the centre of europe, and which britain has derived from her mixture of nations, pennsylvania has opened to her. but my business, at present, is to suggest the means of promoting the happiness, not the greatness, of the state. for this purpose, it is absolutely necessary that our government, which unites into one, all the minds of the state, should possess, in an eminent degree, not only the understanding, the passions, and the will, but, above all, the moral faculty and the conscience of an individual. nothing can be politically right, that is morally wrong; and no necessity can ever sanctify a law, that is contrary to equity. virtue is the soul of a republic. to promote this, laws for the suppression of vice and immorality will be as ineffectual, as the increase and enlargement of jails. there is but one method of preventing crimes, and of rendering a republican form of government durable, and that is, by disseminating the seeds of virtue and knowledge through every part of the state, by means of proper modes and places of education, and this can be done effectually only by the interference and aid of the legislature. i am so deeply impressed with the truth of this opinion, that were this evening to be the last of my life, i would not only say to the asylum of my ancestors, and my beloved native country, with the patriot of venice, "esto perpetua," but i would add, as the last proof of my affection for her, my parting advice to the guardians of her liberties, "to establish and support public schools, in every part of the state." [ ] the president, and supreme executive council, and the members of the general assembly of pennsylvania, attended the delivery of the oration, in the hall of the university, by invitation from the philosophical society. an inquiry into the causes and cure of the _pulmonary consumption_. in an essay, entitled "thoughts on the pulmonary consumption[ ]," i attempted to show that this disease was the effect of causes which induced general debility, and that the only hope of discovering a cure for it should be directed to such remedies as act upon the whole system. in the following inquiry, i shall endeavour to establish the truth of each of those opinions, by a detail of facts and reasonings, at which i only hinted in my former essay. [ ] vol. i. p. . the method i have chosen for this purpose, is to deliver, and afterwards to support, a few general propositions. i shall begin by remarking, i. that the pulmonary consumption is induced by predisposing debility. this i infer, st, from the remote and exciting causes which produce it. the remote causes are pneumony, catarrh, hæmoptysis, rheumatism, gout, asthma, scrophula, chronic diseases of the stomach, liver, and kidneys, nervous and intermitting fevers, measles, repelled humours from the surface of the body, the venereal disease, obstructed menses, sudden growth about the age of puberty, grief, and all other debilitating passions of the mind; hypochondriasis, improper lactation, excessive evacuation of all kinds, more especially by stool[ ], cold and damp air, a cough, external violence acting upon the body[ ]; and finally, every thing that tends, directly or indirectly, to diminish the strength of the system. [ ] sir george baker relates, in the second volume of the medical transactions, that dr. blanchard had informed him, that he had seen the consumption brought on ten persons out of ninety, by excessive purging used to prepare the body for the small-pox. i have seen a case of consumption in a youth of , from the spitting produced by the intemperate use of segars. [ ] dr. lind says, that out of patients whom he attended between july st, , and july st, , in consumptions, the disease was brought on _one fourth_ of them by falls, bruises, and strains, received a year or two before the disease made its appearance. the most frequent exciting cause of consumption is the alternate application of heat and cold to the whole external surface of the body; but all the remote causes which have been enumerated, operate as exciting causes of consumption, when they act on previous debility. original injuries of the lungs seldom excite this disease, except they first induce a debility of the whole system, by a troublesome and obstinate cough. . from the debilitating occupations and habits of persons who are most liable to this disease. these are studious men, and mechanics who lead sedentary lives in confined places; also women, and all persons of irritable habits, whether of body or mind. . from the period in which persons are most liable to be affected by this disease. this is generally between the th and th year of life, a period in which the system is liable, in a peculiar manner, to most diseases which induce it, and in which there is a greater expenditure of strength, than in any other stage of life, by the excessive exercises of the body and mind, in the pursuits of business or pleasure. i have conformed to authors, in fixing the period of consumptions between the th and th year of life; but it is well known that it sometimes appears in children, and frequently in persons beyond the th, or even th year of life. ii. the pulmonary consumption is a primary disease of the _whole_ system. this i infer, . from the causes which produce it, acting upon the whole system. . from the symptoms of general debility which always precede the affection of the lungs. these symptoms are a quick pulse, especially towards evening; a heat and burning in the palms of the hands; faintness, head-ach, sickness at stomach, and an occasional diarrh[oe]a. i have frequently observed each of these symptoms for several months before i have heard of a single complaint in the breast. . from the pulmonary consumption alternating with other diseases which obviously belong to the whole system. i shall briefly mention these diseases. the rheumatism. i have seen many cases in which this disease and the consumption have alternately, in different seasons or years, affected the system. in the winter of , three clinical patients in the pennsylvania hospital exemplified by their complaints the truth of this observation. they were relieved several times of a cough by rheumatic pains in their limbs, which seemed for a while to promise a cure to their pulmonic complaints. the gout has often been observed to alternate with the pulmonary consumption, especially in persons in the decline of life. dr. sydenham describes a short cough continuing through the whole winter, as a symptom of gouty habits. a gentleman from virginia died under my care in the spring of , in the th year of his age, with all the symptoms of pulmonary consumption, which had frequently alternated with pains and a swelling in his feet. the pulmonary consumption has been observed to alternate with madness. of this i have seen two instances, in both of which the cough and expectoration were wholly suspended during the continuance of the derangement of the mind. dr. mead mentions a melancholy case of the same kind in a young lady, and similar cases are to be met with in other authors. in all of them the disease proved fatal. in one of the cases which came under my notice, the symptoms of consumption returned before the death of the patient. i have likewise witnessed two cases in which the return of reason after madness, was suddenly succeeded by a fatal pulmonary consumption. perhaps the false hopes, and even the cheerfulness which so universally occur in this disease, may be resolved into a morbid state of the mind, produced by a general derangement of the whole system. so universal are the delusion and hopes of patients, with respect to the nature and issue of this disease, that i have never met with but one man, who, upon being asked what was the matter with him, answered unequivocally, "that he was in a consumption." again: dr. bennet mentions a case of "a phthisical patient, who was seized with a violent pain in the teeth for two days, and in whom, during that time, every symptom of a consumption, except the leanness of the body, altogether vanished:" and he adds further, "that a defluction on the lungs had often been relieved by salivary evacuations[ ]." [ ] treatise of the nature and cure of consumptions. exercitation x. i have seen several instances in which the pulmonary symptoms have alternated with headach and dyspepsia; also with pain and noise in one ear. this affection of the ears sometimes continues throughout the whole disease, without any remission of the pulmonary symptoms. i have seen one case of a discharge of matter from the left ear, without being accompanied by either pain or noise. in all our books of medicine are to be found cases of consumption alternating with eruptions on the skin. and who has not seen the pulmonary symptoms alternately relieved and reproduced by the appearance or cessation of a diarrh[oe]a, or pains in the bowels? to these facts i shall only add, under this head, as a proof of the consumption being a disease of the whole system, that it is always more or less relieved by the change which is induced in the system by pregnancy. . i infer that the pulmonary consumption is a disease of the whole system from its analogy with several other diseases, which, though accompanied by local affections, are obviously produced by a morbid state of the whole system. the rheumatism, the gout, the measles, small-pox, the different species of cynanche, all furnish examples of the connection of local affections with a general disease; but the apoplexy, and the pneumony, furnish the most striking analogies of local affection, succeeding a general disease of the system in the pulmonary consumption. the most frequent predisposing cause of apoplexy is a general debility of the system, produced by intemperance in eating and drinking. the phenomena of the disease are produced by an effusion of blood or serum, in consequence of a morbid distension, or of a rupture of the vessels of the brain. the pulmonary consumption begins and ends in the same way, allowing only for the difference of situation and structure of the brain and lungs. after the production of predisposing debility from the action of the remote causes formerly enumerated, the fluids are determined to the weakest part of the body. hence effusions of serum or blood take place in the lungs. when serum is effused, a pituitous or purulent expectoration alone takes place; when blood is discharged, a disease is produced which has been called hæmoptysis. an effusion of blood in the brain, brought on by the operation of general debility, has been called by dr. hoffman, with equal propriety, a hæmorrhage of the brain. the effusion of blood in the lungs, in consequence of the rupture of a blood-vessel, is less fatal than the same accident when it occurs in the brain, only because the blood in the former case is more easily discharged from the system. where no rupture of a blood-vessel is produced, death is nearly as speedy and certain in the one case as in the other. dissections show many cases of suffocation and death, from the lungs being preternaturally filled with blood or serum. from this great analogy between the remote and proximate causes of the two diseases which have been described, i have taken the liberty to call them both by the name of apoplexy. the only symptom which does not accord with the derivation of the term, is, that in the apoplexy of the lungs, the patient does not fall down as if by an external stroke, which is most frequently the case in the apoplexy of the brain. the history of the remote and proximate causes of pneumony will furnish us with a still more remarkable analogy of the connection between a _local_ affection, and a _general_ disease of the system. the pneumony is produced by remote exciting causes which act on the whole system. the whole arterial system is frequently agitated by a fever in this disease before a pain is perceived in the breast or sides, and this fever generally constitutes its strength and danger. the expectoration which terminates the disease in health, is always the effect of effusions produced by a general disease, and even the vomicas, which sometimes succeed a deficiency of bleeding, always depend upon the same general cause. from this view of the analogy between pneumony and pulmonary consumption, it would seem that the two diseases differed from each other only by the shorter or longer operation of the causes which induce them, and by the greater or less violence and duration of their symptoms. the pneumony appears to be an _acute_ consumption, and the consumption a _chronic_ pneumony. from the analogy of the pulmonary consumption with the diminutive term of certain fevers, i have taken the liberty of calling it a pneumonicula. . i infer that the pulmonary consumption is a disease of the whole system, from its existence without ulcers in the lungs. of this there are many cases recorded in books of medicine. dr. leigh informs us, in his natural history of lancashire, that the consumption was a very common disease on the sea coast of that country; but that it was not accompanied either by previous inflammation or ulcers in the lungs. it was generally attended, he says, by an unusual peevishness of temper. . i infer that the pulmonary consumption is a disease of the whole system, from its being relieved, or cured, only by remedies which act upon the whole system. this will appear, i hope, hereafter, when we come to treat of the cure of this disease. let us now enquire how far the principles i have laid down will apply to the supposed causes of consumption. these causes have been said to be, an abscess in the lungs, hæmoptysis, tubercles, without and with ulcers, catarrh, hereditary diathesis, contagion, and the matter of cutaneous eruptions, or sores repelled, and thrown upon the lungs. i shall make a few observations upon each of them. . an abscess in the lungs is generally the consequence of a neglected, or half-cured pneumony. it is seldom fatal, where it is not connected with a predisposition to consumption from general debility, or where general debility is not previously induced by the want of appetite, sleep, and exercise, which sometimes accompany that disease of the lungs. this explanation of the production of consumption by an abscess in the lungs, will receive further support from attending to the effects of wounds in the lungs. how seldom are they followed by pulmonary consumption; and this only because they are as seldom accompanied by predisposing general debility. i do not recollect a single instance of this disease having followed a wound in the lungs, either by the bayonet, or a bullet, during our revolutionary war. the recoveries which have succeeded such wounds, and frequently under the most unfavourable circumstances, show how very improbable it is that a much slighter affection of the lungs should become the cause of a pulmonary consumption. a british officer, whom i met in the british camp, a few days after the battle of brandywine, in september, , informed me that the surgeon-general of the royal army had assured him, that out of twenty-four soldiers who had been admitted into the hospitals, during the campaign of , with wounds in their lungs, twenty-three of them had recovered. even primary diseases of the lungs often exist with peculiar violence, or continue for many years without inducing a consumption. i have never known but one instance of the whooping-cough ending in consumption, and all our books of medicine contain records of the asthma continuing for twenty and thirty years without terminating in that disease. the reason in both cases, must be ascribed to those two original diseases of the lungs not being accompanied by general debility. one fact more will serve to throw still further light upon the subject. millers are much afflicted with a cough from floating particles of flour constantly irritating their lungs, and yet they are not more subject to consumptions than other labouring people. hence "a miller's cough" is proverbial in some places, to denote a cough of long continuance without danger. . the hæmoptysis is either a local disease, or it is the effect of general debility of the whole system. when it is local, or when it is the effect of causes which induce a _temporary_ or _acute_ debility only in the system, it is seldom followed by consumption. the accidental discharge of blood from the lungs, from injuries, and from an obstruction of the menses in women is of this kind. many persons are affected by this species of hæmorrhage once or twice in their lives, without suffering any inconvenience from it afterwards. i have met with several cases in which it has occurred for many years every time the body was exposed to any of the causes which induce _sudden_ debility, and yet no consumption has followed it. the late king of prussia informed dr. zimmerman that he had been frequently attacked by it during his seven years war, and yet he lived, notwithstanding, above twenty years afterwards without any pulmonary complaints. it is only in persons who labour under _chronic_ debility, that a hæmoptysis is necessarily followed by consumption. . i yield to the popular mode of expression when i speak of a consumption being produced by tubercles. but i maintain that they are the _effects_ of general debility communicated to the bronchial vessels which cause them to secrete a preternatural quantity of mucus. this mucus is sometimes poured into the trachea from whence it is discharged by hawking, more especially in the morning; for it is secreted more copiously during the languid hours of sleep than in the day time. but this mucus is frequently secreted into the substance of the lungs, where it produces those tumours we call tubercles. when this occurs, there is either no cough[ ] or a very dry one. that tubercles are formed in this way, i infer from the dissections and experiments of dr. stark[ ], who tells us, that he found them to consist of inorganic matter; that he was unable to discover any connection between them and the pulmonary vessels, by means of the microscope or injections; and that they first opened into the trachea through the bronchial vessels. it is remarkable that the colour and consistence of the matter of which they are composed, is nearly the same as the matter which is discharged through the trachea, in the moist cough which occurs from a relaxation of the bronchial vessels, and which has been called by dr. beddoes a bronchial gleet. [ ] see med. com. vol. ii. [ ] clinical and anatomical observations, p. , . see also morgagni, letter xxii. . i am aware that these tumours in the lungs have been ascribed to scrophula. but the frequent occurrence of consumptions in persons in whom no scrophulous taint existed, is sufficient to refute this opinion. i have frequently directed my inquiries after this disease in consumptive patients, and have met with very few cases which were produced by it. it is probable that it may frequently be a predisposing cause of consumption in great britain, but i am sure it is not in the united states. baron humboldt informed me, that the scrophula is unknown in mexico, and yet consumptions, he said, are very common in that part of north-america. that tubercles are the effects, and not the cause of pulmonary consumption, is further evident from similar tumours being suddenly formed on the intestines by the dysentery, and on the omentum by a yellow fever. cases of the former are to be met with in the dissections of sir john pringle, and one of the latter is mentioned by dr. mackittrick, in his inaugural dissertation upon the yellow fever, published in edinburgh in the year [ ]. [ ] pages , . . the catarrh is of two kinds, acute and chronic, both of which are connected with general debility, but this debility is most obvious in the chronic catarrh: hence we find it increased by every thing which acts upon the whole system, such as cold and damp weather, fatigue, and, above all, by old age, and relieved or cured by exercise, and every thing else which invigorates the whole system. this species of catarrh often continues for twenty or thirty years without inducing pulmonary consumption, in persons who pursue active occupations. . in the hereditary consumption there is either a hereditary debility of the whole system, or a hereditary mal-conformation of the breast. in the latter case, the consumption is the effect of weakness communicated to the whole system, by the long continuance of difficult respiration, or of such injuries being done to the lungs as are incompatible with health and life. it is remarkable, that the consumptive diathesis is more frequently derived from paternal, than maternal ancestors. . physicians, the most distinguished characters, have agreed, that the pulmonary consumption may be communicated by contagion. under the influence of this belief, morgagni informs us, that valsalva, who was predisposed to the consumption, constantly avoided being present at the dissection of the lungs of persons who had died of that disease. in some parts of spain and portugal, its contagious nature is so generally believed, that cases of it are reported to the magistrates of those countries, and the clothes of persons who die of it are burned by their orders. the doctrine of nearly all diseases spreading by contagion, required but a short and simple act of the mind, and favoured the indolence and timidity which characterized the old school of medicine. i adopted this opinion, with respect to the consumption, in the early part of my life; but i have lately been led to call its truth in question, especially in the unqualified manner in which it has been taught. in most of the cases in which the disease has been said to be propagated by contagion, its limits are always confined to the members of a single family. upon examination, i have found them to depend upon some one or more of the following causes: . mal-conformation of the breast, in all the branches of the diseased family. it is not necessary that this organic predisposition should be hereditary. . upon the debility which is incurred by nursing, and the grief which follows the loss of relations who die of it. . upon some local cause undermining the constitutions of a whole family. this may be exhalations from a foul cellar, a privy, or a neighbouring mill-pond, but of so feeble a nature as to produce debility only, with an acute fever, and thus to render the consumption a kind of family epidemic. i was consulted, in the month of august, , by a mr. gale, of maryland, in a pulmonary complaint. he informed me, that he had lost several brothers and sisters with the consumption, and that none of his ancestors had died of it. the deceased persons, five in number, had lived in a place that had been subject to the intermitting fever. . upon some peculiar and unwholesome article of diet, which exerts slowly debilitating effects upon all the branches of a family. . upon a fearful and debilitating apprehension entertained by the surviving members of a family, in which one or two have died of consumption, that they shall perish by the same disease. the effects of all the passions, and especially of fear, acted upon by a lively imagination, in inducing determinations to particular parts of the body, and subsequent disease, are so numerous, as to leave no doubt of the operation of this cause, in producing a number of successive deaths in the same family, from pulmonary consumption. in favour of its depending upon one or more of the above causes, i shall add two remarks. . there is often an interval of from two to ten years, between the sickness and deaths which occur in families from consumptions, and this we know never takes place in any disease which is admitted to be contagious. . the consumption is not singular in affecting several branches of a family. i was lately consulted by a young physician from maryland, who informed me, that two of his brothers, in common with himself, were afflicted with epilepsy. madness, scrophula, and a disposition to hæmorrhage, often affect, in succession, several branches of the same family; and who will say that any one of the above diseases is propagated by contagion? the practice of the spaniards and portuguese, in burning the clothes of persons who die of consumptions, no more proves the disease to be contagious, than the same acts sanctioned by the advice or orders of public bodies in the united states, establish the contagious nature of the yellow fever. they are, in both countries, marks of the superstition of medicine. in suggesting these facts, and the inferences which have been drawn from them, i do not mean to deny the possibility of the acrid and f[oe]tid vapour, which is discharged by breathing from an ulcer or abscess in the lungs, nor of the hectic sweats, when rendered putrid by stagnating in sheets, or blankets, communicating this disease to persons who are long exposed to them, by sleeping with consumptive patients; but that such cases rarely occur i infer, from the persons affected often living at a distance from each other, or when they live under the same roof, having no intercourse with the sick. this was the case with the black slaves, who were supposed to have taken the disease from the white branches of a family in connecticut, and which was mentioned, upon the authority of dr. beardsley, in a former edition of this inquiry. admitting the above morbid matters now and then to act as a remote cause of consumption, it does not militate against the theory i have aimed to establish, for if it follow the analogy of common miasmata and contagions, it must act by first debilitating the whole system. the approach of the jail and bilious fevers is often indicated by general languor. the influenza and the measles are always accompanied by general debility, but the small-pox furnishes an analogy to the case in question more directly in point. the contagion of this disease, whether received by the medium of the air or the skin, never fails of producing weakness in the whole system, before it discovers itself in affections of those parts of the body on which the contagion produced its first operation. . i grant that cutaneous humours, and the matter of old sores, when repelled, or suddenly healed, have in some cases fallen upon the lungs, and produced consumption. but i believe, in every case where this has happened, the consumption was preceded by general debility, or that it was not induced, until the whole system had been previously debilitated by a tedious and distressing cough. if the reasonings founded upon the facts which have been mentioned be just, then it follows, iii. that the abscess, cough, tubercles, ulcers, and purulent or bloody discharges which occur in the pulmonary consumption, are the _effects_, and not the _causes_ of the disease; and, that all attempts to cure it, by inquiring after tubercles and ulcers, or into the quality of the discharges from the lungs, are as fruitless as an attempt would be to discover the causes or cure of dropsies, by an examination of the qualities of collections of water, or to find out the causes and cure of fevers, by the quantity or quality of the discharges which take place in those diseases from the kidneys and skin. it is to be lamented, that it is not in pulmonary consumption only, that the effects of a disease have been mistaken for its cause. water in the brain, a membrane in the trachea, and a preternatural secretion of bile, have been accused of producing hydrocephalus internus, cynanche trachealis, and bilious fever, whereas we now know they are the _effects_ of those diseases only, in the successive order in which each of them has been mentioned. it is high time to harness the steeds which drag the car of medicine before, instead of behind it. the earth, in our science, has stood still long enough. let us at last believe, it revolves round its sun. i admit that the cough, tubercles, and ulcers, after they are formed, increase the danger of a consumption, by becoming new causes of stimulus to the system, but in this they are upon a footing with the water, the membrane, and the bile that have been alluded to, which, though they constitute no part of the diseases that produce them, frequently induce symptoms, and a termination of them, wholly unconnected with the original disease. the tendency of general debility to produce a disease of the lungs appears in many cases, as well as in the pulmonary consumption. dr. lind tells us, that the last stage of the jail fever was often marked by a cough. i have seldom been disappointed in looking for a cough and a copious excretion of mucus and phlegm after the th or th days of the slow nervous fever. two cases of hypochondriasis under my care, ended in fatal diseases of the lungs. the debility of old age is generally accompanied by a troublesome cough, and the debility which precedes death, generally discovers its last symptoms in the lungs. hence most people die with what are called the _rattles_. they are produced by a sudden and copious effusion of mucus in the bronchial vessels of the lungs. sometimes the whole force of the consumptive fever falls upon the trachea instead of the lungs, producing in it defluxion, a hawking of blood, and occasionally a considerable discharge of blood, which are often followed by ulcers, and a spitting of pus. i have called it a _tracheal_, instead of a pulmonary consumption. many people pass through a long life with a mucous defluxion upon the trachea, and enjoy in other respects tolerable health. in such persons the disease is of a local nature. it is only when it is accompanied with debility of the whole system, that it ends in a consumption. mr. john harrison, of the northern liberties, died of this disease under my care, in the year , in consequence of the discharge of pus from an ulcer which followed a hæmorrhage from the trachea being suddenly suppressed. i have seen another case of the same kind in a lady in this city, in the year . dr. spence, of dumfries, in virginia, in a letter which i received from him in june, , describes a case then under his care, of this form of consumption. he calls it, very properly, "phthisis trachealis." i have met with two cases of death from this disease, in which there were tubercles in the trachea. the patients breathed with great difficulty, and spoke only in a whisper. one of them died from suffocation. in the other, the tubercle bursted a few days before his death, and discharged a large quantity of f[oe]tid matter. should it be asked, why does general debility terminate by a disease in the lungs and trachea, rather than in any other part of the body? i answer, that it seems to be a law of the system, that general debility should always produce some local disease. this local disease sometimes manifests itself in dyspepsia, as in the general debility which follows grief; sometimes it discovers itself in a diarrh[oe]a, as in the general debility which succeeds to fear. again it appears in the brain, as in the general debility which succeeds intemperance, and the constant or violent exercise of the understanding, or of stimulating passions; but it more frequently appears in the lungs, as the consequence of general debility. it would seem as if the debility in the cases of consumption is seated chiefly in the blood-vessels, while that debility which terminates in diseases of the stomach and bowels, is confined chiefly to the nerves, and that the local affections of the brain arise from a debility, invading alike the nervous and arterial systems. what makes it more probable that the arterial system is _materially_ affected in the consumption is, that the disease most frequently occurs in those periods of life, and in those habits in which a peculiar state of irritability or excitability is supposed to be present in the arterial system; also in those climates in which there are the most frequent vicissitudes in the temperature of the weather. it has been observed, that the debility in the inhabitants of the west-indies, whether produced by the heat of the climate or the excessive pursuits of business or pleasure, generally terminates in dropsy, or in some disease of the alimentary canal. i have said, that it seemed to be a law of the system, that general debility should always produce some local affection. but to this law there are sometimes exceptions: the atrophy appears to be a consumption without an affection of the lungs. this disease is frequently mentioned by the writers of the th and th centuries by the name of tabes. i have seen several instances of it in adults, but more in children, and a greater number in the children of black than of white parents. the hectic fever, and even the night sweats, were as obvious in several of these cases, as in those consumptions where general debility had discovered itself in an affection of the lungs. i come now to make a few observations upon the cure of consumption; and here i hope it will appear, that the theory which i have delivered admits of an early and very important application to practice. if the consumption be preceded by general debility, it becomes us to attempt the cure of it before it produce the active symptoms of cough, bloody or purulent discharges from the lungs, and inflammatory or hectic fever. the symptoms which mark its first stage, are too seldom observed; or if observed, they are too often treated with equal neglect by patients and physicians. i shall briefly enumerate these symptoms. they are a slight fever increased by the least exercise; a burning and dryness in the palms of the hands, more especially towards evening; rheumy eyes upon waking from sleep; an increase of urine; a dryness of the skin, more especially of the feet in the morning[ ]; an occasional flushing in one, and sometimes in both cheeks; a hoarseness[ ]; a slight or acute pain in the breast; a fixed pain in one side, or shooting pains in both sides; head-ache; occasional sick and fainty fits; a deficiency of appetite, and a general indisposition to exercise or motion of every kind. [ ] the three last-mentioned symptoms are taken notice of by dr. bennet, in his treatise upon the nature and cure of the consumption, as _precursors_ of the disease. dr. boerhaave used to tell his pupils that they had never deceived him. [ ] i have seen the _hoarseness_ in one case the first symptom of approaching consumption. in this symptom it preserves the analogy of pneumony, which often comes on with a hoarseness, and sometimes with paraphonia. it would be easy for me to mention cases in which every symptom that has been enumerated has occurred within my own observation. i wish them to be committed to memory by young practitioners; and if they derive the same advantages from attending to them, which i have done, i am sure they will not regret the trouble they have taken for that purpose. it is probable, while a morbid state of the lungs is supposed to be the proximate cause of this disease, they will not derive much reputation or emolument from curing it in its forming stage; but let them remember, that in all attempts to discover the causes and cures of diseases, which have been deemed incurable, a physician will do nothing effectual until he acquire a perfect indifference to his own interest and fame. the remedies for consumption, in this stage of the disease, are simple and certain. they consist in a desertion of all the remote and exciting causes of the disorder, particularly sedentary employments, damp or cold situations, and whatever tends to weaken the system. when the disease has not yielded to this desertion of its remote and exciting causes, i have recommended the _cold bath_, _steel_, and _bark_ with great advantage. however improper, or even dangerous, these remedies may be after the disease assumes an inflammatory or hectic type, and produces an affection of the lungs, they are perfectly safe and extremely useful in the state of the system which has been described. the use of the bark will readily be admitted by all those practitioners who believe the pulmonary consumption to depend upon a scrophulous diathesis. should even the lungs be affected by scrophulous tumours, it is no objection to the use of the bark, for there is no reason why it should not be as useful in scrophulous tumours of the lungs, as of the glands of the throat, provided it be given before those tumours have produced inflammation; and in this case, no prudent practitioner will ever prescribe it in scrophula, when seated even in the external parts of the body. to these remedies should be added a diet moderately stimulating, and gentle exercise. i shall hereafter mention the different species of exercise, and the manner in which each of them should be used, so as to derive the utmost advantage from them. i can say nothing of the use of salt water or sea air in this stage of the consumption, from my own experience. i have heard them commended by a physician of rhode-island; and if they be used before the disease has discovered itself in pulmonary affections, i can easily conceive they may do service. if the simple remedies which have been mentioned have been neglected, in the first stage of the disease, it generally terminates, in different periods of time, in pulmonary affections, which show themselves under one of the three following forms: . a fever, accompanied by a cough, a hard pulse, and a discharge of blood, or mucous matter from the lungs. . a fever of the hectic kind, accompanied by chilly fits, and night sweats, and a pulse full, quick, and occasionally hard. the discharges from the lungs, in this state of the disease, are frequently purulent. . a fever with a weak frequent pulse, a troublesome cough, and copious purulent discharges from the lungs, a hoarse and weak voice, and chilly fits and night sweats alternating with a diarrh[oe]a. from this short history of the symptoms of pulmonary consumption there are occasional deviations. i have seen four cases, in which the pulse was natural, or slower than natural, to the last day of life. mrs. rebecca smith, the lovely and accomplished wife of mr. robert smith, of this city, passed through the whole course of this disease, in the year , without a single chilly fit. two other cases have come under my notice, in which there was not only an absence of chills, but of fever and night sweats. a similar case is recorded in the memoirs of the medical society of london; and lastly, i have seen two cases which terminated fatally, in which there was neither cough nor fever for several months. one of them was in miss mary loxley, the daughter of the late mr. benjamin loxley, in the year . she had complained of a pain in her right side, and had frequent chills with a fever of the hectic kind. they all gave way to frequent and gentle bleedings. in the summer of , she was seized with the same complaints, and as she had great objections to bleeding, she consulted a physician who gratified her, by attempting to cure her by recommending exercise and country air. in the autumn she returned to the city, much worse than when she left it. i was again sent for, and found her confined to her bed with a pain in her right side, but without the least cough or fever. her pulse was preternaturally slow. she could lie only on her left side. she sometimes complained of acute flying pains in her head, bowels, and limbs. about a month before her death, which was on the d of may, , her pulse became quick, and she had a little hecking cough, but without any discharge from her lungs. upon my first visit to her in the preceding autumn, i told her friends that i believed she had an abscess in her lungs. the want of fever and cough afterwards, however, gave me reason to suspect that i had been mistaken. the morning after her death, i received a message from her father, informing me that it had been among the last requests of his daughter, that the cause of her death should be ascertained, by my opening her body. i complied with this request, and, in company with dr. hall, examined her thorax. we found the left lobe of the lungs perfectly sound; the right lobe adhered to the pleura, in separating of which, dr. hall plunged his hand into a large sac, which contained about half a pint of purulent matter, and which had nearly destroyed the whole substance of the right lobe of the lungs. i have never seen a dry tongue in any of the forms or stages of this disease. the three different forms of the pulmonary affection that i have mentioned, have been distinguished by the names of the first, second, and third stages of the consumption; but as they do not always succeed each other in the order in which they have been mentioned, i shall consider them as different states of the system. the first i shall call the inflammatory, the second the hectic, and the third the typhus state. i have seen the pulmonary consumption come on sometimes with all the symptoms of the second, and sometimes with most of the symptoms of the third state; and i have seen two cases in which a hard pulse, and other symptoms of inflammatory action, appeared in the last hours of life. it is agreeable to pursue the analogy of this disease with a pneumony, or an acute inflammation of the lungs. they both make their first appearance in the same seasons of the year. it is true, the pneumony most frequently attacks with inflammatory symptoms; but it sometimes occurs with symptoms which forbid blood-letting, and i have more than once seen it attended by symptoms which required the use of wine and bark. the pneumony is attended at first by a dry cough, and an expectoration of streaks of blood; the cough in the consumption, in like manner, is at first dry, and attended by a discharge of blood from the lungs, which is more copious than in the pneumony, only because the lungs are more relaxed in the former than in the latter disease. there are cases of pneumony in which no cough attends. i have just now mentioned that i had seen the absence of that symptom in pulmonary consumption. the pneumony terminates in different periods, according to the degrees of inflammation, or the nature of the effusions which take place in the lungs: the same observation applies to the pulmonary consumption. the symptoms of the different forms of pneumony frequently run into each other; so do the symptoms of the three forms of consumption which have been mentioned. in short, the pneumony and consumption are alike in so many particulars, that they appear to resemble shadows of the same substance. they differ only as the protracted shadow of the evening does from that of the noon-day sun. i know that it will be objected here that the consumption is sometimes produced by scrophula, and that this creates an essential difference between it and pneumony. i formerly admitted scrophula to be one of the _remote_ causes of the consumption; but this does not invalidate the parallel which has been given of the two diseases. the phenomena produced in the lungs are the same as to their nature, whether they be produced by the remote cause of scrophula, or by the sudden action of cold and heat upon them. no more happens in the cases of acute and chronic pneumony, than what happens in dysentery and rheumatism. these two last diseases are for the most part so acute, as to confine the patient to his bed or his room, yet we often meet with both of them in patients who go about their ordinary business, and, in some instances, carry their diseases with them for two or three years. the parallel which has been drawn between the pneumony and consumption, will enable us to understand the reason why the latter disease terminates in such different periods of time. the less it partakes of pneumony, the longer it continues, and vice versa. what is commonly called in this country a _galloping_ consumption, is a disease compounded of different degrees of consumption and pneumony. it terminates frequently in two or three months, and without many of the symptoms which usually attend the last stage of pulmonary consumption. but there are cases in which patients in a consumption are suddenly snatched away by an attack of pneumony. i have met with one case only, in which, contrary to my expectation, the patient mended after an attack of an acute inflammation of the lungs, so as to live two years afterwards. it would seem from these facts, as if nature had preferred a certain gradation in diseases, as well as in other parts of her works. there is scarcely a disease in which there is not a certain number of grades, which mark the distance between health and the lowest specific deviation from it. each of these grades has received different names, and has been considered as a distinct disease, but more accurate surveys of the animal economy have taught us, that they frequently depend upon the same original causes, and that they are only greater or less degrees of the same disease. i shall now proceed to say a few words upon the cure of the different states of pulmonary consumption. the remedies for this purpose are of two kinds, viz. palliative and radical. i shall first mention the palliative remedies which belong to each state, and then mention those which are alike proper in them all. the palliative remedies for the i. or inflammatory state, are i. blood-letting. it may seem strange to recommend this debilitating remedy in a disease brought on by debility. were it proper in this place, i could prove that there is no disease in which bleeding is prescribed, which is not induced by predisposing debility, in common with the pulmonary consumption. i shall only remark here, that in consequence of the exciting cause acting upon the system (rendered extremely excitable by debility) such a morbid and excessive excitement is produced in the arteries, as to render a diminution of the stimulus of the blood absolutely necessary to reduce it. i have used this remedy with great success, in every case of consumption attended by a hard pulse, or a pulse rendered weak by a laborious transmission of the blood through the lungs. in the months of february and march, in the year , i bled a methodist minister, who was affected by this state of consumption, fifteen times in the course of six weeks. the quantity of blood drawn at each bleeding was never less than eight ounces, and it was at all times covered with an inflammatory crust. by the addition of country air, and moderate exercise, to this copious evacuation, in the ensuing spring he recovered his health so perfectly, as to discharge all the duties of his profession for many years, nor was he ever afflicted afterwards with a disease in his breast. i have, in another instance, bled a citizen of philadelphia eight times in two weeks, in this state of consumption, and with the happiest effects. the blood drawn at each bleeding was always sizy, and never less in quantity than ten ounces. mr. tracey of connecticut informed me, in the spring of , that he had been bled eighty-five times in six months, by order of his physician, dr. sheldon, in the inflammatory state of this disease. he ascribed his recovery chiefly to this frequent use of the lancet. to these cases i might add many others of consumptive persons who have been perfectly cured by frequent, and of many others whose lives have been prolonged by occasional bleedings. but i am sorry to add, that i could relate many more cases of consumptive patients, who have died martyrs to their prejudices against the use of this invaluable remedy. a common objection to it is, that it has been used without success in this disease. when this has been the case, i suspect that it has been used in one of the other two states of pulmonary consumption which have been mentioned, for it has unfortunately been too fashionable among physicians to prescribe the same remedies in every stage and form of the same disease, and this i take to be the reason why the same medicines, which, in the hands of some physicians, are either inert or instruments of mischief, are, in the hands of others, used with more or less success in every case in which they are prescribed. another objection to bleeding in the inflammatory state of consumption, is derived from the apparent and even sensible weakness of the patient. the men who urge this objection, do not hesitate to take from sixty to a hundred ounces of blood from a patient in a pneumony, in the course of five or six days, without considering that the debility in the latter case is such as to confine a patient to his bed, while, in the former case, the patient's strength is such as to enable him to walk about his house, and even to attend to his ordinary business. the difference between the debility in the two diseases, consists in its being _acute_ in the one, and _chronic_ in the other. it is true, the preternatural or convulsive excitement of the arteries is somewhat greater in the pneumony, than in the inflammatory consumption; but the plethora, on which the necessity of bleeding is partly founded, is certainly greater in the inflammatory consumption than in pneumony. this is evident from women, and even nurses, discharging from four to six ounces of menstrual blood every month, while they are labouring with the most inflammatory symptoms of the disease; nor is it to be wondered at, since the appetite is frequently unimpaired, and the generation of blood continues to be the same as in perfect health. dr. cullen recommends the use of bleeding in consumptions, in order to lessen the inflammation of the ulcers in the lungs, and thereby to dispose them to heal. from the testimonies of the relief which bleeding affords in external ulcers and tumours accompanied by inflammation, i am disposed to expect the same benefit from it in inflamed ulcers and tumours in the lungs: whether, therefore, we adopt dr. cullen's theory of consumption, and treat it as a local disease, or assent to the one which i have delivered, repeated bleedings appear to be equally necessary and useful. i have seen two cases of inflammatory consumption, attended by a hæmorrhage of a quart of blood from the lungs. i agreed at first with the friends of these patients in expecting a rapid termination of their disease in death, but to the joy and surprise of all connected with them, they both recovered. i ascribed their recovery wholly to the inflammatory action of their systems being suddenly reduced by a spontaneous discharge of blood. these facts, i hope, will serve to establish the usefulness of blood-letting in the inflammatory state of consumption, with those physicians who are yet disposed to trust more to the fortuitous operations of nature, than to the decisions of reason and experience. i have always found this remedy to be more necessary in the winter and first spring months, than at any other season. we obtain by means of repeated bleedings, such a mitigation of all the symptoms as enables the patient to use exercise with advantage as soon as the weather becomes so dry and settled, as to admit of his going abroad every day. the relief obtained by bleeding, is so certain in this state of consumption, that i often use it as a palliative remedy, where i do not expect it will perform a cure. i was lately made happy in finding, that i am not singular in this practice. dr. hamilton, of lynn regis, used it with success in a consumption, which was the effect of a most deplorable scrophula, without entertaining the least hope of its performing a cure[ ]. in those cases where inflammatory action attends the last scene of the disease, there is often more relief obtained by a little bleeding than by the use of opiates, and it is always a more humane prescription, in desperate cases, than the usual remedies of vomits and blisters. [ ] observations on scrophulous affections. i once bled a sea captain, whom i had declared to be within a few hours of his dissolution, in order to relieve him of uncommon pain, and difficulty in breathing. his pulse was at the same time hard. the evacuation, though it consisted of but four ounces of blood, had the wished for effect, and his death, i have reason to believe, was rendered more easy by it. the blood, in this case, was covered with a buffy coat. the quantity of blood drawn in every case of inflammatory consumption, should be determined by the force of the pulse, and the habits of the patient. i have seldom taken more than eight, but more frequently but six ounces at a time. it is much better to repeat the bleeding once or twice a week, than to use it less frequently, but in larger quantities. from many years experience of the efficacy of bleeding in this state of consumption, i feel myself authorised to assert, that where a greater proportion of persons die of consumption when it makes its first appearance in the lungs, with symptoms of inflammatory diathesis, than die of ordinary pneumonies (provided exercise be used afterwards), it must, in nine cases out of ten, be ascribed to the ignorance, or erroneous theories of physicians, or to the obstinacy or timidity of patients. in speaking thus confidently of the necessity and benefits of bleeding in the inflammatory state of consumption, i confine myself to observations made chiefly in the state of pennsylvania. it is possible the inhabitants of european countries and cities, may so far have passed the simple ages of inflammatory diseases, as never to exhibit those symptoms on which i have founded the indication of blood-letting. i suspect moreover that in most of the southern states of america, the inflammatory action of the arterial system is of too transient a nature to admit of the repeated bleedings in the consumption which are used with so much advantage in the middle and northern states. in reviewing the prejudices against this excellent remedy in consumptions, i have frequently wished to discover such a substitute for it as would with equal safety and certainty take down the morbid excitement, and action of the arterial system. at present we know of no such remedy; and until it be discovered, it becomes us to combat the prejudices against bleeding; and to derive all the advantages from it which have been mentioned. . a second remedy for the inflammatory state of consumption should be sought for in a milk and vegetable diet. in those cases where the milk does not lie easy on the stomach, it should be mixed with water, or it should be taken without its cheesy or oily parts, as in whey, or butter-milk, or it should be taken without skimming; for there are cases in which milk will agree with the stomach in this state, and in no other. the oil of the milk probably helps to promote the solution of its curds in the stomach. it is seldom in the power of physicians to prescribe ass' or goat's milk in this disease; but a good substitute may be prepared for them by adding to cow's milk a little sugar, and a third or fourth part of water, or of a weak infusion of green tea. the quantity of milk taken in a day should not exceed a pint, and even less than that quantity when we wish to lessen the force of the pulse by the abstraction of nourishment. the vegetables which are eaten in this state of the disease, should contain as little stimulus as possible. rice, in all the ways in which it is usually prepared for aliment, should be preferred to other grains, and the less saccharine fruits to those which abound with sugar. in those cases where the stomach is disposed to dyspepsia, a little salted meat, fish, or oysters, also soft boiled eggs, may be taken with safety, mixed with vegetable aliment. where there is no morbid affection of the stomach, i have seen the white meats eaten without increasing the inflammatory symptoms of the disease. the transition from a full diet to milk and vegetables should be gradual, and the addition of animal to vegetable aliment, should be made with the same caution. from the neglect of this direction, much error, both in theory and practice, has arisen in the treatment of consumptions. in every case it will be better for the patient to eat four or five, rather than but two or three meals in a day. a less stimulus is by this means communicated to the system, and less chyle is mixed with the blood in a given time. of so much importance do i conceive this direction to be, that i seldom prescribe for a chronic disease of any kind without enforcing it. . vomits have been much commended by dr. read in this disease. from their indiscriminate use in every state of consumption, i believe they have oftener done harm than good. in cases where a patient objects to bleeding, or where a physician doubts of its propriety, vomits may always be substituted in its room with great advantage. they are said to do most service when the disease is the effect of a catarrh. . nitre, in moderate doses of ten or fifteen grains, taken three or four times a day, has sometimes been useful in this disease; but it has been only when the disease has appeared with inflammatory symptoms. care should be taken not to persevere too long in the use of this remedy, as it is apt to impair the appetite. i have known one case in which it produced an obstinate dyspepsia, and a disposition to the colic; but it removed, at the same time, the symptoms of pulmonary consumption. . cold and dry air, when combined with the exercise of _walking_, deserves to be mentioned as an antiphlogistic remedy. i have repeatedly prescribed it in this species of the consumption with advantage, and have often had the pleasure of finding a single walk of two or three miles in a clear cold day, produce nearly the same diminution of the force and frequency of the pulse, as the loss of six or eight ounces of blood. i come now to treat of the palliative remedies which are proper in the ii. or hectic state of consumption. here we begin to behold the disease in a new and more distressing form than in the state which has been described. there is in this state of consumption the same complication of inflammatory and typhus diathesis which occurs in the typhoid and puerperile fevers, and of course the same difficulty in treating it successfully; for the same remedies do good and harm, according as the former or latter diathesis prevails in the system. all that i shall say upon this state is, that the treatment of it should be accommodated to the predominance of inflammatory or typhus symptoms, for the hectic state presents each of them alternately every week, and sometimes every day to the hand, or eye of a physician. when a hard pulse with acute pains in the side and breast occur, bleeding and other remedies for the inflammatory state must be used; but when the disease exhibits a predominance of typhus symptoms, the remedies for that state to be mentioned immediately, should be prescribed in moderate doses. there are several palliative medicines which have been found useful in the hectic state, but they are such as belong alike to the other two states; and therefore will be mentioned hereafter in a place assigned to them. i am sorry, however, to add, that where bleeding has not been indicated, i have seldom been able to afford much relief by medicine in this state of consumption. i have used alternately the most gentle, and the most powerful vegetable and metallic tonics to no purpose. even arsenic has failed in my hands of affording the least alleviation of the hectic fever. i conceive the removal of this fever to be the great desideratum in the cure of consumption; and should it be found, after all our researches, to exist only in exercise, it will be no departure from a law of nature, for i believe there are no diseases produced by equal degrees of chronic debility, in which medicines are of any more efficacy, than they are in the hectic fever of the pulmonary consumption. i proceed now to speak of the palliative remedies which are proper in the iii. or typhus state of the pulmonary consumption. the first of these are stimulating medicines. however just the complaints of dr. fothergill may be against the use of balsams in the inflammatory and mixed states of consumption, they appear to be not only safe, but useful likewise, in mitigating the symptoms of weak morbid action in the arterial system. i have therefore frequently prescribed opium, the balsam of copaivæ, of peru, the oil of amber, and different preparations of turpentine and tar, in moderate doses, with obvious advantage. garlic, elixir of vitriol, the juice of dandelion, a strong tea made of horehound, and a decoction of the inner bark of the wild cherry tree[ ], also bitters of all kinds, have all been found safe and useful tonics in this state of consumption. even the peruvian bark and the cold bath, so often and so generally condemned in consumptions, are always innocent, and frequently active remedies, where there is a total absence of inflammatory diathesis in this disease. the bark is said to be most useful when the consumption is the consequence of an intermitting fever, and when it occurs in old people. with these remedies should be combined . a cordial and stimulating diet. milk and vegetables, so proper in the inflammatory, are improper, when taken alone, in this state of consumption. i believe they often accelerate that decay of appetite and diarrh[oe]a, which form the closing scene of the disease. i have lately seen three persons recovered from the lowest stage of this state of consumption, by the use of animal food and cordial drinks, aided by frequent doses of opium, taken during the day as well as in the night. i should hesitate in mentioning these cures, had they not been witnessed by more than a hundred students of medicine in the pennsylvania hospital. the history of one of them is recorded in the th volume of the new-york medical repository, and of the two others in dr. coxe's medical museum. oysters, it has been said, have performed cures of consumption. if they have, it must have been only when they were eaten in that state of it which is now under consideration. they are a most savoury and wholesome article of diet, in all diseases of weak morbid action. to the cordial articles of diet belong sweet vegetable matters. grapes, sweet apples, and the juice of the sugar maple tree, when taken in large quantities, have all cured this disease. they all appear to act by filling the blood-vessels, and thereby imparting tone to the whole system. i have found the same advantage from dividing the meals in this state of consumption, that i mentioned under a former head. the exhibition of food in this case, should not be left to the calls of appetite, any more than the exhibition of a medicine. indeed food may be made to supply the place of cordial medicines, by keeping up a constant and gentle action in the whole system. for this reason, i have frequently advised my patients never to suffer their stomachs to be empty, even for a single hour. i have sometimes aimed to keep up the influence of a gentle action in the stomach upon the whole system, by advising them to eat in the night, in order to obviate the increase of secretion into the lungs and of the cough in the morning, which are brought on in part by the increase of debility from the long abstraction of the stimulus of aliment during the night. [ ] prunus virginiana. however safe, and even useful, the cordial medicines and diet that have been mentioned may appear, yet i am sorry to add, that we seldom see any other advantages from them than a mitigation of distressing symptoms, except when they have been followed by suitable and long continued exercise. even under this favourable circumstance, they are often ineffectual; for there frequently occurs, in this state of consumption, such a destruction of the substance and functions of the lungs, as to preclude the possibility of a recovery by the use of any of the remedies which have been discovered. perhaps, where this is not the case, their want of efficacy may be occasioned by their being given before the pulse is completely reduced to a typhus state. the weaker the pulse, the greater is the probability of benefit being derived from the use of cordial diet and medicines. i have said formerly, that the three states of consumption do not observe any regular course in succeeding each other. they are not only complicated in some instances, but they often appear and disappear half a dozen times in the course of the disease, according to the influence of the weather, dress, diet, and the passions upon the system. the great secret, therefore, of treating this disease consists in accommodating all the remedies that have been mentioned to the predominance of any of the three different states of the system, as manifested chiefly by the pulse. it is in consequence of having observed the evils which have resulted from the ignorance or neglect of this practice, that i have sometimes wished that it were possible to abolish the seducing nomenclature of diseases altogether, in order thereby to oblige physicians to conform exactly to the fluctuating state of the system in all their prescriptions; for it is not more certain, that, in all cultivated languages, every idea has its appropriate word, than that every state of a disease has its appropriate dose of medicine, the knowledge and application of which can alone constitute rational, or secure uniformly successful practice. i come now to say a few words upon those palliative remedies which are alike proper in every state of the pulmonary consumption. the first remedy under this head is a dry situation. a damp air, whether breathed in a room, or out of doors, is generally hurtful in every form of this disease. a kitchen, or a bed-room, below the level of the ground, has often produced, and never fails to increase, a pulmonary consumption. i have often observed a peculiar paleness (the first symptom of general debility) to show itself very early in the faces of persons who work or sleep in cellar kitchens or shops. . country air. the higher and drier the situation which is chosen for the purpose of enjoying the benefit of this remedy, the better. situations exposed to the sea, should be carefully avoided; for it is a singular fact, that while consumptive persons are benefited by the sea-air, when they breathe it on the ocean, they are always injured by that portion of it which they breathe on the sea-shore. to show its influence, not only in aggravating consumptions, but in disposing to them, and in adding to the mortality of another disease of the lungs, i shall subjoin the following facts. from one fourth to one half of all the adults who die in great britain, dr. willan says, perish with this disease. in salem, in the state of massachusetts, which is situated near the sea, and exposed, during many months in the year, to a moist east wind, there died, in the year , one hundred and sixty persons; fifty-three died of the consumption, making in all nearly one third of all the inhabitants of the town. eight more died of what is called a lung fever, probably of what is called in pennsylvania the galloping grade of that disease. consumptions are more frequent in boston, rhode-island, and new-york, from their damp winds, and vicinity to the sea-shore, than they are in philadelphia. in the neighbourhood of cape may, which lies near the sea-shore of new-jersey, there are three religious societies, among whom the influenza prevailed in the year . its mortality, under equal circumstances, was in the exact ratio to their vicinity to the sea. the deaths were most numerous in that society which was nearest to it, and least so in that which was most remote from it. these unfriendly effects of the sea air, in the above pulmonary diseases, do not appear to be produced simply by its moisture. consumptions are scarcely known in the moist atmosphere which so generally prevails in lincolnshire, in england, and in the inland parts of holland and ireland. i shall not pause to inquire, why a mixture of land and sea air is so hurtful in the consumption, and at the same time so agreeable to persons in health, and so medicinal in many other diseases, but shall dismiss this head by adding a fact which was communicated to me by dr. matthew irvine, of south-carolina, and that is, that those situations which are in the neighbourhood of bays or rivers, where the salt and fresh waters mix their streams together, are more unfavourable to consumptive patients than the sea-shore, and therefore should be more carefully avoided by them in exchanging city for country air. . a change of climate. it is remarkable that climates uniformly cold or warm, which seldom produce consumptions, are generally fatal to persons who visit them in that disease. countries between the th and th degrees of latitude are most friendly to consumptive people. . loose dresses, and a careful accommodation of them to the changes in the weather. many facts might be mentioned to show the influence of compression and of tight ligatures of every kind, upon the different parts of the body; also of too much, or too little clothing, in producing, or increasing diseases of every kind, more especially those which affect the lungs. tight stays, garters, waistbands, and collars, should all be laid aside in the consumption, and the quality of the clothing should be suited to the weather. a citizen of maryland informed me, that he twice had a return of a cough and spitting of blood, by wearing his summer clothes a week after the weather became cool in the month of september. but it is not sufficient to vary the weight or quality of dress with the seasons. it should be varied with the changes which take place in the temperature of the air every day, even in the summer months, in middle latitudes. i know a citizen of philadelphia, who has laboured under a consumptive diathesis near thirty years, who believes that he has lessened the frequency and violence of pulmonic complaints during that time, by a careful accommodation of his dress to the weather. he has been observed frequently to change his waistcoat and small clothes twice or three times in a day, in a summer month. a repetition of colds, and thereby an increase of the disease, will be prevented by wearing flannel next to the skin in winter, and muslin in the summer, either in the form of a shirt or a waistcoat: where these are objected to, a piece of flannel, or of soft sheepskin, should be worn next to the breast. they not only prevent colds, but frequently remove chronic pains from that part of the body. . artificial evacuations, by means of blisters and issues. i suspect the usefulness of these remedies to be chiefly confined to the inflammatory and hectic states of consumption. in the typhus state, the system is too weak to sustain the discharges of either of them. fresh blisters should be preferred to such as are perpetual, and the issues, to be useful, should be large. they are supposed to afford relief by diverting a preternatural secretion and excretion of mucus or pus from the lungs, to an artificial emunctory in a less vital part of the body. blisters do most service when the disease arises from repelled eruptions, and when they are applied between the shoulders, and the upper and internal parts of the arms. when it arises from rheumatism and gout, the blisters should be applied to the joints, and such other external parts of the body as had been previously affected by those diseases. . certain fumigations and vapours. an accidental cure of a pulmonary affection by the smoke of rosin, in a man who bottled liquors, raised for a while the credit of fumigations. i have tried them, but without much permanent effect. i think i have seen the pain in the breast relieved by receiving the vapour from a mixture of equal parts of tar, bran, and boiling water into the lungs. the sulphureous and saline air of stabiæ, between mount vesuvius and the mediterranean sea, and the effluvia of the pine forests of lybia, were supposed, in ancient times, to be powerful remedies in consumptive complaints; but it is probable, the exercise used in travelling to those countries, contributed chiefly to the cures which were ascribed to foreign matters acting upon the lungs. . lozenges, syrups, and demulcent teas. these are too common and too numerous to be mentioned. . opiates. it is a mistake in practice, founded upon a partial knowledge of the qualities of opium, to administer it only at night, or to suppose that its effects in composing a cough depend upon its inducing sleep. it should be given in small doses during the day, as well as in larger ones at night. the dose should be proportioned to the degrees of action in the arterial system. the less this action, the more opium may be taken with safety and advantage. . different positions of the body have been found to be more or less favourable to the abatement of the cough. these positions should be carefully sought for, and the body kept in that which procures the most freedom from coughing. i have heard of an instance in which a cough, which threatened a return of the hæmorrhage from the lungs, was perfectly composed for two weeks, by keeping the patient nearly in one posture in bed; but i have known more cases in which relief from coughing was to be obtained only by an erect posture of the body. . considerable relief will often be obtained from the patient's sleeping between blankets in winter, and on a mattrass in summer. the former prevent fresh cold from night sweats; the latter frequently checks them altogether. in cases where a sufficient weight of blankets to keep up an agreeable warmth cannot be borne, without restraining easy and full acts of inspiration, the patient should sleep under a light feather bed, or an eider down coverlet. they both afford more warmth than double or treble their weight of blankets. however comfortable this mode of producing warmth in bed may be, it does not protect the lungs from the morbid effects of the distant points of temperature of a warm parlour in the day time, and a cold bed-chamber at night. to produce an equable temperature of air at all hours, i have frequently advised my patients, when going to a warm climate was not practicable, to pass their nights as well as days in an open stove room, in which nearly the same degrees of heat were kept up at all hours. i have found this practice, in several cases, a tolerable substitute for a warm climate. . the moderate use of the lungs, in reading, public speaking, laughing, and singing. the lungs, when debilitated, derive equal benefit with the limbs, or other parts of the body, from moderate exercise. i have mentioned, in another place[ ], several facts which support this opinion. but too much pains cannot be taken to inculcate upon our patients to avoid all _excess_ in the use of the lungs, by _long_, or _loud_ reading, speaking, or singing, or by sudden and violent _bursts_ of laughter. i shall long lament the death of a female patient, who had discovered many hopeful signs of a recovery from a consumption, who relapsed, and died, in consequence of bursting a blood-vessel in her lungs, by a sudden fit of laughter. [ ] an account of the effects of common salt in the cure of hæmoptysis. . are there any advantages to be derived from the excitement of certain passions in the treatment of consumptions? dr. blane tells us, that many consumptive persons were relieved, and that some recovered, in consequence of the terror which was excited by a hurricane in barbadoes, in the year . it will be difficult to imitate, by artificial means, the accidental cures which are recorded by dr. blane; but we learn enough from them to inspire the invigorating passions of hope and confidence in the minds of our patients, and to recommend to them such exercises as produce exertions of body and mind analogous to those which are produced by terror. van sweiten and smollet relate cures of consumptions, by patients falling into streams of cold water. perhaps, in both instances, the cures were performed only by the fright and consequent exertion produced by the fall. this is only one instance out of many which might be mentioned, of partial and unequal action being suddenly changed into general and equal excitement in every part of the system. the cures of consumptions which have been performed by a camp life[ ], have probably been much assisted by the commotions in the passions which were excited by the various and changing events of war. [ ] vol. i. p. . . a salivation has lately been prescribed in this disease with success. an accident first suggested its advantages, in the pennsylvania hospital, in the year [ ]. since that time, it has performed many cures in different parts of the united states. it is to be lamented, that in a majority of the cases in which the mercury has been given, it has failed of exciting a salivation. where it affects the mouth, it generally succeeds in recent cases, which is more than can be said of any, or of all other remedies in this disease. in its hectic state, a salivation frequently cures, and even in its typhus and last stage, i have more than once prescribed it with success. the same regard to the pulse should regulate the use of this new remedy in consumption, that has been recommended in other febrile diseases. it should never be advised until the inflammatory diathesis of the system has been in a great degree reduced, by the depleting remedies formerly mentioned. [ ] medical repository of new-york. vol. v. during the use of the above remedies, great care should be taken to relieve the patient from the influence of all those debilitating and irritating causes which induced the disease. i shall say elsewhere that decayed teeth are one of them. these should be extracted where there is reason to suspect they have produced, or that they increase the disease. i have hitherto said nothing of the digitalis as a palliative remedy in pulmonary consumption. i am sorry to acknowledge that, in many cases in which i have prescribed it, it has done no good, and in some it has done harm. from the opposite accounts of physicians of the most respectable characters of the effects of this medicine, i have been inclined to ascribe its different issues, to a difference in the soil in which it has been cultivated, or in the times of gathering, or in the manner of preparing it, all of which we know influence the qualities of many other vegetables. if the theory of consumption which i have endeavoured to establish be admitted, that uncertain and unsafe medicine will be rendered unnecessary by the remedies that have been enumerated, provided they are administered at the times, and in the manner that has been recommended. before i proceed to speak of the radical cure of the consumption, it will be necessary to observe, that by means of the palliative remedies which have been mentioned, many persons have been recovered, and some have had their lives prolonged by them for many years; but in most of these cases i have found, upon inquiry, that the disease recurred as soon as the patient left off the use of his remedies, unless they were followed by necessary or voluntary exercise. it is truly surprising to observe how long some persons have lived who have been affected by a consumptive diathesis, and by frequent attacks of many of the most troublesome symptoms of this disease. van sweiten mentions the case of a man, who had lived thirty years in this state. morton relates the history of a man, in whom the symptoms of consumption appeared with but little variation or abatement from his early youth till the th year of his age. the widow of the celebrated senac lived to be years of age, thirty of which she passed in a pulmonary consumption. dr. nicols was subject to occasional attacks of this disease during his whole life, and he lived to be above eighty years of age. bennet says he knew an instance in which it continued above sixty years. i prescribed for my first pupil, dr. edwards, in a consumption in the year . he lived until , and seldom passed a year without spitting blood, nor a week without a cough, during that long interval of time. the fatal tendency of his disease was constantly opposed by occasional blood-letting, rural exercises, a cordial, but temperate diet, the peruvian bark, two sea voyages, and travelling in foreign countries. there are besides these instances of long protracted consumptions, cases of it which appear in childhood, and continue for many years. i have seldom known them prove fatal under puberty. i am led here to mention another instance of the analogy between pneumony and the pulmonary consumption. we often see the same frequency of recurrence of both diseases in habits which are predisposed to them. i have attended a german citizen of philadelphia, in several fits of the pneumony, who has been confined to his bed eight-and-twenty times, by the same disease, in the course of the same number of years. he has, for the most part, enjoyed good health in the intervals of those attacks, and always appeared, till lately, to possess a good constitution. in the cases of the frequent recurrence of pneumony, no one has suspected the disease to have originated exclusively in a morbid state of the lungs; on the contrary, it appears evidently to be produced by the _sudden_ influence of the same causes, which, by acting with less force, and for a _longer_ time, produce the pulmonary consumption. the name of pneumony is taken from the principal symptom of this disease, but it as certainly belongs to the whole arterial system as the consumption; and i add further, that it is as certainly produced by general predisposing debility. the hardness and fulness of the pulse do not militate against this assertion, for they are altogether the effects of a morbid and convulsive excitement of the sanguiferous system. the strength manifested by the pulse is moreover partial, for every other part of the body discovers, at the same time, signs of extreme debility. it would be easy, by pursuing this subject a little further, to mention a number of facts which, by the aid of principles in physiology and pathology, which are universally admitted, would open to us a new theory of fevers, but this would lead us too far from the subject before us. i shall only remark, that all that has been said of the influence of _general_ debilitating causes upon the lungs, both in pneumony and consumption, and of the alternation of the consumption with other general diseases, will receive great support from considering the lungs only as a part of the whole external surface of the body, upon which most of the remote and exciting causes of both diseases produce their first effects. this extent of the surface of the body, not only to the lungs, but to the alimentary canal, was first taken notice of by dr. boerhaave; but was unhappily neglected by him in his theories of the diseases of the lungs and bowels. dr. keil supposes that the lungs, from the peculiar structure of the bronchial vessels, and air vesicles, expose a surface to the action of the air, equal to the extent of the whole external and visible surface of the body. thus have i mentioned the usual palliative remedies for the consumption. many of these remedies, under certain circumstances, i have said have cured the disease, but i suspect that most of these cures have taken place only when the disease has partaken of an intermediate nature between a pneumony and a true pulmonary consumption. such connecting shades, appear between the extreme points of many other diseases. in a former essay[ ], i endeavoured to account for the transmutation (if i may be allowed the expression) of the pneumony into the consumption, by ascribing it to the increase of the debilitating refinements of civilized life. this opinion has derived constant support from every observation i have made connected with this subject, since its first publication, in the year . [ ] inquiry into the diseases and remedies of the indians of north-america; and a comparative view of their diseases and remedies with those of civilized nations. vol. i. i come now to treat of the radical remedies for the pulmonary consumption. in an essay formerly alluded to[ ], i mentioned the effects of labour, and the hardships of a camp or naval life, upon this disease. as there must frequently occur such objections to each of those remedies, as to forbid their being recommended or adopted, it will be necessary to seek for substitutes for them in the different species of exercise. these are, _active_, _passive_, and _mixed_. the _active_ includes walking, and the exercise of the hands and feet in working or dancing. the _passive_ includes rocking in a cradle, swinging, sailing, and riding in carriages of different kinds. the _mixed_ is confined chiefly to riding on horseback. [ ] thoughts on the pulmonary consumption. vol. i. i have mentioned all the different species of exercise, not because i think they all belong to the class of radical remedies for the consumption, but because it is often necessary to use those which are passive, before we recommend those of a mixed or active nature. that physician does not err more who advises a patient to take physic, without specifying its qualities and doses, than the physician does who advises a patient, in a consumption, to use exercise, without specifying its species and degrees. from the neglect of this direction, we often find consumptive patients injured instead of being relieved by exercises, which, if used with judgment, might have been attended with the happiest effects. i have before suggested that the stimulus of every medicine, which is intended to excite action in the system, should always be in an exact ratio to its excitability. the same rule should be applied to the stimulus of exercise. i have heard a well-attested case of a young lady, upon whose consumption the first salutary impression was made by rocking her in a cradle; and i know another case in which a young lady, in the lowest state of that debility which precedes an affection of the lungs, was prepared for the use of the mixed and active exercises, by being first moved gently backwards and forwards in a chariot without horses, for an hour every day. swinging appears to act in the same gentle manner. in the case of a gardener, who was far advanced in a consumption, in the pennsylvania hospital, i had the pleasure of observing its good effects, in an eminent degree. it so far restored him, as to enable him to complete his recovery by working at his former occupation. in cases of extreme debility, the following order should be recommended in the use of the different species of exercise. . rocking in a cradle, or riding on an elastic board, commonly called a chamber-horse. . swinging. . sailing. . riding in a carriage. . riding on horseback. . walking. . running and dancing. in the use of each of those species of exercise great attention should be paid to the _degree_ or _force_ of action with which they are applied to the body. for example, in riding in a carriage, the exercise will be less in a four-wheel carriage than in a single horse chair, and less when the horses move in a walking, than a trotting gait. in riding on horseback, the exercise will be less or greater according as the horse walks, paces, canters, or trots, in passing over the ground. i have good reason to believe, that an english sea-captain, who was on the verge of the grave with the consumption, in the spring of the year , owed his perfect recovery to nothing but the above gradual manner, in which, by my advice, he made use of the exercises of riding in a carriage and on horseback. i have seen many other cases of the good effects of thus accommodating exercise to debility; and i am sorry to add, that i have seen many cases in which, from the neglect of this manner of using exercise, most of the species and degrees of it, have either been useless, or done harm. however carelessly this observation may be read by physicians, or attended to by patients, i conceive no direction to be more necessary in the cure of consumptions. i have been thus particular in detailing it, not only because i believe it to be important, but that i might atone to society for that portion of evil which i might have prevented by a more strict attention to it in the first years of my practice. the more the arms are used in exercise the better. one of the proprietary governors of pennsylvania, who laboured for many years under consumptive diathesis, derived great benefit from frequently rowing himself in a small boat, a few miles up and down the river schuylkill. two young men, who were predisposed to a consumption, were perfectly cured by working steadily at a printing press in this city. a french physician in martinique cured this disease, by simply rubbing the arms between the shoulders and the elbows, until they inflamed. the remedy is strongly recommended, by the recoveries from pulmonary consumption which have followed abscesses in the arm-pits. perhaps the superior advantages of riding on horseback, in this disease, may arise in part from the constant and gentle use of the arms in the management of the bridle and the whip. much has been said in favour of sea voyages in consumptions. in the mild degrees of the disease they certainly have done service, but i suspect the relief given, or the cures performed by them, should be confined chiefly to seafaring people, who add to the benefits of a constant change of pure air, a share of the invigorating exercises of navigating the ship. i have frequently heard of consumptive patients reviving at sea, probably from the transient effects of sea sickness upon the whole system, and growing worse as soon as they came near the end of their voyage. it would seem as if the mixture of land and sea airs was hurtful to the lungs, in every situation and condition in which it could be applied to them. nor are the peculiar and morbid effects of the first operation of land and sea airs upon the human body, in sea voyages, confined only to consumptive people. i crossed the atlantic ocean, in the year , with a sea captain, who announced to his passengers the agreeable news that we were near the british coast, before any discovery had been made of our situation by sounding, or by a change in the colour of the water. upon asking him upon what he founded his opinion, he said, that he had been sneezing, which, he added, was the sign of an approaching cold, and that, in the course of upwards of twenty years, he had never made the land (to use the seaman's phrase) without being affected in a similar manner. i have visited many sick people in philadelphia, soon after their arrival from sea, who have informed me, that they had enjoyed good health during the greatest part of their voyage, and that they had contracted their indispositions after they came within sight of the land. i mention these facts only to show the necessity of advising consumptive patients, who undertake a sea voyage for the recovery of their health, not to expose themselves upon deck in the morning and at night, after they arrive within the region in which the mixture of the land and sea airs may be supposed to take place. i subscribe, from what i have observed, to the bold declaration of dr. sydenham, in favour of the efficacy of riding on horseback, in the cure of consumption. i do not think the existence of an abscess, when broken, or even tubercles in the lungs, when recent, or of a moderate size, the least objection to the use of this excellent remedy. an abscess in the lungs is not necessarily fatal, and tubercles have no malignity in them which should render their removal impracticable by this species of exercise. the first question, therefore, to be asked by a physician who visits a patient in this disease should be, not what is the state of his lungs, but, is he able to ride on horseback. there are two methods of riding for health in this disease. the first is by short excursions; the second is by long journies. in slight consumptive affections, and after a recovery from an acute illness, short excursions are sufficient to remove the existing debility; but in the more advanced stages of consumption, they are seldom effectual, and frequently do harm, by exciting an occasional appetite without adding to the digestive powers. they, moreover, keep the system constantly vibrating by their unavoidable inconstancy, between distant points of tone and debility[ ], and they are unhappily accompanied at all times, from the want of a succession of fresh objects to divert the mind, by the melancholy reflection that they are the sad, but necessary conditions of life. [ ] the bad effects of _inconstant_ exercise have been taken notice of in the gout. dr. sydenham says, when it is used only by fits and starts in this disease, it does harm. in a consumption of long continuance or of great danger, long journies on horseback are the most effectual modes of exercise. they afford a constant succession of fresh objects and company, which divert the mind from dwelling upon the danger of the existing malady; they are moreover attended by a constant change of air, and they are not liable to be interrupted by company, or transient changes in the weather, by which means appetite and digestion, action and power, all keep pace with each other. it is to be lamented that the use of this excellent remedy is frequently opposed by indolence and narrow circumstances in both sexes, and by the peculiarity of situation and temper in the female sex. women are attached to their families by stronger ties than men. they cannot travel alone. their delicacy, which is increased by sickness, is liable to be offended at every stage; and, lastly, they sooner relax in their exertions to prolong their lives than men. of the truth of the last observation, sir william hamilton has furnished us with a striking illustration. he tells us, that in digging into the ruins produced by the late earthquake in calabria, the women who perished in it, were all found with their arms folded, as if they had abandoned themselves immediately to despair and death; whereas, the men were found with their arms extended, as if they had resisted their fate to the last moment of their lives. it would seem, from this fact, and many others of a similar nature which might be related, that a capacity of bearing pain and distress with fortitude and resignation, was the distinguishing characteristic of the female mind; while a disposition to resist and overcome evil, belonged in a more peculiar manner to the mind of man. i have mentioned this peculiarity of circumstances and temper in female patients, only for the sake of convincing physicians that it will be necessary for them to add all the force of eloquence to their advice, when they recommend journies to women in preference to all other remedies, for the recovery of their health. persons, moreover, who pursue active employments, frequently object to undertaking journies, from an opinion that their daily occupations are sufficient to produce all the salutary effects we expect from artificial exercise. it will be highly necessary to correct this mistake, by assuring such persons that, however useful the habitual exercise of an active, or even a laborious employment may be to _preserve_ health, it must always be exchanged for one which excites new impressions, both upon the mind and body, in every attempt to _restore_ the system from that debility which is connected with pulmonary consumption. as travelling is often rendered useless, and even hurtful in this disease, from being pursued in an improper manner, it will be necessary to furnish our patients with such directions as will enable them to derive the greatest benefit from their journies. i shall, therefore, in this place, mention the substance of the directions which i have given in writing for many years to such consumptive patients as undertake journies by my advice. . to avoid fatigue. too much cannot be said to enforce this direction. it is the hinge on which the recovery or death of a consumptive patient frequently turns. i repeat it again, therefore, that patients should be charged over and over when they set off on a journey, as well as when they use exercise of any kind, to avoid fatigue. for this purpose they should begin by travelling only a few miles in a day, and increase the distance of their stages, as they increase their strength. by neglecting this practice, many persons have returned from journies much worse than when they left home, and many have died in taverns, or at the houses of their friends on the road. travelling in stage-coaches is seldom safe for a consumptive patient. they are often crowded; they give too much motion; and they afford by their short delays and distant stages, too little time for rest, or for taking the frequent refreshment which was formerly recommended. . to avoid travelling too soon in the morning, and after the going down of the sun in the evening, and, if the weather be hot, never to travel in the middle of the day. the sooner a patient breakfasts after he leaves his bed the better; and in no case should he leave his morning stage with an empty stomach. . if it should be necessary for a patient to lie down, or to sleep in the day time, he should be advised to undress himself, and to cover his body between sheets or blankets. the usual ligatures of garters, stocks, knee-bands, waistcoats, and shoes, are very unfriendly to sound sleep; hence persons who lie down with their clothes on, often awake from an afternoon's nap in terror from dreams, or in a profuse sweat, or with a head-ach or sick stomach; and generally out of humour. the surveyors are so sensible of the truth of this remark, that they always undress themselves when they sleep in the woods. an intelligent gentleman of this profession informed me, that he had frequently seen young woodsmen, who had refused to conform to this practice, so much indisposed in the morning, that, after the experience of a few nights, they were forced to adopt it. great care should be taken in sleeping, whether in the day time or at night, never to lie down in damp sheets. dr. sydenham excepts the danger from this quarter, when he speaks of the efficacy of travelling on horseback in curing the consumption. . patients who travel for health in this disease should avoid all large companies, more especially evening and night parties. the air of a contaminated room, phlogisticated by the breath of fifteen or twenty persons, and by the same number of burning candles, is poison to a consumptive patient. to avoid impure air from every other source, he should likewise avoid sleeping in a crowded room, or with curtains around his bed, and even with a bed-fellow. . travelling, to be effectual in this disease, should be conducted in such a manner as that a patient may escape the extremes of heat and cold. for this purpose he should pass the winter, and part of the spring, in georgia or south-carolina, and the summer in new-hampshire, massachusetts, or vermont, or, if he pleases, he may still more effectually shun the summer heats, by crossing the lakes, and travelling along the shores of the st. laurence to the city of quebec. he will thus escape the extremes of heat and cold, particularly the less avoidable one of heat; for i have constantly found the hot month of july to be as unfriendly to consumptive patients in pennsylvania, as the variable month of march. by these means too he will enjoy nearly an equable temperature of air in every month of the year; and his system will be free from the inconvenience of the alternate action of heat and cold upon it. the autumnal months should be spent in new-jersey or pennsylvania. in these journies from north to south, or from south to north, he should be careful, for reasons before mentioned, to keep at as great a distance as possible from the sea coast. should this inquiry fall into the hands of a british physician, i would beg leave to suggest to him, whether more advantages would not accrue to his consumptive patients from advising them to cross the atlantic ocean, and afterwards to pursue the tour which i have recommended, than by sending them to portugal, france, or italy. here they will arrive with such a mitigation of the violence of the disease, in consequence of the length of their sea voyage, as will enable them immediately to begin their journies on horseback. here they will be exposed to fewer temptations to intemperance, or to unhealthy amusements, than in old european countries. and, lastly, in the whole course of this tour, they will travel among a people related to them by a sameness of language and manners, and by ancient or modern ties of citizenship. long journies for the recovery of health, under circumstances so agreeable, should certainly be preferred to travelling among strangers of different nations, languages, and manners, on the continent of europe. . to render travelling on horseback effectual in a consumption, it should be continued with moderate intervals from _six to twelve months_. but the cure should not be rested upon a single journey. it should be repeated every _two_ or _three years_, till our patient has passed the consumptive stages of life. nay, he must do more; he must acquire a _habit_ of riding constantly, both at home and abroad; or, to use the words of dr. fuller, "he must, like a tartar, learn to live on horseback, by which means he will acquire in time the constitution of a tartar[ ]." [ ] medicina gymnastica, p. . where benefit is expected from a change of climate, as well as from travelling, patients should reside at least two years in the place which is chosen for that purpose. i have seldom known a residence for a shorter time in a foreign climate do much service. to secure a perfect obedience to medical advice, it would be extremely useful if consumptive patients could always be accompanied by a physician. celsus says, he found it more easy to cure the dropsy in slaves than in freemen, because they more readily submitted to the restraints he imposed upon their appetites. madness has become a curable disease in england, since the physicians of that country have opened private mad-houses, and have taken the entire and constant direction of their patients into their own hands. the same successful practice would probably follow the treatment of consumptions, if patients were constantly kept under the eye and authority of their physicians. the keenness of appetite, and great stock of animal spirits, which those persons frequently possess, hurry them into many excesses which defeat the best concerted plans of a recovery; or, if they escape these irregularities, they are frequently seduced from our directions by every quack remedy which is recommended to them. unfortunately the cough becomes a signal of their disease, at every stage of their journey, and the easy or pleasant prescriptions of even hostlers and ferrymen, are often substituted to the self-denial and exertion which have been imposed by physicians. the love of life in these cases seems to level all capacities; for i have observed persons of the most cultivated understandings to yield in common with the vulgar, to the use of these prescriptions. in a former volume i mentioned the good effects of accidental labour in pulmonary consumptions. the reader will find a particular account in the first volume of dr. coxe's medical museum, of a clergyman and his wife, in virginia, being cured by the voluntary use of that remedy. the following circumstances and symptoms, indicate the longer or shorter duration of this disease, and its issue in life and death: the consumption from gout, rheumatism, and scrophula, is generally of long duration. it is more rapid in its progress to death, when it arises from a half cured pleurisy, or neglected colds, measles, and influenza. it is of shorter duration in persons under thirty, than in those who are more advanced in life. it is always dangerous in proportion to the length of time, in which the debilitating causes, that predisposed to it, have acted upon the body. it is more dangerous when a predisposition to it has been derived from ancestors, than when it has been acquired. it is generally fatal when accompanied with a bad conformation of the breast. chilly fits occurring in the forenoon, are more favourable than when they occur in the evening. they indicate the disease to partake a little of the nature of an intermittent, and are a call for the use of the remedies proper in that disease. rheumatic pains, attended with an abatement of the cough, or pains in the breast, are always favourable; so are eruptions, or an abscess on the external parts of the body, if they occur before the last stage of the disease. a spitting of blood, in the early, or forming stage of the disease, is favourable, but after the lungs become much obstructed, or ulcerated, it is most commonly fatal. a pleurisy, occurring in the low state of the disease, generally kills, but i have seen a case in which it suddenly removed the cough and hectic fever, and thus became the means of prolonging the patient's life for several years. the discharge of calculi from the lungs by coughing and spitting, and of a thin watery liquid, with a small portion of pus swimming on its surface, are commonly signs of an incurable consumption. no prediction unfavourable to life can be drawn from pus being discharged from the lungs. we see many recoveries after it has taken place, and many deaths where that symptom has been absent. large quantities of pus are discharged in consumptions attended with abscesses, and yet few die of them, where they have not been preceded by long continued debility of the whole system. no pus is expectorated from tubercles, and how generally fatal is the disease, after they are formed in the lungs! it is only after they ulcerate that they discharge pus, and it is only after ulcers are thus formed, that the consumption probably becomes uniformly fatal. i suspect these ulcers are sometimes of a cancerous nature. a sudden cessation of the cough, without a supervening diarrh[oe]a, indicates death to be at hand. a constant vomiting in a consumption, is generally a bad sign. feet obstinately cold, also a swelling of the feet during the day, and of the face in the night, commonly indicate a speedy and fatal issue of the disease. lice, and the falling off of the hair, often precede death. a hoarseness, in the beginning of the disease, is always alarming, but it is more so in its last stage. a change of the eyes from a blue, or dark, to a light colour, similar to that which takes place in very old people, is a sign of speedy dissolution. i have never seen a recovery after an apthous sore throat took place. death from the consumption comes on in some or more than one, of the following ways: . with a diarrh[oe]a. in its absence, . with wasting night sweats. . a rupture of an abscess. . a rupture of a large blood-vessel in the lungs, attended with external or internal hæmorrhage. _sudden_ and _unexpected_ death in a consumption is generally induced by this, or the preceding cause. . madness. the cough and expectoration cease with this disease. it generally carries off the patient in a week or ten days. . a pleurisy, brought on by exposure to cold. . a typhus fever, attended with tremors, twitchings of the tendons, and a dry tongue. . swelled hands, feet, legs, thighs, and face. . an apthous sore throat. . great and tormenting pains, sometimes of a spasmodic nature in the limbs. in a majority of the fatal cases of consumption, which i have seen, the passage out of life has been attended with pain; but i have seen many persons die with it, in whom all the above symptoms were so lenient, or so completely mitigated by opium, that death resembled a quiet transition from a waking, to a sleeping state. i cannot conclude this inquiry without adding, that the author of it derived from his paternal ancestors a predisposition to the pulmonary consumption, and that between the th and d years of his age, he has occasionally been afflicted with many of the symptoms of that disease which he has described. by the constant and faithful use of many of the remedies which he has recommended, he now, in the st year of his age, enjoys nearly an uninterrupted exemption from pulmonary complaints. in humble gratitude, therefore, to that being, who condescends to be called the preserver of men, he thus publicly devotes this result of his experience and inquiries to the benefit of such of his fellow-creatures as may be afflicted with the same disease, sincerely wishing that they may be as useful to them, as they have been to the author. observations on the symptoms and cure of _dropsies_. whether we admit the exhaling and absorbing vessels to be affected in general dropsies by preternatural debility, palsy, or rupture, or by a retrograde motion of their fluids, it is certain that their exhaling and absorbing power is materially affected by too much, or too little action in the arterial system. that too little action in the arteries should favour dropsical effusions, has been long observed; but it has been less obvious, that the same effusions are sometimes promoted, and their absorption prevented, by too much action in these vessels. that this fact should have escaped our notice is the more remarkable, considering how long we have been accustomed to seeing serous swellings in the joints in the acute rheumatism, and copious, but partial effusions of water in the form of sweat, in every species of inflammatory fever. it is nothing new that the healthy action of one part, should depend upon the healthy action of another part of the system. we see it in many of the diseases of the nerves and brain. the tetanus is cured by exciting a tone in the arterial system; madness is cured by lessening the action of the arteries by copious blood-letting; and epilepsy and hysteria are often mitigated by the moderate use of the same remedy. by too much action in the arterial system, i mean a certain morbid excitement in the arteries, accompanied by preternatural force, which is obvious to the sense of touch. it differs from the morbid excitement of the arteries, which takes place in common inflammatory fevers, in being attended by less febrile heat, and with little or no pain in the head or limbs. the thirst is nearly the same in this state of dropsy, as in inflammatory fevers. i include here those dropsies only in which the whole system is affected by what is called a hydropic diathesis. that debility should, under certain circumstances, dispose to excessive action, and that excessive action should occur in one part of the body, at the same time that debility prevailed in every other, are abundantly evident from the history and phenomena of many diseases. inflammatory fever, active hæmorrhages, tonic gout, asthma, apoplexy, and palsy, however much they are accompanied by excessive action in the arterial system, are always preceded by original debility, and are always accompanied by obvious debility in every other part of the system. but it has been less observed by physicians that an undue force or excess of action occurs in the arterial system in certain dropsies, and that the same theory which explains the union of predisposing and nearly general debility, with a partial excitement and preternatural action in the arterial system, in the diseases before-mentioned, will explain the symptoms and cure of certain dropsies. that debility predisposes to every state of dropsy, is evident from the history of all the remote and occasional causes which produce them. it will be unnecessary to mention these causes, as they are to be found in all our systems of physic. nor will it be necessary to mention any proofs of the existence of debility in nearly every part of the body. it is too plain to be denied. i shall only mention the symptoms which indicate a morbid excitement and preternatural action of the arterial system. these are, . a _hard_, _full_, and _quick_ pulse. this symptom, i believe, is more common in dropsies than is generally supposed, for many physicians visit and examine patients in these diseases, without feeling the pulse. dr. home mentions the _frequency_ of the pulse, in the patients whose cures he has recorded[ ], but he takes no notice of its force except in two cases. dr. zimmerman, in his account of the dropsy which terminated the life of frederick ii, of prussia, tells us that he found his pulse _hard_ and _full_. i have repeatedly found it full and hard in every form of dropsy, and more especially in the first stage of the disease. indeed i have seldom found it otherwise in the beginning of the dropsy of the breast. [ ] medical facts. . _sizy blood._ this has been taken notice of by many practical writers, and has very justly been ascribed, under certain circumstances of blood-letting, to an excessive action of the vessels upon the blood. . _alternation of dropsies with certain diseases which were evidently accompanied by excess of action in the arterial system._ i have seen anasarca alternate with vertigo, and both ascites and anasarca alternate with tonic madness. a case of nearly the same kind is related by dr. mead. dr. grimes, of georgia, informed me that he had seen a tertian fever, in which the intermissions were attended with dropsical swellings all over the body, which suddenly disappeared in every accession of a paroxysm of the fever. . _the occasional connection of certain dropsies with diseases evidently of an inflammatory nature_, particularly pneumony, rheumatism, and gout. . spontaneous _hæmorrhages_ from the lungs, hæmorrhodial vessels, and nose, cases of which shall be mentioned hereafter, when we come to treat of the cure of dropsies. . _the appearance of dropsies in the winter and spring, in habits previously affected by the intermitting fever._ the debility produced by this state of fever, frequently disposes to inflammatory diathesis, as soon as the body is exposed to the alternate action of heat and cold, nor is this inflammatory diathesis always laid aside, by the transition of the intermitting fever into a dropsy, in the succeeding cold weather. . _the injurious effects of stimulating medicines in certain dropsies_, prove that there exists in them, at times, too much action in the blood-vessels. dr. tissot, in a letter to dr. haller, "de variolis, apoplexia, et hydrope," condemns, in strong terms, the use of opium in the dropsy. now the bad effects of this medicine in dropsies, must have arisen from its having been given in cases of too much action in the arterial system; for opium, we know, increases, by its stimulating qualities, the action and tone of the blood-vessels, and hence we find, it has been prescribed with success in dropsies of too little action in the system. . _the termination of certain fevers in dropsies in which blood-letting was not used._ this has been ascertained by many observations. dr. wilkes relates[ ], that after "an epidemical fever, which began in kidderminster, in , and soon afterwards spread, not only over great britain, but all europe, more people died dropsical in three years, than did perhaps in twenty or thirty years before," probably from the neglect of bleeding in the fever. [ ] historical essay on the dropsy, p. . but the existence of too much action in the arterial system in certain dropsies, will appear more fully from the history of the effects of the remedies which have been employed either by design or accident in the cure of these diseases. i shall first mention the remedies which have been used with success in tonic or inflammatory dropsies; and afterwards mention those which have been given with success in dropsies of a weak action in the arteries. i have constantly proposed to treat only of the theory and cure of dropsies in general, without specifying any of the numerous names it derives from the different parts of the body in which they may be seated; but in speaking of the remedies which have been used with advantage in both the tonic and atonic states, i shall occasionally mention the name or seat of the dropsy in which the remedy has done service. the first remedy that i shall mention for dropsies is _blood-letting_. dr. hoffman and dr. home both cured dropsies accompanied by pulmonic congestion by means of this remedy. dr. monroe quotes a case of dropsy from sponius, in which bleeding succeeded, but not till after it had been used twenty times[ ]. mr. cruikshank relates a case[ ] of accidental bleeding, which confirms the efficacy of blood-letting in these diseases. he tells us that he attended a patient with dropsical swellings in his legs, who had had a hoarseness for two years. one morning, in stooping to buckle his shoes, he bursted a blood-vessel in his lungs, from which he lost a quart of blood; in consequence of which, both the swellings and the hoarseness went off gradually, and he continued well two years afterwards. i have known one case in which spontaneous hæmorrhages from the hæmorrhodial vessels, and from the nose, suddenly reduced universal dropsical swellings. in this patient there had been an uncommon tension and fulness in the pulse. [ ] treatise on the dropsy. [ ] treatise on the lymphatics. i could add the histories of many cures of anasarca and ascites, performed by means of blood-letting, not only by myself, but by a number of respectable physicians in the united states. indeed i conceive this remedy to be as much indicated by a tense and full pulse in those forms of dropsy, as it is in a pleurisy, or in any other common inflammatory disease. in those deplorable cases of hydrothorax, which do not admit of a radical cure, i have given temporary relief, and thereby protracted life, by taking away occasionally a few ounces of blood. had dr. zimmerman used this remedy in the case of the king of prussia, i cannot help thinking from the account which the doctor gives us of the diet and pulse of his royal patient, that he would have lessened his sufferings much more than by plentiful doses of dandelion; for i take it for granted, from the candour and integrity which the doctor discovered in all his visits to the king, that he did not expect that dandelion, or any other medicine, would cure him. although a _full_ and _tense_ pulse is always an indication of the necessity of bleeding; yet i can easily conceive there may be such congestions, and such a degree of stimulus to the arterial system, as to produce a depressed, or a _low_ or _weak_ pulse. two cases of this kind are related by dr. monroe, one of which was cured by bleeding. the same symptom of a low and weak pulse is often met with in the _first_ stage of pneumony, and apoplexy, and is only to be removed by the plentiful use of the same remedy. ii. _vomits_ have often been given with advantage in dropsies. dr. home says, that squills were useful in these diseases only when they produced a vomiting. by abstracting excitement and action from the arterial system, it disposes the lymphatics to absorb and discharge large quantities of water. the efficacy of vomits in promoting the absorption of stagnating fluids is not confined to dropsies. mr. hunter was once called to visit a patient in whom he found a bubo in such a state that he purposed to open it the next day. in the mean while, the patient went on board of a vessel, where he was severely affected by sea-sickness and vomiting; in consequence of which the bubo disappeared, and the patient recovered without the use of the knife. mr. cruikshank further mentions a case[ ] of a swelling in the knee being nearly cured by a patient vomiting eight and forty hours, in consequence of his taking a large dose of the salt of tartar instead of soluble tartar. [ ] letter to mr. clare, p. . iii. _purges._ the efficacy of this remedy, in the cure of dropsies, has been acknowledged by physicians in all ages and countries. jalap, calomel, scammony, and gamboge, are often preferred for this purpose; but i have heard of two cases of ascites being cured by a table spoonful of sweet oil taken every day. it probably acted only as a gentle laxative. the cream of tartar, so highly commended by dr. home, seems to act _chiefly_ in the same way. gherlius, from whom dr. home learned the use of this medicine, says, that all the persons whom he cured by it were in the vigour of life, and that their diseases had been only of a few months continuance. from these two circumstances, it is most probable they were dropsies of great morbid action in the arterial system. he adds further, that the persons who were cured by this medicine, were reduced very low by the use of it. dr. home says that it produced the same effect upon the patients whom he cured by it, in the infirmary of edinburgh. dr. sydenham prefers gentle to drastic purges, and recommends the exhibition of them every day. both drastic and gentle purges act by diminishing the action of the arterial system, and thereby promote the absorption and discharge of water. that purges promote absorption, we learn not only from their effects in dropsies, but from an experiment related by mr. cruikshank[ ], of a man who acquired several ounces of weight after the operation of a purge. the absorption in this case was from the atmosphere. so great is the effect of purges in promoting absorption, that mr. hunter supposes the matter of a gonorrh[oe]a, or of topical venereal ulcers to be conveyed by them in some instances into every part of the body. [ ] letter to mr. clare, p. . iv. _certain medicines_, which, by lessening the _action of the arterial system_, favour the absorption and evacuation of water. the only medicines of this class which i shall name are _nitre_, _cream of tartar_, and _foxglove_. . two ounces of nitre dissolved in a pint of water, and a wine-glass full of it taken three times a-day have performed perfect cures, in two cases of ascites, which have come under my notice. i think i have cured two persons of anasarca, by giving one scruple of the same medicine three times a-day for several weeks. the two last cures were evidently dropsies of violent action in the arterial system. where nitre has been given in atonic dropsies it has generally been useless, and sometimes done harm. i have seen one instance of an incurable diarrh[oe]a after tapping, which i suspected arose from the destruction of the tone of the stomach and bowels, by large and long continued doses of nitre, which the patient had previously taken by the advice of a person who had been cured by that remedy. to avoid this, or any other inconvenience from the use of nitre in dropsies, it should be given at first in small doses, and should always be laid aside, if it should prove ineffectual after having been given two or three weeks. . i can say nothing of the efficacy of _cream of tartar_ in dropsies from my own experience, where it has not acted as a purge. perhaps my want of decision upon this subject has arisen only from my not having persisted in the use of it for the same length of time which is mentioned by dr. home. . there are different opinions concerning the efficacy of foxglove in dropsies. from the cases related by dr. withering, it appears to have done good; but from those related by dr. lettsom[ ] it seems to have done harm. i suspect the different accounts of those two gentlemen have arisen from their having given it in different states of the system, or perhaps from a difference in the quality of the plant from causes mentioned in another place[ ]. i am sorry to add further, that after many trials of this medicine i have failed in most of the cases in which i have given it. i have discharged the water in three instances by it, but the disease returned, and my patients finally died. i can ascribe only one complete cure to its use, which was in the year , in a young man in the pennsylvania hospital, of five and thirty years of age, of a robust habit, and plethoric pulse. [ ] medical memoirs, vol. ii. [ ] inquiry into the causes and cure of pulmonary consumption. where medicines have once been in use, and afterwards fall into disrepute, as was the case with the foxglove, i suspect the cases in which they were useful, to have been either few or doubtful, and that the cases in which they had done harm, were so much more numerous and unequivocal, as justly to banish them from the materia medica. v. _hard labour_, or exercise in such a degree as to produce fatigue, have, in several instances, cured the dropsy. a dispensary patient, in this city, was cured of this disease by sawing wood. and a patient in an ascites under my care in the pennsylvania hospital, had his belly reduced seven inches in circumference in one day, by the labour of carrying wood from the yard into the hospital. a second patient belonging to the philadelphia dispensary was cured by walking to lancaster, miles from the city, in the middle of winter. the efficacy of travelling in this disease, in cold weather, is taken notice of by dr. monroe, who quotes a case from dr. holler, of a french merchant, who was cured of a dropsy by a journey from paris to england, in the winter season. it would seem, that in these two cases, the _cold_ co-operated as a sedative with the fatigue produced by labour or exercise, in reducing the tone of the arterial system. vi. _low diet._ i have heard of a woman who was cured of a dropsy by eating nothing but boiled beans for three weeks, and drinking nothing but the water in which they had been boiled. many other cases of the good effects of low diet in dropsies are to be found in the records of medicine. vii. _thirst._ this cruel remedy acts by debilitating the system in two ways: st, by abstracting the stimulus of distention; and, dly, by preventing a supply of fresh water to replace that which is discharged by the ordinary emunctories of nature. viii. _fasting._ an accidental circumstance, related by sir john hawkins, in the life of dr. johnson, first led me to observe the good effects of fasting in the dropsy. if the fact alluded to stood alone under the present head of this essay, it would be sufficient to establish the existence of too much action, and the efficacy of debilitating remedies in certain dropsies. i am the more disposed to lay a good deal of stress upon this fact, as it was the clue which conducted me out of the labyrinth of empirical practice, in which i had been bewildered for many years, and finally led me to adopt the principles and practice which i am now endeavouring to establish. the passage which contains this interesting fact is as follows: "a few days after (says sir john) he [meaning dr. johnson] sent for me, and informed me, that he had discovered in himself the symptoms of a dropsy, and, indeed, his very much increased bulk, and the swollen appearance of his legs, seemed to indicate no less. it was on thursday that i had this conversation with him; in the course thereof he declared, that he intended to devote the whole of the next day to _fasting_, humiliation, and such other devotional exercises as became a man in his situation. on the saturday following i made him a visit, and, upon entering his room, i observed in his countenance such a serenity as indicated, that some remarkable crisis of his disease had produced a change in his feelings. he told me that, pursuant to the resolution he had mentioned to me, he had spent the preceding day in an abstraction from all worldly concerns; that to prevent interruption he had in the morning ordered _frank_ [his servant] not to admit any one to him, and, the better to enforce the charge, had added these awful words, _for your master is preparing himself to die_. he then mentioned to me, that in the course of this exercise he found himself relieved from the disease which had been growing upon him, and was becoming very oppressive, viz. the _dropsy_, by the gradual evacuation of water, to the amount of _twenty pints_, a like instance whereof he had never before experienced." sir john hawkins ascribes this immense discharge of water to the influence of dr. johnson's prayers; but he neglects to take notice, that these prayers were answered, in this instance, as they are in many others, in a perfect consistence with the common and established laws of nature. to satisfy myself that this discharge of water, in the case of dr. johnson, was produced by the fasting only, i recommended it, soon after i read the above account, to a gentlewoman whom i was then attending in an ascites. i was delighted with the effects of it. her urine, which for some time before had not exceeded half a pint a-day, amounted to _two quarts_ on the day she fasted. i repeated the same prescription once a week for several weeks, and each time was informed of an increase of urine, though it was considerably less in the last experiments than in the first. two patients in an ascites, to whom i prescribed the same remedy, in the pennsylvania hospital, the one in the winter of , and the other in the winter of , exhibited proofs in the presence of many of the students of the university, equally satisfactory of the efficacy of fasting in suddenly increasing the quantity of urine. ix. _fear._ this passion is evidently of a debilitating nature, and, therefore, it has frequently afforded an accidental aid in the cure of dropsies, of too much action. i suspect, that the fear of death, which was so distinguishing a part of the character of dr. johnson, added a good deal to the efficacy of fasting, in procuring the immense discharge of water before-mentioned. in support of the efficacy of fear simply applied, in discharging water from the body in dropsies, i shall mention the following facts. in a letter which i received from dr. john pennington, dated edinburgh, august , , i was favoured with the following communication. "since the conversation i had with you on the subject of the dropsy, i feel more and more inclined to adopt your opinion. i can furnish you with a fact which i learned from a danish sailor, on my passage to this country, which is much in favour of your doctrine. a sailor in an ascites, fell off the end of the yard into the sea; the weather being calm, he was taken up unhurt, but, to use the sailor's own words, who told me the story, he was _frightened half to death_, and as soon as he was taken out of the water, he discharged a gallon of urine or more. a doctor on board ascribed this large evacuation to sea bathing, and accordingly ordered the man to be dipped in the sea every morning, much against his will, for, my informant adds, that he had not forgotten his fall, and that in four weeks he was perfectly well. i think this fact can only be explained on your principles. the sedative operation of _fear_ was, no doubt, the cause of his cure." there is an account of an ascites being cured by a fall from an open chaise, recorded in the third volume of the medical memoirs, by m. lowdell. i have heard of a complete recovery from dropsy, having suddenly followed a fall from a horse. in both these cases, the cures were probably the effects of fear. dr. hall, of york-town, in pennsylvania, informed me, that he had been called to visit a young woman of years of age, who had taken all the usual remedies for ascites without effect. he at once proposed to her the operation of tapping. to this she objected, but so great was the _fear_ of this operation, which the proposal of it suddenly excited in her mind, that it brought on a plentiful discharge of urine, which in a few days perfectly removed her disease. on the th of august, , i visited a gentlewoman in this city with the late dr. jones, in an ascites. we told her for the first time, that she could not be relieved without being tapped. she appeared to be much terrified upon hearing our opinion, and said that she would consider of it. i saw her two days afterwards, when she told me, with a smile on her countenance, that she hoped she should get well without tapping, for that she had discharged two quarts of water in the course of the day after we had advised her to submit to that operation. for many days before, she had not discharged more than two or three gills in twenty-four hours. the operation, notwithstanding, was still indicated, and she submitted to be tapped a few days afterwards. i tapped the same gentlewoman a second time, in january, . she was much terrified while i was preparing for the operation, and fainted immediately after the puncture was made. the second time that i visited her after the operation was performed, she told me (without being interrogated on that subject), that she had discharged a pint and a half of urine, within twenty minutes after i left the room on the day i tapped her. what made this discharge the more remarkable was, she had not made more than a table spoonful of water in a day, for several days before she was tapped. i have seen similar discharges of urine in two other cases of tapping which have come under my notice, but they resembled so nearly those which have been mentioned, that it will be unnecessary to record them. but the influence of fear upon the system, in the dropsy, extends far beyond the effects which i have ascribed to it. dr. currie, of this city, informed me that he called, some years ago, by appointment, to tap a woman. he no sooner entered the room than he observed her, as he thought, to faint away. he attempted to recover her, but to no purpose. she died of a sudden paroxysm of fear. it is a matter of surprise, that we should have remained so long ignorant of the influence of fear upon the urinary organs in dropsies, after having been so long familiar with the same effect of that passion in the hysteria. x. _a recumbent posture of the body._ it is most useful when the dropsy is seated in the lower limbs. i have often seen, with great pleasure, the happiest effects from this prescription in a few days. xi. _punctures._ these, when made in the legs and feet, often discharge in eight and forty hours the water of the whole body. i have never seen a mortification produced by them. as they are not followed by inflammation, they should be preferred to blisters, which are sometimes used for the same purpose. i cannot dismiss the remedies which discharge water from the body through the urinary passages, without taking notice, that they furnish an additional argument in favour of blood-letting in dropsies, for they act, not by discharging the stagnating water, but by creating such a plentiful secretion in the kidneys from the serum of the circulating blood, as to make room for the absorption and conveyance of the stagnating water into the blood-vessels. now the same effect may be produced in all tonic or inflammatory dropsies, with more certainty and safety, by means of blood-letting. in recommending the antiphlogistic treatment of certain dropsies, i must here confine myself to the dropsies of such climates as dispose to diseases of great morbid action in the system. i am satisfied that it will often be proper in the middle and eastern states of america; and i have lately met with two observations, which show that it has been used with success at vienna, in germany. dr. stoll tells us, that, in the month of january, , "hydropic and asthmatic patients discovered more or less marks of inflammatory diathesis, and that blood was drawn from them with a sparing hand with advantage;" and in the month of november, of the same year, he says, "the stronger diuretics injured dropsical patients in this season; but an antiphlogistic drink, composed of a quart of the decoction of grass, with two ounces of simple oxymel, and nitre and cream of tartar, of each a drachm, did service[ ]." it is probable that the same difference should be observed between the treatment of dropsies in warm and cold climates that is observed in the treatment of fevers. the tonic action probably exists in the system in both countries. in the former it resembles the tides which are suddenly produced by a shower of rain, and as suddenly disappear; whereas, in the latter, it may be compared to those tides which are produced by the flow and gradual addition of water from numerous streams, and which continue for days and weeks together to exhibit marks of violence in every part of their course. [ ] ratio medendi nosocomio practico vindobonensi, vol. iv. p. and . i come now to say a few words upon atonic dropsies, or such as are accompanied with a feeble morbid action in the blood-vessels. this morbid action is essential to the nature of dropsies, for we never see them take place without it. this is obvious from the absence of swellings after famine, marasmus, and in extreme old age, in each of which there exists the lowest degree of debility, but no morbid action in the blood-vessels. these atonic or typhus dropsies may easily be distinguished from those which have been described, by occurring in habits naturally weak; by being produced by the operation of chronic causes; by a weak and quick pulse; and by little or no preternatural heat or thirst. the remedies for atonic dropsies are all such stimulating substances as increase the action of the arterial system, or determine the fluids to the urinary organs. these are, i. _bitter_ and _aromatic substances_ of all kinds, exhibited in substance or in infusions of wine, spirit, beer, or water. ii. _certain acrid vegetables_, such as scurvy-grass, horse-radish, mustard, water-cresses, and garlic. i knew an old man who was perfectly cured of an anasarca, by eating water-cresses, on bread and butter. iii. _opium._ the efficacy of this medicine in dropsies has been attested by dr. willis, and several other practical writers. it seems to possess almost an exclusive power of acting alike upon the arterial, the lymphatic, the glandular, and the nervous systems. iv. _metallic tonics_, such as chalybeate medicines of all kinds, and the mild preparations of copper and mercury. i once cured an incipient ascites and anasarca by large doses of the rust of iron; and i have cured many dropsies by giving mercury in such quantities as to excite a plentiful salivation. i have, it is true, often given it without effect, probably from my former ignorance of the violent action of the arteries, which so frequently occurs in dropsies, and in which cases mercury must necessarily have done harm. v. _diuretics_, consisting of alkaline salts, nitre, and the oxymels of squills and colchicum. it is difficult to determine how far these medicines produce their salutary effects by acting directly upon the kidneys. it is remarkable that these organs are seldom affected in dropsies, and that their diseases are rarely followed by dropsical effusions in any part of the body. vi. _generous diet_, consisting of animal food, rendered cordial by spices; also sound old wine. vii. _diluting drinks_ taken in such large quantities as to excite the action of the vessels by the stimulus of distention. this effect has been produced, sir george baker informs us, by means of large draughts of simple water, and of cyder and water[ ]. the influence of distention in promoting absorption is evident in the urinary and gall bladders, which frequently return their contents to the blood by the lymphatics, when they are unable to discharge them through their usual emunctories. is it not probable that the distention produced by the large quantities of liquids which we are directed to administer after giving the foxglove, may have been the means of performing some of those cures of dropsies, which have been ascribed to that remedy? [ ] the remark upon this fact by sir george, is worthy of notice, and implies much more than was probably intended by it. "when common means have failed, success has sometimes followed a method _directly contrary_ to the established practice." medical transactions, vol. ii. viii. _pressure._ bandages bound tightly around the belly and limbs, sometimes prevent the increase or return of dropsical swellings. the influence of pressure upon the action of the lymphatics appears in the absorption of bone which frequently follows the pressure of contiguous tumours, also in the absorption of flesh which follows the long pressure of certain parts of the body upon a sick bed. ix. _frictions_, either by means of a dry, or oiled hand, or with linen or flannel impregnated with volatile and other stimulating substances. i have found evident advantages from following the advice of dr. cullen, by rubbing the lower extremities _upwards_, and that only in the _morning_. i have been at a loss to account for the manner in which sweet oil acts, when applied to dropsical swellings. if it act by what is improperly called a sedative power upon the blood-vessels, it will be more proper in tonic than atonic dropsies; but if it act by closing the pores, and thereby preventing the absorption of moisture from the air, it will be very proper in the state of dropsy which is now under consideration. it is in this manner that dr. cullen supposes that sweet oil, when applied to the body, cures that state of diabetes in which nothing but insipid water is discharged from the bladder. x. _heat_, applied either separately or combined with moisture in the form of warm or vapour baths, has been often used with success in dropsies of too little action. dampier, in his voyage round the world, was cured of a dropsy by means of a copious sweat, excited by burying himself in a bed of warm sand. warm fomentations to the legs, rendered moderately stimulating by the addition of saline or aromatic substances, have often done service in the atonic dropsical swellings of the lower extremities. xi. the _cold bath_. i can say nothing in favour of the efficacy of this remedy in dropsies, from my own experience. its good effects seem to depend wholly on its increasing the excitability of the system to common stimuli, by the diminution of its excitement. if this be the case, i would ask, whether _fear_ might not be employed for the same purpose, and thus become as useful in atonic, as it was formerly proved to be in tonic dropsies? xii. _wounds_, whether excited by cutting instruments or by fire, provided they excite inflammation and action in the arteries, frequently cure atonic dropsies. the good effects of inflammation and action in these cases, appear in the cure of hydrocele by means of the needle, or the caustic. xiii. _exercise._ this is probably as necessary in the atonic dropsy, as it is in the consumption, and should never be omitted when a patient is able to take it. the passive exercises of swinging, and riding in a carriage, are most proper in the lowest stage of the disease; but as soon as the patient's strength will admit of it, he should ride on horseback. a journey should be preferred, in this disease, to short excursions from home. xiv. a _recumbent posture of the body_ should always be advised during the intervals of exercise, when the swellings are seated in the lower extremities. xv. _punctures in the legs and feet_ afford the same relief in general dropsy, accompanied with a weak action in the blood-vessels, that has been ascribed to them in dropsies of an opposite character. in the application of each of the remedies which have been mentioned, for the cure of both tonic and atonic dropsies, great care should be taken to use them in such a manner, as to accommodate them to the strength and excitability of the patient's system. the most powerful remedies have often been rendered _hurtful_, by being given in too large doses in the beginning, and _useless_, by being given in too small doses in the subsequent stages of the disease. i have avoided saying any thing of the usual operations for discharging water from different parts of the body, as my design was to treat only of the symptoms and cure of those dropsies which affect the whole system. i shall only remark, that if tapping and punctures have been more successful in the early, than in the late stage of these diseases, it is probably because the sudden or gradual evacuation of water takes down that excessive action in the arterial system, which is most common in their early stage, and thereby favours the speedy restoration of healthy action in the exhaling or lymphatic vessels. thus have i endeavoured to prove, that two different states of action take place in dropsies, and have mentioned the remedies which are proper for each of them under separate heads. but i suspect that dropsies are often connected with a certain _intermediate_ or mixed action in the arterial system, analogous to the typhoid action which takes place in certain fevers. i am led to adopt this opinion, not only from having observed mixed action to be so universal in most of the diseases of the arterial and nervous system, but because i have so frequently observed dropsical swellings to follow the scarlatina, and the puerperile fever, two diseases which appear to derive their peculiar character from a mixture of excessive and moderate _force_, combined with irregularity of action in the arterial system. in dropsies of mixed action, where too much force prevails in the action of some, and too little in the action of other of the arterial fibres, the remedies must be debilitating or stimulating, according to the greater or less predominance of tonic or atonic diathesis in the arterial system. i shall conclude this history of dropsies, and of the different and opposite remedies which have cured them, by the following observations. . we learn, in the first place, from what has been said, the impropriety and even danger of prescribing stimulating medicines indiscriminately in every case of dropsy. . we are taught, by the facts which have been mentioned, the reason why physicians have differed so much in their accounts of the same remedies, and why the same remedies have operated so differently in the hands of the same physicians. it is because they have been given without a reference to the different states of the system, which have been described. dr. sydenham says, that he cured the first dropsical patient he was called to, by frequent purges. he began to exult in the discovery, as he thought, of a certain cure for dropsies, but his triumph was of short duration. the same remedy failed in the next case in which he prescribed it. the reason probably was, the dropsy in the first case was of a tonic, but in the second of an atonic nature; for the latter was an ascites from a quartan ague. it is agreeable, however, to discover, from the theory of dropsies which has been laid down, that all the different remedies for these diseases have been proper in their nature, and improper only in the state of the system in which they have been given. as the discovery of truth in religion reconciles the principles of the most opposite sects, so the discovery of truth in medicine reconciles the most opposite modes of practice. it would be happy if the inquirers after truth in medicine should be taught, by such discoveries, to treat each other with tenderness and respect, and to wait with patience till accident, or time, shall combine into one perfect and consistent system, all the contradictory facts and opinions, about which physicians have been so long divided. . if a state of great morbid action in the arteries has been demonstrated in dropsies, both from its symptoms and remedies, and if these dropsies are evidently produced by previous debility, who will deny the existence of a similar action in certain hæmorrhages, in gout, palsy, apoplexy, and madness, notwithstanding they are all the offspring of predisposing debility? and who will deny the efficacy of bleeding, purges, and other debilitating medicines in certain states of those diseases, that has seen the same medicines administered with success in certain dropsies? to reject bleeding, purging, and the other remedies for violent action in the system, in any of the above diseases, because that action was preceded by general debility, will lead us to reject them in the most acute inflammatory fevers, for these are as much the offspring of previous debility as dropsies or palsy. the previous debility of the former differs from that of the latter diseases, only in being of a more acute, or, in other words, of a shorter duration. . from the symptoms of tonic dropsy which have been mentioned, it follows, that the distinction of apoplexy into serous and sanguineous, affords no rational indication for a difference in the mode of treating that disease. if an effusion of serum in the thorax, bowels, or limbs, produce a hard and full pulse, it is reasonable to suppose that the same symptom will be produced by the effusion of serum in the brain. but the dissections collected by lieutaud[ ] place this opinion beyond all controversy. they prove that the symptoms of great and feeble morbid action, as they appear in the pulse, follow alike the effusion of serum and blood in the brain. this fact will admit of an important application to the disease, which is to be the subject of the next inquiry. [ ] historia anatomica medica, vol. ii. . from the influence which has been described, of the different states of action of the arterial system, upon the lymphatic vessels, in dropsies, we are led to reject the indiscriminate use of bark, mercury, and salt water, in the scrophula. when the action of the arteries is weak, those remedies are proper; but when an opposite state of the arterial system occurs, and, above all, when scrophulous tumours are attended with inflammatory ulcers, stimulating medicines of all kinds are hurtful. by alternating the above remedies with a milk and vegetable diet, according to the tonic, or atonic states of the arterial system, i have succeeded in the cure of a case of scrophula, attended by large ulcers in the inguinal glands, which had for several years resisted the constant use of the three stimulating remedies which have been mentioned. . notwithstanding i have supposed dropsies to be connected with a peculiar state of force in the blood-vessels, yet i have not ventured to assert, that dropsies may not exist from an exclusive affection of the exhaling and absorbing vessels. i conceive this to be as possible, as for a fever to exist from an exclusive affection of the arteries, or a hysteria from an exclusive affection of the nervous system. nothing, however, can be said upon this subject, until physiology and pathology have taught us more of the structure and diseases of the lymphatic vessels. nor have i ventured further to assert, that there are not medicines which may act specifically upon the lymphatics, independently of the arteries. this i conceive to be as possible as for asaf[oe]tida to act chiefly upon the nerves, or ipecacuanha and jalap upon the alimentary canal, without affecting other parts of the system. until such medicines are discovered, it becomes us to avail ourselves of the access to the lymphatics, which is furnished us through the medium of the arteries, by means of most of the remedies which have been mentioned. . if it should appear hereafter, that we have lessened the mortality of certain dropsies by the theory and practice which have been proposed, yet many cases of dropsy must still occur in which they will afford us no aid. the cases i allude to are dropsies from enclosing cysts, from the ossification of certain arteries, from schirri of certain viscera from large ruptures of exhaling or lymphatic vessels, from a peculiar and corrosive acrimony of the fluids, and, lastly, from an exhausted state of the whole system. the records of medicine furnish us with instances of death from each of the above causes. but let us not despair. it becomes a physician to believe, that there is no disease necessarily incurable; and that there exist in the womb of time, certain remedies for all those morbid affections, which elude the present limits of the healing art. an inquiry into the _causes and cure_ of the internal dropsy of the brain. having, for many years, been unsuccessful in all the cases, except two, of internal dropsy of the brain, which came under my care, i began to entertain doubts of the common theory of this disease, and to suspect that the effusion of water should be considered only as the effect of a primary disease in the brain. i mentioned this opinion to my colleague, dr. wistar, in the month of june, , and delivered it the winter following in my lectures. the year afterwards i was confirmed in it, by hearing that the same idea had occurred to dr. quin. i have since read dr. quin's treatise on the dropsy of the brain with great pleasure, and consider it as the first dawn of light which has been shed upon it. in pursuing this subject, therefore, i shall avail myself of dr. quin's discoveries, and endeavour to arrange the facts and observations i have collected in such a manner, as to form a connected theory from them, which i hope will lead to a new and more successful mode of treating this disease. i shall begin this inquiry by delivering a few general propositions. . the internal dropsy of the brain is a disease confined chiefly to children. . in children the brain is larger in proportion to other parts of the body, than it is in adults; and of course a greater proportion of blood is sent to it in childhood, than in the subsequent periods of life. the effects of this determination of blood to the brain appear in the mucous discharge from the nose, and in the sores on the head and behind the ears, which are so common in childhood. . in all febrile diseases, there is a preternatural determination of blood to the brain. this occurs in a more especial manner in children: hence the reason why they are so apt to be affected by convulsions in the eruptive fever of the small-pox, in dentition, in the diseases from worms, and in the first paroxysm of intermitting fevers. . in fevers of every kind, and in every stage of life, there is a disposition to effusion in that part to which there is the greatest determination. thus, in inflammatory fever, effusions take place in the lungs and in the joints. in the bilious fever they occur in the liver, and in the gout in every part of the body. the matter effused is always influenced by the structure of the part in which it takes place. these propositions being premised, i should have proceeded to mention the remote causes of this disease; but as this inquiry may possibly fall into the hands of some gentlemen who may not have access to the description of it as given by dr. whytt, dr. fothergill, and dr. quin, i shall introduce a history of its symptoms taken from the last of those authors. i prefer it to the histories by dr. whytt and dr. fothergill, as it accords most with the ordinary phenomena of this disease in the united states. "in general, the patient is at first languid and inactive, often drowsy and peevish, but at intervals cheerful and apparently free from complaint. the appetite is weak, a nausea, and, in many cases, a vomiting, occurs once or twice in the day, and the skin is observed to be hot and dry towards the evenings: soon after these symptoms have appeared, the patient is affected with a sharp head-ach, chiefly in the fore-part, or, if not there, generally in the crown of the head: it is sometimes, however, confined to one side of the head, and, in that case, when the posture of the body is erect, the head often inclines to the side affected. we frequently find, also, that the head-ach alternates with the affection of the stomach; the vomiting being less troublesome when the pain is most violent, and _vice versâ_; other parts of the body are likewise subject to temporary attacks of pain, viz. the extremities, or the bowels, but more constantly the back of the neck, and between the scapulæ; in all such cases the head is more free from uneasiness. "the patient dislikes the light at this period; cries much, sleeps little, and when he does sleep, he grinds his teeth, picks his nose, appears to be uneasy, and starts often, screaming as if he were terrified; the bowels are in the majority of cases very much confined, though it sometimes happens that they are in an opposite state: the pulse in this early stage of the disorder, does not usually indicate any material derangement. "when the symptoms above-mentioned have continued for a few days, subject as they always are in this disease to great fluctuation, the axis of one eye is generally found to be turned in towards the nose; the pupil on this side is rather more dilated than the other; and when both eyes have the axes directed inwards (which sometimes happens), both pupils are larger than they are observed to be in the eyes of healthy persons: the vomiting becomes more constant, and the head-ach more excruciating; every symptom of fever then makes its appearance, the pulse is frequent, and the breathing quick; exacerbations of the fever take place towards the evening, and the face is occasionally flushed; usually one cheek is much more affected than the other; temporary perspirations likewise break forth, which are not followed by any alleviation of distress; a discharge of blood from the nose, which sometimes appears about this period, is equally inefficacious. "delirium, and that of the most violent kind, particularly if the patient has arrived at the age of puberty, now takes place, and with all the preceding symptoms of fever, continues for a while to increase, until about fourteen days, often a much shorter space of time, shall have elapsed since the appearance of the symptoms, which were first mentioned in the above detail. "the disease then undergoes that remarkable change, which sometimes suddenly points out the commencement of what has been called its second stage: the pulse becomes slow but unequal, both as to its strength, and the intervals between the pulsations; the pain of the head, or of whatever part had previously been affected, seems to abate, or at least the patient becomes apparently less sensible of it; the interrupted slumbers, or perpetual restlessness which prevailed during the earlier periods of the disorder, are now succeeded by an almost lethargetic torpor, the strabismus, and dilatation of the pupil increase, the patient lies with one, or both eyes half closed, which, when minutely examined, are often found to be completely insensible to light; the vomiting ceases; whatever food or medicine is offered is usually swallowed with apparent voracity; the bowels at this period generally remain obstinately costive. "if every effort made by art fails to excite the sinking powers of life, the symptoms of what has been called the second stage are soon succeeded by others, which more certainly announce the approach of death. the pulse again becomes equal, but so weak and quick, that it is almost impossible to count it; a difficulty of breathing, nearly resembling the _stertor apoplecticus_, is often observed; sometimes the eyes are suffused with blood, the flushing of the face is more frequent than before, but of shorter duration, and followed by a deadly paleness; red spots, or blotches, sometimes appear on the body and limbs; deglutition becomes difficult, and convulsions generally close the scene. in one case, i may observe, the jaws of a child of four years of age were so firmly locked for more than a day before death, that it was impossible to introduce either food or medicine into his mouth; and, in another case, a hemiplegia, attended with some remarkable circumstances, occurred during the two days preceding dissolution. "having thus given as exact a history of _apoplexia hydrocephalica_ as i could compile from the writings of others, and from my own observations, i should think myself guilty of imposition on my readers, if i did not caution them that it must be considered merely as a general outline: the human brain seems to be so extremely capricious (if the expression may be allowed) in the signals it gives to other parts of the system, of the injury it suffers throughout the course of this disease, that although every symptom above-mentioned does occasionally occur, and indeed few cases of the disease are to be met with, which do not exhibit many of them; yet it does not appear to me, that any one of them is constantly and inseparably connected with it." to this history i shall add a few facts, which are the result of observations made by myself, or communicated to me by my medical brethren. these facts will serve to show that there are many deviations from the history of the disease which has been given, and that it is indeed, as dr. quin has happily expressed it, of "a truly proteiform" nature. i have not found the dilated and insensible pupil, the puking, the delirium, or the strabismus, to attend universally in this disease. i saw one case in which the appetite was unimpaired from the first to the last stage of the disease. i have met with one case in which the disease was attended by blindness, and another by double vision. i have observed an uncommon acuteness in hearing to attend two cases of this disease. in one of them the noise of the sparks which were discharged from a hiccory fire, produced great pain and startings which threatened convulsions. i have seen three cases in which the disease terminated in hemiplegia. in two of them it proved fatal in a few days; in the third it continued for nearly eighteen months. i have met with one case in which no preternatural slowness or intermission was ever perceived in the pulse. i have seen the disease in children of nearly all ages. i once saw it in a child of six weeks old. it was preceded by the cholera infantum. the sudden deaths which we sometimes observe in infancy, i believe, are often produced by this disease. dr. stoll is of the same opinion. he calls it, when it appears in this form, "apoplexia infantalis[ ]." [ ] prælectiones, vol. i. p. . in the month of march, , i obtained a gill of water from the ventricles of the brain of a negro girl of nine years of age, who died of this disease, who complained in no stage of it of a pain in her head or limbs, nor of a sick stomach. the disease in this case was introduced suddenly by a pain in the breast, a fever, and the usual symptoms of a catarrh. dr. wistar informed me, that he had likewise met with a case of internal dropsy of the brain, in which there was a total absence of pain in the head. dr. carson informed me, that he had attended a child in this disease that discovered, for some days before it died, the symptom of hydrophobia. dr. currie obtained, by dissection, seven ounces of water from the brain of a child which died of this disease; in whom, he assured me, no dilatation of the pupil, strabismus, sickness, or loss of appetite had attended, and but very little head-ach. the causes which induce this disease, act either _directly_ on the brain, or _indirectly_ upon it, through the medium of the whole system. the causes which act _directly_ on the brain are falls or bruises upon the head, certain positions of the body, and childish plays which bring on congestion or inflammation, and afterwards an effusion of water in the brain. i have known it brought on in a child by falling into a cellar upon its feet. the _indirect_ causes of this disease are more numerous, and more frequent, though less suspected, than those which have been mentioned. the following diseases of the whole system appear to act indirectly in producing an internal dropsy of the brain. . _intermitting_, _remitting_, and _continual_ fevers. of the effects of these fevers in inducing this disease, many cases are recorded by lieutaud[ ]. [ ] historia anatomica-medica, vol. ii. my former pupil, dr. woodhouse, has furnished me with a dissection, in which the disease was evidently the effect of the remitting fever. that state of continual fever which has been distinguished by the name of typhus, is often the remote cause of this disease. the languor and weakness in all the muscles of voluntary motion, the head-ach, the inclination to rest and sleep, and the disposition to be disturbed, or terrified by dreams, which are said to be the precursors of water in the brain, i believe are frequently symptoms of a typhus fever which terminates in an inflammation, or effusion of water in the brain. the history which is given of the typhus state of fever in children by dr. butter[ ], seems to favour this opinion. [ ] treatise on the infantile remitting fever. . the _rheumatism_. of this i have known two instances. dr. lettsom has recorded a case from the same cause[ ]. the pains in the limbs, which are supposed to be the effect, i suspect are frequently the cause of the disease. [ ] medical memoirs, vol. i. p. . . the _pulmonary consumption_. of the connection of this disease with an internal dropsy of the brain, dr. percival has furnished us with the following communication[ ]: "mr. c----'s daughter, aged nine years, after labouring under the phthisis pulmonalis four months, was affected with unusual pains in her head. these rapidly increased, so as to occasion frequent screamings. the cough, which had before been extremely violent, and was attended with stitches in the breast, now abated, and in a few days ceased almost entirely. the pupils of the eyes became dilated, a strabismus ensued, and in about a week death put an end to her agonies. whether this affection of the head arose from the effusion of water or of blood, is uncertain, but its influence on the state of the lungs is worthy of notice." dr. quin likewise mentions a case from dr. cullen's private practice, in which an internal dropsy of the brain followed a pulmonary consumption. lieutaud mentions three cases of the same kind[ ], and two, in which it succeeded a catarrh[ ]. [ ] essays, medical, philosophical, and experimental, vol. ii. p. , . [ ] historia anatomica-medica, vol. ii. lib. tertius. obs. , , . [ ] obs. , . . _eruptive fevers._ dr. odier informs us[ ], that he had seen four cases in which it had followed the small-pox, measles, and scarlatina. dr. lettsom mentions a case in which it followed the small-pox[ ], and i have seen one in which it was obviously the effects of debility induced upon the system by the measles. [ ] medical journal. [ ] medical memoirs, vol. i. p. . . _worms._ notwithstanding the discharge of worms gives no relief in this disease, yet there is good reason to believe, that it has, in some instances, been produced by them. the morbid action continues in the brain, as in other cases of disease, after the cause which induced it, has ceased to act upon the body. . from the dissections of lieutaud, quin, and others, it appears further, that the internal dropsy of the brain has been observed to succeed each of the following diseases, viz. the colic, palsy, melancholy, dysentery, dentition, insolation, and scrophula, also the sudden healing of old sores. i have seen two cases of it from the last cause, and one in which it was produced by the action of the vernal sun alone upon the system. from the facts which have been enumerated, and from dissections to be mentioned hereafter, it appears, that the disease in its first stage is the effect of causes which produce a less degree of that morbid action in the brain which constitutes phrenitis, and that its second stage is the effect of a less degree of that effusion, which produces serous apoplexy in adults. the former partakes of the nature of the chronic inflammation of dr. cullen, and of the asthenic inflammation of dr. brown. i have taken the liberty to call it _phrenicula_, from its being a diminutive species or state of phrenitis. it bears the same relation to phrenitis, when it arises from indirect causes, which pneumonicula does to pneumony; and it is produced nearly in the same manner as the pulmonary consumption, by debilitating causes which act primarily on the whole system. the peculiar size and texture of the brain seem to invite the inflammation and effusions which follow debility, to that organ in childhood, just as the peculiar structure and situation of the lungs invite the same morbid phænomena to them, after the body has acquired its growth, in youth and middle life. in the latter stage which has been mentioned, the internal dropsy of the brain partakes of some of the properties of apoplexy. it differs from it in being the effect of a _slow_, instead of a _sudden_ effusion of water or blood, and in being the effect of causes which are of an acute instead of a chronic nature. in persons advanced beyond middle life, who are affected by this disease, it approaches to the nature of the common apoplexy, by a speedy termination in life or death. dr. cullen has called it simply by the name of "apoplexia hydrocephalica." i have preferred for its last stage the term of _chronic apoplexy_, for i believe with dr. quin, that it has no connection with a hydropic diathesis of the whole system. i am forced to adopt this opinion, from my having rarely seen it accompanied by dropsical effusions in other parts of the body, nor a general dropsy accompanied by an internal dropsy of the brain. no more occurs in this disease than takes place when hydrothorax follows an inflammation of the lungs, or when serous effusions follow an inflammation of the joints. i do not suppose that both inflammation and effusion always attend in this disease; on the contrary, dissections have shown some cases of inflammation, with little or no effusion, and some of effusion without inflammation. perhaps this variety may have been produced by the different stages of the disease in which death and the inspection of the brain took place. neither do i suppose, that the two stages which have been mentioned, always succeed each other in the common order of inflammation and effusion. in every case where the full tense, slow and intermitting pulse occurs, i believe there is inflammation; and as this state of the pulse occurs in most cases in the beginning of the disease, i suppose the inflammation, in most cases, to precede the effusion of water. i have met with only one case in which the slow and tense pulse was absent; and out of six dissections of patients whom i have lost by this disease, the brains of four of them exhibited marks of inflammation. mr. davis discovered signs of inflammation, after death from this disease, to be universal. in eighteen or twenty dissections, he tells us, he found the pia mater always distended with blood[ ]. where signs of inflammation have not occurred, the blood-vessels had probably relieved themselves by the effusion of serum, or the morbid action of the blood-vessels had exceeded that grade of excitement, in which only inflammation can take place. i have seen one case of death from this disease, in which there was not more than a tea-spoonful of water in the ventricles of the brain. dr. quin mentions a similar case. here death was induced by simple excess of excitement. the water which is found in the ventricles of the brain refuses to coagulate by heat, and is always pale in those diseases, in which the serum of the blood, in every other part of the body, is of a yellow colour. [ ] medical journal, vol. viii. in addition to these facts, in support of the internal dropsy of the brain being the effect of inflammation, i shall mention one more, communicated to me in a letter, dated july th, , by my former pupil, dr. coxe, while he was prosecuting his studies in london. "it so happened (says my ingenious correspondent), that at the time of my receiving your letter, dr. clark was at the hospital. i read to him that part which relates to your success in the treatment of hydrocephalus internus. he was much pleased with it, and mentioned to me a fact which strongly corroborates your idea of its being a primary inflammation of the brain. this fact was, that upon opening, not long since, the head of a child that had died of this disease, he found between three and four ounces of water in the ventricles of the brain; also an inflammatory crust on the optic nerves, as thick as he had ever observed it on the intestines in a state of inflammation. the child lost its sight before it died. the crust accounted in a satisfactory manner for its blindness. perhaps something similar may always be noticed in the dissections of such as die of this disease, in whom the eyes are much affected." having adopted the theory of this disease, which i have delivered, i resolved upon such a change in my practice as should accord with it. the first remedy indicated by it was i. _blood-letting._ i shall briefly mention the effects of this remedy in a few of the first cases in which i prescribed it. case i. on the th of november, , i was called to visit the daughter of william webb, aged four years, who was indisposed with a cough, a pain in her bowels, a coma, great sensibility of her eyes to light, costiveness, and a suppression of urine, a slow and irregular, but tense pulse, dilated pupils, but no head-ach. i found, upon inquiry, that she had received a hurt on her head by a fall, about seven weeks before i saw her. from this information, as well as from her symptoms, i had no doubt of the disease being the internal dropsy of the brain. i advised the loss of five ounces of blood, which gave her some relief. the blood was sizy. the next day she took a dose of jalap and calomel, which operated twelve times. on the th she lost four ounces more of blood, which was more sizy than that drawn on the th. from this time she mended rapidly. her coma left her on the th, and her appetite returned; on the st she made a large quantity of turbid dark coloured urine. on the d her pulse became again a little tense, for which she took a gentle puke. on the d she had a natural stool. on the th her pupils appeared to be contracted to their natural size, and on the th i had the pleasure of seeing her seated at a tea-table in good health. her pulse notwithstanding, was a little more active and tense than natural. case ii. on the th of the same month, i was called to visit the son of john cypher, in south-street, aged four years, who had been hurt about a month before, by a wound on his forehead with a brick-bat, the mark of which still appeared. he had been ill for near two weeks with coma, head-ach, colic, vomiting, and frequent startings in his sleep. his evacuations by stool and urine were suppressed; he had discharged three worms, and had had two convulsion fits just before i saw him. the pupil of the right eye was larger than that of the left. his pulse was full, tense, and slow, and intermitted every _fourth_ stroke. the symptoms plainly indicated an internal dropsy of the brain. i ordered him to lose four or five ounces of blood. but three ounces of blood were drawn, which produced a small change in his pulse. it rendered the intermission of a pulsation perceptible only after every tenth stroke. on the th he lost five ounces of blood, and took a purge of calomel and jalap. on the th he was better. on the th the vomiting was troublesome, and his pulse was still full and tense, but regular. i ordered him to lose four ounces of blood. on the th his puking and head-ach continued; his pulse was a little tense, but regular; and his right pupil less dilated. on the th his head-ach and puking ceased, and he played about the room. on the th of december he grew worse; his head-ach and puking returned, with a hard pulse, for which i ordered him to lose five ounces of blood. on the th he was better, but on the th his head-ach and puking returned. on the th i ordered his forehead to be bathed frequently with vinegar, in which ice had been dissolved. on the th he was much better. on the th his pulse became soft, and he complained but little of head-ach. after appearing to be well for near three weeks, except that he complained of a little head-ach, on the th his pulse became again full and tense, for which i ordered him to lose six ounces of blood, which for the first time discovered a buffy coat. after this last bleeding, he discharged a large quantity of water. from this time he recovered slowly, but his pulse was a little fuller than natural on the th of january following. he afterwards enjoyed good health. cases iii. and iv. in the month of march, , i attended two children of three years of age, the one the daughter of william king, the other the daughter of william blake: each of whom had most of the symptoms of the inflammatory stage of the internal dropsy of the brain. i prescribed the loss of four ounces of blood, and a smart purge in both cases, and in the course of a few days had the pleasure of observing all the symptoms of the disease perfectly subdued in each of them. case v. in the months of july and august, , i attended a female slave of mrs. oneal, of st. croix, who had an obstinate head-ach, coma, vomiting, and a tense, full, and _slow_ pulse. i believed it to be the phrenicula, or internal dropsy of the brain, in its inflammatory stage. i bled her five times in the course of two months, and each time with obvious relief of all the symptoms of the disease. finding that her head-ach, and a disposition to vomit, continued after the tension of her pulse was nearly reduced, i gave her as much calomel as excited a gentle salivation, which in a few weeks completed her cure. case vi. the daughter of robert moffat, aged eight years, in consequence of the suppression of a habitual discharge from sores on her head, in the month of april, , was affected by violent head-ach, puking, great pains and weakness in her limbs, and a full, tense, and _slow_ pulse. i believed these symptoms to be produced by an inflammation of the brain. i ordered her to lose six or seven ounces of blood, and gave her two purges of jalap and calomel, which operated very plentifully. i afterwards applied a blister to her neck. in one week from the time of my first visit to her she appeared to be in perfect health. case vii. a young woman of eighteen years of age, a hired servant in the family of mrs. elizabeth smith, had been subject to a head-ach every spring for several years. the unusually warm days which occurred in the beginning of april, , produced a return of this periodical pain. on the eighth of the month, it was so severe as to confine her to her bed. i was called to visit her on the ninth. i found her comatose, and, when awake, delirious. her pupils were unusually dilated, and insensible to the light. she was constantly sick at her stomach, and vomited frequently. her bowels were obstinately costive, and her pulse was full, tense, and so slow as seldom to exceed, for several days, from to strokes in a minute. i ordered her to lose ten ounces of blood every day, for three days successively, and gave her, on each of those days, strong doses of jalap and aloes. the last blood which was drawn from her was sizy. the purges procured from three to ten discharges every day from her bowels. on the th, she appeared to be much better. her pulse was less tense, and beat strokes in a minute. on the th, she had a fainting fit. on the th, she sat up, and called for food. the pupils of her eyes now recovered their sensibility to light, as well as their natural size. her head-ach left her, and, on the th, she appeared to be in good health. her pulse, however, continued to beat between and strokes in a minute, and retained a small portion of irregular action for several days after she recovered. i am the more disposed to pronounce the cases which have been described to have been internal dropsy of the brain, from my having never been deceived in a single case in which i have examined the brains of patients whom i have suspected to have died of it. i could add many other cases to those which have been related, but enough, i hope, have been mentioned to establish the safety and efficacy of the remedies that have been recommended. i believe, with dr. quin, that this disease is much more frequent than is commonly supposed. i can recollect many cases of anomalous fever and head-ach in children, which have excited the most distressing apprehensions of an approaching internal dropsy of the brain, but which have yielded in a few days to bleeding, or to purges and blisters. i think it probable, that some, or perhaps most of these cases, might have terminated in an effusion of water in the brain, had they been left to themselves, or not been treated with the above remedies. i believe further, that it is often prevented by all those physicians who treat the first stage of febrile diseases in children with evacuations, just as the pulmonary consumption is prevented by bleeding, and low diet, in an inflammatory catarrh. where blood-letting has failed of curing this disease, i am disposed to ascribe it to its being used less copiously than the disease required. if its relation to pneumonicula be the same in its cure, that i have supposed it to be in its cause, then i am persuaded, that the same excess in blood-letting is indicated in it, above what is necessary in phrenitis, that has been practised in pneumonicula, above what is necessary in the cure of an acute inflammation of the lungs. the continuance, and, in some instances, the increase of the appetite in the internal dropsy of the brain, would seem to favour this opinion no less in this disease, than in the inflammatory state of pulmonary consumption. the extreme danger from the effusion of water into the ventricles of the brain, and the certainty of death from its confinement there, is a reason likewise why more blood should be drawn in this disease, than in diseases of the same force in other parts of the body, where the products of inflammation have a prompt, or certain outlet from the body. where the internal dropsy is obviously the effect of a fall, or of any other cause which acts _directly_ on the brain, there can be no doubt of the safety of very plentiful bleeding; all practical writers upon surgery concur in advising it. the late dr. pennington favoured me with an extract from mr. cline's manuscript lectures upon anatomy, delivered in london in the winter of , which places the advantage of blood-letting, in that species of inflammation which follows a local injury of the brain, in a very strong point of light. "i know (says he) that several practitioners object to the use of evacuations as remedies for concussions of the brain, because of the weakness of the pulse; but in these cases the pulse is _depressed_. besides, experience shows, that evacuations are frequently attended with very great advantages. i remember a remarkable case of a man in this [st. thomas's] hospital, who was under the care of mr. baker. he lay in a comatose state for three weeks after an injury of the head. during that time he was bled _twenty_ times, that is to say, he was bled once every day upon an average. he was bled twice a day _plentifully_, but towards the conclusion he was bled more sparingly, and only every other day; but at each bleeding, there were taken, upon an average, about sixteen ounces of blood. in consequence of this treatment, the man perfectly recovered his health and reason." local bleeding by cups, leaches, scarifications, or arteriotomy, should be combined with venesection, or preferred to it, where the whole arterial system does not sympathize with the disease in the brain. ii. a second remedy to be used in the second stage of this disease is _purges_. i have constantly observed all the patients whose cases have been related, to be relieved by plentiful and repeated evacuations from the bowels. i was led to the use of frequent purges, by having long observed their good effects in palsies, and other cases of congestion in the brain, where blood-letting was unsafe, and where it had been used without benefit. in the leipsic commentaries[ ], there is an account of a case of internal dropsy of the brain, which followed the measles, being cured by no other medicines than purges and diuretics. i can say nothing in favour of the latter remedy, in this disease, from my own experience. the foxglove has been used in this city by several respectable practitioners, but, i believe, in no instance with any advantage. [ ] vol. xxix. p. . iii. _blisters_ have been uniformly recommended by all practical writers upon this disease. i have applied them to the head, neck, and temples, and generally with obvious relief to the pain in the head. they should be omitted in no stage of the disease; for even in its inflammatory stage, the discharge they occasion from the vessels of the head, greatly overbalances their stimulating effects upon the whole system. iv. _mercury_ was long considered as the only remedy, which gave the least chance of a recovery from a dropsy of the brain. out of all the cases in which i gave it, before the year , i succeeded in but two: one of them was a child of three years old, the other was a young woman of twenty-six years of age. i am the more convinced that the latter case was internal dropsy of the brain, from my patient having relapsed, and died between two or three years afterwards, of the same disease. since i have adopted the depleting remedies which have been mentioned, i have declined giving mercury altogether, except when combined with some purging medicine, and i have given it in this form chiefly with a view of dislodging worms. my reasons for not giving it as a sialagogue are the uncertainty of its operation, its frequent inefficacy when it excites a salivation, and, above all, its disposition to produce gangrene in the tender jaws of children. seven instances of its inducing death from that cause, in children between three and eight years of age, and with circumstances of uncommon distress, have occurred in philadelphia since the year . v. _linen cloths_, wetted with cold vinegar, or water, and applied to the forehead, contribute very much to relieve the pain in the head. in the case of mr. cypher's son[ ], the solution of ice in the vinegar appeared to afford the most obvious relief of this distressing symptom. [ ] case ii. a puncture in the brain has been proposed by some writers to discharge the water from its ventricles. if the theory i have delivered be true, the operation promises nothing, even though it could always be performed with perfect safety. in cases of local injuries, or of inflammation from any cause, it must necessarily increase the disease; and in cases of effusion only, the debilitated state of the whole system forbids us to hope for any relief from such a local remedy. bark, wine, and opium promise much more success in the last stage of the disease. i can say nothing in their favour from my own experience; but from the aid they afford to mercury in other diseases, i conceive they might be made to accompany it with advantage. considering the nature of the indirect causes which induce the disease, and the case of a relapse, which has been mentioned, after an interval of near three years, as well as the symptoms of slow convalescence, manifested by the pulse, which occurred in the first and seventh cases, i submit it to the consideration of physicians, whether the use of moderate exercise, and the cold bath, should not be recommended to prevent a return of the disease in every case, where it has yielded to the power of medicine. i have great pleasure in adding, that the theory of this disease, which i have delivered, has been adopted by many respectable physicians in philadelphia, and in other parts of the united states, and that it has led to the practice that has been recommended, particularly to copious blood-letting; in consequence of which, death from a dropsy of the brain is not a more frequent occurrence, than from any other of the acute febrile diseases of our country. observations upon the nature and cure of the _gout_. in treating upon the gout, i shall deliver a few preliminary propositions. . the gout is a disease of the whole system. it affects the ligaments, blood-vessels, stomach, bowels, brain, liver, lymphatics, nerves, muscles, cartilages, bones, and skin. . the gout is a primary disease, only of the solids. chalk-stones, abscesses, dropsical effusions into cavities, and cellular membrane, and eruptions on the skin, are all the effects of a morbid action in the blood-vessels. the truth of this proposition has been ably proved by dr. cullen in his first lines. . it affects most frequently persons of a sanguineous temperament; but sometimes it affects persons of nervous and phlegmatic temperaments. the idle and luxurious are more subject to it, than the labouring and temperate part of mankind. women are said to be less subject to it than men. i once believed, and taught this opinion, but i now retract it. from the peculiar delicacy of the female constitution, and from the thin covering they wear on their feet and limbs, the gout is less apt to fall upon those parts than in men, but they exhibit all its other symptoms, perhaps more frequently than men, in other parts of the body. the remote causes of gout moreover to be mentioned presently, act with equal force upon both sexes, and more of them i believe upon women, than upon men. it generally attacks in those periods of life, and in those countries, and seasons of the year, in which inflammatory diseases are most common. it seldom affects persons before puberty, or in old age, and yet i have heard of its appearing with all its most characteristic symptoms in this city in a child of , and in a man above years of age. men of active minds are said to be most subject to it, but i think i have seen it as frequently in persons of slender and torpid intellects, as in persons of an opposite character. i have heard of a case of gout in an indian at pittsburg, and i have cured a fit of it in an indian in this city. they had both been intemperate in the use of wine and fermented liquors. . it is in one respect a hereditary disease, depending upon the propagation of a similar temperament from father to son. when a predisposition to the gout has been derived from ancestors, less force in exciting causes will induce it than in those habits where this has not been the case. this predisposition sometimes passes by children, and appears in grand-children. there are instances likewise in which it has passed by the males, and appeared only in the females of a family. it even appears in the descendants of families who have been reduced to poverty, but not often where they have been obliged to labour for a subsistence. it generally passes by those children who are born before the gout makes its appearance in a father. it is curious to observe how extensively the predisposition pervades some families. an english gentleman, who had been afflicted with the gout, married a young woman in philadelphia many years ago, by whom he had one daughter. his wife dying three weeks after the birth of this child, he returned to england, where he married a second wife, by whom he had six children, all of whom except one died with the gout before they attained to the usual age of matrimony in great britain. one of them died in her th year. finally the father and grandfather died with the same disease. the daughter whom this afflicted gentleman left in this city, passed her life subject to the gout, and finally died under my care in the year , in the th year of her age. she left a family of children, two of whom had the gout. one of them, a lady, has suffered exquisitely from it. . the gout is always induced by general predisposing debility. . the remote causes of the gout which induce this debility, are, indolence, great bodily labour, long protracted bodily exercise, intemperance in eating, and in venery, acid aliments and drinks, strong tea and coffee, public and domestic vexation, the violent, or long continued exercise of the understanding, imagination, and passions in study, business, or pleasure, and, lastly, the use of ardent, and fermented liquors. the last are absolutely necessary to produce that form of gout which appears in the ligaments and muscles. i assert this, not only from my own observations, but from those of dr. cadogan, and dr. darwin, who say they never saw a case of gout in the limbs in any person who had not used spirits or wine in a greater or less quantity. perhaps this may be another reason why women, who drink less of those liquors than men, are so rarely affected with this disease in the extreme parts of their bodies. wines of all kinds are more disposed to produce this form of gout than spirits. the reason of this must be resolved into the less stimulus in the former, than in the latter liquors. wine appears to resemble, in its action upon the body, the moderate stimulus of miasmata which produce a common remitting fever, or intermitting fever, while spirits resemble that violent action induced by miasmata which passes by the blood-vessels, ligaments, and muscles, and invades at once the liver, bowels, and brain. there is one symptom of the gout in the extremities which seems to be produced exclusively by ardent spirits, and that is a burning in the palms of the hands, and soles of the feet. this is so uniform, that i have sometimes been able to convict my patients of intemperance in the use of spirits, when no other mark of their having taken them in _excess_, appeared in the system. i have enumerated among the remote causes of the gout, the use of strong tea. i infer its predisposing quality to that disease, from its frequency at japan, where tea is used in large quantities, and from the gout being more common among that sex in our country who drink the most, and the strongest tea. . the exciting causes of the gout are frequently a greater degree, or a sudden application of its remote and predisposing causes. they act upon the accumulated excitability of the system, and by destroying its equilibrium of excitement, and regular order of actions, produce convulsion, or irregular morbid and local excitement. these exciting causes are either of a stimulating, or of a sedative nature. the former are violent exercise, of body or mind, night-watching, and even sitting up late at night, a hearty meal, a fit of drunkenness, a few glasses of claret or a draught of cyder, where those liquors have not been habitual to the patient, a sudden paroxysm of joy, anger, or terror, a dislocation of a bone, straining of a joint, particularly of the ankle, undue pressure upon the foot, or leg, from a tight shoe or boot, an irritated corn, and the usual remote causes of fever. the latter exciting causes are sudden inanition from bleeding, purging, vomiting, fasting, cold, a sudden stoppage of moisture on the feet, fear, grief, excess in venery, and the debility left upon the system by the crisis of a fever. all these causes act more certainly when they are aided by the additional debility induced upon the system in sleep. it is for this reason that the gout generally makes its first attack in the night, and in a part of the system most remote from the energy of the brain, and most debilitated by exercise, viz. in the great toe, or in some part of the foot. in ascribing a fit of the gout to a cause which is of a sedative nature, the reader will not suppose that i have departed from the simplicity and uniformity of a proposition i have elsewhere delivered, that disease is the effect of stimulus. the abstraction of a natural and habitual impression of any kind, by increasing the force of those which remain, renders the production of morbid and excessive actions in the system as much the effect of preternatural or disproportioned stimulus, as if they were induced by causes that are externally and evidently stimulating. it is thus in many other of the operations of nature, opposite causes produce the same effects. . the gout consists simply in morbid excitement, accompanied with irregular action, or the absence of all action from the force of stimulus. there is nothing specific in the morbid excitement and actions which take place in the gout different from what occur in fevers. it is to be lamented that a kind of metastasis of error has taken place in pathology. the rejection of a specific acrimony as the cause of each disease, has unfortunately been followed by a belief in as many specific actions as there are different forms and grades of disease, and thus perpetuated the evils of our ancient systems of medicine. however varied morbid actions may be by their causes, seats, and effects, they are all of the same nature, and the time will probably come when the whole nomenclature of morbid actions will be absorbed in the single name of disease. i shall now briefly enumerate the symptoms of the gout, as they appear in the ligaments, the blood-vessels, the viscera, the nervous system, the alimentary canal, the lymphatics, the skin, and the bones of the human body, and here we shall find that it is an epitome of all disease. i. the ligaments which connect the bones are the seats, of what is called a legitimate or true gout. they are affected with pain, swelling, and inflammation. the pain is sometimes so acute as to be compared to the gnawing of a dog. we perceive here the sameness of the gout with the rheumatism. many pages, and indeed whole essays, have been composed by writers to distinguish them, but they are exactly the same disease while the morbid actions are confined to this part of the body. they are, it is true, produced by different remote causes, but this constitutes no more difference in their nature, than is produced in a coal of fire, whether it be inflamed by a candle, or by a spark of electricity. the morbid actions which are induced by the usual causes of rheumatism affect, though less frequently, the lungs, the trachea, the head, the bowels, and even the heart, as well as the gout. those actions, moreover, are the means of a fluid being effused, which is changed into calcareous matter in the joints and other parts of the body, exactly like that which is produced by the gout. they likewise twist and dislocate the bones in common with the gout, in a manner to be described hereafter. the only difference between what are called gouty, and rheumatic actions, consists in their seats, and in the degrees of their force. the debility which predisposes to the gout, being greater, and more extensively diffused through the body than the debility which precedes rheumatism, the morbid actions, in the former case, pass more readily from external to internal parts, and produce in both more acute and more dangerous effects. a simile derived from the difference in the degrees of action produced in the system by marsh miasmata, made use of upon a former occasion, will serve me again to illustrate this part of our subject. a mild remittent, and a yellow fever, are different grades of the same disease. the former, like the rheumatism, affects the bones chiefly with pain, while the latter, like the gout, affects not only the bones, but the stomach, bowels, brain, nerves, lymphatics, and all the internal parts of the body. ii. in the arterial system the gout produces fever. this fever appears not only in the increased force or frequency of the pulse, but in morbid affections of all the viscera. it puts on all the different grades of fever, from the malignity of the plague, to the mildness of a common intermittent. it has moreover its regular exacerbations and remissions once in every four and twenty hours, and its crisis usually on the fourteenth day, in violent cases. in moderate attacks, it runs on from twenty to forty days in common with the typhus or slow chronic state of fever. it is common for those persons who consider the gout as a specific disease, when it appears in the above forms, to say, that it is complicated with fever; but this is an error, for there can exist but one morbid action in the blood-vessels at once, and the same laws are imposed upon the morbid actions excited in those parts of the body by the remote causes of the gout, as by the common causes of fever. i have seen two instances of this disease appearing in the form of a genuine hectic, and one in which it appeared to yield to lunar influence, in the manner described by dr. balfour. in the highly inflammatory state of the gout, the sensibility of the blood-vessels far exceeds what is seen in the same state of fever from more common causes. i have known an instance in which a translation of the gouty action to the eye produced such an exquisite degree of sensibility, that the patient was unable to bear the feeble light which was emitted from a few coals of fire in his room, at a time too when the coldness of the weather would have made a large fire agreeable to him. it is from the extreme sensibility which the gout imparts to the stomach, that the bark is so generally rejected by it. i knew a british officer who had nearly died from taking a spoonful of the infusion of that medicine, while his arterial system was in this state of morbid excitability, from a fit of the gout. it is remarkable that the gout is most disposed to assume a malignant character, during the prevalence of an inflammatory constitution of the atmosphere. this has been long ago remarked by dr. huxham. several instances of it have occurred in this city since the year . iii. the gout affects most of the viscera. in the brain it produces head-ach, vertigo, coma, apoplexy, and palsy. in the lungs it produces pneumonia vera, notha, asthma, hæmoptysis, pulmonary consumption, and a short hecking cough, first described by dr. sydenham. in the throat it produces inflammatory angina. in the uterus it produces hæmorrhagia uterina. it affects the kidneys with inflammation, strangury, diabetes, and calculi. the position of the body for weeks or months on the back, by favouring the compression of the kidneys by the bowels, is the principal reason why those parts suffer so much in gouty people. the strangury appears to be produced by the same kind of engorgement or choking of the vessels of the kidneys, which takes place in the small-pox and yellow fever. four cases of it are described in the d volume of the physical and literary essays of edinburgh, by dr. david clerk. i have seen one instance of death in an old man from this cause. the catheter brought no water from his bladder. the late mr. john penn, formerly governor of pennsylvania, i have been informed by one of his physicians, died from a similar affection in his kidneys from gout. the catheter was as ineffectual in giving him relief, as it was in the case of my patient. the neck of the bladder sometimes becomes the seat of the gout. it discovers itself by spasm, and a suppression of urine in some cases, and occasionally by a habitual discharge of mucus through the urethra. this disease has been called, by lieutaud, "a catarrh of the bladder." dr. stoll describes it, and calls it "hæmorrhoids of the bladder." but of all the viscera, the liver suffers most from the gout. it produces in it inflammation, suppuration, melena, schirrus, gall-stones, jaundice, and a habitual increased secretion and excretion of bile. these affections of the liver appear most frequently in southern countries, and in female habits. they are substitutes for a gout in the ligaments, and in the extremities of the body. they appear likewise in drunkards from ardent spirits. it would seem that certain stimuli act specifically upon the liver, probably for the wise purpose of discharging such parts of the blood from the body, as are vitiated by the rapidity of its circulation. i shall, in another place[ ], take notice of the action of marsh miasmata upon the livers of men and beasts. it has been observed that hogs that live near brewhouses, and feed upon the fermented grains of barley, always discover enlarged or diseased livers. but a determination of the blood to the liver, and an increased action of its vessels, are produced by other causes than marsh miasmata, and fermented and distilled liquors. they appear in the fever which accompanies madness and the malignant sore-throat, also in contusions of the brain, and in the excited state of the blood-vessels which is produced by anger and exercise. i have found an attention to these facts useful in prescribing for diseases of the liver, inasmuch as they have led me from considering them as idiopathic affections, but as the effects only of morbid actions excited in other parts of the body. [ ] volume iv. iv. the gout sometimes affects the arterial and nervous systems _jointly_, producing in the brain, coma, vertigo, apoplexy, palsy, loss of memory, and madness, and in the _nerves_, hysteria, hypochondriasis, and syncope. it is common to say the gout counterfeits all these diseases. but this is an inaccurate mode of speaking. all those diseases have but one cause, and they are exactly the same, however different the stimulus may be, from which they are derived. sometimes the gout affects the brain and nerves exclusively, without producing the least morbid action in the blood-vessels. i once attended a gentleman from barbadoes who suffered, from this affection of his brain and nerves, the most intolerable depression of spirits. it yielded to large doses of wine, but his relief was perfect, and more durable, when a pain was excited by nature or art, in his hands or feet. the muscles are sometimes affected by the gout with spasm, with general and partial convulsions, and lastly with great pain. dr. stoll describes a case of opisthotonos from it. the angina pectoris, or a sudden inability to breathe after climbing a hill, or a pair of stairs, and after a long walk, is sometimes a symptom of the gout. there is a pain which suddenly pervades the head, breast, and limbs, which resembles an electric shock. i have known two instances of it in gouty patients, and have taken the liberty of calling it the "aura arthritica." but the pain which affects the muscles is often of a more permanent nature. it is felt with most severity in the calves of the legs. sometimes it affects the muscles of the head, breast, and limbs, exciting in them large and distressing swellings. but further; the gout in some cases seizes upon the tendons, and twists them in such a manner as to dislocate bones in the hands and feet. it even affects the cartilages. of this i once saw an instance in colonel adams, of the state of maryland. the external parts of both his ears were so much inflamed in a fit of the gout, that he was unable to lie on either of his sides. v. the gout affects the alimentary canal, from the stomach to its termination in the rectum. flatulency, sickness, acidity, indigestion, pain, or vomiting, usually usher in a fit of the disease. the sick head-ach, also dyspepsia, with all its train of distressing evils, are frequently the effects of gout concentrated in the stomach. i have seen a case in which the gout, by retreating to this viscus, produced the same burning sensation which is felt in the yellow fever. the patient who was the subject of this symptom died two days afterwards with a black vomiting. it was mr. patterson, formerly collector of the port of philadelphia, under the british government. i was not surprised at these two uncommon symptoms in the gout, for i had long been familiar with its disposition to affect the biliary secretion, and the actions of the stomach. the colic and dysentery are often produced by the gout in the bowels. in the southern states of america, it sometimes produces a chronic diarrh[oe]a, which is known in some places by the name of the "downward consumption." the piles are a common symptom of gout, and where they pour forth blood occasionally, render it a harmless disease. i have known an instance in which a gouty pain in the rectum produced involuntary stools in a gentleman in this city, and i have heard from a southern gentleman, who had been afflicted with gouty symptoms, that a similar pain was excited in the same part to such a degree, whenever he went into a crowded room lighted by candles, as to oblige him to leave it. in considering the effects of the gout upon this part, i am led to take notice of a troublesome itching in the anus which has been described by dr. lettsom, and justly attributed by him to this disease[ ]. i have known several cases of it. they always occurred in gouty habits. a distressing collection of air in the rectum, which renders frequent retirement from company necessary to discharge it, is likewise a symptom of gout. it is accompanied with frequent, and small, but hard stools. [ ] medical memoirs, vol. iii. of the above morbid affections of the nerves, stomach, and bowels, the hysteria, the sick head-ach, and the colic, appear much oftener in women than in men. i have said that dyspepsia is a symptom of gout. out of more than persons who were the patients of the liverpool infirmary and dispensary, in one year, dr. currie informs us, "a great majority were females[ ]." [ ] medical reports on the effects of hot and cold water, p. . vi. the gout affects the glands and lymphatics. it produced a salivation of a profuse nature in major pearce butler, which continued for two days. it produced a bubo in the groin in a citizen of philadelphia. he had never been infected with the venereal disease, of course no suspicion was entertained by me of its being derived from that cause. i knew a lady who had periodical swellings in her breasts, at the same season of the year in which she had before been accustomed to have a regular fit of the gout. the scrophula and all the forms of dropsy are the effects in many cases of the disposition of the gout to attack the lymphatic system. there is a large hard swelling without pain, of one, or both the legs and thighs, which has been called a dropsy, but is very different from the common disease of that name. it comes on, and goes off suddenly. it has lately been called in england the _dumb_ gout. in the spring of i attended colonel innes, of virginia, in consultation with my edinburgh friend and fellow-student, dr. walter jones, of the same state. the colonel had large anasarcous swellings in his thighs and legs, which we had reason to believe were the effects of an indolent gout. we made several punctures in his feet and ancles, and thereby discharged a large quantity of water from his legs and thighs. a day or two afterwards his ancles exhibited in pain and inflammation, the usual form of gout in those parts. in the year i attended mrs. lloyd jones, who had a swelling of the same kind in her foot and leg. her constitution, habits, and the sober manners of her ancestors, gave me no reason to suspect it to arise from the usual remote causes of gout. she was feverish, and her pulse was tense. i drew ten ounces of blood from her, and gave her a purge. the swelling subsided, but it was succeeded by an acute rheumatic pain in the part, which was cured in a few days. i mention these facts as an additional proof of the sameness of the gout and rheumatism, and to show that the vessels in a simple disease, as well as in malignant fevers, are often oppressed beyond that point in which they emit the sensation of pain. under this head i shall include an account of the mucous discharge from the urethra, which sometimes takes place in an attack of the gout, and which has ignorantly been ascribed to a venereal gonorrhæa. there is a description of this symptom of the gout in the d volume of the physical and literary essays of edinburgh, by dr. clark. it was first taken notice of by sauvages by the name of "gonorrhæa podagrica," in a work entitled pathologia methodica. i have known three instances of it in this city. in the visits which the gout pays to the genitals, it sometimes excites great pain in the testicles. dr. whytt mentions three cases of this kind. one of them was attended with a troublesome itching of the scrotum. i have seen one case in which the testicles were affected with great pain, and the penis with an obstinate priapism. they succeeded a sudden translation of the gout from the bowels. from the occasional disposition of the gout to produce a mucous discharge from the urethra in men, it is easy to conceive that it is the frequent cause of the fluor albus in women, for in them, the gout which is restrained from the feet, by a cause formerly mentioned, is driven to other parts, and particularly to that part which, from its offices, is more disposed to invite disease to it, than any other. the fluor albus sometimes occurs in females, apparently of the most robust habits. in such persons, more especially if they have been descended from gouty ancestors, and have led indolent and luxurious lives, there can be no doubt but the disease is derived from the gout, and should be treated with remedies which act not only upon the affected part, but the whole system. an itching similar to that i formerly mentioned in the anus, sometimes occurs in the vagina of women. dr. lettsom has described it. in all the cases i have known of it, i believe it was derived from the usual causes of the gout. vii. there are many records in the annals of medicine of the gout affecting the skin. the erysipelas, gangrene, and petechiæ are its acute, and tetters, and running sores are its usual chronic forms when it appears in this part of the body. i attended a patient with the late dr. hutchinson, in whom the whole calf of one leg was destroyed by a mortification which succeeded the gout. dr. alexander, of baltimore, informed me that petechiæ were among the last symptoms of this disease in the rev. mr. oliver, who died in the town of baltimore, about two years ago. in the disposition of the gout to attack external parts, it sometimes affects the eyes and ears with the most acute and distressing inflammation and pain. i hesitate the less in ascribing them both to the gout, because they not only occur in gouty habits, but because they now and then effuse a calcareous matter of the same nature with that which is found in the ligaments of the joints. viii. even the bones are not exempted from the ravages of this disease. i have before mentioned that the bones of the hands and feet are sometimes dislocated by it. i have heard of an instance in which it dislocated the thigh bone. it probably produced this effect by the effusion of that part of the blood which constitutes chalk-stones, or by an excrescence of flesh in the cavity of the joint. two instances have occurred in this city of its dislodging the teeth, after having produced the most distressing pains in the jaws. the long protracted, and acute pain in the face, which has been so accurately described by dr. fothergill, probably arises wholly from the gout acting upon the bones of the part affected. i have more than once hinted at the sameness of some of the states of the gout, and the yellow fever. who can compare the symptoms and seats of both diseases, and not admit the unity of the remote and immediate causes of fever? thus have i enumerated proofs of the gout being a disease of the _whole_ system. i have only to add under this proposition, that it affects different parts of the body in different people, according to the nature of their congenital or acquired temperaments, and that it often passes from one part of the body to another in the twinkling of an eye. the morbid excitement, and actions of the gout, when seated in the ligaments, the blood-vessels, and viscera, and left to themselves, produce effects different in their nature, according to the parts in which they take place. in the viscera they produce congestions composed of all the component parts of the blood. from the blood-vessels which terminate in hollow cavities and in cellular membrane, they produce those effusions of serum which compose dropsies. from the same vessels proceed those effusions which produce on the skin erysipelas, tetters, and all the different kinds of eruptions. in the ligaments they produce an effusion of coagulable lymph, which by stagnation is changed into what are called chalk-stones. in the urinary organs they produce an effusion of particles of coagulable lymph or red blood, which, under certain circumstances, are changed into sand, gravel, and stone. all these observations are liable to some exceptions. there are instances in which chalk-stones have been found in the lungs, mouth, on the eye-lids, and in the passages of the ears, and a preternatural flux of water and blood has taken place from the kidneys. pus has likewise been formed in the joints, and air has been found in the cavity of the belly, instead of water. sometimes the gout is said to combine with the fevers which arise from cold and miasmata. we are not to suppose from this circumstance, that the system is under a twofold stimulus. by no means. the symptoms which are ascribed to the gout, are the effects of morbid excitement excited by the cold, or miasmata acting upon parts previously debilitated by the usual remote causes of that disease. a bilious diathesis in the air so often excites the peculiar symptoms of gout, in persons predisposed to it, that it has sometimes been said to be epidemic. this was the case, dr. stoll says, in vienna, in the years and . the same mixture of gouty and bilious symptoms was observed by dr. hillary, in the fevers of barbadoes. from a review of the symptoms of the gout, the impropriety of distinguishing it from its various seats, by specific names, must be obvious to the reader. as well might we talk of a yellow fever in the brain, in the nerves, or in the groin, when its symptoms affect those parts, as talk of _misplaced_ or _retrocedent_ gout. the great toe, and the joints of the hands and feet, are no more its exclusive seats, than the "stomach is the throne of the yellow fever." in short, the gout may be compared to a monarch whose empire is unlimited. the whole body crouches before it. it has been said as a reflection upon our profession, that physicians are always changing their opinions respecting chronic diseases. for a long while they were all classed under the heads of nervous, or bilious. these names for many years afforded a sanctuary for the protection of fraud and error in medicine. they have happily yielded of late years to the name of gout. if we mean by this disease a primary affection of the joints, we have gained nothing by assuming that name; but if we mean by it a disease which consists simply of morbid excitement, invited by debility, and disposed to invade every part of the body, we conform our ideas to facts, and thus simplify theory and practice in chronic diseases. i proceed now to treat of the method of cure. let not the reader startle when i mention curing the gout. it is not a sacred disease. there will be no profanity in handling it freely. it has been cured often, and i hope to deliver such directions under this head, as will reduce it as much under the power of medicine, as a pleurisy or an intermitting fever. let not superstition say here, that the gout is the just punishment of folly, and vice, and that the justice of heaven would be defeated by curing it. the venereal disease is more egregiously the effect of vice than the gout, and yet heaven has kindly directed human reason to the discovery of a remedy which effectually eradicates it from the constitution. this opinion of the gout being a curable disease, is as humane as it is just. it is calculated to prompt to early application for medical aid, and to prevent that despair of relief which has contributed so much to its duration, and mortality. but does not the gout prevent other diseases, and is it not improper upon this account to cure it? i answer, that it prevents other diseases, as the daily use of drams prevents the intermitting fever. in doing this, they bring on a hundred more incurable morbid affections. the yellow fever carried off many chronic diseases in the year , and yet who would wish for, or admit such a remedy for a similar purpose? the practice of encouraging, and inviting what has been called a "friendly fit" of the gout as a cure for other diseases, resembles the practice of school boys who swallow the stones of cherries to assist their stomachs in digesting that delicate fruit. it is no more necessary to produce the gout in the feet, in order to cure it, than it is to wait for, or encourage abscesses or natural hæmorrhages, to cure a fever. the practice originated at a time when morbific matter was supposed to be the cause of the gout, but it has unfortunately continued under the influence of theories which have placed the seat of the disease in the solids. the remedies for the gout naturally divide themselves into the following heads. i. such as are proper in its approaching, or forming state. ii. such as are proper in _violent_ morbid action in the blood-vessels and viscera. iii. such as are proper in a _feeble_ morbid action in the same parts of the body. iv. such as are proper to relieve certain local symptoms which are not accompanied by general morbid action. and v. such as are proper to prevent its recurrence, or, in other words, to eradicate it from the system. i. the symptoms of an approaching fit of the gout are great languor, and dulness of body and mind, doziness, giddiness, wakefulness, or sleep disturbed by vivid dreams, a dryness, and sometimes a coldness, numbness, and prickling in the feet and legs, a disappearance of pimples in the face, occasional chills, acidity and flatulency in the stomach, with an increased, a weak, or a defect of appetite. these symptoms are not universal, but more or less of them usher in nearly every fit of the gout. the reader will see at once their sameness with the premonitory symptoms of fever from cold and miasmata, and assent from this proof, in addition to others formerly mentioned, to the propriety of considering a fit of the gout, as a paroxysm of fever. the system, during the existence of these symptoms, is in a state of morbid depression. the disease is as yet unformed, and may easily be prevented by the loss of a few ounces of blood, or, if this remedy be objected to, by a gentle doze of physic, and afterwards by bathing the feet in warm water, by a few drops of the spirit of hartshorn in a little sage or camomile tea, by a draught of wine whey, or a common doze of liquid laudanum, and, according to a late portuguese physician, by taking a few doses of bark. it is worthy of notice, that if these remedies are omitted, all the premonitory symptoms that have been mentioned disappear as soon as the arthritic fever is formed, just as lassitude and chilliness yield to a paroxysm of fever from other causes. ii. of the remedies that are proper in cases of great morbid action in the blood-vessels and viscera. i shall begin this head by repudiating the notion of a specific cure for the gout existing in any single article of the materia medica. every attempt to cure it by elixirs, diet-drinks, pills, or boluses, which were intended to act singly on the system, has been as unsuccessful as the attempts to cure the whooping cough by spells, or tricks of legerdemain. the first remedy that i shall mention for reducing great morbid action in the blood-vessels and viscera, is _blood-letting_. i was first taught the safety of this remedy in the gout by reading the works of dr. lister, above thirty years ago, and i have used it ever since with great advantage. it has the sanction of dr. hoffman, dr. cullen, and many others of the first names in medicine in its favour. the usual objections to bleeding as a remedy, have been urged with more success in the gout, than in any other disease. it has been forbidden, because the gout is said to be a disease of debility. this is an error. debility is not a disease. it is only its predisposing cause. disease is preternatural strength in the state of the system now under consideration, occasioned by the abstraction of excitement from one part, and the accumulation of it in another part of the body. every argument in favour of bleeding in a pleurisy applies in the present instance, for they both depend upon the same kind of morbid action in the blood-vessels. bleeding acts moreover alike in both cases by abstracting the excess of excitement from the blood-vessels, and restoring its natural and healthy equality to every part of the system. it has been further said, that bleeding disposes to more frequent returns of the gout. this objection to the lancet has been urged by dr. sydenham, who was misled in his opinion of it, by his theory of the disease being the offspring of morbific matter. the assertion is unfounded, for bleeding in a fit of the gout has no such effect, provided the remedies to be mentioned hereafter are used to prevent it. but a fit of the gout is not singular in its disposition to recur after being once cured. the rheumatism, the pleurisy, and the intermitting fever are all equally disposed to return when persons are exposed to their remote and exciting causes, and yet we do not upon this account consider them as incurable diseases, nor do we abstain from the usual remedies which cure them. the inflammatory or violent state of the gout is said most commonly to affect the limbs. but this is far from being the case. it frequently makes its first attack upon the head, lungs, kidneys, stomach, and bowels. the remedies for expelling it from the stomach and bowels are generally of a stimulating nature. they are as improper in full habits, and in the recent state of the disease, as cordials are to drive the small-pox from the vitals to the skin. hundreds have been destroyed by them. bleeding in these cases affords the same speedy and certain relief that it does in removing pain from the stomach and bowels in the first stage of the yellow fever. colonel miles owes his life to the loss of ounces of blood in an attack of the gout in his bowels, in the winter of , and major butler derived the same benefit from the loss of near ounces, in an attack of the gout in his stomach in the spring of . i could add many more instances of the efficacy of the lancet in the gout when it affects the viscera, from my own experience, but i prefer mentioning one only from sir john floyer, which is more striking than any i have met with in its favour. he tells us, sir henry coningsby was much disposed to the palsy from the gout when he was years old. by frequent bleedings, and the use of the cold bath, he recovered, and lived to be . during his old age, he was bled every three months. i have said, in the history of the symptoms of the gout, that it sometimes appeared in the form of a hectic fever. i have prescribed occasional bleedings in a case of this kind accompanied with a tense pulse, with the happiest effects. it confined the disease for several years wholly to the blood-vessels, and it bid fair in time to eradicate it from the system. the state of the pulse, as described in another place[ ], should govern the use of the lancet in this disease. bleeding is required as much in its depressed, as in its full and chorded state. colonel miles's pulse, at the time he suffered from the gout in his bowels, was scarcely perceptible. it did not rise till after a second or third bleeding. [ ] defence of blood-letting, vol. iv. some advantage may be derived from examining the blood. i have once known it to be dissolved; but for the most part i have observed it, with dr. lister, to be covered with the buffy coat of common inflammation. the arguments made use of in favour of bleeding in the diseases of old people in a former volume, apply with equal force to its use in the gout. the inflammatory state of this disease frequently occurs in the decline of life, and bleeding is as much indicated in such cases as in any other inflammatory fever. the late dr. chovet died with an inflammation in his liver from gout, in the th year of his age. he was twice bled, and his blood each time was covered with a buffy coat. where the gout affects the head with obstinate pain, and appears to be seated in the muscles, cupping and leeches give great relief. this mode of bleeding should be trusted in those cases only in which the morbid action is confined chiefly to the head, and appears in a feeble state in the rest of the arterial system. the advantages of bleeding in the gout, when performed under all the circumstances that have been mentioned, are as follow: . it removes or lessens pain. . it prevents those congestions and effusions which produce apoplexy, palsy, pneumonia notha, calculi in the kidneys and bladder, and chalk-stones in the hands and feet. the gravel and stone are nine times in ten, i believe, the effects of an effusion of lymph or blood from previous morbid action in the kidneys. if this disease were narrowly watched, and cured as often as it occurs, by the loss of blood, we should have but little gravel or stone among gouty people. a citizen of philadelphia died a few years ago, in the th year of his age, who had been subject to the strangury the greatest part of his life. his only remedy for it was bleeding. he lived free from the gravel and stone; and died, or rather appeared to fall asleep in death, from old age. dr. haller mentions a similar case in his bibliotheca medicinæ, in which bleeding had the same happy effects. . it prevents the system from wearing itself down by fruitless pain and sickness, and thereby inducing a predisposition to frequent returns of the disease. . it shortens the duration of a fit of gout, by throwing it, not into the feet, but out of the system, and thus prevents a patient's lying upon his back for two or three months with a writhing face, scolding a wife and family of children, and sometimes cursing every servant that comes near enough to endanger the touch of an inflamed limb. besides preventing all this parade of pain and peevishness, it frequently, when assisted with other remedies to be mentioned presently, restores a man to his business and society in two or three days: a circumstance this of great importance in the public as well as private pursuits of men; for who has not read of the most interesting affairs of nations being neglected or protracted, by the principal agents in them being suddenly confined to their beds, or chairs, for weeks or months, by a fit of the gout? . a second remedy in the state of the gout which has been mentioned, is _purging_. sulphur is generally preferred for this purpose, but castor oil, cream of tartar, sena, jalap, rhubarb, and calomel, may all be used with equal safety and advantage. the stomach and habits of the patient should determine the choice of a suitable purge in every case. salts are generally offensive to the stomach. they once brought on a fit of the gout in dr. brown. . _vomits_ may be given in all those cases where bleeding is objected to, or where the pulse is only moderately active. mr. small, in an excellent paper upon the gout, in the th volume of the medical observations and inquiries, p. , containing the history of his own case, tells us that he always took a vomit upon the first attack of the gout, and that it never failed of relieving all its symptoms. the matter discharged by this vomit indicated a morbid state of the liver, for it was always a dark greenish bile, which was insoluble in water. a british lieutenant, whose misfortunes reduced him to the necessity of accepting a bed in the poor-house of this city, informed the late dr. stuben, that he had once been much afflicted with the gout, and that he had upon many occasions strangled a fit of it by the early use of an emetic. dr. pye adds his testimony to those which have been given in favour of vomits, and says further, that they do most service when they discharge an acid humour from the stomach. they appear to act in part by equalizing the divided excitement of the system, and in part by discharging the contents of the gall-bladder and stomach, vitiated by the previous debility of those organs. care should be taken not to exhibit this remedy where the gout attacks the stomach with symptoms of inflammation, or where it has a tendency to fix itself upon the brain. . _nitre_ may be given with advantage in cases of inflammatory action, where the stomach is not affected. . a fifth remedy is _cool_ or _cold air_. this is as safe and useful in the gout as in any other inflammatory state of fever. the affected limbs should be kept out of bed, _uncovered_. in this way mr. small says he moderated the pains of the gout in his hands and feet[ ]. i have directed the same practice with great comfort, as well as advantage to my patients. even cold water has been applied with good effects to a limb inflamed by the gout. mr. blair m'clenachan taught me the safety and benefit of this remedy, by using it upon himself without the advice of a physician. it instantly removed his pain, nor was the gout translated by it to any other part of his body. it was removed in the same manner, dr. heberden tells us, by the celebrated dr. harvey from his own feet. perhaps it would be best in most cases to prefer cool, or cold air, to cold water. the safety and advantages of both these modes of applying cold to the affected limbs, show the impropriety of the common practice of wrapping them in flannel. [ ] medical observations and inquiries, vol vi. p. . . _diluting liquors_, such as are prescribed in common inflammatory fevers, should be given in such quantities as to dispose to a gentle perspiration. . _abstinence from wine, spirits, and malt liquors_, also from such aliments as afford much nourishment or stimulus, should be carefully enjoined. sago, panada, tapioca, diluted milk with bread, and the pulp of apples, summer fruits, tea, coffee, weak chocolate, and bread soaked in chicken water or beef tea, should constitute the principal diet of patients in this state of the gout. . _blisters_ are an invaluable remedy in this disease, when used at a proper time, that is, after the reduction of the morbid actions in the system by evacuations. they should be applied to the joints of the feet and wrists in general gout, and to the neck and sides, when it attacks the head or breast. a strangury from the gout is no objection to their use. so far from increasing this complaint, dr. clark and dr. whytt inform us, that they remove it[ ]. but the principal advantage of blisters is derived from their collecting and concentrating scattered and painful sensations, and conveying them out of the system, and thus becoming excellent substitutes for a tedious fit of the gout. [ ] physical and literary essays, vol. iii. p. . . _fear_ and _terror_ have in some instances cured a paroxysm of this disease. a captain of a british ship of war, who had been confined for several weeks to his cabin, by a severe fit of the gout in his feet, was suddenly cured by hearing the cry of fire on board his ship. this fact was communicated to me by a gentleman who was a witness of it. many similar cases are upon record in books of medicine. i shall in another place insert an account of one in which the cure effected by a fright, eradicated the disease from the system so completely, as ever afterwards to prevent its return. thus have i enumerated the remedies which are proper in the gout when it affects the blood-vessels and viscera with great morbid action. most of those remedies are alike proper when the morbid actions are seated in the muscular fibres, whether of the bowels or limbs, and whether they produce local pain, or general convulsion, provided they are of a violent nature. there are some remedies under this head of a doubtful nature, on which i shall make a few observations. _sweating_ has been recommended in this state of the gout. all the objections to it in preference to other modes of depletion, mentioned in another place[ ], apply against its use in the inflammatory state of the gout. it is not only less safe than bleeding, purging, and abstinence, but it is often an impracticable remedy. the only sudorific medicine to be trusted in this state of the disease is the seneka snake-root. it promotes all the secretions and excretions, and exerts but a feeble stimulus upon the arterial system. [ ] defence of blood-letting. many different preparations of _opium_ have been advised in this state of the gout. they are all hurtful if given before the morbid action of the system is nearly reduced. it should then be given in small doses accommodated to the excitability of the system. applications of various kinds to the affected limbs have been used in a fit of the gout, and some of them with success. the late dr. chalmers of south-carolina used to meet the pain of the gout as soon as it fixed in any of his limbs, with a blister, and generally removed it by that means in two or three days. i have imitated this practice in several cases, and always with success, nor have i ever seen the gout thrown upon any of the viscera by means of this remedy. caustics have sometimes been applied to gouty limbs with advantage. the moxa described and used by sir william temple, which is nothing but culinary fire, has often not only given relief to a pained limb, but carried off a fit of the gout in a few hours. these powerful applications may be used with equal advantage in those cases in which the gout by falling upon the head produces coma, or symptoms of apoplexy. a large caustic to the neck roused mr. john m. nesbit from a coma in which he had lain for three days, and thereby appeared to save his life. blisters, and cataplasms of mustard, had been previously used to different parts of his body, but without the least effect. in cases of moderate pain, where a blister has been objected to, i have seen a cabbage leaf afford considerable relief. it produces a moisture upon the part affected, without exciting any pain. an old sea captain taught me to apply molasses to a limb inflamed or pained by the gout. i have frequently advised it, and generally with advantage. all volatile and stimulating liniments are improper, for they not only endanger a translation of the morbid excitement to the viscera, but where they have not this effect, they increase the pain and inflammation of the part affected. the sooner a patient exercises his lower limbs by walking, after a fit of the gout, the better. "i made it a constant rule (says mr. small) to walk abroad as soon as the inflammatory state of the gout was past, and though by so doing, i often suffered great pain, i am well convinced that the free use i now enjoy of my limbs is chiefly owing to my determined perseverance in the use of that exercise; nor am i less persuaded that nine in ten of gouty cripples owe their lameness more to indolence, and fear of pain, than to the genuine effects of the gout[ ]." sir william temple confirms the propriety of mr. small's opinion and practice, by an account of an old man who obviated a fit of the gout as often as he felt it coming in his feet, by walking in the open air, and afterwards by going into a warm bed, and having the parts well rubbed where the pain began. "by following this course (he says) he was never laid up with the gout, and before his death recommended the same course to his son if ever he should fall into that accident." under a conviction of the safety of this practice the same author concludes the history of his own case in the following words: "i favoured it [viz. the swelling in my feet] all this while more than i needed, upon the common opinion, that walking too much might draw down the humour, which i have since had reason to conclude is a great mistake, and that if i had walked as much as i could from the first day the pain left me, the swelling might have left me too in a much less time[ ]." [ ] medical observations and inquiries, vol. vi. p. . [ ] essay upon the cure of the gout by moxa, vol. i. folio edition, p. and . iii. i come now to mention the remedies which are proper in that state of the gout in which a _feeble_ morbid action takes place in the blood-vessels and viscera. i shall begin this head, by remarking, that this state of the gout is often created, like the typhus state of fever, by the neglect, or too scanty use of evacuations in its first stage. when the prejudices which now prevent the adoption of those remedies in their proper time, are removed, we shall hear but little of the low state of the arthritic fever, nor of the numerous diseases from obstruction which are produced by the blood-vessels disorganizing the viscera, by repeated and violent attacks of the disease. to determine the character of a paroxysm of gout and the remedies proper to relieve it, the climate, the season of the year, the constitution of the atmosphere, and the nature of the prevailing epidemic, should be carefully attended to by a physician. but his principal dependence should be placed upon the state of the pulse. if it do not discover the marks which indicate bleeding formerly referred to, but is weak, quick, and soft, the remedies should be such as are calculated to produce a more vigorous, and equable action in the blood-vessels and viscera. they are, . _opium._ it should at first be given in small doses, and afterwards increased, as circumstances may require. . _madeira_ or _sherry wine_ alone, or diluted with water, or in the form of whey, or rendered more cordial by having any agreeable spice infused in it. it may be given cold or warm, according to the taste of the patient, or the state of his stomach. if this medicine be rejected in all the above forms, . _porter_ should be given. it is often retained when no other liquor will lie upon the stomach. i think i once saved the life of mr. nesbit by this medicine. it checked a vomiting, from the gout, which seemed to be the last symptom of his departing life. if porter fail of giving relief, . _ardent spirits_ should be given, either alone, or in the form of grog, or toddy. cases have occurred in which a pint of brandy has been taken in the course of an hour with advantage. great benefit has sometimes been found from dr. warner's tincture, in this state of the gout. as these observations may fall into the hands of persons who may not have access to dr. warner's book, i shall here insert the receipt for preparing it. of raisins, sliced and stoned, half a pound. rhubarb, one ounce. sena, two drachms. coriander and fennel seeds, of each one drachm. cochineal, saffron, and liquorice root, each half a drachm. infuse them for ten days in a quart of french brandy, then strain it, and add a pint more of brandy to the ingredients, afterwards strain it, and mix both tinctures together. four table spoons full of this cordial are to be taken every hour, mixed with an equal quantity of water, until relief be obtained. ten drops of laudanum may be added to each dose in those cases in which the cordial does not produce its intended effects, in two or three hours. if all the different forms of ardent spirits which have been mentioned fail of giving relief, . from drops to a tea spoonful of _æther_ should be given in any agreeable vehicle. also, . _volatile alkali._ from five to ten grains of this medicine should be given every two hours. . _aromatic substances_, such as alspice, ginger, virginia snake-root, cloves, and mace in the form of teas, have all been useful in this state of the gout. all these remedies are indicated in a more especial manner when the gout affects the stomach. they are likewise proper when it affects the bowels. the laudanum in this case should be given by way of glyster. after the vomiting was checked in mr. nesbit by means of porter, he was afflicted with a dull and distressing pain in his bowels, which was finally removed by two anodyne glysters injected daily for two or three weeks. . where the gout produces spasmodic or convulsive motions, the _oil of amber_ may be given with advantage. i once saw it remove for a while a convulsive cough from the gout. . in cases where the stomach will bear the _bark_, it should be given in large and frequent doses. it does the same service in this state of gout, that it does in the slow, or low states of fever from any other cause. where the gout appears in the form of an intermittent, the bark affords the same relief that it does in the same disease from autumnal exhalations. mr. small found great benefit from it after discharging the contents of his stomach and bowels by a dose of tartar emetic. "i do not call (says this gentleman) a fit of the gout a paroxysm, for there are several paroxysms in the fit, each of which is ushered in with a rigour, sickness at stomach, and subsequent heat. in this the gout bears a resemblance to an irregular intermittent, at least to a remitting fever, and hence perhaps the efficacy of the bark in removing the gout[ ]." [ ] medical observations and inquiries, vol. vi. p. . . the _warm bath_ is a powerful remedy in exciting a regular and healthy action in the sanguiferous system. where the patient is too weak to be taken out of bed, and put into a bathing tub, his limbs and body should be wrapped in flannels dipped in warm water. in case of a failure of all the above remedies, . a _salivation_ should be excited as speedily as possible, by means of mercury. dr. cheyne commends it in high terms. i have once used it with success. the mercury, when used in this way, brings into action an immense mass of latent excitement, and afterwards diffuses it equally through every part of the body. . besides these internal remedies, frictions with brandy, and volatile liniment, should be used to the stomach and bowels. blisters should be applied to parts in which congestion or pain is seated, and stimulating cataplasms should be applied to the lower limbs. the flour of mustard has been justly preferred for this purpose. it should be applied to the upper part of the foot. the reader will perceive, in the account i have given of the remedies proper in the feeble state of chronic fever, that they are the same which are used in the common typhus, or what is called nervous fever. there is no reason why they should not be the same, for the supposed two morbid states of the system are but one disease. it is agreeable in medical researches to be under the direction of principles. they render unnecessary, in many instances, the slow and expensive operations of experience, and thus multiply knowledge, by lessening labour. the science of navigation has rested upon this basis, since the discovery of the loadstone. a mariner who has navigated a ship to one distant port, is capable of conducting her to every port on the globe. in like manner, the physician who can cure one disease by a knowledge of its principles, may by the same means cure all the diseases of the human body, for their causes are the same. judgment is required, only in accommodating the force of remedies to the force of each disease. the difference in diseases which arises from their seats, from age, sex, habit, season, and climate, may be known in a short time, and is within the compass of very moderate talents. iv. were i to enumerate all the local symptoms of gout which occur without fever, and the remedies that are proper to relieve them, i should be led into a tedious digression. the reader must consult practical books for an account of them. i shall only mention the remedies for a few of them. the theory of the gout which has been delivered, will enable us to understand the reason why a disease which properly belongs to the whole system, should at any time be accompanied only with local morbid affection. the whole body is a unit, and hence morbid impressions which are resisted by sound parts are propagated to such as are weak, where they excite those morbid actions we call disease. the _head-ach_ is a distressing symptom of the gout. it yields to depleting or tonic remedies, according to the degree of morbid action which accompanies it. i have heard an instance of an old man, who was cured of an obstinate head-ach by throwing aside his nightcap, and sleeping with his bare head exposed to the night air. the disease in this case was probably attended with great morbid action. in this state of the vessels of the brain, cupping, cold applications to the head, purges, a temperate diet, and blisters behind the ears, are all proper remedies, and should be used together, or in succession, as the nature of the disease may require. many persons have been cured of the same complaint by sleeping in woollen nightcaps. the morbid action in these cases is always of a feeble nature. with this remedy, tonics, particularly the bark and cold bath, will be proper. i have once known a chronic gouty pain in the head cured by an issue in the arm, after pounds of bark, and many other tonic remedies, had been taken to no purpose. the _ophthalmia_ from gout should be treated with the usual remedies for that disease when it arises from other causes, with the addition of such local applications to other and distant parts of the body, as may abstract the gouty action from the eyes. _dull but constant pains in the limbs_ yield to frictions, volatile liniments, muslin and woollen worn next to the skin, electricity, a salivation, and the warm and cold bath. a gentleman who was afflicted with a pain of this kind for three years and a half in one of his arms, informed me, that he had been cured by wearing a woollen stocking that had been boiled with sulphur in water, for two weeks upon the affected limb. he had previously worn flannel upon it, but without receiving any benefit from it. i have known wool and cotton, finely carded, and made into small mats, worn upon the hips, when affected by gout, with great advantage. in obstinate sciatic pains, without fever or inflammation, dr. pitcairn's remedy, published by dr. cheyne, has performed many cures. it consists in taking from one to four tea-spoons full of the fine spirit of turpentine every morning, for a week or ten days, in three times the quantity of honey, and afterwards in drinking a large quantity of sack whey, to settle it on the stomach, and carry it into the blood. an anodyne should be taken every night after taking this medicine. a _gouty diarrh[oe]a_ should be treated with the usual astringent medicines of the shops. blisters to the wrists and ankles, also a salivation, have often cured it. i have heard of its being checked, after continuing for many years, by the patient eating large quantities of alspice, which he carried loose in his pocket for that purpose. the _angina pectoris_, which i have said is a symptom of the gout, generally comes on with fulness and tension in the pulse. after these are reduced by two or three bleedings, mineral tonics seldom fail of giving relief. _spasms in the stomach_, and _pains in the bowels_, often seize gouty people in the midst of business or pleasure, or in the middle of the night. my constant prescription for these complaints is ten drops of laudanum every half hour, till relief be obtained. if this medicine be taken in the forming state of these pains, a single dose generally removes the disease. it is preferable to spiced wine and spirits, inasmuch as it acts quicker, and leaves no disposition to contract a love for it when it is not required to ease pain. the _pain in the rectum_ which has been described, yields to the common remedies for the piles. cold water applied to the part, generally gives immediate relief. for a _preternatural secretion and excretion of bile_, gentle laxatives, and abstinence from oily food, full meals, and all violent exercises of the body and mind, are proper. the _itching in the anus_, which i have supposed to be a symptom of gout, has yielded in one instance that has come within my knowledge to mercurial ointment applied to the part affected. dr. lettsom recommends fomenting the part with a decoction of poppy heads and hemlock, and advises lenient purges and a vegetable diet as a radical cure for the disease[ ]. [ ] medical memoirs, vol. iii. for the _itching in the vagina_ i have found a solution of the sugar of lead in water to be an excellent palliative application. dr. lettsom recommends as a cure for it, the use of bark in delicate habits, and occasional bleeding, with a light and moderate diet, if it occur about the time of the cessation of the menses. obstinate _cutaneous eruptions_, which are the effects of gout, have been cured by gentle physic, a suitable diet, issues, and applications of the unguentum citrinum to the parts affected. the _arthritic gonorrh[oe]a_ should be treated with the same remedies as a gonorrh[oe]a from any other cause. in the treatment of all the local symptoms that have been enumerated, it will be of great consequence to inquire, before we attempt to cure them, whether they have not succeeded general gout, and thereby relieved the system from its effects in parts essential to life. if this have been the case, the cure of them should be undertaken with caution, and the danger of a local disease being exchanged for a general one, should be obviated by remedies that are calculated to eradicate the gouty diathesis altogether from the system. the means for this purpose, agreeably to our order, come next under our consideration. before i enter upon this head, i shall premise, that i do not admit of the seeds of the gout remaining in the body to be eliminated by art after a complete termination of one of its paroxysms, any more than i admit of the seeds of a pleurisy or intermitting fever remaining in the body, after they have been cured by blood-letting or bark. a predisposition only remains in the system to a return of the gout, from its usual remote and exciting causes. the contrary idea took its rise in those ages of medicine in which morbific matter was supposed to be the proximate cause of the gout, but it has unfortunately continued since the rejection of that theory. thus in many cases we see wrong habits continue long after the principles have been discarded, from which they were derived. i have known several instances in which art, and i have heard and read of others in which accidental suffering from abstinence, pain, and terror have been the happy means of overcoming a predisposition to the gout. a gentleman from one of the west-india islands, who had been for many years afflicted with the gout, was perfectly cured of it by living a year or two upon the temperate diet of the jail in this city, into which he was thrown for debt by one of his creditors. a large hæmorrhage from the foot, inflamed and swelled by the gout, accidentally produced by a penknife which fell upon it, effected in an irish gentleman a lasting cure of the disease. hildanus mentions the history of a gentleman, whom he knew intimately, who was radically cured of a gout with which he had been long afflicted, by the extreme bodily pain he suffered innocently from torture in the canton of berne. he lived to be an old man, and ever afterwards enjoyed good health[ ]. the following letter from my brother contains the history of a case in which terror suddenly eradicated the gout from the system. [ ] observat. chirurg. cent. . obs. . "_reading_, _july th, _. "dear brother, "when i had the pleasure of seeing you last week, i mentioned an extraordinary cure of the gout in this town, by means of a _fright_. in compliance with your request, i now send an exact narration of the facts. "peter fether, the person cured, is now alive, a householder in reading, seventy-three years of age, a native of germany, and a very hearty man. the first fit of the gout he ever had, was about the year ; and from that time till , he had a regular attack in the spring of every year. his feet, hands, and elbows were much swollen and inflamed; the fits lasted long, and were excruciating. in particular, the last fit in was so severe, as to induce an apprehension, that it would inevitably carry him off, when he was suddenly relieved by the following accident. "as he lay in a small back room adjoining the yard, it happened that one of his sons, in turning a waggon and horses, drove the tongue of the waggon with such force against the window, near which the old man lay stretched on a bed, as to beat in the sash of the window, and to scatter the pieces of broken glass all about him. to such a degree was he alarmed by the noise and violence, that he instantly leaped out of bed, forgot that he had ever used crutches, and eagerly inquired what was the matter. his wife, hearing the uproar, ran into the room, where, to her astonishment, she found her husband on his feet, bawling against the author of the mischief, with the most passionate vehemence. from _that_ moment, he has been entirely exempt from the gout, has never had the slightest touch of it, and _now_ enjoys perfect health, has a good appetite, and says he was never heartier in his life. this is probably the more remarkable, when i add, that he has always been used to the hard work of a farm, and _since_ the year has frequently mowed in his own meadow, which i understand is low and wet. i am well informed, in his mode of living, he has been temperate, occasionally indulging in a glass of wine, after the manner of the german farmers, but not to excess. "to you, who have been long accustomed to explore diseases, i leave the task of developing the principles, on which this mysterious restoration from the lowest decrepitude and bodily wretchedness, to a state of perfect health, has been accomplished. i well know that tooth-achs, head-achs, hiccoughs, &c. are often removed by the sudden impression of fear, and that they return again. but to see a debilitated gouty frame instantly restored to vigour; to see the whole system in a moment, as it were, undergo a perfect and entire change, and the most inveterate and incurable disease _radically_ expelled, is surely a _different_ thing, and must be acknowledged a very singular and marvellous event. if an old man, languishing under disease and infirmity, had _died_ of mere fright, nobody would have been surprised at it; but that he should be absolutely cured, and his constitution renovated by it, is a most extraordinary fact, which, while i am compelled to believe by unexceptionable evidence, i am totally at a loss to account for. i am your sincerely affectionate brother, jacob rush." these facts, and many similar ones which might be mentioned, afford ample encouragement to proceed in enumerating the means which are proper to prevent the recurrence of the gout, or, in other words, to eradicate it from the system. v. i shall first mention the means of preventing the return of that state of the disease which is accompanied with _violent_ action, and afterwards take notice of the means of preventing the return of that state of it, in which a _feeble_ morbid action takes place in the blood-vessels. the means for this purpose consist in avoiding all the remote, exciting, and predisposing causes of the gout which have been mentioned. i shall say a few words upon the most important of them, in the order that has been proposed. i. the first remedy for obviating the _violent_ state of gout is, . _temperance._ this should be regulated in its degrees by the age, habits, and constitution of the patient. a diet consisting wholly of milk, vegetables, and simple water, has been found necessary to prevent the recurrence of the gout in some cases. but, in general, fish, eggs, the white meats and weak broths may be taken in small quantities once a day, with milk and vegetables at other times. a little salted meat, which affords less nourishment than fresh, may be eaten occasionally. it imparts vigour to the stomach, and prevents dyspepsia from a diet consisting chiefly of vegetables. the low and acid wines should be avoided, but weak madeira or sherry wine and water, or small beer, may be drunken at meals. the latter liquor was the favourite drink of dr. sydenham in his fits of the gout. strong tea and coffee should not be tasted, where there is reason to believe the habitual use of them has contributed to bring on the disease. from the disposition of the gout to return in the spring and autumn, greater degrees of abstinence in eating and drinking will be necessary at those seasons than at any other time. with this diminution of aliment, gentle purges should be taken, to obviate an attack of the gout. in persons above fifty years of age, an abstemious mode of living should be commenced with great caution. it has sometimes, when entered upon suddenly, and carried to its utmost extent, induced fits of the gout, and precipitated death. in such persons, the abstractions from their usual diet should be small, and our dependence should be placed upon other means to prevent a return of the disease. . _moderate labour_ and _gentle exercise_ have frequently removed that debility and vibratility in the blood-vessels, on which a predisposition to the gout depends. hundreds of persons who have been reduced by misfortunes to the necessity of working for their daily bread, have thrown off a gouty diathesis derived from their patents, or acquired by personal acts of folly and intemperance. the employments of agriculture afford the most wholesome labour, and walking, the most salutary exercise. to be useful, they should be moderate. the extremes of indolence and bodily activity meet in a point. they both induce debility, which predisposes to a recurrence of a fit of the gout. riding in a carriage, and on horseback, are less proper as a means of preventing the disease than walking. their action upon the body is partial. the lower limbs derive no benefit from it, and on these the violent state of gout generally makes its first attack. in england, many domestic exercises have been contrived for gouty people, such as shuttle-cock, bullets, the chamber-horse, and the like, but they are all trifling in their effects, compared with labour, and exercise in the open air. the efficacy of the former of those prophylactic remedies will appear in a strong point of light, when we consider, how much the operation of the remote and exciting causes of the gout which act more or less upon persons in the humblest ranks of society, are constantly counteracted in their effects, by the daily labour which is necessary for their subsistence. . to prevent the recurrence of the gout, cold should be carefully avoided, more especially when it is combined with moisture. flannel should be worn next to the skin in winter, and muslin in summer, in order to keep up a steady and uniform perspiration. fleecy hosiery should be worn in cold weather upon the breast and knees, and the feet should be kept constantly warm and dry by means of socks and cork-soaled shoes. it was by wetting his feet, by standing two or three hours upon the damp ground, that colonel miles produced the gout in his stomach and bowels which had nearly destroyed him in the year . . great moderation should be used by persons who are subject to the gout in the exercise of their understandings and passions. intense study, fear, terror, anger, and even joy, have often excited the disease into action. it has been observed, that the political and military passions act with more force upon the system, than those which are of a social and domestic nature; hence generals and statesmen are so often afflicted with the gout, and that too, as was hinted in another place, in moments the most critical and important to the welfare of a nation. the combination of the exercises of the understanding, and the passion of avarice in gaming, have often produced an attack of this disease. these facts show the necessity of gouty people subjecting their minds, with all their operations, to the government of reason and religion. the understanding should be exercised only upon light and pleasant subjects. no study should ever be pursued till it brings on fatigue; and, above all things, midnight, and even late studies should be strictly avoided. a gouty man should always be in bed at an early hour. this advice has the sanction of dr. sydenham's name, and experience proves its efficacy in all chronic diseases. . the venereal appetite should be indulged with moderation. and, . costiveness should be prevented by all persons who wish to escape a return of violent fits of the gout. sulphur is an excellent remedy for this purpose. dr. cheyne commends it in high terms. his words are, "sulphur is one of the best remedies in the intervals of the gout. in the whole extent of the materia medica, i know not a more safe and active medicine[ ]." two cases have come within my knowledge, in which it has kept off fits of the gout for several years, in persons who had been accustomed to have them once or twice a year. rhubarb in small quantities chewed, or in the form of pills, may be taken to obviate costiveness, by persons who object to the habitual use of sulphur. dr. cheyne, who is lavish in his praises of that medicine as a gentle laxative, says, he "knew a noble lord of great worth and much gout, who, by taking from the hands of a quack a drachm of rhubarb, tinged with cochineal to disguise it, every morning for six weeks, lived in health, for four years after, without any symptom of it[ ]." [ ] essay on the nature and true method of treating the gout, p. . [ ] page . i have said that abstinence should be enjoined with more strictness in the spring and autumn, than at any other time, to prevent a return of the gout. from the influence of the weather at those seasons in exciting febrile actions in the system, the loss of a pint of blood will be useful in some cases for the same purpose. it will be the more necessary if the gout has not paid its habitual visits to the system. the late dr. gregory had been accustomed to an attack of the gout every spring. two seasons passed away without his feeling any symptoms of it. he began to flatter himself with a hope that the predisposition to the disease had left him. soon afterwards he died suddenly of an apoplexy. the loss of a few ounces of blood at the usual time in which the gout affected him, would probably have protracted his life for many years. in the year , in visiting a patient, i was accidentally introduced into a room where a gentleman from the delaware state had been lying on his back for near six weeks with an acute fit of the gout. he gave me a history of his sufferings. his pulse was full and tense, and his whole body was covered with sweat from the intensity of his pain. he had not had his bowels opened for ten days. i advised purging and bleeding in his case. the very names of those remedies startled him, for he had adopted the opinion of the salutary nature of a fit of the gout, and therefore hugged his chains. after explaining the reason of my prescriptions, he informed me, in support of them, that he had escaped the gout but two years in twenty, and that in one of these two years he had been bled for a fall from his horse, and, in the other, his body had been reduced by a chronic fever, previously to the time of the annual visit of his gout. as a proof of the efficacy of active, or passive depletion, in preventing the gout, it has been found that persons who sweat freely, either generally or partially, or who make a great deal of water, are rarely affected by it. an epitome of all that has been said upon the means of preventing a return of the gout, may be delivered in a few words. a man who has had one fit of it, should consider himself in the same state as a man who has received the seeds of a malignant fever into his blood. he should treat his body as if it were a florence flask. by this means he will probably prevent, during his life, the re-excitement of the disease. are _issues_ proper to prevent the return of the violent state of gout? i have heard of an instance of an issue in the leg having been effectual for this purpose; but if the remedies before-mentioned be used in the manner that has been directed, so unpleasant a remedy can seldom be necessary. are _bitters_ proper to prevent a return of this state of gout? it will be a sufficient answer to this question to mention, that the duke of portland's powder, which is composed of bitter ingredients, excited a fatal gout in many people who used it for that purpose. i should as soon expect to see gold produced by the operations of fire upon copper or lead, as expect to see the gout prevented or cured by any medicine that acted upon the system, without the aid of more or less of the remedies that have been mentioned. ii. we come now, in the last place, to mention the remedies which are proper to prevent a return of that state of gout which is attended with a _feeble_ morbid action in the blood-vessels and viscera. this state of gout generally occurs in the evening of life, and in persons of delicate habits, or in such as have had their constitutions worn down by repeated attacks of the disease. the remedies to prevent it are, . a _gently stimulating diet_, consisting of animal food well cooked, with sound old madeira or sherry wine, or weak spirit and water. salted, and even smoked meat may be taken, in this state of the system, with advantage. it is an agreeable tonic, and is less disposed to create plethora than fresh meat. pickles and vinegar should seldom be tasted. they dispose to gouty spasms in the stomach and bowels. long intervals between meals should be carefully avoided. the stomach, when overstretched or empty, is always alike predisposed to disease. there are cases in which the evils of inanition in the stomach will be prevented, by a gouty patient eating in the middle of the night. . the use of _chalybeate medicines_. these are more safe when used habitually, than bitters. i have long been in the practice of giving the different preparations of iron in large doses, in chronic diseases, and in that state of debility which disposes to them. a lady of a weak constitution informed dr. cheyne, that she once asked dr. sydenham how long she might safely take steel. his answer was, that "she might take it for thirty years, and then begin again if she continued ill[ ]." [ ] essay on the nature, and true method of treating the gout, p. . water impregnated with iron, either by nature or art, may be taken instead of the solid forms of the metal. it will be more useful if it be drunken in a place where patients will have the benefit of country air. . the habitual use of the _volatile tincture of gum guiacum_, and of other cordial and gently stimulating medicines. a clove of garlic taken once or twice a day, has been found useful in debilitated habits predisposed to the gout. it possesses a wonderful power in bringing latent excitement into action. it moreover acts agreeably upon the nervous system. mr. small found great benefit from breakfasting upon a tea made of half a drachm of ginger cut into small slices, in preventing occasional attacks of the gout in his stomach. sir joseph banks was much relieved by a diet of milk, with ginger boiled in it. the root of the sassafras of our country might probably be used with advantage for the same purpose. aurelian speaks of certain remedies for the gout which he calls "annalia[ ]." the above medicines belong to this class. to be effectual, they should be persisted in, not for one year only, but for many years. [ ] morborum chronicorum. lib. v. cap. . ._ warmth_, uniformly applied, by means of suitable dresses, and sitting rooms, to every part of the body. . the _warm bath_ in winter, and the _temperate_, or _cold bath_ in summer. . _exercise._ this may be in a carriage, or on horseback. the viscera being debilitated in this state of predisposition to the gout, are strengthened in a peculiar manner by the gentle motion of a horse. where this or other modes of passive exercise cannot be had, frictions to the limbs and body should be used every day. . _costiveness_ should be avoided by taking occasionally one or two table spoons full of dr. warner's purging tincture prepared by infusing rhubarb, orange peel, and caraway seeds, of each an ounce, for three days in a quart of madeira, or any other white wine. if this medicine be ineffectual for opening the bowels, rhubarb may be taken in the manner formerly mentioned. . the understanding and passions should be constantly employed in agreeable studies and pursuits. fatigue of mind and body should be carefully avoided. . a warm climate often protracts life in persons subject to this state of gout. the citizens of rome who had worn down their constitutions by intemperance, added many years to their lives, by migrating to naples, and enjoying there, in a warmer sun, the pure air of the mediterranean, and sir william temple says the portuguese obtain the same benefit by transporting themselves to the brazils, after medicine and diet cease to impart vigour to their constitutions in their native country. thus have i enumerated the principal remedies for curing and preventing the gout. most of them are to be met with in books of medicine, but they have been administered by physicians, or taken by patients with so little regard to the different states of the system, that they have in many instances done more harm than good. solomon places all wisdom, in the management of human affairs, in finding out the proper times for performing certain actions. skill in medicine, consists in an eminent degree in timing remedies. there is a time to bleed, and a time to withhold the lancet. there is a time to give physic, and a time to trust to the operations of nature. there is a time to eat meat, and there is a time to abstain from it. there is a time to give tonic medicines, and a time to refrain from them. in a word, the cure of the gout depends wholly upon two things, viz. _proper_ remedies, in their proper _times_, and _places_. i shall take leave of this disease, by comparing it to a deep and dreary cave in a new country, in which ferocious beasts and venomous reptiles, with numerous ghosts and hobgoblins, are said to reside. the neighbours point at the entrance of this cave with horror, and tell of the many ravages that have been committed upon their domestic animals, by the cruel tenants which inhabit it. at length a school-boy, careless of his safety, ventures to enter this subterraneous cavern, when! to his great delight, he finds nothing in it but the same kind of stones and water he left behind him upon the surface of the earth. in like manner, i have found no other principles necessary to explain the cause of the gout, and no other remedies necessary to cure it, than such as are admitted in explaining the causes, and in prescribing for the most simple and common diseases. observations upon the nature and cure of the _hydrophobia_. in entering upon the consideration of this formidable disease, i feel myself under an involuntary impression, somewhat like that which was produced by the order the king of syria gave to his captains when he was conducting them to battle: "fight not with small or great, save only with the king of israel[ ]." in whatever light we contemplate the hydrophobia, it may be considered as pre-eminent in power and mortality, over all other diseases. [ ] ii. chron. xviii. . it is now many years since the distress and horror excited by it, both in patients and their friends, led me with great solicitude to investigate its nature. i have at length satisfied myself with a theory of it, which, i hope, will lead to a rational and successful mode of treating it. for a history of the symptoms of the disease, and many interesting facts connected with it, i beg leave to refer the reader to dr. mease's learned and ingenious inaugural dissertation, published in the year . the remote and exciting causes of the hydrophobia are as follow: . the bite of a rabid animal. wolves, foxes, cats, as well as dogs, impart the disease. it has been said that blood must be drawn in order to produce it, but i have heard of a case in lancaster county, in pennsylvania, in which a severe contusion, by the teeth of the rabid animal, without the effusion of a drop of red blood, excited the disease. happily for mankind, it cannot be communicated by blood, or saliva falling upon sound parts of the body. in maryland, the negroes eat with safety the flesh of hogs that have perished from the bite of mad dogs; and i have heard of the milk of a cow, at chestertown, in the same state, having been used without any inconvenience by a whole family, on the very day in which she was affected by this disease, and which killed her in a few hours. dr. baumgarten confirms these facts by saying, that "the flesh and milk of rabid animals have been eaten with perfect impunity[ ]." [ ] medical commentaries, philadelphia edition, vol. . p. . in the following observations i shall confine myself chiefly to the treatment of the hydrophobia which arises from the bite of a rabid animal, but i shall add in this place a short account of all its other causes. . cold night air. dr. arthaud, late president of the society of philadelphians in st. domingo, has published several cases in which it was produced in negroes by sleeping all night in the open air. . a wound in a tendinous part. . putrid and impure animal food. . worms. . eating beech nuts. . great thirst. . exposure to intense heat. . drinking cold water when the body was very much heated. . a fall. . fear. . hysteria. . epilepsy. . tetanus. . hydrocephalus. of the presence of hydrophobia in the hydrocephalic state of fever, there have been several instances in philadelphia. . an inflammation of the stomach. . the dysentery. . the typhus fever. dr. trotter mentions the hydrophobia as a symptom which frequently occurred in the typhus state of fever in the british navy[ ]. [ ] medicina nautica, p. . . it is taken notice of likewise in a putrid fever by dr. coste[ ]; and dr. griffitts observed it in a high degree in a young lady who died of the yellow fever, in . [ ] medical commentaries, dobson's edition, vol. ii. p. . . the bite of an angry, but not a diseased animal. . an involuntary association of ideas. cases of spontaneous hydrophobia from all the above causes are to be met with in practical writers, and of most of them in m. audry's learned work, entitled, "recherches sur la rage." the dread of water, from which this disease derives its name, has five distinct grades. . it cannot be drunken. . it cannot be touched. . the sound of it pouring from one vessel to another, . the sight of it, and . even the naming of it, cannot be borne, without exciting convulsions. but this symptom is not a universal one. dr. mead mentions three cases in which there was no dread of water, in persons who received the disease from the bite of a rabid animal. it is unfortunate for this disease, as well as many others, that a single symptom should impose names upon them. in the present instance it has done great harm, by fixing the attention of physicians so exclusively upon the dread of water which occurs in it, that they have in a great measure overlooked every other circumstance which belongs to the disease. the theory of the hydrophobia, which an examination of its causes, symptoms, and accidental cures, with all the industry i was capable of, has led me to adopt, is, that it is a _malignant state of fever_. my reasons for this opinion are as follow: . the disease in all rabid animals is a fever. this is obvious in dogs who are most subject to it. it is induced in them by the usual causes of fever, such as scanty or putrid aliment[ ], extreme cold, and the sudden action of heat upon their bodies. proofs of its being derived from each of the above causes are to be met with in most of the authors who have written upon it. the animal matters which are rendered morbid by the action of the above causes upon them, are determined to the saliva, in which a change seems to be induced, similar to that which takes place in the perspirable matter of the human species from the operation of similar causes upon it. this matter, it is well known, is the remote cause of the jail fever. no wonder the saliva of a dog should produce a disease of the same kind, after being vitiated by the same causes, and thereby disposed to produce the same effects. [ ] "animal food, in a state of putridity, is amongst the most frequent causes of canine madness." "canine madness chiefly arises from the excessive number of ill-kept and ill-fed dogs." young's annuals, vol. xvii. p. . . the disease called canine madness, prevails occasionally among dogs at those times in which malignant fevers are epidemic. this will not surprise those persons who have been accustomed to observe the prevalence of the influenza and bilious fevers among other domestic animals at a time when they are epidemic among the human species. . dogs, when they are said to be mad, exhibit the usual symptoms of fever, such as a want of appetite, great heat, a dull, fierce, red, or watery eye, indisposition to motion, sleepiness, delirium, and madness. the symptom of madness is far from being universal, and hence many dogs are diseased and die with this malignant fever, that are inoffensive, and instead of biting, continue to fawn upon their masters. nor is the disposition of the fever to communicate itself by infection universal among dogs any more than the same fever in the human species, and this i suppose to be one reason why many people are bitten by what are called mad dogs, who never suffer any inconvenience from it. . a dissection of a dog, by dr. cooper, that died with this fever, exhibited all the usual marks of inflammation and effusion which take place in common malignant fevers. i shall in another place mention a fifth argument in favour of the disease in dogs being a malignant fever, from the efficacy of one of the most powerful remedies in that state of fever, having cured it in two instances. ii. the disease produced in the human species by the bite of a rabid animal, is a _malignant_ fever. this appears first from its symptoms. these, as recorded by aurelian, mead, fothergill, plummer, arnold, baumgarten, and morgagni, are chills, great heat, thirst, nausea, a burning sensation in the stomach, vomiting, costiveness; a small, quick, tense, irregular, intermitting, natural, or slow pulse; a cool skin, great sensibility to cold air, partial cold and clammy sweats on the hands, or sweats accompanied with a warm skin diffused all over the body, difficulty of breathing, sighing, restlessness, hiccup, giddiness, head-ach, delirium, coma, false vision, dilatation of the pupils, dulness of sight, blindness, glandular swellings, heat of urine, priapism, palpitation of the heart, and convulsions. i know that there are cases of hydrophobia upon record, in which there is said to be a total absence of fever. the same thing has been said of the plague. in both cases the supposed absence of fever is the effect of stimulus acting upon the blood-vessels with so much force as to suspend morbid action in them. by abstracting a part of this stimulus, a fever is excited, which soon discovers itself in the pulse and on the skin, and frequently in pains in every part of the body. the dread of water, and the great sensibility of the system to cold air, are said to give a specific character to the hydrophobia; but the former symptom, it has been often seen, occurs in diseases from other causes, and the latter has been frequently observed in the yellow fever. it is no more extraordinary that a fever excited by the bite of a rabid animal should excite a dread of water, than that fevers from other causes should produce aversion from certain aliments, from light, and from sounds of all kinds; nor is it any more a departure from the known laws of stimulants, that the saliva of a mad dog should affect the fauces, than that mercury should affect the salivary glands. both stimuli appear to act in a specific manner. . the hydrophobia partakes of the character of a malignant fever, in appearing at different intervals from the time in which the infection is received into the body. these intervals are from one day to five or six months. the small-pox shows itself in intervals from eight to twenty days, and the plague and yellow fever from the moment in which the miasmata are inhaled, to nearly the same distance of time. this latitude in the periods at which infectious and contagious matters are brought into action in the body, must be resolved into the influence which the season of the year, the habits of the patients, and the passion of fear have upon them. where the interval between the time of being bitten, and the appearance of a dread of water, exceeds five or six months, it is probable it may be occasioned by a disease derived from another cause. such a person is predisposed in common with other people to all the diseases of which the hydrophobia is a symptom. the recollection of the poisonous wound he has received, and its usual consequences, is seldom absent from his mind for months or years. a fever, or an affection of his nerves from their most common causes, cannot fail of exciting in him apprehensions of the disease which usually follows the accident to which he has been exposed. his fears are then let loose upon his system, and produce in a short time a dread of water which appears to be wholly unconnected with the bite of a rabid animal. similar instances of the effects of fear upon the human body are to be met with in books of medicine. the pains produced by fear acting upon the imagination in supposed venereal infections, are as real and severe as they are in the worst state of that disease. . blood drawn in the hydrophobia exhibits the same appearances which have been remarked in malignant fevers. in mr. bellamy, the gentleman whose case is so minutely related by dr. fothergill, the blood discovered with "slight traces of size, _serum_ remarkably _yellow_." it was uncommonly sizy in a boy of mr. george oakley whom i saw, and bled for the first time, on the fourth day of his disease, in the beginning of the year . his pulse imparted to the fingers the same kind of quick and tense stroke which is common in an acute inflammatory fever. he died in convulsions the next day. he had been bitten by a mad dog on one of his temples, three weeks before he discovered any signs of indisposition. there are several other cases upon record, of the blood exhibiting, in this disease, the same appearances as in common malignant and inflammatory fevers. . the hydrophobia accords exactly with malignant fevers in its duration. it generally terminates in death, according to its violence, and the habit of the patient, in the first, second, third, fourth, or fifth day, from the time of its attack, and with the same symptoms which attend the last stage of malignant fevers. . the body, after death from the hydrophobia, putrifies with the same rapidity that it does after death from a malignant fever in which no depletion has been used. . dissections of bodies which have died of the hydrophobia, exhibit the same appearances which are observed in the bodies of persons who have perished of malignant fevers. these appearances, according to morgagni and tauvry[ ], are marks of inflammation in the throat, [oe]sophagus, trachea, brain, stomach, liver, and bowels. effusions of water, and congestions of blood in the brain, large quantities of dark-coloured or black bile in the gall-bladder and stomach, mortifications in the bowels and bladder, livid spots on the surface of the body, and, above all, the arteries filled with fluid blood, and the veins nearly empty. i am aware, that two cases of death from hydrophobia are related by dr. vaughan, in which no appearance of disease was discovered by dissection in any part of the body. similar appearances have occasionally been met with in persons who have died of malignant fevers. in another place i hope to prove, that we err in placing disease in inflammation, for it is one of its primary effects only, and hence, as was before remarked, it does not take place in many instances in malignant fevers, until the arteries are so far relaxed by two or three bleedings, as to be able to relieve themselves by effusing red blood into serous vessels, and thus to produce that error loci which i shall say hereafter is essential to inflammation[ ]. the existence of this grade of action in the arteries may always be known by the presence of sizy blood, and by the more obvious and common symptoms of fever. [ ] bibliotheque choisie de medecine, tome xv. p. . [ ] in the th volume of the medical observations and inquiries, there is an account of a dissection of a person who had been destroyed by taking opium. "no morbid appearance (says mr. whateley, the surgeon who opened the body) was found in any part of the body, except that the villous coat of the stomach was very slightly inflamed." the stimulus of the opium in this case either produced an action which transcended inflammation, or destroyed action altogether by its immense force, by which means the more common morbid appearances which follow disease in a dead body could not take place. the remedies for hydrophobia, according to the principles i have endeavoured to establish, divide themselves naturally into two kinds. i. such as are proper to prevent the disease, after the infection of the rabid animal is received into the body. ii. such as are proper to cure it when formed. the first remedy under the first general head is, abstracting or destroying the virus, by cutting or burning out the wounded part, or by long and frequent effusions of water upon it, agreeably to the advice of dr. haygarth, in order to wash the saliva from it. the small-pox has been prevented, by cutting out the part in which the puncture was made in the arm with variolous matter. there is no reason why the same practice should not succeed, if used in time, in the hydrophobia. where it has failed of success, it has probably been used after the poison has contaminated the blood. the wound should be kept open and running for several months. in this way a servant girl, who was bitten by the same cat that bit mr. bellamy, is supposed by dr. fothergill to have escaped the disease. dr. weston of jamaica believes that he prevented the disease by the same means, in two instances. perhaps an advantage would arise from exciting a good deal of inflammation in the wound. we observe after inoculation, that the more inflamed the puncture becomes, and the greater the discharge from it, the less fever and eruption follow in the small-pox. a second preventive is a low diet, such as has been often used with success to mitigate the plague and yellow fever. the system, in this case, bends beneath the stimulus of the morbid saliva, and thus obviates or lessens its effects at a future day. during the use of these means to prevent the disease, the utmost care should be taken to keep up our patient's spirits, by inspiring confidence in the remedies prescribed for him. mercury has been used in order to prevent the disease. there are many well-attested cases upon record, of persons who have been salivated after being bitten by mad animals, in whom the disease did not show itself, but there are an equal number of cases to be met with, in which a salivation did not prevent it. from this it would seem probable, that the saliva did not infect in the cases in which the disease was supposed to have been prevented by the mercury. at the time calomel was used to prepare the body for the small-pox, a salivation was often induced by it. the affection of the salivary glands in many instances lessened the number of pock, but i believe in no instance prevented the eruptive fever. i shall say nothing here of the many other medicines which have been used to prevent the disease. no one of them has, i believe, done any more good, than the boasted specifics which have been used to eradicate the gout, or to procure old age. they appear to have derived their credit from some of the following circumstances accompanying the bite of the animal. . the animal may have been angry, but not diseased with a malignant fever such as i have described. . he may have been diseased, but not to such a degree as to have rendered his saliva infectious. . the saliva, when infectious, may have been so washed off in passing through the patient's clothes, as not to have entered the wound made in the flesh. and . there may have been no predisposition in the patient to receive the fever. this is often observed in persons exposed to the plague, yellow fever, small-pox, and to the infection of the itch, and the venereal disease. the hydrophobia, like the small-pox, generally comes on with some pain, and inflammation in the part in which the infection was infused into the body, but to this remark, as in the small-pox, there are some exceptions. as soon as the disease discovers itself, whether by pain or inflammation in the wounded part, or by any of the symptoms formerly mentioned, the first remedy indicated is _blood-letting_. all the facts which have been mentioned, relative to its cause, symptoms, and the appearances of the body after death, concur to enforce the use of the lancet in this disease. its affinity to the plague and yellow fever in its force, is an additional argument in favour of that remedy. to be effectual, it should be used in the most liberal manner. the loss of to ounces of blood will probably be necessary in most cases to effect a cure. the pulse should govern the use of the lancet as in other states of fever, taking care not to be imposed upon by the absence of _frequency_ in it, in the supposed absence of fever, and of _tension_ in affections of the stomach, bowels, and brain. this practice, in the extent i have recommended it, is justified not only by the theory of the disease, but by its having been used with success in the following cases. dr. nugent cured a woman by two copious bleedings, and afterwards by the use of sweating and cordial medicines. mr. wrightson was encouraged by dr. nugent's success to use the same remedies with the same happy issue in a boy of years of age[ ]. [ ] medical transactions, vol. ii. p. . mr. falconer cured a young woman of the name of hannah moore, by "a copious bleeding," and another depleting remedy to be mentioned hereafter[ ]. [ ] ditto, p. . mr. poupart cured a woman by bleeding until she fainted, and mr. berger gives an account of a number of persons being bitten by a rabid animal, all of whom died, except two who were saved by bleeding[ ]. [ ] bibliotheque choisie de medecine, tome xv. p. . in the th volume of the transactions of the royal society of london, there is an account of a man being cured of hydrophobia by dr. hartley, by the loss of ounces of blood. dr. tilton cured this disease in a woman in the delaware state by very copious bleeding. the remedy was suggested to the doctor by an account taken from a london magazine of a dreadful hydrophobia being cured by an accidental and profuse hæmorrhage from the temporal artery[ ]. [ ] medical essays of edinburgh, vol. i. p. . a case is related by dr. innes[ ], of the loss of ounces of blood in seven days having cured this disease. in the patient who was the subject of this cure, the bleeding was used in the most depressed, and apparently weak state of the pulse. it rose constantly with the loss of blood. [ ] medical commentaries, vol. iii. p. . the cases related by dr. tilton and dr. innes were said to be of a spontaneous nature, but the morbid actions were exactly the same in both patients with those which are derived from the bite of a rabid animal. there is but one remote cause of disease, and that is stimulus, and it is of no consequence in the disease now under consideration, whether the dread of water be the effect of the saliva of a rabid animal acting upon the fauces, or of a morbid excitement determined to those parts by any other stimulus. the inflammation of the stomach depends upon the same kind of morbid action, whether it be produced by the miasmata of the yellow fever, or the usual remote and exciting causes of the gout. an apoplexy is the same disease when it arises from a contusion by external violence, that it is when it arises spontaneously from the congestion of blood or water in the brain. a dropsy from obstructions in the liver induced by strong drink, does not differ in its proximate cause from the dropsy brought on by the obstructions in the same viscus which are left by a neglected, or half cured bilious fever. these remarks are of extensive application, and, if duly attended to, would deliver us from a mass of error which has been accumulating for ages in medicine: i mean the nomenclature of diseases from their remote causes. it is the most offensive and injurious part of the rubbish of our science. i grant that bleeding has been used in some instances in hydrophobia without effect, but in all such cases it was probably used out of time, or in too sparing a manner. the credit of this remedy has suffered in many other diseases from the same causes. i beg it may not be tried in this disease, by any physician who has not renounced our modern systems of nosology, and adopted, in their utmost extent, the principles and practice of botallus and sydenham in the treatment of malignant fevers. before i quit the subject of blood-letting in hydrophobia, i have to add, that it has been used with success in two instances in dogs that had exhibited all the usual symptoms of what has been called madness. in one case, blood was drawn by cutting off the tail, in the other, by cutting off the ears of the diseased animal. i mention these facts with pleasure, not only because they serve to support the theory and practice which i have endeavoured to establish in this disease, but because they will render it unnecessary to destroy the life of a useful and affectionate animal in order to prevent his spreading it. by curing it in a dog by means of bleeding, we moreover beget confidence in the same remedy in persons who have been bitten by him, and thus lessen the force of the disease, by preventing the operation of fear upon the system. . purges and glysters have been found useful in the hydrophobia. they discharge bile which is frequently vitiated, and reduce morbid action in the stomach and blood-vessels. dr. coste ascribes the cure of a young woman in a convent wholly to glysters given five or six times every day. . sweating after bleeding completed the cure of the boy whose case is mentioned by mr. wrightson. dr. baumgarten speaks highly of this mode of depleting, and says further, that it has never been cured "but by evacuations of some kind." . all the advantages which attend a salivation in common malignant fevers, are to be expected from it in the hydrophobia. it aided blood-letting in two persons who were cured by mr. falconer and dr. le compt. there are several cases upon record in which musk and opium have afforded evident relief in this disease. a physician in virginia cured it by large doses of bark and wine. i have no doubt of the efficacy of these remedies when the disease is attended with a moderate or feeble morbid action in the system, for i take it for granted, it resembles malignant fevers from other causes in appearing in different grades of force. in its more violent and common form, stimulants of all kinds must do harm, unless they are of such a nature, and exhibited in such quantities, as to exceed in their force the stimulus of the disease; but this is not to be expected, more especially as the stomach is for the most part so irritable as sometimes to reject the mildest aliments as well as the most gentle medicines. after the morbid actions in the system have been weakened, tonic remedies would probably be useful in accelerating the cure. blisters and stimulating cataplasms, applied to the feet, might probably be used with the same advantage in the declining state of the disease, that they have been used in the same stage of other malignant fevers. the cold bath, also long immersion in cold water, have been frequently used in this disease. the former aided the lancet, in the cure of the man whose case is related by dr. hartley. there can be no objection to the cold water in either of the above forms, provided no dread is excited by it in the mind of the patient. the reader will perceive here that i have deserted an opinion which i formerly held upon the cause and cure of the tetanus. i supposed the hydrophobia to depend upon debility. this debility i have since been led to consider as partial, depending upon abstraction of excitement from some, and a morbid accumulation of it in other parts of the body. the preternatural excitement predominates so far, in most cases of hydrophobia, over debility, that depleting remedies promise more speedily and safely to equalize, and render it natural, than medicines of an opposite character. in the treatment of those cases of hydrophobia which are not derived from the bite of a rabid animal, regard should always be had to its remote and exciting causes, so as to accommodate the remedies to them. the imperfection of the present nomenclature of medicine has become the subject of general complaint. the mortality of the disease from the bite of a rabid animal, has been increased by its name. the terms hydrophobia and canine madness, convey ideas of the symptoms of the disease only, and of such of them too as are by no means universal. if the theory i have delivered, and the practice i have recommended, be just, it ought to be called the hydrophobic state of fever. this name associates it at once with all the other states of fever, and leads us to treat it with the remedies which are proper in its kindred diseases, and to vary them constantly with the varying state of the system. in reviewing what has been said of this disease, i dare not say that i have not been misled by the principles of fever which i have adopted; but if i have, i hope the reader will not be discouraged by my errors from using his reason in medicine. by contemplating those errors, he may perhaps avoid the shoals upon which i have been wrecked. in all his researches, let him ever remember that there is the same difference between the knowledge of a physician who prescribes for diseases as limited by genera and species, and of one who prescribes under the direction of just principles, that there is between the knowledge we obtain of the nature and extent of the sky, by viewing a few feet of it from the bottom of a well, and viewing from the top of a mountain the whole canopy of heaven. since the first edition of the foregoing observations, i have seen a communication to the editors of the medical repository[ ], by dr. physick, which has thrown new light upon this obscure disease, and which, i hope, will aid the remedies that have been proposed, in rendering them more effectual for its cure. the doctor supposes death from hydrophobia to be the effect of a sudden and spasmodic constriction of the glottis, inducing suffocation, and that it might be prevented by creating an artificial passage for air into the lungs, whereby life might be continued long enough to admit of the disease being cured by other remedies. the following account of a dissection is intended to show the probability of the doctor's proposal being attended with success. [ ] volume v. on the th of september, , i was called, with dr. physick, to visit, in consultation with dr. griffitts, the son of william todd, esq. aged five years, who was ill with the disease called hydrophobia, brought on by the bite of a mad dog, on the th of the preceding month. the wound was small, and on his cheek, near his mouth, two circumstances which are said at all times to increase the danger of wounds from rabid animals. from the time he was bitten, he used the cold bath daily, and took the infusion, powder, and seeds of the anagallis, in succession, until the th of september, when he was seized with a fever which at first resembled the remittent of the season. bleeding, purging, blisters, and the warm bath were prescribed for him, but without success. the last named remedy appeared to afford him some relief, which he manifested by paddling and playing in the water. at the time i saw him he was much agitated, had frequent twitchings, laughed often; but, with this uncommon excitement in his muscles and nerves, his mind was unusually correct in all its operations. he discovered no dread of water, except in one instance, when he turned from it with horror. he swallowed occasionally about a spoon full of it at a time, holding the cup in his own hand, as if to prevent too great a quantity being poured at once into his throat. the quick manner of his swallowing, and the intervals between each time of doing so, were such as we sometimes observe in persons in the act of dying of acute diseases. immediately after swallowing water, he looked pale, and panted for breath. he spoke rapidly, and with much difficulty. this was more remarkably the case when he attempted to pronounce the words _carriage_, _water_, and _river_. after speaking he panted for breath in the same manner that he did after drinking. he coughed and breathed as patients do in the moderate grade of the cynanche trachealis. the dog that had bitten him, mr. todd informed me, made a similar noise in attempting to bark, a day or two before he was killed. we proposed making an opening into his windpipe. to this his parents readily consented; but while we were preparing for the operation, such a change for the worse took place, that we concluded not to perform it. a cold sweat, with a feeble and quick pulse, came on; and he died suddenly, at o'clock at night, about six hours after i first saw him. he retained his reason, and a playful humour, till the last minute of his life. an instance of the latter appeared in his throwing his handkerchief at his father just before he expired. the parents consented to our united request to examine his body. dr. griffitts being obliged to go into the country, and dr. physick being indisposed, i undertook this business the next morning; and, in the presence of dr. john dorsey (to whom i gave the dissecting knife), and my pupil mr. murduck, i discovered the following appearances. all the muscles of the neck had a livid colour, such as we sometimes observe, after death, in persons who have died of the sore throat. the muscles employed in deglutition and speech were suffused with blood. the epiglottis was inflamed, and the glottis so thickened and contracted, as barely to admit a probe of the common size. the trachea below it was likewise inflamed and thickened, and contained a quantity of mucus in it, such as we observe, now and then, after death from cynanche trachealis. the [oe]sophagus exhibited no marks of disease; but the stomach had several inflamed spots upon it, and contained a matter of a brown appearance, and which emitted an offensive odour. from the history of this dissection, and of many others, in which much fewer marks appeared of violent disease, in parts whose actions are essential to life, it is highly probable death is not induced in the ordinary manner in which malignant fevers produce it, but by a sudden or gradual suffocation. it is the temporary closure of this aperture which produces the dread of swallowing liquids: hence the reason why they are swallowed suddenly, and with intervals, in the manner that has been described; for, should the glottis be closed during the time of two swallows, in the highly diseased state of the system which takes place in this disease, suffocation would be the immediate and certain consequence. the same difficulty and danger attend the swallowing saliva, and hence the symptom of spitting, which has been so often taken notice of in hydrophobia. solids are swallowed more easily than fluids, only because they descend by intervals, and because a less closure of the glottis is sufficient to favour their passage into the stomach. this remark is confirmed by the frequent occurrence of death in the very act of swallowing, and that too with the common symptoms of suffocation. to account for death from this cause, and in the manner that has been described, it will be necessary to recollect, that fresh air is more necessary to the action of the lungs in a fever than in health, and much more so in a fever of a malignant character, such as the hydrophobia appears to be, than in fevers of a milder nature. an aversion from swallowing liquids is not peculiar to this disease. it occurs occasionally in the yellow fever. it occurs likewise in the disease which has prevailed among the cats, both in europe and america, and probably, in both instances, from a dread of suffocation in consequence of the closure of the glottis, and sudden abstraction of fresh air. the seat of the disease, and the cause of death, being, i hope, thus ascertained, the means of preventing death come next under our consideration. tonic remedies, in all their forms, have been administered to no purpose. the theory of the disease would lead us to expect a remedy for it in blood-letting. but this, though now and then used with success, is not its cure, owing, as we now see, to the mortal seat of the disease being so far removed from the circulation, as not to be affected by the loss of blood in the most liberal quantity. as well might we expect the inflammation and pain of a paronychia, or what is called a felon on the finger, to be removed by the same remedy. purging and sweating, though occasionally successful, have failed in many instances; and even a salivation, when excited (which is rarely the case), has not cured it. an artificial aperture into the windpipe alone bids fair to arrest its tendency to death, by removing the symptom which generally induces it, and thereby giving time for other remedies, which have hitherto been unsuccessful, to produce their usual salutary effects in similar diseases[ ]. in removing faintness, in drawing off the water in ischuria, in composing convulsions, and in stopping hæmorrhages in malignant fever, we do not cure the disease, but we prevent death, and thereby gain time for the use of the remedies which are proper to cure it. laryngotomy, according to fourcroy's advice, in diseases of the throat which obstruct respiration, should be preferred to tracheotomy, and the incision should be made in the triangular space between the thyroid and cricoid cartilages. should this operation be adopted, in order to save life, it will not offer near so much violence to humanity as many other operations. we cut through a large mass of flesh into the bladder in extracting a stone. we cut into the cavity of the thorax in the operation for the empyema. we perforate the bones of the head in trepanning; and we cut through the uterus, in performing the cæsarian operation, in order to save life. the operation of laryngotomy is much less painful and dangerous than any of them; and besides permitting the patient to breathe and to swallow, it is calculated to serve the inferior purpose of lessening the disease of the glottis by means of local depletion. after an aperture has been thus made through the larynx, the remedies should be such as are indicated by the state of the system, particularly by the state of the pulse. in hot climates it is, i believe, generally a disease of feeble re-action, and requires tonic remedies; but in the middle and northern states of america it is more commonly attended with so much activity and excitement of the blood-vessels, as to require copious blood-letting and other depleting remedies. [ ] the hoarse barking, or the total inability of mad dogs to bark, favours still further the idea that the mortal seat of the disease is in the glottis, and that the remedy which has been proposed is a rational one. should this new mode of attacking this furious disease be adopted, and become generally successful, the discovery will place the ingenious gentleman who suggested it in the first rank of the medical benefactors of mankind. i have only to add a fact upon this subject which may tend to increase confidence in a mode of preventing the disease which has been recommended by dr. haygarth, and used with success in several instances. the same dog which bit mr. todd's son, bit, at the same time, a cow, a pig, a dog, and a black servant of mr. todd's. the cow and pig died; the dog became mad, and was killed by his master. the black man, who was bitten on one of his fingers, exposed the wound for some time, immediately after he received it, to a stream of pump water, and washed it likewise with soap and water. he happily escaped the disease, and is now in good health. that his wound was poisoned is highly probable, from its having been made eight hours after the last of the above animals was bitten, in which time there can be but little doubt of such a fresh secretion of saliva having taken place as would have produced the hydrophobia, had it not been prevented by the above simple remedy. i am not, however, so much encouraged by its happy issue in this case as to advise it in preference to cutting out the wounded part. it should only be resorted to where the fears of a patient, or his distance from a surgeon render it impossible to use the knife. an account of _the measles_, as they appeared in philadelphia, in the spring of . the weather in december, , and in january, , was variable, but seldom very cold. on the first of february, , at six o'clock in the morning, the mercury in fahrenheit's thermometer fell ° below , in the city of philadelphia. at twenty miles from the city, on the schuylkill, it fell ° below , at the same hour. on the th and th of this month, there fell a quantity of snow, the depth of which, upon an average, was supposed to be about eight or ten inches. on the d, th, th, and th, the weather was very cold. the mercury fluctuated during these days between ° and ° above . in the intervals between these cold days, the weather frequently moderated, so that the delaware was frozen and thawed not less than four times. it was not navigable till the th of march. there were in all, during the winter and month of march, sixteen distinct falls of snow. in april and may there were a few warm days; but upon the whole, it was a very cold and backward spring. the peaches failed almost universally. there were no strawberries or cherries on the th of may, and every other vegetable product was equally backward. a country woman of years of age informed me, that it was the coldest spring she had ever known. it was uncomfortable to sit without fire till the first of june. the measles appeared first in the northern liberties, in december. they spread slowly in january, and were not universal in the city till february and march. this disease, like many others, had its _precursor_. it was either a gum-boil, or a sore on the tongue. they were both very common, but not universal. they occurred, in some instances, several days before the fever, but in general they made their appearance during the eruptive fever, and were a sure mark of the approaching eruption of the measles. i was first led to observe this fact, from having read dr. quin's accurate account of the measles in jamaica. i shall now proceed to mention the symptoms of the measles as they appeared in the different parts of the body. . in the _head_, they produced great pain, swelling of the eye-lids, so as to obstruct the eye-sight, tooth-ach, bleeding at the nose, tinnitus aurium, and deafness; also coma for two days, and convulsions. i saw the last symptom only in one instance. it was brought on by a stoppage of a running from the ear. . in the _throat_ and _lungs_, they produced a soreness and hoarseness, acute or dull pains in the breast and sides, and a painful or distressing cough. in one case, this cough continued for two hours without any intermission, attended by copious expectoration. in two cases, i saw a constant involuntary discharge of phlegm and mucus from the mouth, without any cough. one of them terminated fatally. spitting of blood occurred in several instances. the symptoms of pneumonia vera notha and typhoides were very common. i saw two fatal cases from pneumonia notha, in both of which the patients died with the trunk of the body in an erect posture. i met with two cases in which there was no cough till the eruption made its appearance on the fourth day, and one which was accompanied by all the usual symptoms of the cynanche trachealis. . in the _stomach_ the measles produced, in many instances, sickness and vomiting. and . in the _bowels_, griping, diarrh[oe]a, and, in some instances, bloody stools. the diarrh[oe]a occurred in every stage of the disease, but it was bloody and most painful in its decline. i attended a black girl who discharged a great many worms, but without the least relief of any of her symptoms. there was a great variety in this disease. . in the _time_ of the attack of the fever, from the _time_ of the reception of the contagion. in general the interval was fourteen days, but it frequently appeared before, and sometimes later than that period. . in the _time of the eruption_, from the beginning of the fever. it generally appeared on the third and fourth days. in one case, dr. waters informed me, it did not appear till the eighth day. . in the _abatement_ or _continuance_ of the fever after the eruption. . in the _colour_ and _figure_ of the eruption. in some it put on a _pale_ red, in others a _deep_, and in a few a _livid_ colour, resembling an incipient mortification. in some there appeared red blotches, in others an equally diffused redness, and in a few, eruptions like the small-pox, called by dr. cullen, rubiola varioloides. . in the _duration_ of the eruption on the skin. it remained in most cases only three or four days; but in one, which came under my care, it remained nine days. . in the _manner of its retrocession_. i saw very few cases of its leaving the branny appearance so generally spoken of by authors on the skin. . in _not affecting_ many persons, and even families who were exposed to it. the symptoms which continued in many after the retrocession of the measles, were cough, hoarseness, or complete aphonia, which continued in two cases for two weeks; also diarrh[oe]a, opthalmy, a bad taste in the mouth, a defect or excess of appetite, and a fever, which in some instances was of the intermitting kind, but which in more assumed the more dangerous form of the typhus mitior. two cases of internal dropsy of the brain followed them. one was evidently excited by a fall. they both ended fatally. during the prevalence of the disease i observed several persons (who had had the measles, and who were closely confined to the rooms of persons ill with them) to be affected with a slight cough, sore throat, and even sores in the mouth. i find a similar fact taken notice of by dr. quier. but i observed further, many children to be affected by a fever, cough, and all the other symptoms of the measles which have been mentioned, except a general eruption, for in some there was a trifling efflorescence about the neck and breast. i observed the same thing in and . in my note book i find the following account of the appearance of this disease in children in the year . "the measles appeared in march; a catarrh (for by that name i then called it) appeared at the same time, and was often mistaken for them, the symptoms being nearly the same in both. in the catarrh there was in some instances a trifling eruption. a lax often attended it, and some who had it had an extremely sore mouth." i was the more struck with this disease, from finding it was taken notice of by dr. sydenham. he calls it a morbillous fever. i likewise find an account of it in the d article of the th volume of the edinburgh medical essays. the words of the author, who is anonymous, are as follow. "during this measly season, several persons, who never had the measles, had all the symptoms of measles, which went off in a few days without any eruptions. the same persons had the measles months or years afterwards." is this disease a common fever, marked by the reigning epidemic, and produced in the same manner, and by the same causes, as the variolous fever described by dr. sydenham, which he says prevailed at the same time with the small-pox? i think it is not. my reasons for this opinion are as follow. . i never saw it affect any but children, in the degree that has been mentioned, and such only as had never had the measles. . it affected whole families at the same time. it proved fatal to one of three children whom it affected on the same day. . it terminated in a pulmonary consumption in a boy of ten years old, with all the symptoms which attend that disease when it follows the regular measles. . it affected a child in one family, on the same day that two other members of the same family were affected by the genuine measles. . it appeared on the usual days of the genuine measles, from the time the persons affected by it were exposed to its contagion. and, . it communicated the disease in one family, in the usual time in which the disease is taken from the genuine measles. the measles, then, appear to follow the analogy of the small-pox, which affects so superficially as to be taken a second time, and which produce on persons who have had them what are called the nurse pock. they follow likewise the analogy of another disease, viz. the scarlatina anginosa. in the account of the epidemic for , published in the third volume of the edinburgh medical essays, we are told, that such patients as had previously had the scarlet fever without sore throats, took the sore throat, and had no eruption, while those who had previously had the sore throat had a scarlet eruption, but the throat remained free from the distemper. all other persons who were affected had both. from these facts, i have taken the liberty of calling it the _internal measles_, to distinguish it from those which are _external_. i think the discovery of this new state of this disease of some application to practice. . it will lead us to be cautious in declaring any disease to be the external measles, in which there is not a general eruption. from my ignorance of this, i have been led to commit several mistakes, which were dishonourable to the profession. i was called, during the prevalence of the measles in the above-named season, to visit a girl of twelve years old, with an eruption on the skin. i called it the measles. the mother told me it was impossible, for that i had in attended her for the same disease. i suspect the anonymous author before-mentioned has fallen into the same error. he adds to the account before quoted the following words. "others, who had undergone the measles formerly, had _at this time_ a fever of the erysipelatous kind, with eruptions like to which nettles cause, and all the _previous_ and concomitant symptoms of the measles, from the beginning to the end of the disease." . if inoculation, or any other mode of lessening the violence of the disease, should be adopted, it will be of consequence to know what persons are secure from the attacks of it, and who are still exposed to it. i shall now add a short account of my method of treating this disease. many hundred families came through the disease without the help of a physician. but in many cases it was attended with peculiar danger, and in some with death. i think it was much more fatal than in the years and , probably owing to the variable weather in the winter, and the coldness and dampness of the succeeding spring. dr. huxham says, he once saw the measles attended with peculiar mortality, during a late cold and damp spring in england. it was much more fatal (cæteris paribus) to adults than to young people. the remedies i used were, . _bleeding_, in all cases where great pain and cough with a hard pulse attended. in some i found it necessary to repeat this remedy. but i met with many cases in which it was forbidden by the weakness of the pulse, and by other marks of a feeble action in the blood-vessels. . _vomits._ these were very useful in removing a nausea; they likewise favoured the eruption of the measles. . _demulcent_ and _diluting drinks_. these were barley water, bran, and flaxseed tea, dried cherry and raw apple water, also beverage, and cyder and water. the last drink i found to be the most agreeable to my patients of any that have been mentioned. . _blisters_ to the neck, sides, and extremities, according to the symptoms. they were useful in every stage of the disease. . _opiates._ these were given not only at night, but in small doses during the day, when a troublesome cough or diarrh[oe]a attended. . where a catarrhal fever ensued, i used bleeding and blisters. in those cases in which this fever terminated in an intermittent, or in a mild typhus fever, i gave the bark with evident advantage. in that case of measles, formerly mentioned, which was accompanied by symptoms of cynanche trachealis, i gave calomel with the happiest effects. in the admission of _fresh air_ i observed a medium as to its temperature, and accommodated it to the degrees of action in the system. in different parts of the country, in pennsylvania and new-jersey, i heard with great pleasure of the _cold air_ being used as freely and as successfully in this disease, as in the inflammatory small-pox. the same people who were so much benefited by _cool air_, i was informed, drank plentifully of cold water during every stage of the fever. one thing in favour of this country practice deserves to be mentioned, and that is, evident advantage arose in all the cases which i attended, from patients leaving their beds in the febrile state of this disease. but this was practised only by those in whom inflammatory diathesis prevailed, for these alone had strength enough to bear it. the convalescent state of this disease required particular attention. . _a diarrh[oe]a_ often continued to be troublesome after other symptoms had abated. i relieved it by opiates and demulcent drinks. bleeding has been recommended for it, but i did not find it necessary in a single case. . an _opthalmia_ which sometimes attended, yielded to astringent collyria and blisters. . where a cough or fever followed so slight as not to require bleeding, i advised a milk and vegetable diet, country air, and moderate warmth; for whatever might have been the relation of the lungs in the beginning of the disease to cold air, they were now evidently too much debilitated to bear it. . it is a common practice to prescribe purges after the measles. after the asthenic state of this disease they certainly do harm. in all cases, the effects of them may be better obviated by diet, full or low, suitable clothing, and gentle exercise, or country air. i omitted them in several cases, and no eruption or disease of any kind followed their disuse. i shall only add to this account of the measles, that in several families, i saw evident advantages from preparing the body for the reception of the contagion, by means of a vegetable diet. an account of _the influenza_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the autumn of , in the spring of , and in the winter of . the latter end of the month of august, in the summer of , was so very cool that fires became agreeable. the month of september was cool, dry, and pleasant. during the whole of this month, and for some days before it began, and after it ended, there had been no rain. in the beginning of october, a number of the members of the first congress, that had assembled in new-york, under the present national government, arrived in philadelphia, much indisposed with colds. they ascribed them to the fatigue and night air to which they had been exposed in travelling in the public stages; but from the number of persons who were affected, from the uniformity of their complaints, and from the rapidity with which it spread through our city, it soon became evident that it was the disease so well known of late years by the name of the influenza. the symptoms which ushered in the disease were generally a hoarseness, a sore throat, a sense of weariness, chills, and a fever. after the disease was formed, it affected more or less the following parts of the body. many complained of acute pains in the _head_. these pains were frequently fixed between the eye-balls, and, in three cases which came under my notice, they were terminated by abscesses in the frontal sinus, which discharged themselves through the nose. the pain, in one of these cases, before the rupture of the abscess, was so exquisite, that my patient informed me, that he felt as if he should lose his reason. many complained of a great itching in the _eye-lids_. in some, the eye-lids were swelled. in others, a copious effusion of water took place from the _eyes_; and in a few, there was a true ophthalmia. many complained of great pains in one _ear_, and some of pains in both _ears_. in some, these pains terminated in abscesses, which discharged for some days a bloody or purulent matter. in others, there was a swelling behind each ear, without a suppuration.--_sneezing_ was a universal symptom. in some, it occurred not less than fifty times in a day. the matter discharged from the nose was so acrid as to inflame the nostrils and the upper lip, in such a manner as to bring on swellings, sores, and scabs in many people. in some, the nose discharged drops, and in a few, streams of blood, to the amount, in one case, of twenty ounces. in many cases, it was so much obstructed, as to render breathing through it difficult. in some, there was a total defect of _taste_. in others, there was a bad taste in the mouth, which frequently continued through the whole course of the disease. in some, there was a want of _appetite_. in others, it was perfectly natural. some complained of a soreness in their mouths, as if they had been inflamed by holding pepper in them. some had _swelled jaws_, and many complained of the _tooth-ach_. i saw only one case in which the disease produced a _coma_. many were affected with pains in the _breast_ and _sides_. a difficulty of breathing attended in some, and a _cough_ was universal. sometimes this cough alternated with a pain in the _head_. sometimes it preceded this pain, and sometimes it followed it. it was at all times distressing. in some instances, it resembled the chin-cough. one person expired in a fit of coughing, and many persons spat blood in consequence of its violence. i saw several patients in whom the disease affected the trachea chiefly, producing great difficulty of breathing, and, in one case, a suppression of the voice, and i heard of another in which the disease, by falling on the trachea, produced a cynanche trachealis. in most of the cases which terminated fatally, the patients died of pneumonia notha. the _stomach_ was sometimes affected by nausea and vomiting; but this was far from being a universal symptom. i met with four cases in which the whole force of the disease fell upon the _bowels_, and went off in a diarrh[oe]a; but in general the bowels were regular or costive. the _limbs_ were affected with such acute pains as to be mistaken for the rheumatism, or for the break-bone-fever of . the pains were most acute in the back and thighs. _profuse sweats_ appeared in many over the whole body in the beginning, but without affording any relief. it was in some instances accompanied by erysipelatous, and in four cases which came to my knowledge, it was followed by miliary eruptions. the _pulse_ was sometimes tense and quick, but seldom full. in a great majority of those whom i visited it was quick, weak, and soft. there was no appearance in the urine different from what is common in all fevers. the disease had evident remissions, and the fever seldom continued above three or four days; but the cough, and some other troublesome symptoms, sometimes continued two or three weeks. in a few persons, the fever terminated in a tedious and dangerous typhus. in several pregnant women it produced uterine hæmorrhages and abortions. it affected adults of both sexes alike. a few old people escaped it. it passed by children under eight years old with a few exceptions. out of five and thirty maniacs in the pennsylvania hospital, but three were affected by it. no profession or occupation escaped it. the smell of tar and tobacco did not preserve the persons who worked in them from the disease, nor did the use of tobacco, in snuff, smoking, or chewing, afford a security against it.[ ] [ ] mr. howard informs us that the use of tobacco is not a preservative against the plague, as has formerly been supposed; of course that apology for the use of an offensive weed should not be admitted. even previous and existing diseases did not protect patients from it. it insinuated into sick chambers, and blended itself with every species of chronic complaint. it was remarkable that persons who worked in the open air, such as sailors, and 'long-shore-men, (to use a mercantile epithet) had it much worse than tradesmen who worked within doors. a body of surveyors, in the eastern woods of pennsylvania, suffered extremely from it. even the vigour of constitution which is imparted by the savage life did not mitigate its violence. mr. andrew ellicott, the geographer of the united states, informed me that he was a witness of its affecting the indians in the neighbourhood of niagara with peculiar force. the cough which attended this disease was so new and so irritating a complaint among them, that they ascribed it to witchcraft. it proved most fatal on the sea-shore of the united states. many people who had recovered, were affected a second time with all the symptoms of the disease. i met with a woman, who, after recovering from it in philadelphia, took it a second time in new-york, and a third time upon her return to philadelphia. many thousand people had the disease who were not confined to their houses, but transacted business as usual out of doors. a perpetual coughing was heard in every street of the city. buying and selling were rendered tedious by the coughing of the farmer and the citizen who met in market places. it even rendered divine service scarcely intelligible in the churches. a few persons who were exposed to the disease escaped it, and some had it so lightly as scarcely to be sensible of it. of the persons who were confined to their houses, not a fourth part of them kept their beds. it proved fatal (with few exceptions) only to old people, and to persons who had been previously debilitated by consumptive complaints. it likewise carried of several hard drinkers. it terminated in asthma in three persons whose cases came under my notice, and in pulmonary consumption, in many more. i met with an instance in a lady, who was much relieved of a chronic complaint in her liver; and i heard of another instance of a clergyman whose general health was much improved by a severe attack of this disease. it was not wholly confined to the human species. it affected two cats, two house-dogs, and one horse, within the sphere of my observations. one of the dogs disturbed his mistress so much by coughing at night, that she gave him ten drops of laudanum for several nights, which perfectly composed him. one of the cats had a vomiting with her cough. the horse breathed as if he had been affected by the cynanche trachealis. the scarlatina anginosa, which prevailed during the summer, disappeared after the first of october; but appeared again after the influenza left the city. nor was the remitting fever seen during the prevalence of the reigning epidemic. i inoculated about twenty children for the small-pox during this prevalence of the influenza, and never saw that disease exhibit a more favourable appearance. in the treatment of the influenza i was governed by the state of the system. where inflammatory diathesis discovered itself by a full or tense pulse, or where great difficulty of breathing occurred, and the pulse was low and weak in the beginning of the disease, i ordered moderate bleeding. in a few cases in which the symptoms of pneumony attended, i bled a second time with advantage. in all these instances of inflammatory affection, i gave the usual antiphlogistic medicines. i found that vomits did not terminate the disease, as they often do a common catarrh, in the course of a day, or of a few hours. in cases where no inflammatory action appeared in the system, i prescribed cordial drinks and diet, and forbad every kind of evacuation. i saw several instances of persons who had languished for a week or two with the disease, who were suddenly cured by eating a hearty meal, or by drinking half a pint of wine, or a pint of warm punch. in all these cases of weak action in the blood-vessels, liquid laudanum gave great relief, not only by suspending the cough, but by easing the pains in the bones. i met with a case of an old lady who was suddenly and perfectly cured of her cough by a fright. the duration of this epidemic in our city was about six weeks. it spread from new-york and philadelphia in all directions, and in the course of a few months pervaded every state in the union. it was carried from the united states to several of the west-india islands. it prevailed in the island of grenada in the month of november, , and it was heard of in the course of the ensuing winter in the spanish settlements in south-america. the following winter was unusually mild, insomuch that the navigation of the delaware was not interrupted during the whole season, only from the th to the th of february. the weather on the d and th days of march was very cold, and on the th and th days of the same month, the mercury in fahrenheit's thermometer stood at ° at o'clock in the morning. on the th and th, there fell a deep snow. the weather during the remaining part of the month was cold, rainy, and variable. it continued to be variable during the month of april. about the middle of the month there fell an unusual quantity of rain. the showers which fell on the night of the th will long be connected in the memories of the citizens of philadelphia with the time of the death of the celebrated dr. franklin. several pleurisies appeared during this month; also a few cases of measles. in the last week of the month the influenza made its appearance. it was brought to the city from new-england, and affected, in its course, all the intermediate states. its symptoms were nearly the same as they were in the preceding autumn, but in many people it put on some new appearances. several persons who were affected by it had symptoms of madness, one of whom destroyed himself by jumping out of a window. some had no cough, but very acute pains in the back and head. it was remarked that those who had the disease chiefly in the breast the last year, complained now chiefly of their heads, while those whose heads were affected formerly, now complained chiefly of their breasts. in many it put on the type of an intermitting fever. several complained of constant chills, or constant sweats; and some were much alarmed by an uncommon blue and dark colour in their hands. i saw one case of ischuria, another of an acute pain in the rectum, a third of anasarca, and a fourth of a palsy in the tongue and arms; all of which appeared to be anomalous symptoms of the influenza. sneezing, and pains in the ears and frontal sinus, were less common now than they were in the fall; but a pain in the eye-balls was a universal symptom. some had a pain in the one eye only, and a few had sore eyes, and swellings in the face. many women who had it, were affected by an irregular appearance of the catamenia. in two persons whom i saw, the cough was incessant for three days, nor could it be composed by any other remedy than plentiful bleeding. a patient of dr. samuel duffield informed me, after his recovery, that he had had no other symptom of the disease than an efflorescence on his skin, and a large swelling in his groin, which terminated in a tedious abscess. the prisoners in the jail who had it in the autumn, escaped it this spring. during the prevalence of this disease, i saw no sign of any other epidemic. it declined sensibly about the first week in june, and after the th day of this month i was not called to a single patient in it. the remedies for it were the same as were used in the fall. i used bleeding in several cases on the second, third, and fourth days of the disease, where it had appeared to be improper in its first stage. the cases which required bleeding were far from being general. i saw two instances of syncope of an alarming nature, after the loss of ten ounces of blood; and i heard of one instance of a boy who died in half an hour after this evacuation. i remarked that purges of all kinds worked more violently than usual in this disease. the convalescence from it was very slow, and a general languor appeared to pervade the citizens for several weeks after it left the city. the month of december, , was extremely and uniformly cold. in the beginning of the month of january, , the weather moderated, and continued to be pleasant till the th, on which day the navigation of the delaware, which had been completely obstructed by the ice, was opened so as to admit of the arrival of several vessels. during the month of december many people complained of _colds_; but they were ascribed wholly to the weather. in january four or five persons in a family were affected by colds at the same time; which created a suspicion of a return of the influenza. this suspicion was soon confirmed by accounts of its prevailing in the neighbouring counties of chester and montgomery, in pennsylvania, and in the distant states of virginia and rhode-island. it did not affect near so generally as in the two former times of appearance. there was no difference in the method of treating it. while the common inflammatory diseases of the winter bore the lancet as usual, it was remarked that patients who were attacked by the influenza, did not bear bleeding in a greater proportion, or in a larger quantity, than in the two former times of its appearance in the city. i shall conclude this account of the influenza by the following observations: . it exists independently of the sensible qualities of the air, and in all kinds of weather. dr. patrick russel has proved the plague to be equally independent of the influence of the sensible qualities of the atmosphere, to a certain degree. . the influenza passes with the utmost rapidity through a country, and affects the greatest number of people, in a given time, of any disease in the world. . it appears from the histories of it which are upon record, that neither climate, nor the different states of society, have produced any _material_ change in the disease. this will appear from comparing the account i have given, with the histories of it which have lately been given by dr. grey, dr. hamilton, dr. a. fothergill, mr. chisholm, and other modern physicians. it appears further, that even time itself has not been able materially to change the type of this disease. this is evident, from comparing modern accounts of it with those which have been handed down to us by ancient physicians. i have hinted in a former essay at the _diminutives_ of certain diseases. there is a state of influenza, which is less violent and more local, than that which has been described. it generally prevails in the winter season. it seems to originate from a morbid matter, generated in crowded and heated churches, and other assemblies of the people. i have seen a cold, or influenza, frequently universal in philadelphia, which i have distinctly traced to this source. it would seem as if the same species of diseases resembled pictures, and that while some of them partook of the deep and vivid nature of mosaic work, others appeared like the feeble and transient impressions of water colours. an inquiry into the _cause of animal life_. in three lectures, delivered in the university of pennsylvania. lecture i. gentlemen, my business in this chair is to teach the institutes of medicine. they have been divided into physiology, pathology, and therapeutics. the objects of the first are, the laws of the human body in its healthy state. the second includes the history of the causes and seats of diseases. the subjects of the third are the remedies for those diseases. in entering upon the first part of our course, i am met by a remark delivered by dr. hunter in his introductory lectures to his course of anatomy. "in our branch (says the doctor) those teachers who study to captivate young minds with ingenious speculations, will not leave a reputation behind them that will outlive them half a century. when they cease from their labours, their labours will be buried along with them. there never was a man more followed and admired in physiology, than dr. boerhaave. i remember the veneration in which he was held. and now, in the space of forty years, his physiology is---- it shocks me to think in what a light it appears[ ]." painful as this premonition may be to the teachers of physiology, it should not deter them from speculating upon physiological subjects. simple anatomy is a mass of dead matter. it is physiology which infuses life into it. a knowledge of the structure of the human body occupies only the memory. physiology introduces it to the higher and more noble faculties of the mind. the component parts of the body may be compared to the materials of a house, lying without order in a yard. it is physiology, like a skilful architect, which connects them together, so as to form from them an elegant and useful building. the writers against physiology resemble, in one particular, the writers against luxury. they forget that the functions they know and describe belong to the science of physiology; just as the declaimers against luxury forget that all the conveniences which they enjoy beyond what are possessed in the most simple stage of society, belong to the luxuries of life. the anatomist who describes the circulation of the blood, acts the part of a physiologist, as much as he does, who attempts to explain the functions of the brain. in this respect dr. hunter did honour to our science; for few men ever explained that subject, and many others equally physiological, with more perspicuity and eloquence, than that illustrious anatomist. upon all new and difficult subjects there must be pioneers. it has been my lot to be called to this office of hazard and drudgery; and if in discharging its duties i should meet the fate of my predecessors, in this branch of medicine, i shall not perish in vain. my errors, like the bodies of those who fall in forcing a breach, will serve to compose a bridge for those who shall come after me, in our present difficult enterprise. this consideration, aided by just views of the nature and extent of moral obligation, will overbalance the evils anticipated by dr. hunter, from the loss of posthumous fame. had a prophetic voice whispered in the ear of dr. boerhaave in the evening of his life, that in the short period of forty years, the memory of his physiological works would perish from the earth, i am satisfied, from the knowledge we have of his elevated genius and piety, he would have treated the prediction with the same indifference that he would have done, had he been told, that in the same time, his name should be erased from a pane of glass, in a noisy and vulgar country tavern. [ ] lect. xi. p. . the subjects of the lectures i am about to deliver, you will find in a syllabus which i have prepared and published, for the purpose of giving you a succinct view of the extent and connection of our course. some of these subjects will be new in lectures upon the institutes of medicine, particularly those which relate to morals, metaphysics, and theology. however thorny these questions may appear, we must approach and handle them; for they are intimately connected with the history of the faculties and operations of the human mind; and these form an essential part of the animal economy. perhaps it is because physicians have hitherto been restrained from investigating, and deciding upon these subjects, by an erroneous belief that they belong exclusively to another profession, that physiology has so long been an obscure and conjectural science. in beholding the human body, the first thing that strikes us, is its _life_. this, of course, should be the first object of our inquiries. it is a most important subject; for the end of all the studies of a physician is to preserve life; and this cannot be perfectly done, until we know in what it consists. i include in animal life, as applied to the human body, _motion_, _sensation_, and _thought_. these three, when united, compose perfect life. it may exist without thought, or sensation; but neither sensation, nor thought, can exist without motion. the lowest grade of life, probably exists in the absence of even motion, as i shall mention hereafter. i have preferred the term _motion_ to those of oscillation and vibration, which have been employed by dr. hartley in explaining the laws of animal matter; because i conceived it to be more simple, and better adapted to common apprehension. in treating upon this subject, i shall first consider animal life as it appears in the waking and sleeping states in a healthy adult, and shall afterwards inquire into the modification of its causes in the f[oe]tal, infant, youthful, and middle states of life, in certain diseases, in different states of society, in different climates, and in different animals. i shall begin by delivering three general propositions. i. every part of the human body (the nails and hair excepted) is endowed with sensibility, or excitability, or with both of them. by sensibility is meant the power of having sensation excited by the action of impressions. excitability denotes that property in the human body, by which motion is excited by means of impressions. this property has been called by several other names, such as irritability, contractility, mobility, and stimulability. i shall make use of the term excitability, for the most part, in preference to any of them. i mean by it, a capacity of imperceptible, as well as obvious motion. it is of no consequence to our present inquiries, whether this excitability be a quality of animal matter, or a substance. the latter opinion has been maintained by dr. girtanner, and has some probability in its favour. ii. the whole human body is so formed and connected, that impressions made in the healthy state upon one part, excite motion, or sensation, or both, in every other part of the body. from this view, it appears to be a unit, or a simple and indivisible quality, or substance. its capacity for receiving motion, and sensation, is variously modified by means of what are called the senses. it is external, and internal. the impressions which act upon it shall be ennumerated in order. iii. life is the _effect_ of certain stimuli acting upon the sensibility and excitability which are extended, in different degrees, over every external and internal part of the body. these stimuli are as necessary to its existence, as air is to flame. animal life is truly (to use the words of dr. brown) "a forced state." i have said the _words_ of dr. brown; for the opinion was delivered by dr. cullen in the university of edinburgh, in the year , and was detailed by me in this school, many years before the name of dr. brown was known as teacher of medicine. it is true, dr. cullen afterwards deserted it; but it is equally true, i never did; and the belief of it has been the foundation of many of the principles and modes of practice in medicine which i have since adopted. in a lecture which i delivered in the year , i find the following words, which are taken from a manuscript copy of lectures given by dr. cullen upon the institutes of medicine. "the human body is not an automaton, or self-moving machine; but is kept alive and in motion, by the constant action of stimuli upon it." in thus ascribing the discovery of the cause of life which i shall endeavour to establish, to dr. cullen, let it not be supposed i mean to detract from the genius and merit of dr. brown. to his intrepidity in reviving and propagating it, as well as for the many other truths contained in his system of medicine, posterity, i have no doubt, will do him ample justice, after the errors that are blended with them have been corrected, by their unsuccessful application to the cure of diseases. agreeably to our last proposition, i proceed to remark, that the action of the brain, the diastole and systole of the heart, the pulsation of the arteries, the contraction of the muscles, the peristaltic motion of the bowels, the absorbing power of the lymphatics, secretion, excretion, hearing, seeing, smelling, taste, and the sense of touch, nay more, thought itself, are all the effects of stimuli acting upon the organs of sense and motion. these stimuli have been divided into external and internal. the external are light, sound, odours, air, heat, exercise, and the pleasures of the senses. the internal stimuli are food, drinks, chyle, the blood, a certain tension of the glands, which contain secreted liquors, and the exercises of the faculties of the mind; each of which i shall treat in the order in which they have been mentioned. . of external stimuli. the first of these is light. it is remarkable that the progenitor of the human race was not brought into existence until all the luminaries of heaven were created. light acts chiefly through the medium of the organs of vision. its influence upon animal life is feeble, compared with some other stimuli to be mentioned hereafter; but it has its proportion of force. sleep has been said to be a tendency to death; now the absence of light we know invites to sleep, and the return of it excites the waking state. the late mr. rittenhouse informed me, that for many years he had constantly awoke with the first dawn of the morning light, both in summer and winter. its influence upon the animal spirits strongly demonstrates its connection with animal life, and hence we find a cheerful and a depressed state of mind in many people, and more especially in invalids, to be intimately connected with the presence or absence of the rays of the sun. the well-known pedestrian traveller, mr. stewart, in one of his visits to this city, informed me, that he had spent a summer in lapland, in the latitude of °, during the greatest part of which time the sun was seldom out of sight. he enjoyed, he said, during this period, uncommon health and spirits, both of which he ascribed to the long duration, and invigorating influence of light. these facts will surprise us less when we attend to the effects of light upon vegetables. some of them lose their colour by being deprived of it; many of them discover a partiality to it in the direction of their flowers; and all of them discharge their pure air only while they are exposed to it[ ]. [ ] "organization, sensation, spontaneous motion, and life, exist only at the surface of the earth, and in places exposed to _light_. we might affirm the flame of prometheus's torch was the expression of a philosophical truth that did not escape the ancients. without light, nature was lifeless, inanimate, and dead. a benevolent god, by producing life, has spread organization, sensation, and thought over the surface of the earth."--_lavoisier._ . sound has an extensive influence upon human life. its numerous artificial and natural sources need not be mentioned. i shall only take notice, that the currents of winds, the passage of insects through the air, and even the growth of vegetables, are all attended with an emission of sound; and although they become imperceptible from habit, yet there is reason to believe they all act upon the body, through the medium of the ears. the existence of these sounds is established by the reports of persons who have ascended two or three miles from the earth in a balloon. they tell us that the silence which prevails in those regions of the air is so new and complete, as to produce an awful solemnity in their minds. it is not necessary that these sounds should excite sensation or perception, in order to their exerting a degree of stimulus upon the body. there are a hundred impressions daily made upon it, which from habit are not followed by sensation. the stimulus of aliment upon the stomach, and of blood upon the heart and arteries, probably cease to be felt, only from the influence of habit. the exercise of walking, which was originally the result of a deliberate act of the will, is performed from habit without the least degree of consciousness. it is unfortunate for this, and many other parts of physiology, that we forget what passed in our minds the first two or three years of our lives. could we recollect the manner in which we acquired our first ideas, and the progress of our knowledge with the evolution of our senses and faculties, it would relieve us from many difficulties and controversies upon this subject. perhaps this forgetfulness by children, of the origin and progress of their knowledge, might be remedied by our attending more closely to the first effects of impressions, sensation, and perception upon them, as discovered by their little actions; all of which probably have a meaning, as determined as any of the actions of men or women. the influence of sounds of a certain kind in producing excitement, and thereby increasing life, cannot be denied. fear produces debility, which is a tendency to death. sound obviates this debility, and thus restores the system to the natural and healthy grade of life. the school-boy and the clown invigorate their feeble and trembling limbs by whistling or singing as they pass by a country church-yard, and the soldier feels his departing life recalled in the onset of a battle by the noise of the fife, and of the poet's "spirit stirring drum." intoxication is frequently attended with a higher degree of life than is natural. now sound we know will produce this with a very moderate portion of fermented liquor; hence we find men are more easily and highly excited by it at public entertainments where there is music, loud talking, and hallooing, than in private companies where there is no auxiliary stimulus added to that of the wine. i wish these effects of sound upon animal life to be remembered; for i shall mention it hereafter as a remedy for the weak state of life in many diseases, and shall relate an instance in which a scream suddenly extorted by grief, proved the means of resuscitating a person who was supposed to be dead, and who had exhibited the usual recent marks of the extinction of life. i shall conclude this head by remarking, that persons who are destitute of hearing and seeing possess life in a more languid state than other people; and hence arise the dulness and want of spirits which they discover in their intercourse with the world. . odours have a sensible effect in promoting animal life. the greater healthiness of the country, than cities, is derived in part from the effluvia of odoriferous plants, which float in the atmosphere in the spring and summer months, acting upon the system, through the medium of the sense of smelling. the effects of odours upon animal life appear still more obvious in the sudden revival of it, which they produce in cases of fainting. here the smell of a few drops of hartshorn, or even of a burnt feather, has frequently in a few minutes restored the system, from a state of weakness bordering upon death, to an equable and regular degree of excitement. . air acts as a powerful stimulus upon the system, through the medium of the lungs. the component parts of this fluid, and its decomposition in the lungs, will be considered in another place[ ]. i shall only remark here, that the circulation of the blood has been ascribed, by dr. goodwin, exclusively to the action of air upon the lungs and heart. does the external air act upon any other part of the body besides those which have been mentioned? it is probable it does, and that we lose our sensation and consciousness of it by habit. it is certain children cry, for the most part, as soon as they come into the world. may not this be the effect of the sudden impression of air upon the tender surface of their bodies? and may not the red colour of their skins be occasioned by an irritation excited on them by the stimulus of the air? it is certain it acts powerfully upon denudated animal fibres; for who has not observed a sore, and even the skin when deprived of its cuticle, to be affected, when long exposed to the air, with pain and inflammation? the stimulus of air, in promoting the natural actions of the alimentary canal, cannot be doubted. a certain portion of it seems to be necessarily present in the bowels in a healthy state. [ ] it is probable, the first impulse of life was imparted to the body of adam by the decomposition of air in his lungs. i infer this from the account given by moses of his creation, in genesis, chap. ii. v. . "and the lord god formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life," in consequence of which, the verse adds, he became "a living soul." this explanation of the origin of life in the father of the human race, appears to accord more with reason, as well as the order of the words which describe it, than the common opinion of his having been animated by the infusion of a living soul into his body. . heat is a uniform and active stimulus in promoting life. it is derived, in certain seasons and countries, in part from the sun; but its principal source is from the lungs, in which it appears to be generated by the decomposition of pure air, and from whence it is conveyed, by means of the circulation, to every part of the body. the extensive influence of heat upon animal life, is evident from its decay and suspension during the winter in certain animals, and from its revival upon the approach and action of the vernal sun. it is true, life is diminished much less in man, from the distance and absence of the sun, than in other animals; but this must be ascribed to his possessing reason in so high a degree, as to enable him to supply the abstraction of heat, by the action of other stimuli upon his system. . exercise acts as a stimulus upon the body in various ways. its first impression is upon the muscles. these act upon the blood-vessels, and they upon the nerves and brain. the necessity of exercise to animal life is indicated, by its being kindly imposed upon man in paradise. the change which the human body underwent by the fall, rendered the same salutary stimulus necessary to its life, in the more active form of labour. but we are not to suppose, that motion is excited in the body by exercise or labour alone. it is constantly stimulated by the positions of standing, sitting, and lying upon the sides; all of which act more or less upon muscular fibres, and by their means, upon every part of the system. . the pleasures we derive from our senses have a powerful and extensive influence upon human life. the number of these pleasures, and their proximate cause, will form an agreeable subject for two or three future lectures. we proceed next to consider the internal stimuli which produce animal life. these are i. food. this acts in the following ways. . upon the tongue. such are the sensibility and excitability of this organ, and so intimate is its connection with every other part of the body, that the whole system is invigorated by aliment, as soon as it comes in contact with it. . by mastication. this moves a number of muscles and blood-vessels situated near the brain and heart, and of course imparts impressions to them. . by deglutition, which acts upon similar parts, and with the same effect. . by its presence in the stomach, in which it acts by its quantity and quality. food, by distending the stomach, stimulates the contiguous parts of the body. a moderate degree of distention of the stomach and bowels is essential to a healthy excitement of the system. vegetable aliment and drinks, which contain less nourishment than animal food, serve this purpose in the human body. hay acts in the same manner in a horse. sixteen pounds of this light food in a day are necessary to keep up such a degree of distension in the stomach and bowels of this animal, as to impart to him his natural grade of strength and life. the _quality_ of food, when of a stimulating nature, supplies the place of its distension from its quantity. a single onion will support a lounging highlander on the hills of scotland for four and twenty hours. a moderate quantity of salted meat, or a few ounces of sugar, have supplied the place of pounds of less stimulating food. even indigestible substances, which remain for days, or perhaps weeks in the stomach, exert a stimulus there which has an influence upon animal life. it is in this way the tops of briars, and the twigs of trees, devoid not only of nourishing matter, but of juices, support the camel in his journies through the deserts of the eastern countries. chips of cedar posts moistened with water have supported horses for two or three weeks, during a long voyage from boston to surinam; and the indigestible cover of an old bible preserved the life of a dog, accidentally confined in a room at newcastle upon tyne, for twenty days. . food stimulates the whole body by means of the process of digestion which goes forward in the stomach. this animal function is carried on by a process, in which there is probably an extrication of heat and air. now both these, it has been remarked, exert a stimulus in promoting animal life. drinks, when they consist of fermented or distilled liquors, stimulate from their quality; but when they consist of water, either in its simple state, or impregnated with any sapid substance, they act principally by distention. ii. the chyle acts upon the lacteals, mesenteric glands, and thoracic duct, in its passage through them; and it is highly probable, its first mixture with the blood in the subclavian vein, and its first action on the heart, are attended with considerable stimulating effects. iii. the blood is a very important internal stimulus. it has been disputed whether it acts by its quality, or only by distending the blood-vessels. it appears to act in both ways. i believe with dr. whytt, that the blood stimulates the heart and arteries by a specific action. but if this be not admitted, its influence in extending the blood-vessels in every part of the body, and thereby imparting extensive and uniform impressions to every animal fibre, cannot be denied. in support of this assertion it has been remarked, that in those persons who die of hunger, there is no diminution of the quantity of blood in the large blood-vessels. iv. a certain _tension_ of the glands, and of other parts of the body, contributes to support animal life. this is evident in the vigour which is imparted to the system, by the fulness of the seminal vesicles and gall bladder, and by the distension of the uterus in pregnancy. this distension is so great, in some instances, as to prevent sleep for many days and even weeks before delivery. it serves the valuable purpose of rendering the female system less liable to death during its continuance, than at any other time. by increasing the quantity of life in the body, it often suspends the fatal issue of pulmonary consumption, and ensures a temporary victory over the plague and other malignant fevers; for death, from those diseases, seldom takes place, until the stimulus, from the distension of the uterus, is removed by parturition. v. the exercises of the faculties of the mind have a wonderful influence in increasing the quantity of human life. they all act by _reflection_ only, after having been previously excited into action by impressions made upon the body. this view of the _re-action_ of the mind upon the body accords with the simplicity of other operations in the animal economy. it is thus the brain repays the heart for the blood it conveys to it, by re-acting upon its muscular fibres. the influence of the different faculties of the mind is felt in the pulse, in the stomach, and in the liver, and is seen in the face, and other external parts of the body. those which act most unequivocally in promoting life are the understanding, the imagination, and the passions. thinking belongs to the understanding, and is attended with an obvious influence upon the degree and duration of life. intense study has often rendered the body insensible to the debilitating effects of cold and hunger. men of great and active understandings, who blend with their studies temperance and exercise, are generally long lived. in support of this assertion, a hundred names might be added to those of newton and franklin. its truth will be more fully established by attending to the state of human life in persons of an opposite intellectual character. the cretins, a race of idiots in valais, in switzerland, travellers tell us, are all short lived. common language justifies the opinion of the stimulus of the understanding upon the brain: hence it is common to say of dull men, that they have scarcely ideas enough to keep themselves awake. the imagination acts with great force upon the body, whether its numerous associations produce pleasure or pain. but the passions pour a constant stream upon the wheels of life. they have been subdivided into emotions and passions properly so called. the former have for their objects present, the latter, future good and evil. all the objects of the passions are accompanied with desire or aversion. to the former belong chiefly, hope, love, ambition, and avarice; to the latter, fear, hatred, malice, envy, and the like. joy, anger, and terror, belong to the class of emotions. the passions and emotions have been further divided into stimulating and sedative. our business at present is to consider their first effect only upon the body. in the original constitution of human nature, we were made to be stimulated by such passions and emotions only as have moral good for their objects. man was designed to be always under the influence of hope, love, and joy. by the loss of his innocence, he has subjected himself to the dominion of passions and emotions of a malignant nature; but they possess, in common with such as are good, a stimulus which renders them subservient to the purpose of promoting animal life. it is true, they are like the stimulus of a dislocated bone in their operation upon the body, compared with the action of antagonist muscles stretched over bones, which gently move in their natural sockets. the effects of the good passions and emotions, in promoting health and longevity, have been taken notice of by many writers. they produce a flame, gentle and pleasant, like oil perfumed with frankincense in the lamp of life. there are instances likewise of persons who have derived strength and long life from the influence of the evil passions and emotions that have been mentioned. dr. darwin relates the history of a man, who used to overcome the fatigue induced by travelling, by thinking of a person whom he hated. the debility induced by disease is often removed by a sudden change in the temper. this is so common, that even nurses predict a recovery in persons as soon as they become peevish and ill-natured, after having been patient during the worst stage of their sickness. this peevishness acts as a gentle stimulus upon the system in its languid state, and thus turns the scale in favour of life and health. the famous benjamin lay, of this state, who lived to be eighty years of age, was of a very irascible temper. old elwes was a prodigy of avarice, and every court in europe furnishes instances of men who have attained to extreme old age, who have lived constantly under the dominion of ambition. in the course of a long inquiry which i instituted some years ago into the state of the body and mind in old people, i did not find a single person above eighty, who had not possessed an active understanding, or active passions. those different and opposite faculties of the mind, when in excess, happily supply the place of each other. where they unite their forces, they extinguish the flame of life, before the oil which feeds it is consumed. in another place i shall resume the influence of the faculties of the mind upon human life, as they discover themselves in the different pursuits of men. i have only to add here, that i see no occasion to admit, with the followers of dr. brown, that the mind is active in sleep, in preserving the motions of life. i hope to establish hereafter the opinion of mr. locke, that the mind is always passive in sound sleep. it is true it acts in dreams; but these depend upon a morbid state of the brain, and therefore do not belong to the present stage of our subject, for i am now considering animal life only in the healthy state of the body. i shall say presently, that dreams are intended to supply the absence of some natural stimulus, and hence we find they occur in those persons most commonly, in whom there is a want of healthy action in the system, induced by the excess or deficiency of customary stimuli. life is in a languid state in the morning. it acquires vigour by the gradual and successive application of stimuli in the forenoon. it is in its most perfect state about mid-day, and remains stationary for some hours. from the diminution of the sensibility and contractility of the system to the action of impressions, it lessens in the evening, and becomes again languid at bed-time. these facts will admit of an extensive application hereafter in our lectures upon the practice of physic. lecture ii. gentlemen, the stimuli which have been enumerated, when they act collectively, and within certain bounds, produce a healthy waking state. but they do not always act collectively, nor in the determined and regular manner that has been described. there is, in many states of the system, a deficiency of some stimuli, and, in some of its states, an apparent absence of them all. to account for the continuance of animal life under such circumstances, two things must be premised, before we proceed to take notice of the diminution or absence of the stimuli which support it. . the healthy actions of the body in the waking state consist in a proper degree of what has been called excitability and excitement. the former is the medium on which stimuli act in producing the latter. in an exact proportion, and a due relation of both, diffused uniformly throughout every part of the body, consists good health. disease is the reverse of this. it depends _in part_ upon a disproportion between excitement and excitability, and in a partial distribution of each of them. in thus distinguishing the different states of excitement and excitability in health and sickness, you see i dissent from dr. brown, who supposes them to be (though disproportioned to each other) equably diffused in the morbid, as well as the healthy state of the body. . it is a law of the system, that the absence of one natural stimulus is generally supplied by the increased action of others. this is more certainly the case where a natural stimulus is abstracted _suddenly_; for the excitability is thereby so instantly formed and accumulated, as to furnish a highly sensible and moveable surface for the remaining stimuli to act upon. many proofs might be adduced in support of this proposition. the reduction of the excitement of the blood-vessels, by means of cold, prepares the way for a full meal, or a warm bed, to excite in them the morbid actions which take place in a pleurisy or a rheumatism. a horse in a cold stable eats more than in a warm one, and thus counteracts the debility which would otherwise be induced upon his system, by the abstraction of the stimulus of warm air. these two propositions being admitted, i proceed next to inquire into the different degrees and states of animal life. the first departure from its ordinary and perfect state which strikes us, is in i. sleep. this is either natural or artificial. natural sleep is induced by a diminution of the excitement and excitability of the system, by the continued application of the stimuli which act upon the body in its waking state. when these stimuli act in a determined degree, that is, when the same number of stimuli act with the same force, and for the same time, upon the system, sleep will be brought on at the same hour every night. but when they act with uncommon force, or for an unusual time, it is brought on at an earlier hour. thus a long walk or ride, by persons accustomed to a sedentary life, unusual exercise of the understanding, the action of strong passions or emotions, and the continual application of unusual sounds seldom fail of inducing premature sleep. it is recorded of pope ganganelli, that he slept more soundly, and longer than usual, the night after he was raised to the papal chair. the effects of unusual sounds in bringing on premature sleep, is further demonstrated by that constant inclination to retire to bed at an early hour, which country people discover the first and second days they spend in a city, exposed from morning till night to the noise of hammers, files, and looms, or of drays, carts, waggons, and coaches, rattling over pavements of stone. sleep is further hastened by the absence of light, the cessation of sounds and labour, and the recumbent posture of the body on a soft bed. artificial sleep may be induced at any time by certain stimulating substances, particularly by opium. they act by carrying the system beyond the healthy grade of excitement, to a degree of indirect debility, which dr. brown has happily called the sleeping point. the same point may be induced in the system at any time by the artificial abstraction of the usual stimuli of life. for example, let a person shut himself up at mid-day in a dark room, remote from noise of all kinds, let him lie down upon his back upon a soft bed in a temperate state of the atmosphere, and let him cease to think upon interesting subjects, or let him think only upon one subject, and he will soon fall asleep. dr. boerhaave relates an instance of a dutch physician, who, having persuaded himself that waking was a violent state, and sleep the only natural one of the system, contrived, by abstracting every kind of stimulus in the manner that has been mentioned, to sleep away whole days and nights, until at length he impaired his understanding, and finally perished in a public hospital in a state of idiotism. in thus anticipating a view of the cause of sleep, i have said nothing of the effects of diseases of the brain in inducing it. these belong to another part of our course. the short explanation i have given of its cause was necessary in order to render the history of animal life, in that state of the system, more intelligible. at the usual hour of sleep there is an abstraction of the stimuli of light, sound, and muscular motion. the stimuli which remain, and act with an increased force upon the body in sleep, are . the heat which is discharged from the body, and confined by means of bed-clothes. it is most perceptible when exhaled from a bed-fellow. heat obtained in this way has sometimes been employed to restore declining life to the bodies of old people. witness the damsel who lay for this purpose in the bosom of the king of israel. the advantage of this external heat will appear further, when we consider how impracticable or imperfect sleep is, when we lie under too light covering in cold weather. . the air which is applied to the lungs during sleep probably acts with more force than in the waking state. i am disposed to believe that more air is phlogisticated in sleep than at any other time, for the smell of a close room in which a person has slept one night, we know, is much more disagreeable than that of a room, under equal circumstances, in which half a dozen people have sat for the same number of hours in the day time. the action of decomposed air on the lungs and heart was spoken of in a former lecture. an increase in its quantity must necessarily have a powerful influence upon animal life during the sleeping state. . respiration is performed with a greater extension and contraction of the muscles of the breast in sleep than in the waking state; and this cannot fail of increasing the impetus of the blood in its passage through the heart and blood-vessels. the increase of the fulness and force of the pulse in sleep, is probably owing in part to the action of respiration upon it. in another place i hope to elevate the rank of the blood-vessels in the animal economy, by showing that they are the fountains of power in the body. they derive this pre-eminence from the protection and support they afford to every part of the system. they are the perpetual centineals of health and life; for they never partake in the repose which is enjoyed by the muscles and nerves. during sleep, their sensibility seems to be converted into contractility, by which means their muscular fibres are more easily moved by the blood than in the waking state. the diminution of sensibility in sleep is proved by many facts to be mentioned hereafter; and the change of sensibility into contractility will appear, when we come to consider the state of animal life in infancy and old age. . aliment in the stomach acts more powerfully in sleep than in the waking state. this is evident from digestion going on more rapidly when we are awake than when we sleep. the more slow the digestion, the greater is the stimulus of the aliment in the stomach. of this we have many proofs in daily life. labourers object to milk as a breakfast, because it digests too soon; and often call for food in a morning, which they can feel all day in their stomachs. sausages, fat pork, and onions are generally preferred by them for this purpose. a moderate supper is favourable to easy and sound sleep; and the want of it, in persons who are accustomed to that meal, is often followed by a restless night. the absence of its stimulus is probably supplied by a full gall-bladder (which always attends an empty stomach) in persons who are not in the habit of eating suppers. . the stimulus of the urine, accumulated in the bladder during sleep, has a perceptible influence upon animal life. it is often so considerable as to interrupt sleep; and it is one of the causes of our waking at a regular hour in the morning. it is moreover a frequent cause of the activity of the understanding and passions in dreams; and hence we dream more in our morning slumbers, when the bladder is full, than we do in the beginning or middle of the night. . the fæces exert a constant stimulus upon the bowels in sleep. this is so considerable as to render it less profound when they have been accumulated for two or three days, or when they have been deposited in the extremity of the alimentary canal. . the partial and irregular exercises of the understanding and passions in dreams have an occasional influence in promoting life. they occur only where there is a deficiency of other stimuli. such is the force with which the mind acts upon the body in dreams, that dr. brambilla, physician to the emperor of germany, informs us, that he has seen instances of wounds in soldiers being inflamed, and putting on a gangrenous appearance in consequence of the commotions excited in their bodies by irritating dreams[ ]. the stimulating passions act through the medium of the will; and the exercises of this faculty of the mind sometimes extend so far as to produce actions in the muscles of the limbs, and occasionally in the whole body, as we see in persons who walk in their sleep. the stimulus of lust often awakens us with pleasure or pain, according as we are disposed to respect or disobey the precepts of our maker. the angry and revengeful passions often deliver us, in like manner, from the imaginary guilt of murder. even the debilitating passions of grief and fear produce an indirect operation upon the system that is favourable to life in sleep, for they excite that distressing disease called the night mare, which prompts us to speak, or halloo, and by thus invigorating respiration, overcomes the languid circulation of the blood in the heart and brain. do not complain then, gentlemen, when you are bestrode by this midnight hag. she is kindly sent to prevent your sudden death. persons who go to bed in good health, and are found dead the succeeding morning, are said most commonly to die of this disease. [ ] a fever was excited in cinna the poet, in consequence of his dreaming that he saw cæsar, the night after he was assassinated, and was invited to accompany him to a dreary place, to which he pointed, in order to sup with him. convulsions and other diseases, i believe, are often excited in the night, by terrifying or distressing dreams. _plutarch's life of m. brutus._ i proceed now to inquire into the state of animal life in its different stages. i pass over for the present its history in generation. it will be sufficient only to remark in this place, that its first motion is produced by the stimulus of the male seed upon the female ovum. this opinion is not originally mine. you will find it in dr. haller[ ]. the pungent taste which mr. john hunter discovered in the male seed renders it peculiarly fit for this purpose. no sooner is the female ovum thus set in motion, and the f[oe]tus formed, than its capacity of life is supported, . by the stimulus of the heat which it derives from its connection with its mother in the womb. . by the stimulus of its own circulating blood. . by its constant motion in the womb after the third month of pregnancy. the absence of this motion for a few days is always a sign of the indisposition or death of a f[oe]tus. considering how early a child is accustomed to it, it is strange that a cradle should ever have been denied to it after it comes into the world. [ ] "novum f[oe]tum a seminis masculi _stimulo_ vitam concepisse."--_elementa physiologiæ_, vol. viii. p. . ii. in infants there is an absence of many of the stimuli which support life. their excretions are in a great measure deficient in acrimony, and their mental faculties are too weak to exert much influence upon their bodies. but the absence of stimulus from those causes is amply supplied . by the very great excitability of their systems to those of light, sound, heat, and air. so powerfully do light and sound act upon them, that the author of nature has kindly defended their eyes and ears from an excess of their impressions by imperfect vision and hearing, for several weeks after birth. the capacity of infants to be acted upon by moderate degrees of heat is evident from their suffering less from cold than grown people. this is so much the case, that we read, in mr. umfreville's account of hudson's bay, of a child that was found alive upon the back of its mother after she was frozen to death. i before hinted at the action of the air upon the bodies of new-born infants in producing the red colour of their skins. it is highly probable (from a fact formerly mentioned) that the first impression of the atmosphere which produces this redness is accompanied with pain, and this we know is a stimulus of a very active nature. by a kind law of sensation, impressions, that were originally painful, become pleasurable by repetition or duration. this is remarkably evident in the impression now under consideration, and hence we find infants at a certain age discover signs of an increase of life by their delightful gestures, when they are carried into the open air. recollect further, gentlemen, what was said formerly of excitability predominating over sensibility in infants. we see it daily, not only in their patience of cold, but in the short time in which they cease to complain of the injuries they meet with from falls, cuts, and even severe surgical operations. . animal life is supported in infants by their sucking, or feeding, nearly every hour in the day and night when they are awake. i explained formerly the manner in which food stimulated the system. the action of sucking supplies, by the muscles employed in it, the stimulus of mastication. . laughing and crying, which are universal in infancy, have a considerable influence in promoting animal life, by their action upon respiration, and the circulation of the blood. laughing exists under all circumstances, independently of education or imitation. the child of the negro slave, born only to inherit the toils and misery of its parents, receives its master with a smile every time he enters his kitchen or a negro-quarter. but laughing exists in infancy under circumstances still more unfavourable to it; an instance of which is related by mr. bruce. after a journey of several hundred miles across the sands of nubia, he came to a spring of water shaded by a few scrubby trees. here he intended to have rested during the night, but he had not slept long before he was awakened by a noise which he perceived was made by a solitary arab, equally fatigued and half famished with himself, who was preparing to murder and plunder him. mr. bruce rushed upon him, and made him his prisoner. the next morning he was joined by a half-starved female companion, with an infant of six months old in her arms. in passing by this child, mr. bruce says, it laughed and crowed in his face, and attempted to leap upon him. from this fact it would seem as if laughing was not only characteristic of our species, but that it was early and intimately connected with human life. the child of these arabs had probably never seen a smile upon the faces of its ferocious parents, and perhaps had never (before the sight of mr. bruce) beheld any other human creature. crying has a considerable influence upon health and life in children. i have seen so many instances of its salutary effects, that i have satisfied myself it is as possible for a child to "cry and be fat," as it is to "laugh and be fat." . as children advance in life, the constancy of their appetites for food, and their disposition to laugh and cry, lessen, but the diminution of these stimuli is supplied by exercise. the limbs[ ] and tongues of children are always in motion. they continue likewise to eat oftener than adults. a crust of bread is commonly the last thing they ask for at night, and the first thing they call for in the morning. it is now they begin to feel the energy of their mental faculties. this stimulus is assisted in its force by the disposition to prattle, which is so universal among children. this habit of converting their ideas into words as fast as they rise, follows them to their beds, where we often hear them talk themselves to sleep in a whisper, or to use less correct, but more striking terms, by _thinking aloud_. [ ] niebuhr, in his travels, says the children in arabia are taught to keep themselves constantly in motion by a kind of vibratory exercise of their bodies. this motion counteracts the diminution of life produced by the heat of the climate of arabia. . dreams act at an early period upon the bodies of children. their smiles, startings, and occasional screams in their sleep appear to arise from them. after the third or fourth year of their lives, they sometimes confound them with things that are real. from observing the effects of this mistake upon the memory, a sensible woman whom i once knew, forbad her children to tell their dreams, lest they should contract habits of lying, by confounding imaginary with real events. . new objects, whether natural or artificial, are never seen by children without emotions of pleasure which act upon their capacity of life. the effects of novelty upon the tender bodies of children may easily be conceived, by its friendly influence upon the health of invalids who visit foreign countries, and who pass months or years in a constant succession of new and agreeable impressions. iii. from the combination of all the stimuli that have been enumerated, human life is generally in excess from fifteen to thirty-five. it is during this period the passions blow a perpetual storm. the most predominating of them is the love of pleasure. no sooner does the system become insensible to this stimulus, than ambition succeeds it in, iv. the middle stage of life. here we behold man in his most perfect physical state. the stimuli which now act upon him are so far regulated by prudence, that they are seldom excessive in their force. the habits of order the system acquires in this period, continue to produce good health for many years afterwards; and hence bills of mortality prove that fewer persons die between forty and fifty-seven, than in any other seventeen years of human life. v. in old age, the senses of seeing, hearing, and touch are impaired. the venereal appetite is weakened, or entirely extinguished. the pulse becomes slow, and subject to frequent intermissions, from a decay in the force of the blood-vessels. exercise becomes impracticable, or irksome, and the operations of the understanding are performed with languor and difficulty. in this shattered and declining state of the system, the absence and diminution of all the stimuli which have been mentioned are supplied, . by an increase in the quantity, and by the peculiar quality of the food which is taken by old people. they generally eat twice as much as persons in middle life, and they bear with pain the usual intervals between meals. they moreover prefer that kind of food which is savoury and stimulating. the stomach of the celebrated parr, who died in the one hundred and fiftieth year of his age, was found full of strong, nourishing aliment. . by the stimulus of the fæces, which are frequently retained for five or six days in the bowels of old people. . by the stimulus of fluids rendered preternaturally acrid by age. the urine, sweat, and even the tears of old people, possess a peculiar acrimony. their blood likewise loses part of the mildness which is natural to that fluid; and hence the difficulty with which sores heal in old people; and hence too the reason why cancers are more common in the decline, than in any other period of human life. . by the uncommon activity of certain passions. these are either good or evil. to the former belong an increased vigour in the operations of those passions which have for their objects the divine being, or the whole family of mankind, or their own offspring, particularly their grand-children. to the latter passions belong malice, a hatred of the manners and fashions of the rising generation, and, above all, avarice. this passion knows no holidays. its stimulus is constant, though varied daily by the numerous means which it has discovered of increasing, securing, and perpetuating property. it has been observed that weak mental impressions produce much greater effects in old people than in persons in middle life. a trifling indisposition in a grand-child, an inadvertent act of unkindness from a friend, or the fear of losing a few shillings, have, in many instances, produced in them a degree of wakefulness that has continued for two or three nights. it is to this highly excitable state of the system that solomon probably alludes, when he describes the grasshopper as burdensome to old people. . by the passion for talking, which is so common, as to be one of the characteristics of old age. i mentioned formerly the influence of this stimulus upon animal life. perhaps it is more necessary in the female constitution than in the male; for it has long ago been remarked, that women who are very taciturn, are generally unhealthy. . by their wearing warmer clothes, and preferring warmer rooms, than in the former periods of their lives. this practice is so uniform, that it would not be difficult, in many cases, to tell a man's age by his dress, or by finding out at what degree of heat he found himself comfortable in a close room. . by dreams. these are universal among old people. they arise from their short and imperfect sleep. . it has been often said, that "we are once men, and twice children." in speaking of the state of animal life in infancy, i remarked that the contractility of the animal fibres predominated over their sensibility in that stage of life. the same thing takes place in old people, and it is in consequence of the return of this infantile state of the system, that all the stimuli which have been mentioned act upon them with much more force than in middle life. this sameness, in the predominance of excitability over sensibility in children and old people, will account for the similarity of their habits with respect to eating, sleep, exercise, and the use of fermented and distilled liquors. it is from the increase of excitability in old people, that so small a quantity of strong drink intoxicates them; and it is from an ignorance of this change in their constitutions, that many of them become drunkards, after passing the early and middle stages of life with sober characters. life is continued in a less imperfect state in old age in women than in men. the former sew, and knit, and spin, after they lose the use of their ears and eyes; whereas the latter, after losing the use of those senses, frequently pass the evening of their lives in a torpid state in a chimney corner. it is from the influence of moderate and gently stimulating employments, upon the female constitution, that more women live to be old than men, and that they rarely survive their usefulness in domestic life. hitherto the principles i am endeavouring to establish have been applied to explain the cause of life in its more common forms. let us next inquire, how far they will enable us to explain its continuance in certain morbid states of the body, in which there is a diminution of some, and an apparent abstraction of all the stimuli, which have been supposed to produce animal life. i. we observe some people to be blind, or deaf and dumb from their birth. the same defects of sight, hearing, and speech, are sometimes brought on by diseases. here animal life is deprived of all those numerous stimuli, which arise from light, colours, sounds, and speech. but the absence of these stimuli is supplied, . by increased sensibility and excitability in their remaining senses. the ears, the nose, and the fingers, afford a surface for impressions in blind people, which frequently overbalances the loss of their eye-sight. there are two blind young men, brothers, in this city, of the name of dutton, who can tell when they approach a post in walking across a street, by a peculiar sound which the ground under their feet emits in the neighbourhood of the post. their sense of hearing is still more exquisite to sounds of another kind. they can tell the names of a number of tame pigeons, with which they amuse themselves in a little garden, by only hearing them fly over their heads. the celebrated blind philosopher, dr. moyse, can distinguish a black dress on his friends, by its smell; and we read of many instances of blind persons who have been able to perceive colours by rubbing their fingers upon them. one of these persons, mentioned by mr. boyle, has left upon record an account of the specific quality of each colour as it affected his sense of touch. he says black imparted the most, and blue the least perceptible sense of asperity to his fingers. . by an increase of vigour in the exercises of the mental faculties. the poems of homer, milton, and blacklock, and the attainments of sanderson in mathematical knowledge, all discover how much the energy of the mind is increased by the absence of impressions upon the organs of vision. ii. we sometimes behold life in idiots, in whom there is not only an absence of the stimuli of the understanding and passions, but frequently, from the weakness of their bodies, a deficiency of the loco-motive powers. here an inordinate appetite for food, or venereal pleasures, or a constant habit of laughing, or talking, or playing with their hands and feet, supply the place of the stimulating operations of the mind, and of general bodily exercise. of the inordinate force of the venereal appetite in idiots we have many proofs. the cretins are much addicted to venery; and dr. michaelis tells us that the idiot whom he saw at the passaic falls in new-jersey, who had passed six and twenty years in a cradle, acknowledged that he had venereal desires, and wished to be married, for, the doctor adds, he had a sense of religion upon his fragment of mind, and of course did not wish to gratify that appetite in an unlawful manner. iii. how is animal life supported in persons who pass many days, and even weeks without food, and in some instances without drinks? long fasting is usually the effect of disease, of necessity, or of a principle of religion. when it arises from the first cause, the actions of life are kept up by the stimulus of disease[ ]. the absence of food when accidental, or submitted to as a means of producing moral happiness, is supplied, . by the stimulus of a full gall bladder. this state of the receptacle of bile has generally been found to accompany an empty stomach. the bile is sometimes absorbed, and imparts a yellow colour to the skin of persons who suffer or die of famine. . by increased acrimony in all the secretions and excretions of the body. the saliva becomes so acrid by long fasting, as to excoriate the gums, and the breath acquires not only a f[oe]tor, but a pungency so active, as to draw tears from the eyes of persons who are exposed to it. . by increased sensibility and excitability in the sense of touch. the blind man mentioned by mr. boyle, who could distinguish colours by his fingers, possessed this talent only after fasting. even a draught of any kind of liquor deprived him of it. i have taken notice, in my account of the yellow fever in philadelphia, in the year , of the effects of a diet bordering upon fasting for six weeks, in producing a quickness and correctness in my perceptions of the state of the pulse, which i had never experienced before. . by an increase of activity in the understanding and passions. gamesters often improve the exercises of their minds, when they are about to play for a large sum of money, by living for a day or two upon roasted apples and cold water. where the passions are excited into preternatural action, the absence of the stimulus of food is scarcely felt. i shall hereafter mention the influence of the desire of life upon its preservation, under all circumstances. it acts with peculiar force when fasting is accidental. but when it is submitted to as a religious duty, it is accompanied by sentiments and feelings which more than balance the abstraction of aliment. the body of moses was sustained, probably without a miracle, during an abstinence of forty days and forty nights, by the pleasure he derived from conversing with his maker "face to face, as a man speaking with his friend[ ]." [ ] the stimulus of a disease sometimes supplies the place of food in prolonging life. mr. c. s----, a gentleman well known in virginia, who was afflicted with a palsy, which had resisted the skill of several physicians, determined to destroy himself, by abstaining from food and drinks. he lived _sixty_ days without eating any thing, and the greatest part of that time without tasting even a drop of water. his disease probably protracted his life thus long beyond the usual time in which death is induced by fasting. see a particular account of this case, in the first number of the second volume of dr. coxe's medical museum. [ ] exodus xxxiii, . xxxiv, . i remarked formerly, that the veins discover no deficiency of blood in persons who die of famine. death from this cause seems to be less the effect of the want of food, than of the combined and excessive operation of the stimuli, which supply its place in the system. iv. we come now to a difficult inquiry, and that is, how is life supported during the total abstraction of external and internal stimuli which takes place in asphyxia, or in apparent death, from all its numerous causes? i took notice, in a former lecture, that ordinary life consisted in the excitement and excitability of the different parts of the body, and that they were occasionally changed into each other. in apparent death from violent emotions of the mind, from the sudden impression of miasmata, or from drowning, there is a loss of excitement; but the excitability of the system remains for minutes, and, in some instances, for hours afterwards unimpaired, provided the accident which produced the loss of excitement has not been attended with such exertions as are calculated to waste it. if, for example, a person should fall suddenly into the water, without bruising his body, and sink before his fears or exertions had time to dissipate his excitability; his recovery from apparent death might be effected by the gentle action of heat or frictions upon his body, so as to convert his accumulated excitability gradually into excitement. the same condition of the system takes place when apparent death occurs from freezing, and a recovery is accomplished by the same gentle application of stimuli, provided the organization of the body be not injured, or its excitability wasted, by violent exertions previously to its freezing. this excitability is the vehicle of motion, and motion, when continued long enough, produces sensation, which is soon followed by thought; and in these, i said formerly, consists perfect life in the human body. for this explanation of the manner in which life is suspended and revived, in persons apparently dead from cold, i am indebted to mr. john hunter, who supposes, if it were possible for the body to be _suddenly_ frozen, by an instantaneous abstraction of its heat, life might be continued for many years in a suspended state, and revived at pleasure, provided the body were preserved constantly in a temperature barely sufficient to prevent re-animation, and never so great as to endanger the destruction of any organic part. the resuscitation of insects, that have been in a torpid state for months, and perhaps years, in substances that have preserved their organization, should at least defend this bold proposition from being treated as chimerical. the effusions even of the imagination of such men as mr. hunter, are entitled to respect. they often become the germs of future discoveries. in that state of suspended animation which occurs in acute diseases, and which has sometimes been denominated a _trance_, the system is nearly in the same excitable state that it is in apparent death from drowning and freezing. resuscitation, in these cases, is not the effect, as in those which have been mentioned, of artificial applications made to the body for that purpose. it appears to be spontaneous; but it is produced by impressions made upon the ears, and by the operations of the mind in dreams. of the actions of these stimuli upon the body in its apparently lifeless state, i have satisfied myself by many facts. i once attended a citizen of philadelphia, who died of a pulmonary disease, in the th year of his age. a few days before his death, he begged that he might not be interred until one week after the usual signs of life had left his body, and gave as a reason for this request, that he had, when a young man, died to all appearance of the yellow fever, in one of the west-india islands. in this situation he distinctly heard the persons who attended him, fix upon the time and place of burying him. the horror of being put under ground alive, produced such distressing emotions in his mind, as to diffuse motion throughout his body, and finally excited in him all the usual functions of life. in dr. creighton's essay upon mental derangement, there is a history of a case nearly of a similar nature. a young lady (says the doctor), an attendant on the princess of----, after having been confined to her bed for a great length of time, with a violent nervous disorder, was at last, to all appearance, deprived of life. her lips were quite pale, her face resembled the countenance of a dead person, and her body grew cold. she was removed from the room in which _she died_, was laid in a coffin, and the day for her funeral was fixed on. the day arrived, and according to the custom of the country, funeral songs and hymns were sung before the door. just as the people were about to nail on the lid of the coffin, a kind of perspiration was observed on the surface of her body. she recovered. the following is the account she gave of her sensations: she said, "it seemed to her as if in a dream, that she was really dead; yet she was perfectly conscious of all that happened around her. she distinctly heard her friends speaking and lamenting her death at the side of her coffin. she felt them pull on the dead clothes, and lay her in it. this feeling produced a mental anxiety which she could not describe. she tried to cry out, but her mind was without power, and could not act on her body. she had the contradictory feeling as if she were in her own body, and not in it, at the same time. it was equally impossible for her to stretch out her arm or open her eyes, as to cry, although she continually endeavoured to do so. the internal anguish of her mind was at its utmost height when the funeral hymns began to be sung, and when the lid of the coffin was about to be nailed on. the thought that she was to be buried alive was the first which gave activity to her mind, and enabled it to operate on her corporeal frame." where the ears lose their capacity of being acted upon by stimuli, the mind, by its operations in dreams, becomes a source of impressions which again sets the wheels of life in motion. there is an account published by dr. arnold, in his observations upon insanity[ ], of a certain john engelbreght, a german, who was believed to be dead, and who was evidently resuscitated by the exercises of his mind upon subjects which were of a delightful or stimulating nature. this history shall be taken from mr. engelbreght's words. "it was on thursday noon (says he), about twelve o'clock, when i perceived that death was making his approaches upon me from the lower parts upwards, insomuch that my whole body became stiff. i had no feeling left in my hands and feet, neither in any other part of my whole body, nor was i at last able to speak or see, for my mouth now becoming very stiff, i was no longer able to open it, nor did i feel it any longer. my eyes also broke in my head in such a manner that i distinctly felt it. for all that, i understood what they said, when they were praying by me, and i distinctly heard them say, feel his legs, how stiff and cold they have become. this i heard distinctly, but i had no perception of their touch. i heard the watchman cry o'clock, but at o'clock my hearing left me." after relating his passage from the body to heaven with the velocity of an arrow shot from a cross bow, he proceeds, and says, that as he was twelve hours in dying, so he was twelve hours in returning to life. "as i died (says he) from beneath upwards, so i revived again the contrary way, from above to beneath, or from top to toe. being conveyed back from the heavenly glory, i began to hear something of what they were praying for me, in the same room with me. thus was my hearing the _first_ sense i recovered. after this i began to have a perception of my eyes, so that, by little and little, my whole body became strong and sprightly, and no sooner did i get a feeling of my legs and feet, than i arose and stood firm upon them with a firmness i had never enjoyed before. the heavenly joy i had experienced, invigorated me to such a degree, that people were astonished at my rapid, and almost instantaneous recovery." [ ] vol. ii. p. . the explanation i have given of the cause of resuscitation in this man will serve to refute a belief in a supposed migration of the soul from the body, in cases of apparent death. the imagination, it is true, usually conducts the whole mind to the abodes of happy or miserable spirits, but it acts here in the same way that it does when it transports it, in common dreams, to numerous and distant parts of the world. there is nothing supernatural in mr. engelbreght being invigorated by his supposed flight to heaven. pleasant dreams always stimulate and strengthen the body, while dreams which are accompanied with distress or labour debilitate and fatigue it. lecture iii. gentlemen, let us next take a view of the state of animal life in the different inhabitants of our globe, as varied by the circumstances of civilization, diet, situation, and climate. i. in the indians of the northern latitudes of america there is often a defect of the stimulus of aliment, and of the understanding and passions. their vacant countenances, and their long and disgusting taciturnity, are the effects of the want of action in their brains from a deficiency of ideas; and their tranquillity under all the common circumstances of irritation, pleasure, or grief, are the result of an absence of passion; for they hold it to be disgraceful to show any outward signs of anger, joy, or even of domestic affection. this account of the indian character, i know, is contrary to that which is given of it by rousseau, and several other writers, who have attempted to prove that man may become perfect and happy without the aids of civilization and religion. this opinion is contradicted by the experience of all ages, and is rendered ridiculous by the facts which are well ascertained in the history of the customs and habits of our american savages. in a cold climate they are the most miserable beings upon the face of the earth. the greatest part of their time is spent in sleep, or under the alternate influence of hunger and gluttony. they moreover indulge in vices which are alike contrary to moral and physical happiness. it is in consequence of these habits that they discover so early the marks of old age, and that so few of them are long-lived. the absence and diminution of many of the stimuli of life in these people is supplied in part by the violent exertions with which they hunt and carry on war, and by the extravagant manner with which they afterwards celebrate their exploits, in their savage dances and songs. ii. in the inhabitants of the torrid regions of africa there is a deficiency of labour; for the earth produces spontaneously nearly all the sustenance they require. their understandings and passions are moreover in a torpid state. but the absence of bodily and mental stimuli in these people is amply supplied by the constant heat of the sun, by the profuse use of spices in their diet, and by the passion for musical sounds which so universally characterises the african nations. iii. in greenland the body is exposed during a long winter to such a degree of cold as to reduce the pulse to or strokes in a minute. but the effects of this cold in lessening the quantity of life are obviated in part by the heat of close stove rooms, by warm clothing, and by the peculiar nature of the aliment of the greenlanders, which consists chiefly of animal food, of dried fish, and of whale oil. they prefer the last of those articles in so rancid a state, that it imparts a f[oe]tor to their perspiration, which, mr. crantz says, renders even their churches offensive to strangers. i need hardly add, that a diet possessed of such diffusible qualities cannot fail of being highly stimulating. it is remarkable that the food of all the northern nations of europe is composed of stimulating animal or vegetable matters, and that the use of spiritous liquors is universal among them. iv. let us next turn our eyes to the miserable inhabitants of those eastern countries which compose the turkish empire. here we behold life in its most feeble state, not only from the absence of physical, but of other stimuli which operate upon the inhabitants of other parts of the world. among the poor people of turkey there is a general deficiency of aliment. mr. volney in his travels tells us, "that the diet of the bedouins seldom exceeds six ounces a day, and that it consists of six or seven dates soaked in butter-milk, and afterwards mixed with a little sweet milk, or curds." there is likewise a general deficiency among them of stimulus from the operations of the mental faculties; for such is the despotism of the government in turkey, that it weakens not only the understanding, but it annihilates all that immense source of stimuli which arises from the exercise of the domestic and public affections. a turk lives wholly to himself. in point of time he occupies only the moment in which he exists; for his futurity, as to life and property, belongs altogether to his master. fear is the reigning principle of his actions, and hope and joy seldom add a single pulsation to his heart. tyranny even imposes a restraint upon the stimulus which arises from conversation, for "they speak (says mr. volney) with a slow feeble voice, as if the lungs wanted strength to propel air enough through the glottis to form distinct articulate sounds." the same traveller adds, that "they are slow in all their motions, that their bodies are small, that they have small evacuations, and that their blood is so destitute of serosity, that nothing but the greatest heat can preserve its fluidity." the deficiency of aliment, and the absence of mental stimuli in these people is supplied, . by the heat of their climate. . by their passion for musical sounds and fine clothes. and . by their general use of coffee, garlic[ ], and opium. [ ] niebuhr's travels. the more debilitated the body is, the more forcibly these stimuli act upon it. hence, according to mr. volney, the bedouins, whose slender diet has been mentioned, enjoy good health; for this consists not in strength, but in an exact proportion being kept up between the excitability of the body, and the number and force of the stimuli which act upon it. v. many of the observations which have been made upon the inhabitants of africa, and of the turkish dominions, apply to the inhabitants of china and the east-indies. they want, in many instances, the stimulus of animal food. their minds are, moreover, in a state too languid to act with much force upon their bodies. the absence and deficiency of these stimuli are supplied by, . the heat of the climate in the southern parts of those countries. . by a vegetable diet abounding in nourishment, particularly rice and beans. . by the use of tea in china, and by a stimulating coffee made of the dried and toasted seeds of the datura stramonium, in the neighbourhood of the indian coast. some of these nations likewise chew stimulating substances, as too many of our citizens do tobacco. among the poor and depressed subjects of the governments of the middle and southern parts of europe, the deficiency of the stimulus of wholesome food, of clothing, of fuel, and of liberty, is supplied, in some countries, by the invigorating influence of the christian religion upon animal life, and in others by the general use of tea, coffee, garlic, onions, opium, tobacco, malt liquors, and ardent spirits. the use of each of these stimuli seems to be regulated by the circumstances of climate. in cold countries, where the earth yields its increase with reluctance, and where vegetable aliment is scarce, the want of the stimulus of distension which that species of food is principally calculated to produce is sought for in that of ardent spirits. to the southward of °, a substitute for the distension from mild vegetable food is sought for in onions, garlic, and tobacco. but further, a uniform climate calls for more of these artificial stimuli than a climate that is exposed to the alternate action of heat and cold, winds and calms, and of wet and dry weather. savages and ignorant people likewise require more of them than persons of civilized manners, and cultivated understandings. it would seem from these facts that man cannot exist without _sensation_ of some kind, and that when it is not derived from natural means, it will always be sought for in such as are artificial. in no part of the human species, is animal life in a more perfect state than in the inhabitants of great britain[ ], and the united states of america. with all the natural stimuli that have been mentioned, they are constantly under the invigorating influence of liberty. there is an indissoluble union between moral, political, and physical happiness; and if it be true, that elective and representative governments are most favourable to individual, as well as national prosperity, it follows of course, that they are most favourable to animal life. but this opinion does not rest upon an induction derived from the relation, which truths upon all subjects bear to each other. many facts prove animal life to exist in a larger quantity and for a longer time, in the enlightened and happy state of connecticut, in which republican liberty has existed above one hundred and fifty years, than in any other country upon the surface of the globe. [ ] haller's elements physiologiæ, vol. viii. p. . p. . it remains now to mention certain mental stimuli which act nearly alike in the production of animal life, upon the individuals of all the nations in the world. they are, . the desire of life. this principle, so deeply and universally implanted in human nature, acts very powerfully in supporting our existence. it has been observed to prolong life. sickly travellers by sea and land, often live under circumstances of the greatest weakness, till they reach their native country, and then expire in the bosom of their friends. this desire of life often turns the scale in favour of a recovery in acute diseases. its influence will appear, from the difference in the periods in which death was induced in two persons, who were actuated by opposite passions with respect to life. atticus, we are told, died of voluntary abstinence from food in five days. in sir william hamilton's account of the earthquake at calabria, we read of a girl who lived eleven days without food before she expired. in the former case, life was shortened by an aversion from it; in the latter, it was protracted by the desire of it. the late mr. brissot, in his visit to this city, informed me, that the application of animal magnetism (in which he was a believer) had in no instance cured a disease in a west-india slave. perhaps it was rendered inert by its not being accompanied by a strong desire of life; for this principle exists in a more feeble state in slaves than in freemen. it is possible likewise the wills and imaginations of these degraded people may have become so paralytic by slavery, as to be incapable of being excited by the impression of this fanciful remedy. . the love of money sets the whole animal machine in motion. hearts which are insensible to the stimuli of religion, patriotism, love, and even of the domestic affections, are excited into action by this passion. the city of philadelphia, between the th and th of august, , will long be remembered by contemplative men, for having furnished the most extraordinary proofs of the stimulus of the love of money upon the human body. a new scene of speculation was produced at that time by the scrip of the bank of the united states. it excited febrile diseases in three persons who became my patients. in one of them, the acquisition of twelve thousand dollars in a few minutes by a lucky sale, brought on madness which terminated in death in a few days[ ]. the whole city felt the impulse of this paroxysm of avarice. the slow and ordinary means of earning money were deserted, and men of every profession and trade were seen in all our streets hastening to the coffee-house, where the agitation of countenance, and the desultory manners, of all the persons who were interested in this species of gaming, exhibited a truer picture of a bedlam, than of a place appropriated to the transaction of mercantile business. but further, the love of money discovers its stimulus upon the body in a peculiar manner in the games of cards and dice. i have heard of a gentleman in virginia who passed two whole days and nights in succession at a card table, and it is related in the life of a noted gamester in ireland, that when he was so ill as to be unable to rise from his chair, he would suddenly revive when brought to the hazard table, by hearing the rattling of the dice. [ ] dr. mead relates, upon the authority of dr. hales, that more of the successful speculators in the south-sea scheme of became insane, than of those who had been ruined by it. . public amusements of all kinds, such as a horse race, a cockpit, a chase, the theatre, the circus, masquerades, public dinners, and tea parties, all exert an artificial stimulus upon the system, and thus supply the defect of the rational exercises of the mind. . the love of dress is not confined in its stimulating operation to persons in health. it acts perceptibly in some cases upon invalids. i have heard of a gentleman in south-carolina, who always relieved himself of a fit of low spirits by changing his dress; and i believe there are few people who do not feel themselves enlivened, by putting on a new suit of clothes. . novelty is an immense source of agreeable stimuli. companions, studies, pleasures, modes of business, prospects, and situations, with respect to town and country, or to different countries, that are _new_, all exert an invigorating influence upon health and life. . the love of fame acts in various ways; but its stimulus is most sensible and durable in military life. it counteracts in many instances the debilitating effects of hunger, cold, and labour. it has sometimes done more, by removing the weakness which is connected with many diseases. in several instances it has assisted the hardships of a camp life, in curing pulmonary consumption. . the love of country is a deep seated principle of action in the human breast. its stimulus is sometimes so excessive, as to induce disease in persons who recently migrate, and settle in foreign countries. it appears in various forms; but exists most frequently in the solicitude, labours, attachments, and hatred of party spirit. all these act forcibly in supporting animal life. it is because newspapers are supposed to contain the measure of the happiness or misery of our country, that they are so interesting to all classes of people. those vehicles of intelligence, and of public pleasure or pain, are frequently desired with the impatience of a meal, and they often produce the same stimulating effects upon the body[ ]. [ ] they have been very happily called by mr. green, in his poem entitled spleen, "the manna of the day." . the different religions of the world, by the activity they excite in the mind, have a sensible influence upon human life. atheism is the worst of sedatives to the understanding and passions. it is the abstraction of thought from the most sublime, and of love from the most perfect of all possible objects. man is as naturally a religious, as he is a social and domestic animal; and the same violence is done to his mental faculties, by robbing him of a belief in a god, that is done by dooming him to live in a cell, deprived of the objects and pleasures of social and domestic life. the necessary and immutable connection between the texture of the human mind, and the worship of an object of some kind, has lately been demonstrated by the atheists of europe, who, after rejecting the true god, have instituted the worship of nature, of fortune, and of human reason; and, in some instances, with ceremonies of the most expensive and splendid kind. religions are friendly to animal life, in proportion as they elevate the understanding, and act upon the passions of hope and love. it will readily occur to you, that christianity, when believed and obeyed, according to its original consistency with itself, and with the divine attributes, is more calculated to produce those effects than any other religion in the world. such is the salutary operation of its doctrines and precepts upon health and life, that if its divine authority rested upon no other argument, this alone would be sufficient to recommend it to our belief. how long mankind may continue to prefer substituted pursuits and pleasures to this invigorating stimulus, is uncertain; but the time, we are assured, will come, when the understanding shall be elevated from its present inferior objects, and the luxated passions be reduced to their original order. this change in the mind of man, i believe, will be effected only by the influence of the christian religion, after all the efforts of human reason to produce it, by means of civilization, philosophy, liberty, and government, have been exhausted to no purpose. thus far, gentlemen, we have considered animal life as it respects the human species; but the principles i am endeavouring to establish require that we should take a view of it in animals of every species, in all of which we shall find it depends upon the same causes as in the human body. and here i shall begin by remarking, that if we should discover the stimuli which support life in certain animals to be fewer in number, or weaker in force than those which support it in our species, we must resolve it into that attribute of the deity which seems to have delighted in variety in all his works. the following observations apply more or less to all the animals upon our globe. . they all possess either hearts, lungs, brains, nerves, or muscular fibres. it is as yet a controversy among naturalists whether animal life can exist without a brain; but no one has denied muscular fibres, and of course contractility, or excitability, to belong to animal life in all its shapes. . they all require more or less air for their existence. even the snail inhales it for seven months under ground, through a pellicle which it weaves out of slime, as a covering for its body. if this pellicle at any time become too thick to admit the air, the snail opens a passage in it for that purpose. now air we know acts powerfully in supporting animal life. . many of them possess heat equal to that of the human body. birds possess several degrees beyond it. now heat, it was said formerly, acts with great force in the production of animal life. . they all feed upon substances more or less stimulating to their bodies. even water itself, chemistry has taught us, affords an aliment, not only stimulating, but nourishing to many animals. . many of them possess senses, more acute and excitable, than the same organs in the human species. these expose surfaces for the action of external impressions, that supply the absence or deficiency of mental faculties. . such of them as are devoid of sensibility, possess an uncommon portion of contractility, or simple excitability. this is most evident in the polypus. when cut to pieces, it appears to feel little or no pain. . they all possess loco-motive powers in a greater or less degree, and of course are acted upon by the stimulus of muscular motion. . most of them appear to feel a stimulus, from the gratification of their appetites for food, and for venereal pleasures, far more powerful than that which is felt by our species from the same causes. i shall hereafter mention some facts from spalanzani upon the subject of generation, that will prove the stimulus, from venery, to be strongest in those animals, in which other stimuli act with the least force. thus the male frog during its long connection with its female, suffers its limbs to be amputated, without discovering the least mark of pain, and without relaxing its hold of the object of its embraces. . in many animals we behold evident marks of understanding and passion. the elephant, the fox, and the ant exhibit strong proofs of thought; and where is the school boy that cannot bear testimony to the anger of the bee and the wasp? . but what shall we say of those animals, which pass long winters in a state in which there is an apparent absence of the stimuli of heat, exercise, and the motion of the blood. life in these animals is probably supported, . by such an accumulation of excitability, as to yield to impressions, which to us are imperceptible. . by the stimulus of aliment in a state of digestion in the stomach, or by the stimulus of aliment restrained from digestion by means of cold; for mr. john hunter has proved by an experiment on a frog, that cold below a certain degree, checks that animal process. . by the constant action of air upon their bodies. it is possible life may exist in these animals, during their hybernation, in the total absence of impression and motion of every kind. this may be the case where the torpor from cold has been _suddenly_ brought upon their bodies. excitability here is in an accumulated, but quiescent state. . it remains only under this head to inquire, in what manner is life supported in those animals which live in a cold element, and whose blood is sometimes but a little above the freezing point? it will be a sufficient answer to this question to remark, that heat and cold are relative terms, and that different animals, according to their organization, require very different degrees of heat for their existence. thirty-two degrees of it are probably as stimulating to some of these cold blooded animals (as they are called), as ° or ° are to the human body. it might afford additional support to the doctrine of animal life, which i have delivered, to point out the manner in which life and growth are produced in vegetables of all kinds. but this subject belongs to the professor of botany and natural history[ ], who is amply qualified to do it justice. i shall only remark, that vegetable life is as much the offspring of stimuli as animal, and that skill in agriculture consists chiefly in the proper application of them. the seed of a plant, like an animal body, has no principle of life within itself. if preserved for many years in a drawer, or in earth below the stimulating influence of heat, air, and water, it discovers no sign of vegetation. it grows, like an animal, only in consequence of stimuli acting upon its _capacity_ of life. [ ] dr. barton. from a review of what has been said of animal life in all its numerous forms and modifications, we see that it as much an effect of impressions upon a peculiar species of matter, as sound is of the stroke of a hammer upon a bell, or music of the motion of the bow upon the strings of a violin. i exclude therefore the intelligent principle of whytt, the medical mind of stahl, the healing powers of cullen, and the vital principal of john hunter, as much from the body, as i do an intelligent principle from air, fire, and water. it is no uncommon thing for the simplicity of causes to be lost in the magnitude of their effects. by contemplating the wonderful functions of life we have strangely overlooked the numerous and obscure circumstances which produce it. thus the humble but true origin of power in the people is often forgotten in the splendour and pride of governments. it is not necessary to be acquainted with the precise nature of that form of matter, which is capable of producing life from impressions made upon it. it is sufficient for our purpose to know the fact. it is immaterial, moreover, whether this matter derives its power of being acted upon wholly from the brain, or whether it be in part inherent in animal fibres. the inferences are the same in favour of life being the effect of stimuli, and of its being as truly mechanical as the movements of a clock from the pressure of its weights, or the passage of a ship in the water from the impulse of winds and tide. the infinity of effects from similar causes, has often been taken notice of in the works of the creator. it would seem as if they had all been made after one pattern. the late discovery of the cause of combustion has thrown great light upon our subject. wood and coal are no longer believed to contain a principle of fire. the heat and flame they emit are derived from an agent altogether external to them. they are produced by a matter which is absorbed from the air, by means of its decomposition. this matter acts upon the predisposition of the fuel to receive it, in the same way that stimuli act upon the human body. the two agents differ only in their effects. the former produces the destruction of the bodies upon which it acts, while the latter excite the more gentle and durable motions of life. common language in expressing these effects is correct, as far as it relates to their cause. we speak of a coal of fire being _alive_, and of the _flame_ of life. the causes of life which i have delivered will receive considerable support by contrasting them with the causes of death. this catastrophe of the body consists in such a change induced on it by disease or old age, as to prevent its exhibiting the phenomena of life. it is brought on, . by the abstraction of all the stimuli which support life. death from this cause is produced by the same mechanical means that the emission of sound from a violin is prevented by the abstraction of the bow from its strings. . by the excessive force of stimuli of all kinds. no more occurs here than happens from too much pressure upon the strings of a violin preventing its emitting musical tones. . by too much relaxation, or too weak a texture of the matter which composes the human body. no more occurs here than is observed in the extinction of sound by the total relaxation, or slender combination of the strings of a violin. . by an error in the place of certain fluid or solid parts of the body. no more occurs here than would happen from fixing the strings of a violin upon its body, instead of elevating them upon its bridge. . by the action of poisonous exhalations, or of certain fluids vitiated in the body, upon parts which emit most forcibly the motions of life. no more happens here than occurs from enveloping the strings of a violin in a piece of wax. . by the solution of continuity by means of wounds in solid parts of the body. no more occurs in death from this cause than takes place when the emission of sound from a violin is prevented by a rupture of its strings. . death is produced by a preternatural rigidity, and in some instances by an ossification of the solid parts of the body in old age, in consequence of which they are incapable of receiving and emitting the motions of life. no more occurs here, than would happen if a stick or pipe-stem were placed in the room of catgut, upon the bridges of the violin. but death may take place in old age without a change in the texture of animal matter, from the stimuli of life losing their effect by repetition, just as opium, from the same cause, ceases to produce its usual effects upon the body. should it be asked, what is that peculiar organization of matter, which enables it to emit life, when acted upon by stimuli, i answer, i do not know. the great creator has kindly established a witness of his unsearchable wisdom in every part of his works, in order to prevent our forgetting him, in the successful exercises of our reason. mohammed once said, "that he should believe himself to be a god, if he could bring down rain from the clouds, or give life to an animal." it belongs exclusively to the true god to endow matter with those singular properties, which enable it, under certain circumstances, to exhibit the appearances of life. i cannot conclude this subject, without taking notice of its extensive application to medicine, metaphysics, theology, and morals. the doctrine of animal life which has been taught, exhibits in the first place, a new view of the nervous system, by discovering its origin in the extremities of the nerves, on which impressions are made, and its termination in the brain. this idea is extended in an ingenious manner by mr. valli, in his treatise upon animal electricity. . it discovers to us the true means of promoting health and longevity, by proportioning the number and force of stimuli to the age, climate, situation, habits, and temperament of the human body. . it leads us to a knowledge of the causes of all diseases. these consist in excessive or preternatural excitement in the whole, or a part of the human body, accompanied _generally_ with irregular motions, and induced by natural or artificial stimuli. the latter have been called, very properly, by mr. hunter, _irritants_. the occasional absence of motion in acute diseases is the effect only of the excess of impetus in their remote causes. . it discovers to us that the cure of all diseases depends simply upon the abstraction of stimuli from the whole, or from a part of the body, when the motions excited by them are in excess; and in the increase of their number and force, when motions are of a moderate nature. for the former purpose, we employ a class of medicines known by the name of sedatives. for the latter, we make use of stimulants. under these two extensive heads, are included all the numerous articles of the materia medica. . it enables us to reject the doctrine of innate ideas, and to ascribe all our knowledge of sensible objects to impressions acting upon an _innate_ capacity to receive ideas. were it possible for a child to grow up to manhood without the use of any of its senses, it would not possess a single idea of a material object; and as all human knowledge is compounded of simple ideas, this person would be as destitute of knowledge of every kind, as the grossest portion of vegetable or fossil matter. . the account which has been given of animal life, furnishes a striking illustration of the origin of human actions, by the impression of motives upon the will. as well might we admit an inherent principle of life in animal matter, as a self-determining power in this faculty of the mind. motives are necessary, not only to constitute its _freedom_, but its _essence_; for, without them, there could be no more a will, than there could be vision without light, or hearing without sound. it is true, they are often so obscure as not to be perceived, and they sometimes become insensible from habit; but the same things have been remarked in the operation of stimuli, and yet we do not upon this account deny their agency in producing animal life. in thus deciding in favour of the necessity of motives, to produce actions, i cannot help bearing a testimony against the gloomy misapplication of this doctrine by some modern writers. when properly understood, it is calculated to produce the most comfortable views of the divine government, and the most beneficial effects upon morals and human happiness. . there are errors of an impious nature, which sometimes obtain a currency, from being disguised by innocent names. the doctrine of animal life that has been delivered is directly opposed to an error of this kind, which has had the most baneful influence upon morals and religion. to suppose a principle to reside necessarily and constantly in the human body, which acted independently of external circumstances, is to ascribe to it an attribute, which i shall not connect, even in language, with the creature man. self-existence belongs only to god. the best criterion of the truth of a philosophical opinion, is its tendency to produce exalted ideas of the divine being, and humble views of ourselves. the doctrine of animal life which has been delivered is calculated to produce these effects in an eminent degree, for . it does homage to the supreme being, as the governor of the universe, and establishes the certainty of his universal and particular providence. admit a principle of life in the human body, and we open a door for the restoration of the old epicurean or atheistical philosophy, which supposed the world to be governed by a principle called nature, and which was believed to be inherent in every kind of matter. the doctrine i have taught, cuts the sinews of this error; for by rendering the _continuance_ of animal life, no less than its commencement, the effect of the constant operation of divine power and goodness, it leads us to believe that the whole creation is supported in the same manner. . the view that has been given of the dependent state of man for the blessing of life, leads us to contemplate, with very opposite and inexpressible feelings, the sublime idea which is given of the deity in the scriptures, as possessing life "within himself." this divine prerogative has never been imparted but to one being, and that is the son of god. this appears from the following declaration. "for as the father hath life in himself, so hath he given to the son to have life _within himself_."[ ] to this plenitude of independent life, we are to ascribe his being called the "life of the world," "the prince of life," and "life" itself, in the new testament. these divine epithets which are very properly founded upon the manner of our saviour's existence, exalt him infinitely above simple humanity, and establish his divine nature upon the basis of reason, as well as revelation. [ ] john v. verse . . we have heard that some of the stimuli which produce animal life, are derived from the moral and physical evils of our world. from beholding these instruments of death thus converted by divine skill into the means of life, we are led to believe goodness to be the supreme attribute of the deity, and that it will appear finally to predominate in all his works. . the doctrine which has been delivered, is calculated to humble the pride of man by teaching him his constant dependence upon his maker for his existence, and that he has no pre-eminence in his tenure of it, over the meanest insect that flutters in the air, or the humblest plant that grows upon the earth. what an inspired writer says of the innumerable animals which inhabit the ocean, may with equal propriety be said of the whole human race. "thou sendest forth thy spirit, and they are created. thou takest away their breath--they die, and return to their dust." . melancholy indeed would have been the issue of all our inquiries, did we take a final leave of the human body in its state of decomposition in the grave. revelation furnishes us with an elevating, and comfortable assurance that this will not be the case. the precise manner of its re-organization, and the new means of its future existence, are unknown to us. it is sufficient to believe, the event will take place, and that after it, the soul and body of man will be exalted in one respect, to an equality with their creator. they will be immortal. here, gentlemen, we close the history of animal life. i feel as if i had waded across a rapid and dangerous stream. whether i have gained the opposite shore with my head clean, or covered with mud and weeds, i leave wholly to your determination. end of vol. ii. * * * * * transcriber's note: the original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been maintained. obvious misprints have been corrected. partly repeated chapter headings have been deleted. generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/b _ project gutenberg has the other three volumes of this work. volume i: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ volume ii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ volume iii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ transcriber's note: the ligature oe has been marked as [oe]. text in italics has been enclosed by underscores (_text_). medical inquiries and observations. by benjamin rush, m. d. professor of the institutes and practice of medicine, and of clinical practice, in the university of pennsylvania. in four volumes. vol. iv. the second edition, revised and enlarged by the author. philadelphia, published by j. conrad & co. chesnut-street, philadelphia; m. & j. conrad & co. market-street, baltimore; rapin, conrad, & co. washington; somervell & conrad, petersburg; and bonsal, conrad, & co. norfolk. printed by t. & g. palmer, , high-street. . * * * * * contents of volume iv. _page_ _an account of the bilious yellow fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in _ _an account of the bilious yellow fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in _ _an account of the bilious yellow fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in _ _an account of sporadic cases of yellow fever, as they appeared in philadelphia in _ _an account of sporadic cases of yellow fever, as they appeared in philadelphia in _ _an account of the measles, as they appeared in philadelphia in _ _an account of the yellow fever, as it appeared in _ _an account of the yellow fever, as it appeared in _ _an account of sporadic cases of yellow fever, as they appeared in _ _an account of the yellow fever, as it appeared in _ _an inquiry into the various sources of the usual forms of the summer and autumnal disease in the united states, and the means of preventing them_ _facts, intended to prove the yellow fever not to be contagious_ _defence of blood-letting, as a remedy in certain diseases_ _an inquiry into the comparative states of medicine in philadelphia, between the years and , and _ * * * * * an account of the bilious remitting and intermitting _yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in . the winter of was in general healthy. during the spring, which was cold and wet, no diseases of any consequence occurred. the spring vegetables were late in coming to maturity, and there were every where in the neighbourhood of philadelphia scanty crops of hay. in june and july there fell but little rain. dysenteries, choleras, scarlatina, and mumps, appeared in the suburbs in the latter month. on the th of july i visited mr. frisk, and on the th of the same month i visited mr. charles burrel in the yellow fever, in consultation with dr. physick. they both recovered by the use of plentiful depleting remedies. the weather from the d to the th of august was rainy. on the st of this month i was called to visit mr. nathaniel lewis, in a malignant bilious fever. on the d i visited mr. elisha hall, with the same disease. he had been ill several days before i saw him. both these gentlemen died on the th of the month. they were both very yellow after death. mr. hall had a black vomiting on the day he died. the news of the death of these two citizens, with unequivocal symptoms of yellow fever, excited a general alarm in the city. attempts were made to trace it to importation, but a little investigation soon proved that it was derived from the foul air of a ship which had just arrived from marseilles, and which discharged her cargo at pinestreet wharf, near the stores occupied by mr. lewis and mr. hall. many other persons about the same time were affected with the fever from the same cause, in water and penn-streets. about the middle of the month, a ship from hamburgh communicated the disease, by means of her foul air, to the village of kensington. it prevailed, moreover, in many instances in the suburbs, and in kensington, from putrid exhalations from gutters and marshy grounds, at a distance from the delaware, and from the foul ships which have been mentioned. proofs of the truth of each of these assertions were afterwards laid before the public. the disease was confined chiefly to the district of southwark and the village of kensington, for several weeks. in september and october, many cases occurred in the city, but most of them were easily traced to the above sources. the following account of the weather, during the months of august, september, and october was obtained from mr. thomas pryor. it is different from the weather in . it is of consequence to attend to this fact, inasmuch as it shows that an inflammatory constitution of the atmosphere can exist under different circumstances of the weather. it likewise accounts for the variety in the symptoms of the fever in different years and countries. such is the influence of season and climate upon the symptoms of this fever, that it led dr. m'kitterick to suppose that the yellow fever of charleston, so accurately described by dr. lining, in the second volume of the physical and literary essays of edinburgh, was a different disease from the yellow fever of the west-indies[ ]. [ ] de febre indiæ-occidentalis maligna flava, p. . meteorological observations, _made in philadelphia_. august, . +--+-----+------+----------------------------------------------+ |d.|ther.|barom.| winds and weather. | +--+--+--+------+----------------------------------------------+ | | | | |s. e. e. rain in the forenoon and afternoon. | | | | | |n. e. by e. cloudy, with rain in the afternoon| | | | | | and night. wind e. by n. | | | | | |e. / n. rain in the morning, and all day and| | | | | | night. | | | | | |e. rained hard all day and at night. | | | | | |wind light, s. w. cloudy. rain this morning. | | | | | | the air extremely damp; wind shifted | | | | | | to n. w. this evening heavy showers, | | | | | | with thunder. | | | | | |w. n. w. cloudy. | | | | | |n. w. close day. rain in the evening and | | | | | | all night. wind to e. | | | | | |e. rain this morning. | | | | | |s. w. cloudy morning. | | | | | |n. w. clear. | | | | | |n. w. clear. rain all night. | | | | | |s. w. cloudy. rain in the morning. cloudy | | | | | | all day. rain at night. | | | | | |s. w. cloudy. rain all day. | | | | | |n. w. clear fine morning. | | | | | |n. w. clear fine morning. | | | | | |n. w. clear fine morning. | | | | | |n. w. air damp. | | | | | |s. w. cloudy. rain, with thunder at night: | | | | | | a fine shower. | | | | | |n. w. clear. cloudy in the evening, with | | | | | | thunder. | | | | | |w. n. w. fine clear morning. | | | | | |n. w. clear to e. | | | | | |e. small shower this morning. hard shower | | | | | | at , a. m. wind n. e. | | | | | |e. cloudy. at noon calm. | | | | | |calm morning and clear. | | | | | |n. e. clear. rain in the afternoon, with | | | | | | thunder. | | | | | |s. e. rain in the morning. rained hard in the | | | | | | night, with thunder, n. w. | | | | | |n. w. fine clear morning. | | | | | |n. w. clear. | | | | | |e. clear. | | | | | |e. by s. rain in the morning. | | | | | |s. e. cloudy. damp air and sultry. | +--+--+--+------+----------------------------------------------+ september, . +--+-----+------+----------------------------------------------+ |d.|ther.|barom.| winds and weather. | +--+-----+------+----------------------------------------------+ | | | | |s. w. cloudy. damp air. rain in the morning | | | | | |n. w. clear. cloudy in the evening, with | | | | | | lightning to the southward. | | | | | |n. by w. cloudy. clear in the afternoon and | | | | | | night. | | | | | |w. n. w. clear fine morning. | | | | | |n. w. clear. cloudy in the evening. | | | | | |fresh at e. clear. rain in the evening. | | | | | |e. clear. cloudy in the evening. | | | | | |n. e. clear and cool morning. flying clouds at| | | | | | noon. | | | | | |e. n. e. clear. | | | | | |n. e. clear fine morning. wind fresh at n. e. | | | | | | all day. | | | | | |n. to e. with flying clouds. | | | | | |w. n. w. clear cool morning. | | | | | |s. w. cloudy. clear in the afternoon. | | | | | |s. w. clear. | | | | | |s. w. rain in the morning. cloudy in the | | | | | | afternoon. | | | | | |n. w. clear. | | | | | |n. w. clear. | | | | | |e. cloudy. rained all day, and thunder. | | | | | | rained very heavy at night. | | | | | |w. n. w. clear fine morning. | | | | | |w. n. w. clear fine morning. new moon | | | | | | at morning. | | | | | |n. e. clear fine morning; to s. e. in the | | | | | | evening. cloudy at night. | | | | | |n. w. rain in the morning. rain at night. | | | | | |n. n. e. cloudy. | | | | | |e. by s. clear fine morning. cloudy at night | | | | | | | | | | | |w. n. w. clear fine morning; clear all day. | | | | | |e. in the morning flying clouds. | | | | | |n. w. clear fine morning; clear all day. | | | | | |w. n. w. clear fine morning; clear all day. | | | | | |e. clear fine morning. | | | | | |e. fresh. cloudy morning. rain in the night | +--+--+--+------+----------------------------------------------+ october, . +--+-----+------+----------------------------------------------+ |d.|ther.|barom.| winds and weather. | +--+-----+------+----------------------------------------------+ | | | | |n. e. rain this morning, and great, part of | | | | | | the day. | | | | | |n. w. clear. | | | | | |s. e. clear. air damp. | | | | | |w. n. w. rain this morning. | | | | | |w. n. w. to s. by w. in the evening. clear | | | | | | all day. white frost this morning. | | | | | |s. w. clear fine morning. white frost. | | | | | |s. w. cloudy. rain in the night. | | | | | |s. cloudy this morning; air damp. wind | | | | | | shifted to w. n. w. blows fresh. | | | | | |w. n. w. clear morning. fresh at n. w. | | | | | | in the evening. | | | | | |w. n. w. clear. frost this morning. | | | | | |w. n. w. cloudy. | | | | | |w. n. w. clear. ice this morning. | | | | | |n. clear fine morning. ice this morning. | | | | | |n. e. cloudy. | | | | | |w. n. w. clear. | | | | | |w. n. w. clear fine morning. | | | | | |w. n. w. clear fine morning. | | | | | |w. n. w. clear fine weather. | | | | | |n. w. clear fine day. | | | | | |n. e. cloudy. rain in the afternoon and | | | | | | night. blows fresh at n. e. | | | | | |n. e. blows fresh (with a little rain). | | | | | | thunder in the night, with rain. | | | | | |n. w. rain in the morning. | | | | | |s. w. clear fine morning. | | | | | |n. e. cloudy. a great deal of rain in the | | | | | | night. | | | | | |n. e. clear fine morning. | | | | | |w. n. w. clear. | | | | | |fresh at s. w. clear. | | | | | |w. n. w. cloudy. | | | | | |w. cloudy. | | | | | |n. w. clear. hard frost this morning. | | | | | |w. s. w. cloudy part of this day; clear the | | | | | | remainder. | +--+--+--+------+----------------------------------------------+ in addition to the register of the weather it may not be improper to add, that moschetoes were more numerous during the prevalence of the fever than in . an unusual number of ants and cockroaches were likewise observed; and it was said that the martins and swallows disappeared, for a while, from the city and its neighbourhood. a disease prevailed among the cats some weeks before the yellow fever appeared in the city. it excited a belief in an unwholesome state of the atmosphere, and apprehensions of a sickly fall. it generally proved fatal to them. after the first week in september there were no diseases to be seen but yellow fever. in that part of the town which is between walnut and vine-streets it was uncommonly healthy. a similar retreat of inferior diseases has been observed to take place during the prevalence of the plague in london, holland, and germany, according to the histories of that disease by sydenham, diemerbroeck, sennertus, and hildanus. it appears, from the register of the weather, that it rained during the greatest part of the day on the st of october. the effects of this rain upon the disease shall be mentioned hereafter. on the th the weather became cool, and on the nights of the th and th of the month there was a frost accompanied with ice, which appeared to give a sudden and complete check to the disease. the reader will probably expect an account of the effects of this distressing epidemic upon the public mind. the terror of the citizens for a while was very great. rumours of an opposite and contradictory nature of the increase and mortality of the fever were in constant circulation. a stoppage was put to business, and it was computed that about two thirds of the inhabitants left the city. the legislature of the state early passed a law, granting , dollars for the relief of the sufferers by the fever. the citizens in and out of town, as also many of the citizens of our sister states, contributed more than that sum for the same charitable purpose. this money was issued by a committee appointed by the governor of the state. an hospital for the reception of the poor was established on the east side of the river schuylkill, and amply provided with every thing necessary for the accommodation of the sick. tents were likewise pitched on the east side of schuylkill, to which all those people were invited who were exposed to the danger of taking the disease, and who had not means to provide a more comfortable retreat for themselves in the country. i am sorry to add that the moral effects of the fever upon the minds of our citizens were confined chiefly to these acts of benevolence. many of the publications in the newspapers upon its existence, mode of cure, and origin partook of a virulent spirit, which ill accorded with the distresses of the city. it was a cause of lamentation likewise to many serious people, that the citizens in general were less disposed, than in , to acknowledge the agency of a divine hand in their afflictions. in some a levity of mind appeared upon this solemn occasion. a worthy bookseller gave me a melancholy proof of this assertion, by informing me, that he had never been asked for playing cards so often, in the same time, as he had been during the prevalence of the fever. philadelphia was not the only place in the united states which suffered by the yellow fever. it prevailed, at the same time, at providence, in rhode-island, at norfolk, in virginia, at baltimore, and in many of the country towns of new-england, new-jersey, and pennsylvania. the influenza followed the yellow fever, as it did in the year . it made its appearance in the latter end of october, and affected chiefly those citizens who had been out of town. the predisposing causes of the yellow fever, in the year , were the same as in the year . strangers were as usual most subject to it. the heat of the body in such persons, in the west-indies, has been found to be between three and four degrees above that of the temperature of the natives. this fact is taken notice of by dr. m'kitterick, and to this he ascribes, in part, the predisposition of new comers to the yellow fever. in addition to the common exciting causes of this disease formerly enumerated, i have only to add, that it was induced in one of my patients by smoking a segar. he had not been accustomed to the use of tobacco. i saw no new premonitory symptoms of this fever except a tooth-ach. it occurred in dr. physick, dr. caldwell, and in my pupil, mr. bellenger. in miss elliot there was such a soreness in her teeth, that she could hardly close her mouth on the day in which she was attacked by the fever. neither of these persons had taken mercury to obviate the disease. i shall now deliver a short account of the symptoms of the yellow fever, as they appeared in several of the different systems of the body. i. there was but little difference in the state of the pulse in this epidemic from what has been recorded in the fevers of and . i perceived a pulse, in several cases, which felt like a soft quill which had been _shattered_ by being trodden upon. it occurred in dr. jones and dr. dobell, and in several other persons who had been worn down by great fatigue, and it was, in every instance, followed by a fatal issue of the fever. in dr. jones this state of the pulse was accompanied with such a difficulty of breathing, that every breath he drew, on the day of his attack, he informed me, was the effort of a sigh. he died on the th of september, and on the sixth day of his fever. the action of the arteries was, as usual, very irregular in many cases. in some there was a distressing throbbing of the vessels in the brain, and in one of my patients a similar sensation in the bowels, but without pain. many people had issues of blood from their blisters in this fever. i saw nothing new in the effects of the fever upon the liver, lungs, brain, nor upon the stomach and bowels. ii. the excretions were distinguished by no unusual marks. i met with no recoveries where there were not black stools. they excoriated the rectum in dr. way. it was a happy circumstance where morbid bilious matter came away in the beginning of the disease. but it frequently resisted the most powerful cathartics until the th or th day of the fever, at which time it appeared rather to yield to the disorganization of the liver than to medicine. where sufficient blood-letting had been previously used, the patient frequently recovered, even after the black discharges from the bowels took place in a late stage of the disease. dr. coxe informed me, that he attended a child of seventeen months old which had _white_ stools for several days. towards the close of its disease it had black stools, and soon afterwards died. several of my patients discharged worms during the fever. in one instance they were discharged from the mouth. a preternatural frequency in making pale water attended the first attack of the disease in mr. joseph fisher. a discharge of an unusual quantity of urine preceded, a few hours, the death of the daughter of mrs. read. in two of my patients there was a total suppression of urine. in one of them it continued five days without exciting any pain. there was no disposition to sweat after the first and second days of the fever. even in those states of the fever, in which the intermissions were most complete, there was seldom any moisture, or even softness on the skin. this was so characteristic of malignity in the bilious fever, that where i found the opposite state of the skin, towards the close of a paroxysm, i did not hesitate to encourage my patient, by assuring him that his fever was of a mild nature, and would most probably be safe in its issue. iii. i saw no unusual marks of the disease in the nervous system. the mind was seldom affected by delirium after the loss of blood. there was a disposition to shed tears in two of my patients. one of them wept during the whole time of a paroxysm of the fever. in one case i observed an uncommon dulness of apprehension, with no other mark of a diseased state of the mind. it was in a man whose faculties, in ordinary health, acted with celerity and vigour. dr. caldwell informed me of a singular change which took place in the operations of his mind during his recovery from the fever. his imagination carried him back to an early period of his life, and engaged him, for a day or two, in playing with a bow and arrow, and in amusements of which he had been fond when a boy. a similar change occurred in the mind of my former pupil, dr. fisher, during his convalescence from the yellow fever in . he amused himself for two days in looking over the pictures of a family bible which lay in his room, and declared that he found the same kind of pleasure in this employment that he did when a child. however uninteresting these facts may now appear, the time will come when they may probably furnish useful hints for completing the physiology and pathology of the mind. where blood-letting had not been used, patients frequently died of convulsions. iv. the senses of seeing and feeling were impaired in several cases. mrs. bradford's vision was so weak that she hardly knew her friends at her bed-side. i had great pleasure in observing this alarming symptom suddenly yield to the loss of four ounces of blood. several persons who died of this fever did not, from the beginning to the end of the disease, feel any pain. i shall hereafter endeavour to explain the cause of this insensible state of the nerves. the appetite for food was unimpaired for three days in mr. andrew brown, at a time when his pulse indicated a high grade of the fever. i heard of several persons who ate with avidity just before they died. v. glandular swellings were very uncommon in this fever. i should have ascribed their absence to the copious use of depleting remedies in my practice, had i not been informed that morbid affections of the lymphatic glands were unknown in the city hospital, where blood-letting was seldom used, and where the patients, in many instances, died before they had time to take medicine of any kind. vi. the skin was cool, dry, smooth, and even shining in some cases. yellowness was not universal. those small red spots, which have been compared to moscheto bites, occurred in several of my patients. dr. john duffield, who acted as house surgeon and apothecary at the city hospital, informed me that he saw vibices on the skin in many cases, and that they were all more or less sore to the touch. vii. the blood was dissolved in a few cases. that appearance of the blood, which has been compared to the washings of flesh, was very common. it was more or less sizy towards the close of the disease in most cases. i have suspected, from this circumstance, that this mark of ordinary morbid action or inflammation was in part the effect of the mercury acting upon the blood-vessels. it is well known that sizy blood generally accompanies a salivation. if this conjecture be well founded, it will not militate against the use of mercury in malignant fevers, for it shows that this valuable medicine possesses a power of changing an extraordinary and dangerous degree of morbid action in the blood-vessels to that which is more common and safe. i have seldom seen a yellow fever terminate fatally after the appearance of sizy blood. dr. stewart informed me, that in those cases in which the serum of the blood had a yellow colour, it imparted a saline taste only to his tongue. he was the more struck with this fact, as he perceived a strong bitter state upon his skin, in a severe attack of the yellow fever in . i proceed next to take notice of the type of the fever. in many cases, it appeared in the form of a remitting and intermitting fever. the quotidian and tertian forms were most common. in mr. robert wharton, it appeared in the form of a quartan. but it frequently assumed the character which is given of the same fever in charleston, by dr. lining. it came on without chills, and continued without any remission for three days, after which the patient believed himself to be well, and sometimes rose from his bed, and applied to business. on the fourth or fifth day, the fever returned, and unless copious evacuations had been used in the early stage of the disease, it generally proved fatal. sometimes the powers of the system were depressed below the return of active fever, and the patient sunk away by an easy death, without pain, heat, or a quick pulse. i have been much puzzled to distinguish a crisis of the fever on the third or fourth day, from the insidious appearance which has been described. it deceived me in . it may be known by a preternatural coolness in the skin, and languor in the pulse, by an inability to sit up long without fatigue or faintness, by a dull eye, and by great depression of mind, or such a flow of spirits as sometimes to produce a declaration from the patient that "he feels too well." where these symptoms appear, the patient should be informed of his danger, and urged to the continuance of such remedies as are proper for him. the following states or forms were observable in the fever: . in a few cases, the miasmata produced death in four and twenty hours, with convulsions, coma, or apoplexy. . there were _open_ cases, in which the pulse was full and tense as in a pleurisy or rheumatism, from the beginning to the end of the fever. they were generally attended with a good deal of pain. . there were _depressed_ or _locked_ cases, in which there were a sense of great debility, but little or no pain, a depressed and slow pulse, a cool skin, cold hands and feet, and obstructed excretions. . there were _divided_ or _mixed_ cases, in which the pulse was active until the th day, after which it became depressed. all the other symptoms of the locked state of the fever accompanied this depressed state of the pulse. . there were cases in which the pulse imparted a perception like that of a soft and _shattered_ quill. i have before mentioned that this state of the pulse occurred in dr. jones and dr. dobell. i felt it but once, and on the day of his attack, in the latter gentleman, and expressed my opinion of his extreme danger to one of my pupils upon my return from visiting him. i did not meet with a case which terminated favourably, where i perceived this _shattered_ pulse. a disposition to sweat occurred in this state of the fever. . there were what dr. caldwell happily called _walking_ cases. the patients here were flushed or pale, had a full or tense pulse, but complained of no pain, had a good appetite, and walked about their rooms or houses, as if they were but little indisposed, until a day or two, and, in some instances, until a few hours before they died. we speak of a _dumb_ gout and _dumb_ rheumatism; with equal propriety, the epithet might be applied to this form of yellow fever in its early stage. the impression of the remote cause of the fever, in these cases, was beyond sensation, for, upon removing a part of it by bleeding or purging, the patients complained of pain, and the excitement of the muscles passed so completely into the blood-vessels and alimentary canal, as to convert the fever into a common and more natural form. these cases were always dangerous, and, when neglected, generally terminated in death. mr. brown's fever came on in this insidious shape. it was cured by the loss of upwards of ounces of blood, and a plentiful salivation. . there was the _intermitting_ form in this fever. this, like the last, often deceived the patient, by leading him to suppose his disease was of a common or trifling nature. it prevented mr. richard smith from applying for medical aid in an attack of the fever for several days, by which means it made such an impression upon his viscera, that depleting remedies were in vain used to cure him. he died in the prime of life, beloved and lamented by a numerous circle of relations and friends. . there was a form of this fever in which it resembled the mild remittent of common seasons. it was distinguished from it chiefly by the black colour of the intestinal evacuations. . there were cases of this fever so light, that patients were said to be neither _sick_ nor _well_; or, in other words, they were sick and well half a dozen times in a day. such persons walked about, and transacted their ordinary business, but complained of dulness, and, occasionally, of shooting pains in their heads. sometimes the stomach was affected with sickness, and the bowels with diarrh[oe]a or costiveness. all of them complained of night sweats. the pulse was quicker than natural, but seldom had that convulsive action which constitutes fever. purges always brought away black stools from such patients, and this circumstance served to establish its relationship to the prevailing epidemic. now and then, by neglect or improper treatment, it assumed a higher and more dangerous grade of the fever, and became fatal, but it more commonly yielded to nature, or to a single dose of purging physic. . there were a few cases in which the skin was affected with universal yellowness, but without more pain or indisposition than usually occurs in the jaundice. they were very frequent in the year , and generally prevail in the autumn, in all places subject to bilious fever. . there were _chronic_ cases of this fever. it is from the want of observation that physicians limit the duration of the yellow fever to certain days. i have seen many instances in which it has been protracted into what is called by authors a slow nervous fever. the wife of captain peter bell died with a black vomiting after an illness of nearly one month. dr. pinckard, formerly one of the physicians of the british army in the west-indies, in a late visit to this city informed me, that he had often seen the yellow fever put on a chronic form in the west-india islands. in delivering this detail of the various forms of the yellow fever, i am aware that i oppose the opinions of many of my medical brethren, who ascribe to it a certain uniform character, which is removed beyond the influence of climate, habit, predisposition, and the different strength and combinations of remote and exciting causes. this uniformity in the symptoms of this fever is said to exist in the west-indies, and every deviation from it in the united states is called by another name. the following communication, which i received from dr. pinckard, will show that this disease is as different in its forms in the west-indies as it is in this country. "the yellow fever, as it appeared among the troops in guiana and the west-india islands, in the years and , exhibited such perpetual instability, and varied so incessantly in its character, that i could not discover any one symptom to be decidedly diagnostic; and hence i have been led into an opinion that the yellow fever, so called, is not a distinct or specific disease, but merely an aggravated degree of the common remittent or bilious fever of hot climates, rendered irregular in form, and augmented in malignity, from appearing in subjects unaccustomed to the climate. _philadelphia, january th, ._" many other authorities equally respectable with dr. pinckard's, among whom are pringle, huck, and hunter, might be adduced in support of the unity of bilious fever. but to multiply them further would be an act of homage to the weakness of human reason, and an acknowledgment of the infant state of our knowledge in medicine. as well might we suppose nature to be an artist, and that diseases were shaped by her like a piece of statuary, or a suit of clothes, by means of a chissel, or pair of scissars, as admit every different form and grade of morbid action in the system to be a distinct disease. notwithstanding the fever put on the eleven forms which have been described, the moderate cases were few, compared with those of a malignant and dangerous nature. it was upon this account that the mortality was greater in the same number of patients, who were treated with the same remedies, than it was in the years and . the disease, moreover, partook of a more malignant character than the two epidemics that have been mentioned. the yellow fever in norfolk, drs. taylor and hansford informed me, in a letter i received from them, was much more malignant and fatal, under equal circumstances, than it was in . there were evident marks of the disease attacking more persons three days before, and three days after the _full_ and _change_ of the moon, and of more deaths occurring at those periods than at any other time. the same thing has been remarked in the plague by diemerbroeck, in the fevers of bengal by dr. balfour, and in those of demarara by dr. pinckard. during the prevalence of the fever i attended the following persons who had been affected by the epidemic of , viz. dr. physick, thomas leaming, thomas canby, samuel bradford, and george loxley, also mrs. eggar, who had a violent attack of it in the year . samuel bradford was likewise affected by it in . during my intercourse with the sick, i felt the miasmata of the fever operate upon my system in the most sensible manner. it produced languor, a pain in my head, and sickness at my stomach. a sighing attended me occasionally, for upwards of two weeks. this symptom left me suddenly, and was succeeded by a hoarseness, and, at times, with such a feebleness in my voice as to make speaking painful to me. having observed this affection of the trachea to be a precursor of the fever in several cases, it kept me under daily apprehensions of being confined by it. it gradually went off after the first of october. i ascribed my recovery from it, and a sudden diminution of the effects of the miasmata upon my system, to a change produced in the atmosphere by the rain which fell on that day. the peculiar matter emitted by the breath or perspiration of persons affected by this fever, induced a sneezing in dr. dobell, every time he went into a sick room. ambrose parey says the same thing occurred to him, upon entering the room of patients confined by the plague. the gutters emitted, in many places, a sulphureous smell during the prevalence of the fever. upon rubbing my hands together i could at any time excite a similar smell in them. i have taken notice of this effect of the matters which produced the disease upon the body, in the year . in order to prevent an attack of the fever, i carefully avoided all its exciting causes. i reduced my diet, and lived sparingly upon tea, coffee, milk, and the common fruits and garden vegetables of the season, with a small quantity of salted meat, and smoked herring. my drinks were milk and water, weak claret and water, and weak porter and water. i sheltered myself as much as possible from the rays of the sun, and from the action of the evening air, and accommodated my dress to the changes in the temperature of the atmosphere. by similar means, i have reason to believe, many hundred people escaped the disease, who were constantly exposed to it. the number of deaths by the fever, in the months of august, september, and october, amounted to between ten and eleven hundred. in the list of the dead were nine practitioners of physic, several of whom were gentlemen of the most respectable characters. this number will be thought considerable when it is added, that not more than three or four and twenty physicians attended patients in the disease. of the survivors of that number, eight were affected with the fever. this extraordinary mortality and sickness among the physicians must be ascribed to their uncommon fatigue in attending upon the sick, and to their inability to command their time and labours, so as to avoid the exciting causes of the fever. among the medical gentlemen whose deaths have been mentioned, was my excellent friend, dr. nicholas way. i shall carry to my grave an affectionate remembrance of him. we passed our youth together in the study of medicine, and lived to the time of his death in the habits of the tenderest friendship. in the year , he removed from wilmington, in the delaware state, to philadelphia, where his talents and manners soon introduced him into extensive business. his independent fortune furnished his friends with arguments to advise him to retire from the city, upon the first appearance of the fever. but his humanity prevailed over the dictates of interest and the love of life. he was active and intelligent in suggesting and executing plans to arrest the progress of the disease, and to lessen the distresses of the poor. on the th of august, he was seized, after a ride from the country in the evening air, with a chilly fit and fever. i saw him the next day, and advised the usual depleting remedies. he submitted to my prescriptions with reluctance, and in a sparing manner, from an opinion that his fever was nothing but a common remittent. to enforce obedience to my advice, i called upon dr. griffitts to visit him with me. our combined exertions to overcome his prejudices against our remedies were ineffectual. at two o'clock in the afternoon, on the sixth day of his disease, with an aching heart i saw the sweat of death upon his forehead, and felt his cold arm without a pulse. he spoke to me with difficulty: upon my rising from his bed-side to leave him, his eyes filled with tears, and his countenance spoke a language which i am unable to describe. i promised to return in a short time, with a view of attending the last scene of his life. immediately after i left his room, he wept aloud. i returned hastily to him, and found him in convulsions. he died a few hours afterwards. had i met with no other affliction in the autumn of than that which i experienced from this affecting scene, it would have been a severe one; but it was a part only of what i suffered from the death of other friends, and from the malice of enemies. i beg the reader's pardon for this digression. it shall be the last time and place in which any notice shall be taken of my sorrows and persecutions in the course of these volumes. soon after the citizens returned from the country, the governor of the state, mr. mifflin, addressed a letter to the college of physicians of philadelphia, requesting to know the origin, progress, and nature of the fever which had recently afflicted the city, and the means of preventing its return. he addressed a similar letter to me, to be communicated to such gentlemen of the faculty of medicine, as were not members of the college of physicians. the college, in a memorial to the legislature of the state, asserted that the fever had been imported in two ships, the one from havannah, the other from port au prince, and recommended, as the most effectual means of preventing its recurrence, a more rigid quarantine law. the gentlemen of the faculty of medicine, thirteen in number, in two letters to the governor of the state, the one in their private capacity, and the other after they had associated themselves into an "academy of medicine," asserted that the fever had originated from the putrid exhalations from the gutters and streets of the city, and from ponds and marshy grounds in its neighbourhood; also from the foul air of two ships, the one from marseilles and the other from hamburgh. they enumerated all the common sources of malignant fevers, and recommended the removal of them from the city, as the most effectual method of preventing the return of the fever. these sources of fever, and the various means of destroying them, shall be mentioned in another place. i proceed now to say a few words upon the treatment which was used in this fever. it was, in general, the same as that which was pursued in the fevers of and . i began the cure, in most cases, by _bleeding_, when i was called on the first day of the disease, and was happy in observing its usual salutary effects in its early stage. on the second day, it frequently failed of doing service, and on the subsequent days of the fever, i believe, it often did harm; more especially if no other depleting remedy had preceded it. the violent action of the blood-vessels in this disease, when left to itself for two or three days, fills and suffocates the viscera with such an immense mass of blood, as to leave a quantity in the vessels so small, as barely to keep up the actions of life. by abstracting but a few ounces of this circulating blood, we precipitate death. in those cases where a doubt is entertained of such an engorgement of stagnating blood having taken place, it will always be safest to take but three or four ounces at a time, and to repeat it four or five times a day. by this mode of bleeding, we give the viscera an opportunity of emptying their superfluous blood into the vessels, and thereby prevent their collapsing, from the sudden abstraction of the stimulus which remained in them. i confine this observation upon bleeding, after the first stage of the disease, only to the epidemic of . it was frequently effectual when used for the first time after the first and second days, in the fevers of and , and it is often useful in the advanced stage of the common bilious fever. the different and contradictory accounts of the effects of bleeding in the yellow fever, in the west-indies, probably originate in its being used in different stages of the disease. dr. jackson, of the british army, in his late visit to philadelphia, informed me, that he had cured nineteen out of twenty of all the soldiers whom he attended, by copious bleeding, provided it was performed within six hours after the attack of the fever. beyond that period, it mitigated its force, but seldom cured. the quantity of blood drawn by the doctor, in this early stage of the disease, was always from twenty to thirty ounces. i have said the yellow fever of was more malignant than the fevers of and . its resemblance to the yellow fever in the west-indies, in not yielding to bleeding after the first day, is a proof of this assertion. i was struck, during my attendance upon this fever, in observing the analogy between its _mixed_ form and the malignant state of the small-pox. the fever, in both, continues for three or four days without any remission. they both have a second stage, in which death usually takes place, if the diseases be left to themselves. by means of copious bleeding in their first, they are generally deprived of their malignity and mortality in their second stage. this remark, so trite in the small-pox, has been less attended to in the yellow fever. the bleeding in the first stage of this disease does not, it is true, destroy it altogether, any more than it destroys an eruption in the second stage of the small-pox, but it weakens it in such a manner that the patient passes through its second stage without pain or danger, and with no other aid from medicine than what is commonly derived from good nursing, proper aliment, and a little gently opening physic. it is common with those practitioners who object to bleeding in the yellow fever, to admit it occasionally in _robust_ habits. this rule leads to great error in practice. from the weak action of predisposing, or exciting causes, the disease often exists in a feeble state in such habits, while from the protracted or violent operation of the same causes, it appears in great force in persons of delicate constitutions. a physician, therefore, in prescribing for a patient in this fever, should forget the natural strength of his muscles, and accommodate the loss of blood wholly to the morbid strength of his disease. the quantity of blood drawn in this fever was always proportioned to its violence. i cured many by a single bleeding. a few required the loss of upwards of a hundred ounces of blood to cure them. the persons from whom that large quantity of blood was taken, were, messieurs andrew brown, horace hall, george cummins, j. ramsay, and george eyre. but i was not singular in the liberal and frequent use of the lancet. the following physicians drew the quantities of blood annexed to their respective names from the following persons, viz. dr. dewees ounces from dr. physick, dr. griffitts mr. s. thomson, dr. stewart mrs. m'phail, dr. cooper mr. david evans, dr. gillespie himself. all the above named persons had a rapid and easy recovery, and now enjoy good health. i lost but one patient who had been the subject of early and copious bleeding. his death was evidently induced by a supper of beef-stakes and porter, after he had exhibited the most promising signs of convalescence. of purging. from the great difficulty that was found in discharging bile from the bowels, by the common modes of administering purges, dr. griffitts suggested to me the propriety of giving large doses of calomel, without jalap or any other purging medicine, in order to loosen the bile from its close connection with the gall-bladder and duodenum, during the first day of the disease. this method of discharging acrid bile was found useful. i observed the same relief from large evacuations of f[oe]tid bile, in the epidemic of , that i have remarked in the fever of . mr. bryce has taken notice of the same salutary effects from similar evacuations, in the yellow fever on board the busbridge indiaman, in the year . his words are: "it was observable, that the more dark-coloured and f[oe]tid such discharges were, the more early and certainly did the symptoms disappear. their good effects were so instantaneous, that i have often seen a man carried up on deck, perfectly delirious with subsultus tendinum, and in a state of the greatest apparent debility, who, after one or two copious evacuations of this kind, has returned of himself, and astonished at his newly acquired strength[ ]." very different are the effects of tonic remedies, when given to remove this apparent debility. the clown who supposes the crooked appearance of a stick, when thrust into a pail of water, to be real, does not err more against the laws of light, than that physician errs against a law of the animal economy, who mistakes the debility which arises from oppression for an exhausted state of the system, and attempts to remove it by stimulating medicines. [ ] annals of medicine, p. . after unlocking the bowels, by means of calomel and jalap, in the beginning of the fever, i found no difficulty afterwards in keeping them gently open by more lenient purges. in addition to those which i have mentioned in the account of the fever of , i yielded to the advice of dr. griffitts, by adopting the soluble tartar, and gave small doses of it daily in many cases. it seldom offended the stomach, and generally operated, without griping, in the most plentiful manner. however powerful bleeding and purging were in the cure of this fever, they often required the aid of a _salivation_ to assist them in subduing it. besides the usual methods of introducing mercury into the system, dr. stewart accelerated its action, by obliging his patients to wear socks filled with mercurial ointment; and dr. gillespie aimed at the same thing, by injecting the ointment, in a suitable vehicle, into the bowels, in the form of glysters. the following fact, communicated to me by dr. stewart, will show the safety of large doses of calomel in this fever. mrs. m'phail took grains of calomel, by mistake, at a dose, after having taken three or four doses, of grains each, on the same day. she took, in all, grains in six days, and yet, says the doctor, "such was the state of her stomach and intestines, that that large quantity was retained without producing the least griping, or more stools than she had when she took three grains every two hours." i observed the mercury to affect the mouth and throat in the following ways. . it sometimes produced a swelling only in the throat, resembling a common inflammatory angina. . it sometimes produced ulcers upon the lips, cheeks, and tongue, without any discharge from the salivary glands. . it sometimes produced swellings and ulcers in the gums, and loosened the teeth without inducing a salivation. . there were instances in which the mercury induced a rigidity in the masseter muscles of the jaw, by which means the mouth was kept constantly open, or so much closed, as to render it difficult for the patient to take food, and impossible for him to masticate it. . it sometimes affected the salivary glands only, producing from them a copious secretion and excretion of saliva. but, . it more frequently acted upon all the above parts, and it was then it produced most speedily its salutary effects. . the discharge of the saliva frequently took place only during the remission or intermission of the fever, and ceased with each return of its paroxysms. . the salivation did not take place, in some cases, until the solution of the fever. this was more especially the case in those forms of the fever in which there were no remissions or intermissions. . it ceased in most cases with the fever, but it sometimes continued for six weeks or two months after the complete recovery of the patient. . the mercury rarely dislodged the teeth. not a single instance occurred of a patient losing a tooth in the city hospital, where the physicians, dr. j. duffield informed me, relied chiefly upon a salivation for a cure of the fever. . sometimes the mercury produced a discharge of blood with the saliva. dr. coulter, of baltimore, gave me an account, in a letter dated the th of september, , of a boy in whom a hæmorrhage from the salivary glands, excited by calomel, was succeeded by a plentiful flow of saliva, which saved his patient. i saw no inconvenience from the mixture of blood with saliva in any of my patients. it occurred in dr. caldwell, mr. bradford, mr. brown, and several others. it has been said that mercury does no service unless it purges or salivates. i am disposed to believe that it may act as a counter stimulus to that of the miasmata of the yellow fever, and thus be useful without producing any evacuation from the bowels or mouth. it more certainly acts in this way, provided blood-letting has preceded its exhibition. i have supposed the stimulus from the remote cause of the yellow fever to be equal in force to five, and that of mercury to three. to enable the mercury to produce its action upon the system, it is necessary to reduce the febrile action, by bleeding, to two and a half, or below it, so that the stimulus of the mercury shall transcend it. the safety of mercury, when introduced into the system, has three advantages as a stimulus over that of the matter which produces the fever. . it excites an action in the system preternatural only in _force_. it does not derange the _natural_ order of actions. . it determines the actions chiefly to external parts of the body. and, . it fixes them, when it affects the mouth and throat, upon parts which are capable of bearing great inflammation and effusion without any danger to life. the stimulus which produces the yellow fever acts in ways the reverse of those which have been mentioned. it produces violent _irregular_ or _wrong_ actions. it determines them to internal parts of the body, and it fixes them upon viscera which bear, with difficulty and danger, the usual effects of disease. a late french writer, dr. fabre, ascribed to diseases a centrifugal, and a centripetal direction. from what has been said it would seem, the former belongs to mercury, and the latter to the yellow fever. considering the great prejudices against blood-letting, i have wished to combat this fever with mercury alone. but, for reasons formerly given, i have been afraid to trust to it without the assistance of the lancet. the character of the fever, moreover, like that which the poet has ascribed to achilles, is of "so swift, irritable, inexorable, and cruel" a nature, that it would be unsafe to rely exclusively upon a medicine which is not only of less efficacy than bleeding, but often slow and uncertain in its operation, _more especially_ upon the throat and mouth. let not the reader be offended at my attempts to reason. i am aware of the evils which the weak and perverted exercise of this power of the mind has introduced into medicine. but let us act with the same consistency upon this subject that we do in other things. we do not consign a child to its cradle for life, because it falls in its first unsuccessful efforts to use its legs. in like manner we must not abandon reason, because, in our first efforts to use it, we have been deceived. a single just principle in our science will lead to more truth, in one year, than whole volumes of uncombined facts will do in a century. i lost but two patients in this epidemic in whom the mercury excited a salivation. one of them died from the want of nursing; the other by the late application of the remedy. of emetics. it was said a practitioner, who was opposed to bleeding and mercury, cured this fever by means of strong emetics. i gave one to a man who refused to be bled. it operated freely, and brought on a plentiful sweat. the next day he arose from his bed, and went to his work. on the fourth day he sent for me again. my son visited him, and found him without a pulse. he died the next day. i heard of two other persons who took emetics in the beginning of the fever, without the advice of a physician, both of whom died. dr. pinckard informed me, that their effects were generally hurtful in the violent grades of the yellow fever in the west-indies. the same information has since been given to me by dr. jackson. in the second and third grades of the bilious fever they appear not only to be safe, but useful. of diet and drinks. the advantages of a weak vegetable diet were very great in this fever. i found but little difficulty, in most cases, in having my prohibition of animal food complied with before the crisis of the fever, but there was often such a sudden excitement of the appetite for it, immediately afterwards, that it was difficult to restrain it. i have mentioned the case of a young man, who was upon the recovery, who died in consequence of supping upon beef-stakes. many other instances of the mortality of this fever from a similar cause, i believe, occurred in our epidemic, which were concealed from our physicians. i am not singular in ascribing the death of convalescents to the too early use of animal food. dr. poissonnier has the following important remark upon this subject. "the physicians of brest have observed, that the relapses in the malignant fever, which prevailed in their naval hospitals, were as much the effect of a fault in the diet of the sick as of the contagious air to which they were exposed, and that as many patients perished from this cause as from the original fever. for this reason light soups, with leguminous vegetables in them, panada, rice seasoned with cinnamon, fresh eggs, &c. are all that they should be permitted to eat. the use of flesh should be forbidden for many days after the entire cure of the disorder[ ]." [ ] maladies de gens de mer, vol. i. p. . dr. huxham has furnished another evidence of the danger from the premature use of animal food, in his history of a malignant fever which prevailed at plymouth, in the year . "if any one (says the doctor) made use of a flesh or fish diet, before he had been very well purged, and his recovery confirmed, he infallibly indulged himself herein at the utmost danger of his life[ ]." [ ] epidemics, vol. ii. p. . in addition to the mild articles of diet, mentioned by dr. poissonnier, i found bread and milk, with a little water, sugar, and the pulp of a roasted apple mixed with it, very acceptable to my patients during their convalescence. oysters were equally innocent and agreeable. ripe grapes were devoured by them with avidity, in every stage of the fever. the season had been favourable to the perfection of this pleasant fruit, and all the gardens in the city and neighbourhood in which it was cultivated were gratuitously opened by the citizens for the benefit of the sick. the drinks were, cold water, toast and water, balm tea, water in which jellies of different kinds had been dissolved, lemonade, apple water, barley and rice water, and, in cases where the stomach was affected with sickness or puking, weak porter and water, and cold camomile tea. in the convalescent stage of the fever, and in such of its remissions or intermissions as were accompanied with great languor in the pulse, wine-whey, porter and water, and brandy and water, were taken with advantage. cold water applied to the body, cool and fresh air, and cleanliness, produced their usual good effects in this fever. in the external use of cold water, care was taken to confine it to such cases as were accompanied with preternatural heat, and to forbid it in the cold fit of the fever, and in those cases which were attended with cold hands and feet, and where the disease showed a disposition to terminate, in its first stage, by a profuse perspiration. it has lately given me great pleasure to find the same practice, in the external use of cold water in fevers, recommended by dr. currie of liverpool, in his medical reports of the effects of water, cold and warm, as a remedy in febrile diseases. of the benefit of fresh air in this fever, dr. dawson of tortola has lately furnished me with a striking instance. he informed me, that by removing patients from the low grounds on that island, where the fever is generated, to a neighbouring mountain, they generally recovered in a few days. finding a disagreeable smell to arise from vinegar sprinkled upon the floor, after it had emitted all its acid vapour, i directed the floors of sick rooms to be sprinkled only with water. i found the vapour which arose from it to be grateful to my patients. a citizen of philadelphia, whose whole family recovered from the fever, thought he perceived evident advantages from tubs of fresh water being kept constantly in the sick rooms. of tonic remedies. there were now and then remissions and intermissions of the fever, accompanied with such signs of danger from debility, as to render the exhibition of a few drops of laudanum, a little wine-whey, a glass of brandy and water, and, in some instances, a cup of weak chicken-broth, highly necessary and useful. in addition to these cordial drinks, i directed the feet to be placed in a tub of warm water, which was introduced under the bed-clothes, so that the patient was not weakened by being raised from a horizontal posture. all these remedies were laid aside upon the return of a paroxysm of fever. i did not prescribe bark in a single case of this disease. an infusion of the quassia root was substituted in its room, in several instances, with advantage. _blisters_ were applied as usual, but, from the insensibility of the skin, they were less effectual than applications of mustard to the arms and legs. it is a circumstance worthy of notice, that while the stomach, bowels, and even the large blood-vessels are sometimes in a highly excited state, and overcharged, as it were, with life, the whole surface of the body is in a state of the greatest torpor. to attempt to excite it by internal remedies is like adding fuel to a chimney already on fire. the excitement of the blood-vessels, and the circulation of the blood, can only be equalized by the application of stimulants to the skin. these, to be effectual, should be of the most powerful kind. caustics might probably be used in such cases with advantage. i am led to this opinion by a fact communicated to me by dr. stewart. a lighted candle, which had been left on the bed of a woman whom he was attending in the apparent last stage of the yellow fever, fell upon her breast. she was too insensible to feel, or too weak to remove it. before her nurse came into her room, it had made a deep and extensive impression upon her flesh. from that time she revived, and in the course of a few days recovered. as a tonic remedy in this fever, dr. jackson has spoken to me in high terms of the good effects of riding in a carriage. patients, he informed me, who were moved with difficulty, after riding a few miles were able to sit up, and, when they returned from their excursions, were frequently able to walk to their beds. much has been said, of late years, in favour of the application of warm olive oil to the body in the plague, and a wish has been expressed, by some people, that its efficacy might be tried in the yellow fever. upon examining the account of this remedy, as published by mr. baldwin, three things suggest themselves to our notice. . that the oil is effectual only in the _forming_ state of the disease; . that the friction which is used with it contributes to excite the torpid vessels of the skin; and . that it acts chiefly by depleting from the pores of the body. from the unity of the remedy of depletion, it is probable purging or bleeding might be substituted to the expensive parade of the sweat induced by the warm oil, and the smoke of odoriferous vegetables. but i must not conceal here, that there are facts which favour an idea, that oil produces a sedative action upon the blood-vessels, through the medium of the skin. bontius says it is used in this manner in the east-indies, for the cure of malignant fevers, after the previous use of bleeding and purging. it seems to have been a remedy well known among the jews; hence we find the apostle james advises its being applied to the body, in addition to the prayers of the elders of the church[ ]. it is thus in other cases, the blessings of heaven are conveyed to men through the use of natural means. [ ] chapter v. verse . during the existence of the premonitory symptoms, and before patients were confined to their rooms, a gentle purge, or the loss of a few ounces of blood, in many hundred instances, prevented the formation of the fever. i did not meet with a single exception to this remark. fevers are the affliction chiefly of poor people. to prevent or to cure them, remedies must be cheap, and capable of being applied with but little attendance. from the affinity established by the creator between evil and its antidotes, in other parts of his works, i am disposed to believe no remedy will ever be effectual in any general disease, that is not cheap, and that cannot easily be made universal. it is to be lamented that the greatest part of all the deaths which occur, are from diseases that are under the power of medicine. to prevent their fatal issue, it would seem to be agreeable to the order of heaven in other things, that they should be attacked in their forming state. weeds, vermin, public oppression, and private vice, are easily eradicated and destroyed, if opposed by their proper remedies, as soon as they show themselves. the principal obstacle to the successful use of the antidotes of malignant fevers, in their early stage, arises from physicians refusing to declare when they appear in a city, and from their practice of calling their mild forms by other names than that of a mortal epidemic. i shall now say a few words upon the success of the depleting practice in this epidemic. from the more malignant state of the fever, and from the fears and prejudices that were excited against bleeding and mercury by means of the newspapers, the success of those remedies was much less than in the years and . hundreds refused to submit to them at the _time_, and in the _manner_, that were necessary to render them effectual. from the publications of a number of physicians, who used the lancet and mercury in their greatest extent, it appears that they lost but one in ten of all they attended. it was said of several practitioners who were opposed to copious bleeding, that they lost a much smaller proportion of their patients with the prevailing fever. upon inquiry, it appeared they had lost many more. to conceal their want of success, they said their patients had died of other diseases. this mode of deceiving the public began in . the men who used it did not recollect, that it is less in favour of a physician's skill to lose patients in pleurisies, colics, hæmorrhages, contusions, and common remittents, than in a malignant yellow fever. dr. sayre attended fifteen patients in the disease, all of whom recovered by the plentiful use of the depleting remedies. his place of residence being remote from those parts of the city in which the fever prevailed most, prevented his being called to a greater number of cases. a french physician, who bled and purged _moderately_, candidly acknowledged that he saved but three out of four of his patients. in the city hospital, where bleeding was sparingly used, and where the physicians depended chiefly upon a salivation, more than one half died of all the patients who were admitted. it is an act of justice to the physicians of the hospital to add, that many, perhaps most of their patients, were admitted _after_ the first day of the disease. i cannot conclude this comparative view of the success of the different modes of treating the yellow fever, without taking notice, that the stimulating mode, as recommended by dr. kuhn and dr. stevens, in the year , was deserted by every physician in the city. dr. stevens acknowledged the disease to require a different treatment from that which it required in the west-indies; dr. kuhn adopted the lancet and mercury in his practice; and several other physicians, who had written against those remedies, or who had doubted of their safety and efficacy, in , used them with confidence, and in the most liberal manner, in . in the histories i have given of the yellow fevers of and , i have scattered here and there a few observations upon their degrees of danger, and the signs of their favourable or unfavourable issue. i shall close the present history, by collecting those observations into one view, and adding to them such other signs as have occurred to me in observing this epidemic. signs of moderate danger, and a favourable issue of the yellow fever. . a chilly fit accompanying the attack of the fever. the longer this chill continues, the more favourable the disease. . the recurrence of chills every day, or twice a day, or every other day, with the return of the exacerbations of the fever. a coldness of the whole body, at the above periods, without chills, a coldness with a profuse sweat, cold feet and hands, with febrile heat in other parts of the body, and a profuse sweat without chills or coldness, are all less favourable symptoms than a regular chilly fit, but they indicate less danger than their total absence during the course of the fever. . a puking of _green_ or _yellow_ bile on the first day of the disease is favourable. a discharge of black bile, if it occur on the _first_ day of the fever, is not unfavourable. . a discharge of green and yellow stools. it is more favourable if the stools are of a dark or black colour, and of a f[oe]tid and acrid nature, on the first or second day of the fever. . a softness and moisture on the skin in the beginning of the fever. . a sense of pain in the head, or a sudden translation of pain from internal to external parts of the body, particularly to the back. an increase of pain after bleeding. . a sore mouth. . a moist white, or a yellow tongue. . an early disposition to spit freely, whether excited by nature or the use of mercury. . blood becoming sizy, after having exhibited the usual marks of great morbid action in the blood-vessels. . great and exquisite sensibility in the sense of feeling coming on near the close of the fever. . acute pains in the back and limbs. . the appearance of an inflammatory spot on a finger or toe, dr. h. m'clen says, is favourable. it appears, the doctor says, as if the cause of the fever had escaped by explosion. signs of great danger, and of an unfavourable issue of the yellow fever are, . an attack of the fever, suddenly succeeding great terror, anger, or the intemperate use of venery, or strong drink. . the first paroxysm coming on without any premonitory symptoms, or a chilly fit. . a coldness over the whole body without chills for two or three days. . a sleepiness on the first and second days of the fever. . uncommon paleness of the face not induced by blood-letting. . constant or violent vomiting, without any discharge of bile. . obstinate costiveness, or a discharge of natural, or white stools; also quick, watery stools after taking drink. . a diarrh[oe]a towards the close of the fever. i lost two patients, in , with this symptom, who had exhibited, a few days before, signs of a recovery. dr. pinckard informed me, that it was generally attended with a fatal issue in the yellow fever of the west-indies. diemerbroeck declares, that "scarcely one in a hundred recovered, with this symptom, from the plague[ ]." [ ] lib. i. cap. . . a suppression of urine. it is most alarming when it is without pain. . a discharge of dark-coloured and bloody urine. . a cold, cool, dry, smooth, or shining skin. . the appearance of a yellow colour in the face on the first or second day of the fever. . the absence of pain, or a sudden cessation of it, with the common symptoms of great danger. . a disposition to faint upon a little motion, and fainting after losing but a few ounces of blood. . a watery, glassy, or brilliant eye. a red eye on the fourth or fifth day of the disease. it is more alarming if it become so after having been previously yellow. . imperfect vision, and blindness in the close of the disease. . deafness. . a preternatural appetite, more especially in the last stage of the fever. . a slow, intermitting, and shattered pulse. . great restlessness, delirium, and long continued coma. . a discharge of coffee-coloured or black matter from the stomach, after the fourth day of the fever. . a smooth red tongue, covered with a lead-coloured crust, while its edges are of a bright red. . a dull vacant face, expressive of distress. . great insensibility to common occurrences, and an indifference about the issue of the disease. . uncommon serenity of mind, accompanied with an unusually placid countenance. i shall conclude this head by the following remarks: . the violence, danger, and probable issue of this fever, seem to be in proportion to the duration and force of the predisposing and exciting causes. however steady the former are in bringing on debility, and the latter in acting as irritants upon accumulated excitability, yet a knowledge of their duration and force is always useful, not only in forming an opinion of the probable issue of the fever, but in regulating the force of remedies. . the signs of danger vary in different years, from the influence of the weather upon the disease. . notwithstanding the signs of the favourable and unfavourable issue of the fever are in general uniform, when the cure of the disease is committed to nature, or to tonic medicines, yet they are far from being so when the treatment of the fever is taken out of the hands of nature, and attempted by the use of depleting remedies. we often see patients recover with nearly all the unfavourable symptoms that have been mentioned, and we sometimes see them die, with all those that are favourable. the words of morellus, therefore, which he has applied to the plague, are equally true when applied to the yellow fever. "in the plague, our senses deceive us. reason deceives us. the aphorisms of hippocrates deceive us[ ]." an important lesson may be learned from these facts, and that is, never to give a patient over. on the contrary, it is our duty in this, as well as in all other acute diseases, to dispute every inch of ground with death. by means of this practice, which is warranted by science, as well as dictated by humanity, the grave has often been deprived for a while of its prey, and a prelude thereby exhibited of that approaching and delightful time foretold by ancient prophets, when the power of medicine over diseases shall be such, as to render old age the only outlet of human life. [ ] de feb. pestilent. cap. v. "acutorum morborum incertæ admodum, ac fallaces sunt prædictiones." hippocrates. an account of the _bilious yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the year . the yellow fever of the year was succeeded by scarlatina, catarrhs, and bilious pleurisies, in the months of november and december of the same year. the weather favoured the generation of the latter diseases. it became suddenly cold about the middle of november. on the th of december, the navigation of the delaware was obstructed. there was a thaw on the th and th of this month, but not sufficient to open the river. in the month of january, , the fevers discovered an uncommon determination to the brain. four cases of the hydrocephalic state of fever occurred under my care during this month, all of which yielded to depleting remedies. the subjects of this state of fever were mr. robert lewis, and the daughters of messrs. john brooks, andrew ellicott, and david maffat. the weather was variable during the months of february and march. the navigation of the delaware was not completely opened until the latter end of february. the diseases of these two months were catarrhs and bilious pleurisies. the former were confined chiefly to children, and were cured by gentle pukes, purges of calomel, and blood-letting. the last remedy was employed twice in a child of isaac pisso, of six weeks old, and once in a child of thomas billington, of three weeks old, with success. on the th of april, i visited mr. pollock, lately from the state of georgia, in consultation with dr. physick, in a yellow fever. he died the evening after i saw him, on the third day of his disease. there was a snow storm on the th of april, and the weather was afterwards very cold. such leaves and blossoms as had appeared, were injured by it. on the st of may, the mercury in fahrenheit's thermometer rose to °. the weather, during the latter part of this month, and in june, was very dry. on the th of june, dr. cooper lost a patient in the yellow fever, near the corner of twelfth and walnut-streets. mark miller died with the same state of fever on the d of july. about a dozen cases of a similar nature occurred, under the care of different practitioners, between the d and th of this month, and all of them in parts of the city remote from water-street. on the th of july, the weather was so cool as to render winter clothes comfortable. a severe hail storm had occurred, a few days before, in the neighbourhood of wilmington, in the delaware state. on the st of the month, the ship deborah arrived from one of the west-india islands, and discharged her cargo in the city. she was moored afterwards at kensington, where the foul air which was emitted from her hold produced several cases of yellow fever, near the shores of that village. in august the disease appeared in nearly every part of the city, and particularly in places where there was the greatest exhalation from foul gutters and common sewers. in describing the disease, as it appeared this year, i shall take notice of its symptoms as they appeared in the blood-vessels, alimentary canal, the tongue, the nervous system, in the eyes, the lymphatic system, and the blood. the subjects which furnished the materials for this history were not only private patients, but the poor in the city hospital, who were committed to the care of dr. physick and myself, by the board of health. i. the pulse was, in many cases, less active in the beginning of this fever than in former years. it was seldom preternaturally slow. it resembled the pulse which occurs in the first stage of the common jail fever. hæmorrhages were common about the fourth and fifth days, and generally from the gums, throat, or stomach. ii. the whole alimentary canal was much affected in most cases. costiveness and a vomiting were general. the alvine discharges were occasionally green, dark-coloured, black, and natural. the black vomiting was more common this year than in former years, in all the forms of the fever. it was sometimes suspended for several days before death, and hopes were entertained of a recovery of patients in whom it had appeared. in a boy, at the city hospital, it ceased ten days before he died. it was sometimes succeeded by delirium or coma, but it more commonly left the patient free of pain, and in the possession of all the faculties of his mind. iii. the tongue was by no means an index of the state of the fever, as in the years and . i saw several deaths, attended with a black vomiting, in which the tongue retained a natural appearance. this phenomenon at first deceived me. i ascribed it to such a concentration of the disease in the stomach and other vital parts, as to prevent its diffusing itself through the external parts of the system. we observe the effects of the same cause in a natural state of the skin, and in a natural appearance of the urine, in the most malignant forms of this fever. iv. in the nervous system, the disease appeared with several new symptoms. a relation of peter field attempted to bite his attendants in the delirium of his fever, just before he died. i attended a young woman at mrs. easby's, who started every time i touched her pulse. loud talking, or a question suddenly proposed to her, produced the same convulsive motion. she retained her reason during the whole of her illness, and was cured by bleeding and a salivation. hiccup was a common symptom. i saw but two patients recover who had it. in one of them, dr. hedges, it came on after the sixth day of the fever, and continued, without any other symptom of disease, for four or five days. i lost a patient who complained of no pain but in the calves of his legs. dr. physick lost a girl, in the city hospital, who complained only of pains in her toes. her stomach discovered, after death, strong marks of inflammation. many people passed through every stage of the disease, without uttering a complaint of pain of any kind. an uncommon stiffness in the limbs preceded death a few hours, in several cases. this stiffness ceased, in one of dr. physick's patients, immediately after death, but returned as soon as he became cold. an obstinate wakefulness continued through the whole of the disease in dr. leib. it was common during the convalescence, in many cases. the whole body was affected, in many cases, with a morbid sensibility, or what has been called supersensation, so that patients complained of pain upon being touched, when they were moved in their beds. this extreme sensibility was general in parts to which blisters had been applied. it continued through every stage of the disease. dr. physick informed me, that he observed it in a man two hours before he died. in this man there was an absence of pulse, and a coldness of his extremities. upon touching his wrist, he cried out, as if he felt great pain. v. a redness in the eyes was a general symptom. i saw few recoveries where this redness was not removed. a discharge of matter from one ear relieved mr. j. c. warren from a distressing pulsation of the arteries in his head. vi. glandular swellings occurred in several instances. two cases of them came under my notice. they both terminated favourably. vii. the blood had its usual appearances in this disease. in the yellow fever which prevailed at the same time in boston, dr. rand says the blood was sizy in but one out of a hundred cases. the forms of the fever were nearly similar to those which have been described in the year . i saw several cases in which the disease appeared in the form of a tertian fever. in one of them it terminated in death. the system, in many cases, was prostrated below the point of inflammatory re-action. these were called, by some practitioners, typhous fevers. it was the most dangerous and fatal form of the disease. its frequent occurrence gave occasion to a remark, that our epidemic resembled the yellow fever of the west-indies, much more than the fevers of and . i attended two patients in whom the disease was protracted nearly to the th day. they both recovered. dr. francis sayre informed me, that he saw a child, in which the morbid affection of the wind-pipe, called cynanche trachealis, appeared with all the usual symptoms of yellow fever. i attended one case in which the force of the disease was weakened, in its first stage, by a profuse hæmorrhage from the bowels. this hæmorrhage was followed by a bloody diarrh[oe]a, which continued for four or five weeks. persons of all ages and colours were affected by this fever. i saw a case of it in a child of six months old. in the blacks, it was attended with less violence and mortality than in white people. it affected many persons who had previously had it. the disease was excited by the same causes which excited it in former years. i observed a number of people to be affected by the fever, who lived in solitude in their houses, without doing any business. the system, in these persons, was predisposed to the disease, by the debility induced by ceasing to labour at their former occupations. it was excited in a young man by a fractured leg. he died five days afterwards, with a black vomiting. i observed, in several instances, an interval of four and five days between the debility induced upon the system by a predisposing, and the action of an exciting cause. dr. clark says, he has seen an interval of several weeks between the operation of those causes, in the yellow fever of dominique. these facts are worthy of notice, as they lead to a protracted use of the means of obviating an attack of the disease. during my attendance upon the sick, i twice perceived in my system the premonitory signs of the epidemic. its complete formation was prevented each time by rest, a moderate dose of physic, and a plentiful sweat. i shall now take notice of the different manner in which patients died of this fever. the detail may be useful, by unfolding new principles in the animal economy, as well as new facts in the history of the disease. . the disease terminated in death, in some instances, by means of convulsions. . by delirium, which prompted to exertions and actions similar to those which take place in madness. . by profuse hæmorrhages from the gums. this occurred in two patients of dr. stewart. . by an incessant vomiting and hiccup. . by extreme pain in the calves of the legs and toes, which, by destroying the excitement of the system, destroyed life. . by a total absence of pain. in this way it put an end to the life of mr. henry hill. . by a disposition to easy, and apparently natural sleep. i have reason to believe that mr. hill encouraged this disposition to sleep, a few hours before he died, under the influence of a belief that he would be refreshed by it. diemerbroeck says the plague often killed in the same way. . the mind was in many cases torpid, where no delirium attended, and death was submitted to with a degree of insensibility, which was often mistaken for fortitude and resignation. i shall now mention the morbid appearances exhibited by the bodies of persons who died of this fever, as communicated to me by my friend, dr. physick; being the result of numerous dissections made by him at the city hospital. in all of them the stomach was inflamed. the matter which constitutes what is called the _black vomit_, was found in the stomachs of several patients who had not discharged it at any time by vomiting. in some stomachs, he found lines which seemed to separate the living from their dead parts. those parts, though dead, were not always in a mortified state. they were distinguished from the living parts by a peculiar paleness, and by discovering a weak texture upon being pressed between the fingers. he observed the greatest marks of inflammation in the stomachs of several persons in whom there had been no vomiting, during the whole course of the disease. the brain, in a few instances, discovered marks of inflammation. water was now and then found in its ventricles, but always of its natural colour, even in those persons whose skins were yellow. the liver suffered but little in this disease. it may serve to increase our knowledge of the influence of local circumstances upon epidemics to remark, that this viscus, which was rarely diseased in the fever of philadelphia in , discovered marks of great inflammation in the bodies which were examined by dr. rand and dr. warren, in the town of boston, where the yellow fever prevailed at the same time it did in philadelphia. the weather was hot and dry in august and september, during the prevalence of this fever. its influence upon animal and vegetable life are worthy of notice. moschetoes abounded, as usual in sickly seasons; grasshoppers covered the ground in many places; cabbages and other garden vegetables, and even fields of clover, were devoured by them. peaches ripened this year three weeks sooner than in ordinary summers, and apples rotted much sooner than usual after being gathered in the autumn. many fruit-trees blossomed in october, and a second crop of small apples and cherries were seen in november, on the west side of schuylkill, near the city. meteors were observed in several places. on the th of september there was a white frost. its effects upon the fever were obvious and general. it declined, in every part of the city, to such a degree as to induce many people to return from the country. in the beginning of october the weather again became warm, and the disease revived. it was observable, that all great changes in the weather from heat to cold that were short of frost, or of cold to heat, increased the mortality of the fever. it spread most rapidly in moist weather. the origin of this fever was from the exhalations of gutters, docks, cellars, common sewers, ponds of stagnating water, and from the foul air of the ship formerly mentioned. the fever prevailed at the same time in the town of chester, in pennsylvania; in wilmington, in the state of delaware; in new-york; in new-london, in connecticut; in windsor, in vermont; and in boston; in all which places its origin was traced to domestic sources. i shall now deliver a short account of the remedies employed in the cure of this disease. i have said that the pulse was less active in this fever than in the fevers of former years. it was seldom, however, so feeble as to forbid bleeding. in dr. mease it called for the loss of ounces of blood, and in mr. j. c. warren for the loss of , by successive bleedings, before it was subdued. but such cases were not common. in most of them, the pulse flagged after two or three bleedings. but there were cases in which the lancet was forbidden altogether. in these, the system appeared to be prostrated, by the force of the miasmata, below the point of re-action. this state of the disease manifested itself in a weak, quick, and frequent pulse, languid eye, sighing, great inquietude, or great insensibility. however unsafe bleeding was on the first day of this fever, when it appeared with those symptoms, nature often performed that operation upon herself from the gums, on the fourth or fifth day. i saw several pounds of blood discharged on those days, and in that way, with the happiest effects. it appeared to take place after the revival of the blood-vessels from their prostrated state. from a conviction that the system was depressed only in these cases, and finding that it did not rise upon blood-letting, i resolved to try the effects of emetics, in exciting and equalizing the action of the blood-vessels. the experience i had had of the inefficacy of this remedy in , and of its ill effects in one instance in , led me to exhibit it with a trembling hand. i gave it for the first time to a son of richard renshaw. i had bled him but once, and had in vain tried to bring on a salivation. on the fifth day of his disease, his pulse became languid and slow, his skin cool, a hæmorrhage had taken place from his gums, and he discovered a restlessness and anxiety which i had often seen a few hours before death. he took four grains of tartar emetic, with twenty grains of calomel, at two doses. they operated powerfully, upwards and downwards, and brought away a large quantity of bile. the effects of this medicine were such as i wished. the next day he was out of danger. i prescribed the same medicine in many other cases with the same success. to several of my patients i gave two emetics in the course of the disease. some of them discharged bile resembling in viscidity the white of an egg. but i saw one case in which great relief was obtained from the operation of an emetic, where no bile was discharged. in the exhibition of this remedy, i was regulated by the pulse. if i found it languid on the first day of the fever, i gave it before any other medicine. when it was full and tense, i deferred it until i had reduced the pulse to the emetic point by bleeding and purges. i observed, with great pleasure, that mercury affected the mouth more speedily and certainly where an emetic had been administered, than in other cases, probably from awakening, by its stimulus, the sensibility of the stomach; for such was its torpor, that in one case ten grains of tartar emetic, and in another thirty grains, did not operate upon it, so as to excite even the slightest degree of nausea. in many cases, an emetic, given in the forming state of the disease, seemed to effect an immediate cure. purges produced the same salutary effects that they did in former years. i always combined calomel with them in the first stage of the disease. a salivation was found to be the most certain remedy of any that was used in this fever. i did not lose a single patient, in whom the mercury acted upon the salivary glands. it was difficult to excite it in many cases, from the mercury being rejected by the stomach, from its passing off by the bowels, or from its stimulus being exceeded by the morbid action in the blood-vessels. bleeding rendered the action of the mercury upon the mouth more speedy and more certain, but i saw several cases in which a salivation was excited in the most malignant forms of the fever, where no blood had been drawn. it will not be difficult to explain the reason of this fact if we recur to what was said formerly of the prostration of the system in this fever. in its worst forms, there is often a total absence, or a feeble degree of action in the blood-vessels, from an excess of the stimulus of the remote cause of the fever. here the mercury meets with no resistance in its tendency to the mouth. bleeding in this case would probably do harm, by taking off a part of the pressure upon the system, and thereby produce a re-action in the vessels, that might predominate over the action of the mercury. the disease here does that for us by its force, which, in other cases, we effect by depleting remedies. where the mercury showed a disposition to pass too rapidly through the bowels, i observed no inconvenience from combining it with opium, in my attempts to excite a salivation. the calomel was constantly aided by mercurial ointment, applied by friction to different parts of the body. now and then a salivation continued for weeks and months after the crisis of this fever, to the great distress of the patient, and injury of the credit of mercury as a remedy in this disease. dr. physick has discovered, that in these cases the salivation is kept up by carious teeth or bone, and that it is to be cured only by removing them. from the impracticability of exciting a salivation in all cases, i attempted the cure of this fever, after bleeding, by means of copious sweats. they succeeded in several instances where no other remedy promised or afforded any relief. they were excited by wrapping the patient in a blanket, with half a dozen hot bricks wetted with vinegar, and applied to different parts of the body. the sweating was continued for six hours, and repeated daily for four or five days. in those cases where the fever put on the form of an intermittent, i gave bark after bleeding and purging with advantage. i gave it likewise in all those cases where the fever put on the type of the slow chronic fever. laudanum was acceptable and useful in many cases of pain, wakefulness, vomiting, and diarrh[oe]a, after the use of depleting remedies. i applied _blisters_ in the usual way in this fever, but i think with less effect than in the yellow fevers of former years. to relieve a vomiting, which was very distressing in many cases about the fourth and fifth days, i gave a julep, composed of the salt of tartar and laudanum. i also gave dr. hosack's anti-emetic medicine, composed of equal parts of lime-water and milk. i do not know that it saved any lives, but i am sure it gave ease by removing a painful symptom, and thus, where it did not cure, lessened the sufferings of the sick. the diet and drinks were the same in this fever as they were in the fevers formerly described. cool air, cold water, and cleanliness produced their usual salutary effects in this fever. i shall now deliver a short account of the symptoms which indicated a favourable and an unfavourable issue of the disease. it has been said[ ], that the signs of danger vary in this fever, from the influence of the weather. the autumn of confirmed, in many instances, the truth of this remark. [ ] history of the fever in . i saw no instance of death where a bleeding occurred from the gums on the fourth or fifth day, provided depleting remedies had been used from the beginning of the disease. few recovered who had this symptom in . i saw three recoveries after convulsions in the year . all died who were convulsed in and . a dry, hoarse, and sore throat was followed by death in every case in which it occurred in my practice. in the fever of a sore throat was a favourable sign. it was one of the circumstances which determined me to use a salivation in that fever. the absence of pain was always a bad sign. small, but frequent stools, and the continuance of a redness in the eyes after the ample use of depleting remedies, were likewise bad signs. an appetite for food on the fourth or fifth day of the fever, without a remission or cessation of the fever, was always unfavourable. a want of delicacy, in exposing parts of the body which are usually covered, was a bad symptom. i saw but one recovery where it took place. boccacio says the same symptom occurred in the plague in italy. "it suspended (he tells us) all modesty, so that young women, of great rank and delicacy, submitted to be attended, dressed, and even cleansed by male nurses." i have remarked, in another place, that but two of my patients recovered who had the hiccup. a dry tongue was a bad sign. i saw but one recovery where it occurred, and none where the tongue was black. a moist and natural tongue, where symptoms of violence or malignity appeared in other parts of the body, was always followed by a fatal issue of the disease. a desire to ride out, or to go home, in persons who were absent from their families, was, in every instance where it took place, a fatal symptom. these desires arose from an insensibility to pain, or a false idea of the state of the disease. it existed to such a degree in some of the patients in the city hospital, that they often left their beds, and dressed themselves, in order to go home. all these patients died, and some of them in the act of putting on their clothes. from the history that has been given of the symptoms, treatment, and prognosis of this fever, we see how imperfect all treatises upon epidemics must be, which are not connected with climate and season. as well might a traveller describe a foreign climate, by the state of the weather, or by the productions of the earth, during a single autumn, as a physician adopt a uniform opinion of the history, treatment, and prognosis of a fever, from its phenomena in any one country, or during a single season. there were three modes of practice used in this epidemic. the first consisted in the exhibition of purges of castor oil, salts, and manna, and cooling glysters, and in the use of the warm bath. these remedies were prescribed chiefly by the french physicians. the second consisted in the use of mercury alone, in such doses, and in such a manner, as to excite a salivation. this mode was used chiefly by an itinerant and popular quack. the third mode consisted in using all the remedies which i have mentioned in the account of the treatment of this fever, and accommodating them to the state of the disease. this mode of practice was followed by most of the american physicians. the first mode of practice was the least successful. it succeeded only in such cases as would probably have cured themselves. the second mode succeeded in mild cases, and now and then in that malignant state of the fever, in which the action of the blood-vessels was so much prostrated by the force of the miasmata, as to permit the mercury to pass over them, and thus to act upon the salivary glands in the course of four or five days. the last mode was by far the most successful. it is worthy of notice, that the business and reputation of the physicians, during this epidemic, were in the inverse ratio of their success. the number of deaths by it amounted to between three and four thousand, among whom were three physicians, and two students of medicine. its mortality was nearly as great as it was in , and yet the number of people who were affected by it was four times as great in as it was in , for, in the latter year, the city was deserted by nearly all its inhabitants. the cause of this disproportion of deaths to the number who were sick, was owing to the liberal and general use of the lancet in , and to the publications in having excited general fears and prejudices against it in . such was the influence of these publications, that many persons who had recovered from this fever in the two former years, by the use of depleting remedies, deserted the physicians who had prescribed them, and put themselves under the care of physicians of opposite modes of practice. most of them died. two of them had been my patients, one of whom had recovered of a third attack of the fever under my care. an account of the _bilious yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the year . the diseases which succeeded the fever of , in november and december, were highly inflammatory. a catarrh was nearly universal. several cases of sore throat, and one of erysipelas, came under my care in the month of november. the weather in december was extremely cold. it was equally so in the beginning of january, , accompanied with several falls of snow. about the middle of the month, the weather moderated so much, so as to open the navigation of the delaware. i met with two cases of malignant colic in the latter part of this month, and one of yellow fever. the last was swen warner. dr. physick, who attended him with me, informed me that he had, nearly at the same time, attended two other persons with the same disease. the weather was very cold, and bilious pleurisies were common, during the latter part of the month of february. march was equally cold. the newspapers contained accounts of the winter having been uncommonly severe in canada, and in several european countries. the first two weeks in april were still cold. the delaware, which had been frozen a second time during the winter, was crossed near its origin, on the ice, on the th day of this month. the diseases, though fewer than in the winter, were bilious and inflammatory. during this month, i was called to a case of yellow fever, which yielded to copious bleeding, and other depleting medicines. may was colder than is usual in that month, but very healthy. in the first week of june, several cases of highly bilious fever came under my care. in one of them, all the usual symptoms of the highest grade of that fever occurred. on the th of the month, dr. physick informed me, that he had lost a patient with that disease. on the d of the same month, joseph ashmead, a young merchant, died of it. several other cases of the disease occurred between the th and th days of the month, in different parts of the city. about this time, i was informed that the inhabitants of keys's-alley had predicted a return of the yellow fever, from the trees before their doors emitting a smell, exactly the same which they perceived just before the breaking out of that disease in . in july, the city was alarmed, by dr. griffitts, with an account of several cases of the fever in penn-street, near the water. the strictness with which the quarantine law had been executed, for a while rendered this account incredible with many people, and exposed the doctor to a good deal of obloquy. at length a vessel was discovered, that had arrived from one of the west-india islands on the th of may, and one day before the quarantine law was put into operation, from which the disease was said to be derived. upon investigating the state of this vessel, it appeared that she had arrived with a healthy crew, and that no person had been sick on board of her during her voyage. in the latter part of july and in the beginning of august, the disease gradually disappeared from every part of the city. this circumstance deserves attention, as it shows the disease did not spread by contagion. about this time we were informed by the newspapers, that dogs, geese, and other poultry, also that wild pigeons were sickly in many parts of the country, and that fish on the susquehannah, and oysters in the delaware bay, were so unpleasant, that the inhabitants declined eating them. at the same time, flies were found dead in great numbers, in the unhealthy parts of the city. the weather was dry in august and september. there was no second crop of grass. the gardens yielded a scanty supply of vegetables, and of an inferior size and quality. cherries were smaller than usual, and pear and apple-trees dropped their fruits prematurely, in large quantities. the peaches, which arrived at maturity, were small and ill-tasted. the grain was in general abundant, and of a good quality. a fly, of an unusual kind, covered the potatoe fields, and devoured, in some instances, the leaves of the potatoe. this fly has lately been used with success in our country, instead of the fly imported from spain. it is equal to it in every respect. like the spanish fly, it sometimes induces strangury. about the middle of august the disease revived, and appeared in different parts of the city. a publication from the academy of medicine, in which they declared the seeds of the disease to spread from the atmosphere only, produced a sudden flight of the inhabitants. in no year, since the prevalence of the fever, was the desertion of the city so general. i shall now add a short account of the symptoms and treatment of this epidemic. the arterial system was in most cases active. i met with a tense pulse in a patient after the appearance of the black vomiting. delirium was less frequent in adults than in former years. in children there was a great determination of the disease to the brain. i observed no new symptoms in the stomach and bowels. one of the worst cases of the fever which i saw was accompanied with colic. a girl of thomas shortall, who recovered, discharged worms during her fever. it appeared in mr. thomas roan, one of my pupils, in the form of a dysentery. a stiffness, such as follows death, occurred in several patients in the city hospital before death. miss shortall had an eruption of pimples on her breast, such as i have described in the short account i gave of the yellow fever of in this city, in my account of the disease in . the blood exhibited its usual appearances in the yellow fever. it was seldom sizy till towards the close of the disease. the tongue was generally whitish. sometimes it was of a red colour, and had a polished appearance. i saw no case of a black tongue, and but few that were yellow before the seventh day of the disease. the type of this disease was nearly the same as described in . it now and then appeared in the form of a quartan, in which state it generally proved fatal. it appeared with rheumatic pains in one of my patients. it blended itself with gout and small-pox. its union with the latter disease was evident in two patients in the city hospital, in each of whom the stools were such as were discharged in the most malignant state of the fever. the remedies for this fever were bleeding, vomits, purges, sweats, and a salivation and blisters. there were few cases that did not indicate bleeding. it was performed, when proper, in the usual way, and with its usual good effects. it was indicated as much when the disease appeared in the bowels as in the blood-vessels. mr. roan, in whom it was accompanied with symptoms of dysentery, lost nearly ounces of blood by twenty-two bleedings. i found the same benefit from emetics, in this fever, that i did in the fever of . they were never administered except on the first day, before violent action had taken place in the system, or after it was moderated by one or two bleedings. purges of calomel and jalap, also castor oil, salts, and injections were prescribed with their usual advantages. in those cases where the system was prostrated below the point of re-action, i began the cure by sweating. blankets, with hot bricks wetted with vinegar, and the hot bath, as mentioned formerly, when practicable, were used for this purpose. the latter produced, in a boy of years of age, who came into the city hospital without a pulse, and with a cold skin, in a few hours, a general warmth and an active pulse. the determination of the disease to the pores was evinced in one of my patients, by her sweating under the use of the above-mentioned remedies, for the first time in her life. a moisture upon her skin had never before been induced, she informed me, even by the warmest day in summer. the advantages of a salivation were as great as in former years. from the efficacy of bleeding, purges, emetics, and sweating, i had the pleasure of seeing many recoveries before the mercury had time to affect the mouth. in no one case did i rest the cure exclusively upon any one of these remedies. the more numerous the outlets were to convey off superfluous fluids and excitement from the body, the more safe and certain were the recoveries. a vein, the gall-bladder, the bowels, the pores, and the salivary glands were all opened, in succession, in part, or together, according to circumstances, so as to give the disease every possible chance of passing out of the body without injuring or destroying any of its vital parts. blisters were applied with advantage. the vomiting and sickness which attend this fever were relieved, in many instances, by a blister to the stomach. in those cases in which the fever was protracted to the chronic state, bark, wine, laudanum, and æther produced the most salutary effects. i think i saw life recalled, in several cases in which it appeared to be departing, by frequent and liberal doses of the last of those medicines. the bark was given, with safety and advantage, after the seventh day, when the fever assumed the form of an intermittent. the following symptoms were generally favourable, viz. a bleeding from the mouth and gums, and a disposition to weep, when spoken to in any stage of the fever. a hoarseness and sore throat indicated a fatal issue of the disease, as it did in . dr. physick remarked, that all those persons who sighed after waking suddenly, before they were able to speak, died. the recurrence of a redness of the eyes, after it had disappeared, or of but one eye, was generally followed by death. i saw but one recovery with a red face. i saw several persons, a few hours before death, in whom the countenance, tongue, voice, and pulse were perfectly natural. they complained of no pain, and discovered no distress nor solicitude of mind. their danger was only to be known by the circumstances which had preceded this apparently healthy and tranquil state of the system. they had all passed through extreme suffering, and some of them had puked black matter. the success of the mode of practice i have described was the same as in former years, in private families; but in the city hospital, which was again placed under the care of dr. physick and myself, there was a very different issue to it, from causes that are too obvious to be mentioned. there were two opinions given to the public upon the subject of the origin of this fever; the one by the academy of medicine, the other by the college of physicians. the former declared it to be generated in the city, from putrid domestic exhalations, because they saw it only in their vicinity, and discovered no channel by which it could have been derived from a foreign country; the latter asserted it to be "imported, because it had been imported in former years." an account of sporadic cases of _yellow fever_, as they appeared in philadelphia, in . the weather in the month of january was less cold than is common in that month. catarrhs, the cynanche trachealis, and bilious pleurisies were prevalent in every part of it. a few cases of yellow fever occurred likewise during this month. several cases of erysipelas appeared in february. the month of march was unusually healthy. the weather was warm in april, and the city as healthy as in march. it was equally so in may and june. the spring fruits appeared early in the latter month, in large quantities, and were of an excellent quality. locusts were universal in june. they had not appeared since the year . a record from the journal of the swedish missionaries was published at this time, which described their appearance in , in which year it was said to be very healthy. on the th of june there was a severe thunder gust, with more lightning than had been known for seven years before. there fell, during all the months that have been mentioned, frequent and plentiful showers of rain, which rendered the crops of grass luxuriant in the neighbourhood of philadelphia. the winds at this time were chiefly from the south-east. a few intermittents appeared in june, which yielded readily to the bark. on the th day of june, dr. physick informed me he had a black boy under his care with the yellow fever. in july, the hooping cough, cholera infantum, and some cases of dysentery and bilious fever appeared in the city. on the th of july, dr. pascalis informed me that he had lost a patient on the fifth day of a yellow fever. in august, the dysentery was the principal form of disease that prevailed in the city. on the d of this month, a woman died of the yellow fever in gaskill-street, under the care of dr. church. on the th and th, there fell an unusual quantity of rain. the winds were south-west and north-west during the greatest part of the summer months. the latter were sometimes accompanied with rain. on the th of september, a clerk of mr. levi hollingsworth, and, on the th, a clerk of mr. john connelly, died with the yellow fever. a plentiful shower of rain fell on the night of the st of this month. about this time there appeared one and twenty cases of yellow fever in spruce-street, between front and second-streets. they were all in the neighbourhood of putrid exhalations. fourteen of them ended fatally. no one of the above cases of malignant fever could be traced to a ship, or to a direct or indirect intercourse with persons affected by that disease. while philadelphia was thus visited by a few sporadic cases only of yellow fever, it was epidemic in several of the cities of the united states, particularly in new-york, providence, in rhode island, norfolk, and baltimore. in the last named place, it was publicly declared by the committee of health to be of domestic origin. the dysentery was epidemic, at the same time, in several of the towns of massachusetts and new-hampshire. it was attended with uncommon mortality at hanover, in the latter state. this difference in the states of health and sickness in the different parts of the united states must be sought for chiefly in the different states of the weather in those places. the exemption of philadelphia from the yellow fever, as an epidemic, may perhaps be ascribed to the strength and vigour of the vegetable products of the year, which retarded their putrefaction; to frequent showers of rain, which washed away the filth of the streets and gutters; and to the perfection of the summer and autumnal fruits. the months of november and december this year were uncommonly healthy. during the former, several light shocks of earthquakes were felt in lancaster and harrisburg, in pennsylvania, and in wilmington, in the state of delaware. an account of sporadic cases of _yellow fever_, as they appeared in philadelphia, in . the month of january was intensely cold. in february it became more moderate. the diseases, during these two months, were catarrhs and a few pleurisies. in march and april there fell an unusual quantity of rain. the hay harvest began in the neighbourhood of philadelphia on the th of may. a few mild cases of scarlatina anginosa occurred during these months. in june the weather was dry and healthy. on the th of july, a case of yellow fever occurred in the practice of dr. stewart. about the th of the month, a patient died with it in the pennsylvania hospital. dr. physick informed me that he had, at the same time, two patients under his care with that disease. several cases of the measles appeared in the south end of the city during this month. in every part of it, the weather was warm and dry, in consequence of which there were no second crops of grass, and a smaller quantity than usual of summer fruits and vegetables. the winds were less steady than they had been for seven years. they blew, every two or three days, from nearly every point of the compass. on the th of august there fell a considerable quantity of rain, which was succeeded by cool and pleasant weather. the cholera morbus was a frequent disease among both adults and children in the city, and the dysentery in several of the adjoining counties of the state. a number of emigrant families arrived this month from ireland and wales, who brought with them the ship fever. they were carefully attended, at the lazaretto and the city hospital, in airy rooms, by which means they did not propagate the disease. contrary to its usual character, it partook of the remissions of the bilious fever, probably from the influence of the season upon it. in september there were a few extremely warm days. in the beginning and middle of the month a number of mild remittents occurred, and about the d there were five or six cases of yellow fever in eighth-street, between chesnut and walnut-streets, in two houses ill ventilated, and exposed to a good deal of exhalation. i attended most of these cases in consultation with dr. gallaher. one of the persons who was affected with this fever puked black matter while i sat by his bed-side, a few hours before he died. during the summer and autumn of this year, a number of cases of yellow fever appeared at new-bedford, portland, and norwich, in the new-england states; in new-york; in some parts of new-jersey; and in northampton and bucks counties, in pennsylvania. it prevailed so generally in new-york, as to produce a considerable desertion of the city. in none of the above places could the least proof be adduced of the disease being imported. in philadelphia its existence was doubted or denied by most of the citizens, because it appeared in situations remote from the water, and of course could not be derived from any foreign source. it will be difficult to tell why the fever appeared only in sporadic cases in philadelphia. perhaps its prevalence as an epidemic was prevented by the plentiful rains in the spring months, by the absence of moisture from the filth of the streets and gutters, in consequence of the dry weather in june and july, by the vigour and perfection of the products of the earth, and by the variable state of the winds in the month of july. if none of these causes defended the city from more numerous cases of the yellow fever, it must be resolved into the want of a concurring inflammatory constitution of the atmosphere with the common impure sources of that disease. on the th of november, about twelve o'clock in the night, an earthquake was felt in philadelphia, attended with a noise as if something heavy had fallen upon a floor. several cases of scarlet fever appeared in december, but the prevailing disease, during the two last autumnal and the first winter months, was the measles. i have taken notice that it appeared in the south end of the city in july. during the months of august and september it was stationary, but in october, november, and december it spread through every part of the city. the following circumstances occurred in this epidemic, as far as it came under my notice. an account of the measles, as they appeared in philadelphia, in the year . i. the disease wore the livery of the autumnal fever in the following particulars. it was strongly marked by remissions and intermissions. the exacerbations came on chiefly at night. there were in many cases a constant nausea, and discharge of bile by puking. i saw one case in which the disease appeared with a violent cholera morbus, and several in which it was accompanied with diarrh[oe]a and dysentery. ii. many severe cases of phrenzy, and two of cynanche trachealis appeared with the measles. iii. a distressing sore mouth followed them, in a child of two years old, that came under my care. iv. a fatal hydrocephalus internus followed them in a boy of eight years old, whom i saw two days before he died. v. i met with a few cases in which the fever and eruption came on in the same day, but i saw one case in which the eruption did not take place until the tenth, and another, in which it did not appear until the fourteenth day after the fever. vi. two children had pustules on their skins, resembling the small-pox, before the eruption of the measles. vii. many children had coughs and watery eyes, but without the measles. the same children had them two or three weeks afterwards. viii. many people who had had the measles, had coughs during the prevalence of the measles, resembling the cough which occurs in that disease. the remedies made use of in my practice were, . bleeding, from four to sixty ounces, according to the age of the patient, and the state of the pulse. this remedy relieved the cough, eased the pains in the head, and in one case produced, when used a third time, an immediate eruption of the measles. . lenient purges. . demulcent drinks. . opiates at night. . blisters. and, . astringent medicines, where a diarrh[oe]a took place. i saw evident advantages from advising a vegetable diet to many children, as soon as any one of the families to which they belonged were attacked by the measles. i lost but one patient in this disease, and that was a child in convulsions. i ascribed my success to bleeding more generally and more copiously than i had been accustomed to do, in the measles of former years. an account of the _bilious yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the year . the weather during the month of january was unusually moderate and pleasant. in the latter end of it, many shrubs put forth leaves and blossomed. i saw a leaf of the honeysuckle, which was more than an inch in length, and above half an inch in breadth. there was but one fall of snow, and that a light one, during the whole month. the winds blew chiefly from the south-west in february. there was a light fall of snow on the th. a shad was caught in the delaware, near the city, on the th. on the th and th of the month, the weather became suddenly very cold. on the d there was a snow storm, and on the th, rain and a general thaw. in march, the weather was wet, cold, and stormy, with the exception of a few pleasant days. the scarlatina anginosa and the cynanche trachealis were the principal diseases that prevailed during the three months that have been mentioned. in april, there were several frosts, which destroyed the blossoms of the peach-trees. in may, the weather was so cool as to make fires agreeable to the last day of the month. the wind blew chiefly, during the whole of it, from the north-east. the scarlatina continued to be the reigning disease. i saw one fatal case of it, in which a redness only, without any ulcers or sloughs, appeared in the throat; and i attended another, in which a total immobility in the limbs was substituted by nature for the pain and swellings in those parts which generally attend the disease. there were three distinct grades of this epidemic. it was attended with such inflammatory or malignant symptoms, in some instances, as to require two or three bleedings; in others it appeared with a typhoid pulse, which yielded to emetics: turbith mineral was preferred for this purpose; while a redness, without a fever, which yielded to a single purge, was the only symptom of it in many people. the weather was cool, rainy, and hot, in succession, in the month of june. the scarlatina continued to be the prevailing disease. during the first and second weeks in july, there fell a good deal of rain. on the th of the month i was called to visit mrs. harris, in front-street, between arch and market-streets, with a bilious fever. the scarlatina had imparted to it a general redness on her skin, which induced her to believe it was that disease, and to neglect sending for medical relief for several days. she died on the th of the month, with a red eye, a black tongue, hiccup, and a yellow skin. three other cases of malignant bilious fever occurred this month. two of them were attended by dr. dewees and dr. otto. on the th of the month, the city was alarmed by an account of this fever having appeared near the corners of front and vine-streets, a part of the city which had for many weeks before been complained of by many people for emitting a f[oe]tid smell, derived from a great quantity of filthy matters stagnating in that neighbourhood, and from the foul air discharged from a vessel called the esperanza, which lay at vine-street wharf. on the d of august, it appeared in other parts of the city, particularly in front and water-streets, near the draw-bridge, where it evidently originated from putrid sources. reports were circulated that it was derived from contagion, conveyed to vine-street wharf in the timbers of a vessel called the st. domingo packet, but faithful and accurate inquiries proved that this vessel had been detained one and twenty days, and well cleaned at the lazaretto, and that no one, of fourteen men who had worked on board of her afterwards, had been affected with sickness of any kind. on the th of august, the board of health publicly declared the fever to be contagious, and advised an immediate desertion of the city. the advice was followed with uncommon degrees of terror and precipitation. the disease continued, in different parts of the city, during the whole of august and september. on the th of october, the citizens were publicly invited from the country by the board of health. during this season, the yellow fever was epidemic in baltimore and wilmington. in the former place it was admitted by their board of health, and in the latter it was proved by dr. vaughan, to be of domestic origin. it prevailed, at the same time, in sussex county and near woodbury, in new-jersey. sporadic cases of it likewise occurred in new-york and boston, and in portsmouth, in new-hampshire. the chronic fever was epidemic in several of the towns of north-carolina; cases of fever, which terminated in a swelling and mortification of the legs, and in death on the third day, appeared on the waters of the juniata, in pennsylvania; and bilious fevers, of a highly inflammatory grade, were likewise common near germantown and frankford, in the neighbourhood of philadelphia. but few of the cases of yellow fever which have been mentioned came under my care, but i saw a considerable number of fevers of a less violent grade. they were the inflammatory, bilious, mild remitting, chronic, and intermitting fevers, and the febricula. they appeared, in some instances, distinct from each other, but they generally blended their symptoms in their different stages. the yellow fever often came on in the mild form of an intermittent, and even a febricula, and as often, after a single paroxysm, ended in a mild remittent or chronic fever. when it appeared in the latter form, it was frequently attended with a slow or low pulse, and a vomiting and hiccup, such as attend in the yellow fever. this diversity of symptoms, with which the summer and autumnal fever came on, made it impossible to decide upon its type on the day of its attack. having been deceived in one instance, i made it a practice afterwards to watch every case i was called to with double vigilance, lest it should contract a malignant form in my hands, without my being prepared to meet it. of the five original and obvious cases of yellow fever to which i was called, i saved none, for i saw but one of them before the last stage of the disease. in many others, i have reason to believe i prevented that malignant form of fever, by the early and liberal use of depleting medicines. the practice of those physicians who attended most of the persons who had the yellow fever, was much less successful than in our former epidemics. i suspected at the time, and i was convinced afterwards, that it was occasioned by relying exclusively upon bleeding, purges, and mercury. the skin, in several of the cases which i saw, was covered with moisture. this clearly pointed out nature's attempt to relieve herself by sweating. upon my mentioning this fact to the late dr. pfeiffer, jun. he instantly adopted my opinion, and informed me, as a reason for doing so, that he had heard of several whole families in the northern liberties, where the disease prevailed most, who, by attacking it in its forming state by profuse sweats, had cured themselves, without the advice of a physician. an account of the _bilious yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in . the weather in january was uniformly cold. on the st of the month, the delaware was completely frozen. on the th of february there was a general thaw, attended with a storm of hail, thunder, and lightning, which lasted about three quarters of an hour. the diseases of both these winter months were catarrhs and bilious pleurisies. the latter appeared in a tertian type. the pain in the side was most sensible every other day. the weather was cold and dry in march, in consequence of which, vegetation was unusually backward in april. the hooping cough, catarrhs, and scarlatina were the diseases of this month. the beginning of may was very cool. there was ice on the th of the month. the winds, during the greatest parts of this and the previous month, were from the north-east. in june, the weather was cool. intermittents were common in this month, as well as in may. such was the predominance of this type of fever over all other diseases, that it appeared in the form of profuse sweats, every other night, in a lady under the care of dr. dewees and myself, in the puerperile fever. on the intermediate nights she had a fever, without the least moisture on her skin. there were a few choleras this month. during the latter end of the month, i lost a patient with many of the symptoms of yellow fever. the weather in july was alternately hot, moderate, and cool, with but little rain. the first two weeks of this month were healthy. a few tertian fevers occurred, which readily yielded to bark, without previous bleeding. between the th and st of the month, three deaths took place from the yellow fever. in the month of august, the weather was the same as in july, except that there fell more rain in it. mild remittents and cholera infantum were now common. there were likewise several cases of yellow fever during this month. one of them was in fromberger's-court. it was induced by the f[oe]tor of putrid fish in a cellar. a malignant dysentery was epidemic during this month in the upper part of germantown, and in its neighbourhood. several persons, dr. bensell informed me, died of it in thirty hours sickness. it prevailed, at the same time, in many parts of the new-england states. in september, cases of yellow fever appeared in different parts of the city, but chiefly in water, near walnut-street. on the th of the month, the board of health published a declaration of its existence in the city, but said it was not contagious. this opinion gave great offence, for it was generally said to have been imported by means of a packet-boat from new-york, where the fever then prevailed, because a man had sickened and died in the neighbourhood of the wharf where this packet was moored. it was to no purpose to oppose to this belief, proofs that no sick person, and no goods supposed to be infected, had arrived in this boat, and that no one of three men, who had received the seeds of the disease in new-york, had communicated it to any one of the families in philadelphia, in which they had sickened and died. the disease assumed a new character this year, and was cured by a different force of medicine from that which was employed in some of the years in which it had prevailed in philadelphia. i shall briefly describe it in each of the systems, and then take notice of some peculiarities which attended it. afterwards i shall mention the remedies which were effectual in curing it. . the pulse was moderately _tense_ in most cases. it intermitted in one case, and in several others the tension was of a transient nature. hæmorrhages occurred in many cases. they were chiefly from the nose, but in some instances they occurred from the stomach, bowels, and hæmorrhoidal vessels. . great flatulency attended in the stomach, but sickness and vomiting were much less frequent than in former years. i saw but one case in which diarrh[oe]a attended this fever. . i did not meet with a single instance of a glandular swelling in any part of the body. . there was a general disposition to sweat in this fever from its beginning. two of my patients died, in whom no moisture could be excited on the skin. but i recovered one with a dry skin, by means of a purge, two bleedings, and blisters. an efflorescence on the skin occurred in several instances. i saw black matter discharged from a blister in one case, and blood in another. . the stools were green and black. bile was generally discharged in puking. . the blood exhibited the following appearances: siziness, lotura carnium, sunken crassamentum, red sediment, and what is called dense or unseparated blood. i saw no instance of its being dissolved. . the tongue was whitish and dark-coloured. this diseased appearance continued, in some instances, several days after a recovery took place. i saw no smooth, red, nor black tongue, and but one dry and one _natural_ tongue. the latter was followed by death. i did not see a single case in which the disease came on without an exciting cause; such as light clothing and bed-clothes, sitting at doors after night, a long walk, gunning, and violent and unusual exercises of any kind. it was excited in a number of people by their exertions to extinguish a fire which took place in water-street, between market and chesnut-streets, on the morning of the th of august. i saw a fatal instance of it succeed a severe tooth-ach. whether this pain was the exciting cause, or the first morbid symptom of the fever, i know not; but i was led by it to bleed a young lady twice who complained of that pain, and who had at the same time a tense pulse. her blood had the usual appearances which occur in the yellow fever. the disease had different appearances in different parts of the city. it was most malignant in water-street; but in many instances it became less so, as it travelled westward, so that about ninth-street it appeared in the form of a common intermittent. in every part of the city it often came on, as in the year , in all the milder forms of autumnal fever formerly enumerated, and went off with the usual symptoms of yellow fever. again, it came on with all the force and malignity of a yellow fever, and terminated, in a day or two, in a common remittent or intermittent. these modes of attack were so common, that it was impossible to tell what the character, or probable issue of a fever would be, for two or three days. the following remedies were found, very generally, to be effectual in this fever. . moderate bleeding. i bled but three patients three, and only one, four times. in general, the loss of from ten to twenty ounces of blood, reduced the pulse from a synocha to a synoichoid or typhoid state, and thereby prepared the system for other remedies. . purges were always useful. i gave calomel and jalap, castor oil, salts, and senna, according to the grade of the disease, and often according to the humour or taste of the patient. i aided these purges by glysters. in one case, where a griping and black stools attended, i directed injections of lime water and milk to be used, with the happiest effects. . i gave emetics in many cases with advantage, but never while the pulse was full or tense. . having observed, as in the year , a spontaneous moisture on the skin on the first day of the disease, in several cases, i was led to assist this disposition in nature to be relieved by the pores, by means of sweating remedies, but in no instance did i follow it, without previous evacuations from the blood-vessels or bowels; for, however useful the intimations of nature may be in acute diseases, her efforts should never be trusted to alone, inasmuch as they are in most cases too feeble to do service, or so violent as to do mischief. i saw one death, and i heard of another, from an exclusive reliance upon spontaneous sweats in the beginning of this fever. the remedies i employed to promote this evacuation by the pores were, an infusion of the eupatorium perfoliatum in boiling water, aided by copious warm drinks, and hot bricks and blankets, applied to the external surface of the body. the eupatorium sometimes sickened the stomach, and puked. the sweats were intermitted, and renewed two or three times in the course of four and twenty hours. . i derived great advantage from the application of blisters to the wrists, _before_ the system descended to what i have elsewhere called, the blistering point. this was on the second and third days. my design, in applying them thus early, was to attract morbid excitement to the extremities, and thereby to create a substitute for a salivation. they had this effect. the pain, increase of fever, and occasional strangury, which were produced by them, served like anchors to prevent the system being drifted and lost, by the concentration of morbid excitement in the stomach and brain, on the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh days of the disease. it gave me great pleasure to find, upon revising dr. home's account of the yellow fever, that this mode of applying blisters, in the early stage of the disease, was not a new one. he often applied them in the first stage of the fever, more especially when the yellow colour of the skin made its appearance on the first or second day. by the advice of dr. cheney, of jamaica, he was led to prefer them to the thighs, instead of the trunk of the body, or the legs and arms. he forbids their ever being applied below the calf of the legs. this caution is probably more necessary in the west-indies than in the united states. the pain and inflammation excited by the blisters were mitigated by soft poultices of bread and milk. the strangury soon yielded to demulcent drinks, particularly to flaxseed tea. i was happy in not being compelled, by the violence or obstinacy of this fever, to resort to a salivation in order to cure it, in a single instance; the discharges from the stomach and bowels, and from the veins, pores, and skin, having proved sufficient to convey the disease out of the system. two persons recovered this year who had the black vomiting. one of them was by means of large quantities of brandy and volatile alkali, administered by dr. john dorsey, in the city hospital; the other was by means of lime and water and milk, given by an intelligent nurse to one of my patients, during the interval of my visits to her. from the history which has been given of the symptoms of this fever; from the less force of medicine that was necessary to subdue it; from the safety and advantage of blisters in its _early_ stage; and from the small proportion which the deaths bore to the number of those who were affected, being seldom more than five in a hundred (including all the grades and forms of the disease), in the practice of most of the physicians, it is evident this fever was of a less malignant nature than it had been in most of the years in which it had been epidemic. there was one more circumstance which proved its diminution of violence, and that was, a more feeble operation of its remote cause. in the year , nearly all the persons who were affected with the fever in the neighbourhood of vine and water-streets, and in water, between walnut and spruce-streets, died. this year, but two died of a great number who were sick in the former, and not one out of twelve who were sick in the latter place. the filth, in both parts of the city, was the same in both years. this difference in the violence and mortality of the fever was probably occasioned by a less concentrated state of the miasmata which produced it, or by the co-operation of a less inflammatory constitution of the atmosphere. the yellow fever was epidemic, during the summer and autumn of this year, in new-york, and in alexandria, in virginia. in the latter place, dr. dick has informed the public, it was derived from domestic putrefaction. an account of sporadic cases of _yellow fever_, as they appeared in philadelphia, in . the month of january was marked by deep snows, rain, clear and cold weather, and by the general healthiness of the city. in february there fell a deep snow, which was followed by several very cold days. there was likewise a fall of snow in march, which was succeeded by an uncommon degree of cold. catarrhs and bilious pleurisies were very common during both these months. in the beginning of april, the weather was cold and rainy. there were but few signs of vegetation before the th of the month. bilious pleurisies were still the principal diseases which prevailed in the city. the month of may was wet, cool, and healthy. in june, the winds were easterly, and the weather rainy. the crops of grass were luxuriant. it was remarked, that the milk of cows that fed upon this grass yielded less butter than usual, and that horses that fed upon it, sweated profusely with but little exercise. on the third of the month, i was called upon by dr. physick to visit his father, who was ill with a bilious fever. he died on the seventh, with a red eye, hiccup, and black vomiting. four persons had the yellow fever in the month of july. one of them was in fourth-street, between pine and lombard-streets, another was in fifth-street, between race and vine-streets, both of whom recovered. the remaining two were in the pennsylvania hospital, both of whom died. remitting and intermitting fevers were likewise common in this month. in august, those fevers assumed a chronic form. during this month, there died an unusual number of children with the cholera morbus. the city was uncommonly healthy in september. a storm of wind and rain, from the south-east, proved destructive to the crops of cotton this month, on the sea coast of south-carolina. in october, intermittents were very common between eighth-street and schuylkill. one case of yellow fever came under my care, in conjunction with dr. gallaher, on the western banks of that river. while philadelphia and all the cities of the united states (charleston excepted) were thus exempted from the yellow fever as an epidemic, the western parts of all the middle, and several of the southern states, were visited with the bilious fever, in all its different forms. in delaware county, in the state of new-york, at mill river, in connecticut, and in several of the middle counties of pennsylvania, it prevailed in the form of a yellow fever. in other parts of the united states, it appeared chiefly as a highly inflammatory remittent. it was so general, that not only whole families, but whole neighbourhoods were confined by it. many suffered from the want of medical advice and nursing, and some from the want of even a single attendant. in consequence of the general prevalence of this fever in some parts of pennsylvania, the usual labours of the season were suspended. apples fell and perished upon the ground; no winter grain was sowed; and even cows passed whole days and nights without being milked. the mortality of this fever was considerable, where those distressing circumstances took place. in more favourable circumstances, it yielded to early depletion, and afterwards to the bark. relapses were frequent, from premature exposure to the air. those only escaped them who had been salivated, by accident or design, for the cure of the fever. this disease was observed very generally to prevail most in high situations, which had been for years distinguished for their healthiness, while the low grounds, and the banks of creeks and rivers, were but little affected by it. the unusual quantity of rain, which had fallen during the summer months, had produced moisture in the former places, which favoured putrefaction and exhalation, while both were prevented, in the latter places, by the grounds being completely covered with water. an account of the _bilious yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the year . for a history of the uncommonly cold and tempestuous winter of and , the reader is referred to the account of the climate of pennsylvania, in the first volume of these inquiries and observations. during the months of january, february, and march, there were a number of bilious catarrhs and pleurisies. on the th of april, i visited a patient in the yellow fever with dr. stewart. he was cured, chiefly by copious bleeding. the weather was rainy in may. after the middle of june, and during the whole month of july, there fell no rain. the mercury in fahrenheit fluctuated, for ten days, between ° and °, during this month. the diseases which occurred in it were cholera infantum, dysenteries, a few common bilious, and eight cases of yellow fever. three of the last were in twelfth, between locust and walnut-streets, and were first visited, on the th and th of the month, by dr. hartshorn, as out-patients of the pennsylvania hospital. two of them were attended, about a week afterwards, by dr. church, in southwark, and the remaining three by dr. rouisseau and dr. stewart, in the south end of the city. on the third of august, there fell a heavy shower of rain, but the weather, during the remaining part of the month, was warm and dry. the pastures were burnt up, and there was a great deficiency of summer vegetables in the neighbourhood of philadelphia. the water in the schuylkill was lower by three inches than it had been in the memory of a man of years of age, who had lived constantly within sight of it. in september, a number of cases of yellow fever appeared in southwark[ ], near catharine-street. they were readily traced to a large bed of oysters, which had putrified on catharine-street wharf, and which had emitted a most offensive exhalation throughout the whole neighbourhood, for several weeks before the fever made its appearance. this exhalation proved fatal to a number of cats and dogs, and it now became obvious that the two cases of yellow fever, that were attended by dr. church, in the month of july, were derived from it. an attempt was made to impose a belief that they were taken by contagion from a ship at the lazaretto, which had lately arrived from the west-indies, but a careful investigation of this tale proved, that neither of the two subjects of the fever had been on board that, nor any other ship, then under quarantine. [ ] this extensive district is continued, from the city of philadelphia, along the delaware, but is not subject to its government. the fever prevailed during the whole of this month in southwark. a few cases of it appeared in the city, most of which were in persons who had resided in, or visited that district. it was brought on by weak exciting causes in southwark, but the cases which originated in the city, required strong exciting causes to produce them. a heavy rain, accompanied with a good deal of wind, on the th of september, and a frost on the night of the th of october, gave a considerable check to the fever. but few cases of it came under my care. having perceived the same disposition in nature to relieve herself by the pores, that i observed in the years and , my remedies were the same as in the latter year, and attended with the same success. dr. caldwell and dr. stewart, whose practice was extensive in southwark, informed me, those remedies had been generally successful in their hands. the only new medicine that the experience of this year suggested in this disease, was for one of its most distressing and dangerous symptoms, that is, the vomiting which occurs in its second stage. dr. physick discovered, that ten drops of the spirit of turpentine, given every two hours, in a little molasses, or syrup, or sweet oil, effectually checked it in several instances, in patients who afterwards recovered. it was administered with equal success in a case which came under my care, after an absence of pulse, and a coldness of the extremities had taken place. dr. church informed me that he gave great relief to the sick in the city hospital, by this medicine, by prescribing it in glysters, as well as by the mouth, in distressing affections of the stomach and bowels. dr. stewart observed that all those persons who had been affected by the yellow fever in former years, had mild remittents in the same situations that others had the prevailing epidemic in a malignant form. in one of four bodies the doctor examined, he found six, and in another three intussusceptions of the intestines, without any signs of inflammation. he discovered the common marks of disease from this fever in other parts of those bodies. the deaths from this fever amounted to between three and four hundred. they would probably have been more numerous, had not those families who were in competent circumstances fled into the country, and had not the poor been removed, by the board of health, from the infected atmosphere of southwark, to tents provided for them in the neighbourhood of the city; and they would probably have been fewer, considering the tractable nature of the disease, when met by suitable remedies in its early stage, had not the sick concealed their indisposition, in many instances, for two or three days, lest they should be dragged to the city hospital, or have centinels placed at their doors, to prevent any communication with their friends and neighbours. while these attempts were made to check the progress of the fever, it did not escape the notice of many of the citizens of philadelphia, that not a single instance occurred of its being communicated by contagion, in any of the families in the city, in which persons had sickened or died with it, and that while the sick were deprived of the kind offices of their friends and neighbours, lest they should be infected, physicians, and the members of the board of health, passed by the guards every day, in their visits to the same sick people, and afterwards mixed with their fellow-citizens, in every part of the city, without changing their clothes. the yellow fever appeared early in the season in new-haven, in connecticut, and in providence, on rhode-island, in both of which places it was derived from putrid exhalation, and was speedily and effectually checked by removing the healthy persons who lived in its neighbourhood to a distance from it. several sporadic cases of it occurred during the autumn in gloucester county, in new-jersey, and in mifflin and chester counties, in pennsylvania. it was epidemic in new-york at the same time it prevailed in southwark and philadelphia. the following extract of a letter from the health officer of new-york, to one of his friends, contains a satisfactory proof that it was not, in that city, an imported disease. _quarantine-ground, sept. ._ i most sincerely and tenderly deplore the unfortunate situation of our city. what do people say now of the origin of the disease? you may state, for the information of those who wished to be informed, that not a single vessel, on board of which a person has been sick with fever of any kind, or on board of which any person has died with any disease, while in the west-indies, or on the voyage home, has ever gone up to the city during this whole season. this we know, and this we vouch for; and farther state, that all the cases of fever that have come down as from the city, have been _all_ people of, and belonging to the city, and unconnected with the shipping, excepting one, a sailor, who had no connection with any foul vessel. there is not a shadow of proof or suspicion that can attach to the health-office, or to infected vessels, this season. i am, &c. john r. b. rodgers. having concluded the history of the bilious yellow fever, as it has appeared in eleven successive years, since , as an epidemic, or in sporadic cases, i shall proceed next to enumerate all the sources of that fever, as well as all the other usual forms of the summer and autumnal disease of the united states, and afterwards mention the means of preventing them. an inquiry into the various sources of the usual forms of _summer & autumnal disease_ in the united states, and the means of preventing them. the business of the following inquiry is, i. to enumerate the various sources of the usual forms of the summer and autumnal disease in the united states. and, ii. to mention the means of preventing them. to render the application of those means as extensive as possible, it will be proper to mention, under the first head, all those sources of summer and autumnal disease, which have been known to produce it in other countries, as well as in the united states. they are, . exhalations from marshes. these are supposed to be partly of a vegetable, and partly of an animal nature. they are derived from the shores of creeks and mill ponds, as well as from low and wet grounds; also from the following vegetable substances in a state of putrefaction. . cabbage. a malignant fever was produced at oxford, by a putrid heap of this vegetable some years ago, which proved fatal to many of the inhabitants, and to several of the students of the university at that place. . potatoes. nearly a whole ship's crew perished at tortola, by removing from her hold, a quantity of putrid potatoes. . pepper. . indian meal. . onions. . mint. . anise and caraway seeds, confined in the hold of a ship. . coffee. "about the time," says dr. trotter, "when notice was taken of the putrifying coffee on the wharf at philadelphia, in the year , a captain of a man of war, just returned from the jamaica station, informed me, that several vessels laden with the same produce came to kingston, from st. domingo. during the distracted state of that colony, this article, with other productions, had been allowed to spoil and ferment. the evolution of a great quantity of fixed air, or carbonic acid gas, was the consequence; and in these vessels, when opening the hatchways, such was its concentrated state, that the whole of the crew, in some of them, were found dead on the deck. a pilot boarded one of them in this condition, and had nearly perished himself[ ]." [ ] medicina nautica, p. . . chocolate shells. . cotton which had been wetted on board of a vessel that arrived in new-york, a few years ago, from savannah, in georgia. . hemp, flax, and straw. . the canvas of an old tent. . old books, and old paper money, that had been wetted, and confined in close rooms and closets. . the timber of an old house. a fever produced by this cause is mentioned by dr. haller, in his bibliotheca medicinæ. . green wood confined in a close cellar during the summer months. a fever from this cause was once produced in this city, in a family that was attended by the late dr. cadwallader. . the green timber of a new ship. captain thomas bell informed me, that in a voyage to the east-indies, in the year , he lost six of his men with the scurvy, which he supposed to be derived wholly from the foul air emitted by the green timber of his ship. the hammocks which were near the sides of the ship rotted during the voyage, while those which were suspended in the middle of the ship, retained their sound and natural state. this scurvy has been lately proved by dr. claiborne, in an ingenious inaugural dissertation, published in philadelphia, in the year , to be a misplaced state of malignant fever. dr. lind mentions likewise the timber of new ships as one of the sources of febrile diseases. the timber of soldiers' huts, and of the cabins of men who follow the business of making charcoal in the woods, often produce fevers, as soon as the bark begins to rot and fall from them, which is generally on the second year after they are erected. fevers have been excited even by the exhalation from trees, that have been killed by being girdled in an old field. . the stagnating air of the hold of a ship. . bilge water. . water that had long been confined in hogsheads at sea. . stagnating rain water. . the stagnating air of close cellars. . the matters which usually stagnate in the gutters, common sewers, docks, and alleys of cities, and in the sinks of kitchens. a citizen of philadelphia, who had a sink in his kitchen, lost a number of cats and dogs by convulsions. at length one of his servants was affected with the same disease. this led him to investigate the cause of it. he soon traced it to his sink. by altering its construction, so as to prevent the escape of noxious air from it, he destroyed its unwholesome quality, so that all his domestics lived in good health in his kitchen-afterwards. . air emitted by agitating foul and stagnating water. dr. franklin was once infected with an intermitting fever from this cause. . a duck pond. the children of a family in this city were observed, for several successive years, to be affected with a bilious remitting fever. the physician of the family, dr. phineas bond, observing no other persons to be affected with the same fever in the neighbourhood, suspected that it arose from some local cause. he examined the yard belonging to the house, where he found an offensive duck pond. the pond was filled with earth, and the family were afterwards free from an annual bilious fever. . a hog-stye has been known to produce violent bilious fevers throughout a whole neighbourhood in philadelphia. . weeds cut down, and exposed to heat and moisture near a house. fevers are less frequently produced by putrid animal, than by putrid vegetable matters. there are, however, instances of their having been generated by the following animal substances in a state of putrefaction. . human bodies that have been left unburied upon a field of battle. . salted beef and pork. . locusts. . raw hides confined in stores, and in the holds of ships. . a whale thrown upon the sea shore in holland. . a large bed of oysters. the malignant fevers which prevailed in alexandria, in virginia, in , and in southwark, adjoining philadelphia, in the year , were derived from this cause[ ]. [ ] it has been a common practice with many families, in new-york and philadelphia, for several years past, to lay in a winter store of oysters in their cellars in the fall of the year. may not a part of these oysters, left in these cellars from forgetfulness, or from being unfit for use, become, by putrifying there, the cause of malignant fevers in the succeeding summer and autumn? . the entrails of fish. and, . privies. the diarrh[oe]a and dysentery are produced, oftener than any other form of summer and autumnal disease, by the f[oe]tor of privies. during the revolutionary war, an american regiment, consisting of men, were affected with a dysentery, from being encamped near a large mass of human fæces. the disease was suddenly checked by removing their encampment to a distance from it. five persons in one family were affected with the yellow fever in philadelphia, in , who lived in a house in which a privy in the cellar emitted a most offensive smell. no one of them had been exposed to the foul air of southwark, in which the fever chiefly prevailed in the autumn of that year. three of them sickened at the same time, which obviated the suspicion of the disease being produced by contagion. there are several other sources of malignant fevers besides those which have been mentioned. they are, exhalations from volcanoes, wells, and springs of water; also flesh[ ], fish, and vegetables, eaten in a putrid state; but these seldom act in any country, and two of them only, and that rarely, in the united states. [ ] the following fact, communicated to me by mr. samuel lyman, a member of congress from the state of massachusetts, shows the importance of attending to the condition of butchers' meat in our attempts to prevent malignant fevers. a farmer in new-hampshire, who had overheated a fat ox by excessive labour in the time of harvest, perceiving him to be indisposed, instantly killed him, and sent his flesh to a neighbouring market. of twenty four persons who ate of this flesh, fifteen died in a few days. the fatal disease produced by this aliment fell, with its chief force, upon the stomach and bowels. the usual forms of the disease produced by miasmata from the sources of them which have been enumerated are, . malignant or bilious yellow fever. . inflammatory bilious fever. . mild remittent. . mild intermittent. . chronic, or what is called nervous fever. . febricula. . dysentery. . colic. . cholera morbus. . diarrh[oe]a. in deriving all the above forms of disease from miasmata, i do not mean to insinuate, that sporadic cases of each of them are not produced by other causes. in designating them by a single name, i commit no breach upon the ancient nomenclature of medicine. the gout affects not only the blood-vessels and bowels, but every other part of the body, and yet no writer has, upon that account, distinguished it by a plural epithet. the four last of the forms of disease, that have been mentioned, have been very properly called intestinal states of fever. they nearly accord, in their greater or less degrees of violence and danger, with the first four states of fever which occupy the blood-vessels, and in the order in which both of them have been named. i shall illustrate this remark by barely mentioning the resemblance of the yellow fever to the dysentery, in being attended with costiveness in its first stage, from a suspended or defective secretion or excretion of bile, and in terminating very generally in death, when not met by the early use of depleting remedies. the variety in the forms and grades of the summer and autumnal disease, in different seasons, and their occasional changes into each other in the same seasons, are to be sought for in the variety of the sensible and insensible qualities of the atmosphere, of the course of the winds, and of the aliments of different years. ii. the means of preventing the different forms of disease that have been mentioned, come next under our consideration. happily for mankind, heaven has kindly sent certain premonitory signs of the most fatal of them. these signs appear, i. externally, in certain changes in previous diseases, in the atmosphere, and in the animal and vegetable creation. ii. in the human body. . the first external premonitory sign that i shall mention is, an unusual degree of violence in the diseases of the previous year or season. many proofs of the truth of this remark are to be met with in the works of dr. sydenham. it has been confirmed in philadelphia, in nearly all her malignant fevers since the year . it would seem as if great and mortal epidemics, like the planets, had satellites revolving round them, for they are not only preceded, but accompanied and followed, by diseases which appear to reflect back upon them some of their malignity. but there is an exception to this remark, for we now and then observe uncommon and general healthiness, before the appearance of a malignant epidemic. this was the case in philadelphia, previously to the fevers of and . i have ascribed this to the stimulus of the pestilential miasmata barely overcoming the action of weak diseases, without being powerful enough to excite a malignant fever. . substances, painted with white lead, and exposed to the air, suddenly assuming a dark colour; and winds from unusual quarters, and unusual and long protracted calms, indicate the approach of a pestilential disease. the south winds have blown upon the city of philadelphia, ever since , more constantly than in former years. a smokiness or mist in the air, the late dr. matthew wilson has remarked, generally precedes a sickly autumn in the state of delaware. . malignant and mortal epidemics are often preceded by uncommon sickness and mortality among certain birds and beasts. they have both appeared, chiefly among wild pigeons and cats in the united states. the mortality among cats, previous to the appearance of epidemics, has been taken notice of in other countries. dr. willan says it occurred in the city of london, between the th of march and the th of april, in the year , before a sickly season, and dr. buneiva says it preceded a mortal epidemic in paris. the cats, the doctor remarks, lose, on the second day of their disease, the power of emitting electrical sparks from their backs, and, when thrown from a height, do not, as in health, fall upon their feet[ ]. [ ] medical journal, vol. iv. . the common house fly has nearly disappeared from our cities, moschetoes have been multiplied, and several new insects have appeared, just before the prevalence of our late malignant epidemics. . certain trees have emitted an unusual smell; the leaves of others have fallen prematurely; summer fruits have been less in size, and of an inferior quality; and apples and pears have been knotty, in the summers previous to several of our malignant autumnal fevers. dr. ambrose parey says, an unusually rapid growth of mushrooms once preceded the plague in paris. ii. the premonitory signs of an approaching malignant epidemic in the human body are, . a sudden drying up, or breaking out of an old sore; fresh eruptions in different parts of the body; a cessation of a chronic disease, or a conversion of a periodical into a continual disease. of this there were many instances in philadelphia, in the year . . a peculiar sallowness of the complexion. this was observed to be general in philadelphia, previous to the yellow fever of . dr. dick informed me, that he had observed the same appearance in the faces of the people of alexandria, accompanied in some cases with a yellowness of the eyes, during the summer of , and previous to the appearance of a violent bilious fever on the banks of the potomac. . i have observed one or more of the following symptoms, namely, head-ach; a decay, or increase of appetite; costiveness; a diminished or increased secretion of urine; a hot and offensive breath[ ]; constant sweats, and sometimes of a f[oe]tid nature, or a dry skin; wakefulness, or a disposition to early or protracted sleep; a preternaturally frequent pulse; unusual vivacity, or depression of spirits; fatigue and sweats from light exertions; hands, when rubbed, emitting a smell like hepar sulphuris; and, lastly, a sense of burning in the mouth; to be present in different persons, during the prevalence of our malignant epidemics. [ ] i have once known this breath, in a gentleman who had carried the seeds of the yellow fever in his body from philadelphia into its neighbourhood, create sickness at the stomach in his wife; and i have heard of an instance in which a person, who left philadelphia when highly impregnated with the miasmata of the same fever, creating sickness at the stomach in four or five persons who sat at the same table with him in the country. none of the above persons were afterwards affected by the fever. in an anonymous history of the plague in london, in the year , in the possession of the author, it is said, the breath was a well-known signal of infection to persons who were not infected, and that whenever it was perceived, individuals and companies fled from it. the sickness in the above-mentioned persons was similar to that which is sometimes excited by the smell of a sore leg, or a gun-shot wound, upon the removal of its first dressing. it does not produce fever, because there is no predisposition to it. the means of preventing the different forms of our summer and autumnal disease come next under our consideration. i shall first mention such as have been most effectual in guarding against its malignant form, and afterwards take notice of such as are proper in its milder grades. these means naturally divide themselves again, i. into such as are proper to protect individuals. ii. such as are proper to defend whole communities from the disease. and, iii. such as are proper to exterminate it, by removing its causes. i. of the means of protecting individuals. where flight is practicable, it should be resorted to in every case, to avoid an attack of a malignant fever. the heights of germantown and darby have, for many years, afforded a secure retreat to a large number of the citizens of philadelphia, from their late annual epidemics. it were to be wished our governments possessed a power of compelling our citizens to desert the whole, or parts, of infected cities and villages. in this way the yellow fever was suddenly annihilated in providence, on rhode-island, and in new-haven, in connecticut, in the year . but the same power should rigorously prevent the removal of the sick, except it be that class of them which have neither homes nor friends. the less the distance they are carried beyond the infected atmosphere, the better. the injury sustained by conveying them in a jolting carriage, for two or three miles, has often been proclaimed in the reports of our city hospitals, of patients being admitted without a pulse, and dying a few hours afterwards. in leaving a place infected by miasmata, care should be taken not to expose the body to great cold, heat, or fatigue, for eighteen or twenty days, lest they should excite the dormant seeds of the disease into action. but where flight is not enforced by law, or where it is not practicable, or preferred, safety should be sought for in such means as reduce the preternatural tone and fulness induced in the blood-vessels by the stimulus of the miasmata, and the suppression of customary secretions. these are, . a diet, accommodated to the greater or less exposure of the body to the action of miasmata, and to the greater or less degrees of labour, or exercise, which are taken. in cases of great exposure to an infected atmosphere, with but little exercise, the diet should be simple in its quality, and small in its quantity. fresh meats and wine should be avoided. a little salted meat, and cayenne pepper with vegetables, prevent an undue languor of the stomach, from the want of its usual cordial aliments. the less mortality of the yellow fever in the french and spanish west-india islands than in the british, has been justly attributed to the more temperate habits of the natives of france and spain. the bramins, who live wholly upon vegetables, escape the malignant fevers of india, while whole regiments of europeans, who eat animal food, die in their neighbourhood. the people of minorca, dr. cleghorn says, who reside near gardens, and live chiefly upon fruit during the summer, escape the violent autumnal fever of that island. the field negroes of south-carolina owe their exemption from bilious fevers to their living chiefly upon vegetables. there is a fact which shows, that not only temperance, but abstinence bordering upon famine, has afforded a protection from malignant fevers. in a letter which i received a few months ago, from the rev. thomas hall, chaplain to the british factory at leghorn, containing an account of the yellow fever which prevailed in that city, in the summer and autumn of , there is the following communication. "of the _rich_, who live in large airy houses, there died but four persons with the fever. of the _commodious_, who live comfortably, but not affluently, there died ten. of the _poor_, who inhabited small and crowded rooms, in the dirty and confined parts of the city, there died nearly seven hundred. but of the _beggars_, who had scarcely any thing to eat, and who slept half naked every night upon hard pavements, not one died." from the reduced and exhausted state of the system in these people, they were incapable, if i may be allowed the expression, of the combustion of fever. persons reduced by chronic diseases, in like manner, often escape such as are acute. six french ships of the line landed sick, at st. domingo, while the yellow fever prevailed there in the year , and yet no one of them was infected by it[ ]. [ ] desportes, vol. i. p. . where the body is exposed to miasmata, and a great deal of exercise taken at the same time, broths, a little wine, or malt liquors, may be used with the fruits and garden vegetables of the season, with safety and advantage. the change from a full to a low diet should be made gradually. when made suddenly, it predisposes to an attack of the disease. . laxative medicines. hundreds, perhaps thousands, of the citizens of philadelphia were indebted for their preservation from the yellow fever to the occasional use of a calomel pill, a few grains of rhubarb, or a table-spoonful of sweet, or castor oil, during the prevalence of our late pestilential fevers. even the air of batavia has been deprived of its poisonous quality, by means of this class of medicines. a citizen of philadelphia asked a captain of a new-england ship, whom he met at that island, how he preserved the whole crew of his ship in health, while half the sailors of all the other ships in the harbour were sick or dead. he informed him, that it was by giving each of them a gentle purge of sulphur every day. . a plentiful perspiration, or moderate sweats, kept up by means of warm clothing and bed-clothes. the excretion which takes place by the skin, is a discharge of the first necessity. i have never known an instance of a person's being attacked by the yellow fever in whom this discharge was constant, and equally diffused all over the body. its effects are equally salutary in preventing the plague. so well known is this fact, that mr. volney informs us, in his travels into egypt, that the common salutation at cairo, during the prevalence of the plague, is, "do you sweat freely?" for the purpose of promoting this excretion, flannel shirts or waistcoats worn next to the skin have been found more useful than linen. as the perspiration and sweats, which are thus discharged in a pestilential season, are often unusual in their quantity, and of a morbid quality, clean body-linen or flannel should be put on every day, and where this is not practicable, that which has been worn should be exchanged every morning and evening for that which has been exposed during the previous day and night, in a dry air. . blood-letting. in addition to the authorities of dr. haller and dr. hodges, mentioned in another place[ ], in favour of this remedy, i shall subjoin a few others. dr. mitchell, in his account of the yellow fever which prevailed in virginia, in the year , informs us, that it was often prevented in persons who were under the influence of its remote cause, by the loss of a few ounces of blood. it was formerly a practice among the physicians in st. domingo, to bleed whole regiments of troops as soon as they arrived from france, by which means they were preserved from the malignant fever of the island. [ ] account of the yellow fever in , vol. iii. during the short visit paid to this city, in the year , by dr. borland, a respectable physician of the british army, he put into my hands the following communication. "in the beginning of august, , dutch artillery arrived at port au prince, in the bangalore transport. the florid appearance of the men, their cumbersome clothing, and the season of the year, seemed all unfavourable omens of the melancholy fate we presumed awaited them. it was, however, thought a favourable opportunity, by dr. jackson and myself, to try what could be done in warding off the fever. it was accordingly suggested to monsieur conturier, the chief surgeon of the foreign troops, and the surgeon of the regiment, that the whole detachment should be blooded freely, and that, the morning after, a dose of physic should be administered to every man. this was implicitly complied with, a day or two after, and at this moment in which i write, although a period of four months has elapsed, but two of that detachment have died, one of whom was in a dangerous state when he landed. a success unparalleled during the war in st domingo! it is true, several have been attacked with the disease, but in those the symptoms were less violent, and readily subsided by the use of the lancet. "the _crew_ of the bangalore, on her arrival at port au prince, consisted of twenty-eight men. with them no preventive plan was followed. in a very few weeks eight died, and at present, of the original number, but fourteen remain." all these depleting remedies, whether used separately or together, induce such an artificial debility in the system, as disposes it to vibrate more readily under the impression of the miasmata. thus the willow rises, after bowing before a blast of wind, while the unyielding oak falls to the ground by its side. it is from the similarity of the natural weakness in the systems of women, in the west-indies, with that which has been induced by the artificial means that have been mentioned, that they so generally escape the malignant endemic of the islands. a second class of preventives of malignant fever are such as obviate the internal action of miasmata, by exciting a general or partial determination to the external surface of the body. these are, . the warm bath. i have known this grateful remedy used with success in our city. it serves the treble purposes of keeping the skin clean, and the pores open, and of defending what are called the vital organs from disease, by inviting its remote cause to the external surface of the body. . the cold bath, or cold water applied to the external surface of the body. ulloa, in his travels through cuba, tells us the spaniards make it a practice, when partially wetted by the rain, to plunge themselves, with their wet clothes on, into the first stream of water they meet with afterwards, by which means they avoid taking the fever of the island. where this cannot be conveniently done, the peasants strip off their clothes, and put them under a shelter, and receive showers of rain upon their naked bodies, and thus preserve themselves from the fever. dr. baynard has left it upon record, in his treatise upon the cold bath, that those persons who lived in water-mills, also watermen, bargemen, and fishermen, who were employed upon the river, and in dabbling in cold water, were rarely affected by the plague in london, in , and that but two persons died with it on london bridge. the water carriers at cairo, mr. volney says, uniformly escape the plague; and dr. chisholm informs us, that those negroes in demarara who go naked, and are thereby disposed not to avoid showers of rain, are never affected with the fever of that country. . washing the body, every morning and evening, with salt water. a whole ship's crew from philadelphia was preserved by this means from the yellow fever, some years ago, in one of the west-india islands, while a large proportion of the crews of several ships, that lay in the same harbour, perished by that disease. . anointing the body with oil. the natives of africa, and some american indians, use this preventive with success during their sickly seasons. it has lately been used, it is said, with effect in preventing the plague. its efficacy for that purpose was first suggested by no oilman having died of that disease during four years, in which time , people perished with it in egypt. oliver, in his travels into that country, says the men who make and sell butter, are equally fortunate in escaping it. . issues, setons, and blisters belong to this class of preventives of malignant and bilious fevers. issues, according to parisinus, florentinus, forestus, and several other authors quoted by diemerbroeck, have prevented the plague in many hundred instances. paræus says, all who had ulcers from the venereal disease, or any other cause, escaped it. dr. hodges owed his preservation from the plague in london, in , to an issue in his leg. he says he always felt a slight pain in it when he went into a sick room. dr. gallaher ascribed his escape from the yellow fever of to a perpetual blister, which he applied to his arm for that purpose. dr. barton favoured me with the sight of a letter from dr. james stevens, dated january , , in which he says he believed dr. beach (formerly of connecticut) had been preserved from the bilious fever by a seton in his side. he adds further, that dr. beach had been called to attend the labourers at the onandoga salt springs, in the state of new-york, ninety-eight of whom out of a hundred had the bilious fever. of the two who escaped it, one had a sore leg, the other what is called a scald-head. the discharge from the sores in each of them, as well as from the doctor's issue, was more copious during the prevalence of the fever, than it had been at any other time. a third class of preventives of malignant fever, are such as excite a general action, more powerful than that which the miasmata are disposed to create in the system, or an action of a contrary nature. these are, . onions and garlic. all those citizens who used these vegetables in their diet, escaped the yellow fever in . the greater exemption of the natives of france from this disease, wherever they are exposed to it, than of the inhabitants of other european countries, has been ascribed in part to the liberal use of those condiments in their food. the jews, it has been said, have often owed to them their preservation from the plagues which formerly prevailed in europe. it is probable leeks and onions, which to this day form a material part of the diet of the inhabitants of egypt, were cultivated and eaten originally as the means of obviating the plagues of that country. i have been at a loss to know why the author of nature, who has endowed these vegetables with so many excellent qualities for diet and medicine, should have accompanied them with such a disagreeable smell. perhaps the reason was, kindly to force them into universal use; for it is remarkable their smell in the breath is imperceptible to those who use them. . calomel, taken in such small doses as gently to affect the gums. it preserved most of the crew of a russian ship at plymouth, in the year , from a fever generated by filth in her hold. in a letter which i received from captain thomas truxton, in the year , he informed me, that an old and respectable merchant at batavia had assured him, he had been preserved in good health by calomel, taken in the way that has been mentioned, during the sickly seasons, for upwards of thirty years. the mortality of the fevers of that island may easily be conceived of, when i add, on the authority of a physician quoted in sir george staunton's account of his embassy to china, that one half of all new comers die there on the first year of their arrival. our principal dependence should be placed upon those two preventives under this head. there are several others which have been in common use, some of which i believe are hurtful, and the rest are of feeble, or doubtful efficacy. they are, . wine and ardent spirits. they both prevent a malignant fever, only when they excite an action in the system above that which is ordinarily excited by the miasmata of the fever; but this cannot be done without producing intoxication, which, to be effectual, must be perpetual; for the weakness and excitability, which take place in the intervals of drunkenness, predispose to the disease. agreeably to this remark, i observed three persons, who were constantly drunk, survive two of our most fatal epidemics, while all those persons who were alternately drunk and sober, rarely escaped an attack of the fever. in most of them, it terminated in death. . tobacco. many hundreds of the citizens of philadelphia can witness, that no benefit was derived from this weed, in any of the ways in which it is commonly used, in the late epidemics of our city. mr. howard says it has no effect in preserving from the plague. . camphor suspended in a bag round the neck, and rags wetted in vinegar, and applied to the nose. these means were in general use in the fever of , in philadelphia, but they afforded no protection from it. it is possible they had a contrary effect, by entangling, in their volatile particles, more of the miasmata of the fever, and thus increasing a predisposition to it. a fourth class of the preventives of malignant fevers are certain substances which are said to destroy miasmata by entering into mixture with them. two persons, who were very much exposed to the causes of the fever in , took each of them a table spoonful of sweet oil every morning. they both escaped the fever. did the oil, in these cases, act by destroying miasmata in the stomach chemically? or did it defend the stomach mechanically from their action? or did it prevent the disease, only by gently opening the bowels? it is certain the fat of pork meat protects the men who work in the lead-mines of great-britain from the deleterious effects which the fumes of that metal are apt to bring upon the stomach and bowels, and that a poisoned arrow, discharged into the side of a hog, will not injure him, if it be arrested by the fat which lines that part of his body. the vapour which issues from fresh earth has been supposed to destroy the miasmata which produce malignant fevers, by entering into mixture with them. most of the men who were employed in digging graves and cellars, and in removing the dirt from the streets of philadelphia, in , escaped the fever of that year. in the new settlements of our country, it is said, the poison of the rattlesnake is deprived of its deadly effects upon the body, by thrusting the wounded limb into a hole, recently made in the earth. the fable of anteus, who rose with renewed strength from the ground after repeated falls, was probably intended to signify, among other things, the salutary virtues which are contained in the effluvia which issue from fresh clods of earth. . there are many facts which show the efficacy of the volatile alkali in destroying, by mixture, the poison of snakes. one of them was lately communicated to the public by dr. ramsay, of south-carolina. what would be the effect of the daily use of a few tea spoonfuls of this medicine in a liquid form, and of frequently washing the body with it, during the prevalence of pestilential epidemics? the miasmata which produce malignant fevers often exist in an inoffensive state in the body, for weeks, and perhaps months, without doing any harm. with but a few exceptions, they seldom induce a disease without the reinforcement of an exciting cause. in vain, therefore, shall we use all the preventives that have been recommended, without, v. avoiding of all its exciting causes. these are, . heat and cold. while the former has excited the yellow fever in thousands, the latter has excited it in tens of thousands. it is not in middle latitudes only that cold awakens this disease in the body. dr. mosely says it is a more frequent exciting cause of that, and of other diseases, in the island of jamaica, than in any of the most temperate climates of the globe. it is this which renders cases of yellow fever, when epidemic in our cities, more numerous in the cool months of september and october, than in july and august. for the purpose of avoiding this pernicious and universal influence of cold, the clothing and bed-covers should be rather warmer in those months, in middle and northern latitudes, than is agreeable, and fires should be made every morning and evening in common sitting rooms, and during the whole day, when the weather is damp or cool. they serve, not only to prevent the reduction of the excitement of the blood-vessels, by the gradual and imperceptible abstraction of the heat of the body, but to convey up a chimney all the unwholesome air that accumulates in those rooms during a sickly season. by these precautions, i have known whole families preserved in health, while all their neighbours who neglected them, have been confined by a prevailing autumnal fever. . the early morning and evening air, even in warm weather. . fatigue from amusements, such as fishing, gunning, and dancing, and from _unusual_ labour or exercise. the effects of fatigue from this cause have been already noticed[ ], in the maids of large families being the only persons who die of the fever, in consequence of their having performed great and _unusual_ services to those branches of the family who survive them, while nurses, who only exercise their ordinary habits in attending sick people, are seldom carried off by it. [ ] account of the yellow fever in , vol. iii. . intemperance in eating and drinking. . partaking of _new_ aliments and drinks. the stomach, during the prevalence of malignant fevers, is always in an irritable state, and constantly disposed to be affected by impressions that are not habitual to it. . violent emotions or passions of the mind. . the entire cessation of moderate labour. this, by permitting the mind to ramble upon subjects of terror and distress, and by exposing the body to idleness and company, favours an attack of fever. a predisposition to it, is likewise created by alternating labour and idleness with each other. . the continuance of hard labour. the miasmata which produce malignant fevers sometimes possess so much force, that the least addition to it, even from customary acts of labour, is sufficient to excite the disease. in this case, safety should be sought in retirement, more especially by those persons whose occupations expose them to the heat of fires, and the rays of the sun, such as hatters, smiths, bricklayers, and house and ship carpenters. the wealthy inhabitants of constantinople and smyrna erroneously suppose they escape the contagion of the plague, by shutting themselves up in their houses during its prevalence. they owe their preservation chiefly to their being removed, by an exemption from care and business, from all its exciting causes. most of the nobility and gentry of moscow, by these means escaped a plague which carried off , persons in that city, in the year , and many whole families in philadelphia were indebted for their safety to the same precautions in the year . confinement is more certain in its beneficial effects, when persons occupy the upper stories only of their houses. the inhabitants of st. lucia, dr. chisholm says, by this means often escape the yellow fever of that island. such is the difference between the healthiness of the upper and lower stories of a house, that, travellers tell us, birds live in the former, and die in the latter, during the prevalence of a plague in the eastern countries. all the exciting causes that have been enumerated should be avoided with double care three days before, and three days after, as well as on the days of the full and change of the moon. the reason for this caution was given in the account of the yellow fever in philadelphia in the year . to persons who have retired from infected cities, or countries, it will be necessary to suggest a caution, not to visit them while the malignant fever from which they fled prevails in them. dr. dow informed me, in his visit to philadelphia in the year , that the natives and old citizens of new-orleans who retired into the country, and returned during the prevalence of the yellow fever in that city, the year before, were often affected by it, while all such persons as did not change their residence, escaped it. the danger from visiting an infected city is greater to persons who breathe an atmosphere of a uniform temperature, than one that is subject to alternate changes in its degrees of heat and cold. the inhabitants of mexico, baron humboldt informed me, who descend from their elevated situation, where the thermometer seldom varies more than ten degrees in the year, and visit vera cruz during the prevalence of the yellow fever in that city, are much oftener affected by it than the new comers from the variable climates of european countries. but the habits of insensibility to the impressions of the miasmata of this disease in one country, do not always protect the system from their action in another. the same illustrious traveller informed me, that the inhabitants of the havannah who visit vera cruz, and the inhabitants of vera cruz who visit the havannah, are affected in common with strangers with the fever of those places. i shall take leave of this part of our subject, by adding, that i am so much impressed with a belief in the general, and almost necessary connection of an exciting cause with a yellow fever, that were i to enter a city, and meet its inhabitants under the first impressions of terror and distress from its appearance, my advice to them should be, "beware, not of contagion, for the yellow fever of our country is not contagious, nor of putrid exhalations, when the duties of humanity or consanguinity require your attendance, but beware of exciting causes!" in the mild grades of the summer and autumnal fevers of the united states, the means of prevention should be different from those which have been recommended to prevent the yellow fever. they consist of such things as gently invigorate the system, and thus create an action superior to that which the miasmata have excited in it. the means commonly employed for this purpose are, . cordial diet and drinks; consisting of salted meat, and fish, with a moderate quantity of wine and malt liquors. dr. blane says, the british soldiers who lived upon salt meat, during the american war, were much less afflicted with the intermitting fever than the neighbouring country people; and, it is well known, the american army was much less afflicted with summer and autumnal fevers, after they exchanged their fresh meat for rations of salted beef and pork. ardent spirits should be used cautiously, for, when taken long enough to do good, they create a dangerous attachment to them. a strong infusion of any bitter herb in water, taken upon an empty stomach, is a cheap substitute for all the above liquors where they cannot be afforded. the peruvian bark has in many instances been used with success as a preventive of the mild grades of the summer and autumnal fevers of our country. . an equable and constant perspiration. this should be kept up by all the means formerly mentioned for that purpose. . avoiding certain exciting causes, particularly great heat and cold, fatigue, long intervals between meals, intemperance, and the morning and evening air, more especially during the lunar periods formerly mentioned. dr. lind says, the farmers of holdernesse, in england, who go out early to their work, are seldom long lived, probably from their constitutions being destroyed by frequent attacks of intermitting fevers, to which that practice exposes them. where peculiar circumstances of business render it necessary for persons to inhale the morning air, care should be taken never to do it without first eating a cordial breakfast. the _intestinal_ state of our summer and autumnal disease requires several specific means to prevent it, different from those which have been advised to defend the blood-vessels from fever. unripe and decayed fruit should be avoided, and that which is ripe and sound should not be eaten in an excessive quantity. spices, and particularly cayenne pepper, and the red pepper of our country, should be taken daily with food. mr. dewar, a british surgeon, tells us, the french soldiers, while in egypt, carried pepper in boxes with them, wherever they went, to eat with the fruits of the country, and thereby often escaped its diseases. the whole diet, during the prevalence of intestinal diseases, when they are not highly inflammatory, should be of a cordial nature. a dysentery prevailed, a few years ago, upon the potomac, in a part of the country which was inhabited by a number of protestant and catholic families. the disease was observed to exist only in the former. the latter, who ate of salted fish every friday, and occasionally on other days of the week, very generally escaped it. in the year , a dysentery broke out in the village of princeton, in new-jersey, and affected many of the students of the college. it was remarked, that it passed by all those boys who came from the cities of new-york and philadelphia. this was ascribed to their having lived more upon tea and coffee than the farmers' sons in the college; for those cordial articles of diet were but rarely used, six and forty years ago, in the farm houses of the middle states of america. i mentioned formerly that the cordial diet of the inhabitants of our cities was probably the reason why the dysentery so seldom prevailed as an epidemic in them. another means of preventing the dysentery is, by avoiding costiveness, and by occasionally taking purging physic, even when the bowels are in their natural state. a militia captain, in the pennsylvania service, preserved his whole company from a dysentery which prevailed in a part of the american army at amboy, in the year , by giving each of them a purge of sea-water. he preserved his family, and many of his neighbours, some years afterwards, from the same disease, by dividing among them a few pounds of purging salts. it was prevented, a few years ago, in the academy of bordentown, in new-jersey, by giving all the boys molasses, in large quantities, in their diet and drinks. the molasses probably acted only by keeping the bowels in a laxative state. as the dysentery is often excited by the dampness of the night air, great care should be taken to avoid it, and, when necessarily exposed to it, to defend the bowels by more warmth than other parts of the body. the egyptians, mr. dewar says, tie a belt about their bowels for that purpose, and with the happiest effects. ii. i come now, according to the order i proposed, to mention the means of preserving whole cities or communities from the influence of those morbid exhalations which produce the different forms of summer and autumnal disease, and, in particular, that which is of a malignant nature. as the flight of a whole city is rarely practicable, it will be necessary to point out the means of destroying the morbid miasmata. . where the putrid matters which emit them are of a small extent, they should be covered with water or earth. purchas tells us, persons less died of the plague the day after the nile overflowed the grounds which had emitted the putrid exhalations that produced it, than had died the day before. during the prevalence of a malignant fever, it will be unsafe to remove putrid matters. a plague was generated by an attempt to remove the filth which had accumulated on the banks of the waters which surround the city of mantua, during the summer and autumnal months[ ]. even a shower of rain, by disturbing the green pellicle which is sometimes formed over putrid matters, i shall mention in another place, has let loose exhalations that have produced a pestilential disease. [ ] burserus. . impregnating the air with certain effluvia, which act either by destroying miasmata by means of mixture, or by exciting a new action in the system, has, in some instances, checked the progress of a malignant fever. the air extricated from fermenting wines, during a plentiful vintage, vansweiten tells us, has once checked the ravages of a plague in germany. ambrose parey informs us, the plague was checked in a city in italy by killing all the cats and dogs in the place, and leaving them to putrify in the streets. mr. bruce relates, that all those persons who lived in smoky houses, in one of the countries which he visited, escaped bilious fevers, and dr. clark mentions an instance, in which several cooks, who were constantly exposed to smoke, escaped a fever which affected the whole crew of a galley. the yellow fever has never appeared within the limits of the effluvia of the sal ammoniac manufactory, nor of the tan-pits in the suburbs of philadelphia, nor has the city of london been visited with a plague since its inhabitants have used sea-coal for fuel. but other causes have contributed more certainly to the exemption of that city from the plague for upwards of a century, one of which shall be mentioned under our next head. . desquenette tells us, the infection of the plague never crosses the nile, and that it is arrested by means of ditches, dug and filled with water for that purpose. dr. whitman has remarked, that the plague never passes from abydos, on the turkish, to mito, on the european side of the water of the dardanelles, which forms the entrance to constantinople. the yellow fever has never been known to pass from philadelphia to the jersey shore, and the miasmata generated on the east side of the schuylkill rarely infect the inhabitants of the opposite side of the river. many persons found safety from the plague of london, in , by flying to ships which lay in the middle of the thames, and, it is well known, no instance of yellow fever occurred in those philadelphia families that confined themselves to ships in the middle of the delaware, in the year . but three or four, of four hundred men, on board a ship of war called the jason, commanded by captain coteneuil, perished with an epidemic yellow fever, in the year , at st. domingo, in consequence, dr. desportes says, of her hold being constantly half filled with water[ ]. i have multiplied facts upon this subject, because they lead to important conclusions. they show the immense consequence of frequently washing the streets and houses of cities, both to prevent and check pestilential fevers. what would be the effect of placing tubs of fresh water in the rooms of patients infected with malignant fevers, and in an atmosphere charged with putrid exhalations? their efficacy in absorbing the matter which constitutes the odour of fresh paint, favours a hope that they would be useful for that purpose. i have mentioned an instance, in the account of the yellow fever in philadelphia, in the year , in which they were supposed to have been employed with evident advantage. [ ] vol. i. p. . . intercepting the passage of miasmata to the inhabitants of cities. varro, in his treatise upon agriculture, relates, that his namesake varro, a roman general, was in great danger of suffering, with a large fleet and army, from a malignant fever at conyra. having discovered the course of the miasmata which produced it to be from the south, he fastened up all the southern windows and doors of the houses in which his troops were quartered, and opened new ones to the north, by which means he preserved them from the fever which prevailed in all the other houses of the town and neighbourhood. mr. howard advises keeping the doors and windows, of houses which are exposed to the plague, constantly shut, except during the time of sunshine. several other means have been recommended to preserve cities from malignant fevers during their prevalence, which are of doubtful efficacy, or evidently hurtful. they are, . strewing lime over putrid matters. dr. dalzelle says, he once checked a bilious fever, by spreading twelve barrels of lime on a piece of marshy ground, from whence the exhalations that produced it were derived[ ]. a mixture of quick lime and ashes in water, when thrown into a privy, discharges from it a large quantity of offensive air, and leaves it afterwards without a smell. as this foul air is discharged into the atmosphere, it has been doubted whether the lime and ashes should be used for that purpose, after a malignant fever has made its appearance. [ ] sur les maladies des climats chauds. . mr. quiton morveau has lately proposed the muriatic gas as a means of destroying miasmata. however effectual it may be in destroying the volatile and foul excretions which are discharged from the human body in confined situations, as in filthy jails, hospitals, and ships, it is not calculated to oppose the seeds of a disease which exist in the atmosphere, and which are diffused over a large extent of city or country. mr. morveau ascribes great virtues to it, in checking the malignant fever in cadiz, in , but from the time at which it was used, being late in the autumn, there is more reason to believe it had run its ordinary course, or that it was destroyed by cold weather. . the explosion of gunpowder has been recommended for checking pestilential diseases. mr. quiton morveau says, it destroys the offensive odour of putrid exhalations, but does not act upon the fevers produced by them. . washing the floors of houses with a solution of alkaline salts in water, has been recommended by dr. mitchell, as an antidote to malignant fevers. as yet, i believe, there are no facts which establish the efficacy of the practice, when they are produced by exhalations from decayed vegetable and animal substances in a putrid state. . large fires have sometimes been made in cities, in order to destroy the miasmata of pestilential diseases. they were obviously hurtful in the plague of london, in the year . dr. hodges, who relates this fact, says, "heaven wept for the mistake of kindling them, and mercifully put them out, with showers of rain." i cannot conclude this head, without lamenting the want of laws in all our states, to compel physicians to make public the first cases of malignant fever that come under their notice. the cry of fire is not more useful to save a city from destruction, than the early knowledge of such cases would be to save it from the ravages of pestilential and mortal epidemics. hundreds of instances have occurred, in all ages and countries, in which they might have been stifled in their birth, by the means that have been mentioned, had this practice been adopted. but when, and where, will science, humanity, and government first combine to accomplish this salutary purpose? most of our histories of mortal epidemics abound with facts which show a contrary disposition and conduct in physicians, rulers, and the people. i shall mention one of these facts only, to show how far we must travel over mountains of prejudice and error, before we shall witness that desirable event. it is extracted from the second volume of the life of the late empress of russia. "the russian army (says the biographer), after defeating the turks, on entering their territories were met by the plague, and brought it to their country, where the folly of several of their generals contributed to its propagation, as if they thought by a military word of command to alter the nature of things. lieutenantgeneral stoffeln, at yassy, where the pestilence raged in the winter of , issued peremptory orders that its name should not be pronounced; he even obliged the physicians and surgeons to draw up a declaration in writing, that it was only _a spotted fever_. one honest surgeon of the name of kluge refused to sign it. in this manner the season of prevention was neglected. several thousand russian soldiers were by this means carried off. the men fell dead upon the road in heaps. the number of burghers that died was never known, as they had run into the country, and into the forests. at length the havoc of death reached the general's own people: he remained true to his persuasion, left the town, and went into the more perilous camp. but his intrepidity availed him nothing; he died of the plague in july, [ ]." [ ] the above disease appears to have been the camp fever, the origin and character of which will be noticed in the next article. iii. let us now consider, in the last place, the means of exterminating malignant and other forms of summer and autumnal disease, by removing their causes. these means are, . the removal or destruction of all those putrid matters formerly enumerated, which are capable of producing fevers. many of the institutions of the jewish nation, for this purpose, are worthy of our imitation. the following verses contain a fund of useful knowledge upon this subject.--"thou shalt have a place without the camp, whether thou shalt go forth abroad; and shalt have a paddle upon thy weapon, and it shall be when thou wilt ease thyself abroad, thou shalt dig therewith, and shalt turn back, and cover that which cometh from thee; for the lord thy god walketh in the midst of thy camp to deliver thee, therefore shall he _see no unclean thing in thee_, and turn away from thee." deuteronomy, chapter xxiii. verses , , and . "but the flesh of the bullock, and his skin, and his dung, shalt thou _burn with fire without the camp_." exodus, chapter xxxix. verse . the advantages of thus burying and removing all putrid matters, and of burning such as were disposed to a speedy putrefaction, in a crowded camp, and in a warm climate, are very obvious. their benefits have often been realized in other countries. the united provinces of holland hold their exemption from the plague, only by the tenure of their cleanliness. in the character given by luther of pope julius, he says, "he kept the streets of rome so clean and sweet, that there were no plagues nor sicknesses during his time." the city of oxford was prepared to afford an asylum to the royal family of great-britain from the plague, when it ravaged london, and other parts of england, in the year , only in consequence of its having been cleaned, some years before, by the bishop of winchester. in a manuscript account of the life of doctor, afterwards governor colden, of new-york, there is the following fact. it was first communicated to the public in the daily gazette of the capital of that state, on the th of october, . "a malignant fever having raged with exceeding violence for two summers successively in the city of new-york, about forty years ago, he communicated his thoughts to the public, on the most probable cure of the calamity. he published a little treatise on the occasion, in which he collected the sentiments of the best authority, on the bad effects of _stagnating waters_, _moist air_, _damp cellars_, _filthy shores_, and _dirty streets_. he showed how much these nuisances prevailed in many parts of the city, and pointed out the remedies. the corporation of the city voted him their thanks, adopted his reasoning, and established a plan for draining and cleaning the city, which was attended with the most happy effects." the advantages of burning offal matters, capable by putrefaction of producing fevers, has been demonstrated by those housekeepers, who, instead of collecting the entrails of fish and poultry, and the parings and skins of vegetables, in barrels, instantly throw them into their kitchen fires. the families of such persons are generally healthy. . in the construction of cities, narrow streets and alleys should be carefully avoided. deep lots should be reserved for yards and gardens for all the houses, and subterraneous passages should be dug to convey, when practicable, to running water, the contents of privies, and the foul water of kitchens. in cities that are wholly supplied with fresh water by pipes from neighbouring springs or rivers, all the evils from privies might be prevented by digging them so deep as to connect them with water. great advantages, it has been suggested, would arise in the construction of cities, from leaving open squares, equal in number and size to those which are covered with houses. the light and dark squares of a chequer-board might serve as models for the execution of such a plan. the city of london, which had been afflicted nearly every year for above half a century by the plague, has never been visited by it since the year . in that memorable year, while the inhabitants were venting their execrations upon a harmless bale of silks imported from holland, as the vehicle of the seeds of their late mortal epidemic, heaven kindly pointed out, and removed its cause, by permitting a fire to destroy whole streets and lanes of small wooden buildings, which had been the reservoirs of filth for centuries, and thereby the sources of all the plagues of that city[ ]. those streets and lanes were to london, what water-street and farmer's-row are to philadelphia, fell's-point to baltimore, the slips and docks to new-york, and water-street to the town of norfolk. [ ] a proposal was made to replace the houses that had been burnt, by similar buildings, and upon the same space of ground. sir christopher wren opposed it, and with the following argument: "by so doing, you will show you have not _deserved_ the late fire!" . where the different forms of summer and autumnal disease arise from marsh exhalations, they should be destroyed by drains, by wells communicating with their subterraneous springs, or by cultivating upon them certain grasses, which form a kind of mat over the soil, and, when none of these modes of destroying them is practicable, by overflowing them with water. i have met with many excellent quotations from a work upon this part of our subject, by tozzetti, an italian physician, from which, i have no doubt, much useful information might be obtained. the rev. thomas hall, to whom i made an unsuccessful application for this work, speaks of it, in his answer to my letter, in the following terms. "it is in such high estimation, that the late emperor leopold, when grand duke of tuscany, caused it to be re-printed at his own expence, and presented it to his friends. the consequence of this was, it influenced the owners of low marshy grounds, in the neighbourhood of the river arno, to drain and cultivate them, and thereby rendered the abode of noxious air, and malignant fevers, a terrestrial paradise." . the summer and autumnal diseases of our country have often followed the erection of mill-dams. they may easily be obviated by surrounding those receptacles of water with trees, which prevent the sun's acting upon their shores, so as to exhale miasmata from them. trees planted upon the sides of creeks and rivers, near a house, serve the same salutary purpose. . it has often been observed, that families enjoy good health, for many years, in the swamps of delaware and north-carolina, while they are in their natural state, but that sickness always follows the action of the rays of the sun upon the moist surface of the earth, after they are cleared. for this reason, the cultivation of a country should always follow the cutting down of its timber, in order to prevent the new ground becoming, by its exhalations, a source of disease. . in commercial cities, no vessel that arrives with a cargo of putrescent articles should ever be suffered to approach a wharf, before the air that has been confined in her hold has been discharged. the same thing should be done after the arrival of a vessel from a distant or hot country, though her cargo be not capable of putrefaction, for air acquires a morbid quality by stagnating contiguous to wood, under circumstances formerly mentioned. all these modes of removing the causes of malignant and yellow fevers, and of promoting strict and universal cleanliness, are of more consequence in the middle and northern states of america, than in countries uniformly warm, inasmuch as the disease may be taken as often as our inhabitants are exposed to its sources. in the west-indies, a second attack of the yellow fever is prevented by the insensibility induced upon the system, by its being constantly exposed to the impressions of heat and exhalation. after a seasoning, as it is called, or a residence of two or three years in those islands, the miasmata affect the old settlers, as they do the natives, only with mild remittents. nearly the same thing takes place at madras, in the east-indies, where, dr. clark says, the exhalations which bring on bilious fevers, colic, cholera, and spasmodic affections in new comers, produce a puking in the morning, only in old residents. but very different is the condition of the inhabitants of the middle and northern states of america, in whom the winters prevent the acquisition of habits of insensibility to the heat and exhalations of the previous summers, and thus place them every year in the condition of new comers in the west and east-indies, or of persons who have spent two or three years in a cold climate. this circumstance increases the danger of depopulation from our malignant epidemics, and should produce corresponding exertions to prevent them. in enumerating the various means of preventing and exterminating the malignant forms of fever, it may appear strange that i have said nothing of the efficacy of quarantines for that purpose. did i believe these pages would be read only by the citizens of pennsylvania, i would do homage to their prejudices, by passing over this subject by a respectful and melancholy silence; but as it is probable they will fall into the hands of physicians and citizens of other states, i feel myself under an obligation to declare, that i believe quarantines are of no efficacy in preventing the yellow fever, in any other way than by excluding the unwholesome air that is generated in the holds of ships, which may be done as easily in a single day, as in weeks or months. they originated in error, and have been kept up by a supine and traditional faith in the opinions and conduct of our ancestors in medicine. millions of dollars have been wasted by them. from their influence, the commerce, agriculture, and manufactures of our country have suffered for many years. but this is not all. thousands of lives have been sacrificed, by that faith in their efficacy, which has led to the neglect of domestic cleanliness. distressing as these evils are, still greater have originated from them; for a belief in the contagious nature of the yellow fever, which is so solemnly enforced by the execution of quarantine laws, has demoralized our citizens. it has, in many instances, extinguished friendship, annihilated religion, and violated the sacraments of nature, by resisting even the loud and vehement cries of filial and parental blood. while i thus deny the yellow fever to be the offspring of a specific contagion, and of course incapable of being imported so as to become an epidemic in any country, i shall admit presently, that the excretions of a patient in this disease may, by confinement, become so acrid as to produce, under circumstances to be mentioned hereafter, a similar disease in a person, but from this person it cannot be communicated, if he possess only the common advantages of pure air and cleanliness. to enforce a quarantine law, therefore, under such a contingent circumstance, and at the expence of such a profusion of blessings as have been mentioned, is to imitate the conduct of the man, who, in attempting to kill a fly upon his child's forehead, knocked out its brains. from the detail that has been given of the sources of malignant fevers, and of the means of preventing them, it is evident that they do not exist by an unchangeable law of nature, and that heaven has surrendered every part of the globe to man, in a state capable of being inhabited, and enjoyed. the facts that have been mentioned show further, the connection of health and longevity, with the reason and labour of man. to every natural evil the author of nature has kindly prepared an antidote. pestilential fevers furnish no exception to this remark. the means of preventing them are as much under the power of human reason and industry, as the means of preventing the evils of lightning and common fire. i am so satisfied of the truth of this opinion, that i look for a time when our courts of law shall punish cities and villages, for permitting any of the sources of bilious and malignant fevers to exist within their jurisdiction. i have repeatedly asserted the yellow fever of the united states not to be contagious. i shall now mention the proofs of that assertion, and endeavour to explain instances of its supposed contagion upon other principles. facts, intended to prove _the yellow fever_ not to be contagious. when fevers are communicated from one person to another, it is always in one of the following ways. . by secreted matters. . by excreted matters. the small-pox and measles are communicated in the former way; the jail, or, as it is sometimes called, the ship, or camp, and hospital fever, is communicated only by means of the excretions of the body. the perspiration, by acquiring a morbid and irritating quality more readily than any other excretion, in consequence of its stagnation and confinement to the body in a tedious jail fever, is the principal means of its propagation. the perspiration[ ] is, moreover, predisposed to acquire this morbid and acrid quality by the filthiness, scanty, or bad aliment, and depression of mind, which generally precede that fever. it is confined to sailors, passengers, soldiers, prisoners, and patients, in foul and crowded ships, tents, jails, and hospitals, and to poor people who live in small, damp, and confined houses. it prevails chiefly in cool and cold weather, but is never epidemic; for the excreted matters which produce the fever do not float in the external atmosphere, nor are they communicated, so as to produce disease, more than a few feet from the persons who exhale them. they are sometimes communicated by means of the clothes which have been worn by the sick, and there have been instances in which the fever has been produced by persons who had not been confined by it, but who had previously been exposed to all the causes which generate it. it has been but little known in the united states since the revolutionary war, at which time it prevailed with great mortality in the hospitals and camps of the american army. it has now and then appeared in ships that were crowded with passengers from different parts of europe. it is a common disease in the manufacturing towns of great-britain, where it has been the subject of several valuable publications, particularly by dr. smith and dr. john hunter. dr. haygarth has likewise written upon it, but he has unfortunately confounded it with the west-india and american yellow fever, which differs from it in prevailing chiefly in warm climates and seasons; in being the offspring of dead and putrid vegetable and animal matters; in affecting chiefly young and robust habits; in being generally accompanied with a diseased state of the stomach, and an obstruction or preternatural secretion and excretion of bile; in terminating, most commonly, within seven days; in becoming epidemic _only_ by means of an impure atmosphere; and in not furnishing ordinarily those excretions which, when received into other bodies, reproduce the same disease. [ ] the deleterious nature of this fluid, and its disposition to create disease, under the above circumstances, has been happily illustrated by dr. mitchill, in an ingenious letter to dr. duncan, of edinburgh, published in the fourth volume of the annals of medicine. i have been compelled to employ this tedious description of two forms of fever, widely different from each other in their causes, symptoms, and duration, from the want of two words which shall designate them. dr. miller has boldly and ingeniously proposed to remedy this deficiency in our language, by calling the former _idio-miasmatic_, and the latter _koino-miasmatic_ fevers, thereby denoting their _private_ or _personal_, and their _public_ or _common_ origin[ ]. my best wishes attend the adoption of those terms! [ ] medical repository, hexade ii. vol. i. i return to remark, that the yellow fever is not contagious in its simple state, and that it spreads exclusively by means of exhalations from putrid matters, which are diffused in the air. this is evident from the following considerations: . it does not spread by contagion in the west-indies. this has been proved in the most satisfactory manner by drs. hillary, huck, hunter, hector m'lean, clark, jackson, borland, pinckard, and scott. dr. chisholm stands alone, among modern physicians, in maintaining a contrary opinion. it would be easy to prove, from many passages in the late edition of the doctor's learned and instructive volumes, that he has been mistaken; and that the disease was an endemic of every island in which he supposed it to be derived from contagion. a just idea of the great incorrectness of all his statements, in favour of his opinion, may be formed from the letter of j. f. eckard, esq. danish consul, in philadelphia, to dr. james mease, published in a late number of the new-york medical repository[ ]. [ ] for february, march, and april, . . the yellow fever does not spread in the country, when carried thither from the cities of the united states. . it does not spread in yellow fever hospitals, when they are situated beyond the influence of the impure air in which it is generated. . it does not spread in cities (as will appear hereafter) from any specific matter emitted from the bodies of sick people. . it generally requires the co-operation of an _exciting_ cause, with miasmata, to produce it. this is never the case with diseases which are universally acknowledged to be contagious. . it is not propagated by the artificial means which propagate contagious diseases. dr. ffirth inoculated himself above twenty times, in different parts of his body, with the black matter discharged from the stomachs of patients in the yellow fever, and several times with the serum of the blood, and the saliva of patients ill with that disease, without being infected by them; nor was he indisposed after swallowing half an ounce of the black matter recently ejected from the stomach, nor by exposing himself to the vapour which was produced by throwing a quantity of that matter upon iron heated over a fire[ ]. [ ] inaugural dissertation on malignant fever, &c. published in june, . to the first four of these assertions there are some seeming exceptions in favour of the propagation of this fever by contagion. i shall briefly mention them, and endeavour to explain them upon other principles. the circumstances which seem to favour the communication of the yellow fever from one person to another, by means of what has been supposed to be contagion, are as follow: . a patient being attended in a small, filthy, and _close_ room. the excretions of the body, when thus accumulated, undergo an additional putrefactive process, and acquire the same properties as those putrid animal matters which are known to produce malignant fevers. i have heard of two or three instances in which a fever was produced by these means in the country, remote from the place where it originated, as well as from every external source of putrid exhalation. the plague is sometimes propagated in this way in the low and filthy huts which compose the alleys and narrow streets of cairo, smyrna, and constantinople. . a person sleeping in the sheets, or upon a bed impregnated with the sweats or other excretions, or being exposed to the smell of the foul linen, or other clothing of persons who had the yellow fever. the disease here, as in the former case, is communicated in the same way as from any other putrid animal matters. it was once received in philadelphia from the effluvia of a chest of unwashed clothes, which had belonged to one of our citizens who had died with it in barbadoes; but it extended no further in a large family than to the person who opened the chest. i have heard of but two instances more of its having been propagated by these means in the united states, in which case the disease perished with the unfortunate subjects of it. to the above insolated cases of the yellow fever being produced by the clothing of persons who had died of it, i shall oppose a fact communicated to me by dr. mease. while the doctor resided at the lazaretto, as inspector of sickly vessels, between may, , and the same month in , the clothing contained in the chests and trunks of all the seamen and others, belonging to philadelphia, who had died of the yellow fever in the west-indies, or on their passage home, and the linen of all the persons who had been sent from the city to the lazaretto with that disease, amounting in all to more than one hundred, were opened, exposed to the air, and washed, by the family of the steward of the hospital, and yet no one of them contracted the least indisposition from them. i am disposed to believe the linen, or any other clothing of a person in good health that had been strongly impregnated with sweats, and afterwards suffered to putrify in a confined place, would be more apt to produce a yellow fever in a summer or autumnal month, than the linen of a person who had died of that disease, with the usual absence of a moisture on the skin. the changes which the healthy excretions by the pores undergo by putrefaction, may easily be conceived, by recollecting the offensive smell which a pocket-handkerchief acquires that has been used for two or three days to wipe away the sweat of the face and hands in warm weather[ ]. [ ] see van swieten on epidemic diseases, aphorism . . the protraction of a yellow fever to such a period as to dispose it to assume the symptoms, and to generate the peculiar and highly volatilised exhalation from the pores of the skin which takes place in the jail fever. i am happy in finding i am not the author of this opinion. sir john pringle, dr. monro, and dr. hillary, speak of a contagious fever produced by the combined action of marsh and human miasmata. the first of those physicians supposes the hungarian bilious fever, which prevailed over the continent of europe in the seventeenth century, was sometimes propagated in this way, as well as by marsh and other putrid exhalations. dr. richard pearson, in his observations upon the bilious fevers which prevailed in the neighbourhood of birmingham, in england, in the years , , and , has the following remark: "in its first stage, this fever did not appear to be contagious, but it evidently was so after the eleventh and fourteenth day, when the _typhoid_ state was induced[ ]." as this protracted state of bilious fever rarely occurs in our country, it has seldom been communicated in this way. [ ] page . it is not peculiar, i believe, to a bilious and yellow fever, when much protracted beyond its ordinary duration, to put on the symptoms of the jail fever. the same appearances occur in the pleurisy, and in other, of what dr. sydenham calls _intercurrent_ fevers, all of which i have no doubt, under certain circumstances of filth, confinement, and long duration, would produce a fever in persons who were exposed to it. this fever, if the weather were cold, would probably put on inflammatory symptoms, and be added, in our nosologies, to the class of contagious diseases. from the necessary influence of time, in thus rendering fevers of all kinds now and then contagious by excretion, it follows, that the yellow fever, when of its usual short duration, is incapable of generating that excretion, and that, instead of being considered as the only form of bilious fever that possesses a power of propagating itself, it should be considered as the only one that is devoid of it. . miasmata, whether from marshes, or other external sources, acting upon a system previously impregnated with the excreted matters which produce the jail or ship fever. mr. lempriere informs us, that he saw what were supposed to be cases of yellow fever communicated by some sailors who brought the seeds of the ship fever with them to the island of jamaica. the fevers which affected most of the crews of the hussar frigate, mentioned by dr. trotter[ ], and of the busbridge indiaman, described by mr. bryce[ ], appear to have been the effect of the combined operation of foul air in those ships, and human excretions, upon their systems. the disease was barely tinged with bilious symptoms, and hence the facility with which it was cured, for the jail fever more readily yields to medicine than the yellow fever. the former was probably excited by some latent exhalation from dead matters in the holds of the ships, and hence we find it ceased on shore, where it was deprived of its exciting cause. it is true, great pains were taken to clean the hold and decks of the busbridge, but there are foul matters which adhere to the timbers of ships, and which, according to dr. lind, are sometimes generated by those timbers when new, that are not to be destroyed by any of the common means employed for that purpose. of this dr. kollock has furnished us with a most satisfactory proof, in his history of the yellow fever, which prevailed on board of the frigate general greene, on her voyage to the havanna, in the year . "the air in the hold of the vessel (says the doctor) was so contaminated, as to extinguish lights immediately, and candles in the cockpit were almost as useless from the same cause. the fish were thrown overboard, and the decks washed and scoured, the ventilator and wind sails put in motion, and every measure of purification adopted that their situation allowed; notwithstanding these precautions disease invaded us. the men were unceasing in their exertions to purify the ship; washing, scouring with vinegar, burning powder and vinegar, old junk, and sulphur, added to constant ventilation, proved unequal even to the amelioration of their calamities, while they were in the latitude of _great heat_. after the removal of the sick, the ship was disburthened of her stores, ballast, &c. cleansed and white-washed throughout; still new cases occurred for nearly two months. some days, two, three, or four were sent off to the hospital, which would seem to indicate the retention of some portion of this noxious principle, which was lodged beyond the reach of the cleansing process." that this noxious principle or matter existed in the ship, and not in the bodies of the crew, is evident from its not having been communicated, in a single instance by a hundred of them who were sent to an hospital on rhode-island, notwithstanding an intercourse sufficient to propagate it was necessarily kept up with the inhabitants. even their nurses did not take it[ ]. [ ] medicina nautica, p. . [ ] annals of medicine, vol. i. p. . [ ] medical repository, vol. iv. no. . . a fifth instance in which contagion has been supposed to take place in the yellow fever is, where the exhalation from the excretions of a patient in that disease acts as an _exciting_ cause, in persons previously impregnated with the marsh, or other external miasmata, which produce it. the activity of this exhalation, even when it is attended with no smell, is so great, as to induce sickness, head-ach, vertigo, and fainting. it is not peculiar to the exhalations from such patients to produce morbid effects upon persons who visit them. the odour emitted by persons in the confluent small-pox has been known to produce the same symptoms, together with a subsequent fever and apthous sore throat. this has been remarked long ago by dr. lind, and latterly by dr. willan, in his reports of the diseases of london[ ]. that the yellow fever is often excited in this way, without the intervention of a supposed specific contagion, i infer from its sometimes spreading through whole families, who have breathed the same impure atmosphere with the person first infected by the fever. this is more especially the case where the impression made by the exhalation from the sick person is assisted by fear, fatigue, or anxiety of mind in other branches of the family. in favour of this mode of exciting the yellow fever, dr. otto communicated to me the following fact. in the autumn of the year , it prevailed upon the _shores_ of the delaware, in gloucester county, in new-jersey. a mild remittent prevailed at the same time on the _high_ grounds, a few miles from the river. during this time, the doctor observed, if a person who had inhaled the seeds of the yellow fever in philadelphia afterwards came into a family _near_ the river, the same disease appeared in several instances in one or more branches of that family; but where persons brought the fever from the city, and went into a family on the _high_ grounds, where the mild remittents prevailed, there was not a single instance of a yellow fever being excited by them in any of its members. this fact is important, and of extensive application. it places the stimulus from the breath, or other exhalations of persons affected by the yellow fever, upon a footing with intemperance, fatigue, heat, and all the common exciting causes of the disease; none of which, it is well known, can produce it, except in persons who have previously inhaled the putrid miasmata, which in all countries are its only remote cause. the city of philadelphia has furnished, in all our yellow fever years, many additional proofs of the correctness of dr. otto's remark. in the months of july and august, when miasmata are generally local, and float chiefly near to their hot beds, the docks and holds of ships, persons who are affected by these miasmata, and sicken in other parts of the city, never communicate the disease; but after the less prepared and heterogeneous filth of our whole city has been acted on by an autumnal, as well as summer sun, so as to emit pestilential exhalations into all our streets and alleys, the fever is now and then excited in the manner that has been mentioned, by a single person in a whole family. the common intermittents of the southern states are often excited in the same way, without being suspected of spreading by contagion. even the jail or hospital fever is vindicated by dr. hunter from the highly contagious nature which has been ascribed to it, upon the same principle. his words, which are directly to my purpose, are as follow: "in considering the extent and power of the contagion [meaning of the jail or hospital fever], i am not inclined to impute to this cause the fevers of all those who are taken ill in one family after the first, as they are all along exposed to the same vitiated air which occasions the first fever. in like manner, when a poor woman visits some of her sick neighbours, and is taken ill herself, and afterwards some of her children, i would not impute the disease to infection alone; she and her family having previously lived in the same kind of vitiated air which originally produced the fever. if the cases in which the infection meets with the poison already _half formed_ be excepted, the disease in itself will be found to be much less infectious than has been commonly supposed[ ]." by the modes of communicating the yellow fever which have been admitted, the dysentery, and all the milder forms of autumnal fevers, have been occasionally propagated, and perhaps oftener than the first-named disease, from their being more apt to run on to the typhus or chronic state. of this i could adduce many proofs, not only from books, but from my own observations; but none of these diseases spread by contagion, or become epidemic from that cause in any country. a contrary opinion, i know, is held by dr. cleghorn, and dr. clarke; but they have deceived themselves, as they formerly deceived me, by not attending to the difference between secreted contagions and morbid excretions from the body, produced by the causes which have been enumerated, and which are rare and accidental concomitants of bilious or summer diseases. [ ] page and . [ ] medical transactions, vol. iii. p. . . the last instance of supposed contagion of the yellow fever is said to arise from the effluvia of a putrid body that has died of that disease. the effluvia in this case act either as the putrified excretions mentioned under the first head, or as an exciting cause upon miasmata, previously received into the system. a dead body, in a state of putrefaction from any other disease, would produce, under the same circumstances of season and predisposition, the same kind and degrees of fever. the similarity of the fever induced by the means that have been enumerated, with the fever from which it was derived, has been supposed to favour the opinion of its being communicated by a specific contagion. but let it be recollected that the yellow fever is, at the time of its being supposed to be thus received, the reigning epidemic, and that irritants of all kinds necessarily produce that disease. the morbid sweats which now and then produce an intermitting fever, and the alvine excretions which occasionally produce a dysentery, act only by exciting morbid actions in the system, which conform in their symptoms to an immutable and universal law of epidemics. it is only when those two diseases generally prevail, that they seem to produce each other. thus have i explained all the supposed cases of contagion of the yellow fever. to infer from the solitary instances of it thus excited, is to reason as incorrectly as to say the small-pox is not contagious, because we now and then meet with persons who cannot be infected by it. from the explanation that has been given of the instances of supposed contagion of the yellow fever, we are compelled to resort to certain noxious qualities in the atmosphere, as the exclusive causes of the prevalence, not only of that fever, but (with a few exceptions) of all other epidemic diseases. it is true, we are as yet ignorant of the precise nature of those qualities in the air which produce epidemics; but their effects are as certainly felt by the human body as the effects of heat, and yet who knows the nature of that great and universal principle of activity in our globe? that the yellow fever is propagated by means of an impure atmosphere, at all times, and in all places, i infer from the following facts: . it appears only in those climates and seasons of the year in which heat, acting upon moist animal and vegetable matters, fills the air with their putrid exhalations. a vertical sun, pouring its beams for ages upon a dry soil; and swamps, defended from the influence of the sun by extensive forests, have not, in a single instance, produced this disease. . it is unknown in places where a connection is not perceptible between it, and marshes, mill-ponds, docks, gutters, sinks, unventilated ships, and other sources of noxious air. the truth of this remark is established by the testimonies of dr. lind and dr. chisholm, and by many facts in lempriere's excellent history of the diseases of jamaica. dr. davidson furnished me with a striking confirmation of their remarks, in the following extract from a letter, dated november th, . "i have mentioned (says the doctor) an instance of the remarkable good health which the th regiment enjoyed at st. vincents for several years, upon a high hill above the town, removed from all exhalations, and in a situation kept at all times cool by the blowing of a constant trade wind. they did not lose, during eighteen months, above two or three men (the regiment was completed to the peace establishment), and during eight years they lost but two officers, one of whom, the quarter-master, resided constantly in town, and died from over fatigue; the other arrived very ill from antigua, and died within a few days afterwards." in the united states, no advocate for the specific nature or importation of the yellow fever, has ever been able to discover a single case of it beyond the influence of an atmosphere rendered impure by putrid exhalations. it is no objection to the truth of this remark, that malignant bilious fevers sometimes appear upon the summits of hills, while their declivities, and the vallies below, are exempted from them. the miasmata, in all these cases, are arrested by those heights, and are always to be traced to putrefaction and exhalation in their neighbourhood. nor is it any objection to the indissoluble connection between putrid exhalations and the yellow fever, which has been mentioned, that the disease sometimes appears in places remote from the source of miasmata in _time_ and _place_. the bilious pleurisies, which occur in the winter and spring, after a sickly autumn, prove that they are retained in the body for many months, and although they are sometimes limited in their extent to a single house, and often to a village, a city, and the banks of a creek or river, yet they are now and then carried to a much greater distance. mr. lempriere, in his valuable observations upon the diseases of the british army in jamaica, informs us, that kingston is sometimes rendered sickly by exhalations from a lagoon, which lies _nine_ miles to the eastward of that town[ ]. the greater or less distance, to which miasmata are carried from the place where they are generated, appears to depend upon their quantity, upon the force and duration of currents of wind which act upon them, and upon their being more or less opposed by rivers, woods, water, houses, wells, or mountains. [ ] vol. i. p. . . it is destroyed, like its fraternal diseases, the common bilious and intermitting fevers, by means of _long-continued_ and _heavy_ rains[ ]. when rains are heavy, but of short duration, they suspend it only in warm weather; but when they are succeeded by cold weather, they destroy all the forms of bilious fever. the malignant tertians, described by dr. cleghorn, always ceased about the autumnal equinox; for at that time, says the doctor, "rain falls in such torrents as to tear up trees by the roots, carry away cattle, break down fences, and do considerable mischief to the gardens and vineyards; but, after a long and scorching summer, they are very acceptable and beneficial, for they mitigate the excessive heat of the air, and give a check to epidemical diseases[ ]." there are facts, however, which would seem to contradict the assertion that miasmata are suspended or destroyed by heavy rains. dr. lind, in his treatise upon the diseases of hot climates, mentions instances in which they suddenly created fevers. it is probable, in these cases the rains may have had that effect, by disturbing the pellicle which time often throws over the surface of stagnating pools of water, and putrid matters on dry land. i was led to entertain this opinion by a fact mentioned in a letter i received from dr. davidson, dated november th, . "being ordered (says the doctor) up to barbadoes, last november, upon service, i found that the troops had suffered considerably by that formidable scourge, the yellow fever. the season had been remarkably dry. it was observed, a rainy season contributed to make the season healthier, excepting at constitution-hill, where the sixth regiment was stationed, and where a heavy shower of rain seldom failed to bring back the fever, after it had ceased for some time. i found the barrack, where this regiment was, surrounded by a pond of brackish water, which, being but imperfectly drained by the continuance of the drought, the surface was covered with a green scum, which prevented the exhalation of marshy putrefaction. after a heavy shower of rain, this scum was broken, and the miasmata evolved, and acted with double force, according to the time of their secretion." [ ] clarke on the diseases of long voyages to hot climates, p. . [ ] diseases of minorca, p. . . it is completely destroyed by frost. as neither rains nor frosts act in sick rooms, nor affect the bodies of sick people, they must annihilate the disease by acting exclusively upon the atmosphere. very different in their nature are the small-pox and measles, which are propagated by specific contagion. they do not wait for the suns of july or august, nor do they require an impure atmosphere, or an exciting cause, to give them activity. they spread in the winter and spring, as well as in the summer and autumnal months: wet and dry weather do not arrest their progress, and frost (so fatal to the yellow fever), by rendering it necessary to exclude cold air from sick rooms, increases the force of their contagion, and thereby propagates them more certainly through a country. . it is likewise destroyed, by intense heat, and high winds. the latter, we are sure, like heavy rains and frost, do not produce that salutary effect by acting upon the bodies, or in the rooms of sick people. it is worthy of notice, that while the activity of miasmata is destroyed by cold, when it descends to frost; by heat, when it is so intense as to dry up all the sources of putrid exhalation; by heavy rains, when they are succeeded by cool weather; and by high winds, when they are not succeeded by warm weather; they are rendered more active by cool, warm, and damp weather, and by light winds. the influence of damp weather, in retaining and propagating miasmata, will be readily admitted, by recollecting how much more easily hounds track their prey, and how much more extensively odours of all kinds pervade the atmosphere, when it is charged with moisture, than in dry weather. it has been asked, if putrid matters produce malignant bilious fevers in our cities, why do they not produce them in lisbon, and in several other of the filthiest cities in the south of europe? to this i answer, that filth and dirt are two distinct things. the streets of a city may be very _dirty_, that is, covered with mud composed of inoffensive clay, sand, or lime, and, at the same time, be perfectly free from those _filthy_ vegetable and animal matters which, by putrefaction, contaminate the air. but, admitting the streets of those cities to abound with the filthy matters that produce pestilential diseases in other countries, it is possible the exhalations from them may be so _constant_, and so _powerful_, in their impressions upon the bodies of the inhabitants, as to produce, from habit, no morbid effects, or but feeble diseases, as was remarked formerly, is the case in the natives and old settlers in the east and west-indies. but if this explanation be not satisfactory, it may be resolved into a partial absence of an inflammatory constitution of the air, which, i shall say presently, must concur in producing pestilential diseases. such deviations from uniformity in the works of nature are universal. in the present instances, they no more invalidate the general proposition of malignant fevers being every where of domestic origin, than the exemption of ireland from venomous reptiles, proves they are not generated in other countries, or that the pleurisy and rheumatism are not the effects of the alternate action of cold and heat upon the body, because hundreds, who have been exposed to them under equal circumstances, have not been affected by those diseases. there may be other parts of the world in which putrid matters do not produce bilious malignant diseases from the causes that have been mentioned, or from some unknown cause, but i am safe in repeating, there never was a bilious epidemic yellow fever that could not be traced to putrid exhalation. it has been asked, if the yellow fever be not imported, why does it make its first appearance among sailors, and near the docks and wharves of our cities? i answer, this is far from being true. the disease has as often appeared first at a distance from the shores of our cities as near them, but, from its connection with a ship not being discovered, it has been called by another name. but where the first cases of it occur in sailors, i believe the seeds of it are always previously received by them from our filthy docks and wharves, or from the foul air which is discharged with the cargoes of the ships in which they have arrived, which seeds are readily excited in them by hard labour, or intemperance, so as to produce the disease. that this is the case, is further evident from its appearing in them, only in those months in which the bilious fever prevails in our cities. it has been asked further, why were not these bilious malignant fevers more common before the years , , and ? to this i answer, by repeating what was mentioned in another place[ ], that our climate has been gradually undergoing a change. the summers are more alternated by hot and cool, and wet and dry weather, than in former years. the winters are likewise less uniformly cold. grass is two or three weeks later in the spring in affording pasture to cattle than it was within the memory of many thousand people. above all, the summer has encroached upon the autumn, and hence the frequent accounts we read in our newspapers of trees blossoming, of full grown strawberries and raspberries being gathered, and of cherries and apples, of a considerable size, being seen, in the months of october and november, in all the middle states. by means of this protraction of the heat of summer, more time is given for the generation of putrid exhalations, and possibly for their greater concentration and activity in producing malignant bilious diseases. [ ] account of the climate of pennsylvania, vol i. it has been asked again, why do not the putrid matters which produce the yellow fever in some years produce it _every_ year? this question might be answered by asking two others. st. why, if the yellow fever be derived from the we st-indies, was it not imported every year before , and before the existence, or during the feeble and partial operation of quarantine laws? it is no answer to this question to say, that a war is necessary to generate the disease in the islands, for it exists in some of them at all times, and the seasons of its prevalence in our cities have, in many instances, had no connection with war, nor with the presence of european armies in those and in other sickly parts of the globe. during the seven years revolutionary war it was unknown as an epidemic in the united states, and yet sailors arrived in all our cities daily from sickly islands, in small and crowded vessels, and sometimes covered with the rags they had worn in the yellow fever, in british hospitals and jails. i ask, dly, why does the dysentery (which is certainly a domestic disease) rise up in our country, and spread sickness and death through whole families and villages, and disappear from the same places for fifteen or twenty years afterwards? the want of uniformity in the exhalations of our country in producing those diseases depends upon their being combined with more or less heat or moisture; upon the surface of the earth being completely dry, or completely covered with water[ ]; upon different currents of winds, or the total absence of wind; upon the disproportion of the temperature of the air in the day and night; upon the quantity of dew; upon the early or late appearance of warm or cold weather; and upon the predisposition of the body to disease, derived from the quality of the aliments of the season. a similar want of uniformity in the annual operations of our climate appears in the size and quality of grain, fruits, and vegetables of all kinds. [ ] in the account of the yellow fever of , the different and opposite effects of a dry and rainy season in producing bilious fevers are mentioned from dr. dazilles. in the autumn of , i have elsewhere remarked, after a summer in which there had fallen an unusual quantity of rain, the bilious fevers appeared chiefly on the high grounds in pennsylvania, which were in a state of moisture, while scarcely a case of them appeared in the neighbourhood of marshes, or low grounds, owing to their being so completely covered with water, as to be incapable of generating, by putrefaction, the miasmata which produce those forms of disease. but the greater violence and mortality of our bilious fevers, than in former years, must be sought for chiefly in an inflammatory or malignant constitution of the atmosphere, the effects of which have been no less obvious upon the small-pox, measles, and the intercurrent fevers of dr. sydenham, than they are upon the summer and autumnal disease that has been mentioned. this malignant state of the air has been noticed, under different names, by all the writers upon epidemics, from hippocrates down to the present day. it was ascribed, by the venerable father of physic, to a "divine something" in the atmosphere. dr. sydenham, whose works abound with references to it, supposes it to be derived from a mineral exhalation from the bowels of the earth. from numerous other testimonies of a belief in the influence of the insensible qualities of the air, altering the character of epidemics, i shall select the following: "it is certain (says dr. mosely) that diseases undergo changes and revolutions. some continue for a succession of years, and vanish when they have exhausted the temporary, but secret cause which produced them. others have appeared and disappeared suddenly; and others have their periodical returns." the doctor ascribes a malignant fever among the dogs in jamaica (improperly called, from one of its symptoms, hydrophobia), to a change in the atmosphere, in the year . it was said to have been imported, but experience, he says, proved the fact to be otherwise[ ]. [ ] treatise upon tropical diseases, p. , . "this latent malignity in the atmosphere (says baron vansweiten) is known only by its effects, and cannot easily be reduced to any known species of acrimony." in another place he says, "it seems certain that this unknown matter disposes all the humours to a sudden and bad putrefaction[ ]." [ ] commentaries on boerhaave's aphorisms, vol. v. p. , . dr. john stedman has related many facts, in his essay upon insalutary constitutions of the air, which prove, that diseases are influenced by a quality in it, which, he says, "is productive of corruption," but which has hitherto eluded the researches of physicians[ ]. [ ] page . mr. lempriere, after mentioning the unusual mortality occasioned by the yellow fever, within the last five or six years, in the island of jamaica, ascribes it wholly "to that particular constitution of atmosphere upon which the existence of epidemics, at one period rather than another, depend[ ]." [ ] vol. ii. p. . not only diseases bear testimony to a change in the atmosphere, but the whole vegetable and animal creation concur in it, proofs of which were mentioned in another place. three things are remarkable with respect to this inflammatory constitution of the air. . it is sometimes of a local nature, and influences the diseases of a city, or country, while adjoining cities and countries are exempted from it. . it much oftener pervades a great extent of country. this was evident in the years and , in the united states. during the same years, the yellow fever prevailed in most of the west-india islands. many of the epidemics mentioned by dr. sims, in the first volume of the medical memoirs, affected, in the same years, the most remote parts of the continent of europe. even the ocean partakes of a morbid constitution of its atmosphere, and diseases at sea sympathise in violence with those of the land, at an immense distance from each other. this appears in a letter from a surgeon, on board a british ship of war, to mr. gooch, published in the third volume of his medical and surgical observations. . the predisposing state of the atmosphere to induce malignant diseases continues for several years, under all the circumstances of wet and dry, and of hot and cold weather. this will appear, from attending to the accounts which have been given of the weather, in all the years in which the yellow fever has prevailed in philadelphia since [ ]. the remark is confirmed by all the records of malignant epidemics. [ ] vol. iii. and iv. it is to no purpose to say, the presence of the peculiar matter which constitutes an inflammatory or malignant state of the air has not been detected by any chemical agents. the same thing has been justly said of the exhalations which produce the bilious intermitting, remitting, and yellow fever. no experiment that has yet been made, has discovered their presence in the air. the eudiometer has been used in vain for this purpose. in one experiment made by dr. gattani, the air from a marsh at the mouth of the river vateline was found to be apparently purer by two degrees than the air on a neighbouring mountain, which was feet higher than the sea. the inhabitants of the mountain were notwithstanding healthy, while those who lived in the neighbourhood of the marsh were annually afflicted with bilious and intermitting fevers[ ]. the contagions of the small-pox and measles consist of matter, and yet who has ever discovered this matter in the air? we infer the existence of those remote causes of diseases in the atmosphere only from their effects. of the existence of putrid exhalations in it, there are other evidences besides bilious and yellow fevers. they are sometimes the objects of the sense of smelling. we see them in the pale or sallow complexions of the inhabitants of the countries which generate them, and we observe them occasionally in the diseases of several domestic animals. the most frequent of these diseases are inflammation, tubercles, and ulcers in the liver. dr. cleghorn describes a diseased state of that viscus in cattle, in an unhealthy part of the island of minorca. dr. grainger takes notice of several morbid appearances in the livers of domestic animals in holland, in the year . but the united states have furnished facts to illustrate the truth of this remark. mr. james wardrobe, near richmond, in virginia, informed me, that in august, , at a time when bilious fevers were prevalent in his neighbourhood, his cattle were seized with a disease, which, i said formerly, is known by the name of the yellow water, and which appears to be a true yellow fever. they were attacked with a staggering. their eyes were muddy, or ferocious. a costiveness attended in all cases. it killed in two days. fifty-two of his cattle perished by it. upon opening the bodies of several of them, he found the liver swelled and ulcerated. the blood was dissolved in the veins. in the bladder of one of them, he found thirteen pints of blood and water. similar appearances were observed in the livers of sheep in the neighbourhood of cadiz, in the year , during the prevalence of the yellow fever in that city. they were considered as such unequivocal marks of an unwholesome atmosphere among the ancients, that they examined the livers of domestic animals, in order to determine on the healthy or unhealthy situation of the spot on which they wished to live. [ ] alibert's dissertation sur les fievres pernicieuses et attaxiques intermittentes, p. . the advocates for the yellow fever being a specific disease, and propagated only by contagion, will gain nothing by denying an inflammatory constitution of the atmosphere (the cause of which is unknown to us) to be necessary to raise common remittents to that grade in which they become malignant yellow fevers; for they are obliged to have recourse to an unknown quality in the air, every time they are called upon to account for the disease prevailing chiefly in our cities, and not spreading when it is carried from them into the country. the same reference to an occult quality in the air is had by all the writers upon the plague, in accounting for its immediate and total extinction, when it is carried into a foreign port. in speaking of the influence of an inflammatory constitution of the atmosphere in raising common bilious, to malignant yellow fevers, i wish not to have it supposed, that its concurrence is necessary to produce sporadic cases of that, or any other malignant disease. strong exciting causes, combined with highly volatilized and active miasmata, i believe, will produce a yellow fever at any time. i have seen one or more such cases almost every year since i settled in philadelphia, and particularly when my business was confined chiefly to that class of people who live near the wharves, and in the suburbs, and who are still the first, and frequently the only victims of the yellow fever. it has been said, exultingly, that the opinion of the importation of the yellow fever is of great antiquity in our country, and that it has lately been admitted by the most respectable physicians in britain and france, and sanctioned by the laws of several of the governments in europe. had antiquity, numbers, rank, and power been just arguments in favour of existing opinions, a thousand truths would have perished in their birth, which have diffused light and happiness over every part of our globe. in favour of the ancient and general belief of the importation of the yellow fever, there are several obvious reasons. the idea is produced by a single act of the mind. it requires neither comparison nor reasoning to adopt it, and therefore accords with the natural indolence of man. it, moreover, flatters his avarice and pride, by throwing the origin of a mortal disease from his property and country. the principle of thus referring the origin of the evils of life from ourselves to others is universal. it began in paradise, and has ever since been an essential feature in the character of our species. it has constantly led individuals and nations to consider loathsome and dangerous diseases as of foreign extraction. the venereal disease and the leprosy have no native country, if we believe all the authors who have written upon them. prosper alpinus derives the plagues of cairo from syria, and the physicians of alexandria import them from smyrna or constantinople. the yellow fever is said to have been first brought from siam (where there are proofs it never existed) to the west-indies, whence it is believed to be imported into the cities of the united states. from them, frenchmen and spaniards say it has been re-shipped, directly or indirectly, to st. domingo, havanna, malaga, cadiz, and other parts of the world. weak and absurd credulity! the causes of the ferocious and mortal disease which we thus thrust from our respective ports, like the sin of cain, "lie exclusively at our own doors." lastly, it has been asserted, if we admit the yellow fever to be an indigenous disease of our cities, we shall destroy their commerce, and the value of property in them, by disseminating a belief, that the cause of our disease is fixed in our climate, and that it is out of the power of human means to remove it. the reverse of this supposition is true. if it be an imported disease, our case is without a remedy; for if, with all the advantages of quarantine laws enforced by severe penalties, and executed in the most despotic manner, the disease has existed annually, in most of our cities, as an epidemic, or in sporadic cases, ever since the year , it will be in vain to expect, from similar measures, a future exemption from it. nothing but a belief in its domestic origin, and the adoption of means founded upon that belief, can restore the character of our climate, and save our commercial cities from destruction. those means are cheap, practicable, and certain. they have succeeded, as i shall say presently, in other countries. from the account that has been given of the different ways in which this disease is communicated from one person to another, and from the facts which establish its propagation exclusively through the medium of the atmosphere, when it becomes epidemic, we may explain several things which belong to its history, that are inexplicable upon the principle of its specific contagion. . we learn the reason why, in some instances, the fever does not spread from a person who sickens or dies at sea, who had carried the seeds of it in his body from a sickly shore. it is because no febrile miasmata exist in the bodies of the rest of the crew to be excited into action by any peculiar smell from the disease, or by fear or fatigue, and because no morbid excretions are generated by the person who dies. the fever which prevailed on board the nottingham east-indiaman, in the year , affected those forty men only, who had slept on shore on the island of joanna twenty days before. had the whole crew been on shore, the disease would probably have affected them all, and been ascribed to contagion generated by the first persons who were confined by it[ ]. a danish ship, in the year , sent twelve of her crew on shore for water. they were all seized after their return to the ship with malignant fever, and died without infecting any person on board, and from the same causes which preserved the crew of the nottingham indiaman[ ]. [ ] observations on the bilious fevers usual in voyages to the east-indies, by james badinach, m. d. medical observations and inquiries, vol. iv. [ ] clarke on the diseases of long voyages to hot climates, p. , . . we learn the reason why the disease sometimes spreads through a whole ship's crew, apparently from one or more affected persons. it is either because they have been confined to small and close berths by bad weather, or because the fever has been protracted to a typhus or chronic state, or because the bodies of the whole crew are impregnated with morbid miasmata, and thus predisposed to have the disease excited in the manner that has been mentioned. in the last way it was excited in most of the crew of the united states frigate, in the delaware, opposite to the city of philadelphia, in the year . it appears to have spread, from a similar cause, from a few sailors, on board the grenville indiaman, after touching at batavia. the whole crew had been predisposed to the disease by inhaling the noxious air of that island. the same reasons account for the fever expiring in a healthy village or country; also for its spreading when carried to those towns which are seated upon creeks or rivers, and in the neighbourhood of marsh exhalations. it has uniformly perished in the high and healthy village of germantown, when carried from philadelphia, and has three times appeared to be contagious near the muddy shores of the creeks which flow through wilmington and chester. . from the facts that have been mentioned, we are taught to disbelieve the possibility of the disease being imported in the masts and sails of a ship, by a contagious matter secreted by a sailor who may have sickened or died on board her, on a passage from a west-india island. the death in most of the cases supposed to be imported, in this way, occurs within a few days after the ship leaves her west-india port, or within a few days after her arrival. in the former case, the disease is derived from west-india miasmata; in the latter, it is derived, as was before remarked, either from the foul air of the hold of the ship, or of the dock or wharf to which the ship is moored. many other facts might be adduced to show the yellow fever not to be an imported disease. it has often prevailed among the indians remote from the sea coast, and many hundred cases of it have occurred, since the year , on the inland waters of the united states, from the hudson and susquehannah, to the rivers of the mississippi. in south-america, baron humboldt assured me, it is every where believed to be an endemic of that country. these simple and connected facts, in which all the physicians in the united states who derive the yellow fever from domestic causes have agreed, will receive fresh support by comparing them with the different and contrary opinions of the physicians who maintain its importation. some of them have asserted it to be a specific disease, and derived it from the east and west-indies; others derive it from beulam, on the coast of africa; a third sect have called it a ship fever; a fourth have ascribed it to a mixture of imported contagion with the foul air of our cities; while a fifth, who believed it to be imported in , have supposed it to be the offspring of a contagion left by the disease of that year, revived by the heat of our summers, and disseminated, ever since, through the different cities of our country. the number of these opinions, clearly proves, that no one of them is tenable. a belief in the non-contagion of the yellow fever, or of its being incommunicable except in one of the five ways that have been mentioned, is calculated to produce the following good effects: . it will deliver the states which have sea-ports from four-fifths of the expences of their present quarantine laws and lazarettoes. a very small apparatus, in laws and officers, would be sufficient to prevent the landing of persons affected by the ship fever in our cities, and the more dangerous practice, of ships pouring streams of pestilential air, from their holds, upon the citizens who live near our docks and wharves. . it will deliver our merchants from the losses incurred by the delays of their ships, by long and unnecessary quarantines. it will, moreover, tend to procure the immediate admission of our ships into foreign ports, by removing that belief in the contagious nature of the yellow fever, which originated in our country, and which has been spread, by the public acts of our legislatures and boards of health, throughout the globe. . it will deliver our citizens from the danger to which they are exposed, by spending the time of the quarantine, on board of vessels in the neighbourhood of the marshes, which form the shores of the rivers or coasts of quarantine roads. this danger is much increased by idleness, and by the vexation which is excited, by sailors and passengers being detained, unnecessarily, fifteen or twenty days from their business and friends. . it will lead us to a speedy removal of all the excretions, and a constant ventilation of the rooms of patients in the yellow fever, and thereby to prevent the accumulation, and further putrefaction of those exhalations which may reproduce it. . it is calculated to prevent the desertion of patients in the yellow fever, by their friends and families, and to produce caution in them to prevent the excitement of the disease in their own bodies, by means of low diet and gentle physic, proportioned to the impurity of the air, and to the anxiety and fatigue to which they are exposed in attending the sick. . it will put an end to the cruel practice of quieting the groundless fears of a whole neighbourhood, by removing the poor who are affected by the fever, from their houses, and conveying them, half dead with disease and terror, to a solitary or crowded hospital, or of nailing a yellow flag upon the doors of others, or of fixing a guard before them, both of which have been practised in philadelphia, not only without any good effect, but to the great injury of the sick. . by deriving the fever from our own climate and atmosphere, we shall be able to foresee its approach in the increased violence of common diseases, in the morbid state of vegetation, in the course of the winds, in the diseases of certain brute animals, and in the increase of common, or the appearance of uncommon insects. . a belief in the non-contagion of the yellow fever, and its general prevalence from putrid animal and vegetable matters _only_, is calculated to lead us to drain or cover marshy grounds, and to remove from our cities all the sources of impure air, whether they exist in the holds of ships, in docks, gutters, and common sewers, or in privies, gardens, yards, and cellars, more especially during the existence of the signs of a malignant constitution of the air. a fever, the same in its causes, and similar to it in many of its symptoms, that is, the plague, has been extirpated, by extraordinary degrees of cleanliness, from the cities of holland, great-britain, and several other parts of europe. the reader will perceive, from these facts and reasonings, that i have relinquished the opinion published in my account of the yellow fever in the years , , and , respecting its contagious nature. i was misled by dr. lining, and several west-india writers, in ascribing a much greater extent to the excreted matters in producing the disease, than i have since discovered to be correct, and by bianchi, lind, clark, and cleghorn, in admitting even the common bilious fever to be contagious. the reader will perceive, likewise, that i have changed my opinion respecting one of the modes in which the plague is propagated. i once believed, upon the authorities of travellers, physicians, and schools of medicine, that it was a highly contagious disease. i am now satisfied this is not the case; but, from the greater number of people who are depressed and debilitated by poverty and famine, and who live in small and filthy huts[ ] in the cities of the east, than in the cities of the united states, i still believe it to be more frequently communicated from an intercourse with sick people by the morbid excretions of the body, than the yellow fever is in our country. for the change of my opinion upon this subject, i am indebted to dr. caldwell's and mr. webster's publications upon pestilential diseases, and to the travels of mariti and sonnini into syria and egypt. i reject, of course, with the contagious quality of the plague, the idea of its ever being imported into any country so as to become epidemic, by means of a knife-case, a piece of cotton, or a bale of silks, with the same decision that i do all the improbable and contradictory reports of an epidemic yellow fever being imported in a sailor's jacket, or in the timbers and sails of a ship that had been washed by the salt water, and fanned by the pure air of the ocean, for several weeks, on her passage from the west-indies to the united states. [ ] m. savary, in his travels, says, two hundred persons live in cairo within a compass that accommodates but thirty persons in paris. it gives me pleasure to find this unpopular opinion of the non-contagion of the plague is not a new one. it was held by the faculty of medicine in paris, in the beginning of the eighteenth century, and it has since been defended by dr. stoll, of vienna, dr. samoilowitz, of russia, and several other eminent physicians. dr. herberden has lately called in question the truth of all the stories that are upon record of the plague having been imported into england in the last century, and the researches of sir robert wilson of the british army, and of assellini, and several other french physicians, have produced the most satisfactory proofs of its not being a contagious disease in its native country. a discovery more pregnant with blessings to mankind has seldom been made. pyramids of error, the works of successive ages and nations, must fall before it, and rivers of tears must be dried up by it. it is impossible fully to appreciate the immense benefits which await this mighty achievement of our science upon the affairs of the globe. large cities shall no longer be the hot-beds of disease and death. marshy grounds, teeming with pestilential exhalations, shall become the healthy abodes of men. a powerful source of repulsion between nations shall be removed, and commerce shall shake off the fetters which have been imposed upon it by expensive and vexatious quarantines. a red or a yellow eye shall no longer be the signal to desert a friend or a brother to perish alone in a garret or a barn, nor to expel the stranger from our houses, to seek an asylum in a public hospital, to avoid dying in the street. the number of diseases shall be lessened, and the most mortal of them shall be struck out of the list of human evils. to accelerate these events, it is incumbent upon the physicians of the united states to second the discoveries of their european brethren. it becomes them constantly to recollect, that we are the centinels of the health and lives of our fellow-citizens, and that there is a grade of benevolence in our profession much higher than that which arises from the cure of diseases. it consists in exterminating their causes. a defence of _blood-letting_, as a remedy for certain diseases. blood-letting, as a remedy for fevers, and certain other diseases, having lately been the subject of much discussion, and many objections having been made to it, which appear to be founded in error and fear, i have considered that a defence of it, by removing those objections, might render it more generally useful, in every part of the united states. i shall begin this subject by remarking, that blood-letting is indicated, in fevers of great morbid excitement, . by the sudden suppression or diminution of the natural discharges by the pores, bowels, and kidneys, whereby a plethora is induced in the system. . by the habits of the persons who are most subject to such fevers. . by the theory of fever. i have attempted to prove that the higher grades of fever depend upon morbid and excessive action in the blood-vessels. it is connected, of course, with preternatural sensibility in their muscular fibres. the blood is the most powerful irritant which acts upon them. by abstracting a part of it, we lessen the principal cause of the fever. the effect of blood-letting is as immediate and natural in removing fever, as the abstraction of a particle of sand is, to cure an inflammation of the eye, when it arises from that cause. . by the symptoms of the first stage of violent fevers, such as a sleepiness and an oppressed pulse, or by delirium, with a throbbing pulse, and great pains in every part of the body. . by the rupture of the blood-vessels, which takes place from the quantity or impetus of the blood in fevers of great morbid action. let no one call bleeding a cruel or unnatural remedy. it is one of the specifics of nature; but in the use of it she seldom affords much relief. she frequently pours the stimulating and oppressing mass of blood into the lungs and brain; and when she finds an outlet for it through the nose, it is discharged either in such a deficient or excessive quantity, as to be useless or hurtful. by artificial blood-letting, we can choose the _time_ and _place_ of drawing blood, and we may regulate its quantity by the degrees of action in the blood-vessels. the disposition of nature to cure violent morbid action by depletion, is further manifested by her substituting, in the room of blood-letting, large, but less safe and less beneficial, evacuations from the stomach and bowels. . by the relief which is obtained in fevers of violent action by remedies of less efficacy (to be mentioned hereafter), which act indirectly in reducing the force of the sanguiferous system. . by the immense advantages which have attended the use of blood-letting in violent fevers, when used at a proper time, and in a quantity suited to the force of the disease. i shall briefly enumerate these advantages. . it frequently strangles a fever, when used in its forming state, and thereby saves much pain, time, and expence to a patient. . it imparts strength to the body, by removing the depression which is induced by the remote cause of the fever. it moreover obviates a disposition to faint, which arises from this state of the system. . it reduces the uncommon frequency of the pulse. the loss of ten ounces of blood reduced miss sally eyre's pulse from strokes to , in a few minutes, in the fever of the year . dr. gordon mentions many similar instances of its reducing the frequency of the pulse, in the puerperile fever. . it renders the pulse more frequent when it is preternaturally slow. . it checks the nausea and vomiting, which attend the malignant state of fever. of this i saw many instances in the year . dr. poissonnier desperrieres confirms this remark, in his account of the fevers of st. domingo; and adds further, that it prevents, when sufficiently copious, the troublesome vomiting which often occurs on the fifth day of the yellow fever[ ]. it has the same effect in preventing the diarrh[oe]a in the measles. [ ] traite des fievres de l'isle de st. domingue, vol. ii. p. . . it renders the bowels, when costive, more easily moved by purging physic. . it renders the action of mercury more speedy and more certain, in exciting a salivation. . it disposes the body to sweat spontaneously, or renders diluting and diaphoretic medicines more effectual for that purpose. . it _suddenly_ removes a dryness, and _gradually_ a blackness, from the tongue. of the former effect of bleeding, i saw two instances, and of the latter, one, during the autumn of . . it removes or lessens pain in every part of the body, and more especially in the head. . it removes or lessens the burning heat of the skin, and the burning heat in the stomach, so common and so distressing in the yellow fever. . it removes a constant chilliness, which sometimes continues for several days, and which will neither yield to cordial drinks, nor warm bed-clothes. . it checks such sweats as are profuse without affording relief, and renders such as are partial and moderate, universal and salutary. . it sometimes checks a diarrh[oe]a and tenesmus, after astringent medicines have been given to no purpose. this has often been observed in the measles. . it suddenly cures the intolerance of light which accompanies many of the inflammatory states of fever. . it removes coma. mr. henry clymer was suddenly relieved of this alarming symptom, in the fever of , by the loss of twelve ounces of blood. . it induces sleep. this effect of bleeding is so uniform, that it obtained, in the year , the name of an anodyne in several families. sleep sometimes stole upon the patient while the blood was flowing. . it prevents effusions of serum and blood. hæmorrhages seldom occur, where bleeding has been sufficiently copious. . it belongs to this remedy to prevent the chronic diseases of cough, consumption, jaundice, abscess in the liver, and all the different states of dropsy which so often follow autumnal fevers. my amiable friend, mrs. lenox, furnished an exception to this remark, in the year . after having been cured of the yellow fever by seven bleedings, she was affected, in consequence of taking a ride, with a slight return of fever, accompanied by an acute pain in the head, and some of the symptoms of a dropsy of the brain. as her pulse was tense and quick, i advised repeated bleedings to remove it. this prescription, for reasons which it is unnecessary to relate, was not followed at the time, or in the manner, in which it was recommended. the pain, in the mean time, became more alarming. in this situation, two physicians were proposed by her friends to consult with me. i objected to them both, because i knew their principles and modes of practice to be contrary to mine, and that they were proposed only with a view of wresting the lancet from my hand. from this desire of avoiding a controversy with my brethren, where conviction was impossible on either side, as well as to obviate all cause of complaint by my patient's friends, i offered to take my leave of her, and to resign her wholly to the care of the two gentlemen who were proposed to attend her with me. to this she objected in a decided manner. but that i might not be suspected of an undue reliance upon my own judgment, i proposed to call upon dr. griffitts or dr. physick to assist me in my attendance upon her. both these physicians had renounced the prejudices of the schools in which they had been educated, and had conformed their principles and practice to the present improving state of medical science. my patient preferred dr. griffitts, who, in his first visit to her, as soon as he felt her pulse, proposed more bleeding. the operation was performed by the doctor himself, and repeated daily for five days afterwards. from an apprehension that the disease was so fixed as to require some aid to blood-letting, we gave her calomel in such large doses as to excite a salivation. by the use of these remedies she recovered slowly, but so perfectly as to enjoy her usual health. . bleeding prevents the termination of malignant, in the gangrenous state of fever. this effect of blood-letting will enable us to understand some things in the writings of dr. morton and dr. sydenham, which at first sight appear to be unintelligible. dr. morton describes what he calls a putrid fever, which was epidemic and fatal, in the year . dr. sydenham, who practised in london at the same time, takes no notice of this fever. the reason of his silence is obvious. by copious bleeding, he prevented the fever of that year from running on to the gangrenous state, while dr. morton, by neglecting to bleed, created the supposed putrid fevers which he has described. it has been common to charge the friends of blood-letting with _temerity_ in their practice. from this view which has been given of it, it appears, that it would be more proper to ascribe _timidity_ to them, for they bleed to prevent the offensive and distressing consequences of neglecting it, which have been mentioned. . it cures, without permitting a fever to put on those alarming symptoms, which excite constant apprehensions of danger and death, in the minds of patients and their friends. it is because these alarming symptoms are prevented, by bleeding, that patients are sometimes unwilling to believe they have been cured by it, of a malignant fever. thus, the syrian leper of old, viewed the water of jordan as too simple and too common to cure a formidable disease, without recollecting that the remedies for the greatest evils of life are all simple, and within the power of the greatest part of mankind. . it prepares the way for the successful use of the bark and other tonic remedies, by destroying, or so far weakening, a morbid action in the blood-vessels, that a medicine of a moderate stimulus afterwards exceeds it in force, and thereby restores equable and healthy action to the system. . bleeding prevents relapses. it, moreover, prevents that predisposition to the intermitting and pleuritic states of fever, which so frequently attack persons in the spring, who have had the bilious remitting fever in the preceding autumn. but great and numerous as the advantages of blood-letting are in fevers, there have been many objections to it. i shall briefly enumerate, and endeavour to refute the errors upon this subject. blood-letting has been forbidden by physicians, by the following circumstances, and states of the system. . by warm weather. galen bled in a plague, and aræteus in a bilious fever, in a warm climate. dr. sydenham and dr. hillary inform us, that the most inflammatory fevers occur in, and succeed hot weather. dr. cleghorn prescribed it copiously in the warm months, in minorca. dr. mosely cured the yellow fever by this remedy, in jamaica. dr. broadbelt, and dr. weston, in the same island, have lately adopted his successful practice. dr. desportes speaks in the highest terms of it in all the inflammatory diseases of st. domingo. he complains of the neglect of it in the rheumatism, in consequence of which, he says, the disease produces abscesses in the lungs[ ]. i have never, in any year of my practice, been restrained by the heat of summer in the use of the lancet, where the pulse has indicated it to be necessary, and have always found the same advantages from it, as when i have prescribed it in the winter or spring months. [ ] page . in thus deciding in favour of bleeding in warm weather, i do not mean to defend its use to the same extent, as to diseases, or to quantity, in the native and long settled inhabitants of hot climates, as in persons who have recently migrated to them, or who live in climates alternately hot and cold. . being born, and having lived in a warm climate. this is so far from being an objection to blood-letting in an inflammatory disease, that it renders it more necessary. i think i have lost several west-india patients from the influence of this error. . great apparent weakness. this, in acute and violent fevers, is always from a depressed state of the system. it resembles, in so many particulars, that weakness which is the effect of the abstraction of stimulus, that it is no wonder they have been confounded by physicians. this sameness of symptoms from opposite states of the system is taken notice of by hippocrates. he describes convulsions, and particularly a hiccup, as occurring equally from repletion and inanition, which answer to the terms of depression, and debility from action and abstraction. the natural remedy for the former is depletion, and no mode of depleting is so effectual or safe as blood-letting. but the great objection to this remedy is, when a fever of great morbid excitement affects persons of delicate constitutions, and such as have long been subject to debility of the chronic kind. in this state of the system there is the same morbid and preternatural action in the blood-vessels, that there is in persons of robust habits, and the same remedy is necessary to subdue it in both cases. it is sometimes indicated in a larger quantity in weakly than in robust people, by the plethora which is more easily induced in their relaxed and yielding blood-vessels, and by the greater facility with which ruptures and effusions take place in their viscera. thus it is more necessary to throw overboard a large part of the cargo of an old and leaky vessel in a storm, than of a new and strong one. i know that vomits, purges, sweats, and other evacuating remedies, are preferred to bleeding in weakly constitutions, but i hope to show hereafter, that bleeding is not only more effectual, but more safe in such habits, than any other depleting remedy. . infancy and childhood. this is so far from being an objection to bleeding, that the excitable state of the blood-vessels in those periods of life, renders it peculiarly necessary in their inflammatory diseases. dr. sydenham bled children in the hooping cough, and in dentition. i have followed his practice, and bled as freely in the violent states of fever in infancy as in middle life. i bled my eldest daughter when she was but six weeks old, for convulsions brought on by an excessive dose of laudanum given to her by her nurse; and i bled one of my sons twice, before he was two months old, for an acute fever which fell upon his lungs and bowels. in both cases, life appeared to be saved by this remedy. . old age. the increase of appetite in old people, their inability to use sufficient exercise, whereby their blood-vessels become relaxed, plethoric, and excitable, and above all, the translation of the strength of the muscles to the arteries, and of plethora to the veins, all indicate bleeding to be more necessary (in equal circumstances) in old, than in middle aged people. my practice in the diseases of old people has long been regulated by the above facts. i bled mrs. fullarton twice in a pleurisy in january, , in the th year of her age, and thereby cured her disease. i am not the author of this practice. botallus left a testimony in favour of it nearly years ago[ ], and it has since been confirmed by the experience of hoffman, and many other physicians. an ignorance of, or inattention to this change in the state of the blood-vessels, in persons in the decline of life, and the neglect of the only remedy indicated by it, is probably the reason why diseases often prove fatal to them, which in early or middle life cured themselves, or yielded to a single dose of physic, or a few ounces of bark. [ ] magis esse adjuvandos senes, missione sanguinis dum morbus postulat, aut corpus eorum habitus malus est, quam ubi hæc (quod absonum videbitur) juvenibus contingunt. de cur. per sang. missionem, cap. . § . . the time of menstruation. the uterus, during this period, is in an inflamed state, and the whole system is plethoric and excitable, and of course disposed to a violent degree of fever, from all the causes which excite it. bleeding, therefore, is more indicated, in fever of great morbid action, at this time, than at any other. formerly the natural discharge from the uterus was trusted to, to remove a fever contracted during the time of menstruation; but what relief can the discharge of four or five ounces of blood from the uterus afford, in a fever which requires the loss of , or perhaps of ounces to cure it? . pregnancy. the inflammation and distention induced upon the uterus directly, and indirectly upon the whole system by pregnancy, render bleeding, in the acute states of fever, more necessary than at other times. i have elsewhere mentioned the advantages of bleeding pregnant women, in the yellow fever. i did not learn the advantages of the practice in that disease. i bled mrs. philler times in seven days, in a pleurisy during her pregnancy, in the month of march, . mrs. fiss was bled times in the spring of ; and mrs. kirby times in the same condition, by my orders, in the winter of , in a similar disease. all these women recovered, and the children they carried during their illness, are at this time alive, and in good health. . fainting after bleeding. this symptom is accidental in many people. no inference can be drawn from it against blood-letting. it often occurs after the first and second bleedings in a fever, but in no subsequent bleeding, though it be repeated a dozen times. of this i saw several instances, in the yellow fever of . the pulse, during the fainting, is often tense and full. . coldness of the extremities, and of the whole body. this cold state of fever when it occurs early, yields more readily to bleeding, than to the most cordial medicines. . sweats are supposed to forbid blood-letting. i have seen two instances of death, from leaving a paroxysm of malignant fever to terminate itself by sweating. dr. sydenham has taught a contrary practice in the following case. "while this constitution (says the doctor) prevailed, i was called to dr. morice, who then practised in london. he had this fever, attended with profuse sweats, and numerous petechiæ. by the consent of some other physicians, our joint friends, he was blooded, and rose from his bed, his body being first wiped dry. he found immediate relief from the use of a cooling diet and medicines, the dangerous symptoms soon going off; and by continuing this method he recovered in a few days[ ]." in the same fever, the doctor adds further, "for though one might expect great advantages in pursuing an indication taken from what generally proves serviceable (viz. sweating), yet i have found, by constant experience, that the patient not only finds no relief, but, contrariwise, is more heated thereby; so that frequently a delirium, petechiæ, and other very dangerous symptoms immediately succeed such _sweats_[ ]." [ ] wallis's edition, vol. i. p. . [ ] vol. i. p. . morgagni describes a malignant fever which prevailed in italy, in which the patients died in profuse sweats, while their physicians were looking for a crisis from them. bleeding would probably have checked these sweats, and cured the fever. . dissolved blood, and an absence of an inflammatory crust on its crassamentum. i shall hereafter place dissolved blood at the highest point of a scale, which is intended to mark the different degrees of morbid action in the system. i have mentioned, in the outlines of a theory of fever, that it is the effect of a tendency to a palsy, induced by the violent force of impression upon the blood-vessels. this appearance of the blood in certain states of fever, instead of forbidding bleeding, is the most vehement call of the system for it. nor is the absence of a crust on the crassamentum of the blood, a proof of the absence of great morbid diathesis, or a signal to lay aside the lancet. on the contrary, i shall show hereafter, that there are several appearances of the blood which indicate more morbid action in the blood-vessels than a sizy or inflammatory crust. . an undue proportion of serum to crassamentum in the blood. this predominance of water in the blood has often checked sufficient blood-letting. but it should be constantly disregarded while it is attended with those states of pulse (to be mentioned hereafter) which require bleeding. . the presence of petechiæ on the skin. these, i have elsewhere said, are the effects of the gangrenous state of fever. dr. sydenham and dr. de haen have taught the safety and advantage of bleeding, when these spots are accompanied by an active pulse. a boy of mr. john carrol owes his recovery from the small-pox to the loss of fifty ounces of blood, by five bleedings, at a time when nearly every pock on his arms and legs had a purple appearance. louis xiv was bled five times in the small-pox, when he was but thirteen years of age, and thereby probably saved from the grave, to the great honour and emolument of the single physician who urged it against the advice of all the other physicians of the court. dr. cleghorn mentions a single case of the success of bleeding in the petechial small-pox. his want of equal success afterwards, in similar cases, was probably occasioned by his bleeding too sparingly, that is, but three or four times. abscesses and sore breasts, which accompany or succeed fever, are no objections to blood-letting, provided the pulse indicate the continuance of inflammatory diathesis. they depend frequently upon the same state of the system as livid effusions on the skin. . the long duration of fever. inflammatory diathesis is often protracted for many weeks, in the chronic state of fever. it, moreover, frequently revives after having disappeared, from an accidental irritant affecting some part of the body, particularly the lungs and brain. i bled a young man of james cameron, in the autumn of , four times between the th and th days of a chronic fever, in consequence of a pain in the side, accompanied by a tense pulse, which suddenly came on after the th day of his disease. his blood was sizy. his pain and tense pulse were subdued by the bleeding, and he recovered. i bled the late dr. prowl twelve times, in a fever which continued thirty days, in the autumn of the year . i wish these cases to be attended to by young practitioners. the pulmonary consumption is often the effect of a chronic fever, terminating with fresh inflammatory symptoms, by effusions in the lungs. it may easily be prevented by forgetting the number of the days of our patient's fever, and treating the pulmonary affection as if it were a recent complaint. . tremors and slight convulsions in the limbs. bark, wine, laudanum, and musk are generally prescribed to remove these symptoms; but, to be effectual, they should, in most cases, be preceded by the loss of a few ounces of blood. . bleeding is forbidden after the fifth or seventh day in a pleurisy. this prohibition was introduced into medicine at a time when a fear was entertained of arresting the progress of nature in preparing and expelling morbific matter from the system. from repeated experience i can assert, that bleeding is safe in every stage of pleurisy in which there is pain, and a tense and oppressed pulse; and that it has, when used for the first time after the fifth and seventh days, saved many lives. bleeding has likewise been limited to a certain number of ounces in several states of fever. were the force of the remote cause of a fever, its degrees of violence, and the habits of the subject of it, always the same, this rule would be a proper one; but, this not being the case, we must be governed wholly by the condition of the system, manifested chiefly by the state of the pulse. to admit of copious bleeding in one state of fever, and not in another, under equal circumstances of morbid excitement, is to prescribe for its name, and to forget the changes which climate, season, and previous habits create in all its different states. . the loss of a sufficient quantity of blood is often prevented by patients being apparently _worse_, after the first or second bleeding. this change for the worse, shows itself in some one or more of the following symptoms, viz. increase of heat, chills, delirium, hæmorrhages, convulsions, nausea, vomiting, faintness, coma, great weakness, pain, a tense, after a soft pulse, and a reduction of it in force and frequency. they are all occasioned by the system rising suddenly from a state of extreme depression, in consequence of the abstraction of the pressure of the blood to a state of vigour and activity, so great, in some instances, as to reproduce a depression below what existed in the system before a vein was opened; or it is occasioned by a translation of morbid action from one part of the body to another. the chills which follow bleeding are the effects of a change in the fever, from an uncommon to a common state of malignity. they occur chiefly in those violent cases of fever which come on without a chilly fit. the hæmorrhages produced by bleeding are chiefly from the nose, hæmorrhoidal vessels, or uterus, and of course are, for the most part, safe. uncommon weakness, succeeding blood-letting, is the effect of sudden depression induced upon the whole system, by the cause before-mentioned, or of a sudden translation of the excitement of the muscles into the blood-vessels, or some other part of the body. these symptoms, together with all the others which have been mentioned, are so far from forbidding, that they all most forcibly indicate a repetition of blood-letting. i shall briefly illustrate, by the recital of three cases, the good effects of bleeding, in removing pain, and the preternatural slowness and weakness of the pulse, when produced by the use of that remedy. in the month of june of , i visited dr. say in a malignant fever, attended with pleuritic symptoms, in consultation with dr. physick. an acute pain in his head followed six successive bleedings. after a seventh bleeding, he had no pain. his fever soon afterwards left him. in thus persevering in the use of a remedy, which, for several days, appeared to do harm, we were guided wholly by the state of his pulse, which uniformly indicated, by its force, the necessity of more bleeding. in the autumn of , i was sent for to visit samuel bradford, a young man of about years of age, son of mr. thomas bradford, who was ill with the reigning malignant epidemic. his pulse was at . i drew about ounces of blood from him. immediately after his arm was tied up, his pulse fell to strokes in a minute. i bled him a second time, but more plentifully than before, and thereby, in a few minutes, brought his pulse back again to strokes in a minute. a third bleeding the next day, aided by the usual purging physic, cured him in a few days. in the month of march, , dr. physick requested me to visit, with him, mrs. fries, the wife of mr. john fries, in a malignant fever. he had bled her four times. after the fourth bleeding, her pulse suddenly fell, so as scarcely to be perceptible. i found her hands and feet cold, and her countenance ghastly, as if she were in the last moments of life. in this alarming situation, i suggested nothing to dr. physick but to follow his judgment, for i knew that he was master of that law of the animal economy which resolved all her symptoms into an oppressed state of the system. the doctor decided in a moment in favour of more bleeding. during the flowing of the blood, the pulse rose. at the end of three, ten, and seventeen hours it fell, and rose again by three successive bleedings, in all of which she lost about thirty ounces of _sizy_ blood. so great was the vigour acquired by the pulse, a few days after the paroxysms of depression, which have been described, were relieved, that it required seven more bleedings to subdue it. i wish the history of these two cases to be carefully attended to by the reader. i have been thus minute in the detail of them, chiefly because i have heard of practitioners who have lost patients by attempting to raise a pulse that had been depressed by bleeding, in a malignant fever, by means of cordial medicines, instead of the repeated use of the lancet. the practice is strictly rational; for, in proportion as the blood-vessels are weakened by pressure, the quantity of blood to be moved should be proportioned to the diminution of their strength. this depressed state of the pulse, whether induced by a paroxysm of fever, or by blood-letting, is sometimes attended with a strong pulsation of the arteries in the bowels and head. i have mentioned, among the _apparent_ bad effects of bleeding, that it sometimes changes a soft into a tense pulse. of this i saw a remarkable instance in captain john barry, in the autumn of . after the loss of ounces of blood in a malignant yellow fever, his pulse became so soft as to indicate no more bleeding. in this situation he remained for three days, but without mending as rapidly as i expected from the state of his pulse. on the fourth day he had a hæmorrhage from his bowels, from which he lost above a pint of blood. his pulse now suddenly became tense, and continued so for two or three days. i ascribed this change in his pulse to the vessels of the bowels, which had been oppressed by congestion, being so much relieved by the hæmorrhage, as to resume an inflammatory action. i have observed a similar change to take place in the pulse, after a third bleeding, in a case of hæmorrhoidal fever, which came under my notice in the month of january, . it is thus we see the blood-vessels, in a common phlegmon, travel back again, from a tendency to mortification, to the red colour and pain of common inflammation. from a review of the commotions excited in the system by bleeding, a reason may be given why the physicians, who do not bleed in the depressed state of the pulse, have so few patients in what they call malignant fevers, compared with those who use a contrary practice. the disease, in such cases, being locked up, is not permitted to unfold its true character; and hence patients are said to die of apoplexy, lethargy, cholera, dysentery, or nervous fever, who, under a different treatment, would have exhibited all the marks of an ordinary malignant fever. in obviating the objections to blood-letting from its apparent evils, i have said nothing of the apparent bad effects of other remedies. a nausea is often rendered worse by an emetic, and pains in the bowels are increased by a purge. but these remedies notwithstanding maintain, and justly too, a high character among physicians. . bleeding has been accused of bringing on a nervous, or the chronic state of fever. the use of this remedy, in a degree so moderate as to obviate the putrid or gangrenous state of fever only, may induce the chronic state of fever; for it is the effect, in this case, of the remains of inflammatory diathesis in the blood-vessels; but when blood is drawn proportioned to the morbid action in the system, it is impossible for a chronic fever to be produced by it. even the excessive use of blood-letting, however injurious it may be in other respects, cannot produce a chronic fever, for it destroys morbid action altogether in the blood-vessels. . bleeding has been charged with being a weakening remedy. i grant that it is so, and in this, its merit chiefly consists. the excessive morbid action of the blood-vessels must be subdued in part, in a fever, before stimulating remedies can be given with safety or advantage. now this is usually attempted by depleting medicines, to be mentioned hereafter, or it is left to time and nature, all of which are frequently either deficient, or excessive in their operations; whereas bleeding, by suddenly reducing the morbid action of the blood-vessels to a wished-for point of debility, saves a great and unnecessary waste of excitability, and thus prepares the body for the exhibition of such cordial remedies as are proper to remove the debility which predisposed to the fever. . it has been said that bleeding renders the habitual use of it necessary to health and life. this objection to blood-letting is founded upon an ignorance of the difference between the healthy, and morbid action of the blood-vessels. where blood is drawn in health, such a relaxation is induced in the blood-vessels, as to favour the formation of plethora, which may require habitual bleeding to remove it; but where blood is drawn only in the inflammatory state of fever, the blood-vessels are reduced from a morbid degree of strength to that which is natural, in which state no predisposition to plethora is created, and no foundation laid for periodical blood-letting. but there are cases which require even this evil, to prevent a greater. thus we cure a strangulated hernia, when no fever attends, by the most profuse bleeding. the plethora and predisposition to disease which follow it are trifling, compared with preventing certain and sudden death. . bleeding has been accused of bringing on an intermitting fever. this is so far from being an objection to it, that it should be considered as a new argument in its favour; for when it produces that state of fever, it converts a latent, and perhaps a dangerous disease, into one that is obvious to the senses, and under the dominion of medicine. nor is it an objection to blood-letting, that, when used in an inflammatory intermittent, it sometimes changes it into a continual fever. an instance of the good effects of this change occurred in the pennsylvania hospital, in an obstinate tertian, in the year . the continual fever, which followed the loss of blood, was cured in a few days, and by the most simple remedies. . it has been said that bleeding, more especially where it is copious, predisposes to effusions of serum in the lungs, chest, bowels, limbs, and brain. in replying to this objection to bleeding, in my public lectures, i have addressed my pupils in the following language: "ask the poor patients who come panting to the door of our hospital, with swelled legs and hard bellies, every fall, whether they have been too copiously bled, and they will all tell you, that no lancet has come near their arms. ask the parents who still mourn the loss of children who have died, in our city, of the internal dropsy of the brain, whether they were destroyed by excessive blood-letting? if the remembrance of the acute sufferings which accompanied their sickness and death will permit these parents to speak, they will tell you, that every medicine, except bleeding, had been tried to no purpose in their children's diseases. go to those families in which i have practised for many years, and inquire, whether there is a living or a dead instance of dropsy having followed, in any one of them, the use of my lancet? let the undertakers and grave-diggers bear witness against me, if i have ever, in the course of my practice, conveyed the body of a single dropsical patient into their hands, by excessive blood-letting? no. dropsies, like abscesses and gangrenous eruptions upon the skin, arise, in most cases, from the _want_ of sufficient bleeding in inflammatory diseases. debility, whether induced by action or abstraction, seldom disposes to effusion. who ever heard of dropsy succeeding famine? and how rarely do we see it accompany the extreme debility of old age?" "if ever bleeding kills," says botallus, either directly or indirectly, through the instrumentality of other diseases, "it is not from its excess, but because it is not drawn in a sufficient quantity, or at a proper time[ ]." and, again, says this excellent writer, "one hundred thousand men perish from the want of blood-letting, or from its being used out of time, to one who perishes from too much bleeding, prescribed by a physician[ ]." [ ] cap. viii. § . [ ] cap. xxxvi. § . it is remarkable, that the dread of producing a dropsy by bleeding, is confined chiefly to its use in malignant fevers; for the men who urge this objection to it, do not hesitate to draw four or five quarts of blood in the cure of the pleurisy. the habitual association of the lancet with this disease, has often caused me to rejoice when i have heard a patient complain of a pain in his side, in a malignant fever. it insured to me his consent to the frequent use of the lancet, and it protected me, when it was used unsuccessfully, from the clamours of the public, for few people censure copious bleeding in a pleurisy. . against blood-letting it has been urged, that the indians of our country cure their inflammatory fevers without it. to relieve myself from the distressing obloquy to which my use of this remedy formerly exposed me, i have carefully sought for, and examined their remedies for those fevers, with a sincere desire to adopt them; but my inquiries have convinced me, that they are not only disproportioned to the habits and diseases of civilized life, but that they are far less successful than blood-letting, in curing the inflammatory fevers which occur among the indians themselves. . evacuating remedies of another kind have been said to be more safe than bleeding, and equally effectual, in reducing the inflammatory state of fever. i shall enumerate each of these evacuating remedies, and then draw a comparative view of their effects with blood-letting. they are, i. vomits. ii. purges. iii. sweats. iv. salivation. and, v. blisters. i. vomits have often been effectual in curing fevers of a mild character. they discharge offensive and irritating matters from the stomach; they lessen the fulness of the blood-vessels, by determining the serum of the blood through the pores; and they equalize the excitement of the system, by inviting its excessive degrees from the blood-vessels to the stomach and muscles. but they are, . uncertain in their operation, from the torpor induced by the fever upon the stomach. . they are unsafe in many conditions of the system, as in pregnancy, and a disposition to apoplexy and ruptures. life has sometimes been destroyed by their inducing cramp, hæmorrhage, and inflammation in the stomach. . they are not subject to the controul of a physician, often operating more, or less than was intended by him, or indicated by the disease. . they are often ineffectual in mild, and always so in fevers of great morbid action. ii. purges are useful in discharging acrid fæces and bile from the bowels in fevers. they act, moreover, by creating an artificial weak part, and thus invite morbid excitement from the blood-vessels to the bowels. they likewise lessen the quantity of blood, by preventing fresh accessions of chyle being added to it; but like vomits they are, . uncertain in their operation; and from the same cause. many ounces of salts and castor oil, and whole drachms of calomel and jalap, have often been given, without effect, to remove the costiveness which is connected with the malignant state of fever. . they are not subject to the direction of a physician, with respect to the time of their operation, or the quantity or quality of matter they are intended to discharge from the bowels. . they are unsafe in the advanced stage of fevers. dr. physick informed me, that three patients died in the water-closet, under the operation of purges, in st. george's hospital, during his attendance upon it. i have seen death, in several instances, succeed a plentiful spontaneous stool in debilitated habits. iii. sweating was introduced into practice at a time when morbific matter was supposed to be the proximate cause of fever. it acts, not by expelling any thing exclusively morbid from the blood, but by abstracting a portion of its fluid parts, and thus reducing the action of the blood-vessels. this mode of curing fever is still fashionable in genteel life. it excites no fear, and offends no sense. the sweating remedies have been numerous, and fashion has reigned as much among them, as in other things. alexipharmic waters, and powders, and all the train of sudorific medicines, have lately yielded to the different preparations of antimony, particularly to james's powder. i object to them all, . because they are uncertain; large and repeated doses of them being often given to no purpose. . because they are slow, and disagreeable, where they succeed in curing fever. . because, like vomits and purges, they are not under the direction of a physician, with respect to the quantity of fluid discharged by them. . because they are sometimes, even when most profuse, ineffectual in the cure of fever. . the preparations of antimony, lately employed for the purpose of exciting sweats, are by no means safe. they sometimes convulse the system by a violent puking. even the boasted james's powder has done great mischief. dr. goldsmith and mr. howard, it is said, were destroyed by it. none of these objections to sweating remedies are intended to dissuade from their use, when nature shows a disposition to throw off a fever by the pores of the skin; but, even then, they often require the aid of bleeding to render them effectual for that purpose. iv. mercury, the sampson of the materia medica, after having subdued the venereal disease, the tetanus, and many other formidable diseases, has lately added to its triumphs and reputation, by overcoming the inflammatory and malignant state of fever. i shall confine myself, in this place, to its depleting operation, when it acts by exciting a salivation. from half a pound to two pounds of fluid are discharged by it in a day. the depletion in this way is gradual, whereby fainting is prevented. by exciting and inflaming the glands of the mouth and throat, excitement and inflammation are abstracted from more vital parts. in morbid congestion and excitement in the brain, a salivation is of eminent service, from the proximity of the discharge to the part affected. but i object to it, as an exclusive evacuant in the cure of fever, . because it is sometimes impossible, by the largest doses of mercury, to excite it, when the exigences of the system render it most necessary. . because it is not so quick in its operation, as to be proportioned to the rapid progress of the malignant state of fever. . because it is at all times a disagreeable, and frequently a painful remedy, more especially where the teeth are decayed. . because it cannot be proportioned in its duration, or in the quantity of fluid discharged by it, to the violence or changes in the fever. dr. chisholm relied, for the cure of the beullam fever at grenada, chiefly upon this evacuation. i have mentioned the ratio of success which attended it. v. blisters are useful in depleting from those parts which are the seats of topical inflammation. the relief obtained by them in this way more than balances their stimulus upon the whole system need hardly say, that their effects in reducing the morbid and excessive action of the blood-vessels are very feeble. to depend upon them in cases of great inflammatory action, is as unwise as it would be to attempt to bale the water from a leaky and sinking ship by the hollow of the hand, instead of discharging it by two or three pumps. vi. abstemious diet has sometimes been prescribed as a remedy for fever. it acts directly by the abstraction of the stimulus of food from the stomach, and indirectly by lessening the quantity of blood. it can bear no proportion, in its effects, to the rapidity and violence of an inflammatory fever. in chronic fever, such as occurs in the pulmonary consumption, it has often been tried to no purpose. long before it reduces the pulse, it often induces such a relaxation of the tone of the stomach and bowels as to accelerate death. to depend upon it therefore in the cure of inflammatory fever, whether acute or chronic, is like trusting to the rays of the sun to exhale the water of an overflowing tide, instead of draining it off immediately, by digging a hole in the ground. but there are cases in which the blood-vessels become so insolated, that they refuse to yield their morbid excitement to depletion from any outlet, except from themselves. i attended a sailor, in the pennsylvania hospital, in , who was affected with deafness, attended with a full and tense pulse. i prescribed for it, purging, blisters, and low diet, but without any effect. perceiving no change in his pulse, nor in his disease, from those remedies, i ordered him to lose ten ounces of blood. the relief obtained by this evacuation induced me to repeat it. by means of six bleedings he was perfectly cured, without the aid of any other remedy. bleeding has great advantages over every mode of depleting that has been mentioned. . it abstracts one of the exciting causes, viz. the stimulus of the blood, from the seat of fever. i have formerly illustrated this advantage of blood-letting, by comparing it to the abstraction of a grain of sand from the eye to cure an opthalmia. the other depleting remedies are as indirect and circuitous in their operation in curing fever, as vomits and purges would be to remove an inflammation in the eye, while the grain of sand continued to irritate it. . blood-letting is quick in its operation, and may be accommodated to the rapidity of fever, when it manifests itself in apoplexy, palsy, and syncope. . it is under the command of a physician. he may bleed _when_ and _where_ he pleases, and may suit the _quantity_ of blood he draws, exactly to the condition of his patient's system. . it may be performed with the least attendance of nurses or friends. this is of great importance to the poor at all times, and to the rich during the prevalence of mortal epidemics. . it disturbs the system much less than any of the other modes of depleting, and therefore is best accommodated to that state of the system, in which patients are in danger of fainting or dying upon being moved. . it is a more delicate depleting remedy than most of those which have been mentioned, particularly vomits, purges, and a salivation. . there is no immediate danger to life from its use. patients have sometimes died under the operation of vomits and purges, but i never saw nor heard an instance of a patient's dying in a fainty fit, brought on by bleeding. . it is less weakening, when used to the extent that is necessary to cure, than the same degrees of vomiting, purging, and sweating. . convalescence is more rapid and more perfect after bleeding, than after the successful use of any of the other evacuating remedies. by making use of blood-letting in fevers, we are not precluded from the benefits of the other evacuating remedies. some of them are rendered more certain and more effectual by it, and there are cases of fever, in which the combined or successive application of them all is barely sufficient to save life. to rely upon any one evacuating remedy, to the exclusion of the others, is like trusting to a pair of oars in a sea voyage, instead of spreading every sail of a ship. i suspect the disputes about the eligibility of the different remedies which have been mentioned, have arisen from an ignorance that they all belong to one class, and that they differ only in their force and manner of operation. thus the physicians of the last century ascribed different virtues to salts of different names, which the chemists of the present day have taught us are exactly the same, and differ only in the manner of their being prepared. having replied to the principal objections to blood-letting, and stated its comparative advantages over other modes of depletion, i proceed next to mention the circumstances which should regulate the use of it. these are, i. the state of the pulse. the following states of the pulse indicate the necessity of bleeding. . a full, frequent, and tense pulse, such as occurs in the pulmonary, rheumatic, gouty, phrenitic, and maniacal states of fever. . a full, frequent, and jerking pulse, without tension, such as frequently occurs in the vertiginous, paralytic, apoplectic, and hydropic states of fever. . a small, frequent, but tense pulse, such as occurs in the chronic, pulmonary, and rheumatic states of fever. . a tense and _quick_ pulse, without much preternatural frequency. this state of the pulse is common in the yellow fever. . a slow but tense pulse, such as occurs in the apoplectic, hydrocephalic, and malignant states of fever, in which its strokes are from to , in a minute. . an uncommonly frequent pulse, without much tension, beating from to or strokes in a minute. this state of the pulse occurs likewise in the malignant states of fever. . a soft pulse, without much frequency or fulness. i have met with this state of the pulse in affections of the brain, and in that state of pulmonary fever which is known by the name of pneumonia notha. it sometimes, i have remarked, becomes tense after bleeding. . an intermitting pulse. . a depressed pulse. . an imperceptible pulse. the slow, intermitting, depressed, and imperceptible states of the pulse are supposed exclusively to indicate congestion in the brain. but they are all, i believe, occasioned likewise by great excess of stimulus acting upon the heart and arteries. a pulse more tense in one arm than in the other, i have generally found to attend a morbid state of the brain. much yet remains to be known of the signs of a disease in the brain, by the states of the pulse; hence mr. hunter has justly remarked, that "in inflammation of the brain, the pulse varies more than in inflammations of any other part; and perhaps we are led to judge of inflammation there, more from _other_ symptoms than the pulse[ ]." [ ] treatise on inflammation, chap. iii. . the slow, uncommonly frequent, intermitting, and imperceptible states of the pulse, which require bleeding, may be distinguished from the same states of the pulse, which arise from an exhausted state of the system, and that forbid bleeding, by the following marks: . they occur in the beginning of a fever. . they occur in the paroxysms of fevers which have remissions and exacerbations. . they sometimes occur after blood-letting, from causes formerly mentioned. . they sometimes occur, and continue during the whole course of an inflammation of the stomach and bowels. and, . they occur in relapses, after the crisis of a fever. the other states of the pulse indicate bleeding in every stage of fever, and in every condition of the system. i have taken notice, in another place, of the circumstances which render it proper in the advanced stage of chronic fever. if all the states of pulse which have been enumerated indicate bleeding, it must be an affecting consideration to reflect, how many lives have been lost, by physicians limiting the use of the lancet only to the tense or full pulse! i wish it comported with the proposed limits of this essay to illustrate and establish, by the recital of cases, the truth of these remarks upon the indications of bleeding from the pulse. it communicates much more knowledge of the state of the system than any other sign of disease. its frequency (unconnected with its other states), being under the influence of diet, motion, and the passions of the mind, is of the least consequence. in counting the number of its strokes, we are apt to be diverted from attending to its irregularity and force; and in these, it should always be remembered, fever chiefly consists. the knowledge acquired by attending to these states of the pulse is so definite and useful, and the circumstances which seduce from a due attention to them are so erroneous in their indications, that i have sometimes wished the chinese custom of prescribing, from feeling the pulse only, without seeing or conversing with the patient, were imposed upon all physicians. to render the knowledge of the indications of blood-letting, from the state of the pulse, as definite and correct as possible, i shall add, for the benefit of young practitioners, the following directions for feeling it. . let the arm be placed in a situation in which all the muscles which move it shall be completely relaxed; and let it, at the same time, be free from the pressure of the body upon it. . feel the pulse, in all obscure or difficult cases, in both arms. . apply all the fingers of one hand, when practicable, to the pulse. for this purpose, it will be most convenient to feel the pulse of the right hand with your left, and of the left hand with your right. . do not decide upon blood-letting, in difficult cases, until you have felt the pulse for some time. the chinese physicians never prescribe until they have counted strokes. . feel the pulse at the intervals of four or five minutes, when you suspect that its force has been varied by any circumstance not connected with the disease, such as emotions of the mind, exercise, eating, drinking, and the like. . feel the pulsations of the arteries in the temples and in the neck, when the pulse is depressed or imperceptible in the wrists. . request silence in a sick room, and close your eyes, in feeling a pulse in difficult cases. by so doing, you will concentrate the sensations of your ears and eyes, in your fingers. in judging of the states of the pulse which have been enumerated, it will be necessary always to remember the natural difference, in its frequency and force, in old people and children; also in the morning and evening, and in the sleeping and waking states of the system. much yet remains to be known upon this subject. i have mentioned the different states of the pulse, which call for bleeding, but it is more difficult to know when to prescribe it, when the pulse imparts no sign of disease. in general it may be remarked, where the disease is _recent_, the part affected important to life, and incapable of sustaining violent morbid action long, without danger of disorganization, where pain is great, and respiration difficult, the pulse may be disregarded in the use of the lancet. but to return. ii. regard should be had to the character of the reigning epidemic, in deciding upon blood-letting. if the prevailing fever be of a highly inflammatory nature, bleeding may be used with more safety, in cases where the indications of it from the pulse are somewhat doubtful. the character of a previous epidemic should likewise direct the use of the lancet. the pestilential fever which followed the plague in london, in , dr. sydenham says, yielded only to blood-letting. it is equally necessary in all the febrile diseases which succeed malignant fevers. iii. regard should be had to the weather and season of the year. dr. hillary and dr. huxham both say it is much more necessary in dry, than in wet weather, and, all physicians know, it is more copiously indicated in the spring and autumn, than in summer and winter. iv. the constitution of a patient, and more especially his habits with respect to blood-letting, should be taken into consideration, in prescribing it. if he be plethoric, and accustomed to bleeding in former indispositions, it will be more necessary, than in opposite states and habits of the system. nature will expect it. v. the corpulency of a patient should regulate the use of the lancet. a butcher of great observation informed me, that a fat ox did not yield more than from one half, to one third of the quantity of blood of a lean one, of the same size of bone, and it is well known, that the loss of a small quantity of blood, after cutting off the head of a fowl, is always a sign of its being fit for the table. the pressure of fat upon the blood-vessels produces the same effects in the human species that it does in those animals; of course, less blood should be drawn from fat, than from lean people, under equal circumstances of disease. vi. as persons have more or less blood in their vessels, according to their size, less blood should be drawn, under equal circumstances, from small than large people. vii. regard should be had to the age of adults in prescribing bleeding. in persons between fifty and sixty years of age, for reasons formerly mentioned, more blood may be drawn than in middle life, in similar diseases. in persons beyond , it will be necessary to regulate the quantity to be drawn by other signs than the pulse, or the appearances of the blood, the former being generally full, and sometimes tense, and the latter often putting on the sign of the second grade of morbid action formerly described. viii. regard should be had to the country or place from which persons affected with fevers have arrived, in prescribing the loss of blood. fevers, in america, are more inflammatory than fevers, in persons of equal rank, in great-britain. a french physician once said, it was safer to draw a hogs-head of wine from a frenchman's veins, than a quarter of a hundred pounds of beef from an englishman's, meaning to convey an idea of the difference in the grades of morbid or inflammatory action in the diseases of the inhabitants of france and england, and of the difference in the quantity of blood proper to be drawn in each of them. a similar difference exists between the grades of fever in great-britain and america. from a want of attention to this circumstance, i saw a common pleurisy end in an abscess of the lungs, in a sea captain, in the city of london, in the year , who was attended by a physician of the first reputation in england. he was bled but once. his pulse and american constitution called for the loss of or ounces of blood. ix. regard should be had to the structure and situation of the parts diseased with febrile action. the brain, from its importance to all the functions of life, the rectum, the bladder, and the trachea, when inflamed, and the intestines, when strangulated, from their being removed so much out of the influence of the great circulation, all require more copious bleeding than the same degrees of disease in the lungs, and some other parts of the body. x. after blood-letting has been performed, the appearances of the blood should be attended to, in order to judge of the propriety of repeating it. i shall briefly describe these appearances, and arrange them in the order in which they indicate the different degrees of inflammatory diathesis, beginning with the highest. . dissolved blood. it occurs in the malignant states of fever. i have seen it several times in the pleurisy, and have once heard of it in a case of gout. i have ascribed this decomposition of the blood to such a violent degree of action in the blood-vessels, as to dispose them to a paralytic state. it is generally considered as a signal to lay aside the lancet. if it occur in the _first stage_ of a fever, it indicates a very opposite practice. by repeated bleedings, the vessels recover their natural action, and the blood becomes _reduced_ to its original texture. of this i have had frequent experience, since the year . it required three successive bleedings to restore the blood from a dissolved, to a coagulable state, in mr. benton. it afterwards became very sizy. if this dissolved blood appear towards the close of a malignant fever, no other benefit than the protraction of life for a day or two, or an easy death, can be expected from repeating the bleeding, even though it be indicated by a tense pulse; for the viscera are generally so much choaked by the continuance of violent action in the blood-vessels, that they are seldom able to discharge the blood which distends them, into the cavity in the vessels, which is created by the abstraction of blood from a vein. there is some variety in the appearance of this state of the blood, which indicates more or less violent pressure upon the blood-vessels. it threatens most danger to life when it resembles molasses in its consistence. the danger is less when the part which is dissolved occupies the bottom of the bowl, and when its surface is covered with a sizy pellicle or coat. does not the restoration of the blood from its disorganized state, by means of bleeding, suggest an idea of a similar change being practicable in the solids, when they are disorganized by disease? and are we not led hereby to an animating view of the extent and power of medicine? . blood of a scarlet colour, without any separation into crassamentum or serum, indicates a second degree of morbid action. it occurs likewise in the malignant state of fever. it is called improperly dense blood. it occurs in old people. . blood in which part of the crassamentum is dissolved in the serum, forming a resemblance to what is called the lotura carnium, or the washings of flesh in water. . crassamentum sinking to the bottom of a bowl in yellow serum. . crassamentum floating in serum, which is at first turbid, but which afterwards becomes yellow and transparent, by depositing certain red and fiery particles of the blood in the bottom of the bowl. . sizy blood, or blood covered with a buffy coat. the more the crassamentum appears in the form of a cup, the more inflammatory action is said to be indicated by it. this appearance of the blood occurs in all the common states of inflammatory fever. it occurs too in the mild state of malignant fevers, and in the close of such of them as have been violent. it is not always confined to the common inflammatory state of the pulse, for i have observed it occasionally in most of the different states of the pulse which have been described. the appearance of this buffy coat on the blood in the yellow fever is always favourable. it shows the disease to be tending from an uncommon to a _common_ degree of inflammatory diathesis. it has been remarked, that blood which resembles claret in its colour, while flowing, generally puts on, when it cools, a sizy appearance. it would seem, from these facts, that the power of coagulation in the blood was lessened in an exact ratio to the increase of action upon the blood-vessels, and that it was increased in proportion to the diminution of that action, to that degree of it which constitutes what i have called _common_ inflammatory action. here, as upon a former occasion, we may say with concern, if bleeding be indicated by all the appearances of the blood which have been enumerated, how many lives have been lost by physicians limiting the use of the lancet to those cases only, where the blood discovered an inflammatory crust! these remarks upon the relative signs of inflammatory action in the blood-vessels, should be admitted with a recollection that they are all liable to be varied by a moderate, or violent exacerbation of fever, by the size of the stream of blood, and by the heat, coldness, and form of the cup into which the blood flows. even blood drawn, under exactly equal circumstances, from both arms, exhibited, in a case of pleurisy communicated to me by dr. mitchell, of kentucky, very different appearances. that which was taken from one arm was sizy, while that which was taken from the other was of a scarlet colour. that which is drawn from a vein in the arm, puts on, likewise, appearances very different from that which is discharged from the bowels, in a dysentery. these facts were alluded to in the outlines of the theory of fever[ ], in order to prove that unequal excitement takes place, not only in the different systems of the body, but in the same system, particularly in the blood-vessels. they likewise show us the necessity of attending to the state of the _pulse_ in both arms, as well as in other parts of the body, in prescribing blood-letting. when time, and more attention to that index of the state of the system in fevers, shall have brought to light all the knowledge that the pulse is capable of imparting, the appearances of the blood, in fevers, will be regarded as little as the appearances of the urine. [ ] vol. iii. xi. blood-letting should always be copious where there is danger from sudden and great congestion or inflammation, in vital parts. this danger is indicated most commonly by pain; but there may be congestion in the lungs, liver, bowels, and even in the head, without pain. in these cases, the state of the pulse should always govern the use of the lancet. xii. what quantity of blood may be taken, with safety, from a patient in an inflammatory fever? to answer this question it will be necessary to remark, . that, in a person of an ordinary size, there are supposed to be contained between and pounds of blood; and . that much more blood may be taken when the blood-vessels are in a state of morbid excitement and excitability, than at any other time. one of the uses of the blood is to stimulate the blood-vessels, and thereby to assist in originating and preserving animal life. in a healthy state of the vessels, the whole mass of the blood is necessary for this purpose; but in their state of morbid excitability, a much less quantity of blood than what is natural (perhaps in some cases four or five pounds) are sufficient to keep up an equal and vigorous circulation. thus very small portions of light and sound are sufficient to excite vision and hearing in an inflamed, and highly excitable state of the eyes and ears. thus too, a single glass of wine will often produce delirium in a fever in a man, who, when in health, is in the habit of drinking a bottle every day, without having his pulse quickened by it. an ignorance of the quantity of blood which has been drawn by design, or lost by accident, has contributed very much to encourage prejudices against blood-letting. mr. cline drew ounces of blood in days from a patient in st. thomas's hospital, who laboured under a contusion of the head. but this quantity is small compared with the quantity lost by a number of persons, whose cases are recorded by dr. haller[ ]. i shall mention a few of them. one person lost pounds of blood, a second , a third , and a fourth , from the nose, at one time. a fifth lost pounds by vomiting in one night, and a sixth from the lungs. a gentleman at angola lost between and pounds daily from his nose. to cure it, he was bled times in one year. a young woman was bled times in years, to cure her of plethora which disposed her to hysteria. another young woman lost ounces of blood, by a natural hæmorrhage, every month. to cure it, she was bled every day, and every other day, for months. in none of these instances, was death the consequence of these great evacuations of blood. on the contrary, all the persons alluded to, recovered. many similar instances of the safety, and even benefit of profuse discharges of blood, by nature and art, might be mentioned from other authors. i shall insert only one more, which shall be taken from dr. sydenham's account of the cure of the plague. "among the other calamities of the civil war which afflicted this nation, the plague also raged in several places, and was brought by accident from another place to dunstar castle, in somersetshire, where some of the soldiers dying suddenly, with an eruption of spots, it likewise seized several others. it happened at that time that a surgeon, who had travelled much in foreign parts, was in the service there, and applied to the governor for leave to assist his fellow-soldiers who were afflicted with this dreadful disease, in the best manner he was able; which being granted, he took so large a quantity of blood from every one at the beginning of the disease, and before any swelling was perceived, that they were ready to faint, and drop down, for he bled them all standing, and in the open air, and had no vessel to measure the blood, which falling on the ground, the quantity each person lost could not, of course, be known. the operation being over, he ordered them to lie in their tents; and though he gave no kind of remedy after bleeding, yet of the numbers that were thus treated, not a single person died. i had this relation from colonel francis windham, a gentleman of great honour and veracity, and at this time governor of the castle[ ]." [ ] elementa physiologiæ, vol. iv. p. . [ ] vol. i. p. . again. an ignorance of the rapid manner in which blood is regenerated, when lost or drawn, has helped to keep up prejudices against blood-letting. a person (dr. haller says) lost five pounds of blood daily from the hæmorrhoidal vessels for days, and another pounds of blood in days. the loss each day was supplied by fresh quantities of aliment. these facts, i hope, will be sufficient to establish the safety and advantages of plentiful blood-letting, in cases of violent fever; also to show the fallacy and danger of that practice which attempts the cure of such cases of fever, by what is called _moderate_ bleeding. there are, it has been said, no half truths in government. it is equally true, that there are no half truths in medicine. this half-way practice of moderate bleeding, has kept up the mortality of pestilential fevers, in all ages, and in all countries. i have combated this practice elsewhere[ ], and have asserted, upon the authority of dr. sydenham, that it is much better not to bleed at all, than to draw blood disproportioned in quantity to the violence of the fever. if the state of the pulse be our guide, the continuance of its inflammatory action, after the loss of even ounces of blood, indicates the necessity of more bleeding, as much as it did the first time a vein was opened. in the use of this remedy it may be truly said, as in many of the enterprizes of life, that nothing is done, while any thing remains to be done. bleeding should be repeated while the symptoms which first indicated it continue, should it be until four-fifths of the blood contained in the body are drawn away. in this manner we act in the use of other remedies. who ever leaves off giving purges in a colic, attended with costiveness, before the bowels are opened? or who lays aside mercury as a useless medicine, because a few doses of it do not cure the venereal disease? [ ] account of the yellow fever in . i shall only add under this head, that i have always observed the cure of a malignant fever to be most complete, and the convalescence to be most rapid, when the bleeding has been continued until a _paleness_ is induced in the face, and until the patient is able to sit up without being fainty. after these circumstances occur, a moderate degree of force in the pulse will gradually wear itself away, without doing any harm. xiii. in drawing blood, the quantity should be large or small at a time, according to the state of the system. in cases where the pulse acts with force and freedom, from to ounces of blood may be taken at once; but in cases where the pulse is much depressed, it will be better to take away but a few ounces at a time, and to repeat it three or four times a day. by this means the blood-vessels more _gradually_ recover their vigour, and the apparent bad effects of bleeding are thereby prevented. perhaps the same advantages might be derived, in many other cases, from the gradual abstraction of stimuli, that are derived from the gradual increase of their force and number, in their application to the body. for a number of facts in support of this practice, the reader is referred to the history of the yellow fever, in the year . in an inflammatory fever, the character of which is not accurately known, it is safest to begin with moderate bleeding, and to increase it in quantity, according as the violence and duration of the disease shall make it necessary. in fevers, and other diseases, which run their courses in a few days or hours, and which threaten immediate dissolution, there can be no limits fixed to the quantity of blood which may be drawn at once, or in a short time. botallus drew three, four, and five pints in a day, in such cases. dr. jackson drew fifty-six ounces of blood, at one time, from a mr. thompson, of the british hospitals, in a fever of great violence and danger. this patient was instantly relieved from what he styled "chains and horrors." in three or four hours he was out of danger, and in four days, the doctor adds, returned to his duty[ ]. dr. physick drew ninety ounces, by weight, from dr. dewees, in a sudden attack of the apoplectic state of fever, at one bleeding, and thereby restored him so speedily to health, that he was able to attend to his business in three days afterwards. in chronic states of fever, of an inflammatory type, small and frequent bleedings, are to be preferred to large ones. we use mercury, antimony, and diet drinks as alteratives in many diseases with advantage. we do not expect to remove debility by two or three immersions in a cold bath. we persist with patience in prescribing all the above remedies for months and years, before we expect to reap the full benefits of them. why should not blood-letting be used in the same way, and have the same chance of doing good? i have long ago adopted this _alterative_ mode of using it, and i can now look around me, and with pleasure behold a number of persons of both sexes who owe their lives to it. in many cases i have prescribed it once in two or three months, for several years, and in some i have advised it every two weeks, for several months. [ ] remarks on the constitution of the medical department of the british army. there is a state of fever in which an excess in the action of the blood-vessels is barely perceptible, but which often threatens immediate danger to life, by a determination of blood to a vital part. in this case i have frequently seen the scale turn in favour of life, by the loss of but four or five ounces of blood. the pressure of this, and even of a much less quantity of blood in the close of a fever, i believe, as effectually destroys life as the excess of several pounds does in its beginning. in cases where bleeding does not cure, it may be used with advantage as a _palliative_ remedy. many diseases induce death in a full and highly excited state of the system. here opium does harm, while bleeding affords certain relief. it belongs to this remedy, in such cases, to ease pain, to prevent convulsions, to compose the mind, to protract the use of reason, to induce sleep, and thus to smooth the passage out of life. xiv. bleeding from an artery, commonly called arteriotomy, would probably have many advantages over venesection, could it be performed at all times with ease and safety. blood discharged by hæmorrhages affords more relief, in fevers, than an equal quantity drawn from a vein, chiefly because it is poured forth, in the former case, from a ruptured artery. i mentioned formerly, that dr. mitchell had found blood drawn from an artery to be what is called dense, at a time when that which was drawn from a vein, in the same persons, was dissolved. this fact may possibly admit of some application. in the close of malignant fevers, where bleeding has been omitted in the beginning of the disease, blood drawn from a vein is generally so dissolved, as to be beyond the reach of repeated bleedings to restore it to its natural texture. in this case, arteriotomy might probably be performed with advantage. the arteries, which retain their capacity of life longer than the veins, by being relieved from the immediate pressure of blood upon them, might be enabled so to act upon the torpid veins, as to restore their natural action, and thereby to arrest departing life. arteriotomy might further be used with advantage in children, in whom it is difficult, and sometimes impracticable to open a vein. xv. much has been said about the proper place from whence blood should be drawn. bleeding in the foot was much used formerly, in order to excite a revulsion from the head and breast; but our present ideas of the circulation of the blood have taught us, that it may be drawn from the arm with equal advantage in nearly all cases. to bleeding in the foot there are the following objections: . the difficulty of placing a patient in a situation favourable to it. . the greater danger of wounding a tendon in the foot than in the arm, and, . the impossibility of examining the blood after it is drawn; for, in this mode of bleeding, the blood generally flows into a basin or pail of water. under this head i shall decide upon the method of drawing blood by means of cups and leeches, in the inflammatory state of fever. where an inflammatory fever arises from local affection, or from contusion in the head or breast, or from a morbid excitement in those, above other parts of the arterial system, they may be useful; but where local affection is a symptom of general and equable fever only, it can seldom be necessary, except where bleeding from the arm has been omitted, or used too sparingly, in the beginning of a fever; by which means such fixed congestion often takes place, as will not yield to general bleeding. xvi. much has been said likewise about the proper time for bleeding in fevers. it may be used at all times, when indicated by the pulse and other circumstances, in continual fevers; but it should be used chiefly in the paroxysms of such as intermit. i have conceived this practice to be of so much consequence, that, when i expect a return of the fever in the night, i request one of my pupils to sit up with my patients all night, in order to meet the paroxysm, if necessary, with the lancet. but i derive another advantage from fixing a centinel over a patient in a malignant fever. when a paroxysm goes off in the night, it often leaves the system in a state of such extreme debility, as to endanger life. in this case, from five to ten drops of laudanum, exhibited by a person who is a judge of the pulse, obviate this alarming debility, and often induce easy and refreshing sleep. by treating the human body like a corded instrument, in thus occasionally relaxing or bracing the system, according to the excess or deficiency of stimulus, in those hours in which death most frequently occurs, i think i have been the means of saving several valuable lives. xvii. the different positions of the body influence the greater or less degrees of relief which are obtained by blood-letting. where there is a great disposition to syncope, and where it is attended with alarming and distressing circumstances, blood should be drawn in a recumbent posture, but where there is no apprehension or dread of fainting, it may be taken in a sitting posture. the relief will be more certain if the patient be able to stand while he is bled. a small quantity of blood, drawn in this posture, brings on fainting, and the good effects which are often derived from it. it should therefore be preferred, where patients object to copious or frequent bleedings. the history of the success of this practice in the british army, recently mentioned from dr. sydenham, furnishes a strong argument in its favour. i regret that the limits i have fixed to this defence of blood-letting will not admit of my applying the principles which have been delivered, to all the inflammatory states of fever. in a future essay, i hope to establish its efficacy in the maniacal state of fever. i have said that madness is the effect of a chronic inflammation in the brain. its remedy, of course, should be frequent and copious blood-letting. physical and moral evil are subject to similar laws. the mad-shirt, and all the common means of coercion, are as improper substitutes for bleeding, in madness, as the whipping-post and pillory are for solitary confinement and labour, in the cure of vice. the pulse should govern the use of the lancet in this, as well as in all the _ordinary_ states of fever. it is the dial-plate of the system. but in the _misplaced_ states of fever, the pulse, like folly in old age, often points at a different mark from nature. in all such cases, we must conform our practice to that which has been successful in the reigning epidemic. a single bleeding, when indicated by this circumstance, often converts a fever from a suffocated, or latent, to a sensible state, and thus renders it a more simple and manageable disease. it is worthy of consideration here, how far local diseases, which have been produced by fevers, might be cured by re-exciting the fever. sir william jones says, the physicians in persia always begin the cure of the leprosy by blood-letting[ ]. possibly this remedy diffuses the disease through the blood-vessels, and thereby exposes it to be more easily acted upon by other remedies. [ ] asiatic essays. having mentioned the states of fever in which blood-letting is indicated, and the manner in which it should be performed, i shall conclude this inquiry by pointing out the states of fever in which it is forbidden, or in which it should be cautiously or sparingly performed. this subject is of consequence, and should be carefully attended to by all who wish well to the usefulness and credit of the lancet. . it is forbidden in that state of fever, as well as in other diseases, in which there is reason to believe the brain or viscera are engorged with blood, and the whole system prostrated below the point of re-action. i have suggested this caution in another place[ ]. the pulse in these cases is feeble, and sometimes scarcely perceptible, occasioned by the quantity of blood in the blood-vessels being reduced, in consequence of the stagnation of large portions of it in the viscera. by bleeding in these cases, we deprive the blood-vessels of the feeble remains of the stimulus which keep up their action, and thus precipitate death. the remedies here should be frictions, and stimulating applications to the extremities, and gentle stimuli taken by the mouth, or injected into the bowels. as soon as the system is a little excited by these remedies, blood may be drawn, but in small quantities at a time, and perhaps only by means of cups or leaches applied to the seats of the congestions of the blood. after the vessels are excited by the equable diffusion of the blood through all their parts, it may with safety be drawn from the arm, provided it be indicated by the pulse. [ ] vol. iii. . it is seldom proper beyond the third day, in a malignant fever, if it has not been used on the days previous to it, and for the same reason that has been given under the former head. even the tension of the pulse is not always a sufficient warrant to bleed, for in three days, in a fever which runs its course in five days, the disorganization of the viscera is so complete, that a recovery is scarcely to be expected from the lancet. the remedies which give the only chance of relief in this case, are purges, blisters, and a salivation. . where fevers are attended with paroxysms, bleeding should be omitted, or used with great caution, in the close of those paroxysms. the debility which accompanies the intermission of the fever is often so much increased by the recent loss of blood, as sometimes to endanger life. . bleeding is forbidden, or should be used cautiously in that malignant state of fever, in which a weak morbid action, or what dr. darwin calls a tendency to inirritability, takes place in the blood-vessels. it is known by a weak and frequent pulse, such as occurs in the typhus fever, and in the plague in warm climates. i have often met with it in the malignant sore throat, and occasionally in the pleurisy and yellow fever. the remedies here should be gentle vomits or purges, and afterwards cordials. should the pulse be too much excited by them, bleeding may be used to reduce it. . it should be used sparingly in the diseases of habitual drunkards. the morbid action in such persons, though often violent, is generally transient. it may be compared to a soap-bubble. the arteries, by being often overstretched by the stimulus of strong drink, do not always contract with the diminution of blood, and such patients often sink, from this cause, from the excessive use of the lancet. . it has been forbidden after the suppurative process has begun in local inflammation. it constantly retards the suppuration, when begun, in the angina tonsillaris, and thus protracts that disease. to this rule there are frequent exceptions. . it should be omitted in pneumony, after copious expectoration has taken place. this discharge is local depletion, and, though slow in its effects compared with bleeding, it serves the same purpose in relieving the lungs. the lancet can only be required where great pain in coughing, and a tense pulse, attend this stage of the disease. . it may be omitted (except when the blood-vessels are insulated) in those diseases in which there is time to wait, without danger to life, or future health, for the circuitous operation of purging medicines, or abstemious diet. . it should be avoided, when it can be done without great danger to life, where there is a great and constitutional dread of the operation. in such cases, it has sometimes done harm to the patient, and injured the credit of the lancet. . there are cases in which sizy blood should not warrant a repetition of blood-letting. mr. white informs us, in the history of the bilious fever which has lately prevailed at bath, that bleeding, in many cases in which this appearance of the blood took place, was useless or hurtful. in some of the fevers of our own country, we sometimes see sizy blood followed by symptoms which forbid the repeated use of the lancet, but which yield to other depleting remedies, or to such as are of a cordial nature. i have seen the same kind of blood, a few hours before death, in a pulmonary consumption, and three days after a discharge of a gallon and a half of blood from the stomach by vomiting. . even a tense pulse does not always call for the repeated use of the lancet. i have mentioned one case, viz. on the third or fourth days of a malignant fever, in which it is improper. there are instances of incurable consumptions from tubercles and ulcers in the lungs, in which the pulse cannot be made to feel the least diminution of tension by either copious or frequent bleedings. there are likewise cases of hepatic fever, in which the pulse cannot be subdued by this remedy. this tense state of the pulse is the effect of a suppurative process in the liver. if a sufficient quantity of blood has been drawn in the first stage of this disease, there is little danger from leaving the pulse to reduce or wear itself down by a sudden or gradual discharge of the hepatic congestion. the recovery in this case is slow, but it is for the most part certain. i have once known a dropsy and death induced by the contrary practice. . and lastly. there is sometimes a tension in the pulse in hæmorrhages, that will not yield to the lancet. the man whose blood was sizy, three days after losing a gallon and a half of it from his stomach, had a tense pulse the day before he died; and i once perceived its last strokes to be tense, in a patient whom i lost in a yellow fever by a hæmorrhage from the nose. the only circumstance that can justify bleeding in these cases is extreme pain, in which case, the loss of a few ounces of blood is a more safe and effectual remedy than opium. i shall now add a few remarks upon the efficacy of blood-letting, in diseases which are not supposed to belong to the class of fevers, and which have not been included in the preceding volumes. i. the philosophers, in describing the humble origin of man, say that he is formed "inter stercus et urinam." the divines say that he is "conceived in sin, and shapen in iniquity." i believe it to be equally true, and alike humiliating, that he is conceived and brought forth in disease. this disease appears in pregnancy and parturition. i shall first endeavour to prove this to be the case, and afterwards mention the benefits of blood-letting in relieving it, in both cases. in pregnancy, the uterus is always affected with that grade of morbid action which i formerly called inflammation. this is evident from its exhibiting all its usual phænomena in other parts of the body. these are, . swelling, or enlargement. . hæmorrhage. the lochia are nothing but a slow and spontaneous bleeding performed by nature, and intended to cure the inflammation of the uterus after parturition. . abscesses, schirri, and cancers. it is true, those disorders sometimes occur in women that have never borne children. in these cases, they are the effects of the inflammation excited by the menstrual disease. . a full, quick, and tense or frequent pulse; pain; want of appetite[ ]; sickness at stomach; puking; syncope; and sometimes convulsions in every part of the body. [ ] dr. hunter used to teach, in his lectures, that the final cause of the want of appetite, during the first months of pregnancy, was to obviate plethora, which disposed to abortion. this plethora should have been called an inflammatory disease, in which abstinence is useful. . sizy blood. this occurs almost uniformly in pregnancy. . a membrane. dr. scarpa has proved the membrana decidua, which is formed during pregnancy, to be in every respect the same in its properties with the membrane which is formed upon other inflamed surfaces, particularly the trachea, the pleura, and the inside of the bowels. thus we see all the common and most characteristic symptoms and effects of inflammation, in other parts of the body, are exhibited by the uterus in pregnancy. these remarks being premised, i proceed to remark, that blood-letting is indicated, in certain states of pregnancy, by all the arguments that have been used in favour of it in any other inflammatory disease. the degree of inflammation in the womb, manifested by the pulse, pain, and other signs of disease, should determine the quantity of blood to be drawn. low diet, gentle purges, and constant exercise, are excellent substitutes for it, but where they are not submitted to, blood-letting should be employed as a substitute for them. in that disposition to abortion, which occurs about the third month of pregnancy, small and frequent bleedings should be preferred to all other modes of depletion. i can assert, from experience, that they prevent abortion, nearly with as much certainty as they prevent a hæmorrhage from the lungs: for what is an abortion but a hæmoptysis (if i may be allowed the expression) from the uterus? during the last month of pregnancy, the loss of from twelve to twenty ounces of blood has the most beneficial effects, in lessening the pains and danger of child-birth, and in preventing its subsequent diseases. the doctrine i have aimed to establish leads, not only to the use of blood-letting in the disease of pregnancy, when required, but to a more copious use of it, when combined with other diseases, than in those diseases in a simple state. this remark applies, in a particular manner, to those spasms and convulsions which sometimes occur in the latter months of pregnancy. without bleeding, they are always fatal. by copious bleeding, amounting in some instances to and ounces, they are generally cured. let it not be supposed that blood-letting is alike proper and useful in every state of pregnancy. there are what are called slow or chronic inflammations, in which the diseased action of the blood-vessels not only forbids it, but calls for cordial and stimulating remedies. the same feeble state of inflammation sometimes takes place in the pregnant uterus. in these cases cordials and stimulants should be preferred to the lancet. _parturition_ is a higher grade of disease than that which takes place in pregnancy. it consists of convulsive or clonic spasms in the uterus, supervening its inflammation, and is accompanied with chills, heat, thirst, a quick, full, tense, or a frequent and depressed pulse, and great pain. by some divines these symptoms, and particularly pain, have been considered as a standing and unchangeable punishment of the original disobedience of woman, and, by some physicians, as indispensably necessary to enable the uterus to relieve itself of its burden. by contemplating the numerous instances in which it has pleased god to bless the labours and ingenuity of man, in lessening or destroying the effects of the curse inflicting upon the earth, and by attending to the histories of the total exemption from pain in child-bearing that are recorded of the women in the brasils, calabria, and some parts of africa, and of the small degrees of it which are felt by the turkish women, who reduce their systems by frequent purges of sweet oil during pregnancy, i was induced to believe pain does not accompany child-bearing by an immutable decree of heaven. by recollecting further how effectually blood-letting relieves many other spasmodic and painful diseases, and how suddenly it relaxes rigidity in the muscles, i was led, in the year , to suppose it might be equally effectual in lessening the violence of the disease and pains of parturition. i was encouraged still more to expect this advantage from it, by having repeatedly observed the advantages of copious bleeding for inflammatory fevers, just before delivery, in mitigating its pains, and shortening its duration. upon my mentioning these reflections and facts to dr. dewees, i was much gratified in being informed, that he had been in the practice, for several years before his removal from abingdon to philadelphia, of drawing _large_ quantities of blood during parturition, and with all the happy effects i had expected from it. the practice has been strongly inculcated by the doctor in his lectures upon midwifery, and has been ably defended and supported by a number of recent facts, in an ingenious inaugural dissertation, published by dr. peter miller, in the year . it has been generally adopted by the practitioners of midwifery, of both sexes, in philadelphia. i do not mean to insinuate that bleeding is a new remedy in parturition. it has long ago been advised and used in france, and even by the midwives of genoa, in italy, but never, in any country, in the large quantities that have been recommended by dr. dewees, that is, from to ounces, or until signs of fainting are induced, nor under the influence of the theory of parturition, being a violent disease. but the advantages of this remedy are not confined to lessening the pains of delivery. it prevents after pains; favours the easy and healthy secretion of milk; prevents sore breasts, swelled legs, puerperile fever, and all the distressing train of anomalous complaints that often follow child-bearing. dr. hunter informed his pupils, in his lectures upon midwifery, in the year , that he had often observed the most rapid recoveries to succeed the most severe labours. the severity of the pains in these cases created a disease, which prevented internal congestions in the womb. bleeding, by depleting the uterus, obviates at once both disease and congestion. its efficacy is much aided by means of glysters, which, by emptying the lower bowels, lessen the pressure upon the uterus. let it not be inferred, from what has been said in favour of blood-letting in parturition, that it is proper in all cases. where there has been great previous inanition, and where there are marks of languor, and feeble morbid action in the system, the remedies should be of an opposite nature. opium and other cordials are indicated in these cases. their salutary effects in exciting the action of the uterus, and expediting delivery, are too well known to be mentioned. i have expressed a hope in another place[ ], that a medicine would be discovered that should suspend sensibility altogether, and leave irritability, or the powers of motion, unimpaired, and thereby destroy labour pains altogether. i was encouraged to cherish this hope, by having known delivery to take place, in one instance, during a paroxysm of epilepsy, and having heard of another, during a fit of drunkenness, in a woman attended by dr. church, in both of which there was neither consciousness, nor recollection of pain. [ ] medical repository, vol. vi. . during the period in which the menses are said to dodge, and for a year or two after they cease to flow, there is a morbid fulness and excitement in the blood-vessels, which are often followed by head-ach, cough, dropsy, hæmorrhages, glandular obstructions, and cancers. they may all be prevented by frequent and moderate bleedings. . it has been proved, by many facts, that opium, when taken in an excessive dose, acts by inducing a similar state of the system with that which is induced by the miasmata which bring on malignant and inflammatory fevers. the remedy for the disease produced by it (where a vomiting cannot be excited to discharge the opium) has been found to be copious blood-letting. of its efficacy, the reader will find an account in four cases, published in the fifth volume of the new-york medical repository. . it is probable, from the uniformly stimulating manner in which poisons of all kinds act upon the human body, that bleeding would be useful in obviating their baneful effects. dr. john dorsey has lately proved its efficacy, in the case of a child that was affected with convulsions, in consequence of eating the leaves of the datura stramonium. . it has been the misfortune of diabetes to be considered by physicians as exclusively a local disease of weak morbid action, or as the effect of simple debility in the kidneys; and hence stimulating and tonic medicines have been exclusively prescribed for it. this opinion is not a correct one. it often affects the whole arterial system, more especially in its first stage, with great morbid action. in two cases of it, where this state of the blood-vessels took place, i have used blood-letting with success, joined with the common remedies for inflammatory diseases. . in dislocated bones which resist both skill and force, it has been suggested, that bleeding, till fainting is induced, would probably induce such a relaxation in the muscles as to favour their reduction. this principle was happily applied, in the winter of , by dr. physick, in the pennsylvania hospital, in a case of dislocated humerus of two months continuance. the doctor bled his patient till he fainted, and then reduced his shoulder in less than a minute, and with very little exertion of force. the practice has since become general in philadelphia, in luxations of large bones, where they resist the common degrees of strength employed to reduce them. in contemplating the prejudices against blood-letting, which formerly prevailed so generally in our country, i have been led to ascribe them to a cause wholly political. we are descended chiefly from great-britain, and have been for many years under the influence of english habits upon all subjects. some of these habits, as far as they relate to government, have been partly changed; but in dress, arts, manufactures, manners, and science, we are still governed by our early associations. britain and france have been, for many centuries, hereditary enemies. the hostility of the former to the latter nation, extends to every thing that belongs to their character. it discovers itself, in an eminent degree, in diet and medicine. do the french love soups? the english prefer solid flesh. do the french love their meats well cooked? the english prefer their meats but half roasted. do the french sip coffee after dinner? the english spend their afternoons in drinking port and madeira wines. do the french physicians prescribe purges and glysters to cleanse the bowels? the english physicians prescribe vomits for the same purpose. above all, do the french physicians advise bleeding in fevers? the english physicians forbid it, in most fevers, and substitute sweating in the room of it. here then we discover the source of the former prejudices and errors of our country-men, upon the subject of blood-letting. they are of british origin. they have been inculcated in british universities, and in british books; and they accord as ill with our climate and state of society, as the dutch foot stoves did with the temperate climate of the cape of good hope[ ]. [ ] i have frequently been surprised, in visiting english patients, to hear them say, when i have prescribed bleeding, that their physicians in england had charged them never to be bled. this advice excluded all regard to the changes which climate, diet, new employments, and age might induce upon the system. i am disposed to believe that many lives are lost, and numerous chronic diseases created in great-britain, by the neglect of bleeding in fevers. my former pupil, dr. fisher, in a letter from the university of edinburgh, dated in the winter of , assured me, that he had cured several of his fellow-students of fevers (contrary to general prejudice) by early bleeding, in as easy and summary a way as he had been accustomed to see them cured in philadelphia, by the use of the same remedy. dr. gordon, of scotland, and several other physicians in great-britain, have lately revived the lancet, and applied it with great judgment and success to the cure of fevers. it is probable the bad consequences which have followed the indiscriminate use of the lancet france, and some other countries, may have contributed in some degree to create the prejudices against it, which are entertained by the physicians in great-britain. bleeding, like opium, has lost its character, in many cases, by being prescribed for the _name_ of a disease. it is still used, mr. townsend tells us, in this empirical way in spain, where a physician, when sent for to a patient, orders him to be bled before he visits him. the late just theory of the manner in which opium acts upon the body, has restrained its mischief, and added greatly to its usefulness. in like manner, may we not hope, that just theories of diseases, and proper ideas of the manner in which bleeding acts in curing them, will prevent a relapse into the evils which formerly accompanied this remedy, and render it a great and universal blessing to mankind? an inquiry into the _comparative state of medicine_, in philadelphia, between the years and , and the year . in estimating the progress and utility of medicine, important advantages may be derived from taking a view of its ancient, and comparing it with its present state. to do this upon an extensive scale, would be difficult, and foreign to the design of this inquiry. i shall therefore limit it, to the history of the diseases and medical opinions which prevailed, and of the remedies which were in use, in the city of philadelphia, between the years and , and of the diseases, medical opinions, and remedies of the year . the result of a comparative view of each of them, will determine whether medicine has declined or improved, in that interval of time, in this part of the world. to derive all the benefits that are possible from such an inquiry, it will be proper to detail the causes, which, by acting upon the human body, influence the subjects that have been mentioned, in those two remote periods of time. those causes divide themselves into climate, diet, dress, and certain peculiar customs; on each of which i shall make a few remarks. after what has been said, in the history of the climate of pennsylvania, in the first volume of these inquiries, it will only be necessary in this place briefly to mention, that the winters in philadelphia, between the years and , were almost uniformly cold. the ground was generally covered with snow, and the delaware frozen, from the first or second week in december, to the last week in february, or the first week in march. thaws were rare during the winter months, and seldom of longer duration than three or four days. the springs began in may. the summers were generally warm, and the air seldom refreshed by cool north-west winds. rains were frequent and heavy, and for the most part accompanied with thunder and lightning. the autumns began in october, and were gradually succeeded by cool and cold weather. the diet of the inhabitants of philadelphia, during those years, consisted chiefly of animal food. it was eaten, in some families, three times, and in all, twice a day. a hot supper was a general meal. to two and three meals of animal food in a day, many persons added what was then called "a relish," about an hour before dinner. it consisted of a slice of ham, a piece of salted fish, and now and then a beef-steak, accompanied with large draughts of punch or toddy. tea was taken in the interval between dinner and supper. in many companies, a glass of wine and bitters was taken a few minutes before dinner, in order to increase the appetite. the drinks, with dinner and supper, were punch and table beer. besides feeding thus plentifully in their families, many of the most respectable citizens belonged to clubs, which met in the city in winter, and in its vicinity, under sheds, or the shade of trees, in summer, once and twice a week, and, in one instance, every night. they were drawn together by suppers in winter, and dinners in summer. their food was simple, and taken chiefly in a solid form. the liquors used with it were punch, london porter, and sound old madeira wine. independently of these clubs, there were occasional meetings of citizens, particularly of young men, at taverns, for convivial purposes. a house in water-street, known by the name of the tun tavern, was devoted chiefly to this kind of accidental meetings. they were often followed by midnight sallies into the streets, and such acts of violence and indecency, as frequently consigned the perpetrators of them afterwards into the hands of the civil officers and physicians of the city. many citizens, particularly tradesmen, met every evening for the purpose of drinking beer, at houses kept for that purpose. instances of drunkenness were rare at such places. the company generally parted at ten o'clock, and retired in an orderly manner to their habitations. morning drams, consisting of cordials of different kinds, were common, both in taverns and private houses, but they were confined chiefly to the lower class of people. from this general use of distilled and fermented liquors, drunkenness was a common vice in all the different ranks of society. the dresses of the men, in the years alluded to, were composed of cloth in winter, and of thin woollen or silk stuffs in summer. wigs composed the covering of the head, after middle life, and cocked hats were universally worn, except by the men who belonged to the society of friends. the dresses of the women, in the years before mentioned, consisted chiefly of silks and calicoes. stays were universal, and hoops were generally worn by the ladies in genteel life. long cloth or camblet cloaks were common, in cold weather, among all classes of women. the principal custom under this head, which influenced health and life, was that which obliged women, after lying-in, "to sit up for company;" that is, to dress themselves, every afternoon on the second week after their confinement, and to sit for four or five hours, exposed to the impure air of a crowded room, and sometimes to long and loud conversations. porches were nearly universal appendages to houses, and it was common for all the branches of a family to expose themselves upon them, to the evening air. stoves were not in use, at that time, in any places of public worship. funerals were attended by a large concourse of citizens, who were thereby often exposed to great heat and cold, and sometimes to standing, while the funeral obsequies were performed, in a wet or damp church-yard. the human mind, in this period of the history of our city, was in a colonized state, and the passions acted but feebly and partially upon literary and political subjects. we come now to mention the diseases which prevailed in our city between the years and . the cholera morbus was a frequent disease in the summer months. sporadic cases of dysentery were at that time common. i have never seen that disease epidemic in philadelphia. the intermitting fever prevailed in the month of august, and in the autumn, chiefly in the suburbs and neighbourhood of the city. in the year , it was epidemic in southwark, and was so general, at the same time, as to affect two thirds of the inhabitants of the southern states. this fact is mentioned by dr. bond, in a lecture preserved in the minutes of the managers of the pennsylvania hospital. the slow chronic fever, called at that time the nervous fever, was very common, in the autumnal months, in the thickly settled parts of the city. the bilious fever prevailed, at the same time, in southwark. the late dr. clarkson, who began to practise medicine in that part of the city, in the year , upon hearing some of his medical brethren speak of the appearance of bilious remittents in its middle and northern parts, about the year , said they had long been familiar to him, and that he had met with them every year since his settlement in philadelphia[ ]. [ ] from the early knowledge this excellent physician and worthy man had thus acquired of the bilious remitting fever, he was very successful in the treatment of it. it was by instruction conveyed by him to me with peculiar delicacy, that i was first taught the advantages of copious evacuations from the bowels in that disease. i had been called, when a young practitioner, to visit a gentleman with him in a bilious pleurisy. a third or fourth bleeding, which i advised, cured him. the doctor was much pleased with its effect, and said to me afterwards, "doctor, you and i have each a great fault in our practice; i do not bleed enough, you do not purge enough." the yellow fever prevailed in the neighbourhood of spruce-street wharf, and near a filthy stream of water which flowed through what is now called dock-street, in the year . some cases of it appeared likewise in southwark. it was scarcely known in the north and west parts of the city. no desertion of the citizens took place at this time, nor did the fear of contagion drive the friends of the sick from their bed-sides, nor prevent the usual marks of respect being paid to them after death, by following their bodies to the grave. a few sporadic cases of the same grade of fever appeared in the year . pneumonies, rheumatisms, inflammatory sore throats, and catarrhs were frequent during the winter and spring months. the last disease was induced, not only by sudden changes in the weather, but often by exposure to the evening air, on porches in summer, and by the damp and cold air of places of public worship in winter. the influenza was epidemic in the city in the spring of the year . the malignant sore throat proved fatal to a number of children in the winter of . the scarlet fever prevailed generally in the year . it resembled the same disease, as described by dr. sydenham, in not being accompanied by a sore throat. death from convulsions in pregnant women, also front parturition, and the puerperile fever, were common between the years and . death was likewise common between the th and th years of life from gout, apoplexy, palsy, obstructed livers, and dropsies. a club, consisting of about a dozen of the first gentlemen in the city, all paid, for their intemperance, the forfeit of their lives between those ages, and most of them with some one, or more of the diseases that have been mentioned. i sat up with one of that club on the night of his death. several of the members of it called at his house, the evening before he died, to inquire how he was. one of them, upon being informed of his extreme danger, spoke in high and pathetic terms of his convivial talents and virtues, and said, "he had spent evenings a year with him, for the last twenty years of his life." these evenings were all spent at public houses. the colica pictonum, or dry gripes, was formerly a common disease in this city. it was sometimes followed by a palsy of the upper and lower extremities. colics from crapulas were likewise very frequent, and now and then terminated in death. many children died of the cholera infantum, cynanche trachealis, and hydrocephalus internus. the last disease was generally ascribed to worms. fifteen or twenty deaths occurred, every summer, from drinking cold pump water, when the body was in a highly excitable state, from great beat and labour. the small-pox, within the period alluded to, was sometimes epidemic, and carried off many citizens. in the year , dr. barnet was invited from elizabeth-town, in new-jersey, to philadelphia, to inoculate for the small-pox. the practice, though much opposed, soon became general. about that time, dr. redman published a short defence of it, and recommended the practice to his fellow-citizens in the most affectionate language. the success of inoculation was far from being universal. subsequent improvements in the mode of preparing the body, and treating the eruptive fever, have led us to ascribe this want of success to the deep wound made in the arm, to the excessive quantity of mercury given to prepare the body, and to the use of a warm regimen in the eruptive fever. the peculiar customs and the diseases which have been enumerated, by inducing general weakness, rendered the pulmonary consumption a frequent disease among both sexes. pains and diseases from decayed teeth were very common, between the years and . at that time, the profession of a dentist was unknown in the city. the practice of physic and surgery were united, during those years, in the same persons, and physicians were seldom employed as man-midwives, except in preternatural and tedious labours. the practice of surgery was regulated by mr. sharp's treatise upon that branch of medicine. let us now take a view of the medical opinions which prevailed at the above period, and of the remedies which were employed to cure the diseases that have been mentioned. the system of dr. boerhaave then governed the practice of every physician in philadelphia. of course diseases were ascribed to morbid acrimonies, and other matters in the blood, and the practice of those years was influenced by a belief in them. medicines were prescribed to thin, and to incrassate the blood, and diet drinks were administered in large quantities, in order to alter its qualities. great reliance was placed upon the powers of nature, and critical days were expected with solicitude, in order to observe the discharge of the morbid cause of fevers from the system. this matter was looked for chiefly in the urine, and glasses to retain it were a necessary part of the furniture of every sick room. to ensure the discharge of the supposed morbid matter of fevers through the pores, patients were confined to their beds, and fresh, with cool air, often excluded by close doors and curtains. the medicines to promote sweats were generally of a feeble nature. the spiritus mindereri, and the spirit of sweet nitre were in daily use for that purpose. in dangerous cases, saffron and virginia snake-root were added to them. blood-letting was used plentifully in pleurisies and rheumatisms, but sparingly in all other diseases. blood was often drawn from the feet, in order to excite a revulsion of disease from the superior parts of the body. it was considered as unsafe, at that time, to bleed during the monthly disease of the female sex. purges or vomits began the cure of all febrile diseases, but as the principal dependence was placed upon sweating medicines, those powerful remedies were seldom repeated in the subsequent stages of fevers. to this remark there was a general exception in the yellow fever of . small doses of glauber's salts were given every day after bleeding, so as to promote a gentle, but constant discharge from the bowels. the bark was administered freely in intermittents. the prejudices against it at that time were so general among the common people, that it was often necessary to disguise it. an opinion prevailed among them, that it lay in their bones, and that it disposed them to take cold. it was seldom given in the low and gangrenous states of fever, when they were not attended with remissions. the use of opium was confined chiefly to ease pain, to compose a cough, and to restrain preternatural discharges from the body. such were the prejudices against it, that it was often necessary to conceal it in other medicines. it was rarely taken without the advice of a physician. mercury was in general use in the years that have been mentioned. i have said it was given to prepare the body for the small-pox. it was administered by my first preceptor in medicine, dr. redman, in the same disease, when it appeared in the natural way, with malignant or inflammatory symptoms, in order to keep the salivary glands open and flowing, during the turn of the pock. he gave it likewise liberally in the dry gripes. in one case of that disease, i well remember the pleasure he expressed, in consequence of its having affected his patient's mouth. but to dr. thomas bond the city of philadelphia is indebted for the introduction of mercury into general use, in the practice of medicine. he called it emphatically "a revolutionary remedy," and prescribed it in all diseases which resisted the common modes of practice. he gave it liberally in the cynanche trachealis. he sometimes cured madness, by giving it in such quantities as to excite a salivation. he attempted to cure pulmonary consumption by it, but without success; for, at that time, the influence of the relative actions of different diseases and remedies, upon the human body, was not known, or, if known, no advantage was derived from it in the practice of medicine. the dry gripes were cured, at that time, by a new and peculiar mode of practice, by dr. thomas cadwallader. he kept the patient easy by gentle anodynes, and gave lenient purges, only in the beginning of the disease; nor did he ever assist the latter by injections till the fourth and fifth days, at which time the bowels discharged their contents in an easy manner. it was said this mode of cure prevented the paralytic symptoms, which sometimes follow that disease. it was afterwards adopted and highly commended by the late dr. warren, of london. blisters were in general use, but seldom applied before the latter stage of fevers. they were prescribed, for the first time, in hæmorrhages, and with great success, by dr. george glentworth. wine was given sparingly, even in the lowest stage of what were then called putrid and nervous fevers. the warm and cold baths were but little used in private practice. the former was now and then employed in acute diseases. they were both used in the most liberal manner, together with the vapour and warm air baths, in the pennsylvania hospital, by dr. thomas bond. an attempt was made to erect warm and cold baths, in the neighbourhood of the city, and to connect them with a house of entertainment, by dr. lauchlin m'clen, in the year . the project was considered as unfriendly to morals, and petitions, from several religious societies, were addressed to the governor of the province, to prevent its execution. the enterprize was abandoned, and the doctor soon afterwards left the city. riding on horseback, the fresh air of the sea-shore, and long journies, were often prescribed to invalids, by all the physicians of that day. i come now to mention the causes which influence the diseases, also the medical opinions and remedies of the present time. in this part of our discourse, i shall follow the order of the first part of our inquiry. i have already taken notice of the changes which the climate of philadelphia has undergone since the year . a change has of late years taken place in the dress of the inhabitants of philadelphia. wigs have generally been laid aside, and the hair worn cut and dressed in different ways. round hats, with high crowns, have become fashionable. umbrellas, which were formerly a part of female dress only, are now used in warm and wet weather, by men of all ranks in society; and flannel is worn next to the skin in winter, and muslin in summer, by many persons of both sexes. tight dresses are uncommon, and stays are unknown among our women. it is to be lamented that the benefits to health which might have been derived from the disuse of that part of female dress, have been prevented by the fashion of wearing such light coverings over the breasts and limbs. the evils from this cause, shall be mentioned hereafter. a revolution has taken place in the diet of our citizens. relishes and suppers are generally abolished; bitters, to provoke a preternatural appetite, also meridian bowls of punch, are now scarcely known. animal food is eaten only at dinner, and excess in the use of it is prevented, by a profusion of excellent summer and winter vegetables. malt liquors, or hydrant water, with a moderate quantity of wine, are usually taken with those simple and wholesome meals. clubs, for the exclusive purpose of feeding, are dissolved, and succeeded by family parties, collected for the more rational entertainments of conversation, dancing, music, and chess. taverns and beer-houses are much less frequented than formerly, and drunkenness is rarely seen in genteel life. the tea table, in an evening, has now become the place of resort of both sexes, and the midnight serenade has taken place of the midnight revels of the young gentlemen of former years. in doing justice to the temperance of the modern citizens of philadelphia, i am sorry to admit, there is still a good deal of secret drinking among them. physicians, who detect it by the diseases it produces, often lament the inefficacy of their remedies to remove them. in addition to intemperance from spiritous liquors, a new species of intoxication from opium has found its way into our city. i have known death, in one instance, induced by it. the following circumstances have had a favourable influence upon the health of the present inhabitants of philadelphia. the improvements in the construction of modern houses, so as to render them cooler in summer, and warmer in winter. the less frequent practice of sitting on porches, exposed to the dew, in summer evenings. the universal use of stoves in places of public worship. the abolition of the custom of obliging lying-in women to sit up for company. the partial use of schuylkill or hydrant water, for culinary and other purposes. the enjoyment of pure air, in country seats, in the neighbourhood of the city. they not only preserve from sickness during the summer and autumn, but they render families less liable to diseases during the other seasons of the year. and, lastly, the frequent use of private, and public warm and cold baths. for the establishment of the latter, the citizens of philadelphia are indebted to mr. joseph simons. the following circumstances have an unfavourable influence upon the health of our citizens. ice creams taken in excess, or upon an empty stomach. the continuance of the practice of attending funerals, under all the circumstances that were mentioned in describing the customs which prevailed in philadelphia, between the years and . the combined influence of great heat and intemperance in drinking, acting upon passions unusually excited by public objects, on the th of july, every year. the general and inordinate use of segars. the want of sufficient force in the water which falls into the common sewers to convey their contents into the delaware, renders each of their apertures a source of sickly exhalations to the neighbouring streets and squares. the compact manner in which the gutters are now formed, by preventing the descent of water into the earth, has contributed very much to retain the filth of the city, in those seasons in which they are not washed by rain, nor by the waste water of the pumps and hydrants. the timbers of many of the wharves of the city have gone to decay. the docks have not been cleaned since the year , and many of them expose large surfaces to the action of the sun at low water. the buildings have increased in water-street, and with them there has been a great increase of that kind of filth which is generated in all houses; the stores in this street often contain matters which putrify; from all which there is, in warm weather, a constant emission of such a f[oe]tid odour, as to render a walk through that street, by a person who does not reside there, extremely disagreeable, and sometimes to produce sickness and vomiting. in many parts of the vicinity of the city are to be seen pools of stagnating water, from which there are exhaled large quantities of unhealthy vapours, during the summer and autumnal months. the privies have become so numerous, and are often so full, as to become offensive in most of the compact parts of the city, more especially in damp weather. the pump water is impregnated with many saline and aërial matters of an offensive nature. while these causes exert an unfriendly influence upon the bodies of the citizens of philadelphia, the extreme elevation or depression of their passions, by the different issues of their political contests (now far surpassing, in their magnitude, the contests of former years), together with their many new and fortuitous modes of suddenly acquiring and losing property, predispose them to many diseases of the mind. the present diseases of philadelphia come next under our consideration. fevers have assumed several new forms since the year . the mild bilious fever has gradually spread over every part of the city. it followed the filth which was left by the british army in the year . in the year , it prevailed, as an epidemic, in southwark, and in water and front-streets, below market-street[ ]. in the years and , it assumed an inflammatory appearance, and was accompanied, in many cases, with hepatic affections. the connection of our subject requires that i should barely repeat, that it appeared in as an epidemic, in the form of what is called yellow fever, in which form it has appeared, in sporadic cases, or as an epidemic, every year since. during the reign of this high grade of bilious fever, mild intermittents and remittents, and the chronic or nervous forms of the summer and autumnal fever, have nearly disappeared. [ ] it appears, from the account given by mr. white of the bilious fever of bath, that it prevailed several years in its suburbs, before it became general in that city. it is remarkable, that southwark was nearly the exclusive seat, not only of the bilious or break-bone fever of , but of the intermitting fever in , taken notice of by dr. bond, and of the yellow fever of . inflammations and obstructions of the liver have been more frequent than in former years, and even the pneumonies, catarrhs, intercurrent, and other fevers of the winter and spring months, have all partaken more or less of the inflammatory and malignant nature of the yellow fever. the pulmonary consumption continues to be a common disease among both sexes. the cynanche trachealis, the scarlatina anginosa, the hydrocephalus internus, and cholera infantum, are likewise common diseases in philadelphia. madness, and several other diseases of the mind, have increased since the year , from causes which have been mentioned. several of the different forms of gout are still common among both sexes. apoplexy and palsy have considerably diminished in our city. it is true, the bills of mortality still record a number of deaths from the former, every year; but this statement is incorrect, if it mean a disease of the brain only, for sudden deaths from all their causes are returned exclusively under the name of apoplexy. the less frequent occurrence of this disease, also of palsy, is probably occasioned by the less consumption of animal food, and of distilled and fermented liquors, by that class of citizens who are most subject to them, than in former years. perhaps the round hat, and the general use of umbrellas, may have contributed to lessen those diseases of the brain. the dropsy is now a rare disease, and seldom seen even in our hospital. the colica pictonum, or dry gripes, is scarcely known in philadelphia. i have ascribed this to the use of flannel next to the skin as a part of dress, and to the general disuse of punch as a common drink. the natural small-pox is nearly extirpated, and the puerperile fever is rarely met with in philadelphia. the scrophula is much less frequent than in former years. it is confined chiefly to persons in humble life. i proceed, in the order that was proposed, to take notice of the present medical opinions which prevail among the physicians of philadelphia. the system of dr. boerhaave long ago ceased to regulate the practice of physic. it was succeeded by the system of dr. cullen. in the year , dr. brown's system of medicine was introduced and taught by dr. gibbon. it captivated a few young men for a while, but it soon fell into disrepute. perhaps the high-toned diseases of our city exposed the fallacy and danger of the remedies inculcated by it, and afforded it a shorter life than it has had in many other countries. in the year , the author of this inquiry promulgated some new principles in medicine, suggested by the peculiar phænomena of the diseases of the united states. these principles have been so much enlarged and improved by the successive observations and reasonings of many gentlemen in all the states, as to form an american system of medicine. this system rejects the nosological arrangement of diseases, and places all their numerous forms in morbid excitement, induced by irritants acting upon previous debility. it rejects, likewise, all prescriptions for the names of diseases, and, by directing their applications wholly to the forming and fluctuating states of diseases, and the system, derives from a few active medicines all the advantages which have been in vain expected from the numerous articles which compose european treatises upon the materia medica. this system has been adopted by a part of the physicians of philadelphia, but a respectable number of them are still attached to the system of dr. cullen. a great change has taken place in the remedies which are now in common use in philadelphia. i shall briefly mention such of them as are new, and then take notice of the new and different modes of exhibiting such as were in use between the years and . vaccination has been generally adopted in our city, in preference to inoculation with variolous matter. digitalis, lead, zinc, and arsenic are now common remedies in the hands of most of our practitioners. cold air, cold water, and ice are among the new remedies of modern practice in philadelphia. blood-letting is now used in nearly all diseases of violent excitement, not only in the blood-vessels, but in other parts of the body. its use is not, as in former times, limited to ounces in specific diseases, but regulated by their force, and the importance of the parts affected to health and life; nor is it forbidden, as formerly, in infancy, in extreme old age, in the summer months, nor in the period of menstruation, where symptoms of a violent, or of a suffocated disease, manifested by an active or a feeble pulse, indicate it to be necessary. leeches are now in general use in diseases which are removed, by their seat or local nature, beyond the influence of the lancet. for the introduction of this excellent remedy into our city we are indebted to mr. john cunitz. opium and bark, which were formerly given in disguise, or with a trembling hand, are now, not only prescribed by physicians, but often purchased, and taken without their advice, by many of the citizens of philadelphia. they even occupy a shelf in the closets of many families. the use of mercury has been revived, and a salivation has been extended; with great improvements and success, to nearly all violent and obstinate diseases. nor has the influence of reason over ignorance and prejudice, with respect to that noble medicine, stopped here. cold water, once supposed to be incompatible with its use, is now applied to the body, in malignant fevers, in order to insure and accelerate its operation upon the salivary glands. wine is given in large quantities, when indicated, without the least fear of producing intoxication. the warm and cold baths, which were formerly confined chiefly to patients in the pennsylvania hospital, are now common prescriptions in private practice. exercise, country air, and the sea shore, are now universally recommended in chronic diseases, and in the debility which precedes and follows them. great pains are now taken to regulate the quantity and quality of aliments and drinks, by the peculiar state of the system. let us now inquire into the influence of the new opinions in medicine, and the new remedies which have been mentioned, upon human life. the small-pox, once the most fatal and universal of all diseases, has nearly ceased to occupy a place in our bills of mortality, by the introduction of vaccination in our city. for the prompt adoption of this great discovery, the citizens of philadelphia owe a large debt of gratitude to dr. coxe, and mr. john vaughan. fevers, from all their causes, and in all their forms, with the exception of the bilious yellow fever, now yield to medicine. even that most malignant form of febrile diseases is treated with more success in philadelphia than in other countries. it would probably seldom prove mortal, did a belief in its being derived from an impure atmosphere, and of its exclusive influence upon the body, while it prevailed as an epidemic, obtain universally among the physicians and citizens of philadelphia. the pulmonary consumption has been prevented, in many hundred instances, by meeting its premonitory signs, in weakness and feeble morbid excitement in the whole system, by country air, gentle exercise, and gently stimulating remedies. even when formed, and tending rapidly to its last stage, it has been cured by small and frequent bleedings, digitalis, and a mercurial salivation. the hydrocephalus internus, the cynanche trachealis, and cholera infantum, once so fatal to the children of our city, now yield to medicine in their early stages. the two former are cured by copious bleeding, aided by remedies formerly employed in them without success. the last is cured by moderate bleeding, calomel, laudanum, and country air. the gout has been torn from its ancient sanctuary in error and prejudice, and its acute paroxysms now yield with as much certainty to the lancet, as the most simple inflammatory diseases. the dropsy is cured by renouncing the unfortunate association of specific remedies with its name, and accommodating them to the degrees of excitement in the blood-vessels. the tetanus from wounds is now prevented, in most cases, by inflaming the injured parts, and thereby compelling them to defend the whole system, by a local disease. where this preventing remedy has been neglected, and where tetanus arises from other causes than wounds, it has often been cured by adding to the diffusible stimulus of opium, the durable stimuli of bark and wine. death from drinking cold water, in the heated state of the body, is now obviated by previously wetting the hands or feet with the water; and when this precaution is neglected, the disease induced by it is generally cured by large doses of liquid laudanum. madness, which formerly doomed its miserable subjects to cells or chains for life, has yielded to bleeding, low diet, mercury, the warm and cold baths, fresh air, gentle exercise, and mild treatment, since its seat has been discovered to be in the blood-vessels of the brain. the last achievement of our science in philadelphia, that i shall mention, consists in the discovery and observation of the premonitory signs of violent and mortal diseases, and in subduing them by simple remedies, in their forming state. by this means, death has been despoiled of his prey, in many hundred instances. in this successful conflict of medicine with disease and death, midwifery and surgery have borne a distinguished part. they derive their claims to the gratitude of the citizens of philadelphia from the practice of each of them being more confined, than formerly, to a few members of our profession. it is in consequence of the former being exercised only by physicians of regular and extensive educations, that death from pregnancy and parturition is a rare occurrence in philadelphia. i should greatly exceed the limits prescribed to this inquiry, should i mention how much pain and misery have been relieved, and how often death has been baffled in his attempts upon human life, by several late improvements in old, and the discovery of new remedies in surgery. i shall briefly name a few of them. in cases of blindness, from a partial opacity of the cornea, or from a closure of the natural pupil, a new pupil has been made; and where the cornea has been partially opaque, the opening through the iris has been formed, opposite to any part of it, which retained its transparency. the cure of fractures has been accelerated by blood-letting, and, where the union of a broken bone has not taken place from a defect of bony matter, it has been produced by passing a seton between the fractured ends of the bone, and effecting a union thereby between them. luxations, which have long resisted both force and art, have been reduced in a few minutes, and without pain, by bleeding at deliquium animi. old sores have been speedily healed, by destroying their surfaces, and thereby placing them in the condition of recent accidents. the fruitless application of the trepan, in concussions of the brain, has been prevented by copious bleeding, and a salivation. a suppression of urine has been cured, by the addition of a piece of a bougie to a flexible catheter. strictures in the urethra have been removed by means of a caustic, also, in a more expeditious way, by dividing them with a lancet. hydrocele has been cured by a small puncture, and afterwards exciting inflammation and adhesion by an injection of wine into the tunica vaginalis testis. the popliteal aneurism and varicose veins have both been removed by operations that were unknown a few years ago. for the introduction of several of those new surgical remedies, and for the discovery and improvement of others, the citizens of philadelphia are indebted to dr. physick. they are likewise indebted to him and dr. griffitts for many of the new and successful modes of practice, in the diseases that have been mentioned. even the few remedies that have been suggested by the author of these inquiries, owe their adoption and usefulness chiefly to the influence of those two respectable and popular physicians. before i dismiss this part of our subject, i have only to add, that since the cure and extraction of the teeth have become a distinct branch of the profession of medicine, several diseases which have arisen from them, when decayed, have been detected and cured[ ]. [ ] the late mr. andrew spence was the first regular bred dentist that settled in philadelphia. there are now several well educated gentlemen in the city of that profession. we have thus taken a comparative view of the medical theories and remedies of former and modern times, and of their different influence upon human life. to exhibit the advantages of the latter over the former, i shall mention the difference in the number of deaths in three successive years, at a time when the population of the city and suburbs was supposed to amount to , souls, and in three years, after the population exceeded double that number. between the th of december, , and the th of december, , there died persons. between the same days of the same months, in and , there died persons. within the same period of time, between and , the deaths amounted to , making in all , . i regret that i have not been able to procure the returns of deaths in years prior to those which have been mentioned. during the three years that have been selected, no unusually mortal diseases prevailed in the city. the measles were epidemic in , but were not more fatal than in common years. between the th of december, , and the th of december, , there died persons. between the same days of the same months, in the years and , there died persons. within the same period of time, between and , the deaths amounted to , making in all , . upon these returns it will be proper to remark, that several hundreds of the deaths, in and , were from the yellow fever, and that many of them were of strangers. of persons, who were interred in the swedes' church-yard alone, one half were of that description of people. deducting from both those causes of extra-mortality in the three years, between and , the increase of deaths above what they were in the years and is but . had diseases continued to be as mortal as they were thirty years ago, considering the present state of our population, the number of deaths would have been more than , . to render the circumstances of the statement of deaths that has been given perfectly equal, it will be necessary to add, that the measles prevailed in the city, in the year , as generally as they did in . from the history that has been given, of the effects of the late improvements and discoveries in medicine upon human life, in philadelphia, we are led to appreciate its importance and usefulness. it has been said, by its enemies, to move; but its motions have been asserted to be only in a circle. the facts that have been stated clearly prove, that it has moved, and rapidly too, within the last thirty years, in a straight line. to encourage and regulate application and enterprize in medicine hereafter, let us inquire to what causes we are indebted for the late discoveries and improvements in our science, and for their happy effects in reducing the number of deaths so far below their former proportion to the inhabitants of philadelphia. the first cause i shall mention is the great physical changes which have taken place in the manners of our citizens in favour of health and life. a second cause, is the assistance which has been afforded to the practice of physic, by the numerous and important discoveries that have lately been made in anatomy, natural history, and chemistry, all of which have been conveyed, from time to time, to the physicians of the city, by means of the philadelphia and hospital libraries, and by the lectures upon those branches of science which are annually delivered in the university of pennsylvania. . the application of reasoning to our science has contributed greatly to extend its success in the cure of diseases. simply to observe and to remember, are the humblest operations of the human mind. brutes do both. but to _theorize_, that is, to _think_, or, in other language, to compare facts, to reject counterfeits, to dissolve the seeming affinity of such as are not true, to combine those that are related, though found in remote situations from each other, and, finally, to deduce practical and useful inferences from them, are the high prerogatives and interest of man, in all his intellectual pursuits, and in none more, than in the profession of medicine. . the accommodation of remedies to the changes which are induced in diseases by the late revolutions in our climate, seasons, and manners, has had a sensible influence in improving the practice of medicine in our city. the same diseases, like the descendants of the same families, lose their resemblance to each other by the lapse of time; and the almanacks of might as well be consulted to inform us of the monthly phases of the moon of the present year, as the experience of former years, or the books of foreign countries, be relied upon to regulate the practice of physic at the present time, in any of the cities of the united states. . from the diffusion of medical knowledge among all classes of our citizens, by means of medical publications, and controversies, many people have been taught so much of the principles and practice of physic, as to be able to prescribe for themselves in the forming state of acute diseases, and thereby to prevent their fatal termination. it is to this self-acquired knowledge among the citizens of philadelphia, that physicians are in part indebted for not being called out of their beds so frequently as in former years. there are few people who do not venture to administer laudanum in bowel complaints, and there are some persons in the city, who have cured the cynanche trachealis when it has occurred in the night, by vomits and bleeding, without the advice of a physician. the disuse of suppers is another cause why physicians enjoy more rest at night than formerly, for many of their midnight calls, were to relieve diseases brought on by that superfluous meal. . the dispensary instituted in our city, in the year , for the medical relief of the poor, has assisted very much in promoting the empire of medicine over disease and death. some lives have likewise been saved by the exertions of the humane society, by means of their printed directions to prevent sudden death; also, by the medical services which have lately been extended to out-patients, by order of the managers of the pennsylvania hospital. thly and lastly. a change, favourable to successful practice in philadelphia, has taken place in the conduct of physicians to their patients. a sick room has ceased to be the theatre of imposture in dress and manners, and prescriptions are no longer delivered with the pomp and authority of edicts. on the contrary, sick people are now instructed in the nature of their diseases, and informed of the names and design of their medicines, by which means faith and reason are made to co-operate in adding efficacy to them. nor are patients left, as formerly, by their physicians, under the usual appearances of dissolution, without the aid of medicine. by thus disputing every inch of ground with death, many persons have been rescued from the grave, and lived, years afterwards, monuments of the power of the healing art. from a review of what has been effected within the last nine and thirty years, in lessening the mortality of many diseases, we are led to look forward with confidence and pleasure to the future achievements of our science. could we lift the curtain of time which separates the year from our view, we should see cancers, pulmonary consumptions, apoplexies, palsies, epilepsy, and hydrophobia struck out of the list of mortal diseases, and many others which still retain an occasional power over life, rendered perfectly harmless, _provided_ the same number of discoveries and improvements shall be made in medicine in the intermediate years, that have been made since the year . but in vain will the avenues of death from those diseases be closed, while the more deadly yellow fever is permitted to supply their place, and to spread terror, distress, and poverty through the city, by destroying the lives of her citizens by hundreds or thousands every year. dear cradle of liberty of conscience in the western world! nurse of industry and arts! and patron of pious and benevolent institutions! may this cease to be thy melancholy destiny! may heaven dispel the errors and prejudices of thy citizens upon the cause and means of preventing their pestilential calamities! and may thy prosperity and happiness be revived, extended, and perpetuated for ages yet to come! * * * * * index. a anthelmintics, i. arsenic, a remedy for cancerous sores, i. army of the united states, diseases of, i. ----, causes of, i. ----, remedies for, i. ibid. agriculture, the practice of, recommended to country physicians, i. age, old, observations on the state of the body and mind in, i. ----, its diseases, i. ----, ----, their remedies, i. air, cool, its good effects in the yellow fever of , iii. association of ideas, its effects upon morals, ii. b. barometer, its mean elevation in philadelphia, i. blisters, their efficacy in obstinate intermittents, i. ----, ----, in the bilious fever of , i. ----, ----, in the yellow fever of , when applied in its early stage, iv. bed, lying in, useful in the bilious fever of , i. bleeding, its efficacy in the cure of obstinate intermittents, i. ----, ----, in the yellow fever of , iii. ----, reasons for the practice, iii. ----, circumstances which regulated it, iii. ----, objections to it answered, iii. ----, gradual manner of abstracting blood recommended, iii. blood-letting, defence of it as a remedy for certain diseases, iv. ----, indicated in fevers, iv. ibid. ----, its good effects in fevers, iv. ----, objections to it answered, iv. ----, its comparative advantages, iv. ----, circumstances which should regulate its use, iv. ----, appearances of the blood, iv. ----, when forbidden, or to be used cautiously, iv. ----, its advantages in pregnancy, iv. ----, in parturition, iv. ----, during the cessation of the menses, iv. ----, in curing the disease induced by a large dose of opium, iv. ----, in curing the disease induced by poison, iv. ibid. ----, in diabetes, iv. ibid. ----, in dislocated bones, iv. blood, quantity drawn from several persons in , iv. ----, appearances of it in , iii. ----, ----, in , iii. c. civilization, diseases derived from it, i. ----, ----, not necessarily connected with it, i. climate of pennsylvania, account of, i. ----, its changes, i. ----, its temperature, i. ----, its effects upon health and life, i. calomel, useful joined with emetics in scarlatina anginosa, i. ----, its effects as a purge, when combined with jalap, in the yellow fever, iii. ----, objections to it answered, iii. contagious, the yellow fever not so, iv. cholera infantum described, i. ----, a form of bilious fever, i. ----, its remedies, i. ----, means of preventing it, i. cynanche trachealis, its different names, i. ----, appearances in the trachea after death, i. ----, its different grades, i. ----, its remedies in its forming state, i. ibid. ----, its remedies after it is formed, i. ----, favourable and unfavourable signs of its issue, i. consumption, pulmonary, thoughts on, i. ----, pulmonary, indians, and persons who lead laborious lives, not subject to it, i. ----, radical remedies for it in exercise, labour, and the hardships of a camp and naval life, i. ----, its causes, ii. ----, not contagious, ii. ----, tracheal, described, ii. ----, its remedies, ii. ----, premonitory signs, ii. ibid. ----, of the remedies for its inflammatory state, ii. ----, of blood-letting, ii. ibid. ----, of a vegetable diet, ii. ----, of the remedies for its hectic state, ii. ----, for its typhus state, ii. ----, of its radical remedies, ii. ----, of exercise, ii. ibid. ----, of travelling, ii. ----, signs of its long or short duration, and of its issue in life and death, ii. ----, its different ways of terminating in death, ii. college of physicians, their letter to the citizens of philadelphia, declaring the existence of the yellow fever in the city, &c. in , iii. ----, their letter to the governor of the state, on the origin of the yellow fever in , iii. ----, their opinion of the origin of the fever in , iv. d. diseases of the indians, i. ----, from civilization, i. ----, produced by ardent spirits, i. ----, of the military hospitals, during the revolutionary war between great-britain and the united states, i. ----, of old age, i. drunkenness, a fit of it described, i. ----, remedies for it, i. disease, summer and autumnal, its sources, iv. ----, means of preventing it in its malignant forms, iv. ----, in its mild forms, iv. ----, in its intestinal forms, iv. ----, of preserving cities and communities from them, iv. ----, of exterminating them, iv. ----, from drinking cold water, i. ----, ----, how prevented, i. ibid. ----, ----, its cure, i. dropsies, their causes, ii. ----, divided into inflammatory, and of weak morbid action in the blood-vessels, ii. ----, remedies for the inflammatory state of, ii. ----, ----, with weak morbid action in the blood-vessels, ii. dropsy of the brain, internal, ii. ----, its history, ii. ----, its causes, ii. ----, its cure, ii. distress, familiarity with it, its moral effects, ii. death, its proximate cause, ii. e. emetics, useful in the bilious fever of , i. ----, in the scarlatina anginosa of and , i. ----, in the yellow fever of , iv. ----, in the yellow fever of , iv. ----, hurtful in the yellow fever of , iv. exhalations, putrid, their sources and effects in producing the summer and autumnal disease, iv. f. faculty, moral, inquiry into the influence of physical causes on, ii. fruits, summer, useful in destroying worms, i. fever, bilious, history of it in , i. ----, outlines of a theory of, iii. ----, its unity asserted, iii. ----, unity of its exciting causes, iii. ----, objections to a nosological arrangement of its different forms, iii. ----, effects of, iii. ----, different states of, enumerated, iii. ----, objections to putrefaction in, iii. ----, bilious yellow, history of, in , iii. ----, ----, its exciting causes, iii. ----, ----, its premonitory signs, iii. ----, ----, its first symptoms, iii. ----, ----, symptoms of it in the blood-vessels, iii. ----, ----, ----, in the liver, lungs, and brain, iii. ----, ----, ----, in the stomach and bowels, iii. ----, ----, ----, in the secretions and excretions, iii. fever, bilious yellow, symptoms of it, in the nervous system, iii. ----, ----, ----, in the senses and appetites, iii. ----, ----, ----, in the lymphatic and glandular system, iii. ----, ----, ----, on the skin, iii. ----, ----, ----, in the blood, iii. ----, ----, nature of the black vomit, iii. ----, ----, types of the, iii. ----, ----, the empire of, over all other diseases, iii. ----, ----, who most subject to it, iii. ----, ----, negroes affected by it in common with white people, iii. ----, ----, state of the atmosphere during the prevalence of, iii. ----, ----, signs of the presence of miasmata in the body, universal, iii. ----, ----, cases of re-infection, iii. ----, ----, external appearances of the body after death in, iii. ----, ----, appearances of the body by dissection, iii. ----, ----, account of the distress of the city, iii. ----, ----, its moral effects upon the inhabitants, iii. ----, ----, number of deaths from it, iii. ----, ----, is checked and destroyed by rain, iii. ----, ----, inquiry into its origin by the governor of the state, iii. ----, ----, said to be imported by the college of physicians, iii. ----, ----, objections to their opinion, and proofs of its domestic origin, iii. ----, the sameness of its origin with the plague, iii. ----, state of the weather in , iii. ----, method of cure, iii. ----, dissentions of the physicians, iii. ----, of purging, iii. ----, its salutary effects, iii. ----, objections to it answered, iii. ----, blood-letting, its utility, iii. ----, salivation, its utility, iii. ----, convalescence, iii. ----, remarks on the use of stimulating remedies in this fever, iii. ----, comparative view of the success of all the modes of practice employed in the fever, iii. fever, yellow, of , history of, iii. ----, its exciting causes, iii. ----, symptoms in the different systems of the body, iii. ----, in the blood-vessels, iii. ibid. ----, in the viscera, iii. ----, in the alimentary canal, iii. ----, in the secretions and excretions, iii. ----, in the nervous system, iii. ----, in the senses and appetites, iii. ----, in the lymphatic system, iii. ibid. ----, in the blood, iii. ----, different forms of the fever, iii. ----, its origin, iii. ----, method of cure, iii. ----, bleeding, iii. fever, yellow, of , good effects of cool air and cold water in, iii. ----, of a salivation, iii. ----, of blisters, iii. ----, of tonic remedies, iii. ----, of the inefficacy of bark, iii. ibid. ----, of the effects of wine, iii. ----, ----, of opium, iii. ----, ----, of nitre, iii. ----, ----, of antimonials, iii. ibid. fever, yellow, sporadic cases of, in the years and , iii. fever, yellow, of , iv. ----, symptoms of, iv. ----, type of, iv. ----, different forms of, iv. ----, influence of the moon upon it, iv. ----, number of deaths, particularly of physicians, iv. ----, origin of it, iv. ----, its remedies, iv. ibid. ----, of bleeding, iv. ibid. ----, of purging medicines, iv. ----, of a salivation, iv. ----, different ways in which mercury acted upon the mouth and throat, iv. ----, of emetics, iv. ----, of diet and drinks, iv. ----, of tonic remedies, iv. ----, of blisters, iv. ibid. ----, of sweet oil, iv. fever, yellow, of , relative success of different modes of practice, iv. ----, signs of a favourable and unfavourable issue of the fever, iv. fever, yellow, of , account of, iv. ----, symptoms of, iv. ----, in the blood-vessels, iv. ibid. ----, alimentary canal, iv. ibid. ----, on the tongue, iv. ----, in the nervous system, iv. ibid. ----, in the eyes, lymphatics, and blood, iv. ----, different modes in which it terminated in death, iv. ----, state of the weather in , iv. ----, origin of the fever, iv. ----, remedies for it, iv. ibid. ----, bleeding, iv. ibid. ----, emetics, iv. ----, purges, iv. ----, of a salivation, iv. ibid. ----, of sweats, iv. ----, of bark, iv. ----, of blisters, iv. ibid. ----, symptoms which indicated a favourable and unfavourable issue of the disease, iv. ----, different modes of practice in this fever, and their different success, iv. fever, bilious, of , iv. ----, sickliness among certain animals, iv. ----, its symptoms, iv. ----, its remedies, iv. fever, yellow, of , signs of a favourable and unfavourable issue of it, iv. ----, its origin, iv. fever, yellow, sporadic cases of, in , iv. ----, ----, in , iv. fever, yellow, of , account of, iv. ----, its origin, iv. ----, its types, iv. fever, yellow, as it appeared in , iv. ----, symptoms of, iv. ----, remedies for, iv. fever, yellow, sporadic cases in , iv. fever, yellow, as it appeared in , iv. ----, its origin, iv. ----, its remedies, iv. ----, not contagious, iv. g. gout, peculiarities belonging to it, ii. ----, its remote causes, ii. ----, women most subject to it, ii. ----, its exciting causes, ii. ibid. ----, its symptoms, ii. ----, method of cure, ii. ----, remedies in its forming state, ii. ----, in a paroxysm, when attended with great morbid or inflammatory action in the blood-vessels, ii. ----, when attended with weak morbid action in the blood-vessels, ii. ----, remedies for its symptoms, ii. ----, means for preventing the return of inflammatory, ii. ----, with weak morbid action, ii. h. hospitals, their origin, i. ----, military, their evils, i. ----, constructed with ground floors, to be preferred in fevers, i. heat, greatest in philadelphia, i. habit, its effects upon morals, ii. hæmoptysis, observations on, i. hydrophobia, observations on, ii. ----, its causes, ii. ----, its symptoms in rabid animals, ii. ----, ----, in the human species, ii. ----, supposed to be a malignant fever, ii. ibid. ----, remedies to prevent it, ii. ----, ----, to cure it in its malignant or inflammatory state, ii. ----, ----, to cure it when attended with weak morbid action in the blood-vessels, ii. ----, death from it, supposed to be from suffocation, ii. ----, laryngotomy suggested to prevent it, ii. i. indians, oration on their diseases and remedies, i. ----, peculiar customs of their women, i. ----, ----, of their men, i. ----, ----, of both sexes, i. indians, their diseases, i. ----, their remedies, i. ----, comparative view of their diseases and remedies with those of civilized nations, i. iron, its preparations useful in destroying worms, i. imitation, its effects upon morals, ii. influenza, account of it, as it appeared in philadelphia in , , and , ii. ----, history of its symptoms, ii. ----, mode of treatment, ii. jaw-fall, or trismus, in infants, i. l. laudanum, its efficacy in the disease brought on by drinking cold water in hot weather, i. legs, sore, observations on, i. ----, classes of people most subject to them, i. ----, their remedies, i. longevity, circumstances which favour it, i. life, animal, inquiry into its causes, ii. ----, a forced state, or the effects of impressions, ii. ----, enumeration of those impressions, ii. ----, how supported in sleep, ii. ----, in the f[oe]tus in utero, ii. ----, in infancy, ii. ----, in youth, ii. ----, in middle life, ii. ----, in old age, ii. ibid. ----, in persons blind, or deaf and dumb from their birth, ii. ----, in idiots, ii. ----, after long abstinence, ii. ----, in asphyxia, ii. ----, in the indians of north-america, ii. ----, in the africans, ii. ----, in the turkish empire, ii. ----, in china and the east-indies, ii. ----, in the poor inhabitants of europe, ii. ----, stimuli which act alike in promoting it upon all nations, ii. ----, how supported in sundry animals, ii. ----, its extinction in death, how effected, ii. m. midwifery, the practice of it more successful by men than by women, i. manufactures, sedentary, unfriendly to the health of men, i. measles, history of, in , ii. ----, their symptoms, ii. ----, a spurious, or external form of them described, ii. ----, remedies used in them, ii. ----, history of them, as they appeared in , iv. medicine, an inquiry into its comparative state, in philadelphia, between and , and , iv. diet of the inhabitants between and , iv. dresses, iv. customs which had an influence on health, iv. diseases, iv. n. nature, meaning of the term, i. ----, the extent of her powers in curing diseases, i. nosology, objections to it, iii. negroes subject to the yellow fever in common with the white people, iii. o. opium, useful in the bilious fever of , i. ----, the disease induced by it cured by blood-letting, iv. onion juice, useful in destroying worms, i. p. philadelphia, its situation, i. ----, population, i. ----, diseases between and , and , iv. purges, useful in the bilious fever of , i. ----, ----, in the yellow fever of , iii. ----, objections to them answered, iii. pulse, state of, in old people, i. ----, in the yellow fever of , in persons not confined with it, iii. ----, in fevers, when it indicates blood-letting, iv. putrefaction, does not take place in the blood, iii. pregnancy, a morbid state of the system, iv. ----, effects of blood-letting in relieving its diseases, iv. ibid. parturition, a disease, iv. ----, effects of blood-letting in lessening its pains, iv. ibid. q. quarantine laws, their inefficacy to prevent a yellow fever, iv. ----, their evils, iv. ibid. r. rain, usual quantity in pennsylvania, i. revolution, american, its influence upon the human body and mind, i. s. snow, common depth in pennsylvania, i. sweating described among the indians of north-america, i. scarlatina anginosa of and described, i. ----, additional observations on, i. ----, prevented by gentle purges, i. ----, cured by emetics in its forming state, i. salt, common, useful in the hæmoptysis, i. ----, in destroying worms, i. sugar, useful in destroying worms, i. ibid. spirits, ardent, their effects upon the human body and mind, i. ----, diseases produced by them, i. ----, their effects on property, i. ----, substitutes for them, i. ----, persons predisposed to their use, i. ----, their influence upon the population of the united states, i. sweats, useful in the yellow fever of , iv. salivation, its usefulness in the yellow fever of , iii. ----, ----, of , iii. ----, ----, of , iv. ----, ----, of , iv. small-pox, new mode of inoculating for, i. t. tetanus, its causes, i. ----, its remedies when from wounds, i. ----, ----, when from other causes, i. w. winters, cold, in pennsylvania, i. , , winds, common, in pennsylvania, i. water, cold, disease from drinking it when the body is preternaturally heated, i. worms, natural to young children, and to young animals, i. ----, intended, probably, to prevent disease, i. ----, destroyed by medicines that act mechanically and chemically upon them, i. wounds, gun-shot, in joints, followed by death, i. finis. * * * * * lately published, and for sale by conrad & co. at their stores in philadelphia, baltimore, washington, petersburg, and norfolk, _the philadelphia medical and physical journal_, collected and arranged by _benjamin smith barton_, professor of materia medica, natural history, and botany, in the university of pennsylvania. volume i. price, in boards, dollars. _a system of surgery_. by _benjamin bell_, member of the royal colleges of surgeons of edinburgh and ireland, &c. &c. vols. vo. price dollars. _a treatise on the fevers of jamaica_, with some observations on the intermitting fever of america; and an appendix, containing some hints on the means of preserving the health of soldiers in hot climates. by _robert jackson_, m. d. * * * * * in the press, _the philadelphia medical and physical journal._ part i. vol. ii. * * * * * transcriber's note: the original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been maintained. obvious misprints have been corrected. partly repeated chapter headings have been deleted. generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/b _ project gutenberg has the other three volumes of this work. volume i: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ volume ii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ volume iv: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ transcriber's note: the ligature oe has been marked as [oe]. text in italics has been enclosed by underscores (_text_). the symbol hand pointing has been marked as [hand]. medical inquiries and observations. by benjamin rush, m. d. professor of the institutes and practice of medicine, and of clinical practice, in the university of pennsylvania. in four volumes. vol. iii. the second edition, revised and enlarged by the author. philadelphia, published by j. conrad & co. chesnut-street, philadelphia; m. & j. conrad & co. market-street, baltimore; rapin, conrad, & co. washington; somervell & conrad, petersburg; and bonsal, conrad, & co. norfolk. printed by t. & g. palmer, , high-street. . * * * * * contents of volume iii. _page_ _outlines of a theory of fever_ _an account of the bilious yellow fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in _ _an account of the bilious yellow fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in _ _an account of sporadic cases of bilious yellow fever, as they appeared in philadelphia in and _ * * * * * outlines of a _theory of fever_. as many of the diseases which are the subjects of these volumes belong to the class of fevers, the following remarks upon their theory are intended to render the principles and language i have adopted, in the history of their causes, symptoms, and cure, intelligible to the reader. i am aware that this theory will suffer by being published in a detached state from the general view of the proximate cause of disease which i have taught in my lectures upon pathology, as well as from its being deprived of that support which it would receive from being accompanied with an account of the remedies for fever, and the times and manner of exhibiting them, all of which would have served to illustrate and establish the facts and reasonings which are to follow upon this difficult and interesting inquiry. i shall not attempt to give a definition of fever. it appears in so many different forms, that a just view of it can only be given in a minute detail of all its symptoms and states. in order to render the theory, which i am about to deliver, more simple and intelligible, it will be necessary to premise a few general propositions. i. fevers of all kinds are preceded by general debility. this debility is natural or accidental. the former is the effect of the sanguineous temperament, and exists at all times in many constitutions. the latter is induced, . by such preternatural or unusual stimuli, as, after first elevating the excitement of the system above its healthy grade, and thereby wasting a part of its strength, or what dr. brown calls excitability, and darwin sensorial power, afterwards reduces it down to that state which i shall call debility of action. or, . it is induced by such an abstraction of natural stimuli as to reduce the system _below_ its healthy grade of excitement, and thereby to induce what dr. brown calls _direct_ debility, but what i shall call debility from abstraction. this general debility is the same, whether brought on by the former or the latter causes. when induced by the latter, the system becomes more excitable than when induced by the former causes, and hence an attack of fever is more frequently invited by it, than by that state of debility which succeeds the application of an undue portion of stimulating powers. to this there is an exception, and that is, when the remote causes of fever act with so much force and rapidity as _suddenly_ to depress the system, without an intermediate elevation of it, and before sufficient time is given to expend any part of its strength or excitability, or to produce the debility of action. the system in this state, is exactly similar to that which arises from a sudden reduction of its healthy excitement, by the abstraction of stimuli. this debility from abstraction, moreover, is upon a footing with the debility from action, when it is of a _chronic_ nature. they both alike expend so much of the quality or substance of excitability, as to leave the system in a state in which irritants are seldom able to excite the commotions of fever, and when they do, it is of a feeble nature, and hence we observe persons who have been long exposed to debilitating causes of both kinds, often escape fevers, while those who are _recently_ debilitated, are affected by them, under the same circumstances of exposure to those causes. that fevers are preceded by general debility i infer from their causes, all of which act by reducing the excitement of the system, by the abstraction of stimuli, or by their excessive or unusual application. the causes which operate in the former way are, . cold. this is universally acknowledged to be a predisposing cause of fever. that it debilitates, i infer, . from the languor which is observed in the inhabitants of cold countries, and from the weakness which is felt in labour or exercise in cold weather. . from the effects of experiments, which prove, that cold air and cold water lessen the force and frequency of the pulse. . the debilitating passions of fear, grief, and despair. . all excessive evacuations, whether by the bowels, blood-vessels, pores, or urinary passages. . famine, or the abstraction of the usual quantity of nourishing food. the causes which predispose to fever by the excessive or unusual application of stimuli are, . heat. hence the greater frequency of fevers in warm climates, and in warm weather. . intemperance in eating and drinking. . unusual labour or exercise. . violent emotions, and stimulating passions of the mind. . certain causes which act by over-stretching a part, or the whole of the body, such as lifting heavy weights, external violence acting mechanically in wounding, bruising, or compressing particular parts, extraneous substances acting by their bulk or gravity, burning, and the like[ ]. the influence of debility in predisposing to fevers is further evident from their attacking so often in the night, a time when the system is more weak than at any other, in the four and twenty hours. [ ] cullen's first lines. ii. debility being thus formed in the system, by the causes which have been enumerated, a _sudden_ accumulation of excitability takes place, whereby a predisposition is created to fever. the french writers have lately called this predisposition "vibratility," by which they mean a liableness in it to be thrown into vibrations or motions, from pre-existing debility. it is not always necessary that a fever should follow this state of predisposition. many people pass days and weeks under it, without being attacked by a fever, by carefully or accidentally avoiding the application of additional stimuli or irritants to their bodies: but the space between this state of predisposition, when it is recent, and a fever, is a very small one; for, independently of additional stimuli, the common impressions which support life sometimes become irritants, and readily add another link to the chain of causes which induce fever, and that is, iii. depression of the whole system, or what dr. brown calls indirect debility. it manifests itself in weakness of the limbs, inability to stand or walk without pain, or a sense of fatigue, a dry, cool, or cold skin, chilliness, a shrinking of the hands and face, and a weak or quick pulse. these symptoms characterize what i have called in my lectures the forming state of fever. it is not necessary that a paroxysm of fever should follow this depressed state of the system, any more than the debility that has been described. many people, by rest, or by means of gentle remedies, prevent its formation; but where these are neglected, and the action of stimuli, whether morbid or natural, are continued, iv. re-action is induced, and in this re-action, according to its greater or less force and extent, consist the different degrees of fever. it is of an irregular or a _convulsive_ nature. in common cases, it is seated primarily in the blood-vessels, and particularly in the arteries. these pervade every part of the body. they terminate upon its whole surface, in which i include the lungs and alimentary canal, as well as the skin. they are the outposts of the system, in consequence of which they are most exposed to cold, heat, intemperance, and all the other external and internal, remote and exciting causes of fever, and are first roused into resistance by them. let it not be thought, from these allusions, that i admit dr. cullen's supposed vires naturæ medicatrices to have the least agency in this re-action of the blood-vessels. i believe it to be altogether the effect of their elastic and muscular texture, and that it is as simply mechanical as motion from impressions upon other kinds of matter. that the blood-vessels possess muscular fibres, and that their irritability or disposition to motion depends upon them, has been demonstrated by dr. vasschuer and mr. john hunter, by many experiments. it has since been proved by spallanzani, in an attempt to refute it. even dr. haller, who denies the muscularity and irritability of the blood-vessels, implies an assent to them in the following words: "there are nerves which descend for a long way together through the surface of the artery, and at last vanish in the cellular substance of the vessel, of which we have a specimen in the external and internal carotids, and in the arch of the aorta; and from these do not the arteries seem to derive a muscular and convulsive force very different from that of their simple elasticity? does not it show itself plainly in _fevers_, faintings, palsies, consumptions, and passions of the mind[ ]?" [ ] first lines, sect. of the chapter on arteries. the re-action or morbid excitement of the arteries discovers itself in preternatural force, or frequency in their pulsations. in _ordinary_ fever, it is _equally_ diffused throughout the whole sanguiferous system, for the heart and arteries are so intimately connected, that, like the bells of the jewish high-priest, when one of them is touched, they all vibrate in unison with each other. to this remark there are some exceptions. . the arteries are sometimes affected with great morbid excitement, while the natural functions of the heart are unimpaired. this occurs in those states of fever in which patients are able to sit up, and even to walk about, as in pulmonary consumption, and in hectic fever from all its causes. . the heart and pulmonary artery are sometimes affected with great morbid excitement, while the pulsations of the arteries on the wrists are perfectly natural. . the morbid excitement of the arteries is sometimes greater on one side of the body than on the other. this is obvious in the difference in the number and force of the pulsations in the different arms, and in the different and opposite appearances of the blood drawn from their veins, under equal circumstances. . the arteries in the head, lungs, and abdominal viscera are sometimes excited in a high degree, while the arteries in the extremities exhibit marks of a feeble morbid action. fevers attended with these and other deviations from their common phenomena, have been called by dr. alibert, _altaxiques_. they occur most frequently in malignant fevers. while morbid excitement thus pervades generally or partially the sanguiferous system, depression and debility are increased in the alimentary canal, and in the nervous and muscular systems. in the stomach, bowels, and muscles, this debility is occasioned by their excitement being abstracted, and translated to the blood-vessels. i shall now endeavour to illustrate the propositions which have been delivered, by taking notice of the manner in which fevers are produced by some of its most obvious and common causes. has the body been debilitated by exposure to the cold air? its excitability is thereby increased, and heat acts upon it with an accumulated force: hence the frequency of catarrhs, pleurisies, and other inflammatory fevers in the spring, after a cold winter; and of bilious remittents in the autumn, when warm days succeed to cold and damp nights. these diseases are seldom felt for the first time in the open air, but generally after the body has been exposed to cold, and afterwards to the heat of a warm room or a warm bed. mild intermittents have frequently been observed to acquire an inflammatory type in the pennsylvania hospital, in the months of november and december, from the heat of the stove rooms acting upon bodies previously debilitated and rendered excitable by cold and disease. has there been an abstraction of heat by a sudden shifting of the wind from the south-west to the north-west or north-east points of the compass, or by a cold night succeeding to a warm day? a fever is thereby frequently excited. these sources of fever occur every autumn in philadelphia. the miasmata which exist in the body at that time in a harmless state, are excited into action, in a manner to be mentioned presently, by the debility from cold, aided in the latter case by the inaction of sleep, suddenly induced upon the system. again: has the body been _suddenly_ debilitated by labour or exercise? its excitement is thereby diminished, but its excitability is increased in such a manner that a full meal, or an intemperate glass of wine, if taken _immediately_ after the fatigue is induced upon the body, excites a fever: hence the frequency of fevers in persons upon their return from hunting, surveying, long rides, or from a camp life. but how shall we account for the production of fever from the measles and small-pox, which attack so uniformly, and without predisposing debility from any of its causes which have been enumerated? i answer, that the contagions of those diseases seldom act so as to produce fever, until the system is first depressed. this is obvious from their being preceded by languor, and all the other symptoms formerly mentioned, which constitute the forming state of fever. the miasmata which induce the plague and yellow fever, when they are not preceded by the usual debilitating and predisposing causes, generally induce the same depression of the system, previously to their exciting fever. even wounds, and other local irritants seldom induce fever before they have first produced the symptoms of depression formerly mentioned. i shall presently mention the exceptions to this mode of producing fever from contagious miasmata and local injuries, and show that they do not militate against the truth of the general proposition that has been delivered. it may serve still further to throw light upon this part of our subject to take notice of the difference between the action of stimuli upon the body predisposed by debility and excitability to fever, and their action upon it when there is no such predisposition to fever. in health there is a constant and just proportion between the degrees of excitement and excitability, and the force of stimuli. but this is not the case in a predisposition to a fever. the ratio between the action of stimuli and excitement, and excitability is destroyed; and hence the former act upon the latter with a force which produces irregular action, or a convulsion in the arterial system. when the body is debilitated, and its excitability increased, either by fear, darkness, or silence, a sudden noise occasions a short convulsion. we awake, in like manner, in a light convulsion, from the sudden opening of a door, or from the sprinkling of a few drops of water in the face, after the excitability of the system has been accumulated by a night's sleep. in a word, it seems to be a law of the system, that stimulus, in an over-proportion to excitability, either produces convulsion, or goes so far beyond it, as to destroy motion altogether in death. v. there is but one exciting cause of fever, and that is stimulus. heat, alternating with cold[ ], marsh and human miasmata, contagions and poisons of all kinds, intemperance, passions of the mind, bruises, burns, and the like, all act by a stimulating power only, in producing fever. this proposition is of great application, inasmuch as it cuts the sinews of the division of diseases from their remote causes. thus it establishes the sameness of a pleurisy, whether it be excited by heat succeeding cold, or by the contagions of the small-pox and measles, or by the miasmata of the yellow fever. [ ] perhaps there is no greater enemy to the life of man than cold. dr. sydenham ascribes nearly all fevers to it, particularly to leaving off winter clothes too soon, and to exposing the body to cold after it has been heated. these sources of fever, he adds, destroy more than the plague, sword, or famine.--_wallis's edition, vol. i. p. ._ to this proposition there is a seeming objection. cold, sleep, immoderate evacuations, and the debilitating passions of grief and fear (all of which abstract excitement) appear to induce fever without the interposition of a stimulus. in all these cases, the _sudden_ abstraction of excitement destroys the equilibrium of the system, by which means the blood is diverted from its natural channels, and by acting with preternatural force in its new directions, becomes an irritant to the blood-vessels, and thus a stimulating and exciting cause of fever. when it is induced by cold alone, it is probable so much of the perspirable matter may be retained as to co-operate, by its irritating qualities, in exciting the fever. vi. there is but one fever. however different the predisposing, remote, or exciting causes of fever may be, whether debility from abstraction or action, whether heat or cold succeeding to each other, whether marsh or human miasmata, whether intemperance, a fright, or a fall, still i repeat, there can be but one fever. i found this proposition upon all the supposed variety of fevers having but one proximate cause. thus fire is a unit, whether it be produced by friction, percussion, electricity, fermentation, or by a piece of wood or coal in a state of inflammation. vii. all ordinary fever being seated in the blood-vessels, it follows, of course, that all those local affections we call pleurisy, angina, phrenitis, internal dropsy of the brain, pulmonary consumption, and inflammation of the liver, stomach, bowels, and limbs, are symptoms only of an original and primary disease in the sanguiferous system. the truth of this proposition is obvious from the above local affections succeeding primary fever, and from their alternating so frequently with each other. i except from this remark those cases of primary affections of the viscera which are produced by local injuries, and which, after a while, bring the whole sanguiferous system into sympathy. these cases are uncommon, amounting, probably, to not more than one in a hundred of all the cases of local affection which occur in general fever. in my th proposition i have called the action of the arteries _irregular_ in fever, to distinguish it from that excess of action which takes place after violent exercise, and from that quickness which accompanies fear or any other directly debilitating cause. the action of the arteries here is _regular_, and, when felt in the pulse, affords a very different sensation from that _jerking_ which we feel in the pulse of a patient labouring under a fever. this irregular action is, in other words, a _convulsion_ in the sanguiferous, but more obviously, in the arterial system. that this is the case i infer from the strict analogy between symptoms of fever, and convulsions in the nervous system. i shall briefly mention the particulars in which this analogy takes place. . are convulsions in the nervous system preceded by debility? so is the convulsion of the blood-vessels in fever. . does debility induced on the whole, or on a part only, of the nervous system, predispose to general convulsions, as in tetanus? so we observe debility, whether it be induced on the whole or on a part of the arterial system, predisposes to general fever. this is obvious in the fever which ensues alike from cold applied to every part of the body, or from a stream of cold air falling upon the neck, or from the wetting of the feet. . do tremors precede convulsions in the nervous system? so they do the convulsion of the blood-vessels in fever. . is a coldness in the extremities a precursor of convulsions in the nervous system? so it is of fever. . do convulsions in the nervous system impart a jerking sensation to the fingers? so does the convulsion of fever in the arteries, when felt at the wrists. . are convulsions in the nervous system attended with alternate action and remission? so is the convulsion of fever. . do convulsions in the nervous system return at regular and irregular periods? so does fever. . do convulsions in the nervous system, under certain circumstances, affect the functions of the brain? so do certain states of fever. . are there certain convulsions in the nervous system which affect the limbs, without affecting the functions of the brain, such as tetanus, and chorea sancti viti? so there are certain fevers, particularly the common hectic, which seldom produces delirium, or even head-ach, and frequently does not confine a patient to his bed. . are there local convulsions in the nervous system, as in the hands, feet, neck, and eye-lids? so there are local fevers. intermittents often appear in the autumn with periodical heat and pains in the eyes, ears, jaws, and back. . are there certain grades in the convulsions of the nervous system, as appears in the hydrophobia, tetanus, epilepsy, hysteria, and hypochondriasis? so there are grades in fevers, as in the plague, yellow fever, small-pox, rheumatism, and common remitting and intermitting fevers. . are nervous convulsions most apt to occur in infancy? so are fevers. . are persons once affected with nervous convulsions frequently subject to them through life? so are persons once affected with fever. the intermitting fever often returns with successive springs or autumns, and, in spite of the bark, sometimes continues for many years in all climates and seasons. . is the strength of the nervous system increased by convulsions? this is so evident that it often requires four or five persons to confine a delicate woman to her bed in a convulsive fit. in like manner the strength of the arterial system is increased in a fever. this strength is great in proportion to the weakness of every other part of the body. . do we observe certain nervous convulsions to affect some parts of the nervous system more than others, or, in other words, do we observe preternatural strength or excitement to exist in one part of the nervous system, while other parts of the same system exhibit marks of preternatural weakness or defect of excitement? we observe the same thing in the blood-vessels in a fever. the pulse at the wrist is often _tense_, while the force of the heart is very much diminished. a delirium often occurs in a fever from excess of excitement in the blood-vessels of the brain, while the pulse at the wrist exhibits every mark of preternatural weakness. . is there a rigidity of the muscles in certain nervous diseases, as in catalepsy? something like this solstice in convulsion occurs in that state of fever in which the pulse beats but sixty, or fewer strokes in a minute. . do convulsions go off _gradually_ from the nervous system, as in tetanus, and chorea sancti viti? so they do from the arterial blood-vessels in certain states of fever. . do convulsions go off _suddenly_ in any cases from the nervous system? the convulsion in the blood-vessels goes off in the same manner by a sweat, or by a hæmorrhage, frequently in the course of a night, and sometimes in a single hour. . does palsy in some instances succeed to convulsions in the nervous system? something like a palsy occurs in fevers of great inflammatory action in the arteries. they are often inactive in the wrists, and in other parts of the body, from the immense pressure of the remote cause of the fever upon them. from the facts and analogies which have been mentioned, i have been led to conclude that the common forms of fever are occasioned simply by irregular action, or convulsion in the blood-vessels. the history of the phenomena of fever, as delivered in the foregoing pages, resolves itself into a chain, consisting of the five following links. . debility from action, or the abstraction of stimuli. when this debility is induced by action, it is sometimes preceded by elevated excitement in the blood-vessels, from the first impressions of stimuli upon them. . an increase of their excitability. . stimulating powers applied to them. . depression. and, . irregular action or convulsion. the whole of the links of this chain are perceptible only when the fever comes on in a _gradual_ manner. but i wish the reader to remember, that the same remote cause is often debilitating, stimulating, and depressing, and that, in certain fevers, the remote cause sometimes excites convulsions in the blood-vessels without being preceded by preternatural debility and excitability, and with but little or no depression of the system. this has often been observed in persons who have been suddenly exposed to those marsh and human miasmata which produce malignant fevers. it sometimes takes place likewise in fevers induced by local injuries. the blood-vessels in these cases are, as it were, taken by storm, instead of regular approaches. i might digress here, and show that all diseases, whether they be seated in the arteries, muscles, nerves, brain, or alimentary canal, are all preceded by debility; and that their essence consists in irregular action, or in the absence of the natural order of motion, produced or invited by predisposing debility. i might further show, that all the moral, as well as physical evil of the world consists in predisposing weakness, and in subsequent derangement of action or motion; but these collateral subjects are foreign to our present inquiry. let us now proceed to examine how far the theory which has been delivered accords with the phenomena of fever. i shall divide these phenomena into two kinds. i. such as are transient, and more or less common to all fevers. these i shall call _symptoms_ of fever. ii. such as, being more permanent and fixed, have given rise to certain specific names. these i shall call _states_ of fever. i shall endeavour to explain and describe each of them in the order in which they have been mentioned. i. lassitude is the effect of the depression of the whole system, which precedes fever. the same cause, when it acts upon the extremities of the blood-vessels, produces coldness and chills. this is obvious to any person, under the first impression of the miasmata which bring on fevers, also under the influence of fatigue, and debilitating passions of the mind. the absence of chills indicates the sensibility of the external parts of the body to be suspended or destroyed, as well as their irritability; hence when death occurs in the fit of an intermittent, there is no chill. a chilly fit, for the same reason, seldom occurs in the most malignant cases of fever. it is sometimes excited by blood-letting, only because it weakens those fevers to such a degree, as to carry the blood-vessels back to the grade of depression. coldness and chills are likewise removed by blood-letting, only because it enables the arteries to re-act in such a manner as to overcome the depression that induced it. it has been remarked, that the chilly fit, in common fevers, seldom appears in its full force until the patient approaches a fire, or lies down on a warm bed; for in these situations sensibility is restored by the stimulus of the heat acting upon the extremities of the blood-vessels. the first impressions of the rays of the sun, in like manner, often produce coldness and chills in the torpid bodies of old and weakly people. tremors are the natural consequence of the abstraction of that support which the muscles receive from the fulness and tension of the blood-vessels. it is from this retreat of the blood towards the viscera, that the capillary arteries lose their fulness and tension; hence they contract like other soft tubes that are emptied of their contents. this contraction has been called a spasm, and has improperly been supposed to be the proximate cause of fever. from the explanation that has been given of its cause, it appears, like the coldness and chills, to be nothing but an accidental concomitant, or effect of a paroxysm of fever. the local pains in the head, breast, and bones in fever, appear to be the effects of the irregular determination of the blood to those parts, and to morbid action being thereby induced in them. the want of appetite and costiveness are the consequences of a defect of secretion of the gastric juice, and the abstraction of excitement or natural action from the stomach and bowels. the inability to rise out of bed, and to walk, is the effect of the abstraction of excitement from the muscles of the lower limbs. the dry skin or partial sweats appear to depend upon diminished or partial action in the vessels which terminate on the surface of the body. the high-coloured and pale urine are occasioned by an excess or a deficiency of excitement in the secretory vessels of the kidneys. the suppression of the urine seems to arise from what dr. clark calls an engorgement, or choaking of the vessels of the kidneys. it occurs most frequently in malignant fevers. thirst is probably the effect of a preternatural excitement of the vessels of the fauces. it is by no means a uniform symptom of fever. we sometimes observe it, in the highest degree, in the last stage of diseases, induced by the retreat of the last remains of excitement from every part of the body, to the throat. the white tongue is produced by a change in the secretion which takes place in that organ. its yellow colour is the effect of bile; its dryness is occasioned by an obstruction of secretion, or by the want of action in the absorbents; and its dark and black colour, by a tendency to mortification. it will be difficult to account for the variety in the degrees and locality of _heat_ in the body in a fever, until we know more of the cause of animal heat. from whatever cause it be derived, its excess and deficiency, as well as all its intermediate degrees, are intimately connected with more or less excitement in the arterial system. it is not necessary that this excitement should exist only in the large blood-vessels. it will be sufficient for the purpose of creating great heat, if it occur only in the cutaneous vessels; hence we find a hot skin in some cases of malignant fever in which there is an absence of pulse. eruptions seem to depend upon effusions of serum, lymph, or red blood upon the skin, with or without inflammation, in the cutaneous vessels. i decline taking notice in this place of the symptoms which are produced by the debility from action and abstraction, and by the depression of the system. they appear not only in the temperature of the body, but in all the different symptoms of fever. it is of importance to know when they originate from the former, and when from the latter causes, as they sometimes require very different and opposite remedies to remove them. it remains only to explain the cause why excess in the force or frequency of the action of the blood-vessels should succeed debility in a part, or in the whole of the body, and be connected for days and weeks with depression and preternatural debility in the nerves, brain, muscles, and alimentary canal. i shall attempt the explanation of this phenomenon by directing the attention of the reader to the operations of nature in other parts of her works. . a calm may be considered as a state of debility in the atmosphere. it predisposes to a current of air. but is this current proportioned to the loss of the equilibrium of the air? by no means. it is excessive in its force, and tends thereby to destroy the works both of nature and art. . the passions are given to man on purpose to aid the slow and uncertain operations of reason. but is their action always proportioned to the causes which excite them? an acute pneumony, brought on by the trifling injury done to the system by the fatigue and heat of an evening spent in a dancing assembly, is but a faint representation of the immense disproportion between a trifling affront, and that excess of passion which seeks for gratification in poison, assassination, or a duel. the same disproportion appears between cause and effect in public bodies. a hasty word, of no mischievous influence, has often produced convulsions, and even revolutions, in states and empires. if we return to the human body we shall find in it many other instances of the disproportion between stimulus and action, besides that which takes place in the excitement of fever. . a single castor oil nut, although rejected by the stomach upon its first effort in vomiting, has, in one instance that came within my knowledge, produced a vomiting that continued nearly four and twenty hours. here the duration of action was far beyond all kind of proportion to the cause which excited it. . a grain of sand, after being washed from the eye, is often followed by such an inflammation or excess in the action of the vessels of the eye, as to require bleeding, purging, and blistering to remove it. could we comprehend every part of the sublime and ineffable system of the divine government, i am sure we should discover nothing in it but what tended ultimately to order. but the natural, moral, and political world exhibit every where marks of disorder, and the instruments of this disorder, are the operations of nature. her influence is most obvious in the production of diseases, and in her hurtful or ineffectual efforts to remove them[ ]. in again glancing at this subject i wish it to be remembered that those operations were not originally the means of injuring or seducing man, and that i believe a time will come when the exact relation, between cause and effect, or, in other words, the dominion of order shall be restored over every action of his body and mind, and health and happiness again be the result of every movement of nature. [ ] see the comparative view of the diseases of the indians and of civilized nations. vol. i. from the view i have given of the state of the blood-vessels in fever, the reader will perceive the difference between my opinions and dr. brown's upon this subject. the doctor supposes a fever to consist in debility. i do not admit debility to be a disease, but place it wholly in morbid excitement, invited and fixed by previous debility. he makes a fever to consist in a change only of a _natural_ action of the blood-vessels. i maintain that it consists in a _preternatural_ and convulsive action of the blood-vessels. lastly, dr. brown supposes excitement and excitability to be _equally_ diffused over the whole body, but in unhealthy proportions to each other. my theory places fever in excitement and excitability _unequally_ diffused, manifesting themselves, at the _same time_, in morbid actions, depression, and debility from abstraction, in different parts of the body. no new excitement from without is infused into the system by the irritants which excite a fever. they only destroy its equal and natural distribution; for while the arteries are in a plus, the muscles, stomach, and bowels are in a minus state of excitement, and the business of medicine is to equalize it in the cure of fever, that is, to abstract its excess from the blood-vessels, and to restore it to the other parts of the body. ii. i come now to apply the theory which i have delivered to the explanation and description of the different phenomena or states of fever. i have said in my sixth proposition that there is but one fever. of course i do not admit of its artificial division into genera and species. a disease which so frequently changes its form and place, should never have been designated, like plants and animals, by unchangeable characters. the oak tree and the lion possess exactly the same properties which they did nearly years ago. but who can say the same thing of any one disease? the pulmonary consumption is sometimes transformed into head-ach, rheumatism, diarrh[oe]a, and mania, in the course of two or three months, or the same number of weeks. the bilious fever often appears in the same person in the form of colic, dysentery, inflammation of the liver, lungs, and brain, in the course of five or six days. the hypochondriasis and the hysteria seldom fail to exchange their symptoms twice in the four and twenty hours. again: the oak tree has not united with any of the trees of the forest, nor has the lion imparted his specific qualities to any other animal. but who can apply similar remarks to any one disease? phrenitis, gastritis, enteritis, nephritis, and rheumatism all appear at the same time in the gout and yellow fever. many observations of the same kind might be made, to show the disposition of nearly all other diseases to anastomose with each other. to describe them therefore by any fixed or specific characters is as impracticable as to measure the dimensions of a cloud on a windy day, or to fix the component parts of water by weighing it in a hydrostatic balance. much mischief has been done by nosological arrangements of diseases. they erect imaginary boundaries between things which are of a homogeneous nature. they degrade the human understanding, by substituting simple perceptions to its more dignified operations in judgment and reasoning. they gratify indolence in a physician, by fixing his attention upon the name of a disease, and thereby leading him to neglect the varying state of the system. they moreover lay a foundation for disputes among physicians, by diverting their attention from the simple, predisposing, and proximate, to the numerous, remote, and exciting causes of diseases, or to their more numerous and complicated effects. the whole materia medica is infected with the baneful consequences of the nomenclature of diseases, for every article in it is pointed only against their names, and hence the origin of the numerous contradictions among authors who describe the virtues and doses of the same medicines. by the rejection of the artificial arrangement of diseases, a revolution must follow in medicine. observation and judgment will take the place of reading and memory, and prescriptions will be conformed to existing circumstances. the road to knowledge in medicine by this means will likewise be shortened; so that a young man will be able to qualify himself to practise physic at as much less expence of time and labour than formerly, as a child would learn to read and write by the help of the roman alphabet, instead of chinese characters. in thus rejecting the nosologies of the schools, i do not wish to see them banished from the libraries of physicians. when consulted as histories of the effects of diseases only, they may still be useful. i use the term diseases, in conformity to custom, for, properly speaking, disease is much a unit as fever. it consists simply of morbid action or excitement in some part of the body. its different seats and degrees should no more be multiplied into different diseases, than the numerous and different effects of heat and light upon our globe should be multiplied into a plurality of suns. the advocates for dr. cullen's system of medicine will not, i hope, be offended by these observations. his immense stock of reputation will enable him to sustain the loss of his nosology without being impoverished by it. in my attempts to introduce a new arrangement of fevers, i shall only give a new direction to his efforts to improve the healing art. were it compatible with the subject of the present inquiry, it would be easy to show, that the same difficulties and evils are to be expected from dr. darwin's division of diseases, as they affect the organs of sensation and motion, and as they are said to be exclusively related by association and volition, that have been deprecated from their divisions and subdivisions by the nosologists. diseases, like vices, with a few exceptions, are necessarily undisciplined and irregular. even the genius of dr. darwin has not been able to compel them to move within lines. i return from this digression to remark that morbid action in the blood-vessels, whether it consist in preternatural force and frequency, or preternatural force without frequency, or frequency without force, constitutes fever. excess in the force and frequency in the pulsations of the arteries have been considered as the characteristic marks of what is called inflammatory fever. there are, however, symptoms which indicate a much greater excess of irritating impressions upon the blood-vessels. these are preternatural slowness, intermissions, and depression in the pulse, such as occur in certain malignant fevers. but there is a grade of fever, which transcends in force that which produces inflammation. it occurs frequently in hydrophobia, dysentery, colic, and, baron humboldt lately informed me, upon the authority of dr. comoto, of vera cruz, in the yellow fever of that city, when it proves fatal in a few hours after it attacks. in vain have physicians sought to discover, by dissections, the cause of fever in those cases, when followed by death, in the parts of the body in which it was supposed, from pain and other symptoms, to be principally seated. those parts have frequently exhibited no marks of inflammation, nor of the least deviation from a healthy state. i have ascribed this apparent absence of disease to the serous vessels being too highly excited, and thereby too much contracted, to admit the entrance of red blood into them. i wish these remarks to be remembered by the student of medicine. they have delivered me from the influence of several errors in pathology; and they are capable, if properly extended and applied, of leading to many important deductions in the practice of physic. i shall now briefly mention the usual effects of fever, or morbid excitement in the blood-vessels, when not removed by medicine. they are, . inflammation. it is produced by an effusion of red particles of blood into serous vessels, constituting what dr. boerhaave calls error loci. it is the second grade of fever, and, in fevers of great violence, does not take place until morbid excitement has continued for some time, or has been reduced by bleeding. . secretion, or an effusion from rupture, of the serum of the blood, constituting dropsies. . secretion of lymph or fibrin, forming a membrane which adheres to certain surfaces in the body. . secretion of pus, also of sloughs. . an effusion by rupture, or a congestion of all the component parts of the blood. . gangrene from the death of the blood-vessels. . rupture of blood-vessels, producing hæmorrhage. . redness, phlegmon, pustules, and petechiæ on the skin, and tubercles in the lungs, and on the liver and bowels. . schirrus. . calcareous and other earthy matters. both these take place only in the feeble and often imperceptible grades of morbid action in the blood-vessels. . death. this arises from the following causes. . sudden destruction of the excitability of the blood-vessels. . a disorganization of parts immediately necessary to life. . a change in the fluids, so as to render them destructive to what are called the vital organs. . debility, from the exhausted or suspended state of the excitability of the blood-vessels. all these effects of fever are different according to its grade. dr. blane says fevers are rarely inflammatory in the west-indies; that is, they pass rapidly from simple morbid excitement to congestion, hæmorrhage, gangrene, and death. this remark is confirmed by dr. dalzelle, who says the pneumony in the negroes, in the french west-india islands, rarely appears in any other form than that of the notha, from the arteries in the lungs being too much stimulated to produce common inflammation; but such is the force of morbid excitement in hot climates, that it sometimes passes suddenly over all its intermediate effects, and discovers itself only in death. this appears to have taken place in the cases at vera cruz, mentioned by baron humboldt. all the different states of fever may be divided, i. into such as affect the whole arterial system; but with no, or very little local disease. ii. into such as affect the whole arterial system, and are accompanied at the same time with evident local disease. iii. into such as appear to pass by the arterial system, and to fix themselves upon other parts of the body. i shall call these states of fever _misplaced_. i. to the first class of the states of fever belong, . the malignant. it constitutes the highest grade of morbid diathesis. it is known by attacking frequently without a chilly fit, by coma, a depressed, slow, or intermitting pulse, and sometimes by the absence of pain, and with a natural temperature or coldness of the skin. it occurs in the plague, in the yellow fever, in the gout, in the small-pox and measles, in the hydrophobia, and after taking opium and other stimulating substances. dr. quier has described a pleurisy in jamaica, in which some of those malignant symptoms took place. they are the effect of such a degree of impression as to prostrate the arterial system, and to produce a defect of action from an excess of force. such is this excess of force, in some instances, in this state of fever, that it induces general convulsions, tetanus, and palsy, and sometimes extinguishes life in a few hours, by means of apoplexy or syncope. from its being accompanied with these symptoms, it has received the name of _adynamique_ by dr. alibert. the less violent degrees of stimulus in this state of fever produce palsy in the blood-vessels. it probably begins in the veins, and extends gradually to the arteries. it seems further to begin in the extremities of the arteries, and to extend by degrees to their origin in the heart. this is evident in the total absence of pulse which sometimes takes place in malignant fevers, four and twenty, and even eight and forty hours before death. but there are cases in which this palsy affects both the veins and arteries at the same time. it is probably from this simultaneous affection of the blood-vessels, that the arteries are found to be nearly full of blood after death from malignant fevers. the depressed, and intermitting pulse which occurs in the beginning of these fevers perhaps depends upon a tendency to palsy in the arteries, independently of an affection of the heart or brain. this _prostrate_ state of fever more frequently when left to itself terminates in petechiæ, buboes, carbuncles, abscesses, and mortifications, according as serum, lymph, or red blood is effused in the viscera or external parts of the body. these morbid appearances have been ascribed to putrefaction, and the fever has received, from its supposed presence, the name of putrid. the existence of putrefaction in the blood in a fever is rendered improbable, . by dr. seybert's experiments[ ], which prove that it does not take place in the blood in a living state. it occurs in the excretions of bile, fæces, and urine, but in this case it does not act as a ferment, but a stimulus only upon the living body. [ ] inaugural dissertation, entitled, "an attempt to disprove the putrefaction of the blood in living animals." . by similar appearances, with those which have been ascribed to putrefaction, having been produced by lightning, by violent emotions of the mind, by extreme pain, and by every thing else which induces sudden and universal disorganization in the fluids and solids of the body. the following facts clearly prove that the symptoms which have been supposed to designate a putrid fever, are wholly the effect of mechanical action in the blood-vessels, and are unconnected with the introduction of a putrid ferment in the blood. hippocrates relates the case of a certain antiphillus, in whom a putrid bilious fever (as he calls it) was brought on by the application of a caustic to a wound[ ]. [ ] epidemics, book iv. an acute pain in the eye, dr. physick informed me, produced the symptoms of what is called a putrid fever, which terminated in death in five days, in st. george's hospital, in the year . dr. baynard relates, upon the authority of a colonel bampfield, that a stag, which he had chased for some time, stopped at a brook of water in order to drink. soon afterwards it fell and expired. the colonel cut its throat, and was surprised to perceive the blood which issued from it had a putrid and offensive smell[ ]. dr. desportes takes notice that a fish, which he calls a sucker, affected the system nearly in the same manner as the miasmata of the yellow fever. a distressing vomiting, a coldness of the extremities, and an absence of pulse, were some of the symptoms produced by it, and an inflammation and mortification of the stomach and bowels, were discovered after death to be the effects of its violent operation. even opium, in large doses, sometimes produces by its powerful stimulus the same symptoms which are produced by the stimulus of marsh miasmata. these symptoms are a slow pulse, coma, a vomiting, cold sweats, a sallow colour of the face, and a suppression of the discharges by the urinary passages and bowels. error is often perpetuated by words. a belief in the putrefaction of the blood has done great mischief in medicine. the evil is kept up, under the influence of new theories, by the epithet putrid, which is still applied to fever in all our medical books. for which reason i shall reject it altogether hereafter, and substitute in its room. [ ] treatise on the cold bath. . the _gangrenous_ state of fever; for what appear to some physicians to be signs of putrefaction, are nothing but the issue of a violent inflammation left in the hands of nature, or accelerated by stimulating medicines. thus the sun, when viewed at mid-day, appears to the naked eye, from the excess of its splendour, to be a mass of darkness, instead of an orb of light. the same explanation of what are called putrid symptoms in fever, is very happily delivered by mr. hunter in the following words: "it is to be observed (says this acute physiologist) that when the attack upon these organs, which are principally connected with life, proves fatal, that the effects of the inflammation upon the constitution run through all the stages with more rapidity than when it happens in other parts; so that at its very beginning, it has the same effect upon the constitution which is only produced by the second stage of inflammation in other parts[ ]." [ ] treatise on inflammation. chap. i. . . the _synocha_, or the common inflammatory state of fever, attacks suddenly with chills, and is succeeded by a quick, frequent, and tense pulse, great heat, thirst, and pains in the bones, joints, breast, or sides. these symptoms sometimes occur in the plague, the jail and yellow fever, and the small-pox; but they are the more common characteristics of pleurisy, gout, and rheumatism. they now and then occur in the influenza, the measles, and the puerperile fever. . the _synochus_ state of fever is known by a full, quick, and round pulse without tension. the autumnal bilious fever and colic, also the gout, often appear in this form. . there is a state of fever in which the pulse is small, but tense and quick. the patient, in this state of fever, is seldom confined to his bed. we observe it sometimes in the chronic rheumatism, and in pulmonary consumption. the inflammatory state of this grade of fever is proved from the inefficacy of the volatile tincture of guaiacum and other stimulants to remove it, and from its yielding so suddenly to blood-letting. i have called it the _synochula_ state of fever. . there is a state of fever inclining more to the synocha, than what is called the typhus, or low chronic state of fever. i have called it the _synochoid_ state of fever. . the _typhus_ state of fever is generally preceded by all those circumstances which debilitate the system, both by the action and abstraction of stimuli. it is known by a weak and frequent pulse, a disposition to sleep, a torpor of the alimentary canal, tremors of the hands, a dry tongue, and, in some instances, by a diarrh[oe]a. these symptoms occur most frequently in what is called the jail, the ship, and the hospital fever. i heard of it in a few cases in the yellow fever of , and all writers take notice of cases of the plague, which run on into a slow fever that continues or days. i have seen it succeed the common bilious fever, pleurisy, and influenza. it has been confounded with the malignant state of fever, or what is called the typhus gravior; but it differs widely from it in being accompanied by a feeble excitement in the blood-vessels, from a feeble stimulus, and by the usual signs of debility from abstraction in every other part of the body. from the accession of new stimuli, or an increase in the force of former ones, this typhus state of fever sometimes assumes, on the th, th, and even th days, the symptoms of the synocha state of fever. it will be useful to remember this remark, not only because it establishes the unity of fever, but because it will justify the use of a remedy, seldom prescribed after the disease has acquired that name which associates it with stimulating medicines. the common name of this state of fever, is the _nervous_ fever. this name is improper; for it invades the nervous system by pain, delirium, and convulsions much less than several other states of fever. to prevent the absurd and often fatal association of ideas upon the treatment of this state of fever, i have called it, from its duration, the _low chronic_ state of fever. i have adopted the term _low_, from dr. butter's account of the remitting fever of children, in order to distinguish it from states of fever to be mentioned hereafter, in which the patient is not confined to his bed. this new name of the typhus or nervous fever establishes its analogy with several other diseases. we have the acute and the chronic rheumatism; the acute and chronic pneumony, commonly called the pleurisy and pulmonary consumption; the acute and chronic inflammation of the brain, known unfortunately by the unrelated names of phrenitis, madness, and internal dropsy of the brain. why should we hesitate, in like manner, in admitting acute and chronic fever, in all those cases where no local inflammation attends? . the _typhoid_ state of fever is composed of the synocha and low chronic states of fever. it is the _slow_ nervous fever of dr. butter. the excitement of the blood-vessels is somewhat greater than in the _low_ chronic state of fever. perhaps the muscular fibres of the blood-vessels, in this state of fever, are affected by different degrees of stimulus and excitement. supposing a pulse to consist of eight cords, i think i have frequently felt more or less of them tense or relaxed, according as the fever partook more or less of the synocha, or low chronic states of fever. this state of fever occurs most frequently in what are called the hectic and puerperal fevers, and in the scarlatina. . the _hectic_ state of fever differs from all the other states of fever, by the want of regularity in its paroxysms, in which chills, fevers, and sweats are included; and by the brain, nerves, muscles, and alimentary canal being but little impaired in their functions by it. it appears to be an exclusive disease of the blood-vessels. it occurs in the pulmonary consumption, in some cases of lues, of scrophula, and of the gout, and after most of the states of fever which have been described. the force of the pulse is various, being occasionally synochoid, typhoid, and typhus. . intermissions, or the _intermitting_ and remitting states of fever, are common to all the states of fever which have been mentioned. but they occur most distinctly and universally in those which partake of the bilious diathesis. they have been ascribed to the reproduction of bile, to the recurrence of debility, and to the influence of the heavenly bodies upon the system. none of these hypotheses has explained the recurrence of fever, where the bile has not been in fault, where debility is uniform, and where the paroxysms of fever do not accord with the revolutions of any part of the solar system. i have endeavoured to account for the recurrence of the paroxysm of fever, in common with all other periodical diseases, by means of a natural or adventitious association of motions. dr. percival has glanced at this law of animal matter; and dr. darwin has explained by it, in the most ingenious manner, many natural and morbid actions in the human body. . there is a state of fever in which the morbid action of the blood-vessels is so feeble as scarcely to be perceptible. like the hectic state of fever, it seldom affects the brain, nerves, muscles, or alimentary canal. it is known in the southern states of america by the name of _inward_ fevers. the english physicians formerly described it by the name of febricula. these eleven states of fever may be considered as _primary_ in their nature. all the states which remain to be enumerated belong to some one of them, or they are compounds of two, three, or more of them. even these primary states of fever seldom appear in the simple form in which they have been described. they often blend their symptoms; and sometimes all the states appear at different times in the course of a fever. this departure from a uniformity in the character of fevers must be sought for in the changes of the weather, in the casual application of fresh irritants, or in the operation of the remedies which have been employed to cure them. to the first class of the states of fever belong the sweating, the fainting, the burning, and the cold and chilly states of fever. . the _sweating_ state of fever occurs in the plague, in the yellow fever, in the small-pox, the pleurisy, the rheumatism, and in the hectic and intermitting states of fever. profuse sweats appeared every other day in the autumnal fever of in philadelphia, without any other symptom of an intermittent. the english sweating sickness was nothing but a symptom of the plague. the sweats in all these cases are the effects of morbid and excessive action, concentrated in the capillary vessels. . the _fainting_ state of fever accompanies the plague, the yellow fever, the small-pox, and some states of pleurisy. it is the effect of great depression; hence it occurs most frequently in the beginning of those states of fever. . the _burning_ state of fever has given rise to what has been called a species of fever. it is the causus of authors. dr. mosely, who rejects the epithet of yellow, when applied to the bilious fever, because it is only one of its accidental symptoms, very improperly distinguishes the same fever by another symptom, viz. the burning heat of the skin, and which is not more universal than the yellowness which attends it. . the _cold_ and _chilly_ state of fever differs from a common chilly fit, by continuing four or five days, and to such a degree, that the patient frequently cannot bear his arms out of the bed. the coldness is most obstinate in the hands and feet. a _coolness_ only of the skin attends in some cases, which is frequently mistaken for an absence of fever. having mentioned those states of fever which affect the arterial system without any, or with but little local disease, i proceed next to enumerate those states of fever which belong to the ii. class of the order that was mentioned, in which there are local affections combined with general fever. they are, . the _intestinal_ state of fever. i have been anticipated in giving this epithet to fever, by dr. balfour[ ]. it includes the cholera morbus, diarrh[oe]a, dysentery, and colic. the remitting bilious fever appears, in all the above forms, in the summer months. they all belong to the febris introversa of dr. sydenham. the jail fever appears likewise frequently in the form of diarrh[oe]a and dysentery. the dysentery is the offspring of marsh and human miasmata, but it is often induced in a weak state of the bowels, by other exciting causes. the colic occasionally occurs with states of fever to be mentioned hereafter. [ ] account of the intestinal remitting fever of bengal. . the _pulmonary_ state of fever includes the true and bastard pneumony in their acute forms; also catarrh from cold and influenza, and the chronic form of pneumony in what is called pulmonary consumption. . the _eruptive_ state of fever includes the small-pox, measles, erysipelas, miliary fever, chicken-pox, and pemphigus. . the _anginose_ state of fever includes all those affections of the throat which are known by the names of cynanche inflammatoria, tonsillaris, parotidea, maligna, scarlatina, and trachealis. the cynanche trachealis is a febrile disease. the membrane which produces suffocation and death in the wind-pipe is the effect of inflammation. it is said to be formed, like other membranes which succeed inflammation, from the coagulable lymph of the blood. . the _rheumatic_ state of fever is confined chiefly to the labouring part of mankind. the topical affection is seated most commonly in the joints and muscles, which, from being exercised more than other parts of the body, become more debilitated, and are, in consequence thereof, excited into morbid and inflammatory action. . the _arthritic_ or _gouty_ state of fever differs from the rheumatic, in affecting, with the joints and muscles, all the nervous and lymphatic systems, the viscera, and the skin. its predisposing, exciting, and proximate causes are the same as the rheumatic and other states of fever. it bears the same ratio to rheumatism, which the yellow fever bears to the common bilious fever. it is a fever of more force than rheumatism. . the _cephalic_, in which are included the phrenitic, lethargic, apoplectic, paralytic, hydrocephalic, and maniacal states of fever. that madness is originally a state of fever, i infer, . from its causes, many of which are the same as those which induce all the other states of fever. . from its symptoms, particularly a full, tense, quick, and sometimes a slow pulse. . from the inflammatory appearances of the blood which has been drawn to relieve it. and, . from the phenomena exhibited by dissection in the brains of maniacs, being the same as are exhibited by other inflamed viscera after death. these are, effusions of water or blood, abscesses, and schirrus. the hardness in the brains of maniacs, taken notice of by several authors, is nothing but a schirrus (sui generis), induced by the neglect of sufficient evacuations in this state of fever. the reader will perceive by these observations, that i reject madness from its supposed primary seat in the mind or nerves. it is as much an original disease of the blood-vessels, as any other state of fever. it is to phrenitis, what pulmonary consumption is to pneumony. the derangement in the operations of the mind is the effect only of a chronic inflammation of the brain, existing without an abstraction of muscular excitement. . the _nephritic_ state of fever is often induced by calculi, but it frequently occurs in the gout, small-pox, and malignant states of fever. there is such an engorgement, or choaking of the vessels of the kidneys, that the secretion of the urine is sometimes totally obstructed, so that the bladder yields no water to the catheter. it is generally accompanied with a full or tense pulse, great pain, sickness, or vomiting, high coloured urine, and a pain along the thigh and leg, with occasionally a retraction of one of the testicles. it exists sometimes without any pain. of this i met with several instances in the yellow fever of . i include diabetes in this state of fever. . the _hydropic_ state of fever, in which are included collections of water, in the lungs, cavity of the thorax, cavity of the abdomen, ovaria, scrotum, testicles, and lower extremities, and usually preceded, and generally accompanied with morbid action in the blood-vessels. that dropsy is a state of fever, i have endeavoured to prove in another place[ ]. nineteen dropsies out of twenty appear to be original arterial diseases, and the water, which has been supposed to be their cause, is as much the effect of preternatural and morbid action in the blood-vessels, as pus, gangrene, and schirrus are of previous inflammation. this has been demonstrated, by the late dr. cooper, in a man who died of an ascites in the pennsylvania hospital. pus and blood, as well as water, were found in the cavity of the abdomen. it is no objection to this theory of dropsy, that we sometimes find water in the cavities of the body after death, without any marks of inflammation in the contiguous blood-vessels. we often find pus, both in the living and dead body, under the same circumstances, where we are sure it was not preceded by any of the obvious marks of inflammation. [ ] on dropsies, vol. ii. . the _hæmorrhagic_ state of fever, in which are included discharges of blood from the nose, lungs, stomach, liver, bowels, kidneys and bladder, hæmorrhoidal vessels, uterus, and skin. hæmorrhages have been divided into active and passive. it would be more proper to divide them, like other states of general fever, into hæmorrhages of strong and feeble morbid action. there is seldom an issue of blood from a vessel in which there does not exist preternatural or accumulated excitement. we observe this hæmorrhagic state of fever most frequently in malignant fevers, in pulmonary consumption, in pregnancy, and in that period of life in which the menses cease to be regular. . the _amenorrhagic_ state of fever occurs more frequently than is suspected by physicians. a full and quick pulse, head-ach, thirst, and preternatural heat often accompany a chronic obstruction of the menses. the inefficacy, and even hurtful effects, of what are called emenagogue medicines, in this state of the system, without previous depletion, show the propriety of introducing it among the different states of fever. i have designedly omitted to take notice of other states of general fever accompanied with local disease, because they are most frequently combined with some one or more of those which have been mentioned. they may all be seen in dr. cullen's synopsis, with their supposed respective generic characters, under the class of pyrexiæ, and the order of fevers. we come now in the iii. and last place, to mention the _misplaced_ states of fever. the term is not a new one in medicine. the gout is said to be misplaced, when it passes from the feet to the viscera. the periodical pains in the head, eyes, ears, jaws, hips, and back, which occur in the sickly autumnal months, and which impart no fulness, force, nor frequency to the pulse, are all misplaced fevers. there are, besides these, many other local morbid affections, which are less suspected of belonging to febrile diseases. the nature of these states of fever may easily be understood, by recollecting one of the laws of sensation, that is, that certain impressions, which excite neither sensation nor motion in the part of the body to which they are applied, excite both in another part. thus worms, which are not felt in the stomach or bowels, often produce a troublesome sensation in the throat, and a stone, which is attended with no pain in the bladder, produces a troublesome itching in the glans penis. in like manner, the irritants which produce fever in ordinary cases pass through the blood-vessels, and convey their usual morbid effects into a remote part of the body which has been prepared to receive them by previous debility. that this is the case, i infer further, from fevers being called back from their misplaced or suffocated situations, by creating an artificial debility in the arteries by the abstraction of blood. this is often done in muscular convulsions, and in several diseases of the brain. under this class of fevers are included . the _chronic hepatic_ state of fever. the causes, symptoms, and remedies of the liver disease of the east-indies, as mentioned by dr. girdlestone, all prove that it is nothing but a bilious fever translated from the blood-vessels, and absorbed, or suffocated, as it were, in the liver. this view of the chronic hepatitis is important, inasmuch as it leads to the liberal use of all the remedies which cure bilious fever. gall stones and contusions now and then produce a hepatitis, but under no other circumstances do i believe it ever exists, but as a symptom of general or latent fever. . the hæmorrhoids are frequently a local disease, but they are sometimes accompanied with pain, giddiness, chills, and an active pulse. when these symptoms occur, it should be considered as a _hæmorrhoidal_ state of fever. . the opthalmia, when it occurs, as it frequently does in sickly seasons, with a quick and tense pulse, and pains diffused over the whole head, may properly be called an _opthalmic_ state of fever. . the tooth-ach, and . ear-ach, when they arise from colds, and are attended with great heat, a quick and tense pulse, and pains in the head, are _odontalgic_ and _otalgic_ states of fever. . the apthæ, from the pain and fever which attend them, are justly entitled to the name of the _apthous_ state of fever. . the symptoms of scrophula, as described by dr. hardy, in his treatise on the glandular disease of barbadoes, clearly prove it to be a _misplaced_ state of fever. . the scurvy has lately been proved by dr. claiborne, in his inaugural dissertation, published in the year , to arise from so many of the causes, and to possess so many of the symptoms, of the low chronic and petechial states of fever, that i see no impropriety in considering it as a state of fever. . the _convulsive_ or _spasmodic_ state of fever. convulsions, it is well known, often usher in fevers, more especially in children. but the connection between spasmodic affections and fever, in adults, has been less attended to by physicians. the same causes which produced general fever and hepatitis in the east-indies, in some soldiers, produced locked jaw in others. several of the symptoms of this disease, as described by dr. girdlestone, such as coldness on the surface of the body, cold sweats on the hands and feet, intense thirst, a white tongue, incessant vomitings, and carbuncles, all belong to the malignant state of fever[ ]. by means of blood-letting, and the other remedies for the violent state of bilious fever, i have seen the convulsions in this disease translated from the muscles to the blood-vessels, where they immediately produced _all_ the common symptoms of fever. [ ] essay on the spasmodic affections in india, p. , , . . the _hysterical_ and _hypochondriacal_ states of fever. the former is known by a rising in the throat, which is for the most part erroneously ascribed to worms, by pale urine, and by a disposition to shed tears, or to laugh upon trifling occasions. the latter discovers itself by false opinions of the nature and danger of the disease under which the patient labours. both these states of the nervous system occur frequently in the gout and in the malignant state of fever. it is common to say, in such cases, that patients have a complication of diseases; but this is not true, for the hysterical and hypochondriacal symptoms are nothing but the effects of one remote cause, concentrating its force chiefly upon the nerves and muscles. . the _cutaneous_ state of fever. dr. sydenham calls a dysentery a "febris introversa." eruptions of the skin are often nothing but the reverse of this introverted fever. they are a fever translated to the skin; hence we find them most common in those countries and seasons in which fevers are epidemic. the prickly heat, the rash, and the essere of authors, are all states of misplaced fever. "agues, fevers, and even _pleurisies_ (says mr. townsend, in his journey through spain[ ]), are said often to terminate in scabies, and this frequently gives place to them, returning, however, when the fever ceases. in adults it takes possession of the hands and arms, with the legs and thighs, covering them with a filthy crust." small boils are common among the children in philadelphia, at the time the cholera infantum makes its appearance. these children always escape the summer epidemic. the elephantiasis described by dr. hillary, in his account of the diseases of barbadoes, is evidently a translation of an intermittent to one of the limbs. it is remarkable, that the leprosy and malignant fevers of all kinds have appeared and declined together in the same ages and countries. but further, petechiæ sometimes appear on the skin without fever. cases of this kind, with and without hæmorrhages, are taken notice of by riverius[ ], dr. duncan, and many other practical writers. they are cotemporary or subsequent to fevers of a malignant complexion. they occur likewise in the scurvy. from some of the predisposing, remote, and exciting causes of this disease, and from its symptoms and remedies, i have suspected it, like the petechiæ mentioned by riverius, to be originally a fever generated by human miasmata, in a misplaced state. the hæmorrhages which sometimes accompany the scurvy, certainly arise from a morbid state of the blood-vessels. the heat and quick pulse of fever are probably absent, only because the preternatural excitement of the whole sanguiferous system is confined to those extreme or cutaneous vessels which pour forth blood. in like manner the fever of the small-pox deserts the blood-vessels, as soon as a new action begins on the skin. or perhaps the excitability of the larger blood-vessels may be so far exhausted by the long or forcible impression of the remote and predisposing causes of the scurvy, as to be incapable of undergoing the convulsive action of general fever. [ ] vol. ii. dublin edition, p. . [ ] praxis medica, lib. xviii. cap. i. with this i close my inquiry into the cause of fever. it is imperfect from its brevity, as well as from other causes. i commit it to my pupils to be corrected and improved. "we think our fathers fools, so wise we grow. our wiser sons, _i hope_, will think us so." an account of the _bilious remitting yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the year . before i proceed to deliver the history of this fever, it will be proper to give a short account of the diseases which preceded it. the state of the weather during the first seven months of the year, and during the time in which the fever prevailed in the city, as recorded by mr. rittenhouse, will be inserted immediately after the history of the disease. the _mumps_, which made their appearance in december, , continued to prevail during the month of january, . besides this disease there were many cases of catarrh in the city, brought on chiefly by the inhabitants exposing themselves for several hours on the damp ground, in viewing the aërial voyage of mr. blanchard, on the th day of the month. the weather, which had been moderate in december and january, became cold in february. the mumps continued to prevail during this month with symptoms so inflammatory as to require, in some cases, two bleedings. many people complained this month of pains and swellings in the jaws. a few had the scarlatina anginosa. the mumps, pains in the jaws, and scarlatina continued throughout the month of march. i was called to two cases of pleurisy in this month, which terminated in a temporary mania. one of them was in a woman of ninety years of age, who recovered. the blood drawn in the other case (a gentleman from maryland) was dissolved. the continuance of a tense pulse induced me, notwithstanding, to repeat the bleeding. the blood was now sizy. a third bleeding was prescribed, and my patient recovered. several cases of obstinate erysipelas succeeded inoculation in children during this and the next month, one of which proved fatal. blossoms were universal on the fruit-trees, in the gardens of philadelphia, on the first day of april. the scarlatina anginosa continued to be the reigning epidemic in this month. there were several warm days in may, but the city was in general healthy. the birds appeared two weeks sooner this spring than usual. the register of the weather shows, that there were many warm days in june. the scarlatina continued to maintain its empire during this month. the weather was uniformly warm in july. the scarlatina continued during the beginning of this month, with symptoms of great violence. a son of james sharswood, aged seven years, had, with the common symptoms of this disease, great pains and swellings in his limbs, accompanied with a tense pulse. i attempted in vain to relieve him by vomits and purges. on the th day of the month, i ordered six ounces of blood to be drawn from his arm, which i observed afterwards to be very sizy. the next day he was nearly well. between the d and the th days of the month, there died three persons, whose respective ages were , , and - / . the weather at this time was extremely warm. i have elsewhere taken notice of the fatal influence of extreme heat, as well as cold, upon human life in old people. a few bilious remitting fevers appeared towards the close of this month. one of them under my care ended in a typhus or chronic fever, from which the patient was recovered with great difficulty. it was the son of dr. hutchins, of the island of barbadoes. the weather, for the first two or three weeks in august, was temperate and pleasant. the cholera morbus and remitting fevers were now common. the latter, were attended with some inflammatory action in the pulse, and a determination to the breast. several dysenteries appeared at this time, both in the city and in its neighbourhood. during the latter part of july, and the beginning of this month, a number of the distressed inhabitants of st. domingo, who had escaped the desolation of fire and sword, arrived in the city. soon after their arrival, the influenza made its appearance, and spread rapidly among our citizens. the scarlatina still kept up a feeble existence among children. the above diseases were universal, but they were not attended with much mortality. they prevailed in different parts of the city, and each seemed to appear occasionally to be the ruling epidemic. the weather continued to be warm and dry. there was a heavy rain on the th of the month, which was remembered by the citizens of philadelphia, as the last that fell for many weeks afterwards. there was something in the heat and drought of the summer months which was uncommon, in their influence upon the human body. labourers every where gave out (to use the country phrase) in harvest, and frequently too when the mercury in fahrenheit's thermometer was under °. it was ascribed by the country people to the calmness of the weather, which left the sweat produced by heat and labour to dry slowly upon the body. the crops of grain and grass were impaired by the drought. the summer fruits were as plentiful as usual, particularly the melons, which were of an excellent quality. the influence of the weather upon the autumnal fruits, and upon vegetation in general, shall be mentioned hereafter. i now enter upon a detail of some solitary cases of the epidemic, which soon afterwards spread distress through our city, and terror throughout the united states. on the th of august, i was requested by dr. hodge to visit his child. i found it ill with a fever of the bilious kind, which terminated (with a yellow skin) in death on the th of the same month. on the th of august, i was called to mrs. bradford, the wife of mr. thomas bradford. she had all the symptoms of a bilious remittent, but they were so acute as to require two bleedings, and several successive doses of physic. the last purge she took was a dose of calomel, which operated plentifully. for several days after her recovery, her eyes and face were of a yellow colour. on the same day, i was called to the son of mrs. m'nair, who had been seized violently with all the usual symptoms of a bilious fever. i purged him plentifully with salts and cremor tartar, and took ten or twelve ounces of blood from his arm. his symptoms appeared to yield to these remedies; but on the th of the month a hæmorrhage from the nose came on, and on the morning of the th he died. on the th of this month i was called to visit richard palmer, a son of mrs. palmer, in chesnut-street. he had been indisposed for several days with a sick stomach, and vomiting after eating. he now complained of a fever and head-ach. i gave him the usual remedies for the bilious fever, and he recovered in a few days. on the th day of the same month i was sent for to visit his brother william, who was seized with all the symptoms of the same disease. on the th day his head-ach became extremely acute, and his pulse fell to sixty strokes in a minute. i suspected congestion to have taken place in his brain, and ordered him to lose eight ounces of blood. his pulse became more frequent, and less tense after bleeding, and he recovered in a day or two afterwards. on the th day of this month i was sent for to visit mrs. leaming, the wife of mr. thomas leaming. i suspected at first that she had the influenza, but in a day or two her fever put on bilious symptoms. she was affected with an uncommon disposition to faint. her pulse was languid, but _tense_. i took a few ounces of blood from her, and purged her with salts and calomel. i afterwards gave her a small dose of laudanum which disagreed with her. in my note book i find i have recorded that "she was worse for it." i was led to make this remark by its being so very uncommon for a person, who had been properly bled and purged, to take laudanum in a common bilious fever without being benefited by it. she recovered, however, slowly, and was yellow for many days afterwards. on the morning of the th of this month i was requested to visit peter aston, in vine-street, in consultation with dr. say. i found him on the third day of a most acute bilious fever. his eyes were inflamed, and his face flushed with a deep red colour. his pulse seemed to forbid evacuations. we prescribed the strongest cordials, but to no purpose. we found him, at o'clock in the evening, sitting upon the side of his bed, perfectly sensible, but without a pulse, with cold clammy hands, and his face of a yellowish colour. he died a few hours after we left him. none of the cases which i have mentioned excited the least apprehension of the existence of a malignant or yellow fever in our city; for i had frequently seen sporadic cases in which the common bilious fever of philadelphia had put on symptoms of great malignity, and terminated fatally in a few days, and now and then with a yellow colour on the skin, before or immediately after death. on the th of this month i was requested to visit the wife of mr. peter le maigre, in water-street, between arch and race-streets, in consultation with dr. foulke and dr. hodge. i found her in the last stage of a highly bilious fever. she vomited constantly, and complained of great heat and burning in her stomach. the most powerful cordials and tonics were prescribed, but to no purpose. she died on the evening of the next day. upon coming out of mrs. le maigre's room i remarked to dr. foulke and dr. hodge, that i had seen an unusual number of bilious fevers, accompanied with symptoms of uncommon malignity, and that i suspected all was not right in our city. dr. hodge immediately replied, that a fever of a most malignant kind had carried off four or five persons within sight of mr. le maigre's door, and that one of them had died in twelve hours after the attack of the disease. this information satisfied me that my apprehensions were well founded. the origin of this fever was discovered to me at the same time, from the account which dr. foulke gave me of a quantity of damaged coffee which had been thrown upon mr. ball's wharf, and in the adjoining dock, on the th of july, nearly in a line with mr. le maigre's house, and which had putrefied there to the great annoyance of the whole neighbourhood. after this consultation i was soon able to trace all the cases of fever which i have mentioned to this source. dr. hodge lived a few doors above mr. le maigre's, where his child had been exposed to the exhalation from the coffee for several days. mrs. bradford had spent an afternoon in a house directly opposite to the wharf and dock on which the putrid coffee had emitted its noxious effluvia, a few days before her sickness, and had been much incommoded by it. her sister, mrs. leaming, had visited her during her illness at her house, which was about two hundred yards from the infected wharf. young mr. m'nair and mrs. palmer's two sons had spent whole days in a compting house near where the coffee was exposed, and each of them had complained of having been made sick by its offensive smell, and mr. aston had frequently been in water-street near the source of the exhalation. this discovery of the malignity, extent, and origin of a fever which i knew to be attended with great danger and mortality, gave me great pain. i did not hesitate to name it the _bilious remitting yellow fever_. i had once seen it epidemic in philadelphia, in the year . its symptoms were among the first impressions which diseases made upon my mind. i had recorded some of these symptoms, as well as its mortality. i shall here introduce a short account of it, from a note book which i kept during my apprenticeship. "in the year , in the months of august, september, october, november, and december, the bilious yellow fever prevailed in philadelphia, after a _very hot summer_, and spread like a plague, carrying off daily, for some time, upwards of twenty persons. "the patients were generally seized with rigours, which were succeeded with a violent fever, and pains in the head and back. the pulse was full, and sometimes irregular. the eyes were inflamed, and had a yellowish cast, and a vomiting almost always attended. "the d, th, and th days were mostly critical, and the disease generally terminated on one of them, in life or death. "an eruption on the d or th day over the body proved salutary. "an excessive heat and burning about the region of the liver, with cold extremities, portended death to be at hand." i have taken notice, in my note book, of the principal remedy which was prescribed in this fever by my preceptor in medicine, but this shall be mentioned hereafter. upon my leaving mrs le maigre's, i expressed my distress at what i had discovered, to several of my fellow-citizens. the report of a malignant and mortal fever being in town spread in every direction, but it did not gain universal credit. some of those physicians who had not seen patients in it denied that any such fever existed, and asserted (though its mortality was not denied) that it was nothing but the common annual remittent of the city. many of the citizens joined the physicians in endeavoring to discredit the account i had given of this fever, and for a while it was treated with ridicule or contempt. indignation in some instances was excited against me, and one of my friends, whom i advised in this early stage of the disease to leave the city, has since told me that for that advice "he had hated me." my lot in having thus disturbed the repose of the public mind, upon the subject of general health, was not a singular one. there are many instances upon record, of physicians who have rendered themselves unpopular, and even odious to their fellow-citizens, by giving the first notice of the existence of malignant and mortal diseases. a physician, who asserted that the plague was in messina, in the year , excited so much rage in the minds of his fellow-citizens against him, as to render it necessary for him to save his life by retreating to one of the churches of that city. in spite, however, of all opposition, the report of the existence of a malignant fever in the city gained so much ground, that the governor of the state directed dr. hutchinson, the inspector of sickly vessels, to inquire into the truth of it, and into the nature of the disease. in consequence of this order, the doctor wrote letters to several of the physicians in the city, requesting information relative to the fever. to his letter to me, dated the th of august, i replied on the same day, and mentioned not only the existence of a malignant fever, but the streets it occupied, and my belief of its being derived from a quantity of coffee which had putrified on a wharf near arch-street. this, and other information collected by the doctor, was communicated to the health officer, in a letter dated the th of august, in which he mentioned the parts of the city where the disease prevailed, and the number of persons who had died of it, supposed by him to be about , but which subsequent inquiries proved to be more than . he mentioned further, in addition to the damaged coffee, some putrid hides, and other putrid animal and vegetable substances, as the supposed cause of the fever, and concluded by saying, as he had not heard of any foreigners or sailors being infected, nor of its being found in any lodging-houses, that "it was not an imported disease." in the mean while the disease continued to spread, and with a degree of mortality that had never been known from common fevers. on the th of the month, the college of physicians was summoned by their president to meet, in order to consult about the best methods of checking the progress of the fever in the city. after some consideration upon the nature of the disease, a committee was appointed to draw up some directions for those purposes; and the next day the following were presented to the college, and adopted unanimously by them. they were afterwards published in most of the newspapers. _philadelphia, august th, ._ the college of physicians having taking into consideration the malignant and contagious fever that now prevails in this city, have agreed to recommend to their fellow-citizens the following means of preventing its progress. st. that all unnecessary intercourse should be avoided with such persons as are infected by it. d. to place a mark upon the door or window of such houses as have any infected persons in it. d. to place the persons infected in the centre of large and airy rooms, in beds without curtains, and to pay the strictest regard to cleanliness, by frequently changing their body and bed linen, also by removing, as speedily as possible, all offensive matters from their rooms. th. to provide a large and airy hospital, in the neighbourhood of the city, for the reception of such poor persons as cannot be accommodated with the above advantages in private houses. th. to put a stop to the tolling of the bells. th. to bury such persons as die of this fever in carriages, and in as private a manner as possible. th. to keep the streets and wharves of the city as clean as possible. as the contagion of the disease may be taken into the body, and pass out of it without producing the fever, unless it be rendered active by some occasional cause, the following means should be attended to, to prevent the contagion being excited into action in the body. th. to avoid all fatigue of body and mind. th. to avoid _standing_ or _sitting_ in the sun; also in a current of air, or in the evening air. th. to accommodate the dress to the weather, and to exceed rather in warm, than in cool clothing. th. to avoid intemperance, but to use fermented liquors, such as wine, beer, and cyder, in moderation. the college conceive _fires_ to be very ineffectual, if not dangerous means of checking the progress of this fever. they have reason to place more dependence upon the burning of _gunpowder_. the benefits of _vinegar_ and _camphor_ are confined chiefly to infected rooms, and they cannot be used too frequently upon handkerchiefs, or in smelling-bottles, by persons whose duty calls to visit or attend the sick. signed by order of the college, william shippen, jun. _vice president_. samuel p. griffitts, _secretary_. from a conviction that the disease originated in the putrid exhalations from the damaged coffee, i published in the american daily advertiser, of august th, a short address to the citizens of philadelphia, with a view of directing the public attention to the spot where the coffee lay, and thereby of checking the progress of the fever as far as it was continued by the original cause. this address had no other effect than to produce fresh clamours against the author; for the citizens, as well as most of the physicians of philadelphia, had adopted a traditional opinion that the yellow fever could exist among us only by importation from the west-indies. in consequence, however, of a letter from dr. foulke to the mayor of the city, in which he had decided, in a positive manner, in favour of the generation of the fever from the putrid coffee, the mayor gave orders for the removal of the coffee, and the cleaning of the wharf and dock. it was said that measures were taken for this purpose; but dr. foulke, who visited the place where the coffee lay, repeatedly assured me, that they were so far from being effectual, that an offensive smell was exhaled from it many days afterwards. i shall pass over, for the present, the facts and arguments on which i ground my assertion of the generation of this fever in our city. they will come in more properly in the close of the history of the disease. the seeds of the fever, when received into the body, were generally excited into action in a few days. i met with several cases in which they acted so as to produce a fever on the same day in which they were received into the system, and i heard of two cases in which they excited sickness, fainting, and fever within one hour after the persons were exposed to them. i met with no instance in which there was a longer interval than sixteen days between their being received into the body and the production of the disease. this poison acted differently in different constitutions, according to previous habits, to the degrees of predisposing debility, or to the quantity and concentration of the miasmata which had been received into the body. in some constitutions, the miasmata were at once a remote, a predisposing, and an exciting cause of the disease; hence some persons were affected by them, who had not departed in any instance from their ordinary habits of living, as to diet, dress, and exercise. but it was more frequently brought on by those causes acting in succession to each other. i shall here refer the reader to the principles laid down in the outlines of the theory of fever, for an account of the manner in which the system was predisposed to this disease, by the debility induced by the reduction of its excitement, by action and abstraction, and by subsequent depression. where a predisposition was thus produced, the fever was excited by the following causes, acting directly or indirectly upon the system. where this predisposition did not exist, the exciting causes produced both the predisposition and the disease. they were, . _great labour_, or exercises of body or mind, in walking, riding, watching, or the like. it was labour which excited the disease so universally among the lower class of people. a long walk often induced it. few escaped it after a day, or even a few hours spent in gunning. a hard trotting horse brought it on two of my patients. perhaps riding on horseback, and in the sun, was the exciting cause of the disease in most of the citizens and strangers who were affected by it in their flight from the city. a fall excited it in a girl, and a stroke upon the head excited it in a young man who came under my care. many people were seized with the disease in consequence of their exertions on the night of the th of september, in extinguishing the fire which consumed mr. dobson's printing-office, and even the less violent exercise of working the fire engines, for the purpose of laying the dust in the streets, added frequently to the number of the sick. . _heat_, from every cause, but more especially the heat of the sun, was a very common exciting cause of the disease. the register of the weather during the latter end of august, the whole of september, and the first two weeks in october will show how much the heat of the sun must have contributed to excite the disease, more especially among labouring people. the heat of common fires likewise became a frequent cause of the activity of the miasmata where they had been received into the body; hence the greater mortality of the disease among bakers, blacksmiths, and hatters than among any other class of people. . _intemperance_ in eating or drinking. a plentiful meal, and a few extra glasses of wine seldom failed of exciting the fever. but where the body was strongly impregnated with the seeds of the disease, even the smallest deviation from the customary stimulus of diet, in respect to quality or quantity, roused them into action. a supper of twelve oysters in one, and of but three in another, of my patients produced the disease. half an ounce of meat excited it in a lady who had lived, by my advice, for two weeks upon milk and vegetables, and even a supper of sallad, dressed after the french fashion, excited it in one of dr. mease's patients. . _fear._ in many people the disease was excited by a sudden paroxysm of fear; but i saw some remarkable instances where timid people escaped the disease, although they were constantly exposed to it. perhaps a moderate degree of fear served to counteract the excessive stimulus of the miasmata, and thereby to preserve the body in a state of healthy equilibrium. i am certain that fear did no harm after the disease was formed, in those cases where great morbid excess of action had taken place. it was an early discovery of this fact which led me not to conceal from my patients the true name of this fever, when i was called to them on the _day_ of their being attacked by it. the fear co-operated with some of my remedies (to be mentioned hereafter) in reducing the morbid excitement of the arterial system. . _grief._ it was remarkable that the disease was not excited in many cases in the attendants upon the sick, while there was a hope of their recovery. the grief which followed the extinction of hope, by death, frequently produced it within a day or two afterwards, and that not in one person only, but often in most of the near relations of the deceased. but the disease was also produced by a change in the state of the mind directly opposite to that which has been mentioned. many persons that attended patients who recovered, were seized with the disease a day or two after they were relieved from the toils and anxiety of nursing. the collapse of the mind from the abstraction of the stimulus of hope and desire, by their ample gratification, probably produced that debility, and loss of the equilibrium in the system, which favoured the activity of the miasmata in the manner formerly mentioned[ ]. [ ] outlines of a theory of fever. the effects of both the states of mind which have been described, have been happily illustrated by two facts which are recorded by dr. jackson[ ]. he tells us, that the garrisons of savannah and york-town were both healthy during the siege of those towns, but that the former became sickly as soon as the french and american armies retreated, from before it, and the latter, immediately after its capitulation. [ ] treatise on the fevers of jamaica, p. . . _cold._ its action, in exciting the disease, depended upon the diminution of the necessary and natural heat of the body, and thereby so far destroying the equilibrium of the system, as to enable the miasmata to produce excessive or convulsive motions in the blood-vessels. the night air, even in the warm month of september, was often so cool as to excite the disease, where the dress and bed-clothes were not accommodated to it. it was excited in one case by a person's only wetting his feet, in the month of october, and neglecting afterwards to change his shoes and stockings. every change in the weather, that was short of producing frost, evidently increased the number of sick people. this was obvious after the th and th of september, when the mercury fell to ° and °. the hopes of the city received a severe disappointment upon this occasion, for i well recollect there was a general expectation that this change in the weather would have checked the disease. the same increase of the number of sick was observed to follow the cool weather which succeeded the th and th of october, on which days the mercury fell to ° and °. it was observed that those persons who were _habitually_ exposed to the cool air, were less liable to the disease than others. i ascribe it to the _habitual_ impression of the cool night air upon the bodies of the city watchmen, that but four or five of them, out of twenty-five, were affected by the disease. after the body had been heated by violent exercise, a breeze of cool air sometimes excited the disease in those cases where there had been no change in the temperature of the weather. . _sleep._ a great proportion of all who were affected by this fever, were attacked in the night. sleep induced what i have called debility from abstraction, and thereby disposed the miasmata which floated in the blood, to act with such force upon the system as to destroy its equilibrium, and thus to excite a fever. the influence of sleep as a predisposing, and exciting cause was often assisted by the want of bed-clothes, suited to the midnight or morning coolness of the air. . _immoderate evacuations._ the efficacy of moderate purging and bleeding in preventing the disease, led some people to use those remedies in an excess, which both predisposed to the disease, and excited it. the morbid effects of these evacuations, were much aided by fear, for it was this passion which perverted the judgment in such a manner, as to lead to the excessive use of remedies, which, to be effectual, should only be used in moderate quantities. the disease appeared with different symptoms, and in different degrees, in different people. they both varied likewise with the weather. in describing the disease, i shall take notice of the changes in the symptoms, which were produced by changes in the temperature of the air. the precursors, or premonitory signs of this fever were, costiveness, a dull pain in the right side, defect of appetite, flatulency, perverted taste, heat in the stomach, giddiness, or pain in the head, a dull, watery, brilliant, yellow, or red eye, dim and imperfect vision, a hoarseness, or slight sore throat, low spirits, or unusual vivacity, a moisture on the hands, a disposition to sweat at nights, or after moderate exercise, or a sudden suppression of night sweats. the dull eye, and the lowness of spirits, appeared to be the effects of such an excess in the stimulus of the miasmata as to induce depression, while the brilliant eye, and the unusual vivacity, seemed to have been produced by a less quantity of the miasmata acting as a cordial upon the system. more or less of these symptoms frequently continued for two or three days before the patients were confined to their beds, and in some people they continued during the whole time of its prevalence in the city, without producing the disease. i wish these symptoms to be remembered by the reader. they will form the corner stone of a system which i hope will either eradicate the disease altogether, or render it as safe as an intermitting fever, or as the small-pox when it is received by inoculation. frequent as these precursors of the fever were, they were not universal. many went to bed in good health, and awoke in the night with a chilly fit. many rose in the morning after regular and natural sleep, and were seized at their work, or after a walk, with a sudden and unexpected attack of the fever. in most of these cases the disease came on with a chilly fit, which afforded by its violence or duration a tolerable presage of the issue of the disease. upon entering a sick room where a patient was confined by this fever, the first thing that struck the eye of a physician was the countenance. it was as much unlike that which is exhibited in the common bilious fever, as the face of a wild, is unlike the face of a mild domestic animal. the eyes were sad, watery, and so inflamed, in some cases, as to resemble two balls of fire. sometimes they had a most brilliant or ferocious appearance. the face was suffused with blood, or of a dusky colour, and the whole countenance was downcast and clouded. after the th of september, when a determination of blood to the brain became universal, there was a preternatural dilatation of the pupil. sighing attended in almost every case. the skin was dry, and frequently of its natural temperature. these were the principal symptoms which discovered themselves to the eye and hand of a physician. the answers to the first questions proposed upon visiting a patient, were calculated to produce a belief in the mind of a physician, that the disease under which the patient laboured was not the prevailing malignant epidemic. i did not for many weeks meet with a dozen patients, who acknowledged that they had any other indisposition than a common cold, or a slight remitting or intermitting fever. i was particularly struck with this self-deception in many persons, who had nursed relations that had died with the yellow fever, and who had been exposed to it in neighbourhoods where it had prevailed for days and even weeks with great mortality. i shall hereafter trace a part of this disposition in the sick to deceive themselves to the influence of certain publications, which appeared soon after the disease became epidemic in the city. in the further history of this fever, i shall describe its symptoms as they appeared, i. in the sanguiferous system. ii. in the liver, lungs, and brain. iii. in the alimentary canal; in which i include the stomach as well as the bowels. iv. in the secretions and excretions. v. in the nervous system. vi. in the senses and appetites. vii. in the lymphatic and glandular system. viii. upon the skin. ix. in the blood. after having finished this detail, i shall mention some general characters of the disease, and afterwards subdivide it into classes, according to its degrees and duration. i. the _blood-vessels_ were affected more or less in every case of this fever. i have elsewhere said, that a fever is occasioned by a convulsion in the arterial system[ ]. when the epidemic, which we are now considering, came on with a full, tense, and quick pulse, this convulsion was very perceptible; but it frequently came on with a weak pulse, often without any preternatural frequency or quickness, and sometimes so low as not to be perceived without pressing the artery at the wrists. in many cases the pulse intermitted after the fourth, in some after the fifth, and in others after the fourteenth stroke. these intermissions occurred in several persons who were infected, but who were not confined by the fever. they likewise continued in several of my patients for many days after their recovery. this was the case in particular in mrs. clymer, mrs. palmer's son william, and in a son of mr. william compton. in some, there was a preternatural slowness of the pulse. it beat strokes in a minute in mr. b. w. morris, in mr. thomas wharton, jun. and in mr. william sansom, at a time when they were in the most imminent danger. dr. physick informed me, that in one of his patients the pulse was reduced in frequency to strokes in a minute. all these different states of the pulse have been taken notice of by authors who have described pestilential fevers[ ]. they have been improperly ascribed to the absence of fever: i would rather suppose that they are occasioned by the stimulus of the remote cause acting upon the arteries with too much force to admit of their being excited into quick and convulsive motions. the remedy which removed it (to be mentioned hereafter) will render this explanation of its cause still more probable. milton describes a darkness from an excess of light. in like manner we observe, in this small, intermitting, and slow pulse, a deficiency of strength from an excess of force applied to it. in nearly every case of it which came under my notice, it was likewise tense or chorded. this species of pulse occurred chiefly in the month of august, and in the first ten days in september. i had met with it formerly in a sporadic case of yellow fever. it was new to all my pupils. one of them, mr. washington, gave it the name of the "undescribable pulse." it aided in determining the character of this fever before the common bilious remittent disappeared in the city. for a while, i ascribed this peculiarity in the pulse, more especially its _slowness_, to an affection of the brain only, and suspected that it was produced by what i have taken the liberty elsewhere to call the _phrenicula_, or inflammatory state of the internal dropsy of the brain, and which i have remarked to be an occasional symptom and consequence of remitting fever. i was the more disposed to adopt this opinion, from perceiving this slow, chorded, and intermitting pulse more frequently in children than in adults. impressed with this idea, i requested mr. coxe, one of my pupils, to assist me in examining the state of the eyes. for two days we discovered no change in them, but on the third day after we began to inspect them, we both perceived a preternatural dilatation of the pupils, in different patients; and we seldom afterwards saw an eye in which it was absent. in dr. say it was attended by a squinting, a symptom which marks a high degree of a morbid affection of the brain. had this slowness or intermission in the pulse occurred only after signs of inflammation or congestion had appeared in the brain, i should have supposed that it had been derived wholly from that cause; but i well recollect having felt it several days before i could discover the least change in the pupil of the eye. i am forced therefore to call in the operation of another cause, to assist in accounting for this state of the pulse, and this i take to be a spasmodic affection, accompanied with preternatural dilatation or contraction of the heart. lieutaud mentions this species of pulse in several places, as occurring with an undue enlargement of that muscle[ ]. dr. ferriar describes a case, in which a low, irregular, intermitting, and hardly perceptible pulse attended a morbid dilatation of the heart[ ]. in a letter i received from mr. hugh ferguson, then a student of medicine in the college of edinburgh, written from dublin, during the time of a visit to his father, and dated september th, , i find a fact which throws additional light upon this subject. "a case (says my young correspondent) where a remarkable intermission of pulse was observed, occurred in this city last year. a gentleman of the medical profession, middle aged, of a delicate habit of body, and who had formerly suffered phthisical attacks, was attacked with the acute rheumatism. some days after he was taken ill, he complained of uncommon fulness, and a very peculiar kind of sensation about the præcordia, which it was judged proper to relieve by copious blood-letting. this being done, the uneasiness went off. it returned, however, three or four times, and was as often relieved by bleeding. during each of his fits (if i may call them so), the patient experienced an almost total remission of his pains in his limbs; but they returned with equal or greater violence after blood-letting. during the fit there was an intermission of the pulse (the first time) of no less than thirteen strokes. it was when beating full, strong, and slow. the third intermission was of nine strokes. the gentleman soon recovered, and has enjoyed good health for ten months past. the opinion of some of his physicians was, that the heart was affected, as a muscle, by the rheumatism, and alternated with the limbs." [ ] outlines of a theory of fever. [ ] vergasca, sorbait, and boate in haller's bibliotheca medicinæ, vol. iii. also by dr. stubbs in the philosophical transactions, and riverius in his treatise de febre pestilenti. [ ] historia anatomica medica, vol ii. obs. , , , . [ ] medical histories and reflections, p. . i am the more inclined to believe the peculiarity in the pulse which has been mentioned in the yellow fever, arose in part from a spasmodic affection of the heart, from the frequency of an uncommon palpitation of this muscle, which i discovered in this disease, more especially in old people. the disposition, likewise, to syncope and sighing, which so often occurred, can be explained upon no other principle than inflammation, spasm, dilatation, or congestion in the heart. after the th of september this undescribable or _sulky_ pulse (for by the latter epithet i sometimes called it) became less observable, and, in proportion as the weather became cool, it totally disappeared. it was gradually succeeded by a pulse full, tense, quick, and as frequent as in pleurisy or rheumatism. it differed, however, from a pleuritic or rheumatic pulse, in imparting a very different sensation to the fingers. no two strokes seemed to be exactly alike. its action was of a hobbling nature. it was at this time so familiar to me that i think i could have distinguished the disease by it without seeing the patient. it was remarkable that this pulse attended the yellow fever even when it appeared in the mild form of an intermittent, and in those cases where the patients were able to walk about or go abroad. it was nearly as _tense_ in the remissions and intermissions of the fever as it was in the exacerbations. it was an alarming symptom, and when the only remedy which was effectual to remove it was neglected, such a change in the system was induced as frequently brought on death in a few days. this change of the pulse, from extreme lowness to fulness and activity, appeared to be owing to the diminution of the heat of the weather, which, by its stimulus, added to that of the remote cause, had induced those symptoms of depression of the pulse which have been mentioned. the pulse most frequently lessened in its fulness, and became gradually weak, frequent, and imperceptible before death, but i met with several cases in which it was full, active, and even tense in the last hours of life. _hæmorrhages_ belong to the symptoms of this fever as they appeared in the sanguiferous system. they occurred in the beginning of the disease, chiefly from the nose and uterus. sometimes but a few drops of blood distilled from the nose. the menses were unusual in their quantity when they appeared at their stated periods, but they often came on a week or two before the usual time of their appearance. i saw one case of a hæmorrhage from the lungs on the first day of the fever, which was supposed to be a common hæmoptysis. as the disease advanced the discharges of blood became more universal. they occurred from the gums, ears, stomach, bowels, and urinary passages. drops of blood issued from the inner canthus of the left eye of mr. josiah coates. dr. woodhouse attended a lady who bled from the holes in her ears which had been made by ear-rings. many bled from the orifices which had been made by bleeding, several days after they appeared to have been healed, and some from wounds which had been made in veins in unsuccessful attempts to draw blood. these last hæmorrhages were very troublesome, and in some cases precipitated death. ii. i come now to mention the symptoms of this fever as they appeared in the _liver_, the _lungs_, and the _brain_. from the histories which i had read of this disease, i was early led to examine the state of the _liver_, but i was surprised to find so few marks of hepatic affection. i met with but two cases in which the patient could lie only on the right side. many complained of a dull pain in the region of the liver, but very few complained, in the beginning of the disease, of that soreness to the touch, about the pit of the stomach, which is taken notice of by authors, and which was universal in the yellow fever in . in proportion as the cool weather advanced, a preternatural determination of the blood took place chiefly to the lungs and brain. many were affected with pneumonic symptoms, and some appeared to die of sudden effusions of blood or serum in the lungs. it was an unexpected effusion of this kind which put an end to the life of mrs. keppele after she had exhibited hopeful signs of a recovery. i saw one person who recovered from an affection of the lungs, by means of a copious expectoration of yellow phlegm and mucus. but the _brain_ was principally affected with morbid congestion in this disease. it was indicated by the suffusion of blood in the face, by the redness of the eyes, by a dilatation of the pupils, by the pain in the head, by the hæmorrhages from the nose and ears, by the sickness or vomiting, and by an almost universal costive state of the bowels. i wish to impress the reader with these facts, for they formed one of the strongest indications for the use of the remedies which i adopted for the cure of this disease. it is difficult to determine the exact state of these viscera in every case of bilious and yellow fever. inflammation certainly takes place in some cases, and internal hæmorrhages in others; but i believe the most frequent affection of these viscera consists in a certain morbid accumulation of blood in them, which has been happily called, by dr. clark, an _engorgement_ or choaking of the blood-vessels. i believe further, with dr. clark[ ] and dr. balfour[ ], that death in most cases in bilious fevers is the effect of these morbid congestions, and wholly unconnected with an exhausted state of the system, or a supposed putrefaction in the fluids. it is true, the dissections of dr. physick and dr. cathrall (to be mentioned hereafter) discovered no morbid appearances in any of the viscera which have been mentioned, but it should be remembered, that these dissections were made early in the disease. dr. annan attended the dissection of a brain of a patient who died at bush-hill some days afterwards, and observed the blood-vessels to be unusually turgid. in those cases where congestion only takes place, it is as easy to conceive that all morbid appearances in the brain may cease after death, as that the suffusion of blood in the face should disappear after the retreat of the blood from the extremities of the vessels, in the last moments of life. it is no new thing for morbid excitement of the brain to leave either slender, or no marks of disease after death. this, i have said, is often the case where it exceeds that degree of action which produces an effusion of red blood into serous vessels, or what is called inflammation[ ]. dr. quin has given a dissection of the brain of a child that died with all the symptoms of hydrocephalus internus, and yet nothing was discovered in the brain but a slight turgescence of its blood-vessels. dr. girdlestone says, no injury appeared in the brains of those persons who died of the symptomatic apoplexy, which occurred in a spasmodic disease which he describes in the east-indies; and mr. clark informs us, that the brain was in a natural state in every case of death from puerperile fever, notwithstanding it seemed to be affected in many cases soon after the attack of that disease[ ]. [ ] vol. i. p. . [ ] treatise on the intestinal remitting fever, p. . [ ] outlines of a theory of fever. [ ] essay on the epidemic disease of lying-in women, of the years and , p. . i wish it to be remembered here, that the yellow fever, like all other diseases, is influenced by climate and season. the determination of the fluids is seldom the same in different years, and i am sure it varied with the weather in the disease which i am now describing. dr. jackson speaks of the head being most affected in the west-india fevers in _dry_ situations. dr. hillary says, that there was an unusual determination of the blood towards the brain, after a _hot_ and _dry_ season, in the fevers of barbadoes in the year ; and dr. ferriar, in his account of an epidemic jail fever in manchester, in , , informs us, that as soon as frost set in, a delirium became a more frequent symptom of that disease, than it had been in more temperate weather. iii. the _stomach_ and _bowels_ were affected in many ways in this fever. the disease seldom appeared without nausea or vomiting. in some cases, they both occurred for several days or a week before they were accompanied by any fever. sometimes a pain, known by the name of gastrodynia, ushered in the disease. the stomach was so extremely irritable as to reject drinks of every kind. sometimes green or yellow bile was rejected on the first day of the disease by vomiting; but i much oftener saw it continue for two days without discharging any thing from the stomach, but the drinks which were taken by the patient. if the fever in any case came on without vomiting, or if it had been checked by remedies that were ineffectual to remove it altogether, it generally appeared, or returned, on the th or th day of the disease. i dreaded this symptom on those days, for although it was not always the forerunner of death, yet it generally rendered the recovery more difficult and tedious. in some cases the vomiting was more or less constant from the beginning to the end of the disease, whether it terminated in life or death. the vomiting which came on about the th or th day, was accompanied with a burning pain in the region of the stomach. it produced great anxiety, and tossing of the body from one part of the bed to another. in some cases, this painful burning occurred before any vomiting had taken place. drinks were now rejected from the stomach so suddenly, as often to be discharged over the hand that lifted them to the head of the patient. the contents of the stomach (to be mentioned hereafter) were sometimes thrown up with a convulsive motion, that propelled them in a stream to a great distance, and in some cases all over the clothes of the by-standers. flatulency was an almost universal symptom, in every stage of this disease. it was very distressing in many cases. it occurred chiefly in the stomach. the _bowels_ were generally costive, and in some patients as obstinately so as in the dry gripes. in some cases there was all the pain and distress of a bilious colic, and in others, the tenesmus, and mucous and bloody discharges of a true dysentery. a diarrh[oe]a introduced the disease in a few persons, but it was chiefly in those who had been previously indisposed with weak bowels. a painful tension of the abdomen took place in many, accompanied in some instances by a dull, and in others by an acute pain in the lower part of the belly. iv. i come now to describe the state of the _secretions_ and _excretions_ as they appeared in different stages of this fever. in some cases there was a constipation of the liver, if i may be allowed that expression, or a total obstruction of secretion and excretion of bile, but more frequently a preternatural secretion and excretion of it took place. it was discharged, in most cases, from the stomach and bowels in large quantities, and of very different qualities and colours. . on the first and second days of the disease many patients puked from half a pint to nearly a quart of green or yellow bile. four cases came under my notice in which black bile was discharged on the _first_ day. three of these patients recovered. . there was frequently, on the th or th day, a discharge of matter from the stomach, resembling coffee impregnated with its grounds. this was always an alarming symptom. i believed it at first to be a modification of vitiated bile, but subsequent dissections by dr. physick have taught me that it was the result of the first stage of those morbid actions in the stomach, which afterwards produce the black vomit. many recovered who discharged this coffee-coloured matter. . towards the close of this disease, there was a discharge of matter of a deep or pale black colour, from the stomach. flakey substances frequently floated in the bason or chamber-pot upon the surface of this matter. it was what is called the _black vomit_. it was formerly supposed to be vitiated bile, but it has been proved by dr. stewart, and afterwards by dr. physick, to be the effect of disease in the stomach. . there was frequently discharged from the stomach in the close of the disease, a large quantity of grumous blood, which exhibited a dark colour on its outside, resembling that of some of the matters which have been described, and which i believe was frequently mistaken for what is commonly known by the name of the _black vomit_. several of my patients did me the honour to say, i had cured them after that symptom of approaching dissolution had made its appearance; but i am inclined to believe, dark-coloured blood only, or the coffee-coloured matter, was mistaken for the matters which constitute the fatal black vomiting. i except here the black discharge before-mentioned, which took place in three cases on the first day of the disease. this i have no doubt was bile, but it had not acquired its greatest acrimony, and it was discharged before mortification, or even inflammation could have taken place in the stomach. several persons died without a black vomiting of any kind. along with all the discharges from the stomach which have been described, there was occasionally a large worm, and frequently large quantities of mucus and tough phlegm. the colour, quality, and quantity of the _fæces_ depended very much upon the treatment of the disease. where active purges had been given, the stools were copious, f[oe]tid, and of a black or dark colour. where they were spontaneous, or excited by weak purges, they had a more natural appearance. in both cases they were sometimes of a green, and sometimes of an olive colour. their smell was more or less f[oe]tid, according to the time in which they had been detained in the bowels. i visited a lady who had passed several days without a stool, and who had been treated with tonic remedies. i gave her a purge, which in a few hours procured a discharge of fæces so extremely f[oe]tid, that they produced fainting in an old woman who attended her. the acrimony of the fæces was such as to excoriate the rectum, and sometimes to produce an extensive inflammation all around its external termination. the quantity of the stools produced by a single purge was in many cases very great. they could be accounted for only by calling in the constant and rapid formation of them, by preternatural effusions of bile into the bowels. i attended one person, and heard of two others, in whom the stools were as white as in the jaundice. i suspected, in these cases, the liver to be so constipated or paralyzed by the disease, as to be unable to secrete or excrete bile to colour the fæces. large round worms were frequently discharged with the stools. the _urine_ was in some cases plentiful, and of a high colour. it was at times clear, and at other times turbid. about the th or th day, it sometimes assumed a dark colour, and resembled strong coffee. this colour continued, in one instance, for several days after the patient recovered. in some, the discharge was accompanied by a burning pain, resembling that which takes place in a gonorrh[oe]a. i met with one case in which this burning came on only in the evening, with the exacerbation of the fever, and went off with its remission in the morning. a total deficiency of the urine took place in many people for a day or two, without pain. dr. sydenham takes notice of the same symptom in the highly inflammatory small-pox[ ]. it generally accompanied or portended great danger. i heard of one case in which there was a _suppression_ of urine, which could not be relieved without the use a the catheter. [ ] wallis's edition, vol. i. p. . a young man was attended by mr. fisher, one of my pupils, who discharged several quarts of limpid urine just before he died. dr. arthaud informs us, in the history of a dissection of a person who died of the yellow fever, that the urine after death imparted a green colour to the tincture of radishes[ ]. [ ] rosier's journal for january, , vol. xxxvi. p. . many people were relieved by copious _sweats_ on the first day of the disease. they were in some instances spontaneous, and in others they were excited by diluting drinks, or by strong purges. these sweats were often of a yellow colour, and sometimes had an offensive smell. they were in some cases cold, and attended at the same time with a full pulse. in general, the skin was dry in the beginning, as well as in the subsequent stages of the disease. i saw but few instances of its terminating like common fevers, by sweat after the third day. i wish this fact to be remembered by the reader, for it laid part of the foundation of my method of treating this fever. there was in some cases a preternatural secretion and excretion of _mucus_ from the glands of the throat. it was discharged by an almost constant hawking and spitting. all who had this symptom recovered. the _tongue_ was in every case moist, and of a white colour, on the first and second days of the fever. as the disease advanced, it assumed a red colour, and a smooth shining appearance. it was not quite dry in this state. towards the close of the fever, a dry black streak appeared in its middle, which gradually extended to every part of it. few recovered after this appearance on the tongue took place. v. in the _nervous system_ the symptoms of the fever were different, according as it affected the brain, the muscles, the nerves, or the mind. the sudden and violent action of the miasmata induced apoplexy in several people. in some, it brought on syncope, and in others, convulsions in every part of the body. the apoplectic cases generally proved fatal, for they fell chiefly upon hard drinkers. persons affected by syncope, or convulsions, sometimes fell down in the streets. two cases of this kind happened near my house. one of them came under my notice. he was supposed by the by-standers to be drunk, but his countenance and convulsive motions soon convinced me that this was not the case. a coma was observed in some people, or an obstinate wakefulness in every stage of the disease. the latter symptom most frequently attended the convalescence. many were affected with immobility, or numbness in their limbs. these symptoms were constant, or temporary, according to the nature of the remedies which were made use of to remove them. they extended to all the limbs, in some cases, and only to a part of them in others. in some, a violent cramp, both in the arms and legs, attended the first attack of the fever. i met with one case in which there was a difficulty of swallowing, from a spasmodic affection of the throat, such as occurs in the locked jaw. a hiccup attended the last stage of this disease, but i think less frequently than the last stage of the common bilious fever. i saw but five cases of recovery where this symptom took place. there was, in some instances, a deficiency of sensibility, but, in others, a degree of it extending to every part of the body, which rendered the application of common rum to the skin, and even the least motion of the limbs painful. i was surprised to observe the last stage of this fever to exhibit so few of the symptoms of the common typhus or chronic fever. tremors of the limbs and twitchings of the tendons were uncommon. they occurred only in those cases in which there was a predisposition to nervous diseases, and chiefly in the convalescent state of the disease. while the muscles and nerves in many cases exhibited so many marks of preternatural weakness, in some they appeared to be affected with preternatural excitement. hence patients in the close of the disease often rose from their beds, walked across their rooms, or came down stairs, with as much ease as if they had been in perfect health. i lost a patient in whom this state of morbid strength occurred to such a degree, that he stood up before his glass and shaved himself, on the day on which he died. the mind suffered with the morbid states of the brain and nerves. a delirium was a common symptom. it alternated in some cases with the exacerbations and remissions of the fever. in some, it continued without a remission, until a few hours before death. many, however, passed through the whole course of the disease without the least derangement in their ideas, even where there were evident signs of a morbid congestion in the brain. some were seized with maniacal symptoms. in these there was an _apparent_ absence of fever. such was the degree of this mania in one man, that he stripped off his shirt, left his bed, and ran through the streets, with no other covering than a napkin on his head, at o'clock at night, to the great terror of all who met him. the symptoms of mania occurred most frequently towards the close of the disease, and sometimes continued for many days and weeks, after all other febrile symptoms had disappeared. the temper was much affected in this fever. there were few in whom it did not produce great depression of spirits. this was the case in many, in whom pious habits had subdued the fear of death. in some the temper became very irritable. two cases of this kind came under my notice, in persons who, in good health, were distinguished for uncommon sweetness of disposition and manners. i observed in several persons the operations of the understanding to be unimpaired, throughout the whole course of the fever, who retained no remembrance of any thing that passed in their sickness. my pupil, mr. fisher, furnished a remarkable example of this correctness of understanding, with a suspension of memory. he neither said nor did any thing, during his illness, that indicated the least derangement of mind, and yet he recollected nothing that passed in his room, except my visits to him. his memory awakened upon my taking him by the hand, on the morning of the th day of his disease, and congratulating him upon his escape from the grave. in some, there was a weakness, or total defect of memory, for several weeks after their recovery. dr. woodhouse informed me that he had met with a woman, who, after she had recovered, could not recollect her own name. perhaps it would be proper to rank that self-deception with respect to the nature and danger of the disease, which was so universal, among the instances of derangement of mind. the pain which attended the disease was different, according to the different states of the system. in those cases in which it sunk under the violence of the disease, there was little or no pain. in proportion as the system was relieved from this oppression, it recovered its sensibility. the pain in the head was acute and distressing. it affected the eye-balls in a peculiar manner. a pain extended, in some cases, from the back of the head down the neck. the ears were affected, in several persons, with a painful sensation, which they compared to a string drawing their two ears together through the brain. the sides, and the regions of the stomach, liver, and bowels, were all, in different people, the seats of either dull or acute pains. the stomach, towards the close of the disease, was affected with a burning or spasmodic pain of the most distressing nature. it produced, in some cases, great anguish of body and mind. in others it produced cries and shrieks, which were often heard on the opposite side of the streets to where the patients lay. the back suffered very much in this disease. the stoutest men complained, and even groaned under it. an acute pain extended, in some cases, from the back to one or both thighs. the arms and legs sympathized with every other part of the body. one of my patients, upon whose limbs the disease fell with its principal force, said that his legs felt as if they had been scraped with a sharp instrument. the sympathy of friends with the distresses of the sick extended to a small part of their misery, when it did not include their sufferings from pain. one of the dearest friends i ever lost by death declared, in the height of her illness, that "no one knew the pains of a yellow fever, but those who felt them." vi. the _senses_ and _appetites_ exhibited several marks of the universal ravages of this fever upon the body. a deafness attended in many cases, but it was not often, as in the nervous fever, a favourable symptom. a dimness of sight was very common in the beginning of the disease. many were affected with temporary blindness. in some there was a loss of sight in consequence of gutta serena, or a total destruction of the substance of the eye. there was in many persons a soreness to the touch which extended all over the body. i have often observed this symptom to be the forerunner of a favourable issue of a nervous fever, but it was less frequently the case in this disease. the _thirst_ was moderate or absent in some cases, but it occurred in the greatest number of persons whom i saw in this fever. sometimes it was very intense. one of my patients, who suffered by an excessive draught of cold water, declared, just before he died, that "he could drink up the delaware." it was always an alarming symptom when this thirst came on in this extravagant degree in the last stage of the disease. in the beginning of the fever it generally abated upon the appearance of a moist skin. water was preferred to all other drinks. the _appetite_ for food was impaired in this, as in all other fevers, but it returned much sooner than is common after the patient began to recover. coffee was relished in the remissions of the fever, in every stage of the disease. so keen was the appetite for solid, and more especially for animal food, after the solution of the fever, that many suffered from eating aliment that was improper from its quality or quantity. there was a general disrelish for wine, but malt liquors were frequently grateful to the taste. many people retained a relish for tobacco much longer after they were attacked by this fever, and acquired a relish for it much sooner after they began to recover, than are common in any other febrile disease. i met with one case in which a man, who was so ill as to require two bleedings, continued to chew tobacco through every stage of his fever. the convalescence from this disease was marked, in some instances, by a sudden revival of the venereal appetite. several weddings took place in the city between persons who had recovered from the fever. twelve took place among the convalescents in the hospital at bush-hill. i wish i could add that the passion of the sexes for each other, among those subjects of public charity, was always gratified only in a lawful way. delicacy forbids a detail of the scenes of debauchery which were practised near the hospital, in some of the tents which had been appropriated for the reception of convalescents. it was not peculiar to this fever to produce this morbid excitability of the venereal appetite. it was produced in a much higher degree by the plague which raged in messina in the year . vii. the _lymphatic_ and _glandular system_ did not escape without some signs of this disease. i met with three cases of swellings in the inguinal, two in the parotid, and one in the cervical glands: all these patients recovered without a suppuration of their swellings. they were extremely painful in one case in which no redness or inflammation appeared. in the others there was considerable inflammation and but little pain. in one of the cases of inguinal buboes, the whole force of the disease seemed to be collected into the lymphatic system. the patient walked about, and had no fever nor pain in any part of his body, except in his groin. in another case which came under my care, a swelling and pain extended from the groin along the spermatic cord into one of the testicles. these glandular swellings were not peculiar to this epidemic. they occurred in the yellow fever of jamaica, as described by dr. williams, and always with a happy issue of the disease[ ]. a similar concentration of the contagion of the plague in the lymphatic glands is taken notice of by dr. patrick russel. [ ] essay on the bilious or yellow fever, p. . viii. the _skin_ exhibited many marks of this fever. it was preternaturally warm in some cases, but it was often preternaturally cool. in some there was a distressing coldness in the limbs for two or three days. the yellow colour from which this fever has derived its name, was not universal. it seldom appeared where purges had been given in sufficient doses. the yellowness rarely appeared before the third, and generally about the fifth or seventh day of the fever. its early appearance always denoted great danger. it sometimes appeared first on the neck and breast, instead of the eyes. in one of my patients it discovered itself first behind one of his ears, and on the crown of his head, which had been bald for several years. the remissions and exacerbations of the fever seemed to have an influence upon this colour, for it appeared and disappeared altogether, or with fainter or deeper shades of yellow, two or three times in the course of the disease. the eyes seldom escaped a yellow tinge; and yet i saw a number of cases in which the disease appeared with uncommon malignity and danger, without the presence of this symptom. there was a clay-coloured appearance in the face, in some cases, which was very different from the yellow colour which has been described. it occurred in the last stage of the fever, and in no instance did i see a recovery after it. there were eruptions of various kinds on the skin, each of which i shall briefly describe. . i met with two cases of an eruption on the skin, resembling that which occurs in the scarlet fever. dr. hume says, pimples often appear on the pit of the stomach, in the yellow fever of jamaica. i examined the external region of the stomach in many of my patients, without discovering them. . i met with one case in which there was an eruption of watery blisters, which, after bursting, ended in deep, black sores. . there was an eruption about the mouth in many people, which ended in scabs, similar to those which take place in the common bilious fever. they always afforded a prospect of a favourable issue of the disease. . many persons had eruptions which resembled moscheto bites. they were red and circumscribed. they appeared chiefly on the arms, but they sometimes extended to the breast. like the yellow colour of the skin, they appeared and disappeared two or three times in the course of the disease. . petechiæ were common in the latter stage of the fever. they sometimes came on in large, and at other times in small red blotches; but they soon acquired a dark colour. in most cases they were the harbingers of death. . several cases of carbuncles, such as occur in the plague, came under my notice. they were large and hard swellings on the limbs, with a black apex, which, upon being opened, discharged a thin, dark-coloured, bloody matter. from one of these malignant sores a hæmorrhage took place, which precipitated the death of the amiable widow of dr. john morris. . a large and painful anthrax on the back succeeded a favourable issue of the fever in the rev. dr. blackwell. . i met with a woman who showed me the marks of a number of small boils on her face and neck, which accompanied her fever. notwithstanding this disposition to cutaneous eruptions in this disease, it was remarkable that blisters were much less disposed to mortify than in the common nervous fever. i met with only one case in which a deep-seated ulcer followed the application of blisters to the legs. such was the insensibility of the skin in some people, that blisters made no impression upon it. ix. the _blood_ in this fever has been supposed to undergo a change from a healthy to a putrid state, and many of its symptoms which have been described, particularly the hæmorrhages and eruptions on the skin, have been ascribed to this supposed putrefaction of the blood. it would be easy to multiply arguments, in addition to those mentioned in another place[ ], to prove that no such thing as putrefaction can take place in the blood, and that the symptoms which have been supposed to prove its existence are all effects of a sudden, violent, and rapid inflammatory action or pressure upon the blood-vessels, and hence the external and internal hæmorrhages. the petechiæ on the surface of the skin depend upon the same cause. they are nothing but effusions of serum or red blood, from a rupture or preternatural dilatation of the capillary vessels[ ]. the smell emitted from persons affected by this disease was far from being of a putrid nature; and if this had been the case, it would not have proved the existence of putrefaction in the blood, for a putrid smell is often discharged from the lungs, and from the pores in sweat, which is wholly unconnected with a putrid, or perhaps any other morbid state of the blood. there are plants which discharge an odour which conveys to the nose a sensation like that of putrefaction; and yet these plants exist, at the same time, in a state of the most healthy vegetation: nor does the early putrid smell of a body which perishes with this fever prove a putrid change to have taken place in the blood before death. all animals which die suddenly, and without loss of blood, are disposed to a speedy putrefaction. this has long been remarked in animals that have been killed after a chase, or by lightning. the poisonous air called _samiel_, which is described by chardin, produces, when it destroys life, instant putrefaction. the bodies of men who die of violent passions, or after strong convulsions, or even after great muscular exertion, putrify in a few hours after death. the healthy state of the body depends upon a certain state of arrangement in the fluids. a derangement of these fluids is the natural consequence of the violent and rapid motions, or of the undue pressure upon the solids, which have been mentioned. it occurs in cases of death which are induced by the excessive force of stimulus, whether it be from miasmata, or the volatile vitriolic acid which is supposed to constitute the destructive samiel wind, or from violent commotions excited in the body by external or internal causes. the practice among fishermen, in some countries, of breaking the heads of their fish as soon as they are taken out of the water, in order to retard their putrefaction, proves the truth of the explanation i have given of its cause, soon after death. the sudden extinction of life in the fish prevents those convulsive or violent motions, which induce sudden _disorganization_ in their bodies. it was observed that putrefaction took place most speedily after death from the yellow fever, where the commotions of the system were not relieved by evacuations. in those cases where purges and bleeding had been used, putrefaction did not take place sooner after death than is common in any other febrile disease, under equal circumstances of heat and air. [ ] outlines of a theory of fever. [ ] see wallis's edition of sydenham, vol. i. p. . vol. ii. p. , , , ; de haen's ratio medendi, vol. ii. p. . vol. iv. p. ; gaubii pathologia, sect. ; and dr. seybert's inaugural dissertation, entitled "an attempt to disprove the doctrine of putrefaction of the blood in living animals," published in philadelphia in . thus have i described the symptoms of this fever. from the history i have given, it appears that it counterfeited nearly all the acute and chronic forms of disease to which the human body is subject. an epitome, both of its symptoms and its theory, is happily delivered by dr. sydenham, in the following words. after describing the epidemic cough, pleurisy, and peripneumony of , he adds, "but in other epidemics, the symptoms are so slight from the disturbance raised in the blood by the morbific particles contained in the mass, that nature being in a manner _oppressed_, is rendered unable to produce _regular_ symptoms that are suitable to the disease; and almost all the phenomena that happen are _irregular_, by reason of the entire _subversion_ of the animal economy; in which case the fever is often _depressed_, which, of its own nature, would be very high. sometimes also fewer signs of a fever appear than the nature of the disease requires, from a translation of the malignant cause, either to the nervous system, or to some other parts of the body, or to some of the juices not contained in the blood; whilst the morbific matter is yet turgid[ ]." [ ] wallis's edition, vol. i. p. . the disease ended in death in various ways. in some it was sudden; in others it came on by gradual approaches. in some the last hours of life were marked with great pain, and strong convulsions; but in many more, death seemed to insinuate itself into the system, with all the gentleness of natural sleep. mr. powell expired with a smile on his countenance. dr. griffitts informed me that dr. johnson exhibited the same symptom in the last hours of his life. this placid appearance of the countenance, in the act of dying, was not new to me. it frequently occurs in diseases which affect the brain and nerves. i lost a patient, in the year , with the gout, who not only smiled, but laughed, a few minutes before he expired. i proceed now to mention some peculiarities of the fever, which could not be brought in under any of the foregoing heads. in every case of this disease which came under my notice, there were evident remissions, or intermissions of the fever, or of such symptoms as were substituted for fever. i have long considered, with mr. senac, a _tertian_ as the only original type of all fevers. the bilious yellow fever indicated its descent from this parent disease. i met with many cases of regular tertians, in which the patients were so well on the intermediate days as to go abroad. it appeared in this form in mr. van berkel, the minister of the united netherlands. nor was this mild form of the fever devoid of danger. many died who neglected it, or who took the common remedies for intermittents to cure it. it generally ended in a remittent before it destroyed the patient. the tertian type discovered itself in some people after the more violent symptoms of the fever had been subdued, and continued in them for several weeks. it changed from a tertian to a quartan type in mr. thomas willing, nearly a month after his recovery from the more acute and inflammatory symptoms of the disease. it is nothing new for a malignant fever to appear in the form of a tertian. it is frequently the garb of the plague. riverius describes a tertian fever which proved fatal on the third day, which was evidently derived from the same exhalation which produced a continual malignant fever[ ]. [ ] de febre pestilenti, vol. xi. p. . the remissions were more evident in this, than in the common bilious fever. they generally occurred in the forenoon. it was my misfortune to be deprived, by the great number of my patients, of that command of time which was necessary to watch the exacerbations of this fever under all their various changes, as to time, force, and duration. from all the observations that were suggested by visits, at hours that were seldom left to my choice, i was led to conclude, that the fever exhibited in different people all that variety of forms which has been described by dr. cleghorn, in his account of the tertian fever of minorca. a violent exacerbation on even days was evidently attended with more danger than on odd days. the same thing was observed by dr. mitchell in the yellow fever of virginia, in the year . "if (says he) the exacerbations were on equal days, they generally died in the third paroxysm, or the sixth day; but if on unequal days, they recovered on the seventh." the deaths which occurred on the d, th, and th days, appeared frequently to be the effects of the commotions or depression, produced in the system on the d, th, and th days. the remission on the third day was frequently such as to beget a belief that the disease had run its course, and that all danger was over. a violent attack of the fever on the th day removed this deception, and, if a relaxation had taken place in the use of proper remedies on the d day, death frequently occurred on the th or the th. the termination of this fever in life and death was much more frequent on the d, th, th, th, and th days, than is common in the mild remitting fever. where death occurred on the even days, it seemed to be the effect of a violent paroxysm of the fever, or of great vigour of constitution, or of the force of medicines which protracted some of the motions of life beyond the close of the odd days which have been mentioned. i think i observed the fever to terminate on the third day more frequently in august, and during the first ten days in september, than it did after the weather became cool. in this it resembled the common bilious remittents of our city, also the simple tertians described by dr. cleghorn[ ]. the danger seemed to be in proportion to the tendency of the disease to a speedy crisis, hence more died in august in proportion to the number who were affected than in september or october, when the disease was left to itself. but, however strange after this remark it may appear, the disease yielded to the remedies which finally subdued it more speedily and certainly upon its first appearance in the city, than it did two or three weeks afterwards. [ ] diseases of minorca, p. . the disease continued for fifteen, twenty, and even thirty days in some people. its duration was much influenced by the weather, and by the use or neglect of certain remedies (to be mentioned hereafter) in the first stage of the disease. it has been common with authors to divide the symptoms of this fever into three different stages. the order i have pursued in the history of those symptoms will render this division unnecessary. it will i hope be more useful to divide the patients affected with the disease into three classes. the _first_ includes those in whom the stimulus of the miasmata produced coma, languor, sighing, a disposition to syncope, and a weak or slow pulse. the _second_ includes those in whom the miasmata acted with less force, producing great pain in the head, and other parts of the body; delirium, vomiting, heat, thirst, and a quick, tense, or full pulse, with obvious remissions or intermissions of the fever. the _third_ class includes all those persons in whom the miasmata acted so feebly as not to confine them to their beds or houses. this class of persons affected by the yellow fever was very numerous. many of them recovered without medical aid, or by the use of domestic prescriptions; many of them recovered in consequence of a spontaneous diarrh[oe]a, or plentiful sweats; many were saved by moderate bleeding and purging; while some died, who conceived their complaints to be occasioned by a common cold, and neglected to take proper care of themselves, or to use the necessary means for their recovery. it is not peculiar to the yellow fever to produce this feeble operation upon the system, it has been observed in the southern states of america, that in those seasons in which the common bilious fever is epidemic "no body is quite well," and that what are called in those states "inward fevers" are universal. the small-pox, even in the natural way, does not always confine the patient; and thousands pass through the plague without being confined to their beds or houses. dr. hodges prescribed for this class of patients in his parlour in london, in the year , and dr. patrick russel did the same from a chamber window fifteen feet above the level of the street at aleppo. notwithstanding the mild form the plague put on in these cases, it often proved fatal according to dr. russel. i have introduced these facts chiefly with a view of preparing the reader to reject the opinion that we had two species of fever in the city at the same time; and to show that the yellow fever appears in a more simple form than with "strongly marked" characters; or, in other words, with a yellow skin and a black vomiting. it was remarkable that this fever always found out the weak part of every constitution it attacked. the head, the lungs, the stomach, the bowels, and the limbs, suffered more or less, according as they were more or less debilitated by previous inflammatory or nervous diseases, or by a mixture of both, as in the gout. i have before remarked, that the influenza, the scarlatina, and a mild bilious remittent, prevailed in the city, before the yellow fever made its appearance. in the course of a few weeks they all disappeared, or appeared with symptoms of the yellow fever; so that, after the first week of september, it was the solitary epidemic of the city. the only case like influenza which i saw after the th of september, was in a girl of years of age, on the th of the month. it came on with a sneezing and cough. i was called to her on the third day of her disease. the instant i felt her pulse, i pronounced her disease to be the yellow fever. her father was offended with this opinion, although he lived in a highly infected neighbourhood, and objected to the remedies i prescribed for her. in a few days she died. in the course of ten days, her father and sister were infected, and both died, i was informed, with the usual symptoms of the yellow fever. it has been an axiom in medicine, time immemorial, that no two fevers of unequal force can exist long together in the same place. as this axiom seems to have been forgotten by many of the physicians of philadelphia, and as the ignorance or neglect of it led to that contrariety of opinion and practice, which unhappily took place in the treatment of the disease, i hope i shall be excused by those physicians to whom this fact is as familiar as the most simple law of nature, if i fill a few pages with proofs of it, from practical writers. thucydides long ago remarked, that the plague chased all other diseases from athens, or obliged them to change their nature, by assuming some of its symptoms. dr. sydenham makes the same remark upon the plague in london, in . dr. hodges, in his account of the same plague, says, that "at the rise of the plague all other distempers went into it, but that, at its declension, it degenerated into others, as inflammations, head-ach, quinsies, dysenteries, small-pox, measles, fevers, and hectics, wherein the plague yet predominated[ ]." [ ] dr. hodge's account of the plague in london, p. . during the prevalence of the plague in grand cairo, no sporadic disease of any kind makes its appearance. the same observation is made by sauvage, in his account of the plague at alais, in the province of languedoc[ ]. [ ] sed hoc observatu dignum fuit, omnes alios morbos acutos, durante peste siluisse, et omnes morbos acutos e pestis genere suisse. nosologia methodica, vol. i. p. . the small-pox, though a disease of less force than the plague, has often chased it from constantinople, probably from its being in a declining state. but this exclusive prevalence of a single epidemic is not confined to the plague and small-pox. dr. sydenham's writings are full of proofs of the dominion of febrile diseases over each other. hence, after treating upon a symptomatic pleurisy which sometimes accompanied a slow fever, in the year , and which had probably been injudiciously treated by some of those physicians who prescribe for the name of a disease, he delivers the following aphorism: "whoever, in the cure of fevers, hath not always in view the constitution of the year, inasmuch as it tends to produce some particular epidemic disease, and likewise to reduce all the cotemporary diseases to its own form and likeness, proceeds in an uncertain and fallacious way[ ]." it appears further, from the writings of this excellent physician, that where the monarchy of a single disease was not immediately acknowledged, by a sudden retreat of all cotemporary diseases, they were forced to do homage to it, by wearing its livery. it would be easy to multiply proofs of this assertion, from the numerous histories of epidemics which are to be found in his works. i shall mention only one or two of them. a continual fever, accompanied by a dry skin, had prevailed for some time in the city of london. during the continuance of this fever, the regular small-pox made its appearance. it is peculiar to the small-pox, when of a distinct nature, to be attended by irregular sweats before the eruption of the pock. the continual fever now put on a new symptom. it was attended by sweats in its first stage, exactly like those which attended the eruptive fever of the small-pox[ ]. this despotism of a powerful epidemic extended itself to the most trifling indispositions. it even blended itself, dr. sydenham tells us, with the commotions excited in the system by the suppression of the lochia, as well as with the common puerperile fever[ ]. dr. morton has left testimonies behind him, in different parts of his works, which establish, in the most ample manner, the truth of dr. sydenham's observations. dr. huxham describes the small-pox as blending some of its symptoms with those of a slow fever, at plymouth, in the year [ ]. dr. cleghorn mentions a constitution of the air at minorca, so highly inflammatory, "that not only tertian fevers, but even a common hurt or bruise required more plentiful evacuations than ordinary[ ]." riverius informs us, in his history of a pestilential fever that prevailed in france, that "it united itself with phrenitis, angina, pleurisy, peripneumony, hepatitis, dysentery, and many other diseases[ ]." [ ] vol. i. p. . [ ] vol. i. p. . [ ] vol. ii. p. . see also p. , , , , , , , , - , and . [ ] de aere et morb. epidem. p. , . [ ] page . [ ] de febre pestilenti, vol. ii. p. . the bilious remitting fever which prevailed in philadelphia, in , chased away every other febrile disease; and the scarlatina anginosa which prevailed in our city, in and , furnished a striking proof of the influence of epidemics over each other. in the account which i published of this disease, in the year , there are the following remarks. "the intermitting fever which made its appearance in august was not lost during the month of september. it continued to prevail, but with several peculiar symptoms. in many persons it was accompanied by an eruption on the skin, and a swelling of the hands and feet. in some it was attended with sore throat, and pains behind the ears. indeed such was the prevalence of the contagion which produced the scarlatina anginosa, that many hundred people complained of sore throats, without any other symptom of indisposition. the slightest exciting cause, and particularly cold, seldom failed of producing the disease[ ]." [ ] vol. i. i shall mention only one more authority in favour of the influence of a single epidemic upon diseases. it is taken from mr. clark's essay on the epidemic disease of lying-in women, of the years and . "there does not appear to be any thing in a parturient state which can prevent women from being affected by the general causes of disease at that time; and should they become ill, their complaints will probably partake of the nature of the reigning epidemic[ ]." i have said that the fever sometimes put on the symptoms of dysentery, pleurisy, rheumatism, colic, palsy, and even of the locked jaw. that these were not original diseases, but symptomatic affections only of the reigning epidemic, will appear from other histories of bilious fevers. dr. balfour tells us, in his account of the intestinal remitting fever of bengal[ ], that it often appeared with symptoms of dysentery, rheumatism, and pleurisy. dr. cleghorn and dr. lind mention many cases of the bilious fever appearing in the form of a dysentery. dr. clark ascribes the dysentery, the diarrh[oe]a, the colic, and even the palsy, to the same cause which produced the bilious fever in the east-indies[ ]; and dr. hunter, in his treatise upon the diseases of jamaica, mentions the locked jaw as one of its occasional symptoms. even the different grades of this fever, from the mildest intermittent to the most acute continual fever, have been distinctly traced by lancissi to the same marsh exhalation[ ]. [ ] page . [ ] page . [ ] observations on the diseases in long voyages to the east-indies, vol. i. p. , , , . vol. ii. p. , , and . [ ] lib. ii. cap. v. however irrefragably these numerous facts and authorities establish the assertion of the prevalence of but one powerful epidemic at a time, the proposition will receive fresh support, from attending to the effects of two impressions of unequal force made upon the system at the same time: only one of them is felt; hence the gout is said to cure all other diseases. by its superior pain it destroys sensations of a less painful nature. the small-pox and measles have sometimes existed together in the body; but this has, i believe, seldom occurred, where one of them has not been the predominating disease[ ]. in this respect, this combination of epidemics only conforms to the general law which has been mentioned. [ ] hunter on the venereal disease, introduction, p. . i beg pardon for the length of this digression. i did not introduce it to expose the mistakes of those physicians, who found as many diseases in our city as the yellow fever had symptoms, but to vindicate myself from the charge of innovation, in having uniformly and unequivocally asserted, after the first week in september, that the yellow fever was the only febrile disease which prevailed in the city. science has much to deplore from the multiplication of diseases. it is as repugnant to truth in medicine, as polytheism is to truth in religion. the physician who considers every different affection of the different systems in the body, or every affection of different parts of the same system, as distinct diseases, when they arise from one cause, resembles the indian or african savage, who considers water, dew, ice, frost, and snow, as distinct essences; while the physician who considers the morbid affections of every part of the body (however diversified they may be in their form or degrees) as derived from one cause, resembles the philosopher who considers dew, ice, frost, and snow, as different modifications of water, and as derived simply from the absence of heat. humanity has likewise much to deplore from this paganism in medicine. the sword will probably be sheathed for ever, as an instrument of death, before physicians will cease to add to the mortality of mankind, by prescribing for the names of diseases. the facts i have delivered upon this subject will admit of a very important application to the cure, not only of the yellow fever, but of all other acute and dangerous epidemics. i shall hereafter assign a final cause for the law of epidemics which has been mentioned, which will discover a union of the goodness of the supreme being with one of the greatest calamities of human life. all ages were affected by this fever, but persons between fourteen and forty years of age were most subject to it. many old people had it, but it was not so fatal to them as to robust persons in middle life. it affected children of all ages. i met with a violent case of the disease, in a child of four months, and a moderate case of it, in a child of but ten weeks old. the latter had a deep yellow skin. both these children recovered. the proportion of children who suffered by this fever may be conceived from a single fact. seventy-five persons were buried in the grave-yard of the swedish church in the months of august, september, and october, twenty-four of whom were children. they were buried chiefly in september and october; months in which children generally enjoy good health in our city. men were more subject to the disease than women. pregnancy seemed to expose women to it. the refugees from the french west-indies universally escaped it. this was not the case with the natives of france, who had been settled in the city. it is nothing new for epidemics to affect persons of one nation, and to pass by persons of other nations, in the same city or country. at nimeguen, in the year , deigner informs us, that the french people (two old men excepted), and the jews, escaped a dysentery which was universal among persons of all other nations. ramazini tells us, that the jews at modena escaped a tertian fever which affected nearly all the other inhabitants of the town. shenkius says, that the dutch and italians escaped a plague, which prevailed for two years in one of the towns of switzerland; and dr. bell, in an inaugural dissertation, published at edinburgh, in , remarks, that the jail fever, which attacked the soldiers of the duke of buccleugh's regiment, spared the french prisoners who were guarded by them. it is difficult to account for these facts. however numerous their causes may be, a difference in diet, which is as much a distinguishing mark of nations as dress or manners, will probably be found to be one of them. from the accounts of the yellow fever which had been published by many writers, i was led to believe that the negroes in our city would escape it. in consequence of this belief, i published the following extract in the american daily advertiser, from dr. lining's history of the yellow fever, as it had four times appeared in charleston, in south-carolina. "there is something very singular (says the doctor) in the constitution of the negroes, which renders them not liable to this fever; for though many of them were as much exposed as the nurses to the infection, yet i never knew of one instance of this fever among them, though they are equally subject with the white people to the bilious fever[ ]." [ ] essays and observations, physical and literary, vol. xi. page . a day or two after this publication the following letter from the mayor of the city, to mr. claypoole, the printer of the mail, appeared in his paper. "sir, "it is with peculiar satisfaction that i communicate to the public, through your paper, that the african society, touched with the distresses which arise from the present dangerous disorder, have voluntarily undertaken to furnish nurses to attend the afflicted; and that, by applying to absalom jones and william gray, both members of that society, they may be supplied. matth. clarkson, _september th, ._ _mayor_." it was not long after these worthy africans undertook the execution of their humane offer of services to the sick before i was convinced i had been mistaken. they took the disease in common with the white people, and many of them died with it. i think i observed the greatest number of them to sicken after the mornings and evenings became cool. a large number of them were my patients. the disease was lighter in them than in white people. i met with no case of hæmorrhage in a black patient. the tobacconists and persons who used tobacco did not escape the disease. i observed snuff-takers to be more devoted to their boxes than usual, during the prevalence of the fever. i have remarked, formerly, that servant maids suffered much by the disease. they were the only patients i lost in several large families. i ascribe their deaths to the following causes: _ st._ to the great and unusual debility induced upon their systems by labour in attending their masters and mistresses, or their children. debility, according to its degrees and duration, seems to have had the same effect upon the mortality of this fever that it has upon the mortality of an inflammation of the lungs. when it is moderate and of short duration it predisposes only to a common pneumony, but when it is violent and protracted, in its degrees and duration, it predisposes to a pulmonary consumption. _ dly._ to their receiving large quantities of impure air into their bodies, and in a most concentrated state, by being obliged to perform the most menial offices for the sick, and by washing, as well as removing foul linen, and the like. _ dly._ to their being left more alone in confined or distant rooms, and thereby suffering from depression of spirits, or the want of a punctual supply of food and medicines. there did not appear to be any advantage from smelling vinegar, tar, camphor, or volatile salts, in preventing the disease. bark and wine were equally ineffectual for that purpose. i was called to many hundred people who were infected after using one or more of them. nor did the white washing of walls secure families from the disease. i am disposed to believe garlic was the only substance that was in any degree useful in preventing it. i met with several persons who chewed it constantly, and who were much exposed to the miasmata, without being infected. all other substances seemed to do harm by begetting a false confidence in the mind, to the exclusion of more rational preservatives. i have suspected further, that such of them as were of a volatile nature helped to spread the disease by affording a vehicle for miasmata through the air. there was great mortality in all those families who lived in wooden houses. whether this arose from the small size of these houses, or from the want of cleanliness of the people who occupied them, or from the miasmata becoming more accumulated, by adhering to the wood, i am unable to determine. perhaps it was the effect of the co-operation of all three of those causes. i have said, formerly, that intemperance in drinking predisposed to the disease; but there were several instances of persons having escaped it who were constantly under the influence of strong drink. the stimulus of ardent spirits probably predominated over the stimulus of the miasmata, and thus excited an artificial fever which defended the system from that which was epidemic. i heard of some sea-faring people who lived on board their vessels who escaped the disease. the smell of the tar was supposed to have preserved them; but, from its being ineffectual in other cases, i am disposed to ascribe their escape to the infected air of the city being destroyed by a mixture with the water of the delaware. many people who were infected in the city were attacked by the disease in the country, but they did not propagate it, even to persons who slept in the same room with them. dr. lind informs us that many persons escaped the yellow fever which prevailed in pensacola in the year , by retiring to the ships which lay in the harbour, and that when the disease had been taken, the pure air of the water changed it into an intermitting fever[ ]. the same changes have frequently been produced in malignant fevers, by sending patients infected with them from the foul air of a city, into the pure air of the country. [ ] diseases of warm climates, p. . persons confined in the house of employment, in the hospital, and in the jail, escaped the fever. the airy and remote situation of those buildings was probably the chief means of their preservation. perhaps they derived additional security from their simple diet, their exemption from hard labour, and from being constantly sheltered from heat and cold. several families, who shut up their front and back doors and windows, and avoided going out of their houses except to procure provisions, escaped the disease. i have taken some pains to ascertain, whether any class of tradesmen escaped the fever, or whether there was any species of labour which protected from it. the result of my inquiries is as follows: three butchers only, out of nearly one hundred who remained in the city, died with the disease. many of them attended the markets every day. two painters, who worked at their business during the whole time of the prevalence of the fever, and in exposed situations, escaped it. out of forty scavengers who were employed in collecting and carrying away the dirt of the streets, only one was affected by the fever and died. very few grave-diggers, compared with the number who were employed in that business, were infected; and it is well known, that scarcely an instance was heard of persons taking the disease, who were constantly employed in digging cellars. the fact is not new that grave-diggers escape malignant fevers. it is taken notice of by dr. clark. it was said by some physicians in the public papers, that the neighbourhood of the grave-yards was more infected than other parts of the city. the reverse of this assertion was true in several cases, owing probably to the miasmata being diluted and weakened by its mixture with the air of the grave-yards: for this air was pure, compared with that which stagnated in the streets. it was said further, that the disease was propagated by the inhabitants assembling on sundays for public worship; and, as a proof of this assertion, it was reported, that the deaths were more numerous on sundays than on other days; occasioned by the infection received on one sunday producing death on the succeeding first day of the week. the register of the deaths shows that this was not the case. i am disposed to believe that fewer people sickened on sundays, than on any other day of the week; owing to the general rest from labour, which i have before said was one of the exciting causes of the disease. from some facts to be mentioned presently, it will appear probable, that places of public worship, in consequence of their size, as well as of their being shut up during the greatest part of the week, were the freest from miasmata of any houses in the city. it is agreeable to discover in this, as well as in all other cases of public and private duty, that the means of health and moral happiness are in no one instance opposed to each other. the disease, which was at first confined to water-street, soon spread through the whole city. after the th of september, the atmosphere of every street in the city was charged with miasmata; and there were few citizens in apparent good health, who did not exhibit one or more of the following marks of their presence in their bodies. . a yellowness in the eyes, and a sallow colour upon their skin. . a preternatural quickness in the pulse. i found but two exceptions to this remark, out of a great number of persons whose pulses i examined. in one of them it discovered several preternatural intermissions in the course of a minute. this quickness of pulse occurred in the negroes, as well as in the white people. i met with it in a woman who had had the yellow fever in . in two women, and in one man above , the pulse beat upwards of strokes in a minute. this preternatural state of the pulse during the prevalence of a pestilential fever, in persons in health, is taken notice of by riverius[ ]. [ ] "pulsus sanorum pulsibus similes admodum, periculosi."--_de febre pestilenti, p. ._ . frequent and copious discharges by the skin of yellow sweats. in some persons these sweats sometimes had an offensive smell, resembling that of the washings of a gun. . a scanty discharge of high coloured or turbid urine. . a deficiency of appetite, or a greater degree of it than was natural. . costiveness. . wakefulness. . head-ach. . a preternatural dilatation of the pupils. this was universal. i was much struck in observing the pupil in one of the eyes of a young man who called upon me for advice, to be of an oblong figure. whether it was natural, or the effect of the miasmata acting on his brain, i could not determine. it will be thought less strange that the miasmata should produce these changes in the systems of persons who resided constantly in the city, when i add, that many country people who spent but a few hours in the streets in the day, in attending the markets, were infected by the disease, and sickened and died after they returned home; and that others, whom business compelled to spend a day or two in the city during the prevalence of the fever, but who escaped an attack of it, declared that they were indisposed, during the whole time, with languor or head-ach. i was led to observe and record the above effects of the miasmata upon persons in apparent good health, by a fact i met with in dr. mitchell's history of the yellow fever in virginia, in the year . in that fever, blood drawn from a vein was always dissolved. the same state of the blood was observed in many persons who had been exposed to the miasmata, who discovered no other symptom of the disease. a woman whom i had formerly cured of a mania, who lived in an infected neighbourhood, had a fresh attack of that disease, accompanied by an unusual menstrual flux. i ascribed both these complaints to the action of the miasmata upon her system. the smell emitted from a patient, in a clean room, was like that of the small-pox, but in most cases of a less disagreeable nature. putrid smells in sick rooms were the effects of the excretions, or of some other filthy matters. in small rooms, crowded in some instances with four or five sick people, there was an effluvia that produced giddiness, sickness at stomach, a weakness of the limbs, faintness, and in some cases a diarrh[oe]a. i met with a f[oe]tid breath in one patient, which was not the effect of that medicine which sometimes produces it. the state of the atmosphere, during the whole month of september, and the first two weeks in october, favoured the accumulation of the miasmata in the city. the register of the weather shows how little the air was agitated by winds during the above time. in vain were changes in the moon expected to alter the state of the air. the light of the morning mocked the hopes that were raised by a cloudy sky in the evening. the sun ceased to be viewed with pleasure. hundreds sickened every day beneath the influence of his rays: and even where they did not excite the disease, they produced a languor in the body unknown to the oldest inhabitant of the city, at the same season of the year. a meteor was seen at two o'clock in the morning, on or about the twelfth of september. it fell between third-street and the hospital, nearly in a line with pine-street. moschetoes (the usual attendants of a sickly autumn) were uncommonly numerous. here and there a dead cat added to the impurity of the air of the streets. it was supposed those animals perished with hunger in the city, in consequence of so many houses being deserted by the inhabitants who had fled into the country, but the observations of subsequent years made it more probable they were destroyed by the same morbid state of the atmosphere which produced the reigning epidemic. it appears further, from the register of the weather, that there was no rain between the th of august and the th of october, except a few drops, hardly enough to lay the dust of the streets, on the th of september, and the th of october. in consequence of this drought, the springs and wells failed in many parts of the country. the dust in some places extended two feet below the surface of the ground. the pastures were deficient, or burnt up. there was a scarcity of autumnal fruits in the neighbourhood of the city. but while vegetation drooped or died from the want of moisture in some places, it revived with preternatural vigour from unusual heat in others. cherry-trees blossomed, and apple, pear, and plum-trees bore young fruit in several gardens in trenton, thirty miles from philadelphia, in the month of october. however inoffensive uniform heat, when agitated by gentle breezes, may be, there is, i believe, no record of a dry, warm, and stagnating air, having existed for any length of time without producing diseases. hippocrates, in describing a pestilential fever, says the year in which it prevailed was without a breeze of wind[ ]. the same state of the atmosphere, for six weeks, is mentioned in many of the histories of the plague which prevailed in london, in [ ]. even the sea air itself becomes unwholesome by stagnating; hence dr. clark informs us, that sailors become sickly after long calms in east-india voyages[ ]. sir john pringle delivers the following aphorism from a number of similar observations upon this subject: "when the heats come on soon, and continue throughout autumn, not moderated by winds or rains, the season proves sickly, distempers appear early, and are dangerous[ ]." [ ] "sine aura, usque annus fuit."--_epid. ._ [ ] letter from sir john bernard to dr. floyer, p. . [ ] vol. i. p. . [ ] diseases of the army, p. . of the th london edition. who can review this account of the universal diffusion of the miasmata which produced this disease, its universal effects upon persons apparently in good health, and its accumulation and concentration, in consequence of the calmness of the air, and believe that it was possible for a febrile disease to exist at that time in our city that was not derived from that source? the west-india writers upon the yellow fever have said that it is seldom taken twice, except by persons who have spent some years in europe or america in the interval between its first and second attack. i directed my inquiries to this question, and i now proceed to mention the result of them. i met with five persons, during the prevalence of the disease, who had had it formerly, two of them in the year , and three in , who escaped it in , although they were all more or less exposed to the infection. one of them felt a constant pain in her head while the disease was in her family. four of them were aged, and of course less liable to be acted upon by the miasmata than persons in early or middle life. mr. thomas shields furnished an unequivocal proof that the disease could be taken after an interval of many years. he had it in the year , and narrowly escaped from a violent attack of it this year. cases of reinfection were very common during the prevalence of this fever. they occurred most frequently where the first attack had been light. but they succeeded attacks that were severe in dr. griffitts, dr. mease, my pupil mr. coxe, and several others, whose cases came under my notice. i have before remarked that the miasmata sometimes excited a fever as soon as they were taken into the body, but that they often lay there from one to sixteen days before they produced the disease. how long they existed in the body after a recovery from the fever i could not tell, for persons who recovered were, in most cases, exposed to their action from external sources. the preternatural dilatation of the pupils was a certain mark of the continuance of some portion of them in the system. in one person who was attacked with the fever on the night of the th of october, the pupils did not contract to their natural dimensions until the th of november. having described the effects of the miasmata upon the body, i proceed now to mention the changes induced upon it by death. let us first take a view of it as it appeared soon after death. some new light may perhaps be thrown upon the proximate cause of the disease by this mode of examining the body. my information upon this subject was derived from the attendants upon the sick, and from the two african citizens who were employed in burying the dead, viz. richard allen and absalom jones. the coincidence of the information received from different persons satisfied me that all that i shall here relate is both accurate and just. a deep yellow colour appeared in many cases within a few minutes after death. in some the skin became purple, and in others black. i heard of one case in which the body was yellow above, and black below its middle. in some the skin was as pale as it is in persons who die of common fevers. a placid countenance was observed in many, resembling that which occurs in an easy and healthful sleep. some were stiff within one hour after death. others were not so for six hours afterwards. this sudden stiffness after death, dr. valli informs us, occurred in persons who died of the plague in smyrna, in the year [ ]. [ ] experiments on animal electricity, p. . some grew cold soon after death, while others retained a considerable degree of heat for six hours, more especially on their backs. a stream of tears appeared on the cheeks of a young woman, which seemed to have flowed after her death. some putrified in a short time after their dissolution, but others had no smell for twelve, eighteen, and twenty hours afterwards. this absence of smell occurred in those cases in which evacuations had been used without success in the treatment of the disease. many discharged large quantities of black matter from the bowels, and others blood from the nose, mouth, and bowels after death. the frequency of these discharges gave rise to the practice of pitching the joints of the coffins which were used to bury the dead. the morbid appearances of the internal parts of the body, as they appear by dissection after death from the yellow fever, are different in different countries, and in the same countries in different years. i consider them all as effects only of a stimulus acting upon the whole system, and determined more or less by accidental circumstances to particular viscera. perhaps the stimulus of the miasmata determines the fluids more violently in most cases to the liver, stomach, and bowels, and thereby disposes them more than other parts to inflammation and mortification, and to similar effusions and eruptions with those which take place on the skin. there can be no doubt of the miasmata acting upon the liver, and thereby altering the qualities of the bile. i transcribe, with great pleasure, the following account of the state of the bile in a female slave of forty years of age, from dr. mitchell's history of the yellow fever, as it prevailed in virginia, in the years and , inasmuch as it was part of that clue which led me to adopt one of the remedies on which much of the success of my practice depended. "the gall bladder (says the doctor) appeared outwardly of a deep yellow, but within was full of a black ropy coagulated atrabilis, which sort of substance obstructed the pori biliarii, and ductus choledochus. this atrabilis was hardly fluid, but upon opening the gall bladder, it retained its form and shape, without being evacuated, being of the consistence of a thin extract, and, within, glutinous and ropy, like soap when boiling. this black matter seemed so much unlike bile, that i doubted if there were any bile in the gall bladder. it more resembled bruised or mortified blood, evacuated from the mortified parts of the liver, surrounding it, although it would stain a knife or probe thrust into it of a yellow colour, which, with its ropy consistence, seemed more peculiar to a bilious humour." the same appearance of the bile was discovered in several other subjects dissected by dr. mitchell. the liver, in the above-mentioned slave, was turgid and plump on its outside, but on its concave surface, two thirds of it were of a deep black colour, and round the gall bladder it seemed to be mortified and corrupted. the duodenum was lined on its inside, near the gall bladder, with a viscid ropy bile, like that which has been described. its villous coat was lined with a thick fur or slime, which, when scraped or pealed off, the other vascular and muscular coats of the gut appeared red and inflamed. the omentum was so much wasted, that nothing but its blood-vessels could be perceived. the stomach was inflamed, both on its outside and inside. it contained a quantity of bile of the same consistence, but of a blacker colour than that which was found in the gall bladder. its villous coat, like that of the duodenum, was covered with fuzzy and slimy matter. it moreover appeared to be distended or swelled. this peculiarity in the inner coat of the stomach was universal in all the bodies that were opened, of persons who died of this disease. the lungs, instead of being collapsed, were inflated as in inspiration. they were all over full of black or livid spots. on these spots were to be seen small vesicles or blisters, like those of an erysipelas or gangrene, containing a yellow humour. the blood-vessels in general seemed empty of blood, even the vena cava and its branches; but the vena portarum was full and distended as usual. the blood seemed _collected_ in the _viscera_; for upon cutting the lungs or sound liver or spleen, they bled freely. the brain was not opened in this body, but it was not affected in three others whose brains were examined. dr. mackittrick, in his inaugural dissertation, published at edinburgh in the year , "de febre indiæ occidentalis, maligna flava," or upon the yellow fever of the west-indies, says, that in some of the patients who died of it, he found the liver sphacelated, the gall bladder full of black bile, and the veins turgid with black fluid blood. in others he found the liver no ways enlarged, and its "texture only vitiated." the stomach, the duodenum, and ilium, were remarkably inflamed in all cases. the pericardium contained a viscid yellow serum, and in a larger quantity than common. the urinary bladder was a little inflamed. the lungs were sound. dr. hume, in describing the yellow fever of jamaica, informs us, that in several dead bodies which he opened, he found the liver enlarged and turgid with bile, and of a pale yellow colour. in some he found the stomach and duodenum inflamed. in one case he discovered black spots in the stomach, of the size of a crown piece. to this account he adds, "that he had seen some subjects opened, on whose stomachs _no marks of inflammation_ could be discovered; and yet these had excessive vomiting." dr. lind has furnished us with an account of the state of the body after death, in his short history of the yellow fever, which prevailed at cadiz, in the year . "the stomach (he says), mesentery, and intestines, were covered with gangrenous spots; there were ulcers on the orifice of the stomach, and the liver and lungs were of a putrid colour and texture[ ]." [ ] diseases of warm climates, p. . to these accounts of the morbid appearances of the body after death from the yellow fever i shall only add the account of several dissections, which was given to the public in mr. brown's gazette, during the prevalence of this epidemic, by dr. physick and dr. cathrall. "being well assured of the great importance of dissections of morbid bodies in the investigation of the nature of diseases, we have thought it of consequence that some of those dead of the present prevailing malignant fever should be examined; and, without enlarging on our observations, it appears at present sufficient to state the following facts. " st. that the brain in all its parts has been found in a natural condition. " d. that the viscera of the thorax are perfectly sound. the blood, however, in the heart and veins is fluid, similar, in its consistence, to the blood of persons who have been hanged, or destroyed by electricity. " d. that the stomach, and beginning of the duodenum, are the parts that appear most diseased. in two persons who died of the disease on the th day, the villous membrane of the stomach, especially about its smaller end, was found highly inflamed; and this inflammation extended through the pylorus into the duodenum, some way. the inflammation here was exactly similar to that induced in the stomach by acrid poisons, as by arsenic, which we have once had an opportunity of seeing in a person destroyed by it. "the bile in the gall-bladder was quite of its natural colour, though very viscid. "in another person, who died on the th day of the disease, several spots of extravasation were discovered between the membranes, particularly about the smaller end of the stomach, the inflammation of which had considerably abated. pus was seen in the beginning of the duodenum, and the villous membrane at this part was thickened. "in two other persons, who died at a more advanced period of the disease, the stomach appeared spotted in many places with extravasations, and the inflammation disappeared. it contained, as did also the intestines, a black liquor, which had been vomited and purged before death. this black liquor appears clearly to be an altered secretion from the liver; for a fluid in all respects of the same qualities was found in the gall bladder. this liquor was so acrid, that it induced considerable inflammation and swelling on the operator's hands, which remained some days. the villous membrane of the intestines, in these last two bodies, was found inflamed in several places. "the liver was of its natural appearance, excepting in one of the last persons, on the surface of which a very few distended veins were seen: all the other abdominal viscera were of a healthy appearance. "the external surface of the stomach, as well as of the intestines, was quite free from inflammation; the veins being distended with blood, which appeared through the transparent peritonium, gave them a dark colour. "the stomach of those who died early in the disease was always contracted; but in those who died at a more advanced period of it, where extravasations appeared, it was distended with air. "p. s. physick, "j. cathrall." i have before remarked, that these dissections were made early in the disease, and that dr. annan attended a dissection of a body at bush-hill, some time afterwards, in which an unusual turgescence appeared in the vessels of the brain. thus far have i delivered the history of the yellow fever, as it affected the human body with sickness and death. i shall now mention a few of those circumstances of public and private distress which attended it. i have before remarked, that the first reports of the existence of this fever were treated with neglect or contempt. a strange apathy pervaded all classes of people. while i bore my share of reproach for "terrifying our citizens with imaginary danger," i answered it by lamenting "that they were not terrified enough." the publication from the college of physicians soon dissipated this indifference and incredulity. fear or terror now sat upon every countenance. the disease appeared in many parts of the town, remote from the spot where it originated; although, for a while, in every instance, it was easily traced to it. this set the city in motion. the streets and roads leading from the city were crowded with families flying in every direction for safety to the country. business began to languish. water-street, between market and race-streets, became a desert. the poor were the first victims of the fever. from the sudden interruption of business they suffered for a while from poverty as well as from disease. a large and airy house at bush-hill, about a mile from the city, was opened for their reception. this house, after it became the charge of a committee appointed by the citizens on the th of september, was regulated and governed with the order and cleanliness of an old and established hospital. an american and french physician had the exclusive medical care of it after the d of september. the disease, after the second week in september, spared no rank of citizens. whole families were confined by it. there was a deficiency of nurses for the sick, and many of those who were employed were unqualified for their business. there was likewise a great deficiency of physicians, from the desertion of some, and the sickness and death of others. at one time there were but three physicians who were able to do business out of their houses, and at this time there were probably not less than persons ill with the fever. during the first three or four weeks of the prevalence of the disease i seldom went into a house the first time, without meeting the parents or children of the sick in tears. many wept aloud in my entry, or parlour, who came to ask for advice for their relations. grief after a while descended below weeping, and i was much struck in observing that many persons submitted to the loss of relations and friends without shedding a tear, or manifesting any other of the common signs of grief. a cheerful countenance was scarcely to be seen in the city for six weeks. i recollect once, in entering the house of a poor man, to have met a child of two years old that smiled in my face. i was strangely affected with this sight (so discordant to my feelings and the state of the city) before i recollected the age and ignorance of the child. i was confined the next day by an attack of the fever, and was sorry to hear, upon my recovery, that the father and mother of this little creature died a few days after my last visit to them. the streets every where discovered marks of the distress that pervaded the city. more than one half the houses were shut up, although not more than one third of the inhabitants had fled into the country. in walking for many hundred yards, few persons were met, except such as were in quest of a physician, a nurse, a bleeder, or the men who buried the dead. the hearse alone kept up the remembrance of the noise of carriages or carts in the streets. funeral processions were laid aside. a black man, leading or driving a horse, with a corpse on a pair of chair wheels, with now and then half a dozen relations or friends following at a distance from it, met the eye in most of the streets of the city, at every hour of the day, while the noise of the same wheels passing slowly over the pavements, kept alive anguish and fear in the sick and well, every hour of the night[ ]. [ ] in the life of thomas story, a celebrated preacher among the friends, there is an account of the distress of the city, in its infant state, from the prevalence of the yellow fever, in the autumn of , nearly like that which has been described. i shall insert the account in his own words. "great was the fear that fell on all flesh. i saw no lofty or airy countenance, nor heard any vain jesting to move men to laughter. every face gathered paleness, and many hearts were humbled, and countenances fallen and sunk, as such that waited every moment to be summoned to the bar, and numbered to the grave." the same author adds, that six, seven, and sometimes eight, died of this fever in a day, for several weeks. his fellow-traveller, and companion in the ministry, roger gill, discovered upon this occasion an extraordinary degree of christian philanthropy. he publicly offered himself, in one of the meetings of the society, as a sacrifice for the people, and prayed that "god would please to accept of his life for them, that a stop might be put to the contagion." he died of the fever a few days afterwards. but a more serious source of the distress of the city arose from the dissentions of the physicians, about the nature and treatment of the fever. it was considered by some as a modification of the influenza, and by others as the jail fever. its various grades and symptoms were considered as so many different diseases, all originating from different causes. there was the same contrariety in the practice of the physicians that there was in their principles. the newspapers conveyed accounts of both to the public, every day. the minds of the citizens were distracted by them, and hundreds suffered and died from the delays which were produced by an erroneous opinion of a plurality of diseases in the city, or by indecision in the choice, or a want of confidence in the remedies of their physician. the science of medicine is related to every thing, and the philosopher as well as the christian will be gratified by knowing the effects of a great and mortal epidemic upon the morals of a people. it was some alleviation of the distress produced by it, to observe its influence upon the obligations of morality and religion. it was remarked during this time, by many people, that the name of the supreme being was seldom profaned, either in the streets, or in the intercourse of the citizens with each other. but two robberies, and those of a trifling nature, occurred in nearly two months, although many hundred houses were exposed to plunder, every hour of the day and night. many of the religious societies met two or three times a week, and some of them every evening, to implore the interposition of heaven to save the city from desolation. humanity and charity kept pace with devotion. the public have already seen accounts of their benevolent exercises in other publications. it was my lot to witness the uncommon activity of those virtues upon a smaller scale. i saw little to blame, but much to admire and praise in persons of different professions, both sexes, and of all colours. it would be foreign to the design of this work to draw from the obscurity which they sought, the many acts of humanity and charity, of fortitude, patience, and perseverance, which came under my notice. they will be made public and applauded elsewhere. but the virtues which were excited by our calamity were not confined to the city of philadelphia. the united states wept for the distresses of their capital. in several of the states, and in many cities and villages, days of humiliation and prayer were set apart to supplicate the father of mercies in behalf of our afflicted city. nor was this all. from nearly every state in the union the most liberal contributions of money, provisions, and fuel were poured in for the relief and support of such as had been reduced to want by the suspension of business, as well as by sickness and the death of friends. the number of deaths between the st of august and the th of november amounted to four thousand and forty-four. i shall here insert a register of the number which occurred on each day, beginning on the st of august, and ending on the th of november. by comparing it with the register of the weather it will show the influence of the latter on the disease. several of the deaths in august were from other acute diseases, and a few in the succeeding months were from such as were of a chronic nature. died. | august | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | september | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | october | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | november | | | | | | | | | ---- | total[ ] | [ ] in the above accounts there is a deficiency of returns from several grave-yards of . from this table it appears that the principal mortality was in the second week of october. a general expectation had obtained, that cold weather was as fatal to this fever as heavy rains. the usual time for its arrival had come, but the weather was still not only moderate, but warm. in this awful situation, the stoutest hearts began to fail. hope sickened, and despair succeeded distress in almost every countenance. on the _fifteenth_ of october, it pleased god to alter the state of the air. the clouds at last dropped health in showers of rain, which continued during the whole day, and which were succeeded for several nights afterwards by cold and frost. the effects of this change in the weather appeared first in the sudden diminution of the sick, for the deaths continued for a week afterwards to be numerous, but they were of persons who had been confined before, or on the day in which the change had taken place in the weather. the appearance of this rain was like a dove with an olive branch in its mouth to the whole city. public notice was given of its beneficial effects, in a letter subscribed by the mayor of philadelphia, who acted as president of the committee, to the mayor of new-york. i shall insert the whole of this letter. it contains, besides the above information, a record of the liberality of that city to the distressed inhabitants of philadelphia. "sir, "i am favoured with your letter of the th instant, which i have communicated to the committee for the relief of the poor and afflicted of this city. "it is with peculiar satisfaction that i execute their request, by making, in their name, on behalf of our suffering fellow-citizens, the most grateful acknowledgements for the seasonable benevolence of the common council of the city of new-york. their sympathy is balm to our wounds. "we acknowledge the divine interposition, whereby the hearts of so many around us have been touched with our distress, and have united in our relief. "may the almighty disposer of all events be graciously pleased to protect your citizens from the dreadful calamity with which we are now visited; whilst we humbly kiss the rod, and improve by the dispensation. "the part, sir, which you personally take in our afflictions, and which you have so pathetically expressed in your letter, excites in the breasts of the committee the warmest sensations of fraternal affection. "the refreshing rain which fell the day before yesterday, though light, and the cool weather which hath succeeded, appear to have given a check to the prevalence of the disorder: of this we have satisfactory proofs, as well in the decrease of the funerals, as in the applications for removal to the hospital. "i have, at your request, this day drawn upon you, at sight, in favour of the president and directors of the bank of north america, for the sum of five thousand dollars, the benevolent donations of the common council of the city of new-york. "with sentiments of the greatest esteem and regard, "i am, sir, "your most obedient humble servant, "matth. clarkson. _"philadelphia, oct. , ._ _"richard varick, mayor of the city of new-york."_ it is no new thing for bilious fevers, of every description, to be checked or subdued by _wet_ and _cold_ weather. the yellow fever which raged in philadelphia in , and which is taken notice of by thomas story in his journal, ceased about the latter end of october, or the beginning of november. of this there are satisfactory proofs, in the register of the interments in the friends' burying-ground, and in a letter, dated november th, old style, , from isaac norris to one of his correspondents, which his grandson, mr. joseph p. norris, politely put into my hands, with several others, which mention the disease, and all written in that memorable year in philadelphia. the letter says, "it has pleased god to put a stop to our sore visitation, and town and country are now generally healthy." the same disease was checked by wet and cold weather in the year . of this there is a proof in a letter from dr. franklin to one of his brothers, who stopped at burlington, on his way from boston to philadelphia, on account of the fever, until he was assured by the doctor, that a thunder gust, which had cooled the air, had rendered it safe for him to come into the city[ ]. mr. lynford lardner, in a letter to one of his english friends, dated september , , old style, after mentioning the prevalence of the fever in the city, says, "the weather is now much cooler, and those under the disorder revive. the symptoms are less violent, and the fever gradually abates." [ ] from a short note in the register of the interments in the friends' burying-ground, it appears that the fever this year made its first appearance in the month of june. the following is a copy of that note: " th of the th month (o. s.), , a malignant yellow fever now spreads much." besides that note, there is the following: " th of the th month (o. s.), , many who died of the above distemper were persons lively, and strong, and in the prime of their time." i have in vain attempted to procure an account of the time of the commencement of cold weather in the autumn of . in the short history of the fever of that year, which i have inserted from my note book, i have said that it continued to prevail in the months of november and december. the register of the interments in the friends' burying-ground in those months confirms that account. they were nearly as numerous in november and december as in september and october, viz. in september , in october , in november , and in december . the bilious remitting fever of yielded to cool weather, accompanied by rain and an easterly wind[ ]. [ ] vol. i. sir john pringle will furnish ample satisfaction to such of my readers as wish for more proofs of the efficacy of heavy rains, and cold weather, in checking the progress and violence of autumnal remitting fevers[ ]. [ ] p. , , , and . from the th of october the disease not only declined, but assumed more obvious inflammatory symptoms. it was, as in the beginning, more necessarily fatal where left to itself, but it yielded more certainly to art than it did a few weeks before. the duration of it was now more tedious than in the warmer weather. there were a few cases of yellow fever in november and december, after the citizens who had retired to the country returned to the city. i heard of but three persons who returned to the city being infected with the disease; so completely was its cause destroyed in the course of a few weeks. in consequence of a proclamation by the governor, and a recommendation by the clergy of philadelphia, the th of december was observed as a day of thanksgiving throughout the state, for the extinction of the disease in the city. it was easy to distinguish, in walking the streets, the persons who had returned from the country to the city, from those who had remained in it during the prevalence of the fever. the former appeared ruddy and healthy, while the latter appeared of a pale or sallow colour. it afforded a subject of equal surprise and joy to behold the suddenness with which the city recovered its former habits of business. in the course of six weeks after the disease had ceased, nothing but fresh graves, and the black dresses of many of the citizens, afforded a public trace of the distress which had so lately prevailed in the city. the month of november, and all the winter months which followed the autumnal epidemic, were in general healthy. a catarrh affected a number of people in november. i suspected it to be the influenza which had revived from a dormant state, and which had not spent itself, when it yielded to the predominance of the yellow fever. this opinion derives some support from a curious fact related by the late mr. hunter of the revival of the small-pox in a patient, in whom it had been suspended for some time by the measles[ ]. the few fevers which prevailed in the winter were highly inflammatory. the small-pox in the natural way was in several instances confluent; and in one or two fatal. i was prepared to expect this inflammatory diathesis in the fevers of the winter; for i had been taught by dr. sydenham, that the diseases which follow a great and mortal epidemic partake more or less of its general character. but the diseases of the winter had a peculiarity still more extraordinary; and that was, many of them had several of the symptoms of the yellow fever, particularly a puking of bile, dark-coloured stools, and a yellow eye. mr. samuel d. alexander, a student of medicine from south-carolina, who was seized with a pneumony about christmas, had, with a yellow eye, a dilated pupil and a hard pulse, which beat only fifty strokes in a minute. his blood was such as i had frequently observed in the yellow fever. dr. griffitts informed me that he attended a patient on the th of january, in a pneumony, who had a universal yellowness on his skin. i met with a case of pneumony on the th of the same month, in which i observed the same degrees of redness in the eyes that were common in the yellow fever. my pupil, mr. coxe, lost blood in an inflammatory fever, on the th of february, which was dissolved. mr. innes, the brewer, had a deep yellow colour in his eyes, on the fourth day of a pneumony, on the th of the same month; and mr. magnus miller had the same symptom of a similar disease on the th of march. none of these bilious and anomalous symptoms of the inflammatory fevers of the winter and spring surprised me. i had been early taught, by dr. sydenham, that the epidemics of autumn often insinuate some of their symptoms into the winter diseases which follow them. dr. cleghorn informs us, that "the pleurisies which succeeded the autumnal tertians in minorca, were accompanied by a vomiting and purging of green or yellow bilious matters[ ]." [ ] introduction to a treatise on the venereal disease, p. . of the american edition. [ ] page . it belongs to powerful epidemics to be followed by similar diseases after they disappear, as well as to run into others at their first appearance. in the former case it is occasioned by a peculiar state of the body, created by the epidemic constitution of the air, not having been changed by the weather which succeeded it. the weather in march resembled that of may; while the weather in april resembled that of march in common years. a rash prevailed in many families, in april, accompanied in a few cases by a sore throat. it was attended with an itching, a redness of the eyes, and a slight fever in a few instances. the small-pox by inoculation in this month was more mortal than in former years. however unimportant these facts may appear at this time, future observations may perhaps connect them with a similar constitution of the air which produced the previous autumnal epidemic. the appearance of bilious symptoms in the diseases of the winter, excited apprehensions in several instances of the revival of the yellow fever. the alarms, though false, served to produce vigilance and industry in the corporation, in airing and purifying such houses and articles of furniture as belonged to the poor; and which had been neglected in the autumn, after the ceasing of the disease. the modes of purifying houses, beds, and clothes were various. fumigations of nitre and aromatic substances were used by some people. burying infected articles of furniture under ground, and baking them in ovens, were used by others. some destroyed all their beds and clothing that had been infected, or threw them into the delaware. many white-washed their walls, and painted the wood-work of their house. i did not conceive the seeds of the disease required all, or any of those means to destroy it. i believed _cold_ and _water_ to be sufficient for that purpose. i therefore advised keeping the windows of infected rooms open night and day, for a few days; to have the floors and walls of houses well washed; and to expose beds and such articles of household furniture as might be injured by washing, upon the bare earth for a week or two, taking care to turn them every day. i used no other methods of destroying the accumulated miasmata in my house and furniture, and experience showed that they were sufficient. it is possible a portion of the excretions of the sick may be retained in clothes or beds, so as to afford an exhalation that may in the course of a succeeding summer and autumn, or from accidental warmth at any time, create a solitary case of fever, but it cannot render it epidemic. a trunk full of clothes, the property of mr. james bingham, who died of the yellow fever in one of the west-india islands about years ago, was opened, some months after they were received by his friends, by a young man who lived in his brother's family. this young man took the disease, and died; but without infecting any of the family; nor did the disease spread afterwards in the city. the father of mr. joseph paschall was infected with the yellow fever of , by the smell of a foul bed in passing through norris's alley, in the latter end of december, after the disease had left the city. he died on the th of the month, but without reviving the fever in the city, or even infecting his family. the matter which produced the fever in both these cases, had nothing specific in it. it acted in the same manner that the exhalation from any other putrid matters would have done in a highly concentrated state. in a letter from dr. senter of newport, dated january th, , i find the following fact, which i shall communicate in his own words. it is introduced to support the principle, that the yellow fever does not spread by contagion. "this place (says the doctor) has traded formerly very much to the west-india islands, and more or less of our people have died there every season, when the disease prevails in those parts. clothes of these unfortunate people have been repeatedly brought home to their friends, without any accident happening to them." i feel with my reader the fatigue of this long detail of facts, and equal impatience with him to proceed to the history of the treatment of the fever; but i must beg leave to detain him a little longer from that part of the work, while i resume the subject of the origin of the fever. it is an interesting question, as it involves in it the means of preventing the return of the disease, and thereby of saving the lives of thousands of our citizens. soon after the fever left the city, the governor of the state addressed a letter to the college of physicians, requesting to know their opinion of its origin; if imported, from what _place_, at what _time_, and in what _manner_. the design of this inquiry was to procure such information as was proper to lay before the legislature, in order to improve the laws for preventing the importation or generation of infectious diseases, or to enact new ones, if necessary for that purpose. to the governor's letter the college of physicians sent the following answer: "sir, "it has not been from a want of respect to yourself, nor from inattention to the subject, that your letter of the th ult. was not sooner answered; but the importance of the questions proposed has made it necessary for us to devote a considerable portion of time and attention to the subject, in order to arrive at a safe and just conclusion. "no instance has ever occurred of the disease called the _yellow fever_ having been generated in this city, or in any other parts of the united states, as far as we know; but there have been frequent instances of its having been imported, not only into this, but into other parts of north-america, and prevailing there for a certain period of time; and from the rise, progress, and nature of the malignant fever, which began to prevail here about the beginning of last august, and extended itself gradually over a great part of the city, we are of opinion that this disease was imported into philadelphia, by some of the vessels which arrived in the port after the middle of july. this opinion we are further confirmed in by various accounts we have received from unquestionable authorities. "signed, by order of the college of physicians, "john redman, _president_. "_november th, ._ "_to the governor of pennsylvania._" dr. redman, the president of the college, dr. foulke, and dr. leib, dissented from the report contained in this letter. i have been necessarily led to continue it in the present edition of this work, not only because all the other members of that body still retain their belief of the importation of the fever, but as a reason for republishing the facts and arguments in support of its domestic origin. i have asserted, in the introduction to the history of this fever, that i believed it to have been generated in our city; i shall now deliver my reasons for that belief. . the yellow fever in the west-indies, and in all other countries where it is endemic, is the offspring of vegetable putrefaction. heat, exercise, and intemperance in drinking (says dr. lind) _dispose_ to this fever in hot climates, but they do not produce it without the concurrence of a remote cause. this remote cause exists at all times, in some spots of the islands, but in other parts even of the same islands, where there are no marsh exhalations, the disease is unknown. i shall not waste a moment in inquiring into the truth of dr. warren's account of the origin of this fever. it is fully refuted by dr. hillary, and it is treated as chimerical by dr. lind. they have very limited ideas of the history of this fever who suppose it to be peculiar to the east or west-indies. it was admitted to have been generated in cadiz after a hot and dry summer in , and in pensacola in [ ]. the tertian fever of minorca, when it attacked englishmen, put on the usual symptoms of the yellow fever[ ]. in short, this disease appears, according to dr. lind, in all the southern parts of europe, after hot and dry weather[ ]. [ ] lind on the diseases of hot climates, p. and . [ ] cleghorn, p. . [ ] diseases of hot climates, p. . . the same causes (under like circumstances) must always produce the same effects. there is nothing in the air of the west-indies, above other hot countries, which disposes it to produce a yellow fever. similar degrees of heat, acting upon dead and moist vegetable matters, are capable of producing it, together with all its various modifications, in every part of the world. in support of this opinion, i shall transcribe part of a letter from dr. miller, formerly of the delaware state, and now of new-york. "_dover, nov. , ._ "dear sir, "since the middle of last july we have had a bilious colic epidemic in this neighbourhood, which exhibits phænomena very singular in this climate; and, so far as i am informed, unprecedented in the medical records, or popular traditions of this country. to avoid unnecessary details it will suffice at present to observe, that the disease, on this occasion, has assumed, not only all the essential characters, but likewise all the violence, obstinacy, and malignity described by the east and west-indian practitioners. if any difference can be observed it seems here to manifest higher degrees of stubbornness and malignity than we usually meet in the histories of tropical writers. in the course of the disease, not only extreme constipation, frequent vomiting, and the most excruciating pains of the bowels and limbs, harass the unhappy patient; but to these succeed paralysis, convulsions, &c. and almost always uncommon muscular debility, oppression of the præcordia, &c. are the consequence of a severe attack. bile discharged in enormous quantities constantly assumes the most corrupted and acrimonious appearances, commonly æruginous in a very high degree, and sometimes quite atrabilious. "the inference i mean to draw from the phænomena of this disease, as it appears in this neighbourhood, and which i presume will also apply to your epidemic, is _this_, that from the uncommon protraction and intenseness of our summer and autumnal heats, but principally from the unusual drought, we have had, since the middle of july, a near approach to a _tropical_ season, and that of consequence we ought not to be surprised if tropical diseases, even of the most malignant nature, are _engendered_ amongst us." to the above information it may be added, that the dysentery which prevailed during the autumn of , in several of the villages of pennsylvania, was attended with a malignity and mortality unknown before in any part of the state. i need not pause to remark that this dysentery arose from putrid exhalation, and that it is, like the bilious colic, only a modification of bilious fever. but further, a malignant fever, resembling that which was epidemic in our city, prevailed during the autumn in many parts of the united states, viz. at lynn in massachusetts, at weatherfield and coventry in connecticut, at new-galloway in the state of new-york, on walkill and on pensocken creeks in new-jersey, at harrisburgh and hummelstown in pennsylvania, in caroline county in maryland, on the south branch of the potowmac in hardie county, also in lynchburgh and in alexandria in virginia, and in several counties in north-carolina. in none of these places was there a suspicion of the disease being imported from abroad, or conveyed by an intercourse with the city of philadelphia. it is no objection to the inference which follows from these facts, that the common remitting fever was not known during the above period in the neighbourhood of this city, and in many other parts of the state, where it had usually appeared in the autumnal months. there is a certain combination of moisture with heat, which is essential to the production of the remote cause of a bilious fever. where the heat is so intense, or of such long duration, as wholly to dissipate moisture, or when the rains are so great as totally to overflow the marshy ground, or to wash away putrid masses of matter, no fever can be produced. dr. dazilles, in his treatise upon the diseases of the negroes in the west-indies, informs us, that the _rainy_ season is the most healthy at cayenne, owing to the neighbouring morasses being _deeply_ overflowed; whereas, at st. domingo, a _dry_ season is most productive of diseases, owing to its favouring those degrees of moisture which produce morbid exhalations. these facts will explain the reason why, in certain seasons, places which are naturally healthy in our country become sickly, while those places which are naturally sickly escape the prevailing epidemic. previously to the dissipation of the moisture from the putrid masses of vegetable matters in our streets, and in the neighbourhood of the city, there were (as several practitioners can testify) many cases of mild remittents, but they all disappeared about the first week in september. it is worthy of notice, that the yellow fever prevailed in virginia in the year , and in charleston, in south-carolina, in the year , in both which years it prevailed in philadelphia. its prevalence in charleston is taken notice of in a letter, dated november th, o. s. , from isaac norris to one of his correspondents. the letter says, that " persons had died in charleston in a few days," that "the survivors fled into the country," and that "the town was thinned to a very few people." is it not probable, from the prevalence of this fever twice in two places in the same years, that it was produced (as in ) by a general constitution of air, co-operating with miasmata, which favoured its generation in different parts of the continent? but again, such was the state of the air in the summer of , that it predisposed other animals to diseases, besides the human species. in some parts of new-jersey, a disease prevailed with great mortality among the horses, and in virginia among the cows, during the autumn. the urine in both was yellow.--large abscesses appeared in different parts of the body in the latter animals, which, when opened, discharged a yellow serous fluid. from the colour of these discharges, and of the urine, the disease got the name of the _yellow water_. . i have before remarked, that a quantity of damaged coffee was exposed at a time (july the th) and in a situation (on a wharf and in a dock) which favoured its putrefaction and exhalation. its smell was highly putrid and offensive, insomuch that the inhabitants of the houses in water and front-streets, who were near it, were obliged, in the hottest weather, to exclude it by shutting their doors and windows. even persons, who only walked along those streets, complained of an intolerable f[oe]tor, which, upon inquiring, was constantly traced to the putrid coffee. it should not surprise us, that this seed, so inoffensive in its natural state, should produce, after its putrefaction, a violent fever. the records of medicine (to be mentioned hereafter) furnish instances of similar fevers being produced, by the putrefaction of many other vegetable substances. . the rapid progress of the fever from water-street, and the courses through which it travelled into other parts of the city, afford a strong evidence that it was at first propagated by exhalation from the putrid coffee. it was observed that it passed first through those alleys and streets which were in the course of the winds that blew across the dock and wharf, where the coffee had been thrown in a state of putrefaction. . many persons who had worked, or even visited, in the neighbourhood of the exhalation from the coffee, early in the month of august, were indisposed afterwards with sickness, puking, and yellow sweats, long before the air of water-street was so much impregnated with the exhalation, as to produce such effects; and several patients, whom i attended in the yellow fever, declared to me, or to their friends, that their indispositions began exactly at the time they inhaled the offensive effluvia of the coffee. . the first cases of the yellow fever have been clearly traced to the sailors of the vessel who were first exposed to the effluvia of the coffee. their sickness commenced with the day on which the coffee began to emit its putrid smell. the disease spread with the increase of the poisonous exhalation. a journeyman of mr. peter brown's, who worked near the corner of race and water-streets, caught the disease on the th of july. elizabeth hill, the wife of a fisherman, was infected by only sailing near the pestilential wharf, about the st of august, and died at kensington on the th of the same month. many other names might be mentioned of persons who sickened during the last week in july or the first week in august, who ascribed their illnesses to the smell of the coffee. . it has been remarked that this fever did not spread in the country, when carried there by persons who were infected, and who afterwards died with it. during four times in which it prevailed in charleston, in no one instance, according to dr. lining, was it propagated in any other part of the state. . in the histories of the disease which have been preserved in this country, it has _six_ times appeared about the first or middle of august, and declined or ceased about the middle of october: viz. in , , , and in charleston, in in new-york, and in in philadelphia. this frequent occurrence of the yellow fever at the usual period of our common bilious remittents, cannot be ascribed to accidental coincidence, but must be resolved, in most cases, into the combination of more active miasmata with the predisposition of a tropical season. in speaking of a tropical season, i include that kind of weather in which rains and heats are alternated with each other, as well as that which is uniformly warm. . several circumstances attended this epidemic, which do not occur in the west-india yellow fever. it affected children as well as adults, in common with our annual bilious fevers. in the west-indies, dr. hume tells us, it never attacked any person under puberty. it had, moreover, many peculiar symptoms (as i have already shown) which are not to be met with in any of the histories of the west india yellow fever. . why should it surprise us to see a yellow fever generated amongst us? it is only a higher grade of a fever which prevails every year in our city, from vegetable putrefaction. it conforms, in the difference of its degrees of violence and danger, to season as well as climate, and in this respect it is upon a footing with the small-pox, the measles, the sore-throat, and several other diseases. there are few years pass, in which a plethoric habit, and more active but limited miasmata, do not produce sporadic cases of true yellow fever in philadelphia. it is very common in south and north-carolina and in virginia, and there are facts which prove, that not only strangers, but native individuals, and, in one instance, a whole family, have been carried off by it in the state of maryland. it proved fatal to one hundred persons in the city of new-york in the year of , where it was evidently generated by putrid exhalation. the yellow colour of the skin has unfortunately too often been considered as the characteristic mark of this fever, otherwise many other instances of its prevalence might be discovered, i have no doubt, in every part of the united states. i wish, with dr. mosely, the term _yellow_ could be abolished from the titles of this fever, for this colour is not only frequently absent, but sometimes occurs in the mildest bilious remittents. dr. haller, in his pathology, describes an epidemic of this kind in switzerland, in which this colour generally attended, and i have once seen it almost universal in a common bilious fever, which prevailed in the american army, in the year . i cannot help taking notice, in this place, of an omission in the answer to the governor's letter, by the college of physicians. the governor requested to know whether it was imported; if it were, from _what place_, at _what time_, and in _what manner_. in the answer of the college of physicians to the governor's letter no notice was taken of any of those questions. in vain did dr. foulke call upon the college to be more definite in their answer to them. they had faithfully sought for the information required, but to no purpose. the character of their departed brother, dr. hutchinson, for capacity and vigilance in his office, as inspector of sickly vessels, was urged without effect as an argument against the probability of the disease being imported. public report had derived it from several different islands; had chased it from ship to ship, and from shore to shore; and finally conveyed it at different times into the city, alternately by dead and living bodies; and from these tales, all of which, when investigated, were proved to be without foundation, the college of physicians composed their letter. it would seem, from this conduct of the college, as if medical superstition had changed its names, and that, in accounting for the origin of pestilential fevers, celestial, planetary, and demoniacal influence had only yielded to the term _importation_. let not the reader reject the opinion i have delivered because it is opposed by so great a majority of the physicians of philadelphia. a single physician supported an opinion of the existence of the plague at messina, in the year , in opposition to all the physicians ( in number) of that city. they denied the disease in question to exist, because it was not accompanied by glandular swellings. time showed that they were all mistaken, and the plague, which might probably have been checked, at its first appearance, by their united efforts, was, by means of their ignorance, introduced with great mortality into every part of the city. this disposition of physicians to limit the symptoms of several other diseases, cannot be sufficiently lamented. the frequent absence of a yellow colour, in this epidemic, led to mistakes which cost the city of philadelphia several hundred lives. the letter of the college of physicians has served to confirm me in an opinion, that the plagues which occasionally desolated most of the countries of europe, in former centuries, and which were always said to be of foreign extraction, were of domestic origin. between the years and , the plague was epidemic fifty-two times all over europe. it prevailed fourteen times in the th century. the state of europe, in this long period, is well known. idleness, a deficiency of vegetable aliment, a camp life, from the frequency of wars, famine, an uncultivated and marshy soil, small cabins, and the want of cleanliness in dress, diet, and furniture, all concurred to generate pestilential diseases. the plagues which prevailed in london, every year from to , and from to , i believe were generated in that city. the diminution of plagues in europe, more especially in london, appears to have been produced by the great change in the diet and manners of the people; also by the more commodious and airy forms of the houses of the poor, among whom the plague _always_ makes its first appearance. it is true, these plagues were said by authors to have been imported, either directly or indirectly, from the levant; but the proofs of such importation were as vague and deficient as they were of the west-india origin of our epidemic. the pestilential fevers which have been mentioned, have been described by authors by the generic name of the plague, but they appear to have originated from putrid vegetable exhalations, and to have resembled, in most of their symptoms, the west-india and _north-american_ yellow fever. i shall resume this interesting subject in another place, in which i shall mention a number of additional facts, not only in support of the domestic origin of the bilious yellow fever, but of its not spreading by contagion, and of course of its being impossible to import it. i shall at the same time enumerate all its different sources, and point out the means of destroying or removing them, and thus of exterminating the disease from our country. with these observations i conclude the history of the epidemic fever of the year . a few of its symptoms, which have been omitted in this history, will be included in the method of cure, for they were discovered or produced by the remedies which were given for that purpose. [hand] the following page begins an account of the states of the thermometer and weather, from the st of january to the st of august, and of the states of the barometer, thermometer, winds, and weather, from the st of august to the th of november, . the times of observation, for the first three months are at in the morning, and in the afternoon; for the next five months they are at in the morning, and in the afternoon. from the st of october to the th of november, they are as in the first three months. _january, ._ _february, ._ +----+---------+----------------------+---------+---------------------+ | | therm. | weather. | therm. | weather. | | d. | h | h | | h | h | | +----+----+----+----------------------+----+----+---------------------+ | | | | cloudy. | | | fair, hazy. | | | | | fair, cloudy. | | | rain, ditto. | | | | | cloudy, rain. | | | cloudy, fair. | | | | | rain, cloudy. | | | cloudy, fair. | | | | | fair, cloudy. | | | cloudy, ditto. | | | | | cloudy, fair. | | | cloudy, rain. | | | | | fair, fair. | | | cloudy, fair. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | cloudy, ditto. | | | | | hazy, fair. | | | rain, fair. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | cloudy, fair. | | | | | fair, clouds. | | | fair, cloudy. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | snow, cloudy. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | cloudy, snow. | | | | | hail, snow, sleet. | | | cloudy, fair. | | | | | clouds, mist. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | rain, ditto. | | | cloudy, ditto. | | | | | rain, snow, fair. | | | rain, ditto. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | cloudy, fair. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | cloudy, rain. | | | | | hazy, cloudy. | | | rain, fair. | | | | | cloudy, fair. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | snow, cloudy. | | | | | cloudy, ditto. | | | rain, cloudy. | | | | | fair, hazy. | | | cloudy, ditto. | | | | -- | fair. | | | rain, mist. | | | | | fair, cloudy, snow. | | | rain, cloudy. | | | | | cloudy, fair. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | | | | snow, hail. | | | | | | | | cloudy, fair. | | | | +----+----+----+----------------------+----+----+---------------------+ _march, ._ _april, ._ +----+---------+----------------------+---------+---------------------+ | | therm. | weather. | therm. | weather. | | d. | h | h | | h | h | | +----+----+----+----------------------+----+----+---------------------+ | | | | fair, ditto. | | | cloudy, fair. | | | | | hazy, cloudy. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | rain, fair. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | hazy, ditto. | | | cloudy, fair. | | | | | rain, fair. | | | cloudy, rain. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | misty, fair. | | | | | fair, ditto, clouds. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | cloudy, rain. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | fair, cloudy. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | rain, ditto. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | cloudy, ditto. | | | cloudy, rain, fair. | | | | | cloudy, fair. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | rain, cloudy. | | | | | cloudy, fair. | | | cloudy, fair. | | | | | cloudy, fair. | | | fair, clouds, fair. | | | | | hazy, cloudy. | | | cloudy, fair. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | rain, cloudy. | | | | | rain, cloudy. | | | cloudy, ditto. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | rain, cloudy. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | cloudy, ditto. | | | | | cloudy, rain. | | | cloudy, rain. | | | | | fair, cloudy. | | | rain, ditto. | | | | | fair, clouds, fair. | | | rain, cloudy. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | cloudy, fair. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | cloudy, fair. | | | | +----+----+----+----------------------+----+----+---------------------| _may, ._ _june, ._ +----+---------+----------------------+---------+---------------------+ | | therm. | weather. | therm. | weather. | | d. | h | h | | h | h | | +----+----+----+----------------------+----+----+---------------------+ | | | | foggy, cloudy. | | | rain, showery. | | | | | fog, clouds, fair. | | | clouds, showers. | | | | | rain, ditto. | | | cloudy, rain, fair. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | rain, do. cloudy. | | | | | cloudy, ditto. | | | cloudy, fair, rain. | | | | | cloudy, fair. | -- | | cloudy, rain. | | | | | cloudy, fair. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | cloudy, fair. | | -- | fair, ditto. | | | | | foggy, fair. | | | fog, fair. | | | | | rain, hazy. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | cloudy, fair. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | cloudy, rain. | | | fair, showers. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | cloudy, rain. | | | | | fair, cloudy. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | fair, hazy. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | fair, showers. | | | | | cloudy, fair. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | fair, rain. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | fair, rain, fair. | | | | | fair, ditto, clouds. | | | cloudy, rain. | | | | | clouds, gusts. | | | cloudy, fair. | | | | | cloudy, fair. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | fair, ditto. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | fair, cloudy. | | | cloudy, rain. | | | | | rain, ditto. | | | cloudy, rain. | | | | | cloudy, fair. | | | cloudy, fair. | | | | | fair, clouds, rain. | | | cloudy, fair. | | | | | cloudy, rain, clouds.| | | cloudy, ditto. | | | | | cloudy, rain. | | | fair, ditto. | | | | | clouds, ditto. | | | | +----+----+----+----------------------+----+----+---------------------+ july, . +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ | | barom. | ther. | winds. | weather. | | | | | | | |days.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.| | | | | | | | | | | | w w |fair. | | | | | w |fair, showers. | | | | | e e |cloudy. | | | | | e sw |cloudy, fair, rain. | | | | | nw sw |fair, ditto. | | | | | sw sw |cloudy, thunder. | | | | | ne nw |fair, clouds. | | | | | e e |cloudy, fair. | | | | | s sw |cloudy, ditto. | | | | | w nw |fair, ditto. | | | | | nw nw |fair, clouds. | | | | | n n |fair, ditto. | | | | | nw nw |fair, ditto. | | | | | n calm |fair, hazy. | | | | | sw sw |cloudy, ditto. | | | | | w w |rain, fair. | | | | | nw nw |fair, ditto. | | | | | w sw |fair, ditto. | | | | | sw w |fair, cloudy, rain. | | | | | w nw |fair, ditto, shower.| | | | | nw nw |fair, ditto. | | | | | sw sw |fair, ditto. | | | | | sw sw |fair, cloudy. | | | | | calm w |cloudy, fair. | | | | | nw nnw |fair, ditto. | | | | | n ne |fair, ditto. | | | | | s calm s |fair, cloudy. | | | | | calm nne |cloudy, fair. | | | | | sse ne |cloudy, ditto, rain.| | | | | s sw |cloudy, fair. | | | | | ssw sw |cloudy, rain, fair. | +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ august, . +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ | | barom. | ther. | winds. | weather. | | | | | | | |days.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m. | | | | | wnw nw |cloudy, fair, | | | | | nw sw |fair, fair, | | | | | n nne |fair, fair, | | | | | s sw |fair, fair, | | | | | ssw sw |fair, fair, | | | | | sw w |cloudy, fair, | | | | | nw w |fair, fair, | | | | | sse sse |fair, rain, | | | | | ssw sw |cloudy, fair, | | | | | w sw |fair, fair, | | | | | sw wsw |cloudy, cloudy, | | | | | w w |fair, fair, | | | | | sw w |fair, fair, | | | | | sw sw |fair, rain, | | | | | nne ne |fair, cloudy, | | | | | nne ne |fair, fair, | | | | | sw sw |fair, fair, | | | | | calm sw |fair, fair, | | | | | n n |fair, cloudy, | | | | | nne nne |fair, fair, | | | | | n nne |fair, fair, | | | | | ne se |fair, fair, | | | | | calm s |fair, fair, | | | | | calm calm |cloudy, rain, | | | | | ne ne |rain, gr. rain, | | | | | ne ne |cloudy, cloudy, | | | | | ne ne |cloudy, cloudy, | | | | | s calm |cloudy, clearin. | | | | | calm sw |cloudy, fair, | | | | | calm sw |fair, fair, | | | | | sw nw |rain, fair. | +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ september, . +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ | | barom. | ther. | winds. | weather. | | | | | | | |days.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m. | | | | | calm sw |fog, fair, | | | | | sw sw |fair, fair, | | | | | nw n |fair, fair, | | | | | w w |fair, fair, | | | | | se s |fair, cloudy, | | | | | wsw w |fair, cloudy, | | | | | wnw nw |fair, fair, | | | | | calm calm |cloudy, cloudy, | | | | | se nw |rain, fair, | | | | | n nne |fair, cloudy, | | | | | nne n |cloudy, fair, | | | | | nw nnw |fair, fair, | | | | | nw n |fair, fair, | | | | | nw nw |fair, fair, | | | | | n s |fair, fair, | | | | | s sw |cloudy, fair, | | | | | n n |cloudy, cloudy, | | | | | n |fair, | | | | | calm sw |fair, fair, | | | | | calm se |hazy, hazy, | | | | | calm |cloudy, fair, | | | | | calm |cloudy, fair, | | | | | calm se |cloudy, cloudy, | | | | | ne ene |cloudy, fair, | | | | | ne ne |cloudy, cloudy, | | | | | n n |cloudy, fair, | | | | | nw nw |cloudy, fair, | | | | | nw nw |fair, fair, | | | | | ne ene |cloudy, fair, | | | | | calm sw |foggy, fair. | +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ october, . +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ | | | | | | | | barom. | ther. | winds. | weather. | | | | | | | | | | | | | |days.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m. | | | | | sw sw |cloudy, fair, | | | | | w nnw |cloudy, fair, | | | | | w sw |fair, fair, | | | | | sw w |cloudy, cloudy, | | | | | n n |fair, fair, | | | | | ne w |fair, fair, | | | | | calm |fair, | | | | | n n |fair, fair, | | | | | nw nw |fair, fair, | | | | | e nw |fair, fair, | | | | | w w |fair, fair, | | | | | sw nw |rain, rain, | | | | | nw nw |fair, fair, | | | | | sw sw |calm, fair, | | | | | sw n |fair, rain, | | | | | nnw n |fair, fair, | | | | | ne ne |fair, fair, | | | | | nw nw |fair, fair, | | | | | n n |cloudy, fair, | | | | | nw n |fair, fair, | | | | | n nw |fair, fair, | | | | | nw nw |fair, fair, | | | | | w w |fair, fair, | | | | | w nw |fair, fair, | | | | | s s |cloudy, do. h-w. | | | | | calm sw |cloudy, cloudy, | | | | | nne nne |cloudy, cloudy, | | | | | n n |cloudy, cloudy, | | | | | nnw nw |fair, fair, | | | | | calm sw |hazy, hazy, | | | | | calm nne |cloudy, rain. | +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ november, . +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ | | barom. | ther. | winds. | weather. | | | | | | | |days.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.|a. m. p. m.| a. m. p. m. | | | | | nne ne |rain, cloudy, | | | | | nne ne |fair, fair, | | | | | calm sw |cloudy, cloudy, | | | | | sw sw |cloudy, fair, | | | | | ne ne |rain, rain, | | | | | s s |cloudy, cloudy, | | | | | calm sw |fair, fair, | | | | | ssw sw |fair, fair, | | | | | sw sw |fair, fair, | +-----+------------+-----------+-------------+--------------------+ of the method of cure. in the introduction to the history of the fever, i mentioned the remedies which i used with success, in several cases which occurred in the beginning of august. i had seen, and recorded in my note book, the efficacy of gentle purges in the yellow fever of ; but finding them unsuccessful after the th of august, and observing the disease to assume uncommon symptoms of great prostration of strength, i laid them aside, and had recourse to a gentle vomit of ipecacuanha, on the first day of the fever, and to the usual remedies for exciting the action of the sanguiferous system. i gave bark in all its usual forms of infusion, powder, and tincture. i joined wine, brandy, and aromatics with it. i applied blisters to the limbs, neck, and head. finding them all ineffectual, i attempted to rouse the system by wrapping the whole body, agreeably to dr. hume's practice, in blankets dipped in warm vinegar. to these remedies i added one more: i rubbed the right side with mercurial ointment, with a view of exciting the action of the vessels in the whole system, through the medium of the liver, which i then supposed to be principally, though symptomatically, affected by the disease. none of these remedies appeared to be of any service; for although three out of thirteen recovered, of those to whom they were applied, yet i have reason to believe that they would have recovered much sooner had the cure been trusted to nature. perplexed and distressed by my want of success in the treatment of this fever, i waited upon dr. stephens, an eminent and worthy physician from st. croix, who happened then to be in our city, and asked for such advice and information upon the subject of the disease, as his extensive practice in the west-indies would naturally suggest. he politely informed me, that he had long ago laid aside evacuations of all kinds in the yellow fever; that they had been found to be hurtful, and that the disease yielded more readily to bark, wine, and, above all, to the use of the cold bath. he advised the bark to be given in large quantities by way of glyster, as well as in the usual way; and he informed me of the manner in which the cold bath should be used, so as to derive the greatest benefit from it. this mode of treating the yellow fever appeared to be reasonable. i had used bark, in the manner he recommended it, in several cases of sporadic yellow fever, with success, in former years. i had, moreover, the authority of several other physicians of reputation in its favour. dr. cleghorn tells us, that "he sometimes gave the bark when the bowels were full of vicious humours. these humours (he says) are produced by the fault of the circulation. the bark, by bracing the solids, enables them to throw off the excrementitious fluids, by the proper emunctories[ ]." [ ] page . i began the use of each of dr. stevens's remedies the next day after my interview with him, with great confidence of their success. i prescribed bark in large quantities: in one case i ordered it to be injected into the bowels every four hours. i directed buckets full of cold water to be thrown frequently upon my patients. the bark was offensive to the stomach, or rejected by it, in every case in which i prescribed it. the cold bath was grateful, and produced relief in several cases, by inducing a moisture on the skin. for a while i had hopes of benefit to my patients from the use of these remedies, but, in a few days, i was distressed to find they were not more effectual than those i had previously used. three out of four of my patients died, to whom the cold bath was administered, in addition to the tonic remedies before-mentioned. baffled in every attempt to stop the ravages of this fever, i anticipated all the numerous and complicated distresses in our city, which pestilential diseases have so often produced in other countries. the fever had a malignity and an obstinacy which i had never before observed in any disease, and it spread with a rapidity and mortality far beyond what it did in the year . heaven alone bore witness to the anguish of my soul in this awful situation. but i did not abandon a hope that the disease might yet be cured. i had long believed that good was commensurate with evil, and that there does not exist a disease for which the goodness of providence has not provided a remedy. under the impression of this belief i applied myself with fresh ardour to the investigation of the disease before me. i ransacked my library, and pored over every book that treated of the yellow fever. the result of my researches for a while was fruitless. the accounts of the symptoms and cure of the disease by the authors i consulted were contradictory, and none of them appeared altogether applicable to the prevailing epidemic. before i desisted from the inquiry to which i had devoted myself, i recollected that i had, among some old papers, a manuscript account of the yellow fever as it prevailed in virginia in the year , which had been put into my hands by dr. franklin, a short time before his death. i had read it formerly, and made extracts from it into my lectures upon that disease. i now read it a second time. i paused upon every sentence; even words in some places arrested and fixed my attention. in reading the history of the method of cure i was much struck with the following passages. "it must be remarked, that this evacuation (meaning by purges) is more necessary in this than in most other fevers. the abdominal viscera are the parts principally affected in this disease, but by this timely evacuation their feculent corruptible contents are discharged, before they corrupt and produce any ill effects, and their various emunctories and secerning vessels are set open, so as to allow a free discharge of their contents, and consequently a security to the parts themselves, during the course of the disease. by this evacuation the very minera of the disease, proceeding from the putrid miasmata fermenting with the salivary, bilious, and other inquiline humours of the body, is sometimes eradicated by timely emptying the abdominal viscera, on which it first fixes, after which a gentle sweat does as it were nip it in its bud. where the primæ viæ, but especially the stomach, is loaded with an offensive matter, or contracted and convulsed with the irritation of its stimulus, there is no procuring a laudable sweat till that is removed; after which a necessary quantity of sweat breaks _out of its own accord_, these parts promoting it when by an absterging medicine they are eased of the burden or stimulus which oppresses them." "all these acute putrid fevers ever require some evacuation to bring them to a perfect crisis and solution, and that even by stools, which must be promoted by art, where nature does not do the business herself. on this account an _ill-timed scrupulousness about the weakness of the body_ is of bad consequence in these urging circumstances; for it is that which seems chiefly to make evacuations necessary, which nature ever attempts, after the humours are fit to be expelled, but is not able to accomplish for the most part in this disease; and i can affirm that i have given a purge in this case, when _the pulse has been so low, that it could hardly be felt_, and the _debility extreme_, yet _both one and the other_ have been _restored by it_." "this evacuation must be procured by _lenitive chologoque_ purges." here i paused. a new train of ideas suddenly broke in upon my mind. i believed the weak and low pulse which i had observed in this fever, to be the effect of debility from a depressed state of the system, but the unsuccessful issue of purging, and even of a spontaneous diarrh[oe]a, in a patient of dr. hutchinson, had led me not only to doubt of, but to dread its effects. my fears from this evacuation were confirmed, by the communications i had received from dr. stevens. i had been accustomed to raising a weak and low pulse in pneumony and apoplexy, by means of blood-letting, but i had attended less to the effects of purging in producing this change in the pulse. dr. mitchell in a moment dissipated my ignorance and fears upon this subject. i adopted his theory and practice, and resolved to follow them. it remained now only to fix upon a suitable purge to answer the purpose of discharging the contents of the bowels. i have before described the state of the bile in the gall-bladder and duodenum, in an extract from the history of a dissection made by dr. mitchell. i suspected that my want of success in discharging this bile, in several of the cases in which i attempted the cure by purging, was owing the feebleness of my purges. i had been in the habit of occasionally purging with calomel in bilious and inflammatory fevers, and had recommended the practice the year before in my lectures, not only from my own experience, but upon the authority of dr. clark. i had, moreover, other precedents for its use in the practice of sir john pringle, dr. cleghorn, and dr. balfour, in diseases of the same class with the yellow fever. but these were not all my vouchers for the safety and efficacy of calomel. in my attendance upon the military hospitals during the late war, i had seen it given combined with jalap in the bilious fever by dr. thomas young, a senior surgeon in the hospitals. his usual dose was ten grains of each of them. this was given once or twice a day until it procured large evacuations from the bowels. for a while i remonstrated with the doctor against this purge, as being disproportioned to the violence and danger of the fever; but i was soon satisfied that it was as safe as cremor tartar or glauber's salts. it was adopted by several of the surgeons of the hospital, and was universally known, and sometimes prescribed, by the simple name of _ten_ and _ten_. this mode of giving calomel occurred to me in preference to any other. the jalap appeared to be a necessary addition to it, in order to quicken its passage through the bowels; for calomel is slow in its operation, more especially when it is given in large doses. i resolved, after mature deliberation, to prescribe this purge. finding ten grains of jalap insufficient to carry the calomel through the bowels in the rapid manner i wished, i added fifteen grains of the former to ten of the latter; but even this dose was slow and uncertain in its operation. i then issued three doses, each consisting of fifteen grains of jalap and ten of calomel; one to be given every six hours until they procured four or five large evacuations. the effects of this powder not only answered, but far exceeded my expectations. it perfectly cured four out of the first five patients to whom i gave it, notwithstanding some of them were advanced several days in the disease. mr. richard spain, a block-maker, in third-street, took eighty grains of calomel, and rather more of rhubarb and jalap mixed with it, on the two last days of august, and on the first day of september. he had passed twelve hours, before i began to give him this medicine, without a pulse, and with a cold sweat on all his limbs. his relations had given him over, and one of his neighbours complained to me of my neglecting to advise them to make immediate preparations for his funeral. but in this situation i did not despair of his recovery, dr. mitchell's account of the effects of purging in raising the pulse, exciting a hope that he might be saved, provided his bowels could be opened. i now committed the exhibition of the purging medicine to mr. stall, one of my pupils, who mixed it, and gave it with his own hand, three or four times a day. at length it operated, and produced two copious, f[oe]tid stools. his pulse rose immediately afterwards, and a universal moisture on his skin succeeded the cold sweat on his limbs. in a few days he was out of danger, and soon afterwards appeared in the streets in good health, as the first fruits of the efficacy of mercurial purges in the yellow fever. after such a pledge of the safety and success of my new medicine, i gave it afterwards with confidence. i communicated the prescription to such of the practitioners as i met in the streets. some of them i found had been in the use of calomel for several days, but as they had given it in small and single doses only, and had followed it by large doses of bark, wine, and laudanum, they had done little or no good with it. i imparted the prescription to the college of physicians, on the third of september, and endeavoured to remove the fears of my fellow-citizens, by assuring them that the disease was no longer incurable. mr. lewis, the lawyer, dr. m'ilvaine, mrs. bethel, her two sons, and a servant maid, and mr. peter baynton's whole family (nine in number), were some of the first trophies of this new remedy. the credit it acquired, brought me an immense accession of business. it still continued to be almost uniformly effectual in all those which i was able to attend, either in person, or by my pupils. dr. griffitts, dr. say, dr. pennington, and my former pupils who had settled in the city, viz. dr. leib, dr. porter, dr. annan, dr. woodhouse, and dr. mease, were among the first physicians who adopted it. i can never forget the transport with which dr. pennington ran across third-street to inform me, a few days after he began to give strong purges, that the disease yielded to them in every case. but i did not rely upon purging alone to cure the disease. the theory of it which i had adopted led me to use other remedies to abstract excess of stimulus from the system. these were _blood-letting_, _cool air_, _cold drinks_, _low diet_, and _applications of cold water_ to the body. i had bled mrs. bradford, mrs. leaming, and one of mrs. palmer's sons with success, early in the month of august. but i had witnessed the bad effects of bleeding in the first week in september, in two of my patients who had been bled without my knowledge, and who appeared to have died in consequence of it. i had, moreover, heard of a man who had been bled on the first day of the disease, who died in twelve hours afterwards. these cases produced caution, but they did not deter me from bleeding as soon as i found the disease to change its type, and instead of tending to a crisis on the third, to protract itself to a later day. i began by drawing a small quantity at a time. the appearance of the blood, and its effects upon the system, satisfied me of its safety and efficacy. never before did i experience such sublime joy as i now felt in contemplating the success of my remedies. it repaid me for all the toils and studies of my life. the conquest of this formidable disease was not the effect of accident, nor of the application of a single remedy; but it was the triumph of a principle in medicine. the reader will not wonder at this joyful state of my mind when i add a short extract from my note book, dated the th of september. "thank god! out of one hundred patients, whom i have visited or prescribed for this day, i have lost none." being unable to comply with the numerous demands which were made upon me for the purging powders, notwithstanding i had requested my sister, and two other persons to assist my pupils in putting them up; and, finding myself unable to attend all the persons who sent for me, i furnished the apothecaries with the recipe for the mercurial purges, together with printed directions for giving them, and for the treatment of the disease. hitherto there had been great harmony among the physicians of the city, although there was a diversity of sentiment as to the nature and cure of the prevailing fever. but this diversity of sentiment and practice was daily lessening, and would probably have ceased altogether in a few days, had it not been prevented by two publications, the one by dr. kuhn, and the other by dr. stevens, in which they recommended bark, wine, and other cordials, and the cold bath, as the proper remedies for the disease. the latter dissuaded from the use of evacuations of all kinds. this method of cure was supported by a letter from alexander hamilton, esq. then secretary of the treasury of the united states, to the college of physicians, in which he ascribed his recovery from the fever to the use of those remedies, administered by the hand of dr. stevens. the respectable characters of those two physicians procured an immediate adoption of the mode of practice recommended by them, by most of the physicians of the city, and a general confidence in it by all classes of citizens. had i consulted my interest, or regarded the certain consequences of opposing the use of remedies rendered suddenly popular by the names that were connected with them, i should silently have pursued my own plans of cure, with my old patients who still confided in them; but i felt, at this season of universal distress, my professional obligations to _all_ the citizens of philadelphia to be superior to private and personal considerations, and therefore determined at every hazard to do every thing in my power to save their lives. under the influence of this disposition, i addressed a letter to the college of physicians, in which i stated my objections to dr. kuhn and dr. stevens's remedies, and defended those i had recommended. i likewise defended them in the public papers against the attacks that were made upon them by several of the physicians of the city, and occasionally addressed such advice to the citizens as experience had suggested to be useful to _prevent_ the disease, particularly low diet, gentle doses of laxative physic, avoiding its exciting causes, and prompt applications for medical aid. in none of the recommendations of my remedies did i claim the credit of their discovery. on the contrary, i constantly endeavoured to enforce their adoption, by mentioning precedents in favour of their efficacy, from the highest authorities in medicine. this controversy with my brethren, with whom i had long lived in friendly intercourse, carried on amidst the most distressing labours, was extremely painful to me, and was submitted to only to prevent the greater evil of the depopulation of our city by the use of remedies which had been prescribed by myself, as well as others, not only without effect, but with evident injury to the sick. the repeated and numerous instances of their inefficacy, in some of the most opulent families in the city, and the almost uniform success of the depleting remedies, happily restored the public mind, after a while, from its distracted state, and procured submission to the latter from nearly all the persons who were affected by the fever. besides the two modes of practice which have been described, there were two others: the one consisted of _moderate_ purging with calomel only, and moderate bleeding, on the first or second day of the fever, and afterwards by the copious use of bark, wine, laudanum, and aromatic tonics. this practice was supported by an opinion, that the fever was inflammatory in its first, and putrid in its second stage. the other mode referred to was peculiar to the french physicians, several of whom had arrived in the city from the west-indies, just before the disease made its appearance. their remedies were various. some of them prescribed nitre, cremor tartar, camphor, centaury tea, the warm bath, glysters, and moderate bleeding, while a few used lenient purges, and large quantities of tamarind water, and other diluting drinks. the dissentions of the american physicians threw a great number of patients into the hands of these french physicians. they were moreover supposed to be better acquainted with the disease than the physicians of the city, most of whom, it was well known, had never seen it before. i shall hereafter inquire into the relative success of each of the four modes of practice which have been mentioned. having delivered a general account of the remedies which i used in this disease, i shall now proceed to make a few remarks upon each of them. i shall afterwards mention the effects of the remedies used by other physicians. of purging. i have already mentioned my reasons for promoting this evacuation, and the medicine i preferred for that purpose. it had many advantages over any other purge. it was detergent to the bile and mucus which lined the bowels. it probably acted in a peculiar manner upon the biliary ducts, and it was rapid in its operation. one dose was sometimes sufficient to open the bowels; but from two to six doses were often necessary for that purpose; more especially as part of them was frequently rejected by the stomach. i did not observe any inconvenience from the vomiting which was excited by the jalap. it was always without that straining which was produced by emetics; and it served to discharge bile when it was lodged in the stomach. nor did i rest the discharge of the contents of the bowels on the issue of one cleansing on the first day. there is, in all bilious fevers, a reproduction of morbid bile as fast as it is discharged. i therefore gave a purge every day while the fever continued. i used castor oil, salts, cremor tartar, and rhubarb (after the mercurial purges had performed their office), according to the inclinations of my patients, in all those cases where the bowels were easily moved; but where this was not the case, i gave a single dose of calomel and jalap every day. strong as this purge may be supposed to be, it was often ineffectual; more especially after the th of september, when the bowels became more obstinately constipated. to supply the place of the jalap, i now added gamboge to the calomel. two grains and a half of each, made into a pill, were given to an adult every six hours, until they procured four or five stools. i had other designs in giving a purge every day, besides discharging the re-accumulated bile. i had observed the fever to fall with its principal force upon such parts of the body as had been previously weakened by any former disease. by creating an artificial weak part in the bowels, i diverted the force of the fever to them, and thereby saved the liver and brain from fatal or dangerous congestions. the practice was further justified by the beneficial effects of a plentiful spontaneous diarrh[oe]a in the beginning of the disease[ ]; by hæmorrhages from the bowels, when they occurred from no other parts of the body, and by the difficulty or impracticability of reducing the system by means of plentiful sweats. the purges seldom answered the intentions for which they were given, unless they produced four or five stools a day. as the fever showed no regard to day or night in the hours of its exacerbations, it became necessary to observe the same disregard to time in the exhibition of purges: i therefore prescribed them in the evening, at all times when the patient had passed a day without two or three plentiful stools. when purges were rejected, or slow in their operation, i always directed opening glysters to be given every two hours. the effects of purging were as follow: . it raised the pulse when low, and reduced it when it was preternaturally tense or full. . it revived and strengthened the patient. this was evident in many cases, in the facility with which patients who had staggered to a close-stool, walked back again to their beds after a copious evacuation. dr. sydenham takes notice of a similar increase of strength after a plentiful sweat in the plague. they both acted by abstracting excess of stimulus, and thereby removing the depression of the system. . it abated the paroxysm of the fever. hence arose the advantage of giving a purge in some cases in the evening, when an attack of the fever was expected in the course of the night. . it frequently produced sweats when given on the first or second day of the fever, after the most powerful sudorifics had been taken to no purpose. . it sometimes checked that vomiting which occurs in the beginning of the disease, and it always assisted in preventing the more alarming occurrence of that symptom about the th or th day. . it removed obstructions in the lymphatic system. i ascribe it wholly to the action of mercury, that in no instance did any of the glandular swellings, which i formerly mentioned, terminate in a suppuration. . by discharging the bile through the bowels as soon and as fast as it was secreted, it prevented, in most cases, a yellowness of the skin. [ ] in some short manuscript notes upon dr. mitchell's account of the yellow fever in virginia, in the year , made by the late dr. kearsley, sen. of this city, he remarks, that in the yellow fever which prevailed in the same year in philadelphia, "some recovered by an _early_ discharge of _black_ matter by stool." this gentleman, dr. redman informed me, introduced purging with glauber's salts in the yellow fever in our city. he was preceptor to dr. redman in medicine. however salutary the mercurial purge was, objections were made to it by many of our physicians; and prejudices, equally weak and ill-founded, were excited against it. i shall enumerate, and answer those objections. . it was said to be of too drastic a nature. it was compared to arsenic; and it was called a dose for a horse. this objection was without foundation. hundreds who took it declared they had never taken so mild a purge. i met with but one case in which it produced bloody stools; but i saw the same effect from a dose of salts. it sometimes, it is true, operated from twenty to thirty times in the course of twenty-four hours; but i heard of an equal number of stools in two cases from salts and cremor tartar. it is not an easy thing to affect life, or even subsequent health, by copious or frequent purging. dr. kirkland mentions a remarkable case of a gentleman who was cured of a rheumatism by a purge, which gave him between and stools. this patient had been previously affected by his disease or weeks[ ]. dr. mosely not only proves the safety, but establishes the efficacy of numerous and copious stools in the yellow fever. dr. say probably owes his life to three and twenty stools procured by a dose of calomel and gamboge, taken by my advice. dr. redman was purged until he fainted, by a dose of the same medicine. this venerable gentleman, in whom years had not abated the ardour of humanity, nor produced obstinacy of opinion, came forward from his retirement, and boldly adopted the remedies of purging and bleeding, with success in several families, before he was attacked by the disease. his recovery was as rapid, as the medicine he had used was active in its operation. besides taking the above purge, he lost twenty ounces of blood by two bleedings[ ]. [ ] treatise on the inflammatory rheumatism, vol. i. p. . [ ] dr. redman was not the only instance furnished by the disease, in which _reason_ got the better of the habits of old age, and of the formalities of medicine. about the time the fever declined, i received a letter from dr. shippen, sen. (then above years of age), dated oxford furnace, new-jersey, october th, , in which, after approving in polite terms of my mode of practice, he adds, "desperate diseases require desperate remedies. i would only propose some small addition to your present method. suppose you should substitute, in the room of the jalap, _six_ grains of gamboge, to be mixed with ten or fifteen grains of calomel; and after a dose or two, as occasion may require, you should bleed your patients _almost_ to death, at least to _fainting_; and then direct a plentiful supply of mallows tea, with fresh lemon juice, and sugar and barley water, together with the most simple, _mild_, and nutricious food." the doctor concludes his letter by recommending to my perusal dr. dover's account of nearly a whole ship's crew having been cured of a yellow fever, on the coast of south-america, by being bled until they fainted. but who can suppose that a dozen or twenty stools in a day could endanger life, that has seen a diarrh[oe]a continue for several months, attended with fifteen or twenty stools every day, without making even a material breach in the constitution? hence dr. hillary has justly remarked, that "it rarely or never happens that the purging in this disease, though violent, takes the patient off, but the fever and inflammation of the bowels[ ]." dr. clark in like manner remarks, that evacuations do not destroy life in the dysentery, but the fever, with the emaciation and mortification which attend and follow the disease[ ]. [ ] diseases of barbadoes, p. . [ ] diseases in voyages to hot climates, vol. ii. p. . . a second objection to this mercurial purge was, that it excited a salivation, and sometimes loosened the teeth. i met with but two cases in which there was a loss of teeth from the use of this medicine, and in both the teeth were previously loose or decayed. the salivation was a trifling evil, compared with the benefit which was derived from it. i lost only one patient in whom it occurred. i was taught, by this accidental effect of mercury, to administer it with other views than merely to cleanse the bowels, and with a success which added much to my confidence in the power of medicine over this disease. i shall mention those views under another head. . it was said that the mercurial purge excoriated the rectum, and produced the symptoms of pain and inflammation in that part, which were formerly mentioned. to refute this charge, it will be sufficient to remark that the bile produces the same excoriation and pain in the rectum in the bilious and yellow fever, where no mercury has been given to discharge it. in the bilious remitting fever which prevailed in philadelphia in , we find the bile which was discharged by "gentle doses of salts, and cream of tartar, or the butternut pill, was so acrid as to excoriate the rectum, and so offensive as to occasion, in some cases, sickness and faintness both in the patients, and in their attendants[ ]." [ ] vol. i. dr. hume says further upon this subject, that the rectum was so much excoriated by the natural discharge of bile in the yellow fever, as to render it impossible to introduce a glyster pipe into it. . it was objected to this purge, that it inflamed and lacerated the stomach and bowels. in support of this calumny, the inflamed and mortified appearances, which those viscera exhibited upon dissection in a patient who died at the hospital at bush-hill, were spoken of with horror in some parts of the city. to refute this objection it will only be necessary to review the account formerly given of the state of the stomach and bowels after death from the yellow fever, in cases in which no mercury had been given. i have before taken notice that sir john pringle and dr. cleghorn had prescribed mercurial purges with success in the dysentery, a disease in which the bowels are affected with more irritation and inflammation than in the yellow fever. dr. clark informs us that he had adopted this practice. i shall insert the eulogium of this excellent physician upon the use of mercury in the dysentery in his own words. "for several years past, when the dysentery has resisted the common mode of practice, i have administered mercury with the greatest success; and am thoroughly persuaded that it is possessed of powers to _remove inflammation_ and _ulceration_ of the intestines, which are the chief causes of death in this distemper[ ]." [ ] vol. ii. p. . . it was urged against this powerful and efficacious medicine, that it was prescribed indiscriminately in all cases, and that it did harm in all weak habits. to this i answer, that there was no person so weak by constitution or a previous disease, as to be injured by a single dose of this medicine. mrs. meredith, the wife of the treasurer of the united states, a lady of uncommon delicacy of constitution, took two doses of the powder in the course of twelve hours, not only without any inconvenience, but with an evident increase of strength soon afterwards. many similar cases might be mentioned. even children took two or three doses of it with perfect safety. this will not surprise those physicians who have been in the practice of giving from ten to twenty grains of mercury, with an equal quantity of jalap as a worm purge, and from fifty to a hundred grains of calomel, in the course of four or five days, in the internal dropsy of the brain. but i am happy in being able to add further, that many women took it in every stage of pregnancy without suffering the least inconvenience from it. out of a great number of pregnant women whom i attended in this fever i did not lose one to whom i gave this medicine, nor did any of them suffer an abortion. one of them had twice miscarried in the course of the two or three last years of her life. she bore a healthy child three months after her recovery from the yellow fever. no one has ever objected to the _indiscriminate_ mode of preparing the body for the small-pox by purging medicines. the _uniform_ inflammatory diathesis of that disease justifies the practice, in a certain degree, in all habits. the yellow fever admits of a sameness of cure much more than the small-pox, for it is _more_ uniformly and more highly inflammatory. an observation of dr. sydenham upon epidemics applies, in its utmost extent, to our late fever. "now it must be observed (says this most acute physician) that some epidemic diseases, in some years, are uniformly and constantly the same[ ]." however diversified our fever was in some of its symptoms, it was in all cases accompanied by more or less inflammatory diathesis, and by a morbid state of the alimentary canal. [ ] vol. i. p. . much has been said of the bad effects of this purge from its having been put up carelessly by the apothecaries, or from its having been taken contrary to the printed directions, by many people. if it did harm in any one case (which i do not believe) from the former of the above causes the fault is not mine. twenty men employed constantly in putting up this medicine would not have been sufficient to have complied with all the demands which were made of me for it. hundreds who were in health called or sent for it as well as the sick, in order to have it in readiness in case they should be surprised by the disease in the night, or at a distance from a physician. in all the cases in which this purge was supposed to have been hurtful, when given on the first or second day of the disease, i believe it was because it was not followed by repeated doses of the same, or of some other purge, or because it was not aided by blood-letting. i am led to make this assertion, not only from the authority of dr. sydenham, who often mentions the good effects of bleeding in moderating or checking a diarrh[oe]a, but by having heard no complaints of patients being purged to death by this medicine, after blood-letting was universally adopted by all the physicians in the city. it was remarked that the demand for this purging powder continued to increase under all opposition, and that the sale of it by the apothecaries was greatest towards the close of the disease. i shall hereafter say that this was not the case with the west-india remedies. it is possible that this purge sometimes proved hurtful when it was given on the fifth day of the disease, but it was seldom given for the _first_ time after the third day, and when it was, the patient was generally in such a situation that nothing did him either good or harm. i derived great pleasure from hearing, after the fever had left the city, that calomel had been given with success as a purge in bilious fevers in other parts of the union besides philadelphia. dr. lawrence informed me that he had cured many patients by it of the yellow fever which prevailed in new-york, in the year , and the new-york papers have told us that several practitioners had been in the habit of giving it in the autumnal fevers, with great success, in the western parts of that state. they had probably learned the use of it from dr. young, who formerly practised in that part of the united states, and who lost no opportunity of making its praises public wherever he went. i have only to add to my account of that purging medicine, that, under an expectation that the yellow fever would mingle some of its bilious symptoms with the common inflammatory fevers of the winter and first spring months, i gave that purge in the form of pills, in every case of inflammatory fever to which i was called. the fatal issue of several fevers in the city, during the winter, in which this precaution had been neglected, convinced me that my practice was proper and useful. it is to be lamented that all new remedies are forced to pass through a fiery ordeal. opium and bark were long the objects of terror and invective in the schools of medicine. they were administered only by physicians for many years, and that too with all the solemnity of a religious ceremony. this error, with respect to those medicines, has at last passed away. it will, i hope, soon be succeeded by a time when the prejudices against _ten_ and _ten_, or _ten_ and _fifteen_, will sleep with the vulgar fears which were formerly entertained of the bark producing diseases and death, years after it had been taken, by "lying in the bones." of blood-letting. the theory of this fever which led me to administer purges, determined me to use blood-letting, as soon as it should be indicated. i am disposed to believe that i was tardy in the use of this remedy, and i shall long regret the loss of three patients, who might probably have been saved by it. i cannot blame myself for not having used it earlier, for the immense number of patients which poured in upon me, in the first week of september, prevented my attending so much to each of them, as was necessary to determine upon the propriety of this evacuation. i was in the situation of a surgeon in a battle, who runs to every call, and only stays long enough with each soldier to stop the bleeding of his wound, while the increase of the wounded, and the unexpected length of the battle, leave his original patients to suffer from the want of more suitable dressings. the reasons which determined me to bleed were, . the state of the pulse, which became more tense, in proportion as the weather became cool. . the appearance of a moist and _white_ tongue, on the first day of the disease, a certain sign of an inflammatory fever. . the frequency of hæmorrhages from every part of the body, and the perfect relief given in some cases by them. . the symptoms of congestion in the brain, resembling those which occur in the first stage of hydrocephalus internus, a disease in which i had lately used bleeding with success. . the character of the diseases which had preceded the yellow fever. they were all more or less inflammatory. even the scarlatina anginosa had partaken so much of that diathesis, as to require bleeding to subdue it. . the warm and dry weather which had likewise preceded the fever. dr. sydenham attributes a highly inflammatory state of the small-pox to a previously hot and dry summer; and i have since observed, that dr. hillary takes notice of inflammatory fevers having frequently succeeded hot and dry weather in barbadoes[ ]. he informs us further, that the yellow fever is always most acute and inflammatory after a very hot season[ ]. [ ] diseases of barbadoes, p. , , , , , . [ ] page . . the authority of dr. mosely had great weight with me in advising the loss of blood, more especially as his ideas of the highly inflammatory nature of the fever accorded so perfectly with my own. . i was induced to prescribe blood-letting by recollecting its good effects in mrs. palmer's son, whom i bled on the th of august, and who appeared to have been recovered by it. having begun to bleed, i was encouraged to continue it by the appearance of the blood, and by the obvious and very great relief my patients derived from it. the following is a short account of the appearances of the blood drawn from a vein in this disease. . it was, in the greatest number of cases, without any separation into crassamentum and serum, and of a scarlet colour. . there was in many cases a separation of the blood into crassamentum and _yellow_ serum. . there were a few cases in which this separation took place, and the serum was of a _natural_ colour. . there were many cases in which the blood was as sizy as in pneumony and rheumatism. . the blood was in some instances covered above with blue pellicle of sizy lymph, while the part which lay in the bottom of the bowl was dissolved. the lymph was in two cases mixed with green streaks. . it was in a few instances of a dark colour, and as fluid as molasses. i saw this kind of blood in a man who walked about his house during the whole of his sickness, and who finally recovered. both this, and the fifth kind of blood which has been mentioned, occurred chiefly where bleeding had been omitted altogether, or used too sparingly in the beginning of the disease. . in some patients the blood, in the course of the disease, exhibited nearly _all_ the appearances which have been mentioned. they were varied by the time in which the blood was drawn, and by the nature and force of the remedies which had been used in the disease. the effects of blood-letting upon the system were as follow: . it raised the pulse when depressed, and quickened it, when it was preternaturally slow, or subject to intermissions. . it reduced its force and frequency. . it checked in many cases the vomiting which occurred in the beginning of the disease, and thereby enabled the stomach to retain the purging medicine. it likewise assisted the purge in preventing the dangerous or fatal vomiting which came on about the fifth day. . it lessened the difficulty of opening the bowels. upon this account, in one of my addresses to the citizens of philadelphia, i advised bleeding to be used _before_, as well as after taking the mercurial purge. dr. woodhouse informed me that he had several times seen patients call for the close-stool while the blood was flowing from the vein. . it removed delirium, coma, and obstinate wakefulness. it also prevented or checked hæmorrhages; hence perhaps another reason why not a single instance of abortion occurred in such of my female patients as were pregnant. . it disposed, in some cases, to a gentle perspiration. . it lessened the sensible debility of the system; hence patients frequently rose from their beds, and walked across their rooms, in a few hours after the operation had been performed. . the redness of the eyes frequently disappeared in a few hours after bleeding. mr. coxe observed a dilated pupil to contract to its natural size within a few minutes after he had bound up the arm of his patient. i remarked, in the former part of this work, that blindness in many instances attended or followed this fever. but two such cases occurred among my patients. in one of them it was of short continuance, and in the other it was probably occasioned by the want of sufficient bleeding. in every case of blindness that came to my knowledge bleeding had been omitted, or used only in a very moderate degree. . it eased _pain_. thousands can testify this effect of blood-letting. many of my patients whom i bled with my own hand acknowledged to me, while the blood was flowing, that they were better; and some of them declared, that all their pains had left them before i had completely bound up their arms. . but blood-letting had, in many cases, an effect the opposite of _easing_ pain. it frequently increased it in every part of the body, more especially in the head. it appeared to be the effect of the system rising suddenly from a state of great depression, and of an increased action of the blood-vessels which took place in consequence of it. i had frequently seen complaints of the breast, and of the head, made worse by a single bleeding, and from the same cause. it was in some cases an unfortunate event in the yellow fever, for it prevented the blood-letting being repeated, by exciting or strengthening the prejudices of patients and physicians against it. in some instances the patients grew worse after a second, and, in one, after a third bleeding. this was the case in miss redman. her pains increased after three bleedings, but yielded to the fourth. her father, dr. redman, concurred in this seemingly absurd practice. it was at this time my old preceptor in medicine reminded me of dr. sydenham's remark, that moderate bleeding did harm in the plague where copious bleeding was indicated, and that in the cure of that disease, we should leave nature wholly to herself, or take the cure altogether out of her hands. the truth of this remark was very obvious. by taking away as much blood as restored the blood-vessels to a morbid degree of action, without reducing this action afterwards, pain, congestion, and inflammation were frequently increased, all of which were prevented, or occurred in a less degree, when the system rose gradually from the state of depression which had been induced by the great force of the disease. under the influence of the facts and reasonings which have been mentioned i bore the same testimony in acute cases, against what was called _moderate_ bleeding that i did against bark, wine, and laudanum in this fever. . blood-letting, when used _early_ on the first day, frequently strangled the disease in its birth, and generally rendered it more light, and the convalescence more speedy and perfect. i am not sure that it ever shortened the duration of the fever where it was not used within a few hours of the time of its attack. under every mode of treatment it seemed disposed, after it was completely formed, to run its course. i was so satisfied of this peculiarity in the fever, that i ventured in some cases to predict the day on which it would terminate, notwithstanding i took the cure entirely out of the hands of nature. i did not lose a patient on the third, whom i bled on the first or second day of the disease. . in those cases which ended fatally, blood-letting restored, or preserved the use of reason, rendered death easy, and retarded the putrefaction of the body after death. i shall now mention some of the circumstances which directed and regulated the use of this remedy. . where bleeding had been omitted for three days, in acute cases, it was seldom useful. where purging had been used, it was sometimes successful. i recovered two patients who had taken the mercurial purges, whom i bled for the first time on the seventh day. one of them was the daughter of mr. james cresson, the other was a journeyman ship-carpenter at kensington. in those cases where bleeding had been used on the first day, it was both safe and useful to repeat it every day afterwards, during the continuance of the fever. . i preferred bleeding in the exacerbation of the fever. the remedy here was applied when the disease was in its greatest force. a single paroxysm was like a sudden squall to the system, and, unless abated by bleeding or purging, often produced universal disorganization. i preferred the former to the latter remedy in cases of great danger, because it was more speedy, and more certain in its operation. . i bled in several instances in the remission of the fever, where the pulse was tense and corded. it lessened the violence of the succeeding paroxysm. . i bled in all those cases in which the pulse was preternaturally slow, provided it was tense. mr. benj. w. morris, mr. thomas wharton, jun. and mr. wm. sansom, all owe their lives probably to their having been bled in the above state of the pulse. i was led to use bleeding in this state of the pulse, not only by the theory of the disease which i had adopted, but by the success which had often attended this remedy, in a slow and depressed state of the pulse in apoplexy and pneumony. i had moreover the authority of dr. mosely in its favour, in the yellow fever, and of dr. sydenham, in his account of a new fever, which appeared in the year . the words of the latter physician are so apposite to the cases which have been mentioned, that i hope i shall be excused for inserting them in this place. "all the symptoms of weakness (says our author) proceed from nature's being in a manner oppressed and overcome by the first attack of the disease, so as not to be able to raise regular symptoms adequate to the violence of the fever. i remember to have met with a remarkable instance of this, several years ago, in a young man i then attended; for though he seemed in a manner expiring, yet the outward parts felt so cool, that i could not persuade the attendants he had a fever, which could not disengage, and show itself clearly, because the vessels were so full as to obstruct the motion of the blood. however, i said, that they would soon find the fever rise high enough upon bleeding him. accordingly, after taking away a large quantity of blood, as violent a fever appeared as ever i met with, and did not go off till bleeding had been used three or four times[ ]." [ ] vol. ii. p. . . i bled in those cases in which the fever appeared in a tertian form, provided the pulse was full and tense. i well recollect the surprise with which mr. van berkel heard this prescription from me, at a time when he was able to walk and ride out on the intermediate days of a tertian fever. the event which followed this prescription showed that it was not disproportioned to the violence of his disease, for it soon put on such acute and inflammatory symptoms as to require six subsequent bleedings to subdue it. . i bled in those cases where patients were able to walk about, provided the pulse was the same as has been mentioned under the fourth head. i was determined as to the propriety of bleeding in these two supposed mild forms of the fever, by having observed each of them, when left to themselves, frequently to terminate in death. . i paid no regard to the dissolved state of the blood, when it appeared on the first or second day of the disease, but repeated the bleedings afterwards in every case, where the pulse continued to indicate it. it was common to see sizy blood succeed that which was dissolved. this occurred in mr. josiah coates, and mr. samuel powel. had i believed that this dissolved state of the blood arose from its putrefaction, i should have laid aside my lancet as soon as i saw it; but i had long ago parted with all ideas of putrefaction in bilious fevers. the refutation of this doctrine was the object of one of my papers in the medical society of edinburgh, in the year . the dissolved appearance of the blood, i suppose to be the effect of a certain action of the blood-vessels upon it. it occurs in fevers which depend upon the sensible qualities of the air, and in which no putrid or foreign matter has been introduced into the system. . the presence of petechiæ did not deter me from repeating blood-letting, where the pulse retained its fulness or tension. i prescribed it with success in the cases of dr. mease, and of mrs. gebler, in dock-street, in each of whom petechiæ had appeared. bleeding was equally effectual in the case of the rev. mr. keating, at a time when his arms were spotted with that species of eruptions which i have compared to moscheto-bites. i had precedents in dr. de haen[ ] and dr. sydenham[ ], in favour of this practice. so far from viewing these eruptions as signs of putrefaction, i considered them as marks of the highest possible inflammatory diathesis. they disappeared in each of the above cases after bleeding. [ ] ratio medendi, vol. ii. p. . vol. iv. p. . [ ] vol. i. p. , and . . in determining the quantity of blood to be drawn, i was governed by the state of the pulse, and by the temperature of the weather. in the beginning of september, i found one or two moderate bleedings sufficient to subdue the fever; but in proportion as the system rose by the diminution of the stimulus of heat, and the fever put on more _visible_ signs of inflammatory diathesis, more frequent bleedings became necessary. i bled many patients twice, and a few three times a day. i preferred frequent and small, to large bleedings, in the beginning of september; but towards the height and close of the epidemic, i saw no inconvenience from the loss of a pint, and even twenty ounces of blood at a time. i drew from many persons seventy and eighty ounces in five days; and from a few, a much larger quantity. mr. gribble, cedar-cooper, in front-street, lost by ten bleedings a hundred ounces of blood; mr. george, a carter in ninth-street, lost about the same quantity by five bleedings; and mr. peter mierken, one hundred and fourteen ounces in five days. in the last of the above persons the quantity taken was determined by weight. mr. toy, blacksmith near dock-street, was eight times bled in the course of seven days. the quantity taken from him was about a hundred ounces. the blood in all these cases was dense, and in the last, very sizy. they were all attended in the month of october, and chiefly by my pupil, mr. fisher; and they were all, years afterwards, living and healthy instances of the efficacy of copious blood-letting, and of the intrepidity and judgment of their young physician. children, and even old people, bore the loss of much more blood in this fever than in common inflammatory fevers. i took above thirty ounces, in five bleedings, from a daughter of mr. robert bridges, who was then in the th year of her age. even great debility, whether natural or brought on by previous diseases, did not, in those few cases in which it yielded to the fever, deprive it of the uniformity of its inflammatory character. the following letter from dr. griffitts, written soon after his recovery from a third attack of the fever, and just before he went into the country for the re-establishment of his health, will furnish a striking illustration of the truth of the above observation. "i cannot leave town without a parting adieu to my kind friend, and sincere prayers for his preservation. "i am sorry to find that the use of the lancet is still so much dreaded by too many of our physicians; and, while lamenting the death of a valuable friend this morning, i was told that he was bled but _once_ during his disease. now if my poor frame, reduced by previous sickness, great anxiety, and fatigue, and a very low diet, could bear_ seven_ bleedings in five days, besides purging, and no diet but toast and water, what shall we say of physicians who bleed but once? "_october th, ._" i have compared a paroxysm of this fever to a sudden squall; but the disease in its whole course was like a tedious equinoctial gale acting upon a ship at sea; its destructive force was only to be opposed by handing every sail, and leaving the system to float, as it were, under bare poles. such was the fragility (if i may be allowed the expression) of the blood-vessels, that it was necessary to unload them of their contents, in order to prevent the system sinking from hæmorrhages, or from effusions in the viscera, particularly the brain. . such was the indomitable nature of the pulse, in some patients, that it did not lose its force after numerous and copious bleedings. in all such cases i considered the diminution of its frequency, and the absence of a vomiting, as signals to lay aside the lancet. the continuance of this preternatural force in the pulse appeared to be owing to the miasmata, which were universally diffused in the air, acting upon the arterial system in the same manner that it did in persons who were in apparent good health. thus have i mentioned the principal circumstances which were connected with blood-letting in the cure of the yellow fever. i shall now consider the objections that were made to it at the time, and since the prevalence of the fever. it was said that the bleeding was unnecessarily copious; and that many had been destroyed by it. to this i answer, that i did not lose a single patient whom i bled seven times or more in this fever. as a further proof that i did not draw an ounce of blood too much it will only be necessary to add, that hæmorrhages frequently occurred after a third, a fourth, and in one instance (in the only son of mr. william hall) after a sixth bleeding had been used; and further, that not a single death occurred from natural hæmorrhages in the first stage of the disease. a woman, who had been bled by my advice, awoke the night following in a bath of her blood, which had flowed from the orifice in her arm. the next day she was free from pain and fever. there were many recoveries in the city from similar accidents. there were likewise some recoveries from copious natural hæmorrhages in the more advanced stages of the disease, particularly when they occurred from the stomach and bowels. i left a servant maid of mrs. morris's, in walnut-street, who had discharged at least four pounds of blood from her stomach, without a pulse, and with scarcely a symptom that encouraged a hope of her life; but the next day i had the pleasure of finding her out of danger. it was remarked that fainting was much less common after bleeding in this fever than in common inflammatory fevers. this circumstance was observed by dr. griffitts, as well as myself. it has since been confirmed to me by three of the principal bleeders in the city, who performed the operation upwards of four thousand times. it occurred chiefly in those cases where it was used for the first time on the third or fourth day of the disease. a swelling of the legs, moreover, so common after plentiful bleeding in pneumony and rheumatism, rarely succeeded the use of this remedy in the yellow fever. . many of the indispositions, and much of the subsequent weakness of persons who had been cured by copious blood-letting, have been ascribed to it. this is so far from being true that the reverse of it has occurred in many cases. mr. mierken worked in his sugar-house, in good health, nine days after his last bleeding; and mr. gribble and mr. george seemed, by their appearance, to have derived fresh vigour from their evacuations. i could mention the names of many people who assured me their constitutions had been improved by the use of those remedies; and i know several persons in whom they have carried off habitual complaints. mr. richard wells attributed his relief from a chronic rheumatism to the copious bleeding and purging which were used to cure him of the yellow fever; and mr. william young, the bookseller, was relieved of a chronic pain in his side, by means of the same remedies. . it was said, that blood-letting was prescribed indiscriminately in all cases, without any regard to age, constitution, or the force of the disease. this is not true, as far as it relates to my practice. in my prescriptions for patients whom i was unable to visit, i advised them, when they were incapable of judging of the state of the pulse, to be guided in the use of bleeding, by the degrees of pain they felt, particularly in the head; and i seldom advised it for the _first_ time, after the second or third day of the disease. in pneumonies which affect whole neighbourhoods in the spring of the year, bleeding is the universal remedy. why should it not be equally so, in a fever which is of a more uniform inflammatory nature, and which tends more rapidly to effusions, in parts of the body much more vital than the lungs? i have before remarked, that the debility which occurs in the beginning of the yellow fever, arises from a depressed state of the system. the debility in the plague is of the same nature. it has long been known that debility from the sudden abstraction of stimuli is to be removed by the _gradual_ application of stimuli, but it has been less observed, that the excess of stimulus in the system is best removed in a _gradual_ manner, and that too in proportion to the degrees of depression, which exist in the system. this principle in the animal economy has been acknowledged by the practice of occasionally stopping the discharge of water from a canula in tapping, and of blood from a vein, in order to prevent fainting. child-birth induces fainting, and sometimes death, only by the _sudden_ abstraction of the stimulus of distention and pain. in all those cases where purging or bleeding have produced death in the yellow fever or plague, when they have been used on the first or second day of those diseases, i suspect that it was occasioned by the quantity of the stimulus abstracted being disproportioned to the degrees of depression in the system. the following facts will i hope throw light upon this subject. . dr. hodges informs us, that "although blood could not be drawn in the plague, even in the smallest quantity without danger, yet a _hundred_ times the quantity of fluids was discharged in pus from buboes without inconvenience[ ]." [ ] page . . pareus, after condemning bleeding in the plague, immediately adds an account of a patient, who was saved by a hæmorrhage from the nose, which continued _two_ days[ ]. [ ] skenkius, lib. vi. p. . . i have before remarked that bleeding proved fatal in three cases in the yellow fever, in the month of august; but at that time i saw one, and heard of another case, in which death seemed to have been prevented by a bleeding at the nose. perhaps the uniform good effects which were observed to follow a spontaneous hæmorrhage from an orifice in the arm, arose wholly from the _gradual_ manner in which the stimulus of the blood was in this way abstracted from the body. dr. williams relates a case of the recovery of a gentleman from the yellow fever, by means of small hæmorrhages, which continued three days, from wounds in his shoulders made by being cupped. he likewise mentions several other recoveries by hæmorrhages from the nose, after "a vomiting of black humours and a hiccup had taken place[ ]." [ ] essay on the bilious or yellow fever of jamaica, p. . . there is a disease in north-carolina, known among the common people by the name of the "pleurisy in the head." it occurs in the winter, after a sickly autumn, and seems to be an evanescent symptom of a bilious remitting fever. the cure of it has been attempted by bleeding, in the common way, but generally without success. it has, however, yielded to this remedy in another form, that is, to the discharge of a few ounces of blood obtained by thrusting a piece of quill up the nose. . riverius describes a pestilential fever which prevailed at montpellier, in the year , which carried off one half of all who were affected by it[ ]. after many unsuccessful attempts to cure it, this judicious physician prescribed the loss of _two_ or _three_ ounces of blood. the pulse rose with this small evacuation. three or four hours afterwards he drew six ounces of blood from his patients, and with the same good effect. the next day he gave a purge, which, he says, rescued his patients from the grave. all whom he treated in this manner recovered. the whole history of this epidemic is highly interesting, from its agreeing with our late epidemic in so many of its symptoms, more especially as they appeared in the different states of the pulse. [ ] de febre pestilenti, vol. ii. p. , , and . an old and intelligent citizen of philadelphia, who remembers the yellow fever of , says that when it first made its appearance bleeding was attended with fatal consequences. it was laid aside afterwards, and the disease prevailed with great mortality until it was checked by the cold weather. had blood been drawn in the manner mentioned by riverius, or had it been drawn in the usual way, after the abstraction of the stimulus of heat by the cool weather, the disease might probably have been subdued, and the remedy of blood-letting thereby have recovered its character. dr. hodges has another remark, in his account of the plague in london in the year , which is still more to our purpose than the one which i have quoted from it upon this subject. he says that "bleeding, as a preventive of the plague, was only safe and useful when the blood was drawn by a _small_ orifice, and a _small_ quantity taken at _different_ times[ ]." [ ] page . i have remarked, in the history of this fever, that it was often cured on the first or second day by a copious sweat. the rev. mr. ustick was one among many whom i could mention, who were saved from a violent attack of the fever by this evacuation. it would be absurd to suppose that the miasmata which produced the disease were discharged in this manner from the body. the sweat seemed to cure the fever only by lessening the quantity of the fluids, and thus _gradually_ removing the depression of the system. the profuse sweats which sometimes cure the plague, as well as the disease which is brought on by the bite of poisonous snakes, seem to act in the same way. the system, in certain states of malignant fever, resembles a man struggling beneath a load of two hundred weight, who is able to lift but one hundred and seventy-five. in order to assist him it will be to no purpose to attempt to infuse additional vigour into his muscles by the use of a whip or of strong drink. every exertion will serve only to waste his strength. in this situation (supposing it impossible to divide the weight which confines him to the ground) let the pockets of this man be emptied of their contents, and let him be stripped of so much of his clothing as to reduce his weight five and twenty or thirty pounds. in this situation he will rise from the ground; but if the weights be abstracted suddenly, while he is in an act of exertion, he will rise with a spring that will endanger a second fall, and probably produce a temporary convulsion in his system. by abstracting the weights from his body more gradually, he will rise by degrees from the ground, and the system will accommodate itself in such a manner to the diminution of its pressure, as to resume its erect form, without the least deviation from the natural order of its appearance and motions. it has been said that the stimulating remedies of bark, wine, and the cold bath, were proper in our late epidemic in august, and in the beginning of september, but that they were improper afterwards. if my theory be just, they were more improper in august and the beginning of september, than they were after the disease put on the outward and common signs of inflammatory diathesis. the reason why a few strong purges cured the disease at its first appearance, was, because they abstracted in a _gradual_ manner some of the immense portion of stimulus under which the arterial system laboured, and thus gradually relieved it from its low and weakening degrees of depression. bleeding was fatal in these cases, probably because it removed this depression in too sudden a manner. the principle of the gradual abstraction, as well as of the gradual application of stimuli to the body, opens a wide field for the improvement of medicine. perhaps all the discoveries of future ages will consist more in a new application of established principles, and in new modes of exhibiting old medicines, than in the discovery of new theories, or of new articles of the materia medica. the reasons which induced me to prescribe purging and bleeding, in so liberal a manner, naturally led me to recommend _cool_ and _fresh air_ to my patients. the good effects of it were obvious in almost every case in which it was applied. it was equally proper whether the arterial system was depressed, or whether it discovered, in the pulse, a high degree of morbid excitement. dr. griffitts furnished a remarkable instance of the influence of cool air upon the fever. upon my visiting him, on the morning of the th of october, i found his pulse so full and tense as to indicate bleeding, but after sitting a few minutes by his bed-side, i perceived that the windows of his room had been shut in the night by his nurse, on account of the coldness of the night air. i desired that they might be opened. in ten minutes afterwards the doctor's pulse became so much slower and weaker that i advised the postponement of the bleeding, and recommended a purge instead of it. the bleeding notwithstanding became necessary, and was used with great advantage in the afternoon of the same day. the cool air was improper only in those cases where a chilliness attended the disease. for the same reason that i advised cool air, i directed my patients to use cold _drinks_. they consisted of lemonade, tamarind, jelly and raw apple water, toast and water, and of weak balm, and camomile tea. the subacid drinks were preferred in most cases, as being not only most agreeable to the taste, but because they tended to compose the stomach. all these drinks were taken in the early stage of the disease. towards the close of it, i permitted the use of porter and water, weak punch, and when the stomach would bear it, weak wine-whey. i forbade all cordial and stimulating food in the active state of the arterial system. the less my patients ate, of even the mildest vegetable food, the sooner they recovered. weak coffee, which (as i have formerly remarked) was almost universally agreeable, and weak tea were always inoffensive. as the action of the pulse diminished, i indulged my patients with weak chocolate; also with milk, to which roasted apples, or minced peaches, and (where they were not to be had), bread or indian mush were added. towards the crisis, i advised the drinking of weak chicken, veal, or mutton broth, and after the crisis had taken place, i permitted mild animal food to be eaten in a small quantity, and to be increased according to the waste of the excitability of the system. this strict abstinence which i imposed upon my patients did not escape obloquy; but the benefits they derived from it, and the ill effects which arose in many cases from a contrary regimen, satisfied me that it was proper in every case in which it was prescribed. _cold water_ was a most agreeable and powerful remedy in this disease. i directed it to be applied by means of napkins to the head, and to be injected into the bowels by way of glyster. it gave the same ease to both, when in pain, which opium gives to pain from other causes. i likewise advised the washing of the face and hands, and sometimes the feet, with cold water, and always with advantage. it was by suffering the body to lie for some time in a bed of cold water, that the inhabitants of the island of massuah cured the most violent bilious fevers[ ]. when applied in this way, it _gradually_ abstracts the heat from the body, and thereby lessens the action of the system. it differs as much in its effects upon the body from the cold bath, as rest in a cold room, differs from exercise in the cold and open air. [ ] bruce's travels. i was first led to the practice of the partial application of cold water to the body, in fevers of too much force in the arterial system, by observing its good effects in active hæmorrhages, and by recollecting the effects of a partial application of warm water to the feet, in fevers of an opposite character. cold water when applied to the feet as certainly reduces the pulse in force and frequency, as warm water, applied in the same way, produces contrary effects upon it. in an experiment which was made at my request, by one of my pupils, by placing his feet in cold pump water for a few minutes, the pulse was reduced strokes in a minute, and became so small as hardly to be perceptible. but this effect of cold water, in reducing the frequency of the pulse, is not uniform. in weak and irritable habits, it increases its frequency. this has been fully proved by a number of experiments, made by my former pupil, dr. stock, of bristol, in england, and published in his "medical collections of the effects of cold, as a remedy in certain diseases[ ]." [ ] page . in the use of the remedies which were necessary to overcome the inflammatory action of the system, i was obliged to reduce it below its natural point of excitement. in the present imperfect state of our knowledge in medicine, perhaps no disease of too much action can be cured without it. besides the remedies which have been mentioned, i was led to employ another of great efficacy. i had observed a favourable issue of the fever, in every case in which a spontaneous discharge took place from the salivary glands. i had observed further, that all such of my patients (one excepted) as were salivated by the mercurial purges recovered in a few days. this early suggested an idea to me that the calomel might be applied to other purposes than the discharging of bile from the bowels. i ascribed its salutary effects, when it salivated in the first stage of the disease, to the excitement of inflammation and effusion in the throat, diverting them from more vital parts of the body. in the second stage of the disease, i was led to prescribe it as a stimulant, and, with a view of obtaining this operation from it, i aimed at exciting a salivation, as speedily as possible, in all cases. two precedents encouraged me to make trial of this remedy. in the month of october, , i attended a gentleman in a bilious fever, which ended in many of the symptoms of a typhus mitior. in the lowest state of his fever, he complained of a pain in his right side, for which i ordered half an ounce of mercurial ointment to be rubbed on the part affected. the next day, he complained of a sore mouth, and, in the course of four and twenty hours, he was in a moderate salivation. from this time his pulse became full and slow, and his skin moist; his sleep and appetite suddenly returned, and in a day or two he was out of danger. the second precedent for a salivation in a fever, which occurred to me, was in dr. haller's short account of the works of dr. cramer[ ]. the practice was moreover justified, in point of safety, as well as the probability of success, by the accounts which dr. clark has lately given of the effects of a salivation in the dysentery[ ]. i began by prescribing the calomel in small doses, at short intervals, and afterwards i directed large quantities of the ointment to be rubbed upon the limbs. the effects of it, in every case in which it affected the mouth, were salutary. dr. woodhouse improved upon my method of exciting the salivation, by rubbing the gums with calomel, in the manner directed by mr. clare. it was more speedy in its operation in this way than in any other, and equally effectual. several persons appeared to be benefited by the mercury introduced into the system in the form of an ointment, where it did _not_ produce a salivation. among these, were the rev. dr. blackwell, and mr. john davis. [ ] bibliotheca medicinæ practicæ, vol. iii. p. . [ ] diseases of long voyages to hot climates, vol. ii. p. . soon after the above account was written of the good effects of a mercurial salivation in this fever, i had great satisfaction in discovering that it had been prescribed with equal, and even greater success, by dr. wade in bengal, in the year , and by dr. chisholm in the island of granada, in the cure of bilious yellow fevers[ ]. dr. wade did not lose one, and dr. chisholm lost only one out of forty-eight patients in whom the mercury affected the salivary glands. the latter gave grains of calomel, and applied the strongest mercurial ointment below the groin of each side, in some cases. he adds further, that not a single instance of a relapse occurred, where the disease was cured by salivation. [ ] medical commentaries, vol. xviii. p. , . after the reduction of the system, _blisters_ were applied with great advantage to every part of the body. they did most service when they were applied to the crown of the head. i did not see a single case, in which a mortification followed the sore, which was created by a blister. brandy and water, or porter and water, when agreeable to the stomach, with now and then a cup of chicken broth, were the drinks i prescribed to assist in restoring the tone of the system. in some cases i directed the limbs to be wrapped in flannels dipped in warm spirits, and cataplasms of bruised garlic to be applied to the feet. but my principal dependence, next to the use of mercurial medicines, for exciting a healthy action in the arterial system, was upon mild and gently stimulating food. this consisted of rich broths, the flesh of poultry, oysters, thick gruel, mush and milk, and chocolate. i directed my patients to eat or drink a portion of some of the above articles of diet every hour or two during the day, and in cases of great debility, from an exhausted state of the system, i advised their being waked for the same purpose two or three times in the night. the appetite frequently craved more savoury articles of food, such as beef-stakes and sausages; but they were permitted with great caution, and never till the system had been prepared for them by a less stimulating diet. there were several _symptoms_ which were very distressing in this disease, and which required a specific treatment. for the vomiting, with a burning sensation in the stomach, which came on about the fifth day, i found no remedy equal to a table spoonful of sweet milk, taken every hour, or to small draughts of milk and water. i was led to prescribe this simple medicine from having heard, from a west-india practitioner, and afterwards read, in dr. hume's account of the yellow fever, encomiums upon the milk of the cocoa-nut for this troublesome symptom. where sweet milk failed of giving relief, i prescribed small doses of sweet oil, and in some cases a mixture of equal parts of milk, sweet oil, and molasses. they were all intended to dilute or blunt the acrimony of the humours, which were either effused or generated in the stomach. where they all failed of checking the vomiting, i prescribed weak camomile tea, or porter, or cyder and water, with advantage. in some of my patients the stomach rejected all the mixtures and liquors which have been mentioned. in such cases i directed the stomach to be left to itself for a few hours, after which it sometimes received and retained the drinks that it had before rejected, provided they were administered in a small quantity at a time. the vomiting was sometimes stopped by a blister applied to the external region of the stomach. a mixture of liquid laudanum and sweet oil, applied to the same place, gave relief where the stomach was affected by pain only, without a vomiting. i have formerly mentioned that a distressing _pain_ often seized the lower part of the _bowels_. i was early taught that laudanum was not a proper remedy for it. it yielded in almost every case to two or three emollient glysters, or to the loss of a few ounces of blood. the convalescence from this fever was in general rapid, but in some cases it was very slow. i was more than usually struck by the great resemblance which the system in the convalescence from this fever bore to the state of the body and mind in old age. it appeared, . in the great weakness of the body, more especially of the limbs. . in uncommon depression of mind, and in a great aptitude to shed tears. . in the absence or short continuance of sleep. . in the frequent occurrence of appetite, and, in some cases, in its inordinate degrees. and . in the loss of the hair of the head, or in its being suddenly changed in some cases to a grey colour. pure air, gentle exercise, and agreeable society removed the debility both of body and mind of this premature and temporary old age. i met with a few cases, in which the yellow colour continued for several weeks after the patient's recovery from all the other symptoms of the fever. it was removed most speedily and effectually by two or three moderate doses of calomel and rhubarb. a feeble and irregular intermittent was very troublesome in some people, after an acute attack of the fever. it yielded gradually to camomile or snake-root tea, and country air. in a publication, dated the th of september, i recommended a diet of milk and vegetables, and cooling purges to be taken once or twice a week, to the citizens of philadelphia. this advice was the result of the theory of the disease i had adopted, and of the successful practice which had arisen from it. in my intercourse with my fellow-citizens, i advised this regimen to be regulated by the degrees of fatigue and foul air to which they were exposed. i likewise advised moderate blood-letting to all such persons as were of a plethoric habit. to men whose minds were influenced by the publications in favour of bark and wine, and who were unable at that time to grasp the extent and force of the remote cause of this terrible fever, the idea of dieting, purging, or bleeding the inhabitants of a whole village or city appeared to be extravagant and absurd: but i had not only the analogy of the regimen made use of to prepare the body for the small-pox, but many precedents in favour of the advice. dr. haller has given extracts from the histories of two plagues, in which the action of the miasmata was prevented or mitigated by bleeding[ ]. dr. hodges confirms the utility of the same practice. the benefits of low diet, as a preventive of the plague, were established by many authors, long before they received the testimony of the benevolent mr. howard in their favour. socrates in athens, and justinian in constantinople, were preserved, by means of their abstemious modes of living, from the plagues which occasionally ravaged those cities. by means of the low diet, gentle physic, and occasional bleedings, which i thus publicly recommended, the disease was prevented in many instances, or rendered mild where it was taken. but my efforts to prevent the disease in my fellow-citizens did not end here. i advised them, not only in the public papers, but in my intercourse with them, to avoid heat, cold, labour, and every thing else that could excite the miasmata (which i knew to be present in all their bodies) into action. i forgot, upon this occasion, the usual laws which regulate the intercourse of man with man in the streets, and upon the public roads, in my excursions into the neighbourhood of the city. i cautioned many persons, whom i saw walking or riding in an unsafe manner, of the danger to which they exposed themselves; and thereby, i hope, prevented an attack of the disease in many people. [ ] bibliotheca medicinæ practicæ, vol. ii. p. . and . it was from a conviction of the utility of low diet, gentle evacuations, and of carefully shunning all the exciting causes which i have mentioned, that i concealed, in no instance, from my patients the name of their disease. this plainness, which was blamed by weak people, produced strict obedience to my directions, and thereby restrained the progress of the fever in many families, or rendered it, when taken, as mild as inoculation does the small-pox. the opposite conduct of several physicians, by preventing the above precautions, increased the mortality of the disease, and, in some instances, contributed to the extinction of whole families. i proceed now to make a few remarks upon the remedies recommended by doctors kuhn and stevens, and by the french physicians. the former were bark, wine, laudanum, spices, the elixir of vitriol, and the cold bath. in every case in which i prescribed bark, it was offensive to the stomach. in several tertians which attended the convalescence from a common attack of the fever, i found it always unsuccessful, and once hurtful. mr. willing took it for several weeks without effect. about half a pint of a weak decoction of the bark produced, in mr. samuel meredith, a paroxysm of the fever, so violent as to require the loss of ten ounces of blood to moderate it. dr. annan informed me that he was forced to bleed one of his patients twice, after having given him a small quantity of bark, to hasten his convalescence. it was not in this epidemic only that the bark was hurtful. baron humboldt informed me, that dr. comoto had assured him, it hastened death in every case in which it was given in the yellow fever of vera cruz. if, in any instance, it was inoffensive, or did service, in our fever, i suspect it must have acted upon the bowels as a purge. dr. sydenham says the bark cured intermittents by this evacuation[ ]; and mr. bruce says it operated in the same way, when it cured the bilious fevers at massuah. [ ] vol. i. p. . _wine_ was nearly as disagreeable as the bark to the stomach, and equally hurtful. i tried it in every form, and of every quality, but without success. it was either rejected by the stomach, or produced in it a burning sensation. i should suspect that i had been mistaken in my complaints against wine, had i not since met with an account in skenkius of its having destroyed all who took it in the famous hungarian fever, which prevailed, with great mortality, over nearly every country in europe, about the middle of the th century[ ]. dr. wade declares wine to be "ill adapted to the fevers of bengal, where the treatment has been proper in other respects." [ ] omnes qui vini potione non abstinuerunt, interiere, adeo ut summa spes salvationis in vini abstinentia collocata videreter. lib. vi. p. . _laudanum_ has been called by dr. mosely "a fatal medicine" in the yellow fever. in one of my patients, who took only fifteen drops of it, without my advice, to ease a pain in his bowels, it produced a delirium, and death in a few hours. i was much gratified in discovering that my practice, with respect to the use of opium in this fever, accorded with dr. wade's in the fever of bengal. he tells us, "that it was mischievous in almost every instance, even in combination with antimonials." the _spices_ were hurtful in the first stage of the fever, and, when sufficient evacuations had been used, they were seldom necessary in its second. the _elixir of vitriol_ was, in general, offensive to the stomach. the _cold bath_ was useful in those cases where its sedative prevailed over its stimulating effects. but this could not often happen, from the suddenness and force, with which the water was thrown upon the body. in two cases in which i prescribed it, it produced a gentle sweat, but it did not save life. in a third it removed a delirium, and reduced the pulse for a few minutes, in frequency and force, but this patient died. the recommendation of it indiscriminately, in all cases, was extremely improper. in that chilliness and tendency to fainting upon the least motion, which attended the disease in some patients, it was an unsafe remedy. i heard of a woman who was seized with delirium immediately after using it, from which she never recovered; and of a man who died a few minutes after he came out of a bathing tub. had this remedy been the exclusive antidote to the yellow fever, the mortality of the disease would have been but little checked by it. thousands must have perished from the want of means to procure tubs, and of a suitable number of attendants to apply the water, and to lift the patient in and out of bed. the reason of our citizens ran before the learning of the friends of this remedy, and long before it was abandoned by the physicians, it was rejected as useless, or not attempted, because impracticable, by the good sense of the city. it is to be lamented that the remedy of cold water has suffered in its character by the manner in which it was advised. in fevers of too much action, it reduces the morbid excitement of the blood-vessels, provided it be _applied without force_, and for a considerable time, to the body. it is in the jail fever, and in the second stage of the yellow fever only, in which its stimulant and tonic powers are proper. dr. jackson establishes this mode of using it, by informing us, that when it did service, it "gave vigour and tone" to the system[ ]. [ ] fevers of jamaica. a mode of practice which i formerly mentioned in this fever, consisted of a union of the evacuating and tonic remedies. the physicians who adopted this mode gave calomel by itself, in small doses, on the first or second day of the fever, bled once or twice, in a sparing manner, and gave the bark, wine, and laudanum, in large quantities, upon the first appearance of a remission. after they began the use of these remedies purging was omitted, or, if the bowels were moved, it was only by means of gentle glysters. this practice, i shall say hereafter, was not much more successful than that which was recommended by dr. kuhn and dr. stevens. it resembled throwing water and oil at the same time upon a fire, in order to extinguish it. the _french_ remedies were nitre and cremor tartar, in small doses, centaury tea, camphor, and several other warm medicines; subacid drinks, taken in large quantities, the warm bath, and moderate bleeding. after what has been said it must be obvious to the reader, that the nitre and cremor tartar, in small doses, could do no good, and that camphor and all cordial medicines must have done harm. the diluting subacid drinks, which the french physicians gave in large quantities, were useful in diluting and blunting the acrimony of the bile, and to this remedy, assisted by occasional bleeding, i ascribe most of the cures which were performed by those physicians. those few persons in whom the _warm bath_ produced copious and universal sweats recovered, but, in nearly all the cases which came under my notice, it did harm. i come now to inquire into the comparative success of all the different modes of practice which have been mentioned. i have already said that ten out of thirteen patients whom i treated with bark, wine, and laudanum, and that three out of four, in whom i added the cold bath to those remedies, died. dr. pennington informed me, that he had lost all the patients (six in number) to whom he had given the above medicines. dr. johnson assured me, with great concern, about two weeks before he died, that he had not recovered a single patient by them. whole families were swept off where these medicines were used. but further, most of those persons who received the seeds of the fever in the city, and sickened in the country, or in the neighbouring towns, and who were treated with tonic remedies, died. there was not a single cure performed by them in new-york, where they were used in several sporadic cases with every possible advantage. but why do i multiply proofs of their deadly effects? the clamours of hundreds whose relations had perished by them, and the fears of others, compelled those physicians who had been most attached to them to lay them aside, or to prepare the way for them (as it was called) by purging and bleeding. the bathing tub soon shared a worse fate than bark, wine, and laudanum, and, long before the disease disappeared, it was discarded by all the physicians in the city. in answer to these facts we are told, that mr. hamilton and his family were cured by dr. stevens's remedies, and that dr. kuhn had administered them with success in several instances. upon these cures i shall insert the following judicious remarks from dr. sydenham. "success (says the doctor) is not a sufficient proof of the excellency of a method of cure in acute diseases, since some are recovered by the imprudent procedure of old women; but it is further required, that the distemper should be _easily cured_, and yield conformably to its _own_ nature[ ]." and again, speaking of the cure of the new fever of , this incomparable physician observes, "if it be objected that this fever frequently yields to a quite contrary method to that which i have laid down, i answer, that the cure of a disease by a method which is attended with success only _now_ and _then_, in a _few_ instances, differs extremely from that practical method, the efficacy whereof appears both from its recovering _greater numbers_, and all the practical phenomena happening in the cure[ ]." [ ] vol. ii. p. . [ ] vol, ii. p. . far be it from me to deny that the depression of the system may not be overcome by such stimuli as are more powerful than those which occasion it. this has sometimes been demonstrated by the efficacy of bark, wine, and laudanum, in the confluent and petechial small-pox; but even this state of that disease yields more easily to blood-letting, or to plentiful evacuations from the stomach and bowels, on the first or second day of the eruptive fever. this i have often proved, by giving a large dose of tartar emetic and calomel, as soon as i was satisfied from circumstances, that my patient was infected with the small-pox. but the depression produced by the yellow fever appears to be much greater than that which occurs in the small-pox, and hence it more uniformly resisted the most powerful tonic remedies. in one of my publications during the prevalence of the fever i asserted, that the remedies of which i have given a history cured a greater proportion than ninety-nine out of a hundred, of all who applied to me on the first day of the disease, before the th day of september. i regret that it is not in my power to furnish a list of them, for a majority of them were poor people, whose names are still unknown to me. i was not singular in this successful practice in the first appearance of the disease. dr. pennington assured me on his death bed, that he had not lost one, out of forty-eight patients whom he had treated agreeably to the principles and practice i had recommended. dr. griffitts triumphed over the disease in every part of the city, by the use of what were called the new remedies. my former pupils spread, by their success, the reputation of purging and bleeding, wherever they were called. unhappily the pleasure we derived from this success in the treatment of the disease, was of short duration. many circumstances contributed to lessen it, and to revive the mortality of the fever. i shall briefly enumerate them. . the distraction produced in the public mind, by the recommendation of remedies, the opposites in every respect of purging and bleeding. . the opinion which had been published by several physicians, and inculcated by others, that we had other fevers in the city besides the yellow fever. this produced a delay in many people in sending for a physician, or in taking medicines, for two or three days, from a belief that they had nothing but a cold, or a common fever. some people were so much deceived by this opinion, that they refused to send for physicians, lest they should be infected by them with the yellow fever. in most of the cases in which these delays took place, the disease proved mortal. to obviate a suspicion that i have laid more stress upon the fatal influence of this error than is just, i shall here insert an extract of a letter i received from mr. john connelly, one of the city committee, who frequently left his brethren in the city hall, and spent many hours in visiting and prescribing for the sick. "the publications (says he) of some physicians, that there were but few persons infected with the yellow fever, and that many were ill with colds and common remitting and fall fevers, proved fatal to almost every family which was credulous enough to believe them. that opinion slew its hundreds, if not its thousands, many of whom did not send for a physician until they were in the last stage of the disorder, and beyond the power of medicine." . the interference of the friends of the stimulating system, in dissuading patients from submitting to sufficient evacuations. . the deceptions which were practised by some patients upon their physicians, in their reports of the quantity of blood they had lost, or of the quality and number of their evacuations by stool. . the impracticability of procuring bleeders as soon as bleeding was prescribed. life in this disease, as in the apoplexy, frequently turned upon that operation being performed within an _hour_. it was often delayed, from the want of a bleeder, one or two days. . the inability of physicians, from the number of their patients, and from frequent indisposition, to visit the sick, at such times as was necessary to watch the changes in their disease. . the great accumulation and concentration of the miasmata in sick rooms, from the continuance of the disease in the city, whereby the system was exposed to a constant stimulus, and the effect of the evacuations was thus defeated. . the want of skill or fidelity in nurses to administer the medicines properly; to persuade patients to drink frequently; also to supply them with food or cordial drinks when required in the night. . the great degrees of debility induced in the systems of many of the people who were affected by the disease, from fatigue in attending their relations or friends. . the universal depression of mind, amounting in some instances to despair, which affected many people. what medicine could act upon a patient who awoke in the night, and saw through the broken and faint light of a candle, no human creature, but a black nurse, perhaps asleep in a distant corner of the room; and who heard no noise, but that of a hearse conveying, perhaps, a neighbour or a friend to the grave? the state of mind under which many were affected by the disease, is so well described by the rev. dr. smith, in the case of his wife, in a letter i received from him in my sick room, two days after her death, that i hope i shall be excused for inserting an extract from it. it forms a part of the history of the disease. the letter was written in answer to a short note of condolence which i sent to the doctor immediately after hearing of mrs. smith's death. after some pathetic expressions of grief, he adds, "the scene of her funeral, and some preceding circumstances, can never depart from my mind. on our return from a visit to our daughter, whom we had been striving to console on the death of mrs. keppele, who was long familiar and dear to both, my dear wife, passing the burying-ground gate, led me into the ground, viewed the graves of her two children, called the old grave-digger, marked a spot for herself as close as possible to them and the grave of dr. phineas bond, whose memory she adored. then, by the side of the spot she had chosen, we found room and chose _mine_, pledging ourselves to each other, and directing the grave-digger that this should be the order of our interment. we returned to our house. night approached. i hoped my dear wife had gone to rest, as she had chosen, since her return from nursing her daughter, to sleep in a chamber by herself, through fear of infecting her grandchild and me. but it seems she closed not her eyes; sitting with them fixed through her chamber window on mrs. keppele's house, till about midnight she saw her hearse, and followed it with her eyes as far as it could be seen. two days afterwards mrs. rodgers, her next only surviving intimate friend, was carried past her window, and by no persuasion could i draw her from thence, nor stop her sympathetic foreboding tears, so long as her eyes could follow the funeral, which was through two squares, from fourth to second-street, where the hearse disappeared." the doctor proceeds in describing the distress of his wife. but pointed as his expressions are, they do not convey the gloomy state of her mind with so much force as she has done it herself in two letters to her niece, mrs. cadwallader, who was then in the country. the one was dated the th, the other the th of october. i shall insert a few extracts from each of them. october th. "it is not possible for me to pass the streets without walking in a line with the dead, passing infected houses, and looking into open graves. this has been the case for many weeks." "i don't know what to write; my head is gone, and my heart is torn to pieces." "i intreat you to have no fears on my account. i am in the hands of a just and merciful god, and his will be done." october th. "don't wonder that i am so low to-day. my heart is sunk down within me." the next day this excellent woman sickened, and died on the th of the same month. if in a person possessed naturally of uncommon equanimity and fortitude, the distresses of our city produced such dejection of spirits, what must have been their effect upon hundreds, who were not endowed with those rare and extraordinary qualities of mind! death in this, as well as in many other cases in which medicine had done its duty, appeared to be the inevitable consequence of the total abstraction of the energy of the mind in restoring the natural motions of life. under all the circumstances which have been mentioned, which opposed the system of depletion in the cure of this fever, it was still far more successful than any other mode of cure that had been pursued before in the united states, or in the west-indies. three out of four died of the disease in jamaica, under the care of dr. hume. dr. blane considers it as one of the "most mortal" of diseases, and dr. jackson places a more successful mode of treating it among the subjects which will admit of "innovation" in medicine. after the th of september, my success was much limited, compared with what it had been before that time. but at no period of the disease did i lose more than one in twenty of those whom i saw on the first day, and attended regularly through every stage of the fever, provided they had not been previously worn down by attending the sick. the following statement, which will admit of being corrected, if it be inaccurate, will, i hope, establish the truth of the above assertions. about one half of the families whom i have attended for many years, left the city. of those who remained, many were affected by the disease. out of the whole of them, after i had adopted my second mode of practice, i lost but five heads of families, and about a dozen servants and children. in no instance did i lose both heads of the same family. my success in these cases was owing to two causes: st, to the credit my former patients gave to my public declaration, that we had only _one_ fever in the city: hence they applied on the _first_ day, and sometimes on the _first_ hour of their indisposition; and dly, to the numerous pledges many of them had seen of the safety and efficacy of copious blood-letting, by my advice, in other diseases: hence my prescription of that necessary remedy was always obeyed in its utmost extent. of the few adults whom i lost, among my former patients, two of them were old people, two took laudanum, without my knowledge, and one refused to take medicine of any kind; all the rest had been worn down by previous fatigue. i have before said that a great number of the blacks were my patients. of these not one died under my care. this uniform success, among those people, was not owing altogether to the mildness of the disease, for i shall say presently, that a great proportion of a given number died, under other modes of practice. in speaking of the comparative effects of purging and bleeding, it may not be amiss to repeat, that not one pregnant woman, to whom i prescribed them, died, or suffered abortion. where the tonic remedies were used, abortion or death, and, in many instances, both, were nearly universal. many whole families, consisting of five, six, and, in three instances, of nine members, were recovered by plentiful purging and bleeding. i could swell this work by publishing a list of those families; but i take more pleasure in adding, that i was not singular in my success in the use of the above remedies. they were prescribed with great advantage by many of the physicians of the city, who had for a while given tonic medicines without effect. i shall not mention the names of any of the physicians who _totally_ renounced those medicines, lest i should give offence by not mentioning them all. many large families were cured by some of them, after they adopted and prescribed copious purging and blood-letting. one of them cured ten in the family of mr. robert haydock, by means of those remedies. in one of that family, the disease came on with a vomiting of black bile. but the use of the new remedies was not directed finally by the physicians alone. the clergy, the apothecaries, many private citizens, several intelligent women, and two black men, prescribed them with great success. nay more, many persons prescribed them to themselves, and, as i shall say hereafter, with a success that was unequalled by any of the regular or irregular practitioners in the city. it was owing to the almost universal use of purging and bleeding, that the mortality of the disease diminished, in proportion as the number of persons who were affected by it increased, about the middle of october. it was scarcely double of what it was in the middle of september, and yet six times the number of persons were probably at that time confined by it. the success of copious purging and bleeding was not confined to the city of philadelphia. several persons, who were infected in town, and sickened in the country, were cured by them. could a comparison be made of the number of patients who died of the yellow fever in , after having been plentifully bled and purged, with those who died of the same disease in the years , , , and , i am persuaded that the proportion would be very small in the year , compared with the former years[ ]. including all who died under every mode of treatment, i suspect the mortality to be less, in proportion to the population of the city, and the number of persons who were affected, than it was in any of the other years that have been mentioned. [ ] it appears from one of mr. norris's letters, dated the th of november, o. s. that there died persons, in the year , with the yellow fever. between and of them, he says, belonged to the society of friends. the city, at this time, probably, did not contain more than or people, many of whom, it is probable, fled from the disease. not less than of the inhabitants of philadelphia probably owe their lives to purging and bleeding, during the autumn. i proceed with reluctance to inquire into the comparative success of the french practice. it would not be difficult to decide upon it from many facts that came under my notice in the city; but i shall rest its merit wholly upon the returns of the number of deaths at bush-hill. this hospital, after the d of september, was put under the care of a french physician, who was assisted by one of the physicians of the city. the hospital was in a pleasant and airy situation; it was provided with all the necessaries and comforts for sick people that humanity could invent, or liberality supply. the attendants were devoted to their duty; and cleanliness and order pervaded every room in the house. the reputation of this hospital, and of the french physician, drew patients to it in the early stage of the disease. of this i have been assured in a letter from dr. annan, who was appointed to examine and give orders of admission into the hospital, to such of the poor of the district of southwark, as could not be taken care of in their own houses. mr. olden has likewise informed me, that most of the patients who were sent to the hospital by the city committee (of which he was a member) were in the first stage of the fever. with all these advantages, the deaths between the d of september and the th of november, amounted to out of patients who were admitted into the hospital within that time. three fourths of all the blacks (nearly ) who were patients in this hospital died. a list of the medicines prescribed there may be seen in the minutes of the proceedings of the city committee. calomel and jalap are not among them. _moderate_ bleeding and purging with glauber's salts, i have been informed, were used in some cases by the physicians of this hospital. the proportion of deaths to the recoveries, as it appears in the minutes of the committee from whence the above report is taken, is truly melancholy! i hasten from it therefore to a part of this work, to which i have looked with pleasure, ever since i sat down to compose it. i have said that the clergy, the apothecaries, and many other persons who were uninstructed in the principles of medicine, prescribed purging and bleeding with great success in this disease. necessity gave rise to this undisciplined sect of practitioners, for they came forward to supply the places of the regular bred physicians who were sick or dead. i shall mention the names of a few of those persons who distinguished themselves as volunteers in this new work of humanity. the late rev. mr. fleming, one of the ministers of the catholic church, carried the purging powders in his pocket, and gave them to his poor parishioners with great success. he even became the advocate of the new remedies. in a conversation i had with him, on the d of september, he informed me, that he had advised four of our physicians, whom he met a day or two before, "to renounce the pride of science, and to adopt the new mode of practice, for that he had witnessed its good effects in many cases." mr. john keihmle, a german apothecary, has assured me, that out of patients whom he visited, and for whom he prescribed from the reports of their friends, he lost but (which is nearly but one in eleven), and that he treated them all agreeably to the method which i had recommended. the rev. mr. schmidt, one of the ministers of the lutheran church, was cured by him. i have before mentioned an instance of the judgment of mr. connelly, and of his zeal in visiting and prescribing for the sick. his remedies were bleeding and purging. he, moreover, bore a constant and useful testimony against bark, wine, laudanum, and the warm bath[ ]. mrs. paxton, in carter's-alley, and mrs. evans, the wife of mr. john evans, in second-street, were indefatigable; the one in distributing mercurial purges composed by herself, and the other in urging the necessity of _copious_ bleeding and purging among her friends and neighbours, as the only safe remedies for the fever. these worthy women were the means of saving many lives[ ]. absalom jones and richard allen, two black men, spent all the intervals of time, in which they were not employed in burying the dead, in visiting the poor who were sick, and in bleeding and purging them, agreeably to the directions which had been printed in all the newspapers. their success was unparalleled by what is called regular practice. this encomium upon the practice of the blacks will not surprise the reader, when i add that they had no fear of putrefaction in the fluids, nor of the calumnies of a body of fellow-citizens in the republic of medicine to deter them from plentiful purging and bleeding. they had, besides, no more patients than they were able to visit two or three times a day. but great as their success was, it was exceeded by those persons who, in despair of procuring medical aid of any kind, purged and bled themselves. this palm of superior success will not be withheld from those people when i explain the causes of it. it was owing to their _early_ use of the proper remedies, and to their being guided in the repetition of them, by the continuance of a tense pulse, or of pain and fever. a day, an afternoon, and even an hour, were not lost by these people in waiting for the visit of a physician, who was often detained from them by sickness, or by new and unexpected engagements, by which means the precious moment for using the remedies with effect passed irrevocably away. i have stated these facts from faithful inquiries, and numerous observations. i could mention the names and families of many persons who thus cured themselves. one person only shall be mentioned, who has shown by her conduct what reason is capable of doing when it is forced to act for itself. mrs. long, a widow, after having been twice unsuccessful in her attempts to procure a physician, undertook at last to cure herself. she took several of the mercurial purges, agreeably to the printed directions, and had herself bled _seven_ times in the course of five or six days. the indication for repeating the bleeding was the continuance of the pain in her head. her recovery was rapid and complete. the history of it was communicated to me by herself, with great gratitude, in my own house, during my second confinement with the fever. to these accounts of persons who cured themselves in the city, i could add many others, of citizens who sickened in the country, and who cured themselves by plentiful bleeding and purging, without the attendance of a physician. [ ] in the letter before quoted, from mr. connelly, he expresses his opinion of those four medicines in the following words: "laudanum, bark, and wine have put a period to the existence of some, where the fever has been apparently broken, and the patients in a fair way of recovery; a single dose of laudanum has hurried them suddenly into eternity. i have visited a few patients where the hot bath was used, and am convinced that it only tended to weaken and relax the system, without producing any good effect." [ ] the yellow fever prevailed at the caraccos, in south-america, in october, , with great mortality, more especially among the spanish troops. nearly all died who were attended by physicians. recourse was finally had to the old women, who were successful in almost every case to which they were called. their remedies were a liquor called _narencado_ (a species of lemonade) and a tea made of a root called _fistula_. with these drinks they drenched their patients for the first two or three days. they induced plentiful sweats, and, probably, after blunting, discharged the bile from the bowels. i received this information from an american gentleman, who had been cured, by one of those amazons in medicine, in the above way. from a short review of these facts, reason and humanity awake from their long repose in medicine, and unite in proclaiming, that it is time to take the cure of pestilential epidemics out of the hands of physicians, and to place it in the hands of the people. let not the reader startle at this proposition. i shall give the following reasons for it. . in consequence of these diseases affecting a great number of people at one time, it has always been, and always will be impossible, for them _all_ to have the benefit of medical aid, more especially as the proportion of physicians to the number of sick, is generally diminished upon these occasions, by desertion, sickness, and death. . the safety of committing to the people the cure of pestilential fevers, particularly the yellow fever and the plague, is established by the simplicity and uniformity of their causes, and of their remedies. however diversified they may be in their symptoms, the system, in both diseases, is generally under a state of undue excitement or great depression, and in most cases requires the abstraction of stimulus in a greater or less degree, or in a sudden or gradual manner. there can never be any danger of the people injuring themselves by mistaking any other disease for an _epidemic_ yellow fever or plague, for no other febrile disease can prevail with them. it was probably to prevent this mistake, that the benevolent father of mankind, who has permitted no evil to exist which does not carry its antidote along with it, originally imposed that law upon all great and mortal epidemics. . the history of the yellow fever in the west-indies proves the advantage of trusting patients to their own judgment. dr. lind has remarked, that a greater proportion of sailors who had no physicians recovered from that fever, than of those who had the best medical assistance. the fresh air of the deck of a ship, a purge of salt water, and the free use of cold water, probably triumphed here over the cordial juleps of physicians. . by committing the cure of this and other pestilential epidemics to the people, all those circumstances which prevented the universal success of purging and bleeding, in this disease, will have no operation. the fever will be mild in most cases, for all will prepare themselves to receive it, by a vegetable diet, and by moderate evacuations. the remedies will be used the _moment_ the disease is felt, or even seen, and its violence and danger will thereby be obviated. there will then be no disputes among physicians, about the nature of the disease, to distract the public mind, for they will seldom be consulted in it. none will suffer from chronic debility induced by previous fatigue in attending the sick, nor from the want of nurses, for few will be so ill as to require them, and there will be no "foreboding" fears of death, or despair of recovery, to invite an attack of the disease, or to ensure its mortality. the small-pox was once as fatal as the yellow fever and the plague. it has since yielded as universally to a vegetable diet and evacuations, in the hands of apothecaries, the clergy, and even of the good women, as it did in the hands of doctors of physic. they have narrow conceptions, not only of the divine goodness, but of the gradual progress of human knowledge, who suppose that all pestilential diseases shall not, like the small-pox, sooner or later cease to be the scourge and terror of mankind. for a long while, air, water, and even the light of the sun, were dealt out by physicians to their patients with a sparing hand. they possessed, for several centuries, the same monopoly of many artificial remedies. but a new order of things is rising in medicine. air, water, and light are taken without the advice of a physician, and bark and laudanum are now prescribed every where by nurses and mistresses of families, with safety and advantage. human reason cannot be stationary upon these subjects. the time must and will come, when, in addition to the above remedies, the general use of calomel, jalap, and the lancet, shall be considered among the most essential articles of the knowledge and rights of man. it is no more necessary that a patient should be ignorant of the medicine he takes, to be cured by it, than that the business of government should be conducted with secrecy, in order to insure obedience to just laws. much less is it necessary that the means of life should be prescribed in a dead language, or dictated with the solemn pomp of a necromancer. the effects of imposture, in every thing, are like the artificial health produced by the use of ardent spirits. its vigour is temporary, and is always followed by misery and death. the belief that the yellow fever and the plague are necessarily mortal, is as much the effect of a superstitious torpor in the understanding, as the ancient belief that the epilepsy was a supernatural disease, and that it was an offence against heaven to attempt to cure it. it is partly from the influence of this torpor in the minds of some people, that the numerous cures of the yellow fever, performed by a few simple remedies, were said to be of _other_ diseases. it is necessary, for the conviction of such persons, that patients should always _die_ of that, and other dangerous diseases, to prove that they have been affected by them. the repairs which our world is destined to undergo will be incomplete, until pestilential fevers cease to be numbered among the widest outlets of human life. there are many things which are now familiar to women and children, which were known a century ago only to a few men who lived in closets, and were distinguished by the name of philosophers. we teach a hundred things in our schools less useful, and many things more difficult, than the knowledge that would be necessary to cure a yellow fever or the plague. in my attempts to teach the citizens of philadelphia, by my different publications, the method of curing themselves of yellow fever, i observed no difficulty in their apprehending every thing that was addressed to them, except what related to the different states of the pulse. all the knowledge that is necessary to discover when blood-letting is proper, might be taught to a boy or girl of twelve years old in a few hours. i taught it in less time to several persons, during the prevalence of the epidemic. i would as soon believe that ratafia was intended by the author of nature to be the only drink of man, instead of water, as believe that the knowledge of what relates to the health and lives of a _whole_ city, or nation, should be confined to one, and that a small or a privileged order of men. but what have physicians, what have universities or medical societies done, after the labours and studies of many centuries, towards lessening the mortality of pestilential fevers? they have either copied or contradicted each other, in all their publications. plagues and malignant fevers are still leagued with war and famine, in their ravages upon human life. to prevent the formation and mortality of this fever, it will be necessary, when it makes its appearance in a city or country, to publish an account of those symptoms which i have called the _precursors_ of the disease, and to exhort the people, as soon as they feel those symptoms, to have immediate recourse to the remedies of purging or bleeding. the danger of delay in using one, or both these remedies, should be inculcated in the strongest terms, for the disease, like time, has a lock on its forehead, but is bald behind. the bite of a rattle-snake is seldom fatal, because the medicines which cure it are applied or taken as soon as the poison comes in contact with the blood. there is less danger to be apprehended from the yellow fever than from the poison of the snake, provided the remedies for it are administered within a few hours after it is excited into action. let persons who are subject to chronic pains, or diseases of any kind, be advised not to be deceived by them. every pain, at such a time, is the beginning of the disease; for it always acts first on debilitated parts of the body. from an ignorance of this law of epidemics many persons, by delaying their applications for help, perished with our fever. let nature be trusted into no case whatever, to cure this disease; and let no attack of it, however light, be treated with neglect. death as certainly performs his work, when he steals on the system in the form of a mild intermittent, as he does, when he comes on with the symptoms of apoplexy, or a black vomiting. cleanliness, in houses and dress, cannot be too often inculcated during the prevalence of a yellow fever. let it not be supposed, that i mean that the history which i have given of the method of cure of this epidemic, should be applied, in all its parts, to the yellow fevers which may appear hereafter in the united states, or which exist at all times in the west-india islands. season and climate vary this, as well as all other diseases. bark and wine, so fatal in this, may be proper in a future yellow fever. but in the climate of the united states, i believe it will seldom appear with such symptoms of prostration and weakness, as not to require, in its first stage, evacuations of some kind. the only inquiry, when the disease makes its appearance, should be, from what part of the body these evacuations should be procured; the order which should be pursued in obtaining them; and the quantity of each of the matters to be discharged, which should be withdrawn at a time. thus far did i venture, from my theory of the disease, and from the authorities of dr. hillary and dr. mosely, to decide in favour of evacuations in the yellow fever; but dr. wade, and mr. chisholm again support me by their practice in the fevers of the east and west-indies. they both gave strong mercurial purges, and bled in some cases. dr. wade confirmed, by his practice, the advantage of _gradually_ abstracting stimulus from the system. he never drew blood, even in the most inflammatory cases, until he had first discharged the contents of the bowels. the doctor has further established the efficacy of a vegetable diet and of water as a drink, as the best means of preventing the disease in a hot climate. the manner in which the miasmata that produce the plague act upon the system is so much like that which has been described in the yellow fever, and the accounts of the efficacy of low diet, in preparing the body for its reception, and of copious bleeding, cold air, and cold water, in curing it, are so similar, that all the directions which relate to preventing, mitigating, or curing the yellow fever may be applied to it. the fluids in the plague show a greater tendency to the skin, than they do in the yellow fever. perhaps, upon this account, the early use of powerful sudorifics may be more proper in the former than in the latter disease. from the influence of early purging and bleeding in promoting sweats in the yellow fever, there can be little doubt but the efforts of nature to unload the system in the plague, through the channel of the pores, might be accelerated by the early use of the same remedies. one thing, with respect to the plague, is certain, that its cure depends upon the abstraction of stimulus, either by means of plentiful sweats, or of purulent matter from external sores. perhaps the efficacy of these remedies depends wholly upon their elevating the system from its prostrated state in a _gradual_ manner. if this be the case, those natural discharges might be easily and effectually imitated by small and repeated bleedings. to correspond in quantity with the discharge from the skin, blood-letting in the plague, when indicated, should be copious. a profuse sweat, continued for twenty-four hours, cannot fail of wasting many pounds of the fluids of the body. this was the duration of the critical sweats in the famous plague which was known by the name of the english sweating sickness, and which made its appearance in the army of henry vii. in milford-haven in wales, and spread from thence through every part of the kingdom. the principles which lead to the prevention and cure of the yellow fever and the plague, apply with equal force to the mitigation of the measles, and to the prevention or mitigation of the scarlatina anginosa, the dysentery, and the inflammatory jail fever. i have remarked elsewhere[ ], that a previous vegetable diet lessened the violence and danger of the measles. dr. sims taught me, many years ago, to prevent or mitigate the scarlatina anginosa, by means of gentle purges, after children are infected by it[ ]. purges of salts have in many instances preserved whole families and neighbourhoods from the dysentery, where they have been exposed to its remote cause. during the late american war, an emetic seldom failed of preventing an attack of the hospital fever, when given in its forming state[ ]. i have had no experience of the effects of previous evacuations in abating the violence, or preventing the mortality of the malignant sore throat, but i can have no doubt of their efficacy, from the sameness of the state of the system in that disease, as in other malignant fevers. the debility induced in it is from depression, and the supposed symptoms of putrefaction are nothing but the disguised effects of a sudden and violent pressure of an inflammatory stimulus upon the arterial system. [ ] vol. ii. [ ] medical memoirs, vol. i. [ ] vol. i. with these observations i close the history of the rise, progress, symptoms, and treatment of the bilious remitting yellow fever, which appeared in philadelphia in the year . my principal aim has been to revive and apply to it the principles and practice of dr. sydenham, and, however coldly those principles and that practice may be received by some physicians of the present day, i am convinced that experience, in all ages and in all countries, will vouch for their truth and utility. a narrative of the _state of the body and mind_ of the author, during the prevalence of the fever. narratives of escapes from great dangers of shipwreck, war, captivity, and famine have always formed an interesting part of the history of the body and mind of man. but there are deliverances from equal dangers which have hitherto passed unnoticed; i mean from pestilential fevers. i shall briefly describe the state of my body and mind during my intercourse with the sick in the epidemic of . the account will throw additional light upon the disease, and probably illustrate some of the laws of the animal economy. it will, moreover, serve to furnish a lesson to all who may be placed in similar circumstances to commit their lives, without fear, to the protection of that being, who is able to save to the uttermost, not only from future, but from present evil. some time before the fever made its appearance, my wife and children went into the state of new-jersey, where they had long been in the habit of spending the summer months. my family, about the th of august, consisted of my mother, a sister, who was on a visit to me, a black servant man, and a mulatto boy. i had five pupils, viz. warner washington and edward fisher, of virginia, john alston, of south-carolina, and john redman coxe (grandson to dr. redman) and john stall, both of this city. they all crowded around me upon the sudden increase of business, and with one heart devoted themselves to my service, and to the cause of humanity. the credit which the new mode of treating the disease acquired, in all parts of the city, produced an immense influx of patients to me from all quarters. my pupils were constantly employed; at first in putting up purging powders, but, after a while, only in bleeding and visiting the sick. between the th and the th of september i visited and prescribed for between a hundred and a hundred and twenty patients a day. several of my pupils visited a fourth or fifth part of that number. for a while we refused no calls. in the short intervals of business, which i spent at my meals, my house was filled with patients, chiefly the poor, waiting for advice. for many weeks i seldom ate without prescribing for numbers as i sat at my table. to assist me at these hours, as well as in the night, mr. stall, mr. fisher, and mr. coxe accepted of rooms in my house, and became members of my family. their labours now had no remission. immediately after i adopted the antiphlogistic mode of treating the disease, i altered my manner of living. i left off drinking wine and malt liquors. the good effects of the disuse of these liquors helped to confirm me in the theory i had adopted of the disease. a troublesome head-ach, which i had occasionally felt, and which excited a constant apprehension that i was taking the fever, now suddenly left me. i likewise, at this time, left off eating solid animal food, and lived wholly, but sparingly, upon weak broth, potatoes, raisins, coffee, and bread and butter. from my constant exposure to the sources of the disease, my body became highly impregnated with miasmata. my eyes were yellow, and sometimes a yellowness was perceptible in my face. my pulse was preternaturally quick, and i had profuse sweats every night. these sweats were so offensive, as to oblige me to draw the bed-clothes close to my neck, to defend myself from their smell. they lost their f[oe]tor entirely, upon my leaving off the use of broth, and living entirely upon milk and vegetables. but my nights were rendered disagreeable, not only by these sweats, but by the want of my usual sleep, produced in part by the frequent knocking at my door, and in part by anxiety of mind, and the stimulus of the miasmata upon my system. i went to bed in conformity to habit only, for it ceased to afford me rest or refreshment. when it was evening i wished for morning; and when it was morning, the prospect of the labours of the day, at which i often shuddered, caused me to wish for the return of evening. the degrees of my anxiety may be easily conceived when i add, that i had at one time upwards of thirty heads of families under my care; among these were mr. josiah coates, the father of eight, and mr. benjamin scull and mr. john morell, both fathers of ten children. they were all in imminent danger; but it pleased god to make me the instrument of saving each of their lives. i rose at six o'clock, and generally found a number of persons waiting for advice in my shop or parlour. hitherto the success of my practice gave a tone to my mind, which imparted preternatural vigour to my body. it was meat and drink to me to fulfil the duties i owed to my fellow-citizens, in this time of great and universal distress. from a hope that i might escape the disease, by avoiding every thing that could excite it into action, i carefully avoided the heat of the sun, and the coldness of the evening air. i likewise avoided yielding to every thing that should raise or depress my passions. but, at such a time, the events which influence the state of the body and mind are no more under our command than the winds or weather. on the evening of the th of september, after eight o'clock, i visited the son of mrs. berriman, near the swedes's church, who had sent for me early in the morning. i found him very ill. he had been bled in the forenoon, by my advice, but his pulse indicated a second bleeding. it would have been difficult to procure a bleeder at that late hour. i therefore bled him myself. heated by this act, and debilitated by the labours of the day, i rode home in the evening air. during the ensuing night i was much indisposed. i rose, notwithstanding, at my usual hour. at eight o'clock i lost ten ounces of blood, and immediately afterwards got into my chair, and visited between forty and fifty patients before dinner. at the house of one of them i was forced to lie down a few minutes. in the course of this morning's labours my mind was suddenly thrown off its pivots, by the last look, and the pathetic cries, of a friend for help, who was dying under the care of a french physician. i came home about two o'clock, and was seized, immediately afterwards, with a chilly fit and a high fever. i took a dose of the mercurial medicine, and went to bed. in the evening i took a second purging powder, and lost ten ounces more of blood. the next morning i bathed my face, hands, and feet in cold water for some time. i drank plentifully, during the day and night, of weak hyson tea, and of water, in which currant jelly had been dissolved. at eight o'clock i was so well as to admit persons who came for advice into my room, and to receive reports from my pupils of the state of as many of my patients as they were able to visit; for, unfortunately, they were not able to visit them all (with their own) in due time; by which means several died. the next day i came down stairs, and prescribed in my parlour for not less than a hundred people. on the th of the same month, i resumed my labours, but in great weakness. it was with difficulty that i ascended a pair of stairs, by the help of a banister. a slow fever, attended with irregular chills, and a troublesome cough, hung constantly upon me. the fever discovered itself in the heat of my hands, which my patients often told me were warmer than their own. the breath and exhalations from the sick now began to affect me, in small and infected rooms, in the most sensible manner. on the morning of the th of october i suddenly sunk down, in a sick room, upon a bed, with a giddiness in my head. it continued for a few minutes, and was succeeded by a fever, which confined me to my house the remaining part of the day. every moment in the intervals of my visits to the sick was employed in prescribing, in my own house, for the poor, or in sending answers to messages from my patients; time was now too precious to be spent in counting the number of persons who called upon me for advice. from circumstances i believe it was frequently , and seldom less than in a day, for five or six weeks. the evening did not bring with it the least relaxation from my labours. i received letters every day from the country, and from distant parts of the union, containing inquiries into the mode of treating the disease, and after the health and lives of persons who had remained in the city. the business of every evening was to answer these letters, also to write to my family. these employments, by affording a fresh current to my thoughts, kept me from dwelling on the gloomy scenes of the day. after these duties were performed, i copied into my note book all the observations i had collected during the day, and which i had marked with a pencil in my pocket-book in sick rooms, or in my carriage. to these constant labours of body and mind were added distresses from a variety of causes. having found myself unable to comply with the numerous applications that were made to me, i was obliged to refuse many every day. my sister counted forty-seven in one forenoon before eleven o'clock. many of them left my door with tears, but they did not feel more distress than i did from refusing to follow them. sympathy, when it vents itself in acts of humanity, affords pleasure, and contributes to health; but the reflux of pity, like anger, gives pain, and disorders the body. in riding through the streets, i was often forced to resist the entreaties of parents imploring a visit to their children, or of children to their parents. i recollect, and even _yet_ with pain, that i tore myself at one time from five persons in moravian-alley, who attempted to stop me, by suddenly whipping my horse, and driving my chair as speedily as possible beyond the reach of their cries. the solicitude of the friends of the sick for help may further be conceived of, when i add, that the most extravagant compensations were sometimes offered for medical services, and, in one instance, for only a single visit. i had no merit in refusing these offers, and i have introduced an account of them only to inform such physicians as may hereafter be thrown into a similar situation, that i was favoured with an exemption from the fear of death, in proportion as i subdued every selfish feeling, and laboured exclusively for the benefit of others. in every instance in which i was forced to refuse these pathetic and earnest applications, my distress was heightened by the fear that the persons, whom i was unable to visit, would fall into improper hands, and perish by the use of bark, wine, and laudanum. but i had other afflictions besides the distress which arose from the abortive sympathy which i have described. on the th of september, my ingenious pupil, mr. washington, fell a victim to his humanity. he had taken lodgings in the country, where he sickened with the disease. having been almost uniformly successful in curing others, he made light of his fever, and concealed the knowledge of his danger from me, until the day before he died. on the th of september mr. stall sickened in my house. a delirium attended his fever from the first hour it affected him. he refused, and even resisted force when used to compel him to take medicine. he died on the d of september[ ]. scarcely had i recovered from the shock of the death of this amiable youth, when i was called to weep for a third pupil, mr. alston, who died in my neighbourhood the next day. he had worn himself down, before his sickness, by uncommon exertions in visiting, bleeding, and even sitting up with sick people. at this time mr. fisher was ill in my house. on the th of the month, at o'clock, mr. coxe, my only assistant, was seized with the fever, and went to his grandfather's. i followed him with a look, which i feared would be the last in my house. at two o'clock my sister, who had complained for several days, yielded to the disease, and retired to her bed. my mother followed her, much indisposed, early in the evening. my black servant man had been confined with the fever for several days, and had on that day, for the first time, quitted his bed. my little mulatto boy, of eleven years old, was the only person in my family who was able to afford me the least assistance. at eight o'clock in the evening i finished the business of the day. a solemn stillness at that time pervaded the streets. in vain did i strive to forget my melancholy situation by answering letters, and by putting up medicines, to be distributed next day among my patients. my faithful black man crept to my door, and at my request sat down by the fire, but he added, by his silence and dullness, to the gloom which suddenly overpowered every faculty of my mind. [ ] this accomplished youth had made great attainments in his profession. he possessed, with an uncommon genius for science, talents for music, painting, and poetry. the following copy of an unfinished letter to his father (who had left the city) was found among his papers after his death. it shows that the qualities of his heart were equal to those of his head. "_philadelphia, september , ._ "my dear father, "i take every moment i have to spare to write to you, which is not many; but you must excuse me, as i am doing good to my fellow-creatures. at this time, every moment i spend in idleness might probably cost a life. the sickness increases every day, but most of those who die, die for want of good attendance. we cure all we are called to on the first day, who are well attended, but so many doctors are sick, the poor creatures are glad to get a doctor's servant." on the first day of october, at two o'clock in the afternoon, my sister died. i got into my carriage within an hour after she expired, and spent the afternoon in visiting patients. according as a sense of duty, or as grief has predominated in my mind, i have approved, and disapproved of this act, ever since. she had borne a share in my labours. she had been my nurse in sickness, and my casuist in my choice of duties. my whole heart reposed itself in her friendship. upon being invited to a friend's house in the country, when the disease made its appearance in the city, she declined accepting the invitation, and gave as a reason for so doing, that i might probably require her services in case of my taking the disease, and that, if she were sure of dying, she would remain with me, provided that, by her death, she could save my life. from this time i declined in health and strength. all motion became painful to me. my appetite began to fail. my night sweats continued. my short and imperfect sleep was disturbed by distressing or frightful dreams. the scenes of them were derived altogether from sick rooms and grave-yards. i concealed my sorrows as much as possible from my patients; but when alone, the retrospect of what was past, and the prospect of what was before me, the termination of which was invisible, often filled my soul with the most poignant anguish. i wept frequently when retired from the public eye, but i did not weep over the lost members of my family alone. i beheld or heard every day of the deaths of citizens, useful in public, or amiable in private life. it was my misfortune to lose as patients the rev. mr. fleming and mr. graesel, both exhausted by their labours of piety and love among the poor, before they sickened with the disease. i saw the last struggles of departing life in mr. powel, and deplored, in his death, an upright and faithful servant of the public, as well as a sincere and affectionate friend. often did i mourn over persons who had, by the most unparalleled exertions, saved their friends and families from the grave, at the expence of their own lives. many of these martyrs to humanity were in humble stations. among the members of my profession, with whom i had been most intimately connected, i had daily cause of grief and distress. i saw the great and expanded mind of dr. pennington, shattered by delirium, just before he died. he was to me dear and beloved, like a younger brother. he was, moreover, a joab in the contest with the disease. philadelphia must long deplore the premature death of this excellent physician. had he lived a few years longer, he would have filled an immense space in the republic of medicine[ ]. it was my affliction to see my friend dr. john morris breathe his last, and to hear the first effusions of the most pathetic grief from his mother, as she bursted from the room in which he died. but i had distress from the sickness, as well as the deaths of my brethren in physic. my worthy friends, dr. griffitts, dr. say, and dr. mease, were suspended by a thread over the grave, nearly at the same time. heaven, in mercy to me, as well as in kindness to the public and their friends, preserved their lives. had they died, the measure of my sorrows would have been complete. [ ] before he finished his studies in medicine, he published a volume of ingenious and patriotic "chemical and economical essays, designed to illustrate the connection between the theory and practice of chemistry, and the application of that science to some of the arts and manufactures of the united states of america." i have said before, that i early left off drinking wine; but i used it in another way. i carried a little of it in a vial in my pocket, and when i felt myself fainty, after coming out of a sick room, or after a long ride, i kept about a table spoonful of it in my mouth for half a minute, or longer, without swallowing it. so weak and excitable was my system, that this small quantity of wine refreshed and invigorated me as much as half a pint would have done at any other time. the only difference was, that the vigour i derived from the wine in the former, was of shorter duration than when taken in the latter way. for the first two weeks after i visited patients in the yellow fever, i carried a rag wetted with vinegar, and smelled it occasionally in sick rooms: but after i saw and felt the signs of the universal presence of miasmata in my system, i laid aside this and all other precautions. i rested myself on the bed-side of my patients, and i drank milk or ate fruit in their sick rooms. besides being saturated with miasmata, i had another security against being infected in sick rooms, and that was, i went into scarcely a house which was more infected than my own. many of the poor people, who called upon me for advice, were bled by my pupils in my shop, and in the yard, which was between it and the street. from the want of a sufficient number of bowls to receive their blood, it was sometimes suffered to flow and putrify upon the ground. from this source, streams of miasmata were constantly poured into my house, and conveyed into my body by the air, during every hour of the day and night. the deaths of my pupils and sister have often been urged as objections to my mode of treating the fever. had the same degrees of labour and fatigue, which preceded the attack of the yellow fever in each of them, preceded an attack of a common pleurisy, i think it probable that some, or perhaps all of them, would have died with it. but when the influence of the concentrated miasmata which filled my house was added to that of constant fatigue upon their bodies, what remedies could be expected to save their lives? under the above circumstances, i consider the recovery of the other branches of my family from the fever (and none of them escaped it) with emotions, such as i should feel had we all been revived from apparent death by the exertions of a humane society. for upwards of six weeks i did not taste animal food, nor fermented liquors of any kind. the quantity of aliment which i took, inclusive of drinks, during this time, was frequently not more than one or two pounds in a day. yet upon this diet i possessed, for a while, uncommon activity of body. this influence of abstinence upon bodily exertion has been happily illustrated by dr. jackson, in his directions for preserving the health of soldiers in hot climates. he tells us, that he walked a hundred miles in three days, in jamaica, during which time he breakfasted on tea, supped on bread and salad, and drank nothing but lemonade or water. he adds further, that he walked from edinburgh to london in eleven days and a half, and that he travelled with the most ease when he only breakfasted and supped, and drank nothing but water. the fatigue of riding on horseback is prevented or lessened by abstinence from solid food. even the horse suffers least from a quick and long journey when he is fed sparingly with hay. these facts add weight to the arguments formerly adduced, in favour of a vegetable diet, in preventing or mitigating the action of the miasmata of malignant fevers upon the system. in both cases the abstraction of stimulus removes the body further from the reach of undue excitement and morbid depression. food supports life as much by its stimulus, as by affording nourishment to the body. where an artificial stimulus acts upon the system the natural stimulus of food ceases to be necessary. under the influence of this principle, i increased or diminished my food with the signs i discovered of the increase or diminution of the seeds of the disease in my body. until the th of september i drank weak coffee, but after that time i drank nothing but milk, or milk and water, in the intervals of my meals. i was so satisfied of the efficacy of this mode of living, that i believed life might have been preserved, and a fever prevented, for many days, with a much greater accumulation of miasmata in my system, by means of a total abstinence from food. poison is a relative term, and an excess in quantity, or a derangement in place, is necessary to its producing deleterious effects. the miasmata of the yellow fever produced sickness and death only from the excess of their quantity, or from their force being increased by the addition of those other stimuli which i have elsewhere called exciting causes. in addition to low diet, as a preventive of the disease, i obviated costiveness by taking occasionally a calomel pill, or by chewing rhubarb. i had read and taught, in my lectures, that fasting increases acuteness in the sense of touch. my low living had that effect, in a certain degree, upon my fingers. i had a quickness in my perception, of the state of the pulse in the yellow fever, that i had never experienced before in any other disease. my abstemious diet, assisted perhaps by the state of my feelings, had likewise an influence upon my mind. its operations were performed with an ease and a celerity, which rendered my numerous and complicated duties much less burdensome than they would probably have been under other circumstances of diet, or a less agitated state of my passions. my perception of the lapse of time was new to me. it was uncommonly slow. the ordinary business and pursuits of men appeared to me in a light that was equally new. the hearse and the grave mingled themselves with every view i took of human affairs. under these impressions i recollect being as much struck with observing a number of men, employed in digging the cellar of a large house, as i should have been, at any other time, in seeing preparations for building a palace upon a cake of ice. i recollect, further, being struck with surprise, about the st of october, in seeing a man busily employed in laying in wood for the approaching winter. i should as soon have thought of making provision for a dinner on the first day of the year . in the account of my distresses, i have passed over the slanders which were propagated against me by some of my brethren. i have mentioned them only for the sake of declaring, in this public manner, that i most heartily forgive them; and that if i discovered, at any time, an undue sense of the unkindness and cruelty of those slanders, it was not because i felt myself injured by them, but because i was sure they would irreparably injure my fellow-citizens, by lessening their confidence in the only remedies that i believed to be effectual in the reigning epidemic. one thing in my conduct towards these gentlemen may require justification; and that is, my refusing to consult with them. a mahometan and a jew might as well attempt to worship the supreme being in the same temple, and through the medium of the same ceremonies, as two physicians of opposite principles and practice attempt to confer about the life of the same patient. what is done in consequence of such negotiations (for they are not consultations) is the ineffectual result of neutralized opinions; and wherever they take place, should be considered as the effect of a criminal compact between physicians, to assess the property of their patients, by a shameful prostitution of the dictates of their consciences. besides, i early discovered that it was impossible for me, by any reasonings, to change the practice of some of my brethren. humanity was, therefore, on the side of leaving them to themselves; for the extremity of _wrong_ in medicine, as in morals and government, is often a less mischief than that mixture of _right_ and _wrong_ which serves, by palliating, to perpetuate evil. after the loss of my health i received letters from my friends in the country, pressing me, in the strongest terms, to leave the city. such a step had become impracticable. my aged mother was too infirm to be removed, and i could not leave her. i was, moreover, part of a little circle of physicians, who had associated themselves in support of the new remedies. this circle would have been broken by my quitting the city. the weather varied the disease, and, in the weakest state of my body, i expected to be able, from the reports of my pupils, to assist my associates in detecting its changes, and in accommodating our remedies to them. under these circumstances it pleased god to enable me to reply to one of the letters that urged my retreat from the city, that "i had resolved to stick to my principles, my practice, and my patients, to the last extremity." on the th of october, i visited a considerable number of patients, and, as the day was warm, i lessened the quantity of my clothing. towards evening i was seized with a pain in the back, which obliged me to go to bed at eight o'clock. about twelve i awoke with a chilly fit. a violent fever, with acute pains in different parts of my body, followed it. at one o'clock i called for mr. fisher, who slept in the next room. he came instantly, with my affectionate black man, to my relief. i saw my danger painted in mr. fisher's countenance. he bled me plentifully, and gave me a dose of the mercurial medicine. this was immediately rejected. he gave me a second dose, which likewise acted as an emetic, and discharged a large quantity of bile from my stomach. the remaining part of the night was passed under an apprehension that my labours were near an end. i could hardly expect to survive so violent an attack of the fever, broken down, as i was, by labour, sickness, and grief. my wife and seven children, whom the great and distressing events that were passing in our city had jostled out of my mind for six or seven weeks, now resumed their former place in my affections. my wife had stipulated, in consenting to remain in the country, to come to my assistance in case of my sickness; but i took measures which, without alarming her, proved effectual in preventing it. my house was enveloped in foul air, and the probability of my death made her life doubly necessary to my family. in the morning the medicine operated kindly, and my fever abated. in the afternoon it returned, attended with a great inclination to sleep. mr. fisher bled me again, which removed the sleepiness. the next day the fever left me, but in so weak a state, that i awoke two successive nights with a faintness which threatened the extinction of my life. it was removed each time by taking a little aliment. my convalescence was extremely slow. i returned, in a very gradual manner, to my former habits of diet. the smell of animal food, the first time i saw it at my table, forced me to leave the room. during the month of november, and all the winter months, i was harassed with a cough, and a fever somewhat of the hectic kind. the early warmth of the spring removed those complaints, and restored me, through divine goodness, to my usual state of health. i should be deficient in gratitude, were i to conclude this narrative without acknowledging my obligations to my surviving pupils, mr. fisher and mr. coxe, for the great support and sympathy i derived from them in my labours and distresses. i take great pleasure likewise in acknowledging my obligations to my former pupil, dr. woodhouse, who assisted me in the care of my patients, after i became so weak as not to be able to attend them with the punctuality their cases required. the disinterested exploits of these young gentlemen in the cause of humanity, and their success in the treatment of the disease, have endeared their names to hundreds, and, at the same time, afforded a prelude of their future eminence and usefulness in their profession. but wherewith shall i come before the great father and redeemer of men, and what shall i render unto him for the issue of my life from the grave? ----here all language fails:---- come then, expressive silence, muse his praise. an account of the bilious remitting and intermitting _yellow fever_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the year . i concluded the history of the symptoms of the bilious remitting yellow fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in the year , by taking notice, that the diseases which succeeded that fatal epidemic were all of a highly inflammatory nature. in that history i described the weather and diseases of the months of march and april, in the spring of . the weather, during the first three weeks of the month of may, was dry and temperate, with now and then a cold day and night. the strawberries were ripe on the th, and cherries on the d day of the month, in several of the city gardens. a shower of hail fell on the afternoon of the d, which broke the glass windows of many houses. a single stone of this hail was found to weigh two drachms. several people collected a quantity of it, and preserved it till the next day in their cellars, when they used it for the purpose of cooling their wine. the weather, after this hail storm, was rainy during the remaining part of the month. the diseases were still inflammatory. many persons were afflicted with a sore mouth in this month. the weather in june was pleasant and temperate. several intermittents, and two very acute pleurisies, occurred in my practice during this month. the intermittents were uncommonly obstinate, and would not yield to the largest doses of the bark. in a son of mr. samuel coates, of seven years old, the bark produced a sudden translation of this state of fever to the head, where it produced all the symptoms of the first stage of internal dropsy of the brain. this once formidable disease yielded, in this case, to three bleedings, and other depleting medicines. the blood drawn in every instance was sizy. from the inflammatory complexion of the diseases of the spring, and of the beginning of june, i expected the fevers of the summer and autumn would be of a violent and malignant nature. i was the more disposed to entertain this opinion from observing the stagnating filth of the gutters of our city; for the citizens of philadelphia, having an interest in rejecting the proofs of the generation of the epidemic of in their city, had neglected to introduce the regulations which were necessary to prevent the production of a similar fever from domestic putrefaction. they had, it is true, taken pains to remove the earth and offal matters which accumulated in the streets; but these, from their being always dry, were inoffensive as remote causes of disease. perhaps the removal of the earth did harm, by preventing the absorption of the miasmata which were constantly exhaled from the gutters. on the th of june, dr. physick called upon me, and informed me that he had a woman in the yellow fever under his care. the information did not surprise me, but it awakened suddenly in my mind the most distressing emotions. i advised him to inform the mayor of the city of the case, but by no means to make it more public, for i hoped that it might be a sporadic instance of the disease, and that it might not become general in the city. on the th of the month, my fears of the return of the yellow fever were revived by visiting mr. isaac morris, whom i found very ill with a violent puking, great pain in his head, a red eye, and a slow tense pulse. i ordered him to be bled, and purged him plentifully with jalap and calomel. his blood had that appearance which has been compared by authors to the washings of raw flesh in water. upon his recovery, he told me that he "suspected he had had the yellow fever, for that his feelings were exactly such as they had been in the fall of , at which time he had an attack of that disease." on the th of june, i was sent for, in the absence of dr. mease, to visit his sister in a fever. her mother, who had become intimately acquainted with the yellow fever, by nursing her son and mother in it, the year before, at once decided upon the name of her daughter's disease. her symptoms were violent, but they appeared in an intermitting form. each paroxysm of her fever was like a hurricane to her whole system. it excited apprehensions of immediate dissolution in the minds of all her friends. the loss of sixty ounces of blood, by five bleedings, copious doses of calomel and jalap, and a large blister to her neck, soon vanquished this malignant intermittent, without the aid of a single dose of bark. during the remaining part of the month, i was called to several cases of fever, which had symptoms of malignity of an alarming nature. the son of mr. andrew brown had a hæmorrhage from his nose in a fever, and a case of menorrhagia occurred in a woman, who was affected with but a slight degree of fever. in the course of this month, i met with several cases of swelled testicles, which had succeeded fevers so slight as to have required no medical aid. dr. desportes records similar instances of a swelling in the testicles, which appeared during the prevalence of the yellow fever in st. domingo, in the year [ ]. [ ] histoire des maladies de saint domingue, p. . in the month of july, i visited james lefferty and william adams, both of whom had, with the usual symptoms of yellow fever, a yellow colour on their skin. i likewise attended three women, in whom i discovered the disease under forms in which i had often seen it in the year . in two of them it appeared with symptoms of a violent colic, which yielded only to frequent bleedings. in the third, it appeared with symptoms of pleurisy, which was attended with a constant hæmorrhage from the uterus, although blood was drawn almost daily from her arm, for six or seven days. about the middle of this month many people complained of nausea, which in some cases produced a puking, without any symptoms of fever. during the month of august, i was called to peter denham, mrs. bruce, a son of jacob gribble, mr. cole, john madge, mrs. gardiner, miss purdon, mrs. gavin, and benjamin cochran, each of whom had all the usual symptoms of the yellow fever. i found mr. cochran sitting on the side of his bed, with a pot in his hand, into which he was discharging black matter from his stomach, on the th day of the disease. he died on the next day. mrs. gavin died on the th day of her disease, from a want of sufficient bleeding, to which she objected from the influence of her friends. besides the above persons, i visited mr. george eyre at kensington, mr. thomas fitzsimons, and thomas m'kean, jun. son of the chief justice of pennsylvania, all of whom had the disease, but in a moderate degree. during this time i took no steps to alarm my fellow-citizens with the unwelcome news of its being in town. but my mind was not easy in this situation, for i daily heard of persons who died of the disease, who might probably have been saved had they applied early for relief, or had a suspicion become general among all our physicians of the existence of the yellow fever in the city. the cholera infantum was common during this, and part of the preceding month. it was more obstinate and more fatal than in common years. on the th of this month, a letter from baltimore announced the existence of the yellow fever in that city. one of the patients whom i visited in this month, in the fever, mr. cole, brought the seeds of it in his body from that place. on the th of the month, two members of a committee, lately appointed by the government of the state, for taking care of the health of the city, called upon me to know whether the yellow fever was in town. i told them it was, and mentioned some of the cases that had come under my notice; but informed them, at the same time, that i had seen no case in which it had been contagious, and that, in every case where i had been called early, and where my prescriptions had been followed, the disease had yielded to medicine. on the th of the month i received an invitation to attend a meeting of the committee of health, at their office at walnut-street. they interrogated me respecting the intelligence i had given to two of their members on the th. i repeated it to them, and mentioned the names of all the persons i had attended in the yellow fever since the th of june. neither this, nor several subsequent communications to the committee of health produced the effect that was intended by them. dr. physick and dr. dewees supported me in my declaration, but their testimony did not protect me from the clamours of my fellow-citizens, nor from the calumnies of some of my brethren, who, while they daily attended or lost patients in the yellow fever, called it by the less unpopular names of . a common intermittent. . a bilious fever. . an inflammatory remitting fever. . a putrid fever. . a nervous fever. . a dropsy of the brain. . a lethargy. . pleurisy. . gout. . rheumatism. . colic. . dysentery. and . sore throat. it was said further, by several of the physicians of the city, not to be the yellow fever, because some who had died of it had not a sighing in the beginning, and a black vomiting in the close of the disease. even where the black vomiting and yellow skin occurred, they were said not to constitute a yellow fever, for that those symptoms occurred in other fevers. let not the reader complain of the citizens and physicians of philadelphia alone. a similar conduct has existed in all cities upon the appearance of great and mortal epidemics. nor is it any thing new for mortal diseases to receive mild and harmless names from physicians. the plague was called a spotted fever, for several months, by some of the physicians of london, in the year . notwithstanding the pains which were taken to discredit the report of the existence of the yellow fever in the city, it was finally believed by many citizens, and a number of families in consequence of it left the city. and in spite of the harmless names of intermitting and remitting fever, and the like, which were given to the disease, the bodies of persons who had died with it were conveyed to the grave, in several instances, upon a hearse, the way in which those who died of the yellow fever were buried the year before. from the influence of occasional showers of rain, in the months of september and october, the disease was frequently checked, so as to disappear altogether for two or three days in my circle of practice. it was observed, that while showers of rain lessened, moist or damp weather, without rain, increased it. the cold weather in october checked the fever, but it did not banish it from the city. it appeared in november, and in all the succeeding winter and spring months. the weather, during these months, being uncommonly moderate, will account for its not being destroyed at the time in which the disease usually disappeared in former years. the causes which predisposed to this fever were the same as in the year . persons of full habits, strangers, and negroes, were most subject to it. it may seem strange to those persons who have read that the negroes are seldom affected with this fever in the west-indies, that they were so much affected by it in philadelphia. there were two reasons for it. their manner of living was as plentiful as that of white people in the west-indies, and they generally resided in alleys and on the skirts of the city, where they were more exposed to noxious exhalation, than in its more open and central parts. the summer fruits, from being eaten before they were ripe, or in too large a quantity, became frequently exciting causes of this fever. it was awakened in one of my patients by a supper of peaches and milk. cucumbers, in several instances, gave vigour to the miasmata which had been previously received into the system. terror excited it in two of my patients. in one of them, a young woman, this terror was produced by hearing, while she sat at dinner, that a hearse had passed by her door with a person on it who had died of the yellow fever. vexation excited it in a foreign master of a vessel, in consequence of a young woman suddenly breaking an engagement to marry him. the disease terminated fatally in this instance. it was sometimes unfortunate for patients when the disease was excited by an article of diet, or by any other cause which acted suddenly upon the system; for it led both them, and in some instances their physicians, to confound those exciting causes with its remote cause, and to view the disease without the least relation to the prevailing epidemic. it was from this mistake that many persons were said to die of intemperance, of eating ice creams, and of trifling colds, who certainly died of the yellow fever. the rum, the ice creams, and the changes in the air, in all these cases, acted like sparks of fire which set in motion the quiescent particles of tinder or gunpowder. i shall now proceed to describe the symptoms which this fever assumed during the periods which have been mentioned. this detail will be interesting to physicians who wish to see how little nature regards the nosological arrangement of authors, in the formation of the symptoms of diseases, and how much the seasons influence epidemics. a physician, who had practised medicine near sixty years in the city of philadelphia, declared that he had never seen the dysentery assume the same symptoms in any two _successive_ years. the same may be said probably of nearly all epidemic diseases. in the arrangement of the symptoms of this fever, i shall follow the order i adopted in my account of the yellow fever of , and describe them as they appeared in the sanguiferous system, the liver, lungs, and brain, the alimentary canal, the secretions and excretions, the nervous system, the senses and appetites, upon the skin, and in the blood. two premonitory symptoms struck me this year, which i did not observe in . one of them was a frequent discharge of pale urine for a day or two before the commencement of the fever; the other was sleep unusually sound, the night before the attack of the fever. the former symptom was a precursor of the plague of bassora, in the year . i. i observed but few symptoms in the sanguiferous system different from what i have mentioned in the fever of the preceding year. the slow and intermitting pulse occurred in many, and a pulse nearly imperceptible, in three instances. it was seldom very frequent. in john madge, an english farmer, who had just arrived in our city, it beat only strokes in a minute, for several days, while he was so ill as to require three bleedings a day, and at no time of his fever did his pulse exceed strokes in a minute. in miss sally eyre, the pulse at one time was at , and at another time it was at ; but this frequency of pulse was very rare. in a majority of the cases which came under my notice, where the danger was great, it seldom exceeded strokes in a minute. i have been thus particular in describing the frequency of the pulse, because custom has created an expectation of that part of the history of fevers; but my attention was directed chiefly to the different degrees of _force_ in the pulse, as manifested by its tension, fulness, intermissions, and inequality of action. the _hobbling_ pulse was common. in john geraud, i perceived a quick stroke to succeed every two strokes of an ordinary healthy pulse. the intermitting, chorded, and depressed pulse occurred in many cases. i called it the year before a _sulky_ pulse. one of my pupils, mr. alexander, called it more properly a _locked_ pulse. i think i observed this state of the pulse to occur chiefly in persons in whom the fever came on without a chilly fit. hæmorrhages occurred in all the grades of this fever, but less frequently in my practice this year than in the year before. it occurred, after a ninth bleeding, in miss sally eyre, from the nose and bowels. it occurred from the nose, after a sixth bleeding, in mrs. gardiner, who was at that time in the sixth month of her pregnancy. this symptom, which was accompanied by a tense and quick pulse, induced me to repeat the bleeding a seventh time. the blood was very sizy. i mention this fact to establish the opinion that hæmorrhages depend upon too much action in the blood-vessels, and that they are not occasioned by a dissolved state of the blood. there was a disposition at this time to hæmorrhage in persons who were in apparent good health. a private, in a company of volunteers commanded by major m'pherson, informed me that three of his messmates were affected by a bleeding at the nose, for several days after they left the city, on their way to quell the insurrection in the western counties of pennsylvania. ii. the liver did not exhibit the usual marks of inflammation. perhaps my mode of treating the fever prevented those symptoms of hepatic affection which belong to the yellow fever in tropical climates. the lungs were frequently affected; and hence the disease was in many instances called a pleurisy or a catarrh. this inflammation of the lungs occurred in a more especial manner in the winter season. it was distinguished from the pleurisies of common years by a red eye, by a vomiting of green or yellow bile, by black stools, and by requiring very copious blood-letting to cure it. the head was affected, in this fever, not only with coma and delirium, but with mania. this symptom was so common as to give rise to an opinion that madness was epidemic in our city. i saw no case of it which was not connected with other symptoms of the bilious remitting fever. the rev. mr. keating, one of the ministers of the roman church, informed me that he had been called to visit seven deranged persons in his congregation, in the course of one week, in the month of march. two of them had made attempts upon their lives. this mania was probably, in each of the above cases, a symptom only of general fever. the dilatation of the pupil was universal in this fever. sore eyes were common during the prevalence of this fever. in mrs. leaming, this affection of the eyes was attended with a fever of a tertian type. iii. the alimentary canal suffered as usual in this fever. a vomiting was common upon the first attack of the disease. i observed this symptom to be less common after the cold and rainy weather which took place about the first of october. i have in another place mentioned the influence of the weather upon the symptoms of this disease. in addition to the facts which have been formerly recorded, i shall add one more from dr. desportes. he tells us, that in dry weather the disease affects the head, and that the bowels in this case are more obstinately costive than in moist weather. this influence of the atmosphere on the yellow fever will not surprise those physicians who recollect the remarkable passage in hippocrates, in which he says, that in the violent heats of summer, fevers appeared, but without any sweat; but if a shower, though ever so slight, appeared, a sweat broke out in the beginning[ ]. i observed further, that a vomiting rarely attended those cases in which there was an absence of a chilly fit in the beginning of the fever. the same observation is made by dr. desportes[ ]. [ ] epidemics, book xi. sect. i. [ ] les maladies de st. domingue, vol. i. p. . the matter discharged by vomiting was green or yellow bile in most cases. mrs. jones, the wife of captain lloyd jones, and one other person, discharged black bile within one hour after they were attacked by the fever. i have taken notice, in the history of the yellow fever of , that a discharge of bile in the beginning of this fever was always a favourable symptom. dr. davidson of st. vincents, in a letter to me, dated the d july, , makes the same remark. it shows that the biliary ducts are open, and that the bile is not in that viscid and impacted state which is described in the dissections of dr. mitchel[ ]. a distressing pain in the stomach, called by dr. cullen gastrodynia, attended in two instances. a burning pain in the stomach, and a soreness to the touch of its whole external region, occurred in three or four cases. two of them were in march, . in mrs. vogles, who had the fever in september, , the sensibility of the pit of the stomach was so exquisite, that she could not bear the weight of a sheet upon it. [ ] account of the yellow fever of . pains in the bowels were very common. they formed the true bilious colic, so often mentioned by west-india writers. in john madge these pains produced a hardness and contraction of the whole external region of the bowels. they were periodical in miss nancy eyre, and in mrs. gardiner, and in both cases were attended with diarrh[oe]a. costiveness without pain was common, and, in some cases, so extremely obstinate as to resist, for several days, the successive and alternated use of all the usual purges of the shops. flatulency was less common in this fever than in the year . the disease appeared with symptoms of dysentery in several cases. iv. the following is an account of the state of the _secretions_ and _excretions_ in this fever. a puking of bile was more common this year than in the year . it was generally of a green or yellow colour. i have remarked before, that two of my patients discharged black bile within an hour after they were affected by the fever, and many discharged that kind of matter which has been compared to coffee grounds, towards the close of the disease. the fæces were black in most cases where the symptoms of the highest grade of the fever attended. in one very malignant case the most drastic purges brought away, by fifty evacuations, nothing but natural stools. the purges were continued, and finally black fæces were discharged, which produced immediate relief[ ]. in one person the fæces were of a light colour. in this patient the yellowness in the face was of an orange colour, and continued so for several weeks after his recovery. [ ] in the account of the effects of morbid action and inflammation, in the outlines of the theory of fever, the author neglected to mention the change of certain fluids from their natural to a dark colour. it appears in the secretions of the stomach and bowels, in the bile, in the urine, in carbuncles, and occasionally in the matter which is produced by blisters. all these changes occur in the yellow fever, and, in common with the other effects of fever that have been enumerated, are the result of peculiar actions in the vessels, derived from _one_ cause, viz. morbid excitement. the urine was, in most cases, high coloured. it was scanty in quantity in peter brown, and totally suppressed in john madge for two days. i ascribed this defect of natural action in the kidneys to an _engorgement_ in their blood-vessels, similar to that which takes place in the lungs and brain in this fever. i had for some time entertained this idea of a morbid affection of the kidneys, but i have lately been confirmed in it by the account which dr. chisholm gives of the state of one of the kidneys, in a man whom he lost with the beullam fever, at grenada. "the right kidney (says the doctor) was mortified, although, during his illness, no symptom of inflammation of that organ was perceived[ ]." it would seem as if the want of action in the kidneys, and a defect in their functions were not necessarily attended with pain. i recollect to have met with several cases in , in which there was a total absence of pain in a suppression of urine of several days continuance. the same observation is made by dr. chisholm, in his account of the beullam fever of grenada[ ]. from this fact it seems probable, that pain is not the effect of any determinate state of animal fibres, but requires the concurrence of morbid or preternatural excitement to produce it. i met with but one case of strangury in this fever. it terminated favourably in a few days. i have never seen death, in a single instance, in a fever from any cause, where a strangury attended, and i have seldom seen a fatal issue to a fever, where this symptom was accidentally produced by a blister. from this fact there would seem to be a connection between a morbid excitement in the neck of the bladder, and the safety of more vital parts of the body. the idea of this connection was first suggested to me, above thirty years ago, by the late dr. james leiper, of maryland, who informed me that he had sometimes cured the most dangerous cases of pleurisy, after the usual remedies had failed, by exciting a strangury, by means of the tincture of spanish flies mixed with camphorated spirit of wine. [ ] essay on the malignant pestilential fever introduced into the west-indies from beullam, p. . [ ] page . the tongue was always moist in the beginning of the fever, but it was generally of a darker colour than last year. when the disease was left to itself, or treated with bark and wine, the tongue became of a fiery red colour, or dry and furrowed, as in the typhus fever. _sweats_ were more common in the remissions of this fever, than they were in the year , but they seldom terminated the disease. during the course of the sweats, i observed a deadly coldness over the whole body to continue in several instances, but without any danger or inconvenience to the patient. in two of the worst cases i attended, there were remissions, but no sweats until the day on which the fever terminated. in several of my patients, the fever wore away without the least moisture on the skin. the _milk_, in one case, was of a greenish colour, such as sometimes appears in the serum of the blood. in another female patient who gave suck, there was no diminution in the quantity of her milk during the whole time of her fever, nor did her infant suffer the least injury from sucking her breasts. i observed tears to flow from the eye of a young woman in this fever, at a time when her mind seemed free from distress of every kind. v. i proceed next to mention the symptoms of this fever in the nervous system. delirium was less common than last year. i was much struck in observing john madge, who had retained his reason while he was so ill as to require three bleedings a day, to become delirious as soon as he began to recover, at which time his pulse rose from between and , to strokes in a minute. i saw one case of extreme danger, in which a hysterical laughing and weeping alternately attended. i have before mentioned the frequency of mania as a symptom of this disease. an obstinate wakefulness attended the convalescence from this fever in peter brown, john madge, and mr. cole. fainting was more common in this fever than in the fever of . it ushered in the disease in one of my patients, and it occurred in several instances after bleeding, where the quantity of blood drawn was very moderate. several people complained of giddiness in the first attack of the fever, before they were confined to their beds. sighing was less common, but a hiccup was more so, than in the year before. john madge had an immobility in his limbs bordering upon palsy. a weakness in the wrists in one case succeeded a violent attack of the fever. peter brown complained of a most acute pain in the muscles of one of his legs. it afterwards became so much inflamed as to require external applications to prevent the inflammation terminating in an abscess. mrs. mitchell complained of severe cramps in her legs. the sensations of pain in this fever were often expressed in extravagant language. the pain in the head, in a particular manner, was compared to repeated strokes of a hammer upon the brain, and in two cases, in which this pain was accompanied by great heat, it was compared to the boiling of a pot. the more the pains were confined to the bones and back, the less danger was to be apprehended from the disease. i saw no case of death from the yellow fever in , where the patient complained much of pain in the back. it is easy to conceive how this external determination of morbid action should preserve more vital parts. the bilious fever of was a harmless disease, only because it spent its whole force chiefly upon the limbs. this was so generally the case, that it acquired, from the pains in the bones which accompanied it, the name of the "break bone fever." hippocrates has remarked that pains which descend, in a fever, are more favourable than those which ascend[ ]. this is probably true, but i did not observe any such peculiarity in the translation of pain in this fever. the following fact from dr. grainger will add weight to the above observations. he observed the pains in a malignant fever which were diffused through the whole head, though excruciating, were much less dangerous than when they were confined to the temples or forehead[ ]. [ ] epidemics, book ii. sect. . [ ] historia febris anomalæ batavæ annorum , , , cap. i. i saw two cases in which a locked jaw attended. in one of them it occurred only during one paroxysm of the fever. in both it yielded in half an hour to blood-letting. i met with one case in which there was universal tetanus. i should have suspected this to have been the primary disease, had not two persons been infected in the same house with the yellow fever. the countenance sometimes put on a ghastly appearance in the height of a paroxysm of the fever. the face of a lady, admired when in health for uncommon beauty, was so much distorted by the commotions of her whole system, in a fit of the fever, as to be viewed with horror by all her friends. vi. the senses and appetites were affected in this fever in the following manner. a total blindness occurred in two persons during the exacerbation of the fever, and ceased during its remissions. a great intolerance of light occurred in several cases. it was most observable in john madge during his convalescence. a soreness in the sense of touch was so exquisite in mrs. kapper, about the crisis of her fever, that the pressure of a piece of fine muslin upon her skin gave her pain. peter brown, with great heat in his skin, and a quick pulse, had no thirst, but a most intense degree of thirst was very common in this fever. it produced the same extravagance of expression that i formerly said was produced by pain. one of my patients, mr. cole, said he "could drink up the ocean." i did not observe thirst to be connected with any peculiar state of the pulse. george eyre and henry clymer had an unusual degree of appetite, just before the usual time of the return of a paroxysm of fever. a young man complained to me of being afflicted with nocturnal emissions of seed during his convalescence. this symptom is not a new one in malignant fevers. hippocrates takes notice of it[ ]. i met with one instance of it among the sporadic cases of yellow fever which occurred in . it sometimes occurs, according to lomius, in the commotions of the whole system which take place in epilepsy. [ ] epidemics, book iv. vii. the disease made an impression upon the lymphatic system. four of my patients had glandular swellings: two of them were in the groin; a third was in the parotid; and the fourth was in the maxillary glands. two of these swellings suppurated. viii. the yellowness of the skin, which sometimes attends this fever, was more universal, but more faint than in the year . it was, in many cases, composed of such a mixture of colours, as to resemble polished mahogany. but, in a few cases, the yellowness was of a deep orange colour. the former went off with the fever, but the latter often continued for several weeks after the patients recovered. in some instances a red colour predominated to such a degree in the face, as to produce an appearance of inflammation. in mrs. vogles a yellowness appeared in her eyes during the paroxysm of her fever, and went off in its remissions. in james lefferty the yellowness affected every part of his body, except his hands, which were as pale as in a common fever. peter brown tinged his sheets of a yellow colour, by night sweats, many weeks after his recovery. there was an exudation from the soles of the feet of richard wells's maid, which tinged a towel of a yellow colour. in my account of the yellow fever of , i ascribed the yellow colour of the skin wholly to a mixture of bile with the blood. i believe that this is the cause of it, in those cases where the colour is deep, and endures for several weeks beyond the crisis of the fever; but where it is transitory, and, above all, where it is local, or appears only for a few hours, during the paroxysm of the fever, it appears probable that it is connected with the mode of aggregation of the blood, and that it is produced wholly by some peculiar action in the blood-vessels. a similar colour takes place from the bite of certain animals, and from contusions of the skin, in neither of which cases has a suspicion been entertained of an absorption or mixture of bile with the blood. a troublesome itching, with an eruption of red blotches on the skin, attended on the first day of the attack of the fever, in mrs. gardiner. a roughness of the skin, and a disposition in it to peel off, appeared about the crisis of the fever, in miss sally eyre. that species of eruption, which i have elsewhere compared to moscheto bites, appeared in mrs. sellers. john ray, a day labourer, to whom i was called in the last stage of the fever, had petechiæ on his breast the day before he died. that burning heat on the skin, called by the ancients "calor mordens," and from which this fever, in some countries, has derived the name of _causus_, was more common this year than last. it was sometimes local, and sometimes general. i perceived it in an exquisite degree in the cheeks only of miss sally eyre, and over the whole body of john ray. it had no connection with the rapidity or force of the circulation of the blood in the latter instance, for it was most intense at a time when he had no pulse. it is remarkable that the heat of the skin has no connection with the state of the pulse. this fact did not escape dr. chisholm. he says he found the skin to be warm while the pulse was at , and that it was sometimes disagreeably cold when the pulse was as quick as in ordinary fever[ ]. [ ] page . ix. i have in another place rejected putrefaction from the blood as the cause or effect of this fever. i shall mention the changes which were induced in its appearances when i come to treat of the method of cure. having described the symptoms of this fever as they appeared in different parts of the body, i shall now add a few observations upon its type or general character. i shall begin this part of the history of the fever by remarking, that we had but one reigning disease in town during the autumn and winter; that this was a bilious remitting, or intermitting, and sometimes a yellow fever; and that all the fevers from other remote causes than putrid exhalation, partook more or less of the symptoms of the prevailing epidemic. as well might we distinguish the rain which falls in gentle showers in great-britain, from that which is poured in torrents from the clouds in the west-indies, by different names and qualities, as impose specific names and characters upon the different states of bilious fever. the forms in which this fever appeared were as follow. . a tertian fever. several persons died of the third fit of tertians, who were so well as to go abroad on the intermediate day of the fever. it is no new thing for malignant fevers to put on the form of a tertian. hippocrates long ago remarked, that intermittents sometimes degenerate into malignant acute diseases; and hence he advises physicians to be on their guard upon the th, th, th, and even on the th day of such fevers[ ]. [ ] de morb. popular. lib. vii. . it appeared most frequently in the form of a remittent. the exacerbations occurred most commonly in the evening. in some there were exacerbations in the morning as well as in the evening. but i met with several patients who appeared to be better and worse half a dozen times in a day. in each of these cases, there were evident remissions and exacerbations of the fever. it assumed, in several instances, the symptoms of a colic and cholera morbus. in one case the fever, after the colic was cured, ended in a regular intermittent. in another, the colic was accompanied by a hæmorrhage from the nose. i distinguished this bilious colic from that which is excited by lighter causes, by its always coming on with more or less of a chilliness[ ]. the symptoms of colic and cholera morbus occurred most frequently in june and july. [ ] see sydenham, vol. i. p. . . it appeared in the form of a dysentery in a boy of william corfield, and in a man whom my pupil, mr. alexander, visited in the neighbourhood of harrowgate. . it appeared, in one case, in the form of an apoplexy. . it disguised itself in the form of madness. . during the month of november, and in all the winter months, it was accompanied with pains in the sides and breast, constituting what nosologists call the "pleuritis biliosa." . the puerperile fever was accompanied, during the summer and autumn, with more violent symptoms than usual. dr. physick informed me, that two women, to whom he was called soon after their delivery, died of uterine hæmorrhages; and that he had with difficulty recovered two other lying-in women, who were afflicted with that symptom of a malignant diathesis in the blood-vessels. . even dropsies partook more or less of the inflammatory and bilious character of this fever. . it blended itself with the scarlatina. the blood, in this disease, and in the puerperile fever, had exactly the same appearance that it had in the yellow fever. a yellowness in the eyes accompanied the latter disease in one case that came under my notice. a slight shivering ushered in the fever in several instances. but the worst cases i saw came on without a chilly fit, or the least sense of coldness in any part of the body. such was the predominance of the intermitting, remitting, and bilious fever, that the measles, the small-pox, and even the gout itself, partook more or less of its character. there were several instances in which the measles, and one in which the gout appeared with quotidian exacerbations; and two in which madness appeared regularly in the form of a tertian. i mentioned formerly that this fever sometimes went off with a sweat, when it appeared in a tertian form. this was always the case with the second grade of the fever, but never with the first degree of it, before the third or fourth paroxysm; nor did a sweat occur on the fifth or seventh day, except after the use of depleting remedies. this peculiarity in the fever of this year was so fixed, that it gave occasion for my comparing it, in my intercourse with my patients, to a lion on the first seven days, and to a lamb during the remaining part of its duration. the fever differed from the fever of the preceding year in an important particular. i saw or heard of no case which terminated in death on the first or third day. in every case, the fever came on fraught with paroxysms. the moderate degrees of it were of so chronic a nature as to continue for several weeks, when left to themselves. i wish this peculiarity in the epidemic which i am now describing to be remembered; for it will serve hereafter to explain the reason why a treatment apparently different should be alike successful, in different seasons and in different countries. the crisis of the fever occurred on uneven days more frequently than in the fever of the year . i remarked formerly[ ] that remissions were more common in the yellow fever than in the common bilious fever. the same observation applies to critical days. they were observable in almost every case in which the disease was not strangled in its birth. dr. chisholm describes the same peculiarity in the beullam fever. "i have not met with any disease (says the doctor) in which the periods were more accurately ascertained[ ]." [ ] account of the yellow fever of . [ ] page . in addition to the instances formerly enumerated[ ], of the predominance of powerful epidemics over other diseases, i shall add two more, which i have lately met with in the course of my reading. [ ] account of the yellow fever in . dr. chisholm, in describing the pestilential fever introduced into the west-indies from beullam, has the following remarks. "most other diseases degenerated into, or partook very much of this. dysenteries suddenly stopped, and were immediately succeeded by the symptoms of the pestilential fever. catarrhal complaints, simple at first, soon changed their nature; convalescents from other diseases were very subject to this, but it generally proved mild. those labouring at the same time under chronic complaints, particularly rheumatism and hepatitis, were very subject to it. the puerperile fever became malignant, and of course fatal; and even pregnant negro women, who otherwise might have had it in the usual mild degree peculiar to that description of people, were reduced to a very dangerous situation by it. in short, every disease in which the patient was liable to infection, sooner or later assumed the appearance, and acquired the danger of the pestilential fever[ ]." [ ] page , . dr. desportes ascribes the same universal empire to the yellow fever which prevailed in st. domingo, in the summer of . "the fever of siam (says the doctor) conveyed an infinite number of men to the grave, in a short time; but i saw but one woman who was attacked by it." "the violence of this disease was such, that it subjected all other diseases, and reigned alone. this is the character of all contagious and pestilential diseases. sydenham, and before him diemerbroek, have remarked this of the plague[ ]." [ ] page , . see also p. , , . vol. i. in baltimore, the small-pox in the natural way was attended with unusual malignity and mortality, occasioned by its being combined with the reigning yellow fever. it has been urged as an objection to the influence of powerful epidemics chasing away, or blending with fevers of inferior force, that the measles sometimes supplant the small-pox, and mild intermittents take the place of fevers of great malignity. this fact did not escape the microscopic eye of dr. sydenham, nor is it difficult to explain the cause of it. it is well known that epidemics, like simple fevers, are most violent at their first appearance, and that they gradually lose their force as they disappear; now it is in their evanescent and feeble state, that they are jostled out of their order of danger or force, and yield to the youthful strength of epidemics, more feeble under equal circumstances of age than themselves. it would seem, from this fact, that an inflammatory constitution of the air, and powerful epidemics, both in their aggregate and individual forms, possessed a common character. they all invade with the fury of a savage, and retire with the gentleness of a civilized foe. it is agreeable to discover from these facts and observations, that epidemic diseases, however irregular they appear at first sight, are all subject to certain laws, and partake of the order and harmony of the universe. the action of the miasmata upon the body, when, from the absence of an exciting cause, they did not produce fever, was the same as i have elsewhere described. the sensations which i experienced, in entering a small room where a person was confined with this fever, were so exactly the same with those i felt the year before, that i think i could have distinguished the presence of the disease without the assistance of my eyes, or without asking a single question. after sitting a few minutes in a sick room, i became languid and fainty. weakness and chilliness followed every visit i paid to a gentleman at mr. oellers's hotel, which continued for half an hour. a burning in my stomach, great heaviness, and a slight inflammation in my eyes, with a constant discharge of a watery humour from them for two days, succeeded the first visit i paid to mrs. sellers. these symptoms came on in less than ten minutes after i left her room. they were probably excited thus early, and in the degree which i have mentioned, by my having received her breath in my face by inspecting her tonsils, which were ulcerated on the first attack of the fever. i formerly supposed these changes in my body were proofs of the contagious nature of the yellow fever, but i shall hereafter explain them upon other principles. i recollect having more than once perceived a smell which had been familiar to me during the prevalence of the yellow fever in . it resembled the smell of liver of sulphur. i suspected for a while that it arose from the exhalations of the gutters of the city. but an accident taught me that it was produced by the perspiration of my body. upon rubbing my hands, this odour was increased so as to become not only more perceptible to myself, but in the most sensible degree to my pupil, mr. otto. from this fact, i was convinced that i was strongly impregnated with miasmata, and i was led by it to live chiefly upon vegetables, to drink no wine, and to avoid, with double care, all the usual exciting causes of fever. there was another mark by which i distinguished the presence of the seeds of this fever in my system, and that was, wine imparted a burning sensation to my tongue and throat, such as is felt after it has been taken in excess, or in the beginning of a fever. several persons, who were exposed to the miasmata, informed me that wine, even in the smallest quantity, affected them exactly in the same manner. i attended four persons in this fever who had had it the year before. it remains now that i mention the origin of this fever. this was very evident. it was produced by the exhalations from the gutters, and the stagnating ponds of water in the neighbourhood of the city. where there was most exhalation, there were most persons affected by the fever. hence the poor people, who generally live in the neighbourhood of the ponds in the suburbs, were the greatest sufferers by it. four persons had the fever in spruce, between fourth and fifth-streets, in which part of the city the smell from the gutters was extremely offensive every evening. in water-street, between market and walnut-streets, many persons had the fever: now the filth of that confined part of the city is well known to every citizen. i have before remarked, that one reason why most of our physicians refused to admit the presence of the yellow fever in the city, was because they could not fix upon a vestige of its being imported. on the th of august, the brig commerce arrived in the river, from st. mark, commanded by captain shirtliff. after lying five days at the fort, she came up to the city. a boy, who had been shut out from his lodgings, went, in a state of intoxication, and slept on her deck, exposed to the night air, in consequence of which the fever was excited in him. this event gave occasion, for a few days, to a report that the disease was imported, and several of the physicians, who had neglected to attend to all the circumstances that have been stated, admitted the yellow fever to be in town. an investigation of this supposed origin of the disease soon discovered that it had no foundation. at the time of the arrival of this ship, i had attended nearly thirty persons with the fever, and upwards of a hundred had had it, under the care of other physicians. the generation of the yellow fever in our city was rendered more certain by the prevalence of bilious diseases in every part of the united states, and, in several of them, in the grade of yellow fever. it was common in charleston, in south-carolina, where it carried off many people, and where no suspicion was entertained of its being of west-india origin. it prevailed with great mortality at that part of the city of baltimore, which is known by the name of fell's point, where, dr. drysdale assures me, it was evidently generated. a few sporadic cases of it occurred in new-york, which were produced by the morbid exhalation from the docks of that city. sporadic cases of it occurred likewise in most of the states, in which the proofs of its being generated were obvious to common observation; and where the symptoms of depressed pulse, yellowness of the skin, and black discharges from the bowels and stomach (symptoms which mark the highest grade of bilious remitting fever) did not occur, the fevers in all their form of tertian, quotidian, colic, and dysentery, were uncommonly obstinate or fatal in every state in the union. in new-haven only, where the yellow fever was epidemic, it was said to have been imported from martinique, but this opinion was proved to be erroneous by unanswerable documents, published afterwards in the medical repository, by dr. elisha smith, of new-york. the year furnished several melancholy proofs of the american origin of the yellow fever. all the physicians and citizens of new-york and norfolk agree in its having been generated in their respective cities that year. it prevailed with great mortality at the same time in the neighbourhood of the lakes, and on the waters of the genesee river, in the state of new-york. from its situation it obtained the name of the lake and genesee fever. it was so general, in some parts of that new country, as to affect horses. thus have i endeavoured to fix the predisposing and remote causes of the yellow fever in our country. the remote cause is sometimes so powerful as to become an exciting cause of the disease, but in general both the predisposing and remote causes are harmless in the system, until they are roused into action by some exciting cause. i shall conclude this account of the symptoms and origin of the yellow fever by relating two facts, which serious and contemplating minds will apply to a more interesting subject. . notwithstanding the numerous proofs of the prevalence of the yellow fever in philadelphia in the year , which have been mentioned, there are many thousands of our citizens, and a majority of our physicians, who do not believe that a case of it existed at that time in the city; nor is a single record of it to be met with in any of the newspapers, or other public documents of that year. let us learn from this fact, that the denial of events, or a general silence upon the subject of them, is no refutation of their truth, where they oppose the pride or interests of the learned, or the great. . notwithstanding the general denial of the existence of the yellow fever in philadelphia, and the silence observed by our newspapers relative to it in , there was scarcely a citizen or physician who, three years afterwards, did not admit of its having prevailed in that year. we learn from this fact another important truth, that departed vice and error have no friends nor advocates. of the method of cure. the remedies employed for the cure of this fever were the same that i employed the year before. i shall only relate such effects of them as tend more fully to establish the practice adopted in the year , and such as escaped my notice in my former remarks upon those remedies. my method of cure consisted, i. in the abstraction of the stimulus of blood and heat from the whole body, and of bile and other acrid humours from the bowels, by means of the following remedies: . bleeding. . purging. . cool air and cold drinks. . cold water applied to the external parts of the body, and to the bowels by means of glysters. ii. in creating a diversion of congestion, inflammation, and serous effusion, from the brain and viscera to the mouth, by means of a salivation, and to the external parts of the body, by means of blisters. iii. in restoring the strength of the system, by tonic remedies. i proceed to make a few remarks upon the remedies set down under each of the above heads. i. i have taken notice that this fever differed from the fever of , in coming forward in july and august with a number of paroxysms, which refused to yield to purging alone. i therefore began the cure of every case i was called to by _bleeding_. i shall mention the effects of this remedy, and the circumstances, manner, and degrees in which i used it occasionally, in this fever, in my defence of blood-letting. under the present head i shall only furnish the reader with a table of the quantity of blood drawn from a number of my patients in the course of the disease. from several of them the quantity set down was taken in three, four, and five days. i shall afterwards describe the appearances of the blood. +-----------+------------------+-----------+------------+ | month. | patients. | quantity. | number of | | | | ounces. | times bled.| +-----------+------------------+-----------+------------+ | august. | peter denham | | | | | mrs. bruce | | | | | andrew gribble, | | | | | aged years. | | | | | john madge | | | | | peter brown | | | | september.| mrs. gardiner | | | | | miss sally eyre | | | | | mrs. gass | | | | | richard wells's | | | | | maid | | | | | mr. norval | | | | | mr. harrison | | | | | henry clymer | | | | october. | mrs. mitchell | | | | | mrs. lenox | | | | | mrs. kapper | | | | | rev. dr. magaw's | | | | | maid | | | | | miss hood | | | | | mrs. vogles | | | | | guy stone | | | | january. | benj. hancock | | | | | mr. benton | | | | | mrs. fries | | | | | mrs. garrigues | | | +-----------+------------------+-----------+------------+ three of the women, whose names i have mentioned, were in the advanced stage of pregnancy, viz. mrs. gardiner, mrs. gass, and mrs. garrigues. they have all since borne healthy children. i have omitted the names of above one hundred persons who had the fever, from whom i drew thirty or forty ounces of blood, by two or three bleedings. i did not cure a single person without at least one bleeding. it is only by contemplating the extent in which it is necessary to use this remedy, in order to overcome a yellow fever, that we can acquire just ideas of its force. hitherto this force has been estimated by no other measure than the grave, and this, we know, puts the strength of all diseases upon a level. the blood drawn in this fever exhibited the following appearances; . it was dissolved in a few instances. . the crassamentum of the blood was so partially dissolved in the serum, as to produce an appearance in the serum resembling the washings of flesh in water. . the serum was so lightly tinged of a _red_ colour as to be perfectly transparent. . the serum was, in many cases, of a deep yellow colour. . there was, in every case in which the blood was not dissolved, or in which the second appearance that has been mentioned did not take place, a beautiful scarlet-coloured sediment in the bottom of the bowl, forming lines, or a large circle. it seemed to be a tendency of the blood to dissolution. this state of the blood occurred in almost all the diseases of the last two years, and in some in which there was not the least suspicion of the miasmata of the yellow fever. . the crassamentum generally floated in the serum, but it sometimes sunk to the bottom of the bowl. in the latter case the serum had a muddy appearance. . i saw but one case in which there was not a separation of the crassamentum and serum of the blood. its colour in this case was of a deep scarlet. in the year this appearance was very common. . i saw one case in which the blood drawn, amounting to ounces, separated partially, and was of a deep _black_ colour. this blood was taken from mr. norval, a citizen of north-carolina. . there was, in several instances, a transparent jelly-like pellicle which covered the crassamentum of the blood, and which was easily separated from it without altering its texture. it appeared to have no connection with the blood. . the blood, towards the crisis of the fever in many people, exhibited the usual forms of inflammatory crust. it was cupped in many instances. . after the loss of or ounces of blood there was an evident disproportion of the quantity of crassamentum to the serum. it was sometimes less, by one half, than in the first bleedings. under this head it will be proper to mention that the blood, when it happened to flow along the external part of the arm in falling into the bowl, was so warm as to excite an unpleasant sensation of heat in several patients. to the appearances exhibited by the blood to the eye, i shall add a fact communicated to me by a german bleeder, who followed his business in the city during the prevalence of the fever in . he informed me that he could distinguish a yellow fever from all other states of fever, by a peculiar smell which the blood emitted while it was flowing from a vein. from the certainty of his decision in one case which came under my notice, before a suspicion had taken place of the fever being in the city, i am disposed to believe that there is a foundation for his remark. ii. i have but little to add to the remarks i made upon the use of _purging_ in the year . i gave jalap, calomel, and gamboge until i obtained large and dark-coloured stools; after which i kept the bowels gently open every day with castor oil, cremor tartar, or glauber's salts. i gave calomel in much larger quantities than i did the year before. john madge took nearly grains of it in six days. i should have thought this a large quantity, had i not since read that dr. chisholm gave grains of it to one patient in the course of his fever, and grains to another at a single dose, three times a day. i found strong mercurial purges to be extremely useful in the winter months, when the fever put on symptoms of pleurisy. i am not singular in ascribing much to the efficacy of purges in the bilious pleurisy. dr. desportes tells us that he found the pleurisy of st. domingo, which was of the bilious kind, to end happily in proportion as the bowels were kept constantly open[ ]. nor am i singular in keeping my eye upon the original type of a disease, which only changes its symptoms with the weather or the season, and in treating it with the same remedies. dr. sydenham bled as freely in the diarrh[oe]a of as he had done in the inflammatory fever of the preceding year[ ]. how long the pleurisies of winter, in the city of philadelphia, may continue to retain the bilious symptoms of autumn, which they have assumed for three years past, i know not; but the late dr. faysseaux, of south-carolina, informed me, that for many years he had not seen a pleurisy in charleston with the common inflammatory symptoms which characterised that disease when he was a student of medicine. they all now put on bilious symptoms, and require strong purges to cure them. the pleurisies which the late dr. chalmers supposes he cured by purging were probably nothing but bilious fevers, in which the cool weather had excited some pleuritic symptoms. [ ] page . [ ] wallis's edition, p. . vol. i. i have nothing to add to the remarks i have elsewhere published upon the efficacy of _cool air_ and _cold drinks_ in this fever. they were both equally pleasant and useful, and contributed, with cleanliness, very much to the success of my practice. . _cold water_, applied to the external parts of the body, and injected into the bowels by way of glyster, did great service in many cases. john madge found great relief from cloths dipped in cold water, and applied to the lower part of his belly. they eased a pain in his bowels, and procured a discharge of urine. a throbbing and most distressing pain in the head was relieved by the same remedy, in mrs. vogles and mrs. lenox. the cloths were applied for three successive days and nights to mrs. lenox's head, during an inflammation of her brain, which succeeded her fever, and were changed, during the greater part of the time, every ten or fifteen minutes. in , i increased the coldness of pump water, when used in this way, by dissolving ice in it, and in some cases i applied powdered ice in a bladder to the head, with great advantage. the following facts will show the good effects of cold water in this, as well as other fevers of too much action. in the afternoon of one of those days in which my system was impregnated with the miasmata of the yellow fever, i felt so much indisposed that i deliberated whether i should go to bed or visit a patient about a mile in the country. the afternoon was cool and rainy. i recollected, at this time, a case related by dr. daignan, a french physician, of a man who was cured of the plague, by being forced to lie all night in an open field, in a shower of rain. i got into my chair, and exposed myself to the rain. it was extremely grateful to my feelings. in two hours i returned, when, to my great satisfaction, i found all my feverish symptoms had left me, nor had i the least return of them afterwards. dr. caldwell, who acted as a surgeon of a regiment, in the expedition against the insurgents in the western counties of pennsylvania, furnished me, in a letter dated from bedford, october th, , with an account of his having been cured of a fever, by a more copious use of the same remedy. "i was (says the doctor), to use a vulgar expression, _wet to the skin_, and had no opportunity of shifting my clothes for several hours. in consequence of this thorough bathing, and my subsequent exposure to a cool air, i was relieved from every symptom of indisposition in a few hours, and have enjoyed more than my usual stock of health ever since." the efficacy of cold water, in preventing and curing inflammation, may be conceived from its effects when used with mud or clay, for obviating the pain and inflammation which arise from the sting of venomous insects. the same remedy, applied for half an hour, has lately, it is said, been equally effectual in preventing the deleterious effects of the bite of a rattle-snake. ii. the good effects i had observed from a _salivation_ in the yellow fever of , induced me to excite it as early as possible, in all those cases which did not yield immediately to bleeding and purging. i was delighted with its effects in every case in which it took place. these effects were as follow: . it immediately attracted and concentrated in the mouth all the scattered pains of every part of the body. . it checked a nausea and vomiting. . it gradually, when it was copious, reduced the pulse, and thereby prevented the necessity of further bleeding or purging. i wish it were possible to render the use of this remedy universal in the treatment of malignant fevers. dr. chisholm, in his account of the beullam fever, has done much to establish its safety and efficacy. it is a rare occurrence for a patient that has been sufficiently bled and purged, to die after a salivation takes place. the artificial disease excited by the mercury suspends or destroys disease in every part of the body. the occasional inconveniences which attend it are not to be named with its certain and universal advantages. during the whole of the season in which the yellow fever prevailed, i saw but two instances in which it probably loosened or destroyed the teeth. i am not certain that the mercury was the cause of the injury or loss of those teeth; for who has not seen malignant fevers terminate in ulcers, which have ended in the erosions of bony parts of the body? it has been justly remarked, that there can be but one action at a time in the blood-vessels. this was frequently illustrated by the manner in which mercury acted upon the system in this fever. it seldom salivated until the fever intermitted or declined. i saw several cases in which the salivation came on during the intermission, and went off during its exacerbation; and many, in which there was no salivation until the morbid action had ceased altogether in the blood-vessels, by the solution of the fever. it is because the action of the vessels, in epilepsy and pulmonary consumption, surpasses the stimulus of the mercury, that it is so difficult to excite a salivation in both those diseases. let not the advocates for the healing powers of nature complain of a salivation as an unnatural remedy in fevers. dr. sydenham speaks in high terms of it, in the fever of , , and , in which cases it occurred spontaneously, and says that it cured it when it was so malignant as to be accompanied by purple spots on the body[ ]. [ ] vol. ii. p. . blisters, when applied at a _proper_ time, did great service in this fever. this time was, when the fever was so much weakened by evacuations, that the artificial pain excited by the stimulus of the blisters destroyed, and, like a conductor, conveyed off all the natural pain of the body. it is from ignorance, or inattention to the proper stage of fevers in which blisters have been applied, that there have been so many disputes among physicians respecting their efficacy. when applied in a state of great arterial action, they do harm; when applied after that action has nearly ceased, they do little or no service. i have called the period in which blisters are useful the _blistering point_. in bilious fevers this point is generally circumscribed within eight and forty hours. the effects of blisters were as follow: . they concentrated, like a salivation, all the scattered pains of the body, and thereby, . reduced the pulse in force and frequency. . they instantly checked a sickness at the stomach and vomiting. . they often induced a gentle moisture upon the skin. i found it of little consequence to what part of the body the blisters were applied; for i observed a pain in the head, and even delirium, to be as speedily and certainly cured by blisters upon the wrists, as they were by a large blister to the neck. iii. after the reduction of the morbid action of the blood-vessels, by means of the remedies which have been mentioned, i seldom made use of any other tonic than a nourishing and gently stimulating diet. this consisted of summer fruits, bread and milk, chicken broth, the white meats, eggs, oysters, and malt liquors, more especially porter. i made many attempts to cure this fever when it appeared in the form of a simple intermittent, without malignant symptoms, by means of _bark_, but always, except in two instances, without success; and in them it did not take effect until after bleeding. in several cases it evidently did harm. i should have suspected my judgment in these observations respecting this medicine, had i not been assured by dr. griffitts, dr. physick, and dr. woodhouse, that it was equally ineffectual in their practice, in nearly all the cases in which they gave it, and even where blood-letting had been premised. dr. woodhouse saw a case in which near a pound of bark had been taken without effect; and another in which a fatal dropsy succeeded its use. dr. griffitts excepted, from his testimony against the bark, the cases of seven persons from the country, who brought the seeds of the intermitting fever with them to the city. in them the bark succeeded without previous bleeding. the facility with which these seven cases of intermitting fever were cured by the bark, clearly proves that fevers of the same season differ very much, according to the nature of the exhalation which excites them. the intermittents in these strangers were excited by miasmata of less force than that which was generated in our city, in which, from the greater heat of the atmosphere, and the more heterogeneous nature of the putrid matters which stagnate in our ponds and gutters, the exhalation probably possesses a more active and stimulating quality. thus the mild remittents in june, and in the beginning of july, which were produced by the usual filth of the streets of philadelphia, in the year , differed very much from the malignant remitting yellow fever which was produced by the stench of the putrid coffee a few weeks afterwards. sir john pringle long ago taught the inefficacy of bark in certain bilious fevers. but dr. chisholm has done great service to medicine by recording its ill effects in the beullam fever. "head-ach (says the doctor), a heavy dull eye, with a considerable protrusion from its orbits, low spirits, thirst, and a total want of appetite, were the general consequences of the treatment with bark without the previous antiphlogistic." i have mentioned a case of internal dropsy of the brain having been produced by the improper use of the bark, in a son of mr. coates. i have no doubt but this disease, as also palsy and consumption, obstructions of the liver and bowels, and dropsies of the belly and limbs, are often induced by the use of the bark, during an inflammatory state of the blood-vessels. it is to be lamented that the association of certain diseases and remedies, in the minds of physicians, becomes so fixed, as to refuse to yield to the influence of reason. thus pain and opium, dropsy and foxglove, low spirits and assaf[oe]tida, and, above all, an intermitting fever and bark, are all connected together, in common practice, as mechanically as the candle and the snuffers are in the mind of an old and steady house servant. to abolish the mischief of these mechanical associations in medicine, it will be necessary for physicians to prescribe only for the different states of the system. finding the bark to be so universally ineffectual or hurtful, i substituted columbo root, the carribean bark, and several other bitters, in its place, but without success. they did less harm than the jesuit's bark, but they did not check the return of a single paroxysm of fever. i know that bark was given in this fever in some instances in which the patients recovered; but they were subject, during the winter, and in the following spring, to frequent relapses, and, in some instances, to affections of the brain and lungs. in the highest grade of the fever it certainly accelerated a supposed putrefaction of the blood, and precipitated death. the practice of physicians who create this gangrenous state of fever by means of the bark, resembles the conduct of a horse, who attempts by pawing to remove his shadow in a stream of water, and thereby renders it so turbid that he is unable to drink it. should the immediate success of tonic and depleting remedies in destroying the fever be equal, the effects of the former upon the constitution cannot fail of being less safe than the latter remedies. they cure by overstraining the powers of life. there is the same difference, therefore, between the two modes of practice, that there is between gently lifting the latch of a door, and breaking it open in order to go into a house. _wine_ was hurtful in every case of yellow fever in which it was given, while there were any remains of inflammatory action in the system. i recollect that a few spoonsful of it, which mr. harrison of virginia took in the depressed state of his pulse, excited a sensation in his stomach which he compared to a fire. even wine-whey, in the excitable state of the system induced by this fever, was sometimes hurtful. in a patient of dr. physick, who was on the recovery, it produced a relapse that had nearly proved fatal, in the year . dr. desperrieres ascribes the death of a patient to a small quantity of wine given to him by a black nurse[ ]. these facts are important, inasmuch as wine is a medicine which patients are most apt to use in all cases, without the advice of a physician. [ ] vol. ii. p. . i observed _opium_ to be less hurtful in this fever than it was in the fever of . i administered a few drops of laudanum, in one case, in the form of a glyster, in a violent pain of the bowels, with evident advantage, before the inflammatory action of the blood-vessels was subdued. in this way i have often obtained the composing effects of laudanum where it has been rejected by the stomach. but i gave it sparingly, and in small doses only, in the early stage of the fever. john madge, whose pains in his bowels were often as exquisite as they are in the most acute colic, did not take a single drop of it. i used no anodyne in his case but bleeding, and applications of cold water to the inside and outside of his bowels. after the fever had passed the seventh day, and had been so far subdued by copious evacuations as to put on the form of a common inflammatory intermittent, i gave laudanum during the intermissions of the fever with great advantage. in some cases it suddenly checked the paroxysms of the fever, while in many more it only moderated them, but in such a manner that they wore themselves away in eight or ten days. one of my female patients, who had taken bitters of every kind without effect to cure a tertian, which succeeded a yellow fever, took a large dose of laudanum, in the interval of her paroxysms, to cure a tooth-ach. to her great surprise it removed her tertian. the effects of laudanum in this fever were very different from those of bark. where it did no service it did not, like the bark, do any harm. perhaps this difference in the operation of those two medicines depended upon the bark acting with an astringent, as well as stimulating power, chiefly upon the blood-vessels, while the action of the opium was more simply stimulating, and diffused at the same time over all the systems of the body. i shall say in another place that i sometimes directed a few drops of laudanum to be given in that state of extreme debility which succeeds a paroxysm of fever, with evident advantage. _nitre_, so useful in common inflammatory fevers, was in most cases so offensive to the stomach in this fever, that i was seldom able to give it. where the stomach retained it i did not perceive it to do any service. _antimonials_ were as ineffectual as nitre in abating the action of the sanguiferous system, and in producing a sweat. i should as soon expect to compose a storm by music, as to cure a yellow fever by such feeble remedies. thus have i finished the history of the symptoms, origin, and cure of the yellow fever as it appeared in philadelphia in , and in the winter of . the efficacy of the remedies which have been mentioned was established by almost universal success. out of upwards of patients to whom i was called on the first stage of the fever, between the th of june, , and the st of april, , i lost but four persons, in whom the unequivocal symptoms had occurred, which characterize the first grade of the disease. it will be useful, i hope, to relate the cases of the patients whom i lost, and to mention the causes of their deaths. the first of them was mrs. gavin. she objected to a fifth bleeding in the beginning of a paroxysm of her fever, and died from the want of it. her death was ascribed to the frequency of her bleedings by the enemies of the depleting system. it was said that she had been bled ten times, owing to ten marks of a lancet having been discovered on her arms after death, five of which were occasioned by unsuccessful attempts to bleed her. she died with the usual symptoms of congestion in her brain. mr. marr, to whom i was called on the first day of his disease, died in a paroxysm of his fever which came on in the middle of the seventh night, after six bleedings. i had left him, the night before, nearly free of fever, and in good spirits. he might probably have been saved (humanly speaking) by one more bleeding in the exacerbation of what appeared to be the critical paroxysm of his fever. mr. montford, of the state of georgia, died under the joint care of dr. physick and myself. he had been cured by plentiful bleeding and purging, but had relapsed. he appeared to expire in a fainty fit in the first stage of a paroxysm of the fever. death from this cause (which occurs most frequently where blood-letting is not used) is common in the yellow fever of the west-indies. dr. bisset, in describing the different ways in which the disease terminates fatally, says, "in a few cases the patient is carried off by an _unexpected syncope_[ ]." [ ] medical essays and observations, p. . a servant of mr. henry mitchel, to whom i was called in the early stage of his disease, died in consequence of a sudden effusion in his lungs, which had been weakened by a previous pulmonary complaint. i wish the friends of bark and wine in the yellow fever, or of _moderate_ bleeding with antimonial medicines, would publish an account of the number of their deaths by the fever, within the period i have mentioned, and with the same fidelity i have done. the contrast would for ever decide the controversy in favour of copious depletion. the mortality under the tonic mode of practice may easily be conceived from the acknowledgment of one of the gentlemen who used it, but who premised it, in many cases, by two and three bleedings. he informed dr. woodhouse, that out of twenty-seven patients, whom he had attended in the yellow fever, he had saved but nine. other practitioners were, i believe, equally unsuccessful, in proportion to the number of patients whom they attended. the reader will not admit of many deaths having occurred from the diseases (formerly enumerated) to which they were ascribed, when he recollects that even a single death from most of them, in common seasons, is a rare occurrence in the practice of regular bred physicians. in answer to the account i have given of the mortality of the fever in , it will be said, that persons died less in that year, than in the healthy year of . to account for this, it will be necessary to recollect that the inhabitants of philadelphia were reduced in number upwards of , in the year , and of course that the proportion of deaths was greater in than it was in , although the number was less. it is remarkable that the burials in the strangers' grave-yard amounted in the year to but , whereas in they were . from this it appears, that the deaths must have been very numerous among new comers (as they are sometimes called) in the year , compared with common years. now this will easily be accounted for, when we recollect that these people, who were chiefly labourers, were exposed to the constantly exciting causes of the disease, and that, in all countries, they are the principal sufferers by it. but in order to do justice to this comparative view of the mortality induced by the yellow fever in the year , it will be necessary to examine the bill of mortality of the succeeding year. by this it appears that persons died in , making more than died in . the greatness of this mortality, i well recollect, surprized many of the citizens of philadelphia, who had just passed an autumn which was not unusually sickly, and who had forgotten the uncommon mortality of the months of january, february, and march, which succeeded the autumn of . it will probably be asked, how it came to pass that i attended so many more patients in this fever than any of my brethren. to this i answer, that, since the year , a great proportion of my patients have consisted of strangers, and of the poor; and as they are more exposed to the disease than other people, it follows, that of the persons affected by the fever, a greater proportion must have fallen to my share as patients, than to other physicians. my ability to attend a greater number of patients than most of my brethren, was facilitated by my having, at the time of the fever, several ingenious and active pupils, who assisted me in visiting and prescribing for the sick. these pupils were, ashton alexander and nathaniel potter (now physicians at baltimore), john otto (now physician in philadelphia), and gilbert watson (since dead of the yellow fever). the antiphlogistic remedies were not successful in philadelphia, in the yellow fever, in my hands alone. they were equally, and perhaps more so, in the hands of my friends dr. griffitts, dr. physick, dr. dewees, and dr. woodhouse. they were moreover successful at the same time in new haven, baltimore, and in charleston, in south-carolina. eighteen out of twenty died of all who took bark and wine in new-haven, but only one in ten of those who used the depleting medicines. in a letter from dr. brown, a physician of eminence in baltimore, dated november th, , he says, "of the many cases which fell to my care, two only proved mortal where i was called on the first day of the disease, and had an uncontrouled opportunity to follow my judgment. where salivation took place, i had no case of mortality; and in two of those cases, a black vomiting occurred." dr. ramsay, of charleston, in a letter to one of his friends in this city, dated october th, , subscribes to the efficacy of the same practice in a fever which prevailed at that time in charleston, and which, he says, resembled the yellow fever of philadelphia in the year . but the success of the depleting system was not confined to the united states. in a letter before quoted, which i received from dr. davidson, of st. vincents, dated july d, , there is the following testimony in favour of evacuations from the blood-vessels, bowels, and salivary glands: "where the fever comes on with great determination to the head, and an affection of the stomach, in consequence of that determination, violent head-ach, redness of the eyes, turgescence of the face, impatience of light, &c. attended with a full and hard pulse, _blood-letting_ should be employed _freely_ and _repeatedly_, cold applications should be applied to the head, and purging medicines should be employed. as a purge, _calomel_ has been used with the greatest advantage, sometimes by itself, but most frequently combined with some active purgative medicine, such as jalap. from some peculiarity in the disease, an uncommon quantity of the calomel is necessary to affect the bowels and salivary glands. as i found a small quantity of it did not produce the effect i wished for promptly, i have gradually increased the quantity, until i now venture to give _ten_ grains of it, combined with five of jalap, every _two_ hours until stools are procured. the calomel is then given by itself. "the patients have generally an aversion to wine. the bark is seldom found of much advantage in this state of the fever, and frequently brought on a return of the vomiting. i preferred to it, in a remission of the symptoms, a vinous infusion of the quassia, which sat better upon the stomach." in the island of jamaica, the depleting system has been divided. it appears, from several publications in the kingston papers, that dr. grant had adopted blood-letting, while most of the physicians of the island rest the cure of the yellow fever upon strong mercurial purges. the ill effects of _moderate_ bleeding probably threw the lancet into disrepute, for the balance of success, from those publications, is evidently in favour of simple purging. i have no doubt of the truth of the above statement of the controversy between the exclusive advocates for bleeding and purging; or perhaps the superior efficacy of the latter remedy may be explained in the following manner. in warm climates, the yellow fever is generally, as it was in philadelphia in the month of august and in the beginning of september, , a disease of but two or three paroxysms. it is sometimes, i believe, only a simple ephemera. in these cases, purging alone is sufficient to reduce the system, without the aid of bleeding. it was found to be so until the beginning of september, in , in most cases in philadelphia. the great prostration of the system in the yellow fever, in warm weather and in hot climates, renders the restoration of it to a healthy state of action more gradual, and of course more safe, by means of purging than bleeding. the latter remedy does harm, from the system being below the point of re-action, after the pressure of the blood is taken from it, or by restoring the blood-vessels too suddenly to preternatural action, without reducing them afterwards. had bleeding been practised agreeably to the method described by riverius (mentioned in the history of the fever of ), or had the fever in jamaica run on to more than four or five paroxysms, it is probable the loss of blood would have been not only safe, but generally beneficial. i have, in the same history, given my reasons why _moderate_ bleeding in this, as well as many other diseases, does harm. in those cases where it has occurred in large quantities from natural hæmorrhages, it has always done service in the west-indies. the inefficacy, and, in some cases, the evils, of _moderate_ blood-letting are not confined to the yellow fever. it is equally ineffectual, and, in some instances, equally hurtful, in apoplexy, internal dropsy of the brain, pleurisy, and pulmonary consumption. where all the different states of the pulse which indicate the loss of blood are perfectly understood, and blood-letting conformed in _time_ and in _quantity_ to them, it never can do harm, in any disease. it is only when it is prescribed empirically, without the direction of just principles, that it has ever proved hurtful. thus the fertilizing vapours of heaven, when they fall only in dew, or in profuse showers of rain, are either insufficient to promote vegetation, or altogether destructive to it. there may be habits in which great and long protracted debility may have so far exhausted the active powers of the system, as to render bleeding altogether improper in this disease, in a west-india climate. such habits are sometimes produced in soldiers and sailors, by the hardships of a military and naval life. bleeding in such cases, dr. davidson assures me, in a letter dated from martinique, february th, , did no good. the cure was effected, under these circumstances, by purges, and large doses of calomel. but where this chronic debility does not occur, bleeding, when properly used, can never be injurious, even in a tropical climate, in the yellow fever. of this there are many proofs in the writings of the most respectable english and french physicians. in spite of the fears and clamours which have been lately excited against it in jamaica, my late friend and contemporary at the college of edinburgh, dr. broadbelt, in a letter from spanish town, dated january th, , and my former pupil, dr. weston, in a letter from st. ann's bay, dated june th, , both assure me, that they have used it in this fever with great success. dr. weston says that he bled "_copiously_ three times in twenty-four hours, and thereby saved his patient." the superior advantages of the north-american mode of treating the yellow fever, by means of _all_ the common antiphlogistic remedies, will appear from comparing its success with that of the west-india physicians, under all the modes of practice which have been adopted in the islands. dr. desportes lost one half of all the patients he attended in the yellow fever in one season in st. domingo[ ]. his remedies were _moderate_ bleeding and purging, and the copious use of diluting drinks. dr. bisset says, "the yellow fever is often under particular circumstances very fatal, carrying off four or five in seven whom it attacks, and sometimes, but seldom, it is so favourable as to carry off only one patient in five or six[ ]." the doctor does not describe the practice under which this mortality takes place. [ ] vol. i. p. . [ ] medical essays and observations, p. . dr. home, i have elsewhere remarked[ ], lost "one out of four of his patients in jamaica." his remedies were _moderate_ bleeding and purging, and afterwards bark, wine, and external applications of blankets dipped in hot vinegar. [ ] account of the yellow fever of . dr. blane pronounces the yellow fever to be "one of the most fatal diseases to which the human body is subject, and in which human art is the most unavailing." his remedies were bleeding, bark, blisters, acid drinks, saline draughts, and camomile tea. dr. chisholm acknowledges that he lost one in twelve of all the patients he attended in the fever of grenada. his principal remedy was a salivation. i shall hereafter show the inferiority of this single mode of depleting, to a combination of it with bleeding and purging. in philadelphia and baltimore, where bleeding, purging, and salivation were used in due time, and after the manner that has been described, not more than one in fifty died of the yellow fever. it is probable that greater certainty and success in the treatment of this disease will not easily be attained, for idiosyncracy, and habits of intemperance which resist or divert the operation of the most proper remedies, a dread of the lancet, or the delay of an hour in the use of it, the partial application of that or any other remedy, the unexpected recurrence of a paroxysm of fever in the middle of the night, or the clandestine exhibition of wine or laudanum by friends or neighbours, often defeat the best concerted plans of cure by a physician. heaven in this, as in other instances, kindly limits human power and benevolence, that in all situations man may remember his dependence upon the power and goodness of his creator. an account of sporadic cases of _bilious yellow fever_, in philadelphia, in the years and . in my account of the yellow fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in the year , i took notice of several cases of it which occurred in the spring of the year . before i proceed to deliver the history of this disease as it appeared in , i shall mention the diseases and state of the weather which occurred during the remaining part of the year , and the whole of the year . this detail of facts, apparently uninteresting to the reader in the present state of our knowledge of epidemics, may possibly lead to principles at a future day. the month in of april, , was wet and cold. all the diseases of this month partook of the inflammatory character of the preceding winter and autumn, except the measles, which were unusually mild. the weather in may was alternately wet, cool, and warm. a few cases of malignant fever occurred this month, but with moderate symptoms. in june the weather was cool and pleasant. the measles put on more inflammatory symptoms than in the preceding months. i had two cases of mania under my care this month, and one of rheumatism, which were attended with intermissions and exacerbations every other day. the weather on the th, th, st, and d days of july was very warm, the mercury being at ° in fahrenheit's thermometer. the fevers of this month were all accompanied with black discharges from the bowels. mr. kittera, one of the representatives of pennsylvania in the congress of the united states, in consequence of great fatigue on a warm day, was affected with the usual symptoms of the yellow fever. during his illness he constantly complained of more pain in the left, than in the right side of his head. his pulse was more tense in his left, than in his right arm. during his convalescence, it was more quick in the left arm, than it was in the right. he was cured by a salivation and the loss of above ounces of blood. his head-ach was relieved by the application of a bladder half filled with ice to his forehead. most of the cases of bilious fever, which came under my notice, were attended with quotidian, tertian, or quartan intermissions. in a few of my patients there was a universal rash. dr. woodhouse informed me, that he had seen several instances in which the yellow fever appeared in the same place in which some soldiers had laboured under the dysentery. these facts show the unity of fever, and the impracticability of a nosological arrangement of diseases. the cholera infantum was severe and fatal, in many instances, during this month. it yielded to blood-letting in a child of mr. conyngham, which was but four months old. in a child of seven weeks old which came under my care, i observed the coldness, chills, hot fits, and remissions of the bilious fever to be as distinctly marked as ever i had seen them in adult patients. in a child of mr. darrach, aged months, the discharges from the bowels were of a black colour. i mention these facts in support of an opinion i formerly published, that the cholera infantum is a bilious fever, and that it rises and falls in its violence with the bilious fever of grown persons. about the latter end of this month and the beginning of august, there were heavy showers of rain, which carried away fences, bridges, barns, mills, and dwelling-houses in many places. several cases of bilious yellow fever occurred in the month of august. in one of them it was accompanied with that morbid affection in the wind-pipe which has been called cynanche trachealis. it was remarkable that sweating became a more frequent symptom of the fevers of this month than it had been in july. hippocrates ascribes this change in the character of bilious fevers to rainy weather. perhaps it was induced by the rain which fell in the beginning of the month, in the fevers which have been named. among the persons affected with the yellow fever during this month, was william bradford, esq. the attorney-general of the united states. from a dread of the lancet he objected to being bled in the early stage of his disease, in consequence of which he died on the d of august, in the th year of his age, amidst the tears of numerous friends, and the lamentations of his whole country. on the th and st of august, there was a fall of rain, which suddenly checked the fever of the season, insomuch that the succeeding autumnal months were uncommonly healthy. several showers of rain had nearly the same effect in new-york, where this fever carried off, in a few weeks, above persons. it prevailed, at the same time, and with great mortality, in the city of norfolk, in virginia. in both those cities, as well as in philadelphia, the disease was evidently derived from putrid exhalation. in the same month, the dysentery prevailed in newhaven, in connecticut, and in the same part of the town in which the yellow fever had prevailed the year before. the latter disease was said to have been imported, but the prevalence of the dysentery, under the above circumstances, proved that both diseases were of domestic origin. the fever, as it appeared in philadelphia, yielded in most cases to depleting remedies. after purging and blood-letting, i gave bark, where the fever intermitted, with advantage. it was effectual only when given in large doses. in one instance, it induced a spitting of blood, which obliged me to lay it aside. the winter of was uncommonly moderate. there fell a good deal of rain, but little snow. the navigation of the delaware was stopped but two or three days during the whole season. catarrhs were frequent, but very few violent or acute diseases occurred in my practice. the month of march and the first week in april were uncommonly dry. several cases of malignant bilious fever came under my care during these months. a little girl, of five years old, whom i lost in this fever, became yellow in two hours after her death. the measles prevailed in april, and were of a most inflammatory nature. the weather in may and june was uncommonly wet. the fruit was much injured, and a great deal of hay destroyed by it. on the th of june, general stewart died, with all the usual symptoms of a fatal yellow fever. several other cases of it, in this and in the succeeding month, proved mortal, but they excited no alarm in the city, as the physicians who attended them called them by other names. the rain which fell about the middle of july checked this fever. august, september, and october were unusually healthy. a few cases of malignant sore throat appeared in november. they were, in all the patients that came under my notice, attended with bilious discharges from the stomach and bowels. so little rain fell during the autumnal months, that the wheat perished in many places. the weather in december was extremely cold. the lamps of the city were, in several instances, extinguished by it, on the night of the d of the month, at which time the mercury stood at ° below in the thermometer. the yellow fever prevailed this year in charleston, in south-carolina, where it was produced by putrid exhalations from the cellars of houses which had been lately burnt. it was said by the physicians of that place not to be contagious. the same fever prevailed, at the same time, at wilmington, in north-carolina, and at newburyport, in the state of massachusetts. in the latter place, it was produced by the exhalation of putrid fish, which had been carelessly thrown upon a wharf. end of volume iii. * * * * * transcriber's note: the original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been maintained. obvious misprints have been corrected. partly repeated chapter headings have been deleted. generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/b _ project gutenberg has the other three volumes of this work. volume ii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ volume iii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ volume iv: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ transcriber's note: the ligature oe has been marked as [oe]. text in italics has been enclosed by underscores (_text_). text in bold face has been enclosed by equal signs (=text=). medical inquiries and observations. by benjamin rush, m. d. professor of the institutes and practice of medicine, and of clinical practice, in the university of pennsylvania. in four volumes. vol. i. the second edition, revised and enlarged by the author. philadelphia, published by j. conrad & co. chesnut-street, philadelphia; m. & j. conrad & co. market-street, baltimore; rapin, conrad, & co. washington; somervell & conrad, petersburg; and bonsal, conrad, & co. norfolk. printed by t. & g. palmer, , high-street. . * * * * * preface. in this second edition of the following medical inquiries and observations, the reader will perceive many additions, some omissions, and a few alterations. a number of facts have been added to the inquiry into the effects of ardent spirits upon the body and mind, and to the observations upon the tetanus, cynanche trachealis, and old age, in the first volume; also to the observations upon dropsies, pulmonary consumption, and hydrophobia, contained in the second volume. the lectures upon animal life, which were published, a few years ago, in a pamphlet, have received no other additions than a few notes. the phænomena of fever have not only received a new title, but several new terms have been adopted in detailing them, chiefly to remove the mistake into which the use of dr. brown's terms had led some of the author's readers, respecting his principles. a new order has likewise been given, and some new facts added, to the inquiry upon this subject. in the account of the yellow fever of , many documents, interesting to the public at the time of their first publication, are omitted; and many of the facts and observations, which related to the origin of the fevers of and , now form a part of a separate inquiry upon that subject, in the fourth volume. the histories of the yellow fever as epidemics, and of its sporadic cases, have been published in the order in which they have appeared in philadelphia, to show the influence of the weather upon it, and the impropriety and danger of applying the same remedies for the same epidemic, in different and even successive seasons. the records of the first cases of yellow fever, which have appeared in each of the twelve years that have been noticed, are intended further to show the inefficacy of all the means, at present employed, to prevent its future recurrence. in the fourth volume, the reader will find a retraction of the author's former opinion of the yellow fever's spreading by contagion. he begs forgiveness of the friends of science and humanity, if the publication of that opinion has had any influence in increasing the misery and mortality attendant upon that disease. indeed, such is the pain he feels, in recollecting that he ever entertained or propagated it, that it will long, and perhaps always, deprive him of the pleasure he might otherwise have derived from a review of his attempts to fulfil the public duties of his profession. considerable additions are made to the facts and arguments in favour of the domestic origin of the yellow fever, and to the defence of blood-letting. the account of the means of preventing the usual forms of summer and autumnal disease, appears for the first time in this edition of the author's inquiries. part of the facts intended to prove the yellow fever not to be contagious, were published in the sixth volume of the new-york medical repository. the reader will perceive, among many additions to them, answers to all the arguments usually employed to defend the contrary opinion. the inquiry into the comparative state of medicine, in philadelphia, between the years and , and , was delivered, in the form of an oration, before the medical society of philadelphia, on the th of february, . some things have been omitted, and a few added, in the form in which it is now offered to the public. if this edition of medical inquiries and observations should be less imperfect than the former, the reader is requested to ascribe it to the author having profited by the objections he encouraged his pupils to make to his principles, in their inaugural dissertations, and in conversation; and to the many useful facts which have been communicated to him by his medical brethren, whose names have been mentioned in the course of the work. for the departure, in the modes of practice adopted or recommended in these inquiries, from those which time and experience have sanctioned, in european and in east and west-indian countries, the author makes the same defence of himself, that dr. baglivi made, near a century ago, of his modes of practice in rome. "_vivo et scribo in aere romano_," said that illustrious physician. the author has lived and written in the climate of pennsylvania, and in the city of philadelphia. _november th, ._ * * * * * contents of volume i. _page_ _an inquiry into the natural history of medicine among the indians of north-america, and a comparative view of their diseases and remedies with those of civilized nations_ _an account of the climate of pennsylvania, and its influence upon the human body_ _an account of the bilious remitting fever, as it appeared in philadelphia in the summer and autumn of the year _ _an account of the scarlatina anginosa, as it appeared in philadelphia in the years and _ _an inquiry into the cause and cure of the cholera infantum_ _observations on the cynanche trachealis_ _an account of the efficacy of blisters and bleeding, in the cure of obstinate intermitting fevers_ _an account of the disease occasioned by drinking cold water in warm weather, and the method of curing it_ _an account of the efficacy of common salt in the cure of hæmoptysis_ _thoughts on the cause and cure of pulmonary consumption_ _observations upon worms in the alimentary canal, and upon anthelmintic medicines_ _an account of the external use of arsenic in the cure of cancers_ _observations on the tetanus_ _the result of observations made upon the diseases which occurred in the military hospitals of the united states, during the revolutionary war_ _an account of the influence of the military and political events of the american revolution upon the human body_ _an inquiry into the relation of tastes and aliments to each other, and into the influence of this relation upon health and pleasure_ _the new method of inoculating for the small-pox_ _an inquiry into the effects of ardent spirits upon the human body and mind, with an account of the means of preventing, and the remedies for curing them_ _observations on the duties of a physician, and the methods of improving medicine; accommodated to the present state of society and manners in the united states_ _an inquiry into the causes and cure of sore legs_ _an account of the state of the body and mind in old age, with observations on its diseases, and their remedies_ * * * * * an inquiry into the _natural history of medicine_ among the indians of north-america; and a comparative view of their diseases and remedies with those of civilized nations. read before the american philosophical society, held at philadelphia, on the th of february, . gentlemen[ ], i rise with peculiar diffidence to address you upon this occasion, when i reflect upon the entertainment you proposed to yourselves from the eloquence of that learned member, mr. charles thompson, whom your suffrages appointed to this honour after the delivery of the last anniversary oration. unhappily for the interests of science, his want of health has not permitted him to comply with your appointment. i beg, therefore, that you would forget, for a while, the abilities necessary to execute this task with propriety, and listen with candour to the efforts of a member, whose attachment to the society was the only qualification that entitled him to the honour of your choice. [ ] this inquiry was the subject of an anniversary oration. the style of an oration is therefore preserved in many parts of it. the subject i have chosen for this evening's entertainment, is "an inquiry into the natural history of medicine among the indians in north-america, and a comparative view of their diseases and remedies, with those of civilized nations." you will readily anticipate the difficulty of doing justice to this subject. how shall we distinguish between the original diseases of the indians and those contracted from their intercourse with the europeans? by what arts shall we persuade them to discover their remedies? and lastly, how shall we come at the knowledge of facts in that cloud of errors, in which the credulity of the europeans, and the superstition of the indians, have involved both their diseases and remedies? these difficulties serve to increase the importance of our subject. if i should not be able to solve them, perhaps i may lead the way to more successful endeavours for that purpose. i shall first limit the tribes of indians who are to be the objects of this inquiry, to those who inhabit that part of north-america which extends from the th to the th degree of latitude. when we exclude the esquimaux, who inhabit the shores of hudson's bay, we shall find a general resemblance in the colour, manners, and state of society, among all the tribes of indians who inhabit the extensive tract of country above-mentioned. civilians have divided nations into savage, barbarous, and civilized. the savage live by fishing and hunting; the barbarous, by pasturage or cattle; and the civilized, by agriculture. each of these is connected together in such a manner, that the whole appear to form different parts of a circle. even the manners of the most civilized nations partake of those of the savage. it would seem as if liberty and indolence were the highest pursuits of man; and these are enjoyed in their greatest perfection by savages, or in the practice of customs which resemble those of savages. the indians of north-america partake chiefly of the manner of savages. in the earliest accounts we have of them, we find them cultivating a spot of ground. the maize is an original grain among them. the different dishes of it which are in use among the white people still retain indian names. it will be unnecessary to show that the indians live in a state of society adapted to all the exigencies of their mode of life. those who look for the simplicity and perfection of the state of nature, must seek it in systems, as absurd in philosophy, as they are delightful in poetry. before we attempt to ascertain the number or history of the diseases of the indians, it will be necessary to inquire into those customs among them which we know influence diseases. for this purpose i shall, first, mention a few facts which relate to the birth and treatment of their children. secondly, i shall speak of their diet. thirdly, of the customs which are peculiar to the sexes, and, fourthly, of those customs which are common to them both[ ]. [ ] many of the facts contained in the natural history of medicine among the indians in this inquiry, are taken from la hontan and charlevoix's histories of canada; but the most material of them are taken from persons who had lived or travelled among the indians. the author acknowledges himself indebted in a particular manner to mr. edward hand, surgeon in the th regiment, afterwards brigadier-general in the army of the united states, who, during several years' residence at fort pitt, directed his inquiries into their customs, diseases, and remedies, with a success that does equal honour to his ingenuity and diligence. i. of the birth and treatment of their children. much of the future health of the body depends upon its original stamina. a child born of healthy parents always brings into the world a system formed by nature to resist the causes of diseases. the treatment of children among the indians, tends to secure this hereditary firmness of constitution. their first food is their mother's milk. to harden them against the action of heat and cold (the natural enemies of health and life among the indians) they are plunged every day into cold water. in order to facilitate their being moved from place to place, and at the same time to preserve their shape, they are tied to a board, where they lie on their backs for six, ten, or eighteen months. a child generally sucks its mother till it is two years old, and sometimes longer. it is easy to conceive how much vigour their bodies must acquire from this simple, but wholesome nourishment. the appetite we sometimes observe in children for flesh is altogether artificial. the peculiar irritability of the system in infancy forbids stimulating aliment of all kinds. nature never calls for animal food till she has provided the child with those teeth which are necessary to divide it. i shall not undertake to determine how far the wholesome quality of the mother's milk is increased by her refusing the embraces of her husband, during the time of giving suck. ii. the diet of the indians is of a mixed nature, being partly animal and partly vegetable. their animals are wild, and therefore easy of digestion. as the indians are naturally more disposed to the indolent employment of fishing than hunting, in summer, so we find them living more upon fish than land animals, in that season of the year.--their vegetables consist of roots and fruits, mild in themselves, or capable of being made so by the action of fire. although the interior parts of our continent abound with salt springs, yet i cannot find that the indians used salt in their diet, till they were instructed to do so by the europeans. the small quantity of fixed alkali contained in the ashes on which they roasted their meat, could not add much to its stimulating quality. they preserve their meat from putrefaction, by cutting it into small pieces, and exposing it in summer to the sun, and in winter to the frost. in the one case its moisture is dissipated, and in the other so frozen, that it cannot undergo the putrefactive process. in dressing their meat, they are careful to preserve its juices. they generally prefer it in the form of soups. hence we find, that among them the use of the spoon, preceded that of the knife and fork. they take the same pains to preserve the juice of their meat when they roast it, by turning it often. the efficacy of this animal juice, in dissolving meat in the stomach, has not been equalled by any of those sauces or liquors which modern luxury has mixed with it for that purpose. the indians have no set time for eating, but obey the gentle appetites of nature as often as they are called by them. after whole days spent in the chace or in war, they often commit those excesses in eating, to which long abstinence cannot fail of prompting them. it is common to see them spend three or four hours in satisfying their hunger. this is occasioned not more by the quantity they eat, than by the pains they take in masticating it. they carefully avoid drinking water in their marches, from an opinion that it lessens their ability to bear fatigue. iii. we now come to speak of those customs which are peculiar to the sexes. and, first, of those which belong to the women. they are doomed by their husbands to such domestic labour as gives a firmness to their bodies, bordering upon the masculine. their menses seldom begin to flow before they are eighteen or twenty years of age, and generally cease before they are forty. they have them in small quantities, but at regular intervals. they seldom marry till they are about twenty. the constitution has now acquired a vigour, which enables it the better to support the convulsions of child-bearing. this custom likewise guards against a premature old age. doctor bancroft ascribes the haggard looks, the loose hanging breasts, and the prominent bellies of the indian women at guiana, entirely to their bearing children too early[ ]. where marriages are unfruitful (which is seldom the case) a separation is obtained by means of an easy divorce; so that they are unacquainted with the disquietudes which sometimes arise from barrenness. during pregnancy, the women are exempted from the more laborious parts of their duty: hence miscarriages rarely happen among them. nature is their only midwife. their labours are short, and accompanied with little pain. each woman is delivered in a private cabin, without so much as one of her own sex to attend her. after washing herself in cold water, she returns in a few days to her usual employments; so that she knows nothing of those accidents which proceed from the carelessness or ill management of midwives; or those weaknesses which arise from a month's confinement in a warm room. it is remarkable that there is hardly a period in the interval between the eruption and the ceasing of the menses, in which they are not pregnant, or giving suck. this is the most natural state of the constitution during that interval; and hence we often find it connected with the best state of health, in the women of civilized nations. [ ] natural history of guiana. the customs peculiar to the indian men, consist chiefly in those employments which are necessary to preserve animal life, and to defend their nation. these employments are hunting and war, each of which is conducted in a manner that tends to call forth every fibre into exercise, and to ensure them the possession of the utmost possible health. in times of plenty and peace, we see them sometimes rising from their beloved indolence, and shaking off its influence by the salutary exercises of dancing and swimming. the indian men seldom marry before they are thirty years of age: they no doubt derive considerable vigour from this custom; for while they are secured by it from the enervating effects of the premature dalliance of love, they may insure more certain fruitfulness to their wives, and entail more certain health upon their children. tacitus describes the same custom among the germans, and attributes to it the same good effects. "sera juvenum venus, eoque inexhausta pubertas; nec virgines festinantur; eadem juventa, similis proceritas, pares validique miscentur; ac robora parentum liberi referunt[ ]." [ ] cæsar, in his history of the gallic war, gives the same account of the ancient germans. his words are "qui diutissimi impuberes permanserunt, maximam inter suos ferunt laudem: hoc ali staturam, ali vires, nervasque confirmari putant." lib. vi. xxi. among the indian men, it is deemed a mark of heroism to bear the most exquisite pain without complaining; upon this account they early inure themselves to burning part of their bodies with fire, or cutting them with sharp instruments. no young man can be admitted to the honours of manhood or war, who has not acquitted himself well in these trials of patience and fortitude. it is easy to conceive how much this contributes to give a tone to the nervous system, which renders it less subject to the occasional causes of diseases. iv. we come now to speak of those customs which are common to both sexes: these are painting, and the use of the cold bath. the practice of anointing the body with oil is common to the savages of all countries; in warm climates it is said to promote longevity, by checking excessive perspiration. the indians generally use bear's grease mixed with a clay, which bears the greatest resemblance to the colour of their skins. this pigment serves to lessen the sensibility of the extremities of the nerves; it moreover fortifies them against the action of those exhalations, which we shall mention hereafter, as a considerable source of their diseases. the cold bath likewise fortifies the body, and renders it less subject to those diseases which arise from the extremes and vicissitudes of heat and cold. we shall speak hereafter of the indian manner of using it. it is a practice among the indians never to drink before dinner, when they work or travel. experience teaches, that filling the stomach with cold water in the forenoon, weakens the appetite, and makes the system more sensible of heat and fatigue. the state of society among the indians excludes the influence of most of those passions which disorder the body. the turbulent effects of anger are concealed in deep and lasting resentments. envy and ambition are excluded by their equality of power and property. nor is it necessary that the perfections of the whole sex should be ascribed to one, to induce them to marry. "the weakness of love (says dr. adam smith) which is so much indulged in ages of humanity and politeness, is regarded among savages as the most unpardonable effeminacy. a young man would think himself disgraced for ever, if he showed the least preference of one woman above another, or did not express the most complete indifference, both about the time when, and the person to whom, he was to be married[ ]." thus are they exempted from those violent or lasting diseases, which accompany the several stages of such passions in both sexes among civilized nations. [ ] theory of moral sentiments. it is remarkable that there are no deformed indians. some have suspected, from this circumstance, that they put their deformed children to death; but nature here acts the part of an unnatural mother. the severity of the indian manners destroy them[ ]. [ ] since the intercourse of the white people with the indians, we find some of them deformed in their limbs. this deformity, upon inquiry, appears to be produced by those accidents, quarrels, &c. which have been introduced among them by spiritous liquors. from a review of the customs of the indians, we need not be surprised at the stateliness, regularity of features, and dignity of aspect by which they are characterized. where we observe these among ourselves, there is always a presumption of their being accompanied with health, and a strong constitution. the circulation of the blood is more languid in the indians, than in persons who are in the constant exercise of the habits of civilized life. out of eight indian men whose pulses i once examined at the wrists, i did not meet with one in whom the artery beat more than sixty strokes in a minute. the marks of old age appear more early among indian, than among civilized nations. having finished our inquiry into the physical customs of the indians, we shall now proceed to inquire into their diseases. a celebrated professor of anatomy has asserted, that we could not tell, by reasoning _à priori_, that the body was mortal, so intimately woven with its texture are the principles of life. lord bacon declares, that the only cause of death which is natural to man, is that from old age; and complains of the imperfection of physic, in not being able to guard the principle of life, until the whole of the oil that feeds it is consumed. we cannot as yet admit this proposition of our noble philosopher. in the inventory of the grave in every country, we find more of the spoils of youth and manhood than of age. this must be attributed to moral as well as physical causes. we need only recollect the custom among the indians, of sleeping in the open air in a variable climate; the alternate action of heat and cold upon their bodies, to which the warmth of their cabins exposes them; their long marches; their excessive exercise; their intemperance in eating, to which their long fasting and their public feasts naturally prompt them; and, lastly, the vicinity of their habitations to the banks of rivers, in order to discover the empire of diseases among them in every stage of their lives. they have in vain attempted to elude the general laws of mortality, while their mode of life subjects them to these remote, but certain causes of diseases. from what we know of the action of these powers upon the human body, it will hardly be necessary to appeal to facts to determine that fevers constitute the only diseases among the indians. these fevers are occasioned by the insensible qualities of the air. those which are produced by cold and heat are of the inflammatory kind, such as pleurisies, peripneumonies, and rheumatisms. those which are produced by the insensible qualities of the air, or by putrid exhalations, are intermitting, remitting, inflammatory, and malignant, according as the exhalations are combined with more or less heat or cold. the dysentery (which is an indian disease) comes under the class of fevers. it appears to be the febris introversa of dr. sydenham. the indians are subject to animal and vegetable poisons. the effects of these upon the body, are in some degree analogous to the exhalations we have mentioned. when they do not bring on sudden death, they produce, according to their force, either a common inflammatory, or a malignant fever. the small pox and the venereal disease were communicated to the indians of north-america by the europeans. nor can i find that they were ever subject to the scurvy. whether this was obviated by their method of preserving their flesh, or by their mixing it at all times with vegetables, i shall not undertake to determine. their peculiar customs and manners seem to have exempted them from this, as well as from the common diseases of the skin. i have heard of two or three cases of the gout among the indians, but it was only among those who had learned the use of rum from the white people. a question naturally occurs here, and that is, why does not the gout appear more frequently among that class of people, who consume the greatest quantity of rum among ourselves? to this i answer, that the effects of this liquor upon those enfeebled people, are too sudden and violent, to admit of their being thrown upon the extremities; as we know them to be among the indians. they appear only in visceral obstructions, and a complicated train of chronic diseases. thus putrid miasmata are sometimes too strong to bring on a fever, but produce instant debility and death. the gout is seldom heard of in russia, denmark, or poland. is this occasioned by the vigour of constitution peculiar to the inhabitants of those northern countries? or is it caused by their excessive use of spirituous liquors, which produce the same chronic complaints among them, which we said were common among the lower class of people in this country? the similarity of their diseases makes the last of these suppositions the most probable. the effects of wine, like tyranny in a well formed government, are felt first in the extremities; while spirits, like a bold invader, seize at once upon the vitals of the constitution. after much inquiry, i have not been able to find a single instance of fatuity among the indians, and but few instances of melancholy and madness; nor can i find any accounts of diseases from worms among them. worms are common to most animals; they produce diseases only in weak, or increase them in strong constitutions[ ]. hence they have no place in the nosological systems of physic. nor is dentition accompanied by disease among the indians. the facility with which the healthy children of healthy parents cut their teeth among civilized nations, gives us reason to conclude that the indian children never suffer from this quarter. [ ] indian children are not exempted from worms. it is common with the indians, when a fever in their children is ascribed by the white people to worms (from their being discharged occasionally in their stools), to say, "the fever makes the worms come, and not the worms the fever." the indians appear moreover to be strangers to diseases and pains in the teeth. the employments of the indians subject them to many accidents; hence we sometimes read of wounds, fractures, and luxations among them. having thus pointed out the natural diseases of the indians, and shown what diseases are foreign to them, we may venture to conclude, that fevers, old age, casualties, and war are the only natural outlets of human life. war is nothing but a disease; it is founded in the imperfection of political bodies, just as fevers are founded on the weakness of the animal body. providence in these diseases seems to act like a mild legislature, which mitigates the severity of death, by inflicting it in a manner the least painful, upon the whole, to the patient and the survivors. let us now inquire into the remedies of the indians. these, like their diseases, are simple, and few in number. among the first of them we shall mention the powers of nature. fevers, we said formerly, constituted the chief of the diseases among the indians; they are likewise, in the hands of nature, the principal instruments to remove the evils which threaten her dissolution; but the event of these efforts of nature, no doubt, soon convinced the indians of the danger of trusting her in all cases; and hence, in the earliest accounts we have of their manners, we read of persons who were intrusted with the office of physicians. it will be difficult to find out the exact order in which the indian remedies were suggested by nature or discovered by art; nor will it be easy to arrange them in proper order. i shall, however, attempt it, by reducing them to natural and artificial. to the class of natural remedies belongs the indian practice of abstracting from their patients all kinds of stimulating aliment. the compliance of the indians with the dictates of nature, in the early stage of a disease, no doubt, prevents, in many cases, their being obliged to use any other remedy. they follow nature still closer, in allowing their patients to drink plentifully of cold water; this being the only liquor a patient calls for in a fever. sweating is likewise a natural remedy. it was probably suggested by observing fevers to be terminated by it. i shall not inquire how far these sweats are essential to the crisis of a fever. the indian mode of procuring this evacuation is as follows: the patient is confined in a close tent, or wigwam, over a hole in the earth, in which a red hot stone is placed; a quantity of water is thrown upon this stone, which instantly involves the patient in a cloud of vapour and sweat; in this situation he rushes out, and plunges himself into a river, from whence he retires to his bed. if the remedy has been used with success, he rises from his bed in four and twenty hours, perfectly recovered from his indisposition. this remedy is used not only to cure fevers, but remove that uneasiness which arises from fatigue of body. a third natural remedy among the indians, is purging. the fruits of the earth, the flesh of birds, and other animals feeding upon particular vegetables, and, above all, the spontaneous efforts of nature, early led the indians to perceive the necessity and advantages of this evacuation. vomits constitute their fourth natural remedy. they were probably, like the former, suggested by nature, and accident. the ipecacuanha is one of the many roots they employ for that purpose. the artificial remedies made use of by the indians, are bleeding, caustics, and astringent medicines. they confine bleeding entirely to the part affected. to know that opening a vein in the arm, or foot, would relieve a pain in the head or side, supposes some knowledge of the animal economy, and therefore marks an advanced period in the history of medicine. sharp stones and thorns are the instruments they use to procure a discharge of blood. we have an account of the indians using something like a potential caustic, in obstinate pains. it consists of a piece of rotten wood called _punk_, which they place upon the part affected, and afterwards set it on fire: the fire gradually consumes the wood, and its ashes burn a hole in the flesh. the undue efforts of nature, in those fevers which are connected with a diarrh[oe]a, or dysentery, together with those hemorrhages to which their mode of life exposed them, necessarily led them to an early discovery of some astringent vegetables. i am uncertain whether the indians rely upon astringent, or any other vegetables, for the cure of the intermitting fever. this disease among them probably requires no other remedies than the cold bath, or cold air. its greater obstinacy, as well as frequency, among ourselves, must be sought for in the greater feebleness of our constitutions, and in that change which our country has undergone, from meadows, mill-dams, and the cutting down of woods; whereby morbid exhalations have been multiplied, and their passage rendered more free, through every part of country. this is a short account of the remedies of the indians. if they are simple, they are like their eloquence, full of strength; if they are few in number, they are accommodated, as their languages are to their ideas, to the whole of their diseases. we said, formerly, that the indians were subject to accidents, such as wounds, fractures, and the like. in these cases, nature performs the office of a surgeon. we may judge of her qualifications for this office, by observing the marks of wounds and fractures, which are sometimes discovered on wild animals. but further, what is the practice of our modern surgeons in these cases? is it not to lay aside plasters and ointments, and trust the whole to nature? those ulcers which require the assistance of mercury, bark, and a particular regimen are unknown to the indians. the hemorrhages which sometimes follow their wounds, are restrained by plunging themselves into cold water, and thereby producing a constriction upon the bleeding vessels. their practice of attempting to recover drowned people, is irrational and unsuccessful. it consists in suspending the patient by the heels, in order that the water may flow from his mouth. this practice is founded on a belief that the patient dies from swallowing an excessive quantity of water. but modern observations teach us that drowned people die from another cause. this discovery has suggested a method of cure, directly opposite to that in use among the indians; and has shown us that the practice of suspending by the heels is hurtful. i do not find that the indians ever suffer in their limbs from the action of cold upon them. their mokasons[ ], by allowing their feet to move freely, and thereby promoting the circulation of the blood, defend their lower extremities in the day-time, and their practice of sleeping with their feet near a fire, defends them from the morbid effects of cold at night. in those cases where the motion of their feet in their mokasons is not sufficient to keep them warm, they break the ice, and restore their warmth by exposing them for a short time to the action of cold water[ ]. [ ] indian shoes. [ ] it was remarked in canada, in the winter of the year , during the war before last, that none of those soldiers who wore mokasons were frost-bitten, while few of those escaped that were much exposed to the cold who wore shoes. we have heard much of their specific antidotes to the venereal disease. in the accounts of these anti-venereal medicines, some abatement should be made for that love of the marvellous, and of novelty, which are apt to creep into the writings of travellers and physicians. how many medicines which were once thought infallible in this disease, are now rejected from the materia medica! i have found upon inquiry that the indians always assist their medicines in this disease, by a regimen which promotes perspiration. should we allow that mercury acts as a specific in destroying this disease, it does not follow that it is proof against the efficacy of medicines which act more mechanically upon the body[ ]. [ ] i cannot help suspecting the anti-venereal qualities of the lobelia, ceanothus and ranunculus, spoken of by mr. kalm, in the memoirs of the swedish academy. mr. hand informed me, that the indians rely chiefly upon a plentiful use of the decoctions of the pine-trees for the cure of the venereal disease. he added, moreover, that he had often known this disease prove fatal to them. there cannot be a stronger mark of the imperfect state of knowledge in medicine among the indians, than their method of treating the small-pox. we are told that they plunge themselves in cold water in the beginning of the disease, and that it often proves fatal to them. travellers speak in high terms of the indian antidotes to poisons. we must remember that many things have been thought poisonous, which later experience hath proved to possess no unwholesome quality. moreover, the uncertainty and variety in the operation of poisons, renders it extremely difficult to fix the certainty of the antidotes to them. how many specifics have derived their credit for preventing the hydrophobia, from persons being wounded by animals, who were not in a situation to produce that disease! if we may judge of all the indian antidotes to poisons, by those which have fallen into our hands, we have little reason to ascribe much to them in any cases whatever. i have heard of their performing several remarkable cures upon stiff joints, by an infusion of certain herbs in water. the mixture of several herbs together in this infusion calls in question the specific efficacy of each of them. i cannot help attributing the whole success of this remedy to the great heat of the water in which the herbs were boiled, and to its being applied for a long time to the part affected. we find the same medicine to vary frequently in its success, according to its strength, or to the continuance of its application. de haen attributes the good effects of electricity, entirely to its being used for several months. i have met with one case upon record of their aiding nature in parturition. captain carver gives us an account of an indian woman in a difficult labour, being suddenly delivered in consequence of a general convulsion induced upon her system, by stopping, for a short time, her mouth and nose, so as to obstruct her breathing. we are sometimes amused with accounts of indian remedies for the dropsy, epilepsy, colic, gravel, and gout. if, with all the advantages which modern physicians derive from their knowledge in anatomy, chemistry, botany, and philosophy; if, with the benefit of discoveries communicated from abroad, as well as handed down from our ancestors, by more certain methods than tradition, we are still ignorant of certain remedies for these diseases; what can we expect from the indians; who are not only deprived of these advantages, but want our chief motive, the sense of the pain and danger of those diseases, to prompt them to seek for such remedies to relieve them? there cannot be a stronger proof of their ignorance of proper remedies for new or difficult diseases, than their having recourse to enchantment. but to be more particular; i have taken pains to inquire into the success of some of these indian specifics, and have never heard of one well attested case of their efficacy. i believe they derive all their credit from our being ignorant of their composition. the influence of secrecy is well known in establishing the credit of a medicine. the sal seignette was supposed to be an infallible medicine for the intermitting fever, while the manufactory of it was confined to an apothecary at rochelle; but it lost its virtues as soon as it was found to be composed of the acid of tartar and the fossil alkali. dr. ward's famous pill and drop ceased to do wonders in scrophulous cases, as soon as he bequeathed to the world his receipts for making them. i foresee an objection to what has been said concerning the remedies of the indians, drawn from that knowledge which experience gives to a mind intent upon one subject. we have heard much of the perfection of their senses of seeing and hearing. an indian, we are told, will discover not only a particular tribe of indians by their footsteps, but the distance of time in which they were made. in those branches of knowledge which relate to hunting and war, the indians have acquired a degree of perfection that has not been equalled by civilized nations. but we must remember, that medicine among them does not possess the like advantages with the arts of war and hunting, of being the _chief_ object of their attention. the physician and the warrior are united in one character; to render him as able in the former as he is in the latter profession, would require an entire abstraction from every other employment, and a familiarity with external objects, which are incompatible with the wandering life of savages. thus have we finished our inquiry into the diseases and remedies of the indians in north-america. we come now to inquire into the diseases and remedies of civilized nations. nations differ in their degrees of civilization. we shall select one for the subject of our inquiries which is most familiar to us; i mean the british nation. here we behold subordination and classes of mankind established by government, commerce, manufactures, and certain customs common to most of the civilized nations of europe. we shall trace the origin of their diseases through their customs, in the same manner as we did those of the indians. i. it will be sufficient to name the degrees of heat, the improper aliment, the tight dresses, and the premature studies children are exposed to, in order to show the ample scope for diseases, which is added to the original defect of stamina they derive from their ancestors. ii. civilization rises in its demands upon the health of women. their fashions; their dress and diet; their eager pursuits and ardent enjoyment of pleasure; their indolence and undue evacuations in pregnancy; their cordials, hot regimen, and neglect, or use of art, in child-birth, are all so many inlets to disease. humanity would fain be silent, while philosophy calls upon us to mention the effects of interested marriages, and of disappointments in love, increased by that concealment which the tyranny of custom has imposed upon the sex[ ]. each of these exaggerates the natural, and increases the number of artificial diseases among women. [ ] "married women are more healthy and long-lived than single women. the registers, examined by mr. muret, confirm this observation; and show particularly, that of equal numbers of single and married women between fifteen and twenty-five years of age, more of the former died than of the latter, in the proportion of two to one: the consequence, therefore, of following nature must be favourable to health among the female sex." supplement to price's observations on reversionary payments. p. . iii. the diseases introduced by civilization extend themselves through every class and profession among men. how fatal are the effects of idleness and intemperance among the rich, and of hard labour and penury among the poor! what pallid looks are contracted by the votaries of science from hanging over the "sickly taper!" how many diseases are entailed upon manufacturers, by the materials in which they work, and the posture of their bodies! what monkish diseases do we observe from monkish continence and monkish vices! we pass over the increase of accidents from building, sailing, riding, and the like. war, as if too slow in destroying the human species, calls in a train of diseases peculiar to civilized nations. what havoc have the corruption and monopoly of provisions, a damp soil, and an unwholesome sky, made, in a few days, in an army! the achievements of british valour, at the havannah, in the last war, were obtained at the expence of , men, , of whom perished with the west-india fever[ ]. even our modern discoveries in geography, by extending the empire of commerce, have likewise extended the empire of diseases. what desolation have the east and west-indies made of british subjects! it has been found, upon a nice calculation, than only ten of a hundred europeans, live above seven years after they arrive in the island of jamaica. [ ] the modern writers upon the diseases of armies, wonder that the greek and roman physicians have left us nothing upon that subject. but may not _most_ of the diseases of armies be produced by the different manner in which wars are carried on by the modern nations? the discoveries in geography, by extending the field of war, expose soldiers to many diseases from long voyages, and a _sudden_ change of climate, which were unknown to the armies of former ages. moreover, the form of the weapons, and the variety in the military exercises of the grecian and roman armies, gave a vigour to the constitution, which can never be acquired by the use of muskets and artillery. iv. it would take up too much of our time to point out all the customs, both _physical_ and _moral_, which influence diseases among both sexes. the former have engendered the seeds of diseases in the human body itself: hence the origin of catarrhs, jail and miliary fevers, with a long train of other diseases, which compose so great a part of our books of medicine. the latter likewise have a large share in producing diseases. i am not one of those modern philosophers, who derive the vices of mankind from the influence of civilization; but i am safe in asserting, that their number and malignity increase with the refinements of polished life. to prove this, we need only survey a scene too familiar to affect us: it is a bedlam; which injustice, inhumanity, avarice, pride, vanity, and ambition, have filled with inhabitants. thus have i briefly pointed out the customs which influence the diseases of civilized nations. it remains now that we take notice of their diseases. without naming the many new fevers, fluxes, hemorrhages, swellings from water, wind, flesh, fat, pus, and blood; foulnesses on the skin, from cancers, leprosy, yawes, poxes, and itch; and, lastly, the gout, the hysteria, and the hypochondriasis, in all their variety of known and unknown shapes; i shall sum up all that is necessary upon this subject, by adding, that the number of diseases which belong to civilized nations, according to doctor cullen's nosology, amounts to ; the single class of nervous diseases form of this number. before we proceed to speak of the remedies of civilized nations, we shall examine into the abilities of nature in curing their diseases. we found her active and successful in curing the diseases of the indians. are her strength, wisdom, or benignity, equal to the increase of those dangers which threaten her dissolution among civilized nations? in order to answer this question, it will be necessary to explain the meaning of the term nature. by nature, in the present case, i understand nothing but _physical necessity_. this at once excludes every thing like intelligence from her operations: these are all performed in obedience to the same laws which govern vegetation in plants, and the intestine motions of fossils. they are as truly mechanical as the laws of gravitation, electricity, or magnetism. a ship when laid on her broadside by a wave, or a sudden blast of wind, rises by the simple laws of her mechanism; but suppose this ship to be attacked by fire, or a water-spout, we are not to call in question the skill of the ship-builder, if she be consumed by the one, or sunk by the other. in like manner, the author of nature hath furnished the body with powers to preserve itself from its natural enemies; but when it is attacked by those civil foes which are bred by the peculiar customs of civilization, it resembles a company of indians, armed with bows and arrows, against the complicated and deadly machinery of fire-arms. to place this subject in a proper light, i shall deliver a history of the operations of nature in a few of the diseases of civilized nations. i. there are cases in which nature is still successful in curing diseases. in fevers she still deprives us of our appetite for animal food, and imparts to us a desire for cool air and cold water. in hemorrhages she produces a faintness, which occasions a coagulum in the open vessels; so that the further passage of blood through them is obstructed. in wounds of the flesh and bones she discharges foreign matter by exciting an inflammation, and supplies the waste of both with new flesh and bone. ii. there are cases where the efforts of nature are too feeble to do service, as in malignant and chronic fevers. iii. there are cases where the efforts of nature are over proportioned to the strength of the disease, as in the cholera morbus and dysentery. iv. there are cases where nature is idle, as in the atonic stages of the gout, the cancer, the epilepsy, the mania, the venereal disease, the apoplexy, and the tetanus[ ]. [ ] hoffman de hypothesium medicarum damno, sect. xv. v. there are cases in which nature does mischief. she wastes herself with an unnecessary fever, in a dropsy and consumption. she throws a plethora upon the brain and lungs in the apoplexy and peripneumonia notha. she ends a pleurisy and peripneumony in a vomica, or empyema. she creates an unnatural appetite for food in the hypochondriac disease. and, lastly, she drives the melancholy patient to solitude, where, by brooding over the subject of his insanity, he increases his disease. we are accustomed to hear of the salutary kindness of nature in alarming us with pain, to prompt us to seek for a remedy. but, vi. there are cases in which she refuses to send this harbinger of the evils which threaten her, as in the aneurism, schirrhous, and stone in the bladder. vii. there are cases where the pain is not proportioned to the danger, as in the tetanus, consumption, and dropsy of the head. and, viii. there are cases where the pain is over-proportioned to the danger, as in the paronychia and tooth-ach. this is a short account of the operations of nature, in the diseases of civilized nations. a lunatic might as well plead against the sequestration of his estate, because he once enjoyed the full exercise of his reason, or because he still had lucid intervals, as nature be exempted from the charges we have brought against her. but this subject will receive strength from considering the remedies of civilized nations. all the products of the vegetable, fossil, and animal kingdoms, tortured by heat and mixture into an almost infinite variety of forms; bleeding, cupping, artificial drains by setons, issues, and blisters; exercise, active and passive; voyages and journies; baths, warm and cold; waters, saline, aërial, and mineral; food by weight and measure; the royal touch; enchantment; miracles; in a word, the combined discoveries of natural history and philosophy, united into a system of materia medica, all show, that although physicians are in speculation the servants, yet in practice they are the masters of nature. the whole of their remedies seem contrived on purpose to arouse, assist, restrain, and controul her operations. there are some truths like certain liquors, which require strong heads to bear them. i feel myself protected from the prejudices of vulgar minds, when i reflect that i am delivering these sentiments in a society of philosophers. let us now take a comparative view of the diseases and remedies of the indians with those of civilized nations. we shall begin with their diseases. in our account of the diseases of the indians, we beheld death executing his commission, it is true; but then his dart was hid in a mantle, under which he concealed his shape. but among civilized nations we behold him multiplying his weapons in proportion to the number of organs and functions in the body; and pointing each of them in such a manner, as to render his messengers more terrible than himself. we said formerly that fevers constituted the chief diseases of the indians. according to doctor sydenham's computation, above , out of , died of fevers in london, about years ago; but fevers now constitute but a little more than one-tenth part of the diseases of that city. out of , persons who died in london between december, , and december, , only died of simple fevers. i have more than once heard doctor huck complain, that he could find no marks of epidemic fevers in london, as described by dr. sydenham. london has undergone a revolution in its manners and customs since doctor sydenham's time. new diseases, the offspring of luxury, have supplanted fevers; and the few that are left are so complicated with other diseases, that their connection can no longer be discovered with an epidemic constitution of the year. the pleurisy and peripneumony, those inflammatory fevers of strong constitutions, are now lost in catarrhs, or colds, which, instead of challenging the powers of nature or art to a fair combat, insensibly undermine the constitution, and bring on an incurable consumption. out of , who died in london between december, , and the same month in , perished with that british disease. our countryman, doctor maclurg, has ventured to foretel that the gout will be lost in a few years, in a train of hypochondriac, hysteric, and bilious diseases. in like manner, may we not look for a season when fevers, the natural diseases of the human body, will be lost in an inundation of artificial diseases, brought on by the modish practices of civilization? it may not be improper to compare the prognosis of the indians, in diseases, with that of civilized nations, before we take a comparative view of their remedies. the indians are said to be successful in predicting the events of diseases. while diseases are simple, the marks which distinguish them, or characterize their several stages, are generally uniform and obvious to the most indifferent observer. these marks afford so much certainty, that the indians sometimes kill their physicians for a false prognosis, charging the death of the patient to their carelessness, or ignorance. they estimate the danger of their patients by the degrees of appetite; while an indian is able to eat, he is looked upon as free from danger. but when we consider the number and variety in the signs of diseases, among civilized nations, together with the shortness of life, the fallacy of memory, and the uncertainty of observation, where shall we find a physician willing to risk his reputation, much less his life, upon the prediction of the event of our acute diseases? we can derive no advantage from the simple sign, by which the indians estimate the danger of their patients; for we daily see a want of appetite for food in diseases which are attended with no danger; and we sometimes observe an unusual degree of this appetite to precede the agonies of death. i honour the name of hippocrates: but forgive me, ye votaries of antiquity, if i attempt to pluck a few grey hairs from his venerable head. i was once an idolater at his altar, nor did i turn apostate from his worship, till i was taught, that not a tenth part of his prognostics corresponded with modern experience, or observation. the pulse[ ], urine, and sweats, from which the principal signs of life and death have been taken, are so variable, in most of the acute diseases of civilized nations, that the wisest physicians have in some measure excluded the prognosis from being a part of their profession. [ ] doctor cullen used to inform his pupils, that after forty years' experience, he could find no relation between his own observations on the pulse, and those made by doctor solano. the climate and customs of the people in spain being so different from the climate and customs of the present inhabitants of britain, may account for the diversity of their observations. doctor heberden's remarks upon the pulse, in the second volume of the medical transactions, are calculated to show how little the issue of diseases can be learned from it. i am here insensibly led to make an apology for the instability of the theories and practice of physic. the theory of physic is founded upon the laws of the animal economy. these (unlike the laws of the mind, or the common laws of matter) do not appear at once, but are gradually brought to light by the phænomena of diseases. the success of nature in curing the simple diseases of saxony, laid the foundation for the anima medica of doctor stahl. the endemics of holland[ ] led doctor boerhaave to seek for the causes of all diseases in the fluids. and the universal prevalence of diseases of the nerves, in great-britain, led doctor cullen to discover their peculiar laws, and to found a system upon them; a system, which will probably last till some new diseases are let loose upon the human species, which shall unfold other laws of the animal economy. [ ] "the scurvy is very frequent in holland; and draws its origin partly from their strong food, sea-fish, and smoked flesh, and partly from their dense and moist air, together with their bad water." hoffman on endemical distempers. "we are now in north-holland; and i have never seen, among so few people, so many infected with the leprosy as here. they say the reason is, because they eat so much fish." howell's familiar letters. it is in consequence of this fluctuation in the principles and practice of physic, being so necessarily connected with the changes in the customs of civilized nations, that old and young physicians so often disagree in their opinions and practices. and it is by attending to the constant changes in these customs of civilized nations, that those physicians have generally become the most eminent, who have soonest emancipated themselves from the tyranny of the schools of physic; and have occasionally accommodated their principles and practice to the changes in diseases[ ]. this variety in diseases, which is produced by the changes in the customs of civilized nations, will enable us to account for many of the contradictions which are to be found in authors of equal candour and abilities, who have written upon the materia medica. [ ] we may learn from these observations, the great impropriety of those egyptian laws which oblige physicians to adopt, in all cases, the prescriptions which had been collected, and approved of, by the physicians of former ages. every change in the customs of civilized nations, produces a change in their diseases, which calls for a change in their remedies. what havoc would plentiful bleeding, purging, and small beer, formerly used with so much success by dr. sydenham in the cure of fevers, now make upon the enfeebled citizens of london! the fevers of the same, and of more southern latitudes, still admit of such antiphlogistic remedies. in the room of these, bark, wine, and other cordial medicines, are prescribed in london in almost every kind of fever. in forming a comparative view of the remedies of the indians, with those of civilized nations, we shall remark, that the want of success in a medicine is occasioned by one of the following causes: first, our ignorance of the disease. secondly, an ignorance of a suitable remedy. thirdly, a want of efficacy in the remedy. considering the violence of the diseases of the indians, it is probable their want of success is always occasioned by a want of efficacy in their medicines. but the case is very different among the civilized nations. dissections daily convince us of our ignorance of the seats of diseases, and cause us to blush at our prescriptions. how often are we disappointed in our expectation from the most certain and powerful of our remedies, by the negligence or obstinacy of our patients! what mischief have we done under the belief of false facts (if i may be allowed the expression) and false theories! we have assisted in multiplying diseases. we have done more--we have increased their mortality. i shall not pause to beg pardon of the faculty, for acknowledging, in this public manner, the weaknesses of our profession. i am pursuing truth, and while i can keep my eye fixed upon my guide, i am indifferent whether i am led, provided she is my leader. but further, the indian submits to his disease, without one fearful emotion from his doubtfulness of its event; and at last meets his fate without an an anxious wish for futurity; except it is of being admitted to an "equal sky," where "his faithful dog shall bear him company." but, among civilized nations, the influence of a false religion in good, and of a true religion in bad men, has converted even the fear of death into a disease. it is this original distemper of the imagination which renders the plague most fatal, upon his first appearance in a country. under all these disadvantages in the state of medicine, among civilized nations, do more in proportion die of the diseases peculiar to them, than of fevers, casualties, and old age, among the indians? if we take our account from the city of london, we shall find this to be the case. near a twentieth part of its inhabitants perish one year with another. nor does the natural increase of inhabitants supply this yearly waste. if we judge from the bills of mortality, the city of london contains fewer inhabitants, by several thousands, than it did forty years ago. it appears from this fact, and many others of a like nature, which might be adduced, that although the difficulty of supporting children, together with some peculiar customs of the indians, which we mentioned, limit their number, yet they multiply faster, and die in a smaller proportion than civilized nations, under the circumstances we have described. the indians, we are told, were numerous in this country, before the europeans settled among them. travellers agree likewise in describing numbers of both sexes who exhibited all the marks of extreme old age. it is remarkable that age seldom impairs the faculties of their minds. the mortality peculiar to those indian tribes who have mingled with the white people, must be ascribed to the extensive mischief of spiritous liquors. when these have not acted, they have suffered from having accommodated themselves too suddenly to the european diet, dress, and manners. it does not become us to pry too much into futurity; but if we may judge from the fate of the original natives of hispaniola, jamaica, and the provinces on the continent, we may venture to foretel, that, in proportion as the white people multiply, the indians will diminish; so that in a few centuries they will probably be entirely extirpated[ ]. [ ] even the influence of christian principles has not been able to put a stop to the mortality introduced among the indians, by their intercourse with the europeans. dr. cotton mather, in a letter to sir william ashurst, printed in boston, in the year , says, "that about five years before there were about thirty indian congregations in the southern parts of the province of massachusetts-bay." the same author, in his history of new-england, says, "that in the islands of nantucket and martha's vineyard, there were _adult_ indians, of whom professed the christian religion." at present there is but _one_ indian congregation in the whole massachusetts province. it may serve to extend our knowledge of diseases, to remark, that epidemics were often observed to prevail among the indians in nantucket, without affecting the white people. it may be said, that health among the indians, like insensibility to cold and hunger, is proportioned to their need of it; and that the less degrees, or entire want of health, are no interruption to the ordinary business of civilized life. to obviate this supposition, we shall first attend to the effects of a single disease in those people who are the principal wheels in the machine of civil society. justice has stopt its current, victories have been lost, wars have been prolonged, and embassies delayed, by the principal actors in these departments of government being suddenly laid up by a fit of the gout. how many offences are daily committed against the rules of good breeding, by the tedious histories of our diseases, which compose so great a part of modern conversation! what sums of money have been lavished in foreign countries in pursuit of health[ ]! families have been ruined by the unavoidable expences of medicines and watering-places. in a word, the swarms of beggars which infest so many of the european countries, urge their petitions for charity chiefly by arguments derived from real or counterfeit diseases, which render them incapable of supporting themselves[ ]. [ ] it is said, there are seldom less than , british subjects in france and italy; one half of whom reside or travel in those countries upon the account of their health. [ ] templeman computes, that scotland contains , , inhabitants; , of whom, according to mr. fletcher, are supported at the public expence. the proportion of poor people is much greater in england, ireland, france, and italy. but may not civilization, while it abates the violence of natural diseases, increase the lenity of those that are artificial, in the same manner that it lessens the strength of natural vices by multiplying them? to answer this question, it will only be necessary to ask another: who should exchange the heat, thirst, and uneasiness of a fever, for one fit of the colic or stone? the history of the number, combination, and fashions of the remedies we have given, may serve to humble the pride of philosophy; and to convince us, that with all the advantages of the whole circle of sciences, we are still ignorant of antidotes to many of the diseases of civilized nations. we sometimes sooth our ignorance, by reproaching our idleness in not investigating the remedies peculiar to this country. we are taught to believe that every herb that grows in our woods is possessed of some medicinal virtue, and that heaven would be wanting in benignity, if our country did not produce remedies for all the different diseases of its inhabitants. it would be arrogating too much to suppose that man was the only creature in our world for whom vegetables grow. the beasts, birds, and insects, derive their sustenance either directly or indirectly from them; while many of them were probably intended, from their variety in figure, foliage, and colour, only to serve as ornaments for our globe. it would seem strange that the author of nature should furnish every spot of ground with medicines adapted to the diseases of its inhabitants, and at the same time deny it the more necessary articles of food and clothing. i know not whether heaven has provided every country with antidotes even to the _natural_ diseases of its inhabitants. the intermitting fever is common in almost every corner of the globe; but a sovereign remedy for it has been discovered only in south-america. the combination of bitter and astringent substances, which serve as a succedaneum to the peruvian bark, is as much a preparation of art, as calomel or tartar emetic. societies stand in need of each other as much as individuals; and the goodness of the deity remains unimpeached when we suppose, that he intended medicines to serve (with other articles) to promote that knowledge, humanity, and politeness among the inhabitants of the earth, which have been so justly attributed to commerce. we have no discoveries in the materia medica to hope for from the indians in north-america. it would be a reproach to our schools of physic, if modern physicians were not more successful than the indians, even in the treatment of their own diseases. do the blessings of civilization compensate for the sacrifice we make of natural health, as well as of natural liberty? this question must be answered under some limitations. when natural liberty is given up for laws which enslave instead of protecting us, we are immense losers by the exchange. thus, if we arm the whole elements against our health, and render every pore in the body an avenue for a disease, we pay too high a price for the blessings of civilization. in governments which have departed entirely from their simplicity, partial evils are to be cured by nothing but an entire renovation of their constitution. let the world bear with the professions of law, physic, and divinity; and let the lawyer, physician, and divine yet learn to bear with each other. they are all necessary, in the present state of society. in like manner, let the woman of fashion forget the delicacy of her sex, and submit to be delivered by a man-midwife[ ]. let her snatch her offspring from her breast, and send it to repair the weakness of its stamina, with the milk of a ruddy cottager[ ]. let art supply the place of nature in the preparation and digestion of all our aliment. let our fine ladies keep up their colour with carmine, and their spirits with ratifia; and let our fine gentlemen defend themselves from the excesses of heat and cold, with lavender and hartshorn. these customs have become necessary in the corrupt stages of society. we must imitate, in these cases, the practice of those physicians who consult the appetite only, in diseases which do not admit of a remedy. [ ] in the enervated age of athens, a law was passed which confined the practice of midwifery only to the men. it was, however, repealed, upon a woman's dying in childbirth, rather than be delivered by a man-midwife. it appears from the bills of mortality in london and dublin, that about one in seventy of those women die in childbirth, who are in the hands of midwives; but from the accounts of the lying-in hospitals in those cities, which are under the care of man-midwives, only one in a hundred and forty perishes in childbirth. [ ] there has been much common-place declamation against the custom among the great, of not suckling their children. nurses were common in rome, in the declension of the empire: hence we find cornelia commended as a rare example of maternal virtue, as much for suckling her sons, as for teaching them eloquence. that nurses were common in egypt, is probable from the contract which pharaoh's daughter made with the unknown mother of moses, to allow her wages for suckling her own child. the same degrees of civilization require the same customs. a woman whose times for eating and sleeping are constantly interrupted by the calls of enervating pleasures, must always afford milk of an unwholesome nature. it may truly be said of a child doomed to live on this aliment, that, as soon as it receives its ------"breath, it sucks in "the lurking principles of death." the state of a country in point of population, temperance, and industry, is so connected with its diseases, that a tolerable idea may be formed of it, by looking over its bills of mortality. hospitals, with all their boasted advantages, exhibit at the same time monuments of the charity and depravity of a people[ ]. the opulence of physicians, and the divisions of their offices, into those of surgery, pharmacy, and midwifery, are likewise proofs of the declining state of a country. in the infancy of the roman empire, the priest performed the office of a physician; so simple were the principles and practice of physic. it was only in the declension of the empire that physicians vied with the emperors of rome in magnificence and splendour[ ]. [ ] "aurengezebe, emperor of persia, being asked, why he did not build hospitals? said, _i will make my empire so rich, that there shall be no need of hospitals_. he ought to have said, i will begin by rendering my subjects rich, and then i will build hospitals. "at rome, the hospitals place every one at his ease, except those who labour, those who are industrious, those who have lands, and those who are engaged in trade. "i have observed, that wealthy nations have need of hospitals, because fortune subjects them to a thousand accidents; but it is plain, that transient assistances are better than perpetual foundations. the evil is momentary; it is necessary, therefore, that the succour should be of the same nature, and that it be applied to particular accidents." spirit of laws, b. xxiii. ch. . it was reserved for the present generation to substitute in the room of public hospitals private dispensaries for the relief of the sick. philosophy and christianity alike concur in deriving praise and benefit from these excellent institutions. they exhibit something like an application of the mechanical powers to the purposes of benevolence; for in what other charitable institutions do we perceive so great a _quantity_ of distress relieved by so small an expence? [ ] the first regular practitioners of physic in rome, were women and slaves. the profession was confined to them above six hundred years. the romans, during this period, lived chiefly upon vegetables, particularly upon pulse; and hence they were called, by their neighbours, pultifagi. they were likewise early inured to the healthy employments of war and husbandry. their diseases, of course, were too few and simple to render the cure of them an object of liberal profession. when their diseases became more numerous and complicated, their investigation and cure required the aids of philosophy. the profession from this time became liberal; and maintained a rank with the other professions which are founded upon the imperfection and depravity of human institutions. physicians are as necessary in the advanced stages of society as surgeons, although their office is less ancient and certain. there are many artificial diseases, in which they give certain relief; and even where their art fails, their prescriptions are still necessary, in order to smooth the avenues of death. i am sorry to add, in this place, that the number of patients in the hospital, and incurables in the almshouse of this city, show that we are treading in the enervated steps of our fellow subjects in britain. our bills of mortality likewise show the encroachments of british diseases upon us. the nervous fever has become so familiar to us, that we look upon it as a natural disease. dr. sydenham, so faithful in his history of fevers, takes no notice of it. dr. cadwallader informed me, that it made its first appearance in this city about five and twenty years ago. it will be impossible to name the consumption without recalling to our minds the memory of some friend or relation, who has perished within these few years by that disease. its rapid progress among us has been unjustly attributed to the growing resemblance of our climate to that of great-britain. the hysteric and hypochondriac diseases, once peculiar to the chambers of the great, are now to be found in our kitchens and workshops. all these diseases have been produced by our having deserted the simple diet and manners of our ancestors. the blessings of literature, commerce, and religion were not _originally_ purchased at the expence of health. the complete enjoyment of health is as compatible with civilization, as the enjoyment of civil liberty. we read of countries, rich in every thing that can form national happiness and national grandeur, the diseases of which are nearly as few and simple as those of the indians. we hear of no diseases among the jews, while they were under their democratical form of government, except such as were inflicted by a supernatural power[ ]. we should be tempted to doubt the accounts given of the populousness of that people, did we not see the practice of their simple customs producing nearly the same populousness in egypt, rome, and other countries of antiquity. the empire of china, it is said, contains more inhabitants than the whole of europe. the political institutions of that country have exempted its inhabitants from a large share of the diseases of other civilized nations. the inhabitants of switzerland, denmark, norway[ ], and sweden, enjoy the chief advantages of civilization without having surrendered for them the blessings of natural health. but it is unnecessary to appeal to ancient or remote nations to prove, that health is not incompatible with civilization. the inhabitants of many parts of new-england, particularly of the province of connecticut, are but little affected by artificial diseases. some of you may remember the time, and our fathers have told those of us who do not, when the diseases of pennsylvania were as few and as simple as those of the indians. the food of the inhabitants was then simple; their only drink was water; their appetites were restrained by labour; religion excluded the influence of sickening passions; private hospitality supplied the want of a public hospital; nature was their only nurse, and temperance their principal physician. but i must not dwell upon this retrospect of primæval manners; and i am too strongly impressed with a hope of a revival of such happy days, to pronounce them the golden age of our province. [ ] the principal employments of the jews, like those of the romans in their simple ages, consisted in war and husbandry. their diet was plain, consisting chiefly of vegetables. their only remedies were plasters and ointments; which were calculated for those diseases which are produced by accidents. in proportion as they receded from their simple customs, we find artificial diseases prevail among them. the leprosy made its appearance in their journey through the wilderness. king asa's pains in his feet, were probably brought on by a fit of the gout. saul and nebuchadnezzar were afflicted with a melancholy. in the time of our saviour, we find an account of all those diseases in judea, which mark the declension of a people; such as, the palsy, epilepsy, mania, blindness, hæmorrhagia uterina, &c. it is unnecessary to suppose, that they were let loose at this juncture, on purpose to give our saviour an opportunity of making them the chief subject of his miracles. they had been produced from natural causes, by the gradual depravity of their manners. it is remarkable, that our saviour chose those artificial diseases for the subject of his miracles, in preference to natural diseases. the efforts of nature, and the operation of medicines, are too slow and uncertain in these cases to detract in the least from the validity of the miracle. he cured peter's mother-in-law, it is true, of a fever; but to show that the cure was miraculous, the sacred historian adds (contrary to what is common after a fever), "that she arose _immediately_, and ministered unto them." [ ] in the city of bergen, which consists of , inhabitants, there is but one physician; who is supported at the expense of the public. pontoppidan's nat. hist. of norway. our esteem for the customs of our savage neighbours will be lessened, when we add, that civilization does not preclude the honours of old age. the proportion of old people is much greater among civilized, than among savage nations. it would be easy to decide this assertion in our favour, by appealing to facts in the natural histories of britain, norway, sweden, north-america[ ], and several of the west-india islands. [ ] it has been urged against the state of longevity in america, that the europeans, who settle among us, generally arrive to a greater age than the americans. this is not occasioned so much by a peculiar firmness in their stamina, as by an increase of vigour which the constitution acquires by a change of climate. a frenchman (cæteris paribus) outlives an englishman in england. a hollander prolongs his life by removing to the cape of good hope. a portuguese gains fifteen or twenty years by removing to brazil. and there are good reasons to believe, that a north-american would derive the same advantages, in point of health and longevity, by removing to europe, which a european derives from coming to this country. from a calculation made by an ingenious foreigner, it appears, that a greater proportion of old people are to be found in connecticut, than in any colony in north-america. this colony contains , inhabitants. they have no public hospitals or poor-houses; nor is a beggar to be seen among them. there cannot be more striking proofs than these facts of the simplicity of their manners. the laws of decency and nature are not necessarily abolished by the customs of civilized nations. in many of these, we read of women among whom nature alone still performs the office of a midwife[ ], and who feel the obligations of suckling their children to be equally binding with the common obligations of morality. [ ] parturition, in the simple ages of all countries, is performed by nature. the israelitish women were delivered even without the help of the egyptian midwives. we read of but two women who died in child-birth in the whole history of the jews. dr. bancroft says, that child-bearing is attended with so little pain in guiana, that the women seem to be exempted from the curse inflicted upon eve. these easy births are not confined to warm climates. they are equally safe and easy in norway and iceland, according to pontoppidan and anderson's histories of those countries. civilization does not render us less fit for the necessary hardships of war. we read of armies of civilized nations, who have endured degrees of cold, hunger, and fatigue, which have not been exceeded by the savages of any country[ ]. [ ] civilized nations have, in the end, always conquered savages as much by their ability to bear hardships, as by their superior military skill. soldiers are not to be chosen indiscriminately. the greatest generals have looked upon sound constitutions to be as essential to soldiers, as bravery or military discipline. count saxe refused soldiers born and bred in large cities; and sought for such only as were bred in mountainous countries. the king of prussia calls young soldiers only to the dangers and honours of the field, in his elegant poem, sur l'art de la guerre, chant . old soldiers generally lose the advantages of their veteranism, by their habits of idleness and debauchery. an able general, and experienced officers, will always supply the defects of age in young soldiers. civilization does not always multiply the avenues of death. it appears from the bills of mortality, of many countries, that fewer in proportion die among civilized, than among savage nations. even the charms of beauty are heightened by civilization. we read of stateliness, proportion, line teeth[ ] and complexions, in both sexes, forming the principal outlines of national characters. [ ] bad teeth are observed chiefly in middle latitudes, which are subject to alternate heats and colds. the inhabitants of norway and russia are as remarkable for their fine teeth as the inhabitants of africa. we observe fine teeth to be universal likewise among the inhabitants of france, who live in a _variable_ climate. these have been ascribed to their protecting their heads from the action of the night air by means of woollen night-caps, and to the extraordinary attention to the teeth of their children. these precautions secure good teeth; and are absolutely necessary in all variable climates, where people do not adopt all the customs of the savage life. the danger of many diseases is not proportioned to their violence, but to their duration. america has advanced but a few paces in luxury and effeminacy. there is yet strength enough in her vitals to give life to those parts which are decayed. she may tread back her steps. for this purpose, i. let our children be educated in a manner more agreeable to nature. ii. let the common people (who constitute the wealth and strength of our country) be preserved from the effects of ardent spirits. had i a double portion of all that eloquence which has been employed in describing the political evils that lately threatened our country, it would be too little to set forth the numerous and complicated _physical_ and _moral_ evils which these liquors have introduced among us. to encounter this _hydra_ requires an arm accustomed, like that of hercules, to vanquish monsters. sir william temple tells us, that formerly in spain no man could be admitted as an evidence in a court, who had once been convicted of drunkenness. i do not call for so severe a law in this country. let us first try the force of severe manners. lycurgus governed more by these, than by his laws. "boni mores non bonæ leges," according to tacitus, were the bulwarks of virtue among the ancient germans. iii. i despair of being able to call the votaries of bacchus from their bottle, and shall therefore leave them to be roused by the more eloquent twinges of the gout. iv. let us be cautious what kind of manufactures we admit among us. the rickets made their first appearance in the manufacturing towns in england. dr. fothergill informed me, that he had often observed, when a pupil, that the greatest part of the chronic patients in the london hospital were spittal-field weavers. i would not be understood, from these facts, to discourage those manufactures which employ women and children: these suffer few inconveniences from a sedentary life: nor do i mean to offer the least restraint to those manufactories among men, which admit of free air, and the exercise of all their limbs. perhaps a pure air, and the abstraction of spiritous liquors, might render sedentary employments less unhealthy in america, even among men, than in the populous towns of great-britain. the population of a country is not to be accomplished by rewards and punishments. and it is happy for america, that the universal prevalence of the protestant religion, the checks lately given to negro slavery, the general unwillingness among us to acknowledge the usurpations of primogeniture, the universal practice of inoculation for the small-pox, and the absence of the plague, render the interposition of government for that purpose unnecessary. these advantages can only be secured to our country by agriculture. this is the true basis of national health, riches, and populousness. nations, like individuals, never rise higher than when they are ignorant whether they are tending. it is impossible to tell from history what will be the effects of agriculture, industry, temperance, and commerce, urged on by the competition of colonies, united in the same general pursuits, in a country, which for extent, variety of soil, climate, and number of navigable rivers, has never been equalled in any quarter of the globe. america is the theatre where human nature will probably receive her last and principal literary, moral, and political honours. but i recall myself from the ages of futurity. the province of pennsylvania has already shown to her sister colonies, the influence of agriculture and commerce upon the number and happiness of a people. it is scarcely a hundred years since our illustrious legislator, with a handful of men, landed upon these shores. although the perfection of our government, the healthiness of our climate, and the fertility of our soil, seemed to ensure a rapid settlement of the province; yet it would have required a prescience bordering upon divine, to have foretold, that in such a short space of time, the province would contain above , inhabitants; and that nearly , of this number should compose a city, which should be the third, if not the second in commerce in the british empire. the pursuits of literature require leisure and a total recess from clearing forests, planting, building, and all the common toils of settling a new country: but before these arduous works were accomplished, the sciences, ever fond of the company of liberty and industry, chose this spot for the seat of their empire in this new world. our college, so catholic in its foundation, and extensive in its objects, already sees her sons executing offices in the highest departments of society. i have now the honour of speaking in the presence of a most respectable number of philosophers, physicians, astronomers, botanists, patriots, and legislators; many of whom have already seized the prizes of honour, which their ancestors had allotted to a much later posterity. our first offering had scarcely found its way into the temple of fame, when the oldest societies in europe turned their eyes upon us, expecting with impatience to see the mighty fabric of science, which, like a well-built arch, can only rest upon the whole of its materials, completely finished from the treasures of this unexplored quarter of the globe. it reflects equal honour upon our society and the honourable assembly of our province, to acknowledge, that we have always found the latter willing to encourage by their patronage, and reward by their liberality, all our schemes for promoting useful knowledge. what may we not expect from this harmony between the sciences and government! methinks i see canals cut, rivers once impassable rendered navigable, bridges erected, and roads improved, to facilitate the exportation of grain. i see the banks of our rivers vying in fruitfulness with the banks of the river of egypt. i behold our farmers nobles; our merchants princes. but i forbear--imagination cannot swell with the subject. i beg leave to conclude, by deriving an argument from our connection with the legislature, to remind my auditors of the duty they owe to the society. patriotism and literature are here connected together; and a man cannot neglect the one, without being destitute of the other. nature and our ancestors have completed their works among us; and have left us nothing to do, but to enlarge and perpetuate our own happiness. an account of the _climate of pennsylvania_, and its influence upon the human body. in order to render the observations upon the epidemic diseases which compose the following volumes more useful, it will be necessary to prefix to them a short account of the climate of pennsylvania, and of its influence upon the human body. this account may perhaps serve further, to lead to future discoveries, and more extensive observations, upon this subject. the state of pennsylvania lies between ° ' ", and ° north latitude, including, of course, ° ' ", equal to miles from its southern to its northern boundary. the western extremity of the state is in the longitude of ° ' ", and the eastern, is that of ' from the meridian of philadelphia, comprehending in a due west course miles, exclusive of the territory lately purchased by pennsylvania from the united states, of which as yet no accurate surveys have been obtained. the state is bounded on the south by part of the state of delaware, by the whole state of maryland, and by virginia to her western extremity. the last named state, the territory lately ceded to connecticut, and lake erie, (part of which is included in pennsylvania) form the western and north-western boundaries of the state. part of new-york, and the territory lately ceded to pennsylvania, with a part of lake erie, compose the northern, and another part of new-york, with a large extent of new-jersey (separated from pennsylvania by the river delaware), compose the eastern boundaries of the state. the lands which form these boundaries (except a part of the states of delaware, maryland, and new-jersey) are in a state of nature. a large tract of the western and north-eastern parts of pennsylvania are nearly in the same uncultivated situation. the state of pennsylvania is intersected and diversified with numerous rivers and mountains. to describe, or even to name them all, would far exceed the limits i have proposed to this account of our climate. it will be sufficient only to remark, that one of these rivers, viz. the susquehannah, begins at the northern boundary of the state, twelve miles from the river delaware, and winding several hundred miles, through a variegated country, enters the state of maryland on the southern line, fifty-eight miles westward of philadelphia; that each of these rivers is supplied by numerous streams of various sizes; that tides flow in parts of two of them, viz. in the delaware and schuylkill; that the rest rise and fall alternately in wet and dry weather; and that they descend with great rapidity, over prominent beds of rocks in many places, until they empty themselves into the bays of delaware and chesapeak on the east, and into the ohio on the western part of the state. the mountains form a considerable part of the state of pennsylvania. many of them appear to be reserved as perpetual marks of the original empire of nature in this country. the allegany, which crosses the state about two hundred miles from philadelphia, in a north, inclining to an eastern course, is the most considerable and extensive of these mountains. it is called by the indians the back-bone of the continent. its height, in different places, is supposed to be about , feet from the adjacent plains. the soil of pennsylvania is diversified by its vicinity to mountains and rivers. the vallies and bottoms consist of a black mould, which extends from a foot to four feet in depth. but in general a deep clay forms the surface of the earth. immense beds of limestone lie beneath this clay in many parts of the state. this account of the soil of pennsylvania is confined wholly to the lands on the east side of the allegany mountain. the soil on the west side of this mountain, shall be described in another place. the city of philadelphia lies in the latitude of ° ', in longitude ° ' from greenwich, and fifty-five miles west from the atlantic ocean. it is situated about four miles due north from the conflux of the rivers delaware and schuylkill. the buildings, which consist chiefly of brick, extend nearly three miles north and south along the delaware, and above half a mile due west towards the schuylkill, to which river the limits of the city extend, the whole of which includes a distance of two miles from the delaware. the land near the rivers, between the city and the conflux of the rivers, is in general low, moist, and subject to be overflowed. the greatest part of it is meadow ground. the land to the northward and westward, in the vicinity of the city, is high, and in general well cultivated. before the year , the ground between the present improvements of the city, and the river schuylkill, was covered with woods. these, together with large tracts of wood to the northward of the city, were cut down during the winter the british army had possession of philadelphia. i shall hereafter mention the influence which the cutting down of these woods, and the subsequent cultivation of the grounds in the neighbourhood of the city, have had upon the health of its inhabitants. the mean height of the ground on which the city stands, is about forty feet above the river delaware. one of the longest and most populous streets in the city rises only a few feet above the river. the air at the north is much purer than at the south end of the city; hence the lamps exhibit a fainter flame in its southern than its northern parts. the tide of the delaware seldom rises more than six feet. it flows four miles in an hour. the width of the river near the city is about a mile. the city, with the adjoining districts of southwark and the northern liberties, contains between and , inhabitants. from the accounts which have been handed down to us by our ancestors, there is reason to believe that the climate of pennsylvania has undergone a material change. thunder and lightning are less frequent, and the cold of our winters and heat of our summers are less uniform, than they were forty or fifty years ago. nor is this all. the springs are much colder, and the autumns more temperate than formerly, insomuch that cattle are not housed so soon by one month as they were in former years. within the last eight years, there have been some exceptions to part of these observations. the winter of the year - , was uniformly and uncommonly cold. the river delaware was frozen near three months during this winter, and public roads for waggons and sleighs connected the city of philadelphia in many places with the jersey shore. the thickness of the ice in the river near the city, was from sixteen to nineteen inches, and the depth of the frost in the ground was from four to five feet, according to the exposure of the ground, and the quality of the soil. this extraordinary depth of the frost in the earth, compared with its depth in more northern and colder countries, is occasioned by the long delay of snow, which leaves the earth without a covering during the last autumnal and the first winter months. many plants were destroyed by the intenseness of the cold during this winter. the ears of horned cattle and the feet of hogs exposed to the air, were frost-bitten; squirrels perished in their holes, and partridges were often found dead in the neighbourhood of farm houses. the mercury in january stood for several hours at ° below , in fahrenheit's thermometer; and during the whole of this month (except on one day), it never rose in the city of philadelphia so high as to the freezing point. the cold in the winter of the year - was as intense, but not so steady, as it was in the winter that has been described. it differed from it materially in one particular, viz. there was a thaw in the month of january, which opened all our rivers for a few days. the summer which succeeded the winter of - , was uniformly warm. the mercury in the thermometer, during this summer, stood on one day (the th of august) at °, and fluctuated between °, and ° for many weeks. the thermometer, in every reference that has been, or shall be made to it, stood in the shade in the open air. i know it has been said by many old people, that the winters in pennsylvania are less cold, and the summers less warm, than they were forty or fifty years ago. the want of thermometrical observations before, and during those years, renders it difficult to decide this question. perhaps the difference of clothing and sensation between youth and old age, in winter and summer, may have laid the foundation of this opinion. i suspect the mean temperature of the air in pennsylvania has not altered, but that the principal change in our climate consists in the heat and cold being less confined than formerly to their natural seasons. i adopt the opinion of doctor williamson[ ] respecting the diminution of the cold in the southern, being occasioned by the cultivation of the northern parts of europe; but no such cultivation has taken place in the countries which lie to the north-west of pennsylvania, nor do the partial and imperfect improvements which have been made in the north-west parts of the state, appear to be sufficient to lessen the cold, even in the city of philadelphia. i have been able to collect no facts, which dispose me to believe that the winters were colder before the year , than they have been since. in the memorable winter of - , the delaware was crossed on the ice, in sleighs, on the th of march, old style, and did not open till the th of the same month. the ground was covered during this winter with a deep snow, and the rays of the sun were constantly obscured by a mist, which hung in the upper regions of the air. in the winter of - , the river was navigable on the th of march; the depth of the snow was moderate, and the gloominess of the cold was sometime suspended for a few days by a cheerful sun. from these facts, it is probable the winter of - was colder than the winter of - . [ ] american philosophical transactions, vol. i. the winter of - exhibited so many peculiarities that it deserves a place in the history of the climate of pennsylvania. the navigation of the delaware was obstructed on the th of december. the weather partook of every disagreeable and distressing property of every cold climate on the globe. these were intense cold, deep snows, hail, sleet, high winds, and heavy rains. they generally occurred in succession, but sometimes most of them took place in the course of four and twenty hours. a serene and star-light evening, often preceded a tempestuous day. the mercury stood for many days, in philadelphia, at ° and ° above in fahrenheit's thermometer. the medium depth of the snow was two feet, but from its fall being accompanied with high winds, its height in many places was three and four feet, particularly in roads, which it rendered so impassable, as to interrupt business and social intercourse, in many parts of the state. from the great depth of the snow, the ground was so much protected from the cold, that the frost extended but six inches below its surface. the newspapers daily furnished distressing accounts of persons perishing with the cold by land and water, and of shipwrecks on every part of the coast of the united states. poultry were found dead, or with frozen feet, in their coops, in many places. this intense cold was not confined to pennsylvania. in norfolk, in virginia, the mercury stood at ° above on the d of january. at lexington, in kentucky, it stood at on the st of the same month. in lower canada the snow was seven feet in depth, which is three feet deeper than in common years. and such was the quantity of ice collected in the northern seas, that a ship was destroyed, and several vessels injured, by large masses of it, floating between the st and d degrees of north latitude. great fears were entertained of an inundation in pennsylvania, from a sudden thaw of the immense quantities of snow and ice that had accumulated during the winter, in every part of the state; but happily they both dissolved away so gradually, as scarcely to injure a bridge or a road. on the th of february the delaware was navigable, and on the d of march no ice was to be seen in it. having premised these general remarks, i proceed to observe, that there are seldom more than twenty or thirty days in summer or winter, in pennsylvania, in which the mercury rises above ° in the former, or falls below ° in the latter season. some old people have remarked, that the number of _extremely_ cold and warm days in successive summers and winters, bears an exact proportion to each other. this was strictly true in the years and . the warmest part of the day in summer is at two, in ordinary, and at three o'clock in the afternoon, in extremely warm weather. from these hours, the heat gradually diminishes till the ensuing morning. the coolest part of the four and twenty hours, is at the break of day. there are seldom more than three or four nights in a summer in which the heat of the air is nearly the same as in the preceding day. after the warmest days, the evenings are generally agreeable, and often delightful. the higher the mercury rises in the day time, the lower it falls the succeeding night. the mercury at ° generally falls to °, while it descends, when at °, but to °. this disproportion between the temperature of the day and night, in summer is always greatest in the month of august. the dews at this time are heavy in proportion to the coolness of the evening. they are sometimes so considerable as to wet the clothes; and there are instances in which marsh-meadows, and even creeks, which have been dry during the summer, have been supplied with their usual waters from no other source, than the dews which have fallen in this month, or in the first weeks of september. there is another circumstance connected with the one just mentioned, which contributes very much to mitigate the heat of summer, and that is, it seldom continues more than two or three days without being succeeded with showers of rain, accompanied sometimes by thunder and lightning, and afterwards by a north-west wind, which produces a coolness in the air that is highly invigorating and agreeable. the warmest weather is _generally_ in the month of july. but intensely warm days are often felt in may, june, august, and september. in the annexed table of the weather for the year , there is an exception to the first of these remarks. it shows that the mean heat of august was greater by a few degrees than that of july. the transitions from heat to cold are often very sudden, and sometimes to very distant degrees. after a day in which the mercury has stood at ° and even °, it sometimes falls, in the course of a single night, to the th, and even to the th degree, insomuch that fires have been found necessary the ensuing morning, especially if the change in the temperature of the air has been accompanied by rain and a south-east wind. in a summer month, in the year , the mercury was observed to fall ° in an hour and a half. there are few summers in which fires are not agreeable during some parts of them. my ingenious friend, mr. david rittenhouse, whose talent for accurate observation extends alike to all subjects, informed me, that he had never passed a summer, during his residence in the country, without discovering frost in every month of the year, except july. the weather is equally variable in pennsylvania during the greatest part of the winter. the mercury fell from ° to - / ° below in four and twenty hours, between the fourth and fifth of february, . in this season nature seems to play at cross purposes. heavy falls of snow are often succeeded in a few days by a general thaw, which frequently in a short time leaves no vestige of the snow. the rivers delaware, schuylkill, and susquehannah have sometimes been frozen (so as to bear horses and carriages of all kinds) and thawed so as to be passable in boats, two or three times in the course of the same winter. the ice is formed for the most part in a gradual manner, and seldom till the water has been previously chilled by a fall of snow. sometimes its production is more sudden. on the night of the st of december, , the delaware was completely frozen over between ten o'clock at night and eight the next morning, so as to bear the weight of a man. an unusual vapour like a fog was seen to rise from the water, in its passage from a fluid to a solid state. this account of the variableness of the weather in winter, does not apply to every part of pennsylvania. there is a line about the ° of the state, beyond which the winters are steady and regular, insomuch that the earth there is seldom without a covering of snow during the three winter months. in this line the climate of pennsylvania forms a union with the climate of the eastern and northern states. the time in which frost and ice begin to show themselves in the neighbourhood of philadelphia, is generally about the latter end of october or the beginning of november. but the intense cold seldom sets in till about the the th or th of december; hence the common saying, "as the day lengthens, the cold strengthens." the coldest weather is commonly in january. the navigation of the river delaware, after being frozen, is seldom practicable for large vessels, before the first week in march. as in summer there are often days in which fires are agreeable, so there are sometimes days in winter in which they are disagreeable. vegetation has been observed in all the winter months. garlic was tasted in butter in january, . the leaves of the willow, the blossoms of the peach tree, and the flowers of the dandelion and the crocus, were all seen in february, ; and i well recollect, when a school-boy, to have seen an apple orchard in full bloom, and small apples on many of the trees, in the month of december. a cold day in winter is often succeeded by a moderate evening. the coldest part of the four and twenty hours, is generally at the break of day. in the most intense cold which has been recorded in philadelphia, within the last twenty years, the mercury stood at ° below . but it appears from the accounts published by messieurs mason and dixon, in the th volume of the transactions of the royal society of london, that the mercury stood at ° below , on the d of january, , at brandywine, about thirty miles to the westward of philadelphia. they inform us, that on the st of the same month, the mercury stood at °, and on the day before at ° below . i have to lament that i am not able to procure any record of the temperature of the air in the same year in philadelphia. from the variety in the height and quality of the soil, and from the difference in the currents of winds and the quantity of rain and snow which fall in different parts of the state, it is very probable this excessive cold may not have extended thirty miles from the place where it was first perceived. the greatest degree of heat upon record in philadelphia, is °. the standard temperature of the air in the city of philadelphia is - / °, which is the temperature of our deepest wells, as also the mean heat of our common spring water. the spring in pennsylvania is generally less pleasant than in many other countries. in march the weather is stormy, variable, and cold. in april, and sometimes in the beginning of may, it is moist, and accompanied by a degree of cold which has been called _rawness_, and which, from its disagreeable effects upon the temper, has been called the _sirocco_ of this country. from the variable nature of the weather in the spring, vegetation advances very differently in different years. the colder the spring, the more favourable it proves to the fruits of the earth. the hopes of the farmer from his fruit-trees in a warm spring are often blasted by a frost in april and may. a fall of snow is remembered with regret by many of them, on the night between the d and th of may, in the year ; also on the morning of the th of may, . such was its quantity on the latter day, that it broke down the limbs of many poplar trees. this effect was ascribed to its not being accompanied with any wind. the colder the winter, the greater delay we generally observe in the return of the ensuing spring. sometimes the weather during the spring months is cloudy and damp, attended occasionally with a gentle fall of rain resembling the spray from a cataract of water. a day of this kind of weather is called, from its resemblance to a damp day in great-britain, "an english day." this damp weather seldom continues more than three or four days. the month of may, , will long be remembered, for having furnished a very uncommon instance of the absence of the sun for fourteen days, and of constant damp or rainy weather. the month of june is the only month in the year which resembles a spring month in the southern countries of europe. the weather is then generally temperate, the sky is serene, and the verdure of the country is universal and delightful. the autumn is the most agreeable season in the year in pennsylvania. the cool evenings and mornings, which generally begin about the first week in september, are succeeded by a moderate temperature of the air during the day. this kind of weather continues with an increase of cold scarcely perceptible, till the middle of october, when the autumn is closed by rain, which sometimes falls in such quantities as to produce destructive freshes in the rivers and creeks, and sometimes descends in gentle showers, which continue, with occasional interruptions by a few fair days, for two or three weeks. these rains are the harbingers of the winter; and the indians have long ago taught the inhabitants of pennsylvania, that the degrees of cold during the winter, are in proportion to the quantity of rain which falls during the autumn[ ]. [ ] i cannot help agreeing with mr. kirwan, in one of his remarks upon the science of meteorology, in the preface to his estimate of the temperature of different latitudes. "this science (says he), if brought to perfection, would enable us at least to foresee those changes in the weather which we could not prevent. great as is the distance between such knowledge and our own present attainments, we have no reason to think it above the level of the powers of the human mind. the motions of the planets must have appeared as perplexed and intricate to those who first contemplated them; yet, by persevering industry, they are now known to the utmost precision. the present is (as the great leibnitz expresses it) in every case pregnant with the future, and the connection must be found by long and attentive observation." the influence which the perfection of this science must have upon health, agriculture, navigation, and commerce, is too obvious to be mentioned. from this account of the temperature of the air in pennsylvania, it is evident that there are seldom more than four months in which the weather is agreeable without a fire. in winter the winds generally come from the north-west in _fair_, and from the north-east in _wet_ weather. the north-west winds are uncommonly dry as well as cold. it is in consequence of the violent action of these winds that trees have uniformly a thicker and more compact bark on their northern than on their southern exposures. even brick houses are affected by the force and dryness of these north-west winds: hence it is much more difficult to demolish the northern than the southern walls of an old brick house. this fact was communicated to me by an eminent bricklayer in the city of philadelphia. the winds in fair weather in the spring, and in warm weather in the summer, blow from the south-west and from west-north-west. the _raw_ air before-mentioned comes from the north-east. the south-west winds likewise usually bring with them those showers of rain in the spring and summer which refresh the earth. they moreover moderate the heat of the weather, provided they are succeeded by a north-west wind. now and then showers of rain come from the west-north-west. there is a common fact connected with the account of the usual winds in pennsylvania, which it may not be improper to mention in this place. while the clouds are seen flying from the south-west, the _scud_, as it is called, or a light vapour, is seen at the same time flying below the clouds from the north-east. the moisture of the air is much greater than formerly, occasioned probably by the exhalations which in former years fell in the form of snow, now descending in the form of rain. the depth of the snow is sometimes between two and three feet, but in general seldom exceeds between six and nine inches. hail frequently descends with snow in winter. once in four or five years large and heavy showers of hail fall in the spring and summer. they generally run in narrow veins (as they are called) of thirty or forty miles in length, and two or three miles in breadth. the heaviest shower of hail that is remembered in philadelphia, did not extend in breadth more than half a mile north and south. some of the stones weighed half an ounce. the windows of many houses were broken by them. this shower fell in may, . from sudden changes in the air, rain and snow often fall together, forming what is commonly called _sleet_. in the uncultivated parts of the state, the snow sometimes lies on the ground till the first week in april. the backwardness of the spring has been ascribed to the passage of the air over the undissolved beds of snow and ice which usually remain, after the winter months are past, on the north-west grounds and waters of the state, and of the adjacent country. the dissolution of the ice and snow in the spring is sometimes so sudden as to swell the creeks and rivers in every part of the state to such a degree, as not only to lay waste the hopes of the husbandman from the produce of his lands, but in some instances to sweep his barns, stables, and even his dwelling house into their currents[ ]. the wind, during a general thaw, comes from the south-west or south-east. [ ] the following account of the thaw of the river susquehannah, in the spring of , was published by the author in the columbian magazine, for november, . it may serve to illustrate a fact related formerly in the history of the winters in pennsylvania, as well as to exhibit an extraordinary instance of the destructive effects of a sudden thaw. "the winter of - was uncommonly cold, insomuch that the mercury in fahrenheit's thermometer stood several times at degrees below . the snows were frequent, and, in many places, from two to three feet deep, during the greatest part of the winter. all the rivers in pennsylvania were frozen, so as to bear waggons and sleds with immense weights. in the month of january a thaw came on suddenly, which opened our rivers so as to set the ice a-driving, to use the phrase of the country. in the course of one night, during the thaw, the wind shifted suddenly to the north-west, and the weather became intensely cold. the ice, which had floated the day before, was suddenly obstructed; and in the river susquehannah, the obstructions were formed in those places where the water was most shallow, or where it had been accustomed to fall. this river is several hundred miles in length, and from half a mile to a mile and a half in breadth, and winds through a hilly, and in many places a fertile and highly cultivated country. it has as yet a most difficult communication with our bays and the sea, occasioned by the number and height of the falls which occur near the mouth of the river. the ice in many places, especially where there were falls, formed a kind of dam, of a most stupendous height. about the middle of march our weather moderated, and a thaw became general. the effects of it were remarkable in all our rivers; but in none so much as in the river i have mentioned. i shall therefore endeavour in a few words to describe them. unfortunately the dams of ice did not give way all at once, nor those which lay nearest to the mouth of the river, first. while the upper dams were set afloat by the warm weather, the lower ones, which were the largest, and in which, of course, the ice was most impacted, remained fixed. in consequence of this, the river rose in a few hours, in many places, above feet, rolling upon its surface large lumps of ice, from to cubic feet in size. the effects of this sudden inundation were terrible. whole farms were laid under water. barns, stables, horses, cattle, fences, mills of every kind, and, in one instance, a large stone house, by feet, were carried down the stream. large trees were torn up by the roots; several small islands, covered with woods, were swept away, and not a vestige of them was left behind. on the barns which preserved their shape, in some instances, for many miles were to be seen living fowls; and, in one dwelling, a candle was seen to burn for some time, after it was swept from its foundation. where the shore was level, the lumps of ice, and the ruins of houses and farms, were thrown a quarter of a mile from the ordinary height of the river. in some instances, farms were ruined by the mould being swept from them by the cakes of ice, or by depositions of sand; while others were enriched by large depositions of mud. the damage, upon the whole, done to the state of pennsylvania by this fresh, was very great. in most places it happened in the day time, or the consequences must have been fatal to many thousands." "i know of but one use that can be derived from recording the history of this inundation. in case of similar obstructions of rivers, from the causes such as have been described, the terrible effects of their being set in motion by means of a general thaw may in part be obviated, by removing such things out of the course of the water and ice as are within our power; particularly cattle, hay, grain, fences, and farming utensils of all kinds." the air, when dry in pennsylvania, has a peculiar elasticity, which renders the heat and cold less insupportable than the same degrees of both are in moister countries. it is in those cases only when summer showers are not succeeded by north-west winds, that the heat of the air becomes oppressive and distressing, from being combined with moisture. from tradition, as well as living observation, it is evident, that the waters in many of the creeks in pennsylvania have diminished considerably within the last fifty years. hence many mills, erected upon large and deep streams of water, now stand idle in dry weather; and many creeks, once navigable in large boats, are now impassable even in canoes. this diminution of the waters has been ascribed to the application of a part of them to the purpose of making meadows. the mean elevation of the barometer in philadelphia, is about inches. the variations in the barometer are very inconsiderable in the greatest changes of the weather, which occur in the city of philadelphia. during the violent and destructive storm which blew from the south-west on the th of november, , it suddenly fell from to - / . mr. rittenhouse informs me, that long and faithful observations have satisfied him, that the alterations in the height of the mercury in the barometer do not _precede_ but always _succeed_ changes in the weather. it falls with the south and south-west, and rises with the north and north-west winds. the quantity of water which falls in rain and snow, one year with another, amounts to from to inches. but to complete the account of variable qualities in the climate, it will be necessary to add, that our summers and autumns are sometimes marked by a _deficiency_, and sometimes by an _excessive_ quantity of rain. the summer and autumn of were uncommonly dry. near two months elapsed without a single shower of rain. there were only two showers in the whole months of september and october. in consequence of this dry weather, there was no second crop of hay. the indian corn failed of its increase in many places, and was cut down for food for cattle. trees newly planted, died. the pasture fields not only lost their verdure, but threw up small clouds of dust when agitated by the feet of men, or beasts. cattle in some instances were driven many miles to be watered, every morning and evening. it was remarked during this dry weather, that the sheep were uncommonly fat, and their flesh well tasted, while all the other domestic animals languished from the want of grass and water. the earth became so inflammable in some places, as to burn above a foot below its surface. a complete consumption of the turf by an accidental fire kindled in the adjoining state of new-jersey, spread terror and distress through a large tract of country. springs of water and large creeks were dried up in many parts of the state. rocks appeared in the river schuylkill, which had never been observed before, by the oldest persons then alive. on one of them were cut the figures . the atmosphere, during part of this dry weather, was often filled, especially in the mornings, with a thin mist, which, while it deceived with the expectation of rain, served the valuable purpose of abating the heat of the sun. a similar mist was observed in france by dr. franklin, in the summer of . the winter which succeeded it was uncommonly cold in france, as well as in pennsylvania. i am sorry that i am not able to furnish the mean heat of each of the summer months. my notes of the weather enable me to add nothing further upon this subject, than that the summer was "uncommonly cool." the summer of the year afforded a remarkable instance of _excess_ in the quantity of rain which sometimes falls in pennsylvania. thirteen days are marked with rain in july, in the records of the weather kept at spring-mill. there fell on the th and th of august seven inches of rain in the city of philadelphia. the wheat suffered greatly by the constant rains of july in the eastern and middle parts of the state. so unproductive a harvest in grain, from wet weather, had not been known, it is said, in the course of the last years. the heat of the air, during these summer months was very moderate. its mean temperature at spring-mill was , in june, , in july, and only , in august. it is some consolation to a citizen of pennsylvania, in recording facts which seem to militate against our climate, to reflect that the difference of the weather, in different parts of the state, at the same season, is happily accommodated to promote an increase of the same objects of agriculture; and hence a deficiency of crops has never been known in any one year throughout the _whole_ state. the aurora borealis and meteors are seen occasionally in pennsylvania. in the present imperfect state of our knowledge of their influence upon the human body, it will be foreign to the design of this history of our climate to describe them. storms and hurricanes are not unknown in pennsylvania. they occur once in four or five years, but they are most frequent and destructive in the autumn. they are generally accompanied by rain. trees are torn up by the roots, and the rivers and creeks are sometimes swelled so suddenly as to do considerable damage to the adjoining farms. the wind, during these storms, generally blows from the south-east and south-west. in the storms which occurred in september, , and in the same month of the year , the wind veered round contrary to its usual course, and blew from the north. after what has been said, the character of the climate of pennsylvania may be summed up in a few words. there are no two successive years alike. even the same successive seasons and months differ from each other every year. perhaps there is but one steady trait in the character of our climate, and that is, it is uniformly variable. to furnish the reader with a succinct view of the weather in pennsylvania, that includes all the articles that have been mentioned, i shall here sub-join a table containing the result of meteorological observations made near the river schuylkill, for one year, in the neighbourhood of philadelphia, by an ingenious french gentleman, mr. legeaux, who divides his time between rural employments, and useful philosophical pursuits. this table is extracted from the columbian magazine, for february, . the height of spring-mill above the city of philadelphia, is supposed to be about feet. |====================================================================| | meteorological observations, made at spring-mill, | | miles nnw of philadelphia. result of the year . | |====================================================================| | | thermometer. | barometer. | prevailing | | | of | de | | wind. | | month. |_fahrenheit_,| _reaumur_, | mean height | | | | mean degree |degrés moyens| | | | | d. / o | d. / o |in. pts. / | | |----------+-------------+-------------+-------------+---------------| |january | | | |variable still | |february | | | |ne | |march | | | |w | |april | | | |still, sw | |may | | | |still, wsw | |june | | | |wnw | |july | | | |wwsw var. | |august | | | |w | |september | | | |wnw | |october | | | |wnw vari. | |november | | | |still, vari. | |december | | | |wnw | |----------+-------------+-------------+-------------+---------------| | | feb. | feb. d. du| mar. | | | result. |greatest d. |plus. gr. | greatest | | | |of cold. |froid. | elevation. | | | | | | | | | |-------------+-------------+-------------| | | | july | july plus | febr. least| wnw | | |greatest d. |g. d. de |elevation. | | | |of heat. |chaud. | | | | | | | | | | |-------------+-------------+-------------| | | |variation. | variation. |variation. | | | | | | | | |----------|-------------+-------------+-------------|---------------| | |temperature. |temperature. |mean elevat. | | | | | | | | |====================================================================| | month. | days of | water | weather. key for left | | | [key | of rain | a=aur. bor. | | | at right] | and snow. | r=rain th=thunder | | |a|r |th|s |t|in. pts. / | s=snow t=tempest | |----------+-+--+--+--+-+-------------+------------------------------| |january | | | | | | |fair, still, cold, and snow. | |february | | | | | | |fair, overcast. | |march | | | | | | |fair, windy. | |april | | | | | | |fair, and very dry. | |may | | | | | | |foggy, cold, and wet. | |june | | | | | | |very fair & growing weather. | |july | | | | | | |fair, and overcast. | |august | | | | | | |very fair, and cloudy. | |september | | | | | | |fair weather. | |october | | | | | | |foggy, fair, and dry weather. | |november | | | | | | |very fair. | |december | | | | | | |very fair, and very dry. | |----------+-+--+--+--+-+-------------+------------------------------| | result. | | | | | | |temperature of the year . | | | | | very fair, dry, abundant in | | | | | every thing, and healthy. | |====================================================================| it is worthy of notice, how near the mean heat of the year, and of the month of april, in two successive years, are to each other in the same place. the mean heat of april, , was ° , that of april, , was ° . by the table of the mean heat of each month in the year, it appears that the mean heat of was ° at spring-mill. the following accounts of the climates of pekin and madrid, which lie within a few minutes of the same latitude as philadelphia, may serve to show how much climates are altered by local and relative circumstances. the account of the temperature of the air at pekin will serve further to show, that with all the advantages of the highest degrees of cultivation which have taken place in china, the winters are colder, and the summers warmer there than in pennsylvania, principally from a cause which will probably operate upon the winters of pennsylvania for many centuries to come, viz. the vicinity of an uncultivated north-west country. "pekin, lat. ° ', long. ° ' w. "by five years observations, its annual mean temperature was found to be ° '. january °, july °, february august march september april october may november june °, december "the temperature of the atlantic under this parallel is , but the standard of this part of the globe is the north pacific, which is here or degrees colder than the atlantic. the yellow sea is the nearest to pekin, being about miles distant from it; but it is itself cooled by the mountainous country of corea, which interposes between it and the ocean, for a considerable part of its extent. besides, all the northern parts of china (in which pekin lies) must be cooled by the vicinity of the mountains of chinese tartary, among which the cold is said to be excessive. "the greatest cold usually experienced during this period was °, the greatest heat, °: on the th of july, , the heat arose to ° and °: a n. e. or n. w. wind produces the greatest cold, a s. or s. w. or s. e. the greatest heat[ ]." [ ] " . mem. scav. etrang. p. ." "madrid, lat. ° ', long. ° ' e. the usual heat in summer is said to be from ° to °; even at night it seldom falls below °; the mean height of the barometer is , . it seems to be about feet above the level of the sea[ ]." [ ] "mem. par. , p. ." the above accounts are extracted from mr. kirwan's useful and elaborate estimate of the temperature of different latitudes. the history which has been given of the climate of pennsylvania, is confined chiefly to the country on the east side of the allegany mountain. on the west side of this mountain, the climate differs materially from that of the south-eastern parts of the state in the temperature of the air, in the effects of the winds upon the weather, and in the quantity of rain and snow which falls every year. the winter seldom breaks up on the mountains before the th of march. a fall of snow was once perceived upon it, which measured an inch and a half, on the th day of june. the trees which grow upon it are small, and indian corn is with difficulty brought to maturity, even at the foot of the east side of it. the south-west winds on the west side of the mountain are accompanied by cold and rain. the soil is rich, consisting of near a foot, in many places, of black mould. the roads in this country are muddy in winter, but seldom dusty in summer. the arrangement of strata of the earth on the west side, differs materially from their arrangement on the east side the mountain. "the country (says mr. rittenhouse, in a letter to a friend in philadelphia[ ]), when viewed from the western ridge of the allegany, appears to be one vast extended plain. all the various strata of stone seem to lie undisturbed in the situation in which they were first formed, and the layers of stone, sand, clay, and coal, are nearly _horizontal_." [ ] columbian magazine, for october, . the temperature of the air on the west is seldom so hot, or so cold, as on the east side of the mountain. by comparing the state of a thermometer examined by dr. bedford at pittsburg, miles from philadelphia, it appears that the weather was not so cold by twelve degrees in that town, as it was in philadelphia, on the th of february, . to show the difference between the weather at spring-mill and in pittsburg, i shall here sub-join an account of it, in both places, the first taken by mr. legeaux, and the other by doctor bedford. +----------------------------------------------------------+ | meteorological observations, made at spring-mill, | | miles nnw. of philadelphia. april, . | +-------+------------------------+-------------+-----------+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | thermometer | | | | |-------------+----------| barometer. | | | | of | de | | | | |_fahrenheit_,|_reaumur_,| mean | | | d. | mean | degrés | height | | | of the| degree | moyens | |prevailing | | month.| d. / o | d. / o|in. pts. / | wind. | +-------+-------------+--------+-+-------------+-----------+ | | | | | | |w. | | | | | | | |calm. | | | | | | | |changeable.| | | | | | | |sw. | | | | | | | |e. | | | | | | | |calm. | | | | | | | |ne. | | | | | | | |e. | | | | | | | |w. | | | | | | | |w. | | | | | | | |w. | | | | | | | |calm. | | | | | | | |sw. | | | | | | | |e. | | | | | | | |sw. | +-------+----- --+---+-- -----+-+-------------+-----------+ | meteorological observations, made at pittsburg, | | miles west of philadelphia. april, . | +-------+---------+---+--------+-+-------------+-----------+ | | | | | | |sw. | | | | | | | |ne. by n. | | | | | | | |se. | | | | | | | |calm. | | | | | | | |se. by s. | | | | | | | |sw. | | | | | | | |ne. by n. | | | | | | | |se. by s. | | | | | | | |nw. by n. | | | | | | | |sw. | | | | | | | |calm. | | | | | | | |sw. | | | | | | | |calm. | | | | | | | |variable. | | | | | | | |w. | +-------+---------+---+--------+-+-------------+-----------+ +------------------------------------------------------+ | meteorological observations, made at spring-mill, | | miles nnw. of philadelphia. april, . | +-------+-----------------------+----------------------+ | | days of | | | |aur. boreal. | | | | |rain. | | | | | |thunder. | | | | | | |snow. | | | | | | | | +-------------| | | | | | | | | water. | | | d. | | | | | | of rain | | | of the| | | | | | and snow. | | | month.| | | | | |in. pts. / | weather. | +-------+-+-+-+-+-+-------------+----------------------+ | | | | | | | |overcast, fair. | | | | | | | | |overcast and windy. | | | | | | | | |overcast, rainy. | | | | | | | | |overcast. | | | | | | | | |overcast, fair. | | | | | | | | |overcast, rainy. | | | | | | | | |overcast, rainy. | | | | | | | | |rainy. | | | | | | | | |overcast, windy. | | | | | | | | |fair. | | | | | | | | |very fair. | | | | | | | | |overcast, rainy. | | | | | | | | |very fair. | | | | | | | | |fair, overcast, rainy.| | | | | | | | |foggy, rainy. | +-------+-+-+-+-+-+-------------+----------------------+ | meteorological observations, made at pittsburg, | | miles west of philadelphia. april, . | +-------+-+-+-+-+-+-------------+----------------------+ | | | | | | | |cloudy. | | | | | | | | |clear. | | | | | | | | |cloudy. | | | | | | | | |clear. | | | | | | | | |cloudy. | | | | | | | | |cloudy. | | | | | | | | |cloudy. | | | | | | | | |cloudy. | | | | | | | | |cloudy. | | | | | | | | |cloudy, with wind. | | | | | | | | |clear. | | | | | | | | |cloudy, with wind. | | | | | | | | |clear. | | | | | | | | |cloudy. | | | | | | | | |cloudy. | +-------+-+-+-+-+-+-------------+----------------------+ from a review of all the facts which have been mentioned, it appears that the climate of pennsylvania is a compound of most of the climates in the world. here we have the moisture of britain in the spring, the heat of africa in summer, the temperature of italy in june, the sky of egypt in the autumn, the cold and snows of norway and the ice of holland in the winter, the tempests (in a certain degree) of the west-indies in every season, and the variable winds and weather of great-britain in every month of the year. from this history of the climate of pennsylvania, it is easy to ascertain what degrees of health, and what diseases prevail in the state. as we have the climates, so we have the health, and the acute diseases, of all the countries that have been mentioned. without attempting to enumerate the diseases, i shall only add a few words upon the _time_ and _manner_ in which they are produced. i. it appears from the testimonies of many aged persons, that pleurisies and inflammatory diseases of all kinds, are less frequent now than they were forty or fifty years ago. ii. it is a well known fact, that intermitting and bilious fevers have increased in pennsylvania in proportion as the country has been _cleared of its wood_, in many parts of the state. iii. it is equally certain that these fevers have lessened, or disappeared, in proportion as the country has been _cultivated_. iv. heavy rains and freshes in the spring seldom produce fevers, unless they are succeeded by unseasonably warm weather. v. sudden changes from great heat to cold, or cool weather, if they occur before the th of august, seldom produce fevers. after that time, they are generally followed by them. vi. the same state of the atmosphere, whether cold or warm, moist or dry, continued for a long time, without any material changes, is always healthy. acute and inflammatory fevers were in vain looked for in the cold winter of - . the dry summer of , and the wet summer of , were likewise uncommonly healthy in the city of philadelphia. these facts extend only to those diseases which depend upon the sensible qualities of the air, for diseases from miasmata and contagion, are less influenced by the uniformity of the weather. the autumn of was very sickly in philadelphia, from the peculiar situation of the grounds in the neighbourhood of the city, while the country was uncommonly healthy. the dry summer and autumn of were uncommonly sickly in the country, from the extensive sources of morbid exhalations which were left by the diminution of the waters in the creeks and rivers. vii. diseases are often _generated_ in one season and _produced_ in another. hence we frequently observe fevers of different kinds to _follow_ every species of the weather that was mentioned in the last observation. viii. the excessive heat in pennsylvania has sometimes proved fatal to persons who have been much exposed to it. its morbid effects discover themselves by a difficulty of breathing, a general languor, and, in some instances, by a numbness and an immobility of the extremities. the excessive cold in pennsylvania has more frequently proved fatal, but it has been chiefly to those persons who have sought a defence from it, by large draughts of spiritous liquors. its operation in bringing on sleepiness previous to death, is well known. on the th of february, , many people were affected by the cold. it produced a violent pain in the head; and, in one instance, a sickness at the stomach, and a vomiting appeared to be the consequence of it. i have frequently observed that a greater number of old people die, during the continuance of extreme cold and warm weather, than in the same number of days in moderate weather. ix. may and june are usually the healthiest months in the year. x. the influence of the winds upon health, depends very much upon the nature of the country over which they pass. winds which pass over mill-dams and marshes in august and september, generally carry with them the seeds of fevers. xi. the country in the neighbourhood of philadelphia was formerly more sickly than the central parts of the city, after the th of august. since the year , the reverse of this has been the case. xii. the night-air is always unwholesome from the th of august, especially during the passive state of the system in _sleep_. the frequent and sudden changes of the air from heat to cold render it unsafe to sleep with open windows, during the autumnal months. xiii. valetudinarians always enjoy the most health in pennsylvania in the summer and winter months. the spring, in a particular manner, is very unfavourable to them. i shall conclude the account of the influence of the climate of pennsylvania upon the human body, with the following observations. . the sensations of heat and cold are influenced so much by outward circumstances, that we often mistake the degrees of them by neglecting to use such conveniences as are calculated to obviate the effects of their excess. a native of jamaica often complains less of the heat, and a native of canada of the cold, in their respective countries, than they do under certain circumstances in pennsylvania. even a pennsylvanian frequently complains less of the heat in jamaica, and of the cold in canada, than in his native state. the reason of this is plain. in countries where heat and cold are intense and regular, the inhabitants guard themselves, by accommodating their houses and dresses to each of them. the instability and short duration of excessive heat and cold in pennsylvania, have unfortunately led its inhabitants, in many instances, to neglect adopting customs, which are used in hot and cold countries to guard against them. where houses are built with a southern or south-western front exposure, and where other accommodations to the climate are observed in their construction, the disagreeable excesses of heat and cold are rendered much less perceptible in pennsylvania. perhaps the application of the principles of philosophy and taste to the construction of our houses, within the last thirty or forty years, may be another reason why some old people have supposed that the degrees of heat and cold are less in pennsylvania than they were in former years. . the variable nature of the climate of pennsylvania does not render it _necessarily_ unhealthy. doctor huxham has taught us, that the healthiest seasons in great-britain have often been accompanied by the most variable weather. his words upon this subject convey a reason for the fact. "when the constitutions of the year are frequently changing, so that by the _contrast_ a sort of _equilibrium_ is kept up, and health with it; and that especially if persons are careful to guard themselves well against these sudden changes[ ]." perhaps no climate or country is unhealthy, where men acquire from experience, or tradition, the arts of accommodating themselves to it. the history of all the nations of the world, whether savage, barbarous, or civilized, previously to a mixture of their manners by an intercourse with strangers, seems to favour this opinion. the climate of china appears, in many particulars, to resemble that of pennsylvania. the chinese wear loose garments of different lengths, and increase or diminish the number of them, according to the frequent and sudden changes of their weather; hence they have very few acute diseases among them. those inhabitants of pennsylvania who have acquired the arts of conforming to the changes and extremes of our weather in dress, diet, and manners, escape most of those acute diseases which are occasioned by the sensible qualities of the air; and faithful inquiries and observations have proved, that they attain to as great ages as the same number of people in any part of the world. [ ] observations on the air and epidemic diseases, vol. i. p. . an account of the bilious remitting fever, as it appeared _in philadelphia_, in the summer and autumn of the year . before i proceed to describe this fever, it will be necessary to give a short account of the weather, and of the diseases which preceded its appearance. the spring of was dry and cool. a catarrh appeared among children between one year, and seven years of age. it was accompanied by a defluxion from the eyes and nose, and by a cough and dyspn[oe]a, resembling, in some instances, the cynanche trachealis, and in others a peripneumony. in some cases it was complicated with the symptoms of a bilious remitting, and intermitting fever. the exacerbations of this fever were always attended with dyspn[oe]a and cough. a few patients expectorated blood. some had swellings behind their ears, and others were affected with small ulcers in the throat. i met with only one case of this fever in which the pulse indicated bleeding. the rest yielded in a few days to emetics, blisters, and the bark, assisted by the usual more simple remedies in such diseases. an intermittent prevailed among adults in the month of may. july and august were uncommonly warm. the mercury stood on the th of august at - / °, on the th of the same month at °, and for several days afterwards at °. many labouring people perished during this month by the heat, and by drinking, not only cold water, but cold liquors of several kinds, while they were under the violent impressions of the heat. the vomiting and purging prevailed universally, during these two warm months, among the children, and with uncommon degrees of mortality. children from one year to eight and nine years old were likewise very generally affected by blotches and little boils, especially in their faces. an eruption on the skin, called by the common people the prickly heat, was very common at this time among persons of all ages. the winds during these months blew chiefly from the south, and south-west. of course they passed over the land which lies between the city, and the conflux of the rivers delaware and schuylkill, the peculiar situation of which, at that time, has been already described. the dock, and the streets of philadelphia, supplied the winds at this season, likewise, with a portion of their unwholesome exhalations. the muschetoes were uncommonly numerous during the autumn. a certain sign (says dr. lind) of an unwholesome atmosphere. the remitting fever made its first appearance in july and august, but its symptoms were so mild, and its extent so confined, that it excited no apprehensions of its subsequent more general prevalence throughout the city. on the th of august the air became suddenly very cool. many hundred people in the city complained, the next day, of different degrees of indisposition, from a sense of lassitude, to a fever of the remitting type. this was the signal of the epidemic. the weather continued cool during the remaining part of the month, and during the whole month of september. from the exposure of the district of southwark (which is often distinguished by the name of the _hill_) to the south-west winds, the fever made its first appearance in that appendage of the city. scarcely a family, and, in many families, scarcely a member of them, escaped it. from the hill it gradually travelled along the second street from the delaware, improperly called front-street. for a while it was confined to this street only, after it entered the city, and hence it was called by some people the _front-street fever_. it gradually spread through other parts of the city, but with very different degrees of violence. it prevailed but little in the northern liberties. it was scarcely known beyond fourth-street from the delaware. intemperance in eating or drinking, riding in the sun or rain, watching, fatigue, or even a fright, but more frequently cold, all served to excite the seeds of this fever into action, where-ever they existed. all ages and both sexes were affected by this fever. seven of the practitioners of physic were confined by it nearly at the same time. the city, during the prevalence of the fever, was filled with an unusual number of strangers, many of whom, particularly the friends (whose yearly meeting was held in the month of september), were affected by it. no other febrile disease was observed during this time in the city. this fever generally came on with rigour, but seldom with a regular chilly fit, and often without any sensation of cold. in some persons it was introduced by a slight sore throat, and in others by a hoarseness which was mistaken for a common cold. a giddiness in the head was the forerunner of the disease in some people. this giddiness attacked so suddenly, as to produce, in several instances, a faintness, and even symptoms of apoplexy. it was remarkable, that all those persons who were affected in this violent manner, recovered in two or three days. i met with one instance of this fever attacking with coma, and another with convulsions, and with many instances, in which it was introduced by a delirium. the pains which accompanied this fever were exquisitely severe in the head, back, and limbs. the pains in the head were sometimes in the back parts of it, and at other times they occupied only the eyeballs. in some people, the pains were so acute in their backs and hips, that they could not lie in bed. in others, the pains affected the neck and arms, so as to produce in one instance a difficulty of moving the fingers of the right hand. they all complained more or less of a soreness in the seats of these pains, particularly when they occupied the head and eyeballs. a few complained of their flesh being sore to the touch, in every part of the body. from these circumstances, the disease was sometimes believed to be a rheumatism; but its more general name among all classes of people was, the _break-bone fever_. i met with one case of pain in the back, and another of an acute ear-ach, both of which returned periodically every night, and without any fever. a nausea universally, and in some instances a vomiting, accompanied by a disagreeable taste in the mouth, attended this fever. the bowels were, in most cases, regular, except where the disease fell with its whole force upon them, producing a dysentery. the tongue was generally moist, and tinctured of a yellow colour. the urine was high coloured, and in its usual quantity in fevers. the skin was generally moist, especially where the disease terminated on the third or fourth day. the pulse was quick and full, but never hard, in a single patient that came under my care, till the th of september. it was remarkable, that little, and, in some instances, no thirst attended this fever. a screatus, or constant hawking and spitting, attended in many cases through the whole disease, and was a favourable symptom. there were generally remissions in this fever every morning, and sometimes in the evening. the exacerbations were more severe every other day, and two exacerbations were often observed in one day. a rash often appeared on the third and fourth days, which proved favourable. this rash was accompanied, in some cases, by a burning in the palms of the hands and soles of the feet. many people at this time, who were not confined to their beds, and some, who had no fever, had an efflorescence on their skins. in several persons the force of the disease seemed to fall upon the face, producing swellings under the jaw and in the ears, which in some instances terminated in abscesses. when the fever did not terminate on the third or fourth day, it frequently ran on to the eleventh, fourteenth, and even twentieth days, assuming in its progress, according to its duration, the usual symptoms of the typhus gravior, or mitior, of doctor cullen. in some cases, the discharge of a few spoons-full of blood from the nose accompanied a solution of the fever on the third or fourth day; while in others, a profuse hæmorrhage from the nose, mouth, and bowels, on the tenth and eleventh days, preceded a fatal issue of the disease. several cases came under my care, in which the fever was succeeded by a jaundice. the disease terminated in some cases without sweating, or a sediment in the urine; nor did i observe such patients more disposed to relapse than others, provided they took a sufficient quantity of the bark. about the beginning of october the weather became cool, accompanied by rain and an easterly wind. this cool and wet weather continued for four days. the mercury in the thermometer fell to °, and fires became agreeable. from this time the fever evidently declined, or was accompanied by inflammatory symptoms. on the th of october, i met with a case of inflammatory angina; and on the next day i visited a patient who had a complication of the bilious fever with a pleurisy, and whose blood discovered strong marks of the presence of the inflammatory diathesis. his stools were of a green and black colour. on the third day of his disease a rash appeared on his skin, and on the fourth, in consequence of a second bleeding, his fever terminated with the common symptoms of a crisis. during the latter end of october, and the first weeks in november, the mercury in the thermometer fluctuated between ° and °. pleurisies and inflammatory diseases of all kinds now made their appearance. they were more numerous and more acute, than in this stage of the autumn, in former years. i met with one case of pleurisy in november, which did not yield to less than four plentiful bleedings. i shall now add a short account of the method i pursued in the treatment of this fever. i generally began by giving a gentle vomit of tartar emetic. this medicine, if given while the fever was in its forming state, frequently produced an immediate cure; and if given after its formation, on the _first_ day, seldom failed of producing a crisis on the third or fourth day. the vomit always discharged more or less bile. if a nausea, or an ineffectual attempt to vomit continued after the exhibition of the tartar emetic, i gave a second dose of it with the happiest effects. if the vomit failed of opening the bowels, i gave gentle doses of salts and cream of tartar[ ], or of the butter-nut pill[ ], so as to procure two or three plentiful stools. the matter discharged from the bowels was of a highly bilious nature. it was sometimes so acrid as to excoriate the rectum, and so offensive, as to occasion, in some cases, sickness and faintness both in the patients and in their attendants. in every instance, the patients found relief by these evacuations, especially from the pains in the head and limbs. [ ] i have found that cream of tartar renders the purging neutral salts less disagreeable to the taste and stomach; but accident has lately taught me, that the juice of two limes or of one lemon, with about half an ounce of loaf sugar, added to six drachms of glauber or epsom salt, in half a pint of boiling water, form a mixture that is nearly as pleasant as strong beverage. [ ] this pill is made from an extract of a strong decoction of the bark of the white walnut-tree. in those cases, where the prejudices of the patients against an emetic, or where an advanced state of pregnancy, or a habitual predisposition to a vomiting of blood occurred, i discharged the bile entirely by means of the lenient purges that have been mentioned. in this practice i had the example of doctor cleghorn, who prescribed purges with great success in a fever of the same kind in minorca, with that which has been described[ ]. doctor lining prescribed purges with equal success in an autumnal pleurisy in south carolina, which i take to have been a form of a bilious remittent, accompanied by an inflammatory affection of the breast. [ ] the tertiana interposita remissione tantum of dr. cullen. after evacuating the contents of the stomach and bowels, i gave small doses of tartar emetic, mixed with glauber's salt. this medicine excited a general perspiration. it likewise kept the bowels gently open, by which means the bile was discharged as fast as it was accumulated. i constantly recommended to my patients, in this stage of the disorder, to _lie in bed_. this favoured the eruption of the rash, and the solution of the disease by perspiration. persons who struggled against the fever by _sitting up_, or who attempted to shake it off by labour or exercise, either sunk under it, or had a slow recovery. a clergyman of a respectable character from the country, who was attacked by the disease in the city, returned home, from a desire of being attended by his own family, and died in a few days afterwards. this is only one, of many cases, in which i have observed travelling, even in the easiest carriages, to prove fatal in fevers after they were formed, or after the first symptoms had shown themselves. the quickest and most effectual way of conquering a fever, in most cases, is, by an early submission to it. the drinks i recommended to my patients were sage and balm teas, weak punch, lemonade, wine whey, tamarind and apple water. the apple water should be made by pouring boiling water upon slices of raw apples. it is more lively than that which is made by pouring the water on roasted apples. i found obvious advantages, in many cases, from the use of pediluvia, every night. in every case, i found the patients refreshed and relieved by frequent changes of their linen. on the third or fourth day, in the forenoon, the pains in the head and back generally abated, with a sweat which was diffused over the whole body. the pulse at this time remained quick and weak. this was, however, no objection to the use of the bark, a few doses of which immediately abated its quickness, and prevented a return of the fever. if the fever continued beyond the third or fourth day without an intermission, i always had recourse to blisters. those which were applied to the neck, and behind the ears, produced the most immediate good effects. they seldom failed of producing an intermission in the fever, the day after they were applied. where delirium or coma attended, i applied the blister to the neck on the _first_ day of the disease. a worthy family in this city will always ascribe the life of a promising boy, of ten years old, to the early application of a blister to the neck, in this fever. where the fever did not yield to blisters, and assumed malignant, or typhus symptoms, i gave the medicines usually exhibited in both those states of fever. i took notice, in the history of this fever, that it was sometimes accompanied with symptoms of a dysentery. where this disease appeared, i prescribed lenient purges and opiates. where these failed of success, i gave the bark in the intermissions of the pain in the bowels, and applied blisters to the wrists. the good effects of these remedies led me to conclude, that the dysentery was the febris introversa of dr. sydenham. i am happy in having an opportunity, in this place, of bearing a testimony in favour of the usefulness of opium in this disease, after the necessary evacuations had been made. i yielded, in prescribing it at first, to the earnest solicitations of my patients for something to give them relief from their insupportable pains, particularly when they were seated in the eyeballs and head. its salutary effects in procuring sweat, and a remission of the fever, led me to prescribe it afterwards in almost every case, and always with the happiest effects. those physicians enjoy but little pleasure in practising physic, who know not how much of the pain and anguish of fevers, of a certain kind, may be lessened by the judicious use of opium. in treating of the remedies used in this disease, i have taken no notice of blood-letting. out of several hundred patients whom i visited in this fever, i did not meet with a single case, before the th of september, in which the state of the pulse indicated this evacuation. it is true, the pulse was _full_, but never _hard_. i acknowledge that i was called to several patients who had been bled without the advice of a physician, who recovered afterwards on the usual days of the solution of the fever. this only can be ascribed to that disposition which doctor cleghorn attributes to fevers, to preserve their types under every variety of treatment, as well as constitution. but i am bound to declare further, that i heard of several cases in which bleeding was followed by a fatal termination of the disease. in this fever relapses were very frequent, from exposure to the rain, sun, or night air, and from an excess in eating or drinking. the convalescence from this disease was marked by a number of extraordinary symptoms, which rendered patients the subjects of medical attention for many days after the pulse became perfectly regular, and after the crisis of the disease. a bitter taste in the mouth, accompanied by a yellow colour on the tongue, continued for near a week. most of those who recovered complained of nausea, and a total want of appetite. a faintness, especially upon sitting up in bed, or in a chair, followed this fever. a weakness in the knees was universal. i met with two patients, who were most sensible of this weakness in the right knee. an inflammation in one eye, and in some instances in both eyes, occurred in several patients after their recovery. but the most remarkable symptom of the convalescence from this fever, was an uncommon dejection of the spirits. i attended two young ladies, who shed tears while they vented their complaints of their sickness and weakness. one of them very aptly proposed to me to change the name of the disease, and to call it, in its present stage, instead of the break-bone, the _break-heart fever_. to remove these symptoms, i gave the tincture of bark and elixir of vitriol in frequent doses. i likewise recommended the plentiful use of ripe fruits; but i saw the best effects from temperate meals of oysters, and a liberal use of porter. to these was added, gentle exercise in the open air, which gradually completed the cure. an account of the _scarlatina anginosa_, as it appeared in philadelphia, in the years and . the beginning of the month of july was unusually cool; insomuch that the mercury in fahrenheit's thermometer stood at ° in the day time, and fires were very comfortable, especially in the evening. in the last week but one of this month, the weather suddenly became so warm, that the mercury rose to - / °, at which it remained for three days. as this heat was accompanied by no breeze from any quarter, the sense of it was extremely distressing to many people. upwards of twenty persons died in the course of those three days, from the excess of the heat, and from drinking cold water. three old people died suddenly within this space of time. this extreme heat was succeeded by cool weather, the mercury having fallen to °, and the month closed with producing a few intermitting and remitting fevers, together with several cases of inflammatory angina. the weather in the month of august was extremely variable. the mercury, after standing for several days at °, suddenly fell so low, as not only to render fires necessary, but in many places to produce frost. every form of fever made its appearance in this month. the synocha was so acute, in several cases, as to require from three to four bleedings. the remitting fever was accompanied by an uncommon degree of nausea and faintness. several people died, after a few days' illness, of the malignant bilious fever, or typhus gravior, of dr. cullen. the intermittents had nothing peculiar in them, in their symptoms or method of cure. towards the close of the month, the scarlatina anginosa made its appearance, chiefly among children. the month of september was cool and dry, and the scarlatina anginosa became epidemic among adults as well as young people. in most of the patients who were affected by it, it came on with a chilliness and a sickness at the stomach, or a vomiting; which last was so invariably present, that it was with me a pathognomonic sign of the disease. the matter discharged from the stomach was always bile. the swelling of the throat was in some instances so great, as to produce a difficulty of speaking, swallowing, and breathing. in a few instances, the speech was accompanied by a squeaking voice, resembling that which attends the cynanche trachealis. the ulcers on the tonsils were deep, and covered with white, and, in some instances, with black sloughs. in several cases, there was a discharge of a thick mucus from the nose, from the beginning, but it oftener occurred in the decline of the disease, which most frequently happened on the fifth day. sometimes the subsiding of the swelling of the throat was followed by a swelling behind the ears. an eruption on the skin generally attended the symptoms which have been described. but this symptom appeared with considerable variety. in some people it preceded, and in others it followed the ulcers and swelling of the throat. in some, it appeared only on the outside of the throat, and on the breast; in others, it appeared chiefly on the limbs. in a few it appeared on the second or third day of the disease, and never returned afterwards. i saw two cases of eruption without a single symptom of sore throat. the face of one of those patients was swelled, as in the erisypelas. in the other, a young girl of seven years old, there was only a slight redness on the skin. she was seized with a vomiting, and died delirious in fifty-four hours. soon after her death, a livid colour appeared on the outside of her throat. the bowels, in this degree of the disease, were in general regular. i can recollect but few cases which were attended by a diarrh[oe]a. the fever which accompanied the disease was generally the typhus mitior of doctor cullen. in a few cases it assumed symptoms of great malignity. the disease frequently went off with a swelling of the hands and feet. i saw one instance in a gentlewoman, in whom this swelling was absent, who complained of very acute pains in her limbs, resembling those of the rheumatism. in two cases which terminated fatally, there were large abscesses; the one on the outside, and the other on the inside of the throat. the first of these cases was accompanied by troublesome sores on the ends of the fingers. one of these patients lived twenty-eight, and the other above thirty days, and both appeared to die from the discharge which followed the opening of their abscesses. between the degrees of the disease which i have described, there were many intermediate degrees of indisposition which belonged to this disease. i saw in several cases a discharge from behind the ears, and from the nose, with a slight eruption, and no sore throat. all these patients were able to sit up, and walk about. i saw one instance of a discharge from the inside of one of the ears in a child, who had ulcers in his throat, and the squeaking voice. in some, a pain in the jaw, with swellings behind the ears, and a slight fever, constituted the whole of the disease. in one case, the disease came on with a coma, and in several patients it went off with this symptom. a few instances occurred of adults, who walked about, and even transacted business, until a few hours before they died. the intermitting fever, which made its appearance in august, was not lost during the month of september. it continued to prevail, but with several peculiar symptoms. in many persons it was accompanied by an eruption on the skin, and a swelling of the hands and feet. in some, it was attended by a sore throat and pains behind the ears. indeed, such was the predominance of the scarlatina anginosa, that many hundred people complained of sore throats, without any other symptom of indisposition. the slightest occasional or exciting cause, and particularly cold, seldom failed of producing the disease. the month of october was much cooler than september, and the disease continued, but with less alarming symptoms. in several adults, who were seized with it, the hardness of the pulse indicated blood-letting. the blood, in one case, was covered with a buffy coat, but beneath its surface it was dissolved. in the month of november, the disease assumed several inflammatory symptoms, and was attended with much less danger than formerly. i visited one patient whose symptoms were so inflammatory as to require two bleedings. during the decline of the disease, many people complained of troublesome sores on the ends of their fingers. a number of children likewise had sore throats and fevers, with eruptions on their skins, which resembled the chicken-pox. i am disposed to suspect that this eruption was the effect of a spice of the scarlatina anginosa, as several instances occurred of patients who had all the symptoms of this disease, in whom an eruption of white blisters succeeded their recovery. this form of the disease has been called by sauvage, the scarlatina variolosa. i saw one case of sore throat, which was succeeded not only by swellings in the abdomen and limbs, but by a catarrh, which brought on a fatal consumption. a considerable shock of an earthquake was felt on the th of this month, at ten o'clock at night, in the city of philadelphia; but no change was perceived in the disease, in consequence of it. in december, january, and february, the weather was intensely cold. there was a thaw for a few days in january, which broke the ice of the delaware, but it was followed by cold so excessive, as to close the river till the beginning of march. the mercury, on the th and th of february, stood below in fahrenheit's thermometer. for a few weeks in the beginning of december, the disease disappeared in the circle of my patients, but it broke out with great violence the latter end of that month, and in the january following. some of the worst cases that i met with (three of which proved fatal) were in those two months. the disease disappeared in the spring, but it spread afterwards through the neighbouring states of new-jersey, delaware, and maryland. i shall now add an account of the remedies which i administered in this disease. in every case that i was called to, i began the cure by giving a vomit joined with calomel. the vomit was either tartar emetic or ipecacuanha, according to the prejudices, habits, or constitutions of my patients. a quantity of bile was generally discharged by this medicine. besides evacuating the contents of the stomach, it cleansed the throat in its passage downwards. to ensure this effect from the calomel, i always directed it to be given mixed with syrup or sugar and water, so as to diffuse it generally over every part of the throat. the calomel seldom failed to produce two or three stools. in several cases i was obliged, by the continuance of nausea, to repeat the emetics, and always with immediate and obvious advantage. i gave the calomel in moderate doses in every stage of the disease. to restrain its purgative effects, when necessary, i added to it a small quantity of opium. during the whole course of the disease, where the calomel failed of opening the bowels, i gave lenient purges, when a disposition to costiveness required them. the throat was kept clean by detergent gargles. in several instances i saw evident advantages from adding a few grains of calomel to them. in cases of great difficulty of swallowing or breathing, the patients found relief from receiving the steams of warm water mixed with a little vinegar, through a funnel into the throat. a perspiration kept up by gentle doses of antimonials, and diluting drinks, impregnated with wine, always gave relief. in every case which did not yield to the above remedies on the third day, i applied a blister behind each ear, or one to the neck, and, i think, always with good effects. i met with no cases in which the bark appeared to be indicated, except the three in which the disease proved fatal. where the sore throat was blended with the intermitting fever, the bark was given with advantage. but in common cases it was unnecessary. subsequent observations have led me to believe, with doctor withering, that it is sometimes hurtful in this disease. it proved fatal in many parts of the country, upon its first appearance; but wherever the mode of treatment here delivered was adopted, its mortality was soon checked. the calomel was used very generally in new-jersey and new-york. in the delaware state, a physician of character made it a practice not only to give calomel, but to anoint the outside of the throat with mercurial ointment. additional observations upon the _scarlatina anginosa_. this disease has prevailed in philadelphia, at different seasons, ever since the year . it has blended itself occasionally with all our epidemics. many cases have come under my notice since its first appearance, in which dropsical swellings have succeeded the fever. in some instances there appeared to be effusions of water not only in the limbs and abdomen, but in the thorax. they yielded, in every case that i attended, to purges of calomel and jalap. where these swellings were neglected, they sometimes proved fatal. in the winter of - , the scarlatina anginosa was blended with the cynanche parotidea, and in one instance with a typhus mitior. the last was in a young girl of nine years of age. she was seized with a vomiting of bile and an efflorescence on her breast, but discovered no other symptoms of the scarlatina anginosa till the sixteenth day of her fever, when a swelling appeared on the outside of her throat, and after her recovery, a pain and swelling in one of her knees. in the month of july, , a number of people were affected by sudden swellings of their lips and eyelids. these swellings generally came on in the night, were attended with little or no pain, and went off in two or three days. i met with only one case in which there was a different issue to these symptoms. it was in a patient in the pennsylvania hospital, in whom a swelling in the lips ended in a suppuration, which, notwithstanding the liberal use of bark and wine, proved fatal in the course of twelve days. in the months of june and july, , a number of people were affected by sudden swellings, not only of the lips, but of the cheeks and throat. at the same time many persons were affected by an inflammation of the eyes. the swellings were attended with more pain than they were the year before, and some of them required one or two purges to remove them; but in general they went without medicine, in two or three days. is it proper to refer these complaints to the same cause which produces the scarlatina anginosa? the prevalence of the scarlatina anginosa at the _same time_ in this city; its disposition to produce swellings in different parts of the body; and the analogy of the intermitting fever, which often conceals itself under symptoms that are foreign to its usual type; all seem to render this conjecture probable. in one of the cases of an inflammation of the eye, which came under my notice, the patient was affected by a vomiting a few hours before the inflammation appeared, and complained of a sickness at his stomach for two or three days afterwards. now a vomiting and nausea appear to be very generally symptoms of the scarlatina anginosa. in the autumn of , the scarlatina anginosa appeared with different degrees of violence in many parts of the city. in two instances it appeared with an obstinate diarrh[oe]a; but it was in young subjects, and not in adults, as described by doctor withering. in both cases, the disease proved fatal; the one on the third, the other on the fifth day. in the month of december of the same year, i saw one case in which a running from one of the ears, and a deafness came on, on the fifth day, immediately after the discharge of mucus from the nose had ceased. this case terminated favourably on the ninth day, but was succeeded, for several days afterwards, by a troublesome cough. i shall conclude this essay by the following remarks: . camphor has often been suspended in a bag from the neck, as a preservative against this disease. repeated observations have taught me, that it possesses little or no efficacy for this purpose. i have had reason to entertain a more favourable opinion of the benefit of washing the hands and face with vinegar, and of rinsing the mouth and throat with vinegar and water every morning, as means of preventing this disease. . whenever i have been called to a patient where the scarlatina appeared to be in a _forming_ state, a vomit of ipecacuanha or tartar emetic, mixed with a few grains of calomel, has never failed of completely checking the disease, or of so far mitigating its violence, as to dispose it to a favourable issue in a few days; and if these observations should serve no other purpose than to awaken the early attention of patients and physicians to this speedy and effectual remedy, they will not have been recorded in vain. . when the matter which produces this disease has been received into the body, a purge has prevented its being excited into action, or rendered it mild, throughout a whole family. for this practice i am indebted to some observations on the scarlatina, published by dr. sims in the first volume of the medical memoirs. . during the prevalence of the inflammatory constitution of the atmosphere, between the years and , this disease occurred occasionally in philadelphia, and yielded, like the other epidemics of those years, to copious blood-letting, and other depleting remedies. an inquiry into the cause and cure of _the cholera infantum_. by this name i mean to designate a disease, called, in philadelphia, the "vomiting and purging of children." from the regularity of its appearance in the summer months, it is likewise known by the name of "the disease of the season." it prevails in most of the large towns of the united states. it is distinguished in charleston, in south carolina, by the name of "the april and may disease," from making its first appearance in those two months. it seldom appears in philadelphia till the middle of june, or the beginning of july, and generally continues till near the middle of september. its frequency and danger are always in proportion to the heat of the weather. it affects children from the first or second week after their birth, till they are two years old. it sometimes begins with a diarrh[oe]a, which continues for several days without any other symptom of indisposition; but it more frequently comes on with a violent vomiting and purging, and a high fever. the matter discharged from the stomach and bowels is generally yellow or green, but the stools are sometimes slimy and bloody, without any tincture of bile. in some instances they are nearly as limpid as water. worms are frequently discharged in each kind of the stools that has been described. the children, in this stage of the disease, appear to suffer a good deal of pain. they draw up their feet, and are never easy in one posture. the pulse is quick and weak. the head is unusually warm, while the extremities retain their natural heat, or incline to be cold. the fever is of the remitting kind, and discovers evident exacerbations, especially in the evenings. the disease affects the head so much, as in some instances to produce symptoms not only of delirium, but of mania, insomuch that the children throw their heads backwards and forwards, and sometimes make attempts to scratch, and to bite their parents, nurses, and even themselves. a swelling frequently occurs in the abdomen, and in the face and limbs. an intense thirst attends every stage of the disease. the eyes appear languid and hollow, and the children generally sleep with them half closed. such is the insensibility of the system in some instances in this disease, that flies have been seen to alight upon the eyes when open, without exciting a motion in the eyelids to remove them. sometimes the vomiting continues without the purging, but more generally the purging continues without the vomiting, through the whole course of the disease. the stools are frequently large, and extremely f[oe]tid, but in some instances they are without smell, and resemble drinks and aliment which have been taken into the body. the disease is sometimes fatal in a few days. i once saw it carry off a child in four and twenty hours. its duration is varied by the season of the year, and by the changes in the temperature of the weather. a cool day frequently abates its violence, and disposes it to a favourable termination. it often continues, with occasional variations in its appearance, for six weeks or two months. where the disease has been of long continuance, the approach of death is gradual, and attended by a number of distressing symptoms. an emaciation of the body to such a degree, as that the bones come through the skin, livid spots, a singultus, convulsions, a strongly marked hippocratic countenance, and a sore mouth, generally precede the fatal termination of this disease. few children ever recover, after the last symptoms which have been mentioned make their appearance. this disease has been ascribed to several causes; of each of which i shall take notice in order. i. it has been attributed to dentition. to refute this opinion, it will be necessary to observe, that it appears only in one season of the year. dentition, i acknowledge, sometimes aggravates it; hence we find it is most severe in that period of life, when the greatest number of teeth make their appearance, which is generally about the th month. i think i have observed more children to die of this disease at that age, than at any other. ii. worms have likewise been suspected of being the cause of this disease. to this opinion, i object the uncertainty of worms ever producing an idiopathic fever, and the improbability of their combining in such a manner as to produce an annual epidemic disease of any kind. but further, we often see the disease in all its force, before that age, in which worms usually produce diseases; we likewise often see it resist the most powerful anthelmintic medicines; and, lastly, it appears from dissection, where the disease has proved fatal, that not a single worm has been discovered in the bowels. it is true, worms are in some instances discharged in this disease, but they are frequently discharged in greater numbers in the hydrocephalus internus, and in the small-pox, and yet who will assert either of those diseases to be produced by worms. iii. the summer fruits have been accused of producing this disease. to this opinion i object, that the disease is but little known in country places, where children eat much more fruit than in cities. as far as i have observed, i am disposed to believe, that the moderate use of ripe fruits, rather tends to prevent, than to induce the disease. from the discharge of bile which generally introduces the disease, from the remissions and exacerbations of the fever which accompanies it, and from its occurring nearly in the same season with the cholera and remitting fever in adults, i am disposed to consider it as a modification of the same diseases. its appearance earlier in the season than the cholera and remitting fever in adults, must be ascribed to the constitutions of children being more predisposed from weakness to be acted upon, by the remote causes which produce those diseases. i shall now mention the remedies which are proper and useful in this disease. i. the first indication of cure is to evacuate the bile from the stomach and bowels. this should be done by gentle doses of ipecacuanha, or tartar emetic. the vomits should be repeated occasionally, if indicated, in every stage of the disease. the bowels should be opened by means of calomel, manna, castor oil, or magnesia. i have generally found rhubarb improper for this purpose, while the stomach was in a very irritable state. in those cases, where there is reason to believe that the offending contents of the primæ viæ have been discharged by nature (which is often the case), the emetics and purges should by no means be given; but, instead of them, recourse must be had to ii. opiates. a few drops of liquid laudanum, combined in a testaceous julep, with peppermint or cinnamon-water, seldom fail of composing the stomach and bowels. in some instances, this medicine alone subdues the disease in two or three days; but where it does not prove so successful, it produces a remission of pain, and of other distressing symptoms, in every stage of the disease. iii. demulcent and diluting drinks have an agreeable effect in this disease. mint and mallow teas, or a tea made of blackberry roots infused in cold water, together with a decoction of the shavings of hartshorn and gum arabic with cinnamon, should all be given in their turns for this purpose. iv. glysters made of flaxseed tea, or of mutton broth, or of starch dissolved in water, with a few drops of liquid laudanum in them, give ease, and produce other useful effects. v. plasters of venice treacle applied to the region of the stomach, and flannels dipped in infusions of bitter and aromatic herbs in warm spirits, or madeira wine, and applied to the region of the abdomen, often afford considerable relief. vi. as soon as the more violent symptoms of the disease are composed, tonic and cordial medicines should be given. the bark in decoction, or in substance (where it can be retained in that form), mixed with a little nutmeg, often produces the most salutary effects. port wine or claret mixed with water are likewise proper in this stage of the disease. after the disease has continued for some time, we often see an appetite suddenly awakened for articles of diet of a stimulating nature. i have seen many children recover from being gratified in an inclination to eat salted fish, and the different kinds of salted meat. in some instances they discover an appetite for butter, and the richest gravies of roasted meats, and eat them with obvious relief to all their symptoms. i once saw a child of sixteen months old, perfectly restored, from the lowest stage of this disease, by eating large quantities of rancid english cheese, and drinking two or three glasses of port wine every day. she would in no instance eat bread with the cheese, nor taste the wine, if it was mixed with water. we sometimes see relief given by the use of the warm bath, in cases of obstinate pain. the bath is more effectual, if warm wine is used, instead of water. i have had but few opportunities of trying the effects of cold water applied to the body in this disease; but from the benefit which attended its use in the cases in which it was prescribed, i am disposed to believe that it would do great service, could we overcome the prejudices which subsist in the minds of parents against it. after all that has been said in favour of the remedies that have been mentioned, i am sorry to add, that i have very often seen them all administered without effect. my principal dependence, therefore, for many years, has been placed upon vii. country air. out of many hundred children whom i have sent into the country, in every stage of this disease, i have lost but three; two of whom were sent, contrary to my advice, into that unhealthy part of the neighbourhood of philadelphia called the _neck_, which lies between the city and the conflux of the rivers delaware and schuylkill. i have seen one cure performed by this remedy, after convulsions had taken place. to derive the utmost benefit from the country air, children should be carried out on horseback, or in a carriage, every day; and they should be exposed to the open air as much as possible in fair weather, in the day time. where the convenience of the constant benefit of country air cannot be obtained, i have seen evident advantages from taking children out of the city once or twice a day. it is extremely agreeable to see the little sufferers revive as soon as they escape from the city air, and inspire the pure air of the country. i shall conclude this inquiry, by recommending the following methods of preventing this disease, all of which have been found by experience to be useful. . the daily use of the cold bath. . a faithful and attentive accommodation of the dresses of children, to the state and changes of the air. . a moderate quantity of salted meat taken occasionally in those months in which this disease usually prevails. it is perhaps in part from the daily use of salted meat in diet, that the children of country people escape this disease. . the use of sound old wine in the summer months. from a tea-spoon-full, to half a wine glass full, according to the age of the child, may be given every day. it is remarkable, that the children of persons in easy circumstances, who sip occasionally with their parents the remains of a glass of wine after dinner, are much less subject to this disease, than the children of poor people, who are without the benefit of that article of diet. . cleanliness, both with respect to the skin and clothing of children. perhaps the neglect of this direction may be another reason why the children of the poor, are most subject to this disease. . the removal of children into the country before the approach of warm weather. this advice is peculiarly necessary during the whole period of dentition. i have never known but one instance of a child being affected by this disease, who had been carried into the country in order to avoid it. i have only to add to the above observations, that since the prevalence of the yellow fever in philadelphia after the year , the cholera infantum has assumed symptoms of such malignity, as to require bleeding to cure it. in some cases, two and three bleedings were necessary for that purpose. observations on the _cynanche trachealis_. the vulgar name of this disease in pennsylvania is hives. it is a corruption of the word _heaves_, which took its rise from the manner in which the lungs heave in breathing. the worst degree of the disease is called the bowel hives, from the great motion of the abdominal muscles in respiration. it has been called suffocatio stridula by dr. home, and cynanche trachealis by dr. cullen. professor frank calls it trachitis, and dr. darwin considers it as a pleurisy of the windpipe. by the two latter names, the authors mean to convey the correct idea, that the disease is the same in its nature with the common diseases of other internal parts of the body. it is brought on by the same causes which induce fever, particularly by cold. i have seen it accompany, as well as succeed, the small-pox, measles, scarlet-fever, and apthous sore throat. in the late dr. foulke it succeeded acute rheumatism. the late dr. sayre informed me, he had seen it occur in a case of yellow fever, in the year . it sometimes comes on suddenly, but it more frequently creeps on in the form of a common cold. its symptoms are sometimes constant, but they more generally remit, particularly during the day. it attacks children of all ages, from three months to five years old. but it occasionally attacks adults. it generally runs its course in three or four days, but we now and then see it protracted in a chronic and feeble form, for eight and ten days. dissections show the following appearances in the trachea. . a slight degree of inflammation. . a thick matter resembling mucus. . a membrane similar to that which succeeds inflammation in the pleura and bowels, formed from the coagulating lymph of the blood. . in some cases the trachea exhibits no marks of disease of any kind. these cases are generally violent, and terminate suddenly. the morbid excitement here transcends inflammation. similar instances of the absence of the common signs of disease after death, occur in other parts of the body. where the cynanche trachealis has appeared in the high grade which has been last mentioned, it has been called spasmodic. where the serous vessels of the trachea have been tinged with red blood, it has been considered as inflammatory. where a liquid matter has been found in the trachea, it has been called humoral; and where a membrane has been seen adhering to the trachea, it has received from dr. michaelis the name of angina polyposa. but all these different issues of the cynanche trachealis are the effects of a difference only in its force, or in its duration: they all depend upon one remote, and one proximate cause. in the _forming_ state of this disease, which may be easily known by a hoarseness, and a slight degree of stertorous cough, a puke of antimonial wine, tartar emetic, ipecacuanha, or oxymel of squills, is for the most part an immediate cure. to be effectual, it should operate four or five times. happily children are seldom injured by a little excess in the operation of this class of medicines. i have prevented the formation of this disease many hundred times, and frequently in my own family, by means of this remedy. after the disease is completely formed, and appears with the usual symptoms described by authors, the remedies should be . blood-letting. the late dr. bailie of new-york used to bleed until fainting was induced. his practice has been followed by dr. dick of alexandria, and with great success. i have generally preferred small, but frequent, to copious bleedings. i once drew twelve ounces of blood, at four bleedings, in one day, from a son of mr. john carrol, then in the fourth year of his age. dr. physick bled a child, of but three months old, three times in one day. life was saved in both these cases. powerful as the lancet is, in this disease, its violence and danger require that it should be aided by . vomits. these should be given every day, or oftener, during the continuance of the disease. their good effects are much more obvious and certain in a disease of the trachea, than of the lungs, and hence their greater utility, as i shall say hereafter, in a consumption from a catarrh, than from any other of its causes. . purges. these should consist of calomel and jalap, or rhubarb, and should always follow the use of emetics, if they fail of opening the bowels. . calomel should likewise be given in large doses. dr. physick gave half a drachm of this medicine, in one day, to the infant whose case has been mentioned. i have never known it excite a salivation when given to children whose ages rendered them subjects of it, probably because it has been given in such large quantities as to pass rapidly through the bowels. its good effects seem to depend upon its exciting a counter-action in the whole intestinal canal, and thereby lessening the disposition of the tracheal blood-vessels to discharge the mucus, or form the membrane, which have been described. . blisters should be applied to the throat, breast, neck, and even to the limbs. . dr. archer of maryland commends, in high terms, the use of polygola, or seneka snake-root, in this disease. i can say nothing in favour of its exclusive use, from my own experience, having never given it, but as an auxiliary to other remedies. . i have seen great relief given by the use of the warm bath, especially when it has been followed by a gentle perspiration. . towards the close of the disease, after the symptoms of great morbid action begin to decline, a few drops of liquid laudanum, by quieting the cough which generally succeeds it, often produce the most salutary effects. they should be given in flaxseed, or bran, or onion tea, of which drinks the patient should drink freely in every stage of the disease. the cynanche trachealis is attended with most danger, when the patient labours under a _constant_ and audible stertorous breathing. the danger is less, when a dry stertorous cough attends, with _easy_ respiration in its intervals. the danger is nearly over, when the cough, though stertorous, is _loose_, and accompanied with a _discharge_ of mucus from the trachea. an eruption of little red blotches, which frequently appears and disappears two or three times in the course of this disease, is always a favourable symptom. i once attended a man from virginia, of the name of bampfield, who, after an attack of this disease, was much distressed with the stertorous breathing and cough which belong to it. i suspected both to arise from a membrane formed by inflammation in his trachea. this membrane i supposed to be in part detached from the trachea, from the rattling noise which attended his breathing. he had used many remedies for it to no purpose. i advised a salivation, which in less than three weeks perfectly cured him. since the general adoption of the remedies which have been enumerated, for the cynanche trachealis, instances of its mortality have become very uncommon in the city of philadelphia. an account of the efficacy of blisters and bleeding, in the cure of obstinate _intermitting fevers_. the efficacy of these remedies will probably be disputed by every regular-bred physician, who has not been a witness of their utility in the above disease; but it becomes such physicians, before they decide upon this subject, to remember, that many things are true in medicine, as well as in other branches of philosophy, which are very improbable. in all those cases of _autumnal_ intermittents, whether quotidian, tertian, or quartan, in which the bark did not succeed after three or four days trial, i have seldom found it fail after the application of blisters to the wrists. but in those cases where blisters had been neglected, or applied without effect, and where the disease had been protracted into the _winter_ months, i have generally cured it by means of one or two moderate bleedings. the pulse in those cases is generally full, and sometimes a little hard, and the blood when drawn for the most part appears sizy. the bark is seldom necessary to prevent the return of the disease. it is always ineffectual, where blood-letting is indicated. i have known several instances where pounds of that medicine have been taken without effect, in which the loss of ten or twelve ounces of blood has immediately cured the disease. i once intended to have added to this account of the efficacy of blisters and bleeding in curing obstinate intermittents, testimonies from a number of medical gentlemen, of the success with which they have used them; but these vouchers have become so numerous, that they would swell this essay far beyond the limits i wish to prescribe to it. an account of the disease occasioned by _drinking cold water_ in warm weather, and the method of curing it. few summers elapse in philadelphia, in which there are not instances of many persons being diseased by drinking cold water. in some seasons, four or five persons have died suddenly from this cause, in one day. this mortality falls chiefly upon the labouring part of the community, who seek to allay their thirst by drinking the water from the pumps in the streets, and who are too impatient, or too ignorant, to use the necessary precautions for preventing its morbid or deadly effects upon them. these accidents seldom happen, except when the mercury rises above ° in fahrenheit's thermometer. three circumstances generally concur to produce disease or death, from drinking cold water. . the patient is extremely warm. . the water is extremely cold. and . a large quantity of it is suddenly taken into the body. the danger from drinking the cold water is always in proportion to the degrees of combination which occur in the three circumstances that have been mentioned. the following symptoms generally follow, where cold water has been taken, under the above circumstances, into the body: in a few minutes after the patient has swallowed the water, he is affected by a dimness of sight; he staggers in attempting to walk, and, unless supported, falls to the ground; he breathes with difficulty; a rattling is heard in his throat; his nostrils and cheeks expand and contract in every act of respiration; his face appears suffused with blood, and of a livid colour; his extremities become cold, and his pulse imperceptible; and, unless relief be speedily obtained, the disease terminates in death, in four or five minutes. this description includes only the less common cases of the effects of drinking a _large_ quantity of _cold_ water, when the body is _preternaturally_ heated. more frequently, patients are seized with acute spasms in the breast and stomach. these spasms are so painful as to produce syncope, and even asphyxia. they are sometimes of the tonic, but more frequently of the clonic kind. in the intervals of the spasms, the patient appears to be perfectly well. the intervals between each spasm become longer or shorter, according as the disease tends to life or death. it may not be improper to take notice, that punch, beer, and even toddy, when drunken under the same circumstances as cold water, have all been known to produce the same morbid and fatal effects. i know of but one certain remedy for this disease, and that is liquid laudanum. the doses of it, as in other cases of spasm, should be proportioned to the violence of the disease. from a tea-spoonful to near a table-spoonful have been given in some instances, before relief has been obtained. where the powers of life appear to be suddenly suspended, the same remedies should be used, which have been so successfully employed in recovering persons supposed to be dead from drowning. care should be taken in every case of disease, or apparent death, from drinking cold water, to prevent the patient's suffering from being surrounded, or even attended by too many people. persons who have been recovered from the immediate danger which attends this disease, are sometimes affected after it, by inflammations and obstructions in the breast or liver. these generally yield to the usual remedies which are administered in those complaints, when they arise from other causes. if neither the voice of reason, nor the fatal examples of those who have perished from this cause, are sufficient to produce restraint in drinking a _large_ quantity of _cold_ liquors, when the body is _preternaturally_ heated, then let me advise to . grasp the vessel out of which you are about to drink for a minute or longer, with both your hands. this will abstract a portion of heat from the body, and impart it at the same time to the cold liquor, provided the vessel be made of metal, glass, or earth; for heat follows the same laws, in many instances, in passing through bodies, with regard to its relative velocity, which we observe to take place in electricity. . if you are not furnished with a cup, and are obliged to drink by bringing your mouth in contact with the stream which issues from a pump, or a spring, always wash your hands and face, previously to your drinking, with a little of the cold water. by receiving the shock of the water first upon those parts of the body, a portion of its heat is conveyed away, and the vital parts are thereby defended from the action of the cold. by the use of these preventives, inculcated by advertisements pasted upon pumps by the humane society, death from drinking cold water has become a rare occurrence for many years past in philadelphia. an account of the _efficacy of common salt_, in the cure of hÆmoptysis. from the present established opinions and practice respecting the cause and cure of hæmoptysis, the last medicine that would occur to a regular-bred physician for the cure of it, is common salt; and yet i have seen and heard of a great number of cases, in which it has been administered with success. the mode of giving it is to pour down from a tea to a table-spoonful of clean fine salt, as soon as possible after the hæmorrhage begins from the lungs. this quantity generally stops it; but the dose must be repeated daily for three or four days, to prevent a return of the disease. if the bleeding continue, the salt must be continued till it is checked, but in larger doses. i have heard of several instances in which two table spoons-full were taken at one time for several days. it sometimes excites a sickness at the stomach, and never fails to produce a burning sensation in the throat, in its passage into the stomach, and considerable thirst afterwards. i have found this remedy to succeed equally well in hæmorrhages, whether they occurred in young or in old people, or with a weak or active pulse. i had prescribed it for several years before i could satisfy myself with a theory, to account for its extraordinary action upon the human body. my inquiries led me to attend more particularly to the following facts: . those persons who have been early instructed in vocal music, and who use their vocal organs moderately through life, are seldom affected by a hæmorrhage from the lungs. . lawyers, players, public cryers, and city watchmen, all of whom exercise their lungs either by long or loud speaking, are less affected by this disease, than persons of other occupations. i acknowledge i cannot extend this observation to the public teachers of religion. i have known several instances of their being affected by hæmoptysis; but never but one in which the disease came on in the pulpit, and that was in a person who had been recently cured of it. the cases which i have seen, have generally been brought on by catarrhs. to this disease, the practice of some of our american preachers disposes them in a peculiar manner; for it is very common with this class of them, to expose themselves to the cold or evening air, immediately after taking what a celebrated and eloquent preacher used to call a _pulpit sweat_. . this hæmorrhage chiefly occurs in debilitated habits, or in persons afflicted by such a predisposition to consumption, as indicates a weak and relaxed state of the lungs. . it generally occurs when the lungs are in a passive state; as in sitting, walking, and more frequently in lying. many of the cases that i have known, have occurred during _sleep_, in the middle of the night. from these facts, is it not probable that the common salt, by acting primarily and with great force upon the throat, extends its stimulus to the bleeding vessel, and by giving it a tone, checks the further effusion of blood? i shall only add to this conjecture the following observations: . i have never known the common salt perform a cure, where the hæmorrhage from the lungs has been a symptom of a confirmed consumption. but even in this case it gives a certain temporary relief. . the exhibition of common salt in the hæmoptysis, should by no means supersede the use of occasional bleeding when indicated by plethora, nor of that diet which the state of the pulse, or of the stomach, may require. . i have given the common salt in one case with success, in a hæmorrhage from the stomach, accompanied by a vomiting; and have heard of several cases in which it has been supposed to have checked a discharge of blood from the nose and uterus, but i can say nothing further in its favour in these last hæmorrhages, from my own experience. it may perhaps serve to lessen the prejudices of physicians against adopting improvements in medicine, that are not recommended by the authority of colleges or universities, to add, that we are indebted to an old woman, for the discovery of the efficacy of common salt in the cure of hæmoptysis. thoughts upon the cause and cure of the _pulmonary consumption_. the ancient jews used to say, that a man does not fulfil his duties in life, who passes through it, without building a house, planting a tree, and leaving a child behind him. a physician, in like manner, should consider his obligations to his profession and society as undischarged, who has not attempted to lessen the number of incurable diseases. this is my apology for presuming to make the consumption the object of a medical inquiry. perhaps i may suggest an idea, or fact, that may awaken the ideas and facts which now lie useless in the memories or common-place books of other physicians; or i may direct their attention to some useful experiments upon this subject. i shall begin my observations upon the consumption, by remarking, . that it is unknown among the indians in north-america. . it is scarcely known by those citizens of the united states, who live in the _first_ stage of civilized life, and who have lately obtained the title of the _first settlers_. the principal occupations of the indian consist in war, fishing, and hunting. those of the first settler, are fishing, hunting, and the laborious employments of subduing the earth, cutting down forests, building a house and barn, and distant excursions, in all kinds of weather, to mills and courts, all of which tend to excite and preserve in the system, something like the indian vigour of constitution. . it is less common in country places than in cities, and increases in both, with intemperance and sedentary modes of life. . ship and house carpenters, smiths, and all those artificers whose business requires great exertions of strength in the _open_ air, in _all_ seasons of the year, are less subject to this disease, than men who work under cover, and at occupations which do not require the constant action of their limbs. . women, who sit more than men, and whose work is connected with less exertion, are most subject to the consumption. from these facts it would seem, that the most probable method of curing the consumption, is to revive in the constitution, by means of exercise or labour, that vigour which belongs to the indians, or to mankind in their first stage of civilization. the efficacy of these means of curing consumption will appear, when we inquire into the relative merit of the several remedies which have been used by physicians in this disease. i shall not produce among these remedies the numerous receipts for syrups, boluses, electuaries, decoctions, infusions, pills, medicated waters, powders, draughts, mixtures, and diet-drinks, which have so long and so steadily been used in this disease; nor shall i mention as a remedy, the best accommodated diet, submitted to with the most patient self-denial; for not one of them all, without the aid of exercise, has ever, i believe, cured a single consumption. . sea-voyages have cured consumptions; but it has been only when they have been so long, or so frequent, as to substitute the long continuance of gentle, to violent degrees of exercise of a shorter duration, or where they have been accompanied by some degree of the labour and care of navigating the ship. . a change of climate has often been prescribed for the cure of consumptions, but i do not recollect an instance of its having succeeded, except when it has been accompanied by exercise, as in travelling, or by some active laborious pursuit. doctor gordon of madeira, ascribes the inefficacy of the air of madeira in the consumption, in part to the difficulty patients find of using exercise in carriages, or even on horseback, from the badness of the roads in that island. . journies have often performed cures in the consumption, but it has been chiefly when they have been long, and accompanied by difficulties which have roused and invigorated the powers of the mind and body. . vomits and nauseating medicines have been much celebrated for the cure of consumptions. these, by procuring a temporary determination to the surface of the body, so far lessen the pain and cough, as to enable patients to use profitable exercise. where this has not accompanied or succeeded the exhibition of vomits, i believe they have seldom afforded any _permanent_ relief. . blood-letting has often relieved consumptions; but it has been only by removing the troublesome symptoms of inflammatory diathesis, and thereby enabling the patients to use exercise, or labour, with advantage. . vegetable bitters and some of the stimulating gums have in some instances afforded relief in consumptions; but they have done so only in those cases where there was great debility, accompanied by a total absence of inflammatory diathesis. they have most probably acted by their tonic qualities, as substitutes for labour and exercise. . a plentiful and regular perspiration, excited by means of a flannel shirt, worn next to the skin, or by means of a stove-room, or by a warm climate, has in many instances _prolonged_ life in consumptive habits; but all these remedies have acted as palliatives only, and thereby have enabled the consumptive patients to enjoy the more beneficial effects of exercise. . blisters, setons, and issues, by determining the perspirable matter from the lungs to the surface of the body, lessen pain and cough, and thereby prepare the system for the more salutary effects of exercise. . the effects of swinging upon the pulse and respiration, leave us no room to doubt of its being a tonic remedy, and therefore a safe and agreeable substitute for exercise. from all these facts it is evident, that the remedies for consumptions must be sought for in those _exercises and employments which give the greatest vigour to the constitution_. and here i am happy in being able to produce several facts which demonstrate the safety and certainty of this method of cure. during the late war, i saw three instances of persons in confirmed consumptions, who were perfectly cured by the hardships of a military life. they had been my patients previously to their entering into the army. besides these, i have heard of four well-attested cases of similar recoveries from nearly the same remedies. one of these was the son of a farmer in new-jersey, who was sent to sea as the last resource for a consumption. soon after he left the american shore, he was taken by a british cruiser, and compelled to share in all the duties and hardships of a common sailor. after serving in this capacity for twenty-two months, he made his escape, and landed at boston, from whence he travelled on foot to his father's house (nearly four hundred miles), where he arrived in perfect health. doctor way of wilmington informed me, that a certain abner cloud, who was reduced so low by a pulmonary consumption as to be beyond all relief from medicine, was so much relieved by sleeping in the open air, and by the usual toils of building a hut, and improving a farm, in the unsettled parts of a new country in pennsylvania, that he thought him in a fair way of a perfect recovery. doctor latimer of wilmington had been long afflicted with a cough and an occasional hæmoptysis. he entered into the american army as a surgeon, and served in that capacity till near the end of the war; during which time he was perfectly free from all pulmonary disease. the spitting of blood returned soon after he settled in private practice. to remedy this complaint, he had recourse to a low diet, but finding it ineffectual, he partook liberally of the usual diet of healthy men, and he now enjoys a perfect exemption from it. it would be very easy to add many other cases, in which labour, the employments of agriculture, and a life of hardship by sea and land, have prevented, relieved, or cured, not only the consumption, but pulmonary diseases of all kinds. to the cases that have been mentioned, i shall add only one more, which was communicated to me by the venerable doctor franklin, whose conversation at all times conveyed instruction, and not less in medicine than upon other subjects. in travelling, many years ago, through new-england, the doctor overtook the post-rider; and after some inquiries into the history of his life, he informed him that he was bred a shoe-maker; that his confinement, and other circumstances, had brought on a consumption, for which he was ordered by a physician to ride on horseback. finding this mode of exercise too expensive, he made interest, upon the death of an old post-rider, to succeed to his appointment, in which he perfectly recovered his health in two years. after this he returned to his old trade, upon which his consumption returned. he again mounted his horse, and rode post in all seasons and weathers, between new-york and connecticut river (about miles), in which employment he continued upwards of thirty years, in perfect health. these facts, i hope, are sufficient to establish the advantages of restoring the original vigour of the constitution, in every attempt to effect a radical cure of consumption. but how shall these remedies be applied in the time of peace, or in a country where the want of woods, and brooks without bridges, forbid the attainment of the laborious pleasures of the indian mode of hunting; or where the universal extent of civilization does not admit of our advising the toils of a new settlement, and improvements upon bare creation? under these circumstances, i conceive substitutes may be obtained for each of them, nearly of equal efficacy, and attainable with much less trouble. . doctor sydenham pronounced riding on horseback, to be as certain a cure for consumptions as bark is for an intermitting fever. i have no more doubt of the truth of this assertion, than i have that inflammatory fevers are now less frequent in london than they were in the time of doctor sydenham. if riding on horseback in consumptions has ceased to be a remedy in britain, the fault is in the patient, and not in the remedy. "it is a sign that the stomach requires milk (says doctor cadogan), when it cannot bear it." in like manner, the inability of the patient to bear this manly and wholesome exercise, serves only to demonstrate the necessity and advantages of it. i suspect the same objections to this exercise which have been made in britain, will not occur in the united states of america; for the americans, with respect to the symptoms and degrees of epidemic and chronic diseases, appear to be nearly in the same state that the inhabitants of england were in the seventeenth century. we find, in proportion to the decline of the vigour of the body, that many occasional causes produce fever and inflammation, which would not have done it a hundred years ago. . the laborious employments of agriculture, if steadily pursued, and accompanied at the same time by the simple, but wholesome diet of a farmhouse, and a hard bed, would probably afford a good substitute for the toils of a savage or military life. . such occupations or professions as require constant labour or exercise in the open air, in all kinds of weather, may easily be chosen for a young man who, either from hereditary predisposition, or an accidental affection of the lungs, is in danger of falling into a consumption. in this we should imitate the advice given by some wise men, always to prefer those professions for our sons, which are the least favourable to the corrupt inclinations of their hearts. for example, where an undue passion for money, or a crafty disposition, discover themselves in early life, we are directed to oppose them by the less profitable and more disinterested professions of divinity or physic, rather than cherish them by trade, or the practice of the law. agreeably to this analogy, weakly children should be trained to the laborious, and the robust, to the sedentary occupations. from a neglect of this practice, many hundred apprentices to taylors, shoemakers, conveyancers, watchmakers, silversmiths, and mantua-makers, perish every year by consumptions. . there is a case recorded by dr. smollet, of the efficacy of the cold bath in a consumption; and i have heard of its having been used with success, in the case of a negro man, in one of the west-india islands. to render this remedy useful, or even safe, it will be necessary to join it with labour, or to use it in degrees that shall prevent the alternation of the system with vigour and debility; for i take the cure of consumption ultimately to depend upon the simple and constant action of tonic remedies. it is to be lamented that it often requires so much time, or such remedies to remove the inflammatory diathesis, which attends the first stage of consumption, as to reduce the patient too low to make use of those tonic remedies afterwards, which would effect a radical cure. if it were possible to graduate the tone of the system by means of a scale, i would add, that to cure consumption, the system should be raised to the highest degree of this scale. nothing short of an equilibrium of tone, or a free and vigorous action of every muscle and viscus in the body, will fully come up to a radical cure of this disease. in regulating the diet of consumptive patients, i conceive it to be as necessary to feel the pulse, as it is in determining when and in what quantity to draw blood. where inflammatory diathesis prevails, a vegetable diet is certainly proper; but where the patient has _escaped_, or _passed_ this stage of the disease, i believe a vegetable diet alone to be injurious; and am sure a moderate quantity of animal food may be taken with advantage. the presence or absence of this inflammatory diathesis, furnishes the indications for administering or refraining from the use of the bark and balsamic medicines. with all the testimonies of their having done mischief, many of which i could produce, i have known several cases in which they have been given with obvious advantage; but it was only when there was a total absence of inflammatory diathesis. perhaps the remedies i have recommended, and the opinions i have delivered, may derive some support from attending to the analogy of ulcers on the legs, and in other parts of the body. the first of these occur chiefly in habits debilitated by spiritous liquors, and the last frequently in habits debilitated by the scrophula. in curing these diseases, it is in vain to depend upon internal or external medicines. the whole system must be strengthened, or we do nothing; and this is to be effected only by exercise and a generous diet. in relating the facts that are contained in this inquiry, i wish i could have avoided reasoning upon them; especially as i am confident of the certainty of the facts, and somewhat doubtful of the truth of my reasonings. i shall only add, that if the cure of consumptions should at last be effected by remedies in every respect the opposites of those palliatives which are now fashionable and universal, no more will happen than what we have already seen in the tetanus, the small-pox, and the management of fractured limbs. should this be the case, we shall not be surprised to hear of physicians, instead of prescribing any one, or all of the medicines formerly enumerated for consumptions, ordering their patients to exchange the amusements, or indolence of a city, for the toils of a country life; of their advising farmers to exchange their plentiful tables, and comfortable fire-sides, for the scanty but solid subsistence, and midnight exposure of the herdsman; or of their recommending, not so much the exercise of a _passive_ sea voyage, as the _active_ labours and dangers of a common sailor. nor should it surprise us, after what we have seen, to hear patients relate the pleasant adventures of their excursions or labours, in quest of their recovery from this disease, any more than it does now to see a strong or well-shaped limb that has been broken; or to hear a man talk of his studies, or pleasures, during the time of his being inoculated and attended for the small-pox. i will not venture to assert, that there does not exist a medicine which shall supply, at least in some degree, the place of the labour or exercises, whose usefulness in consumptions has been established by the facts that have been mentioned. many instances of the analogous effects of medicines, and of exercise upon the human body, forbid the supposition. if there does exist in nature such a medicine, i am disposed to believe it will be found in the class of tonics. if this should be the case, i conceive its strength, or its dose, must far exceed the present state of our knowledge or practice, with respect to the efficacy or dose of tonic medicines. i except the disease, which arises from recent abscesses in the lungs, from the general observation which has been made, respecting the inefficacy of the remedies that were formerly enumerated for the cure of consumptions without labour or exercise. these abscesses often occur without being preceded by general debility, or accompanied by a consumptive diathesis, and are frequently cured by nature, or by very simple medicines. observations upon worms in the alimentary canal, and upon anthelmintic medicines. with great diffidence i venture to lay before the public my opinions upon worms: nor should i have presumed to do it, had i not entertained a hope of thereby exciting further inquiries upon this subject. when we consider how universally worms are found in all young animals, and how frequently they exist in the human body, without producing disease of any kind, it is natural to conclude, that they serve some useful and necessary purposes in the animal economy. do they consume the superfluous aliment which all young animals are disposed to take, before they have been taught, by experience or reason, the bad consequences which arise from it? it is no objection to this opinion, that worms are unknown in the human body in some countries. the laws of nature are diversified, and often suspended under peculiar circumstances in many cases, where the departure from uniformity is still more unaccountable, than in the present instance. do worms produce diseases from an _excess_ in their _number_, and an _error_ in their place, in the same manner that blood, bile, and air produce diseases from an _error_ in their place, or from _excess_ in their _quantities_? before these questions are decided, i shall mention a few facts which have been the result of my own observations upon this subject. . in many instances, i have seen worms discharged in the small-pox and measles, from children who were in perfect health previously to their being attacked by those diseases, and who never before discovered a single symptom of worms. i shall say nothing here of the swarms of worms which are discharged in fevers of all kinds, until i attempt to prove that an idiopathic fever is never produced by worms. . nine out of ten of the cases which i have seen of worms, have been in children of the grossest habits and most vigorous constitutions. this is more especially the case where the worms are dislodged by the small-pox and measles. doctor capelle of wilmington, in a letter which i received from him, informed me, that in the livers of sixteen, out of eighteen rats which he dissected, he found a number of the tænia worms. the rats were fat, and appeared in other respects to have been in perfect health. the two rats in which he found no worms, he says, "were very lean, and their livers smaller in proportion than the others." . in weakly children, i have often known the most powerful anthelmintics given without bringing away a single worm. if these medicines have afforded any relief, it has been by their tonic quality. from this fact, is it not probable--the conjecture, i am afraid, is too bold, but i will risk it:--is it not probable, i say, that children are sometimes disordered from the want of worms? perhaps the tonic medicines which have been mentioned, render the bowels a more quiet and comfortable asylum for them, and thereby provide the system with the means of obviating the effects of crapulas, to which all children are disposed. it is in this way that nature, in many instances, cures evil by evil. i confine the salutary office of worms only to that species of them which is known by the name of the round worm, and which occurs most frequently in children. is there any such disease as an idiopathic worm-fever? the indians in this country say there is not, and ascribe the discharge of worms to a fever, and not a fever to the worms[ ]. [ ] see the inquiry into the diseases of the indians, p. . by adopting this opinion, i am aware that i contradict the observations of many eminent and respectable physicians. doctor huxham describes an epidemic pleurisy, in the month of march, in the year , which he supposes was produced by his patients feeding upon some corn that had been injured by the rain the august before[ ]. he likewise mentions that a number of people, and those too of the elderly sort[ ], were afflicted at one time with worms, in the month of april, in the year . [ ] vol. ii. of his epidemics, p. . [ ] p. . lieutade gives an account of an epidemic worm-fever from velchius, an italian physician[ ]; and sauvages describes, from vandermonde, an epidemic dysentery from worms, which yielded finally only to worm medicines[ ]. sir john pringle, and doctor monro, likewise frequently mention worms as accompanying the dysentery and remitting fever, and recommend the use of calomel as an antidote to them. [ ] vol. i. p. . [ ] vol. ii. p. . i grant that worms appear more frequently in some epidemic diseases than in others, and oftener in some years than in others. but may not the same heat, moisture, and diet which produced the diseases, have produced the worms? and may not their discharge from the bowels have been occasioned in those epidemics, as in the small-pox and measles, by the increased heat of the body, by the want of nourishment, or by an anthelmintic quality being accidentally combined with some of the medicines that are usually given in fevers? in answer to this, we are told that we often see the crisis of a fever brought on by the discharge of worms from the bowels by means of a purge, or by an anthelmintic medicine. whenever this is the case, i believe it is occasioned by offending bile being dislodged by means of the purge, at the same time with the worms, or by the anthelmintic medicine (if not a purge) having been given on, or near one of the usual critical days of the fever. what makes the latter supposition probable is, that worms are seldom suspected in the beginning of fevers, and anthelmintic medicines seldom given, till every other remedy has failed of success; and this generally happens about the usual time in which fevers terminate in life or death. it is very remarkable, that since the discovery and description of the hydrocephalus internus, we hear and read much less than formerly of worm-fevers. i suspect that disease of the brain has laid the foundation for the principal part of the cases of worm-fevers which are upon record in books of medicine. i grant that worms sometimes increase the danger from fevers, and often confound the diagnosis and prognosis of them, by a number of new and anomalous symptoms. but here we see nothing more than that complication of symptoms which often occurs in diseases of a very different and opposite nature. having rejected worms as the cause of fevers, i proceed to remark, that the diseases most commonly produced by them, belong to dr. cullen's class of neuroses. and here i might add, that there is scarcely a disease, or a symptom of a disease, belonging to this class, which is not produced by worms. it would be only publishing extracts from books, to describe them. the _chronic_ and _nervous_ diseases of children, which are so numerous and frequently fatal, are, i believe, frequently occasioned by worms. there is no great danger, therefore, of doing mischief, by prescribing anthelmintic medicines in all our first attempts to cure their chronic and nervous diseases. i have been much gratified by finding myself supported in the above theory of worm-fevers, by the late dr. william hunter, and by dr. butter, in his excellent treatise upon the infantile remitting fever. i have taken great pains to find out, whether the presence of the different species of worms might not be discovered by certain peculiar symptoms; but all to no purpose. i once attended a girl of twelve years of age in a fever, who discharged four yards of a tænia, and who was so far from having discovered any peculiar symptom of this species of worms, that she had never complained of any other indisposition, than now and then a slight pain in the stomach, which often occurs in young girls from a sedentary life, or from errors in their diet. i beg leave to add further, that there is not a symptom which has been said to indicate the presence of worms of any kind, as the cause of a disease, that has not deceived me; and none oftener than the one that has been so much depended upon, viz. the picking of the nose. a discharge of worms from the bowels, is, perhaps, the only symptom that is pathognomonic of their presence in the intestines. i shall now make a few remarks upon anthelmintic remedies. but i shall first give an account of some experiments which i made in the year , upon the common earth-worm, in order to ascertain the anthelmintic virtues of a variety of substances. i made choice of the earth-worm for this purpose, as it is, according to naturalists, nearly the same in its structure, manner of subsistence, and mode of propagating its species, with the round worm of the human body. in the first column i shall set down, under distinct heads, the substances in which worms were placed; and in the second and third columns the _time_ of their death, from the action of these substances upon them. i. bitter and astringent | hours. | minutes. substances. | | | | watery infusion of aloes | | ---- of rhubarb | | ---- of peruvian bark | | | | ii. purges. | | | | watery infusion of jalap | | -- ------ bear's-foot | | ------ gamboge | | -- | | iii. salts. | | | | . _acids._ | | | | vinegar | -- | - / convulsed. lime juice | -- | diluted nitrous acid | -- | - / | | . _alkali._ | | | | a watery solution of salt of tartar | -- | convulsed, throwing | | up a mucus | | on the surface of . _neutral salts._ | | the water. | | in a watery solution of common | | salt | -- | convulsed. ---- of nitre | -- | ditto. ---- of sal diuretic | -- | ditto. ---- of sal ammoniac | -- | - / ---- of common salt and sugar. | -- | | | . _earthy and metallic salts._ | | | | in a watery solution of epsom salt | -- | - / ---- of rock alum | -- | ---- of corrosive sublimate | -- | - / convulsed. ---- of calomel | -- | ---- of turpeth mineral | -- | convulsed. ---- of sugar of lead | -- | ---- of green vitriol | -- | ---- of blue vitriol | -- | ---- of white vitriol | -- | iv. metals. | | | | filings of steel | -- | - / filings of tin | | -- | | v. calcareous earth. | | | | chalk | | -- | | vi. narcotic substances. | | | | watery infusion of opium | -- | - / convulsed. ---- of carolina pink-root | -- | ---- of tobacco | -- | | | vii. essential oils. | | | | oil of wormwood | -- | convulsed. ---- of mint | -- | ---- of caraway seed | -- | ---- of amber | -- | - / ---- of anniseed | -- | - / ---- of turpentine | -- | | | viii. arsenic. | | | | a watery solution of white | near | arsenic | | -- | | ix. fermented liquors. | | | | in madeira wine | -- | convulsed. claret | -- | | | x. distilled spirit. | | | | common rum | -- | convulsed. | | xi. the fresh juices of ripe fruits. | | | | the juice of red cherries | -- | - / ---- of black do. | -- | ---- of red currants | -- | - / ---- of gooseberries | -- | - / ---- of whortleberries | -- | ---- of blackberries | -- | ---- of raspberries | -- | - / ---- of plums | -- | ---- of peaches | -- | the juice of water-melons, no | | effect. | -- | -- | | xii. saccharine substances. | | | | honey | -- | molasses | -- | brown sugar | -- | manna | -- | - / | | xiii. in aromatic substances. | | | | camphor | -- | pimento | -- | - / black pepper | -- | | | xiv. foetid substances | | | | juice of onions | -- | - / watery infusion of assaf[oe]tida | -- | ---- santonicum, or worm seed | | -- | | xv. miscellaneous substances. | | | | sulphur mixed with oil | | -- Æthiops mineral | | -- sulphur | | -- solution of gunpowder | -- | - / ---- of soap | -- | oxymel of squills | -- | - / sweet oil | | in the application of these experiments to the human body, an allowance must always be made for the alteration which the several anthelmintic substances that have been mentioned, may undergo from mixture and diffusion in the stomach and bowels. in order to derive any benefit from these experiments, as well as from the observations that have been made upon anthelmintic medicines, it will be necessary to divide them into such as act, . mechanically, . chemically upon worms; and, . into those which possess a power composed of chemical and mechanical qualities. . the mechanical medicines act indirectly and directly upon the worms. those which act _indirectly_ are, vomits, purges, bitter and astringent substances, particularly aloes, rhubarb, bark, bear's-foot, and worm-seed. sweet oil acts indirectly and very feebly upon worms. it was introduced into medicine from its efficacy in destroying the botts in horses; but the worms which infest the human bowels, are of a different nature, and possess very different organs of life from those which are found in the stomach of a horse. those mechanical medicines which act _directly_ upon the worms, are cowhage[ ] and powder of tin. the last of these medicines has been supposed to act chemically upon the worms, from the arsenic which adheres to it; but from the length of time a worm lived in a solution of white arsenic, it is probable the tin acts altogether mechanically upon them. [ ] dolichos pruriens, of linnæus. . the medicines which act chemically upon worms, appear, from our experiments, to be very numerous. nature has wisely guarded children against the morbid effects of worms, by implanting in them an early appetite for common salt, ripe fruits, and saccharine substances; all of which appear to be among the most speedy and effectual poisons for worms. let it not be said, that nature here counteracts her own purposes. her conduct in this business is conformable to many of her operations in the human body, as well as throughout all her works. the bile is a necessary part of the animal fluids, and yet an appetite for ripe fruits seems to be implanted chiefly to obviate the consequences of its excess, or acrimony, in the summer and autumnal months. the use of common salt as an anthelmintic medicine, is both ancient and universal. celsus recommends it. in ireland it is a common practice to feed children, who are afflicted by worms, for a week or two upon a salt-sea weed, and when the bowels are well charged with it, to give a purge of wort in order to carry off the worms, after they are debilitated by the salt diet. i have administered many pounds of common salt coloured with cochineal, in doses of half a drachm, upon an empty stomach in the morning, with great success in destroying worms. ever since i observed the effects of sugar and other sweet substances upon worms, i have recommended the liberal use of all of them in the diet of children, with the happiest effects. the sweet substances probably act in preventing the diseases from worms in the stomach only, into which they often insinuate themselves, especially in the morning. when we wish to dislodge worms from the bowels by sugar or molasses, we must give these substances in large quantities, so that they may escape in part the action of the stomach upon them. i can say nothing from my own experience of the efficacy of the mineral salts, composed of copper, iron, and zinc, combined with vitriolic acid, in destroying worms in the bowels. nor have i ever used the corrosive sublimate in small doses as an anthelmintic. i have heard of well-attested cases of the efficacy of the oil of turpentine in destroying worms. the expressed juices of onions and of garlic are very common remedies for worms. from one of the experiments, it appears that the onion juice possesses strong anthelmintic virtues. i have often prescribed a tea-spoonful of gunpowder in the morning upon an empty stomach, with obvious advantage. the active medicine here is probably the nitre. i have found a syrup made of the bark of the jamaica cabbage-tree[ ], to be a powerful as well as a most agreeable anthelmintic medicine. it sometimes purges and vomits, but its good effects may be obtained without giving it in such doses as to produce these evacuations. [ ] geoffrea, of linnæus. there is not a more _certain_ anthelmintic than carolina pink-root[ ]. but as there have been instances of death having followed excessive doses of it, imprudently administered, and as children are often affected by giddiness, stupor, and a redness and pain in the eyes after taking it, i acknowledge that i have generally preferred to it, less certain, but more safe medicines for destroying worms. [ ] spigelia marylandica, of linnæus. . of the medicines whose action is compounded of mechanical and chemical qualities, calomel, jalap, and the powder of steel, are the principal. calomel, in order to be effectual, must be given in large doses. it is a safe and powerful anthelmintic. combined with jalap, it often brings away worms when given for other purposes. of all the medicines that i have administered, i know of none more safe and certain than the simple preparations of iron, whether they be given in the form of steel-filings or of the rust of iron. if ever they fail of success, it is because they are given in too small doses. i generally prescribe from five to thirty grains every morning, to children between one year, and ten years old; and i have been taught by an old sea-captain, who was cured of a tænia by this medicine, to give from two drachms to half an ounce of it, every morning, for three or four days, not only with safety, but with success. i shall conclude this essay with the following remarks: . where the action of medicines upon worms in the bowels does not agree exactly with their action upon the earth-worms in the experiments that have been related, it must be ascribed to the medicines being more or less altered by the action of the stomach upon them. i conceive that the superior anthelmintic qualities of pink-root, steel-filings, and calomel (all of which acted but slowly upon the earth-worms compared with many other substances) are in a great degree occasioned by their escaping the digestive powers unchanged, and acting in a concentrated state upon the worms. . in fevers attended with anomalous symptoms, which are supposed to arise from worms, i have constantly refused to yield to the solicitations of my patients, to abandon the indications of cure in the fever, and to pursue worms as the _principal_ cause of the disease. while i have adhered steadily to the usual remedies for the different states of fever, in all their stages, i have at the same time blended those remedies occasionally with anthelmintic medicines. in this i have imitated the practice of physicians in many other diseases, in which troublesome and dangerous symptoms are pursued, without seducing the attention from the original disease. the anthelmintic medicines prescribed in these cases, should not be the rust of iron, and common salt, which are so very useful in chronic diseases from worms, but calomel and jalap, and such other medicines as aid in the cure of fevers. an account of the _external use of arsenic_, in the cure of cancers. a few years ago, a certain doctor hugh martin, a surgeon of one of the pennsylvania regiments stationed at pittsburg, during the latter part of the late war, came to this city, and advertised to cure cancers with a medicine which he said he had discovered in the woods, in the neighbourhood of the garrison. as dr. martin had once been my pupil, i took the liberty of waiting upon him, and asked him some questions respecting his discovery. his answers were calculated to make me believe, that his medicine was of a vegetable nature, and that it was originally an indian remedy. he showed me some of the medicine, which appeared to be the powder of a well-dried root of some kind. anxious to see the success of this medicine in cancerous sores, i prevailed upon the doctor to admit me to see him apply it in two or three cases. i observed, in some instances, he applied a powder to the parts affected, and in others only touched them with a feather dipped in a liquid which had a white sediment, and which he made me believe was the vegetable root diffused in water. it gave me great pleasure to witness the efficacy of the doctor's applications. in several cancerous ulcers, the cures he performed were complete. where the cancers were much connected with the lymphatic system, or accompanied with a scrophulous habit of body, his medicine always failed, and, in some instances, did evident mischief. anxious to discover a medicine that promised relief in even a few cases of cancers, and supposing that all the caustic vegetables were nearly alike, i applied the phytolacca or poke-root, the stramonium, the arum, and one or two others, to foul ulcers, in hopes of seeing the same effects from them which i had seen from doctor martin's powder; but in these i was disappointed. they gave some pain, but performed no cures. at length i was furnished by a gentleman from pittsburg with a powder which i had no doubt, from a variety of circumstances, was of the same kind as that used by dr. martin. i applied it to a fungous ulcer, but without producing the degrees of pain, inflammation, or discharge, which i had been accustomed to see from the application of dr. martin's powder. after this, i should have suspected that the powder was not a _simple_ root, had not the doctor continued upon all occasions to assure me, that it was wholly a vegetable preparation. in the beginning of the year , the doctor died, and it was generally believed that his medicine had died with him. a few weeks after his death i procured, from one of his administrators, a few ounces of the doctor's powder, partly with a view of applying it to a cancerous sore which then offered, and partly with a view of examining it more minutely than i had been able to do during the doctor's life. upon throwing the powder, which was of a brown colour, upon a piece of white paper, i perceived distinctly a number of white particles scattered through it. i suspected at first that they were corrosive sublimate, but the usual tests of that metallic salt soon convinced me, that i was mistaken. recollecting that arsenic was the basis of most of the celebrated cancer powders that have been used in the world, i had recourse to the tests for detecting it. upon sprinkling a small quantity of the powder upon some coals of fire, it emitted the garlick smell so perceptibly as to be known by several persons whom i called into the room where i made the experiment, and who knew nothing of the object of my inquiries. after this, with some difficulty i picked out about three or four grains of the white powder, and bound them between two pieces of copper, which i threw into the fire. after the copper pieces became red hot, i took them out of the fire, and when they had cooled, discovered an evident whiteness imparted to both of them. one of the pieces afterwards looked like dull silver. these two tests have generally been thought sufficient to distinguish the presence of arsenic in any bodies; but i made use of a third, which has lately been communicated to the world by mr. bergman, and which is supposed to be in all cases infallible. i infused a small quantity of the powder in a solution of a vegetable alkali in water for a few hours, and then poured it upon a solution of blue vitriol in water. the colour of the vitriol was immediately changed to a beautiful green, and afterwards precipitated. i shall close this paper with a few remarks upon this powder, and upon the cure of cancers and foul ulcers of all kinds. . the use of caustics in cancers and foul ulcers is very ancient, and universal. but i believe _arsenic_ to be the most efficacious of any that has ever been used. it is the basis of plunket's and probably of guy's well-known cancer powders. the great art of applying it successfully, is to dilute and mix it in such a manner as to mitigate the violence of its action. doctor martin's composition was happily calculated for this purpose. it gave less pain than the common or lunar caustic. it excited a moderate inflammation, which separated the morbid from the sound parts, and promoted a plentiful afflux of humours to the sore during its application. it seldom produced an escar; hence it insinuated itself into the deepest recesses of the cancers, and frequently separated those fibres in an unbroken state, which are generally called the roots of the cancer. upon this account, i think, in some ulcerated cancers it is to be preferred to the knife. it has no action upon the sound skin. this doctor hall proved, by confining a small quantity of it upon his arm for many hours. in those cases where doctor martin used it to extract cancerous or schirrous tumours that were not ulcerated, i have reason to believe that he always broke the skin with spanish flies. . the arsenic used by the doctor was the pure white arsenic. i should suppose from the examination i made of the powder with the eye, that the proportion of arsenic to the vegetable powder, could not be more than one-fortieth part of the whole compound. i have reason to think that the doctor employed different vegetable substances at different times. the vegetable matter with which the arsenic was combined in the powder which i used in my experiments, was probably nothing more than the powder of the root and berries of the solanum lethale, or deadly nightshade. as the principal, and perhaps the only design of the vegetable addition was to blunt the activity of the arsenic, i should suppose that the same proportion of common wheat flour as the doctor used of his caustic vegetables, would answer nearly the same purpose. in those cases where the doctor applied a feather dipped in a liquid to the sore of his patient, i have no doubt but his phial contained nothing but a weak solution of arsenic in water. this is no new method of applying arsenic to foul ulcers. doctor way of wilmington has spoken in the highest terms to me of a wash for foulnesses on the skin, as well as old ulcers, prepared by boiling an ounce of white arsenic in two quarts of water to three pints, and applying it once or twice a day. . i mentioned, formerly, that doctor martin was often unsuccessful in the application of his powder. this was occasioned by his using it indiscriminately in _all_ cases. in schirrous and cancerous tumours, the knife should always be preferred to the caustic. in cancerous ulcers attended with a scrophulous or a bad habit of body, such particularly as have their seat in the neck, in the breasts of females, and in the axillary glands, it can only protract the patient's misery. most of the cancerous sores cured by doctor martin were seated on the nose, or cheeks, or upon the surface or extremities of the body. it remains yet to discover a cure for cancers that taint the fluids, or infect the whole lymphatic system. this cure i apprehend must be sought for in diet, or in the long use of some internal medicine. to pronounce a disease incurable, is often to render it so. the intermitting fever, if left to itself, would probably prove frequently, and perhaps more speedily fatal than cancers. and as cancerous tumours and sores are often neglected, or treated improperly by injudicious people, from an apprehension that they are incurable (to which the frequent advice of physicians "to let them alone," has no doubt contributed), perhaps the introduction of arsenic into regular practice as a remedy for cancers, may invite to a more early application to physicians, and thereby prevent the deplorable cases that have been mentioned, which are often rendered so by delay or unskilful management. . it is not in cancerous sores only that doctor martin's powder has been found to do service. in sores of all kinds, and from a variety of causes, where they have been attended with fungous flesh or callous edges, i have used the doctor's powder with advantage. i flatter myself that i shall be excused in giving this detail of a _quack_ medicine, when we reflect that it was from the inventions and temerity of quacks, that physicians have derived some of their most active and most useful medicines. observations upon _the tetanus_. for a history of the different names and symptoms of this disease, i beg leave to refer the reader to practical books, particularly to doctor cullen's first lines. my only design in this inquiry, is to deliver such a theory of the disease, as may lead to a new and successful use of old and common remedies for it. all the remote and predisposing causes of the tetanus act by inducing preternatural debility, and irritability in the muscular parts of the body. in many cases, the remote causes act alone, but they more frequently require the co-operation of an exciting cause. i shall briefly enumerate, without discriminating them, or pointing out when they act singly, or when in conjunction with each other. i. wounds on different parts of the body are the most frequent causes of this disease. it was formerly supposed it was the effect only of a wound, which partially divided a tendon, or a nerve; but we now know it is often the consequence of læsions which affect the body in a superficial manner. the following is a list of such wounds and læsions as have been known to induce the disease: . wounds in the soles of the feet, in the palms of the hands, and under the nails, by means of nails or splinters of wood. . amputations, and fractures of limbs. . gun-shot wounds. . venesection. . the extraction of a tooth, and the insertion of new teeth. . the extirpation of a schirrous. . castration. . a wound on the tongue. . the injury which is done to the feet by frost. . the injury which is sometimes done to one of the toes, by stumping it (as it is called) in walking. . cutting a nail too closely. also, . cutting a corn too closely. . wearing a shoe so tight as to abrade the skin of one of the toes. . a wound, not more than an eighth part of an inch, upon the forehead. . the stroke of a whip upon the arm, which only broke the skin. . walking too soon upon a broken limb. . the sting of a wasp upon the glands penis. . a fish bone sticking in the throat. . cutting the navel string in new-born infants. between the time in which the body is thus wounded or injured, and the time in which the disease makes its appearance, there is an interval which extends from one day to six weeks. in the person who injured his toe by stumping it in walking, the disease appeared the next day. the trifling wound on the forehead which i have mentioned, produced both tetanus and death, the day after it was received. i have known two instances of tetanus, from running nails in the feet, which did not appear until six weeks afterwards. in most of the cases of this disease from wounds which i have seen, there was a total absence of pain and inflammation, or but very moderate degrees of them, and in some of them the wounds had entirely healed, before any of the symptoms of the disease had made their appearance. wounds and læsions are most apt to produce tetanus, after the long continued application of heat to the body; hence its greater frequency, from these causes, in warm than in cold climates, and in warm than in cold weather, in northern countries. ii. cold applied suddenly to the body, after it has been exposed to intense heat. of this dr. girdlestone mentions many instances, in his treatise upon spasmodic affections in india. it was most commonly induced by sleeping upon the ground, after a warm day. such is the dampness and unwholesome nature of the ground, in some parts of that country, that "fowls (the doctor says) put into coops at night, in the sickly season of the year, and on the same soil that the men slept, were always found dead the next morning, if the coop was not placed at a certain height above the surface of the earth[ ]." it was brought on by sleeping on a damp pavement in a servant girl of mr. alexander todd of philadelphia, in the evening of a day in which the mercury in fahrenheit's thermometer stood at °. dr. chalmers relates an instance of its having been induced by a person's sleeping without a nightcap, after shaving his head. the late dr. bartram informed me, that he had known a draught of cold water produce it in a man who was in a preternaturally heated state. the cold air more certainly brings on this disease, if it be applied to the body in the form of a current. the stiff neck which is sometimes felt after exposure to a stream of cool air from an open window, is a tendency to a locked jaw, or a feeble and partial tetanus. [ ] page . iii. worms and certain acrid matters in the alimentary canal. morgagni relates an instance of the former, and i shall hereafter mention instances of the latter in new-born infants. iv. certain poisonous vegetables. there are several cases upon record of its being induced by the hemlock dropwort, and the datura stramonium, or jamestown weed of our country. v. it is sometimes a symptom of the bilious remitting and intermitting fever. it is said to occur more frequently in those states of fever in the island of malta, than in any other part of the world. vi. it is likewise a symptom of that malignant state of fever which is brought on by the bite of a rabid animal, also of hysteria and gout. vii. the grating noise produced by cutting with a knife upon a pewter plate excited it in a servant, while he was waiting upon his master's table in london. it proved fatal in three days. viii. the sight of food, after long fasting. ix. drunkenness. x. certain emotions and passions of the mind. terror brought it on a brewer in this city. he had been previously debilitated by great labour, in warm weather. i have heard of its having been induced in a man by agitation of mind, occasioned by seeing a girl tread upon a nail. fear excited it in a soldier who kneeled down to be shot. upon being pardoned he was unable to rise, from a sudden attack of tetanus. grief produced it in a case mentioned by dr. willan. xi. parturition. all these remote and exciting causes act with more or less certainty and force, in proportion to the greater or less degrees of fatigue which have preceded them. it has been customary with authors to call all those cases of tetanus, which are not brought on by wounds, symptomatic. they are no more so than those which are said to be idiopathic. they all depend alike upon irritating impressions, made upon one part of the body, producing morbid excitement, or disease in another. it is immaterial, whether the impression be made upon the intestines by a worm, upon the ear by an ungrateful noise, upon the mind by a strong emotion, or upon the sole of the foot by a nail; it is alike communicated to the muscles, which, from their previous debility and irritability, are thrown into commotions by it. in yielding to the impression of irritants, they follow in their contractions the order of their predisposing debility. the muscles which move the lower jaw are affected more early, and more obstinately than any of the other external muscles of the body, only because they are more constantly in a relaxed, or idle state. the negroes in the west-indies are more subject to this disease than white people. this has been ascribed to the greater irritability of their muscular systems, which constitutes a part of its predisposing cause. it is remarkable that their sensibility lessens with the increase of their irritability; and hence, dr. moseley says, they bear surgical operations much better than white people. new-born infants are often affected by this disease in the west-indies. i have seen a few cases of it in philadelphia. it is known by the name of the jaw-fall. its causes are: . the cutting of the navel string. this is often done with a pair of dull scissors, by which means the cord is bruised. . the acrimony of the meconium retained in the bowels. . cold air acting upon the body, after it has been heated by the air of a hot room. . smoke is supposed to excite it, in the negro quarters in the west-indies. it is unknown, dr. winterbottom informs us, among the native africans in the neighbourhood of sierra leone. i am aware that it is ascribed by many physicians to only one of the above causes; but i see no reason why it should not be induced by more than one cause in infants, when we see it brought on by so many different causes in grown people. the tetanus is not confined to the human species. it often affects horses in the west-indies. i have seen several cases of it in philadelphia. the want of uniform success in the treatment of this disease, has long been a subject of regret among physicians. it may be ascribed to the use of the same remedies, without any respect to the nature of the causes which produce it, and to an undue reliance upon some one remedy, under a belief of its specific efficacy. opium has been considered as its antidote, without recollecting that it was one only, of a numerous class of medicines, that are all alike useful in it. tetanus, from all its causes, has nearly the same premonitory symptoms. these are a stiffness in the neck, a disposition to bend forward, in order to relieve a pain in the back, costiveness, a pain about the external region of the stomach, and a disposition to start in sleep. in this feeble state of the disease, an emetic, a strong dose of laudanum, the warm bath, or a few doses of bark, have often prevented its being completely formed. when it has arisen from a wound, dilating it if small or healed, and afterwards inflaming it, by applying to it turpentine, common salt, corrosive sublimate, or spanish flies, have, in many hundred instances, been attended with the same salutary effects. the disease i have said is seated in the muscles, and, while they are preternaturally excited, the blood-vessels are in a state of reduced excitement. this is evident from the feebleness and slowness of the pulse. it sometimes beats, according to dr. lining, but forty strokes in a minute. by stimulating the wound, we not only restore the natural excitement of the blood-vessels, but we produce an inflammatory diathesis in them, which abstracts morbid excitement from the muscular system, and, by equalizing it, cures the disease. this remedy i acknowledge has not been as successfully employed in the west-indies as in the united states, and that for an obvious reason. the blood-vessels in a warm climate refuse to assume an inflammatory action. stimuli hurry them on suddenly to torpor or gangrene. hence the danger and even fatal effects of blood-letting, in the fevers which affect the natives of the islands, a few hours after they are formed. but widely different is the nature of wounds, and of the tension of the blood-vessels, in the inhabitants of northern countries. while dr. dallas deplores the loss of out of affected with tetanus from wounds, in the west-india islands, i am sure i could mention many hundred instances of the disease being prevented, and a very different proportion of cures being performed, by inflaming the wounds, and exciting a counter _morbid_ action in the blood-vessels. when the disease is the effect of fever, the same remedies should be given, as are employed in the cure of that fever. i have once unlocked the jaw of a woman who was seized at the same time with a remitting fever, by an emetic, and i have heard of its being cured in a company of surveyors, in whom it was the effect of an intermittent, by large doses of bark. when it accompanies malignant fever, hysteria, or gout, the remedies for those forms of disease should be employed. bleeding was highly useful in it in a case of yellow fever which occurred in philadelphia in the year . when it is produced by the suppression of perspiration by means of cold, the warm bath and sweating medicines have been found most useful in it. nature has in one instance pointed out the use of this remedy, by curing the disease by a miliary eruption on the skin[ ]. [ ] burserus. if it be the effect of poisonous substances taken into the stomach, or of worms in the bowels, the cure should be begun by emetics, purges, and anthelmintic medicines. where patients are unable to swallow, from the teeth of the upper and lower jaw pressing upon each other, a tooth or two should be extracted, to open a passage for our medicines into the throat. if this be impracticable or objected to, they should be injected by way of glyster. in the locked jaw which arises from the extraction of a tooth, an instrument should be introduced to depress the jaw. this has been done by a noted english dentist in london, with success. as the habit of diseased action often continues after the removal of its causes, and as some of the remote causes of this disease are beyond the reach of medicine, such remedies should be given as are calculated, by their stimulating power, to overcome the morbid or spasmodic action of the muscles. these are: . opium. it should be given in large and frequent doses. dr. streltz says he has found from one to two drachms of an alkali, taken in the course of a day, greatly to aid the action of the opium in this disease. . wine. this should be given in quarts, and even gallons daily. dr. currie relates a case of a man in the infirmary of liverpool, who was cured of tetanus, by drinking nearly a quarter cask of madeira wine. dr. hosack speaks in high terms of it, in a letter to dr. duncan, and advises its being given without any other stimulating medicine. . ardent spirits. a quack in new-england has lately cured tetanus, by giving ardent spirits in such quantities as to produce intoxication. upon being asked his reason for this strange practice, he said, he had always observed the jaw to fall in drunken men, and any thing that would produce that effect, he supposed to be proper in the locked jaw. . the bark has of late years been used in this disease with success. i had the pleasure of first seeing its good effects in the case of colonel stone, in whom a severe tetanus followed a wound in the foot, received at the battle of germantown, in october, . . the cold bath. this remedy has been revived by dr. wright of jamaica, and has in many instances performed cures of this disease. in one of two cases in which i have used it with success, the patient's jaw opened in a few minutes after the affusion of a single bucket of water upon her body. the disease was occasioned by a slight injury done to one of her toes, by wearing a tight shoe. the signals for continuing the use of the cold bath, are its being followed by a slight degree of fever, and a general warmth of the skin. where these do not occur, there is reason to believe it will do no service, or perhaps do harm. we have many proofs of the difference in the same disease, and in the operation of the same medicine, in different and opposite climates. dr. girdlestone has mentioned the result of the use of the cold bath in tetanus in the east-indies, which furnishes a striking addition to the numerous facts that have been collected upon that subject. he tells us the cold bath uniformly destroyed life, in every case in which it was used. the reason is obvious. in that extremely debilitating climate, the system in tetanus was prostrated too low to re-act, under the sedative operation of the cold water. . the warm bath has often been used with success in this disease. its temperature should be regulated by our wishes to promote sweats, or to produce excitement in the blood-vessels. in the latter case it should rise above the heat of the human body. . the oil of amber acts powerfully upon the muscular system. i have seen the happiest effects from the exhibition of six or eight drops of it, every two hours, in this disease. . a salivation has been often recommended for the cure of tetanus, but unfortunately it can seldom be excited in time to do service. i once saw it complete the cure of a sailor in the pennsylvania hospital, whose life was prolonged by the alternate use of bark and wine. the disease was brought on him by a mortification of his feet, in consequence of their being frost-bitten. . dr. girdlestone commends blisters in high terms in this disease. he says he never saw it prove fatal, even where they only produced a redness on the skin. . i have heard of electricity having been used with advantage in tetanus, but i can say nothing in its favour from my own experience. in order to ensure the utmost benefit from the use of the above remedies, it will be necessary for a physician always to recollect, that the disease is attended with great morbid action, and of course each of the stimulating medicines that has been mentioned should be given, st, in large doses; dly, in succession; dly, in rotation; and thly, by way of glyster, as well as by the mouth. the jaw-fall in new-born infants is, i believe, always fatal. purging off the meconium from the bowels immediately after birth has often prevented it from one of its causes; and applying a rag wetted with spirit of turpentine to the navel-string, immediately after it is cut, dr. chisholm says, prevents it from another of its causes which has been mentioned. this disease, i have said, sometimes affects horses. i have twice seen it cured by applying a potential caustic to the neck under the mane, by large doses of the oil of amber, and by plunging one of them into a river, and throwing buckets of cold water upon the other. i shall conclude my observations upon the tetanus with the following queries: . what would be the effects of _copious_ blood-letting in this disease? there is a case upon record of its efficacy, in the medical journal of paris, and i have now in my possession a letter from the late dr. hopkins of connecticut, containing the history of a cure performed by it. where tetanus is the effect of primary gout, hysteria, or fever, attended with highly inflammatory symptoms, bleeding is certainly indicated, but, in general, the disease is so completely insulated in the muscles, and the arteries are so far below their par of excitement in frequency and force, that little benefit can be expected from that remedy. the disease, in these cases, seems to call for an elevation, instead of a diminution, of the excitement of the blood-vessels. . what would be the effect of _extreme_ cold in this disease? mr. john hunter used to say, in his lectures, "were he to be attacked by it, he would, if possible, fly to nova-zembla, or throw himself into an ice-house." i have no doubt of the efficacy of intense cold, in subduing the inordinate morbid actions which occur in the muscular system; but it offers so much violence to the fears and prejudices of sick people, or their friends, that it can seldom be applied in such a manner as to derive much benefit from it. perhaps the sedative effects of cold might be obtained with less difficulty, by wrapping the body in sheets, and wetting them occasionally for an hour or two with cold water. . what would be the effect of exciting a strong counter-action in the stomach and bowels in this disease? dr. brown of kentucky cured a tetanus by inflaming the stomach, by means of the tincture of cantharides. it has likewise been cured by a severe cholera morbus, induced by a large dose of corrosive sublimate. the stomach and bowels, and the external muscles of the body, discover strong associations in many diseases. a sick stomach is always followed by general weakness, and the dry gripes often paralyze the muscles of the arms and limbs. but further, one of the remote causes of tetanus, viz. cold air, often shows the near relationship of the muscles to the bowels, and the vicarious nature of disease in each of them. it often produces in the latter, in the west-indies, what the french physicians call a "crampe seche," or, in other words, if i may be allowed the expression, a tetanus in the bowels. . a sameness has been pointed out between many of the symptoms of hydrophobia and tetanus. a similar difficulty of swallowing, and similar convulsions after it, have been remarked in both diseases. death often takes place suddenly in tetanus, as it does in hydrophobia, without producing marks of fatal disorganization in any of the internal parts of the body. dr. physick supposes death in these cases to be the effect of suffocation, from a sudden spasm and closure of the glottis, and proposes to prevent it in the same manner that he has proposed to prevent death from hydrophobia, that is, by laryngotomy[ ]. the prospect of success from it appears alike reasonable in both cases. [ ] medical repository. the result of observations made upon _the diseases_ which occurred in the military hospitals of the united states, during the revolutionary war between great britain and the united states. . the army when in tents, was always more sickly, than in the open air. it was likewise more healthy when it was kept in motion, than when it lay in an encampment. . young men under twenty years of age, were subject to the greatest number of camp diseases. . the southern troops were more sickly than the northern or eastern troops. . the native americans were more sickly than the natives of europe who served in the american army. . men above thirty, and five and thirty years of age, were the hardiest soldiers in the army. perhaps the reason why the natives of europe were more healthy than the native americans, was, they were more advanced in life. . the southern troops sickened from the want of salt provisions. their strength and spirits were restored only by means of salted meat. i once saw a private in a virginia regiment, throw away his ration of choice fresh beef, and give a dollar for a pound of salted bacon. . those officers who wore flannel shirts or waistcoats next to their skins, in general escaped fevers and diseases of all kinds. . the principal diseases in the hospitals were the typhus gravior and mitior of doctor cullen. men who came into the hospitals with pleurisies or rheumatisms, soon lost the types of their original diseases, and suffered, or died, by the above-mentioned states of fever. . the typhus mitior always prevailed most, and with the worst symptoms in winter. a free air, which could only be obtained in summer, always prevented, or mitigated it. . in all those cases, where the contagion was received, cold seldom failed to render it active. whenever an hospital was removed in winter, one half of the patients generally sickened on the way, or soon after their arrival at the place to which they were sent. . drunken soldiers and convalescents were most subject to this fever. . those patients in this fever who had large ulcers on their back or limbs, generally recovered. . i met with several instances of buboes, also of ulcers in the throat, as described by doctor donald monro. they were mistaken by some of the junior surgeons for venereal sores, but they yielded to the common remedies of the hospital fever. . there were many instances of patients in this fever, who suddenly fell down dead, upon being moved, without any previous symptoms of approaching dissolution. this was more especially the case, when they arose to go to stool. . the contagion of this fever was frequently conveyed from the hospital to the camp, by means of blankets and clothes. . those black soldiers who had been previously slaves, died in a greater proportion by this fever, or had a much slower recovery from it, than the same number of white soldiers. . the remedies which appeared to do most service in this disease were vomits of tartar emetic, gentle dozes of laxative salts, bark, wine, volatile salt, opium, and blisters. . an emetic seldom failed of checking this fever if exhibited while it was in a _forming_ state, and before the patient was confined to his bed. . many causes concurred to produce, and increase this fever; such as the want of cleanliness, excessive fatigue, the ignorance or negligence of officers in providing suitable diet and accommodations for their men, the general use of linen instead of woollen clothes in the summer months, and the crowding too many patients together in one hospital, with such other inconveniences and abuses, as usually follow the union of the _purveying_ and _directing_ departments of hospitals in the _same_ persons. but there is one more cause of this fever which remains to be mentioned, and that is, the sudden assembling of a great number of persons together of different habits and manners, such as the soldiers of the american army were in the years and . doctor blane informs us, in his observations upon the diseases of seamen, "that it sometimes happens that a ship with a long established crew shall be very _healthy_, yet if strangers are introduced among them, who are also _healthy_, sickness will be mutually produced." the history of diseases furnishes many proofs of the truth of this assertion[ ]. it is very remarkable, that while the american army at cambridge, in the year , consisted only of new-englandmen (whose habits and manners were the same) there was scarcely any sickness among them. it was not till the troops of the eastern, middle, and southern states met at new-york and ticonderoga, in the year , that the typhus became universal, and spread with such peculiar mortality in the armies of the united states. [ ] "cleanliness is founded on a natural aversion to what is unseemly and offensive in the persons of others; and there seems also to be an instinctive horror at strangers implanted in human nature for the same purpose, as is visible in young children, and uncultivated people. in the early ages of rome, the same word signified both a stranger and an enemy." dr. blane, p. . . the dysentery prevailed, in the summer of , in the military hospitals of new-jersey, but with very few instances of mortality. this dysentery was frequently followed by an obstinate diarrh[oe]a, in which the warm bath was found in many cases to be an effectual remedy. . i saw several instances of fevers occasioned by the use of the common ointment made of the flour of sulphur and hog's lard, for the cure of the itch. the fevers were probably brought on by the exposure of the body to the cold air, in the usual method in which that ointment is applied. i have since learned, that the itch may be cured as speedily by rubbing the parts affected, two or three times, with the dry flour of sulphur, and that no inconvenience, and scarcely any smell, follow this mode of using it. . in gun-shot wounds of the joints, mr. ranby's advice of amputating the limb was followed with success. i saw two cases of death where this advice was neglected. . there was one instance of a soldier who lost his hearing, and another of a soldier who had been deaf who recovered his hearing, by the noise of artillery in a battle. . those soldiers who were billetted in private houses, generally escaped the hospital fever, and recovered soonest from all their diseases. . hospitals built of coarse logs, with _ground_ floors, with fire-places in the middle of them, and a hole in the roof, for the discharge of smoke, were found to be very conducive to the recovery of the soldiers from the hospital fever. this form of a military hospital was introduced into the army by dr. tilton of the state of delaware[ ]. [ ] "it is proved, in innumerable instances, that sick men recover health sooner and better in sheds, huts, and barns, exposed occasionally to wind, and sometimes to rain, than in the most superb hospitals in europe." jackson's remarks on the constitution of the medical department of the british army, p. . . in fevers and dysenteries, those soldiers recovered most certainly, and most speedily, who lay at the greatest distance from the walls of the hospitals. this important fact was communicated to me by the late dr. beardsley of connecticut. . soldiers are but little more than adult children. that officer, therefore, will best perform his duty to his men, who obliges them to take the most care of their health. . hospitals are the sinks of human life in an army. they robbed the united states of more citizens than the sword. humanity, economy, and philosophy, all concur in giving a preference to the conveniences and wholesome air of private houses; and should war continue to be the absurd and unchristian mode of deciding national disputes, it is to be hoped that the progress of science will so far mitigate one of its greatest calamities, as to produce an abolition of hospitals for acute diseases. perhaps there are no cases of sickness in which reason and religion do not forbid the seclusion of our fellow creatures from the offices of humanity in private families, except where they labour under the calamities of madness and the venereal disease, or where they are the subjects of some of the operations of surgery. an account of the influence of the military and political events of the _american revolution_ upon the human body. there were several circumstances peculiar to the american revolution, which should be mentioned previously to an account of the influence of the events which accompanied it, upon the human body. . the revolution interested every inhabitant of the country of both sexes, and of every rank and age that was capable of reflection. an indifferent, or neutral spectator of the controversy, was scarcely to be found in any of the states. . the scenes of war and government which it introduced, were new to the greatest part of the inhabitants of the united states, and operated with all the force of _novelty_ upon the human mind. . the controversy was conceived to be the most important of any that had ever engaged the attention of mankind. it was generally believed, by the friends of the revolution, that the very existence of _freedom_ upon our globe, was involved in the issue of the contest in favour of the united states. . the american revolution included in it the cares of government, as well as the toils and dangers of war. the american mind was, therefore, frequently occupied at the _same time_, by the difficult and complicated duties of political and military life. . the revolution was conducted by men who had been born _free_, and whose sense of the blessings of liberty was of course more exquisite than if they had just emerged from a state of slavery. . the greatest part of the soldiers in the armies of the united states had family connections and property in the country. . the war was carried on by the americans against a nation, to whom they had long been tied by the numerous obligations of consanguinity, laws, religion, commerce, language, interest, and a mutual sense of national glory. the resentments of the americans of course rose, as is usual in all disputes, in proportion to the number and force of these ancient bonds of affection and union. . a predilection to a limited monarchy, as an essential part of a free and safe government, and an attachment to the reigning king of great-britain (with a very few exceptions), were universal in every part of the united states. . there was at one time a sudden dissolution of civil government in _all_, and of ecclesiastical establishments in several of the states. . the expences of the war were supported by means of a paper currency, which was continually depreciating. from the action of each of these causes, and frequently from their combination in the same persons, effects might reasonably be expected, both upon the mind and body, which have seldom occurred; or if they have, i believe were never fully recorded in any age or country. it might afford some useful instruction, to point out the influence of the military and political events of the revolution upon the understandings, passions, and morals of the citizens of the united states; but my business in the present inquiry, is only to take notice of the influence of those events upon the human body, through the medium of the mind. i shall first mention the effects of the military, and secondly, of the political events of the revolution. the last must be considered in a two-fold view, accordingly as they affected the friends, or the enemies of the revolution. i. in treating of the effects of the military events, i shall take notice, first, of the influence of _actual_ war, and, secondly, of the influence of the military life. in the beginning of a battle, i have observed _thirst_ to be a very common sensation among both officers and soldiers. it occurred where no exercise, or action of the body, could have excited it. many officers have informed me, that after the first onset in a battle, they felt a glow of heat, so universal as to be perceptible in both their ears. this was the case, in a particular manner, in the battle of princeton, on the third of january, in the year , on which day the weather was remarkably cold. a veteran colonel of a new-england regiment, whom i visited at princeton, and who was wounded in the hand at the battle of monmouth, on the th of june, (a day in which the mercury stood at ° of fahrenheit's thermometer), after describing his situation at the time he received his wound, concluded his story by remarking, that "fighting was hot work on a cold day, but much more so on a warm day." the many instances which appeared after that memorable battle, of soldiers who were found among the slain without any marks of wounds or violence upon their bodies, were probably occasioned by the heat excited in the body, by the emotions of the mind, being added to that of the atmosphere. soldiers bore operations of every kind immediately _after_ a battle, with much more fortitude than they did at _any time_ afterwards. the effects of the military life upon the human body come next to be considered under this head. in another place[ ] i have mentioned three cases of pulmonary consumption being perfectly cured by the diet and hardships of a camp life. [ ] page . doctor blane, in his valuable observations on the diseases incident to seamen, ascribes the extraordinary healthiness of the british fleet in the month of april, , to the effects produced on the spirit of the soldiers and seamen, by the victory obtained over the french fleet on the th of that month; and relates, upon the authority of mr. ives, an instance in the war between great-britain and the combined powers of france and spain, in , in which the scurvy, as well as other diseases, were checked by the prospect of a naval engagement. the american army furnished an instance of the effects of victory upon the human mind, which may serve to establish the inferences from the facts related by doctor blane. the philadelphia militia who joined the remains of general washington's army, in december, , and shared with them a few days afterwards in the capture of a large body of hessians at trenton, consisted of men, most of whom had been accustomed to the habits of a city life. these men slept in tents and barns, and sometimes in the open air during the usual colds of december and january; and yet there were but two instances of sickness, and only one of death, in that body of men in the course of nearly six weeks, in those winter months. this extraordinary healthiness of so great a number of men under such trying circumstances, can only be ascribed to the vigour infused into the human body by the victory of trenton having produced insensibility to all the usual remote causes of diseases. militia officers and soldiers, who enjoyed good health during a campaign, were often affected by fevers and other diseases, as soon as they returned to their respective homes. i knew one instance of a militia captain, who was seized with convulsions the first night he lay on a feather bed, after sleeping several months on a mattrass, or upon the ground. these affections of the body appeared to be produced only by the sudden abstraction of that tone in the system which was excited by a sense of danger, and the other invigorating objects of a military life. the nostalgia of doctor cullen, or the _home-sickness_, was a frequent disease in the american army, more especially among the soldiers of the new-england states. but this disease was suspended by the superior action of the mind under the influence of the principles which governed common soldiers in the american army. of this general gates furnished me with a remarkable instance in , soon after his return from the command of a large body of regular troops and militia at ticonderoga. from the effects of the nostalgia, and the feebleness of the discipline, which was exercised over the militia, desertions were very frequent and numerous in his army, in the latter part of the campaign; and yet during the _three weeks_ in which the general expected every hour an attack to be made upon him by general burgoyne, there was not a single desertion from his army, which consisted at that time of , men. the patience, firmness, and magnanimity with which the officers and soldiers of the american army endured the complicated evils of hunger, cold, and nakedness, can only be ascribed to an insensibility of body produced by an uncommon tone of mind excited by the love of liberty and their country. before i proceed to the second general division of this subject, i shall take notice, that more instances of apoplexies occurred in the city of philadelphia, in the winter of - , than had been known in former years. i should have hesitated in recording this fact, had i not found the observation supported by a fact of the same kind, and produced by a nearly similar cause, in the appendix to the practical works of doctor baglivi, professor of physic and anatomy at rome. after a very wet season in the winter of - , he informs us, that "apoplexies displayed their rage; and perhaps (adds our author) that some part of this epidemic illness was owing to the universal grief and domestic care, occasioned by all europe being engaged in a war. all commerce was disturbed, and all the avenues of peace blocked up, so that the strongest heart could scarcely bear the thoughts of it." the winter of - was a period of uncommon anxiety among the citizens of america. every countenance wore the marks of painful solicitude, for the event of a petition to the throne of britain, which was to determine whether reconciliation, or a civil war, with all its terrible and distressing consequences, were to take place. the apoplectic fit, which deprived the world of the talents and virtues of peyton randolph, while he filled the chair of congress, in , appeared to be occasioned in part by the pressure of the uncertainty of those great events upon his mind. to the name of this illustrious patriot, several others might be added, who were affected by the apoplexy in the same memorable year. at this time a difference of opinion upon the subject of the contest with great-britain, had scarcely taken place among the citizens of america. ii. the political events of the revolution produced different effects upon the human body, through the medium of the mind, according as they acted upon the friends or enemies of the revolution. i shall first describe its effects upon the former class of citizens of the united states. many persons, of infirm and delicate habits, were restored to perfect health, by the change of place, or occupation, to which the war exposed them. this was the case in a more especial manner with hysterical women, who were much interested in the successful issue of the contest. the same effects of a civil war upon the hysteria, were observed by doctor cullen in scotland, in the years and . it may perhaps help to extend our ideas of the influence of the passions upon diseases, to add, that when either love, jealousy, grief, or even devotion, wholly engross the female mind, they seldom fail, in like manner, to cure or to suspend hysterical complaints. an uncommon cheerfulness prevailed every where, among the friends of the revolution. defeats, and even the loss of relations and property, were soon forgotten in the great objects of the war. the population in the united states was more rapid from births during the war, than it had ever been in the same number of years since the settlement of the country. i am disposed to ascribe this increase of births _chiefly_ to the quantity and extensive circulation of money, and to the facility of procuring the means of subsistence during the war, which favoured marriages among the labouring part of the people[ ]. but i have sufficient documents to prove, that marriages were more fruitful than in former years, and that a considerable number of unfruitful marriages became fruitful during the war. in , the year of the peace, there were several children born of parents who had lived many years together without issue. [ ] wheat, which was sold before the war for seven shillings and sixpence, was sold for several years _during_ the war for four, and in some places for two and sixpence pennsylvania currency per bushel. beggars of every description disappeared in the year , and were seldom seen till near the close of the war. mr. hume informs us, in his history of england, that some old people, upon hearing the news of the restoration of charles ii, died suddenly of joy. there was a time when i doubted the truth of this assertion; but i am now disposed to believe it, from having heard of a similar effect from an agreeable political event, in the course of the american revolution. the door-keeper of congress, an aged man, died suddenly, immediately after hearing of the capture of lord cornwallis' army. his death was universally ascribed to a violent emotion of political joy. this species of joy appears to be one of the strongest emotions that can agitate the human mind. perhaps the influence of that ardour in trade and speculation, which seized many of the friends of the revolution, and which was excited by the fallacious nominal amount of the paper money, should rather be considered as a disease, than as a passion. it unhinged the judgment, deposed the moral faculty, and filled the imagination, in many people, with airy and impracticable schemes of wealth and grandeur. desultory manners, and a peculiar species of extempore conduct, were among its characteristic symptoms. it produced insensibility to cold, hunger, and danger. the trading towns, and in some instances the extremities of the united states, were frequently visited in a few hours or days by persons affected by this disease; and hence "to travel with the speed of a speculator," became a common saying in many parts of the country. this species of insanity (if i may be allowed to call it by that name) did not require the confinement of a bedlam to cure it, like the south-sea madness described by doctor mead. its remedies were the depreciation of the paper money, and the events of the peace. the political events of the revolution produced upon its enemies very different effects from those which have been mentioned. the hypochondriasis of doctor cullen occurred, in many instances, in persons of this description. in some of them, the terror and distress of the revolution brought on a true melancholia[ ]. the causes which produced these diseases may be reduced to four heads. . the loss of former power or influence in government. . the destruction of the hierarchy of the english church in america. . the change in the habits of diet, and company, and manners, produced by the annihilation of just debts by means of depreciated paper money. and . the neglect, insults, and oppression, to which the loyalists were exposed, from individuals, and, in several instances, from the laws of some of the states. [ ] insania partialis sine dyspepsia, of doctor cullen. it was observed in south-carolina, that several gentlemen who had protected their estates by swearing allegiance to the british government, died soon after the evacuation of charleston by the british army. their deaths were ascribed to the neglect with which they were treated by their ancient friends, who had adhered to the government of the united states. the disease was called, by the common people, the _protection fever_. from the causes which produced this hypochondriasis, i have taken the liberty of distinguishing it by the name of _revolutiana_. in some cases, this disease was rendered fatal by exile and confinement; and, in others, by those persons who were afflicted with it, seeking relief from spiritous liquors. the termination of the war by the peace in , did not terminate the american revolution. the minds of the citizens of the united states were wholly unprepared for their new situation. the excess of the passion for liberty, inflamed by the successful issue of the war, produced, in many people, opinions and conduct which could not be removed by reason nor restrained by government. for a while, they threatened to render abortive the goodness of heaven to the united states, in delivering them from the evils of slavery and war. the extensive influence which these opinions had upon the understandings, passions, and morals of many of the citizens of the united states, constituted a form of insanity, which i shall take the liberty of distinguishing by the name of _anarchia_. i hope no offence will be given by the freedom of any of these remarks. an inquirer after philosophical truth should consider the passions of men in the same light that he does the laws of matter or motion. the friends and enemies of the american revolution must have been more, or less than men, if they could have sustained the magnitude and rapidity of the events that characterised it, without discovering some marks of human weakness, both in body and mind. perhaps these weaknesses were permitted, that human nature might receive fresh honours in america, by the contending parties (whether produced by the controversies about independence or the national government) mutually forgiving each other, and uniting in plans of general order, and happiness. an inquiry into the relation of _tastes and aliments_ to each other, and into the influence of this relation upon health and pleasure. in entering upon this subject, i feel like the clown, who, after several unsuccessful attempts to play upon a violin, threw it hastily from him, exclaiming at the same time, that "there was music in it," but that he could not bring it out. i shall endeavour, by a few brief remarks, to lay a foundation for more successful inquiries upon this difficult subject. attraction and repulsion seem to be the active principles of the universe. they pervade not only the greatest, but the minutest works of nature. salts, earths, inflammable bodies, metals, and vegetables, have all their respective relations to each other. the order of these relations is so uniform, that it has been ascribed by some philosophers to a latent principle of intelligence pervading each of them. colours, odours, and sounds, have likewise their respective relations to each other. they become agreeable and disagreeable, only in proportion to the natural or unnatural combination which takes place between each of their different species. it is remarkable, that the number of original colours and notes in music is exactly the same. all the variety in both, proceeds from the difference of combination. an arbitrary combination of them is by no means productive of pleasure. the relation which every colour and sound bear to each other, was as immutably established at the creation, as the order of the heavenly bodies, or as the relation of the objects of chemistry to each other. but this relation is not confined to colours and sounds alone. it probably extends to the objects of human aliment. for example, bread and meat, meat and salt, the alkalescent meats and acescent vegetables, all harmonize with each other upon the tongue; while fish and flesh, butter and raw onions, fish and milk, when combined, are all offensive to a pure and healthy taste. it would be agreeable to trace the analogy of sounds and tastes. they have both their flats and their sharps. they are both improved by the contrast of discords. thus pepper, and other condiments (which are disagreeable when taken by themselves) enhance the relish of many of our aliments, and they are both delightful in proportion as they are simple in their composition. to illustrate this analogy by more examples from music, would lead us from the subject of the present inquiry. it is observable that the tongue and the stomach, like instinct and reason, are, by nature, in unison with each other. one of those organs must always be disordered, when they disagree in a single article of aliment. when they both unite in articles of diet that were originally disagreeable, it is owing to a perversion in each of them, similar to that which takes place in the human mind, when both the moral faculty and the conscience lose their natural sensibility to virtue and vice. unfortunately for this part of science, the taste and the stomach are so much perverted in infancy and childhood by heterogeneous aliment, that it is difficult to tell what kinds, and mixtures of food are natural, and what are artificial. it is true, the system possesses a power of accommodating itself both to artificial food, and to the most discordant mixtures of that which is natural; but may we not reasonably suppose, that the system would preserve its natural strength and order much longer, if no such violence had been offered to it? if the relation of aliments to each other follows the analogy of the objects of chemistry, then their union will be influenced by many external circumstances, such as heat and cold, dilution, concentration, rest, motion, and the addition of substances which promote unnatural, or destroy natural mixtures. this idea enlarges the field of inquiry before us, and leads us still further from facts and certainty upon this subject, but at the same time it does not preclude us from the hope of obtaining both; for every difficulty that arises out of this view of the subject, may be removed by observation and experiment. i come now to apply these remarks to health and pleasure. i shall select only a few cases for this purpose; for if my principles be true, my readers cannot avoid discovering many other illustrations of them. . when an article of diet is grateful to the taste, and afterwards disagrees with the stomach, may it not be occasioned by some other kind of food, or by some drink being taken into the stomach, which refuses to unite with the offending article of diet? . may not the uneasiness which many persons feel after a moderate meal, arise from its having consisted of articles of aliment which were not related to each other? . may not the delicacy of stomach which sometimes occurs after the fortieth or forty-fifth year of human life, be occasioned by nature recovering her empire in the stomach, so as to require simplicity in diet, or such articles only of aliment as are related? may not this be the reason why most people, who have passed those periods of life, are unable to retain or to digest fish and flesh at the same time, and why they generally dine only upon one kind of food? . is not the language of nature in favour of simplicity in diet, discovered by the avidity with which the luxurious and intemperate often seek relief from variety and satiety, by retreating to spring water for drink, and to bread and milk for aliment? . may not the reason why plentiful meals of fish, venison, oysters, beef, or mutton, when eaten alone, lie so easily in the stomach, and digest so speedily, be occasioned by no other food being taken with them? a pound, and even more, of the above articles, frequently oppress the system much less than half the quantity of heterogeneous aliments. . does not the facility with which a due mixture of vegetable and animal food digests in the stomach, indicate the certainty of their relation to each other? . may not the peculiar good effects of a diet wholly vegetable, or animal, be occasioned by the more frequent and intimate relation of the articles of the same kingdoms to each other? and may not this be the reason why so few inconveniences are felt from the mixture of a variety of vegetables in the stomach? . may not the numerous acute and chronic diseases of the rich and luxurious, arise from heterogeneous aliments being distributed in a _diffused_, instead of a _mixed_ state, through every part of the body? . may not the many cures which are ascribed to certain articles of diet, be occasioned more by their being taken alone, than to any medicinal quality inherent in them? a diet of oysters in one instance, of strawberries in another, and of sugar of roses in many instances, has cured violent and dangerous diseases of the breast[ ]. grapes, according to doctor moore, when eaten in large quantities, have produced the same salutary effect. a milk diet, persisted in for several years, has cured the gout and epilepsy. i have seen many cases of dyspepsia cured by a simple diet of beef and mutton, and have heard of a well-attested case of a diet of veal alone having removed the same disease. squashes, and turnips likewise, when taken by themselves, have cured that distressing complaint in the stomach. it has been removed even by milk, when taken by itself in a moderate quantity[ ]. the further the body, and more especially the stomach, recede from health, the more this simplicity of diet becomes necessary. the appetite in these cases does not speak the language of uncorrupted nature. it frequently calls for various and improper aliment; but this is the effect of intemperance having produced an early breach between the taste and the stomach. [ ] vansweiten, . . [ ] medical observations and inquiries, vol. vi. p. , . perhaps the extraordinary cures of obstinate diseases which are sometimes performed by persons not regularly educated in physic, may be occasioned by a long and steady perseverance in the use of a single article of the materia medica. those chemical medicines which decompose each other, are not the only substances which defeat the intention of the prescriber. galenical medicines, by combination, i believe, frequently produce effects that are of a compound and contrary nature to their original and simple qualities. this remark is capable of extensive application, but i quit it as a digression from the subject of this inquiry. . i wish it to be observed, that i have condemned the mixture of different aliments in the stomach only in a few cases, and under certain circumstances. it remains yet to determine by experiments, what changes are produced upon aliments by heat, dilution, addition, concentration, motion, rest, and the addition of uniting substances, before we can decide upon the relation of aliments to each other, and the influence of that relation upon health. the olla podrida of spain is said to be a pleasant and wholesome dish. it is probably rendered so, by a previous tendency of all its ingredients to putrefaction, or by means of heat producing a new arrangement, or additional new relations of all its parts. i suspect heat to be a powerful agent in disposing heterogeneous aliments to unite with each other; and hence the mixture of aliments is probably less unhealthy in france and spain, than in england, where so much less fire is used in preparing them, than in the former countries. as too great a mixture of glaring colours, which are related to each other, becomes painful to the eye, so too great a mixture of related aliments oppresses the stomach, and debilitates the powers of the system. the original colours of the sky, and of the surface of the globe, have ever been found the most permanently agreeable to the eye. in like manner, i am disposed to believe that there are certain simple aliments which correspond, in their sensible qualities, with the intermediate colours of _blue_ and _green_, that are most permanently agreeable to the tongue and stomach, and that every deviation from them, is a departure from the simplicity of health and nature. . while nature seems to have limited us to simplicity in aliment, is not this restriction abundantly compensated by the variety of tastes which she allows us to impart to it, in order to diversify and increase the pleasure of eating? it is remarkable that salt, sugar, mustard, horse-radish, capers, and spices of all kinds, according to mr. gosse's experiments, related by abbé spallanzani[ ], all contribute not only to render aliments savoury, but to promote their digestion. [ ] dissertations, vol. i. p. . . when we consider, that part of the art of cookery consists in rendering the taste of aliments agreeable, is it not probable that the pleasure of eating might be increased beyond our present knowledge upon that subject, by certain new arrangements or mixtures of the substances which are used to impart a pleasant taste to our aliment? . should philosophers ever stoop to this subject, may they not discover and ascertain a table of the relations of sapid bodies to each other, with the same accuracy that they have ascertained the relation of the numerous objects of chemistry to each other? . when the tongue and stomach agree in the same kinds of aliment, may not the increase of the pleasure of eating be accompanied with an increase of health and prolongation of life? . upon the pleasure of eating, i shall add the following remarks. in order to render it truly exquisite, it is necessary that all the senses, except that of taste, should be as _quiescent_ as possible. those persons mistake the nature of the appetite for food, who attempt to whet it by accompanying a dinner by a band of music, or by connecting the dining table, with an extensive and delightful prospect. the undue excitement of one sense, always produces weakness in another. even conversation sometimes detracts from the pleasure of eating: hence great feeders love to eat in silence, or alone; and hence the speech of a passionate frenchman, while dining in a talkative company, was not so improper as might be at first imagined. "hold your tongues (said he); i cannot taste my dinner." i know a physician, who, upon the same principle, always shuts his eyes, and requests silence in a sick chamber, when he wishes to determine by the pulse the propriety of blood-letting, in cases where its indication is doubtful. his perceptions become more distinct, by confining his whole attention to the sense of feeling. it is impossible to mention the circumstance of the senses acting only in succession to each other in the enjoyment of pleasure, without being struck with the impartial goodness of heaven, in placing the rich and the poor so much upon a level in the pleasures of the table. could the numerous objects of pleasure, which are addressed to the ears and the eyes, have been possessed at the same time with the pleasure of eating, the rich would have commanded three times as much pleasure in that enjoyment as the poor; but this is so far from being the case, that a king has no advantage over a beggar, in eating the same kind of aliment. the new method of inoculating for the small-pox. delivered in a lecture in the university of pennsylvania, on the th of february, . gentlemen, it must afford no small pleasure to a benevolent mind, in the midst of a war which daily makes so much havoc with the human species, to reflect that the small-pox, which once proved equally fatal to thousands, has been checked in its career, and in a great degree subdued, by the practice of inoculation. it is foreign to my purpose to deliver to you the history of this art, and to mark the various steps that have attended its progress to its present state of improvement. we have yet to lament the want of uniformity and of equal success in the practice of it among physicians. a great number of pamphlets have been written upon the subject without exhausting it. there is still ample room left for the man of genius to exercise his talents for observation and reasoning upon it. the facts i mean to lay before you are so inconsiderable, compared with what still remain to be known upon this subject, that i have to request, when your knowledge in it is completed, that you would bury my name in silence, and forget that ever i ventured to lay a single stone in this part of the fabric of science. in treating upon this subject, i shall i. consider the proper subjects, and seasons for inoculation. ii. i shall describe the method of communicating the disease. iii. i shall consider the method of preparing the body for the small-pox. iv. i shall mention the treatment proper during the eruptive fever. and, v. point out a few cautions that are necessary after the disease is over. i. formerly there were great difficulties in the choice of subjects for inoculation. but experience teaches us, that it may be practised in every stage of life, and in almost every condition of the human body. in infancy, the periods before and after dentition are to be preferred. but we seldom see any great inconveniences from submitting to the general necessity of inoculating children between the ages of three months, and two years. indeed we often see children cut three or four teeth during the preparation and eruptive fever, without the least addition being made to any of the troublesome symptoms which accompany the small-pox. there is one inconvenience attending the choice of the first months of infancy for inoculating, and that is, the matter often fails of producing the disease in such young subjects. i have frequently failed in two or three attempts to communicate it to children under four months old, with the same matter that has succeeded in a dozen other patients, inoculated at the same time. when the inoculation succeeds in such tender subjects, they generally have less fever, and fewer pustules, than are common in any future period of life. although a physician would prefer a patient in good health to any other as a subject for inoculation, yet cases often occur in which it is necessary to communicate the small-pox while the body is affected with some other disease. i can with pleasure inform you, that the small-pox is rendered so perfectly safe by inoculation, that there are few chronic diseases which should be considered as obstacles in the way of it. i have inoculated patients labouring under a tertian fever, obstructed viscera, the hooping cough, the hypochondriasis, the asthma, the itch, and other cutaneous diseases, and even pregnant women, with the same, and, in some instances, with greater success, than persons in perfect health. doctor cullen informs us, that he has seen inoculation succeed in scrophulous patients. a physician in jamaica informed me, that he had inoculated negroes with success in the worst stage of the yaws. to these facts i must add one more extraordinary than any that has been yet mentioned: doctor brown, my late colleague in the care of the military hospitals, informed me, that he had seen inoculation succeed in patients who were seized, after the infection was communicated, with the hospital fever. the preparation of the body should be accommodated to the disease which affects it. some physicians have thought the small-pox, received in this way, was a remedy for other diseases; but my experience has not confirmed this opinion: on the contrary, i am inclined to think that no other change is produced by inoculation, than by the regimen and medicines that are used to prepare the body for the small-pox. nor does the small-pox, during its continuance, afford any security against the attacks of other diseases. i have seen the most alarming complication of the small-pox and measles taken in _succession_ to each other, in the same person. the seasons commonly preferred for inoculation, in this country, are the spring and fall. it may be practised with equal safety in the winter, a due regard being had to the temperature of the air in the preparation of the body. the principal objection to inoculating in the summer months in this climate, arises from the frequency of bilious diseases at that season, to which the preparation necessary for the small-pox probably disposes the body. this caution applies more directly to children, who, at a certain age, are more subject than grown people to a disease in their bowels in warm weather. ii. the methods of communicating the small-pox by inoculation, have been different in different countries, and in the different æras of its progress towards its present stage of improvement. the scab, dossel of lint, and the thread impregnated with variolous matter, and bound up in a gash in the arm, have been laid aside. we are indebted to mr. sutton for the mode of communicating it by a slight puncture with the point of a lancet, or needle, dipt in fresh matter. as it is difficult sometimes to procure matter in a fresh state, i have been led to use it with equal success by preserving it on lint in a box, and moistening it with cold water just before i used it. matter may be kept in this way for a month, without losing its infectious quality, provided it be not exposed to heat or moisture. the former destroys its power of infecting as certainly as the salt of tartar destroys the acidity of vinegar. moisture, by remaining long upon the matter, probably destroys its virulence, by subjecting it to fermentation. the longer matter has been kept in a general way, the longer the distance will be between the time of communicating the disease, and the eruptive fever. it will be proper always to yield to the prejudices of our patients in favour of matter taken from persons who have but few pustules. but i am persuaded from repeated observations, that the disease is no ways influenced by this circumstance. i am satisfied likewise that there is no difference between the effects of the matter, whether it be taken in its watery and purulent state. the puncture should not be larger than is sufficient to draw one drop of blood, but it should always be made by a _sharp_ lancet, for the sudden inflammation and suppuration, excited by a dull lancet, sometimes throw off the matter, so as to prevent its infecting the body[ ]. no plaster or bandage should be applied over the puncture. it should be made in the left arm of all subjects. the objections to inoculating in the leg are too obvious to be mentioned. i have heard of the disease being communicated by rubbing the dry skin with the matter. my own observations upon this subject, give me reason to suspect the facts that are contained in books relative to this mode of infecting the body. i have bound large pieces of lint dipt in fresh matter for twenty-four hours upon the arm, without producing the disease. a practitioner of physic in new-jersey informed me, that he once gave a considerable quantity of fresh variolous matter in a dose of physic, without infecting his patient. i suspect the matter that produces the disease is of the same nature with certain poisons, which require to be brought in contact with a wound or sore in the body, before they produce their effects. i deliver this opinion with diffidence. the subject stands in need of more experiments and investigation. [ ] i am disposed to believe that the external applications which are used by the indians for the cure of the bite of poisonous snakes act only by exciting inflammation and suppuration, which discharge the poison from the wound before it is absorbed. all their external remedies are of a _stimulating_ nature. iii. i come now to consider the best method of preparing the body for the small-pox. this must be done, st, by diet, and dly, by medicine. the diet should consist chiefly of vegetables. i have never seen any inconvenience from the free use of milk, as a part of the preparative diet. in some habits, where a morbid acid prevails in the stomach, we may indulge our patients in a little weak flesh broth two or three times a week with safety. a little salted meat may likewise be taken daily in such cases. tea, coffee, and even weak chocolate, with biscuit or dry toast, may be used as usual, by persons accustomed to that kind of aliment. wine and spirits of all kinds should be withheld from our patients, during the preparation. the more acescent their drinks are, the better. it is unnecessary that this change in the diet should take place till a day or two before the time of communicating the disease. the system accommodates to a vegetable and low diet in the course of three weeks or a month, so as to defeat in some measure the advantages we expected from it. the good effects of it appear to depend in a great degree upon the _suddenness_ with which we oblige our patients to conform to it. for this reason, when we are called upon to inoculate persons who have lived more than three or four weeks upon a low diet, we should always direct them to live a few days upon animal food, before we communicate the disease to them. by these means we may produce all the good effects of the _sudden_ change in the diet i have already mentioned. . the medicines most commonly used to prepare the body for the small-pox are antimony and mercury. the latter has had the preference, and has been given in large quantities, under a notion of its being a specific antidote to the variolous matter. many objections might be made to this opinion; i shall mention only three. . we often see the disease in a high degree, after the system is fully impregnated with mercury. . we often see the same salutary effects of mercury, when given before the disease is communicated to the body, that we perceive when it is given after inoculation; in which case we are sure the mercury cannot enter into the mixture with the variolous matter so as to destroy it. . if mercury acted specifically in destroying the variolous matter, it would render every other part of the preparation unnecessary: but this we know is not the case, for the neglect or improper use of the vegetable diet or cool regimen is often attended with an extraordinary number, or virulence of the small-pox, even in those cases where mercury is given in the largest quantity. the way in which mercury prepares the body for the small-pox, seems to be by promoting the several excretions, particularly that by perspiration, which, by diminishing the quantity of the fluids, and weakening the tone of the solids, renders the system less liable to a plentiful eruption of the small-pox. but i object to the use of this medicine for the following reasons: . it effectually deprives us of all the benefits of the cool regimen; for mercury, we know, always _disposes_ the system to take cold. . all the good effects of mercury may be produced by purges, which do not subject the body to the above-mentioned inconvenience. the purges may be suited to the constitutions, and in some cases, even to the inclinations of our patients. i have seen jalap, rhubarb, senna, manna, aloes, soluble tartar, glauber and epsom salts, and the butter-nut pill, all given with equal success. the quantity should be sufficient to procure three or four stools every day. a little magnesia should always be mixed with rhubarb and jalap in preparing children. it will be sufficient for the mothers and nurses of infants to conform strictly to the vegetable diet. i have never seen any advantages from giving them even a single dose of physic. it is hardly necessary to observe, that the quality, dose, and number of purges are to be determined by the age, sex, and habits of our patients. a constitution enfeebled by a previous disease forbids the use of purges, and requires medicines of a restorative kind. patients afflicted with cutaneous diseases bear larger and more frequent doses of physic, than are indicated in more healthy subjects. in adult subjects of a plethoric habit, blood-letting is very useful on the third or fourth day after inoculation. we are not to suppose, that every fat person labours under a plethora. a moderate degree of fat is so far from rendering the disease more violent, especially in children, that i think i have generally found such subjects have the small-pox more favourably than others. moderate exercise in the open air should be used during the preparation. but hard labour, and every thing that promotes sweat or fatigue, as also the extremes of heat and cold, should be avoided. iv. we come now to consider the treatment of the body during the eruptive fever. on the eighth day after inoculation our patients are _generally_ seized with the common symptoms of fever. sometimes this fever appears on the sixth and seventh day after inoculation. but when it is irregular, it is often delayed till the ninth and tenth days. i have seen many instances of it on the fourteenth, a few on the fifteenth and sixteenth, and _one_ case in which it did not come on till the eighteenth day after the infection was communicated to the body[ ]. the place where the puncture was made with the lancet, or needle, generally serves as a harbinger of the approaching fever. a slight inflammation appears about it, and a pock rises up in the centre. but this remark is liable to some objections. i have seen _four_ instances in which the fever came on at the expected time, and the disease went through all its stages with the greatest regularity, and yet there was no sign of an inflammation or pock near the spot where the puncture was made: even the puncture itself became invisible. on the other hand, we sometimes see an inflammation and pock on the arm appear on the eighth and ninth days, without any fever accompanying them. some physicians suppose that this inflammation and solitary pock are sufficient to constitute the disease; but repeated experience has taught me to be very cautious in relying upon these equivocal marks. it is true, i have sometimes seen patients secured against the small-pox, both in the natural way and by inoculation, where these marks have appeared; but i have as often seen such patients seized afterwards with the small-pox in the natural way, to the great distress of families, and mortification of physicians. upon this account, i make it a constant practice to advise a second or third inoculation, where a fever and eruption have been wanting. as the absence of these symptoms is probably occasioned by the weakness or age of the variolous matter, or the too high state of preparation of the body, we should always guard against both, by making the puncture the second time with _fresh_ matter, by subjecting our patients to a _less_ abstemious diet, and by giving fewer doses of physic. i have heard it remarked, that if a slight redness and a small pimple appeared on the arm on the third day after inoculation, it was a sign the matter had infected the whole constitution. i acknowledge i have often seen a greater degree of redness on the third than on the second day after inoculation, but i have not been able to establish a diagnostic mark from it; for i have seen the disease produced on the usual days where the redness has appeared on the second day, and in some cases where it has not appeared until the eruptive fever. [ ] since the publication of the first edition of this lecture, i have heard of two cases, in one of which the fever did not come on till the twentieth, and in the other till the twenty-first day after the infection was communicated to the body. in some of these tedious cases, i have seen an inflammation and suppuration on the punctured part of the arm on the eighth day without any fever. perhaps in these cases the inflammation and suppuration are only cuticular, and that the small-pox is taken from the matter which is formed by them. i am led here unwillingly to discuss the old question, is it possible to have the small-pox in the natural way after inoculation?--in many of the cases supposed to be the small-pox from inoculation, it is probable the matter has been taken from the chicken-pox, which resembles the small-pox in many of its peculiarities, but in none more than that of leaving pits or marks on the skin. but there are certainly cases where there are the most irrefragable proofs of the infection implanted by inoculation being of a variolous nature, where the disease has been afterwards taken in the natural way. in these cases i would suppose the variolous matter produced only a topical or cuticular disease. we see something analogous to this in nurses who attend patients in the small-pox. but further, this topical or cuticular infection may be produced by art in persons who have had the small-pox in the natural way. some years ago, i made a puncture on my left hand with a lancet moistened with variolous matter. on the eighth day an inflammation appeared on the place, accompanied by an efflorescence in the neighbourhood of it, which extended about two inches in every direction from the spot where the puncture was made. on the eleventh day i was surprised to find two pocks (if i may venture to call them such), the one on the outside of the fourth finger of my left hand, and the other on my forehead. they remained there for several days, but without filling with matter, and then dropped off, rather in the form of a soft wart, than of a common scab. doctor way of wilmington repeated the same experiment upon himself, but with an issue to his curiosity more extraordinary than that i have just now related. on the eighth day after he had made a puncture on his hand, a pock appeared on the spot, which in the usual time filled with matter, from which he inoculated several children, who sickened at the usual time, and went through all the common stages and symptoms of the small-pox. it would seem from these facts, that it is necessary the small-pox should produce some impression upon the _whole_ system, in order to render it ever afterwards incapable of receiving an impression of a similar nature. a fever and an eruption therefore seem necessary for this purpose. as the inflammation of the arm on the eighth day is a sign of the _topical_ and cuticular infection, so an eruption (though ever so small) seems to be the only certain sign of the infection of the _whole_ system. the eruption is the more decisive in its report, in proportion as it comes out and goes off in the usual manner of the small-pox in the natural way. in those cases where patients have been secured against a second attack of the disease, when there have been no _obvious_ fever or _visible_ eruption, i think i have observed an unusual inflammation, and a copious and long continued discharge of matter from the arm. perhaps this may serve as an outlet of the matter, which in other cases produces the fever and eruption. i am the more disposed to embrace this opinion, from the testimony which several authors have left us of the effects of ulcers in securing the body from the infection of the plague. the effects of issues are still more to our purpose. we observe a plentiful discharge of matter from them every time the body is exposed to cold, and the febrile effects of it upon the system are thereby frequently obviated. how far a ratio exists between the degrees of inflammation and the discharge of matter from the arm, and the degrees of fever and eruption, must be determined by future and very accurate observations. if it should appear, that there are the least inflammation and smallest discharge, where there have been the highest fever and most copious eruption; and, on the contrary, if it should appear that there are the greatest inflammation and discharge, where there have been the least fever and smallest eruption, i must beg leave to add, without attempting in this place to explain the reasons of it, that the remark, if generally true, is liable to some exceptions. but the subject is involved in darkness; i shall be satisfied if i have brought you within sight of the promised land. your own ingenuity, like another jewish leader, must conduct you thither. the indications in the treatment of the body during the eruptive fever are, i. to regulate the degree of fever. ii. to mitigate troublesome and alarming symptoms. the fever which produces the eruption is generally of the inflammatory kind. it sometimes, therefore, comes on with the symptoms of great heat, preceded with chilliness, and determination to the head and breast, and a full hard pulse. the remedies proper in this case are, . blood-letting. the quantity to be drawn must be regulated by the violence of the symptoms, the constitution, habits, and even country of the patient, and by the season of the year. i have never found more than one bleeding, to the quantity of twelve or fourteen ounces, necessary in any stage or degree of the eruptive fever of the small-pox by inoculation. . cool air is of the utmost consequence in the eruptive fever. the use of this remedy in fevers marks an æra, not only in the management of the small-pox, but in medicine. the degrees of cold should always be increased in proportion to the violence of the fever. stove-rooms, so common in this country, should be carefully avoided. the more we oblige our patients to sit up and walk in the open air, the better. even in those cases where they languish most for the bed, they should be encouraged rather to lie upon, than _under_ the bed-clothes. children should be stript of flannel petticoats that come in contact with their skins; and even clouts should be laid aside, if possible without great inconvenience, and at any rate they should be often removed. great and obvious as the advantages of cold air appear to be in the eruptive fever, it has sometimes been used to an excess that has done mischief. there are few cases where a degree of cold below fifty of _fahrenheit's_ thermometer is necessary in this stage of the small-pox. when it has been used below this, or where patients have been exposed to a damp atmosphere some degrees above it, i have heard of inflammations of an alarming nature being produced in the throat and breast. . the bowels, more especially of children, should be kept open with gentle laxatives. and, . cool subacid drinks should be plentifully used until the eruption be completed. sometimes the small-pox comes on with a fever the reverse of that which we have described. the heat is inconsiderable, the pulse is weak, and scarcely quicker than ordinary, and the patient complains of but slight pains in the back and head. here the treatment should be widely different from that which has been mentioned when the fever is of the inflammatory kind. bleeding in this case is hurtful, and even cool air must be admitted with caution. the business of the physician in this case is to excite a gentle action in the sanguiferous system, in order to produce the degree of fever which is necessary to the eruption of the pock. for this purpose he may recommend the use of warm drinks, and even of a warm bed with advantage. if the eruption delay beyond the third day, with all the circumstances of debility that have been mentioned, i have frequently ordered my patients to eat a few ounces of animal food, and to drink a glass or two of wine, with the most desirable success. the effects of this indulgence are most obvious where the weakness of the fever and the delay of the eruption in children, have made it necessary to allow it to mothers and nurses. the small-pox by inoculation so seldom comes on with the symptoms of what is called a malignant fever, that little need be said of the treatment proper in such cases. i shall only observe, that the cold regimen in the highest degree, promises more success in these cases than in any others. i have repeatedly been told, that when the small-pox appears confluent among the africans, it is a common practice for mothers to rub their children all over with pepper, and plunge them immediately afterwards into a spring of cold water. this, they say, destroys a great part of the pock, and disposes the remainder to a kindly suppuration. from the success that has attended the use of the cold bath in malignant fevers in some parts of europe[ ], i am disposed to believe in the efficacy of the african remedy. [ ] in a dissertation entitled "_epidemia verna quæ wratislaviam, anno. afflixit_," published in the appendix to the acta nat. curios. vol. x. it appears, that washing the body all over with cold water in putrid fevers, attended with great debility, was attended with success at _breslaw_ in _silesia_. the practice has since been adopted, we are told, by several of the neighbouring countries. cullen's first lines of the practice of physic. the fever generally lasts three days, and the eruption continues for a similar length of time, counting the last day of the fever, as the first day of the eruption. but this remark is liable to many exceptions. we sometimes observe the eruption to begin on the first, and often on the second day of the fever; and we sometimes meet with cases in which a second eruption comes on after the fever has abated for several days, and the first eruption considerably advanced in its progress towards a complete suppuration. this is often occasioned by the application of excessive cold or heat to the body, or by a sudden and premature use of stimulating drinks, or animal food. i come now to treat of the best method of mitigating troublesome and alarming symptoms. the only _alarming_ symptom is convulsions, to which children are subject during the time of dentition. these have been less frequent, since the liberal and judicious use of cool air in the eruptive fever than formerly. they are often relieved by putting the feet in warm water. but a more effectual and speedy method of curing them, is to expose our patients suddenly to the open air. the colder the air the quicker relief it affords in these cases. to prevent the return of the fits, as well as to allay any disagreeable and troublesome startings, a few drops of laudanum should be given. they generally yield in a little while to this excellent remedy. the next symptom which demands the aid of our art, is the inflammation and sore on the arm. poultices of all kinds should be laid aside, as tending to increase the inflammation and sore. instead of these, the part affected should be washed three or four times a day with cold water[ ]. this application is not only agreeable to our patients, but soon checks the progress of the inflammation, and disposes the sore to heal about the time the eruption is completed. the eyes should likewise be washed frequently with cold water, to secure them from pustules and inflammation. with respect to those alarming or troublesome symptoms which occur in those cases where the pocks are numerous, or confluent, they happen so seldom in inoculation, that they do not come properly under our notice in this place. they are moreover fully discussed by doctors boerhaave, huxham, hillary, and other practical writers. [ ] where the inflammation on the arm has been so considerable as not to yield immediately to the application of cold water, i have used the vegeto-mineral water with advantage. v. i come now, in the last place, to deliver a few directions that are necessary after the eruption and suppuration are over. it is well known that eruptions of an obstinate nature sometimes follow the small-pox. these i believe are often occasioned by a too _sudden_ and speedy use of animal food. to guard against these disagreeable consequences of inoculation, it is of the utmost importance to enjoin a cautious and _gradual_ return to the free use of an animal diet; and at the same time it will be necessary to give our patients a dose or two of purging physic. thus, gentlemen, have i delivered to you a short history of the new method of inoculating for the small-pox. i am aware that prejudices are entertained against some parts of it by physicians of the most ancient name and character among us. i have witnessed the effects of the old and new methods of preparing the body upon many thousand patients, and i am satisfied, not only from my own observations, but from the experience of gentlemen upon whose judgments i rely more than upon my own, that the new method is by far the safest and most successful. added to this, i can assure my pupils, that i have never known a single instance of a patient, prepared and treated in the manner i have described, that ever had an abscess after the small-pox, or even such an inflammation or sore upon the arm as required the application of a poultice. an inquiry into the _effects of ardent spirits_ upon the human body and mind. with an account of the means of preventing, and of the _remedies for curing them_. part i. by ardent spirits, i mean those liquors only which are obtained by distillation from fermented substances of any kind. to their effects upon the bodies and minds of men, the following inquiry shall be exclusively confined. fermented liquors contain so little spirit, and that so intimately combined with other matters, that they can seldom be drunken in sufficient quantities to produce intoxication, and its subsequent effects, without exciting a disrelish to their taste, or pain, from their distending the stomach. they are moreover, when taken in a moderate quantity, generally innocent, and often have a friendly influence upon health and life. the effects of ardent spirits divide themselves into such as are of a prompt, and such as are of a chronic nature. the former discover themselves in drunkenness, and the latter, in a numerous train of diseases and vices of the body and mind. i. i shall begin by briefly describing their prompt, or immediate effects, in a fit of drunkenness. this odious disease (for by that name it should be called) appears with more or less of the following symptoms, and most commonly in the order in which i shall enumerate them. . unusual garrulity. . unusual silence. . captiousness, and a disposition to quarrel. . uncommon good humour, and an insipid simpering, or laugh. . profane swearing, and cursing. . a disclosure of their own, or other people's secrets. . a rude disposition to tell those persons in company, whom they know, their faults. . certain immodest actions. i am sorry to say, this sign of the first stage of drunkenness, sometimes appears in women, who, when sober, are uniformly remarkable for chaste and decent manners. . a clipping of words. . fighting; a black eye, or a swelled nose, often mark this grade of drunkenness. . certain extravagant acts which indicate a temporary fit of madness. these are singing, hallooing, roaring, imitating the noises of brute animals, jumping, tearing off clothes, dancing naked, breaking glasses and china, and dashing other articles of household furniture upon the ground, or floor. after a while the paroxysm of drunkenness is completely formed. the face now becomes flushed; the eyes project, and are somewhat watery; winking is less frequent than is natural; the under lip is protruded; the head inclines a little to one shoulder; the jaw falls; belchings and hiccup take place; the limbs totter; the whole body staggers. the unfortunate subject of this history next falls on his seat; he looks around him with a vacant countenance, and mutters inarticulate sounds to himself. he attempts to rise and walk; in this attempt, he falls upon his side, from which he gradually turns upon his back. he now closes his eyes, and falls into a profound sleep, frequently attended with snoring, and profuse sweats, and sometimes with such a relaxation of the muscles which confine the bladder and the lower bowels, as to produce a symptom which delicacy forbids me to mention. in this condition, he often lies from ten, twelve, and twenty-four hours, to two, three, four, and five days, an object of pity and disgust to his family and friends. his recovery from this fit of intoxication is marked with several peculiar appearances. he opens his eyes, and closes them again; he gapes and stretches his limbs; he then coughs and pukes; his voice is hoarse; he rises with difficulty, and staggers to a chair; his eyes resemble balls of fire; his hands tremble; he loathes the sight of food; he calls for a glass of spirits to compose his stomach; now and then he emits a deep-fetched sigh, or groan, from a transient twinge of conscience, but he more frequently scolds, and curses every thing around him. in this state of languor and stupidity he remains for two or three days, before he is able to resume his former habits of business and conversation. pythagoras we are told maintained that the souls of men after death, expiated the crimes committed by them in this world, by animating certain brute animals; and that the souls of those animals in their turns, entered into men, and carried with them all their peculiar qualities and vices. this doctrine of one of the wisest and best of the greek philosophers, was probably intended only to convey a lively idea of the changes which are induced in the body and mind of man by a fit of drunkenness. in folly, it causes him to resemble a calf; in stupidity, an ass; in roaring, a mad bull; in quarrelling, and fighting, a dog; in cruelty, a tiger; in fetor, a skunk; in filthiness, a hog; and in obscenity, a he-goat. it belongs to the history of drunkenness to remark, that its paroxysms occur, like the paroxysms of many diseases, at certain periods, and after longer or shorter intervals. they often begin with annual, and gradually increase in their frequency, until they appear in quarterly, monthly, weekly, and quotidian or daily periods. finally they afford scarcely any marks of remission, either during the day or the night. there was a citizen of philadelphia, many years ago, in whom drunkenness appeared in this protracted form. in speaking of him to one of his neighbours, i said, "does he not _sometimes_ get drunk?" "you mean," said his neighbour, "is he not _sometimes_ sober?" it is further remarkable, that drunkenness resembles certain hereditary, family, and contagious diseases. i have once known it to descend from a father to four out of five of his children. i have seen three, and once four brothers who were born of sober ancestors, affected by it, and i have heard of its spreading through a whole family composed of members not originally related to each other. these facts are important, and should not be overlooked by parents, in deciding upon the matrimonial connections of their children. let us next attend to the chronic effects of ardent spirits upon the body and mind. in the body, they dispose to every form of acute disease; they moreover _excite_ fevers in persons predisposed to them, from other causes. this has been remarked in all the yellow fevers which have visited the cities of the united states. hard drinkers seldom escape, and rarely recover from them. the following diseases are the usual consequences of the habitual use of ardent spirits, viz. . a decay of appetite, sickness at stomach, and a puking of bile, or a discharge of a frothy and viscid phlegm by hawking, in the morning. . obstructions of the liver. the fable of prometheus, on whose liver a vulture was said to prey constantly, as a punishment for his stealing fire from heaven, was intended to illustrate the painful effects of ardent spirits upon that organ of the body. . jaundice and dropsy of the belly and limbs, and finally of every cavity in the body. a swelling in the feet and legs is so characteristic a mark of habits of intemperance, that the merchants in charleston, i have been told, cease to trust the planters of south-carolina, as soon as they perceive it. they very naturally conclude industry and virtue to be extinct in that man, in whom that symptom of disease has been produced by the intemperate use of distilled spirits. . hoarseness, and a husky cough, which often terminate in consumption, and sometimes in an acute and fatal disease of the lungs. . diabetes, that is, a frequent and weakening discharge of pale, or sweetish urine. . redness and eruptions on different parts of the body. they generally begin on the nose, and after gradually extending all over the face, sometimes descend to the limbs in the form of leprosy. they have been called "rum-buds," when they appear in the face. in persons who have occasionally survived these effects of ardent spirits on the skin, the face after a while becomes bloated, and its redness is succeeded by a death-like paleness. thus the same fire which produces a red colour in iron, when urged to a more intense degree, produces what has been called a white heat. . a fetid breath, composed of every thing that is offensive in putrid animal matter. . frequent and disgusting belchings. dr. haller relates the case of a notorious drunkard having been suddenly destroyed, in consequence of the vapour discharged from his stomach by belching, accidentally taking fire by coming in contact with the flame of a candle. . epilepsy. . gout, in all its various forms of swelled limbs, colic, palsy, and apoplexy. lastly, . madness. the late dr. waters, while he acted as house pupil and apothecary of the pennsylvania hospital, assured me, that in one-third of the patients confined by this terrible disease, it had been induced by ardent spirits. most of the diseases which have been enumerated are of a mortal nature. they are more certainly induced, and terminate more speedily in death, when spirits are taken in such quantities, and at such times, as to produce frequent intoxication: but it may serve to remove an error with which some intemperate people console themselves, to remark, that ardent spirits often bring on fatal diseases without producing drunkenness. i have known many persons destroyed by them, who were never completely intoxicated during the whole course of their lives. the solitary instances of longevity which are now and then met with in hard drinkers, no more disprove the deadly effects of ardent spirits, than the solitary instances of recoveries from apparent death by drowning, prove that there is no danger to life from a human body lying an hour or two under water. the body after its death, from the use of distilled spirits, exhibits by dissection certain appearances which are of a peculiar nature. the fibres of the stomach and bowels are contracted; abscesses, gangrene, and schirri are found in the viscera; the bronchial vessels are contracted; the blood-vessels and tendons, in many parts of the body, are more or less ossified; and even the hair of the head possesses a crispness which renders it less valuable to wig-makers than the hair of sober people. not less destructive are the effects of ardent spirits upon the human mind. they impair the memory, debilitate the understanding, and pervert the moral faculties. it was probably from observing these effects of intemperance in drinking, upon the mind, that a law was formerly passed in spain, which excluded drunkards from being witnesses in a court of justice. but the demoralizing effects of distilled spirits do not stop here. they produce not only falsehood, but fraud, theft, uncleanliness, and murder. like the demoniac mentioned in the new testament, their name is "legion," for they convey into the soul, a host of vices and crimes. a more affecting spectacle cannot be exhibited, than a person into whom this infernal spirit, generated by habits of intemperance, has entered. it is more or less affecting, according to the station the person fills in a family, or in society, who is possessed by it. is he a husband? how deep the anguish which rends the bosom of his wife! is she a wife? who can measure the shame and aversion which she excites in her husband! is he the father, or is she the mother of a family of children? see their averted looks from their parent, and their blushing looks at each other! is he a magistrate? or has he been chosen to fill a high and respectable station in the councils of his country? what humiliating fears of corruption in the administration of the laws, and of the subversion of public order and happiness, appear in the countenances of all who see him! is he a minister of the gospel? here language fails me.----if angels weep,--it is at such a sight. in pointing out the evils produced by ardent spirits, let us not pass by their effects upon the estates of the persons who are addicted to them. are they inhabitants of cities? behold their houses stripped gradually of their furniture, and pawned, or sold by a constable, to pay tavern debts! see their names upon record in the dockets of every court, and whole pages of newspapers filled with advertisements of their estates for public sale! are they inhabitants of country places? behold their houses with shattered windows! their barns with leaky roofs! their gardens over-run with weeds! their fields with broken fences! their hogs without yokes! their sheep without wool! their cattle and horses without fat! and their children filthy, and half clad, without manners, principles, and morals! this picture of agricultural wretchedness is seldom of long duration. the farms and property thus neglected, and depreciated, are seized and sold for the benefit of a group of creditors. the children that were born with the prospect of inheriting them, are bound out to service in the neighbourhood; while their parents, the unworthy authors of their misfortunes, ramble into new and distant settlements, alternately fed on their way by the hand of charity, or a little casual labour. thus we see poverty and misery, crimes and infamy, diseases and death, are all the natural and usual consequences of the intemperate use of ardent spirits. i have classed death among the consequences of hard drinking. but it is not death from the immediate hand of the deity, nor from any of the instruments of it which were created by him. it is death from suicide. yes! thou poor degraded creature, who art daily lifting the poisoned bowl to thy lips, cease to avoid the unhallowed ground in which the self-murderer is interred, and wonder no longer that the sun should shine, and the rain fall, and the grass look green upon his grave. thou art perpetrating gradually, by the use of ardent spirits, what he has effected suddenly, by opium, or a halter. considering how many circumstances, from a sudden gust of passion, or from derangement, may palliate his guilt, or that (unlike yours) it was not preceded and accompanied by any other crime, it is probable his condemnation will be less than yours at the day of judgment. i shall now take notice of the occasions and circumstances which are supposed to render the use of ardent spirits necessary, and endeavour to show that the arguments in favour of their use in such cases are founded in error, and that, in each of them, ardent spirits, instead of affording strength to the body, increase the evils they are intended to relieve. . they are said to be necessary in very cold weather. this is far from being true; for the temporary warmth they produce, is always succeeded by a greater disposition in the body to be affected by cold. warm dresses, a plentiful meal just before exposure to the cold, and eating occasionally a little gingerbread, or any other cordial food, is a much more durable method of preserving the heat of the body in cold weather. . they are said to be necessary in very warm weather. experience proves that they increase instead of lessening the effects of heat upon the body, and thereby dispose to diseases of all kinds. even in the warm climate of the west-indies, dr. bell asserts this to be true. "rum (says this author) whether used habitually, moderately, or in excessive quantities, in the west-indies, always diminishes the strength of the body, and renders men more susceptible of disease, and unfit for any service in which vigour or activity is required[ ]." as well might we throw oil into a house, the roof of which was on fire, in order to prevent the flames from extending to its inside, as pour ardent spirits into the stomach, to lessen the effects of a hot sun upon the skin. [ ] inquiry into the causes which produce, and the means of preventing diseases among british officers, soldiers, and others in the west-indies. . nor do ardent spirits lessen the effects of hard labour upon the body. look at the horse: with every muscle of his body swelled from morning till night in the plough, or a team, does he make signs for a draught of toddy or a glass of spirits, to enable him to cleave the ground, or to climb a hill? no; he requires nothing but cool water, and substantial food. there is no nourishment in ardent spirits. the strength they produce in labour is of a transient nature, and is always followed by a sense of weakness and fatigue. but are there no conditions of the human body in which ardent spirits may be given? i answer, there are. st. when the body has been suddenly exhausted of its strength, and a disposition to faintness has been induced. here a few spoonsful, or a wine-glassful of spirits, with or without water, may be administered with safety and advantage. in this case we comply strictly with the advice of solomon, who restricts the use of "strong drink" only "to him who is ready to perish." dly. when the body has been exposed for a long time to wet weather, more especially if it be combined with cold. here a moderate quantity of spirits is not only safe, but highly proper to obviate debility, and to prevent a fever. they will more certainly have those salutary effects, if the feet are at the same time bathed with them, or a half pint of them poured into the shoes or boots. these i believe are the only two cases in which distilled spirits are useful or necessary to persons in health. part ii. but it may be said, if we reject spirits from being a part of our drinks, what liquors shall we substitute in their room? i answer, in the first place, . simple water. i have known many instances of persons who have followed the most laborious employments for many years in the open air, and in warm and cold weather, who never drank any thing but water, and enjoyed uninterrupted good health. dr. moseley, who resided many years in the west-indies, confirms this remark. "i aver (says the doctor), from my own knowledge and custom, as well as the custom and observations of many other people, that those who drink nothing but water, or make it their principal drink, are but little affected by the climate, and can undergo the greatest fatigue without inconvenience, and are never subject to troublesome or dangerous diseases." persons who are unable to relish this simple beverage of nature, may drink some one, or of all the following liquors, in preference to ardent spirits. . cyder. this excellent liquor contains a small quantity of spirit, but so diluted, and blunted by being combined with a large quantity of saccharine matter, and water, as to be perfectly wholesome. it sometimes disagrees with persons subject to the rheumatism, but it may be made inoffensive to such people, by extinguishing a red hot iron in it, or by mixing it with water. it is to be lamented, that the late frosts in the spring so often deprive us of the fruit which affords this liquor. the effects of these frosts have been in some measure obviated by giving an orchard a north-west exposure, so as to check too early vegetation, and by kindling two or three large fires of brush or straw, to the windward of the orchard, the evening before we expect a night of frost. this last expedient has in many instances preserved the fruit of an orchard, to the great joy and emolument of the ingenious husbandman. . malt liquors. the grain from which these liquors are obtained, is not liable, like the apple, to be affected by frost, and therefore they can be procured at all times, and at a moderate price. they contain a good deal of nourishment; hence we find many of the poor people in great-britain endure hard labour with no other food than a quart or three pints of beer, with a few pounds of bread in a day. as it will be difficult to prevent small beer from becoming sour in warm weather, an excellent substitute may be made for it by mixing bottled porter, ale, or strong beer with an equal quantity of water; or a pleasant beer may be made by adding to a bottle of porter, ten quarts of water, and a pound of brown sugar, or a pint of molasses. after they have been well mixed, pour the liquor into bottles, and place them, loosely corked, in a cool cellar. in two or three days, it will be fit for use. a spoonful of ginger added to the mixture, renders it more lively, and agreeable to the taste. . wines. these fermented liquors are composed of the same ingredients as cyder, and are both cordial and nourishing. the peasants of france, who drink them in large quantities, are a sober and healthy body of people. unlike ardent spirits, which render the temper irritable, wines generally inspire cheerfulness and good humour. it is to be lamented that the grape has not as yet been sufficiently cultivated in our country, to afford wine to our citizens; but many excellent substitutes may be made for it, from the native fruits of all the states. if two barrels of cyder fresh from the press, are boiled into one, and afterwards fermented, and kept for two or three years in a dry cellar, it affords a liquor which, according to the quality of the apple from which the cyder is made, has the taste of malaga, or rhenish wine. it affords when mixed with water, a most agreeable drink in summer. i have taken the liberty of calling it pomona wine. there is another method of making a pleasant wine from the apple, by adding four and twenty gallons of new cyder to three gallons of syrup made from the expressed juice of sweet apples. when thoroughly fermented, and kept for a few years, it becomes fit for use. the blackberry of our fields, and the raspberry and currant of our gardens, afford likewise an agreeable and wholesome wine, when pressed and mixed with certain proportions of sugar and water, and a little spirit, to counteract their disposition to an excessive fermentation. it is no objection to these cheap and home-made wines, that they are unfit for use until they are two or three years old. the foreign wines in common use in our country, require not only a much longer time to bring them to perfection, but to prevent their being disagreeable, even to the taste. . molasses and water, also vinegar and water, sweetened with sugar or molasses, form an agreeable drink in warm weather. it is pleasant and cooling, and tends to keep up those gentle and uniform sweats, on which health and life often depend. vinegar and water constituted the only drink of the soldiers of the roman republic, and it is well known they marched and fought in a warm climate, and beneath a load of arms which weighed sixty pounds. boaz, a wealthy farmer in palestine, we find treated his reapers with nothing but bread dipped in vinegar. to such persons as object to the taste of vinegar, sour milk, or butter-milk, or sweet milk diluted with water, may be given in its stead. i have known the labour of the longest and hottest days in summer supported, by means of these pleasant and wholesome drinks, with great firmness, and ended, with scarcely a complaint of fatigue. . the sugar maple affords a thin juice, which has long been used by the farmers in connecticut, as a cool and refreshing drink, in the time of harvest. the settlers in the western counties of the middle states will do well to let a few of the trees which yield this pleasant juice remain in all their fields. they may prove the means, not only of saving their children and grand-children many hundred pounds, but of saving their bodies from disease and death, and their souls from misery beyond the grave. . coffee possesses agreeable and exhilarating qualities, and might be used with great advantage to obviate the painful effects of heat, cold, and fatigue upon the body. i once knew a country physician, who made it a practice to drink a pint of strong coffee previously to his taking a long or cold ride. it was more cordial to him than spirits, in any of the forms in which they are commonly used. the use of the cold bath in the morning, and of the warm bath in the evening, are happily calculated to strengthen the body in the former part of the day, and to restore it in the latter, from the languor and fatigue which are induced by heat and labour. let it not be said, ardent spirits have become necessary from habit in harvest, and in other seasons of uncommon and arduous labour. the habit is a bad one, and may be easily broken. let but half a dozen farmers in a neighbourhood combine to allow higher wages to their labourers than are common, and a sufficient quantity of _any_ of the pleasant and wholesome liquors i have recommended, and they may soon, by their example, abolish the practice of giving them spirits. in a little while they will be delighted with the good effects of their association. their grain and hay will be gathered into their barns in less time, and in a better condition than formerly, and of course at a less expense, and a hundred disagreeable scenes from sickness, contention, and accidents will be avoided, all of which follow in a greater or less degree the use of ardent spirits. nearly all diseases have their predisposing causes. the same thing may be said of the intemperate use of distilled spirits. it will, therefore, be useful to point out the different employments, situations, and conditions of the body and mind, which predispose to the love of those liquors, and to accompany them with directions to prevent persons being ignorantly and undesignedly seduced into the habitual and destructive use of them. . labourers bear with great difficulty, long intervals between their meals. to enable them to support the waste of their strength, their stomachs should be constantly, but moderately stimulated by aliment, and this is best done by their eating four or five times in a day during the seasons of great bodily exertion. the food at this time should be _solid_, consisting chiefly of salted meat. the vegetables used with it, should possess some activity, or they should be made savoury by a mixture of spices. onions and garlic are of a most cordial nature. they composed a part of the diet which enabled the israelites to endure, in a warm climate, the heavy tasks imposed upon them by their egyptian masters; and they were eaten, horace and virgil tell us, by the roman farmers, to repair the waste of their strength, by the toils of harvest. there are likewise certain sweet substances, which support the body under the pressure of labour. the negroes in the west-indies become strong, and even fat, by drinking the juice of the sugar cane, in the season of grinding it. the jewish soldiers were invigorated by occasionally eating raisins and figs. a bread composed of wheat flour, molasses, and ginger (commonly called gingerbread), taken in small quantities during the day, is happily calculated to obviate the debility induced upon the body by constant labour. all these substances, whether of an animal or vegetable nature, lessen the desire, as well as the necessity, for cordial drinks, and impart equable and durable strength to every part of the system. . valetudinarians, especially those who are afflicted with diseases of the stomach and bowels, are very apt to seek relief from ardent spirits. let such people be cautious how they make use of this dangerous remedy. i have known many men and women of excellent characters and principles, who have been betrayed, by occasional doses of gin and brandy, into a love of those liquors, and have afterwards fallen sacrifices to their fatal effects. the different preparations of opium are much more safe and efficacious than distilled cordials of any kind, in flatulent or spasmodic affections of the stomach and bowels. so great is the danger of contracting a love for distilled liquors, by accustoming the stomach to their stimulus, that as few medicines as possible should be given in spiritous vehicles, in chronic diseases. a physician, of great eminence and uncommon worth, who died towards the close of the last century, in london, in taking leave of a young physician of this city, who had finished his studies under his patronage, impressed this caution with peculiar force upon him, and lamented at the same time, in pathetic terms, that he had innocently made many sots, by prescribing brandy and water in stomach complaints. it is difficult to tell how many persons have been destroyed by those physicians who have adopted dr. brown's indiscriminate practice in the use of stimulating remedies, the most popular of which is ardent spirits, but, it is well known, several of them have died of intemperance in this city, since the year . they were probably led to it, by drinking brandy and water, to relieve themselves from the frequent attacks of debility and indisposition, to which the labours of a physician expose him, and for which rest, fasting, a gentle purge, or weak diluting drinks would have been safe and more certain cures. none of these remarks are intended to preclude the use of spirits in the low state of short, or what are called acute diseases, for, in such cases, they produce their effects too soon to create a habitual desire for them. . some people, from living in countries subject to intermitting fevers, endeavour to fortify themselves against them, by taking two or three wine-glasses of bitters, made with spirits, every day. there is great danger of contracting habits of intemperance from this practice. besides, this mode of preventing intermittents is far from being a certain one. a much better security against them, is a tea-spoonful of the jesuits bark, taken every morning during a sickly season. if this safe and excellent medicine cannot be had, a gill or half a pint of a strong watery infusion of centaury, camomile, wormwood, or rue, mixed with a little of the calamus of our meadows, may be taken every morning, with nearly the same advantage as the jesuits bark. those persons who live in a sickly country, and cannot procure any of the preventives of autumnal fevers which have been mentioned, should avoid the morning and evening air; should kindle fires in their houses, on damp days, and in cool evenings, throughout the whole summer; and put on winter clothes, about the first week in september. the last part of these directions applies only to the inhabitants of the middle states. . men who follow professions, which require constant exercise of the faculties of their minds, are very apt to seek relief, by the use of ardent spirits, from the fatigue which succeeds great mental exertions. to such persons, it may be a discovery to know, that tea is a much better remedy for that purpose. by its grateful and gentle stimulus, it removes fatigue, restores the excitement of the mind, and invigorates the whole system. i am no advocate for the excessive use of tea. when taken too strong, it is hurtful, especially to the female constitution; but when taken of a moderate degree of strength, and in moderate quantities, with sugar and cream, or milk, i believe it is, in general, innoxious, and at all times to be preferred to ardent spirits, as a cordial for studious men. the late anthony benezet, one of the most laborious schoolmasters i ever knew, informed me, he had been prevented from the love of spiritous liquors, by acquiring a love for tea in early life. three or four cups, taken in an afternoon, carried off the fatigue of a whole day's labour in his school. this worthy man lived to be seventy-one years of age, and died of an acute disease, with the full exercise of all the faculties of his mind. but the use of tea counteracts a desire for distilled spirits, during great _bodily_, as well as mental exertions. of this, captain forest has furnished us with a recent and remarkable proof, in his history of a voyage from calcutta, to the marqui archipelago. "i have always observed (says this ingenious mariner) when sailors drink tea, it weans them from the thoughts of drinking strong liquors, and pernicious grog; and with this, they are soon contented. not so with whatever will intoxicate, be it what it will. this has always been my remark. i therefore always encourage it, without their knowing why." . women have sometimes been led to seek relief from what is called breeding sickness, by the use of ardent spirits. a little gingerbread, or biscuit, taken occasionally, so as to prevent the stomach being empty, is a much better remedy for that disease. . persons under the pressure of debt, disappointments in worldly pursuits, and guilt, have sometimes sought to drown their sorrows in strong drink. the only radical cure for those evils, is to be found in religion; but where its support is not resorted to, wine and opium should always be preferred to ardent spirits. they are far less injurious to the body and mind, than spirits, and the habits of attachment to them are easily broken, after time and repentance have removed the evils they were taken to relieve. . the sociable and imitative nature of man, often disposes him to adopt the most odious and destructive practices from his companions. the french soldiers who conquered holland, in the year , brought back with them the love and use of brandy, and thereby corrupted the inhabitants of several of the departments of france, who had been previously distinguished for their temperate and sober manners. many other facts might be mentioned, to show how important it is to avoid the company of persons addicted to the use of ardent spirits. . smoking and chewing tobacco, by rendering water and simple liquors insipid to the taste, dispose very much to the stronger stimulus of ardent spirits. the practice of smoking cigars has, in every part of our country, been more followed by a general use of brandy and water, as a common drink, more especially by that class of citizens who have not been in the habit of drinking wine, or malt liquors. the less, therefore, tobacco is used in the above ways, the better. . no man ever became suddenly a drunkard. it is by gradually accustoming the taste and stomach to ardent spirits, in the forms of grog and toddy, that men have been led to love them in their more destructive mixtures, and in their simple state. under the impression of this truth, were it possible for me to speak with a voice so loud as to be heard from the river st. croix to the remotest shores of the mississippi, which bound the territory of the united states, i would say, friends and fellow-citizens, avoid the habitual use of those two seducing liquors, whether they be made with brandy, rum, gin, jamaica spirits, whiskey, or what is called cherry bounce. it is true, some men, by limiting the strength of those drinks, by measuring the spirit and water, have drunken them for many years, and even during a long life, without acquiring habits of intemperance or intoxication, but many more have been insensibly led, by drinking weak toddy and grog first at their meals, to take them for their constant drink, in the intervals of their meals; afterwards to take them, of an increased strength, before breakfast in the morning; and finally to destroy themselves by drinking undiluted spirits, during every hour of the day and night. i am not singular in this remark. "the consequences of drinking rum and water, or _grog_, as it is called (says dr. moseley), is, that habit increases the desire of more spirits, and decreases its effects; and there are very few grog-drinkers who long survive the practice of debauching with it, without acquiring the odious nuisance of dram-drinkers' breath, and downright stupidity and impotence[ ]." to enforce the caution against the use of those two apparently innocent and popular liquors still further, i shall select one instance, from among many, to show the ordinary manner in which they beguile and destroy their votaries. a citizen of philadelphia, once of a fair and sober character, drank toddy for many years, as his constant drink. from this he proceeded to drink grog. after a while, nothing would satisfy him but slings made of equal parts of rum and water, with a little sugar. from slings he advanced to raw rum, and from common rum to jamaica spirits. here he rested for a few months, but at length, finding even jamaica spirits were not strong enough to warm his stomach, he made it a constant practice to throw a table-spoonful of ground pepper in each glass of his spirits, in order, to use his own words, "to take off their coldness." he soon after died a martyr to his intemperance. [ ] treatise on tropical diseases. ministers of the gospel, of every denomination, in the united states! aid me with all the weight you possess in society, from the dignity and usefulness of your sacred office, to save our fellow men from being destroyed, by the great destroyer of their lives and souls. in order more successfully to effect this purpose, permit me to suggest to you to employ the same wise modes of instruction, which you use in your attempts to prevent their destruction by other vices. you expose the evils of covetousness, in order to prevent theft; you point out the sinfulness of impure desires, in order to prevent adultery; and you dissuade from anger, and malice, in order to prevent murder. in like manner, denounce, by your preaching, conversation, and examples, the seducing influence of toddy and grog, when you aim to prevent all the crimes and miseries, which are the offspring of strong drink. we have hitherto considered the effects of ardent spirits upon individuals, and the means of preventing them. i shall close this head of our inquiry, by a few remarks on their effects upon the population and welfare of our country, and the means of obviating them. it is highly probable, not less than people die annually, from the use of ardent spirits, in the united states. should they continue to exert this deadly influence upon our population, where will their evils terminate? this question may be answered, by asking, where are all the indian tribes, whose numbers and arms formerly spread terror among their civilized neighbours? i answer, in the words of the famous mingo chief, "the blood of many of them flows not in the veins of any human creature." they have perished, not by pestilence, nor war, but by a greater foe to human life than either of them--ardent spirits. the loss of american citizens, by the yellow fever, in a single year, awakened general sympathy and terror, and called forth all the strength and ingenuity of laws, to prevent its recurrence. why is not the same zeal manifested in protecting our citizens from the more general and consuming ravages of distilled spirits? should the customs of civilized life, preserve our nation from extinction, and even from an increase of mortality, by those liquors; they cannot prevent our country being governed by men, chosen by intemperate and corrupted voters. from such legislators, the republic would soon be in danger. to avert this evil, let good men of every class unite and besiege the general and state governments, with petitions to limit the number of taverns; to impose heavy duties upon ardent spirits; to inflict a mark of disgrace, or a temporary abridgment of some civil right, upon every man convicted of drunkenness; and finally to secure the property of habitual drunkards, for the benefit of their families, by placing it in the hands of trustees, appointed for that purpose, by a court of justice. to aid the operation of these laws, would it not be extremely useful for the rulers of the different denominations of christian churches to unite, and render the sale and consumption of ardent spirits, a subject of ecclesiastical jurisdiction? the methodists, and society of friends, have, for some time past, viewed them as contraband articles, to the pure laws of the gospel, and have borne many public and private testimonies, against making them the objects of commerce. their success in this benevolent enterprise, affords ample encouragement for all other religious societies to follow their example. part iii. we come now to the third part of this inquiry, that is, to mention the remedies for the evils which are brought on by the excessive use of distilled spirits. these remedies divide themselves into two kinds. i. such as are proper to cure a fit of drunkenness, and ii. such as are proper to prevent its recurrence, and to destroy a desire for ardent spirits. i. i am aware that the efforts of science and humanity, in applying their resources to the cure of a disease, induced by an act of vice, will meet with a cold reception from many people. but let such people remember, the subjects of our remedies, are their fellow creatures, and that the miseries brought upon human nature, by its crimes, are as much the objects of divine compassion (which we are bound to imitate), as the distresses which are brought upon men, by the crimes of other people, or which they bring upon themselves, by ignorance or accidents. let us not then, pass by the prostrate sufferer from strong drink, but administer to him the same relief, we would afford to a fellow creature, in a similar state, from an accidental, and innocent cause. . the first thing to be done to cure a fit of drunkenness, is to open the collar, if in a man, and remove all tight ligatures from every other part of the body. the head and shoulders should at the same time be elevated, so as to favour a more feeble determination of the blood to the brain. . the contents of the stomach should be discharged, by thrusting a feather down the throat. it often restores the patient immediately to his senses and feet. should it fail of exciting a puking, . a napkin should be wrapped round the head, and wetted for an hour or two with cold water, or cold water should be poured in a stream upon the head. in the latter way, i have sometimes seen it used, when a boy, in the city of philadelphia. it was applied, by dragging the patient, when found drunk in the street, to a pump, and pumping water upon his head for ten or fifteen minutes. the patient generally rose, and walked off, sober and sullen, after the use of this remedy. other remedies, less common, but not less effectual for a fit of drunkenness, are, . plunging the whole body into cold water. a number of gentlemen who had drunken to intoxication, on board a ship in the stream, near fell's point, at baltimore, in consequence of their reeling in a small boat, on their way to the shore, in the evening, overset it, and fell into the water. several boats from the shore hurried to their relief. they were all picked up, and went home, perfectly sober, to their families. . terror. a number of young merchants, who had drunken together, in a compting-house, on james river, above thirty years ago, until they were intoxicated, were carried away by a sudden rise of the river, from an immense fall of rain. they floated several miles with the current, in their little cabin, half filled with water. an island in the river arrested it. when they reached the shore that saved their lives, they were all sober. it is probable terror assisted in the cure of the persons who fell into the water at baltimore. . the excitement of a fit of anger. the late dr. witherspoon used to tell a story of a man in scotland, who was always cured of a fit of drunkenness, by being made angry. the means chosen for that purpose, was a singular one. it was talking against religion. . a severe whipping. this remedy acts by exciting a revulsion of the blood from the brain, to the external parts of the body. . profuse sweats. by means of this evacuation, nature sometimes cures a fit of drunkenness. their good effects are obvious in labourers, whom quarts of spirits taken in a day, will seldom intoxicate, while they sweat freely. if the patient be unable to swallow warm drinks, in order to produce sweats, they may be excited by putting him in a warm bath, or wrapping his body in blankets, under which should be placed half a dozen hot bricks, or bottles filled with hot water. . bleeding. this remedy should always be used, when the former ones have been prescribed to no purpose, or where there is reason to fear from the long duration of the disease, a material injury may be done to the brain. it is hardly necessary to add, that each of the above remedies, should be regulated by the grade of drunkenness, and the greater or less degree, in which the intellects are affected in it. ii. the remedies which are proper to prevent the recurrence of fits of drunkenness, and to destroy the desire for ardent spirits, are religious, metaphysical, and medical. i shall briefly mention them. . many hundred drunkards have been cured of their desire for ardent spirits, by a practical belief in the doctrines of the christian religion. examples of the divine efficacy of christianity for this purpose, have lately occurred in many parts of the united states. . a sudden sense of the guilt contracted by drunkenness, and of its punishment in a future world. it once cured a gentleman in philadelphia, who, in a fit of drunkenness, attempted to murder a wife whom he loved. upon being told of it when he was sober, he was so struck with the enormity of the crime he had nearly committed, that he never tasted spiritous liquors afterwards. . a sudden sense of shame. of the efficacy of this deep seated principle in the human bosom, in curing drunkenness, i shall relate three remarkable instances. a farmer in england, who had been many years in the practice of coming home intoxicated, from a market town, one day observed appearances of rain, while he was in market. his hay was cut, and ready to be housed. to save it, he returned in haste to his farm, before he had taken his customary dose of grog. upon coming into his house, one of his children, a boy of six years old, ran to his mother, and cried out, "o, mother! father is come home, and he is not drunk." the father, who heard this exclamation, was so severely rebuked by it, that he suddenly became a sober man. a noted drunkard was once followed by a favourite goat, to a tavern, into which he was invited by his master, and drenched with some of his liquor. the poor animal staggered home with his master, a good deal intoxicated. the next day he followed him to his accustomed tavern. when the goat came to the door, he paused: his master made signs to him to follow him into the house. the goat stood still. an attempt was made to thrust him into the tavern. he resisted, as if struck with the recollection of what he suffered from being intoxicated the night before. his master was so much affected by a sense of shame in observing the conduct of his goat to be so much more rational than his own, that he ceased from that time to drink spiritous liquors. a gentleman, in one of the southern states, who had nearly destroyed himself by strong drink, was remarkable for exhibiting the grossest marks of folly in his fits of intoxication. one evening, sitting in his parlour, he heard an uncommon noise in his kitchen. he went to the door, and peeped through the key hole, from whence he saw one of his negroes diverting his fellow servants, by mimicking his master's gestures and conversation when he was drunk. the sight overwhelmed him with shame and distress, and instantly became the means of his reformation. . the association of the idea of ardent spirits, with a painful or disagreeable impression upon some part of the body, has sometimes cured the love of strong drink. i once tempted a negro man, who was habitually fond of ardent spirits, to drink some rum (which i placed in his way), and in which i had put a few grains of tartar emetic. the tartar sickened and puked him to such a degree, that he supposed himself to be poisoned. i was much gratified by observing he could not bear the sight, nor smell of spirits, for two years afterwards. i have heard of a man, who was cured of the love of spirits, by working off a puke, by large draughts of brandy and water, and i know a gentleman, who in consequence of being affected with a rheumatism, immediately after drinking some toddy, when overcome with fatigue and exposure to the rain, has ever since loathed that liquor, only because it was accidentally associated in his memory with the recollection of the pain he suffered from his disease. this appeal to that operation of the human mind, which obliges it to associate ideas, accidentally or otherwise combined, for the cure of vice, is very ancient. it was resorted to by moses, when he compelled the children of israel to drink the solution of the golden calf (which they had idolized) in water. this solution, if made, as it most probably was, by means of what is called hepar sulphuris, was extremely bitter, and nauseous, and could never be recollected afterwards, without bringing into equal detestation, the sin which subjected them to the necessity of drinking it. our knowledge of this principle of association upon the minds and conduct of men, should lead us to destroy, by means of other impressions, the influence of all those circumstances, with which the recollection and desire of spirits are combined. some men drink only in the _morning_, some at _noon_, and some only at _night_. some men drink only on a _market day_, some at _one_ tavern only, and some only in _one kind_ of company. now by finding a new and interesting employment, or subject of conversation for drunkards at the usual times in which they have been accustomed to drink, and by restraining them by the same means from those places and companions, which suggested to them the idea of ardent spirits, their habits of intemperance may be completely destroyed. in the same way the periodical returns of appetite, and a desire of sleep have been destroyed in a hundred instances. the desire for strong drink differs from each of them, in being of an artificial nature, and therefore not disposed to return, after being chased for a few weeks from the system. . the love of ardent spirits has sometimes been subdued, by exciting a counter passion in the mind. a citizen of philadelphia had made many unsuccessful attempts to cure his wife of drunkenness. at length, despairing of her reformation, he purchased a hogshead of rum, and, after tapping it, left the key in the door of the room in which it was placed, as if he had forgotten it. his design was to give his wife an opportunity of drinking herself to death. she suspected this to be his motive, in what he had done, and suddenly left off drinking. resentment here became the antidote to intemperance. . a diet consisting wholly of vegetables cured a physician in maryland, of drunkenness, probably by lessening that thirst, which is always more or less excited by animal food. . blisters to the ankles, which were followed by an unusual degree of inflammation, once suspended the love of ardent spirits, for one month, in a lady in this city. the degrees of her intemperance may be conceived of, when i add, that her grocer's account for brandy alone amounted, annually, to one hundred pounds, pennsylvania currency, for several years. . a violent attack of an acute disease, has sometimes destroyed a habit of drinking distilled liquors. i attended a notorious drunkard, in the yellow fever, in the year , who recovered with the loss of his relish for spirits, which has, i believe, continued ever since. . a salivation has lately performed a cure of drunkenness, in a person of virginia. the new disease excited in the mouth and throat, while it rendered the action of the smallest quantity of spirits upon them painful, was happily calculated to destroy the disease in the stomach which prompts to drinking, as well as to render the recollection of them disagreeable, by the laws of association formerly mentioned. . i have known an oath, taken before a magistrate, to drink no more spirits, produce a perfect cure of drunkenness. it is sometimes cured in this way in ireland. persons who take oaths for this purpose are called affidavit men. . an advantage would probably arise from frequent representations being made to drunkards, not only of the certainty, but of the _suddenness_ of death, from habits of intemperance. i have heard of two persons being cured of the love of ardent spirits, by seeing death suddenly induced by fits of intoxication; in the one case, in a stranger, and in the other, in an intimate friend. . it has been said, that the disuse of spirits should be gradual, but my observations authorize me to say, that persons who have been addicted to them, should abstain from them _suddenly_, and _entirely_. "taste not, handle not, touch not," should be inscribed upon every vessel that contains spirits, in the house of a man who wishes to be cured of habits of intemperance. to obviate, for a while, the debility which arises from the sudden abstraction of the stimulus of spirits, laudanum, or bitters infused in water, should be taken, and perhaps a larger quantity of beer or wine, that is consistent with the strict rules of temperate living. by the temporary use of these substitutes for spirits, i have never known the transition to sober habits to be attended with any bad effects, but often with permanent health of body, and peace of mind. observations on the _duties of a physician_, and the methods of improving medicine. accommodated to the present state of society and manners in the united states. delivered in the university of pennsylvania, february , , at the conclusion of a course of lectures upon chemistry and the practice of physic. _published at the request of the class._ gentlemen, i shall conclude our course of lectures, by delivering to you a few directions for the regulation of your future conduct and studies, in the line of your profession. i shall, _first_, suggest the most probable means of establishing yourselves in business, and of becoming acceptable to your patients, and respectable in life. _secondly_, i shall mention a few thoughts which have occurred to me on the mode to be pursued, in the further prosecution of your studies, and for the improvement of medicine. i. permit me, in the first place, to recommend to such of you as intend to settle in the country, to establish yourselves as early as possible upon _farms_. my reasons for this advice are as follow: . it will reconcile the country people to the liberality and dignity of your profession, by showing them that you assume no superiority over them from your education, and that you intend to share with them in those toils, which were imposed upon man in consequence of the loss of his innocence. this will prevent envy, and render you acceptable to your patients as men, as well as physicians. . by living on a farm you may serve your country, by promoting improvements in agriculture. chemistry (which is now an important branch of a medical education) and agriculture are closely allied to each other. hence some of the most useful books upon agriculture have been written by physicians. witness the essays of dr. home of edinburgh, and of dr. hunter of yorkshire, in england. . the business of a farm will furnish you with employment in the healthy seasons of the year, and thereby deliver you from the tædium vitæ, or what is worse, from retreating to low or improper company. perhaps one cause of the prevalence of dram or grog drinking, with which country practitioners are sometimes charged, is owing to their having no regular or profitable business to employ them, in the intervals of their attendance upon their patients. . the resources of a farm will create such an independence as will enable you to practice with more dignity, and at the same time screen you from the trouble of performing unnecessary services to your patients. it will change the nature of the obligation between you and them. while _money_ is the only means of your subsistence, your patients will feel that they are the channels of your daily bread; but while your farm furnishes you with the necessaries of life, your patients will feel more sensibly, that the obligation is on their side, for health and life. . the exigencies and wants of a farm in _stock_ and _labour_ of all kinds, will enable you to obtain from your patients a compensation for your services in those articles. they all possess them, and men part with that of which money is only the sign, much more readily than they do with money itself. . the resources of a farm will prevent your cherishing, for a moment, an impious wish for the prevalence of sickness in your neighbourhood. a healthy season will enable you to add to the produce of your farm, while the rewards of an unhealthy season will enable you to repair the inconvenience of your necessary absence from it. by these means your pursuits will be marked by that _variety_ and _integrity_, in which true happiness is said to consist. . let your farms be small, and let your _principal_ attention be directed to grass and horticulture. these afford most amusement, require only moderate labour, and will interfere least with your duties to your profession. ii. avoid singularities of every kind in your manners, dress, and general conduct. sir isaac newton, it is said, could not be distinguished in company, by any peculiarity, from a common well-bred gentleman. singularity in any thing, is a substitute for such great or useful qualities as command respect; and hence we find it chiefly in little minds. the profane and indelicate combination of extravagant ideas, improperly called wit, and the formal and pompous manner, whether accompanied by a wig, a cane, or a ring, should be all avoided, as incompatible with the simplicity of science, and the real dignity of physic. there is more than one way of playing the quack. it is not necessary, for this purpose, that a man should advertise his skill, or his cures, or that he should mount a phaeton and display his dexterity in operating, to an ignorant and gaping multitude. a physician acts the same part in a different way, who assumes the character of a madman or a brute in his manners, or who conceals his fallibility by an affected gravity and taciturnity in his intercourse with his patients. both characters, like the quack, impose upon the public. it is true, they deceive different ranks of people; but we must remember that there are two kinds of vulgar, viz. the rich and the poor; and that the rich vulgar are often upon a footing with the poor, in ignorance and credulity. iii. it has been objected to our profession, that many eminent physicians have been unfriendly to christianity. if this be true, i cannot help ascribing it in part to that neglect of public worship with which the duties of our profession are often incompatible; for it has been justly observed, that the neglect of this religious and social duty, generally produces a relaxation, either in principles or morals. let this fact lead you, in setting out in business, to acquire such habits of punctuality in visiting your patients, as shall not interfere with acts of public homage to the supreme being. dr. gregory has observed, that a cold heart is the most frequent cause of deism. where this occurs in a physician, it affords a presumption that he is deficient in humanity. but i cannot admit that infidelity is peculiar to our profession. on the contrary, i believe christianity places among its friends more men of extensive abilities and learning in medicine, than in any other secular employment. stahl, hoffman, boerhaave, sydenham, haller, and fothergill, were all christians. these enlightened physicians were considered as the ornaments of the ages in which they lived, and posterity has justly ranked them among the greatest benefactors of mankind. iv. permit me to recommend to you a regard to all the interests of your country. the education of a physician gives him a peculiar insight in the principles of many useful arts, and the practice of physic favours his opportunities of doing good, by diffusing knowledge of all kinds. it was in rome, when medicine was practised only by slaves, that physicians were condemned by their profession "mutam exercere artem." but in modern times, and in free governments, they should disdain an ignoble silence upon public subjects. the american revolution has rescued physic from its former slavish rank in society. for the honour of our profession it should be recorded, that some of the most intelligent and useful characters, both in the cabinet and the field, during the late war, have been physicians. the illustrious dr. fothergill opposed faction and tyranny, and took the lead in all public improvements in his native country, without suffering thereby the least diminution of that reputation, or business, in which, for forty years, he flourished almost without a rival in the city of london. v. let me advise you, in your visits to the sick, _never_ to appear in a hurry, nor to talk of indifferent matters before you have made the necessary inquiries into the symptoms of your patient's disease. vi. avoid making light of any case. "respice finem" should be the motto of every indisposition. there is scarcely a disease so trifling, that has not, directly or indirectly, proved an outlet to human life. this consideration should make you anxious and punctual in your attendance upon every acute disease, and keep you from risking your reputation by an improper or hasty prognosis. vii. do not condemn, or oppose, unnecessarily, the simple prescriptions of your patients. yield to them in matters of little consequence, but maintain an inflexible authority over them in matters that are essential to life. viii. preserve, upon all occasions, a composed or cheerful countenance in the room of your patients, and inspire as much hope of a recovery as you can, consistent with truth, especially in acute diseases. the extent of the influence of the will over the human body, has not yet been fully ascertained. i reject the futile pretensions of mr. mesmer to the cure of diseases, by what he has absurdly called animal magnetism. but i am willing to derive the same advantages from his deceptions, which the chemists have derived from the delusions of the alchemists. the facts which he has established, clearly prove the influence of the imagination, and will, upon diseases. let us avail ourselves of the handle which those faculties of the mind present to us, in the strife between life and death. i have frequently prescribed remedies of doubtful efficacy in the critical stage of acute diseases, but never till i had worked up my patients into a confidence, bordering upon certainty, of their probable good effects. the success of this measure has much oftener answered, than disappointed my expectations; and while my patients have commended the vomit, the purge, or the blister which was prescribed, i have been disposed to attribute their recovery to the vigorous concurrence of the _will_ in the action of the medicine. does the will beget insensibility to cold, heat, hunger, and danger? does it suspend pain, and raise the body above feeling the pangs of indian tortures? let us not then be surprised that it should enable the system to resolve a spasm, to open an obstruction, or to discharge an offending humour. i have only time to hint at this subject. perhaps it would lead us, if we could trace it fully, to some very important discoveries in the cure of diseases. ix. permit me to advise you in your intercourse with your patients, to attend to that principle in the human mind, which constitutes the association of ideas. a chamber, a chair, a curtain, or even a cup, all belong to the means of life or death, accordingly as they are associated with cheerful or distressing ideas, in the mind of a patient. but this principle is of more immediate application in those chronic diseases which affect the mind. nothing can be accomplished here, till we produce a new association of ideas. for this purpose a change of place and company are absolutely necessary. but we must sometimes proceed much further. i have heard of a gentleman in south-carolina who cured his fits of low spirits by changing his clothes. the remedy was a rational one. it produced at once a new train of ideas, and thus removed the paroxysm of his disease. x. make it a rule never to be angry at any thing a sick man says or does to you. sickness often adds to the natural irritability of the temper. we are, therefore, to bear the reproaches of our patients with meekness and silence. it is folly to resent injuries at any time, but it is cowardice to resent an injury from a sick man, since, from his weakness and dependence upon us, he is unable to contend with us upon equal terms. you will find it difficult to attach your patients to you by the obligations of friendship or gratitude. you will sometimes have the mortification of being deserted by those patients who owe most to your skill and humanity. this led dr. turner to advise physicians never to chuse their friends from among their patients. but this advice can never be followed by a heart that has been taught to love true excellency, wherever it finds it. i would rather advise you to give the benevolent feelings of your hearts full scope, and to forget the unkind returns they will often meet with, by giving to human nature----a tear. xi. avoid giving a patient over in an acute disease. it is impossible to tell in such cases where life ends, and where death begins. hundreds of patients have recovered, who have been pronounced incurable, to the great disgrace of our profession. i know that the practice of predicting danger and death upon every occasion, is sometimes made use of by physicians, in order to enhance the credit of their prescriptions if their patients recover, and to secure a retreat from blame, if they should die. but this mode of acting is mean and illiberal. it is not necessary that we should decide with confidence at any time, upon the issue of a disease. xii. a physician in sickness is always a welcome visitor in a family; hence he is often solicited to partake of the usual sign of hospitality in this country, by taking a draught of some strong liquor, every time he enters into the house of a patient. let me charge you to lay an early restraint upon yourselves, by refusing to yield to this practice, especially in the _forenoon_. many physicians have been innocently led by it into habits of drunkenness. you will be in the more danger of falling into this vice, from the great fatigue and inclemency of the weather to which you will be exposed in country practice. but you have been taught that strong drink affords only a temporary relief from those evils, and that it afterwards renders the body more sensible of them. xiii. i shall now give some directions with respect to the method of charging for your services to your patients. when we consider the expence of a medical education, and the sacrifices a physician is obliged to make of ease, society, and even health, to his profession; and when we add to these, the constant and painful anxiety which is connected with the important charge of the lives of our fellow-creatures, and above all, the inestimable value of that blessing which is the object of his services, i hardly know how it is possible for a patient sufficiently and justly to reward his physician. but when we consider, on the other hand, that sickness deprives men of the means of acquiring money; that it increases all the expenses of living; and that high charges often drive patients from regular-bred physicians to quacks; i say, when we attend to these considerations, we should make our charges as moderate as possible, and conform them to the following state of things. avoid measuring your services to your patients by scruples, drachms, and ounces. it is an illiberal mode of charging. on the contrary, let the number and _time_ of your visits, the nature of your patient's disease, and his rank in his family or society, determine the figures in your accounts. it is certainly just to charge more for curing an apoplexy, than an intermitting fever. it is equally just, to demand more for risking your life by visiting a patient in a contagious fever, than for curing a pleurisy. you have likewise a right to be paid for your anxiety. charge the same services, therefore, higher, to the master or mistress of a family, or to an only son or daughter, who call forth all your feelings and industry, than to less important members of a family and of society. if a rich man demand more frequent visits than are necessary, and if he impose the restraints of keeping to hours, by calling in other physicians to consult with you upon every trifling occasion, it will be just to make him pay accordingly for it. as this mode of charging is strictly agreeable to reason and equity, it seldom fails of according with the reason and sense of equity of our patients. accounts made out upon these principles, are seldom complained of by them. i shall only remark further upon this subject, that the sooner you send in your accounts after your patients recover, the better. it is the duty of a physician to inform his patient of the amount of his obligation to him at least _once_ a year. but there are times when a departure from this rule may be necessary. an unexpected misfortune in business, and a variety of other accidents, may deprive a patient of the money he had allotted to pay his physician. in this case, delicacy and humanity require, that he should not know the amount of his debt to his physician, till time had bettered his circumstances. i shall only add, under this head, that the poor of every description should be the objects of your peculiar care. dr. boerhaave used to say, "they were his best patients, because god was their paymaster." the first physicians that i have known, have found the poor the steps by which they have ascended to business and reputation. diseases among the lower class of people are generally simple, and exhibit to a physician the best cases of all epidemics, which cannot fail of adding to his ability of curing the complicated diseases of the rich and intemperate. there is an inseparable connection between a man's duty and his interest. whenever you are called, therefore, to visit a poor patient, imagine you hear the voice of the good samaritan sounding in your ears, "take care of him, and i will repay thee." i come now to the second part of this address, which was to point out the best mode to be pursued, in the further prosecution of your studies, and the improvement of medicine. i. give me leave to recommend to you, to open all the dead bodies you can, without doing violence to the feelings of your patients, or the prejudices of the common people. preserve a register of the weather, and of its influence upon the vegetable productions of the year. above all, record the epidemics of every season; their times of appearing and disappearing, and the connection of the weather with each of them. such records, if published, will be useful to foreigners, and a treasure to posterity. preserve, likewise, an account of chronic cases. record the name, age, and occupation of your patient; describe his disease accurately, and the changes produced in it by your remedies; mention the doses of every medicine you administer to him. it is impossible to tell how much improvement and facility in practice you will find from following these directions. it has been remarked, that physicians seldom remember more than the two or three last years of their practice. the records which have been mentioned, will supply this deficiency of memory, especially in that advanced stage of life when the advice of physicians is supposed to be most valuable. ii. permit me to recommend to you further, the study of the anatomy (if i may be allowed the expression) of the human mind, commonly called metaphysics. the reciprocal influence of the body and mind upon each other, can only be ascertained by an accurate knowledge of the faculties of the mind, and of their various modes of combination and action. it is the duty of physicians to assert their prerogative, and to rescue the mental science from the usurpations of schoolmen and divines. it can only be perfected by the aid and discoveries of medicine. the authors i would recommend to you upon metaphysics, are, butler, locke, hartley, reid, and beattie. these ingenious writers have cleared this sublime science of its technical rubbish, and rendered it both intelligible and useful. iii. let me remind you, that improvement in medicine is not to be derived only from colleges and universities. systems of physic are the productions of men of genius and learning; but those facts which constitute real knowledge, are to be met with in every walk of life. remember how many of our most useful remedies have been discovered by quacks. do not be afraid, therefore, of conversing with them, and of profiting by their ignorance and temerity in the practice of physic. medicine has its pharisees, as well as religion. but the spirit of this sect is as unfriendly to the advancement of medicine, as it is to christian charity. by conversing with quacks, we may convey instruction to them, and thereby lessen the mischief they might otherwise do to society. but further. in the pursuit of medical knowledge, let me advise you to converse with nurses and old women. they will often suggest facts in the history and cure of diseases, which have escaped the most sagacious observers of nature. even negroes and indians have sometimes stumbled upon discoveries in medicine. be not ashamed to inquire into them. there is yet one more means of information in medicine which should not be neglected, and that is, to converse with persons who have recovered from indispositions without the aid of physicians. examine the strength and exertions of nature in these cases, and mark the plain and home-made remedy to which they ascribe their recovery. i have found this to be a fruitful source of instruction, and have been led to conclude, that if every man in a city, or a district, could be called upon to relate to persons appointed to receive and publish his narrative, an exact account of the effects of those remedies which accident or whim has suggested to him, it would furnish a very useful book in medicine. to preserve the facts thus obtained, let me advise you to record them in a book to be kept for that purpose. there is one more advantage that will probably attend the inquiries that have been mentioned: you may discover diseases, or symptoms of diseases, or even laws of the animal economy, which have no place in our systems of nosology, or in our theories of physic. iv. study simplicity in the preparation of your medicines. my reasons for this advice are as follow: . active medicines produce the most certain effects in a simple state. . medicines when mixed frequently destroy the efficacy of each other. i do not include chemical medicines alone in this remark. it applies likewise to galenical medicines. i do not say, that all these medicines are impaired by mixture, but we can only determine when they are not, by actual experiments and observations. . when medicines of the same class, or even of different classes, are given together, the _strongest_ only produces an effect. but what are we to say to a compound of two medicines which give exactly the same impression to the system? probably, if we are to judge from analogy, the effect of them will be such as would have been produced by neither, in a simple state. . by observing simplicity in your prescriptions, you will always have the command of a greater number of medicines of the _same_ class, which may be used in succession to each other, in proportion as habit renders the system insensible of their action. . by using medicines in a simple state you will obtain an exact knowledge of their virtues and doses, and thereby be able to decide upon the numerous and contradictory accounts which exist in our books, of the character of the _same_ medicines. under this head, i cannot help adding two more directions. . avoid sacrificing too much to the _taste_ of your patients in the preparation of your medicines. the nature of a medicine may be wholly changed by being mixed with sweet substances. the author of nature seems to have had a design, in rendering medicines unpalatable. had they been more agreeable to the taste, they would probably have yielded long ago to the unbounded appetite of man, and by becoming articles of diet, or condiments, have lost their efficacy in diseases. . give as few medicines as possible in tinctures made with distilled spirits. perhaps there are few cases in which it is safe to exhibit medicines prepared in spirits, in any other form than in _drops_. many people have been innocently seduced into a love of strong drink, from taking large or frequent doses of bitters, infused in spirits. let not our profession be reproached in a single instance, with adding to the calamities that have been entailed upon mankind by this dreadful species of intemperance. v. let me recommend to your particular attention, the indigenous medicines of our country. cultivate or prepare as many of them as possible, and endeavour to enlarge the materia medica, by exploring the untrodden fields and forests of the united states. the ipecacuanha, the seneka and virginia snake-roots, the carolina pink-root, the spice-wood, the sassafras, the butter-nut, the thoroughwort, the poke, and the stramonium, are but a small part of the medicinal productions of america. i have no doubt but there are many hundred other plants which now exhale invaluable medicinal virtues in the desert air. examine, likewise, the mineral waters, which are so various in their impregnation, and so common in all parts of our country. let not the properties of the insects of america escape your investigation. we have already discovered among some of them, a fly equal in its blistering qualities to the famous fly of spain. who knows but it may be reserved for america to furnish the world, from her productions, with cures for some of those diseases which now elude the power of medicine? who knows but that, at the foot of the allegany mountain, there blooms a flower that is an infallible cure for the epilepsy? perhaps on the monongahela, or the potomac, there may grow a root that shall supply, by its tonic powers, the invigorating effects of the savage or military life in the cure of consumptions. human misery of every kind is evidently on the decline. happiness, like truth, is a unit. while the world, from the progress of intellectual, moral, and political truth, is becoming a more safe and agreeable abode for man, the votaries of medicine should not be idle. all the doors and windows of the temple of nature have been thrown open by the convulsions of the late american revolution. this is the time, therefore, to press upon her altars. we have already drawn from them discoveries in morals, philosophy, and government; all of which have human happiness for their object. let us preserve the unity of truth and happiness, by drawing from the same source, in the present critical moment, a knowledge of antidotes to those diseases which are supposed to be incurable. i have now, gentlemen, only to thank you for the attention with which you have honoured the course of lectures which has been delivered to you, and to assure you, that i shall be happy in rendering you all the services that lie in my power, in any way you are pleased to command me. accept of my best wishes for your happiness, and may the blessings of hundreds and thousands that were ready to perish, be your portion in life, your comfort in death, and your reward in the world to come. an inquiry into the cause and cure of _sore legs_. however trifling these complaints may appear, they compose a large class of the diseases of a numerous body of people. hitherto, the persons afflicted by them have been too generally abandoned to the care of empirics, either because the disease was considered as beneath the notice of physicians, or because they were unable to cure it. i would rather ascribe it to the latter, than to the former cause, for pride has no natural fellowship with the profession of medicine. the difficulty of curing sore legs has been confessed by physicians in every country. as far as my observations have extended, i am disposed to ascribe this difficulty to the uniform and indiscriminate mode of treating them, occasioned by the want of a theory which shall explain their proximate cause. i shall attempt in a few pages to deliver one, which, however imperfect, will, i hope, lay a foundation for more successful inquiries upon this subject hereafter. i shall begin my observations upon this disease, by delivering and supporting the following propositions. i. sore legs are induced by general debility. this i infer from the occupations and habits of the persons who are most subject to them. they are day-labourers, and sailors, who are in the habit of lifting great weights; also washer-women, and all other persons, who pass the greatest part of their time upon their feet. the blood-vessels and muscular fibres of the legs are thus overstretched, by which means either a rupture, or such a languid action in the vessels is induced, as that an accidental wound from any cause, even from the scratch of a pin, or the bite of a mosquito, will not easily heal. but labourers, sailors, and washer-women are not the only persons who are afflicted with sore legs. hard drinkers of every rank and description are likewise subject to them. where strong drink, labour, and standing long on the feet are united, they more certainly dispose to sore legs, than when they act separately. in china, where the labour which is performed by brutes in other countries, is performed by men, varices on the legs are very common among the labouring people. perhaps, the reason why the debility is induced in the legs produces varices instead of ulcers in these people, may be owing to their not adding the debilitating stimulus of strong drink to that of excessive labour. it is not extraordinary that the debility produced by intemperance in drinking ardent spirits, should appear first in the lower extremities. the debility produced by intemperance in the use of wine, makes its first appearance in the form of gout, in the same part of the body. the gout, it is true, discovers itself most frequently in pain only, but there are cases in which it has terminated in ulcers, and even mortification on the legs. ii. sore legs are connected with a morbid state of the whole system. this i infer, . from the causes which induce them, all of which act more or less upon every part of the body. . from their following or preceding diseases, which obviously belong to the whole system. fevers and dysenteries often terminate critically in this disease; and the pulmonary consumption and apoplexy have often been preceded by the suppression of a habitual discharge from a sore leg. the two latter diseases have been ascribed to the translation of a morbific matter to the lungs or brain: but it is more rational to ascribe them to a previous debility in those organs, by which means their vessels were more easily excited into action and effusion by the stimulus of the plethora, induced upon the system in consequence of the confinement of the fluids formerly discharged from the leg in the form of pus. this plethora can do harm only where there is previous debility; for i maintain that the system (when the solids are exactly toned) will always relieve itself of a sudden preternatural accumulation of fluids by means of some natural emunctory. this has been often observed in the menorrhagia, which accompanies plentiful living in women, and in the copious discharges from the bowels and kidneys, which follow a suppression of the perspiration. . i infer it, from their appearing almost universally in one disease, which is evidently a disease of the whole system, viz. the scurvy. . from their becoming in some cases the outlets of menstrual blood, which is discharged in consequence of a plethora, which affects more or less every part of the female system. . i infer it from the _symptoms_ of sore legs, which are in some cases febrile, and affect the pulse in every part of the body with preternatural frequency or force. these symptoms were witnessed, in an eminent degree, in two of the patients who furnished subjects for clinical remarks in the pennsylvania hospital some years ago. . i infer that sore legs are a disease of the whole system, from the manner in which they are sometimes cured by nature and art. they often prove the outlets of many general diseases, and all the remedies which cure them, act more or less upon the whole system. in all cases of sore legs there is a tonic and atonic state of the whole system. the same state of excessive or weak morbid action takes place in the parts which are affected by the sores. the remedies to cure them, therefore, should be _general_ and _local_. in cases where the arterial system is affected by too much tone, the general remedies should be, i. blood-letting. of the efficacy of this remedy in disposing ulcers suddenly to heal, the two clinical patients before-mentioned exhibited remarkable proofs, in the presence of all the students of medicine in the university. the blood drawn was sizy in both cases. i have not the merit of having introduced this remedy into practice in the cure of ulcers. i learned it from sir john pringle. i have known it to be used with equal success in a sore breast, attended by pain and inflammation, after all the usual remedies in that disease had been used to no purpose. ii. gentle purges. iii. nitre. from fifteen to twenty grains of this medicine should be given three times a-day. iv. a temperate diet, and a total abstinence from fermented and distilled liquors. v. cool and pure air. vi. rest in a recumbent posture of the body. the _local_ remedies in this state of the system should be, i. cold water. dr. rigby has written largely in favour of this remedy when applied to local inflammations. from its good effects in allaying the inflammation which sometimes follows the puncture which is made in the arm in communicating the small-pox, and from the sudden relief it affords in the inflammatory state of the ophthalmia and in the piles, no one can doubt of its efficacy in sore legs, accompanied by inflammation in those vessels, which are the immediate seat of the disease. ii. soft poultices of bread and milk, or of bread moistened with lead water. dr. underwood's method of making a poultice of bread and milk should be preferred in this case. he directs us first to boil the milk, then to powder the bread, and throw it into the milk, and after they have been intimately mixed, by being well stirred and boiled together, they should be poured out and spread upon a rag, and a knife dipped in sweet oil or lard, should be run over them. the solidity and consistence of the poultice is hereby better preserved, than when the oil or lard is mixed with the bread and milk over the fire. iii. when the inflammation subsides, adhesive plasters so applied as to draw the sound edges of the sores together. this remedy has been used with great success by dr. physick, in the pennsylvania hospital, and in his private practice. iv. above all, rest, and a horizontal posture of the leg. too much cannot be said in favour of this remedy in this species of sore legs. nannoni, the famous italian surgeon, sums up the cure of sore legs in three words, viz. "tempo, riposo, e pazienza;" that is, in time, rest, and patience. a friend of mine, who was cured by this surgeon of a sore leg, many years ago, informed me, that he confined him to his bed during the greatest part of the time that he was under his care. in sore legs, attended by too little general and local action, the following remedies are proper. i. bark. it should be used plentifully, but with a constant reference to the state of the system; for the changes in the weather, and other accidental circumstances, often produce such changes in the system, as to render its disuse for a short time frequently necessary. ii. mercury. this remedy has been supposed to act by altering the fluids, or by discharging a morbid matter from them, in curing sore legs. but this is by no means the case. it appears to act as a universal stimulant; and if it prove most useful when it excites a salivation, it is only because in this way it excites the most general action in the system. iii. mineral tonics, such as the different preparations of iron, copper, and zinc. iv. gentle exercise. rest, and a recumbent posture of the body, so proper in the tonic, are both hurtful in this species of sore legs. the efficacy of exercise, even of the active kind, in the cure of sore legs, accompanied by deficient action in the vessels, may easily be conceived from its good effects after gun-shot wounds which are mentioned by dr. jackson[ ]. he tells us, that those british soldiers who had been wounded at the battle of guilford, in north-carolina, who were turned out of the military hospitals and followed the army, soonest recovered of their wounds. it was remarkable, that if they delayed only a few days on the road, their wounds grew worse, or ceased to heal. [ ] medical journal, . in the use of the different species of exercise, the same regard should be had to the state of the system, which has been recommended in other diseases. v. a nutritious and moderately stimulating diet, consisting of milk, saccharine vegetables, animal food, malt liquors, and wine. wort has done great service in sore legs. the manner in which i have directed it to be prepared and taken is as follows: to three or four heaped table-spoonsful of the malt, finely powdered and sifted, add two table-spoonsful of brown sugar, and three or four of madeira, sherry, or lisbon wine, and a quart of boiling water. after they have stood a few hours, it may be drunken liberally by the patient, stirring it each time before he takes it, so that the whole substance of the malt may be conveyed into the stomach. a little lime-juice may be added, if the patient requires it, to make it more pleasant. the above quantity may be taken once, twice, or three times a-day at the pleasure of the patient, or according to the indication of his disease. vi. opium. this remedy is not only useful in easing the pain of a sore leg, but co-operates with other cordial medicines in invigorating the whole system. the _local_ applications should consist of such substances as are gently escarotic, and which excite an action in the torpid vessels of the affected part. arsenic, precipitate, and blue vitriol, have all been employed with success for this purpose. dr. griffitts informed me, that he has frequently accomplished the same thing in the dispensary by applications of tartar emetic. they should all be used, if necessary, in succession to each other; for there is often the same idiosyncrasy in a sore leg to certain topical applications, that there is in the stomach to certain aliments. after the use of these remedies, astringents and tonics should be applied, such as an infusion of peruvian, or white-oak bark; the water in which the smiths extinguish their irons, lime-water, bread dipped in a weak solution of green vitriol (so much commended by dr. underwood), compresses wetted with brandy, or ardent spirits of any kind, and, above all, the adhesive plasters formerly mentioned. tight bandages are likewise highly proper here. the laced stocking has been much used. it is made of strong coarse linen. dr. underwood gives several good reasons for preferring a flannel roller to the linen stocking. it sets easier on the leg, and yields to the swelling of the muscles in walking. in scorbutic sores on the legs, navy surgeons have spoken in high terms of an application of a mixture of lime-juice and molasses. mr. gillespie commends the use of lime or lemon-juice alone, and ascribes many cures to it in the british navy during the late war, after every common application had been used to no purpose[ ]. [ ] medical journal, vol. vi. it is of the utmost consequence in the treatment of sore legs, to keep them clean, by frequent dressings and washings. the success of old women is oftener derived from their great attention to cleanliness, in the management of sore legs, than to any specifics they possess which are unknown to physicians. when sore legs are kept from healing by affections of the bone, the treatment should be such as is recommended by practical writers on surgery. i shall conclude this inquiry by four observations, which are naturally suggested by what has been delivered upon this disease. . if it has been proved that sore legs are connected with a morbid state of the whole system, is it not proper to inquire, whether many other diseases supposed to be local, are not in like manner connected with the whole system; and if sore legs have been cured by general remedies, is it not proper to use them more frequently in local diseases? . if there be two states of action in the arteries in sore legs, it becomes us to inquire, whether the same opposite states of action do not take place in many diseases in which they are not suspected. it would be easy to prove, that they exist in several other local diseases. . if the efficacy of the remedies for sore legs which have been mentioned, depend upon their being accommodated exactly to the state of the arterial system, and if this system be liable to frequent changes, does it not become us to be more attentive to the state of the pulse in this disease than is commonly supposed to be necessary by physicians? . it has been a misfortune in medicine, as well as in other sciences, for men to ascribe effects to one cause, which should be ascribed to many. hence diseases have been attributed exclusively to morbid affections of the fluids by some, and of the muscles and nerves by others. unfortunately the morbid states of the arterial system, and the influence of those states upon the brain, the nerves, the muscles, the lymphatics, the glands, the viscera, the alimentary canal, and the skin, as well as the reciprocal influence of the morbid states of each of those parts of the body upon the arteries, and upon each other, have been too much neglected in most of our systems of physic. i consider the pathology of the arterial system as a mine. it was first discovered by dr. cullen. the man who attempts to explore it, will probably impoverish himself by his researches; but the men who come after him, will certainly obtain from it a treasure which cannot fail of adding greatly to the riches of medicine. an account of the _state of the body and mind_ in old age; with _observations on its diseases_, and their remedies. most of the facts which i shall deliver upon this subject, are the result of observations made during the term of five years, upon persons of both sexes, who had passed the th year of their lives. i intended to have given a detail of the names, manner of life, occupations, and other circumstances of each of them; but, upon a review of my notes, i found so great a sameness in the history of most of them, that i despaired, by detailing them, of answering the intention which i have purposed in the following essay. i shall, therefore, only deliver the facts and principles which are the result of the inquiries and observations i have made upon this subject. i. i shall mention the circumstances which favour the attainment of longevity. ii. i shall mention the phenomena of body and mind which attend it; and, iii. i shall enumerate its peculiar diseases, and the remedies which are most proper to remove, or moderate them. i. the circumstances which favour longevity, are, . _descent from long-lived ancestors._ i have not found a single instance of a person, who has lived to be years old, in whom this was not the case. in some instances i found the descent was only from one, but, in general, it was from both parents. the knowledge of this fact may serve, not only to assist in calculating what are called the chances of lives, but it may be made useful to a physician. he may learn from it to cherish hopes of his patients in chronic, and in some acute diseases, in proportion to the capacity of life they have derived from their ancestors[ ]. [ ] dr. franklin, who died in his th year, was descended from long-lived parents. his father died at , and his mother at . his father had children by two wives. the doctor informed me, that he once sat down as one of adult sons and daughters at his father's table. in an excursion he once made to that part of england from whence his family migrated to america, he discovered, in a grave-yard, the tomb-stones of several persons of his name, who had lived to be very old. these persons he supposed to have been his ancestors. . _temperance in eating and drinking._ to this remark i found several exceptions. i met with one man of years of age, who had been intemperate in eating; and four or five persons who had been intemperate in drinking ardent spirits. they had all been day-labourers, or had deferred drinking until they began to feel the languor of old age. i did not meet with a single person who had not, for the last forty or fifty years of their lives, used tea, coffee, and bread and butter twice a day as part of their diet. i am disposed to believe that those articles of diet do not materially affect the duration of human life, although they evidently impair the strength of the system. the duration of life does not appear to depend so much upon the strength of the body, or upon the quantity of its excitability, as upon an exact accommodation of stimuli to each of them. a watch spring will last as long as an anchor, provided the forces which are capable of destroying both, are always in an exact ratio to their strength. the use of tea and coffee in diet seems to be happily suited to the change which has taken place in the human body, by sedentary occupations, by which means less nourishment and stimulus are required than formerly, to support animal life. . the _moderate exercise of the understanding_. it has long been an established truth, that literary men (other circumstances being equal) are longer lived than other people. but it is not necessary that the understanding should be employed upon philosophical subjects to produce this influence upon human life. business, politics, and religion, which are the objects of attention of men of all classes, impart a vigour to the understanding, which, by being conveyed to every part of the body, tends to produce health and long life. . _equanimity of temper._ the violent and irregular action of the passions tends to wear away the springs of life. persons who live upon annuities in europe have been observed to be longer lived, in equal circumstances, than other people. this is probably occasioned by their being exempted, by the certainty of their subsistence, from those fears of want which so frequently distract the minds, and thereby weaken the bodies of old people. life-rents have been supposed to have the same influence in prolonging life. perhaps the _desire of life_, in order to enjoy for as long a time as possible, that property which cannot be enjoyed a second time by a child or relation, may be another cause of the longevity of persons who live upon certain incomes. it is a fact, that the desire of life is a very powerful stimulus in prolonging it, especially when that desire is supported by hope. this is obvious to physicians every day. despair of recovery, is the beginning of death in all diseases. but obvious and reasonable as the effects of equanimity of temper are upon human life, there are some exceptions in favour of passionate men and women having attained to a great age. the morbid stimulus of anger, in these cases, was probably obviated by less degrees, or less active exercises of the understanding, or by the defect or weakness of some of the other stimuli which keep up the motions of life. . _matrimony._ in the course of my inquiries i met with only one person beyond eighty years of age who had never been married. i met with several women who had borne from ten to twenty children, and suckled them all. i met with one woman, a native of herefordshire, in england, who was in the th year of her age, who had borne a child at , menstruated till , and frequently suckled two of her children (though born in succession to each other) at the same time. she had passed the greatest part of her life over a washing-tub. . _emigration._ i have observed many instances of europeans who have arrived in america in the decline of life, who have acquired fresh vigour from the impression of our climate, and of new objects upon their bodies and minds; and whose lives, in consequence thereof, appeared to have been prolonged for many years. this influence of climate upon longevity is not confined to the united states. of european spaniards, who emigrate to south-america in early life, live to be above , whereas but or native spaniards, and but indians of the same number, exceed the th year of human life. . i have not found _sedentary employments_ to prevent long life, where they are not accompanied by intemperance in eating or drinking. this observation is not confined to literary men, nor to women only, in whom longevity, without much exercise of body, has been frequently observed. i met with one instance of a weaver; a second of a silver-smith; and a third of a shoe-maker, among the number of old people, whose histories have suggested these observations. . i have not found that _acute_, nor that all _chronic_ diseases shorten human life. dr. franklin had two successive vomicas in his lungs before he was years old. i met with one man beyond , who had survived a most violent attack of the yellow fever; a second who had had several of his bones fractured by falls, and in frays; and many who had been frequently affected by intermittents. i met with one man of , who had all his life been subject to syncope; another who had for years been occasionally affected by a cough[ ]; and two instances of men who had been afflicted for forty years with obstinate head-achs[ ]. i met with only one person beyond , who had ever been affected by a disease in the _stomach_; and in him it arose from an occasional rupture. mr. john strangeways hutton, of this city, who died in , in the th year of his age, informed me, that he had never puked in his life. this circumstance is the more remarkable, as he passed several years at sea when a young man[ ]. these facts may serve to extend our ideas of the importance of a healthy state of the stomach in the animal economy; and thereby to add to our knowledge in the prognosis of diseases, and in the chances of human life. [ ] this man's only remedy for his cough was the fine powder of dry indian turnip and honey. [ ] dr. thiery says, that he did not find the itch, or slight degrees of the leprosy, to prevent longevity. observations de physique, et de medecine faites en differens lieux de l'espagne. vol ii. p. i. [ ] the venerable old man, whose history first suggested this remark, was born in new-york in the year . his grandfather lived to be , but was unable to walk for thirty years before he died, from an excessive quantity of fat. his mother died at . his constant drinks were water, beer, and cyder. he had a fixed dislike to spirits of all kinds. his appetite was good, and he ate plentifully during the last years of his life. he seldom drank any thing between his meals. he was never intoxicated but twice in his life, and that was when a boy, and at sea, where he remembers perfectly well to have celebrated, by a feu de joye, the birth-day of queen anne. he was formerly afflicted with the head-ach and giddiness, but never had a fever, except from the small-pox, in the course of his life. his pulse was slow, but regular. he had been twice married. by his first wife he had eight, and by his second seventeen children. one of them lived to be years of age. he was about five feet nine inches in height, of a slender make, and carried an erect head to the last year of his life. . i have not found the _loss of teeth_ to affect the duration of human life, so much as might be expected. edward drinker, who lived to be years old, lost his teeth thirty years before he died, from drawing the hot smoke of tobacco into his mouth through a short pipe. dr. sayre of new-jersey, to whom i am indebted for several very valuable histories of old persons, mentions one man aged , whose teeth began to decay at , and another of , who lost his teeth, thirty years before he saw him. the gums, by becoming hard, perform, in part, the office of teeth. but may not the gastric juice of the stomach, like the tears and urine, become acrid by age, and thereby supply, by a more dissolving power, the defect of mastication from the loss of teeth? analogies might easily be adduced from several operations of nature, which go forward in the animal economy, which render this supposition highly probable. . i have not observed _baldness_, or _grey hairs_, occurring in early or middle life, to prevent old age. in one of the histories furnished me by dr. sayre, i find an account of a man of , whose hair began to assume a silver colour when he was but one and twenty years of age. . more women live to be old than men, but more men live to be _very_ old, than women. i shall conclude this head by the following remark: notwithstanding there appears in the human body a certain capacity of long life, which seems to dispose it to preserve its existence in every situation; yet this capacity does not always protect it from premature destruction; for among the old people whom i examined, i scarcely met with one who had not lost brothers or sisters, in early and middle life, and who were born under circumstances equally favourable to longevity with themselves. ii. i now come to mention some of the phenomena of the body and mind which occur in old age. . there is a great sensibility to _cold_ in all old people. i met with an old woman of , who slept constantly under three blankets and a coverlet during the hottest summer months. the servant of prince de beaufremont, who came from mount jura to paris, at the age of , to pay his respects to the first national assembly of france, shivered with cold in the middle of the dog days, when he was not near a good fire. the national assembly directed him to sit with his hat on, in order to defend his head from the cold. . impressions made upon the _ears_ of old people, excite sensation and reflection much quicker than when they are made upon their eyes. mr. hutton informed me, that he had frequently met his sons in the street without knowing them, until they had spoken to him. dr. franklin informed me, that he recognized his friends, after a long absence from them, first by their voices. this fact does not contradict the common opinion, upon the subject of memory, for the recollection, in these instances, is the effect of what is called reminiscence, which differs from memory in being excited only by the renewal of the impression which at first produced the idea which is revived. . the _appetite_ for food is generally increased in old age. the famous parr, who died at , ate heartily in the last week of his life. the kindness of nature, in providing this last portion of earthly enjoyments for old people, deserves to be noticed. it is remarkable, that they have, like children, a frequent recurrence of appetite, and sustain with great uneasiness the intervals of regular meals. the observation, therefore, made by hippocrates, that middle-aged people are more affected by abstinence than those who are old, is not true. this might easily be proved by many appeals to the records of medicine; but old people differ from children, in preferring _solid_ to liquid aliment. from inattention to this fact, dr. mead has done great mischief by advising old people, as their teeth decayed or perished, to lessen the quantity of their solid, and to increase the quantity of their liquid food. this advice is contrary to nature and experience, and i have heard of two old persons who destroyed themselves by following it. the circulation of the blood is supported in old people chiefly by the stimulus of aliment. the action of liquids of all kinds upon the system is weak, and of short continuance, compared with the durable stimulus of solid food. there is a gradation in the action of this food upon the body. animal matters are preferred to vegetable; the fat of meat to the lean, and salted meat to fresh, by most old people. i have met with but few old people who retained an appetite for milk. it is remarkable, that a less quantity of _strong drink_ produces intoxication in old people than in persons in the middle of life. this depends upon the recurrence of the same state of the system, with respect to excitability, which takes place in childhood. many old people, from an ignorance of this fact, have made shipwreck of characters which have commanded respect in every previous stage of their lives. from the same recurrence of the excitability of childhood in their systems, they commonly drink their tea and coffee much weaker than in early or middle life. . the _pulse_ is generally full, and frequently affected by pauses in its pulsations when felt in the wrists of old people. a regular pulse in such persons indicates a disease, as it shows the system to be under the impression of a preternatural stimulus of some kind. this observation was suggested to me above thirty years ago by morgagni, and i have often profited by it in attending old people. the pulse in such patients is an uncertain mark of the nature, or degree of an acute disease. it seldom partakes of the quickness or convulsive action of the arterial system, which attends fever in young or middle-aged people. i once attended a man of in a fever of the bilious kind, which confined him for eight days to his bed, in whom i could not perceive the least quickness or morbid action in his pulse until four and twenty hours before he died. . the marks of old age appear earlier, and are more numerous in persons who have combined with hard labour, a vegetable or scanty diet, than in persons who have lived under opposite circumstances. i think i have observed these marks of old age to occur sooner, and to be more numerous in the german, than in the english or irish citizens of pennsylvania. they are likewise more common among the inhabitants of country places, than of cities, and still more so among the indians of north-america, than among the inhabitants of civilized countries. . old men tread upon the _whole base_ of their feet at once in _walking_. this is perhaps one reason why they wear out fewer shoes, under the same circumstances of constant use, than young people, who, by treading on the posterior, and rising on the anterior part of their feet, expose their shoes to more unequal pressure and friction. the advantage derived to old people from this mode of walking is very obvious. it lessens that disposition to totter, which is always connected with weakness: hence we find the same mode of walking is adopted by habitual drunkards, and is sometimes from habit practised by them, when they are not under the influence of strong drink. . the breath and perspiration of old people have a peculiar acrimony, and their urine, in some instances, emits a f[oe]tor of an offensive nature. . the eyes of very old people sometimes change from a dark and blue, to a light colour. . the _memory_ is the first faculty of the mind which fails in the decline of life. while recent events pass through the mind without leaving an impression upon it, it is remarkable that the long forgotten events of childhood and youth are recalled and distinctly remembered. i met with a singular instance of a german woman, who had learned to speak the language of our country after she was forty years of age, who had forgotten every word of it after she had passed her th year, but spoke the german language as fluently as ever she had done. the memory decays soonest in hard drinkers. i have observed some studious men to suffer a decay of their memories, but never of their understandings. among these was the late anthony benezet of this city. but even this infirmity did not abate the cheerfulness, nor lessen the happiness of this pious philosopher, for he once told me, when i was a young man, that he had a consolation in the decay of his memory, which gave him a great advantage over me. "you can read a good book (said he) with pleasure but _once_, but when i read a good book, i so soon forget the contents of it, that i have the pleasure of reading it over and over; and every time i read it, it is alike new and delightful to me." the celebrated dr. swift was one of those few studious men, who have exhibited marks of a decay of understanding in old age; but it is judiciously ascribed by dr. johnson to two causes which rescue books, and the exercise of the thinking faculties from having had any share in inducing that disease upon his mind. these causes were, a rash vow which he made when a young man, never to use spectacles, and a sordid seclusion of himself from company, by which means he was cut off from the use of books, and the benefits of conversation, the absence of which left his mind without its usual stimulus: hence it collapsed into a state of fatuity. it is probably owing to the constant exercise of the understanding, that literary men possess that faculty of the mind in a vigorous state in extreme old age. the same cause accounts for old people preserving their intellects longer in cities, than in country places. they enjoy society upon such easy terms in the former situation, that their minds are kept more constantly in an excited state by the acquisition of new, or the renovation of old ideas, by means of conversation. . i did not meet with a single instance in which the moral or religious faculties were impaired in old people. i do not believe, that these faculties of the mind are preserved by any supernatural power, but wholly by the constant and increasing exercise of them in the evening of life. in the course of my inquiries, i heard of a man of years of age, who declared that he had forgotten every thing he had ever known, except his god. i found the moral faculty, or a disposition to do kind offices to be exquisitely sensible in several old people, in whom there was scarcely a trace left of memory or understanding. . dreaming is universal among old people. it appears to be brought on by their imperfect sleep, of which i shall say more hereafter. . i mentioned formerly the sign of a _second childhood_ in the state of the appetite in old people. it appears further, . in the marks which slight contusions or impressions leave upon their skins. . in their being soon fatigued by walking or exercise, and in being as soon refreshed by rest. . in their disposition, like children, to detail immediately every thing they see and hear. and, . in their aptitude to shed tears; hence they are unable to tell a story that is in any degree distressing without weeping. dr. moore takes notice of this peculiarity in voltaire, after he had passed his th year. he wept constantly at the recital of his own tragedies. this feature in old age, did not escape homer. old menelaus wept ten years after he returned from the destruction of troy, when he spoke of the death of the heroes who perished before that city. . it would be sufficiently humbling to human nature, if our bodies exhibited in old age the marks only of a second childhood; but human weakness descends still lower. i met with an instance of a woman between and , who exhibited the marks of a _second infancy_, by such a total decay of her mental faculties, as to lose all consciousness in discharging her alvine and urinary excretions. in this state of the body, a disposition to sleep, succeeds the wakefulness of the first stages of old age. dr. haller mentions an instance of a very old man who slept twenty, out of every twenty-four hours during the few last years of his life. . the disposition in the system to _renew_ certain parts in extreme old age, has been mentioned by several authors. many instances are to be met with in the records of medicine of the sight[ ] and hearing having been restored, and even of the teeth having been renewed in old people a few years before death. these phenomena have led me to suspect that the antediluvian age was attained by the frequent renovation of different parts of the body, and that when they occur, they are an effort of the causes which support animal life, to produce antediluvian longevity, by acting upon the revived excitability of the system. [ ] there is a remarkable instance of the sight having been restored after it had been totally destroyed in an old man near reading, in pennsylvania. my brother, judge rush, furnished me with the following account of him in a letter from reading, dated june , . "an old man, of years of age, of the name of adam riffle, near this town, gradually lost his sight in the th year of his age, and continued entirely blind for the space of twelve years. about four years ago his sight returned, without making use of any means for the purpose, and without any visible change in the appearance of the eyes, and he now sees as well as ever he did. i have seen the man, and have no doubt of the fact. he is at this time so hearty, as to be able to walk from his house to reading (about three miles), which he frequently does in order to attend church. i should observe, that during both the gradual loss, and recovery of his sight, he was no ways affected by sickness, but, on the contrary, enjoyed his usual health. i have this account from his daughter and son-in-law, who live within a few doors of me." . the _fear_ of death appears to be much less in old age, than in early, or middle life. i met with many old people who spoke of their dissolution with composure, and with some who expressed earnest desires to lie down in the grave. this indifference to life, and desire for death (whether they arise from a satiety in worldly pursuits and pleasures, or from a desire of being relieved from pain) appear to be a wise law in the animal economy, and worthy of being classed with those laws which accommodate the body and mind of man to all the natural evils, to which, in the common order of things, they are necessarily exposed. iii. i come now briefly to enumerate the diseases of old age, and the remedies which are most proper to remove, or to mitigate them. the diseases are chronic and acute. the chronic are, . _weakness_ of the _knees_ and _ancles_, a lessened ability to walk, and tremors in the head and limbs. . _pains in the bones_, known among nosological writers by the name of rheumatalgia. . _involuntary flow of tears_, and of mucus from the nose. . _difficulty of breathing_, and a short _cough_, with copious expectoration. a weak, or hoarse voice generally attends this cough. . _costiveness._ . an _inability to retain the urine_ as long as in early or middle life. few persons beyond pass a whole night without being obliged to discharge their urine[ ]. perhaps the stimulus of this liquor in the bladder may be one cause of the universality of dreaming among old people. it is certainly a frequent cause of dreaming in persons in early and middle life: this i infer, from its occuring chiefly in the morning when the bladder is most distended with urine. there is likewise an inability in old people to discharge their urine as quickly as in early life. i think i have observed this to be among the first symptoms of the declension of the strength of the body by age. [ ] i met with an old man, who informed me, that if from any accident he retained his urine after he felt an inclination to discharge it, he was affected by a numbness, accompanied by an uneasy sensation in the palms of his hands. . _wakefulness._ this is probably produced in part by the action of the urine upon the bladder; but such is the excitability of the system in the first stages of old age, that there is no pain so light, no anxiety so trifling, and no sound so small, as not to produce wakefulness in old people. it is owing to their imperfect sleep, that they are sometimes as unconscious of the moment of their passing from a sleeping to a waking state, as young and middle-aged people are of the moment in which they pass from the waking to a sleeping state. hence we so often hear them complain of passing sleepless nights. this is no doubt frequently the case, but i am satisfied, from the result of an inquiry made upon this subject, that they often sleep without knowing it, and that their complaints in the morning, of the want of sleep, arise from ignorance, without the least intention to deceive. . _giddiness._ . _deafness._ . _imperfect vision._ the acute diseases most common among old people, are, . _inflammation of the eyes._ . the _pneumonia notha_, or bastard peripneumony. . the _colic_. . _palsy_ and _apoplexy_. . the _piles_. . a _difficulty in making water_. . _quartan fever._ all the diseases of old people, both chronic and acute, originate in predisposing debility. the remedies for the former, where a feeble morbid action takes place in the system, are stimulants. the first of these is, i. heat. the ancient romans prolonged life by retiring to naples, as soon as they felt the infirmities of age coming upon them. the aged portuguese imitate them, by approaching the warm sun of brazil, in south-america. but heat may be applied to the torpid bodies of old people artificially. st. by means of the _warm bath_. dr. franklin owed much of the cheerfulness and general vigour of body and mind which characterised his old age, to his regular use of this remedy. it disposed him to sleep, and even produced a respite from the pain of the stone, with which he was afflicted during the last years of his life. . heat may be applied to the bodies of old people by means of _stove-rooms_. the late dr. dewit, of germantown, who lived to be near years of age, seldom breathed an air below °, after he became an old man. he lived constantly in a stove-room. . warm clothing, more especially warm bed-clothes, are proper to preserve or increase the heat of old people. from the neglect of the latter, they are often found dead in their beds in the morning, after a cold night, in all cold countries. the late dr. chovet, of this city, who lived to be , slept in a baize night-gown, under eight blankets, and a coverlet, in a stove-room, many years before he died. the head should be defended in old people, by means of woollen, or fur caps, in the night, and by wigs and hats during the day, in cold weather. these artificial coverings will be the more necessary, where the head has been deprived of its natural covering. great pains should be taken likewise to keep the feet dry and warm, by means of thick shoes[ ]. to these modes of applying and confining heat to the bodies of old people, a young bed-fellow has been added; but i conceive the three artificial modes which have been recommended, will be sufficient without the use of one, which cannot be successfully employed without a breach of delicacy or humanity. [ ] i met with one man above , who defended his feet from moisture by covering his shoes in wet weather with melted wax; and another who, for the same purpose, covered his shoes every morning with a mixture composed of the following ingredients melted together: lintseed oil a pound, mutton suet eight ounces, bees-wax six ounces, and rosin four ounces. the mixture should be moderately warmed, and then applied not only to the upper leather, but to the soles of the shoes. this composition, the old gentleman informed me, was extracted from a book entitled, "the complete fisherman," published in england, in the reign of queen elizabeth. he had used it for twenty years in cold and wet weather, with great benefit, and several of his friends, who had tried it, spoke of its efficacy in keeping the feet dry, in high terms. ii. to keep up the action of the system, generous diet and drinks should be given to old people. for a reason mentioned formerly, they should be indulged in eating between the ordinary meals of families. wine should be given to them in moderation. it has been emphatically called the milk of old age. iii. young company should be preferred by old people to the company of persons of their own age. i think i have observed old people to enjoy better health and spirits, when they have passed the evening of their lives in the families of their children, where they have been surrounded by grand-children, than when they lived by themselves. even the solicitude they feel for the welfare of their descendants, contributes to invigorate the circulation of the blood, and thereby to add fuel to the lamp of life. iv. gentle exercise. this is of great consequence in promoting the health of old people. it should be moderate, regular, and always in fair weather. v. cleanliness. this should by no means be neglected. the dress of old people should not only be clean, but more elegant than in youth or middle life. it serves to divert the eye of spectators from observing the decay and deformity of the body, to view and admire that which is always agreeable to it. vi. to abate the pains of the chronic rheumatism, and the uneasiness of the old man's cough (as it is called); also to remove wakefulness, and to restrain, during the night, a troublesome inclination to make water, opium may be given with great advantage. chardin informs us, that this medicine is frequently used in the eastern countries to abate the pains and weaknesses of old age, by those people who are debarred the use of wine by the religion of mahomet. i have nothing to say upon the acute diseases of old people, but what is to be found in most of our books of medicine, except to recommend bleeding in those of them which are attended with plethora, and an inflammatory action in the pulse. the degrees of appetite which belong to old age, the quality of the food taken, and the sedentary life which is generally connected with it, all concur to produce that state of the system, which requires the above evacuation. i am sure that i have seen many of the chronic complaints of old people mitigated by it, and i have more than once seen it used with obvious advantage in their inflammatory diseases. these affections i have observed to be more fatal among old people than is generally supposed. an inflammation of the lungs, which terminated in an abscess, deprived the world of dr. franklin. dr. chovet died of an inflammation in his liver. the blood drawn from him a few days before his death was sizy, and such was the heat of his body, produced by his fever, that he could not bear more covering (notwithstanding his former habits of warm clothing) than a sheet in the month of january. death from old age is the effect of a gradual palsy. it shows itself first in the eyes and ears, in the decay of sight and hearing; it appears next in the urinary bladder, in the limbs and trunk of the body; then in the sphincters of the bladder and rectum; and finally in the nerves and brain, destroying in the last, the exercise of all the faculties of the mind. few persons appear to die of old age. some one of the diseases which have been mentioned, generally cuts the last thread of life. end of volume i. * * * * * transcriber's note: the original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been maintained. obvious misprints have been corrected. partly repeated chapter headings have been deleted. the table on page has been split to match the page size. [illustration: _page _ "emmeline," he said gently, "do you suppose you could help me?"] emmeline by elsie singmaster _with illustrations_ [illustration] boston and new york houghton mifflin company the riverside press cambridge copyright, , by perry mason company copyright, , by elsie singmaster lewars all rights reserved to miss annie wallace horner is dedicated this little story of her native town contents i. the sound of bugles ii. emmeline and the schmidts take a journey iii. emmeline meets the enemies of her country iv. the second day of battle v. private christy says farewell vi. the terror past illustrations "emmeline," he said gently, "do you suppose you could help me?" (page ) _frontispiece_ "i am in great trouble, emmeline" emmeline watched him go "yes," answered mrs. willing. "bertha is asleep upstairs" _reproduced by courtesy of "the youth's companion" from drawings by b. j. rosenmeyer_ emmeline chapter i the sound of bugles for an hour at least emmeline lay quietly curled up on the rear seat of the willing surrey. this vehicle was very old and low and broad; it had been built in the days when people made long journeys in carriages and liked to have them comfortable. at present the surrey was not in motion, but in repose in the willing wagon shed. tranquillity was not characteristic of emmeline. she was by nature a jumping jack. although she was fifteen years old and very desirous of appearing much older, she had put few of the ways of childhood behind her. this june day was hot, and emmeline had been active since early morning. she had risen at six o'clock, eaten her breakfast, fed the chickens, washed the dishes, and picked the last of the red raspberries; then, while she sat by sister bertha's bed, she had raveled enough lint to fill a pint measure. after taking sister bertha her tray, she had gone downstairs to eat her own dinner hungrily. while she waited on sister bertha, or when she heard the neighbors talk about sister bertha, emmeline's face was a blank mask. of her sister--or, rather, her sister-in-law--emmeline was deeply ashamed. sister bertha was, alas! a rebel. she had come from the south before the war had broken out to teach school in a village near gettysburg; there young henry willing had seen her and had loved her, and nearly a year ago had married her. it was an act not hard to understand after you had seen bertha. but it was war time, and between the two, in the opinion of emmeline, there should have been undying hatred instead of love. henry had already enlisted, and had gone away in his beautiful blue uniform to join his regiment. he cherished the comfortable conviction that his mother's home was still his, and thither he had brought his bride. to emmeline the act was subversive of all order; it was contrary to the traditions of the world. henry was, moreover, hers; he did not belong to this pale, dark-eyed creature to whom she had to carry trays. to emmeline's mother, henry's marriage had brought great care. soon after bertha had come to the old home she had been taken ill with a slow fever, and had lain for weeks helpless in her bed. after a while she had got better, and had been able to walk to the window and to look out across the green fields toward the south, where two small hills lifted rounded heads above the undulating fields. "one is called big round top and one little round top," emmeline had explained in a rare moment of confidence. "there are queer rocks on big round top. one is shaped like george washington's head, hat and all, and there are two tremendous elephants, and there is devil's den. i climbed through devil's den once when we went for a picnic. when we go to grandfather's you can see it. at grandfather's there is a new calf, and there is willoughby run, where i go fishing. i--" at that point, emmeline, reminding herself that she was holding commerce with an enemy of her country, had stopped. emmeline's mother bore cheerfully the addition to her family. bertha was henry's--that was reason enough; she was helpless, and she was, besides, a very lovable person. mrs willing had begun bravely to make quilts for henry's setting up in housekeeping, and even poor bertha had tried to lift a needle in her slim, white fingers. bertha could pick lint, but she did not succeed in sewing. now for two weeks she had lain once more quiet and pale in her bed. her improvement had been inspired by henry's letters; at the coming of one she had sat up; at the coming of the second she had walked to the window. suddenly, alas! letters had ceased to arrive, and poor bertha rose no more. the neighbors--mrs. schmidt across the street, mrs. bannon next door--were certain that bertha could rise if she would. mrs. schmidt undertook to condole with mrs. willing upon the difficulties of her situation. in that mrs. schmidt was unwise. mrs. schmidt's husband was a sutler in the army; and she had a great fear of his enemies. "ach, i pity you!" she cried in her german way. "she is strange to you and a rebel to it yet!" mrs. willing's eyes flashed. she was a stout, able person with a great deal of common sense. "she is my daughter-in-law, mrs. schmidt," she answered sharply. mrs. schmidt said no more to mrs. willing, but to mrs. bannon and to emmeline she continued to express her pity for mrs. willing. emmeline made no consenting answer, but her heart was meanly pleased. now, lying in the old carriage, emmeline dreamed. she had a favorite vision, in which she saw herself an army nurse, bringing comfort to hundreds of wounded union soldiers. at the end of a long career she became engaged to a young union general. of course she realized that there was little chance of such dreams coming true. the war could hardly last until she was old enough to be engaged, or wise enough to be a nurse. indeed, as a practical nurse, she had already failed. long and irksome were the hours she spent by sister bertha's bed--that fact was plain even to the poor invalid herself. it is impossible to tell to what length emmeline's dreaming might not have gone this hot, sleepy afternoon. but emmeline heard, or thought she heard, a sound, and to her, dreaming was far less interesting than doing. she sprang up, tossed back the long braids of her hair, and climbed down out of the carriage. here she shook herself thoroughly awake, and thus prepared for active life, ran out into the hot sunshine. standing still in the garden, emmeline cocked her head. she had been certain that she heard shouting. gettysburg, which was near the border, had often prepared itself for the arrival of the enemy, but now almost all the inhabitants except emmeline had relinquished that fear. emmeline still expected a battle. she went out by the side of the house and looked up and down the street, which lay bare and hot and quiet. she could hear her mother's voice as she talked in a low tone to bertha; across the street the schmidt baby whimpered. emmeline, who loved babies, often took charge of the schmidt baby. emmeline listened for a long minute, but heard nothing more. she shook one braid to the front of her shoulder, braided it tighter, and shook it back; then she examined the other, which proved to be still securely fastened. emmeline had long, thick hair and sparkling eyes. her dress of blue and white striped calico was made with a skirt as full as a ruffle; her active legs were clothed in pantalets to match her dress; her arms and neck were bare, according to the fashion of ' . having smoothed down her dress, emmeline sauntered across the street, and went to the kitchen door of the schmidt house. she realized uneasily that bertha was crying and that her mother was trying to comfort her. "i'll take the baby down the street, mrs. schmidt," emmeline offered. "i have to go to the store." "thanks to you," answered mrs. schmidt, whose dinner dishes were still on the table. "with these six, indeed, i don't know what to do, emmy." emmeline took the baby with the condescending air of perfect capability to perfect incapability. she would never, she said to herself, suffer her house or her children to get into the condition in which mrs. schmidt's house and children were. when she had washed the baby's face and smoothed his hair, he stopped crying at once, and with a beaming smile settled himself into his little cart. then, with "get ups!" and with prancings, emmeline took him through the gate and down the quiet street. at the corner she stopped to look up the hill toward the seminary building and out toward the college. now that the boys had formed a company and had gone to war, the town and emmeline were denied even the excitement of their presence. emmeline traveled more and more slowly. the air was hot and heavy. she had seen nothing that day of her bosom friend, eliza batterson; perhaps if she waited, eliza might appear. her other boon companion, jessie mullin, had long since been sent away from gettysburg to visit friends in the country to the north, so much did her parents fear an invasion. emmeline prayed that no such ignominious experience would be hers. presently old black tom, who sold peanuts on the streets of gettysburg, stopped to inquire about henry; and then mrs. peter, the ever-curious, asked about bertha. to black tom, emmeline gave gracious response; to mrs. peter, emmeline returned an answer so short and sharp as to be impertinent. mrs. bannon and mrs. schmidt were neighbors, and had a right to discuss bertha; mrs. peter had none. when mrs. peter had gone, emmeline remembered uneasily that bertha had been crying, and that there was constantly a strained, anxious look in her mother's eyes. but henry would come back; there would probably be a letter from him in the evening mail. not for an instant would emmeline admit to her mind the possibility of anything else. presently emmeline yawned. she could hear now unmistakably the sound of voices, but it was only the laughter of the pupils of the young ladies' academy. next year emmeline would enter the academy; there was at present, however, between her and those young ladies a gulf as wide as the atlantic. she nodded to them, and then took the handle of the baby cart and proceeded on her way to the village store. but emmeline did not reach the village store, neither then nor for a long time thereafter. she heard a new sound, and looked up. men and women were running past her; the courthouse bell gave a single startling peal; she heard the clatter of galloping hoofs. "what's the matter?" cried emmeline to a passer-by. "what in the world is the matter?" "the rebels are coming! you can see them from the corner!" "i don't believe it!" cried emmeline, with a throbbing heart. emmeline thought of the schmidt baby. he was heavy, and could not be dragged, cart and all, through crowds; he would be an annoying encumbrance to a girl who liked to be in the forefront of everything. it was certainly not true that the rebels were coming; but something was coming, and emmeline wished to be at hand to see. if she hurried up this alley and down that back street, she could reach her own yard and then the front street. she could leave the schmidt baby, fast asleep by now, on the side porch of her house, or could thrust him, cart and all, into the kitchen. planning as she ran, emmeline hurried down the alley and the back street, and at last reached her own garden. leaving the baby in the kitchen, she came through the side yard to the gate. there she halted, with quaking knees. it was not the rebels that had come, but some strange, tanned, half-clad creatures; they marched in good order, and looked steadily from their hollow eyes at astonished gettysburg, which crowded, half fearful, at corners, and hung, curious, from windows. many of the soldiers were barefooted; others wore shoes from which the soles had fallen; some had tied the soles to their shoes with strips of soiled and blackened rags. emmeline stared with open mouth. half in fun and half in earnest, the strangers began to jeer at their amazed and paralyzed audience:-- "we're not a parade, yankees!" "we've come to eat you up!" one of them caught sight of emmeline, with her ruffled dress, staring eyes, and open mouth. "hello, sissy!" he called. "look out that when you close your mouth you don't bite your tongue off!" emmeline did not realize the full measure of the insult, for as he spoke, she had caught sight of a flag that hitherto she had beheld only in pictures--a flag that she scorned and despised. she mounted at once to a higher bar on her mother's gate. "'oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light,'" sang emmeline. "'what so--'" suddenly she felt some one seize her. she struggled, and cried, "let me go! let me go, i tell you!" then she realized that the hand on her shoulder was a familiar one. "emmeline," commanded her mother, "be still!" "he insulted me! he's a rebel!" "emmeline," commanded mrs. willing again, "be still!" then from her mother's lips came an incredible order: "go and fill the water pail, and bring it here with a dipper." "mother!" gasped emmeline. "are we going to give them water?" "go, emmeline!" "they are the enemies of my country!" "go!" said emmeline's mother. when mrs. willing spoke in that tone, even henry, who was a man, moved swiftly. emmeline looked up into her mother's face, but her mother was not looking down at her. her eyes were turned toward the street, toward that apparently unending line of weariness and raggedness and burning eyes. she saw only the men's hunger, their thirst, their need. when emmeline returned, her mother told her to put the pail under the tree at the edge of the pavement; as she stood there waiting, with her mother's hand on her shoulder, her eyes flamed and her heart fumed. but no soldier stopped to drink. "go offer them water, emmeline." "mother!" protested emmeline again. emmeline went and filled the dipper and stood holding it out; but no soldier left the line, although the lips of many were almost black. some looked in emmeline's direction, some passed grimly without a glance. "they will not drink it, mother!" cried emmeline. "you don't end our lives that way, sissy!" jeered a passing voice. emmeline dropped the dipper and fled back to her mother's side. her mother had covered her face with her hands and stood shivering. emmeline, watching her, was for the moment awed. for the first time something of the heavy horror of war penetrated her young heart. "we are not really going to have a battle, mother!" mrs. willing shook her head. "they have come for money and supplies." "will they get them?" "not here, dear. we haven't them." "where will they get them?" "at york, perhaps," her mother replied. "may i go down to the square now, mother?" with the passing of the soldiers, the feeling of horror had passed also. emmeline felt secure here in her own quiet village. "why, no, of course not!" in mrs. willing's eyes was still that anxious, strained expression. "where is your baby? take him to his mother and come right back." with a heavy heart emmeline went to obey. she said to herself that she never could see anything; she remembered all the pleasures that had been denied her in her short life,--the political meetings and funerals she had been forbidden to attend, the parties for which she was thought too youthful,--and she felt sadly aggrieved. there was nothing to do in this dreary town. even picnics had ceased, and home itself, devoted to the care of sister bertha, was home no more. the afternoon passed, and emmeline was sadly aware of the stir down the street. presently, after burning a few cars on a siding, the troops went on their way. saturday brought no excitement to brighten emmeline's dull lot. on sunday, when a body of union soldiers rode through the town, emmeline was, alas! in church. once or twice troopers galloped through the streets, and people whispered that soldiers were riding about the fields with maps. gettysburg was once more alert and frightened. on tuesday, emmeline, sitting by the bedside of bertha with her patchwork in her hands, heard a thrilling sound--a bugle blast. forgetting bertha, and dropping her patchwork and workbasket, she flew to the window and stood entranced. fate was again directing affairs in emmeline's way. a great body of soldiers was coming down the street. they were all mounted soldiers--dusty, tanned, and weather-beaten, but well clad and well fed. above them floated a banner that emmeline knew,--stripes of crimson and of white, with white stars on a blue ground, like the stars of heaven,--emmeline's flag, henry's flag. for almost a minute emmeline held herself in check; then a black-slippered foot went over the window sill, and a blue-and-white-pantaletted leg followed. sitting on the sill, she raised her voice in song. "'glory, glory, hallelujah!'" sang emmeline, beginning with the chorus. "'glory, glory, hallelujah!'" this time no one grasped emmeline; there was no one near enough to grasp her. the soldiers cheered her, and waved to her, and saluted her. with her red cheeks, and her long braids, and her ruffled dress, she was a quaint and lovely figure. after a long time her mother called to her, and she clambered back into the room. the troops had passed, but huzzas still filled the air. out through the town the soldiers went, and camped on seminary ridge. to her keen disappointment emmeline was not permitted to visit the camp, but from her room that night she could see the camp-fires glitter. it seemed to her that her heart would burst with excitement. what would she see to-morrow? a battle? but such good fortune could not last. when emmeline opened her eyes the next morning, she found her mother by her bed. mrs. willing looked as if she had not slept. "get up, emmeline," said she. to emmeline's dismay, she saw a little satchel in her mother's hand. emmeline's mind was quick. "you are not--you are not going to send me _away_, mother!" "you are to go out to grandfather's for a little visit." "o _mother_!" wailed emmeline. "yes, emmeline. get up and dress. mrs. schmidt is going to her brother's, and you are to ride with her." mrs. willing was firm. "is there to be a battle?" "we do not know." mrs. willing turned away. "o mother!" wailed emmeline a second time. but no "o mother!" availed. slowly, with a bitter heart, poor emmeline gloomily but obediently put on her striped dress. chapter ii emmeline and the schmidts take a journey mrs. schmidt's brother lived on a lane that branched from the emmitsburg road, a mile beyond the road that led to the farm of grandfather willing. if emmeline had not had to travel in mrs. schmidt's company, she would have been spared some of the ignominy of her departure. not only was she going away from all excitement, all possibility of distinguishing herself, but she was journeying in mrs. schmidt's outrageous cart. she was accustomed to associate with the schmidts, not as an equal, but as a superior. while she was dressing, she could see lame mr. bannon and mrs. schmidt putting the schmidts' ancient horse between the shafts of the springless wagon. into that wagon they had thrust already a feather bed, numerous chairs, a few of the six young schmidts, and a quacking duck in a coop. wildly mrs. schmidt flew about, frantically she commanded. "get the boondles, mary! sally, get the tarpet sack!" thus did mrs. schmidt's tongue trip in its haste. "hurry yourself, peter!" emmeline wept as she braided her hair. "o mother!" she wailed again. but her mother was not at hand to hear. with swift steps mrs. willing went about the house, now waiting on bertha, now packing a luncheon for emmeline. in the lower hall emmeline burst once more into tears. across the street the pyramid on the schmidt wagon was growing higher and higher. mrs. schmidt evidently expected the utter destruction of gettysburg. several soldiers had come to her aid. they helped to stow her goods on the wagon; they teased her with all sorts of predictions, to which she could reply only with a feeble "ach!" "if the rebs get you, they'll eat you, lady!" "ach!" cried mrs. schmidt. "yes, sir! now, johnny, give me your hand and climb up here. whoa, there!" the soldier leaped frantically to the drooping and motionless head of whitey. "ach!" cried mrs. schmidt. "i am a poor, poor woman!" "some of the rebs are looking for sweethearts, missis." to that mrs. schmidt was not even able to say "ach." she tried to explain that she was married, that she considered such a remark insulting; but before she could make her meaning plain, the soldiers had hoisted her aboard and had put the reins into her hands. then a bright light flashed in the eyes of mrs. schmidt. "ach, emmy, you are going with!" to her mother emmeline cast one more piteous glance. "o mother," begged emmeline earnestly, "do not make me go!" mrs. willing turned from the soldier with whom she had been talking and looked down upon emmeline. it was evident that her glance rested upon the most precious creature in the world. her tears had fallen into the satchel that she had packed for emmeline. it was with an anxious heart that she was sending her away. the soldier had answered her questions kindly, and had advised her to get the sick person away also; but it was impossible to get bertha away. then, said the soldier, she should be moved to the cellar as soon as the shooting began. mrs. willing, in a voice too low for emmeline to hear, said something to the soldier, to which he answered, "god help her, lady!" emmeline's mother was not able to suppress a groan. "o mother," said emmeline again, "do let me stay here!" for answer, emmeline's mother led her across the street and helped her to climb into the wagon. "i am in great trouble, emmeline," said she earnestly, "and this is the way you can help me. go and take care of mrs. schmidt and the baby. grandfather will bring you back as soon as it is safe. pray for us all, emmeline." awed by her mother's expression, emmeline tried to gulp down her tears. as the wagon gave a preparatory jerk before getting under way, she lifted the schmidt baby from mrs. schmidt's knee to her own, and was rewarded by a little brightening of her mother's face. mrs. schmidt chirruped to her horse, and they were finally off. few persons except the soldiers noticed them, for each house along the street had its own anxiety. other horses were being harnessed, other families stood about in fright. once a group of soldiers rode toward emmeline and her friends. their warlike appearance terrified mrs. schmidt. [illustration: "i am in great trouble, emmeline"] "now we will be killed at last!" she cried. "we will be nothing of the kind," answered emmeline. "please try to drive straight, mrs. schmidt." as the soldiers passed, they advised mrs. schmidt in a friendly way to tie her children in, at which mrs. schmidt at once began to crane her neck backward to count her offspring. the soldiers seemed as gay as if they were on a journey of pleasure. riding from house to house, they rapped on the doors with their swords; their petted horses sometimes put their noses in at the windows. the soldiers ordered people to stay in their cellars. if only emmeline could stay in a cellar--an adventure in itself unspeakably delightful. "ach, emmy," cried mrs. schmidt, "will we ever get to your gran'pop and my brother?" "i hope not," answered emmeline, at which cryptic remark mrs. schmidt sank into silent gloom. just before they reached the evergreen cemetery, with its tall pine trees, mrs. schmidt turned old whitey aside, and drove into a country road that ran between pleasant fields. some were cultivated, and others were carpeted with daisies; on all the fences wild roses bloomed. it was now eight o'clock, and the july sun shone hotter and hotter. mrs. schmidt panted, and grew red in the face, and tried to fan herself with her old sunbonnet. at any other time emmeline would have enjoyed the excursion. before her, but still several miles away, the two round tops rose against the hazy horizon. the emmitsburg road which they traveled lay between two long ridges of varying height, named cemetery ridge and seminary ridge. presently they would turn to the west, and cross seminary ridge. beyond it, about half a mile, lay emmeline's grandfather's farm, where she was always welcomed with great joy, and where there was good fishing, and a little calf, and a litter of new kittens, and the companionship of a venturesome girl, ellen watson by name, from the next farm. but emmeline did not want to go to round top, and she did not care to see the kittens and the calf; she wanted to stay in gettysburg. eliza batterson would stay, and would have a hundred boastful things to tell her. it was bitterly disappointing to be sent away. if bertha had not been there to be taken care of she might have stayed. she agreed with mrs. bannon that bertha could rise if she would. the little schmidts made no sound on the journey. terrified by their mother's fright, they huddled in their various uncomfortable positions in the body of the wagon. once emmeline, hearing a gentle whimper, looked round, and saw that a chair had fallen upon betsy, and that she looked out from between the rungs as if from a cage. scrambling back to rescue her, emmeline observed a long line of wagons like their own coming from gettysburg. giving the sleeping carl to his mother, emmeline now took the reins herself, and in the pleasure of managing old whitey forgot that she was an aggrieved and disappointed person. she clucked sharply to him and switched him with the reins. when all methods of hurrying his lagging gait proved futile, she proposed that she and the older children should walk, and thus relieve him for a while of their weight. only mrs. schmidt remained in the cart, with carl in her arms. "we are emigrants," said emmeline, forgetting her disappointment for a moment. "we are emigrants marching o'er the plains. we--" then emmeline stopped, and all the little schmidts stopped, and old whitey lifted his head. "what is that noise over there, say?" asked mrs. schmidt. "listen!" commanded emmeline. "what is that noise?" demanded mrs. schmidt in a louder tone. "listen!" commanded emmeline more sharply. old whitey lifted his head a little higher. away to the north, beyond the seminary building, toward the dim line of blue hills on the horizon, there was a sharp crack! crack! crack! "somebody is gunning," said mrs. schmidt with conviction. "i wonder what they are gunning?" "they are shooting men!" cried emmeline excitedly. "our soldiers are shooting down the rebels! i--" a deeper, heavier sound crashed upon the air and interrupted emmeline's sentence. the first great boom of cannon lengthened into a rumble--long, low, echoing, ominous. whitey shivered and gave a strange snort; with a cry, mrs. schmidt seized the reins in both hands. but whitey would not advance. "get in by me, emmy!" cried mrs. schmidt. "children, get in! emmy, get in!" emmeline helped the numerous little schmidts into the wagon, and then, climbing in after them, took the reins from mrs. schmidt. she assured herself that there was nothing to be afraid of. the shooting, loud as it sounded, was far away. "we will hurry, mrs. schmidt. we will soon be there. get up, whitey! get up, i say!" with strange, jerky motions, whitey started; but whitey's efforts were exerted more in an upward than a forward direction. he pranced, if the word can be used to describe a motion so stiff; he tossed his head, he snorted again. his progress became even slower than before. the heat seemed to grow each moment more intense, but the travelers did not dare to stop in the shade. to the north there now appeared puffs of white smoke and flashes of light. the roar became continuous; before one rolling echo was more than well begun, another hollow boom had started other echoes. mrs. schmidt grew pale and the baby began to cry. emmeline became impatient with the schmidts, impatient with the dancing horse, impatient with the rough road. they had come now to a region which had recently been drenched with heavy rains. the wheels sank deep into the mud. several times the travelers had to dismount while whitey pulled the wagon out of a hole. still the booming grew heavier and the white clouds thicker; but they were far away--far beyond the seminary building. emmeline and her party gazed so intently in the direction of the sound that they neglected to look ahead. at a sudden turn in the road, emmeline gave a cry and pulled at whitey's reins, although whitey had already stopped, paralyzed. the road before them was no longer open; it was filled from fence to fence with marching troops. to emmeline they numbered millions. whitey snorted again; mrs. schmidt and her children almost ceased to breathe. to emmeline it seemed that she and mrs. schmidt and the children and the duck faced the combined armies of the world. the approaching troops made no amused comments, as the soldiers in gettysburg had done. they were marching swiftly; some one shouted to the travelers to get out of the way, and mrs. schmidt tugged first at the right rein and then at the left, thinking that if whitey would not go in one direction, he might in the other. but vainly she tugged, and vainly she adjured her steed with weeping and with strange german exclamations. at last emmeline had to lead him to the roadside. a corps of soldiers marched past, tramping with even, hasty step; caissons rattled by; great cannon rumbled along; huge wagons drawn by mules lumbered through the mud. on and on marched the thousands of men, with eyes fixed before them, as those deeper, wilder eyes of the enemy had been. emmeline shrank behind the broad body of mrs. schmidt. these were emmeline's own soldiers, but they seemed grim and terrible. surely they could whip all the other soldiers in the world! when they were almost past, emmeline thought of henry, and looked after them in dismay. then she realized that, even if henry had been among them, he could not have spoken to her. she suddenly began to long for the shelter of her grandfather's house. when the corps had passed, whitey was with difficulty restored to the road--a horrible road, in which the ruts were now much deeper and the stones more protruding. at a snail's pace he crept. stragglers following the soldiers passed constantly--here a man leading a string of lame horses, there a man in charge of a line of ambulances or a damaged cannon. these stragglers were not so set upon advancing that they did not have a word for mrs. schmidt and her children and her duck. finally, when the sun was almost directly overhead, whitey stopped at the entrance of the byroad on which the elder willings lived. mrs. schmidt must drive on another half mile, and then leave the emmitsburg road in the opposite direction. she wept at parting from emmeline, and the children wept, and emmeline kissed the sleeping baby. the road was now clear; the house of emmeline's grandparents was in sight, half a mile away. carrying her little satchel, emmeline started to run. she was hungry, for she had forgotten to eat the luncheon her mother had put up for her, and she was anxious to tell her grandparents, who always listened to her with close attention, of the condition of affairs in gettysburg. the booming sound had ceased; the battle was certainly over. perhaps this afternoon her grandfather would drive into gettysburg with her. that would be glorious indeed! she opened the gate at the foot of the lane, and then, swinging it shut behind her with a slam, waved her hand toward the porch. her grandmother knew that slam; it always brought her hurrying out to greet her darling. emmeline hastened toward the house. "hello!" she called eagerly. "where are you?" when no one answered, she called a little louder:-- "grandmother!" still there was no response. emmeline stopped in the grassy lane, startled. "grandmother!" she called again. still there was no answer. emmeline approached the door with hesitation. here the dog and the cat usually met her; but now no friendly animals were to be seen. moreover, the shutters were closed and there were no familiar crocks sunning themselves on the fence. "grandmother!" called emmeline again, as she put her hand on the latch. "grandmother, where are you?" the latch did not yield. the door was locked! emmeline shook it, pressed her body against it, and called again. it seemed to her suddenly that everything was mysteriously still, that the woods beyond the house were strangely dark, and that the sky was very far above her. "where are you?" she called. when no answer came, she ran down the slope to the barn. the horse and the old-fashioned buggy were gone. returning to the house, emmeline sat down on the bench beside the door and thought. "they are over at the watsons'," she said aloud, with great relief. "they drove over for something. they will soon be back again." at that moment emmeline remembered her luncheon. when she had eaten the last crumb, she felt better. she rose and started across the fields to the watsons'. but there only deaf grandmother watson was at home. she had seen nothing of emmeline's grandparents, and had evidently heard no unusual sound. emmeline started back across the fields. it seemed to her much later than it was. surely they would have to come back before night! the cows would have to be milked, the chickens fed. probably they would be back by now! then on a rising bit of land, emmeline stood still. the emmitsburg road was again filled with troops. apparently all the armies of the world were once more gathered there; but these were new troops, marching in the same direction as the others had gone. she could distinguish the mounted officers, the box-like caissons, the great cannon, all moving swiftly. across the fields drifted urgent cries. with trembling, emmeline ran on. but the farmhouse was still deserted. again emmeline tried the door. there was a window above the shed into which she could climb, but she was afraid to enter alone. again she heard the booming of cannon. it grew heavier, more ominous. perhaps her grandparents had gone to the hollingers', to the south. she could reach the hollingers' by a circuitous route through the fields. again she set forth. she was now too tired to walk rapidly, and her journey consumed almost an hour. but the hollinger house was also deserted. too frightened to cry, emmeline started back once more to her grandfather's farm. she was footsore and exhausted by the heat; she gasped with weariness. the heavy roaring sound of the cannon filled the air and deafened her. she remembered those fixed, staring eyes of the soldiers who had marched by. suddenly fear of the enemy oppressed her. she remembered stories she had heard about the cruelty in prisons, about the burning of houses, the torturing of women and children. she thought with aching heart of her mother and her home. how patiently she would sit by bertha's bed, how obedient she would be! again she started to run. if the cows were at home in the stable or the pasture, then her grandparents must surely return. but emmeline remembered that she had seen nothing of the cows either in the stable or in the pasture! down near the woodland the chickens had been busily scratching, but there had been no other sound or sign of animal life on the place. perhaps the cows were down near willoughby run. in this great heat they would naturally have sought the shade and the cooling waters of the stream. they must surely be there! the path lay partly in the thick woodland above the farmhouse. coming out of it, with the farmhouse and garden immediately before her, emmeline gave a cry of joy. the house was no longer deserted; there was a man on the porch; there was some one opening the doors of the barn. "grandfather!" called emmeline. "where have you been?" then emmeline stood still. so did the man on the porch. so did other men down by the lane, by the gate, in the road. they were strangers, and there were scores of them, multitudes of them. they were soldiers in worn uniforms. of soldiers, as soldiers, emmeline was not afraid; but the color of these soldiers' uniforms was gray! chapter iii emmeline meets the enemies of her country it seemed to emmeline, as she stood at the outlet of the wood road, that an hour passed before any one spoke or moved. she herself was too much confused to speak. how had these men come up so quietly? porch and dooryard and fields were thronged. the ridge that cut off gettysburg from her view, the road down which she had run after she had left mrs. schmidt,--they, too, were filled with men, and horses, caissons, cannon, and huge wagons. and the soldiers were clad, not in friendly blue, but in hateful gray. only in emmeline's immediate neighborhood was silence. beyond, men were shouting, horses were neighing, and wheels were creaking. yonder, a body of troops advanced to the music of a fife; here a bugler was playing. men were laying fires with little piles of sticks; men were going to willoughby run for water; men were leading horses down to drink. the throng seemed to be thickening every moment. one man, tall and lean and brown, lifted his hand from the latch of grandfather willing's door and came to the edge of the porch. he had only one arm; under his coat were the bandages that still bound a recent wound. he had quiet gray eyes, which smiled at emmeline. he and his friends could have been to emmeline no more startling an apparition than she was to them. the dust of travel had soiled somewhat her blue-and-white dress and her white stockings, but she seemed to the soldiers immaculate and fairy-like. some exclaimed sharply; into the eyes of others came a sudden smarting and burning. in their minds they saw far away other little girls with dark braids and ruffled dresses. but emmeline did not see their tears; these were her enemies. the tall man with the kindly face crossed the dooryard and approached emmeline. "well, sissy," he drawled, "and who may you be?" a variety of emotions almost suffocated emmeline. uppermost was hatred of that particular form of address. "i am emmeline willing," said she, with dignity. men left their piles of sticks and crowded to the fence; others, who were going on errands, made a détour in order to come a little nearer to the group. "and who," drawled the tall man, "who may emmyline willing be?" emmeline saw the thickening crowd and remembered the dull roar that had ceased only a little while ago. she grew pale, but she answered bravely:-- "i am the granddaughter of the owner of this place." "so-o-o! and where may the owner of this place be?" "he has gone away." emmeline's courage was failing. she felt the cooler air of evening and saw the shadows lengthening as the sun sank behind the woodland. "my grandfather would not wish you to be here. you ought to go away." "now, sissy," drawled the tall man, in a distressed voice, "don't cry!" "i am not crying," protested emmeline, in spite of good evidence to the contrary. "i want you to go away!" "well, sissy,"--the tall man seemed actually to be considering emmeline's command,--"we couldn't very well do that." "you will have to!" cried emmeline. "our soldiers are here by the million! they will make you go!" the tall man made no answer to emmeline's assertion. "you come here to the porch, sissy. nobody's going to hurt a leetle gal." "i am going home," announced emmeline. "i am going home to my mother. the battle is over." in spite of her brave words, emmeline moved a little nearer to the porch. "isn't the battle over?" she said. "not exactly," said the tall soldier. as he mounted the porch, the others moved away. busy men could not stand forever looking at a little girl in a striped dress. the tall soldier laid his hand on the latch. "sissy, do you know any way to get this door open short of breaking it in?" "you can't get in!" cried emmeline. "it isn't your house! you--" "look here," interrupted a rough voice, "get this door open! stop your crying and keep out of the way!" the new comer set his shoulder against the door. the old latch held for an instant, and then, as the soldier gave another sharper thrust, the hasp tore from the wood. emmeline grew still paler. from the porch she could see farther over the country; on hills and fields men were still marching, horses were still being led or driven, cannon and caissons were rumbling along. the soldier who had burst open the door was now in grandmother willing's kitchen. he threw wide the shutters, and rattled the lids of the stove, and opened the doors of the cupboard. once more little emmeline protested furiously:-- "you can't touch those things!" the soldier lifted a handful of kindling from the box by the stove, and heaping it into the fire box, lighted it. "can you bake?" he demanded rudely. emmeline did not answer. could she bake? she had been taught here in this very kitchen, she had mixed her dough in that very bowl on the table, and had set her rising in that old-fashioned bread trough in the pantry. would she bake? never while breath was in her body! men were now crowding in at the door; an army wagon had stopped at the gate, and rough soldiers were bringing in great coffee-pots and cans. one of them brought grandmother willing's hens and roosters, headless, plucked, ready for the pot. emmeline backed farther and farther into the corner, speechless and tearful. "if i were you, i'd go upstairs, sissy," the tall man said. "set at the window and look out. there'll be a lot going on that you can see." blindly emmeline turned to obey. crying bitterly, she climbed to her own little room, and there sat down on a chair by the window. where were those thousands of blue-coated soldiers? why did they permit this great army to camp on these hills, to occupy her grandfather's house, and his fields, and the other fields round about? the enemy were now chopping down trees and tearing down fences; they had already ruined her grandfather's wheat and killed her grandmother's chickens. why did not the blue-coated soldiers come and drive them away? at the sound of galloping hoofs, emmeline looked out of the window. she saw that a man on horseback had stopped at the gate and was talking with the tall soldier. his voice rose exultantly:-- "we drove 'em like sheep through the town! we have thousands of prisoners! to-morrow we'll settle them!" "there's a leetle gal here," the tall soldier answered in his slow way. "she came to see her gran'paw, but he had gone. she lives in gettysburg." "she'll be safer here than in gettysburg. tell her to stay indoors. there'll be hotter work to-morrow." "so they say!" drawled the tall soldier. presently the aroma of chickens boiling in the pot began to spread through the house. it seemed to spread to an amazing distance, for from all directions men came crowding into grandmother willing's kitchen. the surly cook swore at them and at the stove, whereupon a drawling voice reminded him that there was "a leetle gal" within hearing. the cook's tones sank to a rumble. but emmeline paid no heed to the loud voices of the hungry men; she did not even smell the delicious odor of the cooking chickens. she heard only those dreadful, exultant words from the lips of the mounted soldier:-- "'we drove 'em like sheep through the town! we have thousands of prisoners! to-morrow we'll settle them!'" so that was why no northern troops had come to her rescue and the rescue of her grandfather's house! emmeline ceased to cry; alarm and terror dried her tears. she thought of her mother and of bertha. she recalled the deep earnestness of her mother's eyes. had there been fighting in quiet, peaceful gettysburg? emmeline had picked lint for padding, had wound muslin strips for bandaging, and had seen gettysburg soldiers who had returned with a leg or an arm missing; but of actual battle emmeline had no clear idea. she had thought of bugle blasts, of banners flying, of loud, inspiring commands; beyond that her imagination had failed. now for the first time it became clear to her that actual danger of death threatened those whom she loved. where was her mother? had bertha been taken into the cellar as the soldier advised? vague recollections of the details of bertha's illness came to her, scraps of conversation between her mother and bertha that she had heard as she passed the door of the sick room. a vague, half-formed suspicion flashed into her mind. at this moment emmeline began suddenly to grow up. but the first speech of her adult life was childish. "i must go home!" she cried, as she sprang from her chair. she ran down the steps and out to the porch. dankness had come; soldiers lay about on the grass, and the murmur of their voices spread in all directions. the moon was rising; in its first oblique rays all things looked queer and distorted. there were many sounds: the click of pickaxes against stones, the crash of trees that were being felled, the hoarse shouts of officers giving orders. emmeline rushed to the side of the tall soldier, who was sitting on the steps. "i must go home!" she declared again. "i _must_ go home!" "now you're just frightened," the tall soldier said. "there ain't no reason for you to be skeered. no harm'll come to you. we ain't wild beasts, sissy." "i must see my mother!" "you'll see her soon, sissy." "my sister-in-law is sick and my brother is away." emmeline forgot for an instant that this was an enemy of her country. "we haven't heard from him for weeks. he's in the reserves; he--" remembering the character of her audience, emmeline paused. then she added, "i _must_ go home!" the tall soldier changed the subject. "i've got a leetle gal like you; bessie is her name--bessie christy. i haven't seen her for two years." "why not?" asked emmeline, curious in spite of herself. "on account of war. now, emmyline, 'tisn't every leetle gal can watch the sappers at work before a battle. they're the folks that build the breastworks. look at them up there! you might see great things if you watched, 'stead of crying. you might see general lee ride by." "i hate him!" "now, sissy!" "i hate you all!" private christy looked at emmeline for a moment with a smile on his lips. "i'll explain the army to you, emmyline," said he. "it's a wonderful thing, an army. if you begin at the top, there's the commander-in-chief, and next below him--" private christy went on and on in his pleasant, drawling voice. the duty of a private was this, he explained, the duty of a sutler was that. presently emmeline asked him what he did. her voice was no longer sharp; it was soft and drowsy and gentle. after a long time, when private christy said, "i have my work, too, emmyline," without saying what that work was, emmeline did not hear. feeling a light touch on his arm, private christy looked down and beheld emmeline's head resting upon it. "well, i vum!" said he softly. for a long time private christy sat still; presently slow tears rolled down his tanned cheeks. he called to one of the men:-- "say, you, mallon!" the soldier approached. "well, i'll be switched!" he said. "you take her upstairs, mallon." it may have been that mallon, too, had a "leetle gal" at home; at any rate, he seemed to know how to lift a sleeping person of emmeline's size. "the pore leetle gal!" said one-armed christy, as he led the way. "i'm sick of this war!" answered private mallon soberly. through the hot kitchen, where the cook had ceased his work, up the narrow stairs, they carried emmeline to her room, and there, without waking her, laid her gently upon her bed. "couldn't she be got out of this?" asked private mallon. private christy shook his head. "not nohow," said he. private mallon returned to his sleep on the grass, private christy to his seat on the porch steps. far away to the west there was a sudden, indefinable suggestion of a great body of men marching. private christy heard it and shook his head; private mallon nudged his neighbor. "more coming," he said, and turned on his side. all about on the daisies of the field lay the great carpet of sleeping men. everyone got some sleep that night. those who dug pits in which to lie half hidden on the morrow, or who threw up semi-circular walls of earth or timber to shelter the great cannon, gave pick and shovel after a while to others, roused from sleep, and threw themselves down near where they had been working. later in the night private christy lay down on the porch floor and slept heavily and comfortably. meanwhile to the rear of the great army pressed on another great army, which, being assigned its place, lay down also. the time between sunset and sunrise in early july is short enough even for those who are not exhausted by long marches. on the ridge, officers riding back and forth in the bright moonlight marked positions and looked speculatively across at that other parallel ridge, which takes its name from the evergreen cemetery near one end. far to the north, where the heavy cannonading had been, ambulances traveled the fields, guided by a whimper or a groan of pain. the greatest general of all, whom private christy had promised emmeline she might see, rode about on his white horse studying the victory won, planning fresh victory for to-morrow. thus, rapidly enough, the night waned. when the sun rose on july , the thousands of soldiers in gray stirred and woke. in the willing kitchen the surly cook began to bake his miserable biscuit; on the porch private christy rose and yawned, and persuaded the cook to give him place on the stove for his coffee-pot. all about in the fields and woods the thousands rose and prepared their simple breakfast. emmeline slept and slept. five o'clock yesterday had found her awake and dressed; but to-day five o'clock passed, then six, then seven, then eight. along the lines of battle all was peace; it was almost as quiet as on any other summer morning. cannon were moved without noise under cover of the woodland, as if each great army wished to hide from the other. emmeline, waking, lay still and stretched out her arms. where was she? why was she still dressed? how had she got to bed? she sat up and looked out of the window. then it was not a dream, after all! round her were still the thousands of confederate soldiers; below her on the porch she heard private christy's voice. "'bout time to begin, ain't it?" he queried. a voice answered that it had been time long ago. emmeline saw the sun high in the sky; she smoothed her dress and braided her hair, and ran down the steps. there was no battle; it was the middle of the morning, and still there was no battle. surely she could go home! in the kitchen the surly cook gave her one of his soggy biscuits. it was nine o'clock, according to the stubby hands of grandmother willing's clock, which ticked on the mantel-shelf. emmeline's tall friend was on the porch. "good-morning, emmyline!" said he cheerfully. emmeline's war code, which she remembered clearly this morning, did not permit her to say good-morning to the enemy. "there is no battle," she announced. "i want to go home." "oh, but you can't do that!" "i must!" emmeline looked about her. still all was peaceful. "just up that road! i walked almost all the way yesterday." private christy shook his head. "no, emmyline. 'twouldn't do." "you are an enemy of my country!" cried emmeline. "you have no right to keep me! i am going home!" when emmeline reached the gate, private christy called to her. "come back, sissy!" he said. emmeline obeyed, weeping. "aren't you afraid that there biscuit'll p'isen you?" he asked. "seems to me if i was a woman and could bake, i couldn't swallow that biscuit. you wouldn't bake me a real biscuit, i suppose?" "no," answered emmeline with decision, "i wouldn't." "well," drawled the quiet voice, "you don't have to." emmeline, standing with one foot on the step of the porch, considered. she had taken one bite of the biscuit. although she was wretchedly hungry, she could eat no more. "will you let me go if i bake you some?" emmeline asked. "i'll see," answered private christy. the cook had left his stove, and emmeline went to work with the familiar utensils--the yellow bowl, the wooden spoon. when the biscuits were in the oven, she looked up to find the doorway crowded with soldiers; some of them were bandaged like private christy; all of them were thin and deeply tanned. "are you going to give we-all some of them real biscuit?" asked an eager voice. emmeline's face flushed crimson; the position of almsgiver to her enemy was not altogether unhappy. "i'll see," she answered. when one pan was taken from the oven, emmeline had another ready and then another and another. emmeline grew warmer and warmer and her cheeks rosier and rosier. "now," said emmeline, "you can watch that last pan. i am going home." "but i haven't had any!" cried private christy. "nobody here knows anything about watching and turning 'em! oh, please, sissy, bake me a pan!" private christy brought in fresh fuel for the fire. a half-hour passed, another half-hour. "now," said emmeline, "i am going." private christy made no answer. the hungry crowd in the yard had faded away; the very atmosphere seemed charged with suspense. emmeline looked out of the door. was the army still here? the army was still here; but the army was formed, massed. it was like a great animal, alive, awake, crouching for a spring. then emmeline screamed, and whirled round on the step. near at hand--almost, it seemed to her, in the very house itself--the cannon roared. chapter iv the second day of battle at the sound of the cannon shot, private christy, still sitting calmly on the step, looked up. "no call to be--" another roar cut short private christy's speech. emmeline fled into the kitchen, and christy rose and followed her. "no call to be skeered, sissy," he said, speaking loudly into her ear. "the shooting ain't _here_." emmeline covered her ears with her hands. another fearful detonation shook the old farmhouse to its foundations. the windows trembled in their frames, the floor seemed to rock. emmeline sank into a chair by the kitchen table, hid her face in her arms, and screamed hysterically. "sissy," cried private christy, "stop it! don't ye dare to cry like that!" private christy's face was drawn. "it's an awful thing to have to hear a woman cry like that! listen to me! the shooting ain't this way; it's that way. them guns is half a mile off and pointing the other way. noise can't hurt ye, don't ye know that? you've got to get used to it, for it's going to last some time. do you hear me?" private christy bent his head until it was near emmeline's. "you're the only one among all these thousands that's safe, sissy. now stop it!" emmeline checked her sobs. "i can't stand it!" she cried. "but you've got to stand it. now dry your tears. you can sit here, or you can go down cellar, or up attic under the eaves, or you can come out on the porch and sit with me. it ain't everyone can watch troops going into battle. i wish _i_ could hold a gun again!" he added, with longing in his voice. thus admonished and encouraged, emmeline rose slowly and dried her tears. private christy put his hand on her shoulder, and they returned to the porch. there was little confusion to be seen. the long morning's work had put all in readiness for the engagement. round the farmhouse regiments waited in line. other troops had moved from their posts farther to the south, across the ridge, and down into the valley between the ridge and the two round tops. in that direction, and hidden from the farmhouse, were the cannon from which issued the thunderous roar. now the sharp crack of musketry and confused shouts and yells accompanied the deep boom of the cannon. clouds of white smoke, growing thicker every moment, rose from the valley. near the farmhouse, regiments waited motionless beneath their banners. officers were already in the saddle; men stood at attention. it was as if the great commotion were no concern of theirs. but suddenly a quiver passed through them. swords flashed in the air, commands were shouted, bugles blew; to the music of fife and drum the troops mounted the slope toward the ridge. "there they go!" cried private christy. "that's my company, and they're goin' without me!" the troops topped the ridge and vanished under the white, thick blanket of smoke. as if fresh fuel had been added to a great flame, the smoke thickened, the cannonading grew heavier, the crack! crack! of musketry more incessant. emmeline stood with her arms clasped round the pillar of the porch. with each great detonation she grasped the pillar more tightly, as if she feared that the waves of sound might wash her away. sometimes she closed her eyes and drew in deep breaths of air. between her gasps of fright she stared, awed and fascinated. she saw the last troops cross the hill and the smoke clouds thicken. presently she saw black missiles hurtle through the air and bright flashes from beyond the hill divide the low-lying cloud. suddenly she screamed. a dark object, passing over the ridge with a shrill, whistling sound, had plunged into grandfather willing's potato patch. private christy took emmeline by the arm and led her round the corner of the house. "nothing but a stray shot, sissy; but if i was you, i believe i'd stay here. nothing can hurt you through these stone walls." he led her to a seat on the grass close to the west wall of the house. there she sat dazed. sometimes she blinked; sometimes she smoothed absently the wrinkled, soiled fabric of her blue and white dress; otherwise she did not move. she could not think or reason; she could only listen. private christy went back to his seat on the porch. presently he returned and smiled at emmeline, and then went into the house. there in the hot kitchen, working slowly with his single hand, he made a fresh fire, and set upon the stove grandmother willing's washboiler and filled it with water. then he went upstairs and looked round. emmeline vaguely wondered again what his business was as a member of the army. thus far he had done nothing. still emmeline sat on the grassy bank by the house. before her was the sloping field leading to willoughby run. down that field she had often raced. under the trees by the side of the stream horses were tethered, and near by were hundreds of wagons. the sun was getting low. emmeline rose stiffly. it seemed to her that the roar of cannon had grown a little less thunderous. she would go round the house and out to private christy. private christy, although an enemy, was comforting. as night drew near, her longing for home grew keener, but she had begun to realize that she could not return now. emmeline did not find private christy on the porch; he was apparently running away from her. she saw his long legs carrying him up the slope; presently he broke into a run. he was not going into the battle; he was meeting those who were returning. that is, he was meeting a few--those who, although wounded, could still drag themselves along. they had left behind them thousands of their comrades, who could not join even such a halting, pitiful procession as theirs. hundreds who had started with the procession had fallen by the way. in the forefront of the straggling line was private mallon, who had carried emmeline up to bed. his arm hung limp and his hair was clotted with blood; he fell heavily against private christy as they met. again emmeline's arm encircled the porch pillar. in some dim, long-past existence emmeline had dreamed of binding wounds, of smoothing fevered brows, of lifting her voice in song for the comfort of the suffering! now emmeline wished that the earth would open and swallow her. while she stood with her arm clasping the pillar, private christy and private mallon entered the gate. private christy's work was now before him; for this task had he remained with the army, while in georgia his little bessie grew beyond his recollection. "leetle emmyline," he shouted, "you get some warm water in a basin and some old cloths, will you, emmyline?" emmeline grew paler and paler; the first shocking sight of wounds seemed to paralyze her. private mallon, tottering in upon the arm of his comrade, fixed apologetic, tortured eyes upon her. "it ain't no place for a leetle gal!" he muttered. then emmeline took another great step toward womanhood. "i will try," she said, weeping. when she had filled her basin with water, and had gathered the worn fragments of homespun linen that grandmother willing had laid away for emergencies, she took them with trembling hands into the parlor. other wounded, blackened forms had crept in and had lain themselves down on the parlor carpet--the treasured carpet that was the pride of grandmother willing's life. "put wood in the stove, emmyline," commanded private christy cheerfully, "and bring more of these rags. you'll make a fine nurse, emmyline!" as she turned to obey, emmeline glanced out of the door. creeping and crawling, the procession continued to arrive. they came through the gate one by one; they crossed the yard and the porch. a man fell heavily on the steps, and involuntarily emmeline took her enemy by the arm and helped him up. "i'm looking for christy," he said in a dazed voice. private christy and his work were evidently well known. "i am to keep the boiler filled," repeated emmeline, as she went back to the kitchen. "i am to bring warm water and towels and cloths. i am not to cry or scream. i am not to cry or scream!" into the house still came the wounded, into grandmother willing's parlor, and into grandmother willing's sitting-room, and up the stairs into the bedchambers, and out to the kitchen. "keep the kitchen clear!" commanded private christy. "keep the room above clear! nobody in there!" some one answered roughly that the room above was to be filled. private christy's voice did not always drawl; he raised it now so that it could be heard above the slackening crash of musketry:-- "there's a leetle gal in this house, gentlemen. that is her room above the kitchen." "a little girl!" repeated a weary voice somewhere. "i'd like to see a little girl!" moving about deftly, private christy helped this man to lie down and that one to find a more comfortable position. he seemed like a mother getting her brood together for the night; they looked up to him like children who found in him their only hope. "emmyline," he said gently, when she brought him the things for which he had asked, "do you suppose you could help me?" "i could try," said emmeline. private christy passed her the end of one of the long strips of cloth. "there, emmyline, you take that and wind it round and round." with a gasp, emmeline obeyed; together she and private christy bound the wounded arm of private mallon. the sun had vanished behind the woodland and the fleecy clouds above were golden; the cooler air of evening had begun to breathe through the old farmhouse. the sound of firing near by had ceased entirely. the battle was surely over; surely, thought emmeline, these men would go away and gettysburg could have peace. perhaps she could still go home to-night! there were many wagons standing idle down by willoughby run; perhaps one could be spared to take her. if she could only go home and see her mother she would ask for nothing more in the world. perhaps henry had come back. if henry were wounded like these men, her mother could not take care of him and bertha, too. she _must_ go home. then emmeline gave a great cry. deliverance had come! she sprang to the window and began to call to some one outside. private christy, who was on his knees near the window, turned and looked out quickly. "they are union soldiers!" cried emmeline. "we have won! they will take me home! here i am! here i am!" she waved her arms as she called. private christy looked down at the company of blue-coated soldiers. he saw what emmeline did not see: that their progress was directed and hastened by soldiers in gray who carried muskets. "they are prisoners, emmyline." "prisoners!" cried emmeline. "yes, sissy." "didn't we win?" "not exactly, emmyline." "what will they do with them?" "they'll take 'em down to that woods and guard 'em." leaning suddenly out of the window, emmeline began to scream. among the prisoners was a slender soldier to whom she called. "there is my brother! henry, henry, dear, dear henry! here i am, henry, here i am!" "be quiet, sissy!" commanded private christy. emmeline stepped across a soldier on the floor, and then across another. in frantic excitement she sought the door. private christy caught and held her. "where are you going, emmyline?" he asked. "i'm going to my brother." "you don't know if it was your brother. it was too dark to see." "it was my brother! i'm going to find him!" "no, emmyline." "what will they do to him?" "nothing." "i haven't seen him for months and months. he is my only brother. he had a bandage round his head. oh, please, please let me go!" "no," said private christy. "come, emmyline, i need you." emmeline went back to her work, and her tears dropped on the face of the soldier by whom she knelt. "it's too bad, sissy," said he weakly. "i wish i could help you." emmeline gulped back her tears. it was henry; of that she was certain. where had they taken him? was he lying wounded, bleeding, alone? but emmeline had mercifully no time for speculation. she continued to help with the bandaging and to run up and down the stairs. about the house confusion thickened. troops returned, powder-blackened, exhausted, famished. many of the soldiers bound up their own wounds, or let their comrades perform that service for them. from the dark fields rose again the aroma of boiling coffee and frying bacon. the troops in the fields near at hand seemed to have moved closer together, but emmeline did not understand the significance of the maneuver. every few minutes she went to the window and strained her eyes into the dusk. even in the brightening moonlight her gaze could not penetrate into the woodland where the prisoners had vanished. presently, when she turned from the window with a sob, private christy was looking down upon her. "emmyline," said he, in his pleasant drawl, "how about them biscuit?" "i could bake some!" answered emmeline, suddenly realizing that perhaps hunger was one of the causes of her own misery. "biscuits, boys!" cried one pale soldier to another. "she's going to bake biscuits!" feeble cheers answered. "you won't go out of the kitchen, will you, sissy?" "no," emmeline promised, and went wearily down the stairs. the joy with which her first batch of biscuits was received roused her once more. there were many who could not eat, and who called only for water. as the time passed, those cries grew louder and more frequent. presently, lantern in hand, a doctor entered and made his way from patient to patient. his clothes had dark stains upon them, and in the dim light he looked white and worn; he moved quickly from one patient to the next, as if other work awaited him. several quiet forms he turned over, and those were presently taken away. emmeline baked her biscuits and spread them with apple butter from her grandmother's crocks, and carried them from room to room. there were by this time dark stains also on her striped dress. private christy, saying a word here, changing a position there, moved about the house like a great gray ghost. a little later, when private christy found his assistant asleep by the kitchen table, he took her last pans from the oven and sat down opposite her. the night was quiet, and again there came to the ear of the listener the strange, half-defined suggestion of men marching. private christy ate quickly; once he interrupted his feast to go upstairs in answer to a groan. his return woke emmeline, who lifted her head from the table and looked at him sleepily from blinking, dark-rimmed eyes. "we've got 'em all fixed up pretty comfortable," said private christy softly, as if he and emmeline had succeeded in some common task. "now, emmyline, it's time for you to go to bed." "is the battle over?" asked emmeline. "no, sissy." emmeline's mouth quivered. "do men like to fight?" she asked, blinking drowsily. "like to fight?" repeated private christy. "like to fight, emmyline? like layin' up there with arms and legs ruined? like livin' their days without half a body? of course they don't like it!" "will there be more wounds to-morrow?" asked emmeline stupidly. "where there's fighting, there's wounds." "will it last after to-morrow?" "god help us, no!" said private christy. chapter v private christy says farewell on the morning of july , emmeline got up earlier than she had on the morning of july . disturbed by dreams and oppressed by the heat, she had slept restlessly. she had waked once in the night, and had gone to the window to look down upon the woods into which the union prisoners had vanished. there, except for the stamping of restless horses, all was quiet; but beyond, toward the west, there was incessant movement. fresh troops were arriving and were settling down for a few hours of heavy sleep. emmeline could hear private christy making his rounds in the farmhouse. now he was in the kitchen; now he brought fresh water from the pump; now he spoke soothingly to one of his comrades. when emmeline woke again, daylight had come, and the great host was already astir. men laughed; even in this house of pain the soldiers were merry. downstairs private christy had built a fire in the stove; emmeline could hear the crackling flames. stiff and sore, she rose, and, after braiding her long hair and contemplating the stained untidiness of her limp ruffles, she went down the steps. she was very tired; her mouth drooped and her eyelids seemed to have weights upon them. downstairs the wounded soldiers were trying to sit up; some even tried to stand. one man proclaimed his intention of joining his company as soon as he had eaten. almost immediately, as if in answer to his boasting, his knees gave way and he sank to the floor. private christy greeted emmeline cheerfully:-- "here's hot coffee for you. you look a leetle droopy. drink this and you'll feel like a two-year-old." choking back her tears, which seemed to flow without any excuse, emmeline took the cup of coffee and sat down. she lifted the cup to her lips, and then put it back into the saucer. "i hear a noise!" she cried. "they are shooting again!" "that's way off," answered private christy. "that's miles off." "it's near gettysburg!" emmeline now wept outright. "i have so many troubles i can't count them all. my mother is in danger and my brother is a prisoner--i am sure it was my brother! perhaps my home is destroyed!" "oh, no, sissy!" "can i go down to the woods to find my brother?" "i ain't in charge of that woods, emmyline." "will they take him away?" "i don't know." "you don't know anything!" stormed emmeline. private christy's gray eyes twinkled. it was much better to hear emmeline storm than to have to watch her cry. again emmeline made biscuit and spread apple butter and carried her tray about the house; again she brought water and bathed hot faces. there was nothing else for her to do. if she cast a longing glance toward the woodland, private christy was beside her with his "now, emmyline!" in the middle of the morning private christy called her to the door and pointed to the ridge. "can you see up there some mounted officers?" "yes." "do you see the white horse?" "yes." "that's general lee, emmyline." private christy spoke in a solemn tone. "that's something for you to remember all your life." "i'd rather see general meade," said emmeline defiantly. "but you don't mind lookin' at my general," answered private christy good-naturedly. presently there began again another general movement of the troops about grandfather willing's house. they marched forward toward the ridge and passed over it, and disappeared into the valley where yesterday the cannon had roared. now, except for the distant rumble, there was no sound. "where have they gone?" asked emmeline. "over there," private christy replied noncommittally. "what are they doing?" "just waiting. now, emmyline, you get some water for them poor souls upstairs. i have an errand to do." when emmeline was out of sight, private christy went down across the fields to the woodland and looked about. on the far side near the open land were the union prisoners, well guarded. many of them were wounded, and lay about on the ground or sat propped against the trees. in their direction private christy made his way. war brought about strange meetings. it was improbable but not impossible that the little girl's brother was among the prisoners. "goin' to pull out?" he asked a guard. "no orders yet. i think we move with the army." "got a man here by the name of willing?" "i don't know their names." "can i ask?" "no." "well, you find out for me, will you, sam? his leetle sister's up here, and she thought she saw him. i suppose she couldn't come down and talk to him?" "no, she couldn't." until eleven o'clock the distant roar continued; then followed complete silence; but the silence did not rest the ear or ease the heart. the heavy, hot atmosphere was weighted with mystery. emmeline, moving about nervously, asked a hundred questions of private christy. the wounded soldiers dragged themselves to windows; from there they could see nothing except the scattered remnants of the command, the trampled fields, the ridge with its bristling cannon and its barricades. from the troops who had gone over the hill, nothing had been heard; it seemed as if they had been swallowed up. emmeline made biscuit and coffee, and went to the front door and then to the attic window, and looked first toward gettysburg and then toward willoughby run. she grew more and more nervous and excited. "if it is not over, i don't understand why they don't begin! if it is over, i don't see why i cannot go home! i don't see why i have to be kept here! i don't--" two clear, distinct shots ended the mysterious silence. emmeline lifted her head like a startled rabbit. it seemed that no matter how much cannonading she had heard, she could never grow accustomed to the hideous sound. those two clear shots were answered by all the thunders of heaven. from the ridge that emmeline watched sped forth the fiery charge. she saw the puff of white smoke, the blinding flash, heard the great detonation. from the opposite ridge came back an equally furious answer. then thunder and roar and blast filled the world. again, as yesterday, emmeline screamed, and then at once was silent. there was no use in screaming when private christy across the room could not hear her, when, indeed, she could not hear herself! for hours to come emmeline forgot her home, her mother, sister bertha, henry. the terrible sound dulled her senses and paralyzed her mind. standing at the kitchen table, she could look through the hall and out of the front door. there, framed as in a picture, she saw a strange sight. a dark missile descended upon the ridge. that was no chance, stray shot, as yesterday's missile had been; it was well aimed, and it struck its mark--a caisson filled with explosives. at once caisson, horses, men, were lifted into the air. then, a little distance away, another caisson was struck. soon yesterday's sad spectacle was repeated. once more the procession of wounded crept down the slope. from the ridge to the farmhouse, and to all other farmhouses and places of refuge,--and few and scattered they were,--proceeded the wounded. no longer was the willing farmhouse the refuge of those only who were able to walk. thither hastened the lumbering ambulances; thither stretchers were carried; thither the wounded, supporting each other, crept inch by inch. emmeline watched them come; private christy ran to help them in. in distraction emmeline began once more to heat water and to make coffee and biscuit. that she could do! it was well that she had had yesterday's experience before to-day's! wounds from fragments of shell are worse than wounds from bullets; the advancing throng, alas! were wounded as terribly as they could be wounded and still live. for some, private christy did nothing except to help them to lie down and to cover them with one of grandmother willing's blankets. a doctor and a nurse, who had been assigned to the willing house, tried to do the work of twenty doctors and nurses. they put emmeline to work. they gave her hard and terrible tasks, but she accomplished them bravely, receiving an immediate reward in many blessings from those she tended. she wrote down addresses and messages, and comforted the men as best she could, and wept. "it will make them take it easier, little girl, if you write them about me." "perhaps you would go to see them sometime, when the war is over." it was amazing to hear how many had daughters or little sisters like emmeline. as she listened to one after the other, and tried to fix their requests in her mind, her dark eyes grew wider and her face paler. still the two hundred cannon roared. that sound unnerved even the hardened soldier and the general trained by long experience in battles, who began to ask themselves whether human spirit could endure more. the like of that sound the world had till then never heard. in mid-afternoon came peace. as suddenly as it had begun, it seemed to emmeline, the thunder stopped. emmeline burst into tears, and then, not knowing that she had cried, went on with her work. "it is over," emmeline assured herself. "now it is certainly over." but emmeline knew nothing of the tactics of war. there were still those thousands of infantry who had marched over the hill and who had as yet given no account of themselves. where were they? they still had work to do. a few minutes they waited, until the last echo had died away, and then, in magnificent array, they marched forward across the fields to the opposite ridge, marched straight in the face of the enemy's cannon, which they supposed had run short of ammunition. of those brave thousands, few returned whole across the wide fields; many did not return at all. emmeline, watching them in the morning, had thought them wonderful; but emmeline could not judge how glorious they were. now they would march no more. if emmeline had listened, she could have heard, borne upon the wind, rapturous shouts from that opposite ridge; but she heard only the broken words and gasps of the men about her. private christy heard with haggard, white face; the generals heard--those who survived. the greatest general of all, whom emmeline had watched upon his white horse, listened with a breaking heart. gradually the clouds of smoke lifted, gradually the odor of smoke was carried away. the sun set in a stormy sky, and once more the air cooled. the battle was over; upon the wide field peace descended, but it was the peace of death and woe. from round top to gettysburg and far beyond lay strewn those who a few hours before had moved in strength and pride. gettysburg, hearing the result of the battle, breathed a long sigh of great relief. citizens appeared from the places where they had taken shelter; women and children came out upon the streets again, and stared at house walls torn by shells and at barricades thrown across streets. at emmeline willing's house men and women and children gazed in awe. the house had been strangely protected; it stood among its fellows unharmed. there, to emmeline's sister bertha, had been sent a little child. there bertha herself lay sleeping in the bed to which she had been restored. one by one men and women and children tiptoed into the kitchen to behold with their own eyes the little baby lying in his cradle. mrs. willing moved quietly about her house and attended to her charges. all the cruelty and horror of war weighed upon mrs. willing. no word had come from her boy. and where was emmeline, her darling, her little girl, whom she had un-wittingly sent into greater danger? where were the elder willings? meanwhile emmeline worked on. she had ceased to be partisan; she asked no question either about victory or defeat. as night advanced, a great uneasiness seemed to spread. troops were moved, trees were felled, and new breastworks erected. emmeline's room was occupied now; a young officer lay upon the bed, and less important patients upon the floor. with his single arm, private christy continued to accomplish wonders. "you are my other arm, emmyline," he said in his drawling voice. "you mustn't forget me, emmyline." emmeline looked up, startled. "are you going away?" "we can't stay here." "what shall i do, then?" "without _me_? are you going to miss _me_?" said private christy in astonishment. "why, you will go home, emmyline." "home!" repeated emmeline, as if the word were strange. that night emmeline slept on a chair by the kitchen table. private christy, who did not sleep at all, put a folded coat under her head and stood for a moment smoothing her dark hair; then he went on with his sad work. once or twice the moon showed for an instant, only to vanish; the sights upon which it looked were best shrouded in darkness. when morning dawned, troops were still massing behind the protecting breastworks. as soon as it was light, private christy made his way down the slope to willoughby run, and addressed himself once more to the soldier who guarded the prisoners:-- "any orders?" "orders to be ready to move." "did you find willing?" "he's the man with his head tied up, there by the tree." "where's the colonel?" "over yonder." private christy saluted the colonel and stood waiting. the colonel had a map spread out on his knee; on it he was tracing with his finger the path to the west which had been laid out for him. it was evident from the colonel's eyes that he, too, had passed a sleepless night. presently he looked up at private christy, and with a nod gave him permission to speak. "there's a prisoner in the woods, sir, by the name of willing. this is his grandfather's place, and his leetle sister's up there in the house. she's worked bakin' and nursin' till she's almost dead on her feet. she's a sweet leetle gal, sir. could you leave her brother here? she's far from home and alone." the colonel looked absently at private christy. private christy seldom asked favors; moreover, if it had not been for his self-assigned work, private christy might long ago have been at his home in georgia. "i'll see, christy," he said, and returned to his map. six o'clock passed, seven o'clock, eight o'clock, and now the great wounded army seemed to breathe deeply and to turn a little and to think about rising. it was beaten, sore, but it could not pause here. it was still in the country of its enemy; it must be up and away lest worse harm befall it. opposite lay the victor, who, although wounded also, was better furnished with the munitions of war. the beaten army must set forth on the weary way by which it had come. all the forenoon men were marching. from the woods near by, wagons, rough, springless and uncovered, drawn by thin, jaded horses, approached over the fields to the doors of farmhouses and barns. into them were lifted the wounded from the houses and from the open fields. they were not lifted carefully; there was not time to be careful. across the fields toward the west to the nearest road the wagons went and took their places in the great line. the skies lowered more and more, and presently from the east a chilling wind began to blow. standing in the doorway, emmeline felt it on her bare arms and neck, and shivered. when a wagon stopped at grandfather willing's door and the bearers entered, emmeline went weeping to bid farewell to these her enemies. private christy had lifted his knapsack to his shoulder and had taken in his hand a staff, as if he were preparing for a long journey. the officer in charge of the wagon ordered all men who were wounded only in the arms or head or shoulders to walk beside it; others were lifted in upon the board floors of the wagon; others were left where they lay. emmeline clung to private christy's hand. "why don't they take them, too?" she asked. "they're too sick, emmyline." "what will become of them?" "i don't know, emmyline. you give 'em water." "are you really going away from me?" "i've got to go, emmyline!" said private christy. "marchin' orders are marchin' orders. you stay here in the house, mind! you write to me sometime, and when the war is over you've got to get acquainted with my bessie." "does this end the war?" asked emmeline. "i don't know, sissy, but i'm afraid not. emmyline, would you"--private christy blushed like a boy--"would you give me a kiss?" "i will give you a dozen!" cried emmeline. then, beside the lumbering wagon, private christy marched away. a soldier leaned on his arm before he left the porch; before he had left the gate he had given his staff to another. bereft, emmeline watched him go. once he turned and nodded his head to her, and then marched on. private christy looked up at the lowering sky. in a moment he felt on his cheek the first drop of the advancing torrent. then the heavens opened on the great generals and the marching soldiers and the wounded in their open wagons. emmeline stood upon the step until the tall, gray figure with his wagon and his wounded had vanished in the mist. she was drenched, but she dared not go inside. she guessed why those sufferers had been left behind! and night was coming and all the world would be dark and dreadful. emmeline could hear the ticking of grandmother willing's clock on the kitchen shelf and the sound of deep, anguished breathing. then she heard footsteps, and turned in fright. not one of those sick men could even raise his head--who was it who came upon her so stealthily and suddenly? through the kitchen approached a tall figure in a blue suit, with a bandaged head. private christy had not left his "arm" without protection. "henry!" cried emmeline. "little emmeline!" said henry. [illustration: emmeline watched him go] into the outstretched arms flew emmeline. "i knew it was you! oh, henry, henry, henry!" chapter vi the terror past although emmeline willing's grandparents were well on in years, they were young in spirit. they liked to make excursions in their old-fashioned buggy pulled by their faithful dandy. they had not intentionally deserted their home on the eve of battle. grandmother willing would have been as little likely to fly from excitement as emmeline. a few days before the battle grandfather and grandmother willing had gone on a visit to their daughter sally, who lived on an isolated farm to the west. grandmother willing had taken tiger, the cat, with her in a basket, and rover had trotted beneath the buggy. before they had started they had driven their two cows, molly and betsy, over to the hollingers', who had promised to care for them. when the enemy had approached, the hollingers had fled, driving their own cattle and molly and betsy before them. early on the morning of july the two elder willings bade their daughter farewell, and with no thought of what awaited them, started to return home. when emmeline and mrs. schmidt were startled by the first crack of musketry, grandfather and grandmother willing were even more amazed and frightened as they approached from the other direction. suddenly soldiers appeared--it seemed to mrs. willing--from the ground itself, and sprang to dandy's bridle. the soldiers turned the horse and the buggy sharply round, and dandy dashed for the shelter of the stable he had recently left. "a battle, after all!" cried grandfather willing, his ruddy face paling. "a battle in gettysburg!" grandmother willing said nothing for a long time. she grasped tiger's basket tightly with one hand and with the other clutched the side of the carriage. tears ran down her cheeks and she drew long, gasping breaths. "a battle in gettysburg!" she repeated at last. "mary is there, and emmeline is there, and that poor young woman of henry's is there! like as not poor henry is dead. what shall we do?" "there is only one thing we can do, mother; that is go back to sally's. the town will be protected." "i want to go home!" sobbed grandmother willing, much as emmeline had sobbed. "they might get out as far as our house, and they might do damage." "the fighting is three miles from our house, mother." when they reached their daughter's farm, sally came running to meet them. "oh, i have been so worried about you! get down, mother. come in. oh, this dreadful noise! look, father!" old mr. willing's eyes followed her pointing finger. on the main road, a few rods from the farmhouse, thousands of soldiers were marching rapidly toward gettysburg. their line extended back for at least a mile. from the porch and windows of the farmhouse terrified faces watched them. grandmother willing wept again. "perhaps our dear henry is among them!" "henry, mother! why, these are the rebels!" "oh, dear, oh, dear!" wailed grandmother willing. "what shall we do?" "we will do two things, mother," answered grandfather willing solemnly. "we will wait and we will pray." a hill shut out from the farmhouse a view of the first day's battlefield. when grandfather willing and his son-in-law proposed to make their way to higher ground, such a loud outcry rose from the women and children that they abandoned the plan. gathering the family about him, grandfather willing prayed that the engagement might be short and victorious for the arms of righteousness. when toward evening the noise of battle ceased, grandfather hoped that his prayers had been answered. on wednesday morning grandmother willing rose early from her bed. toward the southwest she could see the round tops; before her the plain was clear and beautiful. her heart rejoiced. "look, father, now we can go home!" grandfather willing came to the window and looked out. he saw the clear, beautiful plain, but he saw also another and a startling sight. from the west approached fresh troops. the main road, where it left the woodland, was crowded. rapidly the throng drew near; officers shouted, drivers urged their horses, wagons rattled. "is there going to be _more_?" asked grandmother willing. all morning the family in the farmhouse watched the road and the distant plain. the troops vanished from sight as they approached gettysburg. when by noon there had been no further sound of shooting, grandmother willing suggested that they start. "we can surely go now, father!" just then a boy came from a farm a mile across the fields with news that made grandmother willing change her mind. there had been yesterday, he said, a terrible battle; gettysburg was now in the possession of the confederates. troops were gathering from all directions; there was going to be worse fighting before the day was over. it was not until late afternoon that the firing on the second day began. then it was that emmeline, in her grandmother's kitchen, had first screamed and whirled round and that private christy had told her to be still. to the watchers at the farmhouse on the hillside the time passed more slowly than it did to emmeline. from the upper windows they could see the clouds of smoke, and could tell exactly where the cannon stood; it was clear to the willings that the battle raged near their house. on friday, the third day of battle, grandmother willing made no request to be taken home. she woke to the sound of cannon, dull and distant; she listened with blanched face until noon. at one o'clock, when it began once more in its final and most terrible fury, grandmother willing covered her ears, so that she might hear less and pray more. from hundreds of terrified hearts in gettysburg and round gettysburg rose petitions for relief from the torture of the sound. when silence finally came, the family on the hillside did not dare to rejoice, but waited fearfully for another roar. but no roar came. twilight faded to dusk, dusk to night, and silence persisted. from the direction of gettysburg came no sound. if troops moved on the cashtown road, the willing family did not know. they slept heavily and woke later than was their custom. when they rose, the bright sun of other mornings was not shining. the day was cloudy, the air heavy. in the direction of gettysburg all was dim and hazy. "and now," said grandmother willing, "we can go home." grandfather was as patient as private christy. he shook his head with a gentle "no, mother." between them and home lay thousands of troops; until they departed silence signified nothing. all the morning the clouds thickened and the air grew heavier. at noon horsemen, riding toward the west, appeared on the main road. at the first crossroad they turned toward the south. they rode slowly, with bent heads, on tired horses. presently wagons followed. then to the ears of the little family on the hillside there rose from that unending line of rough ambulances a strange sound. the women and children could not understand it, but their cheeks grew still whiter and tears gathered in their eyes. "what is it?" they cried. "what can it be?" "the wounded are being taken away," explained grandfather willing solemnly. "hark how the drivers hurry the horses! they are afraid! they are retreating! thank god! thank god!" the storm drove the willings indoors, but the sound followed them. through the long afternoon, through the long night, the willings heard those wailing cries and those anguished commands to hasten. when sunday morning dawned, those cries were startling other farmhouses and villages miles away. they never faded entirely from the recollection of those who heard them. soon the boy from the next farmhouse crossed the fields again. the battle was over, the northern arms were victorious, gettysburg was safe. "now," said grandmother willing, "i want to go home." grandfather willing pondered. he had been studying a route that he thought they could safely follow. he knew all the byroads and all the farmers' lanes across the fields. "you stay here, mother. i wish you would stay here." grandmother willing gave her husband one look, and then lifted her cat, tiger, into his basket. * * * * * in the mysterious dusky light of the willing farmhouse, emmeline and her brother henry had stood for a long moment in one another's arms. they dared not accept with too much enthusiasm this sudden joy. the rain was beating on the roof and the windows. the delirious mutterings of the other inhabitants of the house had died away. "o emmeline!" said henry again. "little emmeline, is it you?" "yes," said emmeline, with a long sigh, "it is." "how are they at home?" "mother is well, but sister bertha is sick." "when did you come out here?" "on tuesday." "where,"--henry looked about, startled,--"where are grandfather and grandmother?" "i imagine they went to aunt sally's." "and you have been here _alone_!" "no." emmeline laughed feebly. "no, not alone." henry started again. over his sister's shoulder he saw a man lying on the floor in the parlor. "there are wounded men in this house!" "oh, yes!" said emmeline. "you have been taking care of these men!" "i gave them water and biscuit, and i talked to them." henry went a step nearer the parlor door. "that man is--is dead, emmeline! and you've been here alone!" "i wasn't alone," protested emmeline. between her and yesterday, even between her and this morning, there was falling a haze, gray and concealing as the low-lying clouds outside. she began to weep. "there was some one here to take care of me. i have been safe all the time. and he is gone away forever!" henry looked into the parlor and the sitting-room, and then went upstairs. emmeline heard him exclaim. when he came down again, he went to the kitchen door and looked out. the trampled fields were already sodden. at the foot of the garden was a trench, begun for a well and abandoned. it was not deep, but it was deep enough. there, shrouded in grandmother willing's comforters, were laid those who in this house had given their lives for their convictions. one of the watson boys, coming to see how his neighbors had fared, saved emmeline a share in the last sad ceremony of battle. presently night fell upon the little farmhouse. henry and emmeline slept side by side on grandmother willing's kitchen floor. often henry rose and went about the house to minister to the wounded in grandmother willing's beds. when he returned, he laid a protecting arm across his little sister and so fell asleep once more. the mystery of his release was now clear to him. the humanity of the act, the helplessness of his enemy, combined to create in his heart a bitter hatred of war, a hatred felt by all who had anything to do with that sad battlefield. the broadening light of sunday morning wakened brother and sister. across the wide valley between the two battle lines, great wagons were traveling swiftly. for friend and foe alike doctors and nurses of the victorious army had begun their work of mercy. to the door of the willing farmhouse came at noon an ambulance. some houses the attendants had found deserted except for their suffering guests. in others were women who had performed incredible and uncounted deeds of mercy. each house had its epic of heroism and danger and sorrow. a charm seemed to have been laid upon these heroic ministers; it was as if an angel standing before them had protected them in their ways. of them all, only one had perished. in the willing house there was little for doctors or nurses to do. the house was orderly once more; the surviving soldiers asked feebly about the result of the battle, and when they heard, turned their faces away even from emmeline. the homeward journey of grandmother and grandfather willing ended in the middle of sunday afternoon. it had been much more round-about than grandfather willing had planned, more awful than he had dreamed. as they drew near the scene of battle and beheld on every side its sad destruction, their hearts failed them utterly. where was mary? how was poor bertha? where was emmeline, emmeline who was forever getting into mischief of some kind? above all, where was henry? grandmother willing was thinking of him as they drew near the farmhouse. then looking up, she saw him standing on the porch, and behind him, in the doorway, emmeline. grandmother willing made no motion to alight from the wagon. she sat still with tiger on her lap. "how did _you_ get here?" she asked in a trembling voice. "we have been here all the time," said emmeline. there came into the eyes of emmeline a sudden sparkle. what a tale she had to tell eliza batterson! grandmother willing allowed herself to be helped out of the carriage. she came rapidly through the gate and across the dooryard, which was now trampled into a muddy slough. from the doorway she could see into her parlor with its stained carpet. she looked from it to the stains of the same color on her granddaughter's dress. in spite of all that grandmother willing had seen, she did not yet realize the full meaning of a battle. "has blood been shed here?" she asked in an awed tone. with an arm round her, henry said, "yes, grandmother." grandmother willing's gaze still rested upon emmeline. "did you see this?" she demanded, as if emmeline were to blame for having got herself once more into mischief. "were you in the battle, emmeline?" "yes." "did you have wounded rebels here?" "yes. there are some upstairs now!" cried emmeline. "in my house!" exclaimed grandmother willing. "in my beds!" grandmother willing's youthfulness was apparent in the speed with which she started up the stairs. "i'll 'rebel' them!" those below waited. they could trust her to do nothing violent. "oh, you poor, poor souls!" cried grandmother willing abovestairs. an ambulance driver who was making a journey to gettysburg now offered to take henry and emmeline home. henry must join his company as soon as possible, and the best way to find them was to go to gettysburg, where he could doubtless get information about their position. he was heavily oppressed by anxiety and alarm, and could hardly wait until the driver received his orders to start. [illustration: _page _ "yes," answered mrs. willing. "bertha is asleep upstairs"] along the wooded ridge the ambulance traveled; henry sat in the seat with the driver, emmeline in the body of the wagon. there was no road; they made their way round shattered cannon, wrecked caissons, and far sadder remnants of the great battle. they passed close by the seminary building, where the union soldiers had first camped. it was five o'clock on sunday afternoon, the most peaceful hour of the week; but gettysburg's streets were thronged with soldiers, mounted and on foot. citizens were on their doorsteps. this sunday was a day not of rest, but of rejoicing. suddenly emmeline saw twinkling in the breeze before her a bit of color, and her pale cheeks flushed. from windows and doorposts floated once more gettysburg's flag--the stars of white on a field of blue, the stripes of red and white. unobserved, henry and emmeline passed down the street. in the back of the wagon, emmeline could not be seen, and as for henry--no one looked twice at a union soldier with a bandaged head. no one noticed them, in fact, until mr. bannon, who was sitting on his porch with his pipe, saw them; he lifted his arms with a shout and hurried forward in his lame way to greet them. he shouted some wild sentence at them, but they could not wait to be greeted by lame mr. bannon. hand in hand they went along the house and to the kitchen porch. there, at the open door, they paused. "well, mother," said henry. mrs. willing did not move. she was sitting by the opposite window shelling peas that had been planted, it seemed to her, a generation ago. she sat with a half-opened pod between her fingers and looked at her children. mrs. schmidt's brother, driving into town an hour ago from his farm beyond the battlefield, had reported the safety of his sister and her brood, but had brought no news of emmeline. mrs. willing could not at first quite believe that here, in flesh and blood, were the two children who lay so heavily upon her heart. "is bertha safe, mother?" asked henry. still henry and emmeline did not move, and mrs. willing did not rise to meet them. "yes," answered mrs. willing. "bertha is asleep upstairs." "is--" began henry, and then he repeated that single meaningless word. "is--" now emmeline had begun to move. she pursued, however, a strange course. she took a step toward her mother, then a step toward the corner of the room, then a step toward her mother, then another away from her mother. mrs. willing rose; the peas and their pods rolled in all directions. "mother!" cried emmeline. "mother! mother!" the first exclamation shocked mrs. willing. it was hoarse, and in its sharp tones was all the misery through which emmeline had lived. the second "mother!" expressed pure astonishment and nothing else. but in the third was all emmeline's youth restored. henry had seen the object toward which his sister's erratic steps were turned and had finished his sentence, "is it mine, mother?" he now took his mother into his arms and put his head on her shoulder as if he himself were not a very long way from the cradle in which his son reposed. but for emmeline, tears were past. she knelt upon the floor, enchanted, enslaved, a happy servitor of the sister who, sleeping in her quiet bed, knew nothing of the new joy that awaited her. "o mother!" cried emmeline. "it _is_ a baby!" the end transcriber's notes: text in italics is surrounded with underscores: _italics_. inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have been standardized. produced from images generously made available by the internet archive.) transcriber's note: this version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects. italics are delimited with the '_' character as _italic_. [illustration: monument to th pa. vet. vols.] history of the fifty-seventh regiment, pennsylvania veteran volunteer infantry history of the fifty-seventh regiment, pennsylvania veteran volunteer infantry. first brigade, first division, third corps, and second brigade, third division, second corps, army of the potomac. compiled by james m. martin, e. c. strouss, r. g. madge, r. i. campbell, m. c. zahniser to the members of the fifty-seventh pennsylvania veteran volunteers, living and dead, and to their children, and to their children's children, forever, is this volume dedicated. table of contents. chapter i. organization of the regiment--camp curtin--departure for washington--in old virginia--colonel maxwell resigns--colonel campbell chapter ii. we embark for the peninsula--yorktown--camping in the mud--peach orchard--artillery practice--battle of williamsburg chapter iii. battle of fair oaks--death of major culp--increasing sick list--advancing our lines--the seven days' battles--glendale or charles city cross roads--the fifty-seventh under captain maxwell as rear guard--malvern hill--retreat to harrison's landing chapter iv. camp life at harrison's landing--major birney assigned to the command of the regiment--transferred to general birney's brigade--evacuation of harrison's landing and the peninsula--the army of the potomac is sent to reenforce general pope chapter v. second bull run campaign--battle of chantilly--death of general kearny--his body escorted to washington by a detachment of the fifty-seventh--retreat to alexandria--conrad's ferry--colonel campbell rejoins the regiment chapter vi. on to richmond once more--foragers captured--general mcclellan superseded by general burnside--the march to the rappahannock--battle of fredericksburg chapter vii. camp pitcher--the "mud march"--general hooker in command of the army--resolutions adopted by the fifty-seventh--re-assignment to the first brigade--anecdote of colonel campbell--drill and inspection--adoption of corps badges--the chancellorsville campaign--jackson routs the eleventh corps--a "flying dutchman"--in a tight place--general hooker disabled--general sedgwick's movements--a new line established--strength of the fifty-seventh and its losses chapter viii. back again in our old camp--cavalry battle at brandy station--the march to gettysburg--hooker's request for troops at harper's ferry--asks to be relieved from the command of the army--we arrive at gettysburg--battle of july d--strength of the fifty-seventh--its losses--general graham wounded and captured--wounding of general sickles--battle of july d--july th--the confederates retreat--general sickles asks for a court of inquiry--president lincoln to sickles--a visit to the battlefield twenty-five years later chapter ix. we leave gettysburg--rebel spy hung--french's division joins the d corps--enemy's position at falling waters--he escapes across the potomac--in old virginia again--manassas gap--camp at sulphur springs--movement to culpepper--eleventh and twelfth corps sent west--lee's efforts to gain our rear--skirmish at auburn creek--warren's fight at bristow station--deserter shot--retreat of the enemy--kelly's ford--mine run campaign--the regiment re-enlists--the "veteran furlough"--recruiting--presented with a new flag by governor curtin--back to the front--general grant commands the army--reorganization--the wilderness campaign--three days of hard fighting--loss in fifty-seventh chapter x. the movement to spottsylvania court house--general sedgwick killed--hancock's grand charge of may th--great capture of prisoners, guns and colors--the famous oak tree--ewell's effort to capture our wagon train--losses in the fifty-seventh at spottsylvania--movement to north anna river--fight at chesterfield ford--we cross the pamunkey--skirmish at haw's shop and totopotomoy creek--battle of cold harbor--our colors struck and badly torn by a piece of shell--flank movement to the james river--march to petersburg--severe fighting at hare's hill--battle of june d--losses in the fifty-seventh--fort alex. hays--petersburg--we move to the north side of the james--strawberry plains--return to petersburg--the "burnside mine"--general mott in command of our division--deep bottom--other marching and fighting around petersburg chapter xi. recruits--dangerous picket duty--muster-out of old regiments--composition of the brigade--expedition against the south side railroad--battle of boydton plank road or hatcher's run--disguised rebels capture our picket line--election day--thanksgiving dinner of roast turkey--change of camp--raid on weldon railroad--a hard march returning--"applejack"--general humphreys in command of the second corps chapter xii. disbanding of companies a and e--regiment organized into a battalion of six companies--consolidation of the eighty-fourth with the fifty-seventh pennsylvania--necessity for changing the letter of some of the companies--confusion in company rolls growing out of it--officers of the consolidated regiment--another move across hatcher's run--the regiment again engaged with the enemy--great length of the line in front of petersburg--a lively picket skirmish--battle near watkin's house--enemy's picket line and many prisoners captured chapter xiii. beginning of our last campaign--battle of five forks--on picket duty on old hatcher's run battlefield--jubilant rebels--enemy's lines broken--petersburg and richmond evacuated--in pursuit of the enemy--battle of sailor's creek--high bridge--general mott wounded--lee's army breaking up--appomattox--joy over the surrender--on the backward march--camp at burkesville junction chapter xiv. departure from burkesville--marching through richmond--the march to washington--passing over old battlefields--camp at bailey's cross roads--grand review of the army of the potomac--the order of march--the fifty-seventh ordered mustered out--names of engagements in which the regiment participated--its casualties--we start for harrisburg--finally paid and discharged--farewell address of our field officers appendix a.--roster of officers appendix b.--medical report of surgeon lyman for year appendix c.--address of lieut.-col. l. d. bumpus at the dedication of the regimental monument at gettysburg, july d, appendix d.--reminiscences of the fifty-seventh regiment by gen. william birney preface. when the idea of publishing the history of the fifty-seventh pennsylvania veteran volunteers was first conceived and a committee appointed to prepare the manuscript for the same, the chief difficulty to be met with was to confine the limits of the work to such a size that the price of the book would be such that it might be placed within the means of all the survivors of the regiment. the committee regrets that the muster-out rolls of the regiment were not accessible, nor could they be copied from the rolls at washington, d. c. even if the rolls could have been copied and published in the book, it would have greatly added to the price of the work and would have required a much greater fund than the committee had on hand for that purpose. a great deal of pains have been taken and the marches, campaigns and battles of the regiment have been carefully studied, and it is to be hoped that they will be found to be accurately described. if the labor of the committee will meet the approval of those who have marched and fought with the gallant old regiment, it will be duly appreciated by those compiling the work. [illustration: the historical committee] . j. m. martin. . e. c. strouss. . r. g. madge. . r. i. campbell. . m. c. zahnizer. . b. f. smith. chapter i. by j. m. martin. organization of the regiment--camp curtin--departure for washington--in old virginia--colonel maxwell resigns--colonel campbell. the sanguinary battle, and almost disgraceful rout of the union army under general mcdowell at the first bull run in july, , convinced the authorities at washington that the insurrection of the slave states was not a mere spasm of anger at their defeat in the preceding presidential election to be crushed out by the levy of , troops, undisciplined and indifferently equipped, in a three months' service of holiday soldiering, and that secretary seward's prophecy that a sixty days' campaign would restore the union and bring peace to the nation was a dream destined not to be realized. acting on this conviction a call was made for , volunteers to serve for three years, or during the war. to meet the emergency, evident to many, who were not disposed to accept the prophecy of the secretary of state, andrew g. curtin, whose name will go down in history as "pennsylvania's war governor," organized, equipped and had put in training that superb body of men, "the pennsylvania reserves," who through all the four years of bloody conflict to follow, were to find the place their name indicated, on the skirmish and picket line, and in the front of the battle, were the first to respond, and none too quickly, for the safety of the nation's capital. in obedience to this call other regiments and battalions were promptly organized and forwarded so that by september , , arlington heights and the environments of washington were thickly studded with the camps of these new levies, and out of the mass was being moulded, under the hand of that skillful drill master, general george b. mcclellan, that mighty host known in history as the army of the potomac, whose valiant deeds in the cause of union and liberty are co-eternal with that of the nation. at the first, regiments were recruited and mustered from single cities, towns and counties, but as time passed and the first flood of recruits were mustered into service, companies and squads, to the number of a corporal's guard, were gathered from distantly separated districts, and rendezvousing at some common camp were consolidated into regiments and battalions. such was the case in the organization of the th pennsylvania volunteers, the place of rendezvous and final mustering being in camp curtin at the state capital. the roster of the regiment, by company, shows the different sections of the state whence recruited, viz: company a, susquehanna and wyoming counties. company b, mercer county. company c, mercer county. company d, tioga county. company e, allegheny, mercer and lawrence counties. company f, mercer county. company g, bradford county. company h, bradford county. company i, mercer and venango counties. company k, crawford county. thus it will be seen at a glance on the state map that there were representatives in the regiment from wyoming county in the east; thence along the northern border of crawford, mercer, venango and lawrence counties in the extreme west. before, however, the final rendezvous of these several companies at camp curtin there were smaller camps established for recruiting in several localities, notably that at mercer, mercer county, where it may be said was established the original regimental headquarters. the hon. william maxwell, a graduate of west point, but at that time pursuing the peaceful avocation of the practice of law in that county, was, about september , , authorized by governor curtin to recruit a regiment for the service. with this in view he established a rendezvous camp outside of the borough limits of the town of mercer, on north pittsburg street, in a field given for that purpose by the late hon. samuel b. griffith, and which was named in honor of the donor, "camp griffith." here temporary barracks were erected and a regular system of camp duties inaugurated, and the usually quiet hamlet of mercer became the scene of quite active military enthusiasm; the still breezes of the neshannock being stirred by the beat of drums and shrill notes of fife. in two or three weeks after the establishing of this camp a large number of volunteers were recruited who formed the nucleus of what afterwards became companies b, c, e, f and i, of the regiment. when the number of these recruits became sufficient for the formation of a battalion colonel maxwell transferred them to camp curtin. in making this transfer the men were taken in conveyances overland to the "big bend" on the shenango and there embarked on a canal boat for rochester, beaver county, and thence by the only line of railway, the pittsburg, ft. wayne & chicago, to pittsburg and harrisburg. along the way from camp griffith to the ohio these recruits enjoyed a continual ovation; the last, alas! that many in that band ever received. at pittsburg they were joined by others from allegheny and a small contingent from the northeastern part of lawrence county, who cast their fortunes with company e. [illustration: col. william maxwell] arriving at camp curtin the regiment was rapidly filled up to the required ten companies by the addition of companies a, d, g, h and k. in the latter part of october the regiment was organized and mustered into the united states service. immediately following the mustering, clothing was distributed, and stripped of every habiliment and insignia of the citizen and arrayed in forage caps, dark blue blouses, sky blue pants and army brogans the regiment marched to the armory in the city and received its equipment--springfield muskets and cartridge boxes. an impressive ceremony, one not to be forgotten by those present, was the committing by governor curtin with appropriate words to the care of the regiment the colors: the starry flag, with stripes of red and white, and field of azure blue. sacred emblem of our union, in defense of which many who that day stood as stalwarts in those ranks, gave health, and limb, and life in the three years to follow. thus fully inducted into service the regiment settled down to the daily routine of camp duty, drill and guard mounting, waiting for the call to the more heroic service at the front beyond the potomac. to those accustomed to the dainties of the home table and unstinted in their access to the larder, the black coffee and indigestible sea biscuits, with the suggestive initials "b. c." stamped upon them, soon mollified their love of camp life and cultivated a craving desire to terminate the "cruel war" at the earliest date possible, even at the risk of being hurt or hurting somebody in the attempt. during the month of november that destructive pest of the camp, measles, broke out in the regiment, and proved to many a foe more to be dreaded than the bullets of the enemy; besides, to go a soldiering in defense of one's country and be ambushed by a disease that at home was regarded as a trifling affliction of childhood, was a source of real humiliation. about december th orders were received to transfer the regiment to washington. the transfer was anything but a pleasure jaunt. instead of the commodious and comfortable passenger coaches, the ordinary box freight cars were used, and packed in there, that cold december night of transfer was truly one of misery. the cars were seatless, consequently the turkish style of sitting had to be adopted by all who did not prefer to stand or were so fortunate as to obtain a seat in the side doors from which the feet could swing with freedom. the night was exceedingly chilly and with no facilities for warmth the discomfort was at the maximum. the day following, the regiment arrived at washington, where it was lodged for the night in the "soldiers' retreat," the hard floors of which were as downy pillows to our wearied and cold stiffened limbs. the next day we marched out of the city, passing the capitol, and formed camp near the bladensburg road. it was now the dead of winter, a washington winter, with frequent storms of rain, sleet and snow. the camp was on the lowlands and the regiment experienced to the full the disagreeableness of the mud and slush of "my maryland." here we had our first introduction to the sibley tent, a species of canvas tepee of the western indian pattern, each of which afforded shelter to a dozen men. a small sheet iron stove, with the pipe braced against the center pole, diffused warmth, while a hole in the canvas at the apex afforded an exit for the pungent smoke of the green pine used for fuel. it was while in camp at this place we first heard the booming of the enemy's guns away to the westward across the potomac. these deep notes were of such frequent recurrence that all were fully convinced that a battle was in progress. steed-like "we snuffed the battle from afar," and many were the expressed fears that victory would perch upon our banners, and the war be ended ere we should reach the virginia shores. alas! poor, ignorant mortals that we were! little dreaming of what scenes of carnage and hot battle we should be called to witness before the last notes of the hostile guns should be heard. the next morning the papers brought us the news of the battle of dranesville and the repulse of the enemy, and our sorrow was deep and loud spoken, that we were not forwarded and permitted, at once, to put an end to this southern fracas! such was our confidence of easy victory! while in this camp the measles again broke out in the regiment. many of the men had contracted severe colds during that night of dismal ride from harrisburg, and cases of pneumonia were numerous, many proving fatal, while others lingered for months in hospitals, either to be discharged on account of disability or to again return to their companies mere wrecks of their former selves. in february, , the regiment broke camp, and crossing the potomac, took its place in the left wing of the army near fort lyon, below alexandria. here in the organization of the army it was assigned to jameson's brigade of heintzelman's division, which later, upon the organization of the army corps, constituted the first brigade, first division, third corps, commanded respectively by generals jameson, hamilton and heintzelman, general hamilton later being superseded in division command by that intrepid and fearless fighter, general philip kearny, whom the enemy dubbed with the uneuphoneous soubriquet of the "one armed devil." the brigade as then organized consisted of the th, d, th pennsylvania regiments and the th new york, and from that date so long as the old third corps existed these pennsylvania regiments retained their place side by side. our associations were most pleasant, many last friendships were formed, and the courage of each was ever held in highest esteem by the others. on march st, colonel maxwell resigned his commission as colonel of the regiment and was succeeded by colonel charles t. campbell. colonel campbell was by education and choice an artillerist, and had seen service on that arm in the mexican war. he had had command of a battery of pennsylvania artillery in the three months' service, and had been commissioned by governor curtin colonel of artillery and had recruited and organized the first pennsylvania regiment of light artillery as part of the pennsylvania reserve corps. when, however, the regiment entered the united states' service, such an organization was deemed impracticable and the regiment as a compact body was disbanded and the batteries assigned to the several corps. thus colonel campbell found himself a colonel in commission without a command. but he was enlisted for the war and with uncomplaining patriotism he willingly took his place where duty called. at the first the members of the regiment were impressed with the thought that they had "caught a tartar." tall and commanding in figure, gruff voiced and with sanguinary hair and whiskers, the colonel did not give the impression of being a weakling, but it was not long until they began to realize that beneath the rough exterior there beat a considerate and tender heart and in the gruff voice there was a soft chord, and soon the name "charley" was more frequently on the lips about the camp fires than the more stately title of "colonel." these characteristics of the new commander were manifested in many acts that the men appreciated. he was always ready to take the rough side of soldier life and share privations with the rank and file, and at the end of a hard day's march he would lie down with only the heavens for a covering with any of the boys rather than ask a detail to erect his headquarter tents. and many a comrade can remember when on camp guard and the weather was threatening, hearing that gruff voice calling from his tent door: "officer of the day, release the guards and send them into their quarters!" [illustration: gen. charles t. campbell] chapter ii. by j. m. martin. we embark for the peninsula--yorktown--camping in the mud--peach orchard--artillery practice--battle of williamsburg. on the th of march the regiment embarked and steamed down the potomac, past mount vernon, of hallowed memories, on its way to fortress monroe, whither the army was being transferred to enter upon the historic and ill-fated peninsular campaign. upon arrival it went into camp near the ancient, but then recently burned town of hampton, crumbling brick walls and charred chimneys being the only remaining monuments to mark the site of the once pleasant village, the beginning, to us, of the scenes of the war's "rude desolations," while protruding from the placid waters of the bay were to be seen the masts of the "cumberland," that but a few days before had gone down with flag flying before the onset of the ram "merrimac," while over by the ripraps peacefully floated low on the waters the little "monitor" that david-like, had single-handed put to flight this goliath of the rebellion, that had defied our navy; a veritable "tub on a plank." on the morning of april the grand advance was begun. across the narrow neck of land that divided the waters of the chesapeake and james, the magnificent hosts of the army of the potomac, stretching from shore to shore, moved forward to the fortified post of the enemy at yorktown. battlefields, like history, repeat themselves. it is said the plains of esdraelon have been the theater of a greater number of conflicts at arms than any other known portion of the globe, so here at yorktown, where the sons of virginia, pennsylvania and others of the thirteen colonies humbled the british under cornwallis in , and whose lines of entrenchments were yet visible, were again to meet in , the sons of these sires of revolutionary fame, in martial combat, not shoulder to shoulder, as then, but in opposing phalanx. the line of advance of the th was by the main road leading from hampton to yorktown by way of little and big bethel, the latter place being the scene of general b. f. butler's unfortunate night venture of . the afternoon of the second day's march brought the advance of the army in front of the enemy's formidable works around yorktown and along the warwick river. for the space of nearly a mile, immediately in front of the town, the country was open, scarcely a tree or a shrub impeding the view of the fortifications, whose embrasures bristled with heavy ordnance. with drums beating and colors flying we marched boldly along the way and filing off into the open fields deliberately proceeded to pitch our tents and make our camp in the very jaws, as it were, of these frowning batteries. whether it was a fear of bringing on a general engagement, or amazement at our audacity that kept the confederates quiet behind their earth-works we did not then know, but subsequent events proved the former to be the cause. not until the day following did they manifest a disposition to disturb our repose, and then only by a solitary shot that plunged into one of our company's streets, burying itself deep in the soft earth. this shot was sufficient, however, to admonish us of the fact that they had a perfect range of our camp, and could, of they chose, make it exceedingly uncomfortable for us. as a result we very deliberately withdrew, without the loss of a tent or knapsack, back to the main line in the woods, though not wholly beyond the range of their guns. once in our established camp there began a month of as arduous duty as untried soldiers were ever called to perform. digging trenches, constructing earthworks, and picket duty, kept us constantly engaged, and to add to our discomfort the weather was extremely unpleasant; frequent rains wetting us to the skin and rendering the earth about the consistency of a mortar bed. of this time surgeon lyman writes: "here for three weeks the men walked in mud, slept in mud and drank water from holes scooped out of the mud. the combined remonstrances of the medical officers of the brigade, 'that a month's continuance in that place would deprive the government of the services of one-half of its members,' were met by the silencing reply, 'it is a military necessity.' the result showed that our fears were well founded. the malaria of the marshes and swamps of yorktown, with the excessive labor performed in the trenches and on picket duty, debilitated our men for months, sending dozens of them to their graves, and rendering hundreds unfit for service, and many for life." here we had our first experience with the wild garlic, which grew spontaneously in the uncultivated fields and after a day or two's pasturing rendered the flesh of the beeves unpalatable, the taste of the garlic remaining long in the mouth after the act of mastication. here, too, the regiment had its baptismal of blood, in the known to us, though never historically christened, "battle of the peach orchard." on the afternoon of april the d pennsylvania volunteers, while on picket duty in the woods to the left of the yorktown road, was attacked by the enemy. the th was ordered to its assistance and advancing at double quick, formed in line of battle, moving over the open field in face of a hot fire and quickly putting to flight the columns of the enemy, driving them back to the protection of their heavy batteries. in this short but exciting engagement, the regiment lost by wounds two men, samuel merven, of company e, and john cochran, of company f. cochran subsequently died from the effects of his wound and merven was discharged. in this engagement, insignificant as it was, compared with its after battles, the regiment exhibited great coolness and gave token of its ability and readiness for future duty and service. an incident occurred about this date, while the regiment was on picket duty, that is worthy of passing notice. lieutenant wagner, of the topographic engineers, was engaged in making drawings of the confederate works. he had placed a camp table in an exposed position and spread his drafting material upon it. the white paper made an excellent target for the enemy's gunners. one of their shots struck the table and fatally wounded the lieutenant. a few moments after he rode along the rear of our lines, his shattered and bleeding arm dangling at his side. this shot is referred to, after these many years, by general longstreet in his recent work, as one of two of the most remarkable shots, for accuracy of aim, of the war. he says: "an equally good one (shot) was made by a confederate at yorktown. an officer of the topographical engineers walked into the open in front of our lines, fixed his plane table and seated himself to make a map of the confederate works. a non-commissioned officer, without orders, adjusted his gun, carefully aimed it, and fired. at the report of the gun all eyes were turned to see the occasion of it, and then to observe the object, when the shell was seen to explode as if in the hands of the officer. it had been dropped squarely upon the drawing table and lieutenant wagner was mortally wounded."--gen. longstreet, in "from manassas to appomattox." this shot appears, by a note to the text written by capt. a. b. moore, of richmond, va., to have been fired by corporal holzbudon, of the d company, richmond howitzers, from a ten-pound parrott gun. another incident more immediately connected with the regiment, worthy of a place in its history as an exhibition of accurate firing, occurred here. on the left of our regimental picket line was stationed a section of a field battery whose duty was to shell the enemy's works and prevent their annoying our lines. for some time colonel campbell watched with manifest disgust the green cannoneers blazing away at random, and with evidently little effect. at length stepping to one of the guns the colonel said: "boys, let me sight this gun for you." running his eye along the sights and giving the elevating screw a turn, he said: "now, let her go!" in an instant the death-dealing missile was speeding on its way, entered the enclosure and exploded amid the startled gunners of the enemy. "there, boys, that's the way to shoot. don't waste your powder!" said the colonel, as he turned and walked away, an expression of satisfaction wreathing his florid face. by the d of may all things were in readiness to open our batteries of big guns on the confederate fortifications and all were in excited expectation of the bombardment and possible storming of the enemy's works on the following day, but the morning light of the th revealed the enemy's strong works abandoned and empty. in the night, johnson, who had superseded magruder in command, like the arab had "folded his tent and silently stolen away." the th pennsylvania were the first to enter the abandoned works. the news of the evacuation of the works and retreat of the confederates spread rapidly from regiment to regiment, and our bloodless victory, but not without the loss of many a brave boy, was celebrated with wild shouts and cheers. the cavalry followed closely on the heels of the retreating enemy, but the infantry did not take up the line of march until later in the day; fighting joe hooker's division following first, with kearny close in his rear. as we marched through the confederate works, stakes planted upright in the ground with red danger signals attached gave warning that near them were planted torpedoes, placed there for the injury of the unwary by the enemy. a story was told at the time that the planting of these torpedoes was revealed to lieut. r. p. crawford, of company e, of the th, then serving as aid on general jameson's staff, by a confederate deserter. that the th pennsylvania, being about to enter the abandoned works, this confederate stepped out from the shelter of a building, and, throwing up his hands as an indication that he desired to surrender, came forward and revealed to lieutenant crawford, who chanced to be present, the secret danger that threatened them if they attempted to enter the works without caution. thus forewarned of their danger, a squad of prisoners, under compulsion, were made to search out, and locate these concealed missiles, thereby preventing possible loss of life and woundings. during the afternoon of the th the regiment marched with the division about four miles on the main road to williamsburg and bivouacked for the night. by dark rain began to fall and continued throughout the night and the day following. the early morning of the th found us on the march again. the rain had thoroughly soaked the light clay soil and the preceding ammunition trains and batteries had worked the soft clay roads into deep ruts and numerous mud holes. to take to the fields and roadsides did not better much the marching, the unsodded fields being little better than quagmires, in which the men floundered to the knees. all the forenoon there was now and then cannonading to our front with occasional rattle of musketry, indicative of skirmishing, but by two or three o'clock there came the long swelling roar of infantry firing, giving evidence that our advance had overtaken the enemy and they were making a stubborn stand. the atmospheric conditions were such that from these sounds the battle appeared to be but a mile or two in our advance, and at every turn of the way we expected to see the blue line of smoke and snuff the odors of burning powder, while in fact the engagement was five or six miles distant. reaching a point about two miles from the battlefield the regiment was ordered to unsling knapsacks, doff blankets and overcoats and march at quick step to the front. as we neared the field, panting from our exertion, we passed a brass band standing by the roadside. general heintzelman, observing them as he passed, exclaimed in that nasal twang so familiar to all: "play, boys, play! play hail columbia! play yankee doodle! play anything! play like h--l!" it is needless to add that the band promptly obeyed and the strains of the national quickstep put a new spring in our weary limbs, revived our flagging spirits and with a rousing cheer we pressed forward. arriving on the field the regiment was deployed in line of battle in the woods to the right of the road, but darkness was settling over the field, the firing soon ceased and we were not engaged. the night following was extremely disagreeable. the rain continued to fall, and drenched to the skin we lay on our arms all night without fire, blankets or rations. by morning the lowering clouds were gone, and so also were the johnnies, leaving their dead unburied and their wounded to our tender care. many private houses of the ancient town, all of the churches and that venerable seat of learning, from whose halls came many of the nation's most eminent statesmen and patriots, william and mary college, were turned into hospitals, where friend and foe were gathered from the field of conflict, housed, and cared for by our surgeons and nurses with undiscriminating attention. an incident that well illustrates the reckless daring of general kearny, and which ultimately lost him to our cause, as well as the influence of such acts upon others, occurred during this engagement. during the battle, general kearny, accompanied by general jameson, rode out to the front, and on an open piece of ground, in full view of the contending forces, the two sat there observing the progress of the battle, apparently oblivious of the fact that they were exposing themselves as targets to the enemy's sharpshooters. past them the minie balls were zipping, while the air was redolent with the "ting" of musket balls and buck-shot. at length, satisfied with their observations, they coolly turned their horses about and rode to the rear. the day following, general jameson was approached by one of his aides who had witnessed the act, who said to him: "general, don't you think the risk you and general kearny exposed yourselves to yesterday was unjustifiable?" "i certainly do," the general candidly replied. "then why did you take the risk?" the aide queried. "captain," said the general, gravely, "if i had been conscious that i would have been hit the next minute i would not have turned my horse's head. why, what would kearny have thought of me!" after the battle the regiment camped immediately west of town. of course the commands that had borne the brunt of the battle were lionized, as were also those officers who had acted a conspicuous part. on this field general hancock received his chief sobriquet, "the superb," which clung to him throughout life. regimental ranks, after a hard day's fighting, often were very much broken, the losses not always being catalogued as of the killed and wounded; roll calls exhibiting many names marked "missing," or "absent without leave." these absentees invariably reported fearful losses in their commands. while in camp at williamsburg a strapping big fellow with turbaned head, blue jacket profusely decorated with gold lace, and baggy red trousers, wandered into our midst. "hello! what regiment?" one of the boys inquired. "---- regiment." "but what state?" "new york, of course." "in the fight?" "yep. all cut to pieces. i'm the only one left!" chapter iii. by j. m. martin. battle of fair oaks--death of major culp--increasing sick list--advancing our lines--the seven days' battles--glendale or charles city cross roads--the fifty-seventh under captain maxwell as rear guard--malvern hill--retreat to harrison's landing. on the th the army resumed the march "on to richmond," the th diverging from the main line to cumberland landing on the pamunkey, where for several days it guarded the army stores that had been shipped by steamer to that point. afterwards we rejoined the brigade at baltimore store, and on the th crossed the famous chickahominy at bottom's bridge and camped on a pine covered bluff to the left of the railroad, a short distance from the river and near savage station. as soldiers we knew little of the danger that confronted us, and nothing of the councils being held by the enemy plotting our discomfiture. this knowledge was reserved for us until the st. on that day about one o'clock, just after the regiment had its midday ration, like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky the crash of musketry came to our ears from the front. casey's division of key's corps, which had pushed about three miles to our front, and had erected some slight fortifications near fair oaks station, had been suddenly and fiercely attacked by overpowering numbers. for what seemed to us hours, that probably did not exceed minutes, we stood listening to the crash and roar of the battle. soon the long roll was beaten, the bugle blast sounded, the order to "fall in" was given, and we knew our hour had come. forming in line with the other regiments of the brigade, we were soon on the march toward the front at a quick-step. taking the line of the railroad, and the sound of the battle for our guide, we pressed on. nearing the battlefield we began to meet the scattered and retreating men of casey's division, many of them wounded and bleeding, but the majority suffering only from panic. among this fleeing and panic-stricken mass, field and staff officers rode, seeking to stay their flight and reform their broken lines. general kearny rode among them shouting, "this is not the road to richmond, boys." approaching nearer the field of battle the lines assumed a more defiant order, and it was evident that the greater mass of the troops were nobly standing, and lustily cheered us as we passed. a short distance beyond fair oaks station the brigade was deployed in line of battle in an open field to the right of the railroad. the thick woods to our front afforded an excellent cover for the enemy's sharpshooters, of which they speedily availed themselves, field and staff officers being their tempting targets. in a few moments orders were received to move to the left. there was a slight cut at the point of crossing the railway track and under the sharp fire from the enemy there was some confusion in making the crossing. while effecting this movement major culp was instantly killed and several of the line wounded. after crossing to the left of the railroad the brigade was again formed in line, face front, and stood waiting orders to advance. immediately in our front was a "slashing," several rods in width. beyond that was standing timber quite open. we were not long waiting orders and soon were moving cautiously forward, scrambling over and through the felled timber. once beyond the "slashing," our lines that had become disarranged were again formed. from our position we could see an open field beyond, across which extended a line of confederate infantry, their compact ranks presenting a fine mark and in easy range of our austrian rifles, with which we were then armed. colonel campbell, who had dismounted, having left his horse beyond the "slashing," standing a few paces to the rear of the column, in low, but distinct tone gave the command, "ready! aim! fire!" every gun in the line responded. what the execution was is not known, the smoke from our pieces completely excluding our view, but that every johnnie had not bitten dust was soon evident from the lively manner in which they sent their missiles amongst us in very brief time. after the first volley the regiment loaded and fired "at will," the men seeking cover behind logs and trees as best they could from the enemy's returning compliments. how long this duel was maintained it is impossible to state, as the occasion was such that to take note of passing time was out of question. the troops holding the extreme right of our line at length gave way, and the enemy, seizing the opportunity, threw forward a strong flanking column that soon began a severe enfilading fire that compelled us to fall back obliquely to avoid a retreat through the slashing, and take a position in the woods beyond the open field in which we first formed. this closed the fighting for the day, and night soon settled over the scene, and while we had met with reverses, yet we were encouragingly satisfied, for the enemy had not succeeded in his purpose, by overwhelming numbers, to drive us into the chickahominy before reinforcement could come to our aid from the north side. that night we slept on our arms, without tents or blankets, for these we had left in our camp to the rear. during the night sumner's corps succeeded in crossing the river, swollen by recent rains, and by daybreak was on the field, and engaging the enemy, drove him back to the shelter of his works about richmond. the regiment lost severely in this engagement. colonel campbell was dangerously wounded in the groin and while being carried to the rear was again shot in the arm. major culp, as before stated, was killed, and captain chase, of company k, mortally wounded. the loss in the line was eleven killed and forty-nine wounded. the command of the regiment now devolved on lieutenant colonel woods, and captain simonton of company b, was promoted to the rank of major. the battle was immediately followed by heavy rain storms. tents and camp equipage were back in the rear and were not forwarded for two or three days. in the meantime the men stood about, drenched to the skin, or sat upon logs drying their saturated clothing upon their backs in the hot sunshine that interspersed the showers. the earth was soaked with water, which for lack of springs or wells, was used for drinking and cooking purposes, it only being necessary to dig a shallow hole anywhere to gather the needed supply. the damp hot weather brought about rapid decomposition of the dead and unburied animals and the chance bodies of friend or foe who had fallen in "slashing" or thicket and thus remained undiscovered, produced a sickening stench. these causes soon produced much sickness and the swamp fevers carried many to the hospitals, some never to return. rumors of the renewal of hostilities, possibly by night attack, kept the army constantly on the alert, and our accouterments were rarely taken off night or day; orders being issued to sleep in shoes ready to "fall out" and "into line" at a moment's notice. on one occasion a kicking mule was the innocent cause of a hasty mustering of our forces, to the great chagrin of the weary and sleepy soldiery. general hooker, ever anxious for fight and adventure, made an advance on his own motion, in which he was actively supported by general kearny, pushing his lines close up to the enemy's defenses, so that from a lookout station established in the top of a large tree the church spires and steeples of the coveted confederate capital could plainly be seen. but this movement was not in accord with general mcclellan's plan of campaign. the position was hazardous in the extreme, inviting another onset by the enemy, and we were soon withdrawn to our original lines and the shelter of our breastworks. this was our nearest approach to richmond until after appomattox in the spring of . amid these scenes of constant picket duty, digging rifle-pits, and building fortifications the regiment passed the month of june. on the th the sound of heavy firing on the extreme right came to our ears all the afternoon. the enemy in our front was exceedingly vigilant and we drew the fire of their pickets on the slightest exposure. late in the evening loud cheering was heard to our right, and the report was circulated, and credited, that that wing of our army had carried the confederate defenses to the north of the city, and we lustily joined our comrades, as we supposed, in their shout of victory. but, alas! for the truthfulness of camp rumors! it was all a mistake; our lines had only successfully repulsed the enemy's repeated assaults at mechanicsville! that was all. the next day, the th, the battle was renewed at gaines mill, a little nearer to our position. the day following, the th, our immediate line withdrew from its advanced position and stood ready to repel any attack that might be made on the battle-worn troops of porter and warren as they slowly filed across the chickahominy to the south side. late in the afternoon general kearny directed the distribution to each man of one hundred and fifty rounds of ammunition (more than twice our usual allowance), and also that each officer in his command should place a red patch in conspicuous view upon his hat or cap. what to do with the superfluous ammunition was a question, and called forth many uncomplimentary remarks, some even suggesting that it was intended to relieve the mules of the ammunition trains by making pack-horses of the soldiery. but we had not long to wait to know the real cause and the wisdom of it, and glad were we to have the extra cartridges for convenient use! the red patch order also proved an important event in army history, in that it was the beginning of the corps badge so popular and useful in the after years of the war. the afternoon of the next day, the th, after a day of anxious waiting and expectancy, the regiment took up the line of march, with the crash of the battle of savage station ringing in their ears, southward across the white oak swamp. late in the evening we filed off upon a by-road leading at right angles to the road on which we were moving. soon we reached a wide swamp, across which had recently been constructed a causeway, or bridge of logs laid in the mud and water side by side, and which was perhaps twenty rods in length. without hesitation the regiment marched out upon this bridge. when the head of the column had about reached the opposite end it was fired upon by the enemy's pickets. here was a dilemma calculated to try the nerve of the bravest. what the enemy's force was none knew, but anyone could realize the terrible slaughter that might be wrought had a section of artillery been turned upon that narrow roadway with a swamp of unknown depth on either side. general kearny, with his accustomed daring, was at the head of the column. turning about, he rode back along the line, his face grave, but calm. "keep quiet, boys, keep quiet. don't be alarmed. about face and move to the rear!" he said as he passed. every man in the regiment seemed to realize the gravity of the situation, and that upon his personal coolness depended the safety of the retreat, and without noise or confusion the regiment "about faced" and soon was back on the road from which we had strayed. that night we bivouacked without tents or fires, wrapping ourselves in our blankets, and, lying down, star gazed until our eyes closed in slumber. the th dawned hot and sultry, and as the men trudged along under the fierce glare of the sun, and their burden of knapsack, haversack, and extra ammunition, many succumbed and fell out of the ranks. arriving at the intersection of the charles city road with that upon which we were marching about mid-day, the regiment filed to the right into an open field, stacked arms and broke ranks. some of our number sought rest in convenient shade, others busied themselves building fires and cooking coffee. in all our surroundings there was not a sign of the enemy's presence, or that from the cover of the woods beyond the field his scouts were watching our every movement. cannonading from the direction whence we had come gave evidence that he was yet beyond the dismal swamps through which we had passed the day before, and the rank and file at least was not aware that a strong force was at that moment marching upon our line from the west with a purpose to intercept us on our way toward the james. to the left of us a section of randolph's battery stood unlimbered, a circumstance rare to be seen while on the march, and to the old soldiers suggestive of possible battle, but the gunners were lolling upon their pieces or sitting about the ground chatting, apparently indifferent, and if they were so, why need others feel concern? thus time passed until o'clock p. m., when suddenly one of those unlimbered pieces, with a crash that brought every man to his feet, sent a screaming shell far out over the woods beyond. this defiant shot seemed at once to be accepted by the enemy as a challenge to action, for immediately there followed a spattering discharge of musketry along our front, the bugle notes sounded and the command to "fall in" rang out along the lines. "and there was mounting in hot haste, the steed, the mustering squadrons, and the clattering car went pouring forth with impetuous speed, and swiftly forming in the ranks of war; and deep thunder, peal on peal, afar; and near, the beat of the alarming drum roused up the soldiers." in advancing to take our position in the line of battle each man seized a rail of a convenient fence that stood in the way, and when halted, out of these constructed an improvised shelter, behind which we crouched to meet and repel the enemy's desperate onslaughts. from that hour until darkness covered the scene, the battle raged furiously and almost incessantly. charge after charge was made upon our lines, often coming so near that faces were clearly discernible through the smoke of battle, so determined was the enemy to break our lines and reach the road in our rear, over which our wagon trains and unengaged forces were pressing toward the james river. perhaps in no battle of the war was there so long and continuous fighting by the same troops as in this engagement. it was all important that the army should be safely guarded past this most vulnerable point, and posted on the river bluffs and under the protection of our gunboats. the enemy, as well, seemed to realize the need of breaking our lines or lose the fruits of their victory purchased at such fearful cost, and therefore pressed our line hard and continuously, so that if disposed to do so, there was little time given to relieve us by the substitution of other troops. in this engagement major simonton was wounded in the shoulder about o'clock in the evening. lieutenant colonel woods was absent on sick leave, and the command of the regiment devolved upon captain ralph maxwell, of company f. before midnight the troops were withdrawn from the line of battle and were on the march to malvern hill, the place of rendezvous of the army, near the james river. as we moved quietly along in the darkness general kearny rode up and asked captain maxwell what regiment we were. when informed, he complimented us very highly for the part we had taken in the recent battle, then ordered him to return us to our old position and hold it until daylight, when he would have us relieved. we "about faced" and were soon back in our old place as nearly as could be determined in the darkness. the supposition was that the whole brigade was with us and we did not discover differently until an hour or more later. of this occurrence captain maxwell says: "i thought along toward midnight i would go and have a talk with whoever commanded the th. i went to the right of the th, but could find no one; all was vacancy. i immediately retraced my steps and, passing to the left, found the d gone also. nobody there but one poor, little, lone regiment! it then came to me that we were placed there to be sacrificed for the safety of the rest of the army. i knew the penalty for violating general kearny's orders, but at the same time i could not think of sacrificing these men to certain capture and imprisonment. i did not like to break orders and i could not do the other. soon after we heard the trundle of artillery, and the tread of the marching men to our front, and then lights gleaming to our front. evidently this was the enemy. i made up my mind i would try and save the regiment, orders or no orders, and let them court-martial me and be d--d. i ordered the regiment to form silently in two ranks, then gave the order to march and file right. they did so and all filed past me and got on the road. i then ran along the line to the head of the regiment and gave the order to double quick, and we went down that road on the run, and none too soon. five minutes more and we would have been prisoners! we caught up to the main body of the army and took our usual position in the brigade. i was afraid to ask any questions and never heard anything about our disobedience of orders. but one thing is certain, i am glad i did what i did that night!" in this engagement our regiment lost seven killed and fifty-six wounded, a number of whom subsequently died. the next morning found the regiment in line on malvern hill. this position was almost impregnable. on the south side flowed the james river on which floated the union fleet of gunboats. on the north side was an impenetrable swamp. to attack, the confederates had to charge from the west and in our front over long stretches of open ground in the face of our batteries posted along the hill side, their right flank enfiladed by the fire from our gunboats. general porter, speaking of the strength of this position, says that when by inspections he realized its natural advantages, and had seen his division properly posted, he returned to the malvern house, where he had established his headquarters, and, lying down on a cot, dropped at once into so sound a sleep, that although the battle following surged up to the front yard of the house, he was not awakened, although at any other time during the campaign the snap of a cap would rouse him instantly, so great was his sense of the security of his position. notwithstanding these natural advantages, the elated, but weary forces of jackson, longstreet, and hill, reinforced by the fresh troops of magruder and hugar, charged and recharged our lines with desperate persistence deserving of a better cause, but each time were repulsed with fearful slaughter. the losses of the th in this engagement were two killed and eight wounded, lieutenant charles o. etz and the orderly sergeant of company d being the two fatal casualties. the death of lieutenant etz and his companion occurred under peculiarly sad circumstances. wearied with the battle of the preceding afternoon and the night vigil following, these two comrades had lain down together, the sergeant's head resting on the lieutenant's breast, and were snatching a moment's sleep. a shot from one of the enemy's batteries struck the two sleepers, killing them instantly. thus, all unconscious of their danger, they were swept by one swift stroke into that sleep that knows no waking. the battle over and the enemy severely chastised, the grand army of the potomac, with thinned and broken ranks, a mere shadow of its former greatness, continued the retreat, harrison's landing, a place of historic importance in that the line of its occupants has given to our country two chief executives, lying a few miles below malvern hill on the james, being the place selected for final rendezvous. during the night following the battle the th was again on outpost duty, but early the following morning was quietly withdrawn and in a drenching rain that continued throughout the day, again took up its wearisome march, arriving in the vicinity of the landing toward evening, weary, wet and worn! the harrison mansion, a substantial structure of brick, reared in colonial days, stood on an eminence overlooking the broad sweep of the james river. between the mansion and the river was a stretch of grass-covered field gently sloping to the water's edge. adjoining this to the west, or northwest, was a large wheat field. a greater part of the standing grain had been cut and was in shock. these golden sheaves were quickly appropriated by our troops and spread upon the water-sodden ground, whereon to rest their weary bodies. a few brief hours sufficed to obliterate every trace of this harvest scene, and where the husbandman had so recently been reaping in peace the fruits of his field, batteries were now thickly packed and soldiers' tents, not white, but wet and earth soiled, stood in long ranks. chapter iv. by j. m. martin. camp life at harrison's landing--major birney assigned to the command of the regiment--transferred to general birney's brigade--evacuation of harrison's landing and the peninsula--the army of the potomac is sent to reenforce general pope. the regiment, upon its arrival at harrison's landing, presented a most pitiable spectacle. but three months before it numbered almost nine hundred; now but little over half a hundred responded for duty at first roll-call, and there was not a field officer present. says surgeon lyman: "all were exhausted and disheartened, scarcely a well man in the regiment, with two hundred and thirty, for the first few days, on the sick list." for a time captain ralph maxwell was in command of the regiment, but was succeeded later by captain strohecker. funerals were of such frequent occurrence that the solemn notes of the dead march were almost continually to be heard, until, for the benefit of the living, burials with military honors were suppressed by general order. to the great annoyance of brigade commanders they could muster no more men for brigade drill than would compose an ordinary battalion; the regiments presenting no better appearance as to numbers than a company, and a company than a corporal's guard. as a consequence there were frequent charges of "shirking duty" preferred, and the officers of the line watched and counted with greatest care their rolls for available men. an amusing anecdote of this watchful regard of the superior officers is told by colonel strohecker. he says: "for a few days our regiment was attached to the d, and under the command of colonel alexander hayes. on one occasion he had the two regiments 'fall in,' and passing along the line counted the men in each company with great care, comparing their number with the adjutant's report which he held in his hand. when he counted my company i lacked three men to fill the report, and then the colonel commenced cursing me for reporting more men than i turned out. i replied that i did not report more men than i had in line. at this he exhibited to me the adjutant's report and said he would see me later. true enough, there were three more men reported for duty on the adjutant's report than i had turned out. the figures were against me. he dismissed me and i went to my quarters crestfallen. i took up my morning report book, and discovered there was a mistake somewhere. my morning report and the number of men i had in line tallied exactly. i immediately called upon the colonel and armed with my morning report proved that i was right. he called his adjutant and asked him to explain. that officer replied that in consolidating the company reports he could not make them agree, so he just put three more men to my account! 'what!' exclaimed the colonel. 'you falsify the morning report of a captain and his orderly? i'll let you know' and then the very air seemed blue! to me he only said, 'captain won't you have a drink?'" general kearny was no admirer of a rifle-pit campaign. "an open field and a fair fight," was more to the pleasing of the military taste of this intrepid commander; he was, therefore, loth to have his troops exhausted with the labor of their construction, and as occasion offered was not slow to so express himself. one quiet sabbath morning, while in camp at this place, a detail from the th was on its way, armed with pick and spade, to this duty. as they trudged along their way kearny met them, and, returning the salute of the lieutenant commanding the squad, inquired: "lieutenant, where are these men going?" "to work on the breastworks, general," replied the officer. "about face your men, and return to your quarters," sharply replied the general. "six days in the week are enough to work on fortifications. these men need their sunday rest!" it is needless to say the order was promptly obeyed and regard for their commander rose several degrees in the estimation of these weary veterans. the camp of the regiment was near a fine stream of water on which was erected a dam that afforded the men most excellent bathing opportunities, which doubtless contributed much to their general health besides personal cleanliness. ovens were also built and for a time they enjoyed the luxury of "soft bread." there was, however, a dearth of vegetables, and aside from an occasional ration of onions, and that conglomeration of pumpkin, squash, etc., compounded under the euphonious name of "dessicated vegetables," but which the boys derisively dubbed "desecrated vegetables," green truck was unknown in their daily bill of fare, in consequence of which diarrhoea and kindred complaints were prevalent, and many disqualified for active duty. [illustration: william burney] during the encampment at harrison's landing major william birney, of the th new jersey regiment, a brother of general david b. birney, was assigned to the command of the th regiment. major birney was an officer of rare ability, a strict disciplinarian, an indefatigable drill-master, and withal a gentleman, winning and courteous to the humblest when off duty, and abhorring the petty tyrannies in which some officers of brief authority seemed to delight. he also enjoyed to the highest degree the confidence of his superiors, and very soon won the respect and esteem, as well, of the rank and file. a story told about the camp fires, whether true or false, well illustrates the characteristics of the man and deserves recording. at the breaking out of the war major birney was commissioned an officer in one of the new jersey regiments composing the new jersey brigade, commanded by general kearny, but possessed of little knowledge of his duties as such, or ability to drill his men. on one occasion while attempting to put his regiment through its evolutions general kearny chanced to pass, and halting, watched the major in his attempts with evident disgust. the general was never noted for his patience, especially with inefficiency of an officer in his line of duty, and riding up to the major, reprimanded him sharply, bidding him to go to his quarters and never attempt to drill his men again until he had mastered the tactics. it is said, the major, stung with reproof, went to his quarters, not to sulk over this and possibly resign his commission, but to study, and when he next appeared on drill he was the best informed and most efficient drill master in the brigade, receiving the compliments of the general, who ever after held him in highest esteem. of the major's persistency, if not his efficiency, as a drill master, every member of the th regiment would willingly certify. major birney's discipline was not confined to camp life, and the drill ground. it extended as well to the march. every morning on the march the regular detail for guard duty was made, and this detail, under command of the officer of the day, marched at the rear of the column, and proved an efficient preventive to "straggling," a habit exceedingly demoralizing to an army on the march. if any fell sick or gave out by the way they were taken charge of, and if possible, were placed in an ambulance, or in the absence of such, in one of the regimental or brigade wagons. if canteens needed replenishing a detail was made from each company to perform that duty. if foraging was to be engaged in it was done in the same methodical manner, and this was not infrequent, for the major was a strong believer in the doctrine of the rights of the army to live off the products of the enemy's country, but it had to be done "decently and in order." when on the march, if an obstruction was encountered, the head of the column was always halted until all had passed the obstruction and the ranks closed up. by this means the men in the rear were saved the necessity of moving at a "double quick" to overtake those in advance, a duty very exhausting, and as a consequence the command was always kept in compact order and could, with less fatigue, march twenty miles a day than ten by the old "go as you please" methods so common while on the march. during our army's encampment at harrison's landing the confederates were quiet and only deigned to make their presence known on one occasion and that was in the way of a night surprise, sending by way of a reminder that they were yet alive and alert, a number of shells across from the heights on the south side of the river. this piece of pleasantry was replied to promptly by our batteries, and the next day arrangements were made to prevent a repetition by sending a division of infantry under general butterfield over to that side and taking possession of those hills for ourselves. on august th the th was transferred from jameson's old brigade (the st) to general d. b. birney's ( d) brigade. general jameson was injured by the falling of his horse at fair oaks and died from his injuries the following november. he was one of the finest looking officers in the army. general j. c. robinson succeeded him in command, and led the brigade in the seven days' battles. general birney was one of the original brigade commanders of kearny's division. his brigade now comprised the following regiments, viz: the th and th pennsylvania; d and th maine; th, th and st new york. there were seven regiments, but numerically, they scarcely exceeded the strength of two full regiments. on august th, the army broke camp and commenced the retrograde movement back through williamsburg and yorktown, our campaign ground of the earlier spring, its ultimate destination being to join pope in his disastrous campaign with headquarters "in the saddle." the breaking camp of a great army is always a stirring scene. the mounted aids and orderlies riding in hot haste; the mustering legions and forming squadrons with flying colors; the bonfires of camp debris; the popping of discarded cartridges with occasional deeper intonation of exploding bomb, altogether make a scene not soon to be forgotten. the time of year was the "roasting ear" season of the virginia cornfields, and great fears were entertained by the army medical staff as to the probable disastrous results to the men of a too free indulgence by them in that luxury. as a consequence they were strictly admonished to abstain from the toothsome viand, but all to no purpose. we had roasting ears boiled, roasting ears roasted, and roasting ears broiled in the husk. we had green corn on the cob and off the cob. green corn for breakfast, green corn for dinner, and green corn for supper, with an occasional lunch of green corn between times. yet, wonderful to relate, instead of any injury resulting, on the contrary the effect was decidedly beneficial, in that by the time we arrived at yorktown there was scarcely a man to respond to sick call. the evening of the first day's march the regiment camped near a large brick plantation house. the owner and family were absent, but the negro servants were very much "at home" with the "yanks" and until late in the night were busily employed baking "hoe cake" for all who applied. the following day the th with the th maine were detached and served as "flankers" on the left of the army, marching by a road that intersected the road by which the regiment had advanced from williamsburg toward richmond at a point near barhamsville, thence by the last named road to williamsburg and yorktown. at williamsburg there still remained many evidences of the struggle of the preceding may, particularly the marks of shot and shell upon the standing timber, many of these marks being high up on the tree trunks and exhibiting a very unsteady aim. at yorktown the regiment embarked for alexandria and from thence were speedily transferred by rail on the orange and alexandria road to a point near warrenton junction. at alexandria many of the men took the opportunity to imbibe a liberal quantity of liquid refreshments, the first chance they had to do so since the issuing of whiskey rations in the swamps in front of richmond. to the credit of the th, but very few indulged beyond their capacity to carry their load steadily, but such could not be said of some of the other regiments in the division, notably one of new york, in which there were not a sufficient number of "sobers" to care for the "drunks." the cars on which we were shipped to the front were the ordinary "flats." by the time their "drunks" were safely deposited on these cars by the "sobers" fully one-half had rolled off into the side ditches, and so the process of reloading had to be repeated time and again with many intervening, and sometimes amusing, sparring matches to add to the confusion and delay. while these bacchanalian exhibitions were going on general kearny and staff rode along the side of the railway track, doing what they could in the way of encouragement to the overworked "sobers" in their apparently endless task. as the general passed the th some member called out to a comrade near to the scene of drunken strife in progress on the adjoining cars, inquiring if any of the th were engaged in the fracas then going on. the general promptly turned in his saddle and shouted back, "no, thank god, there's none of the th!" it was not the regiment's privilege to ride all the way from alexandria to its destination at the front. disembarking near catlett station it advanced by easy marches. somewhere on the virginia peninsula captain maxwell, of company f, had secured the services of an old negro as his cook. at malvern hill this old fellow had not put sufficient space between himself and the enemy for safety, and found himself in rather close proximity for comfort to the shells of their batteries. while at harrison's landing it was the delight of the boys to get this old man to describe the battle and give his experience under fire. his inimitable imitation of the screaming shot and shell accompanied with grotesque pantomime was amusing in the extreme. we little thought, however, the deep impression these scenes and experiences had made upon his mind until again we came in sound of the enemy's guns. as the regiment advanced toward bealeton the cannonading in our front became at times quite heavy. the old cook was trudging along by the side of the marching column, carrying a camp kettle, when suddenly the batteries opened fire. he stopped, looked and listened, with fear depicted in every lineament of his dusky face. "dis chil' done gone fur 'nuf dis way!" he exclaimed. then turning about took toward the rear as fast as his legs could carry him. it was the last seen of the captain's cook. chapter v. by j. m. martin. second bull run campaign--battle of chantilly--death of general kearny--his body escorted to washington by a detachment of the fifty-seventh--retreat to alexandria--conrad's ferry--colonel campbell rejoins the regiment. our stay in the neighborhood of bealeton and warrenton junction was brief. lee was moving northward, the main body of his army being west of the bull run mountains, while jackson with stewart's cavalry was on the east. the d corps in which the th served fell back to centerville by way of greenwich and manassas junction. as we passed the latter the buildings and many cars were smouldering ruins, showing that jackson's outflankers had recently been there, and that the main body of his troops could not be far distant. the night of the th we bivouacked at centerville and the next morning marched out the warrenton turnpike. on our way we met quite a number of paroled prisoners who had just been sent through the lines by jackson. they were quite jubilant, reporting that desperate fighter completely hemmed in at the base of the mountains and likely to fall an easy prey to our army. with this hopeful intelligence we pressed on with stimulated zeal toward the front. arriving on the battlefield kearny's division was deployed on the extreme right of the line, which position it held during the two succeeding days of the battle, most of the division at one time or other being hotly engaged. the th, however, escaped, though frequently under fire. along the left and center the battle raged fiercely. the issue hung upon the ability of pope to crush his antagonist, the redoubtable "stonewall," before assistance could come to him from his chief beyond the mountains. but alas for our fondest expectations! longstreet pressed his way through the insecurely guarded mountain pass, thoroughfare gap, and late in the afternoon of the th, when victory seemed about to perch on our banners, threw himself with irresistible force against our left. the onset was so fierce and unexpected that it did not lie in human power to resist, and in a few brief moments, all hope vanished, rout followed, and an almost _fac simile_ of the disaster of the preceding summer was the consequence, except that our legions were veterans now, the army retained its morale and (especially the right wing) fell back in good order upon centerville, the enemy, either from being sorely crippled, or satisfied with his success, giving little annoyance. the army in this encounter could not be said to have been defeated. fully one-third of its efficient force had not been engaged. a general impression prevailed in the ranks that we either had been outgeneraled or that some stupendous blunder had been made. rumors of disobedience of orders by officers high in rank filled the air, and mortification and chagrin the breasts of all. we were not whipped; that would have been satisfying. the story was that in the game of war our adversary, in playing his winning card, had been aided by the petty strifes and jealousies among our own leaders. happily history has done much to remove this feeling and as well the clouds that overcast the fair name and fame of at least one of our corps commanders, whose bravery and ability none doubted. but then it was different, and provoked by defeat, slight evidence was sufficient to call down maledictions loud and bitter. during august st and september st the regiment camped near centerville, but in the afternoon of the st received marching orders and filed out on the road leading to fairfax court house. marching leisurely along, all unconscious of the near presence of an enemy, we were suddenly startled by the sound of skirmish firing to our left. a moment later general kearny and staff rode past at a gallop. the desultory firing of the skirmishers increased rapidly to volleys and soon we were advancing to the front at a double quick. wheeling to the left of the road on which we were marching we were deployed in line of battle; part of the division immediately advanced and soon was hotly engaged. in the midst of the roar of battle a fierce electric storm burst upon the contending forces, and the flashes of lightning and peals of thunder mingled with the crash of musketry and booming of cannon, while rain descended in torrents. while the regiments of the division were being advanced general kearny sat on his horse but a few paces from the th. some of his staff suggested that the regiment be assigned to the advance column. "no," replied the general, "place the th in reserve. if these men have to retreat i want them to fall back upon men that won't run!" these were the last words he ever uttered in our presence. within a brief hour he lay cold in death within the enemy's lines, the victim of that spirit within him so often manifested on the field of battle and at the post of danger, never to send another where he himself would not willingly go. to the th was accorded the honor of receiving from the confederates under a flag of truce the following morning the remains of their fallen leader, the five right companies, a, b, c, d and e, with the colors subsequently acting as special escort of the body to washington, d. c. the day following the short, but sanguinary engagement at chantilly, the remaining companies of the regiment, not detached for the above mentioned sad duty, marched to alexandria and encamped near the regiment's old quarters of the preceding winter. while in camp an incident occurred that came near breaking up the regimental organization. during the peninsula and bull run campaigns the regiment had become reduced in numbers to scarcely one-fourth of its original strength, and as a consequence an order was issued directing the consolidation of the regiment with the th pennsylvania volunteers, which was a comparatively new organization, had seen but little field service and had but recently been assigned to the brigade. the news of this order caused the most intense feeling, the men declaring that "having received from governor curtin their colors when they were returned to the state capital they would return with them." major birney was still absent, having accompanied the remains of general kearny to newark, new jersey. chaplain mcadam immediately visited washington, interviewed the secretary of war, put himself in communication with governor curtin and soon brought to us the good news that the order had been countermanded. chaplain mcadam's success in this important undertaking gave him great popularity in the regiment, if, indeed, his popularity could be increased, for from the first organization of the regiment the chaplain had a warm place in the esteem and confidence of the men, irrespective of rank or condition. the regiment had not been visited by its paymaster since some time before the seven days' battle. as a consequence few if any were the possessors of a "greenback." this alone was aggravating, but when our proximity to alexandria brought us daily visits by numerous hucksters of fruit and gingerbread, not to mention real and toothsome pie, the aggravation was intensified to a degree unbearable. this reached the climax when on a certain occasion a wagon load of watermelons was deliberately driven into camp and displayed on the parade ground. the vender of this luxury, however, demanded a price that no sixteen dollar soldier of "uncle sam" could think of paying. the temptation to enjoy the luscious fruit was too great. one of the boys, disregarding the admonitions of a home-cultured conscience which he still cherished, picked up a melon and walked off with it to his quarters. the huckster followed to collect pay or to recover his property, but alas! his efforts to reclaim the lost melon left the remainder unguarded, and he returned to his wagon only to find the last one gone and his wagon empty. gone, doubtless, in the way of all good melons in an army camp. during the antietam campaign the d corps remained in the defences about washington, south of the potomac. from arlington heights the low mutter from the distant battlefield could be heard and although no tidings came to us of an engagement all felt that a desperate battle was in progress. on september we received marching orders for poolsville, md., and on the th pitched our tents (dog kennel style) near conrad's ferry on the potomac, where we did picket duty until mcclellan again crossed the river and resumed his march on richmond. our sojourn at conrad's ferry was very restful after the summer of hard campaigning; two incidents, however, occurred to add a touch of excitement to our otherwise monotonous camp life. the first was a raid across the river to the ancient town of leesburg, the county seat of loudon county, va., where we had a glimpse, and only that, of the enemy's cavalry pickets and received a thorough wetting going and returning while fording the river. the second was a bootless attempt to head off that bold raider, j. e. b. stewart, in his hazardous ride around our army. we marched and countermarched all day long up and down the river between conrad's ferry and monocacy creek, but notwithstanding our vigilance the wily fox slipped us and gained the virginia shore without so much as giving us a chance shot at him. early in october colonel campbell returned and resumed command of the regiment, although he still carried his arm in a sling. we were indeed glad to see his face again, but sorry to bid farewell to major birney, who had won a warm place in the regimental affections. one of the sad incidents of camp life occurred just before the colonel's return. a member of the regiment had been found guilty of the theft of a pistol from one of the cavalry orderlies at brigade headquarters. his sentence was to stand so many hours daily on the head of a barrel on the parade ground and to march by the front of the line at dress parade under guard to the music of the "rogue's march," with the word "thief" in large letters on a placard strapped across his back. the punishment, while not severe, was indeed humiliating. punishments for such offenses were often severe and always of a character to expose to ridicule and invite contempt, while those of foraging among farmers, which often bore more of the character of theft and robbery than the legitimate right of confiscation for justifiable use, were winked at. on one occasion colonel campbell, while walking along the towing path of the canal that ran near our camp, espied the recently removed integument of a porker. in an apparently towering rage, he returned to camp and announced his discovery, asserting with not a few expletives, more forcible than polite, that "any man who would steal a pig and didn't know enough to hide its skin deserved to be drummed out of camp!" a neighboring farmer made complaint to general hobart ward, commanding the brigade, that his hogs were missing and that some of the th were the culprits. the general promised to institute a thorough search for evidence of fresh pork in our camp and carried out his promise to the letter. through courtesy (presumably) he sent word to colonel campbell of this proposed inspection. the colonel felt it his duty to acquaint the company commanders of the facts; these, in turn, informed the sergeants and they, following their superior's example, told the rank and file. the general came at the hour appointed, and that the farmer might know the sincerity of his promise, brought him with him. the search was thorough, but no evidence of the theft could be obtained. some other command must have appropriated the hogs! of course the farmer was convinced. perhaps, if pressed, would have apologized for his porcine imputation upon our honor. perhaps! chapter vi. by j. m. martin. on to richmond once more--foragers captured--general mcclellan superseded by general burnside--the march to the rappahannock--battle of fredericksburg. the closing days of october found us again on the march, swinging down the virginia valley with the grand army of the potomac, fully recovered and equipped for another measuring of strength with our wily foe, the army of northern virginia. on november th, while we were encamped near waterloo bridge, six men of company k, corporal theodore barber, privates william murray, a. l. marsh, j. w. hummer, adam wert and f. e. hinman, were captured while returning from a foraging expedition. when captured they had several sheep they had gobbled. for some days it was rumored that they had been taken by mosby's guerrillas and hung, but after a short sojourn in libby prison, they were sent to camp parole at annapolis, md., were exchanged, and rejoined the regiment in the following february. no other incident of moment occurred until we reached the vicinity of warrenton, va. there the morale of the army received a shock from which it required months for recovery. it was the unexpected relieving of gen. george b. mcclellan from command, and the assignment of gen. ambrose e. burnside to that high position. that general mcclellan was the idol of the army of the potomac cannot be gainsaid. in him the mass of the troops had unbounded confidence. he had organized, equipped and drilled them. on his shoulders that did not rest the blame of their discomfiture on the peninsula. instead they praised him for his masterly "change of base" from the swamps of the chickahominy to the james. he had from the jaws of defeat at bull run wrested victory from their elated and confident enemy at south mountain and antietam, and now, when on the forward movement again, hopeful of final victory, he was unceremoniously discharged, and one substituted of whom they knew little, and who with protestations of unfitness accepted the command! at warrenton the army encountered the first snowfall of the winter, the morning reveille waking the sleeping host covered with an extra blanket of purest whiteness. our march to the rappahannock was without further incident of note. on november th we arrived upon the heights overlooking the ancient city of fredericksburg sleeping in the river valley, beyond which rose marye's heights and the range of wooded hills, on whose slopes was marshaled our old foe, interrupting our further advance upon the confederate capital. here the army pitched its winter camp. many of the quarters were built quite substantial and comfortable. the messes of five and six, cut and split the soft pine indigenous to that region, constructing therewith log cabins roofed with their shelter tents. many of these cabins were fitted up quite tastefully, having open fire places and bunks erected against the walls which were supplied with pillows and mattresses of the resinous pine needles covered with army blankets, making very comfortable beds, at least quite luxurious to men who had enjoyed nothing better than the ground, or the soft side of a plank, for a year past. but from this dream of peace and comfort we were soon to be rudely wakened. in the early twilight of the morning of december th, the guards that paced their lonely beats about the silent camps were startled by the sudden boom of a signal gun, its deep reverberations up and down the river valley giving warning to friend and foe that a strife for the possession of yonder steeps was soon to begin. for a moment silence followed this signal and then from the hundred brazen throats of the batteries that lined the crest of the hills on the north side flashed sheets of flame amid deafening roar and scream of shot and shell, that brought every sleeper to his feet. the deep notes of the heavier ordnance, mingled with the rifle crack of the lighter parrotts; the whizzing of shot and screaming shells, the path of the latter marked by burning fuse, presented a scene grand and awe-inspiring beyond description. it was war's magnificent prelude to the fiercer music of the clash of a hundred thousand muskets to follow. by daylight, camps were broken, knapsacks packed, and marching columns were pouring forward toward the river where the batteries continued to play and pile their smoke in thick banks along the crest of the hills. all day long we sat about our campfires in our dismantled quarters waiting the order to move, but none came and darkness found us replacing our shelters for another night's rest in our accustomed berths. during the afternoon of the th our corps, the d, marched to the extreme left of the line and bivouacked for the night in a piece of woodland overlooking the river. the next day, the th, we retraced our steps, halting just before noon at a point where we had a magnificent panoramic view of the river, town and field, and down into the valley, where could dimly be seen through the river mists the long lines of blue with flying colors waiting the command to storm the wooded heights beyond. judged by the character of our movements it looked as though we were to be spectators of the struggle about to open. in the line of battle our place properly would be with hooker's grand division, which occupied the center, but instead we were on the extreme left in support of franklin. in this, however, we were mistaken. about o'clock the bugles sounded and the order to fall in passed along the line, and without further delay the long line of the d corps wound down the hill, crossed the river on the lower pontoon bridge and from thence marched directly out upon the plain to the front line of battle. that the hour to strike for the possession of yonder wooded slopes, occupied by the veterans of jackson, had come was evident to all. from our right came the crash and long roll of musketry, telling us that hooker was crowding the enemy in his front and we should not long be idle. soon randolph's and other batteries in our front and on our flanks began to feel for the enemy in the woods to our front. as we stood intently watching the effect of the bursting shells a stream of smoke shot out from a clump of trees and brush to our left center, and an instant later a shell whizzed wickedly over our heads. the enemy's cover was now revealed and on this piece of woodland the fire of every gun in our batteries were concentrated. for a time he replied with vigor, sending shot for shot. the voice of colonel campbell rang out above the din: "lie down." we waited not a second order, but quickly and closely embraced our mother earth. soon explosion followed explosion in quick succession within the enemy's lines. a shot from one of our guns had penetrated one of their caissons and now their own exploding ammunition was doing its deadly work, and silencing their only battery in position to do us immediate harm. now is the time to charge the heights! the pennsylvania reserves are chosen for the hazardous task. in three lines, with arms at a right shoulder shift, they advanced at a quick step. what a magnificent spectacle! not a man falters, but shoulder to shoulder they move across the plain in perfect alignment. at the railroad in the edge of the woods they encounter the enemy, who pour into their ranks a withering fire. with a cheer they spring forward and press back the foe. soon they are lost to view amid the scrub pine, their location only known by the curling smoke from their pieces and their cheers as they ascend the hill. over half way to the summit the second line of the enemy is encountered. again a galling fire is poured into their faces, but still they cheer and press on. down in the valley we stand anxiously, but idly watching the now desperate and unequal contest our comrades of the old keystone are waging. they are brothers, friends and neighbors to many, if not all of us. a half mile intervenes between them and us. we know we are not in supporting distance. our impatience overcomes our discipline to wait the word to advance. shouts are being heard all along the line: "why are not the reserves being supported?" we know too keenly that they must yield to the overpowering odds against them unless reinforced at once! "battalion, right face, forward, file left, march!" rings out clear from the colonel's lips. the men are quick to obey, and we move more rapidly to the front. "by company, half wheel! forward into line on first company!" the movement was executed with alacrity. "forward, guide right." we pressed forward with quick step toward the woods from which was now emerging the broken lines of the reserves, not in panic, but resolutely disputing, as best they could, every step. a drainage ditch from three to four feet deep, grown up in many places with a tangle of briers, extended along our front and parallel with the railroad at the foot of the hills. into this we were ordered in the hope that by its protection we could stay the enemy's countercharge. the reserves were still in our front and to deliver an effective fire was impossible. orders to fall back were given, but in the din of battle were unheard or unheeded, and many who attempted the retreat were left dead or wounded on the field. the enemy swarmed out of the woods in our front without order or alignment, giving but little heed to the ditch, springing over the heads of its occupants in their mad rush for our batteries. there was not time for the gunners to debate the question of the safety of their comrades in their front if they would save their batteries, and possibly the day to our cause. they poured volley after volley of grape and cannister into the advancing enemy, each discharge mowing great swathes in their ranks. it was more than human flesh could bear and soon they were in full retreat for the cover of the woods, and thus ended, so far as the th was concerned, the battle of fredericksburg. in this short encounter, possibly lasting ten minutes, the losses of the regiment were fearful, considering the number engaged. out of men in line, were killed, wounded and missing, of whom were prisoners, . per cent of the whole force engaged! among the wounded was colonel campbell, who fell pierced with three balls; captain strohecker, and surgeon kennedy. during the th the remnant of the regiment acted as provost guard to gather up stragglers until evening, when we were again placed in the front line, where we remained until the night of the th. during the th a truce was declared for the burial of the dead, and removal of the wounded; the ghastly sequel of the battle that robs it of its glory and drowns the acclaims of the victors in the tears of the widowed and sobs of the orphans. during the night of the th our army withdrew to the north side of the river, leaving the confederates the practical victors on the fiercely contested field. the th, with shattered ranks, reoccupied its old quarters, the empty tents and broken messes being sad reminders of the horrors of war, and the uncertainty of the soldier's term of life. thus closed the second year of the war, and the first of service of the th regiment for the preservation of the union, amid scenes of discomfiture, defeat and gloom. chapter vii. by e. c. strouss. camp pitcher--the "mud march"--general hooker in command of the army--resolutions adopted by the fifty-seventh--re-assignment to the first brigade--anecdote of colonel campbell--drill and inspection--adoption of corps badges--the chancellorsville campaign--jackson routs the eleventh corps--a "flying dutchman"--in a tight place--general hooker disabled--general sedgwick's movements--a new line established--strength of the fifty-seventh and its losses. the old camp to which we returned after the battle was now, by order of general birney, called camp pitcher, in honor of major william pitcher, a brave and gallant officer of the th maine, who was killed in the battle of fredericksburg. the camp was located near falmouth on the west side of the richmond & potomac railroad. drill and the regular routine of camp life was resumed. the paymaster soon made his appearance, and the humiliation of our defeat in the recent battle, and our sorrow for comrades lost there, had about vanished, when an order from army headquarters announced another advance against the enemy. the weather for a week or more had been bright and clear, the roads frozen and in good order for the movement of the artillery and trains, therefore general burnside thought the time propitious for an assault on the enemy. this time an attempt was to be made to turn the enemy's left, and get in the rear of their position at fredericksburg. accordingly on the th of january, , we broke camp at daylight and our army was once more on the move. this expedition is known to the old soldiers of the army of the potomac as "burnside's mud march." after a march of ten or fifteen miles up the rappahannock we reached the vicinity of bank's ford about dark, with the intention of crossing there and driving the enemy from their works on the south side of the river. about midnight a warm wind set in from the south, the rain began to fall, and continued to fall with more or less violence for the next three days. after two days of this kind of weather the project of attacking the enemy was abandoned and we got ready to go back to our old camps. the return march was a great trial for the men. with the rain beating pitilessly, the roads and fields soon became a vast sea of mud. heavy details were made from all the regiments to build corduroy roads in order to bring along our trains and artillery. finally we reached our old camp, where our huts were still standing, and these were soon roofed with our shelter tents and we were once more tolerably comfortable. general burnside was relieved from the command of the army of the potomac, and was succeeded by maj. gen. joseph hooker on january th. the announcement of hooker's appointment was hailed with delight by the officers and men of our (birney's) division, where his valor and ability were well known. he was one of the original division commanders of our ( d) corps. we looked on him as a man of the same stamp as the former commander of our division, the lamented kearny. the divisions of hooker and kearny had fought side by side on the peninsula and second bull run campaigns, where they acquired renown and honor. the appointment of hooker was soon marked by an improvement in the commissary department and in the drill and discipline of the army. soon after the battle of fredericksburg certain evil-disposed newspapers and persons at the north were loud in their assertions that the army of the potomac was tired of the war, and demoralized, and circulated reports derogatory to the character of that army. to confute such reports, and to denounce those with whom they originated, a meeting of the officers and men of the th was held on february th, at which resolutions were adopted denouncing as false the calumnious reports circulated concerning the army. one of the resolutions declared that the th would sustain the government in the future as in the past, a resolution which was made good in the following december by three-fourths of the regiment re-enlisting for three years. our regiment was the first to adopt resolutions of this nature which were ordered to be published in the newspapers in the counties in which the regiment was raised. our example was followed by many of the regiments of the army. camp pitcher, with its many pleasant and some unpleasant associations, was abandoned on march th, when we moved about four miles and laid out a new camp about a mile from the potomac creek bridge. on the same day our regiment was reassigned to the first brigade, commanded by colonel collis, who was succeeded a few days afterward by gen. charles k. graham. the brigade consisted of the following named pennsylvania regiments: th, colonel sides; d, colonel kirkwood; th, colonel tippen; th, colonel mcknight; th, colonel collis; and st, colonel madill. lieut-colonel sides, formerly captain of company a, of the th, returned to the regiment on the field at fredericksburg, and took command after colonel campbell was wounded. the latter had been promoted brigadier general, and when able for duty was assigned to the army of the northwest, where the indians of minnesota and dakota were on the warpath and committing great depredations. campbell had wished to be assigned to a command in the army of the potomac, and did not like to be sent west. about this time a friend of writer, j. t. chase, of titusville, pa., met campbell in harrisburg, and reported him as saying: "the rebels tried their damnedest to kill me at fair oaks and fredericksburg, and now i'm to be sent out west to be scalped by the indians." the th were much attached to campbell and nothing would have pleased them more than to serve in a brigade commanded by him. as spring advanced we were kept busy with camp duties. among these were the frequent inspections, by companies, regiment, or brigade. guard mounting was by brigade, with great ceremony, which was always witnessed by many officers and men who were not on duty. it was general hooker who introduced the system of corps badges into the army. the badge of each corps was of a different design and were of different color in the several divisions of a corps, being red for the first division, white for the second, and blue for the third. the designs of the different corps badges were: st corps, a sphere; d, a trefoil; d, a diamond; th, a maltese cross; th, a greek cross; th, a crescent; and th, a star. the badge was made of cloth and was sewed on the top of the cap. by this arrangement, one could tell at a glance to what corps and division a man belonged, and it was of much importance in preventing straggling on the march, or skulking in battle. the badge system was eventually adopted by all other armies in the field. the th belonged to the first division of the d corps, wore a red diamond, and are proud to wear it today at all old soldiers' gatherings. toward the close of the month of april it became evident that another movement against the enemy would soon be made. general hooker's plan was to send a large force up the river, to cross over and turn the rebel left, at the same time sending a force to a point below fredericksburg to make a feint of crossing there. about eight thousand cavalry under general stoneman were to cross the upper rappahannock, gain the enemy's rear and destroy his railroad communications and depots of supplies. on april th the th and th corps crossed the rappahannock at kelly's ford and moved to the rapidan where, with little resistance from the enemy, they crossed the river at germania ford. the th corps moved in the same direction, but crossed the rapidan lower down at ely's ford. the three corps then marched towards chancellorsville, where they arrived on the afternoon of the th. about p. m. of the th the d corps broke camp and moved to near franklin's crossing, the place we had crossed on the th of december. in the same vicinity were the st and th corps. the d corps was in its camp opposite fredericksburg. our position here was menacing, in order to distract the enemy's attention from the flanking movement of the th, th and th corps, in which it was successful. on the th it rained most all day, and nothing was done on our part of the line. on the morning of the th the rain had ceased when the d corps started up the river, followed by the d corps about noon. the march was skillfully masked to hide our movements from the enemy. we marched that afternoon to hartwood church, where our brigade camped for the night, and next morning took a road to the left and crossed the rappahannock about noon at the united states ford, which is located a few miles below the confluence of the rappahannock and rapidan. after a short halt for dinner we resumed our march and a few hours later we reached the place now known by the historic name of "chancellorsville." there is, however, no village there. only a large brick house built for a hotel on account of the mineral springs in the vicinity which were supposed to contain valuable medicinal properties. the house was used by general hooker as his headquarters and on may d it was set on fire by the enemy's shells and burned to the ground. we halted in a field near the brick house for an hour or so, and then, accompanied by a battery, our brigade moved west on the plank road until we reached dowdell's tavern, about two miles distant. this was the headquarters of general howard, who with the th corps was in position on the extreme right of our army. part of his line faced toward the south, and a part to the west toward the wilderness church. chancellorsville is on the verge of the wilderness, where the great battles of the following year were fought. it appears that the reason our brigade was sent to dowdell's tavern, far from the rest of the division, was because general birney had received an order to send a brigade to general howard to strengthen his line. howard deemed himself strong enough to hold his line, so he returned our brigade with compliments to general birney. howard's line, as far as we could see, was not in the position that we generally put ourselves, when in the face of the enemy. his men on the right of the plank road were on open ground with pickets but a short distance in front, and with arms stacked and accoutrements hanging on the guns. the men were lounging about, some cooking, and others playing cards. from all reports they were in similar shape the next evening when they were routed by jackson's onset. when we got back to the division we found it massed in a large field south of the plank road and a few rods west of hooker's headquarters. a section of rebel artillery opened on us here, but their aim was bad and they did but little damage. a party of sharpshooters was sent against them and caused them to withdraw their guns. we remained in this field until about o'clock next morning, when the division moved out the plank road toward the west, when after we had gone about a mile we turned to the left and marched for several hundred rods through a dense wood of small pines, on the farther edge of which was a slight line of works which had been built by troops which we relieved. these works we strengthened and in a short time we had constructed a formidable line of breastworks. we faced southward, the country in our front was open, and we had a good view of the surrounding territory. about noon we could see far in the distance, a rebel wagon train and troops moving, and as at the point where we discovered them they were going south, the general opinion was that they were retreating towards gordonsville. clark's battery of rifled guns, attached to our division, soon got into position and opened on the rebel column, which, it was plain to see, caused considerable commotion among them. they hurried past the point as rapidly as possible, and were soon lost to view. a detachment of berdan's sharpshooters and the th indiana were sent out as skirmishers, and soon reached welford's furnace, where they captured several hundred men of the d georgia and sent them to the rear. the pioneers were sent out to build bridges across a small creek in our front and when these were completed our division moved forward toward the point where we had seen the enemy. whipple's d division of our corps moved forward at the same time on our left and barlow's brigade of the th corps moved with us on our right. marching up into the woods, considerable time was taken up in forming into line of battle, and it was near sundown before it was accomplished. the position of the th was along a rail fence on the brow of a hill overlooking the little valley in which stood the old furnace. just as we were about to advance a furious cannonade was heard far in our rear in the direction of the plank road. this, as it proved, was caused by jackson's assault on the th corps, where inadequate preparations were made for resisting such an onset, and the whole corps was soon streaming to the rear. at dark we received orders to fall in as quietly as possible, when we were marched back by way we had come and halted in the little field in front of the breastworks we had left a few hours before. when the rout of the th corps began berry's (hooker's old) division of our corps, which was on the plank road, was ordered up to check the enemy. in this division was the th new york, a two-year regiment, one of whose members, jack coleman, afterwards joined company k, of the th. he relates that at chancellorsville one of the th corps artillerymen was going to the rear on the run, and carrying on his shoulder the sponge staff, used to sponge the gun and which is generally called the "swab" by battery men. when asked by some of the boys of the th new york what he was running for, he halted long enough to reply, "ach, mein chesus, schneider's battery ish all gone but der schwap." he was evidently bound to hang on to some of uncle sam's property at any rate. while we were still in position near the old breast-works, ward's brigade of our division made a bayonet charge by moonlight, with uncapped guns, into the woods in our front and drove the enemy back far enough to enable us to get out in the morning. just at the dawn of day on may d, the rebel general, j. e. b. stewart, who was commanding jackson's corps, was attempting to straighten his line in the woods on his right. the rebels at that point became aware that a large body of "yanks" were in the field in their front. this was our brigade, which was getting ready to move to the right to get on ground which was more advantageous to resist an attack. where we were, the left flank of the different regiments were presented to the enemy, so we faced to the right and commenced to move briskly when the rebel skirmishers opened fire on us, but we continued on the double quick until we reached the large field south of the chancellor house, where we deployed and formed line of battle awaiting the onset of the enemy, and we did not have long to wait, either. we entered a wood in our front, with the d pennsylvania on the right of our regiment and the th on our left. there our men did some very hard fighting. at one time we made a charge and drove the enemy from a log breastwork, but the woods seemed to swarm with the enemy; they were reenforced and drove us back in turn. we then went in further to the right and were engaged again. the d corps had been fighting since o'clock in the morning. it was now near , when victory was almost in our grasp, as the enemy had been punished severely, and a fresh brigade would have decided the battle in our favor. general sickles had repeatedly called for reenforcements, which could have been spared from the large body of troops which were unemployed in the rear, but general couch, who was in temporary command of the army, refused to take the responsibility of weakening any other part of the line to reenforce sickles. general hooker, while standing near a large pillar of the chancellor house which was hit by a shell, was struck by some of the flying fragments. he was disabled for several hours, during which time the command devolved on general couch, who was the senior general on the field. about o'clock our army took up a new line a short distance in the rear, which covered the roads leading to ely's and united states fords. the open ground around the chancellor house was abandoned to the enemy, who by this time were nearly exhausted, and much reduced by the severe losses they had met with. while the fighting was going on at chancellorsville, general sedgwick had crossed at fredericksburg and drove the enemy from the heights in the rear of the town and then advanced up the river to assist hooker. but several miles out of fredericksburg the rebels encountered him at salem church, where after severe fighting sedgwick's corps (the th) was repulsed and recrossed the river at bank's ford. our new line at chancellorsville was one of great strength, and could almost be defended by the artillery alone, which in large batteries had been posted at advantageous points commanding the approaches of the enemy. they made several attempts against our line during the th, but were always repulsed by the artillery, which was ably handled. in the evening that part of the line held by our brigade was heavily shelled by the enemy, but most of their shells passed over us and burst in the woods in our rear. on the th it began to rain and rained all night, raising the rappahannock so high that our pontoon bridges were in danger of being swept away. one of them had to be taken up to splice out the other two, and it was only by the unremitting labor of the engineer corps that the bridges were held in position. on the morning of the th, after daylight, we commenced our retreat unmolested by the enemy, and recrossed the river at united states ford, and, after plodding all day through the mud and rain, we regained our old camps about o'clock in the evening. the losses of the two armies were nearly equal, though the rebel loss in killed was greater than ours. the union loss was , killed, , wounded. the rebel loss was , killed and , wounded. a severe loss to the enemy was the mortal wounding of stonewall jackson. the losses in the d corps were very heavy, among them two general officers, generals berry and whipple, killed. according to the monthly return of the th, dated april , , we find that the strength of the regiment present for duty was officers and enlisted men; total, . our loss at the battle of chancellorsville was officers and men killed; officers and men wounded; officers and men captured. the officers killed were capt. edson j. rice and lieut. joseph brady, chaplain mcadam and assistant surgeon leet were captured, but being noncombatants they were exchanged a few weeks afterward. the battle of chancellorsville ought to have ended in a victory for us, and no doubt would have done so, had general howard taken proper precautions to prevent surprise on his part of the line. but it seems the fates were against us. the cavalry expedition under general stoneman, of which much was expected, did but slight damage to the enemy's railroads, and returned to our lines having accomplished little or nothing. chapter viii. by e. c. strouss. back again in our old camp--cavalry battle at brandy station--the march to gettysburg--hooker's request for troops at harper's ferry--asks to be relieved from the command of the army--we arrive at gettysburg--battle of july d--strength of the fifty-seventh--its losses--general graham wounded and captured--wounding of general sickles--battle of july d--july th--the confederates retreat--general sickles asks for a court of inquiry--president lincoln to sickles--a visit to the battlefield twenty-five years later. although some of our men had destroyed their huts, when we started on the recent campaign, there were on account of our losses, enough still standing to shelter what was left of the regiment. it was sad to look around at the vacant huts, and to realize that their former occupants would never rejoin us. the st pennsylvania, whose camp adjoined ours, had met with severe losses in the late battle and the large number of unoccupied huts in their camp had a depressing effect on the spectator. after a few days' rest the same old routine of drill, inspection, guard and picket duty was resumed, relieved occasionally by a division or corps review. the paymaster arrived on may th and paid the regiment, each man receiving four months' pay, which to the private soldier meant $ . . about the last week in may we abandoned our old camp for a new location near belle plain landing, which was a depot of supplies on the potomac. the camp was soon laid out, and the weather having become quite warm we needed only our little shelter tents to protect us from the sun or rain. the camp of the regiment was near a road leading to the landing, which was constantly occupied by teams going to, or coming from there, which raised great clouds of dust, to our great annoyance. our cavalry had quite a battle with the enemy at brandy station, which ended favorably for us, and also made it obvious that the rebels were moving northward, thus taking the initiative in what became known as the "gettysburg campaign." on june th, about noon, we were ordered to strike tents, and were soon on the march, over the hills, and through the ravines of stafford county, which were no longer to be used by us as camping grounds. the day was very warm and there was considerable straggling, but the men all got up by night, when we camped at hartwood church. on the th we marched to near bealeton station, on the old orange & alexandria railroad, where we halted for the night, and next day marched for a few miles toward rappanhannock station. on the th we started in the evening and marched northward to catlett station, where we arrived about midnight. on the th we moved to manassas junction. this was one of the hottest days of the season, and some forty men of our division were prostrated by sunstroke. on the th, which was another hot and dusty day, we marched to bull run and encamped at mitchell's ford. on the th we continued our march to centerville, where we remained until the evening of the th, when we started for gum springs. after we had gone about two miles a violent storm of rain set in. this was one of the worst night marches we ever made. the night was dark as pitch, only an occasional flash of lightning to show us the way. when we halted for the night we were drenched to the skin and as our matches were all damp we had hard work to start our campfires. when we had got our fires started we found that the regiment must move a mile further on to go on picket. this was very discomforting, but it had to be done, for such is the life of a soldier. in the meantime the enemy had been moving northward on the west side of the blue ridge mountains. a union force under general milroy of about seven thousand men was attacked by the rebel general ewell, who captured many of them and drove the rest across the potomac. this occurred on the th and th of june. on june th, the th with the rest of the d corps moved from gum springs and crossed the potomac at edwards ferry into maryland and moved up the river to the mouth of the monocacy river. the corps of hill and longstreet of lee's army crossed the potomac at williamsport and sheppardstown and moved toward pennsylvania. they were preceded for several days by ewell, who was now in that state and threatening harrisburg. on june th we left our camp at the mouth of the monocacy and moved to point of rocks, on the baltimore & ohio railroad. the next day we marched by way of jefferson to middletown, md., and on the th to woodsborough. there we learned that general hooker had been relieved from command of the army and had been succeeded by gen. george g. meade. hooker had asked halleck, the general-in-chief of the army, for the forces at harpers ferry and baltimore which were refused him, whereupon he asked to be relieved from command. a few days later meade asked for the same troops, some thirteen thousand in number, and his request was complied with. the change of commanders on the eve of battle was a questionable thing, but as we were successful in the coming conflict, not much was said about it. hooker's army had been depleted after chancellorsville, by the muster out of about thirty thousand two years or nine months men. he was perfectly right in asking for the troops at harpers ferry, which were doing no good there, but on account of an ill feeling existing between halleck and hooker they were refused him, although they were given to meade. to a great many old soldiers it was always a puzzle what halleck was kept at washington for anyway. it now became evident to the men of the th that we would soon be called to fight a battle on the soil of our native state, but where the battle ground would be was as yet a matter of conjecture. on june th we marched from woodborough to taneytown and encamped in a fine grove near the town. many of the citizens of the town, including a goodly lot of ladies visited our camp in the evening and watched with interest the men putting up their tents, and cooking their coffee. the next day we marched but a few miles, and encamped at bridgeport, a small hamlet about half way between taneytown and emmitsburg, md. at o'clock p. m. of july st we were hurriedly ordered to "fall in," when we took the emmitsburg pike and rapidly marched toward gettysburg, twelve miles distant. the day was very warm and sultry, but after a fatiguing march we arrived near the town about p. m., and bivouacked for the night on the trostle farm, which is located about two miles south of gettysburg. there had been severe fighting going on north and west of the town from a. m. until dark. the st and th corps had been engaged with overpowering numbers of the enemy, and although they fought valorously, and met with heavy losses, they were obliged to fall back through the town and take up a stronger position on cemetery hill. general reynolds, who commanded the union forces engaged, was killed early in the fight. his loss was deeply regretted, as he was one of the best generals in our army. during the night all the other corps of our army came up with the exception of the th corps, which having the greatest distance to march did not arrive until p. m. of the d. the men of the th were up by daylight on the d and preparing their breakfast and otherwise getting ready for the conflict which all knew would open sooner or later during the day. unlike the battlefields of virginia where we usually fought in the woods or thickets, we were now on a field where we had an unobstructed view, and could see something of the movements of other troops, besides our own regiment or brigade. at this time the d corps consisted of two divisions commanded by generals birney and humphreys. the right of the latter division joined the left of hancock's d corps on the southern slope of cemetery hill. birney to the left was to extend his line on the same prolongation to the base of little roundtop. but this line was commanded by the high ground ground along the emmitsburg road and at the peach orchard. general sickles, after having repeatedly informed general meade that the line was a weak one, assumed the responsibility of changing it. he therefore posted birney's division as follows: graham's brigade on the right, its right resting a few rods north of the sherfy house on the emmitsburg road. at the peach orchard, which is a part of the sherfy farm, an angle was formed in our brigade line, part of it facing west, and part to the south. on graham's left was de trobriand's brigade which in part occupied the wheatfield. ward's brigade held the left of the division passing through the rocky ground called devil's den, with his left resting at the western base of little roundtop. a great part of the day was spent by the maneuvering of both armies. general meade's opinion was that lee would attack his right, while that general was moving his troops behind seminary ridge for the purpose of attacking meade's left. the key point on this part of the line was little roundtop, but strange to tell, it was not occupied by our troops until after the battle began and then just in the nick of time. a few minutes later the enemy would have gained the crest and gettysburg would have been lost. the occupation of the hill is due to the energy of general warren, chief of engineers, who succeeded in getting troops there just as the enemy was beginning to ascend the western base of the hill. in the meantime our regiment was lying in a field a few rods in the rear of the sherfy house, which stood on the opposite side of the road. the th pennsylvania was on our right, and the th on our left. for two hours we lay here under the hottest fire of artillery we had as yet been subjected to. the enemy had some thirty pieces of artillery planted on the ridge to the south and west of us, hurling their missiles toward us as fast as they could work their guns. fortunately most of them were aimed too high to do us injury, but to stay there so long under that howling, shrieking storm of shot and shell, was more trying to the nerves than to be engaged in close action with the enemy. finally this long cannonade ceased and the enemy began to advance his infantry to attack our part of the line. the th and the th were ordered across the road, where we beheld the enemy, which proved to be barksdale's mississippi brigade, advancing through the fields toward us. our regiment at once took advantage of the cover that the house, outbuildings and trees afforded and opened fire on the enemy, who were within easy range, and did not reply to our fire until they reached a rail fence about a hundred yards in our front. there were then no rebels to the right of those engaged with us, and for a while we had the best of the fight owing to our sheltered position. the men of the th who were in the house kept up a steady fire from the west windows of the house. the writer had posted himself by a large cherry tree against which some fenceposts were leaning, on the north side of the house. before the fight closed this cherry tree was struck with a twelve pound solid shot from one of our guns. when the monument of the regiment was dedicated in july, twenty-five years later, the tree with the cannon ball embedded in it was still standing. although the angle of the peach orchard was long and bravely defended by our troops there, they were at last compelled to yield ground, and by so doing the regiments along the emmittsburg road were enfiladed and obliged to fall back also. when we found the enemy coming up the road in our rear, captain nelson, who was in command of the regiment, tried to notify those in the house, and order them to fall back, but amid the noise and confusion it was impossible to make then understand the situation, and they kept on firing from the windows after the rest of the men fell back, and they were summoned to surrender by the rebels who came up the stairs in their rear. those of us who got out of this tight place were soon after formed with the rest of our division, on a ridge in the rear of the position we had occupied in the morning. reenforcements from the th, d and th corps were sent in to reestablish the line which our division had held, but they were unable to do so when darkness put an end to the conflict. the th entered the battle with officers and enlisted men. our losses were officers and men killed, officers and men wounded, and officers and men captured, a total of , over half of the number carried into action. lieutenant henry mitchell, of company e, and lieutenant john f. cox, of company i, were killed, and colonel sides was among the officers wounded. of the enlisted men captured only returned to the regiment. the remaining died in prison at belle isle, or at andersonville. major neeper was captured, as were also lieutenants hines, burns and crossley. general graham was wounded and taken prisoner in the peach orchard. general sickles lost a leg near the trostle house about p. m. general birney then assumed command of the corps. col. a. h. tippon, of the th pennsylvania, succeeded general graham in command of the brigade. early in the morning of the d our division was ordered to the front, which was now considerably in rear of the position we occupied the day before. the enemy occupied the emmitsburg road and the peach orchard, and fields to the south. on the left near the roundtops their line was farther back than the position they gained the evening before. from the position of our regiment we could plainly see the sherfy house, which was about three-fourths of a mile to our front and left. when general geary, with part of his division, on the d left his position on the right of the union line at culp's hill to reenforce the d corps, he left behind him to hold his works the brigade of general greene. the enemy in the evening in strong force attacked this position and succeeded in capturing a part of the line of works, but they were recaptured by general geary early next morning. in front of the th everything was quiet and the men were enjoying a much needed rest under the trees in the little grove in which they were stationed. rations were distributed and we also received a good ration of commissary whiskey, which at that time was duly appreciated. it was quiet during the forenoon and many of our men, pillowed on their knapsacks, were asleep when the tremendous artillery fire began which was the prelude to the charge of pickett's division on hancock's position on cemetery hill. their fire was soon responded to by our artillery and for about two hours the earth fairly shook with the thunder of these guns and the bursting of shells. all this noise was going on about a mile to the right of us and as we were "not in it" we were anxiously wondering what the result would be. after this cannonading had been going on for some time we were ordered to fall in quickly. about eighty of the th were left to respond to the call. these were soon in line and with the rest of the brigade we moved rapidly to the right in the direction of the firing. moving in double quick for about a mile we were halted and took a position a few rods in rear of several batteries which were heavily engaged. they had just repulsed a charge of wilcox's rebel brigade, which was supporting pickett on his right, and whose retreat was being covered by the rebel artillery. we did not become engaged while here, but were exposed to the enemy's fire, which, however, did us no harm. after the firing ceased and the smoke had lifted, we learned of the repulse of pickett's men and that our army had for once gained an important victory. that night the regiment was sent on picket duty about half a mile to our front on ground that had been fought over on the afternoon of the d, and as the bodies of dead men and horses strewed the ground, the hot sun had decomposed them, causing an odor that was extremely disagreeable. at daylight we moved back and rejoined the brigade. it was the th of july, the eighty-seventh anniversary of american independence, and here we were on a field strewn with the bodies of our comrades, who had died for the great principles which our fathers had maintained in . with the exception of a little picket firing there was no fighting on the th, and that night the enemy began their retreat back to virginia. general sickles has been blamed in some quarters for taking the advanced position he did at gettysburg on july d, but he is also sustained by many prominent military men, among them gen. u. s. grant, who visited the battlefield after the war. the enemy having retreated, the th corps and cavalry were sent in pursuit. our corps did not leave until the th. on the afternoon of the th the writer took a stroll out to the sherfy house to look at the ground there. at the house the brick walls on the south and west sides were scarred by the enemy's bullets and the roof had a number of holes made by fragments of shell. the bursting of shells had set fire to the large barn and destroyed it, burning at the same time a number of wounded soldiers who had sought refuge in it. the dead had all been buried, but where our batteries had stood were heaps of dead horses. it was then i discovered the cannon ball in the cherry tree, mentioned above, by which i had been standing during the fight on the d. the ball was from our own guns, and no doubt struck the tree during the fighting of july d, or on the afternoon of the d after our men had abandoned the house. while visiting the battlefields in mrs. sherfy informed me that nothing worth mentioning had been taken from the house or destroyed. an eight-day clock, which had been wound up before the family left the house when a battle was imminent, was still ticking away when they returned after the fight was over. she also stated that a limber chest containing a lot of ammunition was found in the field opposite the house. the men of the family were afraid to handle the ammunition, so to dispose of it, they dug a hole beside the chest, and tumbled it in, contents and all, and covered it up, and it had not been disturbed since. the chest no doubt belonged to randolph's battery, as a section of it was in action at the point indicated by mrs. sherfy. chapter ix. by e. c. strouss. we leave gettysburg--rebel spy hung--french's division joins the d corps--enemy's position at falling waters--he escapes across the potomac--in old virginia again--manassas gap--camp at sulphur springs--movement to culpepper--eleventh and twelfth corps sent west--lee's efforts to gain our rear--skirmish at auburn creek--warren's fight at bristow station--deserter shot--retreat of the enemy--kelly's ford--mine run campaign--the regiment re-enlists--the "veteran furlough"--recruiting--presented with a new flag by governor curtin--back to the front--general grant commands the army--reorganization--the wilderness campaign--three days of hard fighting--loss in fifty-seventh. on the morning of july th we left gettysburg and moved southward, through emmitsburg and halted for the night at mechanicstown, md. on the th we passed frederick city, and encamped two miles beyond the town. while passing the town we could see away off to our right near the town a gallows standing, and a large crowd gathered about it. a rebel spy had been caught and hung. some of our men who saw this spy, recognized in him the same man who sold and sang songs throughout our camp the summer before when we lay in front of richmond. he was a fine singer and sold lots of his songs, but he met the fate of a spy at last. on the th we moved again and at night we reached south mountain. about this time the division of gen. w. h. french was assigned to our corps and became the d division. general french being the senior general, now took command of the corps. colonel tippon had been relieved from the command of the brigade, which was now commanded by colonel madill, of the st pennsylvania. on july th we marched from south mountain to a point about five miles beyond keedysville, md. on the th we were drawn up in line of battle near falling waters, and expected to attack the enemy, who had thrown up a strong line of works to cover their crossing of the potomac. the attack, however, was delayed too long, and when we advanced on the th we found their works deserted and the enemy safely across the river. previous to this many of their wagons had been captured and many prisoners taken by our cavalry. [illustration: monument and group of survivors of the th regiment, pennsylvania veteran volunteers.] it was humiliating to think that the enemy escaped so easily. with the swollen potomac in their front, their pontoon bridge destroyed, and our victorious army in their rear, they ought to have been compelled to surrender. but appomattox was still a long way off and many brave boys would fall before the end came. the news that general grant had taken vicksburg, and caused the surrender of pemberton's army, was some consolation in our disappointment over lee's escape. on the th we passed over the old antietam battlefield, and halted for the night about two miles beyond sharpsburg. on the th we passed through brownsville and rohrersville and encamped near harper's ferry. the next day about dark we crossed the potomac at harper's ferry and were once more on the soil of virginia. we resumed our march on the th and th, and on the th we reached upperville. on the d we were near manassas gap, where it was expected we would strike the enemy's column, which was moving up the shenandoah valley. we moved to the top of a high hill, where we had a fine view of front royal and the surrounding country. we also witnessed a fight in a field in the valley to our right, of a force of the enemy and sickles' old excelsior brigade. this engagement, in which we were but slightly engaged, is known as the skirmish of "wapping heights." the enemy retreated during the night and next day we moved some miles beyond piedmont on the manassas gap railroad. the greater part of our march was over the torn up railroad track, and as the day was excessively hot we were a tired lot of men when we encamped that night. on the th we marched to within six miles of warrenton, in fauquier county, va. the next day we moved four miles beyond the town and encamped at fauqueir sulphur springs. here we remained for about six weeks, during which time colonel sides and some of the officers and men who had been wounded at chancellorsville and gettysburg returned for duty. here we had a fine camp, with good facilities for bathing in hedgeman's river, a branch of the rappahannock. the large brick hotel at the springs had been destroyed by fire the year before during pope's campaign. back of the hotel site was a fine park which was surrounded on three sides by cottages which had been used by summer sojourners at this place. near the center of the park stood a pavilion, under which was the noted spring, the water of which was very cold and strongly impregnated with sulphur. we drank freely of this water and were advised to do so by the medical officers of the division. if we had been afflicted with the itch, the water would no doubt have been an effective remedy, but the only itch that troubled us was caused by a small insect known among scientists as the _pediculus vestimenti_ and the sulphur water was not effective in driving the pests away. our camp at the spring was broken up on the afternoon of september th, when we moved southward to freeman's ford, where we crossed the rappahannock and took up a position between culpepper and stone house mountain. the whole army was now in position between the rivers rappahannock and the rapidan. about the end of september the th and th corps were detached from the army of the potomac and under general hooker were sent to the west to reenforce our army operating around chattanooga, tenn. longstreet's corps of the rebel army had previously been sent to the same point to reenforce general bragg. we remained in the vicinity of culpepper until october th, when it was found that lee's army had crossed the rapidan and was turning our right. this caused a retrograde movement of our whole army. our division moved to the rear on october th, the th acting as flankers on the left of the column. at one point, when on a high hill, we had a fine view of a cavalry battle which was going on in our rear near brandy station. in the evening we crossed the rappahannock at freeman's ford and halted for the night in a pine woods. on the morning of the th we learned that the enemy had driven back our cavalry, and was crossing the river at our old camp at sulphur springs, about three miles above us. our march to the rear continued on a by-road which brought us to the warrenton branch of the o. & a. r. r. about three miles east of warrenton. we rested here for a while and then after a march of about five miles further we halted for the night. about p. m. on the th we encountered the enemy's cavalry at auburn creek. our brigade held the advance of the column on this day, and the th was the leading regiment. companies a and k acted as advance guard. these companies deployed on both sides of the road and opened fire on the rebels, who were dismounted and advancing through the woods and fields. our firing soon brought up the rest of the brigade and a battery, whereupon, the rebels seeing we were well supported, mounted their horses and retreated at a lively gait. several men of our regiment were slightly wounded in this affair. when the skirmish was over we resumed our march, and about dark we reached the english settlement called greenwich, where we encamped, and our regiment was posted as pickets. we started again next morning and moved to centerville, via bristow and manassas junction. late in the afternoon, the d corps, under general warren, acting as rear guard, had a severe battle with hill's corps, in which warren was victorious, capturing a battery, several battle flags, and about four hundred prisoners. on the th we moved to fairfax station and here on the following day, our regiment for the first time witnessed the solemn spectacle of a military execution. a private of the th michigan who had deserted to the enemy and had been recaptured, was shot for desertion. in the late movements, general lee's object was to gain our rear and cut us off from washington, but when we reached the strong position on the heights of centerville, he found he was foiled, and then it became his turn to retreat. he was followed by our cavalry and several brisk skirmishes took place between our troopers and the enemy. on the th our division was again moving, this time with our faces toward the rappahannock, and at night we encamped near bristow station. on the th we marched through greenwich and encamped two miles beyond the town. on the st we passed through auburn, and over the ground where gen. alex. hay's division of the d corps had engaged the enemy a few days before, and at night we encamped near catlett's station. from this date until november th we moved to various points along the railroad, which having been destroyed by the enemy, made it necessary for us to rebuild it, consequently our advance was slow. near warrenton junction, at a. m. on november th we broke camp and moved to kelly's ford on the rappahannock. here our crossing was disputed by the enemy and a brisk skirmish ensued. they finally relinquished their attempts to hold the ford when we crossed over and encamped about dark. in this skirmish, while capt. t. l. maynard, our brigade inspector, was giving a drink of water to a wounded rebel, he was mortally wounded and died next morning. while we were fighting at kelly's ford, the th and th corps had a fight with the enemy, whom they drove out of their works at rappahannock station, about eight miles above kelly's ford. on the th we reached brandy station and after a few days we moved into the woods near james barbour's house, and occupied a lot of huts, which had lately been constructed by the rebels, to be used as winter quarters, but they had now fallen back beyond the rapidan river. we remained in this camp for a few weeks and then were once more on the move to take part in what is known as the "mine run campaign." on the morning of november th we moved out of camp, and in the evening crossed the rapidan at jacobs' ford, without interruption from the enemy. the advance was resumed next morning and about p. m. our division was hurried to the front to relieve the d division, which had become engaged with johnson's division of ewell's corps. we got into a brisk little fight in which the th had seven wounded. this action occurred near locust grove. it appears that our corps commander, general french, had been instructed to move on a road which would have led him between the corps of hill and ewell, who were miles apart, but he got on the wrong road and ran against the corps of ewell, which brought on the engagement. the enemy retreated during the night and the next morning their army was concentrated, which our movements the day before were intended to prevent. on the th we started again and after marching all day in the rain we came up with the enemy, who were occupying a strong position near the western bank of mine run. this stream, flowing north, is deep and sluggish, with steep banks, and empties into the rapidan at mitchell's ford. on the th the regiment lay in rear of a battery as a support, and at night a part of the regiment was sent out to the run to support the picket line. it was bitter cold, and we were allowed no fires, so we had a very uncomfortable night of it. general warren, with the d corps, held the extreme left of the line, and he thought that he could carry the enemy's position in his front, if strongly reenforced. early in the morning one division of the th corps, and the d and d divisions of the d corps were sent him. we of birney's division were in the center, posted along the brow of a hill with the enemy behind breastworks about three-fourths of a mile in our front. we were to hold ourselves in readiness, upon hearing the sound of warren's guns, to charge the enemy's works. warren, upon further examination of the enemy's lines, informed general meade that the enemy's lines were too strong to hazard an attack. we were not sorry when we heard this, for it would have been extremely perilous to have charged over the broad open field in our front up to the enemy's works. on december st a snow storm set in, and after dark we marched to the rear, and recrossed the rapidan at culpepper ford about daylight on the d. about o'clock our march was resumed, the th and the d pennsylvania acting as wagon guard to our long train. having run out of rations we were very hungry, but we contrived to get something to eat before night. on december d we reached our old camps, and finding our huts still standing, we soon had them roofed, and were again comfortably housed. a few days after we got settled down, the question of reenlistment was much discussed among the men. the war department had issued general order no. , which allowed every man who reenlisted a bounty of $ . (to be paid in installments) and a furlough for thirty days. before leaving on furlough each man was to be paid $ . , under the bounty act of july , , one month's pay in advance, $ . , premium, $ . , and first installment of bounty under general order , $ . , making a total of $ . . where three-fourths of the men present for duty in a regiment reenlisted, the regiment was allowed to go in a body with their arms to place of organization, and from thence the men could go to their homes on furlough. they were also entitled to be designated as "veteran regiments," and each man was allowed to wear the veteran stripes on the sleeves of his coat. on the th of december the regiment was formed in a hollow square in front of headquarters, and was then briefly addressed by chaplain mcadam on the propriety of reenlisting. at the conclusion of the chaplain's remarks, colonel sides requested those who were willing to reenlist, to step three paces to the front. over three-fourths of the men stepped forward, and, after giving three hearty cheers for the union, were dismissed. then for several days the officers and first sergeants were busy making out muster rolls, furloughs, and reenlistment papers. among the men the furlough was the all-absorbing theme. when were they to be granted? it is safe to say that a bounty of $ , . , without the furlough, would have secured but a small number of the men. but the assurance of spending thirty days at home was the great inducement for reenlisting, as most of the men had been absent from home for two years or more. january th, , was the time appointed for the regiment to depart for the north, and long before daylight the boys were up and getting ready for their departure. the men who had not reenlisted were temporarily assigned to the st pennsylvania. at o'clock a. m., in the midst of a snow storm, we boarded a train at brandy station and were soon on our way to washington, where we remained for a day and a night, and then started for harrisburg. here we deposited our arms and accoutrements in the arsenal, and then the men departed by different routes for their homes. our stay at home was one continual round of pleasure. there were parties, festivals and sleigh-rides without number and the men will never forget those halcyon days of our "veteran furlough." after the men had been at home for some days, many of their friends were anxious to enlist and return with them to the army. on account of our success in obtaining recruits our furlough was extended. when we left for home the regiment numbered barely two hundred men. after an absence of forty-five days we returned with nearly five hundred men in our ranks. our old flag which had been torn by the bullets of many battles was left at harrisburg while we were on furlough, and when we returned to the front we received a new one, with an appropriate speech, from the hands of governor curtin. on the th of february we rejoined our old brigade near culpepper, va., and on the th we went with the division on a reconnaissance to james city. we were gone two days, during which time nothing of importance occurred. general grant, having been appointed lieutenant-general, and placed in command of all our armies, made his headquarters with the army of the potomac some time in march, . about the th of march the army was reorganized, the st and d corps were disbanded and the divisions assigned to other corps. the st and d division of the d corps (the old divisions of kearny and hooker) were assigned to the d corps, commanded by general hancock. the d division was assigned to the th corps. our division, now designated as the d division, of the d corps, was commanded by general birney. it consisted of two brigades commanded by generals ward and hays. our brigade (now designated as the d brigade, d division, d corps) was commanded by gen. alexander hays and was comprised of the following named regiments: th and th maine; d and th michigan; d new york; th, d and th pennsylvania, and st united states sharpshooters. the th and th pennsylvania of our old brigade were detached, and acted as provost guard at army headquarters. the st pennsylvania was attached to ward's brigade. the men were proud of the record of the army corps to which they had formerly belonged, and felt very glad to know that they would be allowed to wear the old badge of the corps in which they had previously served. under the reorganization the army of the potomac consisted of three corps, as follows: d corps, general hancock; th corps, general warren; th corps, general sedgewick. the th corps, under general burnside, joined the army of the potomac about the th of may. the great campaign of began soon after midnight on may d. our corps, preceded by gregg's cavalry, moved out, and about daylight crossed the rapidan on a pontoon bridge at ely's ford, and on the night of the th we bivouacked on the old chancellorsville battlefield, on the ground over which we had fought one year before. on the morning of the th we moved down the plank road to a point about two miles beyond the chancellor house, when we turned to the right, which brought us to todd's tavern about noon. here we cooked our coffee and then resumed our march until we struck the brock road, where we turned to the right and formed a line of battle facing west. soon after we were ordered back into the road, and then at double quick we went up the road until we reached the orange plank road. here we saw general hancock, who ordered general hays to throw in his first regiment on the right of the plank road. this happened to be the th, and as soon as our left had cleared the road we were faced to the left and advanced in line of battle facing west, with the left of the regiment resting on the plank road. we were now in what is known as the wilderness. this is a tract of land of about twenty thousand acres covered principally with small pines and scrub oaks. it formerly belonged to governor spottswood, and was once covered with heavy timber, which was cut down and made into charcoal, used for smelting iron in the old fashioned furnaces, of which there were many in this vicinity. we continued to grope our way through the thicket and swamps and finally met the enemy and opened fire. the whole division was soon engaged and the roar of the musketry was terrific. in our front the enemy was less than two hundred feet from us, but so dense was the underbrush that it was almost impossible to see them. we had the advantage of the enemy, who were on higher ground, and many of their balls passed over us. the left of the regiment had the hottest part of the line, as it rested on the plank road and was subjected to the fire of the rebels who were on the other side of the road. the left began to break, when the th maine coming up on the left of the road soon gave the enemy enough to do on that side. the battle lasted until nearly dark, when we were relieved, and moved a short distance to the rear, where we remained for the night. on the morning of may th our corps was ordered to begin the attack at o'clock. we at once moved out the plank road and soon attacked the enemy, this time on the left of the road. the fighting for a while was all in our favor and we drove the enemy (hill's corps) back for over a mile and were just about entering the open fields around the widow tapp's house, when longstreet's fresh corps arrived and reenforced hill, whose corps was in great confusion. owing to the density of the woods through which we had been chasing the enemy, our lines had become much disordered, and before that could be rectified, longstreet attacked with his usual vigor and we were in turn forced back. we retired fighting until we reached the brock road, where we took a position on the left of the plank road in rear of the entrenchments that had been thrown up along the brock road. here about : p. m. the enemy charged the works and drove back the first line, when we advanced and retook them, capturing a number of prisoners. on the morning of the th we made a reconnaissance, crossing over to the right of the plank road and advancing over three-fourths of a mile, when we found the enemy entrenched behind strong works. we had a sharp fight, and were then withdrawn, and again took position on the brock road. according to the monthly report of the regiment, dated april , , we had present for duty officers and men. as this was but a few days before the battle, it will give a nearly correct estimate of the number of men the regiment took into the field on may th, on which day our greatest losses occurred. during the three days' fighting our losses were enlisted men killed; officers and enlisted men wounded and enlisted men missing. of those killed none was more deeply mourned than first sergeant duke miller, of company e. he was one of the bravest and best men in the regiment, and his social and intellectual qualities were admired by all who knew him. colonel sides and lieut. f. v. shaw were among the wounded. senior captain a. h. nelson had command of the regiment as colonel side's successor until the last week in june, when major neeper, who had been captured at gettysburg, returned and took command. gen. alexander hays, commander of our brigade, was killed in the battle fought on the afternoon of the th. he was one of the bravest men that ever lived, and an accomplished soldier. with the exception of a short time when he served in the d corps, in , he had been identified with the old st division of the d corps since the army of the potomac was organized. he was a native of venango county, pa., and was a graduate of west point and had served with honor in the mexican war. he entered the war for the union as colonel of the d pennsylvania volunteers. at gettysburg he commanded a division in hancock's corps. his reputation as a fighter was well known in both the union and confederate armies. the writer was wounded on the morning of may th, and went to the rear in company with the color sergeant, cyrus p. slaven, also wounded. on our way to the rear we turned into the woods along the plank road where we had fought the afternoon before. the wounded and killed had all been removed, but the trees were witnesses of the terrible musketry fire that had raged here. not a tree or a bush but bore marks of being hit by a bullet. how any of us got out of there without being hit is a mystery. chapter x. by r. g. madge and m. c. zahnizer. the movement to spottsylvania court house--general sedgwick killed--hancock's grand charge of may th--great capture of prisoners, guns and colors--the famous oak tree--ewell's effort to capture our wagon train--losses in the fifty-seventh at spottsylvania--movement to north anna river--fight at chesterfield ford--we cross the pamunkey--skirmish at haw's shop and totopotomoy creek--battle of cold harbor--our colors struck and badly torn by a piece of shell--flank movement to the james river--march to petersburg--severe fighting at hare's hill--battle of june d--losses in the fifty-seventh--fort alex. hays--petersburg--we move to the north side of the james--strawberry plains--return to petersburg--the "burnside mine"--general mott in command of our division--deep bottom--other marching and fighting around petersburg. many of the men in the army of the potomac, after the battle of the wilderness had ended, were heard to say: "we have had the usual three days' fighting on this side of the river, and by about tomorrow night we will be back in our old camps." that had too often been the case before, but there was one at the head of the army now whose motto was "forward," and "grant is making another movement by the left flank," soon became a common saying. on the night of the th the movement to spottsylvania court house began. we moved along the brock road in the direction of todd's tavern. on the morning of the th we had a severe engagement, when we entrenched and had more fighting during the day. on the th we were not actively engaged, except in skirmishing. on this day gen. john sedgwick, commanding the th corps, was killed while directing the fire of a battery. on the morning of the th, hancock's corps crossed the po river. the resistance to our (birney's) division was stubborn and we had some severe fighting, after which the th was detailed to go out the anderson's tavern road, to reconnoiter. we were driven back across glady run near waite's shop, capt. a. h. nelson, commanding the regiment, losing his horse. the whole corps was then drawn back across the river. in the afternoon there was some hard fighting and very heavy artillery firing. on the th we built a line of breastworks, and at night, in the rain, we took up our line of march for spottsylvania court house, moving all night. the d corps had been selected to charge the enemy's works on that part of the field held by general johnson's division of ewell's corps. long before daylight our troops were being massed for the important work in hand. major mitchell, of general hancock's staff, says that the line was formed with birney's division on the right in two lines, barlow's division on birney's left in column of regiments, and mott's and gibbons' divisions in rear of birney and barlow as supports. this force formed a rectangular mass of about twenty thousand men. the troops stood in the cold rain shivering, and anxiously waiting for the dawn and lifting of the fog, that they might be ordered forward. at : a. m., the order to advance was given, when the huge mass moved forward, and soon after burst into cheers, and under a hot fire captured the enemy's works. this charge resulted in the capture of four thousand rebel prisoners, among them maj. gen. edward johnson, brig. gen. george h. stuart, thirty battle flags, twenty pieces of artillery, with horses and caissons, and several thousand stand of small arms. among the prisoners were nearly all that was left of jackson's famous "stonewall brigade." in the advance, the th was directly in front of a rebel battery, where in passing over the works, color corporal spencer killed one of the batterymen by clubbing him with his musket. the advance was continued until we reached the second line of the enemy's works, when they were reenforced by fresh troops, when we fell back to the first line we captured, and took position behind the works. our position was just to the left of where the notable oak tree stood. the tree was eighteen inches in diameter and was actually cut down with musket balls fired from the opposing lines. a section of this tree, showing the work of the balls, has been on exhibition at the centennial exposition at philadelphia, and at the world's fair at chicago, and is now in the army museum at washington, d. c. we remained in position during the day and did some fighting, in which corporal spencer was shot through the head and killed. on the th we helped to bury the dead, and in the evening we moved further to the right. on the next morning the regiment made a reconnoissance, during which we had some skirmishing. on the th we attacked the enemy in their new works, but were repulsed, and in the evening we moved to the vicinity of anderson's mills, on the west side of the ny river. on the evening of the th we fought ewell's corps, which had made its appearance on the fredericks pike and were trying to capture our wagon train. tyler's division of new troops held them in check, until our division came up, when the enemy were repulsed, and our wagon train saved. about four hundred rebels were taken prisoners in this affair. about o'clock in the evening the enemy retreated rapidly across the ny. on the th we rejoined the corps at anderson's mill. in our fighting at spottsylvania and vicinity our losses were officers and enlisted men killed, officers and enlisted men wounded, and enlisted men missing. first lieut. jeremiah green, of company a, and first lieut. john bowers, of company i, were killed. both were promising young officers and their death was much regretted. lieutenant bowers had command of company k, when he received a mortal wound. capt. edgar williams, of company e, who had for a long time been our color bearer, was mortally wounded about this time and died on may d. he was a man of undaunted courage and a christian soldier. on the night of the th we started south by way of guinea station and bowling green, through to milford station, and took up a position on the right bank of the mattapony river. this was twenty miles distant from our position of the morning. we had a fight at guinea station on the st, and on the d we had a skirmish with the enemy's cavalry at athens, still holding our position at milford station. at o'clock on the morning of the d we moved to chesterfield ford on the north anna river, and took position on the north bank. at p. m. we advanced and took the enemy's works by a charge of pierce's and egan's brigades of birney's position. on the morning of the th part of our corps crossed the river, but the th did not cross, it being on the skirmish line during the day at a point further down the river, but at night we crossed the river and joined the rest of the corps. during the th and th we lay in the entrenched line on the south side of the north anna. on the night of the th we recrossed the river and marched to the pamunkey river, crossing it at huntleys, four miles above hanovertown, about noon on the th. we then moved to the vicinity of haw's shop, where we had a skirmish with the enemy's cavalry and some south carolina infantry. on the morning of the th, we moved up the haw's shop road, with considerable fighting at totopotomoy creek, keeping in close proximity to the enemy's lines. on the th we had severe skirmishing in which artillery was brought into action, when at : p. m. general meade ordered the attack to cease. on the st the infantry line was pressed up close to the enemy, and heavy skirmishing was kept up all day, but without bringing on a general engagement, the enemy being strongly entrenched. on the night of june st we left the totopotomoy, and moved to cold harbor, arriving at a. m. on the d, when birney's division was detached and sent to support the th corps on our left. our army was now on ground over which it had fought during the seven days' battles, two years previous. the order for a general attack was countermanded for june d, but the next day at : a. m. we made an assault and drove the enemy back to their main line of entrenchments, but could proceed no further on account of the heavy cross fire we were subjected to. we were under a heavy fire until noon, when our division (birney's) was ordered to the support of the th corps. on coming into line for their support, the colors of the th were struck by a piece of the enemy's shell, cutting the flag staff in two, and tearing out one entire stripe right in the center of the flag. we were under a heavy fire until darkness set in, when the fighting ceased. we remained in this position until june th, being under heavy skirmish and picket firing during the daytime and under heavy artillery fire at night, allowing scarcely any sleep, and during the day it was extremely warm and sultry. on the evening of the th we were stationed in our entrenched line and remained there until the other troops had cleared the roads, when we moved by way of dispatch station to long bridge, crossing the chickahominy river, and then moved towards charles city court house, by way of st. mary's church and walkers. we arrived at the james river on the evening of the th, crossing at wilcox's landing on transports to windmill point, arriving on the south side of the river early on the morning of the th. on the afternoon of that day we started for petersburg, arriving at that place on the evening of the same day after a march of sixteen miles. at harrison's creek on the way we had a brisk skirmish, and then halted for the night near an old dirt fort. on the th general hancock was placed in command of all the troops on the south side of the river. during the day we made several reconnoissances, and in the evening at o'clock we made a charge down the hill and through an old rebel camp, but were obliged to fall back to our first position. on the morning of the th birney's division pushed forward across harrison's creek, and at night we built a line of works on the west side of the creek. early on the th, with general birney in command of the d corps, we moved up to, and in, the prince george court house road, in front of the hare house, and from there we made a charge on the enemy's works, which ran across a field about two hundred yards in our front and almost parallel with the before mentioned road. our line advanced about one hundred yards, when the enemy's fire became so severe that we were obliged to fall back to the road and seek cover. during the day we made three different charges on the enemy's works, but they were so formidable and well manned that we failed to reach them. in the third attempt the th reached a ditch, where we lay down and let them fire over us from both sides until about o'clock in the evening, when we were recalled, and then returned to the main line in the prince george road. we were then relieved by the st maine heavy artillery (acting as infantry), when we moved back to the rear of the road. the maine regiment made a gallant charge, but were also repulsed with great loss. while they were making this charge, a minie ball from the enemy's lines pierced the flag staff of our regimental colors about eight inches above the color sergeant's head. during the night of the th we moved out in front of the hare house, and built a line of breast-works, which position remained substantially the same during the entire siege. we remained in these works during the th and th. on the st we moved to the left of the jerusalem plank road and took a position on the left of the th corps, and there built another line of works. it was during these first days of the fighting around petersburg that our adjutant, clark m. lyons, was killed, as was also henry m. adams, second lieutenant of company i. captain j. r. lyons was severely wounded, and about twenty-five enlisted men were killed or wounded. on the morning of the d we advanced about half a mile toward the rebel line, where we built a line of works, with nothing to work with but our bayonets and tin plates. in the afternoon we had a hard fight with mahone's division, which succeeded in making a flank movement, and getting on our left flank and rear, when we were compelled to fall back to our position of the st. in this action our brigade lost heavily in prisoners, our regiment losing about twenty, among them lieut. james f. ruger, of company f. a brave and gallant sergeant of company k, pat. dempsey, was also captured here, and died in andersonville prison. in the evening we again advanced and retook our former position. it was between these two lines that fort alex. hays was built afterward, and named in honor of our old brigade commander. we remained here for some time, doing picket duty and building entrenchments, for it was now decided that petersburg must be besieged. this old virginia town had, in , a population of a little over eighteen thousand. it is situated on the south side of the appomattox river about twenty-five miles from its mouth at city point, and is twenty-three miles south of richmond. when we first reached the front of petersburg, lee's army depended for its supplies on two railroads, running south,--the weldon railroad, and the lynchburg (south side) railroad. to encircle petersburg as completely as a siege demanded, it was essential that these two roads should be covered by our army. the first was controlled by us, in the last week in august, but the south side never, until the city fell. before the fall of the city our lines of investment extended from appomattox, below petersburg to hatcher's run, on the southwest, a distance of about twenty-five miles. to supply our army a railroad was constructed in rear of our lines, which connected with the petersburg & city point railroad near broadway landing. city point at the confluence of the appomattox with the james, was our depot of supplies, and was also the headquarters of general grant. it was a very busy place in , but in ordinary times it is but an unimportant hamlet. our front line of works consisted of huge earthen forts, and redoubts in which were mounted heavy siege guns and mortars. the forts were connected by well constructed breastworks, in front of which was slashed timber or abattis. so strong were these works that with the aid of the artillery, they could be held by a small force of infantry, which enabled general grant to detach largely from his forces for operations against the enemy's flanks, and elsewhere. our cavalry was also kept busy raiding the enemy's communications and doing him as much damage as possible. the enemy's works were on the same plan as ours and gave them the same opportunities. on the afternoon of the th of july our corps made a forced march of thirty miles, and was sent to the north side of the james, crossing on a pontoon bridge at jones neck, on the morning of the th, and soon came up to the enemy, who were entrenched in strong force at bailey's creek, from the mouth of the creek to fussel's mill. here we had some severe fighting on the th and th, in which the th lost quite a number of men. this fight is called in official records "strawberry plains." on the evening of the th we recrossed the james and appomattox, and marched back to a point in rear of where the "burnside mine" was to be exploded, and here we relieved a division of the th corps, in order that they might take part in the assault that was to follow the explosion. this mine had been carefully and skillfully constructed by lieut. col. henry pleasants and his men of the th pennsylvania. from a point on the th corps lines, where the union and rebel lines were close together, a gallery was run five hundred and ten feet in length, terminating under a rebel fort garrisoned by pegram's battery and the th and part of the d south carolina infantry. the powder was put in the mine in eight magazines with one thousand pounds in each. the mine was to have been exploded at : a. m., but owing to the fuse going out, another half hour went by before it was considered safe to enter the shaft to mend and relight the fuse. finally two brave men, lieut. jacob douty and sergt. henry rees, of the th pennsylvania, entered the shaft, spliced the fuse, which was relit, and at a little past o'clock the mighty explosion followed, sending into the air a great mass of earth, with which were mingled bodies of men and parts of muskets and artillery carriages. the explosion opened a crater one hundred and twenty feet long, sixty wide, and twenty-five feet deep. the enemy in their surrounding forts were so bewildered that it was fully a half hour before they opened fire or attempted to reoccupy the ground at the crater. thus far everything went well for our side, but that charge of the troops which was to have followed the explosion, was miserably conducted, and ended with disaster and the loss of many brave men. about the st of august, gen. d. b. birney, who had for a long time been in command of our division, was assigned to the command of the th army corps. he was succeeded in the command of our division by gen. gershom mott, who entered the service in as colonel of the th new jersey volunteers. for the greater part of the time that we were in front of petersburg, our brigade was commanded by brig. gen. byron r. pierce, formerly colonel of the d michigan volunteers. after the burnside mine explosion we moved back to our old camping ground at fort alex. hays and remained there until the th of august, when another expedition to the north side of the james was put on foot. the d corps was marched to city point and there got on board of transports, which, in order to deceive any scouts the enemy might have thereabouts, were at first started down the james, but after dark they were turned about and proceeded up the river until we reached jones neck, where we landed on the north side of the river. we moved out the newmarket road and soon found the enemy in force on the west side of bailey's creek. on the night of the th the division was massed at fussel's mill, and on the th we were maneuvering all day to get into position. on the th we engaged the enemy above fussel's mill, where we lost quite a number of men, and took between two and three hundred prisoners. in this fight col. calvin a. craig, of the th pennsylvania and temporarily in command of our brigade, was killed. he was an excellent officer and his loss was deeply felt by the whole brigade. we remained on the north side of the river during the th and th, keeping up a continual threatening attitude by changing position and skirmishing. on the afternoon of the th another fight was brought on by the enemy leaving their works and coming out to attack us. on the night of the th our (mott's) division recrossed the james and marched to the extreme left of the line to reenforce the th corps under general warren, who was about making an attempt to capture the weldon railroad at the globe tavern or "yellow house." on august th our division was ordered to ream's station on the weldon road, to reenforce the other two divisions of our corps who had a severe fight there. when we arrived we were under fire, but the other divisions were withdrawn, and we were ordered back to the vicinity of fort hays, where we went on picket and established a new picket line at night. from this date until september th we remained in the front line of works between the jerusalem plank road and the yellow house doing picket and fatigue duty, and occasionally having a skirmish with the enemy on the picket line. on september th in compliance with orders we packed up, and were ready to move at a moment's notice, and remained so for the day, but did not move out of camp. about noon, october st, we were ordered to fall in, when we marched to hancock station on the united states military railroad, where we boarded cars which ran us down to the yellow house, or warren's station, where we got off and marched about two miles and then bivouacked in rear of the th corps. at a. m., october d, we moved out to the left of the th corps, advanced through a thick woods and charged with the rest of the brigade, on a line of the enemy's works, through a thick slashing. this line appeared only to have been occupied by a few pickets, who fled on our approach, which gave us a bloodless victory. we remained for half an hour in these works and again advanced, passed over a second line of works, and advanced about half a mile, where we found the enemy strongly entrenched, and obstinately resisting our further advance. about p. m. we were deployed as flankers and were to act as provost. the rest of the brigade charged the enemy's works, but were repulsed and fell back to the line we occupied. we remained in this position until about p. m., when we were relieved by the th corps, and then marched back about a mile and a half, to the th corps, where we bivouacked for the night. october d we were under arms at a.m., and furnished a detail to work on the fortifications, the rest of the regiment remaining in camp. on the th we were at work again on the fortifications. about p. m. on the th we marched back to our old camp at fort alex. hays, where we arrived at midnight. in this affair we had three men severely wounded. the engagement is known as "peeble's farm" or "poplar springs church." chapter xi. by e. c. strouss. recruits--dangerous picket duty--muster-out of old regiments--composition of the brigade--expedition against the south side railroad--battle of boydton plank road or hatcher's run--disguised rebels capture our picket line--election day--thanksgiving dinner of roast turkey--change of camp--raid on weldon railroad--a hard march returning--"applejack"--general humphreys in command of the second corps. during the month of september the regiment received about one hundred recruits, principally substitutes and drafted men. their term of service was one year. after they were fairly broken in, they made good and reliable soldiers. picket duty during the month of october in front of fort alex. hays was quite frequent for both officers and men. it was also dangerous at night, when picket firing was kept up all night by both sides. on our side the picket posts consisted of five or six men and a noncommissioned officer. these posts were protected by a small breastwork, in front of which was a pit in which was posted a vidette, who was relieved every hour or sometimes every half hour. these posts were about fifty yards apart and were not connected by any works, which made it dangerous for the officer in charge of the line, while making the rounds of the posts, which he was obliged to do twice every night. on the part of the line picketed by our brigade, the line was in the woods, but on our right in the open ground the posts were connected by a deep trench. the woods in which we were posted ran to a point where it met the open field. when we quit doing picket duty on this part of the line, about november th, the trees at this point of woods were so splintered with musket balls that they resembled a lot of old fashioned splint brooms. our lines were relieved at dark, and from that time firing was kept up until daylight, when it usually ceased until evening. during the latter part of summer and early part of autumn of , the time of many of the old regiments (who had not reenlisted) expired, and they were mustered out. in this way we lost in our brigade the d michigan and d pennsylvania, both old and renowned regiments. the men of the d who had reenlisted, and the recruits, were transferred to the th pennsylvania and were mustered out with it at the close of the war. our brigade now consisted of the st massachusetts heavy artillery (acting as infantry), th michigan, d new york, th, th, th and st pennsylvania, and th maine, and three companies of the st united states sharpshooters. the brigade was commanded by brig. gen. byron r. pierce, who retained command of it until the war ended. about the th of october orders were issued and preparations made for another movement by the left flank, this time the object being the seizure of the south side railroad. to assist this movement the army of the james was to make a demonstration against richmond on the north bank of the james. the expedition on the left consisted of hancock's d and warren's th corps supported by the th corps under general parke. on the afternoon of the th, at o'clock, our division was withdrawn from the works at fort alex. hays and vicinity and moved to the rear and bivouacked for the night near the southall house. at p. m. on the th we continued our march across the open country in rear of the fortifications to the weldon railroad and halted for the night, at p. m., near the lewis house. at : a. m. we resumed our march, going down the halifax road to the church road, and on the latter past the wyatt house to the vaughn road, and down this road to the cummings house, where we were massed, while the d division under general egan drove the enemy from the ford on hatcher's run, which was soon accomplished and the way opened for the crossing of the rest of the corps. our division then crossed the run, moved up the vaughn road a short distance to the dabney's mill road, kept on this road until we reached the boydton plank road, at a point about a mile and a half south of burgess' tavern. this old tavern is located at the point where the plank road crosses hatcher's run. a road known as the white oak road, coming from the west, intersects the plank road at this point. we moved up the plank road to near the tavern, where we entered a large field surrounded on all sides by dense woods. here our brigade formed a line of battle facing north, and then stacked arms and rested. it appears that we were waiting for the th corps under general warren to connect with our right before commencing our attack. a drizzling rain had set in. while we were waiting for warren's approach, generals grant, meade and hancock were in consultation in the field near the point where the left of our regiment rested. for some twenty minutes we had a good view of those famous men. general grant, considering his high rank, was quite plainly dressed, and no one would have taken him for the commander of all the armies of the united states. general meade, who wore glasses and also was plainly attired, looked more like an old college professor than like a soldier. general hancock always looked the grand soldier which he was, whether he appeared in dress or fatigue uniform. owing to the wooded nature of the country and the bad roads, general warren did not get up to join us on the right before we were attacked by the enemy under general mahone. picket firing had begun in the woods on our right and growing heavier, general pierce ordered the th michigan and the th pennsylvania into the woods to support the pickets. the two regiments had been in the woods but a short time when they were fiercely attacked by the enemy in overwhelming numbers in front and on both flanks. the men of michigan and pennsylvania were of the best there were in the army, but they could not withstand the great odds against them. they were obliged to fall back, leaving many of their dead and wounded, and both regiments lost their colors, although they were two of the best regiments in the division. when this attack began the rest of the brigade tried to change front, but the enemy were too close upon us and for a while considerable confusion existed. the greater part of our brigade fell back a short distance, to the woods on the west side of the plank road, where it reformed and drove the enemy back into the woods from which they had emerged. in this we were greatly assisted by our d division under general egan. egan had been engaged with the enemy near burgess' tavern, and was about to storm the bridge which crosses hatcher's run at that place when mahone made his attack on our position. egan promptly sent part of his command to our support and his men attacked mahone's troops in the right flank and caused them to fall back into the woods with great loss, and also recapturing several of our guns which had fallen into the enemy's hands. general mahone, who made this attack which frustrated our designs on the south side railroad, was an old resident of petersburg, and was thoroughly acquainted with all the roads in that section, which enabled him to discover the gap in our lines between hancock's and warren's corps, so he "sailed in," with the result above stated. the rebel cavalry under wade hampton at the same time attacked our left and rear, but was kept in check by our cavalry under gen. d. m. gregg. we remained on the field until p. m., when we withdrew and marched back by the same road over which we had advanced in the morning. about daylight we halted for a while near the wyatt house and later on resumed the march and occupied our old camp near fort alex. hays. our regimental loss in the action of october th was men wounded and men missing or captured. the fight is generally called the "battle of boydton plank road" or "hatcher's run." by the men of our division it was generally spoken of as the "bull pen" fight. about dark on the evening of october th a number of rebels, disguised, wearing our uniform, began to relieve our pickets in front of our st division on that part of the line held by the th and th new york volunteers. it was customary at the time to relieve our pickets at dark, and the enemy took advantage of that circumstance by dressing themselves in our clothes, which they had taken from some of our deserters, and began to relieve our pickets. in this way they captured a good portion of the line assisted by other men from their works which were close by. but fortunately the regular relief from our side was approaching and after a little skirmishing succeeded in reestablishing the line, but not before great commotion was caused in our camps by the report that the picket line had been captured. all the regiments were ordered out under arms and manned the breastworks for an hour or so, when quiet reigned again and the men were sent back to their tents. the th, however, was ordered to the extreme front to support the picket line. at this point in front of fort hays our picket line was about a mile in front, the intervening space being mostly covered by a broad slashing and a strip of woods. through this we marched and stumbled until we reached the picket line, where we were posted in a deep trench or covered way. there was a parapet at the top of the trench, behind which our pickets were stationed, and these, and the enemy's pickets kept firing at each other all night, as was usual at that time, on that part of the line. the night was quite chilly, and as but small fires could be built in the trenches we passed a very disagreeable night. we were relieved next morning and went back to camp, where we spent most of the day in sleeping. tuesday, november th, was election day. president lincoln was the republican, and gen. george b. mcclellan the democratic candidate for the office of president. most of the northern states had enacted laws that soldiers in the field should be entitled to vote if they were of lawful age, the same as if they were in their respective states. the different states had appointed commissioners whose duty it was to furnish the regiments with the necessary election papers and tickets. the vote of the th stood votes for lincoln and for mcclellan. the regiment was recruited in those parts of pennsylvania which were strongly republican and it was but natural that the regiment was the same. the vote, however, in the entire army was for lincoln by a large majority. in the fore part of the war it was thought at headquarters of the army that political discussions among the soldiers should be discouraged, or prohibited. but what could keep an army of freeman from discussing political questions? discussions of that kind were as frequent around our campfires in front of petersburg in the fall of , as they were in any ward meeting or country store in the north. thanksgiving day, november , , will long be remembered by the soldiers of the various union armies, when instead of the usual dinner of pork and beans, hard tack, etc., they were, thanks to the loyal ladies of the north, treated to a genuine thanksgiving dinner of roast turkey and other good things. communication by steamer with the army of the potomac was handy to all the principal ports in the north, and for several days the wharves at city point on the james river were piled with boxes and packages containing good things for the "boys" at the front. there was more than enough and all was in good condition. some of the boxes contained the names of the fair donors, with the request that the parties receiving the same should acknowledge the receipt thereof. this in many instances led to a correspondence between the parties which ended in marriage, and the unions thus formed proved to be happy ones as far as the th boys were concerned. during the month of november the terms of service of many of our officers expired, and they were accordingly mustered out of the service. among these were lieut. col. w. b. neeper, capt. a. h. nelson, capt. sprague hill, capt. h. h. nelson and first lieut. a. b. mccartney. dr. john w. lyman, a resident of lock haven, pa., who was appointed surgeon of the th when the regiment was organized in , and had been with it constantly, resigned september , , in order to accept the lieutenant-colonelcy of the d pennsylvania volunteers. while serving with that regiment he was killed in the attack on fort fisher, north carolina, january , . dr. lyman was an excellent surgeon, kind and genial, and had endeared himself in the hearts of the men of the th, who were deeply grieved when they learned of his death. col. john w. moore, of the d, had long been connected with our division, having entered the service as captain in the th pennsylvania. as captain and major he had served on the staffs of generals kearny and birney, and was an accomplished soldier. he met his death in the same action, with dr. lyman. the d corps moved from its camp near fort hell and fort hays on november th, and took up a position farther to the left on the peebles farm, between forts sybert and emory. our old camping grounds were now occupied by the th army corps. on the morning of the th of december the regiment again broke camp to take part in the expedition to destroy the weldon railroad. the road had been destroyed, during the summer and fall, as far south as stony creek, some twenty miles south of petersburg. as the enemy was still using the road and hauling provisions, etc., by wagon from stony creek to petersburg, general grant determined to have the road destroyed as far south as possible. for this purpose an expedition was sent out under general warren, consisting of his own, the th corps, mott's division of the d corps, and gen. d. m. gregg's cavalry, in all a force of about twenty thousand men. our division (mott's) broke camp at daylight on december th and marched via the globe tavern and gurly house to the jerusalem plank, and following the th corps on this road, we arrived at the nottoway river about dark, after a march of twenty miles. we crossed the river the same evening and bivouacked for the night. we resumed our march at daylight on the th, passing through sussex court house, and halted for the night about three miles from jarrett's station on the weldon railroad. early on the morning of the th, the work of destroying the railroad commenced. a brigade would stack arms near the road, then each man taking hold of the end of a tie, the road would be turned over as a plow turns over a furrow. then axes were used to loosen the rails from the ties; the latter were placed in piles and the rails put on top. then dry wood, from the fences nearby, was added and the piles set on fire. the rails becoming red hot in the middle would bend in a semicircular form from their own weight, which rendered them useless for relaying. oft times the men would take a rail from the fire and twist it around a tree, which of course could not be removed without cutting down the tree. travelers in that section often noticed these rails around the trees long after the close of the war. we worked at tearing up the road until o'clock p. m., when we were ordered to encamp. two hours later our brigade, in light marching order, was sent to within one mile of belfield on the meherrin river. here we again began to destroy the railroad, back in the direction in which we came. belfield is about ten miles from the north carolina line, and is the furthermost point south ever reached by the regiment. this march of about five miles was made in rain and sleet, with the weather rapidly growing colder. it began to snow during the night, and in the morning every tree, twig and shrub was covered with ice. on saturday, december th, we started on our return march. the roads were in a terrible condition, which made the march very fatiguing, especially to the new recruits, of which there were many in every regiment. crawford's and ayer's divisions had some skirmishing to do while we moved to the rear, but on our part we were not molested and reached the vicinity of our old camps about o'clock p. m. on december th. we laid out a new camp in front of the rear line of entrenchments, west of the halifax road, where we remained until the th of february. it was reported that many of our soldiers who had straggled from their regiments during our advance in the weldon raid, were found during our retreat, lying in the woods, killed by rebel guerrillas, some with their throats cut. be this as it may, it is certain that many of these stragglers never returned to their regiments. many of the houses that stood near the road were burned on our return march in retaliation for the murder of our men. on account of the abundance of the liquor called applejack the weldon raid was generally spoken of by the men as the "applejack raid." as our division had the rear of the column in the advance we did not get hold of much of the liquor. there is no doubt that many of the men who straggled had tasted too much of the fiery stuff and became too tired to march, and lay down to rest. in the th we had some who had taken "as much as was good for them," and they became rather hilarious, but none of them straggled from the ranks. general hancock bade farewell to the d corps on november th. he had been appointed to raise and organize a new corps, to consist of veterans, and of which he was to have command. he was succeeded in command of the d corps by gen. a. a. humphreys, an able general, who for a long time had been chief of staff to general meade. chapter xii. by e. c. strouss. disbanding of companies a and e--regiment organized into a battalion of six companies--consolidation of the eighty-fourth with the fifty-seventh pennsylvania--necessity for changing the letter of some of the companies--confusion in company rolls growing out of it--officers of the consolidated regiment--another move across hatcher's run--the regiment again engaged with the enemy--great length of the line in front of petersburg--a lively picket skirmish--battle near watkin's house--enemy's picket line and many prisoners captured. the arduous campaign of , with its numerous terrific battles, had greatly reduced the strength of all the old regiments that went out in . these, together with the men who had not reenlisted--some seventy-five in number--had so thinned the ranks of the th that two of its companies were ordered to be disbanded and the men to be assigned to other companies. the following is a copy of the order which brought about this state of affairs: headquarters th p. v. v. january , . special orders no. . i. as directed by s. o. no. , war dept. a. g. o., jan. th, ' , this regiment will be consolidated into a battalion to consist of six companies of equal strength. ii. companies a and e will be broken up, and distributed with the six companies thus formed, so as to equalize them in strength. supernumerary non-commissioned officers to be mustered out under the supervision of the division mustering officer. by command of lieut.-col. l. d. bumpus. attest: r. i. campbell, lieut. and actg. adjt. [illustration: lorenzo d. bumpus] under the same order from the war department the th pennsylvania volunteers, which consisted of ten small companies, was consolidated into four, and these were then joined to our regiment, making a new organization to be designated the " th regiment, pennsylvania veteran volunteers." in order to avoid having two companies of the same letter, it became necessary to change the letter of three of the companies of the old th, viz: company h was changed to company a, i to d, and k to e. with but few exceptions, the companies whose letters were changed retained the same officers and non-commissioned officers, and their organizations remained the same. companies b, c, and f retained their old letters. the four companies of the old th formed the left of the regiment and were lettered g, h, i and k. the order for consolidation was received with considerable dissatisfaction by both officers and men. the th, like the th, was an old regiment, and had served faithfully and gallantly since the spring of , and each had an honorable record. the th had seen its first fighting at winchester, va., on march , , and then in bank's campaign in the shenandoah valley, pope's campaign, and had joined the d corps of the army of the potomac in september, . it was assigned to birney's division of the d corps in may and remained in the division until the close of the war. it was a great injustice to break up a regiment with such an honorable record and deprive it of its number. in the fall of the state of pennsylvania sent to the front a dozen or more new regiments to serve for one year. these men should have been sent to the old regiments already in the field, who had upheld their country's honor in many a bloody battle, and who were proud of their official distinction. one of the evil results of all this consolidation, changing of regimental numbers, and company letters, can be seen in a work published by the state of pennsylvania, after the war, entitled "bates' history of pennsylvania volunteers." the names of many worthy soldiers, some of whom died for their country, are omitted on the rolls as published in the work above mentioned. it was not the fault, however, of dr. s. p. bates and his assistants, for the rolls at harrisburg, from which they procured their information, were very incomplete. this is particularly so as regards the th pennsylvania. when the muster-out rolls of the regiment were prepared in june, , the company commanders were required to make out two rolls, each to contain the name of every man, living or dead, who had ever belonged to the company, and the manner in which he left the service to be stated. these rolls never reached harrisburg, but remained at washington, d. c. the writer is informed that dr. bates tried to have access to these rolls for preparing his history, but was refused the privilege of using them by the authorities at washington. while fortune had thrown together the th and th pennsylvania, they served side by side in perfect concord and amity, no quarrelling between them ever manifesting itself. at the time of the consolidation and for some months previous, lieut. col. l. d. bumpus was in command of the regiment. he was then honorably discharged and mustered out. he entered the service, a mere boy of , as a private in company i of the th, and for meritorious conduct was successively promoted to sergeant, first sergeant, first lieutenant, captain and lieutenant colonel. he was a brave soldier and was always with his men whether in the camp or in front of the enemy. the officers of the new organization were as follows: colonel--george zinn. lieutenant-colonel--george w. perkins. major--samuel bryan. adjutant--thomas e. merchant. quartermaster--john w. parks. surgeon--h. g. chritzman. assistant surgeon--j. k. cassell. chaplain--william t. mcadam. company a, capt. d. w. gore. company b, first lieut. daniel comstock. company c, capt. m. w. houser. company d, capt. j. d. moore. company e, capt. e. c. strouss. company f, capt. e. c. bierce. company g, first lieut. david larrish. company h, second lieut. william a. wilson. company i, capt. john r. ross. company k, capt. r. c. lamberton. the non-commissioned staff were: sergeant major--william mccaslin. quartermaster sergeant--john h. rodgers. commissary sergeant--charles coburn. hospital steward--cary a. slayton. principal musician--daniel fisher. drum major--j. n. mcdonald. our new colonel, george zinn, of harrisburg, was a man of undoubted courage and a strict disciplinarian. he was absent at the time of the consolidation on account of severe wounds received in action while in command of the th. he returned for duty and took command of the regiment on march . lieut.-col. george w. perkins, of bradford county, pa., entered the service as a sergeant of company h, th, in . he was for a time adjutant of the regiment, and was then promoted as captain of company b. for some time previous to his promotion to lieutenant-colonel he had served on the staff of general mott, our division commander. maj. samuel bryan, of lycoming county, pa., entered the service as first lieutenant of company b, th pennsylvania, in . he was not much of a tactician, but as brave as a lion, and if there was a chance to get up a row with the enemy's pickets, while he had charge of a detail, he was sure to do it. his "staying qualities" in a fight endeared him to all the men, to whom he was always kind and fatherly. on february th another move was made for the purpose of extending our lines to the left. at a. m., with the division, we broke camp and marched to the vaughn road crossing of hatcher's run. skirmishers from our st brigade and the cavalry having effected the crossing, our brigade--temporarily commanded by colonel west, of the th maine--crossed over and began to throw up a slight breastwork, forming the arc of a circle, the right of the st, and the left of the d brigade resting on the run. our brigade (the d) remained in this position till about p. m., when it was hurriedly moved to the right to support mcallister ( d brigade), who was being fiercely attacked by the enemy on the north side of the run. we started off on the double quick for a mile or more--the th leading--and reaching mcallister's position the th pennsylvania and the th michigan formed line on his left and charged the enemy, who would have driven back mcallister without our assistance. company e, of the th, was not with the regiment in this fight, having been sent on picket duty before the brigade was ordered to the right. the regiment had two men wounded in this affair. the rest of the fighting during this expedition was confined to the th corps and the cavalry, who were on our left. the th was a very disagreeable day, as it began to snow and continued to do so all day. on the th we were supplied with axes and began to slash the timber in front of our new line of works. our army now held a line extending from armstrong's mill on hatcher's run on the left to the appomattox river below petersburg on the right, a distance of about sixteen miles. this line with the natural and artificial obstructions in its front, was almost impregnable, and could be held by a small portion of our troops, leaving the main body of our army free for operations elsewhere. on march th the regiment proceeded to lay out a new camp, which proved to be the last one among the many we occupied along the petersburg lines, from this time until march th we lay quiet in our camp with the exceptions of drill, camp and picket duty. a heavy detail for picket duty in our front was sent out on the morning of march th. it was a beautiful spring day and everything remained quiet along our part of the line, until an hour or so before daylight on the th, when a prolonged and heavy artillery fire was heard far away on our right. about a. m. a staff officer of our division rode out to our picket line, with orders to advance our line and feel of the enemy. after crossing a narrow swamp in our front we advanced through the woods and were soon exchanging shots with the enemy's pickets. we were ordered to cease advancing, so we remained quiet until the relief came out and took our places at o'clock. during our advance lieut. r. i. campbell, of company c, and several of our men, were slightly wounded. on our arrival in camp we learned that the heavy artillery fire on our right which we heard in the morning, was caused by an attack on our lines by the enemy, under gen. j. b. gordon, at fort steadman. the enemy was temporarily successful, but were finally driven back with heavy loss by the th corps under general parke. many of the enemy were killed and wounded in trying to get back to their own lines; , prisoners, including officers and nine stands of colors, fell into general parke's hands. about p. m. of the same day our whole division was sent to the front for the purpose of driving back the enemy's picket line near the watkins house. arriving near the ground to be contested, general pierce placed colonel pulford, of the th michigan, in charge of the right wing near the watkins house, and colonel zinn of the left wing, consisting of the th, th and st pennsylvania. as soon as colonel zinn's line was formed, he sent out details from each regiment to connect the enemy's rifle-pits which had been captured in the morning. while these details were at work, a brigade of rebels charged them and drove them back to the main line. colonel zinn at once ordered a countercharge of the regiments under his command, when they went forward with a cheer, and retook the pits and captured six commissioned officers and enlisted men. in this charge corporal wolford case, of company e, th, ordered a rebel lieutenant to give up his sword. the rebel refused to do so at first, but, on seeing the state of affairs, yielded without further comment. our regiment lost in this engagement officer and men wounded. the brigade loss was enlisted men killed and officer and men wounded. gen. a. a. humphreys, in his book entitled "the virginia campaign of - ," says of this engagement: "it was this capture of the entrenched picket line of the enemy that made it practicable for general wright to carry the enemy's main line of entrenchments by assault on the morning of the d of april." we remained on the ground wrested from the enemy until after dark, when other troops relieved us and we returned to our camps. on the morning of the th the whole regiment was ordered once more to the front to support the picket line, some distance to the left of the point where we were engaged on the th. we threw up a strong breastwork of logs and earth, which we held until dark, when without difficulty we advanced our line to within one hundred yards of the enemy's pickets. on our return to camp next day we found that the whole division was under orders to move at o'clock the next morning. chapter xiii. by e. c. strouss. beginning of our last campaign--battle of five forks--on picket duty on old hatcher's run battlefield--jubilant rebels--enemy's lines broken--petersburg and richmond evacuated--in pursuit of the enemy--battle of sailor's creek--high bridge--general mott wounded--lee's army breaking up--appomattox--joy over the surrender--on the backward march--camp at burkesville junction. before daylight on the morning of march th our men were astir getting their breakfasts, packing up, and preparing for the march, which was to terminate in the surrender of our old antagonists, the army of northern virginia, ten days later. we moved out by the vaughn road, across hatcher's run, our corps resting its right on the run, and its left in communication with the th corps. general ord's troops of the army of the james occupied the entrenchments vacated by our corps. we moved out toward the enemy: but in that country of woods and swamps it took nearly the whole day to rectify the line and get into position. it rained heavily all night of the th and all the next day, rendering the roads impassable for artillery and wagons until corduroyed. on the th our corps continued its advance, driving the enemy inside his entrenchments along hatcher's run from the crow house to the boydton road, pressing close up against them, but not assaulting. on the st the th corps under general warren on our left was more or less engaged with the enemy with varying success. our first division under general miles, which joined warren's right, engaged the enemy in a brisk fight, drove them back and relieved the pressure on warren. our division made an attempt to attack the enemy's entrenchments at the boydton road crossing of hatcher's run, but the works were found to be too strong, so the attack was countermanded. late in the afternoon of april st general warren, assisted by sheridan's cavalry, succeeded in carrying the enemy's strong position at five forks, about five miles to our left. the enemy under general pickett had , prisoners, colors and guns captured. during the afternoon of this day the regiment with the brigade was posted in the same field in which we had fought the enemy on the th of october previous. just before dark a heavy detail of the th in charge of captains strouss and moore and first lieut. r. i. campbell was sent to the front instructed to guard carefully against a night attack from the enemy. only a short distance in our front were the rebel pickets. they yelled at us: "yanks, do you know that general sheridan is killed?" they were answered: "you lie, you greybacks, you haven't lead enough to kill him." they had no doubt been told that we had lost the battle at five forks, and that sheridan had been killed. at least they were very hilarious during the fore part of the night. they also yelled to us asking: "yanks, have you got any whiskey over thar?" being answered in the negative, they yelled: "we have lots of it over har; come over and get some." they evidently had plenty of whiskey or applejack, as some of those we "gobbled" next morning were very weak in the legs. on our side we were busy strengthening our picket pits, hurrying to get the work finished before the rise of the moon. during the latter part of the night there was more or less picket-firing along the lines, which we kept up until daylight, when they also opened on us with several pieces of artillery in a redoubt close by. one of their shells struck a large pine tree near which captain moore was standing, and exploding, threw a large piece of wood against him, injuring him painfully. long before daylight on the d began the terrible cannonade which preceded the attack of the th and th corps on the rebel works near petersburg. this was miles away on our right, but the sound of the cannon and the reverberation through the woods, together with our anxiety as to how the battle would end, put us on an awful strain. in a few hours, however, we learned that our troops had been victorious and had broken and held the rebel lines in several places, and also that gen. a. p. hill, one of lee's corps commanders, had been killed. on our part of the line we captured about one hundred of the enemy, also the cannon in the redoubt in our front. about o'clock our corps took up the line of march via the boydton plank road, to near petersburg. here we formed line, about noon, parallel with the appomattox river, the right of our line joining the left of the th corps. here we were considerably annoyed by a battery of the enemy on the opposite side of the river, until some of our sharpshooters drove the cannoneers away from their guns. later in the day we took up a new line near a large brick house which the day before had been the rebel general mahone's headquarters. a little before dark the enemy from one of their forts opened on us with artillery, but did little damage, as we were sheltered by the brow of a hill and most of their shots passed over us. an officer of our division, while standing by a pump near the brick house mentioned above, was killed by a cannon ball which passed through the pump. several men of the th who had gone to a spring in rear of our line for water were also injured by fragments of shell. the enemy evacuated petersburg and richmond during the night of the d and morning of the d. lee's army moved westward with the expectation of reaching lynchburg or danville, va. our corps took up the line of march in pursuit of the enemy about o'clock a. m. on the d. we marched about twenty miles this day without any fighting, although some of our infantry and cavalry had some brisk skirmishes with the enemy's rear guard. on the th we only marched about eight miles, but spent most of the day in repairing bridges the enemy had destroyed and mending the roads, which recent rains had put in very bad order. our corps and the th were on what was known as the river road; the th corps and the main body of the cavalry were on a road further south, and ord's army and the th corps were following the line of the south side railroad. by the evening of the th nearly all of lee's army was at amelia court house. lee had expected to find rations here for his army, which were ordered to be left there on the d. but the authorities at richmond, anxious to get away, ordered the trains to go through to that place, where the rations were dumped out, the cars loaded with the heads of the various departments and their archives, and started south again, the occupants being in great dread of capture by the yankees. the consequence was that lee's army had to go hungry, as but little to eat was to be found in the country through which they were marching. the th corps had reached jetersville--a station on the south side railroad--late in the afternoon of the th and began to entrench as they were in front and across the path of the rebel army, only five miles distant. our corps joined the th corps about dark and the th corps a few hours later. on the morning of the th the three corps advanced toward amelia court house, but it was soon found that lee had during the night slipped around our left flank, or, in other words, passed to the north of us and continued his retreat. he was closely followed and there was some hot fighting during the day. our brigade's first encounter was on the afternoon of the th at a place called amelia springs, about four miles from jetersville. we drove the enemy and captured some prisoners. the road we followed on this day was strewn for miles with tents, camp equipage, baggage, documents, etc., which the enemy threw from their wagons to enable the half-starved mules to pull them through. our brigade had frequent skirmishes with the enemy's rear guard until near dark, when we struck them at sailor creek at perkinson's mill, a few miles from where the creek empties into the appomattox. here, assisted by a portion of miles' division, we succeeded in capturing several hundred prisoners, thirteen flags, and three guns, and a large part of the main trains of lee's army, which were huddled together in a confused mass at the bridge crossing the creek. our regiment and the th maine dashed through the train and pursued the enemy across the creek, but both regiments were recalled after dark. in this engagement the regiment had none killed, and but seven men wounded. among the wounded was lieutenant-colonel perkins. our division commander, general mott, was wounded during the day's fighting. on the same day, further to our left, or up the creek, the th corps and sheridan's cavalry had a battle with the enemy in which the latter met with severe losses. general humphreys, in his book before quoted, says: "the total loss to lee's army today (the th) in its actions with the th corps and the cavalry, and with the d corps, was not less than eight thousand men." among the prisoners were generals ewell, kershaw, custis lee, and dubose of ewell's command, and generals hunton and corse, of pickett's division. the d corps resumed the pursuit at half past five o'clock in the morning of the th, keeping near to the river and taking the routes which appeared to have been marched on by the largest bodies of infantry, and came upon high bridge just as the enemy had blown up the redoubt that formed the bridge-head and had set fire to the railroad bridge, and were trying to burn the wagon road bridge. the railroad bridge was called high bridge because built on piers about sixty feet high, across the narrow river and the wide marshy low ground on the north bank. this bridge was saved with the loss of four spans at the north end, chiefly by the exertions of colonel livermore, of general humphreys' staff, whose party put out the fire, while the enemy's skirmishers were fighting under their feet. it was a wooden, open deck bridge. the wagon road bridge which the enemy tried to burn but failed, was still smoking as we crossed it. sixteen pieces of artillery which were in the redoubts at either end of the railroad bridge fell into our hands. the divisions of miles and de trobriand (the latter now commanding mott's division) arrived at the lynchburg stage road about p. m., when we suddenly came in contact with the enemy, who opened on us with a heavy fire of artillery. dispositions were at once made for an attack, and a heavy skirmish line was pressed close up against the enemy to develop their strength. from prisoners taken it was found that lee's whole army was present in strong position covering the stage and plank roads to lynchburg, which was entrenched sufficiently for cover, and had artillery in place. general humphreys pressed against the rebel positions with his two divisions, but found the enemy too strong to be dislodged with the forces then under him. general meade was notified of the state of affairs, when it was found that no pontoon bridge was available at farmville, that the river was too deep for fording, and that it would be night before a bridge could be built to enable the force on our left to come to our assistance. so all we could do was to lie still and watch the enemy. by detention until night at this place, general lee lost invaluable time, which he could not regain by night marching, lost the supplies awaiting him at appomattox station, and gave time to sheridan and his cavalry, and general ord with the th and th corps to post themselves across his path at appomattox court house. lee continued his retreat some time during the night, and the d corps started after him at : on the morning of the th. there was some skirmishing during the day, but no hard fighting. the enemy was anxious to get away, and thousands of their stragglers and deserters lined the roads. our regiment acted as flankers to the main column on the th, moving on the left of it, about a quarter of a mile distant. correspondence pertaining to the surrender of the rebel army was already passing between grant and lee; but of this we knew nothing at the time. on the morning of the th we moved a few miles and then halted for several hours and then moved on a short distance and halted within a few rods of where general meade had his headquarters, about noon. about o'clock in the afternoon an ambulance bearing a flag of truce and in which were seated some rebel officers, coming from the front, drove up to general meade's headquarters. the ambulance soon returned accompanied by general meade and his chief of staff, general webb. they had been at the front but a short time when we heard great cheering in that direction, and also heard the music of the bands playing patriotic airs. the cheering came nearer and nearer, and our men began to line both sides of the road, when soon we saw the forms of generals meade and webb approaching, their horses at an easy gallop. general webb was riding ahead and shouting to the men: "boys, your fighting is over; general lee has surrendered." general meade, who had been sick for several days, was waving his cap, but was so exhausted that he was scarcely able to dismount. then for a while it seemed as if our army had suddenly become insane with joy. men pushed each other over, mounted a stump or fence and crowed like roosters, laughed or wept for joy. it was hard to realize that the men whom we had been fighting for nearly four years were no longer our foes, and that the weary nights on picket duty in storm and rain were ended. according to the records of the war department the number of officers and enlisted men of lee's army paroled on the th of april, , was: officers, , ; enlisted men, , ; total, , . of the troops surrendered only , were armed. when the surrender took place our corps was near clover hill, about three miles from appomattox court house. it remained there on the th and on the th we moved to the rear and bivouacked for the night at a place called new store. moving on the next day over very muddy roads and in the rain, we halted for the night at farmville. on the th, after a hard march, we arrived at burkesville junction, where we went into camp and remained there until may d. while at this place we heard the sad news that president lincoln had been assassinated at ford's theater in washington on the night of april th. on the th we had the joyful news that the rebel army under general johnson had surrendered to gen. w. t. sherman. the most doubtful now knew that the war was over. chapter xiv. by e. c. strouss. departure from burkesville--marching through richmond--the march to washington--passing over old battlefields--camp at bailey's cross roads--grand review of the army of the potomac--the order of march--the fifty-seventh ordered mustered out--names of engagements in which the regiment participated--its casualties--we start for harrisburg--finally paid and discharged--farewell address of our field officers. the regiment with the corps received orders on may d to go to richmond. it left its camp at burkesville accordingly and marching via amelia court house, it reached manchester on the james river, opposite richmond, about a. m. on may th. on the th it marched through richmond with bands playing and colors flying, passing the famous--or infamous--libby prison on the way. but few of the men who then marched with the regiment had ever been prisoners within its walls. crossing the chickahominy river the regiment bivouacked four and a half miles north of richmond on the fredericksburg pike. on the th it marched through hanover court house, and across the pamunkey river, halting for the night after a march of sixteen miles. on the th it marched sixteen miles and on the th, seventeen miles, and halted for the night on the po river, near the old battlefield of spottsylvania. on the th it passed through fredericksburg and crossing the rappahannock, camped for the night on familiar ground near stoneman's switch on the aquia creek railroad. by the th the corps had reached the vicinity of washington and went into camp near bailey's cross roads. this proved to be the last camping ground of the regiment, it remaining here until the last of june. the only things of importance that occurred while in this camp were the grand review of the army of the potomac, on may d, and the muster-out of the regiment at the end of june. on the morning of may d we were up early, getting ready to march to washington, distant seven miles, to take part in the grand review. we moved by way of arlington mills and hunter's chapel to long bridge, crossing which our corps (the d) was massed on the streets east and south of the capitol. the army of the potomac (with the exception of the th corps, which was on duty at danville, va.), was to pass in review before the president of the united states in the following order, with the officers named commanding: cavalry corps, major general merritt. ninth corps, maj. gen. john g. parke. fifth corps, maj. gen. charles griffin. second corps, maj. gen. a. a. humphreys. this force comprised regiments of infantry, regiments of cavalry and batteries of artillery, which, with the staff department of the general officers, made about , men. precisely at o'clock a. m. the signal gun boomed out the start. the cheery bugles of the cavalry and artillery were instantly going, the drums of the infantry rolled, the bands pealed forth inspiring music, and the grand army of the potomac was on the march. the infantry marched without knapsacks, by company front, closed _en masse_. as the cavalry passed up pennsylvania avenue, cheers rent the air, and horses and riders were pelted with flowers. similar demonstrations awaited the other parts of the column. in front of the white house a large stand had been erected, on which stood the president, members of his cabinet, heads of the military and civil departments, and foreign ambassadors. thousands of people from the northern states had visited washington to see this the greatest military pageant of the nineteenth century, and which this country may never see surpassed. the streets were crowded to their utmost, and windows and roofs of houses and every available spot where the parade could be viewed was filled with spectators. it was late in the afternoon when the last regiment passed the reviewing stand. our brigade was the next to the last in the column. it was commanded by brig. gen. byron r. pierce and marched in the following order: th maine, col. c. p. mattox. th pennsylvania, maj. james miller. th michigan, lieut. col. d. s. root. d new york, lieut. col. h. gifford. st pennsylvania, lieut. col. j. h. horton. st massachusetts heavy artillery, maj. shatwell. th pennsylvania, maj. samuel bryan. the weather throughout the day was delightful, and the men being in light marching order, were but little fatigued, although we had marched altogether about sixteen miles. the next day general sherman's army was reviewed under like circumstances, the crowd being swelled by the presence of many officers and men of the army of the potomac, who were anxious to see the review of their gallant comrades of the western armies. the th corps of the army of the potomac, and all the artillery that had not previously been reviewed, passed in review on the th of june. after the reviews were over the government began mustering out troops as fast as the necessary rolls could be made out, and transportation be secured to send the men home. on june d orders were received that the th was on the list of regiments to be mustered out. then for a week there were busy times at the headquarters of the various companies. five large muster-out rolls of each company had to be made out, a discharge paper for each man to be filled out, company books balanced, and descriptive books verified up to date. at last, all the necessary requirements having been fulfilled, the regiment was mustered out of the united states service on the evening of june , . according to the records of the war department the regiment is credited with having participated in the following battles, viz: yorktown, williamsburg, fair oaks, oak grove, glendale, malvern hill, bristow station, groveton, second bull run, chantilly, fredericksburg, chancellorsville, gettysburg, auburn, kelly's ford, mine run, wilderness, spottsylvania, north anna, totopotomoy, cool harbor, petersburg, strawberry plains, deep bottom, poplar grove church, boydton road, hatcher's run, petersburg (watkins' house), amelia springs, appomattox. the casualties of the regiment were: killed, ; wounded, ; died of disease or wounds, ; total, . this total is almost as great as the original strength of the regiment, which was about officers and men. the above does not include those who died in prison, as correct lists of these were never obtained. the total enlistment in the regiment was , , but this includes the men who reenlisted, and over who enlisted for the regiment, but never reported for duty. the regiment also received recruits after lee had surrendered and the fighting was over. at the date of muster-out there were but men of the original regiment left in the ranks. chaplain w. t. mcadam was the only one of the original officers remaining. on the morning of june th we struck tents for the last time, and then marched to washington, where we took cars for harrisburg. we arrived at the latter place on sunday morning, july d, and marched out to what was called "camp return," adjoining "old camp curtin." here the regiment received its final pay and discharges from maj. w. t. asson, paymaster u. s. a., on july th, . on the same day the men departed by various routes for their homes. before disbanding each member of the regiment received a copy of the following farewell address, which was prepared by adjutant thomas e. merchant, of the th: harrisburg, pa., july , . to the officers and soldiers of the old th pennsylvania: four years ago our thoughts were turned on war to come. to-day our thoughts are on war past and peace to come. the bloody strife is over, and you with many of your fellow soldiers are now to return to your homes. we part joyfully, for the life we have led as soldiers has been a severe one, and we are glad the task is over, and that henceforth we may enjoy the comforts of peaceful life. yet the associations we have formed are very hard to sever, and during our whole course of life in the future we will revert with pleasure and pride to the associations and companionships formed during those three or four years in which the regiment fought twenty-seven engagements and marched hundreds of miles. let us not forget each other. parting as a band of brothers, let us cling to the memory of those tattered banners, under which we fought together, and which without dishonor we just now restored to the authorities who placed them in our hands. till we grow grey-headed and pass away let us sustain the reputation of the noble old regiment,--for none can point to one more glorious! fortune threw together two organizations--the th p. v. and the th p. v.--to make up the present command. both regiments have been in service since the beginning of the strife, and the records of both will demand respect through all coming time. very many of those who have been enrolled with us have fallen, and their graves are scattered here and there throughout the south. we will not forget these; and the people of this nation will and must honor their memory--for how can they avoid it when they see little children pointing their fingers at the portrait on the wall and hear them saying: "he died for our country!" comrades, god bless you all! farewell! george zinn, george w. perkins, samuel bryan, field officers of the late th p. v. v. appendix a. roster of the field, staff and line officers of the fifty-seventh regiment, pennsylvania veteran volunteer infantry, from date of organization, december , , to date of muster out, june , . this roster is copied from the report of gen. a. l. russell, adjutant general of the state of pennsylvania for the year . rank and name. county or rank from remarks. residence. col. william maxwell mercer aug. , ' resigned march , . col. chas. t. franklin mar. , ' promoted to brig. campbell gen. nov. , . col. peter sides. philadelphia mar. , ' hon. dis. nov. , ' . ap't'd brevet brig. gen. april , . col. geo. zinn dauphin feb. , ' mustered out with reg. june , . lt. col. e. w. woods mercer aug. , ' resigned september , . lt. col. peter sides philadelphia sept. , ' to colonel. lt. col. t. s. venango mar. , ' hon. dis. march , stroecker , as lt. colonel. lt. col. wm. b. allegheny sept. , ' hon. dis. november neeper , . lt. col. l. d. venango nov. , ' mustered out jan. bumpus , . lt. col. geo. w. bradford dec. , ' mustered out june perkins , . major jeremiah culp bradford aug. , ' killed at fair oaks, va., may , . major s. c. simonton mercer june , ' hon. dis. january , . major wm. b. neeper allegheny dec. , ' to lieut. colonel. major samuel bryan lycoming jan. , ' mustered out june , . adjt. wm. b. neeper allegheny aug. , ' to captain company c. adjt. geo. w. bradford sept. , ' to captain company perkins b. adjt. clark m. lyons susquehanna feb. , ' died june , , of w'nds rec' in action. adjt. jas. d. moore mercer june , ' to captain company i. adjt. r. j. mercer nov. , ' commission withheld. mcquillen adjt. thos. e. philadelphia april , ' mustered out june merchant , . qr. mast. israel mercer aug. , ' mustered out at ex. garretson of term, dec. , . qr. mast. john h. mercer dec. , ' not mustered as rodgers quarter master. qr. mast. john w. mercer nov. , ' must. out with reg. parke june , . surgeon john w. clinton oct. , ' must. out sept. , lyman ' , to be lt. col. d p. v. surgeon h. g. franklin oct. , ' must. out june , chritzman . asst. surg. a. w. northumberland oct. ' resigned aug. , fisher . asst. surg. d. d. chester aug. , ' to surgeon d pa. kennedy volunteers. asst. surg. j. franklin aug. , ' resigned december elliott miller , . asst. surg. fred r. mercer jan. , ' resigned . h. leet asst. surg. t. a. philadelphia mar. , ' dis. for disability, downs mar. , ' , to date. asst. surg. j. k. bucks sept. , ' mustered out june cassell , . asst. surg. wm. jack indiana jan. , ' must. out june , ' . tr. from th pa. v. chaplain wm. t. mercer aug. , ' mustered out june mcadam , . company a. capt. peter sides philadelphia sept. , ' to lieut. colonel. capt. j. r. lyons susquehanna sept. , ' hon. discharged oct. , . capt. h. h. hinds susquehanna oct. , ' hon. dis. as st lieut. may , . st lieut. j. r. susquehanna sept. , ' to captain. lyons st lieut. edson j. wyoming sept. , ' to captain co. e. rice st lieut. h. h. susquehanna jan. , ' to captain. hinds d lieut. edson j. wyoming sept. , ' to st lieutenant. rice d lieut. h. h. susquehanna sept. , ' to st lieutenant. hinds d lieut. jere. c. wyoming jan. , ' killed in action may green , . d lieut. geo. l. susquehanna mar. , ' mustered out june amey , . company b. capt. s. c. simonton mercer sept. , ' to major. capt. j. w. mercer oct. , ' hon. discharged oct. gillespie , . capt. geo. w. bradford feb. , ' to lieut. colonel. perkins st lieut. israel mercer sept. , ' to quartermaster. garretson st lieut. t. o. mercer oct. . ' resigned may , collamore . st lieut. d. c. mercer nov. , ' mustered out june comstock , . d lieut. j. w. mercer sept. , ' to captain. gillespie d lieut. james mercer jan. , ' hon. discharged mar. burns , . d lieut. wm. h. mercer april , ' mustered out june bell , . company c. capt. jere b. mercer oct. , ' resigned june , hoagland . capt. wm. b. neeper allegheny june , ' to major. capt. sprague s. mercer jan. , ' mustered out at ex. hill of term, nov. , . capt. m. w. houser franklin nov. , ' mustered out june , . st lieut. enoch c. mercer oct. , ' discharged june , cloud . st lieut. sprague mercer june , ' to captain. s. hill st lieut. a. b. mercer jan. , ' mustered out at ex. mccartney of term, nov. , . st lieut. robt. i. mercer nov. , ' mustered out june campbell , . d lieut. sprague s. mercer april , ' to st lieutenant. hill d lieut. m. w. franklin jan. , ' to captain. houser d lieut. geo. w. bradford march , ' mustered out june miller , . company d. capt. h. w. caulking tioga sept. , ' resigned aug. , . st lieut. charles tioga sept. , ' killed at malvern o. etz hill, va., july , . st lieut. cyrus p. crawford may , ' mustered out june slaven , . d lieut. w. o. tioga sept. , ' resigned june , mattison . d lieut. joseph s. venango may , ' must. out as st sharp serg. june , . company e. capt. jas. e. moore allegheny sept. , ' resigned october , . capt. w. s. eberman mercer oct. , ' resigned january , . capt. edson j. rice wyoming feb. , ' killed at chancellorsville, va., may , . capt. edgar williams susquehanna nov. , ' died may , , of wounds. capt. john w. parke mercer may , ' mustered out as quartermaster. st lieut. henry allegheny jan. , ' killed at mitchell gettysburg, july , . st lieut. edgar susquehanna sept. , ' to captain. williams st lieut. john w. mercer nov. , ' to captain. parke st lieut. john a. crawford april , ' mustered out june sillaman , . d lieut. w. s. mercer sept. , ' to captain. eberman d lieut. henry allegheny oct. , ' to st lieutenant. mitchell d lieut. edgar susquehanna jan. , ' to st lieutenant. williams d lieut. john a. crawford mar. , ' to st lieutenant. sillaman d lieut. joseph crawford april ,' mustered out june freeman , . company f. captain ralph mercer sept , ' resigned feb. , maxwell . captain george clark mercer feb. , ' resigned dec. , . captain h. h. nelson mercer dec. , ' dis. at ex. of term of service, nov. . captain e. c. bierce mercer dec. , ' mustered out june , . st lieut. isaac mercer sept. , ' resigned march , cummings . st lieut. wm. b. allegheny aug. , ' to adjutant. neeper st lieut. george mercer april , ' to captain. clark st lieut. h. h. mercer feb. , ' to captain. nelson st lieut. james f. bradford dec. , ' mustered out june ruger , . d lieut. george mercer sept. , ' to st lieutenant. clark d lieut. h. h. mercer april , ' to st lieutenant. nelson d lieut. lafayette mercer feb. , ' discharged december cameron , . d lieut. wm. h. h. mercer dec. , ' mustered out june hurry , . d lieut. e. c. mercer nov. , ' to captain. bierce company g. captain geo. s. peck bradford sept. , ' hon. dis. sept. , ' . captain chas. w. columbia april , ' must. out june , forrester ' . st lieut. daniel bradford sept. , ' to captain co. h. mehan st lieut. james m. bradford may , ' to captain co. h. darling st lieut. joseph h. blair june , ' tr. from th pa. moore v., must. out june , ' . d lieut. mort. b. northampton sept. , ' resigned october , owen . d lieut. pierce bradford june , ' tr. from th pa. russell v., must. out june , ' . company h. capt. john griffin bradford sept. , ' resigned may , . capt. daniel mehan bradford may , ' resigned december , . capt. james m. bradford jan. , ' dis. as of company darling a, june , . capt. daniel w. gore bradford nov. , ' mustered out with co. a, june , . capt. david larish sullivan june , ' tr. to and must. out co. g, june , . st lieut. daniel bradford sept. , ' dis. may , ' . minier dis. removed apr. , ' . st lieut. joseph bradford sept. , ' killed at brady chancellorsville, may , . st lieut. frank v. bradford sept. , ' must. out with co. shaw a. june , . st lieut. wm. a. mifflin april , ' hon. dis. june , wilson . st lieut. w. h. h. cumberland june , ' must. out co. k, hurst june , ' , as d lieut. d lieut. rich. bradford sept. , ' resigned aug. , sinsabaugh . d lieut. geo. w. bradford aug. , ' to adjutant. perkins d lieut. r. s. bradford sept. , ' honorably discharged edmiston june , . d lieut. daniel w. bradford sept. , ' to captain. gore d lieut. jacob blair april , ' mustered out june weidensall , . company i. capt. t. s. venango sept. , ' to lieut. colonel. strohecker capt. lorenzo d. vanango mar. , ' to lieut. colonel. bumpus capt. james d. moore mercer nov. , ' must. out with co. d, june , . capt. john r. ross wayne. st lieut. george wayne sept. , ' resigned aug. , suplee . st lieut. l. d. venango aug. , ' to captain. bumpus st lieut. john mercer april , ' died may , ' , of bowers wounds received at spottsylvania, va. st lieut. james m. philadelphia april , ' must. out as d lewis lieut. june , . d lieut. j. r. mercer mar. , ' resigned aug. , williams . d lieut. e. s. mercer may , ' resigned aug. , benedict . d lieut. john f. mercer aug. , ' killed at cox gettysburg, july , . d lieut. henry m. bradford july , ' killed in front adams petersburg, va., june , ' . d lieut. cyrus p. crawford june , ' to st lieutenant slaven co. d. d lieut. geo. w. blair april , ' must. out st lower sergeant june , . company k. capt. cornelius s. crawford died june , ' , chase wds. rec'd fair oaks, va. capt. alanson h. crawford june , ' must. out ex. of nelson term, nov. , . capt. ellis c. crawford nov. , ' must. out with co. strouss e, june , . st lieut. a. h. crawford sept. , ' to captain. nelson st lieut. thos. j. crawford dec. , ' hon. dis. december crossley , . d lieut. chester f. crawford sept. , ' resigned dec. , morse . d lieut. john m. crawford dec. , ' hon. dis. june , robinson . d lieut. ellis c. crawford june , ' to captain. strouss d lieut. isaac blair june , ' must. out st manes sergeant june , . appendix b. report of dr. john w. lyman, surgeon of the fifty-seventh regiment pennsylvania volunteers. camp near poolesville, md., headquarters th regiment, pa. volunteers. october , . the th regiment, p. v., was organized at harrisburg, pa., and was mustered into the united states service in the latter part of october, . while in camp curtin the men suffered, like most other newly organized regiments, from rubeola, in common with the whole camp. variola was also present, but by thorough and careful vaccination of the men as fast as recruited its spread was prevented, only two cases of varioloid occurring in the regiment. typhoid fever, incident to the season in that region, diarrhoea and dysentery, the result of sudden change of diet, and other habits of life, as well as the crowded state of the camp, involving imperfect police arrangements, bad sinks, etc., together with the usual excesses of raw recruits, contributed to keep the sick list of the regiment, at that time numbering about men, up to the average of fifty cases in hospital and quarters, or a little over per cent. during the prevalence of rubeola the regiment was ordered to washington, d. c., about the middle of december, and though the intention of the medical officer was to have left all cases of measles behind, what with the anxiety of the convalescents to go along, and new cases occurring on the way, it was found when reaching washington, that we had no less than fifteen cases of rubeola in various stages of progress, and in three days nearly double that number. the men were very much exposed to the effects of cold during the trip, being two days and nights in open cars. the site selected for a camp--near bladensburg toll-gate--was a bad one, low and wet. the result was many cases of pneumonia as a complication or sequella of rubeola, with innumerable catarrhs of all degrees of severity. four cases of pneumonia resulted fatally the second week. many more were sent to the general hospital as soon as admittance could be obtained for them. at first admittance was refused for fear of infecting the hospitals. stimulants were freely used with benefit in simple rubeola as well as that complicated with pneumonia. a change of camp to better ground about the st of january, , together with a full supply of medical and hospital stores, effected a gradual improvement, but the appearance of mumps among the men before the measles had entirely disappeared kept the sick list large all winter, sometimes as great a proportion as per cent. of the whole command. the men were quartered in sibley tents, not more than or in a tent, inspected daily, and by great care in cleanliness and ventilation, typhus fever was avoided, and but few cases of typhoid appeared. in february we were moved to near fort lyon, below alexandria, and placed in general jameson's brigade, from which time until nearly the last of august, the military history is nearly identical with that of the other regiments of the same brigade and its medical history similar. they were the d and th pennsylvania and the th new york volunteers. on the th of march we were shipped on board transports at alexandria for fortress monroe, where we were landed at dark during a cold rain storm, to which the men were exposed during the night, in and by the roadside, without any protection whatever. the next day and night they were quartered in open horse sheds. then for two weeks they were camped in open fields near hampton, in shelter-tents, in the use of which the men were entirely unskilled, a matter of more moment than would at first appear. the result of the unusual exposure was the appearance of dysentery to considerable extent among the men, even at that early season. on the th and th of april we were marched from hampton to within three miles of yorktown and confined for one week within short range of the rebel guns. a heavy rain flooded the tents for four days, during two of which neither officers nor men had anything to eat. the brigade was then moved back half a mile into the woods, to a spot in the immediate vicinity of several large marshes; in fact, the camp itself was little better than a swamp. for three weeks the men walked in mud, slept in mud, and drank water from holes scooped out in the mud. the combined remonstrance of the medical officers of the brigade, that a "month's continuance in that place would deprive the government of the services of one-half the men and officers," was met by the silencing reply: "it is a military necessity." the subsequent amount of sickness shows that our fears were well founded. the malaria imbibed in the marshes and swamps at yorktown, together with the excessive amount of labor performed there, on picket and in the trenches, debilitated our men for months, putting dozens of them in their graves and rendered hundreds of them unfit for service for months, many of them for life. we had one man killed by a shell and five wounded while before yorktown, in the skirmish of the "peach orchard," and two by accident, one shot through the penis and scrotum, above the testicle, and behind the cord and thigh, by a small sized rifle bullet, recovered rapidly by simple dressing. one shot through the leg died afterwards in general hospital. remainder slight wounds. on the th of may we again marched in pursuit of the enemy, leaving forty-three sick in hospital and sending four back next day, mostly cases of remittent fever, some diarrhoea and dysentery. the th we marched nine miles through deep mud and rain to the battlefield in front of williamsburg, the last four and a half on the double quick and a run. the men, exhausted, in profuse perspiration, and wet to the skin, were obliged to lie on their arms during the night without either blankets or fires. from that hour the sickness of the regiment increased frightfully, six or eight new cases occurring daily. we left twenty-seven men in hospital at williamsburg, sent six to transports at west point when opposite that place, sent sixty away at cumberland landing, left forty-eight at baltimore store, and had sixty-four on the sick list at bottom's bridge on the st of may. at the battle of fair oaks, on the last day of may, we lost of men and officers eleven killed and forty-nine wounded. of the last, twenty-three were wounds of the upper extremities, two requiring amputation of the arm, and one exsection of the elbow joints; twelve of the lower extremities, four of thigh, seven of leg, and one of knee joint, eight of trunk (three serious); six of head (one serious), and two of both upper and lower extremities. while at fair oaks from the st to the th of june, the regiment suffered greatly from fever and dysentery, the first of miastamic origin, which, together with the effect of constant apprehension, rendered the nervous system highly impressible. hence the marked effect of the malaria upon the nervous centers, especially the spine, as evidenced by the almost constantly present--to a greater or less degree--numbing of the extremities with partial paralysis of the lower, usually severe pain in the hips and lumbar region, with great depression of spirits, etc. the diarrhoea, as well as all diseases resulting from bad digestion or affections of the digestive organs, were caused mainly, if not entirely, by improper habits of cooking and eating. each soldier cooked for himself, having no other implements than a small tin pail made from fruit can, a tin cup and a borrowed frying pan. every leisure moment was devoted to cooking and eating; meat of every description was fried instead of being boiled. all regularity in eating was lost, except that uncertain kind, produced by relief from the routine of duty. nor can any remedy be suggested short of the entire removal of the cooking business from the hands of the soldier, and placing it in charge of a competent corps organized for that special purpose. soldiers cannot march and fight each with a complete stock of cooking furniture on his back. in an active campaign like that on the peninsula, officers suffer from bad cooking equally with the men. servants are an uncertain kind of dependencies and often obliged to cook for himself, the officer is of course as unskilled as the soldier. a regimental mess for the officers of this regiment under charge of a competent cook, established a few weeks ago, has already proved decidedly advantageous. a similar arrangement for the men, for instance by companies, would be found to be as great an improvement. for five days before commencing the retreat from before richmond to harrison's landing our men were almost constantly on duty. on the th of june they skirmished all day, then marched half of the night. the next day ( th) they fought at charles city cross roads, losing seven killed and fifty-six wounded, most of whom fell into the hands of the enemy. they watched until two o'clock a. m., july st, then marched to malvern hill, fought there, losing two killed and eight wounded; remained on picket until a. m. next morning, then marched twelve miles through deep mud and hard rain to harrison's landing, camped at night in the mud, then moved three miles and camped permanently for outpost duty. all were exhausted and disheartened, scarcely a well man in the regiment, two hundred and thirty on the sick list for the first few days. scurvy made its appearance to a small extent, yet sufficient to complicate and multiply other ailments. however, a few weeks' rest, abundance of fresh vegetables, lemons and ice, and we were ready to commence the retreat from the peninsula with two hundred and fifty men for duty, having lost four by death at harrison's landing--two by typhoid fever, one from entraperitonitis and one from phthisis pulmonalis. on reaching alexandria we immediately moved to the rappahannock, had no sickness of moment except two cases of sunstroke, being actively engaged, yet not overworked. we had three wounded at bull run, one in the hand, one in the hip, and one in the breast and face. these last two have since died. the present health of the regiment is good and its moral condition excellent. the general conclusions we arrive at are: first.--that constant seasonable activity is necessary to promote the health of the regiment. second.--men accustomed to exposure in the open air when attacked by fever of any kind, recover with much more certainty and much sooner in tents than in general hospitals in houses, probably because less crowded and admitting more perfect ventilation, and free access to light. j. w. lyman, surgeon th reg't., pa. vols. appendix c. the th pa. veteran volunteers. their services to the state and to the nation. address of col. l. d. bumpus to his comrades at gettysburg, july , , on the occasion of the dedication of the battlefield monument of the th pennsylvania veteran volunteers. the th regt., pa. vet. vols., which was made up largely of mercer county men, dedicated, on monday, july d, one of the finest monuments on the gettysburg field. the exercises were opened with prayer by rev. dr. sayres, department chaplain of the g. a. r., after which col. l. d. bumpus, president of the monument committee, introduced capt. h. h. hinds, who made a few remarks on the movements of the d corps and the work done by the th regiment. when captain hinds had concluded, the audience sang the hymn "america," after which capt. d. w. gore, secretary of the monument association, introduced col. l. d. bumpus in the following speech: it would not be necessary to introduce the orator for this occasion to an audience composed of the members of the old th regiment, but as there are many strangers present it would perhaps be proper for me to say that he is a man who was identified, with the th regiment during the entire history of its eventful existence. he was with us in our various marches, in our numerous encampments, and in our many hard-fought battles. he entered the army as a mere boy and rose from the ranks to the command of the regiment before reaching his majority. he was known throughout the army as the boy captain. it is largely due to his tireless efforts that we are enabled to dedicate this beautiful monument today. he was true to his country, true to himself, and true to the men of his command. no braver officer ever drew a sword in defence of the old flag and no man enjoyed to a greater degree the respect and regard of his old comrades in arms than does col. l. d. bumpus, whom i now introduce to you as the orator for this occasion. colonel bumpus' address. comrades of the th pennsylvania veteran volunteers: in obedience to your command, i have appeared before you in many different characters. i have, with you, trudged along on the weary march and carried my gun, knapsack and forty rounds. and in obedience to your call, i rose rank by rank, until i had the honor to command the grand old regiment. today, in obedience to your call, i stand before you in a new role; that of orator for this occasion. however well i may have been able to fill the positions to which you have called me heretofore, i do not hope to meet your expectations today. i am what president lincoln was pleased to call one of the plain people; and you will not be treated today to any flights of oratory or grand play of words. but i shall try to speak words of truth with soberness; and whatever else of merit my remarks may lack, i trust you will do me the justice to believe that they emanate from an honest heart. our good historian, captain strouss, has relieved me of the necessity of going into history, and i shall confine my remarks to the trials and triumphs of the grand regiment to which we had the honor to belong. i need not speak of the causes that led to the war, for they were so well understood by every man who marched in the ranks that they are as familiar as household words. we are met here today as pennsylvanians on pennsylvania soil, on one of the greatest battlefields of the war; and i propose to speak of the part pennsylvania and more particularly the part the th regiment, took in suppressing the rebellion. when war came, it found us ill prepared. we had a little army scattered throughout the territories; a weak navy, lying at anchor in distant waters; a bankrupt treasury, and a government without credit. what added to the uncertainty of the result, the people of the north were divided on party issues, and many honest men believed that there was no power in the constitution to coerce a state. all these difficulties confronted president lincoln, and he was appalled at their magnitude. he called upon the governors of several of the loyal states to counsel with him in his dread emergency. they met at the white house. the president informed them of the terrible cloud that hung like a pall over our fair land, and asked their advice about issuing a proclamation, calling upon the people for troops to put down the rebellion, and with his hands folded behind him awaited their answer. the six or seven governors who formed his auditors had each expressed his opinion, but they were punctuated by too many "ifs" or "ands." while this was going on, governor andrew g. curtin, fresh from his mountain home, stood looking through the window. he had not yet been approached by the president, personally. there was profound but awful silence in that small but thoughtful party of distinguished men. president lincoln finally broke the silent spell, and, turning to governor curtin, said: "governor, what will pennsylvania do, if i issue my proclamation?" silence more profound prevailed. it was a momentous question. it seemed as if the fate of a nation depended upon the reply about to be made. manifest destiny seemed trembling in the balance. governor curtin faced the president and said: "what will pennsylvania do? why, sir, if you issue your proclamation, pennsylvania will give you a hundred thousand men in one week." thank god for that noble answer! truly andrew g. curtin was the right man in the right place. he was the richelieu who thwarted the conspirators of the american rebellion. but how did the boys of fulfill the promises of governor curtin? the call to arms came, and before that tornado of patriotism which followed, "men came as the winds come when forests are rended; came as the waves come when navies are stranded." you all know the story: how the flag went down amidst the smoke of battle; how the fight was long and bloody; how, finally, the great waves of secession, slavery and rebellion rolled across our bordering line and rebaptised the soil of pennsylvania with the blood of patriots. and then, "through every vale and glen, beating like resolute pulses, she feels the tread of men; but she stands like an ocean break-water in fierce rebellion's path, to shiver its angry surges and baffle its frantic wrath. and the tide of slavery's treason dashed on her in vain, rolling back from the ramparts of freedom, in the land: of 'mad anthony wayne.'" i will not attempt to recount the deeds of the soldiers of pennsylvania; to do so would be to repeat the history of the war. for with but few exceptions there is not a battlefield from gettysburg to mobile where the ground has not been stained with the blood of the soldiers of pennsylvania. there is not a state, loyal or insurrectionary, which was the seat of war, that does not hold within it the honored and sacred remains of the slain heroes of pennsylvania. when beauregard first trained his murderous guns upon fort sumter, pennsylvania was there. pennsylvania volunteers were the first to reach the national capitol. we were at appomattox when traitors fired their last volley; and in all those terrible intermediate struggles in every rebellious state, in every important battle on land or water, where treason was to be confronted or rebellion subdued, the soldiers and sailors of pennsylvania were ever found, confronting the one and conquering the other. therefore, it was in true historic order that the wicked struggle to terminate the union should culminate upon our soil, that its topmost wave should be dashed against our capital; that its decisive defeat should be secured here where literal bulwarks of upheaved slain preserved the north from the despoiling foot of a traitor, and, accordingly, the rebellion staggered back from gettysburg to its grave. remember that at gettysburg the blood of the people of eighteen loyal states, rich, precious blood, mingling together, sank into the soil of pennsylvania, and by that red covenant she is pledged for all time to union, to patriotism and to nationality. comrade, with a record like this have we not much to be proud of? such heroism as i have recounted is too sublime for the common language of humanity; a heroism which is patriotic, and a heroism which is heroic; a heroism which blends in beautiful symmetry the moral and the physical; a heroism which will shine with increasing luster as generations pass away. no longer need we look back through the centuries for deeds of noble daring. we can point with pride to our own record in the great war of the rebellion for achievements that will rival spartan valor or roman fortitude. the th regiment was organized early in the fall of , at camp curtin, pennsylvania, and in december of that year was ordered to washington and went into camp on the bladensburg pike, near the old toll gate, and subsequently became a part of the army of the potomac. from that time until you were mustered out, the history of the army of the potomac was your history. you received your first baptism of fire at yorktown on april , , and from that time until the close of the war you participated in every important engagement of that army, excepting antietam. that you did your duty faithfully and well your list of casualties will prove. the records of the war department show that in every engagement you lost men and in some of them from forty to sixty per cent. of the whole number engaged. the original strength of the regiment was eight hundred and fifty men, and your casualties were over eight hundred during the war; and at the final muster out but one of the original officers of the regiment remained to be mustered out with you, chaplain w. t. mcadam. i will now quote from the speech of hon. chauncey depew, before the society of the army of the potomac. he says: "each of the great armies had its distinguishing merit; but in the achievements and in the records of the western forces, following the precedent of previous wars, are largely represented the genius and personality of great commanders." to the army of the potomac belongs the unique distinction of being its own hero. it fought more battles and lost more in killed and wounded than all others; it shed its blood like water to teach incompetent officers the art of war, and political tacticians the folly of their plans; but it was always the same invincible and undismayed army of the potomac. loyal ever to its mission and to discipline, the only sound it gave in protest was the cracking of the bones as the cannon balls ploughed through its decimated ranks. a good soldier does full honor to his adversary. although americans on the wrong side, no more formidable force of equal number ever marched or fought than the army of northern virginia, and it had the rare fortune of being always under the command of one of the most creative and accomplished military minds of his time, gen. robert e. lee. to conquer and capture such an army the captain of the army of the potomac must overcome what the greatest tactician has said was impossible, "an armed enemy in his own country," with the whole population venomously hostile; acting as spies; furnishing information, removing supplies; preparing ambuscades, and misleading the invaders. but it did accomplish this military miracle. it was hard and trying to be marched and countermarched for naught; to be separated and paralyzed at the moment when a supreme effort meant victory; to be hurled against impassable defenses, and then waste in repairing the mistake. the army of the potomac, was composed of thinking bayonets. behind each musket was a man who knew for what he was fighting, and who understood the plan of campaign, and with unerring and terrible accuracy sized up his commander. the one soldier in whom he never lost confidence was himself. this army operated so near the capitol that congressmen and newspapers directed its movements, changed its officers and criticised its failures to conquer on blue lines penciled on washington maps. it suffered four years under unparalleled abuse, and was encouraged by little praise, but never murmured. it saw all its corps and division commanders sign a petition to the president to remove its general, and then despairingly but heroically marched to certain disaster at his order. it saw its general demand the resignation or court martial of its corps or division officers, and yet, undemoralized and undismayed, it charged under his successor in a chaos of conflicting commands. "on to richmond!" came the unthinking cry from every city, village and cross roads in the north. "on to richmond!" shouted grave senators and impetuous congressmen. "on to richmond!!" ordered the cabinet. no longer able to resist the popular demand, the raw and untrained recruits were hurled from their unformed organizations and driven back to washington. then, with discipline and drill, out of chaos came order; the self-deserting volunteer has become an obedient soldier; the mass has become moulded into a complex but magnificent machine; and it was the army of the potomac! overcoming untold difficulties, fighting with superb courage, it comes in sight of the spires of richmond, and then, unable to succeed, because mcdowell and his corps of thirty thousand men are held back, it renews each morning and carries on every night in retreat the seven days' battle for existence; and, brought to bay at malvern hill, asserts its undaunted spirit in hard won victory. it follows pope and marches and falls back; pursues enemies who are not before it, and finds foes for which it is unprepared, and fights and is beaten under orders so contradictory and councils so divided, that an army of european veterans would have disbanded. immediately, it recognizes a general in whom it has confidence. the stragglers come from the bush and the wounded from the hospitals; regiments, brigades, divisions and corps reform, and at antietam it is invincible and irresistible. every man in the ranks knew that the fortified heights of fredericksburg were impregnable, that the forlorn hope would charge, not into the imminent deadly breach, but into a death trap, and yet with unfaltering step this grand army salutes its blind commander and marches to the slaughter! "theirs not to reason why, theirs not to make reply, theirs but to do and die!" every private was aware of the follies of the rappahannock campaign. he knew that the opportunity to inflict an irreparable blow upon the army of lee had been trifled away, and that after reckless delays to make a movement which at first would have been a surprise, conceived by the very genius of war, was then mere mid-summer madness; and yet this incomparable army, floundered through swamps, lost in almost impenetrable forests, outflanked, outmaneuvered, outgeneraled, decimated, no sooner felt the firm hand of meade than it destroyed the offensive and aggressive power of the confederacy in the three days' fighting at gettysburg. at last, this immortal army had at its head a great captain, who had never lost a battle. every morning for thirty days came the order to storm the works in front and every evening for thirty nights the survivors moved to the command of "by the left flank, forward!" and at the end of that fateful month, with sixty thousand comrades dead or wounded in the wilderness, the army of the potomac once more, after four years, saw the spires of richmond. inflexible of purpose, insensible to suffering, inured to fatigue and reckless of danger, it rained blow on blow upon its heroic but staggering foe; and the world gained a new and better and freer and more enduring republic than it had ever known, in the surrender of appomattox. all the trials and triumphs, all the hardships and privations, all the defeats and humiliations i have enumerated you shared in common with the army of the potomac. in addition to this, in march, , upon the reorganization of the army, the grand old d corps, to which you belonged, was broken up; a corps with a name and a record as brilliant as any organization in the army, a corps that had furnished a galaxy of names second to none in brilliancy; such names as heintzelman, hamilton and sickles, kearny and hooker, and birney and berry. you must lose your identity, and were ordered to lay off the badge which you had honored, the old diamond which you loved; the badge that was put there in obedience to the orders of the dashing kearny, and in its stead put on the badge of another corps. against these humiliating orders there was no insubordination, no murmur, or protest; but with heroic courage you marched to victory under other officers and as a part of another organization. you asked the powers to allow you to wear the old badge, and, thanks to general grant's love of fair play, you were allowed to retain the old diamond, and from that time until the surrender in every game of war diamonds were trump, and if you did not have a full hand, you could always be depended on to take a trick. another humiliation which you had to endure as a regiment was in january, , when the regiment, having been greatly reduced in strength by the severity of the summer's campaign, was, in obedience to special orders of the war department, dated january , , broken up and consolidated into a battalion of six companies, and you saw your officers who had risen from the ranks, officers of your own choosing, officers whom you loved, mustered out and sent home as supernumeraries. like moses of old, who was not permitted to gaze upon the promised land, so some of your officers, after nearly four years of war, after having passed through more than a score of battles, after having endured all the hardships and privations that i have enumerated, within sixty days of reaching the goal for which they had been fighting, were mustered out and were not permitted with you to stand at appomattox and gaze upon the shattered relics of the southern confederacy. comrades, if i had the time i would like to name each loved comrade who fell in battle, died of wounds or sank down from exhaustion on the weary march; and those who died a lingering death of starvation in prison pens, or died of disease in some hospital, far from home and mother and friends, and who lie scattered through the south, in graves that only god shall know until the resurrection morning. i would like to follow you from the time of your enlistment until the time the regiment came home, few and worn, with many a powder breath upon its flag and many a bullet hole through its folds. i would also speak of sides and neeper and perkins and lyons and hill and mccartney and morse and crossley and comstock and burns and scores of others who seemed to have borne charmed lives and who were discharged and sent home when the war was over, but who have at last been mustered out. they have passed to the other side of the silent river. they have been made noble by god's patent. they have responded to the roll-call among men for the last time, until that day when the names of all the living and the dead shall be sounded before the great white throne. i would go back through the haze of years to hear the rattling drums, the bugle's call, the loud hooray, the tramp of soldier boys. i see the waving flags, the red cheeked lads, the bearded men; i see long lines marching out to do and die; i hear the mothers' cries, the sobs of wives, the sisters' wail, the sweethearts' moan; and then comes waiting, day by day and night by night, the women in darkened homes, the men amidst the dangers of the field. today is hope; tomorrow comes the news, the dreadful news, the battle's crash, the roar of guns, the din of war, the sharp command, the fire and smoke, the whirl, the charge, the awful shock, the iron hoof, the swinging sword, the gush of blood, the piteous groan, the dying hero and the dead. oh, bitterness of victory! oh, homes made desolate! how many hearts the battle breaks that never laid a hand to sword! how many tears must flow for wrong from eyes that only saw the right! the lesson that we read in blood is one we never can forget, and god has taught us this, as long ago he taught the lesson of the cross. not for his friends alone was that blood shed, but for his enemies as well; and by this latter blood not one but all of us shall live; and on foundations firm as heaven itself the new republic rises strong and towering upward to the sky; its glistening summits lift their points until they touch the far off blue, and overtopping all the world, they stand up clear against the clouds, so that the very lowest down may see, and, seeing, know that what they see is freedom's home. after nearly four years of war, with the great rebellion subdued, with not an armed enemy within our borders, the th pennsylvania volunteers was mustered out june , , and we write "finis" on the last page of the military history of one of the grandest organizations that ever took up arms for the preservation of a "government of the people, for the people and by the people." upon separating for your homes, your officers issued an address to the surviving members, from which i quote: "parting as a band of brothers, let us cling to the memory of those tattered banners under which we have fought together and which, without dishonor, we have just now restored to the authorities, who placed them in our hands. till we grow gray-headed and pass away, let us sustain the reputation of this noble old regiment." that you have observed the injunction of your officers in that address, the testimony of your neighbors in every place in which you have lived since the war will prove. when you were discharged you had but one ambition. in that one supreme moment of triumph, your only thought was of home and family and friends. you went back into the localities from which you came, into the ranks as citizens; taking up the daily burden of life where you had thrown it down when enlisting, ceasing to be soldiers and becoming again private citizens. there was no evidence of the contaminating influence of camp life in your characters. there was no disorder where you went. on the contrary, your presence became the sign of order. you showed the world that great as you had been as soldiers, you had never forgotten that you were citizens. most speakers who have made similar addresses upon this great battlefield of the war have made more extended remarks upon the movements of the army during the three days' fighting here, and some have censured certain commanders. the battle of gettysburg has given rise to a great many controversies, and each commander has been censured and complimented in turn. doubleday charges that howard's troops gave way; howard affirms that doubleday's troops broke. general meade is charged with ordering a retreat. one speaker charges that general sickles made a great blunder in taking up a position too far in advance, which well nigh proved disastrous to our army. with all these charges i have nothing to do. i am not here to censure or find fault. i have only to do with the part you took as a regiment. whether, as some speakers claim, sickles saved the day and gained a victory by taking and holding an advanced line on july d, until the roundtops could be occupied, or whether, as others assert, hancock, the "superb," gained the victory by brilliant generalship and magnificent fighting on the d, i will leave the historian to decide. suffice it to say, the th did her duty by obeying orders, and that is all that is required of any soldier or set of soldiers. you went as far as the farthest and left seventy per cent. of your number behind, when you were obliged to abandon the line. in regard to the movements of the d corps, i will simply read what president lincoln wrote to general sickles in reply to a request that a court of inquiry should be convened to inquire into his conduct during the battle. the president writes: "my dear sickles: you ask for a court of inquiry. they say you took up an advanced position on july d. they say you crowded the enemy and brought on an engagement. i guess what they say is true; but, thank god, you gained a great victory. there were honors enough won at gettysburg to go all round. history will do you justice. don't ask for a court of inquiry. [signed] a. lincoln." comrades, in all countries and in all ages the people have reared monuments to the memory of their dead heroes; their deeds of valor have been told in song and story, and the people have delighted to do them honor. the great commonwealth of pennsylvania, recognizing the services of her brave soldiers, during the sitting of the last legislature passed an act appropriating fifteen hundred dollars to build a monument to each regiment that participated in the battle of gettysburg. in accordance with the provisions of that act, capt. d. w. gore, capt. h. h. nelson, lieut. george miller, comrade theodore catlin and myself, were elected as a committee by the surviving members of the regiment to select the location, submit designs, and erect a monument. we organized at gettysburg by electing your speaker chairman, and captain gore secretary. not knowing the magnitude of the work before us, july d was agreed upon as the day upon which our monument should be dedicated. scattered as the members of the committee were, over two states and the district of columbia, thus rendering it difficult to convene them, it was thought best that the chairman and secretary be authorized to act for the committee. the labor and expense thus devolved upon us have been considerable. we have been met with many and unlooked for obstacles; but one by one they have been overcome, and the result of our work is before you. as chairman of your committee, in the name of the taxpayers of the commonwealth of pennsylvania, i present you with this beautiful monument, which will stand while generations pass away, as a monument to the valor and patriotism of the th regiment, and to the generosity of the citizens of this grand old state. pennsylvania honors herself in thus honoring the memory of those who fell in her defence. we dedicate this memorial shaft, not to those who fell at gettysburg alone, but to the eight hundred who were swallowed up by the tide of death on other fields; in prison pens, in hospitals, and on the lonely picket line. we dedicate it to every member of that grand old regiment, either living or dead. we dedicate it to our children and our children's children forever. and when the few of us who yet survive shall have passed on to "join the innumerable caravan," may coming generations, as they gather 'round this granite shaft and read the record chisled here, learn lessons of patriotism and heroic devotion and here may they gain inspiration and strength, which shall make them brave defenders of their country's institutions and her flag, which we so much love. comrades, i cannot refrain from saying a few parting words to you. as i look over this audience, i am reminded that the boys of are now men on the down-hill side of life. the hand of time has silvered the hair and plowed deep furrows in the cheeks of the comrades i see gathered about me, and this will probably be the last roll-call to which a considerable number of the old regiment will respond. soon these pleasant meetings, these delightful and hallowed associations, with each and all of us must come to an end. let us live all the more closely together, then, in the brief road that remains to us. let us be truer to our common name and common fame, so that we shall leave nothing behind us which will tarnish the polished and war-worn escutcheons of the grand old th regiment. let us continue to be good citizens. let us lead such lives that when we hear the last tattoo and the lights are ordered out on earth, we shall be awakened by the reveille at the tent of the great commander and bidden to seats at headquarters. * * * * * the following is a letter from general longstreet to general sickles: gen. d. e. sickles, gettysburg, pa.: my dear general sickles: my plan and desire was to meet you at gettysburg on the interesting ceremony attending the unveiling of the slocum monument; but today i find myself in no condition to keep the promise made to you when last we were together. i am quite disabled from a severe hurt in one of my feet, so that i am unable to stand more than a minute or two at a time. please express my sincere regrets to the noble army of the potomac, and to accept them, especially, for yourself. on that field you made your mark that will place you prominently before the world as one of the leading figures of the most important battle of the civil war. as a northern veteran once remarked to me: "general sickles can well afford to leave a leg on that field." i believe that it is now conceded that the advanced position at the peach orchard, taken by your corps and under your orders, saved that battlefield to the union cause. it was the sorest and saddest reflection of my life for many years; but, today, i can say, with sincerest emotion, that it was and is the best that could have come to us all, north and south; and i hope that the nation reunited, may always enjoy the honor and glory brought to it by that grand work. please offer my kindest salutations to your governor and your fellow-comrades of the army of the potomac. always yours sincerely, [signed] james longstreet, lieut.-gen. confederate army. appendix d. reminiscences of the fifty-seventh regiment, by gen. william birney. comrades:--it gives me pleasure to respond to your desire for my reminiscences of the th regiment, pennsylvania volunteers. they are all agreeable. my first knowledge of it was from the gallant and chivalrous general philip kearny, under whom i had served in the new jersey brigade. august , , i was exchanged as prisoner of war. august , the general sent for me and offered me the command of the th. speaking in very high terms of the intelligence, bravery and moral stamina of the men. all it needed, he said, to become one of the best regiments in the army was drill and discipline. i accepted his offer, was detailed by general mcclellan from my own regiment and corps to general kearny's, took command next day at the camp on james river, at harrison's landing, and kept it until october . these two months were filled with active service. your historian, in his kindly notice, has given a wrong version of the only unpleasantness that ever existed between general kearny and me. allow me to correct it. at a division drill, in the winter of - , conducted by general torbert, i commanded a regiment. receiving a wrong order from the brigade commander, i executed the movement, as was my duty. general kearny, who was on the field, rode rapidly up behind me, hissed in my ears: "major birney, you'd better study your tactics, sir," rode off about fifty yards and halted. being very angry at this unmerited reproof given me while at the head of my regiment, i followed him, expressed my resentment in bitter words and went back to my command. ten minutes afterward, the general put me under arrest. the same evening he sent his adjutant to offer me a release if i would apologize. i refused on the ground that he should apologize first to me. he preferred charges, i was court-martialed, and, for lack of proof, acquitted. not long after that, at an accidental meeting between us, the general offered me his hand after making a handsome apology for his haste. his magnanimity gave me occasion to express a conclusion i had reached on reflection, that my language to him had been insubordinate, and to express my regrets that i had not kept my temper; if i had waited for the general to learn the facts from general torbert and other witnesses, he would have made amends. from the date of that reconciliation, we were better friends than ever before. before that bad break, he had recommended me for the vacant colonelcy of the st and, on my declining, had procured my appointment as major of the th. he had cordially approved choosing me as teacher of the officers' school of tactics and had shown in many ways his confidence in me. it was, therefore, with pleasure that i accepted the command of the th in his division and corps, though the regiment was not from my state. my first special effort was to increase the number of the regiment by recalling absentees; and this i continued during the whole time of my command. our first honor was being appointed with a maine regiment to guard the flank of the army when on its march from harrison's landing to yorktown. i was in command of both. we were menaced by the rebel cavalry and had to form the hollow square twice. nevertheless, we made longer marches than had been made in the army up to that time, marching in order, keeping proper rests, and having our water canteens well filled. we reached our destination in excellent condition, after serving as buffer for more than two days between our army and the enemy. our trip by water to alexandria was uneventful. our short stay in that city was made memorable by the drunken carouse of nearly all the troops. it was a day of debauchery; staggering and reeling men filled the street and drunken men the cars which were to take the troops to the rapidan. the striking exception was the th; it maintained its sobriety and good order. while i was standing near the regiment and feeling great pride in it, general kearny rode by. "well, general, what do you think of that?" said i, pointing to the boozy crowd. he shrugged his shoulders but said nothing. this was the only time i ever knew him fail to make his expression adequate to circumstances. he could express himself vigorously, as you all remember. but the alexandria spree was too much for him. we went to the rapidan on cars and for a few days and one night did a great deal of marching as part of pope's army. the night march was to bristow's station; and your merit is the greater because it was the very night when general porter said his part of the army could not see to march. your eyes were good enough. from bristow's we marched to centreville and thence to the battlefield of groveton. on that day, we guarded artillery from attacks. late at night, we marched to what was known as the "rail barricade," on the extreme right of the union army, arriving about a. m. the general had told me i would find two regiments of our troops there. what i did find there was nothing but a picket of sixteen irishmen and a sergeant, posted in a clump of small trees at the right end of a steep and very high hill, quite level on top, which seemed to extend a great way to the left. in the valley below was a rebel camp which, the sergeant said, contained at least two brigades, two batteries of small artillery and a squadron of cavalry. the outlook was squally; at daybreak, the rebels would attack; what could the th do against such odds? i at once sent to general kearny a report and a request for supports, threw out a company of skirmishers to the left along the edge of the hill, formed the regiment behind the rail barricade, ordered the irish picket to stand fast where they were and everybody to fire at will and with good aim at any rebel who should try to reach the top of the hill. i knew that if the enemy should once gain the level ground with their artillery, the little th would be swept off as by a cyclone. until about a. m., the firing was continuous, the enemy making several attempts that failed. from the irish picket on the right to the last skirmisher on the left, our line of fire was at least a half mile long; the enemy probably thought we had a large force. i was greatly relieved when about a. m., general ----, u. s. a., appeared in our rear with two brigades of infantry in close order and two howitzers mounted on mules. "who is in command here?" asked the general. i saluted. "you may withdraw your men." i briefly informed him of the conditions, asking him if he would not send his men to replace mine and adding that the rebels would follow up my men closely and occupy every position abandoned by them. his reply was: "you may withdraw them, sir; we'll attend to the enemy." i ordered my bugler to sound the quick recall; my skirmishers and the irish picket came in on the run, and the regiment, being quite ready, retired on the double quick. it was not many minutes before the rebels had gained the high ground, placed their batteries in positron and forced the conceited general to retreat with heavy loss. rejoining our division, we took part in the movements until dark, when the order came to retreat. to reach the road to centreville, we had to march back to a road that ran almost at right angles to ours and crossed the creek. on our side of the crossing, two hundred yards away, was a large residence with a front yard of ample proportions. we had occupied it two hours earlier. as i rode up at the head of our column, an officer in confederate uniform passed in the dusk into the yard through the front gate. the yard was full of rebel soldiers! they had occupied it after we had left it. i sent the adjutant to keep the regiment moving to the crossing, to enjoin silence and quicken step. the next ten minutes were anxious ones with me. the rebels might, at any moment, open fire on us from the flank. but they were probably as afraid of us as i was of them. they couldn't see how many we were. when our last man had crossed the creek, i followed. within about twenty feet of a yard full of rebels, i had watched for any movement; but they had not stirred. not a word was spoken on either side. we were both glad to get rid of each other. it was a close rub for the th! we marched in retreat and found the road blocked by general poe's brigade. i asked him to let us pass. "no," he answered. "the th is just the buffer i need between my men and the rebels." i made no reply, but hastening to the regiment, marched it, single file and in silence, past poe's brigade by a side path on the left of the road. my orders from general kearny were to rejoin him as soon as practicable; and i did not care to have general poe use the th as i had used the irish picket. his brigade was a brave one and well able to defend its own rear. the good marching legs of the th stood us in good stead. next morning, as i lay on a stretcher in bivouac at centreville, below the road, i was conscious that somebody was looking intently at me. it was general poe, on horseback, in the road above, at the head of his brigade. "how in -- did you get here?" he asked. at chantilly, the th held the picket line, at midnight, in a heavy rain, across a large corn field, a few feet only from the picket line of the enemy. orders were, that we should withdraw quietly at o'clock a. m. and follow the other troops in retreat. if the th had not been in good discipline, the movement could not have been successfully made; there would have been some whispering or noise. as it was, the rebels did not find out before daybreak that we were gone. our march to washington and thence to the monocacy was without event worthy of notice now. you cannot have forgotten how you forded the potomac on a sudden march to leesburg to surprise the rebels in that town. the water was up to the necks of all the short men. and all of you had to hold above your heads your muskets and cartridge boxes. but you got through and succeeded in capturing and paroling a great many skulkers and shirks who were hiding in that pleasant virginia town; how many, i forget, but one of your officers who was there tells me we paroled more men than were in the th. not much glory in that kind of work, though! the "jeb stuart raid"' around our army was the most striking incident of our monocacy campaign. we heard of jeb before he came. contrabands and union men told us. ward's brigade was to intercept him. our brigade was placed, for that purpose, i suppose, on the brow of the steep hill that overlooked the road which ran between the hill and the potomac. the th was next the brow of the hill. the hill was too steep for cavalry to climb; the road was narrow; the river deep. jeb stuart was never in greater danger than he was in that beautiful morning. when i heard the distant tramp of his horses, not having received any orders, i galloped over to general ward, who was not further off than two hundred yards, and asked for leave to attack. he said he could not give it without orders from general stoneman! i urged the emergency, but he refused to take the responsibility. and so, i had to stand quietly on that hill-top and look at the gallant jeb and his gay horsemen as they went riding by! the great opportunity of the th and of its temporary commander passed with them; if we had received the leave asked for, the th would have made itself the crack regiment of the army, and its commander would have sported a star on his shoulder strap eighteen months earlier than he did. but such are the fortunes of war! when colonel campbell returned to his regiment, i asked general stoneman to give me an order to report to my own regiment. he responded by putting me in command of the th new york. here was a change! but the new york boys who had run with the machine gave me no reason to complain of them. in the battle of fredericksburg, where some of the fighting was hand to hand, the sergeant-major saved me by a timely pistol shot, from being bayonetted by a rebel soldier. the only time i ever saw the th after i left it was on the battlefield of chancellorsville, on the morning general howard's corps was surprised and routed by stonewall jackson. i had volunteered on general hooker's staff, my own regiment being temporarily on detached service, and had been sent by him to rally the flying troops. the smoky field was covered by the disordered masses; batteries of artillery were driving on full gallop in retreat; shot and shell were whistling; fugitives were flying, and officers trying to make themselves heard in the awful din of cannon and musketry. amid the confusion and uproar, i saw but one regiment moving in order, officers at their posts, companies in line and flag flying. it was the th pennsylvania! when the men recognized me, they gave me three cheers, a compliment i have never recalled except with a full heart and, must i admit it, with grateful tears. the th has a right to be proud of its service, discipline and veteran courage on the battlefield of chancellorsville. and now, i bid you adieu as friends, tried and true. we shall never meet again; but as long as life lasts, i shall never think of the th and our "auld lang syne" without a heart-thrill of gratitude and pride. transcriber's notes: missing or obscured punctuation was corrected. typographical errors were silently corrected. book was produced from images made available by the hathitrust digital library.) why colored people in philadelphia are excluded from the street cars. philadelphia: merrihew & son, printers, no. arch street, below third st. . the colored people and the cars. some remarks lately communicated to the new york anti-slavery standard, on the continued exclusion of colored people from our street cars, leave the impression that no efforts have been made here to procure for this class of people admission to these cars. this is incorrect. it will be found on inquiry, that a committee, consisting of some twenty-five or thirty gentlemen, appointed at a public meeting, in january of last year, to effect, if possible, this object, is still in existence. this committee is evidently somewhat slow. no report of its proceedings has yet been published, and the only reason suggested for its silence is, that there has been nothing good to report: an insufficient reason. but these gentlemen have not been entirely idle. it seems that immediately on their appointment, they called on the respective presidents of the nineteen street railway companies, and, in a courteous manner, requested them to withdraw from their list of running regulations the rule excluding colored people. some few favored compliance, more or less conditional, the others not; but all, or nearly all, finally settled on the subterfuge of referring the question to a car-vote of their passengers. the subterfuge answered its purpose, for the self-respecting part of the community did not vote. shortly after this vote was taken, a colored man was ejected from a car by the help of a policeman. the committee called on the late mayor henry, and respectfully inquired if this had been done by his order. his reply was: "not by my order, but with my knowledge and approbation; as the right to exclude colored people has been claimed by the railway companies, and has not been judicially determined, the police assists in maintaining the rules of the companies, to prevent breaches of the peace." and he added: "i am not with you, gentlemen; i do not wish the ladies of my family to ride in the cars with colored people." it is proper to state here, that at the time of this interview, the latest three decisions of the courts of the country, bearing on this question, had been directly against the right of exclusion,--the last being that of judge allison, of our court of quarter sessions. the committee then turned to the legislature. a bill to prevent exclusion from the cars on account of race or color had been introduced into, and passed by the senate, early in the session of , and was referred to the passenger railway committee of the house. here it was smothered. no persuasion could induce this railway committee,--twelve out of its fifteen members being republicans, and eight republicans from philadelphia,--to report the bill to the house in any shape. according to the statement of the chairman, mr. lee, the school-boy trick was resorted to of stealing it from his file, in order that it might be said that there was no such bill in the hands of the committee. this assertion was made to an inquirer, several times over, by mr. freeborn, one of its members. finally, recourse was had to the courts. funds were raised, and within the last sixteen months, the committee has attempted to bring suits for assault in seven different cases of ejection, all of which have been ignored by various grand juries,--the last only a few days ago. in one case, a white man,--a highly respectable physician,--who interposed, by remonstrance only, to prevent the ejection of a colored man, was himself ejected. he brought an action for assault, and his complaint was ignored also. in five of these cases civil actions for damages have been commenced, which are still pending. one of them, by appeal from a verdict, given under a charge of judge thompson, in nisi prius, against the ejected plaintiff, is now on its way to the supreme court in banc, where it is hoped the whole question will be finally and justly settled. the colored people at present rarely make any attempt to enter the cars. as is their wont, they submit peaceably to what they must. the last case of ejection was that of a young woman, so light of color that she was mistaken for white, and invited into a car of the union line by its conductor. when he found she was colored, he ejected her with violence, and somewhat to her personal injury. thus stands this matter at present; and such has been the action of official bodies in it. let us now see what has been the action of the unofficial public, and what spirit that public has manifested towards it indirectly, by its action on kindred matters. the claim of the colored people to enter the cars, though a local question, is inseparable from the great policy of equality before the law, now offering itself to the national acceptance; and any local fact which bears on the one relates also to the other, and is therefore relevant to this subject. and first, it is found that even colored women, when ejected from the cars with insult and violence, seldom meet with sympathy from the casual white passengers, of either sex, who are present, while the conductor often finds active partisans among them. but one white passenger has ever volunteered testimony in any case; and for want of this, generally the only proof possible, several cases have been dropped. events early last year, such as the voting in the cars, the petition of the men working at the navy yard for continued exclusion of colored people on the second and third street line, the "fillibustering" of several hundred women, employed by the government on army clothing, to defeat the fifth and sixth street experiment of admission, and other acts of violence, show clearly that the classes represented by these men and women are bitterly opposed to admission. of our seven daily newspapers, two--the _press_ and _bulletin_--have spoken out manfully and repeatedly in reproof of these outrages and in defence of the rights of the colored people. the others, it is believed, while admitting communications on both sides, have been editorially silent on the subject. in their local items, however, they have generally given a version of these disturbances unfavorable to the ejected colored people, under the heading of "riotous conduct of negroes," or some similar caption. grand juries, from the way in which their members are brought together, may be supposed fairly to represent the average public sentiment on this question, and their uniform action has been shown. colored children have never been admitted to our general public schools, and the associated friends of the freedmen in this city, who have lately adopted, as one of their cardinal rules, the admission of children of both colors, indiscriminately, to their schools in the south, consider that any effort to introduce the same rule here would be vain. only three members--generals owen, tyndale, and collis--of the military committee of arrangements of sixteen, for the late celebration of the fourth of july in this city, favored inviting colored troops to join in it; and the officers of the "california" regiment ( st p. v.) gave notice, that if such troops did parade, their regiment must decline to do so, and would forward its colors to harrisburg by express. on the th of june last there were, distributed through sixteen counties of the state, and supported by state appropriations amounting in all to $ , , twenty-nine school-homes, three being in this city, containing orphans of white soldiers; and, according to the estimate of the superintendent, by the st of december next, the number is expected to reach . but, after careful inquiry, it does not appear that an orphan child of any one of the colored soldiers who lost their lives in the service, out of the belonging, according to official records, to pennsylvania, and enlisted at camp wm. penn, has yet found its way into any of these schools, or been provided for in any manner out of the above fund. you examine the act, and find nothing there to exclude them from these privileges; you ask explanation of the school matrons, and are told that they never before heard the thing mentioned; and in reading the two annual reports of the superintendent, mr. thomas h. burrows, you find not a word implying knowledge of the fact that there was a single colored soldier enlisted in the state. now on the th of july, , at national hall, the hon. wm. d. kelley, a member of the late supervisory committee for recruiting colored regiments, in presence of his colleagues and a large concourse of people, white and colored, asked, addressing his colored auditors: "will you not spring to arms, and march to the higher destiny which awaits your race?" then turning to his colleagues and their white friends, he asked: "will you not see that their orphans are secured such educational opportunities as a great and humane commonwealth should provide for the orphans of patriots?" both these appeals were answered by loud shouts of assent. and the men of color did "spring to arms," and marched--not exactly "to the higher destiny which awaits their race," for that seems to be rather a long march. they, however, kept their pledge; the country admits that. but, men of the late supervisory committee, and the thousands whom you represented, how have you kept yours? again: at the corner of sixteenth and filbert streets, in this city, there is a most comfortable home for disabled soldiers. the state, thus far, has appropriated $ a year and the rent of the building to its support; the balance of its fund, $ , , is chiefly the proceeds of a fair held last october at the academy of music for the benefit of disabled soldiers without regard to color. colored disabled soldiers are of course admitted to this institution, as well as white, and both receive the same kind of fare. but the white inmates eat, sleep, amuse themselves, and attend the four schools of different grades, under hired teachers, in well-aired and well-lighted rooms, distributed through the high main building, separate things, for them, being kept separate. the seven colored disabled soldiers (enlisted at camp william penn) are quartered in a frame appendage to this establishment, built on the pavement of the back yard, to which their privileges are mainly restricted; and here they receive gratuitous lessons from their benevolent volunteer teacher, miss biddle. there is still room in this home for one hundred more white soldiers, but there are present accommodations for no more who are colored. an applicant, formerly of the st u. s. c. t., wounded in the hand, lately requested to be allowed quarters there for a day or two, until he could get work, and was told that the colored ward was full. another colored soldier, his regiment not known, but who had lost an arm in the service, was also lately turned away for the same reason. to the inquiry whether it is absolutely necessary to make the distinction above noted, the prompt answer is, "yes; for otherwise the white soldiers would make a row." but according to all testimony received, the white soldiers most cheerfully accorded the post of danger, during the late war, to the enlisted blacks; and that the latter as cheerfully accepted and bravely maintained this post, many battle-fields--fort wagner, port hudson and petersburg among the rest--testify. and it would seem that this fact might be used as an unanswerable reason for establishing equality of privilege in quarters where these soldiers meet in time of peace. the quarters being free of expense to all, those who might dislike the conditions could be made free to leave them. but it is found that this suggestion, when made, cannot be entertained for a moment. now let us look at the question in its political aspect. and attention may be called first to the fact that several members of the late house passenger railway committee,--the gentlemen who, in their quality of legislative abortionists, prevented the anti-exclusion bill from seeing the light,--were returned to the legislature at the last fall election, by a full party vote, although this transaction had been fully made known through the newspapers. this shows clearly that, by their course in regard to the rights of the colored people, they had not forfeited the confidence of our so-called radicals. one of these gentlemen, the same who reiterated the assertion that "there was no such bill in the hands of the committee," is reputed to be one of the most respectable and useful members of the philadelphia delegation. he is an especial favorite of the union league, of which he has become a member since his services on the above committee were rendered, and he was lately the recipient of a complimentary gift, with appropriate ceremonials, in one of its rooms, as a token of his legislative merit. this incident is mentioned only because it serves to show what manner of spirit the league is of, in regard to this question of admission; and one is constrained to believe that this spirit partakes largely of indifference, tinged with contempt, and therefore of inert opposition. and if anything were wanting to confirm this impression, it is to be found in the fact that the league declines to permit the rare distributing powers of its publication committee to be used in spreading over the state documents which distinctly advocate negro suffrage. next, it will be remembered how, last fall, all classes of republicans, from the most conservative to, with few exceptions, the most radical, united in expressions of the sincerest regret that the late mayor henry positively declined again to be their candidate. now it is the general belief of those who have all along taken an interest in this matter, that, with the assistance of the mayor, our colored people could have gained full admission to the cars more than eighteen months ago, just as similar admission was obtained for the colored people of new york, through the energetic course adopted in their favor by police commissioner ecton. there was then a sort of factitious public feeling still running in favor of colored folks; war-made abolitionism had not all melted away; peace had not come, and we might need more of them to fight for us; these facts had their effect on the public mind, and were reflected on the board of presidents; the fifth and sixth street company tried the experiment of admission for a month; their whole line was beginning to waver, when just then the mayor stepped to their side with his powerful official influence and aid, and turned the scale in their favor. in their battle with the car-invading negroes, he was their needle-gun. and yet, with a full knowledge of these facts, no one doubts that the republicans, last october, would gladly have re-elected mr. henry as their mayor, and that by a larger majority than he ever before received. and it must be admitted that the late mayor is a most respectable man. by almost universal consent, he was as brave and incorruptible in office as he has always been pure in morals and unaffected in piety in private life. possibly, here and there an extremist might be found to object, that, thus openly to set up, as he did, his own prejudices and those of his family, in the place of law, justice and humanity, as his rule of official conduct, to the manifest injury of twenty-seven thousands of innocent people, was a most shameless abuse of power and perversion of authority. but this objection, with the word shameless, cannot be admitted except "with a difference." a young child, rolling upon the carpet and freely exposing its little person, no one calls shameless; it is simply unconscious. just so was the late mayor henry. many great and good men have done gross wrongs unconsciously. paul, when he was "haling men and women," very much as our policemen were permitted to do last year, and with purposes not dissimilar, since both were actuated by the spirit of persecution, "verily thought" that he "ought to do" these things; though it is true, at that time, paul did not pretend to be a christian. we may, however, rest assured that when by such an inverted arrangement of the moral forces as is described above, only negroes are brought within the official vice and made to feel sharp pressure, neither the late mayor, nor the great majority of his friends and supporters, see the matter in any discreditable light. and it may as well be confessed, once for all, that to treat a man's sentiments in respect to negroes as of any importance, in making up your estimate of his character; or to announce, as your own motive, in whatever you may do for colored people, the simple desire to do them good, because it is just, irrespective of any object beyond, such as to save white recruits, to weaken an enemy, or to gain possible future votes,--is to bring upon yourself the contempt, secret or open, strong or mild, of nine-tenths of the people you meet. when mr. charles gibbons, in his stirring address to the union league, shortly after the murder of mr. lincoln, described this murder and other crimes of the south as "representative acts of slavery," and logically referred to the wrongs done to the colored people in this city in the same connection, the conclusion of his address was pronounced "anti-climax." "after electrifying his audience," it was said, "he flatted right down to the small matter of the cars and colored people." now while anything relating to the final position in this country of four millions of its people, a question which has already caused one war, and which may cause another, is contemptuously termed "small" by highly intelligent and influential men, we have much to learn and much to suffer before this question can be settled. another class indication of public feeling on this subject must not be passed by in silence. at a late series of large and excited meetings of our clergy and laity convened to remonstrate against the running of the street cars on sunday, not a word was said by the remonstrants, though their attention was called to the matter, against the exclusion of colored people from these cars on week-days. like the grand juries, they ignored the subject. further, it is believed that only three of the white clergy of this city have spoken, either from pulpit or platform, in reprobation of this gross wrong; and if there are cases in which saying nothing is committing sin, this would seem to be one of them. but fair and reasonable men are tired of hearing clergymen berated for not doing that which, if they would still remain clergymen, they cannot do. it is easy and safe for a pastor to lay before his people a certain set of what may be called sins by common consent, such as over-worldliness, inattention to religion and the like. one portion of his hearers meekly bows to this reproof, and the remainder tacitly accepts it without argument. but when he earnestly calls on them to give up some darling sin, which they hug to their bosoms because they do not admit that it is such, his relations to them are apt, at once, to become such as were those of st. paul to the beasts of ephesus. and to expect a pastor fiercely to throttle each living, vigorous, but unconfessed, if not unconscious sin of his people, as it comes up, for $ a year, (the average clerical pay, it is said, of the wealthiest sect in this state,) and then to lose this small stipend, which he is likely to do by dismissal, as the result of the conflict, is asking more than a fair day's work for less than a fair day's wages. here and there may be found a man who can afford to enter into this fight. one, rich in natural gifts, holds his hearers, by the power of personal magnetism, while he pours into their ears a torrent of unwelcome truths, to which they listen, like the wedding guest, because they "cannot choose but hear," and then, not a few go away, like an awakened medium, uninfluenced by them. another, whose voice neither denouncement nor desertion can silence, or make falter, because its words are but the imperative utterances of a great heart ever flowing in full tide, with good will to man, simply as man, always finds fit audience though few. but these are exceptions, and though courage might add to them, the great body of our clergymen must preach what their people are not unwilling to hear, or cease to earn bread for their families as clergymen. and here is the true reason of their silence, or hesitating speech, on such proposed subjects of reform as, at the time, have found but small acceptance; and as men and things go, this reason is sufficient. their grave fault is that they keep it shut up in that dark, back cell of the heart, to which men never admit each other, and rarely themselves, and put forward such phrases as "secular subjects," "politics in the pulpit," and (a profanation of the holy word) "my kingdom is not of this world," in the place of it. hence the chronic false position in which they stand to society. for from the very nature of their relations either to their people, an aristocracy, or their own order, the clergy are everywhere conservative and not progressive. when luther began to be a reformer he ceased to be a monk. all that can reasonably be expected of them is not to break new soil, but to refrain from upholding old abuses, and (a most important trust) carefully to keep in order in the old way, but with a readiness to accept new principles and improved methods, the ground already fenced in. their true type of reform is that of mr. lincoln. he never professed to move except at the word of the people, but he always watched for and joyfully obeyed the first sure signal to advance. but there are cases in which clergymen are called on to make a direct attack on a social abuse, and in which the practical good sense of all classes will uphold them in so doing, whether that abuse has general countenance or not; and that is where the defence of their own order demands it. such a supposed demand was the true cause of their late loud and unwise protest against the running of the cars on sunday. they mistakenly believed this movement to be an invasion of their special domain, which it was their duty to repel; whereas, if permitted, it would unquestionably here, as it has done elsewhere, not only benefit the poor, but increase church-going. and yet, notwithstanding this readiness to rally in general self-defence, it appears that when the rev. mr. allston, rector of st. thomas' (colored episcopal) church, was expelled from a lombard and south street car, and in such a manner that the strength of his hands alone kept his head from being dashed on the pavement, some of his brethren simply offered to see that any expense which he might incur in case he chose to prosecute, should be made up to him. one feels inclined to ask these gentlemen if they would have contented themselves with this, as sufficient action in the case, had the rector of christ church, or of st. luke's, or even so young a man as the rector of holy trinity, been subjected to such an outrage as this,--one at any time likely to be repeated, and which is, in fact, regularly kept up by continued exclusion. there can hardly be a doubt that, had this been the case of a white clergyman, a meeting would have been called, a protest made, and a deputation, lay and clerical, appointed to wait on mr. dropsie, the president of the company, or some other vigorous measures taken, to exact redress for present, and guarantees against future injuries. this would be due, not only to the outraged brother, but to themselves, outraged in him. the preservation of their influence with, and the respect in which it is necessary they should be held by, society, would imperatively demand such a course; and the only conceivable reason why it was not pursued in the case of the rev. mr. allston is, that except by a sort of ecclesiastical fiction, the episcopal clergy of philadelphia do not consider him of their order, nor feel that, in the eyes of this community, their reputation is in any manner identified with his; and therefore it was not necessary to their common interests that they should pursue it. but there is a symptom of public opinion on this subject worse than the foregoing. the very committee appointed for the special purpose of securing to the colored people their rights, failed to be true to their trust when tried by the test of party politics. at a meeting of the said committee, held not long before the last municipal election, a resolution was offered, the purport of which was, to ask of the present mayor, when a candidate, a statement in writing as to the course he intended to pursue in regard to this question, if elected. but the committee deprecated the very thought of jeopardizing the success of the republican candidate, by a committal on such a question as this. the resolution was voted down by a majority of more than ten to one of the members present. this action is to be regretted, not only on account of its immediate effect on the work in hand,--for it was of course reported to the board of presidents, who naturally concluded that the committee was not in earnest,--but because it established the fact of weakness in that part of society in which, of late, we have most looked for strength; and that is in the part which consists of our able and leading private men of business. if it is true of clergymen that they cannot be our leaders in reform, it is no less so of politicians, even of the best class, in or out of office, and of professional philanthropists, and of managers of the various bodies of benevolent men and women permanently organized for particular purposes relating to the public good. all these are, or in time will be, biassed, either consciously or unconsciously, by private interests, or party ties, or special objects in connection with these associations, whose plans they will seek to shape with a view to their own purposes. but there is another disqualification common to them all. they are not independent. they have somebody to consult besides themselves. they do not act directly from their own convictions, but are constantly striving to ascertain the average conviction of the public, or of their constituents, in order to act from that; and as each of their constituents, to a degree, is independent, and therefore gives fair play to his convictions, they are very apt to under-estimate this average, and fall short of it in action: or, as wendell phillips tersely states it, "representatives are timid, principals are bold." successful private men of business are free from these entanglements and temptations; they alone, as a class, can afford to disregard them, and therefore they and no others are fitted to take the lead in, or be the chief promoters of, new movements for the good of society. the best of this class are earnest, liberal, intelligent, brief in discussion, practical and direct in operation, regardless of official honors and the gains connected therewith, and, above all, they know how to master and use wealth, without being in turn mastered by it. the danger of such men is not in imprudence; the difficulty is to find quite enough of them who are not too prudent; and if there are some working with them who are earnest even to bitterness, and have nothing which they greatly fear to lose, or hope to gain,--not even reputation,--so that uses are performed, truths told and justice satisfied, it will be all the better. not the least valuable effect of the late war was the discovery which it made for us of the great wealth of the country in this kind of men. a few such men, in spite of the covert contempt and inert opposition of president, cabinet, congressmen, generals, and army surgeons, made the sanitary commission an institution, whose great and business-like work of patriotic charity and mercy became the admiration of the civilized world. they first made the necessity and practicability of their plan clear to the people, and then, with them at their back, forced an unwilling government to recognize and accept the commission as a power to do good. similar in character and results was the christian commission, in the president of which is found the most eminent single example that the war afforded, in support of this position; such, also, but more limited in their operations, because less popular, are the freedmen's associations; and such, in its original conception and working during the war, was the union league. the men who led in these movements did not go to politicians and ask if their plans were expedient, party interests considered. but with the desire to do good for their motive and their own native energies for their power, success soon brought the politicians to them. and if private men, or associations of private men, will, this may always be the case. to this end they have but to accept, and act up to these propositions: that this country, with such a people in it as carried through the late war, can never be ruined, politicians to the contrary notwithstanding; that its nearest approach to ruin will come from temporizing; that party management never saved a country nor advanced a just cause; that a country is saved and a just cause advanced only by doing justice and cultivating a right public opinion; that power on any other basis is better lost than kept, even when the party that gains is worse than the party that loses it; that when legitimate means fail, or have not been used, to form this basis by a party in power, then the misdeeds of evil men in power are the only resource left to the country for creating a public opinion against their own evil policy and in favor of justice, which they will do by causing reaction; that this is the chief use of, and necessity for, a second party in the state, and that these propositions are good at all times and in every crisis, not excepting the present. by taking a firm stand on this ground, and refusing absolutely to support for office candidates of inadequate ability, bad personal character, or doubtful firmness of principle, private men may become a power in the state, instead of remaining the mere voting machines which they are at present in the hands of cunning, short-sighted and selfish politicians. the chief political value of such private men, in their associated capacity, and the special advantage they possess over all other bodies convened for consultation with a view to the public good, consist in their being free to discuss and advocate just measures, with simple directness and without side issues, and in their ability to enlighten, advance and fortify public opinion in respect to these measures. when they do this, they furnish to representative bodies--what they most need--firm and well cleared ground to stand and work upon. but they never can do this as mere appendages of state central committees, nor if, while they are free from the representative responsibilities of congressmen, they are more timid than congress and speak only in echo of it, and long after it. and whether they act as political or social reformers, there must be no distrust of justice, as always a safe guide, and no putting her aside for the lead of party hacks, as was unfortunately the case with the aforesaid car committee; and the colored people, when they saw their chosen champions thus postpone justice, in their case, to party expediency, might well ask where they were to look for any real support in this demand for their simple rights. aside then from the action of official and conventional bodies, it has been shown that large numbers of the laboring classes are opposed to the unreserved use of the cars by the colored people; and it must be inferred from the foregoing facts that but a small number of any class earnestly and actively advocate it. between these extremes is the great body of the respectable, intelligent and influential portion of the community, the members of which are generally self-restraining and above violence in speech or act, and who, at first sight, one might suppose to be indifferent on the question, or perhaps torpidly in favor of admission. a little friction, however, brings to the surface unmistakable evidence that this body also is permeated with latent prejudice sufficient to carry it, imperceptibly perhaps and by dead weight only, but still to carry it against the colored people. many belong to this class who would take offence if told so. it is not hard to find old hereditary abolitionists--orthodox and other friends, and members of the late supervisory committee for recruiting colored regiments, who coldly decline all overtures for coöperation in this work. the abolition of slavery away in the south was all very well, but here is a matter of personal contact. they are not opposed, themselves, to riding with colored people--certainly not. the colored people may get into the cars if they can; they will not hinder it. but they do wish there were baths furnished at the public expense, for the use of these friends, in order that they might be made thereby less offensive to ladies. and from these ladies, no doubt, comes an opposition--indirect and partially concealed--apparent perhaps only through the manner and tone of the father, husband or brother, but still most obstinate. it is often curious to observe how the discussion of this subject will set in motion two opposing moral currents in the same religious and cultivated female mind; that of conscience, which calls for the admission of the colored people, and that of prejudice, which hopes they will not get it. and thus the moral nature of many men and women, who in general are friendly to equal rights, on this question is divided. the sense of justice not being quickened by sympathy, their movements in respect to it are like those of a man palsied on one side--hindering rather than helpful. and it is this great, respectable and intelligent portion of the community that is really responsible for these wrongs and disturbances. john swift, a hard, shrewd man, now gone to his place, but in mayor of this city, told a committee of friends who called on him, on the th of may of that year, for protection against men who threatened violence, that "public opinion makes mobs;" and on the same night a mob, so made, after a short, mild speech from the said mayor, counselling order and stating that the military would not be called out, burnt down pennsylvania hall. and every mob that the country has seen, during the last century, has had a similar origin and support, from that of the paxton boys against harmless indians, in , encouraged up to the threshold of murder, and then only opposed, when too late, by the rev. mr. elder and his colleagues, to that of the new york irish rioters against the negroes and the draft, in , that was addressed as "my friends" by gov. seymour, the representative of a great party. and, to bring this subject up to date, may be added the late rebel mob at new orleans, hissed on, in its wholesale work of murder, by the president of the united states through the telegraph. the brain does not more surely impel or restrain the hand, than do the more educated and influential classes, however imperceptibly, those that are less so, in all cases in which premeditated violence is forseen. and had there really existed any considerable degree of this moral restraining power in our community, these outrages against the people of color would long since have ceased. we are forced then to the conclusion that this community, as a body, by long indulgence in the wicked habit of wronging and maltreating colored people, has become, like a moral lunatic, utterly powerless, by the exercise of its own will, to resist or control the propensity. and unless it finds an authoritative and sane guardian and controller in the supreme court--unless this court has itself, by chance, escaped this widely spread moral imbecility of vicious type, there seems to be no cure for the disease, nor end to its wickedness. and philadelphia must still continue to stand, as she now does, alone, among all the cities of the old free states, in the exercise of this most infamous system of class persecution. when lear cries out "let them anatomise regan; see what breeds about her heart," we are made to perceive that his mind was not so wholly absorbed in his wrongs as to prevent it from speculating, in a wild way, on their cause: a touch of nature suggesting that any statement of wrongs which does not enter into the causes and conditions that made their commission possible, is imperfect. and to the question constantly recurring: what is it that has caused the people of philadelphia thus to stand apart from other northern and western free cities, in the disposition to persecute negroes? the true answer seems to be this: philadelphia once owned more slaves than any other northern city, with the possible exception of new york; she retains a greater number of colored people now, in proportion to her white population, than any other such city, with the accidental exception of new bedford,[ ] when emancipation took place the process was left incomplete, and of all cities, north or south, she most fears amalgamation. the evils of slavery are in proportion to its density. in south carolina, which is the part of the united states where it was most dense, these evils, especially in their effect on the whites, were more distinct and apparent than in any other state. the south carolinians were the most despotic of our slave owners, and they were the first to secede in order to remain such undisturbed. but great as were these evils in our slave states, where the whites always outnumbered the blacks, they were infinitely greater in the west indies, and especially in st. domingo, where the blacks, in a much greater degree, outnumbered the whites. the most comprehensive evidence of this is to be found in the fact that, in the united states there was a natural increase in the slave population, while in the west indies the reverse was the case, to a remarkable degree. a slave, when landed in the united states, always found here at least two whites to one black; for before the introduction of the cotton gin, which was not until after the abolition of the slave trade, the temptation was not great to drive plantation work, or to increase the number of slaves. he came at once into such multiplied contact with whites that, though he was taught nothing, he learnt much. his african superstitions soon died out, or became greatly diluted; camp meeting exercises took their place; his games and dances were assimilated to those of white people, and his spontaneous songs, unlike those of the st. domingo negroes, which mostly relate to eating, satire and venery, early became emotional and religious.[ ] the first tincture of christianity which west india slaves received, was communicated to them by slaves from the united states. when dr. coke landed in st. eustatia, in , he found, as his journal says, that "the lord had raised up lately a negro slave named harry, brought here from the continent to prepare our way." the baptists, now the great sect of jamaica, owe their origin there to george lisle, a slave preacher, who was taken thither from georgia, by his tory master, at the evacuation of savannah by the british in . but a cargo of slaves, on being landed in french st. domingo, found there, towards the last days of the colony, nearly twenty of their own to one of the white race. they were at once herded with the former. as their immediate overseers were mostly creole blacks, many of them rarely, except at a distance, saw white people, of whom there were barely enough to conduct the business of the colony. the number of doctors was insufficient. the planters depended on importation rather than personal care to keep up their stock of slaves. this stock was often changed, in consequence of its being worked up. there was a constant renewal of the savage element by slave ships. the new slaves always found in st. domingo the customs and superstitions they had left in africa. they added freshness to them, and then all went on together, as nearly as possible, in the old african way. in fact, it might almost have seemed, had it been possible, as if parts of french st. domingo had been covered with african sod, bearing with it its native life and growth, little disturbed by the transfer. hence _vaudouxism_, or serpent-worship went on, in full vigor, in spite of law and the police, and, to some extent, cannibalism, up to the very moment when the colony was suddenly blown to atoms by the over-generation of its own wickedness,--the whites, who worked it, being thereby destroyed, or scattered to distant lands, with all their means and appliances of civilization. and as the blacks, who remained in possession, shut the door against the return of the whites, from fear of returning slavery, and yet keep it shut, in consequence of a still remaining vague jealousy, thus barring out foreign improvements, it is not surprising that the superstitious and barbarous usages of st. domingo at this day prevail, to no small degree, in hayti. the towns around the coast, where a few white merchants and the educated mulattoes reside, may be considered as tufts of civilization, and the savage traits inseparable from dense slavery have been a good deal softened down among the country people. but we might as reasonably expect to find an advanced state of civilization in the neighborhood of the portuguese trading settlements on the west coast of africa as in the interior of hayti. for want of a proper knowledge of these facts, the non-civilization of hayti has always been a thorn in the side of abolitionists, and from the same cause, the north generally, during the first half of the late war, was constantly looking for a second edition of the "horrors of st. domingo" in the south. but the freedmen of the south have no more in common with the insurrectionary slaves of , in st. domingo, than any other humanized people have with savages. it is fair to admit that this superior moral and physical condition of our southern blacks over those of st. domingo is due, in some degree, to difference of race in the masters. the descendants of french protestants, english wesleyans and baptists, and austrian salzburgers, and even those resulting from a cross between cavaliers and convict-servants, were doubtless less inhuman slave-masters than the progeny of buccaneers and _flibustiers_. still the main difference arose from different degrees of density in slavery. our southern slaves had the best opportunities to learn by looking on. and the most valuable trait in the negro, and that which will most avail to his salvation as a race, is that, whenever he is within reach of civilization, he silently puts forth a tendril and clasps it. on the whites, the most curious effect of dense slavery is that of destroying, or greatly impairing the power of moral vision in all matters relating to blacks. in this respect, the trial for murder of the hon. arthur hodge, planter and member of his majesty's council in the island of tortola, and there hanged, in , is a psychological study. along through the years including and , this gentleman, by cart-whipping at "short quarters," by pouring boiling water down the throat, by burning with hot irons and by dipping in coppers of scalding water, murdered eight of his slaves and one freeman. tortola is twelve miles long by four broad and at the time in question contained about inhabitants. these murders were well known to the slave population, when committed, and as testimony afterwards proved, to many of the whites. but hodge was not brought to trial till , and then formal complaint against him only reached his brother magistrates through a family quarrel about property. john m'donough declined to serve on the jury because "the case would make the negroes saucy." stephen m'keough, a planter and an important witness, who saw some of these cases of flogging which ended in death, described mr. hodge as "a good man, but comical, because he had bad slaves." both the attorney general and the presiding judge, apparently functionaries from england, thought it necessary to go into a set argument to show that killing negro slaves was really murder, and the jury, under the charge, brought hodge in guilty, but recommended him to mercy. here was moral blindness produced by an atmosphere of slavery which can only find its physical counterpart in the eyeless fishes bred in the dark waters of the kentucky cave. probably no case could be found in our southern states equal to this in enormity of crime and corresponding absence of moral vision in respect to it, though that of mrs. abrahams, of virginia, with her four murders, and the alacrity with which "all the richmond lawyers" volunteered in her defence may approach it. in pennsylvania the slaves were never more than a sprinkling compared to the free population, slavery never appeared in these dark colors, and it was early declared to be prospectively abolished. and yet this old, unmistakable characteristic of the slaveholder--defect of moral vision where the black man is concerned, is to this day a distinct feature of our society. we are still unable to see clearly the wickedness of denying him the vote and expelling him from the cars; and the same spirit of outrage and murder, which now shocks us by the terrible energy with which it moves the late slaveholders against the freedmen, is at this moment acting in a small, feeble, mean way within ourselves against our own colored population. the difference is one of degree, not of kind. thus, eighty-six years after the passage of the act for the gradual emancipation of the slaves of pennsylvania, life enough remains in the old institution, long since supposed extinct, still to disturb the peace of society. our fathers made two great mistakes in this matter. first, the process of extinction was to be gradual, which was as if one, instead of a bullet, should give a dose of slow poison to a mad dog and then let him run; and next, it was not only gradual but incomplete. the chain of the slave was broken but not taken off; and any degree of civil disability under which an emancipated slave is left, is just so much slavery left. it not only restrains his movements both of progress and self-defence, but it keeps alive the spirit of oppression in the "master race" as air keeps alive flame. by a natural law, whatever of the slave is left in one race will, while it lasts, always tempt into exercise and encounter a corresponding amount of the slave master in the other. so long as the law degrades a man, his neighbor will degrade him. whoever can call to mind a celebration of our day of independence in philadelphia five and thirty years ago, may remember that the part of the day's exercises which the boys took upon themselves was to stone and club colored people out of independence square, because "niggers had nothing to do with the fourth of july." the fathers of these boys looked on with placid satisfaction, cheerfully and hopefully remarking to each other, how well their sons were learning to perform the duties of free american citizens. twenty years later and a change might be seen. colored people--place and occasion the same--were allowed to carry water about among the crowd, without meeting other insult from the thirsty than words of good-natured contempt. this was an improvement. those whom we formerly drove forth with blows and curses, we had now learned to utilize. twelve more years go by, and on the fourth of july we were enlisting our able bodied colored men to fight for us. but we still were mindful of what was due to ourselves, as belonging to the superior race, and when they came back to us, wounded in our defence, we carefully restricted their wives and sisters to the front platform of the cars, when they visited their husbands and brothers at the hospitals. and now to-day, out of sixteen philadelphia generals and colonels, most of whom are believed to have seen some service in the field, three vote in favor of permitting these returned colored veterans actually to join in the celebration of our great national anniversary. this is progress, but it is slow, and the causes of the obstruction to it must be sought in the incomplete emancipation of . but another cause which gives philadelphia a bad eminence in respect to the treatment of colored people, is the comparatively large numbers of them which she possesses over other northern cities, with the one exception above noted; and this cause seems simply to connect with and form part of another--the fear of amalgamation. this fear greatly disturbs a large portion of our white population. in discussing the car question, an opponent of admission at once urges that it will be a stepping stone to amalgamation. the suggestion that seven disabled colored soldiers might safely be allowed equal privileges in a military hospital with white soldiers, is put aside with the remark that such a rule would countenance amalgamation. the matron, with downcast eyes and timid horror, intimates this objection to the reception, into the same orphan home, of little white and colored children, mostly between the ages of four and ten. all this sounds very illogical. hitherto, there has been little amalgamation of the two races at the north, and as the colored people never make advances to the whites, that little cannot be increased until the whites make advances to them. when is this to begin? let each one answer this question individually. this matter, in its negative aspect, rests entirely within the control of the white population. the broad distinction, so often pointed out, between political and social equality, is still by many of our people persistently confounded, and perhaps it may be necessary to state it once more. political equality everybody has the present or prospective right to demand--social equality nobody; for the barrier which separates the two is made up of private door-steps. each of these, its owner has absolutely at his own command, and no man has a right to prescribe, even by implication, whom he shall permit, or forbid, to pass it. it is not an open question. but supposing the relations, so long sustained at the north, between the two races, and which the blacks do not complain of, when unaccompanied with wrongs, were suddenly to cease; and everywhere, north and south, on both sides, impelled by an irrepressible orgasm, they should rush together. there are, in round numbers, , , of white and , , of colored people in the united states; and after every black had found a white, there would remain , , of whites still unmated. these, by necessity, would carry on the pure white population, and they might safely be left, without help, to sustain themselves in the struggle of race, against the , , of amalgamationists. but here it is asserted, they will receive aid from a distinct source. according to the theory of doctors nott and cartwright, the mixed race rapidly decays, and after three generations dies out. this theory is accepted by those who fear amalgamation, and is often quoted by them, as an argument against the theory of equal rights. they also hate negroes and would be glad to see their numbers less. but pure-blooded negroes, it is generally conceded, possess great vitality of race and are killed off with difficulty. this difficulty, it seems, can be overcome by amalgamation. by this process, in one generation, all these negroes become mulattoes, and this once accomplished, the whole african race is in a fair way to disappear from the land. these advocates for pure white blood have been defeating their own purpose. let them reverse their policy and encourage, for a time, the amalgamation they have hitherto opposed, and, with patience, they can have a white man's government yet. this proposition is less extravagant than are these insane and wicked fears of impending amalgamation;--wicked, because they are made the excuse, by the race that has the entire preventive control of the matter, for maltreating colored people and denying them rights which are accorded, without dispute, to every other man and woman in the country. but these people will never come to such an end as this; and if it is true that amalgamation, here, leads towards it, then here, to any considerable extent, it will never take place. they were never made the valuable element of our population, which they are, simply to die out. the greater part of the work which has yet been done on a large portion of this continent has been done by them, and apparently they ever will be, as they ever have been, absolutely essential to its full development. this statement does not imply that the slave trade and slavery were right or necessary. the sin was not in the bringing of africans to america, but in the manner of bringing them. god has established his own fixed laws to govern the movements of peoples, but he permits men to carry them out according to their will. had men willed to be just and humane, they could have induced africans to come to this continent as free emigrants; but they were selfish and wicked, and therefore forced them to come as slaves. slavery has been, and is, destroying itself everywhere; and in this country, the great system of free labor and equal rights which prevails, without qualification, in some of the northern states, is now being offered, and in spite of all opposition will soon be applied, to every state, north and south. it is not probable that it will stop there. it is believed that the same system is destined, in time, to be extended into our tropics. the so-called anglo-saxon race in england colonizes; in the united states it expands. mr. disraeli lately pronounced england more an asiatic than a european power; and the day may come when we shall be as much a power of south america as we now are of north america. we have a means to facilitate future extension into the tropics in an element of our home population, suited to them, which england never possessed in hers; and after this has been received into our body politic, and is thus enabled to develop its powers, it is not easy to resist the conclusion that its destiny is to carry our civilization into these latitudes. the feeble and imperfect nationalities lying to the south of us are apparently but provisional. they are waiting a better system than their own, and higher powers than they possess, to apply it. the time is likely to come when their ability to furnish the products peculiar to their soil will fall short of the wants of the civilized world without; and should this be the case, it will stimulate us to carry thither our enterprise, and with it our laws and institutions. this has been the process by which they have been carried into california, by whites alone--gold being the lure; but to places farther south our people of color, from their special climatic fitness for it, must assist in being their vehicle; and the two races must go towards the tropics, if at all, together. the african will never leave this country, but he may, in the legitimate pursuit of his own interests and happiness, assist in its expansion beyond its present limits; and, soon or late, should the practical assertion of our "monroe doctrine" make it necessary for us to carry our arms into tropical latitudes, the late war has shown us where to find soldiers. these are speculations, but it would be hard to show that they are without some groundwork of probable reality in the future. meantime it is well to feel assured that these people are here for the good, and not the evil of both races, and that interest as well as justice demands that every right and privilege which we possess should be freely and at once extended to them. let us trust god to do his own justice, not fearing that harm will come of it unless we interpose with our injustice; and let us no longer believe that if we do what is right and humane as a people to-day, we shall be punished for it to-morrow; for this is practical atheism. footnotes: [ ] according to the census of , the proportion of the colored to the white population in the cities named below, was as follows: boston, colored to - / white. new york, " " ½ " philadelphia, " " ½ " in new bedford, at the same census, the proportion was found to be one colored to ½ white. the comparatively large number of colored people in that city is said to be due to the special kindness with which runaway slaves were received there, and to the fact that it afforded them a somewhat safe place of refuge, because it was out of the main line of travel. [ ] our southern negro english, uncouth as it sounds, is pure compared to that of the british islands; and in the french west indies and hayti, the divergence between the creole _patois_ and french is still wider. the negroes actually impressed the use of their dialect deeply upon the whites, and to this day it is the colloquial language of all classes, whether educated or not, in these islands. the same negro ascendancy can be traced in their amusements. the _bamboula_ and the _calenda_ of the french islands and hayti, and certain similar dances in cuba, are, somewhat modified and restrained, still favorites with the white people. they are all african in their origin, and their type is lasciviousness. in the british islands these dances have in a great degree given way before the teachings of the baptist, methodist and moravian missionaries.